Nasty Dog
The street outside is weirdly quiet, in the way nicer parts of cities often are.
Wade adjusts the fluffy shearling collar of Nate’s denim jacket, and snuggles it around himself. He feels like a particularly beloved girlfriend, adorably swimming in her beefcake boyfriend’s jacket. This is accentuated by the thick wad of cash he’s also pinched from said beefcake’s duffel.
He figures the other man won’t mind if he comes back with snacks and/or drinks for both of them.
When Wade had left, Nate had been sacked out on his back in the huge, pillowy-soft bed. While the place has a fully-stocked fridge and pantry (and with supplies with labels of brands so fancy he’s never even heard of most of them, too!) there is absolutely no booze, which won’t stand for a weekend getaway.
Or week getaway.
Or however long they’ve been in the town-house.
And okay, yeah, it...probably isn’t great, that he can’t really remember how long they’ve been there.
But it probable isn’t that bad, either.
Nate certainly hasn’t seemed freaked out.
“Every fast spotted kitty cat has to have an Emotional Support Golden Retriever. I can never tell him that he’s mine, though. What if he doesn’t want to have a dog as a fursona?” he asks aloud.
There is nobody else on the street to overhear, besides a pair of pigeons perched on a nearby building. They freeze, completely still with that uncanny stillness birds get when they realize they are being watched.
Maybe they’re offended or worried that he’s implied his own fursona would be a cat.
“I’m not saying my fursona is a cheetah, either,” he clarifies, to the birds. “I don’t even have one! But, I mean, it makes sense, right? He agreed I was his raw chicken cat, anyway. Imagine living that far in the future and not knowing what a Sphynx cat is. Sheesh.”
The pigeons’ only response is to cock their heads a little.
He continues walking, wondering how far down the street the corner bodega is.
Are they even in the US? All the labels on the food had been in English, with Spanish and French sub-labels.
But that doesn’t rule out Canada, either.
He has no idea. He can’t even remember the Bodyslide that brought them there. Which is...something.
Nate had not seemed overly worried, though. A little weirded-out, but then, maybe it was a REALLY bad Game Over for him. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t remember it.
He makes a mental note to make a mental note to ask Nate exactly what had happened, and keeps walking.
The place feels like a suburb, despite being one of those brownstone neighborhoods you always see on holiday postcards, eaves flashing with colorful lights and every window all aglow decorated dying pine trees, layered in tinsel and weighted with ornaments.
It even seems like the holiday is on the way: he spots the telltale trees in a few windows.
Otherwise it is still, and quiet. There’s a vague rumble of traffic from somewhere else.
The bodega is a tiny little place with a water-stained ramp leading up to its front door, which is plastered from the ground to about three feet high with a wild variety of stickers, many advertising skateboard companies and nightclubs and weed stores he’s never even heard of.
“They’re calling them cannabis lounges now, I think,” he says helpfully. “Don’t want to scare off the shareholders by sounding too ‘slummy’ now that we’re gentrifying-slash-rehabilitating Happy Grass.”
The door’s bell makes a little noise like a bit of metal clinking in a drain. Inside, the bodega has yellow walls and a smell like disinfectant, coffee, and fast-food grease.
He can hear shuffling coming from the back, somewhere, and the plopping sound of a particularly over-saturated mop hitting a linoleum floor.
When no one shows up after a few minutes, he wanders away from the register and towards the drink fridges, where he snags himself a Monster and a glass bottle of Voss water for Nate, knowing he’d scoff but drink it slow and savor it like it was wine, anyway. The actual booze was locked in its case behind the register, except the beer; he grabs 2 6-packs of something with a blue label, the brand name in a vaguely 1950s-styled font. He figures that since it’s in glass bottles and he’s not familiar with it, it’s probably expensive and better than the cans of fermented wheat-piss he drinks by the bucket to get a buzz. Because Nate deserves something nice.
Maybe this will soften the big guy up, and he’ll explain what happened, without Wade having to do the mortifying Adult Thing to do: Asking a Serious Question.
He wanders up and down the drink aisle for a while, half-stalling for time to see if the cashier will come out of the back, and half-trying to decide whether he wants a pack of beef jerky or a hot dog. In the end, he winds up going over to the hot food section, where a variety of hot dogs are rolling in their shared heated sarcophagus.
The cashier is still nowhere to be seen.
Something big drives by outside, and he remembers the bus stop on the opposite corner. He doesn’t like the idea of waiting behind a bunch of bus passengers and dealing with the inevitable staring, so he sets the beer to one side and sizes up the hot dog sarcophagus, rubbing his hands together.
He makes himself a Nasty Dog, which is one cheez-stuf’d hot dog, on a cheddar bun, with jalapenos, pickle relish, onions, bakon bitz, and a healthy scoop of chili, all finished off with a very generous glop of cheese sauce.
“It’s a Nasty Dog,” he informs the empty space where either a white or yellow box would be, or Nate, “Because it looks like something a dog would throw up! Also because it’s going to make me do nasty things on the toilet later. Unwholesome nasty things. Things that are gonna be TMI to the readers, even though I spent the better part of two whole books mentioning every time I had to run to the Little Poolman’s room to do Number 1.”
The boxes are not forthcoming.
“Really? Nothing? Not even a comment about how I thought we were leaving the ‘gratuitous z’s back in the 00s? Not that I mind them, you know. I mean. I love it! Cheez-Itz, Spray-Cheez, Deez Cheezy Nutz…” he rambles. He stows the Voss water bottle and the En-o-Gee Drink in the pants’ pockets, and carefully totes the beer bottles in their shared cardboard jackets on one hip as he walks back to the cash register, the Nasty Dog held like a prize in the other hand.
The boxes still do not appear.
Neither do any other customers, or the cashier.
“Yoo-hoo! Anybody home? I kinda really wanna pay for this stuff so I can get back home to my giant hunk of a man!”
He gets back silence. An embarrassed silence, even, and what sounds like shuffling feet. But no cashier.
There’s not even a bell on the countertop to repeatedly ring…
He hears a truck rumble by outside, and a few cars, and that’s it.
Then the sound of the mop falling over, followed by the sound of some cardboard boxes sliding down and hitting the floor, and glass breaking.
Kind of a like a lot of bottles.
Whatever poor soul is back there, it sounds like they are fighting for their life to get that floor cleaned.
He has enough time at the front desk to casually start nibbling on his Nasty Dog, which drips cheez sauce onto the countertop and floor, and then he starts to feel guilty for adding to the mess that the unlucky lonely cashier has to deal with, so he yells that he bought a Nasty Dog and two six packs of—he finally looks closer at it--Blu Streak beer, and leaves the money on the counter beside the register.
He pinches some cash off the big wad of bills he’d lifted from Nate’s duffel. Enough to cover the cost, and then, because he felt bad for the cashier who would soon have to deal with his cheezy mezz, he leaves another $5.
The big bills only have a little bit of cheez sauce on them, and the ones are clean. It should be fine, he figures.
…
He opens the door with the back of his hand an an elbow, like a Looney Tunes character, because he’s finished the Nasty Dog and is now trying valiantly to lick the cheez sauce off his hand without getting it anywhere.
He thinks he’s quiet, but apparently not quiet enough, because he hears a series of creaks on the stairs and looks up and Nate is suddenly there, scrubbing sleep from one eye with the heel of his hand. He’s breathing a little hard; maybe he’d woken up while Wade was out and decided to get a little busy by himself.
“You came back,” Nate says, his voice hoarse.
“Well, yeah. No sense in trying to hop a flight home when we’ve got our very own private townhouse, with multiple rooms and multiple soft surfaces to fuck on,” Wade says. He waits a beat, and then adds, “I stole your jacket a little. And I got us some drinks.”
Nate sighs, and Wade knows it’s a laugh.
It’s what he’s good at—one of the few harmless, positive things he’s good at. He can keep the big guy laughing longer than anyone else, and they both know and love it.
“Priorities,” Nate says.
“Yeah,” Wade says. He comes inside, and Nate comes down off the stairs, still rubbing his TO eye. The door swings shut and locks itself, Nate’s eye flashing bright enough for a moment that it’s like he’s got his hand over a flashlight.
Wade steps up closer to him, and slings his arms around Nate’s waist, marveling at it—that he is allowed to. That Nate welcomes him with a slow hug as heavy and all-encompassing as a warm avalanche.
Nate smells good—warm body and the faint, still clinging musk of sex, and the ozone smell that comes off him when he’s been exercising.
Little Nate is soft against Wade’s belly, but Nate is carrying that kind of dense, trapped heat people really only get when they’ve been wrapped in warm blankets and sleeping hard for a long time. He reminds Wade of a furnace full of smoldering embers. Molten at his core, content to either go dormant or waiting for more fuel to spring back into live flames again.
Wade runs his hands down Nate’s back, and squeezes his ass once—very demurely, with one hand—and Nate pulls in a big breath just over the crown of his head.
And then says, “Wade. What smells like cheddar cheese?”
“Um.” Wade says elegantly.
Nate leans away from him, and frowns down at him.
“Did you just wipe cheese sauce on my pants?”
Wade gives him an embarrassed grin and shrug.
“Well, I figure you can change, right? I mean, you always bring extra anyway, and I know you get those in bulk—”
“Wade, you ass,” Nate says, and bats away Wade’s other hand. Nate steps away, but seems more amused than annoyed.
“Come on. You’re scrubbing the cheese out of these pants by hand. I like them, bulk-bought or not.”
But once they get upstairs, Wade only has enough time to fill the bathroom sink with water, and splash a little bit of detergent over them, before Nate is behind him again, pressed close and insistent.
“If you stain the ones you’re wearing, you’re scrubbing those, too,” he whispers into Wade’s ear.
His Terminator hand is next to Wade’s, on the basin, and his organic one slides neatly over Wade’s hip, to squeeze his privates: Wade makes a pathetic little moan and feels his cock start to plump up under Nate’s firm grip. Nate alternates soft and gentle with firm to the point of nearly too rough, and barely moves, more than he just kneads—clenching and releasing his grip.
It does not help that his hands are big enough to nearly span Wade’s waist, and Wade is not a small man.
He feels almost delicate, like this. It makes him feel hot and melted and floaty inside, his stomach fluttering even as he feels his face start to heat up, and feels the warmth spread down into the bowl of his hips. In six heartbeats he can feel it in his cock.
“Really kinda ha-hard to focus on scrubbing anything when you’re—you know-kind of...making biscuits on my business…” Wade says. “You gotta focus a lot on laundry. Lots of, um, wringing and scrubbing--” Nate slides his hand up and under the waistband of Wade’s borrowed pants, gets his cock out of the fly in his boxers. The fluffy texture of the inside of the sweats is a jolt against the sensitive head of Wade’s cock, and all the breath goes out of him at once.
Nate makes a circle of his thumb and forefinger and teases just beneath the head of Wade’s cock, barely enough pressure to move his foreskin over the glans. Now the material feels scratchy—a maddening counterpoint to the gentle, teasing, barely-there stroke.
Wade also can’t move at all—Nate has completely bracketed him in against the sink. Forward means more of the rough fabric and the hard surface of the front of the sink cabinet, and back means against Nate’s hips, where Wade can feel Nate’s erection satiny-hot and fat against his ass.
“Oh no,” Nate deadpans.
Wade looks up into the mirror and sees them both, and doesn’t have time to flinch from his own reflection, because Nate catches his jaw in the Terminator hand. He holds Wade’s jaw the way a judge holds up a show stallion’s head.
“All that scrubbing and wringing…” he presses kisses all along the side of Wade’s face, and makes him watch.
Wade is staring at Nate’s face, though. Nate’s eyes are intent and hungry on him. He looks like he’s searching for the answer to an important question, and like it might be written on Wade’s face.
(Backwards. Mirrors and all.)
Wade giggles, a little hysterically, and sings, “Hungry eyes...I feel the magic between you and I~”
Nate bites his ear and closes his hand over the head of Wade’s cock.
And scrubs his palm back and forth, firmly enough that Wade really DOES jerk and writhe and squeal.
“Oh my god! OH my FUCK! Oh shit—” Nate deftly blocks him from writhing to the left-- “You—AHH GOD PLEASE—you—you actually have gun calluses on your—FUCK--your hands!”
“Of course I have calluses,” Nate says, perfectly matter of fact. “You know that.”
Wade tries to turn his head, wanting to suck or bite Nate’s TO fingers, or do both, but Nate’s grip is too strong, so he cannot do either. He’s trapped there with Nate manhandling him, and he’s so, so sensitive he kind of wants to cry, and--
“It—It was just supposed to be a fanfic—FUCK, FUCK ME! trope! NATE! PLEASE!”
“Please what, Wade?” Nate whispers, sweet and patient and maddeningly playful.
“Please, you chrome cock-crusher! T-too much! Too m—oh,” Wade subsides from his yowling when Nate switches his grip, closing his hand—now dripping wet with Wade’s precome—around Wade’s cock.
Wade whimpers and tries to cross his legs, the painful over-sensitivity replaced with the perfect hot, wet slide of Nate’s hand. Nate keeps stroking him, slow and perfect, and Wade tries to catch his breath.
Nate kisses his ear wetly, and Wade realizes he’s been gasping for breath the entire time. He clings to the sink like a lifeline, the pants forgotten.
“Want me to stop?” Nate asks, all easy affection.
He starts to lean back, the bastard, and the grip he has on Wade’s jaw slides down to his neck and then his chest, loosening. Back to watching him in the mirror.
Wade leans back after him with a little pout.
“Eugh, god. I don’t—why do you want to look at that? I look like Freddy Krueger’s left nut, if it was soaked in public jacuzzi water for an hour.”
“I think you’re striking and handsome,” Nate murmurs. “I also happen to be very fond of both of your nuts...”
Nate meets his eyes in the mirror and pulls Wade closer to him, without breaking the eye contact. He makes a questioning noise against Wade’s scalp, his hand sliding back into Wade’s pants.
For a moment Wade’s eyes roll closed, and he makes a little breathless noise.
But when he reopens his eyes, he stares at the pants, floating in their murky cheese-water in the sink.
“Wade. Look at me, Wade.” Nate says. The TO hand is stroking his neck, his chest.
Then Wade says, “Seriously, if I open my eyes, this is gonna turn out to be a dream, and it really will be Freddy in that mirror, and then we’ll be in deep shit—”
“I could blink and rip him in half,” Nate says easily. “You forget? I thought you loved my ‘mind-mojo’.” Nate says the last bit a little reproachfully.
“I do! I really, really do! I just—”
He feels the TK wrap around his balls with the same gentle tug and pressure from before. It is all the warning he gets before Nate closes his palm around the head of his dick again, and goes back to rubbing it like before.
Wade bucks and squirms and screams and moans, and has enough lucidity left to think he probably sounds like an amateur porn star filming in his own bathroom while his roommates down the hall watch a gory horror movie to try to drown the noises out.
Nate is silent but for the thunderous sound of his breathing in Wade’s ear.
When he hazards a glance at the mirror, Nate is still watching him, as if mesmerized. As if he was the one with his balls in an invisible harness, connected to nothing.
Wade goes back to begging, then swearing, and then makes an uncoordinated effort to get Nate’s hand off, which goes nowhere, as he doesn’t dare go anywhere—the grip on his balls never loosens, even if it’s never tight enough to hurt. There’s always the vague promise--
And he can’t move, but his cock is so sensitive he feels like he’s going to either piss himself, cum (painfully) or die--the jolts of half-horrible pleasure making his stomach jump and the muscles in his thighs twitch. He is faintly aware that he’s standing on tiptoe, straining backwards and against Nate’s broad body, away from Nate’s treacherous, beautiful hand.
But Nate won’t let go of him.
“Good, Wade. Good...look at me. Let me look at you,” Nate says.
Wade says something so garbled, even he’s not sure what he meant to say.
Nate groans like he’s said something especially sensual and bites his shoulder a little.
Nate won’t take his eyes off Wade. As if he blinks too long, Wade will be gone.
The TO hand strokes his chest, caresses his neck, sometimes squeezes him under his jaw to turn Wade’s head to kiss Nate. Nate keeps saying he’s handsome and beautiful and good, and it makes the tiny non-horny, sane corner of Wade’s brain light up with exclamation point and question mark emojis so big he can’t believe Nate can’t see them, too.
Sometimes, Nate runs his hand down Wade’s cock, from root back to the head, but Wade can’t keep track of whatever rhythm Nate is doing, if he’s following one--and it doesn’t matter anyway. He feels like he’s been there, tied to the spot by the balls, for a month.
But he doesn’t want to escape, he wants to fucking come, and he feels kind of raw and rather upset that Nate is getting him worked up like this with just a handjob--
And then he does cry, just a little, when it gets to be too much, and he would do anything to get away from that hand and to get Nate to just jerk him off—and Nate manages to get the waistband of the pants down, and Wade comes so hard it arcs up over the basin and splatters onto the mirror.
He stands there shaking and twitching, and jumps and moans again when he feels Nate’s TO fingers tease his asshole for a second, and then vanish. A final little spurt of his cum lands directly in the wash water, where it settles and slowly starts to dissolve, like shampoo.
Nate turns his head and kisses him, very tenderly.
About a minute later they’re both naked and in the shower. Nate is much gentler, this time, but no less thorough.
“So, haha...about those TK ass tentacles…?” Wade tries.
Nate grins at him, and picks Wade up as if he weights little more than a dried leaf, and then Wade has to cling like a koala, and Nate (the magnificent bastard who plans for everything) raises his hand and a bottle of lube falls into his palm. This time he fucks Wade slowly and, dare he say, romantically, against the cute little white hexagonal wall tiles. Nate is holding him, cradled close and with his cock snugged up perfect in Wade’s ass, one of Wade’s legs over his shoulder and the other wrapped around his back.
Wade doodles on the glass shower door with one foot, drawing hearts pierced by dicks behind Nate’s back with his toes.
“Fuck! I know you probably hear this a lot but holy SHIT you’re big. Also holy shit, FUCK! Ah, that feels good—” Wade says.
Nate is supporting him with the TO arm, running the other hand down Wade’s back, sluicing water and either soap or lube, neither of which Wade cares about. Nate’s hand makes its slow circuit again, and then something clicks.
“You’re petting me!” Wade says, half-awed, half-grossed-out, halfway to laughing. “I knew it! I AM your raw chicken cat! You like fucking your raw chicken cat, Nate?”
Nate, who has been alternating between staring down at Wade with a dreamy fucked-out expression on his face, and peppering kisses over Wade’s head and ears, suddenly laughs so hard he almost loses his footing.
He catches them with the same gravity-lurching sense Wade always feels when Nate does anything full-body with the TK, and then Nate is holding him and laughing.
“I spent ten minutes running searches on the InfoNet to find out what you were talking about,” Nate says. “What the hell a ‘raw chicken cat’ is.”
He starts moving again, and every exhale makes his cock throb fatter in Wade’s ass, red pleasure blooming all up his back and in his belly. He’s probably making a really stupid, dopey face up at Nate, something even his own mother wouldn’t have loved, but Nate looks at him like he’s something wonderful.
He folds Wade even closer, and whispers in his ear, “I think the hairless cats are cute, too. And yes, I do like the texture of your skin. I love it as much as I love how it feels to be inside you, because I love touching all of you…”
Wade huffs, breathlessly, and mumbles, “You ol’ sweet-talker, you. Always knowing how to make a guy blush. And also how to make a guy come like a fire hose all over your bathroom cabinets. Seriously, I’m SO glad jizz doesn’t stain hardwood or tile grout--”
Nate says slowly, devastatingly, “I’ve seen you focused. You’re like a force of nature. It’s a rare privilege, to get to be the one actual reason that you’re driven to distraction.” Breathing hard, now, and Wade can feel the way Nate’s belly is starting to tremble, his thighs shaking with combined effort and impending orgasm.
“Yeah, baby, but that’s ‘cause you’re kind of driving me straight to pound town right now, up a shower wall,” Wade says. It’s not his best joke. He’s just trying not to start drooling on Nate or himself, or get any hot water up his nose. His own hand has been moving fast on his cock, sometimes aided by Nate’s invisible TK hand.
“Yeah,” Nate says slowly, almost thoughtfully. “I am. With my organic dick, even,”said smiling against Wade’s mouth. “Do you like it?” he asks, so quietly the shower spray almost washes the sound away.
Wade makes a coquettish face and winks, and then when Nate comes first, he does get Wade off with the TK ass tentacles, and one hot, massive hand on Wade’s cock.
“WAY better than a wall-mounted dildo,” Wade grunts happily.
Nate un-koalas his legs gently, and they stand leaning against each other in the shower’s frankly marvelous hot streams (this author has clearly never lived in a building with an old water heater, Wade thinks, and more benefit for them). They stand there long enough to catch their breath, with Wade feeling like he’s full of warm clouds and special recipe Summers baby batter. (Some of which he feels running down his thigh, with a little thrill.) His hips feel like he’s been astride a particularly powerful motorcycle for about two hours, which he regretfully knows will fade in a few minutes; he never really gets to feel that good old fashioned fucked-out happy-exhaustion anymore. He waves hello and goodbye to the sensation at the same time, as he leans away from Nate.
Nate, who leans over to turn the shower off, and then laughs again when he sees Wade’s shower art. “I must not have been doing that right. You still had brain-power left to graffiti the shower while I was inside you.”
Wade wriggles a little against the warmed wall tiles and shrugs, smiling. “Felt pretty right to me! We can try for full neural fuck-overload tomorrow, maybe?”
Nate looks down at him, still smirking a bit impishly. Little Wade twitches between Wade’s legs, because Little Wade has no brain-power at all and therefore does not remember the way Nate was palming him like a particularly stiff 1990s arcade cabinet joystick.
“Hmm,” Nate says, appearing to be thinking. “Yeah. Tomorrow. Come on, let’s go take a nap.”
Wade sleeps very, very well after that.
So well that he forgets about the beer, and forgets about the questions altogether.
…
They spend the next two days like that.
One of them—whoever wakes up first—goes to make breakfast, then goes to wake the other, then they have sex like a pair of college kids who have the house all to themselves for the first time, with no nosy roommates to walk in on them.
Wade does, in fact, kick a pair of underwear onto the kitchen chandelier. The following morning, when Nate is trying to cook breakfast, Wade comes into the kitchen and announces that he’s going to give Nate a Chef’s Surprise, which is just a blowjob while Nate attempts to not burn the grilled cheese sandwiches he’s making for them. (He doesn’t burn the sandwiches. He does, however, somehow manage to burn the tomato bisque soup he’s making to go with them.)
In the afternoons they watch movies on the DVR box, which Nate casually jailbreaks the second day. Seeing him alter the tech without minimal effort and even a little enjoyment gives Wade an excited Competency Kink boner. They watch 1980s mecha anime and Nate lets Wade throw a leg over and hump his thigh, a little, and after a moment he reaches down to pet at Wade’s ass, and then there’s Nate’s Magic TK Finger/Tentacle/TelekineCock in Wade’s ass.
Nate still hasn’t mentioned whatever happened.
His phone doesn’t ring.
Wade knows he should probably be worried, but this is as close to paradise as he’s ever gotten.
And if he thinks too hard about it, he starts to get terrified that he’s going to wake up strapped to an experimentation table in a lab somewhere, or trapped under some burning rubble, and this will all have been an impossible, beautiful dream.
Why shouldn’t he enjoy it for as long as he can, knowing that’s what he’s probably going to wake up to?