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The wolverine is an opportunistic carnivore; a scavenger, taking its time to pick over the congealed hunks of sinew and flesh its original predator hadn’t been able to bring itself to stomach still clinging to a long-since abandoned carcass. It licks itself clean of any evidence that it had ever reaped the benefits of another’s kill, the taste of carrion still heavy on its tongue as it disappears from the scene like the animal who had come out on top had been the only one to lick such lifeblood from its teeth. It bares its fangs and claws to intimidate, to prove its belonging in the forests and tundras it slinks across sunrise to sunset. It scours constantly for its next round of sustenance so graciously gifted to it through the hard work of a creature other than itself and never sticks around long enough to give thanks.
Wade’s done his research, unless the schools are still preaching that a quick little skim-through of a Wikipedia article is a less reputable source than the strange older man with glazed over eyes, easier to ask what hard drugs he’s not on rather than those he is, who loiters and pesters minimum wage workers about the coming of the end times that he’d seen in his dreams the night prior. All this to say Wade has done his research, bibliography be damned, and wolverines are fucking lazy.
As far as he’s concerned the score is pretty even for a guy who can’t die and another National Geographic has proven too slothful to kill him even if he wanted to. Between the grunting, the clashing of their blades, and the blood spatters he isn’t sure who to give credit for Wade gets a quick glimpse at Logan’s eyes right before he takes three adamantium claws to the gut for the umpteenth time and scratch that, maybe Logan does intend to try and kill him the teeniest, tiniest bit. He even pinches his thumb and forefinger together to gauge just how miniscule Logan’s bloodlust seems to be– he’s not even trying, really, Wade is doing almost all the legwork here– until he’s so rudely interrupted from squinting at the practically microscopic space between his digits by a crack in the face, Logan’s forehead smashed directly against Wade’s nose.
The familiar warmth of gushing blood fills his mask in an instant, leaving Wade to reel back in shock at the sudden wave of pain that overtakes his entire face no matter how temporary. He howls out something unsavory, hands yanked from the handles of his weapons like he’s been scorched by a hot stove (that’ll still get him every time, even at this point). “Okay, alright, time-out!” Wade yelps as he makes a flimsy little T with his hands. “New rule: the face is off limits!”
Logan snarls, and oh, there are those vicious teeth he’d read all about! “So you can dish it all out but can’t fuckin’ take it back in, huh?” His stubbled cheek is smeared with blood from Wade’s similar instigating swing. Logan scrunches his nose, nostrils flared in a loud gesture like he’s proclaiming I got my nose broken in the back of this Honda Odyssey too and all I got was this stupid t-shirt. Plus you’re a little pussy bitch.
Wade inhales sharply and waves a dismissive hand in Logan’s direction when the shooting pain and discomfort finally begins to dissipate. Expert deflection of crippling insecurity time. “No offense, honey badger, but I have a lot more to lose up here,” he jokes with a vague gesture towards his masked face. “Once you hit a hundred-fifty you really just have to face that you’re—” Skin breaks in his thigh and he yowls at the welcoming of three new stab wounds in the tally column in his head labeled with a little doodle of his mask and cartoonish claw marks. Fuck, this is so not like the cute little fuzzy guys he’d scrolled Google Images cooing at.
Spread across the backseat of the Odyssey like he fucking owns it or something, and of course Logan would go for the Michael Phelps of shitty vehicles, Wade’s in an easy position wedged between the driver and passenger seats almost perched on the center console to lunge forward and pin him to the seat. Logan hisses beneath the weight, raring back to strike again, but Wade reacts quicker. “Baby knife!” he chirps before speedily pulling the blade from its holster and driving it directly into Logan’s abdomen. It’s a pretty exemplary stab, Wade thinks, tens across the board and he oughta be an inspiration for wannabe serial stabbers all across the globe.
Then comes the twist.
Two twists, really: the twist in Wade’s wrist, and the plot twist.
The knife’s blade disappears all the way down to the hilt with nothing but a trademark grunt from Logan’s end. Wade gives it a little shove like he’s testing if it’ll go any further, and when Logan’s groaning trills into something sounding even more pained, he decides to go the whole nine yards and cruelly flicks his wrist clockwise into the open wound, Logan’s flesh torn ribbons in its path.
Wade pauses. He freezes, blinks, freezes again, then looks frantically around the car when Logan moans from the very back of his throat and there’s something in there that doesn’t exactly spell out I feel like I’m being stabbed within an inch of my life.
He’s probably white knuckling the knife’s handle beneath his gloves, and he’s almost half-tempted to pull them off and check if he were to even have the option of moving. Wade sways uncertainly in his precarious position right atop Logan’s lap; go figure he’d just happened to wind up here trying to impale him. When he finally finds it in him to meet Logan’s eye again, he looks every bit as startled as Wade probably does behind the mask. Cute viral videos of puppies scaring themselves with their barks come to mind as he scans Logan’s face and hones in on the way his lip quivers, pupils blown as wide as they probably can be, teeth grit like it’s some sort of Olympic sport and he’s going for gold. Something in the very back of the still-functioning part of his brain nags him that curiosity killed the cat, so he says his goodbyes and makes peace with the fact that now he’s a kitty-killer. He twists the knife experimentally the other way and the resounding cry is even louder, far more pitiful.
Ah. Satisfaction always brings it back.
As quickly as he recovers from a papercut, Wade finds his wits about him just enough to get cocky again even if he is still knee-deep in shock and confusion and maybe the slightest imaginable bit of arousal. “Hey, peanut,” Wade taunts as he leans in, voice a coarse whisper as if he’s doing Logan some kind of favor by not airing out his business to their audience of shrubbery and torn up mulch, “that’s not in the script. I think someone forgot his line!”
Logan doesn’t respond right away. His chest is rapidly rising and falling as he heaves out breaths like the air they share is poisoning him from the inside out. Cracked lips are moistened by quick flicks of his tongue and Wade would swear on his very, very dead grandmother’s grave that the corner of Logan’s lips turn upward into some sort of smirk when his tongue smooths over his top row of teeth. “Dig it in there again, bub,” he rasps, his voice raw and laced with something just teetering on need.
Now what’s he supposed to do, say no? Dots are connecting themselves in Wade’s head and it begins to piece together a picture that he is definitely going to use later as masturbation material. Another look at Logan and his smug simpering is all Wade needs to take advantage of another opportunity to add to his tally marks, pulling his knife from its current slit in Logan’s abdomen and driving it into a fresh spot just a smidge to the side. He’s as brutal with it as he can manage to be and lends him no courtesy of adjusting before he twists the knife similarly to the first time, and now with his blood all over Wade’s hands, Logan’s head falls back against the seat.
“Fuck.” He hisses a crescendo that breaks into a cry and all that Wade can think is oh my God he’s into this. Sexually. One glance downward at Logan’s tightening suit tells him all he needs to know.
“I fucking knew it!” Wade laughs in disbelief. “You’re a fucking freak!”
That seems to strike a chord. “Put a sock in it,” Logan spits, arching nonetheless into everything: Wade, the knife, the weight straddling his hips.
Whistling nonchalantly, Wade shrugs and gestures with his free hand down at the small gap of space that still exists between them. “Well, I’m going to go ahead and guess that’s not a gun in your pants. Which means you’re very happy to see me. And my little friend, apparently,” he adds with another sudden thrust of the knife, this time higher into Logan’s chest. “So tell me, have you always known you’re a masochistic little sex pest or is this a recent development?”
The groan that follows sounds more like he’s been punched rather than stabbed. It’s low and heated and his head lolls to the side like he’d be gripping the sheets with all the strength in him not currently being used up in clearly trying not to bust in his pants. “Again. Please.”
Wade could get high off this. He’s already desperate enough that he’s panting and it’s going to take a good long minute before Wade can wrap his head around the fact that this is even happening, that such a commanding force of unchecked testosterone and blind rage like Logan is putty in his hands. His hands. He almost doesn’t notice that while his claws are still out, Logan’s hands are digging into Wade’s hips like he has no other choice. “What Wolvie wants, Wolvie gets,” he sing-songs before there’s another gash in Logan’s chest and the first two begin to close themselves up. He watches, enraptured, until he’s sure there has to be a brightly lit lightbulb above his head when the most brilliant idea he thinks he’s ever had floats into his mind. Briefly, Wade abandons his hold on the knife and allows it to sit jutting out from Logan’s midsection and he pulls the glove off his right hand.
“Stop healing so fucking fast,” Wade murmurs breathlessly. He needs to act fast before he has to start back at square one. “Shit. Okay, this is fucked up. You’re fucked up. And it’s, like, really hot, so you better let me do this again–”
“Wade.”
“Alright, alright. Open up, baby.” Wade lines his middle and index finger up with the wound next in line to heal itself and plunges them inside with a wet squelch.
Logan’s eyes go wide as dinner plates. He chokes on a whimper, a sound that actually sounds so pathetic coming from The Wolverine. Fuck if it doesn’t go straight to Wade’s quickly hardening cock. Each of them suck in their own labored breath with Logan’s eventually wasted on a stuttering grunt when Wade forces them in a little bit deeper, scissoring into the site gently.
It’s really not unlike anything else he’s ventured into sexually; it’s warm, wet, and the flesh sucks his fingers in like it needs them there desperately. If he thinks about it too hard he might be cleaning jizz out of his shiny new suit. Instead Wade continues working his fingers through muscle and tissue, head tipped back to avoid eye contact until he can make peace with the fact that he is so okay with doing something this disgusting, this depraved. “You’re so tight, honey badger,” he starts with a wistful sigh. “All wet for me, yeah?”
Logan seems to have the same idea, because he closes his eyes all together like he’s trying to eliminate any possibility of looking at Wade at all, even on accident. When all he does is grunt softly, Wade throws all the delicate coaxing to the wind and shoves his fingers down as far into Logan as they’ll go, all the way down to the third knuckle. The hole gasps around the intrusion of his fingers, stuttering and clenching in a quiet plea. Tsking, he shakes his head to convey his dismay as his invisible frown doesn’t quite do the trick. “What did I say, baby? Aren’t you totally soaked for me?” He wiggles his fingers to really drive it home, and Logan concedes with a defeated whine and lord, Wade still can’t believe this guy is actually capable of making sounds like that.
“Yeah. Yeah, Red, sure. Just— fucking shut up, please, keep your goddamn mouth shut and keep… keep doing that.”
Oh, isn’t this a power trip? Wade adjusts himself in Logan’s lap so that there’s less space lingering between them, fixed in a way that would bring their hard-ons together with a simple swivel of his hips. Logan’s fingers dig in deeper, his hands trembling like he might take matters into them anyway. Wade’s been less drunk off actual booze. “Keep doing what, sweetums? This?” He pulls his fingers out of the wound slowly, ogling the blood-soaked digits in awe before ramming them right back into the hole without prior warning. Logan howls like some feral beast and fuck, if Wade doesn’t have something touch his cock pretty soon here he’s afraid he might just burst. “Or this?” He goes back to fucking his fingers into the grisly carnage with hushed wet cries and watches Logan’s blood pool out all across the yellow spandex of his suit. “You can tell me, peanut. Secret’s safe with me.”
Logan’s gasping now like he’s being suffocated somehow. He’s the first to break; on a particularly deep thrust into the hole in his gut, Wade’s fingers prodding up against something soft and squishy inside him, he rolls his hips upward and moans wantonly when they finally make contact where it counts. Wade can barely keep down a whimper of his own. “Don’t give a shit. Just– oh, you son of a bitch, fuck it. Fuck it like that. Fuck me.”
Is that what he’s doing? Is he fucking Logan? He can’t keep himself from grinding down anymore, driving his hips down onto Logan’s with an animal noise at the way their cocks rub together. At last he remembers his baby knife, long since neglected and still stuck in Logan like he’s a storage block. He wraps his hand around the handle and tears it out before he quickly picks a new spot to brutalize and forces it back into Logan’s squirming body. Two hands are better than one, he figures, so he goes right ahead and starts to work his left hand into the newest chasm. “I’m fucking you, princess,” Wade coos. “Don’t you feel me inside you?”
Logan draws in a shuddering gasp, his bucking hips growing far more unrestrained. “God, yeah. Again, please, please cut me again. Wade, fuck.”
Wade actually laughs through a rough exhale. “You’re a little whore, aren’t you? Just begging for all the hot guys to stick their knives in you?” He obeys, though, don’t think he doesn’t. The knife goes between his bottom two ribs and it drives Logan wild.
The car’s suspension wails in protest now at how they’re going at it, both the force with which Wade is ripping into Logan’s chest and the feral grinding of their hips for just the slightest bit of relief. It briefly occurs to Wade as he’s two knuckles deep in each of the openings in Logan’s torso that this is maybe the horniest he’s been in his entire life and he really needs to cum before he starts trying to unpack that. He crooks his fingers in different directions in each of the wounds and good Christ on a cracker, he thought he was loud in bed. Or car, more appropriately.
“Fuck yeah, that’s it, that’s the spot,” Logan babbles, eyelids falling shut again. “Don’t you fucking dare stop. I’m right there, bub. Fuck me harder, harder, you piece of shit.” Wade almost slows in sheer surprise because it might come close to the most he’s ever heard Logan say at once and he wants to swallow down every last syllable. So, he does the most logical thing he can think to do; he frees his blade from the recent piece of tissue it has shredded from the inside and instead he holds it right up to Logan’s neck, forcing him to open his eyes.
When they meet one another’s stare, Logan breaks into a grin that hosts maybe a dozen demented implications all at the same time. Wade presses the knife to the thin skin of his neck just enough that it barely breaks, watching a droplet of blood form at the tip and quickly run down Logan’s neck. Somewhere distant in his own head Wade wishes he could lean in and lick it up as his throat bobs, taste the metallic sting on each of his tastebuds. Logan’s hips buck up again and he presses up against the knife even though it gets him choking, dangerously close to nicking his jugular.
“Look at you, bonafide slut. Fucking gagging for it.” Wade slams his hips down against Logan’s, a particularly rough slide of his cock against the other man’s. He pushes the knife just a tad further into Logan’s neck, just as far as he can get away with without actually slitting his throat. “Come on, big guy. Cum for me, all over yourself.” In the wound that he’s still fingering Wade drives his digits in so forcefully one last time with such an obscene sound that healing powers be damned, Logan is sure to still be sore after this. “Cum with me inside you like this.”
Then it happens. Logan cries out hoarsely, vulgar even given that he doesn’t manage to get any actual words out with it. Wade can’t seem to tear his gaze away from his face when he climaxes even though the second Logan shoots off he’s following right on his heels, still finding friction up on him as they each ride out the shockwaves of pleasure ripping through them individually.
There’s a moment of bliss when Logan quiets and Wade’s cock begins to soften that he thinks this was maybe the best orgasm he’s ever had. It ends immediately after he realizes he’s come inside his skin tight suit. His fingers are also still buried deep inside the stab wound to Logan’s chest, and if that isn’t post-nut clarity, he’s not sure what the hell else could be. Wade frees Logan’s throat from the threat of his knife and sheaths it away while pulling his fingers out to wipe on Logan’s thigh instead of his. Oh, Jesus, they’ve pruned!
“Okay,” Wade says. “Good talk. Glad we worked that out.”
“Sure,” is Logan’s reply. “But we’re not done here.”
Wade opens his mouth to say something smart until whatever he’d geared up to say dies in his throat when those damned claws pierce either side of his body. His eyes go wide before he reacts, shouting out with the surprise of being suddenly skewered post-coital-adjacent activity. “What the fuck! I just literally rearranged your guts! You have got to learn that sometimes saying ‘thank you’ isn’t going to kill you dead on the spot,” he quips.
Logan growls and pushes them forward until Wade falls off his lap and smacks the back of his head on the center console. “Oh I see, sugar bear,” he smirks. “Are you ready for round two?”
Round two ensues. And round three. Wade comes to after what he thinks can roughly qualify simultaneously as round four and tenth base wrapped tightly in several feet of seatbelt.
Turns out wolverines are way less lazy than Wikipedia gives them credit for.