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It’s been raining for well over four hours when Wade comes home and soaks the floor in a mix of blood and water. You’re in the living room, but he’s already thinking up an explanation — I know what you’re thinking, but only most of this is mine. Some of it isn’t. And that’s good. With every step his boots squelch against the floor, over and over again, until he gives up and hobbles around for five minutes until he can pull them off and throw them aside. His guns and swords, caked with gore, are dropped to the floor and shoved into a corner. He’ll get to them later.
It’s been a long day.
“Hey.”
He hears you before he sees you, warmer than he is, in one of his sweaters with a mug of something that smells like instant soup. A shudder crawls down his spine and he swallows a sneeze, throwing you a quick nod before rounding the corner into the bedroom and fighting off the rest of his outfit.
He can hear you again from the hallway (Wade, do you need any help?) so he mumbles something that he can’t quite make out himself and pulls off the top half of his clothes with a grunt of relief. The bedsheets are definitely filthy — he forgot how much blood stains — but he doesn’t care. Not right now. All he can think about is grabbing a cup of soup for himself and maybe ordering some pizza and forgetting about everything that isn’t you for a couple of hours, or until he has to go somewhere again.
He makes do with a pair of ancient sweatpants and a bathrobe (damp, almost dry, which means you probably had it on earlier, which is good and makes him feel warm) before he heads out towards the living room with a t-shirt hanging off his arm. You aren’t in the hallway anymore, and he finds you back where you must have been all day, lounging on the couch amidst the organized chaos you’ve created for yourself.
He’s got to hand it to you — it’s become much easier to walk around without tripping over something since you came along. Not that this was all your doing; he’d done most of the heavy lifting, and you definitely weren’t going to be tossing his guns out of the room yourself.
You look up at him when he palms the free armrest of the couch, the one you aren’t draping yourself over, and you smile. He’s obviously tired, but he’s still the same old Wade. “Long day?”
“God,” he drops down next to you unceremoniously and you prop your legs up on his lap. “You have no idea. I mean, I’m trying to find something typically wacky to say, but—“
He shrugs. “Empty, for once.”
You poke at his arm with your toe until he swats at your foot with the t-shirt he brought with him. “That’s the bathrobe I had on earlier.”
“I figured!” He beams at you mildly. “It smells like you. You smell good.” He pauses. “You smell great.”
“It’s your shampoo.” You say.
“I know, but it’s different when you use it.”
“Fair enough.” You take one last sip of soup before you hand the rest of it over to him — he gulps it down and puts the cup on the coffee table (you got it off craigslist — he’d told you not to get attached, he has to move a lot, but it’s so full of stuff now that it’s practically become part of the family) and immediately you flip around so your head is resting closer to him. You dig your toes into the seam between the cushion and the armrest before you remember how gross it is, but the movement helps you get closer to Wade.
He yawns.
“I missed you today, y’know.” You plant your hand on his waist and he blows air out his nose when he looks down at you. “Like, a lot.”
Wade already looks less tired, like the concept of the idea of bumping bellies with you is enough to get him up and revving. “Oh yeah?” He snakes his fingers around your waist with one hand while the other palms its way under your shirt and up your back. “How much is a lot? Because in my opinion, a lot can really vary. You never know how much a lot is to someone who isn’t you unless you ask them, and that’s just… awkward.”
You use the grip he’s got on your wrist to drag yourself closer and closer until you can kiss the scarred skin on his jaw.
“Like, to me, a lot is a shitton, but to someone else, like Logan — Wolverine — it might be just a tiny bit.” He pulls away from you to look you in the eye. “Should I call him and ask?”
“You should kiss me,” you mumble, shifting so he’s touching more of your back. “I didn’t even know you had his number.”
“Oh,” he says, “well, I can do that, too. Wow, you’re horny tonight.”
You scoff at him. “Gross, dude.”
He lets go of you for a moment to put his hands up impishly. To his credit, he manages to look somewhat blameless, even if he doesn’t mean it. “Who, me? No way.” You complain wordlessly over the lack of contact so his hands return to where they were and your mouth finds the skin under his jawline. He keeps talking, “I’m not gross, you’re gross.”
You wriggle your wrist free of his grip to pat down the front of his sweatpants. “Says the guy with a boner.”
“Guilty as charged,” he simpers, but you can feel him lift his hips just a little. “Y’know, technically it’s your fault for kissing all up on me. Also, I’m only half hard, so the scientific term is a chub.”
“There’s literally nothing scientific about the word chub, Wade.”
He fakes an elaborate shudder, eyes wide and intense but soft at the same time. “Say that again.”
You blink. “What, chub?”
“Noooo.” He thumps his hips into your hand in an effort to emphasize the growing need for… something. “My name. Say my name. I like when you say it.”
“Oh,” your voice dips down, calm and smug, “Wade, that’s stupid. Ridiculous, really, Wade.” You tug on the waistband of his sweatpants while you squirm closer. The bathrobe feels soft on your skin, and you can smell the shower and the shampoo when you brush against it. This is fun. You feel at home, both with him and the deep warmth in the pit of your stomach and the goosebumps skittering up your neck. You’re close enough that you can both hear and feel the sigh-and-groan it earns you. It does little to curb your ego, and even less to slow you down.
“Y’know,” he speaks up, “maybe we should switch positions a little.”
You pick at his pants. “Bed?”
Wade makes a noise of apprehension in the back of his throat. “I bled all over it. It was bad. Really bad.”
“That’s,” you inhale, “that’s fine. Couch is fine.” You smile to show him you mean it. “I’m happy as long as I’m with you. Do you want me to lie down, or…”
He shrugs. “Sure. It’s a big couch.” It’s true — it’s a huge couch, which is remarkably convenient. Maybe you should start calling it The Fuck Couch, since that’s usually what the two of you end up doing on in the evenings. Well — not every evening, but frequently enough to warrant the nickname.
“Wait.”
You stop mid-squirm. “What?”
“You should be on top,” he babbles, “it’s really hot. Like, I-got-a-boner-just-thinking-about-it hot. Just get on my lap and we’ll do it like that. You get the lube, I’ll get the condom.” It’s an attractive idea, that’s for sure, so you stand up and shimmy your pants off and make a dash for the bedroom.
He wasn’t lying about the bed being a mess, but you don’t really care at the moment — the only thing on your mind is finding the lube so you can get back to the living room. You avoid the puddles and yank the drawer open, fishing around until you find what you came for, and then you scuttle back to Wade before he can even think about getting impatient. He sees the lube, and gives you a thumbs up, which you gladly return. Wade might be an idiot, but right now, he’s your idiot.
You drop the lube next to you on the couch when you climb onto his lap in the borrowed shirt. You lost the boxers you borrowed from him somewhere halfway down the hallway, probably, because you’re starting to feel a chill. He’s hard now — you aren’t sure if it’s because he’s been palming himself through the pants or because he’s just endlessly ready to knock boots with you, but you’re thankful either way. He’s on the other half of the couch now, which makes sense — you might decide to go horizontal halfway through. Furthermore, his pants (and underwear) are resting unceremoniously around his ankles. The condom is on, too, but then again, he’s always been efficient. You whistle.
“Wow, Wilson. You really went all out, didn’t you?”
“Hey,” he winks, “only the best for the best. ”
“Ass.”
You scoff once, and then again when he tugs on your finger with the hand that isn’t busy lubing everything up. You wrap your fingers around his cock, slicked up, and jerk it once, twice, slowly — slow enough that he sighs in repressed anticipation — just to spread the lube. It’s almost a little obscene, but maybe that’s just how he likes it.
There’s a brief moment of suspense when he lets go to plant both of his hands on your hips. Nothing bad, just the slightest hint of who moves first, who’s too impatient to wait, who’s more turned on, a mock game of patience that neither of you really have the time for. It certainly explains the lack of foreplay, but right now, you don’t mind. You’ll nag him about that later — when you’re feeling truly indulgent and not high off the moment and the tugging in your belly.
When you lift yourself up, he meets you mid-way through your descent, a slow roll of his hips helping you sink down on him. You hardly pay attention to anything around you right now, but you see his throat move when he groans, like he’s trying to swallow the noise. It feels good, a squirming heat, not ecstasy but a comfort you’ve been waiting for, and you dip your head down into the crook of his neck, pressing your hot — too hot — face into his warm skin.
“Oh, I missed this,” he hisses, “I missed you, god, god.”
You make a noise in assent and Wade keeps murmuring, even if he knows you’re too busy riding his cock, even if both of you’re digging your fingers into his skin and vice versa. Everything is good, not perfect, never perfect because it doesn’t have to be, but genuinely good and it makes everything he’s gone through to get back home worth it.
He could eat you up. He wishes he could eat you up.
There’s a pressure building, winding its way up through your belly and into your lungs and it squeezes a long, low sigh out of you when Wade squeezes your ass. His other hand goes around to your front and he touches you, thumbs at you with a heavy hand and your breath hitches — he’s not going to lose the race (or win it?) and come first and at this point, hips rolling, breath shorter and shorter, you really don’t mind.
Climax eventually finds you, a snapping string heralded by a ripple, a shudder that crests in the goosebumps on your back and a groan that starts all the way down in your toes and works its way up your throat and off your tongue. Everything goes tight, and it’s like the realization that you’re coming gets him undone as well — or sets him on the right path, anyway, because his thrusts become sloppy and his arms are firm around you, pulling you down when he fucks up until he buries his face in the side of your head and curses into your hair. He doesn’t stop until a couple thrusts later, slowing down more and more until he stills, completely quiet and appropriately boneless.
You sit together in a half-sprawl, arms twisted around each other and warmer than the air in the big, messy apartment. You laugh into him at something trivial, the situation at hand, maybe, and he gives your ass a lazy smack before sighing heavily.
“Was that good for you, too?” He isn’t being serious, you think — expect — but you’re way too engrossed in lazily touching him (your nails ghost up and down his back) and having him touch you back to answer.
“Maybe,” you murmur in return. “We should do this again, by the way.”
“Yeah,” he answers.
“I’ll want some foreplay, though.”
“Yeah,” he says again, “Of course. Just… let me sit here for a second.” He shifts to get you even closer and your knees rub against the bathrobe. “Do you want oral now? I can do oral now.”
“Nah,” you shake your head, “this is fine.”
“You’re the boss.”
Exhausted, he rests his face in the nape of your neck. His breath feels like fire against the cold sweat on your skin and his hands, fingers rough and worn and hurt by years of heavy work, skim down your sides like spiders. It makes you squirm, but not unpleasantly — you can’t help but sigh when he starts mouthing something unintelligible into the flesh of your throat. It isn’t the first time he prays into you and it won’t be the last. You hope, anyway.
He goes quiet, and it feels like two or three whole minutes of silence until he speaks up again — almost a new record. Eventually and regretfully, he pulls away so he can look down at you.
“I have a ton of baggage, y’know. Not a Logan ton, a Wade ton. Just saying.”
You shake your head at him, fond as hell. You can barely lift your hand from where it’s resting against the back of his neck, fingers as worn out as you feel, but you bring it to the side of his face anyway and he leans into your touch like he’s starved for it. “I know,” you murmur. “I don’t mind.”
“That’s stupid,” he kisses your palm, eyes shut, nose wrinkling in mock disgust. “You’re stupid.”
“I love you too, dumbass.”