Chapter Text
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"So what are we looking at?" Peter asks conversationally as he swings over to Midtown, late one morning after receiving a yellow alert from the Avengers. He lands next to Hawkeye, who is perched on the roof of one of the buildings. "Bad touch anime? Or gelatinous cube à la Dungeons and Dragons?"
Below, and a block down the street, an enormous and amorphous mass of lime green goo inches slowly forward. It picks up everything not bolted to or rooted in the ground. Much like a slug, it's fattest at the middle, while the front and back ends taper bluntly. Peter measures it against a nearby building and lets out a low whistle when he sees that it is about seven stories tall.
"Well, the thing ate Tony like, ten minutes ago, and he is both untouched and undigested." Hawkeye shrugs one nonchalant shoulder as he continues to stare at the monster through his scope. "So. Neither?"
Peter squints into the mass and—yep. There's Iron Man, embedded within the slime like a maraschino cherry in a Midwestern jello dessert.
"So what's the plan?" Peter asks Hawkeye.
"Stop it and get Iron Man out," Hawkeye says. Then, with a hint of sourness, he adds, "Which is so much easier than it sounds. So far, nothing we've done to the thing has been effective. For either objective."
Peter quickly learns that Hawkeye's annoyance is one hundred percent justified, because the slime monster is an absolute pain in the ass to fight. It is impervious to electricity and fire and brute force, aka the Hulk. It withstands three different types of explosive and two different kinds of lasers. Every single weapon that is used against it is absorbed: arrows and bullets and grenades, Captain America's shield and one of Deadpool's katanas. Peter's webbing refuses to stick to the outside of the monster's body and—when he tries making a net to halt the creature's progress down 45th—the slime simply oozes through it.
This actually ends up being the first bit of good luck they get. The web acts as an impromptu sieve, and the larger debris that is inside the slime collects against the net as the monster seeps through. Once its body passes through entirely—a laborious process that takes exactly seventeen minutes and forty-one seconds—a variety of objects drop to the street and sidewalk in one huge, gross pile. There are cars and bicycles and electric scooters; a tangle of outdoor café seating and potted plants; a mile's worth of battered garbage cans; several food trucks; and one armored billionaire covered in a thin layer of bright verdant stickiness.
"Thanks for the assist, kid," Iron Man says when he is free, his voice modulator crackling softly. Then, with some petulance in his tone, he asks, "Can I get a pick up? There's... interference with the lensing on my repulsors. I can't get airborne."
Black Widow swings down in a Quinjet to take Iron Man back to the Tower, where he can analyze the samples of goop he collected while inside the monster. This leaves Peter and the rest of the heroes to prevent as much damage as they can—except the monster continues to push forward, slowly and inevitably. It seeps through the cracks in windows; leaks through the gaps under doors; and engulfs everything along its continued path. There is little Peter can do but make sure it doesn't swallow the occasional squirrel or one of the more incautious civilians that hasn't evacuated the area.
"I knew I should have ignored that alert," Peter mutters to himself as he reaches out to poke the monster with a finger. The consistency reminds him of the little slime toys he used to get as a kid, the kind that came in a rainbow of colors and got oddly watery after a few weeks. Peter pulls his finger back with a shudder.
It takes almost an hour for Iron Man to run the necessary tests. He identifies the linkages between the slime's primary biopolymers within the first fifteen minutes—thank god for ultra high speed Western blots—then synthesizes an environmentally friendly chemical that will break said bonds half an hour after that. Once enough of the chemical is made, it is a simple matter of spraying the monster until it completely dissolves.
What is not so simple is the mess.
As the chemical mists over the monster's diminishing body via dozens of StarkTech drones, chunks of liquifying material break off. They hit the ground with a wet splat, then disintegrate further. A gross deluge of watery goo studded with cigarette butts, discarded trash, and the contents of at least three hot dog carts washes down the street, building up against the curb and crowding the storm drains. Peter jumps down from his safe perch atop a building to web up some of the clutter and pull it free so the mess can go into the drain rather than further down the street.
This is when the smell hits him.
The stench of the watery slime is a mixture of hot garbage, over-boiled cabbage, and mold. Peter herks.
Webbing up the debris is disgusting work. The smell is terrible and overpowering. The squelch beneath his boots makes Peter's skin crawl. Liquified slime seeps past the invisible edges of his suit and makes the fabric stick to his skin. Within minutes, he and most of the others on scene are covered in a layer of pervasive filth. Everything is awful, a sensory nightmare that has Peter gritting his teeth in an effort not to become overstimulated.
"I do not get paid enough for this," Hawkeye hisses as a chunk hits his shoulder and dribbles down his arm. "Ugh, fuck, why is it warm—?"
"Breaking the linkage of the biopolymers is an exothermic reaction," Peter answers. "Also, at least you're not an unpaid intern, unlike some unfortunate souls in the vicinity—"
Something goopy slips down Peter's spine. His retort turns into a gag, and he wills himself not to throw up in the mask. Puke in the mask would only make this whole situation worse.
Thankfully, it does not take long for the slime monster to dissipate and most of the goo to seep into storm drains. The mile-long path the slime monster took is covered in a sheen of goop, but that is now the responsibility of the city's (hopefully well compensated) clean up crews. Normally Peter isn't one to bail if he can still be of use—and his super strength would be helpful with moving some of the vehicles piled in the street—but he can't think past the stickiness covering him, like he got dunked into a vat of watered down maple syrup. He needs to get out of his suit. He needs to shower. He needs to be clean or he's going to have a mental breakdown.
"Come back to the tower," Hawkeye says when Black Widow comes to pick him up. "You've used the showers before, right?"
Grateful, Peter nods before climbing into the quinjet. The journey back to his apartment in Queens would be deeply unenjoyable while covered in slime, and the water pressure afforded by his shower wouldn't be enough. He would have to scrub, and scrub, and scrub, and he just knows the hot water would run out before he was truly clean.
The same is not true of the amenities at the Tower. A few of the upper levels of the building are dedicated to both the core Avengers and reserve members (e.g., Peter). There's a fully stocked kitchen; a living room with superhero-proofed gaming consoles; a mini theater with twenty of the cushiest recliners Peter has ever sat in; an enormous gym; an Olympic-sized swimming pool; a sauna; and a locker room that puts most spas to shame.
The locker room is where Peter beelines as soon as Natasha has landed the quinjet. He strips off pieces of his suit as he half-jogs down the hallway, trying desperately to ignore the way he has to peel the spandex away from his skin.
One of the best things about the Tower's locker room is the relative privacy. Each shower stall has two compartments: one for the actual shower and the other for getting dressed and undressed. Since Peter's identity is still secret, he doesn't take off his mask until the curtain is shut behind him. He hangs it on a peg—the slime hadn't gotten anywhere near his head, thankfully—while the rest of his suit gets tossed into the shower stall with him. It will be easier to wash off in the Tower than at home (see above: his apartment's shitty water pressure).
The inner stall has a waterfall shower head and multiple body jets that can be turned on or off individually. Peter turns all of them on and steps in once it warms up, sighing happily as the spray hits him. The pressure is perfect. The temperature never wavers. It feels incredible, and Peter spends at least ten minutes just standing there, enjoying it, before he sets to the task of actually cleaning himself and his suit. It isn't too laborious; the slime washes off easily with a little body soap and a little elbow grease.
Peter's fingers are pruney by the time he turns off the shower. He dries off as much as possible, and spends extra time scrubbing a fluffy towel over his hair, soaking up as much of the moisture as he can. He needs to put his mask back on before he leaves the stall, and he isn't looking forward to the weird way his wet hair feels trapped beneath the fabric.
Clint is the only one in the locker room when Peter emerges. They acknowledge one another with a single nod as Peter goes to a large linen closet against one wall. It contains a variety of clothing in a variety of sizes. All of it is nondescript, soft to the touch, and tending towards a neutral color palette. Peter pulls out everything he needs: underwear and socks, t-shirt and hoodie and sweatpants, and even a pair of logo-less chucks.
Once, a couple years ago when he had first been recruited as a reserve, he had asked Tony where he was supposed to return the clothes once he was done with them.
"Oh, those are just back-ups, kid," Tony had said absently, clapping a friendly hand on Peter's shoulder. "You keep them."
The clothes Peter has taken from the Tower—now five sets in total—are some of the best clothes Peter has. He actively tries not to think about how much they might cost, reminding himself that Tony is a billionaire and that Tony's sunglasses alone are probably more than Peter's yearly rent payment. The man can afford to spare a few sets of clothes.
With the efficiency of someone who spent most of his high school career changing as swiftly as possible before and after gym, Peter gets dressed. The sweatpants and t-shirt are black; the hoodie is light mauve; the chucks are off-white with black lines on the midsole. He's double-knotting the laces of the chucks when he hears Wade say, "Man, I have got to get the name of Stark's contractor, because those showers? Orgasmic. Gotta love the tile work too. What is that, zellige?"
Peter finishes tying his shoe. Looks up and—oh.
That... is Wade's cock.
That is Wade's cock.
"Oh god, Wilson, my eyes!" Clint roars, dramatically throwing an arm over his face and turning away from the other man. "Would you—Jesus Christ—would you put a fucking towel on, or something?"
"But I am wearing a towel." Peter barely notices as Wade reaches up with one hand to tug lightly on the standard sized bath sheet thrown over his massive shoulders. His eyes are still fixed further south. "Do you not see the towel, Hawkeye? Because we can go to the optometrist together if you're scared—"
"If you're so worried about my ocular health, Dickpool," Clint hisses, "then cover up and save my retinas!"
Peter remains wide-eyed and frozen as Wade and Clint banter, not blinking as he stares at the giant slab of man before him. Wade is damp from the shower, his skin an array of hurt and healing from his toes to the crown of his skull, his smirk wide and his cock out. He's... stacked in all the ways one can be stacked, and maybe a few extra ways hitherto unknown to man. Every inch of him is thick and muscular and kind of intimidating and kind of mind numbingly hot. Which isn't exactly an epiphany for Peter, who has always known Deadpool was attractive—but this?
This probably ten inch coke can of a cock hanging out and soft for everyone to see?
"Fuck," Peter gasps, feeling his pulse in his throat.
Luckily, the high and breathy sentiment is too soft to be heard over Wade and Clint's bickering—playful on Wade's half, distressed on Clint's—but it reminds Peter that he's fully dressed and ready to go and is instead just standing there like a complete moron. Sure, his mask is on, and sure, Wade hasn't looked his way once since exiting the showers, but soon one of them will glance over and somehow know that he's half chubbed up in his new underwear.
Because Wade has a huge cock and Peter—
Well.
Peter isn't new to his bisexuality. He's kinda always known, in some capacity—thank you, Han Solo—but his only real experience is an ill-advised, half-drunken make out session with Flash at a house party. Sure, it had been good—Flash had kissed him wet and sloppy until he was gasping—but they had been interrupted just as Flash had started rolling his hips into Peter's, their hard dicks hot even through layers of denim jeans and cotton briefs.
"Dude," Mary Jane had said when Flash didn't meet Peter's eye at graduation, her voice flat and judgmental. "He is not good enough at kissing for you to be making that face."
"No," Peter agreed even as he sighed in resignation. As sexy as Flash's tongue fucking had been at the time, Peter knew that he had been horny for other reasons—namely that someone physically bigger than him had crowded him against a wall and taken charge. "But it was still nice."
There is nothing nice about Wade Wilson. He's arrogant and glib and smart-mouthed, and Peter feels a bit conflicted whenever he laughs at one of Wade's jokes or thinks Wade's commentary is insightful and correct. When they cross paths—something that is happening with increasing frequency—Peter tries not to let his eyes follow the powerful lines of Wade's body, tries not to notice how strong and fast and ridiculously competent Wade is with both weapons and hand-to-hand combat, tries to ignore Wade's inappropriate flirting and come-ons.
And previous to this incident, Peter had also hoped that Wade had been exaggerating when he referenced his "generous helping of meat and potatoes". Sure, the man is tall and broad and big, and sure, Peter had supposed that he was probably proportional in that department, but ratios have nothing on the monster dangling between Wade Wilson's thighs.
"Fuck," Peter hisses again, tearing his eyes away from Wade's body. He jumps up from the bench, snatches his towel-wrapped suit off the floor, mumbles something about finishing an essay, and scrams.
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Peter does not, in fact, have an essay to finish, as the semester began less than a week ago. Most of his professors haven't even assigned any homework yet, let alone delved into enough source material to warrant an entire essay. The excuse is so paper thin—forgive the pun—that Peter mentally berates himself the entire way home.
But Wade and Clint are old, a generationally biased voice pipes up in the back of Peter's brain. They wouldn't know when ESU's first day of classes was, let alone guess at a semester schedule.
Peter's cheeks still burn with embarrassment when he makes it back to his dinky little walk-up in the seedier part of town. He wrenches open the unlocked window—he lives on the eighth floor so it's fine—and tumbles into the room. He then rips off his mask, kicks off his new shoes, and falls onto his mattress so his face is smashed into his only pillow. He squeezes his eyes shut and nuzzles the cool fabric.
The memory of Wade's huge cock returns to him in 4-fucking-K.
Without conscious thought or intention, Peter shoves his sweats and underwear down to his knees. He fists one hand around his dick. He's completely hard and throbbing against his palm within seconds, his blood rushing out of his brain so fast he gets dizzy. He wriggles up onto his knees, arching his back, and rubs two fingers against his dry hole.
"Shit," Peter hisses, mouth smearing against his pillow. The pressure makes his hole twitch, makes a bolt of arousal zip along his spine. He's too worked up to grab the lube out of his bedside drawer but he doesn't really care. Instead, his brain drops him into the middle of a fantasy he tries not to have, the one where Wade is in bed with him, fat cock in hand, pressing the head to Peter's hole while he murmurs praise into the shell of Peter's ear.
"Come on, baby boy," Wade would encourage, his heavy body draped over Peter's back, forcing Peter further down into the mattress. "Open up for me."
Peter's fingers push harder against the softness of his hole. One slips into the first knuckle. It is barely a stretch. Peter whines into his pillow, trying to get deeper. He wants so much more than a finger that his attempts to get another in are starting to frustrate him even as his fist moves frantically over his twitching length.
"That's it, sweetheart," Wade would purr, his voice dropping low. It's the same voice Wade uses when he's got his knife to someone's jugular. "Fuck back on me harder."
The late summer air feels cool against Peter's burning skin. He crooks his finger so it pushes hard against his prostate, but the angle is wrong and the pressure isn't enough. A memory of Wade's mocking laughter—deep and throaty—echoes inside Peter's skull. The hand around his dick tightens. His forearm aches with how fast he jacks himself. Peter can feel his orgasm cresting, too fast and too soon.
Wade would make fun of him for it, Peter knows. Call Peter a slut, call Peter easy, call him a desperate virgin. His tone would be a little too mean, like he secretly meant it, and his smile would be crooked, like it was when he was teasing.
Peter likes that smile. He always has.
"Fuck," Peter whines, the curse smothered by the thin pillow. His entire face is on fire. His guts squirm. He feels... uncomfortable, maybe, but also incredibly turned on. He can feel the pound of his blood in his teeth. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—!"
Peter's mouth opens with a strangled whine as he comes. His entire body tenses as it passes over him in a wave of mindless pleasure, holding for several heartbeats—then it passes, leaving Peter boneless and satiated and disproportionately exhausted. He barely has enough energy to pull his finger from his body and roll to his side, not even bothering to bring his sweatpants back up over his hips. The sharpness of Wade's smirk lingers behind Peter's eyes like an afterimage of the sun.
"Fuck," Peter says again.
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