Archive of Our Own

The apartment is dark but not quiet, the city rattling outside and the air conditioner humming in Logan's ear where he lies sprawled over the pull-out couch. He was exhausted when he collapsed onto it, but he's restless now, jittery and twitching at every single sound, beginning to suspect the air conditioning might actually be the snores of a monster slumbering nearby, fanning him with its carnivore’s breath. He wishes it would wake up and put him out of his misery already.

He's numb, gutted-out after his first day in this alternate world where an alternate version of himself amounted to something more than a freak and a failure. Wade’s friends were here earlier, all of whom remember him as a hero. And Laura. They don't know what he is, what he did and failed to do. No one here does. Laura unsettles him more than anyone; she says she knows he's not her father and doesn't want fathering from him, but the way she looks to him sometimes tells a different story, as if he's more to her than just a carnival mirror. It's heartless, but he never wanted children, especially not a daughter, could've gone his whole life without knowing how his eyes fit in a young woman's face.

This is a temporary arrangement. It's only until he can figure out a way back to his own universe, where he's rightfully reviled, where he can't even walk into a bar without being called a murderer and a dyke; that was the default before he fucked up and gave the world a more justified reason to hate him. Exile is what he deserves. What right does he have to come here and assume the identity of a man who died so his daughter could live, to be anywhere near her when he sacrificed nothing?

He has to get out of here. Better yet, he needs a drink.

After a miserable while of staring at the ceiling, he gets up and stalks into the kitchen, following the beckoning smell of alcohol. It's here somewhere, buried under the cloying sweetness of cereal, the stinging citrus of lemonade, the stench of something sour at the back of the fridge. He's digging through the cabinet over the sink when Wade’s sleep-laced scent enters the mix. The light flickers on with a snap, yellow and irritating, and Logan turns. There's Wade, strolling into the kitchen with his hands behind his back, wearing plaid pajamas, fuzzy socks and looking ridiculous generally.

“Oh, hey, it's you.” Wade’s face breaks out in a bleary smile. “I heard animal noises and rummaging, figured maybe Mister Raccoon had gotten in again. Turns out it was Mister Honey Badger.”

“Fuck off, I don't make animal noises.” Logan turns away, growling, and slams that cabinet before moving on to the next. The last thing he needs right now is Wade's mouth. “Go back to bed.”

“Well, hold on. What're you looking for, peanut?” Wade asks, sickeningly earnest. “You hungry? Want me to make you something? We've got those fancy individually wrapped cheese slices if you're —”

“That cheese is older than I am,” Logan says. That's what's sour. “You know what I'm looking for, bub. Where the fuck’s the booze?”

He turns back to Wade and finds him still smiling, rocking school-girlish on his heels, gazing dreamy-eyed at Logan. It's been this way since they wrecked that car, Wade hovering around like he thinks they're married now or something. Logan's tried to distance himself, because what happened that night was a mistake, a massively embarrassing spur-of-the-moment lapse in judgment, but Wade’s since made it clear that he's a clinger. Like a leech, or a parasite, something ugly and unshakable.

Wade laughs. “Don’t you worry, peanut,” he says brightly. “I'd never dream of coming between you and your alcoholic coma. I will enable and support you in all of your worst habits, I assure you. When I see a smoking hot human disaster drinking himself to death at the bar, my first thought isn't ‘I can fix him,’ it's ‘I can make him worse.’ So what's your vice of choice tonight, hm? You've got that murderous gleam in your eyes, don't kill the waiter before he takes your order. Who're you hungry for? Jack Daniels, Mary Jane…” His voice pitches up, hopeful. “Me?”

Logan lets out his breath, relaxing where he was braced to lunge across the kitchen and break Wade’s neck. “Wade,” he says. “The Odyssey was a mistake.”

“Huh.” Wade tilts his head. “That's a funny way of pronouncing ‘life-affirming miracle,’ but I know what you m —”

“Wade!” Logan snaps, then shies, wary of waking Althea and the mole-rat. Wade grins as if Logan said his name with something other than venom. “It was a mistake,” Logan whispers, hissing. “And it will never, ever happen again. You understand me? I'm only here until I can find a way home, and then I'm fucking gone. Despite what your delusions tell you, we're still nothing to each other. We fought together, fine, and I appreciate you letting me have your couch for a while, but that's where our ‘relationship’ ends.”

It's a shitty thing to say, and not as true as it should be, but Wade doesn't wilt at all, just goes on grinning like he knows something Logan doesn't. It's infuriating, until Logan clocks Wade's arms twitching; he's fidgeting with something behind his back.

A weapon? Logan's heart jerks, and his claws unsheathe, shooting from his knuckles, tearing holes in his socks and scratching the kitchen tiles. He only realizes he's taken a step back when he bumps the fridge, tense everywhere. “What the fuck is that?” he asks roughly.

“Woah. Easy there, Officer Jumpy, don't shoot. I'm packing, but only dicks. Check it out.” Wade beams as he throws the thing at Logan's feet like a surrendered gun and puts his hands up in the air. It lands with a thud and a clatter. “No sudden movements, I promise. Now let me explain. The way I see it, what's the harm in fooling around a little more if you're gonna leave soon anyway? In your words, peanut, why not? Might as well enjoy our fling while it lasts.”

Logan snarls, “It's not a fling, you…” But his voice fades and dies as he stares down at it, and it registers that he's looking at a dildo mounted on a harness. A strap-on, he thinks, halting.

“Oh, okay!” Wade giggles. “So you're ready to take it to the next level? Of course I'll be your girlfriend!”

“I — you…” Logan gives up trying to object, and just gawks. It's obscene, but kind of beautiful in a blunt, unabashed way, this pink silicone dildo attached to a thin black harness, laid out on the tiles like a snowball in the desert, something jarring that just doesn't belong. Logan feels struck frozen, but he flinches when Wade comes toward him.

“I have something to declare,” Wade says, cheerful and far too casual for the surreality of this. He goes to his knees at Logan's feet, close to his claws and the strap-on, and lowers his hands slowly. “Firstly, all my sexual fantasies will feature a Honda Odyssey from now until forever. Secondly, I'm a shameless slut, and I'll let you fuck me however you want whenever you want, no strings attached. If you want to fuck off and leave after, that's cool. I'll just welcome you with open legs when you come back. If you come back. No pressure, rolling stone’s gonna roll, I get it, I'm into it.”

Every word is matter-of-fact, and Logan finds himself stupefied, at a loss to respond. His claws retract automatically when Wade reaches for his waistband, fingertips just barely slipping underneath, and Logan resents that this contact is familiar, that it feels safe. There's something too soft in Wade's touch, a cutting gentle edge to his smile; that's what extinguished all of Logan's second thoughts in the Odyssey.

“I’ve been drooling for you.” Wade licks his lips, eyes dark. “Fuck, you have no idea. I get frustrated every time I swallow now, ‘cause your cock’s not in my mouth, I want you so bad.”

Logan groans, and drops his head back against the fridge, hands braced to it. He's so pathetic for this, and hard, already wet and aching. The wetness isn't a sensation he enjoys, slimy and usually disgusting enough to turn him right off, his arousal killing itself, but it wasn't so bad when Wade’s tongue was on him, swiping it away as it dripped, moaning at the taste. Calling it “come.”

“You like that, you're gonna love this. Here's my vision for tonight,” Wade says. Logan can't look at him, but he can hear his self-satisfied, shit-eating grin. “I’ll suck you off right here, up against the fridge, and if I do a good enough job, maybe you’ll take me back to my room and fuck me. Alternatively, we could head outside and defile the neighbor's Buick if you want to continue the car theme, that guy's an asshole. What do you think, peanut? You know I'm down for whatever you want. Down to go down on you forever.”

“Fuck it,” leaves Logan's mouth on a soft, defeated exhale, his cock twitching. This isn't his universe, he thinks, needing justification beyond just wanting Wade’s mouth again, so it's not as if anything he does here really matters. This is like a dream; thoughtless and fleeting, he won't remember it come morning, no marks on his body to remind him. He moves his hands to his hips, to shove his pants down and hurry things along, but Wade waves him away.

“I've got it, baby,” he coos, fingers sliding in deeper, finding the band of Logan's boxers. “You just stand there and look perfect, I'll take care of the rest.”

Logan scowls down at Wade’s hideously adoring expression, ignoring how it twists knife-like in his gut. “Don’t start with the baby shit again.”

“Oops.” Wade peels Logan's pants down, taking his time, intent like he's unwrapping a long-awaited present. “Sorry, peanut. Just out of curiosity, though, what’ll happen if I keep doing it? I know you won't leave, ‘cause you like it too much.”

“Maybe I'll kill you.” Logan rolls his eyes, the threat listless, and stays staring at the ceiling, a stain up there. He doesn't want to watch, or doesn't want to want to watch.

“You’re killing me already, looking like that, and at dinner, the way you moaned through your first bite of pizza, god, that was fucking blasphemous. To quote the Po-Po, every little thing you do is hot as shit. But it's okay if you wanna kill me literally, too.” Logan's pants pool around his ankles, boxers slipping down along with the sock, exposing the humiliating truth of him. Wade’s thumbs soothe lightly over his hip bones, fingers curled over his ass. “I'll just regenerate and pick up where I left off. Never gonna leave you hanging, baby boy.”

A scoff flies from Logan's mouth, sharp, unable to believe he's lowering himself to this again. But he shuffles his legs apart, shivering when the cool air touches him. Wade presses a kiss to his cock, and mumbles something Logan can't hear over the sound of his own gasp. Eyes squeezed shut, he waits for Wade’s tongue, waits to be so overwhelmed by pleasure he forgets to be ashamed.

There's the sound of dangling buckles instead, and Logan feels leather laid over his left thigh. He looks down, tensing when he sees that Wade's starting to fasten the strap-on, looping the two side straps around his hips.

“What are you doing?” he asks, too transfixed for anger. He makes no move to throw Wade away from him, keeps his hands on the fridge, metal heating under his palms.

“Getting ready to suck your cock.” Wade sounds focused, eyes fixed on his hands. He reaches between Logan's legs with the middle strap, attaching it to the belt formed by the other two at the small of Logan's back. “Gotta get you good and hard for me first, don't I?”

Logan stares, barely remembering to breathe. With gentle fingers and a reverent weight in his eyes, Wade’s giving him a cock. The dildo is flesh-tone, but it's a little too pink and too large to be accurate to life, thick and maybe ten inches long, not quite a foot, with a flared head and veins sculpted in the silicone shaft. It even has balls, though they're the most plastic-looking, misshapen and clumped together. Logan finds he can overlook these discrepancies easily. He's been aware of the existence of strap-ons, but never in a position to shop for sex toys, always plodding from one miserable mission to the next, until eventually the mission became remaining drunk for as long as his unwilling survivor's body allowed.

If he squints his eyes, and disregards the black lines of the harness, he sees an erection between his legs. It almost feels real, the added weight, and he's shocked by how much he likes it.

“Here.” Wade very carefully positions the plate holding the dildo between Logan's legs, then tightens the straps. Logan jolts when he feels a little plastic nub nestle against his cock, and gasps in startled pleasure when Wade takes the dildo in his hands and strokes it firmly, jostling the nub as he tests that it's attached. “Is that okay, baby?” he asks. “Not too tight?”

Logan shakes his head, teeth gritted, hating being so affected. His hands are in trembling fists against the fridge now. The claws stay inside; he’s overwhelmed, but there's no sense of danger. “S’fine.”

“Good,” Wade says, and groans, sitting back to admire the dildo with a look of unguarded hunger. “Holy shit, get a load of that unit. You're so fucking big, goddamn, and so hard for me, huh? Yeah, you're massive. All the other girls faint when they see you, I bet, but not me. I like ‘em big, baby, wanna choke on you, want you to make me gag.”

The way he's talking, it's like he just opened Logan's pants and found a ten-inch dick hidden inside, and it scratches the same guilty itch as when Wade called his curse a cock in the Odyssey. Logan's far from a virgin, but he hardly ever has sex and very rarely enjoys it. Now his face is burning, flushed from the tips of his ears to the pit of his stomach, pleasure unspooling like hot wires in his gut, like he could come just from this. He lifts one fist to his mouth, bites his knuckles, afraid of what will spill out otherwise. But he grunts impatiently and bucks his hips, too, because Wade’s just gazing up at him now, face melted by a warm, moony smile.

“I’m sorry you're not used to feeling good like this,” Wade says softly, and scoots closer on his knees, until his face presses up against the dildo. He kisses around the tip, the dimple in the plastic representing a urethra, and brings his hands up to cup the balls, kneads them gently, as if he could hurt the silicone. Every touch travels straight to Logan's cock, but it's not enough. His hips twitch with wanting to move, to grab Wade's head, but he holds himself back. “But I'm gonna get you used to it, you'll see, gonna make you so fucking spoiled —”

“Shut up,” Logan growls out around his fist. He never hates Wade’s mouth more than when it starts gushing like it loves him. “Just do it already.”

Wade laughs, breathy, something raw underneath. “Jesus, honey. You act like you're getting ready to be tortured or something. What happened to you, huh? Who do I gotta kill?”

Logan takes a breath to say Wade should start getting ready to be tortured, but then Wade sucks the head of the dildo into his mouth, smiling wide around it, and chains fall away in Logan's chest, a secret monster set loose. Wade’s not pretty, except he is, plush lips and dark, expressive eyes that roll back as he hollows his cheeks, sucking his way down the dildo, pausing when it's halfway into his mouth.

This is so much better than when Wade sucked him off in the Odyssey, where Logan could never get all the way into it, because no matter what Wade called it, a constant reality check throbbed between his legs. It threw him every time he looked down, every time he felt Wade’s tongue tease over his hole and tensed, worried it might press inside. This is a taste of the real thing, and it's good, too good not to get greedy.

He takes his fist from his mouth and clasps Wade’s nape, his other hand going to grip Wade’s jaw, Wade’s scars rough against Logan’s stubbornly uncalloused palms. Wade makes a soft noise Logan doesn't like, giving goo-goo eyes again, so Logan tightens his hold and shoves the rest of the way in, hips jerking clumsily, unused to this.

Wade doesn't flinch or gag, not even when Logan feels resistance and knows the dildo’s bullying the back of Wade’s throat. He just moans encouragingly, vibrations shuddering down to Logan's cock, and that's what seals the deal, how it's a tactile illusion, too; he can actually feel it.

“You hear that, bub?” Logan draws out, holding Wade still when he tries to squirm forward and follow the dildo, and slams back in hard. “Hear that nice, nothing noise? That's silence, that's the sound of you finally shutting the fuck up.”

He carves out a punishing pace, makes a game of trying and failing to trigger Wade’s gag reflex. Wade’s eyes won't even tear up. He's completely relaxed, the same way he was when Logan straddled his face, like he was made for this. He leans in eagerly to meet every thrust, hands clutching at Logan's thighs, and whines mournfully every time Logan pulls back, every little noise absorbed by Logan's cock where it twitches behind the plate.

“I guess this is why you're always talking shit.” Logan's voice is increasingly shredded. He's stopped holding back, and the words just steam up his throat, filthy; it's his turn to talk. “You're just hoping someone will get fed up and put you on your knees, plug your throat up with cock. Am I wrong?”

Wade groans in the negative. He tries to shake his head, whimpering pathetically, eyes fluttering. Logan feels him fidgeting, sees the tent he's pitching in his pants.

“No? So this is what you like?” Logan aims another pointed jab at the back of Wade’s throat, and Wade just takes it. “Being on your knees like a toy? Just a mouth for me to fuck? Guess we finally found a good use for you, huh, mouth?”

Wade's shoulders shiver, and he stuffs one hand down his waistband, fast and desperate, arm jumping.

Logan laughs, cruel and quiet, still present enough that he remembers to keep it down. “Jesus, you're pathetic. You begged for it in the Odyssey and you're begging for it now.” He pitches up his voice in a mockery of Wade’s. “‘Please? Please? I bet we do it in an alternate universe!’ Could you even hear yourself, how you sounded? Do you grovel like that for everyone's cock or is mine special?”

There's an emphatic, resounding moan of agreement, and Logan feels it so strongly in his cock he almost comes, gets right to the edge. “Juh — jus’ you,” Wade’s trying to say around the gag of the dildo, garbled but clear enough. His eyes are blinking mushily again, soft and willing, arm moving more slowly now, like he's just palming himself.

Something uncomfortable rolls over in Logan's gut, a heaviness fed by but separate from lust, and when he looks at Wade’s red, stretched mouth, there's a strange urge to yank him up and kiss him. Logan cringes from it, what it could mean, and he shoves Wade off the dildo with a rough hand on his forehead.

“Get up,” Logan says. He watches Wade sway on his knees, all hazy eyes and a gaping smile, as if he's forgotten how to close his mouth.

“Hm?” Wade swoons forward to try and get the dildo past his lips again, whining when Logan holds him back, eyes clearing. “Hey! What gives?”

“You said you wanted to get fucked in your bed,” Logan says, frowning. “So get up.”

“Oh!” Wade reels like he's been struck, grins like he's glad to have been struck. “Okay, uh.” He stands unsteadily. “Bed, right, sounds like a plan. But, um.” But he doesn't move; his eyes rove over Logan, lingering longer on his face than the dildo, for some reason. “Before that, can I just say, you're the most beautiful —”

“Go!” Logan snarls. “You’d better hurry up, I'm changing my mind.”

“Going!” Wade eyes go wide with alarm, and he bolts, stumbling and gasping after he almost crashes into the kitchen doorway.

Logan steps out of his pants and leaves them behind, turning a little thoughtless as he prowls after Wade, leaving the kitchen for the dark hallway, Wade’s bedroom at the end the only other source of light in the apartment. He should've warned Wade not to run, because it strokes the predator in him from snout to tail-tip, waking it like flipping a switch. A singsong growl ignites in his chest, and he forgets shame, the inherent absurdity of what he's wearing, because there's all that meat racing on ahead of him, heart hammering his ears, sweat clogging his nose. Soon, no matter how fast it runs, it'll be in his mouth.

“Sorry, sorry, I'm going as fast as I —” Wade whirls two bounds into his room, and Logan's right there, looming over him with teeth bared. “Oh, shit!” Wade yelps, and laughs, heart rate leaping in Logan's ears. “Wow, look at your eyes! Listen to that purr! You're not actually gonna eat me, are you? ‘Cause regenerating from ingestion really isn't fun. I should know, there were these zombies, this one time, and I —”

Growling, Logan grabs Wade’s neck and throws him onto the bed, cheap mattress creaking frantically in protest. Wade’s bedroom is exactly what Logan expected when he first saw it earlier today, waiting in the doorway while Wade gathered a spare blanket and pillow for him, rolling his eyes when Wade suggested he sleep in here instead. He should've known this is where he'd end up anyway, surrounded by food wrappers and crushed soda cans, stale semen and beer smells, observed by dozens of overlapping porno posters, plus one of Dolly Parton. She smiles serenely down at him as he pounces onto the mattress and pins Wade to his rumpled bedding, a Wham! album cover blown up over the sheet.

Logan hates that band, and seeing it again makes him murderous. He sits back on his knees to watch Wade undress with frenzied hands, babbling all the while.

“This is so hot, baby, holy shit, eat me if you want, just let me come first,” he's saying, tearing off his shirt, shoving down his pants, chucking them onto the floor. “I’m so hard for you, fuck, I was a second away from coming in my pants back there.”

Logan drags his eyes down from Wade’s heaving chest to his leaking cock, his narrow hips, his strong thighs, then back up to his broad shoulders, tracking his toned arms to where his blunt hands are flinging his socks away. He's naked now, laid bare and staring up at Logan like he really does expect to be eaten, like that's what he wants.

“I've been thinking about this since the Odyssey. I had this plan to, like, bring you home.” His hands grasp Logan's hips, pulling him down on top again.

Meanwhile, Logan's as undressed as he'll ever be, pantsless, socks shredded from his claws, still wearing his shirt and, most importantly, the tightly wrapped bandages underneath. The strap-on, too, which begins to feel like another form of protection. He's not as exposed as he was in the Odyssey with it on, the plate and dildo barricading his cock, the middle strap covering his hole. He feels more fortified, and he likes that Wade is completely defenseless under him. Something proud and primal quakes through him, breaks him down to base instinct when he braces his hands to the mattress either side of Wade's head.

He especially likes that the dildo is almost double the length of Wade’s cock, and he grinds down heavily, reveling in the way Wade moans and rolls his hips up, made speechless for a second.

“I just — I know you don't wanna be kept, baby,” Wade says when he recovers, voice wavering, eyes wide. His fingers dig in at Logan's hips as if to secure him. “But you could be happy, I'd take care of you. Maybe I wasn't being totally honest when I said I'm okay with —”

“Where's the lube?” Logan growls, unwilling to hear the rest of that.

“Oh. That's okay.” Wade smiles, unusually sheepish. He rolls over in the pen of Logan's arms, propping himself up on his hands and knees, lifting his ass. Logan sits back again to investigate, then drops his jaw. Wade’s red and gaping open, rim dripping wet, lube smeared down the insides of his thighs.

A wire fizzles brokenly in Logan's brain; suddenly he thinks he understands what the obsession is with wetness. Compelled, he brings his hand up and presses Wade’s hole with his thumb, gasping when it just sucks him in, so loose it gives under the slightest pressure.

“I got myself all ready for you,” Wade says, muffled, one cheek crushed to the pillow. “I, uh. I didn't really think you were Mister Raccoon. He would've gone straight for the tortilla chips, the little menace. I could hear you tossing and turning out there on the couch, so I thought I'd see if I could lure you back to me.” Wade laughs, then moans as Logan slides in his thumb to the knuckle, too mesmerized by all this tight warmth to deny tossing and turning, or being lured. “Fuck, I'm so ready for you,” Wade whines. “I’m all for you, baby, all yours, want you so bad, want your cock, please —”

Logan splinters at “all yours,” stripped apart, and he lunges. He takes Wade's hips, yanks Wade back onto him while he rams forward with all the strength in his body. The bed rocks and smacks off the wall. Wade gasps sharply, opening, scrabbling for fistfuls of the sheet. Logan pauses here, watches Wade’s back quiver, the dildo buried in Wade’s ass and ground against Logan's cock. Logan even allows himself to think of the dildo as his cock, because it feels so good to believe it, to finally have this.

“Oh my god, holy fucking shit, I'm so full,” Wade says. “You’re so big, baby, ah, god. What'd I tell you, I knew I'd feel it in my throat —”

Instinct crawls over Logan, and for once he surrenders control, just gives it up, because why bother? He wants this. He drapes himself over Wade, sinks his teeth deep in Wade's shoulder while Wade bucks and cries out. His claws unsheathe as he starts to fuck Wade with abandon, plowing back and forth, piercing Wade’s thighs, skewers he can use to help maneuver. His foot claws come out to play, too, staking down into the mattress and giving his thrusts traction. Who could've known they'd be so useful for sex? Wade writhes but doesn't fight, doesn't do anything but beg for more, harder, faster, and Logan barely hears him over the war-drum roar of blood in his ears, blood everywhere.

“Yes! Please, baby, harder, I need it, need you more than anything! You're so perfect, please, want you to fuck me full of your come —”

This is fun. It satisfies every part of Logan, the man who's always fantasized guiltily about doing this, being able to do this, and the animal that's only ever wanted a warm body to work its teeth and claws into. Logan's hands are slick with blood, slipping over Wade’s thighs where he grips him, painting Wade’s sides red when he rakes his claws down them, red as Logan's vision is turning. Wade just laughs and heals, elated and unharmed. Pieces of mattress are flurrying through the air, and the drywall’s cracking, the bed’s beating against it so hard.

Logan feels more like the animal now, wild the way he gets when he tears into someone, only he's finally found someone who can take it, who can't be broken, whose skin closes as quickly as it can be sliced apart. Wade's still babbling, hands braced to the wall, slamming himself back into Logan's jackhammer thrusts like it's good for him, too, and Logan's inhibitions wither away. He forgets that he doesn't really have a cock, that they're not alone in the apartment, that he's supposed to hate Wade. All that matters anymore is fucking Wade harder, faster, spurred on by Wade’s pleading.

Instinct demands that Logan leave a mark, so he bites deeper, drags his claws down Wade's sides again, then his back. He tries over and over, biting everywhere he can reach, but they heal instantly, leaving only trails of blood for him to lap up, and he does, growling with mounting frustration, though the iron-salt taste is soothing. He's stupid like this, feral and fogged, and he doesn't fully understand why his marks won't take, what he's doing wrong.

“Sorry, honey,” Wade says, garbled but genuinely apologetic, Logan's teeth at the back of his skull. “Wish I — ah, shit! Wish I could make ‘em last for you, poor baby, wish all my scars were yours.”

Logan pulls back to watch the bleeding canine-shaped indents fade in a second, and the frustration comes to a boil, because he wants Wade’s face, wants to see him screaming, not just hear it. Logan wrenches his claws from Wade's hips and flips him over, folds Wade in half when he rams back in. He finds new anchors for his claws in the meat either side of Wade's stomach, spearing him to the mattress.

“Fuck!” Wade grips Logan's shoulders, so pretty Logan can't stand it, smiling with blood on his teeth, pupils blown wide. “Gives love handles a whole new meaning. Yeah, baby, give it to me like that, just like that, want your come, c'mon, you're so good —”

Logan shoves his face at Wade's neck, bites down where his pulse kisses his skin, and fucks him like that for a long time, hips snapping in and out, in and out in a violent, calming rhythm. He lets his eyes close, Wade’s hands clinging to his shirt but only pulling hard enough to bring him closer. He listens to the drone of Wade’s voice, and breathes his scent where it's strongest, under his jaw. Sets himself loose.

The next time Logan opens his eyes, lifts his head, he's wearing down, muscles aching, exhaustion gnawing in his hips and shoulders. He doesn't know how long he's been fucking Wade, maybe forever and an hour, because it feels right, easy and predestined. But he's wavering, just grinding shallowly into Wade now, his growl hitching, claws half-sheathed, hands open on the tattered sheet. He feels softened, waves of pleasure washing down his neck like hot water.

Wade’s legs are wrapped around Logan's back, and their chests and stomachs press together, Logan having lost the strength to hold himself up a few slowing thrusts ago. Wade's hands are in Logan's hair, stroking lightly. Logan realizes that's why he feels so much like mush, because Wade’s found those spots just behind his ears, like buttons under his scalp that send his motor control to shit when pressed. What's worse is the way Wade’s gazing up at him, dopey smile at odds with the blood smeared all over his cheeks.

“Baby boy,” Wade whispers, giggling, and Logan tries to shut him up with a punishing thrust, but all he has the strength for anymore is shaky rocking. He's raw, and he wants to come, but it's not enough. He'd be furious if Wade weren't petting him. “You ready to come for me, sweetheart? Ready to fill me up?” Wade coos. “Yeah you are, I know, and you deserve it, such a good boy. Didn't mean to edge you, baby, I'm sorry.”

Logan's growl pinches up more in the way of a whimper. “Shut the fuck up,” he says, but his voice is small with how much he doesn't mean it. He's shaking, so ready it aches.

Wade just smiles, and lifts his head to press a gentle kiss to Logan's open, panting mouth. Logan scrunches his nose in distaste, too weak to recoil. Before he can rally the energy to kill Wade like he wants, Wade takes one hand from Logan's head and skates it down Logan's back, touches the dildo. There's a tiny click — a button? — and then a bomb goes off in Logan's gut, whiting out his vision when the little nub against his cock starts vibrating, shockwaves arching his spine.

He flinches at the force of it, eyes flying open where they were drooping, and shudders down onto Wade, bucking into the buzzing pleasure, slipping out of Wade so the dildo just grinds against his hip. It's so good, the best thing Logan’s ever felt, and it just keeps going, wave after white-hot wave, his mouth hanging open around punched gasps.

“There, baby. That's better.” Wade hugs Logan close, one hand pressing Logan's head to his chest, the other sweeping over Logan's back. Every touch teases the pleasure to the surface, draws it out, scatters it up and down Logan’s spine. “Oh my god, you're gorgeous. Never seen anything so pretty in all my life.”

Logan clings to Wade's shoulders, open-mouthed against Wade's chest, drooling and spilling embarrassing whiny sounds he can't help, can't stop, not even to growl at Wade for talking to him like that, that he's not his baby. The orgasm lasts a long time, and wrings out all the strength Logan had left, leaving him empty and panting on Wade's chest. The dildo is strapped firmly onto him, the nub positioned flush against his cock, and remains there even when he starts to squirm in discomfort, wriggling his hips, trying uselessly to get away from something that might as well be taped to him. The vibrations aren't stopping, and Wade’s making no move to stop them.

“Off, off, I'm done,” Logan says, shot hoarse. He tries reaching down to cut the straps, but his claws won't unsheathe, and his arms are all but boneless, hands scrabbling ineffectively at Wade’s sides. It's not quite pain, but it's unceasing, refusing to give him even half a second to recover. “Wade, off!”

“Shh, I've got you.” Wade kisses Logan's cheek, Logan helpless to pull away, and pushes his sweat-damp hair back from his forehead. Logan doesn't look for comfort in Wade's touch, doesn't want it, but he finds it anyway, Wade’s eyes snaring him, the softness in them. “I know it's a lot, but you're gonna feel good again really soon, okay? Just one more time, it's only fair, ‘cause you made me come twice.”

Logan snarls, his teeth so close and yet so far from Wade’s throat, but he does feel sticky, something thicker than sweat binding them together like glue. Curiosity wins out, so he ducks his head, trembling as he props himself up just enough to glimpse all the come smeared between his shirt and Wade's stomach, and Wade’s red, spent cock. He slumps back onto Wade, struck down as if by a tranquilizer dart, because he's on someone who can take him, who can break so many times so many ways and snap right back, smiling, willing, wanting more. Someone who actually gets off on matching him.

It's hot, and it helps, guiding the vibrations away from pain and back toward pleasure, rebuilding like a demolished wall that's only going to get knocked down again. Logan hides his face in the crook of Wade’s neck, failing to smother his pathetic whines. He feels melted down, melts further as he breathes there over Wade’s slowing pulse. He smells so much like Logan now, as if despite the bites and scratches all healing he's still been claimed, because Logan's brand lies somewhere under his skin, in his bones, even deeper.

“Good, that's so good. I’m gonna help you, don't worry.” Wade’s fingers are in Logan's hair again, massaging that horrible spot behind his ear, which works like hot wax. His other hand moves gently down Logan's back, and Logan tenses when Wade touches the dildo, thinking he might take it away. “Shh, it's okay, I'm here. Take a breath for me, here we go —”

There's another tiny, innocuous click, swiftly followed by a second explosion, the vibrations redoubled until they're going at Logan's cock like a miniature beating. Logan feels the thrumming in his marrow, in the roots of his teeth, and he bites down on Wade’s neck with a wounded groan, like he's been shot at close range. It's too much, just enough, throwing him sideways toward that edge.

“That’s it, that's right. God, you're gorgeous.” Wade rubs Logan's back, pets his hair, blood warm in his mouth. “I'm so fucking lucky, aren't I, ‘cause I've got the best of both worlds. Got the Big Bad Wolverine to fuck me all tough, and then this pretty little kitty who just purrs on me while I make him come over and over.”

Logan's growling steadily now, the sound based low in his chest, deepened by how the vibrations shake the adamantium. He wants to protest, to shred Wade for all the shit that's come out of his mouth tonight, but maybe it does resemble purring. His hands come up to claw the bedsheet as the pleasure builds higher, intimidating for its hugeness. The growling rises a pitch, and he hates whimpering, tries to swallow it down, but he's too loose everywhere to swallow, drooling all over Wade’s neck.

“Aww, baby.” Wade presses their cheeks together, moves his head up and down as if to nuzzle Logan, and Logan nuzzles back thoughtlessly, possessed by a gentler instinct than the one that drove him through fucking Wade. Logan's eyes are screwed shut against the tidal wave beginning to break over him, but he can hear that moony smile in Wade's voice, the weird tenderness. “It’s not gonna hurt, I promise, and I'm not laughing at you. Never ever. I think you're fucking amazing, always have, you blow my mind. How'd you get so perfect, honey?”

Logan thrashes when it strikes him and he comes again, but Wade holds him down, arms closed around Logan's shoulders, legs still locked around Logan's waist. Logan's claws fly out, hands and feet, tearing new gashes down the mattress. It's more intense this time, blinding, but doesn't last as long, the pleasure boiling over into real pain almost immediately. Logan's gasping, eyes stinging, hips jerking up in a panic.

“Off, off, I can't.” He's close to sobbing now, sniffling and flayed, too sensitive without his skin. “Please —”

Wade's hand leaves his back, and with the sound of a buckle snapping open the harness falls away, the strap-on bouncing off the bed and thudding onto the floor. Logan's so relieved, and so ruined, it's all he can do to collapse onto Wade's chest and try not to whimper too pathetically, claws retracting slowly, and breathe, air quaking in and out of his lungs. He hasn't left this bed for an eternity at least, but he feels like he's just run a marathon around the world.

“Okay, all done. No more, that's it, you're okay, you were so good.” Wade’s cupping his cheeks, stroking his hair, pressing painfully gentle kisses all over his face. Logan doesn't have the strength to throw Wade off, or do anything but lie on top of him and tremble, mouthing toothless at his collarbone. “That was so beautiful. My god, the face you make when you come… Oh, and we had our first kiss, that's exciting!”

“I hate you,” Logan croaks, because he does, he really does, only it could be something much worse, something that preens and turns toward Wade’s touch, not wanting to pull away.

“I know, baby. Me, too —” Wade's voice hitches, damp-eyed when he looks up at Logan, like he heard that shame-faced, skinned-alive thing underneath. He kisses Logan's mouth again, brushes their lips together, flicks his tongue out to lick Logan's teeth, and Logan tolerates it for a while. Maybe he more than tolerates it, pressing closer and opening his mouth so Wade can lay his tongue over Logan's.

Logan catches his breath against Wade's face, and remembers himself when Wade kisses the very tip of his nose, startlingly gentle. He shoves off of Wade, rolling onto his back on the other side of the mattress. He scrubs his face with his fists, as if kisses can be erased that way, as if the awful, electrified feeling in his chest can be snuffed out.

“Fuck.” He pushes his hands up into his hair, his groan all disbelief. “I can't believe I let it happen again.” He turns his head to find Wade lying on his side now, cushioning his cheek with his hands, naked and bloody like he's fresh from a blender, gazing over at Logan like he's perfect. It burns, puts a hot fire iron to his heart.

“Aw, don't beat yourself up about it too bad,” Wade says. “I have a way with prickly pears like you, gotta beat ‘em away with sticks. Seriously, first there was Colossus, then Cable, you would've loved him. Exes and ohs, amirite?”

Logan ignores him, and sits up against the protests of his exhausted muscles. His eyes clear, fog lifted when he looks down at himself, grimacing. He's blood-drenched in some places, come-stained in others, and shocked all over again by the mess of the bed, the bloody, shredded ruin of the mattress, deep claw marks gouging up and down the sheet, rendering the album cover unrecognizable. Which would be an improvement, except Logan's horrified to have lost control so completely. Even when he's blackout, wake-up-in-a-bush-somewhere drunk, he doesn't do shit like this.

“Oh, man,” he says, thinking more of Althea. “I, uh.” He glances at Wade, who's smiling, watching him. “I’ll pay for this.”

Wade sits up, too, laughing. “No you won't, it's fine. I mean, I guess you can pay me with more awesome, world-rocking sex if you really want, or…” He trails off, tone sobering, and criss-crosses his legs, bites his lip. “Y’know. Maybe you can not go back to your shitty universe and just stay here forever?”

There's a certain look in Wade's eyes, and Logan recognizes it as an unspoken, peeled-back “this is the part where you stay, Logan, what's wrong, why do you always run away from me.” It chases him straight to the door, away from the time-warped echo of her voice. He's barely conscious, but his legs know to move, embedded in his muscle memory that this is what he does: he leaves.

“Woah, hey,” Wade says. “Where’re you going so fast? You're coming back, right?”

Logan pauses in the doorway, but doesn't look back, can't, because he hears that first crack of heartbreak in Wade's voice. He just knows Wade has that look about him of an abandoned dog in the rearview mirror, holding the bone its asshole owner threw to get it away from the car before he took off. Wade mentioned wanting a relationship in the Odyssey, and Logan thought he was joking then, being a jackass, but upon reflection, he was probably serious.

“I’m getting my pants,” Logan says flatly. “And then I'm going back to the couch. So. See you in the morning, I guess.”

“Oh, um —” Wade clears his throat. “Okay, yeah, if that's where you're comfortable. Goodnight?”

Logan grunts. He pulls the door shut behind him, and he's sullen walking back to the kitchen, scoffing at himself while he redresses, hands clumsy and legs unsteady with exhaustion. It's still pitch black outside the window, only a few hours past, and he's so damn tired, not just physically but of himself, these stupid things he does. He looks out at the couch in the living room, then down the hall, the faint sliver of light from under Wade’s door. It's ridiculous, but he feels like he's reached a crossroads. He doesn't usually practice decision-making in these situations, just kind of uncaps his flask and drops in the intersection, hoping a truck will run him over while he's out.

Before he can resume his search for the booze, sudden and unbidden, Charles surfaces like a bloated corpse from the polluted waters of his memory. The fucker still manages to worm his way inside Logan's brain sometimes, even from beyond the grave.

Logan was wrecked after Weapon X, and infinitely more so after Stryker's files leaked, when the papers called him a TRANSSEXUAL DEVIANT and his world ended in a thousand different ways all at once. He spent every day of that decade too high to see straight, checked out of living. Jean could be right in front of him, wiping the sweat from his face, begging him to come home, but he wouldn't see her. She sicced Charles on him one night, and he showed up at Logan's drug-induced not-death bed, so stricken with pity that Logan hated him, truly hated him for the first time.

“My friend, you must stand from this,” Charles said too calmly, his hand laid cool over Logan's clammy forehead. His face was a white blur, like the halo of an angel come to mock Logan's inability to fully die. “I know it feels like the world's ended, but there is a light for you yet. Get up, walk towards it. Once you do, this pain you feel now that's so insurmountable, it will seem small.”

The light Charles referred to was Jean, of course, not a rampant psychopath who in a lot of ways makes Logan's issues look healthy, but maybe it's for the best. Jean was always light years out of his league, and he could never relax touching her, too afraid of hurting her, or tainting her generally. Wade is more touchable, so fucked up already, Logan really can't go wrong.

And he's sweet, in his own creepy, skin-crawling way. His crazy must be contagious, transmittable through blood and spit and come, all those bittersweet things Logan's had in his mouth.

He sighs deeply, and groans loudly, and beats his forehead on the wall in a last-ditch attempt to knock some sense into himself. No dice. He heads back down the hall, toward that broken, barely-there light. At the very least, if nothing else, he should help clean up.

Wade’s staring at the door when Logan nudges it open, edges in a step, and the way his face lights up almost turns Logan right back around. But it's too late.

Logan scowls. “Don't say shit —”

“Peanut! You came back! I knew you loved me!” Wade beams and bounces up on his knees, hands clasped over his chest. He's a pitiful sight, naked and covered in drying blood, knelt on that destroyed bed. “Yes, yes! Mister Darcy, I will marry you!”

“One more word, bub,” Logan growls, “and I'm gone. There are so many bars I haven't been banned from in this universe, never think I have nowhere to go.”

Wade clamps his mouth shut, opens his arms, and the next thing Logan knows he's wrapped up in them, forehead dropped to Wade’s shoulder, arms tight around Wade's waist. They fall over, curled up together on the maimed mattress, under tattered strips of a Wham! album cover, all thoughts of cleaning up cleared from Logan's mind. Maybe it doesn't need to be cleaned, or fixed. Maybe it's fine just like this, bloody and broken and fucked up, their jagged puzzle pieces smashed together until they almost seem to fit.

“I’m so glad you came back, I thought I was gonna have to bust out the chloroform after all. Gosh, you're so pretty, your face is my favorite, and your fingers, so soft, and your shiny claws. Just all of you!” Wade gushes, mouth motoring again as soon as Logan’s settled down, like he knows Logan won't get back up. And he's right. “You cozy, peanut? If you ever want anything, just tell me and I'll bring it to you. Who knows, you might even get breakfast in bed tomorrow morning. Not that there's much of a bed left, jeez. At this rate we'll both end up sleeping on the pull-out. Not that I mind! Please, shred all my stuff. What's mine is yours to break, baby boy, be my guest. No, don't be my guest, guests leave eventually, be my boyfriend who stays forever and ever and…”

Logan sighs, resigning. He presses his face to Wade’s neck, feels his throat buzzing as he babbles, words blurred, and after a while it's just comforting, like a human white noise machine. Logan drifts easily toward sleep, thinking maybe he'll stick around a while longer. Not forever, but…