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The incoherent storyline of his dreams bursts like a wet bubble and Wade plunks into the very real world with a rude drop in the pit of his stomach. At least his wrecked bedroom is comforting to return to from a world of confusing fractals and emotional sweeps--from the usual several miniskirts hanging from the broken overhead fan to the smattering of Twinkie smear and buckshot on the far wall across from his dirty laundry-coated bed.
What is it, Tuesday? Maybe. Probably?
Something's wrong, though. There's a sound in the air that he really isn't ….
The Sinead O'Connor black velvet and rhinestone-studded painting still firmly in place on the ceiling. Good. Keep cutting up that Pope, lady. The grit-frosted window lets in the streetlights, red and yellow and hints of blue-green, covering him like the crusted sheets he never took out of his hamper were supposed to do. Normal. The myriad cartons and wrappers littering the floor are all reassuring as well.
No, that's all good, average. But there's a quality to the muzzy world that was definitely not normal.
A sound. A r inging sound.
When it finally occurs to Wade that it is the sound of his phone ringing in the middle of the night while he was actually managing sleeping, he nods at it and lies back down into a comatose state on his wrecked bed.
---
It seems like an eternity later when the ringing pulls him to again. No sun on him, just neon stripes of cold light across bare and angry skin, so it must either be not much later than the last time he woke... or, much, much later. The ringing sounds the same but now there's some desperation to it somehow.
Wade ignores this and accepts the call.
"Time isn't real," he says into the receiver.
"Fffuck," is all he hears back, warm and sweet and painfully familiar. His head isn't clearing it seems, well, he thinks that it sounds like Nate when he's really going hard at it, and--
"Nate?"
"I need you, Wade."
Clearer than before, that burning, aching quality to his voice, rumbling up from that big barrel chest and flowing across the line. For a moment, Wade is utterly speechless. The enchantment doesn't last long when he realizes he still hasn't gotten an answer.
"Whuh?"
"I need you right fucking now."
"... muh?? Thu' fff... Priscilla?" Wade holds out the phone, staring at it like it might suddenly explode. Grins at the amusing thought. Sounds like one of Big Bad Cable's good old booty calls. Or phone sex. Whatever it is, it must've a while for him, too, because Nathan sounds fucking dire. Like those times he'd be on nonstop diplomatic missions for days, and saving his and everyone else's asses, and crapping it all up for weeks on end and he's barely even thought of himself in a month, and he just needed that little bit of relea--
He sobers and remembers he's on the phone with someone. When he puts it back to his ear, he picks up Nate's voice mid-sentence.
"... imagining me there, with you? Thinking about my lips brushing against yours, then down to your neck. Kissing and nipping. Both arms wrapped around you, pulling you up into a hard kiss like I know you love."
"Wh… What the fuck got into you? You okay? Moan twice if you're in danger!"
"I'm fine, Wade. I'm--ahn--okay... I just need you to talk to me. "
He can almost see that soldier's build shifting, hearing the faint rustle of cloth. Sheets, maybe his boxers. That voice, the time, the … well, it was obviously going to be his boxers.
"Oh."
"Tell me, Wade. Are you touching yourself yet? Just hearing you talk is getting me off."
"I'm barely even awake, Nate," he says and even Wade can hear the smile in his own damn voice. "But you sound as desperate as a 3:14AM Twitter DM dick pic."
"Wade," Nate pleads for some kind of rationality, and he sounds even worse off than Wade can imagine cramming in a single syllable. Huh. For him? Nice.
But Nate goes on, busts that tangent of a fractal thought with his urgent questions, "Are you? Thinking about it? About my fingers drawing your back to that perfect curve of your ass, up your sides, teasing your hard nipples."
"Aw... fuck. Yeah. Yeah, now I'm thinking about it." He can kickstart his imagination quite easily when Nate makes it clear.
"My hands sliding back down over your thighs and between them."
"Hold your horses, Prissy, I gotta get my boxers off." He pins the phone between his shoulder and ear, ignoring the pain on raw skin as he gets rid of the only clothes he cares to wear at home. Before he can even lay back down again, Nate's going on.
"Palm your dick. Then, slide a finger inside you, maybe two fingers, if you wanted… play with your ass while I sucked on your tongue and made you whimper..."
"Yuh-yeah," Wade, surprised by the way his heartbeat speeds like a triple shot in a can of Four Loko (Wade believes in using garbage to make art), stammers with his heart in his throat. "Yeah, fuck yeah. Now I'm thinking about it."
"That's it, babe. Think about it," Nate all but purrs, seemingly soothed by Wade's submission to the plan in place. There's this almost whiny edge to his voice as he goes on, goading him, saying, "My cock buried deep inside you. I like it when you sit on top, Wade… Aw fuck, I love looking up at you, the look on your face when you start to cum."
Wade considers complaining about it all going too fast, that he can't keep up with Cable's babbling at breakneck pace (boy, Wade's never heard THAT complaint before) (shut up brain), but his dick slaps against his stomach when he lays back, proud and ready to serve. Complaint banished, he takes himself at the base and gives himself a long tug, hiccuping at how precisely every nerve behaves when he's this swollen and needy, shooting off every signal a nerve ending can and jamming his usual mental cyclone with sex. He can near to feel the ridges left on his fingertips as they draw over every millimeter of sensitized and ravaged skin.
Whatever Nate has caught, it is now very obviously contagious.
Over the phone.
Yeah sure.
Wade growls low as dribbles of precum slip down his crown and over his fingers when he draws his foreskin up tight over it. Not much of a lubricant he decides, as he smears the wet over his asshole, but at this point, he could find several ways to care less.
"Nnn--yeah, babe, that's it," Nate grinds out in response, his breathing conspicuously hitching and catching on the line as if he can see Wade in the vulnerable position he's put himself into. (And he reminds himself that there's no guarantee he can't. Telepathy and godlike powers are magic, blah blah blah.) Ignores it when he can't decide if it makes him that much hotter or not. Putting on a show.
Then the fucking telepath shatters all doubt that there's a "no peeking" clause in place:
"God, Wade, I wish you were here. I think I'm going to cum just thinking about it!"
"Not yet, big boy," Wade says, taking his voice to its deeper registers as he puts himself on display. "Just…" Feet planted far apart, shoulders digging into the bare mattress, knees bent, hips rolling up into the air, and one hand working his dick, and the other his ass. "Wait for me?"
"God!" Nate whispers, his voice shuddering with restraint as he grinds to a halt. He takes a deep and measure breath, in, out, and then he groans. He can see the look on his gorgeous, grizzled face as if the telepathy were two-way.
Maybe his brain is making it all up, and Nate is as blocked as he ever was from Wade's fuckass of a brain, but that the kind of connection could exist touches fantasies he's never known he'd had.
Always did, really, but this isn't the time for it.
"Can you moan for me, Wade? That sexy, husky voice... Just for me, please."
And he obliges oh very gladly. Nate has his way of asking in different and pressing ways until he knows what can be given, shows very little of what he might need until he can barely help it. For all that they had once shared their consciousness and their lives, he never knew as much about Nate as Wade gave up in five minutes of conversation. But nothing is more transparent about him to Wade Wilson than this:
Mutant Jesus is a sucker and a half for that rolling baritone.
Wade pushes a finger past the ring of muscle and sinks it to the second knuckle with no resistance, and his deep breath becomes a long and smoky grind through his teeth. He barely has the time for a quick wish that Nate were with him before it's gone to a weakened noise on the end of the line.
"I love hearing you moan like that--"
"You're the one making me," Wade replies, zero effort in trying to repress the way his hole clenches tight around his fingers. "Shhhhhit…!"
There is a silence. Nate's breath gone, he whimpers with an almost pathetic edge to his usually Mr. Leader Man voice. He catches it again. "I'll bet you wish those fingers were mine."
"More than anything," Wade says, finally breaking down to Nate's level, his voice rougher and breath coming ever faster.
Definitely contagious.
Sex pollen probably.
Cyber virus.
Something.
Fuck! he can't even think from the way his fingers curve-- c'mere! --into his prostate and goddamn, if that ain't just finger-lickin' thigh-slappin'--
"Wade…"
His dick throbs in answer and he chokes back a moan, only to hear Nate echo wordlessly in after him. The effect that sends through him is a sudden, all-consuming fixation on the way Nate's voice reverbs through his body.
Endorphins in a fucked up brain are a hell of a thing, and just because the pain might not kill him doesn't mean it isn't there. But when he hits everything right at a certain pitch, like just now? They could make him forget every drop of the gnawing, burning, pulsing pain that rampaged over him and transmute it to give him some kind of Ultra Mega Pleasure©®™ that just blanketed everything with this cozy and electrifying and writhing annnddd---
" Wade!! "
"Fuck! What?!" he snaps back and immediately feels his remorse. Poor big guy sounds just as fucking torn apart by this as he is.
Wait. How long was he out?
"Been trying to get your attention for four minutes," Nate answers him. "Focus, babe."
Wade doesn't even bother wondering if he said it outloud or not. That could actually just be the impatience talking, and he can only commend his restraint. Wade would have given up on himself and cum like a firehose by now.
He opens his mouth with something perfectly coherent in mind, but chooses that exact moment to withdraw his fingers from his hole and, once he feels that long slow drag, he just can't stop. The sound that claws its way out of his chest makes the bed vibrate beneath Wade's shoulders before he collapses back onto it completely.
His fingers follow suit, plunging back in at exactly the right angle, just detonating against that sweet spot, that feeling that otherworldly kind of WetHotColdElectricGoodGodHoMama blowing through every nerve, and he's sure he's howling something about,
" Fuck me HARD ! "
more than loud enough to be heard clear across the road and--
"Wade?"
".... bubbawub… bwuh?"
" Wade ? Don't you fucking fall asleep on me--"
"I'm fadin' fast, bro..."
"You son of a bitch. Wade? WADE--"
"Tell my wife … I … love.. her," he croaks and collapses back into that dreamy, dozy afterglow they created, leaving Nate to his own damn devices.