Work Text:
“Ooooh, y’know we… we really shouldn’t,” Wade manages on an exhale, the consonants barely formed. “Could still be people… nggg.” Brown eyes flutter shut, mouth hung open around a sound that won’t come. He’s shimmied as far down against the cool plane of the door as he can manage without wrenching his arms out of socket and it still isn’t enough, isn’t enough contact, and it’s killing him.
Nate grips Wade’s hips harder, thumbnails digging into the insides of his thighs. His shoulders roll solidly under Wade’s knees. “Good.” He twists his hips, driving into Wade with something close to viciousness but not quite, never quite. “Stay still,” he adds with another fast, brutal thrust, and the indignation is so childish that Wade could laugh if he had any breath to spare, if it wasn’t chopped and short and carrying all the sharp, tiny noises he knows he shouldn’t be making.
“…could come in here and hear us, see us,” Wade tries again, but the protest sounds weak even to his own ears, hips rolling to pull Nate deeper on every stroke. Maybe that’s because he doesn’t really care if they get caught, just knows Nate will never live it down if they are.
“Don’t care anymore,” Nate grits out, too lightly casual for the fact that he’s all but fucking Wade right through the stall door, sweat-slicked wood slats wash-boarding over the curve of his spine while the door rattles, rattles in its frame with every thrust. “I’m tired of hiding this.”
Wade groans, head rolling back helplessly; the heat rocking up inside him is heavy and unrelenting, burning with friction where it’s pushing muscle too far too fast and where the too-quick lube up doesn’t quite do its job, and sweat is pooling around his collar and he just knows he’s going to come all over the front of himself and how is he going to clean that up and –
A corner of Nate’s mouth just barely quirks up. “Shouldn’t have been such a teasing whore,” he says, breath hot against Wade’s chest, teeth catching a nipple right through the fabric and biting down, hard.
It’s all Wade can do not to scream.
Nate’s strong but even this is a stretch, so Wade’s having to take some of his own weight himself, hands clamped to the top of the high door behind him – and that’s why he can’t move his fucking arms, why he can’t reach for his own neglected erection, straining and aching against the open air, unless he wants to let go and send them both sliding to the floor. He’s got a good grip, it doesn’t hurt, but the situation still leaves him squirming and twisting to try to get some friction against Nate’s stomach, heat seeking heat, seeking flesh and touch. Nate stays infuriatingly out of reach as he rocks, and the next sound Wade makes sounds too much like a sob.
Why the bastard won’t just use his telekinesis to hold him up so he can take care of himself, he doesn’t know. It’s unfair, it’s downright rude is what it is, and he says so.
“No touching,” Nate growls, leaning close to breathe the words over his throat, into his ear. He resettles his grip on Wade’s ass, hitching him up a little higher to change the angle and when he pushes in again it's suddenly slow and deliberate and Wade can feel the entire wet slide of it, is shaking and shivering – can just about see stars, brilliant against the black. “Neither of us.”
"Fucking easy for you to say," Wade mumbles, eyes pressing closed. It feels so good it’s almost awful and he’s a fucking mess under his mask, drooling and gasping and moaning in that particular way Nate says he hates but that Wade knows he loves.
"Hn," is the only reply, but Nate stops moving, pulled halfway out, just stays still and it's terrible and cruel and Wade whimpers blind entreaties that aren't quite coherent, don't quite make sense. He knows better by now than to say please out loud, but he can still try to rock up against him, try to get the contact he needs–
"Ask nice," Nate says, hands tightening to still him in place, but his own voice is wavering and he's not as in control of this as he's pretending to be. Wade can tell it's only through monumental force of will that he isn't falling forward to bury himself again, to take what's his in this tiny, private space between everyday discretion and cold nighttime distance. The impulse is there in his eyes, hungry and brutal as he drags the mask off Wade’s head.
Wade reckons that this is a first for mutant Jesus, this half-assed exhibitionist shit, and it gives him a shiver to think that it was something to do with him that got under the other man’s skin this way.
"C’mon, just this once. To make up for..."
Wade resettles his hands on the back of the door, finds enough presence of mind to grin crookedly; he knows a bluff when he sees one. Nate is too far gone to last in a waiting game, too visibly invested to even pretend convincingly. "You really want to play this game?" he asks, bearing down and tightening around Nate's cock, looking up at him with fever-bright eyes, brows drawn low, eyes blown and bright.
The scarf is hanging crooked and loose around Nate's collar; the very trailing end of it skates over the bared skin above Wade's hips, fabric cool and setting fire to every nerve it touches. Nate grimaces down at him, bites his lip hard to keep his hips from bucking into that painful, irresistible tightness.
"D’you think you could–"
"Shut up, Wade," he finally grits out, voice growling and huffy and on the verge of a very personal defeat.
"Well, you know," Wade breathes, shifting against the door. "If you're not going to do anything, I may as well get down–"
And just like that, he's won the battle; Nate rocks into him, fast and unforgiving, pinning him hard against the wood slats and denying any chance of the threatened escape. Resumes his previous pace, grunting short, tight breaths with the exertion, fury etched into his features at having lost but it's hard for him to hold onto, fracturing and falling away with every creak of the door in its frame.
The back of Wade's head hits the paneling again; rolls from side to side in renewed frustration but there's a burn now, hot in his fingers and toes and he's gotten so close that if Nate stops again or if he hears that goddamned door open, some curious nobody following the sound of whispered words and staccato banging, he'll – well, he doesn't know what he'll do but it certainly won't fucking well involve stopping.
"Actually afraid of getting caught?" Nate asks, breathy, shifting his half of Wade's weight to one side, freeing a hand to finally wrap around the base of his cock, wring up along it until it's pressed flat against his own stomach, palm hot against the head. The wetness there slicks his fingers when he strokes down again, rough and sliding and tight.
There'll be fingernail marks in the door's finish before this is over, and Wade screws his eyes shut, twisting up into that grip. "...aah, God. No, I'm not."
"Really?"
A bubbling, broken laugh, all he can manage in the space between far less articulate noises; he drives himself up onto the next thrust with a violence that surprises them both, spasming in the narrow space between door and flesh, coming hard against Nate's stomach before he even knows what's happening.
In the dizzy, humming aftermath, he keeps his grip on the door, stays clenched tight around Nate until he finishes – his own composure forfeited, sweaty forehead pressed to the door next to Wade's face.
"Yeah, really," Wade finally says from the floor where he's collapsed, legs and arms both like jelly. Nate isn't doing too much better, slid down onto his heels, bracing himself on the far wall. "You think I didn't know what you wanted when you dragged me in here? That I didn’t notice you locking the door?"
Nate just stares, some vague flicker of curiosity visible under the lethargy of endorphin overload.
Wade leans in, presses his mouth to the skin just below Nate's ear. "I trust you, ya fuckin’ idiot."
"Hehn," Nate almost-laughs, his techno-organic arm wrapping around Wade to hold him close.