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The Hips Don't Lie (Except When They Do)

Summary:

Shit, Peter thinks, over and over again. Shit shit shit shit shit shit… Stop. You should stop. You should really stop, Parker.
Don’t wanna, thinks the rest of him, happily.
This wasn’t supposed to get this far. This was never supposed to get this far.
Don’t care, thinks the rest of him, still happily.
And, as Wade’s fingers find their way inside his waistband and trace teasingly along the edge of it, Peter is forced to admit that “Don’t care” is in fact a very convincing argument.

Notes:

Finally finished this old thing!
I wanted to write a trans character fic that wasn't about being trans, or about The Struggle, or about fetishizing trans people. Just a trans character fic about hot, happy sex.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

Whenever he puts on the mask, Peter’s snark levels spike by about 300%, and his instinct for self-preservation divebombs to about 26% of normal standards. Likewise if you get a few drinks in him.

He should’ve known better than to mix the two. It’s one of the first rules he learned at one of his first “real” parties: Mixing is a bad idea. Don’t do it.

He done did it.

He blames Tony. He could just as easily blame New Year’s traditions, except there’s always been booze aplenty at the Avengers-et-al New Year’s parties, and he’s never managed to reach quite this level of shitfaced at them before.

But this time, several points of bad timing aligned to orchestrate Peter’s downfall:

Tony and Pepper’s on-again-off-again is currently off, and therefore Tony is currently off the wagon; and while during such times Tony is normally content to drink alone and surly, it was a party, after all. And everyone knows that Spidey’s the only real lightweight on the roster, so Tony decided to designate him the evening’s drinking buddy. This way Tony would have someone else to laugh at.

Spidey accidentally fulfilled his assigned role of comedic relief when, barely past nine, he got caught up in a particularly heated “yo’ mama” contest with Clint, and tripped and fell onto the glass-top coffee table, shattering it. Mostly with his face.

After ascertaining that Spidey wasn’t bleeding out, Tony proceeded to laugh so hard he put too much strain on his stomach and had to make a mad dash for the altar of the porcelain god.

That’s when Peter decided he’d had quite enough Stark-brand partying for one holiday, fuck you very much. Spider: out.

There aren’t too many cuts from the broken glass, and those cuts aren’t deep, but Peter’s blood is so watered down that even now, even like an hour and a freaking half later, his accelerated healing still hasn’t managed to clot them up. His Spider-Man suit looks like Carrie’s prom dress. And his suit’s probably more expensive to replace than a prom dress. Not that he’d know. He didn’t even try to bother with prom; some social disasters he can actually see coming in time to avoid them. Sometimes.

‘Course, now that he thinks about it, he probably shouldn’t be out swinging around. Makes the blood pump out faster. Also he’s probably on the verge of hypothermia. Sure, his skin feels sunburned, but you don’t gotta be a genius to realize that’s just ‘cause the shots innoculated him against certain sensory experiences, such as freezing to death. It’s December (or — is it January yet? what time is it?) and he’s soaring through the unfiltered air in a skin-thin stretchy-stretchy catsuit. Blood-wet catsuit with holes in it. Thanks again, Tony. Yes I am totally blaming you for everything, Tony.

He should probably get inside or something.

Or. Y’know. Drink some water before his stomach does all the partiers in Times Square the way a pigeon does statues.

Instead he loop-de-loops himself up to a skyscraper roof with a view, one of the few around that’s not peopled by civilians who’re probably at least as wasted as he is. (Or — prob’ly more so. The coldness that he can’t quite feel yet has been slapping a lot of the drunk out of him, and lightweight or not, he usually sobers up faster than a career politician who’s late to a speech he forgot he was supposed to give.)

The momentum fucks up his landing, or maybe gravity does, or maybe his legs just forgot how to be legs. Either way he hits the roof diagonally, trips, and rolls halfway across it before stopping. His stomach keeps rolling even after the rest of him stops. He swallows deeply. Pushes himself over onto his back with a half-groan, half-laugh, and sticks his hands up in the air, offering himself a slow clap. “He’s beauty and he’s grace,” he sings.

“He’s totally shitfaced,” someone adds, also in song.

Spider-Man levers himself up, squinting and confused but not terribly concerned because, one, too drunk to give a shit, and two, Spider-sense doesn’t have anything to say about the interruption, so it’s probably fiiine. “Whozzat?” he croaks.

“Like you even need to ask,” says Deadpool. “The readers know what they’re here for. And I know what I’m here for. Real question is, Spidey, are you onboard for this or what? ‘Cause if not, there’s gonna be a lot of disappointed boys and girls this Christmas morning.”

“Christmiss was las’ week,” says Spider-Man.

“Then we’d better get on with it, eh. C’mon, baby boy, get up off that ass so I can grab it. And I don’t mean like a li’l pinchy-pinch, I mean both hands, like a real load-bearing grope.” Deadpool offers him a hand up, then instead of copping a feel he reels back. “Wooo! When’s the last time you got the emissions checked on this thing? Damn, buddy, don’t light a match.”

Spider-Man laughs. “Yeah, my liver’s pr’tty much pickled.”

“Partyin’ hearty with your many bajillions of friends?”

“Both of ‘em? Nahhh, Tony wan’ed a… ffuhck, I dunno, wha’s th’ opposite of a designated driver?”

“I think the word you’re lookin’ for is ‘enabler’.” Deadpool steadies him with a hand on his shoulder before Peter even realizes he’s swaying, and then points to the sky. “That way is up,” says Deadpool. “Just in case you were wondering.”

“Don’ draw me a map or nothin’.”

Deadpool lets out a low whistle. Not a loud one, but it cuts clean through Peter’s head anyway and cauterizes his brain as it goes. Yep, definitely starting to sober up. When Peter looks down he sees Wade’s gloves jabbing curiously and not-very-gently at all the coffee-table cuts along his upper ribs. It’s a good thing Peter’s incapable of feeling pain right now ‘cause that would definitely sting. “Where’d these come from?” says Deadpool. “You been out superheroing when you’re too wasted to stand up straight?”

“Absololl — absulu — def’nitely some very official, super serious superhero bidniss. Point of fact, I defeated my arch-nem’sis earlier this evening. That dastardly table been hauntin’ the innocent cizzizens of Chelsea and my nightmares f’r weeks. And now: it is over. As it was foretold.”

“Table?”

“Yep. Glass one. I vanquished it wiff my face.”

“Yeah,” Deadpool says, looking up at said face. “I can see that.” And he pokes a finger at a spot on Peter’s forehead that Peter didn’t even know was bleeding. “I know it’s none of my beeswax and all, but maybe if you’re too hammered to navigate household furniture, you shouldn’t be trapezing around forty stories off the pavement with no net.”

Spidey shrugs. “Not a crime,” he says.

“Not yet. You fuck up tonight and they might think to pass legislation. Which would make you a criminal. Which would completely fuck up the whole delicious Gee-vee-Eee dynamic we got goin’ on that draws us together even as it pulls us apart like in literally every one of thousands of tween vampire novels.”

“Victimless crime.”

“Try tellin’ that to the feeb whose job it is to hose your guts off the sidewalk. I promise you they don’t appreciate it. They throw things at me now.”

Peter crosses his arms with a huff. “Why you bein’ all, I dunno…” He waves a hand at Deadpool. “All like, Disappointed Asian Dad? I’d think you of all assholes wu’d be friggin’ thrilled t’ end up alone on a rooftop wiv me drunk off my ass.”

“One, racially insensitive. Two, outdated meme. Three, you just boofed it across that roof in one of the least sexy maneuvers I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness. I can’t even look at you the same way anymore.”

“Whatevs. You still want me.”

“Totally, but that ain’t the issue here, Spides.”

“Agghh.” Under the mask, Peter rolls his eyes so hard he loses balance again. This time he swats away Deadpool’s helping hand and lets himself drop to the roof, like a real OOF kind of drop, folding his legs up under him as if he totally meant to do that, but damn is his tailbone gonna smart in the morning. “Why’s there gotta be an issue?” he says.

“What the shit, man?” says Deadpool. “Why do you gotta make me be the responsible one here? I mean, who does that? Seriously. Don’t do that. I’m pretty sure it’s one of the warning signs they list in pamphlets at mental health clinics.”

“Hey c’mon, Pool! It’s New Year’s in New York!” Peter lifts both arms and jazz-hands at the sky. “It’s a party. Lighten the fuck up. Nob’dy needs to be ‘the responsible one’ right now. Y’work hard all fuck’n year. Take a night off. World’s not gonna end in one night.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, baby boy.”

“’M tellin’ you, ya jackass.”

“Yuh-huh. Let’s get some food in you first and then you can displace your guilt complex ’til your little heart’s content.”

Peter doesn’t really have any plans — Tony’s party was his plan, and that turned out to be a bust (lol, punny, ‘cause of the busted table, right, gonna have to save that one for later) — so he also doesn’t really have any objection to Deadpool dragging him home.

Er, to Deadpool’s home, not to Peter’s. As much as Peter’s come to enjoy Wade’s, shall we say, attention, and as much as he’s been returning that attention lately against his better judgment, he’d still rather gnaw his own leg off than let that sketchy bastard find out where he lives.

The walk seems to take for-fucking-ever, and by the time they reach the apartment in question Peter’s shivering from the biting air and irritatingly sober. Well. Not entirely sober. Just sober enough that it irritates him. He voices this irritation with rude abandon, without directly citing its source. Deadpool, in true Deadpool form, gives as good as he gets in this respect. Peter forgets each word as soon as it’s spoken.

The cold creeps in and makes him grind his teeth, and that makes the headache worse.

“Oh thank fuck heat,” Peter says when Deadpool’s door opens, and beelines for the couch the second he sees it. Faceplants into the warm cushions without preamble.

“Sure, c’mon in, make yourself at home,” Deadpool grumbles before closing the door.

Peter lifts his head enough to say, “You been all but begging me to come over to your place for like three years. Don’t act like you’re not enjoying this at all.”

“Well I mean, you do come with a nice view,” says Deadpool.

Peter rolls over so his ass is no longer up in the air.

“Spoilsport,” says Deadpool.

“I live to destroy dreams.”

“Except wet ones. Those follow you around like ducklings.”

“That’s… those are weird metaphors to mix.”

“Don’t look at me, I ain’t the one at the keyboard.” Deadpool flips on the kitchen light. It’s a grungy, flickery old 1990s fluorescent light that buzzes like a rabid hornet (can insects contract rabies? nah…), and Peter shields his eyes with a hand and hisses at it.

A few slices of cold pizza and a former mayonnaise jar full of what appears to be potable water end up in front of him before the damn light turns off again. Spidey drags the edge of his mask up to the bridge of his nose and drinks the water, not because he wants it (what he wants is a beer, just a simple cold beer to wash down both the impinging headache and the lingering sour whiskey-taste in his mouth), but because on some dull intellectual level he knows hydrating is the smart thing to do.

And he’s supposed to be smart, current evidence notwithstanding.

Deadpool mashes a hand against the side of Spidey’s face and pushes him sideways, making room for himself on the couch. It’s only a two-seater, and they’re both sprawlers, so there’s a lot of shoving and elbowing and ineffectual catfight-slaps while they work out which body parts are gonna go where.

They manage to end up more or less next to each other, more or less peacefully, but Peter’s thigh is being held hostage under Deadpool’s, and he’s not sitting so much as flattened out against the cushion he managed to claim, with his head and the tops of his shoulders smashed up awkwardly against the backrest at a full ninety degrees. His neck already aches.

Deadpool doesn’t help Peter’s chiropractic health when he smugly decides to use the top of Peter’s head as an armrest. Peter swats him away.

Repeatedly. The elbow keeps returning to his skull. Peter switches from swats to jabs.

Until Deadpool growls, hooks his arm around Peter’s neck, and drags the top half of him closer with a weird kind of finality. So now Peter’s folded in half on his side, the one leg still trapped under Deadpool’s, head on the edge of Deadpool’s hip.

Wade flops his heavy arm across Peter’s body, effectively holding him down.

Okay, yeah, aside from the hipbone digging into the side of his face, it’s actually pretty comfortable like this. Peter sighs in thinly veiled defeat and decides to relax. It’s New Year’s. It’s a party. Jazz hands, right? World won’t end in one night, right?

As his muscles slowly lower their guard, he starts to really feel the cold that’s sunk into his entire system. One massive shudder shakes through him so suddenly and violently he grunts, and after it’s done, it leaves him shivering steadily. Like a lawnmower engine flaring to life. He snickers at himself and the stupid metaphors his spinning head spits out.

Deadpool distractedly rubs warmth into Peter’s upper arm — in an eye-rolling, put-upon way, and Peter rolls his eyes in return even though he’s still half-masked and the expression never reaches its audience, but the friction on his arm does sorta help. Not as much as the boggling amount of body heat rolling off of Deadpool, though. Cancer cells run at a higher temperature than healthy ones, Peter knows that, but surely that can’t account for the way Wade’s body practically scorches the air around him. Peter squints along the length of Deadpool’s thigh, the one that’s pinning down his own. Either there are actual visible waves of heat rising off of Deadpool, like off a car on a hot day, or the boozahol is fucking with Peter’s eyesight.

At some point when Peter wasn’t paying attention, Deadpool ditched his own mask. He shifts when he catches Peter looking. “Stop shaking like a wet kitten. I can’t handle the secondhand embarrassment. Get ahold of yourself, man. Unless you want I should give you my letter jacket?” Deadpool says with a raised brow as he flips channels and Peter continues to shiver. “If so, you have to wear my class ring, too. There’s a way these things are done and I am nothing if not honorable.”

“Too little, too late,” says Peter. “I’m already goin’ steady with the football captain.”

“Then why ain’t you bleeding on his couch?”

“I saw him chatting up one of the cheerleaders after bio. I’m tryin’ to make him jealous.”

Deadpool’s hand finds its predictable way to Peter’s ass and begins making suggestions. “You know what would really make him jealous?”

Peter shivers for an entirely different reason and, with truly heroic effort, manages to suppress the impulse to squirm. He hopes Deadpool doesn’t pay any mind to the slight hitch in his voice. “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

“Tease.”

“Slut.”

“And damn proud of it, too,” Deadpool says, moving his hand back to Peter’s shoulder and finally letting the tv come to rest on a network showing of Fight Club that’s been badly edited for naughty language and all the other good parts. “Ah fuckburgers, I’ve seen this movie too many times.”

That said, though, Deadpool gets sucked into it almost immediately, directing his muttered commentary toward the voices in his head instead of toward Spider-Man.

Right around the time when Marla Singer is selling an armload of stolen clothes, Peter’s body temperature finally decides to play catch-up, with interest, blowing from chilled right past comfortable and straight into surface-of-the-sun. He can feel all his pores open up at once and his armpits prickle with sweat.

Also, his phone goes off, loudly.

Deadpool makes an aggravated noise at the interruption. “No wait, don’t tell me. I know this one. Ex-girlfriend drunk-texting you. Captain America wants your help getting a cat out of a tree. Mommy and daddy are finally getting that divorce.“

“It’s just the alarm, you moron,” says Peter, thumbing it off. “It’s officially next year now.”

“Ha! You set an alarm for midnight? That’s kind of adorkable. Should we sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’? You wanna kiss for good luck or somethin’?” He closes his eyes and makes that cartoony kissy-face complete with obnoxious Pepe LePew mwah-mwah sound effects… and y’know, it’s something he’s done at least four hundred times in recent memory alone, but y’know, Peter’s still just drunk enough to feel, y’know, bold. Y’know?

You know.

Before Deadpool can open his eyes again Peter levers himself up, darts in, and lands a quick peck on that stupid mouth. Just quick. Just there and gone.

When Peter pulls back, Deadpool’s mouth is still frozen in that bit-lemon shape but his eyes are very wide and very not-focused-on-anything.

Spider-Man resettles his head against Deadpool’s hip and takes his time peeling off his gloves and calmly rolling up the sleeves of his suit to try and let out some of this sudden buildup of heat before he gets too sweaty. Wade will have to start breathing again eventually. That, or he’ll asphyxiate, die, and come back. Either way, Peter can wait.

“Oh, and no,” says Peter. “That wasn’t a hallucination.”

Deadpool blinks a few times and clears his throat. “You uh… you wanna tell me what it was, then?”

“Didn’t they teach you that stuff in health class?”

Before he even knows what’s happening, Peter’s been dragged up off the couch and then slammed down onto it again, flat on his back and so roughly that if most of the springs weren’t broken it’d probably have knocked the wind out of him. And Deadpool is leaning over him — Deadpool is straddling him — those impressive arms bracketing either side of Peter’s head and that face so close and dangerous and that breath like the steam from a really good food cart and what. What.

…What.

Spider-sense still has no comment, but Peter’s nerves clench up somewhere south of his navel and his head swims, hollowly, blood pounding in his face like he’s on the verge of heatstroke. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s having a stroke. That’d explain a lot. Like why he suddenly can’t think.

“You know damn well what I meant, you little shit,” Deadpool says, tone perilously conversational.

Peter’s only vaguely aware of his own actions when he lifts his hand and starts drawing slow, cautious circles on Deadpool’s waist. Thaaat’s totally not what he meant to do — wait so what exactly did you mean to do? — but then Deadpool’s breath hitches and his eyes go dark and his many extremely wonderful muscles tense up and go still, and — yes. Yes, Peter approves of that sight very much, more please, thank you, would do again, regret nothing, for Sparta!

“…I see,” says Deadpool, watching Peter’s other hand climb up his shoulder. “And to what do I owe this temporary insanity?”

“A little whiskey and a lotta holy-shit-what-took-me-so-long.”

“Remind me to drop ‘em a nice thank-you postcard,” Deadpool says as he drops his weight down (presses the breath out of Peter’s chest), and he treats them both to a kiss that’s full of much more than tentative snark.

Immediately it’s too hot — literally, of course, there’s no such thing as “too hot” in the figurative sense — between Deadpool’s holy-fuck levels of body heat and the fibers of the couch and no air in between, not even in Peter’s lungs…

Perhaps, Peter muses philosophically, there’s kind of a fine line between heatstroke and orgasm.

He runs out of breath too fast, he has to gasp. Wade breaks the kiss for exactly three-fourths of a second and shifts maybe 10% of his weight to his elbows and that’s all the breath Peter’s allowed to catch, but turns out that’s all he needs to feel human again. There’s a hand on either side of Peter’s head and during that blink-and-you-miss-it break in the kiss, those hands hold onto his face like they’re afraid he’ll escape, and now they don’t want to let go at all. Now they want more than they can reach. Fingers knotting in Peter’s hair and tilting his head farther back, deeper into the couch, opening him up.

And although Peter’s starting to get some ideas for other places he’d like Deadpool’s hands to be headed toward now, and although he’s starting to miss oxygen, he sure as sugar can’t deny what this display of… eagerness is doing to him. (For him? To him. Both.) His own hands are pinned fast. He no longer tries to prevent himself from squirming, but holy hot fuck he can’t squirm because Wade is heavy, and even though his spidery super-strength could crunch Deadpool into a little ball and punt that ball across all five boroughs, Peter can’t use it — can barely find even the regular kind of strength because Wade’s got every inch of him covered and owned.

The kiss is messy and graceless and airless and greedy, frantic and full of teeth, and Peter can only roll his abs in reflex, in mindless desperation, in a feeble attempt to buck, can only think yes holy shit holy shit YES.

God, has Peter always been this easy? Just grease the wheels with a little sauce and want him enough and he’ll end up happily whimpering under you on the couch?

No, not whimpering. These are totally manly, totally in-control, totally non-whimpery-and-did-he-mention-manly make-out noises.

Wade hums a small laugh and pauses, pulls back an inch or so, gazing steadily at Peter’s lips and smoothing the tips of his thumbs back and forth under the edge of Peter’s mask. Lifting the fabric just ever so slightly to let the air in to touch Peter’s face and smirking like a goddamn fox. It’s not quite a threat — masks are one boundary Wade would never actually push, Peter knows that — more like a taunt. A sly little suggestion for the sake of adrenaline.

A brilliant one, because Spider-Man would utterly fail to find the more usual means of threat at all intimidating right now.

And it fucking works and holy fuck why is that so hot and Peter doesn’t notice his mouth has dropped open in astonishment until Wade’s tongue has invited itself in again.

And, uh… turns out that Wade’s regained some of his tenuous self-control since the initial sloppy rush of holy-shit-this-is-happening. He uses this new superpower to demonstrate to Peter in no uncertain terms that Deadpool is, in fact, an extremely accomplished kisser.

Merc with the mouth is goddamn right.

Sweet Mary Sunshine, Peter didn’t even know his tongue could feel so erotic. Wade’s hands are curled around his head, still on the wrong side of his mask (more intimate than underwear), burrowing into his sweat-thick hair and angling Peter this way and that way and however the fuck Wade feels like angling him and jesus fucking christ he must be doing it just because he can.

Peter boots logic out the door and enthusiastically follows wherever the hell those lips and that tongue wanna lead him. Hell yes, let’s go, giddyup motherfucker.

He’s dimly aware of his customary Massive Insecurity having a freakout in some unexamined part of his mind about his own performance here, trying desperately to remember any little makeout tricks he’s learned and drawing a pathetic blank.

Luckily, Wade seems intent on showing off. His creativity is more than enough to occupy them both, and Peter’s too busy being excruciatingly horny to really be self-conscious anyway. Besides, Peter’s next exhale is a chest-rattling groan, and if Wade’s immediate grunt of approval and slow thirsty grind against Peter’s trapped body is any indication, then Peter’s doing just fine by Wade’s standards.

Which may or may not drag another pleased surprise!moan out of Peter.

Which may or may not result in Wade whispering Ah, god into Peter’s mouth.

…Which may or may not kick off a sort of marco-polo feedback loop between them until the only thing tethering each one to reality is how fucking turned on the other one is.

None of it makes sense and Peter is totally, totally down for it. He tries to explain this to Deadpool in the most earnest terms possible — and okay, maybe that translates into a loud, protracted, desperate kind of whine. With more than a hint of writhing.

And a bite.

“Hhh — Shit! Shit hang on.” Wade turns his face away and levers himself up, anchoring Peter in place with a forearm across the chest. (Like he’s still afraid Spider-Man will bolt if given half a chance.) He huffs out a few centering breaths and shakes his head to clear it. “Jesus enchilada,” he laughs before climbing to a sitting position on Peter’s thighs. “I won’t be done in that easy, you crafty little tater tot.”

“Coul — nnn — coulda fooled me,” Peter says (quietly amazed that he’s still coherent at all). Deadpool’s weight isn’t crushing his lungs anymore but he’s still not having much luck drawing in a full breath. His mouth doesn’t taste like his own mouth anymore and it’s… distracting.

“Ah, c’mon, is your opinion of me really that dim?” says Deadpool. “I’ll have you know I am a god of self-control.”

“Uh-huh.”

“‘Sides, I ain’t that much of an asshole.” He tilts his head sideways-down, eyes and hands both tracing around Peter’s hips. (Peter bucks once, like a convulsion.) “Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me to gallop past the finish line when you’re still linin’ up at the starting gate. I got a reputation to keep, y’know.”

Starting gate? Peter swallows thickly and squints in vague confusion. “Whatchoo talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” he mumbles. He’s rock fucking hard. He doesn’t even remember the last time he was this hard. What the hell is Wade talking abou…

Oh. Right.

That.

That tiny… tiny… little issue. So tiny that Wade can’t see how good ’n’ ready Peter actually is. The one little issue that makes his raging boner incognito even in spandex.

Even though said boner is more than big enough to house Peter’s entire thought process.

Bigger on the inside. His dick is the TARDIS.

Wade’s murmuring something equally as stupid as that metaphor and sliding his hands under the hem of Peter’s shirt (oh my god, those calluses scars texture, oh my god yes), and Peter realizes belatedly that he’s had his own hands on Wade’s thighs for god only knows how long, feeling the muscles there tighten and release under his aimless kneading. Oy vey, those thighs could kill a man.

Those thighs have literally killed men.

That should not be so cripplingly hot. What the fuck is wrong with him. He digs his fingers against Wade’s thighs with more focus, and is pretty sure that his next breath escapes his mouth as actual steam.

When Wade folds himself down to bring his face toward Peter’s collarbone, and when he airily whispers Baby boy against Peter’s body, Peter — he doesn’t panic, it’s not panic, it’s—

Okay fine he panics.

He swats frantically at Wade’s shoulder. “Uh — leg cramp! Leg cramp! Foot’s asleep. Lemme up a sec.”

Deadpool glances up at his face for a second before hastily swinging his feet to the floor.

Peter jumps up and faces the wall, hands braced against his lower back, shaking out his feet. It feels like he hasn’t breathed in years. Static shocks are sparking up and down every inch of him, the air is cold, Deadpool is not buying his obvious lie, and he feels like a goddamn jackrabbit on meth. What do I do. What do I fucking do.

“Hey.” Wade’s voice is uncharacteristically soft, but characteristically suspicious. “You okay, man?” He puts a hand on Peter’s shoulder.

And that is not a sexual touch, just a questioning one, generous, and caring, and strangely courteous. But Peter’s neck arches to offer it more of his skin and his whole spine rolls a little as he leans up into it on sheer needy instinct.

Fuck, his whole nervous system is jacked.

“Yeah. Yeah I’m fine, I just…” Touch me touch me touch me—

“Sobering up?” asks Wade. Peter isn’t sure what’s hiding in Deadpool’s low tone there, but he can guess.

“No — yeah — I mean, I’ve been mostly sober for a little while now, I just— I just—“ Just forgot that my goddamn genitals are a thing that requires disclosure because the world is stupid and sex is scripted and whoever wrote the script forgot to give me a goddamn role. This is allll ad libbed, baby. I expect applause. I expect people to be throwing fucking flowers onto the stage.

“It’s okay, y’know, it’s cool, I get it. We don’t have to—“ The hand on his shoulder starts to pull away and before Peter knows what’s going on he grabs it, clamps it in place.

“Don’t,” says Peter.

“Uh. Don’t what? You’re kinda sendin’ me mixed signals here, baby boy.”

Peter’s vision glitches and he shudders. God, that nickname. That stupid nickname goes straight to his… “Don’t stop,” he hears himself breathe — and immediately regrets it — and regrets absolutely fucking nothing.

Wade makes a low hungry sound and steps in closer. Peter can feel the heat covering his back but there’s still a hint of distance there, their bodies still not quite touching except in soft, almost incidental brushes. The hand on his shoulder slides forward more firmly, slowly finding its way to the center of his chest.

“Shit, your heart’s breakin’ the sound barrier,” Wade says, halfway between awe and concern.

“No kidding,” says Peter. “It’s fine, I promise. I just — I just —“ Yeah yeah, you “just”. Think everyone’s gotten that memo by now. “Gimme a minute.”

Attaboy, Parker. Stall for time. Big damn hero.

Wade’s other hand slides up his arm, comforting but uncertain. His voice comes out too low, too slow, too close to Peter’s ear and making his skin vibrate: “Tell me what you need.”

“Hah fuck.” Something jets up his spine like Spider-sense and Peter’s pressing back against him and this would be so much easier if Wade would just quit being so fucking hot for a second.

Crazy. This is crazy. This is absolutely batshit ridiculous and he’s being ridiculous because Deadpool’s not gonna care. And Peter knows Wade had to’ve felt that skip and spike in his already-hammering pulse just now, is probably trying to puzzle out whether it’s want or fear and honestly? It’s a bit of both.

Wade slides both arms around him, carefully, like he expects to get thrown violently off and webbed to the wall any second. Not an unreasonable expectation, of course. Spider-Man’s done exactly that more times than could possibly be healthy. (Yeah okay so maybe he’s been sublimating a little and denying a lot, sue him.)

The arms settle around his ribs in a hug, conspicuously far from any erogenous zones. Peter draws a rickety breath and lets it out in a sigh. Feels Wade hook his chin over Peter’s shoulder, and looks away, because he knows Wade’s watching his half-covered face for clues.

Why. The hell. Is Peter being so stupid about this. Just do it just fucking do it, you want to.

No you don’t.

Oh yes you damn well DO. You’re just scared as fuck. Also overstimulated, and that borks brain function even worse than booze.

Wade knows what he wants, because of course he does. After a minute he reangles his head and plants a deliberate kiss in that deep-down spot between Peter’s neck and shoulder.

And there’s fabric in the way and Peter hates that fabric. He reaches an arm up and behind him, spreads his palm against the back of Wade’s head.

Wade, bless his idiot heart, takes the encouragement at face value and moves his mouth up to the exposed part of Peter’s neck. No teeth, just soft. Just lips.

Peter presses back a little harder, tilts his head farther out of the way. Feels a slow sweep of tongue in response, then another when Peter hums quietly. There’s a hand flowing down Peter’s upper arm, a settling touch, a warm boring slide from shoulder to elbow and back again over and over. After a while it switches to brushing the side of Peter’s head as if sweeping hair back from his face. In another context it’d be platonic.

The heart palpitations stop. It’s sudden. The entirety of Peter Parker loosens; the frightened parts go silent. The rest of him was already pretty quiet. Wade presses a simple smile into the side of Peter’s neck, so he can feel it.

Well shit. The rat bastard figured it out even before Peter did, that all his goddamn body wanted was to slow down a little. (Yeah, fine, it’s working. It’s really working. His skin’s on fire and very little blood is actually reaching his brain. He can’t even consider how obviously happy it made Wade to address that need for him, because when he tries, his brain fades out of goddamn existence.) They still haven’t dealt with the actual reason behind Peter’s hesitation but…

Wade’s hands start roaming, slowly. One clutches over Peter’s heart, pulling him back into Wade’s chest, and how the hell does Wade feel so solid, so lean-against-able, that is so not fair. The other hand finds its way to Peter’s shirt hem, finds its way under Peter’s shirt hem, works its way up Peter’s side as Wade’s mouth works its way around his neck.

Peter’s body makes the executive decision to melt. His head drops back onto Wade’s shoulder, and Wade’s mouth obliges his throat with quick nips that are way too soft, no fair, each one surrounded by even softer kisses no fair no fair you dirty rotten cheat.

He hears himself whine, gently, and too high-pitched thanks to the stretched angle of his throat. He feels Wade hum back, patient and satisfied and vibrating from every inch of his unfairly solid body.

Shit, Peter thinks, over and over again. Shit shit shit shit shit shit… Stop. You should stop. You should really stop, Parker.

Don’t wanna, thinks the rest of him, happily.

This wasn’t supposed to get this far. This was never supposed to get this far.

Don’t care, thinks the rest of him, still happily.

And, as Wade’s fingers find their way inside his waistband and trace teasingly along the edge of it, Peter is forced to admit that “Don’t care” is in fact a very convincing argument.

But uh — there’s still that one little logistical detail to attend to, which might be easier to do if Wade’s hands would let him think for a minute. He’s never had to disclose in the, uh… heat of the moment before, and to put it in the most charitable terms possible, he is completely, devastatingly clueless how to even begin.

He tries, though. Give him some credit — he makes the effort, alright? He gets as far as taking a breath and opening his mouth to speak.

It’s not his fault that this immediately turns into an unexpected gasp of pleasure, or that Wade decides that now would be the perfect moment to stuff both hands all the way down Peter’s pants without further warning.

…There’s about two seconds of frozen confusion while Peter feels Wade’s hands sorting out the difference between the packer and the much wetter parts that are actually attached to Peter’s body.

Then there’s another four seconds, give or take an eternity or two, while they both just stand there not breathing.

“Um,” says Peter, eloquently.

Wade’s fingers shift against him, with a bit more searching determination this time.

Somehow, over the rising sensation of what is almost-definitely-for-sure a really-for-real heart attack, ohmygod he’s gonna have a heart attack and die, Peter can feel Deadpool tilt his head in interest.

“Huh,” says Wade and, shifting his weight a little closer, slides his right hand possessively up Peter’s belly while the left one knuckles decisively past the packer and sets a slow, swirling, exploratory rhythm against Peter’s dick.

Peter doesn’t respond in quite the way either of them hoped. Which is to say, he doesn’t respond at all. Complete deer-in-headlights.

Wade pauses. “D’you wanna keep going?”

Peter tries to remember how breathing works. That doesn’t go so great, either. “Uh — I, uh…”

Deadpool’s hand vacates his pants and he turns Peter around by the shoulders, turns him so they’re face to face. Then the hands come to rest on either side of Peter’s neck, thumbs sliding under the edge of the mask and smoothing down the hair behind his ears. The rest of Wade’s fingertips ghost across the back of his neck. It’s not a taunt this time. It feels upsettingly intimate but also good and Peter closes his eyes for a second and tries to make a noise, to show some appreciation here — anything to indicate YES for the love of god keep fucking GOING the longer we stand here the more I lose my nerve PLEASE.

“I want another drink,” Peter blurts.

“Mm, nope. You’re cut off.”

“But I—“

“Look, I get that this is stressin’ you out, okay. And that’s, um. That’s maybeactuallykindareallyhot ‘cause you’re normally such a cocky little shit, and I know that makes me an asshole but my assholery is a long-established fact and anyway um. See. I know a thing or two about body-image issues or whatever the kids are callin’ it these days.” He drops a kiss against the half-healed cut on Peter’s forehead, through the mask. “But I don’t wanna do this if you gotta drink to get it done, y’know? That fucks with my head.” He clears his throat. “Also, y’know, it kinda muddies up the consent part and that’s a button I’m just never gonna mash.”

Peter grumbles wordlessly for a while before sighing and plonking his forehead down against Wade’s chest. Niiice chest. “Why you gotta be all reasonable ‘bout it.”

“Heh. Well golly gee willikers, Spider-Man, I sure don’t know. Unless maybe it’s ‘cause I’ve been hard for you for about a hundred years, and I’m still hard for you, and on the off chance that I’m not hallucinating, and this really is gonna actually happen, like, anytime, ever, in the actual real world, y’know, I don’t… want it to get disqualified before it even starts. Especially not for some dumbass reason like that.”

Peter gestures lazily at him. “See? There you go. Being reasonable again. It’s friggin’ annoying.”

“Now you know how I usually feel. But someone’s gotta pick up the slack and be the grownup if you’re too busy gettin’ plastered and swingin’ your insecurities and your dick around like a frat pledge during rush week.”

Peter pokes him in the stomach for that, and gets an unmanly, unsexy squeak in response.

“Tch. Rude,” Wade huffs.

“Whatever. You still want me.” Peter clears his throat. He did not mean for that to sound so much like a question.

“Uh, yeah, duh-doy. Has that ever been less than embarrassingly obvious?”

“Subtlety’s overrated anyway.”

There’s one of the more wicked grins that Peter knows so well. “I couldn’t agree more, sweetums.”

“I did not agree to that nickname.”

“And now to Spider-Man, our eye in the sky, with the traffic report. Spidey? How’s it lookin’ down there?” And Wade pans his imaginary camera down to Peter’s crotch.

“Y’know, foregoing subtlety doesn’t necessarily require flagrant idiocy.”

“Not necessarily, no,” says Wade with an agreeable shrug. “Still, uh… still waitin’ on that traffic report, though, Spidey. Our viewers are waiting.”

“I don’t know what you…”

“Y’know, traffic color? Green means go, all that good stuff? SSC, baby boy.”

Peter deliberately overlooks the flush of heat that pours down his body at the only nickname Deadpool’s ever managed to stumble on (out of hundreds so far) that’s the opposite of off-putting. “SSC is literally never an option with you,” says Peter. “Mostly because of the ‘sane’ clause. Although I guess ‘safe’ is also…”

“I dunno if you’re referring to STI’s or military-grade weaponry, but I’m not carryin’ either one. And one of ‘em I couldn’t carry if I tried, and I know you’ve seen some of my illicit shinies so I think you know which one I mean.”

“Killing the mood, Deadpool.”

“You sayin’ there’s still a mood left to kill? ‘Cause I haven’t heard a yes or no yet, and Webs? I really suck at waiting.”

“Okay jeez then yes it’s green,” says Peter — his mind stutters to a halt, because is he seriously giving verbal consent to sex with Deadpool? Even in light of everything else that’s happened in the past hour or so, somehow that’s the choice that trips him up. Good god, why’s he have to be such a kid about it?

Where’d all these hangups even come from?

He pulls in a steadying breath, and wants to do something with his hands, but doesn’t trust his hands to make wise decisions just at present. “Green,” says Peter again. “Or — actually, maybe yellow? I dunno, there’s different ways to — I’m so sorry, the only light I’m managing to flash here is the freaking Bat signal — but if you thought — how do you interpret yellow?”

“You tell me, honey.”

“Okay let’s — let’s call it green, but obey the stupid speed limit or my nerve endings will spontaneously combust.” Peter scratches his elbow even though it’s not itchy. “If you don’t — y’know, I mean, if that’s cool.”

“Heh. I may be shit at waiting, baby boy, but you might be shocked and appalled by how patient I can be if I got somethin’ worthwhile to entertain me in the meantime…” Over the course of that sentence, Wade’s hands find their way back to Peter’s body, and now Peter’s remembering how clever those hands can be, even when they’re polite enough to stay on the outside of his clothes.

Deadpool knows a lot about pressure points, and not just the kind that hurt or incapacitate. Turns out there are pressure points on the back of your thighs and next to your lower spine that’ll make you lose your breath and see goddamn stars and have no idea why but you want more and you want it now.

Wade reaches up behind his own neck and pries Peter’s bloodied fingernails out of the flesh there. Peter blinks. Haha, how’d those get there?

“Thought you said there was a speed limit?” says Wade. “You’d be the kinda cop that never sees a stop sign without running it.”

“I have no idea what the fuck just happened that was your fault you smug bastard you know exactly what you did or at least I hope you know what you did ‘cause I dunno what you did and someone oughta know and actually you know someone oughta smack that smirk off your stupid face what the hell did you even—“

Wade muffles the babbling in exactly the way Peter thought he would. Good. He was starting to miss that mouth.

When they break for air, Wade runs his fingers down the parts of Peter’s face that aren’t covered. “Couldn’t help it,” he admits. “You make it too easy.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Wow, you can’t even pretend to say that like you don’t love it.”

Instead of arguing (which would require lying), Peter grunts. “Y’know, this is gonna take forever if you keep flooring the gas and we have to keep going in reverse.”

“That a problem? You got anywhere else to be tonight?”

Peter tries to distract himself from the thumbs rubbing circles on his hips by tracing his own fingertips along the ridges of Wade’s collarbones. “This is the only afterparty I got invited to,” he says.

“Good. ‘Cause now that I know what kinda piece you’re packin’, I got a pretty good idea that you could maybe, y’know… fire off multiple rounds?” He punctuates the question with a dig at the groove where Peter’s hip meets his lower abs.

Oh dear god. “Hnn. You’re not wrong,” he mumbles, pushing forward into the touch, asking for more and getting it.

“How many shots in that magazine, then?”

Good fucking god, Peter can’t even wrangle up a snark about this shit metaphor. (At least he’s not the only one making them tonight.)

What he can do is wrap his arms around the delightfully huge body in front of him, and claw possessively at Wade’s back with one hand while brushing the fingers of the other under Wade’s waistband and across Wade’s tailbone. He can also pull Wade flush against him with just enough pressure to remind them both that Peter could fold an I-beam in half. Behind both their costumes and between their bodies he feels Wade’s cock twitch.

Peter spares a thought to be both surprised, and eye-rollingly unsurprised, that Wade’s costume doesn’t include some kind of cup. He wonders why Wade would possibly make that choice, especially since a cup would do his, uh, proportions a favor. And he wants to tease the answer to that question out of Wade with his hand — but then, that right there is probably the answer: wishful thinking.

If wishes were fishes.

Peter’s feeling very, very indulgent. It is a holiday, and all.

He slides his palm between them, feels out the length and shape of Wade’s cock through the material. Deadpool tightens both hands on Peter’s arms and tries to pull their bodies together like he wants to rut. The sound he makes might be an attempted growl, but it’s strained, and riding on too many different frequencies. Pure animal madness, painstakingly contained.

Peter wants to break that control. Never mind that his own is already halfway out the door.

Still, he manages to open the buckle on Deadpool’s stupid utility belt one-handed all the while palming Deadpool’s cock through the front of his pants with the other hand. Wade clutches Peter’s costume at the shoulders in tight fists, hanging on for dear life and trying to keep himself upright as his abs convulse and curl him forward with each gentle rhythmic squeeze of Spider-Man’s palm. Peter drops the heavy belt on the coffee table (it immediately slides off the edge to the floor with a thump and, for some reason, a dull clang) and opens Deadpool’s zipper.

Wade’s uncut. Peter wonders if he always has been, or if it’s a heretofore unconsidered side effect of the healing factor.

It’s been a while since Peter had a live cock in his hands, but that and lust aren’t the only reasons Wade’s seems kinda big. Peter wonders about its taste but isn’t feeling quite that brave, and anyway it definitely gains another half inch once he gets his bare hands on it and Peter’s not in the mood to choke.

Wade groans and pulls Peter forward by the shoulders, closer, bowing his head down to plant his teeth at the base of Peter’s naked neck. Wade’s breath comes out rough against his skin. Peter makes a broken sound and strokes Wade tighter. The rough sounds in Wade’s throat turn high and airy and he tightens his grip and his teeth and Peter yelps —

Deadpool releases Spider-Man’s suit and in a panicky rush grabs both Peter’s wrist and the base of his own cock in what look like equally tight chokeholds. He gulps loudly, twice. Peter lets his hand be pushed away and stares, rapt, at the way Wade’s bottom lip shakes with each harsh inhale as he tries to catch his breath. His cock is flushed deep red and so is his throat and Peter wants to lick both.

The throat’s closer to his mouth so he goes for that first, tilting his head to one side to duck under Wade’s chin, but the very tip of his tongue’s barely made contact with overheated skin when Deadpool makes the most wonderful shattered sound and pushes him firmly back by the shoulders.

Maintaining a tight grip on Peter’s shoulders, Wade fixes him with a burning, searching look, then roughly spins him 180 and yanks him backward until Peter can feel Wade’s cock grinding into his ass. He presses back against it, rotating his hips in slow little circles as Wade wraps his arms around his chest, holding the top of him immobilized. “Steady,” Deadpool hisses.

“I will do no such thing,” says Peter, rubbing his ass on Wade’s cock.

“Whassat you were saying ‘bout a speed limit, you incubus?” he rasps, breath forceful over Peter’s ear. “Can’t take it but you can give it, is that it?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“Yes you damn well do. Don’t play like you don’t.”

“What’s wrong, Wilson? Can’t keep pace?”

“I ain’t the one having issues with pacing, ya brat.”

“Are you complaining?”

“You’re gonna make me come.”

“Are you complaining?”

Deadpool smooths a hand down the front of Peter’s body and into his pants. “Just — lemme be good for you, goddammit.”

Peter widens his legs a little and Wade works his whole fist into his underwear, gives his packer a gentle squeeze and Peter swears he can feel it. His knees judder. “If you insist…” says Peter, “I’ll try to be more accommodating.”

“Please do,” says Wade. “Just let me…”

Wade’s fingers arrow lower, then back; ease themselves into that soft in-between place and Peter can feel the impatient spread of wetness once Wade’s fingertips open up a space for fluid to go, can feel it drip around and between and past and when Peter shifts his weight slightly back the movement pulls the fabric of his suit against his inner thigh and the fabric is wet, and now his leg is wet and Wade’s sigh moves the hair along his temple and Wade’s voice — speakers adjusted to all-bass-no-treble — just says, “Oh, baby boy,” just like that, like that’s all there is to be said, and — that’s strange because this is Deadpool, there’s always more to be said. But as Peter’s body tightens slightly in confusion, Wade’s hand tightens too. Grabbing him. Cunt, dick, pubic bone, the whole shebang, all of it right there in the palm of Wade Wilson’s quite large hand.

“Staking a claim?” Peter says, going for a playful tone but knowing damn well it comes out with more than a hint of oh god please say yes.

At first Wade answers only with a pained rumble and an abbreviated movement of his hand that sends a reflexive arch snaking up through Peter’s back.

“’S that somethin’ you want?” Wade says. He sounds drunk.

Before Peter can answer Wade curls away from his back — hand sliding up to hip in process — and rests the top of his head against the back of Peter’s bared neck. The pressure on Peter’s nape is soft but the hold on his hip is fucking iron, digging in, pulling, kneading, confused but insistent.

“Wanna give you what you want,” Wade says — mumbles, really, like a confession.

“Right now just keep doing that,” says Peter, and — purely for the sake of clarity, of course — seizes Wade’s other hand and plants it on his other hip. “I like it,” he adds, unnecessarily.

“Mm. Do you.”

“Hey man, do me a favor, though?”

Wade presses his face into the side of Peter’s neck, so Peter can feel him smiling. “Thought that was already the idea, bro,” Wade says into Peter’s skin.

Peter lets that one go. “I said slow, not gentle,” he says. “Idiot.”

Wade hums and, though he obligingly clings to Peter’s hips with his fingers as though he were dangling off a cliff and they were all he had left to hold onto, like the ass he is he counters by slowly wallpapering Peter’s neck with very soft, very light, almost silent kisses. Very gentle ones.

The contrast with what his hands are (much more obediently) doing is… unbearable, and Peter would happily go on bearing it until the sun swallows the earth.

“Not even... a little gentle?” Wade whispers between kisses.

Peter doesn’t even try to hold back his whimper this time.

Suddenly Wade stops kissing him, and Peter is a little surprised to come swirling back to himself to find that he’s gone limp against Wade’s body again, and his throat is dry from panting, and Wade’s thick cock is a promising pressure against his ass.

Wade whispers a sound that might be something like “Hhhh baby ffhhhck” and pulls Peter’s hips back, grinding his cock up slow. He shudders, and Peter can feel him wanting to collapse in on himself, to pull Peter in right along with him like a dying star.

Peter wonders with some genuine concern whether Wade just came in his pants, until Wade groans: far too desperate a sound for someone with no needs left.

Their bodies hold each other upright through friction and gravity.

Wade catches his breath first. “Y’know,” he says, firming up his hands, which have not budged from Peter’s hips, “there’ve been rumors about these.”

“Buh?” Peter says.

“About your gender or whatever. ‘Cause of these.” He snaps Peter’s hips back suddenly; both of their bodies go fully taut with what that movement suggests. “Normies be like, ‘Only chicks have hips like that.’ Sometimes like, ‘He’s obviously tryin’ to disguise his voice, why would he do that.’ Like they don’t get the point of a mask. Or sometimes like they read too much into your fight style. Normies like ‘Oh shit lookit that gymnastics stuff. If he ain’t a chick then he’s totally flaming.’”

“They’re, like, 25% right,” Peter says, not particularly enjoying this line of talk. “I’m like, half flaming.”

“Normies never met you, though. Don’t know what you smell like, or how you move when you’re just like walkin’ around not doing spider shit. Poor fucks never got a good ‘nuff look at this ass that these hardcore hips carry around.”

“Lemme guess,” Peter says, and yeah he’s getting pretty fucking annoyed now because he’s had this “conversation” before. “You figured it all out a long time ago ‘cause you’re so aware and so clever you read me like a book.”

“Uhh no? I figured it out fifteen minutes ago when I finally got my paws in yer pants?”

“Then why are we talking about this.”

“‘Cause I wanted to tell you that whatever bullshit those dumbasses might think, me and my dumb ass have been too thirsty for your fine, fine ass to bother askin’ questions like that ‘cause whatever the answers are I want you like whatthefuck, baby boy, want you times a million and three because b’gosh you are everything my libido’s ever written to Santa Claus for but never got ‘cause it’s always on the naughty list.”

Peter closes his eyes for a minute, just resting in Wade’s dangerous hands. “You coulda led with that,” he says.

“Next time I’ll sing your praises in the very first verse and every repeating chorus.”

“Good. That’s where my praises belong.”

“I’ll rent a billboard in Times Square that’s just a picture of your ass in spandex and the word ‘behold’.”

“That might be a bit much for my taste.”

“Might be?” Wade asks with a little laugh. “Should we find out for sure? The people have a right to know.”

“Save your money and your breath for better ideas,” Peter says.

“Better ideas…” he says slowly. He clamps an arm around Peter’s chest again and threads the fingers of his other hand into the seam where Peter’s inner thigh meets pelvis, stretching his thumb flat across Peter’s pubic bone and stroking it slowly downward again and again, just barely brushing Peter’s dick on the bottom of each stroke. His low voice raises the hairs on Peter’s neck and forearms: “I know what’ll be a better idea. Tell me what you think’a this…”

Three fingers settle into place, on Peter’s dick and surrounding it closely with warm, firm pressure, and start stroking. Peter can feel his pulse throbbing in rhythm with Wade’s strokes, his heart chasing after the touch. His thighs jerk in time, and the jerks turn into shakes, and his knees wobble out from under him so fast… But Wade holds him up with that other arm around his chest, anchoring Peter’s ribcage to Wade’s hard body, tightening as Peter’s weight tries to sway and sink. Peter reaches behind him and grabs the front of Wade’s thighs for leverage, squeezes Wade’s thighs for the sheer goodness of touching him. (Wade sighs, deeply.) His vision starts to darken at the edges; his breath sears hot in his throat, carries out sounds that start soft and quickly turn louder and more broken.

“You like that idea, baby boy?” Wade rumbles, sounding a bit broken himself.

”Yes.” Yes.

“Think it’s good?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Goood.” Wade reangles his shoulder against Peter’s back and his fingers dip lower, parting Peter’s folds with a wet sound. ”Damn.”

“Uh-huh,” Peter agrees faintly, his voice mostly breath.

Wade presses his lips to the skin just below Peter’s ear, and whispers, “Tell me what you need, baby boy.”

“Nnn — fuck! Fuh… dunno. Can’t think. I need… nnn I need to come. Please. Pleeease, please I wanna come.”

“Holy… yeah. Yeah, okay. ’S okay, baby boy, I gotcha. I gotcha right here, ’s okay, I’m gonna take care of you. Gonna take such good care of you, c’mon…”

He draws his hand back and turns Peter around by the hips, then leans forward and picks Peter up by the thighs — Peter brings a hand up to his mouth and bites the edge of his own wrist to make sure he’s awake because Wade picks him up by the thighs and holds him up by the ass and Peter throws his arms around Wade’s neck and doesn’t let go, even after Wade’s brought them into the kitchen and swept a pile of dishes clattering into the sink and set him on the counter.

“What a dish,” Wade says with a wink and it’s a testament to how horny Peter is right now that he doesn’t roll his eyes or come back with a demand to be eaten.

The directive would’ve been redundant anyway; Wade rolls Peter back onto his shoulderblades and drags Peter’s pants down to his knees, setting the packer down just out of sight. He bends down, hooking Peter’s thighs over his shoulders so Peter’s pants are binding his legs behind Wade’s neck. Wade kisses up the length of Peter’s inner thigh until he’s pressing his lips to Peter’s dick. His lips part and tongue sneaks out, drawing a few circles around Peter before pulling inside what he can.

Peter gasps as his spine tightens like the brake cable on a bike. Sweet poledancing christ, how long has it been since—?

Wade’s determined mouth works him fast, sucking him hard while a ferocious tongue sweeps and dabs. Peter wants to look, wants to see if Wade is looking — or wants to see Wade with eyes closed in bliss, whatever, he just wants to see what Wade looks like with his mouth on Peter’s cock — but Peter’s neck won’t un-arch and his eyes won’t open. Hot tingles run down to his feet and the palms of his hands.

Too fast, electricity leaps up his back and explodes in his head and he’s yelling he’s clamping his legs down on Wade’s back he’s shaking and he’s shaking and he’s shaking.

Wade lifts his head a little and blinks like a cat, grinning long and thin. His chin is shining wet.

Peter chases down his breath and pulls it in through a sore dry throat and tries to speak —

— Wade’s fingers are in him all the way to the last knuckle — so quick, so smooth and easy, god he’s so wet — and his mouth is on Peter’s cock again and he hums a laugh at the stuttering stupid noises Peter makes instead of speaking. The hum makes Peter moan.

He keeps his eyes on Wade this time, out of sheer spit and moxie. Wade’s eyes slide open for a hungry look up Peter’s body every now and then but mostly they stay languidly closed. His fingers hook and curl and squelch and stretch Peter wider open, not that he needs any help. Peter pulses around Wade’s fingers.

“Holy chicken mcfucknuggets, baby boy,” says Wade, out of breath. “You’re amazing when you want me. You have any idea how satan-pickling hot you are?”

“Don’t — uhhnnn — don’t stop yuh you id— idiot…”

Wade gives him a few teasing laps with his tongue. “‘M tryna give you a compliment.”

“Don’t stop to comp— complimmm— com— ahh!“

Wade raises a thumbs up with the hand that’s not buried in Peter’s cunt, without stopping.

Peter reaches down and hooks the back of Wade’s ears and pulls and Wade sucks him like he’s trying to get a grape through a milkshake straw and digs into him with his fingers and Peter’s hips buck into Wade’s face as he drops his shoulders and comes again, riding this one like the surf, rushing headlong carried by a rocketing power filled with the fizz of overworked nerve endings and yes yes yes yes…

Yes as if he has a choice anymore, yes as if he could stop himself, yes as if in agreement rather than surrender…

His body’s still twitching and shaking when his vision clears and Wade is rising up to lean on his elbows and lick designs up Peter’s sweating torso. His limbs are shuddering with a pulsing rhythm more and his breath isn’t slowing down because more he needs more he’ll rip the cosmos apart for more —

Peter curls up into a half-sitting position, holds himself up there with a death-grip on the back of Wade’s neck. Wishes there was hair to grab. Reaches blindly forward with his nose, his mouth, sweeping his half-masked face stupidly against the edge of Wade’s textured jaw. His lungs are quaking, and his voice is broken — words are quaking, he can hear himself whispering trying to speak his breath is wrecked — “You gonna fuck me?” he gasps. Paws at Wade’s chest with his other hand. “Huh? Will you fuck me?”

Wade growls. “Hell yeah I’m gonna fuck you, baby boy, holy shit,” he says, scrambling to line himself up. “Baby boy need to be fucked?”

“Yes,” says Peter. “More. Now.”

“Now” still needs a few seconds for Deadpool to open his pants up the rest of the way and line up.

He takes Peter — or Peter takes him — all in one go, sinking slick up to the hilt with almost no resistance. Peter’s dick twitches and spasms against Wade’s firm hot body. “Good,” Peter breathes, “more,” settling his head back, enjoying a weird kind of relief now that he’s filled. Wade’s breathing is loud and uneven in the space between them.

Peter raises his head long enough to look at Wade, to take in the stunned expression. He’s still not moving. “Now,” Peter says. “Gimme.”

Wade lowers a hand and squeezes himself at the base. Peter can feel knuckles brush against him. “Won’t last long at this rate,” says Wade. His lungs sound like they’re too small for him.

Peter pushes himself up just enough to grab the back of Wade’s neck with hard fingers. ”Gimme,” he says, louder.

“Won’t — won’t be able to—“

He releases Wade’s neck and pinches his ear instead, folding it over — Wade cries out — and forcing Wade’s face down and forward until Peter can reach his mouth with an unrepentant, greedy kiss. “Don’t care,” says Peter against his panting lips. “Gimme what I want, Wilson.” And he releases him.

Wade looks floored, but he grabs Peter’s hips in rough hands and, obedient, starts thrusting, only slow for the first two or three then losing all plays at patience and just full-tilt breakneck pounding him, yanking him down harder onto Wade’s cock and going for it like hell is opening up in the other room.

Peter arches back and squeezes Wade’s ribs with his knees, slicking his thighs through their combined sweat and heat. “Hah — hhah — hharder.”

And Peter’s thinking it’s a wishful demand, Wade couldn’t possibly go any harder, but then Wade shouts and his skin blooms red and he digs in his fingernails and slams into Peter with feral desperation, and it’s only been a minute but Peter’s so primed he curves his back up off the counter and cries out too, hoarse and loud and as if satisfaction were brand new to him, shaking and bucking as Wade tries to keep a grip on his spasming hips and ride him through to the end.

He doesn’t quite make it. Peter’s final orgasm gives very slowly way to thunderous aftershocks that rocket through his body every few seconds, shuddering his whole frame in intervals. He doesn’t notice that Wade’s pulled out until Wade is lifting him by his shoulders, helping him sit up. He feels a hot trickle from his cunt as he does.

And he just sits there, Wade slumping sideways against the counter with his hand on Peter’s back, and they both take a long, long time to catch their breath. Peter gulps around an achingly dry throat.

Wade straightens, laboriously, and with shivering hands fills a chipped coffee cup from the tap and hands it to him before bending to get his own mouth under the faucet and slurp it straight up. Peter watches the water run around his chin and down the scarred skin of his throat, and licks his teeth. Peter throws back the water and shoves the cup at Wade for a refill, then knocks that one back too and waits for another.

They laugh when their bleary, bright eyes meet.

Wade makes a sound that’s not quite a growl and not quite a groan and rubs at his brow with the back of a wrist. “Feel like I need to sit down,” he says, still a bit short on breath.

“Feel like I need to lay down,” says Peter. “For a week maybe.”

“Bed’s good for that.”

“How far away is it? Can’t walk yet.”

Wade stands up straighter and reaches out his arms, making little gimme gestures with his fingers. “Here, I’ll give you a lift.”

Peter watches his hands shake as he loops them over Wade’s broad, delicious shoulders. He closes his legs around Wade’s waist and Wade lifts him, hands warm around his back, off the counter. Peter tries to ignore the dripping sensation and shudders again, pressing his face into the side of Wade’s neck for comfort. When he breathes in, it’s a warm, musky smell beneath the oceanlike tang of sweat.

He slips out his tongue and laps some up. Wade grunts in happy surprise.

Peter watches the kitchen recede over Wade’s shoulder as Wade takes them down a dark little hallway and into an even darker little room off to one side. The dark sparks Peter’s anxiety a little; he tightens his limbs slightly, and the solidity of Wade’s body against his reassures him.

Deadpool drops him on the bed from standing. He bounces on upset mattress springs but is too tired to fight the natural work of gravity and physics. He’s settled and limp in the loose spreadeagle his body defaulted to when Wade tugs on the thin ball chain dangling from the ceiling and clicks the overhead light on. It’s not very bright, but Peter flops an elbow over his eyes anyway.

The mattress dips and squeaks beside him and he startles just a tiny bit when Wade’s palm touches his chest. The hand sweeps down the middle of him in a long, smooth motion — just a general touch, comforting and unexpectant, but by the time it reverses direction to travel back up Peter’s body the stimulation has sent his nerve endings on a roll and he’s shaking with more aftershocks, abdominals clenching tight over and over, legs lax, cunt twitching around nothing.

Wade watches with his hand hovering in midair above Peter’s body, the look on his face very clearly reading Did I do that? “You okay?” he says instead.

“Bri — illiant,” says Peter, his voice a little contorted as the spasms gradually slow and settle. “Aftershocks.”

“Does that mean you’re up for more?”

“Could. But run a real risk of passing out.”

“Good thing you’re already lying down then,” says Wade, bringing his hand down again on Peter’s cock.

Peter doesn’t waste energy trying to fight something he wants. It only takes four or five lazy little strokes through the clothes before his spine arches and he’s coming roughly into Wade’s hand without making a sound. He doesn’t black out, but he does white out for… however long it lasts. Too long and not long enough. When he returns, skin and brain fizzing like fireworks dying out, his hips are grinding stupidly down, seeking more contact, another orgasm, but blessedly Wade withdraws and starts petting Peter’s upper arm instead.

“Damn,” Wade says, and leans in to kiss him on the temple.

“Hah — happy new year, I guess.”

“And a very happy new year to you, Mr. Spidey.”

Peter laughs, breathlessly, exhausted. “No more now,” he says. His voice sounds fuzzy in his ears. “Spidey done.”

Wade hums assent and just lets his fingers continue trailing up and down Peter’s arm, drawing light swirlies around his shoulder and across his chest. Peter shuts his eyes and floats halfway between bliss and sleep.

Deadpool’s quiet murmur breaks in with surprising gentleness. “Whatcha thinkin’?”

Thinkin’? Peter swallows. God, his mouth is so dry now. Almost as dry as his throat. “I’m thinkin’ that next time—“

“Next time? Man, I just came up with a baller New Year’s Resolution!”

That’s… Peter feels weirdly flattered by that, now that they’ve already had sex. But he sets that aside, because it’s too confusing to deal with right now. “Next time,” Peter says, “I’m gonna web your arms behind your back and you’re gonna ride my cock like one of those horses you put the quarters in.”

“Ooo. So should I put quarters in you first?”

“Not quarters, but I’m sure I can think of something you could put in me first.”

“I like it.” Deadpool slides one arm under the back of Peter’s neck and wraps him in a close hug, laughing softly against his ear. His breath feels good but smells bad, and Peter realizes with some small surprise that he doesn’t mind the stink so much. It seems such a small price to pay for being held, and for — he doesn’t want to fight it anymore — falling asleep in someone’s arms.

Wade presses a lingering kiss to his sweaty temple.

Peter closes his eyes and lets himself just feel it.

Notes: