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Peter’s pretty sure, like 99.9% sure, that Wade wouldn’t ever really do something so manipulative, so deeply and personally hurtful. Not intentionally. Not like he’s been thinking. Because Wade likes him, he knows that. You’ve got to trust your boyfriend to a certain extent, and yeah, maybe the rules get twisted a bit when your boyfriend is Deadpool, but there’s got to be an explanation because there’s just no - no way he’d get close just to just to hurt him in that way.
He pays attention when they’re out in the city. The mid-afternoon light floods his vision white-gold, and Deadpools hands are flying about everywhere in wild, earnest gestures. There’s not many things that can silence the merc with a mouth, so Peter lets himself slide into the somewhat one-sided conversation, bouncing off the nudges and quips until they slide into that electrical current of dangerous flirting. And he - okay, yes, he’s very appreciative, he’s obviously very appreciative. Wade lets his hands linger, steals a open-handed grope, dodges Peter’s half-hearted rebute, and snickers a few rather explicit lines that make Peter’s cheeks glow red. He studies it from afar, files it away as valuable information.
Wade likes his body. Wade likes to comment on, to eye, to grope and tease and lick and fuck his body, and he hates himself for even thinking in those exact terms, for thinking ‘his body’ instead of ‘him’, because yeah — that’s the problem.
The worst part is that Wade himself is such a conflicting mess of self-loathing and greed that try as he might, Peter can’t find where they went wrong. It’s perfect when they’re just kissing - clothes in tact, excitingly sweet, Wade’s big hands stroking his thighs. It’s when they get past that, when he wants to push the mask back, when Wade seizes him and flips him over and all the tenderness is gone.
It’s so - it’s unfair, the way it comes out of nowhere. And it’s still consensual, he’s sure it is, but his chest feels tight because Wade doesn’t touch him or hold him, Wade doesn’t seem to care a whole lot beyond yanking his clothes off and forcing himself in, and Jesus fuck, it’s so sudden, it hurts, and Wade just - he grasps a hand in his hair to hold him in place, it’s all he can do to gasp.
It almost feels like a war - he doesn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but it feels like a punishment on those nights where he hears his voice, breathy and strained and riddled with shameful gasps. He sounds a little like he’s moaning but a whole lot more like he’s been wounded in battle, and Wade’s voice is twice as loud, all animal noises and grunting. He wants to - he tries to focus on the pleasure, but his shame is so much brighter, the hot flush that burns his face, the smack of flesh on flesh until he just wants Wade to be done.
And what is he supposed to say when Wade finishes...and then abruptly rolls off him and gets up? Is it supposed to be funny when he trails him into the bathroom and gets a slap on the ass and a swift, hungry kiss, and no explanation whatsoever? Is it - is this normal, for Wade? Does he really not hear Peter call him back, see the way he has to gather himself together on the bed when they’re through, sore and rattled and confused?
He has to say something, he knows he does, but the words just dry up and crumble when Wade gives him that bright, insane smile, that look that stretches at the corners of his mask and lights up his eyes like stars. What’s he supposed to say to that? I can’t stand the thought of having sex with you again? How can you fuck me and then just *leave*? It doesn’t - he - he just can’t. He can’t look Wade in the face and open a vein like that.
So they touch and break away quickly, almost-there moments in the dark of an alley, a spark of quickly dying passion as the city bleeds into nightfall. When it happens again, it starts so sweetly, so easily that he doesn’t expect that inevitable fall. Wade manhandles him, flips him over neatly, and he hisses back a ‘wait, let me-‘ and fumbles to face him again. They meet with a kiss that’s really more teeth than lips. Peter clings tight to him, rakes his fingernails across Wade’s back and shoulders and ass, and Wade fucks him so hard he thinks they might really be fighting, like this is a struggle, a battle, and when it’s over Peter feels the weight of the other man leave his side and he knows he must have lost.
It’s absurd, it really is, because for all that touching and groping and non-stop talking about how Peter’s body is his heaven on earth, he can’t - he won’t - he won’t stay. That’s the catch, isn’t it? Because he doesn’t know if that’s Wade or if it’s him. If it’s his fault. If it’s Peter.
He can't ask, so he just lets Wade carry him home, licks and sucks the curve of his throat, wanting Wade to want him, wanting to be convinced. His fingers dig and pull at the tearing costume until Wade deposits him on the floor with a growl, and Peter wraps his legs around the other man’s waist before he can try to press him face-down again. The merc lifts his mask enough to bring their mouths together, fingers him roughly, no lube involved. He swallows Peter’s pained noise as he slides the length of his cock inside him, and Peter just digs his chin into Wade’s shoulder and lets him do what he pleases.
It hurts. Wade isn’t gentle, and it always hurts. When he comes, digging his fingers hard into Peter’s hips, he can feel the bruises form. But when he finally shifts to pull away, Peter squeezes him, wrapping his arms as far around Wade’s torso as he can manage, digging his heels into his lower back. Wade grunts, tries to remove himself again, and Peter can feel his larger body strain to pry itself away from in between his thighs, the iron grip of his hands.
Peter won’t let him budge an inch, even if he has to put all of his spider strength into it.
A silence weighs in the air. They’re tangled together neatly, Wade spent and almost entirely naked, Peter wrapped around him and fitting into all the negative spaces. Then he leans in and breathes a laugh. “So. This is new.”
Peter shakes his head a fraction and wraps his long legs tighter around Wade. “Stay.” he mumbles.
“Gotta leave eventually, Spidey.” Wade says, and there’s something odd in his voice that Peter can’t decipher. He shakes his had again, keeping Wade firmly against him, ignoring the uncomfortable ache of muscles, the sheen of sweat from their still-joined bodies. “Stay for once.” he pleads, and he hates how bitter that sounds, but Wade stops tugging at him and instead becomes this heavy, pressing weight, no longer trying to hold himself up.
The older man’s murmuring washes over him as his body ticks through it’s short recovery time. He presses little kisses to Wade’s scarred cheek, the corner of his mouth, and he can feel the way the hand gripping his waist starts stroking his skin gently. Something in his belly coils in pleasure as the cock inside him hardens again. And it’s not perfect, this forced, oddly quiet middle ground, but it’s something.
Peter slides his palms over the rough skin, eases up enough to let Wade draw himself out a little before he thrusts back in, slow and lazy. He winces, sore but unexpectedly pleased at the pace, pressing his lips to Wade’s pulse and mouthing out what he’s too afraid to say. Can we make love this time? It sounds so weak in his head, the phrase, the inflection.
But that’s been his problem. That’s always been his problem.
Please, please, can we make love.