Work Text:
Peter wakes up with Wade in his arms, and he thinks for a second he's still dreaming.
It takes a moment for the whirlwind of the night before to start coming back to him: the heat of battle, the slip of the tongue, the funny look Wade gave him for just a moment too long, the beating around the bush trying to save face and then nearly clawing each other open in the alley. The dull ache in his thighs serves as a sweet souvenir, a gentle reminder from a night that was anything but.
He fidgets and stretches and shifts his weight, because he is deeply unaccustomed to having a bedfellow, and Wade springs to life and flips like a pancake to face him. His murmur is low enough that Peter feels it in his chest more than he hears it.
"Please tell me we're gonna do this again."
Peter's an idiot for brown eyes. He gets sucked right into them and can't get out. Like mud. …That's not romantic. He doesn't care. He's too busy getting stuck in mud puddles. All Wade has to do is sit halfway up in that draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls way and Peter subconsciously starts to roll flat on his back again like he's been knocked dead.
He smiles up at him sleepily and crinkles his nose. “Well, not right now. I just woke up."
The light of mischief shines behind Wade's eyes. "Can I kiss you good morning?"
"Only if I can kiss you back."
"You drive a hard bargain." He leans over Peter and wriggles closer like the weird little earthworm he is. "I'll have my people get a hold of your people."
"You are my people," says Peter, surprised to hear it out of his own mouth, even more surprised to realize he means it.
Wade hums. It tickles Peter’s nose. "I guess you better get a hold of me, then."
Touch is a complicated thing for Peter. There's some faint concept in his pea-sized spider-brain of whether things feel pleasant or not, but his nervous system runs on an attention economy. It’s a matter of volume over quality. Sometimes, like last night, he's so hungry for contact that ‘bad touch’ is an oxymoron and all he wants is more more more, so he turns a partner up to eleven and lets himself get dragged light-years past his comfort zone. Other times, it's the polar opposite, and even the brush of a soft blanket on his skin feels punishing, so he wears the Spidey-suit around the apartment so nothing can possibly touch him.
It just depends.
There's something really comforting about being cuddled up with Wade, though. It's nearly identical to the feeling of being left alone with a good book, back when he was young enough he could read. And yeah, it's a little much first thing in the morning, like a guilty-pleasure song that's playing too loud for him to hear himself think, but if Wade fucking Wilson wants to kiss him good morning, far be it from Peter to–
He winces.
Wade starts to weave his hand into Peter's matted bedhead, and for some ungodly reason, that’s a four-alarm fire. It’s such a stupid thing to set him off. It’s literally nothing. He can’t imagine what kind of emergency his body thinks is happening where the correct response would be tensing up like this and cutting off his air supply.
Wade frowns like Peter’s a locked door and he just tried the wrong key. "You okay, pumpkin?"
Peter lets the name pumpkin rattle around his skull for a while. Pet names hit different when Wade means them. Like, really different.
"Of course. Yeah. Super okay. Never okayer.”
Wade shuts his eyes and grimaces. “You know, Petey, contrary to popular belief, there actually are some things I can’t heal from, so if you’ve got a Band-Aid to rip, I suggest you–”
"No, no, no!" Peter cuts him off as soon as it hits him what Wade's insinuating. "It’s not you! It’s me."
Wade huffs and collapses back down onto his pillow, with his hands behind his head and his scarred-over elbows pointed up in the air. Yeah, on second thought, Peter can see how that language could’ve been misleading.
“I mean it. Like, whatever’s happening here, it’s happening. It’s not not happening. If you want me, you’ve got me. I'm yours."
That cracks Wade out from his cocoon of self-pity. He’s still the same old caterpillar when he looks Peter in the eye again, but damn it all if Spider-Man doesn’t have a soft spot for creepy-crawlies. The only way a butterfly could make him feel this giddy is if it's one in his stomach.
"Really?” asks Wade.
“Yes,” laughs Peter. It blows his mind, how Wade’s still hesitating to even believe what Peter thought was an incredibly obvious, doki-doki, great-big-heart-eyes, tripping-over-his-own-webs crush. "It's just, uh… Super senses make you super sensitive, you know?"
Wade takes a second to ponder that. Peter can’t blame him. It’s a shockingly hard thing for people to wrap their heads around.
"Well." He shoots straight up out of bed. It's kind of impressive how easily he lands on his feet. "As much as I recognize the need to respect your boundaries, I also recognize that I have zero self-control, and that might have been the actual hottest thing anyone's ever said to me, so I’m gonna go make breakfast. Do. You. Have. Any. Dietary restrictions?”
He punctuates all the little words and then slams the last seven syllables into each other like a traffic jam.
“I'll be alright," says Peter, just like he says every time. The answer’s yes, of course, because sleeping with Wade represented the first time anyone in the Parker line had ever caught a break, but he’ll starve in the time it takes to explain the texture issues, the honeydew thing, and the entire concept of kosher.
Wade glares. Even his eyes are deadly weapons.
“Seriously. Make what you make, I’ll eat what I eat.”
“How about I just don’t make you anything? I’ll go out there, make myself a nice stack of pancakes, come back, eat it in front of you.”
Peter knows he can’t say it, he knows Wade’ll never believe him, but the way Wade gesticulates as he talks, the way his body moves as he starts to fall into his Deadpool-isms, he’s actually beautiful. Legitimately one of the seven wonders. Peter could watch him like this all day.
“You get no breakfast. None. Not even the last bit of maple syrup off my lips. And I'm talking the real stuff. I don’t fuck around with that caramel-colored lube you Yanks drink out' the bottle.”
“Pancakes are fine,” sighs Peter, almost loopy from listening to Wade go off on him. “If you make bacon, make it second.”
“Do you want bacon?”
“I do not."
“Well, there you go.” Wade wanders out of the bedroom (the bedroom he brought Peter into, the one where they slept together, holy shit) and into the kitchen. “Good golly, Miss Molly. It’s like pulling teeth trying to do right by you. I’m surprised you didn’t just let me fuckin’ poison ya.”
By the time Wade’s out of his line of sight, Peter’s smiling so hard it hurts. Until yesterday, he’d have said this whole Deadpool thing was a stupid little crush that he’d have no trouble getting over. It’d have been a lie, but he’d at least have been able to tell it. Maybe even convincingly. That ship’s sailed so far from shore it’s dipped past the horizon line.
If he wasn’t smitten before, he is now.
He gives the side of his neck a soft squeeze. There has to be a hickey there, judging from the half-dozen more spots he can plainly see further down his body, as bright and red and shamelessly obscene as the merc with the mouth responsible.
Deadpool. Responsible. That was a novel thought.
He'll have a hell of a time trying to hide his neck at work. He could see himself becoming a scarf person if it means more nights like this. Turtlenecks probably look great on him. Maybe he'll just wear the Spidey suit to his day job. What does he really need a secret identity for, anyway?
His hand falls down from his cheek and runs over his opposite arm. He doesn’t even realize how stressed he is, a lot of the time, until he lets it go, lets himself breathe, with a soft, predictable, not-too-much touch. He doesn’t do it consciously, it’s more like his body takes over and soothes itself on its own behalf. That’s what it is, soothing. It’s comforting. It calms him.
Wade starts whistling out in the kitchen, and Peter has no idea what it is, but he’s so damn certain it’s clever and thematically apt that he giggles at it all the same. His fingers settle on his ribcage just above the comforter, bending and straightening just enough for him to feel it.
“What are you whistling out there?” he shouts. He can’t leave Wade alone for one minute of his life. He has to tap on the display glass and get his grubby fingerprints all over it.
He can hear Wade's smile in his singing voice. “Little darling… it’s been a long, cold, lonely winter…”
“You whistle better than you sing,” teases Peter, with the one-percent of him that can talk, while the other ninety-nine is fully occupied thinking about being Wade’s little darling.
“Yeah, Yellow says the same thing," says Wade, not at all sounding offended. "It's a consequence of being brought up in a visual medium.”
Peter grins, one of those idiotic, tongue-between-his-teeth grins that he only gets around Wade. He leans back in something close to bliss and sinks his head into the pillows behind him.
He doesn’t mean to start touching himself, exactly, when his hand slips underneath the comforter, but he's so relieved when he does that a sigh moves through his whole body. His hand moves lightly, lazily, taking advantage of how thoroughly Wade lubed him up the previous night… god, if he thinks too hard about the previous night, he’ll end up busting into Wade’s sheets.
Again, his mind helpfully supplies, as his fingers find a familiar way of rolling over his skin.
The bed cradles his aching body, in these stupidly soft sheets with a thread count too high for mortal minds to comprehend. It smells like Wade. The whole apartment does. Like guns and leather and anything that burns.
Wade likes him. Wade wants him. Wade’s in the other room making him breakfast.
Was in the other room, Peter realizes, on something of an inconvenient delay. Wade is stopped dead in the doorway, with his mouth hanging half-open to match Peter’s.
"Sorry,” says Wade as a reflex, with his goofy Canadian accent shining through, with a bulge standing out beneath the words KISS THE COOK on the apron he’s passing off as a full outfit.
If it was anyone else in the world, Peter would be mortified, but it’s not. It’s Wade. And all he can feel with Wade looking at him like that is fucking amazing.
He takes a deep breath, enough to at least act like he’s on a cloud other than nine, and lifts the guilty hand back up above the sheets with a lazy, half-hearted smile. "Hey."
“I’m gonna be totally honest, I have no idea what I came back to talk to you about."
“That’s alright, you can, uh…” Peter takes a second and thinks about what he means to say. “...Stay, if you want.”
Wade grabs onto the door frame hard enough to break through the drywall. “Do you want?"
“Yeah, I, uh. I want."
Wade pumps his fist triumphantly, because he's the dorkiest wall of muscles Peter's ever had the pleasure of knowing (carnally or otherwise).
“Gentle, okay?" Peter reminds him as he's crawling back into the blankets.
“Thought you were Jewish,” replies Wade, quickly enough that Peter actually thinks it’s funny.
Peter takes Wade’s hand – rough, scarred, Wade to the core – and pulls it down under the covers.
Wade cradles Peter’s face in his other hand so softly that it wouldn’t hurt a fly. "You just tell me what you want, baby boy, I'm–"
Peter cuts him off with a kiss, pulling his lips closed slowly around Wade's. The room is quiet enough that the smacking sound when he pulls away seems to fill the space.
"You like that?" It's not the first time Wade's asked him that since the last time they saw the sun, but it's the first time he's asking at eye-level, and it's a different question now. "The baby boy thing?"
"Fuck, I like anything you call me if you say it like that."
Peter reaches up underneath the ridiculous apron and gets his hand around Wade's cock. He laughs at himself, because he had the same dumb fucking thought he had the night before.
"Always the reaction you want," says Wade dryly, being stupid and brilliant at the same time.
"That's twice now I thought I missed," Peter explains, hoping the low morning light makes him look less flushed than he feels. "Thought I grabbed your leg or something. I'm fucking Spider-Man. Do you know when the last time I missed something was?"
"Evidently, it was when I went out to the kitchen to make you breakfast."
Peter buries his face in Wade's neck and cozies up close enough he can hear Wade's heartbeat hammering, the same as he feels it in Wade's cock in his hand. It takes over his mind. The clock of the universe synchronizes to Wade's pulse, and Peter's hips start to rock along with it. "Yeah, uh, how's that coming along?"
"I put on a pot of coffee and rubbed one out in the bathroom. Not in that order."
" 'Course you fucking did," Peter moans, or sighs, or laughs or something, he doesn't even know, he's so goddamn delirious it all sounds the same. He'd forget where he was if it wasn't Wade's bed.
"You're so beautiful, Petey-pie."
"You are."
The words come out of his mouth before he can stop them, brutally honest and unfiltered, and he thinks for a second Wade's going to get all in his head about it, or make some extraordinarily Deadpool joke to deflect it.
He doesn't.
"Goddammit," he groans in a low voice, leaning his head against Peter's. "You actually believe that, don't you, Webs?"
Peter nods into Wade's shoulder, too far out to speak, and a ragged breath comes out, halfway to a sob. It's heavy, all of this, the touch, the pulse, the conflicting breaths and jerks, the pressure behind his eyes that feels like he could cry any second.
"Wade, fuck, I–"
"Stop?"
"Go," Peter gasps out. He needs the release, needs it now, needs it fucking fifteen seconds ago.
And Wade is just perfect about it, kissing him like he's afraid he'll break him while his hand pumps hard enough Peter thinks he actually might. He sees stars when the jolt of pleasure shoots through him, making him curl even closer to Wade, pressing his whole, breathless, shaking weight against him.
And then it all stops, it all goes quiet again, and that's its own kind of relief.
"You're gonna need water," says Wade, blessedly breaking off contact with Peter's astoundingly overstimulated body as he heads back out to the kitchen.
"Hey, please actually come back with water, would ya?"
"I'm not leaving you in the desert, sweet-cheeks, you know I've got your back more than I've got my own."
Wade comes back and hands Peter a glass, which he takes eagerly and drinks down in one gulp.
"I've hit my limits here, but–"
"No shit," interrupts Wade, and that makes Peter smile like an idiot all over again.
"–but I won't fault you if you take a couple extra minutes on the pancakes," Peter finishes.
"You are… the perfect man," mutters Wade incredulously. Peter's eyes stay glued to his bare ass as he leaves the room once more. "It's like Jack Kirby sat down one day and said, Deadpools can have a little salami as a treat."
"It's a big salami."
"Am I even awake right now?"