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Something about waking up next to Wade in the golden Sunday morning light made Peter feel floaty. Soft. Like he’d spun them both into a web too cozy to ever crawl out of. Just shirtless, warm bodies, tangled sheets, and that quiet kind of joy that fluttered deep in his chest. He was happy to be here. Happy to be living with Wade.
Maybe that was it.
Peter was happy.
-Snorkk!-
Heh. Peter didn't even mind Wade's snoring. He thought it was kinda cute. Thought it was nice that Wade was getting a good night's sleep for once.
He stroked Wade's chest, the patchwork texture like a soothing zen garden beneath his fingertips – little divots and shiny, smooth parts, all stitched together with jagged soft touches.
Mm, Wade’s body was perfect except it was missing just one thing.
Peter slid closer, melting against the warm cocoon of Wade, pressing a tiny peck between his pecs.
Yep. Grade-A quipping blissfully spent on a party of one.
His eyes caught the lingering wet print left behind, and Peter didn’t mean to stare, but, y’know – he was a little in love.
NBD.
Only it was a big deal.
A little memory flickered behind Peter’s eyes, thinking back to when he and Wade were just starting to become buds on their patrols together. Trading quips on rooftops and pretending they weren’t lonely. Peter hadn’t told him his name for the longest time. Wade never even took off his mask back then.
And now? Peter wanted to memorize him. Every mark. Every line. Every part Wade had once hidden away.
“You know,” Wade murmured, voice gravel-thick with sleep, “you keep staring at me like that, baby boy, and I’m gonna wake up with an ego the size of Staten Island.”
Peter’s cheeks turned pink. “Hi.”
Wade yawned, stretching one arm over Peter, squeezing the little nook of his waist. “Hey there, Petey-pie. How long you been starin’ at my ugly mug like you wanna marry it?”
He nuzzled against Wade’s neck. “Just a minute. Just… admiring you.”
“Gaaaawwwd,” Wade growled, tugging Peter in close, their legs intertwining. “What did I do to deserve this? You, me, together in bed on a Sunday morning? Name a better fucking trio.”
“Heh. You, me, and hot dogs?”
"Mmpf. A bed made of hot dogs. Kinky.” He paused, his eyes flickering down to where Peter’s fingers were tracing over his forearm. “Alright, sweetums, fess up. Are you drawing hot dog patterns on me, or were you scar-gazing?”
“I’m not— I mean, I wasn’t— I was just… admiring. That’s all.”
"Mm-hmm. Welp. Might as well let me return the favor.” Wade leaned in, kissing the sprinkle of freckles across Peter’s nose. “I think the sun had a crush on you. Left little love bites all over. Jelly.” Another kiss to the cinnamon twinkle on his shoulder. Then, Wade dipped down, kissing the three dot-dot-dots along his hip. “Ellipses!” he gasped. “What a tease.”
“Wha—hey—what are you doing?” Peter’s breath hitched as Wade’s mouth ghosted over a freckle just above his waistband.
"Fairs, fair, Websy," Wade said, deadpan. "Petey-cutie-freckle-find-me in exchange for Wade-Wilson-scar-gazing."
“...oboy…” Peter’s insecurity sense tingled, and he bugged out, flopping onto his belly.
"Oooh, tummy down ass up," Wade said, pleased. He assumed the position, straddling Peter's legs before adding, “You’re giving me full access to your butt freckles, Petey."
Peter snorted into the pillow. “You’re such a dork.”
“Yeah, but I’m your dork. Freckle-certified and ready to twerk. -Hngh!-” Wade thrusted his hips.
“You know,” Peter said, peeping to look up at Wade, “I used to hate them when I was younger. I thought they made me look –”
“Beautiful. Breathless. Cute. Kissable.”
“Heh. I don’t know.” Peter sighed. “More like splotchy. Like I’d dripped chocolate ice cream on myself and didn’t have a napkin.”
“Nah.” Wade leaned in, kissing two freckles between his shoulder blades. “They make you look like the softest, sweetest cinnamon-dusted honey bun in the entire galaxy. And I’m fucking starving, baby boy.”
Wade started kissing his way down Peter’s back — warm and wet, tongue lapping at each cutie mark, little bits of praise vibrating against Peter’s skin –
“So delicious, baby. So good. I could spend all morning here. Fuck that. I could spend my whole life here. ‘Bout to propose to the trio of freckles on your thigh. Mm.” Wade paused, licking his lips. “Your freckles taste like cinnamon stardust.”
Oh. It wasn’t every day Peter’s freckles got compliments. They were just little dots he wasn’t always super fond of. But cinnamon stardust?
Peter went weak in the freckles on his knees.
“You’re not allowed to say stuff like that unless you mean it,” Peter said, peeking shyly at Wade over his shoulder.
“I do mean it,” Wade said, pressing closer, hot breath over the shell of his ear. “If there’s one thing I wanna do with this patchwork mess of a life—it’s make sure you know how fucking beautiful you are, Webs. Inside, outside, upside down, freckles, spandex. All of it. Always.”
The mattress was the only thing keeping Peter’s heart from exploding out through his chest. “I guess I mean this,” he whispered, rolling over on his back to kiss Wade—soft, slow. Peter felt floaty again, like they were spiders in a web, weightless and tangled together, hovering just above the world of their bed.
“Wait—” Peter paused, “If my freckles taste like cinnamon… what do yours taste like?”
“Heh. Haven’t had a freckle since 1992. Bet my scars taste like fruit leather or beef jerky.”
“Hmm,” Peter considered. “Guess I’ll have to see for myself.”
Then, with a flicker of spider strength, Peter rolled them over, Wade on his back, straddling his hips and gripping his thighs, not letting Wade out of his turn easily.
Wade blinked up at him, clearly pleased. “Whoa-ho-ho! Okay, Petey-pie, throwing your arachnopower around? Hot.”
“Only when it’s warranted,” Peter said, giving a wink.
He dipped down, lips ghosting over the little scars scattered like stars just above Wade’s collarbone. “Mmm. You taste good, Wade.” -Smooch!-
“Like smoke and heat and something that went through the fire and somehow came out sweeter.”
Wade laughed, low and incredulous. “Heh—hah, oh my god. What. In. The. Ass. Like barbecue?”
“Like crème brûlée,” Peter said, beaming, “sticky, sweet, the kind that clings to your lips and makes you hum when you lick it off.”
He pressed a kiss to Wade’s shoulder.
“And you know I always want seconds when we have it.”
Another kiss, this time to Wade’s neck.
“Only yours is the kind where I want thirds.” -Muah!-
“Fourths.” -Smek!-
“Fifths.” He kissed the corner of Wade’s mouth, eyes gleaming. “What? I’m a growing boy.”
“Whuuuuu...?” Wade’s brain short-circuited. “Petey, you can’t just dish out five-course compliments like this before breakfast. Besides –”
Then Old Yellow crashed the party, saying something snarky.
“– M’body’s a mess,” Wade scoffed.
Peter shook his head. “But it’s your body,” he said softly. “And every scar is proof that you stayed. That you fought. That you made it here — to me.”
Wade’s whole chest was doing that fluttery, tight thing like he was about to cry or do something equally embarrassing—like go commando on his feelings.
“Baby?”
“Yeah, Wade?”
“Do you really like kissing them? My scars? ‘Cause I ain’t no charity case.”
"I love kissing them. Touching them." Peter traced his fingers across a longer, jagged scar along Wade’s ribs, the soft hush of the morning light curling around them. “If there’s anything I want to do with this shaky, sticky, impossibly Parker-luck-filled life—it’s to make sure you know how beautiful you are. Inside, outside, scars, snores, cuddled next to me. All of it. Always.”
BAM. Right in Wade’s tit.
“God, I love you,” Wade swooned, right into Peter's lips.
-Mmfh!- Peter made a little appreciative moan before squeezing Wade with both hands and kissing him back, soft and slow and deep.
His lips tingled — sweet and crackling, like warm caramelized sugar. "I love you too," he whispered. Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to Wade’s cheek before nuzzling into the little nook beneath his jaw.
Yeah, Peter was happy.