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Peter has a problem.
A six foot tall, heavily muscled, disastrously dangerous problem.
It's changed from how it started -- when Deadpool was a problem for his mayhem, gratuitous violence, and far-too-bloody meddling in Spiderman's affairs. They're friends now. Of a sort. Partners. Buddies. Bros who share their deepest darkest fears over late night takeout and quick healing wounds. Peter has long since gotten to know the best of Wade Wilson, and Deadpool has agreed to knock Spiderman down a few pegs on his pedestal of Those Who Can Do No Wrong.
Sort of.
They're still working on that last one. Wade is about the only person on the planet who doesn’t blink at the death toll on Peter's hands. Maybe for the wrong reasons, sure. But nothing about their strange relationship can be considered right by the average person.
Peter likes to tell himself that average rules don't apply to those who aren't, fundamentally and on multiple levels, average.
Not one of Peter's enemies -- or friends -- have ever understood why the two of them spend so much time together. But even when he'd been a major thorn in Peter's side, before they saw the good and the bad and the ugly in each other and grew closer than the bonding properties of super glue, Peter had heard rumors about Deadpool. About the man under the suit. In addition to his abilities, and questionable mental stabilities -- there were rumors that Wade Wilson, the burliest biggest baddest mercenary this side of the East River, hadn't always been a man.
They didn't always put it so nicely.
But to Peter Parker, who had called himself Spiderman long before he could utter the name Peter to more than the scrawny closeted guy in the mirror -- the rumors were a lifeline.
They were one of the reasons why Peter gravitated toward Deadpool in the first place, despite all warnings and reason and good-hero sensibility. And when he'd experienced Wade's jokes about it first hand, well. Never let it be said that Peter didn't leap at the opportunity to join in a la 'That makes two of us'.
They've been inseparable ever since.
And, if Peter is being honest with himself, that's part of the problem.
It's not that he doesn't like spending time with Deadpool. He likes it a lot. He likes Wade a lot. And he's spent enough time in denial-soaked misery over it to know that this like isn't going anywhere, any time soon, ever.
But after the initial revelation (and subsequent five stage acceptance bargaining), it wasn't that big of a deal. He didn't want anything about their friendship to change. He hadn't even told Wade his name yet, at the time. All he wanted was to continue their easy partnership. Their casual hangouts, and later, their not-so-casual conversations. The more Wade meant to him, the less he wanted to bring up something so trivial as a crush.
Who even has crushes past age 30?
Peter, apparently. But he wasn't going to do anything about it. He didn't feel the need to. What could it bring that they don't already have? They sleep on the same couch together all the time, stacked like sticky pancakes in their suits, even when they're gross and grimey from a hard night out. They text. They dine out. Sometimes they don't talk at all, electing to simply exist in the same space together. Comfortably. Without the need to fill that space with an endless string of words in order to avoid thinking 'Oh, God, am I being weird? Or too much? Does he have somewhere better to be right now instead of sharing airspace with me?'
Time with Wade is comfortable -- whether they're rambling at each other for hours, or lost in their own tasks on opposite sides of the same room, or melded at the hip in the center of Wade's very wide couch in total silence.
What a concept!
Sometimes, they even hold hands. Peter can't remember which one of them made that move first -- Peter has always been handsy. But so has Wade, after their initial fights turned to handshakes, and helping hands, and comforting touches, and Peter told him he was okay with it.
It was good. What they had was good, and Peter was more than happy to keep it that way.
Until Peter wakes up from the most embarrassingly intense sex dream of his nearly middle aged life, centered completely and entirely on Deadpool. Specifically, the act of getting railed by Deadpool on his ratty but heavenly comfortable couch. Fully suited, except for where they were bumping uglies.
The image Peter's dream-mind had conjured was anything but ugly. Which is precisely the problem. Because his lust-addled brain had conjured a dick where he isn't even sure Wade has a dick. Not any different than Peter's own au natural t-growth, that is.
He knows for a fact Wade has gone through top surgery. He showed Peter those scars last year, when he'd coaxed Peter into some thrilling gray-area lawbreaking that involved borrowing a rooftop pool while its apartment stayed unrented (see: unaffordable) for months in the height of summer. The scars were pale, old, and barely discernible among the rest of his warped flesh. They were from before his mutation, and the only way Peter would have ever known they were there was if he pressed his fingers into them and felt the difference in texture. Which he did, on Wade's insistence.
But he'd always assumed the not-so-conspicuous bulge in Wade's pants was a packer. Peter packed. He did it all the time back when skinny jeans were still in style. And these days all his suits include a tastefully built in cup-sturdy bulge.
He thought Wade did the same.
After the dream, he isn't so sure.
And now, days later, he still can't get it out of his head.
It's not like it matters. It shouldn't matter. He isn't only interested in Wade if he has a dick -- or not. But the uncertainty -- and the possibility -- coupled with the dream, make it impossible to move on unless he gets to the bottom of it.
-
"Wade, can I ask you something personal?"
It's the end of a normal shift. They're seated on one of their favorite rooftop ledges, finishing the last of their late night dinners before they split ways. It's familiar, and safe, and comfortable.
It's also neutral ground if anything should inexplicably go wrong. Peter has learned the hard way to never go into anything without a solid escape route. And if he’s the one bringing this up, it only makes sense to afford Wade the same.
"Mmm?" Wade swallows hard around his last bite, noisily crumpling his soggy wrapper. "Yeah, bug? Hit me."
"You can tell me to fuck off. If it's, y'know. Too personal."
"Ooooh, swearing! I'm dying to hear what you think is too personal. You've literally seen my insides. You've held my intestines, remember? I remember it like it was yesterday. Oh, right, it was yesterday."
"Day before yesterday. Don't distract me, this is important. Kind of. But not so important that you have to give me a straight answer if you don't want to--"
"Please, as if I've ever given a straight answer--"
"And that's my point!" Peter sits up out of his hunch, twisting to face Wade on the ledge. "You like to joke around. I get it, so do I. But I think I might've gotten the wrong idea? And it's not your fault - you're not obligated to tell me everything about you. But I feel like I've been making assumptions about something I really don't want to be making assumptions about, because I wouldn't want it happening to me, and if I've wildly misinterpreted a key factor--"
Wade throws his wrapper at Peter. Peter's wrist snaps out to catch it without thinking.
"Spidey, you know I love hearing you go on and on and on, but now you're just pulling my leg. Yanking my johnson. Jerking my tibia. Out with it."
Crushing the wrapper between his hands, Peter huffs out a hard exhale. "Have you had any work done... down there?"
They aren't so high up that the ambient traffic and street noise can't reach them. Several seconds go by where that’s all Peter can hear, as Wade stares at him.
"Florida?"
"No. What? Wait, you've got the right shape in mind..." With one hand, Peter makes a vague figure with his fingers that ends up looking more like a gun. Only when he waves it in the direction of his crotch does Wade get it.
"My dick. You're asking me about my dick?"
"Yes?"
"That a question?"
"No."
"Okay, why? You thinking about getting something done?"
It's so not the answer he expects, that for a moment Peter bluescreens. "No. Uh ... No. Not now. Not really. I mean, maybe. I think about it sometimes. But I don't think it's really right for me, and --" He reins himself in, dropping his voice quieter, and redirects himself to the point. "Have you?"
Wade's mask is still rolled up, so Peter is hit with the full wattage of his spreading grin. "Oh, Peter. I've got the full package."
"Really?" Peter bounces up with so much momentum he has to catch himself from launching straight off the building. "I mean, that's cool. What's it like?"
"Now that is a loaded question."
"Sorry. I've never actually talked to someone who's had it. Again, you can tell me to fuck off."
But Wade is already shaking his head. "You should've seen it before. It got the full radioactive ghoul treatment like the rest of me. To be fair, it wasn't exactly pretty before, but y'know. At least no one expects it to look pretty now. But a penis is a penis. And it's my penis. No one can take it from me. Found that one out the hard way -- do not recommend having your rocks blown off, in case you were wondering. But the best part? My nerves are better than they've ever been. That shit feels great."
Peter runs the information over in his mind. Twice. The best he can manage at the end of it is a breathless, "Whoa."
"Mhmm."
He tries -- and abruptly fails -- not to envision it. It's hard, with Wade sitting right in front of him, relaxed and open. One leg leaning over the edge, the other bent towards him. The bulge in his pants actively taking on an entirely different meaning.
"Wanna see it?"
Peter’s head snaps up. "... You'd let me look?"
"Don't see why not. What've I got to lose? My dignity?"
With his mask rolled up, Wade can definitely see the fall of his open mouth. But Wade merely shrugs. "Disclaimer, mine won't be like any other. This thing is one of a kind textured, for his or her pleasure. Results may vary, but not even the worst penis accident will leave you with a dick this unique."
Peter tries to play it cool. Internally, he’s the furthest thing from cool. He’s warm, and the temperature is rising. "This won't be... weird, would it?"
"I dunno. Would it?"
"I just don't want you to show me if it'd make you uncomfortable."
"Me? Uncomfortable? About showing you my peter?"
"Please don't call it that. You don't actually call it that, do you?"
"I haven't before. But I'm sure as hell going to think about it the next time I--"
"Okay, okay. Uh, if you're down, I'm down. I'd like to see it.”
Wade's hand goes to his fly without missing a beat. Peter's pulse skyrockets, then abruptly lodges in his throat when Wade hesitates, his eyes narrowing, putting a hard pause to the string of holy shit, holy shit reeling through Peter's mind.
"This isn't an elaborate way of getting me in for indecent exposure, is it?"
"What? No."
"Pinky swear?"
Peter pinky swears. With Wade's finger still locked around Peter's, he leans closer and says, "If you ever want to play cops and robbers, sexy edition, just say the word. I'd let you hogtie me in a heartbeat."
"First off, I would never roleplay a cop. Second off, this is purely informative."
"Oh, sure. I'm showing you my dick for science."
"Personal interest," Peter corrects.
"Uh huh. It's personal, alright. You're only jumping at the leash to see me whip my dick out because you want to take notes while pushing up your little nerd glasses, and not for any other R-rated reasons. Totally. You know you can look this stuff up online--"
"I have!"
"But you want to see mine? Face to balls? Even after all the radioactive, 'do not enter' warnings?"
"I don't know about face to balls--"
"Eyes to eye, in the flesh, just for you, your own private peep show. I'm down to drop trow, but what's really going on here, Pete?"
Peter wrings his fingers, staring at the building across the street. "When you put it that way--"
"You can see where I'm coming from."
"I'd like to see where you're coming from."
Wade's silence is stunned. A rare accomplishment for Peter. "That's not even how it works--!"
"I know, sorry, couldn't help myself," Peter rushes out. "Terrible case of foot in mouth disease, going to get me killed someday--"
"You're SO hot when you don't have a filter, you know that?"
"I've never had a filter."
"I know," Wade groans. "You're lucky my dick doesn't work, or I'd be rock fucking hard twenty-four-seven whenever I'm with you."
"I imagine that'd get pretty… uncomfortable."
The nod Wade deigns him with is slow and sagely. "The real discomfort was the phantom boners we had along the way."
"You get those, too?"
Wade's smile takes a softer edge, and for the first time, Peter returns it. The tension seeps from his body. And the lull between them takes on a comfortable, familiar air. Really, it couldn't have gone any other way. This is Deadpool, his friend and partner. What did he have to be afraid of?
"Are you going to show me or not?"
"Sir, yes, sir."
Wade's gloved hand returns to his zipper. And again, it hesitates.
Peter leans closer. His pulse rapid fires in his chest. Just as the first inkling of doubt starts to creep back in, Wade looks up at Peter one more time, and then the zipper goes down.
He's nudging leather down his hips, pulling his belts out of the way, and --
Yup.
Holy shit.
That's Wade's dick.
He hadn't even been wearing a cup. Or underwear. Just straight flesh to leather. And now it's sitting naked in his fist.
Peter kind of forgets to swallow. His first attempt at vocalizing is wet and half-choked.
"Wow."
"I know right? The marvels of medical technology. Ha. Marvels."
"That's -- so cool."
"Thanks. Grew it myself. Technically. After the first time."
"It looks so..."
"Mottled? Botched? Fucked up?"
"Good, Wade. It looks -- good."
"Huh. You gonna call it a good boy next? Make it do tricks? Give it a -- uh -- whoa, Peter?"
Peter's hand is on Wade's thigh. He has no idea how it got there. He yanks it back but not before failing the first attempt, having stuck to Wade's suit out of startled reflex.
"Sorry."
Wade shakes his head, brows raised. His hand is still wrapped around the base of his dick, holding it up for Peter to see. And Peter... has to look back down. Has to look his fill. Because Wade wasn't lying. It's one of a kind, alright. But that just makes it so... entirely Wade. Impossible to confuse it for anyone else's. Impossible to imagine it as anyone else's.
Of course, it has to be so much bigger than he thought it'd be, too.
He leans back in, hand falling to Wade's knee. Wade doesn't mention it. He moves his fingers, slowly, chaste as a nun stroking a candle, from base to tip. Peter's eyes follow like a starving dog.
He wants to touch it, too. He wants to know what those ridges feel like. He wants to know what it feels like for Wade. Where he feels it the most, where it feels the best.
He lets out a breath, slow and slightly shaky around the edges. Wade flinches like he's been stabbed.
"O-kay, I think that's enough show and tell for today," he says abruptly, and Peter is already backing up, giving him room.
"Yeah. Uh. Thank you. For that. It was very -- Informative. You have a great dick."
He cringes at himself, but Wade seems to barely hear him. He gets himself stuffed away and secured quickly and efficiently. Peter only sees it out of the corner of his eye. They sit side by side on the ledge, facing away from one another. Wade is the first one to stand up.
"Sooo. Same time tomorrow?"
"You know it."
They go for their usual handshake. Peter is halfway to slapping Wade's palm before he remembers where it just was. Wade realizes too. Instead of aborting, he switches to a fist. Peter meets it.
Wade bares his teeth. "It's not weird now, is it?"
"Not at all." Peter tries for a smile. "It's like you said. I've already seen your insides."
-
He expects the problem to be solved and done with. His curiosity satisfied, his mental images corrected, he can safely move on now, thank you very much.
Instead, it almost gets worse.
Because now when Peter is alone in his bed at night, his mind wandering from the events of the day to his responsibilities for the next, and his hand slips under his flannel pajamas for a source of distraction, he has an actual memory to reference. An image that leaps to the forefront of his mind like its spring loaded.
And before he knows it, it's overlapping with that ruinous dream from a week ago, and Peter is coming harder than he has in a long, long time, groaning face-first into his pillow.
It's even harder to fall asleep, after.
The thing is, he doesn't even like getting railed. Not usually. Not that he's having any type of sex these days. With anyone. But in the past, it hasn't exactly been his favorite method of getting off. And now it's like he'll never be normal again until he satisfies the urge to get his guts primally rearranged.
He's hornier than he was during his first year on T.
It gets so bad he considers seeking out a casual hookup. He did a few of those in his college days. It can't be so hard to try again, right? He knows he has a good body, as long as he keeps his mouth shut. And it only has to happen once. He could even try hitting up one of his exes. He remembers Black Cat knowing her way around a strap. Not that he ever let her use it on him.
But limited and somewhat awkward options aside, Peter doesn't want to have sex with anyone.
No one, that is, other than Deadpool.
Leave it to the guy to be out of the country while Peter is having one of the biggest life-altering crises of his life. Several sleepless nights are spent with his thumb eroding the little Deadpool sticker on the back of his phone while he contemplates calling him and telling him all about it. But as tempting as it is to get these feelings off his chest for good, it's not a conversation he wants to have over the phone. Not if it means Wade might not be able to take him seriously.
Because he is. Serious. About this. About him.
And he thinks it could be really, really good if they finally cross this line. He's ready for it. And that's coming from his post-nut, rational brain.
So he doesn't make the call. He stares at his lock screen -- a photo of them together from New Year's night -- until his eyes burn. He patrols alone, and sleeps alone, and waits for his friend/partner/enemy-turned-favorite-person to come back to his city. And hopes it won't be the end of everything.
-
When he gets the text, he's up and slipping into his suit before he can even reply. He taps a quick emoji one-handed while he's swinging dozens of feet above rush-hour traffic. Their favorite takeout place is more crowded than it’s ever been, and while he waits for his order he considers picking up flowers from the shop across the street. He firmly and immediately shuts that idea down. It's not like they're dating.
He reconsiders it anyway, takeout tucked under one arm, wrist raised to shoot. And only manages to swing away once he remembers the last time he tried webslinging a bouquet somewhere.
The rest of the trip is spent trying not to think about how that relationship ended. The wind-sheared flowers had been the least of his problems.
Wade's apartment smells like sharp gunpowder and stale blood. And the cold cling of night air, thanks to the window he'd left open for Peter.
He sets his plastic bag down on the kitchenette counter, hearing Wade before he sees him -- the clatter of his guns while he cleans and checks them, already chattering about his airport experience and the country he'd been in. Somewhere in Southern Europe. It sounds like a hell of a story, but Peter has a hard time following with his preoccupied thoughts clogging up every synapse.
Eventually Wade notices he's still hovering in the threshold, and looks up at him. A question in the tilt of his head.
"Can we talk?"
Immediately, Wade shoots to kill. "Is this about the dick thing?"
"No," Peter lies. But he's always been a bad liar, and Wade knows it. "Okay, maybe. But not the way you think."
"Let me guess -- Can't stop thinking about it? Grossed you out so much it broke the scale and sent you into horny territory? I always say it's a fine line between love and hate, between fear and lust--"
"Wait. Just, slow down--"
"Orrrrr, I've given you nightmares and totally ruined your chances of getting any work done yourself, nevermind how I tried to warn you that my pecker is the furthest thing from normal a surgically bestowed pecker can be--"
"Wade--"
"The third option is -- what's the third option?"
"I want to have sex with you."
Remember that whole thing about comfortable silences? This silence makes a compelling argument for a spot on the top 5 list of most mortifying silences ever endured. Peter braces for a hasty, emergency exit. It's been real, and he might never recover, but it won't be the first time his clumsy tongue will have lost him a relationship he thought was solid.
Seated in the center of his ratty couch, gun parts in each hand, Wade blinks owlishly.
"On the first date?"
Peter scuffs his heel against the floor, muttering, "I think you could argue we've basically been dating already."
"Can we? Can I?"
"And it's not like this is the first time I've thought about it--"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa--"
"If you're not interested, you can tell me and we can both move on like this never happened. But you were right. It wasn't just normal curiosity that made me want to see your peck-- your dick. Or whatever. I've wanted it -- wanted you for so long, and I couldn't get you out of my head, and seeing that, seeing you like that, was the final straw and I even thought about calling you while you were gone, but I didn't think you'd appreciate hearing about this over the phone--"
"Wrong. Phone sex is always hot and worth it."
"--but I want this with you, and I'm pretty sure you've given me enough signals that even I got the message that you might want this too. But if I'm wrong, and just astronomically embarrassed myself, and you don't see me that way--"
"Hello? What planet did you crashland from while I was gone? Last I checked, I'd bend you over this couch right now if you said the word."
Peter's hands freeze mid-gesture. They stare at each other from across the room. Slowly, Peter's eyes shift to the couch.
"I'm saying the word."
Wade gently places his gun parts on the coffee table. He stands up, places his hands on his hips, and stares at the ceiling for a solid five seconds.
"You're serious?"
"So serious. Could not be more serious. I had an honest to god wet dream about you, Wade."
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You're going to tell me all about it. In detail. Down to the last nonexistent hair on my ass."
"It involved your couch."
Wade paces away, dragging his hands roughly down his mask. He groans but it comes out like a moan.
"Last chance, webs. Tell me this is a joke and the 'laugh now' sign is about to light up. Tell me you're joking."
Peter steps closer. His hand falls on the back of the couch. "I'm not."
"You know I can't, like, get it up, right?" Wade wheels around, miming a limp wrist. "I'm a wet noodle down there. A slinky. As soft on the outside as I am on the inside," he says, jamming a thumb against the center of his chest.
"Okay. That's okay. I can work with that. Can you still..." Peter grasps at the air for a decent way to say it. He settles for a crude gesture.
It surprises a chuckle out of Wade -- low and throaty. "Oh, I can penetrate. I can fuck. My stamina? Unheard of. These hips? Don't lie. I can fuck so good it'll change the game forever. Can't have anything else up there without thinking of Wade Willy Junior, and by extension, me." In the next moment, his expression falls -- a tenuous thing. A crack that shows, with all the subtlety of a yawning wound, the softness within. "But you don't want that, do you?"
Peter takes another careful step. "I do."
"Are you sure you got a good look at it last time? Do you want to check again, just to be sure? Double checksies? I know you like to be careful--"
"Wade, please. I was this close to climbing into your lap the last time you took it out."
"You say that, but--"
The hand Peter places on his chest shuts him up. He's still wearing all his belts and holsters and the gunpowder smell is even stronger up close. Peter can practically hear the gears frantically churning in Wade's head from here, too. It would be concerning if Peter wasn't also nervous out of his mind. But below the buzzing nerves turning his lips and fingertips numb is a heat that tells him this is everything Peter wants. It's totally the lust talking. But it's all within reach. Everything, right here.
He doesn't think he's ever sounded so desperate when he whispers, "Please?"
Wade's hand finds his hip. He looks down at Peter like he has countless times in the past. Like Peter is the best thing he's ever seen. Like Peter means the world to him, and more. He looks like he's going to cry.
"Fuck. Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. Affirmative. Sir, yes, sir, let's get this show on the road. Rodeo? Train to Rhode Island? You know, I hear it's nice there this time of year--"
Peter cups him. It's like an electric shock to Wade. He comes alive, gripping Peter's hips hard, head bowing to Peter's shoulder. Shuddering with a wet sigh.
"Okay?" Peter asks again.
"Mhmmm. Peachy."
Peter reaches up with his other hand to touch the back of Wade's neck. "You can say no."
"Nope. Nuh-uh. No way, no how. Not gonna happen. We're so doing this." His hands slip behind Peter, taking two handfuls of the muscle he finds there. Like it’s something he’s always wanted to do. "The suit stays on, though."
"Mine, too."
"Kinky."
"I just -- I feel better. In it."
"Hey, don't gotta convince me. We're two peas in a pod, Peter. The suits stay on."
He says it so easily that Peter feels lightheaded. He nods, his hold on Wade's arm relaxing. He hadn't even realized he'd been squeezing. There are a lot of interesting things happening to his body right now.
Wade pats his backside lightly before pulling back. "Sit tight. I'm gonna grab a change of gloves. Hell knows where these have been. You want a condom? I'm clean, healing factor and all, but--"
"No. That's okay. Ditto on the healing factor."
The whistle Wade throws over his shoulder on his way out of the room holds magnitudes. Flushed, sweaty, and tingling in several places, Peter leans his arms over the back of the couch, and breathes. He drops his head, running a hand over the back of his skull. He tries to run through every possibility that this might be a bad idea and comes up blank.
The sound of Wade rummaging -- and humming -- in the other room is oddly reassuring.
When he comes back, adjusting the new pair of leather gloves on his hands, something in the air has dropped several levels. Peter doesn't bother standing back up. He stays bent, watching Wade over his shoulder.
His hand, when it lands on Peter's backside, is light. Slow.
Reverent.
It dips between his legs.
"I show you mine, you show me yours?"
It takes a minute for Peter to formulate a response. "Mine's nothing special."
"Oh, I call doubt. Bet you have the hottest t-cock in the Tri-State area."
Despite himself, Peter laughs. "Seen many of them?"
"Naw. But when you've got the best ass, best thighs, arms, back, hands... Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and baby, I am beholden." He paws at Peter, over the stuffed cup in his suit. There's no friction, there can’t be. But the pressure encourages his hips to grind against it. A small movement -- barely anything.
It's enough to make Wade hiss.
His fingers find the seam in his suit next. Peter holds still -- pulse in his throat -- as Wade peels it back. He stops at the top of his thighs, fingertips trailing the line of bare skin there. Only exposing the place he needs access to.
"Hell-o Peter. Looks like someone’s been packing." His thumb presses into Peter’s inner thigh, straying up. "You shoot webs with that thang?"
Peter swallows. He shakes his head, helpless.
"I dunno. Maybe you just haven't tried hard enough. Bet I could get something to come out if I put my mouth on it, and gave it my best effort."
The thought -- absurd as it is -- pulls a noise out of Peter's throat. Wade's voice contains an audible grin when he says, "Noted. Bookmarked and saved for another time." His thumb shifts higher. It pulls his skin apart. And begins to prod. "Think you had something else in mind, yeah?"
"Yes," Peter breathes. "Please."
"Keep saying that and I'll cum. But -- ask and ye shall receive, my spidery little friend."
The press of the first leather-clad finger is strange. It's nothing he’s ever felt down there, the texture smooth and foreign, and Peter has a moment of sheer panic at the sharp arousal it spikes. He can't move, can't speak, as Wade rubs the tender flesh just at the cusp of outside and in. Relaxing the muscle. Testing the waters. Finding Peter so wet and ready for it that the first finger slips in easy.
Wade does not have small hands. The gloves add an extra layer of bulk to his already big fingers. He still gets Peter ready in record time.
He's got three fingers knuckle deep in him when he asks Peter if he can take it. ‘It’ being the real thing. His cock, tapping at his entrance, rubbing at his dick below it, before Wade has even removed his fingers.
The most Peter can manage is an affirmative -- and enthusiastic -- groan.
His hips try to follow Wade's fingers when he pulls out. It results in him pressing right up against Wade's cock. A sticky, wet hand snaps out to hold him in place. "Shit -- just, hold on. Let me get it right."
It takes time, and a few tries, to get it aligned. Peter tries to help. He tries to be patient. But it's a lot. The head is blunt, and wide, and Peter is breathing heavy with the effort to take him. But then Wade pushes -- and its like scratching an itch or pressing on a bruise, or finally getting fucked by the guy he's been head over heels for even back when they were still throwing punches into each other's most vulnerable parts.
It's warm. And weirdly soft. But it fills Peter completely.
It's heavy. And when Wade moves, a small adjustment to get himself more comfortable, Peter is hit with the full sensation of his scars.
"Fuck. Ease up on me, sunshine, or we'll be locked together 'til the end of days."
With a deep, much needed exhale, Peter complies. He dips his shoulders lower when Wade's thumbs dig into the small of his back, angling his hips, fitting Peter around his cock.
"Wade," he whines, alarmed. It shouldn't feel this good. It shouldn't feel this right. The couch back digs uncomfortably into his stomach, and his hamstrings are stretched taut to hold his balance. But Wade's hands are stroking down his sides, his back, pulling his hips flush against him and holding him there, and Peter can't stop clenching--
He starts moving, and Peter whites out.
He's aware of his hands digging into the cushions to the point of causing damage. He's aware of his graceless collapse, unable to hold himself up by his arms. He's aware of Wade's earlier bragging. And comes to the conclusion that nothing could have prepared him for this.
"Wade--"
"I'm here, Pete." A hand clamps down on his shoulder, pinning him. Keeping him from rocking too far away.
Peter doesn't struggle. He doesn't squirm. He gets his arms under him and pushes up slowly, arching his back.
Wade moans.
"Shit, you're so fucking wet what the fuck. Like actually what the fuck. Are you-- Is this--?"
Peter opens his mouth to reply and gets a noise knocked out of him so wrecked and senseless it conveys more than any word could ever hope to.
Wade doesn't relent. He stays deep, hardly pulling out before fucking back in, keeping himself from slipping out. It makes the pressure on Peter's insides the only thing he can think about. That, and the crazy way his balls bump into Peter's dick with every thrust. The contact is a tease. It can barely be called stimulation. But Peter is so far gone it’s exactly what he needs to tip over. He can barely hear the words coming out of Wade’s mouth as Peter shudders around him.
He's still coming when an arm snakes around his shoulders, hiking him up. Wade plasters himself to Peter's back, breathing hard and loud, practically begging for it into Peter's ear.
Peter has to be the one to hold up their combined weight now. Fine. He can take it. He'll do anything if it means he can feel Wade coming undone inside him, using him to get off like a raw, rutting thing. He'll do anything to feel it happen again, because the first time is already over, ebbing as Wade rocks to a slow stop, pushing and pawing at Peter in equal measures, touching anything and everything as he buries his face six feet under into Peter's shoulder.
The feeling of his cock slipping out, pressing chastely against Peter's sensitive dick like a kiss, has him turning his head and asking, "Again?"
Wade laughs. It's out of breath, deepening as he stands up straighter, keeping one hand on Peter's back to keep him in place while the other pushes apart his cheeks, exposing his holes.
"Trying for a baby?"
It's obscene, and so out of left field, that Peter flushes.
"Straight to base three - raising little spider babies together? Hate to break it to you, but we're not the right breed for breeding. No one to stop us from trying, though."
Peter reaches behind him. He fists a tight hold around one of Wade's belts. "Please. Can you?"
"Uh, knock you up?"
Still bent over the couch, Peter shifts his legs further apart. As much as his stretchy suit will allow him to.
"Round two."
"Three, four, and five. Who's counting?" The thumb holding him open slips further to the center, down, and in. Just barely. Just enough to hold him there like it belongs. Like a soothing promise. "I'm taking you to bed, though. As long as we're playing out our favorite wet dreams in real time HD."
"Deal."
Wade makes another noise -- half plea, half kicked-dog. The hand on his back lets up. Peter straightens and starts to pull the bottom half of his suit up. He hesitates, half turned toward Wade, who watches him with his brows up. With his fingers knotted in the fabric -- and before he can think better of it -- Peter smoothly pulls it all down to his ankles. He keeps his eyes locked onto the center of Wade's chest when he stands back up, kicking the fabric aside.
"The rest stays on." he says quickly, gripping the couch behind his back.
Wade nods, eyes downcast, firmly locked on the place between Peter's legs. He reaches out to touch it, like one would stroke the underside of a chin.
"Like I said. Kinky."
Wade's bedroom is the polar opposite of the rest of his living space. At least, the bed is. There are still comically large firearms on the dresser, and what looks to be a pair of pink lacy panties thrown over the nightstand. Which Peter knows for a fact belongs to Wade, because of that time his suit ripped during an encounter with a particularly slashy enemy of the week. He'd taken every chance he could to flash Peter that night.
It boggles the mind to think about how long it took Peter to get here. Nevermind the depths of Wade’s patience. That he might've been okay with it even if they never took it this far, ever, if Peter never asked for this.
He knows there's no going back as he crawls onto Wade's crisp, cool sheets, gently rearranging the plushies on the pillows so that he has room to lay down. He knows it as Wade climbs after him, settling between his legs, dick in hand and oddly quiet as he looks down at Peter. Looking lost and more vulnerable than the time he had his guts in Peter's hands.
He reaches up to lay the same hand on Wade's face. "Hey, big guy."
"Hey, bed bug."
"Still good?"
"Always when you're involved."
The smile under Peter's mask is watery. He slips his hand down Wade's arm, down to where he's still holding his cock. He strokes the leather over Wade's knuckles, and into the gaps between his fingers.
"Can I?"
Wade lets go. "Just -- be nice to it."
It's not a difficult thing to ask. It feels like the rest of Wade's skin, which he's had the honor of touching only a handful of times. Even through his gloves he can feel every bump and ridge. It's not veiny, and the skin doesn't stretch like he expects it to. But it's more sensitive than he thought it'd be. Especially along the underside, near the very base. And when he starts playing with the tip -- Wade melts over him. Slipping his arms under Peter's back, curling around him and whining shamelessly into Peter's neck.
Peter keeps playing with it until Wade asks -- begs -- to get back inside him.
It's easy to get his legs up. Less easy to let Wade sit back. Until he realizes he can watch this time. He stares while Wade attempts to nudge it in. But it doesn't work the first time. Or the second.
For a second Wade freezes. Then his hand comes up to cover Peter's lenses.
"Don't look."
Peter opens his mouth to argue. He wants to assure Wade that it's okay. That he shouldn't have to feel the need to cover Peter's eyes. That he understands. But he quickly realizes that the absence of vision heightens his attention on the things Wade is doing between them.
When the head finally pushes in, he whimpers.
Maybe Wade was right about the kink thing.
Maybe that's why this is the best it’s ever been. Even better when Wade slides him lower on the bed, folds his knees up to his ears, and sinks his full weight onto Peter.
"Holy shit."
Wade's hand slips away from his lenses, up the curve of his skull, and down to cradle his nape. "Always wanted to know if you could put that flexibility to less-than-friendly spiderman use."
"I think this is pretty friendly. On the list of friendly things we could be doing."
"Yeah?" He punctuates with a thrust that Peter feels throughout his whole body. "Good thing that's not my tagline."
The pace he starts up after that is decidedly unfriendly.
Under the combination of Wade's weight, his stamina, and the mask obscuring Peter's face - it becomes difficult to breathe. It's only by the shift of Wade's voice that he realizes Wade has pulled up the bottom half of his mask. Chest heaving, Peter doesn't hesitate to follow. Wade perks up like a hawk, leaning back to see him better.
Peter can't blame him. Not when he becomes sharply fixated on Wade's lips, parted and pink and so startlingly pretty.
Moving his hands from where they'd been resting around Wade's collar, Peter cups his jaw. He thumbs at the corner of Wade's mouth. Then his bottom lip. He swallows hard, and tilts his chin up. Asking for it as openly as he knows how to.
Hips stuttering, Wade whines. Peter pulls him closer with minimal strength, his fingertips on the back of his neck, giving Wade plenty of room to pull away.
He doesn't. So Peter kisses him.
The next thing he knows, Wade's tongue is in his mouth and he's fucking into him even harder. Knowing that Peter can take it. Trusting Peter to be durable enough for it. Peter does his part and conveys between kisses that it's good, it's great, please don't stop, please don't ever stop.
The kiss breaks once it's too much for Wade. He cums with his face in Peter's neck, arms wrapped around his back, stuck to him like glue. Peter holds him through it, but he'd been close, too. He tries to casually snake a hand between them to finish himself off, but Wade pulls back, pulls out, still panting, and grabs Peter's hand.
"Please please please let me suck you off. Promise it'll be so good, Peter, please--"
"Okay."
Wade swallows audibly, the tire-screech equivalent of a mental kick. He looks down, still gripping Peter's hand. His mouth falls open. "Fuuuck."
Peter knocks his knee against Wade. "Ask and ye shall receive."
"You look fucked. Up, out, and sideways. Seven ways to heaven. Hell. Whatever. Wherever you're going, I'll follow."
Peter doesn't get a chance to reply. Wade's mouth wraps around him and it's sloppy. All tongue and effort and excessive spit, like he's genuinely drooling for it. Peter has a hard time staying still, thighs around Wade's head, hands kneading at his mask.
It hits harder than the first time, and goes on without end.
Wade keeps licking him through it, going so far as to stick his tongue back into his leaking hole once his dick gets too sensitive. When even that becomes too much, Peter hauls him up by the straps on his shoulders. Wade obediently flops beside him, accepting Peter’s instinct to plaster himself against Wade’s side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
"Hey, does this mean I get to send you dick pics now?"
Peter laughs before he can catch his breath, and shrugs, squeezing him tighter. "Sure."
Wade still has an array of pouches strapped to his body. He digs into one of them, pulling out his phone. "Let me take one now. To celebrate."
Peter's leg, thrown over Wade's thigh, is in the shot. His pants are still on the floor in the other room. It could be anyone's leg, really. There's nothing identifying about it. But Peter is still wearing his gloves and the top half of his suit. So while Wade holds up his dick and poses it for the camera, trying to find the best angle, Peter reaches over and cups it from the other side. Their fingers overlap. Wade sucks in a soft breath, and almost forgets to take the photo.
"Would you kill me if I set this as my lock screen?" he asks, deceptively casual.
Peter smiles. "I'll give you one better."
Flipping the camera on Wade's phone, Peter shifts up on one hand, and kisses Wade's cheek. Right where the bottom of his mask meets bare skin.
Wade turns to look at him, mouth open. "What was that for?"
"To celebrate."
"I didn't get it," he says without checking his camera roll. "Can you give me another?"
Peter kisses him on the lips, and taps the screen himself. Then he tosses the phone, and crawls onto Wade. Kissing him again and again.