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The wound is a thin slit in his side, pulsing hot with pain, drooling blood between the press of his fingers. A slow, lazy bubble under his hand as Wade manhandles both of them through the window and dumps Peter onto the threadbare couch.
Wincing, Peter shudders into place, sinking down into the cushions. Wade is already gone, cursing and digging through the bathroom for a first aid kit that he hasn't needed in years, audibly knocking everything out from under the sink onto the floor. The tight pressure on Peter's side has slowed the bleeding, but he still feels woozy and strange, and his hand trembles when he reaches up to take his mask off.
A slow inhale. The ceiling wavers and shifts like a distant ocean, so he shuts his eyes. However much time goes past, then footsteps and a weight between his splayed legs.
“Shit, Pete, you with me?”
“Yeah,” Peter blinks open his eyes lazily. He's pretty sure it’s mostly the adrenaline that's making him reel, sending thin tremors through his limbs and making his mind spin uncomfortably. Truth be told, he's had worse stab wounds than this – had better, too, but beggars can't be choosers. Or whatever. “Yeah, I'm good. Getting… getting blood on your couch, sorry.”
Laughing, Wade grabs at the bottom of Peter's top with an ungloved hand, rolling it up carefully over his oozing ribs. In Peter's heavy, swirling mind, the wound seems to flutter and breathe in the cold air.
“Dude, it's fine. I've gotten more blood on this couch than anyone.”
Lolling his head forward, Peter looks at Wade, who's looking at his side – lamp turned on, casting a dim, warm light over his bruised, bloodied skin. Mask skewed up over his nose, revealing his mouth set in a thin, determined line. He's focused on the wound with the knowledgeable intensity of a mechanic doing maintenance on a car.
“It's gonna need stitches,” Wade tells him, speaking in the exact cadence of a doctor delivering the news that the cancer is terminal, “I have no painkillers, Pete, I musta popped ‘em all. We're gonna have to do it raw.”
Snorting a laugh, Peter squeezes hard at his side when pain sears up into his armpit, the movement of his humor tugging at the edge of the wound like a fish hook. Immediately, Wade's other hand lands on his uninjured hip and presses down, gently pinning him into the squishy, loose cushions.
“Hold still,” he says, and Peter's brain fizzles and fuzzes. Big hand on his hip, pressure pinning him down, it's all that he feels just then. Underneath Wade, he goes pliant and limp and his bloody hand slides lamely down into the crease of the couch. “Okay, hold on.”
As Peter watches him, Wade swims out of and then sharply back into focus. Huge and focused and making a pair of tweezers look like a Barbie accessory in his giant hand. With the tweezers he carefully strips away shreds of torn suit, coming away from the bloody wound with a wet peeling sound, like paper mache. After a few careful examinations to make sure nothing has slipped past him, the bloody tweezers land on the coffee table, the makeshift suture kit is popped open. The way Wade goes about everything is messy – gripping the blood-slick gash, manhandling and pinching and leaning close to eyeball the thickness of the skin and where the needle needs to enter.
It should hurt, in fact it does, but it's also Wade's hands on him and grabbing him and holding him down and his brain just isn't working right, okay? That must be it – he's blood-dizzy and zoned out on adrenaline, and at the first pass of needle through skin he makes a noise – thick, needy, drawn out. Fingers gripping at the couch cushions until the fabric tears beneath them.
“Hnn… hah.”
“Sorry, Pete, I–” Cutting himself off mid-apology, Wade suddenly looks up at him, and Peter can tell he's making a face even with the mask on. There's a pause. For a second it feels like Wade is staring a hole straight into his stupid, slow brain. Peter's breath comes out hot, heavy, shaky. Then, slowly, with realization: “That wasn't from pain.”
Shaking his head weakly, Peter presses his free hand over his eyes and squeezes at his temples, humiliated. “Sorry,” he mumbles, “I can do it myself if you want.”
“And miss hearing that sound again?” Laughing sharply, Wade runs his hand over the wound, and Peter gasps and shudders into it. Scarred fingers prod just inside him, poking past the lip of the split flesh, and in his suit his toes curl. “Fuck. You act like this when you do this at home?”
“Nnno.”
Splitting open his fingers, Peter peeks through at Wade, who's staring back with an animal intensity. At his side the wound is throbbing, crying its protest against the intrusion of Wade's fingers, but something about it feels so fucking good that it's making Peter's whole brain numb. Eyes half-lidded and hazy, breath coming in hot, ragged gasps. Something in the air feels heavy, like the weight of an oncoming storm. Electric and metallic.
“Ohhh,” Wade grins, wolfish, “So it's just me?”
“Dunno,” Peter replies, “Maybe it's like, hah, how… how you can't tickle yourself, you know?”
“Can't tickle yourself, can't finger your own stab wound.” Cocking his head thoughtfully, Wade retracts his touch from where he's been massaging and thumbing into the gash, red and open and wet like a mouth. Absently, his other hand pulls at the needle, thread coiled loosely around his finger like the cord of a telephone. Yanking the skin like he’s yanking a dog by the leash. “All the same thing, I guess.”
Thoughtlessly, like he's not even paying attention to what he's doing, Wade lifts his hand and sucks his thumb into his mouth. Licking blood off like he's starving for it, wet and careless. In his gums, Peter's heart throbs hungrily.
“Wade, I can't, mm, fuck,” he moans senselessly, voice throaty and raw and hiccuping. Big tears bead in his eyes and spill down his temples, slick, hot, falling faster than he can stop them. When his hips cant up desperately, legs twitching with need, Wade drops his hand to pin him by the hip again. “Fuck me, ohmygod, Wade, please.”
Honestly, he doesn't know what he's asking for – not to be fucked, not really, there's a stab wound in his side that might not like the idea so much (then again it hasn't liked any of this so far, so who cares) – but Wade doesn't seem to care any more than he does, shushing Peter in a soft, condescending coo.
Sweetly, he says, “If you ask nicely like that again, baby, I will, but first I gotta fix you up, don't I? Then I'll be nice and gentle, ‘cause,” then, laughing, he tugs at the thread again, “Otherwise I'll just pop ya right back open.”
Delirious, Peter shakes and sobs and slurs, “Want you to,” and means it wholeheartedly. Split him apart, put him back together, he wants Wade to do whatever the fuck he wants and he wants to lay here and take it until he can't even remember his own name.
“I know you do, beautiful.”
He taps Peter on the nose twice, leaving behind a wet, bloody fingerprint, then chases it with a little kiss.
“But for now, you're just gonna be good and sit still while I do what I gotta do to make sure you don't bleed out on my couch.” Tilting his head this way and that, he shrugs a little bit. Gesturing with his chin to the dark blood already soaked into the stained fabric. “More than you already have, anyway.”
With a dumb, slow nod, Peter shivers and melts back into the cushions again. Even though he tries he can't fully sit still, tremors curling through his back and arms and everything, but Wade doesn't bother to really pin him down anymore, hand simply gripping at the uninjured side of his waist for leverage while he leans down to get a closer look as he works.
Until now, he hasn't even had a chance to really get started – only pushed the needle through once to pull the knot snug against the skin before he got distracted by Peter's whoreish antics. When he finally gives it a good yank and then jabs it through again, starting on the first real stitch, Peter's brain whites out. Suddenly he's not even aware of anything he's doing – the whiny noises he's making, the way he writhes like a fish out of water, twisting and pleading for something unknowable. Mostly Wade ignores him, other than finally holding him down again and muttering “Sing it, Petey, sing it.”
(Peter tries to make a Phantom Of The Opera joke, but can't even force the words to exist in his mouth. Oh well.)
In his brain, everything bleeds together, pain and pleasure becoming indistinguishable. It all just feels, becoming something hot and alive, trying to burst from the seams of his body. At some point he realizes he's hard, but only because Wade does first and shifts to press their hips together, grinding his own erection against Peter's through layers of thin spandex and rough leather.
“Wade, you feel s’ good, fuck,” he mumbles, rambling mindlessly as his brain loses its grap on its ability to filter what thoughts come out of his mouth, “You're ssooo big, want you to – to cut me open and play around in my, ah, my insides…”
“Pete,” Wade groans, sounding genuinely pained, “Peter, Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick, baby, you sound hot as a spoon in a crackhouse right now but I really, really need you to stop distracting me. Just shut your dumb, slutty mouth, please.”
That ‘please’ sounds less like a request and more like an ‘I'll ask nicely this time but if you don't listen to me I'm gonna do something about it and you might not like it’. Unfortunately, Peter has the self-preservation skills of a toddler on the best of days, nevermind now, so instead of heeding the warning he just slurs out, “Can you call me that again?”
“Oh, for the love of–” Pausing, Wade grabs at Peter’s wrist, prodding and twisting his hand around before slamming his thumb down on the button against his palm, and Peter’s webshooter fires off a short, thick blob of webbing that lands right on his mouth, gluing his lips firmly shut. When he tries to say something and all that comes out is this soft trickle of noise, Wade laughs smugly at him. “There we go. So fuckin’ mouthy all the time. Guess now you’ll finally listen – it’s all you can do, huh?”
Nodding, Peter looks at Wade from under his eyelashes, gaze heated and wet. The smile Wade gives him is condescending, like he’s a dumb, slobbering dog, and he gives him a firm, appreciative pat on the hip before he goes back to work. And so it goes: Wade stitching him up with quiet focus while Peter makes soft, needy, hungry noises against the webbing, testing against his teeth with his tongue. Testing Wade’s grip, too, because Peter never knows when to quit, though Wade doesn't seem particularly bothered by it.
Finally, Wade finishes the stitches off with a knot and a snip, tossing a little pair of surgical scissors onto the coffee table. A second later he's curling over top of Peter, one hand on his waist, other wrapped around his thigh, massaging it. He's big, so big compared to him, and Peter just wants to – touch him and grab him forever. Greedy hands run down the hard plane of Wade's back, clawing at his shoulder blades, gripping at his neck and upper arm. Jerking forward, he knocks their foreheads together, and Wade laughs against his webbed mouth.
“Look at you, you're so desperate. Is this really all it takes to get into your pants?” He teases, punctuating his point with a sharp roll of his hips, suit-clad dicks rubbing against each other again. “All I had to do was finger-fuck your stab wound, you stupid slut? Fuck, I shoulda just stabbed you myself, would've gotten here ages ago.”
Nod, nod. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. Snorting, Wade presses a warm, open kiss to the layer of webbing, then moves down. The Spider-Man suit is rolled up over his collarbones, and past that it's all just bruises and blood, chest and belly coated in it like a crime scene. Scarred lips skate through it, never pressing down, just gliding across the skin, covering his rough mouth with it. Tongue darts out, lapping like a cat – you know, cats will eat your dead body after you die – and drawing a hot line through the cooling blood.
“Fuck, baby, you taste good. You know that shit the Greek gods drink? Couldn't compare to this.”
(Ambrosia, he means Ambrosia.)
“And I'm sure your nerdy ass knows exactly what I'm talking about. Too bad you can't tell me what it is, huh?” His hand slides lazily up from his thigh and a thumb presses into the tender skin of his freshly stitched wound. The softest pressure, just enough to sting but not enough to pop the threads. Never let it be said that Wade Wilson can't be gentle when he wants to.
(Let it be said, however, that Wade Wilson almost never wants to.)
“Anyway, I'm, like, totally jealous of mosquitoes RN.”
(He says RN out loud – are-en. )
“Mmn. Mmfmm.” You're a dork. You're such a stupid dork.
“I can't understand you when you speak in that tone,” Wade clicks his tongue, sitting up as he tugs at the waistband of Peter's pants. As soon as he's popped him free, his hand is wrapped around the base of Peter's swollen erection, giving him a little tug. It's slick, pre-cum and blood making for an easy slide, and Peter writhes up into it. “You're lucky you're pretty, Pete, really. No other man will want to finger your cute little holes – and I do mean the ones made with serrated steel, to be clear – if you don't clean up that attitude.”
Dropping Peter's erection to pull himself free from his own suit, Wade scoots forward to grab them both in one huge hand. His dick is hot and thick and a lot bigger than Peter's, which is nnngnhh, and when he gives them both a wet, lazy pump it makes Peter throw his head back and exhale a blissful, strangled sound.
“I know, baby, I know. Look at you, you’re so worked up, aren't you? And I barely even did anything.” Laughing, Wade speeds up, hips pushing up into each grind of his hand and flick of his wrist. The friction it makes, dicks rubbing together in the curl of Wade's fingers, turns Peter's brain fuzzy, hyper-aware of their erections throbbing together and the simultaneous painful pulsing in his side from the pressure. “I'd say it's an ego boost, but I think you're just dumb for the pain, aren't you?”
All Peter can do is nod mindlessly, a thin, tight heat coiling in the pit of his stomach. Each tug toward the edge has him arching his back incrementally – the thrusts of Wade's hips are meaningful, rhythmic, but Peter's are just instinctive and aimless. Already he's so fucking close – honestly, though, he's been teetering on the edge ever since Wade started fingering his insides. How long ago that was, he couldn't say; could've been a lifetime, could've been fifteen minutes. Peter can't reliably say that he would remember his own middle name if somebody asked right now.
Aimlessly, his hands flutter around, settling eventually on the wooden base of the couch and one of Wade's shoulders. Hips twitching endlessly upward, like they're being pulled on a string . One of his knees bows into the air, calf pressing into Wade's side. Before he cums his body always draws tight in on itself, and it's certainly trying to do that now, though with the fresh stitches it's not fully possible. Even still, Wade seems to notice, panting above him,
“Fuck, you gonna cum for me, Pete? Look at your cute lil’ dick, practically drooling for it. He's so adorable, he wants it so bad!”
Normally, Peter would probably not appreciate Wade referring to his dick as a… separate entity? – and normally he would make that fact very known – but even if he could talk right now, he's too far gone to even care. Although it starts as a build, like slowly struggling toward a precipice, his orgasm ends up coming without much warning at all – a train slamming into him, a punch to the throat. The world falls away around him in a sharp split as hot pleasure-pain courses through him and spills into Wade's hand in thick spurts. For a long moment everything is just dark and heat and the electricity pounding down his spine, a floating, bodiless bliss.
What reels him back to reality is the sensitivity that comes with another drag on his dick, leg kicking out blindly in his attempt to squirm away from the continued stimulation. Wade shoves him to hold him in place but stops his stroking, hand unmoving but still wrapped loosely around both of them.
“I just shoved my fingers in your stab wound and a little good old-fashioned overstimulation is what gets you?” He asks, disbelieving, mocking. Even still, a second later his voice is softer when he adds, “Hey, seriously, you good? You want me to stop? Give me one tap for stop, two for go.”
Taking a deep, wet breath through his nose, Peter finally nods and fumbles out a hand to pat him twice on the shoulder. This time when Wade moves his hand – slowly, testing – Peter's dick gives a small, valiant twitch of its own. Laughing, Wade shoves his face into the crook of Peter's neck and starts pumping like his life depends on it, panting and groaning like a dog. When he cums he makes this cute little noise and presses his teeth into Peter's neck like a reflex, deep and rough, and Peter makes an ‘nnnf’ sound behind the webbing while Wade twitches and spills onto his thighs and pelvis.
Slowly, Peter drapes his arms over Wade's shoulders, feeling loose and jelly-limbed. Finally releasing his neck – Peter would say ‘drop it, boy’ and then laugh hysterically at his own joke if it weren't for the webs, and the fact his brain is still dribbling out slowly through his dick – Wade licks at the bruising skin and looks up at him.
“Hey baby, you good? You still here?” Voice soft, Wade sits up slowly, hand sliding down Peter's waist and back to his thigh. Fingers stroking and squeezing at his knee. When Peter just blinks sleepily – looking more through Wade than at him – Wade shakes his head, and that hand leaves Peter's knee to grab at his jaw instead, squishing his cheeks together and tilting his head forward. Peter's dick gives another excited twitch against his fingers. “Nuh-uh, nun'a that, I need you awake, okay? And stop getting turned on by this, you fuckin’ loser.”
Tightening his grip, Wade tugs until Peter sits up, limp and pliant. Trying to keep himself upright, Peter squeezes at his shoulders, and Wade leans forward to bonk their foreheads together again. Peter slides a hand up to hold him in place there, pressing their noses together.
“You're cute,” Wade says, thumb tapping at the webbing over his mouth, “You got any of your web dissolve-y shit with you?”
For a second, Peter just stares blankly, barely even registering the question as English. When he finally understands, he nods slowly, hand dropping to pat around his suit, and Wade presses a kiss to the tip of his nose.
“‘Kay, you deal with that, I'll BRB.”
(Again, spoken out loud – be-are-be. )
Tucking himself back into his suit, Wade stands up, and Peter dreamily watches him walk away. Through the fuzz in his eyes everything has gone smooth around the edges – even Bea and Arthur look soft as pillows. His head feels… heavy, and thick, like it's filled with cotton, and things don't feel quite real. Like if he reached out and tried to touch the coffee table, his hand would just phase right through it. The only thing that's keeping him vaguely tethered to reality is the hot throbbing in his side, which is a lot worse than it would've been had Peter not let Wade practically fuck the stab wound there.
Suddenly, from his right –
“Pete.”
Peter's head lolls to the side lazily to look up at Wade, who's holding a big cup with a straw and a rag, and giving him an… exasperated? look, now fully lacking a mask.
“Why didn't you – oh, Jesus, I'm a moron. Obviously you forgot, what was I even thinking?”
Forgot? Peter glances around, staring at his hand, which is lying still against his own knee. His dick is still out, and… sticky. What was he looking for before?
“Mmmf?”
Ohhhh, the web solvent.
“Yeah,” Wade laughs, setting aside the cup and rag to sit down on the couch. “Where's it at, Pete?”
Heaving his leg up with both hands and incredible amounts of effort, Peter plops his foot into Wade's lap, shaking all the way up from his toes to his fingertips. With that monumental task done, he braces a hand on the cushions and leans back, while Wade's hand runs along his foot and his ankle and then finally his calf, where he finds the tiny pocket containing the even tinier vial.
Pulling it out, he unscrews the lid and uses the dropper to squeeze the clear liquid onto the webbing. All at once, it starts to fizzle away, peeling and burning away like paper, freeing his mouth from its prison. After taking a deep breath, Peter spends a minute puckering and flattening his lips, finding them somehow stiff and unresponsive, and when he finally opens his mouth to say his first word in God knows how long, Wade just cuts it off with a kiss.
“Missed seein’ that pretty mouth,” he grins. Peter mumbles something that almost might be an attempt at a response, running a shaky hand down Wade's side. “How you feelin’, beautiful?”
“I,” pausing, Peter takes stock. Somehow, he's tired in a way that is both peaceful and horrible, a bone-deep, gnawing satedness that's only overridden in his mind by a full-body pain. Now he can feel every aching bruise spanning across his torso, the sharp sting between his ribs, even the bite Wade left in his neck seems ten times louder than before. Reflexively, his fingers curl into Wade's side in time with the gritting of his own teeth. “Hurt. A lot.”
“I bet,” Wade says softly, leaning over to collect the damp rag, drawing it gently over Peter's dick and then tucking him back into his suit. Then he moves up, cleaning dry, sticky blood off his skin in careful circles until the white rag has gone completely pink and Peter no longer feels completely disgusting. When he cautiously wipes over the fresh stitches, Peter hisses through his teeth and squirms away, and Wade looks apologetic at first, then slightly guilty. “Oh, shit, right. Uh, Pete, I kinda… lied to you.”
Automatically, Peter tries to glare at Wade, but it's weaker than his usual ones. Too tired and loopy to really give it that patented Peter Parker Fury.
“Not on purpose, I swear!”
“What do you mean, ‘not on purpose'?” Peter asks, watching Wade lean over to the table, discarding the rag in favor of something else he can't see (Peter's eyesight right now is almost like before the bite, when he had to wear glasses) and the cup. “How do you accidentally lie?”
“Well, okay, I told you I had no painkillers but it turns out I kinda just… didn't look in the mirror cabinet?” Smiling nervously, Wade opens his hand to reveal four little blue pills. Peter could weep at the sight of them. “This is like, a shiiit ton of morphine, so either you're gunna be high as a kite, or it'll be like, the perfect amount. I dunno, open up.”
Reflexively, Peter drops open his mouth, and Wade deposits each pill onto his tongue, fingers lingering there. Absently and lazily Peter laps at them, then suddenly registers what Wade just said and clamps his teeth down onto his knuckles.
“Eek! C'mon, Pete, no need to get feral. It was an accident.”
“You didn't check behind the mirror?!” Peter asks, muffled by Wade's fingers, and Wade takes the opportunity to slip them out of his mouth and replace them with a bendy straw. Peter takes a big gulp of water to wash down the pills, then takes two more.
“I was in a hurry!” Wade glares at him, “You were laying on my couch with a stab wound!”
Shaking his head, Peter laughs in disbelief. It sends that familiar sharp pain down his side, all the way into his hip, and it falls off sharply into an uncomfortable wheeze. Concerned, Wade leans forward and settles a hand on his shoulder.
“Yeah, you were real worried,” he snips breathlessly, “Was finger-fucking the thing out of concern, too, or what?”
At that, Wade cracks a sleazy grin. The way he looks Peter up and down is cartoonishly obvious, which is probably the intention.
“Nah, that was just me bein' nasty. Not that you can say shit about it, can you?” His voice turns mocking, high-pitched, “Ohh, Wade, your dick's so fat, fuck me rawww. Finger my stab wound while I moan like a whore.”
Snorting weakly, Peter carefully shuffles forward to rest his chin on top of Wade's shoulder, drowsily pressing his face into the crook of his neck. “‘s not what I sounded like, you dick.”
“It literally is.”
Using his free hand – the other still holding the glass of water – Wade carefully manhandles Peter until he's sitting between Wade's legs with his back to his chest. Now, Wade props his own chin onto Peter's head, and holds the cup up to his face.
“Drink some water, baby. How about I order us some food and you pick a movie?”
“‘Kay,” Peter agrees sweetly, taking the water and the remote that Wade offers a second later, already dialing a number on his phone to place an order. The pain in Peter's side has dulled a little, but won't really go away until the morphine kicks in, and his scrolling through Netflix is mostly mindless. He's putting more conscious effort into drinking his water.
“I'd settle in,” Wade warns, once he's finished ordering an abhorrently expensive amount of food. His phone drops from his hand and slips carelessly between the couch cushions, and one arm loops around Peter's shoulders while the opposite hand curls through his hair. “You're gonna be here awhile. Like, all night, at least.”
It's already late. All night is a guarantee. Doesn't sound so bad, that's what Peter thinks. Finally settling on Monty Python and the Holy Grail, he slumps back into Wade.
“How ‘bout longer than that?”
“How much longer? A day? A month? A year? Forever? Let's talk specifics.”
Huffing a soft laugh, Peter smiles sleepily, and reaches up to tangle their hands together. In response, Wade bends down to kiss the top of his ear.
“Later. Right now, we're watching Monty Python.”
“Okay, later then,” Wade replies, soft and reverent, “Whatever you want, baby.”