One day, when he has the money for it, Peter is going to buy black out curtains. He’s going to eradicate any chance of sunlight entering the bedroom, and he’s going to do it with gusto and glee. For now, he rolls out of bed and out of Wade’s so, so, so warm arms with his eyes almost fully closed. They’re open the absolute bare minimum to see vague shapes in the room.
It’s not like he doesn’t know the layout of the furniture, but the two of them weren’t exactly careful with where they threw their clothing last night. There was a lot of stumbling into walls and furniture, pawing hands, gasping mouths, and at least one shirt got ripped. It was likely Peter’s, because Wade has a campaign against the contents of Peter’s closet.
But Peter had been more careful with undressing Wade, because his clothes were so, so, so pretty. As if he could keep his hands off Wade after getting home from a shitty day at the Bugle to find him in thigh-high socks, mary jane shoes, the shortest pleated skirt Peter has ever seen, and a very nice corset that made Wade’s chest pop. Once Peter collected his jaw off the floor, he had been on Wade in an instant. The rest was sexy, dirty, sweaty history.
Peter had promptly passed out after the headboard put a few new cracks in the bedroom wall (he is never getting the deposit back for this apartment). Now it’s morning, and there’s sunlight bleeding through the damn curtains, and Peter wants coffee. He needs coffee, but he’s not planning on walking around naked. The windows in the living room are open, and if he gives in to home nudity, Wade will absolutely destroy every article of clothing Peter owns.
Can’t it be enough for him that Peter goes commando in the Spider-Man suit? And that he’s given up on wearing underwear in general?
He groans and grunts as he trips over what feels like his jeans from yesterday. He has no desire to put them on again, but he’s also certain that he’s got a pair of sweatpants that he abandoned to the bedroom floor a few days ago. There’s gotta be something. They don’t exactly own a laundry basket.
His fingers land on something soft and cottony, and he hums, pleased. With some effort, Peter balances on one foot to get the other into the pants. He can barely open his eyes, and his brain is full of clouds because that’s just the effect a night of orgasms at the hands of Wade Wilson will do to him, and why he needs so much caffeine. There’s no way he’s going to be a functioning human being if he doesn’t get some coffee in him soon.
Peter gets his other foot through the waistband and hikes the sweats up to his hips. They feel a little loose, so maybe these are Wade’s pants, and he pats around looking for the draw strings.
A sharp squeak of a noise behind him lets Peter know that Wade is awake too. Not a surprise, really. He’s a light sleeper and probably woke up the moment Peter even thought about getting up, if he wasn’t already awake, that is. Wade might not get out of bed first, because he’s got some kind of thing about watching Peter sleep, but he’s definitely always the first awake.
“Well, aren’t you just the prettiest little sight I ever did see?”
There’s a heated edge to Wade’s voice that Peter doesn’t fully understand why it’s there. It’s not like he hasn’t seen Peter in sweatpants more than times than either of them can count. They’re practically a staple for when they’re hanging out at home.
“Hngh?” Peter can’t quite form words yet, but that should get his confusion across well enough. Probably.
And then a big, hot hand is on his thigh and sliding up. Peter sighs, leaning into the touch a little. He’s too addicted to Wade’s hands, and it might just be enough to convince him to forgo the coffee if he lets that touch get any closer than it needs to.
“Pretty sure it’s not my birthday, Petey-pie.” The bed creaks as Wade gets out of it. “You don’t need to dress to impress.”
What in the world is he talking about? Peter isn’t awake enough for this.
And then those scarred hands (big, strong, big) are grabbing Peter around the hips and bodily tossing him onto the bed again. Peter hits the pillows with a soft umph and cracks his eyes open enough to see Wade propped up above him, thick, corded arms framing Peter’s head.
“You tryin’ta kill me, Pete?” Wade’s voice droops even deeper. It scrapes down Peter’s spine, leaving tingling in its wake. His voice is so rough, so deep, so amazing. And it’s all the smokier first thing in the morning. “Dressin’ like that in front of me? You’re a fucking tease.”
Peter blinks slowly up at him. “H’what now?”
Wade rocks to the side, keeping himself propped on one hand. He slides his free hand down Peter’s side, fingers skipping along the edge of the sweats. And then they’re on Peter’s knee and sliding up the inside of his thigh, and – and there are absolutely no pants between their skin. That’s – that’s not how pants work. Peter looks down the length of his body to where his thighs are splayed around Wade’s hips, and his brain just refuses to process the red pleats laid over them.
“Wearing a skirt in front of me is dangerous, baby boy.” His voice pitches deeper, gruffer; practically growling in Peter’s ear. “It’s a good look on you.”
Peter sucks in a sharp breath, back arching. The things Wade’s voice does to him is just unfair. Rough, scarred hands push up under the pleats of the skirt, cupping and rolling Peter’s balls in his palm. Wade trails burning fingers along Peter’s dick, and those feather light touches are doing more to wake him up (or wake only certain parts of him up) than the caffeine probably would have.
He wants to say something - anything - but his tongue doesn’t want to work. His mouth is useless to him, and there’s nothing going on between his ears. Even less when Wade shimmies down the bed, down his body, breath sweeping hot across his skin.
“Still goin’ commando, Petey?” Wade lifts the edge of the skirt (how did he not notice he was putting on a skirt?!), and the flutter of it against Peter’s thighs sends an extra little shiver across through his nervous system. That’s a whole different box to unpack another day, because Wade’s large hands are pushing his thighs further apart. “Bold choice. Like the Scots do. Hope it’s not too breezy out today.”
As if Peter would ever leave the house like this.
“So… so pretty.” Wade groans, and then he’s disappearing under the folds of the skirt and that hot breath turns into warm lips on the base of Peter’s dick.
“S-shut up.” Peter hates that he stuttered. Almost as much as being called ‘pretty’. Probably has to do with that fragile masculinity thing that Wade always teases him about.
“Look good enough to eat.” The rumble of Wade’s voice from between his legs is enough to make Peter dizzy. He loves being the center of Wade’s attention, but the skirt is - He shouldn’t be wearing it. It was an accident. He’s -
A long groan is drawn out of Peter’s chest against his will and he screws his eyes shut as Wade sucks him down with no further preamble. Why is his mouth always so hot? So, so hot. Peter can’t get enough of it. He fists his hands in the sheets next to his hips, fighting the urge to thrust up into the wet heat of Wade’s mouth that never, ever ends. Wade takes him deep, nose pressing into his skin, and all Peter can do is gulp down air and try not to die when Wade swallows around him.
By some miracle of God, Peter manages to open his eyes again. He nearly swallows his tongue at the sight of Wade’s muscular back and head hidden by the skirt. The pleats part over it, lifting and following with the motions that Peter knows so well by now. And it feels even raunchier than normal. Dirtier. Lewder. Sexier. He’s feeling it harder than normal, and he has no idea why.
His mouth won’t work. The only thing making it out are little shaky gasps, and a moan whenever Wade’s tongue flicks over that one spot on his dick that makes his toes curl. Wade had it memorized within days of their sexual relationship starting. Because of course he did. Memory is swiss cheese for most things, but he’s got a secret mental file somewhere of all things Peter Parker, and Peter loves it. He really, really does.
When that mouth leaves him, Peter absolutely does not whimper. He certainly doesn’t whine when Wade cups under his ass and lifts. Peter should have expected it, because Wade loves touching his ass, proving it now by kneading with both hands.
Now that his mouth isn’t occupied anymore, it’s back to muttering sweet nothings about how good Peter looks, spread out and waiting for him. How the skirt is so short it hides nothing. How pretty he looks like this, and that Wade is the only one who gets to see it.
Peter wants to question why Wade stopped, why he’s arranging Peter as he pleases on the bed, hooking Peter’s legs over his shoulders one by one. He swallows thickly, licks his lips, opens his mouth, words at the ready, and almost screams when Wade’s grip spreads his cheeks to make way for that too hot tongue swipes from his hole to his balls and back again. It circles, it prods, it licks wetly, and it sounds horrible and Peter loves it.
He squirms and writhes, hips rocking against Wade’s tongue. Peter balances by the crown of his head and the grip Wade has on his ass. He chokes and cries and grabs the pillow by his head, unprepared this early in the morning, barely even awake yet, as Wade sloppily eats him out. The skirt is a new texture - fabric over his dick still, shifting and fluttering against his hips and ass with every rock of his body.
The soft fabric sliding against his dick is a new sensation. Combine that with Wade’s tongue doing truly sinful things, and Peter was doomed the moment he picked up the skirt. His orgasm hits him like the Juggernaut. He shudders and twitches through it all, absolutely most definitely making a mess of Wade’s pretty skirt. This time, however, Peter can’t really make himself care.
His whole body is trembling as Wade licks, suckles, and slurps him through the aftershocks. Finally, an eternity later, he lets Peter sag back to the bed. He hums, clearly satisfied with himself as he crawls up Peter’s body again, grinning wide and pleased.
“You paint such a pretty picture, Petey.” Wade straddles his thighs, scarred, naked, and completely unashamed about it. “All blissed out like I slipped ya’ some of the good stuff.”
Peter responds with a sleepy gurgle. Every limb feels heavy, as if he just spent a ten hour patrol swinging around the city and fighting every one of his rogues gallery, but a lot more pleasant feeling for sure. His eyelids are weighted down and any desire for coffee is long gone because now all he wants to do is sleep again. He woke up earlier than he needed to for work, so he could probably get another nap in, maybe.
Would Wade mind if he fell asleep again? Probably not. Or, maybe, probably yes if that hard-on against Peter’s stomach is anything to go by. He should probably help with that. It would be the right thing to do. But he’s so tired and - Oh, it looks like Wade is more than happy to take care of that himself.
Peter watches through lidded eyes as Wade takes himself in hand and starts jerking off, motions quick and efficient. His free hand strokes the turn of Peter’s hip, thumb brushing along the waistband of the skirt. Wade alternates between staring at the skirt, and grinning lopsided and glowing up at Peter. At this rate, he’s going to come on the skirt too, and Peter really cannot bring himself to care. That’s what laundry machines are for.
And then the praise starts again. The compliments about how pretty he is, how amazing he looks all spread out for Wade to see, for only Wade to see, because he knows that Peter would never wear a skirt for anyone else. Heck, if it hadn’t been by accident this morning, he might never have worn a skirt for Wade either. But here they are, and maybe… Just maybe… Peter might be willing to wear it again. The reaction he gets for it would certainly make it worthwhile.
A few hours later, Peter wakes up with a jolt as his phone rings from the side table. He doesn’t remember falling asleep again, and he doesn’t remember Wade coming either. But the skirt is gone and he’s very naked, with an equally naked ex-mercenary reaching over him to grab the phone and turn off the alarm.
Peter gets a good look at the alarm clock and swears under his breath, throwing himself out of bed. “I’m going to be late for work! Why didn’t you wake me up sooner?”
He digs the bottom half of the Spider-Man suit out from under the bed, shoving his legs into it before he’s even fully upright again. Next up are his jeans, and he stumbles about the room trying to get those on while hunting for the top half of his suit and a clean shirt to wear. Logically, he should look in the closet, but that’s not where clean clothes end up and they really should get a better system, but he’s always so busy, and-
“In case y’didn’t notice, buttercup, but you were wearing a little piece of pleated heaven.” Wade rolls onto his stomach and props his chin his hands, feet kicking in the air behind him. “If I hadn’t intervened, who knows where you would’ve gone in that pretty number! You might’ve gone to work in a fluttery scrape of fabric. I couldn’t let that happen to my baby boy.”
Peter rolls his eyes, and gives a huff of triumph as he spots the top half of his suit on top of the bookcase in the corner. He grabs it and pulls it on over his head. “Truly, Wade, you’re a hero.”
“Damn right I am.” Wade practically preens, grin the only thing acknowledging Peter’s sarcasm. “Saved your ass again. Always fightin’ the good fight. Like a hero.”
Pausing in his search for at least a decently clean shirt, Peter dips down to kiss Wade quickly on the lips. “Yes, you’re a hero.” And this time there’s no sarcasm in his tone. Judging by the blush that fills Wade’s face, he knows it too.
He fish-mouths for a long moment, long enough for Peter to unearth a somewhat wrinkled blue long sleeve. The sniff test clears it and he pulls it on, the sleeves covering half his hands, but that’s the style. It has thumb holes and Peter struggles briefly to get his thumbs through them before he goes diving for a pair of socks.
Wade follows him, naked, out into the rest of the apartment. “It wouldn’t have been so bad, y’know?” He crosses his arms and ankles, and leans against the doorframe to the bedroom. “I think if you showed up at the Bugle in that skirt, they might finally have given you that raise you deserve.”
Not a snowball’s chance in hell, but it’s nice that Wade thinks so.
“I’ll consider it.” Peter laughs, grabbing his wallet and keys, and struggling to get his shoes on. “In the meantime, it’s for your eyes only.”
“Mhmm. And my eyes appreciated every moment of it.”
Peter is halfway out the door before he stops. He jogs back across the short space between them so he can cup Wade’s face between his hands and give him a proper kiss. A lingering little number, close mouthed and sweet. The kind that makes Wade’s knees wobble more than any dirty tongue twister ever could.
“I’ll text you later.”
Wade makes an inarticulate noise as Peter walks away, but manages to call after him before the door is closed behind him. “Have a good day at work, honey!”
After the morning he’s had, how can he not?