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Peter’s shower is methodical. It’s been a long day — grueling, at times — and the hot water sluicing down his body is exactly what he needed. He even manages to delude himself for the majority of it, convinced he’ll hop out and start making dinner as soon as he’s done, maybe even manage to tidy his apartment a bit—
But the second he’s finished washing his body, the detachable showerhead somehow finds its way into his hand. He props his leg on the little soap dish that’s never once held soap and flicks the dial along the base of the showerhead. The stream of water concentrates into a powerful jet, which Peter directs between his legs.
A sigh escapes him. His body loosens. It’s been a little over a week since Peter has had enough time on his hands to enjoy himself, which he now realizes is criminal.
He directs the jet of water with purposeful shifts of his wrist, teasing himself. He traces the outside of his vulva, glances over his opening, and skirts maddeningly alongside his clit. The rest of his body grows cold, deprived of the warm water now solely between his legs, but he revels in the shiver that snakes down his spine, the goosebumps that creep up along his skin.
He aims for his clit, finally, and a broken gasp of a moan escapes him. “Fuck,” he breathes. His hand is trembling now. He’s teasing himself again — this time on accident. The leg he’s standing on shakes while the toes of his opposite foot curl around the soap dish. The hand not death-gripping the showerhead is splayed against the wall, mostly because Peter doesn’t think he could remain standing without it.
He grinds against the stream of water. He arches and thrusts, his mouth hanging open, and his clit is throbbing and sensitive but he can’t seem to make himself change the angle of the showerhead. It’s too intense, so pleasurable it’s almost painful, but Peter can feel the heat snaking through him, growing and concentrating in his gut and in between his legs.
His mind flashes with imagery, unbidden. He imagines big, hot hands on his body. Imagines that it’s someone else holding the shower head, directing it at the most sensitive parts of himself, while he stands here desperate and helpless. He imagines that someone is watching him, drinking in the expressions on his face and the sounds escaping from his lips.
“Please, please, please,” Peter chants, his voice going higher in pitch, and then his orgasm washes over him. Peter shakes and trembles, vaguely aware of the breathy ah’s escaping him somewhat in time with the throbbing between his legs.
He comes back to himself slowly, languidly — all satisfied and jelly-limbed. He shuts off the water and yanks open the curtain. Several things become immediately apparent.
One: Wade is standing in his bathroom. He’s holding the cheap body lotion that Peter buys in bulk, but he doesn’t seem to have gotten any further than simply grabbing it off the sink.
Two: Wade is standing in his bathroom and staring at Peter, his gaping mouth obvious even through the mask.
And, three: Peter is just standing there, butt-ass-naked. Still — mortifyingly — clutching the showerhead.
Finally — after probably a second, maybe two — Peter gets over his shock and returns to his body.
“What the fuck,” he screeches, wrestling the shower curtain back into place. The showerhead falls out of his hand at some point, lost in his desperate scramble for privacy, and it clatters loudly against the floor of the tub.
Actual, molten lava floods into Peter. It explodes into existence somewhere in his stomach and climbs all the way up to his ears. He’s on fire from the inside out, his ears ringing as his mortification mounts.
“Hooh boy,” Wade says, for some reason still in the bathroom. “Super sorry about this, Petey-pie. I mean, I didn’t know what was going on in here when I walked in, and then when I did know, I couldn’t just walk back out—"
“I’m going to kill you,” Peter hisses. He’s clutching his own face.
The shower curtain slides back open. Wade has a hand over his eyes — less considerate than it sounds, because his fingers are parted like I-come-in-peace — but he is holding Peter’s towel out, and high enough that he wouldn’t be able to see anything past it.
Peter smacks him (mostly on principle) and snatches the towel from his hand, snapping it around his hips with several quick jerks. Wade lowers his hand the second Peter’s covered, because he was obviously peeking.
“If it makes you feel any better, I thought it was super hot?” Wade offers
Peter, who didn’t think he could blush any harder, decides that he knows what the sun must feel like. “How would that make me feel better?”
“It’s a compliment!” Wade insists. He follows Peter out of the bathroom, trailing after him in his (very small) apartment. He stands beside Peter’s dresser as he digs through it for his pajamas.
“I can’t believe you didn’t leave,” Peter blurts. “Or announce your presence.”
“Oh, come on,” Wade says, leveling Peter with a Look. “We both know I’m not that strong of a man.”
Peter turns his face skyward, praying for patience. It could be worse, he reasons with himself. He could’ve been in the closet still, and then he would’ve been mortified on top of outed in this moment.
“I’m not gonna judge you for a little TLC,” Wade says, somehow under the impression that talking will make any of this better. “Hell, you can listen to me jerk it if that’ll make you feel better! But I will be imagining you getting off with that showerhead, just to be fully transparent.”
Peter groans, burying his face in the sweatpants he retrieved from his dresser drawer.
“Yeah, I’ll be imagining that sound too,” Wade says cheerfully. “But mostly the ‘please, please, please!’”
“Get out.”
“Webs, c’mon, I’m joking—"
“Out!” Peter insists, shoving Wade toward the window he doubtlessly entered from. Wade leaves, pouting and complaining the whole time. On the fire escape, he pauses, one leg over the railing.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he hedges, looking at Peter hopefully. It’s a question disguised as another question, an attempt to see how angry Peter really is.
“I’ll meet you for patrol,” Peter mutters. Wade visibly brightens, and then he salutes before jumping off the fire escape.
Peter has never regretting sharing his identity with Wade — not once.
He debated it for a long time before he actually did it. He made pros-and-cons lists, weighing the risk versus the reward. In the end, he just got over himself one day and did it: yanked his mask off while they were hanging out in Wade’s apartment.
They’d been friends for years, Peter had already come out to him, and the fact that he was still clinging to his secret identity at all was starting to feel embarrassing. It just didn’t make sense, especially since he’d definitely given Wade enough information over the years to be able to track him down if he really wanted to.
Wade was completely respectful of Peter’s identity, in any case. He never slips up, always calling Peter by the right name whether he’s in or out of the suit. The biggest change was that Peter would just yank off his mask whenever they stopped by Wade’s place after patrolling. Oh, and Wade treating Peter’s apartment like it had an open-door policy, of course.
But that had never been a problem before. Wade’s visits were random and relatively infrequent. Peter hadn’t even considered Wade walking in on him doing something personal or embarrassing — at least, not before he did exactly that, just two weeks ago.
Now, he thinks about it all the time. And he still doesn’t regret sharing his identity — not seriously, anyway — but he does question his sanity. Just a bit.
Mostly because Wade can be like a dog with a bone when he’s obsessed with something.
And while his visits used to be infrequent, it’s quickly becoming apparent that that’s no longer the case. Gone are the days of Peter not seeing Wade in his apartment for a month, only to come home one day and find him lounging on Peter’s bed, flicking through his Spidey notebook. Now, Wade makes it a point to stop by almost every single day. And it’s obvious, what he’s doing.
“Oops, sorry!” Wade will shout, bursting in through the front door and looking immediately toward the bed. Then his eyes will slowly skate away, finding Peter elsewhere in his apartment. “Oh, just studying? Hah, yeah, that’s what I thought you were doing.”
Clearly, he’s trying to catch Peter in the solo-act again, which has simply led to Peter not masturbating. It was fine at first — Peter was too flustered to get in the mood, anyway — but it’s finally starting to take a toll on him. Peter’s a healthy, sexually active young guy. He has his needs.
That’s why he waits until late in the night. Wade already popped by earlier this evening — seemingly disappointed to find Peter playing a video game, but happy enough to order them a takeout feast — so Peter feels safe in his decision to let loose. He wriggles under his sheets, digs his vibrator out of his bedside table, and shucks his pants and underwear off.
He doesn’t use his vibrator all that often, for several different reasons. One, he forgets to charge it half the time, so it’s always a gamble whether it’ll even turn on when he pulls it out. Two, it tends to get him there a little too fast, which isn’t usually his goal unless he’s especially pressed for time. And three, it’s a totally different kind of orgasm than the kind he can give himself by hand. More pleasurable in some ways, less pleasurable in others. Either way, he’s in the mood for it now — and he’s delighted when it turns on, Past Peter apparently having had the foresight to charge it.
He closes his eyes, slides it between his legs, and hits the power button. A low bzzz emanates from under the comforter and Peter jerks at the immediate barrage of pleasure, his abs tightening and his legs twitching apart, creating more room between them.
The buildup is fast, just like always. He’s forced to cycle through the vibrator’s different settings, making it buzz at odd intervals or lower intensities in an attempt to stave off his orgasm for a bit. His body is quick to react, too, sweat prickling under his armpits and his heart thudding quickly in his chest.
He can feel the electric pleasure coursing all the way through him, his toes curling in the sheets. He brings the vibrator lower, his clit throbbing at its sudden absence, and presses it inside himself instead — much too easily, Peter already wet and slick.
It’s a deeper, subtler pleasure now, and Peter clenches around it with a moan, forcing himself to keep his fingers away from his clit. Fuck, it feels good, and Peter suddenly wishes it could be replaced with a person. With movement, a thick, hard heat pressing into him, steady and quick and deep.
He squirms, shifting his hips to change the angle of the vibrator inside him. Without meaning to, he imagines Wade. It’s practically impossible not to, given the events of the last few weeks.
His cheeks heat, just contemplating the thought of Wade actually being here, watching him, still and silent like before. Except maybe he wouldn’t just watch. Maybe he’d climb onto the bed, and his hands would glide over Peter, touching everything in sight. Peter would be frozen, too embarrassed to move and too turned on to stop him. Wade would press a thumb to Peter’s clit, and that combined with the vibrator inside him…
Peter huffs out a breath, arching off his bed. It’s building, powerful and intense, and he reaches between his legs. His fingers skate over his clit, quick and desperate.
That’s when the window slides open.
“Spidey, you awake? I think I left my— uuh.”
He’s already halfway through the window closest to Peter’s bed. He even has a hand on the end of it, balancing as he climbs in.
There’s no stopping it. He was already reaching the peak, and there’s nothing Peter can do to end it now, even though he rips his hand away from himself as fast as humanly possible. He slaps a hand over his mouth, staring at Wade is complete horror, as his orgasm washes over him. His entire body jerks and twitches. He’s clenching around the vibrator, throbbing automatically, and the horrible, cursed thing is still going. There’s no mistaking the audible bzzzzzt! of it under the blankets.
Peter fumbles for it, panicking. The end is slippery and he can barely manage to grip it. When he finally does, it’s difficult to pull out, his body still attempting to hold it inside. It’s another agonizing few seconds to turn it off, the vibrator unfortunately cheap enough that Peter has to cycle through all the settings rather than hit an off-switch.
And then, finally, silence.
Wade is standing there, frozen is shock. Peter is hoping that his bed comes to life and swallows him, if only to put an end to his embarrassment.
“Unngghhh,” Peter manages, dragging his comforter up over his head. Then he turns on his side, curling into a ball and praying for death. This is the worst. His life is the worst.
“Okay, so, I know how this looks, but I swear it wasn’t like that,” Wade says quickly.
Peter says nothing. He’s staring hard at the underside of his blankets, which are thankfully pitch black. Like this, he can imagine that this is all just a horrible nightmare.
The bed sinks beside him. Peter stiffens, and then a big hand lands on his hip, warm even through the blankets. Peter shivers.
“You okay?”
“Why are you here,” Peter mutters. “You’re ruining my life.”
“I forgot my gun. Figured you wouldn’t want to stumble across it in the morning,” Wade says apologetically. “And I don’t know about ruining your life. Maybe a ruined orgasm or two, but—"
Peter cringes. Wade shushes him, rubbing up and down his side now. “I’m sorry, Petey. For realz. I’m not trying to embarrass you on purpose.”
“Okay.”
“Your little vibrator’s cute, by the way.”
Peter sits up in a flash. His blankets fall around his lap, and he’s left facing Wade who is, indeed, holding Peter’s vibrator. A panicked sort of screech escapes him and he yanks it out of Wade’s hand, shoving it under the blankets.
His shoulders are by his ears and he’s blushing so hard it hurts.
“I can leave now,” Wade offers.
Peter nods jerkily, and Wade ruffles his hair, grabs his gun off Peter’s couch, and ducks back through the window with a loud, obnoxious air-kiss.
Weeks later, Peter has recovered enough that he no longer thinks of his prior mortification anytime he’s around Wade. In fact, he’s graduated into actually being able to touch him again without wanting to die, which he classifies as a win.
Really, the only times he’s overcome with embarrassment is when Wade deliberately teases him, but he usually has a good enough read of the atmosphere between them that he only does so when Peter’s in a particularly receptive mood.
They’re at Wade’s place, which is where they’ve been spending the most of their time recently — at least, when they’re not on patrol. Wade put on a horror movie, but they talked through the entirety of the beginning, which has resulted in the rest of the film seeming bizarre and hilarious, so neither of them are particularly scared.
Still, they’ve created the proper atmosphere for the horror movie. All the lights are off and Wade made a bowl of popcorn sprinkled with M&M’s (at Peter’s insistence). It lays abandoned on the coffee table and Peter’s leaning heavily against Wade’s side, despite the movie not scaring him.
“I’m sorry, did she just say she’s going to investigate the woods?” Wade says incredulously. “That has to be the most dangerous place to investigate.” His arm is behind Peter’s shoulders, a heavy, comforting weight around him.
“She’s not like other girls,” Peter says. “She has to see if there really is an axe-murderer hunting them down.”
Peter grows tired as more time passes. He doesn’t protest when Wade rearranges them on the couch, stretching out along the length of it and tucking Peter in at his side. For a while, Peter watches with his head propped up on Wade’s chest, barely flinching when the movie attempts to jump-scare them, but eventually, he falls asleep.
It isn’t purposeful, but it isn’t out of the norm for them by any means. Peter’s woken up on Wade’s couch hundreds of times, usually tucked in with a blanket that wasn’t there when he fell asleep.
The movie fades into the far distant background. Even the gentle rise-and-fall of Wade’s chest ceases to exist. Peter is sucked into the world of dreams, just a step to the side of reality.
In his dream, Wade is touching him. It’s similar to a touch Peter would experience in real life. His hand rubs up and down Peter’s side, slow and purposeful, and Peter hums at the feeling, pressing against Wade a little bit more.
Also similar to real life, Wade’s hand eventually finds purchase on Peter’s butt. Normally, Peter puts an end to this behavior relatively quickly. Sometimes he’ll glare for a moment or two first, waiting for Wade to get the hint, but he usually elbows Wade away in the end.
Not this time, though.
This time, he lets Wade’s hand settle there. It squeezes and Peter groans, grinding into the firm weight before him.
“You like that, baby boy?” Wade murmurs, squeezing again. Peter sighs, too out of it to respond, and he presses forward again, and again. It’s slow and comfortable and teasing. Just on the edge of being enough. Peter wants Wade to touch him, to help escalate things, but it’s going nowhere and he’s frustrated.
Peter grunts and whines and whimpers, trying to encourage Wade to touch him, but he refuses. Not verbally, but physically — his hand never strays from its resting place against his ass, and he doesn’t offer any better leverage for Peter to grind against.
For some reason, Peter can’t seem to find a good angle against Wade’s hip. Every movement is glancing and just-barely-there. His arousal mounts, but his pleasure refuses to increase.
It’s some thirty minutes later when Peter wakes up. The movie is winding down and Wade has been a solid, steady weight beneath him. His arm is still around Peter’s shoulders, but he’s done nothing to stop the barely-twitching hips from grinding against his thigh. He hasn’t even heard the movie for last five minutes, too invested in the hitching of Peter’s breaths and the very occasional, very quiet moans that escaped him.
When Peter comes to, he’s dazed and exhausted. Distantly aroused and not quite processing it yet. He grinds into the firm, warm pressure before him and then blinks in confusion, surprised by the pleasure.
The pieces fall into place far too slowly. The horror movie, still playing. The dream he just woke up from. Wade, warm and sturdy against him. And Peter, his leg thrown over Wade’s thigh and his crotch pressed up against him, hot and wet.
Peter sucks in a breath, jerking away from Wade with an agonized gasp.
“You awake, baby boy?”
“Fuck,” Peter blurts. Maybe Wade didn’t notice. Maybe this is just a nightmare.
“You done gettin’ off on me? I was gonna let you cum, if you wanted to.”
“Oh my God,” Peter mutters. He shoves Wade off the couch, making him flop into a heap on the floor, and Wade shoots up immediately, spluttering.
“Not fair! I didn’t even instigate it!”
“You should’ve woken me up!”
“And deprive your perfect, pretty prick?!”
Peter groans. He slaps Wade, who clambers back onto the couch and wrestles Peter for long enough that he ends up on top, pinning Peter to the cushions.
“And somehow, you’re still hard,” he points out. There’s no way he can actually tell, his thigh pressed up between Peter’s, heavy against his clit, but he’s right.
“Wade—"
Wade grinds down against him. Peter moans, freezing under the pressure.
“I suggest you get laid, Pumpkin Eater,” Wade says, rocking into Peter again. “Before I have to do it for you.”
Peter gasps, throbbing in the absence of Wade once he pulls away, but he manages to find some semblance of respect for himself and closes his legs, sitting up shakily.
“Fuck you,” he gasps, but that’s about all he can get out, and Wade seems too proud of himself anyway, settling back comfortably beside him.
Peter resists the urge to look at the time as a guy — Terry, from Tinder — slides down his body and repositions himself between his legs.
Yeah, Peter took Wade’s advice. Not immediately, or anything, but Wade wasn’t entirely wrong about Peter needing to get laid. It’s been a long time since he’s hooked up with anyone, which is probably why he’s been so affected by all-things-Wade recently. Peter was hoping that this would restore him back to normal. Oh, and that he’d never be caught pleasuring himself by Wade again.
Yet, so far, the night’s been less than stellar. Peter isn’t terribly attracted to Terry, which is maybe part of the problem. There wasn’t any fun or witty banter between them on Tinder, and the main reason Terry’s even here right now is because he was available and not transphobic. Apparently, Peter’s list of criteria might be a little lacking, because Terry’s also proving to be woefully bad at sex.
He spreads Peter’s legs and buries his face there. Peter blinks at the ceiling, grimacing. Honestly, you’d think that anything tongue-adjacent would feel good against a clit, but that’s just not true. Terry seems to have an affinity for moving his tongue rapidly and aimlessly against Peter, resulting in nothing better than the occasional teasing — definitely on accident.
Finally, Peter can’t help it anymore. His eyes slide sideways, toward the alarm clock on his windowsill. If he’s going to waste his night like this, he might as well be aware of all the sleep he could’ve been having.
But Peter only just notices the time — already after midnight, great — when something much more demanding catches his attention. Behind the alarm clock, outside the window—
Peter moans, completely on accident, and Terry groans between his legs. Outside, Wade is crouching on his fire escape. He’s fully suited up, and his head is cocked to the side as he very obviously takes in the scene before him, his head turning to scan up and down Peter’s body.
Peter doesn’t know what to do. He’s gaping at Wade, who seems all too content to just watch him, meanwhile Terry is totally oblivious. He’s still doing nothing right, but something deep inside Peter pulses.
He reaches up blindly, grabbing the cord for the blinds and yanking them shut. Wade is blocked from view, thank God, and Peter relaxes slightly in relief. Of fucking course. Of course he would show up the one time Peter happens to be getting laid.
Moments later, much to Peter’s horror, the window slowly, silently opens. Wade pokes his head inside, ignoring Peter’s very obvious glare, and eases through the open window. He stands at the end of the bed, behind Terry and in plain view of Peter.
Go away! Peter mouths.
Wade scratches his head, feigning confusion, and then he takes another step forward.
Peter is completely naked. There’s a man between his legs. He’s in the process of getting fucked and Wade is watching, God dammit.
It definitely, absolutely is not hot.
“That feel good?” Terry says, peering up to grin at Peter. His attention is dragged back to Terry, and Peter blinks, dazed.
“Yeah,” he lies. “So good.”
“Mm,” Terry says, slipping two fingers into Peter. “Good.” His mouth returns, his fingers jabbing kind of aimlessly, but it hardly matters. Peter’s attention is locked on Wade, and it’s somehow making Terry’s useless attempts feel somewhat invigorating.
“Oh God,” Peter gasps.
“Fuck, you’re so hot. Can I fuck you?”
Behind Terry, Wade nods. Peter flushes deep and dark, trying to pretend like he isn’t taking direction from him.
“Y-yeah,” Peter says.
“How do you wanna—"
“Just like this,” Peter blurts. He can’t risk having Terry notice Wade — there’s really no way to explain having Deadpool in his bedroom — and this is the only way he could see Wade without Terry noticing him, anyway.
Terry shuffles up the bed. There’s a moment’s struggle with a condom, and then he’s lining himself up against Peter, groaning low as he pushes into him. Peter doesn’t feel much of anything special, but Wade looks like he wants to devour him, which is good for something.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Terry hisses. “This okay?”
“Yep,” Peter says. “You can move.”
And by God, does Terry move. He jerks in and out of Peter with a complete lack of coordination. Peter bounces and flops against the bed, occasionally anchoring himself to the headboard with a sticky hand, just to stay put for a second or two.
Wade is undoubtedly amused. He has a hand pressed to his mouth, and the eyes of his mask are scrunched up with mirth. At one point, when Terry starts drilling into Peter so quickly and desperately that Peter can barely feel anything other than his torso somehow humping against his, Wade doubles over himself completely, laughing silently.
“Oh fuck, oh shit,” Terry groans. “Peter, I’m gonna cum, you’re so hot—"
Peter smacks one of Terry’s hands away from where he’d been rubbing determinedly at the side of Peter’s vulva. He rubs his clit instead, in fast, harsh circles, staring at Wade desperately.
Wade reaches down to palm the bulge at the front of his suit, and Peter moans. He rubs himself even faster, attempting to angle his hips in any way that could increase his pleasure from Terry. It seems impossible, but he manages to catch one or two good strokes.
“Please, please—!” Peter gasps. Wade moans. It’s low, barely noticeable under Terry’s own strangled sounds, but Peter hears it clearly. His body seizes up and then he’s cumming, gasping high and quick as he drinks Wade in with his eyes, frozen under Wade’s gaze in turn.
“Unnng, God,” Terry grunts, thrusting into Peter through the last dregs of his orgasm. Wade silently slips back out the window, and Terry flops onto the bed beside Peter moments later, breathing heavily.
Peter is barely present for the ensuing conversation, the praise and the awe followed by the mutual excuses for Terry to get going. He’s too distracted, partly unable to believe what just happened and partly turned on beyond belief, just knowing it did.
Peter opens his blinds after Terry leaves, but Wade is long gone, no longer loitering on his fire escape. Peter tosses and turns restlessly, another hour passing before he manages to fall asleep.
Peter was dreading the next time he would see Wade — and rightfully so. Two nights later, Wade ducks through his window carrying a six-pack. “Hey, it’s the minute-man!”
Peter crosses his arms. Well, one arm. The other is holding a spatula covered in sauce. “That isn’t even accurate and you know it.”
Wade grins. He yanks his mask up and off, and Peter hates that he can’t tell whether he’s doing it to manipulate him. Peter has always liked it whenever Wade took off his mask, though it isn’t something that happens all that often. It has more to do with Wade than Peter, he knows — some combination of good brain and skin days, plus the stars aligning, plus Mercury being in the opposite of retrograde.
“Well, you’re acquainted with one, at least,” Wade says. He tosses his mask on the couch and joins Peter at the counter, reaching past him to grab a bottle opener. He hands Peter a beer a moment later, and Peter takes a grateful sip.
“He wasn’t so bad,” Peter mutters. He turns back to the stove, mainly so he can avoid looking at Wade, who snorts.
“Peter, you’re so hot!” he gasps, lowering his voice into a dude-bro register. “Fuck, you’re so wet, I’m gonna cum—"
Peter hunches over his saucepan, viciously stirring the pasta that definitely doesn’t need to be stirred. His ears are burning. “Will you shut up?”
“Oh, come on! I know I said you needed to get laid, but I know you’re not that desperate.”
“Actually, I am!” Peter snaps, spinning around to face Wade. “Terry was one of the only ones who didn’t say something rude or fetish-y when I told him I was trans.”
Wade grimaces. “The bar is so low.”
“And, he made me— uh, finish,” Peter finishes lamely. “So, it was a success.”
He turns back to his pasta, but Wade joins him at the stove, leaning against the countertop in plain view.
“I’m pretty sure you made yourself cum,” Wade corrects. “Which totally wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been there, by the way.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just pointing out the obvious! You weren’t enjoying it at all until I was in the room.”
“Speak for yourself,” Peter says. “That was pretty par for the course.”
Wade recoils, just the tiniest amount. “What?”
Peter glances at him, then away. “What?” he challenges.
“That was a regular doink-sesh for you?”
“Don’t say doink-sesh.”
“You’re burning the pasta,” Wade points out, turning off the stove and removing the pan from the burner. Peter relinquishes his spatula, which Wade places on the little plate Peter set out for it. “Anyway, that’s just sad.”
“Can we stop talking about this? It’s fine. I prefer doing it on my own, anyway.”
“No fucking way.”
Peter crosses his arms — successfully, this time. “It’s not uncommon!” Peter argues. It really isn’t. He’s browsed plenty of online forums, and the consensus is that it’s normal to prefer masturbating, especially when most of your experience revolves around hook-ups.
“You can’t seriously prefer flicking the bean over being with another actual, human person.”
Peter flushes. “I know exactly what I want and exactly how I want it. I can do it perfectly, every time.” He realizes how ridiculous that sounds immediately after he says it. Wade’s amused grin doesn’t help.
“Congrats on your superior masturbatory skillz, baby boy, but you could easily coach a partner to do the same exact things, exactly how you want it.”
“Yeah, or I could cut out the middle man,” Peter says. He’s leaning against the counter now. Wade is boxing him in, and Peter doesn’t really remember that happening — doesn’t remember Wade moving closer, or him backing away. “It doesn’t matter,” Peter says, reaching desperately now. “You’ve kind of ruined masturbating for me, anyway.”
Wade’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. “Oh?” he says. “‘Cause you can’t stop thinking about me?”
Peter glowers. “Because you keep interrupting me.”
Wade gets even closer. He’s looming over Peter, his hands pressed to the counter just outside Peter’s hips. If he so much as inhaled too deeply, they’d be touching. “I can prove that sex is better,” he says, his voice low. “Let me?”
Peter’s knees go weak. For the life of him, he can’t think of any good reason to refuse. “Wade…”
His hands abandon the counter, finding Peter’s hips instead. They squeeze, his thumbs running up and down just inside Peter’s hipbones. “What do you say, baby boy? Can I touch you?”
When Peter exhales, it accidentally comes out as a moan. He reaches for Wade, and the second he gets a hand behind his neck, Wade is yanking him against the firm line of his body.
Peter’s imagined kissing Wade before. Of course he has. They’ve been friends for what feels like forever, and after all the flirting and underlying sexual tension, it was impossible not to wonder. But Wade makes Peter think that he’s been kissing wrong for years.
It’s slow and deep, at first. All-consuming. It lights a fire in Peter’s gut, which expands and spreads throughout his body.
Wade doesn’t just kiss with his mouth, either. He kisses with his hands, his whole body. He clutches Peter to him, holding him close even as the force of his kiss bends Peter backward. At the same time, it’s all Peter can do to concentrate and respond to the kiss itself, his attention stretched and strained by the feeling of Wade’s hands running over him, stroking his sides and clutching his neck and squeezing his butt.
“Hah,” Peter gasps out, when Wade’s lips slide sideways to find the corner of his jaw. His mouth is hot against Peter’s skin, bruising, and Peter is embarrassingly wet already, just from a little kissing.
“You feelin’ good, baby boy?” Wade murmurs. “Anything you want to coach me on yet?”
Peter shakes his head, and then Wade works a hand in between their bodies. It slides up, underneath Peter’s shirt, hot and big where it splays against his stomach. Wade’s tongue flicks out against Peter’s earlobe, making Peter forget how to breathe for a second, and he’s distracted when Wade’s hand changes course, easing beneath his sweatpants and boxers instead.
His glove is off, which Peter only realizes once Wade has two fingers pressed against his clit. “Ohfuck,” Peter gasps, pitching forward into Wade. He steadies him, pressing him back into the counter, and Peter gapes like a fish as Wade’s fingers slide lower, lazily hooking back and inside him.
“The minute-man was right,” Wade says. “You are really wet.”
“Wade—" Peter protests.
“This for me, sweetheart? Did I get you this excited?”
Peter whimpers. Wade returns to his clit, his fingers now slick and slippery, and Peter trembles in place, holding himself up against the counter.
“What do you do that’s so much better? C’mon, tell me,” Wade teases. Peter can barely think. He’s throbbing in all the right places, clenching around the absence of Wade’s fingers. “Or is it your showerhead and vibrator that has all the skills?”
Peter flushes. He tries to groan in annoyance, but it doesn’t come out sounding annoyed at all. Wade slides his fingers back into him and Peter struggles to inhale, staring at him blearily.
“Y-you caught me at bad times,” he protests. Wade’s thumb drags against his clit and he shudders, bucking into him. “I usually do it m-myself.”
“Uh-huh,” Wade says, slow and patronizing. “And you do it better than this?” He’s found Peter’s g-spot. His two fingers press, press, press into it, his thumb imitating the same pressure on Peter’s clit. “I want to know,” Wade insists. “Who does it better?”
He presses deep into Peter at that moment, and Peter’s knees buckle. He moans, held up by Wade’s hand on his hip as well as the fingers inside him. “You!” he gasps. “You’re better, it’s you — don’t stop!”
Wade — because he’s Wade — refuses to listen. He’ll pulls out of Peter, out of his pants, and Peter burns up at the sight of his hand, shiny and wet in the light. Wade yanks Peter’s pants down, all the way to the floor, and then he lifts him up onto the counter, well away from the still-warm stove.
Peter wraps his legs around Wade’s waist automatically. Wade likes that — he presses in close, and then Peter can feel the hard line of his cock tucked in between his legs.
Peter gasps, the sound high and breathy, and he tries to grind against Wade, but it’s impossible when he’s seated on the counter. Instead, Peter squeezes his legs and pulls Wade in even tighter, increasing the pressure between them.
“I’m gonna ruin you,” Wade whispers. He drags his lips up Peter’s throat, then talks against his mouth. “You won’t be able to touch yourself without wishing it was me.”
“Please—"
Wade captures his mouth. Their kiss is faster now, more desperate, but Peter thinks that might be his fault. He’s grabbing Wade, touching and pulling and squeezing, and his hips twitch uselessly, unable to find stimulation in this position.
It doesn’t matter. Wade abandons his mouth moments later anyway, but only so that he can go to his knees before Peter.
“Oh, fuck, yes — please,” Peter gets out, before Wade’s even gotten his mouth on him. Wade chuckles, low and amused. His grin looks predatory, but Peter doesn’t mind being the prey — not if it means he’ll be devoured by that mouth.
“I am going to fuck you, by the way,” Wade informs him. “So, you’re free to cum, but just know that we aren’t done.”
Peter’s nod is frantic, urgent, and then Wade’s mouth is against him, wet and burning hot. Peter cries out, barely noticing as Wade throws one of his legs over his shoulders, spreading him open.
It’s unlike any of the head Peter has ever received. He’s enjoyed it before, certainly, but it’s never felt like this, and it’s definitely never made him cum.
Each of Wade’s movements are calculated, precise. He laps against Peter’s clit, then closes his lips and sucks. Peter’s head bangs against the cabinets behind him and he accidentally knocks over his spice rack, but he doesn’t even notice. Wade points his tongue and presses inside of Peter, sucks and licks like he’s actually eating something. At one point, he even bites, and Peter jerks so hard that he accidentally grinds against Wade’s face.
The sounds are obscene. Wet and loud and dirty. Wade slurps against him unabashedly, groaning as Peter whimpers and shakes.
His fingers return, delving into Peter, deep and searching. His mouth works against Peter’s clit and it feels like he’s being squeezed between the kinds of pleasure, worshipped and wrung out and attacked all at once.
“Wade,” Peter gasps. “Wade, Wade, Wade—"
Wade backs up, dragging Peter with him. His ass hangs over the edge of the counter as his upper body falls against it. He’s half-laying on the counter, half-suspended in the air by the leg over Wade’s shoulder. And Wade is still devouring him, sucking hard and persistent—
Peter keens. He shakes violently, spasming around Wade’s fingers and jerking into his mouth, cumming so hard that he sees black spots in his vision. Wade doesn’t let up until Peter’s begging him to, albeit wordlessly — whimpering and shoving at his face, trying to arch away from the too-sensitive touch.
Finally, Wade relents. He lowers Peter’s leg and Peter crumples, sliding off the counter in time to be caught and pulled into Wade’s lap. Wade’s face is wet and shiny. Peter is still trembling, throbbing with the aftershocks.
“God, you sound pretty,” Wade says. He’s holding Peter by the hips, his thumbs massaging into him once again.
Peter grunts, faintly embarrassed but mostly pleased, and he grabs a dish towel off the oven door’s handle, pressing it to Wade’s face. “Sorry,” he mutters.
Wade snorts. “Yeah, and I’m sorry for being hard,” he teases, dragging Peter forward in his lap to make a point. Peter’s breath hitches, feeling his cock through just his suit, and he nods shakily. Point taken. “I’m gonna fuck you now, if it’s all the same to you,” Wade adds.
He stands up, still holding Peter and moving as if to place him on the counter again, but Peter quickly shakes his head. “Bed,” he blurts. “I want— can we— on the bed.”
Wade changes course immediately. He dumps Peter on the bed and Peter struggles out of his shirt, chucking it across the room. Wade joins him, and then they’re kissing again, Peter finally managing to get a hand on Wade. He squeezes him through the suit, silently marveling at the sheer size of him.
“Ugh, feels good, baby boy.”
“It’ll feel better inside me,” Peter points out, working at the clasps and buckles on Wade’s suit. He lets Peter struggle for a few moments, Peter growing increasingly frustrated, before he finally knocks his hands away to do it himself, chuckling.
Wade pulls his cock out and Peter can’t control his reaction, which has Wade bursting out laughing.
“Shut up!” Peter complains.
“Oh — my God,” Wade wheezes. “You good? Need a Xanax?”
“Just a ruler, I think.”
Wade cackles. Peter reaches for his cock, somewhat in awe, and Wade groans when Peter gets his hand around it, stroking carefully. “I’ll do whatever you need to feel comfortable,” he says, thrusting into Peter’s fist. “Even if that means just hand stuff.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” Peter says. Jesus, his fingers don’t touch. “Just might need to take it a little slow, at first.”
“Fuck,” Wade groans. Peter has two hands on him now — one squeezing his balls, rolling them between his fingers, and the other sliding up the long, smooth length of him. His cock twitches when Peter runs his thumb over the head, swiping up the moisture there.
“I can’t believe you haven’t mentioned this,” Peter says.
“Oh, yeah, I was just waiting for it to come up naturally. By the way, Pete, I could fuck you real good with my monster dong.”
Peter laughs, squeezing at the base, and Wade grunts, jerking into his hand. “I think half your dick belongs to me,” Peter says, thinking aloud. “That would explain things.”
“You can have it all, baby boy,” Wade murmurs. “I’ll give it to you real good.”
Peter’s breath shudders out of him, heat pooling low in his gut. “Okay, yeah,” he says quickly, releasing Wade and flopping back down against the bed. He spreads his legs. “You should fuck me now.”
Wade hums, pleased. He drags his hands from Peter’s ribs to his hips, then scoops up Peter’s thighs and presses them to his chest. He leans in after that, dragging his cock up and down the slit between Peter’s legs, getting it nice and wet.
“You got condoms, sweetpea?”
“No, but I’m on birth control. I’m clean.”
“No biggie. My swimmers are all dead, anyway.” The head of his cock catches at Peter’s opening, dipping in for a second before resuming its maddening slide up and down.
“Wade,” Peter complains. He wriggles, feeling ridiculous, already spread wide open under Wade’s hands, his lungs compressed under the weight of his knees to his chest.
“Patience, baby boy,” Wade says. He glides over the opening again, pressing in the barest amount. Peter can already tell it’s going to be a stretch. Wade is thick, and Peter wants it in him, wants to feel it pressing him open.
He clenches around the head of his cock, trying to pull him in, and Wade groans.
“I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you’ll taste my cock,” Wade promises. Peter whines, squirming and arching and panting, and then Wade finally presses inward.
He goes slow, just like he promised, but Peter can still hardly believe it. He goes in and in and in, pressing farther into Peter than he even thought was possible. The stretch and the pressure inside him is glorious, so tight that Peter can barely even flex around him. His mouth is open, each breath escaping him quickly, and Peter can see his own amazement reflected back to him on Wade’s face.
Finally, he bottoms out, his hips flush with Peter, and they stay like that for a moment.
“Jesus fuck,” Wade says. His fingers dig into Peter’s thighs, hard enough to leave bruises. “You’re tight as fuck, baby boy.”
“Feels good,” Peter pants. “You feel good.”
Wade pulls out half an inch and fucks back into him, making Peter’s breath hitch. “Yeah?”
“So big,” Peter slurs. “I-I want—"
Wade does it again, fucking him just the barest amount. “What was that? You want something?”
Peter whines. He struggles weakly, pinned under Wade’s hands. “Fuck me,” he pleads. “Wade, please, I want it, want you—"
Wade makes a tortured noise in response, and then he does fuck Peter. He slides out, out, out, slow and careful and long, and then his hips snap forward and he impales Peter, pressing all the way into him. He does it again, and again, and Peter tries to bite down on his tongue, tries to not sound so pathetically wrecked, but he can’t. It’s like Wade is puncturing his lungs, and every time he fucks into him, Peter responds with ah.
“Ah, ah, ah!” he gasps, teary-eyed and desperate. Wade’s mouth is parted, his eyes wide. They flick over Peter quickly, drinking him in.
“Never seen you look like this,” he grunts. “All fucked-out and perfect.”
Wade releases his legs in favor of rearranging them over his shoulders, and Peter thinks he might die. The angle is different and somehow, impossibly, Wade is fucking into him even deeper. Peter thinks he really might be crying. There’s no question as to whether he’s drooling.
His orgasm comes as a surprise. Never in Peter’s life — not once — has he cum without external stimulation. Because of that, he isn’t even entirely aware of his orgasm approaching, doesn’t quite recognize the signs when he doesn’t have a hand pressed to his clit.
But then, sudden and overwhelming, he’s cumming. It pulses through him, deep and different, and it seems to last longer than usual. Peter’s definitely crying now, gasp-moaning as Wade fucks him through it.
“You cumming, pretty boy?” Wade asks, gleaming with sweat. “Not even gonna give me a warning?”
“Wade!” Peter cries. How, how is it still going on? The pleasure finally starts to recede, replaced immediately with sensitivity. He twists and squirms, overwhelmed, but Wade keeps going. He moans at whatever expression he sees on Peter’s face, some mixture of pleasure and pain.
Wade slips out of him, suddenly and without warning, and then he’s flipping Peter over just as quickly. His face is buried in a pillow, his hips yanked upward, and then Wade’s inside him again, pressing in deep and hard. He fucks Peter fast, and Peter’s breath starts stuttering. He can’t seem to inhale completely, Wade fucking the oxygen out of him as fast as he can gasp it in.
“Fuck, look at you,” he says. “You’re a little slut, aren’t you? I bet you liked it when I walked in on you touching yourself. Bet you hoped I would join in.”
Peter moans. He can’t stop trembling. When he tries to get his arms underneath him, they immediately buckle, making Peter face-plant right back into the pillow.
“Tell me you liked it,” Wade says. “C’mon, it’ll make me cum.”
Peter twists his head to the side. Remembers how to talk. “I liked it,” he pants. “I liked it, I liked you seeing me—"
“Fuuuck.” Wade fucks him harder, faster. “Thank me, Petey — please? For seeing?”
Peter whimpers. He’s sweaty, flushed, embarrassed and beyond turned on. “Thank you,” he gasps. “Thank you, Wade, thank you for watching me, thank you for fucking me—"
Wade moans. His fingers dig dig dig into Peter’s hip, and one hand snakes under him, his fingers finding Peter’s clit—
“Yes! Thank you, please! Thank you, please, please, please—" Peter sobs, and then he’s cumming, convulsing around and under Wade who stutters into him, groaning Peter’s name and fucking him deep, deep—
Peter collapses even further. Wade grinds into him, slow and languid, his cock pulsing and twitching inside him. He slides out moments later, the both of them damp and breathless and satisfied. Wade flops down beside Peter, shoving and arranging him until Peter’s flat on his back, Wade pressed up against him, his head on Peter’s chest.
“That was the hottest thing ever,” Wade says.
Peter can’t disagree. His head is still spinning. “Uh-huh,” he manages.
Wade’s hand slides over Peter’s hip, between his legs. Peter flinches, whining tiredly.
“Shh-shh-shhh,” Wade says. His fingers glide through the wetness, circling Peter’s clit. He ignores Peter’s minuscule flinches and twitches. “Was it better than masturbating?” he asks.
Peter scoffs. “You really need me to stroke your ego? After that?”
“I love when you stroke things of mine,” Wade says. “I guess you’re right, though. I mean, you already told me that even masturbating is better when I’m there.”
Peter’s eyes snap open — he doesn’t remember closing them — and he whips his head sideways to stare at Wade. “You told me to say that,” he says. “I said it to make you cum!”
“Ehh.” Wade shrugs, his mouth downturned like I’m-not-so-sure-about-that. “You sounded really genuine when you said it, though.”
“Are you serious? You— ah! You— you— fuck, Wade.” His fingers are inside Peter now, his thumb rubbing in circles against Peter’s clit, and Peter’s orgasm bubbles up in response to that. It’s slow and subdued and exhausted, but it wracks through his body and makes him shiver.
He smacks Wade’s hand away, after that, and he keeps a hold of his wrist for good measure.
“Sorry,” Wade says, looking anything but apologetic. “Couldn’t help myself.”
“Horndog,” Peter accuses.
“You flatter me.”
“Go to sleep.”
Wade pouts. He wriggles just a little bit closer, but Peter pushes him away. “I’m serious. You can fuck me in the morning, but I’m all orgasmed-out.”
“Ugh, I could so easily challenge you and extend this fic by another thousand words. But fine,” Wade says. “Morning sex comin’ up! I’ll wake you up real gentle-like, if you know what I mean.”
Peter flushes. He turns away from Wade, yanking the comforter up and over them, and Wade snuggles in close, snaking an arm around Peter’s hips. And, if his hand slips lower before Peter’s truly asleep, he doesn’t complain. He just gasps into his pillow, low and quiet, and doesn’t think to question it in the morning.