A/N: Enjoy some sweet, sweet Spideypool softness :3 And smut >:) And other things!

Wade's brain tickles.

It has for a while, ever since he shot at Spider-Man for the first time and the man dodged it with effortless ease. Sure, the superhuman community was ripe with mutants, mutates, and superhumans, with powers that lent them the ability to move faster than a speeding bullet, hold up buildings, and do things otherwise deemed impossible by natural laws. But where Spider-Man is concerned, he was on another level.

Not because of his enhanced senses, per se, but because of his precognition. A tickle down his spine before the trigger pulls, a tap on the shoulder before the knife unsheathes–kind of like future vision if you think about it. Heroes, vigilantes, villains, and lowly thugs alike have bemoaned about how hard it is to lay a hand on him during a fight.

But Wade enjoys rolling it around in his hand, puzzling over how to get past Spider-Man's 6th sense if the circumstance ever arose, and these sessions in the basement were the perfect time to test his hypothesis. Not that it's his entire focus when they're sparring. It's called multitasking.

A few days go by before Wade brings Peter down to the basement again, waiting until he was relaxed, softened putty before deeming it time for phase two. As Wade descends the stairs, Peter fidgets at the top, licking his lips nervously.

"Come on," Wade urges when he notices, holding a hand out to him.

"Are we doing the same thing as last time?" Peter asks, ignoring the proffered hand.

"What do you think?"

Peter jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "How about we just head back to the living room and watch a movie? You can pick, I'll watch anything."

When Wade doesn't respond, Peter sighs, shoulders dropping. "Fine," he slaps his hand into Wade's, allowing himself to be pulled down the stairs.

"Do I need to repeat the rules?" Wade asks once they're situated, adjusting the guns strapped to his hips and thighs.

Peter crosses his arms. "No, they were very clear last time, Daddy."

The little shit.

"Then let's get started." Wade reaches out again, and Peter goes rigid, strings pulling tight like a puppet trying to resist its puppeteer.

"Not again," he bemoans.

"Come on," Wade wiggles his fingers.

"But it's not fair!" Peter whines, all but stomping his foot and throwing his arms around. "Why don't you have to give up your guns and knives?"

"This is all part of your treatment."

Peter holds his wrists away protectively, exhaling harshly through his nose. "What would you know about treatment?"

Wade shrugs. "I've gone to many different treatment centers."

Peter raises an eyebrow.

"Alright, I've been forced to many different treatment centers."

"So, why do I have to do this?"

Wade clasps a hand on both of Peter's shoulders, jostling him a little. "I know you don't like giving up your webs, but it's for the greater good. This is all part of the plan."

"What is the 'plan' anyway? You still haven't told me anything."

Wade waves a hand, knocking the question aside. "Tony and I agreed it would be best to play this one by ear. See how you respond to things naturally."

Peter crosses his arms with a glower. "I see. You're conspiring with Tony."

Wade wrinkles his nose. "Ugh, don't say that. Gross. I should wash your mouth out for that." He gestures to Peter's wrists more emphatically. "Now come on, you said you trusted me, didn't you?"

Peter throws his head back with a long, whining groan, hemming and hawing, and reiterating how much he hates all of this, before dropping his wrist in Wade's palm. Wade tapes the pieces of cloth over his spinnerets, and like last time, Peter holds his wrists possessively to his chest, stating once again that he really, really, really hates this, actually.

"Stop whining," Wade says, holding up his fists. "God, you're worse than Weasel. Now come on, get in defensive position."

"You get into defensive position," Peter grumbles but obediently falls into a crouch. He's more prepared this time, anticipating Wade's lunge and aiming a punch at his solar plexus. It's easy for him to forget about pulling his punches when he's angry, and after a few rounds, Wade holds up his hands and says, "Alright, next phase."

"There are phases?" Peter demands, squinting skeptically as Wade fishes through his pockets and reaches for Peter's wrists again. He cocks his head, skepticism momentarily overcome by intrigue, as Wade clips on a pair of thick, sturdy cuffs that glint silver in the light, glowing with electric blue lines that perfectly accent Stark's aesthetic.

"Have I mentioned how easily we could stray into kink right now?" Peter pipes up suggestively.

"Yes. Many times."

Peter huffs. "I can't believe you're saying no to sex."

Wade plants his hands on his hips, chastening. "Well, maybe if you weren't such a hoe."

"Pot meet kettle, slut."

"Whore."

Wade kneels down, adding another pair of cuffs to Peter's ankles, and Peter hops from foot to foot, rolling his ankles and wrists, testing his mobility on both ends. "So, what're the bangles for? Stylish, but not really my thang."

"This," Wade pushes a button on the remote that came with them, and Peter grunts in surprise as his arms bounce, dragged down by an unseen force. He pulls them back up with another grunt, jumping them up and down, testing the unfamiliar weight.

"What the hell and why the hell?"

Wade beams. "Tony sent them. Neat, huh?"

"You are such a cheater," Peter says, throwing a few punches and kicks in the open air.

"Yeah, a cheater who's going to win." Wade attacks and Peter jerks backward, knocking aside a punch to his head. He's still fast by human standards, but slower by Spider-Man standards, fighting against the electromagnetic weights Tony promised would weigh him down. By the time the round ends, Peter is panting, suit damp with sweat. He bends over, trying to catch his breath, hands on his knees.

"Cheater," he reiterates weakly.

"D'aww, sweet-talker," Wade preens. "You get one minute, then we're going again."

"One minute?" Peter sputters, forcing himself back up. "Just knock me out now, why don't ya? I'd like to see you fight with all this dead weight."

"Maybe tonight if you ask real sweetly," Wade croons and rejoices when Peter rolls his eyes but tamps down on a small smile. "Now come on, you're not quitting, are you?"

"Pfft, you wish," Peter says, scoffing, and squares up.

They go again, and again, and again, each time Wade adds a little more weight until Peter's entire body is shaking from the strain and he's wheezing for breath. He goes silent during round three, eyes growing darker than their last sparring session. When they're entirely black and Peter's nose is bunching, a hiss just beginning to slip between his teeth, Wade backs off, palms up.

"Alright, that's all for today," he says, dialing back the weight.

A breath escapes Peter's chest like he'd been holding it in, and his arms drop like lead. He sways on his feet and slowly crumbles to the floor, spread-eagle, with a deep, exhausted sigh.

"Finally," he grumbles and Wade sits criss-cross-apple-sauce next to him, massaging his back. Peter rumbles in approval.

"Focus on breathing," Wade says and Peter looks up at him, mouth opening. "I said breathing, not talking. Inhale."

Peter rolls his eyes and inhales. Then exhales. Inhales again, following along with Wade until his eyes aren't black and his face is smooth and calm. Wade stands, offering him a hand.

"Come on, lunchtime."

Peter nods enthusiastically as he hauls him up.

"You can walk on the ground this time. But only for a little bit."

"Gee, you're such a saint."

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

Wade's gotten used to Peter's post-therapy rants; he expects Peter to leave his room with his arms thrown in the air, raving about how conceited his therapist is and how he knows nothing at all. Typically, Wade watches with equal amounts of enjoyment, and PTSD–therapy never really stuck with him.

So when the door opens and Wade looks up, curious about the tirade Peter will go on about this time, he sits up, surprised, when Peter comes out with glossy red eyes and splotchy cheeks, like he'd been crying. He turns down the show he was watching as Peter sulks across the ceiling. He stops right above Wade, flips around, lands on the couch, and face-plants into Wade's chest–making him oomph–as Wade's arms automatically wrap around him.

"So...how'd it go?" Wade asks after a minute and Peter makes a long-suffering noise. "That bad?"

"We talked about things," Peter grouses, unhappy.

"Yes, that generally happens when it comes to shrinks. The rumors are true."

"We talked about past things."

Wade leans his head to the side inquisitively. "Like, gross traumatic past things?"

Peter nods, curling his arms around Wade's torso, pulling as hard as he dares with his spider strength, like an octopus on steroids. Or a squid. Definitely something with many legs.

"Do you...think I have abandonment issues?" Peter asks, voice small.

Wade grimaces, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean, this relationship is still pretty fresh. I don't know if we're there yet."

"He says I'm afraid of losing people," Peter says.

Wade scoffs. "Everyone's afraid of losing someone. Idiot."

Peter's head turns to the side as he draws meaningless patterns into Wade's shirt, eyes trailing along the wood floor like he's searching for something underneath the floorboards–something, something Edgar Allan Poe. "No, like...I get obsessive with it. Like it consumes me. I try so hard to prevent it, I end up pushing them away. I protect them to prevent losing them, but I isolate myself to prepare for losing them, anyway."

Wade winces. "Yikes."

"Yeah," Peter sniffs. "Stupid shrinks. What do they know?"

"They're full of utter BS."

"All the bullshit."

"Cowshit and horseshit, too."

Peter laughs weakly, turning and burying his face in Wade's shirt again. "Do you think—" he cuts himself off, twinning a finger into Wade's shirt. "I don't know...I think maybe that's why I feel...safe. With you." He murmurs, and Wade's heart skips a beat. "I know you'll always come back, which is shitty because I know how much your healing factor takes out of you, but...I can't help but feel grateful, anyway. Ugh, does that make me a bad person? I feel like a bad person."

"Well, all things considered," Wade drawls, scratching his neck, "having a cure-all healing factor sucks balls. Like the absolute worst experience ever, do not recommend. But," he looks down at Peter, giving his hair a tousle, "I guess if I didn't have it I'd be dead a thousand times over and I wouldn't have the privilege of you sucking me dry, so I guess it's not bad all the time."

Peter snorts, then chuckles, shaking his head. "Is that a suggestion? Are you trying to hint at something?"

"Meaning, do I want you to sink those sexy sexy fangs into my throat? Yes. Yes, I am."

"Not what I was talking about."

"I mean, the other thing would be nice too, but come on, fang kink, Peter."

Peter shakes his head again and leans up, kissing him. Wade makes a pleasant noise in response, kissing back. Oh, the fantasies he's had about this, kissing Spider-Man, sliding his hands up his shirt, feeling the roll of muscle and warm skin under his palm. He does so right now, hiking Peter's shirt up and exploring every inch he can get his paws on. Peter adjusts his position, so he's sitting up in Wade's lap, getting a better angle of Wade's lips as he cradles his jaw, fingers skimming across his scars gently and featherlight.

One hand slides down and slips under Wade's shirt, mimicking his actions, causing Wade to break their kiss and wryly ask, "Are you trying to avoid emotional problems by instigating something?"

"No," Peter says, recapturing his lips.

"I don't believe you," Wade says between kisses.

"You don't have to."

Wade flips them over, so Peter's on his back, and hovers over him, giving him a deep kiss that wipes away Peter's grumpy scowl.

"Later," Wade promises, tilting his chin up.

Peter crosses his arms, his shirt still riding up and exposing his stomach. "I don't think I like this new responsible Wade."

Wade smirks. "I learned from the best. This is all your fault."

Peter sighs, fond, and tugs Wade on top of him. "Fine, no sex right now. Can you just...hold me or something? Geez, way to keep a guy waiting."

"I think I can do cuddles." Wade curls an arm around him, and Peter turns, resting his face against his chest. He has a habit of doing that, scrunching himself up small, limbs curled inward. A spider hiding in a crevice, or under a rock, to avoid the bigger, meaner things stalking the world outside. This side of Spider-Man that Wade never knew even existed. The same man who punched through walls, dodged bullets, and didn't make a sound when Wade stitched him up, curling up to him for comfort.

Wade smiles a stupid, goopy, totally cringey love-dovey smile and does as he promised, holding him close.

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

Wade ups the intensity when they return to the basement.

Peter blocks his attack, wrists taped and limbs heavy with artificial weight. His eye twitches and he grinds his teeth, eyes darting occasionally to the speakers in the walls as the music gets louder. Techno and dubstep, so loud that Wade can hear the beats through his earplugs.

The smell of peppermint is heavy in the air as well, not too much as to be overwhelming, but Peter's nose is wrinkled and his brows furrowed, face screwed in disgust. He's sloppy, annoyed, and eager to pin Wade down and end this stimulation hell. But Wade is the one keeping his wits about him, dodging each lunge and punch, which infuriates Peter more.

This time, Wade is using his guns. No actual bullets, just rubber ones with hard, blunted tips designed for bruises, not blood. Peter dodges the first few shots, but he's distracted by the pummeling music and heavy peppermint, and by the fourth shot he takes a bullet in the shoulder. Hissing through his teeth, he backs up, hand clasped on the bruising area. Wade had taken his mask this session, too.

"The system is rigged," Peter had joked when Wade told him as much, fidgeting with the seams of his mask. Wade figured Peter's relationship with his mask was like his own; a defense. A protective layer between him and the rest of the world. Without it, it's one more vulnerability he has to juggle in his hands–which sucks balls.

Wade shoots him again. He dodges; he shoots again and gets Peter's thigh, then his other arm, then Peter dodges again.

"Wade," he warns through clenched teeth, holding the word there like he might shake his head and tear at it like a dog.

Wade lunges forward, feigning a punch for the bruise on Peter's arm, then slams the butt of his gun against the side of his head instead. Peter cries out in pain, and when his head snaps up, his fangs are unsheathed and his eyes are inky black pools that glare with malice.

Snapping forward, he snatches Wade by the wrist, so hard the bones snap, and the gun slips from Wade's hand. Peter grasps the front of Wade's shirt with his other hand and slams him down, cracking ribs and forcing air out of his lungs. He hisses in his face.

"Okay," Wade rasps, struggling to recapture air. "Okay, we're done. It's okay, Peter, we're done."

With his free hand, he rubs Peter's wrist, the one with a strangle grip on Wade's other wrist, and Peter's eyes jump to it.

"It's okay," Wade says softly. "No more. Come back to me, Petey. Listen to my voice. Breathe with me."

This Peter understands. His eyes are still locked on Wade's hand but he mimics Wade's breathing until his eyes go back to normal and his fangs slowly retract. He's still breathing deeply by the time Wade is staring into his lovely brown eyes, grip softening as he sits on his haunches, legs bracketing Wade's hips. Excitement bubbles under Wade's skin and he can't help but press a kiss to the inside of Peter's wrist, just above the web gland. That was the fastest he's gotten out of spider-space so far, and he's getting better at recognizing Wade's voice.

Peter stares down in confusion, eyes slanting to the side as if looking inward, and then they snap back to Wade. He takes another breath as if to make sure he's truly back and laughs, light and excited, tension leaking from his shoulders like a popped balloon. He meets Wade's eyes, beaming, and drags him up, hugging the breath out of him.

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

They take a bath that night, in one of Stark's ridiculously enormous bathtubs that could fit four people comfortably—ideas of what Stark used them for flicker through his brain, and ooooh boy, not bad. Billionaire fuck-shed, indeed.

Scented candles bob and flicker, giving the bathroom a warm, golden glow. The water is heavy with foam and bubbles because a bath isn't truly relaxing if it isn't a bubble bath. It unlocked your inner child and reignited the hopes and dreams the real world squashed to paste as soon as you left high school. Granted, Wade's dreams were plenty squashed before high school and he didn't even graduate–well, he doesn't think he did. It's hard to keep his origin story straight in the ol' noggin.

Anyway, Peter is having a grand time attempting to stack bubbles on Wade's head. Inner child: unlocked.

"See, it's kind of like a wig if you mold it right," he says, cupping bubbles between his hands and attempting to compact them on Wade's hairless scalp, kneeling so Wade is eye-level with his chest—not the worst view, all things considered.

Well, if he could see.

"Ow, ow, my wig is burning my eyes," Wade says, squeezing his eyes shut to ward off the legion of bubbles falling down his face. "I do not recommend becoming a trichologist. Stick to onlyfans."

Peter grabs a towel nearby and quickly wipes Wade's eyes, as he says, "I don't have an onlyfans," with a dorky smile that does strange things to Wade's heart.

"You can't convince me your job with the Daily Bugle isn't just a corporate-funded onlyfans," he said. "And there's no way those butt shots are on accident."

When the bubbles are more or less gone, he squints up at Peter, who's still gently dabbing his forehead, picking off the last of the bubbles hiding between the grooves and pockets of his scar tissue. Peter's hair is wet and plastered to his forehead; dark, almost black. Bubbles speckle his face, a bit on his cheek, on his forehead, on his chin. Wade wipes the latter away with his thumb and Peter's eyes flicker down.

"Did I get it all?" he asks.

Wade's heart squeezes, brain rolling through every improbability of how this could be real. Sometimes, he can't wrap his head around the fact that Spider-Man, of all people, would sit in a bathtub with him, skin glowing from the light of candles, staring at him with lidded eyes heavy with fondness.

"All of it," Wade breathes, tightening his hold around Peter's waist. "It's all yours."

Peter's eyes widen a fraction and then soften, cheeks pinking, glancing away. "Not quite what I meant," he says, but shuffles farther into Wade's lap, wrapping his arms around his neck. He looks back, smirking a bit, "But I'm not complaining." He places a gentle kiss on Wade's forehead, above his eyes, and on his cheeks. Wade wraps his arms around him, drawing him even closer, because there's still so much skin to touch, plains of muscle to explore, and patches of hair to tug on. He leans in, pressing his lips to a bruise on Peter's shoulder, left there from one of the rubber bullets. It's already a dull green, almost healed, but kissing it makes him feel less guilty that it's there. He kisses the one on his chest too and Peter's hand strays from the back of his head, trailing down his arms, to his hip, digging his thumb into the muscle and bone there.

Wade leans into Peter, resting his forehead on his collarbone, trying to pick out his beating heart. He has the same senses as Dare Devil, just toned down–certainly, he can hear it if he tries hard enough. Peter's skin is warm, like a blanket just out of the dryer, and Wade wants to wrap himself in it and snuggle next to a fire. Spider-Man is so strong, so sturdy ; being in his arms feels safe, like no one can touch him. And that's a bit of a turn-on, not gonna lie.

A simmer of arousal bubbles in Wade, growing hotter and hotter, and judging by Peter's half-hard dick, he's not the only one.

"How do you want to do this?" he asks, sliding a hand down Peter's back and grabbing an indulgent handful of his ass. He can do that now—boyfriend perks.

"Like this," Peter says, pressing his lips to the top of Wade's head one more time before sitting solidly in his lap. "I kind of, sort of, like looking at you. You have very pretty eyes."

Wade's heart kicks a beat, and he digs his head into Peter's chest with a huff. "Sounds fake, but okay."

But he kisses Peter's chest, following a trail of bruises until he latches onto his neck, nipping skin, kissing where he can, and sucking bruises to replace the ones he made earlier. These will be different; meant to feel good, not to hurt. Normally, Wade loves hurting; in a fight, in bed, in arguments, but there's something about seeing bruises on Peter's skin that sits heavy and wrong in his chest. It's about time someone gave him some good, loving bruises to make up for the rest.

Peter sighs, head rolling back, one hand cradling the back of Wade's head and the other gripping his shoulder. Wade rolls his hips up into him and Peter roll his back in agreement.

"Lubes on the counter," Wade murmurs, "wasn't sure if we were—"

THWIP! It's suddenly in Peter's hand, stuck on a webline from Peter's wrists. They really need to look into bringing those into the bedroom, because Wade has some ideas. But the bathroom works too, in a pinch. Peter pops the lid open and Wade watches, heavy-lidded, as he spreads lube across his fingers, rubbing them together to warm it up, before reaching behind himself. Wade leans back, enjoying the view, as Peter's eyes close and he grunts softly, heat coloring his face. He rolls back into his hands and hnnnnng Wade wants so badly.

It doesn't take long before Peter is coating Wade's dick in lube, which had been standing at attention, ready for action Sir, for some time now. He positions himself over it and Wade grabs his hips, guiding him down; sinking into that wet heat is like sinking into a warm bath–well, more than he was already. They both groan in unison. Wade should probably ease up on his grip, but he doesn't want to let go. He wants to cling to Peter, to every part of him; latch on like a fucking leech, drinking until someone personally pries him off. Still, he takes it slow and steady, keeping Peter from taking him too fast because Wade's certain he didn't prep himself enough. Sure, Peter could take it, but this is supposed to be some sweet loving. They can have rough, kinky sex later.

Once Peter had taken him down to the root, they stay like that for a second, basking in the feeling.

Then Peter moves, bypassing Wade's grip like he was stepping over a rock. Wade relents, letting him take the lead, happy to lean back and let Peter do the work. And he does so marvelously. Peter takes care of both their pleasure, and despite how much Wade enjoys taking care of Peter, it's a relief to be the one who doesn't have to be so aware of everything. His brain isn't designed to conduct coherent thoughts, much less keep a schedule, and forcing it to these last few days was weighing on him. So, he lets himself get lost in the moment, loses himself in Peter's warmth, in the touch of his skin, and the roll of his hips. Peter's head is thrown back, back arched, panting; a flush colors all the way down his chest and Wade drunkenly considers sticking a straw in him to drink it all up.

Peter grips his shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle, and Wade groans in delight. Peter looks down at him and smiles so adoringly that Wade's chest opens up, exposing bare bone and muscle, and a heart that goes thump, thump, thump to a beat he hasn't heard in a while. He never knew how much he needed someone to look at him like that until it filled an empty space inside him; something cold and deserted, suddenly warm and full. Peter captures his lips in a deep kiss and Wade loses himself in that too.

Peter breaks the kiss after a while, cradling Wade's jaw with gentle fingers that have curled into steel-like fists and crumpled cars. It makes him feel so delicate and soft, which is so counter-intuitive to who Wade is and the things he's done, that it leaves him feeling even more cut open and exposed. And then Peter really puts his back in it and Wade can't help but thrust into him; water sloshes over the side, bubbles cling to their skin, and Peter grabs the edge of the tub so hard that it cracks under his hand. A hand that had been holding Wade so gently just seconds before, and he's pretty sure that's what tips him over the edge.

When they both finish, they sit in post-orgasmic bliss, catching their breath.

Peter's eyes cant to the broken tub and he winces. "Tony doesn't have to know."

"Oh, but I'm definitely telling him, anyway," Wade smirks, still feeling a little drunk. "Can you imagine the look on his face?"

Peter considers this. "That would be hilarious," he admits. "But consider, I don't want him looking at me and knowing anything about my sex life. It gives me the heeby-jeebys."

"It's not like he doesn't have the money to fix it."

"Hmm, that is true. He's got money oozing out of his ass."

"I know something else that's oozing out of someone's ass," Wade waggles his eyebrows. Peter gives him a playful slap on the shoulder but smiles as he gets up, pulling Wade out of the tub with him.

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

There's no peppermint or music next time they go into the basement, but Peter's breath puffs out in clouds as he pants, because it's absolutely fucking freezing.

He blocks Wade's leg with his arms but stumbles under the force. The cold makes him slower and less reactive. He plays the defensive more, avoiding Wade's assault and only throwing a slow punch if necessary. He's shaking like a leaf, too, his body trying desperately to keep up with the dipping temperature. It was a toss-up whether this would work on him. Who knows how his spider biology and human biology knit themselves together? But Peter's eyes droop like he's struggling to keep them open, his arms sag, and his feet drag. He's without his mask and suit this time, all exposed skin and chattering teeth.

Just a little more, Wade thinks, going at him faster, harder, swiping at him with his katana. Wells of blood bloom on Peter's skin, and Peter shudders as his body warms from the laceration.

Peter finally snaps after a few more hits with Wade's katana and crouches down, hissing and baring his teeth. He doesn't snap Wade's wrist this time, but stalks forward, fingers curling like claws, shoulders rising as he hunches, preparing to tackle him.

Wade drops his katanas and holds up his hands. "We're done, Petey. We're done. Just breathe. Listen to my voice and breathe."

Peter pauses, panting, fingers curling into his hands; it takes a moment for him to grab his bearings. His breaths come out hard and streamlined, sending quick puffs of air between them, but eventually, his grip slackens and his fangs retract. His eyes return to normal.

"There you are," Wade praises, knocking his chin gently.

Peter beams, eyes so bright it warms the room, and surges forward, yanking Wade in a kiss.

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

They're in the kitchen making lunch.

Peter's at the stove, stirring a pot of hot cocoa that coats the air with the warm, delicious aroma of chocolate while Wade stands by the counter, cutting vegetables and putting them into bowls. Music plays from the speakers in the wall, a combination of instrumental and piano. Not usually Wade's taste, but he's testing out a theory.

He glances at Peter in the corner of his eye and smiles, nose crinkling in delight, as Peter sways his hips softly, humming along with the song. He abandons his vegetables to snake a hand around Peter's waist. "Whatcha doin?"

"Stirring the pot."

"I always knew you were a troublemaker." He drops his chin on Peter's shoulders. "What's shakin' your bacon?"

Peter turns half around, smirking, "You, hopefully."

"Is that a request?"

"A humble command."

"Ooh, I love it when you tell me what to do."

Peter chuckles, winding his fingers with Wade's. Turning all the way around, he tugs Wade closer, dropping a hand on his hips, and looks at him with an imploring upturn of his brows. "Dance with me?"

Wade drops a hand on his shoulder. "Sweep me off my feet, babe."

They dance to the sweet styling of Mozart, the Piano Guys, and Thomas Bergerson. During a jaunty tune, they're twirling and dipping, tapping their feet in terrible, nonsensical steps that won't get them a guest spot on Dancing with the Stars anytime soon .

During the crescendo of one song, Peter wraps both hands around Wade's hips and lifts him effortlessly, spinning him princess style and Wade is effectively swept off his feet, in the most literal sense possible. His chest swells with delight and his cheeks go red, and when he looks down at Peter, he's surprised to find that his eyes had gone black.

When he drops Wade back on his feet, he's smiling like a cat that got its cream and drops his head on Wade's shoulder, chest rumbling with a purr so loud Wade feels it through his shirt. He supposes it makes sense that other things would pull Peter into spider-space, not just violence or fear. Spider-space is a part of Peter, after all, isn't it? Not some secret, ugly dark side that only rises to the surface when his intentions are bad. This is a part of Peter, just as integral as his human habits and behaviors. Dark eyes, purring in contentment, indulging in instincts he's long since suppressed.

And yet, Peter holds it at arm's length, fighting it back, afraid of what he might do when all he did was be affectionate. Isn't it just another way of self-expression, as natural as breathing?

Wade smiles, wrapping Peter in a hug and dropping his chin on his head. Of course, he doesn't need to scare or hurt Peter into spider-space, being himself is enough. Peter still wants to control it when he gets violent, sure, but honestly, spider-space, in its bare bones, is anything but a curse. At least in Wade's opinion.

And he is going to get Peter to understand this if it kills him—and we all know how bad he is at dying.

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

Wade tells Peter to descend alone first, the next time they visit the basement. The lights are off; the air is icy, and Peter looks back up at him, annoyed, like this was the most inconvenient thing Wade asked him to do. But there's also a bit of energy to him, too; an eagerness that bounces in his feet and rolls through his shoulders as he descends the stairs.

Wade gives him a minute alone, long enough to secure his infrared goggles, and follows. The room is almost as cold as the falling snow outside and Peter's standing in the middle of the room, already shivering and rubbing his arms.

"Alright, Wade, what are we — WHOA!" he ducks as Wade swipes at him with his katana, backing up, head whipping from side to side, searching for him in the darkness. "Really? No warning? Just straight balls to the wallsing it?"

Wade doesn't respond. He stalks the perimeter of the room, and jumps in again, slicing at Peter's legs, which he jumps to avoid; but the cold is getting to him, already making him slow. Wade doesn't give him a moment to catch his breath. He slashes at Peter's arms and then clicks the remote, controlling the cuffs. The sudden weight startles Peter, and he isn't fast enough to avoid it this time; and backs away with a pained hiss, shaking his arm as it wells with blood. Wade increases the strength of the weights, more than he's done before, and Peter grunts, forcing his arms back up.

He lunges and Peter backs up, using his spider-sense to pinpoint where Wade is and when he'll attack. He cocks his head, likely listening for the faint rustle of Wade's suit, the slight jingle of his pouches, and Wade slips out a different remote, pressing that button.

Peter flinches, shrinking in on himself, as raucous music explodes over the speaker, bombarding him from all sides. His jaw clenches and he narrows his eyes, shaking his head, trying to shrug off the disorientation.

Wade slashes at his legs, his other arm, his thigh, and his back. Peter holds his hands up to defend himself, but he's shivering, lips blue, and limbs trembling. Wade sheathes his katana and goes hand-to-hand; Peter stops the first punch, but he's too unfocused to stop the hit to his solar plexus, then his gut, and Wade hooks his foot on his ankle and hits him hard with his shoulder, knocking him off his feet. Wade's on top of him in an instant, landing punch after punch to his face, his chest, his shoulders, any nerves he can get at this angle, until Peter grabs his arm and crunches it under his hand, the bones grinding and snapping. He yanks Wade forward, eyes dark, hissing in his face, and throws him off. Wade hits the opposite wall, fracturing several ribs, but jumps to his feet, circling Peter, ignoring the sharp ache as he breathes.

He pulls out his gun next. The first and second shot hits, one in Peter's stomach and the other in his leg; Peter dodges the third, but Wade gets him in the arm on the fourth. Peter backs up, crouched low to the ground, arms close to his chest to defend himself, baring his fangs and clicking in his throat. Wade pushes the next button and the lights flash on; Peter squeezes his eyes shut, shielding his face from the sudden, painful brightness, and Wade makes his move, hitting him in the stomach so he bends over, kicking his knees to force him down, and curling his arm around his throat in a headlock that's nigh impossible to escape from. The lights flash, alternating between pitch black and stabbing white light, something Wade is unaffected by, protected as he is by his eyewear.

Peter flails, digging his fingers into Wade's arms in an attempt to free himself. He's not hissing anymore, his eyes are blown wide and panicked, and he's whining in the back of his throat, a litany of helpless trills and frantic clicks, chest heaving with heavy panic-stricken breaths.

He doesn't look angry anymore; he looks...scared.

Wade's arms soften. "Okay, we're-" he starts, but Peter cuts him off, a sound erupting from his chest, one Wade hasn't heard before; a cross between a wail and a roar, thick with desperation and even heavier with distress. Peter's fingers dig into Wade's arm, tearing through skin and crushing bones to sawdust, pulling him off. Wade releases his hold, but Peter doesn't let go of him; his grip tightens, and he plants a leg on Wade's side and pulls, pulls, pulls. Wade's tendons strain, his muscles tearing, his shoulder popping. Pain explodes in his arm, blindingly white, and he hits the floor with a wet ripping sound and a burst of blood. The lights are still fluttering and Wade's head is ringing; he looks over to where his arm is supposed to be, but there's nothing there. Nothing but mangled skin, tissue, and bone, streaming with blood that pools around his left side.

In front of him, Peter throws Wade's torn arm to the side, roaring at him again, and descends, slamming his fists into Wade's chest, his throat, his head; plunging his fangs into Wade's neck and releasing so much venom that it rises above the flaring pain of Wade's skin and burns. Wade thinks he might be screaming, but it's hard to tell over all the dubstep.

The venom spreads down his neck, numbing his vocal cords, and infects his veins, rushing through the rest of his body. Peter's eyes are still wide and panicked, pushed to his limit.

"It's okay," Wade tries to gurgle, but his jaw is broken and blood floods his throat and chest, drowning him. Peter hisses at him again, so full of anger and fear that Wade's heart rips in two, so much more painful than the rest of his body.

And then Peter plunges his fist into Wade's head.

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

Wade's not fully healed when he wakes up. Everything is blurry, lights flashing off and on, burning his eyes. Blood is everywhere, on the floor, on the ceiling, on the walls, on him, the air heavy with the taste of copper. It's cold. So cold.

He turns his head, breath puffing in the air, trying to make sense of what he's seeing. Through the sporadic lights, he makes out a figure huddled in the corner. They're covered in blood too, their hands threaded through their hair, heaving with wild breaths that expand their chest to a painful degree. Wade thinks they might be crying.

He falls unconscious again.

<><><>LINE BREAK<><><>

When Wade comes too fully, he's in his right mind–or as right as his mind can get. His brain aches and when he lifts his hand to his head, it's tender and soft where it's still healing. There's a sharp, stabbing pain so deep in the tissues of his brain that it makes his vision white and he almost collapses again. He forces himself to breathe through it, through the nausea and overstimulation he's connected to the living world.

He's been through worse, felt worse. This is nothing.

He pulls himself up on one arm. The other is missing, but the beginning of a new one is sprouting in its place, nothing but a stump right now. Limbs always took so much time to heal.

He slowly hauls himself up and looks around, finding the remote that had flown out of his hand a few feet away, and turns off the blaring music. The sudden silence is deafening, making his ears ring in its place, but his head snaps toward a broken sob in a dark corner to his left. Frantically, he searches for the other remote, finds it, turns off the vents that are pumping cold air into the room, and turns the lights on, so they're no longer flickering.

Peter cringes away from the sudden brightness, curling tighter in on himself. His muscles are bunched, wound up so tightly it's like they're frozen in place, blocks of ice where his joints should be. Wade crawls over to him, voice raspy–not entirely healed yet–and still half numb from the venom. Pieces float back to him, disconnected memories he fumbles to stitch together. A fight. A gun. Rubber bullets. Blood.

A whine.

A roar.

"Peter."

Peter flinches away, digging his fingers deeper into his hair. He's still hyperventilating, struggling to take in the full, deep breaths Wade taught him, but he's trying; he's trying so hard, but it breaks and crumbles, and he gasps for breath, unable to hold on to it. His hands are covered in blood; so is his face and shirt. Pieces of skull and brain matter are matted onto his fist, getting in his hair, and he sobs, tears streaming down his face.

"Peter," Wade whispers, soft and gentle. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay, I'm here."

Peter sobs harder, curling farther into himself.

Wade tries to rub his wrist, but he pulls away, and Wade stops breathing. He feels every fracture, crack, and splinter in his heart as it shatters into pieces of glass that fall, tearing up the rest of his insides. His chest tightens, not like it's caving in, but like it's expanding out. Like his lungs are about to burst out of his body.

I did this.

"Peter, please look at me," Wade says, trying to lean into his line of sight. "Please, baby, I need to see you."

Peter hides in his knees, scrunching down. It takes a moment before he slowly looks up, eyes red-rimmed, puffy, and still streaming with tears. His eyes are dilating in and out, completely black but trying to shrink like he's on the brink of pulling himself out, but can't quite get there.

"I've got you," Wade says, painfully , imploringly.

I did this.

He should've pulled back sooner.

"I've got you," Wade repeats, itching to get closer; afraid to get closer. Offering comfort; needing comfort, wrestling with himself like a snake trying to swallow its own tail.

"I-" Peter tries to croak out, but it breaks, splintering on his tongue, and turning into a series of clicking trills. He shakes his head, heaving again. There's a stench in the air, ripe from a decomposing body, and also pungent like...vomit. Vomit down Peter's shirt and splatters on the floor next to Wade. Dents in the walls from an angry fist. Bloody handprints everywhere, desperate for an escape.

Peter chokes on his sob and leans to the side, canting into Wade, and Wade pulls him into his chest, into his body, close to the empty place where his heart used to be.

I did this.

Peter's entire body trembles and his lips are blue. He's so cold, it's no wonder he's leaning into Wade, seeking the heat emanating off his body. Wade carefully slides his arm under Peter's shoulder, wishing he could bundle him in his arms and carry him.

"Come on," he says, helping him to the stairs. "Let's get you warmed up."

Peter doesn't respond and doesn't look at Wade. His eyes, drooping like he's about to pass out, are still jumping between black and less black; he's trembling so hard Wade doesn't think it's just from the cold.

Tony was right. This was a bad idea. Such a bad idea.

The thought follows Wade like a ball and chain around his ankle.

I did this.    

A/N 

SPIDER FACTS:

1) Spiders don't like the sound of techno music. They prefer classical music. In an experiment, spiders were more likely to build their webs closer to something playing classical music, then techno or rap. That's why Wade uses the later during the sparring in the basement, and why he was testing out classical music in the kitchen.

2) Speaking of the kitchen, some spiders dance as part of their courting! In this one, Peter felt more inclined to dance WITH Wade instead of FOR him. If Wade would have refused, that would be rejection, but since Wade accepted, he was riding the spider high of his advances being accepted. That's also why his eyes went black. Peter doesn't just fall into spider-space when he's going through a traumtic event--that's a fight-flight-or freeze response. When he's simply indulging in his instincts and his gestures are accepted, he's just as likely to fall into spider-space, only it's a much more pleasant feeling.

3) Spiders can't thermoregulate. When it gets cold, they either go into hibernation or they go into something called diapause, which is kind of like hibernation where they just become physically and mentally inactive. Peter has a hard time thermoregulating, so when he gets really cold, he tends to get really sleepy and slow as it's harder for him to move.

4) Spiders hate certain smells! Things like peppermint, citrus, cinnamon, rose or lavender are smells they avoid! Wade included peppermint in their sparring sessions as a way to overwhelm Peter's sense. I have a personal headcanon that Peter, intentionally or unintentionally, avoids directing interacting with any of these smell at all times--Christmas time is a particular hell for him, there's so much peppermint and cinnamon in EVERYTHING. If someone does happen to spray something like it in the same room as him, he always ends up leaving one way or another.

5) Spider's don't roar or growl, but when Peter REALLY snapped in that last bit, it was a culmination of both human side and spider side reaching it's breaking point. He completely loses himself and went into full flight or flight mode. When he couldn't do flight, he chose to fight.

That's all for this chapter :)