Holding Back - 9. Chapter 9

Spidey’s kissing us!

Wait, why is Spidey kissing us?

Who the fuck cares? Spidey’s kissing us!

It is a doubtless reality that Spider-Man is indeed kissing Wade. At least it feels real, soft lips moving gently against his, noses bumping into each other occasionally, but Wade is having a hard time believing it. The move took him so much by surprise that it’s hard to process. The idea that this is a blissful hallucination or dream can’t seem to leave him, and subsequently his reciprocation is less enthusiastic than he wants it to be.

He wants to kiss the man beneath him back, hard. He wants to bury is tongue in his mouth, taste him, revel in him. He wants to run his hands across his body, feel taut muscles under his fingertips. But before he has time to get his ass, or indeed his brain, in gear to do any of these things, the kiss is over, too quickly.

Shit! What if we missed our shot?

Spidey moves beneath him, and Wade manages to slide backwards a bit so he can half sit, resting his weight on his elbows and forearms.

‘Hey.’ Spidey’s tone sounds hesitant. ‘You . . . You okay, Wade?’

The name rolls off his tongue so easily, so beautifully, and Wade wonders how he hasn’t noticed that before, how good his name sounds in Spider-Man’s tenor voice. A laugh bubbles up from out of nowhere, and he tries to stifle it, but it still comes out as a choked giggle, high pitched and quavery.

Real smooth, Wilson.

Wade ignores the box. ‘Yeah, man, I’m fine, I’m . . . Just trying to figure out which part of my subconscious just did a brain-fart, you know, cause I totally thought you just kissed me, which is just, I mean, it’s ridiculous, isn’t it, cause why the hell would you?’

Spidey smiles weakly, and Wade could swear his cheeks (the part of them Wade can see) have gone slightly pink. ‘Yeah, um . . .’ Spider-Man seems to hesitate and looks away. ‘I kind of did.’

‘Huh?’

‘Kiss you. I . . . kissed you.’

There must be something wrong with Wade. His boxes keep telling him so, and he usually ignores them, but now he’s forced to concede that there’s definitely something wrong with him, because he’s straddling Spider-Man, who just kissed him, in a dream scenario that he’s pictured in his head a million times in a million different ways, and he can’t for the life of him figure out what to do about it. He should be pushing Spidey down into the concrete rooftop, kissing him stupid, fucking into his mouth with his tongue and undressing him. But now that he’s in this situation, looking down at this man, this beautiful boy whom he’s been lusting after for as long as he can remember, probably longer than it’s been technically legal, he has no idea what to do with himself.

Wade swallows, and tries to speak, and then swallows again. Then he finally says, ‘You better not be messing with me, Spider-Man.’ His voice comes out quiet and a little shaky.

‘I’m not!’ says Spider-Man quickly, looking at him again. ‘I swear. I mean, I probably couldn’t tell you why I did it, I . . . I just did. It seemed like the thing to do, and I just kind of went for it and I thought you wanted it, but if you don’t, if you were just playing, that’s cool. I just—’

He’s rambling now, and his face is definitely a little red, and it’s so adorable that Wade throws caution to the wind, forgets to be scared, and presses his lips up against Spider-Man’s, cutting him off mid-sentence.

There’s a long, frozen moment in which they stay like that, chaste, lips touching and not much else, and then Spider-Man’s lips begin to move against Wade’s. He lifts one hand, grasping the back of Wade’s neck a little harder than necessary, his gloved thumb caressing Wade’s scarred jawline, and Wade is lost.

The boxes are silent, or if they’re still talking Wade can no longer hear. All there is, right now, is Spider-Man’s firm body beneath him, the pressure of his palm on Wade’s neck, and his mouth. Oh, fuck, that mouth!

Wade moves with the kiss, opens his lips and licks at Spidey’s lips experimentally, testing boundaries. Spider-Man’s response is immediate. His lips part and his tongue flicks out to clash with Wade’s. Spider-Man’s mouth tastes like lager, and something sweet and slightly tangy that Wade can’t identify. His lips are so soft, and Wade moans into the kiss as the realisation hits him that this is happening, he’s kissing Spider-Man, this is really, truly happening!

With a soft growl, Wade slides his hands around Spider-Man’s torso and pulls him up into a sitting position. He tightens his embrace, pulling him flush against him, and Spidey utters a groan of surprise, deepening the kiss. His arms are now around Wade’s shoulders and neck, one hand cradling the back of his head. Wade takes the opportunity to slide his hands up and down the smooth muscles of Spider-Man’s back. The boy is slim enough that he can feel his shoulder blades and the ridge of his spine. Wade wants to take off his gloves, but he also doesn’t want to freak Spidey out with the touch of his scarred hands. He doesn’t want to think about that, about how at any moment Spidey may realise that this is Deadpool he’s kissing, and that this is not an attractive body he’s got in his lap. Wade pushes the thought to the back of his mind. He’ll have this moment, no matter what happens later.

As he thinks this, Spider-Man releases his lips and begins to kiss a trail along his jaw and down to his semi-exposed throat, caressing his scars with lips and tongue. Wade groans loudly. This is giving him a raging hard-on, and in their current position he’s sure Spider-Man can feel it against his lower abdomen, but he seems to take no notice. The other’s teeth graze the flesh over his jugular, and Wade moans, feeling his cock twitch in his pants. Spider-Man chuckles softly before licking the spot.

’Shit, Spidey!’ Wade all but whimpers. ‘Feels so fucking good . . .’

Spider-Man pulls away for a moment, panting slightly, and looks up at Wade, licking his lips. He seems to hesitate for a second, but then he clears his throat and says, oh so softly, ‘My name is Peter.’

Wade blinks, frozen for an instant, gazing down on Spidey’s lips as he says the words. Peter. His name is Peter. Wade swallows heavily, and finds that his breathing has become laboured while he had his attention elsewhere.

‘Peter?’ he repeats in barely more than a whisper, and Spider-Man nods. ‘Peter,’ Wade says again, slower this time, tasting the name on his tongue. His name is Peter. Peter. Saying it feels good, so he says it again, louder, his voice rumbling low in his chest this time. ‘Peter.’

Spider-Man—no, Peter smiles up at him, and now they’re kissing again, and Wade feels like he never ever wants to stop kissing Peter. Not ever.

Even through the combined layers of their suits, Peter is so warm, and he smells of soap and clean sweat. When Wade mimics him and half kisses, half licks along his jaw he finds that the smooth skin tastes slightly salty, with a sweetness underneath. There’s the barest hint of stubble, rough on Wade’s lips and tongue, contrasting with the softness of the rest of his skin.

He savours all of it, storing each sensation, each taste and smell, away in his mind to be remembered always, because even though they’ve been doing this, making out like teenagers, for going on twenty minutes now, he still keeps expecting it to stop at any moment, for Peter to come to his senses and realise that making out with Deadpool is crazy. Wade hardly dares to hope that this isn’t some crazy dream, some fantasy hallucination his mind’s cooked up for him, let alone that it will ever happen again or turn into something more.

A hundred different fantasies, involving at least two-hundred weird, fucked up kinks and fetishes, roll through Wade’s mind and he’s absolutely sure that he’ll trade all of them, forget them forever and leave any chance of them ever happening behind if they can just keep doing this, if he can just keep holding Peter in his arms, can just keep kissing him for five minutes longer. This, this moment, is the most perfect moment of Wade Wilson’s miserable existence. This, right here, is all he could ever wish for, and he will cherish it until the day he dies, which is promising to be a really long time.

After what could just as easily be hours as minutes, they break apart, both panting, Peter’s lips red and raw from all the kissing. He slides a gloved finger underneath his mask and licks his lips. Then he moves his other hand to the back of his head and pulls. Wade gapes in astonishment as Peter pulls his mask all the way off to reveal soft hazel eyes and messy brown hair. The New York City light pollution paints him in a golden glow. The skin of his face is smooth, young, though the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, and Wade is torn between attacking his lips again and continuing to admire this gorgeous visage. He counts fifteen freckles in the dim light, takes it all in hungrily, stowing it away in his head to savour later. Every eyelash, every slight blemish that makes Peter’s face so imperfectly perfect.

‘Fuck,’ Wade whispers, and clears his throat because his voice sounds dry. ‘Peter, I knew you were hot, but I didn’t know you were . . . Shit, you’re so fucking beautiful!’ The words come tumbling out before he has time to process them in his head, as is frequently the case, and he feels his face warm.

Thankfully, Peter blushes as well, clearly not used to such compliments, and Wade feels his courage slowly returning.

‘I mean,’ he continues, ‘I always figured you liked pretty ladies. I like pretty ladies, too, and hot guys. Depending on the situation I can like anyone. Not that you’re just anyone, I mean . . . But if you like pretty ladies, I can try to be one. Maybe not so much the pretty part, but I have some frilly dresses I could put on and stuff, if you’re into that. What I’m saying is I can be a lady if that’s what you—’

Peter laughs softly and places a finger on Wade’s lips to silence him. ‘I don’t need you to be a lady, Wade. I just need you to be you. Okay?’

Wade falls silent and nods, the overwhelming urge to lick the gloved finger on his lips kicking in, but he stops himself, unsure of whether they’re at the finger licking stage of this relationship yet. Instead he swallows, and when Peter pulls his hand back, says, ‘We could go back downstairs, if you want . . .’

Peter looks at him, still smiling, and then gazes up at the sky. The eastern horizon is lightening just a fraction. He sighs. ‘It’s getting late. Or early, as the case may be. I think . . . I think maybe I should get going soon.’

Wade feels his heart sink and looks away, trying to hide his disappointment. ‘Oh. Yeah. Of course.’

‘Wade.’ He turns his eyes back on Peter and finds his expression soft and kind. ‘I’m not brushing you off, okay?’ He touches the palm of his hand to Wade’s cheek, stroking gently with his thumb. Wade leans into the touch. ‘I just have to get up in the morning,’ Peter continues. ‘So, rain check?’

Wade nods. There’s a lump in his throat and he doesn’t trust himself to speak. He swallows again, and nods yet more vigorously, causing Peter to chuckle.

Leaning in, Peter kisses him again. It’s soft and chaste and absolutely magical, and Wade damn near whimpers again, because something about the way Peter is kissing him makes him feel more alive and more real than he’s felt in what must be years.

Pulling back, Peter says, ‘Okay, then. See you tomorrow?’

Wade nods again. ‘Yeah,’ he manages to say, in a voice that’s close to breaking.

He stands up, and pulls Spider-Man—Peter—to his feet. After giving him one final peck on the lips, Peter pulls his mask back on and walks over to the edge of the roof, readying his web shooter. Then, looking back over his shoulder, he says, ‘Good night, Wade,’ and is gone.