It wasn't that it had never happened to him before. But the first time, he had been too young to understand what was happening, why it was so wrong. This time, he had been old enough to get it, but drunk enough to not care. In the moment he just wanted to feel good, to have a warm body under him and over him. He didn't worry about the type of person who would take home someone who was clearly too drunk to consent to anything, let alone the kind of stuff the guy was into.
It wasn't even that anything truly terrible had happened. The only lingering physical effects were the bruising on his neck and chest from love bites, some marks on his legs, and a sore throat from when he had been pushed down to deepthroat the guy. He didn't drug him, or do anything that Peter technically hadn't consented to. Sure, he didn't love being forced to choke on a random guy's dick, didn't love being called babygirl when his pronoun pin clearly stated he/him, but it really could have been so much worse.
So why did the marks make him feel queasy when he caught sight of them? Hadn't he begged for them in the moment? Why did remembering the way the guy had thrown Peter’s legs over his shoulders make him want to only wear baggy sweatpants for the rest of his life? Why did remembering his hand around his throat make him feel like he couldn't breathe, like the way he had choked when the guy pushed his head down on his dick until the air was stale in his lungs.
It could have been worse. The night was patchy, so Peter couldn't remember how exactly everything had happened. A flash of him dancing with a girl. A flash of leaving to smoke with a group of guys he didn't know. One of the guys moving closer. A stranger coming up and asking if he was ok, the guy saying, “Oh everything’s fine, my boyfriend has just had a bit too much to drink,” and Peter wishing, hoping that they wouldn't listen to the guy, even as the stranger walked away. Then he was in the car with him, and the guy - god, he doesn't think he ever even got his name - is telling him how beautiful he is, telling him he can't wait to fill him up. A flash and they are on the guys bed, naked and tangled up and Peter is feeling so good but also like he's simply giving the best performance of his life.
He's saying no, and the guy is talking him into it anyway.
He's closing his legs, but the guy is cajoling them open.
He's trying to sleep, but the guy is asking for, “just a bit more, please Princess.”
The guy is begging to let him come in him, and Peter is shaking his head, “No, it would ruin everything, I can’t get pregnant, I can't,” and the guy isn't caring.
And Peter keeps saying ok, keeps letting the guy take. That, more than anything, is what it was. Peter had never really thought of his childhood experiences as being assault. When his babysitter would come into his room at night to play truth or dare, or to ask for a massage, or to play the doggy game. His babysitter hadn't been that much older than him, he had realized by the time he was old enough to understand what had happened. And when he had told him about the neighbor boy pulling down his pants in his garage, his babysitter had known exactly what to do. He had helped. So how could he be bad?
In the same way, he was having a hard time thinking about this as assault. He had consented. He had said yes to everything that had happened, and the guy hadn't done anything he didn't allow in some way. Peter knew he would never take a drunk person home, would never try to talk someone into something they didn't want to do. He knew that if anything like this had happened to a friend he would be up in arms. He didn't know why the rules were different for him. Why couldn't he allow himself to think of it as what he logically knew it was, what it would be for anyone else, what he knew it was even while it was happening?
He looked down at the spidersuit covering his body, concealing the bite marks he knew lay blooming underneath it. Maybe it was because of this. Because Spiderman couldn't be that weak. He couldn't be taken advantage of like that, he stood up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves. Surely he should have been able to stand up for himself?
He remembered reading an article about how some people who have been sexually assaulted seek out or put themselves in situations where it would be likely to happen again. Was that what this was? Was he just so fucked up that he couldn't let himself have a healthy relationship? Pushing away the people he knew would actually care for him, and seeking out people he knew were bad for him? Looking back, it did seem to be a pattern in his life. Everyone he had allowed close enough to flirt with, to look at him with want in their eyes, had one thing in common - they were all walking red flags. From the first conversation he knew that they were liars, manipulators, but he looked past it anyway. Why did he do that?
Everyone except for one person, that is. And, speak of the devil, Peter could hear him trying to sneak up behind him right now. He decided to allow Deadpool this small, short lived victory and pretend like he had no clue he was there, until a hand landed on his shoulder and a playful voice yelled, “Gotcha, Baby Boy!”
For a second, Peter contemplated falling off the roof to show Deadpool why sneaking up on a person who had their legs dangling off a 40 story building was a bad idea, but he decided he didn't want to give him a heart attack today, so instead he just turned and arched a brow at him judgmentally. He was glad that he already had his mask off so Deadpool could get the full effect.
Deadpool pouted, pulling up his mask to his nose just so Peter could see. “You couldn't pretend to be scared? Not even a little? For me?”
Peter rolled his eyes. “Oh, of course, my bad,” he said, and shifted his weight towards the drop off in front of him. “Ah, you really got m-” but before he could finish (either his sentence or falling off the building), Deadpool had yelped and jumped forwards to yank him away from the edge.
“What are you doing Baby Boy?? If you fall from this high up you can't just regrow like I do!”
Peter raised his arm up and shot some web at Deadpool's mouth in answer. There were some muffled noises for a few moments before a loud grunt and then Deadpool's voice rang out again. Peter sighed. It was nice while it lasted.
“Jesus fuck Baby Boy! I don't mind being gagged but at least take me to dinner first! Consent is sexy, Spidey,” he finished his spiel with an overdramatic wink but Peter was already too far in his own mind to see it.
Fuck, why would he do that without asking? Was he just as bad as the people he seemed to attract? Was that why every person he let close to him in that way turned out to be the same? Maybe like truly did call to like. Maybe all he deserved were men who pushed his boundaries and left marks in places he didn't want and-
“Spidey? Hey, are you in there? What happened??” He blinked and Deadpool was crouched down in front of him, concern written in every line of his face, and- oh. No, this wasn't Deadpool. This was Wade.
Peter pulled a grin up, smiling at Wade's worried face. “Sorry, just haven't been sleeping good. Didn't mean to worry you.”
This had the opposite of the intended effect. Wade’s face creased even further and he plopped down, leaning forwards towards Peter. “Baby Boy, I know what you look like when you are tired and this was something else. Something more. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but I’m here if you decide you want to. Just don't lie to me about whatever it is.”
“I…” Peter didn't know what to say. He wanted to talk to someone, to tell someone, for Wade to tell him he wasn't overreacting, for him to put the words to it that Peter couldn't bring himself to, but he didn't know how. He and Wade had been dancing around each other for months, small touches, winks thrown in after a suggestive comment. Would he be mad? Would he think Peter had basically cheated on him? Peter didn't know how he would handle Wade being actually, truly, angry with him. It had never happened before, but he did know he wouldn't handle it well. Especially now.
He was also, deep down, worried that Wade would tell him it was his fault. That Peter was right and that he shouldn't have led the other man on. That would be worse than Wade being mad at him. So much worse. Peter didn't know if he was brave enough to risk that.
Wade was still looking at him with the kind of gentleness Peter hadn't deserved since he was a child. “Baby Boy?” And Peter broke down.
“There was this guy, at this party I went to…” As Peter told his story, he watched Wade’s face get angrier and angrier and Peter started to pull away, already dreading the fallout. But he had already come this far, so he stuck it out, hurrying to the end. When he finished, there was deafening silence. Peter sat in it for only a moment, looking at Wade’s face, which was warped with a kind of fury Peter didn't think he had ever seen. “Wade? Please say something. I get if you’re mad at me, but please-”
He was cut off by Wade leaning in and speaking over him. “What’s his address?”
Peter was shocked silent for a moment, blinking at Wade before he managed an eloquent, “Huh?”
“His address. You said you got an Uber from his house after. So pull up his address.”
Peter felt his brows furrow. “I…why?”
Wade’s face twisted into a snarl. “Because he fucking assaulted you, and with what you told me I can guarentee you weren’t the first one. Someone needs to teach him a lesson about manners, consent, and basic fucking human decency, and I think I’m just the man for the job,” he finished, caressing his katanas.
Peter felt his eyes widen. He knew it wasn't good, but surely it wasn't that bad? Peter was almost sure that if he had really said no about something the guy wouldn't have done it. Yeah, he definitely needed to be told not to take home drunk people, and taught about basic consent, but he wasn't bad enough to sic Deadpool on him.
Was he?
“I thought…you aren't mad at me?”
Wade’s eyes widened, and the bloodthirsty tinge drained just as fast as it had risen, replaced by a stricken look. “What? No Petey, I’m not mad at you. Why would I be? You are the victim here!”
Peter felt his face flush. “Well just because…I mean…we have our, uh, thing and I thought you would be mad I went home with someone…else.”
Wade stared at him for a long second, then slowly, giving time for Peter to pull away, reached out a hand to rest on his. His thumb started rubbing back and forth, a soothing pattern. Peter looked at it, and for some reason he felt the urge to cry. He looked up at Wade with watery eyes, refusing to let the tears fall.
“Baby Boy, you can do whatever you want with whoever you want. Even if we were officially together - which we aren't by the way - I wouldn't care if you went out and had fun with someone else. As long as you enjoyed it and wanted it. It sounds like neither of those conditions were met, however.”
Peter couldn't stop the tears from falling anymore. “But don't you get it, Wade? That's the worst part. It wasn't all bad. I did enjoy some of it. How can I just decide to change my mind about it after? I can't call it assault just because I regretted it after the fact.”
“You can call it assault if you were drunk and in no place to consent in the first place! Baby Boy, you were already drunk, and then he gave you more drugs. You said he didn't drug you, but it kind of sounds like that is exactly what he did.”
“But he didn't…I mean, I knew what I was doing when I was smoking with him.”
“Maybe. But you don't know if it was laced with something. Even if it wasn't, smoking with someone is not consent. You were put in a situation where you felt unsafe saying no. No one can give consent like that.”
“I…yeah. I guess. I just,” he took a breath. He didn't know how to put into words what he was feeling, but he wanted to try. He wanted to help Wade understand. “When it's quiet, I keep remembering different parts of the night. My brain has never been this quiet before and at the same time it's so full. I can't stop thinking about it, but I can't even bring myself to be mad at him. I’m a good actor when I want to be, and so maybe he really did think I wanted it. I wish I couldn't remember any of it. I wish I didn't know what it was like to gag on his dick as he pushed me down, what it felt like to have his hand around my throat, pinning me to the bed. But at the same time, I think it would be so scary to not remember. To have the marks and the aches and not know how they all got there. I have a few that I don't remember and it scares the shit out of me. I don't know which is worse. I just…I don't know what to do, Wade.”
He looked up at Wade when he was done. He was not expecting the look of sheer heartbreak on his face. “You don't need to know, Baby Boy. I won't go to his apartment if you don't want me to. Tell me what I can do. If you don't know, that's ok too. We can go one step at a time.”
Peter looked up at him, this beautiful, wonderful man, and he felt so safe in this moment that he asked for the one thing he wanted most of all. “Will you please just hold me? I just want to be held.”
Wade opened his arms and scooted back. “Of course. Come here, settle in.”
Peter crowded into Wade’s space and pulled him down over him. The concrete of the roof dug into his back, but it was multitudes better than the soft bed of the guy from a few nights before. Anything with Wade would be better than him.
“I gotcha Baby Boy. I gotcha.”
And Peter believed him.