|Dark Horst|

“Peteeer,” The voice stretches like chewing gum—one of those voices that makes Peter’s eyelashes twitch on instinct, because nothing good ever comes after that tone. Nothing calm. Nothing normal.

Peter turns. Wade. Of course.

In his bright red suit, leaning casually against the wall, wearing that look—that look—behind his lenses. The look of a man two seconds away from doing something… so Wade.

“You know what I realized?” Wade throws out a hand like he’s just been struck by divine revelation. “My heart is like a fridge. Full of love. But somehow empty, because no one ever comes to my kitchen… except pizza guys and contract killers.” He leans in, lowers his voice, conspiratorial: “I want to invite you there. To my kitchen. I mean… on a date. Though if you prefer, I can literally cook for you. Or make breakfast. Or both at once—I multitask like Windows with seventeen updates running.”

Peter blinks. Then blinks again. The corner of his mouth twitches—like it always does around this lunatic.

“Are you… are you serious right now?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. With Wade, everything is always both serious and not-serious at the same time.

“Oh, yeah. Dead serious. Like a heart attack. Like the IRS. Like your Aunt May—” Peter cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. No way he’s letting that thread unravel. To his surprise (and it is a surprise), Wade actually stops mid-ramble and circles back to the point.

“Listen, Petey… we could… you know… grab some food, talk, maybe even beat up a bad guy on the way—classic date, all-inclusive. What do you say?”

Peter looks at him—this walking disaster wrapped in red leather, this absolute hurricane of a man with hands that can kill and hands that can touch so gently it’s like everything is made of stained glass.

He exhales. “…Okay,” he says, not quite believing the words coming out of his mouth. “But, please. No… you know… no full Wade.”

Wade instantly throws his hands up in mock surrender. “Scout’s honor, Peter Pan. I’ll be good. Well—as good as Wade Wilson can possibly get. I mean, I can’t promise I won’t bring a stuffed unicorn. But at least I’ll wash it first.”

And he actually shows up. He doesn’t bail. Doesn’t fake a twisted ankle. Doesn’t invent some Spider-Man emergency. Peter Parker stands at the entrance of the most… the most Wade restaurant imaginable.

“…That’s…” Peter squints. “That’s a taco truck.”

“Yep!” Wade bounces on the balls of his feet like he’s running on fifty double espressos and pure joy. “But not just any taco truck, Pete! It’s our taco truck! Look—I even reserved us a table!” He leads Peter around the corner to where a piece of plywood is balanced on stacked crates, two candles flickering on top, along with a polka-dotted rubber mat for good measure. “Romantic? Romantic.”

Peter freezes. Then pinches the bridge of his nose, lips twitching in spite of himself. Because… well. Damn it. It’s cute. It’s Wade-cute.

“Are you serious?” he rasps, but his voice has gone soft. The laugh slips out without permission.

“Only thing more serious is death, and even that’s debatable.” Wade pulls off the mask. His face… well. His face. The scars, the crooked grin. But the eyes—damn it, the eyes—are so alive.

He shrugs, as if shaking off invisible weight. “I just wanted you to know. I really… I really want this. With you. Not just the shooting and blowing things up and cracking jokes… though obviously that too. But this. Quiet. Eating tacos. Talking. Watching your eyelashes tremble when you laugh.”

Something inside Peter spins in place, like the needle of a broken compass. “I… um…” Words slip away from him. “I… want to try. If you really… mean it. No pressure. No expectations.”

Wade’s grin lights up like a Christmas tree. “Oh, I mean it, baby. I already ordered the tacos. That’s basically a proposal in my world.”

They sit. They eat. They laugh. And somewhere along the way, Peter realizes—he’s not waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s not flinching. He’s just… there. Just breathing. Just eating tacos with Wade Wilson under the glow of shitty streetlamps. And for some reason, his heart feels… lighter.

Night slips in around them. Somewhere in the distance, doors slam, sirens wail, someone laughs down an alley. But here—it’s just them. Two shadows in flickering light.

“Tacos were good,” Peter murmurs, lips quirking. His hands are stuffed in his hoodie pocket, his whole body tense like a coiled spring. “Didn’t think my first date with you would be… this.”

“Honestly? Me neither,” Wade admits. “I figured we’d end up with at least one bar fight and two minor explosions. But you know what? I like this. Just like that spicy sauce that almost made me cry but didn’t. Almost.”

They pause. Eyes lock. That thin, humming-wire tension between them.

Peter exhales a breath of a laugh. “Wade…”

“Yeah?” Wade’s voice drops to almost a whisper, like he’s afraid to shatter the moment.

“If you don’t kiss me right now, you’re going to regret it.” Peter doesn’t know where the words come from—they just fall out, raw and real.

Wade’s hands freeze. His eyes go wide—wide—like a kid on Christmas morning unwrapping a gift he never thought he’d get. Then he laughs. Soft, hoarse, breathless. Head tilts back just a little.

“Oh, Spidey,” he exhales. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

And he leans in. Slow. Careful. Like every millisecond is a test: will Peter pull away? Will he say stop?

But Peter doesn’t move. He just watches. Lips parted. Breath shaky.

And then their lips meet. Soft. Tentative. Disbelieving.

Peter feels his heart slam against his ribs. Feels the warmth of bare hands—no gloves—ghost over his cheek. He reaches back. Just a little. Just enough.

And Wade Wilson—poor, broken, beautiful Wade—moans softly into his mouth, the kind of sound that makes the world tilt off its axis, and the kiss deepens. Too alive. Too messy. Too real.

Peter smiles into it. And pulls him closer by the collar, not letting go.