Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Peter had been at it for a while.

Long enough that the sheets were a twisted mess beneath him, kicked off halfway down the bed and clinging damp around his calves. Long enough that his thighs stuck to themselves when they shifted, tacky with sweat and spit and effort, and nothing—nothing—to fucking show for it. His cock pulsed in his hand, flushed dark and aching, leaking slick across his fingers like it didn’t know they were locked in a war of attrition.

It should’ve been easy. The usual stuff should’ve done the trick. The go-to fantasies, the practiced pace, that one angle he could always count on when he just needed to cum and get it over with—some lazy mental rerun, stress relief on autopilot.

But not tonight. Nope.

No, tonight his body was wired wrong—lit up and thrumming but useless, high-pitched tension winding tighter and tighter just to snap limp again the second he tried to lean into it. Every roll of his hips felt like almost. Every pass of his fingers felt like almost. Almost there, almost enough. The spark kept flickering, close enough to taste, just out of reach. It was maddening.

His fingers were slick, lube drying fast on his knuckles, his grip getting clumsier with every failed attempt. His thighs kept twitching open, searching for leverage that didn’t exist, toes curling like maybe that’d push him over the edge if he just flexed hard enough. His chest was heaving now, rising fast, breath catching on every exhale like his lungs were trying to match the rhythm his dick couldn’t keep.

And God, the silence. That awful, thick, hollow silence that made every sound echo back at him too loud, too sharp. The squelch of his own hand dragging over soaked skin. The slick pop of his fingers when they slipped. The breathy, pathetic little noises catching in his throat—whines he didn’t have the energy to swallow, low groans bitten off behind clenched teeth, ragged sighs that filled the room like failure.

He tried changing tempo. Angle. Pressure. One leg kicked up higher on instinct, foot sliding along the mattress, hips rolling into the motion with a shiver of effort. But the climb never stuck. The tension just built and built and built and then evaporated again like it was mocking him for trying.

With a strangled noise, half-growl, half-plea, Peter flopped backward onto the pillows, fingers slipping free in a sticky drag that made his thighs jump. His knees fell wide, useless and spent and twitching, and his hands fisted in the sheets like he could punish them for not helping. His jaw clenched. His eyes burned. A whimper—soft, broken, ugly in the worst way—spilled from his mouth before he could stop it, barely a breath, more instinct than sound. It hung in the air between gasps, and he flinched at the fact of it, turned his face into the sheets like maybe that would make it disappear.

It should’ve been easy.

God, it should’ve worked.

By now, he should’ve been long gone—wrung out, fucked-out, blissed out. He should’ve been melting into the mattress, breathing slow, skin humming, thighs loose and lazy and twitching from the aftershocks. He should’ve been wiping his hand off on the sheets without thinking twice about it, already halfway to forgetting whatever fantasy finally pushed him over the edge.

But no.

Every nerve was begging—tight and raw and aching. Every inch of him burned with the promise of relief, muscles coiled so tight they shook under the weight of it. His gut was clenched. His cock ached. His hole throbbed around nothing. His body was doing everything right and getting absolutely fucking nowhere for it.

He should’ve given up.

Called it. Wiped his hands, crawled to the shower, chalked it up to a loss and buried his face in a pillow until the heat in his gut cooled into something more manageable and a little less humiliating.

But he was too far gone now. Too needy.

Pathetically so.

So instead he rolled over, groaning low into the mattress, face dragging into the pillow, body loose and heavy with effort. 

With frustration. With heat. 

His thighs dragged apart like they weighed a hundred pounds each, and he shoved his knees wide like that might somehow help. Like flattening himself into the bed, ass up and brain blank, might unlock whatever part of him that refused to fucking cooperate.

Maybe this angle. Maybe this shameful, desperate position—cheek squished into damp sheets, fingers already reaching back down like they had a mind of their own—maybe this would do it, right?

Right. 

He let his mind roam with lazy indulgence. Let it wander through flashes of anything that might help, anything that might grab hold and keep him there. 

His panting filled the room in uneven bursts, hot and wet against fabric, echoing just enough to sound lewd in the otherwise quiet space. His skin was burning. His ass slick. His cock hard and aching and untouched, and somehow that only made it worse, made the whole thing feel sluttier than it had any right to.

And then—there it was. 

That voice, that smirk, that broad fucking chest. Wade, in all his impossible, maddening detail, slotted in his mind. 

God, no, no, nope—

Peter panicked, and with a little shake of his head, tried to shove it away.

No, no, that wouldn’t work.

He blinked hard into the pillow, tried to wipe the slate clean and forced his mind toward safer fantasies. Faceless bodies, kind strangers. Tried to picture hands that weren’t calloused in all the wrong places, mouths that didn’t curve into lopsided grins after saying the filthiest shit imaginable. 

Someone smaller. 

Yeah, someone softer. Vague and unthreatening. Nice. Gentle.

Okay. Okay, that was better, wasn’t it? 

Someone who’d touch him slow, ask permission, whisper sweet nothings into the corner of his mouth. Someone with soft fingers and a softer voice, the kind that made you feel held, not ruined.

But the image felt flat. Empty. He pushed it, kept going—desperate now, trying to rewire the heat building in his gut into something quiet, manageable. But it was like jerking off to static. Nothing stuck. Nothing grabbed.

And then—it flickered.

Warped.

Straight to broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. That lazy, deep rasp of a voice that always sounded like it came with a smirk. It slipped in again, uninvited, so casually dominant that Peter moaned at the memory alone. 

Wade. Again.

His breath hitched, fingers curling involuntarily.

No.

He grit his teeth and tried again—stubborn now, defiant, chasing literally anyone else. Anything else. Just someone who wasn’t him. He forced the images, but every time he reached for it, Wade slunk back in.

Uninvited.

Unavoidable.

That voice—low and warm and so fucking mean—snuck back like a whisper behind his ear. Sweet in tone, cruel in content. Filthy. Controlling. Always right there, threading between the cracks like smoke.

Peter whimpered, bitten off and shaky, because fuck, he couldn’t stop it. 

Because every thought, every beat of his pulse, was already syncing to him. 

His hands—rough, steady, too big—bracketing his hips like he was breakable. That slow rasp in his ear, purring filth like it was affection. And the weight—God, the weight—sprawled over his back, warm and solid, pressing him down. 

Peter gasped, the sound punched out between clenched teeth, whole body jerking as heat coiled fast and bright in his gut.

Fuck. Yeah, that was doing it.

Wade was the default setting now, apparently, and Peter was just going to have to live with that shame spiraling around every twitch of his fingers.

Because now he could feel it. Could feel the shape of Wade's hips grinding into the backs of his thighs, the rough press of skin on skin, the size of his hand splayed across Peter’s back like he could crush him if he wanted to—and Peter would let him. 

Fuck, he’d thank him.

His fingers moved faster, deeper, the slick sounds obscene in the quiet. His other hand trembled at the base of his cock, barely stroking, just holding, grounding, like if he moved too much he’d come too soon. 

Shit. He couldn’t stop now.

Couldn’t even pretend to stop, not when his whole body had locked in on it—on him—every breath, every pulse, every clench and tremble spiraling inward toward that single, stupid, devastating thought. 

Wade’s voice, thick and rough and right there in his ear. Wade’s body, huge and warm, pinning him down. Wade’s cock, stretching him open, deep and mean in a way that made his chest seize and flutter just thinking about it.

It wasn’t fair.

God, it wasn’t fair how easy it was to fall apart on the thought of him.

How right it felt.

Like his body had been waiting for this. Holding out on purpose. Punishing him for not thinking of him sooner. Like this was what it had been craving the entire time—this image, this sound, this weight. This voice.

He whimpered—low, caught between breath and voice—and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. His hips rocked back like they were searching, like they could find something there, something solid, something bigger than his own fingers. His knees were slipping, thighs trembling under the weight of it, every nerve pulling tighter and tighter until his gut was wound so tight it felt like it might snap. That low, electric buzz had settled deep—coiled heat blooming hot and bright like a fuse ready to catch.

Now.

It was going to happen now.

He could feel it finally—building, cresting—after so long on the edge that it didn’t feel real. His body was stuttering with how badly it needed to fall, how much it wanted it. And for half a second, just half, Peter felt the guilt slither up behind the pleasure. 

Because this was wrong, right? Stupid and messy and he shouldn’t be thinking about him—not like this, not like it meant something.

But it was too late.

Way too fucking late.

His body had already made the decision for him—the stupid, needy, desperate thing that it was.

Fuck it.

His brain cracked open and everything poured in all at once—hot, heavy, so loud it swallowed him up in a moan. No room for hesitation now. Just images, heat-flooded and unrelenting. One’s he knew would do the trick.

Wade’s mouth, hot and relentless, lips dragging down his throat with too much pressure and not nearly enough care. Kissing like it wasn’t about affection, like it was about claiming—sloppy and open and wet, tongue working past his teeth like he owned the space.

He arched at the thought, body reacting faster than he could stop it—hips tipping up, back curling, a soft noise caught in his throat before he could bite it down. His fingers twisted in deep, the slick glide making him jolt, and then he angled just right—there. Fingers brushing against that spot that made his eyes roll back and his jaw go slack.

He gasped, open-mouthed, cheek dragging into the pillow as his spine bowed tighter, chasing it.

Oooh, fuck he wanted it. Needed it.

That voice. That weight. That pressure.

And his voice—God, his voice—low and rough and warm enough to make him shiver. Not soft, not sweet, but full of heat and intent. A growl tucked behind his name, dragged out like Wade was biting back a moan and trying to praise him at the same time.

That’s it, Petey. Just like that.

Good boy.

The words hit so well—sharp, sudden, deep. His gut twisted, his whole spine arching like it could run from the feeling and pull it closer all at once. The praise dug in, blooming low and fast, ripping the air from his lungs.

He whimpered, hips stuttering, movements falling apart into instinct, into mess. His fingers lost rhythm, chasing nothing but friction now, nothing but more. Every breath came with a shake, every exhale clipped short like he couldn’t keep up, like he couldn’t keep it together.

He babbled something, half-words, mostly nonsense, the same breathless, broken sound over and over. Please—fuck, please—don’t stop—don’t— his voice cracking like something fragile in his chest.

And then—Wade’s hand.

The image of it—rough, scarred, steady—closing around his throat. Pressing in enough to make Peter feel small, steady, owned.

Oh, fuck. That was it.

That was the thing that tipped everything sideways.

Peter let out a sound that barely made it past his lips—half sob, half moan—voice cracking wide open as everything finally—finally—gave out underneath him. His back arched sharp, a sudden pull like a bowstring snapping, muscles locking as the orgasm hit in a slow, brutal wave. Blinding. Electric. Drawn out until it bordered on cruel.

It rolled through him with warm burning precision, stretching him thin from the inside out. His feet kicked once, weak, twitchy, like he didn’t know what to do with the sensation. Toes curled. Thighs shook. Every inch of him fought to hold still and failed.

He came with a full-body tremor, boneless and strung out, mouth slack and open against his pillow. The sound he made was small, helpless—a whimper buried in fabric and breath—and somewhere in the mess of it, his voice cracked around a name. His name.

Soft. Wrecked. Almost reverent.

Tears blurred at the corners of his eyes, burning hot from the way it hit so hard he couldn’t breathe through it. His eyelashes fluttered, wet. His stomach clenched again, caught in the aftershocks, and he gasped as his body kept jerking through it, twitching around nothing. 

He stayed there, face pressed into the damp sheets, body still twitching with the aftershocks, too boneless to move. Breathing hard. Skin flushed. Mind blank in that quiet, electric way that only ever came after being completely undone.

And even now, after everything Wade’s voice still echoed in his ears. Warm. Steady. And this time, gentle.

Good boy.

Ha.

Ha.

The smile crept in before he could stop it—small, dazed, crooked at the edges. His mouth barely moved, but it was there, tugging at the corner of his lips like a secret. Not sweet. Not proud. Just tired. Fucked out. A little defeated.

Because God-fucking-damn-it. 

He came to Wade. 

Again.

Peter sighed into the sheets, still catching his breath, still not moving. Still glowing with the aftershock and already regretting the very specific, very infuriating pattern he’d let himself fall into.

He really needed to fix this.

Eventually.

...Maybe.

Chapter Text

“Now, you’re gonna sit there, all tight and pretty. Shouldn’t be hard for you. You’ve got that whole helpless twink thing down,” Wade said casually, as if this wasn’t even in the least bit a little fucked.

Peter tugged once more against the restraints—tight, firm, too well made to be improvised. His breathing was steady, but just barely. He could still feel the ghost of where the chloroform hit—his mouth tasted like cotton, his limbs still tingled from the adrenaline crash, and the entire left side of his pride felt bruised.

He was in own apartment.

He remembered that much—barefoot, half-awake, going to check the door after the bell rang. A normal thing. A safe thing. But then he opened it and oh—Deadpool. Standing there with that stupid tilt to his head and before Peter could even say “Hey, what are you—?” it had gone black. 

Just like that.

And now he was tied to his own damn chair in the middle of his own damn living room, staring at the merc who’d apparently been paid to “make him disappear,” because of course someone wanted the CEO of Parker Industries gone.

Total classic. Predictable. Corporate sabotage 101.

And the worst part?

His spidey-sense didn’t even go off. Not even the slightest tingle.

Because it was Wade. Of course it was Wade. That stupid, reckless, absurdly hot idiot his instincts read as safe. Safe.

So much for that.

“Are you calling me pretty?” Peter muttered, blinking up at him through a mess of curls, cheeks pink and expression tight with disbelief and maybe, stupidly, a hint of amusement.

Wade didn’t even blink. Just shrugged, one hand lazily adjusting the belt of his holster like this was all part of some casual Wednesday routine. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. Adding ‘quiet’ to that list too. So—sit tight, shut up, and look hot. Great? Thanks.”

It was so deadpan Peter almost laughed.

Actually, he kind of did.

Just a little. A breathy scoff, short and amused and probably unwise, but he couldn’t help it. This was ridiculous. Absolutely, unironically ridiculous. He’d been kidnapped in his own apartment by a guy he’d once seen drink from a rain puddle and now said guy was barking out demands like Peter was a background extra in some low-budget spy flick.

“Say please,” he said before he could stop himself, tone featherlight, just a hair away from teasing.

Wade paused.

Head tilted, brow lifting beneath the mask—like he couldn’t quite decide if Peter was brave or stupid or some rare, perfect cocktail of both.

“Are you—Are you flirting with your captor? Seriously? Bold move.” He took a step closer, boots echoing against Peter’s hardwood floor. “Keep mouthing off and I’m just going to have to assume you’re into being gagged.”

Peter grinned.

Apparently, he was finding this whole situation way more entertaining than he probably should. 

And honestly? He wasn’t even trying to escape. Not really. Not yet, anyways. 

He could get out of the restraints if he wanted to—slip a wrist, web a window, call it a day. But instead, here he was. Tied to a chair. Bantering with Wade like they were playing some elaborate game of chicken, and he hadn’t just been cold-clocked in his own doorway.

“Aw, you’re sweet,” he said, eyes glittering. “But I don’t think that’s regulation hostage protocol.”

He couldn’t see Wade’s expression under his mask, but he could feel the shift. The amusement. The subtle drop of his shoulders like he was trying not to laugh.

“Neither is being this annoying,” He shot back. “Most guys whimper a little by now. You? You’re talking back like I’m not the one with the weapons and the very questionable morals.” He paused, head tilting. “I’d almost envy the confidence—if it didn’t come in such a slappable package.”

Peter’s grin widened. 

There was something kind of freeing about being Peter Parker here, not Spider-Man. No mask, no rules, no expectations. Just a smart-ass hostage with a sharp tongue and the temporary freedom of anonymity.

“Fair,” he said. “I’ve been told I have a very slappable face.”

Wade hummed—low, thoughtful. And not the dismissive kind of hum either. No, this one had weight to it. Like he was considering the statement. Like he was appraising it.

And it hit Peter a beat too late.

Oh.

It wasn’t just agreement—it was interest. The kind that made something twist low in his gut, hot and stupid and immediately regrettable. He could feel the flush crawling up the back of his neck, betrayal-hot, as Wade took another step in and crouched low, eye-level now, voice warm and close and entirely too casual.

“Oh, absolutely. Extremely punchable,” he said, tone light. “But also? Kinda too cute to bruise. Wouldn’t wanna mess up the view.”

Peter blinked. Lips parted. Brain briefly buffering.

And still—still—he couldn’t resist.

“Do you talk to all your prisoners like this?”

It came out soft, edged with challenge. Something in his voice was deliberately provocative, poking at the boundary just to see if it would push back.

Wade smiled. Not visibly, but Peter felt it—heard it in the pause, the shape of the breath he took before responding. And then—

“Only the pretty ones.”

The words landed, and before Peter could process the heat that lit up his chest like a switch had been flipped, Wade reached into one of his endless pockets and pulled out a small black remote.

He flashed it once—a casual little threat—then pressed the button.

Click.

The restraints drew tighter.

Not just snug. Not just firm.

Tight.

The cords dug in suddenly—tight around his wrists, across his chest, biting into the soft skin of his thighs. Not enough to hurt, not really. But enough to press. To dig in like a second skin, a phantom touch with every breath he took.

It made Peter jolt—eyes flying wide, breath catching sharp in his throat like his body didn’t know whether to panic or purr. The chair groaned beneath the shift in tension, wood creaking under the strain of him jerking instinctively against the new pressure. His whole body pulled taut in a split-second of shocked resistance, chest lifting, heels sliding on the floor as he tried not to make a sound.

But then the moment passed. And what came after was worse.

The heat didn’t leave. It bloomed.

“Oh,” he managed, blinking fast as his breath came in a stutter. “Okay. That’s… new.”

Wade didn’t move. Just tilted his head as his gaze dropped. Tracked the shift in Peter’s breathing, the twitch of his arms testing the bonds, the full-body shiver he clearly tried to suppress but didn’t quite manage. 

Peter’s throat bobbed around a swallow. The hum of tension curling low in his belly had gone from frustrating to dangerous, and he was trying not to let it show.

“Yeah,” The sound rolled out of Wade slow and syrup-thick, like he was savoring it. Like he couldn’t help himself. “That a little tight?”

Peter didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The words stuck somewhere behind his teeth, swallowed down by a heat that curled hard and hungry at the base of his spine.

Because it wasn’t just the restraints—not really. It was the tone. The weight. The way Wade said it like he was teasing, almost playing with his food; mocking, gentle, laced with something mean. 

Every syllable sweetened to poison.

And that was the problem.

It hit Peter all at once—why people whispered about Wade the way they did. Why his name came up in stories shared in half-laughs and low voices. Why even villains gave him space when he walked into a room.

There was Wade, and then there was Deadpool.

And right now? It wasn’t his friend talking.

It was the Merc.

And Peter had no idea why that was the thing that did it—but it was. God, it was.

He could feel it now. Under the shame, under the heat—arousal. Real. Immediate. Shameful. The kind that burned. The kind that wrapped around his ribs and heart and made it harder to breathe.

The kind he couldn’t fight anymore, no matter how tightly he clenched his jaw.

The pressure of the restraints had gone from annoying to unbearable. Not because they hurt, no, but because they held. Every breath dragged against the tension. Every twitch of his hips rubbed him raw. Every little movement made it clearer that he was squirming—and every bit of that was being catalogued behind the black of the Merc’s mask.

Measured.

And Peter was starting to lose track of where the humiliation ended and the thrill began.

Deadpool’s voice dropped again, softer this time, like he was pretending to be merciful. “Maybe I should untie you,” he said, musing, almost to himself. “Make things more comfortable, hm?”

The sound of that—comfort paired with control—made something inside Peter twist. And worse? He wasn’t sure if the noise that left his throat next was a gasp or a whimper, and he shook his head before he meant to.

“N–No, don’t.”

It was more air than sound, barely there, but the Merc heard it. Stilled.

Peter immediately bit down on his lip, gaze darting away—shame-hot and heavy, heat coiling in his chest and lower, tighter. Too tight. Fuck. He cursed himself silently. Tried to breathe past it, push it down, rationalize.

But the problem with sweatpants?

They were loose. Baggy. And some things were very clear—or rather, pointed—when wearing them.

Peter’s breath hitched. His cheeks flared, hot and mortified, when he realized—really realized—what the pressure between his legs meant. That sharp edge of restraint. The teasing tone. Wade’s—no—Deadpool’s voice. The weight of being watched. All of it had worked too well. Way too well.

And now he was—

Oh no.

Hard.

Visibly.

Oh no, oh no, oh no, this wasn’t happening. This could not be happening.

But Deadpool was still crouched there. Still watching him with the kind of too-keen, too-focused stare that made Peter’s skin crawl in the best-worst way. Then—

Stillness. The shift in the air. That telltale flick of his eyes downward.

Followed by a laugh. A real one. Guttural. Shocked. Delighted.

“Ohhh,” Deadpool breathed, laughter cracking wide into something unhinged and wolfish. “No way. No fucking way. You’re into this, aren’t you?”

Peter’s stomach dropped. 

Mortification shot through him like a live wire, making his fingers twitch in the bindings and his knees press uselessly together. He opened his mouth, too fast, too defensive, too much.

“I’m n-not—” 

But it came out broken, breathless, cracked right down the middle by the heat in his face and the pressure in his pants and the sheer awfulness of how hard he actually was.

The Merc leaned in, closer, and grinned like he could smell the lie. “No, no, don’t even fucking try,” he said, voice low and gleeful in the worst possible way. “What is it with you tech nerds and the deluxe kink catalog, huh?” He clucked his tongue. “Care to explain?”

“It’s not—It’s not like that—” Peter stammered, flushing deeper, squirming in his seat. The restraints rubbed in all the wrong-right places. His thighs shifted. The heat in his gut only twisted harder.

“Oh, absolutely filthy and a liar,” Deadpool muttered pleased, like he’d just uncovered a juicy secret in a tabloid. He tilted his head, all mock thoughtfulness, expression practically glowing with mischief. “God, it’s always the pretty ones.”

Then his gaze dragged down Peter’s frame, slow and deliberate, and when he looked back up, it was all teeth.

“What’s doin’ it for you, huh?” he asked, voice soft, mocking, just a little too intimate. “Is it the ropes? The tone?” He gestured vaguely at Peter like he was on display. “Is it the whole tied-up-by-a-madman thing?” He leaned closer, one gloved hand braced on the arm of the chair. “Or is it the lack of choice? The not-knowing-what’s-coming-next?”

Peter swallowed hard, but his throat clicked dry. His pulse roared in his ears. And he was still hard. Worse now.

Because Deadpool was close. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off him. See the edge of teeth through the mask. Hear every little shift in his voice.

And it was all so much.

Too much.

“Please, I—” he breathed, the word slipping out without thought. Small. Cracked. Embarrassing.

He could get out. He could absolutely get out. One sharp flex of strength and the chair would snap, the restraints would fail, Wade would be on the floor. He could bolt. Escape. Do the rational thing.

But he didn’t.

He just said please.

The Merc’s grin was audible. “Y’know,” he said, voice low and syrup-thick with amusement, “I get the weirdest feeling that ‘please’ doesn’t mean stop right now.”

Peter’s head snapped up. “You’re wrong.”

“Mmm, am I?” He cooed, leaning in, cocking his head like he was listening for something beneath the words. “Then why’re you leaking through your pants?”

Peter looked down instinctively—and froze.

Fuck.

The outline in his sweats was unmistakable. Dark. Damp. Obscene. His stomach dropped and heat flooded in to replace it, crawling up his throat, into his ears, making his eyes sting with shame.

“I—That’s not—That doesn’t mean—”

“Aww, poor baby,” Deadpool interrupted, mock-sympathetic, and it was somehow even worse than teasing. His voice gentled just enough to be cruel. “Tied up, flushed, dripping, and still trying to lie through his teeth.”

His hand came up, slow, like he was offering comfort—but instead cupped Peter’s cheek, thumb dragging just under his eye. Warm. Steady.

Peter flinched—but into it. His whole body leaned instinctively into the contact like it was the first thing that had made sense all night.

“I–I didn’t ask for this—” Peter tried again, quieter now, like it would matter. Like the words still held weight.

“Nope,” The Merc said, smiling wide behind the mask. “But you’re not telling me to stop either.”

The air shifted—hotter, heavier. His grin sharpened.

His grin was visible even under the mask, teeth flashing with too much confidence. “Kinda like a surprise party, huh?” he said, voice dipping low, smooth and smug. “Except you’re the gift, and I’m the asshole with the confetti cannon.”

Peter rolled his eyes, or tried to. Tried to meet it with a scoff, a sharp remark. Something. Anything to reclaim a little dignity.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter muttered, voice too thin, too fast. He turned his face away, jerking suddenly out of Wade’s grip like it stung—like if he didn’t, it would drag him deeper into something he wasn’t ready to admit.

But the Merc just hummed, low and smug. “Don’t I?” His voice dropped, landing low in Peter’s stomach. “You’re trembling, sweetheart.” His head tipped. “And not the terrified kind.”

Peter said nothing. He couldn’t.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he muttered instead, weakly, like saying it aloud might knock something loose in Deadpool’s head. Might slow this down. Give him room to breathe.

“Oh, I always enjoy a job well done.” He stepped closer, like the air didn’t already feel too thick, like Peter wasn’t already burning from the inside out. “But this?” His fingers curled into the waistband of Peter’s sweats. “This is a bonus.”

Peter tensed immediately, but too slow, too late. Deadpool’s gloved fingers tugged—just enough. Just low enough to expose him, flushed and straining and still slick with shame.

“Don’t—!” Peter barked, panic clawing up his throat.

The Merc didn’t answer. Just lifted one finger and pressed it gently to Peter’s lips. His touch was warm. Steady. Almost affectionate, like he was shushing a startled animal.

“Shhh. You’ll wake your neighbours,” His voice was mock-gentle, full of that unbearable fake sympathy. “Wouldn’t want you to get added to some sort of noise-list,” he grinned wider, “Let alone for public indecency.”

Then—his hand wrapped around him. Just once. A slow, firm stroke, careful and deliberate like he was proving a point.

Peter choked on a breath. Whined—humiliated and raw—and bucked forward before he could stop himself. His eyes squeezed shut. He turned his head away, jaw clenched, as if pretending Deadpool wasn’t there would make it less real.

But it didn’t.

His hand stayed right where it was—warm and strong and maddeningly steady. Gloved fingers curled just right, dragging over him with a slow, infuriating confidence that made Peter’s breath catch and stutter. Every movement felt worse—better—when he couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t do anything but take it.

“Didn’t expect you to be so receptive,” The Merc murmured, voice right at his ear now. Low, smug, and devastatingly close. “You sure this isn’t your thing?”

Peter’s whole body twitched. “This isn’t—I’m not—”

The words dissolved into a gasp when his thumb slipped up, slow over the head, and circled with infuriating precision. Slick. Gentle. Just cruel enough to make Peter jolt.

“Not what?” Deadpool teased, voice syrup-thick. “Not enjoying it?”

Peter moaned—open, shuddering—and whimpered before he could swallow it down.

It only made the other chuckle, low and pleased, like he’d won something. 

“You’re kind of a mess, huh?” The Merc crooned, the pads of his fingers stroking lazily, just enough to keep Peter trembling on the edge. “Tied up, leaking, hard, and trying to pretend you’re not loving every second of this.”

“Shut up.” Peter gritted it through his teeth, voice tight with shame and effort and goddamn need.

“Ohhh,” Deadpool purred. “That tone.”

There was a shift—subtle, but unmistakable. Still playful, still laced with that mocking edge, but quieter now. Curious. Like he had just seen something under the surface and couldn’t stop himself from poking at it.

Peter felt it before he heard it: the pullback. Just a few inches. Just enough for Deadpool to tilt his head like he was trying to line up a memory.

“You know,” He said slowly, like the words were dragging themselves together as they came out, “you kinda remind me of someone.” Muttered. Barely above a breath. Not to Peter, exactly—but more like to himself.

Peter didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His stomach twisted—cold, tight, panicked—but not entirely in fear. There was something else tangled in it, something heavier. Something sharp with anticipation. If he did figure it out…

Would it be so bad?

He bit the inside of his cheek, silent.

“Mm. Must be a type,” Deadpool mused instead, a grin curling through the words. “Twitchy. Rude. Pretty as hell when they beg.”

Peter’s spine stiffened, breath catching so hard it made his eyes squeeze shut. His whole body flinched like he’d been struck—not from pain, but from recognition. The way he said it. Like he knew.

Like he was this close.

His heart was pounding loud in his ears, his whole chest tight with how much he wanted to answer—wanted to admit it. But all that came out was a wrecked exhale, trembling through clenched teeth.

“G-Go to hell,” he whispered.

The Merc didn’t miss a beat. “Already there, sweetheart. And oh! Lucky you—the tour guide’s giving you a hand.”

Peter let out a breathy, disbelieving scoff, but it hitched halfway through when he gave him another stroke, slow and deliberate. Cruel in its confidence.

“You’re sick,” Peter muttered, too breathless to land it with any weight.

“And you’re making a mess of yourself,” Deadpool shot back, voice all syrup and teeth. “God, you really are into this.”

“I’m not—”

“Still lying?” He tilted his head, gloved hand giving the softest squeeze—barely pressure, but enough to make Peter whimper. “With your cock twitching in my hand? Cute.”

“Fuck you.”

“Baby, you’re the one about to cum in my fist,” Deadpool said, far too smug for anyone’s good. “Might wanna hold off on the sass.”

Peter squirmed, wrists straining uselessly against the bindings, his chest rising and falling too fast. His body was singing, flushed all over, muscles trembling with restraint he didn’t even remember choosing.

“I—this wasn’t—fuck—” he gasped, voice cracking at the edges, words crumbling into air as Wade’s hand worked him again, steady and unrelenting.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. He wasn’t supposed to want this.

And yet—

And yet.

God—God, it felt good.

Wrong and sharp and meltingly right. Just to be held like this, touched like this, pushed until his body betrayed him completely. Just to be taken apart without having to do anything. No pressure. No expectations. No control.

Just Deadpool’s voice wrapped around him like a vice.

Peter whimpered, high and unsteady, the sound cracking out of him without thought. His hips jerked helplessly into his fist, chasing friction like his life depended on it.

“Bet you don’t even know what you’re doing anymore,” The Merc murmured, voice damn near fond now. “Don’t need to. Your body’s saying everything.”

Another stroke—slow, deep, cruel in the precision of it. It dragged slick over sensitive skin and made Peter jerk like he’d been shocked. Like it hurt, in that way that made it worse. Better.

“You gonna cum just from this?” His voice curled, warm and wicked. “From being touched and teased and talked through it?”

Peter gasped, breath stuttering out of him in broken pieces. His toes curled, knees twitching inward like he could close around the heat building there, hide it. But there was no hiding from this. No distance left to take.

“Shit, you are,” Deadpool cooed. “Look at you.”

Peter shook his head, panting into the still air like it might anchor him, like it wasn’t already thick with heat and sweat and the low, filthy sound of Deadpool’s voice curling straight into his spine. “I can’t—don’t—”

“Yeah, you can. Come on, pretty boy. Let go.”

His whole body was tensing now, one long tremble. His gut coiled tight, his legs shaking, the tension like a string pulled to the snapping point.

“Don’t hold back now,” The Merc said, softer now, coaxing and cruel all at once. “You’ve already shown me how fucked up you are.”

A full-body shiver wracked through Peter at that—something broke, or cracked, or just gave out. His mouth opened on a sob of a moan, breath catching hard in his throat like it didn’t know how to get out.

“Might as well give me the rest.”

“Don’t—fuck—”

“Yeah, there it is.” Deadpool’s voice dropped low, praise like a slow blade. “That’s it. That’s it. Knew you’d be a good little mess.”

The world tilted. His vision blurred at the edges, white-hot and narrowing. Everything else—everything but this—fell away. Just the slick twist of a hand, the rhythm, the words, the heat.

“Now,” He purred, right at his ear, the words humming low in his throat, “be a good boy—”

Peter’s breath hitched.

“—and cum for me.”

“Fuck—” he gasped, and then—

And that was it.

Peter came with a full-body jolt—sharp, silent for half a second before it broke out of him in a wrecked, stuttering moan. 

His hips bucked once, twice, riding out the wave as it tore through him, hot and fast and way too much, spilling over Wade’s hand in thick, wet pulses. A mess. God, such a mess. It splattered across his stomach, across Deadpool’s gloves, dripping down and sticking to skin and fabric and shame in equal measure.

And he simply watched. Let him ride it out. Let his hand stay right where it was, slow and steady, milking every last tremble from him with practiced, almost rude precision.

By the time it was over, Peter was slumped in the chair, restraints biting into his arms, mouth open, breath ragged, chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted ten blocks. His cheeks were flushed a deep, rosy pink. Sweat clung to his hair. His thighs twitched on instinct.

A soft, absolutely pathetic little whimper slipped out of him.

The Merc tilted his head, voice somewhere between amusement and something else. “There you go,” he said, low and warm. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Peter blinked blearily, still trying to catch up with his own body. He looked down at himself, at the mess, then back up at him with wide eyes and a breathless huff of laughter. “Shit…” he muttered. “I can’t believe you…”

“What? That you came that hard?” Deadpool asked, eyes crinkling with a grin behind the mask.

“No, I—fuck—” Peter laughed again, breath hitching, but this time with something almost giddy. He looked Wade dead in the eye, voice dry. “…Wade.”

“…Yeah?” He tilted his head suspiciously, squinting. “You’re not about to pretend I’m your boyfriend, are you? ‘Cause I do not do meet-the-parents unless there’s cake.”

Peter grinned—crooked, flushed, smug in a way that made the pink in his cheeks look earned. “No. I just—” he let out a shaky little exhale, somewhere between laughter and disbelief, body still half-slumped from the aftershocks. “Wade.”

He blinked again, visibly buffering. And Peter watched the flicker of confusion, amusement bubbling low in his chest. 

“You really don’t recognize me, do you?”

Wade tilted his head. “…What?”

Peter lifted a brow, grinning lazily through the wreckage. “Seriously?” He was too tired to sound smug, but he was giving it his best shot anyway. “You’ve seen me every other night for the last three months. We've known each other for years. Is my voice really that generic?”

Wade squinted, hard—like the words were a puzzle box and he just knew the solution was in there somewhere. His gaze scanned Peter’s face, his chest, the arch of his brow—like squinting at him harder would suddenly overlay a superhero mask and change everything.

And then. There it was.

Peter could see the exact second the dominoes fell. The way Wade’s eyes went wide, lips parting slightly behind the mask, like the final piece had been yanked into place by some invisible hand. He made a noise—more breath than voice. Staggered. A little offended.

“…Wait. Wait—”

Peter nodded, slow and amused, basking in it.

“Oh no. Noooo. No fucking way.” Wade took half a step back, like Peter had just declared himself the Antichrist. “Spider-Man?”

Peter’s grin stretched wider, ruined and unapologetic. “Surprise?”

Chapter Text

Wade had mentioned it offhandedly. Something casual, tossed out between bites of takeout and half a rant about army rations.

Yeah, he still had his old uniform. 

Yeah, somewhere in a box.

Yeah, it probably didn’t fit the same, but whatever.

Peter may have suggested he try it on.

Why?

Peter—completely chill, totally unbothered, for no reason at all—had hummed and shrugged, leaning back on his elbows and pretending like his heart wasn’t beating faster.

“No reason,” he’d said.

Which, of course, was a lie.

Now he was sitting on the edge of Wade’s bed, trying (and failing) to look casual. Legs swinging a little. Hands planted behind him for support. His entire body buzzing with anticipation as he waited—staring blankly at the door like that might speed things up.

When it finally creaked open, Peter sat up fast.

And oh. Oh.

Oh no.

Wade stepped in, half-smirking, tugging at one of the sleeves like it had bunched weird at the shoulder. The black combat shirt clung tight to his arms, the camo pants slung low on his hips, and the name patch—Wilson—was still stitched across his chest, faded but intact. The sleeves were rolled, the collar open, the gloves fitted snug over his hands like second skin.

“Well?” Wade asked, giving a dramatic spin, arms held out. “Gotta admit, it’s a little tight now.”

And yeah. Yeah it was.

Peter’s mouth went dry. Which was fortunate because he was pretty sure he would drool otherwise.

The uniform was stretched across broad shoulders and thick muscle, hugging his frame in a way that made Peter’s brain skip like a scratched CD. It did things to him—terrible, horny, unspeakable things—and the worst part? Wade didn’t even know. He wasn’t trying.

Peter swallowed. Hard.

Because sure, Wade always looked good. Hot in that casually devastating way. But this? This was lethal. This was authority and strength and rough edges wrapped up in discipline and history and a million filthy ideas Peter didn’t even know he had until right now.

And God help him, he wanted to climb that man like a jungle gym.

Peter blinked once. Twice.

He wasn’t breathing. Was he breathing?

Oh god, he wasn’t breathing.

Wade adjusted the collar again, glancing down at himself like he wasn’t fully aware of the nuclear-grade thirst trap he’d just dropped in the middle of the room. 

“It’s got that stiff collar thing going on,” he muttered, tugging at the edge again, “but, you know, still intact. Pretty impressive, considering how much blood this thing’s seen.”

Peter made a noise—something between a laugh and a strangled please shut the fuck up—and ducked his head, suddenly very invested in the vague pattern of Wade’s bedsheets.

Because blood? He was talking about blood?

Wearing that?

Looking like that?

Peter’s thighs pressed together on instinct, heat blooming embarrassingly low in his gut.

Yeah, this was a mistake.

No, this was the best idea he’d ever had.

Wade finally looked up, cocking his head at Peter’s very obvious silence. “What?” He sounded amused. Like he knew. Like he had the faintest idea what this was doing to him.

Peter’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Because where the fuck was he supposed to look?

At the way the fabric hugged his waist? The way the sleeves strained at the seams when he moved? The shape of his thighs in those fatigues, the goddamn boots, the cut of his jaw above the unbuttoned open collar—

Peter made a helpless sound, high and quiet.

Wade’s brow lifted slowly. “Huh,” he said. “Not the reaction I was expecting, but… noted.”

Peter could’ve died right then. He really could’ve.

Because this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t just hot. This wasn’t some shallow uniform kink.

This was Wade, looking like that, standing in front of him all calm and cocky and massive, like he didn’t know Peter was five seconds away from dropping to his knees just to be closer.

It wasn’t just the clothes.

It was the presence.

The authority.

The way Wade moved like he could throw him over a shoulder and walk off with him and Peter wouldn’t even protest.

God, he needed to touch him.

Or maybe he just needed to sit on his hands and pray for mercy.

Either way, this was so much worse than he thought it’d be.

And so much better.

Peter swallowed thickly, trying—and failing—to keep his eyes above the collar.

Wade noticed. Of course he did.

“Ohhh,” Wade drawled, mouth quirking as he shifted his weight just slightly, enough for the fabric to pull across his chest. “You are into this. Yeah, I thought the whole ‘yes, you should definitely try it on, no reason, haha’ thing was suspicious.”

“I am not,” Peter lied instantly, voice a little too thin, too quick.

Wade gave him the slowest once-over imaginable. From where Peter was sitting—knees pulled up slightly on the edge of the bed, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie—it felt like getting x-rayed through his clothes.

Wade grinned.

“Sure you’re not, sweetheart,” he said, sauntering closer. “That’s why your pupils are blown out like a kicked-in door and you’ve been clenching your thighs like they owe you money.”

Peter flinched, heat flushing fast to his ears. “I didn’t think—”

“Didn’t think I’d look this good in it?” Wade cut in, smug and absolutely unbearable. “I’ll have you know I was quite the wet dream in camo back in the day. As you can see.”

Peter made a weak noise, like the air had gone out of him. “I mean… I didn’t not think you’d look good,” He muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck like that might hide the color in his face. “I just. I didn’t think you’d still have it. And—uh—you look. Y’know. Good. Really. Um, good.”

Wade’s grin widened instantly.

“You planned this. You knew you were gonna short-circuit the moment you saw me playing hardass sergeant. Admit it.”

Peter flailed. “I didn’t—that’s not—I wasn’t trying to—!”

“You’re so bad at lying, it’s adorable,” Wade said, stepping in close again, watching him squirm like it was his new favorite hobby.

“I was curious!” Peter sputtered. “It’s objectively hot, okay? Military uniforms! It’s like—a–a thing! Ask anyone!”

Wade’s brow shot up. “Objectively, huh?”

Peter groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god, please shut up.”

“Hey, you wanna roleplay a lil’?” Wade asked suddenly, tilting his head. “Since you’re clearly halfway there already.”

Peter blinked up at him. “W–What?”

“I mean,” Wade continued, gesturing vaguely to himself, “I am in uniform. You’re already sitting there looking like you just got caught sneaking off base to do something filthy in the supply closet. Seems rude not to follow through.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Wade leaned down again, eyes sharp, voice low.

“Oh, you don’t?” he said. “You telling me you’re not already picturing me ordering you to drop and give me twenty? Or maybe just drop?”

Peter went still.

Wade grinned wider. “C’mon. We can do the whole thing. You’re the rookie, I’m your commanding officer. You’ve been disobedient. I’m forced to discipline you. God, you love rules, you little nerd—this is basically porn and character development.”

Peter opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I—”

Wade leaned down. Close. Closer. One hand braced beside Peter’s thigh on the mattress, and just like that, he was in his space—all heat and weight and danger-smiling authority.

“Now, you gonna be a good soldier for me, rookie?” Wade murmured, low and warm and right at his ear now. “Or am I gonna have to make you follow orders?”

Peter made an obscene sound in the back of his throat. Choked on it. Tried to recover.

“That’s—That's not regulation,” he breathed, voice embarrassingly high.

“Neither’s getting hard for your CO, but here we are.”

Peter whimpered.

Wade’s hand slid up the side of his neck, calloused thumb grazing just under his jaw. 

“Say yes, rookie,” he said, smile all teeth. “Say yes, sir.”

Peter nodded. Swallowed.

“Y–Yes, sir.”

Wade’s grin stretched wider, sharp as a switchblade. “That’s more like it,” he purred, thumb pressing just a little firmer against Peter’s jaw. “See? You can follow instructions.”

Peter’s breath hitched, lashes fluttering as he leaned—barely—into the touch. His throat worked around a swallow, heart hammering loud in his ears.

“I—I’ve always been good at… training,” he managed, instantly regretting how breathless it sounded.

Wade snorted. “Oh, you poor thing. You think this is training? No, rookie—this is reconditioning.”

His other hand came to rest on Peter’s thigh, heavy through the denim, warm even through layers. Peter jolted like he’d been shocked, but didn’t pull away.

Wade tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “Y’know, standard protocol would be writing you up,” he said casually, fingers squeezing slightly. “But I’m thinking a more hands-on approach might work better for you.”

Peter flushed hot enough to make his vision blur. “I… I don’t think that’s covered in the handbook.”

Wade leaned in again, lips just brushing the shell of his ear. “You read the handbook?”

Peter nodded faintly. “Twice.”

A beat of silence.

“…You are so fucking lucky I find that hot,” Wade muttered, and suddenly he was climbing onto the bed, straddling Peter with the practiced ease of someone who had absolutely committed to this bit.

Peter sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide. “Hey, I thought rookies weren’t allowed to fraternize with officers.”

“They’re not,” Wade said, rolling his hips forward just enough to make Peter choke on air. “Which is why you’re gonna take this like a good soldier, stay quiet, and not get me court-martialed.”

Peter whimpered. “I—I don’t think I can promise that.”

Wade grinned. “Then I guess I’ll just have to train the disobedience out of you.”

Peter’s hands scrambled for purchase in the sheets.

“Now,” Wade said, smoothing one palm over Peter’s chest, tone dropping, “what do we say, rookie?”

Peter bit his lip. “Y—Yes, sir.”

Wade’s grin twitched into something darker. Satisfied. “Atta boy,” he said, fingers slipping to the hem of Peter’s shirt, ghosting under just enough to drag rough fingertips along skin. 

Peter let out a sound he didn’t even recognize. High, shaky, stupidly pliant. His legs parted without thinking, his hands still clutching the sheets like they were the only thing tethering him to the moment.

Wade leaned in again—closer this time, forehead brushing Peter’s, breath warm and steady and maddening. “Tell me,” he murmured, voice rough now, almost reverent. “Is this what you wanted when you asked me to try this on?”

Peter’s eyes squeezed shut. “No,” he breathed.

Wade tilted his head. “No?”

Peter swallowed. Hard. “I didn’t think it would actually work.”

Wade barked out a laugh. “Buddy, you asked a Special Forces vet to wear his uniform, sat all pretty on my bed, then blushed when I walked in. Don’t act all surprised when I take the bait.”

Peter whined, face burning. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah,” Wade agreed easily. “But I am your superior officer, so shut your mouth and take your punishment.”

Peter’s breath caught—again—and then Wade’s hand was back on him, firmer now. Palming him through his jeans with zero pretense. His thumb dragged up the zipper line, slow and deliberate, and Peter twitched.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” Wade muttered, voice dropping to something near-growl. “Showing up to inspection like this. Hard. Fidgety. Needy. That how rookies act?”

Peter shook his head weakly, already trembling beneath him. “N–No, sir.”

“No, sir,” Wade echoed, amused. “But look at you. Still squirming.”

He popped the button of Peter’s jeans open in one practiced move.

“I think we’re gonna have to revisit the chain of command, rookie.”

Peter whimpered, already gone. “Yes, sir.”

Wade chuckled low, the sound curling dark and warm against the underside of Peter’s jaw, his breath hot enough to sting. “Good,” he said, voice like gravel and gasoline. “Now lie back and take your goddamn debriefing.”

Peter did. Without thinking, without blinking, without even trying to argue. Just nodded once, sharp and eager, and let himself be nudged back into the mattress by the weight of Wade’s hands on his shoulders.

Wade’s body followed, slow and deliberate, knees dragging up between Peter’s as he crawled down. The bed shifted with him, creaking beneath the press of muscle and weight. The uniform clung to him in all the worst ways—tight across his shoulders, strained over his thighs—and Peter stared like he was trying to memorize every seam.

Then Wade was between his legs.

Peter’s breath caught—high and tight in his chest—as Wade settled into the cradle of his thighs. His hands hooked onto Peter’s waistband, thumbs sliding low against sensitive skin, and tugged. 

The denim peeled down in slow, hitching inches. Peter squirmed, hips lifting reflexively, a whimper catching at the back of his throat.

And then—

Then Wade’s mouth was on him.

With no warm-up. No teasing. Just heat and slick and depth, immediate and unrelenting, like Wade had been thinking about this for days and couldn’t wait another fucking second. He sucked him down like a problem he was planning to solve, hands braced on Peter’s thighs, keeping him wide open and twitching.

Peter choked on a gasp, full-bodied and helpless. His back arched off the bed, muscles locking tight for a moment before giving way to tremors, too much all at once. His hands scrabbled for anything—sheets, his own curls, the edge of the mattress, even the front of Wade’s shirt—but came up empty, fingers curling into the air instead, as if he could claw himself back from the edge.

His breath hitched, fluttered, hitched again. Each stroke of Wade’s tongue pushed him further off balance—slow, wet, unhurried but so fucking intentional, like he knew exactly what he was doing, like he wanted Peter to squirm.

And then there was the uniform.

God. The goddamn uniform.

Olive green, sharp-edged, worn with use and history and Wade’s absurd, stupid body stuffed inside like it was tailored for sin.

It should’ve been ridiculous. Should’ve made Peter laugh. But it wasn’t. 

It was breaking his brain in real time—every seam, every taut muscle underneath, every flash of black combat boot and tight sleeve and power.

Fuck, he was gone for it. Down bad. Morally bankrupt.

It was too much. Too fast. Too fucking good.

The edge curled sharp and unforgiving in his gut, coiling tighter with every drag of Wade’s mouth, every pleased hum that vibrated down his cock. Heat flooded him, frantic and breathless and immediate. 

Oh, shit. He was going to cum. He was going to—

And then Wade pulled off.

The sudden absence was like being flung off a cliff—sharp, jarring, breath knocked out of him. Peter let out a broken, punched-out sound, something caught between a sob and a protest. His thighs trembled, twitching with denial, body locked in a high-wire tremble that had nowhere to go.

Wade licked the corner of his mouth with slow satisfaction, eyes dark and glinting. He looked far too composed for someone who’d just nearly sucked the soul out of a man.

“Easy there, rookie,” he murmured, grin curling smug. “I didn’t say you could cum yet.”

Peter trembled, fists knotted in the sheets. “W–Wade—”

“Nuh-uh.” He reached up, tapping two fingers to Peter’s chin. “Try again.”

Peter’s voice cracked. “Sir—please—”

“There it is.” Wade grinned, filthy and warm and unmistakably pleased. “God, you’re a natural.”

He went back down without warning this time—mouth hot, greedy, sinking around him deep. Peter choked on a moan, hips jerking before Wade’s arm locked firm over them, pinning him down like he was built for it.

It was relentless. Warm, wet, and fucking perfect.

Wade worked him open with no mercy—tongue dragging slow and obscene, suction cruelly steady, every movement calibrated to ruin. He didn’t tease. Didn’t ease up. Just kept going like he had all the time in the world and every intent to break Peter apart with his mouth alone.

His grip on Peter’s hips was bruising—tight, possessive, like he knew Peter might bolt if given half a second of slack. And his mouth—God, his mouth—never faltered. Slick, filthy, determined.

Peter's head thrashed against the pillow, curls damp, breath coming in shattered gasps that barely made it to the air before dissolving into moans. His thighs kept trying to close, twitching around Wade’s shoulders, but Wade didn’t let him. Just pressed closer, mouth stretching wider, wetter, deeper.

He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Every cell in his body felt like it was vibrating, skin too tight for the heat building under it. Every pass of Wade’s tongue made him jolt, whimper, beg in half-formed words.

“I can’t—” he gasped, voice wrecked and high and falling apart. “Sir, I—oh, fuck, I–I can’t—”

And then he looked down.

Big mistake.

Wade’s eyes were on him—dark, locked in, and smiling around the obscene drag of his cock. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he enjoyed it. Like this was all one big power trip and Peter was playing his part perfectly.

The heat in Peter’s belly snapped tighter.

“Sir,” he sobbed, throat catching. “P–Please—please let me cum—”

Wade pulled back with a slick pop, jaw wet, lips shiny, and voice low with command.

“Cum for me, rookie.”

And then he swallowed him down again.

That was it.

Peter came with a sound that bordered on broken—half gasp, half sob, a full-body spasm that shook him to the core. Every nerve blew wide open. Every thought dissolved. He curled inward as he came, hands fisting uselessly in the sheets, toes curling, thighs trembling, with tears springing hot to his eyes. He was nothing but sensation and sound and surrender.

Wade didn’t stop. Worked him through it, through every twitch, every aftershock, every ragged breath and swallowed every drop until Peter collapsed fully into the mattress with a shudder, the air completely stolen from his lungs.

When Wade finally pulled off, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, blinked up lazily, and grinned like the devil incarnate.

“Debrief complete,” he said.

Peter, still twitching, could only whimper in response.

Chapter Text

It started innocently.

Or—well. Innocent enough for them.

Peter had been rambling. Not in a bad way—just, in the way he always did when he had something to say and hadn’t realized he’d already been talking for fifteen minutes straight. 

His brain was buzzing, fingers moving like punctuation marks mid-air, halfway through a point about thermal webbing conductivity or the specific language in the legal documents that meant he was “technically not banned from Stark Tower anymore.” Right.

He didn’t notice Wade at first.

Or rather, he did—but not the way he should have.

Because Wade had been too quiet. Lounging beside him on the couch like a cat with a full belly and too much time, arms sprawled, shifting thighs spread, head tipped just-so as he listened with that open-mouthed smile that usually meant one of two things: he was thinking about kissing Peter, or he was thinking about doing something else entirely.

But Peter missed it.

Mostly because he had a lot to say today.

(Not out of neglect. Just… he thought they were having a conversation.)

So he kept talking. Kept gesturing. Two fingers flicking sharp to underscore whatever point he was making—

—and then Wade grabbed him.

One smooth movement. Casual. Like it was nothing.

Fingers around Peter’s wrist. Firm. Confident. And before Peter could even blink—before his brain could catch up—Wade turned his hand slightly, brought it toward his mouth, and without any hesitation, slipped both of Peter’s fingers into his mouth.

Just. Like. That.

Peter stopped talking mid-word. His mouth stayed open for half a second longer, the syllable dying on his tongue before it even made it out.

His entire train of thought derailed—violently, spectacularly. Brain gone completely, comically blank.

Because—

Because Wade was sucking.

Full suction, lips sealed, tongue moving with deliberate slowness around the base of Peter’s fingers, dragging slick heat up the length of them in lazy, hungry swirls. His cheeks hollowed with the pressure, and he didn’t even blink—just looked up at Peter from beneath his lashes like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Like he wasn’t making the most obscene sounds Peter had ever heard in his life.

Peter couldn’t move. Couldn’t even think. Just stood there, arm frozen between them, hand halfway to Wade’s mouth and entirely forgotten by its owner.

“What the fuck,” Peter finally breathed—not angry. Just… stunned. Unbelievably, viscerally stunned.

Because Wade didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. He just stayed there—calm, focused, obscenely unbothered—like Peter’s fingers had ended up in his mouth by divine right. His lips moved slow, almost reverent, tongue curling around each digit like he was unwrapping a gift. Sucking like it was something to savor. Something earned.

Like Peter was dessert and Wade was starving.

Peter blinked. Once. Twice.

His brain, already lagging behind the situation, caught up with a slap.

Oh.

Oh.

So that’s what all the squirming had been about. The restless energy. The hands that kept drifting. The way Wade had been watching him like he was halfway between a science experiment and a snack.

This wasn’t random.

This wasn’t about Peter’s thermal webbing.

This was horny.

Wade was horny, and this—this was him being polite about it.

Peter’s breath caught, stuck like glue in his throat, his fingers twitching involuntarily where they sat buried past Wade’s lips. Because now he felt it. Really felt it. The weight of Wade’s mouth. The heat. The slick wetness where his fingers met the soft slide of tongue and teeth and spit.

His knees went a little loose.

Wade’s mouth was still moving—slow, deliberate, almost experimental in how thoroughly he tongued around the base of Peter’s fingers, like he was trying to figure out which part would get the biggest reaction.

His tongue flicked between them, swirled wide and slick over his knuckles, dragged back and forth along the pads like he knew exactly what he was doing. And maybe he did. Maybe that was the worst part.

Or the best.

Because Peter was watching it happen—feeling it happen—and somewhere in the haze of overstimmed silence, he realized…

He was—

He was drooling.

Wade was drooling.

It started as a shimmer—barely noticeable at first. Just a glisten in the corner of his mouth where his lips didn’t quite seal around Peter’s hand. But then it slipped—thick and slow—down across Peter’s skin. Hot. Sticky. Intimate in a way Peter wasn’t prepared for.

It tracked over his knuckles in a slow slide, catching in the creases of his fingers before pooling low in the center of his palm. Lower, over the line of his wrist. Leaving a glossy trail of heat and spit like a brand. Like a claim.

Peter’s lips parted—dry, useless. His voice barely made it out.

“…You’re drooling.”

It came out small. Dazed. Awed.

Because that was all he could say. That was all he had.

Wade didn’t even stop. Didn’t pause. Just let out a low hum around his fingers, eyes still half-lidded and content. Like he was feeding off of it. Like this was the best thing he’d tasted all week and wasn’t about to let go now.

The sound vibrated right through Peter’s hand. His spine arched with it.

Peter swore under his breath—sharp, breathless, useless—because the arousal hit him like a freight train. Hot. Heavy. Immediate. His cock twitched, half-hard and growing fast, his mind fuzzing at the edges like someone had turned the dial straight to feral.

Because Jesus fucking Christ, Wade’s mouth.

His mouth. 

That was not a normal mouth. 

That was a sin factory. A slick, hungry, wrecking-machine of a mouth that was clearly designed for one purpose only—being full.

And it was so full. Wet heat, flushed lips, the slurp of it—God, the noise alone was filthy enough to make Peter’s brain skip like a scratched record. But it was the need behind it that really did him in. The way Wade sucked like he meant it, like it mattered, like he was chasing something at the back of his throat.

Peter hissed, jaw tightening like it was the only thing keeping the rest of him from coming apart.

And Wade?

Wade just looked at him. 

Wide-eyed. Gleaming. Pupils blown wide with something between reverence and ruin. His lips were wrapped perfectly around Peter’s fingers, spit glossing his mouth, his tongue still fluttering like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Peter couldn’t take it anymore.

With a quiet, warning growl low in his throat, he pulled his hand free—wet, slick, a line of spit stretching stubbornly between Wade’s mouth and his knuckles before breaking with a soft, obscene snap.

Wade blinked up at him, dazed and fucking ruined. Lips pink. Chin wet. Chest rising with shallow, eager breaths like he’d just been edged.

He looked wrecked just from that. 

From fingers.

And Peter? 

He almost laughed. Almost, because it was hilarious. Hilarious and hot and pathetic in a way that only Wade had perfected. 

But instead, Peter reached out, fingers firm as they curled around Wade’s jaw. His grip tightened just slightly as he used his thumb to pry Wade’s mouth back open. His thumb pressed down on that flushed bottom lip, dragging it lower, inspecting. 

Wade let him. 

Eager. Obedient. Panting.

Peter’s breath hitched—just once. Barely. Then he hummed, pleased. Cruel. Just a touch smug as he tilted Wade’s head back even further, thumb still tracing along the slick of his mouth like it belonged to him.

“Alright, I’ll hand it to you,” he started, voice lazy with heat, “that’s an interesting way to get my attention,” 

Wade blinked up at him, mouth open, lips shining. “And it worked.”

Peter smirked.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It did.”

He leaned in close—not kissing him, not touching more than he already was—but just hovered there, breath mingling with Wade’s, his own lips brushing near Wade’s cheek as he spoke.

“Let’s put that mouth to good use, hm?”

His voice was low. Dangerous. Lit like a goddamn fuse.

And Wade—

Wade sparked. Eyes glittering like glass under flame. Like he’d just been handed the keys to heaven and hell and couldn’t wait to be dragged through both.

His tongue darted out—slow, teasing—catching the spit at the corner of his mouth like he meant to be obscene. Like he wanted to make a show of it.

Then he swallowed hard, jaw flexing under Peter’s grip, and looked him dead in the eye.

“Hell yeah.”