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Wade can’t remember how they got here. How he got here.
Anger, he thinks. Definitely a bunch of it. The rare kind that surges ahead faster than his deflective humor again and burns a path straight to his itchy trigger fingers. Skids up his spine, too, because his girls need in when it’s this personal.
And this is…personal. But not for any perceived slight that he can remember all that coherently.
“Is this–all–it–fffucking–takes–for you–to shut–UP?”
The (probably) rhetorical question gets squeezed out word by word with the same visceral effort that Logan’s applying to Wade’s intestines.
He’s in the backseat of a fucking Honda Odyssey getting gutted like a fish and he can’t blame the ex X-Man for not knowing that this is so much more of an on switch for him than a silencer. The guy’s been out of commission for a while, sucking down sorrows from the necks of cheap bourbon bottles, and maybe never tangled with his world’s version of the Merc with the Mouth.
Worse yet, he didn’t have one.
And it was yet again up to Deadpool Prime to introduce the lost souls across the multiverse to the thrills of violence that the big cinematic sequences overlook.
The part when the well-choreographed dance of bloodshed has to have its ebbs, like a disgruntled ocean tide. Except Wade’s not disgruntled at all because that recession is sometimes the only way those oh-shit moments weasel their way into his chaos brain.
Like this one. Unfolding in between grotesquely wet sliiiishes of slender, sharp claws burrowing in and out of his flesh with purpose.
“Safe word, honey bun,” Wade croaks. “We never actually–“
“Shut the fuck up,” Wolverine snarls, slicing into him with renewed fury. Wade’s words get momentarily lost in a gargle. Oh, fuck.
Right. The realization. One that should be un-fucking-welcome, considering he’d gotten a crockpot of shit with a 72-hour timer on it for his birthday this year.
But it comes anyway. Hard. Something he’s also probably a minute and a few more well-inserted slices away from now.
This bright yellow ball of centuries-old rage? Hits every fucking one of his buttons like he’s raking those glorified fork hands down an elevator floor selection panel.
And after getting several good licks in and watching each and every one of them get sponged up by his fellow regenerator, Wade lets himself get torn to shreds. While trying not to come in his brand new spandex.
“You go past third base like this on all your first romps through the scraps of the multiverse?” Wade gasps out, curling a hand around a knife handle stuck in Wolverine’s side and tugging it out hard. He’s rewarded with a low hiss, and a sickening twist in his insides. “Or am I just really–nnfg–doin’ it for ya.”
Wolverine’s claws dig straight through the cushions near Wade’s head, leverage for keeping the merc pinned so he can go to murder town. Hngh. His dick’s begging for mercy at this point and he’d coo up a symphony of sympathies if he had any brain cells left to spare.
“I hear one more word out of your fucking mouth tonight and I’m gonna make good on my promise to find out how well you come back from decapitation.”
“You’d have to make do without my best feature for a couple hours, give or take, but–can we–“ He grunts when Wolverine yanks out his claws from his side without warning, bringing the red-slicked adamantium near his neck in warning. “Fuck. Can we not? Not super up on the specifics of neurology but I think you might regret cutting off my brain when you find it’s the only thing keeping white off that eyesore of a superhero color scheme. And we’ll get review-bombed by comic fans who already thought the sliced-off shoulder pads were blasphemous. Okay, as Marvel Jesus, it’s my fucking sworn oath to–“
He honestly thinks his babbling might sizzle off the hothead hero like water droplets on a tray of fajitas. Until–
“Jesus.”
“Marvel Jesus, actually, comes with a whole other territory of crosses to bear–“
“No, you fucking idiot. I thought that was a joke.”
“My unwavering commitment to bringing thinly veiled car-fucking scenes to PG-13 franchises?”
Logan’s eye twitches. “Referring to what I just felt against my leg.”
“That’d be my raging erection. Bellowing with rage, actually. Probably pissed that a grumpy old man with a boomerang-shaped haircut woke him up without saying hi, but, nothin’ you need to worry about. Just–y’know–“ Wade gestures toward his tattered suit, barely camouflaging his bloodstains at this rate. “As you were.”
Please, he thinks, and hopes it comes out in one of those thought bubbles that eats up a good quarter of the page. Bold enough for Wolvy to sniff out himself. Because God bless Dopinder and whatever birthday stripteases he ordered that never came to pass for Wade, but this is soooooo much higher on his glitter-penned wishlist.
The car’s stopped creaking with the previous exertion of their murderfuckfest and Wade mourns the noise.
Wolverine leans over him, spattered in a mix of their blood and quietly seething like his namesake.
“You pluck me,” he says in a low growl, “out of the only decent bar in town. Lie to me about an opportunity to fix what happened in my world–“
“Not to beat a dead horse with a spiked bat but it was an educated–“
“And you’re not only impossible to shut the fuck up for longer than ten seconds, but you’re sitting there getting off from me trying.”
“Veeeery possible I misread the situation,” Wade says lightly. “But kinda got to a point where it felt like you were trying to fuck me into the next timeline with those things.”
“Your real life such a shithole that any kinda penetration does it for you?”
Wade squirms, doesn’t even regret it when the movement nicks Wolvy’s claws against his pulsing neck. Guy’s got a mouth on him with soooo much potential. “Um. Especially this kind.”
Logan stares at him wordlessly. Ire slowly simmers to something more contemplative. And Wade feels himself getting restless, because for whatever fucking reason, the guy isn’t digging those claws in deep like he had been moments before. And his cells are screaming for it, hollow without the rupture of savagery.
“You got us into this wasteland. So even if I want to stick around here and figure out if there’s a pace that your regeneration can’t match? I’ll be damned if I’m left to do all the fucking work.”
“Hear heaaar. Hasn’t been easy carting a drunk werewolf around but you have your moments.”
“But that.” The tips of his claws drag over Wade’s mouth through the mask with careful pressure. Able to cut deep through the problem but strangely holding back. “Stays an issue. Your big mouth. I don’t ask for peace from my own head ‘cause that battle’s moot, but I expect some of it from the moron that dragged me out of retirement for a plan I’ve been watching you barely piece together by the fucking hour.”
“S’called improvisation. Something the theater kid in you should be ruffling their feathers at, Hugh.”
“That, too. Not only do you keep fucking talking, it might as well be in another language half the time.“
“Hard being out of the loop, yeah? Thought desecrating a Honda Odyssey with my innards might help nurse your wounds, and all it’s done is make that fire of yours run soo much hotter. Singeing those meticulously grown mutton chops–“
Claws slice through the lower half of Wade’s mask, making his mouthpiece slide down his chest. He gulps down the heated air between them and tries to choke it into a faux scandalized noise.
“Hey. Gonna pay for that, fuckface? You better have a sewing kit stowed down those pants.”
He abruptly removes his left set of claws from the cushions, jarring Wade’s skull with the ricochet, and retracts them in the same breath.
Then he grabs Wade’s exposed jaw, tracing the scars there like he plans to make his own fingerprints the more prominent divots.
“Not gonna listen if I tell you to stop talking,” Logan says in a voice that’s–resigned? No. Nope. Risky undercurrent of something else there, that has Wade nearly preening like a peacock. “And after maybe an entire fucking hour of slicing you open, all we’ve really got to show for it is a shitty excuse for a car.”
Eh. Had that to begin with.
“Big Bad Wolvy’s at a crossroads with no arrows to point him toward Grandma’s house,” Wade manages, even with the yellow-clad, well-built asshole’s thumbs driving through the hollows in his cheeks.
“Something’s pointing me.”
Wade gapes at him.
Logan’s mouth forms an impatient line.
“Please tell me you’re talking about my dick.”
“Getting a lot harder to ignore it.”
“Sorry. I normally have to pay for this kind of treatment.”
Miraculously, it isn’t just fury lining the contours of a tired Wolverine’s expression when he regards Wade. It’s consideration. Extremely reluctant amusement. Irritation, ever-present. But beneath that–Wade would pinch himself if he didn’t think any sudden movements might get his arms sliced off before he can touch himself–he swears it’s almost like looking in a fucking mirror. The lust that inevitably embeds itself in all bloodshed. Deadpool’s favorite fucking part.
“I’d say you’re still paying for it,” Logan says gruffly.
“Consider me loaded, then. In more ways than o–“
Wolverine twists his right set of claws back into the flesh wounds that were steadily reforming in Wade’s side and roughly captures his mouth before an innuendo or, Jesus, a fucking prayer, can filter through.
It’s a clash of teeth, a means of suppression, bourbon and blood mingled on Logan’s tongue and lips. Wade’s not much of a drinker, killing’s always done the escape-the-self-imposed-misery thing pretty well. But he wouldn’t mind experimenting with Logan’s second favorite vice like this, as much as a 72-hour-span would allow. He licks into his mouth like a glutton because he might literally be taking this lying down but he’s not planning on it figuratively.
“Thirty seconds,” Logan huffs into his mouth, then bites hard at his bottom lip, drawing blood. “New record.”
He feels himself bristle at the accusation, ‘till it dimly occurs to him that he means the talking. And he hadn’t, in fact, come the second this beefed up Freddy Krueger started touching him with lots more than murderous intent.
Better take care of that.
Unbuckling his utility belt and letting the winds of multiversal fate decide where the fuck it lands, he shoves down his pants and grips his cock with a blood-and-sweat slicked glove.
Logan harshly exhales against his mouth, sparing a glance down. Takes in Wade’s attempt at a careful pace, then–literally–seizes the matter himself. Lets go of Wade’s jaw, wraps his gloved fingers around Wade’s working hand, and apparently decides fucking fuck it, slow was made for the days of ninety-minute runtimes.
“GodfuckingdammitifyouunleashedtheclawsrightnowImiiiiightbeintothat.”
“No the fuck you wouldn’t. That’s a sliced dick.”
“You’re a sliced dick,” Wade moans.
“Didn’t say you could start talking.”
“Didn’t say you could overtake my jerkoff session.”
Logan growls against his mouth, frustration seemingly picking up in time with their nearly-synced strokes. He squeezes both of their hands around the base and Wade bucks his hips, inadvertently impaling the claws in his side deeper.
“Well turns out,” the blood-smattered wall of muscle above him says with teeth bared against his lips, “that you need more than a lesson in saving the world.”
“Mmmph. Thought I covered the Master’s in Masturbation in my exposition. Minored in edging, you–impatient–jackass.”
“We don’t have all fucking day, though, do we?”
“Don’t we? Third act still feels kinda far away–fuck!”
Making a noise in his throat, Logan had guided their hands over Wade’s cock–and, matching the same increasingly frenzied rhythm, thrust his claws in and out of the merc’s wounds.
Wade thinks he almost blacks out from arousal. Or winks out of existence to an ether that not even the TVA could hope to reach. Is it premature to tell this moody asshole that he’s kinda the best birthday gift a guy could ever receive? Those dollar store candles he blew out must have been soaked with good luck because Wade’s about to be soaked and maybe, just fucking maybe, Honda Odysseys get a bad rap.
Wolverine wedges himself against Wade’s side instead of straddling him, causing the car to creak in protest. He yanks out his claws unceremoniously and offers one crimson-dripped spike to Wade’s gasping, open mouth. To shut him up, maybe, but he’s not gonna bite the hand that feeds him fucking murder-flavored metal.
“You come on my suit,” the muscled asshole whispers against his ear, “and I kill you.”
Oh, but it’s fine for you to rip mine, dickweasel, Wade would snark, if his mouth wasn’t preoccupied with sucking along the sharp edges of Wolverine’s claw and reveling in the sensation of a pricked tongue.
“Don’t worry, princess,” Wade chokes out when the claw pops free before he’s ready for the absence. “I planned on painting this baby with something to make her less of a Nicepool-tainted shitstain.”
“Yeah?” Metallic tips jerk Wade’s face toward Logan’s, streaking blood along his cheek, and he feels his dick twitch. “Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”
Their eyes lock. Logan’s narrow with determination and through his torn mask, Wade’s are wider than a saucepan. And without so much as a courteous warning, Logan’s hand flexes around his dick right as the claws come surging back out. Right into Wade’s stomach. Shredding up his gullet in time with the calloused palm over his cock.
He wasn’t lying before, half a second after getting bodily heaved through the windshield. This car fucks sooooo hard, but Wade? He comes harder, in spurts that decorate the torn, bloodied seats of the Odyssey like a Pollock original.
“Look at that,” Logan mutters, and curiously, his hand’s still on Wade’s cock. Like it’s a leash. Jesus. Following that thread of thought is going to get him at half-mast again. “Finally cleared out the muck that’s been clogging your brain.” He directs a long look at Wade, his eyes flicking down to his mouth. “You ready to be useful now?”
He’ll still see about fixing this asshole’s universe. Then, he’s gonna have a long talk with the TVA about letting Brown Eyes and Boozy be a long-term fit in Wade’s.