This... feels like progress. Sort of. At any rate, it's an answer he can understand for it is and not have to shift through the mountain of esoteric references that usually make up Wade's word vomit. As long as he can at least understand what this squawking dildo is saying, he can pretend to be satisfied.
Nathan grunts, walking back across the room. Whether it's from Wade's answer or the defiled pillow he's stuck holding is a mystery not worth getting into.
"He'll get used to it." That's some equal sincerity here.
Without missing a beat, he opens the door, drops the pillow on the floor and makes it walk the dinosaur out of his room, a phrase which here means "he dropkicks it the hell out." He doesn't stay to watch the thing sail out and over the stairwell to land somewhere in the parking lot, slamming the door once that bit of necessary nastiness is done and moving to lean against the wall, arms crossed as he faces Wade.
"You don't have to be at the school to spend time with him," he says like he's still working this plan out as he goes, evenly, carefully. "Take him back here on weekends. A lot of the kids up there do that."
Wade feels a visceral amount of pain then. Pain which felt so much more guttural and churning compared to the former table-lamp-assault. And it was the pain of watching his beloved Cabpillow get Sparta-kicked into the elements. A pain which shook him to his very core. Nathan, you monster.
Oh well.
It's okay.
He could always make another later. Although it wouldn't smell nearly as hyper-realistic as one which had his disgruntled compatriot here would smear his greasy unwashed head-mop all over every night. But... there were ways. Ways to fix that.
"A lot of kids go back to dirty hotel rooms with their illegitimate guardians?" Wade needed to make sure that he just heard Cable right. "Listen, Cable. I don't know what constituted normalcy in that fire-roasted future of yours, but here in safespace America, we call that a setup for Dateline NBC."
Okay okay okay. He gets the point. And as if to signify his willingness to comply with the demand being made here, Wade scoots over on the bed a little (or well, a lot because Nathan's fat), smooths over a the sheets a bit, then (whilst making unsettling levels of eye-contact) delicately pats the spot next to him.
Almost fifteen minutes in and it took this long for him to fall back on his go-to refrain for Wade's bullshit. That's a new record. Every day, he gets a little more used to putting up with it.
You'd think it would be difficult to maintain eye contact with someone whose eyes aren't even visible, but Nathan's getting a lot of practice in. "Get off my bed," he finally says with as little emotion as he can muster (which makes him sound even more exasperated) as he pushes off the wall, naturally expecting Wade to completely ignore him. Worth a shot anyway.
Seeing as how he's spent the greater afternoon running all over the city and Westchester County with an on-and-off storm going on, he's more than a little grimy and definitely soggy; two qualities that are definitely contributing to his mood. His jacket comes off first, tossed over the back of the chair he passes on the way to his dresser. Every drawer is filled with something, none of it predictable, all of it practical. Smaller guns in the top drawer, ammunition in the middle. Stacks of circuit boards and miscellaneous gear salvaged from appliances and electronics, dismantled rifles cannibalized for their parts. And at the very bottom drawer, a spare pair of civilian clothing, neatly folded below a combat knife and sheath he hasn't found any room for — a blemish on an otherwise efficient use of space — which he kneels down to pick through.
He figures this is and the implication of what's coming next is practically porn for someone as fucked up as Wade, but he's not about to tailor his routine and basic needs around him, just because he wants to avoid whatever filthy comments are going to come bouncing his way. What kind of way to live is that?
Such a provocatively domineering tone there. So much graceful assertion. Yet... yet, Wade can't help but liken it to an voluptuously plump little mosquito, huskily EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEing in your ear at night. Yet, you don't get up and take aim to properly swat it. No, you just blearily wave your hand and smack your ear, too warm, toasty, and lazy to make an actual effort.
Which is why Wade still continues sitting there, opting to cross his legs oh-so-lady-like. So he can, ya know, sit back and watch the free show unfolding here. A show he didn't even have to ask OR pay for! Wowzer! What a bargain!
And Wade, being Wade, is making no effort at hiding his quaint little gasps at Cable's every move. The way he (fatly) slings off his jacket and shambles toward the dresser like a deranged gorilla searching for a snickers bar. Opening those drawers to... guns! Ammunition! Gasp! Gasp! And then---uh. Circuit boards?
Wade's boner wilts. And he lets out a disappointed, "D'awwww." Way to kill the mood, Inspector Gadget.
Except, the GIANT FUCKING ANIME COMBAT KNIFE and clothing in the bottom drawer is way more his kink. Preferably put together but, ugh, fine. He'll settle for one or the other. And as all this is transpiring, this fucking TV station is STILL PLAYING DISCO HITS. Just in time for this.
Nathan tilts his head upwards as if in prayer, even closing his eyes. Exhales. "Hashtag get-the-hell-off-my-bed. Go bleed somewhere else."
Also, he didn't even take anything off yet, so he's not sure where that lie came from. Though to say he doesn't even want to now would be severe understatement, in spite of the fact that the cuffs of his jeans are splattered with mud from the road leading up to the Institute, his shirt is sticking to his chest, and he can't tell if the moisture glued in his hair is sweat, rain or both. Probably both.
Before he opens his mouth to tack on another retort, the combat knife catches his eye again. Holds it there for a little longer than a second.
And then, an idea begins to take shape.
"I'm getting changed." He gathers up the bundle from the drawer and stands. The door to the bathroom is already open so there's no halt in his step when he goes to it, his tone a matter-of-fact grumble. "You better be gone when I'm done."
Cable sure knows how to disappoint, doesn't he? Haha, now Wade knows how it felt to be his wife and kid when Firefist--wait. Too soon? Yeah. Especially given that's coming from a timeline that never happened. Besides, that analogy is way too dark for his bestest friend in the whole wide world (over the age of 50, okay. xoxo, colossus).
That said, aforementioned BFF is being a complete bonerbiter right now and shambling on into the shower without so much as an INVITATION. Telling Wade to get off his bed like he's some throwaway chanteuse! Especially after the (rather problematic) violent dispute which had just transpired. The very least he could offer was a little TLC.
Wade hears the shower flip on, followed by some fat heavy shuffling. Naturally, he immediately wants to mosey on over and test the doorknob on the off-chance his silly pal here is just playing coy! But... buuuuut. Wade reaches over to grab the remote and idly starts (finally) flipping from disco to actual channels, only to settle for one of the five working channels which---has Dallas reruns currently playing.
And as Wade zones out on that, mesmerized by Larry Hagman's hollow 80s dilfy gazy, he begins to think. To think about other brands of hollow dilfy gazes... ones which are so much more accessible and only a door knock away.
So, taking a deep breath, the merc sliiiiides off the bed and tiptoes over to the bathroom door. Leaning up against it, he takes one gloved hand and gentle raps at the cheap jizz-crusted door frame.
"Open up, Cable." Cue: magical piano intro. Then. "Do you wanna build a snowman..."
There's no reply and the shower keeps running, but the door isn't locked or even closed that well. These cheap motels and their cheap ass construction. Under Wade's hand, the door creaks open a few inches, just enough to give him a view of the steam filled bathroom. The mirror is fogged up and the shower curtain is firmly drawn, and the smell of sweat hangs heavy in the hot air. Same goes for the mildew that's etched into every surface of this disgusting room, but that's infinitely less sexy.
It's difficult to make out anything else — likely from both sides of the curtain, which hasn't moved back.
Wow. This is like the setup of an sexy slasher flick. Cheap motel, running shower with no one in sight, foggy mirrors. Heck, there's even a slutty girl with a nice ass knocking on the door, trying to jump on her boyfriend disco stick! (HINT: That's Wade. The slutty girl is Wade.)
Anyway, he could huff this manly mildew all day but uh. The door is just... kind of opening on it's own. Which is NOT. HIS FAULT. He very explicitly stated that he wanted to build a snowman and NOTHING MORE. So if all hell breaks loose from here on out, as Dreamwidth as his witness, IT IS NOT HIS FAULT.
So just. Gonna. Use one finger to... slooooowly push that door open a few inches more.
"Heeeey so I forgot to pluck my left nutsack earlier today and I left my Caboodle in there so do you mind if I. Ya know. Get my tweezies." WOOSH, a bunch of musky mansweat steam is blasting him in the face now as he opens the door in full. Standing there. Like a sentient used tampon, surrounded by a heavenly mist.
It's his fault. The door that comes bouncing back directly into his face says so.
It's not entirely accurate to say that he's been tricked, because honestly, Nathan really had wanted to shower. Eventually. When Wade was about fifty feet away from the building. Shutting the door behind him, he'd dropped his clean clothes on the toilet seat, turned the shower on, drew the curtain back. Then he pressed himself against the wall next to the door with his combat knife unsheathed and waited. The door wasn't even locked, because he's pretty sure the mechanism is busted because the thing can't even close all the way. Altogether it's like catnip for Wade, easy obvious bait that Nathan knows he won't be able to resist.
And sure enough—
When the door opens enough for him to have a good opening, Nathan kicks it back, hard enough to hear the cheap wood splinter. It goes flying back against Wade, hopefully to give him a face full of pain and peeling paint. Regardless, Nathan doesn't give him the time to react. He darts forward and aims for his throat with what is definitely, unequivocally and resoundingly a big fucking knife.
Whereas Cable had genuinely wanted to take a shower at some point in the near future, Wade had genuinely wanted to build a snowman. At some point. Possibly when it's a little bit colder out. And global warming isn't such a big issue.
Anyway, even as he kind of starts to creeeek that door open with his pinkie, Wade's half bracing himself for what comes next. Because deep, deep, deep down in his loins, he knows. And one of the great things about being a human pin cushion, is he's fully equipped to deal with the brutal agony that is L-O-V-E.
Case in point: door smashing into his face and breaking every single bone in it, in one fell swoop. And back he flies, like a dildo flung away in favor of the real dee. He bounces (literally) on the floor and rolls just in time to avoid the splinters of said flimsy door, and the fat of said not so flimsy Cable.
"Were you just STANDING behind that door with a giant combat knife?!" He's doing his very very best here to wiggle out of the way from the wrecking ball (and not the Miley-Cyrus-fun-kind) that is Cable coming his way. "Oh my god. Talk about Bates Motel role play! Oh oh oh! Does this make me Janet Leigh?" He's gonna just, reach over on the floor and grab a chunk of door to use as a makeshift shield against Cable's extremely massive, sweaty, pulsating, throbbing... combat knife.
There's another awful crack as the blade hits the door directly and goes right through the wood, the tip of it actually making it out to the other side just inches away from Wade's eye. Nathan gives it a good, hard twist and wrenches it right back out.
"Less talking," he huffs, "more bleeding." He delivers a kick at the leg on Wade's less dominant side, trying to sweep his feet out from under him. He feels his lungs kicking into overdrive as adrenaline starts flooding into him like a wave, feeling so drenched in it that he wouldn't be surprised if he could smell it along with the mud, the residue of today's storm still sticking to his skin with his sweat, the humidity bouncing off the shoddily built, filthy walls of this entire room.
He can still smell Wade's blood from the lamp he threw at him, too. And with the earsplitting crunch his face made when it connected with the door, he bets there's going to be a lot more of it soon too.
Really, just giving in and taking the hits here would likely be the easier path to follow. Given the carnivorous rage Cable is apparently spiraling through (over the request to build a snowman, no less!!!), simply giving in and taking it might make this whole thing blow over a lot less quickly. After all, it'll kill him--hahaha. Ha ha ha ha.
But Wade's a fighter and truth be told, he doesn't really like the agonizing sensation of a blade driving straight through his eye socket. So he's not gonna go down without a struggle, here.
If this isn't a Lifetime movie plotline which simultaneously campaigns against domestic violence, Wade isn't sure what is!
"You know," CRACK. Another block. Oh dear. This door-chunk is getting awfully smaller. "It's so much more of a turn on when--" THWAK. The sweep to the leg connects, and he topples over and on to his ass once again. That's not to say he isn't instantly struggling to scramble backward on the floor, like the spastic little cockroach he is. "--Vanessa tells me that. Although I gotta admit--" And he's gonna grab... whatever he can to attempt another block---which happens to be the designated Holy Bible for said shit-tier room. "You've got the whole gilfy-bear thing going for you, so I'd be lying if I said that it's doing nothing for me."
And since he's in this oh-so-compromising position, let Wade take this moment to just, spread his legs a little bit more than necessary. "Wanna snap those meaty sausage digits of yours and ash my loins, old man?"
And for the upfuckingteenth time today, Nathan doesn't know what the hell he's talking about. His answer to all of that, and to the way Wade opens his legs like a cheap whore? Is to stomp down on one of his kneecaps. The sound his boot makes when it connects with the bone is like velcro being torn back, or brick rolling over packing peanuts, and he can feel the crunch through the leather, deep and satisfying. It sends a bolt of heat straight to his gut.
He doesn't expect it to hold Wade back for long, though. The man is worse than a cockroach; at least those can be counted on not to come back when they're squished. So Nathan opts to stop him the only other way he knows how: by pinning him. He goes down, cuffing the other around the bible and across the face with his techno-organic arm. He holds it over Wade's throat, bearing down on it. He uses the rest of his weight to hold Wade's body down with his own, half-kneeling, half-lying over him.
Nathan's knife-wielding hand moves to Wade's sternum, and he presses the blade down.
"Keep talking." The tip of the knife scratches over the fabric of Wade's jumpsuit, cutting through crimson to reveal a line of mangled raw flesh underneath. The pupil of Nathan's good eye is blown. His techno-organic one gleams red. "See how far your raving lunatic bullshit gets you when I jam this through your throat."
Of course, he doesn't know if he really wants to go through with it for something like this, which really isn't even all that much of a serious offense if he thinks about it (and fuck, it should say a lot about how he's starting to grade the dumb shit Wade does on a scale), but his body sure seems to like the idea at any rate. Being this close to another source of heat doesn't help matters either.
This is giving him the absolute weirdest fucking boner and he doesn't even realize it yet.
Oscar Wilde once said that the heart was meant to be broken. Maybe the very same thing could be said about kneecaps. Because, seriously. Outside of the family jewels, what other broken part of the body triggers that level of mind-numbingly excruciating pain? Its sole purpose in life, outside of any biologically relevant function, is for irredeemable fuckups like Wade here to have broken at any point in time.
Good thing the perpetual cancer eating away at his body on a twenty-four-seven basis makes the whole experience an easier pill to swallow. Because, haha--otherwise he might've actually considered shutting the fuck up for ten seconds!
Regardless, the break does cause him to loosen his grip on King James' New York Times Bestseller in favor of clutching at his kneecap--only, that's also momentarily stifled by the globulous girth of a man bearing down on him. Oh! Well! Shiver me timbers, Deadpool, his kneecap can wait.
"What's all this about you wanting to jam your twelve-inch blade in my throat?" Comes a strained but still all-too husky murmur before--oh. Jesus. He can feel those twelve hard inches pressing into the center of his chest and not in the happy-go-paizuri way. Bum-mer. The strangled, guttural groan that rises from his lips is almost as grotesque as the splintering sound of the blade cutting into flesh and bone.
Wade actually goes silent for half a second, save the malformed bodily noises coming from him. It's almost as if he's really starting to absorb what's happening here. That he's actually reconsidering--oh. Wait. What's that? Feel that little roll to your groin, Cable? No? How about now, because there seems to be a steady-dry-humpy-rhythm to it.
"Would you mind, pushing that a little--" He coughs though his words. "---to the left? I got an itch there. Massive sarcoma. Like the size of Wendy William's left breast." One gloved hand reaches up to delicately rest on Cable's very-much-so-knifed hand. It's a far too romantic gesture, given the situation. "Here, lemme help you, big boy." Winky-face. Winky-face.
i had a harder time picking the icon than writing the tag
You know those really fierce fullbodyshivers you occasionally see in certain mass marketed animated media commonly produced in East Asian territories? And sometimes beyond?
That's how Nathan reacts to that hip roll.
It's less of a slap back to his senses and more of a gut punch, sharp, needling pleasure that shoots up his body and leaves him feeling more dazed than the head rush he's getting from feeling Wade's chest strain against his as he struggles for breath. That's the first clue that he may have fucked up somewhere here.
The second comes from him actually looking down at his groin. Yeah — he fucked up.
And the third comes from feeling Wade's hand slither over his, right as it's in the midst of preparing to plunge the knife straight through his breastbone (or at least making a good show pretending to). Yeah — he really fucked up.
All the fight seems to rush out of him like air escaping a balloon. His head drops and he presses his face against the closest thing he can find that serves the purpose of a rock to crawl under — in this case the space between Wade's shoulder and the wall — and mumbles miserably into the abyss.
Now this is the part where Wade would need Fred Savage to cover his eyes. Because even if all the high mast shenanigans are OFF SCREEN, that doesn't omit the fact that there's cleaner boner business at play here.
Which, okay, Wade is trying to figure out how to actually react to. Because he's been egging Cable on for the last hour or so now (and let's be real, since... forever) and he's pushed every physical and metaphorical button IMAGINABLE. But feeling a very-protruding-hardon pressing up against his leg (nearly massaging that gradually regenerating shattered kneecap there) is...
... it's...
... such an overwhelming sensation of seemingly unattainable victory, that he isn't even sure what to do with himself. Kind of like finding the elusive surfing Pikachu and not frying your game with Missingno. But sexier. And listen, he probably has a boner too, but when does Wade NOT have a boner? Pikachu and boners in the same paragraph. This sure is a time to be alive.
ANYWAY, he's just sorta' silently holding his breath here. Hell, he's even forgotten about the giant fucking knife cutting into his chest. Because he really, really doesn't want to ruin this magical moment of beefstick-y eroticism with his bee eff eff. Especially as Cable sort of slumps on top of him and seems to be imploding over everything Wade is astoundingly giddy about.
Ah yes, there it is. The quintessential call out to God's only son. And as Cable deflates against his body, Wade FINALLY exhales through pursed lips, mimicking a sound akin to a tightly puckered anus releasing a heavily built up fart.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee. Shattering that deafening silence. "OhgodsorryIcouldn'tcontainmyselfanylonger."
Then, he lifts his other free hand to reach up and around, resting it on the back of Cable's head. His fingers curl in slightly and he begins gently stroking the sweaty clumps of old man hair protruding from the other's meaty skull. "There, there." He whispers in a hushed tone, similar to that of a mustachio'd pedo trying to coax a small child off the playground. "Anyone would get off on cutting up cancer victims. It's so very George R. R. Martin of you. Like I'm getting major Dothraki vibes right now."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
i have a heart attack every time i see that icon in my notifs
Nathan grunts, walking back across the room. Whether it's from Wade's answer or the defiled pillow he's stuck holding is a mystery not worth getting into.
"He'll get used to it." That's some equal sincerity here.
Without missing a beat, he opens the door, drops the pillow on the floor and makes it walk the dinosaur out of his room, a phrase which here means "he dropkicks it the hell out." He doesn't stay to watch the thing sail out and over the stairwell to land somewhere in the parking lot, slamming the door once that bit of necessary nastiness is done and moving to lean against the wall, arms crossed as he faces Wade.
"You don't have to be at the school to spend time with him," he says like he's still working this plan out as he goes, evenly, carefully. "Take him back here on weekends. A lot of the kids up there do that."
The ones that have families to go back to anyway.
dokipool
Oh well.
It's okay.
He could always make another later. Although it wouldn't smell nearly as hyper-realistic as one which had his disgruntled compatriot here would smear his greasy unwashed head-mop all over every night. But... there were ways. Ways to fix that.
"A lot of kids go back to dirty hotel rooms with their illegitimate guardians?" Wade needed to make sure that he just heard Cable right. "Listen, Cable. I don't know what constituted normalcy in that fire-roasted future of yours, but here in safespace America, we call that a setup for Dateline NBC."
Okay okay okay. He gets the point. And as if to signify his willingness to comply with the demand being made here, Wade scoots over on the bed a little (or well, a lot because Nathan's fat), smooths over a the sheets a bit, then (whilst making unsettling levels of eye-contact) delicately pats the spot next to him.
"Makeup cuddles?"
What the everloving fuck.
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Almost fifteen minutes in and it took this long for him to fall back on his go-to refrain for Wade's bullshit. That's a new record. Every day, he gets a little more used to putting up with it.
You'd think it would be difficult to maintain eye contact with someone whose eyes aren't even visible, but Nathan's getting a lot of practice in. "Get off my bed," he finally says with as little emotion as he can muster (which makes him sound even more exasperated) as he pushes off the wall, naturally expecting Wade to completely ignore him. Worth a shot anyway.
Seeing as how he's spent the greater afternoon running all over the city and Westchester County with an on-and-off storm going on, he's more than a little grimy and definitely soggy; two qualities that are definitely contributing to his mood. His jacket comes off first, tossed over the back of the chair he passes on the way to his dresser. Every drawer is filled with something, none of it predictable, all of it practical. Smaller guns in the top drawer, ammunition in the middle. Stacks of circuit boards and miscellaneous gear salvaged from appliances and electronics, dismantled rifles cannibalized for their parts. And at the very bottom drawer, a spare pair of civilian clothing, neatly folded below a combat knife and sheath he hasn't found any room for — a blemish on an otherwise efficient use of space — which he kneels down to pick through.
He figures this is and the implication of what's coming next is practically porn for someone as fucked up as Wade, but he's not about to tailor his routine and basic needs around him, just because he wants to avoid whatever filthy comments are going to come bouncing his way. What kind of way to live is that?
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Such a provocatively domineering tone there. So much graceful assertion. Yet... yet, Wade can't help but liken it to an voluptuously plump little mosquito, huskily EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEing in your ear at night. Yet, you don't get up and take aim to properly swat it. No, you just blearily wave your hand and smack your ear, too warm, toasty, and lazy to make an actual effort.
Which is why Wade still continues sitting there, opting to cross his legs oh-so-lady-like. So he can, ya know, sit back and watch the free show unfolding here. A show he didn't even have to ask OR pay for! Wowzer! What a bargain!
And Wade, being Wade, is making no effort at hiding his quaint little gasps at Cable's every move. The way he (fatly) slings off his jacket and shambles toward the dresser like a deranged gorilla searching for a snickers bar. Opening those drawers to... guns! Ammunition! Gasp! Gasp! And then---uh. Circuit boards?
Wade's boner wilts. And he lets out a disappointed, "D'awwww." Way to kill the mood, Inspector Gadget.
Except, the GIANT FUCKING ANIME COMBAT KNIFE and clothing in the bottom drawer is way more his kink. Preferably put together but, ugh, fine. He'll settle for one or the other. And as all this is transpiring, this fucking TV station is STILL PLAYING DISCO HITS. Just in time for this.
And if Nathan starts like... undressing at ANY speed, Wade is abruptly going to blurt out, "WAIT! Wait. Hold on hold on hold on! Go slower. I wanna Insta this!" To which, he procures a phone out of his ass (literally) and begins shuffling through his screen. "Just two buddies. Hanging out. Getting naked together. No biggy, no biggy. HASHTAG JUSTHETEROSEXUALTHINGS."
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Nathan tilts his head upwards as if in prayer, even closing his eyes. Exhales. "Hashtag get-the-hell-off-my-bed. Go bleed somewhere else."
Also, he didn't even take anything off yet, so he's not sure where that lie came from. Though to say he doesn't even want to now would be severe understatement, in spite of the fact that the cuffs of his jeans are splattered with mud from the road leading up to the Institute, his shirt is sticking to his chest, and he can't tell if the moisture glued in his hair is sweat, rain or both. Probably both.
Before he opens his mouth to tack on another retort, the combat knife catches his eye again. Holds it there for a little longer than a second.
And then, an idea begins to take shape.
"I'm getting changed." He gathers up the bundle from the drawer and stands. The door to the bathroom is already open so there's no halt in his step when he goes to it, his tone a matter-of-fact grumble. "You better be gone when I'm done."
no subject
Cable sure knows how to disappoint, doesn't he? Haha, now Wade knows how it felt to be his wife and kid when Firefist--wait. Too soon? Yeah. Especially given that's coming from a timeline that never happened. Besides, that analogy is way too dark for his bestest friend in the whole wide world (over the age of 50, okay. xoxo, colossus).
That said, aforementioned BFF is being a complete bonerbiter right now and shambling on into the shower without so much as an INVITATION. Telling Wade to get off his bed like he's some throwaway chanteuse! Especially after the (rather problematic) violent dispute which had just transpired. The very least he could offer was a little TLC.
Wade hears the shower flip on, followed by some
fatheavy shuffling. Naturally, he immediately wants to mosey on over and test the doorknob on the off-chance his silly pal here is just playing coy! But... buuuuut. Wade reaches over to grab the remote and idly starts (finally) flipping from disco to actual channels, only to settle for one of the five working channels which---has Dallas reruns currently playing.And as Wade zones out on that, mesmerized by Larry Hagman's hollow 80s dilfy gazy, he begins to think. To think about other brands of hollow dilfy gazes... ones which are so much more accessible and only a door knock away.
So, taking a deep breath, the merc sliiiiides off the bed and tiptoes over to the bathroom door. Leaning up against it, he takes one gloved hand and gentle raps at the cheap jizz-crusted door frame.
"Open up, Cable." Cue: magical piano intro. Then. "Do you wanna build a snowman..."
#dicksout
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It's difficult to make out anything else — likely from both sides of the curtain, which hasn't moved back.
no subject
Anyway, he could huff this manly mildew all day but uh. The door is just... kind of opening on it's own. Which is NOT. HIS FAULT. He very explicitly stated that he wanted to build a snowman and NOTHING MORE. So if all hell breaks loose from here on out, as Dreamwidth as his witness, IT IS NOT HIS FAULT.
So just. Gonna. Use one finger to... slooooowly push that door open a few inches more.
"Heeeey so I forgot to pluck my left nutsack earlier today and I left my Caboodle in there so do you mind if I. Ya know. Get my tweezies." WOOSH, a bunch of musky mansweat steam is blasting him in the face now as he opens the door in full. Standing there. Like a sentient used tampon, surrounded by a heavenly mist.
no subject
It's not entirely accurate to say that he's been tricked, because honestly, Nathan really had wanted to shower. Eventually. When Wade was about fifty feet away from the building. Shutting the door behind him, he'd dropped his clean clothes on the toilet seat, turned the shower on, drew the curtain back. Then he pressed himself against the wall next to the door with his combat knife unsheathed and waited. The door wasn't even locked, because he's pretty sure the mechanism is busted because the thing can't even close all the way. Altogether it's like catnip for Wade, easy obvious bait that Nathan knows he won't be able to resist.
And sure enough—
When the door opens enough for him to have a good opening, Nathan kicks it back, hard enough to hear the cheap wood splinter. It goes flying back against Wade, hopefully to give him a face full of pain and peeling paint. Regardless, Nathan doesn't give him the time to react. He darts forward and aims for his throat with what is definitely, unequivocally and resoundingly a big fucking knife.
no subject
Anyway, even as he kind of starts to creeeek that door open with his pinkie, Wade's half bracing himself for what comes next. Because deep, deep, deep down in his loins, he knows. And one of the great things about being a human pin cushion, is he's fully equipped to deal with the brutal agony that is L-O-V-E.
Case in point: door smashing into his face and breaking every single bone in it, in one fell swoop. And back he flies, like a dildo flung away in favor of the real dee. He bounces (literally) on the floor and rolls just in time to avoid the splinters of said flimsy door, and the fat of said not so flimsy Cable.
"Were you just STANDING behind that door with a giant combat knife?!" He's doing his very very best here to wiggle out of the way from the wrecking ball (and not the Miley-Cyrus-fun-kind) that is Cable coming his way. "Oh my god. Talk about Bates Motel role play! Oh oh oh! Does this make me Janet Leigh?" He's gonna just, reach over on the floor and grab a chunk of door to use as a makeshift shield against Cable's extremely massive, sweaty, pulsating, throbbing... combat knife.
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"Less talking," he huffs, "more bleeding." He delivers a kick at the leg on Wade's less dominant side, trying to sweep his feet out from under him. He feels his lungs kicking into overdrive as adrenaline starts flooding into him like a wave, feeling so drenched in it that he wouldn't be surprised if he could smell it along with the mud, the residue of today's storm still sticking to his skin with his sweat, the humidity bouncing off the shoddily built, filthy walls of this entire room.
He can still smell Wade's blood from the lamp he threw at him, too. And with the earsplitting crunch his face made when it connected with the door, he bets there's going to be a lot more of it soon too.
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But Wade's a fighter and truth be told, he doesn't really like the agonizing sensation of a blade driving straight through his eye socket. So he's not gonna go down without a struggle, here.
If this isn't a Lifetime movie plotline which simultaneously campaigns against domestic violence, Wade isn't sure what is!
"You know," CRACK. Another block. Oh dear. This door-chunk is getting awfully smaller. "It's so much more of a turn on when--" THWAK. The sweep to the leg connects, and he topples over and on to his ass once again. That's not to say he isn't instantly struggling to scramble backward on the floor, like the spastic little cockroach he is. "--Vanessa tells me that. Although I gotta admit--" And he's gonna grab... whatever he can to attempt another block---which happens to be the designated Holy Bible for said shit-tier room. "You've got the whole gilfy-bear thing going for you, so I'd be lying if I said that it's doing nothing for me."
And since he's in this oh-so-compromising position, let Wade take this moment to just, spread his legs a little bit more than necessary. "Wanna snap those meaty sausage digits of yours and ash my loins, old man?"
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He doesn't expect it to hold Wade back for long, though. The man is worse than a cockroach; at least those can be counted on not to come back when they're squished. So Nathan opts to stop him the only other way he knows how: by pinning him. He goes down, cuffing the other around the bible and across the face with his techno-organic arm. He holds it over Wade's throat, bearing down on it. He uses the rest of his weight to hold Wade's body down with his own, half-kneeling, half-lying over him.
Nathan's knife-wielding hand moves to Wade's sternum, and he presses the blade down.
"Keep talking." The tip of the knife scratches over the fabric of Wade's jumpsuit, cutting through crimson to reveal a line of mangled raw flesh underneath. The pupil of Nathan's good eye is blown. His techno-organic one gleams red. "See how far your raving lunatic bullshit gets you when I jam this through your throat."
Of course, he doesn't know if he really wants to go through with it for something like this, which really isn't even all that much of a serious offense if he thinks about it (and fuck, it should say a lot about how he's starting to grade the dumb shit Wade does on a scale), but his body sure seems to like the idea at any rate. Being this close to another source of heat doesn't help matters either.
This is giving him the absolute weirdest fucking boner and he doesn't even realize it yet.
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Good thing the perpetual cancer eating away at his body on a twenty-four-seven basis makes the whole experience an easier pill to swallow. Because, haha--otherwise he might've actually considered shutting the fuck up for ten seconds!
Regardless, the break does cause him to loosen his grip on King James' New York Times Bestseller in favor of clutching at his kneecap--only, that's also momentarily stifled by the globulous girth of a man bearing down on him. Oh! Well! Shiver me timbers, Deadpool, his kneecap can wait.
"What's all this about you wanting to jam your twelve-inch blade in my throat?" Comes a strained but still all-too husky murmur before--oh. Jesus. He can feel those twelve hard inches pressing into the center of his chest and not in the happy-go-paizuri way. Bum-mer. The strangled, guttural groan that rises from his lips is almost as grotesque as the splintering sound of the blade cutting into flesh and bone.
Wade actually goes silent for half a second, save the malformed bodily noises coming from him. It's almost as if he's really starting to absorb what's happening here. That he's actually reconsidering--oh. Wait. What's that? Feel that little roll to your groin, Cable? No? How about now, because there seems to be a steady-dry-humpy-rhythm to it.
"Would you mind, pushing that a little--" He coughs though his words. "---to the left? I got an itch there. Massive sarcoma. Like the size of Wendy William's left breast." One gloved hand reaches up to delicately rest on Cable's very-much-so-knifed hand. It's a far too romantic gesture, given the situation. "Here, lemme help you, big boy." Winky-face. Winky-face.
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That's how Nathan reacts to that hip roll.
It's less of a slap back to his senses and more of a gut punch, sharp, needling pleasure that shoots up his body and leaves him feeling more dazed than the head rush he's getting from feeling Wade's chest strain against his as he struggles for breath. That's the first clue that he may have fucked up somewhere here.
The second comes from him actually looking down at his groin. Yeah — he fucked up.
And the third comes from feeling Wade's hand slither over his, right as it's in the midst of preparing to plunge the knife straight through his breastbone (or at least making a good show pretending to). Yeah — he really fucked up.
All the fight seems to rush out of him like air escaping a balloon. His head drops and he presses his face against the closest thing he can find that serves the purpose of a rock to crawl under — in this case the space between Wade's shoulder and the wall — and mumbles miserably into the abyss.
"Jesus."
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Which, okay, Wade is trying to figure out how to actually react to. Because he's been egging Cable on for the last hour or so now (and let's be real, since... forever) and he's pushed every physical and metaphorical button IMAGINABLE. But feeling a very-protruding-hardon pressing up against his leg (nearly massaging that gradually regenerating shattered kneecap there) is...
... it's...
... such an overwhelming sensation of seemingly unattainable victory, that he isn't even sure what to do with himself. Kind of like finding the elusive surfing Pikachu and not frying your game with Missingno. But sexier. And listen, he probably has a boner too, but when does Wade NOT have a boner? Pikachu and boners in the same paragraph. This sure is a time to be alive.
ANYWAY, he's just sorta' silently holding his breath here. Hell, he's even forgotten about the giant fucking knife cutting into his chest. Because he really, really doesn't want to ruin this magical moment of beefstick-y eroticism with his bee eff eff. Especially as Cable sort of slumps on top of him and seems to be imploding over everything Wade is astoundingly giddy about.
Ah yes, there it is. The quintessential call out to God's only son. And as Cable deflates against his body, Wade FINALLY exhales through pursed lips, mimicking a sound akin to a tightly puckered anus releasing a heavily built up fart.
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee. Shattering that deafening silence. "OhgodsorryIcouldn'tcontainmyselfanylonger."
Then, he lifts his other free hand to reach up and around, resting it on the back of Cable's head. His fingers curl in slightly and he begins gently stroking the sweaty clumps of old man hair protruding from the other's meaty skull. "There, there." He whispers in a hushed tone, similar to that of a mustachio'd pedo trying to coax a small child off the playground. "Anyone would get off on cutting up cancer victims. It's so very George R. R. Martin of you. Like I'm getting major Dothraki vibes right now."