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“I’m gonna—fuckin’—bleed you dry, you stupid! Mouthy! Bitch!”
Wade hears the words more than he listens to them. I mean, can you blame a guy? Logan’s straddling his lap in the reclined passenger seat of a Honda Odyssey. In any other circumstances, this would be an ideal situation. Hell, it’s pretty damn close to one now.
Other than the, y’know, six knuckle knives plunging holes into his stomach.
The blood’ll come back. He assures himself. This fap material is forever.
“Promises, promises princess.” Wade hears himself purring. “What’s to say your claws don’t stop working halfway through?”
He leans up, mask pressed against Logan’s ear. “S’ happened before. And you just had two medkit’s worth of rubbing alcohol.”
Begrudgingly unable to let this be a one-sided fight—as homoerotic as the stabbing is, it still hurts goddamnit—he twists one of his baby knives into Logan’s side, slugging him into the driver’s seat as he groans from the hit.
In a truly cat-like set of movements Wade maneuvers himself over the center console to swap their positions. He’s on top now. Beneath his mask, he grins.
“Don’t worry, sugar-tits, I don’t judge. We can work with a little dysfunction.”
Logan growls, baring his bloody teeth. Without deigning to respond, he reaches up and smashes their heads together, launching Wade into the backseat with his legs.
By this point the entire interior of the car is spattered with blood. From the few bouts of fighting that made their way out of the car, the exterior is similarly ruined, dented to all hell and freshly painted with entrails.
The backseat almost looks like an art-piece. If Wade wasn’t struggling to keep a feral Wolverine away from his squishy bits, he might have been able to see the beauty in the slowly drying handprints interspersed with impressive, Pollock-esque spattering. Like something some bottle-blue art student would submit to their local art show, titled ‘Toxic Smash-culinity’.
He’s landed surprisingly well considering he hadn’t had enough time to think about it before Logan was throwing him around like some ragdoll. Really hit a nerve there, hadn’t he? Wade makes a note not to comment on his virility anymore, clearly, it’s a sensitive subject.
Splayed, as if manspreading in a throne, Wade takes a moment to catch his breath. God, these seats are surprisingly comfortable. Maybe he’d judged the Odyssey too early. Before he’d had the time to really experience it.
“Mother—fucker!”
Logan vaults into the back to join him, but he must be tiring, or that hit to the head damaged his unprotected dome more than Wade’s microfiber carbosteel’d one, because when he lands in Wade’s lap, again, he stays there. Oopsie.
Look, just because Wade can take a hundred million jillion hits and come out smiling, doesn’t mean it’s always Plan A, okay? It’s good to be prepared, and he’d rather not have to grow back his gray matter when he doesn’t have to.
Logan sways a little before he punches right next to Wade’s neck, extending his claws to anchor himself to the seat there. He’s breathing hard, costume tattered and soaked in both his and Wade’s blood. And it’s fucking minion yellow so that shit really shows. Still kind of really hot, though, if you ask Wade. He loves a man in pain.
They sit like that for about a minute. Wade’s not in the mood to start shit anymore and unless discount Batman here wants to keep the party going, he’s not going to stab a man while he’s down. Clearly, he doesn’t get much field-action anymore, if you catch Wade’s drift. Probably spends the majority of his time guzzling Jager and chain smoking, which is just a major stamina-killer.
But hey, like he said, he doesn’t judge. Couple minutes is a long time for some people, and it’s not like Wade’s been getting out much more than him, lately.
Every so often, Logan’s breaths will hitch and stutter, before he forces out a longer, deep exhale to clear his airway. At first, Wade figures he’s catching his breath. Old man stamina and all. But then he realizes his hips are moving, too—very, very lightly—against the thigh he’s straddling.
And, oh, wow, that’s definitely something thick and hard pressing down on him. Fuck. The pressure is a ghost of a thing, but from what he can feel, it’s like a goddamn coke can. Wade saves the feeling into his internal hard drive then smirks beneath his mask.
He pops his knee up on the next little grind down, bumping up against Logan’s crotch, who stutters out a startled moan. Oh yeah. That’s the good stuff. He’s gonna be set for weeks.
“Enjoying yourself?”
Logan growls and brings his other fist up to Wade’s face, claw sheaths about eye-level. But right as he tries to impale him, Wade kicks his knee up again—harder this time, but not enough to be a real attempt to get free—and the growl turns into a shaky moan. All he can muster are baby claws.
Wade coos.
“Oh, so that’s what that’s about. You get shy when you’re horny.” Logan shoots him a withering glare. “Hey, I said no judgement and I meant it, sweetheart. In fact, I’d say this is even better than you having limp-dick problems!”
“Don’t fuckin’ call me that.” Logan grits, but he doesn’t pull away.
“What, limp-dick?” Wade asks, knowing damn well that’s not what he meant. He’s loving the faint flush working its way down Logan’s chest. Wants to see how far it’ll go. Does this Logan like to take his shirt off? God, Wade hopes so. Suddenly, this hellish purgatorial fight has turned into a much hotter, much funner way to spend his time.
“No. The other one.”
It’s like someone force-fed him gravel every day growing up. Not that it’s not sexy, but Jesus Christ, would it kill him to enunciate?
Wade jiggles his leg, watching Logan’s face closely. He’s hovering, still not quite letting himself sink down fully, head brushing the roof of the car. Wade very much wishes to change that.
Logan’s expression flickers, then shutters into something vaguely pained. He keeps his feet firmly planted and starts to lift himself off, which just won’t do at all-
“Oh, ‘sweetheart’?” With a quickness he hadn’t realized he still had, Wade hooks his ankle under one of Logan’s and pushes, crumpling the other man soundly into his lap.
“The fuck? You-“
Before he can start another argument—Wade loves an easily riled partner, but not usually in that way—Wade cuts him off, hands gripping tight at his hips and guiding them in a slow roll.
“Oh, come on, I never thought ol’ Wolverine would be a prude! Keep going. It’s just us in here. Doesn’t it feel good?”
He says it because he figures it’s what Logan needs to hear in order to relax, let himself fall into the feeling. This one’s got a serious case of stick-in-the-ass, and it’s not even brushing his prostate (oh, there’s an idea). That, and it’s true, they’re probably in the most secluded goddamn place in the multiverse, stopped in the middle of a forest on the borderlands of a place where unwanted nuisances get sent to die. Not letting himself linger on that strain of thought, Wade scoots up, shifting to lie more comfortably against the seat.
If all goes well, they’ll be back here for a while, and he doesn’t want any unplanned twinges anywhere unpleasant.
Logan’s breathing turns ragged.
“Fuck.” Is all he says. Wade takes it as a ‘Yes, Wade, it feels sooo good. You should keep doing it. Also, please take my shirt off and oogle my tits.’
Well if he says please…
Wade starts running his fingers over the midsection of Logan’s Curious George suit, looking for a zipper or a catch to get the damned thing off. The Wolver-tits are legendary, and it’s been too goddamned long since he’s had the chance to really look at them. He’s nearly drooling at the thought.
“What are you-“ Logan says, a little hazily. His eyes are unfocused, and he’s started moving on his own, hips shuddering in choppy little movements against Wade’s thigh. He can feel the searing warmth of him through his suit. Who knew big bad Wolvy went down so easy? Honestly, it’s kind of cute. In a ‘Wade will pay dearly for this later’ kind of way.
“This thing got a zipper? Or d’you oil up and slither your way in every time you put it on?” Wade asks, feeling a little breathless himself. Any man would be, in his position, trapped beneath a sweaty, desperate 200lb sack of muscle and booze. Not that he’s complaining. It’s just a lot of man to be handling.
Logan laughs, or attempts one before it cuts off into a low groan. His free hand reaches back and fumbles with a small flap on the back of the suit. Wade pushes his hand away and rips it open, revealing the zipper he’d been searching for, which he pulls with zeal.
“Thanks, sweetheart. Now take your claws back won’t ya? Wanna see how far the hair goes.”
“You’re such a—ngh—dick.” Logan says, but he retracts the claws buried in the seat behind Wade, slumping forward without the anchor point. Wade catches him, peeling the suit down enough to see that even years of booze and depression haven’t made a dent on the abs. Lucky bastard.
In better news, the flush does go down his chest, contrasting nicely against tan, scarred skin. And, there’s still sizeable padding up top. Not all the fat has been sucked away by dehydration.
“So I’ve been told.” Wade reaches up and squeezes, cupping just below Logan’s left nipple. It’s perfectly soft and gives nicely to the press of Wade’s fingers. He could do this all day, like one of them goddamn fidget toys. He squeezes again for good measure.
“Stop bein’ a fuckin’ perv.” Logan growls. It’s the first coherent sentence he’s managed in the last ten minutes. Wade has to laugh.
“Oh, I’m the perv? I’m not the one that popped a chub and started rubbing one off mid-fight, princess. Not to complain, of course, you should keep rubbing one off.” He winks, even though Logan can’t see it.
“You popped a fuckin’ chub.” Logan bites, eyes cutting meaningfully down to where Wade’s dick is making a valiant effort for freedom. Okay. Well—duh—of course he popped a chub, there’s a hot, sweaty, moaning mess of a hunk on his lap grinding on his thigh! What else was he supposed to do? Close his eyes and pray the gay away? Fuck that.
Something he’s noticed, in the few short minutes he’s spent rutting like teenagers with Wolver-fucking-ine in the backseat of this busted Honda Odyssey, is that Logan doesn’t like to let himself have things.
Now, he might be extrapolating here, but hear him out. At the start of it all (a few minutes ago) he’d kept his hips up, only let himself rut lightly, barely even brushing fabric. Probably didn’t even realize he was doing it, just needed a little relief from the pressure in his pants. And now, after Wade left him to his own devices—started focusing more on getting his tits out than guiding his hips—he’d gone with short, staccato little movements. Barely even really grinding, like he’s afraid to try the real thing. Either he doesn’t know what to do, or he isn’t letting himself, and either way if he’s coherent enough to start another argument, Wade’s not doing his job.
With a wicked, unseen grin, Wade’s hands travel back to his hips, gripping hard and pulling him down and forward into a deep, pressing roll.
“Sure did.” He can hear the smile in his own voice as Logan’s eyes flutter closed, jaw twinging as he fights to keep it clenched. “Let’s do something about it.”
The part of him that’s a little shit is determined to get Logan back into that whiny, bitchy state he’d been in a few minutes ago, dizzy with his own pleasure enough not to care about making noise. The part of him trapped beneath layers of too-tight-but-also-not-tight-enough spandex is determined to find friction soon, before he starts gnawing his hand off to escape the incessant need.
Luckily, he’s a great problem solver—kinda part of the job description for mercs—and knows just the thing to solve both of those, admittedly pretty pleasant, problems.
Wade uses his grip on Logan’s hips to pull him closer, now fully into his lap so that the hot, pulsing monster in his pants is pressed up against Wade’s. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief when the pressure comes, savoring the feeling as it courses through him. Logan stops breathing entirely before shuddering as a wheezing gasp escapes his lips.
Closer, but still not quite what Wade was looking for. They’ve got time. He’ll find his buttons, hell, he thinks he’s got his finger on one of ‘em already, maybe two if he’s as observant as he thinks he is.
Wade shifts his hips, grinding up while loosely pushing Logan through the movement. He shudders again, hands shooting up to clutch at the seat.
“Fuck.”
“M’ tryin’ buddy.”
What? He can’t help himself. It’s medical. Probably.
Logan’s teeth flash for a moment, canines sharp and dripping. Was that a smile?
“Not your fuckin’ buddy.”
He’s getting the hang of the whole grinding thing, hips moving more confidently with each roll.
So he hadn’t known what to do. Quick learner (wonder what else he could learn, what else he’d let Wade teach him).
Wade wonders if this is his first. If he should’ve asked before jumping in. He knows not everybody is as willing to get down as he is, but he hadn’t instigated this.
“Oh, sorry, that’s right. It’s sweetheart, isn’t it?” Even Hawkeye would be able to hear the shit-eating grin in his voice. There’s a tingling building, centered at his navel that tells him he’s getting close. Fuck. Something about realizing it’s probably this Logan’s first time, coupled with the fuckin’ smile—he’s gotta hurry this up.
Thankfully, the word-nuke had done the trick (he’s glad, he put a lot of effort into making his voice curl and purr around it) and Logan gasps. “Fuck. You.” His eyes are closed, brows deeply furrowed as he struggles to keep hold of himself.
“And you’re doin’ a great job of it, sweetheart, aren’t ya? Push down a little more, let your hips drop, yeah, just like that.”
Wade talks him through it, noting the trembling that takes over every bare piece of skin as he does so. Logan moves as told, follows orders like a champ and swallows the praise like a man starved. Course, he doesn’t outwardly say anything to indicate that, but his body speaks for him.
The way that it jerks at Wade’s gentle, slightly mocking, tone; the way that his breathing stutters as he moves as directed, then stops altogether once Wade encourages him.
Now this is one complicated hunk. Reminds Wade a little of himself, if he thinks about it too long, so he doesn’t. Just focuses on the sweat slowly dripping between his pecks, ping-ponging through coarse curls like a plinko board.
He’d probably suffocate, right? But he’s survived worse. And it would be such a noble death…
A low, drawn-out moan interrupts his thoughts. Like music to his ears.
“That’s it, come on. Fuck.” Wade says.
It’s getting to him, too. Of course it is. Wade’s not a goddamn statue. He’s a warm-blooded young(?) man and there’s a sexy piece of ass fucking down on him. It’s not going to be much longer before he has to tap out. He just has to make sure Logan taps out first.
And—judging by the searing red spreading down his chest, the short, hot pants he’s fitting between growled moans as he stares intensely down at where his dick is pressed against Wade’s—that’s not going to be too difficult.
“You done this before?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. Logan’s brows pull together as his eyes flick up to meet Wade’s. There’s a split second of hesitation before he snarls, “Fuckin’- course I have. Sick freak.”
Wade raises a brow, and though Logan can’t see it, he seems to sense it, huffing.
Hard to believe there was time for that, or that Logan was even thinking of that, when—as far as Wade is aware—he’d spent the majority of his life at war, then getting drunk off his ass and mourning the people he didn’t save.
“Masturbation doesn’t count.” Wade sing-songs. Logan rolls his eyes.
“Liked it better when you weren’t talking.”
He’s not special. Most people like it better then. But also- Wade’s not convinced that that’s true.
“You weren’t complaining when I was talking you through how to rub your dick on mine. Keep going. I’m close.”
Something interesting happens, then. Logan, who had been steadily grinding down in deep, circular movements throughout their short conversation, keeping Wade teetering on the edge, freezes. Stops moving completely before his hips twitch, once, twice, then almost uncontrollably as he struggles to keep himself up, arms straining to keep his body away from where it wants to list forward, boneless, on top of Wade.
Fuck. He came. The thought that his words alone had pushed him over the edge sends Wade into a frenzy. His hands clamp onto Logan’s waist and he ruts frantically upward, uncaring—but also a little sadistically giddy—of Logan’s sensitive post-orgasm cock.
The other man hisses, but doesn’t tell Wade to stop, breaths hitching as he lets him use his body to get off.
It’s not long (not when Logan’s eyes are getting glassy, not when these delicious little tremors are working their way through his muscles) before Wade’s shoving up one final time, rocking through the fireworks of one of the best orgasms he’s had in a while with a dopey grin on his face. Shit, it’s so good he barely even cares that there’s jizz in his suit now, and practically nowhere to clean it.
Reaching up, he pulls Logan’s pliant body down on top of him, savoring the press of his skin. Yes, the weight is a little crushing. Yes, it’s hard to breathe. No, he’s not going to do anything about it.
“Truce?” He says, after a few minutes of what could be called cuddling, if you consider slowly suffocating another person to be an intimate sort of thing. Logan’s breathing has evened out and he’s 50% sure he’s asleep.
A muffled snort sounds from where Logan’s face is pressed into his neck. It doesn’t tickle through the suit, but Wade kind of wishes it did.
“Go fuck yourself.”
It startles a laugh out of him.
“Didn’t take you for a voyeur, Mr. Honeybadger! Maybe next time. I’m a little wiped.”
“M’ gonna stab you.” Logan says, but his voice is fading. Wade smiles.
“Promises, promises.”