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21 May 2009 @ 12:59 am
Solicitors Not Welcome [Marvel]  

Title: Solicitors Not Welcome

Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own that trainwreck Wolverine: Origins, X-Men, the Marvel universe, or the characters said universe/franchise contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Marvel and Fox. No infringement intended.

Fandom: Marvel, Wolverine: Origins-verse.

Continuity: Movie

Warnings: Smut, slight dub-con

Summary: Victor pays a visit.

Author’s Note: There is no logic. Why are you looking for logic here? Harsh criticism encouraged.


Also, I got my Transmet comics today, and I’ve got *~two interviews~* tomorrow for the job-like things.  (AND TRANSFORMERS: RotF IS COMING OUT LIKE THE DAY AFTER MY BIRTHDAY YAYYYYYYY)


Life is awesome.





He’s not sure what it says about Wade or what it says about him that he’s not surprised when Wilson opens the door, beer in one hand and gun in the other, in nothing more than a wife-beater and boxers. Victor smiles – though it’s less a smile than a careful tightening of muscles in a generally upward direction – and takes a personal moment to look the man up and down, taking in all his sorry state. Wade’s eyes are ringed with the evidence of one too many late nights, bloodshot at the corners like he’s been staring at a television too long, and the mechanical smell of gun cleaner wafts out from the apartment, overpowering in the small space. Behind him, in brilliant technicolor, cans and bottles and laundry and various accouterments of the trade are scattered across the floor without rhyme or reason, a mine field of clutter.


Victor’s lips stretch a little more, to reveal the very edges of teeth too sharp to be normal. “Classy.”


“Yeah. Sure. Good suit’s in the drycleaners,” Wade’s eyes flick briefly around Victor, almost an eye roll but not quite so petty, and he lets go of the door, shuffling back in the universal gesture of reluctant welcome, gun waving Victor inward. “C’mon in then, don’t want to scare the neighbors.”


The biting chemical scent is even stronger inside, and it’s a supreme effort of will on Victor’s part to not snort. Wade clicks the door shut behind him warily, finger still resting on the trigger as if it means something. “What brings you around these parts? Last I checked, I was a bit out of your stomping grounds,” He hums, picking his way around his unsolicited guest and nearer to a cache of rifles.


Victor doesn’t deign to answer or even watch his progress, just taking it all in. 


The dull five-am light streams through the bent and broken blinds to lend a grey hue over the whole apartment, the trash and half-put-together weapons. Now that he’s in the thick of it, Victor can pick out a cacophony of smells: sweat, booze, tv dinners and their plastic trays, the curious odor of illness, coppery and faint, but there all the same, the slightly stale taste to a room that hasn’t seen an open window in too long. In lieu of food, the counters are stacked with bullets of every make and size, at least half made to accompany weapons that were illegal in every first world country. There are three sets of combat boots in the corner, polished to a high, military shine and creased as old men’s faces. A sword lays on the end table by the sofa, between two empty coffee mugs.


It’s a very telling picture, Victor thinks, running his fingertips along a TV antennae. His nails make a curious hissing noise along the metal, shrill but quieter than he would have expected, and the screen crackles with static.


Behind Creed, Wade flops down into the couch like he doesn’t care a whit that Victor’s there, sweat beading on his brow. Like he didn’t already know.


He sets the handgun on his armrest, gesturing sloppily with his half-chugged can of beer, sinking into the cushions that seemed willing enough to swallow him whole. “Sorry, all out of meow-mix. I could pull out a saucer of milk if you want. Not like you have to worry about expiration dates.” He laughs a little, like he just told a joke, slumping limp as a dead man but his eyes are as focused upon Victor as sniper points. “Hey, Vicky, answer something for me. Do your toenails do the same thing?”


“Stryker wants you back in.”


Wade tilts his beer can back and forth, taking a thoughtful sip and letting his legs fall a bit more open, even if Victor notices he sets his feet firmly against the ground. “’Cause that’d be inconvenient, I’d think. I’ve been thinking, and it seems like bone claws are so much more practical. Easily stored ’n’all. Guess you got the short end of the stick on that. Don’t feel bad, though. I’m sure you’re a huge hit with cat ladies. Like the coat, too. Very suave.”


Experience has told him the best way to deal with Wade was to just cut right on through, and Victor suddenly wishes he could use that method in a whole other way. “We’re getting the team back together.”


“That’s nice. Much as I’d love to prance around doing manicures and gossiping and braiding everyone’s hair, I think I’ll sit this one out. Cheers, though,” And he slams back the beer, exposing just enough of his throat to tease, before smiling and tossing the empty can over his shoulder. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”


“Too bad,” Victor shrugs, drumming his fingers meditatively on the tv, enjoying the hollow echo of it. “Stryker let me see your medical files.”


Wade glances up at that, draping one arm across the back of the couch and resting his fingers that much closer to his sword. “’Course he did.”


Victor nods agreeably, sauntering in an arc that’s more of a roundabout stalk than anything, picking at whatever gun or blade that happens to be in reach. “That’s a nasty way to go. Or so I hear. Are you freelancing now?”


“Pay’s better.”


“Healthcare’s not.”


There is a terribly long silence. “… Sweet as it is you came all the way out to see li’l old me, you can just keep your girlscouts to yourself.  I’m not in.” There’s no hiding it now; Wilson’s legs are tensed, fingers curling around the leather wrap of his katana with an audible creak. “I’ll write. We can be pen pals.”


“I don’t have to be nice about this, Wade.” Creed’s hips twitch to line up, knees bending.


The couch squeaks as Wade shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet. “I don’t either.”


“Ooh, scary.”


“You oughta be leaving now.”


“Tough talk from the dying man.”


And just like that, it’s a whirl of motion. Wade lunges up out of his seat, sword swinging in low and fast as Victor’s springing forward, everything in slow motion, but the all the beer and bad news must’ve dulled Wade’s reflexes, because suddenly he’s on his back, the couch crashing back behind them, Victor crouching over his hips. One hand is placed squarely on the center of Wilson's chest, the other holding the blade of his sword flat against the ground. Victor's nails extend, brushing the suddenly too thin fabric of Wade’s shirt, digging into the weave in a motion laced with threat.


Victor leans in close, breath warm and mild against Wade’s cheek. “Too slow.”


The pinned man opens his mouth with a dry click, tugging up on the sword in a futile attempt to free it—


And Victor grunts when Wade's opposite fist collides with the side of his face, turning his head aside sharply. He snarls, baring his teeth, twisting his grip to take a fistful of Wade’s shirt, yanking him up by the cloth until they’re nose to nose.


Wade smiles, wan but snide, and even manages a little chuckle – the last act of defiance. “Ha. Made you look.”


It’s almost too much temptation to break his throat then and there, but Victor takes a long breath, slowly levering Wade back down (even though he wants to slam him down again and again and again—) and relaxing his lips from their grimace. “Sure you did,” And then he sucker-punches Wilson right in the gut.


Wade wheezes, bucking up in a pained arc, his grip loosening for that fraction of a second it takes to jerk the sword free, and send it skittering into the kitchen. “No more toys for you.”


“Well, that’s… no fun,” The winded man gasps, trying to pull up in an instinctive ball but halted by the sudden intrusion of Victor’s knee between his legs. Startled, he glances down, chest still heaving as he attempts to re-learn breathing. “What—”


“Don’t try to tell me this is the first time you’ve been in this position,” Victor growls, dipping forward enough that he could nuzzle Wade’s neck with the slightest tilt, if he were so inclined. Wade’s leg twitches, like a dog, bare thigh brushing Victor’s hip.


 “I know we’ve known each other a long time, but I don’t put out on the first date. I’m an honest girl,” Wade tries for flippancy but he’s already been betrayed by his own breathing, hitching on all the wrong words. He glances aside, just for a moment, the barest edge of a second, and licks his lips. His fingers have become fisted in the carpet, knuckles white. 


Victor simply breathes against his ear, listening to the pulse racing beneath him, feeling the heat start to rise from Wade’s skin. 


 “I’m sure,” He whispers, nails dragging along Wade’s belly, pulling his shirt up in a slow bunch with something less intrusive than intimacy. “So, how long has it been?”


Wade’s mouth falls a little open, the skin below his eyes twitching as he struggles to not roll back his eyes. “I don’t know, what time is it?”


“Funny,” Victor deadpans, reversing his grip to curl his fingers around Wade’s side, sliding his palm along his stomach, wiry muscles contracting under his palm. The exposed leg against him twitches again, and again, a little jerkily. Creed grins broadly, and rears up enough to watch Wade’s face go through expressions like other people go through thoughts.


“I try,” Wade rasps as the trailing fingers toy with the edge of his boxers, nails sharp and almost cutting. His eyes flick down to the goings-on at his groin, then back to Victor’s face. “Is this how you’re doing recruitment now?”


“Just for you.”


“I’m touched.”


“Hardly,” And Victor presses his palm against the front of his boxers, and Wade whines, head slamming back with a solid thud. His hips buck, sudden and strong, and Victor can’t help but laugh. He rubs his fingers back and forth, and Wade makes the most interesting choking noise at that, panting through his clenched teeth. “I knew you were into this.”


“Yeah, well, lookin’ kinda hypocritical there, with your hand on my— f-fuck, honeybunches, don’t scratch the paint, I just had it waxed.”


“I came out here special, just to see you. We want you back,” Victor’s hand pumps methodically, rhythmically, Wade rocking up to meet him in tandem. Wilson's starting to rip out tufts of carpet, arms trembling, heat pouring out of him like an inferno, a fever, that lingering reek of sickness and sweat increasingly tenfold. “Stryker says to tell you he can fix you.  All you have to do is sign on for a term or two, get back in the program. It’ll be just like old times. It’s not like you have anything here to lose.”


The pad of his thumb swipes across the head, and Wade groans, hips giving a particularly powerful thrust, eyes screwing closed. It might have been a name that rolled out on the end, sweet and feminine and lost in harsh gasp, but he’s already shaking his head – no, shaking all over – and mumbles, “I’m—it’s—”


“What do you say?”


“I—” Victor’s tongue swipes out, wet and trailing, over Wade’s collarbone, followed abruptly by his lips, pressing hard against the flushed skin.


Wade cries out, coming immediately, back arched enough to press his chest and stomach against Victor’s. He makes a bizarre, low, broken sound, flopping down like a discarded toy, swallowing air as if he were afraid he would never get enough. “Fuck,” he whispers on the exhale, eyes creaking open, lying lax and devastated on his own floor.


“Close enough,” Victor grunts, sitting back on his heels. 


Only half of Wade’s mouth makes it up in a smirk, like that was all he could manage, drained of any pretense of vitality he would otherwise maintain. “Was it good for you? You’ve got a little something there.”


Grimacing, Victor looks at his shirt, eyes narrowing. “Great. Just great. Where are your paper towels?”


“Um,” Wade says slowly, propping himself up on his elbows. “Kitchen?”


Certain that, for the moment, Wade was as good as down for the count, Victor makes his way into the disaster of a kitchen, hunting through mostly bare cupboards and dusty shelves.  He doesn’t comment about the grenades in the breadbox.


From the living room, Wade calls, “He said he could fix it?” tucking himself back in and getting hold of another handgun from under the end table in the lull. Thusly armed, he rolls onto his belly, pushing up with his arms and trying hard to stand on legs that insist that they have become noodles.


There is a soft rustling, and the sound of running water. “That’s what he told me. It’s a new pet project.”


“Bullshit,” Wade says, but he’s already fishing around for his pants, hands shaking and if Victor could be bothered to ask, he would say it was aftershocks. “When do we go?”

Current Mood: hopefulhopeful
Current Music: 'Handlebars', by Flobots
japankasasagijapankasasagi on May 21st, 2009 02:28 pm (UTC)
Hello! How has the Toast been doing lately? I just wanted to wish you good luck on your job interviews! Ergh, I don't miss job interviews, let me tell you - but I hope they go well for you! What kind of work are you applying for? :)

P.S. I'm really sorry that this comment is about your RL and not your writing... RL has been eating me up since April. But I do come to lurk!
burnedtoasty: Kraussburnedtoasty on May 21st, 2009 05:31 pm (UTC)
Naah, it's cool. I always like hearing from ya. :D

I been doing alright. I had to take a few quarters off school because apparently I am not in the demographic that can get financial aid in the economic times and they wanted me to pay out of pocket for my classes. They live in an enchanted world. I'm kind of thinking about not even going back at all, because I realized I have learned almost nothing. I mean, I went to school to learn Photoshop and flash and animation and all that jazz, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt essentially third grade all over again. 'Color the circle red! Match the color wheel! Yaaaay! Have a graham cracker.' (Actually, if they gave out grahm crackers that'd be so awesome.)

Blargh. But anywho, just applying all over the place. Pet shops, a few eateries, a few book shops, Borders, a movie store or three - I really want to work at this great little comic shop but I'm afraid until I get reliable transport that I just won't be able to realistically go for it. Which is disheartening, but hey, gives me something to work towards. Today the interviews (only an hour apart, holy cow) are for reptile store and Baskin Robins ... because they have sooo much in common XD. Urrrgh.

Icky. Real life problems or real life just bein' hectic? Hope everything smooths out for ya soon. :)
Devo: Transmetropolitan | AM I NOT LOVELY?markenzeichen on May 22nd, 2009 12:03 pm (UTC)
*is not being creepy and stalker-esque srsly*

This is so awesome - I love your Wade-voice. 83
Sounds perfect. ♥

He doesn’t comment about the grenades in the breadbox.
Best line evar.

... Would you mind awfully if I friend you?
We've got some interests in common, and I really like your fic. (:
burnedtoasty: Kraussburnedtoasty on May 22nd, 2009 06:54 pm (UTC)
:DDDDD No, totally friend away! I love finding new people, and once more, your icon makes me squeaky with joy.

The breadbox is the only logical place for such things. *nods sagely*
Devo: Blue and Gold | bffs.markenzeichen on May 26th, 2009 03:54 pm (UTC)
Whee! :3

This is very true.
I mean, nestled amongst the sliced brown and the rolls.
burnedtoasty: False Modestyburnedtoasty on May 27th, 2009 02:40 am (UTC)
It was there or the freezer box.