Archive of Our Own

I.

“Are you going to sleep on the floor? At your age, back pain is a real concern. Besides, you’re definitely not tall enough to hang off the couch. I guess the prop guys were banking on somebody a little closer in size to the comics version when they made that.”

Cable visibly decides not to try to decipher that, the sweat and soot smeared over his face highlighting all the tiny, exasperated twitches of his expression. “I’ve slept on worse. Besides, I know you’re not planning on taking the floor.”

 “Now that’s chivalry,” Wade tells him, putting a hand over his heart. “You’re right, though, I should take the bedroom I have from when I used to live here.”

He thinks maybe his mind is providing the whirring mechanical noise the arm makes when Cable sits up for him because it seems thematically appropriate, but it’s definitely providing the slide-whistle sound effect he hears when the golden, glowing eye turns on him. “I guess you forgot to mention that.”

“You could stay on the floor, or get cozy with me. Promise me you won’t shower before you come to bed, baby, the sweaty, dirty thing is really turning me on.”

Wade is expecting to be shot down like a clay pigeon, possibly literally, but instead Cable heaves himself up off the floor and silently walks past him, mistakenly opening the door to the utility closet and closing it without embarrassment to open the right door this time. “Don’t worry,” he says, before he disappears inside. “I wasn’t planning to.”

“I guess once you’ve had your balls on someone’s chin anything goes,” Wade says to the empty room, before following him inside. “No shame in the future, huh, big guy?” he asks, when he’s greeted by the sight of Cable stripping out of his shirt, back turned to the door. The scarf and utility belt are already off, and the metal arm runs into his side like a car crash, encroaching on the muscles of his back and outlining his spine. With all the little wires twisted together like that, with the plates over them, it almost looks like picture-perfect replacements for muscle and skin and bone. He can see the edge of a steel vertebrae through the gaps between the fibers. The part of him that he thinks would have roasted ants on the sidewalk with a magnifying glass as a kid if he had been about two twitches of the dial more sociopathic wants to dig his fingers into the strange little space there, between the plates of false muscles, and pull, see what happens. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can always use a little extra spank bank material to liven up my one man post-kill happy-endings massage and I’d kill to see how far your freaky robot bits go down in this continuity, but this seems like someone is grasping for straws on how to start the good part of a porno, and if we’re not careful, the next thing you know I’ll be getting railed against a copier with my pencil skirt up around my hips and one of my high heels dangling off while the intern watches. I think the intern is Dopinder in this case, and as much as I’d be into that, I feel like you won’t be, for some reason that Martin Luther King and Magneto would be disappointed in you for.”

Cable turns around. The look in his one good eye could only be described as weapons-grade apathy with a pinch of hot steel, the look in the other eye could be described as regular hot steel. “Do you ever turn off?”

“Great question. Now that I know you’ve only got one nipple, I’m definitely turned on.”

Rolling his eyes so far back in his head that they risk getting stuck, Cable makes a hand gesture that Wade doesn’t recognize from this timeline, but which looks distinctively rude. “Go fuck yourself,” he says, without any apparent attempt to correspondingly intimidate him. Somehow, Wade thought he would have snapped and turned this into a snuff film by now, but it appears that now that his family is safe, he has a much stronger tolerance for Wade’s particular brand of nonsense. It’s almost disappointing — the determined-to-kill-the-unkillable look looked handsome as fuck on that grizzled old face.

“At least lube me up and give me a kiss first, sugartits. Sugartit, maybe, since you only have one? The metal one doesn’t count, right? I feel like it can’t count.”

“Here,” Cable says, and throws him something he digs out of his bag. Catching it to keep it from hitting him in the face, Wade turns it over. It’s a small bottle of gun oil. A hot shock runs through him. Although he’s not sure how to dig all the meaning out of the gesture, he’s pretty sure he just got handed a bottle of joke lubricant, since clearly only an insane man would put gun oil up his ass, or all over his dick. “Now go fuck yourself.”

Maybe Cable is insane. It’s possible. He was going to kill a kid, after all.

The problem is, is that Wade is more than merely maybe insane, and what’s more, his insanity is the exact flavor that gets him hot at the thought of putting gun oil on his hand and touching himself. And from the twinkle in that freaky cyborg eye, Wade feels like, somehow, Cable knows that. It would be annoying if it weren’t so weirdly hot. “Environmentally friendly,” he reads off the bottle, because he can’t bring himself to let someone else get in the last joke. “That’s cute, you’re already stopping climate change. One round of weirdly-solicited masturbation at a time.”

“Enjoy yourself,” Cable suggests, and climbs into bed, considerately laying on his back on the far side of it, taking up a surprisingly small amount of space for someone with a shoulder width like that. “Don’t wake me up when you’re done or I’ll feed you parts of yourself until you choke.”

“I’ll think about you doing that every day while I abuse the naked mole rat,” Wade tells him sweetly, and grabs himself crudely through the jumpsuit. Generally, that wouldn’t actually be true, but violence just looks so pretty on Cable that he’s not sure.

“Jesus,” Cable mutters.

He doesn’t think about erotic auto-cannibalism (auto-erotic cannibalism?) as he strokes himself off in Al’s living room, leaning against the closed door to his bedroom for maximum annoying-Cable-while-he’s trying-to-sleep potential. If he had to guess, it’s more the adrenaline than the killing that gets him desperate like this, but if he gets off on offing perverts, he guesses that’s a part of himself he can live with, although he doesn’t think about that either. Thinking about Vanessa makes him want to cry or put a gun in his mouth more than it makes him want to get his rocks off, at the moment, so instead he half-keeps his promise to Cable and thinks about him, and choking, but with body parts that aren’t his own involved.

He bets it’s got metal up the side. That feels like someone’s kink. It could be his kink, even. He’s pretty sure gun oil isn’t for internal use, but he could be into putting it all over Cable’s cyborg dick and sucking him off, and he can’t die, so who cares if he gets a little poisoned. If it’s got the same rough, exposed wiring that most of the rest of Cable’s metal half has, he thinks maybe it’ll make him bleed if he puts it down his throat, just a little. Tear open a corner of his mouth if he’s lucky and Cable likes it as rough as he looks like he likes it. Maybe everyone looks like that in the future, which would make being probably immortal a lot more bearable, but maybe that filthy fucking smirk and those diamond-hard eyes mean he’s that special brand of indecent motherfucker who would hold his head still with that shiny fucking hand and jackhammer away. He seems strong enough that that’s probably a dangerous game, but then again, Wade’s nose always unbreaks itself quickly. That’s just the right level of violence to get him close, thinking about blood and oil on his face and his lips stretched around something hard and distracting and hopefully at least a little metallic.

Now that’s an idea, he thinks, and grabs his gun. He guesses he could have thought about Vanessa after all, since he’s definitely putting this in his mouth anyway. But it’s too late to switch, so he finishes gasping around the barrel, imagining that jagged robot hand on the back of his neck accompanying the bright taste of metal in his mouth, and doesn’t even pull the trigger to celebrate.

The air smells like gun oil and sweat when he comes down — too quickly, thanks to the healing factor — from the orgasm fuzziness, and feels unusually oppressive, like he’s being watched, although there’s no one in the room with him. He’d chalk it up to the usual craziness, but his crazy doesn’t usually come in shades of paranoia. Or at least not unjustified paranoia. More like omniscience and a little light breaking from reality. It could be wishful thinking, but the omniscience is telling him that it’s not. Then again, the omniscience is a byproduct of the crazy, so maybe he can say it’s that after all.

“Hey, if you’re telepathic in this universe and you heard all that, let me just say that you asked for it with the gun oil,” he says to the air, and maybe Cable behind the door. He pauses. “I guess even if you’re not telepathic, you have ears. Ear? I hope they enjoyed the show.”

Cable is asleep when he finally goes to bed, and Wade could swear the metal on his back, which is turned to the door as he lies on his side, seems more alive than the rest of him, like it’s awake even though he isn’t.

That could be the crazy talking, though.

In the morning, Cable is gone.

II.

“Did you just fucking lick me?” Cable asks him, sounding halfway between incredulous and agitated.

Wade grins through the hole gunfire had left in his mask, dripping with blood and bone splinters from his jaw, which has already mostly reasserted itself, although he thinks he might still have a little handicap in the tongue reach department, since he had really had to press his face into the crook of Cable’s neck to get there. “I already told you sweaty and dirty got me off. Besides, you had a little something right there.”

Actually, he has a little something everywhere, mostly. Partly because when Wade had gotten his face blown off, he’d been in the right spot to catch the fallout, and partly because they are standing in the midst of a smoking warlord’s-hideout-turned-warzone. He has gore smeared all over the human half of his face and neck — the other side looks weirdly pristine, like the metal has drunk the blood — and black soil where he’d hit the ground outlining his cheekbone and jaw. If he’s hurt, he isn’t showing it. Wade, for his part, will have to replace this suit, because there’s no sewing up bullet holes, but he isn’t hurt either, because everyone has been dead for at least five minutes, which means he’s had time to regrow almost everything that needs regrowing.

Cable doesn’t give him a smartass response, so he fills in. “Are we at the part yet where you call me a fuckstick and try to stab me in my spaghetti and meatballs? Because that part turns me on, and believe me, good-looking, after all this death and destruction I’m really jonesing for a little nasty loving from you.”

Actually, he is feeling like solo time being solo is just going to itch tonight, and his other options are paying for an escort, wearing a gimp suit to a club, and putting a grenade up his ass and seeing if Vanessa can talk him off before he gets yanked back into the land of the living. He’s leaning gimp suit, because he’s tried the grenade up the ass thing enough times to know that the answer is no.

Cable still doesn’t say anything, newly re-engrossed in examining the files on the desk, so Wade leans down and licks some more of the blood up, off his cheek this time. It’s crunchy, so it must be his.

He doesn’t have time to ponder it for very long, because Cable puts him in a transitional grip that ends with him shoved into a wall, with what looks like no more than two hundred pounds but feels like closer to three hundred plus pressed against him. “Feeling frisky?” Wade gets out past the single-collar tie hold Cable has his neck. “I’m loving this energy. Quick, before your brother and my fiancé get home, do me dirty like you’re Nicolas Cage and the moon is shining brightly.”

“Lick me again, and — ” Cable starts, and Wade slips the collar — should’ve used a double, come on, he isn’t a rookie — and darts forward to do just that before he can finish the threat.

“Oops,” he says, unrepentant with copper coating his tongue, and grins.

He’s expecting a knife to the gut, which would honestly be better than not being touched at all tonight, and is arguably penetrative, but instead gets a rough hand ripping off his half-destroyed mask and a low growl in his ear. “I’m not fucking you here, you horny dipshit.”

Then he kisses Wade like he’s been cut off before last call and he’s trying to fuck the bartender into giving him another drink, messy and with teeth and no finesse at all, which is distinctly not like he usually operates, and not exactly how Wade had imagined it the few times he had used him as jack-off material. If he bruised, this might bruise him. “So you’ll fuck me somewhere,” he says, panting, when Cable pulls away and drops the fistful of collar he’d gotten when he’d shoved him into the wall the second time. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those squares who only makes the beast with two backs in a bed, it’ll ruin half my fantasies and if you won’t give yourself a little lumbar pain to fuck me up against a wall you don’t really love me. I feel like you can’t be a prude if you get off on me licking you.”

“Keep running your fucking mouth and see what happens,” Cable says, and stomps out of the room, not affording Wade the chance to keep running his fucking mouth and see what happens, which is sad because he definitely was going to try it. On the other hand, almost as soon as they get to the truck, Cable throws him into the backseat and climbs in after him, so it’s not a total bust.

“Oh, boy,” Wade says happily, putting his hands on Cable’s shoulders, which are verging on being annoyingly broad for a man of his continuity-violating height. “Dry-jack me like we’re virgins on prom night, baby. Or, ooh, ooh, let’s make like Titanic.” He slaps one hand against the window, and leaves a bloody print where his palm was.

“I’m not doing shit dry,” Cable informs him, which is a huge disappointment and a mark towards him being a prude, but also kind of considerate for someone who has threatened him with graphic bodily injury probably four times already today.

“Do you know what dry humping is?” Wade asks. “Please, tell me they have dry humping in the future. I’ll cry if the answer is no.”

It’s difficult to describe the noise Cable makes in the back of his throat at that, but it could be a laugh, if a laugh got run through a shredder. Instead of kissing Wade again, he runs his tongue roughly up Wade’s recently-regenerated cheekbone, then makes a face, and spits out a loose tooth — thanks, gunshot blast to the face — onto the floor of the car.

“Oh my god,” Wade says, suddenly feeling like his lungs are too small for the amount of air he’s sucked into them, and like his suit is too small for the amount of blood that has plummeted into his dick. “You’re nasty, Cable.”

“Nathan,” Cable says, and shoves his knee up between Wade’s legs, pressing him back into the far door of the car like he doesn’t have any spinal integrity to preserve, which is absolutely true. Wade rocks back on it even as he opens his mouth, because the months-long drawn-out reveal of Cable’s real name deserves to be marked with a smart comment.

“That’s the least nasty name I can think of,” Wade says, “And you seem like you’re going to be weapons-grade nasty. Maybe I’ll call you Logan. That’s way kinkier. Do you eat ass, too? Wait, don’t tell me, I want to be surprised when you do.”

“I’m going to turn you inside fucking out,” Cable — Nathan — tells him, but it seems like less of a threat than a twisted attempt at talking dirty, and he pairs it with shifting to rub his leg — which feels like it also could be metal, which is a good sign for the potential of cyborg dick — against Wade in a hitching rhythm. “And don’t call me Logan.”

“Oh, I should have offered to call you Shirley instead,” Wade squirms against his knee, and reaches down to grope him below the belt to encourage this sort of behavior. “Is that a gun or are you just happy to see me?” he asks.

“You know that’s a fucking gun,” Nathan says, and grabs his wrist, moving it two inches to the side, so he’s making a new bloody handprint over the warm, cargo-pants-covered bulge of his cock instead. Also regular-size, rather than comics-size, which is a terrible shame, but the metal thing could still be true. “That’s happy to see you.”

Wade tries to say something about disco sticks, but gets cut off by Nathan kissing him again, tasting like blood and gunpowder and spit, only one of which has any business in his mouth. “Lame,” he manages, when Nathan breaks away to kiss his chin instead, no doubt getting more blood on his tongue, “Leave the jesting and gibing to me. You’re terrible at it.”

“What, you want your mouth free?” Nathan says, and scrapes his teeth over the veins in the side of Wade’s neck instead. “Fine. Keep talking, pretty boy.”

“Was this what you meant would happen if I didn’t stop running my mouth?” Wade asks, and rubs his aching length on Nathan’s leg. Above him, Nathan pushes up with his metal arm and uses his other hand to dig his fingers into bullet holes in the cloth of Wade’s suit and rip the chest of it down, bit by bit. He uses his body in a graceless, rough-hewn motion, locking their hips together and setting up a harsh grind that Wade swears bunches his abs up enough to make them visible through his shirt. “Because this is totally not what it sounded like you meant. It sounded like you meant you were going to kill me, Uma Thurman-style.”

“I tried that,” Nathan says. “Didn’t take. Are you going to keep pussying out and asking me questions, or are you going to monologue like a good boy?”

Wade tries to mask his shudder at that and mostly succeeds, although the insistent post-mission horniness and the unforgiving friction between them isn’t helping his cause. “I’ll have you know I’ve never been a good boy in my life,” he starts, because it’s easy to start there. “I wore tons of leather in high school. I know how to ride a motorcycle. I’ve chewed through my wrists for fun, and Jesus wept, I hope you’re a grower and not a shower because if that’s how your dick always is I have no idea how you fit into most pants. Is it metal? I’ve been wondering for a while if it’s metal. I hope it’s metal. Don’t answer that, you said no questions.” He has tightened his grip on Nathan’s shoulders to the point where he thinks it should be causing serious pain, at least in the alive shoulder, but there are no complaints, if so, or maybe he’s just not as strong as he thinks he is. “That’s ridiculous, of course I’m as strong as I think I am. I’m me. I could throw me just as far as you could throw me. You’re probably a tiger when you’re not in a backseat, aren’t you, buttercup? Don’t answer that, still no questions.”

Nathan ducks his face down to suppress what definitely is laughter this time, but doesn’t stop moving his hips. It’s starting to feel like little white lights are popping in Wade’s head, potentially to the tune of Don’t Stop Me Now, which now he’s thinking about it, has about the same cadence as Nathan’s grinding.

“Do you like Queen? This no-questions thing is harder than I thought it would be,” he says, and starts singing. He only makes it through the first long note before Nathan starts sucking on one of his nipples, which thoroughly breaks his ability to keep a tune. “I’m definitely finding your parents and writing them a thank you note for making you,” he tells Nathan, slipping his hand into his hair and streaking the grey with pink, which earns him an approving rumble that vibrates through his breastbone. “When are they going to be born, again? Maybe I should write to Chris Claremont, too. You definitely know what dry-humping is, by the way. Or, as I like to call it, a bodyslide by two.”

Nathan bites him for that, and Wade comes in his suit like a teenager. “You’re a goddamn lunatic,” he says, once Wade is done scrabbling at his shoulders and blaspheming in every language he knows, and sits up as much as he can with the roof of the truck there, ripping down his zipper to take himself in hand. It’s not metal. The bitter disappointment is tempered by the fact that it’s still a really nice dick and it’s drooling on him. “I can’t fucking believe how much you turn me on.”

“Killing people without panties on,” Wade pants, as Nathan strokes off over him with his flesh hand, his metal hand still holding him up. “So naughty. I should’ve blown you in there.”

When Nathan comes on Wade’s chest, he swears using words Wade has never heard.

III.

With a fist-sized hole through the center of his chest, Wade turns back to Nate, who had already thrown up his cool little wrist shield before Wade had stepped in front of the blast. “You can suck my dick for that later. As a thank you, not the regular kind of dick-sucking.”

“Stand still,” Nate tells him, powering the shield down, and fires straight through the hole, nailing their thus-far-elusive target, who is clearly caught off his guard, directly in the neck. It’s a perfect shot; Wade doesn’t even feel the bullet as it passes through, although that might be because of all of the other pain in that area.

“Easy,” Wade scoffs, because you can’t let the man’s ego grow too big. “If you wanted to really impress me, you’d have waited for it to close up a little.” He pokes his index finger into the rapidly-shrinking hole, and leaves it there until his bone slides up around it. “Here, try it now. I’ll take my hand out on three, and if you’re quick you can squeeze one out before it closes.”

“Quit fingering yourself, you degenerate shithawk,” Nate says, and springs up from his half-crouch. “We have work to do.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever told me to stop fingering myself,” Wade observes, but returns his hand to his gun obediently. “I have to say, I don’t like it. I prefer to be fingering myself.”

“Makes sense, since you’re sitting around with your thumb up your ass right now.”

“Some people are just ungrateful,” Wade sniffs, but follows him around the corner, stepping over the body. “I give my life for you and this is how you repay me?”

Nate doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

“You know, you’ve gotten way too comfortable with the things I say,” Wade tells him later, as Dopinder drives them home from the airport. He hopes to God Nate is working on that teleportation thing, because having to get through airport security with all these weapons is damn near impossible. “I miss the times when the mere suggestion of a blowjob would make you blush. I’ve deflowered you.”

“That never happened. And I’m not a virgin.”

“I made sure of that, Six Million Dollar Man.”

“I had a daughter before I ever met you, dickhead.”

“I know. The immaculate conception.” Nate twitches, and Wade narrows his eyes. “Wait, did that hit close to home? Are you mutant Jesus, or is she? Is she still mutant Jesus if she’s your actual daughter in this timeline? This backstory is so confusing.”

“Mother Askani,” Nate swears under his breath, in the same pained tone he reserves for punctuating Wade’s jokes with despairing blasphemy.

“Yeah, it would have felt weird to say ‘Jesus’ after that, huh,” Wade says.

“Mr. Cable, Mr. Pool, we are here,” Dopinder pipes up. He’s learned not to try to interject himself into an argument between them unless Wade calls him in for backup, because Nate’s creative profanity and Wade’s tenuous grip on reality stop for no one. Although generally, Nate is remarkably polite to him, he always takes Wade’s side, which weirdly seems to make Nate like him more.

“Racists sometimes overcompensate with false kindness, Dopinder,” Wade says solemnly, and leans over the center console to kiss him on the cheek before he gets out of the car. “Don’t drive drunk. Tell Weasel I’m why you’re late and give him this from me.” He digs out a gun, pops a single bullet into it, and then hands it over.

“What was that?” Nate says, as Dopinder drives off.

“A bullet with ‘Weasel’ carved into it,” Wade says. “I have one with your name carved on it too, in case I ever need to threaten you. For some reason I keep losing Domino’s.”

Nate snorts.

“Why are you here, anyway?”

“Because if I tell him where I’m living, he’ll tell you,” Nate says, which is bullshit, because Wade definitely already knows where he lives, since despite all the things Nate is very good at, his countersurveillance techniques could use some work, and one of those things he’s obnoxiously good at is knowing his own weaknesses. He has no idea where Nate got the money for rent, because it seems like he isn't doing that past-life investing thing the comics suggested he might, but then again, he could always be committing bank robberies or shorting stocks, but it’s a vaguely nicer place than Al’s. It’s definitely nicer than the alley outside Al’s, where they are.

“I’m hurt,” Wade says, and clasps a hand over the hole in his suit. “That you wouldn’t invite me to rob banks with you.”

“You’re going to make me rethink this,” Nate tells him, after a moment of familiarly confused silence, then puts his T-O hand on Wade’s chest and pushes him into the brick wall of the alley, gently enough he doesn’t even hit his head, which feels foreign, given that usually when Nate is pushing him somewhere, it’s because of anger or a sweet but futile urge to keep him out of the path of danger. “Take off your mask.”

“What?”

“I said,” Nate repeats, and drops to his knees, in a way that might hurt if Wade wasn’t watching closely enough to notice him hit with the metal one first, then come down gentler on the other, “Take off your mask.”

“You’re already a little low to kiss me,” Wade points out.

“I want to see you, fuckface,” Nate tells him. The disdain in his voice is basically negated by the fact that he’s feeling for a zipper, which is cute, but also kind of arousing. He’s going to be disappointed, because you have to strip all the way down to get in there.  No one ever accused Wade of practicality.

“Also not something I think anyone has ever said,” Wade says.

“I’m saying it now. How the fuck does this open?”

“Ask nicely.”

Nate narrows his eyes like he’s thinking about walking away, then leans forward and runs his tongue over the fabric between Wade’s legs, his breath hot enough to barely be felt through the suit.

“I guess that counts,” Wade says hoarsely. “It doesn’t open.”

“You stupid dildo,” Nate snarls, not looking at all surprised, and gets out his knife again. “I’m trying to suck your dick here, quit making it difficult.”

“Are you going to castrate me? I could be into that.”

“No,” Nate says, and cuts the suit open from the hole in the chest down to just above where it would actually do any damage to his skin, with the sort of decisive stroke that gets Wade harder than being licked through his suit. “Now take off the mask.”

He could. It’s not like Nate is going to flinch, he’s seen it before, and besides, he’s disturbingly undisturbed by it. Wade’s insecurities are Wade’s insecurities, and he can deal with them. But now that it’s what Nate wants, it’s the principle of the thing. “Make me, snookums.”

“All right,” Nate says, agreeably, and uses his T-O hand to pin Wade’s hips to the wall, as his other hand finishes shredding the crotch of the suit. Wade has seen him lift a car with that hand, and doesn’t have super-strength, so he guesses he’s not going anywhere. “I’ll move when you take it off.”

Wade’s brain moves quickly, but not with enough focus to make his way through to the meaning of that fast enough to protest before Nate pulls his cock out of his suit, curls his lips over his teeth, and puts it in his mouth. Then he sits there — right on the edge of his gag reflex, no suction, space for air, and doesn’t move a muscle.

“Godfucking, shitsticking — I’m beginning to see why you’re considered an anti-villain,” Wade swears, and makes a grab for Nate’s head. The flesh hand, which is no longer occupied with his dick, swats his fingers away, and Nate looks up to lock his eyes onto Wade’s — although he’s probably only guessing, surely he can’t know exactly where Wade’s eyes are — with a warning in them, which sends another jolt through him. “I can’t believe you. I think you have an oral fixation. I think I’m fixated on your oral. I think you’re edging over into villainhood fully. This is against the Geneva Convention, probably. Give me something.”

Nate raises one eyebrow. He looks smugger than he has any right to with half a dick in his mouth, like it’s taking all his self control not to pull off and say, “ask nicely.” This is an admittedly devious plan on his part, and if he didn’t look so pleased with himself, Wade would be inclined to give in to his own lack of shame and just rip off the mask. But he does, and that can’t be allowed to stand, so he curses and tries to move his hips instead.

Definitely can’t get around the T-O hand.

“You make me feel so twinky when you show off like this,” he says instead, his usually distracted brain getting even hazier as he looks at Nate’s mouth stretched around him, apparently ignoring that his dick is the opposite of pretty. “But just so you know, I am imagining you being 6’8”, because I think that’s what Arnold Schwarzenegger would want me to do. Also, it’s unfair that you still get to be in charge even with my dick in your mouth.”

Nate shrugs, as if being in charge is his birthright, which it probably is.

He also drools a little, which makes sense because swallowing is moving, and he needs a little space to breathe, but the warm feeling of it down his dick and the way Wade can see the spit there at the corner of his slack mouth, a sloppy little dribble that Nate isn’t in control of, combine to make him feel all of a sudden like he’s desperate. “Sweet peaches, I hope you’re as messy when you bottom as you’re acting, my sweet baby Jesus,” he gasps, and reaches up to rip off the mask and drop it right on Nate’s self-assured face. “Because you give head like a — ngh, what the ff —”

As soon as the mask comes off, Nate moves his hand from Wade’s pelvis to his ass, and pulls him forward into his mouth, which makes talking very hard, very fast, and also knocks the mask off the bridge of Nate’s nose. He can’t take him all the way, and Wade feels him gag a little, but it’s the effort that counts, and actually, it’s probably a little hotter to think that Nate doesn’t get on his knees for just anybody, that maybe he’s out of practice.

Not that out of practice, though, because he chooses the moment he takes Wade down as far as he can get him to swallow and start fondling his balls, and he’s still got spit on his chin and this time when Wade grabs at his hair and babbles nonsense at him, he lets him do it.

Then he pulls off — Wade whines at him, and pulls on his hair, which he tolerates blithely — and noses under his cock instead, tonguing his sac and, Wade thinks, trying to tell from the weird sensation of it and the fact that he can’t see where the flesh hand is, putting one blunt human finger in his mouth, which can only mean good things.

When Nate takes him down as far as he can go again and wedges that finger into his ass, barely slick enough and feeling rough, Wade jerks on his hair and comes in his mouth.

He’s even hot when he spits instead of swallowing, he thinks, dismayed and breathless.

“There’s your thank you,” Nate says, his voice scratchy, and heaves himself to his feet.

IV.

“So do you ever put more than one finger up somebody’s ass, or do I have to die waiting?” Wade says, after Dopinder drops them off from some of the charming ecoterrorism that makes up most of Nate’s sidequest. No injuries today, he marvels. Not even to other people. Yet. That equipment might hurt somebody when it blows. Even so, he’s going to blame whatever happens next on post-job adrenaline, just like Nate probably is, since he got out of the car here, and his place is, like, not that close.  “Because, I mean, I get now that it’s your blowjob signature,” Vanessa’s was being able to lick your balls while deepthroating, but not even Mr. Perfect can be as perfect as her, “But I’m never going to die so I think you need to rethink your strategy. Move us to two fingers before you turn eighty. Maybe we’ll get up to fucking before you die.”

“I probably won’t live to eighty,” Nate says, ever-determined to be the Eeyore-est motherfucker this side of Bruce Wayne. “The virus will get to my brain first.”

“See, I thought eighty was next year for you,” Wade tells him. “My bad.”

“You make me feel like I’m eighty already,” Nate gripes. “You want to get fucked before it’s ninety, or you want to keep rambling?”

Wade smiles at him, not that he can see it through the mask. “You know you like it when I do both, babycakes.”

Nate rolls his eyes, but doesn’t deny it. Even if he tried, the fact that he keeps thinking of ways they can get each other off that don’t involve Wade’s mouth being occupied would give him away. Well, that or he really likes sucking on Bad Dragon’s late-stage plague patient model. Probably the voice thing, though.

“Just open the damn door. I’m not getting my dick out in this alley.”

“But mine is fine?” Wade says, mock-indignant.

Nate shrugs.

“You’re right, I’ve already had my dick out in this alley,” Wade tells him, shoving open the door, which wasn’t even locked, because it never is. In fact, the lock might be broken. He doesn’t think he or Al has used it in at least a year, because she didn’t give him keys when he moved in again after Vanessa died. “It’s actually one of the nicer alleys he’s seen, if you can believe that.”

“I believe it,” Nate says immediately.

Wade gives him the finger, cheerfully, and begins to strip as he walks into the living room. If Al is here, well, she’s been gifted with blindness. “Fuck you, Seven of Nine.”

“If I let you do that you’ll keep bitching about how many fingers I’ve had in your ass until I actually am eighty.” Nate closes his eyes when he sees Al on the couch, as if praying for patience as Wade keeps peeling off the top half of his suit anyway.

“Oh, fuck,” Al exclaims from the couch when she hears his voice. “Not you again.”

Wade makes a sound like he’s been stabbed in the chest, although he can’t quite replicate the gurgling of blood in the lungs. They have got to cast somebody who’s better at practical effects when Disney remakes all this. “Well, why don’t you just get out your gun and shoot me.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Al says, glaring about ten feet to the left of Nate.

“You should be thanking him,” Wade informs her, now wearing only a pair of red panties, which he put on this morning because this post-job fuck has become kind of a sure thing. “He’s the only reason we haven’t fucked on the couch. I was all for it. I said, ‘Little Sexbot That Could, let’s Marvin Gaye all over this couch,’ and he said,” he drops his voice an octave, “’No, you string of unwashed anal beads, this floor freaks me out. Nothing is made of wood in the future because you idiots killed all the trees.’ I swear, it went down exactly like that.”

“About a third of that is true,” Nate corrects. Wade doesn’t remember which third, but he’s guessing it’s the part about being scared of the floor.

“It was a pretty good impression, though, admit it,” Wade says.

“I’m leaving,” Al grumbles, and shuts herself in her room.

“Convenient.” Wade gestures to her vacated place. “We could fuck on the couch now.”

“No,” Nate says, and kicks his discarded suit aside to step closer, reaching around to unzip the back of the mask and pull it off. He’s weirdly insistent about that, for somebody who’s sleeping with a guy who looks like somebody peeled all the scales off a lizard and then stepped on it. Wade can’t tell if he does it out of genuine not-caring or if it’s some kind of weird paranoia about the eyes being windows to the soul or something, but it’s probably not a kink or a way to boost his self-esteem because Nate never lies to him and tells him he’s beautiful or anything, unless you count jokes. “Go take a shower, if you want more than one finger.”

“Without you?” he says, and winks, trying to look like the winking emoji. Maybe Nate has never seen an emoji, he thinks, when it fails to get anything more than a considering look. Maybe he’s considering that it’s illogical to have the shower line drawn at one finger.

“Fine,” Nate agrees, and reaches up with his T-O hand to yank him down by the back of the neck and kiss him, at the same time his flesh hand inserts its thumb into the elastic edge of the panties and starts pulling it off. He still always kisses like there’s no time to pull out all the stops, like there’s something big and bad coming their way and he’s saying goodbye. “Now go, jackass, I fucking want you yesterday.”

He punctuates it by bringing his flesh hand back and slapping Wade’s ass, which does the trick beautifully, whether the trick is getting him bolting for the shower or getting him hard as hell. Nate follows him in, stripping out of his innumerable utility belts and his stupid little cape and his shirt and boots and pants once he’s in the bathroom with the door closed, and Wade is abruptly aware that this is the first time he’s bothered to get naked all the way, although the shirt has come off a couple of times. The T-O virus has asserted itself all down his left side, across his hip and down all the way to replace most of his upper leg, and everything below the knee. It’s definitely terminal, Nate reminds him of that often enough, but it looks so fucking good it’s upsetting, and he wants to get down on his knees and lick it until his tongue bleeds.

“Really wish you had a metal dick,” Wade tells him, as he steps into the shower and turns on the heat, grabbing the soap and going right for the ass like a good little fuck buddy. “I was imagining, like, a nice vein, just right here.” He reaches out with his free hand to trace his finger up the side of Nate’s cock.

“If you want to fuck Colossus, just fuck Colossus,” Nate says, sounding unperturbed, and stepping into the shower behind him, turning him around as soon as he does.

“He likes to have a big long BDSM contract full of rules, and I don’t have the attention span for that kind of reading, so I have a metal dildo for when I want to do that, babydoll. I’m just saying, it would turn everyone on a lot more if you had a little iron ore in there, you know what I mean? I want to strike gold in them there hills. Or whatever metal that is.”

Nate looks at him flatly and puts his hands on Wade’s hips, pulls him closer as his grey hair goes darker in the water, plasters itself to his forehead. He looks disturbingly good all wet and shining, all his infinite abs on display like they’re nothing. “So you asked and he said no.”

“No, Vanessa said no,” Wade corrects him. “But also, I feel like he only does missionary and wears condoms during blowjobs. Unless he’s hiding a secret naughty side. Which, ooh—”

 “Yeah, that’s enough of that,” Nate decides, and opens his hand. For a moment, nothing happens. Then a little bottle smacks into his palm, and he uncaps it with one thumb. “You want this hand, don’t you?” he asks, holding up the metal one, and the thought of it makes Wade’s mouth go a little dry, so he doesn’t comment on what bad dirty talk that is. He nods, and Nate starts greasing his fingers like it requires concentration, when Wade knows it fucking doesn’t.

“You keep that in your fanny pack? I knew you were an Eagle Scout. You know you can just shove ‘em in, baby, I can take it.” Nate starts with one, though, because he’s a gentleman like that. “Hello, old friend,” Wade says, in his best Professor X voice, which prompts Nate to make a disgruntled sound and twist his finger, which is smooth, unlike the rest of his arm, but still has enough texture to make Wade shiver a little. He’s hard, and reaches for himself, but Nate’s flesh hand pushes his hand away. To get to his ass at this angle, which makes the penetration a little shallower, he’s got his entire T-O arm pressed up against Wade’s side, like a reverse reach-around, so there’s no slipping one past him.

“I’m touching you,” he says, sounding so ringingly authoritative that Wade stops planning how to slip one by him. “You’re not touching you.”

“Well, thennnngh — ” He trails off as Nate slips him another finger, which is so fucking unfair. If he weren’t so wound-up post-kill, he tells himself, this would always last a lot longer. Then he remembers they didn’t kill anybody today, and decides to concentrate on the feeling of skin-warm metal scissoring him open. He’s allowed to fuck in the shower whenever he wants.

“I love it when you can’t talk because I’m doing something good to you,” Nate tells him casually, like he doesn’t have two fingers up his ass, like he’s not rotating them around each other right now, grinding up against the edge of Wade’s prostate because his fingers are probably too short to reach it fully at this angle. He shoves them in the extra fraction the second Wade thinks that, like he knows, and Wade’s cock twitches and starts drooling. Nate turns him halfway to give himself a less wrist-breaking angle, not that the T-O wrist can probably break, and starts mouthing at the side of his neck. His teeth feel a thousand times sharper on Wade’s jugular than they normally do, which is maybe thanks to the filthy grin he’s pressing there. “Mouth like that, I thought you’d talk a lot dirtier, but instead it’s all lunatic bullshit about the Golden Girls.” Being called a lunatic would sting more if it weren’t true, and if Nate weren’t growling it like it’s some kind of turn-on while flexing his fingers like stretching him is a fine art. “I think I’m going to keep you here until you’re begging for me to touch you.”

“I can beg just fine,” Wade says, clinging to him like a porn star. “Please, Daddy—”

Nate works in another finger, and bites down on the pulse point high on his throat, which really doesn’t do a lot to convince Wade he’s not into that. “Try it without the fucking around.”

Wade narrows his eyes, but then Nate shoves his middle finger up against his sweet spot, so hard it’s riding the line between good and too much, and he convulses a little, rocking his hips down on him and spitting something that feels like he’d get kicked out of the X-Mansion for saying it. And Nate just keeps doing it, keeping him on that edge until his usual loose pattern of thought association goes even looser, and he says, “I’ll kill you. S’mores.”

He gets a fourth finger for his troubles, and it feels like it barely fits, but, well, if it doesn’t he’ll heal so fast Nate will hardly even notice. The brief sting of it distracts him from the distraction Nate has been driving to, and he gets his feet under himself enough to say, “If you don’t fucking jack me off I’m going to sit on your face again, and not in the fun way this time.”

“If you want,” Nate shrugs, and then, apparently considering that begging, wraps his flesh hand around him and pulls once, twice, starts twisting his fingers in Wade again.

“I knew you ate ass,” Wade gasps, and comes all over the shower curtain.

V.

For approximately one second after Nate slides into him, Wade thinks they are going to be on equal footing.  The press had been awkward, too fast and not smooth enough, and sure, they haven’t actually done this yet before, but Wade has seen the man suck dick like it’s going out of style, so he knows for damn skippy he can fuck. This leaves the remaining options: Nate is a tiny bit out of control, or Nate is about to start crying on the back of his neck about how this reminds him of his wife, and since he only gets off on crying a little bit, he knows which one he’s hoping for.

Then Nate takes a deep breath and withdraws a tiny bit, pushes back in. Lather, rinse, repeat, only Wade hasn’t shampooed in years and he knows he’s not getting teased right now. Well, he’s pretty sure. He’s reasonably sure. He becomes not sure at all when Nate just keeps up that short, hard grind, which does, okay, make him feel like he’s full to his throat with dick (in all the best porn, no one is overcompensating with their guns), and also like his muscles are tensed so tight they might snap, but which is not nearly enough, particularly after all the goddamn foreplay Nate had dragged him through, even though, like, the number one use of his powers is to skip the part of sex that involves work.

“I hate you,” he mumbles into the pillow, and clenches his fists so hard in the shitty duvet cover he’s getting fucked on that the fabric threatens to tear under his fingers. “I should’ve fucked Colossus. I should’ve taken Weasel up on that ‘if I were drunk enough’ offer. I should’ve kept up my long-term plan of marrying Blind Al. Instead, you. I’m an idiot.”

“Keep going,” Nate says, voice a little raspy, but otherwise not sounding much like someone balls-deep in the best spandex-covered ass in comics. “Let’s hear the whole list.”

“Should’ve made my way through the whole adult staff of the X-Cave before I got to you,” Wade tells him. “And I’m including your parents in that. Still want me to keep going?”

It’s a low blow, but Nate doesn’t take the bait, although he does make a soft noise of frustration, which is fucking hilarious considering how frustrating he is. “Jesus.”

“Should’ve begged Domino to get lucky,” he continues, while Nate keeps up his shallow fucking, although his metal hand, on Wade’s hip, is turning soothing circles with its thumb, almost like it has a mind of its own, and that mind is much nicer than the rest of the man it’s attached to. “Should’ve just sucked your dick enough to make a life-size replica and use that instead. I bet I could have convinced you to put it in a mold. Should’ve fucked Colossus.”

“You said that one already,” Nate tells him.

“I really want to fuck Colossus,” Wade explains, hoping that that will get the old motor running. Then again, that would require jealousy, and it’s not like the man couldn’t get ass anywhere. Maybe Domino’s too good for him in this universe, but maybe she likes a little rough and tumble. Maybe she’s seen Sin City and is ready to hop on it. Or maybe he could just go to the right bar and call himself Daddy and get all the boys that way. Any way you slice it, Wade had better up the ante. “I mean, look at him. Buns of steel. Yours are all boring and made of muscle. I can’t tell you how disappointed I was when I found that out. Why are you torturing me again?”

“I get off on it,” Nate says carelessly, and stills, fully seated in him, with that metal hand keeping him from picking up the pace himself. “You know what I want.”

“Try driving it home. I mean that literally. Jackhammer me, baby. Oh no, now I’m thinking about Weasel again. Quick, fuck me like you mean it or I’ll go soft.”

Nate’s hands move in a way that clearly indicates he’s shrugging, although since Wade’s face is pressed into the pillow, he doesn’t get the full effect, which is good, because then he’d probably have to commit murder, and that would be a shame for everyone, mostly him because he really does still want that dick. Then he sets up that slow grind again, and reaches around to wrap the flesh hand around Wade’s cock. There must be some lube left somewhere, because his palm is wet, and the strokes are smooth, and they feel so fucking good it’s almost easy to forget what a bitch Nate is being otherwise.  “Don’t think soft is gonna be a problem.”

“Colossus would be so much kinder to me,” Wade complains.

“You don’t like kind,” Nate reminds him, somehow maintaining two wildly different stroke rhythms — the slow one, with his hips, and the quicker, more efficient one, with his hand — as he does so. Apparently his is not the best spandex-covered ass in comics, because he’s pretty sure that would render that motherfucker unable to keep time like this. “You get turned on by my fucking guns and licking blood off my face. If I was kind to you you’d fucking cry and beg me to choke you, you goddamn degenerate.”

Wade comes, back caving in as his body goes loose, and Nate holds his hips in place through it. Then, instead of throwing his hands up and saying “we’re done” like he’s done every other time Wade has come before him, he just picks up the rhythm a little. Short, hard strokes now, maybe two inches of him pulling out of Wade and then slamming back in with purpose, flesh hand loosely around the base of his now-soft dick. Sensitive after his orgasm, the assault on his prostate is brutal, and makes him see stars and try to squirm back into it.

“I’m going to kill you,” he tries to tell Nate when the man takes the sharp edge off the fucking again the second he finally feels like he’s ready to handle it. It comes out more like, “I’m going to rip that arm off you and beat you to death with it and then I’m going to fuck it,” though, which, oops, but it makes Nate laugh.

“Try it,” he says, which is awfully flippant for a guy who got stabbed by Russell Collins one time. “You can’t fuck you as good as I can fuck you.”

“Aren’t your knees getting tired, old man?” Wade snarks, feeling put-upon. Nate starts jacking him again now that he’s gotten hard, his hand now less slick, since, frankly, semen doesn’t do as well for lube as porn would have led Wade to believe, and doesn’t respond. “Ugh, you’re unbelievable. You were so much angrier in the movie.”

“I wasn’t getting laid then.”

Wade blinks. “You — you can’t just — I didn’t think anyone could hear me when I said stuff like —”

“I can do whatever I fucking want,” Nate interrupts him. He’s thumbing the head of Wade’s erection, squeezing a little too hard, which would be upsetting if it weren’t exactly what he wanted, in the that-hand department. In the dick department, he could still use a much better fuck. “And you’d let me. And I think I’m just going to keep doing this.”

“Doing what?” Wade asks. “Making me come? I can do this all night, sweet cheeks.”

Nate does that shrugging thing again, and Wade scrabbles for his knife, which makes Nate take the hand off his dick and hold his wrist down, palm sticky with come. “Just making it harder on yourself,” Nate tells him, and keeps doing his stupid little barely-fucking motion. At first, it’s not enough. Then, it’s still not enough. Then it’s still not enough, but it’s half an hour later and Nate is panting above him, their thighs are sticking together with sweat, and Wade is pretty sure he’s been fucked blind, because he’s felt like he was about to come for a million years. He thinks he’s almost waited him out when Nate lets his wrist up and uses his flesh hand on the other hip to pull him back fast and hard and give him a couple of good thrusts, but then he comes again onto the sheets at the surprise, feeling like someone has hollowed him out and then put all the organs back in the wrong places, and Nate stops abruptly once he’s done riding him through the tremors.

Wade has been talking almost this entire time, not that he remembers a single word of it, other than the fact that most of it is whatever the rung above “R” is on the movie-rating scale, but the furious noise he makes at that is neither composed of words nor entirely human.

“I need a fucking minute,” Nate breathes roughly, and Wade turns back to look at him out of the corner of his eye, and through the red haze of not at all getting what he wants, sees a drop of sweat quivering on the end of his nose that’s just ready to fall, those beautiful muscles alive and shining and quivering with slow, patient exertion, his hair wet and curling darkly at the temples as the focus shines in his eyes. He’s a goddamn manic pixie wet-dream boy, and if he weren’t driving Wade cross-eyed he’d probably try to lick all the salt off him.

Then he reaches down with the flesh hand and starts stroking Wade again. It hurts a little this time, although thanks to his healing factor, the chafing won’t last and neither will his refractory period. “What, I don’t?” he asks, incredulous and somehow feeling unsatisfied even though he’s come twice.

“No,” Nate says, and then takes a deep breath and starts up again with his hips after he’s roused Little Wade back to full mast, although the motions are jerkier and less coordinated this time. The reminder of the control that it must take to fuck someone like this for what has to be at least an hour now worms into his brain and drives Wade crazy. It’s incredible dedication to being a fucking dickhead, but it’s also incredible dickhead dedicated to fucking him. He feels the drop of sweat from Nate’s nose hit his back, and writhes in place, cursing the strength of the T-O hand.

“Please fucking fuck me, you fucking fuck,” Wade says, “Actually fuck me, like you fucking mean it. Please. Dumbledore didn’t die for this. You’ve got to call Viagra about how you’ve had this four-hour erection. Fucking ride me, I’m begging you. God, I can’t fucking believe I want your dick so bad when you won’t even give it to me. I’m begging, Nate, is that what you fucking want? Nate, please fucking destroy me, you owe me for this, you Verminator X-looking motherfucker.”

“Nobody calls me that but you,” Nate tells him, breathlessly, and pulls out of him. For a sinking moment in which he feels achingly empty after almost an hour of having someone’s dick in him, Wade thinks he might have picked the wrong trigger to get him to stop fucking around, but then Nate shoves back into him, and sets a breakneck pace that sets the springs of the bed screeching. It feels like a drink of water after waking up thirsty in the middle of the fucking night, or to use a less shitty metaphor, like someone has been playing footsie with his prostate and is now kicking it directly in the fucking jewels, over and over.

“Verminator X?” Wade manages, and gets the T-O hand on the back of his neck as Nate makes a noise between his teeth that sounds like half frustration, half an animal grunt.

“Nate,” he replies, using those pretty, pretty abs to slam his dick in so hard the phrase ‘rearrange my guts, Daddy’ almost doesn’t seem like as much of a joke as it had when Wade had said it about three hours back to a target who had gotten in a lucky stab to his spleen.

“Call me by your name,” he exclaims, delighted enough to have been set up for the joke that he doesn’t even mind it when Nate drives in one last time and shudders into his orgasm, slumping over his back and breathing hotly into the back of his neck, the whole of his heavy, well-muscled body lying against Wade’s spine.

He strips his own cock while Nate softens in him, and says his name again when he comes the third time, which earns him an approving hum, warm against his ear.

+I.

It’s been a month since Nate has turned up at his door to ask if he wants to help save the world, and Wade is starting to worry that maybe somebody got fed up with the little guy’s potty mouth and put a bullet through his skull, so he does what any logical friend would do and scales the side of Nate’s apartment building, counting apartments. The windows are welded shut. He goes over two windows and finds that the neighbor isn’t as handy with a soldering iron as Nate, so he goes in through there, lets himself out through their door, and picks Nate’s lock.

The apartment is dark when he opens the door, and silent, and there are no obvious traps. But when he opens the fridge, there’s fresh cilantro in the crisper instead of the smell of rotting produce, and god knows that shit goes bad in a day, so Nate must have been here recently. He’s he’s not here now; the place is devoid of that sort of ominous pressure he takes everywhere with him. Every room is immaculately clean, and mostly devoid of actual possessions that aren’t furniture, and the doors have all been taken off their hinges, although where the fuck Nate is keeping them is anyone’s guess, and everything is lit with dim moonlight, since apparently people from the future don’t make use of blinds or curtains any more than they make use of doors.

In the bedroom, Wade spots the teddy bear sitting in the corner, on top of a stack of two white boxes. The bed is made, with military corners, because Nate is every inch the robotic freak he looks like, and the corner is pulled back like this is a hotel and not an apartment. He looks at it for a minute, and then pounces.

For somebody who was willing to sleep on the floor not so long ago, Nate has acquired a pretty nice bed. “Goldilocks style,” Wade whispers to himself, kicks off his shoes, and crosses his ankles over each other on the sheets. He wonders where Nate keeps the guns. And the knives. He’s guessing there’s at least one of each in easy reach of the bed. Without moving his body, he reaches up over the headboard and feels a handle. Then he reaches under the bed and feels a barrel. Then he freezes, because his spidey-senses are tingling.

Okay, they’re Canadian Special Forces senses, but still.

Well, he did leave the front door open.

The apartment is silent. Wade’s brain helpfully provides menacing music. Then the front door closes with a clack, a lock falls into place, and a few seconds later, a shadow slides across the bedroom doorway, and Nate says, “Wade, what the fuck.”

Wade narrows his eyes and elects to stay silent.

Nate sighs. “If I couldn’t hear your brain eating itself I’d think you were someone else.” When Wade still doesn’t reply, the broad shape’s shoulders relax. “I don’t actually believe you’re asleep, douchebag.”

That might or might not be true, but Wade would put his chips on might not, because ‘douchebag’ isn’t really Nate’s best work, and Nate always gives him his best work.

Nate walks into the dark side of the room, and Wade lets his eyes adjust until he can see the shape of him getting undressed, opening the closet, which glows brightly, along with his fake eye, to throw his clothes into what looks like a trash can instead of a hamper. It’s so hard not to laugh at that he nearly breaks, but when Nate climbs carefully into bed, he loses the urge. He’s definitely got Nate fooled, or at least not sure that he’s not fooled, or he wouldn’t be so gentle.

Regardless of whether or not he’s fooled, his breathing deepens quick enough, and then his body loosens, and then he starts twitching.

“Wow, that was so easy,” Wade whispers.

“I fucking knew it,” Nate says, stopping the twitch instantly.

Wade sputters, and Nate yawns and turns over and then falls asleep for real, almost as fast as he’d faked doing it. Wade’s insomnia doesn’t give him that gift, but the quiet snoring from beside him does the job of putting him to sleep faster than staring at the Al’s ceiling does.

He wakes up to Nate sliding an arm over his hip from behind and sun shining through the window. “This is called jetpacking,” he tells him helpfully.

“It’s called shutting up and not ruining the mood,” Nate replies, voice hoarse with sleep.

“There wasn’t even a ‘fuck’ in that,” Wade says. “You’re slipping.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the spirit.” Wade grins, and flips over with an unnecessarily strong motion. Nate’s arm slides off him in the commotion, and Nate rolls onto his back, partially covering his eyes with his hands and rubbing his temples, the picture of frustration. In the light of day, he’s bruised up and down his flesh side, and working on a new scar if the maybe-a-day-old gash crawling across his jaw is anything to go on. He’s also got what looks like at least two days of stubble, which is greyer than his hair, and there are pillow lines on his cheek. It would be cute, if— “Wait, what mood?”

Nate takes his hands away from his face, still looking bleary, and levels him with an expression so unimpressed it could go in museums as an example of the word “unimpressed.”

“Oh, you’re morning horny,” Wade says. “Something about the Day is Springing, huh?”

The look that earns him could probably go in the same museum under “not quite regretful enough not to get your dick wet, but close.” “Lose the suit, shit for brains.”

Wade loses the suit so fast he thinks he dislocates an ankle, getting himself worked up for whatever wild shit Nate comes out with this time, but somehow isn’t expecting it when Nate just puts those broad hands on his jaw, pulls him in, and kisses him.

To be fair, they don’t kiss much. And now is a terrible time for it — Nate tastes like morning, and Wade probably tastes like ass, because when you regrow your teeth every week or so what’s the point in brushing them, not to mention that stubble burn is a killer when your skin looks like it came off the cover of Rotten Egg Cooked On The Sidewalk Magazine. But he decides not to object after Nate sucks on his bottom lip, no teeth, and instead uses the opportunity to grope his chest, since he’s not wearing a shirt.

 The metal side is just like most of the rest of his metal bits. Skin-warm, hard as a fucking rock, and rough with corded ridges. To be fair, though, most of those descriptions apply to the non-T-O side, too. “You have such nice tits,” Wade tells him when his mouth is finally free, and Nate abruptly stops kissing his neck to give him a confused look, then plainly decides it’s not worth it. Better amp it up, in that case, he decides, and pinches the lone nipple, which earns him a jolt in the muscles of Nate’s bare, human shoulder. “Probably, like, a c-cup if you start doing more flys or gain twenty pounds.”

“If you want to suck on them, quit trying to piss me off and do it,” Nate says.

Wade starts cackling. Nate isn’t, in the slightest, like Vanessa, and he doesn’t remind Wade of her at all, but it’s been since her that he laughed during sex, although he guesses he hasn’t actually had sex with anyone but Nate since then, since there aren’t an abundance of people spoiling to fuck a guy who looks like a worm and a Ferrero Rocher made lumpy little babies. In that way, Nate and Ness are actually kind of similar.

“Hand me the lube,” Nate tells him, when he’s done laughing.

“What’s the point of being able to move shit with your mind if I have to hand you the lube,” Wade complains, but reaches over to the drawer, which is where a logical man would keep it, and fumbles until he finds the bottle. Personally, he likes to keep his in the toaster oven.

When he turns back, Nate has gotten out from under the covers. Wade spreads his knees, which Nate ignores in favor of swinging his T-O leg over his hips and straddling him. At this angle, he looks even more obnoxiously attractive, all his perfect muscles on display.

Wade’s mouth goes dry. “Do you get off on surprising me?”

“I’m going to get off on your dick, gorgeous,” Nate says, sounding somewhat absent as he reaches behind himself. The sleep-roughness has mostly faded from his voice. He watches Nate’s face twitch, hears slick noises, and feels something like a little heart attack when the muscles in Nate’s torso jump at a harsh inwards breath.

“If this is your idea of lazy morning sex, you have been severely deprived,” Wade tells him, doing his best not to thrust up when the tip of Nate’s cock drags wetly across his stomach. Well, that’s Little Wade in gear, at least.  “You’re going to get leg day in before ten a.m.”

Nate snorts, and then sucks in another breath, face contorting, eyes closing on a blink that lasts a little too long. Wade thinks he’d probably feel better if he was using the metal hand. If he had that hand attached to his body, he’d never stop fucking it. “You always fuck up my plans.”

“Was lazy morning sex the mood I ruined? Did I deprive myself of getting an uncoordinated handjob while you pretended not to mind my breath? Oh no, instead I’m getting to put my one-eyed legless lizard up a one-eyed—”

“Jesus, you’re going to make me go soft,” Nate interrupts, like he isn’t rocking down on his own hand now, rubbing his cock on Wade’s skin, showing absolutely no signs of going soft anytime soon. Wade reaches up to cheerfully tweak his nipple, and feels rather than sees Nate’s dick twitch, so he decides to follow up and lightly rakes his nails down the plane of Nate’s chest.

The sharp blue eyes widen imperceptibly, and Nate practically rips his hand out of himself and reaches back to grab him by the dick. “Woah, there,” Wade starts, but Nate has already raised himself up and is guiding himself down. He’s tight, but not tight like there’s gonna be bleeding later. “Wow, you got two in there faster than I thought.”

The muscles in Nate’s abdomen are dancing as he lowers himself slowly, and the T-O leg seems to be doing most of the work of keeping it controlled. The smile he flashes at Wade is wolfish. “What, you think I don’t finger myself when you’re not here?”

“That is so hot,” Wade breathes, and reaches around to squeeze his ass. At that, Nate loses control of the slide and sinks down, exhaling so hard it nearly whistles out of his lungs. “Do my eyes deceive me or did that surprise you? You can be surprised?”

Nate glares at him. Wade smiles angelically and wiggles his finger between his cheeks to tease at his rim. That sets Nate off like a live wire (ha, Cable, Wade thinks) and he plants his metal hand on the sheets next to Wade to use as leverage to start fucking himself. No fucking around, either, straight to that good cowgirl shit.

Wade chokes, then recovers, Deadpool-style. “Wow, I should’ve played with your ass earlier.”

“Well, do it now,” Nate orders, voice strained.

Wade smooths his other hand over the human thigh, which bulges under his palm with the muscle contractions, and complies, as Nate takes himself in his flesh hand and starts stroking. One of those things tightens him a little bit extra around the dick inside him, and Wade is willing to put money on the fact that it’s his finger, which he uses to feel out the join of their bodies.

Nate makes a soft noise like a wounded animal, and his rhythm starts to falter when Wade plants his feet and starts grinding his hips up in counterpoint, which tells Wade he’s close, and less than a minute later, his face twists and his body tightens, and suddenly there’s white streaked over Wade’s chest and the room goes still except for their heaving chests.

 “Oh, I get my uncoordinated handjob after all,” Wade chirps, panting.

Nate sighs. “Give me a minute.”