( let it be known that a good seventy-five percent of the time, peter has no idea what the hell wade is on about. sometimes he stares off into the distance and talks to himself, or an unseen audience, and peter pretends he's picking lint off of his suit or stares in confusion, trying to parse even a fraction of the wadeisms distributed in front of his very own eyes. a majority of them fall flat. not because he's crazy or whatever, but because whatever it is he intuits or witnesses, peter can't see right away.

what he tells him plainly now is that he's going to ruin him for having sex with anyone else, which is, like, a really huge statement.

( also, please. ) )

I just. Uh. Hold on. Several sidebars.

( no, it's not lost on peter's dick that wade travels with lubricant. there is a beat where he stares, heavy eyelids, lips parsed, contemplating that specifically. )

Does it hurt? Am I hurting you? And, um, is this? Genetics?

( right, right, right, respectfully. peter lifts his eyes up from all of the scarred muscles, not any less firm, or any less sexy under his hands. under his eyes, yeah, maybe, but in comparison to lizard people and goblin-disease people (not the medical name), and uh alien symbiote beings (that may or may not exist in the sony-disney-marvelverse) eh, fucking debatable. )

Indulge the vaguely scientific side, for a second. It has benefits. And the, you know, empathetic part. The me, under the mask. I'm not scared, but I do like.. comprehending.

( don't mind that he's biting the knuckle of an index finger while the other palm roams, fingers spread, dragging, stopping under wade's rib cage. listening, okay, he's listening, whether there is a part of him that doesn't want to. )

And then you can finger me until I sob for all I care, alright?

( he's lying; the sobbing point is when he uses his powers and climbs wade. )