
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7935268.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Spider-Man:_Homecoming_(2017), Deadpool_(2016), Marvel_Cinematic
      Universe, The_Avengers_(Marvel_Movies), Captain_America_(Movies), Ant-Man
      (Movies), Deadpool_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Peter_Parker/Wade_Wilson, Spider-Man/Deadpool, Steve_Rogers/Tony_Stark,
      Captain_America/Iron_Man, James_"Bucky"_Barnes/Sam_Wilson, Falcon/Winter
      Soldier, Scott_Lang/Hope_Van_Dyne, Ant-Man/Wasp, Clint_Barton/Laura
      Barton, Bruce_Banner/Natasha_Romanov, black_widow/hulk, Scott_Lang_&
      Peter_Parker, James_"Bucky"_Barnes_&_Natasha_Romanov, James_"Bucky"
      Barnes_&_Steve_Rogers, Steve_Rogers_&_Sam_Wilson, Bruce_Banner_&_Tony
      Stark, Wanda_Maximoff/Vision
  Character:
      Peter_Parker, Wade_Wilson, Scott_Lang, Spider-Man, Deadpool, Tony_Stark,
      Captain_America_-_Character, Steve_Rogers, Iron_Man, James_"Bucky"
      Barnes, Natasha_Romanov, Sam_Wilson, Falcon, Black_Widow, Winter_Soldier,
      Bruce_Banner, Nick_Fury, Clint_Barton, Hawkeye_(Marvel), Wanda_Maximoff,
      Vision_(Marvel), Maria_Hill
  Additional Tags:
      Spideypool_-_Freeform, WinterFalcon_-_Freeform, Stony_-_Freeform, I_don't
      even_know_yet, Pre-Slash, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, AU,
      Alternate_Universe, Slash, Canon_Het_Relationship, Het_and_Slash, Slow
      Burn, Humor, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Eventual_Smut, Eventual_Relationships,
      Anal_Sex, Anal_Fingering, Oral_Sex, Everyone's_an_Avenger, except_me,
      Enemies_to_Friends_to_Lovers, Superhero_University, Avengers_University,
      Avengers-in-Training, Ensemble_Trainwreck
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-09-02 Chapters: 1/? Words: 2211
****** All's Fair, in Love and. . . . ******
by beetle
Summary
     Peter and Wade are training to be Avengers? Scott Lang's there, too?
     Also . . . Stony (I feel so dirty)? WinterFalcon? Brutasha? I don't
     even know how to summarize this. Best summary is the tags, I guess.
     Written for this prompt: (http://writing-challenges-and-
     prompts.tumblr.com/post/149734320858/writing-prompt-dialogue). Also,
     see end notes for full prompt.
     Notes/Warnings: SUPER AU. Presumes that Cap and Iron Man made up in a
     non-messy way at the end of CA:CW. Also presumes that Spidey and
     Deadpool took part in—though on opposite sides—the Civil War, and
     eventually wound up at the Avengers’ training facility in Upstate New
     York, at the same time. No warnings I can think of . . . frankly, if
     you’re still here after that novel of a note, you’re golden. Bless
     ya!
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
“Okay, hold! I said hold, damnit!”
 
Peter Benjamin Parker groaned, rolling from his previous position of crumpled,
demoralized heap into a new position: that of dazed and dizzied toddler-man.
 
At least, that’s how it felt as he blinked and shook his head, till the
dizziness, at least, passed, leaving him simply dazed and gaping at Professor
Barnes and Wade-freaking-Wilson as they rolled around on the mat, alternately
grappling with and pummeling each other. Professor Barnes,
though—slightly—shorter than Wilson, was also built kind of low and mean, like
a natural brawler (which was why he, along with Professor Romanov, were
teaching this class). He was all thick, coiled muscle and street-style, power-
packed punches. Not even taking into account his fancy new alloy-arm with the
Avengers symbol just below the shoulder.
 
Wilson, however, was longer, leaner, lither, and faster. Built kind of like a
runner, and wielding slick, sick covert ops-type moves. He struck seemingly
harmless blows all over Professor Barnes’ torso, but for the grunts each impact
drove from the professor. Wilson clearly was not pulling those mercury-fast
punches in the slightest. And every time Professor Barnes landed a blow, Wilson
laughed like a maniac.
 
“Jeez, that guy’s a fuckin’ machine,” Scotty Lang noted, offering Peter a hand
up. Peter took it and let himself be pulled up with ease. Even without the ant-
suit, Scotty was pretty strong. Certainly stronger than he looked . . . which,
like Peter, wasn’t very.
 
Unlike Peter, however, not only was Scotty strong, but because of his stint in
prison, dude could fight. Like, hand-to-hand shit that Peter was still crap at,
when one didn’t factor in his spidey-strength, agility, and stickiness.
 
Hence, this particular class. One that Cap insisted all his Avengers take
(rumor had it that Cap had even personally taught Iron Man how to fight sans
suit, shortly after the . . . unpleasantness had ended. And that tutelage had
formed the basis for this class). No super-strength/super-suits allowed, just
good old-fashioned mano-a-mano fist-fighting.
 
And who better to teach it, of course, than an ex-Hydra assassin (deprogrammed)
from Brooklyn and an ex-KGB spy/assassin from the former-Soviet Union?
 
“Machine . . . right. . . .” Peter puffed, trying to catch his breath. With as
much as he disliked Wilson, he wasn’t terribly upset that, for the moment, it
was him out there, getting his ass beat, instead of Peter. “Which one?”
 
Scotty snorted. “Either? Both? Take your pick, Pete.”
 
Huffing a weary laugh, Peter wiped his sweaty brow and elbowed Scotty lightly.
“My money’s on Professor Barnes.”
 
“Really? I mean, he’s aight, an’ all, but Wilson’s got a lotta crazy. And he’s
ex-Special Forces,” Scotty added, nodding as Wilson got in another good shot to
Professor Barnes’ expressionless, eerie-handsome face. “That’s gotta count for
somethin’.”
 
“Yeah, but . . . Canadian Special Forces . . . what does Canada ever fight? A
legion of mooses? Meese? Whatever.” Peter waved his hand dismissively as the
fight continued despite Professor Romanov’s narrowed eyes and increasingly
displeased commands to stop. Peter held out his hand to Scotty. “Twenty bucks
says Professor Barnes takes the fight to Wilson.”
 
“Oh, you’re on, my good man.” Scotty accepted the bet and Peter’s hand for a
firm shake, with their own special fist-bumps, finger-locks, and even jazz-
hands, because they were just that cool. “I fought beside Barnes and Wilson,
and Barnes's scary-good. But Wilson’s just scary. And like I said, that’s gotta
count for somethin’.”
 
“Not sayin’ it doesn’t, but . . . Professor Barnes has, like, a lot of rage,
you know?” Peter shrugged. “A lot. Plus, that sweet-ass metal arm.”
 
“Yeah, but—not allowed to use the arm in this class,” Scotty reminded Peter
smugly. Peter snorted.
 
“Yeah, and freaking Deadpool isn’t supposed to tackle a professor in the middle
of a demonstration, either, and yet, here we are.” Peter shrugged again, then
he and Scotty backed up as Professor Barnes and Wilson rolled their way, Barnes
as silent as the grave—as usual—and Wilson singing Bad Touch, breathlessly off-
key. Peter rolled his eyes, fighting a smile—it really wouldn’t do to encourage
Wilson even a little, especially when he was certain the other’s white lenses
were, despite the fighting, focused on Peter—and called: “Jesus, Wilson, even
your taste in music is sketchy! The nineties called, and it wants its shitty,
pseudo-rap crap back!”
 
“Ah, c’mon, don’t be like that, Petey-Pie!” Wilson retorted, still breathless,
then grunting as Professor Barnes landed a kidney-blow like a cannonball, and
not even with his metal arm. “I wanna do, with you, the kinda stuff that only
Prince would sing about! Huh? Huh? For-realsies!”
 
Peter shook his head, covering his flaming face with one grubby, callused hand.
Give Wilson an inch and he takes a fucking mile. This is what I get, he thought
ruefully, for even opening my mouth.
 
“So, my young friend, are we ever gonna talk about how he’s totally got a thing
for you?” Scotty wondered, sounding way too amused. “I mean, first he’s
standing under your window with a boombox, playing Peter Gabriel—”
 
“Please, don’t remind me,” Peter groaned, half-turning away from the fight.
Wilson's little . . . eighties-style attempt at wooing might've almost been
charming, except it hadn’t even been the right Peter Gabriel song. And it'd
woken up so many people in Peter's wing that Vision'd come to investigate.
Resulting in a calm, nonetheless hours-long conversation with a manic, trench-
coated Wilson about both the time and place for romantic overtures, and the
inappropriateness of an underage young man as the focus of those overtures—all
still under Peter's second-floor window—that'd been as surreal to listen to as
it'd been amusing. Now, Peter mumbled to himself, shaking his head. "Still
can't get that damn song outta my head. . . ."
 
“And now, he’s fighting what’s easily our scariest professor—after happening by
while said scary professor was demonstrating a sleeper-hold on you—because . .
. reasons?” Scotty shrugged, grinning and slinging an arm around Peter,
dragging him close. "I dunno, Pete. I don't think Wilson or his crush on you
are going away any time soon. . . ."
 
“First: Romanov is our scariest professor, hands down. And second: I fucking
hate you, Lang.” Peter elbowed Scotty again, a bit more sharply. After a
surprised oof! Scotty chuckled, his arm around Peter falling away.
 
“Seriously, though, it’s . . . kinda sweet . . . in a pathetic, batshit sorta
way. He’s, like, defending your honor. Right, Wade?”
 
“Damn right, Scotty! Damn right! I’m—oh, fuck!—defendin' that honor, Baby
BLAAAAGH!” Wilson choked out, as Professor Barnes got him in the same sleeper-
hold he’d demonstrated on Peter. Wilson beat at Professor Barnes' arm—still
just the flesh and bone arm—and it briefly loosened. Briefly. “And
that—gah!—sweet, sweet AAAAGH!”
 
“See?” Scotty sounded far too pleased. Peter covered his face again, just in
time to hear a loud, sickening crunch! and the sudden absence of Wilson’s crazy
laughter and stupid singing. When he peeked through his fingers, Professor
Barnes was standing up, his face as expressionless as ever while he wiped a
trickle of blood from his left nostril. Then he looked at Peter, eyes narrowed
as if to say: Now that was a proper sleeper-hold, and you missed the
demonstration, Parker.
 
Then he was stalking past a glaring Professor Romanov—she demanded something of
him in Russian, and his reply was a clipped nyet—and out of the salle, like a
living shadow in his black TAC gear.
 
Then Professor Romanov was shaking her head and striding over to Wilson, whose
neck was twisted at a very unnatural angle. She knelt next to him and felt for
his pulse. After a few moments, she mumbled some more in Russian and stood up,
eyeing Peter and Scotty, who stared back with wide eyes.
 
“Well!” she said with suspect brightness, aimed mostly at Scotty. “I suppose
class is dismissed a little early, this once. But I expect you and Parker to
work on his grappling skills, since you have all this extra time on your hands,
Lang,” she added, when an elated Scotty started doing the Running Man. Scotty
nodded eagerly and the Running Man became the Roger Rabbit, because, seriously,
Scotty, like Wilson, had last-century-on-the-brain.
 
“Sure thing, Professor,” he said, waving his right arm out in a passable Snake,
toward Peter, who rolled his eyes once more, trying his best to ignore him. But
Scotty just did it again, his green eyes wide, his mouth gaping and tongue
hanging out like a puppy’s. “Don’t be afraid to pick up what I’m puttin’ down,
Petey! Do the Snake!”
 
Sighing, Peter stuck out his arm and did a half-hearted Snake that connected
with Scotty’s. The other man whooped and continued his old-timey dance-medley
with great enthusiasm.
 
“Does this mean you two're engaged?” Professor Romanov asked dryly, her eyebrow
quirking in that Russian-y, assassin-y way that was half-sexy, half-deadly and
all-judgmental. Peter sighed once more, smiling limply.
 
“Not till he shows me the ring, we’re not,” he said just as dryly.
 
“Oh, Petey-Padawan, I gotta lady back in Cali that’d fight you to the death for
that ring,” Scotty said gleefully, moon-walking his way around Wilson’s prone
body—ignoring the awful cracking sounds as Wilson’s neck straightened out—and
toward the exit. He finger-gunned Peter and Professor Romanov. “Speaking of,
gonna give her a quick ring-a-ding-dillo before next class and see if she
misses me, yet!”
 
“How could she not?” Professor Romanov asked in that same dry voice, eyebrow
still quirked as she watched Scotty dance his way around a corner. Then she
cast a measuring look at Peter, then at Wilson—who was groaning and grumbling
to himself as he tried to sit up—then slinked out of the salle in that sexy-
deadly stride of hers, calling back to Peter: "And don't forget: Lang owes you
twenty bucks, Parker! No one likes a welsher!"
 
Peter sighed yet again. It was just that kind of day. "Couldn't forget even if
I tried," he muttered, nodding, though he knew Scotty wouldn't remember it. Or
even care if Peter pestered him about it. He'd just pay up, wearing that daffy,
befuddled smile. But still, it was a matter of honor, for Peter. Even if he was
flat-broke and desperate, he still wouldn't try to collect on a friend who was
likely low on funds, too. (The fact that Peter had, indeed, already burned
through the monthly stipend he received as an Avenger-in-Training was neither
here, nor there.)
 
“Heyya . . . Petey-pants . . . didja see? I . . . ow, fuck . . . I put the fear
of Canada into Pretty-Boy Barnes for you! Whoot!" Wilson was twitching and
spazzing, barely able to move his head, despite his mouth still working fine.
"Guess he'll be findin' someone else to practice his handsy little holds on,
eh? Regina, Sasketchewan! Represent!”
 
“Yeah, ya sure did Canada proud, Deadpool.” If Peter kept rolling his eyes at
this rate, they’d suffer whiplash. Stepping over Wilson’s twitching body, Peter
also made for the exit, winnowing his distracted mind toward his next class:
Strategy, with Professor Hill.
 
“Ah, c’mon, Baby Boy . . . it’s Wade, for you. Or Daddy if, you know, you’re
feelin’ . . . obedient,” Wilson said smarmily, sounding as if he was really
straining to sit up. Peter could almost imagine the other man leering after
him, despite the mask—which he’d never taken off in Peter’s presence—and
suddenly, he’d had enough. After nearly two months of this creep perving on him
non-stop and not-so-low-key stalking him, Peter Benjamin Parker had had enough.
 
“Y’know what? Fuck you, Wilson! Lemme alone!” Peter tossed over his shoulder,
hands clenching into fists at his sides, shoulders tense and squared. From
behind him, Wilson gasped melodramatically, then chuffed his manic laugh . . .
though it was interspersed with pained groans.
 
“Fuck me? Well, if that’s the way you like it, Baby Boy, I’ll be more than glad
to roll over for you! Granted, no one’s put their magic wand in my fairy love-
grotto for a while, now, but for you? The grotto’s open twenty-four/seven and
tight as fuck!” Wilson called after him, still laughing, as if he could see how
flushed with anger and embarrassment Peter was. And given that Peter’s neck was
prone to going as red as his stupid fucking face. . . . “Hell, if you hit my
special spot just right, I’ll callyouDaddy!”
 
That crazy laughter followed Peter all the way back to the locker-room, it
seemed, where he shucked his sweaty sweats and stood under the facility’s never
ending supply of hot water for several minutes. His brain was torn evenly
between anger at Wilson’s innuendos and laughter, and despair at the certainty
that once again, Professor Hill was going to be super, yet passively-
aggressively pissed at him and his lack of participation in class, today.
 
Well . . . lately, really.
 
In fact, when it came to Superhero University . . . Peter Parker, a.k.a.
"Spider-Man," was seriously under-performing (never mind Stark's and Rogers'
weird, unshakable faith in him). He was maybe even, for the first time in his
academic life, on the edge of washing out completely. And—
 
—and fucking Deadpool was sexually harassing him constantly! And fucking
laughing about it, too!
 
Peter shook his head under the hot water, miserably blowing out a mouthful.
“What even is my life?” he complained to absolutely no one at all. And,
unsurprisingly, that was exactly who answered.
 
                                      TBC
End Notes
     Prompt: “Come on in. The water’s warm.”
     “No, thanks.”
     “I never thought someone like you would be shy of a skinny-dip.”
     “It’s not that. It’s just–”
     “What? There’s no reason to be embarrassed.”
     “… I can’t swim.”
     “Get in the shallow end. I’ll teach you.”
      
     Do I dare go on with this piece? If you think so, you know know what
     to do!
     ::points at comment box::
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