aspenfallen - Tumblr blog

aspenfallen · 28 days ago

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y'all this series is so fucking good, I can't even

black irises in the sunshine

summary: Wade catches Logan engaging in some good ol' fashioned depravity and Logan has a lot of Big Feelings about bottoming. pairings: logan howlett (worst wolverine) / wade wilson (deadpool) warnings: smut, fluff, scent kink, panty kink, (light) angst, top!wade wilson, dirty talk, possessiveness, humiliation kink, sub!logan howlett, subspace, edging, blood kink, feminization, crying, (light) sadism, erotic stabbing words: 16.6k

If Wade finds out, he will never hear the end of it.

That’s what Logan keeps telling himself as he stands in front of the laundry hamper, hands twitching, jaw set, eyes narrowed at the offending fabric because his current predicament is its fault. He cannot — will not — do what his body is commanding because if by some miracle Wade strolls through the door while he’s in the middle of it, he will never know a moment’s peace for the rest of their natural lives, and that is a long fucking time. He’s been welded to this spot for the last fifteen minutes, just glaring at dirty laundry, the floral scent of Althea’s bedroom smothered by Wade , nothing but Wade, clogging Logan’s nose, his brain; it’s like syrup sticking to his fingers only a thousand times more tempting.

His cock is also aching, but he’s tenaciously ignoring that.

Wade has been gone for three weeks. Mercenary work flung him clear across the world to some fog-choked corner of Scotland, and what was supposed to be a quick and dirty dispatching of some low-level bad guy snowballed into a whole thing , a hierarchical organization of scumbags that Wade was subsequently charged with dismantling. He was only supposed to be away from home for five days maximum , which Logan steeled himself for accordingly because he’s a fucking adult, the Wolverine , no less, and can actually survive without his partner glued to his side for a few days, thank you very much.

Only…God, he misses Wade.

Logan has been alone most of his life. The blips in time where he’s had companionship have been short-lived, either because he’s fucked it all up somehow and retreated out of shame, or the incessant march of time had taken the hand of his loved one and guided them toward their end without Logan. He’d grown tolerant to the solitude after the tragedy and melodrama of it all became too much to bear, used to it as one becomes used to a chronic ache — it was unwelcome, a houseguest long overstayed and made itself a nuisance, but he couldn’t be rid of it no matter how hard he tried, so he adapted, as he always has. Before Wade, when the last shreds of his approximation of family had been buffeted away in the wind, he’d resolved himself to just adapting , to being alone and effectively waiting out the clock until either he died or the world stopped spinning. Whichever came first.

But, of course, there is a Before Wade, and there is an After Wade, and as it turns out, the After is pretty fucking great.

Wade cannot die, at least not permanently, so Logan doesn’t have to worry about that. He’s no damsel in distress, either — fucker’s feisty , a force to be reckoned with, flailing and spitting like a feral cat when caught and unrelenting in the event some petty henchman or even a Big Bad manages to get the drop on him. Logan doesn’t have to fret about swooping in to save him (he still does , but the point is he doesn’t have to). It seems that Time’s march will parade right on by Wade Wilson, and he’ll be smiling and waving it down the street in the aftermath, right alongside Logan, because Wade wants to stick by him.

It’s been three months since February, and sure, that is nothing for normal people, hardly worth mentioning, but it means that as the city thawed out and spring blossomed fragrantly all across the state, Wade still wanted Logan. And when the April showers came, their downpour drenching the windows of the apartment, Wade still wanted him. And even now, as summer clambers lazily over the horizon and the afternoons come to a roiling boil after the sun’s hit its peak in the sky, Wade still wants him (present tense, motherfucker).

That fucking means something to Logan.

He doesn’t deserve it, and he knows that. He could live another hundred lifetimes, and he doesn’t think he’d ever come close to deserving this, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try. It’s not just Wade, either — it’s this whole life.

He wakes in the mornings, Monday through Friday, when the city below is groggily milling about in the cool blue of dawn, and when he lumbers out of bed for work, Wade wriggles into his spot to leech the residual warmth from the sheets and sighs, not quite awake but not deeply asleep either. He doesn’t stir when Logan makes coffee — one for him to keep in a thermos and take to the site, a cup for Althea, who usually finds her way to the kitchen a few minutes after his departure, and a mug in the fridge for Wade — but somehow always knows when Logan is shuffling past the pullout because one mottled hand will shoot out from beneath the comforter and hook into the sleeve of Logan’s jacket.

“Be back later,” Logan will say, squeezing Wade’s first two fingers. Wade grunts, and his hand drops; he turns his face out from beneath the covers and points it in Logan’s direction. Logan stoops, every morning, thumb steepled under Wade’s chin, and kisses him once on the lips.

What Wade says to him is the only real variable. Sometimes he makes a joke — “Don’t slice and dice anyone, the kids don’t wanna move schools again” — and sometimes he says, “Okay, peanut,” but most of the time, Wade sleepily murmurs Love you before rolling over on his stomach and smushing his face into Logan’s pillow.

The predictability of it all might drive someone else insane, but Logan’s comforted by it. The one constant in his life is Wade, morning, noon, and night, ever-present and implacable; even if he stumbles in late from carrying out Deadpool business some nights – he still comes home . Logan’s had plenty of tumult over the last two centuries, so sue him if he appreciates the fact that Thursdays are unofficially-officially Thai food night, and that Wade’s friends crowd the tiny apartment every other Saturday for movies and games, and that when he wakes from his frequent nightmares, disoriented, claws gleaming in the moonlight, Wade is there , a solid chattering mass that tethers Logan back to the real world.

He doesn’t deserve it. Never, ever will.

But he’s grateful for it; he’s grateful for Wade .

So when he broke the news that he had to leave, Logan was…uneasy. He didn’t show it, or at least he tried like hell not to, clenching his teeth together so hard he was convinced they’d shatter to dust if he kept it up, and pretended it was no big deal . He couldn’t go with – Wade had asked about that one before he’d informed Logan of the job, and it was a resounding no from the sniveling little shitweasel who doled out merc work at Sister Margaret’s, which was fine; Wade didn’t need Logan tailing behind on a job he knew would be easy.

Logan just fucking hates that ginger dick and the feeling is capital M Mutual , so the aforementioned-ginger dick likes to ruffle Wade’s feathers because he knows it’ll ruffle Logan’s by proxy without them ever coming face-to-face. He does spook like a housecat whenever Logan looms in the doorway of the bar behind Wade, though, all broad-shouldered and curdling disapproval, so at least there’s a bit of mean-spirited fun to be had on his end, but still.

Logan’s adaptable , but he doesn’t know when exactly he’d adapted to Wade’s presence to such an extent or when he began to crave it like oxygen, but he does , and now he finds himself suddenly incapable of adapting to Wade’s prolonged absence. His nightmares have ramped up, HD renderings of all of his worst moments playing like a fucked up highlight reel throughout the night, with Wade occasionally sprinkled in there, too. He dreams of Wade dying, like, for real , blown to bits and showering down around Logan’s head like rainfall, or gurgling on his own blood from a well-placed bullet to the lung, frantic and terrifyingly mortal as he thumps on Logan’s chest and implores him to do something . Sometimes, when Wade’s eyes go glassy and blank, and he falls silent in Logan’s arms, the faces of his friends, his X-Men, emerge from the shadows, speckled with blood and so fucking disappointed in him he can only find relief by slamming all six claws through his skull.

Suffice it to say, he hasn’t slept well in weeks.

Beyond that, he feels bereft in every sense of the word. His skin prickles with the loss, and he longs for the casual drag of Wade’s bumpy fingers when he’s passing by. He thinks Wade might be the only person who’s ever touched him without expectation. Sure, there’s plenty of ass-slapping and groping to go around (on both sides, Logan will confess), but Wade mostly touches him just to touch him, to feel physically close and connected. He presses his palm against the small of Logan’s back when he needs to scoot by in their cramped kitchen, leans into Logan’s space to thumb food off the corner of his mouth when they’re eating instead of just alerting Logan to its presence, but Logan’s favorite, hands-down, is when Wade touches his hair.

Wade loves to sidle up behind him when he’s sitting on the couch, reading or watching TV or otherwise mentally preoccupied, and slide both hands along Logan’s greying temples before carding them back over the top of Logan’s head, blunt nails dragging over his scalp and the pads of his fingers twirling Logan’s cowlicks. (Sometimes Wade meows at him about it, and Logan determinedly ignores him.)

Logan would never admit it to anyone, might even gut the unlucky bastard who ever caught them like this, but he melts for Wade when he does this, like butter sizzling in a heated pan. He’ll tip his head back, lips barely parted, eyes slipped shut, and allow Wade to handle him for as long as he wants. He’s never done that before, never trusted another person to not take the stretch of his throat as an invitation to tear it out, but he trusts Wade, and Wade knows that; he holds that trust like it’s something invaluable, like precious stones, cups his palms around it (around Logan) to keep it safe and sound.

But Wade’s not here, hasn’t been in far too long, and Logan’s sick of waking up to Wade’s side of the bed being empty and cold, of showering alone (even though Wade and his ten-mile-long limbs take up most of the room in the stall and he hogs the showerhead and sings Dolly Parton really poorly ), and the silence he so longed for from the second he met the yappy fuck is suffocating now.

The worst part, by far, is that Wade’s smell is dissipating all around him. Logan can still pick up remnants of it if he really focuses, shuts his eyes, breathes, peels back the flower-sweet layers of Althea, the staleness of Mary Puppins, and something mildewy he’s conceded is just a fixture of the apartment at this point — there he finds just a hint of Wade, understated for the first time in his fucking life and woefully inadequate compared to the abundance of scent Logan’s grown accustomed to.

He’s down to just a few rather pungent shirts Wade had worked out in prior to skipping across the pond that Logan’s stubbornly, perhaps a bit petulantly, refusing to wash. They’re admittedly pretty gross, all pit-stained and raggedy with blobs of mysteriously discolored fabric throughout, but Logan doesn’t care. He’ll pick them up from their spot atop the laundry hamper at least once a day, when not even Mary is around to blink those bugged-out eyes at him, and bury his nose in the, inhaling deeply in an attempt to sate the squirming loneliness in his chest. He’s popped the cap on Wade’s body wash a few times, too, but it’s not the same — the artificial marshmallow is hollow without Wade’s heat, his sweat, his flesh, and it only serves to make Logan fucking sad .

Which leads him to today.

Althea complained about the stench of their hamper before she puttered out that morning, smacking the wall behind it with her cane pointedly and demanding Logan do something about it because she couldn’t handle one more day of marinated man sweat stinking up her bedroom, which…fair enough. He resigned himself to finally just washing the damn clothes, and yeah, maybe he visibly pouted at the prospect, but Al is blind, and Mary can’t (verbally) judge him, so whatever.

He’d piled Wade’s shirts into a secondary (pink) hamper (with peeling Lisa Frank stickers dotting the rim), along with a few dozen hopelessly mismatched socks, but just as he dislodged a pair of his own jeans, a redolent wave of something hit him square in the freakishly sensitive nose, and his whole body went still.

Those goddamned pink fucking panties were crumpled amongst a stray Deadpool glove and one of Logan’s tanks.

He remembered when Wade wore them last, how he’d salivated over them for a second time and fucked Wade over the arm of the couch until he couldn’t form coherent sentences (it can be done if you have superhuman strength and a negligible refractory period, Logan’s discovered); how Wade dribbled precum in the gusset and came ropes all over the satin until it was soaked, and fuck, he could smell it. The arousal, thick and heady, curling up his nose and digging its fingers into his brain, settling across the back of his tongue like honey and imploring him to…

Well.

He fucking will not , okay?

He is two-hundred-something years old, with a perfectly functioning right hand and cell phone — if he’s that horny, he will just call Wade like a fucking normal person, he doesn’t need to…

Oh, but he wants to.

He swallows hard, throat clicking dry.

He throws a glance over his shoulder for the thousandth time. He’d hear Althea rattling in the elevator before she even made it within ten feet of the front door, have plenty of time to stop, and it’s not like she’d see anything —

No.

He grits his teeth and perches on the edge of Al’s bed, careful not to slam his weight around for fear of collapsing the already rickety frame (he should really fix that at some point).

He can’t believe this is something he’s even entertaining; it’s fucking gross and pathetic, and again, what if Wade finally drags his happy ass back home while he’s…

Fuck, he’s still not convinced against it. It’s been a long few weeks.

He chews the inside of his cheek, lips pursed, eyes thinned to slits.

Well…okay, fine, yes, it’s gross and pathetic, but…goddamn it, maybe he feels pretty pathetic right now, alright? That’s apparently what happens to him when he’s forced apart from his person for too long — he gets all stupid and can’t think straight.

If Wade were here, he’d probably insinuate, with a shit-eating grin, that the pair of them are incapable of thinking “straight,” and good fucking God, he even misses Wade’s idiotic one-liners.

That’s it.

He growls quietly and crosses the room, covetously snatching the panties from their resting place and hoofing it back to the pullout bed.

Just real fast , he promises no one as he settles himself on Wade’s side, not even bothering to tug his jeans off. He fumbles one-handedly with the zipper and button until he can pry his throbbing cock from the fly of his briefs, and the tepid air against his heated flesh is enough to make him hiss. I’ll fuckin’ get it over with so I stop thinking about it.

A breath shudders from his throat. The panties gleam where they’re clenched in his fist, smooth except for where they’re not , except for the spots where Wade’s cum has dried into the fabric and made it chalk-white and stiff .

God.

Logan’s cock jumps .

God.

He listens again, ears trained on every bump and thump that echoes through the complex around him.

Nothing.

Well, there’s a baby crying on the first floor (a hungry cry, maybe?) and a couple fucking a few doors down (braggy twats), but no scratch-clack of Althea’s cane whizzing across the ground, so some of the tension slips out of his shoulders, and he grips his shaft.

Fast. Just real fast.

He shakes Wade’s panties out, splays them across the palm of his hand so that the soiled gusset is face-up, and tentatively, slowly, abashedly raises it to his nose.

The way his cock kicks in his other hand and liquid heat scorches through every available nerve in his body makes him wonder, for just a moment, if that was enough to make him cum already. A glance down confirms that isn’t the case, but fuck, he’s leaking precum like a busted sink; it drips fatly from his glistening cockhead, pools in the dark hair thatched across his torso, so he smears his fingers through it and uses it to slick his strokes as he starts to jack off in earnest.

God, fuck — it’s still nowhere near having Wade wrapped around him, writhing beneath his wandering tongue, but it sets him aflame nonetheless. He scrunches the panties against his face, palm flattened across his jaw, and drags greedy lungfuls of air in through the silken fabric. Sweat, cum, the sweet-sick odor of cancer, Wade, Wade, his Wade , he’s drowning in it; he’d roll himself up in it all and never come out if he could. It smells like home , in the truest sense of the word, and yes, he’s aware of how fucking weird it is that his olfactory definition of home includes the scent of semen in this instance, but what-the-fuck- ever .

Logan works himself roughly, callused hands stripping his length in long, rapid strokes, thumbing over his swollen cockhead and twisting his wrist as heat churns between his hipbones. His head falls against the back of the couch with a thud , throat curved into a tense arch, veins bulging, lids fluttering — this is gonna be fast, holy shit, his balls are already drawing up, and he can feel his pulse hammering behind his eyes. If he had the capacity for shame at this moment, he’s sure he’d feel some about being on the edge after not even forty-five seconds, but he’s jerking off with Wade Wilson’s dirty panties stuffed up his nose, so.

Yeah, shame went out the window a loooong time ago.

Ouch .

Blood trickles across his gumline, a splash of copper commemorating the lengthening of his canines.

He still has complicated feelings about them, about his fangs , but Wade’s fucking obsessed with them, likes to push the pad of his thumb against their points until blood beads up around them, so Logan’s adjusting, albeit slowly. His tongue laves over their sharp edges, poking them experimentally, and what if he just…?

Okay, no, he has to draw the line at licking the panties.

Right?

Distantly, he can hear himself panting around garbled words, mostly nonsense, but the familiar curl of Wade’s name vibrates against the back of his incisors, rolling like thunder from deep in his chest.

“Fuck…ugh, fuck… Wade…”

If he tries, Logan can see him, plastered like polaroids against the black of closed eyelids. So long and lean, stippled scars stretched taut over what seems like miles of muscle, thick, adept fingers, powerful thighs, the sinful way his waist cinches as it slants toward his hips.

“Wade…”

The column of his neck beneath the slope of his jaw, the hollow in his throat where tears puddle after Logan wrings them out; Wade’s eyes, dark and brown like sun-warmed soil in the summer, teeming with life, crinkled at the corners when he laughs or spun into the back of his skull when Logan thrusts against just the right spot.

“ Wade…” His voice is muffled by fabric and choked with lust. He’s so fucking close.

Wade’s mouth , fuck, that filthy, stupid, wonderful mouth, it drives Logan insane. His lips are marred with scar tissue, as uneven as the rest of him, but they’re still so full; Logan can picture them in vivid, hyper-real detail, spit-wet and red after Logan’s kissed him quiet, splitting apart in that wild, genuine grin Logan’s grown so fond of, stretched tight around the girth of his cock and rolled over his top row of teeth as if Logan wouldn’t beg for Wade to hurt him a little with them, shit , fuck, oh God —

“Yeah, fuck, Wade —“

“Oh. My. Shitfucking. Christ.”

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

You have got to be fucking kidding –

He is losing his touch, or maybe his senses are going the way of the dinosaurs in his ever-increasing age, or maybe Wade’s just too good at slinking around undetected because Logan wasn’t even aware Wade was back in the same country , let alone standing in the doorway of their apartment ogling him. Standing in the doorway with the door hung wide the fuck open might he add, Jesus – if their neighbor happened to putter outside right now, she’d get an eyeful .

He freezes, the dictionary definition of “guilty as fuck�� with one hand still wrapped firmly around his cock, the other slowly descending from the lower half of his face so the glare he’s levied at Wade won’t look so utterly ridiculous.

“Wipe that fucking look off your face,” he snarls, sounding wrecked , “and shut the goddamned door.”

Not exactly the warmest welcome, but Wade is beaming , absolutely transfixed by the scene he’s stumbled in on, and Logan’s stupid heart does stupid flips in his stupid chest because three weeks apart was just enough time for the details of Wade’s face to fuzz around the edges in his memory, and now he’s here in high-definition, gleeful and spangled with color.

His shirt is disarmingly red, spackled with gigantic yellow hibiscuses and neon green palm tree leaves, hanging loose and unbuttoned over a baby pink tank top that has Pink Ladies emblazoned on the front in swirling black script; the flannel bottoms that are so wonderfully snug on him came in a set of two that Logan had bought for himself. Wade stole the yellow pair before Logan could process that there were yellow ones to begin with. He looks, for lack of a better word, fucking wacky , especially with his Deadpool suit, bloodied and stinking to high heaven, crumpled inside the mesh laundry bag that’s slung over his shoulder, and turgid black duffel bags Logan knows are bursting with clips and guns and knives and all other manner of deadly weapons.

He has no clue how Wade managed to get any of that shit past TSA and customs, but he’s sure it involved a considerable amount of hijinks and dipshittery, and he’s so fucking happy to see this ludicrous motherfucker he could weep. (He won’t, good God, but y’know…maybe.)

“Is it my birthday?” Wade asks dreamily, unceremoniously tossing his belongings toward the kitchen and allowing them to fall where they may; they clatter-bang into the cupboards with enough tinny reverb that Logan feels it in the roots of his teeth. “Is it Christmas? S’pose those might be the same, now, given the Marvel Messiah of it all, either way — merry fuckin’ birthmas.”

He kicks the door shut so hard the hinges give a scornful rattle, and then he’s toeing off those ridiculous Crocs and gliding across the hardwood on misallied pink and green socks to straddle Logan’s thighs before he’s had a chance to unhand himself.

“You,” Wade starts, palms cradling either side of Logan’s jaw and obnoxiously smacking kisses on both of his scruffy cheeks, “are full of surprises, peanut, ho-ly fuck.”

“Shut–”

Mwah.

“ – the –”

Mwah.

“ – fuck –”

Mwah.

“ –up.”

Mwah, mwah, mwah.

Wade tastes like trail mix and cheap wine and smells stale and sweaty like canned plane air, but Logan chases his mouth anyway, licking at the seam of his lips and biting at the plush flesh to keep Wade close to him. One thigh is driven between Logan’s, muscled and warm and hitching occasionally.

“Didn’t take you for a panty-sniffin’ perv, but I am so not complaining,” Wade teases, and Logan growls his dissent. He’s fallen out of the habit of skewering Wade on his claws — unless Wade begs , high and pretty for it — but he’s seriously considering it now. He balls his fists up and digs his knuckles against Wade’s sternum, a hollow threat made even less formidable by the fact that he’s still got Wade’s underwear looped around the palm of one hand.

“I am not –”

“D’you always say my name when you’re having alone time, angel baby?” Wade lilts, kissing a trail down the side of Logan’s neck and — fucking bastard — setting the edge of his teeth against soft flesh, clamping down smugly when Logan exhales harshly against the back of his head.

“‘Cause if so, I’m setting up cameras. I need about six hundred more hours of that .”

“You’re fucked up.”

“What was that? Did you say something, I couldn’t hear you past the unrepentant depravity.”

Logan doesn’t have it in him to shove Wade off. Under different circumstances, he might, or he might roll on top of the cocky little shit and show him what unrepentant depravity actually fucking looks like, but right now, he’s half out of his mind, muzzy and lust-drunk and sentimental and relieved . He doesn’t want to disentangle from his partner, not when he’s finally home, finally kissing him and pushing his buttons, solid and real and back where he belongs. Logan’s still embarrassed, right down to the metal coating his bones, but that writhing loneliness that’d been setting up camp in his ribcage is ebbing away, and everywhere Wade’s touching thrums with electricity, so he jerks Wade back by the nape and bruises their mouths together again.

Wade licks into him easily, snickering against his prodding tongue, dragging gnarled fingers down Logan’s torso and humming with approval.

“Wow, kitty,” he coos, pushing against where precum has half-cooled on Logan’s belly and made the skin tacky. “You were havin’ a ball , huh, just look at you. Such a mess, you’re wet like a gi—”

“Do not ,” Logan snaps. It’s too late, though, because Wade already put the thought in his head, and his cock twitches , the fucking traitor. His erection hasn’t flagged even marginally after he’s been caught red-handed (pink-handed? ugh, what ever, Wade’s penchant for stupid puns is rubbing off on him), yet somehow, there’s more than enough blood to spare because his whole face and the back of his neck are burning with it.

A year ago, he was cracking dudes’ heads off of sticky bartops, slugging his way through a distillery’s worth of booze, and stumbling from one back alley to another to catch, at maximum, one hour of sleep between binges.

Now, he’s stone-cold sober, and blushing like a fucking virgin while Wade Wilson wheedles affectionately in his ear on their shitty pullout bed while their dog grooms herself noisily in the corner. Go fucking figure.

Wade kisses the tip of his nose, unflinching. He leans back, sitting lower on Logan’s sprawled legs and casually running the corrugated palm of one hand up the side of Logan’s dick. He bucks, breath hissing between his teeth, and Wade tilts his head, looking almost innocent as he gives Logan a few lazy pumps.

“Y’know, this whole spicy kitty act falls on its face a bit when you still fuck my hand about it,” he laughs, and Logan seethes . Stupid motherfucker, asshole —

Wade squeezes on the upstroke and swipes through the mess still leaking from Logan’s cock with his thumb, humming favorably, pulling away only to watch sticky strings of precum stretch and snap between their bodies. Then his eyes are on Logan’s, heartbreakingly sincere even with blown-out pupils, and he says, “I missed you so fucking much, Lo,” before sucking the pad of his thumb into his mouth.

…Okay, addendum: Stupid motherfucker, asshole – who Logan is so mortifyingly in love with it makes his head spin.

(“Lo” is new-ish in the ever-expanding Rolodex of nicknames Wade has for him, and Logan will probably never verbalize it, but it’s one of his favorites. He’ll also never admit the abject fondness he has for “peanut,” for what he thinks are obvious fucking reasons.)

“Missed you,” Logan grunts, reaching weakly for Wade and forcing himself to sit up. He buries his face in the available expanse of Wade’s throat, inhaling gluttonously. When he pushes past the stink of dozens of other bodies (maybe he gets a little irrationally jealous over that, but that’s his business) and hotel soap that reeks of bitter jasmine, he shivers.

There it is .

Wade unfurls beautifully inside his nose, wonted and reassuring, warm and sick-sweet, and it settles something deep in Logan’s hindbrain, but it’s not enough. He needs more. Logan kisses, open-mouthed, along Wade’s traps, shucking the Hawaiian shirt and yanking the pesky collar of his tank top away with one hand before biting down hard .

Wade’s blood splatters into the back of his throat, pools behind his bottom teeth, and Logan moans . He sucks at the wound he’s made, scoring it repeatedly with sharp teeth after it dares to heal too quickly, smearing spit and blood all over Wade’s raw flesh; he wishes he could bite right into the beautiful, choked-off sound Wade makes deep in his throat, chew through muscle and sinew until he sinks his fangs into it and swallows.

“God, why do you even wear clothes, shit’s in my fucking way,” Wade grouses, unwilling to pull back from the clutch of Logan’s teeth but still patting blindly around his zipper and buttons. He huffs, once, peeved at the devoted fabric of Logan’s jeans and shuffles against Logan’s chest irately.

Snikt .

Logan blinks, heavy-lidded and slow, mildly confused as to why his claws have unsheathed without conscious summoning on his part, but his knuckles are bare when he manages to focus on them. Something cold and pointed drags along the waistline of his pants, so he unlatches from Wade’s throat to investigate.

Instead of having any semblance of patience or just asking Logan to take his pants off, Wade has decided the best and most logical course of action is to slice them to ribbons with an iridescent butterfly knife – where he was hiding that, or how long he’s just had a fucking blade stowed away in the shallow pockets of his pajamas, Logan has no idea, doesn’t care, either, because Wade yanks him by the belt loops until his back is arching and drives the gleaming edge of his knife down through Logan’s fly. He’s careful to avoid Logan’s dick – thank every god that exists – but otherwise hacks and slashes at denim and the polyester of Logan’s briefs with reckless abandon, like it’s done something to offend him personally.

When all that remains are blue and black scraps dangling comically from Logan’s thick thighs, Wade straightens and closes his knife with a flourish, and – well, Logan finds it really fucking hot, actually, the way he doesn’t even have to look at the spinning blade to know he’s safely flipping it back inside itself, fingers poised knowledgeably on the safe handle. He knows how proficient Wade is with blades of all sizes, having witnessed it firsthand, but there’s something about the perfunctory twirl of his wrist, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, that has Logan’s addled brain suddenly brimming with ideas.

One thing at a time , he reasons, gaze flickering toward the delightfully obvious tent in Wade’s bottoms as it rubs against his now bare thigh.

“I liked those,” he crunches out, voice gravelly and ruined before Wade’s even touched him properly, and Wade rolls his eyes. He tugs the pitiful strips of fabric off Logan’s legs before depositing them off the side of the bed and smacking Logan good-naturedly on the flank.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s tragic I turned your best lounging jeans into mache, we can upcycle them later,” he says, and then with a little displeased twist of the mouth, adds, “Who hangs around the house in fucking jeans , anyway? Freak.”

Logan’s bloodied mouth falls open to tell Wade to shut up, but just as his tongue has curled to form the Sh sound, Wade’s clambering off of him. God help him, he barely bites back a sad little whine at the loss of contact, like a needful dog, but Wade either doesn’t notice or is too preoccupied with dragging Logan to the edge of the pullout by his ankles to care.

He thuds to his knees, the breadth of his shoulders bumping Logan’s thighs further apart, and makes a low, contented noise in the back of his throat as one marred hand comes up to grip the base of Logan’s cock. Logan props himself up on his elbows, chest already heaving, nostrils flaring, and fuck ; he could cum just from watching the pink of Wade’s tongue flit out to wet his lips as he hungrily appraises Logan’s cock. He flattens one hand on Logan’s pelvis, fidgets with the coarse hair clustered there like he’s petting him, and bats those pretty brown eyes up at Logan (which is impressive, considering Wade has no eyelashes).

“Mind doin’ me a favor, gorgeous?” he purrs, tilting his head to one side, hot breath fanning over Logan’s dick temptingly.

He’d steal the stars out of the sky and fasten them to their ceiling as decoration if Wade asked him, but he doesn’t say that, doesn’t think the message would be received the way he means it with Wade’s mouth grazing his cock, so he just nods.

Wade’s eyes flicker to Logan’s hand, to the panties still wound around his fingers, and then back to Logan’s face.

“Keep huffing those,” he says.

Logan goes rigid .

“Wh…are you serious?”

“As a widow-maker, kitten whiskers,” Wade sighs. “‘S that a problem?”

“Just…uh…” Logan could tell him no , flat out, he could ball the panties up and chuck them across the apartment, out the fucking window if he aimed right, but he doesn’t. Wade wouldn’t press him about it, not seriously, anyway – he’s very good at accepting Logan’s (admittedly few ) “no’s” without any pretense or whining, can adjust in nanoseconds and then shoo the moment away before it has a chance to sour between them. But that’s the thing – Logan doesn’t think this is a hard no.

If the way he flushes from the dirty thrill and his cock bobs agreeably against Wade’s chin is anything to go by, he’d say it was a fuck yes .

“Whatsa matter?” Wade asks haughtily, resting the dappled scars of his cheek against Logan’s shaft and nuzzling him like a fucking kitten. “You shy ‘cause you got an audience now?” He juts his bottom lip out in sympathy, bald brow bone furrowing like he’s dutifully attuned to Logan’s plight.

“My big bad Wolvie’s got stage fright?”

“Fuck you,” Logan spits, but his hips stutter forward when Wade licks a long stripe up his cock, the flat of his tongue smooth and tantalizing, all while maintaining searing eye contact.

“Later,” Wade says, “I need to get the taste of airplane food out of my fuckin’ mouth. Gimme somethin’ extra pretty to look at while I’m down here, won’t you, angel face? ‘M not gonna judge you, y’know.”

Logan does know. He’s not sure there’s a thing on this planet he could do that’d make him fall out of Wade’s favor, short of actually killing him, but then, well – he still whines like a slut when Logan spears him through the intercostals, so. Maybe not. And the humiliation of it all, shimmering like heat waves through Logan’s arousal, is only serving to make this better, make him harder (if that were possible), and so, with a decisive swallow, he raises Wade’s panties back beneath his nose.

Wade’s incandescent about it, all grinning teeth and glowing mawkishness.

“ Good, good boy, thank you, puppy,” he says, sounding a little winded before he swallows Logan’s cock in one fluid motion. He drops his jaw wide and relaxes his throat to accommodate Logan’s girth, groaning reverently as he inches down, down, down , until Logan’s head bumps his soft palate and makes him gag.

Logan falls prone onto the bed with a rumbling moan, eyes spinning to the back of his head and panting against soiled satin.

Wade’s mouth is filthy , he’s always known that – in or out of bed, Wade can conjure things so lecherously asinine it would make the most seasoned of pornstars blush , but it’s the praise that makes Logan lucent with heat, now, simple and sweet and given freely, given honestly . Logan’s always wanted to be good , wanted to prove that he’s more than a bloodthirsty animal, but he’s never quite succeeded. He’d chalked it up to the inherent ugliness inside of himself, which wasn’t the fault of his mutation or his parentage – no, his ugly was deeper than flesh, deeper than marrow; it struck soul deep. He thought perhaps he’d never be free of it; perhaps it’d snarl inside of him like the roots of a rotting tree until the sun exploded and he was reduced to ash with everything else, and he’d have to find a way to be alright with that.

After all, it’s what he deserved.

But he doesn’t feel ugly now, flecked with fading sunlight and splayed out on his back, sweat glistening at his hairline and amenably snuffling at a particularly stained section of Wade’s panties. Wade’s words clunk around weightlessly in his head, bloated with undiluted affection, good boy good boy good boy , and suddenly he realizes he’d do just about anything to earn more of that.

Wade’s suffocating himself on Logan’s cock and loving every fucking second of it, thick rivulets of drool rippling lewdly over Logan’s balls as he bobs his head, cheeks hollowing, throat flexing – he sucks dick like he was born for it.

“Mmm, actually, I think I was born to save my parents’ shitty marriage,” Wade says suddenly, pulling off Logan with a wet pop . Fuck, did he say that out loud? “But I like your sentiment waaay better, honey badger. Makes for less crushing disappointment on these dainty shoulders.”

“Wade –”

“Shh, you're okay, 'm sorry, going back to regularly scheduled dick-sucking, as is my birthright,” Wade quips, soothing circles into the swell of Logan’s hip before tonguing along the fat vein on the underside of his cock. “You just keep gettin’ high on my fumes over there, peanut, I gotcha.”

Logan obeys , melting like warm candle wax beneath the skillful pressure of Wade’s hands and mouth, and it’s strange how he so effortlessly teases out this side of Logan – this pliant, softer, dare he say, submissive side. No one’s ever managed it before, but then again, it’s not like they tried, and even if they had, if they’d picked and peeled away at Logan’s layers like this, he doesn’t think he would have let them get far.

But, like most things, it’s different with Wade.

He doesn’t know why, exactly, can’t pinpoint the specific thing that speaks to whatever’s defensively coiled deep within Logan’s brain and encourages it to loosen, so he ventures it might just be Wade . He can relax a little because Wade is an idiot, but he’s a competent idiot who can’t be killed, who fucking loves him, who Logan has learned to trust implicitly over the last several months.

Wade’s got him. He knows it like he knows how to breathe, how to walk – innately, intuitively.

“ Shit ,” Logan hisses. Wade’s plunged the point of his tongue against Logan’s slit, lapping up precum with all the fervor of a man sorely and unfairly deprived. The satisfied sound he makes vibrates down into Logan’s core, shaking a few shameless moans loose, and he can feel Wide grinning triumphantly all around him. His free hand scrabbles along the back of Wade’s head until it finds purchase on the nape of his neck.

Logan’s rocketing toward his release again, blood-hot arousal corkscrewing tighter and tighter in his gut, and he’s rapidly losing what little composure he had to begin with. He’s thrusting wantonly into the slick warmth of Wade’s mouth, selfishly relishing in the way he gags every time Logan manages to bottom out, gasping and swearing and eyes fluttering as he stammers a warning.

“Fuck, ‘m gonna — I can’t —“

“Quick question, peanut.”

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

It’s like getting kicked in the stomach.

Logan wheezes , the muscles in his core fluttering in stoppered anticipation because he was right fucking there , and forces himself up on his elbows to glare at Wade (after he remembers to detach the panties from his nose again).

Wade grins , half-contrite, half-amused. He’s flushed a pretty shade of pink from the tips of his ears to the ridge of his clavicle, and his tongue darts out to sever the strings of drool connecting his bottom lip to Logan.

“You fuckin’ serious?” Logan growls. “Right now?”

Wade nods, undeterred. “Just super fast.”

Logan fixates on a chunk of wall beyond Wade’s head, water-stained and a rather unappetizing shade of beige, and for a moment, he wishes he had an imaginary audience in his head as Wade does. Maybe then he’d feel less absurd about giving the middle distance his best Are you fucking seeing this shit? look. He drags a deep breath in through the nose and looks down.

“It can’t wait ?”

Wade regards the cock in his loose fist passively, shakes his head. “‘Fraid not.”

“Christ — what , bub, what is it?”

“So, I was thinking,” Wade begins, and Logan groans. That’s never good . “Would you, my beautiful little fur ball, be entirely appalled, repulsed, disgusted by or otherwise wholly opposed to the hypothetical, not at all spank bank Hall of Fame scenario in which —“

“Get to the fucking point , or I swear to God —“

“CanIeatyououtprettypleasepeanut?”

…Well. He got to the point.

Wade blurts it out like a breath he’d been holding, a rush of strained oxygen that takes Logan a beat to decipher, but then he gets it, and Wade watches him, quiet and still like Logan will spook if he makes any sudden moves. (He fucking might, honestly.)

Silence hangs thickly in the air, dense as fog rolling off the ocean, and Logan…stares.

Blinks.

Opens his mouth. Closes it.

Stares some more.

“Um,” Wade says, drawing himself up straighter, bald brow crimped. “Hello? Was that a super secret Weapon X trigger phrase I didn’t know about? Please tell me you’re not gonna Winter Soldier out on me, I don’t have a panini press to stick you in if you get indiscriminately stabby.”

“You…wanna…”

“Toss your salad?” Wade supplies, un-fucking-helpfully. “Enjoy a dinner beneath the bridge? Go bush diving? Although, in your case, it’s more like jungle diving —“

“Shut the fuck up.”

“ — not that I have a problem with that, by the way, I’ll fuckin’ floss with what you got goin’ on down there, I’m a grown-ass man —“

“Wade —“

“ — it’d be kinda weird if you were all twinky and bald south of the border, anyway, not super canon compliant, and Australia is known for its vast underbrush —“

Logan does what he knows works — surges forward, hooks three fingers against the backs of Wade’s teeth, and pulls . Wade squeaks, caught off guard, but reflexively closes his lips around Logan’s digits and gazes up at him.

“You have to shut up if you want an answer to your question,” Logan says, jostling Wade by the jaw a bit. Wade makes a moody little sound around his knuckles and pinches the tips of Logan’s fingers between his molars.

He regards Wade for a moment, eyes glassy and blown-out, lips swollen from being stretched taut around Logan’s cock, so pretty and hopeful that Logan can’t help the way his mouth quirks at the corners.

Just like Wade isn’t the first guy whose ass he’s eaten, he’s not the first to want to return the favor, either. Unfortunately, Logan can recall the latter incident with much more clarity than the former .

It was a long time ago, sometime in the seventies (eighties? doesn’t matter, disco was still popular, so whenever that was), and the guy was a grade-A dickhead. Logan was blitzed (shocking, he knows) but thought the dude was handsome, and he seemed nice enough — right up until his scratchy, push-broom mustache was abrading the flesh of Logan’s taint, and he tried to worm two meaty fingers inside Logan’s ass when he was still bone-fucking-dry. He received a steel-toed boot to the chest for the audacity, along with the tips of Logan’s claws buried into the pale, blond-stubbled give of his chin when he drunkenly bullied his way back into Logan’s bubble, all beer-breath and frisking hands.

Perhaps Logan stomped the guy’s head into the ground after the word faggot snaked past his lips, but only a little bit . Fuckface wobbled away with all four limbs intact, which is still more than Logan thinks he deserved.

But Wade is not a sleazy bargoer, and this is not a dank public bathroom — this is his home, their home, and Wade is…Wade. And he’s blinking those big brown eyes up at Logan, the edges of his teeth anxiously nibbling his fingers, and really, when did he get so whipped for this loudmouthed little shit?

Sometime between being yoinked out of his original universe by the scruff of his neck and realizing he was ill-advisedly in love again, he reckons, but even he’s willing to admit those events are separated by an infinitesimal gap. He falls hard, and he falls fast, and Wade Wilson was (is) no exception.

He slides his fingers out of Wade’s mouth.

To his credit, Wade remains silent.

For approximately three seconds.

“You can totally tell me to fuck off,” Wade rushes, “I won’t get all mopey about it. I know some folks don’t like those particular strokes and that’s fine, peanut, one-hundo-percent kosh, I will go back to slobbing on that knob in a heartbeat, I…well, you can’t blame a Deadpool for being curious, can you?”

“Just curious, huh?”

Wade rolls his lips over his teeth and shrugs, relenting.

“Okay, I’ve been dying to do it since you moved in,” he admits. “Maybe even before that. Definitely before that. Since X-1, actually, when you were prancing around the mansion in that slutty oversized jacket, and no shoes, which I happen to think is a criminally underrated look on you, just by the by.”

Logan hums, unsure how Wade knows about that and choosing not to care. He brushes his fingers over Wade’s cheek, stroking rippled scars. He remembers, not so long ago, when everything that fell out of Wade’s mouth made Logan’s body prickle with irritation, when his voice grated on each and every perpetually regenerating nerve so Logan never got used to it, but now – now it’s like someone turned all the lights back on in his head and it’s turned the world technicolor again.

Does he wish Wade saved the blathering for a post -fellatio moment to spare him the world’s worst case of blue balls? Sure. But after weeks of heavy quiet punctuated only by the low warble of television dialogue and Mary yipping at pigeons, Logan’s thrilled to have Wade’s constant noise bouncing around in his ears again.

Wade turns his head, slides his free hand over the back of Logan’s, and kisses his palm. “If it sweetens the pot any,” he offers, lips catching on Logan’s calluses, “I think you’d like it.”

“Oh yeah?” Logan chuckles, brows raising. He doesn’t sound anywhere near as unfazed as he’s pretending to be, but Wade doesn’t comment on it.

“Laugh all you want, I’m the one who correctly predicted you’d like The Bachelorette and phở, so, y’know…it’s almost like I kinda know you or something.”

Logan scowls, mostly because he hates enjoying The Bachelorette as much as he does on principle, and bumps his knee into the side of Wade’s head.

“Oh, y’know me, huh?” he asks, feigning levity, and Wade nods, interlocking their fingers and flipping their joined hands around.

“Like the back of my hand, Lo,” Wade says, waggling his marbled wrist to make the point, and it’s funny because Logan’s ogled Wade enough to know that his scars are ever-changing, his skin dying and then healing and shifting around in perpetuity, so in fact, the back of his hand is never quite the same, but Logan supposes that’s more fitting.

Despite what he thought was centuries of evidence to the contrary, Logan can change, has changed, is changing, and for the first time in a very long time, it’s for the better.

“Sooo…’s that a yes, orr…” Wade wonders aloud, stroking his thumb over the back of Logan’s hand and resting their limbs on a hairy thigh.

Logan gnaws on the innards of his cheeks, considering , honest to God, Wade’s request.

“Why d’you wanna?” he asks after a moment. Wade shrugs.

“I’m a munch at heart,” he explains, like Logan’s supposed to have any idea what the fuck that means. “As much as I love your disco stick, and I do , don’t ever get it twisted, I long for the days of southern expedition. And I really do think you’d like it – feels nice. Bit prickly thanks to this –” Wade reaches to scratch affectionately at Logan’s beard, and it feels suspiciously like a pet; Logan tips into it anyway - “but you’ll never hear me complaining. If you ever shave it, I will go into mourning, by the way. Black veil, public wailing, the whole nine.”

Logan snickers.

Wade hefts himself up into Logan’s space, settling one elbow on the knob of Logan’s knee and keeping his other hand firmly affixed to Logan’s cheek. He kisses Logan right between the furrow of his brow, smoothing the wrinkle there with dry lips and tenderly knocking their foreheads together.

“You can say no,” Wade says, and he’s slipped into that rare low tenor he uses when he’s being serious. “I mean it, it’s no skin off this fugly nose.”

Logan glances his head off Wade’s, just on this side of too hard , and murmurs, “Don’t start, y’know I hate that.”

“Just sayin’. I’m giving you an out.”

“Don’t want one.” He means it in more ways than one, and Wade sits back and gapes at him about it.

“So that’s aaa …” Wade drags the sound out skeptically, brows scrunching, face pinched like he’s ready for the let-down, for Logan to say sike , but Logan just rolls his eyes and hooks an ankle around the back of Wade’s leg.

“ Yes , Jesus, d’you need me to spell it out?”

“I’d prefer if you didn’t, it’d confuse me more – you’re really gonna let me eat it like groceries?”

“The fuck does that –”

“Never mind, not important – upsy daisy!”

Wade slots both hands in the hollows of Logan’s knees and yanks hard enough that Logan’s back hits the bed with a winded oof , and the springs shriek in protest. Logan sputters, indignant, but Wade’s got his thighs pressed backward and against his chest before he can pluck up the brainpower necessary to argue with him; suddenly, he’s folded in half like a fucking lawn chair, all four-hundred-something pounds of muscle and metal crunched beneath Wade’s uncompromising grip.

A breeze whispers through the crack of Logan’s very exposed ass, and he shudders. That’s new .

“Is that fucking necessary?” he complains, rocking up onto the heels of his hands and glowering. Wade meets his eyes evenly, elatedly.

“Vital, actually,” he says, and Logan’s frown deepens. “This is textbook ass-eating position. Someone didn’t pay attention in sex ed. But I s’pose they wouldn’t have been very progressive in the Stone Age…’cause, y’know, that’s when you would’ve — you’re very old, so —”

“Yeah, I fucking got it , asshole,” Logan grouses. “Jesus. Looks fuckin’ stupid.” He’s sure he resembles a dead bug with its legs all stuck out into the air, and that’s being generous, but Wade tsks and shakes his head.

“Not from where I’m sitting, honey badger,” he maintains, gaze caressing down the softened plane of Logan’s belly until it settles like lead between his legs. He whistles, low and long, appreciative.

“This is the Hugh Jackpot if I’ve ever fuckin’ seen it, just look at you.”

Logan squirms, boiling beneath his skin, against Wade’s vice-like grip, and he could break it easily if he wanted, if he actually tried , but he doesn’t.

“‘S just an ass ,” he grumbles, failing miserably at pretending he doesn’t feel utterly flayed open right now.

“Uh, wrong,” Wade says, poking a chastening finger into Logan’s belly and dropping one of his legs. It thunks onto his shoulder, the calf draped across his back, and Logan resists the urge to kick him between the shoulder blades. Barely. “It is the ass, cupcake. God, you’re like a fuckin’ Wookiee down here.”

“That’s disgusting.”

Wade tilts his face, eyes bulging . “You know what a Wookiee is?”

“‘Course I know what a – d’you think I fucking lived under a rock, I was around when the movie came out, dumbass,” Logan deadpans.

“Hey, not my fault the timeline’s fucky, Mr. I’ve-Been-in-Every-Stupid-War-Ever, I assumed you were sulking in a trench somewhere,” Wade defends. “Or lumberjacking it up in the Rockies, depends on the movie.”

“Would you get the fuck on with it already?” Logan growls, because this is not the conversation he wants to be having while his hole is bared for what feels like the entire fucking world to see. He does kick Wade this time, once, a heel driven right in the center of his spine.

“Oh, yeah!” Wade chirps, like he’d forgotten what he was doing. If Adderall didn’t metabolize in Wade’s system faster than he could blink, Logan would insist more passionately on getting him evaluated for ADHD.

Wade ducks down, the hand that’s not still forcing Logan’s thigh into his sternum dipping into the cleft of his ass and spreading him open obscenely. His breath is hot where it washes over Logan’s hole, and the fucker has the absolute gall to kiss him there with closed, prim lips like he’s giving Logan a goodnight peck on the forehead.

And then, well.

Then Wade spits on that puckered ring of muscle, which makes Logan’s entire body convulse like he’s been shocked by a live wire, and just as he’s sucked a thin breath in through his teeth to admonish his partner, Wade gets to fucking work . He catches the trickling drool with the flat of his tongue, licking from the crack of Logan’s ass to his hole effortlessly and nosing briefly at his perineum before diving in.

Oh, good fucking God.

Logan moans and it’s a broken, pitiful little sound ripped straight from his core, but he can’t help it. The fireworks are back, sparkling like shards of stained glass behind his screwed-shut eyes, and everything except Wade’s mouth is reduced to the background; the world fuzzes away pleasantly, and he doesn’t care; it’s not important; nothing is more fucking important, more necessary than Wade Wilson eating him out like he’s starving and chose Logan for sustenance.

His back bows clean off the bed, and he drives the palms of both hands into his eyes. He struggles to bite back the symphony of ludicrous noise balanced on the tip of his tongue, which proves to be really fucking hard, actually, especially when Wade moans into him, and the sound shakes up into Logan’s core.

It feels so fucking good , feels right , and he’s blazing hot, from the top of his head to the molten point of Wade’s sinful mouth. He clamps his jaw shut and swallows because if he doesn’t, he will sob about it all, and that’s just…He’s not doing that.

Wade licks and sucks and kisses all over him, sloppy, mannerless, heedless of the hair Logan’s sure is plastering itself to the back of his throat like he’s trying to devour Logan from the inside out. At some point, he plants his knees further apart and adjusts his hold, peeling Logan’s sprawled leg off his back and digging into the groove behind his knee until Logan’s doubled over again. His forearms flex and twitch where they’re flush with Logan’s thighs, and he can feel the muscles quivering in protest the longer Wade keeps him like this, bent in half and pornographic, but he doesn’t ease up.

He swirls wet, lewd circles around the rim of Logan’s hole, over and over again, but every time Logan gathers the fortitude necessary to snap at him, Wade’s urging himself deeper between Logan’s cheeks and lavishing his asshole with riveted attention – it makes him feel fucking stupid , all loose and pliant the longer Wade remains buried against him, and honestly?

He loves it.

He stretches his hands above his head and grips the edge of the bed, shreds restless fingers into the cheap mattress until foam spits out and collects beneath his nails, and when Wade prods the tip of his tongue into Logan’s hole experimentally, he throws his head back and snarls .

Wade chuckles, and it reverberates up Logan’s spine.

“Needy,” Wade assesses, accurately. “‘S that feel nice?”

Logan grunts affirmatively, and Wade sucks his teeth.

“I don’t speak caveman, peanut, you gotta use your words.”

“Stop…fuckin’ talkin’...an’ get back to it,” Logan slurs, and he whips one hand down to cup the back of Wade’s head and jam it against his sloppy hole because talking is a wholly worthless and exasperating use of that already infuriating mouth at this particular moment; another fat glob of spit hits him dead center, but Wade doesn’t lick it up this time, a move that feels almost punitive. Logan hears it plop vulgarly onto the floor between Wade’s knees, and the fucker just giggles.

“Taste fuckin’ good down here, honey badger,” he hums, kissing the spot where Logan’s upper thigh meets his hip. “So sweet.”

“That’s…shut the fuck up.” It’s patently untrue because Logan’s sure he quite literally tastes like ass and musk and sweat, but it makes his insides twist, and his face heats up nonetheless.

“That any way to talk to the guy rocking your fuckin’ world right now, peanut?” Wade purrs, and when Logan muscles himself up on his elbows with marked difficulty, he’s aware of two things: his cock is steadily drooling precum between his hips – there’s a shimmering, translucent puddle of it he’s been smearing all over the place – and Wade looks so fucking gorgeous when he’s all flushed and spit-shiny like this. Logan might tell him as much if stringing a sentence together didn’t feel like drudging through wet concrete.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Wade says, breathless, sucking saliva off his bottom lip, “I’d say that one of us appears to be more of a natural bottom than he’s been letting on these last couple months, shnooks. And it ain’t me.”

“Keep talkin’, it’ll be the last time I ever let you do this,” Logan threatens, and he’s a big fat liar – he doesn’t think he can go without this, might strip the apartment down to its studs if he tries, fuck, he might beg for it. Or maybe that’s his libido flapping its gums; he can’t tell.

“That’s a lovely shade of fucked-out you’re wearing, by the way. Matches the lust in your eyes,” Wade says, undismayed.

Logan grunts and looks at a rotted-out spot on the floor past Wade’s head instead of meeting his eyes.

He’s boneless, limbs heavy and completely useless, skull stuffed full of cotton and static, and it’s…odd. Not in a bad way, but he can’t tell if it’s all the way good, either. He feels far away, unfastened to his body and lighter than air, and it’s disconcerting, unfamiliar – a testament to how expertly Wade unweaves him, he supposes. The tension has seeped out of every inch of his body, and he doesn’t really know what to do with that.

Something smoothes over Logan’s flank and taps him gently. He blinks.

Wade is sitting up straighter now, chest hovering between Logan’s hips, arms bracketed beneath his thighs; his head is tilted inquisitively, slick mouth curled up at the corners. It occurs to him that Wade must have said something , asked him a question he didn’t catch, so he swivels his head on his neck and gives it a clarifying shake.

“...huh?”

“I said,” Wade breathes, “you still with me? You’re all…” He pushes the point of one finger in the center of Logan’s chest, not hard, but Logan falters back unsteadily anyway. “Wobbly.”

“‘M…fine.”

“Yeah? You look about three blocks past just Fine. I think you’ve left orbit at this point, princess.”

Uh-oh .

Logan’s cock jerks with interest, and he will blame it on his altered state for the rest of his days, but something treacherously close to a whine catches in his throat – all of which Wade takes notice of instantaneously because, of fucking course, he does .

“Oh, hello ,” he gasps, hunching tighter over Logan’s hips, interest piqued, the curve of his mouth broadening sinisterly. “What was that ?”

“Fuck you,” Logan says, with absolutely zero heat behind it because he can’t muster a drop to save his life right now.

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” Wade chirps, and Logan’s belly clenches. “Where the fuck have you been hiding, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“No, no, c’mon, I saw that – I heard that. You’ve been holding out on me, babygirl.”

Twitch .

Fuuuck .

Wade’s eyes go dinner plate wide, and he glows like a kid on Christmas morning.

“So that’s it,” he says, voice suddenly much sultrier than it was a second ago, and Logan realizes then that he is fucked – absolutely, without a doubt, six-ways-to-Sunday, fucking fucked .

“My Wolvie wants to feel like a pretty princess, doesn’t he?” Wade croons, eyes sharp and appraising, like a predator leering at the tasty morsel it has backed up into a corner. Logan tucks his head, covers his throat out of instinct, and bares his teeth.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“All you had to do was ask , sugar tits. You know I’ll give you anything you want. Up to and most definitely including a little sexy gender fuckery.” The words fall like syrup from Wade’s tongue but hit Logan’s ears like gunfire. He startles bodily, breath snagging in his throat, and Wade tugs him closer. The solid heat of his chest burns through Logan’s lower half, and he tries to writhe away from it, from this , because now that Wade has his skillful hands perched on those fucking cans of worms he’s been so carefully squirreling away, he wants to flee .

“I don’t…you…cut that shit out.”

“Or maybe you don’t want it?” Wade husks. “You need it, hm? ‘S that it?”

Anyone else might take the fiery look on Logan’s face or the rasping danger thickening his voice as a clear-cut warning sign, a billowing red flag to beat all other red flags, but Wade knows better – knows Logan . He would kick out and fling Wade through the drywall if he genuinely wanted him to stop; they’re both aware of that, but the fact of the matter is that Logan doesn’t want that at all .

Maybe he just wants to pretend.

Maybe the humiliation hueing this whole interaction is making him buzz all over, headier and more intoxicating than any amount of booze he’s ever imbibed.

Maybe sniping at Wade and acting downright affronted about all of this is like a fucked-up flavor of catharsis; he can grouse and grumble and be as capricious and prickly as he’d like, and Wade won’t retaliate, at least not in a way Logan won’t thoroughly enjoy. Wade won’t hurt him, can’t hurt him, even when he’s hissing and spitting like a cornered animal, because Wade loves him.

He’s used to the exquisite pain of penalty when he’s dared to snap at someone looming over him, flaunting the power they held (or thought they held) over him, sharp and sluicing through every fiber of his being until all he knew was agony at its white-hot, unforgiving center, only for his body to knit itself back together so he could endure it over and over and over again. And sure, he’s a masochist, loves when Wade slices the edge of his nails down his back when they fuck or rips his hair at the root so hard he sees stars, but this – this is a gentled agony all on its own, sweet and warm, thick like honey flowing over his brain.

Wade’s in his face now, and the pad of his thumb is in the middle of Logan’s bottom lip, pushing it out of the way of those sharp teeth. His eyes are glimmering, fraught with an emotion he can’t discern right now, and his breath washes humidly over Logan’s parted mouth when he says, “D’you need to be a good girl for me, Lo?”

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

Twitch, pulse, driiiip.

Wade sniggers, delighted at the precum that’s just gushed between their stomachs, and Logan rumbles testily.

“Don’t you fucking –”

“Was a rhetorical question, princess. I know you do,” Wade says, like Logan’s very silly, and taps a kiss on the tip of his nose. He drops his hand from Logan’s mouth before any snapping incisors can make contact and ducks his head against the sweaty column of Logan’s throat, peppering open-mouthed kisses on damp flesh.

“I know whatcha need. You just gotta let me give it to you.”

“Feels…weird.”

Wade reclines, brown eyes rounded curiously, like he wasn’t expecting such an admission. That makes two of us, Logan thinks, twisting his lips to the side and chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“Bad weird?” Wade asks, head tilted, palms skating down Logan’s ribs until they find purchase on the slant of his waist. He fiddles with the hem of Logan’s tank top, pinches the fabric between his first two fingers, and rolls it up and down, up and down, and it’s something Logan’s watched him do hundreds of times — Wade’s fidgety by nature, but when he’s nervous, he busies his hands with anything that’s not bolted down. (It’s how they keep losing glassware, actually, because Wade’s convinced for some unknowable reason that he can flip a glass into the air and catch it without looking, even though he’s never once accomplished such a feat.)

Logan can smell the nerves on him now, sharp and tanging through his natural scent, even if Wade’s face remains passive and open to him.

“No…yeah? Fuckin’ — I dunno, just weird.”

The line of Wade’s mouth thins, and his brows drop, unimpressed. “Thank you,” he deadpans, clicking his tongue, “that totally cleared things up.”

Logan rolls his eyes and punches Wade lightly in the shoulder — or he aims for light. Wade oofs anyway. “ I feel weird , asshole. Spacey, like…” Logan gestures vaguely at his temples. “Not all there. Don’t know why.”

“Didja miss a meal?” Wade hooks a thumb toward the kitchen. “I’m never opposed to a mid-fuck snack break, kitten. I can fetch you some Friskies if you’re feelin’ swoony.”

Logan flicks Wade between the eyes, and this time he doesn’t give a shit about lightness. Wade winces and massages the furrow of his brow with a tepid look.

“ No. Jesus. I’m not hungry , I’m…really fuckin’ horny, for one, but… ugh .” Logan’s, admittedly, a bit inarticulate even when he’s got his wits about him, but now, with Wade’s words still swimming in his head and his body humming with unresolved arousal, he’s downright stupid . It’s infuriating, but then the ever-whirring cogs in Wade’s brain click into place — suddenly, he seems to understand, though Logan hasn’t figured out what there is to understand in the first place.

“Oh…assfucking Christ on a bike, I put the Wolverine in subspace .”

Fucker’s downright giddy but doesn’t feel the need to elaborate on what the hell that even means. He’s clapping his hands and bouncing on his haunches, looking more like a kid in a candy store than a dangerous mercenary, and Logan bristles as a few bright peals of laughter burble out of Wade’s mouth.

“This is birthmas, holy fuck.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“I found your off-switch, peanut,” Wade explains gleefully, cradling Logan’s jaw and grinning. “All I had to do was play sexy jump rope with the gender binary, and I turned that broody brain into strawberry jell-o. Shoulda fuckin’ known, honestly, no one’s as into panties as you are without being a liiiittle curious about the flip-side.”

Logan…well, he understands most of that. He tries to, at least. He’s almost fluent in Wadespeak by now, but a lust-clogged brain does not an adequate translator make, so he narrows his eyes and feels his top lip curl back meanly while the last of Wade’s giggles fizz up out of his throat like carbonation from a soda can.

“Ya fuckin’ finished?” Logan grouses. “Or did you wanna laugh at me some more?”

“Oh, unclench , wouldja? I’m not laughing at you, Tetchy-Pants, I’m just excited I finally have a shiny new button of yours to push and push and —“ Wade’s hand slithers between Logan’s hips, and he drags one mottled finger up the thick vein running along the underside of Logan’s cock tauntingly; Logan’s breath hitches, “— push .”

“Wade.“ Logan means it as a warning, but the utterance of his partner’s name comes out strained, desperate, so fucking needy it embarrasses him anew.

“I’ll make it so good for you, angel face,” Wade promises, the tip of his index finger swirling around Logan’s cockhead. “Just gotta let me. Can you do that? Hm? I promise it’ll be worth it, babygirl, you just gotta trust me, lemme make that pussy feel good —“

“ Fuck , goddammit, don’t —“

“Don’t what?” Wade encircles Logan’s cock, textured palm catching ever so slightly as it strips up and down Logan’s flushed length, and Logan’s jaw audibly clacks shut. “Oh, ‘cause I called it a pussy? Well, I dunno what else you’d call what you’re packin’, puppy, ‘s all wet for me like a pussy. I bet I wouldn’t even need lube if I wanted to pop a couple fingers in you. You’d take me so easy, like a fuckin’ natural, wouldn’t you?

Sweet, syrupy filth blends seamlessly with the not-quite frictionless drag of Wade’s hand on his cock, and Wade’s radiant as Logan helplessly proves him one hundred percent correct . He can’t argue, can’t furiously refute the deluge pouring from Wade’s stupid fucking ( beautiful ) mouth, because every word slots together in his head to form the ever-expanding jigsaw puzzle of…whatever this is.

A new kink? Maybe not new -new, but he’d certainly never considered turning the girly shit he liked to spew at Wade back on himself — perhaps he should’ve, because, and he cannot understate this, fuck.

He arches into the tight heat around his cock, lips falling open to allow passage for a few shallow breaths, and Wade chuckles sinisterly.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he says, and though it’s husked into Logan’s ear sultrily, there’s just enough sincerity in Wade’s voice that it makes Logan’s stomach flip. He growls his dissent, and Wade ignores him.

“D’you think I could do that for you, princess?” Wade hums, and Logan grunts inquisitively.

Something blunt nudges between his legs, spreads over his cheeks, and drifts dangerously, scintillatingly close to his spit-wet hole, and he realizes distantly that it’s Wade’s fingers making lazy, featherlight circles around his rim.

“You can absolutely tell me to eat shit and die,” Wade assures him breathily, scraping his lips over the stubble on Logan’s cheek, “or eat shit and live . I can roll with that, too, maybe. But if eating you out was in my spank bank Hall of Fame, fingerfucking you is, like, ultimate MVP, all-star, home run, whatever fuckin’ sports metaphor you wanna use.”

“Yeah?” Logan’s sure there’s a traitorous tremble in his voice, but his hearing has narrowed on Wade’s voice so acutely that everything else is underwater. Wade nods, twisting his wrist at the same time he swipes the pad of his finger across Logan’s hole, and Logan shivers .

A small, raucous part of him revolts against this whole thing. It screams at Logan, swears at him, lobs threats and insults as it tries to puncture this moment with white-hot shame, and if this were a year ago, if it was anyone else but Wade, Logan would’ve probably allowed it. After all, there’s no denigration scoring the edges of his pleasure, and why the fuck would he deserve something like that? If he’s going to do this, shouldn’t it be as an act of penance, an uncomfortable, emotionless exploitation of his body before it’s cast aside again? He is a monster, a weapon; he’s not built for this, not made for gentle caresses and the chaste brush of lips against the shell of his ear, and yet, here he is.

Here Wade is, promising pleasure or complete rescindment; it’s up to Logan, and it's all because he wants Logan to feel good . Plain and simple, there are no ulterior motives to be found, and Logan is ever so slowly learning to accept that. It’s fucking weird, unnatural even, but when has any part of his life been normal , especially after Wade portaled into it?

“Love you,” Logan blurts out, wrought and breathless like he’s been punched in the gut. He’d only meant to think it, but the filter between brain and mouth has started to crumble like a wet paper towel, so out it comes. Wade beams against the side of his face and nibbles gleefully on his earlobe.

“I love you more ,” he counters, because he’s a brat. “Was that a yes?”

“Jus’ fuckin do it, bub, you don’t gotta keep askin’.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to hear you struggle with the English language so sexily,” Wade points out. He kisses the hinge of Logan’s jaw and leans back, jutting his chin to indicate a spot behind Logan’s shoulder.

“Lube, pretty please.”

Logan fingers the crease where their mattress meets the couch’s back until he finds the smooth, slightly sticky bottle of half-full cherry-flavored lube Wade had purchased a few weeks ago and stashed beneath his side of the pullout. Where he acquired it, or why he decided they needed fruity lubricant when Logan’s never once complained about Wade’s (admittedly unique, but not unpleasant) taste, he hasn’t the foggiest idea, but it’s the bottle he happened to find today, so…there are worse things he could have shoved up his ass, he reasons.

Wade pats Logan’s flank and uncaps the bottle. “Pull these ham hocks back for me, wouldja?”

Logan grumbles but parts his thighs, planting both feet on the rungs beneath the pullout. Wade shakes his head and pokes his inner thigh – shit , Logan’s ticklish there, too.

“Nuh-uh, uppies, aaalll the way back, like I had you a second ago,” Wade says, drizzling lube out onto his first two fingers. It’s mostly translucent, but there’s a faint pinkish tinge that turns his hand redder than usual as he smears the liquid around to coat himself appropriately. He waves Logan back with his clean hand, and Logan exhales harshly through his nose.

“Really?”

“Aww, what, ‘s it only good when I manhandle you into a hairy little pretzel, puppy?” Wade purrs, his grin wicked, and then he slaps one hand in the divot between Logan’s pecs and shoves . Logan thwacks onto the mattress yet again, dust billowing up into the air and glittering in shafts of orange sunlight; Wade’s through waiting for him, evidently, because he winds his fist in the collar of Logan’s shirt and hauls him further up the bed so he can kneel within the lewd spread of Logan’s thighs.

Logan privately logs away how fucking sexy it is that Wade can do that, can manipulate Logan like a ragdoll when he so chooses, and lets his gaze sweep indulgently over the rippling muscles of Wade’s biceps as he wrangles Logan into a suitable position – one knee looped over the curve of Wade’s shoulder, the other pressed into Logan’s waiting hand.

“There we go,” Wade says reverently, and fucking hell, his fingers are cold when they swirl over Logan’s hole. He hisses, and his lips slide open to complain, but Wade hushes him, saccharine and pitying.

“I know, I know, just relax. I gotcha, good girl, fuck –”

Logan gasps, deep and gutted, as Wade inches a thick, bumpy finger ever-so-gently inside of him, centimeter by centimeter, so fucking careful for a man who understands the breadth of his healing factor, and it makes Logan’s whole body light up like the Fourth of July. He drives his head back, cursing and panting as Wade works the digit in cautiously because it’s weird , foreign, even a little uncomfortable, but Wade is moaning like he’s the one getting fucked open, and it makes Logan’s cock kick against his belly and gooseflesh erupt all over his body.

When Wade’s finally gotten up to the knuckle, having successfully coaxed the cinched muscle of Logan’s hole apart, he lets out a whoosh of air and laughs, twinkly and genuinely amazed. “Oh, my god, you are, like, prom-night tight, babygirl, that’s so fuckin’ hot.”

“Shut up .”

“Don’t be embarrassed, sugar plum, ‘s only natural considering you have the world’s most unpoppable cherry,” Wade leers, drawing his finger out and then thrusting it back in mildly. “Or, I guess, most poppable ? Dunno how that works, considering it’ll just keep growing back. That’s a pretty neat trick if you think about it, which I will be doing. Often. And in every room of the apartment. I’ll think about it twice in Al’s bed. It’ll be the most action that thing’s seen since Reagan was in office.”

“Fuckin’...idiot,” Logan husks, not bothering to pretend he heard even a quarter of Wade’s diatribe.

“Yeah…how’s it feel, princess?” Wade wriggles inside the clutch of Logan’s ass, teasing, and Logan has to choose between bucking against where he’s sprawled across Wade’s torso and bearing down on his finger – he picks the latter, deluding himself into thinking it’s somehow more dignified .

“ Oh -ho-ho, is that right?” Wade chuckles.

“Shut…nngh…fuck off,” Logan croaks.

“Uh-huh. What’s this button do?”

Holy fuck .

Logan can’t help himself this time – he thrashes , eyes whirling and breath shattering in his throat when Wade crooks his finger and brushes against a beautiful little something inside Logan’s asshole that makes sparks dance up his rounding spine. He growls, but the sound cracks in half and floats away from him almost immediately like embers on the breeze. Wade keeps the pad of his finger fixed on Logan’s prostate and draws circles , slow and deliberate and too much and not enough all at the same time.

“Jesus fucking – shit, don’t, Wade –”

“God, you are a natural bottom, listen to you,” Wade rumbles, speeding up his ministrations just enough for Logan to start panting raggedly. He thumbs at the corner of Logan’s mouth, dragging something hot and wet across his jaw.

“Drooling for me out of all your pretty holes, aren’t you, puppy?” he asks, and he’s right ; there’s saliva puddling beneath Logan’s cheek that Wade’s splashing around in. Just as Logan’s about to dole out a retaliatory bite to Wade’s prodding thumb, there’s another finger inside of him, sidling alongside the first and making itself nice and fucking cozy. It’s a little too soon, just on this side of painful, a stinging stretch Logan’s body accommodates as Wade scissors his fingers and tries to seduce muscle into softening for him.

It’s fucking exquisite , and Logan moans about it like a complete and utter bitch .

“That’s my girl, knew you could fucking take it,” Wade grinds out, curving both digits and fucking into Logan’s ass properly, like he’s lost his patience, and Logan’s so grateful he could cry . The fluff is piling high inside his skull again, blotting out anything that isn’t Wade and pleasure and pain and yes please god more and he’s trembling, now, head-to-toe, unable to keep any semblance of composure as Wade dutifully and consummately pries him apart, piece by piece.

He only realizes he’s nearing his peak when Wade scrabbles with the hem of his shirt before driving it up and past his chest. There’s a miserable creeeaakkk of bed springs as Wade bends, shuffling tighter against the writhing mass of Logan’s body, and then his mouth is hovering above one of Logan’s exposed nipples. He licks his scarred lips, ravenous, and just as the tip of a third finger — holy fucking shit — pets at Logan’s hole, Wade dives down and claims a nipple between his teeth .

He bites, hard , sets the edge of his adorably crooked incisors against pebbled flesh, clamps down punishingly, and then Logan’s gone .

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my fucking —!”

Logan is confident he dies for a second. The world goes white and quiet, eerily still and serene, and for one brief, resplendent moment, he’s entirely detached from his physical body.

Then, of course, he crashes back down.

It’s like he’s been dipped in hot wax, every inch of his flesh searing and pulsating with pleasure so intense it threatens to ripen into pain with every bone-deep throb, and god, he doesn’t want it to stop. It doesn’t seem like he can stop, anyway, because some far-flung corner of his rapidly liquefying brain is aware that he’s shooting an excessive amount of cum on his belly and up onto Wade’s chest right now.

He whines, the sound tinny and unfamiliar and mostly buried beneath the roar of blood in his ears, and Wade sucks a sympathetic bruise into his chest, more gnawing teeth than coaxing suction, and it is divine .

“That’s my fuckin’ boy,” Wade says, pretense abandoned for the moment in favor of gasping candor. “I gotcha, I’ve gotcha, baby, ‘m not goin’ anywhere, you just keep cumming your pretty brains out for me, fuck , your pussy’s tryna shove me out down here.”

Baby rattles around in Logan’s brain, sweet and simple and momentarily surpassing Lo as his favorite pet name. It falls easily from Wade’s lips, and maybe it’s the never-ending orgasm talking (he’s still fucking cumming , good lord), but he wouldn’t mind if Wade only called him baby for the rest of their lives. He’ll change his name right now, march down to the courthouse, and legally become Baby if Wade asks him to – okay, that’s the orgasm talking.

The pleasure ebbs but doesn’t fade completely, a blood-hot constant singing through Logan’s veins like scalding adrenaline, and he can’t place why until he realizes Wade’s still three fingers deep in his spasming hole.

“‘Nuff, mouth, fuck , I can’t —“

“You’re gonna,” Wade asserts, and he sounds so uncharacteristically gruff it makes Logan’s eyes snap open (not that he remembers shutting them).

He’s glistening with sweat; forehead knotted in concentration, blown pupils glued to Logan’s pathetically twitching, spent cock as it drools whitish fluid. Logan’s stomach is a disaster zone, with cum adhering thick clumps of body hair to flushed skin, and Wade greedily swipes a hand through it, collecting fat globs into his roughened palm.

He licks the flat of his tongue through Logan’s mess sumptuously, eyes spinning, moaning low and rough , and then he swallows Logan’s load down with an exaggerated gulp . When he notices the look on Logan’s face, he makes a show of stooping and sticking his tongue out to demonstrate the emptiness of his mouth.

It’s so fucking hot that Logan’s cock dares to stir against his belly.

“See? You got it, you can gimme another,” Wade wheezes, and there’s something wild about his demeanor now, something delightfully feral, like making Logan cum untouched unlocked something deeply primal in his brain. He rubs up Logan’s length, smearing the cum he didn’t manage to lap up all over his shaft, and then squeezes at the same time all three of his fingers spread apart in Logan’s ass.

“Motherfucker –”

“Not lately,” Wade says, and Logan’s not hard again, not yet; he doesn’t quite understand how he’s well on his way mere seconds after the first-reality rocking orgasm, but Wade isn’t interested in waiting for him to fatten up all the way. He disentangles himself from Logan’s legs and fumbles back onto the floor with a resoundingly painful thud of knees kissing hardwood, and the talented motherfucker takes Logan down his throat in one go.

Logan gasps wetly, throat plugged with unspilt saliva, and – snikt.

His fists are close enough to Wade’s face that one claw slices clean through the skin of his temple, and blood gushes over the angle of his cheekbone before the wound has a chance to wink shut.

“Fuck, sorry, ‘m sorry.”

Wade stares up at him, and Logan wouldn’t say he’s unaffected because those big brown eyes are glistening with tears, but he certainly doesn’t look upset . He proves as much by gagging himself on Logan’s miraculously swelling cock and bumping his forehead against those glimmering, deadly claws.

More .

There’s a twisting shame in Logan’s gut because he hadn’t meant to scratch Wade open like that, but he liked doing it, likes rending Wade apart just to watch the flesh suck itself back together, over and over again – it’s the same boorish instinct that drives him to chew up Wade’s throat and slurp the consequent mouthfuls of blood. Sadism wars with the want, the need to do good, to be good, to not be an animal, but whoever said the two were mutually exclusive? What if he wants to be an animal, just for a little while?

What if Wade let him be one?

Wade nods and groans headily around Logan’s cock as the tips of Logan’s claws etch into the meat of his shoulder. He slams into Logan’s prostate again, curls his fingers tight enough that his nails scrape fiery trails over abused nerve endings, and it’s like a promise – you hurt me, I’ll hurt you.

So Logan does.

He stabs through Wade’s shoulder, relishes in the hot gale of scarlet over his knuckles and the sound of it puddling thickly beneath Wade’s trembling body, and Wade’s throat spasms so perfectly around his cock that he can’t suck in enough oxygen to warn him that he’s cumming, again , until the second load explodes into Wade’s suckling mouth.

It’s not as intense as the first one, but it wrecks Logan nevertheless, wringing him out until he has to physically force Wade off to stave off the scathe of overstimulation, claws retreating with a delicate shing of metal on metal. He shudders bodily, the smell of sweat and sex and cherries and blood settling so deep inside his nose it’s like it’s trying to burrow into his brain.

“ That’s the money shot, right there,” Wade exhales after he tips his head back and noisily swallows Logan’s cum. He strips his ruined tank and overshirt off with practiced ease, and when he stands, he drops the bunched fabric onto the floor and lazily swirls it around with one foot, presumably to mop up his blood. He notably doesn’t move to wipe any of it off his flesh, however, something that Logan’s endlessly grateful for as Wade rocks forward and presses the long, muscular warmth of his body along Logan’s.

Logan surges forward, cupping the back of Wade’s head to keep him steady, and crushes his mouth against the gory expanse of Wade’s sculpted chest. Wade is highly interested in Logan’s chest, as well – perhaps not for the same exact reasons, but he settles both palms on either side of Logan’s pecs and then squeezes them together like he’s trying to create cleavage.

“Your tits are fucking insane , babygirl,” he says, and Logan cuts his teeth along Wade’s collarbone in a warning that is earnestly ignored.

“‘M serious, princess, what fuckin’ cup size you rockin’ up here?” he asks giddily, like that isn’t a ludicrous and embarrassing and confusingly really fucking hot thing to say. He hisses into Logan’s ear when fangs inscribe themselves within the curve of his throat, but otherwise remains undaunted.

“Would you ever let me tittyfuck you, Wolvie?”

Logan…well, fuck, that’s actually an incredibly appetizing mental image suddenly splashed across the insides of his eyelids. Wade doesn’t wait for an answer – not that Logan has one, mostly because he’d never thought about that but also he’s experiencing a serious mental lag thanks to two epiphanic orgasms in such quick succession. Wade prises himself from the needy grasp of Logan’s mouth and sits back on his thighs, flushed and glowing with sweat and blood and so fucking beautiful Logan swears there’s a smattering of golden light haloed around his head.

Oh, shit, there is – the fading vestiges of the day are slanting in through the window behind Wade, bathing him in buttery yellow and burnt orange tones as the sun recedes behind high rises; he’s backlit and gorgeous, beaming down at Logan with an expression Logan’s got no right to, but he drinks it in anyway.

Logan’s never letting him go on solo missions again, propriety be damned, independence be damned, Weasel be fucking god damned. Hell, he’s not sure he’s going to let Wade leave their bed for the next few days, let alone gallivant in a different country without Logan ever again. It was too much, too much distance, too much time apart, and yeah, okay, maybe he’s a clingy, possessive bastard, and maybe that’s “unhealthy,” but Logan can not find it within even the deepest recesses of his soul to give one single, solitary fuck.

Wade adjusts himself, quickly, just squishes the heel of his hand over the front of his bottoms, but it makes Logan flare inside. He’s not even sucked Wade’s cock yet, always too focused on playing with his ass (because Wade just cries so prettily when he’s being eaten out), but now, ogling the substantial tent it’s creating in his pants…

What’s that saying about the curious cat?

“Want you to fuck me,” Logan says, surprising himself. “Now.”

Wade sucks in a thin breath through his teeth and goes still. Blinks.

“...You cannot just drop bombs like that on me,” he says after an atypically long bout of silence, “I literally almost just came in my fuckin’ undies. Jesus.”

“How else ‘m I s’posed to say that?” Logan deadpans, and Wade considers him.

“Okay, fair, there’s no way you can phrase it that isn’t pants-nuttingly hot,” he admits and bends forward, bracketing Logan’s head within sinewy forearms and smearing a kiss on his forehead.

“Needy little honey badger, aren’t ‘cha?” he coos. Logan rolls his eyes.

“On second thought –”

“If you want it,” Wade interrupts, plucking one of Logan’s hands off the bed and guiding it between his legs. He presses it right above the bulge in his sweats, allowing him to hook two fingers in the waistband and hang there for a moment. “You gotta show me. Take my cock out and put it where you need it, angel baby.”

Logan does not need to be told twice. He plunges his hand into Wade’s pants and yanks him out by the root, definitely too hard, but Wade doesn’t complain – in fact, he laughs .

“ Where have you been hiding, Wolvie?” he repeats incredulously, and Logan can’t help the smug smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth as he does as Wade said and lines his – scarred, uneven, strange but thick and drooling – cock up with Logan’s hole. He’s got something smart to retaliate with, really, he does, but then Wade bumps forward, and his head catches on Logan’s rim, and it’s like someone unplugged him to conduct a full factory reset.

“You want it?” Wade asks.

“Yes,” Logan gasps, because he’s getting better at verbally responding during sex (through much concerted effort).

“Yes, what?” Wade teases, swirling the tip of his cock around and around and around Logan’s fluttering, lube-slicked hole.

“Yes, I want it.”

“Want what?”

“Wade, I swear to God –”

“Oh, I know , puppy, words are hard ,” Wade lilts, pouting an empathetic lip out and slapping his dick against Logan’s taint. Logan fists at the sheets and barely restrains the whiny, bitchy little noise that barrels up his throat. “But I know you can do it, my smart girl, you’ve got it. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you, easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy.”

“Want…you to…fuck me,” Logan manages through the rapidly condensing fog in his brain. It’d be so much easier to be furious at all this taunting if it wasn’t so mind-numbingly sexy, but he thinks Wade knows that. He’s smarter than most people give him credit for, it’s just that he uses those smarts for pure fucking evil most of the time.

“Fuck you where , princess?”

See? Pure fucking evil .

“‘M not sayin’ that,” Logan mumbles obstinately, and Wade tsks.

“Then I dunno where you want me to put this,” he says resignedly, shrugging one shoulder and frowning like it’s a real darned shame. Then he shifts, angling like he’s about to move away, and he’s bluffing, Logan knows he’s bluffing, but –

Stupid asshole. He plays dirty , and somehow he always fucking wins .

“Goddamn it – my fucking pussy , okay, that’s where, Jesus Christ, are you hap – shit .”

Wade’s slicked himself up at some point; Logan doesn’t know when, doesn’t fucking care , because Wade glides into his still-stretched asshole like it’s the most natural thing in the world and gets over half his length inside Logan’s body before he meets natural resistance. They both moan, Wade low and ruined, Logan embarrassingly high, and he’s not going to last long this time. The faint burn and drag of Wade’s cock creeping inside of him, the pitted flesh stimulating his walls in a way he didn’t even know was possible, Wade hunched over him now and cradling his face as he tentatively, shallowly thrusts – it’s all so fucking perfect.

“ Ohhh myyy Goddddd ,” Wade practically sobs , and it’s comforting to Logan, in a weird way, that his noises don’t vary much between getting fucked and doing the fucking. Logan cannot say the same; every cant of Wade’s hips punches something breathy and shrill out of his mouth, and though he gnashes his teeth together to stem the flow, it does nothing.

It takes a few impeccably agonizing seconds for Wade to find his rhythm, ostensibly because he’s also trying not to cum right away (if the steady throbbing in Logan’s hole is anything to go by), but when he does, it’s divine – his fat cockhead finds Logan’s prostate with sniper-like precision, and every thrust is accompanied by fragile, involuntary noises, a stream of uh uh uhs punctuating Wade’s incessant monologue.

“Look at you, jus’ fuckin’ taking it like you were born for it, Lo, ‘m so impressed,” he says. “Should’ve told me this is what you needed, woulda been givin’ it to you like this the whole – fuck – time.”

“Like…fuckin’ you too much,” Logan confesses because his brain is unspooling, and he’s feeling honest. “Feels good… you feel too good…”

“‘S that so, peanut?”

Logan grunts affirmatively. “All of you…feels good, so fuckin’...missed it, missed you, don’ leave again, ‘kay?” Wow, okay, more honesty than he was expecting .

Wade’s face softens, and he kisses Logan once on the mouth, astoundingly chaste considering he’s picked up the speed of his thrusts and is now pistoning into Logan’s ass rapaciously.

“‘M not, babygirl, ‘m not goin’ anywhere, I gotcha,” he murmurs, knocking their slick foreheads together. Logan can taste Wade’s air, thick and humid as it blankets his tongue, but it’s not enough, so he dumbly chases Wade’s mouth and licks into it even as he rambles on.

“Won’t leave without my pretty girl ever again, okay? Promise.” Wade’s hand prods against Logan’s chest, fist loose and pinky extended, and Logan doesn’t argue the point – he just links his left pinky with Wade’s and holds on. It’s silly, he knows that, but a pinky swear has become pretty commonplace for them over the last few months. Wade treats it like an unbreakable oath and, to his credit, has never violated a single pinky-promise he’s made to Logan, so when he locks their digits together, it settles something deep in his chest.

“Missed you too much anyway,” Wade warbles, “I was havin’ Wolvie-withdrawals like you wouldn’t fuckin’ believe, schnooks. Need my best Wolverine, my best guy, need – oh, peanut, you’ve sprung a leak.”

Wade daubs his mouth over Logan’s cheek, and he realizes there’s wetness there, sluicing hotly down his face and dribbling into his sideburns, and oh fucking hell, he’s crying . He blinks, tears clinging fatly, pathetically to his lashes, and Wade’s bleary face smiles at him.

“I love you,” he says, and that’s it .

He doesn’t know when exactly his body started responding to declarations of love like this, when he got Pavlov’d into shooting a load off every time Wade looks at him like that and mutters his feelings so plainly, so easily, but he can’t bring himself to care. He sobs, broken and uninhibited and way too fucking loud, head driven back into the mattress and convulsing as he cums on Wade’s cock. There isn’t much left to give, so his release splutters pitiably down the side of his twitching dick, but Wade on the other hand –

“Fuck, oh my fuck , gonna – can’t – Logan –”

Heat blossoms inside Logan’s core as Wade spills his release, a decidedly odd but welcomed sensation; Wade presses against Logan’s lower belly as if he’s trying to feel his cock through layers of muscle and fat and tissue.

“Hope you’re on the pill,” he says, voice quivering. “Or, well, I don’t, actually, ‘cause that’s…fuck it, the author doesn’t have the chutzpah to get into the logistics of a breeding kink right now.”

Logan has no clue what that means, but he never does, so he raises himself up and yanks Wade down on top of him. Cum’s leaking out of him, driveling onto the already grotty sheets, and they’re both drenched in sweat and blood and spit and Wade still stinks like the plane, but he holds on anyway and refuses to let Wade pull out.

“So…” Wade starts after a few blissful minutes. “Is that a, uh…is this a new thing, or…”

“What?” Logan rolls his head, eyes lazily focused on Wade’s face.

“You gonna let me go spelunking more often?”

Logan grimaces. “If you don’t fucking call it that .”

“Oh, I’m gonna, just secret style,” Wade sighs. He slides one arm behind Logan’s shoulders and flips them, oxygen whizzing straight out of his lungs as Logan’s weight flops unceremoniously on top of him.

“Can you breathe?” he asks, and Wade tips a dreamy expression Logan’s way.

“Nope,” he says, strained. “But ‘s okay. You’re like the world’s furriest weighted blanket.”

“And you’re an idiot.”

“ Your idiot,” Wade corrects, kissing Logan’s forehead obnoxiously, and Logan rumbles contentedly.

Hours from now, when they wake, they’ll have to literally peel their sticky bodies apart in a way that is so incredibly unsexy it actually inspires Logan to laugh , boisterous and full-bellied; Wade returns the gesture in kind when Logan rolls onto unsteady legs and gravity takes hold, encouraging Wade’s load to gush all over his inner thighs and splash obscenely onto the floor. And they’ll shower, and Logan will scrub the stench of the airport off Wade’s skin and get a bit distracted along the way, and perhaps a sudsy loofah will linger in one erogenous zone or the other for too long, and it’s possible they even fuck in the heated spray of the shower –

But for now, Logan yawns, and Wade lightly scrapes his fingers across his scalp, and he shifts so he’s not impeding Wade’s lungs so directly, and for the first time in weeks, Logan rests .

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