You are the hole in my head.
You are the space in my bed.
You are the silence in between what I thought and what I said.
Peter groans and rolls over onto his side, reaching blindly for his glasses on his nightstand. He smacks his hand off the corner, swears loudly, and then ends up just shoving everything off until he can finally get his fingers around them. He ends up smudging the lenses, whines in a high-pitched, nasally voice, before he scrubs them clean with his comforter and then shoves them on.
He kicks at the blankets angrily, pushes himself up on one elbow, stares at the open window blearily, and then says, “Wade, you fucktard, at least close the window,” before he lets himself drop back onto the bed with another groan.
“If that was someone breaking in, you’d be so dead by now!” Wade calls cheerily through the apartment, “I have never heard someone make so much noise trying to wake up!”
“I don’t feel good, leave me alone,” Peter mumbles into his pillow, and he really shouldn’t be surprised that Wade hears him.
“Awh, what’s wrong with my little spidey? Got a—ah, fuck,” his voice tapers off into a grunt, and then he’s swearing and something crashes.
Peter slaps a hand over his face, trying to decide if he really cares enough before he kicks at his blankets again and stumbles out of bed. He grabs a sweatshirt on the way and yanks it on as he pads out of his room and around the corner to the bathroom, where only Wade’s booted feet are visible, one leg hooked over the side of the bath, the other pressed against the wall. Peter frowns and reaches up a hand to scrub at his face, skewing his glasses. “Wade, what the hell?” he says finally, stepping forward and reaching to curl a hand the sliding glass door. He peeks in, frown deepening when he finds Wade sprawled out, head tipped back against the wall.
“Hey there, webhead,” he says tiredly, giving a small wave.
Peter looks at him for a long moment before saying, “You’re getting blood all over my shower.”
“Yeah, check out the rest of your bathroom, darlin’.”
Peter turns and groans, “Wade. You’re cleaning this up, asshole.”
Wade just grunts, and Peter pads back out of the bathroom, making for the kitchen. He hisses when he slaps a hand over the light switch, squints while he’s making tea, and then collapses onto his sofa, curling around his mug of tea, holding it up by his nose in the hopes that it’ll help him breathe better.
Peter’s nearly asleep by the time Wade finally emerges from the bathroom, freshly showered and naked. He checks to make sure Peter is still alive because he hasn’t made a sound since he finished knocking things over in the kitchen, and, when Peter whines softly at him, Wade takes that as a good sign and goes into his bedroom. He opens the bottom drawer of his dresser, which Peter has pretended he doesn’t know Wade has started leaving things in, and pulls out briefs, sweats, a long sleeve shirt, and a sweatshirt. He gets dressed, pulls the hood up on his sweatshirt, and then goes back to check on Peter again, who has drifted off into a fitful sleep. Wade smiles fondly before plucking his half-empty tea mug out of his hand, washing it out in the sink, and then going back to carefully tuck his arms under Peter’s knees and back. He carries him bridal style into his bedroom, and Peter makes this soft, sleepy little noise when Wade settles him back on the bed and pulls the blankets over him.
Wade goes to hang up his wet suit in the shower, whines at the blood still streaked across the bathroom’s walls and floor, and then goes to slip into bed, chuckling softly when Peter snuggles close, wriggling until he can get his head under Wade’s chin and his hands balled up between them. Wade lifts a hand to lay it gently against his cheek, frowning at how hot Peter’s running, before he sighs and curls his arms around him, letting his boxes chatter away until they lull him to sleep.
In the morning, when Peter wakes up, he does so with a loud, whining groan. His glasses are sticking to his face, and he’s managed to drool over a good portion of his pillow so that his cheek is wet, and the sheets are tangled uncomfortably around his legs. “Fucking shit monkey balls,” he grumbles, kicking until he unbalances himself and ends up on the floor, and then he’s just shouting incomprehensibly.
“You’re a mess,” Wade says as he comes into the room and finds Peter in a heap on the floor, one foot still caught in the sheets. He tugs him loose, Peter sags the rest of the way onto the floor, and then he just balls up, lying there.
“I’m dying,” he moans, and Wade laughs, reaching down to haul him to his feet.
“Come on, sweetie, breakfast is ready,” he says, patting Peter’s cheek.
Peter just snuggles against him and whines, “I’m dying, Wade.”
“So are we all, every day,” Wade says with a bright smile before detaching himself from Peter and tugging him out of his room. He manages to get him into the kitchen where he dumps him into a chair, sets a bowl of steaming water in front of him, which Peter sighs about and nearly sticks his face in it.
“You made me a humidifier,” he says blearily, arms curling around the bowl, “I think I love you, Wade Wilson.”
“Now, now, don’t be hasty, master hobbit. I made pancakes,” Wade says triumphantly, dropping a stack down in front of Peter. Peter looks up at them suspiciously, then up at Wade, then back at the pancakes. He opens his mouth, and Wade rolls his eyes, speaking before he can, “Yes, they have bananas in them, ya fuckin’ hippie.”
“I like bananas,” Peter hums, pulling the plate toward him.
“Next time I’m going to make them with chocolate chips because that’s the right way to have awesome pancakes,” Wade threatens.
“I don’t like chocolate chip pancakes,” Peter says, pouting and shaking his head.
“You’re delirious,” Wade says, and Peter nods solemnly, so Wade laughs and sits down with his own pancakes.
They spend the morning with Wade coddling Peter, and then Peter falls asleep for a few hours, wakes up with his wits all in order, and promptly starts shouting, “Why am I wearing a Spongebob t-shirt? Who said this was okay?”
“Are you back to normal?” Wade calls through the apartment, and Peter rolls his eyes. He doesn’t respond, but instead goes to change into a long sleeved shirt with holes for his thumbs, yanks a shirt on over that, and then switches to a clean pair of pajama pants, tossing his clothes into the hamper before he heads out of his bedroom, grabbing a sweatshirt on the way. He goes into the kitchen first to find something to snack on, and then goes out into the living room, patting Wade’s bald head before he hops over the back of the sofa and dumps down next to him. “Feeling better?” Wade asks, not looking over.
Peter just grunts and reaches for the other controller, jumping into the game and proceeding to whine when Wade starts chasing his character around, shooting at him. Peter ends up sprawled out over the sofa, bare toes tucked underneath Wade’s thigh, all of the pillows—except the one Wade has commandeered for himself—piled underneath him, while Wade sits slouched, with his feet kicked up on the coffee table. They play video games until Peter’s stomach starts to grumble, and he tries to tickle Wade’s thigh with his toes until Wade threatens to break his ankle, and Peter just smirks and keeps doing it, so Wade throws him off the sofa.
“Let’s get Thai, you can’t say no,” Peter says from the floor, where he’s made himself comfortable. When Wade starts to say no, Peter shoots his character, so Wade throws his controller at him.
“Thai food is gross.”
“You’ve never tried it.”
“Why should I? Tacos win at everything.”
“We’re getting Thai food.”
“Do Thai people eat tacos? They should,” he says before Peter can answer, so Peter just throws the controller back and gets up to go find his phone and a menu for his favorite Thai place.
He takes it into his bedroom and locks the door because the last time he tried to order not tacos, Wade stole the phone and said some things he’d really rather not remember to the poor woman on the other line. This time, he feels like he should have seen the impending doom when Wade doesn’t try to ruin the actual ordering because, later, when their food arrives and Peter gets up off the sofa to go get it and pay—he will not buzz the delivery guy up, not after what happened when he let the pizza guy up that time—he feels uneasy as he’s digging out his wallet. He manages to get the takeaway bags in his hands before Wade jumps out of the shadows and starts screaming, and the delivery guy shouts in response and then falls down the front steps.
“Fucking lunatic,” Peter grumbles before going back into the building and pulling the door shut before Wade can follow him. Even still, he’s already back on the sofa by the time Peter lets himself in.
Wade ends up loving Thai, though he throws his chopsticks at the wall after the first few failed attempts and just eats it with his hands, and then proceeds to wipe his fingers on the sofa, so Peter puts him in a headlock and regrets it immediately because Wade knows everywhere that he’s ticklish. They end up in a heap on the floor, back to their game, Peter sprawled across Wade’s lap, his head leaning back against his chest, and Wade talking a mile a minute about zebras.
“I mean, seriously, how can they even camouflage themselves? Hey, I’m gonna go in the snow, whoops, I have black stripes, that gives it away. Hey, I’m gonna go play hide and seek, whoops, my white stripes glow in the dark. It’s totally counteractive to survival. In a nuclear apocalypse, they’d be the first to go, man. Fuckin’ stripes. Maybe you could, like—freeze the black stripes so they’d be dulled, like with liquid nitrogen or something, and then eventually you could just chip away at the black until there was nothin’ left but white.”
“And big gauges where the black used to be,” Peter manages to sneak in.
“Well yeah, but that totally blends in better than fuckin’ black stripes. It’s like—imagine if a black panther had white stripes, that’s totally hell for him. Oh shit, that’s like a white tiger. Those poor little fuckers, they’re right up there with zebras, man. Nuclear apocalypse, those pussies are gone. You know, pussies aren’t even fun anymore. They’re all the same, man, all of them.”
“Are you still talking about felines?”
“Shit no, where did you even get that from?” Wade says, giving him an obnoxious look that Peter just rolls his eyes at, “Pussies, spidey, they’re fuckin’ boring. This last mission, I had a choice, right. There’s this drop dead gorgeous lady chillin’ out on the sidewalk as I’m getting back to my motel, like, spidey, she was fine, but pussies are fuckin’ boring, remember? Hey, are you paying attention? The boxes don’t think so. And I tell her, no fuckin’ way, I’m not interested, give me cock.”
Peter chokes on his soda, sitting up as Wade thumps him once on the back and then keeps going, “So I bypass her, get into my motel, and there’s a guy checkin’ in to a room at the desk, and the ass on him. I mean, it’s not as good as yours, because fuck me your ass, but he was a’ight, so I followed him back to his room, and what do ya know? Gay as a bent fuckin’ pole.”
“What does that even mean?” Peter says, turning and looking at him in bewilderment.
“The spandex helps,” Wade says, shrugging one shoulder, “Have you seen your ass in spandex, webhead?” Wade whistles, so Peter smacks him, and Wade cackles.
Peter turns back around, starting to settle against Wade, and then yelping, jumping up and twisting halfway, looking at Wade’s face, definitely looking at Wade’s face, he makes sure he’s looking at Wade’s face. “Dude,” he says, and Wade’s grin is so wide, he wonders if it hurts.
“Listen, you were the one that asked me about zebras, it’s your own fuckin’ fault.”
“I asked you if you wanted pespi or coke!” Peter exclaims, punching his shoulder, “And then you said you liked the old pepsi designs better cos they had more stripes, so then you started talking about zebras, and I don’t even understand the logic that got to comparing pussy to cock, and why do you have a boner?” he ends with, frowning because he really should have gotten to that point sooner.
“Second hand lust?” Wade says, cocking his head to the side.
“You know, you’re telling someone about the chick you fucked, and you start gettin’ a boner just thinkin’ about her cos man, that chick was fuckin’ smokin’ aces. I actually had a lady one time that had an ace tattooed on her, and she got pissed off when I tried to put out my cigarette on it even after I explained about the smokin’ aces, like, what the fuck? Way to be a buzzkill.”
“I give up,” Peter says, rolling his eyes and turning again, though he doesn’t lean back against Wade, but instead just pulls his legs into a pretzel, knees resting out against Wade’s, whose legs are bent around him. He takes the game off pause, tries desperately not to think about Wade and his second hand lust, though that doesn’t work for long because then Wade is leaning forward, wrapping an arm around him, and tugging him back against him so that Peter’s relaxed against his torso again. “Everyone would die in a nuclear apocalypse,” Peter mutters, and Wade’s laugh is loud and shakes him a little so that the bulge in his sweats pushes against Peter’s back. He inhales slowly, holds his breath, and then lets it out, forcing himself not to shift.
“Not zombies,” he says when he finally calms down, and Peter snorts.
“There’re zombies now? So it’s a nuclear zombie apocalypse?”
“Dude. They should make a video game about that, it’d be fuckin’ madness. Zombies would totally survive a nuclear apocalypse, too, cos they’re already dead, right, so blow off their fuckin’ arm in an explosion, doesn’t even matter. You know who else would survive a nuclear explosion? The black knight, just trampin’ around, it’s just a flesh wound!”
Peter laughs, and he’s about to say he wants popcorn and pause the game when Wade’s hand settles on his thigh. “Wade?” he asks, staring at his hand.
“Spidey!” Wade yells, smacking the back of his head with his controller, “Pay attention! You’re gonna get us killed, Jee-zuss.”
Peter rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to the game, and they get through another level and are waiting for the next one to load when Wade’s hand slips up higher, resting up by the waistband of his sweats, his thumb skipping over it to brush lightly against his hip bone. “Wade,” Peter warns, but then Wade lifts his hand higher, pulls Peter back against him when he moves, and Peter tries to mask his gasp with a cough.
“Ooh look, we’re in a forest now, forests are always a good place to die. Did you know I died in a forest one time? The first fuckin’ time I died after I got off that damn island, and it was the weirdest experience, waking up covered in leaves cos I’d been lying there for, like, a long time, and there was a bird tryin’ to shit on me. Have some fuckin’ respect for the dead, man, don’t just be shittin’ on them. Spidey!” he exclaims suddenly, squeezing Peter’s thigh, and Peter jumps, tensing. “Did you see the rabbit? They put a rabbit in the game, now that’s good marketing, putting all the little details in. I tried to have a pet rabbit one time, but then he hopped away.”
Peter lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes momentarily before he turns all his attention on the game, and really, that’s his first mistake. Wade shifts a few minutes into the level, making it very apparent that he’s still hard, and Peter bites his lip because he’s not going to play this game with him, and they have rules, for fuck’s sake, and Wade knows that rule number two is to stop trying to put his hand down Peter’s pants—rule number one is to not sneak up on him while he’s napping on the sofa because he will end up on the ceiling.
Wade breaks rule number two just as they get into a firefight, hand coming up at ninja speed, thumb pressing against his belly while his index and middle push the waistband of his sweats out, and then he’s in, hand sliding down to cup Peter’s half-hard cock, his briefs the only thing between them. “WADE!” he screams, trying to scramble away, but Wade just tosses his controller to the side, winds his other arm around Peter, and hauls him back down.
“Spidey,” he whines, fingers sliding down to rub over his balls, thumb stroking a line down his cock, “I don’t like rules.”
“Oh, come on, I tell you this hot story about how I boned a guy on my last mission, ramblin’ on about second hand lust, and you’re going to tell me that your skyrocketing pulse had nothing to do with that? I’m a ninja, Peter, I know when you’re hot.”
“Wade,” it comes out half a demand, half a moan because Wade’s hand squeezes.
“I don’t do noncon, webhead, so give me a red or green.”
“Cockroaches wouldn’t die in a nuclear explosion,” he says as he pauses the game, and Wade smirks, leaning down to kiss his neck. He brings his other hand up to curl around Peter’s throat, tipping his head back, and Peter groans when he presses the heel of his palm against his groin. They stay like that for a long two minutes, Wade slowly bringing Peter to full hardness, Peter trying not to make any noise as he mouths down his neck, and then Wade’s hand and mouth are gone, and the game isn’t paused anymore.
“It was a firefight!” he shrieks, and Peter snaps his head back up, looking back at Wade, who winks at him.
“You fucker, you just wanted to see if I’d let you,” Peter grumbles, punching him in the chest before turning again and relaxing against him, and that’s how they finish the level. “I’m going to bed,” Peter mutters when they complete, and he’s halfway to his feet when Wade yanks him back down, one hand curling around his jaw so he can turn his head and kiss him on the mouth, bruising and fast, and Peter’s reaction is delayed. Wade’s tongue slips into his mouth, and then he remembers how to kiss, and he pushes back against him, groaning. He can feel Wade’s smirk, and he starts to smack him when Wade’s other hand pushes under his sweats and briefs, and he pulls away from the kiss with a startled shout as his fingers curl around his cock, thumb pressing over the head.
“What were you gonna do?” Wade breathes out against his ear, “Make me sleep on the sofa and jerk yourself off in bed, thinkin’ about my hand on your cock?” Wade bites at his ear, a sharp nip that makes Peter gasp, and then Wade’s other hand is sliding down to push Peter’s sweats and briefs out of the way. Peter lifts up to let him get them down around his thighs, and then the other hand is coming around to cup his balls, squeezing lightly until Peter’s moaning and pressing back against Wade. “Or maybe you’d just take a shower before bed, bite your fist so I wouldn’t hear you say my name when you came,” he continues, jerking Peter’s cock fast and hard, relentless.
“Fuck, Wade,” Peter groans, turning to hide his face in his neck.
“Maybe you’d think about my cock in that fuckin’ fine ass of yours, slamming into you, making you scream and beg, and I wouldn’t let you come until I had so I could suck you off after, let you spill down my throat.”
Peter’s voice is a jumbled mess of profanity and a pitching whine as he reaches a shaky hand to pull up his shirts, hips twitching under Wade’s manic pace. “Shit—Wade,” he says brokenly, trembling.
“Oh yeah? You gonna come for me, baby boy? Nope,” and then his hand slides down, squeezes around the base of his dick, and Peter is going to fucking annihilate him.
“Wade, I swear to fucking god—”
Wade takes his other hand and slides a thumb over the head of Peter’s cock, circling it until Peter’s sobbing, trying to shift in his hands, but Wade just shushes him, kissing his neck lazily. “Suck my cock after?” he asks finally, and Peter groans.
“Yes,” he whines, “Just let me—fuck.” Wade jerks his hand up once, fast, and Peter is blinded by pleasure, so close to the edge it’s almost painful, and he can hear his own voice, begging, but he doesn’t care.
Wade fists a hand in his hair and yanks his head back so he can kiss him roughly, biting at his mouth. He sets a slow pace on Peter’s dick, slow enough that he won’t be able to come, and Peter whines, his whole body coiled tight, until Wade licks the roof of his mouth, bites his lip, and pulls back with a crooked grin before he squeezes, jumps into a staggeringly fast rhythm, and then says, “Someday, I’m gonna come inside you, baby boy, gonna tear you down until you’re screaming, and then I’m going to lick your mess of your belly and—” he breaks off as Peter swears and reaches back, hand cupping around the base of Wade’s head, hips jerking off the floor as he comes, and Wade strokes him through it, slowing down until Peter twitches away, whining softly, trembling with the aftershocks.
“Gimme a second,” he mumbles, and Wade kisses his ear.
“It’s a’ight, spidey,” Wade says, letting his head fall back onto the sofa.
“I know you just wanna pull my hair,” Peter says, his words slurring together, and Wade chuckles softly.
“Crazy fuckin’ mess you got up there, it’d be nice to pull.” Peter hums in agreement, and Wade flicks his ear, asking, “You fallin’ asleep on me, spidey?”
“Most definitely,” Peter says before he’s yawning, and Wade threads his clean hand through his hair, strokes it off his face, and waits until Peter’s out before he shifts him off him and up onto the sofa, going to get a wet cloth to clean him up before he tugs his briefs and sweats back on, tosses a blanket over him, and then settles in to start the next level.
You are the night time fear.
You are the morning when it’s clear.
When it’s over, you’ll start.
You’re my head.
You’re my heart.
It’s been over a month since they spent all night playing video games and eating Thai and Wade giving Peter the best hand job he’s ever had in his entire life, and he hasn’t seen Wade since then. He woke up on the sofa to a clean bathroom, clean dishes, and a clean bed, but that was it.
Despite the rules, Wade has tried to get in Peter’s pants since they met each other three years ago, and he’s never been successful up until that night, and then he hadn’t even been there in the morning. Peter’s not sure whether to be pissed at him or not, but he figures he really should have expected it. He knows their friendship is abnormally strange, knows that Wade hates everyone in the world except him and Logan, knows that neither of them will ever be important enough for Wade to come back to on a normal basis, knows that no one understands them, but he’s always just shrugged away everyone’s concern because he actually likes spending time with Wade. No one else can stand him, but Peter thinks he’s hilarious, thinks that he’s actually incredibly intelligent, but no one wants to try to keep up to see that, and sometimes he’s surprised Tony doesn’t find him interesting like Peter does. He says so as much the next time he sees him, when they’re on the streets together, the rest of the team running amok trying to stop the witches from getting out of their barriers—fucking witches, man. Peter thought he had seen it all, and then witches. He decides he hates them more than anything else he’s fought.
“Are you ever going to realize what’s going on?” Tony asks as Peter finishes rambling on about not seeing Wade and why no one else thinks he’s interesting.
“What do you mean?”
“Sir, Captain Rogers has requested that you stop switching to a different frequency than the team,” Jarvis says.
“You have a not-boyfriend, Peter. Jarvis, patch us back to the team, and tell Rogers to shove it where the sun don’t shine. We’re fighting right now, in case he hadn’t noticed, and he just wants to gossip.”
“Gossip?” Steve repeats, and then Peter rolls his eyes and tunes them out as he hears something cackle, and he turns to go investigate.
Peter really fucking despises witches.
They’re almost done, just a last one to capture and strip of her magic via some wild tech Tony built with Thor’s input, and he drops onto a rooftop, looking around. The rest of the team is spread out, trying to find the last one, the right hand to the leader they already bagged. Peter’s just sighing and straightening, getting ready to web his way to another rooftop when something blue and sticky comes at him on either side, grabs onto him, and tosses him off the rooftop. He crashes into a fire escape, tries to grab onto it and misses, hits the bricks of the opposite wall when he tries to right himself, and then, as the ground comes rushing up, the blue snatches him around the middle and yanks him back. Peter’s back hits the rooftop with a thud, his head snapping back, and his vision goes black as his breath leaves him.
When he can see again, the witch is looming over him, sneering down at him, and he groans, “Guys. Found her.” And then something is latching onto his ankle and throwing him through the air until he’s hanging, suspended upside down, in front of the witch. She starts to say something, and Peter shoots a web at her mouth, eyes going wide. He’d watched the other one talk to Clint, watched her talk him right down until he was aiming an arrow at Thor, who had just grunted and snatched his bow out of his hands before punching the witch, and she’d toppled over, unconscious.
As soon as he webs her, though, fury leaps into her eyes, and she shakes him once before tossing him, and he only just manages to shoot a web at the roof before he goes over, pulling himself back down. He staggers into a crouch, staring her down as she approaches, her grin wide and feral, teeth filed into points, her tongue sliding out to lick their sharp edges. “That’s gross,” Peter comments before he lunges forward, and he manages to dodge around one of her spells before he starts his cocoon, hoping to detain her long enough until the team can get here because they’ve yet to be able to take on one of these things solo. He’s only got one layer on when she sets herself on fire, and then she snatches out a hand as he jumps back, catching his throat and throwing him down with dizzying speed.
Thor puts a dent in the roof when he lands, and Tony’s not far behind him, setting Natasha on her feet before he lands. Hulk comes jumping from out of nowhere, and then Steve is bursting out from the roof’s door, shield at the ready. She turns her eyes up at them even as Peter pushes off the ground, coming around to kick at her. The witch stumbles back, growling, and Peter scrambles to his feet, trying to catch his breath. “You okay, Peter?” Steve asks, and Peter nods, trying not to reveal how much he feels like he’s going to collapse at any second.
He starts to take a step back, trying to put distance between him and the witch, but then she lunges forward with a scream, nails growing out into sharp claws, and Peter starts to throw up an arm to defend himself when Wade—fucking Wade—drops out of nowhere and lands on top of her. They crash to the rooftop with a wild yell from her and silence from Wade, and then his blade is whistling through the night as her claws come up.
Thor jumps forward as the tips of her claws come out of Wade’s back bloody, and then the team is descending on her until Wade grunts and pulls away from her, yanking her hand from him, his fingers tangled in her hair, her head coming away from her body with a sick noise. If he wasn’t struggling to stay upright, Peter would laugh at how the team all staggers to a stop, staring at Wade in shock. “Beheading is the coolest way to die, let’s be real,” Wade says, pushing to his feet, and then he looks over at Thor, “That kills them, right?”
“Yes,” Thor says slowly, an expression of awe on his face, and Wade starts to shake his head even as Thor continues, “I have never seen someone take on a witch alone and survive, Deadpool. You are an excellent warrior indeed.”
“Eh,” Wade says, shrugging a shoulder.
“You gonna be alright?” Steve asks, looking down at the five slices in his suit.
“What, that?” Wade says, looking down at himself, “I’ve had worse. Here,” he tosses the head in a random direction before turning.
“That was cool,” Peter says, his words slurring together, and Wade swears before grabbing at Peter just as he starts to sway.
Wade’s voice is the last thing he hears before the blackness takes him, “Shit, spidey, way to have all the fun.”
“What did you do, throw bricks at me?” Peter moans, and then, when he opens his eyes and everything is blurry, “Did you take my contacts out?”
His glasses get tossed at him, and then Wade’s climbing onto his bed, a bowl of cereal in hand. He folds his legs under him and shrugs, saying, “Last time you fell asleep with your contacts in, you bitched so hard, and I am not listening to that again, so yes.”
“Thank you,” Peter grumbles, pushing his glasses on and then taking a breath before he moves. “Motherfucking hell, this sucks,” he says as he slowly gets into a sitting position, “I hate witches, man. Shit,” he adds, stretching a little and pressing a hand against his side, “The fuck happened?”
“I think she cracked a few of your ribs. Look at that gnarly bruise you have,” Wade says, reaching forward and pulling up Peter’s shirt. He looks down, making a face at the mess that his side is, and then he freezes.
“These are not my clothes. Why am I wearing SHIELD clothes?” He looks up and groans, “Why are we at SHIELD headquarters, what the hell?”
“They wouldn’t let me take you back home,” Wade says, shrugging one shoulder, “They said I was good at killing things, bad at taking care of things, I beg to differ, but they don’t care. Did you know that Stark and Banner are fucking? I wonder if he ever hulks out during sex. Oh shit, can you imagine a Hulk dick in your ass, that would horrible. Life-altering, for sure. As bad as a nuclear apocalypse, for sure.”
“Stop,” Peter says, swatting at him, “Please, I have a headache. Why did you disappear?”
“Work. Why, did ya miss me?” he says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“You can’t just do that, Wade.”
“You know—that, and then leave for a month.”
“Are you sweet on me?”
“No! Fuck off, get me out of here.”
Wade just smirks and gets off the bed, heading for the door. He leaves, and Peter gingerly gets out of bed, grimacing. He feels like Hulk went to town on him like that time with Loki, and he really just wants to get home and take a hot bath, so he gets his shit together, and he’s about to open the door when Wade appears, clucks his tongue at him, and turns around, squatting. “Is this a kink?” Peter asks, and Wade snorts.
“It can be. Hop on, I’ll give you a piggy back, you’re in no shape to be walkin’ ‘round. The boxes agree, so you have to, rule number three.”
“We should write these down sometime,” Peter says even as he tightens the straps on his backpack and then somehow gets on Wade’s back, letting out a little oof when he stands. Wade hooks his arms under his knees and holds him steady, so Peter lays his head against his shoulder and closes his eyes.
They get into the lobby before they’re stopped. “Where do you think you’re going?” Bruce asks, frowning. Tony mirrors his expression, lowering the tablet he’d been holding.
“Home,” Peter mumbles into Wade’s neck, “M’tired, and this place smells like authority and establishments, and that goes against rule number four.”
“What’s rule number four?” Wade whispers.
“Avoid Nick Fury at all costs when alone and any form of authority and establishments when in the company of Deadpool.”
“These are not the droids you are looking for,” Wade says before proceeding to tiptoe comically past them. Tony rolls his eyes and heads off, leaving Bruce to shake his head and follow.
“Let’s stop off for Indian,” Peter says when they’re on the sidewalk, and Wade groans loudly. Peter bites his ear through the mask. “I’m injured, you have to do what I say.”
“Do Indians eat tacos? They should.”
“I’ll make you a deal. It’s a lengthy one, are you listening?”
“Only if it involves tacos.”
“It does, but those come at the end.”
“I guess I can suffer through, my itsy bitsy spider.”
Peter rolls his eyes, though he can’t deny the small smile that brings about. “If you promise to not disappear again, and if you let us have Indian tonight, I will go out to the market tomorrow and buy real taco stuff and make you not Taco Bell tacos.”
“WHICH ARE BETTER THAN THE WORLD!” Wade shouts, so Peter bites him again.
When they finally get back to the apartment, Peter is fading fast, hanging onto Wade loosely, though Wade is careful with him, and it makes Peter wonder if Tony was right. “Wade,” he whispers as Wade picks the lock on his door, “Are we not-boyfriends?”
“In the morning, sunshine,” Wade says, and Peter shrugs and falls asleep.
In the morning ends up being around four o’clock when Peter ends up on the ceiling. “Now those are the spidey senses I’m talking about,” Wade says sleepily, face half-mashed into a pillow.
“Was your hand just down my pants, you butthead?”
“That is the worst insult I have ever heard. And yes, it might have been.”
Peter sighs and lets himself drop back down onto the bed, making sure to land half on Wade, but he just grunts and winds his arms around Peter, pulling him close. “Did we ever get Indian?” Peter asks, getting comfortable.
“We did, want me to heat it up?”
“A deal’s a deal, you have to go to the market today, don’t forget,” he says before kissing Peter on the mouth and then untangling so he can get up and go out into the kitchen. Peter just blinks and, by the time he turns over, Wade’s singing in the kitchen, there’s a drumming noise inside my head that starts when you’re around, I swear that you could hear it, it makes such an almighty sound. Peter sighs and gets up, looking down and smiling because he’s already in his own clothes again, and he grabs a sweatshirt before padding out to the kitchen. He fights with himself for about four seconds before he goes over to where Wade is squinting at the microwave, and he slides his arms around him, kissing the space between his shoulder blades.
“What’s going on?” he asks, and Wade drops off into a soft hum. Peter sighs and leans up on his tiptoes to kiss the back of Wade’s neck, which he really doesn’t expect to be the catalyst, but Wade’s humming breaks off into this little noise that makes Peter’s blood stir, and so he kisses it again, smirking when the noise morphs into a small whine. The microwave beeps, and Wade starts to reach for it when Peter licks a stripe over the spot before he bites, and Wade’s hand falls to grip the counter, a moan stuttering out of him. Peter rocks back onto the balls of his feet at the movement, stepping back and looking at Wade until he turns around.
“Foul,” he says, and Peter rolls his eyes.
“Is not,” Peter says in return, “Is that a secret button?”
“Black spot, like pirates,” Wade says quietly, brown eyes locked on Peter’s face. He blinks finally and cocks his head to the side, a dangerous grin pulling up one corner of his mouth, “Say, spidey, how achy are you from the witch?”
“She cracked my ribs,” he whines, stepping back again.
“Cracked ribs are so much less of a worry than broken ribs, although bruised ones are even less of a worry,” Wade says, stepping forward, “Did you see her stab me with her claws?” he gags, “That was fuckin’ terrible. Felt all slimy inside, and holy shit, did you ever see that movie Teeth? Vaginas, man, all fuckin’ boring now.” His voice is lower now, a deep rumble that makes Peter’s hands shake a little.
“Why, cos you had that guy at the motel?” he asks even as Wade steps forward again.
“No, cos I had you,” he says, and Peter expects so much and gets nothing because then Wade straightens, scoffs, and says, “Satan take the wheel, you still need to get real taco stuff, which we are totally having for dinner, not lunch, and we should eat this Indian because you can’t heat things up twice, an Asian once told me.”
“You’re impossible,” Peter sighs as Wade goes to get the Indian out of the microwave.
“I know,” Wade says with a shrug, “Come on, teach me how to use chopsticks.”
They go into the living room, Peter flips around until he finds something stupid on the telly, and then he sets about trying to teach Wade how to use chopsticks until they both get frustrated, and he just webs them in the right position. When they’re done, Wade can either read minds or he’s just that intuitive, because he slaps Peter’s knee and says, “I’m gonna take a shit, and you’re gonna wait to be a girl until after.”
He’s in there for a half hour before Peter gets up and goes to knock on the door, and it swings open. “Motherfucker,” Peter says when he sees the open window. He shoots a text Wade’s way because he’s pissed, are you afraid of commitment, you typical fucking stereotype, and then goes back to bed.
Peter expects a smarmy response when he wakes up, or even just a dick one, or even just no response at all, and so he’s surprised when he glares at the clock around ten, shoves his glasses on, and picks up his phone to find, no, i’m afraid of myself and how i’ll hurt you. Peter frowns because that was the last thing he was expecting, so then he sighs, sits up, and calls Johnny.
He gets up to head for the bathroom while it’s ringing, and he’s taking a piss when Johnny picks up, “Ass monkeys, it’s too early.”
“It’s past ten, come shopping with me.”
“Yes and yes.”
“Bagel,” Johnny says before hanging up, and Peter tosses his phone into the sink and turns on the shower.
After he’s clean, he pads naked across his apartment into his room, rummages around in his closet until he finds something to wear, and ends up in a pair of fitted black jeans, a brown thermal under a dark green shirt, and then he’s tugging on a pair of ratty Converse, slipping into his sweatshirt and jacket, and heading downstairs, backpack looped over his shoulders and skateboard in hand. He puts his hood up when he gets outside, shrugs into his jacket against the cold, and sets off for the nearest Dunkin’s. He grabs breakfast for himself and Johnny, stops outside Baxter to shoot a text up to Johnny, and then goes to sit on the curb. Johnny joins him, and they eat together before they’re heading off, Peter’s skateboard hooked onto his backpack.
“So, what’s up?” Johnny says, elbowing him, “You look like shit.”
“Witches, man,” Peter says, shrugging one shoulder, “Cracked a few ribs, too. Am I being secretly courted?”
“By Wilson? Yeah,” Johnny says, “You finally figured it out?”
“How does everyone know but me? Tony said he was my not-boyfriend.”
“That’s one way of putting it. What, did you let him into your pants?” Johnny teases, smirking.
“Best fucking hand job of my life, actually,” Peter says, and Johnny snorts, “He won’t stay around, though. So how does that make any sense?”
“Maybe he doesn’t actually want anything more than a fuck buddy.”
“Dude, he sleeps in my bed and eats all my food and we stay up all night playing video games and talking, we’re dating.”
“Maybe you’re both secretly courting each other.”
“I’m going to hit you,” Peter threatens, and Johnny just elbows him again before pushing the market door open.
“So, what—” Johnny begins after Peter’s gotten a cart and they’ve started down an aisle, “—he jerked you off, but you didn’t do him any favors?”
“Yeah, how’d you know?” Peter asks, glancing at him.
“Dude, he wears a masked suit ninety-eight percent of the time. Literally the only time I’ve ever seen his face was that one time we all hung out together at your place, when you were there. I’m not one half of the genius science boyfriends, but I’m pretty sure he’s ashamed of what he looks like.”
“He walks around my apartment naked,” Peter says, “How am I supposed to believe that logic?”
“Okay, but have you ever actually seen him naked, or do you just know that he does?”
“Oh,” Peter says, frowning.
“Yeah, exactly,” Johnny says, grabbing a bag of marshmallows and tossing them into the cart. “Maybe he doesn’t want you to see him. Maybe that’s why he always covers up everything except his face.”
“But that’s stupid,” Peter grumbles, “We’ve known each other for three years, he should be comfortable with me by now.”
“Hasn’t he known Logan longer than that, and do you think Logan’s ever seen him, like really him, after he became Deadpool? Doubt it. He is comfortable with you, just not all the way.”
“He said he was afraid of himself and how he’d hurt me when I asked him if he was afraid of commitment when he disappeared again this morning.”
“Bingo, I’m on fire,” Johnny says, letting his finger sizzle on his shoulder until Peter shoves him.
“I can’t believe you still do that, it’s so lame.”
“Fire puns are my reason to live, Parker. Are you buying tacos for your not-boyfriend?” he asks.
“I think you’re in love with Deadpool.”
“In like,” Peter corrects, “Don’t be hasty, master hobbit.” Johnny doesn’t laugh, and so Peter vows to call Wade when he gets home.
After he leaves Johnny at Baxter, Peter goes back to his apartment, backpack stuffed full of food. He puts everything away but the taco stuff, and then he makes the best damn looking tacos he has ever seen, and he takes a picture with his phone, sending it over to Wade with you broke your promise, come make it up to me.
Peter waits up until two o’clock, watching shitty television and playing a few video games before he goes to bed. Wade never shows, but four of the tacos are missing in the morning, and Peter stands in his kitchen frowning at them for only a few seconds before he goes to get his camera and heads out for the day.
No light, no light in your bright blue eyes.
I never knew daylight could be so violent.
A revelation in the light of day.
You can’t choose what stays and what fades away.
Peter’s been at the park with his camera for a grand total of seven minutes when he hears his voice, “Oh, summers that taste like children, we don’t like this place.” Peter blinks, trying to understand what the hell he just said when Wade drops out of a tree, a fucking tree, and lands on the bench next to Peter, still talking, “Big wide open space, makes me feel fuckin’ claustrophobic, all the little dwarves running around with their fairy godmothers chasing them, and I mean, kids will be kids, am I right, or am I right? They’re gonna fuckin’ run around if they want. I used to streak naked through the park when I was a kid, and my dad thought I was demented, so he used to belt me. And like, I dig leather, I really do, but it fuckin’ hurts comin’ across your ass like that. Oh my god, I just developed a kink—Peter, let me spank you.”
“Jesus fuck, Wade,” Peter groans, shaking his head and lifting his camera to try to distract himself.
“I mean, only if you’re into it, which, I boned this lady once who was into it, except in a really weird way so it was kind of awkward because she wanted me to hurt her, and I love killing, it’s the greatest fuckin’ thing in the world. You can just go up to someone and shoot him, and no one’s gonna know who the fuck did it cos I’m wearin’ a mask, fuckin’ clever is what I am. But she wants me to hurt her, and I’m like, okay no, and that’s probably when pussies stopped being not boring. You know what is not boring, though? Squirrels. Look at that little fucker,” he pauses, pointing a gun, and Peter stares at him with wide eyes. “He is a happy little guy, just look at him. He’s all runnin’ ‘round, his cheeks shoved full of nasty acorns, have you ever tasted an acorn? It’s like eating shit.”
“Nope!” Peter yells, grabbing at him as he sees Wade’s finger shift, and Wade rolls his eyes, sighing loudly at him before he holsters the gun.
“One time this chick I was dating—because I do date, you know, I don’t just fuck around, it’s not enough, but I did date this chick—she said that I reminded her of some crazy punk kid, like the ones that go into moshes and just flip the fuck out. I used to go to shows just to go crazy, get lost in it, you know? But that was when I was younger, before the island, before Deadpool, before my—and I mean, I love music, man. Only if for a night,” he breaks off, humming a few bars, before he flaps a hand at Peter, “Your tacos were boss. That’s what I meant to lead off with. The boxes are mad at me now for almost forgetting. They’re going like this.”
He starts smashing his fists together, and Peter smiles fondly at him. “You should let me do a study of you,” he says, and Wade gets off the bench.
“Uh, so I’ll see you around?” he says, and Peter sighs and webs him as he starts to turn around. He tugs him back, kicks at his knee until he sits, and he turns, legs folded underneath him.
“You never let me be a girl,” Peter says.
“Being a girl is so overrated,” Wade says, “Have you seen those strips where I’m in the maid outfit? I mean, I look fuckin’ good, spidey, but it’s just not all it’s cracked up to be, though the draft on the danglies is pretty nice, and oh,” he ends with when Peter grabs his arm and pulls him closer.
“Danglies?” he repeats, and Wade shrugs before Peter lifts up his mask and kisses him. It’s softer than their other ones, just a slow shift of their mouths until Peter pulls back, looking up at him hopefully.
“Have you ever been given a blowjob in a public place?” Wade asks, and Peter snorts, leaning back as he laughs.
“No, I haven’t. Have you?”
“Yes. Let’s go find a bookstore, they’re nice and quiet, and you like books, and I like German poets.” Wade gets up, somehow finding Peter’s hand along the way, and he pulls him off the bench, waiting while he gets his backpack and camera, and then they’re heading off, fingers laced loosely together.
It’s the anticipation that does it. When they get to the bookstore, it’s all fun and games, and Wade does actually like German poets, so he spends a lengthy time going through a collection of Rilke while Peter thumbs through something in the classic fiction section. And then he realizes the double entendre of Wade’s words, and he snaps the book shut with small noise and goes off to find him. He’s leaning against a bookshelf, reading quietly, and Peter checks the shelves around him before stepping up behind him and leaning up on his toes to kiss the back of Wade’s neck. He lets out the smallest of groans, a little pushed out exhale with noise, and it makes Peter’s knees wobbly. He reaches a hand around to palm Wade through the suit when he bites the spot, and Wade’s next exhale is louder and more broken. “Took you long enough,” he mutters as he turns before he leans down and kisses Peter hard. When he pulls back, Wade curls his fingers around Peter’s wrist and pulls him off, heading for the restrooms.
“You’re in the suit,” Peter whispers when Wade is finished checking the stalls.
“I’m a smart anti-hero,” Wade says, tapping Peter on the nose before he pulls him into one of the stalls and pushes him against the wall.
“Take off the mask,” Peter whispers against his mouth before Wade’s kissing him, and it’s a vicious battle of teeth and tongues until Peter is breathless, his mouth swollen and wet, and Wade groans, lifting to trace a gloved thumb over his bottom lip.
“I want to fuck you until all you can feel is me inside of you, until everything else is gone from that pretty little brain of yours but my voice, my cock, me,” he says, pushing at Peter’s lip before he kisses him again, reaching between them to rub a hand over his denim-clad dick.
When he pulls away again, Peter is glad to be on his knees because he’s not sure he can stand anymore. He drops down at the same time Wade unhooks and unbuttons a few things, and Peter loses track until Wade grins down at him and the suit gives way, his cock springing free, long and hard and leaking. Peter leans forward on impulse, licking away the bead of precome on the head, tongue dragging up, and Wade swears, head thudding back against the wall. “You ever blown a guy, webhead?” he asks, his breath a little ragged.
“Twice,” Peter admits, thinking about that time Johnny had kicked him and said, dude, my dick is so hard right now, and we’re watching this fucking porno, just blow me, alright, and I’ll do you after, and then there was the other time with Johnny, dude, that shit was awesome, you gotta let me fight with the avengers more often, I’m so horny now.
“You think loudly,” Wade grumbles, and Peter rolls his eyes, taking the head of his dick in his mouth and sucking before Wade can keep talking. All he gets is a short, aborted moan before he’s off, “Did you know there are some male animals that can have multiple orgasms? Like, why the fuck do they get it but we don’t? I’d kill a whole fuckin’ country if it’d get me multiple orga-a-a-, shit Peter.”
Peter reaches up blindly for one of his hands, directing it to his hair, and Wade instantly threads his fingers through his wild hair, fisting tightly and pulling a little. Peter groans in response, and the vibrations around his cock make Wade just pull harder.
“So, what? Your game plan is to blow me silent? Yeah, good luck with—fuck,” and then Wade doesn’t say another word except for the occasional swear or, once, praise, you suck cock like a fuckin’ sex god, Peter, what even.
Wade is slow to get off, just letting his whole body relax until he’s encompassed entirely in the moment, just experiencing, but Peter doesn’t care because he loves the way he feels and tastes and sounds, and, just when his jaw is starting to ache, Wade bites back a moan, his fingers tightening in Peter’s hair as his thighs tremble. Wade yanks at his hair, trying to pull him off, his voice a low rumble as he says, “Peter—Peter, fuck, I’m gonna—shit fucking hell balls—” and then he’s coming down Peter’s throat, his dick heavy on Peter’s tongue, and he licks his way down until he’s just at the head, working Wade until he pulls him off, hips jerking back.
He doesn’t say anything at first, his head tipped back and his breath loud and ragged in the bathroom, but then the door creaks, and he’s all ninja, pulling Peter to his feet, hands hooking under his thighs and lifting him up. He slaps a hand over Peter’s mouth when he shouts in surprise, and then Wade presses him back against the wall, taps at his ankle until Peter hooks them at the small of his back, and undoes his jeans with worrying ease at such an angle.
“Wade, no,” he mouths, and Wade just smirks and twists a hand under his jeans and briefs, pulling his cock free.
“Be quiet,” Wade mouths back before putting one hand over Peter’s mouth and the other to work on his dick, fisting tight and jerking fast. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever finished so fast, but Wade is ruthless, bringing him right up to the edge with only a few strokes, though he’d been steadily climbing as Wade was before, and he bites Wade’s palm when he crests over, dick throbbing in Wade’s hand.
When they’re leaving the bookstore, Peter’s grinning all over the place until Wade says, “I have to leave in the morning.”
Peter frowns, reaches for his hand, and says, “No, you don’t. Do the boxes have a favorite color?”
“Yellow, obviously,” Wade says, and they both know that Peter’s trying to distract him from arguing, and it makes Peter smile that Wade lets him. He starts off on a tangent about colors and boxes and which way is up and which way is down and fragile things.
Wade makes a pit stop to buy a new video game, and then he gets distracted looking at horror movies, and they get a bunch of used ones for deals before heading back to the apartment. Wade changes out of the suit and into black sweats and a red sweatshirt, which Peter makes fun of him for a little bit because he just looks like he’s in a comfy version of the suit, so Wade says he refuses to eat anymore of his crappy Asian food, so Peter makes tacos.
The video game scares the living daylights out of Peter to the point that he pauses it on the second level and goes to get a blanket to wrap himself in, peeking out from within the folds, a hand occasionally darting out for a taco or popcorn or pretzels, which they’ve agreed is the greatest snack food in the world. He originates in a regular position, but then Wade tickles him once and he ends up upside down, and that makes the game less scary, so he stays like that, legs curled around the back of the sofa while Wade kicks his up onto Peter’s belly, pillows piled under him.
Peter throws his controller down on the eighth level and says, “I’m done. What movies did you get?”
He figures they would have been terrifying if not for Wade, “Who even goes into an abandoned, haunted house unarmed? Fuck man, I’d go in there guns blazing, ready to take on the whole damn world. I’d be screaming and shit, too, real big war cries so them fuckers would know I was comin’, ain’t nobody gonna sneak up on me cos I’m just the noisiest little shit in the world. And like, ghosts don’t like iron or salt, so I’d just be Jewish tossing some salt—or is that some other culture?—swinging tire irons, but shit, I still need guns, so you’d have to come with me, salt and iron all over the place, I’ll have the guns blazing. Dude, we could fill your shooters with salt, that shit would be epic, bad to the bone. Ain’t no basilisk gonna Petri dish us, let me tell you.”
“Petrify,” Peter corrects, and Wade nods enthusiastically at him.
“Parley, right. Fuckin’ pirates, man, that’s what I was in my past life, or what I’ll be in my next life, I’m tellin’ ya. Yo ho me hearties, drink up, drink up. Do you drink? You should. Let’s get shitfaced. You’re gonna stay here, look—I’ll ring you when I’m on the street, keep you company so you don’t piss yourself when the dumb idiots go into the closet cos you know they’re gonna go in the closet, they always go in the closet, it’s like some fuckin’ rule or somethin’. Did you see that trailer for that movie, The Purge? Shit, if I couldn’t kill every day, if I only had one day—man, I’d need to Horcrux the shit out of myself, except in people, so like possession or something. What even is the devil but a sexy motherfucker? He’s so smooth, he’s like those old school vampires, before the sparkling and shit, when they were all sly and hey man, you have to invite me in, and I would have totally boned a vamp given the chance.”
And they don’t get shitfaced because Wade forgets that was ever a plan, “Batman’s kind of like a vampire, if you think about it. He’s smooth as fuck, and he gets a stupid voice like vamps do. They get all weird, right, when they’re luring you in? Or is that just Hugh Jackman? No, he played a vampire hunter, not a vampire—oh man, if he played a vampire. He looks like Logan, it’s really freaking weird, and Tony Stark, man. There’s that guy—shit, what’s his name? He looks like they plucked him out of the fuckin’ comics and dumped him into the real world.”
“Shut up, I was trying to tell you about my fear of mirrors. So, you walk into this haunted house unarmed when you should be goin’ guns blazing, and everyone’s shitting themselves about closets and beds and dark hallways, but mirrors, spidey, mama says they the devil. I told you about the belting thing, well my mom, she used to lock me in the bathroom and tell me if I turned on the lights, she’d get my father, said it was my fault that she hated herself, that she wanted to claw her eyes out everytime she looked at me, said that I would see how much she despised everything I stood for if I just looked in the mirror, and now I can’t be in the dark near one, or I get all panicky. Imagine that, a fuckin’ ninja afraid of mirrors. Makes no sense, I know, but—holy shit!”
Peter jumps as he says this, pulling the blanket over his face. “Why are you making me watch this?” he whines from under the blanket.
Wade tugs it away from his face, manhandles him until Peter’s sprawled on top of him between his legs, and shushes him with a hand through his hair, whispering, “I got you, Peter.”
And Peter’s heart skips a beat, not because he can’t keep up with the ninety to zero, but because he wants, more than anything, to fall asleep like this and wake up with Wade still there.
Peter wakes up like he’s been shocked, shaking out of his slumber with a gasp of pain, and he looks around blearily, his dry contacts not cooperating. His backpack is on the floor, and he reaches over, fumbling through it until he finds his case and pokes out his contacts, putting them away. He starts to push up, but his hands land on something solid, and he looks down to find Wade beneath him, sound asleep. His face is distorted into something not unlike fear, though, and it makes Peter frown until the pain laces through him again, and he follows the source to find Wade’s hand curled around his thigh, nails digging sharply into the muscle there. He twitches, head turning, and his nails press harder until Peter reaches down and carefully pulls his hand away, tangling their fingers together and letting Wade squeeze his hand.
“Wade,” he whispers, reaching up a hand to stroke over his head, “Wade, it’s okay, you’re safe.”
He squeezes harder, his body jerking beneath Peter, and Peter sighs before drawing himself up onto his knees, sitting back and pulling their hands apart when it starts to hurt. He holds Wade’s hand in both of his, bringing it to his mouth to kiss his fingertips, and then his hand is gone and Peter is being held down on the sofa, the hand around his throat. He stares up at Wade with wide eyes, and Wade squeezes, stealing his breath. He looms over him, a long blade pointed at his chest, the moonlight shining off it. Peter tries to reach up, tries to let Wade know he’s okay, he’s safe, he’s home, but Wade smacks his hand away with the blade, opening a wide gash on his palm. Tears well in Peter’s eyes, and his vision swims as he starts to go limp, and then Wade blinks, finally seeing, and is off of him in a heartbeat.
Peter rolls off the sofa, shaking and coughing violently, trying to find air even as bile rises in his throat, and he chokes, scrambling to his knees as he vomits. He can’t hear Wade moving, but suddenly there’s a glass of water in front of him and a gaping apology hanging heavy in the air. Peter manages to gulp down enough air that he thinks he can swallow, and he reaches for the water, tears spilling down his cheeks unbidden when he reaches with his right hand, stretching the gash open. “W-Wade,” he finally manages brokenly, his throat raw and aching. He still can’t hear him, so he forces out, “Please, I need you.”
Wade is there by him, silent in every way, and he carefully cradles Peter in his arms, taking the water and carrying both of them off toward the bathroom. He sits Peter on the toilet after he closes the lid, hands him the glass, and sets about rummaging through his medicine cabinet until he finds gauze, alcohol swabs, and a needle. Peter stares at him, seeing it all, how his hands shake to the point that he drops the gauze, how his chest rises and falls unevenly even though Peter can’t hear him breathing, how his head shines with sweat under the fluorescent light. “Is this why?” Peter asks when he takes his hand, fingers curling around his wrist carefully.
Wade nods, and Peter realizes he doesn’t trust himself to speak, for his voice not to crack and open him up wide until he’s shattering. Peter leans forward and lifts his left hand to tilt Wade’s face up until he looks at him. “It’s not your fault,” he whispers before he kisses him, and Wade squeezes his wrist a little too hard, but he swallows his gasp and presses their foreheads together, “Don’t leave.”
“I’m going to hurt you,” Wade finally says, the words rushing out, and Peter shakes his head. “I already have.”
“You haven’t,” Peter says, and Wade doesn’t respond other than to clean the wound, stitches it up with such precision it makes Peter’s head spin, and wrap it. When he’s done, Peter pulls at him with his left hand until Wade stands with him, and he leads him from the bathroom into his bedroom, where he gets into bed and stares at Wade until he joins him. “Don’t leave,” he repeats, and Wade puts as much distance between them as possible, lying on the edge of the bed.
He’s gone in the morning.
And I’d do anything to make you stay.
No light, no light.
Tell me what you want me to say.
Peter goes to get his mail four months later, and there’s a box inside. There’s no return address, and the writing is scrawled haphazardly, and it looks vaguely like Wade’s, which just makes him angry. He hasn’t heard from him since the nightmare incident, and he hasn’t gone looking because he figures he’ll show up when he feels like it, and they can fight about it later. He lets himself back into the apartment as he’s flipping through bills and junk mail and other shit until he dumps onto the sofa and tosses them to the side and rips open the tape on the box. He unfolds the cardboard, pulls out some bubble wrap, and then jumps off the sofa, dropping the box. “Holy fucking—what, what, what!” he says as he walks away, hooking his hands behind his head.
It takes him a few minutes before he manages to go back over, picking up the box, which has a bloody finger with a bluish tint sitting inside. “What the fuck even?” he grumbles before setting the box down and digging out his phone. He paces back and forth in front of the sofa until the other line picks up, and he doesn’t let Wade get a word in edgewise before he says, “Dude, why is your fucking finger in a box on my coffee table? WHY DO I HAVE YOUR FINGER?” He doesn’t mean to yell, but he’s freaking out, okay.
“Okay, well—I’m glad I know where it ended up.”
Peter looks at the finger and then closes his eyes and whispers, “Come home.”
“I think I’m in love with Wade,” Peter says, and Johnny snorts, stealing one of his fries.
“About time you admitted it. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Four months ago. I talked to him this morning after I received his finger in a box.”
“That’s—okay, I’m not going to ask. You gonna do anything special for him if he does come back?”
“Yeah, I’m gonna punch him in the fucking mouth.”
It ends up that he’s asleep when Wade gets back, his finger re-grown, and he hunts through the apartment until he finds it in the freezer, throws it out the window, and then goes into Peter’s room, stripping out of his suit, pulling on a pair of sweats, and climbing into bed. He curls around Peter, closing his eyes and kissing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispers into his hair before he lets himself fade into sleep.
In the morning, when Peter stirs awake, yawning and stretching, he pauses almost immediately, looks down at the arm wrapped around his torso, hand resting against his chest, and he smiles widely, reaching down to trace one of the scars. He gets distracted and keeps tracing until Wade’s breath puffs out against the back of his neck and he mumbles, “That feels nice.” He starts to whine when Peter stops, but then Peter is shifting, pushing his arm away and nudging at Wade’s shoulder until he rolls onto his back, squinting at Peter.
Peter shifts onto his side, lies his head on Wade’s shoulder, and starts tracing over his chest and stomach and sides while Wade just sighs and threads a lazy hand in Peter’s hair, letting it rest there. “You shouldn’t be ashamed with me,” Peter whispers before turning his head so he can kiss Wade’s bare skin, “I don’t care about these. I love you.”
“I know,” Wade says, tugging at Peter’s hair lightly until he tilts his head up. He kisses him softly before dropping his head back down onto the pillow. “I love you, too, and I’m sorry for that because it’s going to hurt so much.”
“No, it’s not because you aren’t going to leave. Tell me about zebra fish.”
“Peter—” he starts with a sigh, and Peter pushes against his chest until he’s sitting and can look down at him.
“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Peter snaps, “I don’t care if your entire body is scarred or if you have nightmares or if you’re the most insanely annoying person I have ever met, I want to be with you, and I want you to be right here, with me. I don’t want you to leave.”
“No! No! Shut up. You don’t have a choice in this matter. Rule number five: you have to stay when I ask you to.”
“You haven’t asked me to.”
“Will you please stay? I will go through hell and back with you, and I’ll be right next to you the whole time, as long as you let me. Now tell me about the fucking zebra fish.”
“Why do they even get to be two separate animals? Pick one, either a zebra or a fish, it’s so ridiculous. It’s like fuckin’ vampire bats, and—no, fuck that, vampire bats are awesome,” and then he’s off, and Peter can’t help but smile and settle back against him.
They spend the rest of the day in bed and on the sofa, only getting up to pee and eat, Wade rambling about zebra fish and the stripes on bees and peanut butter, playing terrifying video games, ordering out Chinese, watching sitcoms, and, when they tumble into bed, yawning and exhausted, Wade is there the next morning.
Through the crowd, I was crying out.
And in your place, there were a thousand other faces.
I was disappearing in plain sight.
Heaven help me, I need to make it right.
Sometimes, Peter feels like all he is does is wake up strangely. And so, when he wakes up tied to a chair, he’s probably less concerned than he should be. He lets his head drop back, groaning when his neck cracks, and then he pushes at the ties on his ankles a little, testing the pressure, and he rolls his eyes when he looks down and sees they’re zip ties. He snaps out of them, does the same with his wrists, and then gets up, starting to walk away from the chair to see where he is when he realizes something that nearly stops his heart—he’s wearing civvies.
Yesterday floods back to him with sudden clarity. He’d been out at the park with his camera again, and Wade had been on a job, so he hadn’t seen him in a few days. He’d gotten up to leave the bench he was sitting on and go over to the walkway when someone had punched him hard enough to be Thor, and he’d been out like a light.
He’s here as Peter Parker, not as Spiderman, and he’s suddenly afraid, looking around slowly. He’s in a high-ceiled place, the walls made out of thick concrete, and he heads for one of them, climbing up until he can reach one of the rafters and settle on it, pulling his knees up to his chest and trying to find a door, but everything is solid, no windows, no doors, nothing. And then the lights go out.
Peter presses his face against his knees, taking deep breaths until he hears concrete shift, and he holds his breath, looking up and listening. “Your boyfriend killed my wife,” a voice whispers in front of him just before the lights go on, and Peter screams, jumping back and unbalancing until he tips over the rafter, careening toward the ground. He twists in the air, gets an arm up and a web out, and it attaches to the ceiling the split second after his back hits the ground and knocks the breath out of him. The last thing he sees is a man looming over him, sneering, before his vision goes black.
Peter wakes with a scream, agony ripping through him until he can’t feel anything but the burning touch of it. Someone else’s voice joins him, someone familiar and distant, someone he hones in on and focuses on until he can hear nothing else but his voice, lets it fill him until he can’t feel anything but the way his mouth tastes. “Leave him alone! He has nothing to do with this!” It’s a broken plea, words tumbling together, voice shattered and hoarse, and Peter wants to latch onto it and make it strong again.
“Wade,” he whispers, closing his eyes, “Wade, please. Help me.”
“Maybe he’ll just come back like you keep doing,” the man from before says, his voice floating over to Peter, “Maybe he’ll be the first successful human to survive a witch trial.”
“No, please,” Wade begs, and Peter has never heard him beg before, has never heard him need something so bad that it breaks everything that he is, “Please don’t. Just let him go. You can have me, I don’t care, just let him go.”
“How sweet. Lower him down.”
“NO! PETER! LEAVE HIM ALONE! STOP!”
“Wade?” he whispers, trying to see him, but then there’s that agony again, and he screams, trying to jerk away from it, but it’s everywhere, eating him from the inside out. His toes hit water, and then he understands—they’re going to drown him. He thrashes against the binds holding him, his back shrieking in pain, and all he can hear is Wade, sobbing as he begs.
“Wade!” he screams as the water hits his belly, “Wade, help!”
“Poor little itsy bitsy spider,” the man laughs, and then something jolts Peter, sending him shooting into the water, and then he can’t hear anything. He squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath until his lungs burn, until his body trembles, until he gasps and lets the water flood through him, and then he’s saved.
Peter’s yanked out of the water and thrown against the floor, and then Wade is everywhere, shaking him until he coughs water from his lungs, retching and shaking. “You’re okay, you’re okay, I got you, Peter,” Wade whispers when he’s done, and he pulls him into his arms, holding him tightly, “I’m so sorry. You’re safe now.”
Over his shoulder, all Peter can see is red.
Everything blurs together—Wade’s voice on the phone, a SHIELD car showing up outside the building, a haze of white and noise and uncomfortable beds, and then this, the only clear thing he has since he was taken, sitting around a meeting table with the team discussing the witches, which is reasonable, and Wade and his relationship, which is none of their business.
It starts with Steve saying, “Deadpool is a danger to the safety of this team. He must be considered a threat.”
“This wasn’t Wade’s fault!” Peter exclaims, straightening in his seat, “This is payback for what we did to the witches. There’s a whole clan of them, and we fucked with someone at the top. This—”
“Deadpool killed one of them. We do our utmost to try not to kill villains, but to detain them and learn from them, to see if we can negotiate with any allies they might have. This was a direct attack on us because of his actions.”
“Peter, your relationship with him is endangering not only yourself but the team,” Bruce says softly, “It can’t go on.”
“Then kick me off the fucking team!” Peter shouts, shoving his chair back and getting up.
Wade looks over at him in surprise and says, “Peter, don’t do this.”
“Deadpool should be detained and locked up. He should be treated as a villain because he is one,” Fury says, and Peter explodes.
“His name is Wade! Or are you too afraid to admit he’s a human being like the rest of us, afraid it’ll taint what this team stands for?”
“He is an abomination!” Fury yells, standing, as well, “He is a manmade threat, and he should never have been allowed to live.”
“If you think so highly of me, I wonder what Logan must look like in your eyes, or should I call him Wolverine?” Wade snaps, standing, “What about Summers and Xavier and Remy and—”
“And Magneto?” Fury counters, “There is poison even in the X-Men, and you are a weed.”
“Because you’re so perfect! You—”
“Wade,” Peter says, and he steps back, letting out a shaky exhale.
It’s a moment before he continues, “I welcome you to try to put me behind bars. I have no qualms against killing you, Fury.”
He leaves before anyone can say anything else, and, when Peter turns, no one stops him. He’s at the door when Steve says, “I thought we could learn to work together again, after everything. I was wrong. The Avengers will once again be separating themselves from SHIELD.” Peter looks over at him in shock even as Tony and Bruce push away from the table and head for the exit. Clint, Natasha, and Thor follow, and Steve holds Fury’s gaze for a few moments longer before he joins them.
“Hey, you okay?” Tony asks, coming up to Peter, who is waiting for them outside.
He doesn’t look at him for a moment, just keeps staring at where Wade disappeared, before he shakes his head and looks over. “No, we’re not,” he says, and Tony frowns, “But thanks for sticking up for us.”
He starts to step away when Tony puts a hand on his arm, trying to hold him back, “Peter—”
“Don’t touch me!” he shouts, jerking back, fear racing through him. The team stops immediately, looking over, and Bruce lays a hand on Tony’s elbow, pulling him back a step. “I’m sorry,” Peter whispers, looking away, “I, uh—I didn’t mean to react like that.”
“Peter, you’ve been through a lot, we just—”
“Stop,” he says, shaking his head, “Stop. I don’t need this. I don’t need this team pitying me. Just—thank you, but I have to go.”
“Peter—” Bruce tries, but Peter is already around the corner. He runs down the hall, takes the elevator to the lobby, and catches sight of Wade on the sidewalk, a few yards away, waiting for him.
“Hey,” he says as he approaches, and Wade looks over at him for half a second before crushing them together.
“I was so scared I was going to lose you,” Wade whispers, “Gods, I thought—I thought you were dead, Peter, I don’t even remember fighting them off, I just knew I had to get to you.”
Peter pulls back, lifting his hands to cup Wade’s jaw. “I’m right here,” he promises, “I’m sorry about what they said. I love you.”
“I know,” Wade says, nodding and leaning down to kiss him, “I love you, too. Let’s go home.”
Peter smiles and lets Wade lace their hands together before they head down the sidewalk together, walking so that they can just slow everything down to the two of them, breathe easy and be together.
That night, Peter lies awake staring at the ceiling for hours until Wade sighs and shifts, resting on his forearm as he presses a kiss to his mouth. “Talk to me,” he says.
Peter shakes his head, not looking at him. “I have nothing to say,” he whispers, and Wade sighs again, dropping a kiss to his shoulder.
“Yeah, you do, spidey, let it out.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“I can see that. Why?”
“Everytime I close my eyes, I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m drowning all over again.”
“What do you need me to do?”
Peter looks over at him finally, tears welling in his eyes, and Wade pulls him against him, kissing his mess of hair. “Just—just talk. Say anything. Please.”
“The boxes are making out right now,” Wade says softly, and Peter manages a small laugh, shifting closer to him.
“Do they do that a lot?”
“Not usually. They like to talk as much as I do, which is a lot, let me tell you. Did you know you’re one of the only people who actually enjoys when I talk? Logan can’t stand it. Ever since I met him, he’s been complaining about how the only time I shut up is when I’m sleeping.”
“Sometimes you talk in your sleep.”
“No fuckin’ way, webhead, is that so? Well, fuck me sideways, that’s awesome. You know, I kind of hate how people have learned to misuse the word awesome. I mean, I just did it, but it’s such a waste to be like, oh hey, that’s fuckin’ awesome when there are a million other synonyms you could use in its place, and then you could just use awesome for what it’s supposed to be. Like, have you ever been to the Grand Canyon? That’s awesome, in the true sense of the word. It always makes me hungry, though, big fuckin’ gaping hole like it is, and then I get to thinking about cannibalism because is there ever anything to eat in the desert? Fuck no. And Hannibal Lecter, that is a badass mother, I’d like to shake his hand.”
He keeps going until Peter has long been asleep, and then he finally lets himself drift off, as well, holding Peter tightly against him, and neither of them have nightmares.
“Let’s be social,” Peter says a few days later from his position on the sofa, all tucked up in blankets and surrounded by pillows, a book open in his lap and the volume on the telly down low.
“Social?” Wade repeats from the kitchen, and Peter nods.
“Yeah, like—let’s go out for dinner, and get drinks maybe with Johnny and—I dunno, Logan. Stop looking at me like that?”
“Spidey, the leftover Chinese is already in the microwave!” he whines before stomping over and flopping down on the couch so Peter is covered with him.
He laughs, patting his head. “We’ll toss it. I want to go out. I’m sick of being cooped up in here. Come on, we can invite the team out, too. They like you now.”
“No, they don’t.”
“They tolerate you now.”
“Waaaaaaaade,” Peter whines, putting his mouth right next to his ear.
“Fuckin’ child,” Wade grumbles, biting his neck before kissing him on the mouth and then going off to throw the cooking Chinese away. Peter goes to get properly dressed, shooting a text Johnny’s way as he does, and they’re out of the apartment in good time.
Peter convinces Wade to let him pick where they’re eating because otherwise he knows they’ll just end up at Taco Bell, and so they actually end up in a place that resembles a restaurant. They get menus and a booth table and Wade looks around with a strange expression, so Peter considers it a success.
Dinner out turns into one of the best ideas Peter has ever had because, even though they’re in public, their table is kind of out of the way, and Wade opens up halfway, but it’s enough that he makes Peter laugh and he goes on small rants, telling Peter about some of the different places he’s visited and the people he met there, as well as the animals because animals are always better than people because they don’t talk back, and Peter just smiles and listens.
“I have to piss in the worst way,” Peter says after they’ve paid the check, and Wade nods, getting up with him.
“I’ll wait out front,” he says, and Peter smiles, leaning over to kiss him quickly before he disappears in the direction of the restrooms. Wade makes his way to the front of the restaurant, nodding as the host bids him goodnight, and he steps out into the cool night air, pulling up his hood. His phone starts buzzing in his pocket, and he pulls it out, frowning at the restricted number. “Deadpool speaking,” he says as he answers it.
“Mercenary for hire?” a gravelly, distorted voice asks on the other line, and Wade sighs. It used to be concerning to him, when he was just Wade, how people would always mysteriously know how to get in touch with him, but he’s so used to it by now that even the altered voice doesn’t bother him. The people that hire him never want him to know who they are, whether for fear that he’ll come after them or someone will find out what they’ve done.
“Might be, you need one?” he asks, scuffing his foot against the ground.
“Heard from a friend of yours, Wolverine, that you had an unstable love of killing.”
“I need it done by tomorrow morning.”
Wade turns, looking back at the restaurant. “How much?” he asks.
“Shit, someone fucked you up bad. A’ight, but not by tomorrow morning.”
“You have to. He’s going to kill me, soldier, I need—”
“Oh, first clue,” Wade cuts him off, “Military man, I see, so that means he will actually kill you by the morning. Merc for hire, not a soldier, and if you want me, not by tomorrow morning. I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what?” the man growls, “Wolverine said you’d comply.”
“He forgot to mention I actually have solid ties back home now.”
“Some nameless whore is more important than your country, son? You—”
“White House, dig it,” Wade whistles, “He’s actually the most important person in my life, and I’m not leaving him tonight. Tomorrow afternoon, at the earliest.”
There’s silence on the other end, and Wade looks over toward the front doors as they open and Peter steps out. He smiles as he approaches, and Peter mirrors his smile, leaning up on his toes when he reaches him and kissing him softly. “Who’s that?” he whispers, but Wade just puts a finger on Peter’s lips, and he nods, settling back down on the balls of his feet. He winds his arms around Wade, stepping in, head lying against his chest, and Wade sighs, letting his eyes slip shut as he tips his head down, face resting against Peter’s mess of hair.
“Tomorrow afternoon, 30K,” the man finally says.
“Fuck that. Tomorrow afternoon, 50K, as promised, or you can find someone else.”
“What, give me a negative review? Mercenary, bub, you ain’t gonna be tellin’ no one about this, that’s for sure. I’ll expect a file sent to this number after midnight, not before. Don’t be a shithead all your life, captain.”
“How did you—” but Wade hangs up before he can enjoy the captain’s fear.
He dumps the phone back in his pocket, cups Peter’s jaw so he can tilt his head back, and kisses him until all he feels is what’s in his hands, bringing him back down and grounding him. “I love you,” he whispers when they part, lips brushing over Peter’s.
Peter kisses him softly before saying, “I love you, too.”
They stand there a few moments longer, kissing slowly until someone whistles, and Peter blushes, pulling away. “Come on,” Wade says, taking his hand and starting off, “We’re getting shitfaced tonight, and it’s gonna be awesome.”
Peter never asks about the phone call, and Wade thinks that might be at the top of the list of why he loves and trusts him.
The team, Johnny, Logan, and a few other X-Men show up for drinks, and they have a smashing time, dancing and getting wasted and being as ridiculous and obnoxious as they can. Wade can feel the team’s eyes on him most of the night, watching him with Peter, and so he puts on a show, dragging Peter out to the dance floor and getting them lost in the music, Wade’s voice a quiet hum against Peter’s neck as he sings along, see they were there when I woke up this morning, I’ll be dead before the day is done.
And then Johnny slaps Peter’s ass on his way by, and their night really begins until, when they’re finally stumbling out onto the street, Wade is nearing giggles and Peter is leaning heavily on him. “That was awe—no!” Peter exclaims, smacking Wade’s chest, “Not awesome because—because that’s not right. That was magical.”
Wade laughs, voice pitching upward a little as he snuggles into Peter’s neck. “Magical,” he mumbles against his skin, “You’re such a tool.”
“Cos—cos people are misusing the word awwwwwesome, and that sucks, you know?”
Wade snorts, kissing his neck before leaning back and grabbing Peter when he staggers. “You’re cute,” he says, and Peter smiles widely, eyes going a little squinty until Wade just wants to kiss him senseless. He shrugs and tips down, catching Peter’s mouth in a messy, sideways kiss that makes both of them giggle, and then Wade is slumping back against the brick wall and Peter’s falling into him, shaking as he laughs. The doors close as everyone else finally gets outside, and Wade waves when Johnny calls for them.
“Come on,” Johnny laughs, pulling Peter away from Wade, “You need to go home, lightweight.”
“I am not a lightweight!” Peter says, offended, and Wade nods sagely.
“Mm, this was a long and expensive process.”
“I thought you couldn’t get drunk because of Weapon X,” Steve says, still completely sober.
Wade makes some kind of unintelligible noise and says, “I can get drunk, I just get sober really fast, and mostly no hangover, it’s—”
“Not awesome!” Peter yells, raising a hand and Wade laughs, reaching for him.
“Right-o, not awesome, but fabulous.”
“Who’s the tool now?” Peter sings, and then he yawns.
“Do you want a ride home?” Steve offers as Tony and Bruce get into a SHIELD issued SUV.
“Yes,” Peter says before Wade can even open his mouth, “Wade. I don’t like cabs, they make me feel nauseous.”
“Thank you,” Wade says with a nod before helping Peter over to the car.
“Eh, I’ve flown wasted way worse than this before,” Johnny says before he takes off. Everyone else starts to filter off to different modes of transportation, and Steve gets in to drive, Tony and Bruce talking quietly in the seats behind him, and Peter falling asleep on top of Wade in the back.
When they get back to the apartment, Peter is only just awake, and Wade carries him out of the SUV and up to the front door, waving before he lets them in. Upstairs, he picks the lock on the apartment, smiling when Peter mumbles, voice muffled because he’s pressed against Wade, “We need to get you a key.”
He deposits Peter in his bed, strips him out of his clothes until he’s in nothing but his boxers, gets him comfortable, and then goes to shower and find his suit. When he’s clean and dressed, he scribbles out a note for Peter on the wall, knowing he’ll get yelled at for not just finding paper, but he figures it’s better than nothing, got called in for a small job, I’ll be back by tomorrow night.
He leaves Peter with a soft kiss, looks at him for a moment so he’ll have this last imagine in his head, and then he leaves.
When Peter wakes up, it’s almost noon, and he has a splitting headache. He glares at the sunlight streaming in through the curtains, turns over, and his glare turns into one of confusion as he sees the writing on the wall. He squints, but he can’t see, so he fumbles around for his glasses, and then he’s smiling when he finally reads it. He goes to throw up, take a piss, and shower, and then he’s off to make tea and find something to eat.
He spends the day in until Johnny’s calling him to go out for burgers, and he meets him at a nearby pub. “Dude, last night,” Johnny says, and Peter laughs, nodding.
“Yeah, that was pretty great.”
“I’m glad you called, man, seemed like Wade had a good time getting out.”
Peter just shrugs. “I hope so. He’s out on a job right now,” he says at Johnny’s questioning look.
“So, things are better with you two now?” Johnny asks as they sit at a table.
“Yeah, we, uh—we talked. Well, I talked, he just accepted the rules.”
“The rules?” Johnny says with a small smirk.
“We have rules, man. It was just stupid at first, you know—rule number one, don’t sneak up on me when I’m napping or I’ll end up on the sofa; rule number two, stop trying to get in my pants—and then it just kind of kept going. I think number three is, like, piggy backs when the other is injured or something, and number four is avoiding Nick Fury and places that smell like authority.”
“Dude, you legit have rules, that’s so weird. What are the others?”
“Uh—number five was actually what got him to stay, which is he has to stay when I ask him to, and then six is, like—no cheating while on jobs. Seven through ten all pertain to when out in the field—don’t take witches on alone, rooftop hotdogs are a necessity when there are no serious injuries, the safe word is bedroom hymns if we encounter a clone Spiderman or Deadpool, and—shit, I always forget the last one—oh, no antagonizing Hulk to the point of smash but just little teasing is fine.”
Johnny laughs, shaking his head. “You two need to stay together forever,” he says, “I don’t think there’s anyone else in the world that works so well together.”
Peter just smiles and looks down, warmth blossoming in him at Johnny’s words, and he hopes with everything he’s got that he’s right.
You want a revelation.
You wanna get it right.
But it’s a conversation I just can’t have tonight.
You want a revelation,
Some kind of resolution.
Wade doesn’t come home that night, but Peter doesn’t let himself worry, and instead occupies himself with going to the store and rummaging around the used DVDs section until he finds a handful of interesting-looking movies. He settles in with a huge bowl of popcorn, gets bored halfway through the second movie and jerks off thinking about Wade, and then falls asleep for a few hours before he puts in the third movie, and then goes to bed around three. Wade does come home in the morning, though, which Peter thinks is both ironic and kind of sweet.
He comes in through the window, making so much noise that it wakes Peter up, and he rolls over and mumbles, “Rule number eleven, no coming through the window unless you’re being stealthy.”
Wade laughs softly and then groans, hitting the ground with a thud. Peter reaches blindly for his glasses, puts them on crooked, and squints at him with one eye, the other mashed up in his pillow. “You’re bleeding all over my floor,” he says, pouting, and Wade laughs again.
“Are you just gonna fuckin’ lie there or come help me?” Wade says, quirking an eyebrow.
“M’sleeping,” Peter whines, turning his face fully into the pillow.
“I’m missing a foot, spidey.”
“Someone cut off your foot?”
“That’s fucked up. Why’d they do that?”
“I dunno, they get off on feet and they wanted a spare one lyin’ around? Which is stupid of them, really, because my feet smell like shit after a job, and—”
“All the time—your feet smell like shit all the time,” Peter corrects.
“Fuck off. Now they have a permanently smelly foot, not to mention it’s all scarred up and covered in blood and probably puss and—”
“Alright, not sleeping anymore!” Peter shouts, kicking his blankets away, “Actually, I could probably vomit, thanks for that. All I can see is your grossly amputated foot right here,” he taps his head as he stretches and gets out of bed, padding over to Wade, careful to avoid the blood. He heaves him to his feet—foot—and helps him hobble out of the room and around the corner to the bathroom. He sits him on the closed toilet, and Wade drops his head back to rest on the wall.
“I actually feel dizzy, this is weird,” he mutters, and Peter checks his ankle, making a disgusted face at the way the skin and muscle is shifting, his foot re-growing.
“What if someone castrates you?” Peter asks suddenly, looking up at Wade, who reaches up to pull his mask up and looks down at Peter.
“That’s a really interesting question, actually,” Wade says, “It’s also an experiment I’m not willing to try. Go make me tea,” he adds, kicking Peter with his good foot.
Peter just rolls his eyes and straightens, kissing Wade before he heads out into the kitchen. By the time the tea is done and he’s managed to rummage around until he can find the ingredients for a PB&J, Wade’s foot is back, and the suit is in ruins. “I hate when this happens,” he says, limping out into the living room, gesturing at his suit, “I’m sick of making new ones.”
“So stay home for a while and don’t make a new one,” Peter says, and Wade nods.
“Yeah, that sounds fair. Ooh, sandwich,” he adds, making grabby hands before he topples over onto the sofa. Peter just laughs and hands over the sandwich, dropping onto the floor and leaning back against the sofa. “X-Box,” Wade says through a mouthful, and Peter dutifully reaches to turn it on with his toes before webbing the controllers over to them, and that’s how they spend their day.
Peter looks over from his upside down position on the sofa as Wade starts singing, “If you could only see the beast you’ve made of me, I held it in, but now it seems you’ve set it running free. Screaming in the dark, I howl when we’re apart, drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart.”
Peter smiles and asks, “What are you singing?”
“What I’m always singing,” Wade says, and Peter rolls his eyes.
“Florence and the Machine. She’s my jam, Peter. YOU GAVE A KICK, I GAVE A SLAP. YOU SMASHED A PLATE OVER MY HEAD, THEN I SET FIRE TO OUR BED.”
“What the fuck?” Peter laughs.
“My jam, Peter, all strawberry and apple jam, the best combination in the world. A kiss with a fist is better than none. BROKE YOUR JAW ONCE BEFORE, I SPILT YOUR BLOOD UPON THE FLOOR. YOU BROKE MY LEG IN RETURN, SO LET’S SIT BACK AND WATCH THE BED BURN.”
He starts moshing with himself, kicking and thrashing around, and Peter just tips over, laughing loudly. Wade sneak attacks him, jumping over the back of the sofa and tickling him until they both tumble onto the ground, Peter gasping for breath and Wade smiling as he buries his face in Peter’s neck, kissing the bare stretch of skin there. “You’re my favorite kind of crazy,” Peter says once he can breathe again, winding his arms around Wade, “You should sing more often.”
“I don’t sing, spidey, I jam,” he says, pulling back to look at him, smirking.
Peter just rolls his eyes and leans up to kiss him, licking into his mouth, and Wade makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, kissing back, slow and languid and a beginning. When they pull back to breathe, Peter lets out an audible breath, sighing when Wade kisses back to his ear and then down to his jaw, biting there softly. He mouths back to the curve of his neck and sucks a bruise there, and Peter fists a hand in his shirt, arching up toward him. Wade’s left forearm comes down beside his head while his right hand goes to curl around one of Peter’s hips, pushing them together as he rolls his own down. Peter groans, pulling at him until Wade kisses back up to his mouth, and it’s not soft anymore. Wade nips at his lower lip, kisses the corner of his mouth, and then he’s pressing Peter into the floor, bruising his mouth until he pulls back again and licks over Peter’s bottom lip and his mouth is swollen and red and wet. “Let me fuck you,” Wade whispers, mouth brushing over Peter’s, and Peter nods, lifting up to kiss him again.
They stay like that for a bit, just kissing and slowly moving together until Peter whines and pushes at his chest. “Bed,” he says, and Wade nods, getting up and helping Peter to his feet. Peter starts to walk away, but Wade pulls him back, thumbs hooking under his jaw as he kisses him breathless. They’re both panting when they part, and Wade leans his forehead down against Peter’s, eyes still closed. “Come on,” Peter whispers, taking his hand and pulling Wade away from the living room.
They barely make it into the bedroom before Wade’s pushing them against a wall, hand coming down to curl over Peter’s groin, squeezing as he presses in against him, and Peter groans, tipping his head back so Wade can kiss down the column of his throat. “Wade,” he says after a few moments, pushing at him, “Seriously, bed.” Wade starts to make a smartass comment, so Peter smacks him and says, “Number twelve: no comparisons to girls in bed.”
“Oh, that’s a boring fuckin’ rule.”
“I don’t care, I make them.”
Wade just grins and lifts Peter in the air, laughing when Peter makes an unattractive noise and grabs onto him. He drops him onto the bed, crawling up to loom over him before Peter can move, and he kisses him silent before reaching over to the nightstand, opening the drawer to pull out a bottle of lube. He tosses it over onto the pillow before kneeling and reaching for the hem of his sweatshirt. Peter does the same, shrugging out of his clothes until Wade’s leaning down to kiss him again, and there’s nothing but naked skin between them. Peter gasps at the first slide of their cocks together, nails scraping over Wade’s shoulder, and Wade groans, kissing down his throat to his collarbone, mouthing along it until he sucks a bruise over his sternum.
“Are you an ass virgin, spidey?” he asks against his chest, and Peter smacks him.
“You’re so fucking crude, you dickhead. And yes.”
“Crude?” Wade repeats before letting his teeth drag over one of Peter’s nipples, and Peter shouts in surprise. “Careful, webhead, or I’ll really show you crude. I’ll bend you over and fuck you until you can’t even scream anymore, and I won’t let you come until I’ve taken my sweet time fucking my cock into your tight little ass, until I’ve filled you and spilled into you—would you like that, Peter?”
“Fucking hell,” Peter groans, “Maybe next time.”
“Oh, fuck, spandex the time after that. I have a suit kink, definitely, and that ass, spidey, I ain’t never seen an ass like that in spandex.”
“Wade,” he whines, pushing at him.
“What? There can be no rule about not talking during sex, I find it physically impossible.”
“Just—fuck, you’re gonna make me laugh, don’t talk about my ass in the suit, please.”
“I can accept that,” Wade says, smirking. He leans up and away, dropping back onto his heels, and he curls both hands around Peter’s ankles, pushing until he bends his knees. The first finger, Peter winces at, trying to relax with slow breaths; the second, Wade brushes over the little bundle of nerves, and Peter cries out, toes curling as his head tips back; the third, Wade has him sobbing before he finally takes his fingers back, and he has to close his eyes and taking a few steadying breaths because the noises that Peter is making, he can barely uncap the lube.
“A speechless Deadpool, is this all it takes?” Peter quips, tapping his foot against his side, so Wade leans down and licks a stripe up his cock, and Peter swears at him, hips twitching down into the bed. Wade fists a hand up his own dick, groaning and mouthing up to Peter’s belly, where he bites. “Stop fuckin’ around,” Peter whines when he takes longer than he needs to, slow drags up his cock until it’s wet and throbbing.
“I’m gonna make you scream, spidey,” Wade warns as he lines up, one hand curled around Peter’s hip and the other around the base of his cock, “Ready?” Peter nods quickly, staring down at him, and then Wade presses inside, lifting his hand from Peter’s hip to fist in the sheets as he does. “Shit, Peter,” he groans when he’s enveloped in tight heat.
Peter takes a shaky breath, trying to adjust, a mixture of discomfort and pleasure all at once that it’s making his head spin. He shifts a little, and Wade’s cock moves inside of him, pulling a moan from deep inside of Peter. “Wade,” he says, pulling at him, “Wade, please. Fuck me.”
“It’ll be my genuine pleasure, Parker,” Wade says, voice accented, winking.
“Do not quote Clint at me, or any of the other Avengers or X-Men or—fuck!” he breaks off as Wade slides out and rocks back in. “Rule—rule number thirteen.”
Wade silences him with a kiss, taking his hand from the sheets to hook it under Peter’s elbow, pulling it up to drop over his shoulder, and Peter breaks away from the kiss with a shout, bowing off the bed. Wade groans and growls, “I’m gonna tear you apart,” before he bites his mouth and then snaps his hips down so that the sound of skin slapping echoes around the room and makes Peter blush.
He pulls Peter’s other leg up to hook it over his elbow, presses a palm down by his head, and fucks into him slowly at first, letting him get used to the feel, kissing until they can barely breathe. He shifts until the head of his cock passes over Peter’s prostate, and Peter’s voice jumps into a whine, his nails scraping over the back of Wade’s neck. Wade gasps, burying his face in Peter’s neck and breathing in the scent of him. He slides out and pushes back in a little harder, and Peter’s nails dig in against the spot, the fucking spot, and Wade bites the slope where neck meets shoulder, groaning loudly. He does it again and again, until Peter’s whine is climbing into a slow scream, and he can feel him tightening all over, thighs trembling and the muscles in his belly fluttering wildly.
“Peter,” he moans, and Peter kisses him with everything he’s got, teeth scraping over his lip and tongue sliding along his, pulling him deeper and deeper in until Wade’s rhythm is out of control, fucking into him fast and hard and shallow, wanting to keep his cock inside of him as much as possible because that ass. Peter meets him on each thrust, body curling up toward him as he slides a hand between them and fists it over his cock, whine shattering into a small shout as he presses the thumb over the swollen head.
He scrapes at the spot on Wade’s neck, matches his moan, and then he jerks himself in earnest, matching Wade’s hips until he feels like he’s going to break apart, fire licking down his spine and pooling in his body. “Wade,” he cries, clutching at him, heel digging into his back, “Wade—fuck—Wade.”
“Yeah?” Wade pants against his shoulder, “You gonna come for me, baby boy?”
“Hell, Peter, this is what I been missin’? I’da fucked you forever ago, my cock in your ass, tight and fuckin’ hot and god, it’s like I’m being swallowed whole, and I need more.”
“Wade—Wade,” he gasps, hand sliding over his cock in quick, wild strokes until he squeezes the head, thumb pressing up under the crown, and Wade’s thrusts become even shallower, passing over the bundle on every slide, and Peter screams, pulling at Wade until he’s everywhere, mouth on his neck and body pressing him against the bed, his cock throbbing inside of him.
Wade comes with Peter’s name on his tongue, his vision going white like it hasn’t in a long fucking time, and he hasn’t had an orgasm like this with anyone else, and he thinks he maybe even blacks out for a few seconds because when he can breathe again, Peter is struggling to come down, shaking beneath him, legs boneless and slipping from around him. He lets them down onto the bed and then just collapses on top of him, pressing his face into his neck and gasping for air.
“Fuck, Wade,” Peter groans, leaning their heads together, “Please tell me there’s a round two somewhere in the very near future.”
Wade chuckles before pushing off the bed and easing out of Peter, a small noise slipping past his mouth as he does so, and Peter whines, clenching around nothing, wanting Wade back, wanting him everywhere. “You’re a cuddler, aren’t you?” Wade says as he drops onto the bed beside Peter.
“Rule number fourteen: post coitus cuddling is a necessity in most cases.”
Wade hums and draws Peter into his arms, kissing him quiet. “Another kiss is all you need,” he whispers, and Peter smiles, wide and happy and so infectious Wade needs to kiss him again.
“I love you,” Peter says, dropping his head onto Wade’s shoulder and curling around him like an octopus.
“I know,” Wade says, and Peter just kisses his jaw, “I love you, too.”
Would you leave me if I told you what I’ve done?
And would you need me if I told you what I’ve become?
Cos it’s so easy to say it to a crowd,
But it’s so hard, my love, to say it to you out loud.