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Peter sputters. "You can't jerk off! That's my body! That's my dick!"
"It's okay, Websy, you can jerk my dick off! Equal opportunity jerking off! Have at it, cowboy."
Peter cannot believe this is fucking happening.
"That's not the point," he hisses. "I don't want you touching my dick."
Not like this, Peter thinks, despairing.
Wade blinks. "Well, I kinda gotta, Spidey-babe, to piss and all that jazz. Unless you're ordering me to sit?"
How is this Peter's life. How. Why. What did he do to deserve this.
"No," Peter squirms, "I just—"
"Tell ya what, Websy," Wade says. He twirls around and god, it's still so weird to see himself: to have Wade's cocked out hip on Peter's body, Wade's teasing smirk on Peter's face. "I won't jerk off."
Whew. Okay, that was...surprisingly eas—
"If you do it for me," Wade finishes triumphantly. Peter feels his mouth go dry.
"What?" He croaks. His own fucking face lifts a challenging eyebrow at him.
"You heard me. You don't want me jerking your dick, that's okay. But I'm not dealing with your blue balls. You are pent up, baby boy. You take care of it."
Then he thumbs the button of Peter's jeans and flops on to Wade's couch. Peter can see his own stupid erection where Wade had it tucked under the waistband. Within the Deadpool suit, Wade's dick throbs.
For the first time today—a day that has involved missed deadlines, skipping work, mystery witches, Deadpool, and body-swapping—Peter thinks: uh-oh. I'm in trouble.
"Wade," Peter says. Tries not to acknowledge that it comes out as a plea.
Wade gestures at his—Peter's—crotch. "Well? Have at it, Websy."
He shifts restlessly on the couch. It looks like he wants to re-adjust Peter's dick. His hands twitch uselessly in the air above it, but he obeys Peter and doesn't touch it.
"And we really gotta talk about regular maintenance, baby boy, because you've been neglecting. You gotta jerk off more. For your health! Gotta clear those pipes, dump that truck, milk that cow—"
"I jerk off plenty," Peter argues desperately. He can't believe this is happening. He cannot believe—
Wade snorts. "Clearly not. Everything's so tight and achy down here—you've been hard for like an hour."
Yeah, Peter thinks miserably. He knows. How backed up he's been, and how being around Wade makes it so much worse.
"I’ve got no idea how you swing around like this all the time," Wade is saying, indifferent to Peter's internal suffering. "The cup's hella uncomfy but I guess the alternative is taking an eye out of some pedestrian or copping an indecent expos—"
"Please stop talking," Peter begs, because holy shit, he might actually die of embarrassment. "I will jerk you off if you please, please stop talking."
Wade shuts up. He stares at him, his eyes wide and his mouth gaping open. It is not an attractive look for himself, Peter thinks, depressed. He's got to remember that. For back when he's in his own body.
"Yeah?" Wade asks. He sounds...raw. Maybe nervous. Nice timing. Little late for that, Wade.
In for a penny, Peter thinks wildly.
"Yeah," he says. He tries to be casual. He shrugs. "It's...yeah. It's just...jerking myself off, so. Sure."
"Sure," Wade breathes. His eyes are so wide, and man, Peter's face looks so dumb. God, he can't do it—not like this.
"Just—turn around," he tells Wade. "I can't do it looking at myself."
Wade snorts. "Well, that answers whether you're a narcissist or not."
"Or not," Peter agrees emphatically.
"If it were me, looking like this, baby boy, I'd have mirrors on every wall. This apartment would be a goddamn disco ball."
Peter rolls his eyes. "Come on."
Wade goes to flip over and then pauses.
"Actually, on second thought, uh. Might be easier if we do this on the bed."
Oh, sure, Peter thinks hysterically. Yeah, why not. He didn't think this could get worse, but that's Parker Luck for you. It can always get worse.
"Sure," he croaks. "Whatever's...easiest..."
Wade gets up from the couch and heads over to his bedroom, with Peter following helplessly behind him. Wade's bedroom is shockingly not as much of a disaster as he was expecting. There's still a ton of junk—clothes and plushies and knives where they shouldn't be—but it's not like, dirty. There are sheets on the bed that look clean and soft.
Peter has the absolutely bizarre experience of watching himself shove his jeans off and crawl onto Wade's bed in his underwear. Wade stays up on his knees and clears his throat.
"Figure, this way, you behind with the old reach-around, it'd be...uh. Less weird."
Less weird, Peter thinks hysterically. Ha. Ha-ha. Ha.
"Yeah," he says finally when Wade stares at him expectantly. "Yeah, I—okay."
Okay. He's doing this. He's going to actually jerk himself off while Wade is in his fucking body.
What the fuck. What the actual fuck.
He goes to pull off Wade's gloves but stops when Wade makes an abortive noise.
"What are you doing?"
Peter squints at him. "Taking...your gloves off?"
"Why?"
Peter blinks. "Why not?"
Wade looks, for the first time, actually a little uncomfortable. "You—should keep them on."
Peter scowls at him. "Dude. No way. I am not jerking myself off with a nylon glove on. It'd chafe my dick off."
Wade huffs and looks away. "Fine. Suit yourself. Try not to barf, it'll hurt my feeling."
Peter rolls his eyes. One of these days, Wade is going to have to realise that Peter does not give a shit about his skin. To prove his point, he pulls off both gloves and waggles his fingers. Wade's skin is scarred and battered, chapped and sore in areas, but it's not nearly as bad as Wade makes it out to be.
"No barfing here," he confirms. Wade nods shortly.
Okay. Okay. Let's get this over with. He climbs onto the bed, feeling awkward about keeping his boots on as he does. If Wade doesn’t care though, he guesses it doesn’t matter.
As he slots Wade's body behind himself, he watches Wade take a shuddery breath.
Peter and Wade aren't terribly far apart in height, but for some reason like this, Wade's body feels huge in comparison to his own. He braces himself with one hand on Wade's borrowed hip, and then, with a quick prayer, reaches around.
"I'm just gonna..." he trails off.
"Yeah, okay," Wade breathes.
Then, in the most surreal moment of Peter's extremely surreal life, Peter palms his own dick using Deadpool's hand, while Deadpool himself, in Peter's body, sucks in a sharp breath.
"Fuck," Wade grits out, as Peter slides his hand into his underwear to get a proper grip around his dick.
"Okay?" Peter asks, inanely. It feels so stupid to ask if it's okay to touch his own dick but given the circumstances—
"Yeah," Wade grunts. His hips jerk in Peter's grip. "Just—my hand."
God, Peter didn't even think about that. Didn't even occur to him that he's inadvertently missing out on the experience of Wade's huge, calloused hand on Peter's dick.
This is so fucking unfair, Peter thinks jealously. He wants to know what it feels like so bad.
"What," Peter croaks. He clears his throat. "What's it like?"
Peter slides his hand up along the shaft of his dick, and palms the head.
Wade moans. "Hnngh, Jesus, you're sensitive. Fuck. It's—hot. Temperature wise, though, obviously—" He cuts off as Peter slides his hand back down, and gently rolls his balls. "Oh, fuck, Webs."
"Peter," he corrects him because boy, are they wildly past that level of subterfuge at this point. Wade has seen his face and now knows what it feels like for Peter to masturbate, his name is nothing. It's not nothing to Wade, apparently. His hips jerk and Peter's grip gets a lot slicker with pre-cum.
"Peter," Wade gasps, sounding shocked, "Peter, Peter, Peter—"
God, Peter hates that it's his own fucking voice and not Wade's right now. What he'd give to hear his name in Wade's voice like this.
"I got you," Peter says instead.
Peter is torn between two impulses.
The first, logical, correct impulse is to just. Get this over with as fast as possible. Brute force it so that Peter's body can come and then Peter can escape from this absolutely insane situation.
The second impulse—the horrible, massively bad idea impulse—is to draw it out. Hit all the buttons. Take his time, the way he does when he's at home and really wants a good orgasm instead of just a perfunctory one.
Because Peter is an absolute idiot with no self control, it's the second he finds himself doing. He knows how sensitive he is, how at this point he's probably so worked up it's see-sawing into overstimulation, too much and not enough. He keeps his grip loose and light, only passing over the head every half-dozen strokes or so—enough to stimulate without Wade getting overwhelmed.
There will come a point where it won't be enough, and sure enough, after a few minutes, Wade starts hitching his hips into Peter's grip. He makes a mortifying high-pitched frustrated noise and God, does Peter really sound like that? Like some kind of needy, strung-out porn twink? Peter didn't know he could blush any hotter than he was already, but jeez. Embarrassing.
"Peter, Pete," Wade pants, bringing his attention back to—well, the matter at hand. Peter shakes his head to clear it. He can have an existential crisis over his sex noises...later. Peter changes his grip—makes it firmer, tighter. He's wet enough now that the slide is slick and easy.
"You can—" Peter starts and then cuts off, startled. Wade's voice, coming out of him, is low and raspy and jeez, so fucking hot. He clears his throat and tries again. "You can, if you want. Fuck my hand, I mean."
Wade whines, that horribly embarrassing porn-twink sound again. "If I want," he repeats, panting. "Jesus fucking—"
Wade hitches his hips again and Peter moves his hand off of his hip so that he freely thrust.
Peter knows he can pretty reliably get off this way, by fucking his hand like this. Though, that doesn't mean he can't still help: he moves his other hand up to his chest and—blushing furiously—thumbs at his nipple.
"Fuck, oh, fuck," Wade groans, "Yeah, yeah, play with your tits, baby boy, that's so fucking hot—"
Peter is going to die. Of sheer mortification or horniness, he doesn't know. Wade's dick is so hard, throbbing in the trapped confines of the Deadpool suit.
The movement of Wade's thrusts means that his ass is now rubbing against it, and it's an absolutely maddening tease. It also does not help to be so aware of how big Wade's dick actually is.
It's not fair, Peter thinks wildly. He's so cocky. If there was any justice in the world, Wade would be over-compensating. Instead, Peter can feel every inch of his very generous dick pressed against the zipper of the suit.
Before Peter can decide how, exactly, he's going to expire, Wade throws him for a loop. He shoves his ass back and grinds against him.
"Wade—" Peter gasps. God, it feels so good and agonizing at the same time. The combination of pain/pleasure fires along all of his nerve endings.
"Petey, fuck, please, I can't," Wade whines. "It's so much but it's—fuck, please—"
Oh. Great. Peter knows what that means. It means he's too worked up for this to tip him over the edge, and Wade's trapped in the harrowing knife edge of just. Not. Enough.
Goddamnit it. He knows how to fix it, he just...well. Peter sighs. Yet another thing to add to the list of injustices of this situation.
"I know," he tells Wade. "I know, I got you."
Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he shifts his weight and uses Wade's knee to knock his legs a little further apart. He takes the hand from his chest and reaches down to rub the head of his dick—ignoring Wade's desperate whine—and gathers up some of his pre-cum.
Then he slides his hand around and down so he can rub his slick fingers over his hole.
"Oh my god," Wade babbles, "Ohmygod, oh my god, oh-oh-oh—"
Yeah, Peter thinks, grimly satisfied. He knows what that's like.
"It's okay," Peter tells him. "You can do it."
"Pete, Pete, Pete," Wade chants. He rocks, frantic against Peter's hand.
"Come on, Wade," Peter murmurs. He can tell how close he is from the way he's shaking now. "You can do it, come on, big guy."
Then he slides just the tip of one of Wade's thick fingers inside of him.
That does the trick—Wade comes, seizing, trapped between Peter's hand on his dick and the other hand at his ass. Wade's hands fly up—one hand grips Peter's wrist where he's still holding on to his dick, and the other reaches back to grab at Peter's thigh.
It feels to Peter like it goes on forever—there's so much come, Wade's sheets are fucked—as Wade shakes and twitches and whines through it.
Wade gasps raggedly for air and he releases his hold on Peter's thigh to brace himself on the bed.
"Holy shit," Wade wheezes. "Holy—holy shit."
"Yeah," Peter says sympathetically. It feels like being hit by a truck when he gets himself off like this.
He gently slides Wade's finger out of him and—with apologies to Wade's sheets— wipes it off on the bed before rubbing his back soothingly.
"Wow," Wade says finally. He sounds wrecked.
"You okay?" Peter asks, a little concerned.
Wade laughs. It sounds wild and a little unhinged. "Okay is one way to put it," he says. "On the other hand, I might not ever be okay again."
Oh. Peter...doesn't quite know how to parse that, so he doesn't say anything. He just keeps up the soothing motion of his hand on his back.
"Wow, okay, I think I can function now," Wade says after a long minute of Peter awkwardly patting Wade's back. "Tradesies!"
Huh? Peter has just enough time to frown in confusion before Wade turns around and grabs his own dick through the Pool suit.
Peter chokes. "Wha—"
"Wouldn't be fair, Websy," Wade tells him, as if it's obvious. "Solved your blue balls, can't leave you with mine."
"Oh," Peter squeaks.
Wade lifts an eyebrow. "That okay, Petey-pie?"
His hand doesn't move despite asking and Peter can't help twitch his hips into it.
"Uh," Peter says. He's having a hard time thinking. "I mean, it's your dick, so—"
"Great," Wade chirps. "I was hoping you'd say that." Then he does something entirely incomprehensible with his hand which suddenly results in Wade's dick freed from the suit and in the tight grip of Peter's hand.
And God help him, Peter can't help but stare at it, the length of it sliding through his hands. It's a really nice dick, he thinks distantly, long and thick and he can't fucking believe he's got his hands on it and he can't feel it.
When he finds that witch he's going to break his own rules and punch her in the face. Wade jerks himself off with a tight, fast pace.
"Like it a little rougher than you, Petey," Wade informs him. "Tell me when it's enough. Not used to all this Spidey-strength."
No kidding. It is tight, almost bordering on painful, but it's so fucking good Peter can't help but groan.
"It's, yeah, it's good," he says belatedly. Wade nods and keeps up the pace, hot and brutal until Peter's shaking with it. He's close, he's so close, but he needs—something, he doesn't know what.
"Wade," he begs, mindless. There's a flash of something over his face—knowledge or apprehension, maybe?—before Wade goes, "Okay, okay," and leans and kisses him.
It's—god, it's so fucking good. At the first touch of their tongues, Peter feels like his brain is punched out of his body as he comes suddenly all over Wade's hand. Which, actually, the punched out feeling doesn't go away. It slides, weirdly slippery and motion-sick, and Peter has to close his eyes against it.
When he opens them, he looks up at Wade. At Wade, at his scarred, handsome face, where he's blinking in confusion.
Peter is back in his own body. Thank god. He's back in his own body and he's holding Wade's extremely nice dick in his own hand, where he can feel how hot and soft and textured it is.
"Oh thank fuck," Wade mutters. He looks down at where Peter has not let go of his dick. "Ooh. Hey, uh. Well—"
Peter doesn't let him finish. He reaches out with his free hand and grabs Wade by the suit to pull him in and kiss him again. Wade opens up immediately for him, groaning, when Peter licks into his mouth. He only lets up when he starts to get light-headed.
"Wade?" he asks, breathless.
"Yeah?"
"Wanna forget about that witch and fuck instead?"
"Oh my god," Wade groans. "Baby boy, you don't even need to ask. Please let me eat that ass. Gonna make it so good for you, you don't even know."
And then they lived happily ever after, etc etc.
(Meanwhile somewhere a witch is like, man it's really taking them forever to figure out this kiss spell what giv—oh there it is, mazel tov, fellas)