Chapter Text
It’s dark, and Peter can’t see –
A hand, the skin thriving with texture he can feel through his suit, strokes down his thigh, and Peter flinches. He can’t see.
“No need to be scared, Spidey,” Deadpool whispers, his voice so jarringly close to Peter’s ear that he jerks away. Or at least, he tries to. The hand on his thigh is curled around his hip in a flash, pulling him back into place on what Peter realises is Deadpool’s lap. “I didn’t peek at your face. Bet you’re fucking pretty, though.”
The words make Peter realise that he has a blindfold on under his mask. Peter can feel the mask sitting over his nose, exposing his mouth but not much more. The anxiety spikes - had Deadpool looked? Was he lying?
Deadpool strokes long, soothing lines down Peter’s back. Peter’s still wearing the rest of his suit, but Deadpool is not. The sensation of Deadpool’s skin, even through his suit, sends goosebumps flashing across Peter’s skin. The desire to touch the mercenary properly is a fire in his brain, consuming. It’s overpowering the unease running through Peter – because whatever else, he knows he hasn’t verbally consented.
And he knows he really, really shouldn’t. Peter should have already left, should have fled the second he realised Deadpool has taken him somewhere the mercenary is comfortable being naked. He hasn’t, and even thinking about it now, Peter hasn’t – and that says so much more than anything Peter could say aloud.
Yes, hisses that little voice.
“I’m just going to give you what you want,” Deadpool says. “I’m not going to try and figure out who you are – you’re Spiderman. I want to take Spiderman apart. I want Spiderman to choke on my name.”
Spiderman is Peter Parker, though. And this is Peter responding to Deadpool.
“Spiderman is unflappable,” Peter says, because it is the truest thing he can say that won’t endanger his identity. “This is not Spiderman.” He pretends not to hear the note of panic in his voice, even though he’s sure Deadpool won’t miss it.
Deadpool hums. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m going to get a naked Spiderman in my lap.” Deadpool’s hands grab Peter’s ass, pressing Peter down into Deadpool’s lap. He can feel the hot, hard length of Deadpool’s cock searing against him. “And he’s going to give me permission to do whatever I want to him,” Deadpool says, rolling his hips.
Peter’s head drops back, his mouth open. The groan he lets out, and the way he grinds against Deadpool’s cock, are unconscious – Peter can’t see and it’s making everything so much more intense. This is – dangerous – exciting – he needs – wants – more –
Deadpool grabs the back of his neck, dragging him into a kiss. Peter can’t help responding, the sensation of Deadpool’s scars sending shivers down his spine. He can’t wait to feel them against his skin for real. His hands curl into fists unconsciously.
“I’m going to help you relax, Spidey,” Deadpool says when he pulls back. “I think we both know you need this – how long has it been, hmm? Anyone will tell you it’s bad to keep things bottled up all the time.”
Peter can’t say anything in response, because whatever he says will make it sound worse than it is. Peter is Spiderman – he can’t do this with ordinary people, he’ll hurt them. He can’t do this with other vigilantes, other superheroes – there’s always a chance they’ll look. And if they look, they’ll know how to hurt him.
Instead, Peter says, “Stop reading my reactions and listen to me!” Deadpool’s gaze is almost physical, and Peter can feel him watching, looking, reading every twitch, every shiver.
It’s like when Peter gets in a fight. He looks, he watches, understanding what his opponent wants to do, what they will do, sometimes even before his opponent knows they’ve made a decision. He’s used to looking, to seeing what people are going to do, because words are easy to lie with, but body language?
He’s not used to this being used against him, and can’t help the defensive curl of his shoulders.
“Porque no los dos?" Deadpool whispers after a pregnant pause. “I’m listening, Spidey, and you’re not really saying anything that isn’t a lie.”
“I don’t want to sleep with you.” Peter’s voice wavers. Trembles. Gives him away when he needs it the most. Spiderman can’t do this.
“You don’t want to want to sleep with me,” Deadpool corrects him. His hands wander across Peter’s body, a meandering path. Peter can’t guess where he’ll touch next, and it’s exciting. “Actually letting me fuck you? You’re so down with that I’ve been questioning your sanity. It’s not every day I meet someone so DTF. Especially if they’re DTF me.” He snorts. “I’d almost say you haven’t seen me – but you’ve seen enough. DTF this?”
Peter shivers under Deadpool’s hands. He doesn’t want to admit Deadpool is right, because Spiderman can’t want this. Any of it. Peter wants, but Deadpool wants Spiderman to want. It’s a convoluted thought process Peter’s impressed he can keep a handle on.
(Deadpool’s wrong, though, because his scars don’t bother Peter. There’s nothing wrong with Deadpool – this is about Peter.)
“I’ve been good,” Deadpool murmurs, lips pressing against Peter’s neck. Peter shudders. “I haven’t killed anyone – even my jobs have been clean.” He kisses Peter’s pulse. “I’ve kept the maiming to a minimum. I haven’t even blown up Stark Tower again.”
“You’ve already done that once,” Peter says, voice shaking. “You lose points for it.”
Deadpool makes a disagreeing noise, his teeth flashing against Peter’s skin. “That was before the points started counting, baby boy. Come on – I’ve been good.”
“This is coercion,” Peter breathes. He’s surprised he can remember what the word means, at this point.
“Coercion?” Deadpool snorts the word into Peter’s throat. “There is literally nothing stopping you from getting out of this. You don’t need to see me to kick my ass, and don’t fucking try and pretend that I’m keeping you here somehow. You can bench press a truck, Spidey. If you wanted to be gone, you would be.”
“You –” Peter cuts himself off, biting his bottom lip. Deadpool’s not fucking wrong, and it’s so aggravating to admit.
“‘I’?” Deadpool asks, hands settling back on Peter’s hips. “I’m right? I know. I don’t get it, don’t get me wrong, but I know I’m right.” He hums, and then asks, “Do you get it?”
Peter closes his eyes behind the blindfold. “No,” he whispers, the defeat heavy in his voice.
“I could have looked. I could have been touching you when you woke up, could have already turned your big dumb brain off.” Deadpool’s nose runs across Peter’s collarbone. Peter wants to feel it against his skin. “I’ve been good.”
“I – fuck.” Everything about Peter feels unsteady, uncertain. “Wade, I can’t do this.”
“Just once,” Deadpool whispers, rocking his hips up into Peter. “What’s the harm?” he asks over the sound of Peter’s whine.
The harm is that Peter knows it won’t be just once. It will happen once, and then he won’t be able to stop himself from thinking about it again and again and again. Peter wants – and he knows from experience how dangerous that is. This is why he can’t start – but it feels like a paper-thin, flimsy excuse in the face of Deadpool’s gentle caresses.
Deadpool’s hand strokes up Peter’s thigh, stopping before he gets too close. Peter wishes he kept going. Deadpool’s thumb rubs against the sensitive skin of Peter’s inner thigh, the touch hot even through Peter’s suit. “Come on, Spidey,” he says, voice soft and warm. Peter shivers. “I just want to help you feel good.”
“That’s not what you said before,” Peter points out breathlessly. Fuck, he’s really going to let this happen, isn’t he? He’s going to give Deadpool the green light, he’s going to let himself want –
Peter feels Deadpool’s sharp smile against the skin of his throat. “Making you feel good has always been the main goal, baby boy. You’ll let me, won’t you?”
“Answer me something,” Peter says, hissing when Deadpool bites him. “Is the blindfold for me, or for you?”
Deadpool goes tense beneath him, hand tightening on Peter’s thigh. Peter shudders – he’ll have those bruises for a little bit. “Can I turn that fucking brain off, please?” Deadpool growls in response.
Peter supposes that’s enough of an answer, and resolves not to touch the blindfold. “Can you?” he challenges, one of his hands moving into cup the back of Deadpool’s head. The mercenary is bald, scars shifting under Peter’s gloved hand. Peter uses his teeth to pull off his other glove, gently encouraging Deadpool’s face closer to his.
Deadpool makes an absolutely feral noise, lurching up to catch Peter’s lips with his own. Peter kisses him back, the heady arousal that floods through him so fucking good. He grinds down unconsciously, little noises slipping from his lips.
“The suit, Spidey,” Deadpool growls. “Take it off.”
Peter pulls back, already far, far too unsteady. “And here I thought you wouldn’t need me to make things a bit easier for you,” he says, unable to hide the faint amusement in his voice as he reaches for the cleverly hidden zipper at the small of his back.
Deadpool reaches up and tangles his fingers into the strands of Peter’s hair that have slipped out from under his mask, fingers grazing Peter’s scalp. He pulls. Peter groans, not losing his grip on the zipper by the grace of his sticky skin.
“I want you to take it off because you want this.” Deadpool’s voice is deep and dark, the hint of a threat sending a shiver down Peter’s spine. “I want you to show me you’re consenting to this, show me I haven’t been dreaming this whole fucking time –”
There’s a story, a piece of Deadpool’s trauma to unpack, in those words. Peter unzips himself, splitting the suit into two parts – shirt and pants. Deadpool’s hand is at the split in fabric instantly, greedy against Peter’s skin. Peter’s mouth falls open, soundless – Deadpool’s skin, his scars, feels amazing. He’s imagined, of course he has, and it wasn’t even close to the real thing.
“You crazy fucker,” Deadpool breathes. “You actually like me touching you.” His hand moves, and Peter shudders. It’s so much when he can’t see, can’t track where Deadpool’s hand will go next. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Peter isn’t exactly offended – he feels too good to be offended at this point. Besides, the question had been delivered with such an intense, sincere disbelief, it’s hard not to hear the rawness of the question making a poor attempt to hide in the background.
“Some type of bullshit,” Peter gasps, the words coming out strangled.
Deadpool mouths at Peter’s neck. “Take it off,” he croons against Peter’s throat, pressing his fingers between Peter’s ribs. Something about that makes Deadpool pause, but Peter can’t see why. Deadpool’s fingers hesitate, until Peter makes an impatient little noise he hadn’t expected to escape his throat.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Need me to touch you some more, sugar?” Deadpool asks, hand sliding down. For a delicious second, all of Peter’s awareness is zeroed in on the way that hand feels against his skin.
Then Deadpool pulls away, and Peter is left blinking in shock, feeling disgustingly empty and desperate. “What?” Peter croaks, disbelief cracking through the word.
“Take it off,” Deadpool tells him again.
Peter can’t remember the last time he moved so fast. He doesn’t even hear the top of his suit hit the floor before Deadpool’s hand is back on his skin. Peter shudders.
“Good boy,” Deadpool praises, pulling Peter’s head down for a kiss. He keeps it lazy, ignoring Peter’s increasingly desperate attempts for the kiss to become more. Peter makes his displeasure clear, teeth sinking into Deadpool’s bottom lip.
Deadpool pulls back and laughs. “Come on, Spidey,” he says. “Open those pretty lips and tell me.”
This is it. Peter can feel it. This is his last fucking chance to call this off, to tell the mercenary no. He can do it. Sure, it will be awkward for a while, and there will always be that want, but Peter can handle it. He’s great at handling it.
Deadpool’s lips press against his skin, feather light. “Tell me,” he whispers again. He doesn’t move after that, just waits.
It feels like minutes go by before Peter opens his mouth, but it’s probably only seconds. “Touch me. Please.” The words erupt from deep inside him, and for a second, Peter can’t believe he said them.
Deadpool doesn’t waste that second.
He’s got one hand around Peter’s cock and one hand digging into the muscle of Peter’s ass before Peter can even comprehend them moving. Peter forgets how to breathe, the feel of Deadpool’s scars against such sensitive skin overwhelming. His cock isn’t small, but in Deadpool’s hand, it feels like it is.
“How does it feel?” Deadpool rumbles, hand hot and achingly slow as he strokes Peter’s cock. The scars catch and drag, stars sparking across Peter’s vision. He’s not going to last, he’s going to come embarrassingly fast all over Deadpool’s hand –
Deadpool stops stroking. “I asked you a question,” he says, ignoring the desperate whine Peter can’t help making. “How does it feel?”
“Good,” Peter breathes. “So good, please don’t –” Peter hiccups on the words, shaking. “Please don’t stop.”
“I won’t, not if you’re being good,” Deadpool promises. “Can you do that for me, sweetheart? Can you be my good boy?”
Peter shudders, cock twitching in Deadpool’s grip. “I – yes,” he gasps.
Deadpool groans. “You’re such a good boy,” Deadpool tells Peter, his hand moving again. Slow and steady, scars sending delicious signals across Peter’s sensitive skin, sinking into his brain like hooks. “Look at you squirm,” Deadpool croons, his teeth flashing against Peter’s skin.
Peter cries out, body tensing against the flood of pleasure, but it’s just not enough –
Deadpool twists his wrist, and Peter’s gone.
There’s no way, no fucking way, this is going to happen just once, he thinks blearily, loose and pliant as he collapses against Deadpool’s chest. Peter shudders at the Deadpool’s cock is still hard underneath him, and Peter wonders why Deadpool isn’t chasing his own pleasure.
Or maybe he is. Both of his hands are kneading Peter’s ass, fingers digging into muscle. Peter wriggles, the sensation both good and bad – good, because duh, and bad because he can feel himself getting all… Floaty. It doesn’t worry him like it should.
“That was quick,” Deadpool says, voice quiet. There’s no judgement in his tone, and Peter huffs at him. “Should I be flattered, or has it just been that long?”
“Porque no los dos?" Peter mumbles. His accent is awful.
Deadpool laughs, the sound soft and warm. Peter doesn’t think he’s ever heard Deadpool laugh like that. He wants to hear it again. “Sure, Spidey. Sure.” He’s silent for – a minute? A few minutes? Peter isn’t sure, head swimming in the aftermath of his orgasm.
“How are you feeling?” Deadpool whispers, like the answer is a secret. And maybe it should be, but something pings in Peter’s brain, and he remembers he is Deadpool’s good boy right now.
“Good,” Peter sighs. “So good, Wade.” He wriggles a little more – Deadpool’s fingers are pressing deeper, harder.
There’s a half-made noise in the air, a noise that Deadpool obviously catches before it can become something. Deadpool’s breaths are steady under Peter, but his heart is racing, thundering under Peter’s hands like it wants to escape.
Peter tilts his face up, his nose colliding with Deadpool’s jaw. He leans in, presses a kiss to scarred skin. Shivers, because even that felt good. He kisses along Deadpool’s jaw until he’s roughly in line with Deadpool’s lips.
“How are you feeling?” he breathes, close but not too close.
There’s a pause, a weight in the air Peter can feel against his skin. It makes him inexplicably nervous, and the reminder that he is sitting in Deadpool’s lap, that the mercenary has his huge and dangerous hands all up in Peter’s business, actually cuts through the fog a little. Peter hesitates, his hands moving to awkwardly settle on Deadpool’s shoulders.
“Ravenous, Spidey,” Deadpool finally replies, his voice deep and dark and delighted. “Been dying to get my teeth into you, get a taste of what you’re made of.”
Peter cocks his head, Deadpool’s breath teasing against his lips. “I’m made of blood and bone, just like everyone else,” he says. “Probably a bit more scar tissue than the average person.”
“Lies,” Deadpool tells him. One of his hands vanishes from Peter’s ass, and that would be significantly less concerning if Peter could see where it went. “You got a little sun in you, or something.”
Peter tries to listen for where his other hand has gone. “I think that’s you, actually,” he says distractedly. “You’re the one that feels like a literal furnace.” Deadpool snorts, and his hand is back. His fingers are cool and wet against Peter’s ass. Peter jumps a little. “I know your healing and metabolism make you warmer, but this –” he cuts himself off with a hiss as Deadpool presses a finger into him. “This is ridiculous,” Peter finishes in a rush.
Deadpool doesn’t appear to be in a rush. He’s steady and focused as he crooks his finger, exploring Peter’s insides. Peter knows he’s not cold inside, but Deadpool’s finger is like a live flame, licking heat into places Peter has never considered he needed heat. The scars – which he can feel shifting, in case anyone was curious – feel so good.
“What’s ridiculous,” Deadpool says, “is how tight you are, baby boy. Ain’t no one been giving you any lovin’?” The joking tone leaves his voice. “You didn’t play with yourself back here, sugar? Not even when you were thinking of me?”
“No,” Peter breathes.
“Why not?” Deadpool croons, sliding in another finger so he can start scissoring them, stretching Peter open. Peter gasps, hands now clutching onto Deadpool’s shoulders like they’re a lifeline. “You wanted this, didn’t you?” Peter nods helplessly. “Tell me,” Deadpool urges, his fingers stopping in their movements.
“I wanted – I want you in me,” Peter gasps, correcting himself automatically. This isn’t something he wanted – he wants, more, still, now. “I couldn’t – my fingers wouldn’t have –” He bites his lip, to stop himself from saying something too embarrassing, and makes a startled noise when Deadpool licks his mouth.
“My teeth, not yours,” he rumbles as Peter’s jaw drops open in surprise. Deadpool starts scissoring his fingers again, faster this time. Peter moans, unable to stop his hips rocking in time with the movement. His cock, slowly growing harder, rubs against Deadpool’s abs.
Deadpool surges up, catching Peter’s lips as his fingers drive into Peter with abrupt precision, swallowing the whine Peter makes at the first touch to his prostate. Peter can’t stop making noises, and Deadpool delights in drinking them down greedily.
When Deadpool finally pulls back, Peter’s a whining, writhing incoherent mess. At some point, Deadpool had worked another finger inside him, but Peter has absolutely no memory of that happening.
“Has anyone ever tied you up, baby boy?” Deadpool purrs into Peter’s ear. Through the haze of pleasure that’s clouding Peter’s brain, he manages to spit out a no. “No? No one’s ever tried to keep you still? Honestly, I can see why.” His voice is approving, and Peter shivers. “Then…” Deadpool’s free hand moves, curling around Peter’s cock. “I’m guessing no one has ever done this, either.”
He starts stroking, and Peter freezes, half of his brain caught on the fingers in his ass, the other half following the rhythm of Deadpool’s hand on his cock. All of his brain, however, is confused by Deadpool’s words. It’s not like this is the first time he’s ever been finger fucked and jerked off at the same time.
Peter can’t focus on his confusion for long. “Wade,” he gasps, feeling that familiar build up, the wave rising up inside him, coiling through his veins like a spring waiting to be released –
Deadpool’s fingers turn into a vice around the base of Peter’s cock.
Peter jerks, gasping at the feeling of the rug being pulled from under his feet. His fingers dig into Deadpool’s skin for a moment before he forces them to relax, anxiety clawing at him, sending goosebumps flashing across his skin. Peter feels like he’s been dunked in cold water.
“Something the matter, baby boy?”
Peter blinks behind the blindfold. “You – why did you stop?” There’s a crack in his voice he wishes he couldn’t hear. Deadpool doesn’t sound angry, he’s teasing Peter. But now Peter’s stuck trying to tell his suddenly anxious brain that everything is okay. He hasn’t done anything wrong.
He can feel Deadpool’s gaze on him. Peter doesn’t know what his expression is doing, doesn’t know if he needs to fix it or not, so he elects to duck his head, nuzzling into the crook of Deadpool’s neck. It won’t help, of course it won’t – Deadpool’s already seen whatever he’s seen. But it makes Peter feel better, makes him feel less exposed.
Deadpool pulls his fingers from Peter with a wet, indecent sound, and Peter whines, the anxiety spiking in a blaze of white noise. Peter swallows, still hard, but his brain has been pulled elsewhere and he can’t think about his cock right now.
“Spidey.” Deadpool’s voice is gentle, so gentle that it snaps Peter out of his white noise, because who would expect a world-class mercenary to sound like that? Peter makes a sound of acknowledgement. “You didn’t like that.” It’s not a question, but Deadpool waits, and eventually Peter shakes his head.
“What about it was bad?” Deadpool asks, still gentle. He’s looking for pieces of Spiderman, but he’s going to get pieces of Peter if he keeps asking, pushing, this.
Peter’s breath shudders out of him. “Just –” He cuts himself off with a disparaging noise, because the words are simple but they stick in his throat, edges sharp. Deadpool’s hand strokes down his back, scarred skin making him shiver. He realises that the hand on his back is the hand that cut off his orgasm, which means there isn’t a vice around the base of his cock.
It still feels like there is.
Peter hesitates, but Deadpool’s hand is soothing down his back, and if he focuses on that, the words feel a little less like pieces of glass. “I – Did I –” Peter swallows the words, huffing at himself in disgust.
“Ask me,” Deadpool prompts gently.
“Did I do something wrong?” Peter spits, jaw clenched. There – a piece of Peter, and not a pretty one. It’s all white noise anxiety and brittle, jagged edges, a jumble of things that had happened and things that could have happened.
Deadpool freezes at the words, the tone, whatever it is he sees in Peter’s body language. He doesn’t answer, though, and Peter can’t see what’s happening –
“Oh, Spidey, no,” Deadpool says soothingly, and Peter realises his breathing has picked up, anxiety fuelling his heart rate faster, faster. “You were being such a good boy for me, sugar, such a good boy. I wanted to give you a reward. I should have asked – I was too excited. This is my fault.”
Peter shivers. Deadpool kisses his neck, rough lips gentle against Peter’s skin. “Deep breaths, baby boy,” Deadpool says, and Peter feels him take deep, steady breaths.
They’re quiet for a minute, breathing in sync. Peter’s anxiety fades a little with each breath, the white noise vanishing entirely after only a minute or so. Deadpool’s hand is steady and soothing down his back.
“Sorry,” Peter croaks eventually. His dick has calmed down, and he thinks Deadpool’s has as well.
Deadpool snorts against Peter’s chest. “You’re sorry? Even Yellow thinks I done goofed, and he never agrees with White.”
Peter asks, “Are they your ‘some type of bullshit’?” before he can really think about the question.
Deadpool pauses, but he’s laughing before Peter’s anxiety can sweep back in. “Yeah,” he says between giggles. “They’re some of it, for sure.”
Peter waits, to see if the mercenary will tell him anymore, but Deadpool just pulls him down into a sweet, gentle kiss.
“What are you doing to me?” Deadpool asks. His mouth is still close to Peter’s, lips almost brushing his as Deadpool’s mouth forms the words. Peter stays still, doesn’t pull away.
“Helping,” Peter whispers, the answer more of a question than anything. What if he’s making Deadpool’s bullshit worse without meaning to? What if Peter giving in to this desire makes things harder?
Deadpool kisses him again, licking against Peter’s lips. Peter parts them, letting his own tongue snake out to taste the flavours that make up Wade Wilson. He can taste the cancer, the sickness like a sour edge to an otherwise rich, vibrant dessert that is the mercenary under him. Peter barely holds himself back from groaning in appreciation.
“I appreciate it, baby boy,” Wade rumbles, sucking a mark just under Peter’s jaw when Peter pulls back for air. “Will you let me help you?” Wade asks. His hand, gentle and warm, is stroking Peter’s cock again. “Let me make you feel good, Spidey.”
Peter hesitates. Wade’s hand feels amazing, each stroke wiping away the sensation of a vice, but if Wade keeps insisting that it’s Spiderman in his lap, Peter is sure they’ll run into something else Peter can’t handle. He doesn’t know how to voice this in a way that will make sense.
But Peter… He should know, by now, that Wade understands far more than he lets on. “I’m listening,” Wade tells him, apologetic. “I’m listening to you.”
And – oh.
Wade arches up, pressing kisses up Peter’s throat. Compared to the feral marking from earlier, this feels downright sweet. Peter shivers, suddenly very, very unsure about this. His head jerks to the side – he’s sure the exit is that way –
Wade snorts. “Oh, so now you’re scared of me? Tough luck, bubble butt, I’m about to woo the fuck outta you.”
Peter thinks that maybe Wade needs to re-learn what woo means, because the way Wade’s fingers press back into him, the way Wade nips at Peter’s lips, and the way Wade’s hand clamps down on the back of his neck? That isn’t wooing.
Feels fucking good though.
Peter shudders, blindly chasing Wade’s mouth with his own. He can’t help but grind back against Wade’s fingers, whining when Wade’s fingers crook and just miss his prostate.
“Please,” Peter pants. It would be embarrassing how fast he’s back to begging, if he could really think. Wade’s fingers slide back out of him, and Peter feels literal tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Wade, please, I –”
“Ssshhh,” Wade croons, pulling Peter’s pants further down his legs. When had his pants even started to come off? “That’s my good boy,” Wade says.
The hand on Peter’s neck moves to tangle into Peter’s hair, and Wade pulls. Peter gasps silently. Wade’s mouth is on his chest, tongue flicking Peter’s nipple. Peter can feel him slicking up his cock, and Peter’s mouth waters.
What would it feel like, to have Wade’s dick in his mouth, down his throat? Wade’s tongue feels good – but his dick?
“Shouldn’t you be focusing on something else?” Wade growls. Peter wonders if it was the way he swallowed that gave him away. “How am I supposed to get Wade Jr into heaven if you won’t give me a hand?”
Peter blinks, focuses. He rocks against Wade’s slick cock, just to hear the curse that explodes from the mercenary beneath him. The sly smirk that flashes across Peter’s face is gone in a second, but Wade can see.
“You little shit,” Wade breathes, and suddenly Peter’s scooped up. He grabs instinctively, legs wrapping around Wade’s waist, the tiny hairs on his hands finding an easy grip on Wade’s skin. Peter still falls backwards, but Wade follows him, and Peter realises they’re on a bed. The sheets are cool and soft to touch.
Peter catches Wade’s lips again – how he aimed it so well, he doesn’t know. He bites Wade’s lip, and in retaliation Wade rolls his hips, slowly punching the air from Peter’s lungs as he pushes in.
“Motherfucker,” Wade hisses. “You feel orgasmic, baby boy.” He giggles to himself, and Peter makes a dissatisfied noise, clenching around Wade. He relishes in the gasp Wade can’t hide.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Peter asks, the challenge in his voice something he knows Wade won’t be able to ignore.
And he’s right – with a low growl that rumbles though his chest, Wade snaps his hips forward.
Peter sees stars.
“There we go,” Wade purrs, breathing heavily. “Snug as a bug in a rug. Now, you be a good boy and let me hear you, okay?”
Peter doesn’t get a chance to reply before Wade is thrusting, the scarred skin of his hips slapping against Peter. Peter’s mouth falls open in a long, high-pitched noise that his senses hate, but he can’t help it. Wade is sliding against his prostate with each thrust, nipping marks into Peter’s throat.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” Wade says, rolling his hips. Peter chokes. “Tell me when you’re close, baby boy. Okay? Can you do that for me?”
“Okay,” Peter gasps, mindless. “Please, please –”
“I want to do this again,” Wade croons, and how is he so accurate, so consistent? How has he already figured out Peter’s spots? Peter’s hands twist in the sheets, mouth open and spilling these desperate, pornographic noises. “Can we, baby boy? Can I take you apart again?”
“Yes, yes.” Peter can’t think.
“Good boy. It’s a promise,” Wade breathes against Peter’s mouth, and then Wade’s kissing him like he can’t get enough of Peter’s mouth.
Peter tries really, really hard to tell Wade he’s coming. He hadn’t expected the way Wade’s tongue curls around his own to be what tips him so close to the edge. His hands twitch frantically against Wade’s skin, and he’s trying to speak, but Wade just bites his lip and Peter explodes.
Wade’s mouth is off his the second Peter starts to come, and the resulting moan is loud and long, fading into little uh’s and whines because Wade is still fucking him, steady and accurate. It’s too much, too soon, and Peter writhes under the mercenary.
“Sssh, sweetheart,” Wade soothes, but he doesn’t stop. “You feel so good inside, Spidey, I don’t want to wake up just yet. We can keep going, can’t we? Surely my baby boy –” Wade thrusts shallowly against Peter’s prostate in time with the words – “can go again?”
Peter whines and writhes and nods, because apparently his brain is in his dick right now. His legs curl around Wade’s hips, and he digs his heels into the mercenary’s scarred ass. Wade groans. For the first time, his rhythm falters.
“Next time,” Wade’s panting now, his own pleasure catching up to him, finally, “next time, I want to fuck your mouth. That’s what you were thinking about, wasn’t it? I saw you swallow, when I was getting my cock ready to enter heaven. What else could that have been about, hmm? Does my baby boy want to swallow my cock?”
Wade’s fingers press into Peter’s mouth. Peter almost feels his eyes roll back into his head, and grabs Wade’s wrist. There’s no technique, but Peter does his best to suckle and lick the scarred fingers in his mouth, groaning at the texture.
“Fuck,” Wade hisses. “Fuck, fuck, fuck –”
Wade shudders and comes, his fingers unconsciously pressing down on Peter’s tongue, forcing Peter’s mouth open wider. Peter moans, somehow too close and not close enough at the same time. He doesn’t think he can come again, but he wants to. The feel of Wade’s cock, pulsing through his orgasm, scars twitching and twisting, is something Peter doesn’t think he’ll be able to forget.
“Fuck, Spidey. The mouth on you,” Wade says, sounding reverent. He pulls his fingers from Peter’s mouth. Peter tries to follow, but Wade’s other hand presses against his chest, keeping him against the bed.
Peter wishes he could see. He’s sure the sight is something – Wade, probably resting on his heels between Peter’s legs, all of those fucking muscles on display. And what a display it would be. Peter raises an arm, reaching out blindly. Wade catches his wrist and presses it back into the mattress. He releases it, but Peter doesn’t move, understanding that Wade doesn’t want him to touch.
And then Peter realises that Wade hasn’t pulled out. And he realises that Wade is still hard.
“What?” Peter croaks, and shit, he sounds wrecked.
He can hear the grin in Wade’s voice when he replies. “I guess you just feel that good, baby boy. Ready for another round, Spidey?”
“You’re incorrigible,” Peter breathes, licking his lips. Maybe he can go again?
“Only for slutty little spiders,” Wade says, and then his body is all around Peter. His lips are on Peter’s, demanding, and he starts thrusting again. Peter loses the battle to stay quiet embarrassingly quickly, unable to do anything that requires more coordination than press his lips to Wade’s.
Wade pulls his mouth off Peter’s with a groan, moving his mouth to worry at Peter’s throat. “Fuck, Spidey,” he says. His hands on Peter’s wrists squeeze, an unrelated blade of pain that makes the pleasure Peter’s feeling from Wade’s cock that much better.
Peter can’t touch himself, can’t do anything as his dick twitches and the orgasm – the one he wasn’t sure he could have – builds. He can’t even find the strength to clench around Wade. His ass is a mess of lube and cum – he can feel more of it leaking out with each of Wade’s thrusts.
“Wade,” he whines, because he can’t do anything else but beg. And Peter can’t remember a time when begging felt so good. “Please, please, ‘m close, it’s too much, please –”
Peter feels Wade finish, again, and gasps in shock when Wade pulls out completely. His hands vanish from Peter’s wrists, but before the anxiety can hit – before Peter can start to think, again, that he’s done something wrong – Wade’s mouth is engulfing Peter’s dick.
Peter keens.
Wade swallows him down, and Peter learns that yes, Wade’s scars are in fact everywhere. He wants to pull Wade off – it’s too much, the pleasure like pain, and he can’t –
Wade, purposefully, swallows him down again. Peter’s vision whites out, and he comes.
When Peter faculties return to him, he’s still shaking with the aftershocks of the last orgasm. Wade is cuddling him from behind, making soothing noises in Peter’s ear as his thumb rubs over Peter’s shoulder.
“You did so good for me, sugar,” Wade whispers, pressing a kiss into the back of Peter’s head. “You can sleep – I promise nothing’s gonna get you while I’m here.”
His voice, deep and low and soothing, is almost hypnotic. Peter can feel his eyes closing, feel the heady pleasure mellowing into something softer, fuller. He feels heavy and satiated – it resembles the feeling Peter has gotten before after eating a proper meal. It’s been a while since that happened, though, so he’s not sure how similar it is.
Almost thirty, and still can’t feed himself. What a catch.
As he falls asleep, Peter realises that Wade’s thumb has been rubbing the scar Wade had given him back when this whole series of events had started. He’s not sure how he feels about the possessiveness he can sense from the simple action, but he falls asleep before he can really think about it.
When Peter wakes up, he can see again. He sits up, blinking around the unfamiliar room. His suit is back on, save for his gloves, which are on the little table by the bed. His mask is pulled all the way down.
“Welcome to one of my safehouses,” Wade says, lounging in a chair by the bed. “You’ve got a permanent invitation now, Spidey. I hope you’ll visit often.”
He’s also back in his suit, gloved fingers rubbing a piece of red and black fabric between them. Peter wonders if that was what he used as a blindfold.
“What time is it?” Peter asks hoarsely, feeling like he’s been wrung out like a sponge.
“Your phone is on the table,” Wade tells him instead of answering. “I cleaned you up, but you might feel a little sore still.” He’s grinning under the mask, wide and Cheshire cat like. “I might have given that ass a bit too much of a workout.”
Peter grabs his phone and is relieved to see that it’s only 3am. He glances at Wade, but the mercenary seems content to just sit, rubbing at the fabric.
“Is that all you have to say?” Peter’s not mad, but he thinks that’s only because he’s still basking in the glow of three – three – orgasms.
“What else is there to say? You’re not going to renege on a promise, are you, Spidey?” Wade asks, teasing and smug. He rises from the chair, smirking down at Peter.
Peter wants to punch the smug smile off his face as much as he wants to kiss it. “No,” Peter says slowly. “But there is one thing I want to make very clear.”
Wade cocks his head, expectant. Peter is up in his space in a heartbeat, and the mercenary begins to startle back a step. The lines of his body are sharp and defensive. Peter catches the front of the Deadpool suit and pulls Wade closer, lifting him so that his toes are barely touching the ground.
“If you ever knock me out again,” Peter says, his grip on the front of the Deadpool suit tight, “we’re done here. Forget about me helping you, forget about… About this. I’ll kick you out of this city myself.”
“I love it when you get all forceful, Spidey,” Wade replies, teasing. He’s serious in the next breath. “I didn’t mean… You were going to run again,” Wade explains, a frown under his mask, eyes narrowed. “You’re… Very good at running.”
“Comes with the territory of being spider enhanced. Thought you, of all people, would appreciate a chase.” Peter cocks his head, staring at Wade. “Promise me,” he finally says. Peter lets go of the Deadpool suit, raising one hand. “Pinkie swear it, Wade.”
Wade’s gaze flicks between Peter’s mask and his gloved hand. Peter’s raised pinkie suddenly looks very, very delicate, but Peter refuses to back down. He’s had Wade’s dick up his ass, for crying out loud.
He can’t help getting antsier the longer Wade takes to make a decision. He doesn’t fidget, but it takes a surprising amount of effort.
Eventually, Wade links his pinkie with Peter’s. “I promise I won’t knock you out again,” he promises, and Peter believes the sincerity he can hear ringing in the words.