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It's warm, morning and vaguely home, sunrise glowing behind Wade's moth-eaten old curtains, which once upon a time hung over the window in his childhood bedroom. Softness surrounds him on a mattress familiar for its back-breaking shittiness, and he needs no hints to know it's Vanessa. Her pale, wiry arms lock around his chest, bony knees dig into his waist, frizz tickles his neck. He feels the sharp jut of her nose where she presses her face between his shoulders.
“I love you, Wade Wilson,” she says, whispering, and the words wrap around his spine, thrashing him until he wakes up.
His bedroom at Blind Al's is dark with midnight, moon-cast shadows of outside tree branches haunting the walls through thin curtains. This has been his home for going on a year, so he doesn't feel lost, but he feels disappointed the way he always does following dreams of Vanessa. Their break-up still stings when touched, like a scar that never quite healed. He gropes around for his phone, and before his mind catches up with his thumbs he's staring at her Instagram page, drinking in her smiling profile picture like an oasis. His relief dries up when he notices her most recent post, a picture of her and her new boyfriend at some bar, a snapshot of their happiness from just two hours ago. They're probably having tipsy sex right about now, laughing as they fumble each other's clothes off.
Wade groans, wounded, and drops his phone off the bed. He knows his and Vanessa's relationship is over, and he respects her uncanny ability to move on — and so fast, too, but that's beside the point — but he misses being in a relationship. He misses fucking and getting fucked, barebacking it all the time because it had been years since either of them touched anyone else. He misses holding hands, toying with her fingers, holding her for hours in that rickety bed, only moving to roll over so she could take her turn holding him.
He's sure he'll die if he doesn't cuddle someone tonight, and he smiles when he remembers Mary Puppins, the most gorgeous creature on four legs, who sleeps on his other pillow and wakes him up with disgusting goblin-puppy kisses every morning. He scoots close and wraps his arms around her, only to recoil when she promptly lifts her head and snarls, apparently not one for midnight snuggles.
“Sorry, Mary Puppins,” he says, backing off. “I know you need your beauty sleep.”
She snorts at him and lowers her head, back asleep in an instant, leaving him alone again. He sits on the edge of the bed and considers his options, cuddling-wise. He could crawl into bed with Blind Al, burrow under the covers and whine for her to put her arm around him. It wouldn't be the first time, but he doesn't really want a mother tonight, and before he has a concrete plan he's out of his room and headed to Logan's across the hall. The light's on in there, spilling yellow out from under the door, and Wade knows he's not the only insomniac in the apartment tonight, or any night. Almost every time Wade gets up to raid the refrigerator at three a.m., Logan's light is on.
“Hey, peanut,” Wade whispers, easing the door open. Logan sits up like a sprung trap, fists raised and claws out, and they retract when he sees Wade, but his grimace stays firmly in place, as if he dares Wade to come any closer. Wade does, pulling the door shut behind him, approaching the bed with his hands in the air. “I’m lonely and Mary Puppins rebuffed my affections. What are the chances of me getting in bed with you? No homo, bro,” he adds when Logan's jaw drops.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Logan grumbles, but he lies back down and lifts the covers for Wade, who snuggles in gratefully. The sheets smell like Blind Al's fabric softener and pleasantly unwashed Wolverine musk, and the mattress is the same kind as Wade's, but somehow it feels superior, softer and safer. The intimidation power of Logan's grimace is dampened considerably by the way he starts arranging the blankets around Wade, tucking them both in. Wade watches, smiling, but before he can crack a joke about the momness of it all, Logan turns to face him, their heads on the same pillow. Logan asks, very earnestly, “Did you have a nightmare?”
Wade holds a straight face for about two seconds before he breaks out laughing, rolling onto his back and clutching his stomach. Logan has changed a lot since he moved in four months ago, become more timid and almost tame. He and Wade don't engage in awesome cinematic battles for dominance anymore; instead, they butcher bad guys together, Wolverine serving as Deadpool's rabid Robin. They do pretty much everything together, actually, and Wade feels like he hasn't fully recognized the humor in that until this moment. Wolverine just asked him if he had a nightmare, soft like he would hold Wade all night long if that were true.
Logan growls and turns over, all cold shoulder, so Wade puts a lid on it, though he's still giggling when he throws his arm around Logan, playing the big spoon. “Aww, don't be mad at me, shmoopy,” Wade coos into Logan's ear, feeling Logan go tense but carrying on anyway. “You know you're my special gumdrop candy-bear sugar —”
Faster than he can say “tits,” he's on his back, Logan's thighs caging him in at the waist, Logan's hands gripping his shoulders. Wade smiles sheepishly, but never thinks Logan might hit him, because Logan never does that anymore, even when Wade badgers him for hours about nothing in particular.
“When you say shit like that,” Logan asks, breathing hard, eyes wild, “are you being serious at all, or is it just your mission in life to drive me insane?”
Wade opens his mouth, closes it. His train of thought derails over a cliff and into a tsunami as it dawns on him that Logan wants him to be serious, a look of raw want on his face. “Oh,” Wade says. “But you're… Not to pull the Superfan Number One card, but I've read your comics, and you worship pussy.” That's what makes those jokes funny, knowing that Wolverine, Mr. Whiskey McMacho, would never actually take Wade up on it.
Logan scoffs. “You’ve read — nevermind. Those comics got a lot of shit wrong, bub, and my sexuality is the least of them.”
A beat. Logan's hands are warm on Wade's shoulders, their eyes locked together, and Wade only realizes he's hard when his cock twitches. It takes all of his restraint not to throw self-preservation to the wind and buck his hips, hump Logan's thigh. “Huh,” Wade says, a quality to his voice like broken glass, borderline hysterics. “Hey, remember when we hate-fucked all night in a Honda Odyssey?”
“That's not how I fuck,” Logan says, grimacing again. “I make enough people bleed while I'm working.”
Wade blinks rapidly, mind breaking as he tries to wrap it around the idea of Logan fucking any other way. Not that Wade is chomping at the bit to get his ass beat; contrary to popular belief, he's not actually a masochist. “How do you fuck?” he asks dumbly.
“I could show you,” Logan says, improbably, and he falters, fingers twitching on Wade's shoulders, a nervous shadow crossing his face like the ghost of his virginity. “If you were, uh. Up for it.”
There's a joke itching to be made here about the state of Wade's cock, but Wade lets it pass by. “Wow,” he says, a laugh bubbling up. “This is so fucking surreal —”
Logan drops down and kisses him, licking intently into Wade's shock-slackened mouth, bringing his hands up to cup Wade's cheeks, palms tough but ridiculously gentle. Wade shivers everywhere, and grabs for Logan's shoulders, just hanging on, because he hasn't been kissed like this in a long time and it feels like freefall. His mouth opens, and his eyes close, and he moans when Logan's tongue moves over the roof of his mouth, tickling his palate.
He's gasping when Logan pulls back, wondering what world he's in where Logan kissed him like that, slow and perfect, and how he got here, where Logan is staring down at him with fat pupils.
“Uh.” When Logan licks his red, kiss-swollen lips, Wade thinks, dizzy and dazed, That tongue was just in my mouth. “We don't actually have to do anything,” Logan says, as if he doesn't know he tastes like everything good, spearmint toothpaste and cigar smoke and a little garlic from dinner. They ordered pizza, and maybe it meant something when Logan's knee bumped Wade’s under the table. “If you'd rather sleep. Or leave.”
It takes Wade a while to get his jaw working again, like recovering from an especially hard blow to the skull. “What the fuck, are you fucking kidding me,” he says when he does, and yanks Logan back down to slot their mouths together again, kissing him hungrily.
For a long time there's nothing but Logan's hands on Wade's face, Wade’s tongue in Logan's mouth, the white-noise humming of the air conditioner and the noises their lips make as they smack together, kissing like they've been here for years and forgot how to stop. Wade’s fingers curl into the back of Logan's shirt, securing him, and his legs fall open either side of Logan, who props himself up just enough that Wade's erection doesn't brush his stomach. Wade is aware of the needful throbbing downstairs, but a kiss this nice stands on its own, and his world gets very narrow, until he knows the shape of Logan's molars and not much else.
Things slow down, Wade sucking Logan's bottom lip almost in a trance, and he whines in protest when Logan draws back, eyes fluttering open. Wade doesn't know when he closed them, or when his chest got so light. He feels like he's been underwater for hours, just drifting.
“Holy shit,” he says, hoarse, and he's surprised all over again when Logan starts to move down. He nips Wade’s jaw and mouths at Wade's shirt, marking his path to Wade's hips with a series of wet spots. “Um,” Wade squeaks, watching. “Wow. I didn't take you for the cock-sucking type.”
Logan narrows his eyes, like he's offended by Wade underestimating his mouth. “This may come as a shock to you,” he says, and rips Wade's Hello Kitty sweatpants apart at the crotch, freeing his erection with all the urgency of a rescue mission. “But when I fuck someone, they tend to enjoy it.”
“Hello Kitty,” Wade says mournfully.
“I hate these fucking pants.” Logan tears them off and throws them at the wall.
“Yeah? Well, joke's on you, asshole. I have three more pairs.” Wade grins at Logan's groan of frustration, but his smile wanes a little when Logan mouths his thigh, scraping his teeth up close to Wade's balls.
“Hey,” Wade says, fidgeting his hands over his stomach. “Sorry for being a pussy about this, but. Can you please not bite my dick off? I know it grows back, but it hurts like a bitch, and not the sexy kind.”
Logan looks up at him, frowning, and Wade wonders if he just shit on the mood until Logan bends down and kisses his cock, pressing his lips right to the spot where his claws nicked Wade, before. Wade gasps, less from the featherlight, frictionless contact than the visual, Logan's head between Wade's legs, Wade’s cock as hard as it's ever been, twitching so close to Logan's mouth. “I'm not gonna hurt you,” Logan says, and the sound Wade makes really wants to be a sob, his eyes burning. “Can I?” Logan asks, as if Wade's dick, despite being as mangled as the rest of him, is worth asking for.
Wade nods, jerking his head. “Yeah, uh. Actually, I think I might die for real if you don't.”
Logan snorts, and he's smiling when he takes Wade’s cock into his mouth, all the way on the first try. It's not that Wade is abnormally big, but he's never seen anyone make it look so easy. He struggles to stay propped up on his elbows, trembling already, but he wants to watch, because what's almost better than the way Logan's tongue rolls over the head of Wade's cock, dipping into the slit as if to worm its way in, cheeks hollowing when he sucks hard, everything tight and wet and perfect — is the way Logan glances up at Wade every so often, eyes dark and gouging. Wade feels like he has his dick in a steel trap, the threat of mutilation there, but the teeth never even graze him.
It hits him finally, bus-like: this isn't the build-up to the world's cruelest, most dedicated joke; Logan isn't going to bite it off and laugh at Wade for thinking he wouldn't.
“Oh my god, you're amazing. Bazillion out of ten. Hoover's got nothing on you,” Wade babbles, hands flying to Logan's hair, his weird double cowlicks. Wade has touched them before, and he's always surprised by the silky lack of product; it really just grows like that. “Blowjob handles,” he whispers, awed.
Logan rolls his eyes and sucks with a vengeance, reaching up to fondle Wade's balls with one hand while the other pins Wade's hip, stopping him from thrusting up. Wade feels like he's been struck by lightning twice, a white-hot bolt racing up his spine and frying his brain, but he's just aware enough to turn his head and bite the pillow when he wants to scream. Blind Al doesn't quite have super hearing, but she's not Helen Keller; there are very few secrets in this apartment, the three of them packed together like sardines, and Wade wants this to be one of them.
His eyes cross when he comes, legs kicking out on some automatic get-away instinct, because it's almost too good, world-rocking. He feels Logan swallow, never faltering, and when Logan comes back up Wade makes like a lamprey, kissing him deeply, wanting to taste himself, the way his come mingles with Logan's not-quite morning breath. Logan tolerates it for a while, leaning over Wade, letting Wade lick the insides of his cheeks, and he's grinning when he pulls back, self-satisfied, which he's more than earned.
“What — why the fuck,” Wade asks, stammering, still trembling all over, “is Wolverine so good at sucking cock?”
“I'm not. You're just easy,” Logan says, and Wade laughs like an explosion in his mouth, halfway delirious. Logan's arm is around his waist, and they're pressed flush against each other, Logan's cock rock solid at Wade's hip. Wade reaches for it, and pouts when Logan intercepts his hand, pushes it away, looking far too apprehensive for what just transpired.
“Can’t you strip for me, at least?” Wade asks, openly desperate. “C’mon, shmoopy! It's not fair that I'm lying here with my dick out and you're wearing like ten layers.”
“Don't call me that,” Logan says, glaring, but he draws himself up and pulls his shirt over his head, then slides out of his pants, graceful like an angry ecdysiast. Wade leans back on the pillow, arms folded behind his head, and leers appreciatively at the view. While this isn't the first time he's seen Logan's perfectly chiseled, artfully furred chest — kind of like Michelangelo's David if David was a real man as opposed to a hairless micro-dick twink — but the fact that his cock was just in that mouth changes everything, makes it new and wonderful.
Wade saw Logan's cock flaccid once after walking in on him in the bathroom, and caught hell for it, but Logan's erection is new. Wade takes it in slowly, feeling blessed to be in the same room as this masterwork. It's a head bigger than Wade’s, long and thick. He looks delicious, but he's off-limits here, for some painfully unfair reason, so Wade focuses on his chest for now. He reaches up and tangles his fingers in Logan's chest hair, relieved when Logan lets him, and thumbs at a weirdly pretty pink nipple. Logan exhales, arching just a little, shivering under Wade's hand. Wade whistles, and fishes for something hot to say.
“Nice rack,” is what comes out, lecherous, and there's something so scrumptious about the way Logan goes pink from his ears down to his navel.
“You have such a way with words,” he says, scowling.
Wade takes his hand away from Logan's tit, grabs Logan's hand and shakes it loosely. “Wade Wilson, merc with a mouth. It's kind of my thing, you may have heard of me.”
Logan huffs, squeezing Wade's fingers before he lets go. “What about you?” He reaches for Wade's shirt, and tugs on the collar like he's asking permission; he must not hate flannel as much as he does Hello Kitty.
“Oh, uh. Sure?” Wade sits up and peels it off, feeling a little unsteady, floundering in uncharted waters. People have exclusively told him to cover up since he graduated from superhero camp; this is the first time someone's wanted to see more of his disfigurement. He doesn't know what to make of Logan's heavy eyes, or the way he touches Wade's collar bone, following it with two fingers, so Wade inches back and changes the subject, smoothing it over with a grin. “Now what's it gonna take for me to return the favor? You want me to beg? I can do that. I can beg until you're begging me to stop.”
“I’d rather… Wade, can I fuck you?” Logan asks, so serious Wade almost breaks down laughing again.
“Logan,” Wade says, doing his best to match Logan's husky sobriety. “Fuck me like I fuck the fourth wall. Demolish this shit.” Logan's face scrunches with confusion, and Wade loses it, cracking up.
“I guess that's ‘yes’ in Wade-uguese,” Logan says. He shoves Wade's shoulder and leans away. Wade, still laughing — seriously, did he say “Wade-uguese?” — covering his eyes with his hands, hears Logan rummaging around in the nightstand.
Wade shuts up at the sound of a plastic cap, and opens his eyes to find Logan handling a family size bottle of lube. “Okay, now why the fuck does Wolverine have a giant-ass bottle of lube?” Wade asks, boggling at it, the way it's framed by Logan's lumberjack hands. “And don't even try to tell me it's because you fuck guys on the regular. You haven't fucked anyone since you moved in, or else I would have noticed and murdered the fuckee in a fit of jealousy.”
“Would you stop — ‘fuckee,’ really? — stop calling me Wolverine in the third person? It's skeeving me out,” Logan says, cheeks darkening from pink to red. Wade reaches up to pet his sideburns, so he'll know Wade is only making fun of him a little, and affectionately. “And, uh. Well.” Logan goes quiet for a second, glancing away. “Maybe I fuck myself.”
“No way. Fuck off,” Wade says, short-circuiting. He pushes Logan away by his perfect face and scoots over to check in the nightstand, tearing the drawer open while Logan watches and laughs. Logan laughs harder when Wade gasps at the fairly massive dildo he finds tucked under a magazine with a barely clothed male gymnast on the cover. It's twice the size of Wade's dick, the silicone a discreet, almost manly green, like camouflage. “Holy shit,” Wade says, stunned. He falls onto his back again, offering no resistance when Logan parts his legs and kneels between them. “You're the gayest Wolverine ever.”
“Was there anything like that in the comics, Superfan Number One?” Logan asks with his mouth at Wade's knee, beard scratching.
“I would've jerked off to it so hard if there was,” Wade says. He sits up to watch Logan touch him, moaning when Logan sort of scrubs his palm over Wade’s spent cock before rubbing his knuckles over his hole, which, actually — “You know what I just realized?” Wade asks, mouth motoring the way it does when he's jittery. “There's no sexy word for an asshole. Fudge factory? Gross. Anal fortress? Cringe. Puckered love cave? Super weird. Seriously, I guess ‘hole’ is the safest bet, but even that doesn't —”
“Shh.” Logan's voice dips down into something low and rumbling, infinitely more effective than when he barks at Wade to shut the fuck up. Wade’s mouth hangs open, then snaps shut. “It’s okay to be nervous,” Logan says, rubbing tight circles with his slick fingertips, and Wade whines, rocking his hips. “But you don't have to be. I'm gonna take real good care of you.”
“Fuck,” Wade breathes. “You just tapped into my deep-seated daddy issues with a power drill.”
“I know, bub. Just don't call me that, huh? It's not sexy.” Logan grins, and wiggles in one thick finger up to the first knuckle. Wade’s elbows wobble and give up holding his weight, so he falls down, head striking the pillow as if it were stone.
“You're — I'm —” Wade knows there's an untapped joke here, something about Bear Magazine or Agent Ten Fingers, but his thoughts are scattered incoherent by the slow in-and-out slide of Logan's finger, as if he's finger-fucking a hole in Wade's skull instead, only lovingly. Logan is being so unnecessarily gentle, handling Wade like he wouldn't heal in a second if Logan bruised or tore him; it's unexpected, and Wade surprises himself with how much he likes it.
“I think I found the off button,” Logan says, chuckling. “Next time you run your mouth on the job, maybe I'll just pull you aside, put you over my lap, finger you real nice until you shut up.”
Wade whimpers. “I can't believe you're dirty-talking to me. Also, it's — um. On button.”
“Not yet,” Logan says, and when he curls his finger to rub purposefully over Wade's prostate, the ceiling drops down and the stars come out. Logan does it again, and again, with firm, impossible precision, and forget talking; Wade has to remind himself to keep breathing, every muscle in his body reduced to mush. “Is that good?” Logan asks, soft and teasing, as if he doesn't know damn well that it is. Wade is too melted to lift his head and look, thoroughly worked-over, but he can hear the smug grin in Logan's voice.
“Yeah,” Wade gasps. He's no stranger to his prostate; he's enjoyed poking and prodding it almost as long as he's enjoyed jacking his dick, but this isn't poking or prodding. This is an unrelenting assault of the best kind, a homing missile delivering direct hit after direct hit, more intense than his own fingers have ever been. He doesn't even have to shift his hips to help Logan find that spot; Logan seems to just know exactly where it is at all times, like he's got sex-specific X-ray vision. “It's — that's, um. Wow.” Wade fills his fists with the bedsheet, clinging hard.
“Look at you, taking it so well,” Logan says some nebulous eternity later; his voice rumbles, the vibrations reaching Wade’s heart and shaking it. “You're up to three fingers, and your cock’s all hard again for me. That's good.”
Wade chokes on his drool, because when did either of those things happen? He squirms and whines, wanting to sit up out of the prostate trance for a second, and he's surprised when Logan stops moving and allows this. Logan keeps his fingers inside, which is a very good thing, and crawls up over Wade to be clung to. He lets Wade hold his shoulders, panting and knocking his forehead into Logan's chin.
“You’re freakishly good at this,” Wade says. “Holy motherfucking shit.”
“I’m not,” Logan says, again, like a modest sex god. “But I've had a couple hundred years of practice.”
Wade clenches hard around Logan's fingers, reeling from this revelation. “Goddamn,” he says. “You're my wet dreams come true.”
“That would be flattering if I didn't know your wet dreams were weird as fuck.” Logan kisses Wade, licks his mouth, and Wade just stares at him, awe-struck. “Are you ready for me?” Logan asks quietly, as if there's any possible answer to that question other than Fuck yeah, please, god, holy shitballing motherfucks —
“Duh,” Wade says, as composed as he can be. “I was born ready, blowjob queen.”
Logan smiles, and it changes his eyes, flipping a light switch behind them. “You’re so fucking annoying,” he says, in a voice so soft, it's almost like he just called Wade pretty.
“Don't hate the Deadpool, hate the writer,” Wade says, mumbling this into Logan's shoulder when he hides his face there. He's usually not so passive during sex, but he hasn't gotten fucked in a long time, and it's been even longer since the person who fucked him was someone he actually cared about, or anticipated seeing ever again. He and Logan live together; in the morning they'll eat breakfast at the same table, bicker the day away, and after dinner hit the town to continue exterminating the dogfighting subspecies of bad guy, the Deadpool-Wolverine team’s current objective.
“You want to use a condom? I could probably find one,” Logan says. He pulls his fingers out, and puts his cock snug against Wade's crack.
“Why bother? We're impervious to STDs. Little-known fact.” Wade can't decide if this will ruin everything or make them officially married, and both possibilities spike in his stomach. “Not that I think you'd have any. Although, that bar I found your mangy ass in? Total syphilis den. Gonorrhea central. One of the ladies in there looked just like the girl from Contracted. Have you ever seen that movie? Two words: vagina mag —”
“Yeah, I'm gonna stop you there,” Logan says, and just glides right in to the hilt.
Wade, thoroughly shut up, drops his head to the pillow with a stunned gasp. The penetration is hot, but it doesn't burn the way he's used to, probably because he's so loose after the attack on his prostate, which Logan starts right up again, the blunt head of his cock rolling over it, over and over. Wade doesn't know how Logan does it, but he feels like Deadpool soup after the first thrust, whining and clutching at Logan's shoulders, wrapping his legs around Logan's waist so he can rub his cock on Logan's stomach. Logan doesn't even seem to mind that Wade is hanging off him like dead weight, his hands braced to the mattress either side of Wade's head, the rhythm of his hips less thrusting than rocking, nowhere near as violent as some of the fucking Wade's had. Fucking seems like too indelicate a word for this, whatever this is, sharing breaths, Logan's heavy eyes never leaving Wade’s.
Wade gazes back, and he's so snared and tangled up in everything that he forgets himself for a while — but Logan is staring right at his face. It can't be sexy. He tries to flip over, and whines when Logan pins his hips, holding him firmly in place. “It's — it feels better the other way,” Wade says.
“No.” Logan furrows his brow, almost petulant. “I can fuck you fine like this.”
He lifts Wade's hips, rocks in hard, and Wade's eyes roll back as pleasure dances up his spine in track spikes, like a strummed nerve. It's tearing him apart, the sweetest kind of dismemberment, but Logan is looking at him, and it's not fair that Wade is getting off when Logan isn't, that Wade has Adonis-tier eye candy to ogle while Logan has a human tumor. Wade throws out an arm, groping for the pillow, but Logan catches his wrist.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, slowing his pace. “Do you want to stop?”
“Fuck no,” Wade says, pleading. “Just…” He fights against Logan's grip on his wrist, but Logan's fist is an adamantium shackle. “Hand me a pillow case, or let me go get my mask.”
Logan tenses, and Wade groans despairingly when he pulls out, squirming in protest until he sees the way Logan is staring at him, slumped forward on his knees, gaping like he's taken a cannonball to the face. “You'd let me fuck you with a pillow case over your head?” he asks, his voice so small and wilted Wade can barely hear him, as if what he's saying is unspeakable.
Wade tries for a smile, even as his eyes sting traitorously. “Hey, I’m trying to be chivalrous here. I just figured, if it's hard to eat looking at me…” He stops himself when Logan grimaces, this attempt at humor obviously failing. “Sorry,” Wade says lamely.
This seems to rile something in Logan, and he scoffs at Wade, disbelieving. “Don't say that. That's not — I'm the one who should be apologizing,” he says, halting but hard. “I was angry, before, at everything, and I didn't know how… Before you, my life was fucking nothing. I made it my mission to be drunk all the time, so I wouldn't have to feel how much of a failure I was, how alone I was. And then you came and gave me something to care about. You gave me everything I ever really wanted, and I fought you every step of the way, and for that I'm so fucking sorry.”
Wade thinks, somewhere, pigs must be flying, hell frozen over.
“And you're not ugly,” Logan continues, spitting the word like it repulses him. “Believe me. I'm not just saying that so you'll let me fuck you, or because I feel bad, or because we're friends now. You look strong. You look like you've been through hell and made it out. You look like a survivor.”
Wade laughs, the sound a little too thick, chest aching. “Okay?” he says. “People give me shit all the time, even within the F-word. It's like a running gag that an avocado fucked a nutsack on my face, or whatever. It's fine, it's funny.”
“Funny? Weren't you tortured?” Logan asks roughly. “For weeks?”
“I mean, yeah, but we don't dwell on that. Gotta keep it light-hearted for the kiddies. My R rating is for over-the-top violence and the occasional sexy time, not deep trauma exploration. I'm Texas Chainsaw Massacre Two, not Hereditary.” Wade shrugs. “Also, how'd you find out about that? Did you watch the first movie? That was cute, right, when I called you Polverine? Who’da thunk we'd wind up here?”
“What? You told me when you were high last week.” Logan pauses, quiet while Wade dredges up a thickly fogged memory of his head in Logan's lap, lines on the coffee table; he was counting the white specks in Logan's beard, equating them to constellations, and Blind Al was humming the Golden Girls theme, calling them her Dorothy and Rose. Wade remembers babbling that night, and scrubbing unicorn sparkles from his cheeks, though in hindsight those were probably tears; so much for happy powder. “If you had a movie,” Logan says with kicked-puppy eyes. “I'd watch it. ‘Cause I like looking at you.”
“Wow. Well, uh.” Wade coughs out a laugh. They're still pressed together in all the right places, and despite Logan's best efforts Wade is still at half-mast, Logan hot and solid enough against his thigh. “If you're done waxing poetic about my face, maybe you could fuck me some more, Mister Out of Character? It's okay, by the way. Really. I wasn't mad at you for that.”
“I know. I just wish you were,” Logan says. Before Wade can fully process this, Logan is back inside and moving again, and the concept of language vacates Wade's brain.
Logan's thrusts are too slow, and he keeps trying to passionately lock eyes, and as pretty as Logan's eyes are, Wade thinks he'll start weeping if Logan doesn't stop stargazing at him like this. He pulls Logan down into an open-mouthed kiss, and draws a long, blissful blank. It's like one continuous orgasm, just rolling on and on so that Wade doesn't really know when he comes or how many times, where he ends and Logan begins. This is the reprieve Wade was chasing all those times he blew himself up.
He must have passed out at some point, most likely from kissing asphyxia, because the next thing he's aware of is Logan's head between his legs again, something warm and wet working at him, and when he realizes what’s happening it's like pressing the eject button, being launched into the strangest alternate universe yet. “Wolverine eats ass,” he says, marveling at the wrecked state of his voice. It's official: Logan's tongue is Wade's new favorite thing.
Logan growls, and he must be just about done down there anyway, because he crawls up next to Wade, using his tongue to wipe away the come puddle on Wade's stomach as he goes. It's such an obscene, borderline sacrilegious, ridiculously hot sight, but Wade couldn't get hard again if he had twenty naked Wolverines in here ass-to-mouth, so he just smiles dreamily and lays his head on Logan's chest.
“Woah,” Wade says. “You’re in love with me.”
Logan makes a low, vaguely protesting noise, but he's nosing at Wade's jaw, fussily arranging the blankets around them again, like he's nesting.
Wade giggles, and he knows he should shut up and let this be a one-time thing, or maybe a casual, best-fuck-buddies arrangement, but he's still floating, and he kind of wants to stay in Logan's nest forever. “We should at least be boyfriends now,” he says, turning to grin at Logan, the tips of their noses touching, their hands finding each other's waists under the covers.
“I hate that word,” Logan says. “But… Yeah.”
Wade wasn't really expecting to be turned down, after all the dick-sucking and love-making and ass-eating, but his heart still summersaults.
“Deadpool and Wolverine, sittin’ in a tree,” he sings in an elated whisper. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
Logan rolls his eyes, and presses his mouth to Wade's, just quickly, Wade leaning helplessly after him when he pulls back too soon. “I can't believe this started with you walking in here and telling me ‘no homo, bro.’”
“And I can't believe you're full-on flaming homo. All this time I thought you were the straight man to my looney tunes,” Wade says. He thinks of the Wolverine comics; he was never actually Superfan Number One, but he dabbled. “So, then. Who was your love interest?” he asks. “There must've been a lucky X-Man you were sucking off behind the scenes.”
“Love is a strong word,” Logan says, and hesitates in a way that sends Wade into a spiral.
“Oh, no. Oh, my god.” He pictures this unholy union, gasping with horror. “You dirty old man fucker! No wonder you like this face.”
“No!” Logan laughs, thumping Wade's shoulder with his fist. “Not Charles, you freak! Scott. Cyclops.”
“The boring eye-zappy guy?” Wade frowns. “What, really? Why?”
“I don't know. Proximity?” Logan says. “But, uh. He loved Jean.”
“Huh.” Wade looks up at the ceiling, absorbing this. If there's one X-Man who definitely doesn't deserve Logan's magical mouth, it's the one in sci-fi shades.
“Wade?” Logan says. He's frowning when Wade turns to him. “Are you only here because you miss your girl? Vanessa?”
There's resignation in Logan's eyes, and it gives Wade the sense that this is something Logan has experience with, like maybe Cyclops was fucking Logan on the side, or only until he could get the girl. Imagining this, Wade wants to smash Cyclops’ sci-fi shades, and he resolves not to let Logan be the disposable corner of a melodramatic love triangle ever again. Wade thought Vanessa was his last shot at love, because she knew him when he was hot, but now he wonders if Logan was the one he was waiting for all along, someone who matches his crazy so completely they actually think he looks fuckable, no fond memories of past hotness required.
Wade cups Logan's cheeks. “You're my girl,” he whispers, and Logan rears back, laughing. “I meant boy!” Wade says. “Or — man? Anyway, the point is, you're crazier than I am if you think you're ever getting rid of me after that. You just walked through the world's clingiest pile of gum, just a big old puddle of neediness, and baby, I'm on you like super glue. We're gonna be together forever. I'm gonna adopt Laura. You're gonna adopt Mary Puppins. Try to break up with me and I'll just stalk you to the ends of the earth. Restraining orders can't stop me if I can't read.”
Logan grins, eyes very soft. “What have I done?”
Wade reaches for the loneliness he felt earlier, that gaping place where Vanessa used to be, but finds it gone, filled. “I think you fixed me,” he says.
“You weren't broken.” Logan thumbs at Wade's hip, tracing cockled scar tissue. “Together forever,” Logan repeats, like the words don't quite fit in his mouth. “We’re some of the only people in the world who could have that literally. You know, it's funny. I used to hate having forever in front of me, but now I've got you and Laura staring it down with me.”
“Don't forget about Mary Puppins,” Wade adds gently. “Audiences will revolt if that dog ever dies.”
“And your rat.” Logan smiles. “But it doesn't seem like such a curse anymore, eternity, like maybe our rough starts don't matter, ‘cause we've got all the time in the world to figure it out. Together.”
“Yay,” Wade whispers. He feels carbonated, fizzy soda in his stomach. “I'm not dying alone after all.”
Logan's eyes harden, and Wade realizes his mistake too late. “Fuck me for saying that shit,” Logan says. “I was talking about myself, not you. I didn't even know you.”
“Fuck you anyway, later.” Wade wiggles his eyebrows. He doesn't like the idea of Logan drowning in unwanted remorse, and he's relieved when the storm cloud clears from Logan's face.
“Definitely.” He kisses Wade's cheek, wife-like, and glances over at the clock on his dildo-harboring nightstand. “You want to sleep?” he asks.
“Sleep is for the weak,” Wade says, but he turns over, expectant, and hums happily when Logan takes the hint and wraps around him, thick arm locked around his waist, beard tickling his neck. It's perfect, and Wade waits to fall asleep, and waits, and waits, staring at the door, cracking his knuckles, counting backwards from one hundred, snorting when he reaches sixty-nine. The light feeling in his chest isn't lessening, and he starts to feel empty, not in a sexy “stuff me with cock” way but in a “pizza, stat” way.
“You need me to turn the lights off?” Logan asks, also still awake, his breath behind Wade's ear. “Why’re you squirming?”
“Because fuck this.” Wade worms out of Logan's arms and stands, stretching hugely. “I’m gonna go make like a food bandit and pilfer Blind Al's leftovers. You coming, peanut?”
Logan groans, pure relief. “Bub, you just read my mind.”
“Reminds you of your geriatric ex-boyfriend, does it?” Wade pads naked out to the kitchen, listening to the sounds of Logan laughing and hurrying after him. He could get used to this, and really, with all they've gone through together, all the fighting, talking and now fucking they've done since the start of this whole mess — he already is.