Archive of Our Own ^beta

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It's three in the morning. Wade and Peter have called it a night and are back in Wade's apartment. Peter showered first; Wade showered second. Now Wade stands in his tiny bathroom, clean and damp, and does not look directly into the fogged up mirror. Instead, he stares at his hands as they grip the edges of the small porcelain sink. His skin isn't too bad today. No cracks in the flesh to expose the muscle beneath, no overly ugly keloids or enthusiastically large cysts. He looks about as good as he can.

[ A shirt might help. Pants too. ]

Wade squeezes his eyes shut.

[ Maybe one of those paper lunch bags with the eyeholes cut out? ]

"Fuck off," Wade mutters, shaking Yellow out of his head.

{ What's that gonna do? And anyway, Peter's seen all of it before. Does it matter if you're kind of ugly versus kind of really ugly? }

Wade smacks the heel of his palm against his temple in irritation. Such actions rarely work, but he's been lucky lately and White shuts up. White and Yellow both probably know that there's a high chance of him getting laid if they behave, and what's good for the body is good for the voices in the head, or something.

{ That isn't the expression. }

[ Proverb? Adage? ]

{ The internet was unclear. }

Wade pretends he doesn't hear them as he wraps a towel around his waist. It's late, sure, but patrol was just a couple of purse snatchers, an escort home, and a dozen selfies with the fattest pug in Queens. They ate around midnight—black pepper chicken and shrimp fried rice, egg rolls and pork dumplings and crab rangoons—and Peter doesn't have work or school tomorrow. It's rare for Peter's schedule to be clear for more than a handful of hours and Wade has a plan: have sex until they pass out.

[ That's not what your fortune cookie said. At all. ]

Flipping off the lights, Wade emerges from the bathroom with nothing but a towel around his waist and walks over to the couch. Peter glances up from his phone. Wade is sure that Peter was just reacting to the movement he caught in his periphery, but when Peter realizes it's Wade—nearly naked and still damp—the glance becomes a look.

For as much as his skin bothers him, Wade does not mind showing off his body. Genetics has made him tall and broad-shouldered and long-legged, and dedication to exercise has made him heavy with muscle. His biceps and thighs are thick and strong; his chest is large and powerful; and even the worst skin days cannot hide the sharp angles of his hipbones or the narrow taper of his waist. Wade will be the first to admit that he's vain, that he revels in the way Peter stares.

"See something you like?" Wade purrs as he sits down sideways on the couch. He puts his back to the arm rest, plants one foot on the seat cushion and the other on the floor. The towel gapes. Wade doesn't need to look down to know that he's completely exposed.

"I thought you said we were unwinding," Peter answers. His tone is flat but his cheeks are pink and his eyes have fallen to Wade's lap. A thrill goes up Wade's spine at the blatant look. "Not... you know."

"Not what?" Wade shifts. He makes sure his thighs widen with the movement, makes sure Peter can see the full curve of his cock and the heavy fall of his balls. "Fucking?"

Peter's flush deepens. The redness spreading up towards his ears and down his throat. Wade and Peter been having sex regularly for the past several months and Wade hasn't gotten tired of the way Peter reacts to the mention of it, still a little shy, still incredibly hungry. Like he knows he shouldn't want it but can't help how much he does.

"Usually when we 'unwind' we play Mario Kart." Peter absently locks his phone and puts it on the coffee table. "Not..."

Wade hums. Runs a hand down the medial line of his body, from neck to chest to stomach. The tips of his fingers slip beneath the tucked in edge of the towel. He makes a show of it, moving his touch from left to right, loosening the fabric without fully undoing it. Peter's unblinking stare follows the movement.

"We can still play Mario Kart," Wade says easily. "If that's what you want."

Peter chews on his bottom lip and remains silent.

"Or..." Wade drawls as he opens the towel with a twist of his wrist. The edges come apart and fall away, baring himself completely. "We can, you know."

Wade isn't sure if Peter is aware of the tiny little whine that escapes him but Wade isn't going to point it out. It's ridiculously hot how desperate Peter is for Wade's cock; he had even said 'wow' the first time he saw it, pulled out half-hard from a pair of sweatpants on this very couch. Wade had barely been able to hold in a laugh. Who would have thought that Spiderman—wise-cracking, straight-passing, nerdy goody two-shoes Spiderman—was that hard up for dick?

"Well," Peter finally says, stretching out the syllable. "I guess there are other ways to unwind besides Mario Kart."

Which is how Wade winds up with Peter between his knees and his cock in Peter's mouth. Peter had never given someone a blowjob before Wade and—even though he's had ample practice since that first time—he still starts with small kisses and kittenish licks as both his hands hold Wade's growing shaft. Peter jacks Wade slowly as he suckles the head like its a goddamn lollipop, barely bobbing in rhythm, before he works up the courage to slip his tongue beneath Wade's foreskin. The noises he makes are obscene, wet and hot and greedy.

"Fuck, baby," Wade groans, slipping one hand against the nape of Peter's neck and threading his fingers through the drying curls. "So fucking nasty, lapping at my cock. You like how it tastes, yeah?"

Peter hums, a happy sound that drives Wade crazy—[ Well, crazier ]—and Wade's thighs fall open even further. He pushes against the back of Peter's head, silently asking Peter to take more of him, and sighs when Peter obliges. Inch after slow inch disappears past Peter's reddened mouth until Wade's got Peter's cute little nose right up against his body, that taut stretch of skin where Wade's pubes used to be.

"Like that, sweetheart," Wade encourages as he keeps Peter in place. Wade isn't small. He's a bit of a monster actually, fat and long, and the fact that Peter can take all of him like this is a minor miracle. "Stay like that as long as you can, okay?"

Spit seeps out from Peter's mouth and leaks down, gathering in the creased skin of Wade's groin. Wade can feel the flutter of Peter's throat as he struggles not to gag, can see a glaze of wetness in Peter's eyes. Wade swears. His hips jerk a bit, trying to get impossibly closer, and Peter takes it, his hands spasming around where they have fallen to Wade's ankles. Wade does it again. Peter's nose gets mashed and he chokes.

"Jesus shitting Christ," Wade hisses as he feels the involuntary movement around his entire cock. "That's—oh fuck that's good. I'm gonna—"

It isn't face fucking. Not in the traditional sense. Wade doesn't pull out far enough for it to be called fucking; he simply grinds his hips upward and keeps his hand on the back of Peter's head, his grip getting tighter and tighter, while Peter slobbers over his cock. Peter's entire face is cherry red and tears are slipping down his cheeks.

{ Pretty sure we've passed the threshold where he needs to breathe. He's probably gonna faint soon if we don't let up. }

[ He probably wants that. ]

Yeah, Wade thinks hotly, affectionately. Fucking freak.

In the first couple of weeks after they started having sex, Wade learned that Peter was absolutely unhinged in the bedroom. He liked to be overwhelmed, liked to be used, liked when the line between pleasure and pain disappeared. He'd guide Wade's hands to the deep bruises on his body and ask Wade to press down; he'd pull Wade's mouth to his pretty nipples and tell him to bite; he'd come and go soft and whine if Wade's stopped playing with him even though it was clearly causing him discomfort.

"Is this okay?" Peter's voice would be breathless and unsure, as though he didn't know how dizzy Wade got with every request, unspoken or otherwise. "I just—I want it."

But as much as Wade is willing to oblige—as much as it drives Wade wild to watch Peter squirm—he also knows that Peter doesn't have a lot of experience. They've talked about kinks, about what they are and are not into, about safewords and the traffic light system. Since then, however, Peter hasn't stopped Wade once, not even when Wade pushes. Sometimes, Wade will pause to ask Peter his color, and Peter's nose will wrinkle subconsciously at the interruption.

"Green?" he'll slur when Wade prods, the word lilting not because he's unsure, but because he doesn't know why Wade asked. He's so genuinely into everything they do that Wade frequently pinches himself to make sure he's not hallucinating again.

Intellectually, Wade knows they'll eventually do something that Peter won't like. That he'll gasp out 'yellow' or 'red' or 'rutabaga'. The fact that he hasn't yet simply makes Wade a bit more cautious, more likely to tap the brakes when they're approaching something they haven't explicitly discussed or agreed to in a similar form. Like, sure, Peter loves breath play, and he had been sweet and eager when Wade fucked him awake that one time, but making Peter lose consciousness with his cock is definitely something Wade needs verbal confirmation for.

"C'mon, baby boy," Wade murmurs as he tugs on Peter's hair to pull him back. "You're doing so good, but I need you to take a breath for me."

Peter's mouth is slick and swollen when it pops off Wade's cock. His jaw is lax. His first inhale is sharp; his first exhale a scratchy cough. His glassy, half-lidded gaze stays affixed to Wade's hard-on like it will disappear if he even blinks.

[ And that, my friends, is what cock hungry looks like. ]

"I'm close," Wade tells Peter as he reaches down to hold himself, making sure his balls are more exposed. He guides Peter down to them. "Make yourself useful while I finish off."

It's a bit awkward. Wade can't jack himself fully without hitting Peter's cheekbone and Peter can't do much more than lick at Wade considering the angle. It's nice though, slow and warm and syrupy, and Wade cups a hand over his cockhead when he comes, catching as much as he can in his palm. He uses it as lube when he coaxes Peter up into his lap.

"That's it, sweetheart. Just fuck my fist." Wade tightens his grip around Peter's dick. "Come whenever you want, okay? We've got all night."

Peter plants his hands on the back of the couch and jacks into the clutch of Wade's fingers. He's fucking fast and hard, losing some of his control as his hips work. Wade's gaze flicker back and forth from Peter's face—eyebrows furrowed, teeth dug into his bottom lip, eyes squeezed shut—to his dick—pretty and pink, the little head popping out of Wade's fist with every thrust.

[ Peek-a-boo, ] Yellow giggles.

Peter makes a mess all over Wade's belly when he finishes, but Wade doesn't bother to clean it up. He can be a gross dude, especially where sex is concerned, and he thinks its kinda hot when his skin is shiny and sticky with Peter's come.

Peter hums a single note of contentment as he relaxes. His hands move down to Wade's sides, wrapping him in a loose embrace, and he sags into Wade's lap, his lean thighs bracketing Wade's hips. He tucks his face against Wade's neck and sighs happily.

"Bed?" Wade suggests softly.

"M'yeah," Peter agrees.

Peter is a lot heavier than he looks, his average frame and compact muscle a lot more dense than a baseline human the same size as him. Wade still manages to pick him up easily enough, carrying him from the couch to the bedroom. Normally, Wade would toss Peter onto the mattress and laugh at his annoyed little huff; tonight, Wade sets Peter down gently on the sheets and kisses his temple.

"Gonna go get some water," Wade whispers. "Be right back, okay?"

"Okay," Peter mumbles sleepily.

Wade smiles as he goes to the kitchen and fills a large glass with water from the tap. Peter is already tired after one round, completely unaware that Wade isn't going to let him rest. The thought of coaxing Peter through another few rounds is enticing. It makes Wade's cock chub up, and he indulges in a few long strokes as he stands at the kitchen counter.

{ Gross, } White pipes up. { We eat take-out here. }

Wade ignores the comment—this kitchen has seen much, much worse than a little bit of masturbation—but lets go of his cock so he can walk back to the bedroom. He has a plan, after all, and arguing with the voices in his head is much less enjoyable than what he wants to do to the sweet, unsuspecting spider he left waiting in his bed.

.

.

When Wade returns to the bedroom, Peter is half asleep in Wade's sheets, still naked, still sprawled out, a beautiful stretch of flesh and muscle and bone. His body is silvered by the dim light of the city filtering through the curtains, all pale skin and freckles and thatches of brown hair. His limbs are lean and rangy; his ribs are lightly visible; his knees are knobby.

{ Don't think he's getting enough calories, } White points out.

Yellow agrees. [ Needs more chimichangas. ]

Wade stands over the bed and smooths a hand over the unruly tangle of Peter's curls. It's getting long again, falling over his ears and frizzing at the ends.

"Hey, baby boy," Wade says gently. Peter makes a small noise of disgruntled acknowledgement in the back of his throat. "I got you some water. Can you sit up for me?"

Peter's eyelids flutter. Open a fraction. He looks at Wade, then the glass of water in Wade's hand, then sits up with a low groan. Wade lets his hand slide from Peter's hair to the back of Peter's neck as he hands the glass over.

"All of it, sweetheart," Wade tells him.

Peter drains half the glass in several large gulps. Pulls away to suck in a breath and lick the corners of his mouth like a kid who hasn't learned restraint, before bringing the glass back up. The second half goes more slowly but he eventually finishes. Wade rewards Peter with a good boy, takes the empty glass from him, and sets it on the bedside table.

Peter hums contentedly at Wade's praise and tilts his chin up. His eyes are again shut as he silently asks for a kiss. He looks so sweet that Wade's teeth ache with a need to bite.

"Fuck, I love you like this." Wade touches the thumb of his free hand to the swell of Peter's bottom lip. The rough of his scars match the chapped skin of Peter's mouth. "So cute and eager. You'd let me do anything I want to you, wouldn't you?"

Peter's response is a light hum, the barest vibration of acquiescence. Wade allows it since he isn't asking for a real answer. Instead, he drags his thumb over to Peter's cheek, leans down, and kisses him. It settles in Wade's gut like all their other kisses, hot and soul-shaking; even their first kiss, a disaster of a peck that Peter initiated, had been enough to ruin Wade for the rest of his life.

"What?" Peter had snapped when he pulled away that first time, self-conscious and unsure when Wade had frozen in place. "I thought you wanted—ugh. Never mind."

Wade had just dug a bullet out of Peter's bicep; sanitized and stitched the wound; wrapped it in the sterile gauze he kept but had no need for. Peter turned his head away from Wade, cheeks flushed. His uninjured arm was wrapped around his naked middle, his back hunched as he sat motionless on the cheap imitation marble of the bathroom vanity. Peter's blood was still red in the beds of Wade's fingernails.

"Peter," Wade said, voice strained as Yellow and White babbled unhelpfully in the vacuous emptiness that was his brain. "You can't just—fuck. Please. I don't want it if you—if you don't mean it."

"What?" Peter's eyes darted back to Wade—then to Wade's shoulder, when their eyes met too quickly. "Of course I mean it. I've—" Peter had swallowed. Licked his lips. Said more quietly, more resignedly, "I've wanted to. For awhile now."

The blue-white fluorescents had not been kind to Wade's cracked and craggy skin, but Peter hadn't seemed to care as they kissed, as they peeled the layers of their suits off, as Wade took them both in one hand and got them off as Peter whimpered and writhed. Wade's mouth had only left Peter's when it was absolutely necessary, greedy and desperate to swallow every single noise Peter made.

Wade is no less wanting now, but he allows himself to go slow, to indulge, to not yet use tongue or teeth. His mouth journeys away from Peter's lips, up Peter's jaw, then down to the hollow behind Peter's ear. Peter stinks of sex and sweat and unwashed hair, the citrus and pine of his cheap body spray gone acrid beneath. Wade's cock throbs at the familiar scent.

"Wade," Peter murmurs.

Wade guides Peter to lie down on the mattress, putting his forearms on either side of Peter's head while Peter tucks his calves over Wade's pelvis. Peter seems almost breakable when they're fitted together like this; he feels so much physically smaller than Wade, his slender body dwarfed completely by Wade's bulk.

{ Like he couldn't snap our spine in half like this. }

[ Hot. ]

Dipping his head, Wade noses the side of Peter's face so Peter will give him access to his pretty throat. Peter rakes his nails down Wade's chest, stopping to rub Wade's nipples as Wade works a wicked bruise into the side of Peter's neck. Everything is warm and syrupy, the sweetness interrupted only by the occasional increase of awareness: a mean little pinch, a sharper bite, the catch of their cockheads as they rut lazily together.

"God, I wanna fuck you," Wade hisses when he can bear to move his mouth from Peter's throat. "Wanna feel how tight your little hole is around me."

"Yeah?" Peter gasps, half coy, half frazzled. "Then why don't you?"

It's a game they play. Wade will reach down between their bodies and line his barely wet cock up with Peter's dry hole—then he'll push—then he'll slip away. He'll do this again and again and again as Peter tries to angle his hips, as Wade pushes harder and harder. Peter's rim will grow soft with desperation. Wade will get meaner as his want consumes him. Then, eventually—

"Oh fuck!" Peter all but squeaks as Wade's too big cockhead pops inside him. "Oh god, that's—"

Too much. Wade knows it's too much. He's got the kind of cock that needs prep and patience and persistence, the kind of cock that sometimes doesn't fit, the kind of cock that has made partners go wide-eyed in genuine hesitation. And it's not that Wade doesn't like being careful and gentle with his partners, that he doesn't like easing into them and feeling them relax around him—but there's something about this, about making Peter take it that really gets him going.

"Shit, baby," Wade laughs breathlessly as he shoves in another inch. "You feel like a vice."

Peter's mouth hangs open. His eyes are affixed down, to the place where Wade is forcing himself in, and his grip has migrated to Wade's biceps, squeezing so hard that Wade would have bruises if he didn't heal instantly. Wade can feel every twitch of Peter's body—below him, around him—and grins viciously when an involuntary spasm lets him roll forward just a tiny bit more.

"Like that, sweetheart?" Wade says darkly as he continues to push. "When it hurts?"

"Yeah," Peter responds immediately. His voice is thick, his words clumsy. "Yeah, I like it. Like that I have to—oh." Peter chokes and, instinctually, he cants his hips further up onto Wade's cock. "There, right there—"

Peter's dick rests dark pink against his lower stomach. There's a bit of wetness smeared against the line of hair that starts below his belly button, the sheen of it nearly invisible in the low light. Wade can feel how slick it is when he changes their position, sitting back on his heels, pressing his palm against Peter's tummy, able to feel the bulge of his own cock now that he is fully seated in Peter's body. Peter immediately locks his ankles in the small of Wade's back, fists his hands in the sheets, and whines.

"Gonna make you feel so fucking good," Wade promises darkly as he begins to move, transfixed by the twist of Peter's mouth. "Gonna make you beg, gonna make you cry, gonna make you come on my cock and my cock alone."

[ Promises, promises. ]

Wade ignores the peanut gallery lodged in his scrambled gray matter and begins to move. There is still some resistance left in Peter's body, and the drag of Wade's cock is eased only by the barest ooze of pre-come, but Wade has always been a determined bastard. He fucks Peter hard, and fast, and barely blinks as he drinks in the sight of Peter below him, wriggling like he's in pain even while he wails for more, and more, and more. Peter's dick darkens to a wretched, tempting vermillion, slapping against Wade's knuckles with every thrust.

"C'mon, c'mon," Wade grunts as his gut tightens. He's so close, so close, but he needs to see Peter come undone before he allows himself the same. So he deepens his voice as far as he can, the way he knows Peter likes, and growls, "Be good for me, baby. Be my good little boy, and come."

Peter's entire body tenses. His back arches. His knees dig hard against Wade's sides and his cute dick throbs with his heartbeat. Wade adjusts his angle so he keeps hitting Peter's prostate, so every thrust forces a punched out noise to rise like a hiccup from Peter's throat.

"Wade—!" Peter cries out.

The tension in Peter's body reaches a crescendo. He inhales, a sharp gasp, and hangs suspended, untouched by gravity—then he falls in powerful, pulsing increments. Come splatters translucent over his torso. He clenches in involuntary waves around Wade's cock, milking him, and it is enough. Wade buries himself as deep as he can go and follows, exhaling, long and low and satiated.

It takes several minutes for the both of them to wind down. Both of them go lax but neither of them move. Wade stays inside Peter, keeping the wet mess he made plugged up, and Peter continues to rock his hips, slow and indulgent and mindless, and whimpers as Wade's still full cock stretches him wide.

"Stay," Peter slurs. His thumbs rub circles into the meat of Wade's biceps. "Wanna keep feeling you."

Peter is flushed red from crown to tits. His eyelashes are clumped together by tears. He is so gorgeous, so vulnerable, and Wade is so selfish, so pathetic.

"Alright," Wade murmurs as he bends down for a kiss. "Whatever you want, Peter."

.

.

They lie together in bed like this: Peter with his back against the sheets, with his ankles locked loosely in the small of Wade's back, with his arms draped over the width of Wade's shoulders. Wade is above Peter, his forearms on either side of Peter's head; he's shifted more of his weight backwards so he isn't completely crushing the smaller man, and his knees are now even with Peter's hips. The new position folds Peter's body in half—but there's no complaint from him as they kiss, their mouths sliding against one another aimlessly, warm and spit-slick.

It's nice. Being close like this. Call him a romantic, or a sap, or whatever, but Wade has always craved the intimacy of the afterglow as much as the act of fucking. The fact that he gets to do this with Peter—with the hero he's admired for years, with the crazy smart and somewhat goofy guy he became friends with—still hasn't fully sunk into his brain.

[ That's because it's more scrambled than an overcooked omelette in here. No veggies, all meat. ] Yellow points out. [ Wait. That sounds good. Do we have eggs in the fridge? ]

"Not getting up," Wade mutters.

Beneath him, Peter makes a sleepy, half-formed noise. A question that is too tired to be articulated. Wade turns his head so he can rub his nose against the side of Peter's face.

"Sorry." Wade tells him. "Just talking to myself."

Peter makes another one of those cute little sounds and wiggles to settle more deeply into the cradle of Wade's body. Wade's cock remains buried in the warm clutch of him. He's softened a bit but not all the way; Peter feels too good for him to ever go completely down when they stay like this.

{ Well, technically it's because of the regenerative properties of your healing factor, } White pipes up. { I mean, there's not actually much of a difference between fixing a gunshot wound and clearing muscle fatigue. Your body doesn't exactly pick and choose which processes to regulate—it just senses the imbalance and fixes it. Homeostasis in overdrive. }

Is that Peter or the author talking? Wade wonders as he peppers kisses down the side of Peter's neck to the dip of his clavicle. God knows it ain't me.

Truthfully, Wade doesn't care about the nitty-gritty of his forced mutation. He doesn't need to know anything about enzyme kinetics or cell signaling to know that he's gonna get back up again—both literally and metaphorically—and he doesn't retain much of the scholastic information Peter tends to ramble on about. Not because he isn't listening, but because he's never been one for the theoretical. Wade dropped out of high school, for fuck's sake. He's not book smart. He's real life smart. A product of trial and error. For example, he knows that if he keeps his half-hard cock in Peter's body for a few minutes after he's come, he'll be ready to go again, no problem. He doesn't need to know the biochemical processes happening inside him to know that his refractory period is enviable, to know that he can keep going and going and going. Like the Energizer bunny, if the Energizer bunny did cocaine.

"Fuck," Wade hisses against Peter's skin as he fills out for the third time. Peter's ass feels so good around his cock: so soft, so warm, so wet. Wade grinds forward in an effort to feel more of it. "Fuck, baby, love your tight little hole."

Below him, Peter squirms. His eyes are closed. He's almost asleep. Wade adores the unconscious pinch between his eyebrows and the grumpy downturn of his mouth. His dick is completely flaccid between them, no bigger than Wade's thumb, sated and unable to chub up.

"It's okay, sweetheart," Wade tells Peter as he rolls his hips in circles. "You don't gotta do anything."

Peter's fingertips drag idly between Wade's shoulder blades, back and forth, back and forth. His bitten down nails scrape pleasantly against Wade's uneven skin. Peter isn't awake—not quite—but he isn't totally unaware of what Wade is doing, either.

"I like it when you use me," Peter had admitted once. They had been lying side by side in this same bed, naked beneath the thin cotton sheets, the muggy summer heat barely kept at bay by the a/c unit rattling away in the window. "Like when you're fucking me."

"Even when you're soft?" Wade had asked even though he already understood. He had reached down, then, and cupped Peter in his hand. His palm covered the entirety of Peter's dick and his fingers held Peter's balls easily. Peter was about average when erect but only a few inches long when he wasn't. The compact size of him drove Wade insane. Made him feel a bit mean, made him feel like being a bully. "Even when you don't come?"

"Yeah." Peter looked so pretty as he bit his bottom lip, as he looked at Wade from underneath the shadowy fan of his lashes. His brown eyes were dark and liquid in the weak light of dawn. "It's nice when all I feel is you. Your cock in me, making space. And all I have to do is let you." Peter sighed sweetly and humped Wade's hand. His spent little dick didn't even twitch. "Kinda hurts, you know?"

The way Peter had said those words had been a benediction, his voice breathy and quiet. A confession. He murmured them the way he murmured 'harder' and 'faster' and 'more', the way he murmured 'it's too much' and 'I can't' even while he clung to Wade and refused to let Wade stop.

"I like fucking you," Wade told Peter in return. "My perfect little cocksleeve."

It was as true then as it is now. Peter isn't hard and he isn't fully awake, but his narrow hips cant up lazily each time Wade fucks down, meeting him, taking him. With each thrust, pleasure builds low in the base of Wade's spine. He starts picking up speed. He builds momentum. He can feel his come slipping out of Peter's hole every time he draws back, can hear the obscene squelch of it as he shoves his fat cock all the way back in.

"Wade," Peter slurs as he becomes more conscious.

"Yeah?" Wade grunts.

In response, Peter arches his back. Drags a hand up to the base of Wade's skull and applies the barest pressure. His nipples are tight before Wade even sets his teeth to them.

"Fuh-uckk," Peter whines as Wade rolls the hardened bud between his incisors. It's more bite than suck, and there will be marks from how rough Wade is being. "That feels—nngh—"

Wade glances upward. Peter is looking down—not at him, not really, but at the way Wade has his teeth set into his tit, mean and bruising. Peter's mouth is slack and panting. His eyes are glassy with unshed tears. He looks as wrecked as Wade feels, and he isn't even hard. He's just... taking it. Giving Wade exactly what Wade wants while getting exactly what he wants. Wriggling to get away, squirming to get closer. Desperate and greedy and all for Wade.

For the third time that night, Wade comes. His balls draw up almost painfully; his cock pulses; he dumps another load into Peter's already full body. Wade can feel the excess ooze out between the join of their bodies, thick and viscous. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, as sweat trickles down into his eyes and makes them sting. He can feel the tremor of exertion in his muscles—

Wade forces himself to keep going.

"What are you—oh." Peter blinks when he realizes what Wade is doing. His swollen lips form a shocked circle. It's cute, too cute, and a thought skitters across Wade's sex-addled mind: about pulling out, about forcing Peter down to his sticky cock, about fucking the surprise right off that mouth. Peter would probably moan and flail before he acquiesced and became pliant.

"Fuck," Wade curses as he continues to jackrabbit into Peter. His cock feels almost raw; he can't imagine how sore Peter's hole must be. "Sorry, baby, but you feel too good to stop. I just wanna..."

Peter's hands slide to the curve of Wade's shoulders and gently push. Wade follows the pressure, settling back on his heels even as he continues to rock his hips. The lean line of Peter's body straightens out on the bed: wavy hair a mess, hickeys blooming across his throat and chest, his dick limp. Peter reaches down and presses a finger to the tip, rubbing gently, playing hesitantly with his slit as though it's the first time he's ever done such a thing.

"Wade?" His name is soft and thin as Peter breathes it out, as delicate as the way he touches himself. Peter's other hand creeps down to where they're joined, to where Wade's cock has made him wet and pink, and slides his fingers through the mess. Wade feels a slight brush against his shaft. "Make me hard again?"

Wade has always gotten meaner the sweeter Peter gets, but this—Peter's filthy wants disguised as a coy request—unchains the snarling, snapping beast in Wade. It is as though Peter's constant acceptance allows Wade to devolve further and further into the monster he is underneath, as though Peter's unwavering trust allows for a positive feedback loop of sadism and masochism to build between them. Wade feels simultaneously in control and completely out of his mind. He's brushed the surface of this restrained wildness in past relationships—but now, here in his bedroom with Peter, in that odd hour of the night that is both too late and too early, Wade understands it.

Wade is going to make Peter beg for it. Cry for it. Then he's going to make Peter beg for it to stop, going to make Peter cry that he can't take it anymore. Wade is going to break Peter—then he's going to put him back together, piece by piece, kiss by kiss, word by word.

"Alright, sweetheart." Wade croons the endearment like a threat, like it's a knife pointed at Peter's throat. "I'll make you hard again."

And with his teeth bared in a smile, Wade delivers.

.