[ There is no actual way to be discreet about it. Not without Harry walking into the diner in a hoodie and scarf to obscure his features. Instead, he pays the nearest teen to deliver this hot pink basket filled with a few small gifts: a bottle of hot sauce from that one BBQ place, a VHS tape with a white sticker on the spine that reads ‘The Spiral Notepad’, a few select chocolate candies, and a plush pastel pink cat (that has probably seen better days, but it’s closest he could find to fit the theme).
And in case Wade develops a case of the Wild Suspicions, Harry adds a small pump of his cologne.
There’s a small card that reads:
Figured you could use a small pick-me-up while you’re at work. Don't eat too many of those fried eggs. I'm making your favorite for dinner. Wear something comfortable after you take that apron off.
[There is no actual way that a teenager willingly approaches Karen and not only asks to see the fry cook, but asks to see him holding an actual basket. A pink basket. For a second, he's pretty sure it's a bomb. Has to be. So now he's gotta make sure Karen doesn't die in a bomb blast that some glaze-distributing asshole sent to him on a dare.
And maybe the kid too. Shit.
Wade takes the basket with a knife in his other hand.] If this is a bomb, I'm gonna have to cut off all your fingers.
[Dude. What? It's just a Valentine's thing.
Wade stares at him. Wait. That's why they've been asking for heart-shaped pancakes all day? He pops the knife back in his apron.] This never happened. [He passes the kid a few joolies, which leaves him standing awkwardly around with a hot pink basket from.
Okay, this is definitely not a Cable thing. Does he have a nemesis yet? Nemeses? Is this some attempt to humiliate him? Joke's on him, because he's gonna hang this basket up.
Right, there's a card. Okay.
Oh.
Wait. That -- he scented it?]
You're fucking kidding me.
[He balls up his apron and throws it into the back blindly, tugging the basket out to a table to pull out one item after another, exclusively catered to his horrible taste in everything, from BBQ sauce to movies to garish stuffies. He squeezes it. It's the ugliest thing he's ever seen.
It's perfect. That's getting a high-grade seat of respect in his kitchen. On top of the fridge or something.
He yells Karen over after he reads the card, because, yes, he has to show her every bit of it. To make sure this isn't some evil Gen-Z joke he doesn't know about (luckily: confirmed.)
Jesus Christ. Is he in the Twilight Zone?
Oh, now he's the Gen-Z, texting his boytoy on the clock. you sure you didnt send this to the wrong wade wilson? not gonna take it personally promise. easy mistake to make.
no i lied i'm gonna take it very personally. i might have to take his face and wear his skin. A perfectly normal response that he definitely does not have second thoughts about even though he already sent it. Moving on. What is his favourite, even? Actually the answer is basically "anything Harry might make" because this whole thing? This is a fucking novelty.
One he's pretty sure he did not earn. At all.
Didn't think he'd ever get anything like it again, either. im off in an hour. meet you at your own private siberia. promise ill be wearing clothes.
Just felt like it needed to be said.]
Edited (there was not a chance in hell I was gonna get the html right the first time) 2026-02-15 10:15 (UTC)
[ Did he go overboard? Not everyone celebrates Valentine’s Day around here, so maybe Harry was a little too quick on the presumption. He can’t remember the last time he could spoil someone for Valentine’s. Those days when he would reserve only the best seats in the house at a five-star Michelin restaurant for him and Grace, followed by a romantic huddle inside the presidential suite. A lot of men dread it for many immature reasons: It’s too materialistic! My wife has plenty! They should thank me for putting up with them!
Harry refuses to see it that way. An entire day to thank your partner for sticking with them through all the good and bad times? Flying across the Atlantic to purchase a set of emerald earrings and matching stilettos for his partner wasn’t a burden. If anything, that was the least he could do.
Fast forward to today: a dish rag over his shoulder as he rigs up an edible plate of enchiladas using only a hot plate and a dash of audacity. In retrospect, a basket wasn’t the best approach. But he also didn’t want to make it one of those generic baskets with a few bars of soap and bath beads.
Harry continues to stir at the poultry mix until he feels his phone go off, vibrating several times. His other hand goes to pull out the (technically old) flip phone.
And it’s Wade, joking in the only way Wade possibly can.
He laughs. ]
Unless you know another Wade Wilson who is also a line cook at your diner, I'll down that entire bottle myself. Bathroom's all cleaned up for you if you're looking to wash off that grease and pancake batter.
no way. first thing i did was off that guy and steal his name and reputation. really bad idea in retrospect. [You gotta love a guy who assures you of his bathroom's cleanliness.] slow your roll romeo, you already got me on a hook.
[Wade's most romantic moments involving a Ring Pop and a skee-ball token really put things into perspective, huh? A basket of personalized trinkets is already overboard for him. Not in a bad way, it's just.
Worth noting.
He folds the card up and tucks it into his pocket, finishing his shift off with his head buzzing. Only takes him one round of glaze to make it through without wandering off, and he's burned through it by the time he dives into his fur-covered Beetle and heads over. But he makes a pit stop on the way there. Feels like he'd look like an asshole, showing up empty-handed.
Wade's not exactly known for his gift-giving ability, but he does his best at picking not only a bouquet of (paper) flowers that sort of matches Harry's wardrobe, but he wraps it up in a snake stuffie that has a felt tongue sticking out of its mouth to add that special touch. This one won't try to kill him.
The vase is an energy drink with the top cut off, so let's not get too crazy with it.
Wade only gets weird by the time he's parked and he's walking up the steps to Harry's room, pausing outside the door to once again soak up that Twilight Zone feeling -- a day in the life of the Wade Wilson that was thriving in domesticity that included a job, and coming home to someone waiting for him, and the smell of dinner meant for him slithering out from under the door with the invitation to take a hot shower and cozy up after.
He knocks. Then, like a kid on his first prom date, thrusts the crappy bouquet out at Harry once he answers. They're not about to override the smell of grease that's soaked into Wade's very skin, but maybe they're distracting enough.] I'm taking you up on that shower. Hope you got some sensitive soap, 'cause I've got delicate skin.
[His version of thanks for thinking of me.]
Edited (one day i'll nail the html) 2026-02-16 06:10 (UTC)
[ Here is the problem with cooking on a completely different planet/world/universe: trying to replicate recipes from home won’t be 1:1. Something that requires specific spices and herbs? Harry might as well fly to the moon; that’s how out of reach it is to recreate anything from Earth.
Earth. Even thinking that word out loud makes him sound like a crazy person. As though he could text Sophie this very second and tell her all about this dream he’s been having as of late. Knowing her? She would write an entire script from all his crazy talk. Make it the blueprint for their next job, and they would get away like bandits.
A steamy mix of spices and chili peppers wafts from the saucepot and, to Harry’s credit, actually looks decent enough to be put on a plate. But no matter how many times he spoons in to taste, the flavor profile is off. His tongue can recognize the rustic spices, yet there is something completely off the mark. Harry’s got one job, and he is afraid he is screwing that up from the jump.
He can’t fight or protect anyone. All he’s got is a stupid hot plate and a bartending gig with a pitiful wage. No one is looking to Harry Wilson to hold down the fort when things take a drastic turn. If he can’t feed his date something decent, then holy shit, what else does he have left?
There’s a knock at the door.
He wipes his hands with the dish rag before folding it neatly back over his shoulders. Everything else in place: a freshly made bed, the carpet he vacuumed (courtesy of one neighbor who wouldn’t disclose where they picked up that Hoover), and a small dining table stained yellow with nicotine — a perfect fit for two.
He peeks inside the peephole before unlocking the door. A bundle of blue and purple paper flowers and a soft plush snake, wrapping itself around the bouquet, pressed up against his chest. It is the most ridiculous thing and perfect all at the same time. Looking down at his gift, Harry grins with warm amusement before holding onto the bouquet. ]
No harsh detergents. [ He states it as a matter of fact and leans forward to peck Wade above his brow bone. ] Already on the soap dish with a towel on the rack.
[ Harry then swings the door further open to invite Wade inside as he finds a new place for his gift. ]
[First thing he notices is there is way too much effort going into this. Not in general, but for him. Wade not only takes a big whiff of homecooking that smells like a lot more work than a couple of bowls of instant ramen with some hardboiled eggs thrown in, but the place is clean. Recently cleaned, even.
He steps in with a pleased smile, taking his forehead kiss with a pleasant little flip in his chest. Looks like the gift was a hit, or at least not a total bomb. He'll take it.
He glances at the vacuumed carpet.] Thanks.
[He ducks in the bathroom and all but peels his oil-stained clothing off, dumping a duffel bag he brought with him with comfier clothes. This is weird, right? He's turning on the hot water and using some other guy's soap and can't shake this feeling like he's not supposed to be here. It's weird. Maybe it's not weird for most people, but it's weird for him. The effort, the cooking -- the Valentine's when they're not, like, an official Thing. He doesn't even know what the hell he did where Harry would think of him as a viable valentine.
Even Ness didn't do this. He never went to her place and got cooked and vacuumed for. A special meal for them was Eggos that he dished hazelnut chocolate spread on -- brand name Nutella, if he could afford it. They'd always meet at Sister Margaret's, or a bar, or a McDonald's parking lot. She was romantic, but she was fucking crazy, too. Just like he was. Is. Still is. (Maybe worse than her, considering.)
The water flows way too hot like he's trying to burn his skin off, or scrub the normality off of him, or at least the oil that's soaked into his fucked up pores. He scrubs at every crater and inflames the skin, only stopping himself from drawing blood by the sudden realization he's here, in another guy's shower, crashing out because he vacuumed. Normal people vacuum for their guests. Definitely. That's a normal thing, right? Wade cannot remember a single time he ever vacuumed for someone else.
Jesus Christ.
This soap actually smells kind of baller.
So Wade eventually comes out in a puff of steam smelling like Harry's soap, dressed like a guy looking for the perfect middle ground between being being comfortable and warm, and trying to dress up for someone nice. Lawyers like sweaters, right? That's just. A thing he knows. It sounds true.
He stalks into the kitchen to get a spoiler on what dinner is, and also to pretend he knows exactly what he's doing, confident and easy like Sunday morning.] Smells good. You, uh. You cook a lot? At home?
[Oh, yeah. He's nailing it. Maybe the way he oozes up onto one of Harry's counters and swings his legs looks appropriately carefree.]
[ Dinner was ready minutes before Wade popped out of the shower. Inside the kitchen area, he hovered over the pan as he stirred steadily to keep everything warm. He continues to work rhythmically as he puts the final touches on their supper until the water coming from the bathroom shuts off, setting the table with the staples: laying down sporks, knives, and several napkins from the deli. Not the cutlery you typically see in your gooey romance stories, but at some point, you learn to temper your expectations while living in a place like this.
He glances over to see the man sharing his fragrance. While Harry has seen Wade without his hero fatigues before (hell, he has even seen him in just his underwear), he couldn’t help but grin to see the way he pads out of the bathroom in softer clothing. A little more refreshed after working the fryer for god knows how long. He looks good.
The bouquet sat on the nightstand, underneath the gaudy lamp that came with the room. Harry is no interior decorator, but as much as he hates to admit it, that might be the only pop of color in this beige, icebox of a motel room.
With the large wooden spoon in hand, he carefully adds the sauce on top of the dish. ]
When I can make time for it.
[ The memories are still very vivid in his mind. Spending time with Eliot and the team, cooking late-night spaghetti bolognese after swindling some asshole oil tycoon. His stomach despised him for carb overload, but it was worth the sacrifice to try Eliot’s homemade tomato sauce. ]
A good friend of mine is an executive chef over in Atlanta. He could take anything in your pantry and turn it into fine dining. Instead, he spent an entire afternoon teaching me how to cut an onion. So…
[ This is where it gets really pretentious: wiping the excess sauce spillage surrounding the edges of the plate with the cleaner end of the dishcloth. ]
[You know what? Maybe that's finally what relaxes him a little. Everything's feeling a little too prim and proper and then suddenly he's staring at a table made up with KFC sporks. Of course, he hasn't sat at a table that's made up with cutlery since he was a kid, but. You know. Beggars can't be choosers.
He sets up at the dining table, hooking a chair with his foot and dragging it closer to the other one, easing into his seat with a few more sniffs. Mexican. Mexican-adjacent, at least, but he wasn't kidding when he says it smells good. Though, fuck, at this rate, he'd take Harry's expired goulash and still suck that shit down with a smile on his face.
Wade props his head up on a hand, watching him with an amused curl of his lips as he listens.] Busy man. I had a feeling. [For one, he's got a room on his own. Not easy to do for anyone here. It's why he's dragged Cable in with him. For another, Wade knows workhorses. He happens to be one, lives with one -- they all got that urge to stick their dicks in too many pies.] No shit? Last time I was in Atlanta, I lost 5k and three pairs of pants on rigged poker games.
[Did it stop him from going back? Nooope.] Then it's lucky for you the only expectation is some expertly-cut onions. If every single one isn't the same size, I'm burning bridges. No tip, dine and dash, and then I'm blocking your number.
[One of his legs is jumping up and down under the table, a stark contrast to how easy the tease comes off. Least he has the self-control to do is not laugh at the guy wiping the edges of his plate like he's about to serve the queen. Pre-death.
Oooh, okay. Latin at the dinner table.] Hakuna matata. [Latin-to-Latin.] C'mon, stop peacocking over the plates and let's dig in.
[And when Harry takes a seat, Wade drags his own chair even closer until they're shoulder to shoulder. Cold as hell in here, like he said. That's why they gotta huddle up.] Pretty nice having my own executive chef, I gotta say. Maybe I get the appeal. [He goes at it with a spork, a will of iron and a salacious moan as compliment to the chef.] So you went all the way to Atlanta to learn how to cut onions?
[ When Wade moans, the entire room feels it — the way his entire body vibrates next to Harry’s as his voice reverberates across every corner. He glances down at the plate, made almost entirely of canned ingredients and a few select spices that were frankly doing most of the heavy lifting for Harry. Not the home-cooked meal he would’ve liked, but if Wade is happy with it…
The two men huddle and hunch over their food, warm steam billowing upwards from their plates. A luxury that won’t last very long, this room will turn their meal stone-cold in a matter of minutes.
Better savor this for as long as he can. ]
All the way to Atlanta to learn how to cut onions.
[ He repeats while nodding in shameful admission because it was, in fact, ridiculous. Harry’s shoulder rests with much more ease with Wade’s muscular arm rubbing up next to his. Tough to ignore feeling the toned, firm curves of Wade’s biceps over his warm cardigan. Arms that could take down a small army. Arms that could wrap around your body and ground you with warmth. Those are the arms of a bona fide superhero, alright.
The edges of his lips curl into a smirk, his eyes brightening with a tinge of nostalgia. All the while his knife is doing much more of the legwork on the plate, cutting through corn and chicken-adjacent meat while his spork flimsily stabs into a pitiful portion. ]
Early-90’s. I’m well into my junior year in college, and I make the bone-headed decision to drive six and a half hours to have a professional chef teach me their knife technique. [ A beat. ] All because I couldn’t stop bragging to my ex-girlfriend how excellent I was as a home cook.
[Maybe coming from the guy who thinks a great anniversary dinner is boxed wine and toaster strudels, it makes a bit more sense. Honestly, Wade's never been picky about food. His childhood involved a hell of a lot of Spaghettios and mashed potatoes sandwiches (you gotta try it!) Wade ends up cooking most of the time because Wade's 100% sure Cable would make every meal an MRE if he could manage it.
Wade listens between bites and lets Harry settle into his physicality crisis the same way Wade's trying not to look at the vacuumed carpet, even though he definitely kicked off his shoes and keeps fisting his toes in the carpet. Somehow, feels nicer than the one he's got in his own room. Maybe because he's stained it all over the place.
With paint, thank you.
Wade's knife is just twirling between his fingers the same wayg a butterfly knife would, thoughtless and casual, but a clear indication of his inability to sit still in any form, even when he's trying to listen.]
You're a romantic. [He smiles. Not exactly hard to guess, but there's not a lot of men who would retell this story like it was a good experience, either. He gets the feeling Harry didn't regret a second of it.] Love makes fools of us all, and jackasses of the rest. [There's only the smallest twitch in his face at the word ex-girlfriend, and it's not from jealousy; it's Wade thinking how strange that his word is ex-fiance because it feels so fucking long ago now. Feels like a whole other life. And literally a whole other timeline.] And? Was she impressed? Tell me you impressed her at least once.
[ While Wade is waxing poetics here, Harry can feel that this tiger’s leg is buzzing. They’re this close — he won’t mind, right? His socked foot goes over and rests on top of Wade’s as it plays with the carpet. Give it something to paw at while he eats.
But wow…the mere suggestion of Harry being some sort of romantic already gets his head shaking in timid refusal. When you’ve got x amount of ex-girlfriends and one failed marriage under your belt, chances are, he screwed the pooch in some regard (except for when his ex-wife ran to the defense of her newlywed oil tycoon husband after having a hand at committing mass murder. That’s on her.).
He chews contentedly while wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. That’s when he realized he forgot to pull out beers for the two of them. It completely slipped his mind when Wade rushed him to come pop a squat.
Harry breaks their cat huddle to slip out from his seat. ]
Worse.
[ Because it does, indeed, get worse.
Unfortunately, Harry doesn’t have the luxury of owning an entire fridge unit, so this tiny mini-fridge under the kitchen sink will have to do. If the fridge isn’t keeping these two bottles of beer cold, then this room will quickly take care of that. ]
Instead of cooking, I asked my mom if she could make an extra portion of whatever she cooked for dinner that night. And I would pop that in the oven in my apartment, and told my ex that I made it all by myself.
[His leg only stills for a second before it starts hopping double-time again. But not the one Harry's playing footsie with. No, that one's feeling significantly warmer. Okay, but seriously, why'd he pick the shittiest room ever? It's a fucking walk-in cooler.
But gives him plenty of reasons to want a little cuddle. Or a big cuddle, as it were.
His foot's missing the heat once he slips away, but Wade's more invested in Harry's potential huge humiliation than he is getting frostbite in here (can't get worse than the train, anyway).]
No. [Is the response at the "worse." Feels like he's winding up the pitch.
And the pitch makes Wade almost spit his food out with a laugh.] Holy shit. You're fucking with me. [He coughs a couple of times, covering it with a napkin.] You didn't just fumble the bag, you set it on fire. [Wade gives him a bump of shoulders when he returns with the beer.] I would've shoved you in lockers for free.
[Look, he didn't go to college. Colleges probably have lockers, right?]
[ Yeah. That’s about the reaction he expected to receive. A young man’s pilgrimage to learn the bare basics of the culinary arts, only to throw all that away and rely on his mom to step in? If anyone deserves to be dunked headfirst inside the toilet, it was certainly him.
Much easier to laugh it off these days, looking back and realizing how simple it is to boil spaghetti. With a beer in hand, he sways when Wade bumps shoulders with him, chuckling all the while. ]
Believe me, I would have shoved myself into a locker if I had the chance.
[ He takes a sip of the half-decent beer as he sits back and spreads his legs wider. They're so close together that it wasn't difficult for them to end up rubbing thighs together. ]
Spent another three or four months together before we split. [ A beat. ] Credit to my mother for making the best lasagna in town.
[It feels good to laugh at someone else. Not because he's here to humiliate Harry, but because it's such a normal fucking contrast to his own life. Yeah, it's only one story of man, but the same age Wade had already killed at least one man (maybe more; canon is nebulous) and failed himself out of any chance of going to college, the footnote to an equally as humiliating and pointless childhood.
And now he's here. So.
It led somewhere. A lot of emphasis on the literal meaning of "somewhere." Listening to a guy's very human story from a seemingly very human Earth that could be Wade's Earth if it ever involved anything as exciting as mutant freaks and quasi-governmental corporations that had their own private prisons full of metahumans.
Wade swirls his beer pointlessly in a circle, mulling over his thoughts. Crash out? Crash out who? He's totally fine now.
Wade, ever subtle, just drops a hand thigh and gives it a squeeze. You're not so subtle yourself, Lawyer McLawyerson.] Can't be that good if it was only four months. [Now he's dragging moms out here. The kids call that "negging."] She still around? Your mom.
[Please don't give him a tragic dead parents backstory. There's too many of those in the room at the moment.
Okay, he could've placed the sneaky hand and the mom question at different points in this timeline. Shit. Too late now. Gotta commit.]
[ Harry can’t recall a time when Wade has ever laughed out loud like this. Usually, Wade is the one making the wisecracks at him. The need to bully his younger self still lingers, but he can at least thank himself for having something to laugh over dinner. ]
Still around. As healthy as any woman her age would be.
[ One thing about forming a cosmic bond with a tactile, ex-mercenary superhero mutant, it’s that you build a sense of where and how they want to touch you. Case in point: the hand Wade has firmly on his thigh. He swallows back the primal sound wanting to escape his throat. A similar warmth builds within the bottom of his belly, one he felt not too far from when they huddled together on the bench at that Christmas-adjacent village.
Well…in the middle of talking about his mom, but we can work around this without awkwardly fumbling into the next moment.
And so Harry comes in to peck Wade sweetly on his jawline. ]
I guess I’ve been really lucky, all things considered.
[ His brown eyes staring affectionately at Wade, as if that is exactly what he wants to tell his Valentine this very moment. A hand comes down to brush over Wade’s pinkish mosaic skin and directs it further up his thigh. ]
[If he was a lesser man, maybe around here he'd say "jealous," except he's not, really. Having an alive mom wouldn't be much more positive than a dead one at his place in life. Just. Weird how it'd been him and Vanessa for so long. Hadn't even had a bunch of people to announce the baby to.
The baby that never happened and never came. Might be for the best.
Instead he says:] Good to hear. Big thanks to Momma Wilson for pumping out the baby boy that just made me a hardy dinner.
[Oh, he made it worse. Okay. That's a choice. Of course, Harry has very little reason to tearfully regret the man he selected to be his Valentine. For god knows what reason. Wade still could not fucking even hazard a guess, except maybe the snake charmer thing was kinda hot.
Somehow he still got a peck.] Lucky like interdimensional kidnapping lucky?
[He wants a bit more than a peck. Maybe, like a flare, or more accureately, like an alcohol-soaked cloth in a molotov lighting up, Harry can feel that heat leap up the same moment Wade leans in to kiss him, giving him just a second or two to escape. And don't you worry, he doesn't forget to squeeze Harry's thigh as his hand slides up higher.
As if he needs the encouragement.
It's not like the AU kiss. Not real desperate, and way less sharp teeth to work around. His brain's not stuck on the taste of Harry's blood still rolling in his mouth (admittedly, kind of hot) or the smell of dead vampires (not so hot). The fact that Harry's still chill with him after the brutal disembowelment and deep circumcision of at least two men in his company is kind of stunning, actually.
This one's just -- all want. Simple want. Been a long time since he could admit he'd had a good time on Valentine's.]
[ There is no scientific or tangible way to explain the reaction that sets off within Harry. How every nerve within him lights up like string lights on a patio on a summer’s evening — all suddenly being set off by how much Harry is wanted.
And how much he wants this.
He stays. For all the times Wade Wilson has given him an out, Harry stays. Not budging for a moment of this as he leans in deeper into their kiss. Every inch of his body is warming up, forgetting that they're making out in the world’s crappiest motel room. All Harry is thinking about is how to pleasure the man currently massaging his tongue.
The sensation intoxicates his brain in all the best ways possible. A special cocktail he rarely drinks from, aside from the times he felt extra frisky with Grace. The moment of their kiss lasts for a few moments, but it might as well feel like one hundred and twenty minutes of one of those damn good romantic comedies.
He breaks away, his forehead leaning against Wade’s. Their tips of their noses brush up on each other as Harry gives a breathy chuckle as he peppers a couple of kisses on the bottom of Wade’s plump (albeit a little dry, but who’s complaining?) lips. ]
Lucky, as in stumbling into a world-class snake wrangler right before I met my maker.
[ Honestly, a miracle Harry could string a coherent sentence together. Hard to think straight when your mind is getting drunk with lust.
He places a firm hand on Wade’s shoulder, pushing it enough to signal to have Wade move his seat towards him. These were metal folding chairs, so Harry is already testing the weight limit of these things when climbs on top of him — legs wrapping around his torso before his feet touch the floor. His pelvis meeting Wade’s navel.
Another wave hits him, feeling it especially within his loins. The look on Harry’s face teeters between utterly smitten and surprised all at the exact same moment. A roller-coaster that gets more exciting by the second. He tests the waters by cupping Wade’s face as he leans in for another kiss. All while grinding against his thighs.
[Thank fucking god Harry makes a move, because Wade's brain suddenly clamps down on the fact he just thanked this guy's mom for birthing him before kissing him, and he's definitely cringe on a level rarely reached by most of mere mortal men, but that's pushing it, even for him. That's just bad writing.
Or.
Or maybe he's thrilled that the response was not instant disgust and an attempt to stab a spork into his leg. (Though. He'd be into that, too.) It's the swapping of paprika-tinged spit and a man acting like meeting him is the fault of luck and not real, real bad karma that's replacing any first-hand embarrassment he might've brought down on himself.]
Usually the snakes are in pants --
[Wade's mouth is open and no words are coming out of it for the seconds it takes for Harry not only to shove his chair back but somehow manueuver pretty gracefully onto his lap. Instead of words, there's a sort of croaked groan of surprise. A sound that could be explained by the fact he's getting the feedback of Harry's now screamingly horny brain right back into his, and. He's not even sure where his own begins.
Shit.
The chair might break before this is over, but it'll die for a worthy cause. Wade catches him by his hips, slipping them under a properly tucked shirt after a mildly impatient tug to get his fingers gliding over bare skin. That's the good thing about a cold room. Makes every touch feel even hotter.
Wade's all about to wind up his best lap dance joke when Harry closes the distance again, kissing him deep enough it has Wade groan into his mouth. Fuck him, but he just wants to make out with the kind of guy who'd make him dinner. For what reason? To be romantic? It's working. It's working real well.
Unfortunate they can't just kiss for a solid hour to prevent Wade from talking.] Got more freak in you than I was expecting from a guy passing out on park benches. [Harry's positively frisky, fuck. And close enough he's beyond feeling just a little hint of Wade's dick responding to it.
Why the hell did he wear so many layers to this dinner? Probably the same but opposite reason he's got a bottle of lube in his bag: a man always comes. Prepared. When another guy invites you over for homecooking on Valentine's Day.
He moves a hand to tug on the bottom of Harry's prime little shirt.] Wanna see me rip it off?
[He's just offering. Last time, it wasn't him ripping Harry's clothes off. Real missed opportunity if you ask him.] Or your nipples gonna get too cold?
[That's the problem when you look like a fully encased burn victim: you don't get to share in cold nipple shock when you don't have them anymore.]
Two things are happening at once: for one, the sobering realization that he is currently sitting on Wade’s lap. Harry feels the flushed, reddish hue warming his entire face. Not to mention how Wade is greedily tugging at the bottom of his ironed shirt.
That and how the other other Mr. Wilson is twitching between Wade’s legs.
Harry’s sex life wasn’t exactly vanilla, by definition. Okay. Maybe it was a tad vanilla with a couple of saucy dirty talk tossed in and the occasional fuzzy handcuffs. But this? Let alone with another man? His first time with a man, mind you.
Well…Mr. Wilson is definitely exploring uncharted territory here with no YouTube tutorial to walk him through this.
A part of his brain calls out to pump the brakes on this now — take it slow. Treat it as you would any other date. A little cuddle here, a little foreplay there. Bring your hands up and unbutton your shirt one by one …
That brings us to the second thing in this equation: the other voice that’s telling that voice over there to shut the hell up. The voice who is clearly winning this internal battle when he can’t form any intelligible thought.
A pleasurable, husky purr that bubbles from Harry’s throat when he goes to peck his lips. ]
Now you’re just showing off, hot shot.
[ Then it hits Harry again. Ooh! Here we go again.
An immense wave of pleasure and a ravenous appetite for his skin to be rubbing up against Wade. He moans, rutting once more against Wade’s twitching member.
A desperate need to be ripped open and unraveled.
Both of their eyes stay locked in contact, Harry staring hungrily at Wade.
There is no thought being put into these next steps as he guides Wade to the collar of his to rip it apart. He can’t even keep his hands there for long before they're sliding down to grab whatever part of Wade’s extremely well-formed glutes he can greedily latch onto. ]
[Thing is, when you've got plenty of experience, as the chads say, dicking down, you can kind of spot a guy who's a bit new to the scene. Not that Wade had too much of a wandering eye once he got with Vanessa, but come on. He spent his best, most fertile years in the military. He's at least 70% of Marvel's canon pansexuals (and you can check the wiki). He manages carefully the line between twink and twunk -- or at least he's convinced himself of it.
Saying all that, it definitely helps he feels Harry's hesitation like a physical thing -- and it's weird, feeling it, 'cause he's about as far as you get from a telepath, and even for him, this is a new level of intimacy. It's like a cord cutting off the breath in his lungs. A gentle jerk of the leash.
Helpful, though.
And kind of reminding him of Cable. Not in a bad way -- not even in a good way -- but in the way where this kind of. Happened before. Wade gets a little wet in his garters and suddenly the other end of his red thread of horny is getting a little too sex now, think later.
Ugh. Hard to be the careful, selfless partner when Harry's egging him on. He rises to the occasion to kiss the bottom of his chin, leaving a little bite behind.] That's my secret. I'm always showing off.
[Right about the time Luther Vandross's dulcet tones in the background hits the high notes with Mariah, Wade's ripping Harry's shirt apart like paper, in two different directions, tossing them to either side of his chair. So. No hope of really sewing that baby up again. (Wait, does Harry have a Luther Vandross Greatest Hits album? Another point in the pros column.)
He brings him down for another kiss, hungrier than the last and a bit more demanding, like they've been reduced to one horny brain cell that's bouncing back and forth in God's most cursed game of Pong. On top of that, the cold fingertips of his hands are already starting to slide up Harry's naked waist. Normally, he's all for it. Lose himself in a fuck and maybe get stabbed in the heart in the middle of it. Nothing mixes better with an orgasm than a bit of bloodletting.
But this is his very human cross-canon [undefinable noun], and Wade. Fucking cares. If he does something to fuck this up. On their first. (Date? Is this a date?) Including being way too horny for his own good and sending it down someone else's way like he spiked a concussion-inducing volleyball.
He was. Supposed to be slowing his roll. Fuck. Fuck. He could still think if Harry wasn't fucking his leg. Probably.
He pulls off the kiss with a groan, throwing his head back. Big swallow. Big boy talk. Okay.] I gotta ask. [He really doesn't have to. He could just not. Asking is making this way harder.] You ever been with a guy before?
[That's character growth: recognizing not everyone spent their life flouncing through a series of sexual trysts with every willing participant. Especially with a full grown man pinning him down. Even though the guy went to college. Are you telling him not everyone in lawyer school is having orgies on the weekends, between the LSATs or whatever? American movies are just bullshit, huh? Can you even trust anything these days?
Even the chair is whining at the brakes being pumped. Or that could be the screws giving out.] Real talk, H-Dog, I can barely think straight right now. [Something something he's never thought anything straight in his life. But seriously, this isn't something you just jump into after a series of girlfriends on a first date (? still questionable) with the first ex-merc slash killer you happen to fall into the arms of. Twice. Three times?] It takes. You know. A gentle touch. And some patience. And a whole lot of lube.
[Or it hurts like a bitch. Ask him how he knows. He's had his own week of crabwalking, he's not about to inflict that on anyone else.]
[ Nights like these, Harry reveled in being the one to provide his ex-wife with everything she wanted and then some. A distinct pride whenever Grace begged and pleaded from underneath the covers as he pumped steadily into her, seeing her face flush in pure ecstasy. Years of experience (and trial and error) have led Harry to be the sensual and sensitive man he is today.
Look at him now.
His eyes were drunk with sex and animalistic yearning — the kind where you don’t think about how it affects how you walk the next day. When Harry looks to the side, he can find his nice shirt in tatters. Shirtless, but now he can feel how tight his pants have become. Looking down, he can see how much his member stretched and dampened the fabric of his pants with precum. The sheer horniness from Wade is enough to make Harry want to yowl and beg to be touched. To have this tiger, with all of his stripes, come in and give him what he wants.
He nearly whines when Wade pulls away from their passionate make-out session. If Wade can barely think straight, imagine the mental war zone Harry is currently trudging through. Pulling himself away from his date is out of the question; he is far too skin-hungry and hard to do anything rational.
His toes curl and dig into the fresh carpet as the chair continues to groan under their combined weight. Over three hundred pounds of two men sloppily pawing and dry humping each other.
Breathing heavily, Harry leans his head downward to hide underneath the crook of Wade’s neck and suckles around his skin while peppering in a love bite.
What if Harry screwed this whole thing up? He should have been upfront with Wade about being his first man. What if he isn’t good at this? Harry’s already set himself up to disappoint Wade, yet his pants didn’t get any less tight than before.
So, no. There's the answer to his question. ]
No! [ Harry chuckles while his face nuzzles at the cleavage of his muscular chest. ] I’ve never been with another man.
[ God. He knows this is supposed to be a serious talk. But he has become too smitten to change his tone. ]
I’m sorry, honey. [ One more peck on the lips. ] I should have told you. It’s just … I never realized this is how you felt around me.
[Pretty sure Wade being able to try to push for a real, non-sex-fueld adult conversation with a boner poking him in the stomach is something worthy of a Purple Heart. Possibly even two, considering there's two boners involved right now. One for each.
No! Okay. Stop thinking about the b word, or any b-related verbs associated with it. Chill the fuck out, Wade Jr. Not like we're about to go home completely dry. Pretty sure Harry might legitimately find a way to kill him if he suddenly tries to zip on outta here.
-- it's a miracle he's still actively thinking now Harry's moved to sucking on his neck. He might be catching on that the guy in his lap currently is an absolute freak. Apparently cancer is not always a huge turn-off when you find the right hungry, hungry hippo. Wade is not helping this by tipping his head back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows the load in his mouth. (Of saliva!)
He seriously can't feel if it's even cold in here anymore.
Honey? My god, stooop. He's trying here.] It's no big deal. Lots of men were straight before they met me. [That's not even a good fucking joke. He swallows again.] You mean distractedly horny? I hate to tell you that's, like, my default state of being. [This is not romantic. Maybe Harry should throw him out before he keeps talking.] I'm starting to actually worry that I'm giving you some sort of horny, cancerous stormkissed brain damage. [Now say that five times fast.] Please tell me you're just repressed and ready to let your hair down in the unknown streets of homoerotic hornytown.
[ Okay. They’re doing this. Jesus Christ, he’s panting. ]
Okay. Wait here. Hold on. Let me —
[ As much as Harry doesn’t want to peel away from the stiff member brushing between his legs, this next part is crucial. He manages, although a few whines and yips escape his throat while running over to the other side of the room.
In hindsight, maybe Harry should’ve growled into Wade’s ear and said something along the lines of “I’m all yours”. Then again, that may be a touch too predictable for such an unexpected couple of two middle-aged men from vastly different universes.
And now? Harry has to commit to the bit. ]
Don’t move — Ah, ah…!
[ There have been zero sexcapades, and already Harry is melting into a puddle of orgasmic ectoplasm. But this part is crucial.
All to … light a couple of candles by the nightstand. Two on each side for the extra layer of mood lighting, to be exact. ]
Alright. I’m almost do—NE!
[ If the rules of a stormkissed bond are true, then now this is Harry’s turn to let Wade in on what he is feeling at this moment. His erect penis is only a part of this equation. Here, Harry allows himself to sink into his shoddy spring mattress. Right now, though? This feels like a world class goose-down bed.
Luther Vandross fades out in the background. Cue Billie Holiday
Harry’s breathing as if he has just run an entire half-marathon. But he did it, smiling to himself and feeling a warmth inside his chest. A thin layer of sweat covers him from head to waist. As Billie's sultry voice plays on in the background, a new sensation blossoms from Harry. While Wade was the one to ignite the flames from within his loins, Harry is the one who waters the garden from beyond the rib-cage of Wade's chest - allowing the roots of his passionate emotions burrow deeper into Wade. An elixir combining one's lust and one's seeping affection to create a moment only poets could dream in their maladaptive daydreams.
He hums contentedly to himself, his erect cock sprouting like a spring lilac flower. This one is for Wade to unwrap. ]
[Okay, so the answer to that question was definitely a "yes, yes, oh god, yes!" with a little throw of the head back, visually. So, the probably last surviving thought in Wade's head has now gripped onto the Titanic of his self-control that is quickly being swallowed by icy, cold water, which is timed exactly with the amount of time it takes him to watch Harry jut across the room like --
Maybe the cat in heat comparison is really coming in clutch here. Oh, god. He's somehow gotten the power to invoke heat in men above their fifties. Clearly Nora Roberts is just gritting her teeth to write about him.]
I'm not moving, promise. [The chair thanks him for its survival of the night. Mostly he's trying to turn the sludge that is his brain into something resembling an organ that might make sense of what Harry is fucking doing --
My god. He cannot be serious. Watching a horny lawyer try to light candles like they're the key to his orgasm, all while sporting a full mast is definitely going into some permanent memory bank in the back of his head forever. It's one of those things you treasure forever, like the sight of a breaching albino whale.
Guess this is the part where he can move. He's moving. And while he's moving, it's the dexterity that allows him to kill men without taking a single hit that gets him onto the bed with the force of whatever pornographic brainblast he's on the other end of.
Oooh boy. Okay, so now he's suddenly understanding Cable's melting brain comment. Harry might be investing in some superb flowery imagery that he is about the furthest person from deserving, but Wade's brain's just sunk beneath the waves. Feels like his skin is on fire, prickled with heat and goosebumps that pluck up between the craters. There's just this blissful pit of nothing where he usually stuffs all the feelings about what he looks like, what his skin feels like under unbothered human fingers, what kind of man he is (the answer is: the worst). Maybe even the part where he's confused to this second about how he got to this point with the most seemingly normal human he's met here, who lived out a whole Twilight fantasy with him, rated R, and still invited him over for dinner.
This is. This is kinda nice. Is that what normal people feel like, in the day-to-day? There's no fourth party peeking in, nothing but this cozy-by-the-fire feeling that he might not be the absolute failure he's made himself out to be.
He ends up straddling Harry as if he's pinned to the bed, a knee pressed in against his hips, Wade's hands sinking into the mattress. So that's why he keeps the room for, huh? The nice bedding?] The candles, or what you're packing down here? [Wade figures he doesn't have to do much more than roll his palm over the cloth barely keeping Harry's cock covered to get him going.] Both getting a solid review from me. Definitely a B&B I'll stay in again.
[Already got rid of that shirt for him, so he can work on getting his pants off next. One hand works on that task, and the other coaxes its way up Harry's naked chest, picking up sweat on the way, tracking the rapid rise and fall of his lungs. It's only incredible core strength that keeps him from falling over. Good thing he's the closest thing to ambidextrous anyone gets to.] You good still? You can pump the brakes anytime.
[He can't help but give anyone this deep in with him their final out.]
[ In another timeline, if Wade didn’t stop when he did, there is a version of Harry Wilson reaching peak sexual brain rot (but the sexy kind of brain rot) — raw dogging all of Wade with half a tube of lubricant in his hole, moaning ever so loudly, “Want you in me so bad! Ungh! It’s so big!” By the twentieth pump, that metal chair would have broken clean through, turning a very sexy situation into one where Harry is walking like a cartoonish cowboy for the rest of the month.
And then he would have spent the rest of his days hiding from the fact that he shouted, “Stretch me out, big guy!” A perfectly normal thing to say when you’re doing the bedroom tango, but revealing enough for Harry to reevaluate where he has been keeping this power bottom energy this whole time.
But that’s for another cross-canon scenario (or further down the road. Gotta keep things tabula rasa, you know?).
Did Harry have to run around the bed, stiff as a board, tip-toeing with his buttcheeks and thighs clenched tightly together and squirming like some eccentric mating call? All to light four damn candles? Well, by the look on Wade’s face, it was well worth it. Sometimes you’ve got to cut loose and make it fun. Some people are not meant to be the main protagonists in those steamy 1980s novels your mom used to read under a hot bubble bath with the jetstreams going at it full-force.
Being straddled like this — tight enough that Harry doesn’t slip away but not enough to bruise his skin — it felt nice. He feels secure. The sensation of Wade palming over his cock makes him groan with delight. This time, he doesn’t have the same carnal desire to jump all over Wade’s bones. Instead, he looks at Wade with a softer gaze and a dimpled grin.
Now it was Harry’s turn to get curious around Wade’s body, tracing a hand over his thigh and making it over to his pert and perky ass — giving it an experimental squeeze. Softer than a pillow. ]
I’m still good.
[ His cock is exposed to the brisk, cold room after Wade methodically peels away his pants. The scent of fresh soap and musk melds together to create something tantalizing to the nose. Here he lies naked and exposed, inviting both Wade and himself into this very new venture.
Harry uses his other free hand to brush over the apple of Wade’s cheek. ]
How about we take this one from the top and you show me how it’s done? Nice and steady. And with no furniture at risk of breaking into pieces.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
happy galentine's day 🥴
And in case Wade develops a case of the Wild Suspicions, Harry adds a small pump of his cologne.
There’s a small card that reads:
Figured you could use a small pick-me-up while you’re at work. Don't eat too many of those fried eggs. I'm making your favorite for dinner. Wear something comfortable after you take that apron off.
...This isn't too corny, right? Nah. ]
i'm punching the air rn
And maybe the kid too. Shit.
Wade takes the basket with a knife in his other hand.] If this is a bomb, I'm gonna have to cut off all your fingers.
[Dude. What? It's just a Valentine's thing.
Wade stares at him. Wait. That's why they've been asking for heart-shaped pancakes all day? He pops the knife back in his apron.] This never happened. [He passes the kid a few joolies, which leaves him standing awkwardly around with a hot pink basket from.
Okay, this is definitely not a Cable thing. Does he have a nemesis yet? Nemeses? Is this some attempt to humiliate him? Joke's on him, because he's gonna hang this basket up.
Right, there's a card. Okay.
Oh.
Wait. That -- he scented it?]
You're fucking kidding me.
[He balls up his apron and throws it into the back blindly, tugging the basket out to a table to pull out one item after another, exclusively catered to his horrible taste in everything, from BBQ sauce to movies to garish stuffies. He squeezes it. It's the ugliest thing he's ever seen.
It's perfect. That's getting a high-grade seat of respect in his kitchen. On top of the fridge or something.
He yells Karen over after he reads the card, because, yes, he has to show her every bit of it. To make sure this isn't some evil Gen-Z joke he doesn't know about (luckily: confirmed.)
Jesus Christ. Is he in the Twilight Zone?
Oh, now he's the Gen-Z, texting his boytoy on the clock. you sure you didnt send this to the wrong wade wilson? not gonna take it personally promise. easy mistake to make.
no i lied i'm gonna take it very personally. i might have to take his face and wear his skin. A perfectly normal response that he definitely does not have second thoughts about even though he already sent it. Moving on. What is his favourite, even? Actually the answer is basically "anything Harry might make" because this whole thing? This is a fucking novelty.
One he's pretty sure he did not earn. At all.
Didn't think he'd ever get anything like it again, either. im off in an hour. meet you at your own private siberia. promise ill be wearing clothes.
Just felt like it needed to be said.]
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Harry refuses to see it that way. An entire day to thank your partner for sticking with them through all the good and bad times? Flying across the Atlantic to purchase a set of emerald earrings and matching stilettos for his partner wasn’t a burden. If anything, that was the least he could do.
Fast forward to today: a dish rag over his shoulder as he rigs up an edible plate of enchiladas using only a hot plate and a dash of audacity. In retrospect, a basket wasn’t the best approach. But he also didn’t want to make it one of those generic baskets with a few bars of soap and bath beads.
Harry continues to stir at the poultry mix until he feels his phone go off, vibrating several times. His other hand goes to pull out the (technically old) flip phone.
And it’s Wade, joking in the only way Wade possibly can.
He laughs. ]
Unless you know another Wade Wilson who is also a line cook at your diner, I'll down that entire bottle myself.
Bathroom's all cleaned up for you if you're looking to wash off that grease and pancake batter.
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[Wade's most romantic moments involving a Ring Pop and a skee-ball token really put things into perspective, huh? A basket of personalized trinkets is already overboard for him. Not in a bad way, it's just.
Worth noting.
He folds the card up and tucks it into his pocket, finishing his shift off with his head buzzing. Only takes him one round of glaze to make it through without wandering off, and he's burned through it by the time he dives into his fur-covered Beetle and heads over. But he makes a pit stop on the way there. Feels like he'd look like an asshole, showing up empty-handed.
Wade's not exactly known for his gift-giving ability, but he does his best at picking not only a bouquet of (paper) flowers that sort of matches Harry's wardrobe, but he wraps it up in a snake stuffie that has a felt tongue sticking out of its mouth to add that special touch. This one won't try to kill him.
The vase is an energy drink with the top cut off, so let's not get too crazy with it.
Wade only gets weird by the time he's parked and he's walking up the steps to Harry's room, pausing outside the door to once again soak up that Twilight Zone feeling -- a day in the life of the Wade Wilson that was thriving in domesticity that included a job, and coming home to someone waiting for him, and the smell of dinner meant for him slithering out from under the door with the invitation to take a hot shower and cozy up after.
He knocks. Then, like a kid on his first prom date, thrusts the crappy bouquet out at Harry once he answers. They're not about to override the smell of grease that's soaked into Wade's very skin, but maybe they're distracting enough.] I'm taking you up on that shower. Hope you got some sensitive soap, 'cause I've got delicate skin.
[His version of thanks for thinking of me.]
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Earth. Even thinking that word out loud makes him sound like a crazy person. As though he could text Sophie this very second and tell her all about this dream he’s been having as of late. Knowing her? She would write an entire script from all his crazy talk. Make it the blueprint for their next job, and they would get away like bandits.
A steamy mix of spices and chili peppers wafts from the saucepot and, to Harry’s credit, actually looks decent enough to be put on a plate. But no matter how many times he spoons in to taste, the flavor profile is off. His tongue can recognize the rustic spices, yet there is something completely off the mark. Harry’s got one job, and he is afraid he is screwing that up from the jump.
He can’t fight or protect anyone. All he’s got is a stupid hot plate and a bartending gig with a pitiful wage. No one is looking to Harry Wilson to hold down the fort when things take a drastic turn. If he can’t feed his date something decent, then holy shit, what else does he have left?
There’s a knock at the door.
He wipes his hands with the dish rag before folding it neatly back over his shoulders. Everything else in place: a freshly made bed, the carpet he vacuumed (courtesy of one neighbor who wouldn’t disclose where they picked up that Hoover), and a small dining table stained yellow with nicotine — a perfect fit for two.
He peeks inside the peephole before unlocking the door. A bundle of blue and purple paper flowers and a soft plush snake, wrapping itself around the bouquet, pressed up against his chest. It is the most ridiculous thing and perfect all at the same time. Looking down at his gift, Harry grins with warm amusement before holding onto the bouquet. ]
No harsh detergents. [ He states it as a matter of fact and leans forward to peck Wade above his brow bone. ] Already on the soap dish with a towel on the rack.
[ Harry then swings the door further open to invite Wade inside as he finds a new place for his gift. ]
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He steps in with a pleased smile, taking his forehead kiss with a pleasant little flip in his chest. Looks like the gift was a hit, or at least not a total bomb. He'll take it.
He glances at the vacuumed carpet.] Thanks.
[He ducks in the bathroom and all but peels his oil-stained clothing off, dumping a duffel bag he brought with him with comfier clothes. This is weird, right? He's turning on the hot water and using some other guy's soap and can't shake this feeling like he's not supposed to be here. It's weird. Maybe it's not weird for most people, but it's weird for him. The effort, the cooking -- the Valentine's when they're not, like, an official Thing. He doesn't even know what the hell he did where Harry would think of him as a viable valentine.
Even Ness didn't do this. He never went to her place and got cooked and vacuumed for. A special meal for them was Eggos that he dished hazelnut chocolate spread on -- brand name Nutella, if he could afford it. They'd always meet at Sister Margaret's, or a bar, or a McDonald's parking lot. She was romantic, but she was fucking crazy, too. Just like he was. Is. Still is. (Maybe worse than her, considering.)
The water flows way too hot like he's trying to burn his skin off, or scrub the normality off of him, or at least the oil that's soaked into his fucked up pores. He scrubs at every crater and inflames the skin, only stopping himself from drawing blood by the sudden realization he's here, in another guy's shower, crashing out because he vacuumed. Normal people vacuum for their guests. Definitely. That's a normal thing, right? Wade cannot remember a single time he ever vacuumed for someone else.
Jesus Christ.
This soap actually smells kind of baller.
So Wade eventually comes out in a puff of steam smelling like Harry's soap, dressed like a guy looking for the perfect middle ground between being being comfortable and warm, and trying to dress up for someone nice. Lawyers like sweaters, right? That's just. A thing he knows. It sounds true.
He stalks into the kitchen to get a spoiler on what dinner is, and also to pretend he knows exactly what he's doing, confident and easy like Sunday morning.] Smells good. You, uh. You cook a lot? At home?
[Oh, yeah. He's nailing it. Maybe the way he oozes up onto one of Harry's counters and swings his legs looks appropriately carefree.]
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He glances over to see the man sharing his fragrance. While Harry has seen Wade without his hero fatigues before (hell, he has even seen him in just his underwear), he couldn’t help but grin to see the way he pads out of the bathroom in softer clothing. A little more refreshed after working the fryer for god knows how long. He looks good.
The bouquet sat on the nightstand, underneath the gaudy lamp that came with the room. Harry is no interior decorator, but as much as he hates to admit it, that might be the only pop of color in this beige, icebox of a motel room.
With the large wooden spoon in hand, he carefully adds the sauce on top of the dish. ]
When I can make time for it.
[ The memories are still very vivid in his mind. Spending time with Eliot and the team, cooking late-night spaghetti bolognese after swindling some asshole oil tycoon. His stomach despised him for carb overload, but it was worth the sacrifice to try Eliot’s homemade tomato sauce. ]
A good friend of mine is an executive chef over in Atlanta. He could take anything in your pantry and turn it into fine dining. Instead, he spent an entire afternoon teaching me how to cut an onion. So…
[ This is where it gets really pretentious: wiping the excess sauce spillage surrounding the edges of the plate with the cleaner end of the dishcloth. ]
Mea culpa if this all falls apart.
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He sets up at the dining table, hooking a chair with his foot and dragging it closer to the other one, easing into his seat with a few more sniffs. Mexican. Mexican-adjacent, at least, but he wasn't kidding when he says it smells good. Though, fuck, at this rate, he'd take Harry's expired goulash and still suck that shit down with a smile on his face.
Wade props his head up on a hand, watching him with an amused curl of his lips as he listens.] Busy man. I had a feeling. [For one, he's got a room on his own. Not easy to do for anyone here. It's why he's dragged Cable in with him. For another, Wade knows workhorses. He happens to be one, lives with one -- they all got that urge to stick their dicks in too many pies.] No shit? Last time I was in Atlanta, I lost 5k and three pairs of pants on rigged poker games.
[Did it stop him from going back? Nooope.] Then it's lucky for you the only expectation is some expertly-cut onions. If every single one isn't the same size, I'm burning bridges. No tip, dine and dash, and then I'm blocking your number.
[One of his legs is jumping up and down under the table, a stark contrast to how easy the tease comes off. Least he has the self-control to do is not laugh at the guy wiping the edges of his plate like he's about to serve the queen. Pre-death.
Oooh, okay. Latin at the dinner table.] Hakuna matata. [Latin-to-Latin.] C'mon, stop peacocking over the plates and let's dig in.
[And when Harry takes a seat, Wade drags his own chair even closer until they're shoulder to shoulder. Cold as hell in here, like he said. That's why they gotta huddle up.] Pretty nice having my own executive chef, I gotta say. Maybe I get the appeal. [He goes at it with a spork, a will of iron and a salacious moan as compliment to the chef.] So you went all the way to Atlanta to learn how to cut onions?
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The two men huddle and hunch over their food, warm steam billowing upwards from their plates. A luxury that won’t last very long, this room will turn their meal stone-cold in a matter of minutes.
Better savor this for as long as he can. ]
All the way to Atlanta to learn how to cut onions.
[ He repeats while nodding in shameful admission because it was, in fact, ridiculous. Harry’s shoulder rests with much more ease with Wade’s muscular arm rubbing up next to his. Tough to ignore feeling the toned, firm curves of Wade’s biceps over his warm cardigan. Arms that could take down a small army. Arms that could wrap around your body and ground you with warmth. Those are the arms of a bona fide superhero, alright.
The edges of his lips curl into a smirk, his eyes brightening with a tinge of nostalgia. All the while his knife is doing much more of the legwork on the plate, cutting through corn and chicken-adjacent meat while his spork flimsily stabs into a pitiful portion. ]
Early-90’s. I’m well into my junior year in college, and I make the bone-headed decision to drive six and a half hours to have a professional chef teach me their knife technique. [ A beat. ] All because I couldn’t stop bragging to my ex-girlfriend how excellent I was as a home cook.
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Wade listens between bites and lets Harry settle into his physicality crisis the same way Wade's trying not to look at the vacuumed carpet, even though he definitely kicked off his shoes and keeps fisting his toes in the carpet. Somehow, feels nicer than the one he's got in his own room. Maybe because he's stained it all over the place.
With paint, thank you.
Wade's knife is just twirling between his fingers the same wayg a butterfly knife would, thoughtless and casual, but a clear indication of his inability to sit still in any form, even when he's trying to listen.]
You're a romantic. [He smiles. Not exactly hard to guess, but there's not a lot of men who would retell this story like it was a good experience, either. He gets the feeling Harry didn't regret a second of it.] Love makes fools of us all, and jackasses of the rest. [There's only the smallest twitch in his face at the word ex-girlfriend, and it's not from jealousy; it's Wade thinking how strange that his word is ex-fiance because it feels so fucking long ago now. Feels like a whole other life. And literally a whole other timeline.] And? Was she impressed? Tell me you impressed her at least once.
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But wow…the mere suggestion of Harry being some sort of romantic already gets his head shaking in timid refusal. When you’ve got x amount of ex-girlfriends and one failed marriage under your belt, chances are, he screwed the pooch in some regard (except for when his ex-wife ran to the defense of her newlywed oil tycoon husband after having a hand at committing mass murder. That’s on her.).
He chews contentedly while wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. That’s when he realized he forgot to pull out beers for the two of them. It completely slipped his mind when Wade rushed him to come pop a squat.
Harry breaks their cat huddle to slip out from his seat. ]
Worse.
[ Because it does, indeed, get worse.
Unfortunately, Harry doesn’t have the luxury of owning an entire fridge unit, so this tiny mini-fridge under the kitchen sink will have to do. If the fridge isn’t keeping these two bottles of beer cold, then this room will quickly take care of that. ]
Instead of cooking, I asked my mom if she could make an extra portion of whatever she cooked for dinner that night. And I would pop that in the oven in my apartment, and told my ex that I made it all by myself.
[ A momma’s boy in the worst possible manner. ]
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But gives him plenty of reasons to want a little cuddle. Or a big cuddle, as it were.
His foot's missing the heat once he slips away, but Wade's more invested in Harry's potential huge humiliation than he is getting frostbite in here (can't get worse than the train, anyway).]
No. [Is the response at the "worse." Feels like he's winding up the pitch.
And the pitch makes Wade almost spit his food out with a laugh.] Holy shit. You're fucking with me. [He coughs a couple of times, covering it with a napkin.] You didn't just fumble the bag, you set it on fire. [Wade gives him a bump of shoulders when he returns with the beer.] I would've shoved you in lockers for free.
[Look, he didn't go to college. Colleges probably have lockers, right?]
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Much easier to laugh it off these days, looking back and realizing how simple it is to boil spaghetti. With a beer in hand, he sways when Wade bumps shoulders with him, chuckling all the while. ]
Believe me, I would have shoved myself into a locker if I had the chance.
[ He takes a sip of the half-decent beer as he sits back and spreads his legs wider. They're so close together that it wasn't difficult for them to end up rubbing thighs together. ]
Spent another three or four months together before we split. [ A beat. ] Credit to my mother for making the best lasagna in town.
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And now he's here. So.
It led somewhere. A lot of emphasis on the literal meaning of "somewhere." Listening to a guy's very human story from a seemingly very human Earth that could be Wade's Earth if it ever involved anything as exciting as mutant freaks and quasi-governmental corporations that had their own private prisons full of metahumans.
Wade swirls his beer pointlessly in a circle, mulling over his thoughts. Crash out? Crash out who? He's totally fine now.
Wade, ever subtle, just drops a hand thigh and gives it a squeeze. You're not so subtle yourself, Lawyer McLawyerson.] Can't be that good if it was only four months. [Now he's dragging moms out here. The kids call that "negging."] She still around? Your mom.
[Please don't give him a tragic dead parents backstory. There's too many of those in the room at the moment.
Okay, he could've placed the sneaky hand and the mom question at different points in this timeline. Shit. Too late now. Gotta commit.]
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Still around. As healthy as any woman her age would be.
[ One thing about forming a cosmic bond with a tactile, ex-mercenary superhero mutant, it’s that you build a sense of where and how they want to touch you. Case in point: the hand Wade has firmly on his thigh. He swallows back the primal sound wanting to escape his throat. A similar warmth builds within the bottom of his belly, one he felt not too far from when they huddled together on the bench at that Christmas-adjacent village.
Well…in the middle of talking about his mom, but we can work around this without awkwardly fumbling into the next moment.
And so Harry comes in to peck Wade sweetly on his jawline. ]
I guess I’ve been really lucky, all things considered.
[ His brown eyes staring affectionately at Wade, as if that is exactly what he wants to tell his Valentine this very moment. A hand comes down to brush over Wade’s pinkish mosaic skin and directs it further up his thigh. ]
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The baby that never happened and never came. Might be for the best.
Instead he says:] Good to hear. Big thanks to Momma Wilson for pumping out the baby boy that just made me a hardy dinner.
[Oh, he made it worse. Okay. That's a choice. Of course, Harry has very little reason to tearfully regret the man he selected to be his Valentine. For god knows what reason. Wade still could not fucking even hazard a guess, except maybe the snake charmer thing was kinda hot.
Somehow he still got a peck.] Lucky like interdimensional kidnapping lucky?
[He wants a bit more than a peck. Maybe, like a flare, or more accureately, like an alcohol-soaked cloth in a molotov lighting up, Harry can feel that heat leap up the same moment Wade leans in to kiss him, giving him just a second or two to escape. And don't you worry, he doesn't forget to squeeze Harry's thigh as his hand slides up higher.
As if he needs the encouragement.
It's not like the AU kiss. Not real desperate, and way less sharp teeth to work around. His brain's not stuck on the taste of Harry's blood still rolling in his mouth (admittedly, kind of hot) or the smell of dead vampires (not so hot). The fact that Harry's still chill with him after the brutal disembowelment and deep circumcision of at least two men in his company is kind of stunning, actually.
This one's just -- all want. Simple want. Been a long time since he could admit he'd had a good time on Valentine's.]
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And how much he wants this.
He stays. For all the times Wade Wilson has given him an out, Harry stays. Not budging for a moment of this as he leans in deeper into their kiss. Every inch of his body is warming up, forgetting that they're making out in the world’s crappiest motel room. All Harry is thinking about is how to pleasure the man currently massaging his tongue.
The sensation intoxicates his brain in all the best ways possible. A special cocktail he rarely drinks from, aside from the times he felt extra frisky with Grace. The moment of their kiss lasts for a few moments, but it might as well feel like one hundred and twenty minutes of one of those damn good romantic comedies.
He breaks away, his forehead leaning against Wade’s. Their tips of their noses brush up on each other as Harry gives a breathy chuckle as he peppers a couple of kisses on the bottom of Wade’s plump (albeit a little dry, but who’s complaining?) lips. ]
Lucky, as in stumbling into a world-class snake wrangler right before I met my maker.
[ Honestly, a miracle Harry could string a coherent sentence together. Hard to think straight when your mind is getting drunk with lust.
He places a firm hand on Wade’s shoulder, pushing it enough to signal to have Wade move his seat towards him. These were metal folding chairs, so Harry is already testing the weight limit of these things when climbs on top of him — legs wrapping around his torso before his feet touch the floor. His pelvis meeting Wade’s navel.
Another wave hits him, feeling it especially within his loins. The look on Harry’s face teeters between utterly smitten and surprised all at the exact same moment. A roller-coaster that gets more exciting by the second. He tests the waters by cupping Wade’s face as he leans in for another kiss. All while grinding against his thighs.
All to say You want this? ]
nsfw comin in hot 🍆
Or.
Or maybe he's thrilled that the response was not instant disgust and an attempt to stab a spork into his leg. (Though. He'd be into that, too.) It's the swapping of paprika-tinged spit and a man acting like meeting him is the fault of luck and not real, real bad karma that's replacing any first-hand embarrassment he might've brought down on himself.]
Usually the snakes are in pants --
[Wade's mouth is open and no words are coming out of it for the seconds it takes for Harry not only to shove his chair back but somehow manueuver pretty gracefully onto his lap. Instead of words, there's a sort of croaked groan of surprise. A sound that could be explained by the fact he's getting the feedback of Harry's now screamingly horny brain right back into his, and. He's not even sure where his own begins.
Shit.
The chair might break before this is over, but it'll die for a worthy cause. Wade catches him by his hips, slipping them under a properly tucked shirt after a mildly impatient tug to get his fingers gliding over bare skin. That's the good thing about a cold room. Makes every touch feel even hotter.
Wade's all about to wind up his best lap dance joke when Harry closes the distance again, kissing him deep enough it has Wade groan into his mouth. Fuck him, but he just wants to make out with the kind of guy who'd make him dinner. For what reason? To be romantic? It's working. It's working real well.
Unfortunate they can't just kiss for a solid hour to prevent Wade from talking.] Got more freak in you than I was expecting from a guy passing out on park benches. [Harry's positively frisky, fuck. And close enough he's beyond feeling just a little hint of Wade's dick responding to it.
Why the hell did he wear so many layers to this dinner? Probably the same but opposite reason he's got a bottle of lube in his bag: a man always comes. Prepared. When another guy invites you over for homecooking on Valentine's Day.
He moves a hand to tug on the bottom of Harry's prime little shirt.] Wanna see me rip it off?
[He's just offering. Last time, it wasn't him ripping Harry's clothes off. Real missed opportunity if you ask him.] Or your nipples gonna get too cold?
[That's the problem when you look like a fully encased burn victim: you don't get to share in cold nipple shock when you don't have them anymore.]
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Two things are happening at once: for one, the sobering realization that he is currently sitting on Wade’s lap. Harry feels the flushed, reddish hue warming his entire face. Not to mention how Wade is greedily tugging at the bottom of his ironed shirt.
That and how the other other Mr. Wilson is twitching between Wade’s legs.
Harry’s sex life wasn’t exactly vanilla, by definition. Okay. Maybe it was a tad vanilla with a couple of saucy dirty talk tossed in and the occasional fuzzy handcuffs. But this? Let alone with another man? His first time with a man, mind you.
Well…Mr. Wilson is definitely exploring uncharted territory here with no YouTube tutorial to walk him through this.
A part of his brain calls out to pump the brakes on this now — take it slow. Treat it as you would any other date. A little cuddle here, a little foreplay there. Bring your hands up and unbutton your shirt one by one …
That brings us to the second thing in this equation: the other voice that’s telling that voice over there to shut the hell up. The voice who is clearly winning this internal battle when he can’t form any intelligible thought.
A pleasurable, husky purr that bubbles from Harry’s throat when he goes to peck his lips. ]
Now you’re just showing off, hot shot.
[ Then it hits Harry again. Ooh! Here we go again.
An immense wave of pleasure and a ravenous appetite for his skin to be rubbing up against Wade. He moans, rutting once more against Wade’s twitching member.
A desperate need to be ripped open and unraveled.
Both of their eyes stay locked in contact, Harry staring hungrily at Wade.
There is no thought being put into these next steps as he guides Wade to the collar of his to rip it apart. He can’t even keep his hands there for long before they're sliding down to grab whatever part of Wade’s extremely well-formed glutes he can greedily latch onto. ]
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Saying all that, it definitely helps he feels Harry's hesitation like a physical thing -- and it's weird, feeling it, 'cause he's about as far as you get from a telepath, and even for him, this is a new level of intimacy. It's like a cord cutting off the breath in his lungs. A gentle jerk of the leash.
Helpful, though.
And kind of reminding him of Cable. Not in a bad way -- not even in a good way -- but in the way where this kind of. Happened before. Wade gets a little wet in his garters and suddenly the other end of his red thread of horny is getting a little too sex now, think later.
Ugh. Hard to be the careful, selfless partner when Harry's egging him on. He rises to the occasion to kiss the bottom of his chin, leaving a little bite behind.] That's my secret. I'm always showing off.
[Right about the time Luther Vandross's dulcet tones in the background hits the high notes with Mariah, Wade's ripping Harry's shirt apart like paper, in two different directions, tossing them to either side of his chair. So. No hope of really sewing that baby up again. (Wait, does Harry have a Luther Vandross Greatest Hits album? Another point in the pros column.)
He brings him down for another kiss, hungrier than the last and a bit more demanding, like they've been reduced to one horny brain cell that's bouncing back and forth in God's most cursed game of Pong. On top of that, the cold fingertips of his hands are already starting to slide up Harry's naked waist. Normally, he's all for it. Lose himself in a fuck and maybe get stabbed in the heart in the middle of it. Nothing mixes better with an orgasm than a bit of bloodletting.
But this is his very human cross-canon [undefinable noun], and Wade. Fucking cares. If he does something to fuck this up. On their first. (Date? Is this a date?) Including being way too horny for his own good and sending it down someone else's way like he spiked a concussion-inducing volleyball.
He was. Supposed to be slowing his roll. Fuck. Fuck. He could still think if Harry wasn't fucking his leg. Probably.
He pulls off the kiss with a groan, throwing his head back. Big swallow. Big boy talk. Okay.] I gotta ask. [He really doesn't have to. He could just not. Asking is making this way harder.] You ever been with a guy before?
[That's character growth: recognizing not everyone spent their life flouncing through a series of sexual trysts with every willing participant. Especially with a full grown man pinning him down. Even though the guy went to college. Are you telling him not everyone in lawyer school is having orgies on the weekends, between the LSATs or whatever? American movies are just bullshit, huh? Can you even trust anything these days?
Even the chair is whining at the brakes being pumped. Or that could be the screws giving out.] Real talk, H-Dog, I can barely think straight right now. [Something something he's never thought anything straight in his life. But seriously, this isn't something you just jump into after a series of girlfriends on a first date (? still questionable) with the first ex-merc slash killer you happen to fall into the arms of. Twice. Three times?] It takes. You know. A gentle touch. And some patience. And a whole lot of lube.
[Or it hurts like a bitch. Ask him how he knows. He's had his own week of crabwalking, he's not about to inflict that on anyone else.]
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Look at him now.
His eyes were drunk with sex and animalistic yearning — the kind where you don’t think about how it affects how you walk the next day. When Harry looks to the side, he can find his nice shirt in tatters. Shirtless, but now he can feel how tight his pants have become. Looking down, he can see how much his member stretched and dampened the fabric of his pants with precum. The sheer horniness from Wade is enough to make Harry want to yowl and beg to be touched. To have this tiger, with all of his stripes, come in and give him what he wants.
He nearly whines when Wade pulls away from their passionate make-out session. If Wade can barely think straight, imagine the mental war zone Harry is currently trudging through. Pulling himself away from his date is out of the question; he is far too skin-hungry and hard to do anything rational.
His toes curl and dig into the fresh carpet as the chair continues to groan under their combined weight. Over three hundred pounds of two men sloppily pawing and dry humping each other.
Breathing heavily, Harry leans his head downward to hide underneath the crook of Wade’s neck and suckles around his skin while peppering in a love bite.
What if Harry screwed this whole thing up? He should have been upfront with Wade about being his first man. What if he isn’t good at this? Harry’s already set himself up to disappoint Wade, yet his pants didn’t get any less tight than before.
So, no. There's the answer to his question. ]
No! [ Harry chuckles while his face nuzzles at the cleavage of his muscular chest. ] I’ve never been with another man.
[ God. He knows this is supposed to be a serious talk. But he has become too smitten to change his tone. ]
I’m sorry, honey. [ One more peck on the lips. ] I should have told you. It’s just … I never realized this is how you felt around me.
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No! Okay. Stop thinking about the b word, or any b-related verbs associated with it. Chill the fuck out, Wade Jr. Not like we're about to go home completely dry. Pretty sure Harry might legitimately find a way to kill him if he suddenly tries to zip on outta here.
-- it's a miracle he's still actively thinking now Harry's moved to sucking on his neck. He might be catching on that the guy in his lap currently is an absolute freak. Apparently cancer is not always a huge turn-off when you find the right hungry, hungry hippo. Wade is not helping this by tipping his head back, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows the load in his mouth. (Of saliva!)
He seriously can't feel if it's even cold in here anymore.
Honey? My god, stooop. He's trying here.] It's no big deal. Lots of men were straight before they met me. [That's not even a good fucking joke. He swallows again.] You mean distractedly horny? I hate to tell you that's, like, my default state of being. [This is not romantic. Maybe Harry should throw him out before he keeps talking.] I'm starting to actually worry that I'm giving you some sort of horny, cancerous stormkissed brain damage. [Now say that five times fast.] Please tell me you're just repressed and ready to let your hair down in the unknown streets of homoerotic hornytown.
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[ Okay. They’re doing this. Jesus Christ, he’s panting. ]
Okay. Wait here. Hold on. Let me —
[ As much as Harry doesn’t want to peel away from the stiff member brushing between his legs, this next part is crucial. He manages, although a few whines and yips escape his throat while running over to the other side of the room.
In hindsight, maybe Harry should’ve growled into Wade’s ear and said something along the lines of “I’m all yours”. Then again, that may be a touch too predictable for such an unexpected couple of two middle-aged men from vastly different universes.
And now? Harry has to commit to the bit. ]
Don’t move — Ah, ah…!
[ There have been zero sexcapades, and already Harry is melting into a puddle of orgasmic ectoplasm. But this part is crucial.
All to … light a couple of candles by the nightstand. Two on each side for the extra layer of mood lighting, to be exact. ]
Alright. I’m almost do—NE!
[ If the rules of a stormkissed bond are true, then now this is Harry’s turn to let Wade in on what he is feeling at this moment. His erect penis is only a part of this equation. Here, Harry allows himself to sink into his shoddy spring mattress. Right now, though? This feels like a world class goose-down bed.
Luther Vandross fades out in the background. Cue Billie Holiday
Harry’s breathing as if he has just run an entire half-marathon. But he did it, smiling to himself and feeling a warmth inside his chest. A thin layer of sweat covers him from head to waist. As Billie's sultry voice plays on in the background, a new sensation blossoms from Harry. While Wade was the one to ignite the flames from within his loins, Harry is the one who waters the garden from beyond the rib-cage of Wade's chest - allowing the roots of his passionate emotions burrow deeper into Wade. An elixir combining one's lust and one's seeping affection to create a moment only poets could dream in their maladaptive daydreams.
He hums contentedly to himself, his erect cock sprouting like a spring lilac flower. This one is for Wade to unwrap. ]
Do you like it?
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Maybe the cat in heat comparison is really coming in clutch here. Oh, god. He's somehow gotten the power to invoke heat in men above their fifties. Clearly Nora Roberts is just gritting her teeth to write about him.]
I'm not moving, promise. [The chair thanks him for its survival of the night. Mostly he's trying to turn the sludge that is his brain into something resembling an organ that might make sense of what Harry is fucking doing --
My god. He cannot be serious. Watching a horny lawyer try to light candles like they're the key to his orgasm, all while sporting a full mast is definitely going into some permanent memory bank in the back of his head forever. It's one of those things you treasure forever, like the sight of a breaching albino whale.
Guess this is the part where he can move. He's moving. And while he's moving, it's the dexterity that allows him to kill men without taking a single hit that gets him onto the bed with the force of whatever pornographic brainblast he's on the other end of.
Oooh boy. Okay, so now he's suddenly understanding Cable's melting brain comment. Harry might be investing in some superb flowery imagery that he is about the furthest person from deserving, but Wade's brain's just sunk beneath the waves. Feels like his skin is on fire, prickled with heat and goosebumps that pluck up between the craters. There's just this blissful pit of nothing where he usually stuffs all the feelings about what he looks like, what his skin feels like under unbothered human fingers, what kind of man he is (the answer is: the worst). Maybe even the part where he's confused to this second about how he got to this point with the most seemingly normal human he's met here, who lived out a whole Twilight fantasy with him, rated R, and still invited him over for dinner.
This is. This is kinda nice. Is that what normal people feel like, in the day-to-day? There's no fourth party peeking in, nothing but this cozy-by-the-fire feeling that he might not be the absolute failure he's made himself out to be.
He ends up straddling Harry as if he's pinned to the bed, a knee pressed in against his hips, Wade's hands sinking into the mattress. So that's why he keeps the room for, huh? The nice bedding?] The candles, or what you're packing down here? [Wade figures he doesn't have to do much more than roll his palm over the cloth barely keeping Harry's cock covered to get him going.] Both getting a solid review from me. Definitely a B&B I'll stay in again.
[Already got rid of that shirt for him, so he can work on getting his pants off next. One hand works on that task, and the other coaxes its way up Harry's naked chest, picking up sweat on the way, tracking the rapid rise and fall of his lungs. It's only incredible core strength that keeps him from falling over. Good thing he's the closest thing to ambidextrous anyone gets to.] You good still? You can pump the brakes anytime.
[He can't help but give anyone this deep in with him their final out.]
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And then he would have spent the rest of his days hiding from the fact that he shouted, “Stretch me out, big guy!” A perfectly normal thing to say when you’re doing the bedroom tango, but revealing enough for Harry to reevaluate where he has been keeping this power bottom energy this whole time.
But that’s for another cross-canon scenario (or further down the road. Gotta keep things tabula rasa, you know?).
Did Harry have to run around the bed, stiff as a board, tip-toeing with his buttcheeks and thighs clenched tightly together and squirming like some eccentric mating call? All to light four damn candles? Well, by the look on Wade’s face, it was well worth it. Sometimes you’ve got to cut loose and make it fun. Some people are not meant to be the main protagonists in those steamy 1980s novels your mom used to read under a hot bubble bath with the jetstreams going at it full-force.
Being straddled like this — tight enough that Harry doesn’t slip away but not enough to bruise his skin — it felt nice. He feels secure. The sensation of Wade palming over his cock makes him groan with delight. This time, he doesn’t have the same carnal desire to jump all over Wade’s bones. Instead, he looks at Wade with a softer gaze and a dimpled grin.
Now it was Harry’s turn to get curious around Wade’s body, tracing a hand over his thigh and making it over to his pert and perky ass — giving it an experimental squeeze. Softer than a pillow. ]
I’m still good.
[ His cock is exposed to the brisk, cold room after Wade methodically peels away his pants. The scent of fresh soap and musk melds together to create something tantalizing to the nose. Here he lies naked and exposed, inviting both Wade and himself into this very new venture.
Harry uses his other free hand to brush over the apple of Wade’s cheek. ]
How about we take this one from the top and you show me how it’s done? Nice and steady. And with no furniture at risk of breaking into pieces.
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