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Pairing: Deadpool/Weasel, implied Cable/Deadpool
Category: First Time
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dubcon.
Spoilers: A couple for Cable & Deadpool.
Summary: I got nothing. It's Wade/Weasel, with beer and porn, take it or leave it.

A/N: Thanks to GW for the beta read.

ETA: This can be considered an AU, or not.

Comfort, Cues and Chili Dogs
by Randi

Late one Friday night at Wade's apartment, Weasel and Wade are knocking back beers and watching porn.

Weasel isn't completely sure how many he's had. More than six beers, but less than a dozen. Maybe seven or eight. More than he usually consumes, and he isn't honestly sure why he's drinking more than normal. Maybe because Wade's been kinda quiet and down since Cable and his island went to that great archipelago in the sky. Weasel's a bit drunk, but it's only appropriate to imbibe a bunch of beers with your best friend on your occasional Friday night guy date, especially when your friend is depressed and needs cheering up. No matter how big a lightweight you are.

Wade's drunk way more than him, as usual, and Weasel can only guess at the total number. He glances down at the floor, but Deadpool has too many hollow bottles arrayed around his spandex-covered legs to count. The empties swim in front of Weasel's eyes a little. He should think about leaving soon so he can get home and pass out.

Nothing unusual about watching X-rated shit together. Regardless of whose place they're at, Weasel, being something of a connoisseur, usually supplies the viewing material. When they're at Wade's, Weasel brings his porn laptop, hooks it up to the tv and sets the player to show all the files in the FRI NITE folder in order. The scene they're watching now has a hot Latina riding an unattractive guy in what looks like a library. They've seen this one before, but Weasel never recycles clips enough for Wade to complain. Weasel likes this scene, because the chick is unusually voluptuous. Not quite chubby, just with big tits and wicked curvy hips. And there's something about her expression. Weasel isn't sure why he likes it, really. He just does.

Weasel's never watched the scene that pops up next, with a pouting redhead getting banged from behind. The man only appears around the edges of the frame. Weasel guesses the pair will change positions three times, showing the guy a little bit more every time, and the dude will move into the forefront for the money shot at the end. It's that kind of clip. If Weasel had a superpower, it'd be predicting the course of skin flicks, right down to kinks, segues and position changes, and accounting for cultural variety.

He's been overexposed to the medium.

Movement draws his eye. Weasel glances to the other side of the couch to see Wade's cock out and Wade's hand moving over it languidly.

Weasel isn't sure what to make of that. The beers make it difficult to think critically. He eyes Wade a minute, his head a little turned, but mostly looking out of the corner of his eye. The motion is familiar, Wade is certainly familiar, but the two put together... it's strange. But the idea of it doesn't bother him that much, probably again because of the beer. What's a little circle jerk between friends, right? Weasel has always, always taken his cues from Wade. Weasel puts a hand on his own zipper, hesitates only a second, and within a few moments they're jerking off side by side.

Out of nowhere, on a downstroke, Wade reaches over and palms his hard-on. Weasel's too startled to say anything at first. Wade jerks him off slowly, with a firm grip. Weasel opens his mouth to say something, he doesn't even know what, and it turns into a moan. He clams up, embarrassed.

"Do that again," Wade says, like he's fascinated. "Make that noise again."

"I don't know what kind of noise I made," Weasel says sharply.

"Make noises, I'll tell you when I hear it again."

"I'm not going to-- Jesus, Wade..." he trails off, flustered, when Wade accelerates the pace of his strokes. Wade temporarily lets go of his cock to grab at Weasel's pants and belt with both hands. Dragging Weasel closer, he kisses him rather passionately. Weasel lets him, too surprised to do anything else, and after a few seconds begins to kiss him back. The red fabric of the pulled-up mask tickles his nose.

Seemingly satisfied with his proximity, Wade puts a gloved hand back on his cock and starts jerking him off again. The actress onscreen lets out a feminine, high-pitched moan, and Wade cups Weasel's balls with his other hand. Weasel has a white-hot moment of fear to have Wade holding his nuts, cause hello, his don't grow back, but Wade's fingers are gentle. Weasel can't help but buck up into Wade's hand.

"Weas, we should fuck," Wade says next to his ear, sobering him up fast. Weasel's suddenly conscious of the fact that Wade's way closer to him than is healthy. Weasel instinctively twists away a little. He considers an ideal safe distance from Wade to be about two feet at all times.

Cause although he's Weasel's best friend, at the end of the day, Wade's kind of scary.

The hand that isn't cupping his sack creeps up the back of his neck, and Weasel can feel the warmth of Wade's fingertips through the thin red gloves. That hand's patted him, stabbed him, and more recently fisted his cock. Weasel's stomach turns.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Weasel says uncertainly.

"You're right. It's a great idea!" Wade picks him up. Weasel considers fighting, but he isn't sure it's worth it. He settles for pushing himself away from Wade's chest with both hands. Wade takes no notice. "Okay, maybe it's not that good an idea, but trust me I've had much, much worse."

"Put me down and let's watch some Golden Girls," Weasel suggests, a little desperately.

"Uh huh, I see what you're doing. It's clever, and very subtle." Wade's arms are absurdly muscular around him, giving Weasel pause. Aside from his gruesome mess of skin, Wade has a pretty great body, and it's been ages since Weasel got laid.

Thoughts race through Weasel's mind at a hundred miles an hour. He just demurred when Wade was holding his balls, and if that's not evidence that he has more of a backbone than anyone ever suspected, he doesn't know what would be, even if the bejesus has to be scared out of him for it to show. As for the bejesus part, he may be about to see Wade naked. And Wade could do anything to him. It's not like Weasel could stop him.

Weasel's heart beats faster.

Wade carries him easily into the bedroom, dumping Weasel onto his bed. Wade's mouth reveals nothing, and it's hard for him to guess what Wade's thinking with the mask covering most of his face.

"It'll feel good," Wade promises. "After the first minute or two," he adds quickly. A rushed, mumbled disclaimer.

Weasel's sweaty from nervousness, unable to decide if he wants this or not. Alarm is wilting his hard-on. "How do you know," he demands flatly as Wade strips his Battlestar Galactica T-shirt off, followed by his socks.

"I just do," Wade says mysteriously.

Weasel rolls his eyes.

Wade yanks down Weasel's jeans and boxers and then Weasel's lying on the bed without clothes, bemused that this is happening so fast. That it's happening at all.

Deadpool's out of his red and black at record speed, although he leaves the mask where it is. Weasel wants to tell him that nudity with the mask on is downright eerie, but Wade just got naked in front of him. Weasel's not going to betray any emotion or say anything at all, lest it be misconstrued. That would be bad.

He's seen Wade naked to the waist before, so he knows what to expect there. Wade's lean but ripped with muscles even a revealing fabric like spandex only hints at. What he finds out for the first time is that Wade has no hair. At all. Weasel's wondered about this but was never going to ask, not in a million years. He eyes Wade's erect cock, which looks big, but likely only because of the hairlessness and because he's uncut. Wade's only a little larger than average, he decides, and just a shade bigger than him.

"I see you peeking," Wade says, and Weasel looks up, startled.

He hadn't been trying to hide it. "What did you expect?" he says, and if it were anybody but Wade, he'd be laughing. This is so totally gay, and bizarre, and it's Wade.

Wade climbs on top of him, restoring seriousness, reminding him of the gravity of the situation. If this were anybody but Wade, he'd be either knocking the guy out with something heavy or shooting him in the kneecap, then grabbing his laptop and his jacket and getting the hell out. His clothes would never have come off in the first place.

Wade tangles a hand in Weasel's hair, which he badly needs to have trimmed, cause it's getting long and pieces are starting to tickle the insides of his ears. Wade lowers his head and takes Weasel's left nipple into his mouth. Weasel's heart hammers against his chest as Wade suckles his nipple, still tousling and petting his hair by turns.

Despite everything, Weasel's glad he washed it that morning when Wade murmurs, "Your hair feels like a baby duck."

An odd compliment, for sure, but Wade says it like an endearment.

"I think they're called ducklings," Weasel says mildly. Once in a great while Wade can be kinda touching. He wonders when Wade last handled a duckling. Cause, how weird.

He runs his hands over Wade's scarred biceps, mostly because he isn't sure what he's supposed to do with his hands. What he's supposed to touch. With a woman on top of him, his hands would go like clockwork to breasts, but Wade's obviously lacking in that department. In Wisconsin, he'd occasionally grab Val's wrists or put his hands on Val's hips to guide him, but Weasel was always on top and in control of their encounters. He tries to remember what Val used to do with his hands, but Val, oddly respectful of Weasel's claim that he was straight, didn't touch him that much during sex.

"Your hair's pretty messed up," Wade says helpfully, as if he had nothing at all to do with it getting disheveled. "Might wanna comb it."

Let me get right on that, Weasel thinks, but he lets the inanity go by. Passivity is probably his number one preferred method of dealing with Wade's lunacy.

He's distracted by the up-close look of Wade's naked skin, smoothness broken by lumps and bumps and sores, with tiny stripes of skin looking discolored, almost veiny. Weasel'd be scared of catching something if he were some random person and ran into Wade on the street, but knowing it's just Wade's cancer and his healing factor locked in eternal battle makes it easier to shrug off. Wade's grotesque appearance hasn't bothered Weasel in years. And his skin feels curious under Weasel's fingers, soft and supple in parts, rough and patchy in others. The only times he's purposely touched Wade have been when they've wrestled for the remote, and the one time they fought over that ill-fated cheesy puff. When they touch it never ends well. Even if he touched Wade's bare skin on any of those occasions, he was hardly paying attention to the way it felt under his hands.

For a second Weasel hates himself. He's always like this. The force of Wade's personality is like a tidal wave, and Weasel's always been one for the path of least resistance. Being a pushover yields the smallest likelihood of mortal peril, even if it makes him feel every inch the coward he is. The occasional blowouts they've had tend to end in Weasel getting slightly or seriously injured, so Wade dominating and Weasel being pliant is pretty much how their friendship rolls. Buddy, victim, best friend, whipping boy. With Wade the lines are fuzzy when they exist at all. And it's not looking like tonight is going to be any different.

He can't do much, anyway. He'd close his legs, but Wade's kneeling between them. Wade rubs their cocks together, going so far as to pull his foreskin over Weasel's dick. The sensation is one of velvety enclosure, and it feels exquisite. Weasel doesn't know what to do besides lie under his friend and get hard again. He wonders for a moment if Wade was never circumcised, or if he was and grew it back. Add that to the list of things he'll never ask about. Weasel feels his cock leaking into Wade's. Or vice versa, he isn't sure.

Then Wade stops, grabs the universal remote and turns on the DVD player.

Weasel props himself up on his elbows, filled with trepidation. He pushes his glasses back up from where they've slid down his nose. "What are you doing?"

"Setting the mood," Wade says serenely, and he tosses the remote back on the nightstand as the flatscreen tv flickers to life. Naked bodies, kissing, bouncing. Weasel watches anxiously, but it's still straight porn. Amateurish, by the look of it. He looks back at Wade, who's returned to regular frottage. The warm friction is nice. Wade's also rubbing Weasel's jutting hipbones with his thumbs, which doesn't feel as good, but that's the least of Weasel's concerns.

"This is freaky. Our balls are touching and stuff," Weasel says nervously.

"No worries," Wade answers. "It's not gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that."

"Wade, seriously," Weasel says feverishly. "Our junk's touching, I'm pretty sure that makes this really kind of gay."

"Weasel. If neither of us is gay, how could we possibly have gay sex?"

Wade's voice says it's the only reasonable conclusion to draw, and Weasel's not even going to attempt to explain the logic fail as Wade gropes around on the nightstand.

Weasel thinks about telling Wade that if this isn't gay, he wants to switch places, but being on the bottom isn't so bad, kind of arousing actually to have Wade's body pressed over his, and he thinks better of it. If nothing else, liking the feeling of Wade on top of him tells him it's been way too long since he got laid.

In the handful of times he hooked up with Val, Weasel was never ever tempted to try gay sex from the other side. He remembers being ambivalent and unnerved with Flatman, particularly the first time, but it was nothing compared to the level of freakiness of having Wade hard and on top of him. Funny how much more nerve-wracking this shit seems from the bottom, when he's not the one holding the reins.

"Besides, we're watching regular porn. Who has gay sex while watching straight porn? It would never happen. Look at that," Wade says, sitting up again and nodding at the tv.

Weasel's not reassured, but he turns his head and looks. A brunette in red lingerie tosses her hair over her shoulder as she starts to make out with a blonde in a black negligee. Weasel's too on edge to enjoy the sight properly.

Wade takes advantage of his momentary distraction, and suddenly Weasel feels the tip of a slick finger pushing inside him, in that place where fingers and other things are decidedly not meant to go. No one's ever touched him there, and Weasel gasps, clamping down.

"OW!" The intrusion's accompanied by a burning, stinging pain. Wade sinks his finger about halfway in, making him cry out again, and proceeds to wriggle it around.

"Jesus Wade!" he swears. Wade pushes his finger all the way in, twisting it as Weasel's hard-on melts again.

Wade adds more lube but says nothing, making him even more uneasy.

"That hurts," he complains. Apparently tonight he didn't have too many beers; he had too few. Too few for something this uncomfortable.

"Relax and it won't hurt," Wade says. He slowly adds another finger, scissoring them a little. Weasel knew there was a high concentration of nerves in that particular spot, but Jesus. He whimpers. As much as it's painful, the sensation is frighteningly erotic.

When Wade pulls his fingers out, Weasel makes an embarrassingly desperate noise. Was he starting to like it? How very gay. Can sex with guys make you gay? Maybe he shouldn't have done it on the DL with Flatman so many times. Weasel's certain he didn't start out gay.

He wonders if wanting to see Deadpool's face right now makes it better or worse. "Would you take the mask off, at least? It's kind of creepy doing this with it on."

Wade makes no move to do so, just regards him from underneath the fabric. After a few seconds of Wade not obliging him, Weasel puts a hand out, stretches a little, and grabs the pointy top of the mask dangling behind Wade's head. The material slides off effortlessly, revealing Wade looking down at him with an unreadable expression. For a second they just stare at each other.

Then Wade reaches out, almost tentatively, and catches hold of Weasel's glasses with both hands, carefully taking them off and folding them. Wade lays them on the nightstand. When he straightens, he takes Weasel by the legs and lines up his cock in that place Weasel is not at all sure he wants anything to go.

Wade leans down, forcing Weasel into a deep stretch, and kisses his lips gently as he starts to push inside.

Weasel freezes, and then his whole body jerks, inadvertently yanking his face away from the kiss because it hurts. "OH GOD--"

"Ohgod Weas you're so tight," Wade babbles, pressing in deeper.

"Oh god WADE!" He arches his back, writhing. "Hurts--"

"Just relax," Wade offers helpfully, but after a tiny, final mini-thrust he stops moving his hips.

Weasel's breathing hard, air coming in gulps. He realizes he's hyperventilating a little. "I can't Wade this really hurts." He doesn't know if he's afraid to say 'no' or 'stop' or if he just doesn't want to. He doesn't know anything anymore.

"Gotta relax, Weas," Wade says, gently this time. "Take a deep breath."

Weasel obeys without thinking. He opens his eyes to find Wade gazing down at him, a little blurry around the edges without the benefit of his glasses. "Relax," Wade says again, and he really does have a nice voice, Weasel thinks. Dulcet and reassuring when he wants it to be.

Wade leans down and kisses him again, a sweet open-mouthed kiss. Wade's tongue brushes against his tongue, against his lips, dipping into the inside of his mouth with surprising tenderness. For all his jokes about halitosis, Wade tastes nice. Kinda spicy, like chili, kinda yeasty, probably from all the beer.

Anxiety and discomfort have diminished Weasel's brainpower, but he looks in Wade's eyes and forces himself to think.

If he told Wade to stop, Wade probably would.

Well, maybe. Wade's not a rapist... that Weasel knows of... but often he doesn't listen. Wade can be like a steamroller when he wants something, and Weasel's observed he's significantly gentler to women than to men, and to his male friends least of all. And hell, who is he kidding. Weasel has a two-inch pink scar on his leg that proves Wade's an irrational fuck ruled by his id.

Overall, the idea of being fucked is less disturbing than what it would mean if he said 'stop' and Wade didn't. Weasel doesn't want to think about that.

Wade pushes the rest of the way inside of him, and Weasel closes his eyes, arching. "Please," he groans, still unable to bring himself to say no. Wade stills again, resting inside him.

"Sorry," Wade says, apologetic. "I'd go easier on you, but the woman..." he trails off and sighs. "You know how it is."

"What woman, Wade?" Weasel's impressed by the calm steadiness of his own voice, born of long habit, even under these stressful circumstances. But then, he's always tolerant of Wade's delusions. Now he's at the stage of the patient response, his second favorite method of dealing with Wade's crazy moments. Weasel'd like to think he understands Wade better than most people, but even to a trained, experienced ear, half the time the guy still makes no sense.

"Nevermind. Look, stop clenching," Wade instructs. "That just makes it hurt worse. With buttsex, the way you take it like a man is by relaxing. Don't you know anything?"

Weasel grimaces. "You have no idea how much this ..." Now that Wade's stopped pushing, stopped thrusting, stopped moving his hips in little jerks, hurts isn't the right word anymore. The sensation of being stretched out by Wade inside of him is still every bit as overwhelming as pain, but it's not agonizing the way it was at first.

"...feels," he finishes lamely.

"Sure I do," Wade says, and the words are light, but he suddenly sounds depressed.

"You do?" Weasel looks up at Wade, taken aback and searching his face. "With wh--" The word dies in his throat as he realizes. "Oh."


So that's what this is about. Suddenly it all clicks. Wade's lonely. They've been friends since time out of mind, they've watched porn together for years and years, and Wade never expressed an interest in getting in his pants before. Weasel struggles to decide how he feels about providing not-completely-voluntary comfort sex while Wade's grieving for Cable.

Weasel had always suspected there was something more than friendship between those two. Hell, everyone and their sidekick, love interest, and arch-nemesis suspected. But the conjecture was never confirmed, which was fine cause Weasel wasn't sure he really wanted to know. Even when Wade made his 'don't ask don't tell' jokes, it seemed unwise to inquire, never mind when Wade referred rather humorlessly to their 'divorce.' His mood after that quarrel with Cable was too dark and forbidding for Weasel to ask. Weasel respected Wade's privacy--and valued his limbs--too much to prod.

"You said you weren't gay," he says accusingly.

"I'm not," Wade answers, affronted. "Besides, you said you weren't either."

"I like women," Weasel insists.

"Me too."

"But you had a relationship with Cable," Weasel says with a raised eyebrow, but when Wade's face momentarily wavers into sadness, he wishes he hadn't.

God, how could he not have known? Yes, it had been painfully obvious Wade was deeply emotionally involved with the guy, but Cable was so damn huge and, well, manly. Weasel had figured them for exceptionally close friends. Wade and Cable hadn't seemed that gay for each other the few times Weasel'd seen them together. Sure, Wade flirted with and vibed off him, but Wade flirts with and vibes off just about everybody with whom he comes into contact, Weasel and Bob and inanimate objects occasionally included. And Cable seemed so straight.

Still, he should have known, Weasel thinks, feeling more than a little guilty.

"Didn't know, did you? Aww, you're such an innocent," Wade says warmly, brightening a little. "For someone so smart, you're not real with it, are ya?"

Weasel's not insulted, he's just glad Wade's mood swing didn't stick. He changes the subject. "If you've done this before, how come I'm the one down here?"

Weasel's started to get a surreal feeling. The conversation could be like any other they have, save that it's a hundred times more personal with his ankles on Wade's shoulders and Wade's cock wedged up his butt.

Wade laughs. "Like it could be any other way." Then he pauses, interested. "Weas, are you a virgin?"

Weasel gives Wade his best dirty you're-an-idiot look. "You know I'm not." Wade's interrupted him a couple of times, for godssakes, when he's had whores over; Wade thinks nothing of calling at all hours of the day and night.

Wade flexes his hips a little, knocking the breath out of Weasel. "Actually, I meant--anal virgin. I know you and Flatman had a thing, you know." Wade makes a 'v" with two fingers and sticks his tongue between them.

Weasel flushes, mortified. He and Flatman may have fucked, once or twice or a solid handful of times, but Wade should not know about it. No one should. "First of all, that gesture? Indicates giving oral to a girl, and using it to indicate gay sex makes you look clueless. Second--I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Wade looks down at him knowingly. "You don't have to lie to me. I heard you visited him."

Weasel's torn between outrage and horror, because if Wade knows, other people might too, and Wade is not known for keeping his mouth shut about anything ever.

"How did you hear about that," he hisses.

"I don't rely on you for ALL my information, you know. I do have other sources."

Weasel's surprised by how much that stings. Of course Deadpool's gotten along without him in the past, during their various separations over the years, but he likes the idea of Wade needing him. "Fuck your sources. How do you know about that."

"Oh, you know. Office gossip," Wade says airily.

When he wraps his hands around Wade's neck, Wade smiles at him. "Breath play? Weas, I had no idea you were so kinky." Weasel tightens his grip. "Go ahead, you can strangle me if you want. Nothing to be ... gugggggh... embarrassed about," Wade gurgles through his crushed trachea. "Know ... sss ... just ... sex."

Weasel sighs, exasperated. He squeezes hard one last time, then lets go of Wade's throat. "Fine, we hooked up. But I topped," he says shortly. "Not that it's any of your business."

Wade coughs a little when he lets go. "Of course it's my business. You're my little buddy, I have to look out for your best interests." Wade's grin is fond but gleeful. "I'm not judging."

Weasel wonders who talked. Could be any of the Great Lakes Avengers, or Initiative or whatever they were calling themselves now. Hell, Deadpool could have followed him out there for all he knows.

Wade thrusts his hips again, his face suddenly conveying impatience. "Can we do this now?"

Weasel squirms. Much as he doesn't want to admit it, at some point when he wasn't noticing, Wade's cock started to feel right at home. "All right," he sighs.

Wade grins and begins to move again, babbling something about manfulness and debauchery and breaking him in. Weasel lies there and takes it. Normally Weasel's a good listener for Wade, but he's having trouble concentrating on what he's hearing. The pain has grown fainter, to the point of disappearing, and waves of more pleasurable sensation radiate through his lower body.

Wade lets his legs down only to force them wide apart with the span of his pelvis. Weasel's not used to having his legs spread like this. The stretch burns a little, and then it's banished by Wade repeatedly hitting a spot inside him that feels incredible and intense.

"Oh god Weas you feel good," Wade assures him. "So, so fucking good. All tight and warm and for a nerd you have nice skin. Did I ever tell you that?"

Weasel doesn't bother answering. He's a tiny bit dismayed by how erotic he's started to feel with Wade's cock inside, but it's hard to argue with the heavy, sensual feeling stealing over him. With every thrust comes a flare of pleasure.

"I had chili dogs for lunch at that new place on 46th Street, they totally rocked but they so weren't as fucking good as this. You know you have to watch out for tourist traps around there, but these chili dogs. I mean really. You should go there."

Wade sighs.

Trust Wade to make an oddball comparison like that, and in a tone filled with strange longing. Ha, Wade's talking about hot dogs. Figures. This is totally gay. Weasel tries hard to follow the conversation for a minute.

"Come to think of it," Wade goes on, "I don't know what happened, but I was just walking around after lunch and I guess I kinda forgot about dinner. Weird, right? I never forget to eat. God Weas, you have no idea how hot you feel inside. Like a billion degrees. How you doing, you liking this yet? You kind of look like you are. Your hair's got this fluffy-sweaty thing going on, I didn't know it could stick up in so many different directions at once. Christ your ass is tight. I'm honored to take your anal virginity. So, you want to get takeout after this?"

Weasel's always had impossible hair, and he already knew it was a mess from Wade handling it with his typical proprietary enthusiasm. Still, he wasn't expecting to hear it featured in Wade's running DVD commentary of their sex.

It occurs to Weasel that he might orgasm from this. Weasel wonders if Wade will last long enough to make that happen, and whether he's going to be sore the next day.

"Are you always this quiet? I can't decide if it's adorable or bor--"

Meeting Wade's eyes, Weasel passive-aggressively clenches his ass, purposefully pulling in Wade's cock as hard as he can. Partly to see what Wade'll do, if he'll react, and partly because he wants to feel more in control.

Wade responds, all right. "OH GOD WEAS YES!" His thrusts are practically lunges forward, and he increases his speed.

Weasel realizes he maybe shouldn't have clamped down on Wade's cock like that. He's close and he wants to come, yes, of course he does, but not like this, not while he's being fucked. He struggles to keep it in his balls, but the effort feels impossible with Wade continually shoving cock into his ass, pounding it out of him. Wade's powerful, agile, lots of muscles bunching and releasing as his hips flex, his cock pumping into Weasel hard and fast. Out of nowhere, it makes Weasel think, nonsensically, perpetual motion machine.

He bites his lip to keep from talking, from begging Wade to fuck him, to fuck him harder, that he's going to come. Weasel's a private kind of guy, and normally he's nearly silent in bed. While being friends with Wade should in theory put him marginally more at ease, he and Wade simply aren't close enough for him to deviate from his norm and babble. Not like Wade is doing. Course, Wade's probably just sticking to his norm too.

When Weasel's balls tighten, he knows he's losing the battle. He doesn't want to ruin a perfectly good orgasm by trying to prevent its onset, so he stops trying to fight the urge and just goes with it.

The feeling of coming with anal stimulation is better than he could have imagined. Instead of his ass automatically clenching shut, his ass clenches around Wade's dick, unable to close as Wade's driving into him, still hitting that pleasurable spot inside him.

He screams Wade's name when it happens, unable to stop himself, digging his bitten fingernails into Wade's sides.

He comes back to a steady stream of breathy swears and grunts and filthy talk that keeps up until Wade's slamming into him frantically, spasming on top of him and groaning, his speech gone mostly unintelligible. He can tell when Wade's about to come, because it feels like Wade's cock swells inside him.

When Wade shudders, he finally falls silent.

Having Wade slumped on top of him like an actual romantic partner is every bit as unnerving as the fuck itself. Weasel trails hesitant fingertips over Wade's ass. Wade's musculature serves to make him intensely heavy relative to your average Manhattan prostitute, and Weasel's starting to feel the strain in his legs big time. Weasel's a few seconds away from saying as much when Wade lifts off him and pulls out.

Weasel straightens his legs, the muscles burning and achy and overstretched. He lies there, damp with sweat and come and feeling kind of dirty. Wade sways a little when he sits up to shut off the tv, then looks at him as he hands over a box of Kleenex. Weasel pulls a bunch out, avoiding Wade's eyes.

From a purely physical standpoint, he just had some of the best sex of his life. A cringeworthy realization. He's still not sure whether he wanted to.

As he blots his asshole with a handful of tissues, Weasel struggles to integrate this new information into his self-image. In general, Weasel's sex life is pretty pathetic. Frequenting hookers is depressing enough, never mind that Weasel sometimes pays extra to kiss them. Many of them won't, but some will. Weasel tries not to be too creepy a customer, but he's lonely. He has problems relating to most people. He wonders if it's why he and Wade get along so well.

And now, gay shit. Seriously gay shit, not like sleeping with Flatman. Taking it up the butt for Christ's sake. And liking it.

He realizes he's frowning only when Wade pats him.

"You're kinda bony. Do I feed you enough?"

"You don't feed me. You're thinking of Bob," Weasel says absently, his voice sounding hoarse and husky to his own ears. If Wade wanted to fuck someone who wouldn't object, why didn't he throw Bob down on his unmade bed? The obvious answer makes Weasel a little distressed: probably just because Weasel happened to be there. "I could jack up your fees, if you're that concerned," Weasel adds half-heartedly, because as best friend slash arms dealer he's obligated to say something like that.


"Then deal with it." As he says it, Weasel realizes his tone is rather blunt for a conversation with Wade, but Wade only glances at him, amused. Apparently after sex Wade will put up with a slightly smart mouth. Good to know.

He realizes, a second later, that that was Wade checking if he was okay. 

As much as he hates to admit it, Weasel's glad it was him and not Bob. Weasel likes Bob, and he knows it's stupid to be even a little jealous of someone so useless, but logic doesn't make the pangs of resentment go away.

Maybe in the morning the fact that his best friend just fucked the shit out of him won't bother him. With Val, the sex got less unsettling every time, and he knows Wade a hell of a lot better than he ever knew Val.

He turns forgiving eyes on Wade, who's lying on his back, staring broodingly at the ceiling.

"You miss him a lot, huh," Weasel says quietly.

"Who's that?" Wade turns a blank face to him, but there's a cagey glint in his eyes.

Weasel gives him a long look. Wade gazes back at him blandly before turning away, rolling onto his side. It's fair, Weasel supposes. He hadn't exactly opened up about his feelings, either.

They didn't do that.

"I think I've been awake for five days," Wade says thoughtfully.


"Yeah." Wade sounds tired. "Forget takeout, I'm gonna crash." He gropes for the topsheet on the floor and yanks it up, billowing it out over the bed. "You can stay if you want," Wade offers as he turns off the light.

Weasel ponders in the darkness, feeling the fatigue in his muscles and the aftereffects of the alcohol still in his system. He doesn't particularly feel like searching for his clothes in the dark, going out in the cold, and hailing a cab home. By turning out the light, Wade's more or less made the decision for him. He notes the twinge of bruised discomfort in his asshole when he shifts. Not cool.

Weasel wonders how long that's going to last.

"Okay," he says finally.

"You better not steal the covers though," Deadpool warns, a threat in his sleepy voice.

"Gee, thanks."

Moving carefully, Weasel gets up, uses the bathroom and comes back. He lies down on his side, facing away from Wade but pretty near to him, mostly so he can get his head on the pillow. Wade has a large bed, and Weasel wonders where the second pillow is.

But it's Deadpool, so it's pointless to think about. The other pillow could have been shot or burned or spun out into another dimension.

Weasel closes his eyes, drawing the sheet up but careful not to pull on it too much. He's thinking of the face of the last woman he fucked. His thoughts wander.

"You awake?" Weasel says, keeping his voice soft in case Wade isn't. But Wade doesn't answer. He's not breathing like a sleeping person, though.

"Chili dogs?" Weasel asks quietly.

He's not sure why of all Wade's aimless sexy-time rambling, that particular bit sticks out in his mind. For Wade, it wasn't even that peculiar a statement. Sex and chili dogs could be apples and apples to him for all Weasel knows. In general Weasel tries not to ask questions, partly on principle and partly to avoid encouraging the craziness. But there was something about the way Wade said it Weasel can't put his finger on.

Wade's voice comes out muffled. "They were just like the chili dogs on Providence."



Weasel understands now, although he has nothing to say to that. The physical comfort was probably the best thing he could offer Wade, and he's not sorry now that he went along with it. He nods, trusting the motion and the rustle of his hair to translate in the dark. Shameful how nice it feels to be needed by someone.

And funny, that despite how much shit Wade puts him through, not just tonight, but with all the attendant bullying and emotional abuse and insanity that goes along with being Wade's friend, Weasel can still sometimes feel utterly comfortable and safe in Wade's company.

As he drifts off to sleep, Weasel finally relaxes all the way.

... continued here.
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