|I'm so very sorry (Fic, Deadpool/Weasel)
||[Dec. 16th, 2008|10:30 am]
Cable x Deadpool
Title: Uh, pass
Word Count: Not very long?
Warnings: Erm, it's Deadpool/Weasel. That's like the ugliest slash pairing ever. Don't read it if you don't like gross things. Also, this ain't Mills and Boon. Possible dub-con, if only because you imagine being Weasel and trying to say no to Deadpool.
Summary: Wade is quiet. That's never good.
Author's Notes: Just that I'm so very, very sorry for putting this imagine in your head? My only excuse is, it was in mine and I had to get it out somehow. If it helps, don't think of it as porn. It's more like a wildlife documentary. One with hyenas mating. Oookay.
Wade's quiet tonight.
It's never a good thing, however that may, on the surface, appear to be a rare and treasured moment. No, if Wade's quiet he's either pissed or upset, and either could quite easily result in horrific violence, and with Weasel as the closest person and with no valid excuse he could think of to leave, things were not exactly looking up.
Also, he's wearing the mask when it's just the two of them in the room, which is not good either. Even with Weasel's years of experience, it's still had to tell what he's thinking or where he's looking with that thing on. What he's plotting.
They are watching the Golden Girls and Wade hasn't once made a lewd comment, hasn't explained the plot of the episode and how it related to the rest of the series five times over or extolled the virtues of his beloved Bea like he normally does. Weasel would rather not be around when this storm kicked off.
"Um... Wade? I better get going. It's late, I got... stuff to do. So, I'll see you, right? Call me if you need anything."
Wade turns his head when Weasel talks, standing up, finishing his beer, finding his coat, but doesn't say anything. "Ok. Bye Wade."
He gets three steps away from the door when a sword flies accross the room and into the wall, blocking his exit.
Okay, fuck. Whatever. Deadpool needs to vent somehow, and as usual Weasel would roll over and let him. What was another few hours in the torture room? Another stab wound maybe? It was only because Wade liked him. He'd always taken it before. He tries not to think about how much he made Deadpool sound like an abusive husband.
Weasel turns around, face to face with Deadpool on the other side of the room, still in the costume he'd refused to take off. Then he's next to him, faster than anything outside of the spandex club, and, finally, talking.
"Where were you earlier? I mean you showed up in time and everything, thanks for that, but why couldn't I get hold of you in the first place? You trading Government secrets in Uzbekistan or what?"
He debates lying for all of a second. Not a good idea. "Wisconsin."
"No way!" He's getting dangerously close right now when Weasel isn't quite sure what he's planning, and he smells. Not like a bad bad smell, just a-hard-day's-Deadpool smell, mostly sweat and blood. "You catch up with Tail Girl and the rest of those freaks? I mean, the real Avengers are bad enough, but those clowns are really something. Nice people, though."
Deadpool is leaning on the wall, and Weasel has his arm one side of his head, the sword on the other, and between a wall and a Deadpool this is really a little bit claustrophobic. Maybe not the torture room. Maybe it's gonna be one of those nights. He coughs. He can live with that.
"Flatman's friendly, ain't he Weaz?"
"Ah - mmf -"
And then Wade is on him, pressed up against him chest to crotch, and spandex-covered lips land solidly on his own. "Real friendly," Weasel hears him mutter, as simultaneously Wade's hands disappear up his shirt and he starts tugging at the mask. Wade grabs at his chest like he's expecting to actually find something there, and the mask comes off - right off. Deadpool would be quite content to do this with it just pulled up over his mouth, but Weasel has to get a bit of his way sometimes too. "Whassup Wade - ah - jealous?" He lets his hands rest on Wade's utility belt as he kisses the corner of his mouth.
"Don't flatter yourself." Wade's hands drop lower, grabbing his ass and grinding his hard-on into Weasel's hip and he gasps suddenly. It's... been a while. The occaisional comfort fuck when he happened to be in Wisconsin and he and Flatman were feeling similarly sidelined and underappreciated was one thing. Getting fucked by Deadpool was another. Weasel wasn't gay, to begin with. He'd just come to realise that guys like him really couldn't be picky. Didn't mean he was a - "Oh shit," Wade was pawing at his hardening crotch - a fucking fag or something, didn't mean - he found the zipper - this meant anything.
And suddenly Deadpool is still, one hand holding Weasel's chin almost delicately, the other letting go of his jeans to rest in his hair. They stare at each other for a single confusing moment. Then Wade kises him, real and deep and almost like he means it, and Weasel's thoughts are suddenly very gay indeed.
One of said gay thoughts is that he'll never be able to get enough of how Wade's skin feels, sure it may not be pretty to look at, but the texture was almost beautiful, and Weasel finds his hands wandering over Wade's back as they kiss, feeling the bumps and ridges and heat through the skintight suit, on his lips and his tongue, and remembering that, if he recalls correctly, Wade is like that all over. The lips move to his neck and Weasel wraps a leg around Wade's waist, only to be picked up - "Wade, what're you -" and plonked unceremoniously on the couch with his legs in the air in a very undignified manner, and where did his pants go all of a sudden? This would all be less intimidating if Wade would talk, but apparently that's not on the agenda, and anyway, it is kind of sexy that he's so forceful, not that Weasel would admit that to anyone ever.
Then Wade is on him again, and the idiot still hasn't thought to actually get undressed at all, so Weasel struggles with the zip down his back as he grinds away, wondering if Wade has just come to rely on him being the one who can be this together about stuff when he's rock-hard and knows he gonna get fucked and it's gonna hurt for about the next week and he doesn't really care because it's Wade and, in a strictly manly, non-mushy sense, he'd do anything for him. Wade moves to help him, struggling out of the suit and fiddling with something out of the belt pouches and - oh. Weasel turns his head to the side, trying to relax with Wade's finger there, and finds himself face to face with Bea Arthur. They hadn't turned the TV off. That was... fine, fine. Whatever. He rocks back into Wade's hand. Two fingers. Dorothy's remarrying Stan.
"Weaz." His eyes fluttered open - he didn't realise he'd shut them - when he heard Wade talking like that. Nothing affected, for once. Serious. Weasel takes stock of his position - couch on two sides. Deadpool and Bea Arthur on the other two. Wade's face staring down at him. "You still with me?" He slips his fingers out and Weasel shakes, wanting it, wanting more. "Y.. yes."
"Good." In a flash, his legs are on Wade's shoulders and Wade is in, and it hurts a little bit, but really it's less every time and he cares less with every - thrust - every - part of his body straining forward to be closer to Wade - and it's a good job he's flexible.
"Mmm," muses Deadpool, "Ya know, I'm gonna have beard burn after this."
"Nng - ah, you think anyone'll notice? - God!"
"Not getting religious on me are you Weaz?"
"'Cause you know the Bible clearly says that to lie with Merc as with woman is -"
"- an abomination, there's your soul to think about and I wouldn't -"
"Fuck! Oh - shit, yes..."
"You know, I'm not sure you're even listening."
"Something about -" gasp, pant "an - abomination - "
"Oh god, Wade.."
"We can talk later."
He speeds up, and between Wade's blissfully silent mouth on his neck and this ferocious pace, body bent nearly in two Weasel just knows he's gonna do the really gay thing and come without anyone even touching his cock, and - "Oh.." There it is... "Jesus-fuck-oh-Waade!"
Wade comes a few thrusts later, Weasel's eyes blearily drifting over The Golden Girls' end credits, and then they just lie there, Wade's face buried in his neck, Weasel staring at the DVD title screen without really seeing it.
Then, abruptly, Wade sits up, kisses him once, on the nose, gets off the couch and wanders off. He comes back a few minutes later in normal clothes, stretching like he's just had a workout. "So," he stares down at Weasel, still curled in a tired, sticky heap on the couch. "You wanna watch another one? I really think this series is where the show really came into its own. We should watch the one -"
"Can I use your shower?"
Wade grins. That's as much recognition of what just happened as Weasel is going to get. "Sure."
Much later, another set of end credits roll, and Weasel, sat there with wet hair in Wade's pyjamas, suggests Battlestar Galactica. Wade actually says yes. Weasel pads over and changes the DVD, and sits back down, struggling for obvious reasons to get comfortable and ends up with his legs curled under him, leaning over in Wade's direction. Ten minutes in, he rests his head on his shoulder. Five minutes after that, Wade rearranges his arm so that one coincidentally happens to be draped over Weasel.
By the time the episode is over, Weasel is no longer following the plot, and finds himself grinning for no good reason into ridged skin as he drifts, lulled to sleep by the sound of Wade's once-again incessant chatter.
There were worse ways to cheer a friend up, after all.