Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PETER

The guy across the table from me looks like every other meathead that I’ve ever made eye contact with. Tall, broad, and blond with a jawline that could chip ice. Or whatever it is people say.

He looks like the cover of a muscle magazine or like the guy that glares at you a little too hard if you encroach upon his territory in the gym. Not that I go to the gym.

He’s so stereotypically blond and blue-eyed and cornfed that I almost forget what he looks like when I glance down at the rental agreement in my lap. But then I look back up and he’s still there, a carbon copy of every jock that ever harassed me in school.

There’s no way I can move in with this guy.

“Rent’s only seven-fifty.” My mouth drops open. The apartment is in good shape and a decent size and that’s absolutely not market value. Maybe I can move in with this guy after all. “I know the landlord…”

The sentence is a complete one but it still feels like there’s something unsaid hanging off the end of it. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid, half expecting this guy to pick me up with his massive arms and chuck me into a locker.

“What, uh—“ I have to clear my throat because my voice comes out high and reedy. “What are you looking for in a roommate?”

“Someone that can’t cook or clean or pick up after themselves.”

The answer is deadpan and I snap my head up to look into that forgettable face again. Obviously, Meathead Jock is kidding (I think) but he might as well have described my actual ability to co-habitat with someone.

“I guess we wouldn’t be a good match then because none of that describes me.” My nervous laugh is less than convincing.

Meathead Jock’s eyes narrow on me and for a second the air seems to flicker around him, blue eyes fading to a cloudy white, and the world sort of tips sideways before righting itself again.

What the fuck was that?

He shoves himself up from his chair in a move that has me fighting not to flinch but he’s only holding out a big hand for me to shake.

“I’m Wade. Welcome home, roomie.”

My throat clicks as I reach out and watch my hand get engulfed in his. He’s warm and his callouses scrape over my palm and my spider sense feels like it’s on the verge of buzzing down my spine.

“Peter,” I croak. “Peter Parker.”

WADE

Jesus.

This kid is strung tighter than a fucking piano wire. Like if I play the wrong note he’ll snap. Not that he’s a kid, not really. He’s only a few years younger than me and his rental application says he works as a freelance photographer.

So I looked him up.

I’m a mercenary. It’s sort of my thing. Recon, information gathering. You know, the usual.

[Stalking. Obsession.]

{We’re not doing this right now. I have a fucking story to tell.}

[Right. The kid.]

Peter Parker. The photographer famous for catching all those action shots of Spider-man. There could have been a thousand other people willing to pay four times as much for this apartment and I’d still offer it to this kid. Guy. Man. Whatever.

Any friend of Spider-man’s is a friend of mine. Even if neither Spidey nor this Peter Parker guy knows it.

He pulls his hand out of mine and I manage to shove down the part of me that wants to fuck with him by holding his hand even tighter. I console myself with the reminder that, once he moves him, he’ll be a captive audience for my fuckery.

Petey Pie holds the signed rental agreement out to me. “Can I move in this weekend?”

“Sure thing, {Pillow Lips.} Need some help? I’m good for a little manual labor.”

I flex one bicep, glancing at it and getting momentarily startled by the smooth, white skin stretching over the muscle. The image inducer I lifted off of Spides hides my scarring and the blankness of my eyes, making me look like the kind of guy that crushes beer cans with his forehead. {Which I can actually do.} But it’s still jarring, seeing what might have been. If my cells hadn’t decided to revolt.

My new roommate’s brown eyes are fixed on my arm, brows furrowed and throat working. Still nervous. Something tells me that guys that look like me {or at least the image induced version of me} made his life a living hell when he was younger.

He probably used to be thin and gawky, nerdy if I had to guess, but he’s grown into it now and is nothing but lean, sleek muscles like a panther.

[Maybe he’ll rub up against you like a cat.]

{Well, there’s my spank bank material for tonight.}

“No. I— uh, I think I can handle it.” His eyes finally leave my bicep and dart to my face before dropping back to the tabletop. [Skittish like a kicked puppy.] “I’m stronger than I look.”

[He’s going to have to be if he plans to live with you.]

{I’ll ease him into it slowly.}

[You wouldn’t know the meaning of the word slow if it bit you on the ass.]

{Mmm. Sounds kinky. I might be into that.}

The kid has to execute some unnecessarily complicated dance to stand up from the table and get out the door without touching me or looking at me. So maaaaybe I play around with him a little just to see that nervous blush settle in under all those fucking freckles but, all in all, I’m the epitome of a non-threatening future roommate. That doesn’t keep Pistol Pete from leaving looking like a hunted dog as he finally escapes the apartment but I’ll wear him down eventually.

I always do.

Chapter Text

WADE

It’s been two weeks and it feels like ants are crawling around inside my skull. That’s more or less normal but right now it’s because of my new roommate. He’s a problem. A lot of problems. All rolled into one adorable grumpy cute grouchy pretty—

[This isn’t working.]

{No. It’s fucking not.}

Problem 1: The kid doesn’t talk. Not really. Which is fucking weird as shit because he’s supposedly “good friends” {heavy on the air quotes} with Spider-man and Spidey never shuts up. It’s honestly a little fucking irritating that he’s wasting time with someone who can’t keep up with his verbal gymnastics when I’m right here.

Other than that, he’s a fine roommate. Messy and chaotic and can’t cook to save his life but fine. I’ve had worse roommates. Once, I lived at a sealed-off crime scene with a family of possums that liked to piss on my stuff. This is not that at least.

Just kidding. It’s annoying as fuck.

{That’s problem 2 if you’re keeping track at home.}

But… it’s hard to be mad at someone that looks like you made him in the long, lean, fuckable man of your dreams store. How is it possible to have such soft, fluffy hair flopping across his forehead all the time? What is the deal with all those little constellations of freckles? Is it possible for someone to be so pretty that it makes you want to commit crimes?

And don’t even get me started on his ass.

It’s probably frowned upon to objectify your roommate to the extent that I do but baby boy is getting a hell of a deal on rent and I take care of my yearning boners before they become noticeable. Most of the time.

TBH, it feels a little bit weird to be obsessed with an ass that doesn’t belong to Spider-man. I wonder if fantastic asses have a specific gravity and just attract other fantastic asses. Like Spider-man was walking down the street one day and ran into Peter Parker and this conversation took place:

SPIDES: “Wow, you have a nice ass.”

PETEY PIE: “Yeah, so do you.”

SPIDES: “We should be best friends.”

PETEY PIE: “Totally. And fuck that guy Deadpool. We'd be a way better duo than a trio.”

SPIDES: “I never really liked that guy anyway.”

And then there’s a lot of making out with a lot of tongue.

{Who knew Webs could even do that?}

But back to the ass thing. My with great ass comes great assed friends theory doesn’t seem to hold true across all friend groups {believe me, I’ve been looking on the streets} but it’s the only thing I can think of that Spider-man and the emo ghost that slouches around my apartment have in common.

For most normal people, the degree to which I think about my roommate’s ass while jerking off and how much I want to lick him like an ice cream cone {Anywhere. Honestly.} would be problem three but I’m not normal. Not even close.

Because I am problem 3.

Namely that I’m not being a problem.

I am on my best behavior for Puppy Parker whenever he’s in the goddamn apartment. I vacuum. I dust. I sweep. I mop. I spray fucking Febreeze on the fucking couch cushions. I make dinner. I do laundry. {Okay. Yes. Some of that is self-serving but baby boy’s boxer briefs are so cute. He has a pair with rubber duckies on them. *squeal*} I’m the perfect little Stepford Wife and I can’t seem to stop myself.

I just want him to look at me. Talk to me. PAY ATTENTION to me. Man’s gone to the Spider-man School of Giving Deadpool a Fucking Complex or something.

At first, I told myself that I was just making sure he was comfortable in the apartment. I mean, I didn’t want him to leave. Not when a potential best friendship with Spidey is on the line. And the way he flinched every time I moved like he expected me to tackle him, not in a fun way, meant I tiptoed around him a little bit. I didn’t expect it to last longer than the first few days but here we are, TWO WEEKS LATER, with me standing in the kitchen like Martha Minimum Security Prison Stewart stirring risotto and waiting for tall, freckled, and flinchy to walk through the door.

{It’s honestly a fucking crime that Spidey can’t see this because I think he’d admire my restraint.}

{Also, I think he’d be impressed with the risotto.}

[It is very creamy.]

{Haha. *high hat sound*}

{Oh shit. He’s here.}

PETER

I don’t have to use spider strength to shove the door open when I get home and that never gets old. It swings open easily and soundlessly which means that Wade doesn’t hear me come in and I’m treated to the sight of him, in the kitchen, wearing a purple crop top and white booty shorts all under a frilly apron.

That part does get old.

Wade takes up so much space in the apartment with his talking and singing and frankly confusing wardrobe that sometimes I wonder if the cheap rent in the nice apartment is even worth it.

This week he has a mustache. Thick and blonde and weirdly perfect, the way mustaches look on someone like Burt Reynolds or Tom Selleck which lends to his overall late 70s/early 80s sleaze bag slash detective vibe. A vibe that’s only thrown off by the clothing.

Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve seen Wade in a crop top. Or booty shorts. Or a frilly apron. Yesterday, he swanned through the apartment in a marabou robe that somehow seemed to only highlight how broad his shoulders are.

I hate that a man in a silk and feather robe somehow makes me feel like less of one.

I don’t think that’s Wade’s intention. I just think he doesn’t care and there’s something about that that pisses me off. How can he not care? How can he look like every asshole that ever bullied me and wear sparkling pink nail polish at the same time?

The cognitive dissonance in my own home is enough to drive anyone nuts.

I don’t kick off my shoes or drop my bag, instead, I hunch down and try to sneak very quietly past the kitchen and into the hallway. It’s a game I play that’s not really a game where I try to get to my room without Wade noticing me and then try to stay there as long as I can without having to interact with him. I’m sure it’s unhealthy but there’s something about my roommate that makes my hair stand on end. Just not in any way I’ve ever experienced before.

I have to save the city tonight. I can’t be dealing with this right now.

“Pistol Pete.” Shoot. Busted. “You having dinner tonight?”

That’s the other thing.

Wade makes dinner. And breakfast. And lunch. And it’s all so good. Like drool worthy. As a broke, practically freelance photographer with vigilantism for a hobby, it would be stupid to turn down free, good food. But then I have to eat with Wade.

The indecision freezes me a few feet from the front door, my hands clenching and unclenching around the strap of my bag.

“Uh.”

Jesus. Nice work, Parker. He’s going to think… well, he’s going to think I don’t want to eat dinner with him. And I’ve experienced too many lunch money-related afternoons of bullying from jocks to do anything other than what my massive, cornfed, good ol’ boy roommate tells me to do.

“Let me just get changed,” I squeak out and then flee toward my bedroom like Thanos is on my heels.

I dive into my room glad, not for the first time, that Wade’s door is at the end of the hall rather than straight across from mine. I toss my bag on my unmade bed and navigate the mess of clothes across the floor as I look for something to change into. I have to change now because I said I was going to but I probably would have anyway.

I blame it on the crop tops.

Because I suddenly find myself dressing in more layers to counteract Wade’s lack of them. It’s weird. I’m weird. Wade has definitely noticed how weird I am, I’m sure of it. The late nights, insomnia I plan to tell him if he asks. The rattling stack of bracelets I never take off to hide my spinnerets. (A new mutation that honestly grosses me out. The fact that my body now makes some sort of webbing that I refuse to use on principle. God, I hope there aren’t stingers under there.) I itch my inner arm at the thought.

Anyway, I’ve successfully weirded out my strangely zen, linebackeresque roommate. Which is probably a new land speed record for me. But all he does is wear his crop tops and booty shorts and talk a blue streak around me. I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone who talks that much. Normally, I could keep up, especially if I channel Spider-man, but there’s something about Wade and his sharp grin that puts me on my back foot.

And that brings me back to the layers. So many layers. I’m wearing pajama pants over sweatpants and two long-sleeved shirts under an oversized hoodie. Sweat is already starting to bead up along my spine but it’s fine.

This is fine.

I’m going to go out there and look at my broad-shouldered, thick-thighed, drenched in muscles roommate while I eat whatever probably delicious thing he made for dinner and I’m going to be fine. I will sit there, silent, nodding along with his stream of consciousness and I will stare at the long gouge in the dining room table that looks like it was made by a hunting knife and I will not engage my meathead jock roommate even if he points that disarming grin my way.

Especially then.

I pause to take a deep breath before I open the door to the hallway and remind myself of something very important.

“The rent is only seven-fifty,” I repeat to myself a few times before I throw myself into the breach like the Sinister Six are waiting for me.

Chapter Text

PETER

The risotto was ridiculously good and I’m irritated. Except it’s hard to be irritated on a full stomach so I’m also irritated about that. And as soon as I’m on patrol tonight, Daredevil tracks me down about some nonsense with Deadpool and now my irritation has teeth, delicious risotto or no.

“Dead bodies?”

Daredevil nods. “A lot of them.”

“And Deadpool’s involved?”

“He’s been back in town for a few months, more or less laying low, but I’ve been expecting something like this.” Daredevil rolls his shoulders back and I don’t think I’m going to like what he’s about to say next. “There’s been… news that he’s started to pick up contracts in New York again.”

Great.

Contending with Deadpool is a nightmare for multiple reasons but the biggest reason is that sometimes the contracts he takes help superheroes and sometimes the contracts he takes screw us over. You never know which you’re going to get.

Which is a pretty good description for everything about Deadpool actually.

“So we’re supposed to… what? Go find him? Convince him to stop? Give him a slap on the wrist?” It’s my turn to frown and I run a hand over my head as I stare blankly at the ground. “We’d be better off trying to herd all the cats in the city into the harbor. You know he’s not going to care and you know he’s not going to listen.”

“He killed people,” Daredevil reminds me very sternly. Jesus, how does anyone even get to be that stern? Is it just the solid ball of Catholic guilt in his chest or what?

I sigh and nod because what else am I supposed to say? Killing people is wrong but I also really, really don’t want to deal with Deadpool’s bullshit today. Maybe I can convince Daredevil to go by himself. Why would he even need me? It’s not like Deadpool has ever tried to kill a super—

Nope. Can’t even get through that thought seriously. I’m pretty sure Deadpool has tried to kill his grandma.

“Fine,” I huff, looking back up at Daredevil. “I suppose you know where he’s at?”

Daredevil just grimaces and leads the way.

Wade’s risotto forms into a hard ball in my stomach as I follow Matt’s lead and, for a second, I wonder what tonight would have been like if I had just stayed home. I could have been lost in photography blogs by now. Or online gaming with Harry. Or maybe even behaving like a normal human being around my roommate by watching a movie or something in the living room.

Any of those things — including the one where I’m subjected to Wade’s unique sense of fashion — are preferable to what’s about to come.

Deadpool.

Ugh.

I’m going to have to bring my A-game to the verbal sparring match that will inevitably occur between me and the merc with the mouth. It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. Months, like Matt said. Which means I’ll be rusty as all get out for the word gymnastics that will be required to get any useful information out of Deadpool tonight.

But there’s a spark of excitement simmering under the hard ball of risotto and the irritation of having to hunt down the merc.

Because yes, he’s annoying as all get out but he’s fun to banter with. A truth I will take with me to the grave.

WADE

I’m mostly minding my own business, as much as I ever am anyway, when the other two-thirds of Team Red accost me in an empty warehouse.

Webs does his web thing and Daredevil sort of just stands there and holds some… sticks? Not very threatening if you ask me. Guy really needs to get himself some katanas. Or a gun or two. Ooo! Or maybe a—

[You’re tied up now.]

Shit. I am. My arms are above my head and stuck to the wall with web fluid and I’m sitting on the ground. It’s cold and uncomfortable but also vaguely erotic. The restraints, not the hard concrete floor. {Definitely filing this away for later use.} Spidey Cakes works fast and doesn’t unnecessarily yank my arms around; I take that as a sign that our friendship is progressing apace.

“Is this the beginning of a team-up?” I ask as I watch Daredevil lurk in the shadows and Spidey stare at me all judgey-like. Wonder if he’d keep doing it if he knew those squinting lenses were a massive turn-on.

Normally, I’d be all for a little city-saving threesome with these two but the restraints seem to imply that this is more of a “two red-clad heroes apprehend a disarmingly attractive mercenary” type thing. So I’m definitely not getting my hopes up for anything kinky. Pretty sure the blind lawyer despises me. Although a little hate fuck might be fun…

“No, Deadpool.”

I ignore Daredevil because, as fun as a hate fuck could be, that guy is just too much work and not enough play. That leaves—

PETER

“Websy!”

I hate that I can tell Deadpool is grinning underneath his mask. Like being tied up in an abandoned building by two superheroes is fun for him. Just a lark.

The guy is an absolute psychopath and I hate that we have to take time out of protecting the actual citizens of the city to cater to his special brand of bullshit. Also, if I’m being completely honest, the merc sends my spider sense on the fritz sometimes — probably because not even he knows if he plans to harm me at any given moment — and it makes my skin itch.

Or maybe that’s just the spinnerets. I scratch my gloved fingers over my inner arms before I catch myself and cross my arms over my chest. Stern. Be stern.

Also, also, just an extra dose for good measure, I hate the nicknames. I hate that he sounds so happy when he says them like he’s excited to see me. What the hell? No one uses a nickname for me except the red-suited mercenary in front of me and my new meathead roommate.

Gregor Mendel save me from overly friendly, muscle-bound weirdos.

“Deadpool.”

That sounded pretty stern if I do say so myself.

“Love what you’ve done with your web fluid, Spides.” Deadpool tips his head back, elongating the front of his throat, and stares at the webbing around his wrists. “So much less give than the last batch.”

My inner scientist perks up at the compliment but then I remember that I’m being stern. Channeling Daredevil. Pretending that I’m filled with inner turmoil about my superpowers.

Okay. That part’s not that hard.

“Your comfort wasn’t really at the forefront of my mind when I made it.”

“God, Websy,” Deadpool groans, mock lascivious, “I love it when you pull out the SAT words. Hit me with one of those a is to b as x is to y analogy questions.”

I can’t help it. I roll my eyes and all that cultivated sternness falls off my shoulders like a poorly-fitted jacket.

“Should I speak slowly and use small words?”

“Only if you plan to do it right in my ear.” Deadpool shifts on the floor, his chest and arm muscles bunching with the movement, as he waggles his brow at me. “The small words are some of the most fun ones. Like cock. And suck. And f—”

“Jesus,” I interrupt, the back of my neck prickling. “The inside of your mind must be an absolutely disgusting place.”

Deadpool’s mask stretches in a grin again, happy, like he’s won some point in this verbal tennis match and I look away to find Daredevil.

Awesome.

Matt is staring at me like I’m consorting with the devil. Maybe not that far from the truth but I thought we were on the same side here. Deadpool must sense the rift that Daredevil’s glare opens up because he pounces on it like a cat. Eyes finally pivoting to Matt and his whole body leaning forward in what looks like excitement.

“Oh. My. God. It’s the blind Wunderkind lawyer. I’ve heard so much about you. Can I have your autograph?” Matt doesn’t flinch but I do. How does Deadpool know Matt’s secret identity? Does he know mine? “Or, better yet, night ninja, you ever consider dating a man? I bet I’m real attractive when you can’t see all the scars.”

Matt scowls and I flush. I can feel it crawling underneath my mask. My mind is racing, looking for something to say, Spider-man always has something to say, I just had so many things to say. But my brain is frozen. Buffering. Wheel of death. Nothing inside but “Deadpool dates men!?”

I guess it’s not that surprising. His brain is malleable. His morality is malleable. It makes sense that his sexuality would be malleable, too. Except, now that he’s said it out loud, I kind of can’t think about anything else because the bulk of my brain power is very busy shoving down a deeper understanding of what Deadpool dating men means. You know, the kind of understanding with images attached.

“…around the city causing chaos.”

Matt is talking. I should definitely be paying attention. It takes more effort than it should to wrangle my brain back to where I need it to be.

“That sort of comes with the territory. Or is, like, a bonus maybe? A gold star on top of a job well done.” Deadpool shifts against the webbing holding him still and my muscles tense. He may seem like a world-class idiot but I’ve seen him get out of tighter scrapes than this one. “Hey. Can I touch your little horns? Or are they antlers? Do they fall off when it’s not mating season? Oooo! Can I keep one?”

“We found the mess you left behind after your last contract.” Daredevil doesn’t take Deadpool’s bait because he’s a better person than I am, probably. “That’s a lot of bodies in one place, even for you, Deadpool.”

“First,” Deadpool says, leaning back into the wall again, “I can handle any number of bodies you want to throw at me. Wink wink. Nudge nudge. Hummana hummana. Second, I haven’t taken any contracts yet which you should know since I know you have your little bat ears tuned to the sky at all times. Bet Webs over there can’t take a piss in New York without you knowing about it.” Daredevil scowls and Deadpool keeps going. “Third, don’t think I didn’t notice how you ignored my very important question. Do you ever think about jumping on ye olde Rainbow Express? I’d make an excellent conductor. You can even sit in my lap.”

Deadpool winks and Daredevil makes a choking sound. It looks like Deadpool might have talked enough circles around Daredevil that he's speechless now.

Is that what it looks like when he talks to me?

“Oh, right,” Deadpool hums sagely. “You’re Catholic and that’s like go straight to hell, do not pass go, do not collect hot twinks on the side.”

If possible, Matt scowls even more fiercely.

“Your name is on the contract,” Daredevil says, wisely ignoring nearly everything else that came out of Deadpool’s mouth. “And everyone is talking about the kills.”

The edges of Deadpool’s mask turn down. “Well, your intel sucks, then, lawyer boy. Contracts can be forged. Might want to get your ears cleaned.”

Halfway through Deadpool's rebuttal, there's a rattling in my brain. The only warning I get. My eyes shoot up to Deadpool’s hands but he’s already more than halfway through the webbing, the sharp silver edge of a knife glinting in the fluorescent lights of the warehouse. I aim my web shooter at him and then almost die of embarrassment as the webbing comes out of my spinneret and sticks the inside of my sleeve to my arm instead.

Matt is faster than I am because I’m frantically tugging my suit away from my forearm and scooping my fingers inside trying to pull out the organic webbing. I think I gag a little bit.

Still, I try to watch as Daredevil steps toward Deadpool with his billy clubs, swinging them at Deadpool hard enough to break the merc’s ribs. But Deadpool unsheathes a katana in one smooth motion, stepping to the side and bringing it down exactly where the arc of the billy clubs crosses.

The sound of the clubs hitting the blade echoes through the cavernous space and Daredevil grimaces, pulling the clubs back and shaking out his arms. The vibration must have been intense.

“Listen, Perry Mason,” Deadpool says, holding his hands out in front of him in the universal calm down gesture, his katana still held loosely in one fist, “I love this bloodthirsty attack mode you’ve unleashed but I already told you, I’m not your guy. Or gal. Or nonbinary pal. Not unless you’re willing to change your mind about riding the Deadpool train. Wait! Have you!? I can be the conductor or the caboose. I’m flexible. Literally and figuratively.”

Daredevil growls. An actual growl. The sound that books always say people make but I’ve never actually heard anyone make until right now. Unless you count Logan but I try not to.

I also try not to make sense of what Deadpool is saying because, if I do, I’m worried that it will paint a vivid picture in my mind that I DO NOT WANT TO SEE.

Matt’s growling stops. “Get out of here, Deadpool.”

Deadpool sheathes his katana and saunters between us, both Matt and I taking a step back to give him a wide berth. He spins on his heel once he’s passed us, putting his hand to his ear thumb and pinkie finger extended.

“Call me, Ally McBeal.”

He winks at Daredevil before his gaze swings to me, dipping to my wrist where my sleeve is still pushed up a little from the organic webbing disaster. I feel my face flame hot as I tug the sleeve down to the edge of my glove. I know most superheroes think Deadpool is little more than a bumbling clown with a gun fetish but he’s frighteningly perceptive. I just watched him fluster Daredevil so badly that Matt seems to have forgotten about the dead bodies altogether.

And now I’m unnerved by a simple glance that probably didn't mean anything.

I feel nothing but relief when Deadpool finally leaves the warehouse.

WADE

I can’t blame them, exactly, for thinking I might leave some dead bodies in a locked room {Very Clue-y.} but that’s not usually my style. [It is exactly your style.} Okay, fine. It is my style but I didn’t do it. Not this time at least. Not these particular dead bodies.

And I wasn’t lying when I said that I haven’t taken any contracts since I got back to New York. I haven’t. I wasn’t even lying by omission or tipping toeing around the truth. I have enough money and the contracts are boring and getting under the thin skin of a million superheroes is way more fun.

I’m more of a freelance menace now than a mercenary. But that’s for me to know.

I wedge my way back through my bedroom window, slipping off my boots and setting them gently on the floor before I climb in to avoid making noise. Not that I think my mouse of a roommate would come running if he heard someone breaking into my bedroom but better safe than sorry.

The array of knives laid out on the dresser alone would probably give the kid an aneurysm. Still can’t believe he’s besties with Webs, though. Except, I kind of get it. Peter is sweet as maple syrup. {A particular favorite of my staunchly Canadian palate.} The kind of sweet that brings out the flavor in everything else. A sweetness with depth. I bet Spider-man’s tart tongue is a good foil for all that thick, rich, sugary goodness.

Shit.

Now, I’m hard. Thinking about Spider-man’s tongue. And Peter’s tongue. And their tongues together. And my tongue since this is my fantasy.

As I start stripping off my uniform and start calculating how loud I can be while I jerk off without alerting Peter Sweetness Parker, I remember something Webs said earlier. In the warehouse. Right before something very interesting happened under his sleeve.

The inside of your mind must be an absolutely disgusting place.

He has no idea.

Chapter Text

WADE

[You probably shouldn’t.]

Yeah. I probably shouldn’t.

{But I really, really want to.}

I stare at the dark wood of baby boy’s door and then shove myself off the door frame and stomp to the kitchen.

“I’m going to make cookies.”

Or meth. Whatever. Anything to distract me from the desire to do what I do best and ignore my new roommate’s personal boundaries. I’m good at what I do. I could just sneak in, toss the place for secrets, put everything back where it belongs, and sneak out. Bingo bango bongo. No one would ever know.

[Bingo bango bongo?]

{Oh my god, I know. What is happening to me!?}

Thing is, I didn’t get to see my disgustingly handsome roommate this morning because he was gone by the time I wiggled my way out of Spider-man’s web restraints and crawled in through my window. Something I wish I had known ahead of time so I could’ve been much louder with my wank session.

I’m going to be honest with you, I pictured that whole “restraints in an abandoned warehouse” moment playing out a lot differently than how it actually went down. Matt Murdock was there. Yuck. {Would not kick that short king out of bed, though.} I didn’t come all over myself for two. And C, I didn’t dislocate my shoulder with my wiggling.

{Don’t judge my fantasies. Coming so hard a shoulder pops out of the socket is kind of a bucket list thing for me.}

So I didn’t get to come except at my own {very skilled} hand and I didn’t get to ply my roommate with breakfast. I had the best fucking Eggs Bennie you’ve ever seen planned, too. And now I’m antsy. Banging around in the kitchen with a mixing bowl and the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies and willing myself not to fling open the door to Petey’s room and rifle through it like it’s my job.

[Isn’t it kind of your job, though?]

{Shhh. I’m trying to be a good girl.}

My fingers are drumming on the counter and I can feel my impulse control dying a slow death so I do what I always do and sing.

Here’s the four-one-one on the singing: Sometimes, I know that something is bothering me by the fact that I’m singing at all. Like in this case, where I’m trying to use the music to distract me from the dumb decision I’m about to make. {It doesn’t always work as my track record can attest to.} And sometimes, I can tell what’s bothering me by what song comes out.

It isn’t until I’m mixing the wet ingredients into the dry ones that my brain stops whirring long enough to snag on the lyrics.

“🎶 Take the time to get to know me. If you want me, why can’t you just show me? We’re always on this roller coaster. If you want me, why can’t you get closer…🎶”

{Fuck.}

[That doesn’t bode well, does it?]

{No. It does not.}

“I have sex on the brain. So what?” I say out loud, trying to escape from whatever secrets the music inside my head is trying to impart and muscling the chocolate chips through the dough with a wooden spoon so they’re evenly distributed. “Which makes total sense because I’m living with what is easily a top-ten fantasy lay for me.”

My mind flicks back to the spank bank material from earlier this morning with all the tongues. God, tongues are amazing, aren’t they? So many interesting things can be done with tongues. Like, what if I put my tongue on my new roommate and watched his sparkly, anime eyes get even wider?

Fuck. I bet he’d flush up real pretty for me under all those freckles.

[You can’t lick a roommate that looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin every time he’s in the same room with you.]

I stop halfway to filling the cookie sheet with spoonfuls of dough.

{Eureka. I’ve got it.}

“I just have to charm him a little. Make sure he’s comfortable in the same room as me. Then…” I scoop up another spoonful of dough and shove it into my mouth while I think. It’s not like the raw eggs are going to kill me. “Then I can seduce him.”

[Think you might be missing a few steps there.]

{No.}

No, this is perfect.

I hadn’t originally planned on seducing my little shutterbug roommate out of his adorable rubber duckie boxers but it makes perfect sense.

[It makes no sense.]

It makes perfect sense because Spider-man will have to be friends with me if I’m fuck buddies with his bestie. Imagine Spidey hanging out in my apartment, verbally jousting with me while Peter is snuggled against my side on the couch, all warm and sweet.

I slide the cookie sheet into the heated oven and stand up, wiping my hands down the front of my This Girl Loves Meat apron.

This.

Plan.

Is.

Perfect.

PETER

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I ignore it. It’s Matt. I don’t need my spider sense to tell me that. He’s been texting me all day. First, to tell me that Deadpool had apparently told the truth and the contract for the dead bodies Matt was all worked up about had been forged. I’m not going to say that the information made me feel guilty, exactly, about tracking Deadpool down last night but it didn’t put me in the best mood.

Then Jameson hadn’t been interested in any of my photos from last week. And he definitely hadn’t been nice about the rejection. I managed to sell a few to lesser papers but my budget is still going to be tight this month. Even with the cheapish apartment and a roommate that seems intent on buying, and cooking, all my food.

And, on top of all of that, I’m starving because I guess I’ve started to rely on Wade to make breakfast and he wasn’t up this morning when I was getting ready to leave. I hovered outside his door and listened, non creepily, to see if he was inside but didn’t hear anything and ultimately had to give up and start my day with just a cup of coffee.

My phone vibrates again and then keeps vibrating which means I have to pull it out of my pocket and answer the CALL (who even makes phone calls anymore?) from Matt. I shift both my messenger bag and my camera bag to one side of my body and answer the phone as I start to trudge up the stairs to the apartment.

“What?”

“Did you get my texts?”

“Yes,” I bite out. “I have read receipts on. I know you can tell.”

“You didn’t respond.”

“They didn’t require a response, Matt. It was just you info-dumping all over me.”

Sometimes it’s strange to hear Spider-man coming out of my mouth when I’m trying very hard to just be Peter Parker but Matt deserves this. I like the guy but what the hell does he expect from me?

“It means we have an unidentified mercenary out there causing problems.”

Of course, he completely ignores my irritation. Like, I know he can’t see but does he have to act like he’s blind about the nuances of regular human conversation?

Not that I’m one to talk really.

“Isn’t that what mercenaries do?” I ask tiredly.

“Yes. And what we do is stop people like that.”

A soul-deep sigh leaves me as I stop in front of the door to the apartment, tuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder, and fish my keys out of my messenger bag.

“I can see why you’re a lawyer,” I mumble as I fit the key into the door. “Just… find me tonight, I guess? I’m sure you’ll have more to tell me by then.”

Matt answers but I don’t hear it because a few things happen at the same time. One, the doorknob is wrenched out of my hands. Two, I’m hit by the smell of chocolate chip cookies and my mouth starts watering. Three, Wade is standing on the other side sans mustache, wearing a grin and an apron that has what looks like a woman preparing to deep throat a hot dog and says This Girl Likes Meat. Four, he throws his massive arms out wide like he’s going to bring me in for a hug (my heart speeds up probably because I don’t like it when people touch me unexpectedly) as he shouts, “Shutterbug. You’re home!”

“Yeah.” My voice comes out quiet, stunned maybe. I’m pretty sure my brain is stuck on that apron.

Oh, and five, Matt’s voice suddenly gets a lot sharper and louder in my ear.

“Where are you, Peter? Are you okay?”

“I just got home,” I say into the phone. “I’ll talk to you later.”

I hang up before Matt can reply and stare at the man in front of me and wonder how I can get into the apartment without having to brush against him at all.

WADE

Thank Hello Kitty for this apron that is currently hiding the half-chub I’m sporting from watching my roommate eat the cookies I made and groan like he’s getting fucked in just the right place.

{Bet I could find just the right place.}

Pistol Pete looked a little harried when I yanked open the door for him but, after a series of moves more complicated than a Viennese waltz, he managed to get into the apartment without coming into contact with me and is currently sitting on a stool at the kitchen island absolutely demolishing the cookies I made.

If the way to a guy’s heart is really through his stomach, I’m halfway there. But if, as I suspect, the way to a guy’s heart is through his dick then I have a long way to go.

[Maybe you should try talking to him.]

{Right.}

Shit. What do normal people talk about?

“Who was that hasslin’ you on the phone? Your boss or somethin’?” People hate their bosses, right? Maybe this can pry some words loose from Mousy McQuietface.

“Oh, uh, no,” he mumbles around a mouthful of cookie. There’s melted chocolate at the corner of his mouth and if I think any harder about licking it off I’m going to make the transition from half-chub to full-on tent pole. This is a great apron but I’m not sure it’s up to the task of hiding that. “A… coworker. We had a project that didn’t go like we thought yesterday.”

{HE’S TALKING!!}

“Huh? A project that didn’t work out, you say?”

Listen. I know I sound like a complete idiot but I’m not above using the power of reflective listening to pull some more words out of those plush, chocolate-smeared lips.

“Yeah. We had to— ” Petey pauses and tilts his head up toward the ceiling like he’s trying to decide what to reveal. I don’t care, honestly, because his tongue is also dragging across his bottom lip and shit that’s hot. “There’s this sort of… rival in another department that we thought did something kind of questionable and we were supposed to confront him about it. It just didn’t go like we thought.”

“A rival?”

I pull a cookie off the rack and take a bite. Need a little snacky snack for this convo. Sometimes office drama is just as good as TV.

“Just some idiot I work with,” Petey Pie grumbles. {Jackpot. New personality facet unlocked.} He sounds so fucking grouchy right now and it’s a goddamn delight. Makes me want to see how much grouchier I can make him. To see how fast I can shake him out of himself. Fuck, I don’t think I’d ever be bored with this one.

“I’ve been told I’m a terrible listener,” I tell him, watching as the corner of that lush mouth twitches in amusement. {County fair blue ribbon to me.} “So if you want to unburden yourself I absolutely won’t remember what we talked about tomorrow.”

And then Peter Parker smiles. A crooked little thing that makes his eyes sparkle and my knees go weak.

[You’re screwed.]

{One can only hope.}

“He’s just…” he stops for a minute, eyes flitting toward the ceiling, a hand tugging through the wild savannah of his hair. {Urgh. I wish those were my hands.} “Infuriating. He’s infuriating. He doesn’t take anything seriously and it drives me bonkers. The other day, when I had to… reprimand him for doing something, uh, outside of his job description? He just took it. Barely defended himself. Only to find out later that he hadn’t actually done the thing. Why wouldn’t he just tell me?”

Apparently, when you pop the top it doesn’t stop because my soft, quiet, cuddly, and unreasonably pretty roommate keeps venting.

“He just doesn’t play by the rules. Anyone’s rules. Any established rules anywhere.” I push two more cookies onto Pistol Pete’s plate just in time for him to snatch one up and take a huge bite. “It makes me want to shake him. Why would anyone want to be like that?”

I know a little something about this, of course, and I’m pretty sure that I can use my vast expertise in this area to wind Petey up at the same time that I keep him talking. Win-win.

“Maybe he thinks rules are meant to be broken?”

Those soft brown, anime eyes land on my face. A cookie paused halfway from the plate to Pete’s mouth.

“Rules are rules,” he says, sounding vaguely scandalized. He also sounds vaguely like Spider-man.

Lord save me from gorgeous nerds with a saviour complex.

“Alright,” I say, reaching across the island and nudging the hand with the cookie closer to his mouth. His bracelets rattle as he finally takes a bite. It reminds me of Spider-man for a second, that weird moment with his wrist when he tried to stop me from cutting myself loose and… couldn’t? I shake the memory loose for now. {Mental note: Come back to that later.} “So rules are rules. But this guy didn’t actually break any rules, did he?”

Petey Pie snorts. {Goddamn, that’s cute.} “He didn’t break any rules this time but he definitely breaks the rules a lot of the time.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“He’s not fun. He’s a… public nuisance.”

His mouth quirks up at the pronouncement and I recognize the look. Half irritated, half bemused. I think he kind of likes this rule-breaking rival from work. And that bodes incredibly well for my plan to get into his pants and then invite Spider-man over to play Mario Kart with us while I cuddle Pete into the couch.

He reaches for his cookie plate which is currently empty except for a few crumbs and his whole body goes still when he sees it. Everything inside of him shutters like a storefront preparing for a hurricane.

“Thanks for the cookies. I’ve got stuff to do.”

I don’t say anything, mostly because he’s off the stool, gathering up his bags, and bolting for his bedroom before I can think of anything to say. I guess it will take more than one mild thaw to get through Peter Parker’s deep freeze. Good thing I’m up to the challenge.

I clean up the cookie mess and thank Bea Arthur for this mildly questionable human Petey Pie works with. Getting baby boy to open up about that is just the tip of the iceberg. Now that he’s talking, he’s talking. And now that I’m listening, he doesn’t seem as afraid of me.

Sure, he shut down pretty quickly but the point is that I broke the seal and it’s all downhill from here.

Can’t wait to suck this kid’s dick.

PETER

Ugh. He’s a good listener.

I hate that I know that.

He’s such a good listener that I forgot for at least ten minutes that he’s a minimum of two hundred pounds of pure muscle poured over a six-two frame and I’m supposed to be uncomfortable around him.

What I need to do is replace that reminder with the image currently sashaying around my head of Wade in that suggestive apron that wrapped tight around his waist and made his shoulders look even broader. Just flip "Wade is friendly" back to "Wade is scary" and get this train on the rails again.

I flop face-first onto my bed and scream into my pillow. I can’t do this right now. I can’t tiptoe around my new apartment and my new roommate and still have the energy to chase down whatever lead Daredevil thinks he has on this room full of dead bodies.

As if I manifested it with my spiraling brain, my phone buzzes and I hold it up to see a new text from Matt. Oh. And two other unread texts from him.

Dude. We just got off the phone with each other.

I stare longingly at the door wishing I had thought to bring some chocolate chip cookies into my bedroom before I roll to my back and click into the messaging app.

MATT: Are you okay?

MATT: Who was that?

MATT: Peter, answer your texts.

Wow. Slow your roll, Matt. Didn’t you hear me about the read receipts?

I don’t know why Matt cares but I do know that he’s probably going to keep alternately texting me and calling me until I answer. I know it’s a text but there’s definitely a tone there. Like he’s pushing all his sternness through the cell towers and directly into my room.

ME: it was just my new roommate

MATT: THAT was your new roommate?

See? More tone.

ME: yeah so?

I stare at the screen where I’m holding it over my face and hoping I don’t do that weirdly embarrassing thing where I drop it on my face which means that I can see the dots on Matt’s end bouncing. And bouncing. And bouncing.

It seems like an awful lot of effort just for news about my roommate.

Finally, a text comes through and it’s possibly the most anti-climactic thing I’ve ever experienced. I scratch at my inner forearm wondering what to make of it when a second text comes through that’s even more confusing.

MATT: …

MATT: Be careful, Peter.

What the hell kind of response is that?

Chapter Text

PETER

I drop to the fire escape as quietly as I can. It’s only a few buildings down from my new apartment and I had planned to go much further before stopping but my forearms are on fire.

When I yank up my sleeves, I see why. My arms, from the crook of my elbow to the inside of my wrist, are red and swollen, hot enough to the touch that they practically scald me through my gloves. And they itch like nobody’s business.

Ugh.

It’s only been three days since I last drained my spinneret glands and if there was ever a sentence to make me vomit in my mouth a little, that’s it.

I know I need to empty them again to keep anything truly disgusting from happening but I’d rather not think about them at all. Why couldn’t I have gotten a cool mutation like camouflage or something? Instead, I’m stuck with ampullate glands that swell my arms like I’m on steroids.

And, yes, I understand that if I just used the webbing that my body produces naturally, this wouldn’t be an issue. It’s just that…

Okay.

In theory, this is scientifically fascinating. I’ve looked at what the glands produce in a lab and it’s at least as good, if not better, than the web fluid I manufacture. If I started using it, I could build up the supply that the glands create and probably never run out of webbing again. Which would be super convenient.

In practice, though, watching the webbing come out of a spigot hole embedded in my flesh makes me want to barf. And forget trying to quantify how it feels to shoot webbing out of my still mostly human body.

It’s not like it’s gotten in my way, barring that moment last night with Deadpool, so I don’t see any reason to stop doing what I’m doing. I’ll just find a place to empty the glands and get back to patrolling the city.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

I have to use the linked fire escapes to make it to the ground and my forearms are actively screaming by the time my feet touch the pavement. As gross as dealing with the spinnerets is, I’d rather not find out if they’ll burst if I ignore them long enough.

The alley I’m in is dark and there’s a pair of dumpsters at the end that I can slip behind to get the job done.

Maybe someone will find a strange pile of spider webbing behind the dumpsters tomorrow but I doubt it. And even if someone does, this is still New York which means everyone just keeps their mouths shut anyway.

WADE

I almost considered staying home tonight. The city probably deserves at least one night off from my general mayhem. And I made actual progress toward Operation: Get In Peter Parker’s Pants {gawd I love alliteration} this afternoon.

I figured if I whipped up some caramel corn on the stovetop, the mouth-watering smell might lure my roommate out and I could convince him to watch a movie with me. Like a real movie, not porn.

I swear.

But halfway through my mental inventory of the pantry and a vivid recollection of the groan Petey makes when you feed his sweet tooth, I remembered.

[Mental note: Come back to that later.]

It only took ten minutes and a few tangential trips through my brain to remember what that even was. And, as much as I wanted to watch my little shutterbug while he watched a movie, my newly rekindled curiosity about Spider-man’s fucking wrists had me by the throat and wouldn’t let go.

So here we are.

Hunting the spider.

It honestly sounds way more exciting than it is because it mostly consists of me Ubering around the city and making educated guesses about where Spider-man could be based on a few pieces of {illegally obtained} data that I keep in my back pocket.

Imagine my surprise when I find him only a block away from my apartment. Makes that trip to Hell’s Kitchen to yell Down with the Daredevil from a street corner at the top of my lungs seem unnecessary in hindsight.

{Who am I kidding? Busting Matt’s chops is never unnecessary. Hope I blew out his tiny, little ear drums.}

Anyway.

Finding Spidey here, dragging his {glorious} ass down an alley like he’s been injured recently brings up some questions, for sure.

Like: Does Spides know where his bestie lives? Followed by: Holy fuck. And then: Has The Amazing Spider-man already been in my apartment?

Wait.

No.

That’s not possible because I’m always there June Cleavering for Petey Pie and I would fucking notice if Spider-man had been there. Except… I’m not there now. Do they get together at night when I’m gone!?

{*buffering*}

I think my brain just broke.

If picturing my roommate and Spider-man fucking on my Kivik sofa is the last coherent thought I have, I want you to know something.

It was absolutely worth it.

PETER

Deadpool finds me closer to my apartment than I’m comfortable with. My guard must have been down because my brain can’t stop clinging to the fact that my bedroom, and a plate of gooey, homemade chocolate chip cookies, is waiting for me less than a two-minute walk away while I try to actively ignore what’s happening with my arms.

It’s the only explanation I can think of for how he sneaks up on me with my sleeves pushed up, emptying my spinnerets into a pile of webbing on the ground.

Goddamn it.

“Why are you here?” It will look suspicious if I immediately try to hide my wrists so I decide to go on the offensive while trying to discretely tug my sleeves down. “And what are you whistling?”

The whistling is what gave him away and I nearly pissed myself when I heard it.

“Oh, hmmm?” Deadpool says, turning to me like he just happened to be walking by and is surprised that I’m here. It’s a dead-end alley so I don’t buy it even if he looks almost believable. “A song about dirty, little secrets. Surely nothing you would know anything about. Right, Webs?”

Goddamn it.

Any number of explanations for why I’m standing in front of the makings of a human-sized spider web flit through my mind. I mostly ignore Deadpool while my brain spins, making a list of everything I know or suspect in this moment.

1) Deadpool knows I have a secret.

2) He might even know what it is.

3) He’s probably smart enough to figure it out given the context clues.

4) There’s no reason for him to keep my secret.

5) In fact, his chaos demon persona would likely jump at the chance to spill Spider-man’s secrets all over the street.

6) I hate myself for not checking my surroundings soon—

“Don’t hurt yourself thinkin’ up a lie, there, Spides. I already know what I know.”

I snap back to an awareness of the alley around me, shrouded in darkness, and the stink of the dumpsters at my back.

And Deadpool.

He’s leaned back against the wall of the building next to the dumpsters, head tipped up to the sky but holding heart hands out toward me.

7) This is the absolute last thing I need right now.

“And what do you think you know?” I ask, hoping desperately that he doesn’t know anything.

“Webs.” His voice holds so many layers of mirth that he might as well be an onion. “Looks like the nickname was a little more accurate than I originally intended.”

Goddamn it.

Hope squashed.

“What do you want?” I ask, shaking out my wrist and tugging my web shooter cuff over the space between the sleeve of my suit and the bottom of my glove.

Nothing to see here. Just Spider-man acting completely casual.

“What do any of us want?” Deadpool asks, lolling his head against the wall to look at me. “Connection. Belonging. Getting railed by their roommate in a back alley.” His gaze dips to my wrists. “Organic webbing.”

My teeth grind and my brain tries to make sense of Deadpool’s words but most of them are the same frivolous trash as always. Except the last thing. The minusculely small part of me that was still holding on to the hope that he hadn’t seen anything withers up and dies.

“Isn’t there someone else you can annoy?”

He turns his full body toward me, resting his shoulder against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. His biceps bunch under the fabric of his suit and I swallow hard.

I’m not small. I know I’m not. Deadpool is maybe only two or three inches taller than me but he’s broad where I’m lean; he probably has thirty pounds of muscle on me easy, and all of that makes my mouth go dry.

Makes me nervous.

Stupid when you have the proportional strength of a spider.

“Here’s the thing, Spidey Cakes. Everyone else isn’t hiding a blackmail-worthy secret from their Superhero Justice Squad friends. Only you. And those.” He juts his chin toward my wrists.

“So what? You’re going to blackmail me?”

Deadpool straightens up and uncrosses his arms, clapping his hands down on my shoulders and squeezing. How did he even get that close?

He doesn’t squeeze hard like I’m expecting, just a firm but gentle pressure. His hands are oddly warm, probably a side effect of the increased metabolism that his healing factor must require.

“I’m not not going to blackmail you.” His hands drop off my shoulders, one of them reaching out to grab my wrist. He lifts it and pushes up my sleeve with his other hand, the gloved tips of his fingers running along the inside of my wrist and spreading a tingle up my arm. “I think maybe I’ll keep this secret,” he unlatches my web shooter cuff and peels it off my wrist, “tucked away in one of my pouches.”

Deadpool matches words to action when he stuffs the web shooter he just stole off my arm into one of the pouches at his waist. My breathing is strange and I feel lightheaded as I stare at Deadpool, trying to wrap my brain around what’s happening.

“And now that I know you don’t even need your web shooters, I don’t feel so bad for helping myself to one.”

He winks at me and it’s like a shock to my system. I suck in a ragged breath and flex my hands into fists.

“I didn’t think you even had feelings, Deadpool.”

“Common misconception.” His eyes drag down my body and I can feel it like a physical thing. “I don’t suppose you’d let me liberate you from that other web shooter, eh?”

Before I can answer, he’s reaching out for it, using the same gentle grab on my other wrist and I can feel myself anticipating the drag of his fingertips down the inside of my arm.

What happens next happens suddenly but also in slow motion. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as Deadpool slides his hand toward my web shooter, then the hairs on my arm follow suit. A shiver runs down my spine as I watch Deadpool unclasp my webbing cuff and then…

Well, then it happens.

Deadpool jumps back and the web shooter clatters to the ground between us.

“Holy shit, baby boy, what the fuck was that?”

There have been a lot of times in my life when I’ve been so embarrassed that I’d hoped the ground would open up and swallow me. This is worse than all of those other times. Combined.

Because I’m pretty sure I just pushed a stinger out of my wrist and toward Deadpool.

I yank my arm back and put it behind me, pressing the inside of my wrist against my lower back and praying that this is just an awful, awful, awful, horrific dream.

I knew there were stingers. I saw them on the internal imaging I took weeks ago and I just pretended they weren’t there. Because you know what’s grosser than spider silk shooting out of holes in your wrist? A whole-ass stinger sliding out of a separate orifice on your arm.

My arm.

Ugh. I’m gonna puke.

WADE

Ho-lee shit.

I’d bet my left nut that Spider-man just tried to fucking stab me with something sharp and pointy that came out of his fucking wrist. {I know my testicle would grow back. That’s not the point. The point is that I am very sure that Spider-man has not only developed organic webbing but a GODDAMN STINGER.}

[Do spiders even have stingers?]

{This spider does.}

After the sheer body horror of the moment wears off, which honestly doesn’t take long because I’ve literally been torn in half before, I feel myself having a reaction. The wrong reaction I’m sure, but it’s a reaction I can’t help because that was—

“So. Fucking. Cool.” I step closer to Spidey again and snatch up his arm, gripping it just below his elbow. “Do it again.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Webs sniffs in my direction while trying to pull his arm away. He’s not trying hard, though, because he’s definitely stronger than me and I still manage to maintain my grip on him.

[Is it supposed to feel like that?]

{No. It’s hot as shit, isn’t it? Probably hid it so long things got infected. Or near enough.}

I reach out with my other hand and poke his inner forearm about halfway between his wrist and where I’m holding his arm still.

“What a proper English lady you are, Websy. But I’m not and I want to see that stinger.” I poke him again and he tries to slap my arm away with his other hand. The move is slow and sluggish. {Definitely swollen at the very least.} Another thought occurs to me while I’m avoiding Spidey’s attempt to swat me away. “Oh my god! Do you have venom!? Pleeeeeeease, tell me you have venom.”

His jaw bunches under his mask and his lenses narrow at me. {Again. Such a turn-on.} Then he mumbles something and fails to tug his arm out of my grasp again.

“You’re gonna have to speak up. I’m no Matt Murdock.”

I rub the pad of my thumb across the crook of his elbow and watch the muscle in his jaw twitch as a sound of irritation grinds out.

Never a dull moment with this one.

“I said,” Webs snaps, “that I don’t know if it has venom because I haven’t tested it.”

I pull him closer with my hand on his arm until my mouth is nearly in his ear. {Christ, he smells good. Like cookies or some shit.}

“Lemme be your guinea pig, Spides.” I lean back, dragging my grip down the back of his arm until my fingers are wrapped loosely around his wrist, and shove my own sleeve up exposing the gnarled, warped, scarred skin underneath. “Sting me. Let’s see what these babies can do.”

At this point, you might be congratulating me because I haven’t said anything even remotely crass about the stinger. I didn’t even laugh when I told Webs to sting me. But that’s because my brain is moving faster than my mouth and I am chockfull of lewd images of stingers and hard dicks and all the fun places you can shove those things.

So, no, I haven’t grown up. [Of course, you haven’t.] There’s just a bottleneck between all my mildly to majorly perverse ideas and my talk box.

And I really do want Spider-man to sting me which I’m worried he won’t do if I turn this into Deadpool’s special brand of foreplay.

God.

Can you imagine being the first person to get stung with those things?

I could live off that moment for the rest of my life.

{I’ll leave how I might do that up to your imagination.}

[Jesus. They’re as perverted as you are.]

{I know. So proud of you kids. *heart eyes*}

“Are you even listening?”

I blink back to the alley and the very attractive hybrid human in front of me only to realize that Webs has successfully yanked his arm out of my hand and is holding them behind his back again. If he knew the way that pushed out his chest and put his spandex-covered junk on display, I wonder if he’d keep it up.

{Oh, I bet he can keep it up.}

“How many head traumas have you suffered today?”

I tip my head to the side and do a quick calculation. “Three.”

“Right.” A huff of what sounds like laughter comes from Webs. “I’m not going to sting you. I’m not going to sting anyone.”

“Never say never, Webster. You going to the DMV anytime soon? That’s enough to test anyone.”

He doesn’t respond, just stoops to pick up the web shooter I dropped when I found out the second wrist-based secret that Spider-man has been keeping.

“Besides,” I say because I never know when to stop talking. It’s my most charming feature. “I think you’re going to have to sting someone otherwise you’re going to die of forearm blue balls.”

Spider-man straightens up and looks at me, the twitch of his lenses and the shape of his mask don't give any clues as to what he’s thinking.

“You can’t die from blue balls.”

“Well, you’re right. I can’t die from blue balls.” I glance back at his inner arm, remembering how hot it was {temperature-wise, not sexy-wise, although he definitely has nice arms} even through my gloves. “You sure you don’t want me to help you drain them.”

{There’s that bottleneck again.}

This time the movement of his mask is clearly a grimace and I have to suppress my smirk. It’s almost too easy, sometimes.

“I’m sure I can figure something out.” There’s a thoughtful pause and then, “My roommate’s a regular mother hen, I’m sure he has some sort of essential oil, naturopathic remedy swimming around in his brain.”

I stop listening after the word roommate because my jaw clenches so tight it somehow closes my ears.

Spider-man has a roommate.

A male roommate.

Who takes care of him.

Why have I never heard this before?

Why are all the lean, attractive men in my life so fucking closed off to me?

Christ.

This situation calls for the big guns.

Maximum effort.

Maximum irritation.

“Well… when you prematurely ejaculate your stinger into your perfect roommate, don’t call me to help you hide the body.”

PETER

So.

Irritating.

And the worst part is that Deadpool is kind of… Ugh. It hurts to even think it but Deadpool is right. I don’t know what my stinger does. And there’s a non-zero chance that it actually releases a venom that, if I lost control of it, could do anything from paralyze Wade to outright kill him.

I try to squash the weirdly domestic fantasy I was having of Wade clanging around in the kitchen, making me soup and tea and switching out bags of frozen peas on my arm to help the swelling come down.

I bet he’d even make more cookies.

But instead, I’m stuck here in an alley with Deadpool.

Thanks. I hate it.

“At least, my roommate wouldn’t be asking me to stab him like a goddamn psychopath.” My brain returns to my domestic fantasy for a moment and some of it seeps out of my mouth. “He’d probably have some sort of cold compress prepared already because he actually cares about people.”

“Sounds like a real saint, Websy…” Deadpool definitely isn't done and I brace myself for what's coming next. “Do I detect a hint of a man crush?”

His hands go to the sides of his face and his eyes get wide. A mock shocked face.

What a dick.

But when his words finally register, my face flames hot. Thank god for superhero masks otherwise, Deadpool would know that what I’m about to say is probably a lie.

Oh god. IS it a lie? Do I have a crush on my meathead jock roommate?

No.

Nope.

No way.

“My roommate’s a nice guy. It’s not a man crush. It’s a nice, normal person recognizing another nice, normal person. You wouldn’t get it.”

“You calling yourself normal, Spides?”

“I am normal.”

“Huh.”

That small noise sets my teeth on edge. There’s more to whatever Deadpool wants to say than that, I know it. There’s always more.

“Forget it,” I snap. “It’s not like you would even know what it’s like to share living space with someone that isn’t covered in fur and eating garbage.”

“Not all of us can have Mr. Mom as our roommate. Some of us have something much better.”

I huff-snort, I can’t help it. He has a roommate? Yeah, right.

“Is that why you’re following me around? Because you have such an excellent roommate?”

“Just letting off some steam. And sating my curiosity about your wristicles.” His eyes narrow at me and I brace for an insult but, instead, something almost serious comes out. “I’m trying to impress my roommate so the home front isn’t exactly a safe space right now.”

“You? Trying to impress someone? What does that even look like?”

Deadpool’s mask tugs down in a frown. Or maybe a pout. “I can be impressive.”

I roll my eyes. “Why would anyone move in with you anyway?”

I don’t know whether I believe him or this is just some elaborate story he’s telling me because… well, who knows the reason? It’s just difficult to imagine Deadpool living somewhere normal where he could even have a roommate. Under a bridge? Definitely. In an apartment? Not so much.

“I’m an excellent roommate.”

I picture what I imagine is Deadpool’s apartment, strewn with garbage and half-eaten pizza and weapons crusted in blood. There’s no way a normal human person moved into that. I can’t see it. No matter how hard I squint my lenses at him.

He shifts under my narrow-lensed glare and clears his throat.

“You keep looking at me like that, Webs, and we’re going to have a big problem on our hands.” He smirks and his eyes sparkle like he’s made a joke that I’m not in on. “And I’ll have you know, Mr. Lean, Lithe, and Loathing, that I’m a regular fifties housewife. You wish you lived with someone like me.”

“I absolutely do not.” I scowl and try not to give away the fact that Deadpool has accurately described my new roommate. Is he following me home? Does he know my identity!? “Since I imagine that living with you is just a step above living in a dumpster, tell me… how low do someone’s standards have to be to move in with you?”

“Why? You thinkin’ about lowering your standards there, web slinger?” Wade winks at me and I almost choke on it like it’s something tangible.

“I’d live with a staph infection before I’d live with you.”

“I’m equally hard to get rid of, baby boy.” Then he winks at me again and I roll my eyes so hard they fall out of my head.

“Exponentially more unpleasant, though.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Spides.”

A third wink.

God. That should be illegal.

It’s so… corny.

I realize that this strange conversational gambit has taken us away from any talk of my organic webbing or what is possibly my new venom-coated stingers and I can’t regret the tangent. So, while I may be curious about whether Deadpool lives under an overpass or in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park, I’m not going to keep going around about this in case it takes us back to what he saw me doing in the alley thirty minutes ago.

I’m wracking my brain for a way to extract myself from whatever this is when Deadpool does it for me.

“I know you got your whole great responsibility thing going on so I’ll leave you to it.” Deadpool saunters back toward the mouth of the alley that will spill him out onto the street. “But don’t be a stranger, Webster.”

“There’s no one stranger than you, Deadpool.”

He turns left out of the alley without looking back and I wonder if he even heard me.

Matt never does come to find me while I’m out on patrol which is honestly a blessing in disguise. I don’t want to rehash anything that happened with Deadpool and I don’t want anyone else getting wind of my vomit-inducing new mutation.

After the pain in my forearms settles down and I’m able to climb back to the rooftops, patrol is quiet for the rest of the night. I don’t know if I can handle any more after the… whatever that was with Deadpool. He knows a secret about me, something I’d like to have it stay a secret, and there's no way of keeping The Merc with the Mouth from opening his.

I ruminate about it while I watch over the city and am shaky with nerves when I finally give up the ghost at 3 am.

It isn't until I'm back at the apartment, peeling off my suit in my room, that something else occurs to me. Not quite as concerning as Deadpool knowing my secret but not ideal either.

He still has one of my web shooters.

Crap.

Chapter Text

PETER

Wade is already up when I drag myself out of bed and toward the kitchen. Of course, he’s a morning person.

Gross.

His back is to me as I wander toward the open plan living room slash kitchen area. He’s wearing a hoodie and a pair of joggers which makes me exhale in relief. I’m not sure if I can handle innuendo-laden aprons or crop tops this morning.

Last night was… a lot

My fingers massage the inside of my forearm, pressing hard enough that I can feel the barb of my stinger under the skin as I try to forget exactly who holds my deepest, darkest secret in their hands.

I stop at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall to watch Wade. He’s oddly graceful for such a big guy but I guess maybe that’s a jock thing. His hood is pulled up over the back of his head so I can’t see his short blond hair or his strong profile, just hear the murmuring cadence of his voice as he half sings, half hums while working at the stove.

“🎶Let’s get friendship right, get life day to day, in the forget yer skates dream…🎶

It’s not a song I know but I feel like I’ve been hearing Wade’s voice forever. Like I could stand here and listen to the resonant sound roll over the unknown lyrics for the rest of the day. The song is slow and a little haunting and kind of fits my mood, to be honest.

“🎶In a face so full of meaning as to almost make it glow, hm hm hm hmhmhm…🎶”

Wade reaches up into the cabinet for something, a move that tugs up the hem of his sweatshirt, revealing a strip of skin above his waistband. My eyes latch onto it without my permission and a tingling buzz on the verge of being spider sense vibrates through my brain.

“🎶Go somewhere we’re needed, find somewhere to grow…🎶”

Wade’s switch from humming back to words snaps me out of my fugue. What the hell am I doing? Lurking in the hallway like a creep. Seems like something Deadpool would do.

I put the lid on that thought immediately. I don’t want to think about last night. Not Deadpool. Not any of it. I’m operating on barely five hours of sleep and letting my mind linger over the fact that I almost stabbed someone with a possibly venomous stinger that shot out of my arm is too much right now.

Way too much.

I step out of the hallway and take a deep breath. Nothing to see here. Just Peter Parker being a totally normal human being.

The apartment smells like cinnamon rolls and bacon and coffee. My stomach growls loudly as I approach the island that separates the kitchen from the living room and that’s what finally gives my presence away to Wade.

“Shutterbug!” He turns to look over his shoulder and I can see the white of his teeth as he grins at me. “Good morning!”

“Good morning, W—”

My voice trails off because all the saliva in my mouth dries up. Wade has just turned around to face me fully. His hood is pulled over his head, casting his face in shadow which increases the spider sense adjacent vibrations in my head but that’s not what cuts me off.

I’ve seen Wade in a hoodie before but this morning’s hoodie isn’t zipped and Wade isn’t wearing anything underneath. The red joggers ride low on his stomach, just below the line where his abs meet his hips and form a V downward. His abs are on display but so are his pecs and his collarbones and his neck and… oh my god.

Am I hyperventilating over my shirtless male roommate!?

I swipe the sleeve of my own hoodie under my mouth because I think I might actually be drooling.

Who looks like that!?

My eyes drag over Wade’s exposed torso, drinking him in, and my brain serves up a fantasy of running my hands over the thick muscles of his chest or using the tips of my fingers to trace the hills and valleys of his abs.

I clench my fists and have to unclench them just as quickly because I think some webbing almost came out.

No.

Nonononononono.

This can’t be happening.

I am absolutely not attracted to my roommate. It’s only because I’ve been so busy with Spider-manning and work and keeping myself afloat in this ridiculously expensive city. I just haven’t been dating like I should be, haven’t even been jerking off really, and I’m starved for… something.

Or, no. It’s that Wade has the type of body I wish I had. That’s all this is. Just plain old appreciation and envy. Definitely not anything that is causing heat to pool in my lower belly.

I know I’m blushing and I try desperately to look somewhere else, anywhere else, in the apartment but pulling my gaze from Wade’s chest requires strength I’m not sure I have right now.

No one should be so tested on only five hours of shitty sleep.

I can practically hear Deadpool smirking. Do I detect a hint of a man crush? Argh. This is all his fault. He planted this idea in my head. He’s the reason I’m drooling over my shirtless meathead jock roommate at seven in the morning and I think I might have to kill him for it.

I swear to god that if Deadpool somehow ruins this cheap-ass flatshare for me, with his mouth that never shuts up and his dumb swords and his stupid banter, testing my stingers on him will be just the beginning of my retribution.

Shit.

I play the last thought back through in my head.

Am I starting to sound like him?

WADE

Baby boy looks wrecked.

Like he got run over by a train. Repeatedly.

Or is patient zero for the zombie apocalypse.

{I’m pretty sure I can’t turn into a zombie although I’ve heard there’s a comic out there that says otherwise. I’d rather not find out if I’m being honest, but if my little shutterbug roommate wants to bite me, I’m not going to say no.}

There are dark circles under Petey’s big, brown eyes and his hair is sticking up around his head like a cloud. He’s wearing pajama pants covered in DNA strands and a hoodie that’s two sizes too big and says “Oxygen and Potassium went on a date. It went OK.” with the O and K in periodic table boxes.

What a fucking nerd.

I love it.

[Get that kid some coffee.]

Right.

He’s sort of just frozen there, halfway between the hallway and the island, his face blank like he’s rebooting. I guess not everyone is born with the same constant, low-grade whirring in their head that I have. Some people need caffeine to jumpstart. Poor saps.

I grab a mug from the hooks above the coffeemaker and pour a cup for Pete before pushing it across the island.

“You look like you need some coffee, roomie.”

He swipes a baggy sleeve along the bottom of his mouth again, {That mouth. *drool*} then jerks like he’s been electrocuted, blinks, and steps forward.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He curls both hands around the mug and brings it to his mouth, not taking a drink, just watching me over the rim. “Uh. Good morning?”

It is a fucking good morning. I’ve got adorable little Petey Pie settling on a stool across the island from me while I plate him up some breakfast goodness. And I’m still riding high from last night’s encounter with Spider-man. He has organic webbing. And stingers! And I’m the only other person that knows about it.

We’re practically best friends now.

[That doesn’t make you best friends.]

{We’re connected by a secret! Isn’t that all best friendship really is?}

[That’s not friendship. That’s the beginning of an Agatha Christie novel.]

“You ever read And Then There Were None?”

Pistol Pete squints at me, his cheeks bulging with cinnamon roll and his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “Whuf?”

{That means “what?” in talking-with-your-mouth-full-ese. Something I’m realizing my roomie is quite fluent in.}

“Nevermind.” I wave him away realizing that he wasn’t in on the conversation I was having in my head. “How’s work treatin’ ya?”

His brows furrow as he grabs a piece of bacon off his plate. “Work?”

“Yeah. You know,” I want him to talk to me so bad and this is the only thing that he opened up about before so, “the place you go to earn money every day? With your rival or whatever?”

“Oh.” He swallows and then his whole face scrunches up adorably. I think he’s… angry? Indignant? Whatever it is, it’s fucking delightful. “Oh. Yeah.”

The tone of his voice has changed and it’s telling me that I should buckle in for another venting session.

{Sign me up.}

“He snuck up on me while I was working on something… classified. Now he knows something he’s not supposed to and I’ll be the one that gets screwed over if he can’t keep his mouth shut.”

Oh shit. This is going to be good. I might have to hunt this rival down and buy him a drink.

I settle my hips back against the counter and grab a cinnamon roll for myself. I wish I had popcorn but this will have to do.

“What makes you think he won’t keep his mouth shut?”

Pistol Pete scowls at me, obviously forgetting that he’s normally nervous or scared or whatever in my presence. I cross one arm over my chest and rest my other elbow on top of it to take a bite out of the cinnamon roll in my hand. Petey’s dark gaze drops to my chest for just a second before snapping back down to his plate.

{Did you see that?}

Silence.

{Did you fucking see that?}

[Yes. Jesus. Calm down.]

I don’t know what it means that Pete glanced at my bare chest but I know what I want it to mean and my dick is already running with that fantasy. Probably should have worn a cup under these joggers because I’m about five seconds away from popping wood you can see from space.

Something tells me Petey Pie might not approve.

“…never stops.”

“Uh, what?” I step up to the side of the island opposite Pete to hide my near hard-on and try to remember what we were talking about.

The rival. Right.

“I said that I’m pretty sure he couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. He’s always talking. He never stops.”

No wonder my quiet mouse of a roommate hates this guy. Probably can’t get a word in edgewise.

“Won’t he get in trouble if he knows something he’s not supposed to know?”

“Things like that don’t matter to him.” Petey frowns. “He’s the kind of person that will turn knowing this secret into some kind of windfall for himself.”

I try to remember what Pete said last time about this guy. Doesn’t play by anyone’s rules. As much as I can respect that intellectually, I have to hate him on principle if he’s giving my sweetie Petey a hard time.

“Maybe there’s something you could give him? You know, to encourage him to stay quiet?”

Some people might say that’s blackmail but I say it’s just good business sense.

Pete’s eyes fix on me, brow furrowed like he’s puzzling something out.

“Yeah…” he says slowly, taking a sip of coffee. “That actually… that sounds exactly like something that might work.”

He takes another drink as his eyes drop from mine and land on his forearm where it’s resting across the counter. His brows furrow again and he’s scowling when he puts the coffee mug down.

“What kind of thing would you offer?”

{Oh my god. He’s asking me for advice!}

[Whatever you do, don’t tell him what you actually think.]

{Too late.}

“There’s got to be something he wants, right? Offer him that in exchange for his silence.”

Is this conversation veering a little too close to the danger zone? Probably. But sweet, little Peter Parker isn’t going to be able to figure out that I’m a mercenary from it. He probably doesn’t even know merc for money is a viable career path.

Right?

I mean, I haven’t even suggested killing the problem to make it go away yet.

{Oh! Maybe I could offer to kill this guy for him.}

[That is the absolute last thing you should do.]

“Something he wants…” Petey echoes, eyes going to his forearm again before they lift to me with a genuine puppy dog look in them. “How do I know he’ll keep his end of the bargain after he gets what he wants?”

Oh, yeah. I guess you don’t just trust the guy that steals your secrets.

[Do you want to have a lightbulb moment right now?]

{No, I do not want to have a lightbulb moment right now.}

In fact, I so desperately don’t want to be self-aware at this point in time that I latch onto the first distraction I can find: my roommate with the appetite of three teenage boys in a trench coat and the still half-full pan of cinnamon rolls sitting on the stove.

PETER

Wade deposits another cinnamon roll onto my plate and, in an attempt to stop staring at his bare chest, I look at his face instead. His hoodie is huge and throws most of his face in shadow but I notice that his mouth is screwed up in thought.

For just a second, while I’m watching, something flickers over his jaw, changing the smooth skin to something darker and more textured. When I blink, it’s gone and I wonder if I’m losing my mind.

Maybe that’s why I’m talking to Wade about Deadpool. Making up some office drama so I can tell my nice, normal roommate about the mercenary that’s marching across my anxiety like it’s a minefield and he doesn’t care who gets blown up.

But Wade’s a good listener. And it helped the last time I talked to him. He seems to be a pretty decent devil’s advocate when it comes to Deadpool.

Normally, that would be a red flag but Wade is just so nice that I doubt he has anything more in common with a killer for hire than his broad shoulders and the ability to think flexibly.

“I take it you don’t trust this guy?” He asks. Because, of course, someone like Wade would assume you can just trust everyone.

“No,” I mumble around another mouthful of cinnamon roll. “He’s completely untrustworthy. I’d be surprised if he hasn’t blabbed the classified information all over New York by now.”

“Hmmm…” Wade reaches up to scratch at his head and I definitely do not look at the interesting things that does to his chest or biceps. I grab my mug with both hands and chug the rest of the coffee inside. “You could offer him something that has to be done more than once. It’ll seem like a sweet deal to him because, outwardly, he’s getting the most out of it. But what you’re really doing, in the background, is keeping him close. He can’t run his mouth to anyone if he’s with you all the time, right?”

That’s… actually that’s brilliant.

It would require me to spend far more time with Deadpool than I’d like but Wade is right: if he’s with me, then I can ensure he doesn’t tell anyone.

And…

I look down at my forearm again. If he’s serious about helping me test out my stingers, then I can use my spinnerets around someone that I already know won’t be grossed out by them.

I can’t believe that person is Deadpool.

I wonder if I should feel embarrassed.

“Yeah.” I nod like a bobblehead as Wade leans across the counter, giving me a whole new view of his body, and refills my mug with coffee. “That could work. You sure you’re not secretly an evil mastermind?”

Wade laughs as he leans away again, warm and rough, “I didn’t say I wasn’t a mastermind, Shutterbug.”

He twists to slide the carafe back into the coffeemaker and his hoodie falls open further, the light carving along the muscles of his torso and a part of me is suddenly very interested. More interested than I’ve been in anything in a long time.

Physically interested.

Oh god.

I shove the stool away from me and grip the hem of my oversized hoodie in white-knuckled fists, keeping it tugged down over my suddenly hard cock. Please, please, please don’t let Wade notice. This combination of horniness and embarrassment can’t be good for my health and I’d just as soon not pile more on.

“Thanks for breakfast. I’m going to go and, um… I have to…” My fingers flex around the fabric bunched in my hands and I know I’m lit up like a Christmas tree, my pale skin bright pink under my freckles. Shit. I need to get out of here. “WORK! I have to go get ready for work!”

There is no way that declaration came across as anything other than weird but I don’t linger to see the fallout. I’ve turned and am practically sprinting back down the hallway to my room.

“Hey, Petey Pie, hold up a sec.”

One of my hands is gripping the doorknob to my room hard enough that I worry it might collapse under my hand. I see Wade step to the end of the hallway out of the corner of my eye and I very much don’t want to notice how big his thighs are but I do anyway.

“Yeah,” I squeak, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to will my incredibly inconvenient erection away.

“I’m heading out to the grocery store. Is there anything you want? Requests for dinner?”

Dinner?

How can I think about dinner right now!?

“No. Nope. Nah.” Shut up, Peter. “I’m good. Totally good. I have everything I need. Don’t need anything else. I’m super good.”

Then I lunge through my door and slam it behind me, leaning my back against it and engaging the lock while I try to catch my breath.

What the hell was that?

Even with anxiety pouring through my system, my cock is still achingly hard, rubbing against the fabric of my boxers in a way that makes me want to whimper.

What is wrong with me?

Maybe between the spinnerets and the move and the stingers and goddamn Deadpool, I broke somehow. Like stress has made…

What, Peter?

Stress has made your dick hard?

Nice try.

I mean, fine. Okay. So maybe I’m not quite as straight as I always thought. Wade obviously does it for me, the fact that he’s a meathead jock notwithstanding. And honestly, believing that I’m a little bit bi is easier to swallow than the fact that I can shoot stingers out of my arms.

And if I’m being completely honest with myself…

Just like with the stingers, I think I knew my attraction to men was there; I just chose to ignore it. It’s easier, isn’t it? Even if the world is supposed to be accepting, it’s more accepting if you’re heterosexual. So I just… was. Am. I am.

Except now I can’t stop noticing the shape of my roommate’s body or the sound of his voice or the curve of his smile.

My brain keeps swinging from I’m one hundred percent straight to I might be bi like a pendulum on fast forward. And the whole time my dick begs for attention.

It’s been so long since I’ve even thought about my dick that I’m starting not to care why it’s hard and just thinking about what to do with it now that it is hard.

I have lube in my bedside table.

Wade is at the grocery store.

Fuck it.

I don’t even bother yanking my hoodie off before crawling onto the bed, stopping just long enough to snag the bottle of lube out of the drawer. I drop it next to me on the mattress as I flop onto my back, my fingers flexing at my sides, wondering if I really want to do this.

It’s been so long since I’ve jerked off and even longer since I’ve come from it. But I am absolutely not going to think about those few weeks when I was so bent out of shape by my emerging spinnerets that I couldn’t even get fully hard.

What I am going to think about is something nice and normal.

Porn I’ve watched in the past.

The best sex I’ve ever had.

The memory of how it feels to be with someone else, to be touched, to fuck.

That pulls a soft groan out of me and I tug up the hem of my hoodie, exposing my stomach, and shove my pants and boxer briefs down, tucking the waistbands just behind my balls.

Shit. Even that feels incredible.

I snap open the lube and pour some into my hand, tossing the bottle aside before reaching down and slicking up my cock. My hips push into my touch and I squeeze tight, pumping my hand up and down, twisting around the head, using the pad of my thumb to rub against the sensitive spot there.

This isn’t going to take long. I don’t even need to picture anything, I can just focus on how it feels.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my body chasing the heat that pools in my cock and the pleasure that zings through my veins. One hand keeps working frantically over my dick, settling into the rhythm that is guaranteed to make me come the fastest. I shove the other hand up under my hoodie to pinch and tug at my nipples until I’m whining.

I don’t think I’m that loud but the blood is roaring through my ears and my breaths are harsh and what does it matter anyway? Wade is at the grocery store.

And, with that single thought, now he’s in my head.

I imagine us in the kitchen like we were this morning except the island isn’t between us anymore. Wade is on my side, right in front of me, standing between my spread legs, looming over me, looking down at me. He’s still wearing the red joggers that hug his thick thighs and the black hoodie open over his bare chest. The hood is still up over his head, shadowing his face, but I can see the line of his jaw and the length of this neck and the breadth of his shoulders and—

Fuck.

Wade.

He’s so goddamn hot.

A groan bursts out of me as my whole body arches off the bed, everything seizing tight and releasing. My brain expands into static and then collapses into a pinpoint. Something hot and wet splashes across my skin, soaking my hips and stomach and thighs and forearms. My body flops to the bed, boneless and panting. Holy… wow. It’s been a long time since I’ve come like that. I feel light and sated. I feel so good.

I lift my non-cum-soaked hand to swipe at my hair which has fallen into my eyes and I luxuriate in the stretch of my suddenly loose muscles as I move.

I feel so, so good.

As I shove my hair out of the way, something wispy and slightly sticky trails across my cheek. Damn. Did I just smear cum across my face anyway?

I push up onto my elbows and tilt my head to look down at my forearm.

Remember all those fuzzy, warm, delightful, cum drunk feelings I was just having?

Yeah. They’re gone now. Because coating my forearms and lashed across my bed, and still partially attached to my wrists, are strands of webbing.

Organic webbing.

I think I’m going to throw up.

WADE

I really was going grocery shopping.

I just forgot… something?

{No, I can’t currently remember what.}

I forgot something and I had to come back for it, of course, and then that sweet tooth groan of Petey’s came through his door and what did you expect me to do? Just ignore it!?

Listen. I know it’s creepy to have your ear pressed to your roommate’s door while they jerk off on the other side but I have impulse control issues. And I really only stood there for two minutes tops.

[You say that like two minutes isn’t an extraordinarily long time given the circumstances.]

{Whoa. Let’s just calm down with the accusations.}

I wasn’t going to stand there. I really wasn’t, but then I… just… couldn’t… walk away. It sounded so sexy. He sounded so sexy. And we’ve already established that I’m not a saint so I think this is really par for the course here. Right?

Plus, I was already at half-mast from the way he was {in hindsight very obviously} eye fucking me in the kitchen.

[There’s no guarantee he’s jerking off to you.]

{Let me have this one thing. Please.}

But then I heard my name and now I’m in my own room, face down on my memory foam mattress covered in high thread count sheets, jerking off like masturbation is contagious.

Maybe I didn’t hear my name, maybe that was wishful thinking. But if we’re going to do some holodeck-type fantasizing, I’m running with it.

Imagining that Petey really had said my name. That I hadn’t imagined it. That, if I pressed closer to him, he wouldn’t push me away and I could swallow my name from his mouth as he moaned it.

I want you to know that, normally, I have a ton of stamina. With my healing factor, ya boy can go all night if needed. {And it is. Occasionally.} But the fantasy in my head of my little shutterbug’s body molded to mine is enough to have me biting into my pillow and moving my hips faster, harder, working my cock through the sleeve of my hand in a way that has my eyes rolling back in my head.

And then the fantasy shifts and it’s Spider-man under me, not Peter, his legs squeezing tight at my hips. Then it’s Peter again, that delicious groan of his filling my brain.

Fuck.

I pant into my pillow with my eyes squeezed shut as my brain switches between my sweet, gorgeous roommate and the tart-tongued superhero I like to annoy. I’m making a mess of the sheets, I can feel them growing damp underneath me and I try not to worry about the inevitable walk of shame when I have to drag my cum-stained fitted sheet to the washing machine later.

Then my brain ascends to a higher plane or something because Imaginary Petey and Imaginary Webs morph into one person underneath me, his body wrapped around mine and his mouth next to my ear, my name on his lips.

Lemme tell you a secret from someone that dies on the reg. The brain flare of death is kind of like the way everything fuzzes white when I come but that’s about it. The release of orgasm is a thousand times preferable to death.

Even when it’s a bad one. {Is there such a thing?}

Even when it’s coming into my own hand to the fantasy of some odd, mish-mash Peter/Spider-man.

I should probably actually do the grocery shopping but I don’t bother to get up. I’m too blissed out. My limbs are like warm jelly and I’m still catching my breath. The feeling of my cum drying on my stomach isn’t even enough to make me move.

That was so good. Weird definitely. Like out of the ordinary weird, even for me. But also fantastic.

Maybe I’ll take a nap now.

I can always do the grocery shopping later…

Chapter Text

PETER

I don’t actually have to work today so I have plenty of time to clean up… everything. I manage not to throw up while I do it but it’s a near thing.

The problem is that now I have a wad of sheets soaked in cum and webbing balled up next to my door and a very vivid fantasy of Wade looming over me that threatens to hijack my dick again. And that’s not even the worst problem because I’m also stuck in my room. I cannot just tromp out into our shared apartment space with my soiled linens under one arm and act like everything is normal.

Oh, God.

What if Wade is wearing a crop top again? Or short shorts? What if he took his hoodie off and is just standing shirtless in the kitchen?

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish the image of what Wade’s back must look like naked, and swallow the whimper that wants to sneak out. It’s so so so inconvenient to find my roommate hot. He’s a meathead jock. I’m sure he’s straight as an arrow. I’m still trying to convince myself that I’m straight as an arrow despite recent evidence to the contrary. If Wade knew that I had been jerking off to him, he’d punch me hard enough to spin my head around.

The front door of the apartment opens and I realize that I’ve been standing here catastrophizing long enough that Wade is back from the grocery store. He was at the grocery store! I could have gone out and stuffed my sheets into the washing machine without him seeing. I could have escaped the apartment and stayed gone until this all blew over. I could have changed my name and moved to Minneapolis.

I thump my forehead against my door. What is wrong with me? Is my brain broken? Is Wade hot enough to break my brain?

Yes.

Obviously.

I can hear Wade as he unpacks the groceries, cabinets opening and closing as he sings.

“🎶…and I know we got places to go, we got people to see, think we both ought to put ‘em on hold and I know you agree.🎶”

I recognize the song but I’m not really hearing the lyrics. I’m listening to Wade’s voice; it's soothing and I hate that his voice filtering through the door is somehow turning down my anxiety.

Once my brain gets back to a low simmer, I take a deep breath and look at the facts. Facts have never failed me.

(That’s a total lie but I need something to hold on to right now.)

First, I came.

Second, I was thinking about Wade while I did it.

Third, I kind of want to do it again.

Third, I lost control of my organic webbing when I came.

A memory of last night, of Deadpool’s voice, interrupts my list-making.

…when you prematurely ejaculate your stinger into your perfect roommate…

The fact that Deadpool landed so close to the truth makes my skin crawl. There’s no way he could have known that this would happen, right? There’s no way he could have guessed that I’d be peeling webbing out of my sheets after an orgasm. Right!?

I didn’t even guess and I’ve been studying the webbing and the spigots and the internal anatomy of my arm since the mutation started.

How does that asshole always know?

Or is he just firing shots at random and hoping one hits?

The implications of either of those things are frankly terrifying.

“Petey Pie, you in there?”

I jump at the sound of Wade’s voice on the other side of the door. Barely managing not to shriek like a damsel in distress.

“Yeah.”

Shit.

I shouldn’t have said anything. I told him I was going to work. I could have just hidden in here all day and—

“I’m gonna make some lunch. Want some?” From the kitchen? The place where my fantasy happened? Oof. I’m pretty sure I can never use the kitchen again. Just to be safe. “Even if you don’t want to eat, you could at least come keep your incredibly handsome and debonair roommate company. It’s not like I’m not giving you a killer deal on rent or anything.”

Ugh.

He’s right. So right.

His logic is flawless and annoying and reminds me of… No. Nope. That asshole can get right out of my head.

“The blackmail was super subtle,” I say through the door, surprised by how acerbic the comment is. Usually, Spider-man stays behind the mask unless I feel really comfortable with someone. Oh God. Am I that comfortable with Wade? How? Focus. “So I guess I’ll be out in a sec.”

“I knew you’d see it my way, Shutterbug.”

Wade’s voice is right on the other side of the door from my ear, low and raspy and feels like it’s sliding over my skin, lifting goosebumps everywhere it goes. My dick likes it but my brain is freaking out.

WADE

My roommate is freaking out.

I can practically hear the gears spinning in his head. I bet there’s fucking smoke coming out of his ears.

[Try to enjoy it a little less.]

I won’t, though, because I have been on my best behavior since Petey Pie moved in. I’ve been sweet and nice and lovely and friendly and cajoling and I’m pretty sure that if I keep going down this path I might legitimately turn into a healthy, sane, normal person.

Ew.

No, thank you.

Baby boy is bent enough to groan my name as he comes so I think that clears the way for me to be a little less domestic housewife and a little more feral housewife. Shutterbug likes something about me enough to fantasize. Might as well give him the full Deadpool Experience.

I’m piling the ingredients for chicken pesto paninis on the counter when I look down and see twisted, red scar tissue snaking across the back of my hand. Fuck. The image inducer has been on the fritz more and more recently. Since I stole it liberated it without anyone’s knowledge, I don’t actually know any of the specs on it. I just know that the more time I want to spend around Pete, the longer it has to work without failing and I worry the tech might be close to burning out.

[This is what you get for stealing it. You have no idea how it works. You don’t even know where Spider-man got it from.]

{Shush. I don’t have time for this I-told-you-so business.}

Even if they’re right. I will never say so on pain of death. A man has to keep some convictions.

Shoving my hand into my pocket, I tap frantically at the small disc inside. My back is to the hallway and my hood is up, covering any bare skin that Pete might be able to see from the back. As I thump the top of the disc, I watch the photostatic veil flicker over my skin, fuzzing in and out like a glitching computer.

[What if it stops working?]

{How bad could it be, really?}

Except I know how bad it could be.

People don’t respond well to someone covered in scar tissue. People don’t jerk off to someone covered in scar tissue. I probably shouldn’t have relied on the image inducer at all when I first met Pete, should have just let him see me for what I am, but I just…

[You might as well say it.]

{Alright, fine.}

I just wanted to be pretty again. I wanted to look like someone that people wanted to look at. My image-induced face is a little bland and boring but at least it’s normal.

I know I just said I didn’t want to be normal but I want to look normal. What’s so wrong with that?

“Wade?” Pete’s voice behind me has me squeezing the disc in my pocket tight enough that it almost cracks. The veil over my hand smoothes out and it looks like real skin again. “Can I move your sheets to the dryer?”

{Well, if there’s anything to make me forget my sad, ugly face, it’s the idea of Petey Pie moving my (until recently) cum-soaked sheets to the dryer.}

{Erectionville: Population ME.}

“If you think you can manage. I haven’t seen you do much laundry since you moved in. Do you even know how to work those things?”

“Haha,” Petey Pie grouses. “Very funny.”

There’s some banging around behind me as I heat the pan and assemble the sandwiches. Then Pete’s voice comes from much closer. Right behind me. Sitting at the island. The skin along the back of my neck and my spine tingles like the hair there is standing on end.

{Except for, you know, the fact that I don’t have hair. The feeling still exists though.}

I glance over my shoulder to catch him staring at my… thighs? So not fair. My layover in Erectionville just got longer. {And harder. HA.} Might have to move in.

“You like paninis, Pistol Pete?”

“Y—yeah.” His eyes snap up to my face. “I’m surprised you haven’t noticed that I eat almost anything.”

Believe me, I noticed.

I grab all the salad fixings and turn to put them on the island. If Shutterbug is going to sit there and keep me company, I might as well give him a show.

“Is there anything you don’t like?” I start rough chopping the tomato, keeping my head down. “Aside from that jackass you hate from work, I mean.”

“My friends would tell you I don’t like a lot of things.”

“Yeah?”

A huff of laughter escapes him as I use the knife to slide the chopped tomatoes into a bowl and start on the cucumber.

“Yeah. I’m kind of a… Well, my best friend calls me Oscar the Grouch.”

I glance up but my knife keeps going. “I can see that.”

He glances up, too, and I wink at him. Pink blooms across his face, a perfect backdrop for all those fucking freckles, and I have to drop my head again to keep him from seeing my delighted grin.

“Wow.” Subject change incoming. “You’re really good with a knife.”

“Thanks,” I push the cucumber into the bowl next. “You should see me throw one.”

[Maybe don’t hint at your extralegal tendencies while you’re flirting with him, idiot.]

I look up again, expecting to see shock (if he thinks it’s true) or amusement (if he thinks I’m joking) but instead, his dark brows are bunched together.

“Can you really?”

I turn back to the pan and the sandwiches so I don’t have to think about how bright and curious and clever those fucking gorgeous brown eyes are. How it feels to have them fixed on me. How they would look at me if the image inducer breaks.

[Buzzkill.]

“It’s something I picked up in the military.” I shrug knowing the gesture will be easy for him to pick up with my back to him. “Bet you didn’t know you were rooming with an ex-member of the Canadian Special Forces.”

“Canadian…”

It’s not a question, just a word that trails off like it’s reminded him of something.

I finish making the sandwiches and the salad in silence before sliding a plate across the island to Shutterbug. There’s an empty stool next to him that I could take or I could stay here, on this side, and give him his space. I drum my fingers on the countertop as I consider my options.

[Who are you kidding?]

Who am I kidding?

I head around the island to the stool and don’t bother wondering if it’s a good idea or not. Impulsive decisions are my jam. Introspection? Not so much.

PETER

Lunch is amazing.

I inhale half of my chicken pesto panini and all of the tomato-cucumber salad before I come up for air. Partially because, as I said, lunch is amazing and partially because I’m trying to ignore Wade sitting right next to me. But that’s easier said than done. I can feel the heat coming off of him and, occasionally, our arms will brush while I’m shoveling food into my face.

“Ever worry you’re gonna choke?”

I glance to the side and see Wade taking normal-sized bites of his sandwich. “I like food.” The fact that I say it around a mouthful is probably too emphatic of a punctuation mark on the statement.

“Maybe you should learn to unhinge your jaw like a snake.” I choke as I think about what else I could fit in my mouth if I could unhinge my jaw. Don’t look at his dick, don’t look at his dick, don’t look at his dick. “Could be fun.”

The tone in his voice tells me that he’s thinking the same thing I am even if he doesn’t know I’m thinking it. Holy crap. Is my uber-muscled roommate not as straight as I thought?

And how do you even ask someone that question?

The answer is that I do not ask people that question and I’m not about to start now.

“Where’d you learn how to cook?” Peter Parker, everybody. Expert subject changer.

“Here and there.” Wade shrugs and his shoulder brushes mine. “Not a lot of people are interested in taking care of a guy like me so I had to learn how to take care of myself.”

A guy like him?

A meathead with an insanely attractive body?

An ex-military man?

Someone who’s not straight?

(Please, stop thinking about that.)

“So you became a domestic goddess? You didn’t pop out of the womb that way?”

(Oh my god. SHUT UP.)

I flinch in my seat because this is where Wade finally dunks my head in the toilet or beats the shit out of me. I just called him a domestic goddess. What the hell is wrong with me? Seeing him almost shirtless really did break my brain.

“Look at you,” he says warmly. “The puppy’s got a little bite with his bark, huh?”

He leans into me, purposefully nudging his shoulder against mine like we’re sharing in the joke, just two guys hanging out. Two friends having lunch together. Not like he’s going to steal my lunch money because I’m the nerd with the ill-fitting pants and the huge, black-framed glasses.

“Did you just call me a puppy?”

I can see his smile out of the corner of my eye as he lifts his sandwich to his mouth. “Can you blame me?” He asks before taking a bite.

I grit my teeth. Normally, I don't let anyone rile me up like this. What is wrong with me today? I need to get things back on an even keel.

“Look,” I set down my fork and turn to face him slightly. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I shouldn’t have said anything. Or what I should have said is that the food you make is delicious and thank you for cooking so often.”

There. That’s normal and not at all weird. He’ll accept my apology and the odd tension hanging in the air will go away.

Definitely.

That’s going to happen right about—

“I kind of like it.” He turns to smirk at me and my face heats up. “The snark, I mean. Reminds me of a friend of mine. A… co-worker. Or… our paths cross occasionally but he’s got a mouth on him and that’s half the fun.”

My mind dives back into the gutter at the phrase he’s got a mouth on him and something hot and sharp churns in my stomach.

Oh no.

Am I wondering what that almost co-worker does to Wade with his mouth?

Do I want to do things to Wade with my mouth?

Am I jealous of Wade’s sometimes friend?

“He, uh, he’s sarcastic? And you… like that?”

Wade huffs. “Actually, he’s a little bit mean. And I love it.”

Weird.

Weird and… hot?

Like I could say whatever asshole thing pops into my brain and Wade would… like it? Like me?

Maybe I should test out my hypothesis.

“That’s really messed up.”

A full, rich laugh bursts out of Wade and he bumps me with his elbow. “Now you know my secret, Shutterbug. I’m really messed up. You done?”

I realize that he’s pointing at my plate and nod a bit numbly. Does he really think he’s messed up? Sure, he talks a lot but he’s fun to talk to, even when I’m not entirely sure if I can hold up my end of the conversation. He’s a stellar housemate and he seems to genuinely like taking care of the apartment. And, by extension, me.

He can’t be that messed up. Can he?

Wade has gathered the plates and moved back to the other side of the island while my brain has been whirring over his revelation. Trying to slot this new puzzle piece against the other ones.

Messed up.

Canadian.

Good with a knife.

Likes to run his mouth.

Built a little like a brick shithouse.

Something is there, right on the edge of my subconscious, but it all evaporates in a puff of steam when Wade leans across the island toward me.

He reaches over and hooks a finger through the beads around one wrist, the back of his finger brushing against the back of my arm. He lifts my hand up by the bracelets and I watch him rub two beads between this finger and thumb.

“I’ve been meaning to ask… What look are you going for here, Shutterbug? Nerd goth? Punk dork? Hippie Dweeb?”

I snatch my arm back and shake the bracelets back down my wrist, making sure they lay over the webbing spigot (barf) and stinger flap (hurl).

It’s the only reminder I need that whatever this is between Wade and me, if it’s anything at all, can’t go anywhere. I shoot webbing out of my wrists when I come for godssake. That’s not exactly something you can explain away.

“It’s, um,” I stutter awkwardly as I shove myself off the stool, backing away from Wade and toward the hallway. “It’s just a look. Chicks dig bracelets.”

Chicks dig bracelets?

CRINGE.

Wade cocks his head at me like a lion watching a gazelle and I can feel my heart rate kick up in my chest. But nothing happens, he just smirks as he eyes me. I am not disappointed.

“Do they?”

“Yeah, definitely.” I half-stammer. “So, uh, don’t wait up.”

And then I disappear down the hallway and into my room like the awkwardness might crush me if I stay in one place.

I flop onto my bare mattress and groan into the pillow top. What was that!? I was finally in a room with Wade without panicking and I ruined it because I couldn’t keep my goddamn dick under control and because he asked me about my bracelets.

Of course, he asked me! Not a lot of guys wear stacks of bracelets like they just time-traveled here from the nineteen eighties.

I can’t go back out there.

I’ll have to sleep on my bare mattress.

I can layer some of the clothes on the floor over it or sneak out into the living room at 3 am to rescue my sheets from the washer. Or maybe I’ll just never see those sheets again and I have to give them up for lost.

While I’m considering the merits of just up and moving to Saskatchewan without any advanced notice to Wade, I hear my phone vibrate on my bedside table.

Saving me from myself.

Because Saskatchewan is obviously a terrible idea. Wade is Canadian. He could easily track me down. I ignore the heat pooling in my belly at the thought of Wade tracking me down.

Er, I mostly ignore it. After my brain gets in a few parting shots like: What do you think he would do after he caught you? and When he catches me, will he be grinning like he was in the kitchen today?

Okay. Now I’m definitely done.

I reach blindly for my phone and roll onto my side so I can read whatever notifications are there.

Texts.

From Matt.

Well, that kills my nascent boner at least.

MATT: I have some more information on that unknown mercenary.

MATT: Can we meet tonight during patrol?

Right. No matter what’s going on with Peter Parker and his unruly dick during the day, I still need to show up as Spider-man every night.

ME: sure

ME: time n place?

I glance around my room while I wait for Matt to respond. I can definitely hang out in here organizing and editing photos until it’s time to suit up tonight. I don’t have to see Wade. I don’t have to think about Wade. That’s probably what’s best for everyone.

Just as I’ve convinced myself of that, there’s a knock on my door.

Crap. If I don’t open it, that will seem weird.

He probably already thinks I’m tragically uncool, though, so what does it matter if I don’t answer?

On the other hand, he made me lunch and I can’t just treat him like an ass after that. After he told me that no one takes care of someone like him.

So… maybe I can’t take care of him but I can definitely open the door and treat him like a human being, right?

I groan into the pillow top again before shoving myself off the bed and walking to the door, opening it just a crack.

Smart.

The bisexuality can’t get you if you don’t open the door all the way.

Wade manages to look at me through that crack in the door like he can see everything I’m thinking. I swallow hard.

“Yeah?”

“I thought you might need some clean sheets.” He holds up a bundle of dark blue fabric and I lunge at it like it’s a lifeline.

“Yeah. Yes. Definitely. Thank you.” I gather all the fabric up in my hands, arms wrapped around the bundle like I’m hugging a barrel and Wade cocks his head at me again. That same predatory look from the kitchen. Everything inside me goes hot and liquid. "Is there something else?"

“I’m glad you ate lunch with me today, Petey Pie. You’re fun to play with.”

Then he reaches up and boops me on the nose before turning down the hall and disappearing into his own room.

I close my door and collapse back against it, trying to pretend that I don’t need to catch my breath after that. Trying to convince myself that the nose boop was irritating and condescending, not strangely erotic. Trying to will my half-chub back down.

My phone vibrates again and I blow out a big breath, glad for the distraction. I need to stop thinking about Wade. I’m straight. I’m a superhero. I definitely cannot be developing a crush on my roommate.

I ignore the voice in my head that insists it’s more than a crush and kind of sounds like Deadpool. That, at least, manages to calm my dick. A little.

I toss the bundle of sheets into the middle of the empty mattress and scoop up my phone. Matt, as usual, has already planned everything out.

MATT: Mather Metal at 11 pm.

MATT: It should be safe but use stealth when you approach.

MATT: And leave your boyfriend at home.

I reread the last text no fewer than ten times before I start to believe that it says what I think it says.

Leave my boyfriend at home?

What the hell does that mean?

Chapter Text

WADE

I’m good at a lot of things. Cooking. Knife play, both seductive and threatening. Sharp shooting. Knitting. Swordplay, both seductive and threatening. Filling awkward silences. Flirting with Spider-man.

Turns out I’m not great at woodworking, though.

A truth that only comes out after I’ve sawed three legs off the dining room table and am sitting in a pile of dead furniture parts and sawdust. In my defense, it didn’t look like building a butter churn would be that hard.

Stupid YouTubers making everything look as easy as regrowing a hand.

{Oh! That’s another thing I’m good at.}

I’ve already had to scrap the homemade butter plan anyway because that would require far more contact with cows than I’d like. I know you’re thinking, “But Wade, you can just buy raw milk at a farm stand somewhere,” and yes, okay, fine, but really even that is too much cow contact for me.

Fucking cows.

It’s dark out by the time I refocus enough to clean up the kitchen and set aside the pieces of table that I’ll use to build my chicken coop tomorrow. Because fuck fresh butter. Fresh eggs are where it’s at.

I can’t wait to tell Petey so I’m still covered in sawdust, tracking it down the hallway even, when I knock on his bedroom door.

{Normally I wouldn’t. Probably. But when I get excited about something I just need to tell someone about it.}

“Shutterbug!” I shout at the door. “I had a brilliant idea. How do you feel about omelettes?”

It occurs to me, after far too much knocking, that my roommate is out for the night.

[Probably getting fucked six ways to Sunday by a guy that wears suits and has a real job.]

I tip my head, rubbing my shoulder against my ear, my brain spinning almost faster than I can grab the thoughts. The need to tell someone about the chicken coop and the future fresh egg empire I’m about to lord over is bubbling under my skin. And, if Petey Pie isn’t here…

I bet you can guess who else came to mind.

Which is how I find myself swinging over the streets of New York with my very own [stolen] web shooter, glancing down at the cracked screen of my cell phone and scrolling through live video feeds from the city’s CCTV cameras.

{It’s not technically illegal.}

The cameras are more of a security blanket than anything anyway. I can usually guess, to within a five-block radius, where Spider-man is going to be at any given time. Sort of my own internal spidey sense but located closer to my dick than my brain.

[Totally not creepy in any way.]

{Shhh.}

He’s exactly where I thought he would be which means I’m batting a thousand this month when it comes to finding him. I wonder what he would think about that. I wonder what he would think about how good I am with his web shooter. {I haven’t fallen once tonight!}

Oh! And I wonder what he would think about a chicken coop.

He’ll probably hate it and have all sorts of mean things to say about it.

I can’t fucking wait.

PETER

I’m peering down at the street below me, biding my time until I have to go meet Matt when Deadpool literally drops out of the sky next to me. It isn’t until I see him wrestling with something attached to his arm that I realize he used my stolen web shooter to get up here.

What an ass.

“Leave,” I say, returning my focus to the street below.

I have literally just regained my equilibrium from that wildly embarrassing moment where I told Wade that chicks dig bracelets with a straight face and I don’t need Deadpool spinning me back up. What I do need is some quiet. No surprises. I just need to get through tonight and then tomorrow and then the rest of my life without ever looking Wade in the eye again.

Easy.

“I missed you, too, Spideykins.”

Deadpool makes a kissy sound from slightly behind me and I imagine how freeing it would be to pick him up and throw him off the building. It’s a real shame that he can’t actually die.

“Leave,” I repeat, needing to put more effort into ignoring the merc than I would like. “Some of us are working.”

I feel more than see him step up next to me, his shoulder brushing against mine, heat pumping off him like a furnace as he peers down at the street below.

“Bold of you to call this work.”

I can’t keep my exasperated sigh in. I straighten up and take a step back, turning toward Deadpool and crossing my arms over my chest.

“Let’s get this over with.” He looks up at me and his brow scrunches under his mask. “Do whatever annoying thing you’re going to do and I’ll get comically angry and then you can leave me alone for the rest of the night.”

Deadpool considers me, his gaze sweeping over my face and then down my body before coming back to my eyes. I don’t know how I can tell without the dead giveaway of a pupil and iris but I can tell, I can feel it, and I hate it.

“Those are a lot of assumptions you’re operating under there, Websy. Maybe I’m just lonely. Maybe I need a friend. Ever consider that?”

I scowl. “We are not friends.”

“I don’t know,” he drawls, leaning back against the barrier wall surrounding the edge of the roof, all loose-limbed relaxation. “Seems like the kind of meaningful conversation friends would have.”

“I feel sorry for your friends, then.”

“You’re so mean, Spidey Cakes,” he pouts theatrically. It makes me think of Wade for some reason.

He’s a little bit mean. And I love it.

I shake my head to dispel the comparison. Wade and Deadpool are nothing alike. I enjoy spending time with Wade for one.

“What are you doing here?”

I know I shouldn’t ask but I do anyway. I don’t want to encourage him but also Aunt May would tear me a new one if she knew how I talked to Deadpool sometimes.

Even though he definitely deserves it.

“Oooo!” Deadpool claps his hands together once before standing up and walking toward me. “Are you finally opening up to me?”

“No.” I grit out. “I’m hoping you’ll get bored and leave.”

“No chance,” he scoffs. “Now what is something friends talk about?”

His emphasis on the word friends makes my hair stand on end.

“I know! Let me tell you about my roomie, Spides.” Deadpool has gotten close enough that he manages to drop an arm around my shoulders, heavy and hot. I immediately wiggle away. Do not want. “He’s cute as a button and kind of quiet and has the softest fluffiest hair and he’s so goddamn sweet it’ll rot your teeth and—“

I’m already over this. Really, really over this. And if I don’t want to investigate why I’m suddenly soooo over this, that’s my prerogative.

“Is your roommate actually just a puppy?” I bite out.

Deadpool freezes and then nods. “Yeah. Kinda. You just want to scoop him up and cuddle him.”

What is it with jacked men and puppies?

He mimes lifting something off the ground and holding it tight to his chest which makes his biceps bulge and—

Shit. Jerking off to Wade has definitely broken me if I’m noticing Deadpool’s arms. Or his chest. Or his thighs. Or—

NO. Stop it.

I blame these obscenely tight uniforms.

“About the other night,” I blurt out as Deadpool pretends to nuzzle the imaginary puppy he has in his arms and my stomach sizzles. “I need you to keep your mouth shut about it. I don’t want anyone to know.”

His head shoots up and his arms drop back to his side. “Pretty sure someone already does know.” He gestures at himself with both thumbs and winks at me.

I want to dig his eye out.

I take a deep, calming breath and remember Wade’s advice. Offer him something. Keep him close. It’s good advice even if it makes me want to dig my own eyes out.

Is spending more time with Deadpool worth his silence?

Is letting him see the truth of my mutation worth keeping my secret?

I take another deep breath and plunge over the edge of the cliff one hundred percent sure that I’m going to splat against the rocks at the bottom.

“What if I stung you? Would you keep your mouth shut?”

WADE

I’ve forgotten about the chicken coop. It’s just a thing that happens. Something is really, really important until it isn’t anymore. And suddenly nothing is more important than this deal Spider-man’s trying to negotiate with me.

“I imagine that, if you sting me, the stinger will keep my mouth shut.” I drop my eyes to his wrists and my heart speeds up. Fuck, this is exciting. “Right?”

Spidey sighs and fidgets, crossing and uncrossing his arms over his chest. I see the moment he comes to a decision because he straightens up and puffs his chest out like one of those animals that fluffs their fur to make themselves seem bigger.

[Like a puppy, perhaps?]

I shake my head clear and refocus. Whatever Spider-man is about to say, I don’t want to miss it.

“I can’t say with any certainty what the stinger will do to you.” Oh no. He’s taken on that collegiate professor tone. My dick perks up. “There might not be any venom at all.”

Hmmmm. There’s something he’s not saying. What would I be after if I were in his spider booties…?

“You want to sting me more than once!?”

He flinches at my shout and lets out an irritated huff.

“It would be best to collect multiple points of data, yes?”

Yes. Speak nerdy to me, you prickly little superhero.

For a second {or a minute, who can really tell?} my whole thought process derails and I picture Petey Pie in a Spider-man suit, then vividly relive my most recent masturbation fantasy, then picture the two of them making out again, then both of them making out with me until there’s only one mouth pressed to mine.

I really need to get laid {or at least break out my box of super secret sex toys} because I’ve never had my libido take me away from Spider-man before.

“…listening?”

“I’m always listening.” I was not listening. “You need to sting me more than once. On a schedule probably. Because you’re going to turn this into something scientific. Not sexy.”

“It’s not sexy,” he insists, indignant.

Not for him maybe.

“I’m proud of you, Spidey Cakes,” I say as my brain rolls over the reality of what he’s proposing.

{You hear that!? Spider-man just propositioned me. Mark a fucking calendar.}

“I know I’m going to regret asking…” His lenses narrow and hnnngh its so hot. “But what are you proud of me for.”

“Using one of the oldest tricks in the book. Ye olde pretend I’m giving you what you want but really I’m just finding an excuse to keep you close so you don’t spill the information you have on me gambit. The name is a mouthful. We’re workshopping it.”

“I’m not— That’s not—”

He sputters adorably and I tilt my head at him. These brainiacs always dig their own graves.

“Fine,” he finally admits. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Will you help me or not?”

“Oh, Websy, all you had to do was ask.” I go in for a hug and he immediately rebuffs me. I’ll wear him down, though. Eventually. “I’d love to hang out with you.”

“We are not hanging out.”

“Kind of sounds like we are.”

“We are not.”

“Should I bring the snacks or…?”

He groans and runs a hand over his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds none too complimentary.

Rude.

I love it.

“I take it Man Crush McGee wasn’t interested in helping you?”

He lifts his head to look at me again {Yes, please. Keep looking at me.} and releases an honest-to-god growl.

“I didn’t ask,” he says through what sounds like gritted teeth.

Interesting. Maybe there’s trouble in paradise. My brain serves up an unasked-for scenario in which I have problems with my own roommate and I’m flooded with sympathy for Spidey. Obviously, his stupid roommate isn’t anywhere as great as my adorkable roommate but still…

I offer him the one condolence I can think of.

“Want to sting me right now?”

“Yes, but,” the lower half of his mask twists in a scowl, “I have a meeting with Daredevil across town I have to get to.”

I watch Spidey cringe as my grin grows under my mask.

“Team Red reunion here we come!”

PETER

I’m in a mood for multiple reasons by the time I land behind the warehouses of Mather Metal.

One, Deadpool cannot take a hint and has followed me the entire way.

Two, he’s better with the web shooter after one night than I was in two weeks of frequent practice.

Three, the whole place is empty and I get the feeling Matt just dragged us both to a dead end.

Four, did I mention that Deadpool followed me?

I land quietly in front of several stacks of shipping containers and Deadpool lands just as quietly behind me. (Argh. How is he so good at this already!?) The security lights around the rest of the buildings don’t shine back here but there’s enough ambient light to see Daredevil stepping out from behind one of the stacks.

Against my will, I check him out.

It’s something that I’ve been reluctantly doing since I realized I might be attracted to Wade. Matt is in good shape and that red suit with the silly little horns shows off the breadth of his shoulders and a pretty decent ass, if I remember correctly, but he’s no Wade.

I’m still trying to pretend like these are very normal thoughts to be having about my male, meathead roommate. Or a male, crime-fighting lawyer.

Matt’s head tilts as he walks toward me and I watch as his mouth pulls down in a frown.

“I thought I told you to leave him at home.”

I glance behind me, confused. When did he tell me that? And how did Matt know that Deadpool would try to follow me here? 

“I, uh—”

“Lucifer!” Deadpool strides past me, his steps crunching over the gravel underfoot. “I was hoping you’d be here. I’m thinking of selling my soul. What do think I could get for it?”

Daredevil turns his head to Deadpool for a moment before dismissing him and turning back to me.

Wow.

Ouch.

“I was supposed to be meeting a contact here at ten. Someone that had some information about that unknown merc.”

“Baby doll,” Deadpool interrupts, sidling closer to us. “If you’re looking for a merc, look no further. I’ll even give you the friends and family discount.”

Daredevil’s head tilts slightly again before returning to center and continuing like Deadpool never spoke.

How is he so good at that?

“My contact is a few stacks back.” He gestures behind himself. “Just not in any position to talk.”

Oh, shit.

“You think the unknown merc did it?”

Yeah, Deadpool might get inside my brain and scramble up my thoughts but I can usually follow a basic line of reasoning.

“It’s very likely,” Daredevil agrees.

“Hey. Hi, superheroes.” Deadpool shuffles even closer and waves at us awkwardly. “Friendly neighborhood merc here. Maybe you want a professional opinion?”

Matt finally turns his head all the way to Deadpool and I half hope he tells him to get lost and half hope he lets him tag along to what I’m sure is a dead body.

I don’t do well around dead bodies, that’s a lot of buried trauma I’m not interested in excavating, and the bigger buffer I have between me and it the better. If Deadpool is good for anything, it’s as a distraction.

“Fine,” Matt says through a clenched jaw. I don’t think he’s happy about his acquiescence but probably recognizes that an actual mercenary might be able to see things that are invisible to the superhero eye. “This way.”

Daredevil strides off a bit stiffly and Deadpool looks back at me with wide eyes then winks before hustling after him.

Should have pushed him off that building.

Deadpool is crouched over the body by the time I finally drag my feet around the corner of the shipping containers. With the way they're positioned, Deadpool’s wide shoulders more or less hide the whole scene from me.

I release the breath I’ve been holding since Matt mentioned a dead body.

“Wanna know what I think?” Deadpool asks, poking a black-gloved finger at what I think is a shoulder.

“No,” Daredevil says, standing off to the side with his arms crossed. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me anyway.”

Deadpool stands and turns to lean his shoulders back against one of the shipping containers and I dart my eyes to the sky. I can’t see any stars because of the light pollution but vast, unknowing blackness is better than having to look at a dead body.

I swallow hard and try to focus on what Deadpool is telling Daredevil.

“…that means you’re dealing with someone with several years experience and a lot of connections.”

Matt sounds reluctantly interested in Deadpool’s intel. “So who does that narrow it down to?”

Deadpool shrugs. “I’d look for someone in one of the merc guilds, probably a higher up, somebody with clout. But I’m not a genius superhero lawyer so what the fuck do I know?”

Matt’s reluctant interest turns into a growl. Gravel crunches as he turns away from Deadpool without a word and walks over to me, I can hear him coming and half see him in the bottom part of my vision which I am trying desperately not to use.

His grip on my arm leads me around the corner and I take a full breath for the first time in several minutes.

“You can’t keep bringing him even if he happened to be useful this time.”

I blink at Matt’s intense stare. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that he can’t actually see me because it feels like he can see through me.

“I guess I’m flattered that you think I have any control over what Deadpool does but he followed me here.”

“Peter,” Matt rasps, leaning in closer as his scowl deepens. “I’m not going to tell you what to do in your civilian life but—”

A heavy arm drapes across my shoulder and the matching one lands over Daredevil.

“Come on now. We’re all friends here. No secrets between friends.”

Both Matt and I shrug him off simultaneously. Matt snarls and turns his face toward me again.

“I’ll do some more research and get back to you. We’re obviously not just dealing with an isolated incident now.” His head flicks toward Deadpool and his jaw tightens. “Don’t bring him again.”

And then he’s gone, walking away from me like everything he just said wasn’t cryptic as hell. What was he going to say about my civilian life?

“Should we go for ice cream or what?”

Right. Deadpool.

“Do you try to antagonize him or is it just a happy accident?”

Deadpool’s mask twitches like he’s smirking and I remind myself that I absolutely cannot web him to the side of a shipping container and leave him there.

So instead, I head back towards the warehouses and Deadpool falls into step beside me. He’s whistling a tune as we walk, one that tugs at the edges of my memory and wakes up my spider sense.

I try to ignore him but then he’s singing. Low and quiet but the words reach me easily.

“🎶… getting you alone isn’t easy to do. With the exception of you, I dislike everyone in the room—🎶”

“Why are you here?”

It’s a repeat of the question I asked him earlier on the rooftop and it bursts out of me sounding angry. I think… I think I am angry. My heart is pounding and my blood is roaring in my ears and I realize that my hands are clenched into fists.

Deadpool spins on his heels so that he’s walking backward and slightly in front of me, his eyes on my face.

“You’re just so much fun to play with, Spidey Cakes.” He reaches out a finger and taps the tip of my nose with it. “Can you blame me?”

What is with all the nose booping recently? Why can’t I muster up indignation at Deadpool? I blame Wade for making that move stupidly hot. Now my body is all confused.

And fun to play with? I—

My whole body comes to a jerky stop as I process Deadpool’s words. All of his words. Not just the words but the way they were sung. Not just the words but the way he said them, the things he did as he said them.

I’ve heard that song before.

I’ve heard that voice say can you blame me? before.

I’m pretty sure I’ve been booped on the nose by that same finger before.

Realization slams through me like I’ve been struck by lightning and I worry that maybe I’ve stopped breathing.

Wait.

Waitwaitwaitwaitwait.

No.

No way.

Every part of my body is buzzing like my spider sense has traveled from my brain to each individual nerve ending. This has to be— I mean, it can’t be— There is no way that—

No.

No.

Deadpool’s not… is he?

I glance back to the Merc with the Mouth where he’s also come to a stop in front of me and all the puzzle pieces that I’ve been greedily gathering about my roommate start sliding around in my head again. More than there used to be. So many I think I might scream.

Canadian. Good with a knife. Ex-military. Never shuts up. Slightly unhinged. Sings incessantly. Built like a brick shithouse.

My eyes dip down Deadpool’s body and my mouth goes dry.

Doesn’t care when I’m mean. Loves it when I’m mean. Made a really good devil’s advocate for a malleable-brained psychopath. Seems to be obsessed with puppies.

Can I blame him!?

Daredevil told me not to bring him. The text from early today swims across my vision.

No.

No way.

It can’t be.

Because Deadpool is covered in gnarly, twisted scars. I know he is. I’ve seen them when his suit gets torn or he pushes the bottom of his mask above his nose. And Wade—

Goddamn it. I can barely think about them in the same sentence. My chest is tight and I feel sick to my stomach. There’s a thick ball of panic settling in my throat and my spider sense is tingling hard enough that I can’t concentrate. Don’t want to concentrate.

Is this why my spider sense goes on the fritz around both of them?

Oh no. Is that another puzzle piece!?

As much as my body is seizing up, my brain is running double time, shoving the puzzle pieces around and trying to make a picture that’s anything other than what it seems.

“…okay there, Spides?” Deadpool has moved next to me again, his arm dropping around my shoulder. He hugs me to his side and I think I might vomit.

Especially because it feels good. He feels good against me, warm and firm and it’s easy to imagine what it would be like if he did it at— oh god. No. No. I am not getting turned on by Deadpool. Because Deadpool is Deadpool and my roommate is my roommate and they are not the same person.

“What?” I ask, my ears ringing and my voice hoarse.

“I asked if you were okay.” His voice is low and soothing right next to my ear and I’m not even sure which him I’m thinking about anymore. “I think I can see smoke coming out of your ears.”

And then I panic.

It’s absolutely the only explanation for what I do next without any conscious input from my brain. My arm goes around Deadpool’s waist where he’s still pressed against my side. I feel him tensing in surprise before he relaxes again and leans in a little more.

I try to swallow but it gets jammed up on the knot in my throat and my heart is hammering hard enough against my sternum that I’m worried it will burst out of my chest.

Everything moves so slow but I know that it happens in less than five seconds.

I put my arm around Deadpool, he pulls me closer, I sink one of my stingers into his lower back, he collapses to the gravel, and I run like hell.

Chapter Text

PETER

I wake up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck after drinking a fifth of tequila. It stymies me for a minute because last night was a bust. I met up with Matt and we stared at a dead body behind the empty shipping containers at Mather Metals and he updated me on the unknown merc situation but—

Deadpool.

Oh fuck.

Just like that, everything comes back. The singing. The nose boop. The realization.

Holy shit.

I stabbed him in the back. With a stinger that came out of my body.

Oh god.

My stomach roils and I scramble off the bed on all fours toward the waste basket in the corner worried that everything I’ve ever eaten is about to make a reappearance. Saliva floods my mouth and I spit into the plastic Walgreen’s bag lining the inside of the black metal garbage can.

I try to breathe through it but my body heaves and then I’m emptying myself of mostly water and stomach acid. I retch until it starts to hurt and nothing is coming out and I collapse on my ass, scuttling backward until I hit the side of the mattress.

This can’t be real. This can’t be my life. There is no way this is happening. The odds of it are— I run the numbers, tipping my head back against the bed and squeezing my eyes shut.

Astronomical.

Statistically, the chances of the two of us (no I absolutely will not even think our work names in the same sentence) becoming roommates is so small as to be laughable. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it. I don’t believe it.

It’s a coincidence.

It has to be.

Or maybe it’s the stress from the mutation making me see things that aren’t there. Make connections between things that don’t really connect.

But what about the singing?

The nose boop?

His voice?

Even the cadence of his speech, the things he says, it’s all so—

I try to slam the lid shut on that entire foot locker full of worms (no, something bigger than that, an entire football stadium full of worms) but I can’t stop myself from looking at everything Wade has ever done through a Deadpool lens and it’s frying my goddamn brain. This makes no sense.

Astronomical, I remind myself. The odds are astronomical.

Wade is— And Deadpool has— But Wade—

SCARS.

The word appears in my brain like it’s in neon lights. Deadpool is covered in scars, vining, textured masses of tissue twisting across his skin. The same rough pockets of sun and shadow that stipple the bark of trees, separating the light and dark into a delicate honeycomb. I may have only seen glimpses here and there but I know that’s the truth.

And Wade doesn’t. Wade’s skin is smooth and unblemished and… unremarkable.

See? There’s no way that Wade is... well, there’s just no way.

Once that’s anchored firmly in my mind, bolted in with titanium screws and willpower, my stomach starts growling and I realize just how hungry I am. I haven’t eaten since Wade’s paninis yesterday (See? He makes paninis! There’s just no way.) and all that throwing up probably didn’t help.

Except.

I can’t just go out there if Wade is going to be out there. He’s definitely not… you know who… but I don’t know how to be around him anymore. I’m worried that every time I look at him I’m going to be reminded of Deadpool and then Spider-man’s sharp tongue is going to leak out of my mouth without my say-so.

That Wade is going to ask me something innocuous like Do you want ketchup with your French fries? and I’m going to respond with something rude and slightly acidic like What I want is for you to leave me alone. You know, the kind of thing that I would say to—

Shit.

Shitshitshitshitshit.

I take a deep breath in through my nose and let it out through my mouth. Then again. And again. And again. Until I can’t feel my heart pounding against the inside of my rib cage and the adrenaline tingling in my extremities subsides a little.

I can do this.

I can do this.

I’m a superhero.

I can walk into my apartment’s shared kitchen and act like nothing is wrong. Because nothing is wrong. Everything is fine.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Now move.

I crawl through the mess of my bedroom floor and press my ear to the door. The apartment is quiet. Wade is not quiet. Ergo Wade is probably not in the apartment.

Maybe I can just zip out there, grab some toast, and then disappear back into my room. I can go a day or four without showering. If I scale down the building and pop over to the bodega, I can stock up on non-perishables and live off bricks of ramen noodles and slim jims for a while.

Because nothing is wrong.

Nothing is wrong.

Everything is fine.

So so fine.

I reach up before I can second guess myself and wrench the door open, swinging it hard enough that it bangs into the door stopper thingy with a loud sproing. I hold my breath until I’m dizzy waiting to see if Wade yells out Shutterbug! in that delighted voice of his or comes running to see if I murdered his guest room door.

Nothing.

Because Wade isn’t here.

And nothing is wrong.

It takes me four times as long as normal to shuffle down the hallway and into the living room, pausing every few steps and straining my ears to listen for Wade.

Nothing.

Because Wade isn’t here.

And nothing is wrong.

I walk around the end of the island and catch sight of the dining room table. It’s tipped at an unnatural angle because there’s only one leg still attached and the opposite edge of the table is resting on the ground. The three missing legs are stacked against the wall behind the table, next to what looks like the makings of a… small barrel? And a… broom?

It’s obvious someone tried to clean everything up but there are big swathes of sawdust still spread under the table and the chairs are stacked so haphazardly on top of each other that I’m kind of shocked they haven’t toppled over already.

For a second, my curiosity gets the better of me and I’ve taken one big step toward the mess. My brain is already rearranging the lumber and nails and metal rings and table legs, trying to put them into a shape that makes sense.

But there’s also a very large part of my brain yelling at me to stop, reminding me that I cannot be in the kitchen when Wade reappears.

My steps away from the woodworking puzzle in the dining room are reluctant but I finally drag myself into the kitchen and start hunting down a loaf of bread and some peanut butter.

I’ll have toast. Which is a very normal breakfast food. Because everything is normal and nothing is wrong.

I gather everything together on the counter in front of the thing that I think I’ve seen Wade use to toast bread before. A toaster oven? An air fryer? I’m going to call it a toaster oven because I need it to make toast and that feels like the only bit of positive thinking I’m capable of right now.

Whatever it is, it’s ridiculous. What happened to those toasters where you just put the bread in the slot and pressed down on the lever? What is this thing? Why are there so many knobs?

As I glare at the toaster oven, willing it to tell me the secret of how to use it to make toast, my fingers drift to my inner forearm. I rub absentmindedly against the skin there, scratching at the unrelenting itch from the mutation, and palpating the stingers I’ve been pretending I don’t have. My fingers walk along the midline of my forearm, up from my wrist and then down from my elbow, as I lean closer to the toaster oven and wonder why in the hell it has a bacon setting.

It takes a minute for my brain to catch up to what I’m feeling but when it does, the metaphorical truck that hit me last night comes back to finish the job.

My stinger is missing.

I can’t feel the hard, thin bar of it under my skin. I yank my hand away and stare down at my left forearm. The arm that was around Deadpool. The arm I used to sting him.

Oh fuck.

WADE

Spidey venom is a hell of a drug.

My eyes open to a view of Hugh Jackman dressed as Wolverine. A poster I hung over my bed because it will never not be funny how much taller the actor is than actual Wolvie. In this timeline, the poster is ostensibly from a fundraiser for cancer kids but you and I both know the truth.

I passed out after climbing in through the window last night, something that was far more dangerous than most nights because my limbs hadn’t quite been connected to my brain the way they usually are. I briefly considered jerking off with a numb fist to see if it would feel like someone else was doing it but must have fallen asleep before I managed.

Damn.

I bet that would have been amazing.

As it stands, I’m still in my suit, the mask pushed up over my nose, strapped with all my weapons, and my katanas digging uncomfortably into my spine but… that’s it?

There’s no raw ache radiating across my skin like a festering open wound. There's no pins-and-needles tingle through my connective tissue every time I move. There are no cramps ripping apart my insides as the cells grow too much before dying and sloughing away. {Really, my organs are an absolute wreck. The doctor that ran my internal imaging puked into the garbage can four times while he looked at the results.} There’s no pain anywhere except for the swords crossing over my spine.

Like I said earlier, Spidey venom is a hell of a drug.

It hadn’t killed me outright like I expected. {That would be so against Spidey’s brand anyway.} Or even knocked me unconscious. I had been paralyzed. My legs had given out beneath me and I’d collapsed to the ground, watching as that sneaky spider son of a bitch {affectionate} ran away like his ass was on fire.

I remember all of it. I remember watching Webs make a break for it while definitely staring at his ass as he went in an I hate to see you go but I love to watch you walk away kind of way. {Seriously. His ass is phenomenal. Why do you think I call him Spidey Cakes?} He had been gone by the time my healing factor flushed the venom out so I swung home {that time I did fall twice} with arms that were still slightly wobbly.

I hadn’t been expecting it to dampen the pain that fries through my nerves on the daily. And I definitely hadn’t expected it to last this long.

It feels great.

I feel great.

It’s fucking weird.

I wink at Wolvie as I arch my back and reach underneath me, pinching the end of the stinger that’s stuck through the fabric at the back of my uniform and yanking it out. The thing is wicked sharp and nearly the length of my forearm. Or Spider-man’s forearm, I guess. It’s also hard. {HA. You know the joke.} I try to snap it between my fists but it doesn’t even bend. The shit’s practically adamantium. Vibranium. Unobtainium.

*Insert generic fake metal ore name here.*

I flip it around to peer into the non-pointy end, noticing that the stinger is hollow all the way down. {The better to poison you with, my dear.} I hadn’t expected that the stinger would be left behind after Spider-man used it but it also makes sense. He’s always been a little more prone to flight than fight. The exact kind of person who would cut and run. Literally.

But that begs the question… what was he running away from last night?

I’ll be the first to admit that I have a tendency to drive people away {It’s part of my charm.} [Sure. Keep telling yourself that.] but I can’t pinpoint anything that happened last night that would have rattled Spidey enough to make him sting me out of the blue like that.

He didn’t need to sneak up on me. I offered my immaculate Canadian body for experimentation willingly. I would have shoved the fucking thing in my arm two days ago if he had let me.

I tap the tip of the stinger against my temple as I think. Why would Spider-man run away…?

I was there. And, as we’ve established, some people don’t like me. [Can’t imagine why.] But Spides let me trail him all the way to the metal yard without much more than a grumpy riposte. I don’t think he loved that I was there but I don’t think it’s why he left either.

Next.

Daredevil was there. That’s enough to make anyone want to scamper away screaming {Listen, I respect the guy but he’s boring as hell. I don’t want all that Catholic guilt rubbing off on me. Unless he wants to rub off on me because then… Wait. Shit. Right. I’m trying to solve a mystery right now.} but I doubt that was the problem because Spidey didn’t bolt until after Daredevil was gone and I think they were meeting on purpose.

Okay. That idea’s out.

There was a dead body. Webs does not do well around dead bodies. I’m not sure if anyone else has noticed but he goes as rigid and brittle as one of those Nature Valley granola bars. Like the slightest touch will have him crumbling to pieces. But, again, he didn’t scamper away when confronted by the body. He didn’t exactly look at it but he didn’t run off either.

So that wasn’t it either.

Everything else seems trivial. I sang? I booped his nose? I wanted to go for ice cream?

That’s just the Deadpool Experience™️, sugar bear.

The sound of a cupboard banging shut in the kitchen yanks me firmly out of my Nancy Drew moment and has me glancing down my body, across the bed, and to my door. All three deadbolts and my chain lock are still done up which is good. I’d hate for Petey Pie to stumble into my room and catch me lounging across the bed in a semi-well-known mercenary’s costume holding a human-sized spider stinger in my hand.

[Yeah. That’s what you should be concerned about. Definitely not the weapons mounted on the walls. Or the scars covering your face.]

I scowl and tug my mask down all the way. It’s going to take me at least thirty minutes to remember where I put the image inducer when I suited up yesterday. I’m one hundred percent sure that I put it somewhere safe and obvious. Somewhere I wouldn’t forget it. Just like the place I put it yesterday {back left corner of my sock drawer which I actually use as bullet storage} when it took me two hours to find it.

I don’t wanna wait two hours to see Petey Pie.

Better haul my ass out of bed and start the search.

PETER

I’m frantically scraping the burnt parts off a piece of toast when I hear Wade’s door swing open down the hall.

No. Nonononono.

I’m not ready.

Please, just stay in your room for another hour. The whole day. The rest of our lives.

My spine goes tense enough to snap as I listen to his surprisingly light footsteps hit the linoleum and head for the coffee maker.

He’s humming and I want to scream. I can’t keep my brain from rolling over the crests and troughs of the tune, attempting to make sense of it, solve it like a puzzle, but that won’t lead anywhere good so I forcibly refocus on the burnt piece of toast in my hand.

“Mornin,’ Shutterbug.”

His voice is low and rough with sleep and I squeeze my eyes shut as it infiltrates the very flimsy wall I just tried to build around my brain. Pain across my palm pulls my attention down to my hands. They’ve both curled into fists. One full of powdered burnt toast and the other a mangled butter knife that now holds a perfect impression of my fingers.

Nothing is wrong.

Everything is fine.

Wade must finally turn to look at me because he says, “What the hell? Did you use a jet engine to toast that? If you scrape all the burnt bits off, I’m pretty sure you won’t have any toast left.”

Then he’s leaning across the counter in front of me to rescue the loaf away from the toaster oven and I get a look at him for the first time today.

He’s wearing the red joggers and black hoodie again, open over his bare chest. The hood is down today, his wheat blond hair styled perfectly even though he probably just rolled out of bed. My eyes land on the hard edge of his jaw and I fixate on it, tracing the squareness of it, the sharpness of it, wondering if it’s a shape I’ve seen before.

“Mind if I take over breakfast?” Wade has leaned one hip against the counter and is facing me. I swallow hard and stare daggers at the ruined butter knife in my hand. “I’m worried that if I leave it up to you, all this charcoal will scrape my esophagus raw. Or you’ll upset Brenda.”

I blink and then I’m talking before I can think better of it. “Who’s Brenda?”

Wade’s big hand lands on the top of the toaster oven, patting it like it’s a well-behaved pet. “Brenda’s my right-hand woman.”

“You named your toaster oven?”

My fingers relax around the toast crumbs and the butter knife, reaching out to drop both into the sink.

“Petey, Pete, Pete. Of course, I did.” The smile spreading across Wade’s face is blinding, all perfect, white teeth exuding a warmth that makes you want to lean in. I look away as I dust my hands over the drain. “I can’t expect them to do all the work without any of the credit.”

“If you’re so insistent on giving credit, why is this the first I’m hearing about them?”

“Oh, fuck. Critical hit, roomie.” Wade clutches dramatically at his chest which brings my eyes to the strip of skin on display between the halves of his hoodie. “Now I gotta make it up them. Move to your side of the island, Shutterbug, and I’ll show you what Brenda and Julio can do.”

I don’t want to ask who Julio is. I don’t. I want to take my burnt toast crumbs and the jar of peanut butter and the knife I destroyed with my bare hand back to my room and live like a goblin until I find another place to live.

So why, then, do I open my mouth and ask, “Julio?”

Wade turns with a cup of coffee in his hand that he sets on the island and nudges toward me, his stupid, dumb, huge, warm, bright smile shining all over me. My eyes drop which is a terrible idea because then I’m looking at his bare chest again. Who looks like that?

“Julio makes the coffee but Wade doctors it up right.”

I’m halfway to taking a sip when a snort-huff escapes me and I have to pull the mug away. “A little early to be referring to yourself in the third person, don’t you think?”

Wade’s smile curls somehow, turning mischievous, before he winks at me and turns back toward the toaster oven.

He winked.

I have to consciously relax my fingers from the coffee mug so I don’t shatter it in my grip. Wade winks a lot. Like more than a normal amount. You just don’t see that many people winking in the day-to-day which is why it stands out to me but it doesn’t mean anything.

My heel is bouncing madly off the foot rail of the stool and the headache I had when I woke up has reemerged like a shark chewing on my skull. I snatch my coffee cup up too fast, spilling some on the top of the island, before downing it in several big gulps and probably doing serious burn-related damage to my mouth and throat.

It’s just a wink. It doesn’t mean anything because nothing is wrong. Everything is fine.

Super super fine.

I glance behind me to the hallway and wonder how offended Wade would be if I just ran for it and barricaded myself in my room and we never talked or looked at each other ever again.

He’d probably be fine with it, right?

I turn back and he’s working at the island like he was yesterday, right in front of me, the knife flashing as it slices through an onion faster than I can see it. The image superimposes itself over the memory of a certain black-gloved mercenary sharpening a hunting knife while he talked at me one night. The knives slide with the same confidence and I blink, trying to focus on anything else because lots of people have excellent knife skills, okay?

My heart is starting to hammer in my chest and sweat is starting to pop out along my spine and upper lip. Then my eyes snag on Wade’s chest again. I want to lunge across the island and zip up that goddamn hoodie. Or shove it off him.

NO.

No.

Definitely just zip it up.

My dick, confused by the speed of my heart and the flush pushing its way up into my face, gives a throb and I squeeze my thighs together to make it stop. I have never been this confused and this horny at the same time in my life. Not even that weird overnight with Harry where, in hindsight, I might have been experiencing some very bisexual feelings.

I must have really spaced out because the next thing I realize, Wade is nudging another coffee toward me and starting to assemble the ingredients he chopped and an alarming array of herbs and spices into a small baking pan.

Is it weird that I’m just sitting here in silence watching him cook? Is it weird that he’s letting me?

I try to occupy my eyes with the veins of color in the countertop but Wade is like a magnet. He hasn’t measured a single thing this whole time but his hands work with a surety that makes my chest tighten.

It seems like no matter where my eyes land on my roommate, there’s skin on display. Smooth, unblemished skin. The muscles twisting and flexing underneath as he moves. Seeing it all loosens the frantic knot in my chest again because Wade can’t be Deadpool. Deadpool doesn’t look like that.

But, as I watch Wade, my brain maps Deadpool’s skin over the lines and curves of his chest. Up the column of his neck. Along the sharp edges of his jaw. And for some reason, the image makes my breath catch in my throat.

I squeeze my eyes shut, groping across the counter for my coffee mug so I can chug it all down with dangerous speed again.

I have to stop doing this. Wade isn’t Deadpool. And if I just wedge that fact hard enough into my head it will become true. It is true. Wade is not Deadpool. Deadpool is not my roommate. My roommate is Wade. Wade is not Deadpool.

Wash.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Nothing is wrong.

Everything is fine.

I have to squeeze my legs together again and bite the inside of my lip until I draw blood when Wade turns back to me.

“Brenda just needs a few minutes with it and then breakfast’ll be ready.” Wade leans back against the far counter and crosses his arms over his chest. The move pushes his pecs together and I swallow back a low sound at the sight. “What should we do while we wait?”

Wade’s crooked grin and the glint in his eyes makes me squirm on the stool. Something is wrong with me. Very, very wrong with me.

I can separate Wade and Deadpool in my mind, I really can, because they are not the same person. There’s no way. There’s no way that equating them together in my mind is making me want to leap over the island and shove my tongue in Wade’s mouth. Or run my tongue over that goddamn chest. Or… I don’t know, do lots of other things with my tongue.

I hate Deadpool.

He’s so—

And just—

My body is shaking, my heart rabbiting in my chest, and my cock is so hard it hurts. I curl my fists into the fabric of my pajama pants, under the lip of the island, and try not to look at Wade even though he’s the most interesting thing in the whole apartment.

Nothing is wrong.

Everything is fine.

There are no scars.

“I think I should move out,” I say, the words falling out of my mouth unbidden. “I’m going to spend today looking at other places. We can hash out what I owe for this month later.”

I keep my head down as I, in a very dignified manner, run to my room and slam the door behind me.

Everything is wrong.

Nothing is fine.

Chapter Text

WADE

Huh.

That was weird.

That was weird, right?

[Pretty weird.]

Maybe I ramped up Operation: Get In Peter Parker’s Pants {still love the alliteration} a little faster than I should have. Although, I didn’t think moderate innuendo over the toaster oven would get such an oversized reaction. And for just a second, I swear, it seemed like he was curious…

[Do not slide gay porn under his door.]

{I wasn’t going to.}

I wasn’t, okay? The idea may have crossed my mind but even I have enough impulse control to rein myself in on that one. {Mostly. Sometimes.} Besides, who even keeps physical porn when everything is streaming these days?

[Conveniently forgetting that hole you dug out under your bedside table to store all your porn DVDs, are you?]

Fine. So the plan was actually killed by the fact that I’ve seen Petey Pie’s laptop and know he doesn’t have a DVD player. The point is that I didn’t do it even though I wanted to and that’s progress.

[Sure.]

I push my hips off the counter and shake my arms out, expecting the usual shooting pain as I do it, and am met with the absence of the pain instead. I’ve had dreams like this. Dreams where I’m not twisted with scars and every breath doesn’t hurt, but even those dreams are infiltrated by pain. The twinges and twitches as I roll over or the low-grade sizzle that overlays my skin at all times. Because the pain is always there, even when my brain is trying to pretend like it’s not.

Honestly, a high pain tolerance is kind of a prerequisite for being Deadpool. I’m pretty sure most people couldn’t survive Juggs ripping them in half, not just because of the blood loss but because it fucking hurts. The tearing apart hurts but the putting back together hurts too.

It all hurts, all the time is what I’m saying.

Except for right now.

I look down at my hands, still reddened, laced with scar tissue and places where the skin is ripped down to the muscle. The tears heal themselves as I watch before reappearing somewhere else on my body.

But none of it hurts.

I can feel the weight of the pain surrounding me like an aura, an echo, a reminder of what it normally feels like, but it can’t touch me and it’s… something.

The minute that stinger slid into my back and the venom hit my bloodstream was the first minute I hadn’t been in pain in years. Granted, that coincided with an immediate loss of function in my extremities but that seems like a small price to pay.

I flex my fingers expecting the pain to touch down but it doesn’t. It just hovers there, waiting for the moment that my healing factor flushes out the rest of the venom and it can eat away at me all over again.

It’s… something.

I’m not sure I know how to experience the world without that millstone around my neck. I roll my shoulders and cross to the sink, feeling only the way the muscles slide under my skin as I move instead of the shredding grind of them growing and sloughing away. But the promise of pain trails behind me like a cloak.

[This is a little more introspection than we usually have for breakfast.]

{I know. Blech.}

But, without the pain, the thoughts in my brain are easier to latch onto. The side roads leading me away from focus are easier to ignore. Everything is dampened, quieter.

It’s… something.

I run the water, chasing the burnt toast crumbs into the whatever the fuck it’s called — the sink blender that lives in the drain. The stream of water catches the butter knife and washes it down the drain after the crumbs. I’ve half reached my hand in to retrieve it when the back of my neck tingles and a voice that I haven’t heard in a long time slides into my head.

[Maybe you should stick your hand down the drain and flip the switch. Get a little of that pain back. Feel more like yourself.]

I already know how it would feel to shove my hand into the drain, to let my fingers push against the blades, to experience the severing of flesh and muscle and tendon and bone. No matter how clear my thoughts become, I’m still me and it still sounds like a good idea.

Like it might fix everything that’s wrong. Like it might rewind the morning and bring me back to before Pistol Pete threatened to move out. Like it might rewind all the way back to last night and I could stop Spider-man from stinging me and keep all the pain that I’m used to.

I never thought I might miss it. Especially if it was keeping these thoughts at bay.

The tips of my fingers are nudging against the rubber flaps surrounding the drain when Brenda dings and I jerk away, shaking my head. That right there is some real white box behavior and I don’t need it.

{I thought they were gone.}

[So did I.]

When I woke up, I was certain I felt great but now I’m not so sure. The pain is gone but I’m so unused to it that it’s left room for something else. Something worse maybe.

Brenda dings again and I finally gather myself together enough to tug open her door and slide out the dish. Bubbling red sauce. Veggies fully cooked. Now all I have to do is crack in the eggs and let Brenda work for another few minutes.

The smell fills the kitchen as I grab the eggs out of the fridge, amazing, spicy and mouth-watering, and I give myself a little pat on the back for whipping up the shakshuka. It’s not super authentic but this version bakes up quick and I have a grumpy, hungry roommate to feed.

Had a grumpy, hungry roommate to feed.

I crack the eggs over the dish, making a line of them down the center, and start counting down in my head. I may have only lived with Petey Pie for two and a half weeks but that man can always eat and takes special pleasure in homemade food.

{What do you think? Sixty seconds?}

[More like a minute.]

60…

59…

58…

I slide the dish back inside Brenda {yes, I do giggle to myself every time} and move to put the eggs away, trying to ignore the vaguely siren-like call of the sink blender thingy. That fucking butter knife can die down there for all I care. I’m not letting that white box asshole crawl back into my brain.

45…

44…

43…

The sink starts to anthropomorphize, melting and reshaping into a silver shark with giant metal blade teeth that taunt me to just reach inside. The tingle at the back of my neck increases and I walk all the way around the island, opposite side from the sink, to the dining room where I start unstacking the chairs in the hopes the sink shark will stop talking at me.

“Imagine how it would feel, Wade,” the shark hisses which is honestly a speech pattern I thought was specific to snakes but my fucked up brain is all over the place. Maybe Spidey’s venom did more than just paralyze me.

I hold onto that logic for a moment but dismiss it pretty quickly. It’s not like this is the first time a kitchen appliance has turned into a bloodthirsty animal on my watch.

I try to keep my head down, wondering where the broom is so I can clean up the rest of the sawdust under the sloped dining room table but the shark keeps talking.

“Imagine it.” I don’t have to is the thing. I know exactly what it would feel like. My hands clench around the top of one of the chairs as my body sways back toward the kitchen. And the shark. “Sharp edges slicing through your skin, hot blood sluicing down your arm. Come over here, you know you need it.”

31…

30…

29…

[Jesus. I wish he would hurry up.]

Yeah. Me too.

The other thing is that I’m used to the pain. It’s sometimes the only constant I have in my life. And now it’s not there anymore and my once clear brain is fogging up again, but not with pain, and my feet are shuffling toward the sink almost against my will.

Except maybe it’s not against my will.

Fuck.

Am I so messed up that I can’t be me without the constant low-level ache and the intermittent promise of something worse?

15…

14…

13…

I’m standing at the sink and I hate myself. It’s turned back into a sink but I know the teeth that are buried inside. I don’t want them but I do at the same time. The lack of pain is heady and bright but I need the pain to ground me. It’s who I am now, I think.

I watch as my pock-marked hand with a new muscle-deep tear under the first joint of my middle finger pushes through the rubber surrounding the drain and my other scar-reddened hand reaches for the switch on the wall.

7…

6…

5…

[The image inducer.]

Shit.

This time I yank both hands back and shove them into the pockets of my joggers, feeling around for the tiny disk that creates the photostatic veil.

Fuckfuckfuck.

2…

1…

0…

Petey’s door swings open and he stomps out into the main living area just as the veil flickers back into place. I can tell he’s grumpy without even laying eyes on him. The tingle at the back of my neck subsides and I feel the ghost tendrils of pain as the tear on the back of my finger heals.

{Keep them out of my head.}

[We’ll try.]

PETER

“When’s breakfast gonna be ready? I’m starving.”

My voice is sharper and harsher than it usually is. I chalk it up to the anxiety jittering through me, heightened by the absolute mortification of storming into my room like a grounded teenager only to pop out less than ten minutes later to scrounge free breakfast.

Maybe Deadpool’s right. Maybe I am an asshole.

I nip that thought in the bud because I will not be thinking the D word while I’m with Wade. I think that’s the only way my brain can cope.

He turns away from the sink, my eyes snagging back on his exposed chest, before a lightbulb goes off over my head and I practically vault the island to get into the kitchen. Without thinking about literally any of the consequences, I wedge myself between Wade’s body and the sink, groping behind me, trying to find that goddamn butter knife.

“I’ll clean up,” I yelp as his body heat warms the front of me and I find myself having to fight not to wedge myself closer to him. (God. Stop. What is wrong with you?) “You made breakfast, I’ll clean up.”

His eyes drip down my body like honey. He’s not that much taller than me but he feels huge as he looks me over. Shit. My cock likes that look.

“Aren’t you worried you’ll break a nail, Peggy Sue?”

“You should be worried I’ll break the butter knife off in your chest.” Stop mentioning the butter knife, Peter.

Wade smirks and it’s… oh no, it’s familiar. It’s familiar and it makes my stomach swoop. I bare my teeth at him to make up for it.

“Pistol Pete’s finally firing something other than blanks, huh?”

He hasn’t moved and I haven’t moved and why are we having this conversation standing so close to each other?

Behind my back, I push my hand down into the garbage disposal and I feel the handle of the butter knife brush my fingertips. I almost go limp with relief.

“Just because I haven’t hit you yet doesn’t mean I’m firing blanks, Wade.”

His palm lands flat on the counter next to me and he leans in, looms over me. I do not find this sexy. This is not turning me on. I do not want to run my empty hand up the planes of his stomach. I am straight and like women and do not have a hard-on for my roommate who might also be the biggest thorn in my side.

“How will I know if you hit me, Pete?”

Wade’s voice is low and raspy and, shit, that’s familiar, too. So close to my ear that it feels like it’s going to crawl inside my head.

I open my mouth to say something. Probably to say something. Maybe to throw myself at Wade and attach my mouth to his mouth. I don’t know. I think I’m panicking.

Then the toaster oven dings and both of us turn to look at it.

“You have terrible timing, Brenda,” Wade says as he pushes himself away from the counter, away from me, and steps to the toaster oven.

I grip the knife with white knuckles and straighten up, easing it out of the garbage disposal as I turn toward the sink to shove the dented knife to the bottom of the trash can and maybe to hide my hard-on.

If I had one.

Which I do not.

I edge away from Wade and to the opposite side of the island so I can sit on a stool and hide my lap under the lip of the counter. For no particular reason. I watch Wade’s hoodie shift on his broad shoulders as he pulls down plates and dishes up whatever’s for breakfast. My stomach growls and my mouth waters at the smell.

“I’m still moving out, you know,” I say. Like an idiot.

Wade turns and pushes a plate across the island to me with that same familiar smirk and a… goddamnit, a wink. “Sure thing, shutterbug.”

“I am,” I insist as I pick up the fork and dig in. Shit. It’s good. My next words come out garbled by egg and onion and spicy red sauce. “I just need some sustenance for the apartment search.”

“Apartment search?”

“Yeah,” I say belligerently as I keep shoveling food into my mouth. My plate is almost empty but Wade leans across with the baking dish and scoops more out for me before I can even think about it.

“Let me get this straight, Petey Pie.” He lounges back against the counter again, arms across his chest, the valley between his pecs deepening and I almost miss my mouth with my fork. “You’re going to find another apartment. In New York. With this much space. And a roommate that cooks and cleans. For seven hundred and fifty dollars.”

“I can increase my budget,” I argue.

“To what? Seven fifty-one?” An eyebrow raise. “New York apartment hunting isn’t The Price is Right, Petey Pie.”

I almost growl, wiping the sleeve of my sweatshirt across my mouth. “You have no idea what my budget is.”

Wade uncrosses his arms and steps forward, pressing his hands flat to the island and leaning toward me, eyes intent on mine.

“You’re broke.” I open my mouth to argue some more but he keeps talking. “The most expensive thing you own is that old ass camera. Your side of the pantry has pop-tarts and spaghetti-os in it. You barely scrape by enough to pay this rent.”

It looks like he wants to say more but he presses his lips together and straightens up again. Except… except I can almost hear it. All the things he must know if he is who I think he is.

You’re behind on your student loan payments.

You’ve been sent to collections twice.

There’s no money in your bank account.

That place your Aunt May lives is awfully expensive.

Anger flares inside my chest. I don’t know if I’m mad that it’s true or if I’m mad that he knows or if I’m mad that he’s not just some random meathead out of the classifieds.

Except he is. He has to be. There aren’t any scars.

I run a hand through my hair and tug at the strands, exhaling a long breath. I’ve been sniping at him like he’s Deadpool, like maybe I want him to be, but he’s just Wade.

No scars.

Just Wade.

So the only awkward truth I have to contend with is that my dick gets hard for my very male roommate. And that I have to move out now because I said I would in a fit of panic and literally the only thing I have left is my dignity.

You sure about that?

“None of that sounds like your problem, Wade.”

The last thing I expect is the grin that spreads across Wade’s face. I ignore how familiar it looks, how familiar it feels, because there aren’t any scars.

“That’s where you're wrong, shutterbug. I took you under my wing when you moved in here. You can’t just leave now.”

I’m trying to think of an excuse to get myself out of this conversation because I really don’t want to move when Wade gives me an out. It’s a stupid out and I think we both know it but it’s an out all the same.

“Besides, Brenda and Julio don’t like new people. Don’t make them go through that.”

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth but I don’t make eye contact with Wade. “Well… for Brenda and Julio, I guess I’ll stay.”

WADE

Pistol Pete came out of the gate with something to prove this morning. All bristling indignation and sentences sharp enough to bite.

What crawled up his ass and died? And can I send it a thank you card?

[Brenda may have bad timing but baby boy has excellent timing.]

I try not to think about how close my hand was to finding the blades in the bottom of the drain. Everything is fine now. Pete’s here. He’s all well-fed and sated with a precious little blush under his freckles. I’ve convinced him to stay which means my plan to invite Spider-man over for Mario Kart while Petey Pie sits in my lap and drives my Princess Peach to victory {not a euphemism} is still on track {not a pun}.

“Great. Glad you’re staying, roomie.” I move the empty baking dish to the sink and run some water into it. “I’ll leave the dishes for you.”

His huge brown eyes widen further. “I’m not doing the dishes.”

I knew his offer at the sink earlier was bullshit. Was precious little Petey Pie flirting with me? I would have pegged him {Also not a euphemism or pun. Yet.} for another few weeks of bi-panic and quiet masturbation in his room before we progressed to rubbing bodies but I won’t be mad if I turn out to be wrong.

“Listen, Pac-man. You ate that entire dish of shakshuka by yourself. The least you can do is wash the fucking dishes.”

I’m giving him a hard time. I’ll wash the dishes. I’ll do whatever he wants.

I glance over my shoulder at the sink with the shark mouth inside and amend my earlier thoughts. I’ll wash the dishes but not right now. The pain will come back eventually and that Wade can wash the dishes. The Wade who has every nerve ending frying simultaneously and so doesn’t have room for anything else. The Wade who won’t feel like shoving his hand into the sink blender and flipping the switch is a good and normal idea.

[It doesn’t have to be the sink. You have a room full of knives. Bullets. Poison. Fun things. Painful things. Let’s go play, Wade.]

“I’m not washing the dishes,” Shutterbug says as he gets up off his stool, distracting me from someone I hoped to never hear again. “But I’ll walk my dish to the sink because I’m not a complete heathen.”

He skirts around the island and places his plate and fork carelessly in the sink. Like someone that doesn’t have the drain hissing at him to push his arm inside.

“I’ve seen your room. You may be cute as a button and have soft, fluffy hair but heathen is underselling yourself.”

Petey turns to look at me, his mouth open to retort, those lush lips parted enough that I could slip my tongue inside if I were standing close enough, but then it snaps shut. His dark brows furrow together and he looks at me like he’s never seen me before. Like he’s seeing all of me.

I hope he doesn’t see the thoughts the white box is putting into my head. He probably already thinks I’m odd. He doesn’t need to know that I’m borderline… well, I’m borderline a lot of things. Sometimes I even go over the line.

Shutterbug’s face falls as I watch, confusion and frustration and anger and disbelief and a million other emotions chasing each other across his dark gaze.

[Did you do something wrong?]

Did I do something wrong? I don’t think I did anything. I glance around to make sure I didn’t dissociate and accidentally on purpose cut off one of my fingers with the chef’s knife.

Normally, I wouldn’t do what I’m about to do but I need something. The absence of the pain that normally lives under my skin and crawls through the grooves in my brain and along the branches of my nervous system is haunting me like a ghost. I need something to press against my nerve endings. I need to feel something.

And it kind of looks like Petey Pie does too.

He looks lost. Cornered. I need at least one of us to be okay today and historically it’s not going to be me so I take a slow step toward him, knowing that, if he lets me, I’m going to wrap him up in my arms and hold together whatever part of him is coming apart.

[Maybe you can at least keep one of you together.]

I approach him like he’s a wild animal, like he could sink his claws into me at any moment. When I’m less than a foot away, I reach out and put my hand on his shoulder using a gentle grip to tug him closer. He goes still and solid like a statue but doesn’t move away. He lets me pull him into my chest and wrap my arms tight around his back and lean my temple against his.

Then the struggle comes. He makes a quiet, feral sound akin to a growl and tries to jerk out of my arms. The attempts are weak and eventually, he stops, collapsing against me and turning his face into the crook of my neck. He doesn’t hug me back, just sort of melts over me like warm butter.

{Oh no. He’s cute.}

“I found out something I didn’t want to know,” he mumbles into my shoulder. “I think I’m messed up over it.” He tenses against me and starts trying to pull away again. “But it’s probably not even true.”

I keep him close and he goes limp against my chest after a few half-hearted wiggles.

“Yeah?” I take a risk and smooth my hand down the upper curve of his spine, then back up to the nape of his neck. Despite his nerdy exterior, baby boy is all lean, corded muscle.

“Someone’s not who I thought they were.” I can feel his brow furrow again where it’s pressed into the top of my shoulder. “Or they’re more than who I thought they were?”

“Good clarification, shutterbug.”

His hand shoves at my hip but the push is weak, more for show than anything.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” he grumbles. {So cute.} “I thought I hated this guy but some... things happened that showed me he might be… better than what I thought? But I don’t actually know if… any of those things were actually him. Like it might all be in my head. I’m just seeing what I want to see. Or not seeing what I don’t want to see.”

I huff out a laugh. “I guess all the genius just stays inside your brain, then?”

“Shut up, Wade.”

Hearing Petey Pie say my name while we’re pressed chest-to-chest hits different, not gonna lie.

I smooth my hand up and down his spine again, feeling the big breath he takes and the warmth of his exhale through the fabric of my hoodie.

“What are we doing?

{Good fucking question, baby boy.}

“This? This is just two bros hugging it out.”

I wonder if this is when he pushes me away or draws the this is not what we are boundary again but inside he sinks further against me and I feel his hands settle at my hips before wrapping around me.

The press of him against me makes my nerve endings sing and I forget about the pain that should be there because in its place is Peter Parker.

PETER

I should pull away, I know I should. But being Spider-man doesn’t leave a lot of time for close personal relationships and I think I need this. I just have to forget about the fact that this is my brick shithouse roommate that I had a hard-on for less than thirty minutes ago.

Against my will, my body relaxes into Wade and I finally lift my arms and loop them around his waist, returning the hug.

“You give good hug, Petey Pie.”

I snort-laugh which is embarrassing but what comes out of my mouth is even worse. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“No,” he murmurs close enough to my neck that I can almost feel the words. “Just the ones that do the dishes for me.”

“I’m not doing the dishes,” I grumble but I don’t pull away. I don’t think I can.

“I’ll rock-paper-scissor you for it.” Wade’s voice wobbles at the words scissor you and I can’t help snorting into his shoulder again. Like we have the sense of humor of fifteen-year-olds.

“Pass.”

Quiet settles over us, comfortable despite the circumstances which I am trying very hard not to think about right now.

I let my hands drop to the hem of Wade’s sweatshirt and don’t give myself time to think before I slip my hands underneath. My fingers trail along the waistband of his joggers before moving higher, sliding along Wade’s lower back, brushing against the heat of his bare skin.

The skin is rough and riddled with divots that the pads of my fingers fit into perfectly. I trace the contours and texture of Wade under my hands, mapping it, fascinated with it. Until it hits me what I’m feeling.

Scars.

My mind races as my fingers keep exploring. I’ve seen Wade’s lower back thanks to his crop top infested wardrobe. The skin there is as unblemished as the rest of him. Unremarkable. Not draped in a tracery of scar tissue.

But I can feel the scars. I can feel the smooth spaces in between them. I can fit my fingertips into the grooves of them.

My heart rate kicks up from mellow and relaxed to harsh and panicked. So I do the only thing I can think of. I disentangle my limbs from around Wade and, for the second time today, bolt into my room and slam the door behind me.

Chapter Text

PETER

I’ve never had to sneak in through my window as Peter Parker before but, after locking myself in my room for the second time in an hour like a cheerleader running away from a serial killer, I couldn’t get back into the apartment by normal means. My quickly fraying dignity wouldn’t allow me to walk past Wade again so soon.

And I still have a patrol to do.

This morning was… I don’t even have words for it. I make a list in my head, reviewing what happened today, as I retrieve my suit from the false panel in the ceiling of the closet.

1) After… everything, I panicked in my room for thirty minutes, rubbing the pad of my thumb across my fingertips and reliving the touch of Wade’s scars.

Deadpool’s scars. Hence, the panicking. It’s like the other shoe finally dropped. They’re the same person. Wade is Deadpool. Deadpool is my roommate. Matt must think I’m out of my mind.

Maybe I am.

2) I paced around in a circle — across the floor, up the wall, across the ceiling, down the wall — trying to figure out how it’s possible for Deadpool, Wade, to hide his scars for so long.

But once I started putting Wade and Deadpool together in the same thought, in the same sentence, the answer became obvious. The image inducer. I thought I’d given it back and had just forgotten about it but, apparently, a light-fingered mercenary got to it first.

3) I may have jerked off. Twice.

Can you blame me?

Shit. Now I sound like them. Him. Whatever.

But the sense memory of Wade’s body pressed into mine and Wade’s scars under my fingers was just… it was hot, okay? And he has that body staring at me from underneath his hoodie. What was I supposed to do?

I didn’t even blanch when my fantasy served up an image of what Wade’s dick might look like. I wanted to see him. I wanted to taste him. I wanted things I didn’t even have a name for.

Turns out I might actually be bisexual. Pretty sure straight guys don’t think like that.

I would rather forget, though, that what pushed me over the edge the second time, whimpering into my pillow, webbing sliding unprompted from my wrists, was imagining Wade rasping “You gonna come for me, Spides?” in my ear.

Like, okay, they’re the same person but imagining Deadpool? In that suit? My brain has decided that’s a bridge too far. My dick disagrees but I already got off twice today so the disagreement is more in theory than in practice. For now.

Shit.

What if I get hard around Deadpool tonight?

Maybe I should jerk off again…

4) After my extended “me time,” I was starving so I crawled down the fire escape and went to the El Salvadorian food truck around the corner.

Literally the best pupusas and sopa de mondongo. I had three orders of each while I tried not to think about how much more I’ve been eating recently and why my metabolism might have ratcheted up so high.

Hint: It rhymes with… I don’t what it rhymes with but I’m pretty sure my body is regrowing a stinger.

5) I visited Aunt May.

I don’t normally visit her on Wednesdays but, after Wade called me out for being broke, I needed to remind myself why that doesn’t matter.

The memory care facility is the best one I can afford which is to say not that great but Aunt May seems to like it. And the care team seems to like her. But who wouldn’t, right? Aunt May is the best.

As on most days I visit, she hadn’t recognized me. Not because she doesn’t remember Peter Parker but because the Peter Parker she remembers is much younger. The memories where Aunt May’s mind lives all have Uncle Ben in them. Uncle Ben hale and hardy and alive which means that I’m just a gangly teenager to her. Not a broke photographer in the middle of a sexual identity crisis creeping ever closer to his thirties.

We talked. I got to remember Uncle Ben and see him through Aunt May’s eyes and remember just how in love they were. And I told her about Wade and how confusing it all is.

She had lain a warm, papery hand over mine, looked me in the eye, and said, “He sounds like a nice young man underneath all of that.”

That had almost made me feel better.

6) I walked around the city taking pictures and eating street food until the day started edging into twilight.

7) I snuck back through my window.

8) I’m getting ready for patrol.

I send Matt a text before I start the long process of finding my gloves. I know I should just put them in the ceiling with the rest of my suit but they’re usually the first thing I strip off when I get home and so easy to misplace.

ME: any new info on the unknown merc?

I’ve located one of the gloves shoved between the mattress and the wall and am wiggling out from under my bed empty-handed when I hear my phone vibrate. I tuck the glove I’ve already found into my waistband and rescue my phone from where I left it half shoved under the bed sheet.

MATT: I’m chasing a lead. I should know more by tomorrow night.

ME: should we meet tomorrow then?

MATT: Yeah. Same time and place.

ME: *okay emoji*

The phone vibrates again as soon as I set it on the corner of my desk and turn my back on it. Knowing Matt, this weird straggler text is going to be one that he didn’t want to send. One that I probably don't want to read.

MATT: It might be of benefit to have your merc there. To give us a different perspective.

The content of Matt’s message gets completely lost as my eyes catch on the words your merc. I don’t know exactly what Matt thinks he knows about me and Wade or me and Deadpool but he obviously thinks that it’s more than it is.

I mean, I can’t even summon Deadpool at will. He just sort of shows up to haunt me like a happy-go-lucky poltergeist. It’s not like I can just walk out into the hallway, knock on Wade’s door, and say, “Hey, you want to go on patrol with me tonight? Oh, and by the way, I’m Spider-man.”

Can I?

No.

No.

I think maybe this is something I should keep to myself. Right? I chew on my bottom lip and tap my thumb against the screen of my phone as I stare at the door.

There’s a part of me that thinks it’s wrong not to tell Wade what I know, who I am. But there’s a larger part of me, the part that’s been around a lot longer, that knows how important it is to protect my identity.

Maybe I would have trusted Wade with my secret but I’m not sure I can trust Deadpool. And isn’t that a jarring thought…

I tuck my phone into the pocket sewn into the inside back waistband of my pants and finally see the fingertips of my other glove sticking out from under the stack of to-be-read books on my nightstand.

I yank it out, knocking a book about gene expression off the top of the stack, and start tugging it on my hand. It’s already full dark and I need to get out on patrol.

As I’m climbing over my windowsill and out onto the fire escape, I think about Matt’s text again.

Your merc.

I probably would have tried to find Deadpool tonight anyway, even though everything inside me tells me it’s a bad idea, and now I have the perfect excuse. One that’s not just me wanting to look at him through this new lens I’ve acquired. The one where he’s my roommate.

I latch my web shooters around my wrists and leap off the rickety metal railing. For the next few minutes, while I’m swinging across the city, I can at least pretend the place that I left and the place that I’m going aren’t part of the same horrific comedy of errors. I can almost let my anxiety drain away. For a little while.

I’ll worry about what to say to Deadpool, how to be around Deadpool, if I ever find him.

I’m Spider-man now, though. There’s no more room for anxiety.

WADE

I’m playing with knives when Spider-man finds me. Balancing the end of the hilt on the tip of two fingers before flipping it into the air, grabbing the hilt at the top of the arc, and throwing it at a target across the alley from me. The target may or may not be a representation of Wolvie that I built out of dumpster findings.

I’m not not thinking about the fact that my roommate bolted on me twice this morning while I do it, once when we were having a very not-gay bro hug. It’s hard not to take that personally but the feeling of Petey Pie melting against me goes a long way toward mollifying me.

Well, the memory of that feeling and watching one of my knives sink through faux Wolvie’s chewed-up tennis ball eye.

[And you’ve only “missed” twice.]

Oh, yeah. I’ve only missed twice, catching the knife around the blade hard enough for it to cut through my gloves and the skin underneath on one try and letting the blade fall through the flat of my palm on the other.

{I know what you’re thinking but gravity from standing height doesn’t exert enough force to drive a knife all the way through a human hand. It sunk in half an inch at best.}

Anyway, I’m playing with knives when a shadow descends from above. I snatch the knife out of the air and throw it at him before I realize who it is. Good thing that little fucker is fast. He leaps off his line of webbing and sticks to the wall, leaving my blade to smack into the brick behind where he was just hanging and fall to the pavement.

“Usually you’re more welcoming,” he says as he hops off the wall and lands on his feet.

“That’s what you get for sneaking up on me, Webs. Even I’m not enough of a bastard to throw a knife at Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man on purpose.”

I consider walking past him to pick up the knife but I’ve been feeling weird, jittery, more unpredictable than normal since the white box reappeared and my nerve endings started waking up in fits and starts. The sudden and familiar flaring pain races across my skin one second only to be completely gone the next. It’s fucking with my head. Not hallucinated sink shark fucking with my head but… something.

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure it was an accident that I threw a knife at my superhero man crush. Seems like the kind of self-destructive thing I might do when I’m feeling less than stable.

Which I definitely am.

I’m balancing on that razor’s edge of wanting to hurt myself and wanting to hurt other people. Wanting to feel something myself. Wanting to make other people feel something. Luckily, the white box hasn’t shown up again since this morning. That’s probably the only thing that’s saved me from doing something stupid tonight. Or at least more stupid than usual.

Webs stands there staring at me while I wonder if I will just straight vibrate out of my own pock-marked skin and I realize he’s waiting for me to say something.

[Like hell.]

“You searched me out this time, Spides. This is your TED talk.”

He sighs, a whole world of emotion in it, and rubs a gloved hand over the top of his head. I see the glint of light off the metal of his web shooters and—

I know I just said that I wasn’t going to say anything, that he was going to have to talk first, but there’s enough pain pinballing around in my system, landing some of the time and ghosting past other times, that my thoughts, and my mouth, are off the starting blocks without me.

“Thought you didn’t need those anymore.”

His lenses narrow. {Why is that so hot?} “Need what?”

“The bracelets.” I jut my chin toward his wrists and wonder if Petey Pie got the idea for his bracelet collection from his best friend, Spidey. “Thought you could blow your own wad now and didn’t need a lab-created one.”

He physically flinches which is a very interesting reaction. The most interesting reaction. And one that I want to get to the bottom of as soon as possible. Figuring out that reaction is now the most important thing I’m doing with my night.

Screw Wolvie target practice. This will be way more fun. The jitteriness inside me smoothes out. Apparently, it wasn’t anything a little cat-and-mouse game couldn’t fix.

I edge closer to him, the grin under my mask a little manic, my brain turning over my words and looking for the weak point to prod at.

“You can blow your own wad, can’t you, Spides?”

Another flinch.

{Color me intrigued.}

“Can you stop calling it that?” He finally snaps back at me. “It’s a mutation and I haven’t tested it yet.”

His voice squeaks up on the word tested and I think he might be lying. {Curiouser and curiouser.} I sidle even closer but he must realize what I’m doing because he posts up and crosses his arms over his chest. A mixture of feral glee and something much, much darker tingles along the back of my neck.

Fuck.

[That big, black spider on his chest sure makes a nice target to empty your pistol into, don’t you think, Wade?]

It’s my turn to flinch. I stop stalking him like my feet have been glued to the pavement and tip my head to the side, raising a shoulder, rubbing my ear across the muscle.

[If you concentrate hard enough, I think you could sink a knife into him somewhere. He’s fast but you’ve been killing things for years.]

“Stop,” I mumble, scrubbing my ear against my shoulder harder.

Spidey’s arms uncross and he leans toward me. This is why he’s the Amazing Spider-man. Empathy bleeding out of his ass.

[What else can you make him bleed?]

“Are you okay?”

“You should go, Webs.” The words come out through gritted teeth like I’m fighting with myself not to say them. My brain is fuzzing red at the edges and that desire to hurt something is clawing to get out.

“Deadpool, I’m not going to leave you here if you’re not okay.”

Ugh, yuck. Fucking superheroes. This is part of why I like this asshole so much.

[You won’t miss him when he’s gone, though. You never do.]

A low, animal sound leaves me and instead of walking away like someone smart, Spidey takes a step closer. We’re less than a foot away from each other and my fingers are flexing against my thighs, fidgeting restlessly over the grip of my gun and the hilt of my other other knife.

“Web me up.”

The sentence is a chore but it finally comes out. I don’t even mean it in a kinky way, either. I think… I think I really need someone to stop me.

[Not even he can save you from yourself, Wade.]

“What?”

“Web me up.”

I shake my head hard and reach across my body with one hand intending to break the fingers on the other one. That will give me at least five minutes where I can’t wrap my hand around a weapon. Where I can’t hurt anyone but myself. The logic is flawed somewhere but my brain keeps slipping off of it and the red fuzzes wider in my head. I’m becoming dangerous. Unstable. A super soldier.

“Practice.” My voice is a rough rasp and my muscles are clenched so tight they ache. The ache is good. I need it. “A test.”

“Wade, I—”

A shudder works down my spine and the white box is just screaming now. Filling my head with noise. With the red. I can’t think. I can’t think.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

[So many things are wrong with you. Does he know just how many?]

I lunge at Webs, my body not feeling like my own, my hands gripping hard into his shoulders as I shove him back against the brick wall of the alley.

“Web me up, Spides.” My jaw has loosened and the words are pouring out of me, even as my hands squeeze tighter and tighter around his shoulders. Tight enough that the touch would break a regular person. “Web me up. You have to web me up. Stop me. Stick my arms to my sides, hang me from a fire escape, and get the hell out of here. Web me up. Now.”

“Stop you from what?”

I don’t know if it’s the way my fingers are digging around his shoulders or the near panic I can hear in my own voice or something else entirely, but Spidey listens to me even though I don’t answer his question.

His hands land on my chest and he shoves me backward hard enough to make me stumble. {I honestly forget about that proportional spider strength most of the time but it is a doozy. Almost as hot as the squinty eye thing.} Webs looks a little pained and his chest is heaving like his heart is racing in time with mine and then webbing is sliding out of both wrists and he’s moving around me almost faster than I can see him.

As soon as I realize I can’t move my arms anymore, everything inside of me goes limp.

[You’ll always be a little unstable, soldier. Haven’t you figured that out yet?]

I shake my head again, rubbing my ear against my shoulder, the red receding, the voice receding, now that I can’t move my arms.

[What the fuck was that?]

“You tell me.”

Then Spidey is back in front of me, his lenses narrowed again but it’s concern this time, not irritation.

“Pool, are you okay?”

He reaches up and hooks a hand behind my neck, his fingers squeezing gently and I suck in a startled full breath. Have I even been breathing at all this whole time?

“You’ve never called me ‘Pool’ before.”

What a scintillating post-mental breakdown conversationalist I am.

“You’ve never tried to dislocate my shoulders with your bare hands before.”

“Haven’t I?”

The lower half of his mask twitches as he drops his hand and steps back. I wonder if he’s smiling. “I think I’d remember that.”

I test the web restraints, more out of habit than anything else, and it’s like flexing against a vibranium chain. {Don’t ask me how I know that.} There’s barely any give and I’m not sure my increased strength is enough to move it. Usually, I can wiggle loose at least a little in Spidey’s webbing.

“Change the formula again?” I ask as I shimmy my shoulders and try to create enough space to reach my other other knife.

[No knives. Not yet.]

Oh shit. Yeah. I forgot why I was webbed up in the first place. A wave of searing heat washes over my skin and settles. Not quite all the pain coming back but most of it and I take a deep breath hoping that means the white box is gone.

[You never know with that sneaky bastard.]

I realize there’s no answer from Webs and I look up to see his head turned to the side, giving me an eyeful of that sharp-edged jaw. I want to fucking bite it. He rubs at the back of his neck and I bet he’s blushing under that mask.

Does he know I want to sink my teeth into him?

Fuck. I hope not. Or maybe I hope—

“It’s the organic stuff.”

It’s around then that I realize he’s embarrassed. Like I, the guy who can regrow his fucking legs, am going to make fun of him for producing webbing from his forearms. There are weirder superheroes and villains out there. Hell, his bestie Johnny Storm lights himself on fire.

“Should I feel special?” I ask, wiggling in the web cocoon again. Seriously, though, this stuff is way better than whatever he creates in a lab. I’m probably not freeing a katana this time.

Spidey shuffles his feet and rubs at the back of his neck some more. He’s blushing again, I’m sure of it, and I want to lick the heat off his skin.

[Does the white box make you hornier?]

{Maybe.}

“It just kind of happened,” Webs finally says, crossing his arms over his chest again.

He looks at me. Like looks at me looks at me. I know he wears a mask and how the fuck could I tell but something is different.

“So you’re sayin’ I’m not special?”

“I’m not saying anything, Deadpool.”

His voice is warm like I didn’t just shove him into a brick wall hard enough to break a normal person’s back or squeeze his shoulders hard enough to break a normal person’s arms. His voice is warm like…

Almost like Webs is softening toward me. But that can’t be right.

{Right?}

[Right.]

Then something is off around here…

PETER

Deadpool’s eyes narrow on me. His arms are still webbed tight to his sides and he’s stopped wiggling. My concern from earlier when he shoved me against the wall and all but begged me to web him up is still there, but its teeth have dulled. If I needed any other proof that I’ve officially merged Wade and Deadpool into one person in my mind, this has to be it.

I’m worried about him.

His eyes are still narrowed when he says, “You’re acting weird.”

My heart kicks in my chest. Am I acting weird? I’m trying to act normal. I think I’m acting normal. I run through how our meetings usually go and… maybe I am acting different? Shit. He can’t know. I can’t let him know. Can I?

“I am weird.” Honesty is the best defense. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

His eyes narrow further and his brow furrows and I realize that I know what it looks like now, under the mask. Maybe not the scars that traverse it but I know the shape of it, the way it bunches and smoothes as he makes dinner.

I swallow hard and refocus. Be normal, be normal, be normal. Pretend like my whole worldview didn’t shift wildly this morning.

“You’re not being mean to me,” he says.

And he likes it when I’m mean to him. My stomach flutters and my twice-worked-over cock starts to wake up.

No.

Bad dick.

“You’re not being mean to me,” I retort. If honesty doesn’t work as a defense, maybe belligerence will.

“I threw a knife at you and tried to break your arms,” he points out and I realize we’re having this conversation in a dark alley while one of us is restrained and it sounds like we’re talking about the weather. Like we’re talking in the kitchen, leaning over the island toward each other, drifting closer and closer over time, like magnets.

Was this always going to end up here?

I don’t even know where here is.

“Yeah, but that’s all in a day’s work for you.”

His mask shifts with a smile. A real one. I know the shape of that, too.

“Want to tell me what this is about?” I ask, waving my hand at where he’s still wiggling underneath the layer of my webbing.

“Hot girl shit.”

My eyebrow goes up even though I know he can’t see it. “Being immovably restrained is hot girl shit?”

“For a certain subset of hot girl.” His brows waggle at me under his mask and I bark out a laugh.

I walk toward him, planning to cut him out of the webbing, maybe with the knife still laying on the ground. “Let me—”

“No. Nope. Not yet, Websy.” He hops back once. It should look silly, maybe it does, but it also looks panicked and I stop in my tracks.

Why won’t he let me cut him free? Why did I even need to web him up in the first place? What is wrong here? Because something is wrong.

I look at Deadpool and I think about everything I know about him. And then everything I know about Wade. Getting information out of either of them isn’t a linear process so if I want to know what’s going on, and I do, I really, really do, then I’m going to have to finesse it out of him.

Come at it obliquely.

I step back until my back hits the alley wall before using my hands and feet behind me to scramble up a few feet and sit down. I cross my arms over my chest and watch Deadpool and wait.

It doesn’t take long.

“Is this a new interrogation technique? Because those squinty-eyed lenses are not doing what you think they’re doing.”

I relax back against the wall. “And what do I think they’re doing?”

“Intimidating me.”

He’s right. “But they’re not?” It’s stupid to be disappointed that what is a very well-trodden tough guy routine for me isn’t as tough as I thought.

“No, Webs. They are not.”

The tone of his voice sends a shiver down my spine and I remember how it felt to be pressed against him this morning. With the lenses hiding the direction of my gaze, I let my eyes trail down Deadpool’s body. Most of it is obscured by the webbing but the broad shoulders are obvious, the thick neck, the squared-off jaw. And before I can stop myself, I’m opening my mouth and asking for something that I know I shouldn’t. I'll just have to pretend that it's part of my plan to obliquely figure out what's going on rather than the fishing expedition it actually is.

“Tell me about your roommate.”

He doesn’t even have the decency to act like he’s surprised. “Why? Jealous?”

“Not quite.” I laugh because what else am I supposed to do? That gets a reaction out of him; I can see the scowl forming under his mask. Does he want me to be jealous? What does it mean if he does?

My jerk-off fantasy from earlier bursts into the front of my mind even though I’ve been trying to suppress it all day. A rasped You gonna come for me, Spides? spoken directly into my ear. Imagining not just Wade but Deadpool.

“What do you like about your roommate?”

Maybe, if I have to listen to Deadpool objectify Peter Parker, I can kill the images lurking around inside my head.

“He’s got a good eye.”

It’s not the body part I was expecting him to compliment. “A what?”

“A good eye.” Deadpool warms to his subject quickly, leaning forward excitedly, trying to draw me into the conversation. “He’s a photographer and the pictures he takes are beautiful. Breathtaking. There’s this one of the sun rising over the city taken from the top of a building that’s…”

He trails off but I know exactly what photo he’s talking about. I’d had a bad night that night, as Spider-man, and I’d climbed to the top of a spire with my camera around my neck to take that picture. I’d wanted a reminder that, even after the darkest nights, the sun rises.

The fact that Deadpool might have recognized that feeling when he looked at the photograph makes my chest squeeze.

“You’ve probably seen it,” he finally continues. “You’re friends with him. I bet you’ve seen a lot of his stuff.”

I almost laugh. If we had had this conversation two weeks ago, I wouldn’t be in this mess. Sitting on a brick wall, looking down at a tied-up mercenary, feeling like my heart is raw and he can see it. Even through all the blood and bones and viscera in the way.

“Peter,” I say. And it feels weird to say my name to Deadpool, like an unmasking but not.

“Yeah!” He chirps, wiggling under the webbing again. “Have you two ever fucked? And if so, can you give me as many details as possible? I’m trying to construct an image in my head.”

“We have definitely never had sex.”

“That sounds like one of those denials that’s not really a denial, you know?” He tilts his head and peers at me like he can see the truth. If he did see the truth, I wonder how he would take it. “Normally, you’d tell me it’s not any of my business.”

“Because it’s not.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Whatever you think you know, I assure you that you are nowhere near the truth.”

“Ooo, assurances. How fancy.”

I huff out a breath and hop down off the wall. He’s still annoying, apparently. And I’m no closer to figuring out why I had to wrap him up in webbing.

“You ready for me to cut you free yet?”

I stoop to retrieve the knife he threw at me when I snuck up on him and look up to see him rubbing his ear across his shoulder and muttering quietly to himself. Because he’s crazy. A psychopath. No matter how many fancy breakfasts he makes me.

The reminder slips between my ribs like a knife.

I don’t wait for his answer as I step around behind him, wedging the blade between the webbing and his suit, cutting down in one smooth motion. He’s right. The webbing is sturdy and doesn’t have much give to it. I try not to think about the fact that my body made it.

He stands stock still as I walk around in front of him, then he shakes his head and starts pushing his way out of the restraints.

I watch him a little too closely as he peels the webbing off his suit, his muscles bunching and flexing under the fabric. Leaving a pile of organic webbing and a few wisps still clinging to him. I reach out and smooth my hand down his arm without thinking, the webbing coming loose as the grip on my fingertips catches it.

Under my hand, Deadpool goes still again and I know that if I lift my head, he’s going to be looking at me.

Be normal, be normal, be normal.

Except I can’t remember what normal is around him anymore.

“I didn’t come looking for you to talk about your roommate,” I say finally, pulling my hand back. “Or to test the organic webbing although I guess I should thank you for that.”

“Why did you come looking for me?” His voice sounds strange, halting. I still don’t look up.

“Daredevil and I need your expert opinion on something.”

The air grows thick and heavy between us. It pulses with possibility like there are so many ways this could go. The bubble of promise expands underneath my skin.

Then Deadpool pops it and I tell myself it’s for the best even if my body disagrees.

“You say expert like it’s a slur. I know it hurts not to be the smartest one on the block anymore, Spides, but I promise I won’t rub it in.”

I look up at him, finally, our eyes clashing across the space between us.

“Are you okay?”

I don’t mean to ask, mostly because it’s obvious that he’s not. It’s in the way he stands, the way he’s talking to me, the webbing that still drapes over one shoulder.

I expect him to volley back at me like he always does. Something nonsensical and irritating but he just keeps looking at me. I wonder what he sees. Does he see Peter?

He tips his head down to watch his knife slide into a sheath at his hip and the spell is broken. I realize how deeply I’m breathing, how fast my heart is pounding, how I’m leaning toward him.

This is Deadpool. This is Wade. This is both of them and I want to press myself against him again. I think he needs it. I think I need it.

Except, to him, I’m just Spider-man.

His eyes dart around the alley, landing anywhere but on me. He finally answers my question, voice quiet and unsure, and I wish I’d never heard it.

“I’ve never been okay, Webs.”

Chapter Text

PETER

I remember how Wade hugged me this morning in the kitchen when I was hit broadside by the reality that he was Deadpool and, for a second, as I look at him with his shoulders slumped and still dusted with webbing, I consider returning the favor. I think about what it would be like to step into the heat of his body and wrap my arms around him and smooth my hand up and down his back the way he did for me.

But I don’t. I can’t.

Because he’s Deadpool.

And I’m Spider-man.

WADE

I might be a little bit of a drama queen but normally I wouldn’t tell Spidey the truth. Normally, I wouldn’t tell anyone the truth. But the return of the white box is fucking up my shit.

And, yes, there is something to be said for being restrained by a hot, spandex-coated twink but even that has only smoothed the edges a little. My brain is still pinballing back and forth between hurt him and hurt yourself even if the ricochet from one thought to the other has slowed down.

“When’s this meeting of the minds?” I ask, trying to claw my way back to some semblance of normalcy in this conversation.

[As if you’ll ever be normal.]

{I know, right?}

Spidey doesn’t answer right away. When I look up at him, his lenses are narrowed {droooool} and he’s looking at me like I’m a reanimated corpse.

[Not far from the truth, to be honest.]

His gaze skates over my body again and he reaches out and uses his weird, little grippy fingers to pluck more webbing off my shoulder. {God, I really wish I could enjoy the fact that I was just tied down by Spider-man’s brand new, organic webbing but my brain is still a barren and overfull place. I know that doesn’t make sense, but that’s how it feels.} His attention twists and reshapes my insides and I don’t know whether to shy away from it or lean into it. I’m glad, again, for the return of my sidekick, Excruciating Amounts of Pain, which means I can barely feel his touch.

“Tomorrow.”

{Wait. What are we talking about?}

Spidey must see my confusion because the bottom of his mask turns down and he repeats himself. “Daredevil and I are meeting tomorrow. Eleven pm at Mather Metal.”

I nod like I know what that means.

He lets out a sigh. “We want you to be there. We might need some mercenary insight.”

Right. Team Red. Expert testimony. Unknown mercenary. Blah blah blah. I’m pretty sure I’ve already told Blind Matt of the Catholic Guilt everything I plan on telling him but I won’t turn down an opportunity to rub up against those two. Figuratively or literally.

“You’re coming right?”

“Only if I’m lucky.”

[Don’t think that’s what he meant.]

The disgusted noise Spidey makes seems to back that up. But he doesn’t ask if I’m okay again so I must be doing a passable job of pretending like I’m normal. Like this is normal. Like he didn’t ask in the first place.

“I know normal is relative,” I say out loud before anyone else can say it in my head.

“Is that a yes?”

I didn’t forget that Spider-man was right in front of me but I didn’t exactly remember either.

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow,” he repeats firmly as if the more he stresses the syllables the more they’ll embed themselves into my brain. It doesn’t work that way. I’ve tried. “Eleven. Mather Metal.”

“Pencilling it in as we speak, Websy.”

Another beleaguered sigh gusts out from behind the red spandex and black stitching of his mask. “You’re not going to remember, are you?”

“We’ll find out tomorrow. I always did love a surprise.”

He lifts a hand from where it’s resting on his twink hips and rubs it over the top of his head. He’s not as tense as he normally is when he’s talking to me, like everything I say winds his clockwork key tighter, and I take a minute to consider that this might be a dream.

Exhibit A: I was definitely tied up and restrained by a man that I’ve been crushing on for ages.

Exhibit B: He used the freaky-deaky organic webbing he produces inside his own body.

Exhibit C: He cut me out of the restraints using my own knife. {Which is a bucket list thing for me. You have no idea how fast the blood rushed to my dick with that one. I think I almost collapsed.}

Exhibit D: He touched me unprompted to help me clean the webbing off.

Exhibit E: I was invited to team up for a mission with said man crush and his horny devil sidekick. {Literally, not figuratively. Unfortunately.}

Exhibit…

Fuck.

I lost track.

But you get the point. That’s a lot of italicized turn-ons for one real-life meeting.

[If this were a dream, you’d already have his dick in your mouth.]

{True.}

Which means this is probably real even though it doesn’t resemble our normal interactions in the slightest.

“I’ll make you a deal.”

“Oh goody.” My voice comes out slurred. I feel it more than hear it, sliding out of my mouth slow and slushy. I forgot how much hating yourself can take it out of you.

“Wade.”

I blink and focus my blurry vision on the vision standing in front of me. Pretty little superhero scowling through his mask, using that sharpish bossy voice that I’ve heard often enough that I can imagine he said my real name in that tone.

“Oui, ma belle petite araignée?”

“You speak French?”

“I’m Canadian.”

“What does that— You know what? Nevermind.” He steps closer and I stare at the spider on his chest with what I know is probably a goofy grin on my face. {That’s why we wear masks, kids!} I would never shoot him in his dumb logo even if it does make the perfect target. “The deal. You meet me early and you can help me test out my spinnerets. And stinger.”

My whole brain focuses like I’ve just been dropped behind enemy lines with an objective tucked in my front pocket. That is a good fucking deal.

“That is a good fucking deal.”

“You’ll remember it?”

“Webs. Websy. Spidey Cakes. I would need a brain transplant to make me forget it.”

“Tomorrow, then. Back here at… nine?”

It’s earlier than I would usually leave the apartment especially now that I’m trying to wring dry every moment I have with Petey Pie but I can’t resist the lure of more restraint via organic webbing and paralysis via neurotoxin.

[Who could?]

“Deal. Do we sign the contract in blood or should we just shake on it?”

I thrust my hand out and notice that my arm is swaying a little bit where it’s extended out in front of me. Spidey’s lenses narrow on the movement and I wonder if this is the moment when he tells me to drop to my knees and suck his dick because I still can’t convince myself this is real.

His hand, all long, elegant fingers and graceful movements, reaches slowly toward mine but stops before it gets there. He snatches it back and plunks it onto his hip again.

“Verbal confirmation is fine.”

“Ah. The oral tradition. A man after my own heart.”

The slight movement of his head tells me that Spidey is probably rolling his eyes at me. That’s more like it usually is so maybe this is real?

My brain gnaws around the edges of that conundrum while we stand a meter away from each other in a dark alley. A stand-off but with something bordering on empathy instead of guns.

I don’t know if I like it. This Spidey gets my hopes up. I need mean Spidey back to remind me what a piece of trash I am.

[You are a piece of trash.]

{Aww, at least you’re always on my side.}

Everything hits me like a truck then. {Yes, I know what that’s like.} I feel tired. Like I’m weaving on my feet and I know that I should go home and sleep. Or, at the very least, start on the butter churn. [Chicken coop.] Chicken coop.

And I definitely, definitely need to distance myself from Spides before he asks me if I’m okay again and I really do—

[Drop to your knees and suck his dick. We get it.]

Maybe I’ll go back to the apartment and slather all these soft feelings onto Pistol Pete. Drip over him like honey. Maybe I’ll drop to my knees and suck his cock. That, at least, will end without getting a forearm-length stinger in the side of my neck for my troubles.

Not that swallowing Petey Pie down my throat would be any trouble at all.

“Now that you’ve made your Faustian bargain—”

“That’s not what that was.”

“—that’s my cue to leave before you change your mind.” I ignore Spider-man’s nerdy correction even though it makes my blood run hot but I can’t ignore him, still standing too close and looking too empathetic.

His lenses narrow again as I take a step toward the street and my leg nearly collapses under me. Shit. I’m really fucking tired. And I don’t want him to be concerned about me. {I don’t think I could take it.} So I roll it into throwing an arm around his neck and bussing the side of his head with my mask-covered lips before spinning away.

“Have a good patrol, baby boy. I’m off to get some ice cream,” I holler behind me as I stumble out of the alley. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

There aren’t, as you probably already know, a lot of things that I wouldn’t do.

PETER

I’m worried about Deadpool. Wade.

I watched him stumble drunkenly out of the alley an hour ago and I’ve been drumming my fingers and biting my lip and bouncing my leg ever since.

He’s fine, I’ve been telling myself. A grown man. A terrifying mercenary. A really good cook. But I can’t get the sound of his slurred voice and the sight of his slumped shoulders out of my head. It doesn’t help that this patrol is dead.

Not a single basic mugging.

Not an old lady to help across the street.

Not even someone jaywalking.

I’ve paced around the perimeter of this rooftop, tapping my fingers against the outside of my thigh, at least fifteen times and I feel like I’m going to vibrate right out of my skin. I lost count of how many times I’ve pulled my cell phone out of my waistband pocket and stared at Wade’s number before putting it away without doing anything.

I’ve had his number since I moved in but I haven’t used it and if I start now it will look weird. What could I even say?

Hey. Just checking in with you, roomie. You looked real bad shuffling down the alleyway an hour ago. By the way, I’m Spider-man.

Ugh. No.

This time, when I fish my phone out of my pocket, I scroll to a different name.

ME: I gotta work early cover patrol for me?

I’m leaping across the gap between two buildings before I even hit send. It’s not going to hurt anything if I start heading back to the apartment now. If no one can cover the patrol, I’ll just turn back around and stay out here.

MILES: its 2 late 2 be texting me

ME: then why are you answering?

MILES: the city needs me obvi

ME: does that mean you can cover?

MILES: already out the window

MILES: go get some sleep old man

Normally, I’d meet up with Miles, check in, see how things are going with him but I’m not sure I can physically turn away from the apartment right now. As much as I hate the idea of leaving Miles without backup, my brain just won’t let go of what happened with Deadpool in the alley tonight. Something was wrong and I just…

I just need to make sure Wade is okay.

Anyway, Miles has other people he can reach out to and he’s been asking to do more patrols on his own. If I track him down, he’ll just mock me for being a mother hen and make me listen to whatever music is on his playlist at top volume.

I mean, I’m not old old but I’m definitely too old for the volume that Miles listens to his music at.

The apartment is quiet when I climb through the window ten minutes later and, for a second, I worry that Deadpool didn’t really turn in for the night and I should go back out into the city to make sure that a certain mercenary isn’t causing problems. Or passed out in traffic. Then, I hear the squeaking slide of a window opening followed by a thump and a curse from the end of the hall, and realize that I beat him home.

Maybe he really did stop for ice cream.

Or maybe it took him an hour and fifteen minutes to drunkenly weave his way across the city.

Shit.

I hope he’s okay.

I strip out of my suit faster than usual, burying it at the bottom of my laundry basket and shoving my web shooters into the back of my underwear drawer.

With a change of clothes in my arms, I dart across the hall to the bathroom for a shower. The hot water feels good against my skin but I don’t linger because I need to lay eyes on Wade and make sure he’s okay.

I dry off and dress in record time, wondering if I should try my hand at making Wade dinner even if it would only be peanut butter sandwiches. But when I walk out into the main living space, I forget that plan entirely when I lay eyes on him.

Wade is sitting in the dining room hunched over the mess of lumber and amputated table legs I noticed the other day. There’s a handsaw, a hammer, and a pile of assorted nails next to him but he’s currently measuring the length of one of the legs. The back of his hands are red and shiny with scar tissue as his deft fingers smooth the tape measure against the wood and I realize that the image inducer must be off. I wonder if he heard me come in.

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t jump at the question but he does immediately drop the table leg and the tape measure to shove his hands into the pocket of his joggers. I watch as the photostatic veil flickers and pops across his skin before settling into Meathead Jock Roommate, hiding the Sociopathic Muscle Mercenary underneath.

“I know you’re a city mouse, Petey Pie, but this is called providing for your family.”

“Really?” I ask, ignoring the wave of relief that sweeps through me when his voice sounds normal. Not the wavering slur from earlier. “You want to unpack that statement for me a little bit?”

“And here I thought you were so smart,” he teases, shoving himself to his feet and turning toward me.

Goddamn it.

He’s not wearing a shirt under his hoodie. Again.

I manage to corral my eyes before they take the walking tour of Wade’s bare chest and crinkle my brow at him instead.

“Even smart people can’t understand nonsense, Wade.”

“Ouch.” He clasps his hands over his chest like I’ve grievously wounded him and staggers back a step. “I guess I’ll be eating my omelettes alone while you look on with your Oliver Twist eyes and starve.”

I shake my head, trying not to smile. “Nope. Still doesn’t make any sense. Back up further.”

“It’s a chicken coop!” Wade sweeps his arms behind him at the disparate pile of construction materials and then turns back to me, a grin spreading across his lips and his eyes twinkling. He must read something in my face because he course corrects. “It’s going to be a chicken coop!”

“Why would you need a chicken coop?”

“I think you mean, why would we need a chicken coop?”

“Trust me, I do not mean that.”

I expect my firm sarcasm and slight frowny face to dim the light in his eyes but, if anything, it gets brighter. And one corner of his mouth kicks up higher than the other like I’ve pleased him so much that he has no choice but to smile wider. I realize that I’ve seen this grin before. That I know how it bunches up one side of his mask more than the other.

“Fresh eggs, Pete.”

I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest and definitely don’t fight a smile. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”

“Yes. I said fresh eggs.”

“Wade, I don’t think chickens are suited to apartment living. Coop or not.”

“Well...” He crouches down and starts arranging the table legs into a square shape. “I thought about getting a pig, you know, for bacon but once you eat the bacon the pig is gone. And maybe that’s not kosher? Anyway, chickens seemed smarter—”

“Chickens are definitely not smarter than pigs.” He ignores me like I didn’t even say anything.

“— and if one of those little fuckers steps out of line and starts pecking at you,” Wade draws his thumb across the front of his throat, “roast chicken dinner.”

“And who’s going to kill and clean this chicken? You? Do you even know how to do that?”

He pauses and looks up at me, genuinely confused. “Who doesn’t know how to do that?”

Right, I almost forgot. He’s a mercenary. A killer. Very good with a knife.

He seems fine, crouched down and writing what looks like measurements into a graphing notebook I just noticed, so I could leave it here. I could pretend he didn’t beg me to restrain him earlier tonight. I could act like I only see what he’s showing me. Except, something was wrong with him and my conscience (sure, let’s go with conscience) won’t let me leave it alone.

Even with all that swimming through my head, I surprise myself when I open my mouth and say, “Want to watch a movie?”

Wade’s head pops up fast enough that I’m surprised I don’t hear his neck crack.

“Yes, ohmygod, I bought ice cream, sit down.” His words come out fast as he stands up, practically herding me toward the couch before peeling off into the kitchen and rooting around in the freezer. “What do you like, Shutterbug? I got The Tonight Dough, Cherry Garcia, Chunky Monkey, uh… well, there’s four pints of Chunky Monkey because that’s my favorite.”

He looks at me over his shoulder where I’ve stopped next to the couch, his brow furrowed and his lower lip snagged between his teeth like he’s worried that four pints of Chunky Monkey says something about his mental state that building a chicken coop in an apartment didn’t say.

“Chunky Monkey’s great.”

His grin is blinding.

I've just started tucking myself into one corner of the couch when Wade vaults over the back with a pint of ice cream and a spoon in each hand. He shoves one at me then snatches up the remote and flicks through the streaming services. He has more than one which was definitely a selling point when I signed the rental agreement.

He flips through like he’s on a mission until he lands on a movie thumbnail with a light pink background.

“Dirty Dancing?”

“Yesss.” He pivots to me on the couch, his photostatic veil mimicking the happy flush I wouldn’t be able to see on his scarred face. “Haven’t you ever wanted to be on a seemingly boring vacation in the Catskills with your family only to fall in love with a hunky dance instructor?”

“Uh… no?”

“Oh, Petey Pie.” He sidles closer to me on the couch until our shoulders are pressed together and hits play. “You have so much to learn.”

So… we watch Dirty Dancing. And eat ice cream. And Wade stays pressed to my side, heat pumping off of him like a furnace, the entire time.

Okay. Not the entire time.

Because as soon as he finishes his pint of ice cream, he slumps into me, grabbing my arm and draping it around his neck until his head nestles into the front of my shoulder.

I think about pushing him away. I know who he is, after all, and getting any closer to him as Peter Parker feels a lot like lying. But then I remember the sound of his voice, scraped with pain and panic, as he begged me to web him up and I don’t.

Instead, just as Johnny is lifting Baby out of the lake successfully for the first time, I turn and shift down the couch until I’m laying on my back and Wade is wedged next to me, one arm draped over my waist and his head tucked into my chest. He doesn’t say anything, hasn’t said anything this whole time actually, but his arm does tighten around me once before relaxing again.

I tell myself that I just want him to feel better, and I do, but that reason is so far down the list of why I’m actually doing what I'm doing that I feel like an asshole. Because the other reasons aren’t about him, they’re about me.

I like the warmth of him pressed into my side.

I like the way his muscles flex under my hand as I smooth it up and down his spine.

I like the heavy weight of his body as he relaxes into the couch, into me.

When I remind myself that this is Deadpool half-asleep next to me, it doesn’t even matter. It is Deadpool. And it’s Wade.

“Wade?”

He tips his head up until his chin rest on my chest and I can look into his (fake) blue eyes. “Yeah, Shutterbug.”

His face is so close to mine and I can feel his breath against my mouth and if someone asked me, on pain of death, what was happening in the movie right now, I wouldn’t be able to tell them.

“You’re awfully quiet. You feeling okay?”

A soft smile, one I know I’ve never seen under his mask, plays at the corners of his mouth. “Never better, baby boy.”

Baby boy.

He calls me that when he’s Deadpool and I’m Spider-man.

He called me that tonight just after he tugged me into him and kissed my temple.

I slide my hand up his spine until it’s cupped around the back of his neck, underneath the hood of his sweatshirt. I can feel the rough texture of his scars against my palm. This is Deadpool. This is Wade.

And, in this moment, I want both of them.

If my brain were actually in charge, what happens next wouldn’t have happened. None of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have cuddled up on the couch with him. I wouldn’t have followed him home.

I wouldn’t be pressing my mouth against his, craning my neck down to reach, dragging my tongue along the seam of his lips. I wouldn’t be groaning while he shifts up onto his arms, braced over me and opening his mouth for me. I wouldn’t be wrapping my arms around his neck and pulling him down on top of me, panting into his mouth and the heat and weight of him. I wouldn’t be sucking on his tongue, trying to draw out the husky whimpers he makes.

Even though he’s moved over me, he lets me lead. He lets me lick at the inside of his mouth. He lets me nip at his lips. He huffs out a moan when I tighten one hand around the back of his neck and fist my other into the back of his hoodie. He brokenly murmurs one of my nicknames, shutterbug, as I nudge his chin up with my nose and nibble along his jawline, tracing the scars I can feel under my mouth with the tip of my tongue.

I’m hard, achingly so. Probably needy enough that there’s a wet spot forming on the front of my sweatpants. The only thing keeping me from shoving my hand down the front of my pants and stroking myself is the grip I have on the back of Wade’s hoodie and my focus on the sounds he makes as I suck on his neck just below the hinge of his jaw.

I’ve never been with a guy but I’m not even thinking about that right now because it doesn’t matter that Wade is a guy. It matters that I want to taste him and touch him and hear him pant.

I roll my hips up just enough that the tip of my cock drags against Wade’s stomach, the sensation making my balls and the ends of my fingers tingle. I yank his head down and shove my tongue back into his mouth as an electric spark sizzles down my spine, pooling between my thighs and zapping along my forearms.

My fingers clench in Wade’s hoodie and I shiver at the feeling of something sliding along the sensitive skin of my inner forearm. Not from the outside, though. From the inside.

Reality drops around me again all at once, like Wile E. Coyote getting crushed under a falling piano.

This is Deadpool with my tongue in his mouth.

I am Spider-man.

And I’m pretty sure I’m about to web myself.

I drop my hands to Wade’s chest and shove him into the back of the couch while I roll off the front, scrambling away on all fours before standing with my hands in front of my very hard dick and my lungs heaving.

“I, uh— this is—” Shit. With the way he’s sprawled back on the couch, I can see how the flush on his face has traveled down his chest. My cock and forearms throb and a shiver races down my spine. “I can’t do this. We can’t do this.”

And then I’m waddling toward my room, my stiff dick leaking into the front of my pants and my brain desperately trying to forget the sound of Wade’s moans.

Just before I slam my bedroom door shut, I hear Wade. Deadpool. Who always has to get the last goddamn word.

“Petey Pie! You’re going to miss the final dance number!”

WADE

Holy.

Fucking.

Shit.

I pause the movie because I’m not about to miss the final dance number and lick around my mouth, trying to gather any leftover taste of Petey Pie on my tongue. Because I know what he tastes like now.

{Rainbows. Unicorns. Kittens. Chunky Monkey ice cream.}

[That last one, at least, is probably true.]

I’m not sure I believe in God but, if I did, I’d believe that she sent me exactly what I needed tonight. A cuddly little twink with a perfect ass and a huge dick {yes, I checked} to ask me if I’m feeling okay and then tongue-fuck me into a quieter brain.

It worked.

Except, now that I don’t have Shutterbug’s teeth in my jaw, my brain is warming up like a symphony orchestra. All discordant and out of tune. It’s jarring to go from thinking solely with your dick about someone else’s dick to thinking about…

What am I thinking about?

There’s something there but I can’t latch onto it.

[You should just leave it alone.]

Something careful about the way he talked to me.

[Don’t worry about it.]

Something familiar about the way he asked if I was okay.

[Forget it, Wade.]

[You just need to go to sleep.]

I really should sleep. I drag my limp ass off the couch and turn off all the lights in the apartment as I make my way down the hall toward my room. I absolutely do not pause creepily outside of Petey Pie’s room for an indeterminate amount of time.

{What am I missing?}

[Stop thinking about it.]

When I finally make it to my room, I latch the three deadbolts behind me, empty the knife out of my pocket, and shrug out of my hoodie. Something on the shoulder catches my eye as I toss it over the back of a chair. Something white and fuzzy that stands out against the black fabric. I lean closer, stretching out the sleeves, and see that it’s webbing.

I pluck one of the strands off the fabric and rub it between my fingers. It’s slightly sticky but my fingertips slide over it like silk. Definitely Webs’s webs but it feels different than what he wrapped me up in tonight. And that was when I was Deadpool anyway.

Wasn’t it?

How did the webbing get from my uniform onto my hoodie?

And why does the tensile strength feel different?

Has this whole night just been some kind of pain-free, white box, fever dream?

Or is there something else—

[We told you. Just leave it alone.]

.

.

.

Leave what alone, though?

Chapter Text

WADE

Let’s look at the facts.

Something’s wrong. Weird.

And I don’t think it’s my brain this time.

[It’s always our brain.]

{Fine. Not just my brain.}

Petey Pie was already at work by the time I got up this morning and I spent the first hour of consciousness pacing back and forth in front of his door with coffee in my hand and my brain cranking at top speed.

[Still not very fast, though, yeah?]

Last night was real. The webbing is still on my uniform. And somehow on my hoodie. But they’re not the same. I’m no arachnologist but I am very well-versed in ropes and it turns out that’s a crossover field of study.

I’m also pretty sure that I was behaving normally {enough} when Shutterbug found me trying to assemble the chicken coop. So… how would he have known I wasn’t okay? How would he have known that I needed to watch Dirty Dancing, eat Chunky Monkey, and cuddle on the couch?

There’s one obvious reason and I’m not sure how to feel about it: Did Spidey tell him?

The thought of Spider-man thinking I’m fragile enough that he has to text his best friend who just happens to be my roommate to pity suck my face is… brilliant strategy, to be honest, but also feels fucking terrible. The idea that two hot twinks are talking to each other about my most recent mental breakdown is not the kind of Peter Parker/Spider-man sandwich I was hoping to be in the middle of.

<Ooo, so close. Keep mulling that one over.>

I want to figure it out. Of course, I do. But I’m also neck deep in reliving the hottest make-out session I’ve participated in since REDACTED.

My nerdy, painfully awkward roommate with the hard-on for bracelets also had a hard-on for me. I felt it, hard and hot and damp, rubbing across my stomach. If I hadn’t needed to keep myself braced over him, I could have felt it rub against my cock. But Petey Pie just stopped being scared of me. He’s also strung tighter than a bow so I think he probably just started crossing the rainbow bridge. [That’s not what that means.] So, as much as I wanted to pin him to the couch with my body weight and frot his brains out while he sucked on my tongue, I resisted.

Pretty sure that’s called growth.

Or, you know, it’s called me seeing the inevitable end of that scenario where he dives back into the closet, deeper than he was before, and I have to find a new roommate that doesn’t have a throughline to Spider-man.

I take the sandwich I just made and post up outside Pete’s bedroom again, thinking about how easy it would be to pick the lock. His room has an inside lock just like mine does but I installed it and he hasn’t upgraded it. I could crack that thing in less than five seconds.

Maybe I installed that specific lock for this specific eventuality.

[Maybe?]

Okay. Yes. I did.

But I like Shutterbug. He’s cute and sweet and a whole host of other things that I don’t get to have in my life very often. I could break in. I could look around. I wouldn’t even feel that guilty. But I’d feel a little guilty and—

Chicken coop!

That’s what today needs.

The walk away from Petey Pie’s door is hard. I can feel the lure of it like a physical thing. That idiot with the astronauts and the golden sheepskin would have you believe that naked, beautiful, half-fish women that sing opera are man’s downfall but it’s curiosity. Plain and simple.

Wish I could lash myself to a mast for the rest of the day but that makes me think of Webs and I’m already confused enough about one gorgeous, sharp-tongued man so I shake that thought away.

I spend the next two hours alternately fiddling with the pieces of the chicken coop I’ve assembled and bouncing around the apartment. And maybe I wander past Shutterbug’s room a few times, too.

[A few times?]

Several times.

I haven’t done more than sketch a blueprint for this godforsaken chicken prison when I give it up for a lost cause because I can’t fucking focus.

Or I can focus. Just not on that.

Even sitting cross-legged in the dining room, I can feel the pull of that room on the back of my brain. The door doesn’t morph into a beckoning, singing mermaid but it might as well have. I can feel it. I can hear it.

Fuck. I want to go in there so bad. Something is weird. Something is wrong. And it’s probably false that all the answers are behind that door but… what if it isn’t?

<You’d get all your answers.>

I want all the answers.

<No one will ever know.>

No one would ever know.

[You’d know.]

Yeah. But do I care?

I scrub my hands hard back and forth over my face until it burns. Fuck. I do care. I don’t want to break whatever fragile thing is growing between Shutterbug and me.

<That’s what you do best, though, isn’t it? Break things?>

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

Let me tell you something, the day goes S L O W when you’re fighting against your impulses.

I think about a lot of things every time I find myself lingering at that door but it isn’t until I’m standing in front of it for the hundredth time today, half reliving Shutterbug’s teeth in my jaw and half wanting to kick the fucking door in, that I remember the image inducer. Specifically that it makes me look different but it doesn’t actually change anything. Which means Petey Pie was licking at my scars last night. He would have felt them under his tongue. He would have felt the way my healing factor pumps out heat like I’m dying of sepsis.

And he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t stop.

{Something is weird. Something is wrong.}

<Maybe you kick that door down and see what he’s been hiding from you.>

[Maybe we just let our roommate have some goddamn privacy.]

<You’re never any fun.>

[What are you even doing here?]

<So rude. In a few chapters, you’re going to be glad I’m here.>

“I’ll turn this car around if you two don’t stop fighting.”

Jesus, these voices.

I reach out and lay my hand flat against Shutterbug’s door, drumming my fingertips against it, itching to shove it open and search every nook and cranny for intel. I thought I wanted to know before, back when he was just Spider-man’s best friend and personal photographer, but that want has nothing on this want. Now that I’ve had his tongue in my mouth and his body pinned under mine, the want is metastasizing in my blood.

And I know a thing or two about metastasizing.

{Because of the cancer.}

“Fuck.”

I spin and march to my own room, slamming the door shut behind me and sliding all the deadbolts closed like that will keep me from ransacking my roommate’s bedroom.

<You’re boring when you’re stable. Let’s play with knives.>

I scrub the heel of my hand roughly over my temple. I was doing so good, relatively speaking. So good for me at least. Now my skin feels like it’s going to crawl right off my bones and that deep, animal part of my brain is waking up. The one that makes some of the less palatable parts of my job easier, enjoyable.

<Don’t worry, Wade. I’m here for a good time, not a long time.>

A growl leaves my throat and I smack my forehead against the edge of my dresser searching for the kind of pain that will make all this bearable.

[Is this your idea of a good time?]

“Can we think about something else, please?” The words are ground out between my clenched teeth and I’m breathing faster than normal.

<Like what, your little Spider-man conundrum?>

[…]

<Oh, I’m sorry. Your little roommate conundrum.>

Spider-man, roommate. Roommate, Spider-man. Fuck. It’s right fucking there.

Spider-man…

Shit.

Spider-man.

I have a meeting with Spider-man.

I glance at the clock, groaning as I strip out of my clothes and start pulling on my suit.

Apparently, you can waste an entire day staring holes into your roommate’s door and arguing with the voices in your head.

<Actually, I think that’s just you.>

PETER

Work was a shitshow today. I was supposed to be placating my boss by staying around the Bugle offices, helping out, being gopher, whatever, but I couldn’t focus. My brain kept pinging between panic and lust, both for the same reason.

I kissed Wade.

I kissed Deadpool.

And it was… fuck.

The near miss with my webbing was bad enough but at least it saved me from making a worse mistake. Going further with him when I know the truth and he doesn’t. But after, while I was locked in my room and coming into my hand, I thought about it all over again. The press of his body against mine. The way he fit against me. The sounds he made while I tasted him.

My brain isn’t just full of images from last night, either. It’s not even full of images of only Wade. While I was elbow-deep in the ten-year-old copier, trying to fix a paper jam, I had a very vivid fantasy of grabbing Deadpool by those stupid sword straps that cross his broad chest and shoving him into a wall before crawling up his body and thrusting my tongue into his mouth.

He’d taste just like Wade. I know he would.

Because they’re the same person.

God. How did this become my life?

I avoid the apartment even when Jameson finally dismisses me from his office with a scowl at six pm. My suit is in my backpack and, thanks to Wade’s Martha Stewart routine, I have enough money in my bank account to buy myself dinner.

I consider calling Miles to see if he wants to meet up but there was a text waiting for me this morning that made it very clear that things went fine on patrol last night and if I asked him about it he was going to scream. Plus, he has some big test coming up and he’s told me repeatedly that, if I’m not going to tutor him, I need to just leave him alone.

And he absolutely does not want me as a tutor so…

That’s how I end up hunched over three special plates at a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant with someone’s honest-to-god nonna in the kitchen. I’m still hungry after three plates but I can’t really afford more so I muddle through some basic, complimentary Italian, tip high, and leave with two extra pieces of garlic bread in my hands.

Nonna likes someone with an appetite, apparently.

After inhaling the garlic bread, I duck into an abandoned building to change into my suit and am reminded of why I have such an appetite in the first place. I can feel the hard bar of my stinger under the skin of my left forearm again. Smaller, for sure, but there. Growing.

It’s a miracle I don’t throw up all the pasta I just ate when I think about it.

I stash my bag and scale the outside wall to the top of the building. From up here, it’s just a hop, skip, and swing away from the alley where I’m supposed to meet Deadpool. To test the stingers and webbing that make me physically ill. And pretend like I don’t know what his scars feel like under my mouth.

Maybe he won’t show up. Maybe—

He’s here.

I see him as soon as I land on the rooftop above the alley. I want to say that I knew he would be here but even he admitted that he doesn’t always remember things. Except he promised me he’d remember this, didn’t he?

Webs. Websy. Spidey Cakes. I would need a brain transplant to make me forget it.

I feel this weird mix of elation and nervousness when I see him. The fluttering in my stomach as I watch him do some complicated thing with his gun from above is embarrassing. And, because I am who I am, it doesn’t take long for those fizzy, warm feelings to turn into something less pleasant.

I’m pissed.

I’m mad that he’s made me feel this way. That he’s doing this to me. And I’m extra angry that he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. My whole body is basically a simmering pot of pissed off when I drop down a line of manufactured webbing to the ground behind him.

Goddamn it.

Why does he have to have that body?

“You made it,” I say instead of drooling all over myself. My voice is hard and sharp and cold because I need to pretend like I don’t want a repeat of last night.

He’s Deadpool.

I’m Spider-man.

He doesn’t know.

I do.

We can’t.

“Surprise!” He chirps as he spins to face me, holstering his gun in the same move. He handles it all so easily, the gun, his knives. I know I shouldn’t be turned on by the way he wields weapons of death but—

I grit my teeth hoping that an increase of the pressure inside my head will squeeze those thoughts out. It doesn’t work. Especially when he leans his shoulder lazily against the wall and crosses his arms over his chest.

I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“What’re the methods here, Bill Nye? You gonna restrain me again? Because that was the second best part of my day yesterday.”

Second best.

My stomach (and lower) flutters again. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask.

“Second best?”

Damn it.

“Not even you can compete with Chunky Monkey and Dirty Dancing, Spideykins.”

Of course, he’s not going to tell me that he made out with his roommate who is supposed to be my best friend but I want to shake it out of him anyway. I curl my fingers into fists because I know that grabbing him and shaking him turns into the fantasy I had right before the copier died on me today.

We’re not here for that anyway. He’s here to give me answers about my stingers and webbing and I’m here so that I can drag him to the meeting with Daredevil. I agree that having a mercenary’s insight about whatever is going on in the city will be helpful but I’m starting to wish that it didn’t have to be this mercenary.

“I guess…”

I trail off because I don’t actually have a plan for how to test this. I’ve been trying not to think about it, all the ways my body is changing that I can’t control. All the things that make me less and less human. Like I need to be even further removed from basic society than I already am. As my brain whirls and my stomach churns, a thought occurs to me that brings it all to a halt.

“Wait. You never said anything about the stinger.”

My eyes lift to his as he shrugs one big shoulder and I have to tear my gaze away from the movement before I soak my mask with drool.

“You didn’t ask.”

“I stabbed you.”

“You and every other superhero in the city. Hell, that’s how Logan says hi.”

I consider pushing this line of questioning. What kind of person doesn’t even register a stabbing? But I know the answer to that. Someone that can’t die. Someone that’s used to pain. Someone like Deadpool. Rather than argue that he absolutely has a right to be indignant when someone stabs him, I move straight to the science. It’s easier for my mind to wrap around anyway.

“What did it feel like?”

“It felt like getting stabbed.” His eyes sweep down my body slowly and I can almost feel them grazing across my skin. “You’ve been stabbed at least once, haven’t you, Websy?”

I have but that’s not the point here and I know that he knows it.

“I meant what did the venom do? You collapsed as soon as the stinger went in and—”

Oh no. I’m going to vomit. I can’t just talk about this like it wasn’t my stinger that my body made and embedded deep enough into his back that it came out. I shove my mask up above my nose and prop my hands on my hips, hanging my head and sucking in great gulps of air. I will not throw up. Not now. Not in front of him.

“You okay?” His voice holds more amusement than concern. “Don’t tell me that Spider-man is grossed out by stingers and webbing.”

“It’s easy to laugh when they’re not coming out of your body,” I snap between one big inhale and the next.

“No.” The amusement is still there, practically dripping off the word. “But it did go into my body. Maybe you’re on the wrong side of the equation. Maybe you need to be penetrated in—”

“Stop,” I growl, cutting him off. “Can we pretend, just for tonight, that every road in your brain doesn’t lead somewhere disgusting?”

My voice comes out firm, disguising the fact that my whole body flushes hot as the word penetrated leaves Wade’s mouth. I never thought I’d want that but my body is obviously not opposed to the idea. I’m learning all kinds of shit about myself today.

“But the roads that end somewhere sexy are the safest ones.” Something about his voice has changed and I finally lift my head to look at him. He pushes off the wall and straightens up, serious. “It was a paralytic, sorta numbed things out. My brain was still working but my limbs weren’t. I was able to watch you walk away.”

A neurotoxin.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Neurotoxicity is a common trait in spiders, exhibited in a range of different ways. Fascination nibbles at the edge of my brain and I realize that, if I want to figure this out, I’m going to have to pretend that this is data on a new species of spider. I studied so many spider species when this first happened that it should be easy to slip into that mindset.

“Okay…” Just a weird spider species, nothing more. “How long did it last?”

“The paralyzation? Five minutes maybe.”

The way he says it waves some flags in my head. “Did some other effect last longer?”

His head tips back as he looks at the sky between the tall sides of the two buildings. The position elongates his thick neck and highlights the shape of his jaw and I’ve taken a step closer before I can stop myself.

I had my mouth there last night.

I want to have my mouth there again.

“My scars didn’t bother me for about twenty-four hours after that.”

“Complete cessation of pain?”

He nods as his head tips back down and he looks me in the eye.

“Whoa.”

I can’t help but glance down at my forearm. There is so much the venom could be used for if it managed to stop Deadpool’s pain for an entire day. I get a vivid image of drawing the venom out of my own arm with a needle and almost puke again.

New spider species. New spider species. New spider species.

“What about the webbing?” I ask to distract myself.

“What about it?”

“You mentioned yesterday that it felt different.”

He shrugs again. “Sturdier than the lab stuff. Not as much give. It would be harder for me to wiggle an arm free even if I dislocated or broke something.”

I flinch at his casual mention of breaking his own body parts. I know that’s who he is, I know that’s what he can do, but… shit. I don’t think I like it.

This whole thing is weird. The air between is thick with uncertainty and heavy with tension. It feels like we’re standing on the edge of a rooftop together deciding if we should jump.

“Okay,” I murmur to break the silence. “Okay. Maybe we should just… fight? And see if I can actually use them?”

I don’t think fighting is the solution to every problem, not the way he does, but I think it’s the solution to this problem, to this thing stretching between us. So what if I absolutely ignore all the ways that fighting can be foreplay? None of that is relevant or interesting right now.

Sure.

Keep telling yourself that, Parker.

“Webster,” he steps closer, so close he could reach out and touch me, “now you’re speaking my language.”

And then he does reach out, deft, red-gloved fingers catching at the hem of my mask, pulling it over my jaw and smoothing it down my neck. This is the kind of flirty thing Deadpool has always done and I’ve always rebuffed it. Slapped his hands away. Sniped at him with some sharp retort. But now I’m frozen in place, definitely not breathing, wondering if he can feel the thud of my pulse against his fingertips.

“You good?”

“Yes?” I squeak out.

Then he winks and steps back, reaching his thick arms behind him to grasp the hilt of his katanas, unsheathing them in one smooth muscle-flexing motion.

“Let’s see what you got, then, Webs.”

And then he swings a sword at me.

This isn't the first time I’ve been in a fight with Deadpool although usually, we fight because some wire has gotten crossed in his brain or someone is trying to mind-control him. Most of the time, he fights like he’s fighting God but I can tell that he’s pulling his punches tonight or, in this case, the arc of his sword. The thing about Deadpool, though, is that, even when he goes easy on me, he never goes that easy on me.

I have to scramble away to keep the blade from slicing across my stomach, skittering backward until my spine hits the brick wall behind me and I can crab walk up, out of Deadpool’s reach. He tilts his head back to look at me, ten feet off the ground, and does something with his fingers that spins the katana around in a circle at this side.

“This a fight situation, not a flight situation.”

I don’t know if he’s talking to distract me or just because that’s what he does but I almost miss the fact that he’s re-sheathed one katana and drawn a knife that is now hurtling through the air toward me. I just manage to knock it off course with my web shooter.

“Ah, ah, ah, Webs.”

Deadpool takes a four-step running approach to the wall, plants his foot on it to boost himself up, and wraps a big hand around one of my ankles, using the grip to yank me down the wall until I’m pinned between him and the brick at my back, our faces even. The breath whooshes out of me in surprise (and maybe some anticipation) as he presses into me and curls his fingers around my wrists, his face right next to mine, the soft sound of his breathing in my ear.

“These,” he murmurs in a voice that makes my insides melt, “are cheating.”

It isn’t until he steps back, taking his heat with him, that I see he’s taken both of my mechanical web shooters and is stuffing them in one of his pouches. My stomach swoops and jitters for all sorts of reasons, not the least of which is the smile I can see under his mask. The crooked one.

I yank my arms down from where they were still splayed out at my sides and rub at my wrists trying to pretend like I am angry and put out again. Not like I want to pull him back to me and eliminate the distance between us.

He’s Deadpool.

I’m Spider-man.

We can’t.

“You have garlic breath, Spides.” He grins at me from too close and too far away. “Does that mean you taste like garlic, too?”

More heat swamps me and it takes everything inside me not to ask him if he wants to find out.

We are fighting, I remind myself. We are doing science things. Stop thinking with your dick.

“Are we doing this or what?”

I shake out my wrists, partially trying to find the part of my brain that controls the stingers and webbing and partially to forget Deadpool’s touch on them.

“Oh, we’re doing this.”

Then he swings his sword at me again.

WADE

Right now, I’m not thinking about the secrets hidden behind Petey Pie’s door. Or the failed mess of a chicken coop in the dining room. Or the insidious way that white box is slinking back into my brain.

<Hey, now. I thought we were friends, baby girl.>

Right now, as I watch Webs snatch one of my guns out of its holster with his organic webbing, I’m thinking about his stupid, fucking mask.

Maybe that’s not quite right because I actually love his mask.

I love how it looks pulled up over his nose, showing off the galaxy of brown freckles that pepper his cheeks. I love those huge, white lenses and the way they narrow and widen, giving away what he’s thinking and feeling. I love that when he smiles just right, you can see it perfectly under the fabric.

[Are you really thinking about this right now?]

<Ugh. Vomit.>

But, right now, I want to peel his stupid, fucking mask off his face. I should have. I had my hands on it. I could have pulled it up higher. I could have pulled it off entirely.

But I didn’t.

Because Webs would have been pissed.

And Petey would have been pissed.

And apparently, that’s the only leash I need on my behavior these days.

<Might as well just give him an actual leash. At least then you might be getting your dick wet.>

I spin away from the length of webbing Spider-man just shot toward me, trying to disarm me or latch onto my chest and pull me off my feet. Not sure which, although either would be a good move. He’s no slouch in the brawl department even if he does have that moral compunction against killing.

He’s running along the wall toward me, shooting off more ropes of webbing, not trying to attach them to me but trying to distract me. I let my guard down a little because, honestly, I want to see how this plays out. I move a little slower, I let myself lose focus as the barrage of webbing sticks against my sword and my chest.

And then, well… I haven’t exactly been a good little girl but my Christmas present comes early because Webs drops off the wall and lands on my back, chest pressed against me, legs tight around my waist, and a sharp fucking stinger that’s coming out of his right wrist and is wedged against the pulse that thumps high on my throat.

I let out a low whistle as everything around us comes to a stop. “I guess you don’t have to eject them.”

His heart is slowing against my back and he’s getting his panting breaths under control but he doesn’t move the stinger from my neck or make a move to climb off me.

“I guess not.”

“Fortunate for me. I’d rather not have one of those things buried in my windpipe.”

“Yeah.”

He sounds… vague. And he’s still not moving. The hand that’s not two centimeters from severing my jugular is pressed palm down over the center of my chest and he’s still clinging to me like a fucking koala.

[We don’t hear you complaining.]

I can’t sheath my katana with my little spider monkey on my back so I drop it to the ground, only flinching slightly at the ringing clatter it makes as it lands.

Slower than I usually move around him, I lift my hands toward the forearm that houses the stinger that’s now close enough to touch my throat, no doubt dimpling the fabric of my suit and probably the skin underneath.

“You’re getting better at the alleyway brawl, Spidey Cakes.”

There’s a fine tremor running through his body now and I realize he might be in shock. Or at least feeling some kind of way about having webbing and stingers coming out of his own body. Lucky for him, and my jugular, I have more experience with shocked-out soldiers than I’d like. I keep my voice to a low murmur as I wrap one hand around the middle of his right forearm and tug it gently away from my neck.

“You even got the drop on me. Pretty sure that’s never happened before.” The arm looped across my chest tightens as I pull his stinger arm far enough back that I can tilt my head down and look at it. “And these…” I stroke my finger up the stinger from the place it exits his wrist to the gleaming, pointed tip, “…these are gorgeous, aren’t they?”

He shifts against my back but doesn’t say anything.

“Think I’ll ruin your reaction time if I shove this beauty back in?”

“Please do.” His voice is hoarse and, despite the fact that he almost slit my throat just now, he sounds small. So much like Petey Pie in those first days of living together that something hard twists under the palm he has over my chest.

<Weird. Weird that they’re so similar, eh?>

Not now, I want to hiss, but Webs takes precedence over whatever bullshit the boxes are going to spew.

I gently pinch the stinger between my thumb and pointer finger, pushing down carefully, watching it slowly slide back under his skin.

“This is kind of sexy, right?”

“Shut up,” he huffs in my ear.

I don’t, of course. “Seriously, I think you might be able to patent a whole new type of sex. Stinger hole penetration or—”

The rest of the stinger slides out of my fingers and under his skin without my help.

“Shut. Up.”

This time when he shifts, it’s to drop from my back to the ground. I turn, wondering if I’m going to have to grab him to keep him from running away. Bodies are weird sometimes, especially those that are undergoing constant mutation {I should know} and I don’t think he has anything to be embarrassed or grossed out about.

Easier said than done, though.

I threw up for four hours straight the first time I grew back an entire limb.

[We had also been poisoned.]

<And taken a bullet to the intestines.>

He’s not running away, though, he’s fiddling with where the hem of his sleeve meets the bottom of his glove, eyes staring fixedly at my chest. I reach into my pouch and pull out the two web shooters I took off him today, holding them in his line of sight.

“Thanks,” he mumbles as he takes them and starts clipping them back around his wrists. He pauses with the second one and looks up at me. “I mean it. Thank you. And… sorry I almost stabbed you in the neck.”

“I’ll be your guinea pig anytime, Webs. Especially if you keep almost stabbing me.”

His head drops again like he can’t meet my eye. I want to reach out and ruffle the top of his head but that’s something I would do to Petey Pie and I can’t let that line get blurry. Blurrier.

He huffs out a dry sound. “Pretty sure I was the guinea pig here.”

“A very attractive guinea pig with a great ass.”

This time the huff is almost a snort and sounds more like genuine laughter. My chest squeezes.

[Maybe it’s a heart attack.]

<*eye roll*>

There’s something hanging between us and I hear his intake of breath like he’s going to talk but nothing comes out. Whatever this is is making my skin writhe and I can’t tell if I hate the feeling or love it.

It’s hard to remember, when I’m here with Spidey, that I made out with his best friend. And it’s hard to remember, when I’m with Shutterbug, that I have an epic crush on his best friend. I’m not used to any good things in my life, let alone an entire avalanche of them. Seems only fair that the universe would hand me the opportunity to fuck it all up at the same time.

Razor blades in caramel apples.

Webs shakes himself like a dog and then straightens up. He’s Spider-man again, from his head to his toes and the entire leanly muscled expanse in between.

“Do you think I have a better ass than Daredevil?”

I recognize the question for what it is, hear the still slightly fragile edges of it. But instead of picking at the seams, I play along. He sent Petey Pie to look out for me last night and the least I can do is return the favor for him tonight. “I’ll need a visual comparison, I think.”

His rigid shoulders relax slightly but he still won’t look at me. “Guess we better get to our meeting, then. For comparison purposes.”

I let my eyes roam over his drooping head and the proud set of his shoulders. Webs needs a hug but I don’t think I’m the one to give it to him even if I think he’d fit perfectly against me. Just like Shutterbug does.

Fuck.

Fucking razor blades in fucking caramel apples.

“Lead the way, Websy. You know how much I like visual data.”

Chapter Text

PETER

Daredevil is waiting for us, as usual. He doesn’t even have the decency to look mildly surprised when Deadpool and I drop in together. Why would he, though? He knew about me and Deadpool before I did.

“You’re late,” he says as we approach.

“Not a better ass but definitely a bigger one,” Deadpool huffs under his breath and I can’t keep a laugh from spilling out.

“You know I can hear you, even when you’re whispering.”

“I know. But the whispering makes me seem more compassionate like I don’t want to actually hurt your feelings by risking you overhearing me.” Deadpool rests an elbow on one of my shoulders, doing that lazy lean that I know for a fact puts people’s teeth on edge. It's oddly comfortable. “If I yell MATT MURDOCK SUCKS DICK at the top of my lungs, I lose plausible deniability.”

He really does yell Matt Murdock Sucks Dick at the top of his lungs.

“Real nice,” Daredevil scowls.

“I can be.” I don’t even have to look to know that Deadpool winked. I can hear it in his voice.

Daredevil makes a disgusted sound before dismissing Deadpool and turning to me. “I don’t have much to report but there’s some chatter that this merc has picked up another contract. For a hit in Brooklyn.”

“Ooo! Anyone I know?”

Daredevil scowls but doesn’t turn back to Deadpool. “You tell me.”

The elbow on my shoulder drops, Deadpool straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. My eyes snag there for just a moment and I feel like I’m living in a meme.

“Spides, you didn’t tell me I was going to be put on trial.”

“You’ve convinced me that you’re not involved,” Daredevil finally turns to Deadpool, “but I don’t for a second believe that you’re entirely innocent.”

“Moi? Je suis très innocent.”

Daredevil scowls hard and Deadpool laughs, things I only notice in the periphery because the sound of Deadpool speaking French jolts heat to my lower belly and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from popping wood. I remember when he called me ma belle araignée and I wonder what else he can say in French, how it might sound in a different context like spoken directly into my ear. He sounds fluent.

“Have you ever been innocent?” Daredevil scowls even harder and his irritated voice pulls me away from the fantasy my brain was getting ready to spin.

“I had a bet with myself that you couldn’t scowl any harder. Looks like I lost.” Deadpool pauses for a second, then shrugs. “And won, I guess. Wanna go out for drinks to celebrate?”

“I am not scowling,” Daredevil protests, still very much scowling.

“You’re like the living embodiment of that scowling devil emoji right now,” I pipe up because I can’t help it, and also he is.

Deadpool laughs harder. “Need some ice for that knife wound?”

He turns to me and holds up his hand and I high-five him before I think better of it. I can feel the heat of his palm on mine through both sets of gloves even though the contact is fleeting.

Daredevil lets out one of those disappointed Dad sighs and glances between us, lingering on me while narrowing his eyes. I pull my hand away and tuck it into my lower back feeling like I just got caught red-handed doing something inexcusable.

Matt must be an excellent lawyer with a look like that in his repertoire. Pretty sure I’d confess to any number of atrocities just to get him to stop staring.

“That’s not how the saying goes,” he corrects, finally toning down his judgment face.

“What saying?” Deadpool asks. And the thing about Deadpool is… I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

Daredevil doesn’t take the bait, if that’s what it is, just releases another long-suffering sigh and asks, “Can we focus on the objective here?”

Bet that single-minded focus on the “objective” serves him well in the courtroom, too, but out here it’s kind of annoying. Or maybe I’m just mad at him for making me realize how close I’ve gotten to Deadpool. It was just a high-five except it came after a training fight where I had a semi the entire time. Pretty sure I’m going to jerk off to the memory of Deadpool yanking me down the wall when I get back to the apartment tonight.

“And what’s our objective, counselor?” The way Deadpool emphasizes the word objective makes the muscles in Daredevil’s jaw twitch.

“We are trying,” the words are forced out between gritted teeth and I see Deadpool’s mask twitch in a smirk at them, “to determine who this unknown merc is, why they’re here, and how we can stop them.”

“Stop them?” Deadpool asks. “I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”

“Why n—”

“Except, I’m not you so I definitely would. It’s fun to challenge yourself to try new things, you know?”

Daredevil’s jaw muscle bunch even more. He’s breathing like a bull staring down a matador.

“Okay…” I say, drawing the word out and trying to deescalate the look threatening murder (or bodily harm at the very least) that crosses Daredevil’s face. “It sounds like you know who it is?”

“There’s been talk,” Deadpool answers, cagily.

“About what?” Daredevil barks.

“A hitman. Never fails a contract. No one ever escapes his justice.” Deadpool leans closer to Daredevil and me, lowering his voice like he’s imparting a secret. “A hitman that’s also a monkey.”

Daredevil’s scoff can probably be heard in space.

“Are you serious?” I ask, feeling my brow furrow up under my mask.

“What? You don’t believe me?”

“Uh.” Do I? Weirder things have definitely happened but also I’m talking to Deadpool right now so… “No?”

“Good. You shouldn’t. I totally made it up.” He bursts out laughing, hard enough that he clutches his belly and doubles over for a second before standing back up to wipe at the mask under his eyes. “Can you imagine? A hitman monkey? That would be insane.”

Daredevil sighs. “Do you have any intel that’s actually usable?”

“I have a lot of intel,” Deadpool says, holding up a finger for each piece of intel as he gives it to Daredevil. “I can tell you how to make perfect omurice every time. I can tell you that your firm partner is lying to you about being able to make chicken cacciatore. He orders it from a restaurant downtown because he knows you like it. I can tell you that Spidey’s favorite burger is an absolute monstrosity from a place called Budeez Burgers that has two quarter-pound patties, three types of cheese, frizzled onions, and a fried egg on it. He asks for it with extra guacamole because—”

“Can you give us any non-food-related intel?”

I wish I could say that I’m surprised that Deadpool knows my favorite burger but I’m not. He’s actually brought it to me on patrol, complete with extra guacamole and the waffle fries I love. Honestly, anything Deadpool knows wouldn’t surprise me which is why I can’t figure out why he doesn’t know about Peter Parker.

Deadpool narrows his eyes at Daredevil and I know the next bit of intel is going to be something he’s not going to like.

“I can tell you,” Deadpool says in a cold, hard tone, “that the collection of sound files you keep on the laptop in your bedside table sure is interesting.”

Daredevil’s jaw clenches so hard I worry that his teeth are going to crack. His hands flex and relax at his side and I get a vision of him pulling out his bully sticks and trying to kill Deadpool with them. Daredevil takes a step toward Deadpool, hands curling around his weapons and words growling out of him.

“What were you doing in my—”

“I’m a mercenary. Secrets are my bread and butter.”

Daredevil takes another step but seems to have lost the ability to speak. Deadpool definitely has that effect on people. Whatever is on Daredevil’s laptop, it’s enough of a secret that he’s practically vibrating with rage at the idea that Deadpool knows it.

“Hey. Whoa. Hey.”

I step between them and hold my palms up toward each of them. Who knew that two grown men would need a referee? Although, it makes sense when one of them is Deadpool. Daredevil drags himself to a stop but his bully sticks are clenched in his hands. Deadpool steps up until my palm is flat against his warm, firm chest, a smirk clearly visible through his mask.

“You obviously have some plan,” I say, looking toward Daredevil.

He nods stiffly.

“And you,” I say, turning fully to Deadpool and pushing him backward with both hands on his chest, “obviously aren’t going to provide any intel.”

I look up at Deadpool’s face as I nudge him away from Daredevil, his smirk has disappeared and he narrows his eyes at Daredevil again before dropping his gaze to me.

“Don’t do it, Webs.”

I stop and pull my hands away from his chest. Partially because Daredevil has stormed off in the opposite direction to pace behind some storage containers and partially because my hands are itching to take a guided tour of Deadpool’s muscles and that would be really out of character for Spider-man.

“Don’t do what?” I ask.

“Whatever bullshit plan Beelzebub over there is coming up with.”

He’s looking down at me and I realize how close we’re standing despite the fact that I’m not touching him anymore. I want to touch him again. I want to tell him who I am. I want what I can’t have. I tuck my hands under my arms to keep from reaching for it, for him.

“What’s wrong with the plan?”

Deadpool leans away and scrubs a hand over the top of his head. “He doesn’t even have a plan. He doesn’t know shit. And I don’t want you getting caught up in it.”

Oh.

Oh.

He’s worried about me.

The center of my chest aches at the realization. I look up at him again and even through two masks, I feel the way our gazes catch and hold. God, I want him.

I let out a long shaky exhale and step back. Deadpool Deadpool Deadpool, I remind myself. Not that it helps when he’s looking at me like that. Not that it helps when he’s trying to protect me. Not that it helps when I already know the sound he makes when I suck on his neck.

“Listen, big guy.” I stupidly reach out to pat his pec because I am a masochist. “If you know something that could make a difference here, you should tell us. Tell me.”

His eyes bore into mine as he reaches up and curls a hand around my wrist below where my hand is still resting over his heart, rubbing his thumb directly against the web spigot and sending a shiver down my back.

“Nothing I tell you can make this safer for you, baby boy.” The pad of his thumb rubs a circle around the inside of my wrist. “If you want my advice, this is me telling you to leave it alone.”

“Pool,” I say, trying to ignore how breathless my voice is, “this merc is killing people, innocent people, unchecked. That’s the very definition of a thing that Spider-man can’t leave alone. I’m not just going to get over it.”

Something shifts in his demeanor and he drops my wrist, taking a step back and creating enough space between us that I won’t be able to reach out and touch him again. I wonder if that’s for my sake or his.

“You know what they say about the fastest way to get over something…”

His voice has lost the serious, hard edge but it doesn’t sound quite like his usual facetious self. I swallow hard and shake my head.

“…it’s to get under someone else.”

I can see his brows waggling under his mask and I bite back a laugh that would probably be two parts humor and one part hysteria. For a second, I consider it, what it would be like to be underneath him and just forget all of this. But he doesn't know who I am and we can't.

He thinks I'm just Spider-man. He thinks whatever Daredevil is planning will backfire. He doesn’t want me to do it. He’s worried about me. But he’s letting me make my own choice. Except…

“You’re just going to sabotage whatever plan Daredevil comes up with, aren’t you?”

“Wow,” he says brightly, tilting his head down to look at the back of his wrist, “look at the time. I guess I should probably hit the road.”

“You aren’t wearing a watch,” I point out, dryly.

“I know when I’ve worn out my welcome, Webs.”

“No.” A smile spreads across my face under the mask. “You don’t.”

WADE

I know it would be frowned upon to just throw Webs over my shoulder and abscond with him until Daredevil tries whatever plan he has that won’t work and will probably get everyone killed. But Spidey is giving me that perfect smile that even his mask can’t hide.

I could keep him fed; I wasn’t lying about the omurice thing. I have his best friend back at my apartment. I could barricade the doors and the unknown merc these two idiots are trying to go after wouldn’t be able to touch him.

{And, if bringing him back to my apartment for his own safety leads to a Deadpool sandwich, then who am I to fight fate?}

<Hope you like your sandwiches open-faced.>

Surely a smile like that is as good as a gold-embossed invitation on a silver platter in terms of spiriting someone away. He and Petey Pie could get bunk beds. Or we could buy one of those beds that takes up an entire room and sleep every night in a sexy, naked, puppy pile.

I chew on my lower lip. Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t be sleeping. I’d be—

“Have you changed your mind?”

Fucking Matt Murdock. Who needs a watch when his timing is impeccable? Impeccably the worst.

Pretty sure Spidey Cakes and I were building up enough sexual tension to power Manhattan over here and we don’t need someone that’s embarrassed to have erotic audiobooks on his laptop ruining the vibe. I literally have an entire cache of porn DVDs, among other things, under my floorboards. We’ve all been there.

“I mean, not really,” I say, letting my limbs go loose because I know it's infuriating. “I still think the original Jurassic Park is the best movie of the franchise. I mean, Alan Grant threatening to slice open some kid’s bowel. Ian Malcolm shirtless. Ellie Sattler—”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?”

I let my gaze find Webs where he’s standing a few feet away from me, facing Daredevil with his arms crossed over his chest. My eyes sweep him from head to toe and back. I take some things seriously. Namely that if Daredevil goes through with whatever dumb plan he’s concocted, my grumpy, little spider is going to get hurt. And, let’s be honest, my head hasn’t been in the best place recently so I don’t know what I might do if someone fucks with Spidey.

<I have a few ideas.>

“I seriously told you that you should drop it.” I hear the white box sharpness in my voice and I don’t bother tempering it. If everyone else is making shit poor decisions tonight why not me too?

<You should just shoot him.>

[Maybe not in front of Spider-man, though.]

{I’m not going to lie and pretend that I haven’t created a mental spreadsheet of all the best ways to kill superheroes. I’d pick Tony off with a sniper rifle, just as an example. Because breaking through his security would take too long but he swans around the city like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float. One bullet, in the temple, job well done. You can’t use bullets with Matt. He’s got that extrasensory bat radar thing going on which means most shots would miss and he’d easily be able to evade knives and swords. No… Matt goes by poison snuck into his drink at his favorite bar after work. Something colorless and odorless and delivered by someone he wouldn’t expect. Someone he trusts. Yeah. That one I have planned out to the letter. None of that means that I don’t want to shoot him in the face right now, though.}

“I asked Spider-man to bring you here because I thought you could be of assistance,” Daredevil snarls. “I thought you could help us do this safely. But you’re too busy playing the fool.”

“There is no way to do this safely,” I grit out. I feel something hard in my hand and I realize I’ve drawn a pistol and am holding it next to my thigh. “Leave it alone.”

“Are you going to shoot me?” Daredevil huffs. “I guess you’ll always be more villain than hero, huh?”

[What a prick.]

<Seriously.>

I flex my fingers around the grip of the pistol knowing that, even if I can’t hit Daredevil, shooting at him would still be cathartic. But then I see Spides shifting awkwardly, uncomfortable with all of this, so I holster the pistol and hold my hands up in surrender. I don't back down for very many things but I will back down for him.

“I’d love to stay and chat but Britney Spears tickets go on sale at midnight and I want to get a good seat.”

“Pool…” Webs says, taking a step toward me. I wave him off.

“I’ve been wanting to see her in concert for years, Spidey Cakes. Let a girl achieve her dream.”

I glance between the two of them. I don’t want to leave Webs here to make terrible Swiss cheese plans but I know that I don’t actually have to be here to figure out their plan. Superheroes are nothing if not predictable.

I turn and walk away. There’s nothing else to do. I’ve said what I had to say and I’m not going to stick around to help them craft a suicide mission.

Tonight started out with such fucking promise, too. Webs wanting me to help him test his new mutations. The way he melted under me when I peeled his mechanical web shooters off. His legs wrapped around my waist and his weight on my back. The tip of his stinger pressed against my throat.

Fuck.

I’m either going to jerk off until I run dry when I get back to the apartment or I’m going to stress-clean it until the place is sparkling.

Shit.

It’s a shame I couldn’t have dragged Spider-man back with me but maybe Petey Pie will be there.

Maybe I can keep at least one of them safe.

PETER

“Whatever that is, it’s a bad idea,” Daredevil says next to me as we watch Deadpool walk away.

He does some sort of bastardized version of parkour over a fence topped with razor wire and snags his uniform at the top for half a second, a string of expletives echoing back to us before he frees himself and belly flops to the other side. He pops back up, waving his arms at us and shouting, “I’m okay!” Then he fades into the shadows.

“You mean going after the unknown merc or—”

“I mean the way you two stare at each other.” He turns to me with his hands on his waist and I try to ignore the way my stomach swoops at his words. “I thought you hated him. How does something like that happen?”

“Accidentally.”

Daredevil scoffs.

“He doesn’t know,” I admit, the words spilling out so quickly that they’re almost one.

“What do you mean he doesn’t know?” Daredevil’s face is a picture of incredulity.

“He doesn’t know. I didn’t know until a few days ago.”

“What?”

“I signed a rental agreement to live with a guy that looked like a cornfed jock. It took a while to put together that it was Deadpool with an image inducer on.”

I feel stupid admitting it now because it’s so obvious in hindsight. Even with the image inducer, Wade is exactly like Deadpool.

Daredevil shakes his head and the lower part of his face scrunches up under his cowl. “What?”

I run a hand over my head, the spandex sliding quick and frictionless across the top of my skull. “He doesn’t—“

“Are you sure?” Well, I was sure until Daredevil used that tone and gave me that look. “I’m confident that he actually knows who this unknown merc is from the scant evidence we have and just isn’t telling us and you expect me to believe he’s been living with you and just hasn’t noticed.”

I shrug because when he puts it like that it sounds ridiculous. “He hasn’t said anything.”

Daredevil’s mouth opens and then snaps shut again. “Yeah. Okay. That tracks. If he knew, he’d never shut up about it.”

Silence falls around us and I can feel Daredevil staring at me or listening to my heartbeat or whatever it is that he does and I crumple like a wet paper bag. I don't have anyone else to talk to about this so a short lawyer with horns on his head who hates the guy that I think I'm starting to like will have to do.

“You really think it’s a bad idea?”

“You don’t?” He snorts

“Well, I mean…” I trail off, three seconds away from wringing my hands together like a Regency maiden. I don't want it to be a bad idea. And when I'm with Wade it doesn't feel like a bad idea. It feels like I fit.

“Listen, the two of you have always shared some kind of bizarre wavelength that no one else is on but Deadpool is like nitroglycerin, Peter.”

“Unstable,” I supply. “Volatile.”

“Likely to blow up in your fucking hands.” He must read something in my posture because he softens his tone. “The flirty banter is fine. The homoerotic piggyback rides are fine-ish. Even that play fighting you guys do is weird but fine. But this is something else and it’s a bad idea.”

For someone that’s blind, Daredevil sure sees a lot. I scowl under my mask. “I’m an adult, Matt.”

“Yeah. You are. And you’re free to make terrible fucking decisions all damn day if you want to but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to say something.”

I let out a big exhale, curling and uncurling my fingers into fists. I want to tell Daredevil that he’s wrong, that it’s none of his business, that he can take his opinion and shove it but… he might not be wrong. This probably is a terrible decision but I’m still not sure that I’m not going to make it anyway.

“What’s the plan, then?”

Matt stiffens for a moment but then relaxes, moving on from cautioning me about living with Deadpool without a fight. Sometimes his anal-retentive commitment to a job is a blessing and not a curse.

I’m only half listening as Daredevil lays out the plan to stop the unknown mercenary, though. Because it’s not like I don’t know how badly this could blow up in my face if Deadpool finds out. For every fantasy where he pins me to the wall and peels up my mask and says “I’m glad it’s you” before kissing my face off, there’s a fantasy where he draws his gun or his katanas or a knife and tries to kill me.

Maybe Matt’s right. Maybe it’s a bad idea.

We’re getting too close to each other. I know we are. Both as Spider-man and Deadpool and as Peter Parker and Wade Wilson. There’s no world in which this ends well, right?

So I just need to end it now.

I’ll stop eating breakfast with Wade and I’ll stop doing training fights with Deadpool and eventually we’ll all drift apart. I’ll ignore the heat of his body against mine and the way he practically purrs when I kiss him. I’ll ignore the teasing banter and the fact that he keeps my favorite protein bar in his pouches even though he thinks they're disgusting.

I’ll just put a stop to it. All of it.

I have an unknown mercenary to catch, after all.

“Sound good?” Daredevil asks after outlining the operation for the third time.

“Sounds good,” I agree.

All of these plans sound really, really good.

Chapter Text

PETER

I’m not exactly avoiding Wade. I just… well, I might have made more noise in my early morning masturbation session than I’m used to and the walls are thin and…

Okay. I know he doesn’t actually know I’m jerking off to him as his alter ego. Maybe to him, I’m just a guy with a healthy sex drive. But I know. I know that the fantasy of him dragging me down the wall and whispering French filth in my ear while I cling to the shoulders of his uniform and he fists my dick made me come so hard I left this plane of existence.

My sheets were a mess of cum and webbing and I had those really good post-nut endorphins that float around like champagne bubbles right before they get popped by post-nut clarity.

The clarity is what had me grabbing my camera bag and slinking down the fire escape before the sun was fully up with less than an hour of sleep under my belt, and my forearms still tingling.

But I can only spend so much time photographing things around the city, fielding increasingly aggressive texts from my boss on what’s supposed to be my day off with no food in my stomach before I have to call it quits and drag my tired ass home. I just need some food. And a nap. And industrial-strength laundry soap to get the webbing out of my sheets.

Two out of three isn’t bad, I guess.

Because, when I stumble tiredly through the front door of the apartment, there’s a note from Wade saying that he left a breakfast burrito warming in the oven for me followed by explicit instructions on how to turn the oven off so I don’t burn the kitchen down afterward. It’s probably weird that that makes me feel warm and fuzzy.

I decide not to think too hard about it.

The burrito is huge, like Wade-must-have-handmade-his-own-blanket-sized-tortilla huge, and I eat it like I’ve forgotten that I’m human. I do remember, though, my resolution from last night to stay away from Wade. Eating a burrito he made for me is probably fine, though, right? It’s not like he’s lounging in the kitchen with his hoodie open over his bare chest flirting with me while he watches me eat it.

I decide not to think too hard about that, either.

Besides, I already jerked off to him today so this can’t be any worse than that. My roommate made me a burrito and I’m eating it because it’s the nice thing to do. A thank you for the food.

It’s his fault I have to regrow this goddamn stinger anyway.

Really, Parker?

Ugh. Why is this so hard?

Why is it that everything in the apartment reminds me of Wade?

Why did he have to be so scary and sexy at the same time last night?

I realize too late that I should have just ignored the signs. The night Deadpool booped me on the nose, I should have chalked it up to a massive coincidence and just buried my head in the sand. Then I could have had my bi panic in peace, secretly drooling after my roommate and keeping my horniness from getting all tangled up with the merc that’s been driving me crazy for years.

But now that I see it…

It’s like an assault on two fronts. Broad shoulders and flirty smiles and smart-ass comments everywhere I turn. Wade is no longer just the slightly goofy, meathead jock with the crazy culinary skills and a chest I want to lick frosting off of. He’s now also the unhinged mercenary with enough firepower to stun Godzilla who pushes my buttons hard enough that sometimes I want to kill him.

If someone had asked me a week ago if I found danger sexy, I would have answered no before they even finished the question. Spider-man does not find danger sexy. Spider-man is safe and respectable and follows the rules. But that was before Deadpool pinned me to a wall during a training fight and whispered in my ear in between bouts of trying to stab me.

I am deeply messed up.

And I still need a nap.

I wash and dry the burrito plate while fighting off a yawn and then slump my way down the hall, dragging my camera bag behind me. I just manage to strip down to my boxer briefs before collapsing face down onto the sheets I changed this morning. My face is pressed into one of my pillows and I can barely breathe but I don’t turn my head. I’m too tired.

Sometimes, falling asleep is a struggle. Bad memories breaking through their cages and running rampant across my brain. But today my brain blanks out almost immediately.

Good food and a good orgasm will do that to a guy, I guess.

My room is midday bright when I wake up, face stuck to my damp pillow case with drool and muscles protesting the fact that I haven’t changed position once since I laid down. For a brief moment, I entertain the idea of just Groundhog’s Daying today and jerking off again before shuffling to the kitchen to scrounge more food. But then I hear the shushing hiss of water from the bathroom and reconsider.

Wade is home and I don’t know the limitations of Deadpool’s hearing. I don’t know the limitations of Deadpool’s a lot of things. A thought that drags me, unwilling, to consider what sorts of experiments he might let me run.

How fast does he heal?

Could I give him a hickey?

How long is his refractory period?

Does he even have one?

These thoughts are really not helping me keep my own hands off my dick but I’m just paranoid enough to think that Wade might hear me from two rooms away even through the water sounds so I keep everything above the waist. This time I stop my brain from hauling me into a fantasy of Wade, soaking wet and covered in soap bubbles, but only because I pinch the shit out of my inner arm. A move that shifts the stinger and causes it to stab at the inside of its… something.

I don’t know. I don’t want to think of a word for it. Any word I think of makes me gag. Housing, maybe? Like a goddamn circuit board. At least that makes it sound like it’s a mechanical stinger and not one that my body grew itself like an eighth-grade science experiment gone wrong.

The water is still running as I hop and wrestle my way into a pair of sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt. So wank time isn’t in the forecast, I guess, but I really do need to eat. My stomach is already twisting in on itself even though I must have finished the burrito only a few hours ago.

I leave my room and hustle past the bathroom, trying to use speed as a shield to keep my brain from slipping under the door and imagining me in there with Wade. But I’m not fast enough that I don’t hear him singing.

“🎶Baby, can’t you see I’m calling? A guy like you should wear a warning. It’s dangerous, I’m falling.🎶”

The song choice makes me smile and reminds me of Deadpool’s excuse last night. The one that I’m pretty sure he used not because he didn’t want to shoot Matt but because he knew that I didn’t want him to shoot Matt.

Britney Spears tickets.

It seems patently unfair that a guy should have that many muscles and have killed that many people and be so goddamn cute at the same time. And if you had told me three weeks ago that I’d ever use the word cute to describe Deadpool… well, let’s just say that with my freakish new forearms and my attractive new roommate, I’m doing a lot of things that I didn’t think I’d ever do.

You wish you were doing your roommate, Parker.

I wave that thought away as I wander toward the pantry. It’s been a while since I’ve been shopping but I’m hoping maybe there are some cup noodles or a can of Vienna sausages hiding in the back. The idea of either option makes me feel vaguely ill now that my tastebuds have adapted to Wade’s cooking.

Needs must, I guess.

I’m crouched down and rummaging in the pantry when I hear Wade coming down the hallway, still half-singing and half-humming Toxic. His steps aren’t as light as they usually are and I realize that he’s giving himself away. Letting me know that he’s coming so I can bolt or…

Do you really have another move, Parker?

The last time I saw Wade, or the last time he thinks I saw him, I shoved my tongue down his throat. Which… yeah, okay, normally that would make me want to run away. But I’m not normal anymore because heat rushes through me, sweeping from my center out to my limbs and back as I remember it.

Shit.

We’re going to need to talk about that.

Oddly enough, now that I know Wade is Deadpool, my original instinct to move out as soon as even the slightest difficulty arises has waned. I don’t think I want to bolt. I think I want to talk to him.

“Shutterbug! You’re here!” Wade’s voice is bright and chipper behind me. The same tone he uses when Spider-man walks on the scene and the merc shouts Websy. “Tryna find food on your side of the pantry is like looking for water in the Sahara. Let me make you something. Do you like Vietnamese?”

I mean, yes. Who doesn’t?

Maybe we can have The Talk while he makes me a big plate of bun cha. Or no… bánh mì.

“Wade,” I say as I turn to face him, “I think we need to talk.”

Except…

Fuck.

I’m pretty sure I can’t talk right now.

Because Wade is standing at the other end of the kitchen island wearing a towel and that goddamn hoodie, open obscenely wide, with nothing underneath. His torso still damp from the shower. All smooth skin over dense, rounded muscle. And, for a second, I want to find where he’s hiding the image inducer and smash the shit out of it. Because I can see the way the water droplets settle oddly against Wade’s chest and I know they’re stopped in the hollows of his scars and I want to see it.

I want to do so many things to this nearly naked brick shithouse of a man that I think my brain might be overloading. Buffering. Buffering. Buffering. Four-oh-four, file not found. I think I’m standing here with my mouth half open and smoke coming out of my ears as I wonder what color Wade’s nipples are without that goddamn photostatic veil in the way. I think I may have been a little premature last night when I said that I just needed to end it.

End this?

No.

I should take a fucking picture because this asshole is breathtaking.

My eyes are glued to the center of Wade’s sternum but I can see the white flash of his teeth out of my peripheral vision. That fucking grin. Two weeks ago that hungry smile would have given me flashbacks to high school; my face slammed into a locker; my entire body crammed into a garbage can. But two weeks ago feels like a lifetime because now all that hungry smile makes me want to do is taste it.

Maybe my libido has run rampant because Spider-man doesn’t have time to date. Maybe that’s all this is. Built-up sexual frustration vented on the closest attractive person.

Maybe I’d believe that if I didn’t know that the closest attractive person is also a morally grey mercenary who makes me want to punch him as much as I want to kiss him.

“Jesus, Petey Pie.” I can hear Wade’s smile in his voice. “That look is hot enough to light me on fire. You considerin' making a big, gay mistake with your big, pan roommate?”

Wade winks which I see but then I get distracted by the bead of water sliding from the hollow of his collarbone down the line of his sternum. He’s joking, I’m sure of it.

But I’m not.

“Bisexual,” I stammer out.

It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud to anyone and Wade responds exactly as I expected him to, that wicked grin spreading wider across his face.

“That’s not a no.”

I lift my gaze to his face, becoming aware of the way my pulse beats in between my thighs, and say something that I hope I don’t regret.

“No. It’s not.”

Wade’s head tips to the side, curious and predatory, as I watch him come to the realization of what I’m saying.

“Yeah?” His voice is hoarse and his muscles ripple, whole body going tense in… anticipation?

God, I hope it’s anticipation.

My libido is tired of being a fucking martyr for the superhero cause.

“Yeah,” I say, clear and firm. “Yes.”

I’ve seen Deadpool move before. Of course, I have. We fought just last night and every moment of that is burned into my brain. He moves effortlessly but with an unrelenting power that I could never hope to mimic. Like if you taught a bulldozer how to dance ballet. Or wield katanas, I guess.

The first time I fought against him, it was terrifying. I’d come to expect speed and agility or force and power. He had both. Later on, it became less terrifying and more thrilling. A little like standing out in a thunderstorm, hoping not to get struck by lightning.

Wade moves like that now, pouncing around the island faster than a non-Weapon X-modified super soldier should be able to. His arms are around my waist and I’m tossed over his shoulder faster than I can protest. Which I absolutely will not be doing because the firm heat of his shoulder grinding against the hard length of my dick is—

“Still good?” He asks.

“So good,” I groan.

Wade grips the back of my thigh with one big hand and squeezes before he strides across the living room and flips me onto the couch. I don’t even get to enjoy the image of him looming over me because he follows me down, dropping to his knees between my spread legs, pulling my ass closer to the edge of the cushions, and shoving the hem of my shirt up to my armpits.

His eyes take in my bare chest the way mine were taking in his earlier, then they flick up to me.

“Safe word?”

“What?”

He makes a tch sound and furrows his brow at me. “Listen, baby boy, I’ve been wanting to swallow your cum since you the moment you walked in to sign the rental agreement. Seriously, if you hadn’t looked so shit scared of me, I would have dropped to my knees right there and showed you how much three intensive weeks of study can eliminate your gag reflex. My gag reflex. What I’m saying is, I want to choke on your dick but I won’t actually choke because I’m skilled. Like wicked skilled. Like maybe hang on for dear life because you’re about to get your brains hoovered out through your dick skilled.”

A smile twitches at the corner of my mouth as I listen to Wade ramble. I know from experience with Deadpool that he’ll keep talking if I let him, probably getting increasingly more x-rated as he goes.

He’s rubbing the flat of his palms back and forth across the couch cushions and detailing the ways in which he wants to worship my balls when I interrupt him.

“Wade.” His gaze snaps to mine. “Arachnid.”

He gives me a slightly puzzled look.

“If I want to stop, I’ll say the word arachnid.”

It’s probably a dumb idea. The dumbest idea. Deadpool’s not stupid as much as he acts it which means that Wade’s not stupid either and I really don’t need to be leaving a trail of breadcrumbs back to my secret identity. But maybe there’s a part of me that worries this is wrong if I don’t tell him what I know. Like, if he figures it out, then I won’t be taking advantage of him somehow.

Or maybe I’m just not thinking clearly because all my blood is setting up camp in my dick.

Wade doesn’t figure it out though, he just twitches up the corner of his smile a smidge higher and I think I just died.

He has a dimple.

When his smile went up just that tiny bit farther on one side and it became crooked and endearing, a small dimple popped out on his cheek. I want to rip the image inducer off and see the divot in his skin, the dusky brown crisscrossed with reddened scars and an adorable little dimple.

“You have a dimple,” I tell him, reaching out to brush a fingertip over it.

“Do I?” His smile tilts even more crooked and the dimple deepens.

I slip my hand around the back of his neck and use my grip to tug him up higher on his knees, a groan rolling up from his chest as his face gets closer to mine.

“You do,” I murmur, his lips inches from my own, my fingers flexing around his neck and his hands braced into the couch on either side of me.

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something. He’s always going to say something. But I beat him to it. I close the distance between us and lick the tip of my tongue into the divot on his cheek. His skin is hot against my tongue, the scars rough and his voice wrung out and raspy.

“Fuuuck, sweet pea, that’s—“ My fingers tighten around the back of his neck again, cutting him off on another deep groan. “Ungh. T’es fucking parfait calvaire, voyons donc.”

I like to think I would have stopped us there. Maybe given Wade a peck on that ridiculously cute dimple and sent us both off to our separate corners.

I like to think, all things being equal, I wouldn’t let my dick lead me down a road that is morally grey at best. I know all of him but he doesn’t know all of me and can someone truly consent in those circumstances?

I like to think my righteous superhero streak would have finally asserted itself and I could have walked away with my conscience clean.

And maybe I could have. Maybe I could have been the voice of reason. Maybe I could have kept my moral high ground. Maybe I could have pretended that I only wanted one kiss. But I’ll never know what could have been because Wade growling French in my ear broke my fucking brain.

WADE

I’ll try anything once.

That’s the kind of attitude that gets you into your first drag show at sixteen. The kind of attitude that makes you think fighting seven hockey bigots from your high school in the parking lot after said drag show is a winning proposition. The kind of attitude that unlocks a multitude of kinks.

We’re talking legion, here. Domination, voyeurism, shibari, orgies, knife play, sounding. If you can think of it, I’ve probably tried it at least once. Which means I’m rarely surprised when it comes time for fucking.

Excited? Check.

Delighted? Check.

Aroused? Check.

Surprised? Not so much.

But no one has ever scruffed me like a kitten the way Shutterbug does and it would not be an exaggeration to say that, if he squeezes the back of my neck that way again with his elegant, long-fingered hand, I might come in my pants.

“Say something else in French,” he demands.

“🎶Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?🎶”

I more sing it than say it because of course I do.

His hand loosens on the back of my neck as a laugh snorts out of him and I can breathe again although my cock is still throbbing madly. Maybe I’ll come in my pants just because it’s him, in front of me, blushing petal pink under that constellation of freckles, begging me to speak more French and—

{*record scratch*}

{You ever have a moment where the whole world opens up before you, a door you hadn’t even noticed before swings wide in your brain and everything makes a little bit more sense? You ever slam the door shut again because your cock aches and there’s a bossy little twunk sprawled on the couch in front of you who is clearly about to let you suck his dick?}

{Yeah. Me neither.}

“I know what that one means.”

He’s got the dopiest smile on his face and, if I finally died for real right here, right now, it wouldn’t be a bad last sight. Because he’s smiling at me.

<At the image induced version of you, you mean.>

My stomach sours at the reminder that, no matter what Shutterbug sees when he looks at me, it’s not really me. I’m lying to him. Taking advantage of him maybe. I can’t do this.

I start to pull away but he tightens his hand around the back of my neck again and a groan rolls up my throat so fast that I choke on it. The fabric clinging to the tip of my dick is damp with precome and my head is spinning.

Fuck, I want this.

I don’t deserve it but I really, really want it.

Except consent is kind of a big deal for me. You know, the guy who had his consent violated from here to Timbuktu so some off-off-book secret government lab could turn him into a mass of regenerating cells and caustic remarks.

“Shutterbug, I’m not sure if—”

His hand flexes again and he leans closer until our foreheads are touching. My mouth waters with the memory of how he tastes and I can feel his words ghost against my lips.

“Say something else in French.”

Looks like everybody’s flying their kink flag high today.

“Pistol Pete, maybe we should—” his fingers flexing at the scruff of my neck break my sentence off halfway through and pull the sound of a contented house cat out of me. How am I supposed to work in these conditions?

Fuck it.

God, I am not your strongest soldier.

<Amen.>

“How about this, sweet pea?” I turn my head so that I can say the words against his skin, barely brushing his cheekbone with my lips. “Je veux te sucer.”

“That,” he gasps. A shiver ripples down his spine and its twin ripples down mine. “I want that.”

Fuck. I’m pretty sure he has no idea what I just said to him but he’s all in and that’s so hot. He’s so hot. And I want to give him everything he wants.

“Well, then…” I tease, “aweille laisse-moé prendre soin de toi, mon petit coco.”

His fingers squeeze at my neck again and electricity zaps down my spine and pools in my lower back and thighs. Why does that feel so fucking good?

As much as I want to feel Pete’s fingertips digging into the muscles around my cervical spine while I suck him off, I reach back and grab his hand. He might be too into this right this minute to realize that he’s feeling scars on the back of my neck and I don’t want him to remember them later.

Because I’m doing this. It’s reprehensible in every way, shape, and form but I don’t think I can stop myself.

[On-brand for us, honestly.]

I turn his hand, wrapping my fingers around his wrist above his bracelets, tracing circles into the soft skin there with my thumb. He’s so fucking soft. I’m used to feeling my horror show skin but Petey Pie is like warm velvet. He squirms at my touch and I think I might have found one of his sensitive spots.

Love that for me.

I lean forward, hooking my thumb in the bracelets and holding them down so I can circle the flat of my tongue around his inner wrist, too. He tastes so fucking sweet and the whispered oh god followed by a whiny little whimper is like music to my ears.

“Wade?”

Oops. Got a little distracted.

I drag my tongue up his wrist before pressing a kiss into the center of his palm and then lay it over my shoulder, encouraging him to fist his fingers into the cotton of my hoodie. A silent command that he follows with an arousing degree of enthusiasm.

My fingers lift to curl around the waistband of his sweats and I pause. “This okay?”

I don’t know why I ask.

I know the answer.

This is not okay. I know it’s not but I’ve already mentioned my impulse control issues. And every guy wants their dick sucked, right? It shouldn’t matter if the mouth doing the sucking is attached to a face that’s essentially a cross between the crypt keeper and Leather Face in full human skin mask mode.

Right?

Please say that’s right because I’m about to suck Shutterbug’s soul out through his dick and I need to not feel like a piece of shit about it in the morning.

<Right as rain, sugar tits.>

“It would be more okay if you took my pants off.”

Damn.

Baby boy gains some confidence in sexy situations and I am here for it.

Normally, I might try to be sexy with how I take his pants off but this little twunk has been inadvertently blue-balling me for the last two weeks (and his equally twunk superhero friend has been blue-balling me for even longer) that I’m not at my most smoothly seductive. I whip his pants off and toss them to the side like they’re on fucking fire.

Christ.

“T’es crissement beau.”

I don’t usually rasp messy French I learned in locker rooms and smoking weed behind a Tim Horton’s but Pete fucking loves it because his gorgeous dick flexes as the words come out. I’m going to have to send a thank you letter to the massive Québécois speaking dipshit that was always smashing me into the boards and calling me a pretty little girl.

[He wasn’t wrong, though.]

The thank you letter will have to come after the fucking poetry I’m going to write about my roommate’s dick. Long and lean and hard in perfect proportion to his body and flushed that same pretty pink as his cheeks, darker at the head and—

<Why are you just looking at it? I thought you were going to do something with it.>

{No lies detected.}

I sling one of his legs up and over my right shoulder before dragging my tongue from his inner knee all the way up his inner thigh to the crease of his leg. His hand clenches in my hoodie tight enough that I think I hear the seams tearing.

“Careful, Shutterbug. This is my favorite hoodie.”

{It’s not. If he wants to tear this goddamn hoodie off my body eight hundred times a day I will buy out the distributor in bulk.}

I nose inward and lap at his balls. Fuck. He’s sweet and soft everywhere. My hands frantically rip open the towel around my waist to give my cock some relief then reach up to pin this perfect fucking human being to the couch underneath my greedy tongue, one hand holding his hip down and the other gripping the leg draped over my shoulder.

He squirms as I lick and suck at his balls, feeling them draw up tighter under my mouth. I gotta admit the squeaky whimpers and moans huffing out of him are hot as hell.

{Which is very hot. I’ve been there. I should know.}

I pull back and nip at his inner thigh before soothing it with my tongue. Again. Fuck. I would lick him all over. The mark stands out against the pale, speckled skin of his leg.

“You just have freckles everywhere, don’t you, baby boy?”

I don’t expect an answer to the question, mostly because right after I ask it, I swallow Petey’s dick like I want to choke on it. {I really, really do.} His back bows, shoving his dick deeper into my throat and I hum around it.

This is the good stuff.

PETER

This is bad.

This is really, really bad.

The head of my dick is nudging at the back of Deadpool’s throat and the first thing on my mind isn’t pulling away because he doesn’t know I’m Spider-man and that this is deeply fucked up. No, the first thing on my mind is more, deeper, fuck.

Which… yeah, okay. That’s three things.

I try to roll my hips into Wade’s mouth but one big hand is curved over my hip and pinning me to the couch cushions. The rough callous on his thumb is rubbing back and forth across my hip bone which is a wild contrast to the slick heat of his mouth and the wet flick of his tongue into the slit at the tip of my cock.

I grab at Wade’s other shoulder with my opposite hand until I have my fingers fisted into his hoodie on either side of his head. I twist my hands, tighten my grip, and try to use it to drag Wade closer.

He doesn't move, he’s too strong or the hoodie’s too loose, or both, but he does purr like a fucking cat and the vibration down my cock makes my back arch and my eyes roll back in my head.

“You’re… really… good… at… this…” I pant, trying to think of statistics and DNA sequences and the last four gnarly Spider-man fights to keep myself from spilling into his mouth too soon.

His cheeks hollow out and he pulls his mouth off me so slow that I think I die a little bit before he pops all the way free and gifts with a smile that shows off his perfect, straight teeth.

“Lots of practice.” He winks and I’m kind of mad that there’s a blue pupil behind his eyelid afterward.

“Tell them all thank you. Get their addresses. I’ll send a bouquet.”

The smile curls up at one corner and his dimple appears again. My dick twitches so hard it feels like my abs are cramping. Without his mouth on me, I become peripherally aware of how hard I’m breathing and how warm I am and the tingles racing through my body, centered in my lower belly and my forearms.

Shit.

I can’t come in his mouth. I want to say that it’s because it’s wrong. I know he’s Deadpool and he thinks I’m just his mousy little roommate. This whole thing is kind of built on a lie. But that’s not the real reason. The real reason is that, if I come in front of him, I’ll immediately give away that I’m Spider-man.

He really is good with his mouth.

And I’m not referring to how much he talks.

I can’t even control my webbing when it’s just me jerking off into my hand. This is so much hotter than that it’s like comparing an oven to a volcano.

My blood-starved brain tries to churn over excuses to get out of this but Wade leans forward and presses a kiss to my other hip bone before sucking my cock back into his mouth.

Christ.

Fuck.

Shit.

My fingers are curled tight into his hoodie and my toes are curled tight over his shoulder and if I don’t stop him soon, we’ll probably both end up fully cocooned in webbing. Wade swallows around the head of my cock, the muscles of his throat squeezing it tight and I tip my head into the back of the couch because if I look at his mouth around my dick I’m going to come.

I feel the muscles of his shoulder shift under my leg and a groan rumbles out of him, traveling from his throat to my cock. He sounds like he’s enjoying this so much. I’m fairly certain no one has ever sucked my dick like it’s endgame but Wade is putting his whole back into it.

Spit is trailing down my cock as he licks and sucks and swallows and the best I can do is fucking hang on. Slowly, too slowly honestly, I become aware that the shift of his arm under my leg is rhythmic, intentional. The reason why hits me a second later.

Wade Wilson is on his knees in front of my worshipping my cock like it’s his god and getting off on it enough that he’s started working over his own cock with his hand.

Goddamn it.

Holy shit.

“Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.”

I flatten my palms on Wade’s shoulders and shove as hard as I can while scrambling backward up the back of the couch. My whole body is throbbing, so close to coming that I’m shaking with it. There are tufts of webbing clinging to the shoulders of Wade’s black hoodie and I can’t even be properly freaked out about it because if I let my mind wander, I am going to have a massive fucking orgasm and things are going to get so so much worse.

Wade is sprawled on the floor, hands behind him to prop him up, and he’s still wearing the hoodie but he might as well not be wearing anything. It’s hanging along the sides of his torso, outlining his broad chest and thick abs and — holy fuck, he’s huge. His cock juts up from a nest of curls that I doubt he has in real life, shiny with the precome he was using as lube.

“You are so hot.”

The words sort of drip out of me without my consent. Which fits the moment I guess because I’m already doing so many things without proper consent.

I expect the statement to just fall between us and die or get volleyed back as something witty and off-color from Wade. But instead, he flinches.

He flinches and sits up straight, grabbing the towel to shove into his lap, covering his erection. Then he gathers his hoodie around himself, zipping it up and not meeting my eye. I watch his big shoulders (dusted with fucking webbing, oh my god) rise and fall before he finally looks at me.

“You okay, Shutterbug?”

“Uh…” I’m perched on top of the couch back. My shirt has fallen back down to cover my chest and stomach but my dick is still out. I step down to the floor so the couch at least hides that. “I, uh…”

“I got carried away,” he finally says after it becomes obvious that I have nothing else to add to that. “You have a dick like a lollipop. It’s sweet and it fits in my mouth perfectly and…” he trails off and scowls. At himself, I think. “Sorry. I should have checked in with you more. I… fuck. Are you okay?”

I nod. Then realize that I probably owe him more than that.

“Yeah.” My voice is a croak. “Yeah. I’m fine. That was… fine. Everything is fine.”

One corner of Wade’s mouth goes up with a wry twist. “Settle down with the effusive praise, Pistol Pete.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. With the way it threatens to burst out of me, it’s either laugh or choke.

“We’re a fucking mess,” I say. Because it’s true. More true than he knows.

Wade shoves to his feet, somehow managing to rewrap the towel around his waist without flashing me which is a real shame, actually. He snags my sweats off the floor and tosses them to me, waiting until I’ve struggled into them to step around the couch.

He stops a few feet away. Maybe remembering how nervous I was around him when I first moved in. Or maybe realizing that I’m about a second away from throwing myself at him again.

The smile this time looks tired. “Anytime you want to make a mess, baby boy, just give me a call.”

Baby boy.

Goddamn him.

I take a step closer and reach up, brushing the webbing off his shoulders as his eyes roam my face. I’m pretty sure no one has ever looked at me like that before.

I grab the back of his neck, luxuriating in the abnormal heat of his skin and the texture of the scars under my palm, and use the grip to pull him closer. A strangled gasp leaves him as I press up into him and drop a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Sure thing, Dimples.”

Then I wink at him and turn to walk away, wondering how he likes the taste of his own medicine.

WADE

I didn’t even come and that’s maybe the best sex I’ve ever had. It definitely ranks. In a few categories, actually.

Who knew Petey Pie was such a mouthy, sexy mess?

He’s like an onion I want to just keep peeling the layers off of. I’m kind of obsessed with what I might unveil next.

<Oh man, are you going to regret that thought later.>

I wobble my hard dick into my bedroom and barely shut the door before my hand is back around it. I just have to remember the way Shutterbug panted and squirmed underneath me (barring the moment he told me I was hot because it's a lot easier to pretend I'm not a consent-violating shitgibbon without the reminder that he doesn't actually know what I look like) and, well, that's it. It would be embarrassing how quickly I come if I got embarrassed by those kinds of things.

I use the towel to wipe up my cum before tossing it to the floor. I’m about to do the same with my hoodie after I shrug out of it when I see something white on the shoulder.

I consider looking more closely at the whatever it is.

<You know.>

My brain spins.

[We’ve known for a while.]

The universe opens that door of clarity from earlier.

“Nope,” I say firmly as I toss the hoodie on top of the towel and slam the door in the universe’s face. “No, thanks. Fuck off. Post-nut clarity declined.”

I think that’s the end of it. I hope that’s the end of it. But I’m pretty sure I can hear those fucking voices laughing in my head.

What dick bags.

Chapter Text

PETER

I’m perched on the corner of a squat building behind a laughably bad security fence waiting for Daredevil to show up. I am absolutely not reliving the feel of Wade’s mouth on my dick or the sound of his voice, rough and raspy, telling me that I’m pretty in French. At least, I think that’s what he was saying…

God. Who knew I just wanted someone to hold me down and make me feel good while speaking to me in a language I don’t understand?

Kinks are weird.

Despite my begging, Wade didn’t talk nearly as much as I thought he would but the way he purred like a cat whenever I grabbed the back of his neck was almost hotter than I could stand. I wonder what would happen if I did that to him when he’s Deadpool. Would he react the same way? Or was it only because it was Peter? Maybe—

“Spider-man,” Daredevil hisses my name like he’s been saying it for a while.

I stand from the ledge, thirty stories up, and pivot to Daredevil. He does the whole perch-like-a-gargoyle thing, too, but I know that watching me stand right at the edge makes him uncomfortable. Huh. I guess Deadpool’s penchant for pushing buttons has rubbed off on me.

“You’re late,” I say as I hop down and walk toward Daredevil. Not because he’s actually late (he’s not and would never) but because I want to watch his jaw clench.

Man, Deadpool has really, really rubbed off on me.

And I wouldn’t mind him rubbing off on me some more…

“You’re early,” Daredevil accuses.

I don’t tell him it’s because I almost came down Deadpool’s throat when he was Wade and neither Deadpool nor Wade know who I am and that seemed like a shitty thing to do but instead, I just shrug. Yeah. I am early. No big deal.

“Any new info?” I ask.

Daredevil explained the plan to me last night and it seems flimsy. Sort of a go-in-with-guns-blazing type of plan even though neither of us carries firearms.

“Just narrowed it down to a specific spot in the empty gravel pit a few blocks from Mather Metal.” Daredevil looks down at his belt, tightening straps and fiddling with his bully sticks. “There’s a storage shed there that wasn’t torn down. Good place for operations if you’re a merc that’s decided to get back in the game.”

I’ll take Daredevil’s word for it. Can’t blame whoever it is. A rickety shed in the middle of an abandoned gravel yard sounds like a step up from my apartment.

“So as long as I can wrap them up, we’ll be in good shape?”

Daredevil nods. “There shouldn’t be more than ten people there which, between the two of us, should be manageable.”

“And what are you going to do again?”

I know what he’s going to do. Regardless of what code Matt thinks he lives by, he never misses an opportunity to beat the shit out of someone. Sometimes it makes me a little jealous.

“Just stick to the plan,” he snaps instead of answering me.

So… you know, the usual. Nothing new and exciting about tonight’s patrol. And, yes, I realize that I probably just jinxed it but I have Parker Luck following me around so an errant thought like that is probably the least of my worries.

“Lead the way, then.” I step back and gesture widely to the city with a flourish, giving Daredevil a facetious little bow.

He lets out an aggrieved sigh before stomping toward the roof’s exit door, throwing “You are such a smart-ass,” over his shoulder at me.

Guilty as charged.

WADE

Goddamn, these fucking superheroes. I told them not to do this.

<Let’s stay on standby, then, baby cakes.>

Fine.

But I’m going to be petulant about it.

[When are we not?]

I watch as Spidey uses a rope of webbing to lower Daredevil to the ground and then crawls down after him. Goddamn it. That’s so fucking erotic. How dare he!?

<No qualms about lusting after Spider-man, eh?>

[Odd…]

{*slams the universe’s clarity door closed again*}

Now I’m petulant and horny.

And irritated.

<Save up all that irritation. We’re gonna need it in a little bit.>

PETER

There are more than ten people in the rickety old shed. A lot more. And it’s more of a functioning warehouse than a shed anyway. There are stacks of boxes that might be filled with weapons or drugs or black market squishmallows. Who knows with some of these villains.

Daredevil is crouched next to me, peering in through one of the thin windows near the top of the east-facing wall. I can feel the scowling frustration radiating off of him. Something about his intel was wrong and he’s tense enough to snap.

“What do we do now?” I ask, easing away from the window and pressing my back to the cold metal wall.

Daredevil shifts back into a crouch on the ledge next to the window and looks at me. “Did you see anyone that looked like a high-level mercenary?”

“What does a high-level mercenary look like?” I ask. Because the only other maybe high-level mercenary I know is Deadpool and I doubt there’s more than one experiment-scarred, mildly unhinged, masked killer running around.

Although, on second thought… that describes a lot of people. The masked killer bit at least.

“I didn’t see anyone in a mask,” I try again and feel slightly vindicated about my dumb statement when Daredevil nods. Then, he leans forward to look through the window again and I’m left watching his back, staring out at the abandoned gravel pit.

A cold wind whips along the side of the building, cutting through the thin fabric of my suit and making me shiver. My spider sense isn’t even twitching in my head and this is boring as hell. I could be back home, curled up on the couch with Wade, Netflix and Chilling until my dick stops working.

I still have so many questions about his refractory period.

It’s hard to remember that only a handful of days ago, I was scared of my built, secretly a mercenary I’ve known for a while roommate. Especially because all I want to do with him now, suit or not, image inducer or not, is—

Fuck.

I’m throwing my body at Daredevil before my spider sense has even fully permeated into my conscious brain. His senses must have pinged too because he’s already running along the ledge, ducked down as several gunshots go off from the ground, pinging against the corrugated side of the warehouse.

I scramble after him, using the pads on my fingers to scale closer to the roofline, hoping it’s too high for most of the shots to get close.

Daredevil waves a hand at me to get my attention and does some complicated gestures that I don’t understand at all. But then he tugs open another of the thin windows and slips inside.

Am I supposed to follow him?

God, this idea seems so bad. I know that I frequently bring webbing to a gunfight but this is more guns that I usually face at once.

Once I’m over the lip of the roof, I can see the shooters more clearly. There are five of them and, from up here, it looks like they each only have one firearm. The original plan was to web people up so I’ll just stick to that, it’s usually my go-to anyway.

It only takes four lengths of webbing to snatch all five guns up to the roof. They’re a make that I’m familiar with so I spend a few minutes pulling out the clips and emptying the chambers. Deadpool insisted on showing me how one night after I managed to snatch both his guns in the same way but he was able to get them back, then keep shooting at me.

Don’t bend the barrels, baby boy. That’s dangerous as shit. Empty the clips.

Shouting and more gunshots come from inside the warehouse and I clamber through a different window worried that I just screwed Daredevil over by not following him in when he was waving his hands at me. I stay tucked up in the shadows of the ceiling trying to get my bearings and lay eyes on Matt.

He’s hard to see but he’s there, cutting through the shadows, dropping behind the armed men and knocking them unconscious with his fist or a bully stick or an arm around their throats. I sidle down the wall, keeping one eye on him as he works his way across the warehouse and my other eye on my webbing as I secure the men closest to me.

It’s… surprisingly easy. The armed men that Daredevil knocks out obviously aren’t a threat anymore but even the men I web up sort of just… sink to the ground and lay there after I do it.

Daredevil is breathing hard when he wanders toward me, across the large empty aisle way in front of the loading door. He opens his mouth to speak when I hear it. We both hear it.

Slow clapping.

It’s both the most sinister and most ridiculous thing I’ve heard. It honestly sounds like something Deadpool would do and I’m half expecting to see the Merc with the Mouth rounding the corner as someone steps out of the shadows.

“Admirably performed, gentlemen.”

The clapper is dressed in a black spandex suit with orange accents at the wrists and neck. A white cape trails behind them, the hood of which shadows the upper part of their face. But underneath… underneath it looks like a skull.

“The unknown mercenary, I take it?” Daredevil asks.

“Unknown?” They gasp. “Surely not. I guarantee that I am quite well-known, Daredevil.”

Something is itching at the back of my brain. Not my spider sense, not yet, but the heavy pressure to look, pay attention, notice. White cap and hood, black and orange suit, face like a skull.

“Taskmaster,” I say, the name rolling out as my brain slides the pieces together.

What is it that Deadpool said about him?

“I always knew you were a smart one, Spider-man.” The mercenary flips a bow that I hadn’t noticed before in front of him, already loading an arrow into it, his eyes narrowed on both of us. “It’s a shame I’ll have to shoot you.”

“With a bow and arrow?”

I laugh. Out loud. Which, sure, is rude but I have spider speed and a built-in proximity alarm. There’s no way some Moon Knight-looking asshole is going to hit me with an arrow.

The tip of the bow follows me as I take a step away from Daredevil. This is an easy divide-and-conquer situation. I feint a run to the left as I shoot a length of webbing at the ceiling to swing myself behind the mercenary. Before I can even pull myself off the ground, my side explodes with agony.

How did he hit me?

“Spider-man!?”

Daredevil is shouting my name but his next call gets cut off with a pained grunt. Did he get hit, too?

I stagger to my feet, releasing the webbing I already threw and deciding to find shelter behind one of the huge stacks of boxes. I use my spider speed. I’m quick, I know I am, but a second arrow sinks into my other side and I whimper.

I am a very tough, New York superhero but getting shot with an arrow fucking hurts. I yank out both of the shafts, despite a voice in my head that sounds like Deadpool telling me that it’s a terrible idea, as I stumble toward a hiding place, not even paying attention to Taskmaster now, just trying to hide.

Taskmaster, Taskmaster, Taskmaster.

What is it that Deadpool said about him?

“Look at the two of you. Hiding in the dark like rats. Some superheroes the city sent after me.” A sardonic laugh follows that proclamation and, as I try to scale a stack of boxes, a third arrow buries itself into my thigh, knocking me to the ground.

That’s when I remember.

Mimicry.

Taskmaster can mimic anyone’s movement. Predict them practically. Speed and strength and danger sense don’t mean anything because he knows what I’m going to do as soon as I do.

I think I laughed when Deadpool told me about him. It sounded like such a stupid power at the time. I roll to my side, fresh waves of pain (and some gushes of blood) radiating out from the three puncture wounds. I take it back. It’s a really fucking good superpower.

A groan sounds loud in my ears and I realize it’s mine. I’m not even moving anymore. I’ve curled into the fetal position on the floor, a sitting duck. A sitting spider. I laugh at the stupid joke and know that I’m already losing too much blood.

“No one is going to believe how easy it was to kill Daredevil and Spider—”

A gunshot echoes through the massive space and I flinch, expecting it to be for me. The one that ends it. Then a second shot follows and I hear something that makes every tense, terrified muscle in my body relax.

“I don’t think I gave you permission to play with my toys, Tasky.”

It’s Wade. Deadpool. I look for him with bleary eyes and find him standing on top of one of the stacks of old pallets with both guns held out in front of him, squeezing off more deafening shots, the muzzle flashes illuminating the angle of his jaw.

He looks… like a hero.

After that, everything goes fuzzy before fading to black.

WADE

Aw, fuck.

Guns are good for chasing away other mercs but they aren’t so good when you’re confronted with two red-clad superheroes in heaps on the ground. I holster my pistol as I sprint toward Spider-man.

“Webs? Websy?” A groan sounds but it isn’t from the still figure of Spider-man so I ignore it. I drop to my knees next to him, afraid to touch him and somehow make it worse. My voice catches in my throat. “Spides?”

There’s blood seeping through his uniform along both sides of his torso and one of his thighs. Fuck. The “unknown merc” {heavy on the air quotes} these two were tracking definitely knew which one of them was the bigger threat and acted accordingly. Webs will heal but injuries like these would have made him easy pickings if I hadn’t come along.

[That son of a bitch. How fucking dare he.]

<I cannot wait to get that guy in a dark alley.>

Can’t say as I blame Taskmaster, though. <You absolutely should fucking blame him.> Webs may have a core of sweetness and light but baby boy is tough as nails and tenacious as a pit bull on the outside. He wouldn’t roll over and play dead for some unknown mercenary that was trying to take over the city.

At least he’s breathing. I don’t want to think about what state of mind I’d be in if he wasn’t.

<Don’t worry. We’ll get to that later.>

“Deadpool.”

I spin and pull one of the pistols that I’d holstered when I rushed Webs, aiming it directly at Daredevil’s face. He’s moving around, limping toward me, and fury sweeps through me because he’s fine and Spider-man’s not.

“If you know what’s good for you, you won’t come any closer.”

[It’s not his fault.]

“Isn’t it?” I put a little more tension on the trigger, watching Daredevil approach warily. “Wasn’t it your idea to do this? Aren’t you the reason Webs is laying here?” My voice breaks on Webs’s name.

<Shoot him.>

He finally stops walking and tips his head, considering. “He said you didn’t know.”

A frustrated growl rolls out of my throat. I don’t have time for this. Even if I hadn’t slammed the door closed on the universe, I don’t have fucking time for this right now. Spider-man’s blood is starting to pool under him on the dirty concrete floor and I’m fucking shaking and I haven’t felt like this since REDACTED.

And Daredevil started this.

<Shoot him.>

My fingers flex on the trigger but Webs still hasn’t moved and… Holy shit, Webs still hasn’t moved.

“I don’t have time to shoot the shit with you, Dickdevil. I need to— I have to take him— I’m gonna bring him—“

My brain doesn’t work smoothly on the best of days and this is not the best of days. Something thick and vicious and covered in thorns is crawling through my veins trailing incandescent rage behind it.

“Home,” Daredevil says. My fingers twitch on the gun that’s still pointed at his forehead. “You should bring him home.”

Yeah. I should… bring him home.

A low sound comes from my feet and I look down to see Webs’s fingers twitch. I lean closer to him, the gun staying trained on Daredevil, and slip my fingers through Spider-man’s.

“Webs?”

His fingers tighten around mine and his voice comes out in a quiet croak. Shredded and wrung-out. “Wade?”

I finally pull the gun back to scrub under my eyes with the back of the hand that isn’t holding on to Webs for dear life. I lean down over him and lower my voice even though I know Daredevil will still be able to hear.

“Matt Murdock can’t get it up,” I murmur over Spidey. He huffs out a laugh and squeezes my fingers lightly. Fuck. “You’re gonna be fine. I’m gonna take good care of you, okay? I promise. I’m not going to use this moment of weakness to unmask you and take pictures and sell them on the Internet to the highest bidder.”

Another soft sound that might also be a laugh leaves Spidey as he squeezes at my hand again. “I trust you, Wade.”

My heart twists and clenches in my chest like I’ve been connected to a car battery. {Yes, I know what that feels like.} I slide my gun into my holster and hover my hand over Spider-man’s hip, not sure where to touch him or what to do or who to kill.

<We’ll get there.>

“That’s a terrible inclination, baby boy, but since that ship has sailed, let me take you home.”

Webs loses consciousness after he manages to tell me where he lives. But I don’t need it. I’ve heard that breathy, wrung-out voice say my name before. My name. Wade, not Deadpool. The address he gives me just means I can’t ignore the truth any longer.

Daredevil is still standing a few feet away, one arm cradled over his ribs, with a stricken expression on the lower half of his face. Fuck him. I hope he feels bad. This is all his fault.

<You can still shoot him.>

“If he asks,” I spit toward Daredevil as I carefully scoop Webs up off the ground. “You’re the one that brought him home. Got it?”

“Deadpool…”

I stand up with Webs in my arms, his body lolling against my chest, head heavy on my shoulder, and some of his blood already soaking through my suit. I can feel it. It’s making me twitchy. [It’s making all of us twitchy.] If Matt Murdock doesn’t get out of my fucking way right now, Hell’s Kitchen is going to be down a superhero.

“Get in my way and I shoot you. Tell him and I shoot you.” I glare at him over Spider-man’s still body and I think I might shoot him anyway. <Do it.> “I’m really just looking for any fucking excuse, Matty. Lay one on me.”

Daredevil holds his hands out in front of him, trying to placate me when I can’t be fucking placated. “I brought him home.”

Too fucking right.

I stomp toward the door I kicked in to get here, ignoring the superhero behind me. He’s not the one that needs me. He’s not...

Fuck.

The bleeding has mostly stopped by the time I carefully wrestle Webs through the window of my room. He still hasn’t woken up, though.

Once I lay him on his bed, I stand there and stare at him, not quite sure what to do. Should I get him out of his suit? Should I clean and dress the wounds?

Fuck.

I pull Webs’s phone out of the pocket at the back of his suit and acknowledge the fuckface who got us into this.

PETER: u know what he looks like?

PETER: under the mask?

MATT: I'm blind, Wade.

<Should have fucking shot him.>

PETER: wud u take him out of his suit?

MATT: If I thought I had to, yes.

PETER: u did

PETER: r we clear?

MATT: As crystal.

I don’t ask if Daredevil is okay because I don’t give a shit. I delete the text chain I just sent and set Spider-man’s phone on his bedside table on top of a precarious stack of books. Peter’s bedside table.

Jesus fucking Christ.

<No time for a breakdown, hunny bunny. Take care of your boy.>

I scrub my hands over my face and sniffle in a deep breath. I can recognize the signs; I’m teetering at the edge of a cliff. That vicious, thorned anger is still tearing through my veins and I’m both so pissed off and so scared that I’m shaking with it.

“I want to kill that son of a bitch.”

<We will.>

[Now take care of our boy.]

Chapter Text

WADE

I stay out of other mercs’ business and they stay out of mine. It’s sort of a don’t ask, don’t tell policy but with less homophobia and less state-sanctioned violence.

<Katanas?>

[Check.]

Which is why I didn’t serve up Taskmaster on a silver platter when I recognized his work in that room full of dead bodies.

<Knives?>

[Check.]

I hadn’t even realized he had gone back into the game. I thought he was still Mr. Miyagi-ing newbies to the killing fields.

<Guns?>

[Check.]

But that was before.

<Ammo?>

[Check.]

Before I had to drag my superhero man crush back to my apartment, our apartment, while he bled all over me.

<Explosives?>

[Check.]

I’d already be pissed if Tasky had done that to Spider-man. Maybe not loaded for bear pissed but definitely mad enough to track him down.

<Secret weapon?>

[Check.]

Except he hadn’t just come after Webs, he’d come after Shutterbug. My nerdy roommate that takes heartrending photographs and can’t make fucking toast and is apparently also Spider-man.

<Unhinged mental state?>

[Triple check.]

Superheroes are fair game. My roommate is not.

PETER

Everything hurts.

But the arrow wounds most of all. Which… duh, of course.

I’ve been laying in bed for the last twenty minutes staring at the ceiling of my bedroom and trying to remember how I got here. The warehouse I remember. Taskmaster I remember. Those goddamn arrows I remember. Deadpool white knighting his way in… that I really remember. It’s all the stuff after that’s kind of a blur.

I’m not in my suit. Someone dressed my wounds and put me in a red t-shirt that says Weed, California that’s at least two sizes too big for me and smells like a firework, and a pair of black sweats. There’s a glass of water, a bottle of Gatorade, and a pack of mini Oreos perched on my teetering pile of books next to a drug store bottle of ibuprofen that I discover hasn’t even had the seal broken when I finally roll over, with lots of groaning, and take some.

Then stuff some Oreos in my face because I’m starving and I never say no to free food.

I’m still a little lightheaded but that’s not unusual with blood loss, and the cookies and Gatorade are already going a long way to shoring up my sugar levels. Even with all that, it takes an embarrassingly long time for me to realize that Matt must have brought me home.

I wonder how that conversation went down between him and Deadpool. Or maybe Deadpool didn’t care what happened to us after he chased off Taskmaster. Maybe it didn’t even have anything to do with me and Daredevil. Maybe it was just some mercenarial territory pissing contest.

That doesn’t sound much like Wade but maybe that sounds like Deadpool.

You’re gonna be fine.

I’m gonna take good care of you, okay?

I promise.

The words surface in my head like they’re coming up through jello, slow and thick. The voice sounds like Deadpool but he and Spider-man are precarious acquaintances at best. Verbal sparring partners. A way to pass the time on nights when neither of us has anything else to do. That last thing sounds sexier than it has any right to and I lose a few minutes thinking about what it might be like to pass time on the rooftops with Deadpool that way. The way we’ve been passing time on the couch.

But no. That’s not Spider-man and Deadpool. That’s Peter and Wade. So there’s no reason for Deadpool to sound so wrecked about a few arrows through my torso.

Maybe that’s just what I wanted to hear.

I have to admit that imagining it was Deadpool promising to take care of me, that it was Deadpool carrying me home to dress my wounds, that Wade would be waiting here for me when I opened my eyes, makes something warm and wonderful spread through my veins.

I think I might be on more than ibuprofen.

A heavy breath escapes me as I stare at the ceiling, eating the mini Oreos in handfuls that leave dark crumbs on the front of the borrowed t-shirt, and trying to figure out where last night went wrong. Taskmaster was expecting us, obviously, which means Daredevil’s intel got corrupted somewhere along the way. Either Taskmaster knew we were coming or didn’t care if we did. Which, I guess, makes sense when you consider how easily he was able to pin me and Matt down in the warehouse.

We’d probably be dead without Deadpool.

And he’d known that we were walking into something dangerous. He had warned us. Warned me. Asked me not to go. I kind of wish he had just said, “Hey, the merc you’re going after can read your movements and will shoot the shit out of you.” But I understand why he didn’t. He’s a merc and we’re superheroes and our alliances are uneasy at best.

We don’t even say thank you to each other. Not for something as big as saving our lives. Not for anything.

It occurs to me as I finish the bottle of Gatorade that maybe Spider-man can’t thank Deadpool but I can thank Wade. I can keep him company while he chops things faster than I can see. I can sit next to him on the couch watching whatever romcom he wants to cue up. I can pester him about his fresh eggs idea while he fumbles through building a chicken coop with spare furniture parts.

That actually sounds… nice. Really nice.

I leverage myself out of bed, playing a game of bedside table Jenga to extract my phone, the ibuprofen bottle, and the glass of water from the mess of my TBR. I manage to gather everything in my arms without toppling the books and the open bottle of Gatorade (I should definitely put the lid on that.) and the bag of Oreos. Finally getting to my feet with a minimal amount of whimpering as my healing skin pulls against itself.

The shuffle to the door feels interminable but once I tug it open using webbing from my spinneret because my hands are full, I call for Wade.

None of the lights in the apartment are on, not even the strip of light I sometimes see coming from under Wade’s door. It feels empty in a way that a space would never feel if Wade (or Deadpool) were in it. That idiot manages to take up three times his physical space at least.

I realize there’s a dopey smile on my face at that thought and fix my mouth before calling “Wade?” one more time, knowing that I won’t get an answer.

Maybe he’s exacting revenge on Taskmaster for hurting me. Yeah, right. Can you imagine?

.

.

.

Goddamn it, that’s actually kind of hot.

I waddle gingerly toward the kitchen knowing that there’s a new batch of cookies waiting for me in a Kirby cookie jar on the counter. I’ve eaten three cookies, adding to the crumb count on my chest, when I realize I should probably check in with Matt. I'm sure he's okay since he maneuvered me through my window, got me out of my suit, and dressed my wounds but I realize that I’d be an absolute dickbag if I didn’t at least confirm.

I reach out and hold down the button on my phone until it beeps. “Text Matt,” I manage around a mouthful of cookie.

“What’s the message?” My phone robots back at me.

“Thanks for getting me home. You okay?”

“Ready to send?”

I glance half-heartedly at the screen. Looks fine. “Yeah.”

“Message sent.”

I finally stop pretending that I’m only going to eat a few cookies and wrap my arm around ceramic Kirby before heading to the couch. There’s another bottle of Gatorade sitting on the coffee table with a post-it note that says DRINK ME attached. I grab it and settle it next to me on the couch with the cookie jar on the other side and the remote in my hand so I won’t have to move for a while.

Maybe I’ll still be up when Wade gets home.

Maybe he’ll come sit with me.

Maybe… maybe something else could happen.

The thought doesn’t even sour my stomach anymore. I know it’s probably wrong to push forward with Wade when he doesn’t know about me but I can’t help it. I want to. I want him. And he wants me. Not Spider-man me, although I don’t think Deadpool would kick Spider-man out of bed, Peter me. The freelance photographer who can barely make ends meet, with a possibly unhealthy science obsession, whose only family barely remembers him, and who will eat anything you put in front of him.

Peter.

Me.

My phone buzzes from the pocket of my joggers where I tucked it earlier alerting me to a text. I don’t feel like wrestling it out of my pants so I make the robot read it to me.

MATT: You made it home?

MATT: Right. Of course, you made it home. I brought you home. You’re welcome.

MATT: Glad you’re okay.

MATT: I mean, of course, you’re okay.

MATT: Because I got you out of your suit and dressed your wounds.

MATT: Because I brought you home.

I hit the button on the remote to turn on the TV while I listen to the last of Matt’s word salad. My eyes roll as I pull up Netflix.

Daredevil is one strange little dude.

WADE

Taskmaster is laughably easy to find.

Too bad for him, I don’t feel much like laughing.

I’d call him a rat but he’s not even smart enough to flee a sinking ship. It takes him three days to return to the warehouse where he shot Webs full of holes and, as soon as I lay eyes on him from my perch in the rafters, the sharp thing tearing through my blood stops, the thorns growing thick and fast until it feels like they’re piercing me from the inside out. Until I feel all that bubbling rage drain out of me, my focus pinned in place until it feels like nothing will distract me.

Not that I plan on getting distracted.

<Loving this attitude.>

I sit up there watching him swan around the warehouse for a few hours contemplating what I want to do. How I want to kill him.

[We could do that little ninja thing where you quietly slink around the warehouse dispatching all his goons until he’s the only one left.]

<*sigh* I love that little ninja thing.>

“No. I have a better idea.”

<Oooo, bestie. I like what you’re cooking up in the old skull meat.>

[Fuck. This is going to hurt.]

Maybe. Maybe it will hurt but I don’t care. In fact, that sounds really fucking good right about now. My heart is still squeezed so tight from seeing Webs bleeding out on the floor that I think a few arrow (or bullet) wounds would actually be doing me a favor.

<I thought you said no distractions.>

Except, I can’t forget the sight of his blood seeping around him in a pool. I can’t forget how he felt, limp and slight, in my arms as I carried him home. I can’t forget he’s my goddamn roommate and I’ve been taking care of him since he moved in because he’s such a hopeless fucking space case. And everything I can’t forget vices tighter and tighter in my chest as I watch Taskmaster lead his army of walking dead. Because Taskmaster may be at the top of my kill list but everyone in this place is on it.

<*cracks knuckles* Let me know when the show’s about to start. I want a front-row seat.>

I don’t bother sneaking. What’s the fucking point? I’ve been waiting three days for this reckoning and I’m ready to get the party started.

I climb across the rafters until I’m over the spot right in front of Taskmaster where he’s waxing poetic about some dumb fuck mercenary “trade secret” that’s completely made up. The real trade secret is not to piss off other mercenaries and these little baby mercs are about to get a practical lesson. Too bad they won’t live long enough to put it into play.

<Goosebumps. Seriously. You sound so unhinged right now.>

The drop to the concrete floor is a few stories. Enough to hurt when I land but the adrenaline that pushes into my bloodstream feels like vindication.

“Need a guest lecturer?” I ask, straightening as I glare at Taskmaster.

He stumbled a few steps back when I landed, strictly surprise, because he would never give away a weakness like that. No merc would.

“Deadpool.” He glances at the goons standing in several strict rows behind me. Little cookie-cutter killers, most of whom won’t make it the first six months. Well… I guess none of them will actually make it. They just don’t know it yet.

“What’s wrong, Tasky?” I simper, reaching up behind my shoulder and drawing one of my katanas to spin in my hand. “You look a little… nervous.”

To his credit, Taskmaster draws himself up straighter and smoothes the lapels of his cape around his shoulders. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.”

The admission makes me grin, feral and sharp, behind my mask. Of course, he didn’t expect it. He can’t expect it. Taskmaster’s power works on everyone. Well. Almost everyone.

“I think it’s good for you to have some surprises every once in a while, don’t you?”

“You can’t actually think this is a good idea,” Taskmaster asks, looking behind me again. “It’s you against me and twenty well-trained mercenaries.”

“Well-trained?” I snort. “I guess you still think pretty highly of yourself.”

“I’m training the next generation of mercenaries, Wade,” Taskmaster says condescendingly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then maaaaybe,” I draw out, letting the tip of my katana blade spark against the ground just to watch him jump, “you should let them see you in action.”

“In action?”

“Surely your… students,” I spit out the word students the same way I’d spit out the words rotten corpses, “would love to watch a demonstration of your abilities.”

I’m hanging a lot on the assumption that Taskmaster has regaled his students with what he’s capable of but failed to mention that someone out there is immune to his power. But I’ve known the merc for a long time and I don’t think I’m wrong.

[Neither do we.]

<Look at his panicky little skeleton face.>

“Don’t be shy,” I taunt. “They all want to see it. Don’t you?”

The “don’t you?” I send back over my shoulder to the rows of future <Not if I have anything to say about it.> mercenaries. They bite because of course they do.

There’s a chorus of “Yes, Taskmaster” and “Please show us” that makes Taskmaster’s face twitch. I love backing people into a corner. Watching them realize that they have no choice but to do what I want. That this mercenary who shot my roommate full of arrows is going to have to fight me mano-a-mano because he couldn’t control his ego.

<Delicious.>

“Alright, Wade,” Taskmaster reluctantly agrees. “A practical demonstration. For educational purposes.

I don’t think he’s realized that I’m here to kill him yet. But that won’t take long. With my katana still in one hand, I draw a pistol and fire it into Taskmaster’s left thigh before he can even process what’s happening. His combat skills are decent but I’ve always thought he relies too much on his power. This’ll be like shooting fish in a barrel. It almost feels unfair.

<Fuck him.>

“Think it’s only fair to warn you that I’m not here to dance battle you like usual.” I toss the pistol to the side even though it still has a nearly full clip. “This time, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

Taskmaster draws his own sword as he stumbles backward. “Pool, this is unnecessary. I’ve never had any problems with you—”

“Yeah. Thought it was clear that I’m the one that has a problem with you.” I lunge forward and shove the blade of my katana through his right shoulder before he can parry. “But I’m willing to make it a little more fair for you.”

He takes another shuffling step back, my katana pulling out of his shoulder as he does, and I drop the blade on the ground.

“Fair.” His voice is dead, almost like it’s foreshadowing where Taskmaster will be in about five minutes.

“Fair,” I repeat. “You can’t use your power on me. So…” I pull one of my knives and flip it at him underhand, watching as it sinks into the softness of his belly just above his left hip. “I’ll only use each weapon once.”

He leaves the knife in [Smart.] but keeps scuttling away from me like a fucking cockroach exposed to the light. Under the shadow of his hood, I can tell his eyes are on my hands. Trying to predict what I’ll do next the normal way since he can’t read me.

“Is this a contract?” Taskmaster asks, lunging forward to take a swing at me with his sword. He telegraphs the move far too soon, making it easy to pull my second pistol and shoot him in the right thigh before tossing it to the side. His legs buckle, blood pouring from the front of both of his thighs, but he manages to keep his feet.

[Tough old bird.]

<Won’t matter in the end.>

“No.” He takes another swing with his sword and I let it sink into my side, stopping the momentum with my body so I can yank the blade out of his hands. “This is personal.” I toss the sword in the air to flip it, catching the hilt and driving it into his right shoulder, yanking it out roughly and discarding it like all the others. “I told you that I don’t like it when other people play with my toys.”

I’ve backed him up far enough that he’s nearly to a stack of heavy shipping containers. And, frankly, I’m bored. This isn’t even a challenge.

Instead of pulling my second katana or throwing my second knife at him like he probably expects, I lunge into him fast enough that he jerks back, smacking into the shipping container with a heavy thud.

<You can’t be done yet… we brought a secret weapon!>

I grab Taskmaster by the throat and shove him hard into the smooth metal side of the container, lifting him just high enough that only his toes scrape the floor. I’ve learned that’s more terrifying than being fully lifted off the ground and psychological manipulation is just plain fun. Especially with someone like Taskmaster. His eyes track my face before landing on the thing I pull out of one of my pouches with my right hand.

“Do you know what this is?” I ask as I tap the tip hard against his nose.

“Deadpool,” he’s wheedling, I hate that, “I didn’t know. And you and I have never had a problem before. Remember the op in—“

“It’s a stinger,” I interrupt.

If he thinks reminding me about the op in Russia is going to get him anywhere he’s dumber than he looks. And he looks really dumb. Like that outfit is an embarrassment. Embrace some color, sir.

[We do like the orange, though.]

His eyes flick to the stinger and then back to me.

“A spider stinger,” I clarify. “No venom, unfortunately for you because that is the good shit. No. What you need to worry about is this sharp, pointy bit at the end.”

I tap the end to his nose again. Harder.

“I would never knowingly cross that line, DP.”

“That makes one of us.” I use the tip of the stinger to push his hood off his head and he flinches in the light from the fluorescents.

“I didn’t mean to take your contracts but I heard you weren’t in the game anymore. It was just a few jobs to fund this place.”

I glance around, flipping the stinger across my knuckles right in front of this asshole’s face. Taskmaster always has some dumb fuck training warehouse somewhere. Apparently, this is the New York branch.

“You’re not listening,” I hiss, keeping the stinger going fast across my knuckles. “It’s not about a job. It’s not about this stupid School for Wayward Mercenaries. You fucked with something that’s important to me. I don’t like it when people touch my things.”

“I didn’t know,” he practically whispers.

“Neither did I,” I respond as I sink the stinger into the soft space under his jaw. The choking sound he makes tells me I’ve hit the right spot. He’ll bleed out quick enough. I lean closer, my mouth near his ear, wanting the next thing I say to be the last thing he hears. “Tell Shiklah I sent you. She does love it when I mail her presents.”

I pull the stinger out once there’s enough blood soaking Taskmaster’s uniform that I’m confident he’ll die before I step foot out of the building. Especially since I’m going to have to work my way through his little sycophants. I wipe Spidey’s stinger off on my thigh and tuck it into my pouch — wouldn’t want to implicate him in anything — before I turn to face the neat rows of would-be killers behind me.

<Let’s fucking do this.>

The goons and minions and half-trained mercs that clustered around Taskmaster’s proverbial feet aren’t quite as easy to dispatch as their teacher but it doesn’t matter. They hit me with body shots that land but don’t take me out. Obviously, Tasky didn’t deign to tell any of them about me. Not just how his power doesn’t work on me but that bullets don’t really work on me either.

Which is fine.

Makes this part easier.

I collect the weapons I dropped as I work my way through the crowd. They attack me in groups, which is smart, but they’ve clearly never fought someone that will keep fighting after you cut their femoral artery. The merc that tried to do that missed anyway, giving me a deep gash across my inner thigh, but not deep enough, before I grabbed his chin in both hands and snapped his neck.

The end of the wave of mercenaries comes almost unexpectedly. It’s always been weirdly zen to fight large groups of people so I have to blink back to awareness and look behind me to realize that they’re all gone. Well, not gone gone but dead gone.

I’m alive, and I should stay that way, but I’m not in the best shape. My left arm is missing completely and my right arm is hanging by a thread. If I had hands, I’d cut it loose because it’ll take longer to reattach than just grow a new one. I squirm along the metal of the wall, twisting and rubbing my arm against it until I feel the last thread pull hard and then shred apart. The arm hits the floor of the warehouse with a wet thud, landing in a pool of blood spreading out from… someone. Their face isn’t really recognizable anymore.

I wander outside in a daze, nudging one of my swords in front of me with my boot until I’m through the big loading dock door and around the corner of the building. The breath that leaves me feels like a release. It’s been a long fucking time since I’ve done something like that.

<Still got it, though.>

I guess I do.

I slump down the wall until my ass hits the concrete, the cold, corrugated metal propping up my back. The cold isn’t a problem, the blood pouring out of my arm stumps will keep me warm for a while. I tip my head back until I can look up at the sky.

Fuck.

The thing about revenge, aside from being a dish best served cold and not keeping you warm at night, is that, once it’s over, you’re right back where you started. Just with more people dead.

I know who Spider-man is. I mean, I really know who Spider-man is. I know he can’t keep his room clean. I know he tucks into a cute little ball when he watches TV. I know he’s the absolute worst grocery shopper I’ve ever seen. I know what his mouth feels like against mine. I know what his dick tastes like.

And that’s fucking terrifying.

He’s…

Fuck.

He’s so much better than I ever thought.

Too good for me anyway.

I always knew that. But now I know it. I know it and he knows it. Even Matt fucking Murdock knows it.

I mean, look at me, I’m covered in the blood of two dozen different people, sitting in an abandoned gravel pit without any arms next to an honest-to-god school for hired killers. I can see why I didn’t want to see it now. Because now that I know, I know.

And contrary to popular belief, knowing is not half the battle. In this case, it’s the killing blow.

How could someone like him ever see me as anything other than a mercenary? A killer. How could someone so gorgeous want to see me underneath that image-induced shield? How could he look at me with anything other than contempt in those brown anime eyes?

Fuck.

I don’t know how long Peter’s known my identity but he must. He called me Wade. He said he trusted me. What a fucking mistake that is.

Deadpool can’t be trusted.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

My arms burn and my chest burns and my eyes burn and I wish I could go back to last night. I wish I could scare off Taskmaster and walk away. I wish I could have kept denying the obvious.

But I don’t think there’s any world in which I would have left Webs there to bleed out. He deserves more than that. He deserves more than me.

<Look at you talking like he actually wants you.>

[Not helpful.]

“Dear God, it’s me, Deadpool. Now would be a great time to finally fulfill that whole promise of death thing. I’ve done the most I’m gonna do. I was a member of the X-men for a while. In some timelines, I’m a dad. I kissed—” I almost say Spider-man but swallow it back.

“Peter Parker,” I murmur instead, letting my eyes drift shut and cutting off my view of the stars.

I’m tired but that’s not unusual with blood loss. And the way my metabolism has to kick into high gear to grow new limbs. But I don’t think that’s the only reason I’m tired.

{You ever get everything you ever wanted only to realize that you’ll never be able to keep it? That you, in all your fucked-upped-ness, will eventually find a way to ruin it? To hurt everyone around you? To turn one of the few things you let yourself dream about into a nightmare?}

{You ever decide everyone will be better off if you just pretend it never happened? That maybe you should just Dallas, it-was-all-a-dream that shit? Let the balloon float into the sky so you’re not the one that pops it?}

{Yeah. Me too.}

Chapter Text

PETER

Wade has been gone for three days.

And so has Deadpool.

It wasn’t until the second day that I convinced myself to talk to Matt. If anyone’s heard anything it’ll be him.

Literally.

Jameson, my boss, was busy excoriating me to shreds when I made the decision to text Matt. My anxiety had been steadily increasing as more time passed without Wade coming home. My brain spun with worst-case scenarios. Maybe he got hurt. Maybe he was mercenary-napped. Maybe something happened with Taskmaster after Matt brought me home. Because it wasn’t like him to not be around. He hadn’t left me alone in the apartment without stuffing food into my face for longer than a few hours since the moment I moved in.

I finally got kicked out of Jameson’s office after he realized his vitriol was washing over me like a wave and I was coming out dry on the other end. He hates it when I don’t fight back. He’d make a great villain probably.

I wasn’t even fully out of the building before I juggled my phone out of my pocket and tapped into the message app. Matt was the third message down in the app; MJ had texted to try and set me up on a blind date (the woooorst timing) and Aunt May’s nurse had texted to schedule a video call since the last time I texted him. I tapped into it fast and, half-looking, button-smashed something that I hoped made sense.

PETER: Deadpool is missing, heard anything?

Up to that point, I hadn’t really acknowledged that my roommate and unhinged, mercenary thorn in my side was gone gone. But I think I knew it. And there was a very real part of me that worried it was somehow my fault.

Aunt May would tell me that’s part of my martyr complex but Wade’s absence made me realize just how narrow the line I’d been toeing was. Every time Wade walked into the apartment, I was essentially lying to him. And now he was missing.

Matt responded before I could work myself up any further.

MATT: He’s not with you?

PETER: no

PETER: haven’t seen him since the TM op

My messages immediately showed read but there wasn’t a response. Not even those stupid bouncing dots.

What the fuck, Matt?

PETER: wtf Matt

PETER: if you see something say something asshole

This time the dots moved.

MATT: I assumed you two were busy playing happy families together.

MATT: I haven’t heard anything which is unusual for him unless he left the city.

MATT: Maybe he left the city.

I stared at Matt’s last text. Left the city? Why the hell would Wade leave the city? My thumb tapped on the screen, scrolling the messages up and then back down again, glazed eyes looking at the words but not really seeing them. The blue and white boxes slid past my face while I tried puzzling out what Matt wasn’t saying. That was a real thing with him. Reading between the lines.

Not with you?

Happy families.

Left the city.

My thumb stopped, stalling the movement of the screen on a message I didn’t remember sending.

PETER: u know what he looks like?

There was no response to that question. The next text under that one was the one I sent to Matt after I woke up from my stint as Taskmaster’s target dummy.

PETER: Thanks for getting me home. You okay?

Neither of those texts looked like I wrote them.

The second one I remembered using the phone robot to send so that made sense but I would never type the letter u instead of the word.

Not with you?

Happy families.

Left the city.

I was tapping over the keyboard before the question fully lodged in my brain. Putting all the pieces together faster than I could look at them. My heart rate skyrocketed and cold sweat broke out across my body. I had to duck into an alleyway and lean against the wall before sending the text.

It wasn’t until I read it, in blue and white in front of me, that the possibility of the truth had hit me.

PETER: does Deadpool know?

I watched the dots jump and dance only to stop for what felt like hours without a message appearing on my screen. My jaw clenched and I wondered how many of Matt’s clients wanted to strangle him.

PETER: DOES HE KNOW?

PETER: DID *HE* BRING ME HOME!?

More bouncing, still no message.

PETER: Matt, you need to tell me right now if he’s missing because of something I did…

MATT: He told me not to say anything.

PETER: and you didn’t!?

MATT: I think he has a detailed plan for my death, of course, I didn’t.

I hadn’t wanted to know but I asked anyway.

PETER: how did he figure it out?

MATT: You called him Wade.

A loud exhale burst out of me and I could feel the way my hammering heart was making me lightheaded. I gave it away. He didn’t figure it out on his own. I told him.

And now he’s gone.

Shit.

PETER: tell me if you hear anything

I shoved my phone back into my pocket and merged into foot traffic on the sidewalk, walking hunched up under my jacket, my mind whirring fast enough to hurt. There were so many reasons ricocheting around my head about why Deadpool might have gone underground after learning the truth that I couldn’t grasp a single one. They slipped through my fingers like water, leaving behind vague impressions but nothing else.

But there was one thought, big and bold, that I could latch onto. The only thought really. I needed to know if Wade was okay. I could handle (maybe) whatever else happened but I needed to know he was fine.

Over the next twenty hours, I did something that I never thought I would do: I tried to put myself in Deadpool’s stupidly huge boots.

The result is a Pepe Silvia-like pile of maps and papers spread out between the pieces of sawed-off kitchen table in the dining room. And me, sitting in front of it with gritty eyes and my third Monster energy drink of the day at my side. The only reason I’m not vibrating out of my skin is that my metabolism flushes the caffeine out fast enough that it won’t make my heart explode. I don’t think.

There’s a graphing notebook in my lap, open to a page littered with messy notes and drawings and a page with a neat list laid out. The list is a growing collection of things I know, or think I do, about where Deadpool might be and why.

1) Wade knows I’m Spider-man.

2) Wade knows that I know that he’s Deadpool.

3) Deadpool brought me home, cleaned me up, dressed my wounds. (per Matt)

4) The oversized t-shirt was his and he bought me the Gatorade, Oreos, and ibuprofen. (speculation)

5) He was definitely at the Taskmaster op.

6) No one has seen or heard from him since.

I tap the pencil back and forth against the open pages, seesawing it between my fingers as I chew on my lower lip and think. Think, Parker. It’s one of the few things you’re good at.

Shit.

I can’t think of anything.

Matt and I were getting turned into human pincushions and then Deadpool was there firing his guns and something something something blood loss. The seesawing of the pencil slows down as I think back to that night.

Tip.

Daredevil and Spider-man were way out of their depth.

Tap.

Deadpool came to the rescue.

Tip.

Taskmaster seemed surprised.

Tap.

Tip.

Tap.

The pencil stops as that last thought hits me again. Taskmaster seemed surprised. Because he and Deadpool are both mercenaries. They’ve probably even worked together before. Why would Deadpool—?

I don’t think I gave you permission to play with my toys.

My stomach bottoms out, the memory feeling like a slap in the face.

Deadpool had been there for me and Matt. He’d been there because he knew things were going to go bad. He’d been there to save us.

I realize I’m chewing on the pencil when the slick metallic taste of graphite coats my tongue. I drop it and shove to my feet, heading into my room and the drawer where I keep my packs of bubble gum. As soon as I unwrap a piece and put it in my mouth, I’m pacing again. Across the floor, the ceiling, the walls.

The obsessive pile of notes was helpful but I have all the pieces now and I just need to think. Where is Wade? I feel like the answer has to be here, somewhere.

Deadpool rescued us. Deadpool shot at another mercenary to do it. Deadpool brought me home. Deadpool left.

My brain hurts from skipping from fact to fact and still not coming up with anything. I have to replace the bubble gum I’m chewing with a new piece and then the pacing starts all over again.

Maybe I need something more. What actually happened that night? I remember getting shot. I remember seeing Deadpool chasing off Taskmaster. Then that’s—

My hand curls into a fist as memories start coming back to me. Deadpool’s hand in mine, telling me that he promises to take care of me. The wrecked sound of his voice as he crouched over me. The gun he pulled on Matt because Deadpool thought it was all Matt’s fault.

I linger on that last memory, then race across the ceiling and drop to my feet in the dining room to dig my phone out of the piles of papers. It only takes a minute to tap back into my messages with Matt. When he first sent it, I assumed he was joking but… there it is.

MATT: I think he has a detailed plan for my death, of course, I didn’t.

Fuck.

I think I know where Wade is.

WADE

The bleeding has stopped so now I’m getting cold. It’s a minor inconvenience what with the ache of my growing limbs and the general burning pain I experience every minute of every day. But it is annoying and I’m not too much of an adult to bitch about it.

“I’m cold.”

<Maybe you should have thought of that before you sacrificed your arms.>

[Our legs aren’t broken. We could walk.]

<He’s too busy moping in his blood puddle to walk.>

“I’m not moping.” I am. I definitely am.

<You are. You definitely are.>

[So we killed that piece of shit. So what? It’s not like anybody’s going to miss him.]

I don’t care about Taskmaster, not really. One of the mercenary guilds is probably going to try to come down on me hard but it’s not like that’s never happened before.

<What would they do about it anyway? Cut off your arms?>

Exactly.

I don’t even care about the other twenty mercenaries-in-training I took out in my Kill Bill-esque murder fugue. Killing has never bothered me. It just feels different now. I feel like a dog that peed on the carpet. Like it’s in my nature and I just forgot that I wasn’t supposed to do it here. Now.

I feel like I let Shutterbug down.

<That’s stupid. If he knows who you are, he knows who you are.>

Yeah.

Well.

There’s a difference between knowing who someone is and seeing the truth of it heaped in piles of blood-soaked body parts on the floor. I thought that maybe I could keep all that from Petey Pie. That he could be the normal thing in my life, the place where I could be normal. [Ish.] But he wasn’t. He’s not.

Now he’s just a reminder that dreams are hopeless and baser instincts win out and Deadpool is just a mistake people make in the dark.

Webs wouldn’t even be the first one to make it.

<Oh gaaaaawd. Woe is you. None of that explains why you’re sitting out here freezing your ass off.>

“Jesus. Can’t even pout in peace anymore.”

<Here’s the deal. Whatever happened here, happened here. Spider-man and your sweet baby angel roommate with the dumb hair don’t have to know. Stand your ass up and let’s get out of here before—>

[Uh. Guys? Think it might be a little too late for that.]

“Late for what?”

I open my eyes and tilt my head back down. The gravel pit is still empty. Me and the night and a warehouse full of dead bodies. But then I see it. I see him.

Because striding across the ground toward me is my roommate himself.

Spider-man.

PETER

I was halfway to Taskmaster’s warehouse when I realized that I forgot my web shooters. That I had traversed half the city using my spinnerets. That I didn’t even care.

There’s no way in hell I was about to go back and get them. I’ve been trying to find Wade for three goddamn days and I need to make sure he’s okay. My existential crisis about the webbing coming out of my wrists is going to have to fucking wait.

I find him more or less where I expect to, propped up against an exterior wall of the warehouse, the moonlight making his white eyes bright and eerie in the surrounding darkness. I know he’s watching me and, for a second, I wonder if I’ll get Deadpool or Wade when I approach. But they’re the same person and I want both of them to be okay.

He does not look okay.

Deadpool is soaked in blood and, judging by the state of his arms, some of it is his. I can feel his gaze sliding over me, taking me in, looking at me like I’m a surprise. I wonder if I’m a welcome one or not. My foot skitters across the gravel as I take a step closer, stopping a few feet from his extended legs, and his eyes lift to meet mine.

“Websy.” His voice sounds dull and listless. “You can cross this den of iniquity off your list. Set off a little Deadpool bomb inside.”

He thinks I’m here to put a stop to Taskmaster when, honestly, the idea hadn’t even occurred to me. Like, yes, that does seem like a very good idea in hindsight but I haven’t been able to focus on anything except Deadpool’s whereabouts for three goddamn days.

“A Deadpool bomb, huh?”

I glance towards the corner that has the loading door on the other side. There’s no smoke rising through the sky and no smell of burning. Not a real bomb, then, a metaphorical one.

“Don’t go in there.” His voice is urgent, drawing my gaze back down to him. “They’re all dead and there’s a truly disgusting amount of blood on the floor.”

“You came back here?” I ask.

He nods and looks away, giving me his profile.

“To kill Taskmaster?”

He nods again, smaller this time.

“Why?”

This finally gets him to look at me and scowl fiercely enough that it twists the bottom of his mask.

“Thought you were smart.”

It’s not an answer.

But it’s an answer.

I glance toward the corner of the building again. I don’t have to go inside to know what I’ll find there. Dead mercenaries. Mercenaries that watched while Taskmaster shot me. Mercenaries that would have eventually killed other people. And, of course, the mercenary that tried to kill me.

It should all probably repulse me. But it doesn’t.

I look back to Deadpool. His arms only exist until about halfway down his bicep and I wonder if he lost them inside. He must have. That should probably repulse me, too. But it doesn’t.

His arms don’t look like they’re bleeding anymore but it still has to hurt. I’m not sure I’d even be conscious if someone cut off my arms. Deadpool turns away from me again, staring toward the back of the building, and I hate every foot of space in between us.

I’m Spider-man and he’s Deadpool and maybe he just killed a whole bunch of people because they tried to hurt me. But I’m also Peter and he’s Wade and he looks so alone sitting there like that.

You know what?

Fuck it.

With a sigh, I pull my mask off over my head and ruffle my hair. “Wade?”

His throat works but he doesn’t look back at me and he doesn’t say anything.

I close the distance between us with caution because I’m not dumb enough to think that he’s not dangerous even if he is missing his arms. When I get to his boots, where they’re extended out in front of him, I drop into a crouch, tucking my mask in the back of my suit.

He still doesn’t look at me. I want him to look at me.

“I bet that hurts,” I say, nodding toward one of his shoulders.

He turns his head to narrow his eyes at me. “What gave it away, boy genius?”

The tone is snarky but his eyes are roaming over my face like he’s never seen it before, like he’ll never see it again and he needs to commit it to memory. He looks at me the way Wade looks at Peter and the feeling lodges in my throat.

“It just so happens,” I say as I flip my hand down and wrist up, extending my stinger from the sleeve of my suit, “I have something that can help with that.”

“Cute that you think your gross, weird stinger is a temptation.”

I rock back on my heels, a little hurt, but then I notice that Wade has looked away from me again.

“You love my stinger,” I say, tapping the sharp end against his shin. “You begged to be the first person to get stabbed with it.”

“Yeah, well. People change.”

I snort. I can’t help it. He sounds so… grumpy. Cute. “I’d think you’re trying to push me away but you don’t have any arms.”

His eyes snap back to mine and I smirk.

“Too soon, Websy. That’s just fucking rude.”

My smirk turns into a smile as I hold up my wrist again, stinger still extended. “You want the good drugs or not?”

“Yes,” Wade grouches. “But only because I’ll get to tell people that Spider-man is my dealer after this.”

I roll my eyes which causes a little twitch in his mask where it’s set over his mouth.

“Where do you want it?”

Deadpool’s eyes narrow but this time I can tell they’re crinkled in amusement. Thank god. I was starting to get worried.

“Come on, Dr. Spider-man. Tell me to turn my head and cough.”

“If that’s your way of telling me to stab you in the dick, I absolutely will.”

This time he laughs. It’s rough and a little unsure but it makes my heart leap in my chest.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Spides.”

I rock forward on my toes, leaning over his legs and bracing myself on one hand until my face is only a foot away from his. “Turn your head and cough.”

Before the last word makes it out of my mouth, I sink my stinger into Wade’s thigh. He doesn’t even flinch, just keeps his eyes on mine, looking at me like he might forget me. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to control the neurotoxin but it happens easily, like flexing a muscle.

The rest happens fast and this time I stay around to see it. Wade’s body slumps further and his eyes drift shut. I know he can keep them open, he told me last time, but he also hadn't been healing a double arm amputation.

I sit back into my crouch, pulling the stinger out and wiping it off on my suit before letting it slide back into my forearm. Wade said the paralytic effects lasted about five minutes so I drop to my ass, resting my arms on my knees and tilting my eyes to the sky. The stars are barely visible through the fog of the city lights but they’re there. I pick out the Big Dipper and use it to find Polaris, then Cassiopeia, and a few other constellations I remember from when I was a kid.

I know there’s a warehouse full of dead bodies next to me. I know that this time it’s Deadpool’s fault. I know that everything is so messed up. But, in this moment, it feels peaceful.

I don’t look back at Wade until I hear him moving. His breathing becomes faster as the neurotoxin wears off. His suit rustles as he shifts himself further up the wall.

When I do finally look at him, he’s conspicuously not looking at me again. I want to know why he’ll only look at me in big greedy gulps and then not at all.

“Feeling better?” I ask instead.

“Physically,” he grumbles.

Normally, I would want to pester him about the experience so I could collect data. Normally, I wouldn’t have looked away while the toxin flushed through his body. Normally, I would care about a lot of other things. But, right now, I only care about him.

But the thing about Deadpool is that you can’t just ask him if he’s okay.

“I guess, you’ll owe me one,” I say, watching out of the corner of my eye as his mask wrinkles with some expression I can’t quite read. “I think I’m going to request a five-course dinner. No. A seven-course dinner. And four different types of dessert.”

“You and your fucking food.”

“What? You don’t think I could eat it all.”

He huffs. “I know you could eat it all, that’s what’s disgusting about it.”

“I’ll have you know,” I say, finally turning to look at him and finding that he’s already watching me, “it takes a lot of calories to maintain these bad boys.”

I flip my wrist up again and let my stinger slide back out. His eyes drop to it and he smiles; that warm Meathead Jock smile. I can see it, even through the mask.

“I’m literally growing arms and I don’t eat as much as you.”

“Hey! I thought it was too soon.”

“Too soon for you.”

I grin back at him, watching as his eyes drop to my lips, seeing the moment that the smile melts off his face and he turns his head away again.

Shit.

I thought that was working.

I look at him, then, really look at him. His wide shoulders are slumped and his breaths rise and fall unevenly in his broad chest. The moonlight glints off the tiny bits of metal that litter his uniform and outlines his body in silver. I think I always thought Deadpool was larger than life, a caricature of a caricature, and maybe he is, but he’s other things too. He helped Matt and me when we needed it. He came to our rescue when we acted like invincible idiots. He killed a warehouse full of mercenaries to keep us safe.

He did something noble in his own weird way and now he’s beating himself up over it. I, maybe more than anyone, know what that looks like. How that feels.

“Guess you gotta go now.” His head thunks back heavily against the wall behind him and he lets out an audible exhale. “Save the city or whatever.”

He’s still not looking at me.

Fuck it.

With more speed than finesse, I scramble into my crouch again and crawl up his legs until I’m straddling his thighs, looking down at him while he finally, finally looks up at me. My fingers slip across his neck and I feel his whole body tense under me.

“You’re going to get blood all over your suit. That’s a bad look for Spider-man.”

I ignore him because I’m pretty sure he’s trying to… protect himself maybe? But I don’t want him to feel like he has to protect himself from me. I think I want to just be Peter right now because I think Deadpool needs to just be Wade.

“Can I push up your mask?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“The flock of bats I keep under there for one. Whenever you remove the mask, they fly out in a big cloud like—”

I hook my fingers under the mask but can’t get a good grip with my gloves on so I strip them off and try again. Grabbing it gently and carefully peeling it up his neck and over his jaw.

“Webs.”

I freeze, peering down into his eyes. “Do you want me to stop?”

An expression passes across his face faster than I can read it, then he responds, “Just above the nose, okay?”

“Okay.”

I push the hem of the mask up, feeling the heat of his skin against my fingers, until it’s hooked over his nose. I sit back and look at him while he tries not to look at me.

It’s Wade. I’d recognize that jawline anywhere. Except, instead of smooth, unblemished skin, it’s red and ruddy and twisted up with scars. The moonlight lines this part of him with silver, too, casting arcane shadows across his face like runes.

It’s fascinating and I want to look more but I don’t think he’s up for that quite yet. So instead, I lean into his inhuman warmth, tucking my face into his neck where he smells like hot copper and fireworks, and wrap my arms carefully around his waist. Then I hug him because he looks like he needs it and I’m not sure I could stop myself if I tried.

His tenses up under me again but his head turns toward me. I feel his jaw nudge against my temple, hugging me back in the only way he can right now, then the vibration of his voice against my sternum.

“Shutterbug.” My heart twists at hearing the nickname, the acknowledgment that he knows who I am. All of who I am. “Your dumb fluffy hair is getting in my mouth.”

As I snort laugh, he takes a big breath under me, chest expanding against my own, before exhaling, his body melting under mine. And that’s when I know he’ll be okay. Eventually.

Chapter Text

WADE

Most people know that an animal will chew its own leg off to get out of a trap. Foxes, wolves, anything with teeth sharp enough to chew through meat and sinew. That a trapped animal will do anything to escape. What a lot of people don’t think about is that humans are just animals and that some traps aren’t made of jagged teeth designed to cause pain.

Some traps are soft and gentle.

Most animals don’t chew their way out of those ones. Most animals will go to their death willingly if it’s soft and gentle.

<Are you the trapped animal in this maudlin inner monologue?>

[The Nietzsche-en philosophy is a bit much for a Thursday afternoon.]

“It’s not nihilism,” I argue. “It’s fucking reality.”

[Sure.]

<Keep telling yourself that.>

I ignore the boxes and press the binoculars back to my face. At least it’s warmer today. The last three days, I’ve frozen my balls off sitting on the roof across the street from my apartment. Don’t ask me why. I have my reasons, okay?

[And here comes reason number one through one hundred right now.]

The front door to the apartment flings open and Peter Parker steps inside. He has a ferocious scowl on his face that I’d probably be able to make out even without the high-tech HD binoculars stuck to my face. His eyes land on the plate of brookies (half brownie, half chocolate chip cookie) I left on the counter which seems to make him even more furious. I’m pretty sure I can hear him slam the door from here.

“Gonna lose the deposit if he doesn’t take it easy on that door.”

[We could just go over there.]

<Maybe landing a few hits to your ugly mug will make him feel better.>

“It’s not my fault.”

But it is absolutely, totally, one hundred percent my fault.

Hey. At least I can recognize my faults.

{Is the word fault starting to look weird?}

I let go of the binoculars and they drop, thumping against my chest as the strap around my neck catches them. I’m fucking hungry and I left all those goddamn brookies for Shutterbug Peter Parker so I start rummaging around in the duffle bag next to me looking for something to eat.

I never know how long I’m going to be up here so I pack all the necessities. Snacks. Drinks. Guns. Ammo. Grenades. Underwear. My third, fourth, and fifth favorite knives. A beat-up locket with a picture of Bea Arthur inside. Porn. You know, the necessities.

Something pokes into my palm while I dig around for the tiny lunch box with the musubi inside and I yank my hand back with a yelp. Protruding from the meat of my palm is Spider-man’s discarded stinger. The one he jabbed into my back without any warning. The one I shoved through Taskmaster’s throat.

Fuck.

I pluck it out and am definitely, definitely not going to cry.

<🎶 You do it to yourself, you do.

And that’s why it really hurts. 🎶>

[🎶 Is that you do it to yourself, just you.

You and no one else. 🎶]

[< 🎶 You do it to yourself.

You do it to yourself. 🎶 >]

“You two are such dicks,” I snap, plucking the stinger from my hand and tossing it back into the bag.

I was keeping it in one of my pouches, again for reasons, up until the night with Taskmaster. Now it’s relegated to the bottom of the duffle. Again. FOR REASONS.

Movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention and I snatch the binoculars back to my face to confirm what I’m seeing.

“That clever little asshole.”

Petey Pie Peter Parker is taping a piece of paper to the living room window facing the building that I’m staked out on. The binoculars make his methodical, block handwriting easy to read. The sign says:

IF YOU CAN READ THIS,

YOU’RE BEING A MASSIVE JACKASS

A snort of laughter escapes me and, for a second, the sign almost gets me. I almost climb down from this building and climb up to my own. I almost consider tackling my roommate onto the couch for cuddles and a forced viewing of While You Were Sleeping. But then I remember that I really am a massive jackass and the urge passes.

<You can stop being a massive jackass at literally any time.>

I snort again but this time it’s in irritation or disbelief or something. Shutterbug My roommate can get away with being a smart ass to me because I owe him. The boxes can get fucked.

<If you went back to the apartment, we could actually get fucked.>

[Otherwise, we’re just out here freezing our balls off.]

“It’s not even cold today,” I protest, finally pulling out the insulated lunch box with the two pieces of musubi in it. “You two are just being babies.”

[We’re being babies?]

<We’re not the one that—>

“Ope. I’m gonna stop you right there.” I take a huge bite of the rice, spam, and seaweed, talking around it. “Whatever has or has not happened is locked in the mental vault now. Never to be remembered or relived or referred to ever again.”

<Yeah? Your mental vault is full of fucking holes because I know you remember what you said to that twinky little web slinger.>

I flinch.

The problem with the boxes, aside from, you know, their existence, is that I’m never fully in control. Sometimes they hijack the darkest parts of my brain and pull it forward like with the sink blender shark situation. Sometimes they poke at all my little insecurities, ripping the seams wider and wider as they do. And sometimes they just won’t keep their fucking mouths shut when a guy is trying to forget a truly heinous act of self-sabotage.

“What I said wasn’t even that bad.” I shove the rest of the musubi into my mouth because even I don’t believe that.

Here’s a thing you might not know about Wade W. Wilson. I’m a little unstable [A little?] and I’ve spent most of my life being treated like I’m disposable. A foster kid that’s really just a check. A soldier that’s really just a pawn. A person that’s really just a lab rat. And, sometimes, very rarely, like hardly ever, I might maybe, kind of, push people away when they try to get close.

No one has ever gotten close to me without wanting something in return so can you blame me?

So, when every dream I’ve ever had got literally dropped into my lap, well… maaaaaaybe I didn’t handle it as well as I could have.

<That’s a lot of qualifiers just to say that you’re a righteous dipshit.>

Fine. I was a righteous dipshit.

[And?]

And I continue to be a righteous dipshit.

I haven’t shared apartment air with Spides since I muscled my way through my bedroom window with forearms but no hands. It’s not that I haven’t wanted to, it’s that…

You know. Reasons.

<Is one of those reasons that you feel weird about hanging out with a guy you basically threw off your lap?>

[While accusing him of coming to find us just so he could turn us in to the police?]

<And making sure he knew how little you cared about what happened to him?>

Yeah.

Those reasons.

PETER

I know I thought that Wade would be okay eventually but I also thought that “eventually” would be, like, five minutes. Maybe ten? Definitely while we were still outside the warehouse. Instead, I haven’t seen him in a week and I only know that he’s alive because he keeps leaving me baked goods. It’s like learning you have a pet cat only because dead birds keep showing up on your doorstep.

I do eat the brownie whatever, though. Looks and smells good. Tastes even better.

I’m honestly not sure what to do about the whole absentee roommate thing. It’s definitely nice to have an apartment this nice to myself as long as I overlook exactly how I got here. Because I’ve spent the last seven days being alternately pissed off that Deadpool was such an unrepentant asshole to me outside the warehouse and worried that maybe I’ll just never see him again. Yes. He was a dick. Like such a hugely ginormous cunty bastard. But he was also going through some shit and maybe I pushed him a little bit harder than I should have.

I’d known that Wade was Deadpool for days. I’d had time to wrap my brain around it and Deadpool hadn’t. So I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that he put his metaphorical quills up and I got stabbed.

Mostly, the problem has been percolating in the back of my brain, my subconscious brain trying to solve it while my conscious brain runs dumb errands for my boss and patrols the city at night.

But today, on the bus ride home, it finally came to me.

I had been texting Matt for updates about Taskmaster’s Storage Warehouse and School for Wayward Mercenaries because, once Daredevil heard what had happened, he swooped in immediately. Handling the bodies, coordinating with the police, answering all the questions. I didn’t really care where it went after that but Matt likes to keep everyone in the loop or whatever. Today, he asked me how long I thought Deadpool had been following us before we infiltrated Taskmaster’s warehouse and that’s when I realized that Deadpool is still Deadpool and I know the Merc with the Mouth well enough to make a few educated guesses about where he might be.

The sign in the window is just the opening salvo. I don’t really believe that a piece of paper calling him a massive jackass is going to bring Wade back here to apologize (because he goddamn better) but I do know that he’s probably watching the apartment and I want him to know that I know.

No more secrets.

Everything out in the open.

He can hide from me but I’m sure as hell going to try to find him. I owe him a swift kick in the ass before I hug the shit out of him.

WADE

Spider-man is a sneaky little fuck and I mean that in the most complimentary way possible. He’s so good at slinking through the shadows that sometimes I miss the moment he leaves the apartment. I don’t miss it tonight, though, because my ass is numb from sitting on the rooftop and I’m worried I’m about to give myself hemorrhoids.

As soon as I see him leave through the window, I loop the duffle bag across my chest and head toward home. I’m going to take a shower and shove brookies into my mouth and maybe watch The Cutting Edge.

<Or you could just apologize.>

“Nah. I like this plan where I sneak in and out of my apartment for the rest of my life.”

[Bold of us to assume that Peter Parker isn’t about to serve notice.]

My heart twists and thunks into my stomach. Shutterbug My roommate wouldn’t just leave, would he!? That horrifying thought pauses me at the edge of the roof, standing over the fire escape ladder, wondering if I really did break everything irreparably this time.

<It truly is your greatest skill.>

Because this time, it’s not just Deadpool inserting himself into Spider-man’s patrols or leaving Spider-man hanging during a fight. This time it was Wade tossing Peter aside.

Goddamn it, I’m such a massive jackass.

“Don’t jump. Or do. I guess you’ll survive.” I don’t turn around to confirm that Spider-man is behind me. Call it a Spidey sense. That and his nasal hum of a voice is hard to mistake. “I know. Maybe I should push you and then we’ll be even.”

A cacophony of possible responses rings in my head as I stand there:

• Jump off the edge of the roof and run away. (After my legs heal, of course.)
• …
• …
• …

Actually, just the one, I guess.

“If you jump off the roof, I will come down after you and drag your broken, bleeding body back to the apartment.”

I know that’s not traditionally a very seductive thing to say but Wade likey. Fuck. Wade likes this stupid gymnastic superhero nerd so fucking much.

<Oh no. He’s talking about himself in the third person.>

[At least we’re finally admitting the truth.]

“Wade.” I’d say that I’ve never heard anyone sound so exasperated while saying my name before but that’s kinda my calling card. “Turn around.”

“Nah. Think I’m good.” I drum my fingers against the strap of the duffle bag and physically fight myself to keep my back to him. “Gosh, look at the time. Thanks for stopping by.”

A sigh. “Let me put this in terms you can understand. If you don’t turn around right now, I will follow you to the ends of the earth, never giving you a moment’s rest, pestering you relentlessly until you look me in the face and talk to me.”

“Uh…” Yeah. That really shouldn’t be going straight to my dick but I’m a twisted little freak. “That kinda sounds like my signature move, Webs.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Then turn around.”

Fuck.

“Really feeling backed into a corner here, Spides.”

“Just turn the fuck around.” Man, my dick and my brain are really at odds right now. “If you don’t, I’m going to have to force you.”

Hnngh.

Now I kinda don’t want to turn around just to see what he’ll do. Intellectually, I know that he can beat my ass in a very not sexy way. Spider-man has that spider strength and speed on his side and all I really have on mine is muscle mass and size. Which, in a normal fight, would be an asset but when the person you’re fighting can hold you down with one hand…

Hnngh.

Okay.

Shit.

Lost track of that thought.

Except, as it turns out, Websy doesn’t need spider speed or strength because he crosses the rooftop, curls his hand around the back of my neck, and squeezes. I’m pretty sure my legs nearly give out.

“No fair,” I whimper as he uses the grip to tug me away from the roof edge. “Heroes aren’t supposed to exploit weaknesses. They’re supposed to be honorable.”

“Guess I’ve been spending too much time in the presence of mercenaries.”

“Fuck, Spidey Cakes. Eye-dee-kay what’s going on with you right now but it is following in the footsteps of a lot of my favorite wet dreams.”

Honestly, I thought that bringing up the topic of wet dreams would force Spider-man to let me go because who wants to have their hands on someone that’s sexually depraved enough to get off on being manhandled like a kitten but that fucker’s hand just squeezes tighter and my legs really do turn to jelly.

I drop to my knees and suck in some panting breaths. My suit is tight against my hard cock and Spider-man keeps his hand on the back of my neck while he walks around in front of me.

He probably thinks I was joking but this is very much the plot of one of my favorite wet dreams.

PETER

This isn’t exactly how I thought this would go.

I think I thought that I’d find Deadpool and gently coax him into coming back to the apartment so we could talk. Obviously, I knew there would be some roadblocks there but I had faith in myself and in Wade.

That’s probably where I messed up.

I shouldn’t have put a ton of faith in the man that threw me off his lap, sneered at me, and told me that he’d never waste his time protecting a superhero. I can still hear the harsh rasp of his voice as he stood against the warehouse wall, eyes narrowed, and told me “maybe you should consider a career change, some people make better pincushions than they do protectors.”

That man isn’t going to come willingly.

But this?

This wasn’t what I was expecting.

Because Deadpool is on his knees in front of me, a very noticeable bulge in the front of his pants, breaths puffing out of him like he just ran a marathon, hands fisted around the bag strap crossing his chest, and his eyes squeezed shut tight.

My original plan was to come up with something that might entice him back to the apartment. Something like a movie or working on the chicken coop together. But what I know about Wade and what I know about Deadpool are mixing together in my brain and a completely different idea comes out of my mouth.

“You never finished my blow job, dimples.”

“Yeah. Yes. Um, I mean… what?”

Hearing the normally talkative merc reduced to stuttering around panted breaths is a heady experience.

I lean down over him, putting my mouth next to his ear, not really sure if I should say the next thing but going with my gut anyway.

“You know why I didn’t let you finish me off?”

“Uh. No?”

“I can’t control my webbing when I come.” Deadpool actually whimpers. “You have no idea how big of a mess I made while I was jerking off to you.”

This is definitely not me. At least not usually. But there’s something about having this muscle-bound mercenary at my feet that’s unlocking some things I didn’t even know were hidden inside of me.

“Are you fucking serious?” He gasps.

“Am I? I wonder how we could find out.”

There’s an uncertain silence between us followed by a big exhale and Deadpool opening his eyes to look up at me.

“You’re not going to let me suck you off on a rooftop, are you?” The way resignation paints his tone surprises a laugh out of me.

“Not yet.”

“And I’m going to have to do some shit I don’t want to do if I want to have your dick in my mouth again?”

“Definitely.” I squeeze the back of his neck for emphasis and he groans.

“Fuck. Fine. What’s the plan, Sir Sadism?”

I originally wanted him back at the apartment, and maybe we'll get there eventually, but I realize that most of our relationship, whatever kind of relationship it was, has happened on rooftops while looking out at the city. I don’t see any point in stopping now.

“Come on.” I release his neck, ignoring his muttered almost there, and head to the edge of the roof, sitting on top of the barrier that surrounds it, and hanging my feet over the side. I pat the cold stone next to me. “Saved you a seat.”

I hear rustling and a soft thud and then Wade lowers himself next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body but far enough away that we aren’t touching. Yes, he’s a massive jackass but I wish he’d sit closer.

“I like your sign.” He gestures across the way at the window to our apartment.

“Thanks.” If he thinks we’re going to do bullshit small talk, he can think again. “I hate how you treated me like a pile of garbage outside the warehouse.”

Wade lets out a big sigh. “We’re not beating around the bush today, huh?”

“What’s the point? I know. You know. It’s the world’s shittiest coincidence that we ended up moving in together but…” I trail off not sure how much of my heart I want to rip open for the man sitting next to me. “It wasn’t all bad.”

“Damning me with faint praise. Please stay away from my Yelp page.”

I stay quiet. If I know anything about Deadpool, it’s that he’ll fill a silence. I’m hoping that he’ll fill it with something that explains what the hell happened at the warehouse. Why one second I was curled up in his lap and the next, he was scrambling to his feet and knocking me to the ground. Why every word he said to me after that felt like little blades slicing at my skin. Why he couldn’t just trust me. With all of it. With any of it.

“Would you believe I was having a bad day?”

“I’ve seen you get torn in half and come up laughing. Try again.”

“Would you believe it was a clone and that I’ve been up here hiding on the roof this whole time?”

“You’re definitely hiding.”

“Would you believe—”

“Wade,” I grit out exasperated.

He sighs. “I don’t know what you expect from me, Webs. Trash doesn’t stop being trash, it just keeps degrading. Maybe you just don’t know me as well as you think you do. I am who I am. This is what you get. Why does it matter?”

“Because that’s not you!” I yell.

Deadpool rocks back where he’s sitting and a sound of surprise leaves him. “That? Out there at the warehouse? That was definitely me.”

“Fine. But it’s not all of you,” I try again. “Yes, you’re the asshole that treated me like garbage after I came looking for you and—” I stutter to a stop because I’m not quite sure I have the words to explain why I went looking for him or what happened when I found him. Before he turned back into the worst version of himself. “But you also cook for me. You make me lunch. You put scraps of paper in my backpack with stupid little jokes on them. You’re the person trying to engineer an apartment-safe chicken coop so you can make fresh omelettes. You try to comfort me when I feel bad even though I don’t think you’d know what truly comforting someone looked like if it bit you on the ass. You make me watch all those ridiculously sappy romcoms while you quote every line.”

His head is down and I want to lean into him and shake him but I know that won’t work. I want him to look at me, just like I wanted him to look at me when I found him outside the warehouse. Except, this time, I don’t plan on letting him run away.

“Wade? Look at me. Please?” He flinches but slowly turns his head until his eyes meet mine. “You’re the person that looked at my weird fucking mutations and didn’t even bat an eye. You’re the person that brings me food on patrol when I haven’t eaten all day. And, as much as you try to deny it, you’re the person that killed a warehouse full of mercenaries to keep me safe.”

“Exactly.” His voice is low and resigned.

“What?”

“Exactly. I’m the person that killed a warehouse full of people. I’ve always been that person. I’ll always be that person.”

It’s my turn to sigh. I scrub a hand over my head and stare at the sign in the window. This I still don’t know how to handle. There’s a part of me that knows killing, for any reason, is wrong. A part of me that’s viscerally and morally opposed to what Wade did to Taskmaster and his cronies. But I’d be lying if I said there isn’t also a part that feels… protected? Cared for?

Maybe all this vigilante-adjacent behavior has skewed my moral compass. My libido. My whole brain. I’m one hundred percent sure that I don’t want Wade to kill a room full of people for me again but I’m not exactly mad that he did it this time.

“I know who you are, Deadpool,” I say instead of voicing all of that. “I’ve always known.” I lean over and nudge him with my shoulder. “Now, will you come back to the apartment?”

“Are you going to make me talk?”

“You’re acting like talking’s not your favorite thing to do.”

He turns his head to look at me. “I like to talk about pop culture and irreverent bullshit. Not the fucked up decisions I make that hurt other people.”

At least he knows that he hurt me. I can work with that.

“Will you come back to the apartment?” I ask again. “I only ate half the brownie things.”

“Brookies and I know you’re lying.”

“I only ate three-fourths of the brownie things.” He narrows his eyes at me and I roll mine. “Brookies.”

Deadpool’s eyes stay on mine like he’s trying to figure me out. That makes two of us. I’m not sure why I'm willing to forgive him so easily or where half of what I said to him on this rooftop came from but I hope it works. I miss my roommate. And my annoying patrol partner.

“Why’d you come find me?” He finally asks.

“I don’t know," I lie. "You’ve kind of been chasing after me for a while. Thought maybe it was my turn.”

“Think you’re hot stuff, do ya?”

“No,” I snort out a laugh. “But you do.”

His demeanor sobers a little. “I do, Shutterbug.”

Ugh. He’s disgustingly good at getting out of the dog house. It’s irritating that he’s still charming even amongst all the annoyances and self-sabotage.

“I hate you.” I shove myself to my feet on the roof edge and start walking toward the fire escape ladder. “Now get up. We’re going back to the apartment. I’m going to eat the rest of the brownie things and you’re going to grovel for forgiveness.”

I’m halfway across the roof when a big arm catches me around the waist and pulls me back into a firm, warm chest. Deadpool tucks his chin over my shoulder and I can feel his question vibrating against my spine.

“Is the blow job part of the begging? Because I’m really interested in this whole webbing situation you got going on.”

“I hate you so much,” I say as I wriggle out of his grip.

He laughs and scoops up his bag and does the thing I wasn’t sure I’d be able to convince him to do.

Wade comes back to the apartment with me.

Chapter Text

WADE

He left me one brookie.

Or, more accurately, there’s one brookie left on the plate when I finally step out into the apartment proper with my hoodie and joggers on, image inducer humming in my pocket. Webs is leaning against the counter next to the plate with his hair in disarray wearing sweats and an oversized t-shirt that says What do you call an acid with an attitude? over a picture of what I assume is an acid (?) and then the answer: A-mean-oh Acid.

What a tragic fucking nerd.

<You love it.>

So help me, I kinda do.

He looks up when I step out of the hallway, giving me a once over while his mouth tugs down in a frown before he reaches out, plucks the single remaining brookie off the plate, and bites off two-thirds of it in one go while making angry eye contact.

I cough out a laugh at his adorable belligerence. “Is that the extent of the evil deeds Spider-man is capable of? Taking the last baked good?”

He chews aggressively and keeps glaring at me.

Fuck.

I knew that coming back to the apartment wasn’t going to be enough. I don’t think he wants me to grovel but I do think he wants me to apologize and that’s not exactly something that’s in the Deadpool base code.

I exhale, screwing my brow up as I try to think of what an apology might sound like. Can’t be that hard, right? Politicians shit their way through them all the time.

“So, uh…” I scrub at the back of my neck before tightening my grip, squeezing to see if I can give myself a feel-good jolt from it. No dice. Goddamn it. “I’m so—”

“Stop,” Shutterbug demands, cutting what I imagine was going to be the world’s best apology [Keep dreaming.] off at the knees. He shoves the rest of the brookie in his mouth, dusts off his hands, and walks over to me. “You are not going to apologize to me wearing that.”

I look down at myself. Black hoodie open over my bare chest, red joggers low on my hips, rainbow unicorn slippers on my feet.

“You want me to apologize naked?”

“Later.” He makes a noise that sounds half-choked and half-groaning. “Maybe. I meant this.”

I barely even register that he’s moved before he’s back in front of me holding the image inducer up in his fingers. With his stupid spider speed, there was no hope of me stopping him from getting the device out of my hoodie pocket but that was just embarrassing.

<Terrifying mercenary killer right here, folks.>

My heart starts to pound. The image inducer is still close enough to me that the photostatic veil holds but if Webs breaks it or turns it off, then that’s it. It will just be me, raw dogging reality with my actual face.

<Let him see.>

[It’s the only way we’ll know.]

I don’t want to fucking know.

I like being in the dark about it. I want to keep blissfully living in that place where my adorable twink roommate drools over the version of my chest that doesn’t look like a topographical map. I’m not ready for whatever happens after Spider-man actually sees me. After Peter Parker actually sees me.

“Wade.” I look up, realizing that I’ve been staring daggers at the image inducer, to see that kind of melty compassionate face that all heroes must be able to make on command. I hate it. <You love it.> “I won’t do this if you really don’t want me to but I’m tired of looking at this bland Meathead Jock face. I want to see you.”

A harsh laugh escapes me. “You do not want to see that, sweet pea. I look like a pizza with all the toppings peeled off the crust.”

“I like pizza.”

Oh, fuck. Is he pouting?

I am not strong enough for this.

<You lasted longer than I thought you would, to be honest.>

“Fine,” I huff, reaching out and taking the little, silver disc back. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And then, with every part of my body tingling with panic and every part of my brain yelling at me not to, I turn the image inducer off.

PETER

Wow.

Okay.

Wow.

He’s…

I’m not…

Holy shit.

The image inducer has been hiding a lot.

There are scars everywhere.

I knew that intellectually but seeing it is…

Wow.

My fingers itch to trace every line of every scar that cuts across Wade’s body. He looks like something huge and unmoving, monolithic. A mountain carved up by wind and rain and time but no less impressive for it. Most of the scars are thick cords running under his skin, pressing up from underneath like tree roots below a sidewalk. But some of the scars look like actual scars. Puckered bullet wounds, long slashes from blades or claws, the darker, jagged halo that crosses his belly and curves toward his back from where he’s been literally ripped in half.

I spend a lot of my life looking at light and shadow even when my camera isn’t in front of me. Seeing the stories that play along the boundaries of bright and dark. And there are so many stories on Wade’s skin. Stories I want to learn and memorize and capture on film.

He’s so fucking hot.

God, I just want to—

I realize as I watch his shoulders slump that I probably shouldn’t be trying to read all those stories right this second. Aside from the parts of his face that are exposed when his mask is rolled up, I haven’t seen any part of him. Not really. And if my first reaction is to stand in front of him with my mouth hanging open, it’s clear that he’s going to think I was pushed into speechlessness by the horror of it all.

“You’re…” I trail off and my inner voice is screaming at me to think, to say something, to do anything other than what I’m currently doing. “I…”

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Wade reaches both arms behind his head which causes his chest muscles to flex in a way that makes my mouth go dry and pulls the hood up over his head before dropping his hands to the zipper.

“Wait.” I lunge forward and grab the bottom of the zipper on either side of the hoodie before he can fit them together. “Wait. Just wait. I need to…”

What?

Stare at him for the next one hundred years?

Memorize the path of each of those roped scars?

Stop thinking with my goddamn dick and talk to him?

“I need to…” Shit. “Goddamn it, Wade. Look at you.”

His jaw clenches, rippling the scars there, and I feel like a real asshole. Whatever he’s thinking is not what I meant. At all. I need to plaster over this hole that I’ve made immediately or Wade is going to slip right through it and I’ll lose him out the window again. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get him back here a second time.

“I want to tell you that you’re beautiful but I don’t think you’ll believe me.”

“You had all that time and that’s the lie you came up with?”

Wade tries to brush my hands off his hoodie so he can actually zip it up and I clench my fists tighter in the fabric because he is not getting away from me that easily. He leans into me, curling one big hand around my wrist, his thumb sliding along my inner wrist in a way that sends shivers down my spine and I think this is it. He’s going to apologize. Or, at the very least, shove his tongue down my throat. Honestly, either one would be amazing right now.

Apparently, I underestimated his need to escape, though, because Wade doesn’t do either of those things. Instead, he shoves my arm up and spins underneath it in a blur, shrugging out of the hoodie as he turns away from me. He doesn’t hurt me, his grip on my wrist is gentle, but he uses his body to force me back a step, and then he’s gone. Leaving me with the empty hoodie clutched in my hands and staring at his retreating back (oh god, look at his back) as he strides back down the hallway toward his room.

“You asshole,” I huff quietly as I toss the hoodie to the floor and dart after him.

He’s only halfway down the hall when I launch myself onto his back, wrapping my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist, letting one of my stingers slide free so I can press it against his throat. Normally, I wouldn’t threaten someone who’s walking away because their feelings are hurt, but Wade understands violence. Sometimes I think it might be the only thing he understands. So I push the stinger into the soft part under his jaw until the skin is dented under the pressure and wait.

“You owe me an apology,” I murmur in his ear.

His whole body shudders under mine, skin twitching over his muscles, and the feeling of it is enough to drag my mind right back into the gutter.

“Is it really a true apology if it’s forced out of me at stinger point?”

I try to listen to him, I really do, but… God. He’s so warm. And he’s half naked. And pretty soon I’m worried that my stinger isn’t the only thing I’m going to be poking him with. I probably shouldn’t want to dive into the heat that sparks between us, not when there’s still so much that needs to be said, but I know from living with Wade and fighting with Deadpool that the man underneath me is more likely to come along if I lead him by the libido.

Of course, that might just be an excuse for what I do next.

“Okay. No stinger,” I agree as I retract the stinger and drag my fingertips down his neck, tracing one long, ropey scar toward his collarbone. His skin twitches under my touch again and I let my lips brush against the shell of his ear as I say the next part. “I’m listening.”

“I’m sorry,” Wade starts. As he talks, my fingertips slide across his collarbone as I flatten my other hand over his heart, tightening my legs at his waist to hitch myself higher on his back. “I’m a massive jackass. But… fuck,” Wade sighs as I smooth the palm of my hand down over his pec and squeeze. Damn, his chest is impressive.

“You’re making it really hard to focus on the apology, Shutterbug.”

“Yeah? Well, you owe me so you’re going to let me touch you while you beg for my forgiveness. Got it?”

A loud exhale of breath. “Yes. Christ. I love it when you get all horny and bossy.”

My heart thumps against the back of my sternum at the l-word growled out in that rough voice even though I know it doesn’t mean anything.

I nip at his ear to distract him. And me. “Keep going.”

“I’m sorry. I’m a massive jackass. I—” He hisses as I circle the side of my thumb around his nipple. It’s amazing how sensitive he is under all the scar tissue. “You gotta understand, Webs. I had just killed a warehouse full of people, the exact thing you searched me out for a few weeks ago, and suddenly you were in my lap. It seemed like it was better to push you away.”

“Better for who?”

“My brain tells me I should say it was better for you because then I’m not giving anything away but— hnngh.” His back bends under my weight as he curls over where I’m pinching his nipple. “Me. It was better for me. I didn’t want to have to watch you realize I’m a piece of shit and walk away from me so I walked away first.”

That sentence comes out fast and slightly breathless as he reaches up and lays his hand over mine, stilling my teasing.

“I didn’t want you to hate me because of something I couldn’t control so I thought it would be better for you to hate me for something I could.”

My arms and legs go slack and I drop off his back, thumping back to my feet in the hallway behind him.

“What does that mean?” I ask. His shoulders tense which makes my teeth grind. I grab his arm (shit, his biceps are huge) and use it to turn him until he’s facing me, his eyes downcast. He doesn’t look like he’s going to elaborate. “What the fuck does that mean, Wade?”

He sighs and his shoulders drop as he lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are fully white like they’re supposed to be, not some dumb Meathead Jock cornflower blue, as they drill into my own.

“I’m a killer, Spides. Even when I’m not killing anyone it’s like a— I don’t want to say cancer for obvious reasons but you get the gist. And you’re… you. I’m pretty sure someone could kidnap and torture your hypothetical dog and you still wouldn’t put a totally deserved bullet through their head.” Wade’s gaze drops again and he rubs a hand over the back of his bowed head. “I could stop doing mercenary work, I kind of have, but that part of me doesn’t go away. I’m not sorry I killed Taskmaster or his goons and I would absolutely do it again. And I need you to understand that it felt inevitable. Like something I was going to do no matter what. Sometimes it’s like that in here.”

He taps a finger to his temple and then sighs again.

“So, yes. I’m sorry I was a massive jackass. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I just…” Wade pauses and frowns down at the hallway floor. “I wanted you to be mad at me because I chose to act like a jackass not because I couldn’t stop myself from killing a bunch of people.”

Before I can properly respond, or even really process what Wade just said, he rushes on, the last bit coming out all crunched together like a traffic jam.

“You know what? While I’m at it… I’m also just gonna apologize for renting you the apartment at below market price in the hopes that I could be besties with Spider-man. Since we’re clearing the air and all.”

I look at him, then, broad shoulders slumped like he’s waiting for me to pass a judgment he’s not going to like and I think I realize the dichotomy of Wade fully for the first time. This man can cut through a legion of mercenaries as easy as breathing and yet he’s so desperate for a friend that he took in a broke, gig worker and treated him with kid gloves just so Spider-man would notice him.

My mouth opens and closes, not quite sure what words want to come out. This all makes so much sense. Given everything Wade knows about me. Given everything Deadpool knows about Spider-man. It makes sense that he would have wanted me close. It also makes sense that he wants to push me away. It makes sense that he would think what happened at the warehouse was a dealbreaker. On our friendship. On more.

And it should be. I know it should be. I shouldn’t want to continue being roommates with someone that can walk into a building that has twenty living people in it and then walk out of the same building having turned all those people into dead bodies. I shouldn’t want to be friends (or more) with someone that can do that and not feel guilty. Wade said it himself. He’s not sorry. He’d do it again. It was inevitable.

But…

Fuck.

I like Wade.

I like Deadpool.

And while I believe him when he says that he wouldn’t undo what he did, I do think he regrets how it will change the way I look at him. Or the way it could remind me of who he is. Except, I told him already, he’s not just those things. Not to me. Maybe I can’t ever forget what he did but… 

“I am mad at you for being a massive jackass,” I tell him as his shoulders slump lower. “And honestly? I’m not wild about the fact that you destroyed Taskmaster’s whole New York base with a few guns and swords. I don’t ever want to be the reason people die, Wade. And finding you bleeding out in a gravel pit with no arms wasn’t at the top of my bucket list, either.”

A big breath lifts and lowers his shoulders. He squeezes at the back of his neck and lifts his head to look at me, about to say something, but I’m not done yet.

“I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do about this.” I gesture between us hoping that encompasses everything I can’t put a label on yet. “But I know that I like living with you. I know that I like you. And I kind of want to figure it out with you… what it could look like.”

I watch Wade’s eyes flare wide in surprise before all that tension melts out of him and he’s the loose, feral creature he becomes when he’s Deadpool. I always hated that predatory stance and the way his eyes feel like they’re watching everything at once, categorizing the entire world, but right now it knocks the breath out of me.

A smile tugs up the corner of his mouth until his dimple peeks out. “This is because of the brookies, right?”

“They were very good,” I tell him primly, hoping he can’t hear my racing heart. Or read the fact that I want to throw myself at him in every line of my body. “But no.”

“The cobbler?”

“No.”

“The mini cheesecakes?”

“No, Wade,” I laugh, finally, and his dimple deepens as his crooked smile grows. “I know you’re not going to believe it but it’s because of you. You’re surprisingly… not terrible.”

“Wait.” Wade tips his head to the side and raises a finger to feign cleaning out his ear. “I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you just say I have a huge dick?”

“I said you weren’t terrible but I’m re-evaluating that opinion now.”

“And…” he sidles closer, turning both of us until the hallway wall is behind me instead of the open living room. “I have a huge dick.”

“You have a huge mouth.”

“Oh, Shutterbug.” Wade steps into me, nudging me back until my spine hits the wall before leaning over me and murmuring in my ear, “That almost sounds like an invitation.”

As much as I want to sink into this, I can’t. Not yet.

“Wade?”

He heaves a sigh and leans away from me. “No dice? Are we just friends again?”

“I accept your apology,” I tell him, ignoring his questions because I just don’t know. And normally I might want to stew on that not-knowing but I have Wade back in front of me and he’s half-naked and wholly himself and I missed him. Maybe this isn’t exactly how the rest of this conversation should go but the two of us aren’t exactly normal. “And, now that I have, you can move on to the second bit.”

The scarred ridge of Wade’s brow lifts on one side. “The second bit?”

“You’re begging my forgiveness, right?”

“Yeah. Yes. I am begging so hard.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Are you, though?”

Wade doesn’t need another invitation, he presses two quick, hard kisses against my mouth and then drops to his knees in front of me. His big, warm hands shove up the hem of my shirt and his tongue dips into my belly button.

“Take your shirt off.” His voice is little more than a growl and he barely finishes the sentence before I’m ripping my shirt up. I freeze with it halfway off, though, when I hear his next words. “T’es crissement beau.”

Oh god, it is so sexy when he speaks French.

Those big hands smooth up the sides of my torso, his palms sliding across my skin in a way that makes my whole body shiver. The rough pads of his fingers stroke across my ribs and then up over my nipples and I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.

“Fuck,” I breathe as I squirm under his hands.

He leans forward, running his tongue just above the waistband of my sweats, the hot caress pulling goosebumps up on my stomach.

“Not right now,” he murmurs into my hip bone while his fingers pinch and tug at my nipples. “I’m busy begging for forgiveness.”

“You’re doing a great job.”

“Nah.” He sits back on his heels, watching avidly as his hands drag down the sides of my body and he hooks his fingers into my waistband. “You shouldn’t forgive me that easily, Shutterbug. I need to properly grovel.”

Wade glances up at me like he’s waiting for permission and I almost growl, “Are you teasing me?”

“I’m respecting your bodily autonomy.” His dimple is still on his face and I want to lick it. “Does that angry kitten routine mean I can take your pants off?”

“Yes,” I grumble as I lean away from the wall and finally peel my hoodie up and off, tossing it somewhere down the hall. “Yes. Fuck.”

He doesn’t pull my pants down because he’s a goddamn sadist, instead, he fists his hands in my waistband, his fingers curled against my skin, and runs his nose up the length of my dick.

“You smell so good, Webs,” he hums against me, his lips brushing over the clothed head of my cock as he talks. “Parfait.”

“I bet I taste better,” I tell him as I drop my hands to his and start trying to shove my pants down. “Maybe you sh— hngh.”

Wade’s mouth closes around the head of my dick, sucking me through the cotton fabric of my sweats and I jerk hard enough at the sensation that my head thunks against the wall.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” he chuckles as he finally tugs my sweats out and down until they’ve pooled at my ankles. “Step out.”

I drop my hands to his shoulders, holding on for balance, as I step out of my pants and Wade tosses them somewhere down the hall with my hoodie.

“So fucking pretty,” he whispers, almost to himself, as he slides his hands up the outside of my legs, stopping at mid-thigh to grip the front of my legs and nudge them apart. He’s fingertips press into my muscle as he looks up at me. “I always thought you were so fucking pretty.”

He runs his nose up the length of my cock again and this time, without anything between us, I can feel the texture of his skin and the warmth of his breath. One of his hands curls behind my thigh and lifts it up, draping it over his shoulder and I dig my fingers into the back of his neck as his tongue cleans the precome from the head of my dick. He groans, the vibration making my cock jump and reminding me just how much he likes it when I grab him there.

“You suck at begging for forgiveness,” I hiss at him, tightening my grip on his neck.

“I definitely plan on sucking at it,” he tells me with a groan. "So impatient, Websy. I’m just getting started. Quality takes time.”

I’m about to say something back but Wade wraps his lips around my cockhead and sucks the words straight from my brain and out my dick.

“Oh god,” I gasp. “Holy shit.”

One of my hands grabs at the back of his neck and the other digs into his shoulder as he bobs up and down on my cock, taking me in deeper each time. It’s slow and hot and he licks over my length while he sucks. He moans and murmurs around me as he works my dick over, the vibrations shooting like lightning from where I’m trying not to fuck his mouth and out to my fingers and toes.

My forearms are heating up alarmingly and I almost grasp onto a thought about what that means but then the head of my cock is nudging at the back of Wade’s mouth and he swallows around me, the muscles of his throat squeezing tight.

“Okay,” I pant, as he pulls off me. “Okay. This is… fuck. You’re really good at begging.”

Wade turns, pressing his forehead into the leg he has over his shoulder. I can feel the puff of breath from his harsh laugh. His hand smooths up the outside of my leg and toward my ass as he presses his lips to my inner thigh.

“Please tell me you like ass play,” he says into my skin. “I want to get you off so hard.”

I flex the hand I have around the back of his neck, squeezing hard enough to pull a whimper out of him. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t play with my ass while my dick was in your mouth.”

“Christ, Shutterbug. T’es fucking parfait calvaire, voyons donc,” he groans before turning his head and sucking me down again.

“Fuck,” I grunt out as the head of my dick presses back into the tight heat of Wade’s throat. My grip on his neck is the only thing keeping me grounded which becomes doubly true when his hand wraps around the back of my other thigh and lifts, tossing that one over his shoulder, too, until the only thing supporting me is my back against the wall and Wade’s broad shoulders and clever mouth.

I shudder as his hands grip my ass, his long fingers slipping into the crease, stroking from top to bottom, brushing across my sensitive hole while he swallows hungrily around my dick. Fuck. Fucking fuck. I want those goddamn fingers inside of me.

My heavy-lidded gaze swings down the hallway looking for— There they are. It takes more effort than it seems like it should to lift my hand off of Wade’s shoulder but, when I do, I send out a length of webbing from my wrist toward the balled-up shape of my sweats at the end of the hall. More webbing shoots out than I want but I ignore it because there is something in the pocket of my pants that I need immediately.

Maybe I hadn’t exactly planned for Wade’s apology to go down this way but a superhero should always be prepared.

“Here.” I shove the packet I wrestled out of my pocket into his hand, sliding it between my thigh and his palm as I drop my sweats back to the ground and latch onto his shoulder again.

Wade leans back, sucking off my dick slow enough that I think I might die, before looking at what I’ve pressed into his hand.

“Love me a Boy Scout,” Wade breathes, biting the corner of the lube packet and ripping it open with his teeth. “Prepared for every eventuality,” he murmurs as he squeezes the lube out onto his fingers and then slicks the cool gel behind my balls and up to my hole. “I bet you can build fires and put up tents and help old ladies across the street and sell popcorn outside of grocery stores, too.”

Each ridiculous task Wade lists is paired with the rough pad of his finger circling around the puckered skin of my hole. Gentle and soft, barely there. I want to grab his head and shove my fucking dick back into his mouth because this is a goddamn tease.

“Wade,” I hiss, “you better fucking—”

“Such language, Shutterbug,” Wade purrs. “That doesn’t sound like a Boy Scout at all.”

As he hums the words at all against the tip of my cock, Wade presses against my hole, slipping the tip of his finger inside accompanied by a groan I can’t keep in my chest. Shit. I’m panting and so close to coming that I have to reach down and squeeze my dick, nearly smacking Wade in the face. It’s been so long since I’ve been with someone and even longer since I’ve wanted someone as much as I want Wade.

“Fuck,” Wade groans. “I don’t know whether to be creepy and tell you how tight you are or to comment on what’s happening with your wrists. Jesus, baby boy, you're like an amusement park. I just want to go on every ride.”

Wade’s hand leaves my thigh to wrap around my wrist where I’ve been holding on to him for dear life to keep from fucking his face. There are wisps of white stuck to the underside of my forearm and, before I even have the chance to feel horribly embarrassed, Wade tugs my hand forward and presses a kiss to my inner wrist. My whole body jolts at the feeling.

“I’m so glad you’re not wearing all those chick magnet bracelets right now, sweet pea.”

And then Wade drags his tongue over my webbing spigot while he pushes his finger deeper into my ass and I’m worried I’m about to have an out-of-body experience.

WADE

I give excellent head. It’s not usually listed among my strengths because I very rarely [Never.] have to blow job someone to death. So when I dropped to my knees in front of Petey Pie, I kind of assumed this was going to be your garden variety kind of cock worship.

I should have known better.

Spider-man is always so fucking extra.

Because not only does he have a cock that I’ve been dying to get my mouth on again but he’s got those incredible web shooters built into his arms and suddenly I’m faced with a dilemma.

Do I put my mouth on his cock?

Or his wrists?

Do I give up on both and just flip him around so I can eat his ass?

I am spoilt for choice and frustrated that I don’t have more mouths and hands.

I use the tip of my tongue to toy with the small hole in his wrist where his webbing comes out. It tastes sweet and every time I lick some up, it makes my cock throb.

Shutterbug is wiggling and panting and gasping above me, his ass clenching tight around my finger while I tongue fuck his strange spider anatomy and every single thing about this is the world’s biggest turn-on. He’s got a death grip on the back of my neck that makes my thighs shake and I want to record the sounds he’s making on my phone so I can play them back the next time I jerk off. His cock is leaking precome and his wrists are leaking webbing and maybe I won’t ever be able to fuck anyone that doesn’t make webbing again.

I squeeze my arm that’s attached to his wrist around the outside of his leg to trap him against me as I draw my finger out of his ass and nudge two fingers back in. He makes a sort of whining keen as he bares down that has my cock soaking the front of my joggers.

“Wade,” he gasps, hand scrabbling at the back of my neck. “Fuck you. This is… fuck.”

I suck at the soft skin of his inner wrist before pulling away and grinning up at him, my fingers scissoring him open as he glares down at me.

“This is what? The best apology you’ve ever gotten?”

His lips part, probably to say something clever and cutting, but I crook my fingers inside of him and whatever he was going to say melts into a throaty groan that I wish I could drink out of his mouth.

{See? Not enough mouths or hands.}

I never really let myself think too hard about what sex with Spider-man might be like. He was always the pipe dream that I jerked off to when I wanted to feel bad about myself. Anything I could have imagined wouldn’t have been anywhere close to reality anyway because the man fucking himself onto my fingers while I scrape my teeth over the inside of his wrist isn’t just Spider-man.

He’s my little Shutterbug.

And he’s shaking like he’s about to come all over himself.

“Touch yourself, baby boy,” I tell him, my voice rough from arousal.

His fingers finally unlatch from the back of my neck and wrap around his dick, smearing the precome coating the head all the way down the shaft. He finds a rhythm that I match with my fingers, pushing into him with firm strokes and brushing against his prostate as I pull back out. I can feel how close he is to coming, how tight he squeezes my fingers. The soaked tip of his cock drags along my neck as he works himself over and I wheeze at how hot that is.

Words are building up in my throat, everything I want to say to him, but my mouth is firmly latched over his webbing hole, working it with my tongue and teeth as he whimpers and whines above me.

My dick aches and I know that I’m going to come as soon as he does. Fuck. I might come before then.

“God. Wade. Fuck. I’m gonna—” he sucks in a harsh breath and then his body is curling over me, squeezing my fingers tight enough to make them tingle and spraying webbing into my mouth.

I maybe, kind of thought he was joking about not being able to control his webbing when he comes but he wasn’t, and goddamn if that isn’t the single most erotic thing that’s ever happened to me.

My fingers and mouth drag him through his orgasm, prolonging it until he goes boneless around me. I carefully pull my fingers out of his ass as I press kisses up the inside of his forearm toward his elbow and back down to his wrist while he carefully traces the scars on the back of my neck with his fingers and tries to catch his breath.

Damn. He's fucking precious. I want to shrink him down and carry him around in my pocket.

“Fuck, Wade,” he huffs from above me. “You should use your mouth for that more often.”

I turn my head and lick a stripe through the cum and webbing painting his lower belly, humming in delight at the taste. He really is sweet everywhere.

“Apologizing?” I ask before using my tongue to clean up more of his skin.

His hand grips at the back of my neck again and he squeezes gently making me shiver.

“Sucking my dick,” he clarifies.

“Because this is an apology,” I tell him, as I suck a mark into his skin next to the ridge of his hipbone. [There now he looks like ours.] “I won’t point out that it wasn’t your dick I was sucking. Who knew you were such a kinky little freak, Webs?”

I hit his nickname hard and he pinches the side of my neck in retaliation. “Don’t be a smart ass, Wade.”

I reach up and untangle his legs from around my shoulders, lowering his feet to the ground and giving him time to regain his balance. Although, I can’t say it’s not gratifying to watch him stumble and sway against the wall. I push to my feet until I’m looming over him because, who are we kidding, he secretly loves it. He tilts his head back to look at me. Fuck, he’s pretty. There’s a gorgeous pink flush spread across his cheeks and down his chest, and he has a small, happy smile that’s just for me.

This wasn’t exactly how I saw this apology going but I’m pretty sure someone should crown me the Queen of Apologies.

“I’m never a smart ass, baby boy. Just someone smart that has a great ass.”

Shutterbug’s hands slide around to my back, then down to my ass where he squeezes it, straight white teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“You do have a great ass,” he tells me as I lean down and brush my lips over his. “And that was a great apology. I think you earned my forgiveness.”

“Yeah?” My smile is stupid and huge and I watch as Petey Pie’s eyes snag on my dimple. His smile gets wider when he sees it.

“Yeah.” He pushes his hands under the waistband of my joggers, fingers stroking the scars along the top of my ass like they don't disgust him. “Maybe good enough that you need a little reward?”

I let out a sigh.

Goddamn, he’s so fucking cute.

I give up any pretense of not wanting to have my hands on him and wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him tight into my body.

“I’m good, sweet pea,” I murmur in his ear.

He shivers. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. You were maybe the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Didn’t take much.”

Shutterbug snuggles closer and my heart rolls over in my chest. I know I’m not supposed to. And I probably won’t act on it. But I would kill every single person in this city to keep him safe.

“You want to watch a movie?” He asks, the words muffled by my chest and his fingers still drawing patterns over my nightmare skin.

“You gonna let me pick?”

He exhales an aggrieved sigh. “Fine. But if you start reciting the dialogue we’re done.”

I squeeze him tighter and look at his bare ass over his shoulder because I’m only fucking human and this is maybe everything I’ve ever wanted.

“No promises, Shutterbug.”

Chapter Text

PETER

My hands are on Deadpool’s shoulders and my brain is telling me to push the merc away but they are not cooperating. Instead, one hand slides to the back of his neck and squeezes. I can feel his pleased hum against my throat where his mouth is biting and sucking and licking at my neck while he pins me against a brick wall.

I’m not entirely sure how we got here but I don’t hate it. Except…

“Don’t leave a mark,” I groan as Deadpool gives my throat a particularly hard suck.

His laugh puffs out against my damp skin and I shiver.

“Come on, Webs,” he cajoles, nuzzling into my neck. “No one’ll see it.”

That’s only partially true. No one will see it right now because I’m Spider-man and Deadpool has pushed my mask up just enough that he can get his mouth on my neck. But someone will see it tomorrow when I have to be Peter Parker and— Wade’s big hand closes over my hip as he steps toward me, tucking himself tighter into my body, his thick thighs pressing against my own, and I suddenly don’t care about the mark on my neck at all.

I bite my lower lip to keep the whimpers that are building up in my throat from pouring out. Deadpool is holding me in place and rolling his hips into mine. I can feel the length of his cock through the spandex of my suit and the leather of his, slotting next to my own hard cock so that they drag against each other.

“Fuck you,” I whisper-hiss as he bites into the tendon at my neck and grinds against me.

“You might as well let all those little sounds out, baby boy,” Wade growls in my ear as he reaches down and hitches one of my legs around his hip, changing the angle that he’s rubbing against me into one that has me swallowing a whine. “He can hear us even when we’re whispering.”

“And yet that doesn’t ever seem to stop you.”

The voice is only a few feet away, hard and cold and irritated. Deadpool stops sucking my neck and collapses against me with a snort when he hears it. His big, warm body presses me hard into the wall as he shakes with laughter.

He turns his head, nudging my temple with his nose, his breath hot against the shell of my ear. “Told ya, sweet pea.”

“You two are absolutely disgusting.”

Deadpool straightens up and turns his head to look at Daredevil. “Homophobe much, Matthew?”

Daredevil scoffs but doesn’t dignify that with a response. At least not for Deadpool.

“I asked you to leave him at home.” This is directed at me and normally the tone would get my back up but I’m basking in the heat of Deadpool’s body and trying to talk my dick down. “I’d rather not listen to him try to get into your pants while we patrol the city.”

Deadpool pulls away, turning his whole body toward Daredevil, and I almost grab at the straps of his scabbards to pull him back. Yes, duty is important and all but Wade’s mouth is really, really talented. For much, much more than just talking.

“Jokes on you, big red. I already got into his pants. Don’t be jealous just because you missed your chance to climb aboard the Deadpool Express.”

Wade makes an annoying train whistle sound and lifts his arm next to his head, doing an up-and-down pump motion that’s meant to mimic… I don’t know what. I turn my head just in time to see the huge scowl that overtakes the lower half of Daredevil’s face. I asked him to wait for me on the roof but he seems hellbent on protecting me from Deadpool.

It’s a little late for that, I think.

It might have always been too late.

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Only when Spides has his dick in my mouth.” Deadpool looks at me over his shoulder as I right my mask, because now that Matt is scowling there’s no hope of more making out, and winks. “Ain’t that right, web slinger?”

That asshole.

Thank god for the mask because it’s obvious what he’s thinking about when he says “web slinger” like that and it turns my face bright pink. Then I remember that Matt can hear my heartbeat and the rate of my breathing, and I realize that the mask isn’t doing anything to hide my embarrassed arousal.

Goddamn Deadpool.

“Are you done?” Daredevil asks sharply.

“Awww, Matty.” Deadpool crosses his arms over his chest and grins at Daredevil, his mask still pushed up above his nose. “If we had finished, the moaning woulda been a lot louder.”

Daredevil leans to the side like he’s fixing his eyes on me around Deadpool’s body. “Can we get back to our job now?”

I smooth my hands down my suit and think about cold showers and baseball and differential equations to bring down my still-hard cock.

“Yes,” I finally say, walking past Deadpool who very loudly slaps my ass. Daredevil flinches and I turn to glare at Wade. He just winks back at me, his dimple on full display. Such an asshole. “We can get back to the job.”

The job, as it turns out, is finding all of the Taskmaster minions still lurking around New York. Apparently, there are a lot. Mercenaries-in-training that had the luck of being elsewhere when Deadpool went a little too aggro on Taskmaster’s warehouse. It fell to Matt and me because The Avengers are doing some outer space alien thing that I only half listened to when Steve called to brief me. The half-listening wasn’t my fault, either. Wade had been doing something to me with his tongue at the time.

So, for the last week, Daredevil and I have met up to track down the leftover mercenaries. Me webbing them up and hanging them for the police to find; Matt beating the shit out of them and leaving them for the police to find. And, occasionally, Deadpool pops out of the woodwork to get me hard while Matt tries not to listen in the background.

So maybe Daredevil has a point about the job but still… does he have to be such a cockblock about it?

I’m getting regularly laid for the first time in years and he insists on pulling me aside, repeatedly, to warn me against Deadpool. Like the guy is going to slip a knife between my ribs while he’s slipping me a little tongue. Pretty sure when Wade finally stabs me, it’s not going to be with a blade.

Fingers crossed.

“Let’s go, then.”

Daredevil jumps up, grabbing onto the bottom rung of a fire escape ladder before pulling himself onto the first landing and starting his ascent toward the roof. I leap onto the wall and climb after him only faltering for a second when I hear Deadpool shout behind me.

“Be careful, sweet pea. I want to be the only one leaving a mark on you tonight.”

I look over my shoulder as he strolls out of the alley, all broad shoulders and thick thighs and an ass I want to bite, and shout back, “I hate to see you go but I love to watch you walk away.”

He stops, turns around, and blows me a kiss. “See you at home, Shutterbug.”

“Can you please stop?” Daredevil growls from above me.

I start scaling the wall again, a smile overtaking my face under the mask. There’s a flutter in my stomach as I glance back over my shoulder once more, watching Deadpool stride around the corner.

But I’m probably just nervous about hunting down all these rogue mercs.

Right?

WADE

“He’s going to hate you,” I coo into my cupped hands. “It’s going to be great.”

<He’ll never have angry sex with you.>

[Too worried about what his strength will do.]

“I’m not aiming for angry sex.”

Except that I kind of am.

Don’t get me wrong. Sex with Shutterbug is hnngh. Like bite your knuckles, bite your tongue, bite the fucking pillow, constantly hard, come until you’re boneless, and then do it all over again good. And, for someone that just crossed the rainbow bridge, [That’s still not what that means.] he is gratifyingly eager. Like cockslut eager. And so fucking responsive. He practically—

[Can we focus, please?]

I look back down at my hands and the large metal trough in front of me. Right. Fresh omelettes. Push Webs’s buttons. Get him to ride my dick like he hates me.

Christ, I’m already half-hard just thinking about it.

<You’re always half-hard.>

“I thought you were leaving.”

<I was but then you started banging that bendy little nerd so I stuck around.>

“He is pretty bendy.”

The fluffy yellow chick in my hand peeps at me and I coo at it again, lowering my face so I can rub my jaw along her soft feathers. Maybe that’s unsanitary. I don’t know. I did the absolute bare minimum of research before bringing Blanche home. The other three chicks look up at me from the wood shavings spread across the bottom of the trough and peep, too.

“You little ladies are so cute.”

I put Blanche down carefully on the sawdust and then pick up each of the other chicks in turn, giving Dorothy, Sophia, and Rose a nuzzle, too. They’re all so fucking soft. People eat these things?

[Not the chicks.]

<Dumbass.>

After all the chicks are safely back in the trough, I double-check that they have enough food and water, then pop the wire mesh cover on and set the heat lamps over it.

“I can’t wait to make Shutterbug a delicious omelette with the eggs you four are going to make me.”

Okay.

Look.

I know the chicks aren’t going to be producing eggs right this second but I feel like positive vibes can only help in the long run. The power of having someone believe in you or some shit. I don’t know. I’ve never experienced it.

What I do know is that tonight, I have plans. So many dirty, sexy plans for my nerdy little roommate slash superhero hard-on. I’ve been edging him for days with my mouth and my words and my body rubbing against his and he melts for it every time.

I can still taste him on my tongue from earlier tonight until Matt Catholic Guilt Murdock interrupted us. I know that asshole has premarital sex so he can take his religious sensibilities and fuck right off. I know he doesn’t like me and I guess I can appreciate that he’s looking out for Spider-man but, if I have my way tonight, I’m going to make Webs scream loud enough that Daredevil will hear him all the way in Hell’s Kitchen.

Fuck. I can’t wait.

I make sure the sandwich I made him is still pristine in the fridge and check the clock before slipping into the bathroom.

Perfect timing.

{You might think that I didn’t notice how Shutterbug salivated over my chest that single time he saw me right out of the shower but you'd be wrong. That thirsty little geek wanted to drink the water right off my skin. And now that I know he’s into the scars— which… are you fucking kidding me with that!? —I plan on making his wish come true. Maybe one of mine, too, if I’m very, very lucky. Either way, I think we’re both going to like what I have planned.}

{And if it turns into angry fucking because of the chickens… well, I won’t be mad about that either.}

PETER

There are chickens in the dining room.

An entire huge metal barrel thing full of chickens. Okay. Not full of chickens but there are four chickens in there and that is four more than I thought I would ever see in an apartment.

The chicken coop is shoved into the corner between the chicken barrel and the wall, half-finished, next to a bag of cedar shavings and a sack of chicken feed.

This is now a Whole Thing. Wade has the food, the space, the chickens. Goddamn it, I’m going to be living with these things now, aren’t I?

I stomp back into the kitchen and yank the pre-made sandwich saran wrapped to a plate off the top shelf. Yes, I’m kind of pissed about the chickens but I just came home from patrol and I’m starving. Daredevil and I rounded up fourteen more mercenaries tonight and watching Matt repeatedly punch people is tough work. No matter how many chickens Wade manages to sneak into the apartment, I will still eat the food he leaves for me in the fridge.

I’m not a martyr.

About food.

Wade still hasn’t appeared by the time I finish the sandwich and six handfuls of potato chips so I wash the salt off my hands and head toward his room. I haven’t been inside yet, most of our messing around has been on the couch. Or against the wall. Or bent over the kitchen counter. God… that was a good one. Wade’s tongue should be awarded some kind of medal. But I’ve never been in his room. It’s kind of reached void-of-mystery status in my mind. I picture it having shelves that fold down from the walls that are loaded with high-tech weaponry. That or just a rogue pile of guns and ammo shoved into a corner. I could see it going either way.

I’m halfway down the hall when I register that the shower is going. Wade. Taking a shower. Soap lathered across his broad shoulders. Water streaming over his muscles and scars. His hand around his dick— 

Do not get distracted, Parker.

DO NOT think about him in the shower.

I take a deep breath to get myself under control before I pound on the bathroom door with the side of my fist.

“WADE!” I pause, waiting to see if he’ll respond but I don’t hear anything except the shower. Do not think about the shower. “Get your ass out here and explain to me why there are four pairs of beady little eyes staring at me while I eat.”

No reply.

“WADE!”

The water turns off.

“Don’t you know what time it is, Shutterbug? We’re gonna get a noise complaint.”

“Good. If the police come I can have them call animal control to pick up the chickens.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” He gasps through the door.

“Try me.”

“Petey Pie…”

The door opens as Wade’s whine tapers off. Good. I want to have this fight face-to-face.

“What the hell, Wade?” I shout gesticulating wildly and glaring at the man that brought four chickens into our apartment. “I thought we agreed no—“

“You’re cute when your face gets all pink with indignation.”

Shit is it hard to have a fight with Wade when he looks like that. He's standing in the door to the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel around his hips and a grin on his face that’s pulled out his dimple. It’s suddenly hard to swallow like my tongue is too big in my mouth and holy shit. He’s so gorgeous, all hard lines and rounded muscles and textured skin. I know that he’d never believe it if I told him but—

A drop of water slides down Wade’s neck and becomes my sole point of focus. I want to lick it up. I want to lick him all over. I—

“You done yelling at me about the chickens?”

Wade braces a hand on either side of the door, stretching out his frame and highlighting the rounded curves and hard plains of his muscles. It’s really, really hard to look away from the droplets clinging to the hollows of his scars, making tiny pools of water all over his body.

“Like what you see, sweet pea?”

My brain snaps back online and I lift my gaze to glare at Wade.

“Fuck you and your psychological warfare.” He grins wider and his dimple deepens. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my focus off his body. “I thought we agreed on no chickens.”

“They’re not chickens yet, Petey Pie. They’re just sweet, little fluff balls.”

“Those,” I point back down the hallway, “are definitely chickens, Wade.”

His arms drop from the door frame and he takes a step toward me.

“C’mon, Webs.” His voice drops low and a shiver runs down my spine. “Think about the food I could make you with all those fresh eggs. Egg drop soup. Scotch eggs. Eggs Benedict. Frittata.”

With every recipe Wade names, he takes a step closer until he’s backed me up against the wall. Goddamn him.

“You can’t bribe me with food,” I insist but it sounds breathy and like I mean the exact opposite.

Wade braces his elbow against the wall next to my head and looms over me, bringing his mouth next to my temple. I can feel his breath against the shell of my ear and another shiver works its way down my spine.

“What can I bribe you with, baby boy?”

Fuck him.

I love it when his voice rumbles like that and he knows it. I lift my chin and glower into his eyes.

“Get rid of the chickens and you can fuck me.”

He huffs out a laugh that lands against the side of my neck.

“Pretty sure I can fuck you any time.”

The hand next to my head threads through my hair and tugs sending lightning through my nerve endings. Usually, he’s right but this is the principle of the thing. If he wants to play checkers with me, I’ll just have to play three-dimensional chess with him.

I lean forward into his heat, biting back a whimper as my hair slides out of his grip, slipping my hands along his sides and around to his back, and tilt my head back to look at him. I know he has a thing about my anime eyes so I try to play them up as much as possible. I honestly wish I’d had the foresight to put on some mascara or something because I need every weapon available to me if I want these chickens out of the house.

“Gosh,” I say, all faux innocence as I reach down and run a fingertip just above the towel around his hips. His abs twitch under the touch. “If only there were something you really, really wanted that I could bargain with.”

I bite my lip and flutter my lashes as I look into his eyes. It only takes him a minute to latch onto exactly what I’m offering because his whole body goes tense.

“Are you serious?”

I shrug and lean back against the wall, folding my arms across my chest.

“Pete, I swear to god if you aren’t serious I’m going to die of a stroke right here, right now.”

“Good thing you’ll come back, then,” I say.

“Argh,” he groans. “I named them. I can’t just turn them out into the cold, cruel world.”

“Not even if I promise to ride you?”

A shudder wracks Wade’s body and I feel a slightly evil smirk overtake my mouth. His head turns and I know he’s looking into the living room, at the big metal barrel containing the four chickens he’s probably named after The Golden Girls. He looks back at me, straight, white teeth biting into his lower lip, then back at the chickens. A big inhale and exhale moves his chest, then he grabs my upper arm.

“Fine. But they have to go to a farm where I can visit them,” he’s tugging me toward the door to his room as he negotiates, “and you need to let me watch you prep yourself.”

He shoves through the door and I get my first glimpse of the inside of Wade’s bedroom. It’s surprisingly clean and there are some racks on the walls filled with weapons, but it’s the pile of guns in the corner that makes me laugh.

“And,” he insists as he starts pulling my clothes off, “I’m really gonna need you to ride me like you hate me, okay?”

“I don’t hate you, Wade,” I mumble through my sweatshirt as he whips it off over my head.

“Then pretend,” he scoffs, “you pretend you’re not a complete asshole all the time, it should be easy for you.”

I shove his hands away from my waistband and step back. “I am not a complete asshole.”

“Yessss,” Wade hisses, crowding toward me again and shoving my pants down. “That’s the spirit, Shutterbug. If you want to slap me once or twice, I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“What is wrong with—?”

My question gets cut off when Wade wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me up, tossing me onto the navy blue bedspread.

“So many things,” he answers anyway. “Lube’s in the bedside table. Get to prepping. I cannot wait to watch you finger that perfect ass.”

WADE

I don’t know the first thing about chickens but I do know how to press my roommate’s buttons. I hadn’t foreseen that the chickens would turn into a bargaining chip but I’m also a go-with-the-flow kind of guy and, if keeping the apartment chicken-free means I finally get to have Spider-man ride my dick like he was made for it, well…

Bye, Dorothy, Sophia, Blanche, and Rose. Enjoy your farm upstate.

I’ll miss those little egg-producing featherbrains but right this second I’m busy focusing on Shutterbug, naked, on all fours, on my bed, digging a bottle of lube out of the nightstand.

<That’s not lube.>

Oof.

I drop my towel onto the floor and crawl up the mattress toward Petey Pie.

“Not that one,” I say, grabbing the bottle out of his hand as I flop to my side next to him.

“Why do you have gun oil in your drawer?”

I snort. “You really gotta ask?”

He looks around my room as I toss the gun oil aside and smooth my hand down his spine. He arches into my touch like a cat and I wonder, not for the first time, if I’m dead. Like really, truly, never coming back, dead.

Because Wade W. Wilson does not get to have shit like this. A smart, gorgeous, noble man that seems to genuinely like me and takes very little prodding and negotiation to ride my cock.

[The prodding comes later.]

<Yeah, it does.>

Shutterbug finally finds the lube in my drawer and turns to me with a smile on his face, pink flushing his cheeks and making his freckles stand out. I know I threatened to have a stroke earlier if we didn’t do this but now I think I might just be having a stroke in general.

“Hey,” I reach out and grab the lube while wrapping my other arm around his waist and tugging him against me until he drops down onto my chest. “You don’t really have to do this if you don’t want to.”

He presses up on his elbows so that he can look down at me, his brow furrowed and his face halfway to a scowl. Fuck, he’s so cute.

“If you think I’m going to say that you don’t have to get rid of the chickens, keep dreaming.”

“I’ll get rid of the chickens anyway.” I nuzzle up into his neck, feeling the heat of his blush against my face. “I just don’t want you to do anything you aren’t ready for.”

His heavy exhale ghosts across my scalp. “I can’t figure you out.”

I roll my hard dick against his abs. “I’m not that complicated.”

“No, I mean…” He sighs again. “You’re always giving up stuff for me.”

“C’mon, Webs,” I mumble against his skin. “You gotta know that I’d rather have you than anything else.”

He freezes over me and I have to rewind what I just said in my head. Is that… wrong? Was I not supposed to—

<You mostly tell him dick jokes and try to suck him off, I think your genuine feelings are a bit of a surprise.>

Well, shit. That’s awkward. Can I fix it?

“I mean, I’ll travel for hits and stuff. You won’t ever have to know about them. And I won’t do that many, just enough to keep the monsters at bay or whatever. You can vet them if you want and we can make sure I’m working for the good guys. And I’ll talk to you before I go ham in a warehouse full of mercenaries again—”

[Stop talking.]

My mouth snaps shut.

He lifts his head further, pushing up onto his hands so that he can look down at me. It grinds his lower belly into my dick but I know better than to groan at the sensation. Fuck. I hope he knows that I can’t really control the precome situation, though. It’s involuntary. He’s just too hot.

Shutterbug is peering at me like he’s never seen me before. His eyes narrowed and his brows bunched together, lips rolled into a thin line.

Okay.

I really fucked up, then.

Maybe I should—

[Do not talk.]

“Goddamn it, Wade.”

Then his mouth is on me, his body dropping back to mine, our chests pressing together and our legs tangling. He licks at my bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth and scraping his front teeth across the tender inside as he pulls away.

“I thought this was just going to be dirty, chicken bargaining sex but you had to go and open your big mouth.”

He shoves himself up until he’s sitting on my stomach, thighs squeezing against my hips where he’s straddled over me.

“What kind of sex is it?” I ask, feeling like I missed a few stairs on my way to the ground floor.

He grabs the lube out of my hand and snaps it open. “Me riding my boyfriend’s huge dick because I want to.” Lube coats his fingers and his hand drops to his hard cock, giving a few slow strokes. “And also the chicken thing.”

I wrap a hand around his hips to hold him still as I lever myself up into a sitting position, pulling him flush to my lap so I can look into his eyes. He’s biting his lip and his eyelids are fluttering and the pink from his cheeks is spreading down his chest.

“Boyfriend?” The question is thick in my throat but manages to make it out loud enough for Petey Pie to hear because his lust-glazed eyes focus on me.

“Yeah, Wade. Boyfriend.”

His mouth drops to mine again, licking against my teeth and tongue as his hand curls around both of our dicks, squeezing them together and keeping that slow, lazy rhythm as he tastes me.

I’ve seen the way this man eats food, enthusiastic and hungry, savoring every bite even though they’re fast. He eats at my mouth the same way, twining his tongue around mine and rubbing it across the roof of my mouth as he fucks us both with his hand.

I groan into his mouth as his other hand slides over my shoulder and to the back of my neck, flexing, the grip barely there but enough to make sparks jolt down my spine. He sucks my tongue as he pulls away from me, making my dick jerk in his hand.

He presses his forehead into mine and slides his hand off our hard cocks. I can feel his panting breaths against my wet mouth and then the little gasp of air as his slick fingers slide over his hole.

“I thought I got to watch,” I say roughly.

“You want me to stop?”

“Fuck no.”

He laughs against me and then groans, tipping his head back and elongating his throat, tightening his grasp on the back of my neck. God, he’s so hot. I’m so fucking lucky. I can’t believe this is real.

I whisper those words against his skin as I lean forward and lick at his neck. The mark from earlier is still there and I give it extra attention, sucking on it hard as Webs shudders above me. The sounds he’s making fill my room and I hope the walls hold this memory forever so that, when I eventually fuck this up, I’ll still be able to hear his moans echoing from the baseboards.

The hair on his legs is soft against my palms as I slide my hands up his outer thighs until I’m grabbing at his ass. He makes a choked sound as I tease into his crease, stroking where he’s spread around his own fingers.

“Two fingers, baby boy?” I ask. “You gotta know I’m bigger than that.”

“You have such a goddamn egoooooo.”

The sentence ends with a groan as I slide one of my fingers in alongside his. I’ve never stretched him this far and, for a second, I worry that I hurt him but then his hips start working against mine, riding back against our combined fingers. I curl my finger over his and rub at his prostate as he moves, making him clench and whimper around me.

“More,” he demands.

Fuck.

I pat around the mattress with my unoccupied hand until I find the lube, bringing it behind him and letting it drip over our fingers. His forehead drops to my shoulder as I stroke him with another finger before nudging against his hole and sliding inside.

He squeezes the back of my neck hard enough to leave a bruise, if I were that kind of person, as his ass opens up for me. I pause with just the tip of my second finger inside of him. I’m trembling and my dick is so hard it hurts.

“You okay, Shutterbug?”

PETER

It hurts but in the best way possible.

There’s a feedback loop going from where the tip of my dick rubs against Wade’s stomach to the bruise he sucked into my neck to the place where his fingers press inside me.

“It’s good,” I gasp into the muscle of his shoulder.

And god it is so good.

I’ve had hook-ups and girlfriends that have played with my ass before but Wade is something else. In so many ways. He’s intense and methodical like he’s learning everything I like and committing it to memory for later. I’ve never been with someone who’s so intent on making me feel good. Wade definitely wants his dick in my ass but I’m convinced he’s actually pushing for it because he knows that I’ll like it.

And I think I will, too.

Fuck. I think I'll like it so much.

Wade’s fingers are curled over the top of mine, guiding our hands together as he inches his fingers into me, achingly slow, and then draws them out at the same pace, brushing against that spot inside me that makes me worry I might come before he even gets his dick inside me. I squirm against him, rutting my cock against the hot, rough skin of his stomach, and try to sink myself back onto our fingers. Deeper. Harder. Faster.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against the side of my head. “You’re opening up for me so good, baby boy.”

I jerk at his voice, dark and harsh, a perfect contrast to the gentle way he’s touching me. I knew that Wade talked a lot even before I knew he was Deadpool but, for some reason, it never occurred to me that he would keep talking in bed. Or that the overly confident words that I would normally find so irritating would burrow into my brain and hit every pleasure center I have.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good. Can’t wait for you to come on my cock.”

His fingers drive in deeper and faster and I yelp, squeezing at the back of his neck tight enough that it makes his hips thrust up against mine. I can’t decide if I want to rub my dick into his abs or fuck myself back onto our fingers. Every part of me feels overly sensitive but I want more and my body is chasing after it.

“Condom?”

“In the dra—“

I don’t let him finish, throwing myself off his lap and back toward the nightstand drawer. His fingers slip from my ass, tugging mine out with them, and I clench around the emptiness. God, I want him inside me yesterday. Why is this taking so long?

I grab one of the square foil packets out of the drawer and fling it back over my shoulder. “Put that on. Now.”

“I like this side of you, sweet pea.” I hear the crinkle of the wrapper and the snap of the condom as I crawl back into Wade’s lap. “Bossy. Horny. Begging for my dick.”

“I’m not begging,” I tell him as I find the lube and spill some over his cock. “I’m taking what I want.”

“You know that you’re just operant conditioning me to bring more chickens into the apartment, right?”

I laugh and lean down to bite at his ear, crowding closer so I can reach behind me to grasp the base of his cock and hold it in place.

“It’s weirdly sexy when you get all science-y.”

“I’m more than just my immaculate Canadian bo— ungh.”

Wade’s groan vibrates against my chest, sending heat pooling into my lower belly. He wasn’t kidding, he is big. I can feel the pressure of him against me as I lower myself onto him, pressing harder until the head of cock slips in.

I suck in a breath at the stretch because it burns more than I was expecting. Wade’s big hands lift to my face, smoothing my damp hair off my forehead and cupping my jaw. He leans forward, sprinkling small kisses across my face and whispering into my skin. I’m not sure if he knows he’s doing it, that he’s done it before, that it makes my heart swim in my chest.

Gorgeous.

I’m so fucking lucky.

I can’t believe this is real.

I relax enough to slide down his cock a little further, a shiver racing across my skin. He leans back, still holding my face, and drinks in my features. No one has ever looked at me like that before.

“Shutterbug,” he purrs, low and rich, “you look really good sitting on my dick. Like way better than I thought you would.”

“Fuck you.” I punch him in the shoulder, barely pulling it, knowing that he can take it.

He groans dramatically, biting his lower lip and rolling his eyes back in his head.

“That’s what I’m waiting for, honey bunny. Put me outta my misery.”

Wade runs his hand from my ass up my spine, his palm rough against my skin. I arch into his touch and sink lower onto his cock, gasping at the way the burn of the stretch is coalescing into something hotter. His lips brush against my ear as he leans forward, his tongue dragging along the outer shell, making me shudder and sink deeper onto him.

“Told you you’d like it.”

A puff of air leaves me that was supposed to be a laugh but my entire brain is centered on where Wade’s cock is filling me.

“Your cock is allowed,” I gasp. “Your cockiness is not.”

“How else,” he nuzzles into my neck, “am I supposed to get you to ride me like you hate me if I’m not annoying?”

“Oh, fuck,” I groan as my ass settles against Wade’s thighs. “Have you considered just not talking at all?”

“Petey Pie.” His palm slides back down my spine, pulling a shiver across my body again and making me clench on his cock. Jesus. That’s— fuck. “Have you met me?”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Wade. “ I slump over, pressing my forehead into his shoulder and wiggling on his dick. “I have no idea what we’re talking about right now.”

“The pretty pink flush on your chest.” Wade’s big hand slides up my belly and across my chest, rubbing at one of my nipples with his thumb.

“All these perfect fucking freckles.” His mouth drops to my collarbone, his tongue tracing serpentine patterns that he insists connect the dots of my freckles.

“The mark I left on your neck.” He moves his mouth up, sinking his teeth over the mark and making my whole body jerk and tighten around him again.

“This gorgeous cock.” His hand slides back down my belly, fingertips playing through the wetness at the head of my cock.

“These kinky fucking spinnerets.” Wade tugs one of my wrists to his mouth and drags his tongue over my webbing spigot before sealing his lips and sucking.

“Or maybe,” he mutters against my wrist, “we’re talking about the way you can’t keep yourself from bouncing on my cock.”

“Yeah,” I beg, despite the fact I told Wade earlier that I do not beg. “Let’s talk about that.”

I grip his shoulder and the back of his neck tight, driving myself back down on his length, rolling my hips at the bottom until it rubs against my prostate. Then lifting my hips, his cock pulling out halfway, before I drop down again, flexing my fingers around his neck.

Wade groans against my wrist and then sucks again which makes my whole body clench around him.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Remember that time I accidentally let Paste Pot Pete go? Or when I stole your web shooter to build a web across the entrances to the mayor’s office? Or—”

“Wade. Shut up.”

I raise myself up until just the tip of his cock is inside me then shove back onto him again. I’m not going to fuck him like I hate him but I am going to fuck him hard. Because I want it. Because it feels good. Because he asked for it and I really don’t hate him at all.

Wade lets me lead as I pick up the pace, riding him hard and fast. He wraps an arm around my waist and buries his face into my neck, muttering filth against the mark he left.

So tight.

You were made for my cock.

Ride me so good.

Can’t wait to wreck you.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

The bed creaks underneath us, a bass line to the sound of Wade’s words and my whimpering moans. Everything goes a little fuzzy as I fuck myself onto Wade’s cock. My orgasm coming on like a fog, enveloping everything until it’s all I can see and feel and breathe.

“Wade.” I squeeze hard at the back of his neck, making him jerk and groan under me. “I’m gonna— I need—”

The sentence trails off into a whine as I roll my hips, grinding down on Wade’s cock, forcing it against my prostate. Fuck. Christ. I want more of that feeling. I want it to be over and I never want it to be over at the same time.

Wade shifts underneath me, moving until a lube-slick hand wraps around my cock, wringing a loud moan out of me. He leans back, watching my face as I ride him, as he works me over with his hand, as he grabs my arm and drags my wrist toward his mouth.

I should probably be embarrassed that the second Wade scrapes his teeth over my web spigot, my dick erupts. Cum lashing up Wade’s stomach and chest, covering his hand as he swallows the webbing I shot into his mouth. He groans and shudders as he works me through my orgasm and licks clean first one wrist and then the other. I feel his cock kick inside me and another burst of cum dribbles out of me.

“Fuck,” he groans, dropping my wrist and wrapping his arms around my waist, tugging me into his chest. “If I knew you had that in you, Shutterbug, I would have bent you over the table the minute you walked through my door.”

“How can you even talk right now?” I mumble into his chest as I slump forward.

“Excellent stamina. Short refractory period.” There’s a pause like he’s considering something, then, “You should really get your webbing looked at because that shit is potent. Like absinthe-flavored Viagra.”

I try really hard not to think about how some spiders can coat their webbing with pheromones. I just came my brain out so it’s easier than it might normally be. My eyes have just drifted shut when Wade’s voice rumbles against my ear where I’m tucked into his chest.

“Hey, sweet pea?”

He runs his hand up my spine again and cups the back of my neck. It doesn’t work on me quite like it works on him but the way his thumb digs into my tense muscles is nice.

“What, Wade?”

“Do I still have to get rid of the chickens?”

This guy.

I roll my eyes. “Yes.”

“Oof.” He runs his other hand down to my ass and smacks it just hard enough that I clench around his spent dick. The noise that comes out of my mouth is embarrassing. I try to stifle it against his shoulder. “You drive a hard bargain, Spides, but it’s lovely doing business with you.”

I probably shouldn’t pass out with his cock still inside me but…

WADE

“Wake up, Pete.” I slap a hand down on Shutterbug’s goddamn perfect ass through the bedspread and watch him pill-bug himself into a little ball wrapped in a comforter. “It’s Saturday morning. Time to visit, May.”

The little nympho wanted to fuck once more last night before turning into a puddle of cum-drunk superhero, making me clean him up while he lounged in my bed like a king.

I’ve created a monster.

It’s fucking great.

I smack his ass again and his body jerks, brown, fluffy hair and suspicious anime eyes appearing above the comforter.

“How do you know about Aunt May?”

“I’m a big, bad mercenary, baby boy. I know all sorts of highly classified and private shit.”

Those brown eyes narrow again until they’re little more than angry slits in his face. He looks kind of mad. I guess it’s a good thing we fucked last night.

TWICE.

“Wait. Wait a second, Wade.”

He crawls out from under the comforter wearing just the boxers I wrestled him into, all lithe and graceful, and if he thinks I won’t pin him down and pound him into the mattress again, his faith in me is wildly misplaced.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous.

He knee walks across the bed toward me and then stops, crossing his arms over his chest and making the muscles in his arms bunch and flex. He has great shoulders. It’s got to be from all the swinging around. I think maybe I lose myself in them for a second because the next thing I know he’s poking me in the stomach.

“What?”

“What do you mean what? How long have you known?”

“Oof, dates and times are not really my thing, sweet pea.”

“Guess.”

Hmmm, I’m not sure what that tone of voice is.

<Irritation.>

[Annoyance.]

{Oh, good. You two are still here.}

“I mean… ballpark?” He just glares at me like he knows the answer already. Hell, he probably does. “The day you signed the rental agreement.”

He blinks and several waves of emotion flow across his face, there and gone before I can figure out what they are. His teeth snag on his lower lip and his brow scrunches and he stares at the center of my chest.

“Wade.” He tilts his chin up and meets my eyes, cocking his head in question. “Are you the one that sends the daisies every week?”

He noticed that, huh?

I bite my lip and rub at the back of my neck, looking anywhere but at the nearly naked, wet dream in my bed. If he gives me those melty, awww, you shouldn’t have, puppy dog eyes, I really am going to fuck him into the mattress. And I know the visits with his aunt are important so I contemplate the knife marks in the ceiling instead.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Websy.”

He huffs out an annoyed breath that hits the front of my throat. I have to clench my hands into fists to keep from grabbing him. Does he know how close he is to getting bent over the bed and railed? He has to know, right? Like, no one can just exude that much sex energy subconsciously, right?

I can feel his gaze on my face while I count the knife marks again. Twenty-seven. I should probably practice more. Finally, he huffs out a second annoyed breath and climbs off the bed, decreasing the likelihood of me fucking him into it again by… not very much, honestly.

“Let me get dressed,” he says, his voice growing quieter as he walks out of my room and toward his.

Something’s… something is weird here. I did something wrong or… Jesus. Did I fuck this up already?

I follow him to his room, leaning against his door frame and watching him shrug into a shirt and hunt the room for his glasses.

“I don’t have to come,” I try. “If you don’t want me to.”

His head snaps up, eyes finding me in his doorway. His brows furrow and he looks me over before his face relaxes.

“No, Wade.” Oh. Okay. Right. Of course, he doesn’t want me to come meet his Aunt May. That’s fine. Totally fine. I’ll just— “Of course, I want you to come.”

“Oh shit. Really?”

He laughs. “Yeah. I think she’ll like you.” He finds his glasses and slides them onto his face. “Or she’ll hate you. You tend to have that effect on people.”

“I’ll have you know, Shutterbug,” I scoff nervously, “that I plan on being on my best behavior.”

Petey Pie crosses the room to me, wrapping his arms around my waist and tugging me close, tilting his head up until his chin is resting on my chest and I can feel him staring at me again.

“I honestly cannot wait to see what you think best behavior look likes.”

“See?” I tilt my head down and scowl. “Complete asshole.”

He grins at me and winks [That’s our move!] before grabbing my hand, threading our fingers together, and pulling me toward the door.

Little does he know, I’ll follow him anywhere. Even if he eventually lets go.

<Geez. Way to make it creepy, my guy.>

The memory care facility is a little run-down but, after I figured out it’s where most of Peter Parker’s money went, I made sure that Aunt May had the best room. It’s clean and well-lit and she’s sitting on a comfortable-looking grey couch with a knitting project in her lap. There’s quiet music playing, jazz, I think, that compliments the click clack click of the needles.

Shutterbug prepared me on the way over and it took everything in me not to pull him into my lap on public transportation while he told me about his Aunt May. How she has good days and bad. How she raised him. How they both lost his Uncle Ben. How her memory started to decline. And how she doesn’t recognize him most days as her Peter because her memory is firmly fixed in a time when Uncle Ben was still alive.

Which is why, when he walks through the door and she turns to him with a wide smile and a delighted, “Peter!” I’m ready to catch him when he stumbles.

It looks like today is a good day.

“Aunt May!”

His voice is thick as he practically sprints across the space and falls next to her on the couch, wrapping her up in a hug that she returns enthusiastically.

She leans back and pushes his hair off his forehead with a gentle hand. “I’ve missed you, dear.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” Shutterbug chokes out.

Fuck.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come.

I know I’m a mercenary or whatever but this moment feels too private for even me to be digging around in. I start backing out the door when Aunt May calls me out. Honestly, I should have been expecting it from one of Spider-man’s relatives.

“Who’s this?”

Webs twists toward me, his eyes shining with unshed tears, and beckons me forward. I perch on the chair kitty-corner to the couch and sweat like I’m being murdered as I look at Shutterbug and his aunt together on the couch.

I’m making this weird.

I shouldn’t have come.

Now he’s going to have to explain to his aunt why he dragged his dumb fuck muscle roommate to visit and—

“This is my boyfriend, Wade.”

What the fuck?

“Peter Parker, I would have thought an academic was more your type.” Aunt May tips her head and I feel like a bug under a microscope, my heart pounding and adrenaline dumping into my system. Fuck. I barely graduated high school. I’m stupid and she hates me. “But I can see why you’re with this one. Strong, isn’t he?”

What the FUCK?

Webs grins at me. “You have no idea, Aunt May.”

What the actual fuck!?

“So,” I open my mouth because I can’t fucking help myself and what the hell am I going to say? Christ, I hope it’s something good. “I’m ready to hear all of Shutterbug’s embarrassing childhood stories.”

I don’t even have time to berate myself because May bursts out laughing.

“Oh, I like you. Has Peter ever told you about the time he tried to build a rocket ship in his bedroom?”

“Aunt May,” Webs groans. “Please don’t.”

“Peter,” she laughs, “you wore half-burnt underwear for weeks until you finally fessed up to setting your room on fire.”

“Tell me more about this half-burnt underwear,” I murmur as I lean toward May. She leans back conspiratorially and tells me embarrassing stories about Shutterbug for an hour while he groans in the background.

A knock at the door is what finally pulls her out of story mode. May looks over my shoulder and scowls at whatever she sees there.

“If this is you telling me that this is the end of their visiting hour, kindly fuck off.”

Webs chokes and I laugh. I like her. Can kind of see where Petey Pie gets it.

“May,” the nurse at the door scolds, “don’t think I won’t come in there and stab you with one of them knitting needles.”

The two of them glare at each other over my shoulder and it is wildly uncomfortable but, finally, the nurse sighs.

“Five more minutes, you old battle axe.”

“Love you, dear,” May calls sweetly after the nurse’s retreating steps. Her eyes flick back to mine again. “I guess I have to get this out of the way, then.”

“Get what out of the way?” Webs asks from the chair. He and I switched seats about ten minutes into the regaling and I do not regret a minute of it.

“Peter, quiet. I’m going to talk to Wade now.”

“You’ve been talking to him this whole time.”

“Aww, don’t be jealous, sweet pea. You can have me all to yourself when we get home.”

May shifts on the couch until she’s facing me, her knee pressed against mine and her arm resting along the back of the couch. She looks serious and my throat tightens up. This is the moment she tells me I’m not good enough for her nephew. And she’ll be one hundred percent right.

“All Ben and I ever wanted for Peter was happiness.” Damn. She’s going to be nice while she eviscerates me. That’s the fucking worst. “He’s such a serious boy and we knew he had a hard time at school. Bullies, you know. But, after Ben died, I was worried I was losing Peter, too. He changed so much and he wouldn’t let anybody in. But now here you are.”

My mouth opens and closes several times like a landed fish. For once, I think I might be speechless.

May leans forward, reaching up to cup my face. Her hands are warm and dry as she cradles my jaw in her hands. Her eyes squint at me under the ball cap and the hood.

“You’re not terribly handsome are you?”

“Aunt May!” Petey Pie scolds in indignation but I just huff.

“I have a winning personality to make up for it, ma’am.”

“Call me May, dear,” she says, eyes crinkling with mirth and one palm tapping the side of my face twice. “You’re a smart ass. Just like my Peter.”

“See, Shutterbug?” I glance over at him and waggle my brow. “I knew you weren’t the perfect little angel you pretend to be.”

“Wade—“

“Wade,” May interrupts whatever Webs was about to say and my eyes go back to hers. “Peter needs someone to take care of him even though he thinks he doesn’t. Can you do that?”

“I make an excellent brunch quiche, May.”

“Good,” she hums happily, still holding my face between her hands. “He needs someone that likes all the sides of him. Someone that sees all the sides of him. Can you do that?”

“You might say I’ve seen more of Petey Pie than is appropriate to mention in polite company.”

Shutterbug mutters something grumpy under his breath at that but May just snorts. I like her a lot.

“I guess I don’t have to ask you if you keep him on his toes.”

“His heels never touch the ground.”

May smiles at me then, sweet and lovely, and I can see the pieces of her that Shutterbug carries around with him. The parts he tried to protect from me for so long. This whole family seems like a bunch of goddamn stellar human beings and it’s enough to give a guy a complex.

“Wade.” May’s voice has grown serious again. “I love Peter but I know that sometimes I can’t love him as he is now because I don’t always remember. He needs someone to love him for the man he’s become. Can you do that?”

My throat tightens up and goes dry.

This was not what I was expecting out of today but if she’s asking me what I think she’s asking me, the answer is a no-brainer. I have to clear my throat a few times while May smoothes her fingertips across my forehead. This is the woman that raised Shutterbug, that helped him become the annoying, self-righteous, smart assed, responsible guy that lets me tongue fuck him whenever I want.

I’ll tell her what she wants to hear. I’ll tell her the truth.

“Yes, May,” I say to her while I tell Webs at the same time. “I can do that. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

PETER

He’s so good with Aunt May, more gentle than I would have thought he was capable of. It’s been so damn long since I’ve seen her genuine smile and heard her snort with laughter. And Wade did that.

That’s enough. It’s more than enough. It’s a gift I didn’t even know I was waiting to receive but then he gives me something else. Something wrapped in blood and sweat and pain and promise.

I almost step in when Aunt May asks Wade if he can love me. We’re not there yet and I don’t want to make this visit more awkward than it’s already been, but Wade gives his answer like it’s sitting right on the tip of his tongue.

“Yes, May. I can do that. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

That son of a bitch.

I suck in a quick breath and nearly choke on it, watching through blurry eyes as Aunt May tugs Wade’s face down and presses a kiss to his forehead. The merc’s eyes flutter shut at the touch and a slow, sweet smile spreads across his face as she whispers something into his ear.

He looks happy. Really happy. And I want to spend the rest of my life trying to keep that look on his face.

“Now get out of here,” Aunt May says, shoving gently at Wade’s shoulder. “But keep sending the daisies. They’re lovely.” She turns her gaze to me. “Come give me a hug, Peter. I know it’s been so long since you’ve seen me.”

Aunt May holds her arms out to me as Wade steps away and I start crying. I can’t help it. I visit her every week, sometimes more, but she’s right. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her the way I remember her. The way she was when I was growing up. The way she was before the memory care facility.

I wrap my arms around her and drop my face into her hair. She smells like oranges, just like she always does.

“I love you, Aunt May,” I tell her. “Every time I come to see you, I always love you. Don’t forget that.”

“Oh, sweetie,” she sighs softly, “I could never forget that.”

I start to pull away but she tightens her arms around me and turns her head until her mouth is right next to my ear.

“Let him take care of you, Peter.” She brushes a kiss onto my cheek. “You don’t have to be so alone all the time.”

I nod because what else am I supposed to do? Aunt May’s right, she always is. I keep to myself because I’m not just Peter Parker, I’m Spider-man. I live a life that most people can’t fathom, full of responsibilities that I can’t walk away from.

"You may want to tell him to lay off on marking your neck, though. It's awfully noticeable."

My face heats up and I can only grumble out, "Aunt May..." before she continues.

“I love you, Peter. I don’t want you to forget that either.”

“Never, Aunt May.”

I'm fully crying as the nurse comes in to help Aunt May to bed. Visits tend to tire her out and I know she needs a nap but it’s hard to let this version of her go.

Wade slides an arm around my waist and pulls me to his side, turning his head so he can whisper directly above my ear.

“I like her, Webs.”

“Me too,” I sob.

He nudges me into the hallway after the third dagger-sharp glare from the nurse and pulls me into his chest. I wrap my arms around him and cry into his sweatshirt, the cotton growing damp against my face. A month ago, I would have rather died than show Deadpool any weakness but right now I need him to keep his arms around me. Anchoring me to the ground and letting me be sad and happy and everything complicated I feel about Aunt May.

I don’t know how long I cry, Wade’s palm moving up and down my back in a steady rhythm, before my breaths come easier and my tears taper off. I feel wrung out but also relieved. Like I walked through fire and came out the other side.

“Ready, sweet pea?”

Wade’s voice is low as he moves his hands to my face, tilting my chin up toward him so he can wipe the tears off my damp cheeks.

“Yeah.” I look into his eyes and wonder why he hides this part of himself, the part that wants to take care of people, the part that feels everything so deeply. The part that made me fall in love with him. “Thank you.”

Something passes across his face like he can hear everything that single thank you means. Thank you for coming with me. Thank you for loving my Aunt May.

Thank you for loving me.

“Anytime, Shutterbug.”

I reach down and thread my fingers through his, holding his hand as I lead him down the hallway toward the exit. He keeps looking at me out of the corner of his eye and every time I catch him, I squeeze my hand around his.

“Sooooo,” I start. Now that I’m done sobbing my stomach sore, I’m dying of curiosity. “What did she say to you?”

Wade’s smile goes crooked and his dimple pops out. I reach over with my other hand to poke it which makes it deepen.

“Said I was good for you.” He pauses, then, “So I told her just how good I can be.”

Wade turns to me and winks. I roll my eyes.

“Gross. That’s my aunt, the woman that raised me. Do you have no shame?”

“You know I don’t, sweet pea.”

I trudge along beside him toward the automatic doors leading outside. If I ask again, it’s going to be a point in his favor and I hate that but…

“Seriously. What did she say to you?”

Wade’s quiet and I’m not sure he’s going to answer. When he finally does, his voice sounds thick and rougher than usual.

“She said ‘Welcome to the family.’”

Oh.

I open my mouth to say something but snap it shut on what feels like is going to be another sob. Aunt May liked Wade. I knew it. I saw it. But it isn’t just that. She made him family. My family.

“Oh,” I say as we step through the doors and out on the sidewalk in front of the building. “Probably because you told her that you’d take care of me. That you…”

Goddamn it.

Why can’t I say it out loud?

“That I, what? Love you?”

My throat clicks as I swallow and I can see Wade tip his head back with a groan of disbelief out of the corner of my eye.

“Course I love you, sweet pea. I know I have a reputation but I don’t actually dick down every willing piece of ass.”

“Oh my god.” I shove him away, half appalled and half amused. More than half amused. This guy. “Fuck you. You’re such a dick.”

Wade snatches me up with an arm across my waist and drags me around a corner, out of sight of the parking lot. He presses me into the side of the building, one hand dropping to my hip and the other bracing against the wall next to my head.

“Knew you loved my dick, shutterbug.” Wade leans down to whisper in my ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down my back.

“You’re such an asshole.”

I shove at his chest because this is a goddamn serious conversation and he keeps talking about his dick. He reaches up and shoves his hood and baseball cap off his head as he looks down at me. Something I know he hates doing in public but something he’s doing because he wants me to see how serious he is.

“Peter, I love the shit out of you.” I pause at the tone in his voice, at the intense look in his eyes. My hands still on his chest, his heart thumping against my palms. “I love you when you wear that stupidly patriotic suit of yours. I love you when you’re hunched over your computer grumbling about your boss and editing those breathtaking photos. I love you when you’re hoovering up food like Kirby and when you can’t control your webbing. I’m probably not gonna say it enough and I’m probably always gonna be an asshole but I wasn’t lying to May. I’ll take care of you. I’ll see all of you. I’ll love you. And it’ll be the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Jesus. This guy.

“Goddamn it, Wade.”

I press up into him until we’re plastered together chest to thigh and brush my mouth over his. He groans as I curl my hand over the back of his neck and squeeze, licking into his mouth and tasting the Earl Grey tea that Aunt May made him drink.

The kiss is sweet and slow, our tongues sliding against each other and moving from my mouth to his. He tries to pull away and I grab his neck tighter, sucking his lower lip into my mouth before finally backing off.

“I know I should tell you to stop grabbing the back of my neck like that but fuck if I don’t like it.” He leans down, bumping his forehead against mine. “You can lead me around by my neck anytime.”

“I’m definitely going to take you up on that. I think you’d look good in a webbing collar.”

I slip out from between his body and the wall as I hear him groan, “Shiiiiit” behind me. It only takes a few steps before he catches up with me and we head toward the bus stop. I wonder if I can convince him to stop at the German sausage place on the way home.

“Hey.” He nudges me with his shoulder as we move down the sidewalk. “Don’t you have something you want to say to me?”

I spin to face him so I’m walking backward while he’s walking forward. His eyes are shadowed under his cap and hood but I can see the smile on his face. And that adorable dimple.

I love that face. I love that dimple. I love that man. He knows it. And if he doesn’t, I’ll just have to keep showing him. Because I think he’d be terribly disappointed if I gave it up too easily.

“I don’t think so.” I scrunch my brow and squint up at the grey sky. “Nothing I can think of.”

He leans toward me, predatory. “I bet I could wring a confession out of you.”

I shrug but can’t keep a smile from tugging up the corners of my mouth. “You’re welcome to try.”

Wade spins me back around and drops an arm over my shoulders, tucking me tight against his side as we head toward home. “Trust me, baby boy. I’ll try all night if I have to.”

Best. Roommate. Ever.