X-Men belongs to 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. The story is mine. The actors are not mine (drat!) and this is not an implication of their true sexualities. Don't read this if you aren't over 18.
I hope this isn't too "dull" for you guys, as it's more character-driven and not as sexual. But there is some stuff, and I'm trying to introduce new situations and characters. I really want to hear your thoughts and suggestions, please feel free to e-mail me. I can't write this without you.
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Scott could never understand the logistics of anal intercouse. How such a small cavity could accomodate a growing tube of flesh. What he did understand - and relish - was the ability of a mere slab of meat to overwhelm his senses, to absorb every worry and fear and hope into a single source of concentrated pain and then indescribable pleasure.
Logan's fat length was more than equipped to please. Every vein, every slight curve shaped inside Scott's hot, constricting channel. Their tempestuous torsos conjoined at the velvet meeting point, Scott's knees pressed against his chest, Logan towering over him, their faces inches apart, their humid breath liquifying and collecting between their bruised, frenzied mouths.
"Fuck me...HARDER...like an animal..."
Logan growled into Scott's chest as his deep slams home went from long and slow to short and rapid. Their hips raised off the embattled bed, their thighs slick from sweat and frenzied pivoting. Scott pumped at his half-hard organ, volleys from the translucent pink shaft already coating his heaving chest and stomach muscles. He bent and twisted Logan's juicy, tortured nipples as he swathed the furry plates and abs in a fresh dressing of soppy, warm ejaculate.
Most of the nights they spent together concluded along these lines. Kissing, foreplay, no real conversation, then Logan would fuck the life out of him. Their screams would be muffled, since they weren't exactly in a brothel. Then they would clean up and Logan would hold Scott for a few hours before going back to his room in the middle of the night. As much as Scott relished the feel of those hairy forearms around him, he wanted something...more. Different.
As Scott's now fully tumescent penis was battered by Logan's determined thrusts, their mutual climax was approaching. Scott's hands slid up and down Logan's broad back, feeling the planes of the flexing man on top of him. Gliding down more, they cupped the hair-dusted, moderately fleshy buttocks nearby. So warm to the touch, so easily gripped, and Logan moaned from the touch. Scott felt the breath on his neck, heard the raunchy filth whispered into his ear. Scott was tempted to explore the dark, matted crack near his fingers. He waited for their orgasms, knowing he wanted more. With part of him wondering why he'd never done this before and the other part wondering if he ever could again, Scott shoved two fingers deep inside Logan's rectum.
If he wanted a reaction, he certainly got one.
"AAAGGGHHH....fuckin' BITCH....don't EVER....OHFUUUUGGGOODDD"
The fury on those twisted, beautifully, frighteningly dark and furrowed features nearly distracted Scott from the eruption flooding his insides. Volatile load after load filled him, until the white-hot juices seeped onto the bedsheets. In all the confusion, Scott just realized that his own organ was spent yet again, splattered on Logan's belly. The belly which was rapidly retreating from his bedroom. Yes, Logan was nearly sprinting toward his clothes. Scott was blindsided.
"What just happened here, Logan?"
Logan practically leapt into his jeans as he avoided direct eye contact.
"Nothin'. I got places to go."
Remembering the way he used to flee in the days after their first kiss, Scott sensed he had crossed some kind of line. Walking over to the half-dressed, gasping man, he tried to squeeze his shoulder.
"I want to talk about this. Obviously..."
Logan grabbed his wrist and squeezed. Hard. Scott had seen that fire blazing in Logan's eyes before, in battles, in dark moments. Never like this. Never directed at him.
"Don't touch me 'less I ASK you to. I'm not your fucking whore."
As Logan stormed out of the room, Scott wanted to scream at him. Tackle him. Do anything to make him explain. Instead, he sank back into his bed, burying his face into the pillow.
"I guess I'm the whore," he half-muttered, half-sputtered into the pillow before entering a long, mostly sleepless night.
--
The most private of people occasionally have the most public reactions. Stuck in a school for gifted freaks (AKA mutants), involved with a boy she could never physically love, Rogue had a lot of time to kill. She was a people watcher. Lately, she had watched two men in particular.
Behind his frat boy physique and impenetrable visor, Cyclops was generally an open book. He put up a good front, but Rogue could usually tell when he was mourning, when he'd forgotten for a few moments and the memories suddenly hit him, and lately, when he got through entire days and weeks being his old reliable, stoic self, not crippled by grief. Then there were the moments when he would actually smile, when he would watch someone's back (or perhaps a bit lower) as they left the room, when he would try his best to be polite and nothing more, mostly succeed, but not quite manage to erase that slight hint of longing.
That "someone" was Wolverine, which didn't shock Rogue as much as she once would have thought. Wolverine was always very hard to read, but his love for Jean had been overpowering, the kind of thing Rogue pictured in all those cheesy, heaving-bosom-and-breech-dropping-filled romance novels she used to read. Jean was dead now, but that kind of devotion never fully fades away. It consumes you or is transferred to alternate avenues. That avenue seemed to be Cyclops, judging by the half-second glances Wolverine would throw his way during down time, their overformality during classes and tours, and most of all, their behavior during training sessions. Whether they were in exercises together or merely standing on the sidelines watching the other, there was a sense of possession, almost pride. Rogue had always enjoyed the view of the two men half-naked and in motion, but the looks between the two of them were much more than antagonism or lust. It was an aching familiarity which sent a shiver through Rogue's entire being.
Something had changed in the last few days. Once pleasant conversations had detiororated into grunts and long lapses of silence. They did not make eye contact, which was for the best, since those eyes were red and swollen, probably more from fatigue than crying. The tesosterone swelled to record levels when they got too close, like they were about to break into a fistfight or tear off each other's clothes. It wasn't good for them, and especially not for the team. Rogue knew Professor Xavier was concerned, and had spoken to them, to no avail.
When she discussed the matter with her boyfriend, Bobby Drake, busy with his video game console, his reaction was not quite what she expected. Halfway through her comments, a huge GAME OVER had flashed on the television, and a pained grimace replaced his usual genial smile.
"They ARE NOT gay. I mean, come on, Dr. Grey hasn't even been dead for a year, and they're going to turn homo!"
"I'm not saying they're gay. I'm saying that I think they..."
Rogue didn't get to finish her sentence before Bobby threw his control pad at the TV. She had barely had time to react to his outburst before he ran out of the room.
"Geez...maybe men have a time of the month after all."
Rogue chuckled at her joke, more from needing the release than from any great humor, as she reentered the kitchen. She found none other than Cyclops, stabbing at a half-melted ice cream sundae.
"I'll take that...poor thing's suffered enough."
Not laughing, Cyclops pushed the bowl in her direction. By the time she got her spoon from the dishwasher, he was almost out the door. She had to stop him, and fast.
"This is about Wolverine. You've hurt him."
Cyclops spun around on his heel, military style. Indignation, guilt, and too many other emotions to count riddled his handsome face.
"I hurt HIM? Did Logan tell you this himself?"
"No," Rogue said, noting he used Wolverine's real name, which he never had in the past. "Didn't have to. I can tell when he's struggling. People think he's so tough, so strong, nothing can get through his shell. That's crap. If you're using Wolverine cause you think you need him..."
"I don't need him. I want him. I'm not a charity case."
The sting in his voice made Rogue wonder just how strong his feelings for Wolverine were after all.
"Way you were moping around this place, could've fooled me, sugar. He lost Dr. Grey too. He's lost a lot. More than we can ever realize. Keep that in mind, OK?"
Cyclops was preparing to leave until Rogue cringed at her flippancy and asked him to stop.
"Don't give up on him. Just talk to him. Please. If you care about him as much as I think, then you won't let him shut you out."
Their eyes met for a moment, the resentment giving way to understanding and perhaps, gratitude.
"Thank you," he said as he left Rogue to deep thoughts, anxiety over what to say to Bobby, and ice cream headaches.
--
He knew where to find Logan. Working on his bike. He'd bought a used Harley right after Jean's death, taking off for days, sometimes weeks. Almost every dusk and dawn were spent tinkering with the engine, testing the speed, improving and updating. Scott never knew he could feel jealous of a machine, but watching the rapport between man and motorcycle, the humming between Logan's legs as he would roar down the driveway and to parts unknown, Scott felt a strange urge to either take a crowbar to the thing or put his arms around Logan and ride the highways forever.
"Go away."
Scott ignored the pain in those eyes, and the wall of anger he sensed building inside himself. Just one little touch, one small attempt to contact a different side of Logan, and the tender lover he'd just started to know had become the brooding rageaholic he had long hated and feared. Scott was so very tempted to go away, to slide back into the dull narcosis of not feeling, not thinking, not living. Logan had freed him from that prison, and deserved a better fate than being sentenced to that very same jail.
"That's what I've been doing for days now. Letting you win. Letting my damn pride get the best of me."
Various tools hit the lawn with a metallic thump. Logan, immersed in his work, hoped his distraction would leave.
Scott wasn't going to give up that easily.
"We've been rivals and pity fucks..."
Logan paused long enough to grimace at that sentence, but Scott didn't stop.
"...but now I'm starting to feel more and you're pushing me away. What did I do? Is it when I..."
VROOM VROOM
Even when Logan began vrooming the motor over Scott's voice, Scott did not give up. He simply changed tactics.
"What are you..."
VROOM VROOM
Scott had jumped onto the bike, roaring the engine, cutting Logan off every time he protested. Every attempt at threats was met with a smug, goofy grin, the type Logan had wanted to kiss or punch off Scott's face the first day they met. Growling, Logan extended his adamantium claws, but even they did not sway the younger, cocky man.
"Get off!"
"I'm not some prep god, no matter what you think. I know how to ride this, and I will happily drive it into a lake if you don't get on the back and talk with me someplace."
Logan sighed. Why did he get the feeling that he was going to lose this battle.
Straddling the bike, he settled in behind Scott. He tried to ignore how perfectly the boy's trim waist molded around his hands.
"If your fuckin' brains are splattered on the roadside, it ain't gonna be my fault. Put on this helmet."
Scott sarcastically thanked him. The two men drove off into the night, a trail of smoke and unanswered questions left in their wake.
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