LOST!

They had been eighty miles from the nearest bit of civilization, scouting a dense chunk of Canadian wilderness for an enclave of hidden mutants the officers wanted found for some reason that was beyond Victor's pay grade. No sound of the mutants, or anyone. The sun was arching towards the Western Horizon and they'd come down to a vale, cut through the mountains by a winding, twisting creek. Logan knelt by the water, his jacket and gear tossed off, to cup his hand and splash his face clean of the day's sweat, accrued over their hard march. Behind him, Victor prowled, soft steps, slow strides. Despite the breadth and weight of his large frame, didn't so much as crack a twig. Watching him, how the water beaded and ran down the column of his neck, the soft hair on his bare and powerful arms, the holes in his old wife beater top. He smelled like salt and cigars, and the raw musk of an animal, and it was like a fucking drug. Victor growled, low and rumbling in his throat. Logan finally looked up.

"What are you --"

Before Victor grabbed him by the arm, hauled him around, and threw him back into a tree. The weight of Logan's body shook the whole canopy and bird song stilled in the hush of the wound, startled by the two predators snarling at each other. Logan bristled and surged up, thinking this was another fight. Victor met him halfway, their mouths mashing into an almost painful, tooth clashing kiss. He grabbed Logan's jaw, rough with unshaven hairs. Logan stiffened but then he grabbed at Victor's collar and pull him in, an arm hooking around his waist. Chest-to-chest, he tilted his head just right to deepen the kiss, shove his tongue almost half down Victor's throat. Like, he'd been starving for this too. Just like Victor knew he had been. He wanted this. He wanted this the whole time: exchanging spit, knocking teeth, chewing at their lips, all the sloppy, wet noises, and needy growls shared between them. Victor's claws scraped into Logan's hips and ribs, Logan cussed and yanked on a fistful of Victor's hair. Victor rocked into him. He smelled like sex and lust, like an animal in heat. Like everything Victor needed and wanted, to breed, to fuck, to devour.

Victor wanted this. And Logan hauled him off by the hair, like a scruffed cat. Those dark eyes trawling Victor's bitten red lips and flushed cheeks, his blown out pupils. He smirked, Victor growled and tugged at Logan's belt, pawing in frustration.

"You want this, Vic?" Logan asked, he sounded hoarse.

"'Course I fuckin' want it," Victor snapped. The buckle undone he yanked the belt free of the loops of Logan's pants. Victor dropped to his knees, holding onto Logan's hips, and Logan holding onto his hair. "I'm about to suck you off and you're tryin' to measure my fuckin' teeth."

"I want you to want it," Logan replied, but he tugged on Victor's hair. Groaned when Victor shoved his nose up against his bulge and nuzzled into the coarse fabric. "You ain't doin' this... for any other reason, right? You want this."

"I want this," Victor repeated, almost reverent. Spit on his tongue he drooled against Logan's package, huffed in his scent. "I ain't gonna ask again."

"I should make you beg, kitten," Logan chuckled, another tug on Victor's hair and it sent shivers down his spine. Instead, Logan reached down and undid the button for his pants, pushed down his waistband, and underwear. Victor mouthed at his cock and Logan's head fell back against the trunk of the tree with a low, pleased groan. "Fuck, that's good."

"Told ya, it'd be good." Victor said. He laid his tongue flat to the base of Logan's cock, long languid licks, savoring his taste. It was hard to name what was going on in his own head, except for the repetition of 'I want this, I want this, I want this,' like some damn mantra. Usually, when sucking some guy off, Victor thought of his grocery list or some shit. But Logan, Logan tasted good. Logan's cock was warm and heavy on his tongue, his balls cloying with his musk and sweat, and he wrapped his mouth around the tip almost eager, lapping at the slit. Swallowing his pre-cum with a bob of his throat. Salty, sweat, thought Logan could do whatever the hell he wants to him, and Victor would still get on his knees for him. He wants this.

"Wasn't the question, Tiger." But Logan was biting back moans, head tilted up towards the heavens. Growling Victor's name. "I wanted you to want me."

Victor couldn't answer, mouth wrapped around Logan's cock. One hand braced to his hip and the other jacking him off, slow rough pumps to contrast the wet heat of his tongue. He noticed everything, blue eyes hazy and black, when Logan twitched and shuddered, when he couldn't hide his moans anymore, when his hips started to rock. Never before had Victor paid so much attention, watched so closely. He felt like he was burning alive, his own cock straining hard against his jeans. Victor thought he'd do this for free. Suck Logan off and just be a warm wet mouth for him to fuck. It would be simpler if he was just a thing, didn't feel or think, just got owned and held and used. But he still had his demands. Swallowing Logan's cum and holding him against his tongue even when he softened, taking him a second time. Making Logan pull his hair and rut into his mouth; 'till his eyes rolled back and spit dripped down his jaw. Thought about nothing but the blackness of Logan's eyes and then his hand petting his hair when he yanked Victor off his cock, panting like he'd run a marathon. Soft touched, threading through coarse blond strands, cropped short by crude scissors. Victor missed having long hair.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," Logan breathed and Victor felt almost stupid enough to believe it. "Come here, Tiger."

He didn't know what Logan meant until he'd been pulled onto his feet, arms wrapped around his middle. Held chest-to-chest, Victor leaning against Logan and Logan leaning against the tree. Logan pressed his nose into Victor's neck and breathed him in. The moment slowed, the shadows long and softening as the sun finally vanished beneath the mountains, and the night darkened. But Logan was warm and his heart was steady, and Victor felt like he was about to suffocate in all the questions his scattered brain tried to ask all at once. What? Why? What is this? Did he do something wrong? Does Logan want him? Why isn't he doing anything? He grabbed at Logan's shoulders and pushed back, holding him almost at arm's length. Logan blinked up at him, almost surprised. Something unreadable in his face that Victor didn't like. He didn't like not knowing what Logan was thinking; he could never figure out what Logan was thinking.

Logan hadn't said he wanted this. Wanted Victor. But what does Victor matter if he's just a couple warm holes and a dick? Easy to use. Easy to get off. Long as you don't look at him for too long. Got a face not even a mother could love or a boner could stay hard to. Victor wants this. Wants Logan because the night is cold and Logan is warm, and his hands are rough, and he has to make himself useful, and good, somehow. So, Logan will keep sitting with him and touching him, and.

"Easy, Vic," Logan soothed, his hand worked up and down Victor's spine, slow, languid touches. Spreading between his shoulder blades. Victor felt like he was going to spontaneously combust. "I ain't goin' anywhere."

"Ain't ya gonna fuck me?" Because something told Victor that letting Logan top would make him seem more amenable, better, easier, more good. Whittled down to an acceptable size. But he also wants Logan to top, feel Logan in him, be full, be good. He sounds like he's whining; hates the sound of his own voice. Hates most everything about himself.

"Do you want me to?" Logan asked.

"Do ya want to?" Victor asked and expected the answer to be 'no.'

"Answer my question first, Tiger," Logan grinned. "And I'll show ya the answer to yours."

Everything's scrambled and upside down, and not how this was supposed to go. In his head, it was like a dam breaking and Logan just took all the things he'd wanted all along. He'd settle the score between them. Make it even. And then Victor wouldn't have to think about it, or Logan, so damn much. His own 'want' didn't factor into it. Never had, never would. Sure, sometimes Victor wanted a fuck and got it. But there'd been plenty of times where what Victor 'wanted,' wasn't the first question. What was practical, what was easy, what he had to do. On occasion, chained down and muzzled, he never got a choice. Just take it, lie back and think of North Dakota, sometime it felt good enough he could convince himself he wanted it or didn't care. Most of the time it just hurt. Victor didn't know what the fuck he wanted.

If he said 'yes,' Logan fucked him. He thinks.

If he said 'no,' Logan... did what? He doesn't know.

"Can't ya just take it, for once?" Victor growled, frustration rolling up in him. "All this pussy footin' around is drivin' me fuckin' nuts. Either you want it or ya don't."

"Not when I want you to give it," Logan returned. "Willingly. No coercion. No pressure. Nothing. It's called 'consent,' Vic. It ain't rocket science. Either ya want it, or ya don't. If ya don't, we don't. If ya do, well, you'll find out. But say 'no' and we'll stop right here. It ain't mean ya messed up, or we won't ever go again. Just means it's a 'no.' That's it. I'll still like you. We'll still be friends."

Victor stared at Logan like he'd grown a second and then also a third head.

"It's a 'yes' or 'no' question, Vic. Don't over think it. Do you want me to fuck you?"

His mouth opened, closed. Lips parted in silent, voiceless sound as his thoughts turned over. And before he really could overthink it, per Logan's suggestion. He said: "Yes."

"Good boy," Logan murmured, in a way that flushed Victor's cheeks hot pink and maybe filled his chest with what felt like hot air.

He kissed Victor's cheek and then hooked under his legs, lifting the larger man. Logan turned and pushed Victor up against the tree, hands on his hips, slow touches, working up his ribs. Victor squirmed and Logan tutted, and Victor stopped moving. Let Logan pull his shirt over his head, let Logan touch him. Groping at his chest and shoulders and arms. Growling, before licking long hot stripes up Victor's throat and embedding his fangs into his neck. So, that Victor moaned and jerked, clawed at Logan's shoulders. But went languid, softer, less restless, more willing to accept the path of Logan's mouth across his collarbones, slow and savoring. Sucking on his tits, leaving bite marks that healed in almost the same breath Logan left them. Snarling and calling Victor stupid things like, 'beautiful,' and 'so god damn gorgeous.' Got Victor muttering "Please, fuck, now," almost desperate, nearly begging for Logan to touch him and proper, whimpering when he finally did. Never been so worked up, so hard, so touched in his entire life. It was always faster than this; get it over with.

"You don't know how fuckin' hot you are," Logan snarled. His hand wrapped around Victor's cock. Jacking him off, holding his hips tight to keep him from escaping. "Got no god damn idea how bad I've wanted you. Want you."

Then Victor whimpered and bucked, and demanded: "Why?" Because none of this made sense other than Logan made him feel good and that barely made sense either. And Logan laughed, but it didn't sound mean. And kissed Victor's neck, whispered for him to come, 'pretty boy.' Like, it was some kinda prayer.

To which Bucky breathed an amused, huffing laugh and grabbed his hips, grip firm, leaning into him to capture Steve's mouth into a rough kiss. Spit dribbled on their lips, Bucky's tongue swiping between his teeth. A fist full of blond hair keeping Steve exactly where he wanted him. Not that Steve was inclined to go anywhere, hooking an arm around Bucky's slim waist, pulling him closer. This, at least, he was all too eager to indulge in after days of missions and work, and barely finding time in the middle of it all for each other. Between kisses, soft gasps parting Steve's lips for Bucky to devour, tugging on his hair, Steve asked if they should 'go upstairs.' Informal code for his room. Privacy, not on the same floor, in a shared space, as the others. Bucky nipped him in return, biting into the plush of Steve's lip, and asked:

"Why? You're hard now." And to prove his assessment, Bucky reached between Steve's thigh to palm his bulge. His grip heavy and firm on the lines of Steve's half-swollen cock, the resulting noise drawing a smirk to Bucky's lips. Like a predator cornering wounded prey. "No one's gonna come in, Steve."

"The cameras," was his only defense and protest, even as Steve ground into the round of Bucky's hand. For his obedience, Bucky squeezed and groped. Which did nothing good for Steve's sense of propriety.

"C'mon, Cap," Bucky drawled. As if to say 'obviously I took care of the cameras,' when and how, Steve had no idea. Bucky was more tech savvy than he was, or maybe, he asked Nat. Only knew he trusted that it was done, that Bucky wouldn't do this if he thought it would lead to Steve getting hurt. "Turn around," he demanded.

Someone could hear, Steve thought, even as he obeyed, pushing away from the table and turning to face it. He was so unaccustomed to Bucky's tone and forwardness, but something about the firmness, the confidence, left no room for doubt. Only want. Bucky pressed his hand between Steve's shoulder blades, tugging on his hip with the metal of his prosthetic, and bending him over the table. When Steve didn't move as fast as he liked, he shoved, and Steve's front collided hard, the air going out of him. That hand stayed, pinning him down. Where there would be room for doubt and hesitation, Bucky filled himself in. Touched him, hands sliding up and down his back, rucking up his t-shirt. Rough, warm callouses; contrasted to cool and smooth steel, that too was a choice. Burning Steve in one gesture and leaving icy trails with the other, making him arch. Bucky nudged apart Steve's legs, forcing his feet further apart and lowering his hips, aligning their height difference. Letting him rock his hips against the swell of Steve's still covered ass, so he could feel Bucky's arousal.

"Where did this come from?" Steve asked, almost laughing. But it was nervous. He spread his arm out, laid his cheek on it. He couldn't see Bucky, only feel him. "Couldn't wait?"

"I'm not the impatient one," Bucky said, he reached around Steve's waist and undid his belt buckle, fed back through the loops to yank it off. "Giving me 'fuck me' eyes across the table the whole damn debriefing."

"Was not," Steve protested.

"Was too," and there was that kid, Steve knew on the streets. Playing ball with, still just a little petulant. And yet, Bucky leaned over him, his chest rolling flush with Steve's spine, hands braced to his hips to keep him down. To whisper in Steve's ear, breath hot on the shell where his skin was most sensitive, sending tingles down the small hairs of his neck. "Saw how bad Captain America wanted to get bent over the table and bitched. Bet you wouldn't mind if everyone was still here, would you? Watching?"

"Fuck, Bucky..." he whined, and Bucky shoved down the waistband of his pants, dragging underwear with them. Exposing skin to the dry, cool air of the conference room, Steve shivered.

"That's the idea." Bucky praised. Steve heard his grin, "but the other way around, this time."

He palmed the globe of Steve's ass with his natal hand, massaging into the firm muscle. That hand went away, Steve gripped the opposite edge of the table, just to have something to hold onto. The prosthetic hands was the one that returned, this time, skin warm. Tracing the point of Steve's coccyx, thumb pressing into the interior of the cheek to spread him. Bucky had warmed the lube in his natal hand so when he smeared it along the rim of Steve's hole, it didn't shock him. Steve groaned, Bucky traced once, twice, teasing him, then worked a knuckle into the tight muscle. Muttered something in Russian that Steve was too far gone to translate. He had only bottomed a handful of times since they'd gotten together; Steve wasn't as quick at relaxing as Bucky was. But Bucky was agonizingly patient, despite Steve's idea that this should be quick and done because of where they were. A second knuckle, pulling out to press his thumb in instead. The thickness of it making Steve squirm. Then tracing down to touch and fondle, the softness of his balls, squeezing a sack and then tugging at his dick. Just enjoying the exploration of Steve's body. Steve curled his arm, nose pressing into his bicep; finally, Bucky gave him two fingers and he groaned, feeling them slide in. It was almost easy, like he had gotten lost in the sensations and hadn't realized how much Bucky had opened him up.

Bucky pressed into his interior and Steve jolted, fingers slid in-and-out, scissored to stretch him, then crooked just right. Steve's hand spasmed, no longer trusting himself to hold the table lest he leave the indent of his grip in it. He made a fist instead, cutting half-moons with his nails into the meat of his palm. Didn't even realize Bucky had added another digit until he muttered, "that's three, Cap." He worked those fingers into Steve, pressing and massaging even as Steve's cock dripped untouched between his legs. If the table wasn't underneath him, Steve though his knees would give up. He wondered if Bucky would call it off, have a modicum of mercy, get him back up and clean him up, and they'd go back to the room. To the shower, God, Steve didn't think he could control himself here. Someone was going to hear, or know, or walk in.

And all that thought did was bottom in Steve's gut like a hot coal. When he came he bit down on his own arm to muffle himself and Bucky laughed. It was almost mean, but in the right way.

"I think Tony had been sitting over there, right?" Bucky asked, his touches were soft but his voice was teasing. The metal hand fisted in Steve's hair to force his head up, looking across the room at an empty chair, the natal hand withdrew from inside Steve. Leaving him painfully empty so Steve had to realize there was no way he could make it all the way upstairs, he wanted Bucky now. As if to reassure him, Steve felt the head of Bucky's cock press again him. He whined. "Wonder what his face would look like, if he was still there."

Then he thrust in. It was a slow push, letting Steve adjust to the weight and heft of him. Savor how he clenched and twitched, the half-bit back, muffled noises he made. One or two inches, just past the head, then rocking and fucking the entrance open. Claiming more and more of Steve, letting go of his hair to press on the small of his back and keep him arched. "Do you like that? Does that feel good?" He hilted and Steve groaned, low and broken. "To think, no one's ever gonna know Captain America's a slut." The table quacked underneath them, balance challenged by the force of Bucky's thrusts and the weight of Steve's body. It was wet, and loud, so damn loud, every time Bucky's hips met the swell of Steve's ass. Steve tried to compensate by being quieter, mouth pressed to arm, lips sealed. So, on one would know about Captain America, in his work place, fucked and bent over, and taking it.

But Bucky grabbed Steve wrist in the shackle like grip of his metal hand and wrenched it behind his back, pinned it down. So much power and strength, demanding, growling in Russian a swear and demand; tone conveying more than words. Reached between his legs and roughly jacked him off, squeezing Steve's cock between the loop of thumb and forefinger. Half leaned over him, fucking in so hard that the table rocked and threatened to tip with each thrust. Steve could never unwind the tangled knot of self-control and awareness, morality and responsibility, that kept his shoulders broad and his duty to self, others, world, first; but Bucky could make him let go. Make him forget, stop caring about being quiet, and moan, whimper, whine, come a second time, nearly crying because it was so soon after the first one.