Chapter Text
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Viewed from the entrance, Sister Margaret's is a single large open room: bar against one wall, booths against another, high-top tables scattered in the center. The pool tables are in one long, neat row; they start near the front and go single-file all the way to the opposite end. Wade quietly guides Peter to one away from Peter's friends, towards the back where the lights are dimmest and people are few. He sets his beer on a nearby table, then puts the rack down on the faded green polyester and goes to get a couple sticks.
Peter is grateful that Wade did not pick a closer pool table. He loves his friends—he really does—but he knows them. He isn't worried about Mary Jane and Gwen, who have already given their respective stamps of approval, and he isn't worried about Felicia, who is usually the one pushing Peter, sometimes literally, into the laps of prospective partners. Peter is more worried about Harry, who can be overly protective and unintentionally snobbish, and Johnny, who would try to include Wade as much as possible. Peter really doesn't want to be cockblocked by either of them, so he keeps his back turned, lest he make accidental eye contact and give someone the wrong idea.
"Your friend is giving me the stink-eye," Wade observes as he returns and hands Peter a pool cue. There is an amused grin on his face as he says this, not taking said stink-eye seriously. "The e-boy with the floppy hair."
"Harry glares at everyone," Peter tells Wade. He doesn't need to turn around to know who Wade is talking about; Harry's blanket disapproval is almost physical. "Also, thank you for that descriptor. I'm going to use it next time he's being a jackass—he'll hate it."
"Always happy to provide, baby boy."
Peter watches as Wade sets up the pool rack. His dark jeans hug the thickness of his thighs and his denim jacket stretches across his broad back; the jacket is partially restrictive, and Wade struggles a bit as it hinders some of his movement.
"Motherfucker," Wade curses, straightening. He corrects the fall of the jacket even though no amount of adjustment will give him the movement he needs. He makes to take it off but stops, eyes darting to Peter.
"What is it?" Peter asks.
Wade says nothing, his expression tight and unreadable, and he stalls long enough for hesitation to bleed into the edges of Peter's curiosity.
"Wade? Is... something wrong?"
The tentative edge in Peter's voice brings Wade back to himself. Wade shakes his head and assures Peter, "No. Nothing's wrong. I just don't usually take my jacket off in public."
Such a response is not what Peter had been expecting. Why wouldn't Wade take his jacket off? Does he get cold easily? No, that can't be it. The 'in public' part has nothing to do with thermoregulation. Peter tilts his head to the side. Maybe he has a weird tattoo? That sounds more plausible. Wade seems like the kind of guy who would get an inappropriate or dumb tattoo on a dare, especially when Peter thinks of Wade's interactions with Weasel.
"Ah, fuck it," Wade mutters, fingers tightening briefly to white knuckles. "Can't keep it from you forever."
Wade slides his sheepskin denim jacket off his body with a quick, jerky movement not unlike ripping off a badly-placed bandaid. Underneath, Wade is wearing a ringer style t-shirt that has a faded image of Lion-o screen-printed on the front, and the cotton struggles to contain the breadth of him, stretching tight over his chest. Wade runs his right hand over his skull, nervous. It displays the swell of his tricep, a work of art unrivaled even by the lifeless marble statues kept in museums. Struck once again by Wade's physical beauty, it takes Peter a moment to realize that there's something... wrong with Wade's left arm.
It isn't a tattoo. Peter squints to look at it better, unconsciously pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and realizes that Wade's left arm is a mess of skin grafts, mismatched tissue, and puckered scarring. All of it is old yet angry, as though it never properly settled into place.
"Ugly, ain't it?"
Wade's gaze is firmly attached to the floor and his tone is light. Breezy. Peter hears the deflection in it; sometimes, it's easier to wield a flaw like a knife, to use the truth of its existence offensively rather than trying to shield it. It's a fucked-up defense mechanism, to point out your flaws yourself, but it's one Peter is intimately familiar with.
"No." Peter shakes his head slowly, his eyes still lingering on the scar tissue. Thoughtlessly, he reaches out to touch Wade's wrist, beyond where a skin graft was stitched on, the transplant vaguely red and hairless compared to the golden warmth on the back of Wade's hand. Wade twitches but does not pull away. "Not ugly. It just—it looks like it hurts."
"Getting blown halfway to hell by an IED hurt," Wade tells him. "But it's fine, now."
Peter's fingers trail slowly up Wade's arm: wrist to elbow to shoulder. The skin is warm and smooth, and the muscle beneath Peter's fingertips jumps. The arm seems as though it was cobbled together by a desperate Frankenstein; there are several grafts, each a different color and texture, size and shape. They go all the way up to the red cuff of Wade's shirt, then peek over the collar, an inch of faded pink on the left side of his throat. That is where Peter's fingers stop, Wade's pulse thundering beneath his fingertips, Wade's gaze back on him.
"As long as it doesn't hurt," Peter says, staring into Wade's blue eyes.
Wade gently pulls Peter's hand from his throat and—maintaining eye contact—brings Peter's wrist to his mouth. He hovers for a heartbeat, then presses a firm, close-mouthed kiss to the thin skin over Peter's veins. Heat builds between them as Wade lingers, until Peter is sure he will combust.
"Don't worry, baby boy," Wade murmurs, words forming against Peter's body. "It doesn't hurt. Not anymore."
The kiss lingers like a brand on Peter's skin as Wade lets go of him, turning back to the pool table to set the billiard balls into the rack properly. Peter turns his hand over, half expecting to see a bright red sear where Wade's lips had been. There isn't anything, of course, but he still presses the pad of his thumb down against the invisible mark.
"You wanna break?" Wade asks casually, as though he didn't bestow one of the most devastating kisses Peter has ever received. Peter tears his eyes away from his wrist to Wade's knowing grin. "Or do you want me to?"
"You," Peter croaks. He needs a minute before he can function enough to play.
"Suit yourself."
Wade removes the rack and sets the white cue ball down on the head spot, leaning over the pool table and aiming. Peter's eyes draw down the line of Wade's back, the individual muscles evident even through the cotton. A gap between Wade's shirt and jeans catches Peter's eyes; there's graft tissue on the left side of his abdomen, pink and smooth, though that is less important than the faint depression of Wade's spine. Peter's hand twitches around his pool stick with the want to dig his fingers in. Wade's muscles flex and—with a crack—the billiard balls are sent careening across the green polyester table top.
Peter watches as they spin and slowly come to a stop. None of the balls went into any pockets. Peter looks around the table, searching for the easiest one to put away, and decides on the red solid. He lines up his pool stick, making sure his hands are loose enough and the shot line is clear and—
The cue ball hits the intended red solid but off-angle, and two other balls are glanced, twirling lightly across the table. Peter sighs.
"Told you I'm not that good," he tells Wade as he straightens, half-sheepish.
"And I told you that I don't care if you're good or bad," Wade reminds him. "I'm here for something else."
Wade lines up a shot. The red solid Peter aimed for. Into the pocket it goes. Another try, another ball. Third time is not the charm, however; the cue ball knocks the solid yellow billiard ball at the wrong angle and bumps against the edge. Wade steps back and drinks from his beer.
"What was it that you said?" Peter says, not bothering to look at the pool table and calculate his next shot. The real game is beside him, waiting for him to make a move. " 'Wade, pretty please, will you teach me how to get my ball in the corner pocket?' "
Wade sets his beer back down. Wipes his damp mouth with the back of his hand. Turns to Peter. There is no easy humor in his darkened eyes and the line of his mouth is firm. He's not joking anymore, and the predatory set of his shoulders makes Peter shiver.
"One more time, sweetheart," he says, his voice deeper than it has been all night. The depth of it is a caress. "Ask daddy one more time, and he'll give you whatever you want."
Whatever I want, Peter thinks dizzily. He sways where he stands. He has absolutely no doubt that Wade would give him everything he wanted if only he asked. It would be overwhelming, if the thing Peter wanted most weren't so simple.
"Touch me," Peter tells Wade. "Please."
Wade takes a step into Peter's space, getting closer to Peter. He hums—a low, contemplative sound—and his hand fits to the back of Peter's neck, dragging his thumb slowly against the short hairs at the bottom of Peter's hairline. The simple sensation makes warmth pool in Peter's belly, molten.
"Fuck me, you're gorgeous," Wade murmurs. He squeezes the back of Peter's neck, then rubs his palm down Peter's spine, lower and lower, until he can curl a finger through a belt loop in Peter's jeans. Wade gives it a playful tug. "And this ass, baby boy? Been looking all night. You're the whole fucking package."
Peter looks up into Wade's eyes and wriggles his hips suggestively, saying, "All yours, daddy."
Peter's never called anyone 'daddy' before, and he likes the way it makes him feel: flirty and daring and naughty. He also likes the way Wade's eyes flash and the muscle in his jaw jumps, as though he were stopping himself from throwing Peter onto the pool table and devouring him. Instead, Wade tugs again on Peter's belt loop, presses his lips against Peter's ear, and growls, "You're going to be the death of me, sweetheart."
Wade does not throw Peter onto the pool table. What he does instead is worse: he sets down his own pool stick and helps Peter line up his next shot. His big hands anchor Peter's hips and he gently kicks Peter's feet into the correct position. He leans over Peter, his chest against Peter's back, and helps angle the pool stick better, whispering praise as Peter follows his instruction. Wade has him completely caged and he can feel how hard he is, the length of him pressed rigid against Peter's ass.
"Okay," Wade says. "Hit it."
It's a wonder Peter doesn't drive the tip of the pool stick directly into the polyester fabric, let alone get his first stripe into the corner pocket.
"Good boy," Wade purrs, peeling himself off Peter's back. Back straightened, he adjusts his hands on Peter's narrow pelvis and rolls his hips once, grinding his cock against Peter in a slow, purposeful shift. Peter chokes on a whine and drops his head, his skull thunking against the tabletop.
Wade laughs and steps back. Peter feels cold without him, and it takes a moment for him to push himself off the pool table. His own cock is pushed stiff against his zipper.
"You get another turn," Wade tells Peter. "Do you want me to help you again, or do you want to try on your own?"
Peter's brain may be addled by alcohol and hormones, but he can still read between the lines. Things are getting heavy between them and they're in a semi-crowded bar; Wade wants to know if Peter is okay with potentially being seen, which is a real possibility even with the dim lighting.
Peter cannot emphasize enough how much he does not care. Normally, he's too caught up in his own head to be reckless that—here and now—he wants to enjoy the freedom of not giving a fuck. He wants to enjoy that freedom with Wade, who makes him feel safe enough to be bold and adventurous.
"Daaaaaddy," Peter whines, tugging on Wade's t-shirt and batting his eyelashes at the taller man. It takes everything Peter has to hold an exaggerated pout and not laugh. "You said you'd help me. Do you not wanna help me?"
"Jesus Christ," Wade mutters to himself, looking briefly upwards as though a divine being will grant him patience. "He just had to be a brat."
"Daddy," Peter whines again, tugging more insistently on Wade's t-shirt. "Please?"
Wade's instruction is even worse the second time. Wade holds his hips and positions him. Leans over him. Cages him in. He takes longer to help Peter set up the shot, constantly adjusting his feet, his legs, his hands. Every touch lingers. Every word drips with approval. Peter is so hard he can't think, and he doesn't even watch the cue ball when Wade tells him to shoot.
He misses.
"You're not paying attention," Wade admonishes, the words hot against the shell of Peter's ear. "Preoccupied?"
"Potentially," Peter says. Wade feels good above him, pinning him, and Peter lets the table take a little more of his weight.
"Potentially?" Wade nips Peter's ear lobe. The sharp sting cuts through the haze of Peter's arousal, then lets it rush back in. "That sounds like a challenge to me."
"I mean, if you think you can't do better..."
Wade pulls Peter off the table like he weighs nothing, one arm banded across Peter's chest, the other scraping a line down Peter's torso to his tummy to his dick. Wade palms him hard through his jeans, and Peter gasps and bucks into the pressure, dropping his pool stick with a clatter. He's glad they're facing the back wall. No one who looks over could mistake the heavy petting for anything other than what it is, but at least Wade's bulk shields Peter from anyone who might actually be staring.
"Please," Peter whimpers, halfway out of his mind. "Please, daddy. I need—"
Wade reaches up and pinches one of Peter's nipples meanly through his shirt. Not expecting it—or how good it feels—Peter lets out a loud moan, clear and high. It cuts through the music and the murmur of other conversations. Someone coughs, loud and obvious, and Peter feels the sudden flash of heat on his face and throat at being caught.
"I think we've embarrassed the peanut gallery," Wade says, unperturbed. His fingers slide over to Peter's other nipple and, using the pad of his thumb, softly rubs the nub to hardness. "Wanna get out of here?"
Peter's brain stutters. He doesn't want anyone to actually watch them but he's also never wanted to be fucked more badly in his life, and the thought of having to stop to go somewhere private makes him want to throw a fit. Wade's been teasing him for too long. If they have to go back to Peter's tiny dorm or Wade's place, Peter might have a meltdown.
"Don't make that face, baby boy," Wade soothes, still thumbing Peter's nipple. "I'm not going to make you wait. Sissy Marg's got a little spot for us out back. It's not red one-hundred emoji percent private, but at least your friends and some greasy deadheads won't have front row seats. Is that okay with you?"
"Please," Peter says, as though it's the only word he still knows. "Please."
"Alright." Wade's hands fall to Peter's hips. "Anything you need, Pete."
Gently, Wade turns Peter around so they're chest to chest, and bends at the knees, encouraging Peter to wrap his arms around his neck. Peter does. Wade then puts both hands under Peter's thighs and lifts him off the ground, once more displaying his strength. Peter instinctively fits his legs around Wade's waist and buries his burning face into Wade's shoulder; no one has ever handled Peter's body with such easy confidence, and it drives Peter crazy.
Keeping his face hidden against Wade, Peter documents their short journey out of the bar in sensation: the sway of Wade's gait, the torturous bump of his cock against Wade's stomach, the click of a heavy door being opened and being shut. The music and indistinct chatter fades to the humming quiet of urban night, and the stifling warmth of a poorly ventilated building crowded with bodies wanes as well. Outside, it is cool. The heat of summer died in the first weeks of September and—now at the end of the month—the chill of autumn nips after dark. Peter would normally be uncomfortable in just a t-shirt at such temperatures, if he were not in danger of burning up.
"Sweetheart," Wade murmurs.
"Daddy?"
"Look at me."
Peter loosens his hold around Wade's neck just enough to lean back and look at Wade's handsome face. Wade wears that same smile he wore the first time Peter glanced at him, easy and warm.
"Hi," Peter says.
"Hey there, baby boy," Wade says back.
They kiss. It's effortless, mouth against mouth, one of Wade's hands in Peter's hair to hold him at the perfect angle. Every nerve in Peter's body sings with elation, a cacophony that urges him closer, fingernails scratching at Wade's scalp, lips parting. Wade hitches Peter closer—still holding him up with one burly arm—and licks into Peter's mouth, tongue against tongue, wet and hot and singularly the best kiss Peter has ever had. He whimpers and pushes, his entire being struggling to be as close as possible, and Wade shoves them against the back wall of Sister Margaret's. The brick scrapes Peter's shoulder blades as Wade lowers Peter down, caging him, knee pushed between Peter's lean thighs. Wade pulls away—but when Peter tries to follow, Wade's fist in his hair keeps him in place, and Peter cries out, desperate, even as Wade's grip tightens painfully, wonderfully. Peter's eyes open, the world blurred by his askew glasses and the tears clumping his eyelashes.
"I'm gonna fuck you til you scream," Wade growls. He shoves his knee so hard against Peter's cock it hurts as much as it doesn't. "I'm gonna make it so good for you, baby. Daddy's gonna make it so good you're never gonna want another cock except his. You want that?"
Peter tries to nod. Cannot. His mouth parts—a little sore, a little spit-slick—and he makes a noise of assent.
"Tell me, sweetheart," Wade demands. The hand not in Peter's hair comes up to trace Peter's bottom lip. "Tell me what you want."
Peter feels a pinch of annoyance and forces his heavy eyes open further, tears still smearing his vision. How many times does he have to tell Wade what he wants? They're already here, behind the seediest bar in town, a giant dumpster on the opposite side of the small gravel alleyway and a weak light above them. It tones the color of Wade's blue eyes and reddened mouth to soft, intimate shadow.
"I want you to shut up," Peter says, voice honey sweet. He scratches down Wade's torso with one hand and stops between Wade's heavy thighs, squeezing the bulge he finds there. "And fuck me."
Wade grunts helplessly as Peter tightens his grip. His hips buck. Peter can feel the vague shape of him through his jeans, big enough that it fills Peter's palm.
"Can't promise anything on the 'no talking' front. I've been told I'm kinda mouthy." Wade leans forward and presses a hot kiss to Peter's throat. "But the fucking? I'm good for that, baby boy."
"Then be good for it, daddy, and stop teasing me."
Wade laughs against Peter's neck but does as Peter wishes. He pushes Peter's hand off his cock and takes a half-step back, removing his thigh from in-between Peter's and letting go of Peter's mussed, sweaty hair. Peter's hands go back up to Wade's broad shoulders as though magnetized, while Wade scours his touch down Peter's sides, then to the front of Peter's jeans. He does not struggle with the button or the zipper, and pushes the denim and the cotton of Peter's underwear down. The night air is cold against Peter's feverish skin and he hisses, nails digging, cock bobbing. Peter looks down and watches as Wade wraps his hand around Peter's dick. There are calluses on his fingers that make Peter writhe, and the sheer breadth of his palm makes Peter look smaller than he is.
"Look at you," Wade purrs. "Knew you'd have a pretty cock to match that pretty face."
Slowly, Wade draws his fist down Peter's cock, from root to tip. When he gets to the end, he rubs the pad of his thumb against the head in a small circle, slicking it. Peter can see the shine against Wade's skin as he pulls away. Wade brings it up to his mouth and licks the wet away with his tongue, tasting him as his eyes burn into Peter's.
"Daddy," Peter whines, and Wade murmurs back, "Baby."
Wade reaches down and undoes his own jeans. Peter stares—greedily, unblinkingly—as Wade pops the button and unzips the placket, revealing more skin and wiry pubic hair. He isn't wearing any underwear. His cock simply falls out as he shoves the denim down his cut hips, so huge and fat that gravity pulls at it even fully hard. Peter's never been penetrated by something so big and his mind goes static in anticipation.
"Like what you see?" Wade asks, taking his cock into his hand and fisting it, the smooth skin bunching as he goes up and down in a slow tease. Peter nods, his head bouncing like a bobble. Wade laughs darkly. "Good. Wanna turn around for me, sweetheart?"
Peter obeys without conscious thought. He puts his forearms against the brick wall and bends at the waist so his ass sticks out, thighs spread as far as they can go with his jeans still pushed down to his knees. If it makes Peter look like a slut, than so be it; Wade's been playing with him for the better part of an hour and he's desperate to get fucked. He even shakes his ass a bit, hoping to tempt Wade.
"Brat," Wade admonishes, slapping one cheek sharply. The sting of it makes Peter gasp. "Let me appreciate the view, okay?"
"You can appreciate it with your cock in me," Peter goads. "Okay?"
Wade smacks Peter's ass again, harder, and this time, Peter hisses. He's becoming addicted to the way Wade handles him, in turns gentle and soft, then rough and mean.
"Bossy," Wade says. "Seriously, just let me—"
Putting more weight on the wall, Peter listens as Wade digs in his pockets. A condom, Peter guesses, the rip of a foil packet faint but distinct, and lube, which Wade smears onto Peter without warning.
"Ah!" Peter yelps, half from the chill of the lube and half from that first incredible touch of Wade's fingers against his hole. "Cold!"
"Brats don't get turndown service," sing-songs Wade. "Brats get spanked, and get cold lube, and get badly finger-fucked to make room for Daddy's cock."
Badly. The word sticks in Peter's brain as Wade shoves two fingers inside Peter. It's just like being spanked, the electric hurt of it striking all the way down, carving a path for the bright need that follows. Badly. Wade forces both fingers down to the knuckle. Peter claws at the brick, calves tightening, rolling his weight to the balls of his feet to let Wade get as much access as possible. Badly. Wade twists his wrist when he's buried, skimming Peter's prostate, and Peter shakes, and shakes, and shakes.
Badly.
Yeah right. If Wade ever decides to finger Peter well, Peter might not survive the experience.
Two fingers becomes three becomes the tease of four, Wade's pinky pushing just past Peter's rim. Peter takes it all so easy, loose with want and the final traces of alcohol in his blood. He's panting—pushing back—demanding more and more with the writhe of his body—and Wade keeps giving it to him—
Wade pulls his fingers out.
Peter all but shouts in wordless frustration, angling his pelvis upward and pushes back. He's been stripped down to his most basic instincts—shameless and animal—and he feels thin and violent. If Wade doesn't get inside him soon, he's either going to start crying or turn around and fight Wade to the dirt so he can take what he wants.
"Slut," Wade purrs, taking his own cock in hand and slapping it against Peter's hole. Peter arches his back even more, wanting. "I was going to make you beg for it, but..."
Wade must want it just as bad because he doesn't tease Peter further; he simply guides the blunt head to Peter's stretched rim and presses, harder and harder, until Peter's rim gives. Barely the tip of Wade's cock is inside Peter when Wade stops to move his hands to Peter's hips. He shifts, planting his feet firmly in the dirt, then pushes in the rest of the way. Every fat, generous inch of him hot and wet and perfect, and Peter grunts as he's filled. Wade's cock is the biggest he's ever taken, and the way he splits Peter in half is neither pain nor pleasure; it is a crushing awareness, the kind that strips all thoughts from Peter's brain and leaves him focused only on the physical. He feels achingly full. His heart rabbits against the backside of his sternum, light and rapid. He pants and—even though he feels like he isn't getting enough air—he knows he's breathing, his ribs shuddering as they expand and contract.
"Shhh," Wade soothes, keeping Peter impaled on his cock. His thumbs are moving in little circles on the divots in the small of Peter's back, and the pads fit perfectly into the small depressions. "I know it's a lot but you'll get there soon, sweetheart, I promise. Just another minute."
Peter hangs his head and rocks his hips gently from side to side. Not to get away, but to try and make sense of the overwhelming presence in his ass that is Wade's huge cock. The brick wall scratches his forearms, a sharp counterpoint to the heaviness in Peter's gut, and it all feels so good that tears clump in Peter's eyelashes and blur his vision.
"Daddy," Peter whimpers. "Daddy—daddy please."
Wade immediately begins to move in small increments. Nothing that Peter's still adjusting body can't handle, but the slow and steady pace quickly becomes maddening.
"Harder," Peter demands, clenching around Wade as he bottoms out again. God, but Wade feels amazing fully seated in him. "Fuck me like you actually mean it—"
"Like I mean it?" Wade says, leaning over Peter, speaking directly into Peter's ear. At the same time, Wade eases three of his fingers into Peter's mouth; he presses them down on Peter's tongue and then keeps them there, leaving Peter unable to form words. "I already mean it. What you mean is 'go faster, daddy'. 'Go harder, daddy'. 'Use me like the worthless cocksleeve I am, daddy'."
Peter whines around the fingers in his mouth, turned on even further by the suggestion.
"Slut," Wade says again.
When Wade begins to move, Peter knows he isn't going to last. Still draped over Peter, still keeping his fingers stuffed into Peter's mouth, Wade fucks into him hard and fast. Spit pools in Peter's mouth and leaks out, sliding down his chin and throat, little wordless unh-unh-unhs blocked by the thick, salty digits. Peter's legs feel weak. His eyes slide shut. He feels so good that he cannot help but sink fully into it, letting Wade use his body however he wants.
"Shit shit shit," Wade curses hot against the shell of Peter's ear. "I ain't gonna last, your ass is just so fucking tight on my cock—"
Peter whimpers around Wade's fingers. His thighs are shaking.
"Close?"
Peter can barely hum an affirmative.
"Okay, sweetheart, okay." Wade is breathless, now. "I got you."
Removing his fingers from Peter's mouth, Wade reaches down and grabs Peter's poor neglected cock. Peter's eyes pop back open as Wade starts to jerk him, the spit on his hand barely enough to ease his rough calluses and brutal touch, but the hurt makes Peter light up. It's so stupidly better than the sweet, gentle handjobs and reach-arounds Peter's gotten from other people that he wants to scream with the intensity of it. But he doesn't yell. He just digs his fingernails into the brick and looks down, head hanging, curls stuck to his sweaty forehead, riveted by the sight of Wade's huge hand around his dick, and begs, over and over, "Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy—"
It's fast. Hard. From start to finish, barely five minutes have passed, but in that time, Peter's entire world view has shifted. The tension in his belly builds with every thrust, every tug. The momentum speeds towards the unrelenting and inevitable, and when Peter is pushed over the edge, when he comes, he comes silent. Every muscle in his body pulses with joy and relief and the effort of staying on his feet.
"Fuck," Wade hisses as Peter's cock twitches pathetically in his hand. "Fuck, baby, I'm almost there—"
Wade lets go of Peter's spent dick and readjusts both hands on Peter's hips. Peter can feel Wade's thumbs digging into his asscheeks, spreading them, making it easy for Wade to see the way his cock moves in and out of Peter's sore, pinked hole. Peter stares unseeingly at the sheen of wetness on the dirt between his battered converse and takes it, trembling, wanting to collapse but wanting Wade to come even more.
Another curse tumbles out of Wade's mouth. And another, and another, and another, a litany of hard syllables between his erratic thrusts. His fingers dig into Peter's skin, likely to leave bruises. Then a grunt—low and pained, like being wounded—and Wade buries himself as deep inside Peter as he can. Peter can feel the rhythmic throb of his cock as Wade comes, and he laughs, happy and sated.
"Yeah," Wade pants, hands loosening. "Me too. Me fucking too."
They stay like that as Wade catches his breath: Wade inside Peter, Peter bent at the waist and letting the back wall of Sister Margaret's hold him up. It holds him up too when Wade pulls out, a final whimper escaping Peter's mouth as he clenches down on nothing.
"Okay?" Wade asks gently. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"No," Peter answers. He knows he can't go again—he's barely standing as it is—but he feels weirdly empty and wishes that Wade had stayed inside him longer. "Just... sore, I guess."
Wade helps Peter stand, turning him around and keeping one steadying hand on his waist. The light above them casts odd, tenebrous shadows across the plane of Wade's face; Peter stares at the new angles with warmth as Wade keeps him steady, straightening his hair and glasses and clothes even while his own jeans remain open and his cock hangs out.
"I want to see you again," Peter murmurs.
Wade's hands still on Peter's zipper. His eyes—almost black in the ochre light—flicker up for a heartbeat. They fall just as quickly, Wade's fingers going to the metal button.
"I mean, if you just wanted this to be a one time deal, then you don't have to like, give me your number or anything," Peter continues, arms hanging uselessly by his side. He doesn't know how to decipher the glance Wade gave him, doesn't know if it's good or bad. "But this was... really good for me. And I would like to do it again. Maybe with dinner?"
"Dinner." Wade's hands slide from Peter's waist.
"Yeah." Peter takes in a deep, steadying breath. He's never done this before—the whole pick-up thing—and he doesn't know he's breaking some sort of unspoken etiquette. All he knows is that he likes Wade and wouldn't mind seeing him again. "Dinner. We can do pizza, burgers, spaghetti. That Korean barbecue place. Breakfast food at night. Whatever. I'm not a picky eater."
"I'm partial to Mexican myself," Wade says softly as he pulls off the condom, ties off the end, and lazily tosses it over his shoulder in the general direction of the dumpster. To Peter's amusement, it lands in the bin with a nearly inaudible plop. Wade then tucks himself back into his jeans. "For... first dates. And second dates. Any date, really."
Wade and Peter look at each other. Peter has begun to chew on his bottom lip, unsure. How is it harder to ask someone out than have sex with them?
"Ah, hell." Wade scrubs a hand over his skull, forehead to nape, his own nervous tic. He keeps his eyes on the brick wall instead of Peter. "This is a bad idea. Not because of you, baby boy, so don't give me those eyes—it's because of me. I'm kind of an ugly mess."
"I don't care about the scars," Peter tells him sincerely.
Wade barks a single, harsh laugh and says, "It ain't just the scars, sweetheart."
Peter frowns. Wade hasn't said no, but he hasn't said yes, either. The ambiguity makes Peter's voice come out smaller than he intends when he asks, "So you don't want to... to get tacos with me?"
Looking away from the wall, Wade also frowns. Stares. Neither blink for a long moment—then Wade slowly reaches up and cradles the back of Peter's head with both hands. They gravitate towards one another and kiss. It's a different kiss than the one Wade gave to him when they first came out—a long, slow slide of tongue that sinks heat into Peter's belly—and it makes him feel dazed when Wade pulls back.
"I want to get tacos with you," Wade says gently, and gives Peter another quick peck. "I'll give you my number."
Peter fumbles his cell out of his pocket. His fingers are clumsy and eager as he unlocks it and pulls up a new contact before handing it over. He watches as Wade programs himself in as Daddy Wade (eggplant emoji) (sweat droplets emoji) Wilson. The area code is local.
"Now yours," Peter says when Wade gives the phone back. "I'll put mine in."
"No." Wade shakes his head. "I'm not joking when I say that I got Issues, capital 'i', and that the last few relationships I've been in have gone down in a fiery blaze because of them. I want you to wait a few days, then text me when you've thought about it a little more, okay? Or don't. I'll have my answer either way."
Peter can tell Wade is serious so he doesn't push it. He doesn't tell Wade that he struggles with mental health too, and that he knows what it's like for relationships to fail because of them. He supposes that can wait until they've gone on a few dates and talked a bit more.
"Okay," Peter says instead. "I'll think about it."
"Good boy." Wade leans in to give Peter another small kiss, which Peter accepts happily. "Now, let's get you back inside before your friends rally a search party. I've distracted you long enough."
Since the back door locks automatically and Wade doesn't have the key with him, they walk around the building to the entrance of Sister Margaret's. There are a couple of bigger, rougher looking guys smoking cigarettes who do no more than tilt their chins up in acknowledgement when Wade gives a jaunty wave.
"This is where I leave you, Petey Pie." Wade tucks one of Peter's longer curls behind his ears. "You gonna be alright?"
"Yeah," Peter affirms. He's more than aware of the men speaking in low tones nearby, so he gathers his courage and whispers, "Can I have one more kiss?"
Wade's grin is immediate and warm.
"Sure," Wade says. "One more kiss, coming up."
Their last kiss of the night is long and firm and close-mouthed. Wade barely touches Peter—his lips on Peter's lips, his fingertips grazing the hollow of Peter's throat—and Peter is already addicted to the way he cannot predict how Wade will kiss him. He knows that he's going to text Wade as soon as the weekend is over; he doesn't have to think about it, Wade's hesitation notwithstanding.
Their kiss breaks. Wade's hand falls from Peter's face, and Peter takes a step back.
"Goodnight, Peter," Wade murmurs.
"Good night, Wade," Peter says. And—as he opens the front door to Sister Margaret's—he looks once more over his shoulder, and finds Wade watching him, that easy smile on his face.
.
The air inside Sister Margaret's is hot and stagnant after his brief interlude outside, though Peter is not entirely ungrateful. The chill had been starting to get to him.
Inside, Peter weaves through the small packs of frat boys and clusters of leather jackets. His friends are still at the same pool table, done with their game yet not concerned with Peter's brief absence. Mary Jane and Felicia are leaning into one another, close, trading sweet little kisses like they do when they are drunk; they'll want to go to one of the louder clubs and grind against each other before stumbling back to their apartment. Harry's looking sour—as he always does when he's bored—and Johnny's full of energy, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet, his expensive sneakers creaking from the abuse. Harry is the first to notice Peter's approach.
"Ugh, finally," Harry says loudly, pushing his floppy hair out of his eyes. "Peter's back from his make-out session. Can we go now?"
"Hey guys," Peter greets, vaguely. He's aware of his vaguely disheveled appearance, and wonders if his face is as red as it feels. "Done playing pool?"
"We were talking about going dancing," Felicia says.
"Do you wanna come?" Mary Jane's green eyes are glittering, happy and mischievous. "Where's Wade? Does he want to come? I bet he's a killer dancer."
The way she says it makes Peter remember—vividly and viciously—the way Wade held Peter's hips in his hands and ground his cock against Peter's ass. Between Harry and Mary Jane, Peter is pretty sure the blood vessels in his cheeks are going to rupture.
"Wade, uhh, went home," Peter tells Mary Jane. "And sorry, but I think I might head back too. This tequila is making me sleepy."
Truthfully, the water Wade had Peter drink has flushed most of the alcohol out of his system, but he can't exactly tell Mary Jane that, if he tries to dance, his legs will give out because Wade fucked him too good. He would never hear the end of it.
"You're just afraid of Coyote Ugly-ing it again," Felicia teases. "Ah, good times."
Case in point, Peter thinks.
"I'm gonna go back with Peter," Gwen interjects. They slide in next to Peter and loop one slender arm over Peter's shoulders; they're taller than Peter by several inches. "I'm also feeling a little tired."
"Okay then, it's decided," Harry says. "The little baby nerds will go home, and the rest of us will go have fun. Now let's get the hell out of here before I develop some sort of rash."
It doesn't take long to gather all their things and leave. Johnny is first, holding the door open for them all, while Mary Jane and Felicia bring up the rear. They all exchange hugs goodbye on the sidewalk—Johnny nearly crushing Peter's ribs—and Harry firmly reminds Gwen and Peter to text the group chat when they make it home safely.
"Yes, Dad," Gwen says, rolling their eyes.
The group splits. The other four leave to go dance the rest of the night away while Peter and Gwen turn back towards campus. Other drunk students travel around them, loud and bright, flowing in and out of bars like liquor into shot glasses. They move past all of the Saturday night excitement and into the quiet dark. When Peter starts to get cold, he stops to pull his flannel and hoodie back on.
"So," Gwen says as Peter zips up the hoodie. "Just how big was his dick?"
Surprised, Peter laughs. He doesn't know what might happen after tonight—if he and Wade will continue to have amazing chemistry, great sex, and start to date—but he hopes so. He has Wade's number on his phone, a grinning friend ready to gossip, and a pleasant ache in his hips.
It's been a good week for Peter.
Maybe next week will be too.
.