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Peter Parker has been around more serial killers than most people. Supervillain megalomania kind of lends itself to killing off swaths of innocent bystanders, the same way someone might crush a line of ants under their foot. The difference between those supervillain serial killers and the one standing in front of him right now is that this serial killer does it intentionally, is proud of it even.

And Peter came to find this one on purpose.

Maybe he should have expected the existential crisis that would follow.

Peter watches as the katana slides out of the body soundlessly, the only noise disturbing the construction zone is the thud the body makes as it falls to the subfloor. The sound of dead weight. Someone is dead. A citizen is dead.

It had happened right in front of Peter.

And he hadn’t even done anything to stop it.

“Guess you were a little too slow, eh, Spider-man?”

The voice coming from behind the red and black mask is rough, air vibrating through damaged vocal cords, but the taunt is still easy to hear. This motherfucker is always taunting Peter.

Deadpool crouches down next to the now-dead body and grabs the hem of the crisp white button-up shirt under the thousand-dollar suit jacket, wiping the blade of his katana clean from hilt to tip and leaving a thick smear of dark blood behind, marring the expensive silk. It’s that weirdly fastidious gesture that snaps Peter out of his fugue state and he remembers why he came here at all.

He's pissed.

He snarls and launches himself toward Deadpool who’s straightening back to his full height. Peter doesn’t bother reining in his anger. This is what he’s fucking here for, after all, to exist as his basest self, just claws and teeth and rage. Ready to bash his head against the nearest brick wall. Despite the emotions driving him, he doesn’t even make it to the merc, coming to an abrupt halt as the barrel of a gun Peter didn’t even see being drawn presses into his forehead.

“You really wanna go to the mattresses with me for this piece of shit?” Deadpool jerks a thumb toward the body but keeps his eyes on Peter. Peter wonders what the merc sees. “This was pro bono, Webs. I know you know what that means.”

Peter does know what that means, but he’s just so fucking angry. It vibrates in his palms and thighs and draws into his chest, and he imagines this is what a volcano feels like just before it erupts. Everything makes Peter mad.

It infuriates him that he searched this asshole out at all. He doesn’t need to be here, he can deal with all this rage uncertainty FEELING whatever it is on his own.

It infuriates him that he should have stopped Deadpool’s hit but didn’t. Peter doesn’t kill people, he saves people, he believes people can be reformed, but he hadn’t saved the guy Deadpool was after.

It infuriates Peter that the arm holding the gun is rock steady. He grinds his forehead harder into the barrel just to see if he can make Deadpool move.

Nope.

“Look at you storming in here like a feral little beast. Unhinged is a good look on you, Spidey Cakes.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, he’s honestly worried what might come out of his mouth if he does. He stands there, feeling Deadpool’s gaze slide down Peter’s body like it’s the tip of the merc’s fingers, or the muzzle of his gun, not just his eyes.

“Oooo! I know! Wanna have angry white boy hours where we do terribly entitled things and then complain about how society has wronged us?” Deadpool finally stops ogling Peter, kicking at the body on the floor. “Bet this fuckface has a sealed juvenile record as long as my arm that he could whine about.”

Peter grits his teeth and leans harder into the gun but still doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Despite all outward appearances, Deadpool is sharp as a tack and he’ll land on the answer eventually. Because Peter will never (ever) (ever) say it out loud.

“You need the cops to give you another punch on your do-gooder card?” Deadpool cocks his head, watching Peter snap and snarl on the end of his gun. “What do you get on the tenth one? Free body cavity search?”

The feral bite to Deadpool’s words has softened, replaced by a mocking lilt that works on Peter like a muscle relaxer. He clenches his jaw and tries to hold onto all the shit boiling inside of him but he can’t. That teasing tone means Deadpool has figured Peter out.

“I knoooow,” the merc purrs, letting his arm relax so he can step closer and push his mouth against the shell of Peter’s ear while sliding the gun around to point at Peter’s opposite temple. “You want me to do something with all this anger you got bottled up inside, don’t ya, superhero?”

Yes, that’s exactly what I want.

But he hates to admit it. Not outright like this. Peter tells himself that’s not what this is, whatever this is.

Deadpool’s non-gun hand drops, warm and heavy, to Peter’s hip before sliding up his side with a firm pressure that loosens Peter’s muscles further. The merc circles the pad of his thumb around one of Peter’s nipples until it beads up, then pinches it through the suit, hard enough to hurt. A shiver ripples over Peter’s skin and he hisses at the sting as Deadpool drops his hand again.

Peter thinks about all the things that Deadpool might do with this anger, how the merc might unbottle it. They would be brutal and torturous and painful and bloody things. And probably exactly what Peter needs right now. He nods, one temple rubbing against the metal of the gun barrel and the other against Deadpool’s mouth.

“Tell me what you want, then, sweet pea.”

“Everything.”

The word shudders out of Peter because he wants this, he needs this, and he also knows it’s going to fucking hurt. But that’s the whole point. That’s why he’s here at all. He needs this and there’s only one fucking person in the entire goddamn city that can give it to him exactly how he needs it.

“Mmmm,” Deadpool hums, tapping the muzzle lightly against Peter’s temple. “I do love it when you come to play, Spider-man. Welcome to my parlor…”

“Said the spider to the fly.”

The response rasps out of Peter’s dry throat. He’s not angry anymore, not entirely. Now he’s terrified and excited, his heart banging against the back of his sternum and his blood rushing through his veins, and it’s exactly fucking right.

Peter doesn’t have the luxury of his spider sense to protect him around Deadpool so there’s no way to predict what the merc might do. It never spikes around him anymore and Peter doesn’t know if that’s because Deadpool will never hurt him or because Deadpool will always hurt him.

It’s why, when Deadpool shoves Peter back, holstering the gun and drawing a katana in his opposite hand, Peter couldn’t dodge whatever the merc is planning if he tried. 

Deadpool holds his katana out to the side, ready to strike, and meets Peter’s eyes. The gaze is still intense, tangible, slithering and sliding across Peter’s skin, but it’s careful, too.

Peter knows what the merc is going to say before he says it.

“Everything?”

The merc always makes Peter say it, eventually.

He glances toward the katana and then back to Deadpool, swallowing hard and nodding. “Every—“

The merc is on Peter before he even finishes the word, tackling him to the ground with an arm around his waist. Both of them crash to the unfinished floor, the subfloor cold and rough against Peter’s spine. Deadpool knows that Peter is faster and stronger but the merc always manages the element of surprise.

Peter is still wincing at the scrape of the floor against his back when Deadpool moves again. He pushes upright, onto his knees, straddling Peter’s hips and using his heavy body to keep Peter pinned to the ground. He spins the katana through one quick circle in his hand, adjusting his grip, before lifting it above his head, the point aimed straight at Peter, and wrapping both hands around the hilt.

“Sorry, sweet pea, this is gonna hurt.”

Deadpool doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds like he’s enjoying it. Peter’s about to tell the merc to fuck off when he drives the katana downward with all the considerable strength inside his brick-shithouse body.

The blade pierces Peter’s skin easily, the katana so sharp that it takes a moment before the pain registers. Once it does, he jerks and curses at the shock of it, biting his tongue almost in half as Deadpool presses the blade deeper, skewering it through the meat of Peter’s shoulder just below the socket and then deeper still, out the other side and into the floor underneath. Deadpool only stops when the sword guard is flush with Peter’s skin.

“What the fuck?” Peter huffs, grimacing and squirming against the blade. He never lets himself think about what he might be asking for when he asks the merc for something but he sure as shit hadn’t expected this. He tries to sit up, gritting his teeth through the tearing flash of pain, but the katana keeps him pinned. “You fucking stabbed me, you piece of shit.”

Deadpool hops to his feet, a wide grin on his face that Peter can see even through the mask, and pulls a phone from his pouch. The sound is turned on and Peter can hear the camera shutter noise as the merc takes a picture.

“Spider-man pinned to the floor like a beautiful butterfly under glass,” Deadpool says slowly, typing into his phone. He looks back up and sparkles his eyes at Peter who wants to fucking scream. “Poetic, doncha think?”

“Did you just post that to social media?”

Deadpool shrugs. “I’m kind of a big deal overseas.”

“I’m going to fucking kill you.”

“Awww, that’s sweet. It’s not even my birthday!”

Peter reaches for the hilt of the katana, barely paying attention to Deadpool as he swaps the phone for a small cylinder with a theatrical red button on top. The blade is halfway out of the floor underneath Peter, and he’s sweating and cursing, when he finally catches sight of the cylinder. Of the detonator. His fingers go slack around the hilt.

“No. Deadpool. Don’t.” He starts squirming harder, grabbing the sword and pulling frantically. Peter had already made the mistake once of thinking that just because he was there Deadpool wouldn’t do something unhinged and possibly suicidal. “You fucking psychopath. Abso-fucking-lutely not. I’ll cut off your goddamn head if you—”

“It’s nothing personal, Webs. Just body disposal. This new construction is completely shoddy anyway.” Deadpool kicks at one of the support pillars and it visibly wobbles. “You know I’m great at controlled blasts and the only living soul in here is you so…”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Peter snarls, yanking fervently at the sword through his shoulder.

“I didn’t know you’d come sniffin’ around. I guess you’re my reward for a job well done. Sure hope I don’t kill ya.” Deadpool saunters to a floor-to-ceiling window covered in opaque plastic with one corner ripped up, a rope trails under the torn flap attached to a grappling hook that’s sunk into the floor. Peter should have fucking noticed. “I’ll be on top of the Tanner Building if you’re still alive to come lookin’, sweet pea.”

The merc blows Peter a kiss, picks up the rope attached to the grappling hook, and jumps out the window. The building explodes around Peter shortly after that.

All told, it takes Peter slightly less than two and a half hours to extricate himself from both the building collapse and the katana. Longer than he would have liked but laying under the rubble gave him some time to cool off and gain a little perspective.

He doesn’t have to do this. It won’t go anywhere good. He can just swing back to his apartment, crawl through the window, and scrub the soot from his skin. Maybe do some basic first aid on the puncture wound through his shoulder. Meditate like his objectively terrible therapist recommends.

He can take the katana that’s still soaked with his blood and toss it into the first dumpster he comes across. He can stop at his favorite Vietnamese place on the way home and grab dinner. Hell, five dinners. With a goddamn hole through his shoulder, he’s going to need a lot of food to recover.

He can pack all the bullshit that he’s dealing with down into a little lockbox in his mind and turn the key. He can forget about his feelings and let everything sink deeper roots into him until it all pulls him apart.

There are literally a million different and better things Peter could do than web a sword to his back and swing to the top of the Tanner Building.

But he doesn’t do any of them.

The angel on his shoulder, the superhero part of his psyche, tells him that he’s doing this because Deadpool killed someone tonight and it’s Spider-man’s job to make sure the merc faces the consequences of his crime. But what the devil on his shoulder says is much closer to the truth.

You want this.

You need this.

You don’t care if it’s bad for you.

Deadpool is a killer but he’s not going to kill Peter. At least, not tonight. And that’s really the only assurance that Peter needs.

Peter doesn’t swing directly onto the top of the building, instead, he finds a place to land a few rooftops over and approaches the Tanner Building on foot, crawling silently along the wall, trying to get the drop on Deadpool.

“You used to be better at this, Web Head.”

Peter tilts his head back from where he’s clinging to the glass facade of the Tanner Building a few feet below the lip of the roof. Deadpool is leaning over the edge, looking down at Peter, arms folded on top of the parapet and a gun in the merc’s hand that’s loosely pointing in Peter’s direction.

His heart hammers at the back of his sternum again, trying to escape.

“It’s been a long night,” Peter says as he sidles across the glass and pushes himself up to crouch on the parapet a few feet to the left of the merc. The gun follows him the whole way. “What’s your excuse?”

“I told you,” Deadpool replies, eyes lighting up as they snag on the hilt of the katana strapped to Peter’s back. “I’m good at controlled blasts. Just a sad little building collapse that Johnny Sex Trafficker happened to be caught inside of. It’s a cryin’ shame that piece of rebar got him through the chest.”

The merc leans toward Peter, reaching with the arm that isn’t keeping the gun trained on him, and tugs the katana off Peter’s back, sliding it out of the webbing like Deadpool’s unsheathing it from his harness. Peter barely holds back a shiver as the blade glides up his spine and over his shoulder.

Deadpool flips the katana in his grip and re-sheathes it at his own back, eyes still fixed on Peter, gun still fixed on Peter. He never feels more transparent than when Deadpool is looking at him like that. Not for the first time, Peter wonders what the merc sees.

“Will you walk into my parlor?”

The lower part of Deadpool’s mask twitches, smirking probably, as he steps back and holds his arms out to the sides like a circus ringleader, encompassing everything around him like he owns it. Himself, the roof, and Peter.

Even with the gun no longer pointed in his direction, Peter finds it hard to breathe. But they’ve done this call and response before so he responds, stepping down off the parapet and moving toward the middle of the roof.

“Said the spider to the fly.”

“'Tis the prettiest little parlor that you ever did spy.”

Peter can’t help himself, he laughs. “You know that story doesn’t end well for the fly, right?”

“Maybe not,” Deadpool agrees, trailing after Peter. ”Who’s the fly tonight?”

Peter turns to face the merc, heart still pounding and blood still singing, the pain of his shoulder and the scrapes across his skin pricking at his brain in bright, almost pleasant, sparks.

Who’s the fly tonight?

Deadpool cocks his head at Peter, spinning the gun around on his finger by the trigger guard, stopping its momentum with his fist around the barrel and holding it out, offering the grip to Peter. It’s a lovely, well-oiled wood set into black metal and Peter knows it will be warm in his hand.

Peter traces the pattern in the honey-colored wood with his eyes, fingers flexing because he knows exactly how it feels pressed into his palm, but he doesn’t reach out to take it. Instead, he shakes his head

“You keep it.”

“Oh, sweet pea,” Deadpool croons. “You’ll make such a pretty fly.”

Peter keeps his head down and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to fucking talk about it and all Deadpool ever wants to do is talk about it and—

The edge of the muzzle nudges at Peter’s forehead, he recognizes the firm press of it against his skin almost as well as he knows the feel of the grip in his hand. Deadpool uses the pressure from the gun to push Peter’s head up until the barrel presses flush to his forehead. A shaky sigh leaves him and he opens his eyes.

Deadpool is standing at arm’s length, finger putting loose pressure on the trigger, scarred eyes running over Peter. They stop on the bloody hole in his shoulder and the rips in his suit from clawing his way out of the rubble, and the growing bulge at the apex of his thighs.

The merc’s eyes snap up to Peter’s and he watches the lower part of the mask twitch with more than a smirk this time. The look relaxes Peter because it means that Deadpool won’t stop. Not yet, at least.

“Oops.” The feral grin under the mask gets bigger. “I almost forgot your favorite part.”

Deadpool pulls the gun away from Peter’s head, aiming to the side and firing, the bullet punches into one of the HVAC vents with a ping. Then the gun is shoved back against Peter’s forehead. The muzzle is hot through the fabric of his mask and he groans into the feeling.

Deadpool’s hand lands flat against Peter’s chest, pushing him backward until his spine slams into a wall. The merc keeps the gun to Peter’s forehead while his other hand reaches down and cups Peter’s half-hard dick through the front of his suit. Deadpool squeezes the length and circles the edge of his thumb around the tip, avid eyes fixed on Peter’s face.

“Let’s have a little fun, then, Webslinger.” Deadpool taps the muzzle against Peter’s forehead. “Mask off.”

Peter leans away from the gun just long enough to whip his mask off over his head before pressing back into the metal, feeling its dissipating heat against his bare skin.

“Gloves,” Deadpool orders, pressing the gun harder into Peter’s forehead. Hard enough to leave an indent.

Peter swallows through a suddenly dry throat and strips off his gloves, dropping them on top of his mask.

“My mask?”

Deadpool’s brow is raised under his mask because sometimes they don’t take off the masks. Or sometimes only one of them does. But Peter knows what Deadpool can do with that mouth that isn’t just talking so he reaches up, hooks his fingers under the hem of Deadpool’s mask, and tugs it off. The gun doesn’t waver as Peter works around it and his stomach clenches, hot and tight.

“Mmm,” Deadpool hums, relaxing his gun arm so he can lean closer to Peter, lips feathering across Peter’s cheekbone next to the grip of the gun. “You still want everything, sweet pea?”

Peter huffs out an irritated sound. “I let you stab me through the shoulder, Wade. What do you think?”

“First naming me, Pietro?” Deadpool nips at the shell of Peter’s ear, causing his body to jerk and shiver. “Looks like someone really wants me to play mean.”

Peter is about to shoot back a second, more irritated response when Deadpool steps even closer, the heat of his body radiating into Peter’s skin. The merc drags the gun down, gliding the muzzle over Peter’s temple and along his jawline to his chin. Peter groans at the feeling.

“Everything?” Deadpool confirms one more time.

“Everything.”

The gun leaves Peter’s jaw, firing close enough to his ear to make him flinch before the merc presses it back to the side of Peter’s neck. He hisses at the burn of the muzzle and the sensation of Deadpool sliding it down Peter’s neck, down his sternum, down his belly, down, down, down until the muzzle hooks into the waistband of Peter’s pants and nudges against the hard, soaked head of his dick.

The end of the gun swirls, hot and hard, around the tip of Peter’s cock as Deadpool uses his other hand to stroke Peter up and down in a firm grip. The merc’s hand is sticky and slightly slick from the pre-come leaking out of Peter but the friction of Deadpool’s callouses against the skin of his shaft is still intense, the stroking and tugging almost painful.

This is what Peter came here for. He wants it to hurt.

“You’re soaked, Spider-man,” the merc murmurs into Peter’s ear as Deadpool pumps Peter’s cock in long, slow, burning strokes and rubs the muzzle of the gun over his crown. “What would the city think if they could see you like this?”

Peter presses the palms of his hands flat against the wall at his back, curling his fingers hard enough to dig into it. Deadpool’s nose bumps up against Peter’s jaw, telling him to tilt his head back and give the merc his neck. Peter squeezes his eyes shut as he complies.

“I can see the headlines now,” Deadpool says, lips brushing the sensitive skin on the side of Peter’s neck, hands falling into a rhythm that makes Peter’s brain fuzz. “Spider-man fraternizes with known killer. A menace for a menace.”

Deadpool’s purring laugh vibrates against Peter’s pulse and he moans, scraping more plaster dust out of the wall at his back. A shudder runs down his spine when the merc sinks his teeth into Peter’s neck hard enough to bruise. Maybe hard enough to draw blood. His cock jerks in Deadpool’s hand, the muzzle of the gun sliding through the new burst of pre-come with ease.

“What picture do you think they’d use, Webs?” Deadpool pulls Peter’s ear lobe into his warm, wet mouth, flicking the tip of his tongue over it before sucking off again. “This one? Your dick in my hand with my gun pressed against it? Or maybe they’ll use the one of you on your knees, letting me fuck your throat like I own you.”

Peter whines as Deadpool pulls the gun off the tip of his cock. He’s close. Really close. Maybe he should be embarrassed by how hard this makes him. The game. The pain. The gun. The words. But right now, with Deadpool’s hand on his body and Deadpool’s voice in his ear, this is the only thing Peter is worried about.

There is no city.

There are no citizens.

There’s no one to save.

There’s not a life he’s missing out on.

The gun goes off again, making Peter’s heart leap as a third bullet pings into the HVAC vent.

“Wait,” he huffs, pulling his hands off the wall behind him and pressing them into Deadpool’s chest. “Wait. That’s too much. I can’t—”

The hot metal rubs over the sensitive spot where Peter’s crown meets his shaft, the pain racing through his dick to pool in his balls. He groans loud and long as Deadpool’s rough hand moves, his mouth finding the spot behind Peter’s ear that makes his knees buckle and biting into it before sucking hard.

The burn in his neck drips warm and thick down his chest and the burn in his cock boils up hot and aching. The two sensations meet somewhere in Peter’s belly, twisting and twining around each other as he squirms and whines under Deadpool’s mouth and hand.

“Maybe I should take another picture, Spidey Cakes,” Wade threatens against the damp patch of skin on Peter’s neck that he was just working over. “How much do you think The Bugle would pay me to provide proof that their Friendly Neighborhood Spider-man is actually a kinky little freak?”

Deadpool’s hand on Peter’s cock squeezes tight enough to border on uncomfortable, the increased friction making Peter grit his teeth as the pace of the strokes speeds up. The muzzle of the gun rubs back and forth over the same patch of sensitive skin under Peter’s crown and he gasps at the overwhelming pleasure/pain that blooms underneath it.

“You’re so fucking hard for this, sweet pea.” Squeeze, stroke, rub. “The Bugle could offer me a billion fucking dollars and I wouldn’t let them see you like this.” Squeeze, stroke, rub. “This is just for me.” Squeeze, stroke, rub. “The only villain to ever make Spider-man beg.”

Deadpool’s teeth sink into Peter’s neck again, definitely hard enough to draw blood this time, and he grabs at the merc’s biceps to ground himself as all the pain and pleasure and shame coalesce into something huge.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

Please.

Peter thinks he might be chanting the thoughts out loud, eyes squeezed shut and face tilted toward the sky, Deadpool’s tongue licking over the raw mark on Peter’s neck. Then the gun goes off, loud and startling, followed by a bloom of pain in Peter’s thigh.

“Nngh, fuck,” he groans as the hot muzzle of the gun goes back to his cock, grinding under the crown again.

Peter clutches at Deadpool’s arms as his orgasm overtakes him, everything inside his body squeezing tight before letting go. It feels so good to just let go. Peter fucks himself into Deadpool’s fist, against the muzzle of the gun, pumping and groaning until he’s shaking from the intensity of it.

“Sweet pea,” Deadpool rasps into Peter’s ear, a sound that makes his overwrought body shiver, “look what you did to my gun.”

The merc leans away from Peter just enough to bring the gun up between them, the black barrel painted white with Peter’s cum.

“You’re mad about some cum on the barrel of your gun?” Peter sounds wrecked rather than the imperiousness he was going for. “You shot me in the leg.”

“You said everything.” Deadpool grins, his lips red and swollen from sucking on Peter’s neck. “Besides, it was just a graze.”

“A graze?” Peter pants, his lungs still bellowing from that fucking exceptional orgasm.

“Yeah. A flesh wound. You’ll heal in no time. My gun, however…” Deadpool runs the cum-soaked muzzle along Peter’s lower lip. “That needs to be cleaned right away. You know how I am about proper weapons maintenance.”

Fuck.

Peter opens his mouth when the gun presses against his lips, licking his tongue around the barrel and tasting the bitter salt of his own cum mixed with the heavy flavor of gun oil. Deadpool draws the gun out until just the end of the barrel is in Peter’s mouth before pushing back in.

“You look real good with your mouth occupied, Spidey Cakes.” Peter hums, sucking on the barrel of the gun as Deadpool bites up his neck and breathes hot into his ear. “Good thing the Sinister Six don’t know just how easy it is to shut you up.”

Deadpool sucks another mark into Peter’s neck while he licks his cum off the barrel of the gun, the burning pain in his thigh settling down to a low buzz that fills Peter’s brain. When the merc pulls the gun out of his mouth — so slow — Peter whimpers and tries to chase after it but Deadpool pins Peter to the wall with a hand on his chest again.

Peter meets Deadpool’s gaze, breaths still rasping in and out of his lungs, feeling the way the merc’s eyes touch over Peter’s face, taking him in.

“You really are a pretty, little fly, aren’t you, sweet pea? All cum drunk and fucked out for me. Bet you’ll do whatever I tell you.” The damp muzzle of the gun strokes along Peter’s jawline and back up to press flush against his temple. “Get on your knees.”

Peter drops to the rooftop like his strings have been cut, no thoughts, only obedience. Deadpool manages to keep the gun pressed to Peter’s head while he falls to his knees in front of the merc, his other hand carding through Peter’s hair before tightening into a fist.

“Suck.”

The order comes with a sharp tug on Peter’s hair and he gasps in a breath at the shock of it. He doesn’t think too hard, he maybe doesn’t think at all, just reaches up and undoes the front of Deadpool’s pants. The ridge under the zipper is hot and hard, and Peter’s mouth waters at the thought of what Deadpool could make him do with it.

Anticipation shivers over Peter’s skin and settles in his cock, he still aches from his last orgasm and the twinge in his dick makes him groan.

“Hurry up, Petey Pie,” Deadpool says, shoving the gun harder into Peter’s temple. “I want to come in that perfect, superhero mouth, not in my pants.”

Peter yanks at Deadpool’s button and zipper and stupid number of straps until his thick cock is bare and pointed directly at Peter’s mouth. Deadpool uses his grip on Peter’s hair, and the pressure of the gun against his head, to tug him forward until the tip of Deadpool’s cock brushes Peter’s lips.

Peter grips Deadpool’s thick thighs, sinking the tips of his fingers into the firm muscle, then he leans forward and swallows the merc’s cock. The sting at his scalp increases as Peter pushes forward, relaxing his throat so the head of Deadpool’s cock can nudge against it without making Peter choke.

“Jiminy Christmas, Webs. I forgot what a greedy fucking mouth you have.”

Deadpool punches his hips forward, shoving his cock further down Peter’s throat, forcing Peter to breathe through his nose. He slides a hand around the outside of Deadpool’s thigh and up to squeeze at the merc’s ass, tugging his hips forward and humming around the head of his cock. Deadpool goes still at the prodding, his fist loosening in Peter’s hair.

The gun slides down from Peter’s temple, the barrel tucking under his stretched jaw and tilting his head up so that Deadpool can look into his eyes.

“You sure?”

The merc is searching Peter’s face for something but Peter knows he won’t find it. Peter doesn’t want to stop. He wants to be something that he’s usually not for a few more minutes. He needs this to be the center of his world for just a little bit longer. Peter flutters his eyes up at the merc, swallowing around Deadpool’s cock, and nods.

“Fuck,” Deadpool huffs, gripping Peter’s hair tight enough to hurt again as he slides the gun back to Peter’s temple. “Lucky for you, I’m already goin’ to hell or I might think twice about fuckin’ your mouth as hard as you want me to.”

Peter digs fingers into Deadpool’s thigh and ass, tilting his head back and opening his throat a little more.

The thing about Deadpool is that he’s all talk until he isn’t. And he has absolutely no problem making people hurt.

Peter loses himself as soon as the merc starts fucking his throat in earnest. His body becomes nothing but ache and want and pain, stitching itself together into a shape that resembles him. The pain in his jaw and throat as he sucks and swallows Deadpool’s cock connects to the itch of his healing shoulder and the burn of the bullet wound along his thigh. The stinging pull on his scalp connects to the raw patches on his back from the collapsed building and the bruising pressure of the gun at his temple. The throbbing marks on his neck connect to everything and it all arrows down into his groin.

Peter whines around Deadpool’s cock as his own cock twitches and hardens again. The merc yanks Peter’s head to the side slightly, pulling harder on his hair, and a rough laugh breaks through his panting breaths. Peter shivers, he knows what the merc is seeing. What the merc is laughing at.

“You gettin’ hard for me again, Spider-man? You like it when the Merc with the Mouth makes you shut yours?” Deadpool growls, grinding the head of his cock into the back of Peter’s throat as he grinds the muzzle of the gun into Peter’s temple. “Maybe this is how you save the city, huh? Just drop to your knees and offer up this tight, fuckable throat to any villain that wants it.”

Peter groans and tightens his hold on the merc. His head is swimming from lack of oxygen, his vision whiting out along the edges and a constant low, whimper climbing up his throat.

Fuck.

He’s going to come again.

Deadpool’s hand slides to the back of Peter’s head, holding him still as the merc buries his cock as deep into Peter’s throat as he can get. Peter squirms and whines under the onslaught, nose brushing the skin surrounding the merc’s cock, barely noticing when the muzzle leaves his temple.

The sound of the gun is loud next to Peter’s ear but that’s not what makes him flinch, it’s the hot line of pain that burrows across his thigh. He yelps, his teeth scraping across the base of Deadpool’s cock, as Peter’s second orgasm races through him.

It feels like he’s been flung off the top of a building. Like Deadpool scooped him up and tossed him over the edge. That feeling of flying and falling all rolled into one that Peter became addicted to the first time he experienced it. His eyes flutter shut and his throat works around Deadpool’s cock, swallowing cum as the merc shudders over him. Peter’s own orgasm spills into his lap, slick and hot, another point of sensation to mix with the cuts and scrapes and bullet wounds.

Deadpool pulls his softening dick out of Peter’s mouth and Peter sinks back onto his heels, his whole body listing sideways, suddenly shivering in the cold night air. His entire brain feels wrapped in cotton batting.

“Jesus, Webs. You look like I broke you.” Deadpool’s voice sounds far away but one of his big, warm hands wraps around Peter’s upper arm. “Can’t say as I hate it.”

Wade hauls Peter to his feet, the superhero swaying slightly in his grasp. Wade’s eyes drop to the bullet grazes on Peter’s thigh, two shallow furrows along the outside, one above the other, but they’ve already stopped bleeding and sealed over.

“You alright, sweet pea?”

Peter makes a low, whining sound and slumps against Wade, pressing his forehead to the top of Wade’s shoulder, arms around Wade’s waist, fingers curling into the straps of his harness.

He holsters his gun and drops his arms around Peter’s waist, laying one palm flat against the small of his back and smoothing the other one up his spine, keeping the pressure firm. This isn’t their usual so he figures the superhero will need a little bit of time to float out of subspace.

Wade does his best to clean Peter up, wiping off his stomach and thighs before tugging his pants back up, then just holds him. Peter is shivering in Wade’s arms so he keeps the slow, steady rhythm of his hand up and down the superhero’s back and waits.

He doesn’t have to wait long. He’s not even surprised by what he hears.

“I’m so fucking tired of this.”

The confession is muffled by Wade’s body but he hears it anyway. Oy. One of those days. Wade being on the trigger end of the gun makes a lot more sense now.

He smoothes his hand back down Peter’s spine, stopping at the bottom to tug Peter tighter into his body before petting back up. Wade knows that he’s known for his mouth but there’s nothing to say in response to that. Nothing Peter wants to hear. So he lets the webslinger work it out in his own brain while Wade strokes along Peter’s back.

“I’m not good at this.”

Wade swallows his snort and eases Peter back, propping him against the wall so Wade can fish a bottle of water and a protein bar out of one of his pouches. He twists the cap off the water bottle and presses it into Peter’s hands, waiting until the superhero is drinking to start talking.

“I read in the paper the other day that you brought down Rhino and the Lizard while they were trying to empty some kind of chemical into the city’s water supply.” Peter’s big, luminous brown eyes just glare at Wade over the top of the water bottle. “Said you webbed ‘em up and brought ‘em in, and the police were able to find a way to reverse what they’d done.”

Peter scowls, lowering the water bottle to swipe a sleeve across his mouth. “What’s your point?”

“You know what I woulda done?”

“Killed them?”

Wade unwraps the protein bar and hands it to Peter.

“Damn straight, I woulda fucking killed ‘em. And then a whole bunch of people would have gotten sick, or worse, because dead men tell no tales.”

“Wade,” Peter grumbles around a mouthful of bar, “a good superhero would have stopped it before it ever happened.”

“That’s bullshit, sweet pea, and you know it.” Wade sidles closer to Peter, settling his hands on Peter’s hips with a squeeze. “No one can do everything or catch everyone but I guarantee you that no one cares about this city like you do.”

Peter leans his forehead into Wade’s chest. “I’m tired of caring so much. It sucks.”

“Yeah, it totally does. I always have a job opening for a mercenary sidekick, you know. Gotta warn ya, though, the uniform is skimpy. There’s a lot of fishnet and leather. Well, not a lot.”

Peter snorts against Wade, then curls his arms around Wade’s waist and cuddles into him, pushing his face into Wade’s neck and taking a deep breath. Wade squeezes back, hugging Peter hard, knowing that it’s the only way he can stand to be touched sometimes. The superhero groans into Wade’s neck and he gives himself a little pat on the back.

He killed it today, ridding the earth of sex trafficking scum and pulling the city’s cutest superhero back from the brink. The mayor should give him a fucking key to the city.

“Stop it,” Peter mumbles against Wade’s skin. “I can hear you doing a mental victory lap.”

“Sweet pea,” Wade chides, hugging Peter tighter, “you were there. I earned a mental victory lap. I earned a real victory lap. And a nice steak dinner, probably, but you’re so fucking cheap that—”

Peter’s back rises and falls under Wade’s arms as the superhero takes another deep breath before leaning away. Wade’s not particularly ready to let go yet, so he doesn’t.

“You want to get dinner, Wade?”

“I just said… a nice steak dinner but from one of those restaurants where they give you, like, steak essence. Some stupid, tiny pile of foam with a chive artfully placed on top and—”

“I’m serious.”

Wade looks at Peter, searching his face like Wade always does, trying to read what’s under the surface. The guy is a placid lake with a goddamn kaiju living at the bottom. But he does look… serious. Wade’s heart thumps in his chest. There’s no way he’s this lucky. Successful hit, sex with Spidey, and dinner date in one night? No fucking way.

“God,” Peter huffs, untangling himself from Wade. “Forget it. It was dumb. I—”

“Wait.” Wade shakes his body like a wet dog, then tips his head to one side and bangs his temple with the heel of his hand. He looks back at Peter. “You were actually serious?”

“I said I was.” Peter stoops down to pick up his mask and gloves with a wince. “But you don’t have to. I know we’re not— I know this isn’t— Look, I’m just fucking hungry. I’ve been stabbed and blown up and shot twice. I need food.”

Wade knows he’s staring at Spider-man with his mouth hanging open like a fucking rube but what else is he supposed to do?

“So…” Peter’s eyes dart around the roof, landing on everything but Wade. He recognizes that face, though, the half-lost look of uncertainty layered underneath a stubborn insistence to ignore any and all actual feelings. That look is exactly what this whole thing tonight was supposed to get rid of.  “Are you coming or not?”

Wade steps up and cups Peter’s jaw in his hands, holding firmly as he presses a hard kiss to the superhero’s forehead.

“Yes, I’m fucking coming to dinner with you, sweet pea.” Wade releases Peter’s face, watching as a petal pink blush spreads and glows under his freckles. “I’m paying though,” Wade tells Peter, smacking his ass before heading toward the roof access door.

“Like hell you are,” Peter growls from behind him.

Wade Wilson is probably burning every good karma point he’s ever earned to have the kind of night he’s having.

But he wouldn’t change a thing.