Work Text:
A little over a week after Logan first arrived, they moved apartments.
It was the same building, and only two doors down, but seeing as Logan didn’t have anywhere else to go, and Althea was sick of two grown men occupying all her space by day two, something had to be done.
Althea demanded they get a two-bedroom apartment at the very least, especially since Wade was suddenly actually fucking sold a car, for once in his life and money wasn’t at tight as it had been.
Logan was just happy to have the pullout couch all to himself, even if the springs dug into his back, because his own bed meant Wade was out of touching range. Not to mention, Wade liked to get up too fucking early , and Logan wasn’t exactly a heavy sleeper, usually waking up whenever Wade got out of bed to get ready for work.
When Logan first moved in, he’d assumed Wade was a late sleeper; he really seemed like the type. From what Logan had observed in the short few days he knew Wade, the man barely seemed capable of getting himself together enough to be somewhere –like a job– on time, much less early in the morning. But inevitably, Logan was wrong. Very wrong in fact.
Wade was an early riser, a morning person, and a fucking happy-go-lucky one at that.
After several nights of attempting to sleep through Wade’s clattering in the kitchen, and his incessant whistling, and his fucking internal monologue whispered at a volume that was almost as loud as his speaking voice, Logan was decidedly done bunking down on the sofa.
Wade, naturally, had been elated that his offer had been accepted. And they were roommates, Wade had exclaimed, hands on his cheeks, a wide smile spread across his face. With that, Logan almost changed his mind purely out of principle, but sleeping in, tucked inside the bedroom away from Wade’s obnoxious morning routine was all the motivation he needed to just deal with it.
Lesser of two evils, right?
Wade’s room, where Logan had yet to venture into for the few days since they had moved, was surprisingly cozy. For days, Wade had been in and out in varying states of undress, paint all over his skin and clothes, but Logan had to admit, the freshly painted deep blue walls looked nice. Wade wasn’t exactly organized yet, but at the very least his tables were free of garbage and clutter and it smelled less of dirty clothes and more like Wade’s cologne, something slightly musky with a hint of pine. He had a worn chair tucked into the corner, presumably something he found on the side of the road, and a bookcase that was only half-filled, but Wade hardly seemed like the type to sit down for a good read anyway, not with that level of ADHD.
Overall, it was nice. Comfortable, even. Not that Logan cared about the state of a fucking bedroom of course, a room was a room, and he didn’t have any reason to complain when he was the one with no job and no other friends to stay with.
But sharing a bed was a complicated matter for Logan. Wade wouldn’t die if he got accidentally stabbed in the middle of the night, but Logan wasn’t far less worried about the nightmares as he was about the migraines that came with them.
For years–as long as Logan could remember–he’d dealt with them on a near monthly basis, mostly after the worst nights where he’d sweat through his shirt and wake up screaming until he was hoarse and more exhausted than he’d been before he went to sleep.
He didn’t know the cause, but he assumed the adamantium lining his skull was a potential factor. The alcohol probably didn’t help either. Nor would alcohol withdrawal.
More likely, it was stress.
More nights than not, he woke in a cold sweat, veins running with spikes of adrenaline. But some nights it was worse. At times Logan’s vision went hazy with images of those he’d lost, each of them gasping, blood seeping through their clothes as Logan’s claws speared through their hearts and lungs and heads–
The moment he woke up, throat sore from screaming, he would stumble to the bathroom to find a little black dot in the center of his vision when he looked in the mirror.
From there things usually went to shit.
He told Wade about the nightmares soon after he moved into their first apartment while stuffed into their shared pull-out couch. Logan muttered the admission under his breath, not promising to keep his claws to himself.
“I’m not worried, Peanut, I’ve been stabbed by worse things than angry Wolverine claws in the middle of the night,” Wade had responded, seemingly trying to lighten the mood. Logan tried not to think about what Wade exactly meant by that. What could possibly be worse than being impaled by a set of razor sharp claws?
But of course, he hadn’t told Wade about the migraines yet, regardless of their entanglement with his dreams, because he could deal with them. He’d dealt with them for years, locking himself away for a few hours to rest and curse every moment of his over two-hundred years of existence alone.
Usually telling Wade to fuck off would keep him away for a few hours anyway; there wasn’t a need to tell him why.
For a while, it was good. They slept on their own sides of the bed, and Logan made it through the night without nightmares that left him thrashing in a pool of his own sweat.
Well, it was good until it wasn’t.
Jean was in his bed, all smiles, watching him like he was the only person in the entire world. Then seconds later she was covered in blood which seeped from her eyes, spilling down her nightgown and onto the floor and she was dying right there in front of him, Logan’s hand sunk into her chest, right above her heart.
“Jean! Fuck—”
But it wasn’t Jean anymore, it was someone else, draped in red, a masked face that looked so familiar.
“I’m d-dying, Logan.”
And suddenly the mask was gone, replaced by Wade’s face and the sight of pooling blood, dripping from his frothing mouth, seeping onto the bed and staining the white sheets a deep, accusatory red.
“You said you couldn’t die? You said–”
“I lied.”
Logan gasped awake, scream caught in his throat, the dying light in Wade’s eyes only barely fading from his memory as thick, shuddering breaths squeezed from his lungs.
There was a loud ringing in his ears, and he could feel his claws extended from his hands, stuck into the flesh of his own legs, cutting through the blankets. And it hurt like a bitch, but not as much as the ache in his shoulders.
And he couldn’t fucking breath, but at least there was pain to hold onto, something tangible, real. He basked in it for some time, each heaving draw of oxygen forcing his claws deeper into his legs, nerves begging for mercy. But he needed it, needed to feel–
“Peanut?” Wade. Fuck.
Logan ignored him, opening his eyes as he extracted his claws, counting his breaths in a sad attempt to get himself to calm the fuck down. He winced when his eyelids finally bent to his will, the world before him twisted into a haze, the glowing light of Wade’s lamp distorting before him.
And fuck, that meant–
“Hey, Peanut, are you alright? I heard–”
Wade’s hand was on his shoulder–where it shouldn’t be, not now, after Logan dreamt of killing him– and Logan threw it off, scrambling out from beneath the covers, nausea crawling through his stomach.
Then came the first spike of pain, rippling up the back of his head and settling in behind his eyes. It was excruciating, like the tip of a freshly sharpened blade was stabbing him in quick succession.
Fuck that.
The walk to the bathroom–which certainly was more like a disjointed stumble– was all but pleasant, his limbs uncooperative and vision twisting every object before his eyes as that familiar little black dot appeared. He just wanted to make it to the bathroom and empty his stomach, then curl up on the floor, waiting for hours until it passed, breathing through the splitting pain out from underneath Wade’s watchful eyes.
Hell, he didn’t want the piece of shit anywhere near him. God knew Wade wouldn’t stop running his mouth even if he knew how much Logan’s head hurt.
When he finally got the door shut and firmly locked behind him, Logan fell to his knees in front of the toilet, promptly emptying his stomach into the toilet again, bitterly amused at the fact that at the very least it didn’t burn like it did when he threw up five shots of whiskey.
For hours he laid on the floor, surrounded by darkness save for the small nightlight Wade had plugged in beside the sink. The floor was uncomfortable, but in the bathroom it was silent, and the toilet was close enough he wouldn’t risk vomiting all over himself or the bed when another inevitable wave of nausea caught him off guard.
The migraines were bearable, really, for the few hours they lasted. So like always, he gritted his teeth trying to remember how painkillers would feel if they actually fucking worked on him.
Just as his body began to relax, and the throbbing in behind his eyes reduced to something more like a dull, pulsing ache, Logan heard the first footsteps fall in the living room.
And fuck, that meant Wade was awake.
“Knock knock!”
Ah, and there was that grating voice Logan had missed so dearly. Shit.
The knob of the bathroom door jiggled a bit, and Wade snorted, “Oh, a locked door? Marching the penguin this early in the morning, Wolvie? Thought early afternoon was primetime for you?”
A spike of pain burned down Logan’s temples, and he wasn’t sure if it was the migraine or if it was merely the sound of Wade’s voice that caused it.
“Go the fuck away,” Logan mumbled weakly, trembling hands pressing into his eyes like it might do something to assuage the pain.
“No can do, babygirl. You’re really eating into my time shaking hands with the milkman.”
How many goddamn euphemisms did Wade have for jerking off?
“Do it somewhere else,” Logan growled.
Another shake of the doorknob.
“I hardly believe you would want me to do that in our shared bed, Peanut. Not to mention Mary Puppins’ bed it in the living room and I don’t plan on filling her innocent mind with such–”
Logan couldn’t take it anymore, every word contributing to another throb, another avoidable spark of pain.
“Wade–fuck –just go away.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m fucking busy.”
Wade was silent for a moment; Logan almost sighed in relief.
“Knew it.”
“For fuck’s sake–I will claw your fucking neck out.”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll shower at planet fitness then, let all the old guys get a good look at my shriveled-up morning dick. I swear to fuck you owe me a handjob after this. We can discuss the terms when I return.”
And finally, Logan was left in peace.
It was a Sunday, which meant Wade wasn’t going to work, but he would likely be going out to find something to do, or alternatively, pestering Logan for hours on end until they ended up ordering a pizza or playing some shitty video game.
Logan would only agree because it meant Wade was distracted from talking about his dick, or initiating some sort of kinky sexual endeavor that Logan wasn’t interested in.
They hadn’t had sex again–not since Logan offered once before. It wasn't that Logan wouldn’t be interested again, they really just hadn’t had the time to talk about it. They needed to talk about it, especially since they were back to sharing a bed, and Wade had as little personal space while he slept as he did when he was awake.
Sure enough, when Wade returned from planet fitness or wherever the fuck he was going at seven-fucking-o’clock in the morning, he would return to talking about fucking or jerking off or one of their dicks, and Logan was hardly in the mood, or state to deal with it.
So he peeled himself off the bathroom floor, vision burning and hazy, and managed to drag himself back to the bed, taking the small bathroom trash can with him hoping he wouldn’t have to empty his stomach again.
Sleeping would help if you could get comfortable and relaxed enough to fall asleep.
Logan forced himself under the covers, ignoring the bloody stain he left behind from earlier in the morning, and shoved his face into his pillow.
The slam of a door shook Logan awake. He hadn’t really been asleep, drifting in and out of some dreamlike sensation, but the sheer volume of Wade’s voice as he came nearer and nearer to the bedroom was enough to force Logan into sobering wakefulness.
His head only hurt less, migraine having reduced into a bad headache after a bit of sleep, but his neck was frustratingly stiff, and his vision still spun when he blinked open his eyes. Not to mention, his stomach still clenched like he might be sick, but he wasn’t sure if it was the dehydration more than the migraine.
“Peanut, hate to be a helicopter mom, but it is, in fact, time to get your ass out of the bedroom. It is nearing the middle of the day and we have to finish that Wii bowling tournament we started last weekend. I need to earn back my pro ball without absolutely destroying you six to eight more times.”
Wade waltzed through the doorway and Logan cringed, hissing at the loud screeching of the door hinges. It grated through his skull like a knife dragging across the very ridges in his brain.
He tried not to move, pretending to be asleep on his stomach, face smushed into the pillow and hair flying in all directions. Maybe Wade would relent, and for once, shut his gigantic mouth in favor of leaving Logan the fuck alone.
“You can pretend you’re asleep, but I happen to be an expert at using tickling as a method of torture and I’m not afraid to use these long, skillful fingers to force you into submission.”
Logan could think of nothing he wanted less than that, so he bent to Wade’s fucking irritating will, rolling over on to his back with another his off pain when the sore muscles of his neck protested.
“Alright asshole, I’m awake, but you can get the fuck away from me.”
Wade stared at him, eyes wide, and mouth hung ajar like he’d seen a ghost. He looked like a fucking idiot.
“Um–Peanut? What the fuck?”
Logan blinked. What the fuck did he mean what the fuck?
“Yes?” He asked expectantly.
“Why do you look like that?”
Logan snarled.
“Don’t you think that’s a better question to ask yourself?” It was a low-blow, and Wade looked the slightest bit hurt for a fraction of a second, but he snapped out of it, offering his cheeriest smile.
“Well my eyes aren’t completely bloodshot and at least I’m showered and not covered in a Canadian metric gallon of dried blood.”
What the fuck–
“What were you even doing in the bathroom if you weren’t in the shower? Was it a horrible, terrible, no good, rotten shitting episode? Because I’ve had my fair share of those and can offer you a counseling session on how to deal with the psychological and physical trauma.”
Wade didn’t stop there, he just kept going, riffing off himself like he was playing every part of a goddamn SNL skit. Every word out of Wade’s constantly running mouth was loud enough to send another spike of electric pain through his forehead–so much for his migraine disappearing–which only made the urge to vomit up the entire contents of his stomach much stronger.
Logan extracted himself from the bed again, stumbling toward the door in an attempt to get away, and hopefully lock himself in the safety of the bathroom while he threw up the last of whatever water or bile he still had in his stomach.
“Move.”
It was a demand, but still Wade didn’t move, lingering in front of the door with his hands on his hips and raised skin where his eyebrows would be.
“Peanut, what the fuck is wrong with you–”
“I said fucking move.”
Wade should have known better, but he didn’t move, so Logan had no choice but to send a very clear message and released his claws with a growl.
“Well somebody pissed in your cheerios –oh fuck!”
With blood-covered claws, Logan was on his way across the apartment, marching past Althea, who yelled something about him dripping blood on her goddamn carpets again. One hand clasped over his mouth, he pitched into the bathroom, forgetting to close the behind himself as he leaned over the toilet once again.
“Hey princess that was –oh.”
Logan could feel Wade’s gaze on his back as he coughed up more bile into the toilet, and god was he fucking embarrased. His cheeks grew warm, and he wished more than anything that Wade would let him suffer in peace.
There was a momentary silence–one Logan was grateful for even if it would probably not last more than a few seconds–and then there was a warm hand on his back and a soft towel dabbing over his lips so gently.
Too gently.
To Logan’s surprise, Wade didn’t say a word, only shutting the bathroom door, and sitting by his side, fingertips trailing over his back in circles as Logan finally stopped retching.
“I’m –Wade, go away,” he snapped, trying to bat away Wade’s arm.
Logan coughed, swiping a hand over the sweaty sides of his face. Wade didn’t follow instructions, of course not, he never did.
“Not until you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you.”
Logan growled at him, “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Wade snorted, “Bullshit.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Logan spat, and Wade seemed to get the idea, sighing in return.
“Fine, I’ll allow it. But we will sure as shit be talking about it later, baby girl. Now, I think we should get you back in bed and you should drink a fuckton of water; I have a water bottle of that exact size, actually. My elementary school nurse always told me a fuckton of water could fix even the worst of broken bones, infections, even head lice.”
Logan allowed himself to be manhandled onto his feet and through the apartment again, back to their bedroom where he was deposited in Wade’s tattered old chair with a bottle of water pressed in between his fingers. He watched, through murky, clouded vision, as Wade changed the sheets, and found him a new set of sweats and a t-shirt to wear.
It was fucking embarrasing. All of it.
He didn’t want to bunk down with Wade and let him watch as he screamed in his sleep. Logan didn’t want to be watched as his body caved to the burning pain of nightmare after nightmare. Logan didn’t want gentle hands on his skin, or soft words, or Wade making the bed for him. Wade was kind enough to give him a place to stay, there was hardly a need for his kindness as well.
Logan didn’t deserve an ounce of compassion, not from anyone, but especially Wade.
Wade wasn’t a two-hundred year-old man with the blood of a thousand lives on his hands, and he had so easily been willing to sacrifice his life for the greater good. Wade wasn’t too proud, never took himself too seriously, and was loved. Life had thrown Wade a shitty deck of cards, but at least he’d played them well enough to find a family.
Logan had thrown his own away the second he’d been handed them.
“When you’re done pondering the meaning of life, I’ve got some fresh clothes for you.”
Wade stood in front of him, arms extended with a neat pile of clothes settled in his hands. Logan took them, and attempted to stand, but his balance was off, dizziness still not subsided.
“Woah, hold your horses big guy. I can help you.”
“No,” Logan grunted, grasping the dresser next to him as he reached for the hem of his shirt, wincing when his neck twinged in pain.
“I promise not to look at your dick for any more than three seconds if you promise not to impale me like a green bean with your three-pronged forks.”
Logan relented with a sigh and a single nod. And to Wade’s credit, he really didn’t look at Logan’s dick as he pulled down his briefs and slipped a new pair up his legs. Nor did his comment when he pulled a fresh gray t-shirt over his head.
Wade helped him over to the bed, bringing his water bottle over to the nightstand and forcing Logan to drink half of it before he was allowed to lay down.
“All tucked in sweetheart–”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Sweetums?”
“No–”
“Sweetie pie?”
“Fuck no–”
“Darling? Sweet cheeks? My lady?”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Logan pointed hastily toward the door, “Please, just go.”
Wade put his hands up in surrender, backing toward the door, “Incredible how even rudimentary use of the magic word can instantaneously make me more inclined to follow your very rude demands.”
“Go.”
Five hours later, Logan had showered, eaten, and drank what Wade had described as two-point-three fucktons of water. His migraine had disappeared somewhere into the mid-afternoon leaving him with a sore neck, and a touch of dizziness.
Wade hadn’t questioned him when he’d dropped onto the couch with a head of wet hair, and a bottle of diet coke in hand, and Logan decided to pretend he was engrossed in whatever musical Wade had put on to watch.
They ate their take-out in silence, and Logan pulled Mary Puppins into his lap for a quick snuggle while Wade wandered around, cursing and digging through their unopened boxes in search of the Wii remotes.
Logan did his best to forget about the events of the day, praying to a God he didn’t believe in that Wade would let it the fuck go. But eventually, Wade gave up on the Wii remotes, and returned to the sofa, plopping down with an exaggerated sigh.
Logan tensed, already sensing what was on the horizon. Fuck.
“So the time has come, my precious.”
Logan raised a questioning eyebrow, “The time for…?”
He didn’t want to talk about, he didn’t want to explain that shit, or remember how fucking nice it had been to get a set of fresh clothes, and clean sheets.
“Oh fuck off, babycakes. Out with it. Were you drinking again? Steal a little cocaine? Get poisoned by Mormon Jim across the hall?”
Logan averted his eyes, picking at a loose thread of the pillow in his lap.
“No– fucking none of that.”
“You said you couldn’t get sick, and that’s the only other option here, buttercup.”
“I can’t get sick from infections, diseases,” Logan tried to explain, a certain tightness in his chest, “But I do get…migraines.”
And fuck, for once Logan prayed for anything but silence.
“Migraines,” Wade repeated, like he was testing the word out for the first time, “So that was a migraine?”
“Yes,” Logan did not offer any further comment.
“Care to explain the reason the near-immortal wolverine has a secret little kryptonite I didn’t know about?”
Logan ran a hand down the side of his face. There was truly nothing he would rather do less.
“Fuck–Wade, it’s really none of your business.”
“I’d argue it’s about fifteen-percent my business given we share a bathroom. And a bed. And we live together.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” Logan gritted out.
“In other words, do tell.”
With a shuddering breath, and a deep, agonizing desire to throw himself off the top of their apartment complex–though of course, that wouldn’t do much to put him out of misery–Logan explained. He told Wade about the worst nightmares, and the blood, and the splitting pain. He told Wade about the first time he’d had one, and the way how he could just fucking deal with it.
Wade listened the whole time, never once interrupting, never once insinuating Logan was weak or fragile. It was surprisingly cathartic to talk about it, and Logan had to stop himself before he accidentally bared his entire soul to the one man who would live long enough to ensure whatever was said sure as hell wouldn’t be forgotten.
“You’re just rawdogging these things? No pain medications? I could steal you a shitload of morphine,” Wade said offering a toothy smile.
“I don’t need that, it’s just a fucking nuisance,” Logan shook his head, wincing when the motion sent a spike of pain down his neck.
Wade seemed to notice, much to Logan’s irritation.
“You good there, Peanut?”
“Fine. Just…there are after effects. My neck is a little stiff.”
Logan reached to massage the stiff muscles, pressing his thumb and forefinger on either side of the bottom of his skull and pressing into his skin.
“I can help you with that, baby girl.”
Logan could practically feel Wade’s wink punctuating the innuendo. Of course, because anything to do Wade’s dick or his own was apparently the solution to everything.
“I’m good. Don’t think your dick–or mine–can fix this one, asshole.”
Wade feigned offense, flat hand placed over his chest.
“When you’re done being a bitter little bitch, I’m offering you a massage, of the non-dick variety. Because I am a nice person.”
It was, indeed, surprisingly nice.
Logan stared at him, hating himself for actually wanting the fucking massage, because he sure as shit shouldn’t have wanted it.
“I’m going to take that blank, lifeless stare as a hell yeah. So take off your shirt and come with daddy,” Wade pointed toward the bedroom expectantly, lips drawn into a wide smile.
“Don’t call yourself that again. Ever.”
What a little shit.
Logan, in a moment of what he could only presume was moral weakness or pure delusion, followed Wade into the bedroom, pulling his shirt over his head with a grunt. He looked expectantly at Wade, unsure what to do next.
“Lay down on your tummy,” Wade directed, patting the bed, “Good girl.”
Logan cursed him out as he laid down on his stomach, relaxing into the fresh bedding, arms splayed to his sides. Wade fiddled with something on his nightstand, then produced a small bottle that looked suspiciously like lube.
“Before you use your little finger forks to cut off my hands, not lube– well, it certainly could be lube–but rather massage oil.”
“Whatever, asshole. Just–stop talking. Please.”
“Two uses of the word please in one day? I’m honored.”
With that, Logan forced himself to stop responding. There was the click of the bottle opening, and then without warning, the soft press of two, warm hands over the very center of his back.
Wade moved them in long strokes down the tense lines of Logan’s back, pressing over each knot that lined his spine, and every hard touch point that came underneath his deft fingers. Logan hated how good it felt, hated how every roll of Wade’s fingers over his lower back made him want to arch into the touch.
“Feel good, Peanut?”
Logan nodded into the pillow, too humiliated to admit just how fucking perfect it felt.
“That’s good to hear, darling. I just want to take care of you, make it all better.”
Logan didn’t know why, but the praise felt equally as good as the soft presses of Wade’s fingers down his spine. And fuck–he surely didn’t deserve those words, he didn’t deserve to be taken care of like this, spread out on his stomach, vulnerable.
“I’m going to work on your neck now. Tell me if it hurts too much.”
Wade’s skilled fingers moved up to the base of his neck and rolled over his shoulders a few times before dipping into the strained lines of muscle on either side of his neck leading up into the back of his head.
“Fuck,” Logan panted, because it fucking hurt like a bitch, but felt incredibly relieving all at the same time.
“I would, but I’m the tiniest bit preoccupied with other parts of your body.”
Wade pressed into the muscles again and again, switching between long strokes of his thumbs and small presses over the sore points when Logan hissed or flinched under his touch. Logan soaked everything in, and not just the practiced hands rubbing over his neck. It was Wade’s warm breath so close to skin, and the smell of the eucalyptus scented oil mixed with cologne and sweat. It was the closeness, and each gentle question from Wade about what hurt and what felt good.
Mostly, it all felt good, and so fucking good, in fact, that Logan let the tiniest, most shameful fucking moan out of his lips.
“Oh? Ohhh? Was that a whimper of pleasure I heard?”
Logan flustered, stuttering on the insult he had prepared to spew out, “I –fuck.”
Wade dragged his fingernails down Logan’s back, sending a shiver down his spine, then returned to sweeping strokes that were far more sensual than the deep, grinding strokes of his thumbs. Logan felt his face grow warm as he settled into the touch, because his body, against his will, was responding. His dick was growing stiff, trapped underneath the weight of his body.
To Logan’s immediate alarm, Wade stopped massaging, hands patting on the very center of his back.
“All set with the back, Peanut. Flip over and I’ll get the front,” Wade demanded.
Logan hesitated, because there was no fucking way Wade didn’t know what he was doing, and there was no fucking way that he wouldn’t comment on Logan’s bulge pressing into the zipper of his jeans.
“My front doesn’t need a massage, bub,” Logan groaned, stretching his arms over his head.
“But it would feel good wouldn’t it?”
Logan growled, again, hoping Wade would get the point.
“Oh c’mon! Those tits look so fucking good all oily and sweaty. You know you want it, baby girl.”
“No, I fucking don’t,” Logan snarled, flipping over onto his back and sitting up in one motion, hoping to conceal the state of his dick with his hands before Wade had even a fraction of a second to look.
But, naturally, a fraction of a fraction of a second was just enough for Wade to see what he needed to see.
“Oh shit–you really do want it, don’t you?” Wade’s shit-eating grin could have made Logan vomit again.
“It’s not–” Logan wanted to defend himself, “It’s a natural reaction.”
“A natural reaction to being fucking turned on. Oh my jesus christ The Wolverine has an erection because of me. Again.”
Logan didn’t hesitate to stab him in the fucking thigh, inches from his dick, as a friendly matter to piss off.
“So worth it. So worth it,” Wade squeaked, recovering quickly as Logan buried his face in his hands, “Let me massage your chest. I won’t make it weird.”
Wade had already made it beyond weird, Logan could hardly think of a scenario between two non-sexually involved men in a bed that would be weirder. Hell, a quick fuck between friends was less weird than whatever this was.
But Logan was half mast, tired as fuck of hearing Wade talk, and more than happy to lay down and feel something other than pain for a little bit longer.
“Fine. But you’ve already made it fucking weird.”
“I’m told that’s my finest skill,” Wade responded, pouring another bit of oil on his fingertips.
Logan definitely did not feel a tiny spike of arousal run through his stomach as he watched Wade rub his slick fingers together. No –fuck that.
Wade took his time pressing his thumbs over the space just below Logan’s shoulders, and the man in question closed his eyes, not sure where to look when Wade was ten fucking centimeters away.
Slowly, with practiced motions and a gentleness that made Logan want to cry, Wade worked his way down Logan’s chest and sides. He was good with his hands, never pressing too hard, never going too fast or too slow.
Logan allowed himself to enjoy it, softly breathing through his nose and holding back the small noises of contentment he didn’t want Wade to have the pleasure of hearing.
Eventually, Wade began to near Logan’s waist, thumbs tracing over the vee of his hips, then curling over his hip bones in long passes.
Logan blinked his eyes open with a restrained gasp when he felt Wade’s deft index finger dip just below the waistband of his briefs.
There was something in the air, the smell of Wade’s body wash and cologne intermingling, or was it the hint of sweet sweat on Wade’s skin? Whatever it was, Logan felt delirious and placid all the same, almost as if all his muscles went slack under his weight.
“Can I take these off?” Wade asked innocently, not a joke or jab in sight. Logan nodded, a gentle motion, eyes half-lidded.
Wade’s hands made quick work of his belt, unbuckling it with ease before tugging at the button of his pants and pulling down the zipper. Logan lifted his hips, allowing Wade to shuck off his jeans in one smooth motion.
For a moment, he felt overly exposed, chilly air nipping at his newly freed skin, but Wade’s hands returned in sweeping, perfect, intoxicating strokes, massaging his hips and dipping down to his quads.
“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this,” Wade muttered softly, both hands cupping over one of his thighs and moving up and down until the muscle released every bit of tension.
“I’ll stop you from fucking doing it if you keep talking,” Logan shot back.
“If you insist, sweetheart.”
Logan’s dick somehow grew harder with the pet name, because he hated it, but somehow, he loved it even more.
For some time, Wade worked down his legs, occasionally blabbering on about something Logan hardly had the focus or energy to focus on. Instead, he basked in the attention, belly rolling with a distinct type of desire he hadn’t felt in far too long.
It wasn’t the feral type of arousal, and hardly could be described as horny. No, it was something different, a slow descent into desire, a flame building into a raging fire as time went on.
He didn’t need to be fucked this time –he wanted to be.
“Wade,” Logan murmured when Wade reached his ankles, drawing circles around the outermost bone, “Hey–”
“Hey, Peanut.” Wade looked up, pupils wide.
Fuck if that nickname wasn’t at least a little endearing.
“I uh–” Logan couldn’t find the words, so he swallowed instead, trying to find a way to ask Wade for something more without sounding excruciatingly desperate, “I want –fuck.”
“I believed it’s pronounced ‘I want to fuck.’”
Logan’s cheeks went a horrifying shade of red.
“Just get up here and kiss me, bub.”
Wade did–rather quickly–crawling up Logan’s body like it was his fucking job.
It started slow, Wade’s lips dragging over Logan’s softly, just a gentle dip of a tongue between lips. Logan melted into it, lips ajar as he let Wade lick into him, running his tongue over the ridges of his teeth.
“So good, Logan, letting me take care of you like that.”
There was something about the sound of his name on Wade’s tongue, something about the little pieces of praise woven in with it.
They kissed until Logan’s lips were raw and Wade dropped to mouth at his neck, lips sucking at his skin, trailing down to his collarbone, lined with a certain desperation.
Wade nibbled his way down Logan’s chest and stomach, pushing lower and lower until his lips reached the very edge of the waistband of Logan’s black briefs. Using his thumbs, Wade dragged down the elastic just enough that Logan could tell his black, coiling hair was visible.
“I want to make you feel good, sweetheart.”
Wade’s voice was lower than normal, lined with determination and sex and fuck Logan wanted to feel good, if only just to satiate Wade.
“I–Wade,” Logan’s own voice was wrecked and raw, “Please.”
“Didn’t think you were the begging type,” Wade said, tapping his hip, and Logan didn’t hesitate as he allowed his briefs to be pulled down his legs, “Such a perfect boy, begging for me to fuck you.”
Logan would have conjured up some sort of retort, but before he could even begin to think of the right words to say, Wade stifled an intake of breath as Logan’s cock sprung free and the leaking, purple tip bounced up against the trail of hair on his stomach. Wade’s fingers wrapped around his length, thumb circling the tip, teasing.
“Oh shit,” Logan whispered, almost feeling like he could come with a few well-placed tugs and the flick of a wrist.
“You’re leaking. All for me? I knew you liked a little bit of praise. You like it when I tell you what a perfect little angel you are, darling?”
Off the books, yes, apparently Logan did.
But Wade didn’t need to hear that admission.
In the absence of being able to say anything that would amount to more than fuck you, Logan nodded, a short groan leaving his mouth when Wade spread the precum down his length with a firm twist of his hand.
Logan watched Wade’s head lower toward his dick, bracing himself for the jolt of electricity, but instead, a gentle tongue dragged over the space where his thigh met his torso, then down further and further and–
“Wade, jesus–”
Wade nosed over his balls with a tentative few swipes of his tongue, wide eyes looking up at Logan like he was waiting for approval.
Then, Wade pulled away, and Logan couldn’t help the way the air was knocked from his lungs, because he needed something, anything–
“Logan,” Wade whispered, Logan’s hips bucking upward when he dragged a fingertip over the space just over the trail of hair right under his naval, “I’d like to open you up on my tongue, get you all wet and leaking like you were in my dream circa three? Maybe four nights ago?”
“What the fuck?”
“Forget it–I want to fuck you with my tongue. Right now. Does that sound nice, sweetheart?”
Logan’s heart possibly skipped a beat, but he couldn’t be sure because Wade was sliding his tongue over the base of his cock, looking into his eyes expectantly.
“Yes. Yes.”
Wade did just that, tongue dipping lower, dragging over Logan’s balls again, then across the outer edge of his rim, stopping to suck on the skin there for only a second, but long enough to make Logan throw his head back and drag in a shuddering breath.
It was so good, the little noises Wade made, the endless, vibrating brushes of a tongue over his sensitive skin as Wade hummed pleasantly.
By the time Logan had allowed himself to shake under Wade’s iron grip on his jutting hip bones, one hand disappeared, fingers finding their way to the edge of his rim, tapping against the oversensitive skin, demanding his attention.
Wade pressed a single digit forward, soaked in his own saliva and slick enough to slide in up to the first join easily.
“Wade,” Logan muttered breathily, mentally begging for more, please.
Wade seeminly complied, fucking the digit in and out, over and over and over until Logan was a sputtering, twitching mess under his hold. Then the finger was gone–but only for a second–replaced with the warm heat of Wade’s tongue burying itself inside of him.
And holy shit– Logan almost came from the image of Wade’s face buried between his thighs, ripping the pleasure from his bones. Wade only pulled back when Logan reached for the base of his own cock, squeezing tight, not allowing himself to come too early, not before Wade was ready. Not before Wade told him he could.
“Good boy,” Wade chimes, pulling back with sinfully red lips, tongue escaping his mouth to lick over them, “Think I’m gonna finger you now. Do you want that sweetheart? You want me to get you all loose and ready for my cock, hmm?”
Logan nodded earnestly, blisssed out to the point where he hardly cared if Wade saw him like this.
Wade took his sweet time getting up from the bottom of the bed and rummaging around in his nightstand for the right type of lube.
“Wade, I need you,” Logan said gruffly, watching through his eyelashes as Wade returned to the end of the bed, “Please just–”
“Calm your tits, baby girl, my fingers aren’t going anywhere–besides inside you–if you’d just be patient for once in your long-ass life.”
Wade’s fingers felt strange sliding into his already loosened hole, stretching him wider with each pass of his first two digits. Logan pressed downward, aching for more friction, straining to angle Wade’s fingers just right against that spot he knew would make him leak even harder.
“Jesus you’re desperate, Logan.”
With that, Wade crooked his fingers just right, and Logan swore his vision went blank.
It felt like heaven, the constant, perfect pressure over his prostate, each pass of fingers over the sensitive ridge send another spurt of precum down the side of his dark red cock. When Wade’s third finger pushed inside, Logan gritted his teeth, releasing a whimper loud enough he was sure their neighbors had to have heard it.
“You looked so fucked out, Logan, holy shit.”
There was more pressure sliding across his prostate, working him with an urgency and determination that he’d never felt before. The singular focus was so much, edging on pain the faster Wade’s fingers pulsed over his the sensitive gland, and Logan felt tears begin to well in the corners of his eyes.
“Wade, it’s so..it’s so…”
He couldn’t finish his thought, because his breath was hitching in his chest, and pleasure was mounting on all sides, boxing him in.
He was going to come if Wade didn’t stop–
“You wanna come on my fingers, sweetheart? Yeah? I want to see you fall apart just like this.”
Wade dug in harder, twisting his fingers now, his other hand stroking the underside of his balls. Without warning, Wade’s lips found their way to the head of his dick, collecting the translucent precum from the tip before he wrapped his whole mouth around the head, tongue tracing the sensitive slits.
It took just a moment of suction, and a firm drag across his prostate, and the drag of calloused fingers over his skin to make him lose control.
And he fucking wept.
“Logan you’re so perfect like this, angel.”
A hand came up to collect his leaking teardrops where they left wet trails dripping down the sides of his face. Pleasure ripped through each and every one of his veins, every nerve in his body erupting, heaving sobs bursting from his lungs because it was fucking perfect.
Wade held him through it.
“I’m going to fuck you later tonight. With my dick this time. I hope I can make you cry agin because holy fucking balls, that was a core memory.”
Logan was tucked inside the curve of Wade’s body, who was still fully clothed, but his thick erection ground against Logan’s back.
“Alright, Wade.”
“Maybe I’ll bend you over the window sill, or fuck you against the wall. Or in the bathroom. Or the kitchen when Al goes to get her powdered donuts.”
Logan’s eyes were drifting shut, his body still rippling with the aftershocks of a well-earned orgasm.
“Whatever you want, bub.”
“God, I think I might love you,” Wade said back, and Logan tensed in his arms, hating the sounds of those words being directed at him. Guilt crept into him quickly, gnawing at his senses, making his skin crawl. Wade had taken care off him, pulled an orgasm–and tears–from him almost like he’d done it many times before.
Hell–he’d wiped down Logan’s dick and brought a warm washcloth to clean up the mess.
But love was too much, and more than Logan dared to assume he would ever deserve.
“Can you shut up, Wade?” Logan offered instead, voice strained.
“It’s actually may you shut up, Wade.”
Logan did chuckle at that.
Love would have to be a discussion for another time, so Logan pressed back into Wade’s embrace, decidedly postponing his self-loathing for later that night.