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The thing is, Peter can’t even blame Deadpool for the situation they’re in. He has to admit that he’s just as much at fault for letting their argument get so heated that he completely ignored his surroundings and his spidey-sense. One moment, they were on a rooftop, honest-to-goodness yelling at one another, and the next moment, they were being captured.
In Peter’s defense, he had a perfect stealth operation planned for tonight, which might have gone smoothly if he hadn’t run into Deadpool on the building’s roof, in the middle of arming a bomb.
Now, they’re locked in a room together, Peter stripped of his webshooters and Deadpool stripped of about thirty different weapons he’d had on his person. There’s no telling why neither of them were de-masked, but it’s a little too soon to count their blessings, in Peter’s opinion. For all he knows, the villain is waiting just so he can livestream it.
“What are you doing?” Deadpool says, some minutes later when he’s apparently decided to stop giving Peter the silent treatment. For the past hour or so, he’s sat on the opposite side of their small room, eerily quiet and eerily still for someone seemingly constantly in motion and constantly talking.
“Figuring out a way out of here,” Peter says.
“By massaging your wrist,” Deadpool says flatly, coming to stand over him. Peter has his glove off and his sleeve rolled up, and he’s massaging his spinnerette with his thumb, trying to encourage some webbing to come out.
His spinnerettes are mostly useless, as they have been ever since they first appeared, shortly after the spider-bite. They can produce some natural webbing, which is what Peter based his own web formula off of, but they’re not reliable enough to actually use as Spider-Man. They only even produce silk if he rubs them for a while, which isn’t super convenient, but if he can create webs, then he can create a plan.
“I’m trying to get some webs going,” Peter says. He wouldn’t normally share something like this with Deadpool, but he’s going to find out at some point or another, once the webs start coming.
He immediately squats down right beside him, staring intently at his wrist. “You can make it come out of you?”
“With some patience,” Peter confirms.
“And then what?” he says. “You gonna web the villains in the face and run for it?”
“I was thinking something more along the lines of making a trap,” Peter says. “If we can web them up when they come in the door, then we can escape.”
“Hm.” Deadpool sits down fully, resting his chin in his hand as he watches Peter.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually, it starts to appear. A bead of silk works its way out of his spinnerette and Peter catches it with his thumb, still rubbing in circles and encouraging more of it to come out. The silk stretches and pulls, collecting under his ministrations and growing more prominent. Eventually, when he gets enough, he’ll be able to unspool it and shape it how he wants.
“That’s it?” Deadpool says. He leans in close, dramatic, making a show of pointing out just how little Peter is producing.
“I didn’t say it was a fast plan,” he huffs. “It’s better than nothing.”
“Could be faster,” Deadpool says. “Gimme.” He holds both of his hands out, making grabbing motions. Peter just looks at him. “You can produce it from both wrists, right? And it’s not like you can rub both of them at the same time. This’ll be faster.”
Something about the idea of Deadpool rubbing the silk out of his wrists feels weird, but he does have a point. With a sigh, Peter removes his other glove and pushes up that sleeve too before extending his wrists to Deadpool.
Immediately, his thumbs find and press down on Peter’s spinnerettes. Peter yanks his arms back with a gasp, a jolt having gone through his entire body.
“Woah!” Deadpool says. “Did that hurt?”
“I—” Peter’s mouth works, but words don’t come out. His heart is racing inside his chest. His wrists are still tingling. “Yeah,” he lies. “You have to be gentle.”
Because what else is he supposed to say? That when Deadpool touched him, it felt as if he were touching the head of his cock? Because that’s not fucking weird.
Carefully, Peter extends his arms back out to the merc. Maybe it was just a fluke. The wires in his brain got crossed, somehow. Some spidery synapses misfired and Peter felt pleasure instead of a normal, inconsequential touch.
That has to be it. Because Peter touches his spinnerettes on occasion and it never feels like that. It wouldn’t make sense for the sensation to be different just because someone else was doing it. If that was how it worked, then masturbating wouldn’t be very effective, now would it?
“Slow and steady,” Deadpool confirms, and he grabs Peter’s wrists and positions his thumbs over them. Peter watches them descend, holding his breath. Gloved fingers meet skin and Peter gasps, his wrists flexing in Deadpool’s grip as his body arches of its own volition. “Shit, it’s that painful?”
“S’fine,” Peter slurs, his teeth gritted. “Just keep going.” And why does he say that? Why doesn’t he just tell Deadpool to stop, that he’ll do it himself even if it takes longer?
Deadpool obeys. He massages his wrists carefully, torturously, and Peter trembles as he fights to stay still and silent. His cock is hard already, leaking against the protective cup in his suit, which he is more thankful for than ever. At least Deadpool can’t see how this is affecting him.
“Oh, wow,” he says, and Peter pries his eyes open — when did he let them close? — afraid that he’d somehow given himself away. But Deadpool isn’t commenting on the state that Peter’s now in. No, he’s commenting on the silk flowing from Peter’s wrists. “I think your webbing likes me more than you.”
“Hah,” Peter tries to laugh. It comes out sounding more like a pant.
“Dude, are you okay?” They’re sitting cross-legged across from one another, Peter’s wrists resting against Deadpool’s knees as he massages them. He isn’t massaging them anymore, though. He’s just staring at Peter. Waiting.
“I’m fine,” Peter says. “Looks like it’s coming a lot faster now. Probably just a few more minutes.”
Deadpool still doesn’t continue. He keeps just sitting there, staring. Peter’s about to snap at him to get on with it when Deadpool suddenly presses a thumb back into Peter’s wrist, hard, and Peter moans, his body folding forward over itself.
“Huh,” Deadpool says. “You know, it’s common courtesy to let a guy know if he’s accidentally jacking you off.”
Peter yanks his wrists back, face flaming with embarrassment. “You’re not!” he protests.
“I mean, I totally was,” Deadpool says. “Even got the splooge as evidence,” he says, gesturing with the webbing still sticking to his gloves.
“It doesn’t usually feel like that,” Peter says. “It doesn’t usually feel like anything!”
“Uh-huh.”
Peter scoffs, suddenly feeling offended on top of embarrassed. “I wouldn’t have been doing it in front of you in the first place if it felt like— that.”
Deadpool doesn’t say anything for a few long moments. Then he holds his hands back out and says, once again, “Gimme.”
Peter holds his arms closer to his body. “What?”
“Oh, you don’t want me to continue now that I’m aware of what I’m doing to you?” Deadpool says sarcastically. “You’re only into unwilling participants?”
“That’s not—”
“Just shaddup and give me your hands,” he says.
Peter returns his hands to Deadpool’s lap and Deadpool goes to town. Now that he knows the spinnerettes don’t hurt him, he’s upped the pressure tenfold, which has made the sensation so much worse. Peter clenches his teeth in an attempt to stay composed, though his arms twitch violently under Deadpool’s attention and his cock throbs continuously in his cup.
Almost involuntarily, he tries to pull his arms back a few times, but Deadpool just tightens his grip and massages even harder. Peter starts gasping, unable to help it. His fingers are twitching, and he tries to form his hands into fists just to control himself, but that only makes his veins bulge and then his spinnerettes are pressed into Deadpool’s grip even more—
“‘Pool,” Peter stammers, between one breath and another.
“‘M going as fast as I can,” he grunts. “Don’t worry, I’ll be done jerking you off soon.”
Peter bites his lip. He resists the urge to rock forward and attempt to grind into his cup. He convinces himself that it’s fine, it’s cool, it’s not like he could actually cum without touching himself anyway.
The webs are pouring out of him. Peter’s never produced this much of it in his life. He’s watching it pool and drip down his wrists and gather beneath Deadpool’s thumbs, getting tangled up in his hands.
Unbidden, a noise escapes from Peter. He tries to pretend like it didn’t happen.
“Does it really feel that good?” Deadpool asks. “Does it feel like I’m touching your dick, or something?”
It’s taking everything in Peter to control his breathing. He’s counting, focusing on breathing in for a count of five and then out for another. He’s now convinced himself that as long as he can control his breathing, he can control his impending orgasm.
“Let’s not talk about it,” Peter says, voice wobbling.
“The thing about me,” Deadpool says, clearly still going to talk about it, “is that I’m not really the quiet type in bed. I gotta know how my partner’s feeling, what I’m doing right, what I’m doing wrong,” he says. “So if you’re gonna be making noises like that, I’m gonna have to talk about it.”
Peter can’t bring himself to respond. Deadpool stops massaging Peter’s wrists in circles and starts dragging his thumbs back and forth instead, and Peter whines, somewhere in the back of his throat.
“Well?” he says.
“Yes,” Peter gasps. “It feels like you’re touching… It feels, um, as sensitive, um…”
“Wooow,” Deadpool says. “So it really feels like I’m touching your peter.”
“Huh?!” Peter chokes.
“You know, your johnson. Your willy. Dang, there’s a lot of people names for your schlong.”
Peter can’t find the words to respond to that, or to rectify his premature panic from hearing his name come out of Deadpool’s mouth. It’s all he can do to remain sitting upright. He can feel sweat pouring down his body, his suit growing damp with it.
“Is it good enough that you could cum?” Deadpool says.
Peter shakes his head. Not because it’s not good enough, but because he’s warding it off. He’s manifesting it. Thou shalt not cum.
“No?” Deadpool says. “‘Cause no offense, but you seem, like, really close. Do you even hear the noises you’re making?”
“Shut up,” Peter breathes. He isn’t counting his breaths anymore. They’re just happening, fast and sharp and desperate.
“Did you forget who you’re talking to? That’s physically impossible.”
Peter moans. His fingers flex and he rocks where he’s sitting, trying to thrust into something, anything. And Deadpool does fall silent, but not because he’s giving him a reprieve, Peter thinks, but because he’s watching him, intent, observing his every breath and twitch and reaction.
“Oh God,” Peter murmurs.
“No way,” Deadpool says. “Are you going to cum? Do you want me to stop?”
Peter opens his mouth, unsure of what answer is going to come out of his mouth, and then it doesn’t matter. He hesitates for too long and it’s happening, heat and pleasure and electricity washing over him, coursing through him from his wrists and down his spine and through his groin. He cries out, shuddering and straining against Deadpool’s grip, which doesn’t relent. He’s actually cumming, his cup slick and wet against his skin as his cock throbs, untouched.
Deadpool doesn’t stop touching him until Peter whimpers, at which point he quickly drops his wrists.
Mortification floods through him. “I’m sorry,” he blurts. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You’re fine,” Deadpool says. “It’s not like you needed my permission to cum.”
Peter flushes, because that is not what he was apologizing for, but Deadpool’s already moving on.
“Do you think we have enough?” he says, gesturing to the mass of webbing between them. “I don’t know if you saw, but a shit-ton of it came out when you— well.”
Peter stumbles to his feet, rapidly gathering the webs and trying his best to avoid looking at the mercenary.
“This is probably enough,” he says, without calculating anything, and then he gets to work. He immerses himself in building the web and ignoring how awful his life is and the fact that he just came from a wrist-job from Deadpool.
But it’s once he’s about halfway done building the web, and more than halfway through the amount of silk that he anticipates needing, that he realizes that he does not, in fact, have enough. He stands there for a minute, his hands still, and once again, Deadpool breaks the silence.
“What’s the problem?”
Peter stares down at his meager attempt at a trap. “It’s too small.”
Deadpool hums. “So, you want me to touch your g-spots again.”
Peter whirls around. “Is this seriously funny to you?”
“Yeah, I think it’s hilarious how fast I can make you cum,” Deadpool says. He strides across the room and Peter stands his ground, glaring, which is actually not the right decision, because he’s already standing practically against the wall. Deadpool just shoves him into it, and then he grabs Peter by the wrists and pins them above his head.
“Wait—”
“We need more, right?” Deadpool says. “Otherwise your trap won’t work?”
“I— yeah, I guess…”
Deadpool sets to work. Peter gasps, straining against his grip, so he strains right into Deadpool’s waiting body. He just leans forward, pressing him harder into the wall, and then Peter’s panting into his shoulder.
“This might be the freakiest shit I’ve ever done,” Deadpool comments. Peter can feel the silk running down his arms.
“Deadpool,” Peter says. He doesn’t know why he says it. He doesn’t have anything to say. It just comes out of him.
“I always thought that if I made Spider-Man cum one day, it’d be the old fashioned way,” he says. “Dicks and holes, you get me?”
Peter whines. He grinds against Deadpool’s thigh, which found its way between his own at some point, and now he curses the cup that he was so thankful for earlier. Deadpool puts his mouth right up against Peter’s ear. “Do you like this, Webs?”
“Yes!” Peter gasps. He’s shocked that the truth escaped him so immediately.
“Yeah?”
“Deadpool,” Peter says, once again for no reason other than to say it, and then Deadpool is mouthing at his neck, separated by two layers of fabric. His thumbs bear down and Peter arches up and it’s happening again, so soon, his body trembling and throbbing as he spends himself inside his cup.
This time when he whimpers, Deadpool keeps going, and he holds his wrists there even when Peter tries to pull away.
“Are you sure we have enough?” he says.
Peter stares, blearily, at the webbing he’s produced so far, overwhelmed and oversensitive. Has he produced enough? There was a lot more when he first started the trap. Is this enough to finish it?
He can’t decide and so he doesn’t answer and so Deadpool continues, rubbing Peter’s wrists until he’s practically sobbing against Deadpool’s shoulder, his entire body shaking.
“You make a whole lot when you cum,” Deadpool says. “Think you could cum again?”
Peter just huffs out a wet, weak breath. Deadpool releases one of his wrists, and then he’s working his way into Peter’s suit, expertly finding the hidden seam between the two halves.
“I got you,” he murmurs as his hand nudges aside the cup and grasps Peter, massaging his cock as he continues to massage his wrist.
“Please,” Peter whispers. He can’t tell whether he’s asking him to stop or to continue. He’s so sensitive but it feels so good, and he can feel himself getting hard in Deadpool’s grip, and he’s grinding into him and gripping him with his free hand, getting webs all over his suit.
“That’s it,” he says, encouraging. “That’s it, Spidey, I gotcha.”
Peter buries his face into Deadpool’s shoulder and cries. He feels weak, spent, and he stutters pathetically into his hand as he cums for the third time. Deadpool shushes him and praises him and kisses the top of his head through their masks.
“That’s perfect,” he says, after pulling his hand out of Peter’s spandex. “Look how much we got!”
Both of them are absolutely covered in webs, but Deadpool’s right. It’s certainly enough to make a trap. With this amount of webbing, if Peter waits on the ceiling, he’ll be able to drop a web trap on anyone who comes through the door.
But it takes a long, long time for the villain to come back to the room he locked them in. Peter and Deadpool spend hours waiting, anticipating, napping, chatting. Eventually, having grown so bored, Deadpool clears his throat and says, “Should we make another trap?”