#wickedscribbles

Granted, he’s never done it after losing a horse, sporting a bad ankle, and half-dragging a saddle from miles away. There are worse things, he knows. He, too, could be dead. Hell, from the shape he’s in, Arthur knows he looks like he came close. But almost none of the blood he’s covered in is his.

It’s Karen that’s standing out on guard, shotgun propped on her hip, and he spots her moments before she spots him.

“Hey,” Arthur croaks out. “S’only me.”

She turns abruptly to the sound of his voice, lowering her gun.

“Arth – oh, shit! Arthur!” Shock hits Karen’s face as she takes him in, rushing over. “What the hell did you get into?”

God, where to even begin?

All he’d been trying to do was cross a damn bridge. Even before everything had gone to shit, it’d been a long day of running the town, sniffing for any good leads, stocking up on supplies, following up for any bounties the sheriff could have to earn some extra money. Always going going going. He trusted Dutch and Hosea, knew that they just had to work a little harder for now until they could turn around for what they had back at Blackwater, but that didn’t mean it was easy.

So his mind had been wandering a bit on the open trail, content to let himself sway with the motion of his mare underneath him in the saddle as she led them back to camp. Barley was the mare he’d finally settled on after Boadicea’s passing, and though for a while it seemed like another horse would never win him over the way Bo had, Barley’s starting to grow on him.

She’s a gorgeous young mare, curious and eager to please. Her bay coat shines in the sun from Arthur’s diligent brushing, black mane and tail kept tangle-free and clean. She’s lighter and faster than Bo had been, and while that had taken some getting used to, Barley’s speed has already proven handy in a getaway more than once.

When he pulled up on the two carriages blocking their path across the bridge, he thought she’d run off if the situation got violent, then come back at his call. She’d done it before, ears pricked at the sound of his sharp whistle, as she trotted up to the scene.

But not this time.

Why didn’t he just turn around?

To Karen, and then to the rest of the camp that’s gathered ‘round to listen – and that’s damn near everybody, with Arthur covered in blood so thick and dark that it’s on him in a crust – he recounts how Barley had just…stayed with him. He’d gotten out of the saddle all slow-like to talk to the fellers on the bridge, trying to sweet-talk them into letting him past, and they were having exactly none of it. And when the bullets started flying, he’d told her to get gone, and she just – wouldn’t.

Then they got her. Shot her. She was gone.

He keeps it brief on purpose, not sure he’d be able to bear the sympathetic looks on Mary-Beth and Tilly’s faces turning any sadder. The details of it remained lodged firmly in his memory, playing over and over, but Arthur seems powerless to repeat anything but the simplest of explanations. Barley’s gone. He’d sprained his fucking ankle after…well, after. Now he’s back here.

By the comfort of the fire, a firm hand lands on his shoulder. Hosea gazes over at him, deep understanding etched on his aged face.

“Arthur, that’s just godawful,” he says earnestly. “And so soon after Boadicea –”

His chest tightens.

“ – no one should have to lose ‘em back to back like that.” Hosea shakes his head. Shifting a bit to address the rest of the gang, he raises his voice somewhat. “C’mon everyone, clear out, let’s leave the poor man alone. It’s getting late enough as it is.”

Reluctantly, folks head in their separate directions, still wondering aloud at the absolute shit luck of losing a horse that way. Arthur accepts the sympathy, and most everyone’s real kind about it –Dutch presses a bottle of good whiskey into his hand as he passes, patting his shoulder, too – but already Arthur’s so tired. His grief, like carrying the empty saddle home, feels heavier than he could possibly bear, and it’s only hours old.

A few people linger longer than it takes to give their final sympathies for the night. Of course Karen, Tilly, Mary-Beth; dear friends and frequent confidantes. They know he’s softer on the inside than he looks. They each offer up their horses if he needs to ride into town to peruse the stables for his next mount, joke that they’d probably like the exercise.

Lenny and Javier offer the same, promising to help him clean all the blood out of his saddle the next day as well, if he needs. Now, that he does want the help with, even if he'd rather avoid being an inconvenience to anyone by borrowing their horse. He didn't drag this saddle all the way here for nothing; replacing it would tear a far larger hole in his wallet than Arthur prefers. And that’s already on top of…well. A new mount.

Right before Hosea and Arthur are left alone, one person hesitates by the fire’s edge, and Arthur knows who he's going to be looking at even before he turns to see.

Charles. The realization nearly kicks Arthur’s breath out of his lungs, and when they make eye contact, the feeling deepens. He’d been one of the first to come rushing over once the gang saw that Arthur was back in camp, and now, he’s one of the last to leave.

They say nothing, but they don’t have to. Charles gives him a slight nod, and Arthur takes it as the come find me if you want me that it is.

The moment between where Charles hesitates and where he turns to leave lasts only a few seconds, but to Arthur, it felt like they’d exchanged a whole conversation. Not in length or complexity, but in how even the simplest of interactions with Charles can affect him; his pulse is pounding at the mere glance. No one’s ever gotten to him quite like Charles tends to.

Then again, he’s never, well…held interest in someone like Charles. A man, that is to say.

And though there really isn’t anything salacious to say (so far) about what they’ve done alone together, the way they regard one another speaks of an interest far beyond friendship. Sizing one another up. Circling each other like two predators matched in strength. Letting flirtation dip into their tone in private places, eyes lingering, touches grazing, but neither’s been quite brave enough to bridge the gap.

That little push into romance is something so new that Arthur still marvels that it's happening at all. For the past couple of days he’s found himself strangely shy around Charles, but then Charles jokes about it, and they mellow back into easiness again. Because with Charles, it always feels easy. That’s what got them on the path from friendship to this.

“Goodnight, Charles,” Hosea calls after him, and Charles raises a hand in a returned goodnight wave.

“Thanks, Hosea,” Arthur mutters, once they're truly alone. Or as alone as one can be in a camp full of eavesdropping degenerates with no damn walls for miles.

“Of course,” the other man says easily. “Sure they don’t mean any harm, but you’ve done enough today. Wash up some, rest. They can hound you later if they need you.”

Arthur nods, swallows. Says thanks again. Goes through the stiff motions of closing up his tent, peeling out of his clothes, scrubbing down the best he can in his wash bucket –turning the water a sickening pink until he can't stand the smell of it.

Then he dresses into a union suit, puts out the lantern. Thinks about sneaking over to Charles, then decides against it. Curls himself onto his cot, still a little damp and smelling of horse blood. He tugs his blanket up over himself, taking a few seconds to listen to the quiet of the camp. Not much but the chirp of crickets and the occasional snore answers him.

Well, all things considered, he would have appreciated a little ruckus tonight.

Arthur closes his eyes and places a hand over his mouth, curling up as small as the cot will allow him. And he cries, not allowing himself to make a single sound. Tears spill out of him, hot and almost immediate. Painful, silent, body-wracking sobs as everything happens again in his mind. It feels like there’s a ragged sort of hole in his chest that tightens every time he remembers how quickly things went wrong. How powerless he’d been to stop Barley’s death.

Wade's not in the bed, and he's lucky for that. He doubts he'd be able to keep a poker face, shuffling off the bed and into the hallway, and Wade doesn't need to know that he couldn't even go a few days without rubbing one out. Yes, Logan's content to keep this whole thing to himself.

Tilting his head a bit to listen, Logan deduces that both Wade and Mary are gone from the apartment – out on their morning walk. He'd better hurry the hell up, then. Neither one of them is ever keen to stay out for much longer than it takes her to do her business, when the weather is this damn cold.

He doesn't waste any time.

Startling Bonnet out from underneath the bed, Logan hauls himself up, closing the bathroom door behind him with a snap. Stripping himself out of the come-stained boxers and burying them in the hamper, he turns the water on as hot as it'll go. The heat feels damn near indulgent on his skin, steam rising in the small space.

Scrubbing himself clean, Logan thinks back, trying to remember what the fucking dream had even been about. When he's actually dreaming and not trapped in a nightmare, it tends to come back to him in bits and pieces throughout the day. Right now, all he can recall is the sound of Wade’s voice. Not even anything he could have said – merely the tone of it – soft and encouraging.

Like it does when Logan’s on his knees, breathing hard, trying to take all of Wade’s cock in his mouth at once. Or when he’s lying on their bed impatient and desperate, on his stomach, waiting for Wade to just put it in already. Or when Wade’s kissing up and down his neck, his breath hot, trailing just the lightest touch up and down his chest with his fingers.

He’s getting hard again.

“Fuck,” Logan hisses.

His heart’s racing. Wade should be back any minute now with the dog, but he wants this so badly, knows it’s going to feel impossible to get through the day without relief. Logan’s not an asshole, he’s not going to pressure Wade for sex if he’s not ready to jump back into it yet (though a part of him has a sneaking suspicion Wade’s having a rough time with his own boundary).

His drive is high, and he’s about to take it out on his hand. Hard.

Logan indulges himself in a few long, slow strokes. For now, there's no sound of Wade’s footsteps approaching from outside. Even so, he's still a bit tense, worried that he’ll have to stop as soon as he hears him getting back.

It feels fucking good, though. And he can multitask – he has to.

Fuck it. Logan tilts his head back and touches himself the way he wants to, squeezing deeper at the base of his cock and gasping out before he can think to be quiet. With how often he and Wade go at it, he hasn't really had the need to fuck his own hand for a while. He's gotten spoiled.

Faster now, watching clear fluid well up from the tip of his dick. Logan can hear himself panting, but he can't quite bring himself to care. In his mind, Wade's behind him, this is his hand, and he's upping the pace just right.

Logan arches into it with a long whine, wanting it to go on forever and wanting to fucking come now. If this were really Wade, he'd beg to be finished off. Wade would make some sort of smartass remark with a smile in his voice that Logan could hear, and oblige him, and oh, fuck, fuck –

The pleasure curves up from his belly in an arc that almost hurts. Logan curls inward, stroking himself through the sensitivity, craving every second of it like an animal. Embarrassment soon follows, like the steam that rises off of the earth after a pounding rain.

Just get out of the damn shower, he thinks to himself. Jesus.

He soon figures out what’d delayed Wade and Mary from getting back from their walk as quickly as they should have. A few minutes after Logan towels himself off and tries to look somewhat decent again, Wade all but falls back into the apartment, holding their shivering little nutsack of a dog.

“Hey, morning,” Logan says with curiosity in his tone. “What, uh –?”

“Somebody,” Wade starts, still breathing hard, “decided to duck out of their harness and take off after that stray she’s so horny for.”

Mary only trembles harder, like these are false accusations and she’s never committed a crime in her life. Which is a lie; she makes a beeline toward any dog she sees, to see if that dog is interested in having its face licked. If she’s lucky, they’re at least open to it. If she’s not, she gets her shit rocked.

Logan takes Mary from Wade so that he can strip out of his wet, mud-patched hoodie. There’s a devoted towel by the door they use for drying her pudgy little sausage body off, and he bends down to grab it now, going to work on her paws.

“Thanks,” Wade sighs. “I chased her ass for five fucking blocks.” He takes Mary’s little face in his hands, and she groans up at him. “Do you know how far five blocks is, you shit-for-brains?”

“No thoughts,” Logan supplies. “Only forcing her friendship on unwilling dogs.”

Wade laughs at that, something full and real that makes heat rise to Logan’s face. And it’s not even a matter of wanting him – not right now – he just thinks it makes Wade look sweet and genuine. He likes the sound of it, enjoys the fact that he’s the one making Wade laugh when it can be so hard to do. More and more often, Logan finds himself saying things he normally wouldn’t, inventing new twists of humor just to get the reward.

Having his heart on a platter feels downright mortifying at times.

“Why don’t you hop in the shower,” he says. Wade’s hand had been ice cold against his own when he’d handed the dog over. “Warm up a bit. I’ll get coffee going.”

With an appreciative hum, Wade leans in and kisses him on the cheek.

“Ten-four, honey badger.”

Going through the motions of getting the coffee brewed, Logan would be a liar if he said he wasn’t listening for any suspicious noises coming from Wade’s shower. But there’s nothing out of the ordinary – Wade’s singing September by Earth, Wind, & Fire, minus most of the words. Then the thunk of a bottle of soap as he drops it.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Rolling his eyes, Logan pulls out his phone and plays the song. Might as well listen to it if Wade's going to get it stuck in his head anyway.

Like he's been summoned, the water quickly cuts off, and it isn't long before the bathroom door opens. Wade dances up to him as he hears the music start up, wearing nothing but a fuzzy robe and too much enthusiasm.

“Okay okay, we're starting the day off right!”

“If that's what you wanna call it,” Logan chuckles, bumping his hip against Wade's. “Drink your coffee, moron.”

But he’s not done yet. Wade dances a little circuit around the kitchen island, arms above his head, looking carefree and light. On his next trip around, he grabs Logan's hands, and the megawatt grin on his face is something Logan can't even begin to turn down.

So Logan dances too, moves his body in a way people rarely ever get to see. He'll never claim to be graceful, like Wade, but the clear glee on his partner's face when he joins in isn't something money can buy. And it feels good to dance with him in their kitchen, Mary getting too excited and yipping at their feet.

The familiar song plays itself out, replaced with something less danceable, but Wade doesn't let him go. Their hearts are both pounding harder from the exercise, and when Wade leans in to kiss him, it feels like the next natural course of action. As easy as moving.

Logan kisses him back, his hands gravitating to the other man's hips. He smells clean, and comforting, but a part of him is now satiated enough to not go berserk at sensory overload. Still, it’s good. It’s never not good, even if they’re leaving room for Jesus.

And he would’ve been happy with that, something chaste and light, if Wade hadn’t pulled away ever so slightly and opened his big mouth.

“So,” he begins, and even the single syllable is capable of holding mischief. Logan can’t predict what’s coming, but he can guess it’s going to be something typically Wade. “How’d you sleep? Sweet dreams, I can only assume?”

Okay, he didn’t think it was going to be about that.

Logan leans his weight into Wade’s shoulder, burying his burning face in embarrassment.

“Don’t tell me I fuckin’ woke you up.”

Wade’s smiling at him. There’s nothing teasing behind it, and Logan’s not sure if that makes it worse.

“I mean…it’s not like you did it on purpose.”

“No,” Logan admits, and his stupid cock kicks in his sweatpants, because apparently he’s some sort of animal. “But you wanted to – and I’m not –”

He ends his sentence in an abrupt huff. Why is forming the right thing to say so damn hard when it matters the most? Logan scowls into the material of Wade’s robe when he feels the other man laughing, and finds himself being gently pulled away, looked at.

“You’re doing such a good job, Lo,” Wade says. “Promise. And this isn’t forever, it’s only a few days. We got this.”

The earnest tone of his voice is a nice reassurance. Because hell, this isn’t exactly a problem he’d ever thought they’d be puzzling through. Of all the ways his will and patience has been tested with Wade, an attempt at temporary abstinence was never one of them.

But Wade’s right – this isn’t as hard as he’s making it out to be. And like he’d said, it’s not their new forever. He’ll just get a grip on himself (literally) until they ease back into sex. Besides, something tells him that things might tilt back into intimacy a little sooner than later; he saw the way Wade eyed him up and down yesterday. He could smell how he wanted him.

For now, though, they kiss in the kitchen. Wade barely slips his tongue into Logan’s mouth, and teases him when he gasps a little and arches into him for more.

“Easy, puppy,” he says. “Like Tim Curry said, it’s all about the anticipation.”

A part of Logan wants to tell him to anticipate a foot in his ass.

Wade puts some actual clothes on, and Logan settles down on the couch with a book. He even makes an active attempt to read it, even with Wade opposite him on the couch playing Animal Crossing and muttering under his breath about what all the characters are doing. Mary flops down in the middle of the living room, tits up, breathing like she ran a marathon this morning and isn’t likely to ever move again. Bonnet eventually comes out from his hiding place to sit with him.

This is good. It’s a good day. They’re relaxing together, with nothing urgent to do, and that's just the way he likes it.

He's just got to stop being so damn antsy.

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His whole body feels like it's lit up from the inside out with something hotter than fire; the kind of heat produced by the sun. Logan's fucking shaking as one of Wade's hands moves to his waist, tugs at his pants to try and pry them off. He'd move to take them off if he could loosen his grip on Wade, but he can't.

And he'd like to apologize for not being more helpful in the whole process, but the only noise coming out of his mouth are shallow, desperate whines. Logan sounds unlike himself, animal and needy. Or…maybe he sounds more like himself than he ever does.

Either way, Wade doesn't mind.

“You just wanna hump me for now?” he asks, and Logan can hear the smirk without having to see his face.

“Mmnh,” he answers, arching up, and oh, Wade lets him, he's allowed.

With a wanting noise of his own, Wade's hands return to cup Logan's face, bringing it back up to his own. He finds himself kissed hard, and the friction of Wade's cock pressed to his has him rutting back on instinct. He can feel the warmth of his own release, slick through his boxers. If it weren't Wade kissing him, touching him, he might be mortified.

But Wade doesn't even make a smart remark. Not yet, at least. Instead, he wrestles Logan down until he's flat on his back. He lets himself be moved, pliant, relieved when Wade's done adjusting them and his mouth lands back on Logan's, making up for lost time.

Then there's the remembered rhythm of their bodies, finally moving as they should. After nothing but his hand for close to a week, humping Wade through their clothes feels much better than it has any right to. His head’s all but swimming with sensation, struggling to keep up with everything going on.

And though he wasn't particularly proud of coming so quickly for Wade's voice and a few stray touches, his partner's catching up fast, letting Logan know that his senses weren't playing tricks on him since they started their run of abstinence.

“Fuck, Logan,” Wade mutters under his breath, low and rasping.

Even being called Logan instead of one of Wade's usual pet names makes things seem more intense. Sometimes Logan ribs him about all the terms of endearment – sure you didn't forget my name? But he's come around to them, might even like hearing them.

He'd tell Wade all this, but the mounting pleasure in his lower abdomen makes it hard to think of anything else. Wade's rutting down into him in deep circles, trying to kiss him between harsh breaths, and Logan rises to meet him every time.

“Logan,” he croaks out again, his breath falling into the tight, rhythmic pattern that makes Logan tense with anticipation.

Oh, Jesus, hell, is there anyone out there he can cry out to? Feeling himself lose all control is one thing, but to see Wade slip loose of his usual jokes and sarcasm is something else altogether. He loves it when the man drops all pretense and simply experiences this alongside him.

Logan moans in answer, an encouragement with no syllables, wishing he could tell him to hurry up and let go. It’s not fair that he’s the only one that’s a mess between the two of them – only Wade can make it even. Now it’s Wade’s turn to bury his face in the comforting sweat of his neck. He hides his expression as he arches and stiffens and gives into it, grinding even after the orgasm’s ended.

They catch their breath for a moment, both aware that this is far from over. Disoriented, it takes Logan a second to realize that they’ve ended up half under the table, with the living room rug pressing into the middle of his back. He’s not looking forward to the number all this fucking on the floor’s going to do to his joints – but it’s a concern for much, much later. For now he’s not moving a goddamn inch.

“These’ve gotta come off,” Wade says eventually, wrestling out of his own pants. Tearing his shirt away like it’s done him personal harm. The offending articles of clothing land somewhere near the kitchen, and they both hear the scurry of dog nails as Mary’s startled away. Filthy little voyeur. “You next.”

With his head a bit clearer, Logan lifts his hips to slide his pants and underwear to his ankles, kicking them off. Then his own shirt, bare skin touching the hardwood. He’s only settled back on the floor for a second before Wade’s back on top of him, running palms up and down Logan’s biceps.

The feeling of being skin-on-skin when their bodies fully connect makes his brain revert right back to sluggishness; a place of only sensation and need. With a deep growl, Logan grasps Wade by the hips and slams him back to the floor, rising up above him. His partner’s eyes glance up to his face before the look melts back to arousal, and a lazy smirk settles on Wade’s face.

“Oh no, you got me! What's a poor, helpless thing like me to do?”

A touch of playfulness again, but there’s not much effort behind it. Especially not when Logan lifts his head and noses down to Wade’s stomach, then his hips, where it smells so fucking good. His spend is only minutes old, and begging to be licked at. So Logan doesn’t stop himself. He’s being so greedy, but he lets himself have it, and Wade takes.

He starts with the tiniest licks around the base of Wade’s shaft, trailing his tongue along the smooth skin. Wade hums in appreciation, his cock already perking up again. Logan takes him in one hand, cradling him, trying to reassure him that he’ll get there. But right now, if only for a moment, he wants to take some time. He wants to be thorough. Wade deserves it, even if they’re just going to make a mess of one another again.

Logan nudges at Wade’s thighs, encouraging him to spread wider – it’s important to get everything. Wade places one hand on his head, winding fingers through his hair and whining softly. Every salty-musk taste of him is something to savor, but Wade's jutting his hips up, mirroring Logan's earlier urgency.

Placating him, Logan increases the pace. He finishes licking and cleaning the other man’s skin, and turns his mouth to the head of Wade’s cock.

“Wait,” Wade pants out. “Come up here. I wanna suck you off –”

He makes a low sound of amusement, shifting up to do as he’d asked.

“But don’t stop,” Wade adds. “We can – y’know. Have our cake and eat it too. Love cake. Big fan of cake.”

Oh, okay. It’s been a while since they’ve done something like that, but Logan’s not going to tell him no. Instead, he turns around so that he’s straddling Wade backwards. When he lowers his hips down, Wade’s ready for him, reaching up with one hand and sending hot breath over the sensitive skin of his perineum. In only seconds, his tongue follows – and Logan gasps at it, freezing in place.

“Move back a bit,” Wade mutters underneath him, and Logan remembers that he’s supposed to be in the process of reciprocating.

Adjusting as he’d suggested, Logan moves, then leans down on one elbow, taking Wade’s cock in one hand just as Wade’s grasping him. Again, he kisses at the very tip, and feels Wade do the same to him.

“There we go.” Wade’s voice is tight, edged with anticipation.

Taking it as his cue to continue, Logan mouths up and down Wade’s cock, relishing every sound it drives from him. More than that, any move he makes is instantly delivered back – Wade working hard between his little hums of pleasure to make sure he’s giving just as good as he gets. It’s so fucking good, an endless feedback loop of wet heat, and neither man can last long before they’re thrusting into the other’s mouth. Logan hears himself making pathetic little noises, knows he’s drooling onto Wade’s skin – sees it gathering all around his cock – but he can’t help it.

He’s going to come embarrassingly fast. Breathing hard through his nose, Logan slides his free hand down to his partner’s thigh and squeezes, hoping he’ll get the message. Hearing (and feeling) Wade chuckle in answer, he gets a squeeze back. The suction on his cock increases, only a little, but it’s enough.

With a handful of enthusiastic whines, Logan jerks his hips and comes, and Wade groans below him as Logan never relinquishes his own mouthful. When it gets too sensitive for Wade to keep sucking, Logan moves his hips away.

Of course, Wade starts talking immediately.

“Such a good boy,” he breathes, swallowing everything down that he can. Logan feels himself blushing what must be crimson, presses his face closer to Wade’s cock and sucks harder so he doesn’t have to think about the reaction that phrase gets. “Mmn, baby, I’m right behind – right behind you –”

He dissolves into incoherence after that, a mess of fuck yes and right theres until he’s coming in Logan’s mouth with a sound close to laughter, digging his nails deep into Logan’s sides.

Logan forgot how fucking good Wade tasted, how much he liked swallowing pulse after pulse of him down. It’d be even better to be facing him, to watch his expression as the orgasm rocked him – but they’ll have plenty of time for that.

They’re both aware that Wade’s gone soft, but that doesn’t stop Logan from stubbornly staying where he is, nipping and sucking at the skin of his thighs. Determined to stay there until they’re both hard again, content to lie on the floor until all of his joints are screaming at him, and not just a few.

“Time out,” Wade says. “C’mon.”

Growling, Logan plants himself firmly on top of Wade.

“I’m gonna bite you on the ass.”

Another growl, but Logan moves, flopping onto his back, scooting in so that they’re lying side by side. Wade rewards him with a grin, moving to kiss him on the cheek. Logan kisses him back, eager for his mouth.

“Aww, hi, kitty cat. Good to see you again.”

“Hi,” Logan mumbles back. It feels like it’s been ages since he’s used his voice. He bumps his forehead to Wade’s.

“How ‘bout we get off the floor, move to the bedroom?”

Logan nods.

“Alrighty then. Let the sexcapades resume.”

With a certified old man sound, as he often teases Logan about, Wade gets to his feet, then offers Logan a hand up. Taking it, Logan’s more annoyed than surprised when his knee tries to buckle – but the genuine concern that shoots across Wade’s face takes away the sting of it.

To reciprocate, Logan nags him to eat something, shoving him towards the kitchen. (He could at least drink some Powerade.) Begrudgingly, Wade does as he’s told – and honestly, they'll both need a snack if they're going to keep rolling around like that.

After everything that’s been said and done since he and Wade started playing cards, re-entering their bedroom almost feels like unexplored territory, as familiar as it is. They’ve slept here and fucked here countless times, yet it’s oddly barren of any evidence of the latter.

That’s about to change.

With that brief break behind them, they’re both hard again, ready to go. Wade’s the one to grab Logan by the waist, kissing him fiercely before walking him up to their bed. They collapse backwards, nothing between them to prevent direct friction now, and Logan arches up like an absolute whore when Wade’s hips grind into his.

“You still want what you told me about?” Wade says in his ear.

It takes Logan some time to make sense of what he’s being asked. The only thing he can think is sex and Wade and finally, the reality of their bed making it all come together. He’d felt spoiled with being sucked off, but now that they’re going further, doing more, he feels like a kid who’s just been told they’re going to Disneyland. The stint of abstinence really is over. Wade’s going to fuck him now, and then they’re going to continue to do it as often as they want.

That sounds like heaven. The closest he can get.

So Logan can only pant for a few seconds, prompting Wade to say his name, the word cradled in amusement.

“Mmhm,” Logan answers. “Please.”

“That's what I thought,” Wade all but purrs. “Knees to your chest while I open you up, sweetheart.”

Logan scrambles to do as he's told. He nudges his head into the pillows, listening as Wade moves around on the mattress behind him. Their bed dips as he grabs the lube, and the snick of the cap opening makes Logan squirm. Wade's hand runs lovingly up and down the curve of his ass, like he's enjoying the view.

It feels like an eternity passes before Wade presses the tip of his slick middle finger to Logan's hole. Even then he's moving too slowly, shushing Logan when he muffles eager sounds into the pillows.

“Honey badger, you are so tight,” Wade breathes. “Fuck, I missed you –”

He growls in answer, nudging his ass back against Wade’s hand. He needs him inside now.

“Okay, okay. I'm working on it.”

Closing his eyes, Logan does his best to relax, to let the stretch happen as Wade eases in. His body doesn't want to relax, doesn't want this to happen all smooth and slow. He can feel his shaft leaking, rock-solid and wedged up against his legs.

Relax. Relax.

At the second finger, Logan gasps, the tiny sound not going unheard. Wade's free hand soothes up and down his back, and he can only imagine the half smirk on the other man's face.

“I know you hate waiting, Lo, but I have to prep you if you don't want to bleed when I'm actually fucking you–”

“No,” Logan finds himself grumbling.

An incredulous laugh that makes Logan's ears burn.

“You're bein’ kinda bratty tonight, huh?”

He doesn't answer that. Just keeps pushing back against Wade's fingers as much as he can, begging silently, wanting more. Needing it. The slick in-and-out slide of Wade's fingers is nice, but he wants to feel all of him, wants to be fucked.

But then Wade crooks those two fingers up just right and grazes that spot, and Logan fucking trembles. Just the slightest touch, like he'd done it by accident. Logan knows he didn't. Nothing Wade does during sex is an accident.

“Wade,” he mewls out, and the sound of his own voice coming out like that, all high and pathetic, makes him blush even harder. “Ah–!”

It has the opposite effect on Wade. Even without seeing him, Logan knows his pulse is quickening, his breath catching.

“Did I touch something you like?”

Yes yes yes hell yes –

Logan squirms in answer, tensing up as Wade takes his time sliding fingers out, then back in. Again, they're hooked inside him in that perfect way, pressing up and in, less subtle now. The pad of Wade's middle finger touches his prostate and traces a slow, erotic circle before pressing deep.

“Fuck!”

“I plan on it, peanut.”

He can't even comprehend telling Wade to cut the dumb remarks. Every molecule of him is focused on Wade's fingers and how perfect they feel, how he seems to know just how Logan wants him to press, rub, and tease inside him. Faster, faster, faster.

Oh god, fuck, yes. Please.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes and soak into the pillowcases. His next orgasm is building to a dizzying head, hips rolling into nothing, his cock getting only the slightest friction. Logan's thighs tense and squeeze seemingly without his control, chasing release.

When it happens, Logan's lucky he's got his face buried in pillows. He comes on a string of swears, shouting Wade's name among them like they're in the middle of nowhere and not an apartment complex.

“Bratty and loud,” Wade says appreciatively. “You ready for me to fuck you now?”

He nods with an eager mmhm, twisting around as Wade slides his fingers out.

That's the affirmation Wade needs. With a murmured move for me, princess, Logan's guided up, into the cradle of Wade's lap.

Logan doesn't often sit here. The weight of his body is difficult, and in the past, near impossible, for lovers to bear. But Wade doesn't even flinch as he urges Logan to settle completely, arranging his own body back against the headboard until they're both comfortable.

Between them, Wade’s dick is flushed and straining again. Logan's going to need a minute or two, but they both know it won't be long. Not when they've both been pent up like this.

“Scoot up,” Wade urges, and he does, and Wade's cock nestles right at his hole, making Logan suck in a quiet breath.

When he meets Wade's eyes, it's to find his expression lingering somewhere between need and just a hint of smugness. Logan can only imagine what his own face looks like right now; his hair damp with sweat, eyes wild, mouth slack.

“And now, the moment you've all been waiting for. No seriously, you've been waiting.”

Wade nudges up, Logan brings his hips down.

He stops thinking.

A sound drags its way out of his mouth, long and whining. He'd forgotten how Wade fucking fills him, had taken it all at once, reveling in the burn.

“Oh fuck,” Wade hisses out, nails digging in to the sweaty skin of Logan's back. “Logan.”

At the sound of his own name, Logan grips Wade to him as if they've been apart for years, not days. Hooking one arm over Wade's shoulder and cradling his back with the other, he buries his face in the other man's neck and starts up a frantic rhythm. Both of them are aware of his cock, hard again, bouncing between their sweaty bodies.

Their bedframe is going to give out. Logan can't remember at the moment if this will be their third or fourth replacement.

“Need it so bad, don't you, sweetheart?” Wade says in a low voice, but Logan knows how wrecked he is already. Again his breath comes in rhythmic little huffs, body straining to hold still as if he's trying not to follow Logan's tempo straight over the edge.

Logan makes a desperate noise in answer, biting down on the muscle of Wade's neck like an animal, rutting and rutting and rutting. Everything comes in bright starburst colorblooms of pleasure behind his eyes as his muscles strain; yes and Wade and more.

He can sense the moment Wade's about to come, knows it and craves it, drawing his attention from the spit-wet ring of bite marks he's creating to take his partner's earlobe between his teeth.

“Inside me,” he says simply, “Now.”

Wade shudders apart like he's been given permission. The rush of it is hot, forceful, and he pauses to kiss Wade through it, their bodies sticky and damp with sweat and come.

Though Wade goes a bit soft inside him for a moment, he knows better than to try and slip out. They're not done yet.

“So goddamn hungry for it,” Wade pants after a minute.

They both know if Logan wasn't quite so out of his mind right now, he'd shoot back with his own smartass remark…but he's nowhere near his right mind. He knows Wade loves it when he's like this, too worked up to even say anything that makes sense.

A hand reaches down to grip his cock, and Logan groans at the feeling. He's already come so much, and he somehow feels both oversensitive and like he could keep fucking going.

“God, you're pretty like this,” Wade continues, and Logan feels himself blush hot – right as his cock jerks in Wade's hand. “Oh, yeah, I know you like that, sweetheart.”

Wade's stiffening again inside him, too. The scent of sex is so thick in their bedroom that Logan’s going to smell it – this particular night – for weeks. Logan's breath catches at the sensation of it swelling, and he leans into Wade again, a satisfied growl rumbling low in his chest.

More more more please more.

Wade leans in to kiss his forehead.

“You ready to keep going?”

Logan huffs through his nose as if to say what the hell do you think?

He gets the message.

“Alright, drama queen. On your back this time.”

They maneuver until he's lying back against the mattress, the frame squeaking ominously. Logan lets Wade rearrange his legs, aware that he's not the one in control anymore as Wade moves to kneel between his thighs. His touch stays gentle, spreading Logan apart, even as Logan squirms with impatience.

“Move,” Logan demands once Wade's finished, lifting his hips from the bed as if that could get him there any faster.

“Asking nicely never hurt anybody, y'know.”

Slowly, Wade brings his palms to skate up and down Logan's chest. Pleased at the touch, Logan keeps circling his hips, closing his eyes, more than aware that his heart is pounding.

Roughly scarred hands move up and down his skin, teasing around his nipples. The little game continues until he's arching his back to be touched there, aching for Wade to fuck him, to be pleasured, for something.

His eyes fly open as Wade gently pinches a nipple between two fingers. When Logan shivers at the feeling, he continues, starting the first thrusts into Logan's tight heat. It draws a whimper out of him, and oh, Wade loves that.

“There we go,” Wade says, leaning in to say the words right in his ear. “That feel good?”

Logan truly can't answer. Wade's still playing with his nipple, pinching it and circling it with his long, dexterous fingers, and the only sounds leaving his mouth are shivery little gasps. His cock drips where it's jammed between their bodies, and all Logan can think to do is move against Wade to try and get more.

“Fuck, look at you.” He sounds awed by the sight of Logan just lying there.

The sensation of having his…chest toyed with like this is something they haven't done yet, and something that Logan certainly hasn't done in recent memory. Hell, maybe ever; right now, it's hard to know for sure. All he knows is that it's sensitive, feels fucking nice, and Wade happens to be keenly aware of what buttons to push. Particularly when he's found new ones to play with.

A voice in the back of Logan’s mind says that he should be embarrassed by the blatant attention, the near worship. A much larger, hungrier, needier part says that he shouldn’t give a fuck. He was the one who’d dreamed about Wade talking to him like this after all, right? Secretly craved it and blushed for it and gotten off in his sleep at the idea. He really needs to stop being the only thing holding himself back.

So instead of ducking his head and turning away like he wants to, Logan forces himself to look back at Wade as his partner works his magic, feels his face burning and his cock throbbing and the sweet stretch of Wade up inside of him. All of it. And Wade looks back, a sweet little smile on his face.

“So pretty, taking what I give you. You my pillow princess tonight, sweetheart?”

Logan has the breath fucked out of him before he can answer, a sharp gasp sliding past his lips as Wade grabs his waist for better leverage. The sound ends in a whine, a wordless agreement.

He’s so overwhelmed with sensation it feels like he can’t focus, can’t think, his concentration bouncing hopelessly from one thing to the next. But unlike times in the past when he’s been so overcome with pain that he didn’t know what was happening, this is all pleasure, something Wade gives him in seemingly endless supply. Logan knows, distantly, that he’s dissolving into pathetic noises, and he grabs for a pillow to smother himself in.

Well, at least he’d tried.

From underneath the material, he can hear what that does to Wade – his low groan as he has to slow their pace. He leans in to press open-mouthed kisses to Logan’s chest, like an apology for stalling his hips.

“You sound so dirty for me,” he manages, panting, and if Logan had to guess he’d say that they’re both nearing their end.

For now, anyway.

Wordlessly, Logan moves his hips against Wade, prompting him to keep going. It earns him a quiet laugh, a kiss on the jumping pulse of his throat.

Wade keeps fucking him, faster this time, and he can feel his claws sliding out as he loses grip on the last little scraps of his self control. Every time Wade thrusts back in, Logan cries out, tears inevitably sliding down his covered face and dotting the pillowcase he’s hidden behind.

There’s an all-out cacophony occurring in their bedroom at this point; the protesting creak of the bedframe, Wade’s soft moans, Logan’s sharp whines, and the shriek of the mattress itself. God, their poor neighbors.

After a pause, “Fuckin’ perfect at this, aren’t you, baby?” A hand appears to tug on the corner of the pillow. “Can I – fuck – can I see you?”

He relents, letting Wade pull it away.

“There you are.”

There’s so much warmth in the way Wade says that; it almost feels more intimate than what they’re already doing. Logan smiles like an idiot as Wade knocks their foreheads together, like two cats saying hello.

“Here I am,” Logan says back, swallowing hard.

“Oh hey, are you back online?” Wade says casually, all while thrusting into him and just grazing his prostate like he didn’t just take him from “could come soon” to “going to come now”.

“Mnnh I dunno,” Logan slurs out, letting his head fall back to the sheets as Wade follows the line of his neck. “F-feels – Wade, it’s good, right there – f-fuck –”

“Yeah, I know, princess,” he says. “That’s the spot, huh? Right here?”

Wade fucks him deeper, and Logan arches up and up off the bed, trying to keep his claws out of the way. His last orgasm of the night hits him so deep he’s not sure it’s actually going to stop; just an endless loop of bliss with his muscles taut and his cock jolting and Wade whispering reassurances that he can’t understand…until he does.

“That’s it baby, you clench so nice around me, h-holy shit, Logan – good girl, that’s it, keep going, keep fuckin’ bouncin’ for me sweetheart, ride it out, I want every drop you can give me. Fuck!”

He keeps murmuring on even as Logan's release shudders to a stop, and Logan realizes that somewhere in the middle of all that, Wade had come inside him as well. He's full of it, warm and spilling over and aching as he lets himself sink back down to the mattress.

The bedframe goes with a sudden jolt, forcing Wade to collapse on top of him with a surprised laugh. In the chaos of it all, their bodies move together in a way that'd get them both going again if they weren't utterly exhausted.

“So, what do you think?” Wade murmurs in his ear, moving some strands of hair aside. “IKEA tomorrow, or…?”

Logan grunts his dissent, pressing a sweaty kiss to the side of Wade's face.

“No. No IKEA and no goin’ anywhere. Don't want to leave this bed.”

It's bad enough that they'll have to get up and clean up this mess. The thought of driving out to that godforsaken furniture jungle is the last thing he wants to do. Screw the bedframe, they can sleep on the floor for all he cares. (Well, his back cares, but that's beside the point.)

“Ohh,” comes Wade’s delighted purr, rubbing up against him again. “So it's gonna be that kinda day.”

And it was. (A good thing they held off on the new bedframe, to be sure.) They tangled and kissed and fucked all goddamn day, thrilled to have one another again. As Wade would say, they were so back.

For good, this time.

----------------------------------------------------------

Taglist:

Shit, he never knew Charles had such a smart mouth before they started up with one another. Combined with the rest of him, he's just about lethal. Arthur isn't hard again – yet – but Charles' full prick rubs up against him as their hips align, the younger man's face only inches from his.

There's no mistaking how riled up Charles is after getting Arthur ready for him. Arthur only gets one good glimpse at the look on his face before he's getting peppered with kisses – across his cheek, his neck, his chest. Seems Charles has had about enough of waiting as Arthur has.

Arthur has to chuckle a little at the enthusiasm. Charles has been so damn sweet to him this whole time, taking it slow, easing him in, until even Arthur himself was getting impatient. It's a nice change of pace to see Charles flip the script.

“It was plenty good,” Arthur tries to counter, after his mind’s taken time to process the handsome creature on top of him. “But I'm after what we came here for.”

Charles, whose mouth is busy sucking marks into the skin around his nipple, only makes a pleased noise in answer at first.

“Good.”

His face is all but hidden now in a sheet of hair, hanging in a shining black waterfall. Arthur reaches down to right it for him, then has another idea.

“Can you – could you put your hair up, before we start?” Arthur asks, somewhere close to timid. “Wanna be able to see you.”

That gets Charles to pause, and in the low light Arthur can't quite see him blush. But he'll later (much later) learn that the request left him flattered.

Nodding, Charles clambers off of him and fishes around in his satchel for one of the thin strips of leather Arthur's seen him tie his hair back with before. In just seconds, his hair's restrained in a loose ponytail, and Arthur's pulse goes double.

He looks real nice like that. Nice, and a little nervous, hesitating before he comes back to where Arthur wants him. Charles is so damn good at all this that Arthur wasn't sure if their first time together would bring any anxiety to the surface for him or not. It's a bit of a relief, to know he's not alone in the feeling. His heart melts to see the flash of apprehension on his partner's face, even if it's only for a moment.

“Come back here,” Arthur says softly as they lock eyes.

Biting his lip, Charles does, sinking one knee onto the bed and climbing back onto Arthur. Their lips collide into something soft, and natural, each man reaching for the other. Arthur's hands gravitate to Charles' arms, stroking smoothly up and down, and Charles cups his face in one palm.

“How –” Arthur swallows, trying to think of how to say it. “How d’you want me?”

Charles’ pensive brown eyes are impossible to get away from when they're this close, and his reply definitely makes Arthur want to hide his face.

“Like this, on your back.” Charles doesn't even have to think about it. That makes Arthur squirm and flush even more. “I want to look at you, too.”

God. A part of Arthur wants to tell him he can't just say those kinds of things; not looking dead serious, anyway.

“If you insist.” His tone is joking, but there's nothing joking in the way Charles looks at him now.

“I do,” Charles says, giving him one final peck on the mouth before reaching for the tin of oil again.

Again, Arthur finds himself excited at the sound of the top coming off the damn thing. He's sure Charles would have plenty to say about him forming this sort of response so quickly, but for now, he keeps it to himself. He watches as Charles goes through the same motions of coating his fingers in the oil, heart thudding away in his chest.

“Spread for me.”

He does as he's told, gasping a little this time when Charles' fingers touch his hole. Brown eyes dart up to his face.

“Does that hurt?”

“N-no, s’fine, sorry –”

They look at each other. The deadpan expression on Charles' face makes him snort out a laugh, as if he's struggling not to say, what did we just talk about.

“You know what I mean,” Arthur corrects, recovering a bit of composure. “Eager for you to get to it, is all.”

Charles shakes his head, but he's smirking a bit.

“Gonna stretch you just a little more. Think you can take three fingers?”

Neither one of them acknowledges that he's going to need to be able to take three, if he wants Charles inside him.

Nodding before the man's even finished talking, Arthur nudges up against his hand. Probably looking like some eager whore, all come-covered and spread apart and anxious to get opened up again, but he doesn't even care. Couldn't care, if he tried.

Smearing some of the oil against that tight ring of muscle, Charles starts pressing in with two. On instinct, Arthur flinches at first, thighs tense. But after a few minutes of gentle circles rubbed into his skin and Charles' endless patience, he eases into the feeling, his cock deciding to twitch back to life.

The whole time Charles gets him ready, he cheekily avoids that spot inside him, the bastard.

No matter how Arthur shifts and moves to try to get his fingers there.

Once Charles deems him sufficiently stretched out on two, he pauses his work to kiss the top of Arthur's knee.

“There we go,” Charles purrs at him. “Takin' it so well, Arthur, you ready for more?”

“Yeah,” Arthur breathes. “God, yeah, please.”

He feels Charles slide his fingers out. More oil. Then a press back in, a deeper stretch as he's given another.

Arthur groans, unable to keep his eyes off the motion of the other man's hand as it works between his legs. There's something hypnotic about the slow, rhythmic in-out, in-out.

He's fucking me, Arthur thinks hazily, and shivers as a bead of pre-come slides from the tip of his cock.

And as Arthur tracks the motion of how he's being fingered, Charles watches him. The whole time, his eyes never leave Arthur's face, open, yearning. Like he can't pull his gaze away. Arthur can feel his short puffs of breath against his leg, mouth open slightly, sees him lick his lips as if they're going dry.

“Gettin’ a good show?” Arthur manages, grinning up at him.

For a moment, Charles says nothing – he only blinks like he's coming back from somewhere, pausing his rhythm to consider a response. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Digs the fingers of his free hand into Arthur’s thigh.

“Want you so damn bad,” says Charles, quiet, like a confession.

How long has it been since someone's wanted him? Arthur doesn't know, can't remember, doesn't need to. All he needs to know is the realization that Charles wants him crackles over his skin like static, makes him clench around what's already inside him. Charles sure as hell feels it.

“Then have me,” Arthur urges. “I c’n take it.”

Without another word, Charles slides his fingers out. For a final time, he reaches for the tin, slicking oil up and down the length of his cock. Arthur doesn't miss the soft groan that slips out as he finally gives it some attention. In the next moment, they seem to move together; Arthur shifting his legs even wider so that Charles can get between them. Charles lining himself up with the wet, stretched pucker of his hole.

They don’t say anything – Arthur isn’t sure he can. He’s too busy keeping his eyes on Charles, his hand locked over top of his lover’s, laced together on his own thigh. Everything they could’ve already said about this moment has already been spoken into existence, all the caution and warning of it, all the careful dance.

Now there’s nothing for it but to actually fucking do it, and Charles is, pressing into Arthur in one steady, solid push.

Arthur sucks in a tight breath through his teeth. His thighs tense automatically, spine stiffening against the mattress. It’s not quite painful, but Jesus Christ.

“Relax,” Charles reminds him gently. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”

Easy for you to say, Arthur might’ve answered, were he not so preoccupied with his current situation. As it is, he only nods, breathing hard through his nose. If Charles looks big, it’s nothing compared to how he feels, the head of his cock catching against Arthur’s hole.

Noticing his partner’s anxiety, Charles moves their hands so that their fingers are laced through, squeezing once.

“Easy,” Charles says, his gaze firm. “You know what to do, sweetheart.”

Involuntarily, Arthur's thoughts can't help but go back to all the times he's heard him talk to Taima like that. The no-nonsense correction, knowing she can do something when she's just being stubborn. He leans his head back and sighs, not willing to investigate that trail of thinking any further. Arthur just needs Charles inside him, needs to relax, goddamn it.

Bit by bit, he does, Charles demonstrating remarkable patience until he's buried in him to the hilt. The whole act feels like it takes years, not minutes. By the time Charles' hips make contact, Arthur gets a good look at him and can tell it's taking a lot to hold back and stay still. He's got that furrow in his brow that implies only the fiercest concentration.

And he feels so damn full. Like he's breathing around the cock inside him, aching to be fucked, sensitive from the orgasms that'd come before. Panting even though Charles has hardly done anything.

“M’ready,” Arthur croaks, right as Charles opens his mouth to ask. “You can move, Charles, please move –”

Charles doesn't need any more persuading than that. Keeping their fingers interlocked with one hand and placing his other palm on Arthur's stomach, Charles finally moves. Just a tentative thrust, but it's enough to light Arthur up from the inside out. Full, tight pressure right up against that spot as Charles drags himself out, then back in.

Arthur can't help it. He moans, long and drawn out, stifling it into his palm.

His cock twitches, aching, the pubic hair all around it dried with come from what they've already done tonight. Christ, he's a mess, he's disgusting – but Charles is sliding into him now at a steady tempo instead of a crawl. Distracting him from his own insecurities and disproving them all at once.

Fingers tug at Arthur's arm, encouraging him to uncover his mouth.

“Wanna hear you.”

Goosebumps break out on his skin.

Helpless to do anything but listen, Arthur pulls his hand away, letting it fall back to the mattress. That gets a smile out of Charles, the expression forming for just a moment before his mouth pulls back into a shape of concentration.

Arthur has no clue what his own face is doing, but it can’t be anything decent. All he knows is the sensation of Charles around him, the sweat on their skin, his partner looking down at him, their combined sounds in the dark cabin. God, it doesn’t feel real. It feels too damn good to be real. He’s aware of his hips moving in time with Charles, the tiniest instinctive motions, a soft sound leaving him every time Charles moves in.

Vaguely, Arthur remembers the last time he was with a woman like this. He’d gotten her off with his fingers first, then his mouth, all nice and wet and begging to be filled with more. She wasn’t even undressed, he recalls. Just had her skirts pushed up and her underthings pulled aside, messy, cotton soaked against his skin as he dragged his fingers in and out of her. Her slick wetting his beard and lips.

Normally, he wouldn’t give in to temptation like that. There’s too much danger involved for his liking, and putting another child in the world isn’t high on his list of things to do.

But she was pleading for it, pretty and trembling, and he was rock hard, and – as they say. One thing led to another. She’d laid on her back much like Arthur is now, legs spread to accommodate him between them, only Charles is where he was, and he’d had his hands on both of her hips as he fucked inside her, pulling her closer with every thrust.

Without much conscious thought, Arthur places his hand over Charles’ own, guiding it to his own hip. He wriggles his other hand free where they’re intertwined, urging Charles to place both hands where he wants them. To fuck him nice and deep. When he’s instantly understood, Arthur feels like he could die, seeing those strong hands gripping him at the waist.

“This what you want?” Charles whispers. A wild sort of light shines in his eyes as he asks it.

All the while he fucks him – slow, steady, unending, like it’s costing him nothing. Giving Arthur everything.

“Please, yeah, deeper –” Arthur knows he blushes when his voice cracks, but it doesn’t matter. He just needs to know that Charles understands how badly he wants this.

That’s all he has to say. In only seconds, Charles pushes in just the way he’d requested, driving a tight whine from Arthur as he goes. Thrusting in faster, faster. His body’s used to Charles by now, taking his cock in a smoother glide. The sting of learning to have something that big inside him is fading, replaced with gut-deep pleasure.

All Arthur’s wit seems to have gone with it. Been too long since he’s had sex, period, let alone with a lust this wild. Every time Charles pulls him further onto his cock, his fingers dig in hard, and tomorrow they’ll both notice the bruises on his hips. For now, though, it’s less than an afterthought.

“God, sweetheart, like that, jus’ like that,” Arthur moans.

He’s so full and Charles is fucking him so damn right. Skin slapping against skin, Charles’ body flexing and shiny with sweat. The look on his face is something furrowed and desperate as he makes his own soft sounds in time with Arthur’s less subtle ones. Arthur feels helpless to his own senses, but in the best of ways – looking up at Charles, letting the tight spool of pleasure build and build inside him, hearing the bed squeak.

“Please,” he gasps at some point, only half aware of what he’s begging for. “Charles, Charles –”

His cock’s been largely unignored, wedged between them as it drips down onto Arthur’s stomach, getting more and more flushed the closer he gets to spilling. Charles pauses now, breathing hard, halting his thrusts for a moment in favor of stroking Arthur with the lightest touch. Only enough to tease him, and it does the trick.

He jolts up like he’s been shocked, gasping, feeling his toes curl. The almost-release feeling simmers, bringing him close, but not quite there. Arthur hears himself whine in frustration, clinging to Charles as if he needs this more than he needs to breathe.

“Please,” Arthur says again, thrusting his hips into Charles' thick fingers, then back onto his cock. He could have one or the other, or both, but he needs something.

Something on Charles’ face changes. Up until now, Arthur would guess, he’s been holding back a little – dragging this out for Arthur’s sake. Being a bit gentler. But something in his expression must persuade Charles to throw in the towel on all that. Hell, either that or he wants to finish as badly as Arthur does.

His eyes go a little dark, reminding Arthur of the clouds that preface a heavy summer rain.

“C’mere,” says Charles, the word catching like a low growl in his chest.

Calloused hands tug at Arthur's hips, urging him up off the mattress until he's sitting in Charles’ lap.

“Jeezus–”

It forces him so deep that Arthur nearly sobs about it, caught on that hot edge of ecstasy, gazing down at his partner now as Charles thrusts up into him for everything he's worth. Bracing one hand on Charles' shoulder for balance, Arthur thrusts back, working with him, mouth hanging open as that spot inside him gets rubbed and rubbed.

“Honey, please, Christ, please, m’right there, m’real c-close –”

“Bounce for me,” Charles tells him, sneaking the words in around thrusts so hard Arthur can't think of anything but yes and please and more. “C’mon, Arthur, let me see you ride.”

He feels Charles' fingers wrap around his cock, properly, finally, and he bites hard into the line of Charles' neck.

Arthur comes like that, whimpering, spilling hot onto them both over and over as Charles continues to move. It’s so good that it’s almost too much, forcing him to shudder and try to twist away on instinct.

But Charles is right behind him.

“Fuck!” Charles gasps, hair falling out of his ponytail in loose strands to frame his sweaty face. “Arthur, god, feel so perfect –”

Breathlessly, Arthur reaches to kiss him through it, relishing the noise Charles makes when their lips collide. Like relief, like happiness; like he’s glad Arthur had done it.

The heat of being filled by Charles is intense when Arthur’s this sensitive – something foreign, but not altogether bad, now that he’s not being fucked into anymore. Arthur can feel the spend dripping out of him, down the back of his thighs.

For a while, they just pant together, foreheads touching and skin sticking. It’s Arthur who has to move first, his hips and lower back protesting, and he eases off of Charles’ lap with a slight wince. Charles scoots back to give him room, one hand already on Arthur’s thigh as if to offer help, should he need it.

“You good?” he asks.

He takes a second to think about it. Good seems a little mundane for how he feels, despite being loose and messy and aching at the same time. After something like what they’d just done, he has the strong urge to – hell, he doesn’t know. Write the man a damn sonnet or something. Feels like this deserves something fancier than an exchange of spoken language. He’s always been so fucking clumsy with his tongue.

Maybe he will write something, once they’re back amongst the gang and he can sneak it in Charles’ saddlebag. But for now, he keeps it simple, lest he embarrass himself.

“M’good,” Arthur mumbles back, giving him a shy smile. “Well. Gotta say my ass has been better, but. Y’know.”

Charles laughs. “Oh, just you wait.”

“I’m lookin’ forward to the ride home, that’s for sure.”

The younger man leans forward to smooth sweaty strands of hair off Arthur’s brow, propped up on an elbow. Arthur catches his fingers in the tail end of that tangled black ponytail, holding it like the delicate thing it is, feeling his chest caught up with that terrible affection he knows he can’t yet dare to voice.

Not here, not now. But perhaps soon.

“You okay?” he says instead.

“Mmhm.” And Charles does look a bit smug, the handsome bastard, settling down next to him as he continues to stroke Arthur’s hair. “Have to say, I feel finer than I have in weeks.”

Arthur hums, amused and getting sleepy. The gentle, repetitive motion of Charles’ hand petting his head, coupled with his exhaustion, is threatening to put him under fast.

“Wonder why that could be.”

“Reckon I should keep it up. Never hurts to stay in good spirits,” Charles says, his tone wry. “Unless you’ve got any complaints?”

His drowsy mind takes time to consider it. As playful as the words had been, he feels like there really is a question in there, a touch of anxiety.

“Nothin’ from me. Maybe you let me be the one on top every once in a while. Switch it up, like you said.”

They’re close enough to one another that Arthur can hear the slightest catch of breath from his partner at the suggestion before he responds.

“Sure.”

All casual, like it wouldn’t matter to Charles either way if it happened or if it didn’t. But Arthur knows better. He can’t help smirking a bit.

Arthur swears he only keeps his eyes closed for a second. But when Charles jostles his shoulder, he’s telling him they both ought to wash off before they’re stuck to the bed, because they’ve both been dozing for the past hour.

Dragging their feet, each man works with the water of the washbasin before dropping back to the bed. They curl up together there, avoiding any thoughts of the dawn and the idea of the ride back to camp. For now, for a precious few more hours, Arthur has his arm slung over Charles, and Charles has his leg over Arthur’s hip.

“Do you…” Arthur hesitates, wondering if he should have said anything. “Have anyone else? Waitin’ around?”

Charles blinks, like it’s taking him a second to comprehend what he’s even being asked. Then he snorts out a laugh, tucking his knife away.

“No. No, definitely not.”

“Okay, okay,” says Arthur, feeling a touch defensive about the way he’d been answered.

“Jus’ makin’ sure.” He tucks his chin on his knee, hoping it’ll do something to hide the shade he feels his face turning. It doesn’t.

“You’re good-lookin’ enough I’m surprised I’m not swattin’ folk off you right now.”

The other man huffs, shaking his head. Charles might not be as obvious about it, but Arthur’s starting to get the idea that he has just as much trouble taking a compliment as Arthur himself does. He takes a bite of his dinner, contemplating. Silence sits between them, a comfortable thing, laden with cricket music and a light breeze.

“Not somethin’ I just do for fun, you know,” Charles says after a beat. His eyes are big and solemn, and there’s breadcrumbs on the corner of his mouth, stuck in beard stubble. Something in Arthur’s chest twists with deep, painful longing. He reaches over and brushes them off, chuckling a little.

“Then how the hell you so good at it?” he grins.

And Charles laughs a little too, looking close to shy about it this time. Arthur isn’t used to seeing him like this. Naked, for one, but more than that – being so much more open and silly and sexy and earnest. If he’d known Charles was all this behind the more reserved character he tends to play in camp, he might’ve swept him up and asked to be together a long time ago.

But they’re going to make up for lost time. Arthur’s determined to.

“Guess I – well, I used to be more reckless about who I let into bed.”

“Weren’t we all,” Arthur sighs.

Understatement of his goddamn life.

Thankfully, Charles doesn’t give him time to dwell on it – doesn’t actually know anything about the deeper sadness buried in his agreement. Someday, Arthur plans to tell him, but it’s not a story for tonight. Instead, they pack their provisions away, storing them well out of the reach of any wandering critter.

And that brings them back to the floor, to the blanket, with nothing left between them but empty space and hungry eyes. Arthur drops back there as if he’d been told to do it, unsure where Charles wants him for this, hands draped loosely over his knees. Charles steps back onto the blanket, but doesn’t sit just yet, circling Arthur with the slow, confident energy of a mountain lion toying with a baby deer.

Arthur wants to be eaten.

“Think we were in the middle of something,” Charles says lightly, brushing his palm over Arthur’s hair. Petting him.

“We were,” Arthur answers at once, straightening his back. Eager to do whatever comes next, ready to play whatever part Charles needs him to. Tilting his face up as his cock betrays just how excited he is, twitching back to life. Hoping he doesn’t look like a damn fool, and already knowing the chances of coming away looking like he’s got any sense at all are slim.

His mind circles back to what he’d been told the night before; filthy words carried on gentle puffs of breath.

Open you up on my fingers, nice and slow. Find that sweet spot inside you.

Oh, he’s so curious about that.

A bit curious about the possibility of pain, but not really worried. Arthur Morgan’s no stranger to pain; he’s shaken hands with it more times than he can count. He’s more concerned with the opportunities for pleasure. Arthur might not’ve come into this relationship with the detailed knowledge of queer sex that Charles has, but he’d – he’d heard things. Whispers in the back corners of bars, if you knew where to ear-hustle, about how damn good certain things could feel.

Truth be told, Arthur doesn’t rightly care if that pleasure, how he gets it or who he gets it from, is sending him to hell or not. He’s probably headed there anyway. (When he’s drunk and thinking a bit too hard about it, he’s not convinced anyone has the right to say whether he’s headed up or down, or whether any of it’s actually real. But that’s for another time.)

Charles grins at the sight of his partner perking up. He folds to his knees in one fairly graceful motion until they’re eye level again. Gently, his hands roam down until they’re petting at Arthur’s cock, then further, massaging at the skin of his balls. Arthur takes in a deep breath, his fingers flexing on each knee as he lets Charles do as he pleases.

“You want it right here, then?”

Shit. How many times has Charles’ voice driven Arthur crazy when it had nothing at all to do with sex? He’d never much considered himself attracted to something like a voice, but that was before he heard Charles open his mouth. A damn good thing he tends to use that thing sparingly when they’re around other folks, or Arthur wouldn’t know what to do with himself. He could be asking if the camp stew was ready yet and Arthur would be as hard as nails.

“Want it wherever,” Arthur says, knowing how breathless he sounds already. “Please.”

The other man doesn’t answer right away. Instead he keeps rolling Arthur’s balls in his big palm, teasing, letting Arthur shift and squirm. As if he’s thinking about where best in this cabin he’d like to fuck Arthur until he can’t walk right.

“Let’s go back to the bed,” Charles decides. “We’re going to need time, and the floor isn't comfortable after a while. Might as well use a mattress while we have it.”

Arthur nods, getting to his feet and hoping that Charles doesn’t hear how his joints already crack and protest. A regular old man symphony, he is. Hard to feel sexy when you’re making more noise than a busted up wagon wheel. Licking his lips, he sits at the very end of the bed, unsure of where he’s supposed to be until Charles joins him there.

If Charles notices his joints creaking – or his awkward uncertainty about where to sit – he says nothing. He’s too busy rooting around in his satchel, coming away with a small tin that he places on the nightstand. Arthur’s heart leaps at the sight of it, connecting the dots right away.

When Charles sits the tin down, his next move is to go to Arthur, cradling his face in both hands and kissing him with an amused hum. Arthur returns it gratefully, snaking his hands around Charles’ waist. Sighing out his excitement, too damn needy to care about what he sounds like anymore. They stay like that for a minute or two, Charles’ tongue slipping into his mouth, the scrape of their stubble a delicious friction.

As they pull away, it’s hard to ignore Charles’ current…state of affairs, as it were. Arthur’s in the same situation, panting as he gazes up. Jesus, he wishes he could freeze this night so that they could stay in it for weeks, taking as long as they wanted to relive it over and over. For the next month, he’ll think about the way Charles looks like this, every bit as excited as Arthur is, disheveled and a bit anxious and ready to have him.

“I’m gonna start opening you up,” Charles says. “Here – come sit in my lap, alright? And spread your legs for me, sweetheart.”

They situate themselves, Charles' back against the headboard with his own legs spread in a vee to accommodate Arthur. More than aware of how flushed and red his cock is already, Arthur crawls toward him on the mattress until he’s being held, back-to-chest. Well, more like back-to-cock-to-chest, with how hard Charles is squished between them.

Arthur moans a little and rubs up against him, feeling his lover’s shaft right against his lower back. The solid warmth of his muscle, his body everywhere, Charles' breath appearing at his ear as he chuckles at the enthusiasm.

“Be patient,” he admonishes.

Arthur scowls, knowing Charles can’t see it. He has been patient.

“Almost there,” Charles adds, as if he can read Arthur’s mind. “Been such a good boy, Arthur, we’re almost there.”

Charles follows the praise with a kiss on the side of his neck, and Arthur melts. No one has ever, ever used the term ‘good boy’ with him before. Not in this context. He doesn’t know why, but it makes his cock jump, makes him warm and tingly all over, as if Charles had started grabbing his shaft and pumping it hard. Relaxing fully into the embrace of Charles’ body, Arthur can only nod, trusting him.

“Open your mouth, baby.”

Wordlessly, Arthur does as he’s asked. Charles reaches around, showing two thick fingers, and holds them to his face. Not shoving them in, but holding them at Arthur’s lips until he nudges them into his mouth himself, realizing with a shudder what he’s being prompted to do. He groans a bit as he licks at the taste – salty and still somewhat reminiscent of their dinner.

“There we go,” Charles says in a low purr, sounding pleased with him. Arthur answers him with a low, pleased sound of his own, arching forward to take more. He’s good at doing what he's told – and he’s going to prove it. “Get ‘em nice and wet for me.”

He loses track of how long he sucks on Charles’ fingers. The simple, straightforward act of it is…soothing in a way he can’t really pinpoint, his mind floating somewhere as he’s allowed to relax against Charles. Making soft, satisfied sounds. When Charles finally does pry his fingers loose, the room seems to shift back into clarity, without Arthur ever really noticing that the edges had taken on a soft, comfortable fuzziness.

“You ready?”

“Mmmhm,” Arthur says, showing Charles more of his neck to bite and grinning lazily when he does. “Ready, so fuckin’ ready.”

“Alright, here we go…”

He isn’t sure if Charles is saying that more for Arthur’s benefit or his own, but before he knows it, Charles’ wet fingers are sliding down, below his prick, below his balls. Circling gently over a place that Arthur himself hasn’t touched, pressing the tip of one slick finger in.

Arthur makes a slight, startled sound at the sensation of it. Charles pauses. He blinks, breathes, tries to think about what’s going on. It doesn’t feel…bad. Just odd. A pressure and intrusion that he’s never really had to consider before.

“You alright?” Charles’ other hand is petting his thigh in an instant, trying to gauge his comfort.

God, but he's sweet.

Nodding, Arthur puts his hand over Charles’, trying to provide some reassurance in return.

“Yeah, m’fine. Jus’ – feels funny. Keep goin’?”

“Mmkay. Just try to relax.”

Charles keeps going, pressing in again nice and slow. He swallows hard as the sensation returns, letting his body go as slack as he can. The idea that Charles is –is inside him – has Arthur breathing heavy just as much as his own anxiety does. Arthur can feel him pushing in further, petting at his insides, stroking at the tight heat of his body until his whole finger’s inside.

He works that finger in and out, pressing distracted, closed-mouth kisses to the side of Arthur's face and neck as he goes. Arthur might as well be purring at the attention, the intimacy of it all. He keeps his eyes closed, head leaned back against Charles' body.

“Not so bad?” Charles asks after a time.

“Not so bad,” Arthur agrees, taking it now with no discomfort. Maybe even rocking his hips, impatient, wondering when he's going to get more.

“Good.”

There's a smile in Charles' voice, a tone that makes Arthur think that he knows something he isn't telling yet.

With one finger still inside of him, Charles leans over for the tin he'd brought from his satchel. Moving carefully, he slides out of Arthur to twist the cap open, and Arthur watches as he dips two of his fingers into some sort of oil. Even in the span of a few seconds, feeling…empty is something he's not used to, and he's eager when Charles places two oil-slick fingers back to his hole.

“Little more this time,” Charles murmurs. “Okay?”

Arthur can only make a wordless noise in reply, arching forward. His cock is so damn hard, leaking in front of him, and he wants to touch himself but he doesn't know if he's supposed to, rutting his hips in little desperate circles as Charles slides back in.

The sensation of being stretched open intensifies, something Charles reminds him to breathe through, and Arthur does his best. Having the oil helps ease it along, and in what feels like half the time, Charles is moving two fingers inside him.

Then, out of nowhere, Charles moves those fingers a little differently. Curls them up instead of pushing them straight in. Something blooms like heat in Arthur's belly, tantalizing pleasure that makes him twitch and gasp.

“F-fuck–” he chokes out, high and surprised.

All Charles gives in response to that is a satisfied sound, damn near a growl as he keeps his fingers right where they are. His lips travel the well-loved line of Arthur's neck, teeth grazing as he grinds against him. Arthur can still feel the other man's cock against his back, rock hard and eager.

He keeps stroking him from the inside, touching that place again, and Arthur can't stop himself from whimpering. It feels like…it almost feels as if someone's touching his dick, without having touched it at all. A searing pleasure that he had no clue could even exist.

“What – oh god – what the hell is that,” Arthur pants.

“S’what makes being fucked feel so nice,” comes Charles’ reply. Arthur wishes he could see his face, because he’s starting to sound almost as worked up as Arthur himself is. “You like it?”

Oh. The sweet spot.

“I like it, Jesus, Charles, ‘course I fuckin’ like it –”

Charles' breathing speeds in his ear, carried on a pleased groan, and there isn't much slow about how they're moving after that. Arthur’s rocking up into Charles' hand as much as he can in their position, and Charles' fingers keep curling inside him, stroking tight little circles that make Arthur gasp and whine.

“So good for me, baby,” Charles says quietly, but there's no mistaking the heat simmering in his voice. “Doin’ so well.”

Arthur makes some sort of strangled noise at that, feeling the start of an orgasm stirring in his gut.

“Think I'm gonna come, Charles, it's – I didn't – I –”

Arthur’s trying to tell him that he didn't know it could feel like this, didn't know that a few fingers up his ass would make him fall apart, trying to say he's sorry – though for what exactly, he isn't even sure. All he knows is that he's grateful for their position, because tears are gathering in his eyes from the sheer pleasure of it, and he wouldn't want Charles to think him a weepy fool.

He feels Charles rut against him, solid as steel. The added knowledge that this has him as worked up as he is only pushes Arthur closer to the edge, gathering fistfuls of the blanket and Charles’ thigh, leaning against his shoulder and pushing into the maddening sensation.

Soft lips at the shell of Arthur’s ear.

“Then do it.”

Those three words are all the permission he needs. Cussing and squirming and only crying a little, Arthur shoots off across his own stomach and chest. Charles is relentless on that spot inside him all throughout, keeping his fingers inside and pressing up even harder. Even in the midst of it all, he doesn’t miss the low, drawn-out fuck, Arthur from behind him, Charles’ teeth sinking into the muscled swell of his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Arthur gasps, once he’s wrung out and spent against the warm weight of his partner’s body. “If that wasn’t – if you didn’t want me to –”

Charles takes his free hand and uses it to turn Arthur’s jaw until they’re kissing, his head tilted at an awkward angle but their lips still able to meet.

It’s the fiercest, most ravenous kiss Arthur thinks he’s had in all his life; as if Charles is trying to eat him as well as kiss him, a mess of teeth and spit and stubble between the two of them. He finds he doesn’t mind at all. They’re both a complete mess again, though Arthur’s beginning to learn that this is just the way it’s going to be when they’re together. If he gets to do this with Charles, it’s worth it.

When they break away, both panting, they catch each other’s glance. Arthur can’t help grinning – fucking beaming – like an idiot. He feels so goddamn alive. Some days he’s too busy doing whatever needs to be done to really stop and appreciate what he’s got, or too busy worrying about what could happen to all of them. But tonight? Here with Charles? He feels lucky. And richer than any society man.

“Don’t ever have to be sorry,” Charles tells him firmly. “Unless it’s something worth bein’ sorry about.”

With that, he slides his fingers out with just as much tenderness as there had been in his words. Arthur only nods in answer, still tingling all over with pleasure and a little dumbstruck that someone could be so kind to him. He’s aware of Charles leaning off the bed for something, then handing it over– another one of his bandanas.

“Gonna start chargin’ you a cleanin’ fee,” Arthur jokes, cleaning himself off as best he can manage. Come and body hair don’t mix well, but he’s willing to be sticky for a while if it means he and Charles can finally get down to business.

“Pretty sure what we just did was a good enough payment – or did you not like it?” Charles shoots back, smirking as he gets off the bed for a long, indulgent stretch.

Arthur blushes hard. “No, I – I was miserable.”

He’s rewarded with one of those looks from Charles that makes him feel like he’s been bucked. The swooping sensation right as the saddle goes out from under you, then the inevitable crash. Something adoring and quiet in his eyes as his mouth barely turns up at the corners, his expression so fond Arthur isn’t sure he’s earned it.

But he says nothing about it as he rejoins Arthur on the bed, sitting perched on the edge to place a warm hand on Arthur’s thigh.

Especially now, spread wide on their couch with Logan’s spend dripping out of him. Logan hates to pull out now, his instincts telling him to stay put, but he wants Wade in their bed. More flexible that way, room to spread out instead of one of them left to dangle a limb over the side of the couch awkwardly.

“We packin’ up, boss?” Wade asks, trying for lighthearted and not quite getting there. His cock is still flushed all pretty and hard against his stomach, dripping down his shaft, and fuck. Logan needs to taste it one more time before he goes anywhere. Needs to clean up his own mess to get Wade ready for more. He wants and he needs so much.

“Not yet.”

Logan dips down to the spread vee of Wade’s legs, adjusting him so that they stay open. Pressing his scruffy mouth to the inside of one thigh and leaving a considerable trail of beard burn in his wake, he works his way again up to the other man’s cock. All the while, Wade huffs and twists and tries to keep still, watching the way Logan scents him with a comparable impatience.

Yet the first kiss that Logan places to the meeting of Wade’s hip and thigh is chaste in comparison to the wet, laving trail he took to get there. Wade shivers at the contact, hips nudging up in a wordless ask. Logan sinks his teeth in, drinking the delighted hiss of pain, and ducks his head down lower. Lower. Ignoring Wade’s cock for now, to lap up his own come all around Wade’s hole. It’s a delicious, precise heat with his tongue and lips.

“Fuck,” Wade manages, a soft whimper that Logan meets with a pleased sound of his own. “And to think that I thought you’d want me to shower before we – did anything. I know I reek after a job like that –”

He jumps again, gasping as Logan shoves his face in further, tongue working furiously.

“Just sweat and blood and you,” he pulls away to say. The angle that Wade can see of him shows rare, animal bliss, come clinging to his facial hair. “And you’re not goin’ anywhere. Cleanin’ you up my way.”

—-

[Wade: Oh, something crazy happened here.

WickedScribbles: Wade? Shit, Wade, I asked you to stop breaking into the Google Doc. Several times. Nicely.

Wade: Okay, get your gender-affirming boxers out of a bunch. It’ll only take a second. Let the readers click away or get their hand out of their pants or whatever they need to do. We good? Good. Let me paint you a picture. See, around this time in my little rendezvous with ol’ Wolvie, he was losing the plot. Lost in the sauce. All bricked up on the bald goodness that is my body 🍆🥵

Sad to say, he’d become an unreliable narrator, his brain reduced to cubes of half-melted Velveeta cheese. I saw it happening and had to take the reins. TLDR; the perspective changes because I knew I could tell it better. Does everyone smell what I’m stepping in?

WickedScribbles: Thank you, Wade. May I keep going?

Wade: You may ❤️]

—---

A thrill hits Wade’s spine at the sheer possessiveness of that. The confidence. His cock fucking aches, and he knows if he doesn't get some sort of friction soon, it'll only feel worse.

“God, you are such a hot dom daddy when you want to be.”

Logan rolls his eyes and tries to duck down, but Wade can still see his ears going red. “You wanna come or not? Touch yourself for me, princess. Then we move, then I’ll fuck you again.”

Oh ohhhhkay, king! Go off!!!

Wade doesn’t hesitate to take himself in hand. (His hand is gonna look like one of those fucked up little Lego gripper claws by the time he’s done.) Logan may not give orders in the bedroom as often as the internet thinks, but when he does, Wade’s more than ready to yes sir himself into orgasmic bliss. He starts stroking himself in a firm rhythm, unable to help a soft whine of relief.

Meanwhile, Logan’s decided that he’s clean enough. He slides back up to watch Wade, hazel eyes dark with interest. His chin comes to sit on Wade’s knee, the fingers of one hand resting on the outside of his leg.

“Good girl,” he says quietly, and Wade’s chest heaves.

It’s no secret that Wade has a lot of kinks, and a very open mind. He’s tried a variety of things over the course of his sex life – things he’s loved and adopted as his own routine practices to try with partners. Other things that weren’t quite his taste, but he didn’t mind trying once or twice to see if they would stick.

Logan’s a little less wild with his interests, less open. He's perked up at all the standard dom/sub shit Wade proposes in the bedroom, sure. Impact play. Choking. Orgasm delay. All the regular fun and games that Wade places in his repertoire.

He was not expecting Logan to react so strongly to the breeding kink idea, though. Scandalous for their M/M pairing. It doesn't really matter what it is that they’re doing, though. Not if it's Logan. Just seeing him so wildly turned on is enough to do it for Wade.

And the gender play…hah. Wade's no stranger, he can and has femmed it up with the best of them.

But now he's interested to see how his big tough guy reacts to all that mushed together in a messy, drippy, kink sandwich of sorts. Wade loves pushing his buttons wherever possible, but especially here.

Logan's eyes follow his hand as he strokes himself up and down, up and down, consistent but not enough to come. Not yet. His gaze is hungry; it has been ever since Wade walked through the door.

Guess Wade just has to get stuck on a shittier-than-expected job more often.

“Baby,” Wade breathes, pitching up on purpose. “God, I'm so fuckin’ wet.”

He keeps his eyes on Logan, pumping his cock harder. Squeezing at the base until more fluid dribbles out, sliding down his fingers. Feels fucking good, and he shudders, thrusting into it.

The look on his boyfriend's face is akin to the expression Bonnet wears when hunting the laser pointer dot, or when Puppins is staring at their dinner but knows she can’t have any. Pupils massive. Nostrils flared. Mouth slightly open. Scenting him like an animal. He's panting a little now.

“See?” he says coyly, holding out his fingers for Logan to taste.

Logan grabs Wade’s own fingers from him like they’re candy, sucking them into his mouth with a chest-deep growl. Between the panting, drooling heat of his mouth, Wade’s other hand clumsily going to town, and seeing how hard Logan is between his spread legs, Wade’s poor lil guy taps out. And by taps out, he means spilling all over himself and the couch as he mutters incoherent nonsense.

“Fuck, Wade,” Logan groans at him, sucking a dark hickey into his wrist.

He sinks his sharp canines in until Wade feels blood dripping down his arm, onto his stomach, adding to the mess. Doing it Interview with the Vampire style? Yes, please. The image of Logan looking up at him with burning eyes and blood all over his mouth is going to be burned on the back of Wade's eyes for weeks.

Sadly, their couch is never going to recover from what it's seen. All of their furniture is stained and ripped and damaged, and Wade loves it. Even if the two of them can’t retain any marks, their stuff sure can.

“C’mon – up.”

Logan helps him to his feet after he's lapped Wade's wrist clean. He's been in this apartment long enough, done enough anxious pacing to know exactly how many steps there are from the couch to the bedroom. Do they feel like they happen, in the span of seconds when he’s escorted there now? No. It’s like he blinked and found himself deposited on the mattress, with an eager Wolverine mounting him.

Lips land on the side of Wade’s neck, Logan’s favorite place to bite down. Wade isn’t as picky – he’ll take teeth anywhere he can get them, the delicious nip of pain delivered only seconds before the gentleness of kisses. Logan presses himself down flat, pinning Wade a little harder than usual. His cock rubs, promising, against Wade’s.

Woo mama, it’s a good thing they’re not living in an omegaverse timeline or his poor hole would never get a break.

When Wade can catch his breath, arrange his thoughts, the first thing he does is probe further into their little kink situation.

“How do you want me, daddy?” he purrs in Logan’s ear, and it’s such a treat to get the big guy to shiver like that. Logan pauses, thinks about it. The whole time, his hot breath dances on Wade’s skin, over the rough scars of his neck and throat. “Made some pretty big promises, y’know.”

He just scoffs out a laugh in response, nipping Wade’s earlobe like an older dog correcting a puppy. Sitting up to kneel, Logan lifts him by the hips.

Since he’s not exactly Mr. Talkative right now, Wade lets him position them exactly how he wants – and that ends up being Wade still on his back, but spread in Logan’s lap, Wade’s planted feet the only thing keeping him on the bed. Oh, this is going to feel so fucking deep. And for all you Cosmo girlies, this is not a beginner’s position. Especially not if you’re skipping leg day.

But Logan knows he can take it. He’s right back at Wade’s hole, the head of his cock lingering there.

“You wet enough?” he asks, both hands bracing Wade’s hips. Neither of them had thought to grab the lube, something that Logan would say sorry for later. Not that it was a need with what their bodies can do, more of a kindness, but they’re affording each other all sorts of kindnesses these days.

Ever the drama queen, Wade snaps back into improv mode.

“Already told you I’m soaked,” he pouts, arching and rubbing back onto what he wants. “You always get me so wet, but I think it’s worse now because I’m ovulating, and I, I – ohh, fuck, baby –”

Logan presses himself inside at the word ovulating, and Wade loses the plot.

It’s not that Logan doesn’t always feel massive, because he is massive. But the angle Wade’s being kept at and the zero-preamble-to-fucking-you-senseless energy that Logan’s giving is already making his brain stammer for the next thing to say. He’s also a little preoccupied with the way Logan moans as he bottoms out, head thrown back. (He could devote a whole novel here to how gorgeous Logan looks, how he could come just from licking the sweat off of his biceps, but that’s not what you came here for.) And of course, his own cock is reporting for duty, not one to miss out on the action.

“Wade,” he gasps. “You can't just – s-say shit like that.”

Fuck, they have got to start recording these sexytime shenanigans... Even if he would rather stick his hand in a toaster than see himself on display. Wade has a vivid imagination, sure. He replays their sexual encounters in his head almost as often as they happen. But to be able to hear and see Logan saying that exact phrase in his low, gruff voice – stumbling over syllables because of how bad he wants this – that’s something else entirely.

Maybe he can convince Logan to let him wear a GoPro strapped to his forehead so all he has to see is what he wants to see.

“Too late,” Wade answers, sing-song. “I’m playing right into your dirty little fantasies – unless you want me to stop.”

He peers up at Logan, who swallows back a wet mouthful of drool. Wade’s heart does that scary squeeze thing that he’s come to associate with being in love with him, even if that’s something they don’t say out loud. Because even if Logan’s a total beast of a man, dick-deep inside him all shiny with sweat, he still looks so fucking cute right now.

Which is probably not the descriptor most people would use. If anyone could kill him, it’s Logan. But Logan trusts him enough, likes him enough, to roll over and show Wade his soft belly like a cat who never lets anyone pet them.

Right now, Logan’s hair is all ruffled and mussed, even worse than the usual cowlick problem. His expression is wide open in a way that it only gets when he’s with Wade or Laura or Al. Trusting. His favorite people know how to melt that almost permanent scowl. But the little half-smirk is what really gets Wade – the KO. Even when he knows he’s about to be fucked good and hard, knowing he can make Logan smile like that makes him feel warm all over like alcohol.

“Didn’t say that,” Logan replies, and thrusts.

“Mmnh!”

Wade makes a surprised sound, his legs and back straining in their current position.

It’s a damn good thing Logan’s there to hold him up, because now that it’s started, the train to pound town is not stopping. Wade can’t really thrust back the way he’d like, but with how fucking deep he’s taking cock right now, it’s not that much of a problem. Logan’s flipped the switch from Sweet Hunk Boyfriend to I’m Gonna Fuck Your Brains Out again, and Wade’s dick twitches helplessly against his stomach.

“You’re so fuckin’ deep,” Wade grits out. “Please, please don’t pull out this time, baby, you said you were gonna get me pregnant and we can’t stop until it takes –”

“Fuck, Red,” Logan says in answer, almost a whisper, his hips snapping harder. “Fuck.”

His eyes are huge, mouth still ajar, nails scratching deep into Wade’s skin. The bed squeaks wildly beneath them, but not quite as loud as Wade squeaks when Logan adjusts and nails his prostate just right. The easy pleasure that comes with being fucked by someone with moves like the Wolverine quickly builds into something more urgent.

“You want it as bad as I do? Want to see me stuffed full of you, twenty-four seven?”

All Logan can manage is a single, punched out yes.

He knows Logan’s tells. He also knows how long he can last, which is why it’s astonishing that his face is already scrunching up into that perfect picture of need. When his eyes go kind of faraway and spacey, he’s trying to hold back, like he had on the couch, and that definitely made Wade’s top ten hottest moments. Logan’s face is somehow both scrunchy and spacey now, like he can’t decide if he’s going to let himself have what he wants or hold off a little longer.

Wade’s so attracted to this man that it’s physically painful sometimes.

“You – shoulda – told me sooner,” he gets out between thrusts, snaking a hand down to stroke himself. “Imagine how pregnant I’d be if you let me in on this a few months ago.”

Logan starts to pant, fast.

Okay, okay, tiger. Let me get a chance to catch up.

It doesn’t take long. In half a minute, Wade’s right there on the edge with him. And when he comes, one hand smeared over his face, the answering sound Logan makes is enough to make him think they’ve tipped over the finish line together.

He’s not there yet, but Jesus fuck is he close.

“Sweetheart,” Logan whines. “So fuckin’ pretty –”

Well.

It’s a good thing Wade already came, or that would’ve deflated his boner like an unimaginative balloon animal. But he’s not about to yuck Logan’s yum, especially not as he’s coming hot and deep. Muttering a string of endearments that Wade can’t quite pick apart, his eyes scrunched shut tight as he slams home, but he makes out yes yes YES and princess and fucking incredible.

It’s enough praise to take the sting out of pretty. For now.

Logan slides out of him, careful, and eases him back down onto the mattress. Still panting hard, his hands go to Wade's trembling legs, wobbling like a baby deer's after being in that position for so long.

“Okay?”

His hands work to massage the muscle lightly, tender concern showing on his face even after fucking him senseless. Wade nods, dazed, sensitive all over from coming more than once in such a short span of time.

Humming his approval, Logan takes his face in his hands and kisses him. It's a white girl Christian romance kind of kiss, chaste but sweet, something the protagonist has to wait the whole novel for so you know the guy means it. But Wade doesn't mind being kissed like that; he knows Logan's catching his breath, too.

And it’s kinda – pardon his French here – wholesome and nice. To just take a break from all the nasty fucking and let Logan coddle him.

Logan bumps their foreheads a little as he pulls away. This man is not beating the kitty cat allegations.

“Think you got another round left in you…sweet girl?” His eyes crinkle up at the corners, but the smirk on his face is criminal.

Good God. What kind of touch-starved, sex-craving maniac is writing this? Not that Wade’s complaining if it’s his holes having all the fun, but shit, buddy. Confide in your therapist.

(I’m good, thanks. Some things stay between you, me, and the readers, Wade.)

Wade bites his lip. “You know how I get before my period. And if we want to make sure there’s a kid in me…”

He’s close enough to actually see Logan’s pupils expand with interest, the vague flare of his nostrils. Logan leans in further, pressing his face into Wade’s neck. His mouth is warm and soft kissing on the pulse of his jugular, surprisingly gentle though he’s torn into the skin so many times. Getting the scent of him where it’s strong, all sweat and whatever stink Wade can’t pick up with his Normal Guy Nose. His breath comes in soft huffs, cock stirring again as he shuffles forward to almost sit in Wade’s lap.

“You,” he growls. “Are fuckin’ ridiculous.”

Wade grins, letting himself be pushed flat onto the mattress. “Why? ‘Cause I should be getting some sort of nomination in bedroom improv?”

He doesn’t miss the laugh that Logan huffs out. Wade’s practically trained himself to earn that sound as an approval of sorts, and it might say a lot about him that he gets at least slightly hard whenever he hears Logan laugh now, whatever the context might be. A regular Pavlov’s dog, our Wade.

“Think you’re gettin’ off on this more than I am.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that, sweetheart.”

Logan’s teeth sink into his neck, just enough to feel like a reprimand.

“What did I say?”

The thrill of arousal numbs any actual pain – and Wade’s ability to articulate a fully formed thought.

“Fuck! You said, uh, you said not to tease you about it – until we were done,” he gets out, offering more of his neck as Logan sucks a dark hickey.

For a guy who knows for sure that his partner’s bruises will heal in a matter of minutes, Logan’s damn determined to try and leave them. Add marking to the list of kinks.

“Mmmmhm.” Logan’s mouth makes its way to Wade’s ear, licking a wet stripe over his ear hole. He squirms, panting again, ready again. His sexy, dreamy, beefcake of a man leans back, patting his thigh. Wade fights the urge to jump there like a little trained lap dog, tail wagging. “C’mon, cowgirl, on top.”

That’s not to say that he doesn’t make a fool of himself getting there as quickly as possible, because let’s be real.

Logan smirks at his eagerness, circling his arms around Wade’s waist.

“Y’know, I love the enthusiasm, Red. But I want ya the other way.” He licks his lips, hesitating for the briefest moment. Wade can see the wheels turning in his head, can see him trying to play along with the game they’ve concocted. “It’s deeper.”

“And you wanna be able to feel me up while you fuck me, right?” He places Logan’s hand on his chest, makes him squeeze. Always happy to help a scene partner. Judging from the look on his face, they’re about to yes, and their way to sexual nirvana. “I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I know you love my tits.”

“Yeah,” Logan pants, taking both of their cocks in hand and stroking slowly like he needs the friction. “I fuckin’ do. Now please turn around and let me fuck you.”

“Yes, chef. Let’s make a goddamn kid.”

Wade situates himself as he’d been asked, turning around until he’s sitting backwards in Logan’s lap. His cock teases at Wade’s hole, strong fucking arms holding him tight around the waist. Lips and stubble graze his back, down his spine, sensation that raises goosebumps.

It’s been a minute since he rode reverse cowboy, and that’s the gospel truth. He’s by no means a stranger to it – in the post-Vanessa, pre-Logan period, it was pretty common for people to not want to see his face during the whole affair. He doesn’t blame them; it’s just a fact. Wade was a reverse cowboy, doggy style king back in those days.

Good times.

Logan shifts to prep him one more time with spit-soaked fingers, handling him with little jostling even in the face of what they’re about to do. Then, with his chest plastered to Wade’s back, Logan starts the familiar push in. Not quite as rough as he’d been the first few times – he knows Wade’s getting sensitive. But once he’s there, they both groan in appreciation.

He can feel Logan bury his face into his skin and sigh once they’re fully situated, palms spread flat on his stomach and chest. Wade’s so caught up in the tactile sensations – unpredictable when he can’t see Logan’s face, either – that he almost forgets that he's going to have to do his fair share of the work this time.

That's fine by him. Never let it be said that Wade Wilson isn't a versatile little son of a bitch, even if he does delight in getting dicked down by Logan the second he opens the door. He starts rocking his hips, thrusting back into that familiar cowboy rhythm, and it's followed closely by enthusiastic nails in his torso.

“That's it, baby,” Logan murmurs, encouraging. Maybe it's Wade's imagination, but he sounds more breathless than he would think for them just getting started. He thrusts up to match Wade as much as he can, but they both know Wade has more control. “Still so fuckin’ tight.”

“Aw, you really mean that?” Wade says, playing shy. “The ol’ girl's hardly twenty-one anymore.”

Logan makes a sound behind him that he's eighty-six percent certain is a stifled laugh. It quickly turns into something deeper as Wade grinds down hard, enjoying the fact that he has control again.

“‘Course I mean it,” Logan manages to say. “Love how you take me.”

Wade feels warm with the affirmation from the inside out, no pun intended. Logan's hands creep up to rest on his chest with intention, thumbs barely ghosting over the nipples.

Now, Wade's nipples are nothing special to look at. He's never voiced that insecurity to Logan – he's got eyes, for God's sake – but a part of Wade itches and leans away from the idea of him trying to romanticize something that they both know just ain't looking good.

His nipples are technically still there. But they look more like two overburnt pepperonis that someone scraped off of a pizza than something that’s supposed to be stuck on someone’s chest. Is that saying much, considering how the rest of him looks? Not really.

Wade doesn’t want to dwell on his fucking weird nipples or the rest of his fucked-up looking body, but Logan touches him there like it’s an honor. Feeling him up like he actually has tits to play with. Panting on his skin and growling out all those toppy sounds he makes under his breath when Wade feels sooo good around his cock. Even if he and Logan aren't face to face at this exact moment, the enthusiasm doesn't lie.

And fuck, Wade does feel like a pretty little lady, for one scalding hot second. Jesus.

“You good, sweetheart?”

The question brings Wade back down to earth. He must've gone quiet, and he never does that, does he? It goes against his whole beloved comic/movie persona. No one wants to catch Wade Wilson pondering if he's lovable.

So he opens his mouth.

“I'm good,” he grins, using the leverage from his planted palms on the mattress to bounce up and down a little harder. Logan sucks in a ragged breath, squeezing Wade’s chest. “Are you?”

“Good is an understatement.” Logan gives him a few pointed thrusts, surprising a high yelp out of him. “Pussy feels so fuckin' nice, I should keep you here all night. Make you take me over and – over.”

Well, look who's learning their lines.

There's something both sharp and rough in his voice that's making Wade's cock dribble all over itself. Shit, he sounds all mean like he did when they first met. Wade fucking loves it. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't jerked it to the thought of Logan talking down to him in the months before they got together, when all he'd known was the man's gruff attitude and their sexual tension.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “What's stopping you?”

Logan's effortless when he tops through BDE alone. Thoughts and prayers for Wade's asshole if he learns to dirty talk like a pro, too.

Without warning, Logan lifts him up, rising on his knees as well, and deposits him on his stomach so that he's being mounted from the back. A flat doggy style, or a flatiron, if you're a fic author googling fun positions. It happens so fast and pushes Logan so deep that Wade keens out something that only vaguely sounds like English, but they both know the sound is pure pleasure.

And now Logan's mouth is back on his neck, lips smiling as he keeps up the tempo.

“Oh, there's nothin’ stopping me.”

Absolutely zero thoughts form in Wade’s brain save for a long line of exclamation points and wingdings. His cock is now shoved between his own stomach and the mattress, getting friction whenever Logan thrusts into him. It wouldn't normally be enough to get him off, but Logan's hitting home against his prostate over and over.

Add in the fact that he's already oversensitive and all this talk of consensual non-consent, and he's panting facedown in the sheets like a dirty whore, lifting his hips for every thrust. So fucking close.

Shiiiiit, now he's gonna be the one messing up their sexy little back and forth. It's not Wade's fault that Logan's so good at adapting, he didn't know what he was setting loose into their sex life!

Logan knows what he's doing, too. He loves forcing Wade to make all sorts of embarrassing noises when he's fucking him this deep. But if the string of praise Wade's getting in his (chewed up) ear is any indicator, neither one of them is going to last much longer.

“You gonna come for me, princess?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, feeling like the luckiest twink at the gay bar. “Of course, Logan –”

It’s a miracle he’s been able to hang on this long; the miracle of Bee’s (unnecessary) exposition.

“Then beg me, baby,” Logan growls, voice low and perfect and just on the right side of wrecked. “Fuckin’ tell me what you need.”

Wade’s giving him what he asks for without a second’s hesitation.

“Please, please Logan I'm gonna come, it's so good please please please –”

Dick so good it’s got him sounding like Sabrina Carpenter.

All Logan can do is moan, sinking his teeth into the side of Wade’s neck like he’s yet another sapphic pop reference. Logan reaches up to curl his fingers through Wade’s until they’re holding hands, Logan's on top of his, and that’s all he can take. Wade shivers through every pulse as it soaks the sheets and smears over his skin. It isn't long before Logan's coming too, filling him for a second before pulling out to paint stripes over his back.

Wade pants for a second, come-drunk and blissed out.

Then, after rolling over – “We're never gonna make a kid with that attitude, peanut.”

Logan flops down on the bed with a groan. “Jesus, Wade. You can drop it now, y'know.”

“And stop committing to the bit? I thought you knew me.”

Wade grins as he's wrestled into a very sweaty, very sticky bear hug. They're nasty as hell right now, but it doesn't really matter. At least there's no blood involved. And hey, it's just them. Cuddling in the wet spot, all romantic like. He likes being held tight to Logan's chest, buried in the hair and his cigar-cedar-Logan smell.

“I'd tell you to shut up, but I know it's pointless.”

“To be loved is to be understood,” Wade says theatrically.

Logan only rolls his eyes at that, but his gaze soon softens as he looks Wade over. He leans in to kiss the spot between Wade's eyes, the bridge of his nose, his cheek.

“You were so good, sweetheart,” he says softly, and Wade's whole body feels warm. “Fuck, I missed you so much. You hurtin’ anywhere? Need anything?”

“Nah, I’m okay.” He laces their fingers back together, feeling the long day start to catch up to him. His entire body pulses like a sore bruise, in and out. Disco lights. “Tired, though. You down to get dinner and dissociate after this?”

“‘Course. Those are two of my favorite things.”

Oh, so now he’s funny and he can act. Wade had better be careful, or Logan’s going to write him out of the script entirely. The Logan Howlett Show, with Wade popping in for cameos for the studio audience to clap about.

His ADHD-riddled mind is so caught up in that scenario that he misses the back half of what Logan was saying.

“What? Sorry.”

“I said, I’m surprised you haven’t already started ribbin’ me about what we just did.”

Wade snorts. “Breeding kink’s not that weird, peanut. Trust me.” He pauses. “But…do you actually wanna put a litter of sweet little Wolverpups in me?”

Logan shakes his head, looking thoughtful. “Not anymore. I mean, couple decades ago, I would’ve said absolutely. These days, though…I don’t want to bring a kid into the world.”

He squeezes Logan’s hand, reading the sadness on his face. “I get it.” He really does. He’d wanted that more than anything for so fucking long. “My bad for making it all depressing.”

“You didn’t,” Logan assures him. “I think I just –” he laughs. “I just missed you. And I was losin’ it a little ‘cause I didn’t know where you were or when you were comin’ home. And when you said knock me up?” He blushes.

“I saw your whole face change,” Wade answers, his voice going dreamy. “It was fucking wild.”

“Stop it.”

They laugh together for a second.

But something’s sitting in the back of Wade’s head that he can’t let go of. Would he absolutely love to get up, shower, and eat whatever greasy takeout they end up ordering like the thought never occurred? Um, yeah. Things usually don’t end up being that easy for him. If he doesn’t ask this now, the question’s just going to get meaner and darker until it explodes out of him randomly like that time he shit his pants at 3am on a cocaine bender, in some bodega (they shooed him out with a broom). And nobody wants that.

It’s not fucking easy, though. So he blurts it, because Wade Wilson is a word class blurter.

“And you didn’t, like, just want to do it because you wanted me to be someone else?”

Someone with a nice, wet pussy and long red hair and skin that doesn’t look like the crispiest of fried bacon? He doesn’t add, but it’s a struggle.

Logan’s expression shifts somewhere between hurt and disappointment, and it hurts Wade to know that he’s the person who put it there.

“What? Wade, no, of course not. Never.” He sighs, hugging Wade tighter until he feels like his ribs are about to crack. “Don’t – don’t be an idiot, okay? I like you so I’m with you.”

He knows Logan’s not good at saying the sappy stuff. It’s hard for him – hence why Wade’s currently getting crushed to death. It’s sweet that he’d tried, though. After learning how Logan tends to show affection, he’s not sure he’d want things any other way.

“Okay, okay,” he wheezes. “Just – needed to ask.”

They shower and order pizza from that terrible chain place a few blocks down. Wade recounts the details of his day, and Logan nods through it, wiping garlic butter off of his face with one hand while nudging Puppins down with the other. They eat too much and lie there for the rest of the night in a food coma. It’s awesome.

Does Wade sometimes come home late every once and a while after that just to get the same sort of reaction? …Maybe.

But can you blame him? ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Taglist:

They pull away. It’d lasted only seconds, but Arthur feels like an entirely new person.

“Was that alright?” Charles asks. He’s still touching Arthur, looking at him with open concern, and – hell – maybe more than a touch of his own nervousness.

Huffing out a laugh, Arthur has to fight the urge to pull away, hide his face. This is all so damn new, it makes him feel like a scab peeled open, something fresh and bleeding…but it definitely doesn’t feel bad. The opposite. He’s thrilled to see what could happen next.

“‘Course it was alright,” Arthur answers, knowing he sounds all hoarse from crying. He clears his throat. “I, uh – reckon it’d be a little more’n alright if you kept going, if you catch my meaning.”

Charles tilts his head, a slow grin spreading over his face.

“Really.”

His voice takes on that silky, flirtatious tone again, and the hand still cradling Arthur’s face casually shifts until Charles’ thumb is dragging over Arthur’s bottom lip. Back and forth as Arthur nearly pants, heart kicking into overtime, mouth dropping open. Probably looking like a perfect idiot.

No one’s ever just…toyed with him like this. Teased and flirted and took plenty of time. Hell, maybe that’s the way to do it – all Charles has done is kiss him a little and Arthur’s literally wrapped around his finger.

“Yes, really,” he replies, talking around Charles’ thumb, and that gets a chuckle out of him.

Charles finally pulls his hand away, shifting so that he’s straddling the log they’re both sitting on, and crosses his arms like he’s sizing Arthur up. Nervous, Arthur shifts to sit the same way, though he keeps his hands on his thighs. He bends to pick his hat up from where it’d fallen earlier. In most cases, he tends to feel just a little more at ease with it on.

“What would you want from me, then?” Charles all but purrs, and oh. Arthur’s pants are uncomfortably tight.

Anything.

He doesn't say that. Instead he licks his lips, trying to make his brain work, well aware that Charles is watching his every move.

“Kiss me some more?” Arthur offers. “Please?”

That earns him another smile.

“So polite.” Charles moves to stand, gathering up his satchel and the remnants of their meal, and offers Arthur his hand. Arthur takes it. “I think we can make that happen.”

Together they move back to the cover of the trees, aware that there's no darkness to hide them as there had been that first night. The afternoon might be drawing late, but dusk is still a long way off. That's fine; with how many shifts of guard duty they've put in between the two of them, they know exactly how far away from camp they are. Nearby, but not too close.

Once they're in the shade of the woods, Charles turns to him again, his gaze hungry. They waste no time; Arthur puts an arm around his waist and another in the soft tangle of Charles' hair. Their mouths touch again, and it feels almost like relief to be back to kissing.

Arthur hasn't done this in a long while. Yes, there's been the occasional drunken rendezvous. But doing it sober with someone he knows and wants? He hasn't dared. Not for years.

All the touches don't stay as light and gentle as they had down by the water. Charles kisses him harder, with a sound under his breath that makes Arthur flex forward on instinct. Both of Charles' big hands are on his waist now, gripping him firmly there, and it makes Arthur feel almost small. Pliable.

“Fuck, Arthur.”

Charles breaks away, catching his breath, only to dive right back in. Only now, his mouth lands slightly askew of Arthur's own, peppering his cheek, then the side of his face, his neck…

Until he's dragging his tongue there in a hot, wet line, mouth open, and Arthur's rushing to muffle a gasp into his own hand.

“Charles,” he manages in response, tilting his head to give the other man as much access as he can. Again, his hat falls to the ground, but neither acknowledges it. “God –”

It feels too damn good, too sensitive, having somebody else's mouth on his neck like that. If Arthur can recall, he's kissed on the neck of a lady but never had the favor returned, and to finally know exactly why it'd always gotten them so hot and bothered…well. Turns out they weren't exaggerating. He can feel his face burning again to think that he's in the role of a woman.

Yet at the same time, his cock’s harder than ever.

“That feel good, sweetheart?”

Charles' voice comes right in his ear, soft, and by now Arthur's surely making a fool of himself – his hands turned to gripping claws as he melts at every touch.

Sweetheart. Oh, he likes that. He likes it a lot.

“S’good,” he whines. “It's s-so good, Charles, please –”

The answering groan he gets from Charles travels directly between his legs.

Arthur feels himself being walked back, his lover's hands firm. At first he resists a little, unsure of where he's being led and why he's going there.

One glance at Charles changes his mind. He looks every bit as out of sorts as Arthur feels, his hair messy from where Arthur’s run his fingers through it and his lips shiny with spit.

Carefully, step by step, Charles backs him up into the nearest tree. And they crash together like a wave, Charles' cock rubbing up against his for the first time and Arthur outright moaning at the contact. Though it’s just one of many new sensations, he feels like he needs more, now. The second he got it, he didn’t want to turn back.

To think he’d been missing out on this!

“Shhh,” Charles reminds him, but he looks more than pleased.

And Arthur tries, he really does. But with Charles kissing him again and the slow, purposeful rhythm of their hips grinding together, he’s all but hopeless. Arthur makes the most embarrassing little sounds under his breath as he ruts into what he’s being given, feeling that Charles is bigger than him. His imagination goes haywire, not knowing what to do with that information whatsoever, only knowing that he fucking loves it.

A familiar feeling begins to tug at the bottom of his stomach, tightening at his balls. Swear to Christ if he comes in his britches right now like a goddamn kid…

He forces himself to stop moving, to loosen the death grip he has on Charles. As much as he wants it, Arthur isn’t sure his dignity could take the walk back to camp to get what he needs to wash up after blowing his load from a little rubbing off.

Charles isn’t quite on the same page yet, and the moment Arthur feels the man's mouth move back to his neck, he almost breaks and lets it happen. Fuck it, right?

Hell, he can’t. There’s no way he’d make it through camp without someone noticing that something’s not right with him, and he’s a shit liar when it comes to things like this.

“Charles! Charles,” he pants. “You gotta quit it.”

The lips on his neck pause at once, and Charles pulls back.

“What’s the matter?”

Arthur ducks his head in an attempt to take some of the awkwardness off of what he needs to say.

“If you keep goin’, I'm prob’ly gonna…y'know.”

Charles' eyes widen slightly as realization spreads across his face.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There's quiet for a moment. In the intermission, shame and embarrassment war for first place in Arthur's mind. What kind of man is he? Even if he doesn't come, he's wet, his cock leaking through the denim. What does Charles think of him if he can't even last through a little grinding?

But Charles seems far from disgusted. With their faces still inches apart, Arthur hears him take a shaky breath in, then out, reaching down to adjust himself in the confines of his own pants. When Arthur can finally look him in the eye, he looks every bit as dazed as Arthur feels.

“You are so…” Charles trails off, laughing a little, like he can't think of the right word. “Jesus, Arthur. You're so goddamn attractive.”

Definitely not what he was expecting to hear. The praise sends a thrill straight through Arthur's chest, and he's certain his face is flushed again.

“You sure you got the right Arthur?” he teases.

That earns him an eye roll and a soft kiss on the forehead.