"Why are you dressed like that?"
Wade looked up at Peter, grinning shamelessly.
"I'm trying to help the author out. Writer's block is really stressful, you know. And someone with a deep ship said something about finding inspiration in porn. I'm just trying to do my part, you know, now since I'm trying to be like one of the heroes and all."
Peter shut his eyes, trying to will his migraine away as his fingers massaged slow circles into the side of his head. "First of all, this is New York – I don't think anybody owns a deep ship here, and if that's just some dirty reference to something, then I don't even want to know. Secondly, that still doesn't explain why you're sprawled across the bed in nothing but a pink leather g-string." Peter walked over to Wade, pulling the leather back, smirking at the sound of it recoiling against Wade's flesh, and the whining protest that came from him right after. "And if you're having writer's block – since when do you write, by the way? – then there are better ways to remedy that. Stopping referring to yourself in the third person is probably a good starting point."
Wade pouted up at him. "Ye of little faith, Peter. I can't believe you're discouraging me when I'm in the middle of providing good boy community service."
Peter pinched the sensitive flesh right under his ass cheek. "Getting into my pants is not considered community service," he said.
Wade jumped, rubbing the assaulted area. "Don't you think you're being just a bit conceited thinking I automatically want to get into your pants?"
Peter's eyes narrowed. "When do you not want to get into my pants?" he asked, crossing his arms.
"Uh … now? Really, Peter, are you not feeling well? You're usually not this slow when it comes to simple cognitive functioning."
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he muttered, walking out of the bedroom to flop down on the couch.
"I'm as serious as a unicorn frolicking in a rainbow-sprinkled pot of gold," came his reply from the bedroom.
Peter groaned. This was going to be a long night.