“I’m sorry, but I won’t give you more than thirty dollars for that, Parker,” Jameson says, his cigar clenched between his teeth, the words spat out around it. “It’s blurry.”
“Spider-Man was literally leaping between two buildings when I took the photo!” Peter argues. “Of course it’s blurry!”
“Look, kid, you’re the only person he lets take his photograph, and I like you. But this isn’t your best work.” Jameson leans forward, pulling the cigar out and looking at Peter thoughtfully. “You’re a good kid.”
“I’m twenty two years old, sir-”
“And you’re smart. Let’s call it fifty but on the condition that you get me something fresh by the end of the week.”
Peter knows when he’s defeated. He stands up, accepting the cheque, tucking it into the cracked brown leather of his wallet. Fifty dollars will at least help him pay his rent on time this month. He suppose he shouldn’t be too ungrateful.
“Always a pleasure, Parker,” Jameson says, replacing the cigar and turning back to his computer monitor.
Peter leaves, walking through the rows of desks filled with chattering journalists as he makes his way towards the exit. He wonders what they’d say if they knew that the short, skinny kid with the messy hair and threadbare coat who drops off photographs of Spider-Man was the web-slinger himself. They probably wouldn’t even believe it.
He pushes open the main doors, stepping out into the biting cold and blinding winter sun. He tugs his coat tighter, and wishes he had remembered to bring his hat. The sun dazzles him for a moment, and he blinks, trying to focus.
Wade Wilson is standing on the other side of the road.
Well, more accurately, Deadpool is standing on the other side of the road. He’s fully masked, staring at the Bugle offices without moving. His stupid swords are at his back and he appears to be carrying several guns. The guy is an absolute hazard.
Peter knows him fairly well as Spider-Man, but as far as he knows, Deadpool has no idea that he’s really a scrawny nerd called Peter Parker who can barely afford to eat and submits his own ridiculous Spidey selfies to the Bugle to be able to stay in college.
So there’s no reason that Peter can think of that Deadpool would be standing here now.
Peter hesitates, and Deadpool’s face moves, so that he’s clearly now staring at the chilly young photographer. Does he know?
Of course not. This is some weird coincidence.
Peter sets off, walking quickly and trying hard not to look behind him. His senses are telling him that he’s not being followed, but he can feel Wade’s eyes burning into his back. What the hell is Wade doing here? Maybe someone finally took a contract out on Jameson. Peter snorts, but then wonders if he needs to run home and grab his suit. Deadpool has told him about a dozen times that he no longer kills people (after Peter made it clear he wouldn’t work with him unless he agreed to change his ways) but you could never tell with Wade.
He makes his way home, feeling unsettled, but his mind is quickly drifting back to the matter of his rent. He has enough money now, but he’s going to be living on ramen for the rest of the month again. It’s a sad fact that being Spider-Man has really impacted his ability to hold down a part-time job, so selling his photographs to Jameson is the only way he can make any extra cash.
Tony would give him money if he knew that Peter was struggling so much, but he’s never asked, and Peter’s never volunteered the information. Tony’s trying to give him a bit of space to get on with the task of completing his college course and having a somewhat normal youth. He doesn’t realise that there are very few normal things about Peter’s life, but the crushing debt and worry about bills are two of them.
He reaches the main door to the apartment block he lives in, pushing it open and wondering when they’re going to get around the fixing the lock. Peter lives on the top floor, in a space so small it was probably never designed to be an actual apartment. He climbs the stairs quickly, hearing the typical sounds of people shouting, loud music and babies crying. The stairwell smells of beer and meat.
Finally, he unlocks his own front door and sighs when he sees that the place hasn’t improved in his absence. His apartment has two rooms: the one he is now standing in is his living room, kitchen and bedroom, and the other is the bathroom. A smeared fridge and hob stand in one corner, his bed and wardrobe in the other, a desk and some drawers opposite it. A small TV and an overstuffed couch complete the grim picture.
He can't believe he's selling his own stupid, embarrassingly cheesy selfies to pay for this place.
A headache is brewing behind his eyes. He decides to have a soak in the bath, hoping to destress. The bathroom is cold and mouldy, with chipped, mildewed tiles on the wall. The bathtub is stained yellow. Peter turns the taps on and hears the ancient boiler click on. He strips off the worn jeans and bobbled jumper he wore to the Bugle offices and sinks into the bath, thankful that there's hot water today at least.
He's meant to be having dinner with Ned tonight. That'll be nice. He closes his eyes and tries to relax, one hand rubbing at the bruise on his skinny shoulder that he sustained in a fight three days ago with a mugger. He sometimes wishes he had a healing factor like Wade. The bruises and cuts can be hard to explain to his lecturers and friends.
He's almost dozing off, finally relaxed from the gentle, soothing motion of his own fingers and the warm, soapy water, when his Spidey senses prickle uncomfortably. He sighs, sitting forward in the bath, listening hard.
There's someone in his apartment. He can hear them in the other room, rummaging through his things.
He isn't sure what to do. He's never been robbed before, and it's practically still light outside. Perhaps someone has figured out Spider-Man's address and is looking for him. Peter is naked, and all of his Spider-Man suits and tech are in his wardrobe, stashed in the box on the top shelf. He's going to have to go out there as Peter Parker, without any web-shooters.
He sighs again. Can't he catch a break? He stands up, reaching for his frayed grey towel and wrapping it around his waist, hoping that it's not going to come to a physical fight with whoever is out there. He's not sure the towel will stay in place.
He opens the door and his heart drops into his stomach.
Deadpool is sitting on his bed, his bedside table drawer open and a pile of papers and photographs on his lap. He's flicking through them.
“Um, hey?” Peter says.
Deadpool doesn't even look up. “Hey, man, sorry to bother you.”
“I think there's a time to say that and it's possibly before you break into someone's apartment and start going through their stuff,” Peter says hollowly. Does Wade know? Is that why he's here?
Deadpool looks up then, his hands falling still, and he cocks his head. Peter is very aware of the fact that his entire slippery torso is naked, water dripping out of his hair and running down his chest. He feels blood rush to his cheeks then curses himself for being so stupid; Wade is an older guy who is ridiculously charismatic, funny and muscular. He's hardly going to fall swooning at the sight of a soggy nerd.
“You didn't lock the door,” Wade tells him.
“It's still breaking in,” Peter reminds him, feeling the typical creeping sense of ridiculousness he always feels when speaking to the mercenary.
Deadpool thinks about it for a moment, then nods, leaping to his feet. In one hand he has a photograph Peter took of MJ at their prom. In the other, he has another photograph, but it's turned away so that Peter can't identify it. “You're right. I don't want us to start off our business arrangement on the wrong foot.” He gives Peter a ridiculous sort of a bow. “You've probably heard of me. I'm Wade Wilson but people call me Deadpool.”
So he mustn't know that Peter is Spider-Man. What the hell is he doing here, then? Unless… unless he does know, and this is some sort of game. It's always impossible to know. “Hey,” Peter says, and cringes internally.
“You're Peter Parker, right?” Wade continues, enthusiastically.
“Yeah. Did you follow me home from Daily Bugle offices?”
“I didn't follow you because I already had your address. But I did pop by before to check you out.” Deadpool's eyes may be hidden, but Peter can feel them burning into his naked chest. “I wanted to make sure you seemed nice.”
Peter crosses his arms, trying to cover as much of his body as possible. “Why?”
“You spend an awful lot of time photographing a very good friend of mine.”
Oh. Peter tries not to laugh at the idea of Deadpool and Spider-Man being friends. They're… work colleagues. “Have you come here to ask me to stop? Because Spidey likes me taking his picture.”
Wade shakes his head. “I can see why he does. You're really good at capturing the curve of his ass.”
Peter chokes. “Um, what?” He is used to Deadpool making weird flirtatious comments around him, but had no idea that he also did it behind his back.
“He's lovely-looking, you have to admit,” Deadpool sighs. He pulls off his mask suddenly, revealing his piercing blue eyes. They are fixed on Peter's face. “I bet he also likes you around because you're gorgeous.”
Peter snorts at that. He's well aware of the fact that, beneath the shiny veneer of Spider-Man, he's a very average looking guy. “How do you know Spider-Man likes guys?” he splutters, then resists the urge to roll his eyes at himself.
“I just hope so. Judging by the way you're blushing, you maybe know a little bit more about it than me. I don't know which of you I'm more jealous of,” Wade sighs. “And don't even get me started on how aroused I-”
“Woah!” Peter says, holding up his hands, then realising that this uncovers more of his body. He quickly wraps them back around himself as Wade's eyes light up. “What do you want from me, Wade?”
“Well.” Deadpool looks uncertain for the first time since this strange encounter began. He thinks for a moment then clears his throat. “You take photographs of Spidey, right? And he's cool with it. I'll pay you a lot of money for exclusive photographs. Like, a lot.” His eyes sweep around the room. “Full offense, dude, but it looks like you need it.”
Peter scowls. He doesn't know which part of that to be most offended by. “What do you mean, it looks like-? Wait a minute, what do you mean exclusive photographs? What do you want them for?” Peter regrets that question as soon as it leaves his mouth.
Wade just smiles. “I like the guy. You've spent time around him as well, right? You know he's gorgeous.”
Peter's instincts are telling him to shut this conversation down immediately. Wade wants the photographs for something bad. Maybe he has a little shrine to Spidey. Maybe he just wants to touch himself while looking at him. His cheeks get warm when he considers the possibilities and he feels a vague sense of arousal beneath the layers of panic he's experiencing. He can't help but think about Wade's offer of money, though. “What sort of photographs are we talking?”
Wade clicks his tongue thoughtfully, then waves his hand. “Photographs like this?”
“Photos of my high school friends at prom?” Peter asks, confused now, as Wade's hand waves the photo of MJ.
“Oh. Wrong hand.” Wade waves the other one.
“What photograph is that?”
Wade approaches him suddenly, standing right in front of him. Peter frequently feels tiny next to Deadpool, but clad only in towel in his bare feet, he feels positively vulnerable. Before he has time to worry about it, Wade sticks the photograph in his face.
Oh. Peter took this one a few months ago and decided he couldn't submit it to Jameson because it was too damn sexy. He'd managed to capture himself, dressed as Spidey, lying on the ground in a rainstorm. He'd meant it to be artistic, but something about the slight curve of Peter's thighs and the way his head was thrown back was ridiculously erotic.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, embarrassed. “Why on Earth would you want more photographs like that?”
Wade reaches out and prods him gently on the nose. “Baby boy, you're the one who has this scandalous masterpiece stashed in your bedside table drawer. You know damn well why I want this.”
So now Wade Wilson thinks that Peter Parker touches himself to erotic photographs of Spider-Man. Furthermore, Wade wants his own erotic photographs of Spider-Man to stare at.
Today has taken a very strange turn.
“How much money?” Peter asks finally, hating himself.
“Well…” Wade reaches into one of the pockets on his utility belt, withdrawing a roll of notes and tossing it to Peter. “You can have that if I can keep this photograph.”
Peter looks down at the roll of notes in his hand. There's at least a few hundred dollars here. He can get through the rest of the month without worrying about money if he accepts it.
“Alright,” he says finally. “You have a deal.”
Wade smiles, tucking the photograph into his pocket. He shakes Peter's hand, his huge fingers warm through the fabric of his glove. Peter just stares up at him, still unable to really comprehend that this is happening. “Well, it was lovely to meet you, and I look forward to seeing you again soon,” Wade says, then heads out the door in a carefree fashion, apparently quite unaware that he has managed to burst in and upend Peter Parker's entire life.
It's three weeks later when Peter does see Wade again, and he's almost managed to forget about their last meeting entirely.
(Apart from those moments late at night when Peter lies alone in his cold apartment, biting his lip and trying very hard not to fantasise Wade looking at his photograph while he touches himself.)
Deadpool hasn't crossed paths with Spider-Man, either, but that's not unusual at all. The guy turns up and hangs around like a rash for a few weeks before withdrawing from Peter, then reappears again. He's unpredictable.
But he’s reliably unpredictable, so when Peter gets to his front door one afternoon after a trip to the library to hear the distinct sound of pop music through the door, he knows exactly who he’s going to find on the other side.
Sure enough, when he opens it, Wade Wilson is standing in his kitchen area, stirring a pan with a happy smile. He’s not dressed as Deadpool, which is slightly disconcerting for Peter, who has rarely seen him dressed normally; he’s wearing jeans and a soft-looking navy t-shirt. Even more strange is the fact that he’s kicked off his boots by the front door and is wearing only grey socks on his feet.
“Wade?” Peter asks, closing the door behind him.
“Hey, Peter!” Wade says brightly, apparently not concerned in the slightest that Peter may not want him here. “How’s it going?”
Peter rolls his eyes, shrugging off his coat. “It was going far more normally until I saw that you’d broken in, apparently to make me dinner.”
“The door was unlocked,” Wade replies absent-mindedly, reaching for the black pepper.
“It definitely wasn’t,” Peter retorts. “What are you doing?”
“Making you dinner.” Wade looks over at him, and there’s something like pity in his eyes. Peter tries to imagine what he must look like to Wade. It’s raining outside, so his hair is plastered to his head, his jeans stuck to his narrow legs. He’s wearing a t-shirt with a Zelda character on. “Hey- Pete? What happened to your face?”
Oh yeah, and there’s a big bruise beneath one eye where Mysterio clocked him one last week.
“Just fell over,” Peter lies automatically, one hand reaching up to finger the bruise.
Wade does not look like he believes him, but he turns back to his cooking. “I figured since I needed to come see you anyway, I might as well feed you, since you clearly barely do any of it yourself.”
Since Wade gave him that pile of money, Peter has actually been eating much better, but he certainly hasn’t bought any steak, which is what Wade is currently frying. The whole thing is oddly thoughtful, and not what he would expect from the former mercenary.
“Sit down,” Wade says. “It’s almost ready.”
Peter doesn’t have a dining table, so he sits on the couch, vaguely aware that this is an incredibly strange event. Even if Deadpool made a surprise dinner for Spider-Man, that would be weird, but Wade making dinner for Peter when, as far as he knows, they’ve only met once before, is incredibly odd.
Odd but sweet. Peter stares at Wade, watching him carefully plate up the steaks and the potatoes, feeling vaguely nervous.
He’s getting a crush on Wade Wilson.
Wade brings their food over and sits down next to him; the couch is small, and Wade is huge by most standards, so he is pressed right up against Peter, his body hard and very warm. Peter swallows and tries to focus on his food.
“Thanks,” he says. “I mean, this is weird as hell, but it’s still nice.”
Wade swallows a mouthful of potato. “Well, as much as I like treating delightful little twinks such as yourself, I did have another reason for coming over.”
Peter chokes on a piece of steak. “I’m not a twink.”
“Twink denial.” Wade hits him hard on the back to dislodge the offending piece of meat. “Anyway, I was wondering if you had any more photographs to sell.”
Peter feels a bit disappointed, and he tries to work out why, taking his time chewing a piece of meat. He supposes it’s because he had hoped Wade had come over to see him rather than to buy sexy photographs of another man from him.
Well, not another man, but Wade doesn’t know that.
Holy shit, is Peter jealous of himself?
“Well…” Peter sighs. He tries to keep his tone light, not wanting to give away that horrible realisation. “I did take a good one the other day… but it’s quite…”
It’s quite ridiculous, if he’s being honest with himself. He had been rolling around in bed, rock hard and aching and thinking about Deadpool of all people. Then he’d started to think about Deadpool looking at that stupid photograph, and imagined what Wade might want another photograph of Spidey to look like. Before he’d known what he was doing, he was in his Spidey boots, his legs in the spandex suit but not his torso. He’d taken a photo of his own stomach and spandex-clad erection.
“If it’s as good as the last one, I’ll pay you the same amount for it,” Wade offers.
“You’ll probably think it’s better,” Peter grumbles.
“Then I’ll pay you more,” Wade says.
Peter exhales. He places his half-finished meal to the side and stands, heading towards his bedside table. He can’t afford to refuse Wade’s offer, unfortunately. He takes the photograph from the drawer and carries it over, trying to avoid looking at it before handing it over.
Wade cocks his head, looking down at it. Peter tries to see it from his perspective, the clear outline of his cock, the smooth expanse of his stomach, the single ungloved hand curled in the bedsheet.
Shit. His bedsheet.
Wade looks up, across at the bed, then at Peter. “Did you take this here?”
“Yeah,” Peter says, blushing. “Spidey spends a bit of time here.”
“He spends a bit of time in your bed with a hard cock?” Wade asks, his blue eyes intense.
“And lets you take photographs of it.”
“Yeah. He’s really… liberal like that.” Peter is scarlet. This photograph was too much, he knew it.
“Are you two sleeping together? Because I want you to know that, if you are, that’s all I’m going to think about when I touch myself later.”
Peter snorts. “No,” he laughs, despite himself.
Wade looks down at the photograph. He seems to be thinking hard. Peter wonders if he is seconds away from being accused of being Spider-Man. He wonders if Wade will be disappointed.
“Does he know why you wanted this photograph?” Wade asks. “Does he know what you did with the last one?”
Is it weirder for Peter to say that Spider-Man is fully aware of the fact that his sexy photos are being sold to Deadpool or that he has no idea? He bites his lip. “He knows.”
“And he was… okay with letting you take more?” Wade sounds fully confused now, looking up at Peter with an uncertain expression. He looks more vulnerable than Peter has ever seen him.
Peter shrugs. “He didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“I thought he hated me,” Wade says softly.
“You told me you were friends last time we met,” Peter says, folding his arms.
“We are! Well, we’re the sort of friends where I lust after him and think he’s the best, and he thinks I’m a pain but reluctantly puts up with me.” Wade rubs the back of his head. “Here, come and finish your dinner, Peter.”
Peter sits back down next to him, reaching for his plate. This whole thing is almost too weird. But there is something nice about having dinner with Wade. It would be nicer if Wade wasn’t clutching a photograph of his dick and having some sort of crisis about Spider-Man, but he supposes this is partly his own fault.
Wade stands up a few moments later, handing Peter a huge roll of notes, this one fatter than the last. “I know I forgot to say this last time, Petey, but if you want to like email me or text me the photographs, I’ll transfer you money.” He gives Peter a business card.
Ah. So Wade apparently doesn’t want to spend time with Peter after all.
Peter tries to hide his disappointment, staring down at the business card and failing to suppress a laugh. It’s black with red letters, and reads Deadpool: Wade Wilson. Beneath this, it has Wade’s phone number, address and email address. “God, you’re really not into that whole ‘secret identity’ thing, are you?”
“Not even a bit, baby boy. Enjoy your steak.”
And with that, Wade Wilson leaves him to his troubled thoughts.
“Let me get see if I’ve got this right,” Ned says slowly, his jaw hanging down. “You’ve been selling sexy photographs of Spider-Man to Deadpool, but you’ve managed to get a crush on him as Peter Parker, and he has no idea that you’re actually Spider-Man.”
“That’s pretty much the long and short of it, yeah.” Peter scowls into his coffee, sitting opposite his friend in the quiet coffee shop.
“What the fuck, Peter? I can’t even get a date and you’ve got guys literally paying you for nudes?”
“They weren’t nudes!” Peter replies.
“Imagine how much money you could get if they were.” Ned shakes his head. “I don’t even know what to suggest, pal. Does he know that Spider-Man knows about the photographs?”
“Yeah. I thought it was less creepy than suggesting I was selling sexy photos with Spidey’s consent. Wade seems to adore the guy-”
“The guy in question being you, Peter, honestly,” Ned says, exasperated.
“- and despite the fact he’s the moron paying for the photographs, he’d probably kill me if he thought I was doing it without Spider-Man’s consent.”
“How does he think you’re even getting the photographs?”
Peter snorts. “I think he thinks I’m fucking Spider-Man.”
“You are fucking Spider-Man.”
“No, not that I am Spider-Man. He thinks I’m having sex with him.”
Ned bursts out laughing.
Despite the fact that it’s morally very questionable, Peter can’t deny that the idea of Wade finding his photographs attractive is sexy. He starts to think about it most nights, and less than a week after Wade made them steaks, he’s taking a third naughty photograph.
It’s after midnight, and he’s hanging upside in an alleyway, his feet secured to the nearest roof with webbing. This isn’t traditionally a very sexy position; the rush of blood to his head means that it looks cool, but makes him feel a little bit sick. However, he just needs to get one great shot. He’s holding a tiny remote in his hand, the camera set up on a tripod. This is the way he gets most of his shots for the Bugle.
Trembling, he thinks of Deadpool, imagining what the mouthy mercenary might think if he came across this strange scene. Peter imagines Wade’s huge hands on his body, pushing him firmly up against the wall. And just like that he’s hard, throbbing and painfully aroused. He cradles his visible bulge in one hand, the other one pushing his mask back to his nose. He slides a finger in between his lips before taking the picture.
He has to get himself off before heading home, his whole body trembling.
He climbs in his apartment window, the camera and tripod in a small bag on his back. He reaches for his laptop, pulling his mask off, and sitting down on his bed. He should go to sleep and do this tomorrow- or even not do it at all. But he’s still shaking slightly from his previous arousal.
He uploads the photograph to his laptop, examining it closely. It’s sinful, if he’s honest. The angles of his body are perfect, the small fingers around his clear arousal making it look even larger. And the finger in his slightly parted lips…
This is Deadpool’s fault, he thinks vaguely. Wade Wilson has turned him into some sort of degenerate.
He sends the photograph to his phone, then closes his laptop and peels off his Spider-Man suit, sliding into bed naked. He pulls Wade’s business card from his drawer and sends him the photograph without a message, the whole thing making him hard again.
To his surprise, the phone rings in his hand a few seconds later.
“Hello?” he asks.
“Peter,” Wade practically growls in his ear. “That was… wonderful.”
There is something very primal about his tone, and Peter realises after a heartbeat that Wade Wilson is very, very turned on. He often jokes about being turned on around Spider-Man, but Peter has definitely never heard this tone before.
“Oh. Well, I’m glad you liked it.” Peter has no idea what to say. He is very concerned about why Wade has called him.
“Can I make a request? I’ll pay you double,” Wade says.
Peter had actually forgotten that he was going to get paid for this. “What?” he asks, a little afraid.
Wade hesitates. “Will you send me a photograph of you, too?”
Peter almost drops the phone. “You… want to pay for a photo… of me?” Of Peter Parker? Wade’s seen him. He knows that Peter is a plain little nerd.
“Why do you sound so surprised? You’re gorgeous.”
His warm, low words make Peter whimper, and damn it all, he’s nodding, one hand reaching down to stroke himself automatically. “Hang on,” he whispers.
He opens the phone’s forward camera, trying to position it in a flattering position. His face looks flushed, his pupils blown. He supposes that’s reasonably sexy. He closes his eyes and snaps a photograph, sending it to Wade.
“Huh,” Wade says. “You look turned on, baby.” His voice is quite unlike any he’s ever used around Peter before. It’s thick and warm like honey, forceful but soft.
“I am,” Peter admits quietly.
“Touch yourself,” Wade instructs him.
Peter bites his lip, his hand pumping his cock furiously. “I am,” he repeats, and his voice is breathy and broken.
“Good boy,” Wade says darkly. “What are you thinking about?”
Peter moans. His hips are bucking upwards, his second orgasm of the evening hurtling towards him. “You,” he cries. “You, Wade. I wish you were here.”
“Me too, baby,” Wade murmurs in his ear, and Peter can hear him moaning as he touches his own cock.
Peter can taste blood. He’s bitten his bottom lip too hard, and the salty, metallic taste on his tongue drives him on harder, his body quaking. “Wade, I’m going to-”
He finishes in his hand, not even bothering to stifle the strangled scream he lets out. He hears Wade make a delicious groan on the other end of the phone, and then it’s quiet, the pair of them breathing heavily.
So. Wade Wilson got horny after getting a photograph of Spider-Man, then called Peter Parker for phone sex, not aware that Peter Parker is in fact Spider-Man.
Should Peter be mad at Wade? Should Wade be mad at Peter?
His foggy brain can’t even cope with this.
“Peter,” Wade says softly, his voice very different now. “Do we need to talk about this?”
“No.” Peter needs to think about how he feels about this. “Don’t worry. It’s all good.”
Peter hangs up the phone and tries to get some sleep.
When he wakes up the next morning, there is an extra thousand dollars in his bank account.
Peter decides he need to stop this whole messy situation before he ends up falling for Wade Wilson. He has no idea how the mercenary would react to finding out that Peter is in fact the web-slinger of his sexual fantasies, and he decides it’s not a good idea to find out.
Wade is bad for him. He makes Peter feel weak and distracted.
This sensible line of thinking does not stop think Peter from thinking about Wade regularly, sadly. He thinks about him when he wakes up and heads to college. He thinks about him when he’s swinging from the rooftops. He thinks about him when he’s lying in bed at night, trying to ignore his aching arousal.
Wade doesn’t call him. Perhaps he feels guilty about using Peter to alleviate his sexual feelings towards Spider-Man. It’s impossible to know with Wade. Peter thinks it’s more likely that he has realised that he doesn’t find Peter attractive and feels awkward about the whole thing.
However, one thing is always certain with Wade- you can’t ever predict him.
Peter is climbing in through his apartment window a fortnight or so after that fateful phone call, his body aching. He had a hard fight with some muggers tonight, and he had a similarly tough night last night, getting his bottom lip split open in a fight with a robber. He’s looking forward to going to sleep.
Deadpool, however, is sat in the middle of his bed.
And it is Deadpool, not Wade; the mask is down, the swords are on his back, and one pistol is resting against his thick thigh. He regards Spider-Man without moving.
“Wade!” Peter exclaims. “What are you doing here?” Thank God he didn’t take the mask off before he climbed in through his window.
Deadpool cocks his head. “I’m looking for Peter Parker. Do you know where he is? It’s the middle of the night and he’s not back.” His tone is concerned.
Peter tries not to read too much into this and shrugs. “I’m not his keeper, Wade. Maybe he’s got a date.” The idea almost makes him laugh.
It doesn’t make Wade laugh. He stands up, his stance square and powerful. He’s ready for a fight. Peter stands his ground, but he doesn’t really understand what has changed between them. Admittedly, Deadpool hasn’t seen Spider-Man since this whole sexy photo thing started, but Peter rather assumed it would make Wade nicer to him.
“I don’t know what exactly your arrangement is with Peter,” Wade says, darkly. “He takes fairly intimate photos of you, so you’re obviously close. But he looks dreadful, Webs. I saw him before with a split lip.”
Was Wade following Peter? Peter tries to find something sensible to say here, rather than explore the pleasant possibility that Wade feels something more towards Peter Parker than seeing him as a replacement for fucking Spidey. “I don’t know-”
But then Wade’s on him, huge hands on his narrow waist, and Peter’s up against the wall, his own hands pressing in vain against Wade’s enormous chest. He looks up in confused fright at Wade.
“I am worried about him,” Wade tells him firmly.
“Have you tried just calling him?” Peter asks, wondering if he should try to wriggle out of Wade’s bruising grip.
“I think I hurt his feelings,” Wade says. “I’m very… confused.” He looms over Peter, breathing hard.
“You and me both, pal. If you’re so worried about Peter Parker, why are you asking for sexy photographs of me?” The words are out before Peter can think about them properly.
Wade groans. He leans forward slightly, as though he’s thinking about kissing Peter, but then changes his mind, stepping back and turning away from him. “You and your boyfriend are driving me crazy, Webs,” he sighs.
Spider-Man and Peter Parker were driving Wade crazy? Interesting.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Peter says automatically.
Wade shakes his head. “You get him to phone me,” he tells Peter, turning back to him for a moment. “I want to know he’s not mad at me.”
The following night, Peter sits in his bed, naked but wrapped up in his blankets. He holds his phone in shaking fingers.
He might as well be honest with himself: he has managed to fall for Wade Wilson.
He needs to stop this whole ridiculous charade.
Sighing, he calls Wade. It rings twice, then the mercurial bastard answers brightly.
“Peter! Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah,” Peter says, and his stomach twists.
“Did Spidey tell you I wanted to speak to you?”
“Yeah, actually, about that-”
“Look, I know this is weird because this started out as me paying you to send me sexy photos of the bad-tempered little bastard,” Wade says, and Peter makes a face at that less-than-flattering description of himself. “And I know you’re sort of dating or friends with benefits or whatever. And I know that compared to Spider-Man I look like a half-digested piece of chicken.”
“What are you saying?” Peter asks.
“I’m saying… look, I like you. I like him, too, that hasn’t changed and I can’t promise I won’t lust over his ass or whatever but…”
Peter finds himself laughing.
“Well, don’t laugh,” Wade says, sounding offended. “I just… I just like you. And I think about fucking you about as frequently as I think about fucking him.”
“This is the least romantic proposition in history,” Peter observes.
“What are you wearing?” Wade asks brightly.
“Fucking hell.” Peter pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s pointless trying to have a serious conversation with Wade. “Nothing. I’m in bed.”
“Send me a photo,” Wade urges, his voice suddenly dark.
“I thought we weren’t doing that anymore.” Nevertheless, Peter is powerless to resist that smoky tone, and he pushes the blankets back, revealing his torso. He snaps a photograph and sends it to Wade. “Satisfied?”
There is a long pause.
Has Wade hung up on him? Perhaps he’s not as into Peter Parker as he thought he was. Peter examines his torso in a self-conscious way. It looks fairly normal, the creamy skin marred by a few bruises, but nothing out of the ordinary for Peter.
Then Deadpool’s head comes through his window. Thank God it was open.
Peter’s mouth falls open, watching as the rest of the mercenary follows the head, thankfully all in one piece. He’s masked and carrying weapons.
“Were you on my roof?” Peter asks, horrified.
But Wade doesn’t even reply, striding across the room to Peter’s bed with purpose. It only occurs to Peter that he may not be entirely safe when Deadpool is already within touching distance. He kneels down beside Peter on the bed, reaching for the blankets.
“Hey-” Peter says, trying to push his hands away without applying any super strength to Wade’s wrists, but Wade’s position, looming over him, gives him a simple advantage, and he takes both of Peter’s wrists in one of his enormous hands and pins them. “ Wade!”
The other hand pulls the blankets down to Peter’s waist. Wade looks down at him for a long, long moment, tugging off his mask and tossing it to the floor. He reaches out and trails his gloved fingers down Peter’s skin, making him whimper despite the horror flooding through him. His fingers cover a set of bruises on Peter’s waist.
And then Peter knows what, exactly, has made him so cross.
“Where did you get these bruises, Peter?” Wade asks him, softly, looking up at him with a deadly glare.
Peter shivers. God help him, he’s as turned on as he is terrified.
“I, um, I…” he swallows.
“Because,” Wade says, with mock confusion, “they seem to be about the same size as my fingers, don’t they?”
Peter closes his eyes. “Yes.”
Wade releases his wrists, but Peter doesn’t move them, afraid and aroused. Wade covers the matching set of fingerprint bruises on Peter’s other side.
“It’s almost like,” Wade says softly, “I did this to you last night when I pinned you against a wall. Except I did that to Spider-Man, not Peter Parker.”
Peter opens his eyes. Wade’s eyes are very close to his face, his mouth hovering above Peter’s. “I’m Spider-Man,” he tells him. His voice comes out strangled.
Wade kisses him, but it’s not gentle; it’s hard and furious, his hands sliding up Peter’s sides to take his wrists again, pinning them mercilessly as he kisses Peter. Their mouths work with a desperate need, and Wade moans softly as Peter opens his mouth to allow their tongues to come together.
Wade draws back, breathing hard. He is still holding Peter down, and he looks glorious and terrifying.
“You know when would have been a good time to tell me?” Wade says. “That day you found me in here. Or before that, like a real friend.”
Peter wriggles experimentally, but the hands around his wrists are tight. “I’m sorry. I just… I didn’t realise…”
“Didn’t realise what?”
“That I care about you. That I… wanted to fuck you,” Peter admits, feeling blood rushing to his cheeks.
Wade’s expression changes. He bends down and bites Peter’s neck, hard, making Peter moan and buck his hips helplessly. Peter feels Wade grin against his skin. “Oh, you want to fuck me, do you? I suppose that explains why you kept sending me photographs of you being a little slut.”
“Yes, I want to fuck you,” Peter moans. Bucking his hips upward to try to get some relief by rubbing his arousal against Wade’s leather-clad leg, he feels absolutely debauched. “We can argue about me lying to you later but will you please just fuck me, Wade?”
Wade leans back to look at Peter. His eyes sweep Peter’s body then focus on his face. “I’ll fuck you, Peter,” he says, darkly.
He stands up, beginning the large task of taking off all of his equipment and costume. The swords hit Peter’s floor with a clatter, three guns are discarded and several knives bounce beneath the bed.
“Should I even ask what you were doing on my roof with a full arsenal?” Peter asks quietly.
“I was worried about you, you little asshole,” Wade replies, without heat. He’s peeling off the spandex and leather now. “I didn’t realise you were Spider-Man. I thought someone was hurting you! I thought Spider-Man was being a dick to you!”
“You know I wouldn’t be a dick to anyone, right, Wade?”
“You don’t think you’ve been a dick to me?” Wade growls. There’s an awful lot of him on display now, all hard ridges of muscle. Peter swallows.
“We’re falling back into arguing,” Peter sighs. “I just want you. We can fight all night. But come touch me first.”
Wade falls on him, kissing him again, his hot, hard skin burning against Peter. Peter doesn’t know when it happened, but he’s become addicted to Wade Wilson, to the bizarre idea of finding the ridiculous anti-hero attractive. The idea that Wade finds him attractive, attractive enough to pay for photographs of him, makes him moan and whimper. He’s just a small, nerdy, plain man, but beneath Wade’s gaze, his furious lips, he feels like something more.
Wade’s enormous hand trails down to Peter’s throbbing, aching arousal, and wraps firmly around it, making Peter whimper. “Tell me you want me to do this to you,” Wade whispers.
“I do,” Peter moans. His hands reach up to stroke Wade’s shoulders, his fingers wrapping around them as Wade moves his fingers languidly.
“Those photographs you sent me… they were so fucking hot. You are so ridiculously hot, Webs,” Wade says, his mouth against Peter’s ear, his breath tickling Peter and making goosebumps spring up on his skin.
Peter whimpers again, his hips bucking up towards Wade.
“This explains why I couldn’t stop thinking about fucking Spider-Man and Peter Parker,” Wade continues. “I was feeling so guilty about it… but you’re one person.”
“I didn’t mean to make you feel-” Peter says, but his mouth is covered by Wade’s other hand.
“Shush, baby boy,” Wade croons in his ear. “I want to see you come apart for me. You’ve been driving me crazy. I want to drive you crazy.”
If Peter’s mouth wasn’t covered, he would have argued that Wade was crazy before all of this started, and that he had already driven Peter past crazy. But he can’t say anything, instead moaning helplessly against Wade’s palm as the larger man strokes his cock.
He’s getting close, his body tensing as his orgasm builds, and Wade continues his relentless assault, shushing Peter as he cries out against his hand. Helpless against his experienced, firm touch, Peter finishes in a blinding rush against Wade’s fingers, his body quaking in pleasure.
Wade’s fingers slide lower, brushing sensitive skin before skimming his entrance.
“I want to fuck you,” Wade breathes, as Peter trembles in pleasurable haziness against him. He moves his hand from Peter’s mouth, replacing it with his own lips, and kisses Peter.
“Please,” Peter whispers. “Please, fuck me.”
Wade nods. He reaches down to the floor, rummaging in his discarded utility belt, and Peter rolls his eyes through his arousal at the realisation that he clearly carries condoms and lubricant on his person at all times.
His thoughts lose any clarity as Wade falls back on him, pressing a slick finger against his entrance.
“You’re sure?” Wade asks.
Peter nods. He is suddenly struck by the feeling that if Wade doesn’t fill him, he’s going to lose his mind entirely. “Please,” he mumbles.
Wade slides his finger slowly into Peter, and Peter cries out once more. The finger moves gently back and forwards, and it isn’t long before a second finger joins it, then a third, and Peter’s hands are tangled in his sheet as he arches his back up towards the pleasurable invasion of his body.
“You look so good like this, Webs,” Wade whispers into his ear, his lips kissing Peter’s earlobe. “Writhing helplessly beneath me, desperate for me to touch you. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to see you like this.” The words make Peter feel a strange stab of emotion.
“You… wanted to see Spider-Man like this, not me,” Peter hisses.
Wade pauses. His eyes are intense as they burn down into Peter’s. “You are Spider-Man, Peter.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
Wade frowns. He reaches for Peter’s hand and places it on his own sizeable, rigid, strangely textured erection. He scrapes his tongue across Peter’s throat. “Does it feel like I don’t want you, Peter?”
Peter shakes his head as Wade’s fingers twist inside him.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Wade continues, speaking in a casual manner, as though his fingers aren’t currently deep inside Peter, “it isn’t like I don’t want to fuck Spider-Man. I feel that that is obvious. But I quite clearly want to fuck the gorgeous, filthy little guy inside the suit too, the guy who apparently gets off on selling me sexy photos of himself.”
Peter can only whimper in response.
“Am I being clear enough?” Wade asks darkly. “I want you, Peter. I want all of you.”
“Yes,” Peter breathes.
Wade removes his fingers slowly, replacing them with his solid cock, sliding in inch by inch. Peter’s legs wrap around his thick waist automatically, opening himself up for the delicious invasion of his body. Wade braces himself on his forearms, his face pressed into Peter’s shoulder. He’s saying something, but Peter can’t make out the words, his focus entirely on the huge, hard dick sliding inside him.
“I want you to be struggling to walk tomorrow,” Wade says. “I want to break you the way you’ve broken me.”
God help him, Peter finds these dark words arousing. His hand reaches down to touch his own cock, stroking it desperately as Wade starts to move.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, pumping himself as Wade fucks him with a punishing rhythm.
Neither of them are going to last long; Wade is fucking him hard and fast, his mouth nipping at Peter's chest and shoulder, his whole body shaking as his delicious bulk pins Peter in place. Peter raises his hips, desperate to feel every inch of Wade, absolutely lost in the sensation of being fucked by Deadpool.
Finally, Peter finishes in his hand, hot cum erupting over his stomach as he cries out through his pleasure. Wade's body reacts to Peter's moans and trembles and he finishes inside Peter, moaning his name against Peter's skin.
They lie together after. Peter feels hazy and lost, half-asleep and drunk on pleasure. Wade rolls tentatively off him, lying down beside him and reaching out to brush Peter's sweaty hair back from his face tenderly.
“Did I hurt you?” he asks softly. “Or scare you?”
Peter shakes his head, panting. “No, of course not. I wanted that.”
“I'm sorry I was… angry,” Wade says, and his eyes are sad. “I should have figured it out. I should have known that you were struggling financially months ago.”
Peter blinks. “How?”
“You've lost weight,” Wade sighs. “You haven't been your usual perky self.”
“Looking after me isn't your responsibility-”
“I'd like it to be.”
The words hang heavily in the air between them. Peter weighs them up. Would it be so bad? He adores Wade, and apparently being fucked by him is mind-blowing.
“Are you still mad at me about not telling you the truth?” he asks, one hand coming up to brush softly across Wade's burning forehead.
“No. I'm just so fucking relieved I didn't fall for two different people.”
Fall for. Peter bites his lip. “You mean you fell for Peter Parker and Spider-Man?” he asks, and the words come out lightly despite the way his heart is racing.
Wade snorts, pulling Peter closer so that his head is resting on Wade's chest. “I have been very confused, Webs.”
“I'm sure I can make it up to you,” Peter smiles.
Wade kisses the top of his head. “I'm sure you can, too.”