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“You've never been to IKEA?!” Wade wheezed, inhaling a bite of his magical mermaid mix-n-match adventures pop-tart(tee em). “Oh, kitten tits, we are fixing that.”
Peter glowered over his mug of coffee, hair adorably cowlicked. Even his freckles looked like they needed their morning cup of joe before they could hold civil discourse. Wade wanted to just slurp him up like a meatball.
“I have never been to IKEA,” Peter stated. “And I never will.”
“Baby boy! It's the happiest place on earth!”
“It's the exact opposite of that.” Peter took a ruthless bite of his pop-tart. “It’s a capitalist death trap that shills pressboard furniture to bachelors and college students and calls it ‘design.’ No way are you getting me into that low-quality, crowded Swedish Labyrinth of Awful. I have anxiety.”
“Okay, well, first of all, it's not a labyrinth, silly goose. It's a single path, and it wiggles around, and if you just stay on track you eventually get to the end.”
“That's exactly what a labyrinth — you know what, never mind.”
“Second of all, at the end of that not-maze is the magical world of… the café. Where they have meatballs so good you'll be jizzing gravy through your nose.”
Now that got Peter's attention. Bless Wade’s food-motivated boo. “Honestly, nose jizzing imagery aside, the meatballs are the only part of it that seems even the tiniest appealing. How about this… you go to IKEA, I stay home, you bring me back meatballs.”
“Nope! Because thirdly, IKEA is the ultimate in relationship tests — ”
“ — hearing and respecting your partner’s boundaries is the ultimate relationship test, Wade — ”
“ — a trial by fire, through which we will emerge stronger and even more in love.” Wade could see from Peter's face that his snuggle muffin still wasn't convinced. Time for the big guns. “I would never marry someone until our relationship had survived IKEA.”
Peter spit raspberry-narwhal toaster pastry through his nose hard enough to hit Wade’s tasteful TROLLPIL dish towels.
Wade knew he couldn’t push, but he wasn’t above a delicate nudge every couple of days.
“IKEA’s very affordable. Come on, you’re a SMÄRT guy, you love a deal!”
Peter rolled his eyes so hard Wade heard his eyelashes creak. “Was that a pun? Do I hear someone asking for a punishment? Anyway, thrift stores have better quality stuff, and it’s cheaper, and it’s got character. Like my bedroom tables!”
Peter’s scrounged bedside tables were nice. Heavy, dark wood, gorgeous molding, not a scratch on them. Plenty of room for the bedroom essentials (and the bedroom extracurriculars). But… “They don’t match.”
“We don’t match, and I like us just fine.”
Wade didn’t get them even halfway to those tables and their magical bedside drawers of sexy adventure before he was having Peter over the back of his charming vintage sofa.
“They have cinnamon buns… even sweeter than your buns.”
“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”
Wade shoved his phone in Peter’s face. “Look at this rug, though! You always complain that you can't find good rugs thrifting.”
The rug was nice, and Peter knew it, and Wade knew that he knew it. It was simple. Classy. A deep, spidey-suit blue, the perfect jeweltone to set off the rich, dark wood of Peter’s hodged together bedroom set. One might call the TYVELSE the kind of rug that really tied the room together.
Peter sighed, and Wade pumped his fist.
“But,” Peter said, in one final, desperate attempt at shirking his fate, “we don’t have a car. How are we supposed to get all the dumb crap you buy at IKEA home?”
Wade grinned.
Dopinder met them on the street, cheery as always.
“Hello, Mr. Pool! And Mr. Peter-Man! It is a true pleasure to once again be able to transport you wherever you need to go! And so auspicious that the pandemic is happily resolved and we can once again live our lives without consequence!”
“Yeah,” Wade said, “Sure is convenient to the plot that the author is too lazy to write this universe as still having COVID.”
Look, man, I don’t tell you how to live your life, okay?
“Lady, I am literally your quarantine hobby. All you fucking do is tell me what to do. God, go outside, go for a walk, something.” Peter twitched as Wade herded him into the taxi, buckling his seatbelt for him. “Anywho, sorry about breaking the fourth wall, there. Luckily, we can get a new one… at IKEA!”
Dopinder gasped. “The happiest place on earth!” He floored it, peeling away from the curb with the kind of enthusiasm that could only be sparked by an imminent trip to IKEA, his zeal accompanied by a symphony of car horns and shouted curses. Peter peered out the window of the moving cab like a cat on its way to the vet, and Wade congratulated himself on having the foresight to engage the child safety locks on the way in.
Peter was so despondent that he barely seemed to hear Dopinder’s tale of his latest victory in his quest for the affections of his sweet Gita (who, as far as Wade could tell, he had yet to exchange more than two words in a row with). This was… probably for the best, given the unfortunate fate of his latest, late romantic rival. Wade was pleasantly surprised that Peter didn’t extend the cat metaphor by extending his hands and feet in the door of the cab as Wade lovingly bullied him out, although he did give the tiniest of tugs against Wade’s grip on his elbow as they crossed the parking lot.
And then the automatic doors slid open, and Wade and Dopinder were basking in the glow of the Swedish slice of heaven, as though the store itself was greeting them HÅLLÖ. As Dopinder grabbed a flatbed cart (declaring it his duty and his honor to safeguard their new worldly possessions), Peter’s expression turned sly.
“Wow, look at these cool, uh, clocks!” he said, darting ahead. Quick as a snake, Wade grabbed his wrist.
“Why the RUSCH?” Wade asked, sweetly. Peter gave him the best innocent Bambi eyes, but unfortunately for him he wasn’t a stripper and Wade wasn’t no sucker. “Nope. You do not get to sprint through the entire store and wait for me in the café. This is relationship building, buster.”
Peter deflated.
Wade’s sweet boy sure was grumpy, but luckily Wade was chipper enough for both of them, extolling the virtues of every MILF floor lamp and RAMSBORG picture frame. He and Dopinder made a point to include Peter, not wanting him to feel like the squeaky third wheel that always pulls to the right on an annoying shopping cart, but Peter just sighed, his spirit dropping lower than IKEA’s sensible prices with each dragging step.
“We have so many mugs already, though.”
“You don’t even like scented candles, you say they remind you of Firebutt or whatever his name is.”
“Where would you even put a paper mache bust of a giraffe?”
“We don’t need a live lemon tree, we live in New York, why does this place even sell trees??”
By the time they hit Bedrooms, the midday shopping crowd was picking up and Peter’s criticism had deteriorated from scathing novels of commentary to lukewarm mono-syllabic distaste. Wade, ever the gentleman, swooped his little STENKLÖVER around in a circle and plopped him on a duvet-draped TRYSIL bed that made Wade wanna, well, try some stuff.
“How’s your magical Swedish adventure, my buttery little SMÖRBOLL?”
Peter looked up at him, eyes glassy and brow creased. He bit his lip. “Overstimulating,” he finally whispered.
“Yeah,” murmured Wade, kissing Peter’s forehead. He felt a teeny, tiny bit guilty for dragging his honeybear to a place he so clearly didn’t want to be, and a teeny, tiny bit guiltier for secretly loving the way his big, brave hero of a boyfriend got all shy and quiet by the end of a busy shopping trip. He was just so cute, eyes wide and mouth tiny, clinging to Wade’s sleeve like a lifeline. Did it make Wade a bad person to want his boo to suffer a little bit just so he could fall, swooning, into Wade's heroic, manly arms??
Okay, yeah, it did. It super, duper did.
Oh, well.
Only one way for Wade to assuage his guilt, and that was to make it super, duper worth Peter’s while.
“C’mere,” he said, pulling his sweet, flustered guy up off the bed. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Peter gave him a withering glare.
“C’mon… don’t UTRUSTA me? It’s a good one, I swear! Dopinder…”
Dopinder set down the cheery yellow PYSSLINGAR underbed storage tote he was considering, and shot Wade finger guns. “Air support I presume, Mr. Pool?”
“You’re the best!” Wade squealed, pulling Peter through a curtain and into a charming Kitchen display, its tall cabinets hedging them into the perfect little LÖVA’s nook.
“You, here.” He slammed Peter against a FÄRSKHET fridge, dropping to his knees for some activities that he hoped were quickly about to become anything but het.
Peter’s face went beet red and he slammed his hands over his mouth. His muffled squeak was Muzak to Wade’s ears.
“That’s right,” Wade said, “quiet as a GOSIG MUS, now. I’d hate for them to catch us and TULLSTA leave…” A quick unzip and he was slurping Peter’s cock down. Wade had a mouth like a vacuum cleaner, and it didn't take much Hoovering to have Peter’s dick standing as proud and tall as a Miele Dynamic upright (wrong country, but he didn’t hear any complaints).
He hummed happily. Ah, the taste of his favorite cock in the world, the smell of Chinese finishing chemicals and sawdust, the chime of gently-accented store announcements — Wade truly was in heaven. He hadn’t realized it when he’d suggested the trip, but this, this right here, this was the fantasy. That’s right…
…hooking up in an IKEA.
There was only one thing that could make this better.
“Baby boy, my sweet little mustelid, under-cabinet light of my life?” he cooed, peering up through his lashes. “You wanna use that sweet mouth of yours while you use this sweet mouth of mine?” He flicked his tongue around the head, and Peter’s (big) head thumped against the stainless steel so hard a sensible magnetic clip shook loose and clattered to the floor.
“Yeah!” Peter croaked, then cleared his throat to murmur, “Fuck, baby girl, you want my cock all the way down that sweet, slutty throat?”
“Mm-mmm,” Wade mumbled, pulling off with a pop. “Nope. Read the room, sweet-Pete.”
“Read the…” Realization crashed across Peter’s face like an overloaded shopping cart plowing into a pyramid display of gleaming SÄLLSKAPLIG glassware. “No. No.”
“Come on, baby. Make me GÄSPA.” Wade kept his mouth so very still as he pinned Peter’s hips, fluttering his tongue just barely enough to remind Peter how good this was gonna feel if he just played along.
“Fine!” blurted Peter. His eyes flicked to the placard behind Wade. “Fine. Uh. You better keep SOCKERing my KAKA-a-a-ah, fuck.”
Wade could only hum in agreement, pulling his own pants open and wrapping a BERGPALM around his cock.
“Yeah, you little SKÄNKA, just KRAMIG in there,” Peter murmured, getting the IDEALISK surprisingly quickly. “Wish we were SKYN on SKYN right now, you saucy you little serving dish, you.”
Wade groaned, and Peter hissed.
“Maybe next time I’ll UNG DRILL you by those fancy mirrored photo frames, make you watch yourself get picture-railed you until you’re SÖRE.”
God, was Wade ever in his happy place. He pulled back, tonguing gently at Peter’s delicate little SLITBAR. “Schnookums, you’re so good at this. I feel like the Swedish Chef is bukkaking me with spaghetti right now.”
Peter grimaced. “Wade, ew. Put a KORKEN in it. And by that I mean get your fuckin’ mouth back on my DISKA where it belongs.”
They put a cork in something, and it wasn’t long before hot, smooth man-gravy bloomed over Wade’s tongue. Groaning, he iced the inside of his own pants. He was enjoying the fluorescent afterglow, allowing the Swedish bliss to waft gently down his spine, when a woman’s voice floated around the corner. “I don’t know… Don’t you think this kitchen style looks kind of tacky?”
Peter’s eyes shot open and Wade was up like a flash, kissing him and tucking him away and redoing his fly for him. He grabbed a RINNING kitchen towel, silently pouring one out for the missed opportunity for a rimming joke (next time). Instead, he shoved the poor, innocent tea towel down his pants, doing a brisk clean up and wiping between his fingers with a leer before tossing it to the side.
“Wade!” Peter hissed. “We are paying for that!”
“Live a little, sugarpickle!” Wade sang, before popping his head around the corner. “Ma’am, I can tell you firsthand that the SENSUELL cookware set will leave you completely satisfied in the kitchen.”
He heard a weak, “thanks,” as he whisked his baby through the magic curtain and back into Bedrooms. Dopinder was in the midst of an animated discussion with an associate, using indecisive shifts of his body to block their arrival from her dubious gaze.
“Mr. Pool!” he said, waving her farewell. “She certainly suspected that shenanigans were afoot, but I managed to hold her in a brisk debate on the various merits of pairing the DOMBÅS cabinet with the JERKER computer desk.”
“That’s my man!” cooed Wade.
“Forever yours, Deepee!” sighed Dopinder, STJÄRNA twinkling in his eyes.
Peter, meanwhile, squoozed tight against Wade’s side. Yeah, okay, it had gotten a lot more crowded while they were busy with their AKURUM delight. With a flourish, Wade dumped a few cute throw pillows onto their cart and deposited his adorable little moose nugget on top of them.
“Wade, I'm a grown man, I can’t just…”
Wade shushed him, stripping off his own unicorn hoodie to burrito Daddy’s Little Chimichanga up tight. A fuzzy teal sheepskin blanket, and then, the crowning touch:
“I'm not doing this because I enjoy it,” Peter said, clutching the him-sized BLÅHAJ shark plushie for dear life. “I’m doing it because I’m overstimulated and this is the worst place in the whole entire world.”
Wade just beamed, booping Peter’s adorably scrunched nose.
He and Dopinder had a great IKEA trip. Their marriage was gonna be rock solid.
He definitely bought that lemon tree.
His grumpy bunny only emerged to the land of the living once he was deposited in a café seat. “Holy shit,” Peter mumbled, voice thick. “This is the best cinnamon roll I’ve ever had in my life.”
“I think you mean the BESTÅ,” Wade chirped. Peter threw a meatball at him. It splattered across his cheek in a glorious moneyshot when he completely and utterly failed to dodge. Sue him; he was more than a little distracted by the sweet, creamy goodness dripping down his baby’s chin. Maybe they should get a freezer pack or twelve…
Peter froze, eyes locked on two pre-teen hellions who had just come bolting out from behind a curtain.
“Wait a sec… What’s that curtain? Where did they just come from?”
"Oh, that curtain?” Wade shrugged blithely. “That’s just the shortcut from the front entrance.”
“The… shortcut. The shortcut that goes directly from the front door… to the meatballs and cinnamon rolls.”
“Uh-huh!”
“Without having to go through any of the rest of the store at all.”
“Well, yeah, if you wanna be boring about it.”
Wade smiled winningly.
He had a feeling he was about to be dismantled so hard that even Blind Al wouldn’t be able to put him back together again.
