Fic: Matter of Perception
Title: Matter of Perception
Author(s): lilac28
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Bullseye/Daken
Summary: Intrepid Avenger Bullseye struggles to solve the mystery of Norman Osborn's hair, all while resisting the masculine wiles of his revoltingly sexy teammate.
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Let's seeeee......sex, violence, lust, depravity, necks breaking, blood spurting, erections popping, and lots and lots of crackiness
Word Count: ~9k (someday I'll write something short again, but I swear this is an easy read)
Notes Set somewhere after DA #5, but before the Deadpool issues where he tangles with Bullseye. I tried to stay true to the timeline, but I admittedly haven't read some Deadpool and Thunderbolts stuff so if I messed up...ummm.....just go with it. ;)
Enjoying all the fantastic works on this comm has been awesome for someone who jumped on DA a little late. You guys have made some wonderfully sexy, amusing, and deviant stuff here. Thank you!
New Orleans, Dark Avengers #1
"That is my mother you're speaking of!!" Daken unleashed his claws in fury. How dare this lumbering fool Ares insult his mother? He prepared to lunge across the table and shred the man to ribbons, alleged God of War or not. Eviscerating hairy muscle bound idiots was one of his many talents.
The man who called himself Norman Osborn broke in. "I'd like to hire you full-time."
Admittedly curious as to the real reason he was summoned to a shitty Pizza Express in New Orleans, Daken lowered his guard. "To do what?" There was a strange chemical smell in the air.
"Well," Osborn interlaced his fingers and smiled at him with a look of sincere, maniacal expectation. "Tick off your Dad for starters."
Daken paused. Ticking off his Dad was something of a raison d'être. His interest piqued, as did his enhanced senses. He couldn't stop looking at Norman Osborn. What the fuck is on that guy's head?
New York City, Later
"And that, Team, is why we can't have any more of these incidents."
Former unstable villain turned unstable hero Bullseye struggled not to burst into psychotic giggles as Norman Osborn made a dramatic sweeping gesture to the large video monitor dominating the meeting room. On the screen one could clearly make out the form of Mac Gargan huddled in an alleyway corner. From the angle of his body and the placement of his hand, he was either furtively jerking off or taking the world's longest piss.
"Don't you see what this means? What you stand for now? This is a delicate time, and everything is a matter of perception. The American public is watching our every move. You can't get caught engaging in crude-"
"But I had to go!" Gargan interjected.
Bullseye could contain himself no longer. "Man, why are your pants pulled down? I didn't know you wore clothes under that slimy freak covering."
"Shut up! It's......it's just a pair of boxers. I like having the extra support."
"Aye." Ares was not convinced. "Yet why did ye pull them down? Why not just use the hole in the front like a real man?"
"All right. All right." Osborn held up a hand for silence. "I don't care why. I don't care how. I don't care if you drank a gallon of water and your eyeballs were swimming. The next person who exposes himself or behaves inappropriately during a mission wins an all expenses paid vacation back to Thunderbolt Mountain. We've got a great opportunity here, people. Let's not blow it on stupid stuff like this."
There was a murmur of consent around the table, mostly done in the hopes that compliance would bring a quicker end to the meeting. Bullseye rolled his eyes.
Osborn's steely gaze landed on Daken, who seemed more interested in examining his fingernails than pretending to agree.
"Daken, did you hear what I said?"
Daken lifted his eyes to meet Osborn's, the very motion done with interminable deliberation. As if he were contemplating whether it was worth it to acknowledge that there were other people in the room.
"Yes, Norman. I heard what you said. I'll try to expose myself less than Gargan."
Osborn snorted, the response as close to acceptable as he would allow.
Not like Daken would ever dream of being anything less than well coiffed during a mission. He would never slide that tight spandex down his toned body, revealing his muscular ass as he took himself out of the costume.
The scene appeared before Bullseye so vividly he could almost taste it. Daken would already be pumping his firm cock as he pulled it out, a soft groan escaping his lips when he was finally free. His would be face flushed and wild and oh fuck he wanted it. All the pompous preening and dry detachment would fade away to leave a beautiful creature desperately wanting Bullseye to bend him over and pound him into the middle of the next universe.
Bullseye's heart began to thunder. It would be so good. Daken on his knees in front of him. Daken choking on his stiff cock. Daken bleeding all over Bullseye's stark white bed in the Avengers tower from a multitude of knife wounds as he begged Bullseye to give it to him harder. Harder. Oh God yes...
Bullseye blinked and at once the scene became "Daken staring at him with a wolfish grin during the middle of an Avengers meeting".
It was hard not to completely panic. Not to bolt from the room at the realization that he was having yet another out of control fuck fantasy about the little mutant fop. Fortunately he had enough medication coursing through his veins to tranquilize an entire zoo. That, combined with his raging hard on, gave him the impetus to stay in his seat and not make a scene.
Maybe it was the medication that was doing it, although that was not something he wanted to discuss with Victoria Hand. Lately when he was around Daken the air became hot and he felt like he was going to suffocate on his own arousal. Then, almost as if he could smell it, Daken would just grin at him like a predator. Like Mac no doubt did when he found a homeless person.
That little Wolverine wannabe couldn't know what he was thinking......right?
"I think everyone's got the message. Are we done here?" Karla had finite patience for meetings involving sermons about behavior.
Bullseye leapt at the chance for a distraction. "Why? Do you have a hot date?"
"Enough. Yes, we're done here. Remember we're meeting again at 0900 for a debriefing about the Fantastic Four situation. Bob, would you accompany me, please? I'd like to have a word in private."
The Sentry glided after Osborn without a word, his footsteps completely silent.
Bullseye waited until they were both gone before he made the universal "he's fucking crazy" finger spinning motion by his ear.
"No kidding," Gargan said. "That guy still gives me the creeps. And why is he always sneaking off with Osborn? And they.....they always come back with messed up hair."
"Don't be an idiot, Gargan. You're the one who sneaks off to beat it in dark corners. I doubt that...wait...Osborn had messed up hair? Is that even possible?" Bullseye wasn't one to normally give two fucks about hair. Hair was, above all else, inefficient. Especially a ludicrous prancing mohawk that cascaded between toned shoulders like a waterfall of black ink. He would never be caught dead in something so gay.
Still, the thought of Osborn with his bizarre 'do out of place seemed just as likely as Victor von Doom showing up with an afro.
"It was!" Gargan was insistent. "Weird cornrows messed up and everything."
"Cornrows? Is that was that is? I always thought it was a jheri curl gone bad."
"No way. Look at it next closely during the next meeting. Those are cornrows, my friends."
"I'm not your fucking friend."
"You moron," Karla said. "Why would Osborn get his hair styled in sideways cornrows? It's just a lot of gel and bad taste."
"Why does he always put mustard on his 5 Guys french fries instead of ketchup? I don't know!"
"Nay," Ares said. "'Tis alchemy."
The conversation halted as everyone contemplated the new suggestion. "That," agreed Bullseye, "may be the best guess yet."
"It must be a weave." Daken said. "It's too fake to be anything else. My guess is a weave."
Despite the confidence in his voice, Daken's theory had no effect on Karla. "That's insane, Daken. Nobody gets a weave in sideways chunks like that. It's beyond ridiculous. Why you'd have to be...." she trailed off slightly as an uncomfortable notion came to her, "...you'd have to be crazier than the Sentry."
The table of depraved defenders lapsed into silence as they chewed over the prospect of anyone being crazier than the Sentry.
"Whatever. It's cornrows. That's all."
"No. It's just bad styling."
"I still say some mutated jheri curl or other chemical shit that wrecked his hair."
"Well..." Daken unfolded his hands, the simplest gesture performed with controlled elegance. "How do we find out? Who wants to help me solve the mystery of Osborn's hair?"
He fixed Bullseye with a wicked stare, burning focus sucking all the air out of the room and making it almost impossible to think straight. "What about you, Lester?"
A near murderous rage rose in Bullseye. It was infuriating. Every casual motion Daken made, every precisely measured sentence. Everything he did was executed with a graceful, gooey perfection. He wore the Wolverine costume as if it were Yves Saint Laurent, and his regular tailored clothes like a second skin. For some reason, it pissed Bullseye off more than he could ever articulate.
Which was good. He made a point to revel in it. If he was angry, it helped cover the intense, deep-seated arousal that crackled and licked around the frayed edges of his very psyche. When they were first introduced it was all a confusing jumble, yet now after a few weeks it was getting harder and harder to lie to himself about it.
And rather than telling Daken to go play with his own limp dick while thinking about dear old Daddy, Bullseye instead found himself spitting out the words: "You're on, freak."
"Excellent."
"Whatever."
Daken floated to his feet. "We can begin tomorrow." With a wink he rose from the table and strode confidently out of the room, leaving Bullseye to wonder how anyone could sashay their hips like that and still appear masculine.
------------------------
They began their investigation by discarding the obvious paths of action, such as grilling Victoria Hand or trying to break into Osborn's living quarters. Interrogating Hand would get them nowhere, and who knew what kind of security Osborn had around his undeniably creepy personal life.
Thus the initial course of action, Daken proposed, was to gather some intel. Osborn had been around for a while, and that dead weasel on his head was bound to have been the topic of conversation at some point for someone. Surely there was a real clue wrapped up in all the juicy hero and villain gossip around town.
As it turned out, gathering intel consisted of making conversation with anyone connected to the costume scene, from the darkest alleyways to the most fashionable clubs. In a manner that was something between flirting and threatening. It was easier than Bullseye had expected. Osborn accepted his going out with Daken a few times a week to patrol the city, provided that they stayed out of trouble, didn't talk to the press, and didn't kill each other. He seemed almost pleased that they were "getting to know each other as a team".
The first thing Bullseye learned about Daken was that the little freak knew fucking everybody. No matter where they went in the city people recognized him. They didn't always address him as Daken, and they weren't always glad to see him.
Two bit criminal thugs cowered at his presence, while every cocktail waitress and call girl in every bar they entered practically fought over each other to get his attention. He even seemed to know Johnny Storm of the Fantastic Four. Oh sure, Storm pretended not to know him when they ran into him one night, but it was obvious he did. He stared at Daken like he wanted to lick an entire can of whipped cream off his chest, which made Bullseye itch to put an arrow into both their hearts. Just because he hated the Fantastic Four, of course. Not because he was jealous.
They attempted to question anyone they could find who had a connection to Osborn without being too obvious, which lasted about 2 days before Bullseye began to get bored. One night, while speaking to the lowly H.A.M.M.E.R. agent in charge of taking out all the trash from the executive offices, Bullseye couldn't help himself.
"Osborn's a bit of a weird dude, isn't he? Have you ever noticed his hair?"
The agent chuckled nervously. "Yeah. Some of the other guys wonder about it. It looks like he slept in pomade."
"Yeah. Yeah, it does."
The naive agent continued, "You've gotta admit though. They guy really pulled it together. Look at this great team he made. I mean, he even got Wolverine!" He gestured towards a costumed Daken as if he were a rare piece of jewelry. "Fucking Wolverine, man! He's the coolest and most bad ass of all super heroes!"
Although only the lower half of his face was visible, disgust emanated from Daken in luscious, palpable waves. He stiffened and stalked off without a word, motioning for Bullseye to follow him like he was the fucking valet.
Bullseye was not fazed in the least, for that night he learned his second thing about Daken, something way more entertaining: the easiest way to rattle him was to mention his father.
Mentioning Wolverine resulted in a whole gamut of delightful responses, ranging from prissy disgust to outright fury to genuine sulking. Sometimes Daken caught himself in time to re-establish his "I'm too cool to give a fuck about anything" demeanor, sometimes not. Every so often he let slip a shard of real emotion, hinting at a damaged person underneath all his masks.
It was absolutely fascinating.
Before he could stop himself, Bullseye was fervently cataloguing Daken's reaction to everything. He liked wearing Italian clothes, drinking Japanese tea, and quoting William Blake and other Romantic poets. At first the love of Romanticism seemed just a jackoff way to appear cultured without actually being cultured, but the more nights he walked through the city with Daken the more it all made sense. That Romantic concept, the creation of art and genius from nothing, was the thread that connected Daken's whole sense of self. He saw himself as autonomous, a perfect specimen of completely his own creation. No help from his father, any friends, or society. If imitation was the worst sin, then Daken fancied himself a true original.
Which was, thought Bullseye, the most laughably pathetic thing he had ever heard. Absolutely fascinating nonetheless.
Comfortable in his own body, Daken did seem to have a legitimate, respectable knowledge of martial arts and fighting. He could ooze his way through a throng of people without brushing against anyone. He had no patience for the elderly, and no compassion for the less fortunate.
His hands were always moving in slow motion, a sharp contrast to the crackling yet contained energy he exuded. He had a myriad of snobby facial expressions, which Bullseye drew lovingly in a notebook every night that he then affixed to his dartboard. It wasn't an obsession, he told himself. Just learning the enemy. Like what he used to do with Daredevil. Totally not gay.
But it was always there, that hot churning feeling. No matter how he tried to ignore it. It existed in the margins. Always simmering.
Something else slowly became apparent to Bullseye as the nights passed. Wolverine's kid had some sort of subtle mind power that he used on almost everyone. There was no other explanation. Perfect strangers tripped all over themselves to do his bidding. An enemy would start out aggressive towards him, and then feel compelled to tell him their entire life story. Both men and women salivated over him. People seemed to love him, or start hating him at just the right time.
Not that it did any good for their mission. Nobody knew anything useful about Osborn beyond what they saw on TV.
They took the same route home every night, the semi-weekly routine becoming one of uncomfortable familiarity. Most nights the conversation meandered between a variety of topics, from who paid the most when they hired an assassin (Wilson Fisk for local organized crime), to the best city in which to assassinate someone from a canal (Venice they both agreed, not Amsterdam), to who was the horniest female super hero (Moonstone, if you could call her a hero. The next in line was Emma Frost, if you counted the X-men). Daken made no secret about the fact that he found men attractive. Fortunately they never touched on the topic of horniest male super hero. Yet.
"Man," Bullseye began one evening right before they approached the Tower. "We're running out of people to talk to. Who else can we even ask without drawing too much attention to ourselves?"
"It's too bad nobody knows where Tony Stark is."
"Tony Stark? Yeah, right. Try finding that guy right now."
Daken waved a bored hand. "I could find him if I wasn't on this Avengers job."
"Whatever. What about Spiderman? He's got to have fingered Osborn's head piece at some point here."
"No word on Spiderman. He's underground with all the other former Avengers."
Bullseye snickered. The thought that he himself was now an Avenger just wasn't getting old. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We need a new plan."
"Agreed," Daken said. "Maybe we can come up with one after the meeting tomorrow. Unless....." He let the word hang in the air like a lethal promise. "Unless you're perhaps interested in coming to my quarters to discuss it right now?"
"I...what?!" Bullseye stopped in his tracks. It sounded like a good idea. It sounded like a great idea. Him and Daken alone in a closed room together, where he could drink in the sight of that sculpted face and ripped body. Where he could have Daken's undivided attention as he put the little mutant's no doubt huge cock in his mouth, relishing the look of heavy-lidded desire on his face.
Exhilaration bloomed hot in Bullseye. He started to sweat at the thought of burying himself to the hilt in Daken's perfect ass. He wanted it so fucking bad it hurt, the ache between his legs and his ribs corroding all his resolve and common sense as his knees melted to weak, slippery discs. His mind raced. Daken would be stunning all sweaty and mussed up on the floor covered in blood. Would he heal quickly like his father, leaving only ghostly trails of red mingling and then disappearing? Or would he gift a greater wound, gushing just long enough to be able to jack himself off in his own blood. Daken covered in vital fluids and come. Oh my mistress fuck yes.......
While Bullseye struggled to force air in his lungs and tried to remember that he was supposed to be offended by the suggestion, Daken appeared nonplussed. He tossed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, seemingly unaware of Bullseye's predicament.
"Oh well," Daken said, "it was just a suggestion. Ciao."
He winked and sauntered towards Avengers tower, leaving Bullseye gaping like a fish with a titanic hard on that stuck out in his costume like a third arm. The hard on he normally got only when killing people. Or thinking about killing people. How the fuck did that jerk off Hawkeye talk to anyone attractive in this stupid costume?
It was 15 minutes of standing there sweating before his legs could work again. It was another 20 minutes of distracted stumbling before he was poised in front of his bathroom mirror; gobbling down the medication he usually had to be goaded to take. Beating off to a mental image of Daken with shurikens lodged in his eyes took a mere 90 seconds, and then Bullseye fell into a fitful sleep.
------------------------
Life under Osborn's thumb didn't leave a lot of room for rebellion, so Bullseye was forced to show his defiance in more subtle ways such as watching TV too loudly, flirting with Karla, and just generally making a mess wherever he went. One of his favorite things to do was to roam the Tower while brushing his teeth, giving off a cavalier aura that he felt screamed: "Whatever. This place is a fucking dorm room to me."
One could glean so many interesting little secrets by wandering and tooth brushing, such as Noh Varr spending the night in Karla's room or Hand and Osborn speaking in hushed whispers about Ares' problems with his son. On one fateful Friday evening, while tooth brushing and daydreaming of all the creative ways he was going to kill Gargan, he ran into Daken in full costume.
"Aha," Daken began. "There you are. Listen, I've been thinking..."
"About something other than your wardrobe? That's a first."
"About Osborn's live interview on TV a few weeks ago. The one where they asked him all those questions about Hawkeye's accusations."
"So what? You actually watched that boring shit?"
"So what happens when you go on TV?"
"Someone with fake tits sucks your dick?"
"Well, yes. But also, someone styles your hair."
An evil leer graced Bullseye's face, made somewhat less intimidating by the toothpaste around his mouth. "You're right. Someone who works there had her fingers in that chaos."
"Exactly."
"Is Osborn in the Tower now?"
"No. I saw him leave with Hand and the Sentry but he's not back yet. He's probably in some sort of strategic meeting to come up with a moronic plan for the rest of us."
"Oh fuck. That shit usually takes at least an hour."
"We should get down there."
"What if we get called in?"
Daken shrugged. "So we show up late and say we were out foiling terrorist criminals or something. You're not scared are you, Lester? Is Osborn's leash on you that short?"
"Fuck you." Bullseye maneuvered his toothbrush. "Fine. I'll go get dressed. Lemme just spit this out first."
He turned to go to his quarters, ignoring Daken's cry of: "You spit? I always thought you a swallower!"
They opted for a low profile, slipping silently out of the tower to steal downtown and break into the service entrance of the TV studio. There seemed to be few people left in the building, making it an easy task to find the right room.
"Here." Daken stopped in front a door marked "Makeup". He held up his hand to knock, then hesitated and turned to Bullseye to ask, "What's your problem with swords, anyway?"
The conversation on the way over had morphed into a tense "swords versus knives" debate; one Daken apparently wasn't ready to let go of yet.
"Nothin'. I got no problem with swords. Love 'em."
"Yes, but you said they were one of your least favorite weapons."
"Yeah, they are. Still love 'em though. I can wield a sword, Junior. I just think it gets way, way better."
"They're sophisticated."
"Fuck sophisticated. The longer blade fucks up your natural center of balance."
"But you have a much greater range than a knife."
"A knife's easier to throw."
"Do you have to throw everything? Sometimes the perfect kill can only be achieved with a sword."
"Do you have to be so flaming melodramatic? Trust me, I've killed some of my best friends with swords! Just that the most effective weapons ain't all that flashy."
"The most effective weapons," Daken began in a weak parody of Bullseye's New York accent. "....ain't all that sharp."
"True dat," Bullseye breathed, drinking in the sight of the tight gold and brown Wolverine costume. The costume that would look far, far better in a bloodstained rumpled ball on his bedroom floor. Littered with broken teeth from Daken's pert little mouth.
The door opened. A woman with a pixie haircut stepped out and glared at them in disapproval.
"Can I help you?"
Daken leaned casually against the doorframe. "I think you can. Were you working on the Osborn interview a few weeks ago?"
"Umm..." She sized him up. "No, um, I think that was Janice."
"I see. Do you know where Janice is now? We just need to ask her a few questions about that night."
"She...she went home early. She also went home early that night when Mr. Osborn didn't want his hair styled. She didn't really have much to do with him."
Fuck, thought Bullseye. He hadn't considered that Osborn might have just refused any pampering of the bizarre circus that he called a head. Another dead end.
The woman was still eyeing Daken, staring unabashedly at how the costume clung to his supple frame. She put a hand on his bicep. "I'm going home soon too, you know."
Bullseye felt himself growing impatient. The sick gnawing feeling that tunneled through his stomach whenever he saw someone flirting with Daken began to take hold.
Daken continued to play along. "You are? And where's home?"
Unwilling to sit through another nauseating session of watching a stranger drool over Daken, Bullseye grabbed his arm. "Who cares? We gotta go. C'mon."
The woman grabbed Daken's other arm. "Hey, wait a minute."
At that moment three security guards rounded the corner and stopped. One of them snickered.
"Okay, guys. Costume party's over. No one's allowed back here without a pass."
"Fine. We're leaving anyway." Bullseye tried to drag Daken with him. People seeing them there. Not good.
The makeup woman was loath to let go of Daken's arm. The perfect stranger he was two minutes ago now replaced by an object of burning desire.
"Seriously, you two. You need to leave."
"C'mon, guys. Now."
"Wait, wait, don't go. I didn't get your name."
Bullseye's irritation spiked with every new voice entering the conversation. Paranoia diffused through his gut. They could not be caught there. He could not be caught there. The consequences for breaking Osborn's meager trust were far greater for him than for Daken.
And if that fucking bitch with her mitts on his property didn't let go soon, he was going to have to make a necklace out of the tendons in her hands.
"We're going! Or we're trying to, if you'd get the fuck outta my way." He shoved at a security guard to try to get by.
The guard, a muscular man with no neck who enjoyed mixed martial arts in his spare time, responded with what was to be the biggest mistake of his life. He jammed his palm into Bullseye's shoulder and shoved him back.
It was, consequently, also the last mistake of his life.
In a matter of seconds and with one deft move from Bullseye, the cartilage of the man's nose was lodged deep into his brain. He fell to the ground twitching, blood and mucus streaming out of every hole in his face.
Bullseye was familiar with all holy hell breaking loose in such tense situations, yet instead a shocked and stony silence settled over the remaining five of them as they all stared astonished at the fallen man. The other two security guards began backing away slowly, while Daken merely raised a bored eyebrow.
Then the makeup woman started screaming.
She let go of Daken's arm to point a hysterical finger at Bullseye. "You...you....YOU KILLED HIM!"
Her voice rang through the corridor, deafening against the backdrop of silence.
"Murderer! Help! Somebody help!"
"Well, this just won't do." Daken reached out and snapped her neck with such force that she pirouetted once through the air like a ballet dancer before landing in a disturbing pile of misaligned vertebrae.
The other two security guards broke into a full run down the hallway, yelling something about backup.
"We can't let them get away." Daken tried to follow but was stopped by an arm across his chest.
"Hang on." Bullseye produced two knives from his belt.
Over his illustrious and sordid career many people had asked Bullseye how he had become such a good shot. They wanted to know what his secret was. How many hours a day he did target practice. If he was really a mutant.
For Lester, it was nothing so involved. Just as Michelangelo claimed to work by removing everything from a block of marble that wasn't part of the sculpture, Lester simply killed by removing all trajectories from his mind that wouldn't result in a bull's eye. He already saw the finished product of target and dead body when he looked at a victim; it was just a matter of taking the one correct and obvious action that would change desire into reality.
He did fancy himself a Michelangelo of murder, after all. So when he threw both knives simultaneously only to have them ricochet off each other and lodge into the jugular veins of the two security guards, it wasn't such a big deal.
"Try doing that with a sword!"
Daken had the decency to look impressed, jaw dropped so far he could lick his own shoes. "Nice shot."
Bullseye managed to keep his expression demonic rather than giddy. He'd heard the words "nice shot" a million times, never had they given him such a warm feeling in his chest. "C'mon, let's get the fuck outta here before I'm back trying to weaponize my own shit at Thunderbolt Mountain."
They rushed to exit the building and didn't stop running until they were far away from the TV station, close to Avengers Tower. Daken didn't seem to care about their failed mission. Instead he seemed almost pleased.
"I'll confess, Lester. That was an impressive shot. It's nice to see someone in this outfit has actual professional skills. Where did you train? Who taught you how to throw like that?"
"Michelangelo."
"Excuse me?"
"Michelangelo, motherfucker. Painter, sculptor, all around genius. Maybe you've heard of him."
Daken rolled his eyes. "I've heard of Michelangelo, sweetheart. I didn't realize you'd gone back in time to train with him."
"There's a lot of things you don't realize, princess."
"Like how fucked we're going to be if Osborn finds out about this little adventure?"
Bullseye winced. "I think we both realize that one."
"I won't tell if you won't. Maybe we can frame Venom for it."
"Too easy. Let's frame Vicky. That'll be much more scandalous."
Daken let out a bark of laughter; a sound that Bullseye insisted to himself was in no way music to his ears. "Why don't we just frame Osborn himself?"
"Sure. Why not? Fuck it. Let's enjoy life before the Sentry freaks out and kills us all with the power of one million dysfunctional exploding suns."
Daken laughed harder, undisturbed by the poisonous camaraderie between them. "Well, it was a good shot."
"Of course it was. I'm the best, baby."
"I don't know about best. I'd say you're adequate."
"Adequate!?! Fuck you!"
"Yes. Adequate. You do have some skills, you're just not very versatile."
"Oh please. And what's so versatile about you? You're a one trick pony with those claws."
"At least I've received real training."
Bullseye scoffed. "At least I survive my fights without a cheap genetic advantage."
"At least I wasn't forced into being Osborn's lapdog."
"At least I actually managed to kill my father when I tried."
Daken froze. "At least my father didn't fondle me in a trailer park."
And then he was just....gone. Vanishing in that infuriating ninja way of his. Bullseye walked the rest of the route alone, secretly regretting bringing up Wolverine.
------------------------
To say that Bullseye and Daken couldn't stay irritated at each other for long was not entirely true. It was more accurate to say that they were always irritated at each other. Spats and anger rolled between them like waves on the ocean. The intensity would wax and wane, but the larger body of irritation was always there.
So when Daken showed up at the door to Bullseye's sterile quarters a few days after he flounced and left Bullseye standing alone in the street, it didn't require any apologies or bullshit talk about feelings. No explanations were needed. The battle continued on, Daken acting like nothing ever happened while he wore that shit-eating grin that made Bullseye want to suffocate him by pulling his lungs out of his chest and squeezing them with bare hands.
"Let's go out tonight." Daken was dressed in a tight black t-shirt and tailored khaki pants that, while they looked simple, probably cost more than most people made in a month. Bullseye had seen him in civilian clothes before, although never appearing so casual.
"Why? We have no leads and you're dressed like a gay Japanese bouncer."
"That's what's wrong with all you prosaic heroes and villains. No style. Come on. Think of it as an unofficial information session."
Bullseye wavered, unaware that his heart had started beating a fraction slower. "Lemme think about it."
"You might get the chance to kill somebody. That'll be fun, right?"
"Well...yeah...."
Daken ushered him out the door. "Come on. It doesn't matter if you're not in costume. Just a little walk. Check out the town. Besides, I'm feeling lucky about tonight."
Daken feeling lucky couldn't be a good sign. Unfortunately for Bullseye the "fuck you, Sally" on his tongue somehow turned into an "all right". He followed him out the door, oblivious to the endorphins being released into his bloodstream.
They walked through the streets of New York together for the first time out of costume. People ignored Bullseye with his cap pulled down over the mark on his forehead, but they still stared at Daken. No matter what he wore, they always stared at him. The tilt of his chin and slope of his shoulders projected utter confidence, while his aloof expression promised a riveting cruelty.
Daken brushed up against him at every opportunity. His touch was ethereal, barely there. Too subtle to accuse him of doing anything, too frequent to ignore. Normally Bullseye would snap after less than 10 minutes of such treatment, yet the more they walked the more relaxed he felt.
"I rarely see you in real clothes, Lester." Daken indicated to Bullseye's simple black shirt and pants. "It's a good look for you."
Bullseye said nothing. Watching the shorter man walk had hypnotized him more than it normally did. Looking around, he was a little unsure of where they were or how they got there.
"You should really wear something more like..." Daken stopped and held up a hand. "Wait-"
"What?"
"I smell something."
"What?"
"Gunpowder, peanut butter, and someone who hasn't washed in weeks."
"Ooookay. So? That could be anything."
Daken was still, poised for battle. "I've smelled this before. When I had that fight with-"
He didn't get a chance to finish before a red and black clad figure dropped from a fire escape and landed directly in front of them. He had a pencil in his hand, and a sai sticking out of his left arm. Despite the fact that his face was covered, he managed to somehow seem genuinely happy to see them.
"Junior! Baldy!"
Bullseye groaned. Fucking Deadpool. The inferior assassin who needed to have his lips sewn together. Great.
"Hello, Deadpool How's the hand?" said Daken.
"Just peachy, no thanks to you. How's the melon? Last time I saw you Daddy had you hoisted over his shoulder with a bullet in the head."
Bullseye's heart quickened again. Deadpool had information about Daken. Interesting. "You two know each other?"
Deadpool backed up a few steps, shaking his head and his hands. "Oh no no no. We've met but we don't know each other. Not in the Biblical sense like how he knows everyone else. We hear you get around, kid."
"We? Who else is with you?"
"Umm...no one. You are looking trim though." Deadpool sniffed the air slightly. "Speaking of getting around, I also hear that you two sellouts are working for Osborn."
"And?"
"And!?! He's a snake! He owes me money, you know."
Bullseye shrugged. "Not my problem. Take it up with him."
"Oh, I intend to." Deadpool held up the pencil as though it was to play a pivotal role in his revenge against Osborn.
"Why do you have a sai in your arm?"
"What? This?" Deadpool pulled the weapon out of his left arm, only to plunge it into his right arm. "I don't wanna lose it."
Daken wrinkled his nose with revulsion. "Good luck getting payback on Osborn, Deadpool. He'll smell you coming a mile away."
"You know something, little lord mohawk? I get why you're doing this. I really do. Your Daddy issues are so huge they could be seen from space. But you!" He pointed to Bullseye. "I'm a little disappointed in you. Why are you working for the Green Goober? Have I really run you out of a job so bad that this is the only one you could get?"
Bullseye would have rather died than let Deadpool know the depth of Osborn's control over him. Daken, thankfully, said nothing.
"I mean, come on!" Deadpool gesticulated wildly. "I've worked for some shady characters but Osborn's the lowest of the low. How can you stand to look at that bad hair weave all day?"
Time stopped. Bullseye and Daken regarded him, shocked. They looked at each other, and then back to Deadpool. After a few moments of struggling to produce actual speech, they both started talking at once.
"What? A weave!?! Are you sure?"
"How do you know this?
"Are you just saying that or do you have actual proof?"
"Is that an opinion or a fact?"
Deadpool shook his head. "Whoa, whoa! Easy, ladies. I had no idea you two had such an interest in hair."
"How?" Daken's eyes were wild, his rows of shark teeth clearly visible. "How do you know this?"
"What's it worth to you?"
snikt "It's worth me not disemboweling you and desecrating your corpse."
"Oh please, Junior. You're a fraction of the threat that your Dad is, and he's about as scary as an old pair of ladies' undies. The truth is I know everything about Osborn. I've been gathering intel on him for weeks. I know his habits, his proclivities. Hell, I know what kinda toothpaste he uses."
"Go on."
"I have a whole file on his grooming habits and hair alone. Here. Look." Deadpool reached into the back of his costume and pulled out a file bulkier than Tony Stark's paternity suits. It had to be at least 10 inches thick.
He slammed the folder on the ground triumphantly, where the two Avengers could see that it was clearly labeled "Thor".
"Oops. That's not it. Hang on." Deadpool pulled out some crumpled color photos and tossed them to Daken.
Bullseye was dumbfounded. "How did you fit that whole fucking thing in your costume?"
Daken handed him the pictures. There was about six of them, taken in some fancy salon at various angles and close-ups. They showed a woman meticulously working on Osborn's thin locks, weaving other pieces of hair into them and bonding them together.
"It really is a weave. Why the hell does he do that?"
"Why does he lose his mind and dress like a lawn ornament? Bad medicine." Deadpool started humming.
"Told you."
"Damn."
"Karla owes me our bet."
"You bet with Karla over this? What did you bet?"
Daken flashed that shit-eating grin again. "Not telling."
Deadpool stopped bouncing on his toes and humming Bon Jovi tunes to look at them suspiciously. Or as suspicious as one could look with a mask fully covering one's face. He cocked his head to one side and stroked his chin. "You know, those two make a really cute couple. They have this adorable lust/hate thing going on, don't they?"
Bullseye looked around, ignoring the insinuation that he would ever deign to hook up with the loathsomely sexy mutant. "Who the fuck are you talking to?"
"I'm keeping these." Daken stuffed the photos in his pocket. "You were actually useful, Deadpool. And you had less to say than usual. I'm shocked."
"That's because Lilac28 is writing me and I think she was afraid of going over the top."
"Okay. Lovely. Whatever. Are we ready to go?"
Bullseye felt a pang of regret. This was the longest he had interacted with Deadpool in forever and not had it break out into a fight. How boring. Maybe Wilson was right. What was he becoming, working for Osborn?
"Hey, guys. Wait. Look...you're trying to find out stuff about Osborn. I'm trying to get to Osborn. I have things you don't know. You're on the inside. Maybe it would be in our best interests to...." Deadpool looked at his feet and clasped his hands behind his back like a hopeful schoolgirl. "....you know...team up?"
The one perfect trajectory came into focus as Bullseye reached for his belt. "Team up? Sure, Wade. Sounds good, buddy."
With preternatural speed he threw one of his specialty knives at Deadpool. It lodged deep into his cornea, knocking him to the ground with the momentum of a psychotic tornado.
"Oh, that was perfect!" Daken broke out into peals of laughter. "He'll be furious when he gets back up."
"That's not gonna happen anytime soon."
Deadpool's head exploded on the ground in front of them, painting a nearby dumpster with gelatinous gore and spurting blood everywhere.
"Explosive tipped knives."
Outright admiration was written on Daken's face. "We should go back and tell the others we solved the mystery."
"Let's leave out all the parts about Deadpool."
"Absolutely, my dear Lester." Daken's fingertips grazed his chest as he brushed by. "Absolutely."
The walk back passed for Bullseye in a dreamlike haze. He felt calm, unwound. The normal giddy electrical discharge that was his thought process had slowed to a controlled sizzle.
Daken walked in front of him, affording him the opportunity to stare at what had to be the world's most delectable ass. It was torture. So painful that Bullseye forced himself to drink in every luscious curve the entire way back.
They rode the elevator in Avengers Tower together, every floor passing in slow motion. In a muted recess of Bullseye's senses he was aware that his skin had started to tingle all over. He couldn't stop staring at Daken, couldn't stop imagining them both naked while he painted the elevator walls with his teammate's blood.
"We should celebrate."
"What?"
The elevator doors opened. Daken led him down the hallway with a purpose. "We should celebrate. We did accomplish the mission, after all."
Bullseye's skin was burning hotter, his face flushed. Breathing was becoming a laborious chore. Daken's grip on his arm exerted a tantalizing pressure. He wanted more. He wanted Daken's nimble fingers all over his entire body.
"Celebrate.....yeah...." He felt stoned, hypnotized.
"In here."
Bullseye looked around, and realized he was in Daken's quarters. The first stab of real panic lanced at him. How the fuck did he get there?
"Have some class and take your shoes off."
Every instinct told him to crush Daken's ribcage and make for the door. Instead Bullseye obediently removed his shoes. And his socks.
"Hmm." Daken's look of innocence was weakly feigned at best. He wasn't even trying. "You have nice feet. It's so hard to find feet on a man that aren't disgusting yet still masculine."
Bullseye was out of retorts. The air around him was pure molasses, choking him and sticking in his lungs as he struggled for breath. He was getting hard.
"That's something I like about you, Lester." Daken stepped right up to him and traced a fingertip down his cheek. "You're very masculine."
And then it hit him, arousal so hot and fierce he could barely stand. It coiled at the base of his spine and throbbed throughout his whole body. Knees buckling, he would have crashed to the floor but instead found himself leaning on Daken.
"Whoa." Daken held up his dead weight like it was nothing. "Are you all right?"
"I...." He struggled to form words, unable to focus on anything but the blazing fire between his legs. "I just....."
They were never this close before. Daken's soft hair brushed his neck. He smelled fucking incredible.
"Easy. You don't look so good. Here, sit down."
Daken shoved him onto the bed, where he collapsed in a graceless heap against the bed and the wall. The mutant sat down next to him.
"Maybe you're overheated, yes? It is a little warm in here. Are you hot?"
Bullseye groaned. "Oh God, yes..."
"Me too." Daken began to remove his shirt, revealing inch after captivating inch of smooth skin. He was muscular and hairless, his chest a smooth plane broken only by the mysterious tattoo. He was built like a pure predator, bunches of muscle and sinew coiled around an intense, controlled energy.
"Daken....," Bullseye breathed, the name out of his mouth before he could stop it. Too far gone to even contemplate if or how Daken was mindfucking him.
"Oooh! I like how you say my name, Lester. Say it again."
Bullseye ground out the words between his teeth. "Daken...fuck."
Daken's victorious smile was still plastered all over his smug face. "Good boy."
He reached for his zipper.
"No, wait. Daken....don't..."
The sound of the zipper tore obscenely through the quiet room. Bullseye watched enthralled as the mutant pulled his thick cock out of his pants.
"Do you like this?"
Bullseye swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."
"Do you want to watch me touch it?"
"Please...."
Daken took himself firmly in hand, the culmination of Bullseye's darkest fantasies come true. His eyes bore shameless holes into Bullseye; unabashedly jerking off while the assassin ogled him.
"Mmm. This feels good. It's better with you watching me."Daken threw his head back with a euphoric look on his face, exposing his pale throat and the pulse beating in his neck. It would be no effort to grab anything small and, with a mere flick of his wrist, lodge it into his jugular.
Yet it wouldn't kill him. Daken would bleed, heal, and then be ready to bleed again. He was an unbreakable plaything, one you could kill over and over. Bullseye realized he was rubbing his own crotch through his pants, the minute friction doing nothing to extinguish the scorching between his legs.
"Yeah," Daken moved his hand a little faster. "That's it. Fuck, Lester. You like watching me play with myself, don't you?"
Bullseye only nodded and gripped himself tighter.
"God, that's good." He pinned Bullseye with a vicious gaze. "Take your shirt off."
A man could only take so much. Watching Daken's forearm flex as he fondled himself, Bullseye's last weak wall of resolve crumbled as he clawed at his shirt like it was strangling him.
He tore off his offending pants too. Fuck it.
Hornier than he'd ever been in his whole life and furious at Daken for putting him in such a state, he crossed the bed and did the thing that came most naturally to him in the moment.
He slapped Daken across the face. Hard.
Daken just gripped himself tighter. "Again."
Bullseye hit him again, his palm making a resounding crack against Daken's cheek.
"Harder."
He's loving this. Bullseye closed his fist and punched him right in the face. A thin stream of blood trickled from Daken's nose, drying up and disappearing before it could drip off his chin.
It was the hottest thing he had ever seen. Daken mussed and lewd. Bleeding.
"Now fuck me, you idiot. In the nightstand."
Bullseye opened the drawer on the nightstand next to the bed and whistled. It was stocked like it belonged to professional mattress surfer. There were four bottles of lube, a string of anal beads, two whips, three small dildos, a few pairs of handcuffs, and a copy of Gothic Beauty magazine. No condoms of course, not that the little slut needed them anyway.
More shuffling from the bed and Daken was without his pants. He threw one muscled arm behind his head, legs spread wantonly. Bullseye fumbled with one of the tubes, slicked himself up, and threw one of Daken's legs over his upper arm. A part of him couldn't believe they were about to do this. He hated Daken.
But oh God he was hungry for him.
It took a few awkward attempts to line everything up and slide them together. His hands shook. Bullseye paused when he was finally seated deep, the moments clambering together in a surreal drag as his senses jumped from Daken's measured breathing to the warm, spicy smell in the room to the impossibly dry taste in his mouth.
Daken was still touching himself. "C'mon, Lester. Show me how much you want me."
Bullseye set a brutal pace, pounding him rough and frenzied. Daken clearly loved every second of it, spreading his thighs wider and encouraging with a series of masculine cries and garbled pleas. He seemed to know just what to say to incite Bullseye further, and just enough so that it was sexy and not annoying. "Oh yeahyeahyeah, Lester. That's it." He licked and nipped his way up Bullseye's neck to croon in his ear. "That's it, Bullseye."
Their desperate coupling progressed with a delirious intensity. Bullseye claimed Daken in every way that came to him, desperate to burn into ashes all the weeks of out of control lust and confusion. He tossed Daken's legs over his shoulders and thrust into him over and over, never breaking eye contact. Wanting to devour all his mysterious secrets, to take away the control that Daken so arrogantly thought he had.
He threw Daken's back against the wall and fucked him standing up, sinking his teeth into the other man's perfectly carved collarbone and tasting blood. He was blazing, his hairless head slippery with a sheen of sweat. Daken was a cool burn, salty skin only slightly flushed.
The sound Daken made when Bullseye flipped him over onto his hands and knees made his whole body ache. Never had he heard anything so good as a genuine utterance of reckless pleasure from that little fuck. "Like that, do ya?"
Bullseye took him on all fours like an animal, listening to his groans grow louder and louder. He felt Daken's body tighten when he pulled him up on his knees and encircled Daken's feverish hand with his own, just in time to watch him come all over both their fingers as he lolled his head against Bullseye's shoulder and cried out something in Japanese.
Bullseye climaxed soon after, bliss coursing through every fiery inch of him. It seemed to go on forever as he clung white-knuckled to Daken's hips, his body shaking with one delicious pulse after another. He let out a wracking sob of release, finally satisfied after weeks of torture.
After it was all over they collapsed on the bed in a mass of muscled arms and legs. Daken curled up against him, molding perfectly to his body so that he couldn't help but weave his fingers through soft black hair. It was disturbingly comforting to have Daken's lips rest on his neck, to feel the weight of the mutant's deadly hand tracing circles on his chest. Bullseye allowed it, slipping into a dreamy lull under the deft ministrations.
Besides, it wasn't cuddling if you planned on killing the person later. Everybody knew that.
As he drifted he reflected on the enigmatic, infuriating man in his arms. All of his interactions with Daken ended strangely, leaving him feeling like there was more going on and that the bastard had to be up to something. This one was no different. The way he felt in the elevator, running into Deadpool the way they did....all so strange.
Hell, the whole crazy mission about Osborn's hair had been fucking weird from the start. How had Daken known the truth, anyway?
"Hey," he shook Daken. "I've gotta ask you something."
Daken groaned and nestled into him further. "I think it's a little early to be talking about relationships, Lester."
"Shut up. How did you know?"
"How did I know that you would want to be on top? An educated guess. You seem like the control freak type."
"Goddammit, no! How did you know about Osborn's hair?"
"Ah. Of course. The hair."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Well how did you know about his hair, you prancing faggot. What tipped you off? There must have been a clue in that meeting that made you think it was a weave. Do you two go to the same salon or something?"
"Is it really so hard for you to see through Osborn? I can smell his intentions days before they even occur to him."
"Not good enough."
"No? How about this...the glue stinks."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"The glue. The adhesive they used to apply the cheap, fake hair to Osborn's real, equally frightening hair. I've dated enough models to know that smell. Whoever styles his hair does an atrocious job of it. I could see the obviously bonded and sealed extensions the moment I met him."
The cocktail of medication, pheromones, and an earth-shattering orgasm caused Bullseye to take the subtle revelation at a fraction of his normal intensity.
"Wait? What?!? You sneaky little half-breed fuck. You knew it all along?"
With unexpected speed and a strength belying his size, Daken flipped him onto his back, straddled his chest, and caught his lips in a searing kiss. The first of the evening, despite their frantic union up to now. Limbs frozen, Bullseye's senses ratcheted up to a sharp peak. He didn't want it to be, but the kiss was fucking heavenly.
He didn't notice the usual intimate details, like the taste of Daken's mouth or how much tongue he was using. Instead he just reveled in the agonizing contentment of having Daken's body pressed against him. It was so satisfying, yet so very far from satiating. He wanted to move, wanted to pour all his manic energy into kissing back. He couldn't. He could only struggle to breathe in the asphyxiating sphere that was Daken.
He was getting hard again.
Daken broke the kiss; his feral eyes shining a mad glint that made Bullseye love him a little, and hate him a lot.
"It's all a matter of perception, my dear. Of course I knew. I knew the second I laid eyes on him. Just like I knew..." He leaned down to whisper in Bullseye's ear. "Just like I knew how badly you wanted me. So how about it? Can I be on top now?"
And rather than snapping every bone in Daken's body Bullseye instead found himself spitting out the words: "Yeah. Okay."
The End
Author(s): lilac28
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Bullseye/Daken
Summary: Intrepid Avenger Bullseye struggles to solve the mystery of Norman Osborn's hair, all while resisting the masculine wiles of his revoltingly sexy teammate.
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Let's seeeee......sex, violence, lust, depravity, necks breaking, blood spurting, erections popping, and lots and lots of crackiness
Word Count: ~9k (someday I'll write something short again, but I swear this is an easy read)
Notes Set somewhere after DA #5, but before the Deadpool issues where he tangles with Bullseye. I tried to stay true to the timeline, but I admittedly haven't read some Deadpool and Thunderbolts stuff so if I messed up...ummm.....just go with it. ;)
Enjoying all the fantastic works on this comm has been awesome for someone who jumped on DA a little late. You guys have made some wonderfully sexy, amusing, and deviant stuff here. Thank you!
New Orleans, Dark Avengers #1
"That is my mother you're speaking of!!" Daken unleashed his claws in fury. How dare this lumbering fool Ares insult his mother? He prepared to lunge across the table and shred the man to ribbons, alleged God of War or not. Eviscerating hairy muscle bound idiots was one of his many talents.
The man who called himself Norman Osborn broke in. "I'd like to hire you full-time."
Admittedly curious as to the real reason he was summoned to a shitty Pizza Express in New Orleans, Daken lowered his guard. "To do what?" There was a strange chemical smell in the air.
"Well," Osborn interlaced his fingers and smiled at him with a look of sincere, maniacal expectation. "Tick off your Dad for starters."
Daken paused. Ticking off his Dad was something of a raison d'être. His interest piqued, as did his enhanced senses. He couldn't stop looking at Norman Osborn. What the fuck is on that guy's head?
New York City, Later
"And that, Team, is why we can't have any more of these incidents."
Former unstable villain turned unstable hero Bullseye struggled not to burst into psychotic giggles as Norman Osborn made a dramatic sweeping gesture to the large video monitor dominating the meeting room. On the screen one could clearly make out the form of Mac Gargan huddled in an alleyway corner. From the angle of his body and the placement of his hand, he was either furtively jerking off or taking the world's longest piss.
"Don't you see what this means? What you stand for now? This is a delicate time, and everything is a matter of perception. The American public is watching our every move. You can't get caught engaging in crude-"
"But I had to go!" Gargan interjected.
Bullseye could contain himself no longer. "Man, why are your pants pulled down? I didn't know you wore clothes under that slimy freak covering."
"Shut up! It's......it's just a pair of boxers. I like having the extra support."
"Aye." Ares was not convinced. "Yet why did ye pull them down? Why not just use the hole in the front like a real man?"
"All right. All right." Osborn held up a hand for silence. "I don't care why. I don't care how. I don't care if you drank a gallon of water and your eyeballs were swimming. The next person who exposes himself or behaves inappropriately during a mission wins an all expenses paid vacation back to Thunderbolt Mountain. We've got a great opportunity here, people. Let's not blow it on stupid stuff like this."
There was a murmur of consent around the table, mostly done in the hopes that compliance would bring a quicker end to the meeting. Bullseye rolled his eyes.
Osborn's steely gaze landed on Daken, who seemed more interested in examining his fingernails than pretending to agree.
"Daken, did you hear what I said?"
Daken lifted his eyes to meet Osborn's, the very motion done with interminable deliberation. As if he were contemplating whether it was worth it to acknowledge that there were other people in the room.
"Yes, Norman. I heard what you said. I'll try to expose myself less than Gargan."
Osborn snorted, the response as close to acceptable as he would allow.
Not like Daken would ever dream of being anything less than well coiffed during a mission. He would never slide that tight spandex down his toned body, revealing his muscular ass as he took himself out of the costume.
The scene appeared before Bullseye so vividly he could almost taste it. Daken would already be pumping his firm cock as he pulled it out, a soft groan escaping his lips when he was finally free. His would be face flushed and wild and oh fuck he wanted it. All the pompous preening and dry detachment would fade away to leave a beautiful creature desperately wanting Bullseye to bend him over and pound him into the middle of the next universe.
Bullseye's heart began to thunder. It would be so good. Daken on his knees in front of him. Daken choking on his stiff cock. Daken bleeding all over Bullseye's stark white bed in the Avengers tower from a multitude of knife wounds as he begged Bullseye to give it to him harder. Harder. Oh God yes...
Bullseye blinked and at once the scene became "Daken staring at him with a wolfish grin during the middle of an Avengers meeting".
It was hard not to completely panic. Not to bolt from the room at the realization that he was having yet another out of control fuck fantasy about the little mutant fop. Fortunately he had enough medication coursing through his veins to tranquilize an entire zoo. That, combined with his raging hard on, gave him the impetus to stay in his seat and not make a scene.
Maybe it was the medication that was doing it, although that was not something he wanted to discuss with Victoria Hand. Lately when he was around Daken the air became hot and he felt like he was going to suffocate on his own arousal. Then, almost as if he could smell it, Daken would just grin at him like a predator. Like Mac no doubt did when he found a homeless person.
That little Wolverine wannabe couldn't know what he was thinking......right?
"I think everyone's got the message. Are we done here?" Karla had finite patience for meetings involving sermons about behavior.
Bullseye leapt at the chance for a distraction. "Why? Do you have a hot date?"
"Enough. Yes, we're done here. Remember we're meeting again at 0900 for a debriefing about the Fantastic Four situation. Bob, would you accompany me, please? I'd like to have a word in private."
The Sentry glided after Osborn without a word, his footsteps completely silent.
Bullseye waited until they were both gone before he made the universal "he's fucking crazy" finger spinning motion by his ear.
"No kidding," Gargan said. "That guy still gives me the creeps. And why is he always sneaking off with Osborn? And they.....they always come back with messed up hair."
"Don't be an idiot, Gargan. You're the one who sneaks off to beat it in dark corners. I doubt that...wait...Osborn had messed up hair? Is that even possible?" Bullseye wasn't one to normally give two fucks about hair. Hair was, above all else, inefficient. Especially a ludicrous prancing mohawk that cascaded between toned shoulders like a waterfall of black ink. He would never be caught dead in something so gay.
Still, the thought of Osborn with his bizarre 'do out of place seemed just as likely as Victor von Doom showing up with an afro.
"It was!" Gargan was insistent. "Weird cornrows messed up and everything."
"Cornrows? Is that was that is? I always thought it was a jheri curl gone bad."
"No way. Look at it next closely during the next meeting. Those are cornrows, my friends."
"I'm not your fucking friend."
"You moron," Karla said. "Why would Osborn get his hair styled in sideways cornrows? It's just a lot of gel and bad taste."
"Why does he always put mustard on his 5 Guys french fries instead of ketchup? I don't know!"
"Nay," Ares said. "'Tis alchemy."
The conversation halted as everyone contemplated the new suggestion. "That," agreed Bullseye, "may be the best guess yet."
"It must be a weave." Daken said. "It's too fake to be anything else. My guess is a weave."
Despite the confidence in his voice, Daken's theory had no effect on Karla. "That's insane, Daken. Nobody gets a weave in sideways chunks like that. It's beyond ridiculous. Why you'd have to be...." she trailed off slightly as an uncomfortable notion came to her, "...you'd have to be crazier than the Sentry."
The table of depraved defenders lapsed into silence as they chewed over the prospect of anyone being crazier than the Sentry.
"Whatever. It's cornrows. That's all."
"No. It's just bad styling."
"I still say some mutated jheri curl or other chemical shit that wrecked his hair."
"Well..." Daken unfolded his hands, the simplest gesture performed with controlled elegance. "How do we find out? Who wants to help me solve the mystery of Osborn's hair?"
He fixed Bullseye with a wicked stare, burning focus sucking all the air out of the room and making it almost impossible to think straight. "What about you, Lester?"
A near murderous rage rose in Bullseye. It was infuriating. Every casual motion Daken made, every precisely measured sentence. Everything he did was executed with a graceful, gooey perfection. He wore the Wolverine costume as if it were Yves Saint Laurent, and his regular tailored clothes like a second skin. For some reason, it pissed Bullseye off more than he could ever articulate.
Which was good. He made a point to revel in it. If he was angry, it helped cover the intense, deep-seated arousal that crackled and licked around the frayed edges of his very psyche. When they were first introduced it was all a confusing jumble, yet now after a few weeks it was getting harder and harder to lie to himself about it.
And rather than telling Daken to go play with his own limp dick while thinking about dear old Daddy, Bullseye instead found himself spitting out the words: "You're on, freak."
"Excellent."
"Whatever."
Daken floated to his feet. "We can begin tomorrow." With a wink he rose from the table and strode confidently out of the room, leaving Bullseye to wonder how anyone could sashay their hips like that and still appear masculine.
------------------------
They began their investigation by discarding the obvious paths of action, such as grilling Victoria Hand or trying to break into Osborn's living quarters. Interrogating Hand would get them nowhere, and who knew what kind of security Osborn had around his undeniably creepy personal life.
Thus the initial course of action, Daken proposed, was to gather some intel. Osborn had been around for a while, and that dead weasel on his head was bound to have been the topic of conversation at some point for someone. Surely there was a real clue wrapped up in all the juicy hero and villain gossip around town.
As it turned out, gathering intel consisted of making conversation with anyone connected to the costume scene, from the darkest alleyways to the most fashionable clubs. In a manner that was something between flirting and threatening. It was easier than Bullseye had expected. Osborn accepted his going out with Daken a few times a week to patrol the city, provided that they stayed out of trouble, didn't talk to the press, and didn't kill each other. He seemed almost pleased that they were "getting to know each other as a team".
The first thing Bullseye learned about Daken was that the little freak knew fucking everybody. No matter where they went in the city people recognized him. They didn't always address him as Daken, and they weren't always glad to see him.
Two bit criminal thugs cowered at his presence, while every cocktail waitress and call girl in every bar they entered practically fought over each other to get his attention. He even seemed to know Johnny Storm of the Fantastic Four. Oh sure, Storm pretended not to know him when they ran into him one night, but it was obvious he did. He stared at Daken like he wanted to lick an entire can of whipped cream off his chest, which made Bullseye itch to put an arrow into both their hearts. Just because he hated the Fantastic Four, of course. Not because he was jealous.
They attempted to question anyone they could find who had a connection to Osborn without being too obvious, which lasted about 2 days before Bullseye began to get bored. One night, while speaking to the lowly H.A.M.M.E.R. agent in charge of taking out all the trash from the executive offices, Bullseye couldn't help himself.
"Osborn's a bit of a weird dude, isn't he? Have you ever noticed his hair?"
The agent chuckled nervously. "Yeah. Some of the other guys wonder about it. It looks like he slept in pomade."
"Yeah. Yeah, it does."
The naive agent continued, "You've gotta admit though. They guy really pulled it together. Look at this great team he made. I mean, he even got Wolverine!" He gestured towards a costumed Daken as if he were a rare piece of jewelry. "Fucking Wolverine, man! He's the coolest and most bad ass of all super heroes!"
Although only the lower half of his face was visible, disgust emanated from Daken in luscious, palpable waves. He stiffened and stalked off without a word, motioning for Bullseye to follow him like he was the fucking valet.
Bullseye was not fazed in the least, for that night he learned his second thing about Daken, something way more entertaining: the easiest way to rattle him was to mention his father.
Mentioning Wolverine resulted in a whole gamut of delightful responses, ranging from prissy disgust to outright fury to genuine sulking. Sometimes Daken caught himself in time to re-establish his "I'm too cool to give a fuck about anything" demeanor, sometimes not. Every so often he let slip a shard of real emotion, hinting at a damaged person underneath all his masks.
It was absolutely fascinating.
Before he could stop himself, Bullseye was fervently cataloguing Daken's reaction to everything. He liked wearing Italian clothes, drinking Japanese tea, and quoting William Blake and other Romantic poets. At first the love of Romanticism seemed just a jackoff way to appear cultured without actually being cultured, but the more nights he walked through the city with Daken the more it all made sense. That Romantic concept, the creation of art and genius from nothing, was the thread that connected Daken's whole sense of self. He saw himself as autonomous, a perfect specimen of completely his own creation. No help from his father, any friends, or society. If imitation was the worst sin, then Daken fancied himself a true original.
Which was, thought Bullseye, the most laughably pathetic thing he had ever heard. Absolutely fascinating nonetheless.
Comfortable in his own body, Daken did seem to have a legitimate, respectable knowledge of martial arts and fighting. He could ooze his way through a throng of people without brushing against anyone. He had no patience for the elderly, and no compassion for the less fortunate.
His hands were always moving in slow motion, a sharp contrast to the crackling yet contained energy he exuded. He had a myriad of snobby facial expressions, which Bullseye drew lovingly in a notebook every night that he then affixed to his dartboard. It wasn't an obsession, he told himself. Just learning the enemy. Like what he used to do with Daredevil. Totally not gay.
But it was always there, that hot churning feeling. No matter how he tried to ignore it. It existed in the margins. Always simmering.
Something else slowly became apparent to Bullseye as the nights passed. Wolverine's kid had some sort of subtle mind power that he used on almost everyone. There was no other explanation. Perfect strangers tripped all over themselves to do his bidding. An enemy would start out aggressive towards him, and then feel compelled to tell him their entire life story. Both men and women salivated over him. People seemed to love him, or start hating him at just the right time.
Not that it did any good for their mission. Nobody knew anything useful about Osborn beyond what they saw on TV.
They took the same route home every night, the semi-weekly routine becoming one of uncomfortable familiarity. Most nights the conversation meandered between a variety of topics, from who paid the most when they hired an assassin (Wilson Fisk for local organized crime), to the best city in which to assassinate someone from a canal (Venice they both agreed, not Amsterdam), to who was the horniest female super hero (Moonstone, if you could call her a hero. The next in line was Emma Frost, if you counted the X-men). Daken made no secret about the fact that he found men attractive. Fortunately they never touched on the topic of horniest male super hero. Yet.
"Man," Bullseye began one evening right before they approached the Tower. "We're running out of people to talk to. Who else can we even ask without drawing too much attention to ourselves?"
"It's too bad nobody knows where Tony Stark is."
"Tony Stark? Yeah, right. Try finding that guy right now."
Daken waved a bored hand. "I could find him if I wasn't on this Avengers job."
"Whatever. What about Spiderman? He's got to have fingered Osborn's head piece at some point here."
"No word on Spiderman. He's underground with all the other former Avengers."
Bullseye snickered. The thought that he himself was now an Avenger just wasn't getting old. "This isn't getting us anywhere. We need a new plan."
"Agreed," Daken said. "Maybe we can come up with one after the meeting tomorrow. Unless....." He let the word hang in the air like a lethal promise. "Unless you're perhaps interested in coming to my quarters to discuss it right now?"
"I...what?!" Bullseye stopped in his tracks. It sounded like a good idea. It sounded like a great idea. Him and Daken alone in a closed room together, where he could drink in the sight of that sculpted face and ripped body. Where he could have Daken's undivided attention as he put the little mutant's no doubt huge cock in his mouth, relishing the look of heavy-lidded desire on his face.
Exhilaration bloomed hot in Bullseye. He started to sweat at the thought of burying himself to the hilt in Daken's perfect ass. He wanted it so fucking bad it hurt, the ache between his legs and his ribs corroding all his resolve and common sense as his knees melted to weak, slippery discs. His mind raced. Daken would be stunning all sweaty and mussed up on the floor covered in blood. Would he heal quickly like his father, leaving only ghostly trails of red mingling and then disappearing? Or would he gift a greater wound, gushing just long enough to be able to jack himself off in his own blood. Daken covered in vital fluids and come. Oh my mistress fuck yes.......
While Bullseye struggled to force air in his lungs and tried to remember that he was supposed to be offended by the suggestion, Daken appeared nonplussed. He tossed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, seemingly unaware of Bullseye's predicament.
"Oh well," Daken said, "it was just a suggestion. Ciao."
He winked and sauntered towards Avengers tower, leaving Bullseye gaping like a fish with a titanic hard on that stuck out in his costume like a third arm. The hard on he normally got only when killing people. Or thinking about killing people. How the fuck did that jerk off Hawkeye talk to anyone attractive in this stupid costume?
It was 15 minutes of standing there sweating before his legs could work again. It was another 20 minutes of distracted stumbling before he was poised in front of his bathroom mirror; gobbling down the medication he usually had to be goaded to take. Beating off to a mental image of Daken with shurikens lodged in his eyes took a mere 90 seconds, and then Bullseye fell into a fitful sleep.
------------------------
Life under Osborn's thumb didn't leave a lot of room for rebellion, so Bullseye was forced to show his defiance in more subtle ways such as watching TV too loudly, flirting with Karla, and just generally making a mess wherever he went. One of his favorite things to do was to roam the Tower while brushing his teeth, giving off a cavalier aura that he felt screamed: "Whatever. This place is a fucking dorm room to me."
One could glean so many interesting little secrets by wandering and tooth brushing, such as Noh Varr spending the night in Karla's room or Hand and Osborn speaking in hushed whispers about Ares' problems with his son. On one fateful Friday evening, while tooth brushing and daydreaming of all the creative ways he was going to kill Gargan, he ran into Daken in full costume.
"Aha," Daken began. "There you are. Listen, I've been thinking..."
"About something other than your wardrobe? That's a first."
"About Osborn's live interview on TV a few weeks ago. The one where they asked him all those questions about Hawkeye's accusations."
"So what? You actually watched that boring shit?"
"So what happens when you go on TV?"
"Someone with fake tits sucks your dick?"
"Well, yes. But also, someone styles your hair."
An evil leer graced Bullseye's face, made somewhat less intimidating by the toothpaste around his mouth. "You're right. Someone who works there had her fingers in that chaos."
"Exactly."
"Is Osborn in the Tower now?"
"No. I saw him leave with Hand and the Sentry but he's not back yet. He's probably in some sort of strategic meeting to come up with a moronic plan for the rest of us."
"Oh fuck. That shit usually takes at least an hour."
"We should get down there."
"What if we get called in?"
Daken shrugged. "So we show up late and say we were out foiling terrorist criminals or something. You're not scared are you, Lester? Is Osborn's leash on you that short?"
"Fuck you." Bullseye maneuvered his toothbrush. "Fine. I'll go get dressed. Lemme just spit this out first."
He turned to go to his quarters, ignoring Daken's cry of: "You spit? I always thought you a swallower!"
They opted for a low profile, slipping silently out of the tower to steal downtown and break into the service entrance of the TV studio. There seemed to be few people left in the building, making it an easy task to find the right room.
"Here." Daken stopped in front a door marked "Makeup". He held up his hand to knock, then hesitated and turned to Bullseye to ask, "What's your problem with swords, anyway?"
The conversation on the way over had morphed into a tense "swords versus knives" debate; one Daken apparently wasn't ready to let go of yet.
"Nothin'. I got no problem with swords. Love 'em."
"Yes, but you said they were one of your least favorite weapons."
"Yeah, they are. Still love 'em though. I can wield a sword, Junior. I just think it gets way, way better."
"They're sophisticated."
"Fuck sophisticated. The longer blade fucks up your natural center of balance."
"But you have a much greater range than a knife."
"A knife's easier to throw."
"Do you have to throw everything? Sometimes the perfect kill can only be achieved with a sword."
"Do you have to be so flaming melodramatic? Trust me, I've killed some of my best friends with swords! Just that the most effective weapons ain't all that flashy."
"The most effective weapons," Daken began in a weak parody of Bullseye's New York accent. "....ain't all that sharp."
"True dat," Bullseye breathed, drinking in the sight of the tight gold and brown Wolverine costume. The costume that would look far, far better in a bloodstained rumpled ball on his bedroom floor. Littered with broken teeth from Daken's pert little mouth.
The door opened. A woman with a pixie haircut stepped out and glared at them in disapproval.
"Can I help you?"
Daken leaned casually against the doorframe. "I think you can. Were you working on the Osborn interview a few weeks ago?"
"Umm..." She sized him up. "No, um, I think that was Janice."
"I see. Do you know where Janice is now? We just need to ask her a few questions about that night."
"She...she went home early. She also went home early that night when Mr. Osborn didn't want his hair styled. She didn't really have much to do with him."
Fuck, thought Bullseye. He hadn't considered that Osborn might have just refused any pampering of the bizarre circus that he called a head. Another dead end.
The woman was still eyeing Daken, staring unabashedly at how the costume clung to his supple frame. She put a hand on his bicep. "I'm going home soon too, you know."
Bullseye felt himself growing impatient. The sick gnawing feeling that tunneled through his stomach whenever he saw someone flirting with Daken began to take hold.
Daken continued to play along. "You are? And where's home?"
Unwilling to sit through another nauseating session of watching a stranger drool over Daken, Bullseye grabbed his arm. "Who cares? We gotta go. C'mon."
The woman grabbed Daken's other arm. "Hey, wait a minute."
At that moment three security guards rounded the corner and stopped. One of them snickered.
"Okay, guys. Costume party's over. No one's allowed back here without a pass."
"Fine. We're leaving anyway." Bullseye tried to drag Daken with him. People seeing them there. Not good.
The makeup woman was loath to let go of Daken's arm. The perfect stranger he was two minutes ago now replaced by an object of burning desire.
"Seriously, you two. You need to leave."
"C'mon, guys. Now."
"Wait, wait, don't go. I didn't get your name."
Bullseye's irritation spiked with every new voice entering the conversation. Paranoia diffused through his gut. They could not be caught there. He could not be caught there. The consequences for breaking Osborn's meager trust were far greater for him than for Daken.
And if that fucking bitch with her mitts on his property didn't let go soon, he was going to have to make a necklace out of the tendons in her hands.
"We're going! Or we're trying to, if you'd get the fuck outta my way." He shoved at a security guard to try to get by.
The guard, a muscular man with no neck who enjoyed mixed martial arts in his spare time, responded with what was to be the biggest mistake of his life. He jammed his palm into Bullseye's shoulder and shoved him back.
It was, consequently, also the last mistake of his life.
In a matter of seconds and with one deft move from Bullseye, the cartilage of the man's nose was lodged deep into his brain. He fell to the ground twitching, blood and mucus streaming out of every hole in his face.
Bullseye was familiar with all holy hell breaking loose in such tense situations, yet instead a shocked and stony silence settled over the remaining five of them as they all stared astonished at the fallen man. The other two security guards began backing away slowly, while Daken merely raised a bored eyebrow.
Then the makeup woman started screaming.
She let go of Daken's arm to point a hysterical finger at Bullseye. "You...you....YOU KILLED HIM!"
Her voice rang through the corridor, deafening against the backdrop of silence.
"Murderer! Help! Somebody help!"
"Well, this just won't do." Daken reached out and snapped her neck with such force that she pirouetted once through the air like a ballet dancer before landing in a disturbing pile of misaligned vertebrae.
The other two security guards broke into a full run down the hallway, yelling something about backup.
"We can't let them get away." Daken tried to follow but was stopped by an arm across his chest.
"Hang on." Bullseye produced two knives from his belt.
Over his illustrious and sordid career many people had asked Bullseye how he had become such a good shot. They wanted to know what his secret was. How many hours a day he did target practice. If he was really a mutant.
For Lester, it was nothing so involved. Just as Michelangelo claimed to work by removing everything from a block of marble that wasn't part of the sculpture, Lester simply killed by removing all trajectories from his mind that wouldn't result in a bull's eye. He already saw the finished product of target and dead body when he looked at a victim; it was just a matter of taking the one correct and obvious action that would change desire into reality.
He did fancy himself a Michelangelo of murder, after all. So when he threw both knives simultaneously only to have them ricochet off each other and lodge into the jugular veins of the two security guards, it wasn't such a big deal.
"Try doing that with a sword!"
Daken had the decency to look impressed, jaw dropped so far he could lick his own shoes. "Nice shot."
Bullseye managed to keep his expression demonic rather than giddy. He'd heard the words "nice shot" a million times, never had they given him such a warm feeling in his chest. "C'mon, let's get the fuck outta here before I'm back trying to weaponize my own shit at Thunderbolt Mountain."
They rushed to exit the building and didn't stop running until they were far away from the TV station, close to Avengers Tower. Daken didn't seem to care about their failed mission. Instead he seemed almost pleased.
"I'll confess, Lester. That was an impressive shot. It's nice to see someone in this outfit has actual professional skills. Where did you train? Who taught you how to throw like that?"
"Michelangelo."
"Excuse me?"
"Michelangelo, motherfucker. Painter, sculptor, all around genius. Maybe you've heard of him."
Daken rolled his eyes. "I've heard of Michelangelo, sweetheart. I didn't realize you'd gone back in time to train with him."
"There's a lot of things you don't realize, princess."
"Like how fucked we're going to be if Osborn finds out about this little adventure?"
Bullseye winced. "I think we both realize that one."
"I won't tell if you won't. Maybe we can frame Venom for it."
"Too easy. Let's frame Vicky. That'll be much more scandalous."
Daken let out a bark of laughter; a sound that Bullseye insisted to himself was in no way music to his ears. "Why don't we just frame Osborn himself?"
"Sure. Why not? Fuck it. Let's enjoy life before the Sentry freaks out and kills us all with the power of one million dysfunctional exploding suns."
Daken laughed harder, undisturbed by the poisonous camaraderie between them. "Well, it was a good shot."
"Of course it was. I'm the best, baby."
"I don't know about best. I'd say you're adequate."
"Adequate!?! Fuck you!"
"Yes. Adequate. You do have some skills, you're just not very versatile."
"Oh please. And what's so versatile about you? You're a one trick pony with those claws."
"At least I've received real training."
Bullseye scoffed. "At least I survive my fights without a cheap genetic advantage."
"At least I wasn't forced into being Osborn's lapdog."
"At least I actually managed to kill my father when I tried."
Daken froze. "At least my father didn't fondle me in a trailer park."
And then he was just....gone. Vanishing in that infuriating ninja way of his. Bullseye walked the rest of the route alone, secretly regretting bringing up Wolverine.
------------------------
To say that Bullseye and Daken couldn't stay irritated at each other for long was not entirely true. It was more accurate to say that they were always irritated at each other. Spats and anger rolled between them like waves on the ocean. The intensity would wax and wane, but the larger body of irritation was always there.
So when Daken showed up at the door to Bullseye's sterile quarters a few days after he flounced and left Bullseye standing alone in the street, it didn't require any apologies or bullshit talk about feelings. No explanations were needed. The battle continued on, Daken acting like nothing ever happened while he wore that shit-eating grin that made Bullseye want to suffocate him by pulling his lungs out of his chest and squeezing them with bare hands.
"Let's go out tonight." Daken was dressed in a tight black t-shirt and tailored khaki pants that, while they looked simple, probably cost more than most people made in a month. Bullseye had seen him in civilian clothes before, although never appearing so casual.
"Why? We have no leads and you're dressed like a gay Japanese bouncer."
"That's what's wrong with all you prosaic heroes and villains. No style. Come on. Think of it as an unofficial information session."
Bullseye wavered, unaware that his heart had started beating a fraction slower. "Lemme think about it."
"You might get the chance to kill somebody. That'll be fun, right?"
"Well...yeah...."
Daken ushered him out the door. "Come on. It doesn't matter if you're not in costume. Just a little walk. Check out the town. Besides, I'm feeling lucky about tonight."
Daken feeling lucky couldn't be a good sign. Unfortunately for Bullseye the "fuck you, Sally" on his tongue somehow turned into an "all right". He followed him out the door, oblivious to the endorphins being released into his bloodstream.
They walked through the streets of New York together for the first time out of costume. People ignored Bullseye with his cap pulled down over the mark on his forehead, but they still stared at Daken. No matter what he wore, they always stared at him. The tilt of his chin and slope of his shoulders projected utter confidence, while his aloof expression promised a riveting cruelty.
Daken brushed up against him at every opportunity. His touch was ethereal, barely there. Too subtle to accuse him of doing anything, too frequent to ignore. Normally Bullseye would snap after less than 10 minutes of such treatment, yet the more they walked the more relaxed he felt.
"I rarely see you in real clothes, Lester." Daken indicated to Bullseye's simple black shirt and pants. "It's a good look for you."
Bullseye said nothing. Watching the shorter man walk had hypnotized him more than it normally did. Looking around, he was a little unsure of where they were or how they got there.
"You should really wear something more like..." Daken stopped and held up a hand. "Wait-"
"What?"
"I smell something."
"What?"
"Gunpowder, peanut butter, and someone who hasn't washed in weeks."
"Ooookay. So? That could be anything."
Daken was still, poised for battle. "I've smelled this before. When I had that fight with-"
He didn't get a chance to finish before a red and black clad figure dropped from a fire escape and landed directly in front of them. He had a pencil in his hand, and a sai sticking out of his left arm. Despite the fact that his face was covered, he managed to somehow seem genuinely happy to see them.
"Junior! Baldy!"
Bullseye groaned. Fucking Deadpool. The inferior assassin who needed to have his lips sewn together. Great.
"Hello, Deadpool How's the hand?" said Daken.
"Just peachy, no thanks to you. How's the melon? Last time I saw you Daddy had you hoisted over his shoulder with a bullet in the head."
Bullseye's heart quickened again. Deadpool had information about Daken. Interesting. "You two know each other?"
Deadpool backed up a few steps, shaking his head and his hands. "Oh no no no. We've met but we don't know each other. Not in the Biblical sense like how he knows everyone else. We hear you get around, kid."
"We? Who else is with you?"
"Umm...no one. You are looking trim though." Deadpool sniffed the air slightly. "Speaking of getting around, I also hear that you two sellouts are working for Osborn."
"And?"
"And!?! He's a snake! He owes me money, you know."
Bullseye shrugged. "Not my problem. Take it up with him."
"Oh, I intend to." Deadpool held up the pencil as though it was to play a pivotal role in his revenge against Osborn.
"Why do you have a sai in your arm?"
"What? This?" Deadpool pulled the weapon out of his left arm, only to plunge it into his right arm. "I don't wanna lose it."
Daken wrinkled his nose with revulsion. "Good luck getting payback on Osborn, Deadpool. He'll smell you coming a mile away."
"You know something, little lord mohawk? I get why you're doing this. I really do. Your Daddy issues are so huge they could be seen from space. But you!" He pointed to Bullseye. "I'm a little disappointed in you. Why are you working for the Green Goober? Have I really run you out of a job so bad that this is the only one you could get?"
Bullseye would have rather died than let Deadpool know the depth of Osborn's control over him. Daken, thankfully, said nothing.
"I mean, come on!" Deadpool gesticulated wildly. "I've worked for some shady characters but Osborn's the lowest of the low. How can you stand to look at that bad hair weave all day?"
Time stopped. Bullseye and Daken regarded him, shocked. They looked at each other, and then back to Deadpool. After a few moments of struggling to produce actual speech, they both started talking at once.
"What? A weave!?! Are you sure?"
"How do you know this?
"Are you just saying that or do you have actual proof?"
"Is that an opinion or a fact?"
Deadpool shook his head. "Whoa, whoa! Easy, ladies. I had no idea you two had such an interest in hair."
"How?" Daken's eyes were wild, his rows of shark teeth clearly visible. "How do you know this?"
"What's it worth to you?"
snikt "It's worth me not disemboweling you and desecrating your corpse."
"Oh please, Junior. You're a fraction of the threat that your Dad is, and he's about as scary as an old pair of ladies' undies. The truth is I know everything about Osborn. I've been gathering intel on him for weeks. I know his habits, his proclivities. Hell, I know what kinda toothpaste he uses."
"Go on."
"I have a whole file on his grooming habits and hair alone. Here. Look." Deadpool reached into the back of his costume and pulled out a file bulkier than Tony Stark's paternity suits. It had to be at least 10 inches thick.
He slammed the folder on the ground triumphantly, where the two Avengers could see that it was clearly labeled "Thor".
"Oops. That's not it. Hang on." Deadpool pulled out some crumpled color photos and tossed them to Daken.
Bullseye was dumbfounded. "How did you fit that whole fucking thing in your costume?"
Daken handed him the pictures. There was about six of them, taken in some fancy salon at various angles and close-ups. They showed a woman meticulously working on Osborn's thin locks, weaving other pieces of hair into them and bonding them together.
"It really is a weave. Why the hell does he do that?"
"Why does he lose his mind and dress like a lawn ornament? Bad medicine." Deadpool started humming.
"Told you."
"Damn."
"Karla owes me our bet."
"You bet with Karla over this? What did you bet?"
Daken flashed that shit-eating grin again. "Not telling."
Deadpool stopped bouncing on his toes and humming Bon Jovi tunes to look at them suspiciously. Or as suspicious as one could look with a mask fully covering one's face. He cocked his head to one side and stroked his chin. "You know, those two make a really cute couple. They have this adorable lust/hate thing going on, don't they?"
Bullseye looked around, ignoring the insinuation that he would ever deign to hook up with the loathsomely sexy mutant. "Who the fuck are you talking to?"
"I'm keeping these." Daken stuffed the photos in his pocket. "You were actually useful, Deadpool. And you had less to say than usual. I'm shocked."
"That's because Lilac28 is writing me and I think she was afraid of going over the top."
"Okay. Lovely. Whatever. Are we ready to go?"
Bullseye felt a pang of regret. This was the longest he had interacted with Deadpool in forever and not had it break out into a fight. How boring. Maybe Wilson was right. What was he becoming, working for Osborn?
"Hey, guys. Wait. Look...you're trying to find out stuff about Osborn. I'm trying to get to Osborn. I have things you don't know. You're on the inside. Maybe it would be in our best interests to...." Deadpool looked at his feet and clasped his hands behind his back like a hopeful schoolgirl. "....you know...team up?"
The one perfect trajectory came into focus as Bullseye reached for his belt. "Team up? Sure, Wade. Sounds good, buddy."
With preternatural speed he threw one of his specialty knives at Deadpool. It lodged deep into his cornea, knocking him to the ground with the momentum of a psychotic tornado.
"Oh, that was perfect!" Daken broke out into peals of laughter. "He'll be furious when he gets back up."
"That's not gonna happen anytime soon."
Deadpool's head exploded on the ground in front of them, painting a nearby dumpster with gelatinous gore and spurting blood everywhere.
"Explosive tipped knives."
Outright admiration was written on Daken's face. "We should go back and tell the others we solved the mystery."
"Let's leave out all the parts about Deadpool."
"Absolutely, my dear Lester." Daken's fingertips grazed his chest as he brushed by. "Absolutely."
The walk back passed for Bullseye in a dreamlike haze. He felt calm, unwound. The normal giddy electrical discharge that was his thought process had slowed to a controlled sizzle.
Daken walked in front of him, affording him the opportunity to stare at what had to be the world's most delectable ass. It was torture. So painful that Bullseye forced himself to drink in every luscious curve the entire way back.
They rode the elevator in Avengers Tower together, every floor passing in slow motion. In a muted recess of Bullseye's senses he was aware that his skin had started to tingle all over. He couldn't stop staring at Daken, couldn't stop imagining them both naked while he painted the elevator walls with his teammate's blood.
"We should celebrate."
"What?"
The elevator doors opened. Daken led him down the hallway with a purpose. "We should celebrate. We did accomplish the mission, after all."
Bullseye's skin was burning hotter, his face flushed. Breathing was becoming a laborious chore. Daken's grip on his arm exerted a tantalizing pressure. He wanted more. He wanted Daken's nimble fingers all over his entire body.
"Celebrate.....yeah...." He felt stoned, hypnotized.
"In here."
Bullseye looked around, and realized he was in Daken's quarters. The first stab of real panic lanced at him. How the fuck did he get there?
"Have some class and take your shoes off."
Every instinct told him to crush Daken's ribcage and make for the door. Instead Bullseye obediently removed his shoes. And his socks.
"Hmm." Daken's look of innocence was weakly feigned at best. He wasn't even trying. "You have nice feet. It's so hard to find feet on a man that aren't disgusting yet still masculine."
Bullseye was out of retorts. The air around him was pure molasses, choking him and sticking in his lungs as he struggled for breath. He was getting hard.
"That's something I like about you, Lester." Daken stepped right up to him and traced a fingertip down his cheek. "You're very masculine."
And then it hit him, arousal so hot and fierce he could barely stand. It coiled at the base of his spine and throbbed throughout his whole body. Knees buckling, he would have crashed to the floor but instead found himself leaning on Daken.
"Whoa." Daken held up his dead weight like it was nothing. "Are you all right?"
"I...." He struggled to form words, unable to focus on anything but the blazing fire between his legs. "I just....."
They were never this close before. Daken's soft hair brushed his neck. He smelled fucking incredible.
"Easy. You don't look so good. Here, sit down."
Daken shoved him onto the bed, where he collapsed in a graceless heap against the bed and the wall. The mutant sat down next to him.
"Maybe you're overheated, yes? It is a little warm in here. Are you hot?"
Bullseye groaned. "Oh God, yes..."
"Me too." Daken began to remove his shirt, revealing inch after captivating inch of smooth skin. He was muscular and hairless, his chest a smooth plane broken only by the mysterious tattoo. He was built like a pure predator, bunches of muscle and sinew coiled around an intense, controlled energy.
"Daken....," Bullseye breathed, the name out of his mouth before he could stop it. Too far gone to even contemplate if or how Daken was mindfucking him.
"Oooh! I like how you say my name, Lester. Say it again."
Bullseye ground out the words between his teeth. "Daken...fuck."
Daken's victorious smile was still plastered all over his smug face. "Good boy."
He reached for his zipper.
"No, wait. Daken....don't..."
The sound of the zipper tore obscenely through the quiet room. Bullseye watched enthralled as the mutant pulled his thick cock out of his pants.
"Do you like this?"
Bullseye swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. "Yes."
"Do you want to watch me touch it?"
"Please...."
Daken took himself firmly in hand, the culmination of Bullseye's darkest fantasies come true. His eyes bore shameless holes into Bullseye; unabashedly jerking off while the assassin ogled him.
"Mmm. This feels good. It's better with you watching me."Daken threw his head back with a euphoric look on his face, exposing his pale throat and the pulse beating in his neck. It would be no effort to grab anything small and, with a mere flick of his wrist, lodge it into his jugular.
Yet it wouldn't kill him. Daken would bleed, heal, and then be ready to bleed again. He was an unbreakable plaything, one you could kill over and over. Bullseye realized he was rubbing his own crotch through his pants, the minute friction doing nothing to extinguish the scorching between his legs.
"Yeah," Daken moved his hand a little faster. "That's it. Fuck, Lester. You like watching me play with myself, don't you?"
Bullseye only nodded and gripped himself tighter.
"God, that's good." He pinned Bullseye with a vicious gaze. "Take your shirt off."
A man could only take so much. Watching Daken's forearm flex as he fondled himself, Bullseye's last weak wall of resolve crumbled as he clawed at his shirt like it was strangling him.
He tore off his offending pants too. Fuck it.
Hornier than he'd ever been in his whole life and furious at Daken for putting him in such a state, he crossed the bed and did the thing that came most naturally to him in the moment.
He slapped Daken across the face. Hard.
Daken just gripped himself tighter. "Again."
Bullseye hit him again, his palm making a resounding crack against Daken's cheek.
"Harder."
He's loving this. Bullseye closed his fist and punched him right in the face. A thin stream of blood trickled from Daken's nose, drying up and disappearing before it could drip off his chin.
It was the hottest thing he had ever seen. Daken mussed and lewd. Bleeding.
"Now fuck me, you idiot. In the nightstand."
Bullseye opened the drawer on the nightstand next to the bed and whistled. It was stocked like it belonged to professional mattress surfer. There were four bottles of lube, a string of anal beads, two whips, three small dildos, a few pairs of handcuffs, and a copy of Gothic Beauty magazine. No condoms of course, not that the little slut needed them anyway.
More shuffling from the bed and Daken was without his pants. He threw one muscled arm behind his head, legs spread wantonly. Bullseye fumbled with one of the tubes, slicked himself up, and threw one of Daken's legs over his upper arm. A part of him couldn't believe they were about to do this. He hated Daken.
But oh God he was hungry for him.
It took a few awkward attempts to line everything up and slide them together. His hands shook. Bullseye paused when he was finally seated deep, the moments clambering together in a surreal drag as his senses jumped from Daken's measured breathing to the warm, spicy smell in the room to the impossibly dry taste in his mouth.
Daken was still touching himself. "C'mon, Lester. Show me how much you want me."
Bullseye set a brutal pace, pounding him rough and frenzied. Daken clearly loved every second of it, spreading his thighs wider and encouraging with a series of masculine cries and garbled pleas. He seemed to know just what to say to incite Bullseye further, and just enough so that it was sexy and not annoying. "Oh yeahyeahyeah, Lester. That's it." He licked and nipped his way up Bullseye's neck to croon in his ear. "That's it, Bullseye."
Their desperate coupling progressed with a delirious intensity. Bullseye claimed Daken in every way that came to him, desperate to burn into ashes all the weeks of out of control lust and confusion. He tossed Daken's legs over his shoulders and thrust into him over and over, never breaking eye contact. Wanting to devour all his mysterious secrets, to take away the control that Daken so arrogantly thought he had.
He threw Daken's back against the wall and fucked him standing up, sinking his teeth into the other man's perfectly carved collarbone and tasting blood. He was blazing, his hairless head slippery with a sheen of sweat. Daken was a cool burn, salty skin only slightly flushed.
The sound Daken made when Bullseye flipped him over onto his hands and knees made his whole body ache. Never had he heard anything so good as a genuine utterance of reckless pleasure from that little fuck. "Like that, do ya?"
Bullseye took him on all fours like an animal, listening to his groans grow louder and louder. He felt Daken's body tighten when he pulled him up on his knees and encircled Daken's feverish hand with his own, just in time to watch him come all over both their fingers as he lolled his head against Bullseye's shoulder and cried out something in Japanese.
Bullseye climaxed soon after, bliss coursing through every fiery inch of him. It seemed to go on forever as he clung white-knuckled to Daken's hips, his body shaking with one delicious pulse after another. He let out a wracking sob of release, finally satisfied after weeks of torture.
After it was all over they collapsed on the bed in a mass of muscled arms and legs. Daken curled up against him, molding perfectly to his body so that he couldn't help but weave his fingers through soft black hair. It was disturbingly comforting to have Daken's lips rest on his neck, to feel the weight of the mutant's deadly hand tracing circles on his chest. Bullseye allowed it, slipping into a dreamy lull under the deft ministrations.
Besides, it wasn't cuddling if you planned on killing the person later. Everybody knew that.
As he drifted he reflected on the enigmatic, infuriating man in his arms. All of his interactions with Daken ended strangely, leaving him feeling like there was more going on and that the bastard had to be up to something. This one was no different. The way he felt in the elevator, running into Deadpool the way they did....all so strange.
Hell, the whole crazy mission about Osborn's hair had been fucking weird from the start. How had Daken known the truth, anyway?
"Hey," he shook Daken. "I've gotta ask you something."
Daken groaned and nestled into him further. "I think it's a little early to be talking about relationships, Lester."
"Shut up. How did you know?"
"How did I know that you would want to be on top? An educated guess. You seem like the control freak type."
"Goddammit, no! How did you know about Osborn's hair?"
"Ah. Of course. The hair."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Well how did you know about his hair, you prancing faggot. What tipped you off? There must have been a clue in that meeting that made you think it was a weave. Do you two go to the same salon or something?"
"Is it really so hard for you to see through Osborn? I can smell his intentions days before they even occur to him."
"Not good enough."
"No? How about this...the glue stinks."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"The glue. The adhesive they used to apply the cheap, fake hair to Osborn's real, equally frightening hair. I've dated enough models to know that smell. Whoever styles his hair does an atrocious job of it. I could see the obviously bonded and sealed extensions the moment I met him."
The cocktail of medication, pheromones, and an earth-shattering orgasm caused Bullseye to take the subtle revelation at a fraction of his normal intensity.
"Wait? What?!? You sneaky little half-breed fuck. You knew it all along?"
With unexpected speed and a strength belying his size, Daken flipped him onto his back, straddled his chest, and caught his lips in a searing kiss. The first of the evening, despite their frantic union up to now. Limbs frozen, Bullseye's senses ratcheted up to a sharp peak. He didn't want it to be, but the kiss was fucking heavenly.
He didn't notice the usual intimate details, like the taste of Daken's mouth or how much tongue he was using. Instead he just reveled in the agonizing contentment of having Daken's body pressed against him. It was so satisfying, yet so very far from satiating. He wanted to move, wanted to pour all his manic energy into kissing back. He couldn't. He could only struggle to breathe in the asphyxiating sphere that was Daken.
He was getting hard again.
Daken broke the kiss; his feral eyes shining a mad glint that made Bullseye love him a little, and hate him a lot.
"It's all a matter of perception, my dear. Of course I knew. I knew the second I laid eyes on him. Just like I knew..." He leaned down to whisper in Bullseye's ear. "Just like I knew how badly you wanted me. So how about it? Can I be on top now?"
And rather than snapping every bone in Daken's body Bullseye instead found himself spitting out the words: "Yeah. Okay."
The End