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Use Me

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Peter wants to help Wade. He does.

Sometimes, he looks over at his very unexpected, very unlikely friend, and he knows what he sees. He knows what he'd like to see instead.

Wade holds himself down when he thinks no one is looking. Sure, Deadpool is a bucket of laughs and jokes, and sarcasm for days. If he could batter and fry his own sass, Deadpool would have died from cardiac arrest years ago, healing factor be damned.

But there's Deadpool, and there's Wade Wilson.

Peter finally understands they are two different people come together in one tangled, twisted soul.

Where Deadpool is outlandish and snarky, Wade is reserved and soft. In a situation where everyone is on their deathbeds after an intense battle, Deadpool is the first person to start poking bruises and asking if they can feel all that blood because, my god, there is so much blood on your face. Is that all yours? In a moment where Peter has stubbed his toe on the corner of his door because, Jesus, his apartment is so damn cramped everywhere but the studio bedroom, Wade is the person rushing in to find the source of Peter's sudden scream, panic flaring in his voice and hands pawing comfortingly on everything but the problem toe.

Peter loves Deadpool, and he loves Wade. If he couldn't handle them both, he would have missed out on so much in his life already because, hey, he may have been an intruder that first night he showed up in Peter's studio, arrow through the head, crying about Chimichangas, with Clint Barton--Hawkeye, of all people, Peter was so thrilled--explaining that no one else was in town and he didn't know if he should pull it out or leave it in, but he had become a dear, dear friend.

After, of course, Peter railed on Clint for bringing Wade to his apartment, in which, on that night, Deadpool learned Spiderman’s secret identity.

“I thought all the Avengers knew!” Clint shouted.

“He’s not an Avenger! He’s a creep who pops up outta nowhere and tries to get me to eat pizza with him!” Peter snapped back.

“PIZZA’S TOO GOOD FOR YOU, TWINK!” Wade screamed. “I WANT A DOUGHNUT. GET THIS ARROW OUT OF MY THINK TANK--POR QUÉ, DIOS, POR QUÉ HAS HECHO ESTO?!” Wade paused, stumbling forward, cupping Peter’s face with his hands so he could lean in terribly close to whisper, “you're pretty…”

It was a long fucking night.

But it didn’t take long for Peter to get acquainted with the reality of knowing Wade Wilson and living with that acquaintance.

And, sure, the pranks were childish and awful, and Peter was tired of putting salt in his coffee or pulling his briefs up to find that Wade had cut out his crotch--underwear aren't friggin' cheap, Wade!--but it beat coming home to an empty apartment without a rubber chicken or two hiding away in sock drawers or pink hair dye in a bottle of shampoo.

It hadn't taken long for Wade to warm up to Peter. Initially, he had only ever seen the anti-hero on a smattering of Avenger's missions, where he was 'honorary' and 'somewhat needed'. These instances were very rare before the assassin had become his roommate, but after, he started tacking himself onto Peter's 'missions' as he sometimes did with Clint. He'd go with Peter as often as he could, almost as often as he went off alone.

Despite his strong self-conscious reservations about his scars, Peter watched in deep respect and something akin to adoration when Wade would lift his mask just high enough to flash his mouth for Clint to read his lips. He would stay like that for whole missions, sometimes, even with the other Avengers about. And despite being a usual solo artist, he fit into the gang quite well on the odd occasion. He adored Natasha, and there was something about the way he flirted with Wolverine that made everyone question his already questionable sanity. He even managed to ruffle Thor's proud feathers, and seemed to be desperate to make Bruce Banner choke him out without the assistance of the Hulk. He would tease James about his metal arm, saying, 'At least yours is sexy. Sexy Bucky. And it's just an arm, I mean, c'mon, you can never get tired jackin' off with that thing. Am I right, Steve-o?'

He had even gotten accustomed to taking his mask off in the shared quiet of Peter's apartment. Peter would catch himself marveling at the striking color of Wade's eyes. By god, they were so bright and clear, like polished blue diamonds. The first time he'd seen them, he had come into the kitchen to find Wade at the tiny tiled table, saying something about the food pyramid while he twirled a fork through some cup Ramen. He looked up and Peter was nearly knocked over by the intensity of those eyes; especially the deep golden lashes framing them, somehow grown back uneven and spiky despite many burns and horrible accidents.

And it wasn't just his eyes. Wade was beautiful. His jaw was so strong, his brow soft, and his cheek bones smooth. His mouth was lightly scarred, but it still looked delectable and pink, full lips in a curious pout. Beneath the soft scar tissue and dark red burns, Peter could almost see the Wade that used to be. But he liked this one... He liked him just fine.

At his reaction, however, Wade had reached over his shoulder and pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, laughing it off and saying something about how Peter couldn't handle his stunning good looks, anyways. After that, Peter would get the occasional glance of Wade sleeping in his boxers and a battered T, scarred legs on display across the couch, or once even Wade in nothing but his towel after a shower. He had, Peter believed, actually blushed and locked himself in the bathroom for a half hour after that. And god, Peter's tummy did flips at the sight of Wade's broad chest and shoulders on display like that... Godly, glorious.

Yes... He was so secretly self-conscious about those scars. His body was a mess of bad memories and a pale shade of what he had once considered to be damn near perfection because, even for Wade Wilson, there was always room for improvement.

Tony once made a crack about Wade's scars--something about pizza--and while Deadpool had laughed and called the Iron Man out with a very acidic burn, Wade came back to the apartment that night and laid out on the couch with a sweater and torn jeans on over his suit, a blanket curled around his body and the TV on something about food. He hadn't taken off his gloves or boots, hadn't even eaten the Chinese take-out Peter had ordered in for them... He just laid there, as covered as covered could get.

It tore Peter's heart up, and he hadn't been able to sleep it off for days.

He didn't see Wade's face again for a week after that, and barely even saw his hands, unless the older male was doing the dishes while singing very loudly and off-key to The Smiths, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, mottled scars and slices glittering with suds and water droplets.

It seemed that no matter how Wade crashed, it was never a real crash. He always landed on his feet, whether or not it hurt the pads or the arches, or how his ankles screamed. He landed on his feet with a witty remark and a glance off into the distance, as if talking to a camera crew somewhere.

Peter had lived with the notorious assassin Deadpool for nearly a year when he saw him actually crash.

Wade had been made a public spectacle, somehow captured by Doom's lackeys and broadcast on live television while the Avengers scrambled to keep the destruction of Times Square in check.

Peter had zipped down to Captain America's side in the middle of the fray just in time for the jumbo trons to pick up footage of Deadpool, masked and weaponless, literally nailed to a god damn chair. He had been beaten, heavily, from the looks of his torn and tattered suit and the way his head lolled to the side, as if holding it up had become a chore.

"This is who protects you." Doom had said, a low, rumbling laugh that made the camera fuzz. "Monsters; like him," With that, he tore off Wade's mask, and those blue eyes were swollen and red and glittering with tears. He looked into the camera, looking more like a frightened animal than the grandiose Deadpool, and he squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head forward, exposing the mottled scars of the crown.

"Disgusting, savage, hideously unwanted monsters. I'm not sure what's more pathetic--the likes of you insignificant ants needing their protection, or that they think protecting you makes them any more human. Any more worthy of anything."

"At le... At least I'm not prancing around in a cape. Sorry, Shakespeare, I didn't know you were coming by! That's a lovely shade of vomit you're wearing. Really matches your eyes," Wade said, lifting his face and laughing it off, his smile wide, flashing dangerously perfect teeth. But in the beginning, his voice had been broken. And in the end, Doom back handed him like he was nothing.

Peter had gone off.

He was like a canon, and when they found Doom hiding out in a dangerously ancient observatory, it had taken Iron Man to hold him back while the Hulk and the Fantastic Four finished the job. With all his web slinging and violent physical attacks, the observatory had nearly gone down.

Doom had actually bled. And Peter was still in a haze of rage until they freed Wade from his place nailed to the chair. Natasha was swift with her fingers, and soft with her voice, plucking nails from flesh with a switch blade. Behind her, James loomed close, his eyes averted from the sight, locked to Steve like a ship on the waves looking to a lighthouse. Through a single stare, he went from James to Bucky, and Peter could see the difference as clearly as he had seen Deadpool and Wade.

It was in their shared glance that Peter realized... That was what he wanted. To be a lighthouse.

He knelt down in front of Wade, pulling off his own mask before he reached out and plucked the similar red and black from the floor, holding it out to him.

"You don't have to wear it, Wade... What he said, it isn't true," he told him.

Those blue eyes found his face, and Peter sucked in a sharp breath and held it.

"...Maybe not for you..." Was all he said, and he pulled his mask on, blood gushing from the many small holes in his flesh, before he staggered up from the chair and began whining about his swords and the brand new holster for his favorite gun.

Everyone moved on without question.

Peter couldn't.

He wanted to help Wade. So he did.

That night, he went home, showered, shaved, tidied up, and waited on Wade's make-shift bed with his hair a mess and his shirt falling off his shoulders. His stomach was in knots, and he would have been lying if he said he wasn't sporting a semi in his pants for at least an hour. The couch smelled like strong spice and old mint, and Peter stared out the water-marked window for hours before Wade came home.

He was out of his uniform, wearing his mask to cover his face, a heavy hoodie and baggy jeans concealing the rest of him.

"So, doctor Banner says my wounds weren't fatal. I told him I coulda told him that," Wade laughs, shrugging his shoulders in an easy fashion. "But, uh, my suit looks a little worse for wear. Literally, it looks like a holey piece of shit. Stark said he'd get on it right away. Asked him to maybe use less spandex, more of that Kevlar shit that makes Steve's ass look so good. Man, that thing is perky."

"...Wade," Peter says softly, looking up at Wade through his lashes.

It's this moment Wade can tell things are going to turn serious. His brows furrow beneath the shield of his mask, and he reached up to scratch the back of his neck. "Well, it's a quarter past 'I'm fuckin' tired' so, how's about you skedaddle off to your own bed, eh, Spidey?" He says playfully, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards Peter's room.

Those hazel eyes harden, and there's a look on Peter's youthful face that makes something flare up in Wade's chest. It actually catches his breath for a moment, and he's trapped by those hazel eyes and all that messy, dark hair.

Then he laughs, and crosses the room to stand in front of Peter, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Go on now, Spidey. Go to bed. Did you really wait up to make sure I got home safely? Such a sweet lil' den mother."

"Wade," Peter says, more firmly, and when Wade takes a step closer, he doesn't flinch.

"Go. To. Bed," Wade growls, his skin flushed beneath all the layers he's wearing and, god, when did defiance become his thing?

There's a heartbeat between them, then Peter stands, slowly, his eyes not leaving Wade's through the thin white netting, and Wade's gut rattles. When Peter stands, his chest brushes Wade's, and his fingers confidently nestle themselves into the loops of Wade's jeans. He uses them to tug them together, their bodies pressed flush, and Peter has to tilt his head to the side and look up at Wade through those abnormally thick lashes, and it's oh so sexy.

And this was maybeoh, such a bad idea, because here's Deadpool, master assassin, basic immortal, standing six-foot-jump-me up against Peter's significantly less sturdy frame. His shoulders actually eclipse the light coming through the window, and Peter can feel his breath through the thin fabric of the mask. It smells like mint, and it turns a coil in Peter's gut.

But there's no going back. He wants to help Wade... He wants...

"Use me," Peter whispers, and the words knot Wade's gut like fiery springs.


"I want you to use me. I know you think I might be small, or that I'm not tough... But I'm more than what you see. I can handle it. I do want it. Whenever you're feeling trapped, or scared, or hurt, or like you're crashing," Peter turns his head, their noses brushing as his fingers gingerly and temptingly walk themselves up Wade's torso, his stomach rock hard even through the layers of clothing separating them. His chest is so broad, his shoulders so wide, and Peter stops his hands at the seam of his mask.

Wade swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing strongly.

Peter lifts the seam an inch, exposing a pale column of scarred throat. "When you feel like the world is against you..."

Another inch.

"Like you can't breathe, can't laugh or play or joke without choking on it first..."

Then another.

"When you don't feel beautiful."

Wade squeezes his eyes shut and chokes down a desperate whine as Peter exposes his mouth, and if his lips are trembling, he's going to find a way to chop them off permanently, not cool!

"I want you to take it out on me... Until you feel like you are." Fingers warm as sunshine ghost over his lips, and he feels himself collapsing into the touch, a breath escaping his lungs as his eyes refocus and find Peter's face.

He's so young; so beautiful and smart and funny, and Wade loves how clumsy he is, despite the confidence he utterly exudes in the suit. It's like looking at two different people without a seam between them; and he loves it... He envies it; wants to chase it until his own seams are stitched together with Peter's and there's no more Spiderman or Wade or Peter or monster.

"You are so beautiful," Peter whispers, heart caught in an iron vice.

Then it starts.

Wade caves in and slots their mouths together, and it's unlike anything either of them have ever felt. He has to dip his head and wrap his arm around Peter's slight waist to pull them together, and damn, if it's not hot holding Peter as if he's a fragile girl but getting the fiery kick of his boyish lightning. His body is firm but pliant, and Wade gets the sudden urge to break him and destroy him and reduce him to perfect glittering dust.

But he can't. He just kisses Peter, and tears sting his eyes because, god, he knows Peter has to be lying to make him feel better, but then, when was the last time Peter ever lied about anything?

Always so straight-forward, that boy. 'Jesus, Wade, did you turn all the eggs into confetti bombs again?' 'Why in god's name is there a Fathead of Terry Crews on my bedroom wall, Wade?!' 'I really wish you were a better person.' 'Wade, come get your dirty socks out of my room... Wade... Wade!' 'Fucking child!!' He never pulled his punches.

Peter melts against the assassin holding him, and the hot coil in his gut turns and he moans into Wade's open, waiting mouth. Their tongues slide, and it's filthy, and Wade's hands and teeth are rough, but he tastes so damn good, and it feels so odd to be held like he's needed and like he'll break. Not like he'd admit it out loud, but Peter sort of loves it; feeling like the breakable one, but having so much god given power.

They lick into each other's mouths and grind together, hands sliding, grappling, and Peter's up on his toes and Wade's holding his mouth in place with a strong hand against the back of his skull, and it feels like his soul's going to be sucked from his lips, the way his body is bowed and Wade is crowning over him.

He can't tell how long they kiss, but Wade's hands have completely fucked his hair, and he has his arms wrapped around that beautiful neck and he's grinding his unheeded erection against Wade's thick, firm thigh like a dog in heat. He's wanton, moaning and sighing, whispering things he's not even sure he's allowed to say.

"So beautiful. You taste so good. Wade... My beautiful Wade."

When he sighs like that, Wade can't help but feel like he needs more, more, more. He bites into Peter's lip, and when the younger boy cries out and arches against him like a bow, Wade thinks he's going to fuck Peter into oblivion right then and there.

It makes the thought grow stronger when Peter reaches both of his hands down and practically snaps the button and zipper of Wade's pants open, grinding the heel of his palm down against the erection growing there.

Wade's eyes fly open, and he grabs Peter's wrists and shoves him back with surprising force.

"Stop," he snarls, and the sound of his voice is caught between rage and agony.

Stop, why are we stopping?

No stopping. Stop stopping. Go!!

"What's wrong? Why? What happened?" Peter's delirious, but he's cutting through the fog to see what's happened to that gorgeous mouth ravaging his. His lips sting and his chin is slick with spit, and there's that nagging heat growing in his stomach, resting heavily on his groin, that he can't ignore.

"Nothing. Nothing happened. Please, just stop..." Wade whispers breathlessly, closing his eyes so he doesn't have to see Peter's face.

God, his hair is so completely ruined, and his pupils are blown, and his mouth looks fucked. He does not look like the kid Wade first saw months ago tripping over his own feet, sweeping textbooks off of a shelf. He looks nothing like the kid he's seen poured over notebooks with glasses on the bridge of his nose, his hair mussed from constant fingers raking through it, his bare feet tapping absently and rhythmically on the kitchen floor...

But, at the same time, he is that kid, and Wade's brain and body aren't on the same track.

This is the same Peter that looked absolutely amazing in his Spider suit with the mask off, pink hair tousled by the breeze. This is the Peter that saved dozens of kids from a burning building with a broken wrist and cracked ribs, the one that takes hit after hit and keeps on coming, the one that, even before the Avengers, was a hero...

And Wade wanted every inch of him burnt into his skin.

But this was wrong.

"Go to sleep, Peter. P-please, I..." Wade begins, and he finds himself unable to look away from the sight he's created. Peter looks so open, so willing, his perfect wrists caught in Wade's imperfect hands.

Don’t go to sleep; we need you.

Need this. Don’t let him leave us, you twat.

Wade squeezes his eyes shut.

The younger male swallows, hard, and blinks a few times, as if willing away thoughts. When he licks his lips, it's not a tease, but Wade's gut feels the punch. "I'm just... I just want to help," he whispers, looking up into Wade's face, and damn it, he wants the mask gone. He wants everything gone.

Wade shakes his head. "This isn't the way to do it... Look at you, look at me."

"I have, Wade. I am."

"Peter, I'm not..."

"You are."

"...You're just a kid."

"I am not a kid! It's not like this is illegal! I'm a damn adult. You wanna see my birth certificate? I'm past the age of consent!!"

Wade sighs and squeezes Peter's wrists, making the smaller male whine quietly. It's not pain that grabs at him, it's pleasure, and it's delightful and sweet and he steps in closer, as best as he can fight against Wade's brutal strength.

"This isn't what you want, kiddo," Wade growls, but his chest constricts. He's not what Peter wants... There's no way. The kid's not thinking clearly. He just wants to make Wade feel better, and pity was never something he smiled at.

"What would you know about what I want? Do you even know what you want?" Peter growls, and he finds the space to press their hips together and bows his back so that every possible inch of himself he can spare is touching Wade. Their erections slot together, and they both moan before Wade settles the smaller male back a few inches. "I'm not gonna push you, Wade... But don't talk like you know what's going on in my head. I know what I want; I want to be here for you... Now what do you want?"

There's about a thousand things Wade wants. He wants Peter's mouth, Chimichangas, Peter's hands, a new Beretta, Peter's neck, the original posters from Woodstock, Peter's hips, to be the Wade he used to be... Peter's heart. To be worthy of the way Peter's looking at him right now.

"...I want you... To go to your room. And go to sleep," he says in a low, measured growl.

The voices in his head riot.

Peter doesn't hesitate. He straightens, slips his wrists from Wade's grasp, and walks through the small space of the studio towards his bedroom. When the door clicks shut, a guilty thought twists in Wade's head.

If Peter gave in so easily about going to his room, what else could he get that boy to do?

Before he can even punch the thought down, the guilt and anger and painful longing boils through him and makes him wish he were dead. But he can't die, and he can't ignore the way his heart is aching nor can he forget how god damn sweet it felt to have Peter grinding on him like some drunk, wanton little slut. And he wasn't drunk!!

It's sick. Peter's a kid, and Wade's a certified beast. He had been a mercenary. He's killed more people than Peter has saved, and he's done things that, if Peter heard them in detail, would curl the younger boy's gut and leave him looking at Wade the way he deserved to be looked at...

So Wade does the only thing he can think is right.

He leaves.