Chapter Text
Wade isn't really much good at cashiering. This isn't surprisingly, considering his propensity for forgetfulness and his persistent inability to count anything besides bullets, but he still somehow managed to talk his way into a job on the front line at Walmart. Damn his silver tongue and roguish good looks.
Anyway, that particular position lasted all of three days. His drawer count had been right the first two out of sheer luck, but the third time. The third time he had to start over so many times he worked himself into a tantrum. Night Manager Ted took pity on him, counted the drawer for him, and sent him home. He's been relegated to the warehouse and third shift ever since. He's not really much good at that either, but he gets a tricorder that does the counting for him and beeps every time he scans something, which is much better than trying to make change for old white women who always gaslight him into giving up an extra quarter or two.
Maybe they've been keeping him on out of pity (or more likely firing him is probably some sort of stupid-based ADA violation) ((or they're just desperate, turnover in retail is killer these days)) but Wade doesn't much care. He's had worse jobs, and this one pays $18/hr. Which is almost enough for a bad apartment in a bad neighborhood about an hour's ride on public transit from his workplace on a good day. Really, it's ideal for a horrifically scarred mercenary down on his luck.
It doesn't have the kick of adrenaline, scorching his veins like turpentine. No weapons riddling his torso, like he's the world's ugliest pincushion. No blood spatter. No pain.
No Nate.
Wade wishes, as he stands in a soggy parking lot watching Night Manager Ted fiddle with keys and mutter (Wade is not allowed to touch the keys) that out of everything he forgets, he could forget Nate. Instead, he looks out over the huge, empty expanse of suburban asphalt and hallucinates dreamily that Nate might be out there somewhere waiting for him, eye-flashing and scowling next to his dirt-brown Oldsmobile. But he, and his glorious telekinetically supercharged mutant dick, are nowhere to be found. Truly, Nate's loss is an absence inside Wade. He aches with it. Like all those months (years? continuity is getting real slippery these days) they spent fucking Wade somehow molded his cunt around Nate's cock, and now no one else will fit. Cinderella, but your orgasms are conditional on one man's appetite for fake rape.
"Wade, are you listening?" Night Manager Ted says, irritated.
"Hmm?" Wade drags his gaze away from the fuzzy outline of Ted's crossover. If he squints, it almost looks like an Oldsmobile in the fog.
"I said I can't drive you to the station today," Ted repeats. He offers no explanation. He never does.
"Gotta get home to feed the medusas before 3am, otherwise they'll start wandering," Wade says, nodding sagely. "I understand." Ted lets out a long sigh, and stomps off towards his car, shoulders hunched. Wade watches him go, mentally adding another chapter to his What Is Ted Up To On 'Can't Drive You To The Station' Nights RPF. Maybe the medusas are extra rowdy tonight.
Wade sets off in the opposite direction, heading for the muddy strip of ground that serves as a pedestrian path in this godforsaken part of town. He doesn't really mind walking, even though the tunnel under the highway is a little creepy and always smells faintly of piss. He's been in creepier, pissier places.
Tonight, the piss smell is overridden by the storm drain smells of diluted gasoline and assorted wet, rotting matter. The ever-present puddle is too deep tonight to ford without soaking through his sneakers, so he picks his way carefully around the edge, kicking a crumpled can of Diet Coke into the water as he goes. The can plonks into the puddle, sending black ripples through the glassy surface. Somewhere on the opposite wall a small, slimy creature darts into the shadows. Ah, nature.
Humming absently, Wade jumps the last foot or two back to dry ground, and passes into the golden glow of the tunnel's single functioning overhead light. Wade doesn't really need it, aside from puddle depth estimates. He's been through this tunnel enough times to have memorized all it's contours. But tonight, he hesitates, then stops. Something prickles at the back of his neck. If he had any hair to rise, it'd be raising.
Outside the ring of orange light, something glimmers in the dark. A familiar flash of yellow light, guttering to life like a candle flame. Heart racing, Wade takes a few stumbling steps forward, stopping just short of the shadows. He can hardly breathe. His chest feels like it might collapse from wanting. "Nate...?"
Something big and solid resolves around the flash of light. Square shoulders, towering over Wade. The severe outline of cropped silver hair and a jaw that could cut glass. The shine of metal peaking out from the collar of his dark coat.
"Nate!" Wade sobs, nearly bursting into tears right then and there. It's been a year (two years?) since Nate walked out on him, and seeing him again feels like a revelation. Wade's never been particularly religious, but he imagines this is what finding God again after a long crisis of faith must be like.
The shadow takes another step forward, then another, until he's silhouetted in the dull glow of florescence. Wade holds his breath, trembling. Not daring to reach out. What if Nate leaves him again? What if none of this is real?
"Nate, I'm so -- " Wade starts, but before he can say anything else Nate surges forward, reaching for him, his face twisting into snarling anger and want. Wade flinches away automatically, clapping a have over his mouth to stop himself from yelping like a dog caught in a trap. Nate seizes his wrist. The small bones of Wade's wrist snap under his techno-organic grip like twigs. Wade gasps as exquisite nerve-pinching bone-grinding pain lances up his arm and twists into his shoulder. When Nate gropes him he doesn't resist, just opens his legs and sinks against him with a needy whining moan.
"Yes, fuck -- " Wade tilts his hips into Nate's grip, shuddering as Nate shoves a hand down the front of his khakis and curls a finger up into him. He's always been too damn easy. Too ready to give it up to anyone willing to take it.
Nate's hand moves from Wade's wrist to his throat, squeezing until Wade's gaping like a fish out of water. Nate leans in, whispering in Wade's ear: "That's not how this game is played, is it?"
Wade's eyes, which had been drifting shut dreamily as he heats up under Nate's fingers, fly open. It's like Nate's flipped a switch inside him. They only played this game once, but that once has been burned into Wade's genetic code.
"Oh, fuck, shit -- no, stop, don't -- " Wade struggles against Nate's grip, scrabbling uselessly at the lapels of his jacket. Nate's grip on his throat only gets tighter, cutting off his oxygen and by extension his resistance. Except for the little knife tucked into the holster on his ankle, he's defenseless. Usually a bad idea to have edged weapons around customers.
That's what he tells himself, anyway. Nate's bigger than him. Nate's got telekinesis. Nate's probably got any number of guns hidden in that coat of his. Nate's not stronger than Wade, but he's smarter, and that metal arm hits like a freight train. There's no point fighting back.
Except that's not true. Wade's proved that it isn't, dozens of times. He's practically an expert in beating the shit out of Cable. No, this has nothing to do with Nate's threat level. Last time Wade wanted a fight. Wanted to be forced. This time, he wants to submit. To be taken and used like an owned thing, and things don't fight back.
So as Nate undoes Wade's belt and drops his khakis, he just whimpers and pleads and shakes like he's about to shatter. Nate snaps at him to shut the hell up, but Wade just keeps on babbling until his tongue glues itself to the roof of his mouth and his vocal cords seize in his throat. Oh, you bastard, he wants to say, but his voice just doesn't work. Cold terror douses his veins, killing the budding arousal that'd been forming in his naval. No means yes, and he can't even say no anymore.
Nate lets go of his throat, but Wade only has seconds to gasp out a few shuddering breaths before Nate spins him around and pushes him up against the tunnel's cold, damp wall. Nate's cock presses hard and wet against Wade's entrance but doesn't breech him. Instead Nate lingers, grinding against him, letting Wade soak in his fear. Wade trembles, mouthing a constant stream of silent pleasepleaseplease and noit'stoobig. His throat aches with the effort of struggling against Nate's telekinesis. He wants Nate to stop. He wants Nate to get it over with and fuck him already.
Finally, Nate pushes into him. It burns like hell; Wade's cunt rarely cooperates when it comes to lubrication, even less so when he's fucking terrified. Nate feels even bigger than Wade remembers. It's like being punched in the gut through his cunt. His eyes sting with tears and his stomach roils with nausea.
"Your cunt doesn't even work right," Nate growls into Wade's ear. "Like fucking sandpaper."
I'm sorry, Wade gasps, tears streaming down his cheeks. I'msosorry. Just as suddenly as Nate filled him, he's gone, leaving behind an aching absense inside Wade. He collapses into a gasping mess on the cold pavement, sobbing both with relief and heartbreak that Nate's already given up on his useless hole. Nate sneers down at him, his gaze burning with hatred. For a moment, Wade thinks Nate'll leave him there. Leave them both unfullfilled. No such luck.
Nate drives the heel of his boot into Wade's ribs. Something cracks, and pain blooms in Wade's side. He curls in on himself, swimming in euphoria and pure, animalistic terror. Nate kicks him again, and again, until Wade's ribcage is a pulpy mess of fractured bone. It hurts like hell, but when Nate hauls Wade to his feet again and thrusts back into him, Wade's cunt is slick and aching to be filled. His dick throbs, so hard it hurts. Nate always did know how to get his engine running.
"Yeah...that's more like it," Nate hums in satisfaction, his breath hot against the back of Wade's neck. He takes Wade's wrists in one massive metal hand, and pins them against the wall over Wade's head. The other hand slides up under Wade's shirt, pinching and squeezing at Wade's tits until he starts crying again. Nate fucks him at a brutal, relentless pace. Wade's arousal builds and builds, a rising tide that threatens to burst his levees and drown him. This time, he doesn't drift. There's no flashbacks, no dissociation. No leutenant. Nate's jackhammer cock has him pinned to the present, like the world's ugliest butterfly in Nate's collection.
Nate! Wade sobs, and comes. His vision goes dark. His whole world narrows to the blunt point of Nate's cock inside him. Wade goes limp in Nate's grip, giving in. His tears abruptly dry up, leaving him feeling parched and raw and exhausted. Nate doesn't stop, doesn't even hesitate, just keeps using him. He fucks Wade through another soul-shattering orgasm, before thrusting into him one last time.
"Oh, fuck," Nate moans, trembling as he floods Wade with heat. He doesn't linger. Doesn't say anything. Hardly gives himself or Wade a few seconds to recover. He just pulls out, and leaves Wade crumpled on the ground at his feet. Without Nate inside him, he's lost his purpose. He's just an empty slab of meat. Blank and inert, Wade listens to Nate's footsteps receding down the tunnel. Thunder cracks in the distance, echoing through the tunnel like a gunshot. A few seconds later, the rain starts, drowning out the scant traffic on the highway overhead.
Wade doesn't move for a very, very long time.
The treck back to his apartment has never been longer or more miserable. His clothes are filthy. His underwear is sticky with Nate's cum. He aches all over, even though his ribs healed minutes after Nate broke them. He doesn't even have the gumption to quip with the other late-night bus oddballs. He just stumbles his way to his seat and slumps against the window, willing the cool glass to soothe his exhaustion.
Some small part of him insists he should be panicking, but he just doesn't have the energy. He moves through the rest of his commute in a fog, letting his body autopilot him back to his front door. He doesn't see the note stuck to aforementioned door until he starts fumbling through his pockets, searching for his keys.
It's just a regular yellow sticky note, written in Nate's familiar, barely legible scrawl:
Pizza in the fridge. Save some for me. Be back in the morning.