Rating:

Explicit

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Marvel

Relationship:

Deadpool/Spider-man

Tags:

barebacking, blowjobs, casual sex, h/c, prompt/gift/request, pwp

Stats:

Posted on:

2017-07-17

Words:

6,483

It’s the dawn of a new day, and Peter is swinging in the seafoam colored light of the morning, his webs clinging to the ash grey of the rooftops. His pace is rhythmic, and all he can hear is his steady breathing, beneath his mask, coming out in little puffs. The wind yawns through the December air. Peter goes from building to building in silence, in the still of the city.

There’s always something. Today, there is the shrill of Peter’s phone from tucked in his spandex, breaking the quiet. Peter jolts and sticks a web to the roof of a building, landing on it before pulling his phone out. He looks at the caller ID.

Douchebag.

Of course. Who else would call at five in the morning? Peter sighs and contemplates answering, but sometimes he needs real help, and Peter’s not one to – Peter won’t say no to helping.

“Yeah,” he says, picking up.

Wade’s voice blares from the other end. “Spidey, my man! Didn’t know you were awake – oh wait, I did, I just saw you outside my apartment about, mm, five minutes ago?”

Peter purses his lips. He sits on the edge of the roof and contemplates throwing his phone off. Swinging his legs, he says, “Yeah. I know.”

“Looking for bad guys to catch? Saving the day?” Wade chuckles. “Spider-man, Spider-man–that’s the theme song, right?”

Peter sighs. “What do you want, Wade?” he says, sliding the bottom of his mask off to breathe. The air is cool against his mouth, and Peter adjusts his phone against his ear.

“What do you think?” Peter can practically hear the smirk in Wade’s voice. “Five a.m. booty call, baby! Come on over, I know you’re in the neighborhood.”

Peter doesn’t have a reason to say no. Peter doesn’t want to say no–never does, when his lips are trailing along the rough of Wade’s skin, thumbs pressed beneath his chin, trying to find all the wrong angles where their bodies fit together. Peter rolls his eyes even though no one’s around to see it, especially under his mask–he tells himself he’s being reluctant, even though he knows he isn’t, and says, “Be there in two.”

“Eager, huh?”

Peter hangs up on him.

He swings down the side of the building he’d been sitting on, stringing his way to Wade’s apartment. Wade lives on the fourteenth floor of a rundown apartment building which reeks of chimichangas all the time, or maybe that’s just Wade’s. Peter slides down to Wade’s living room window, and, using his webbing, yanks the window up before perching on the sill.

Wade comes in from the kitchen, holding–yes, a chimichanga–and wearing his mask, despite his pajamas otherwise. “Oh, you’re here,” he says, and checks the clock. “That was less than two minutes.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Peter says, climbing off the window and into Wade’s living room. “If this is a real booty call, we better cut to the chase.”

Wade waves around his chimichanga. “Of course, of course, don’t get your tights up in a bunch.” He looks at his chimichanga thoughtfully. “Actually, hold that thought. Can I finish this first?”

Peter sighs. Wade seems to take that as a yes as he says, “Sweet,” and goes to his living room couch, eating along the way. Peter stands and taps his foot as Wade takes his precious time eating his chimichanga (at five in the morning), before licking his fingers and lying back on the couch.

“Go on,” he says to Peter. “I’m all yours.”

He’s so fucking obnoxious that Peter doesn’t know why he’s doing this. He grits his teeth and pushes himself into Wade’s body, knocking them horizontal on the couch, all hard lines and crooked limbs. Wade chuckles and says, “Real enthusiastic, there,” but Peter ignores him and fumbles with the waistband of Wade’s pajama pants, not even bothering with pretense.

“You called to fuck,” he says to Wade. “So we’re going to fuck. You don’t have to say shit all the time.”

Wade shrugs as Peter gets his underwear down. “It’s my coping mechanism. What can I say?” He peers down at Peter. “Coping mechanism for horniness, that is – Spidey, are you ever going to take off your mask?”

“Secret identity,” Peter says, though he’s wrangling the bottom of his mask up so his mouth is exposed. “That’s kind of the point.”

“But I’d like to see your eyes while you – ”

Wade breaks off in a groan, which Peter is pleased with, as he wraps his lips around Wade’s soft cock. Peter’s hands, which are still covered with the spandex, find their way to Wade’s hairy thighs, gripping him as Peter ducks down between Wade’s legs, dragging his lips down the underside, going from the head down the length, bobbing his head as he gets more of Wade’s cock in.

Wade groans and says, “Oh, Spidey, you’re really good with that mouth.” Peter doesn’t bother answering, continues swallowing around Wade as Wade grips at the back of Peter’s mask. Peter’s almost afraid that Wade will try to take it off so he shoves Wade back – but then, with both of his hands, Peter holds onto Wade’s cock and gathers him all in his mouth, deep in his throat, and Wade convulses.

“Shit,” he breathes, as Peter feels him pulsate in his mouth. Peter goes back to pumping Wade’s cock with his hand, mouthing tightly, tasting the bitterness of precome on the roof of his mouth. Wade’s head is thrown back and Peter can’t see his own facial expression beneath the mask – it’s only fair, even though Peter knows who Wade is, knows that Wade only keeps the mask because of the scars. Sometimes Peter wants to see Wade’s face, though, scars and all, like now when Peter brings Wade’s entire cock down his mouth again, and Wade grunts, “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Don’t fucking come,” Peter says, pulling off, lips wet with spittle. There’s a line from his mouth to the tip of Wade’s cock, and Wade lifts his head up, staring, until Peter stands up.

“Why are you such a tease?” Wade whines.

Peter ignores him. “You’re gonna fuck me,” he says, because he needs it – wants Wade’s big, dark cock in him, for the first time. They’ve exchanged blowjobs, hand jobs, rutting against each other on Wade’s smelly couch before, but Peter’s never – he’s thought about getting fucked, and right now he needs it.

Wade scrambles up off the couch almost immediately and says, “Okay, for sure, something we should do in the bedroom, and I think I have lube around here – what are you thinking? Christian missionary? Doggy style?”

“Jesus,” Peter mutters, before, “I don’t care, Wade. Just get your dick in me.”

“Uh,” Wade says, looking under the coffee table and between the couch cushions. “Definitely. Uh. Give me one second, I think I – ”

Peter’s already making his way to Wade’s tiny shitty bedroom and spies the bottle of lube on the dresser. “It’s in here,” he calls, as he begins to strip off his suit.

Wade rushes over. “Oh, thank god. My baby.” He cradles the bottle in his hands, before spinning around to Peter, who’s managed to wriggle off his suit, shirtless and stepping out of the pool of cloth. “And I have to say, man, you’re more ripped than the last time I saw you.”

Peter scoffs and takes his underwear off. “Get on the bed.”

“I love it when you’re bossy,” Wade croons. He props himself up on his bed, back against his pillow, cock hard and leaking over his stomach as he watches Peter crawl over him. Peter lifts up the bottom of Wade’s mask, and then his own, drawing their mouths together in a mess of lips and teeth.

Wade tastes like Mexican food and sweat and grins against Peter’s mouth as Peter kisses him. Peter can sense that Wade’s about to say something stupid, like, This is romantic, isn’t it? so he kisses harder so Wade will shut up, tangling his hands at the base of Wade’s neck and mask, stroking along his neck. Wade’s tongue is in his mouth and Peter’s cock is getting hard, pressed near against Wade’s, and Wade grips onto Peter’s hips as Peter grinds down on him.

Peter pulls back and says, “I’m going to ride you.”

Wade’s breath audibly hitches and he says, “Yeah, yeah,” as Peter lifts himself over Wade’s body, turns around, gets a hand on Wade’s cock. Peter can hear himself breathing as he picks up the lube Wade had gotten from the side of the bed, dips a finger in, glides it between the crack of his ass. He’s giving Wade a show, he knows; Wade’s hands come up to grab Peter’s cheeks, but Peter slaps him away and opens himself up, nudging a finger inside himself and groaning.

“Spidey,” Wade says from behind him, breathlessly. “Seriously.”

Peter fucks himself with the finger, open and loose for Wade, right in Wade’s face, and Wade’s saying, “Jesus, fuck, I can’t wait to be inside you, Spidey, can’t wait to be in your little hole – you look so good from here – ”

“Shut up,” Peter says, though he knows he doesn’t mean it. He wants Wade, too, wants Wade to touch his hips and kiss his thighs and fuck him into the next century. That’s all sex, though, Peter tells himself, and then he’s taking his fingers out and bringing the head of Wade’s cock in, and Wade is groaning.

“Seriously,” Wade says. “Seriously. Fuck. Jesus. Jesus fuck.”

Peter gets him in more, feeling every inch, closing his eyes and sitting right on Wade’s cock. Wade is deep in him, and Peter brings himself down to Wade’s balls.

Wade says, his voice tight, “Spidey, if I die right here and now, with my dick up your ass, it’s going to be all your fault.”

“You can’t die,” Peter breathes out, making himself comfortable on Wade’s cock, clenching his muscles around him. Wade makes a whining sound and brings his hands up to Peter’s waist, holding him in place.

“I meant metaphorically,” Wade says. “Shit, you feel so good – this is my new happy place now. Just so you know. This is what I’m going to think of when I need a mental break.”

“Shut up,” Peter says again, as he raises himself on his ankles, back hovering over Wade’s body as he drags Wade’s cock back out a bit again, before thrusting back down. Wade buckles against him, and then there’s the warmth of a torso on Peter’s back – Wade’s pressed up against him, so that Peter is awkwardly in Wade’s lap.

“Yeah, baby, ride me,” Wade says, as Peter fucks himself down again, and again, Wade’s cock searing hot inside him.

Peter bites the inside of his cheek, at the pet name, at the pleasure-pain-pleasure. He says nothing as he grinds down on Wade’s cock, getting him deep inside him again, every bit of Wade’s long fucking cock electric like all of Peter’s nerve endings are being hit. Perched on his feet, in Wade’s lap, he thrusts over and over again, Wade’s hands which have slid down to his hips helping him, pushing his cock into Peter again and again.

Peter’s breath is coming in quick bursts, and Wade’s found the angle that makes Peter’s fingers clench from where he’s holding onto Wade’s legs, and Peter brings one of his hands to his cock. Holding himself up with the other, Peter strokes himself hard and fast, grunting as he spills all over his hand.

The bottom of his mask is still lifted when Wade tucks himself into the back of Peter’s neck, says, “I know you’re not a blond,” as he hammers Peter down onto him. Wade pulls out and Peter turns around, watches as Wade slides a hand down himself once, twice, before coming, moaning. Peter watches it all: Wade’s mouth, open, silent, his head thrown back as his come leaks between his fist, breath riding down.

Peter goes to the bathroom without saying anything, cleans himself up. He comes back to Wade’s room, where Wade looks at him appreciatively from his bed – Peter, still in his Spider-man mask, but otherwise naked from the neck down.

Wade says, “I gotta say, this is a good look on you.”

Peter’s gaze is fixed on Wade, lethargic in his bed, mouth and chin still visible – Peter had pulled his own mask back down – grinning and comfortable in his own bed. Every part of Peter is telling him to leave because he and Wade – well, they’re not anything, aside from the first time they’d angrily hooked up after Wade nearly killed Peter. Peter never knew what to make of that, what it meant to sleep with a guy who tried to murder you.

Wade is a murderer. Peter knows this, and Peter isn’t; but here he is, in a murderer’s bedroom, clean from the murderer’s shower, and climbing back into bed with Wade because something, something inside Peter just wants to let go of the part where Wade is a mercenary and Peter isn’t and just pretend they’re normal fucking people who also happen to wear masks, even though Wade doesn’t know his real name.

Wade jolts with surprise when Peter lies his head on his shoulder. “Cuddling after, huh?” he says to Peter. “I didn’t take you for that kind of guy.”

Peter doesn’t dignify that with a response. HIs heartbeat is echoing in his ears, because this doesn’t feel wrong, the way Wade actually cuddles back, goes, “C’mere,” and spoons up behind Peter like they are normal. Peter can feel his face pressed into the back of his neck, along his mask.

Peter says, “No, I’m not blond.”

“I’m really glad, you know,” Wade says sleepily. Peter wonders if he even slept last night, or if he’s just been awake the whole time. “I don’t like blonds.”

“Why?” Peter asks, trying to shift to see if he can see Wade.

But Wade doesn’t answer. When Peter turns back around, he sees Wade breathing softly through his mouth – and rolling up his mask, sees that Wade’s scarred eyes are closed. He looks peaceful, and Peter’s heart thumps louder, an overwhelming urge to just – watch, stay overcoming him.

The feeling, which feels like it’s been creeping up on him for a while now, hits him so suddenly in the chest that Peter turns around and mutters, “Shit.” Everything feels clenched, in his stomach and his throat, and being in Wade’s arms seems so far away and at the same time the perfect place for Peter to be, here, now.

It doesn’t do to fall for someone you’re not even sure you like, but Peter doesn’t know how to stop the rush of affection surging through his veins as he watches Wade sleep peacefully. He has to get out of here, he tells himself, even though he’d rather not, even though he’d rather lie in bed and breathe in the air of Wade’s chimichanga breath for more than forever. Peter traces a finger down Wade’s bare shoulder, the warmth of his skin, wonders what he’s allowed to do–and yet, this is Wade, he shouldn’t be allowed to do anything except for an easy fuck, because that’s all Wade was supposed to be good for.

Peter’s chest twists and, reluctantly, he forces himself to pry his body out of Wade’s arms. Wade slumps and collapses onto his stomach, dead to the world; and despite himself, Peter smiles. Peter grabs his suit and underwear, pulling everything back on, trying to ignore that every cell in his body would rather be otherwise, with Wade, and no one else.

Opening the window, Peter lets himself look at Wade one last time before slipping out.

*

It doesn’t take too long for the self-hatred to settle in his bones. It’s not when Peter is scaling down the city at six in the morning, or after he’d watched Wade come all over himself, or even a week later when Peter’s fighting bad guys and Wade shows up out of nowhere and decides to help. Maybe the self-hatred’s always been there, waiting to prey on Peter with the guilt that, yeah, he has a stupid fucking crush on some guy who’s not a friend, who fucks around and isn’t even a good person.

He has standards, Peter reminds himself as Wade sheathes his swords and inspects himself for blood. Standards that don’t include a murderer.

Peter asks, “You’re alright, right?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Wade says, wiping what might be an imaginary or real spot of blood on his arm – it’s hard to tell with the red suit. “One fucker tried to stab me – can you believe it? I’ve been in this city for years and there’s still people who think they can scare me with their little knives.”

“It’s not that smart,” Peter agrees, rolling up the bottom of his mask to wipe at his sweaty mouth. Wade’s eyes linger on him.

“Still wanna know who you are, Spidey,” Wade says, stepping close, reaching out and just barely cupping Peter’s chin with his hand. “I won’t tell another soul. I promise.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Do you really think I believe that?” he says, because a crush won’t kill his common sense. His skin tingles where Wade’s touching him, and he closes his eyes – just for second, to stay in this moment, the curve of Wade’s hand, Peter’s jaw.

“I don’t expect you to, no,” Wade says, thumbing down to where Peter’s pulse is.

Peter yanks himself back, tugging his mask back down. Wade’s not doing anything, but it feels like he’s trying – and it’s working, the way Peter’s gut runs hot as he opens his mouth without thinking. “Wanna come back to mine?” he asks, because fuck it.

Wade’s eyes widen and he claps in glee. “Does that mean you will tell me who you are?” he asks.

“No, I have an apartment under an alias,” Peter says, turning around and firing a web shooter up a building. “It’s not far from here.”

Wade inclines his head. “Do you really expect me to climb all the way up there? Because if you didn’t notice, I don’t have magical spiderwebs coming from my wrists like you do.”

“Don’t whine,” Peter says, and wraps an arm around Wade’s waist. Wade giggles like a thirteen-year old girl. “C’mon, I’ll take you up.”

“Oh, thank you Spider-man,” Wade says in a high-pitched voice.

Peter leads them to his apartment, which is probably as small as Wade’s – Peter had picked it for its discretion – though at least definitely cleaner. Wade whistles and says, “So this is what it’s like inside the spider’s den.” Peter ignores him and goes to grab an antiseptic.

When he comes back, he offers it to Wade, who goes, “Nah, I’ll just wait for them to heal on their own. Magical regenerating blood cells and all that.”

“If you say so,” Peter says, setting the tube on the table.

Wade finishes poking around Peter’s apartment – or, not Peter’s, but Shel’s – and sighs. “So,” he says. “How are we gonna pass the time here?”

There’s a grin in his voice, and Peter says, “I have no idea. What do you want to do?”

“Don’t play coy, Spides,” Wade says, before yanking Peter in by the wrist, unraveling the bottom of his mask up to his nose. “Unlike you, I like to kiss before we fuck.”

“Is that what we’re doing?” Peter says wryly, as Wade gets his own mask off.

Wade blows him in the middle of the living room, says he wants to be inside Peter, and Peter gives him a bottle of lube that Wade opens up eagerly, lathers all over his fingers. And it’s not what Peter expected, but then Wade’s mouth is on his cock again and his fingers are tracing over his entrance, prodding inside and so fucking hot that Peter bucks into Wade’s mouth. Peter gasps; Wade eats him like Peter’s his favorite food, slobbering over his scarred lips; and when he’s done, Peter yanks Wade back up and kisses him, tasting his own come on Wade’s mouth.

“Yeah, baby,” Wade moans, as Peter licks himself off Wade’s tongue. “Okay, shit, let me – ”

“I’ll do it,” Peter says, because he wants this, wants to make Wade feel good. There’s no denying it now, as he undoes Wade’s suit, shoves his hand around Wade’s cock, because Wade’s not wearing underwear and that’s really fucking hot. Peter jerks him and Wade goes, “Oh, oh,” and then, “fuck,” spurting all over Peter’s hand. Wade presses his forehead into Peter’s shoulder as he comes down; Peter strokes him down, no other feeling in the world.

Wade chuckles and says, “You sure know how to make a guy feel good,” pulling back from Peter’s body and getting himself cleaned up.

“I’ve had practice,” Peter tells him, wiping his hand on Wade’s suit on the ground. Wade can put up with it.

Wade jokes, “There are other heroes you get off with?”

“Did you just refer to yourself as a hero?” Peter snorts. “And, no – but with the number of times we’ve done this – ”

“Yeah, that makes us something,” Wade says thoughtlessly, examining his dick, the scars that are starting to heal on his arms. “Hey, mind if I borrow a towel?”

Peter would say no, he wouldn’t mind, except his head is stuck on Wade’s words. That they are something – and Peter wouldn’t think so, because the way Wade behaves has always given Peter the impression that he’s well, a slut. Even if they’ve only been fucking each other and no one else, Wade’s not supposed to think that they’re something more – just like how Peter isn’t supposed to feel that he wants it.

He clears his throat and says, “Yeah, yeah, sure.” He’s a little dizzy with Wade’s words, body on autopilot as he grabs a towel from the bathroom, wets it, and hands it back out to Wade.

“Thanks,” Wade says, wiping at a bloodstain. “Gotta keep my body pretty, you know?”

Peter goes to the kitchen, determined to distract himself from his swirling thoughts, the sharp tug of want when he looks at Wade, when he’s in proximity. “Want something to eat?” he asks, looking around the counters. There’s not a lot; sometimes he keeps this kitchen stocked, but Peter really only comes here to get himself cleaned up, so he finds nothing but a loaf of bread in the refrigerator.

Wade stretches his arms behind his head and says, “I’m feeling Mexican.”

“You’re always feeling Mexican,” Peter says, trying to keep the fondness out of his voice. He closes his refrigerator door. “I guess we can order something out.”

“Treating me to a good time then a good meal,” Wade chuckles. “I like the way you flipped this. Usually it’s the other way around.”

Peter doesn’t acknowledge the comment, though his mind is going, is this a date? It doesn’t feel like one when they’re in this apartment, Peter’s mask still on as he grabs a piece of bread and, with his mask up to his nose again, munches on it as Wade calls a Mexican restaurant. Wade asks for the address, and Peter hesitates before deciding that it won’t do any harm for Wade to know.

Wade’s food comes soon enough, and he acquits Peter’s couch to turn the TV on. “I don’t recall inviting you to stay over and watch TV,” Peter says, pretending that he wants nothing more than to join Wade on the couch as fast as he can. He goes over slowly, pacing himself as Wade gives him a look. Peter can tell under his mask.

“Whatever happened to mi casa is su casa?” Wade says.

“I don’t recall saying that to you.”

“Well, there is a possibility that I imagined it,” Wade says loftily. “Or I’d hoped you said it. C’mon, Spides, let’s watch some good old after-sex TV. That shouldn’t kill the mood.”

He’s flipped the channel to the news, where they’re reporting on the bad guys Peter and Wade had defeated earlier. Peter snorts and says, “Definitely not,” before joining him, telling himself it’s reluctant when he knows it’s not.

Wade changes the channel again, and then actually gets an arm over Peter’s shoulders, around the back of the couch, lounging against him. “So tell me what’s exciting in the world of Spider-man,” he says, as if they’re not two genetically mutated persons watching a family sitcom. “What do you do other than defeating bad guys and giving me orgasms?”

Peter shoots him a dirty look even though he knows Wade can’t see it. It’s hopeless – he barely means it. “Is this you trying to figure out who I am again?”

“Maybe,” Wade says. “I’m looking up who owns this place, by the way, when I get home. You can’t keep any secrets from me.”

“Sure,” Peter says, knowing that his alias won’t give any part of himself away. He thinks of Parker Industries, of his supposed normal fucking life. “I work an office job,” he says to Wade, because it’s not technically untrue.

Wade groans. “Bo-ring.”

“I don’t know what you expected,” Peter says, amused. “Did you think you were having sex with someone interesting?”

“You’re an interesting office guy, if that’s what it takes.” Wade cuffs him at the side of his head. “But – seriously though?”

“Seriously,” Peter says, grinning beneath his mask.

Wade sighs and rubs a hand across his jaw, mutters, “Office job.” Peter watches the sitcom with him, trying not to let his mind wander too far, in another world where things aren’t as fucked up, where Wade knows who he is, where they don’t have to fuck and not talk about it afterwards.

*

Peter wakes up to a knocking at his door. It’s strange, since no one knows he lives here. He gets up from his bed quietly, pulls his mask on, steps over to the door, and presses his back against it. He peeks an eye through the peephole.

“Hey.” Wade’s on the other side, arm dangling dangerously from his shoulder, suit torn up with deep wounds bleeding out, the corner of his mouth visible beneath the mask. He’s holding his torn arm in place with his other hand, pressing it against his side so it doesn’t fall off, and saying, “Having a good night?”

“Jesus,” Peter mutters, quickly opening the door and helping Wade in. “What the fuck – what happened to you?”

“Got into a fight downtown. Nasty, nasty dude. Chainsaws and shit.” Wade limps into Peter’s apartment, getting blood everywhere. Peter’s not even paying it any mind, going right to his bathroom to get his first aid kit. “Spidey – Spides, where are you going?”

“You look like shit, man,” Peter says, coming back out into the living room where Wade heaves himself down onto Peter’s couch. “You need to get fixed up.”

“Nah.” Wade lifts his nearly-chopped arm and bats a hand from where he’s lying down. “It’ll be all fine, man. Regenerating cells, you know?”

“It’s gotta hurt,” Peter says, looking up at him. He supposes he doesn’t look the most persuasive when he’s wearing a hoodie and jeans with his mask on, and Wade squints at what he’s wearing.

“ESU? What’s that stand for?” he says. “Your elementary school?”

“College,” Peter mutters, cocking his head and trying to assess Wade’s wounds.

“College? Wow, we got a real educated kid here.” Wade laughs. “Man, I wish I went to college. What’d you do, study spiders?”

“Biophysics.” Peter gets on his knees, takes the disinfectant, and presses at the skin around Wade’s wounds lightly. Wade hisses.

“Careful,” he says. “It still fucking hurts.”

“I bet,” Peter says. He grabs the bottle of vodka from the first aid kid, and passes it over to Wade. “Here, drink this. It’s gonna hurt.”

“You really don’t need to do this,” Wade insists, flopping his half-attached arm again. “I’m fine, Spides, it’s gonna be all right. Gimme like, five days, and I’ll be back to normal.”

“You could get your wounds disinfected,” Peter says, and nudges the vodka closer to Wade’s lips. “Drink. I’m going to fix you up.”

“Pretty sure that’s a kinky thing. Like, a nurse thing.” Regardless, Wade does as he’s told and, lifting the bottom of his mask, brings the vodka bottle to his lips. “Ugh, that shit’s strong. Is this cheap vodka? Spidey, are you giving me broke ass alcohol?”

Peter ignores him and sprays the disinfectant on the wound by Wade’s stomach. He sees Wade wince, but otherwise do nothing as Peter takes a cloth and dabs at him carefully, trying not to smear or press too hard on the blood. There’s another wound on Wade’s thigh that Peter gets at, towel coming back bloody after he dabs the disinfectant in. The next wound is on the inside of Wade’s thigh.

“Hey, hey,” Wade says, as Peter begins dabbing the cloth there. “At least take me out to dinner first.”

Peter rolls his eyes, and takes care of the wounds up Wade’s torso and arms. The cuts on his skin are sliced open, deep, really looking like someone tried to shred him limb from limb. Peter ignores the pounding in his chest, in his ears as he touches Wade. His face and ears are hot under his mask, and he wipes at his forehead before remembering that he can’t really reach it like this.

There’s a sewing kit in his first aid, but Peter tackles the issue of Wade’s near-dismembered arm at first. It’s hanging onto him so precariously, and Peter asks, “If your arm broke off, would it regenerate fully?”

“Yup,” Wade says. “That’d take like, two weeks though. When it tries to heal while it’s still attached, it’s way faster.” He pats the bloody, unattached part of his arm. Bone is peeking out, and Peter resists the urge to retch. “She’s getting there. My right arm’s a girl.”

“Right,” Peter says, and sighs. “I don’t know if disinfecting it will do much, since it might just get infected again. But your body will probably heal the bacteria anyway–”

“I really only need a place to chill out and like, hang for five days,” Wade tells him, grabbing the remote from the table next to the couch and flicking the TV on. “I’m fine, man, seriously.”

And he probably is, but he’s also bleeding all over Peter’s couch, and maybe Peter wants a little bit of an excuse to tend to him more. To touch him. His heart feels so hot like it’ll burst through his chest, and he says, “No, you’re seriously fucked up and I’m going to do something about it.” Then, glancing at the sewing kit in his first aid kit, “Drink some more vodka.”

“Ugh,” Wade sighs, but does as he’s told.

Peter adjusts himself onto his feet so he’s hovering over Wade at a better angle. He’s got the needle and thread in his fingers, and, carefully, begins to work on the largest gash on Wade, where his suit is torn by the rib. He can see a bit of bone, and takes a deep breath and tries not to think about it. Delicately, he sews at the skin as Wade hisses; Peter grabs the vodka from his hand because the gash is tearing larger the more Wade strains, and Peter pours a little bit of the alcohol on him.

Wade lets out a shout, kicking sharply into the air. “Calm down,” Peter murmurs. “Sorry, I just – don’t have enough hands to reach for the disinfectant.” He’d put it back in the kit.

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” Wade babbles, as Peter hands the vodka back. Wade takes a large swig, throwing his head back. “Just warn a guy, will you?”

Peter holds his breath at the smell of all the open blood as he sews up Wade’s cuts. Wade is whining on his couch, and Peter finds himself muttering, “Shh, shh, it’s okay,” even though Wade is a grown man and, like, older than him. He is the one lying on Peter’s couch, though, and as Peter sews up stitches at a wound on his arm, Wade says, “You’re putting me through hell, Spides, just let a guy heal on his own, won’t you?”

“This’ll be a lot faster,” Peter says, because he knows it will be. “A day instead of three.”

“I don’t care about two extra days living on your couch,” Wade says. “What, want me gone so soon?”

Peter meets his eyes – even though he can’t be sure, since they’re both wearing their masks – but Peter feels his cheeks heat up as he goes, “Not really.” He’s done the rest of Wade’s wounds, aside from the arm, and considers sewing it back up – practically, it won’t do much except make sure it stays in place, but it’ll be faster on the healing front, forcing Wade’s bones and nerves to work together so close again.

“Well, I can watch a lot of TV while I’m here,” Wade says, and kicks back. “Sitcoms are my jam, you know? Wait, no – Spanish soap operas. You got any good channels for those here? Nah, I’ll figure it out. I’ve got time.”

“I’m surprised you remember where I live,” Peter says, sewing up Wade’s arm.

“‘Course I do. Shel Silverstein’s apartment, right? Yeah, I looked this address up,” Wade says. “What’s up, Shel?”

“You know that’s not my real name,” says Peter.

“I know,” Wade says cheerfully. “Or is it? Nah, you don’t sound like a Shel to me? You know when you can tell what names suit people based on their voice? Yeah, you’re not a Shel.”

“You’re drunk,” Peter says. He sticks his tongue between his teeth, trying to avoid Wade’s ligaments as he patches the skin back together. He’s halfway done Wade’s arm, dabbing at the blood every once in awhile.

Wade snorts. “Nah. Can’t get drunk. It’s all me.”

“That is unsurprisingly easy to believe.”

Peter gets at the rest of Wade’s arm as Wade watches whatever’s on TV, both of them ignoring the squelching every once in awhile. Wade goes, “You know what? I think this arm’s numb. I can’t feel shit anymore, I can’t feel–fuck,” he groans, when Peter moves his arm slightly so it’s less likely to dangle off the couch. “Never mind, it’s still hurts like a motherfucker.”

Grabbing the gauze from his kit, Peter slips off the bottom of his mask and, after unrolling, tears off a long piece with his teeth. Wade says, “You’re sexy when you do that.”

Peter continues ignoring him, getting the gauze around the stitches on Wade’s hand, up his left arm and on his right thigh. He ties them tight – “Ow, fuck,” Wade complains – before sitting back on his feet, observing his handiwork. Wade still looks like shit on his couch, but at least he’s patched up, or as much as Peter can feign him into looking, smears of blood where his suit has torn.

“Do you make your own suit?” Peter asks, after a moment.

Wade shifts himself on the couch into a more comfortable position. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re not the only one good with needle and thread. I got sewing skills.”

“Right.” Peter stands up, ignoring how much he already misses touching Wade, trying to keep himself separate from it. He’ll let himself take care of Wade, but a step further is clinging, and Peter won’t do that.

He steps into his kitchen and calls, “Do you want anything to drink?”

“OJ!” Wade calls. “If you’ve got any. Also, do you have any cheese? Like the ones that come in the little circles?”

“Um,” Peter says, opening his refrigerator. He does have a carton of orange juice, but that’s the only thing in the fridge. “No.”

“Oh well,” says Wade’s voice, as Peter pours him a drink. “I’ll drink the OJ by itself. It’s fine.”

Peter comes back out, and Wade tilts his head back and asks, “So how are we gonna have sex if I’m like this?”

Peter nearly drops the glass in his hands, only barely catching himself. “We can’t have sex,” is the first thing he says, even though every muscle in his body wants to. But he can’t – Wade’s arm is barely attached to him. “You’re wounded.”

“I’ll be good to go for this evening,” Wade says. “I don’t even both of my hands. We can just pretend that there’s nothing wrong with this arm, that’s all.” He pokes his near-dead right arm.

Peter shakes his head. The tug of want in his chest is calling him a fucking idiot, but he says, “I’m not having sex with you until you’re back to normal.”

“Back to normal.” Wade snorts. “Am I ever normal? And my dick is still working, you know. There’s a lot of things we can do with a working dick and a working mouth.”

“Apparently,” Peter says, putting the glass of orange juice into Wade’s left hand.

Wade still has the bottom of his mask up, so he sips easily. “Or we can cuddle,” he says to Peter, grinning. “I know you like that.”

“You need to rest,” Peter tries.

“I can rest and cuddle you! Multitasking,” Wade says. Pushing his other arm back where he’s already leaning on his left side, he moves further into the back of Peter’s couch and pats the small amount of space in front of him with his right hand. “C’mon, cuddling. Don’t tell me you don’t feel like it.”

Peter sighs, but knows he’s already giving in – still in his old college hoodie and jeans, he curls up onto the couch in front of Wade, nearly falling off with the way Wade can only wrap his right arm over his shoulder. Peter tucks in, facing Wade, the top of his head resting against Wade’s cheek.

Wade says, “That’s better, isn’t it?”

“This is really fucking uncomfortable,” Peter says, even though it isn’t. Wade smells like blood, but Peter has smelled worse, and it’s faint under his mask and under all the gauze anyway. He curls his head into Wade’s neck. Wade presses a kiss to Peter’s temple.

“Thanks, Spidey,” he says, in a low voice. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Peter’s heart pulses. He leans up, slides his mask up again, kisses Wade sweetly. He hopes he gets all the feeling across in one gesture – Wade’s the idiot who fought some guy with a shitload of chainsaws, but Peter’s the idiot who fell for him.

Wade breaks apart and says, “Didn’t know you could kiss like that.” He grins when he sees the smile spread across Peter’s face, bare and unmasked.