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Peter loved summertime.
Peter did not love summer nights in a cramped New York apartment.
In previous summers, Peter had been alone, window open, sweating through his underclothes. His covers always ended up kicked to the foot of the bed (if not completely off the mattress).
This summer was the same…
…but for Wade Wilson sprawled next to him, shamelessly nude.
Peter shifted around on his side of the shared bed, a king-size that Wade bought—
(“A Lannister always pays his debts.”
“Wade, that doesn’t even make sense. And, it was—we both…I’d technically owe myself, too, in this scenario.”
“Just let Daddy pay for the big-ass bed—”
“Wade.”
“—and then I’m sure you can find a way to pay me back…”)
— after Peter’s old full-size gave up the ghost. It was another unforgivingly hot night. The cheap sheets and his thin tank and shorts were sweat-stuck to Peter’s skin, the slight breeze too infrequent to provide lasting relief.
The web-slinger rolled over, his back to a softly snoring, content Wade (the man could sleep in any condition, stg), and flipped his pillow so he could mush his face into the cool side.
Nothing.
Peter rolled over to glare tiredly into the darkness. Ugh, screw this. He was close to just giving up on sleep entirely. Maybe he’d take a cold shower and then study, or throw on his suit and patrol.
He had just decided to get out of bed when a scarred hand brushed down his back, drifting to tug on the hem of his shirt.
Peter half twisted towards his bedmate.
Wade’s eyes were closed, hand now resting, waiting, at the sliver of skin at Peter’s lower back. The corners of Peter’s mouth quirked up.
"What are you doing?" Peter murmured.
Wade mumbled back unintelligibly.
Peter arched a brow, but at another light but insistent tug moved so Wade could remove his tank top. The merc tossed it haphazardly off the side of the mattress, and then settled his large hand at the waistband of the smaller man’s shorts, dipping two fingers past the elastic. Peter snorted softly, his smile growing.
"Are you trying to seduce me, Wade?" Peter twisted fully to smirk over his shoulder at the mercenary.
One eye opened just enough to peer at the hero.
"Nah, Petey. Just helpin’."
Wade’s smile was sleepy and affectionate, and Peter felt a rush of bright warmth in his chest.
He hadn’t known how amazing it would feel to allow this man to carve a place into his life (into his heart, when the hero was feeling exceptionally sappy). Peter had always known the anti-hero as an incomparable force of nature, believed him incapable of anything but his signature vibrant intensity, and he’d gone into this thing expecting nothing less. He’d been pleased, surprised, at the open displays of vulnerability and lightness that Wade brought to their fledgling relationship.
He turned back and let Wade slide the boxers off, leaving Peter completely bare (and shivering, just a little, at the sensation of rough-hewn skin skimming down the backs of his thighs). There wasn’t an immediate difference, temperature-wise…but the next light breeze was heavenly on his newly exposed skin. Peter sighed.
The mattress shifted slightly, and warm, rough lips pressed gently between Peter’s shoulder blades. A broad, textured palm skated from Peter’s waist to settle over the younger man’s hipbone, the hold more sweet than suggestive, and Peter relaxed into it.
(It had been another one of those pleasant surprises, those moments when Peter could ignore that near constant simmering want, and just indulge in the feeling of close.)
Peter listened to Wade’s breathing even out before rolling over carefully to face his sleeping partner. He studied what he could of the man’s face in the dark, the expressive features loose and somehow youthful in sleep.
It was too warm to cuddle, but he reached out to twine his fingers with Wade’s.
Peter loved summertime.
Peter could maybe fall in love with summer nights, too.