magic hands [wade wilson]
wade needs a bath. you’re a good friend.
tagging: @redgillan, @mattymattymerduck, @avengerofyourheart, @wakandasoldier, @darlingbuchanan, @bemystucky, @idorkish, @iwillbeinmynest, @aubzylynn, @angryschnauzer, @almondbuttercup, @ipaintmelodies
warnings: nudity, injury, also wade’s filthy mouth
additional notes:
when is wade going to wife me alreadyi love this trope so much, you have no idea. in this one the reader (gender-neutral) is a mutant mercenary who goes by the name “blueswift,” and your mutation is similar to a super soldier’s but not quite as potent. enjoy! and please let me know what you think UvU i love hearing from you guys. also: can y’all tell i really want omurice rn? i love writing about food.
You’d done it. You’d made the omurice, you were proud of the omurice, and you were going to eat the omurice like it was ambrosia from the heavens. You were sitting down at your little kitchen table, chopsticks in hand, ready to devour the warm, ricey gooeyness, when your phone rang, and the all-too-familiar saxophone solo of “Careless Whisper” filled the air. You answered the call, putting it on speaker so you could listen and eat. “Wade?”
“Y/N! The light of my life! God, it’s great to hear your voice. What’s cookin’, good-lookin’?”
“Eating breakfast actually,” you said around a mouthful of fried, eggy rice. “How’s your bod?”
“Well, at the moment, the bones are still soft, so I’m just one big, floppy man noodle.” There was a pause. “You know what, that was a terrible choice of words but I’m sticking to it. I’m a big, floppy man noodle who needs your help.”
You swallowed, smiling to yourself. “How so?”
“Well, this big, floppy man noodle would like to bathe—he’s been lying in his own filth for a good day or so—so he was hoping you could come over and help his big noodly ass into the tub.”
You sighed. Wade had survived his most recent solo job with nearly every bone in his body crushed. You’d somehow managed to drag his limp body back to his place, giving him as much morphine as he could handle. If he was in pain now, his voice didn’t let it on. “Do you need me to bathe you, too?” you asked, only half-joking. When he’d lost both arms in a fight last year, you’d had to wash him, but he’d agreed to cover his junk back then. He was even friendlier nowadays, and you didn’t know what he might ask next.
“Eh, I think a good soak alone would be good for me,” he drawled. “My arms are healing. It’s just the legs that need to catch up. I tried getting up and felt like Bambi. A big, naked, mutant Bambi.”
You frowned, setting your utensils down on the table. “Wade, I really don’t need that image in—”
“Like a scarred, fucked-up baby horse.”
“Thank you, Wade,” you hissed, covering your eyes as if that would rid the disturbing images he’d managed to conjure in your mind with just his words.
“So you’ll come?”
You rubbed your face in exasperation. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
You ended up finishing your omurice while you walked to Wade’s place. Coincidentally, he lived just a few blocks away from you. You refused to wear anything fancier than a hoodie and some sweatpants, shuffling along in your socks and sandal slippers while you ate your omurice out of a bowl, mentally preparing yourself for the sight of a very vulnerable, very naked Wade Wilson.
Like Wade, you were also a mercenary, and while you matched him, probably even surpassed him, in fighting skills, his healing abilities vastly outperformed your own. Sure, you were a “super soldier” of sorts, modified with a less impressive form of the serum. Though it paled in comparison to the valiant and unquestionably attractive Captain America (whom you’d met on one very fortunate occasion), you rarely got sick, and if you broke an arm, it healed in half of the time. But you weren’t like Wade; if you were shot in the abdomen, the internal bleeding would kill you, and if you lost a limb, it would never grow back.
You met Wade when the two of you were accidentally assigned to the same target, and your bickering almost cost both of you a hefty payment. You ended up splitting the cash down the middle—and working together to take out the guy who’d done your mutual client wrong. Your wit, skill, and indifference to his physical appearance won Wade over. Now, here you were, Deadpool and Blueswift, teaming up more often than not and raking in buttloads of cash between the two of you. You considered Wade a friend, possibly even more, what with how you’d grown to care for him over the years. You couldn’t be sure how much of Wade’s flirtations were founded in truth, or whether he craved your physical affection because he hadn’t been touched in years or because it was your touch that he preferred above all else.
Still, you were a good friend, and you were going to help your friend into the bathtub.
You entered Wade’s place with the spare key he’d given you and headed straight for his bedroom, placing the empty bowl of omurice on his kitchen counter. You could smell him before you saw him, sprawled out on his bed, thankfully still covered with his sheets. He had his head propped up on a pillow, and he smiled when he saw you.
“Hey! You made it. Boy, am I glad to see you. I’d hug you but I also smell like a foot.”
You went to his bedside and leaned over to kiss the crown of his head. “You’re looking better than the last time I saw you. A little less noodly.”
“A little. Shall we begin?”
You shucked off your hoodie, leaving you in a plain T-shirt, and slipped off your sandal slippers, tossing both of them onto his bed. “Let me know if I hurt you,” you told him. “Do you want to remove the sheets or should I?” Your cheeks were burning with embarrassment.
“Oh, dear, I never meant for it to be this way,” he lamented dramatically, “but I guess now will have to do.” He threw back the covers, and you kept your eyes on his face. “Voilà. Here’s the rest of me, sweetness. Not bad, right? I grew it all myself. Multiple times over.”
“Very impressive.” Carefully, you took both of his legs by the ankles and swung them over the side of the bed, pulling him into a sitting position. You put his arm around your shoulders and helped him onto his feet. He stood for about two seconds, his legs buckling instantly. You dared a glance at them and wrinkled your nose at how rubbery his legs seemed, how they curved under him at unnatural angles. It took you several moments to regain your balance, fighting to keep him upright and to make sure you didn’t tumble to the floor with him. “Everything okay?” you asked him once you were sure he wouldn’t fall.
“Peachy,” he grunted. “How are you?”
“Dandy. Could you cover your dick with your other arm?”
“Oh, I can try but I don’t know how much that’ll do if ya catch my drift,” he said with a smirk. You sent him a scowl that could have frozen the fires of hell, and he sobered up. “Yeah, sure, I can do that.” He moved his hand between his leg and cupped himself discreetly. “Better?”
“I’m not going to check. Let’s go.”
With little help from his end, you managed to drag him from the bedroom to his bathroom across the hall. His legs trailed limply behind him, and he did smell rancid, like he’d told you. “Wade, you could have stayed at my place,” you said, setting him down on the toilet seat. You weren’t used to seeing so much of his pink, scarred skin, but it was the nudity alone and not the disfigurement that set your cheeks on fire. His legs were long and well muscled, just like the rest of him. You sat on the edge of the bathtub and turned on the water.
“Pfft. No way!” Wade said, waving his free hand dismissively. “I don’t want to be a bother. I do miss your couch, though.”
“My couch misses you.” You tested the water with your hand. It was practically boiling already. “How do you like your baths?”
“Bubbly. And warm. Just like my bestie!” You glanced over to see him batting his eyelashes at you. “That means you,” he stage-whispered.
“I’m not…bubbly? I’m not bubbly.” You added a bit of cold water until the temperature seemed just right. “Do you have soap for bubbles, then?”
He deftly opened the drawer to his right, procured a bottle of bath gel, and tossed it to you. You studied the bottle in your hands. “‘French Vanilla,’ huh?” you mused aloud. “I took you for more of the ‘Raspberry Sorbet’ type.” You twisted the cap off and added some directly to the water pouring in from the spout.
“I prefer ‘Flirty Girl,’ actually. Remember that. I’ll want some more for Christmas.”
You nodded absently, watching the foamy water fill the tub. “Do you even fit in this thing?”
“That’s what she said, and yes, I do, actually. If I sit up a little, it should be fine, even if I have legs for days.” He tried lifting one leg to punctuate his words but it did little more than twitch pitifully. “Dammit.”
“Okay, this should be enough.” You turned off the water and stood. “Ready?”
Wade extended both arms to you, and you fought not to look anywhere further than his chest. “Take me away.”
You opted for scooping him up like a child, but too late you realized that he was heavier than you could carry, and he dropped unceremoniously into the tub, splashing you and much of the bathroom with water.
He was submerged for half a second before he came up spluttering, grabbing the sides of the tub to hold himself up. “Son of a—Y/N! I trusted you!”
“I’m sorry! I thought I could carry you!” You hiked up your sweats to your knees and knelt down next to him. “Are you okay?”
“Well, aside from falling right on my ass cheek, I’d say I’m okay.” He reached over and poured some more “French Vanilla” into his palm. “We need to start getting you lifting again. What good are you if you can’t carry me?” He rubbed the soap over his head, his neck, his shoulders. You didn’t know if you should look away or not, but the way the sinews in his arms and back undulated as he moved was captivating. You never forgot about how built Wade was—his suit didn’t leave much to the imagination—but his form never failed to leave you warm and inarticulate.
You rested your elbows on the lip of the tub, observing him guiltily. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled again.
He looked over at you, his eyes softening when he saw how regretful you looked. “If you wash my back, I’ll forgive you.”
You shrugged; you were already soaked from when you dropped him. The least you could do was help him out. You stood and moved to sit on the tiled ledge behind his head, pushing his toiletries to the side. You put your hands on his shoulders, massaging the shower gel into his skin. He loosed a content sigh and you smiled. “That good?”
“Fuck me, your hands are magic.” You chuckled, and he glanced at you over his shoulder. “No, seriously, fuck me. With those magic hands.”
“No.”
“Some day?”
You cleared your throat, blushing furiously. “Maybe some day,” you said. Fuck it. “Maybe once you’re all healed up. I’m not fucking a noodle man.”
Wade went rigid. You doubted he’d expected you to reciprocate, and yet here you were, flirting with him unlike you ever had before. “Well, this noodle man will get better all on his own just for you. His little noodle, on the other hand—”
“Nope.”
“Another time, then?”
You leaned forward and planted a kiss on his bald, soapy head. “Another time.”
