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Peter opens his eyes to a blank white room. It feels less like waking up and more like falling through a dream, except he’s flat on his back and strapped to a table and the plummeting feeling in his stomach is some other bullshit. Oh god. He can’t break free. He can’t shift to get the right leverage and his face is bare and his throat hurts like he has strep which he shouldn’t because he’s Spider-Man. There’s a tube stabbed into his arm that’s feeding him bright blue goop from a bag with a fucking skull on it. His life is over. Someone is going to dissolve his body in a bathtub.
He lies like that for a while, mostly hyperventilating at the ceiling. Are there cameras in here? Would his spidey sense be able to tell if there was? Would it be going off right now or is the blue goop messing with that too? It’s hard to take it seriously when it’s so bright. His superpowers are being suppressed by PC coolant. Maybe the bad guys are posting this setup on Reddit, it’s very artistic.
There’s a bang from the hallway. And another bang. There’s a series of gunshots and screaming and Peter can’t do anything about it because he’s still cuffed to this damn table and the noise is getting louder. Or just closer, which is awesome. He strains against the metal once more and it groans.
The door flies open, cracking against the wall like thunder. This is when Peter truly considers giving up, like really just killing himself, because the person that steps through is Deadpool. Big, broad, bright red with his hands wrapped around a pair of swords and a hole in his thigh that’s quickly closing up. There’s a measuredness to his steps like something out of a nature documentary. Prowling.
When he sees him Deadpool shrieks and covers his eyes with his palm, nearly stabbing himself in the head in the process.
“Fuck!”
“Dude.”
“Sorry!” Deadpool exclaims, fumbling with the weapon. He eventually settles on sheathing the extra sword so he has a hand free. That hand promptly digs its fingers into the wound in his leg, squelching.
Peter sighs. “I told you I don’t wanna see that shit, man.”
“My bad, Spidey, but I’ve still got half a rescue mission left.” He pulls the bullet out and tosses it aside. “So the fingering has to happen.”
“Don’t call it that,” says Peter.
“I’m fingering myself for you!” he replies emphatically. “It’s for heroism! The good of Mamdani’s New York!”
Peter lets him get away with that one, out of gratitude for his help. Deadpool proceeds to stick his bloody hand out in front of himself and wave it back and forth like a metal detector to feel his way to the bed.
“You look like a moron.”
“Don’t worry,” he responds, as if that relates to what he was saying at all. “I made sure all the records and footage of you got wiped so now all I have to do is shoot myself-”
Peter groans, head banging back against the metal. “Don’t shoot yourself! Jesus fucking-”
“And kill everyone I missed, I assume some people didn’t come into work today-”
“Christ, don’t do that either-”
“Just like, statistically, and we can guarantee your anonymity for the rest of time-”
“Wade!”
Deadpool stops, mostly because Peter yelled but also because he bumped thigh-first into the table. His leg blood is dripping from his glove onto Peter’s chest, staining the center of the pale blue hospital gown a deep, spindly crimson. He makes a questioning noise like a puppy. A big, bloodthirsty, heavily armed puppy.
“My wrists and ankles are cuffed to the table and there’s a tube in my arm,” he says, “so I need you to uncover your eyes and either break the cuffs or take the needle out. Whatever’s in the bag is messing with my strength.”
“But-”
“Wade.”
“But your secret identity,” pouts Deadpool.
“We’ll talk about it later.” He tries thrashing for emphasis but he can’t move anything but his hips. “Come on. I have shit to do.”
Wade lowers his hand, the fabric of his mask contorting around his frown. Still, he reaches to gently extract the needle from Peter’s skin. It drips blue goop onto the hospital gown before he tosses it away. The clothing doesn’t dissolve. That’s a good sign. The cuffs are bolted to the table so Deadpool can’t break them without hurting Peter like he could if they were on a chain. Instead he pulls a screwdriver from a pouch and gets to work.
“What’s the bag say?” asks Peter, stretching his neck to get a look at it around Deadpool’s massive head.
“Don’t know, illiteracy crisis,” he replies. One of the screws comes free and clatters to the floor. “The disease is spreading to Canada, too. Things are dire.”
“When we’re out of here I’m going to yell at you for killing people.”
“Chivalry is dead,” Deadpool mutters.
He gets Peter’s right hand free and moves to his other side while he works out the stiffness. Peter shifts his weight to his left so he can raise his elbow up. He angles his wrist and shoots at his own chest. Webbing comes out, albeit weak. Okay, so his spinnerets still work, which means his whole body should still work. Another good sign. Good things are happening in Peter’s world right now.
Deadpool scoffs. “You can jizz all over yourself but I can’t finger my hole?”
“I will fucking blow this building to pieces.”
He cackles as Peter sits up, both hands now free. He’s dizzy but for now he blames it on being drugged with an unknown substance and laying on his back for however long. His systems are still reaching equilibrium and all his blood probably pooled weirdly or something. Anything worse than that sounds expensive. The ankle cuffs are still in place and he prays Deadpool doesn’t make any feet jokes.
“How did you find me?” he questions, stretching his arms above his head. The gown hikes up his thighs and he hurriedly pulls it back down.
Wade’s hand slips. “Shit. Oh, it wasn’t har- difficult. I overheard some guys at one of my regular places talking about how one of their friends got hired to kidnap Spidey so I tracked him down and stole his phone and shot him a few times and made my way around to here.”
He blinks. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“Oh, thank fuck.” He doesn’t have work until Thursday. Missing classes sucks but he has the absences to spare, he’ll just email and be back on track by tomorrow. More good things. His life is awesome.
Something shuffles in the hallway. Shoes against linoleum, the rustle of clothing, a click that sounds suspiciously like a cocking gun. Peter flicks his wrist hard to web the drip pole. It takes two tries but he eventually pulls it over, one of the wheels is misshapen and it drags awkwardly against the floor. There’s no label on the bag indicating its contents, just the skull.
“You have nice ankles,” Deadpool is saying. Warm leather brushes Peter’s bare skin, momentarily distracting him from the person trying to sneak up on them. “Like a dancer. Reminds me of the time I tortured a guy and sliced open his Achilles so he couldn’t run. Obviously I won’t do that to you and you can run away if you want to but what I mean is it’s, like, top three ankles I’ve seen and I’ve seen a lot of ankles for various non-weird reasons. Not like Daredevil, that guy’s got something going on with feet. Did you know that? It’s always the quiet ones.”
The guy turns the corner, pistol outstretched. Peter throws the pole as he fires. It’s not hard enough to knock him off his feet but it sends the bullet into the ceiling instead of his face. Deadpool turns and hurls the ankle cuff into the guy’s forehead. He drops with a groan.
“Go faster,” Peter commands.
Wade helps him to his feet when he’s done. Peter is still lightheaded so he lets the merc put a hand between his shoulder blades and lead him out the door. He’s in a hospital gown with no shoes. He stops.
“I’m not walking onto the street like this.”
“Why not? You’ve got nothing to hide, I'll tell you that much.”
“Wade.”
Deadpool huffs but pulls away, leaving Peter to unsubtly balance against the wall. He finds the guy closest to Peter’s size, a willowy man with a hole in his forehead Peter is avoiding eye contact with, and promptly rips his jeans off. Unfortunate. There’s blood staining the top of the waistband but they fit over his ass so they’re good enough to get him home. He nearly tips over tugging them on.
“You okay, Webs?” Wade tilts his head, the whites of his mask wide. “Need water?”
Peter groans, running a hand down his face. He refuses to faint. He won’t. Grown ass man. “I need some fuckin’ shoes.”
Wade stares blankly at him. His hands are flexing at his sides. After a moment of this he steps forward and sweeps Peter up onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Peter kicks weakly at his side. His heart’s not in it. The blood still drying on his suit smears across Peter’s legs, iron and leather flooding his nostrils. Sweat. Gunpowder. He inhales. A little bit of weed, he thinks. Peanut butter?
They’re outside before he realizes it. The sun is rising and the alleyway is deep in the half-shadows of a waking world. Wade’s hand is firm on Peter’s back, body still as the door swings shut behind them. God, he’s built.
“I have a place close by," Deadpool says, voice low like he’s telling him a secret. “Do you want to go there until you feel up to taking yourself back to wherever your Batcave is? Bugcave? Spider-cave? See, I remembered the hyphen.”
Peter grunts. He’s mostly limp in the other man’s grasp, eyes half-lidded as he stares at Wade’s ass. It’s a nice ass. Thick, muscled like the rest of him. Peter wonders what it looks like without all that fabric in the way.
“I’m taking your silence as consent to be spider-napped,” continues the mercenary. He pats Peter twice on the butt as he carries him deeper into the shadows of the alleyway.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔.*:･･:*.ೃ࿔.⋆❀°
And listen, Wade isn’t sure what’s up with Webs at all. Somewhere as they exited the building the weird blue mystery drug must’ve hit him because he’s been quiet for their adventure back to Wade’s apartment. It probably would’ve been a good idea to get the file on that before he wiped all the records and shot all the scientists and burned all their files, but that’s in the past. The present is a gift. That gift being Webs and his tight ass all warm and sleepy against Wade’s body as he carries him to safety.
“And, honestly, I think Alyssa Wong had vision, y’know,” he rambles, careful to stay in the shadows as he walks. It’s early morning so there aren’t many people to avoid, he knows where the homeless camps are and his apartment isn’t that far anyway. “It’s a shame they didn’t stay on for longer, all of the characters were so vibrant and I think adding Lady Deathstrike was a good choice. Taskmaster later was also pretty awesome, I love that guy. Deathstrike was just cool because she showed up in the Hulk vs. Wolverine cartoon with me like 20 years ago, and in the Deadpool and Wolverine movie for two seconds, and it was like, ‘Woah! Deep cut,’ you know what I mean? And Taskmaster showed up in the Ultimate Spider-Man episode- remember that? Where I was voiced by the guy from Boy Meets World?- with us too. The MCU really screwed the pooch on Taskmaster. They just wrote a completely new character and slapped a title on her. Making her a Russian spy instead of American was obviously political too but whatever, I didn’t really pay attention to that movie. Nothing tops Winter Soldier. The film from 2014, not the person. I think he has a few people topping him. Black Widow, dude Hawkeye, both Captain Americas. Thunderbolts was g-”
Webs stirs, twisting sluggishly in Wade’s grip. “Taskmaster’s here?”
“No,” he says. “I’m just thinkin’ about him. He’d be good threesome material, methinks.”
The superhero groans and lets his body go back to being useless. All good. At least he’s responsive. If he didn’t roll his eyes at Wade that would be a hospital visit.
Wade is currently posted up in a second floor apartment, where his lease will last two more months before he should probably find a new base of operations. It’s not the cleanest, but there’s no trash or weird stains anywhere and he has a Pinkie Pie poster behind the couch to give it some personality. There’s sugar cookies- the frosted kind that get stuck to the roof of his mouth- and apple juice in the kitchen, so that’ll be good for getting Webs back on his feet. No protein, though. That’s fine. There’s a Chinese joint not too far from here, he can Doordash it.
He shifts Webs into a princess carry now that they don’t have to worry about his face before setting him carefully on the bed. It’s a double, with Bullseye patterned sheets that the freak gave him himself. Wade chooses to believe he was the one to design and manufacture them. That seems like something Bullseye would do.
Webs huffs, those long lashes fluttering. “Wha-”
“Shh, it’s okay Spidey,” Wade whispers. He pulls the blanket up over him, because those hospital blues don’t cover much. “I’m going to get you water and a cookie, okay? You don’t have to stay awake, but it would be cool if you did, so then I don’t have to worry about you dying in your sleep. Which you won’t. To be clear, that won’t happen. I just don’t know what the stuff in that bag is doing to you but I’m sure it’s fine and you won’t die.”
“There w’s a skull ‘n it,” murmurs Webs, unfocused eyes narrowed at him.
“That could mean anything. Everyone has skulls, it's part of your skeleton. Water and cookie soon.”
“Dumbass.” He pulls himself together enough to say it with perfect clarity.
He won’t die, right? Yeah. Nobody goes through the trouble of kidnapping and drugging Spider-Man just to kill him, that’s a waste of resources. And resources are money. And money is expensive. If it was an evil-torture-death drug Webs would be a lot more screamy and a lot less snoozy.
After unpeeling a paper plate covered in penguins- from Christmas!- from the stack in the cabinet he retrieves two frosted sugar cookies and a glass of water. Like Webs is a poor man’s Santa Claus. New Yorker Santa Claus. Elf, starring Will Ferrell and Zooey Deschanel. What a weird way to spell that name. He pulls out his phone. Webs eats a lot on patrol, so he orders enough for two and a half people before returning to his bedridden pet superhero. Oh, and a rootbeer. Can’t forget the drink.
Webs is against the wall now, where the bed is pressed into the corner. He’s halfway to the ceiling, blinking rapidly, hospital gown barely doing its job. When Wade steps closer that gaze locks onto him like whatever system heat seeking missiles use. Heat. Infrared homing! Yes, like that.
“Wade,” he rasps. Wade holds out the water and he takes it without really gripping it. The cookies go on the bedside table.
“Okay, yeah,” Wade says, tilting his head at him. “That’s fine, if you want to be up there who am I to stop you?”
“I don’t-” a twitch of his shoulder, the slightest arching of his back, “I don’t normally do this. I don’t know what’s happening.”
Wade’s eyebrows knit together. “Do you feel sick? Are you going to throw up slash pass out slash secret third thing on my custom Bullseye sheets?”
Webs downs the water in three loud gulps. His throat bobs, some of it spills from his mouth and darkens his collar. Wade doesn’t mean to stare. Really, he doesn’t. It’s just Webs turned out to be so pretty it’s hard not to. His pale skin is glistening along his throat, like the fake snow in a snowglobe when it gets shaken up really hard and all the little people inside freeze to death in an unforgiving blizzard.
“Not anymore,” answers Webs, handing the empty glass back. Wade has to pull to unstick it from his fingers. “I was dizzy earlier, now I’m just. Itchy, I guess.”
“Like you have lice?”
“No, like twitchy. Restless.”
He nods, watching Webs inch up the wall. “You think it’s meth?”
“I’ve never done meth,” he says, matter-of-factly.
“You would love it.” Wade sets the glass down. “Could get you through all that superheroing.”
“I’m not getting addicted to meth so I can beat up criminals, Wade.”
He shrugs. “Just a suggestion. If it’s a stimulant you’ll probably be crashing soon, anyway. Hang in there, buddy.”
“Haha,” Webs replies dryly.
Wade moves past him to the dresser. He pulls out a shirt and a pair of sweatpants for himself, now that the coast seems clear action-wise. Webs makes no move to come down so he leaves a hoodie folded on the bed. It’s one of his bigger ones, so on Webs it’ll probably cover down to his knees. He tosses a pair of boxers on top and heads back out. Piece of shit bathroom connects from the hall.
He showers and changes, wipes the suit down and hangs it from the bathroom door to dry. The leather gloves and boots he treats similarly and leaves by the front so he can pull them on as he leaves. It’s around this time when the food arrives. Wade watches through the peephole as the delivery guy drops it off and heads back to the stairwell. When he first moved in here his neighbor tried to steal his chimichanga and Dr. Pepper so he pulled a gun on them. That doesn’t happen this time.
Wade leaves the food on the counter. The rootbeer too, since if Webs decides to stay glued to the ceiling he doesn’t want the man spilling it all over his bed. He can spill other things on his bed. Of the bodily fluid variety. Bow chicka wow wow. Cum, he means, not piss. That’s like seventh base. Six or seven. Focus, Wade.
He returns to the bedroom to see Webs standing upside-down over the mattress, hospital gown thrown somewhere off in the corner. Wade yelps and covers his eyes. Again.
“My bad, should’ve knocked, my fault,” he announces, backing up out of the room. “Gun. Face. Coming right up, don’t worry about it. I’ve got it handled.”
“Wade.”
This is a no-no, and Wade knows this, but he spreads his fingers just a little bit to peep through them at the superhero. He’s already promised his brains against the wall, who cares if his grey matter gets a little wetter? Moistened up for its trip to planet ceramic. Tiles, that is.
Webs is still, back straight, hanging by bare feet from the popcorn ceiling. And that’s- wow, yeah, that’s miles of him. Smooth skin spattered with freckles, denser and darker at his shoulders, and those shoulders are broad even if his waist is trim enough to model near-perfect handholds. Warm brown eyes. Downturned lips, just the littlest bit fuller on the bottom. It gives him a permanent pout. Begging. Biteable. Wade’s boxers are bunched up in his hands. The cookies are gone. His breathing is slow enough Wade can’t get a read on it from here, but he looks alert. Fuck, he has supersenses. Can he hear Wade’s boner? He can probably see it.
“Yeah?” Wade squeaks.
“I feel-” he cuts himself off stuttering, then shakes his head. “I feel weird.”
“Meth weird?”
Webs repeats the motion. “Action, no thoughts. Hard to think, I think. Uh. Impulsive?”
Wade nods. “Can I look?”
“You’re already looking.”
“Well, yeah, but I was pretending not to.”
He drops his hand and steps further inside, ready to catch Webs if he falls. Notably he does not make eye contact with his spider-cock even though he really really wants to. Like really really really really really really-
“You’re-” starts Webs, then stops again. He walks closer, until his upside-down face is only a few feet from Wade’s. “You smell good.”
“Thanks! It’s Strawberry Pound Cake from Bath and B-”
Webs grabs him by the front of his Pinkie Pie t-shirt and yanks. Wade goes stumbling forward. He nearly faceplants on the floor but Webs doesn’t let go to let that happen. Yeah, no rootbeer was a solid call. When Wade is steady on his feet Webs immediately undermines it by tossing him on his back onto the bed. He goes bouncing, like- well, like something, he’s too turned on to associate bouncing with anything innocent. Wow. He never considered he could be the one getting manhandled. Maybe he’s not woke enough.
“Is this a real fight?” Wade asks, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Because I’ll warn you, I’m definitely more than half hard right now and it’s going to affect my performance.”
“Stop talking,” Webs grunts. He’s closer now, palm pressed to the wall like it’ll keep him steady. His hair looks soft.
“I will do my best to do that but, like, I’m the merc with the mouth so I can’t promise that I’m not going to go around and mouth-”
Webs cocks his wrist like he’s going to glue his facehole shut before redirecting to his hand. He webs him from his fingertips down to the middle of his forearm, the lack of plasticity effectively immobilizing most of his limb. The center of his hand is lined up with one of Bullseye’s bullseyes.
“Fuck,” groans the superhero.
“That’s cool,” says Wade. He watches Webs crouch, reach a foot out to the wall and begin lowering himself down. “I dig it, y’know. What did Ryan Gosling say? It’s clever, I’m hip. I can get down with a little spider-bondage if that’s what you’re into, Websy.”
Wade wiggles in demonstration and promptly gets his other hand pinned. He can’t stop himself from grinning as he tugs at the makeshift restraints. It’s partially because of the restraints themselves, but also because he can see Webs getting hard watching him struggle. Sue him, the guy is hovering right next to him, it’s hard not to look when he’s so close and so pretty and Wade really really really really wants to. Okay, so Webs got brain blasted with sex drugs. He can work with this. He’s a great improviser, it says so on his resume.
“This reminds me of one time when I was on a hit in Florence and this one chick, swear to god she looked just like SZA, was telling me about her degree in Cthulhu or some shit and invited me back to her place to-”
Webs webs- hah!- his shoulders down too, short of his neck but now his upper body is immovable and his dick is not that. Both of them are getting there if Wade is judging right by his eyes and, most importantly, his heart. That’s what’s pumping all the blood between his legs. Now Webs is a few inches away from his face, half-perched on the wall with one foot on the pillow above Wade’s head, eyes wide and unblinking down at him.
“The freaky possessed thing also works for me,” says Wade. “For the record. Webs?”
He hums in acknowledgement that Wade spoke. Score! He hunches lower to press his face into Wade’s shirt, inhaling deeply. The fabric is thin and worn and his warmth sears like a brand. Being branded by him would be fun. Wade can’t stop himself from letting out a soft sound.
“We’re about to fuck, right? Or is this something else, I just want to check in case this is a different thing. And not sex. Somehow.”
There are hands on his stomach now, smoothing down to where Pinkie Pie’s hoof meets the hem before sliding under and up. And up. Until Webs has Wade’s tits cupped in his palms and is squeezing them together.
“Pretty,” Webs murmurs, his tone distant and dreamy.
Wade plays into it by pushing his chest up. Webs shoves him back down with a growl that makes his cock twitch in the open air. Fuck, that’s good. Bottle it up and send it to shelves across America, that’s making them millions. Like Feastables or whatever mold science Mr. Beast is experimenting with.
“Stay.”
“Okay,” he breathes, relaxing back into the webs pressing him to the sheets. “Okay, yeah. Yes. I’m staying.”
Webs finally lowers himself fully to the bed, securing Wade’s arms as he goes. Wade watches with heavy-lidded eyes as he crawls past him before twisting his body around so they’re face to face. He gives a slow blink, head tilted in consideration. His pretty face is flushed down his neck and blooming across his collarbone like one of those cotton candy sunsets that exist nowhere near New York City. Gorgeous, perfect Webs.
After what feels like minutes he apparently gets his fill because he ducks his head to Wade’s exposed stomach. The fresh webbing at his sleeves had a splash zone and now has his shirt trapped just above his nipples- and isn’t that a feeling- but that doesn’t stop the hero from nuzzling against his abs. Well, the fat padding his abs. Wade likes twinkies and hard cider and activities that invite steel-toed boots to his soft spots. Webs huffs, lips parting to drag his tongue in a line from just above his belly button to the bow of ribs below his chest. Wade shudders.
“Webs-”
“Peter,” he corrects, paying him no more attention. His slender fingers are slipping into his waistband. “Pants off.”
Wade raises his hips to help and Peter- Peter!- pushes him back down with enough force to bruise, for however long Wade can bruise. He proceeds to lift him anyway to a level he likes, pupils blown. Wade’s clothes get torn off so fast he’s surprised it doesn’t leave friction burn.
“You want my cock?” teases Wade, flexing his hips. It’s safe enough territory for dirty talk when Peter is staring at his peter. Hah. Fuck, he’s so hard.
He gets no response this time. Peter just grunts and slides a hand under his thigh to grip the back of his knee. It’s not meant to be anything but practical but it makes Wade writhe anyway, the untouched skin sensitive. He pushes until Wade’s left leg is pressed up against his side. Then he webs it there. Wade knows he’s leaking, there’s no world where he’s not.
“I haven’t bottomed in a while,” Wade warns. Peter is rifling through his bedside drawer like a dog digging holes in a freshly manicured lawn. He doesn’t comment on the handgun or the dildo or the PEZ dispenser and swiftly sits back up, lube in hand. “You can hurt me if you want but I’m gonna be a bitch about it.”
Peter ignores him, just starts working his first finger in with single-minded focus. His eyes are glued to Wade’s hole. Those pouty lips are parted around breath after shallow breath, cheeks so pink they’re verging closer to red. He looks like he might start salivating.
“Oh! Forgot to mention, there’s food in the kitchen. Got you enough beef and broccoli to tide you over ‘til- well, not tomorrow because it’s like 10am. Lunch, maybe. Unless you want more, my phone’s in my p- Fuck!”
There are two fingers brushing his prostate, curled perfectly to pull at Wade’s whole body. A whine fights its way up his throat only to dissolve in the air. He squeezes his eyes shut. Breathing exercises, he can practice breathing exercises. In, then out, then in. Peter pushes a third finger in, leans forward to press a sloppy kiss to Wade’s hole as he lets up, then continues on stretching him. The breathing exercises aren’t working. Wade twists into it, eyes fluttering.
Peter doesn’t give him time to calm down before he’s pouring more lube between them, uncaring of how half of it drips to pool atop the sheets. Pool. Deadpool. Wade’s giggle is cut off by a startled whimper as Peter bullies his way inside. God, his freckles look so much darker when he’s painted crimson like this. In the world where Wade has his hands he’s running them over his skin, calluses catching on the tiniest inconsistencies in the texture, squeezing and groping and pulling him closer. Now, in this world, Peter is panting hotly into his neck. The dampness of his breath mixes with perspiration in a futile attempt to cool them off. His tongue swipes from the base of Wade’s neck to just below his ear. He pulls the scarred lobe between his teeth and pushes Wade down when his back arches. His groan echoes through Wade directly into his brain, jackhammering down his spine to meet his cock pushing steadily deeper. And deeper.
“Holy shit, Pete,” pants Wade. His mind must be melting out of his ears because that’s the most he can manage in terms of words. Every inch of him is focused on the stretch, the sweet burn of his muscles as Peter- Spider-Man!- shoves his internal organs out of his way.
“Good,” the superhero babbles, rubbing his face possessively against Wade’s heated skin. “Hot. Good.” He moans low in his chest. Like a wounded animal. “Mate.”
Wade can’t stop the whine he lets out at Peter’s next thrust, but it comes out strangled. “Mate?”
Peter angles himself right against Wade’s prostate. It turns Wade’s thoughts into TV static, radio waves, bouncing around and getting eaten up by the atmosphere or however the fuck radio waves work. Wade doesn’t care. He feels fucking amazing. Peter is fucking him harder now, mumbling senselessly into his chest. He has both of Wade’s thighs on his shoulders and they look like tree trunks in comparison to his acrobatic frame. Wade could squeeze, smother him, watch his eyes roll up to the whites like that one zombie lady in Army Of Darkness. Swallow this. Fuck. Wade can’t stop himself from groaning at the thought, if he ever gets Webs between his legs again he’s going to fuck his throat ‘til he can’t quip for a week.
Their rhythm falters, both of them gasping uselessly as Peter’s hips stutter. Wade whines. Peter growls, shifts so both hands are bruising Wade’s sides just above his hips, bites down on Wade’s nipple as he begins pounding him so hard the only thing keeping him in place are the webs holding him down.
“Fuck, yes!” Wade cries, every nerve burning, the neurons in his brain corroding like a faulty battery. “Fill me up! Fuck!”
That prompts his jaw to tighten on Wade’s plush chest. It wouldn’t be surprising if he’s breaking skin but Wade can’t be fucked to care. Well, he can be fucked. He’s being fucked right now. Spectacularly, in fact.
Peter comes with a primal grunt. The vibrations spear straight through Wade’s heart. Warmth spills, deep and consuming, through his body, adding to the syrup that’s become Wade’s brain. It goes on like this with Peter moaning rhythmically into the body beneath him as he bucks his hips into the feeling. Wade is slow, writhing to meet him, cock still throbbing against his stomach.
He makes an injured noise when Peter pulls out. His thighs try to tighten but he’s too shaky for it to stick. Peter huffs, his cock still half-hard, and moves Wade’s legs to wrap around his hips. There’s less strain this way, easier to focus on the pleasurable sensations. This includes but is not limited to Peter lowering his weight onto Wade and grinding their cocks together. Wade whimpers and tugs at the restraints, not to escape, just to feel them there.
“Wade,” he whispers, a soft exhale against his ear. “Fuck. So good.”
“Mh- mhmm!” Wade nods. It’s not the best angle, probably not the sexiest position in general, but he’s so close and Peter is so gorgeous and he can feel his cock hardening again. “So good, Webs.”
Peter is a delicious drag on top of him, slicked by lube and cum and the puddle of pre on Wade’s stomach. He straddles Wade’s thighs to press down harder, to put more leverage behind his thrusts. It’s like he’s being fucked all over again. Wade’s eyes flutter and roll aimlessly in his skull. His heart is going to burst any moment now, a heartgasm, like it’s one of those little freaks from Alien. Peter is whining into his ear. He’s making these “uh-uh-uh” sounds that stick to his skin, paint his insides along with the cum he’s already pumped into him.
Wade finishes without a sound. He just chokes, spine bending up off the bed as his vision goes white. Distantly he feels Peter follow him, adding to the mess on his stomach. He can’t do anything about it right now. His hands are stuck where they are.
He drifts for a while. It’s hard to tell how long, maybe an hour. In between blinks the light shifts but only slightly so it can't be long. Peter stays on top of him. It must be tacky, gross. Webs knows all about sticky, though, it’s practically his job. The thought makes Wade breathe out a chuckle.
Peter tilts his face up to him from where he’s nuzzling into his tits. His Pinkie Pie shirt is still there, thank god, Wade was worried it would get ripped off of him or something else clothing-ruining that would be sexy if he didn’t like it so much.
“Again?” he murmurs, one hand already reaching for his thigh.
Wade hums and nods. It’s not like he has anywhere else to be.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔.*:･･:*.ೃ࿔.⋆❀°
Peter wakes up somewhere in the middle of the night buried inside Wade, that’s right, Wade Winston Wilson. Like Deadpool. Like Wade Wilson. His head is fuzzy and his mouth is dry and his stomach is growling. Shit. Did he eat at all after being unkidnapped?
He extracts himself carefully, vision sharpening in the dark. Wade remains asleep. There’s webbing dissolving around his wrists and shoulders. Does Wade have Bullseye bedsheets? Who even makes those? Everything from the bottom of Wade’s chest downwards is exposed, from his massive pecs to his soft stomach to his muscled thighs. Thighs Peter just had his dick between for who knows how long. Jesus Christ, he was fucking Wade Wilson and he doesn’t even remember it. His life sucks.
His stomach growls again. Wade said something at some point somewhere somehow about food in the kitchen. It’s probably gross by now but, well, he’s Spider-Man. His body’s handled worse. In the past 24 hours, actually.
For the next twenty minutes he sits hunched over Wade’s counter, sticky and shoveling food into his mouth and thinking about the research paper he has due on Monday. He’d planned to start it after patrol yesterday. Now he has, uh, okay, assuming this whole day is a bust he has Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and the weekend. That’s five days, minus time for work and other school stuff and patrol and sleeping. He can do it. He could write 15 pages in his sleep.
When he returns to the bedroom Wade is awake, albeit bleary. He’s pulled himself out of the webbing around his torso and tugged a blanket over his bottom half. The bed is disgusting. He must really be worn out. That or he doesn’t care, which is more likely knowing his relationship with bodily fluids. Peter stands in the open doorway and watches him blink at him.
“Peter,” he eventually sighs, relaxing fully into the mattress.
It’s odd, trying to feel out a Deadpool that isn’t acting like a chimp on Adderall. Peter takes one step closer before hesitating. Again.
“Hey.” He waves a hand awkwardly. Then he fights the urge to punch himself with it. “Everything… good?”
Wade just stretches his arm out, inviting Peter in. Yeah. Yeah, they’re good. Whatever conversations need to happen can happen tomorrow.