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Chapter Text

The young man adjusted his pack. By day three in the snowy Canadian wilderness he’d gotten used to the weight, but it was still a struggle on this hill. Through the trees he heard whistling, interspersed with loud thwacks. He proceeded up the abandoned logging road, cautiously, until he came to a clearing.

“Wade!” he shouted in relief.

Wade looked up from the block that held the wedge of firewood he was currently working on. He leaned on his axe, shirtless. At his back was a tiny log cabin, smoke billowing from the chimney.

Wade squinted. “Who the hell are you?”

Wade Winston Wilson had always been a lumberjack.

Or at least, as far back as he could remember.

His father was a lumberjack, his grandfather was a lumberjack, his great-grandmother was a lumberjack, etc, etc, etc.

(The only thing his piece-of-shit dad ever cut was bad checks, and the only thing he ever bothered to chop down was Wade’s self-esteem.)

No.

That wasn’t right.

Wade had a great childhood. All sunshine and snow days and American apple pie. Canadian maple syrup. Whatever.

Wade was born in Montreal, except his French was shit so it must have been Regina. Except that was just the set-up for a crude joke, so it must have been Saskatoon.

Or maybe Vancouver? He remembered a tiny Chinese lady lecturing him in the market, and sweet rice cakes and oranges on New Years. But maybe he remembered Vanessa being there too, so maybe that wasn’t when he was a kid.

His head hurt when he thought about it too hard, and chopping wood was more straightforward anyway. It was September and already snowing and he had a lot of work to do to build up a big enough wood pile for the winter. Everyone knew how important that was.

He wondered who had taught him that. Must have been his dear auntie, when she taught him everything he needed to know about being a lumberjack.

Because he had always been a lumberjack.

Right?

Wade kept a diary. He wrote in it every day.

It was more fiction than non-fiction, but it kept him amused. His day-to-day was pretty boring, but he would write scraps of things he pretended to remember. Like little stories to himself.

One time we visited the big city, my mom and me. It was for one of her cancer treatments before she died. She bought me ice cream after. My dad wasn’t there. It was a good day.

And:

Last month I woke up in a warehouse with Spider-Man. You can ONLY IMAGINE what we must have gotten up to! Wink! But I didn’t want to make him navigate that awkward morning-after, so I did the gentlemanly thing and ditched.

And:

Vanessa used to sharpie her name on my arm before she left for the club or the bar or wherever she was hustling that night. There was a big poster of her face, and she had written “I love you Wade Wilson” right on it so I would always remember. There were photos of the two of us all over the apartment, and sticky notes. So many sticky notes.

Wade’s brow crinkled. He didn’t remember writing that entry. He couldn’t quite picture the poster with Vanessa’s face, just an echo of dark curls and sultry eyes. She sounded like something out of the cheap romance novel he was halfway through, which meant he’d probably made her up.

Why would a lumberjack have an apartment in the city, anyway?

BULLSHIT, he scrawled on one of the many pads of sticky notes he had found in a drawer, and he stuck it on the fridge. There was a man’s ring in the drawer too, thick titanium. He carefully hid it under a sticky pad.

There was a phone on top of the fridge. The screen was cracked to bits. There was no charger. Wade hoped his many friends and acquaintances wouldn’t notice that he wasn’t texting them back.

Wade woke up slowly, head throbbing, extremities screaming in the early spring snow. He groaned as he struggled to his feet. There was a path up the canyon, and he made his slow way up and through the woods until his feet brought him to a clearing. A stump and an axe littered the ground in front of a small cabin.

“I bet a lumberjack lives here,” Wade said. “I always wanted to be a lumberjack! I bet he won’t mind if I hang out until he gets back.”

He opened the door and headed to the messy bed. Maybe the lumberjack would come back while he was sleeping and wake him up with a kiss, just like in the princess in the pea. The prince in Wade’s mind had brown eyes and brown hair, and was a little too short to be a prince.

“That’s okay,” Wade mumbled. “I’m a little tall to be a princess, so maybe it works out.”

And then he was asleep.

When he woke up, he started a fire and found his diary.

Dear Diary: Today I’m gonna go check out that big canyon near the cabin. I don’t know why I’ve never bothered to explore it before, it looks neat! Wish me luck!

DON’T FORGET YOUR FUCKING KEYS, read a sticky note by the door.

Wade spent all day looking for his fucking keys. Finally, as night fell, he realized the fucking door didn’t have a fucking lock.

He left the sticky note up as a reminder of how silly he had been.

The next day, Wade tore the cabin apart looking for his fucking book. The problem was that he couldn’t remember which one he’d been reading. All of it — the plot, the characters, the setting — were just out of reach of his brain. Slippery. Tantalizing.

He couldn’t remember anything about the book except that he was about to get to the good part.

No, not the steamy, bodice-ripping sex.

The happily ever after.

Yes, Wade loved shitty romance novels, and yes, Wade would give a bloody nose to anyone who gave him shit about that fact. He hadn’t had good role models, okay? Being raised in the system would fuck anyone up.

Whoever had this cabin before him had loved romance novels, too. The bookshelf was full of them.

(Hadn’t this always been his cabin? Whatever, didn’t matter.)

Finally he gave up and settled for a different book. It was on the table by the chair by the fire, so it was probably the one he was going to read next, anyway. It was good, really good, and the twists and turns kept him reading until dawn.

Hey Mom!

Figured I should call you, but I broke my phone so I’m writing instead. I’m doing great here in the great outdoors. It reminds me of visiting grandpa when I was a kid. Hope Dorothy and Sophia are well!

Shit.

I just realized there’s no postal service here.

And all my addresses are on my broken phone.

(Sorry for the swear.)

Well in case I ever do send this, all the love from your favorite kid,
Wade

I wonder how much of this moonshine I can chug before I puke through my nose? read the latest entry in Wade’s diary.

Wade was pretty sure it was his diary, anyway. It had his name on it. There were twenty-three entries in it, in handwriting that looked like his. He tried to read them all, but his head was killing him.

I don’t remember any moonshine, he wrote, but I think I cleaned up some vomit. And by “cleaned up” I mean I think I let a raccoon in and let him go to town. I’m naming him Johnny Trash.

He looked around the room. There was no raccoon.

Sadly, Johnny has left for Memphis in search of his big break. He played me his hit single “Folsom Dumpster Blues” before he left, and I really think he has a chance.

He sat down in the chair by the fire, and set the diary down on top of a well-loved romance novel. The Squire and the Spider. Juicy.

He flipped the novel open to a page with the corner creased, near the end. Aw, the wedding scene. Bless. Wade had never read this book and so had no idea what was going on, but he did love a good wedding. They always made him cry.

A drop landed on the page, and he realized he was already crying.

CRYBABY, he scrawled on a sticky note. After some thought, he wrote MOONSHINE BAD!! on another one.

The bed felt extra empty that night, which was weird because Wade had been sleeping alone as long as he could remember.

Wade was happy being a lumberjack. It was a simple life, sure. But he had his cozy cabin, and a shelf full of books that he hadn’t read yet. He had snow days every day. He had his diary and his sticky notes to keep him company.

Sometimes he wondered if he should want more, but he couldn’t think of anything to want.

It had been like this for as long as he could remember.

Chapter Text

It was another fine day for lumberjackery and Wade was making the most of it. He had done all the things a lumberjack ought to do: he had assessed his canyon (carefully!), greeted all the neighborhood squirrels, and he was finally getting DTF (Down To Firewood) with some beautifully girthy logs.

Everything was going great, until his flow was rudely interrupted by a handsome (but unwelcome) stranger.

“Wade?” said the stranger.

“Who the hell are you?” asked Wade, and the joy in the young man’s face dissolved.

“Y-you don’t remember me?”

Wade shrugged. “Don’t take it personally. Got a brain like swiss cheese, me. Hey, what? Hey, don’t cry.”

“I’m not,” sniffed the man, scrubbing at his eyes with his sleeve. “My name is Peter. I’m — ” He took a deep breath. “I’m your husband.”

The clearing was still for a long moment, then Wade guffawed. “My… husband?” He bent in half, laughing until his eyes were wet. “Go on, tickle the other one.”

“It’s true! Don’t laugh!”

“No offense, baby boy, but I would remember being married to a specimen like you.”

The man — Peter — chewed his lip. “You called me ‘baby boy.’”

“Sorry. I call everyone nicknames.” Did he? He’d said it, so it must be true.

“You do, but… that’s not a common one.”

“Well.” Wade crossed his arms. The chill of sweat on his skin reminded him that he was still shirtless. At least the kid didn’t look like he was going to puke. Small blessings. “Well, hubster, tell me why I don’t remember you.”

“You died. Your… your head got blown off.”

Wade snorted, gesturing upward. “Uh, clearly got a head in the game.”

“I know. You can heal from anything. It’s your superpower.”

(Dear Diary: Chopped off a few fingers today, whoopsie! Guess lumberjackery ISN’T just like riding a bike. Or maybe I’m just TERRIBLE at bikes.)

“So I’m a superhero.”

Peter waggled a hand. “Close enough. You try to do the right thing.”

“Oh, now I know you’re lying.”

“You do! There was this gang, and they were taking advantage of innocent people. Hurting kids.”

“Fuck people who hurt kids,” snarled Wade before he could stop himself.

“I know! That’s exactly what you said! So we found where they were keeping the kids. You held them off while I got everyone out and, well…” Peter took a shaky breath through his nose. “I’m pretty sure you ate a grenade. Took out all the bad guys, but also took out most of your h-head.” He took another deep breath, then met Wade’s eyes. “It was awful. There was nothing left, just… blood and… bits of bone and brain. I sat in that warehouse all night with you in my lap, watching you heal. I fell asleep and when I woke up you were just… g-gone.”

“I was in a warehouse once,” said Wade. “But that was with Spider-Man.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “You remember?”

“No. I wrote it down. Are you saying that was real? I know Spider-Man?”

“Um.” Peter flourished weak jazz hands. “Turns out I’m Spider-Man. Ta da! Big dramatic identity reveal!”

Wade snorted. “Yeah, right. If you’re Spider-Man, then I’m…” Hmm. Captain…

“Deadpool,” said Peter. “You’re Deadpool.”

Wade tapped his lips. That did sound familiar… 

He was starting to almost, maybe believe that this kid did know him.

Wade’s eyes widened and he startled, backing up until his back hit the wall of the cabin. He slid down the wall, trying his hardest not to look like he was cowering from Peter.

(He wasn’t.)

(He was.)

“No. No! Fuck you, I know what you’re doing. You do not get to tell me who I am, you hear me? Just because I can’t remember shit doesn’t mean you get to come along with your fucking… bambi eyes, and put ideas in my head!”

Peter raised his palms soothingly. “No, Wade, I’m not! I’m sorry. I know.”

“You don’t know shit about me.”

“I know that your dad used to lie to you about what happened to your mom. She left, she died, a different story each time.” Peter took a slow step towards Wade. “I know you had an ex, Shiklah, who cheated on you constantly and convinced you that you were crazy every time you started to catch on.” Another step. “I know Weapon X brainwashed you. ‘Scrambled your brain like an egg,’ you always say.”

Wade let Peter get closer, one step after another, until he reached the cabin and slid down next to him.

“I know you made Vanessa promise to never, ever lie to you.”

Wade’s voice wavered. “Vanessa’s real?”

“She is. She was. She died. But she never lied to you. And neither have I. Never ever.”

Slowly, like he was calming an animal, Peter reached a hand towards Wade, fingers outstretched. Just as slowly, Wade took it, tangling their fingers together. There was a ring on Peter’s finger. A men’s ring, thick titanium.

“This feels right,” said Wade.

“Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

“I guess I lost my wedding ring.”

“That’s okay. We have spares. I lose mine sometimes, too.” Peter sniffed, rubbing at his eyes again. “Can I show you something?”

He shuffled around in his pack and pulled out a binder. On the cover, a scrapbook collage read: BREAK IN CASE OF EMERGENCY.

“We scrapbook together every Saturday,” Peter said. “And you write in your diary a lot. But I don’t read those. They’re all at home.”

“Where’s home?”

“New York City.”

“Must be hard to make a living in NYC as a lumberjack,” said Wade, and Peter stifled a laugh.

“Wade… you are not a lumberjack.”

“What am I, then?”

“A… security consultant.”

“A hitman?”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “You don’t kill people anymore. You stopped for me.”

“Huh.”

Wade opened the binder. The first page was in what looked like his handwriting (or at least, it was the same as those diary entries that he didn’t remember writing).

Hey Future Wade!

It’s me, your best frenemy, Past Wade. If you’re reading this it means you’ve gone full 50 First Dates on poor Petey Pie. This is the cliff notes of the Wonderful World that is Wade W. Wilson. Enter at your own risk!

xoxo,
Some Asshole In A Red Suit

P.S. NOT SANTA

The next page had a copy of a birth certificate. Petey found it! read a scrawl in the caption. Turns out I’d been celebrating the wrong birthday for years, haha!

“Saskatoon,” said Wade. “I was born in Saskatoon.”

“Mmhmm,” said Peter.

Wade’s hand hesitated over the page. Enter at your own risk. “I’m not sure I want — Can I skip ahead to the juicy bits? You might not know this, but I love — ”

“ — the wedding scene. You always skip to the wedding scene.” Peter reached over, fingers sure as they flipped to a page near the end.

“Oh,” said Wade.

That sure was a wedding scene. A little courthouse wedding in the city, with photos in Central Park after. Peter smashing a cloth-wrapped glass on the concrete. Waiting in line at a hot dog stand in their white suits. Friends in fancy hats laughing and eating ice cream cones.

Or in the case of one friend, glowering while eating an ice cream cone.

“I know him. That’s Logan.”

“Mmhmm.”

“That fuck showed up to my wedding?”

“He likes you. You two have a… thing. I don’t quite understand it. But he likes you.”

“Who’s that?” asked Wade, gesturing to the older woman who was fighting back happy tears in every single photo.

“That’s my Aunt May. She loves you. You two talk on the phone a lot. She helps you remember stuff.”

Wade nodded slowly. “So that means this has happened before?”

Peter chewed his lip. “Only once, this bad. That was… that was really terrible. We weren’t prepared. Not like I am now. You do forget a lot, though. Little things, big things. Sometimes it’s because of a head trauma, sometimes it’s random. Just your brain re-healing in a weird way. There are some people who help you out. Telepaths that we trust. Some of the memories are gone, but some are just hidden. You might be able to get some of it back.”

Wade traced a finger over a photo. “I hope I can get this one back.”

Peter squeezed his hand. “Even if you don’t, I’m just so glad I found you. You’ve been missing since Thanksgiving, and I was so worried…”

“Wait a second. Thanksgiving? It’s June!”

“It’s winter. The ground is covered in snow. I’m freezing my ass off here.”

“We’re in Canada, Peter. It’s snowy all year round. Wait… we are in Canada, right?”

“We’re in Canada, and today is January 5th.”

“Aw, I missed Christmas?”

Peter patted his hand. “I know it’s your favorite. We can make it up. Hanukkah, too.”

“Shit. Does that mean I owe you eight presents?”

Twining their fingers together, Peter stared soulfully into Wade’s eyes. “You’re my present this year.”

Wade pulled back. “Gross! No bromo!” He froze. “Really? Really? I can’t remember our fucking wedding, but I can remember that fucking incest Folgers commercial?”

Peter snorted. “God, I want to kiss you right now. Uh, shit, I mean… Sorry. Habit.”

Wade considered it. “You can kiss me. You’re my husband, right? You can do whatever you want.”

“That’s not how this works and you know it.”

“Y-you can kiss me. If you want.” Wade suddenly felt like one of the blushing maidens from his romance novels. He knew he must have kissed people before (must have kissed Peter before), but he couldn’t quite remember doing it. With forced bravado, he said, “You know how?”

With a soft smile, Peter turned, rising to his knees so he was a head taller than Wade. He tipped Wade’s chin up with two fingers and leaned in. “I know how,” he whispered against Wade’s lips, and then they were kissing.

It was heart-achingly sweet, the way Peter worked his mouth slowly against Wade’s. The way his tongue dipped in, meeting the tip of Wade’s like a long-lost lover. After a few languid kisses, Peter pulled back, brown eyes meeting Wade’s.

“W-what else do you know?” asked Wade. 

“I know you like it when I take the lead. When I take care of you. Everyone thinks because you’re big that you want to be in charge, but I know that’s not true.” Peter kissed a messy line along Wade’s jaw, took Wade’s earlobe gently between his teeth. Whispered, “I know you’re wearing panties under those jeans.”

“Oh, fuck me sideways,” Wade gasped, curling forward as his panty-and-denim-wrapped cock swelled. Peter let out a breathy laugh, and Wade pushed him back so they were face to face. “No, seriously. I — you — If you’re a hallucination, or a honeypot, or whatever, I don’t even care. I need you to fuck me.” Peter hesitated, and Wade swallowed hard. “Please, Daddy?”

“Shit,” Peter whispered. “Um. Yes. Okay. If you’re sure. We — We'll take it slow.”

Wade winked. “Maybe you can jog my memory loose by jogging a few other things.”

They stood and, on a whim, Wade swept Peter into a bridal carry.

“Shall we, Mr. Wilson?” he asked, and Peter laughed.

“Let’s shall, Mr. Parker.”

“Mr. Wade Parker? It breaks the alliteration, but I don’t hate the sound of it.” And then Wade carried his apparently-husband across the threshold of his cozy cabin home.

At the door, Wade kicked off his boots and Peter did the same.

(“Don’t you dare wear those filthy boots in the house, Wade. Were you raised in a barn?”

“More like a dishwasher box. And that’s when my dad was in a good mood.”

“You had a dishwasher? Lucky.”)

Peter surveilled the room. His adorable little nose wrinkled. “Wade… is that a dead raccoon?”

“Uh…” Wade hurried over to grab the striped tail of what was clearly a decaying raccoon. He sidled to the door and tossed it outside (along with a handful of sticky notes), slamming the door after it. “I guess Johnny Trash’s music career didn’t really take off, huh.”

Peter rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fuck, I love you.”

“I don’t really get why, but I’m past the point of questioning it.”

“Just get on the fucking bed.”

Wade perked. “Yessir!”

He sat on the edge of the bed and Peter followed him, pushing him on his back and straddling his hips. He slid his hands up Wade’s forearms, gently pressing his wrists into the comforter. “‘Sir,’ ‘Daddy.’ Are you sure you don’t remember us?”

“I don’t — ” Wade cut off as Peter’s mouth found his neck, “ — but I think I’m starting to get the idea.”

“Just take off your pants.”

Wade hesitated. “You do know… Well, of course you know.”

“The scars go all the way down? Yeah, Wade. I know.” Peter smiled down. “I love the way you look.” He buried his face in Wade’s neck, heaved in a breath. “Love the way you smell when you’ve been working.” He moved down, found Wade’s nipple and teased it between his teeth. “Love the way you taste.”

“Found that nip first try,” Wade gasped. “Good job, that’s challenge mode.”

In response, Peter bit him, hard. “I. Know. You. Now take your fucking pants off.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

As Wade slid out of his jeans, Peter swung off of him, sliding to the floor between his legs. “Fuck, baby. I was right.” His hand slid up Wade’s thigh, landing on the front of his red satin panties. “Fuck.”

Wade’s cheeks went warm. They were his favorite pair. Full enough coverage to be comfortable to work in, but silky enough to remind him they were there all day. “You like ‘em, Daddy?”

In response, Peter covered that red satin with his mouth. Wade scrabbled at the comforter, gripping tight as Peter mouthed at his cock, big sloppy licks until the fabric was dark with spit. Peter kissed up Wade’s hip bone, hooking his fingers in the waistband of the panties. He looked up at Wade, eyes dark.

“Can I suck your cock?”

“Are you seriously going to ask before you do everything?”

Peter quirked an eyebrow. “Yes. Now give me permission to choke myself on your dick, sweetheart.”

Wade’s cock throbbed, and all he could do was frantically nod.

With a smirk, Peter pulled the panties down around Wade’s thighs, trapping his legs. He licked Wade’s cock, root to tip, then wrapped one hand around the base. Heat curled in Wade’s belly, and he couldn’t keep his eyes off Peter’s face. The way he peeked up through his lashes, gauging Wade’s reactions. The way his lips got steadily redder, the shine of spit as they stretched around Wade’s cock. Every sigh and every muffled moan. Wade couldn’t imagine ever forgetting this, but he committed it all to memory just in case.

And Peter hadn’t been kidding about choking. Letting his hand slide down to caress Wade’s balls, he took Wade down to the root. Wade felt himself hit the back of Peter’s throat, and then a glorious hot squeeze as Peter opened and took him in.

“Fuck,” he groaned, using every bit of willpower not to thrust up as Peter gagged. Peter gave a hard swallow, taking Wade just a little bit further. He pulled off in a slide of spit, watery eyes meeting Wade’s, lips quirked in a coy smile.

And then he did it again.

And again, throat spasming in an exquisite pulse that had Wade closer to the edge each time Peter swallowed him down. He mixed it up with his hand, pumping fast while he sucked on the head, scraping with just the right amount of teeth, glancing up through wet eyelashes.

Wade groaned, clutching the comforter. “Fuck, Pete, I’m close.”

Peter pulled all the way off. Even with his hand a comforting weight around the base, the loss of that mouth made Wade want to cry.

“Do you want to come in my mouth?” asked Peter. “Or do you want to come around my cock?”

Oh, fuck. “The second one, pretty please.”

Peter smiled. “Well, let’s get you ready, sweetheart.”

He shucked his clothes quickly but elegantly. Peter had a dancer’s frame, slim but strong. Every article of clothing revealed strong lines, smooth skin marred by the occasional scar. His cock already stood to attention, the tip dripping. Just from sucking Wade’s cock? Wowza.

Wade blushed when Peter caught him peeking.

Peter’s eyes crinkled. “See something you like?”

“I want — Can I — I want to get to know you, too.”

“Next time, okay, baby? You can explore as much as you want, I promise. But right now I want to take care of my guy. Is that alright?”

Wade nodded mutely, his chest swelling with something warm and achy all at the same time. Peter helped Wade shimmy the rest of the way out of the panties and rotate until he was fully on the bed, feet planted flat. Wade pressed his knees together, feeling suddenly exposed, but Peter crawled up after him and coaxed them open with kisses and caresses and soft words. There was the click of a lube bottle (retrieved from Peter’s pack), and then Wade was taking a deep breath and clenching his eyes shut.

“We can stop or slow down anytime you want, honey,” Peter said. His voice was close, and Wade opened his eyes to Peter braced above him. “You know that, right?”

“I know!” squeaked Wade. “Could we, um. Could we maybe make out a little more?”

“Mmhmm,” purred Peter, and his lips were on Wade’s, slow and sloppy. Wade melted into the bed. He gasped when Peter’s slippery fingers wrapped around his cock, and sighed as they caressed the crease of his thigh and then lower. Peter caught every gasp and whimper in his mouth, moaning back like Wade’s sounds were the most erotic thing he’d ever heard. Like Wade was erotic to him. Wade’s eyes prickled, and he had to squeeze them shut for a whole other reason as Peter’s fingers breached him.

Peter was so, so gentle, opening Wade up one finger at a time. He murmured a non-stop stream of praise, his words as considerate as his fingers. How well Wade was doing. How pretty he looked when he blushed (that one made Wade blush more). How this was the only thing Peter wanted to be doing. Wade writhed as his body relaxed and his arousal grew. Having Peter inside of him was an ecstatic ache that matched the one in his chest. It was like nothing Wade had ever felt before. It was like coming home.

“I’m ready,” Wade said, when the sweet pressure building throughout him grew too much to bear. “I want you.”

Peter pulled his fingers out, a slide that made Wade shudder, and then the tip of him was pressing against Wade. “That’s it, big guy,” Peter murmured against Wade’s mouth. “You can take me.” He pressed in, gentle but relentless, his hand braced around the back of Wade’s neck, his forehead pressed to Wade’s. He overwhelmed Wade with wet kisses and sweet words as Wade yielded beneath him.

Finally, Peter was all the way in.

“See?” he told Wade. “You did so well for me. You’re always so good for me.”

Wade nodded, tucking his face into Peter’s shoulder. Words out of reach, no room for them when his brain and his body and his heart were a chorus of yes, good, right. He rolled his hips experimentally, gasping as Peter’s cock slid inside him.

Peter hummed. “You want more, sweet boy? You can have whatever you want.”

He pulled out, long and slow, and then pushed in, and Wade groaned and tightened his knees against Peter’s hips. Peter’s mouth sought his and he kissed Wade deep, tongue moving in a languid rhythm that matched his hips, leaving Wade swearing against him.

“You could tell me this is what I was made for and I’d believe you,” said Wade.

“Yeah?” asked Peter, thrusting harder. “Is that what you want? Make you believe you’re my sex slave? That your whole job is just to make my cock feel good?”

Wade’s fingers clenched against Peter’s back. “You could — If I forgot while we were fucking, you could tell me anything.”

“You know what I’d tell you, if I could make you believe anything?” Peter sucked wet kisses against Wade’s neck. “I’d tell you that you’re perfect. That you’re made for me. That being inside of you is the only place I ever want to be.”

Wade’s eyes got damp, and he felt a yearning in his belly. An itch for more.

He pawed at Peter’s shoulder. “I need… Can you…” He made a frustrated sound. “I don’t know what I need.”

“I got you, baby,” Peter said. “Reach down between your legs for me, okay? Feel how my cock fits in you.”

Wade did, moaning as his fingers found the base of Peter’s cock. The wet muscle of his own hole stretched obscenely around it. “Like that?”

“Like that, perfect, you’re perfect. Now slide a finger in.”

Wade’s breath caught. “In? But…”

Peter slowed to a stop. “You can do it, honey. You’ve done it before. You’ve had my whole hand in you before, I can’t wait to show you the pictures.”

With a whimper, Wade screwed up his courage and took his index finger and pushed. There was a long, tense moment of pressure, and then it slid in, tight against Peter’s cock.

“Good,” Peter groaned. He was breathing hard, forehead against Wade’s. “Good. Can you do one more for me?”

Wade nodded, wriggling his middle finger into position and pushing, whimpering as it slid home. He didn’t think he’d ever felt as vulnerable as he did in that moment, pinned to this bed by Peter’s gaze and his cock and his own fingers.

“Good boy,” Peter gasped. “Fuck, you’re perfect, holding yourself open for me.” He sat back on his heels, sliding his palms up the back of Wade’s thighs and pushing them towards his chest. He looked down, slowly rocking his cock against Wade’s fingers. “Goddamn, I could watch that all day. Now one more thing for me, okay? You’re gonna reach down with your other hand and play with the head of your cock. Really gentle, just play with it.”

Wade’s ears rang and his head felt light as cotton. He reached down, sliding his foreskin down and back with just his thumb and his forefinger. The light touch zinged through him, making him twitch, like his fingers were hooked up to electricity.

“Perfect. Now I’m gonna make you feel so good, honey.”

Peter thrust in, slow at first, but building. Sweat dripped down his forehead and his chest, making their skin slide everywhere it met. As Peter thrust faster, Wade held on for dear life, threw his head back, and begged. He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for. It was too much, but he needed more. He was so full, but he needed to be fuller. Tears pricked at his eyes and this time he didn’t try to stop them from sliding down his temples.

He needed, but he didn't know what he needed.

Peter had him. 

“Me too, baby,” Peter gasped. “Me too. Just a little bit longer, okay? I know you can hold it for me.” Wade nodded and clung on, and Peter curled over him, hips slapping against Wade’s thighs until they stung. His brow furrowed and his breath came faster, little groans punching out of him as he chased his own pleasure. Wade didn’t think he’d ever seen something so beautiful. “Good, that’s good, sweetheart. Come. Now.”

Wade spasmed, fingers stuttering over the head of his cock. He cried out and splattered hot across their bellies, going limp and pliant as Peter thrust a few more times and then groaned into his shoulder.

The cabin was quiet.

“Shit,” Wade croaked, wincing as he slid his fingers free. “Tell me there’s a scrapbook for that.”

“Just one? Don’t underestimate yourself.”

Wade gave a mournful cry as Peter pulled out, but Peter’s hand landed on his chest and he settled. “You’re really good at that.”

“I had a good teacher.” Peter busied himself wiping Wade down with a discarded tee shirt, tucking Wade under the covers.

Peter slipped out of bed to throw another log on the fire, raking the ashes against it for the night. His hands were sure, like he’d done it before. Like they’d done this before. He paused by the chair, picking up a book.

“The Squire and the Spider? This is one of your favorites.”

“Really?” asked Wade.

“Mmhmm.” Peter climbed back under the covers. “Do you want me to read to you while you fall asleep?”

“Sure. But I don’t remember where I was.”

Peter sat up against the headboard, pulling Wade’s head into his lap. His fingers traced soothing circles over Wade’s scalp. “Do you want me to start at the beginning, or do you want me to tell you what happens so we can skip to the good part?”

Wade burrowed his face against Peter’s thigh. “The good part, please.”

“Okay, so there’s this squire, right? His name’s Jonathan. And he wants to be a knight so he goes on this quest to defeat an evil spider monster in the woods. But it turns out the spider is the pet of this spider witch, and he goes to fight her, but it turns out she’s, like, smokin’ hot. So he lets her think he’s fallen under her spell. But then he finds out…”

As Peter’s words washed over him, Wade felt himself melt towards sleep. With great effort, he cracked an eye. “Hey,” he interrupted.

“Yeah?” said Peter.

“I think I love you.”

Peter smiled down. “I know. That’s the one thing you never forget.”

the end.