Chapter Text
Wade takes a steadying breath, his cock aching for relief. He came only half an hour ago, but cumming is very nearly meaningless when they’re like this. Tucked up in Peter for hours on end, Wade’s dick never so much as falters, no matter how many times he orgasms along the way. He’s stuck in glorious purgatory, threading the needle between torture and ecstasy, until Peter says they’re done.
Wade wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Peter makes an exasperated noise and leans forward to read from his textbook, pencil poised over his notes. The shift in position gives Wade a fantastic view of Peter’s hole, red and puffy from being stretched for so long. Arousal pools low in Wade’s belly at the sight. All at once, he’s close to cumming again, regardless of the fact that he’s barely moved in ten minutes.
He knows he might get yelled at, but Wade can’t help but reach down and brush his thumb over that puffy, lube-slick skin right where it meets his dick. Instead of yelling, Peter shivers and clenches around Wade. That’s all Wade needs. His body locks up and he exhales as he cums, pumping gently up into Peter as he works through his release.
KING LEOPOLD ESSAY
Peter stares at the line of text on his laptop. Half an hour of outlining for his World Cultures seminar final paper, and this is as far as he’s gotten. The outline header. Not even the real title. The rough draft is due in a week, and he’s got… a header.
Sighing, Peter scrubs his hands over his face and leans forward. He can do this. He fought Captain America. He went to space. He can outline this freaking paper.
He poises his fingers over his keyboard. He’s read the books. He’s seen the documentaries. He’s memorized the prompt. He knows everything he needs to know to pound out eight pages of academic gobbeldygook. The outline is all in his head somewhere, jumbled up into disjointed pieces. All he has to do is plot it out.
Just as he starts typing INTRODUCTION, a door several apartments down the hall slams shut and Peter flinches hard, ripping several keys away with his suddenly sticky fingers.
A second later, as he’s pushing the first key back into place, the baby one floor and two doors down starts crying. Again. This is the sixth time today, not including the two nighttime tantrums the baby’s parents were slow to settle. Its shrill wail is earsplitting, even through the several layers of plaster and insulation that separate it from Peter.
Annoyed, he abandons his keys and tugs on the noise-canceling headphones he splurged on a week ago, desperately clawing at his hope for productivity.
The couple directly under him starts fucking.
Peter thunks his head onto his desk, giving up. Another night of time to study, wasted.
He’s had delicate senses ever since he got the bite, but lately it’s been a million times worse. If everything was at an eleven back then, now it’s at a twenty. He can’t go five minutes without getting startled by some entirely normal noise in his building or the street beyond. He can pick out every conversation, every toilet flush, every slammed door. The other night, someone made popcorn and Peter flattened himself to the floor, thinking it was gunshots. He can’t focus. He can’t sleep. He can barely eat without dropping his food everywhere. Two weeks ago, his apartment was a haven from the chaos of the city. Now, he goes on patrols to get some rest.
Peter stands and pulls on his suit on autopilot, followed by street clothes. Just as the couple three floors up starts their nightly bickering, he hops out of his window and all but sprints down the fire escape. One quick trip to a nearby alley to stash his things, and he’s swinging into the heart of the city.
Counterintuitively, the loudest part of town is the easiest for Peter to tolerate. The noises all blend together into a massive wall of input, and somehow, that’s easier for Peter to block out than more distinct, separate sounds in quieter areas. He lands on the roof of a high rise and breathes a sigh of relief as his head finally clears.
He sprawls out on the rooftop facedown and buries his face in one bent elbow. If he tries, he can pick out individual components of sound—the people in the apartments of this building, the traffic on the road, the hum of electricity everywhere, the street musicians nearby—but he doesn’t want to try. He wants to sleep.
This is becoming a problem. He’s been holding out hope that his senses might calm down over time, or that he might get used to them like he did all those years ago. Instead, he’s living on a wire’s edge, anxious and flighty from constant overstimulation. His exhaustion makes every sound louder, every light brighter. He can’t wear jeans anymore because of how the fabric grates on his skin. He can physically smell when the guy two floors up has an IBS flare-up. He can’t even think about spicy food without his tongue burning. He can’t live like this.
But he doesn’t know what else to do.
He’s tried every easy (re: cheap) remedy he can think of. He’s found some solutions—wearing only his softest clothes, wearing his Spidey-mask around the apartment with his adjustable lenses calibrated to reduce light input, eating bland food and drinking filtered water, that sort of thing—but all of it feels impermanent. He can’t wear sweatpants or his mask forever. He can’t get by on buttered toast and Cheerios. And he can’t survive another two weeks listening to the hundred people in his building living their noisiest, most obtrustive lives. He’s caught in an unsolvable dilemma and he has no idea how to make it stop.
Peter doesn’t know how long he spends on the roof, but by the time he gathers his bearings enough to check, the sun has set. He drags himself to his feet and does a quick patrol, but his heart isn’t in it. Before too long, his fatigue wears out.
He contemplates forgoing his apartment completely and sleeping on a roof, just to get some actual sleep, but there are too many helicopters and drones around for that. Knowing how tired he is, he’d sleep through everything and wake up handcuffed to a police table. He has to go home.
The couple is still arguing when he climbs in through his window. Peter shoves in his ear plugs and puts his headphones on top and climbs into bed, hoping that he might just be tired enough for the noise not to matter.
He hears the hum of electricity above him buzz tellingly a moment before the TV upstairs turns on.
“Nooooo,” Peter groans, burying his face into his pillow.
He knows what’s coming. It’s been the same nearly every night for the last two weeks. He keeps changing his bedtime in hopes that he’ll eventually miss it, but so far, his success rate has been zero.
A loud, obviously fake moan funnels straight through Peter’s ear plugs.
As Peter has learned over the last two weeks, the twenty-something dudebro that lives directly above him likes porn. A lot. Specifically, he likes watching porn before going to sleep, and does so nearly every night.
Now, Peter gets it. He likes porn too, and he understands the urge for a quick nut to make falling asleep easier. But this guy watches the absolute stupidest porn. It’s all cheesy dialogue about step-relatives and how massive every dick is, or how tight every pussy is. Peter hates how monotonous it is, how boring it seems, how heterosexual it always is. (Not that Peter doesn’t mind a good bit of heterosexuality now and again, but there’s only so much overacted caterwauling he can take before he starts comparing the actresses to the baby downstairs.)
But the thing Peter hates the most, the thing that drives him up the wall—sometimes literally—is that it gets to him. Laying there, listening to the obscene noises of skin slapping together and the occasionally believable sounds of people having sex, Peter gets turned on. He can’t not. Which means that every night this asshole decides to watch an obnoxious video, Peter ends up jerking off to it.
Huffing a sigh, Peter kicks off his pants and shoves the covers down below his hips.
When he finally gives in and starts touching himself, it isn’t the porn he focuses on. What he listens to are the soft, slick noises of the guy upstairs. It’s creepy, Peter knows, to get off on the sounds of his neighbor getting off, but Peter can’t help it. He can hear the guy anyway, and if he has to pick between the two, he’d rather listen to someone actually enjoying themselves over the artificial noises of two performers pretending.
It doesn’t take long for Peter’s imagination to take over. Beneath shut eyelids, the neighbor above Peter turns into someone else entirely. The scene shifts. The porn fades away.
Oh, baby boy, croons a familiar voice. Look at you.
Peter rocks his hips upward, gasping even as he flushes. It’s not that he’s ashamed of having a crush on Deadpool, necessarily, but it’s a bad idea for a number of reasons. For starters, the dude’s a mess. He’s loud and brash and violent, and a list of other things Peter shouldn’t like as much as he does. And he’s basically Peter’s best friend, now that all his other friends are scattered to the wind for college. If Peter had a lick of sense, he’d keep Deadpool in the safe, reliable bucket of platonic broship and keep it at that.
And normally, that’s exactly what he does. He deflects Deadpool’s barrage of meaningless, flirtatious comments, keeps his eyes trained away from Deadpool’s arms (and legs, and back, and everything else), and focuses on anything that might keep his attraction at bay. But late at night, when Peter finds himself searching for that spark of lust that will get him off, it’s always Deadpool that gets him there.
Tonight, in his mind’s eye, Deadpool looms over him on the bed. He’s still in his suit—Peter hasn’t seen enough of him to picture him any other way—but Peter doesn’t care. It isn’t Deadpool’s skin that Peter wants. It’s Deadpool’s raspy voice pitched down to a rumble. It’s the easy, smooth confidence Deadpool shows when facing off against an enemy. It’s all those muscles and hard edges that Peter admires whenever his self-control slips.
That’s it, baby, Deadpool purrs over him. And just like that, reality is forgotten. Those soft, slick sounds are Deadpool, stroking his own dick and staring down at Peter stroking his. Fuck, Peter, you’re so perfect like this.
Peter bites back a whine and swallows a mouthful of saliva, twisting his grip at the head.
The fantasy solidifies, and Peter is lost to it. Deadpool presses him down onto the mattress and abandons his own cock. Suddenly, it isn’t Peter’s long, slim fingers on his dick, it’s wide, strong hands wrapped in leather gloves. Deadpool’s grip is tighter and more demanding. Ruthless, just like he is.
Christ, I want to eat you up, Deadpool tells him as he tugs on Peter’s cock. Want you all over me. Want you to cum on my face, in my mouth, on my dick.
Peter wants that. He wants to climb Deadpool like a tree and stick to him, feeling warm leather on every inch of his bare skin.
So needy, Deadpool groans, not sounding put out one bit. Are you desperate, baby? You want my big, strong body to make you feel good?
The fantasy twists, Peter’s mind supplying new territory for him to explore. While one of Deadpool’s hands strokes his dick, a perfect mimic of Peter’s actual movements, his other hand brushes over Peter’s body. His thighs, his stomach, the sensitive skin behind his balls.
How good can I make you feel, do you think?
Leather slips down, past Peter’s balls, past his taint, sliding down, down—
Peter gasps and cums, tensing all over. He flops back onto his pillow when he’s done, staring wide-eyed up at the ceiling. He hasn’t imagined that before. He’s never even dared to think about Deadpool touching him there. He’s never thought about anyone touching him there, besides in passing as a part of his sexual identity crisis a few years back. Back then, he was icked out by it to want to try anything, and he’s remained in that holding pattern ever since.
But letting Deadpool touch him there. Deadpool, with all his crass jokes about Peter’s ass and melodramatic sighs whenever Peter bends over. Deadpool, the cutthroat mercenary who would rather kill a dozen men than show an inch of his own skin.
Deadpool. In Peter’s ass.
Peter’s shocked to realize he doesn’t hate the idea as much as he would have expected.
But that’s a tomorrow problem. For now, Peter mops himself clean with tissues and curls up under his blankets. He’s finally tired enough to actually sleep, and he’s going to take advantage. Any and all earth-shattering revelations about anal sex will have to wait.
He shuts his eyes and drifts off to sleep. He doesn’t notice that he can’t hear the high, nasally moans still filtering down from the ceiling, or the hum of electricity in the walls, or even the baby throwing a tantrum two floors down. He doesn’t notice how his sheets are soft and comforting under him, or how the glow of city lights through his window doesn’t glare through his eyelids. He falls asleep in peace, entirely unaware that he isn’t aware of anything at all.