pooOoOolverine

“Shit—”

And by the handjob, I mean the handjob Logan is impatiently giving himself while straddling Wade’s chest by the knees, hypnotized by Wade’s beautiful still body and face and eyelashes and slightly parted lips. Jerking off to his partner’s sleeping form, eyes sewn shut, body lying there helpless, not being able to resist?

What a fucking nasty dog. You know this is fucked up, right? This is fucked up.

This is fucked up, Logan.

“Haa—”

This is... fucked up.

Logan watches as a drop of precum drips onto Wade’s nose, dripping down the side, feeling like he has been bewitched.

Wade is so, so still. Had Logan not been able to hear the blood rushing through his veins, hyperactivated in order to kill the intruder in its body and save its more-dying-than-usual host, the cancerless mutant would’ve been fully convinced Wade is just gone. He would be digging a six-foot ditch to bury a body in right about now.

So still, deadly still. No jittery movements. No snappy comebacks and one-liners. No references to things that nobody else understands. Doesn’t easily wake due to vigilance honed by years of war. Still and quiet and vulnerable and defenseless.

He props himself onto the headboard for balance, hand gripping wood to the point of cracking as another hand starts stroking even faster, making the bed creak in awe. If he really wanted, he could even kill Wade right now. Do something even the universe couldn’t manage to do.

Logan registers the familiar tear of skin on his knuckles first before the sound of his claws digging into crumbling walls. The burn of flesh against adamantium stings stronger than usual, agonizingly taunting, provoking the already roused beast inside him with a hot poker.

Even if it ends up not being by Logan’s hands, both of them being practically immortal means no one else will likely get to see this sight of Wade so deadly still. Wade’s death is only his, to witness, to drown in the shock and loss of, to revel and savor, to be driven to madness by, to defy and avenge.

All of him is mine.

Logan groans, growls, lets his cock hover over that beautiful face as he keeps stroking. My power over him. My reign over him. My control over him. My possession of him. In sickness and in health. In unconsciousness and in death. Mine mine mine.

Heat starts to build up, down, pressing and tightening—he bucks into his hands, the thought of painting each one of Wade’s beautiful features with his fluids, drops of white all over those lips and eyelashes and only fucking mine to use and abuse and debauch—

—sending him over the edge, ropes of cum beautifully filling every space of Wade with Logan, covering, subjugating, conquering, violating. If Logan had his way, Wade could belong to nobody else, not even himself.