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The warehouse on the docks is half rusted-out corrugated steel and half mould-ridden particle board. Inside stinks of musky rats, old gas gone sour, and greasy rot, and broken glass shines dully in the bit of light that ekes through sloppily boarded windows. The few windows not shattered are covered in chicken wire that casts crooked diamond shadows into the dust.
Wade peeks through a hole in one of the grimy plastic sheets dangling from the pitch-black overhead. “Peanut, I take you to the nicest places. Aren’t you glad you wore your good flannel?”
Scowling, Logan scrapes shit off his boot and shoves the plastic aside. “Doesn’t look like anybody’s home.”
On cue, something unseen skitters pointedly past. Logan’s nose twitches.
“Look at this atmosphere!” Wade spins on his heel with arms spread wide. “Imagine all the goodies in here! Tetanus, hantavirus....” He drops to his haunches to poke quizzically at a lump of reddish-brown stained cloth. “Ooh, a light smattering of plague! What’s your favourite, bubonic or pneumonic? Pft, no,” he says, flapping a hand, “way too nineteenth century. I know!” He snaps his fingers and pops up. “Septicemic, am I right?”
A long, groaning creak sounds in the far corner. Outside, metal clangs.
“Babe, tell me I’m right. You know how hard it chokes my throttle when I’m right.”
Logan’s hand curls into a fist.
“Wolvie senses are tingling.” Wade narrows his eyes, wriggles his fingers between holster and sheath. “What’s the flavour of the day, human or mutant? Alien, god, other?”
“Still don’t know when to shut up, do you,” comes a low rumble from the dark. Heavy, measured bootsteps punctuate the thick rustle of cloth.
Wade tilts his head and frowns. “Do I know you? Is this a comics crossover special event? Look, I appreciate the effort those take. Applaud it, even, especially when you factor in a change of artistic vision mid-run, but–”
Shadows slowly part, fall away.
“And that entrance, wow. And I mean, wow. Whole-heartedly, only forty-seven percent sarcasm. Okay, sixty-seven, but just because what is sixty-seven except a blatant invitation to aim for sixty-nine and–”
“Wade,” Victor says. A hint of fang shows at the corner of his smirk. “Been a while.”
“Schreibertooth,” Wade breathes. “Fuck me! I have got to start paying more attention to the tags.”
“Who the fuck is this,” Logan asks, almost like he might consider giving a shit.
“It’s okay, I know,” Wade says. “I don’t like to think about that one either.” He goes to dig the little silver card out of his pouch, comes up empty and checks the next in line, then the next. Giving his suit a quick pat down, he says, “Where did I–”
Logan flicks it at his head.
“What would I do without you,” Wade coos, plucking it out of the air and flipping it like a coin between his fingers. He squints at the neat black text. Squints hard at their guest villain. Squints harder at the card.
“Did you get retconned? Really pretty sure you’re not,” Wade doesn’t even try to sound out the name and rattles off the letters, “S-e-m-c-z-y-s-z-y-n.” He tilts the card towards Logan.
Logan makes a face, shrugs.
“Hooked on phonics, my puckered ass.” Wade tosses the card over his shoulder. “Anyway!”
Having taken advantage of Wade’s strategic dawdling, Victor’s taken up position in a conveniently placed dramatic slant of light. He holds up a hand, a silver card caught between the claws curved long from his fore- and middle fingers.
Wade points at his chest. Victor shows more fang.
“Hoo boy,” Wade says. “I’m so conflicted. Am I excited, terrified? Is this a nightmare or a wet dream? Where’s the line, really.”
“That’s not your name on there,” Logan butts in.
“Well now I’m just disappointed. Not a whole lot of mileage left to squeeze out of an eleven-second fight joke.” Wade taps his chin. “Or is this–”
“Not mine, either.”
“–a not always about the Wolverine joke. Nailed it. Wait a minute.” Wade falls out of an aborted fist pump. “Obvious question time: If it’s not me and it’s not you, what in the name of narrative fucking tension is on the card?”
Victor takes a slow step forward, then another. One more brings the promise of violence draped around him like that dark coat–so grossly cliche, so unfairly effective–close enough for Wade to touch. The card gleams temptingly right in front of his face.
Squeezing one eye shut, Wade snatches it. When his arm comes back with both his hand and the card, he lets out a tiny relieved giggle.
“Semczyszyn,” says Wade through the power of the written word. “Are you shitting me? This dickhair double booked. I am not splitting my retainer. Do you know how much it costs to feed a Wolverine? Homemade protein shots are a renewable resource and the kitchen’s open 24/7 but that shit needs time to cook.”
Victor’s not interested in the grocery budget. Those deep serial killer in spirit if not in definition eyes are all for Logan. Logan tilts his chin up, gives Victor one long, slow once over in return. “We gonna have a problem here, bub?”
“Don’t know,” Victor drawls, pleasantly vicious. “Are we?”
“So conflicted,” Wade groans into his fist. What did he do to get saddled with point of view decision making powers? He uses the same pre-packaged mix for waffles and pancakes and has a hard enough time choosing holey pancakes or flat waffles, he can’t be responsible for this. The moral implications alone are so far above his pay grade he might as well jump ship to Sony.
When in doubt, prevaricate.
“Is this your first stop?”
“Second,” Victor says easily.
Shit. There goes leaving it up to chance by splitting the two locations they hadn’t hit yet. Wade squishes his head between his arms and paces in a tight circle. Bail on the bounty? Either Victor got it done or the contract came around again, easy peasy. Go for the beatdown, race him to the target? Less easy, more pleasey.
Logan’s palm thuds flat into Wade’s chest. “Any reason you can’t play nice?”
“In general, so many. Right here, right now?” Wade drops his head back and sighs. There’d be zero brotherly drama on the horizon if he’d managed to drag that one-handed hair metal variant out of the 80s. That guy had serious commitment issues.
—
Hanging back outside the nightclub, Wade watches Logan laugh at one of Victor’s excellently timed quips. Inside had been a bust. He'd hardly noticed the sexy dance floor and thumping music while cruising through waiting for these two chuckleheads to bust out the claws. Tall, dark and menacing is due to go off any minute now and find some other seedy back alley corner to loom in.
Logan says something, gets a low laugh in return. Fuck, that rumbling purr travels. Wade gnaws furiously on the knot of knuckles and mask stuffed in his mouth. Look at the two of them, flirting like muscle bears on Davie. What is this, 2009?
“So this was great,” Wade says, trotting up to sling an arm each around their shoulders. It smells like spiced whiskey and sweaty summer sex in the back of a dusty pickup truck between them. If he swooned, they probably wouldn’t even notice dragging his dead weight. “Stellar team up, too bad it didn’t work out. See you at Comic-Con!”
Logan slants a sideways look. “You leaving?”
“...no?” There’s so much testosterone it’s making Wade dizzy.
“Hate for you to miss all the fun,” Victor says, the tip of one claw catching Wade’s mask under the chin to tug his head up, “Wade.”
“Critical exposition fail,” Wade gurgles.
—
Victor’s contract came with slightly more info than Wade’s; he and Weasel are going to have to have that talk about sloppy brokering again. Two stops, five lackeys, and an insane amount of unresolved sexual tension later, they roll up to a brownstone triplex converted to a single unit. Lights glow in the third-floor windows.
“And this wasn’t stop number one, why?” Wade asks, despite being right there when lackey number four spilled the beans and his lunch.
Logan pops a claw to deal neatly with the lock. Victor hums appreciatively. Wade clenches his thighs and suffers.
The interior is dignified class, rich dark woods and plaster medallion work where he’d expected grossly overdone ultra-modernism. “The heritage society is gonna be so pissed when we trash this place.”
Victor prowls through the parlor. Pausing in the hallway, he tilts his head at a shadowed home office. At the foot of the stairs, face lifted into the light, Logan scents the air and gives a small nod. The Extreme Outer Limits twins move as one into the office with Wade toddling along in their wake.
Usually, he’d have something—lots of somethings, a nigh on plethora of somethings—to say about being relegated to superfluous eye candy. He could absolutely dig a few of them up if he really wanted to break the thrumming tension as Victor and Logan split apart without a word to conduct a poetically coordinated search.
Victor’s claws tap along the spines of the books lined up on the shelf. Three muffled clicks precede the wooden panel beside it releasing. “After you,” he says, swinging it inward.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Wade says, and in a bravado-fueled moment of epic stupidity, boops that twitchy nose as he swans on by to skip down the stairs. His spine tingles in anticipation of skewering. That, and Victor’s soft growl of, dare he venture, amusement?
This is what happens when characters from wildly different subgenres collide. Rampant hypersexual befuddlement.
The basement is more in line with the den of criminal vice Wade had signed up for, with heaps of weapons, drugs, randomly assorted looted priceless artifacts, and a few piles of photos clearly destined for blackmail material. “Sparky’s a real jack-off-of-all-trades, ain’t he.”
Logan comes up from behind to slap a hand over his mouth. A few miles beyond primed for it, Wade slumps bodily into his shoulder. “Quit fooling around,” Logan hisses, jerking his chin at the small wine cellar where Victor’s coaxing three bruised, scared young women to leave.
“Motherfucker,” Wade snaps, shaking Logan off. He elbows Victor out of the way, sticks his head through the door and waves cheerily. “Hi, I’m Deadpool! Don’t mind him, he’s a kitty cat. Sweeter than the Littlest Hobo, I promise,” he whispers, offering a hand to help the first woman straighten. She winces like she’s been cramped up for a while.
“Miss,” Logan says when he passes her off, and offers a tatty blanket. She takes better to his gruffly gentle daddy’s got you vibe than Wade’s mask or Victor’s fangs. He takes point on the stairs to lead them up. “Stay with him,” he says quietly when Wade falls in on the rear.
Interest perked, Wade eases back. Logan wasn’t buying as hard into Victor’s buddy-buddy shtick as he thought. “You got it, Constable Fraser.” He keeps an eye on the stairs until the last woman vanishes around the corner, then goes to find where Victor skulked off to.
Past the wine cellar, around a squat brick wall with crumbling mortar, Victor leans close to a small man huddled at a long table littered with laptops and hard drives. He has one hand braced on the chair, the other on the table caging the guy in, claws out in full view.
“Don’t say you’re surprised to see me,” Victor says. “You had to know.”
“I-I-I—” gibbers the guy.
“Yeah,” Wade chimes in, swinging around to plop his elbows on the table. His hips sway. “You had to know. Know what?”
Victor scratches a furrow into the wood. The man’s bug-eyes bulge.
“Are you,” Wade digs up the card one last time and slaps it down, “this guy?”
The guy glances furtively at Victor and nods fast. “S-sure.”
Wade props his chin in his hand and drums his fingers. “Are you, though? You don’t seem sure. Midlife crisis, sudden life change making you doubt who you thought you were? Been there, buddy. Tell me about it.”
“Yeah, Simmie.” Victor’s hand slides up to grip the back of the guy’s neck. “Tell us all about it.”
Simmie stutters through some bullshit Wade listens to with half an ear. He’s more interested in how keenly Victor watches the guy’s hands flutter nervously over a small pile of flash drives. Wade snatches two, one in each hand, that the guy seemed to linger on and stands up. “What’re these?”
“Wade,” Victor says as the possibly-mark clams up.
“It’s just, I’m having a hard time—” He’s really not. “—figuring out why my broker didn’t know what your broker knew. When did you get into the business? Merc-for-hire I could buy. There's not a lot of good gigs for us ex-special forces types. So how much did you say the job was? Oh, right. You didn't. Splitsies on a fetch quest is chump change.”
Victor’s eyebrows lift. “You think I’m here to kill him.” He crooks a smile and backs up two steps, hands raised. “Go ahead. He’s all yours.”
“Okay, not the reaction I expected.” Wade frowns hard. He tosses the drives from hand to hand a couple times before slipping them up his sleeve. “What does he have on you?” Victor doesn’t blink. “Why do you want the drives?”
“Not as good a liar as you think you are,” Logan says. He answers Wade’s glance with a nod; the women are safe. “You’ve got a tell.”
Victor’s expression turns to intrigue. “And how would you know that, Jimmy?”
“You don’t look anything like him. Smell different, too. Not by much, but enough.”
“Do tell,” Victor says, circling closer. “Did you put him down yourself?”
Wade sneaks in to nab the rest of the drives and get Simmie moving. Wade’s contract didn’t specify one way or the other, but if Victor wants him alive, they’re all probably better off with him dead. He could pop the guy right now, blam-blam thank you ma'am, and between the two of them, he and Logan could double-team Victor as long as it takes to figure out what he's after. Wade shakes his head to clear it. Wrong metaphor. Focus.
“Don’t make me put you down, too,” Logan says, his claws slipping free turning Victor’s smile broad. “Be a shame. I kinda like you, bub.”
Victor laughs, lets his own claws lengthen and curl. “How about you try, see how much you like me then?”
“I know I never say this, but now is not the time for foreplay,” Wade hisses at Logan as he hustles Simmie by.
“Shut it,” Logan snaps. “Get him outta here.”
Things start breaking as Wade propels their probably-definitely-mark up the stairs. Even with the cops he knows Logan called up outside, it’s completely irresponsible to let him wander off. Logan’s going to skin him when he finds out. Stab him several dozen times for sure in key anatomical structures.
Wade slips back down into the basement the second Simmie hits the front door, just in time to see Victor and Logan tumble across the floor in a flurry of slashing claws. They smash through the brick half-wall with Logan on top, claws sunk in Victor’s ribs.
“Ooh,” Victor says, and spits blood onto the packed dirt floor. “A live one.”
“What’re you up to,” Logan growls in his face.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Victor purrs, and flips Logan up overhead with a knee to the gut, brings him slamming a full one-eighty down into the rubble on his back.
Wade winces. That one looked like it hurt, but judging by the cute little snarl on his lip, Logan's doing just fine. He hops up onto a table with a good vantage point and sinks into a low crouch on the balls of his feet. Eyes on Victor skidding through the dirt just under the flash of Logan’s claws, he picks up a random baggie from the drug pile, shrugs and stuffs it into his belt. It’ll be handy to have around for after Logan dismembers him.
Logan rears up with Victor skewered on his claws for a classic kebab and tenderize. Instead of trying to tear free again, Victor grabs his wrist to drive those claws deeper into his chest. Logan rocks back onto his off foot, surprised, and Victor takes advantage to shove in close with a groan, trap Logan’s arm between them.
“Guess you don’t know me so well after all,” Victor says, and brings his hand up around Logan’s back to rake it open diagonally from shoulder to hip. Logan roars in fury and drops his shoulder, rips his claws from Victor’s chest.
“Tear it off ‘em!” Wade hollers. Fishing around in another baggie, he comes up with a disco biscuit and pops that sucker like candy. Better than popcorn.
“For fuck’s sake, Wade!” The only thing keeping Logan’s undershirt on is blood. Victor loses his coat when Logan twists it around his forearm, uses it to wrench Victor’s arm back and dislocate his shoulder. Victor’s howl is more laughter than pain as he drops, sweeps Logan’s legs out.
Victor rolls up and over, crushes Logan’s windpipe under his knee. He’s breathing hard, bright-eyed and grinning. “Just like old times, little brother.”
Rasping silence. Logan drives his claws into Victor’s thigh at an angle too sharp to dislodge him, then pulls the same sort of trick he uses whenever his claws get caught up or trapped—retract, fist to Victor’s belly, let ‘em rip.
The impact isn’t enough to move Victor, but whatever bundle of nerves they nick does the job. He catches himself on Logan’s arm three inches from kissing dirt, the glint of bloodstained metal protruding from his back.
“Not for me,” Logan grunts.
Eyes narrowed to slits and tonguing the edge of a blood-stained tooth, Victor leans right into it. “Could be,” he says, close enough his nose brushes the hinge of Logan’s jaw. “You smell the same to me, Jimmy.”
“Oh my god.” Wade covers his mouth with both hands.
Logan grits his teeth, muscle straining against Victor’s weight bearing down on his wrist. He’s got the strength to take it but not the leverage to get out of it.
“Maybe gone a little soft.” Breathing in deep, Victor closes his eyes and sinks his teeth into the tendon pulled tight on Logan’s neck.
When Logan comes up with blood in his eye, Wade scrambles down off the table. Time to cut in. He trips over a chair and smashes his chin into the ground hard enough he bites off a chunk of his tongue. “Oh, groth,” he says, rolls and kicks and executes the best superhero landing ever right onto Victor’s back. His sword slides through Victor like a katana through hot mutant and straight into Logan. “Oopth! Accidental double penetration. Yuck, I think I swallowed my tongue.”
Victor sends him sprawling with a vicious backhand. He cracks his neck on the sole bit of brick wall left standing. “Ow ow ow, I hate that.” A swift punch to the head knocks his spine back into alignment. “You would not believe the headache I get.”
“Yeah, poor you.” Logan pulls a face and drags the ruins of his shirt out of the hole Wade made in his chest. “Thanks for the help, dicksmack.”
“Anytime, peanut.” Wade sits up, gives his head a shake to make sure it won’t fall off, and pops up to catch the sword Logan tosses over. The only thing left of Victor are some scraps of clothing and about three pints of blood. He groans. “Don’t tell me you let him go.”
Logan ties the leg of his jeans up so it covers his crotch. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because now we have to go after him to find out what he wanted Simtrishan for!”
“You mean Semczyszyn,” Logan says after a beat.
“That’s what I said. Does crapping out my own tongue count as a rimjob or masturbation, do you think?”
“Christ,” Logan mutters, and heads for the stairs.
—
Simmie, confirmed-mark Semczyszyn, clams up tighter than a priest at confession. They’ve got the flash drives but even a swing by Domino’s to see if she gets lucky nets them nada. On the way back, they hit the other Domino’s.
“Would you take that thing off,” Logan gripes from his favourite old man recliner.
“Not a chance in fiery gonorrhea hell,” Wade says cheerfully. Victor’s coat is a big warm hug he’s going to stay wrapped up in forever. He wriggles happily deeper into its sweet embrace on the couch.
“It’s gonna make it harder for me to track him if you’re all over it.”
“Is this a possessiveness thing?” Wade asks around a mouthful of meat. “Wait, is it you don’t want me to smell like him or for him to smell like me?” He buries his nose in the collar and sniffs loudly. “I think we smell great together. Kinda like nutella, extra nutty. But I’ll always be the chocolate to your peanut butter, babe.”
Logan scrubs both hands over his face and breathes a curse. “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”
Wade’s chewing slows. He swallows and puts down the rest of his slice. “Tell you…?”
“Wade.”
Uh oh. Serious adult conversation tone. He brushes crumbs off his hands for Mary Puppins to snack on later. “Does it matter? Real talk.”
“I don’t know.” Logan shoves up and digs a fresh beer out of the fridge. He holds up a second in question and brings it over, cap popped off with his thumb, when Wade nods. He heads for the couch instead of the chair and Wade lifts his legs, drops them in Logan’s lap after he sits down heavily. “Maybe.”
“Blond seemed more your type in the Void. I wasn’t even sure if he was.” Picking at the label on his bottle, Wade glances up. “Is he?”
“Fuck if I know.” Logan knocks back half his beer in one go. “How would that even work?”
“Beats the rainbow shit out of me. I’m Marvel Jesus, not Loki.” Wade switches out his mostly full beer for Logan’s, and not just because he has a teensy bit of a thing for bodily fluids when it comes to Logan. It’s not his fault the Wolverine’s sexy sweaty abs taste better than Ruffles’ Original. “You said he smelled different.” He licks the mouth of the bottle before taking a swig. “Which is not the super niche kink you think it is, trust me.”
Logan quirks a tiny half smile that somehow still makes his eyes crinkle. “Yeah. Didn’t recognize it until the drop house.”
Until Victor bled.
Wade sits up, scooches over so they’re sitting pressed together from shoulder to thigh. “What d’you wanna do, peanut?”
Logan shakes his head, says, “He’s not my brother.” He stares down at his beer for a long minute. When his eyes lift again, there’s a look in them Wade’s only seen once before, when he held a tiny vicious brain-fondling psychopath dying in his arms. “But I think I might be his.”
—
“I’m concerned,” Wade says.
Semczyszyn wasn’t too happy with the decision to use him as bait, and even less happy the warehouse this all started in was the trap for his cheese. It’s a dump, but it’s a poetic dump.
“There are layers,” Wade goes on. “A whole lot of layers. Don’t think I missed it.” He points two fingers at his eyes, points them at Logan’s in the patented I’m watching you gesture. “I saw you two brewing up a hot steaming cup of Folger's brand chemistry."
“Yeah,” Logan grunts, “so?”
Wade lets out a little giggle. “Oh boy, teenagers on the internet get ready to be angry about the downfall of morality in your fanfiction.”
Logan goes still, does that scenting the air thing he does that’s equal parts cute and sexy. “Would you shut up, he’s comin’.”
“Not yet he isn’t,” Wade mutters. “Quick, what’s his tell? I might need to use it as a clever plot device to thwart his dastardly plan.”
“No clue, it was bullshit. Now shut it.”
“Jimmy,” Victor calls, swaggering in like he jumped the line on a Friday night and that’s a Black Card in his pocket happy to see you. Wade would like to point out that the lack of a coat really lessens the impact but no, Victor’s gone full guns out, muscular arms and broad shoulders framed by a kitty-titty-hugging army green cotton tank. He gives Simmie a glance, flashes fang to get him to shrink back with a whine. “Awful lot of trouble you went to here. You could’ve just called.”
“Did Victor fucking Creed give you his digits,” Wade hisses.
Logan pushes off the crate Wade’s sitting on and gives him one last whap upside the head for good luck. “Wasn’t my idea. I don’t care what happens to this shitheel.”
Victor laughs like he thinks Logan’s being cute. “No? What do you care about?”
“You.”
Two small furrows dig briefly between Victor’s brows. When he looks sideways at Wade, Wade flips him the bird with one hand and twiddles the fingers of the other in a wave. As soon as he looks back to Logan, Wade flaps both hands in frantic shooing motions at Simmie, who takes off like greased shit to be picked up at the dock’s entrance.
“You have gone soft on me. Christ, Jimmy.” Victor’s palm rasps over his chin. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Send you a card on your birthday? Show up Christmas morning with a present?”
“Pretty sure you know what. Question is, are you gonna?”
Wade stops swinging his legs and grips the edge of the crate hard as Victor moves in close. Where Logan’s stance is loose, open, Victor’s is curled tight. Gaze narrowing, he lifts a hand to scratch his claws through Logan’s close-cropped beard, drifts down to wrap lightly around Logan’s throat.
The crate creaks. Nobody notices.
“Been a while since I’ve seen that look in your eye,” Victor says, fingers curling over the hinge of Logan’s jaw. He tightens his grip and Logan lets his face be tilted up, his mouth opened. Lets Victor look at him. “You want to do this here? Right here, down on your knees for me?”
That fucking purr. Logan’s breathing is already picking up. Wade stares at Victor’s hand on his neck, knows exactly what it feels like when his pulse starts to trip. He drags in a shallow breath and swallows, throat flexing.
“Just like you used to,” Victor says, and what the fuck, Wade knew. He knew. But a front row seat to rock hard proof is a long, long way away from decades of inked homoerotic subtext—sometimes just plain text—and he is so ready for this.
Victor’s nose dips close to the crook of Logan’s neck. He can’t tell if it’s a kiss or a lick or a bite that sends that rippling shiver through Logan, or if all Victor’s done is fucking sniff him again. An echo of it twists low through Wade’s gut. Victor thinks he knows who he’s got ready to roll belly up for him but he has no goddamn idea. The former anchor being can’t hold a flame to this bad bitch.
“You forgot me once before, Jimmy,” Victor says, “hope you’re going to make it up to me,” and takes Logan’s mouth. It’s hard and filthy straight out the gate, Victor’s jaw working as he fucks his tongue deep. Logan lets loose with that eager noise he makes low in his throat when his mouth’s being used just the way he likes it.
Wade loves that fucking noise.
He watches Logan’s hands fist at his sides wanting more, sees the tremor as he forces them to relax. He wonders if Victor can smell the conflict on him. Logan has two main modes of existence, give or take—throw down or get down. Mostly one edges out the other enough to make the choice easy on him. Sometimes he wants it so much he doesn’t have the patience to wait for what he’s given, he has to make it be taken.
Maybe Victor’s seen this show before. Maybe he knows exactly what he’s doing when his thumb curves up over Logan’s jaw, claw hooked on his teeth to keep his mouth pried wide open.
Maybe Logan’s right and he is the brother Victor needs.
“Give him your tongue, peanut,” Wade says. Victor flicks him a glance that makes his dick ache. Logan does as he’s told, rolls his tongue out over Victor’s thumb. Offers it up and waits.
Victor’s low groan hits like a shot of top shelf liquor poured straight down Wade’s throat. He licks the flat of Logan’s tongue, draws it and Logan’s plumped bottom lip into his mouth to suck on.
“Fuck,” Wade hisses, slapping a hand on his dick where it’s ready to bust out of his pants. He tries just one little squeeze to take the edge off and feels the thick push of precome slick the inside of his suit. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He told Logan he needed to jerk off before they headed out if he wanted half a chance in hell of making it through the whole show, but no. No, no, no, couldn’t have that. The minute this went from the possibility of another fight to flowers blossoming in the attic, Logan clearly wanted them both strung out and desperate for him. Wade can see it in the way he's tasting the air, practically drunk on the smell of lust already.
“Wade, you’re still here,” Victor says, and it hits him–Victor can smell him too. “Are you playing referee?”
“Coach. Look at him! C’mon, Rathbone, you’ve got the ball, he’s wide open waiting for a pass. Put him on his knees.”
“Are you, Jimmy?” Victor’s claw pricks Logan’s tongue when he offers it again. Logan’s eyes slit almost fully shut as Victor pushes it back into his mouth and follows it with one thick finger sunk in all the way to the knuckle.
“Well if you’re not gonna fucking do it,” Wade says, settling back in a casual sprawl like he hasn’t got a chokehold on his cock through two layers of sweaty dyneema fabric. “Logan.”
Logan shivers and drops. He spreads his thighs wide on the gritty concrete to show his dick pushing up obscenely at the crotch of his jeans. He holds his arms loose at his sides, shoulders drawn back and face tilted up. Fully open, available, for whatever Victor wants to take.
“Pick a hole, handsome.” Wade worms his fingers in through his fly, makes do with the teeniest, tiniest touch so he doesn’t stroke out. “Stuff whatever you want in it.”
Victor takes hold of Logan’s jaw, sneers. “You’re that fucking easy for this little shit?”
“Yeah,” Logan says, voice gone rough edged right up to the point he’s about to snap, “but it’s not his dick in my face.”
Wade needs to see that happen. He needs Victor to see it happen.
He slips off the crate. “Keep those,” he says, pointing at Victor’s claws, “between you and him. We’re gonna have a talk before I let you use them on me.”
Victor’s head tilts in a way Wade recognizes now as curious interest. These two think they’re so goddamn hard to read with their excessive manliness and stunted emotional development, their rough trade vibe and all that body hair Wade would very much like to be sandwiched between to ride out the winter. Show a little affection, don’t take their shit, they both spread smooth as warm butter.
Wade sinks into a crouch behind Logan, rubs his masked cheek against Logan’s face. “How’re you doing, peanut? Is this big, beautiful piece of tetchy meat withholding treats after you’ve been so good for him? No, don’t use your words.” He taps Logan’s lips with one gloved fingertip. “Use your mouth.”
Logan stuffs his face full of Wade’s fingers. He’d probably rather bare skin to suck on but there’s a point Wade’s trying to drill through Victor’s thick skull. They’re universes apart but fuck it if they aren’t more alike than they’re not.
Spit starts to make the metal plates on Wade’s glove glisten. He hooks Logan’s mouth open just the same as Victor did and waits until he can feel Logan’s tongue start to quiver, for more saliva to soak Logan’s chin and drip off his glove before he looks straight up at Victor. “He's ready for his treat now. Go on. Spit in his mouth.”
Victor takes hold of Wade’s wrist. His gaze lifts from Logan’s mouth to Logan’s eyes to Wade watching him, back again. He puts on that smug fangy smirk but it’s not as solid as he thinks it is; kitty’s shook.
“You having trouble with the target from all the way up there, pussycat?” Wade lets his knees drop to brace on the concrete. He cocks his finger like a gun, points it helpfully at Logan’s drooling mouth. “I said spit.”
Victor cocks an unimpressed eyebrow but no dice, big guy, Wade might not be able to smell how hard his dick is but he can for sure see it. Shit, he would really like to see it.
Maybe Victor notices when his grip goes so painfully tight he’s grinding Wade’s wrist bones together, maybe he doesn’t. He licks his teeth and bows his head, makes it clear he’s letting spit gather on his tongue. Wade couldn’t give a single flying fuck right now if his damn wrist snaps like a twig.
When he lets it drip, Logan groans and his eyes squeeze shut. How the hell he can stand to not watch as the long string of saliva snaps right before it hits his mouth, Wade just doesn’t know.
“Bullseye,” Wade breathes, and smears it over Logan’s face. “You wanna try it for real this time? Go for the real hawk tuah.”
Victor growls and twists Wade’s arm. “I can still kill you after I fuck him.”
“Sorry, what was that?” Wade cups his hand near his ear. “Did you say you could fuck me after you fuck him and you’re not even gonna wipe your dick off first?”
“Victor,” Logan says, a soft warning that sounds like he’s said it hundreds of times before, just like that.
“Yeah, Victor,” Wade mimics. He tugs at Logan’s belt, gets his jeans open. “Here I am playing nice and what’re you doing? You’re being mean to me. Give me this, sweetheart.” Wade pulls off Logan’s plaid to leave him in a nice tight undershirt like he and Victor are a matching set. “Your whole shtick is being mean to him, you only get to be mean to me after you buy me dinner. Now, do you want him belly up or face down? Survey says ass in the air so you can grind his face into my dick, FYI.”
Victor’s lips peel back in a rumbling snarl. “Dammit,” Wade mutters, and throws both hands up palms out. He scoots back on his ass a good two feet, two and a half. “Fine, I’ll buy you dinner. But I am staying right here because I shelled out for front row tickets to this emphasis-on-the-x extravaganza and I am not missing a chance to unleash the monster in your pants and also his face when you’ve got him on it, capiche?”
The look on Victor’s face says he capiches just fine and he’s not nearly as cranky about it as he’s making out to be; kinda tough for even him to be annoyed on the heels of a double-whammy dick compliment.
Either Logan misses it or he’s decided a coordinated full-frontal assault is the way to go since he rises up on his knees to shove jeans and shorts over his thighs, wrestling the tangle of them down until it catches on his boots. He turns to face Wade on his way back down, settles low on his forearms. “This is the way you like it,” he says. “I remember that much.”
Wade moans a quiet, “Ooh.” If there’s a story behind that, he wants to hear it. Hell, even if there isn’t, twenty fucking points for strategic bullshittery—Victor laps it right up like fresh cream and goes for his fly.
“Might I offer one suggestion,” Wade says, tossing over the lube he’d grabbed from the kitchen on his way out the door. Who knew how it ended up there, but it sure was convenient. Victor deftly catches it, snorts and goes to toss it aside.
“No no no no no, just wait.” Wade pats the air a couple times, easy there tiger style. “Hear me out. Slick your stick. That’s it.”
Victor dangles the lube in front of Logan’s face and purrs in his ear, “You want me to use this on you, Jimmy? Make you all nice and slippery inside?”
“No.” Logan turns his head to meet Victor’s gaze straight on from inches away. “What he said. Just on you.”
Victor takes hold of the back of his skull and kisses him the same as the first time, deep and thorough. Careful not to make a sound, Wade settles down on his side so he’s got a better view of Logan’s cock hanging thick and heavy between his thighs and a clear line of sight on Victor’s when he hauls it out. He almost takes another chunk out of his tongue to keep a lid on the incredibly flattering commentary running through his head.
When Victor thumbs the tube open, fists his dick wet, Wade can’t help a small, barely audible, really more like a slightly heavier breath of a moan. Victor’s mouth crooks up at the corner saying he heard loud and clear and didn’t mind at all.
And well, if the multiverse is practically begging Wade to push his luck, who is he to say no? “Fuck, he’s big,” he whispers to Logan. “Whoa, what a surprise, I know–must run in the family–but babe, the bend in that pipe.” He drags air dramatically through his teeth. “That curvy custard chucker is going to hammer the fuck out of your lil walnut.”
Wade can tell the exact moment Victor’s dick is at Logan’s hole from the familiar way Logan’s shoulders pull taut in anticipation. He could be small and tight against Wade’s fingertip, a little loose after a good tonguing, or sloppy wet from round one, and still he does it every goddamn time.
Wondering if Victor knows it too, he glances up, sees the way Victor’s mouth goes soft. He looks down again fast to find Logan staring straight at him as Victor pushes in.
Wade tears off a glove and shoves a hand down the front of his pants. He is not going to jerk off and risk missing a single second of this, it’s just a little aperitif, that’s all. An amuse-gueule.
Like Logan can hear what Wade’s thinking, he quirks a smile. It slips in the next second as Victor eases back only once before mercilessly splitting Logan open on his dick. Logan’s head drops, his back rising and falling fast on shallow breaths. Choppy groans get trapped behind his teeth from Victor sinking steadily into him all the way to the root. Wide, greedy hands take hold of his hips and haul him back so they’re pressed flush together balls to taint.
Victor’s head is tipped up, the pure animal pleasure on his face caught in the light. Wade’s dick gives a hard twitch at the sight of it; he knows Logan insides are hot and quivering around Victor’s cock, clinging tightly on a slow pull back, fluttering and clenching on the shove back in. Victor doesn’t care to give him time to adjust to getting stuffed full all over again and he loves it.
Dropping low over Logan’s back, Victor licks at the sweat building on skin. He rolls the taste around on his tongue and breathes out in satisfaction. “You smell the same, taste the same.” Those moans start slipping from Logan as his hips really start to snap. “Sound the same.”
Victor loops his arm under Logan’s and up across his chest, pulls him up and goes to sit him right back down but Logan’s jeans are still caught on his boots. Real rage twists his face as claws rip through the tangle, flips like a switch to a contented growl when he palms Logan’s thighs, spreads them wide across his lap. He twists one of Logan’s arms sharply behind his back, uses it as a handhold to fuck Logan down on his dick when he fucks up.
Logan gulps air. His eyes skim hazily over Wade as he slumps heavily into Victor’s hold, head dropped onto Victor’s shoulder trying to get a look at him. It thrusts his chest out at an even sharper angle, highlights the concave dip of his stomach and his cock curved up hard over it. Thin shining trails of precome smear his skin and get caught in the hairs on his belly when Victor driving into him makes his dick bounce.
“Feel the same, too,” Victor says, crushing Logan tight against his chest to grind up into him. “You going to come the same all sweet on my dick like you used to, or pretend you’ll last long enough to flip me over, try to stuff me too before you lose it?”
Wade jams his fist in his mouth so hard his lip splits on his teeth.
“What,” Logan says, “Victor, what—” and Logan, he loves to get fucked, sounds so pretty when he’s stroked on the inside, but left up to his own devices its that bone-deep ache he wants. He’s not going to be able to string more than five words together while Victor’s got him pinned on his dick like that.
“One of these days,” Victor says, biting at the tendon on Logan’s throat he favours, “it’s really going to hurt my feelings, all these things you keep forgetting. Promised I’d always take care of you, didn’t I? I keep giving and giving, you keep taking.”
When Logan says, “I didn’t,” Victor hears forget and Wade hears know.
Wade thinks maybe Victor believes it. He sits back on his heels and untwists Logan’s arm, brings it up so Logan’s hand cups the back of his head like a lover’s hold. His claws scratch along the thin tender skin of Logan’s underarm, through the hair in his armpit and down the thick slab of muscle on his side to catch his cock lightly between the tips. Logan’s stomach jumps.
“Fuck yourself for me, Logan,” Victor says, splaying his other hand low on Logan’s belly. He gives Logan the rough tunnel of his fist to use. “See if you can remember that.”
Logan scrubs a hand over his face and nods. It takes a second for him to gather himself up, resettle on his knees with his thighs spread as wide over Victor’s as they are. His hand braces on Victor’s arms around him so naturally it really does look as if he’s remembering something.
“That’s it,” Victor praises, lips and teeth set to the crook of Logan’s neck. “Show me.”
Slicked with sweat, thighs flexing, Logan rides him. It’s mesmerizing. Victor’s arms are solid muscle holding Logan steady, tendons pulled in sharp relief through his forearms and into his hands. Broad hands, strong and thick-knuckled, the fingers of one pushed into the hair at the base of Logan’s cock, tugging sharply. And Logan, chest heaving as he fucks into Victor’s hand, shoves down hard onto Victor’s dick.
Every time he manages to lift up, Wade thinks it’s the last. Logan’s cock when he catches a glimpse of it is flushed a deep, dark red, wet like he came already except he’s wound too tight for it, worked up and so close Wade knows Victor can feel him trembling from the inside out.
Four bright red welts blossom on Logan’s stomach from Victor’s carelessness as he grabs Logan’s face right when he starts to lose it. Victor takes his mouth in what Wade’s figuring out must be trademarked filth and greedily swallows all the perfect hitched noises Logan can’t hold back. He works Logan’s cock the same as Wade would to make his orgasm run long and wring as many thick ropes of come out of him as he can.
Tension drains from Logan, leaves him lax and heavy in Victor’s lap. Victor rises up and knocks him down to his knees again, yanks up his hips and slams home, zero participation required. Wade slinks all the way down on his side, cheek pillowed on the back of one hand, and pulls the other, come-smeared and sticky, out of his pants. It looks like it takes a lot of effort for Logan to roll his head to show Wade his face, so Wade reaches his hand out, paints Logan’s lips with come so he can lick it off as a reward.
Something about the look in Logan’s eyes tells Wade when Victor comes as much as the way Victor goes momentarily still does, head and shoulders dropped back as he uses Logan’s body to milk himself through to the end. Harsh, panting breaths fill Wade’s head.
Victor lays Logan out with a hand on his stomach easing him down. He ghosts his nose across the small of Logan’s back, crawls up to nudge it against Logan’s shoulder blades and press into the sweaty hair at Logan’s nape. The sound of him drawing in Logan’s scent makes Wade’s stomach do a funny little flip.
“Doesn’t matter how hard you try,” Victor says, mouth skimming the meat of Logan’s shoulder, “you’ll never be able to forget me for long.”
“Wouldn’t,” Logan says, his hand coming up to grip Victor’s whiskers, “I won’t.”
Victor goes still again. He doesn’t mean to glance up, catch Wade’s gaze and let him see, of that Wade is super fucking sure. A blink and it’s gone. He rocks back up onto his feet, looks down at them sprawled in the dust as he tucks his dick away and zips.
“Don’t wait so long next time,” he says, kicking Logan’s boot, “or I’ll come find you again.”
Wade waves a hand vaguely at the state of things. “Think this qualifies as an engraved fucking invitation, kitty cat.”
“Shut the fuck up, Wade,” Victor says lightly, and he’s gone, but not before Logan’s grunted laugh puts that smile, the one that might be real, back on his face.
“Hey, peanut,” Wade says, and scoots in. “Your brother’s weird.”
Logan groans and props himself up on one elbow. “That’s your takeaway.”
“I think I’m growing on him, though. I have animal magnetism and hoo boy, that one is an animal.”
“God.” Logan grabs onto the pook at the back of Wade’s mask and wrestles it off, dragging Wade into his space in the process. “Wade,” he says, brushing their mouths together, exhausted and content, “shut the fuck up.”