Rescue

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/49290160.

Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Deadpool - All Media Types
Relationship: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Character: Peter Parker, Wade Wilson, Mary Jane Watson, Jack Hammer |
Weasel, Peter Parker's Guilt
Additional Tags: Size Difference, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Needs
Therapy, Not Canon Compliant, Wade Wilson Takes Care of Peter
Parker, Bottom Peter Parker/Top Wade Wilson, Eventual Sex,
Spanking, Wade Wilson Has A Big Dick
Language: English
Collections: Anonymous
Stats: Published: 2023-08-12 Completed: 2023-09-05 Words: 7,140 Chapters:
3/3

Rescue
by Anonymous

Summary

Spider-man can't save everyone, and some failures are harder to take than others. It's the
worst when it's children. The guilt doesn't go away, but alcohol helps it hide, so Peter dives
into a dive bar to drown himself in liquor.

Enter one Wade Wilson:

- pro cheerer up of pretty men (not true)
- expert in coping with self-loathing (still not true)
- guy who will finally take good care of Peter (please be true)

Notes

I haven't written anything in several years, haven't posted on AO3 before, and I'm far from
an expert in Spider-man and Deadpool (seen all the movies, read several Spider-man
comics, and am currently trying to get up to speed on Deadpool comics) but here we are.
I'm smashing canon around, doing my best not to drag it out too much, and trying to keep
them in character but honestly I don't think I succeeded. Mostly just wanted to write
*something* while I had the motivation and thought I'd post it.

I expect to have three chapters total, probably posting one per week. I don't think I've done a
great job, and I don't think the rest will be any better, but I hope anyone reading finds
something to enjoy!
 Meet Me at Margaret's

“You can’t be responsible for everyone in the entire city, Peter,” MJ sighed, setting a fresh mug of
coffee in front of him.

“Haven’t you heard yet? It’s like my whole thing,” Peter quipped without energy. He downed the
entire mug in one go, burning his tongue, and this was why Mary Jane had brought the whole
carafe with her. She topped him up again before putting it away and nursing her own mug.

“But we’ve been over this. It feels like every few months, you go through another crisis about guilt
and responsibility and then something happens, something to remind you that you’re only human
and you need to give yourself a break, and it seems like you get it but you don’t because here we
are again. This wasn’t your fault, Peter…”

“I should have seen her earlier,” he bit out, pulling back from the sympathetic hand MJ extended.

“You didn’t know.”

“I should have!”

Following the loud crack was silence that swallowed the condo and lasted for a few seconds before
the slow drip of coffee hitting the floor broke it. MJ stood up sharply and began collecting the
shards of broken ceramic.

“MJ, I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know, tiger."

“My grip just—”

“I said I know.”

He really just couldn’t stop fucking up, could he? Peter grabbed a towel and got to work blotting
up the spilled coffee, grimacing at the stain on the carpet.

“Should I grab vinegar…?” he sheepishly offered. MJ gave him a weird look, and he shrugged.
“Works for blood, might work for coffee.”

When they finished cleaning up, Peter slumped back on the floor, rag beside him and acrid smell
hanging in the air. MJ sat beside him, posture impeccable. This time, he didn’t shy away from the
comforting warmth of her hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe you should try therapy,” she suggested quietly. “I bet some of the other supers do that.
You could ask around, find someone discreet.”

“And free?” Peter groused, one hand running through his mop of brown hair. MJ shrugged.

“For a hero? I hope.”

“Look, I’m sorry about your mug,” he sighed, dragging himself to his feet. “I gotta go. Thanks for
letting me crash here last night.”

“Anytime,” MJ sighed, watching him leave.

For the rest of the day, as Peter worked his odd jobs, bouncing from one task to the next with no
time (or money) for food breaks, he was stalked by his terrible night. By the little girl he found
who should’ve been at home, inside, warm. By the stiff chill of her shoulder when he tried to shake
it. Not every emergency was loud. Flashy. Spider-Man was drawn out so easily by flashing lights
and sirens and guns and screams but some emergencies were just… quiet. And he was supposed to
be there for everyone.

Except he never had been. Not for Uncle Ben, not for Gwen, not for Harry, not for countless other
friends and strangers, people who needed him. He talked a big game about helping the average
Joes of the world, handling the more minor stuff that Avengers couldn’t be bothered with, about
everyone mattering, about responsibility. He was a hypocrite.

MJ and Aunt May tried to convince him that it wasn’t his fault when these things happened, but
how many times had he swung past that girl and not seen her? How many times might she have
called out to him and he just didn’t notice? It wasn’t right to say that he was only human. He was
super. And when he slacked, people died. He needed to do better—to be better.

By the time the sun sank below the horizon, Peter was exhausted, riddled with guilt and anger at
himself. He was freezing (not literally… not like—) and hungry and tired and the heat had been
shut off in his stupid, shitty apartment because he couldn’t pay his stupid, shitty bills, so he kicked
one stupid fucking shitty fucking can on the sidewalk and thoughtlessly dodged the incoming
punch from the pedestrian it hit and the man’s indignant shouting was so damn loud that Peter just
ran to get away from it.

When the extra noise stopped, so did Peter. But everything was still so loud. Footsteps and
breathing and someone coughing two blocks away and an old woman’s unsteady heartbeat and his
clothes rustling and everything. Everything.

He ended up in an unfamiliar neighborhood, and a run-down bar caught his eye. Sister Margaret’s
School for Wayward Children. Funny name. “It’s me,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m a
wayward children.”

Well. He was a wayward something, anyway.

Everyone knew Spider-Man didn’t drink (okay, some people knew Spider-Man didn’t drink—he
had to set some kind of example for the kiddos). He was your friendly, neighborhood teetotaler.
Heck, in costume he didn’t have caffeine. Nothing addictive. Nothing mind altering. He had to give
in on the caffeine front when he was out of costume, but he mostly stuck to the no-alcohol thing.
He’d seen what it could do to people. But, well, some nights… some nights he needed to get out of
his head a little. And Spider-Man can’t come to the phone right now. Why? Oh, because he’s… a
total fuck up.

He shot a quick text to Daredevil, begging for shift cover. Matt was good. Enough. He’d probably
be down to fill in. So no more Spider-Man, just puny Peter Parker, who no one looked up to and
who could do what he wanted, and what he wanted was to dive into this dive.

Inside, it smelled… terrible. Like cheap cigarettes and sweat and puke. The floor was even stickier
than he was. So was the bar, in fact, as he hopped onto a stool and leaned forward. The bartender
gave him a scrutinizing look but shrugged and got the whiskey Peter asked for.

“Please, just… a lot,” he had requested vaguely. “I have a high tolerance and I want to be wasted t-
b-h.”

“Sure, whatever,” the bartender had grumbled.

“Why doesn’t he get any pushback? Is this—is this pretty privilege in action?” an unfamiliar voice
whined upon hearing that. Peter eyed the man a few seats down, lingering on his… very broad
shoulders. Broad everything. Nice.

“You don’t pay your damn tab, Wade, that’s why,” the bartender snapped. “He will. You will,” he
threatened, pointing at Peter, who raised his hands.

“Pinky swear, hope to die, totally.”

“Samesies,” the stranger chirped, mood switching in a flash. Peter could just barely make out a
grin, between the shadows of the man’s hood and the awful lighting. “But you know, tough shit.”

“Tough shit,” echoed Peter, thinking of how many more people he’d fail by dying and downing his
glass in one shot. After a calculating look, the bartender refilled the glass to its brim.

Peter was ready to retreat into the booze for a while, but then he heard a loud shuffling and the
hooded man was right next to him—awesome.

“Wanna share your tragic backstory?” the man—Wade—offered, which sounded less sympathetic
than gossipy. Peter frowned and leaned away, shaking his head.

“Not really, just wanna get drunk.”

“Por qué no los dos?”

“What is your problem?” Peter snapped, shoulders hunching up a little. Wade just laughed.

“You’re new! You’re new and you’re in a bar full of uglies and baddies and you’re pretty. I’m
dazzled by your presence, that’s all.”

“I—wh—I’m not—”

“Such a pretty boy with those big doe eyes,” the man cooed, tilting his head. The light caught his
skin a little better, and that… did not look comfortable. Scars roped along every inch, some more
raised and angry than others, and Peter’s own skin itched just looked at it. Wade’s smile faltered,
as if he saw Peter’s thoughts play out on his face. “Yeah, I’m not a looker myself, but hey! Men
like me compensate in other ways.”

The wink and grin seemed forced, and Peter shriveled internally. Great. The guy really hadn’t been
that bad, and Peter Can’t-Stop-Fucking-Up Parker had to go and make him feel like shit over
something as shallow as his scars.

“I’m talking about my—"

“I get it,” Peter interrupted. “I didn’t mean to… well, sorry, is the point. Past 24 hours have been
terrible and I’m just off.”

Wade was quiet for a second, but then he pulled back.

“Gotcha. I’ll let you mope, get that terrible 24 hours out of your system.”

This time, Peter was actually watching to see Wade stand and start to walk away and God help him
that was a big guy. The height. The bulk. And he was pretty sure that was all muscle. Before he
realized what he was doing, his hand shot out and gripped Wade’s sleeve.

The man turned back, caught once more by the light with an expression that would’ve included a
raised brow if he’d had any—and that jawline. Damn.

“That is a helluva grip you got there, baby boy,” Wade drawled lightly.

“Sit,” Peter demanded, then flushed as what Wade said registered. “Please.”

“As you wish.”

When Weasel came back around to refill their glasses, he rolled his eyes at the awkward silence
hanging heavily in the air, Wade presumably unsure what a safe topic of conversation was and
Peter too unsure how to handle someone he wanted to make a decent impression on (after his
initial faux pas and grumping, anyway).

“I think the new Star Wars movies are totally superior to the originals and Disney should keep
making more,” Weasel offered dryly, giving himself a literal pat on the back as both men fired up
with protest before he walked away, not remotely interested in the discussion he’d started. It did
the trick.

Wade and Peter launched into a whirlwind of complaints, mostly agreeing angrily with each other,
occasionally getting ready to punch each other over toilet paper philosophy, until they finally
began simmering down and Wade moved on to normal complaints about his day.

He lost his favorite “sword polish” (wink) (“Gross, dude”), he tried to get takeout from his favorite
Mexican place but they were closed on Mondays and he always wanted their food the most on
Mondays (“Right?!”), a stray cat puked on his Crocs (“Good,” Peter snickered).

“Mondays,” Wade sighed dramatically. Peter’s nose scrunched up.

“You sound so corporate,” he groaned. “Mondays are not inherently evil.”

“You’re the one who said he was having a terrible day first!” Wade defended, betrayal bright in his
eyes.

“Yeah, but not because it’s Monday!” Peter protested.

“So your bad-day excuse is…?”

“Aside from working my ass off in the shitty gig economy to get my utilities back on? Well, even
before 8 a.m., I broke my best friend’s mug. Gripped too hard, shattered right in my hand. Coffee
spilled everywhere—it was full. And on her white carpet! Worst best friend of the year award goes
to…” Peter did guilty jazz hands.

“Wow, what a travesty. Why’d you do that?” Wade pushed, gentler but not fully serious. Not so
serious that Peter felt pressured. And that lack of pressure was what he needed, apparently. A
minute of silence passed, Wade waiting patiently, and then the younger man’s shoulders slumped.

“Someone’s dead because of me,” Peter admitted quietly, shame curling in his gut. “Because I’m—
irresponsible. I didn’t do my job. Or I did it, but not for… not for her.”

He waited for Wade to spit on him, to call him a monster, to walk away.

“Weird reason to break a mug. What kind of job you got that includes letting people die? I mean, I
know mine’s kinda like—but you don’t seem like the type to do what I do.”

Peter scrambled for an excuse and landed on: “Search and rescue?”
Wade ignored the uncertain tone and clapped his hands. “You’re a little hero!” he gasped.

Peter frowned, deciding to ignore the “little” part of that. (He wasn’t—he was just slim, generally!
Bulk would get in the way of all his bending and flipping and thwipping, probably. And the
average height of men in the U.S. was—he was not little.) More importantly…

“I wasn’t a hero last night, Wade. I missed someone—a kid. I let her down. And now she’s…”

“She’s dead,” Wade finished for him, tone mellowing.

“And it’s my fault. And everyone keeps saying it isn’t but it is.”

“Because that’s your job.”

“Yeah. What’s the point of me if I can’t help the people who need helping? Saying it isn’t my fault
doesn’t change that I’m the one who was there. Who should’ve been there. It just feels like…”

“A cop out.”

“Yeah.”

The hand that landed on Peter’s back and stayed there felt… good. Heavy. Understanding.

“Wait.”

“Hm?”

“What did you mean about ‘what you do,’ Wade?”

“Eh?”

“You said your job is like that—like letting people die.”

“Did I?”

“Wade—”

“I don’t think I did.”

“Tell me—”

“Have some more whiskey, pumpkin!”

It took maybe ten minutes to cool Peter off and convince him Wade was not a super villain. There
was a lot of hand-waving and justifications, but ultimately, it was the grumping of Weasel—the
bartender—about decreased business and lost income because of Wade’s recently improved morals
that did the trick. Peter may have disagreed fundamentally with Wade’s implied past actions, but
Wade wasn’t the only one with blood on his hands. There were heroes who had crossed that line
more than once, and it would take more than a lecture from a stranger in a bar to change Wade’s
mind about some of the jobs he was still taking.

They fell back on more casual conversation after that: favorite movies, best hot dog stands in New
York, worst hot dog stands in New York, most overrated and/or most likely to be the reason they’re
stuck on the toilet all night hot dog stands in New York, etc.

And finally (finally!), Peter was tipsy enough to say what was on his mind.
“You’re so big,” he blurted. Wade snorted.

“And you haven’t even seen me with my pants off.”

“Please.”

Wade paused, staring at Peter with more genuine confusion than made sense for a man who had
started the conversation with flirting. “Eh?”

Peter blushed but barreled ahead. “I like big,” he admitted. “And I thought you were interested.
Unless you’ve been joking about finding me attractive, ‘cause that’d be a little mean but I get it,
it’s okay—”

“No, I was not joking, not a joke in sight, never told a joke in my life, but Petey, pumpkin, pie,
pickled pepper, uh… you’ve been drinking a lot so maybe you forgot my ugly mug but—”

“You’re not ugly. You’re textured.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I wish I were, but I’m not. I wanna get fucked.”

“Fucked or fucked up?” the man teased nervously, disbelief coloring his tone.

“Por qué no los dos?” Peter quipped, finishing his glass in record time.
 What a Wade Wants
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Wade didn’t mean to know who Peter Parker was. He really didn’t mean to know who Spider-man
was. It wasn’t his fault the guy was so terrible at keeping secrets.

Because really. Pretending to be his own photographer? Getting snaps of events at angles no actual
random photographer could manage? Even if Parker was getting tipped off by Spider-man, it
didn’t sit right with Wade. And fine, maybe he hadn’t realized at first. Maybe he’d stalked Parker
—just a little—and noticed how unreliable he seemed to be, how he depended entirely on freelance
and gig work because sticking to an actual schedule was impossible, how much muscle was
actually packed onto that slim, familiar frame despite no apparent workout routine. And then there
was the bit of red spandex sticking out of his jacket pocket one day after waltzing away from a
bank robbery that Wade totally would’ve helped prevent if only he’d felt like it, but thank
goodness Spider-man was there to save the day. That was all he needed.

Wade liked to have fun, goof around, all that, and he was a pretty firm believer in super bro code
(especially as it applied to the glorious, self-righteous web-slinger), but he wasn’t stupid. He was
very not stupid, in fact, and when the pieces were putting themselves together right in front of him,
well…

He kept his mouth shut for months. He stopped stalking Peter Parker—in fact, he turned the other
way if he ever happened to get near the man. It was hard. Peter was a cutie, all doe eyes and
tousled hair and dorky T-shirts. Even the thin, patchy beard he tried growing once was cute, as
glad as everyone around him was when he gave it up. He wasn’t near as mouthy out of costume as
he was in it, which was a shame, but he had this charming, crooked smile that sucker-punched
Wade in the heart whenever he saw it.

Peter was also strictly off limits, because the more Wade knew about Peter, the more he knew
about Spider-Man, and that was a major violation of super bro code.

So he avoided Peter, patrolled with Spider-Man when he could, shoved as many burritos down that
boy’s throat as possible, and pretended not to know how much the hero actually relied on these
meals. Poor guy lived in a shithole and couldn’t hold down a steady, well-paying job to save his
life (lol literally), too busy dropping his regular responsibilities to save everyone else. Deadpool’s
capacity to take care of him was limited, at least if he wanted to maintain the illusion that he totally
had not accidentally unmasked New York City’s shiftiest vigilante, but at least he could feed the
guy and take a few bullets, bombs, and stabs for him.

His very honorable endeavor to keep his distance from civilian Peter Parker was upended when the
man slumped into a nearby seat at his fave bar and job acquisition base—violently appealing grin
nowhere in sight, big eyes weighed down by heavy shadows—and demanded large amounts of
alcohol.

Wade had been out on a job for the past week, so he wasn’t helping with patrol. He didn’t know
what was wrong, what happened, but he obviously wasn’t going to find out from Spider-Man
tonight. Mission Plumb Peter Parker for Pinformation and Promote Positivity (he needed
alliteration, damn it) was a go.

“Why doesn’t he get any pushback?” Wade whined.

You know the rest.

Wade had a safehouse nearby, one that wasn’t a total disaster. He still would’ve been embarrassed
at the state of it if he weren’t aware of how Peter lived. Unless Peter had cleared out the ever-
increasing science project collecting in his kitchen sink, he had no room to judge the three pairs of
dirty underwear covering Wade’s dead succulent collection or the crayon-made mural of all his
favorite heroes on the wall that thank god the younger man didn’t see anyway.

As they stumbled through the living room, Wade realized there was a problem. That problem was
his precious Peter, fingers stuck firmly to Wade’s arm, face flushed, and feet unsteady. The alcohol
was hitting harder than either of them expected it to, considering Spider-Man’s monstrous
metabolism.

Wade may not have been a good man, but he understood consent. And he understood what grief
and self-loathing and alcohol could do to a man’s decision-making.

He wasn’t a good man, but in this moment, he was a saint. He deserved the Nobel Peace Prize. He
deserved to be prime minister of all of New York. All of North America. Just all. Because Wade
willingly withdrew from his hero and biggest crush as Peter tried to cling on and go in for a kiss,
reluctantly rasping, “I don’t think we can.”

JK, it was easy in its own way. Did he wanna boink Spider-Man? Obviously. So hard. Did he
wanna do it while the spider was sloppy drunk and crying? No. (Well, sloppy yes, crying yes, but
only if that was Wade’s work. Wink.)

Okay, maybe Peter wasn’t crying, but he was looking absolutely betrayed, eyes furrowed and
calculating.

“I know—I know I’m not the most handsome guy out there but I—”

“No, baby boy, you’re the handsomest—”

“I can still make you feel good—”

“Like I actively wanna bite your ass off in a sexy way—”

“I swear I can—”

“And chew it up and swish it around and regurgitate it like a mother bird for her baby birds—”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

The cross-talk ground to a halt as Peter digested—ew—Wade’s rambling. The man in question
stared with wide, innocent eyes.

“I wasn’t talking,” he dismissed. “I was, in fact, steering you back over to the couch, where you’re
going to sit and eat something and drink and sober up, you hear me?”

Peter frowned at him, sweet ass hitting the couch cushions.

“Wade,” he chastised. “This is not how one-night stands are meant to go.”

“It is if I say it is,” the scarred man countered. “Now don’t be a brat, just sit tight while I whip
something up.”

Wade dismissed the flush that rose onto Peter’s cheeks as an effect of the alcohol, surely not an
effect of his bossy tone. Surely. He got to work whipping up some quick quesadillas, carb- and
veggie-loaded goodness, while his visitor sulked on the couch, eventually allowing Wade to
wrangle him into some blankets in between tortilla flips.

When he came waltzing over with a plate of three quesadillas and a precariously clutched glass of
water, Peter’s stomach let out a mighty growl. He hadn’t been paying much attention to what he ate
that day, so it wasn’t until this moment that he realized the answer was… almost nothing. A paltry
protein bar in the middle of the day and a banana for breakfast.

Wade knew from their rooftop encounters, of course, that Spider-Man ate like a ravenous, feral
dog. He was messy and revolting in the most appealing way. Even more so when Wade got to see
him unmasked going at the food like it’d be his last meal. He sighed, hearts in his eyes, as crumbs
went flying into the crevices of his couch, never to be seen again.

The embarrassed flush that followed as Peter realized he’d just gone wild in front of (who he
thought was) a total stranger was the cherry on top.

“Look, sweet cheeks,” Wade declared, wiping some cheese off one of those very sweet cheeks.
“You’re too drunk to give me an actual yes, and you’ve had a rough day—or days, probably,
months, years? Drink your water—and I am nothing if not a bona fide service top, so here’s how
this is gonna go. You are going to drink (water) and be merry, eat the food I will continue giving
you, and stay in your blanket burrito. Once you’re all hangover-proofed, I’m gonna massage the
metaphorical shit outta you, give you a long, hot bath, and then we’re doing mani-pedis, because
you need to be spoiled a little. And then we’re sleeping—just sleeping—and I’ll send you off in the
morning fed and hydrated and optionally caffeinated and if you still wanna bang, we can do that in
the morning too or tomorrow night. Capiche?”

Peter’s big brown eyes looked conflicted. His lip lick was a good sign, but then he blurted, “I don’t
need all that, Wade, c’mon—”

Peter’s pupils dilated as Wade, fast as a viper, grabbed a fistful of that soft, fluffy hair and jerked
his head back.

“I decide what you need, baby boy,” he scolded, voice low.

“Oh my god,” Peter blurted shakily. “Y-yep, got it, uh-huh.”

Wade studiously ignored the obvious arousal and let go, waltzing back to the kitchen to get to work
on actual burritos for his blanket burritoed buddy, pausing to refill his water in the middle of it.

There was no more wild scarfing down of food after that, but it took a couple goes for Wade to be
satisfied that Peter was actually full and properly watered.

The massage was a whole other beast. Peter managed to keep most of his noises and reactions in,
still on guard, but the way he sighed and his eyes fluttered shut while Wade diligently dug his
hands into all those tense, tight muscles hidden within the ultimate twunky, slim frame… that was
satisfying torture. The man kept going, self-control unshakeable, unbreakable, unmistakable. The
cracking of joints sounded like popcorn at its peak as he worked his way down Peter’s spine, and
Wade could swear he felt as much relief from it as Peter did.

And then came the bath. Wade was so, so careful, checking the water temperature, dumping *two*
ultra-moisturizing bath bombs in, stripping his companion down and not seeing the petulant
pouting or the way Peter’s gaze lingered on Wade’s chest, shoving him into the thermally perfect
water…
 Platonic bath time. Bath time dictated by Wade in his best toppy voice to get Peter to settle down
and accept some care. Bath time totally not sexual he just needed to lather up his walking wet
dream and rub him down for totally selfless, 100%-for-Peter’s-benefit-because-this-boy-just-
won’t-be-good-to-himself reasons.

And he did it. He washed and rinsed, avoiding erogenous zones, until Peter stopped staring at him
(at his scars? How was that not an issue?).

But then it came time to wash Peter’s hair, because if Wade remembered one thing from his pretty
boy days, it was the sheer fucking bliss of going to the hairdresser and getting his hair washed by
someone else, so by god he was going to give that to Peter Probably-Cuts-His-Own-Hair Parker.

The moan that left Peter’s lips as Wade tilted his head back and scrubbed at his scalp was
positively pornographic. Wade held it together like a goddamned champion as he kept scrubbing in
little circles, working in the shampoo while Peter melted under his hands and let out those sinful,
breathy sounds.

“Why do you sound like we’re having sex?” Wade whined, tipping his new platonic pal’s head
back to start rinsing and totally not looking at the delicate arch of his throat.

Hazel eyes slitted back open and pinned the bigger man in place.

“Because I want to,” Peter declared quietly, beseechingly. “I appreciate your great enthusiasm for
consent, I do, but I got a fast metabolism and I ate a lot, so I’m sober now. And your hands are so
good, Wade… I wanna feel them everywhere.”

Everyone has their breaking point, no matter how much they postured earlier, and well… Look, no
one ever accused Wade Wilson of being a saint (pay no mind to earlier narration).

“Baby boy,” he cooed and began rinsing faster, “do I got a deal for you! For the low, low price of
that ass in my face, I will happily—”

And then they were both wet and not talking as Peter dragged Wade half into the tub with him and
shut him up with his mouth.

Chapter End Notes

I super expected this fic to fly under the radar, so thanks for the comments and kudos!
I haven’t replied to comments because ~anxiety~ but I do really appreciate them. Also
pls excuse the inconsistent Spider-Man capitalization; I can’t decide how I wanna do
it. Also I really feel like he needs to lose the hyphen because language tends to evolve
in such a way that hyphens are dropped in favor of single words so it should have
become Spiderman by now and I don’t care that we’re talking about a superhero name
and not a normal word, I don’t like the hyphen. Call me a fake fan, idc, I’ll die on this
hill.

Also sex next chapter, congrats. Prob will be out in two weeks, I’m busy with work
and social things.
 Precious Petey
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Wait!”

Peter groaned as he flopped onto the bed.

“What, Wade? I already recited the alphabet backwards and walked in a very straight line—what
next?”

It should’ve been a white flag that Wade was being careful, but Peter kinda felt like it was more of
a “please oh my god I just want to fuck” flag… because that was a thing. Right? No? Just him?
Fuck it.

“Don’t be a baby, baby,” Wade teased, hopping down next to Peter and held up his phone. “Gotta
choose a playlist! I’m not fucking you in silence like some kind of caveman. We could go the
classic route—‘Careless Whisper,’ you know, can’t go wrong. Or we could get a little spicy, a
little weird, a dash of ‘Cbat’—”

“I don’t know and I don’t care and this will not be silent unless you’re terrible in bed so put the
phone down,” Peter scolded. “Swear you are the hardest easy lay, sheesh.”

“You better work, bitch,” Wade sang, obediently dropping his phone across the room and swinging
himself onto Peter’s lap. “JK, just lay back and let my magic fingers do the work.” Said
appendages wiggled in the air before descending, and Peter bit back a gasp at the rough skin
dragging down his neck, torso, the v of his hips and—

“There,” he moaned. Wade had gotten a firm grasp of his cock, already half-hard from the tub
makeout sesh, and given it a few good pumps to harden it up further, carefully rolling the man’s
balls before giving them a good squeeze, eyes locked on Peter’s face.

The brunet’s eyes widened and teared up, cheeks flushing, back arching, toes curling, arms flying
up to wrap around Wade’s shoulders.

“Wh—shit, Wade!” he yelped. Wade grinned meanly.

“You’ve been such a little brat this whole time,” he whispered, lowering closer to breathe directly
in Peter’s ear before tugging at the ultra-sensitive organs. The moan he got as a reward was shaky
and frantic, but thanks to his (admittedly somewhat awkward to hold) position, he could feel the
way his partner’s cock jerked on its own, beginning to leak precum.

So he continued for a few minutes, whispering dirty nothings and chastisements into the boy’s
also-sensitive ear. He didn’t really get rough—he didn’t need to, with all the nerves he held in his
one hand, to cause just the right hurt, interspersed with occasional pumps of Peter’s shaft.

It was when Peter’s thighs began twitching too that Wade realized he needed to back off if he
wanted this to last.

“Ookay, baby boy,” he rumbled, voice low with want as he sat back up and knelt over the slim
man’s thighs (so toned, so tight!). “Gonna need you to get on your hands and knees for me.”
Peter’s response was delayed, hands dropping to the sheets before his brow furrowed.

“What if I want to top?” he groused. His hair was already a mess, falling into his face and sticking
out in a few places. His high cheekbones were tainted a pretty pink, lower lip swollen from biting
on it, and he looked tiny in Wade’s bed.

Wade snorted.

“Yeah, very funny. Go on!” He flipped Peter over himself, the smaller man yelping in protest but
not doing anything to actually stop it, and dragged his hips into the air.

“It’s not funn—”

Smack!

“Shit!”

The look Peter leveled at Wade was a gorgeous mix of pouting and lust, his pupils blown wide and
swallowing up the hazel of his eyes. Wade, meanwhile, missed that sight because his own eyes
were locked on the reddened jiggle of dat ass.

“Those are some glorious glutes, baby,” he praised, rubbing his hand over the cheek he’d just
slapped. “They’re just lacking in color!”

After a second spank, Peter spluttered, “We d-didn’t discuss this—ow—yet! How do you know I—
ah!—even want this, you asshole?!”

“Good point,” Wade acknowledged, not stopping as he laid down blow after blow, never the same
spot twice in a row, taking note of just how red the skin was. “Traffic light system? Other
safeword? Say ‘pancakes’ and it all stops, honey bunch.”

“Fucking shit,” Peter hissed, dropping his head. “Fine—agh!”

The hits were getting progressively harder, until Wade leaned over, dwarfing Peter, to whisper in
his ear (sending a shiver down the man’s spine), “Pull your cheeks apart, baby. Just one more hit.”

Peter honest to god whimpered but did as he was told, lowering to his chest so he could get a grip
on his stinging ass. He should’ve known what was coming, but he felt kinda floaty, like he had
cotton in his head, and he wasn’t thinking, just doing.

When the final hit, hard and sharp, landed directly on his asshole, he let out a cry and rocked his
hips, grip slipping and hands flying down to clutch the sheets.

“Fuck, Wade,” he breathed clumsily.

“Are you gonna be good for me from now on?” Wade taunted, taking note of how Peter seemed to
be teetering on the edge of orgasm. One good stroke and he’d be gone. Maybe someday, if this
became a regular thing (ha—as if Spider-Man would ever come crawling back to this grotesque
mess), he’d be able to get the man to come without touching his front. He would ruin this boy,
given the chance.

“Y-yeah,” Peter slurred, “good, I swear.”

“No more whining, no more second guessing me?”

“Nnno,” he insisted, then paused. “I mean, not—not unless—”

“You brat,” Wade laughed, shoving a few fingers in Peter’s mouth to shut him up. “Always
overthinking. Just get my fingers wet and let me do the thinking for now.”

The feeling of Peter’s tongue wrapping all over his constantly aching skin made Wade want to
melt, but he had a mission. When he felt he was ready, he pulled back and wasted no time in
pulling one cheek to the side with his dry hand, eyeing up Peter’s—Spider-Man’s!—Peter’s tight
hole before working a finger in.

The hero's whole body was deceptive, frankly. What looked like toned but fairly normal arms
could lift a car, no problem. What looked a normal little hole was a fuckin’ vise. Peter’s control
over his own strength was slipping, but Wade could handle it.

“Relax, let me give you what you deserve,” Wade soothed, noting the moment that all resistance
dropped. “There you go, good boy,” he cooed. Peter whined, rocking his hips back, and Wade
wasted no time in working him open. One finger, two fingers… on the third finger, he found that
little spot he was looking for, and he pressed down, rubbing circles into it while Peter moaned
loudly, pitch rising.

“Such a good boy,” he sighed, bearing down harder until Peter curled, as if he were trying to fold
himself into a little ball. Wade tsked and pushed down on his lower back, forcing him back into an
arch that provided a better angle for hitting his prostate. “Stay,” he ordered.

Peter seemed to have gone non-verbal, just groaning wordlessly and submitting to the battering of
his sweet spot. A small pool of precum was collecting under his dick, and the smaller man’s hands
were beginning to rip the fabric they clutched, but you know? Wade had ruined his sheets in far
worse ways.

When he finally pulled his fingers out, Peter whined again and rocked his hips back, earning
himself another slap on the ass.

“Oh, suck it up, you’re getting something way better,” Wade bragged, wiggling his pants down
past his knees before spitting onto his hand and fisting his own hard cock. Was this the best lube?
No. Was Peter into a little pain? Absolutely, as expected from someone who clearly wanted to
punish himself. Well, call Wade insurance because he was a provider! (Not every joke can be a
winner… see every Spider-Man fight ever, and Wade meant that in a loving way, obviously.)

The first shove of his dick into Peter’s warm body was just… beautiful. Peter jerked and gasped,
barely managing to form the word “big” before resorting to moans again. He felt full already, but
with every press of Wade’s hips, more and more was fed into him, until he felt so stuffed that he
half expected to start coughing up cum.

He thought he was chanting “oh my god,” but all Wade heard was a slurry of noises, culminating in
a long, full-body shudder when he finally bottomed out.

“Baby boy? You good?” Wade checked, hands tight on Peter’s hips. He thought he saw a nod,
but… that wasn’t enough. “Gonna need words, honey bunches of oats…”

“Fuhyu,” he heard.

“Hm?”

“Fuucck you,” Peter enunciated, voice shaking.

“Well the safeword is pancakes, so is that a go ahead?”

“Ugh!” Peter groaned and shoved himself back, managing to cram just a tiny bit more inside. Wade
grunted and held him still again before gathering himself.

“I hear ya loud and clear, damn!” He got to work setting a rhythm, slow at first, dragging himself
out and slowly pushing back in, gaining in speed as Peter absolutely fell apart underneath him. The
fucking texture. Ridges and knots and rough and smooth patches, scraping at his walls and his
sweet spot and his ring of muscle over and over, stimulating him more than he’d ever managed on
his own or, hell, with anyone else (not that there were many anyones for our famously overworked
hero).

Wade preened as Peter incoherently, breathlessly babbled into the pillow, voice wrecked, thighs
quaking. After some buildup, he set a punishing pace for both of them, luxuriating in the small
shocks of discomfort he felt himself, between the lack of actual lube and the state of his skin.
Lucky him that he’d always been a bit of a masochist.

For a while, Wade got lost in the rhythm, in his own panting and in the utter wailing of the boy
beneath him. Peter had completely given up on keeping quiet or maintaining any dignity. He felt
like he was in heat, like he couldn’t think, like his whole world had narrowed down to just this
moment, the feeling of this stranger from a bar relentlessly working him over and carving out space
within him.

He hovered on the brink of coming for too long, so long his cheeks got hot too and he eventually
realized he was actually crying (pathetic, he would have thought if he’d had the capacity for it, but
he didn’t). When Wade noticed the same thing, he groaned out, “Okay, okay, you can let go.”

And he gripped Peter’s poor, deprived cock. Stroked once. Peter screamed.

His hips rocked as he finally shot his load onto the bed, taking several seconds before the
convulsions throughout his body slowed down. Wade had tipped over at the same time from the
sheer force of that tight, wet heat pulsing around him, milking him as he fucked his boy through it.

They both collapsed in a heap of sweat and cum, chests heaving.

Peter was passed out before Wade could even check in on him.

---------------------------

“Ugh.”

“Rude.”

Peter unwillingly cracked his eyes open to find sunlight trickling in from one of Wade’s tiny
windows, a whole stack of pancakes in front of his face. He’d been woken by the shaking of the
bed as Wade plopped down beside him in a frilly apron. Wade was saying something as he shoved
a forkful of pancake at Peter, but some people just aren’t built for mornings, and Peter… well.

He chewed resentfully, brain cells reactivating one by one excruciatingly slowly.

He was so sore. Kind of like he was after a good workout, except… except centered in one very
specific area.

Right. Last night.

Wade.
“Oh god,” he groaned, slapping a hand over his face.

“Is that a ‘these pancakes are so good’ oh god?” Wade chirped, but there was a degree of
reservation in his tone. “Or maybe an ‘I gotta get out of here’ oh god? No hard feelings, you gotta
bolt, you can bolt!”

“N-no, uh, geez. Good morning. That was—that was an ‘I was so gross last night’ oh god. An ‘I
was such a pain in the ass last night’ oh god. An ‘I definitely don’t deserve fresh pancakes’ oh
god.” Peter lifted the sheets, peering down and shocked to find that he wasn’t a mess and a towel
had been tossed over the surely stained part of the bed. “Did you clean me up?”

“Of course!” Wade dismissed. “And you totes deserve fresh pancakes after that performance. Your
ass is divine, inside and out.”

“Ugh,” Peter insisted, taking the plate and beginning to shove food in his mouth.

“Listen, I got a job to get to soon or I would’ve just let you sleep, but you take your time eating,
okay? I just wanted to make sure you actually did eat. Just lock the bottom lock as you leave. Or
hell, stay until I come home tomorrow! I’ll fuck you till you can let all those manly tears out as
often as you want, baby boy,” Wade rambled, getting up and beginning to throw things in a bag.
Peter’s vision was still a little sleep blurry, but he still tracked the man’s movement.

“You’re… way too nice, Wade,” he mumbled. “You don’t even know me.”

Wade paused. “I know you well enough, and I ain’t half as nice as you deserve.”

“You might be surprised.” Peter sounded a little bitter, but still better than he had last night. He felt
better too. Maybe there was something to that “letting manly tears out” idea.

Wade snorted. “I don’t think so. Get yourself back in fighting shape, ‘kay?”

“Yeah,” Peter mumbled, something about that phrasing striking him as odd. His Spidey-sense
tingled, not like a threat was around, but like he was… missing something…

His eyes narrowed and he blinked the sleep out of them just long enough to see a familiar mask
being shoved surreptitiously into a bag, which itself had a familiar katana hilt sticking out juuuust a
little.

His stomach dropped.

“Wade?” he called as the man tried to leave. “Wade!” he shouted as he was ignored. He bolted up,
two of the pancakes from the stack flopping sadly onto the bed in the process, and grabbed Wade’s
arm in the hallway, entirely heedless of his own lack of clothing.

“Woah there,” the mercenary laughed nervously. “Look who’s suddenly bright eyed and bushy
tailed! The wonders of 100% natural Canadian syru—”

Peter grabbed at the pocket with the mask. Wade swiveled just out of the way. Peter grabbed
again. Wade knocked his hand away. Peter lunged, tackling Wade to the floor and finally getting
his hands on the mask. He held it up in its full glory, stared at it, stared at Wade, stared at it.

“Deadpool?!” he totally didn’t shriek.

“Where?!” Wade gasped, glancing around the apartment.

 “You—did you—what the hell?” Peter wanted to ask if he knew. How could he ask without
drawing suspicion if Deadpool didn’t know, though?

“Can’t a poor, sweet Pool pick up pretty mopey men at bars?” Wade whined, wriggling out of
Peter’s grip and walking backwards towards the front door. “I have needs too, do I not? Must I
languish in isolation, never knowing the sweet comfort of a warm body?” he waxed poetic as he
eased the door open.

“Pool—"

“See you Thursday!” Wade squeezed in, fleeing the scene.

… Thursday?

Thursday…

Peter’s brows furrowed, hands still clutched on the mask, its weirdly expressive eyes motionless
without their wearer.

… Joint patrol! That fu—

Chapter End Notes

It’s kind of odd. I simultaneously find sex scenes appealing and boring. I really
struggled to write this, was losing interest very quickly, switching back to reading the
comics, finding a panel where Spider-Man’s in an absurd pose, then writing a little
more, etc. etc. Also, my god some of these artists put him in the most ridiculous
positions. He gets flung through the air by villains and poses like a Playboy bunny as
he hurdles toward a brick wall. Respect to those artists, tbh. Forget ceasing to
sexualize female heroes—just sexualize everyone. (I don’t mean that, lol)

So anyway.
1) Sorry if it ended up feeling choppy/rushed.
2) I made minor edits to chapter one to try to harp on Peter being glum a bit more, and
fixed a typo in chapter two, main thing is just chap one though. Honestly I really don't
think I captured quite how bleak he was meant to feel? Or, in chapter two, how Wade
comforted Peter? But hey, I knew I was rusty. It's something to work on.
3) Fun fact this whole thing was prompted by an issue of Spider-Man which was
supposed to be showcasing how Mary Jane takes care of him when he's exhausted and
beaten down, and I was not satisfied tbh. Not like "she's not good enough!" but I mean.
He crawled through the window, expressed his stress, and passed out. And then
during the day, a troll attacked the subway and she didn't wake him up, she helped get
civilians out of the way until another hero showed up to help. And that's great and all
but uh, that's not the degree of care I feel like he desperately needs??
4) Despite my complaints about the issue above, it's part of the 2019 Friendly
Neighborhood Spider-Man run and I highly recommend that for anyone who just
wants to dip a toe into the comics. It's only 14 issues long and fairly self-contained.

That said... thanks for reading, and I hope y'all enjoyed this re-entry into writing!
Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!