Wade shot up in bed, hand already gripping one of the two Desert Eagles he kept hidden under his pillows while he slept.
Yellow’s anxious shout caused Wade’s finger to twitch next to the trigger, but seeing no one in his and Peter’s bedroom, Wade refrained from firing the weapon, though not long ago he’d have fired it anyway.
[There’s no one here to kill, you fucking moron.] White’s sigh was way past longsuffering and had moved right into agitated territory.
(You don’t have to be such a dick. What even woke us?)
[That loud ass knocking.]
“Shut up, you two. We don’t wanna wake—” a soft snort came from the other side of the bed, from the young man who lay tangled in the sheets beside Wade, “—Pete-cute.”
[We’re in your head. He can’t hear us anyway.]
(Truth. Even if we scream at the top of our lungs, THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN HEAR US IS YOU, YOU UGLY MOTHERFUCKER!)
Yellow’s cackle was manic, and Wade grabbed the sides of his head, trying to force the screaming thought box to quiet down. How a thought box could cackle or even scream for that matter, wasn’t something Wade liked to think about.
He only succeeded in making Yellow laugh harder.
Wade let out a quiet sigh and swung his legs over the side of the bed so that he could go answer the door before Peter could wake, but as soon as he made to stand, a warm arm wrapped itself around his waist and pulled him back down with superhuman strength.
(Fuck that’s hot.)
[He could break our ribs in seconds since he’s barely focusing like that.]
(…fuck, that’s hot.)
[You’re a Goddamned idiot.]
(I know I am, but what are you?)
[Eternally damned to a life living with dumb and dumber.]
(You only wish you had the comedic genius of Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels. Hmph. …I call dibs on Jim Carrey.)
Ignoring the boxes, who continued to snip at each other, Wade leaned down to press a kiss to his boyfriend’s tousled brown hair.
“Hey, Baby Boy,” he whispered, his voice sleep rough, as a cold nose burrowed into the space between Wade’s neck and shoulder. “I havta get up.”
Peter’s grumbled “no,” was felt more than heard, as he pressed his lips against Wade’s chest and wedged a thigh between Wade’s legs. “Your m’pillow.”
[…okay. That was hella fuckin’ cute.]
(Ha! You’re powerless to Spidey’s charms, just like the rest of us monkeys, you ass-clown.)
Wade suppressed the urge to laugh at how grumpy his Petey-pie was when woken up. Peter was a right terror in the mornings, but his sex mused hair, pout, and sleep hazed hazel eyes always made up for any rudeness that came out of his plump lips when he was startled out of sleep. Plus, Wade loved how clingy Peter was when he was half asleep.
And man, did he need it.
Sleep that is.
(Or our dick in his ass.) Yellow supplied helpfully.
For the past four days, Wade was pretty sure the only thing keeping Peter from falling on his perfectly tight, plush ass, and into a coma, was mixing 5-hour Energy drinks into his coffee and the sheer force of his stubbornness. After Peter had finally (fuckin’ for reals tho) finished his research paper and their late night [you mean, early Goddamned morning] patrol, Wade had finally convinced the twenty-two-year-old to take the Saturday off and spend the day in bed, only getting up for food and to use the bathroom.
Wade checked the clock on the nightstand on his side of the room and noticed that they’d only been asleep for an hour before the knocking had started. The knocking that was steadily becoming louder.
“Petey, lemme up,” Wade urged, sliding a hand down Peter’s smooth, shirtless back, reveling in the soft, soft skin.
(Touch da butt. Touch da butt! TOUCH DA BUTT!)
[In this case, I agree with Yellow. That ass needs to be squeezed.]
Deadpool ignored Yellow’s chant and White’s agreement and slid his hand back up to tangle in Peter’s hair. Knowing nothing short of bodily fluids would get Peter to let go of him and unstick his hand from Wade’s chest, Wade said, “if you don’t lemme up, I’ll end up pissing the bed. I’m all for experimenting with my watersports kink, Baby Boy, but I don’t think your lil’ germaphobe heart could take it.”
Peter’s face scrunched up in disgust, releasing his captive immediately.
Wade chuckled as he slipped out of bed and pulled on the Spider-Man hoodie that lay discarded next to the laundry hamper, in order to cover his skin from the unsuspecting eyes of whoever was at the door.
[Yeah, make sure you cover that ugly mug.]
(What was it Wease said? An avocado had sex with an uglier, more disgusting avocado?)
Wade gripped the pistol he hadn’t put away a bit tighter at those intrusive thoughts.
He turned just in time to see Peter grab his pillow and cuddle it as if it was Wade’s chest, making sure to avoid the second loaded pistol, even though he was barely awake. Peter’s soft snoring started back up again, so Wade felt confident that Peter would stay asleep long enough for him to deal with the asshole at the door. He glanced at the window to make sure Fur-gie was lounging where she usually did at night, and was pleased to find her eyes half open, more sleepy than alert.
As Wade walked out of their bedroom, he stumbled over a pair of jeans and decided to pull them on over his bare legs, to hide the litany of constantly reshaping scars and open sores that covered his body from head to toe. He realized a bit too late that they were actually a pair of Peter’s skinny jeans, but the knocking at the door got louder and he knew he didn’t have long before Peter woke up again. He shut their bedroom door, hoping to dampen the noise of the nocking, as well as keep Claw-dia from scampering out the front door at the first sign of escape.
(If this shithead wakes Petey-pie, kill them. Kill them and then grab some of that fine Spider ass.)
[Spidey doesn’t like it when we kill…]
(He will if it means he gets to sleep longer.)
Yellow’s voice was so sickeningly sweet that Wade knew Yellow would win in the internal struggle of whether or not to kill whatever idiot had chosen to knock on their door at five in the fucking morning, given half the chance.
Wade grabbed his mask off the back of the couch as he passed by it and didn’t even bother looking through the peephole before he threw open the door, pointing his pistol at the intruder.
Tony Stark was on the other side, fist raised halfway to the door as if he was about to start another round of vicious knocking.
“Iron Maiden,” Wade greeted as he leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, using his considerable bulk as a makeshift meat-door so Stark couldn’t slip past him and walk into the apartment.
[…you’re an idiot.]
(Meat, like our dick! In Spidey-babe’s ass. Or mouth. We’re not picky.)
[I fuckin’ knew what you meant you plebian.]
(Damn that’s a big ass word. Do we know what it means?)
“No idea,” Wade muttered, shifting his hand so that the gun was still casually pointing at Stark. “What’s up, Starkers?”
“Grab your gear Poolboy. S.H.I.E.L.D. has a mission for you,” Stark said, rolling his eyes at Deadpool’s posture and gun. The ex-mercenary rarely killed these days, and Stark was certain he refrained from it because he didn’t want to incur Spider-Man’s Disappointed Sigh™.
“And they sent the great Iron Douche to get me himself? I feel like such a special lady! Makes my nethers get all tingly,” Wade said, making no move to get his suit or lower his gun. “I knew I shoulda put on my best dress before I opened the door.”
(Gasp! That dress is saved for Petey-pie’s eyes only. He told us that himself! Bad Deadpool!)
“Well, if you hadn’t smashed our only way to contact you on the last mission—”
“Listen, Tin Can, I’m on sick leave for another,” Wade looked at his bare wrist, “two weeks. Whatever it is, it can wait ‘till I’ve ‘fully regenerated’ and no longer feel phantom pains in my squishy bits. Good chat. Byyyye.”
Wade grabbed the door and had almost successfully shut it in Stark’s face, but the billionaire playboy, douche-canoe wedged his leather dress shoe between the door and the wall and pushed back. Wade could’ve easily overpowered him, but in order to cut down on the amount of sound they made so that Peter wouldn’t come looking for the commotion, Wade was forced to slam the heel of his foot down on Stark’s shoe and pushed him back out of the doorway, instead of slamming the door. Without thinking, Deadpool grew serious and pulled his pistol up, leveling the barrel at Stark’s forehead. He was out of patience.
(Kill hiiiim!) Yellow urged.
[Well the shot would definitely wake Pete up.]
(We don’t need the gun to kill him…)
“You really wanna watch who you bully into doing shit for you, Anthony. It ain’t nice—I gotta be bought dinner first. A girl hasta protect her virtue, ya know?” Wade thumbed Bonnie’s hammer back. “Walk away Iron Dick. I’ll show up at Stark Stronghold when I’m good’n ready.”
(Noooo, don’t let ‘em walk away! Kill him! Kill him! Gut ‘em like a fish.) Yellow’s chant was so catchy, Wade almost followed through.
[Ugh. But that paperwork, though.]
Before he could answer the boxes, there was a quiet, “Wade?” from the bedroom.
Wade let out a world-weary sigh and turned a glare on Stark.
“Now you’ve done it, fuckwad. I’d just gotten Baby Boy down for a nap.” Wade turned his head to the side and said in his sweetest voice, “I’m nuking some burritos, sweetums. I’ll be back soon.”
“You have a guest?” Stark asked, eyebrow raised, and lips twisted into an ugly smirk. “Sounds young. Is he a rentboy?”
(Oh no he didn’t! Hold my earrings, White! Lemme at’em!!!)
[Rentboy? What the hell kinda wording is that? And you don’t have a body, Yellow. Jesus.]
(But he insulted our Baby Boy!)
[That’s true. Do something, Pool.]
“You might wanna shut your fuckin’ mouth and get the hell—”
“How long’s it take t’piss n’ come back?” Petey demanded, his voice louder this time.
And annoyed as hell.
“[(Damn.)]” Wade pushed Stark out of the apartment. “Leave. Now.”
Wade had just finished his sentence, sending a furtive glance over his shoulder, when Peter stomped out of their bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of Wade’s sweatpants and pushing his hand through his unruly hair, his eyes narrowed in a way that meant trouble.
(Oh hot damn, take me now, Spidey!)
[He can’t hear you, fucker.]
Yellow ignored White and whined, (just kill Stark already and then take Petey-pie to bed, Pooly. Look at how smexy he looks in our clothes. Damn, son.)
Wade’s gaze kept sliding back down Peter’s body. The pants were so much bigger on Peter that they fell halfway down his ass, showing off his fuzzy little happy trail and the vee of his hips. Wade’s mouth watered.
“The fuck you doin’?” Peter asked as he slid up to Wade, pressing his chest firmly into Wade’s back. “Come back t’bed.”
“Just takin’ out the trash, Baby Boy,” Wade said, making sure to step half behind the door so that Peter, who had easily climbed up Wade’s back and was in the process of nuzzling the back of Wade’s head, was hidden. While Spider-Man regularly teamed up with the Avengers to take down the large-scale attacks on New York, he’d never accepted their offer to join the team, and that was mostly because he was paranoid to the nth degree about who knew his secret identity. Peter Parker, on the other hand, still hadn’t told anyone besides May and his three closest friends about the nature of their relationship, mostly because Wade insisted on keeping them a secret for Peter’s protection, which meant Wade had to try his best not to let Iron Dad figure anything out.
“I resent that,” was Stark’s reply.
Peter didn’t even flinch. But he did make sure to hide his face in the crook of Wade’s neck as he pulled the hoodie down a bit, so he could suck a kiss into Wade’s scarred skin.
“Deadpool’s on sick leave, Mr. Stark,” Peter called, wrapping his arms around Wade’s shoulders, one hand fisting the fabric over Wade’s heart, the other petting Wade’s head in a pantomime of running his hand through Wade’s hair. If he had hair. “Come back in two weeks.”
“Pete? That you?” Stark asked in surprise.
Wade rolled his eyes.
(Christ on a soggy tortilla shell, does he think we call just any ‘ol thing, Baby Boy?)
[Peter’s a person, Yellow, not a thing.]
(Just sayin’) Yellow sulked.
“Yeah, Iron Dad,” Peter replied, hooking a leg around Wade’s hips and pulling him in closer. Wade grinned because his unusual nicknames had rubbed off on Peter (te-he, rubbed off), who resented the fact that the Avengers still treated him like he was fifteen. “And now that you know, you have it on good authority that Deadpool is actually on leave. Now please get out of his apartment.”
Wade couldn’t help but ask, “is that a pistol in you’re pocket or are you happy to see me, Petey-Pie?” He figured, if Peter had wanted Stark to be kept in the dark about who he was, he’d’ve done more to conceal his very noticeable voice and floppy hair.
(That’s his massive dick, DP.)
[He knows that, you ingrate.]
At the same time Stark choked out, “Peter, you’re sleeping with Deadpool?”
Peter, who’d had enough of this entire, ridiculous situation, said “Yeah, and it’s hot as fuck,” before kicking the apartment door shut with the foot that wasn’t practically glued to Wade’s hip. The thought boxes fell silent.
“Take me back to bed, love,” Peter demanded, rubbing his hips against Wade’s back. He let out a small groan and ripped Wade’s mask off his face, dropping it somewhere on the floor, so he could bite a mark into Wade’s neck. It began to heal immediately.
“As you wish, Petey-pie,” Wade whispered, his voice filled with adoration.
“And you better fuck me so hard I forget that I revealed we’re together to Tony fucking Stark,” Peter continued, as Wade walked back into their bedroom and pulled Peter off his back, laying him down on the bed with all the care of a mother hen.
He pulled the sweatpants off Peter’s legs with a smirk and said, “you know I will.”
Thus, Wade Winston Wilson went down on his young love until they both came and then took his time fucking into Peter until he was crying from the pain/pleasure of being taken apart in the best ways by his adoring partner. And for several hours after, the boxes were silent.