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Peter was pissed off to be honest.
He was sat on the toilet slumped over his legs hissing at his bodies betrayal. No aspect of his life ran like clock-work, so of course, this would be the same. Sure, there were the obvious warning signs it was coming, but they caused enough anxiety in themselves to be steadfastly ignored. After struggling with a pad definitely not designed for boxers, Peter plopped down onto the floor and literally crawled back to bed. There was only half an hour left till his alarm, but so help him if he wasn’t going to spend it in a warm cocoon of comfort.
The time for classes came far too soon, but Peter pulled himself out of bed, reminding himself that collage finals would roll round soon enough. He almost forgot to pack any pads at all, doubling back to shove a handful into the front of his back-pack, swearing at them the whole time. Even more fucked-off and feeling considerably less prepared than before, he slammed the front door of his shitty apartment behind him.
--
Peter only made it to 11.34am before he decided that he couldn’t fucking do it anymore. He didn’t even try to voice an excuse, just got up from the back of the lecture hall and shimmied his way out. Even biochemistry was making him angry right now. What was the point.
--
Having trudged his way back home, Peter made the executive decision to make some food and curl up on the sofa with a hot water bottle. If by ‘make food’ you count heating up a plastic cup sponge pudding and sticking some canned peach on top, and by ‘hot water bottle’ you mean snapping those shitty hand-warmers that no-one bothers resetting ever.
After a few hours- thank fuck- the stomach cramps begin to recede.
--
By 8.30pm Peter was feeling what he deemed as reasonably okay to go out on patrol. It took him a little while longer than usual to get into his suit, trying to smooth out boxer shorts he didn’t normally wear under the suit having built a packer in. He made the mistake of looking sideways in the mirror, deflating at how visibly bloated he looked. Fuck.
Peter turned away, dysphoria threatening to turn his brain into a black whole and crawl out of his mouth. Sighing, Peter opened his wardrobe and pulled out his emergency Spiderman hoodie. An actual Spiderman fan hoodie he’d bought off the internet. It had multiple bonuses; oversized= jumper paws; it was so fucking soft; completely covered any trace of body shape, and so many people owned them it wasn't enough to i.d. him in his daily life if he ever wore it to college (sometimes he needed the confidence of Spiderman okay?).
He pulled it over his suit and was good to go. With a fortifying breathe he launched out the window.
--
He was not good to go.
About forty minutes into his patrol, Peter’s senses started to go into override. Groaning he slowed to a stop on a random roof top. A Spiderman induced period symptom. As if there weren’t enough ordinary ones already.
His head was already pounding when a police siren tore through the block he was directly above, ricocheting around Peter’s skull.
“Fuck.” He gritted out, stumbling back slightly, vision swirling blue around the edges. Sinking to his knees he, for the second time that day, crawled in between the two large air vents spouting out of the flat roof. He curled up into a ball, eyes squeezed shut, palms pressed into his ears, and flopped over onto his side. Not completely optimal when exposed on top of some random building in God-knows-which part of the city.
--
Peter was still in the exact same position half an hour later when Deadpool found him. Peter didn’t know whether to thank his lucky stars or curse every god known to man.
“Awh man, Petey boy, you there?” Wade called, surprisingly gently. Of course, Peter’s Spidey-sense was so ramped up it had started screaming at the non-sensical pattern of Wade nearly five minutes ago. In peter’s head it was like a mixture of adorable cartoon unicorns and machetes coming to hack off his ears- usually accompanied by a twinge of hunger at the knowledge there was likely to be food.
“Baby boy, you deffo should not-o be up here on a roof if you don’t even know there’s a mercenary up here with you too.” He frowned as Peter just curled up further and gestured loosely at Wade, screwing his eyes shut even more before mumbling, “Knew it was you. Unicorn Machete.”
“That… sounded like a compliment so I’ll take it.” Wade whispered as he got nearer.
Why was he getting nearer? Peter just about managed to wonder before he felt himself being scooped off the ground.
“Naw, nooo…” He tried weakly.
He was fine. He was A-OK. He was Peter-man and definitely did not need- Wade just about managed to grab and haphazardly shove Peter’s mask up to his nose in time to watch him turn in his grip and throw up all over his boots.
“Oh nooo, that was icky.” Peter whispered in child-like bewilderment. Man, he was really out of it.
Wade chuckled at the boneless spider in his arms, and then even more at the wide eyes that twisted to look up at him.
“Woah. And you’re not even mad.” Peter said, what Wade was sure was him thinking out-loud instead of Wade for once.
“Looks like you’re one Spidey in need of some ice-cream and a nap.”
“Yeah.” Said Peter, instantly shutting his eyes.
--
“I seriously want a jacket like Cassian’s.” Peter stated through a mouthful of cookie dough ice cream.
“Oh. My. Thor. Petey, if I buy you one, can I be your cosplay Jyn?”
Peter paused, spoon halfway to his mouth, and narrowed his eyes.
“Are you going to try and turn this into a ‘now-you’re-basically-roleplaying-for-your-sugar-daddy’ kind of situation, because if so, then I’ll go without the jacket.”
Wade gasped dramatically, eyes even more animated without the mask,
“Did you just admit I’m your sugar daddy?”
“Fuck off Wade.”
“I bet you’d get down and dirty for that jacket.”
Wade had almost forgotten about the entire conversation Peter ignored him for so long, until he heard a quiet “It’s a really nice jacket.” Followed by Peter going red as a beetroot and shoving way too much ice cream into his mouth.
He’s so fucking adorable, Wade thought, a tiny spider-hamster hybrid baby.
--
It was the end of the movie and Wade had been gone a while, Peter assumed he was either taking a shit or trying to clear up a missions’ bloodstains or something, so he thought he’d put the empty ice cream tubs in the bin at least.
But as he stood and turned, Peter froze.
Fuck.
Fuck Fuck Shit Fuck.
Right where Peter had been sitting there was a reasonable sized splodge of red. Of course, on the one not-already-bloodstained blanket that Wade had for when Peter, or the occasional alternative guest, visited and Wade was trying to cover up the, again, bloodstained sofa.
Another horrendous thing occurred to Peter. If it went through to the blanket, then it went through his pants. Decidedly too-large blue sweatpants that were not his.
Peter floundered, flailing pointlessly in front of the sofa, feet rooted to the spot.
Deadpool, Wade, knew he was trans, but that wasn’t the point. This was embarrassing and as gross as fuck.
As time ticked by Peter’s panic only rose. Surely Wade would be back any second now? Should he take them off and scrub them in the kitchen sink? It’s not like a huge fucking wet patch would be any less obvious, and what if Wade came back and he was just in his underwear? And what about the blanket? Should he try to pass off that it was already there? Turn the pants round? How the fuck would that help? He should just leave. That’s what he’ll do. He’ll leave them on, grab his suit and the blanket and go. Sorry ‘Pool! Had to spin! Spin? What the fuck was spi-
“Petey?”
Peter’s hyperventilating completely ceased, now he just wasn’t taking in air at all.
He was painfully aware of the tears tracking down his cheeks as he stared like a deer in headlights over the sofa to where Wade had just emerged from the bathroom. He was raising his hands really slowly, Peter noted, confused.
“What’s going on over there Spiderling? Is it your senses again?” He added quietly.
That was considerate, Peter thought, but he couldn’t speak, his brain was just frozen in place, completely unable to comprehend the situation.
“Can I come over Peter?”
Wade hardly ever called him just Peter unless he was spooked. Was Peter doing the spooking?
Suddenly Wade was at his shoulder, Peter startled, looking up at the taller man, who took the blanket from his hand hovering in the air. Huh? When did he even pick it up?
The spell was broken when Wade ruffled his hair and said, “Want to put new pants on so I can wash these up?”
Peter spontaneously burst into tears and crumpled against Wade.
“Hey,” Wade cooed, “It’s all chill, ain’t nothing in comparison to all of your clothes I’ve ruined by spewing my guts on them, bleeding in them, and, admittedly, getting a little too excited in them.”
“Ew, Wade.” Peter laughed a little, tilting his head back to look at Wade with big brown eyes.
“You’re so dreamy Baby boy.” Wade pulled on Peter’s hoodie draw-strings,
“Want a shower or anything? Hot chocolate? I don’t have a hot water bottle, but, duh,” he gestured to himself with a flourish “human sized radiator.”
Peter blushed, “I don’t feel like a shower right now. Too much dysphoria and it’ll look like a literal war zone. Maybe later. And, a solid yes to the radiator.”
--
A little while later, when Peter was in fluffy hello kitty pyjama bottoms, and they were curled together on the sofa watching tv. again, Peter whispered,
“Sorry if it grossed you out.”
Wade paused the hand carding through Peter’s hair to turn him to look at him.
“Nothing about that was gross Peter. It’s just how some people’s bodies work, you didn’t do it on purpose. I don’t think anything you do could ever be gross to me. Even your poop is golden.”
“Ew, Wade.” Peter laughed, but in complete awe.
“See. I’m the gross one. I jack off to stuffed unicorns.”
Peter burst out laughing (that’s totally why his eyes were watering),
“That addition was so unnecessary. What’s his name?”
“Their name is Winston.”
“That’s just your middle name… oh my god Wade, did you not even name the poor thing?”
“Look. In these scenarios its best to just screech silently and ask as little questions as possible.”
“I’ll remember that for future reference.”
“Awh what? Baby boy, no. You scream all you want.”
“Ew.”
“See? Gross again. I’m gross and proud.”