Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter wants to help Wade. He does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a long fucking night.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter had gone off.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone moved on without question.

Peter couldn't.

He wanted to help Wade. So he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wh-what?"

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

Wade swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing strongly.

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

Another inch.

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

Then another.

"When you don't feel beautiful."

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

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

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

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

Then it starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stop, why are we stopping?

No stopping. Stop stopping. Go!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

But this was wrong.

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

Don’t go to sleep; we need you.

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

Wade squeezes his eyes shut.

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

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

"I have, Wade. I am."

"Peter, I'm not..."

"You are."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The voices in his head riot.

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

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

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

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

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

He leaves.

Chapter Text

Peter should have known Wade couldn't stay. He had been too forward, but damn, who could blame him? He would have let Wade ravage him six ways to the end of the world.

It's been nearly a month, and the world has hardly seen or heard of new threats for any of the heroes--Avengers or solo-wise--to worry about. Aside from a few cases of petty theft and a carjacking or two, Spiderman has been bored as bored can be.

Peter's walking home in an evening drizzle, hands tucked into the pockets of his heavy jacket, the red of his hoodie beneath it striking out against his pale skin.

It's that exact sight--Peter damp and disheveled and still smiling--that pulls Wade from the shadows. He follows Peter for a few blocks before he makes himself known, on the steps of the apartment building. He grabs Peter's wrists and pushes him up against the doorway, pressing his masked face to the back of the younger boy's neck.

"Hi," he whispers.

"I knew you were close," Peter sighs, and it may be Wade's imagination, but he could swear Peter sounds like he's smiling.

"Can I come in?"

"Whenever you want. The windows are never locked."

"...I knew that."

"Then you don't have to ask again," Peter says, and he wriggles out of Wade's grasp and unlocks the main door. "Hurry up, before someone sees you."

"Ashamed of being seen with Deadpool, Spidey?" Wade teases.

"No; just worried about you giving Mrs. Smith a heart attack with your insanely broad shoulders and the impossible swords you have strapped to them."

"Ah."

They ascend the stairs in silence, and when Mr. Masters opens his door with Prince Barks on his glittery leash, Peter jumps onto the ceiling and launches Wade down the hall with an incredible kick. It leaves the assassin giggling like a girl before Peter rolls him over and pushes him into the quiet of the apartment, the door sticking before giving out under Wade's weight.

They fall into the quiet, warm space together, and they're laughing as the door swings shut and it's so beautiful. Raindrops are falling from Peter's hair, and he's lying on top of Wade like a bed.

When their laughter starts to fade, Peter's caught looking down, trying to see into Wade's eyes. The rain has picked up, and it's pattering on the window loudly, filling the quiet space with a gentle pressure like distant drums and windchimes.

Wade's heart stutters, and his hands are soft on the small of Peter's back, palms to his hipbones and fingers splayed across a tantalizing strip of exposed skin. He wants to feel it with his bare fingers. It's hot, so damn hot, and he swallows hard and ignores the way his swords and guns are digging into his back and just relishes the soft weight of Peter lying on top of him, one thigh slotted between those long, soft legs.

"...I didn't want to leave," Wade whispers, fingers stroking down against the waistband of Peter's jeans.

"I know."

"...I wanted you..."

Peter smiles and tilts his head down, and he's kissing Wade's mouth softly through the fabric of his mask. "I wanted you to," he says against his mercenary's mouth.

Then Wade pulls his mask up, and they're kissing. Peter's mouth tastes like caramel candies and rain, and Wade wants to feel his hair under his fingers. So he pulls back and tears his gloves off with his teeth and spits them to the side before tearing his hands through the younger boy's hair.

With that, he uses his control to angle Peter's head to the side to delve his tongue deeper into the moist cavern of that delicate mouth, and the moan it earns him pulling Peter's hair makes his head spin. He angles his hips up, driving his quickly flooding erection up against Peter's. He slides his other hand down Peter's back and rucks up his shirt, touching inch after inch of perfect, heated skin.

"Wade," Peter whines, and Wade has never heard his name said quite like that; not by any lover he had taken before, male or otherwise.

With that, he hooks his hands under Peter's knees and sits up, grinding their cocks together through layers of cloth before he rises to his feet in a fluid motion.

"Oh, holy schtick," Peter rasps, locking his arms around Wade's neck and his legs around his strong waist. If only his mind would shut the hell up.

This is so hot, so fricking hot! Wade is so hot. He just picked me up--he just got right the hell up! And he picked me up! It's so hot! How is he so strong? Why is he so hot?!

Wade laughs, licking his way back into Peter's mouth as he walks them to the bedroom. He slides his hands up Peter's thighs--god, they're strong--and cups the curve of his ass, squeezing the firm, plush globes in handfuls. "God, this ass of yours."

"Jesus, Wade."

"Always loved your ass. Stare at it every chance I get. 'Specially in that suit of yours."

"Wade!"

"'M not gonna lie. Wanna sink my teeth into it."

"Do it," Peter growls, and Wade tosses him onto the bed with an undignified squeak and the bounce of springs. "God, please do it."

"Peter," Wade gasps, and he climbs onto the bed after the smaller boy.

God, he's so huge, and he's bearing over Peter and sucking a bruise into his neck before Peter can protest. It draws a filthy moan from his lips, and he arches his back into the pressure as Wade pushes off his jacket and undoes the buckle of his belt.

"I need... I didn't..."

"Talk to me, Wade, please. Tell me," Peter pleads, sitting up so Wade can drag off his hoodie and the white T he was wearing under it.

Then Peter's shirtless, and oh, he's gorgeous. He has a sprinkling of freckles across his shoulders, the smooth ridges of his abs a glorious surprise, and the dip of his navel quivering with every breath. His nipples are dusky and pink, the muscles of his arms flexing as he holds himself up with them.

It makes Wade's stomach tumble over, all that perfect, smooth, glorious, normal skin.

Peter's chest is rising and falling heavily, and a small smattering of scars on his arms and side catch Wade's eyes. His heart stammers. "Tell me."

Eyes rake over him again.

More scars on his hip, a mess of lightning climbing over his shoulder in pale, pale flesh. Peter's skin is... Flawed.

"...I just had to see you," Wade breaths, and he claims that sweet, soft mouth again, hands swift as he grabs Peter's jeans by the hip and yanks them down over his thighs. His briefs cling to those strong legs, and when Wade moves down to tug them off Peter's surprisingly frail ankles, he takes a moment to admire the picture before him.

"That's all I've ever wanted to hear," Peter's skin is like cream, his freckles cinnamon, his limbs toned and slender. The dark, surprising midnight of his briefs against his skin is a gorgeous contrast. A dusting of fine hair peeks out of the elastic waistband of those dark shorts, and the way he's lying across the pale blue and gold blankets and messy quilts on his bed--eyes heavy lidded, dark purple bruise blooming against the side of his throat, fingers grasping at the sheets--makes Wade's mouth water.

"Damn, you're just perfect, aren't you?" He asks quietly, fingertips brushing tiny scars prickled on Peter's shins and knees. He doesn't know how old some of them could be, but others he can definitely tell came after he became Spiderman. They're too rough to have come from falling on a playground.

A bruised hand reaches out for him, gently touching his own scarred flesh. On Peter's knuckles, there are even more small scars, and they crack Wade's heart open and flood him with something sort of like relief... Peter's skin is marked, just like his.

No. No, it's nothing like his. He's a mess, a monster; nothing about him is pretty.

"Let me see your eyes..." Peter whispers.

Wade's heart stutters.

"Please... They... They're my second favorite thing about you."

"And the first?" Wade laughs, nervous.

"Your mouth,” he says honestly, and that makes the larger man laugh sharply, delighted. "I'm serious. Your lips are gorgeous, and you say the funniest things. I love your mouth, but... I adore your eyes."

"Adore, huh? Gettin' all homo on me, Pete?"

"You're the one who wants to sink your teeth into my ass."

"Yeah, you got me there. But you're not the only one, okay? Nat also has an amazing ass. But she could probably kill me with it. Oh, then there's Logan's buns of adamantium. Those could chip a tooth--"

"The more you talk about how much you wanna bite other people's asses, the less likely it is that I'll allow you to bite mine," Peter teases, even as he thumbs the elastic waistband of his briefs. The way he rolls his hips up, it has Wade’s stomach dropping, and he pinches the edge of his mask.

"Peter, look, I... If at any point you want me to, you know... Cover up? I won't be offended if you--"Wade starts, soft and shy as all precious hell, and Peter reaches up and closes his hand over the one gripping the mask's seam.

"You are gorgeous, Wade. I wouldn't change a damn thing about you. This is for you, remember?" When he says it, he wraps one leg around Wade's waist and tugs him closer, and lord, have mercy, this kid is gonna kill him. "But this?" Peter says quietly, giving Wade's hand a gently squeeze. "This is for me. Please."

With a grateful sigh, Wade eases the mask off, drops his head forward, squeezes his eyes shut, and he wishes he were beautiful enough to be worthy of Peter. He suddenly misses his gold hair, disheveled and silky, his perfect skin, all tan and firm. He misses being the hot piece of ass that he knew he was, and his confidence is shrinking because that's all he can think about right now, kneeling over this gorgeous boy.

Then a hand brushes the scarred line of his jaw, and he blinks and looks up at Peter. It's all he can do to hold his breath so he doesn't cry. Peter's looking into his eyes like he's hung the moon, like all the stars of the night have come to gather in the space between spikey lashes, and the smile on Peter's lips and the glitter of dampness in his eyes could end Wade, if he took the risk to breathe.

"There you are,” the smaller boy grins, and he's sitting up and pressing his mouth to Wade's open lips while a tiny little sob escapes the larger man.  "Pretty eyes," he mutters, running his thumb against the crescent of soft, slightly sunken skin beneath Wade's left eye, as if catching a tear. "You're alright. I'm here."

He's not going to cry. He can't. "I know you are, Pete," Wade sighs, delving his tongue into Peter's mouth as he simultaneously tugs his briefs down around his thighs.

When he first grabs Peter's cock, it's hot and thick and a bit longer than one would expect from someone of his size.

It makes the younger male stifle a moan and throw his head back against the pillow, the tight coil of heat in his gut melting, turning into bottled lava, pooling into his loins. "Yes," Peter grits out, and it's so rough and low that Wade thinks, for a moment, he's not in bed with Peter Parker, but a fucking animal.

"Pete?" He asks softly, timidly, kissing down the smaller man's neck, across his gloriously smooth collar bones.

"I-I-I'm fine," Peter stammers out, one hand latching onto Wade's broad shoulder, the other clasping his hip. "I'm so fine. Oh, god, Wade. Y-your hand... It's rough. Feels so fucking good."

That makes the merc's heart stammer again, and he flinches back. "Do you need me to stop??"

Peter's face is a blank, dry slate. "...What part of 'feels so fucking good' makes you think you should stop, Wilson?" He demands before he's pulling the assassin against him, bucking up into his tight fist while he seals their mouths together.

It's surprising, how dominant Peter is once he gets Wade into his bed. Wade's not one to allow himself to be bossed about, but the moment Peter opens his mouth to ask for anything, it is the merc's deepest wish to fulfill each desire, each plea.

Everything that falls from Peter's lips is a gift. Wade hasn't touched someone in so long. Now, he's had the occasional fling, a few heavy romances that left him wishing his healing factor worked on his heart, and many, many good rolls in the hay with whoever could stomach him long enough for it.

Peter is different.

Peter is a fucking prince, and Wade wants to be posted permanently on his knees at this boy's feet.

"Wade... God, Wade, yes. Faster," he pumps faster.

"Kiss me again. Please," he kisses him, breathes for it.

"Oh, oh, I want your mouth all over me," he gives it to him, moving down Peter's narrow, firm chest

It's heaving with every breath, like Peter is just as starved for this as Wade is. When the mercenary dips forward to lave his tongue across Peter's nipples, the little spider hastily unfastens buckles, tossing a few webs here and there to yank away blades and daggers and guns and a few grenades.

A loud honking interrupts them.

Wade startled, yanking his face back from his most pleasurable task to see Peter giggling, holding a rubber chicken by the throat. "You are such a child."

"Hm. Then maybe we should stop. I mean, this would make you a pedophile, after all. If I'm a child, and you're a certified adult," Wade teases, tossing Peter's previous statement back at him.

It draws a warm, pink smile across his face, and Peter drops the chicken in favor of cupping Wade's face in his hands. "I have no intention of getting caught."

Wade snickers, then leans in and claims Peter's mouth again, rubbing circles against his damp, pearled nipples. Peter’s not exactly a twink, but he issmall enough Wade can wrap his fingers around his ribcage to thumb his nipples at the same time. With his breath coming so heavily, Wade thinks Peter’s fragile cage of bone could crack beneath his palms. The tight little buds are so sweet under the pads of his thumbs, and the noises Peter's making are broken and sweet, trapped and choked in his throat like he can't believe they're happening at all. They're hot and wet, all breathy and delicate, and so feminine, Wade's cock is leaking against his thigh.

Perhaps he should have tucked instead of hung this morning.

Then a hand is on his cock through his suit, and the noise Wade makes startles them both, jerking his head back so quickly that a strand of saliva snaps between his and Peter's open mouths. He grabs the smaller boy's wrist and pins his palm to the bed in an attempt to prevent himself from exploding in his pants like a virgin. But pulling back and looking down doesn't help him much.

Once again, Peter looks fucked out. If Wade thought their little make-out sessions all those nights ago was anything to fantasize about, he now has Peter Parker writhing under him, pupils blown, mouth gaping and glistening, and it's all so fucking gorgeous.

Not only that, but now, Peter's completely naked, and his cock is sticking straight up, like it's reaching for Wade, the head red and tip leaking precum. Peter's belly is pale, and his chest is flushed, fingers twisting in the sheets, shoulders shaking with the effort it's taking to breathe.

"I..." Wade begins, and he chokes on his own tongue.

"Don't ask. I'm yours, Wade. Just take me."  Peter replies.

And how can Wade argue with that? Like, when someone gives you a present that you really, really, really fucking wanted for Christmas, and they wrapped it up in your favorite color and put the prettiest, biggest bow on it, you don't hand it back to them and say, 'Thanks, but I didn't get you anything', do you?

Fuck. No.

You take your present and run before they realize you've handed them a chocolate bar and a purple teddy bear from a two a.m. trip to Wal-Mart.

That's what Wade feels like right now. Peter is a fucking plasma screen TV with complimentary 3D Blu-Ray player and all of the Lord of the Rings and Hobbit extended editions... And he is a vending machine bear.

But Peter's looking at him like he hung the moon again, and Wade's eyes burn.

He presses the tiniest, softest kiss to Peter's mouth, and then takes a deep breath before he pushes himself down the bed and completely swallows Peter's cock in one go.

The little beauty goes so far as so scream before he's stuffing a knuckle or two in his mouth. It's choked and high and so fucking sweet, just like his dick.

Wade sucks and sucks, bobbing his head slowly, languidly, loving the salty flavor smearing across his lips, soaking his tongue. Each time he buries Peter to the hilt, his nose brushes the fine dusting of soft hair at the base of his cock, and Wade thinks he's never smelt something so good as Peter's sweaty, trembling abdomen. Peter always smells good; like cedar and books, but this is something else entirely.

"Wade, oh Wade, oh fuck! Fuck! S-slow down! Slow down, or I'm gonna--Christ!"

A scarred hand takes his wrist, and Peter's eyes snap open. Wade's looking up at him, following the glorious line of his white stomach to Peter's face, and he guides the younger boy's hand to his head. He wishes he had golden locks for Peter to fist his hands in, to yank and pull sweetly while he cants his hips up.

But the boy doesn't seem to mind, and he goes to work fucking into Wade's face like a crazed virgin.

Wade's gagging on it, eyes fluttering shut, drool running down his chin, slicking Peter up for the ride. It's fucking ecstasy, and Wade thinks he could stay there forever, barely breathing, the press of Peter's dick nudging into the back of his throat making his vision spot black and white.

Peter just can't shut up, either. About how good it feels, how beautiful Wade is like this, how he can't wait to get down on his knees and return the favor.

It makes Wade wild, and he tears himself off of Peter's dick when he can feel it throbbing, heavy and hot, when Peter can barely for real words.

Peter whines, high and keening, and he's fumbling all over the place as Wade makes for his belts. He's snapping them off, and there's a sound so sweet Peter never knew it existed as the drag of teeth on a zipper come down.

"Oh, Wade, yes," he exhales breathily, sitting up onto one elbow, reaching out for Wade's waist, as if to help strip him.

"Lie back down, Pete, I... I just..."

Peter does as he says without question, throwing his arms over his head and clinging to his pillow. "I already told you, love... Whatever you need. I'm yours. Use me."

(It wasn't necessarily that--for the first time, anyways--Wade was using Peter, so much as needing him.

But god, he needed him, and it was going to drive him mad.)

He grabs Peter's thighs and pushes them apart, using his massive body leverage to shove until Peter is nearly bent in half, heels digging into Wade's shoulders and eyes wide as saucers.

Like this, his ass is in the air, his hole on display, fluttering in anticipation. His perfect ass is pale as cream, and Wade’s not disappointed to find Peter is practically hairless save the boyish dusting of fur along his pubis and under his arms.

Peter squirms, shame flushing his chest. Wade loves it.

Wade hasn't done this in a long while, but already, at the sight of Peter's flushed face, his breath picking up pace rapidly, and the glorious image of his spread ass now burned into his mind, Wade thinks that lack of experience should never hold one back from enjoying the ride.

He licks a long, smooth stripe across Peter's hole, from the top of his ass crack to the tightly drawn flesh of his balls before suckling them both into his mouth, and the younger boy keens out a dry, broken, incredibly fucked sound. All of his muscles tense. He bucks his hips into Wade's face and squeezes the pillow so hard the merc thinks he can hear seams ripping.

Wade’s mouth drops open, saliva slathering Peter’s sac, dripping down his perineum to his puckered entrance, slicking him up.

"No one ever touch you like this before, huh, Spidey?" Wade asks, his words garbled slightly by the amount of saliva sloshing around in his mouth. God, one taste, and he's already fucking addicted. He can't--is instantly sure he never will--get enough.

Peter whines again when Wade digs his chin in and starts tonguing his hole, licking around the dark pink ring of muscle, nose pressing sweetly against his perineum.

"No, god, never! Just you! Only you!" Peter sounds delirious beneath him, and it makes Wade smile before he's fucking his tongue in as deep as it can go. The longer he does it, the more lax Peter's hole gets, and the louder his hoarse cries become. Wade can't wait to fuck him. How sweet will he sound then?

"You think of this before, Spidey? Picture me tonguing you open while you stroked your beautiful cock? Huh? Did ya?" Wade teases, reaching around to pump Peter's stiff shaft while he continues to lick teasing circles and desperate plunges around and into Peter's hole.

"Yes. Yes, god!" Peter answers, and Wade pauses for a heartbeat. Or two.

He was mostly teasing, but, hey, who was gonna question the beautiful, wanton Peter Parker?

"My god, so good. Tell me. Tell me more, Pete. 'm beggin' you," Wade all but growls, drool running down his chin. He slides one hand down between Peter's ass and his face, his fingers slipping around in the glossy mess before he presses the tip of his index finger to the tight ring. He doesn't breach him, not yet, and the sudden pressure makes Peter buck again, whining so prettily.

"What do you want?"

"All of it. Now."

He continues licking against the slight pressure of his finger, and Peter has to lick his lips and swallow loudly before he can go on.

“Used... Used to jerk myself in the shower. Whenever I couldn't handle it; couldn't handle looking at you, watching you be so damn beautiful!" He gasps, rocking his hips against Wade's tongue. "I'd come up with all kinds of beautiful fantasies of you."

"Tell me."

"You'd come into the bathroom while I was doing it; hear me breathing out your name... And make me beg for your cock."

"Fuck yeah, I would've."

"Imagined you doing anything and everything to me."

"I would've!"

"I felt so bad. Every time, I-I'd come out of the bathroom, and you'd be sleeping on the couch or wa-watching some stupid cooking show. And I'd feel so fucked. All I've wanted for months was you!"

"I'm so sorry I left you," Wade breaths, turning his face so he can, finally, gently sink his teeth into Peter's supple ass cheek. Peter keens and arches his neck, digging his head into the pillow. "I'm so sorry I didn't take you into the bedroom and fuck you into the next century."

"Ahn! Augh, nnnngh, f-f-fucked myself on my fingers thinking of you! When you were gone! Came three times in an hour!" Peter mewls, rolling his hips so that the tip of Wade's finger barely dips into the relaxed ring of muscle.

"Holy shit,” the merc growls languidly. The heat is maddening, and Wade growls and bites Peter's sweet, soft ass even harder. A crescent shaped arch of teeth rises on the skin. At the same time, he slides his slicked finger into Peter's hole.

"AH! AH, god, fuck!!" The younger boy screams, and when he rolls his hips down, Wade slides in to the second knuckle. "Fuck, yeah, oh Wade. Wade."

"Slow down, baby,” Wade laughs, but his cock leaks a fresh splash of precum in his suit, and it's throbbing against his thigh like a monster. "Shh, slow down."

"Can't!! Can't fucking slow down! Oh, fuck! More!" Peter begs, and then he's rocking his hips, even with his ass in the air, and Wade knows that has to be taking some serious core strength. It makes his head a little dizzy. So dizzy that he can't think straight.

"Lube?"

His answer is a web lashing out to yank open Peter's bedside table so quickly that it flies off the tracks and hits the floor. Things go scattering about and Wade laughs, even as he thrusts his finger in and out of Peter's slippery hole. Another web catches and tugs the bottle of lube from the draw and slings it into Wade's hand, quick reflexes catching it and popping it open with ease.

"Good boy."

"Uhn!"

The praise seems to go to Peter's head, and he writhes without the touch of Wade's hand on his dick while he slicks up his fingers. The hand is back moments later, as is another finger nudging its way into Peter's tight hole.

"Nnnngh! Wade; I've ne... I mean, I'm a... Ooouh," Peter whines, stilling his hips so Wade can use his leverage to work him open without strain.

The larger male laughs quietly, blue eyes glowing against the shine of the rainy streetlamps outside. "My pretty boy is a virgin. I know. I gathered as much."

"Oh, shut up," Peter tries to bite, but his voice is all breathy and broken.

"Pretty big deal, Pete. You sure you want me to be the one to swipe your V-Card?" Wade teases, but a shred of doubt still clings to his ribs, heavy and uncomfortable, even as he watches Peter take a third finger with a moan and a smile.

"Yes. Only you. Never wanted anyone else the way I want you. Would n-never... Can never see anyone the way I see you," he manages past damp lips and shaky breaths, and once Wade twists his wrist and his fingers brush Peter's prostate,  he becomes a quivering mess.

He begs and keens for it, and Wade keeps the pressure on the tiny bundle of muscles. He knows how good it feels, sometimes like fingering himself, just to get the maddening sensation. Wade wants this to be perfect for Peter. Can't mess it up. He might be a total fuck up who can barely remember how he lost his virginities, but he will make sure Peter never forgets every exact detail of this night.

He's fucking his fingers against Peter's sweet spot, making the boy choke on his own breathy moans, whispering quiet endearments and praise.

"Such a good boy, Pete. Taking it so well. Look how wet you are for me." At that, he twists his palm around the slicked head of Peter's cock, drooling precum in a steady current, so steady Wade isn't sure Peter will have much seed left to climax when this is over. It makes him deliriously giddy.  "So good. You gonna be this good for my cock?"

"Wade, holy Christ, fuck me!" Peter demands, hands flying everywhere. One hand lands on Wade's wrist stroking his dick, the other fumbling over his mouth so he can suckle on his own fingers.

It twists that tight knot of heat in Wade's gut even tighter, and he stops stroking Peter's dick and pulls his fingers out, dragging them across the smaller boy's prostate with an almost punishing pressure.

It has the expected reaction, and Peter's broken moan is high and dry and so sweet.

"Condoms, perhaps?"

"N-no. The box I had expired," Peter licks his lips. "But 'm clean. If you are."

"Me? Clean? You have to ask, Parker?" Wade teases, and Peter swats his face playfully. "I'm good. That is, if you're sure?"

Peter shakes his head frantically. "I’m sure. At least, I’d like to see what it’s like for you to come inside me… For the first time." And he sounds so serious, the merc's throat gets tight, like Peter means more than just the sex. He’s missing something.

Wade drops him flat on the bed, settling between his boy's parted knees while he tugs his suit zipper open and works his dick out. It's so damn hard, flushed and wet, the head an angry red color with precum leaking from the slit. Wade fists himself and gives a few angry pumps before he's pouring lube over his fist. It's a slippery mess, and his fingers are trembling when he tries to line himself up with Peter's hole. It's lax and red and it looks so completely ready for him, but he can't even seem to bring himself to graze the head against his boy's opening.

"Wade..." Peter whispers, the drowsy slur of sex slightly diminished from his voice. It makes Wade pause to look up at him, their eyes locking for a long minute of silence. Wade swears he can feel his heartbeat in his throat, like it's trying to climb its way out. Peter's fingers pinch at the material of Wade's suit, tugging at the tight edge of Kevlar and spandex across his collar bones, gently touches the thick band of black leather circling Wade's throat like a collar.

Wade swallows heavily, his heart lodged right at the back of his throat, like if he gagged hard enough, it would flop out, a bloody mess for Peter to lock away in a box.

But he knows what Peter wants, and he's not ready for that. Perfect night be damned, he can't do it for Peter. He just can't.

"Petey... I just... I can't," he breaths as Peter runs his arm down his iron pillar of an arm, because god, Wade's never felt so huge before, and Peter has never looked so small. Peter's delicate, artistic fingers pinch at the fabric, almost hating it, before he settles one hand against the bare back of Wade's hand, and skims the fingers of the other down his jaw.

"...I understand."

"I don't deserve you."

"You deserve better. Now... Please?" One hand grips Wade's bare thigh, and when Peter looks down at Wade's flushed erection, his Adam's apple bobs visibly. It's the first time he's seen it, and it's so long and thick... It's insane! How does the spandex hide it so well?!

Surprisingly, it's not scarred to a terrible mess. Like Wade's mouth, it looks to have been well protected by Wade at all costs, and it's sticking straight up, proud and snappy, just like Deadpool.

“You’re so fucking big… Gorgeous,” Peter licks his lips, his tiny pink tongue fluttering out to wet his mouth.

"Oh, no. No; you get your mouth on my dick, this'll be over in seconds," Wade warns, guiding himself to Peter's hole and nudging his head against the rim. He sinks in slightly, not breaching, but attempting.

It quiets Peter, makes his head drop back and his eyes fall shut, like he's already completely wrung out and exhausted. "I'm ready."

"Gonna make it so good for you, babe," Wade says suddenly, and it's a promise; an oath.

"Hn, I like that," Peter breaths achily, opening his eyes as the tip of Wade's dick breaches him with a subtle pop. "Babe," he whines, and Wade starts sinking in, inch after glorious inch.

There's the initial pinch of agony, and Peter's hands are locked like iron vices around Wade's biceps, using the larger man's center to ground him. Peter’s tight, but he’s so slick Wade is able to pump in and out of him slowly, surely, sinking a bit deeper each time. Legs lock slowly around Wade's waist, and when Peter arches his back like that, bows against him, he sinks completely in and bottoms out, pelvis pressed flush to Peter's sweet ass.

It makes the smaller boy whine, and his breath is pitchy and fast, like he's already going to spill. Wade takes the initiative to reach between them and lock his hand around the base of Peter's dick. He squeezes, and it makes Peter moan wantonly, a delirious smile touching his lips.

"Not yet, babe. We haven't even started."

"God..."

Wade moans, the tight, slick heat of Peter's hole drugging him, making his toes curl in his boots and his spine tingle. "If the internet could see us now, Spidey."

"Wha... What are you prattling about?" Peter whispers breathily, rocking his hips up to sink Wade into him.

The larger male slides back, then plunges in with a gentle rock, and it brings him deeper, Peter's walls relaxing around him with every shallow, gentle move. "Clearly, you and I visit different websites." A laugh escapes his throat. "Maybe we should set up a webcam?" He turns towards the other side of the room and gives a quizzical quick of his brows.

"I prefer the exclusivity of our relationship, if you don't mind?" Peter teases, pushing up to kiss against Wade's mouth and jaw, whatever he can reach. But his stomach is taut and quivering, and he has to lie back down and hold onto the merc with his remaining strength as he starts getting drilled.

“Oh, shit,” Wade mutters, turning back to the same spot. “Sorry, kids. Private party.” He tilts his head a bit. “And maybe you should stop writing.”

“You’re such a weirdo,” Peter laughs, cupping Wade’s cheek and forcing him to look back down at him, and Wade smiles brightly at him.

It's sick, how good this feels. Wade's mouth is slack, and he's holding himself up on his arms so he can drive into Peter's prostate with each thrust. He's not going too hard, or too fast, because he knows they're both too weak for that right now. God, he doesn't want it to end.

"M-more. Oh, Wade, gimme more," Peter whines, running his hands down those broad shoulders, across that smooth back, until his hands are squeezing Wade's ass, kneading it desperately. "Harder. C'mon, you know I can take it."

"Can you? Can you take it, babe? You sure you can take my cock?" Wade husks, his ears ringing with the pressure building up inside of him. He's so hot all over. The suit is sticking to every inch of him, making him dizzy with the heat its trapping in. But he can't take it off. He's already naked enough--god forbid he scar Peter permanently. Who wants to be blissed out, getting fucked for the first time, losing their innocence, to open their eyes and see a mottled, gashed, scarred monster rutting on top of them?

It makes him nauseous for a moment, before he blinks the thoughts away, Peter's moans chasing them. He's here, in the moment, with Peter. Peter. His anchor. "I can. I can, I can, I promise, I can do it! I can... I can be whatever you need me to be. I can take whatever you can give me. Please--please! I can be enough!" Peter blurts out aimlessly, his eyes squeezed shut, voice broken up by the way Wade's rocking into him.

Way to give him too much information, Parker.

"Just be Peter Parker. That's enough," Wade moans, kissing Peter's slack mouth before he takes him by the hips and starts fucking his world apart. “That’s more than enough.”

He lifts Peter's ass just so, holding him still so he can pound into him with pointed, fast thrusts. There's the obscene slap of skin on skin each time Wade's pelvis meets Peter's ass, the wet, slick squelch of his cock pumping in and out of Peter's greedy hole, and their breaths, loud as rolling thunder.

The bed is rocking against the wall, and Peter's voice is a broken litany of gorgeous sounds and heady moans as he's taken mercilessly.

Wade wants to do everything to this boy. He wants to pull him apart and put him back together. He wants to throw Peter over, fuck him into the mattress with his ass in the air, his screams swallowed by his pillow. He wants to roll them so Peter can ride him, make his sweet boy do all of the work. He'd love it, watching Peter bounce on and off of his cock, rolling his flat tummy, his pretty dick bobbing from the effort.

But those are all fantasies for another time. He can't make this about himself, as much as Peter seems to want him to.

Wade drops his head forward and opens his eyes. The beautiful boy beneath him is writhing, tossing his head back and forth, cock leaking beautiful pearly drops against his smooth, hairless stomach. He can't shut up.

"Wade, Wade! Right there, oh, mmm, right there. Yeah, yeah, oh, give it to me. Yeah, just like that. Don't you ever stop. God, I'll die if you stop! Your cock is so perfect! You're so deep!" He releases Wade in favor of grabbing the headboard, and it's a god-given gift that Peter's at the end of the hall--not just for the windows and spectacular natural lighting and view--with how the headboard keeps knocking against it.  The wall on the other side has no neighbor, only the bustle of evening, rainy Queens.

Wade's eyes can't close. He's zoned out, somewhere between reality and his darkest dreams. Peter Parker is laid out beneath him, moaning, writhing, a sweaty mess with his heartbeat turning his throat red, and Wade can't believe it. He can't blink, because it might all go away; the magnificent pressure around his cock, the legs locked around his hips, the disgustingly warm cage tangling around his heart like thorny vines...

"I'm close," Wade breaths, like his mouth notices before his brain that his cock is about to go off. "Pete, I'm so close."

"Hold me," Peter begs, and he lets go of the headboard as Wade falls into him, not needing to be told a second time. He crushes their bodies together, trapping Peter's dick between them as he wraps his arms around the smaller bow, bracketing his shoulders and the small of his back. Like this, he can't slide out of Peter far enough to drill back in deep, but the boy starts panting and keening hotly against his neck. In this position, Wade never lets up the pressure on Peter's prostate, and he doesn't stop bucking his hips with the same wild, angry pace. His boots dig into the foot of the bed, his knees propped into the mattress for more grounding.

"Auh, Pete. Oh, babe, Jesus, fuuuuuck," Wade whines, burying his face in Peter's neck. It's damp and hot, and it smells like Peter's sweat and adrenaline. Wade busies himself, licking up the salty mess before he latches his teeth onto the tender skin, breathing loudly through his nose, moaning uncontrollably.

The pinch of pain combined with the numbing, blinding pressure blooming through his ass and abdomen has Peter crying.

Literally, he's crying.

Tears start to trek down his cheeks, and his arms are locked around Wade's neck to tightly that, were he a lesser man, the merc might have been smothered to death by now. "Wade, oh, auh, hnn, nnnngh, fuck. Fuck! Wade!! AHN!"

"Give it to me, babe! Come for me, fuckin' come!" Wade groans against a bruise blooming on Peter's tender neck, a tender spot beneath his ear and behind his pulse, impossible to hide. It makes Wade fuck into him harder, slap, slap, slap, hands leaving bruises, lungs flooding and seizing.

Peter goes first. His head snaps back and his eyes open, pupils swallowing hazel, mouth agape and body still. Then he's trembling all over, and his brows knit together and he's screaming it out.

"Aaaaauh, aaah, haaaaaa--nnnnaaah!!" He can't even say Wade's name again, and his cock is pulsing between them, shooting of stream after stream of white-hot, sticky ecstasy.

Wade can't take the pressure on his dick.  Peter's hole is clamping up on him so tight, something he's never felt before with anyone, ever.  Then he's being milked, and stars are exploding behind his eyes, and he's shooting off inside of Peter, marking him up as deep as he can go.

He must be making some obscene noises, because Peter is suddenly wheezing, "Shh, shh," and there's a hot, wet, ruined mouth claiming his. A thunder roll chimes in perfectly with their passion, like the crescendo of a grand symphony being orchestrated by their heavy breaths and desperate fingers has ended. The rain pours harder at that.

Their kisses are mostly spit and tongue, lips sealing together to flood one mouth with the other's aching groans and heavy puffs of breath. It's delirious and maddening, the sudden deprivation of oxygen making them both hungry and wild.

Their orgasms last for an eternity, both of them shivering and moaning and panting into the other. Wade frees one arm out from under Peter and cards his fingers through the thick mess of his wild, damp hair. He tangles his fingers in and yanks, angling Peter's head up and watching as his mouth falls open.

Then he's licking into Peter's mouth, their eyes hazy but open and locked to each other while Wade manages to thrust lazily in and out of his precious, beautiful boy.

It must do something incredibly wicked to Peter, whether it be the over-sensitivity or the pure bliss, but he's whining and bucking up suddenly--

And then his face screws up and he's coming again, a shrill, hoarse scream falling from his lips, and Wade pushes himself up and watches as his dick spurts out several lazy streams of pearlescent ecstasy.

"Holy fuck, Petey," Wade breaths, loosening his grip on the younger boy's hair to curl in and lick some of the gorgeous mess off of his stomach and chest.

Peter mewls sweetly at that,  scrubbing one hand down his face, as if he's incredibly ashamed, and loving it.

"Taste so good. This... This is better than tacos," Wade moans, and licks another stripe through the thick mess.

Peter boy laughs breathlessly at that, and it sounds like another keening moan. "Better than chimichangas?" He asked weakly.

Wade shakes his head, then nods. "Yeah, better. Gonna make a Peter-stuffed chimi after this."

That makes Peter laugh uncontrollably, and he covers his face with both hands and giggles until his stomach is trembling again.

Wade looks down at him, smiling sweetly at his boy. He doesn't want to ruin this, so he slides himself out of Peter while his dick is still mostly hard, and he watches in revered silence as his wild ecstasy starts leaking out of Peter's hole almost immediately.

Whether it be the heat of the fluid leaking from him, or the sudden emptiness, Peter moans again, letting his head fall to the side while a shaky breath rattles out of his lungs. "So fucking good..." he gasps, and Wade wants to preen under his words.

"Be right back,” Wade breaths, and he climbs off of the bed and goes into the bathroom. He gets a cloth and dampens it with cool water, then, by mistake, he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

He had almost forgotten how naked he'd been. He had taken his mask and gloves off, had undone his zipper so several inches of his stomach and hip bones are also visible.

And he's so fucking ugly.

A new knot forms in his stomach, and it has nothing to do with pleasure. Wade looks at the sunken crescents beneath his eyes, the mottled flesh and the stretched veins of scarred tissue spreading across his face, the entire crown of his head, his hands...

He wants to vomit. He should have worn the mask, for Peter's sake. He should have dealt with how sweaty and suffocated he felt, should not have let Peter see him this way. He wants to cover up, but his mask is discarded on the bed, and so he'll have to face Peter again, at least for that.

He cleans himself up, then rinses the rag and exits the bathroom, walking back into Peter's room to find him still naked and waiting.

He looks like he's dead, but he's still breathing, and there's a blissed out, completely goofy grin on his perfect mouth. "Hi..." he breaths, cricking his eyes open to see Wade standing in the doorway. "C'mere, pretty eyes."

It twists Wade's heart up with nails and wire, but he crosses the room, climbs onto the bed, and begins the task of toweling Peter off.

It makes the smaller boy sigh, and he closes those gorgeous hazel eyes in favor of just focusing on the feel of the cool cloth riding along his skin, wiping up his seed, cleaning Wade out from between his cheeks. That makes his dick twitch, and Wade teasingly scolds him before he cleans up the tiny dribble of cum from the tiny bit of stimulation.

"Lay with me," Peter all but orders, yanking on Wade's arm to get him down on his side. Peter curls into him, lazily covering himself with his comforter before he lays one hand over Wade's heart. It's beating frantically, and that tells Peter to kiss it lovingly. "It's alright... You were perfect. All of it, every second... Perfect."

Wade swallows around the lump in his throat. "Gee, Spidey. No one's ever made me feel so accomplished before."

Peter snickers. "Don't let your head get too big. Your mask won't fit," he sighs.

That reminds Wade, and makes him panic a bit, that he's still not wearing it. Then Peter cups his cheek and forces their gazes together, peering up at him through sleep-heavy lashes with a red, glorious smile on his kiss-swollen lips.

"...Pretty eyes... Thank you, Wade... I hope that helped," he leans up and presses their mouths together, chaste and warm, before he drops his head against the space between Wade's shoulder and neck.  "Wouldn't have wanted it to be anybody but you."

Again, Wade laughs around his agony. "Thanks, Spidey."

"... 'm yours, Wade... Always yours..."

Wade's pretty sure Peter crashes out after that, and it makes the merc feel free to let himself be comfortable in his agony and panic.

He holds Peter against him, wrapping the smaller boy up in his arms, kissing the crown of his head, stroking fingertips along his bare, smooth shoulders. Wade's never felt so lost and so found, so torn in so many different ways.

After a few hours, he can't stand to be so close to Peter. How can this boy look at him like he's anything other than a monster? How could he allow himself to be touched, to crave and need it so deeply as he seemed to? He couldn't have been faking, and Wade can't believe how anyone could truly feel those things for him.

He looks at Peter, watches him sleep for a long time, streaks of yellow rain painting his face through the glow of the window.

He just can't take it. His heart can't heal like the rest of him... He'd be wrecked if Peter woke up and realized what he'd just done, who he'd done it with.

So, again, Wade take's the coward's route. The safe route.

He leaves.

Chapter Text

Peter wakes up.

In the middle of the night.

Alone.

He should have figured.

The rain is down to a distant drizzle with constant thunder, and he pads through his apartment in drawstrings and cold, bare feet. His arms are covered in goose flesh, and his heart sinks when he sees Wade's spot on the couch is empty.

It hurts more than waking up in an empty bed, because at least then, Peter could pretend Wade just wasn't exactly the cuddle-with-me-all-night-and-wake-me-with-kisses type.

But he's gone. Completely and totally, just like the first time.

When he treks to the bathroom to splash his face with some cold water, Peter catches sight of the glorious little hickey Wade had left him. It's dark and sweet, a perfect double-crescent of teeth on top and bottom where Wade used zero caution and latched on.

Peter hopes he doesn't have to wait so long to see him again this time, because if Wade isn't back by the time the hickey is gone to give him a new one, Peter might lose it.

He doesn't have to wait that long, but the hickey is almost a memory when Wade comes back.

It's a week before Peter sees Wade again, and his heart feels like it's come back together when he climbs in through his apartment window and the assassin is on the couch. He looks like he's talking to himself quietly, and when the pane slides open and Peter jumps in, he tears his mask off and all that lush brown hair feathers into his face.

"Wade?" He asks, because it's not obvious with the red and black suit or the swords on his shoulders that it's Deadpool. For all he knows, Peter could be dreaming.

Sure enough, the merc's head snaps up, and he gets to his feet and pulls off his own mask as if it would be easier to say whatever he has to say without it on.

His blue eyes are wide and puppy-like, mouth agape like words are about to come out.

But he doesn't say anything. He just crosses the cramped space of the studio and wraps his giant man-hands on either side of Peter's face, framing him for a moment, before he ducks in and melds their mouths together, as if seven days haven't bled between them.

Peter doesn't ask. He doesn't pry. He knows his words could scare Wade away, and yeah, maybe he didn't know what he'd gotten himself into when he founded this sort of no-strings-attached situation between them.

Because there are strings, so many strings, and they're unspooling from Peter's heart and tangling him up in Wade's heat and Wade's scent and Wade's taste.

He should have known there'd be strings. Thinking of Steve and Bucky, those guys practically carry an Afghan around with them everywhere they go; they're so knotted up.

Peter wants that with Wade.

But he kind of ruined it when he said 'whatever you need, whatever you want'. Because now Wade's the one pulling the reins, and Peter can only let himself be yanked along happily. So happily.

Wade leads them to the couch, banging his calf against the coffee table with a curse and a growl that gets Peter's dick jumping.

They fuck on the couch, rough and unsteady and fast. Peter barely kicks out of his spandex pants in time for Wade to go down on him. It's the first time Wade gets to swallow Peter's climax, straight from the source. While he's sucking, he slides two slicked fingers into the younger boy's tight ass, and it gets Peter coming without warning, just a high pitched mewl and the sudden clamp of his thighs on either of Wade's ears. It's the sweetest thing Wade's ever tasted, and he wrings Peter dry, milking him with his tongue and lips.

Wade works him open, until he's taking four fingers and drooling, his cock once again full mast.

It's an interesting angle they get worked up, to be able to fit on the couch. Peter's on his side with his thighs together, and Wade has one leg on the ground for leverage, the other on the couch, knee bent, pressed snug against the base of Peter's spine.

And Peter cries, oh, how he cries as the position gives added friction to his hole, Wade's huge cock fucking him raw. And Wade wants to cry, too. With the way Peter's thighs are pressed together by one of Wade's huge fists, it's squeezing Wade's cock like a vice, and he can barely pull all the way out and slam back in without a bit of resistance, no matter how much lube he worked himself up with.

He finishes inside of Peter again, and Peter fucks the merc's fist until he's shooting streams across his knuckles, painting the scarred flesh.

Peter whines and moans sweetly in his contentment, and he lets Wade get up to clean himself off before he comes back with a cool cloth to rub at Peter's irritated hole and slippery belly. Droplets of his release have hit the suit, which Wade hiked up for the sake of suckling a few hickeys onto Peter's hip and perfect, smooth tummy.

"Thank you," Peter says breathlessly, and it's the first thing either of them have said since the boy climbed in through the window to find the mercenary on his couch.

They didn't even bother with pleasantries or desperate pleas during sex. All they had done was groan and grunt and moan and whine for each other; nothing like the first time, yet exactly the same. Because this is for Wade, and he felt so damn good while it was happening, but he's crashing again, watching Peter fall asleep on the couch as he aimlessly draws patterns on the boy's bare side, his legs tangled into Wade's quilt.

"Spidey, I..." Wade begins.

But Peter's already gone, blissed out and unconscious from the thorough fuck. Wade, once again, feels a swell of pride and accomplishment in that. If Peter were to have a thousand lovers, Wade doubts a single one of them would be able to fuck him comatose the way he has twice in a row. He wonders if he can do it every time.

He's exhausted himself, his muscles trembling, and he just wants to lie down on top of Peter and pass the fuck out...

But that nagging in the back of his head returns, and Wade's heart climbs into his throat when he hears the voices...

They had stopped. The voices actually fucking stop. When he's with Peter, touching him the way Peter wants to be touched, fucking him the way Wade needs to claim him... The voices just eb out of focus, or maybe their connection to Wade cuts off altogether. Like a radio changing frequency, he switches from bat-shit crazy station to Peter's heartbeat, Peter's breathing, Peter's love.

It had happened the first time, too, Wade realizes, recounting how he hadn't been internally monologuing the entire time he took Peter for the first time.

It makes him even more scared, and he climbs off of the couch and doesn't give Peter a second glance.

He leaves.

Again...

**

And again, and again, and again.

Wade will stay away for numerous different lengths of time, only to return to fuck Peter senseless, panic, then leave.

Once, he climbs in through the window at three on the morning, nearly two weeks after their last encounter, and wakes Peter with tender kisses peppered all across his skin. When the boy is finally naked, Wade sucks hickies onto his freckled shoulders and fucks Peter in his lap, those pale, nimble limbs wrapped around him so sweetly while he rocks up into his welcoming hole.

Peter loves it. Wade's cock is buried so deep, and gravity does most of the work for them as Peter clenches and rolls his hips and pants hot, wet breath across the crown of Wade's head.

Maybe he's still sleep addled, but Wade listens to the beautiful things that fall from Peter's mouth, and he can't bear to take them with a grain of salt. He takes them at full value, loving everything he hears, hating himself more when he presses bruises to Peter's hips, to Peter's neck and chest, and revels in the feeling.

"Missed you. Missed you so much, Wade. Dream of you--every night. Wish you'd never leave me again. Wish we could stay in bed forever. You, with me, forever. Auh! Oh, yeaaaaah, fuck. Mm. I missed you, god. Can't stand you leaving me; stop leaving me," Peter moans and whines, kissing Wade’s head; every inch he can get. He cups the side of Wade's face in one hand and spatters kisses across the older man's brow, cheekbones, jawline, shoulders, ears, neck. Everything. He paws at Wade's back through his suit, and the merc can hear the tell of nails scraping across cloth fibers.

But he does leave.

And he does come back.

In one way or another, it becomes a pattern.

Wade's gone for a week, comes back, lays peter out across the kitchen table and ravages him. He's gone for another two, comes back, catches Peter in the shower and fucks him against the slippery tiles, his suit protesting the whole time. He's gone for a day, comes back, and fucks Peter in three positions, for three hours, and watches the boy sleep before he goes.

He's most impressed with himself on a particularly languid night, where he allowed himself to sit on the couch with Peter for several hours watching movies before he let his lust get the better of him. It's almost one in the morning when Peter finally comes, and it's not due to some over-zealous fucking. Oh no. Just Wade's tongue, licking him open, for the entire plotline of Breaking Dawn Part Two, because Wade is a sucker for Robert Pattinson, okay? And people need to be nicer to Kristen Stewart.

Peter keens and cries, painting his stomach in hot white stripes of cum, laughing breathlessly, embarrassed and sated. Then Wade fucks him anyways, the swell of pride in his chest driving his hips for another hour of torturous pleasure.

It's always the same between them, and Peter doesn't seem to question it or complain. And Wade would question it, but that might open the doorway to a conversation they can't have, because Wade is a drifter, a nomad, a homeless vagrant with nothing but swords and guns to keep him company. He can't have Peter. Not for more than a few hours. He can't handle it...

Then Wade fucks up.

He's the roughest he's ever been with Peter, and it's after a particularly volatile run-in with an old 'friend'. Though Wade would never go so far as to call his so-called brother Slade a friend, let alone brother. He's more of  a stray dog that occasionally turns up on Wade's porch-of-life and, foaming at the mouth, proceeds to try and maul the other Wilson.

Slade is a terrible reminder of the past, and none of the voices in Wade's head can attest to a particular favoring of the dick bag.

He says things that he knows get Wade riled up, and after a half-assed fight that really just leaves both of them angry and sweaty, he leaves Wade feeling lower than he's felt in months.

He can't know about Peter. He can't. Couldn't possibly understand the deep, dark depths of Wade's mind enough to discover let alone fathom such a secret.

But he brings it up, somehow, and it crushes Wade, completely.

Then he's rough with Peter...

He ruins Peter.

~

"You're back," Peter says when he climbs in through the window, taking off his mask to reveal his gorgeous smile and his freshly snipped hair.

Wade's on him like an animal, and Peter actually chokes on a few drops of fear. "Wade?" He whines, a little terrified of the sudden ferocity, especially with Wade in full uniform, guns, swords, muscle and all, without his mask pulled up.

The merc wastes no time with pleasantries, just growls out an angry sound before he's biting an angry bruise onto Peter's tender throat through the fabric of his mask, dead center on his Adam's apple. They don't even get out of the living room. Peter doesn't even get naked. Only the necessary amount of skin is showing, just how Wade needs it.

He tears the smaller boy's skin-suit down and fingers him open roughly, bent over the arm of the couch.

"Wade! Aaah, hnngh, fuck. Wade, please, naah!" Peter whines, bucking his erection against the arm of the couch. His spine is bent precariously, one arm trapped between his pelvis and the couch, the other curled around his head with his face pressed mostly flush to the cushion.

Wade can't hear him. He can't even hear himself.

You need me. You want me. You would never let anyone else touch you like this. My pretty boy, fuck! You're so pretty. So pretty and you're mine; all mine. I'll fucking lose my mind if I lose you. Petey, my sweet boy. You need me. You want me.

It keeps echoing off the walls of his skull, over and over, like it's replaced his brain tissue with the words. He's panting, and a damp spot is forming on the mouth of his mask while he watches Peter writhe on his barely-slicked fingers.

Need it. Want it. Want me. I'm not a monster. I'm not a monster. 'm not, 'm not, fucking Christ, I deserve you! I can be worth my weight in gold, babe. I can be what you need. I'm beautiful, I'm so fuckin' beautiful. You have to see it. Please, lie to me if you don't.

"W-w-wa-a-ade." It gets rattled from Peter's mouth, shaken out by Wade's fingers nailing his prostate before the merc pulls out. He tugs his mask up and spits into his palm, pumping his raging erection before he's kicking Peter's legs apart further, forming a perfect triangle between his thighs, the globes of his ass perky on the top of his quickly yanked-down suit. "Wade, mm--stop. Wade, look at me, love. Stop, s... Ahn, Wade--AH!"

Peter screams when Wade breaches him, zero finesse, zero patience. He just bottoms out on the first thrust and sets a brutal, punishing pace from there out. He's never taken Peter face down, always tells his boy how gorgeous his face is while they're fucking. Like he can't get enough.

The angle is complete sin, the brutal grip of Wade's hands on his hips making Peter's vision blur. His cock is hitting something; not Peter's prostate, no, it's the wrong angle. But it's something sickly hot and deafening in the intensity of its pleasure.

Peter's drooling all over the couch, screaming his throat raw as Wade rails into him, over and over, fucking driving into Peter so hard that, more often than not, the smaller boy's feet aren't even touching the ground. He's barely using his toes to keep steady most of the time, with Wade snarling and growling and sounding so fucked out over him.

A hand tangles into his hair and yanks his head back, and Peter chokes on a moan before Wade fucks him up like that, his cock grinding on the couch arm, his back bowed with Wade's chest against his shoulder blades.

You're mine. You're mine, precious, oh, Petey, can't lose you. You mean too much to me. You're the only one who sees me. See me, see me! I'm not broken! I'm not a fucking pity party! I'm not a monster, please, please, I'm not what they wanted me to be. I'm good, I’m good--you see it! You see it, don't you? See me, babe, 'm beggin' you, don't hate me. They all hate me, hate me! I'm not a fucking monster!

"WADE, NO!" Peter all but screams, before he's shooting off, painting the couch with his release, still gasping for air from the tight angle on his throat.

When his walls clamp up like that, Wade snarls through his teeth and shoves the smaller boy back down onto the couch, taking his hip and shoulder and using them as leverage to fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck into him, slamming so hard Wade starts to see stars before he's even come, and Peter's crying under him, all wet and desperate and hoarse.

After he's painted his desperate pleasure all over Peter's inner walls, the merc catches his breath, standing there on shaky legs, sweaty hands clasping the smaller male's narrow hips.

Wade's almost gone completely soft when he finally hears Peter speak.

"I've been trying to tell you that. Puh-please. Wade, baby, look at me. You're not a monster. You are beautiful. Please... Love, look at me. Can you shut your big mouth and look at me?"

And that gets Wade's attention, and he's suddenly cold as ice and clammy all over.

His lips stop moving, and he can hear every thought he's had over the past brutal fucking hour because, god, it's been an hour. He was fucking destroying Peter for an hour, and everything he thought was in his head was falling from his lips.

When he clamps his mouth shut, he can still taste the acidic fear and desperation on his tongue, because Peter's statement had been a response.

I'm not a monster... I just want someone to love me. Petey, I want you to love me... 'm not a monster.

Despite his better judgement, Wade snaps his head down and looks at Peter, and he knows the exact moment their gazes click together, because Peter smiles, and it falls just short of comforting.

"Hi... Welcome back," Peter teases quietly, but he's quivering, and Wade releases his hips at the realization coursing through him. There are already bruises forming on Peter's tender skin, shaped perfectly like Wade's hands. Peter crumples against the couch, whining when Wade's dick slips out of him, and he's panting and shaking, cum painting his stomach and thighs, dripping from his lax hole and holy fuck, it's so red and raw.

"Shit, Peter," Wade snaps, and he falls to his knees and tears his mask off, spreading Peter's cheeks with his hands to bare his hole.

It makes the smaller boy keen high in his throat, surprised, in pain, but also grateful for the contact. "You got a little carried away. 's fine."

"It's fine? No, Peter, it's not fuckin' fine. My god, you're a wreck," Wade all but whimpers, and he leans in and presses a few fleeting kisses to Peter's hole. "I can't believe I did this to you."

"I'm gonna be fine. Just need a few days off that magnificent dick of yours,” Peter manages, somehow still finding the time to be witty. "Please, Wade, can we just talk?"

"Talk? What the fuck is there to talk about?" He demands, moving so he can roll Peter over before he's sliding his arms around the smaller boy to pick him up like some blushing bride. "I have to get you a 'sorry I split your ass on my dick' card from Hallmark. Other than that, what is there to debunk me on?"

Peter curls one hand against Wade's chest, letting his head fall against the larger man's shoulder. "...What you said."

Wade's blood goes cold all over again, and he feels like the floor beneath him drops several hundred feet. He carries Peter to his bedroom on shaky legs, his eyes going anywhere but the other boy's face.

"Wade, look at me. Damn it, you owe me an explaination."

"Owe? The fuck do I owe you anything for?" The merc says, suddenly defensive as he drops Peter with little finesse onto the bed. It makes the smaller boy cry out, and he curls over onto himself, rolling to get his ass off of the mattress. Wade’s heart squeezes, the voices scold him. It's the wrong thing to do, to shut Peter of all people out. But it's all he knows.

How could you do that to him?

This is the kid that calls you beautiful. Did you seriously just?!

"You son of a..." Peter begins, but he grits his teeth and blinks the tears out of his eyes. "You come into my house, wreck my ass, and the entire time, you keep going on and on about needing me to need you? Needing me to see you? How you'll lose it if you lose me? How you're not a fucking monster? Wade, you owe me something. It's all I'm asking you for; a little understanding as to why my ass is going to hurt this bad for the next few days because you were too out of the zone to realize you were fucking hurting me!"

Wade scoffs, anything to stack on top of the tears welling up in his throat.

He can hear himself, so desperate, so needy, begging to be loved, to be seen for what he is; for what he is to not be a monster. He can't let that wall crack anymore than it apparently has.

"You said yourself, you'll be fine."

"Fine?! Yeah, the raw fucking over-stimulation felt good while the adrenaline was pumping, but now? Right now, I feel like I'm going to bust in half. I kinda wanna cry, but with what an ass you're being, I don't think you really deserve my tears right now," Peter shoots back, sitting up, propping himself to the side to keep his weight off of his tender ass. "Wade, what's all this shit about me needing you? You know I want you. You know what it is I see when I look at you. To me, you are worth your weight in gold. I don't think you're a monster. You are good. Jesus, Wade, you're so good--and you're so sooo beautiful to me. I can hardly stand looking at you, or touching you, because it overwhelms me how strong you are, how damn incredible you are. Every inch of you is perfect to me, and to hear you talking like that? Not to mention while you fucked me raw like a cheap whore? It hurt. It fucking busted me open, Wade. Now I wanna know why you think you don't deserve me. You owe me that."

"I don't owe you shit, Parker. Clearly, you've overestimated my affection for you, and whatever you thought we had, I promise, it's not as serious for me. This road doesn't go both ways."

"Clearly it does!! You have to feel something more for me! Why else would you be so desperate for me to love you?!"

"I don't need your love. I get what I need from you, whenever I need it, then I leave."

Oh. Fuck.

It's the wrong thing to say. Wade knows that, the voices in his head know that; though suddenly they're silent as the grave. The second it's out, he regrets it, but he doesn't let it show on his face, not even when Peter visibly crumples and shrinks back from him.

"...Say that again," he demands, tears glittering in his hazel eyes.

Wade squares his jaw and holds his arms out. "I get what I need from you, whenever I need it, then I leave," he growls. "That's all this ever was, right? I want you to use me. I want you to take it out on me, Wade," he mocks coldly, and Peter shies away even further. "And trust me, honey, you're a good fucking distraction, but you have no idea what goes on in my head, and you have no right to whatever it is I feel like hiding in there."

Peter's quiet for a long time, staring Wade down until the larger male has to blink. His heart feels like it's splitting. It's neverever done that before. Not for Lady Death, not for Vanessa... Nobody.

"Leave," Peter says finally, and when he blinks, the flood of tears gathered in his glassy eyes spills over, running in hot rivulets down his cheeks, staining red in their wake.  "Leave, right now, and don't you fucking come back."

That's a bit startling.

Wade immediately knows he's crossed the line. "Pete--"

"Don't. Don't you fucking dare. Get the fuck out. I thought I needed to protect you. I thought I was making you stronger--thought I was your fucking lighthouse, but you're exactly what everyone sees when they look at you," his voice grows heavy; breaks a little.

"Peter, sto--"

"You're fucked up. You're a monster. And it has nothing to do with how you look, Wade. It's nothing to do with the beautiful mess you are on the outside; you're fucking black inside. You take whatever love anyone is willing to give you, and you turn it black," Peter's crying freely now, and he's gathered up his blankets to hide his body, shield it from Wade's view. "After everything I've given you... The things I told you, the safe place I made here for you; here!" He slaps his hand over his heart. "And you just fucking wrecked it."

Wade swallows, really hard, and takes a tiny step closer.

"Get away from me," Peter snaps, his voice less broken, stronger, like steel. "You know what? You were right. I didn't know what I wanted... Because I didn't want this," With that, Peter rolls over, tugging the blankets up around his shoulders, completely covering his head. "Just leave. You're good at that."

His next words come out a bit muffled, and Wade's not sure he was supposed to hear them, but he does.

"I can’t even hate you… You son of a bitch, I wish I could hate you right now…”

Before Wade can break down right there, he reaches out, grabs a lamp from the bedside table next to him, and launches it at the wall. It breaks loudly, and Peter doesn't flinch. The sound gives Wade's teeth something to grind against, and he turns on his heel...

And he leaves...

He leaves so fucking fast.

Chapter Text

The next few days are torture.

Aside from the incredible pain, there’s the reminder it holds over his head, in his muscles, deeper than skin. Peter can’t take a step without his thoughts returning to the bruises on his skin and the pressure flaming up his spine.

Peter can't bring himself to clean up the broken lamp, because it makes the whole situation all too real. He dances around the shards for days, avoids eye contact with himself in mirrors. He also wears sweaters and scarves as long as he can get away with it, and thank god for the rain, because he can't be bothered by seeing Wade's mark on the very hollow of his throat. He just can't.

The next few weeks, it gets better.

Peter doesn't hear about Wade; not fromt Clint when he regroups with the Avengers, nor from his messy apartment. When he comes home, sometimes, he half expects something to be out of place, some sign the mercenary was there. He also kind of expects to find Wade on his couch with a bouquet of half-dead flowers and a box of Peter's favorite pizza, olives and pepperonis spelling out 'I'm sorry'.

But that's romance movie shit, and Peter knows that's not his life.

The next few months... They hurt.

Peter hangs out with Gwen and Harry more again, even finds himself having Sunday breakfast with Aunt May as often as possible.

Harry knows something is deeply, terribly wrong with his friend. He just can't figure out what. Gwen is a little smarter. She doesn't press, just offers Peter's hand a few light brushes, his cheek a soft kiss. Anything within boundaries that she's already inside of, without making it seem like anything more.

The snow comes to New York in fat flurries, and Peter hangs out with the Avengers in the Tower a lot during that time.  He likes playing chess with Steve, loves having Bucky near when they do. It gives him something to grab onto--nothing tangible, but something most definitely real. He loves hearing Natasha humming while she's idly pulling apart her guns to clean them, with Sam sitting as close to her as possible. It ruffles the Hawk's feathers, and that makes Peter smile.

His favorite thing is to spend whole nights down in Tony's lab with him, passing the hours with questions that Stark usually answers with a cool, 'Isn't it obvious?' before continuing to give Peter a genuine reply. And he seems to love having the kid around, loves being able to help Peter with his college essays, enjoys his company while Peter fills out chemistry and mechanics worksheets as DUM-E sits idly beside him.

Christmas Eve finds him at a spectacular Avengers party. Even Thor is present, bringing his precious Midgardian friends some Asgardian hospitality with a drink that is sure to 'battle their spirits like a fearsome halig daeg'.

Tony gives Peter a fabulous new headset for his suit, one that doesn't crush into his ear when he pulls the mask on, which also has a film speaker that lays directly over the mouth piece. If he also hugs Peter, ruffles his hair, and gives the kid a ridiculously large gift card for Pinkberry, no one else sees.

The other gifts are simple, Steve and Bucky going as far as signing Peter's old lunch pail--the one with their faces on it.

"I wondered where that went!" Peter had laughed, before he was being pulled into frantic hugs, more hair ruffling ensuing.

Before the night draws on too late, he bids his goodbyes and takes his gifts with him in a lovely crochet satchel--courtesy of one of Bruce's new relaxation techniques--and heads off for Aunt May's.

Her house is decorated much less lavishly than the tower, with about one fifth the string lights, and one eighth the Christmas tree. But it's perfect, and it's home, and Peter falls asleep on a pile of blankets beside the fire place, right under the tree.

When he wakes up in the morning, Peter half expects Wade's face to be beside him, resting on his muddled pile of blankets, brow pinched with sleep, mouth lax and snoring.

It twists his heart up, that after all these months, he can still ache so badly for someone who wants nothing to do with him.

Aunt May is serving their Christmas dinner--roasted sweet potatoes, a carved ham, sweet green beans, and fresh baked bread--when Peter cracks.

"Aunt May..." he says quietly, twirling an errant string bean on the tip of his fork.

"Hmm? What is it, dear?" She asks almost absently, sitting down with her own plate and folding her hands to say Grace.

"...I'm so confused," Peter finally admits, and he can almost feel the burning hole in his throat, the last place Wade ever marked him; the last bruise to fade from that night.

Aunt May looks up at her, her large, doey brown eyes suddenly flickering with worry. "About what, honey?"

Peter licks his lips... This is a lot to take in at Christmas dinner. He can't tell Aunt May about Wade; why did he open his mouth? For one, it targets his sexuality which is, most of the time, unquestioned, but then he thinks about Wade, Wade, Wade... For another, it brings Wade up, period. Aunt May can never meet Wade. Deadpool or not, his condition is too sensitive for people not sharing in the Avenger's secret world to see.

"Peter, honey, you know you can always tell me anything. Even if you're not sure what it is you're telling me." Aunt May says gently, and when he looks up at her, she's smiling so prettily, he can't help it.

"...There's... This guy..." he begins. “A guy… I liked…”

Somehow, the sexual orientation factor doesn't even make her flinch. It changes nothing about her demeanor. It makes Peter feel a bit guilty that he thought she’d be upset at all. She nods so he can continue.

"We... We were really close, for a long time. A year, in fact. And I know, I'm sorry you never met him, but he... He was in an accident, and he's not very fond of n-new people," Peter falsifies, but hey, it's nearly the truth. 

"Go on."

"I... I thought we felt the same way about each other. I wanted... I wanted to take care of him. And he let me, for a while..." he swallows around a lump in his throat. "But then he went and turned everything upside down. He basically told me I was nothing. I told him I never wanted to see him again. This was months ago, Aunt May, and he hasn't been by to see me since. But I..."

"You miss him."

"So, so much, Aunt May," Peter almost whines, squeezing his eyes shut. "I want to apologize; even though I know I wasn't in the wrong. I just want to see him. I have to see how he's doing--if this messed him up as bad as it did me. I can't stand this anymore. Even if he won't apologize--no. No, I deserve an apology, and I know he's too stubborn to give me one. He honestly thinks he owes me nothing; after all I've given him, he..." And he can see Wade in his mind, standing there so arrogantly, dropping him on the bed, shoulders broad, chest puffed out like some fucking display of dominance. After he had hurt Peter so badly, mentally, physically, and especially emotionally...

Aunt May sighs. "Sometimes we don't get to hear the things we want from others. It doesn't mean that we can't say what we want to them."

"How do you mean?"

"Everybody builds walls, Peter. You said yourself, your friend was in an accident and doesn't like new people. But clearly, something about you made him comfortable. That's one wall down, right there." She smiles. "But not every wall is that easy to climb. Some walls have gates that can be cracked open for special people; others have to be demolished. Walls have the power to hurt.

"Sometimes the people we care about hurt us, because it's easier than hurting themselves. We do it to other people, too. Though not always in a way we notice. Sometimes, the walls we build are ugly, and they're hard to deconstruct. It's easier to ignore the fact that they're crumbling by trying to put new walls in front of them. But if we're patient, and understanding, our hearts can heal. They can find acceptance; forgiveness. And if not... Then we've no one to blame but ourselves.

"Whatever you and this boy had, if you thought it was real, then the next time you see him, you lay it out there. You find it in your heart to forgive. If you don't, you'll only make yourself sick. And if he can't apologize and be the man you thought he was, then you let your heart find peace in the fact that you tried, and your efforts were true."

"But the things he said... It hurt so bad, Aunt May. I've never hurt like that before. He's never hurt me before, and I just..." Peter cuts himself off when his eyes start watering. "I said some things to him, too. Things I know I definitely shouldn't have said; I was such an ass... It's been months... I just want the pain to go away."

"It will, honey." She says softly, reaching out to brush a few errant strands of dark chocolate away from his face. Her touch reminds him of Wade, always so gentle and thoughtful with his aftercare. Her fingers are warm, and silky, so small... That, however, isn't like Wade. "We have to find room in our hearts to forgive. It helps us move on. It makes us stronger. And, of course, you deserve an apology. And if this boy can't see how badly he's hurt you, and can't realize what he's lost? Then that's his own damn problem." She nods her head firmly, giving Peter's cheek a light pinch.

He laughs it off, carding his fingers through his hair before he digs into his plate. It would be a shame to waste Aunt May's hard-made food... Even though his stomach is in knots, and his heart is no better.

**

Another chunk of time passes; a blurry, drunken night of fireworks and games and Stark shenanigans at the Avenger's Tower for New Year's, a world-almost-ended crisis when a strange virus created giant mutant turtles. Sam couldn't stop singing the TMNT Ninja Rap song over his comm, and when Tony and Rhodey joined in it had Steve and Bucky so confused that Peter laughed a little too loudly for most of the grand fight.

Peter pays his rent, goes for walks, buys flowers for Gwen, continues to keep Harry's association with the Green Goblin a secret... He eats alone, sleeps alone, and wakes up alone.

This goes on and on, until the spring flowers are blossoming and Central Park smells like a cherry lollipop.

Peter's walking home with a knit beanie--also courtesy of Bruce's knitting habit--covering his mousy locks and a blue petticoat, looking like a million bucks. Or, he thinks he looks pretty cute, anyway, nursing his macchiato, thinking about today's physics lesson.

He's standing at a red light, surrounded by a handful of people while he stares absently ahead, when someone bumps him lightly, a gloved hand catching his wrist, breath mussing the fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

It feels so familiar, too familiar, and Peter jolts and a tingle runs down his spine before he spins around and looks up.

But there's no one there... Well, there are several elderly ladies there, all of which smile up at him and tell him how cute he looks, and what a lovely young man he is. It makes him laugh bashfully, and he offers to escort them across the street when the light turns green.

He's left pondering, looking back while the breeze rustles his bangs and carries to him the scent of cherries and mint and spice.

It kills him. He wants it to be Wade. He wants it to be his imagination. While he can't dwell on it for more than a few blocks, his spider senses don't stop tingling until he's through the main door of his apartment complex, as if he's cut off the signal that was being sent to him. It makes him feel profoundly lonely, as if someone had been following him, watching over him, only for Peter to shut them out.

Pouring himself into one of the rickety dining table chairs, he busies his mind with a new thesis on genetic string multiplication.

He's good at shutting things out.

**

It's maybe four in the morning when Peter's heart gallops into his throat and he jumps awake to a crash louder than thunder. It comes from the main part of the studio, the paneled window banging open, breaking, a hinge busting free from the mortar and brick. Peter's heard the sound before, but never in his own apartment, and never while being so vulnerable or bleary-eyed.

He springs out of bed onto the wall, boxers and t-shirt hardly battle-ready attire, and his hair falls into his eyes when he scuttles across the ceiling.

He stops burglars all the time; but the sudden thought of his own private sanctuary being invaded? It floods him with the need for a kitchen knife or a baseball bat, like some average Joe civilian.

"P-Petey...?" A dark, rich, gravel-husked voice calls, and Peter drops from the ceiling like a ton of bricks, barely flipping in time to land on his toes and palms in the mouth of the hallway.

His heart stops. That, or it's beating so fast he's lost the ability to distinguish between pumps.

Wade's standing by the window, leaning heavily against the tiny jut of brick that forms a shelf. Glass and pieces of metal decorate the floor around his feet. His suit is riddled with holes, and it's stained a definite shade of red, much darker than its usual color. He looks like an absolute wreck, panting and gasping, his mask gashed open to reveal a large chunk of his throat, which looks like it's been chewed on by a large dog. His left leg is almost completely naked, scarred skin milky white beneath layers of blood, a fragment of bone shining through thinly-grated skin. His left arm is much the same; suit shredded, skin peeled back from stark bone, and he's bleeding so much a puddle has formed beneath his boots, staining the wood.

"Jesus Christ, Wade!" Peter all but screams, and he's at the merc's side the next moment. He steps around the glass, grabbing Wade by his right arm--it looks much more in-tact--before he guides him down to the floor, letting him lie flat on the bare decorative carpet. He moved the coffee table several feet to the side and had gone so far as to fold Wade's comforters and sheets and stack them on the rocking chair in the corner since the merc was last here.

Wade is wheezing, the sound wet and ugly, and Peter yanks off the mask to see his face, to uncover his blood-soaked mouth.

Those glittering blue eyes stare up at him, almost afraid, with a gash over his right eyebrow, his lip split like snake bites. His eyes are so blue against his pale washed skin and the smears of red covering the crown of his head and the mess around his mouth and nose.

Peter's taken aback by the sight. Those eyes, those beautiful, beautiful eyes that he loves so much, smiling up at him from a ruined face.

"Do I really look that bad?" Wade jokes. "I mean, I know I'm not exactly George Clooney, but you don't have to make me feel like Steve Buscemi."

"I'm not quite sure who that is."

"Eh, my teeth are flawless anyway."

"Wade, how did this happen?" Peter demands, already frantic to undo the buckles and belts, sliding Wade's weapons out from under him so he can lie flat. Then he's touching bullet holes and knife slashes and feeling where ribs have been cracked so badly they're just floating pieces of bone, a clavicle dipped down beneath the skin like a sunken log.

"...That is not of import."

"Wade Wilson."

"Okay, okay, madre, it was Slade."

"Slade did this? By himself?"

"I may have been on a secret mission to hijack some information for a very wealthy backer,” and that makes Peter groan. "Of course, such information was heavily guarded, and you'd think, for such a tiny thing, they'd be happy with Paul Blart."

"Again, not sure I follow."

"It's fine, I don't, either."

"Wade, you said you were done with the co-op merc stuff."

"And I am. It was simply a favor to an old ally of mine. And trust me, when he calls, he gets what he wants." At that, Wade shakes his head and grits his teeth. "Except for Logan. That Wolverine is mine. Nobody's gettin' their hands on my friend."

Peter blinks, suddenly stupefied by the admission, and he leans in closer to cup Wade's face. "You did a favor for someone who wants to hurt Logan?"

"Anything to keep Logan safe. The information was several locations of military weapons units, sure, but I changed each coordinate by two-hundred points before I handed the disk over," Wade grins. "Nat showed me how."

Something akin to pride swells in Peter's chest at the image of Deadpool doing something so good without anyone else around to see it. "You are a very bad bad guy, Wade Wilson."

"Or a very good bad guy. Maybe a bad good guy? Eh. Either way, I'm fighting for the side of justice and chimichangas." When he coughs out the last word, blood spatters his lips, and Peter's toes curl. He climbs around the larger man, lifts his head and shoulders to rest him at a slant on Peter's folded legs. It sits him up slightly, allowing for a heavier flow of air to enter his lungs. "Thanks, Petey..." Wade's voice is softer then, rougher, and he lets the weight of his head fall against Peter's thighs, like he's so grateful to be there.

A long stretch of silence pans out between them, both of them simply comfortable breathing in the shared space, the same air.

"Any particular reason why you came to me in your dying hour?" Peter asks finally, when he can see visible the healing process taking place in Wade's skin. He watches the skin push the bullets out, muscle tissue constricting until the force has metal pellets tinkling across the carpet, watches the blood seemingly evaporate, fibers knitting back together.

"I... I guess I just..." Wade stops, bites off a groan when the shard of bone sticking out of his leg cracks, the skin eating it back up easily. After that, he moans through his teeth, and Peter can hear the grinding and snapping inside of Wade, the ribs, the vertebrae, crunching back into place.

"Shh, shh, sh," Peter says quietly, petting Wade's head, stroking his fingers down across the merc's jawline soothingly, feeling the tension draw tight, gnashing his teeth. "I'm gonna get a--"

"You're not goin' anywhere," Wade snaps suddenly, before Peter can finish, and he catches the smaller boy's wrist and crushes his palm against his bloody neck. His pulse is hammering, and Peter jolts against the feel of it. "Just... Just stay here, alright? I'm not used to--fffahck!" Those blue eyes squeeze shut, brows knit in anger and pain as the arm that was mostly skinned begins to sew itself together.

"This usually happen so fast?" Peter asks, because Wade had never, ever let himself be seen healing. Says he can handle it alone; prefers it that way.

"Not usually. Hyped on the adrenaline, I guess. Feels weird; to be with someone."

"You've never let me see this."

"No one... Not on purpose, anyway. If I happen to fall unconscious and heal in front of others, that's not the same," Wade holds up his hand, finger pointed to the ceiling matter-of-factly.

Peter snorts. "It's impressive. Just like Logan. Faster than Logan."

"A little different, but yeah. The same basic methods, same technique. Weapon X was meant to be indestructable. I shed a few bullets before I even got here,” Wade explains.

With a nod, Peter reaches out with his free hand and picks a bullet up off the floor. "I think you should start a clothing line. You could call it Swiss Cheese. Everything, riddled with holes. Like you."

"Haw haw," Wade deadpans, but his smile is genuine. He sniffles, hard, and his nose is suddenly straight again. Peter barely even registers that it had been crooked at all, the blood caked to the merc's top lip swiped up by a bright pink tongue. "I actually kinda like the sound of that. Swiss Cheese," When he says it, he runs his hand through the air, as if unveiling the Great Valley.

Peter giggles at this, bending forward to press their foreheads together, bracketing Wade's face between his hands, stroking his cheeks.

It's so perfect, holding Wade this way, listening to the deep chuckle rumble through the other male's broad chest.

"...Wade, really. Serious talk--why did you come to me?" Peter asks tenderly, unmoving, eyes closed.

Several minutes may pass, Wade still grinding his teeth against the subtle pain of healing, though most of the extensive wounds are finished off. "...I had a thought; a sudden moment of clarity, through the haze of emotion."

"Are you being serious?" Peter asks, his mouth a flat line, his hands clamping onto Wade's cheek a little less tenderly.

"Yes, actually. Well, it's easier to be less serious."

"This is a serious conversation we're having, Wade... Like that night after Doom."

It makes them both flinch, and Wade's jaw clenches beneath Peter's fingers. That was a thousand years ago, a million words before where they are now.

"...I was really fucked, Pete. I may have made it out of the carrier and to the drop alive--left Slade looking like a fuckin' train wreck; I know he's gonna get my ass back for that--but... It got me thinkin'. Draggin' my sorry, bloody ass back from the docks, across the Brooklyn bridge... I think my feet were carrying me to you," he laughs dryly, but his voice shakes when he opens his mouth again. "I think they were listening to my heart. Also, my head. All I could think of was you. You, you, my Pete. Hadn't seen you in almost two weeks, aside from this afternoon."

"That was you, then," Peter mumbles, heart squeezing.

Wade grits his teeth, breaths out through the tiny gaps between them. Busted. "Yesh... But, damn it, you looked so cute today. In your stupid little jacket, with your fluffy beanie. Where the fuck did you even get that thing?"

"Bruce made it."

"Fuckin' figures,” Wade chortles.

"So, when else?"

"Huh?"

"You said two weeks... Have you been following me all these months?"

Wade nods, and Peter sits up so he can look into those blue eyes when golden lashes finally feather open for him.

"Just... Like watching you. Makes me feel close to you. I'd watch you walk to work, take your gay ass leisurely strolling through the park. Heh. I... I, uh, I came to see you sleeping a few times. Muttered about a thousand apologies, talked to you, filled your mouth with words I knew you'd never say."

"Like what?"

Wade clears his throat, then speaks in a higher voice. "'Oh, Wade, I knew you'd return. I've waited so diligently for you, sweet prince.' Never fear my damsel, I shall never stray again."

Peter rolls his eyes and smacks his hand against the side of Wade's head.

"Not really... But I'm too embarrassed to repeat any of the things I said," Wade snickers, dropping his head back onto Peter's thighs again.

"You apologized though?" Peter says breathily.

Wade nods.

"For what?"

"...For sayin' I didn't owe you anythin'. For hurting you. Letting myself go that way--being what I am, and letting you see it... I said sorry so many times, but it always felt like if I said it to your conscious face you'd slap the shit outta me. Tell me to fuck off.

"As for tonight? I was a wreck. I wasn't healing quite as normally as usual, I really felt like I was gonna... Well..." At that, Wade clears his throat and licks his lips. His hands fold on his stomach, fingers twiddling aimlessly. "I knew I wasn't gonna die.. But if I had? The last thing I'd ever wanna see was your beautiful mug starin' back at me. It got me thinkin'... Even if it pissed you off, I had to come see you." Sniffling again, Wade untangles his own fingers and reaches up, carding them through Peter's hair while he grins up at him like he's seeing the sky for the first time. "God, you're so beautiful, Pete. I woulda been so happy if that was the last thing I ever saw."

"Say it," Peter's voice breaks.

"Say huh?"

"You're sorry..." he says again.

Wade rolls over onto his stomach, groaning the whole while until his head is propped with his jaw square between Peter's thighs. He grins up at him, his blue eyes bright as cut glass, and there's something tender in the way he curls his mouth.

"...Oh, babe, I'm so sorry. I... I fuckin' suck at apologies. It sounds so much better when you're asleep, I swear. It's so easy to talk to you when you can't fight back," Wade sighs, closing his eyes and letting his head plop to the side against Peter's thigh. "Maybe later you can just pretend to sleep and I'll go into my long, gorgeous speech, professing my undying love unto your soul, but until then..." he takes Peter's hand and presses a kiss to the smaller male's palm, warm and loving. "I'm sorry. I'm just so, so sorry. You're right about me--everything you said..."

"Stop. J-just stop," Peter says shakily, dipping forward to press a kiss to the crown of Wade's head. It's fast and soft, and both of them are a little surprised by it before Peter wriggles out from underneath Wade, letting the larger male lie flat on the floor when he springs to his feet. "I'm going to do my very best to clean this mess up. I need you out of the suit and into the shower," With that, he slings a web into the dining room and drags over his practically empty laundry hamper. "Suit? Here. You? My shower."

"So forceful, Petey."

"It's the least you can do after bleeding out all over my floor," Peter teases, but his neck is flushed and his mouth is a cotton field.

Before Peter can say anything else, Wade's on his feet, tucking the hamper under his arm. "Right. Shower. Rinse my bloody ass off."

"Literally. You probably have some bullet holes sewing up in your cheeks."

"They're fine," Wade replies, slapping his hand against his firm ass with a taut clap. It makes them both laugh, and he vanishes into the bathroom and closes the door before he even considers stripping.

He turns the water on, listening to the sound of it pounding on the tiles while he stares into the mirror, cerulean eyes bleary, mouth agape to draw heavy breath.

The recollection of the last twelve hours crashes over him in his reflection.

~

He perched on a flower-petal dusted roof, lying on his stomach with his head resting on his tight fist. He wore a black trench over his suit, the cotton hood the same dull gray trim as the belt around his waist. He had it pulled up over his head, a dark shadow blending into the stone of the building against the glare of warm spring sun.

This was unhealthy. He needed to stop.

But low and behold, his purpose came strolling by; Peter Parker. Fabulous and beautiful as ever, a headphone dangling from each ear, adorable red and purple beanie cap settled on his feathery head. The brilliant blue of his peacoat had Wade's eyes locked to his slender frame, something about the way Peter in bright colors always rattled his ribs and made his stomach tight.

It never ceased to give Wade hope, the way Peter seemed to be stilted, grayer without him. Ever since Wade left, he never saw Peter’s true smile, never saw him hold his head as high.

Stopped at a red light, his boy was so gorgeous; Wade's ribs curled in and pierced his heart.

Go on. Go get him.

Go say hi to him. Go, go, go.

Apologize, you twat.

Before he realized he was doing it, Wade was slipping through alleys and lunging across the traffic-meshed street, just to slide into the blinded crowd for one deft second.

He was standing behind Peter, one hand clasping the smaller boy's wrist, ducking his face down against the bare expance of his neck. It curled his stomach, the feel of his boy, the scent of his freshly washed hair, the lightness of sweat on his skin.

He wanted him. He needed him. He was so desperate to have Peter back, would have dropped to his knees in the street and begged for him.

Then an electric snap crawled up his spine, locked around his throat--and he had to leave.

Twisting away from Peter, he ducked into a shadowy alley, gasping for breath so hard he had to yank his mask over his mouth for a more direct pathway of oxygen.

Peter whipped around, hazel eyes wide and expectant--and he fucking looked up. He looked up, like he really expected Wade's grand stature to be there.

When Peter laughed it off, chatting quietly with a few elderly ladies on their way to Bingo, Wade's heart clamped up, his hands clasping at the hood of his trench coat to yank it down over his eyes so he wouldn't have to see.

By the time he uncovered his face, Peter was several blocks down, and the ache that had cracked open in Wade's chest again did not go away. He watched Peter retreating from him, feeling more and more numb with each step.

His beeper went off in its pouch, and when he snapped it open, it was a coded message with coordinates and a pager number.

Wade groaned through his teeth.

No rest for the wicked.

No rest for the Wilson.

Wade sighed, letting his head thunk back against the stone wall. Being a bad guy with good tendencies was hard.

**

Riddled with bullets, escaping a massive shipper, Wade thought on his life. Heavily.

Some crew members that he had failed to kill were shooting at him, and he was editing all of the parameters of the disk's contents on his wrist computer. He'd left Slade pinned by his throat to the wall of the burning captain's quarters with a blooming British flag. God save the Queen, and shit.

A bullet pierced his already broken leg, and Wade hissed and cursed through his teeth.

C'mon, c'mon, we gotta get the hell outta here!

Gotta see Pete again. Gotta get to Pete.

"Let's keep our priorities straight; get out alive, then we can go see Peter!"

We always get out alive.

Just as he thought it, a bullet ripped through his back, beneath his shoulder blade and into his lung. His breath was instantly wet, soaked with blood, and his heart was thundering in his head. It was hard enough running on a broken leg, but a broken leg and a busted lung?

Wade thought it would be easier to make it out alive without either of his eyes vs. one leg and one lung. He tucked, rolled, and then launched himself through a window, glass raining down around him when he hit the deck.

More goons. Reinforcements, perhaps.

Wade laughed while he wasted them, catching a knife in the side, someone grating the skin off his shoulder with a steel crowbar.

"He's a one-man wrecking crew!" Wade exclaimed, throwing a kick--with his broken leg--into a guy's mouth. His teeth all bust out. "He kicks, he flips, he fuckin' demolishes!" With a cartwheel, he shot the knee caps out of three more guys, landing in a precarious position too close to the splits. From there, he threw two daggers, both of them piercing the groins of the new lackeys. "So graceful--so distracting! So devastating!"

Someone shot him through the neck, and he wheezed heavily, pawing at his own throat before he clipped half the guy's head off with a Babe Ruth swing of his katana.

"...So tired," he groaned, and there was an explosion in the distance that blasted him off the carrier. He went sailing through the air, free as a bird. "Ah," he mused when his body hit the wooden slats of the docks, blood oozing from every hole, muscles screaming in their protest. "That must have been that highly flammable gas meeting the fire in the steer-y control room."

Stateroom. It was a stateroom.

Bridge; definitely bridge. It had the wheel in it.

Oh, the wheel. You're so clever. Let's just lunge off the starboard bow; abaft, abaft! Alee!  Jump the bouy!

"You use one more nautical term, and I'll drop all of our asses down to Davey Jones' locker! Or, something!"

Shut up and get us to Peter.

"Why? Why am I so desperate to see him?" Wade demanded, dragging himself away from the fire with the stronger of his two arms. He realized--with a tiny, girlish scream, that the other arm was mostly bone and flayed skin.

The voices were quiet for a long time, long enough for Wade to gather himself up from the docks, lying in a tangle of weeds at the edge of the Hudson River, beyond the fences of the mills and empty cargo shippers.

...

...

"Good answer!" Wade snarled, shaking his head as he clambered to his feet.

He looked off to the right, into the cold black of the evening. “Can you believe these guys? Useless,” he groaned.

But the voices were right, weren't they? And his heart was thundering in his chest again. It was like every beat was a stuttering symphony.

'P-Pete. P-Pete. P-Pete. P-Pete.'

Wade turned towards the fourth wall. "That is the most homosexual thing you've ever written, and I'm sorry I'm a part of it," he said. "But you're right."

A body hit the ground behind him.

"...I have to get to him," Wade rasped, wrapping his arm around his waist. A few of his ribs shrieked in protest, and he cursed through his teeth. "Fuckety fuck, why am I not healing?!"

All the blood in your body is in your heart, fucktard. Get to Peter. He'll fix it.

How the fuck's he gonna do that?

"Everybody shaddap!" The merc grumbled, tossing his head back and lifting his arm, firing a few warning shots into the air. Another explosion went off behind him, and he started scuttling up the embankment. "I get the feel Slade's gonna be feelin' that in the mornin'."

We're gonna be feelin' this in the mornin'.

Another explosion. "Gotta get to his place. He's gotta be home this time of night."

Queens is two hours away!

I WOULD DO ANYTHING FOR LOVE!!

Wade snickered at that, dragging his broken leg along, watching the white bone shine through his flesh, his throat so caked in blood it felt like slime and mud. His body was crying. He just wanted to lie down and allow himself the chance to heal properly, without disruption, without the pain.

But there went his heart.

'P-Pete. P-Pete. P-Pete. P-Pete.'

“This is turning into the worst Nicholas Sparks movie I have ever seen,” Wade deadpanned, looking off into the fourth wall again. “And I do mean the worst.”

Worse than--

Nevermind, we’re singing here!

Wade groaned, pressing his hand over his bloody, slippery side. "And I would do anything for love, I'd run right into hell and back."

Blam blam!!

Oh I would do anything for love!

"I'll never lie to you and that's a fact."

More piano noises!!

Wade laughed, trudging along with his terrible back-up singers playing out the guitar and the piano while he did his best to sound as soulful and raspy as Meatloaf without busting his good lung.

What was a two hour walk for the Merc with a Mouth?

~

"I shouldn't have come back here..." Wade breaths, the steam starting to curl around his body, fogging up the mirror.

You had to.

Petey's here. You couldn't have healed without him.

"Yes I coulda. Woulda just laid down and taken it. Grit my teeth and forced the bullets out. I can't be here. I gotta go."

No.

We're not leaving him again.

"Not your choice."

At least shower, you bloody asshole.

Wade rolls his eyes and reaches up, sliding his zipper down with a long, toothy drag. When he peels it off of his shoulders, the bloody layer of sweat between him and the suit left it sticking to his arms.

He didn't look at himself in the mirror. Never. Not when he was so naked. He could barely stand the sight of his own face in the mirror, could hardly handle the sight of his hands running over scars when he was searching for secret wounds or even lathering himself up in the shower.

It was an angry reminder. He avoided it as much as possible.

Once he's completely naked, he sighs and climbs into the shower.

A melody plucks through his brain, familiar, but much slower than usual. So Wade starts singing at half speed, feeling drained, feeling achy.

"A dreaded sunny day, so I meet you at the cemetery gates. Keats and Yeats are on your side. A dreaded sunny day, so I meet you at the cemetery gates. Keats and Yeats are on your side, while Wilde is on mine. So we go inside and we gravely read the stones. All those people all those lives; where are they now? With the loves and hates, and passions just like mine. They were born, and then they lived and then they died. Seems so unfair; and I want to cry."

He's rinsing himself off in the blistering heat of the water, the blood completely down the drain, letting the water run clear. "When you fall... Who'll trip you up and laugh when you fall?... A dreaded sunny day..."  It's not incredibly pleasant. It's not a happy song. But it's where Wade's mind is.

It's in a cemetery... Without Peter.

Chapter Text

Peter's rug is fucked. He rolls it up tight and stands it upright in a garbage bag, in case the blood starts to flow down through the fibers of the rug itself. Well, he kinda hated the colored triangles anyway. Time for a new rug.

The window... He can fix it later. Besides, he's on the top floor, and the window overhangs a busy boulevard. No one but Spider-Man or Deadpool could get through it. Maybe Iron Man. After picking up all of the glass shards, he scrubs the floor. After scrubbing the floor up with bleach and Pine-Sol, he mops it with a dry rag until the whole living room smells like lemon and everything is shining.

He can hear singing in the shower, the deep, rumbling thunder and sweet, clear high of Wade's voice. Like rain pattering down from a sunny sky, it's strange and beautiful to hear such a sound coming from such a figure.

It makes his heart want to implode. He's never been able to take Wade's singing. Call him a romantic, but Wade’s voice is heaven, and Peter could be lulled into slumber or brought out of it depending on the notes and melodies falling from those lips. (Well, when Wade is really singing anyway. Normally, he sounds like a dying bird.)

Peter rubs his face with the back of his arm, sighing tiredly before he goes into the kitchen to clean out his bucket, rinse the rags, and leave them to dry. He has to wash his hands with steaming water until his skin is stinging in protest; he can't get the color of Wade's blood off of his hands. He still has the thick smell of copper and rusty iron in his nose, even with all the lemon zest clinging to the air.

I'm sorry...

It springs something tight at the base of his spine, the sound of Wade's voice echoing in his skull. He can see Wade's face in his head, stained with blood, grinning up at him; gorgeous. Broken. Weak. Strong. Wade.

He had admitted his fault, had given himself up to Peter's judgement. And Peter wanted to hear the whole story--he wanted to hear the apologies Wade had given him in the wee hours of the night when he knew Peter couldn't hear, couldn't judge, couldn't say anything in retort.

You're right about me. Everything you said.

That. That hurts Peter.

What he said was out of anger and agony, not truth. It wasn't even what he really believed. The more he thought about it, the more he scolded himself for pushing on Wade so hard. He may have been six feet tall and made of muscle and immortal genetic mutation, but he was sensitive. He had such a damn big heart, and even though Peter's was hurting, he shouldn't have stepped on Wade's like it wasn't the fragile shell that it was.

Peter's heart was made of muscle and blood and tissue. Wade's was glass and tears and tape.

They were different, and again, Peter scolded himself for not honoring his word. He was supposed to take care of Wade; was supposed to make him feel safe, loved, beautiful. And when Wade was crashing, all Peter could do was think about himself. All he could think was that he wanted to understand why Wade was being the way he was, and then Wade shut him down so hard, so violently.

That, however, was still unwarranted, and Peter clenches his teeth and shuts the sink off with a groan.

Sure, Wade apologized... But Peter wants to know why he needed to apologize in the first place. Wade said sorry for hurting him, for saying what he said--but he did still owe Peter the explanation. He needed to know why that wedge was hammered between them in the first place, before it can be demolished completely.

He walks down the hall and tears his shirt over his head, tossing it into the bloody hamper, sitting discarded in the bathroom doorway. "Wade, we need to ta..." he cuts himself off, turning his head to peer into his bedroom.

His bed is currently occupied, two katanas and a .44 magnum and several .9 millimeters--clips discharged--set haphazardly on his bedside table. Wade's only wearing a pair of Peter's boxers. He knows they're his because of the fragile tear in the elastic where he once made the mistake of wearing lounge-about boxers under his suit. A smiley face covers Wade's ass cheeks, and he's curled tight around Peter's pillow, hugging it with both arms, face buried into the case.

Peter's heart clamps up, because this is the most of Wade's skin he's seen in a very, very long time. Rather than dwell on it--and possibly invade the merc's privacy--he clears his throat, struts forward, and draws up his lightest quilt around Wade's shoulders, covering him completely without giving his skin so much as a second glance.

A deep sigh rattles itself out of Peter's chest, the profound desire to climb into the bed with Wade and hold him close--the even stronger desire to break a lamp over the mercenary's head and scream at him 'why, why, why' --threatening to overcome him. But Wade hadn't invited him into the throes of slumber, and, clearly, Weapon X needed sleep after a good beating. Probably helped the healing process along.

Instead of fighting his two desires, Peter opts for a shower. The shower itself smells like soap and a bit like iron, but Peter isn’t in there long enough to dwell on it.

Once he’s clean, he returns to his room and pulls on a fresh shirt and some pajamas. He gives the comatose mercenary a long, desperate, confused stare, and he flicks off the hall light on his way out. No getting back to sleep--in his own bed, anyhow. Might as well get some homework done. He goes into the kitchen, puts his glasses on, and plops down into a chair, opening a few textbooks and pulling his notes close.

The sun is hours away... But his quiet thoughts are hours behind him.

**

Wade wakes up.

In the cold hours of the morning.

Alone.

He tips his head up, sighing heavily to find that he is not on a burning dock, but in a bed that smells like old books, cedar, and bar soap. It's heaven, it's home... It's Peter.

Peter.

Wade sits up, fast, blood rushing into his head and down through his tingly limbs in a painful motion. "Oh, sweet Morrissey..." he mewls, clasping the side of his skull.

The healing process has left him winded and weary, as usual. Moreso than usual, after going so long without a single stitch or drop of healing.

He runs a palm down his chest, feeling at the new torn scars in his already battered skin. Eh, what’s one more?

Wait, why is he feeling skin?

He's naked. Holy tits, he's naked! He yanks the blanket back--oh, no. Just half-naked. The thought that he allowed himself to climb out of the shower, towel dry himself vigorously, only to rifle through Peter's drawers for a big enough pair of boxers, then to crash into said Peter's bed?? It makes him feel so irresponsible! So reckless, that he could have been seen by Peter; his precious boy, having to see him like... Well, like. There's nothing more than that! Wade is Wade, and he can't simply change.

There's a moment of unsettling panic, where he wonders if, maybe, he and Peter made up last night. Did he get insanely drunk and black out without even realizing he'd gotten insanely drunk and blacked out?

Nope. Spent the night sober. We showered, we climbed into bed, we passed out. The cell regeneration needed more time.

Understandable, as we spent a whole two and a half hours trekking across the fucking New York sub cities singing Meatloaf to get here!

"Couldn't lie down... Had to get to Peter," Wade explains to himself.

Ah, yes. Peter. Wade knows the Spider is still in the apartment, maybe sleeping on the couch. More than likely, by the smell of coffee drifting through the halls, he's actually up and studying, doing something only Peter Parker would do. It twists Wade's chest up. He has to go talk to him, sooner or later. Why not get it over with? Save himself the grief, and also make himself feel better. When he's at his lowest, Peter picks him up.

Giving himself a small list of instructions, he nods, and then he climbs out of bed and goes over to Peter's dresser. As carefully as possible, he begins to shift Peter's shirts around, looking for something suitable to wear. The damn boy is so small though, Wade can only find two things that would fit him--a tattered muscle shirt and a zip-up cotton vest. Unfortunately, the teeth on the vest are broken, and only someone Peter's size could possibly slip it on over their head. So Wade has only the one option, though he does pull the prettiest quilt off of the bed and wraps it around his shoulders. Now, only his head is showing, and he also feels like he's wearing a cape.

Now what do we do?

The voices are gentle, then quiet.

Wade closes his eyes, shakes his head, and then, he stands erect and squares his jaw, a prepped and fierce soldier.

He stomps through the hall like a BAMF, pretending he can hear something inspirational in the background, like Boss Ass Bitch, or My Heart Will Go On.

Whatever Wade Wilson had planned on when he stepped around the corner flees his mind and leaves him with a stupid look screwed onto his face, and the air is trapped in his lungs.

Peter is sitting at the dining room table, the light glowing overhead warmly. Not even the pale blue of the rising sun has tinged the sky beyond the windows, and the little Spider looks sleepy and deep in thought, head propped up on his elbow, eyes on the text in front of him.

Peter looks up at him, jolts suddenly, as if he weren't expecting to see Wade; ever again. There's a bright gleam in his eyes as his glasses slide down his nose, and his lips part and his shoulders are pulled back, much like a startled animal.

And Wade... Oh, Wade, he feels like a fucking moron; standing there mostly naked, his scarred legs on display, his torso shielded from the world by a rainbow flock quilt. He had planned a speech. He had, he thinks, and it's all been torn to pieces and scattered to the wind by the way Peter Parker looks at him.

Neither of them talk. There doesn't seem to be a need to, despite the gigantic flippin' elephant in the room. No. Instead of talking, Peter's eyes flick from Wade's face to the chair adjacent to him at the dining table, the one he knows is Wade's favorite, and then back to the merc's face. It has a yellow pillow stitched to the seat--because god forbid all of Peter's dining room chairs, crammed into the strange space between living room, entryway, and kitchen, should match--and Wade swallows the hot coal in his throat before he gathers up the quilt and plops down into the chair.

They both stare some more, for a long, long time, before Peter presses his lips, opens them as if to speak, and then drops his face back down into his book, feigning engrossment.

Wade's heart is a wild bird in a cage that's far too tight. He can't convince it to stop fluttering about, and he thought he'd been such a good bird tamer, because it was never like this before. Never ever...

He's sitting there for a long, long time. Maybe an hour, with the way Peter's gone through worksheets and has switched out his math textbook for something more sciency.

Finally, he licks his lips, and the voices in his head hold their breath in anticipation.

"I owe you, Peter," Wade says quietly, and the Peter’s pencil stops scratching across his paper. Another few minutes pass. God, Wade's bad at making a point. He's bad at reading out loud, too. There are people that can pause at all the right places, for all the right lengths of time. They know when to take their breaths, know when to fluctuate their voice for the proper inflection.

Wade Wilson is jack shit at narrating.

Ever since the first issue.

"I really owe you. For everything you've given me, everything you've done. That night, when I came here, when I hurt you, when I ruined whatever chance I had of you ever loving me? I owe you for that the most," Wade grumbles out, his voice a little shaky, his words a tad too fast. But he'll get them out. He'll do this.

For Peter.

Clearing his throat, he glances over at Peter, who has set his pencil down, closed his book, and pushed his notes away. He's taken his glasses off, hazel eyes bright and expectant, but not pushing. He'll wait for Wade, and that gives the assassin's heart a gentle nudge in the right direction, his shoulders slumping forward.

God, he wishes he were more covered. A frayed wife-beater, Peter's boxers, and a bare-batting quilt are hardly the kind of protection he needs for what he's about to do. He wishes he could go in the other room and pull on his bloodied suit.

But it feels symbolic. It feels like he should be mostly naked, because to bare one's soul, one must bare all that they are. Wade's soul feels a little fluttery. He's never felt judgement in Peter's gaze, never felt the boy look at his scarred flesh with anything other than reverence, if not detached adoration. There's something about the way Peter makes him feel free to be himself, even from that first night when Clint brought him to the boy's apartment with an arrow in his head.

...The night we found out Spider-Man was Peter Parker.

The night his secret became ours…

You told him he was pretty.

After you called him a twink.

It’s all very romantic as fuck, and Wade closes his eyes and swallows.

There's something in Peter's heart that makes Wade's feel safer, the way the boy has opened up to him in the past, laid there for him and let Wade touch him with calloused, scarred hands, kiss him with rough, trembling lips, love him with a body broken and beaten and battered and... Bad.

So, to bare one's soul, one must be ready to sit in nothing but frumpy pajamas and a quilt in front of the one they are most comforted and frightened by.

"Slade got to me," Wade whispers, flexing his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists. "He, uh... I don't know how he does it, or how he knew about you... Well, he didn't know about you, rather he, uh... He knew I was with someone," he swallowed hard. "Kn-knew there was someone... I cared about. Sly bastard--maybe I’ll ask the Robins."

Peter just keeps staring at him, and at those words, something pinches his brow, pulls his mouth down at the corners.

The mercenary clears his throat and continues. "Last person I was with, according to him, was Vanessa and she..." his voice cracks off, the thought of her love slipping through his hands an old pain, but still no less sharp. But then he laughs, a dangerous, sad sound. "Well, that's about as well as all of my relationships go. Anyways, Slade started crackin' down on me. Bullets flew, swords clashed, I was being a badass, mostly."

At that, Peter snickers, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"But he just... He just wouldn't shut up, you know? He's good at mind games like that; knows how to break people, bust 'em open and pull out their insides like, like... Like a VHS, or something,” he grits out, and this is one of those moments where Wade really wishes he had hair, because he paws his hand over the crown of his skull without any golden locks to thread his fingers through.

"Kept pushin' and pushin..."

"Pushing about what?" Peter says softly, and it's the first thing he's said since Wade sat down to talk to him.

"...What a monster I am," Wade says simply, like it was common knowledge, oh my god, Peter, how could you not know that was what it was about?

It makes Peter flinch.

"He, uh... Uh..."

"I forbid you from using that word anymore," Peter laughs, shaking his head. He ducks his head down and takes a long drink of his coffee, peeking up at Wade through his crazy long boy lashes.

Wade grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling up. "Fine. Whatever you say, speech professor."

A nod is his reply.

"Well, anyhow, he kept goin' on about how I was unlovable. How it must make you sick to your stomach every time I touch you, how you're just letting me use you because you feel pity for me. You just wanna make me feel better, convince me that there's nothing wrong with me..." Wade licks his lips. "Before you rip the rug out from under me."

"Wade."

"I told him you weren't like that. I said you meant everything you told me; that you did care, that I was good, and you saw it, and I could change.

"He said once a monster, always a monster. He said there was no amount of good in this world that could clean my hands, no amount of love that could see through me. I was shameful, hideous, violent, untamed, disgusting," Wade cuts himself off, taking a long breath through his nose. "Slade said no one could ever love me. No one would ever look at me and see anything... I was worthless."

Peter's teeth gnash at that, a muscle pulling tight up the side of his jaw. "Wade, you're not worthless... You..." he shakes his head, waves his hand in front of his face. "Go on, go on."

The merc nods. "Well, I told him you might say that. Then he laughed, and I think my knee-cap got blown out by that point. Then he said if anyone ever could love me, they'd wind up dead... They'd get what was coming to them, because no one that cares about something like me gets anything less. To love a monster means to die by their side--or by their hand."

There's a long quiet between them, longer than the last few.

"So, after he kicked a few more insults my way, I fired off an AK-47 mag into his mouth."

"Jesus Christ," Peter gasps suddenly.

"I'll bet that's what he was thinking. We've been running into each other frequently, lately. It was him then, it was him tonight. I'm half expecting him to show up downtown next time I go to get pizza--or in my shower. Like, behind the curtain? Surprise!"

They both laugh, and it feels good to laugh, like the lightness of their humor lifts the ceiling back up to where it should be.

Peter cards his fingers through his hair, sniffling as he kicks his legs back and forth. "Is that all then?"

"Is what all?"

"You unloaded the mag in his mouth. Honestly, I don't see how the guy survives half the stuff I've heard you've done to him," he adds dryly.

"Oh!" Wade brightens. "Yeah, we're good pals; peas in a pod. Two top notch assassins, two certified immortals. But there can be only one!" At that, Wade tosses his hand in the air, like he's holding a sword. "By the power of Graysku-ew, that's so the wrong thing. Fuck."

Peter laughs harder at Wade's suddenly deflated mood, banging his knee on the underside of the table. “Ow!”

“Ha!”

They laugh a moment more, before it can hurt.

"Pete?" Wade calls, and Peter looks back at him, visibly stiffens, as if the mood has made him cold again.

It's not the reaction Wade wants, but... He's not done. He hasn't given Peter what he needs yet. And that's not alright. He owes his Petey.

"...I wa... I was really wrecked after that."

"We don't have to get into that part," Peter shakes his head.

"No, we do!" Wade snaps, clapping his hand down onto the table. It causes the blanket to slide down his shoulder, and he quickly buries himself back in the warm safety that is his quilted cape. "I... I need to do this."

Another little pause. Peter nods.

"I went wandering around for a while. Healed up, pacing through the streets. My legs brought me somewhere--they brought me to you. Just like tonight. I don't know what it was, but it was this... I mean, it was this... Help me out here?" Wade asks himself.

Peter cocks his head to the side.

Desire. Hunger.

Needy ache .

For reassurance.

Exactly. Pure Star Trek . Boldly go, Spork.

I'd say it was more of a Dean/Cas moment.

Perhaps something more desperate.

Yeah, desperate. Desperation itself! Desperation to be loved and needed?

Desperation for Peter to love and need him.

Wade nods. "Yes, exactly. I needed to be with you, to console myself. I was dyin', and you were the only one who coulda saved me! But I went about it the whole wrong way. I sat on the couch, waiting for you to show up. Totally calm. Cool as a cucumber. Then... You came in, and..."

Peter nods, hair feathering into his face. "And I snapped your cucumber, huh?"

"Oh, in half. Complete penile fracture of the cucumbery coolness."

Peter shakes his head.

"It's like, when I saw you, everything went fuzzy, and I felt sick and hot and lonely. I just..."

"...You just wanted to feel loved. By me."

Wade swallows around a lump in his throat. "...The only person that I think can love me anymore is you. You... You see me. I needed that, and I needed it so bad, I myself was blinded by it. I just needed you close, needed to have you. I wanted to hear you say all those beautiful things you say when we're together, and I... I... I mean, I basically raped you!" The merc suddenly snaps, clapping his hand on his face, as if slapping himself.

Peter jolts, eyes wide and mouth set in a deep frown. "Wade, it wasn't rape. It was ju--"

"No, it really was! I think twice, you even said no! You told me to look at you, and I was too busy starin' right through you! Only thinkin' of myself!"

"You can't rape the willing, Wade. I mean, yes, I said no, but it wasn’t like shouting the safe word. It felt good, to see that side of you, even if I was startled at first and then pissed after. And maybe, under different circumstances, it would have been more fun and I would have enjoyed your forcefulness a little more." With that, Peter nods, as if he's considering trying such a rough sexual encounter again someday. Then he goes on, sounding worried and raspy. "But you were so damn gone from me, the whole time, I was really worried. I thought I'd lost you. You sounded so broken, like every word was cutting your throat open, and I couldn't see your face, and I could barely move or breathe. You were just..."

"Using you. Hurting you."

"I told you to use me from the beginning."

"But I never did. Not like that. Never like that!" Wade slams his fist down on the table like a hammer. It rattles a few pens across the wooden surface to the floor. "I was a fucking mindless animal!"

"You've apologized for it already, Wade."

"Doesn't make what I did any more right!"

"You needed love and you came to me. That's all I've ever wanted from you. That is the only--only--thing I've ever hoped for. That I could be the one you came to when you were broken and crashing and falling apart," Peter says suddenly, getting up so fast his chair legs grind on the tile flooring of the kitchen.

Wade jumps a little, clutching the blanket around his shoulders. "B... But..."

"You're really not used to this, are you? Forgiveness? Companionship? Someone actually genuinely caring about you and recognizing your faults as part of the whole of who you are, and not just the sum?" Peter demands, but his voice is not hard. More or less, he's putting the pieces of the puzzle into place for himself, and Wade's limp-lipped blubbering and head shakes are only encouraging him to slap more pieces into more empty spaces. "You've really been messed up, Wade."

The mercenary drops his head forward, staring down at his bare, scarred feet. Before long, he feels dizzy and weak and tired, and he closes his eyes against the weight of the world.

A moment later, warm, silken fingers are on his jaw, and he looks up like a doe-eyed pup.

Peter smiles down at him. "Sometimes the people we care about hurt us, because it's easier than hurting themselves. You were hurting, so you lashed out at me. Simple. Done. Over with. But you bet your ass if you ever hurt me like that again, it’ll be over."

“I don’t ever want to hurt you. Ever.”

“Then we talk. We work things out. Next time you’re crashing, just tell me. I know how to take care of you. We can just sit on the couch and I can hold you while we watch Twilight or Indiana Jones--whatever you want. Just talk to me. Because no matter what’s going on, I’ll be there.”

“I’m gonna fuck up, Peter. I am fucked up. I can’t promise--”

“I’ll forgive you.”

"Pete, I--"

"We have to find room in our hearts to forgive. It makes us stronger," he grins sheepishly, running his thumb along the length of Wade's jaw. "I. Am. Sorry," he says quietly. "I. Forgive. You."

"Oh, stop it, Pete, I..." Wade sighs, and then both of Peter's hands are on his face, cupping his jaw, holding his head up and touching with loving fingertips and warm palms.

"I miss you."

"Aw, nuts."

There's a chuckle above him, and he realizes his eyes have drifted closed. Opening them again, he's surprised to find Peter looming much closer, their noses brushing together.

"Aren't you gonna make it up to me?" Peter entreats, and his voice has gone low and gravelly.

"Hah?"

A sinful grin tugs up the corners of Peter's lips, and then they're ghosting over Wade's. It's not a kiss, not really, but it's the hottest thing Wade's felt in months, and his dick gives a twitch of interest in response.

"Show me how sorry you are, Wade. Prove it to me. Show me how much you've missed me--please, say you've missed me like I've missed you," Peter says breathlessly, running his deadly soft lips across Wade's cheek while he speaks, before he's pressing their cheeks together, husking into the merc's ear. "Want me. Need me. Don't be afraid of me--I want you and need you just as bad. We can protect each other. We can take care of each other. Wanna make you feel beautiful, baby... Let me make you feel beautiful again."

That's it.

He's a gonner.

Wade growls in his throat, a broken, desperate sound, and the voices in his head cheer when he takes Peter by the hips and yanks the smaller boy off the ground and onto his lap to straddle him while their mouths collide.

Their kisses are naturally heated, but there's a very primal distress in the way their breaths mingle and their tongues slide. It's mostly that; breath, teeth, tongue, hardly any finesse, and real focus or thought going into the kisses. It's hardly what one would call a romantic tango--more of a mosh pit. And they both love it.

It’s every kiss they’ve missed out on over the past few months rolled into one, freckled with tiny pecks and swallowed up by moans and sighs.

Wade's hands are running up Peter's sides, hiking up his shirt while he takes hold of the smaller boy's ribs and rocks him; god, it's so easy. It's always been this easy, why did he make such a mess?

But here's Peter, in his lap, panting and sighing, lacing his fingers together behind Wade's neck.

And then those fingers are scratching over the crown of his head, then down across his broad shoulders. The blanket gets pushed back in the process, and Wade's cock is already fully erect and leaking a damn adolescent wet patch onto the front of Peter's smiley boxers. He barely notices it, the way he's taken hold of Peter's hips and has begun rutting the smaller boy against him, but his brain goes fuzzy when those smooth hands are palming down his biceps, grappling at his wrists, holding them there.

Peter's mouth is torn away, and then there are fiery kisses being peppered across Wade's face. He’s never been touched this way, not quite, and most importantly, it’s Peter.

He’s touching Wade’s scars, hands and lips brushing along the mottled flesh, the raised lines, with love and softness that Wade can’t take. His head falls back, a weak, breathy moan falling from his lips, and then Peter's on his neck. Peter kisses down the column of his scarred throat, across his bare shoulder blades, then he's nipping and licking and suckling kisses into the skin of Wade's shoulders, from throat to bicep.

That gets a little of the blood in Wade's dick to pump itself back into his brain. "Peter--"he begins to protest.

Instead of heeding the merc's warning, Peter growls through his teeth and bites down on a tender patch of flesh beneath the juncture of Wade's throat.

"Hn-aah!" Wade bucks his hips, and he slides his incredibly useful large hands forward against Peter's pelvis, using his thumbs to stroke the boy's stiff cock through his pajamas. “I’m sorry, Petey. I’m sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to. I need you. Nobody can give me what you do. No one’ll take care of me like you. No one.”

"Don’t be sorry. You’re here now--you’re with me. You're mine, aren't you, Wade?" Peter husks, running his hands from Wade's hips up his sides. The tank isn't thick enough to resist much, and Wade feels like if he had the full force of Peter's hands on his skin, his dick would explode. “Mine?”

"Yeh... Yeah, babe."

"All I've ever wanted,” he laughs breathlessly, pressing his palms against Wade's chest to feel his heartbeat before they're running under the merc's arms to clasp at his shoulder blades. "I'll never hurt you again. I swear, I'll never say anything like that to you again. M-monster. Not a monster--my Wade, mine, my beauty. My one."

"Peter!"

"I gotta... I need..."

"I need it, too," Wade rasps, and he rucks Peter's shirt up then tugs it over the younger boy's head. Peter giggles, letting his arms go up for the shirt before Wade tosses it aside.

Then he's grabbing the hem of Wade's tank, and that... That. Oh, no ho ho.

Wade snatches both of Peter's wrists in one hand, staring up at him with those glamorous baby blues, mouth panting, cock leaking.

Peter's eyes are glazed, his pupils blown, and his breath is heavy and slow. "This road goes both ways, Wade. From now on. It goes both ways, or I'm getting the fuck off."

"Petey--"

"You know how I feel," Peter groans suddenly, taking Wade's wrists in his hands once he's wriggled free. One, he presses to his leaking cock, and it jumps against Wade's palm, making Peter hiss. The other, he holds over his heart, ducking his head to he can kiss Wade's fingertips. "You know what I need. What I want. I want all of you, Wade. All of it--no more holding back. If I'm yours, you're mine. I take care of what's mine. God, don't I take care of you?"

"You're the only one," Wade whimpers, squeezing his eyes shut as he starts palming Peter roughly through the thin flannel fabric.

Peter sighs, head falling back as he rocks his hips into Wade's touch like he's starved for it. But he is, isn't he?

"Told you I need you. Told you I'd take care of you--you're not a monster. You're my beautiful boy. I see you. I see you, Wade. You're good, so good. I could never, ever hate you."

"Peter..."

"This road has to go both ways... I think you're beautiful. I take care of you. Don't I?"

Several heartbeats pass between them, where all Wade can do is whine while he rubs Peter, listening to him let out these desperate, gorgeous little hah, hah, ah sounds of pleasure.

"Yes. Yes, yes, yes, I'm sorry. 'm so sorry."

"Prove it, then. Take care of me, Wade," Peter says, voice stronger, less pitchy, and he wraps his arms around Wade's neck and presses their chests together. "Take me to bed."

Wade doesn't need to be told twice. Peter clutches the blanket, wraps it haphazardly around them before Wade's standing on shaky, pleasure-struck legs, carrying his boy in his arms, hands squeezing his ass. He's kneading it, massaging it, while every step rocks their cocks together through thin layers of fabric. There's something so beautiful about holding Peter like this. He's so light,  so strong and lovely, the way he wraps himself around Wade, kissing his neck, breathing into his ear, moaning when Wade squeezes his ass. It's something he's never gotten from a female lover; or a male, for that matter. Peter is a whole class all his own; gorgeous, defiant, and completely Wade's.

They stumble into the room, and Wade twists so that Peter falls onto the bed under him, the quilt falling over them while Peter fumbles one hand blindly across his bedside table. He knocks a half-empty glass of water over, then curses when Wade bites down on his neck.

"Lookin' for somethin', Spidey?"

"Not exactly." Comes his reply, and he shoots out a web and yanks, the bedside lamp glowing, lighting the room in a buttery haze.

Wade startles, and it's almost as if Peter reads his thoughts, because he's kissing his cheeks and jaw, raking his nails down the merc's thick arms. "Shh. I'm right here."

"That's the problem."

"Wade."

"I need to take this in baby steps, Pe--"

"Wade."

"..."

A kiss finds the trembling assassin's lips, and the world goes quiet and still. All his thoughts come to a screaming halt, because those lips, the heart behind that mouth, is the only thing that matters. What Peter wants, how he feels about Wade? It's all that matters.

Warm fingers skim over the seam between the boxers and the tank, and Wade lifts himself onto his hands and knees, one hand cupping Peter's neck. "...K-kay. Okay."

In the space between them, Peter sighs and tugs the shirt up to Wade's arm pits, waiting for the merc to sit all the way up. He tugs and tugs and tugs, the shirt continuing to get caught on Wade's armpits, the backs of his arms a firm wall. Wade is still kissing Peter, still holding fast to the boy's neck, dipped over him like a mighty wave.

“Can't we at least have some mood music? I could really go for some Pillowtalk. Or Spice Girls. Anything, really, but give me something, here.” Wade grouses, and Peter tugs on the tank again.

Peter bites his bottom lip with a tiny grunt. “You're awful. No mood music. Especially not the Spice Girls.”

“But you'd consider Zayn?”

Another disgruntled noise is Peter's reply.

"C'mon! The fans asked for it! It's been named our theme song for the whole fic!"

Peter makes a desperately annoyed sound and reaches between them, stroking Wade through his boxers rough and fast.

With that, Wade moans and slides his knee up against Peter's throbbing cock. He blanks out, completely forgetting the lyrics to the chorus, which he was about to sing with his whole heart.

"Ah, fuck it," he snarls, leaning back on his knees between Peter's spread legs, tearing the tank top over his head and throwing it to the floor.

Like this, with the light shining warm and soft and the blanket fallen down around his hips, Wade's mostly naked. Eighty percent of his body is on display for Peter, from the incredible V of his hips all the way up inch after inch of rock-hard abs, then his broad chest and the expanse of his shoulders and long, iron arms. Then, of course, beneath the short cut of the brilliant yellow smiley boxers, his scarred thighs are also visible. The light washes him in a soft golden color, almost like dawn, and the shadows make his scars more prominent, every dark red slice, every faded white pucker...

And Peter's eating him alive with his eyes, like he's peeling Wade's skin off as if it were another layer of clothing... Seeing through the scars to something different, something more. Maybe not the Wade he used to be; Peter couldn't possibly understand that, never saw Wade before the Weapon X project... But a whole new Wade altogether. And he seems to like what he sees.

"Yeah. Alright; yeah," Peter sighs, sitting up on his elbows to yank his own shirt off. "Yes, fucking yes."

Aaaaand there goes Wade's sanity. Whoop. Fwip. Out the window.

Then Peter sits all the way up, Wade still kneeling between his legs, breathing hard and rough through parted lips. "There you are. God, finally, there's my Wade," Peter moans desperately, possessively, running his hands from the dangerous V up Wade's navel, smoothing his palms up the larger male's ribs, fingering over abs, thumbing his nipples. “Been waiting for this--waiting for you to trust me. Been wanting you naked in my bed for months.” It makes Wade shudder, and Peter takes both his nipples between thumb and forefinger and pinches, twists, sighing with his open mouth against the expanse of Wade's bare stomach. He laps the flat of his tongue up the deep cut between Wade’s abs and moans hotly. "Fuck. Never been so hard in my life."

"Sweet fuck," Wade moans, bucking his hips forward against the feel of Peter's mouth and hands on him. "Peter. Peter!"

"Hmm, off. I want these off," Peter says suddenly, and he's hooking a finger into the elastic band of the boxers. He tugs, hard, and the band snaps against Wade's skin.

"Sweet Fuck!" The merc jolts, and then there are hands on his shoulders, and small bare feet against his stomach. It draws a tiny 'hm?' from his mouth, before Peter is pushing them over, rolling Wade onto his back. "Damn, Pete!" Wade laughs breathily as the Spider repositions them, settling Wade's broad shoulders in the center of the bed, legs on either side of the merc's narrow hips.

Peter is kissing down Wade's chest again, nipping and suckling, paying special attention to the merc's nipples. It makes him wheeze and gasp sweetly, and his fists are clenching and unclenching in the empty air by Peter's knees. Peter likes that, smirks as he laves his tongue against the tiny pebbled nubs, catching his teeth lightly on them, sucking them with his lips.

"Hnah! Fff-ffuh, ahn. Hnnnn, P-Pete."

"Gonna take such good care of you, Wade. Gonna make it so good for you." It's a promise, an oath, and Wade remembers saying that to Peter the first time they ever had sex. It flips something over in his heart, and the voices cry 'awwww' in unison.

"...I know you will," he grins, and Peter smiles up at him, hair feathered into his face, cheeks flushed; completely beautiful. Wade sighs, lets his head fall back, and lifts his hips against Peter's ass. "Go on then. Get 'em off."

"Then I can get you off."

"No sex puns! Those are my things!"

"You have never once made a pun in bed."

"...Well, I made the joke about a Peter-stuffed chimichanga."

"Hardly counts."

Wade growls, but before he can really protest, Peter shimmies down his body, still kissing, and when he tilts his head up again, Peter's teeth are on the waistband of the boxers. Tug...

His stomach flip-flops, and his hands fists in the sheets tightly. "Peter..." he whines.

But Peter just smiles, hooking two fingers into the boxer's elastic. "You're beautiful," he reassures.

"Oh, baby boy, I ca... I can't. I can't do this," his heart is raging behind his ribs, pressing up against the bones, constricting, and his throat feels tight, his every nerve prickling. His ears feel like they've been stuffed with cotton, and his mouth is dry. It almost feels like even his erection is flagging, and that would be the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to him aside from the incident with that thing that one time.

Peter kisses a particularly nasty patch of scarring on Wade's hip before running his tongue over it. "There's nothing to be scared of, honey," he breaths, lying his cheek against Wade's stomach. He doesn't move his hands, doesn't release the hold he has on the only thing keeping him and Wade apart now. But he does stay still, lets Wade catch his breath, large, deadly hands combing through his hair.

"'m not scared..."

Liar.

You lying mother rugger!!

Wade bites his lip. "Not... 'm not scared," he says again, more confidently.

"Then let me take care of you," Peter says quietly, leaning up so he can once again kiss down Wade's breastbone, between the crease of his pecs and abs. It quiets the merc again, allowing him to lift his hands to hold onto the headboard, until he's completely muscle jelly, lying there as Peter shimmies his boxers off.

There.

He's naked.

He's naked and afraid, and he's seriously thinking about calling Discovery to sign him up for the next season.

"Wade?" Peter calls, and Wade's eyes snap open, blue as the dawn, and he jerks his head up to look down at the boy kneeling between his legs. Oh, how the tables have turned. "You need to breathe if you expect me to get to the good part."

A heavy, almost exalted breath gushes from Wade's lungs, and then he sucks it back in and laughs, high as helium, and drops his head again. "Okay, maybe I'm a little scared."

"That's okay," Peter says softly, and Wade chokes on his own spit when a hot, wet tongue pads over the swollen head of his cock. "We'll take it slow." And maybe it's Wade's head, but Peter's voice drops an octave when he says that, and he sounds like his throat has a cheese grater pressed against it.

"Nnnngh, shit. Shit, fuck," Wade pants, his brain activity quickly depleting. "Peter, I--"

"If you say you can't one more time, I'm gonna bite it off," Peter grumbles flatly, kissing the tip of Wade's cock. "Fucking gorgeous," he grates.

Wade lifts his head, shaking it wildly at the sight before him.

Despite all of Peter's frantic pleas to have Wade's cock in his mouth in the past, Wade never let him do it. It wasn't just the thought of having to bare that much skin to Peter. He refused to hurt the boy like that. Not to brag, but Wade knows his piece is impressive--longer and thicker than average, a perfect fit to his large, muscled body. Peter's mouth may be big in volume, but his jaw can't exactly unhinge like some kind of amazonian snake.

"Peter..." Wade sighs. "I know we've never really talked about this, but, uh... I don't--"

"No more don't either."

"Fuck. You're not allowed to suck my cock! You could die!"

"Someone's pretty confident," Peter deadpans.

"I'm serious. If I lose control, I could seriously suffocate you to death."

"What makes you think I can't take your cock?"

"... Weeeeeeeell--"

"For Christ's sake, Wilson," Peter groans, then he ducks his head down and takes the head between his lips.

Wade's cut, gorgeous and flushed, and Peter moans against the drops of precum that flood against his tongue, coating his entire mouth in Wade's flavor.

"Fuck. Mmmm, fuck!" Wade grinds his teeth, back drawn like a bow while Peter fists the base and sucks mercilessly at his head. He twirls his tongue over the slit, pulls back for air before fucking his mouth and hand in tandem over Wade's length. His other hand slides between Wade's thighs, and he cradles his balls, squeezing them and fondling them with a pressure that is almost punishing.

He's a fucking master; knows just how to scrape his teeth, knows how to use his tongue and lips, teases the slit, sucks the head till it almost hurts, then pulls back and laves his slick tongue from base to tip before sucking on Wade's balls. "H-h-ha. How are you so good at this?"

Peter honest-to-god smirks around Wade's dick, pulling off with an obscene pop. His mouth is shining with his own spit, and he grins at Wade, fucking his fist over Wade's dick to smear the slick around. "Clearly, you and I go to different websites."

"Oh, don't fuck with me right now, kiddo."

Peter giggles. "Lots and lots of gay porn."

"Oh, Petey."

"Maybe I'll show you my spank bank."

"Please?"

"Or maybe not. You didn't seem too confident I could do this."

"Well, you're still a virgin to such atrocities! Such debauchery, such scandal!!"

Peter rolls his eyes. "This is true. Only ever had one man in my life... My Wade; you're the only duck in my pond. The only star in my sky. The only fucking marshmallow in my hot chocolate! The only--"

"Dick in your ass?" Wade supplies with a cheesy grin.

Peter deadpans, "...And mouth, if you'd shut up."

"Oh, yes, sir. Please, continue." With that, Wade tangles his fingers into Peter's hair and closes his eyes, sighing and letting out broken, breathy moans every time Peter does something good. He pays careful attention to Wade's slit, lapping up the precum before diving down and choking himself on as much as he can.

It surprises Wade--so much so he nearly shoots off--when Peter removes his fist and swallows him down whole. It makes the merc buck his hips and moan, and Peter gags on the girth between his lips.

Wade yanks on those brunet locks, tugging Peter right off of his dick, a sinful string of spittle connecting the tip of his cock and those sweet, red lips. "Petey, I'm so sor--"

"Oh, mother fuck. Wade, mm, fuck my mouth,” Peter blurts out, already struggling against Wade's hold on his hair, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

Crickets chirp in Wade’s head.

"You fucking crazy?!" Wade demands shrilly once he's found his voice again.

"Yeah, 'm fuckin' crazy. Wanna suck your cock, want you to pull my hair and fuck my mouth. Want my jaw to ache for you. Oh, Wade, honey please!" Peter rambles, keening and rocking his hips forward, and Wade can see where his cock-head is leaking precum against the front of his pale drawstrings. The thought of denying this boy anything physically hurts, and his words make Wade's cock tingle, ache, and drip.

"If I hurt you..." he growls after a long minute of deliberation.

"I'll like it."

"No. If I hurt you, you squeeze my thigh. And I mean, fuck, you'd better dig those little nails in and tear me open if I hurt you. Also, we're gonna do a safe word. Not sure what yet, but we're gonna have one--gonna be so not sexy. I can't hurt you again, Peter. Never again. I'd never forgive myself if I--"he's cut off when Peter whines, lunging forward to brush their lips and tongues together, and Wade almost faints at the taste of himself on his gorgeous boy's lips.

"Promise. Promise, love, please."

"That's a good boy," Wade growls, and he barely has to push Peter at all before he's back in his place between his legs, licking long, teasing stripes up every side of Wade's cock before he hollows his cheeks and slides down the head.

Wade moans, high and soft, and his fists yank at the roots of Peter's hair before he lifts his hip, nudging his dick down Peter's throat.

His boy does so well; so damn good, not even struggling, breathing slow, moaning and gagging. Wade starts to feel fuzzy, lighter, and he fucks into Peter's mouth with more vigor, using his hold in the smaller boy's hair to drag him up and down his cock, lips teasing the flesh, tongue laving anything it can reach.

"Oh, Pete. My boy, my good boy. So good, so fucking good! Don't you ever stop. Sweetie, oh, babe. Damn! Feel like I'm dying."

Peter moans brokenly around his cock. There's something so surreal about what's happening. He's never had a cock in his mouth, usually chokes on fucking tootsie pops and popsicles! But this? Wade's cock? It's pure sin; heaven and hell rolled into a cage of fire and ice, and Peter's head is swimming on the whole situation. He's palming as much of Wade's skin as he can, wants to feel every flaw, every dip and gash, every raised strike of lightning. His fingertips follow maps of forked tissue like roads, grate over the sharp rise of bones, press to the supple pillow of muscle.

He loves it. He loves it all so much.

He's delirious, having his Wade so vulnerable, so willing--so bare and fucking beautiful. He's beautiful; the sun and stars, the fucking moon doesn't shine as bright as Wade. Peter wants to make him feel it, wants to brand it into the merc's skin; just another scar. More scars, more proof that even a smooth cut, sculpted Adonis is nothing compared to Wade.

Wade’s choking. Peter’s touching his fingertips to every scar he can, and it’s too much. He’s sighing and moaning around Wade’s cock, simultaneously touching parts of Wade’s body that only Wade has seen in the last decade! It’s too much, the reverence and tenderness of it all. The intimacy would bring tears to Wade’s eyes if Peter wasn’t also trying to slurp his brains out through his dick.

And it seems like Peter could go on for hours.

Wade pulls him off too soon, and there's so much spit and precum, and a strand connects his lips and Wade's cock for a moment, glossy and sweet before it snaps. Peter's panting, his shoulders heaving, and Wade's saying something to him.

Saying something with that incredible mouth...

"Still with me?"

"Need you," Peter groans, crawling over the larger male's body, straddling him, moaning into Wade's waiting mouth.

The merc rolls them over, and they kiss for what feels like hours before he climbs off to pull Peter's own pants and briefs off. The second his boy is naked, Wade is showering him with kisses, and Peter is doing the same.

"Fucking gorgeous. So beautiful; stronger than steel, sweet as sugar, my Wade."

"My Petey's a poet and he didn't even know it," Wade moans before he's sucking bruises onto Peter's collar bones, putting a perfect hickey on the center of his boy's throat. He rakes nails down Peter's pale shoulders and arms, as if he could scoop out the freckles and use them to decorate the sky.

Peter giggles, wrapping limbs around Wade's broad body, their cocks slotting together, wet and sinful. "You are. You're mine, all mine, honey."

"I like that. Honey," Wade laughs warmly, licking a stripe up Peter's throat before he nibbles on the pretty boy's earlobe.

"You couldn't sound hetero if you tried," Peter teases, fingers finding a glamorous tangle of scarring just beside Wade's left shoulder blade. "Fuck, I want a thousand pictures of you. Every inch of you."

Wade chokes quietly, then clears his throat. Before he can say something, Peter kisses him.

"We'll take baby steps."

Wade laughs at that, and then they're both kissing while Wade fucks their cocks together with his fist.

"Need you. Need you inside me," Peter sighs, letting his head fall back with his hands tangled behind Wade's head.

"Me, too."

Peter blinks up at him. "Well, well, well. Wade, this is a turn of events I didn't expect. I didn't know you wanted to try bottoming."

The assassin flushes at that, and the voices laugh uproariously in his head. "No. Holy shit, no, not right now. Maybe sometime, I mean, you seem to enjoy it. I mean, no!! I meant I need that, too! Also! Me, in you! I'm pitching, you're catching. I'm seme-senpai and you are my little otaku uke."

"If you don't stop talkin', I'll change my mind,” they both laugh, and Wade presses their mouths together before he digs through the bedside table drawer and pulls out the bottle of lube.

It's just as full as it was when they were last together, and it draws a tiny smile on his lips.

"...Nobody but you," Peter smiles, as if reading Wade's thoughts.

"Not even Mr. Right?" He quips, looking down at Peter's right hand.

"In the shower, maybe."

"Dirty boy, getting squeaky clean," Wade teases before he slicks his fingers and starts kissing at Peter's ass. He licks him open, gets his boy trembling before he scissors him open on his fingers. Peter's healed, has definitely gone through the re-virginizing process since they were last together. It makes Wade feel freedom, relief. It's like starting all over again--and this time, he can give it to Peter the way the boy really deserves.

"Beautiful. You're beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful..." A litany of praise falls from Peter's lips, and while he writhes on Wade's fingers, he's touching every inch of the merc he can reach. The shadows beneath Peter's hands color Wade's skin, the light casting them in a beautiful glow.

The merc hooks Peter's knees on his elbows, pushing him up, spreading him open. Thank god Peter's so flexible--a little yoga, and Wade knows he could get his boy to bend in half for him.

Wade's about to slide into his beautiful boy when he catches his eye. Those hazel orbs are so hazy, beautiful and bright, with shadows cast on his cheeks from his lashes. Peter's smiling so beautifully, and... And Wade feels it. He feels it, fucking feels Peter's love, feels it rushing through his blood, feels it curling around his heart, washing over his skin.

...And he feels beautiful.

"...Thank you, Peter," Wade whispers, and he presses their mouths together while he sinks slowly into his precious boy.

Peter keens in his throat, parts his lips and lets his elated cry flood into Wade's mouth. Rather than sliding right in, Wade fucks him slowly open, going deeper and deeper with each short, gentle thrust. Whispered sighs fall from Peter’s lips, quiet and sweet, his body arching into each thrust.

When they're pressed flush, pelvis to ass, bottomed out, Wade stays there for a minute. Their foreheads are pressed together, Peter holding onto him, eyes closed, so relaxed, as if he's sleeping right there in Wade's arms, with Wade buried deep inside of him, right where he's supposed to be.

The world clicks into place, a thousand pieces falling right where they're supposed to be, their bodies the final teeth of the puzzle. Everything is the way it's supposed to be... Everything.

Peter tosses his head to the side, catching a breath he hadn't realized he's been holding. Looking down at him, Wade finds himself overrun with emotion, desperate with it, and he drops his head forward, pressing his lips to Peter's skin, feeling the heat beneath the surface.

"Love you..." Wade whispers breathlessly, and he knows Peter can't hear him above the rush of his blood, the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, nor the heady gasps he's trying to use to ground himself.

The words fallen from Wade's mouth catch up to his brain, grinding through the gears of understanding, finally.

“I love you?” Wade whispers even more quietly, Peter moaning and sighing above him.

You WHAT?!

Sound the alarm! Call Scotland Yard!! He's gone looney!

God... It's so uplifting. It takes about a thousand pounds off of Wade's shoulders, and the voices in his head are screaming.  He wants to say it again, wants to say it louder, because, holy shit, when was the last time he said that to someone without it being playful or to be a dick?

He's told Peter he loves him before, dozens of times, in front of other people, and in the confines of their private world in the apartment... But never while buried balls deep, completely naked, baring his soul.

"Wade..." Peter's voice is a tender whisper, and then he's kissing him fluidly, slowly.

Wade's heart... It's no longer in a cage. That bird has busted free; snapping metal bars and ribs as it went, flying wild into Peter's hands.

And it's gonna stay there. Wade knows. It's gonna stay there for a very, very long time. Problem? He doesn't even fucking care! It's the worst, most unforgiving, most endearing thing Wade's ever known, and he can't even bring himself to care. He's in love. He loves Peter Parker and someday--he hopes--he's gonna have the nerve to say it loud enough for his precious boy to hear.

For now, he just cards his fingers through that thick, dark hair, sighing against his darling boy's shoulder. For now, it's enough to know how he feels, and to understand. To not be afraid... To be beautiful.

Peter sighs, kisses the juncture of Wade's jaw. "Please, love... Please," he's practically broken already, and Wade knows he's not much further behind.

This isn't going to be very long, for either of them, and there seems to be a second where their eyes catch and they both know. Both don't care.

Taking care to press kisses everywhere he can reach, Wade ruts forward slowly, making Peter's breath catch in his throat. Peter's arms are around his neck, fingers running over his scalp, as if carding themselves through hair. Breathy little sighs keep falling from Peter's lips, and when Wade starts thrusting into him harder, lightly shaking the frame of the bed, they climb in volume and sweetness.

Teeth bury themselves in Wade's shoulder, just above the strain of his bicep, and Peter is muffling himself as the speed builds and the heat climbs.

"Wade. My Wade, I missed you so bad. Feels so good--always feels so good. Like the first time, my... Fuck! Auh, ahn, hhhnah! I lo... I mean, I--ooouh," Wade's heart stammers when Peter throws his head back, lying his arm across his face so he can't see it. Something was trying to jump from his boy's lips into Wade's ears, but a tiny twist of the universe forbade it. For now.

Instead of dwelling on it, Wade wraps one arm around Peter's shoulders, and catches his hip with the other, relying on Peter to instinctively wrap his legs around the larger man's hips. "'ve got you,” the merc whispers, and Peter's body responds to the new angle beautifully, his prostate catching the edge of each of Wade's thrusts. Each and every time, he hits his target--and he's being kind of brutal about it.

"I know."

There are hands on Wade's skin. Hands on his bare skin, that aren't his. If it were anyone but Peter, he'd probably have flipped out and retreated by now. But it is Peter, and his hands feel like heaven, touching Wade for the first real time, for the first time in ages. His fingers run over Wade's arms, drag from his slowly pistoning hips up to his shoulders, hooking them under Wade's armpits to cross them over his shoulders, like a little koala. Or a backpack. Wow, Wade's brain thinks the dumbest shit during sex.

It drives Wade crazy. He hasn't been with anyone since the incident with Peter, and it fuels something new and dangerous inside of him. He can't stand it; can hardly breathe, and he's fucking into Peter like he needs him to live.

We do though, don't we?

We do though, don't we?

And Wade has to agree. After all, one can't survive without a heart. And if Peter has his, then he's S.O.L.

"Hn, ah! Mm, Wade, close... I'm so close--god, you're like fuckin’ heaven," Peter breaths, biting on Wade's shoulder and neck, and the merc laughs and releases him, sitting back and taking Peter's hips in his hands. He's drilling into him, forcing him down against the mattress, dragging the head of his cock against every sweet nerve inside of Peter's body. And Peter has to grab onto the headboard that's now banging against the wall in tandem with their heartbeats, moaning and gasping, eyelids like lead and mouth dropped open in wanton passion.

"Hmm-ah! I've got you; 've got you, precious. Hn, ffffuck, sonovabitch!" Wade rambles, and he squeezes his eyes shut so he can't see Peter, can't handle it right now. Watching his gorgeous boy fall apart, it makes him want to fall apart! And he can't do that. Won't do that to Peter, not yet. He can't fall apart before he breaks his boy. He has to break Peter, every time, so that Peter can put him back together. Because nothing feels so complete, so perfect as Peter does, making Wade feel complete and perfect...

Peter's making these little punched out moans in his throat, and he reaches a hand out and cups the side of Wade's face, forcing him to look down at him.

They stay like that for what feels like forever, Wade thrusting into him with perfect accuracy and deadly speed, Peter taking it--taking it so sweet--and their eyes unblinking, unwavering, gazes locked in an endless void of black pupils swallowing colored irises.

Then Peter's keening, and his dick is leaking out dribbles of precum all over his belly. Wade reaches down to stroke it, and Peter whines and catches the merc's hand with his free one, lacing their fingers together and using that to hold their gravity centered.

"Wanna cum... Just like this. Don't need anything else but you. Just you, right here, right where you belong," Peter gasps brokenly.

"Pete."

"Gonna cum for you, Wade. G-gonna give you everything I've got. Oh! God! I can't--can't hold on, love."

"You can let go, babe."

Peter's eyes fill with tears, and he's suddenly pleading, breathless and desperate, "Hold me."

And HOW can Wade say no to that?

He grins, almost bashfully, before he's dipping forward, wrapping his massive arms around Peter's slender frame, crushing their bodies together. Peter's dick is digging into his stomach, and Wade thinks he might be hurting the boy, with the way his moans have gone sharp and airy, like he's going to pass out. It's like the first time. Wade can't pull back to thrust in hard, but he's buried deep, each violent move of his hips slamming his dick harder against where it's pinned to Peter's prostate, leaving him with no relief.

"Wade, Wade, Wade, WADE! Oh, oh, FUCK! Hnnnn-yes!!"

"Peter!"

It happens with little warning. They both crash, like two trains on the same track, barreling forward and then colliding with the intensity of an atom bomb.

Peter shoots off between them, slicking Wade’s stomach and his own chest in thick spurts of cum.

Wade swears he sees heaven. It's a split moment, where the world fizzles out, and his entire body goes somewhere he can't feel it, like maybe he's jumped out of his skin. He's never crashed this hard; not for anyone, ever. There's white light all around him, and he can't feel his limbs, just feels hot and satisfied and achy all over. Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe...

Then he's coming down, and Peter's tongue is in his mouth, and there are hands holding his head down in place, like Peter would die if Wade pulled back.

Wade’s not even sure if he’s done coming, his cock twitching and aching like he’s never cum before in his life.

But Peter’s kissing him, so his mind is dangerously distracted.

It's wet and filthy, their tongues sliding, lips brushing, and teeth lightly clashing, Wade lightheaded, coming back into the cage of his body. Peter seems just as wrecked, lids fluttering, body twitching like he can't fight off the tiny jolts still thrumming in his blood. Wade slips his sweaty arms out from under Peter's body, running his hands over anything and everything he can touch before he's tangling his fists into Peter's damp hair, tugging at the roots, angling his boy's head just right.

"Yes..." Peter sighs against his open mouth, rolling his hips up, pulling Wade deeper. They're both so sensitive it makes them whine, and then they're laughing between their kisses, fingers brushing along skin, limbs tangling.

"Yes, what?" Wade breaths, aching and so sated, like he's finally found where he belongs.

Peter laughs softly, kissing the soft juncture of Wade's strong jaw. "Nothing... Everything. You're amazing."

"Says the amazing Spider-Man."

"Then I should be an expert, yes?" Another kiss.

"I like you kissing there."

He kisses the spot again.

"Wish I could mark you up the way you mark me," Peter says softly, and Wade tugs on that thick hair and sucks a fresh hickey into the skin on the side of his throat. "Ah! That doesn't mean make me look like an old banana!"

"Scars don't bruise."

"Yes, they do."

"Well, they might bruise, but they don't hickey," Wade shoots back. "Speaking of, won't your boss get a little... Mrf-snaf if you show up to work this way?" Even as he asks it, he bites another mark onto the other side of Peter’s Adam’s apple.

"I have no idea what mrf-snaf means, but Jameson doesn't give me a second glance when I show up to work with a busted lip and a bruised eye from a gun catching me in the face. Parker! I don't care what happened to your face!! Spider-Man is a menace!!" Peter shakes his fist wildly, Wade wrapping his arms around his waist to giggle against his neck.

God, laughing is great. But it’s even better with Peter. So much better.

"He's such a caring, strong, fatherly figure to you, isn't he?"

With that, Peter laughs harder, letting his head fall back against the pillow, drawing circles and webs and odd shapes across Wade's shoulders and broad back. Wade thinks if his skin were normal, he’d be covered in goose bumps. Instead, it just makes him want to shudder, his nerves tingling. "You're heavy..."

"I can move?"

"No, no... Love it. Want you to stay here forever..."

Wade sighs contentedly, muttering his agreement with another tiny hickey on the tendon between shoulder and throat. He could damn well stay there forever.

"We should shower," Peter says suddenly, still somehow not asleep. It surprises Wade.

"Can you wash me?"

"If you wash me."

"Eeeeeeew, but you're sweaty, and full of jizz."

A quick slap to the side of the head is Peter's reply, and the merc laughs and climbs off of his little lover. Slipping out of Peter was always hard to do, and they both give a grateful, remorseful sigh at the disconnection of their bodies.

Wade thought everything would come falling apart after that, but Peter just grinned up at him, rolling over and out of bed, crossing his shoulders and hips as if he were limbering up. The puzzle pieces didn't go scattering across the board. Everything was still locked together by fitted teeth, and Wade watched his gorgeous boy stroll naked and unabashed to the door frame.

He pauses there, turning to look over his shoulder, and his backside was a glowing visage of beauty, miles of smooth back and legs, meeting at the perfect curve of Peter's perfect ass.

"You coming?"

Aw, hell yeah!

Thought we already did.

Wade grins from ear to ear, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. "Of course I am."

The shower was something of a secret weapon for Peter. He turns the water on closer to cool than warm, and climbs in without preamble. When Wade follows him, the merc squeaks, and throws his arms around the smaller boy for warmth.

“Noooooo,” Wade shrieks, wrapping his hand around the knob and twisting it to hot.

Peter spins himself out of the way before the hot water can scald his skin. “Selfish jerk!”

“You want me to freeze!”

“You want to cook me?” Peter groans, and then Wade relents, turning the heat down to a light steam.

“Better?” Wade asks, kissing Peter’s jaw, his chin, then down his throat.

The water sprays Peter in the face over Wade’s shoulder, and he sighs and runs his palms up Wade’s slick sides. “You take care of me.”

Wade kisses Peter’s lips before he pulls him into his embrace. “I try.”

Peter nuzzles his face into Wade’s neck, and he holds him close and tight. This is the part he’s afraid of.

Peter knows what happens... They have sex, he falls asleep, and Wade can leave without another word. He'll stay up all night if he has to. To keep Wade with him.

They get sudsy, and Wade's hands are so damn all over the place and so incredibly gentle. He keeps planting these lingering kisses on the hickies he's left on Peter's skin, keeps raking his nails down the smaller boy's sides to leave red marks across his skin in their wake. Peter laughs hysterically at Wade's bubble beard, and the merc waggles his eyebrows at him and gives him his best impression of Gandalf before he rubs all the bubbles off on Peter's mouth.

Drying off is a little less fun, because there's the perfunctory methodicalness of it, and Wade keeps his back to Peter most of the time he's drying himself. But once he's done, he tucks a towel around his waist and feathers Peter's hair with a hand towel, making him dizzy and fluffy all over.

Peter tosses Wade a pair of drawstrings that he thinks will fit the larger male before climbing into a pair of slim-fitting boxers. Wade's mouth drops, and he suggests that maybe, just maybe, they should stay naked instead. Peter just rolls his eyes and apologizes for not having a t-shirt big enough for Wade to wear while he's tugging his own over his head.

For once, the merc doesn't mind. He just shrugs his shoulders and smiles at his boy. "I'm alright like this..."

Peter's heart squeals.

When they get in bed and turn the light off, the sun is glowing through the windows, gentle and golden-gray, and they both laugh and bury their faces into each other's necks like kittens. It seems so surreal, that Wade's still here in the morning light, as naked as he is, with Peter curled sweet and warm in his arms like some giant cat. He's holding his boy against his chest, breathing in the fresh scent of dampness and soap in his hair, the warmth of cedar on his skin. A hand is over his heart, an arm slung around his waist. There are legs tangled between his, cold toes touching his bare calf. The bed is thick and fluffy and soft... He belongs.

Peter's breathing evens out, and the light of morning has gone from gray and pale to infinite and bronze.

Wade tips his head down, pressing his lips and nose into the thickness of Peter's messy hair. "Pete?" He whispers, his voice mild and low.

There comes no response, just another long, steady exhale against his collar bones where Peter has ducked his head under his chin.

"...Oh, Pete... You're so good to me. So, so good, and I really don't deserve it," Wade says quietly, his voice hoarse with the softness of his speaking. "I wish... I wish I could be what you deserve. I'm such a fucked up asshole; there's no way you can't see that. I wanna be good. I try to be good. And every time I look at you, it's the only time where I... Where I feel like I've got a chance. You make me better, Peter. And I'm so sorry for hurting you... I... I will never hurt you like that again. I swear it; on my life, whatever it's worth. I'll spend every day doing my best to show you what you mean to me. To prove to you I'm worth this love you've given me... Feels like every time I give you this speech, it sounds less and less like a Bronte novel and more and more like a Cracker Jack joke."

He pauses, raking the fingers on Peter's nape up into the boy's hair. His other hand palms Peter's soft arm, slides round and curls under between his shoulder and the bed.

"...I'm sorry. I'm sorry I am what I am... Damn the creative writers," Wade sighs, then kisses the top of Peter's head. "This is usually the part of the speech where you forgive me, but I think you did that earlier... So I... I guess I'm just gonna have to fill it in with a love confession or something." A tiny snicker escapes Wade's lips, and he sighs, settling against the bed more heavily, letting his weight go lax and his muscles ease of their tension.

A kiss presses to his throat, and his eyes fly open. He'd been right on the brink of sleep; how did he get there so fast?! The lips against his throat smile at the way he's suddenly gone tense again.

"I'm in love with you, Deadpool. Please, don't ever leave me, Deadpool. I need you to breathe," Peter whispers, sweet as sugar.

"Haw haw," Wade shoots back. "I'm serious, kid. I need to be taken care of. My emotional stability is bankrupt."

Peter laughs against his throat, nuzzling deeper into the cocoon of Wade's body. "I'll take care of you, Wade. I promise."

That draws the tension back out of Wade's body.

"... If you stay," Peter whispers, almost like he's afraid of the answer.

But Wade grins. "How can I say no to that?"

Peter pulls back, smiling up at Wade this dazzling, startled smile that Wade's never seen before. And it fills his heart with unicorn glitter and daisies, and he squeezes Peter in his arms.

He kisses his boy again, long and slow before they both fall asleep, lips still barely brushing.

Wade stays...

He stays, he stays, he stays, and it's incredible. He falls asleep grinning like a fucking idiot, knowing the next sunset, the next sunrise--all of them, each one he can have--he'll be with Peter. And at some point, he'll be brave enough to tell Peter he wants to stay forever.

Because staying once is so much easier than leaving a hundred times.