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It doesn't take Aunt May long to notice the smell.

Wolverine shows up at Peter's house on a Wednesday afternoon, looking for a place to lie low while he heals from eleventy-thousand gunshot wounds, and promptly passes out.

By Thursday morning, there is a faint. . .odor. . . in the air.

When Peter gets home from school Thursday afternoon, it's more than faint, and he does a quick check just to make sure Logan isn't, you know, dead and decaying over there in the corner.

By the time he comes back downstairs after dinner, it's absolutely noticeable, though once he sits down at the computer he stops smelling it after a few minutes. He wonders what the odds are that Aunt May will remain ignorant of it for however long it takes Wolverine to knit himself back together and haul his foul carcass back to Westchester.

The odds are absolutely zero, because not five minutes later Aunt May is standing on the stairs waving her hand in front of her face and telling him that he'd better find whatever it is he's left moldering on the workbench, because the smell is starting to seep up into the house.

Oh, that's not moldering food, Aunt May. That's just the fugitive mutant X-Man sleeping off an assassination attempt behind the water heater. Don't worry, he'll be gone soon.

And that's how he ends up standing over Wolverine with a bottle of Febreze in his hand.

Up close the smell is stronger. A mix of wet dog and rotting meat. The kind of smell that coats the inside of your mouth and you can kinda taste it while you're smelling it.

He gives Logan a good misting, starting at his boots and working his way up, covering the blanket with a fine layer of droplets.

Man, Logan would *hate* this if he were conscious, Peter thinks, but he deserves a little payback for that day at the mall when he told Peter's friends he was his cousin.

Peter squeezes the trigger on the bottle again. Sucks to be you, Wolverine.

But when he reaches Logan's head, he hesitates, and even starts to feel a little guilty. The guy's obviously been hurt bad, and he's having a rough time of it as it is without someone spritzing him in the face with some perfumy odor eliminator crap while he's unconscious.

Of course, if Aunt May finds out about this, it's gonna suck to be Peter Parker, too.

Screw it.

Peter aims right for Logan's face and pumps the trigger again.

The second the stuff hits his skin, Logan snorts and rolls away, and the blanket slides down a little and Peter sees part of the problem. Logan's clothes are covered in blood and gore, and it even looks like he might be getting a little moldy in a few spots. Which reminds Peter to get the dehumidifier out, because he should have done that a few weeks ago already.

Also, there's a spot on Logan's cheek that looks remarkably like ground hamburger. Peter has a feeling he'll be skipping Aunt May's meatloaf for months to come.

He grabs the blanket--the one he's certainly going to throw away when this is over--and pulls it back, and the smell is *bad*. Eye-wateringly bad. The dude is *rank*.

And now he doesn't just smell like rotting meat and wet dog--he smells like rotting meat and wet dog and "Meadow Rain." There's no covering up a smell this vile.

Crap.

Okay. He'll just have to wash Logan's clothes. And the blanket. And probably bleach the floor underneath him after he leaves.

He kneels next to Logan and, once he finds a place he's willing to actually touch with his bare finger, pokes him.

"Logan. Logan. Wake up."

Logan mumbles something and inches away.

Peter pokes him again and this time Logan *snarls* and one arm flails back and narrowly misses Peter's nose. Belatedly, Peter remembers about the claws and realizes this is a little more complicated than he first thought.

The guy obviously doesn't want to be bothered while he's growing his skin back, and Peter obviously doesn't want to be sliced in half.

But *the smell*.

It's gotta be done.

"Hey, Logan, it's me. Peter. You need to, um. . ." What? Take off your clothes? That sounds forty kinds of wrong. "You need to. . .get cleaned up a little, okay?"

Logan's only response is a guttural snore.

Okay then. He'll just have to take Logan's clothes off himself. It's not a huge deal.

Except that it involves a teenager undressing a grown man.

There must be entire websites devoted to this kind of thing. He's sure of it.

Best to just get it over with. He'd take a deep breath before he starts, but that's *really* not a good idea right now.

Spider-strength makes taking Logan's clothes off a breeze, though it's as disgusting a task as Peter's ever faced. He's so busy concentrating on not getting Logan's guts all over his hands that he nearly has a heart attack when he pulls his jeans off because something is *not* right and oh, man, they got him *there*, too.

And then Peter has flashbacks to the gym shower and realizes there's nothing wrong with Logan's goods. He's just not circumcised.

Okay. Good.

Or not. Because now Peter is *curious* and he doesn't need another excuse to check out Logan's package. He's desperately trying to not do that very thing, but it's really, really difficult.

He rolls Logan onto a clean blanket and deposits all the other stuff in the washer with what must be way too much soap. His boots and belt and leather jacket can't go in the machine, so he uses the rest of the Febreze on them and hopes for the best.

And then. . .

Well.

Here he is. In the basement. With Wolverine.

Which shouldn't really make him as nervous as it does, except. . .

There was that dream he had.

It really wasn't any big deal. All teenage boys dream about sex.

Though probably a much smaller percentage dream about sex with other guys.

But just because he *dreamed* it doesn't mean he wants to *do* it. And people have dreams about weird stuff all the time. He just happened to have a sex dream about Wolverine.

Three of them, actually.

Three bewilderingly erotic, extremely creative, dick-hardening fuck dreams. Each followed by a short, frantic, and totally mind-blowing masturbatory experience. And this is *exactly* what he's been trying to not think about since Logan showed up here, because this is the guy who could tell he wasn't twenty-six years old just by *sniffing* him, and Peter is convinced that if he thinks even one tiny thought about those dreams, Logan will know.

So Peter's spent the last twenty-four hours not thinking about Logan and not looking at him over here in the corner and praying to God that he won't dream about him while he's here in the damn house.

But now Logan, star of the Not-Quite-Nightly Peter Parker Gay Porn-O-Rama, is *naked*.

The guy he idolized for weeks after he ran into him in Times Square. The guy who nearly made him faint just by putting his arm around him in the middle of a mall food court. The guy he thinks about while jerking off.

And not just after the dreams.

He's right here. Naked.

And he still kinda smells, actually.

Crap.

What he needs is a shower.

Hmmm.

Even while he's thinking that he shouldn't do it, he knows he wants to. Which is probably *exactly* why he shouldn't.

But the smell. . .

A few minutes later, he's got a couple buckets of water, a bar of soap, and a heap of washrags sitting next to him on the blanket.

Hey, what's a sponge bath between buddies, right?

He spends another minute looking at him, trying to figure out where to start. Logan's skin is looking way better, but they really did a number on him. He looks like a partially carved Thanksgiving turkey. Some missing skin here, some muscle showing there. Some cartilage here, a tendon there, and even a few veins clearly throbbing in time with his heart.

Blech.

Peter grabs the soap and gets to work.

He has to change the water in the buckets twice. Logan snorts and snuffles and occasionally mumbles during the process, but doesn't ever actually wake up, and Peter is grateful for that, because he'd probably die of embarrassment.

Pretty soon he's almost out of soap and the only part he hasn't washed is *that* part.

Which probably doesn't need to be washed, really.

Except. He kinda wants to.

He looks at it. It looks a little. . .bigger. He looks again. Yep. It's bigger.

Which is probably a totally natural, completely involuntary reaction a guy would have to getting touched all over his body. It doesn't *mean* anything.

The answering swell in Peter's groin, though--that might mean something.

He's still clutching the sliver of soap, and it's gotten so soft that it's starting to mold into the shape of his fist. He drops it in the water and reaches out with a slightly shaking hand and. . .

Logan's cock *jumps* when he touches it. Practically springs right into his hand, and there's no doubt about it now--it's getting bigger. It's swelling in his grip, foreskin rolling back, head peeking out, and now Peter can see the slit at the top. The skin feels soft, and looser than what he's used to feeling on his own body, and Logan definitely has a lot more hair down there than he does.

Peter makes a loose fist and slides it up and down, and the foreskin moves with his hand, gliding easily. Peter slides his hand down, gently pulling the folds of skin down and back until he can see the whole head, dark red and glistening with moisture at the tip.

There's a whole lot of frantic masturbation coming up, as soon as he's done here. Absolutely.

But first, he's got a dick to clean.

He soaps him up, maybe a little more than necessary, and maybe for a little longer than necessary, and then he decides that he should make sure *all* of Logan is clean, so he goes back and spends a few minutes soaping up Logan's balls. After he rinses him off as best he can, he sits back and admires his work and decides that is one clean set of genitalia. Like, Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval clean.

Then he's done and he really doesn't have any reason to touch him some more, but he does it anyway. He can't help it. He likes the way Logan feels, hot and heavy in his hand. Logan's impressively hard now, and Peter, still stroking him, does a quick mental comparison.

Wow. He's longer than Logan. *He's* longer than *Logan*.

Logan definitely has him beat in the girth department, but that doesn't really bother him. A guy can't have everything.

And his pants are uncomfortable enough as it is.

Peter's so hard now he's not sure if he'll be able to make it up the stairs, even though he desperately needs to go take care of business. He's reluctant to stop what he's doing, though, and then the sound of the washer reminds him that he still needs to dry Logan's clothes, and then put them back on.

Time to kill. What to do, what to do. . .

The hell with it. He's dying to know what it's like to put it in his mouth.

He straddles Logan's legs and braces his hands on either side of Logan's hips, then takes a moment to check his face and make sure he's not awake. Everything's still kosher, so before he can talk himself out of it, he lowers his head and licks Logan's cock from base to tip. A long, slow, wet lick.

Logan's hips jerk and he lets out an explosive breath and Peter freezes, tongue still flat against the underside of the head, but Logan goes quiet again. Peter opens his mouth a little wider so he can take the whole head in his mouth, and there's a split-second salty bite of pre-come hitting his tongue. He can taste the soap, faintly, but even though he just washed him (with extreme thoroughness), he can also taste what must be Logan, and he likes it.

He stays like that for a moment, breathing through his nose, just feeling him with his mouth. Feeling the difference between the spongy head and the more rigid shaft. He can even feel Logan's pulse, beating softly against his tongue.

He sucks gently, which prompts a little moan from Logan, but Peter doesn't bother to pause, because Logan didn't wake up through all the wrangling and washing and twisting and rolling, so he's not going to wake up because of this.

And Peter doesn't want to stop, because this is *perfect*. He's getting a chance to indulge an extremely naughty, extremely forbidden fantasy and no one will ever know. Not even Logan.

That's the thought that stops him dead.

That whole "with great power comes great responsibility" thing? Yeah. Right here, right now.

He has power over Logan, because Logan is completely helpless, and Peter is supposed to be taking care of him. Right now, he's not doing so hot a job of that. Right now, he's doing things to him that are definitely *wrong*.

Things that, if Logan were to do them to *him* while he was unconscious, would land him in jail.

Peter lifts his head away, letting Logan's slick and gorgeous cock fall from his lips, gently easing it back down onto his stomach with his hand.

"Shit, don't stop now."

Logan's raspy voice startles him, and Peter jumps and lets out a really embarrassing squeak. He can't even move, or look up. All he can do is cower on Logan's legs and let several different unpleasant emotions wash over him.

First comes humiliation, because he's been caught doing something extremely wrong, and then comes shame, because he was totally taking advantage of someone else's weakness, and a split second after that comes fear, because he was doing all those things to *Logan*, who will now surely kill him. Painfully.

Why the hell doesn't his friggin' spider sense warn him that *the guy he's illicitly fondling has woken up*?

And why isn't he scattered on the ground in four neat little pieces by now?

What a minute. He said. . .Logan said. . .

Don't stop.

Logan told him not to stop.

Peter doesn't wait around to see if Logan's gonna change his mind. He goes back to doing what he was doing with renewed enthusiasm, because now it's okay. He wraps his hand around the shaft and moves it up and down while he sucks on him. Nothing tentative or exploratory going on here now. This is a real, honest-to-crap blowjob, and for a while all Peter's aware of is all the different things he can do to Logan. Different places to lick him, different ways to move his head and his tongue, what a little gentle biting does.

Logan keeps touching his face, running his fingers through his hair, holding onto the back of his neck. Not really guiding him, not too much. Then he moves Peter's hand away, the one that's wrapped around the base of his cock, and gently but firmly presses on the back of Peter's head, and even to a kid who's giving his very first blowjob, the message is clear: take more.

So he does. He makes takes him deeper and moves slower, and pauses to roll his tongue around the head on every upstroke.

Logan really, *really* likes that.

The hand on Peter's face starts to shake a little and Peter would grin if he could, because all he can think is that *he's* the one making that happen, the one making Logan's hands shake.

Not bad for a guy who's never sucked anyone off before.

"You gonna swallow?"

Logan's voice is barely a croak, and it takes Peter a second to figure out what he said, and then another second to figure out what he meant. He isn't sure if he is or not, but he wants to try, so he nods.

"Good."

Logan lifts his hips up and pushes Peter's head down, and the head of his cock slips over the back of Peter's tongue. Peter's throat starts to rebel but right then Logan throbs in his mouth and Peter realizes Logan is coming. He feels hot fluid filling his throat and it's like he's drowning and he gags, but when he tries to pull away, Logan won't let him.

He's pinned between Logan's hips and Logan's hands, and for a second he feels real fear because he can't *breathe* but Logan murmurs, "Swallow swallow swallow." It more encouragement than an order, so Peter swallows, tongue pressing up against the hard flesh that's still pumping liquid into his throat, and it helps. He can breathe and he's not choking so he swallows again.

Logan must like that *a lot*, because he makes a weird noise that sounds too high-pitched to come from a guy like Wolverine, and his fingers tighten in Peter's hair until it hurts.

And then it's suddenly over.

Logan is panting, breath rattling in his throat, and Peter can tell by the sound that there must still be some damage there, but Logan doesn't seem to be suffering from it at the moment.

Logan's fingers relax a little and he lifts Peter's head away from his softening cock, hissing a little as it slips from his mouth. Peter's chin is wet, so he wipes it with his hand. He swallows again, trying not to grimace at the bitter aftertaste, and looks up at Logan.

Logan's eyes flutter closed. "Not bad for a rookie."

"Thanks."

"Water?"

"Hang on." Peter's feeling a little in need of some himself at the moment, actually, and is more than happy to get them something to drink.

And walking is every bit as difficult as he predicted it would be.

When he comes back with the glass, Logan's already pulled the blanket around him and turned on his side. He takes the water and drinks without opening his eyes, and appears to lapse back into unconsciousness as soon as Peter takes the glass back.

On Saturday morning, Logan wakes up for good. By then he's back in his clothes, MJ has become their partner in crime, and Peter has jerked off approximately two dozen times. There's been no repeat of what happened between them, and Logan doesn't act like he remembers, but that could be because MJ's in the room when he comes to.

Mary Jane says that Logan smells like a wet dog and Peter almost says, "You shoulda smelled him before I cleaned him up," but he stops himself just in time.

He finds it rather awkward to be around a Logan who is back on his feet and fully conscious, and that sniffing fear comes back full force. Suddenly, he can't wait for Logan to leave.

As he trudges toward the door, Logan looks at him and says, "I owe ya. And I don't say that lightly." He pauses and Peter *almost* thinks there's a shadow of a smile on his face before he says, "I owe you one."

Then he lifts his arm to his face, sniffs and says, "What in the *hell* did you do to my jacket?"

The End