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At some point after the 157th stab wound, Logan went back to using his bare fists.
Could it be? Was Wade’s big wolfy boy finally starting to tire? Did they rock the boat too hard, too fast, raw and deep?
Leonardo DiCaprio would sooner date someone his own age, and we’ve all seen Hollywood’s senior citizen age fuck-chart. No, these two super-regenerating freak mutants kept on tearing into the Odyssey (fucking limpdick of a car that it was). Wade could do this all day, to steal old Cap’s line. But when the claws got put away, disappointment burned in Wade’s lacerated brain. He wanted a fight. He asked for a fucking fight. What, so twinkle-toes couldn't keep it up? After verbally trashing Wade from here to Sunday choir school?
“You know, you don’t strike me as a guy who likes vanilla—” sex, Wade was going to taunt, but Logan landed a solid punch that went straight through Wade’s guts and, well.
Scratch vanilla. The fists were actually more brutal than the claws.
Beating his meat had never felt so literal before. It made Wade’s insides go all fluttery.
(That and Logan’s fist actually flexing around his higher intestine. Now that Wade thought about it—) “Did we ever establish a safeword?”
An uppercut dislocated Wade’s jaw.
“Shut the fuck up, Wade!”
Feet got involved next: Wade’s feet, cracking what was left of the Honda’s side window, Logan’s knee, twisted, the both of them breaking each other’s ankles, twice. Most memorably yet, Wade’s being yanked and dragged, from backseat to car hood, glass-shatterings cutting into his spine and scalp.
At some point after the 64th cracked rib, Logan sat on him.
Full on sat, like a dog that didn’t want anybody taking their used chew toy.
Wade made for a very used chew toy.
“I’m getting mixed signals here,” Wade said. Wheezed, really. But he had 300-plus pounds of movie-magic Wolverine sitting on his chest, crushing his lungs. Fucking of course he wheezed. He also choked, because the yellow-suited, alcoholic meatsack kept rearranging Wade’s facial structure with his fists.
His nose might be regrowing inside his mouth. Not the best place for it. He’d like to hear his own voice again.
“I’m fucking sick of your fucking yapping,” Logan hissed his contrary opinion, lethal hands pinning Wade down by the shoulders and shaking him.
“And you're...mean,” came the lame finish on Wade’s part.
There should have been a clever one-liner in there, but he had the sudden sense that something had changed, between the last punch and this.
He couldn't tell what though. Logan was breathing down hard and fast on his face, and Wade’s words caught in a swallow. The panting was distracting in a ‘close your laptop before the teacher realizes you were looking up pornography in the middle of class lecture’ way. One of Wade’s favorite high-school risk games.
“You're fucking stupid,” Logan said, stupidly. Accented with a forceful punch to Wade’s solar plexus.
So Wade rolled them around in the Odyssey’s crinkled and gored seats. “Still mean.”
At some point after the 5th whack-a-mole pinroll, Logan slotted his shapely thighs outside of his.
And oh, Wade was stupid.
He was stupid the moment Logan (accidentally? purposely? unwisely?) rutted into him, and Wade did the same thing he’d once done when he accidentally-purposely-unwisely put himself between two hairy bears at a gay bar.
And that was rut back against Logan. Like a penniless down-on-her-luck prostitute, with nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Wade earned himself the same answer now as he had way back then: two heavy slaps.
(Disappointingly, Logan didn't slap him on the ass, like the bears had. It was across the face, backhanded. But, ass or face, either end was always open for business in Wade’s book.)
Predictably, Wade moaned.
Logan punched him again.
It was less of a fight now. More like some weird snuff-film foreplay. Wade flexed his trapped hips, and Logan punched. Wade stabbed Baby Knife three times into Logan’s chest, and Logan broke his fingers, grabbed both his wrists and thrust them flat above Wade’s head.
Speaking of thrusting.
At some point after the 14th pitiful wiggle of Wade’s hips, Logan was fucking him.
It was every baby twink’s dark wet dream in action. And yes, Wade hadn’t lied when he said he wasn’t a natural bottom, but something about The X-Man himself tearing a hole in Wade’s suit pants for easy access home left no doubt: Logan would mold him into a natural bottom.
“Wow it’s just like momma—used to say.” Wade’s pinned thighs shifted for the slimmest bit of space.
Logan pounded the space into being. “Yeah…what’s that?” he grunted, hottly.
“Just let daddy take what he wants, and it’ll be easier.”
A snap-crackle-pop sounded from his locked wrists. If only Wade was full of glow stick juice. Oh, but Logan could pump him full of a different kind of—
“You're fucked up, you know that?”
“Oh, I thought I was being fucked in the ass,” and he shimmied for emphasis. The sweaty, musky, rubbing-alcohol-scented breaths right on Wade’s face may just be man’s greatest perfume. No one could ever recreate it. No one should.
Those breaths lifted away, along with Wade’s body. Flipped like an omelet onto his stomach. Wade snuck a gasp out, before being CIA smothered against the backseat cushions.
His hands hurt. His thighs burned. He couldn’t breathe. Every drag of that thick, heavy cock, dry-scraping his insides, pulled an agonized scream out of his throat. Screams that were muffled into a soft, blood-splattered surface.
He couldn’t fight back.
All he could do was take what Logan gave him.
”Pl-please,” Wade just barely managed to hoarse out. “Please…”
Logan’s pounding stuttered. Hesitant, for the first time since they started fighting.
”Please, don’t stopimsoclose,” he spat out rapid-fire, drooling a little.
“Oh for the love of—you’re fucking unbelievable.”
In the pause, Wade soothed his painful hard-on against the seat edge. “What’s really unbelievable is your awful technique. Don’t you know it’s the motion of the ocean, not the size of the wave? The wave is a metaphor for your penis by the way, which is quite the Magnitude Seven—”
The Honda Odyssey was a large family van, capable of comfortably seating 8 people. Marketing sold it as the best ride for wholesome, cross country adventures. This year’s family friendly promo. Many homes have welcomed this versatile vehicle into their garages, and their lives. It has fulfilled dozens of dream fantasies, of carrying an entire soccer field’s match equipment.
The bloodstains were never coming out of this one. Neither was Wade. His atoms were going to fuse to the car metal, the seat, the upholstery, as Logan sank his claws into a mouth that never shut up, and his cock into an ass that never quit.
Wade came. In a gurgle of red and splatters of blissful white.
Then Logan bent him in half, and didn’t stop blowing his back out.
“I’m not done with you yet,” licked into his ear like a promise.
Logan drove into him harder than a freight train, and Wade’s been hit by two of those before. The Honda creaked for mercy, but he? Was left winded, at every impeccable and violent thrust in, hitting deeper than Vanessa’s favorite peg. She always did say he knew how to take it deepest, but this? If Logan went any deeper, Wade was going to be breathing cock.
“You can’t—handle me,” goaded Wade weakly. The claws were still in his throat, sloshing and spurting blood from him. Until they retracted, and a wide palm replaced them.
“We’ll see about that.”
For the leverage, Logan freed Wade’s eggshell wrists. It was his chance, his last chance, to escape, to turn this on a dime and get his payback. The time had come to give Logan a piece of his own medicine—
Not a single thought in his head, Wade reached down with those pitiful still-healing hands, simply held onto Logan’s stiff thighs and met each push with a pull of his own.
(See? Molded into a natural bottom. What else was a riled-up adrenaline junkie to do?)
“Huh,” Logan chuckled. He gripped Wade’s throat tighter and angled them chest-to-chest. Even through the glove and suit, his handprint burned. Swallowing, his Adam’s apple slid between two fingers.
Whatever Logan found funny, Wade had no words to ask. Letters mixed together on his tongue like Campbell’s alphabet soup, and they were not playing Scrabble. This was competitive Twister on steroids. Left leg, Logan’s back. Right leg, Logan’s shoulder. Right arm, Honda Odyssey passenger handle, Left arm—where was his left arm?
“Funny, now you’re quiet,” Logan muttered, taking Wade’s left arm and tugging it higher, higher, so it was stretched to nearly dislocate. Wade moaned when the joints cracked, and gave way.
Wade should snark something. He should, on principle, but Logan took that moment to sink to the last inch and rock skin to skin, like animals in heat. Like a bitch, Wade whined. He throbbed inside his ruined suit, warmed around the building pressure.
Logan bit his own lip bloody. It was so enticing, so lickable, so out of reach. “Fuck,” heard Wade in the sex-stale air. The vice on his neck pressed down until his windpipe collapsed. Heat flooded Wade’s abused insides— “Fuck—” and outsides, coming, sucking Logan in, his body refusing to let this perfect specimen go. “—it’s like you’re fucking made for this…” Slowly, they came to a stop, the churning of the freight train’s wheels arriving at destination.
When the choking hand lifted, Wade immediately surged up to sumo-flip Logan.
”Fucking shit, you—!”
Logan’s surprise was paired with twin claws unsheathing on reflex, to re-sheathe themselves right between Wade’s ribs. It’s where they belonged.
His deranged little giggle smoothed into, “I said you couldn’t handle me, peach princess,” before riding the cowboy.
”And I said,” Logan grit, gleam in his eyes, “we’ll fucking see, Barbie.”
At some point after the 10th consecutive hour of fight-fucking, they stopped.
Not because they tired, oh never. Perish the thought. He and his Wolvie could fuck like rabbits tasked with the repopulation of the entire world, until Jesus H. Christ himself would come from heaven, knock on their car hood, and ask them politely (because Jesus was nothing if not polite) to put a fucking stop to it.
They stopped, for the same reason any two pair of boys stopped beating each other’s faces in:
They got thirsty.
A sad bottle of water crinkled in Logan’s palm. He took a big, unfairly-proportioned sip. “...Sorry for that shit I said about your life. Half-sorry, anyway. You still lied to me—”
“Educated wish,” Wade warbled out, between kitten licks of his sippy juice.
“—and you’re still a shit person. But, yeah. Sorry.”
“If this is your typical apology scheme, I die to learn how you hash out a compliment. In fact, I’ll start. You’ve got the fattest, veiniest, most delicious—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Logan said, but the heat in it was gone. Tuckered out. Hatefucking did that.
Honestly, Wade could go for a couple more rounds now, but he knows that would be asking too much from the sleep-deprived fanfiction author, furiously horny as they may be.
So instead he said, “No kiss goodnight?”
That’s when he got wrapped in seatbelts like a kinky Christmas present, ‘til morning come.
It really was true, what the Honda slogan said. The Power of Dreams, how We move you.™