When he looked back on it, Peter could see that things were going south long before the first incident. Little glances at school, Jameson growing more on edge (than usual), the way his history teacher had barked at the people in desks adjacent to his, stares that lasted too long on the street. Once he had even been groped walking Mary Jane home from school, but his hellcat of a girlfriend stole the show. She had sent the spooked hoodlum scampering around the block with only a slap and a choice selection of filthy curses. Peter just laughed because he really did live in New York if he was the one in danger. MJ laughed it off later as well and kissed him on the nose, concluding that he was simply irresistible and she would have to protect his virtue for the rest of her days.
The first sign of real trouble came soon after. Johnny Storm made good on his promise to take Peter to a ball game.
“Ooooh, that seventh inning? Holy freaking crap!” Johnny clutched at his hair and whooped, leaping all over the sidewalk like a baboon. He nearly lost his very clever disguise in the gutter (Oakley’s and a designer ball cap, the affluent man’s first choice in anti-paparazzi apparel.) “It’s still blowing my mind, man!!”
“And your cover,” Peter noted dryly. There was a gaggle of girls across the street dressed for a night on the town, whispering and pointing. “I think they’re onto you.”
“Whoa whoa!” He spun to get a good look at their spectators. A grin of pure pearl streaked his face as he tilted his sunglasses up, debonair to the bone. “Hey there ladies.”
The air was stuffed with titters and shrieks upon the reveal. One girl even started clapping so hard it echoed. “JOHNNY I LOVE YOU!”
Peter snatched the back of his jacket before all was lost. “Nope.” He dragged them off to a more private route. There was an alley nearby he knew he could change in for the long swing home.
“No, come on Pete!” Johnny made a big show of stumbling along, stretching out an arm in desperation as if the girls could reach over the pavement and pull him to safety. “HELP! HE’S KIDNAPPING ME! I’M IN DISTRESS!”
Playful boos and offers of equal love for them both followed on their way out, but Peter was not to be deterred. There was a massive WWII paper due soon and he had only battled out a total of five sentences, and Johnny had a curfew that night. When Peter dropped by to pick him up Sue had snatched her brother by the arm and ordered him not to party, patrol or procrastinate in any way on their trip home. She got a mighty stink eye for her trouble.
Johnny whisked off the hat and the glasses once they were safe in the alley, stripping down to his inflammable suit as Peter played his mirror with his own (very flammable) costume. “What if one of them was my future wife? You’ve ruined my one chance at happiness. The Bugle was right about you.”
“Jerk.” The retaliation was fumbling, but only because it was dark and Peter’s boots were particularly trying to slip in the current weather. It was a hot spring and everything was sweat and sun and AC dials cranked to ‘Arctic’. “Like you could handle a wife.”
“Dude, just because I don’t have a training ball and chain on already doesn’t mean it can’t happen. How is MJ, by the way?”
Peter snorted and shook his head. “Fine. Which you won’t be if she ever finds out you said that.”
“Then get me a girlfriend so I can stop being jealous of yours.”
“You say that like I have a stash in my locker.”
Their clothes switched, no longer bunched in with the bland old public but bonafide super heroes, the two shared a last grin together and agreed to do it all again sometime. “It’s just nice, you know?” Peter confided, shaking his mask right side out.
“Doing something where we don’t have to beat down some nutjob or put out fires. Almost like we’re normal.”
“But more awesome than normal.” A pause sunk between them. Johnny Storm deigned to hug Peter proper. “You’re a cool guy Pete. Thanks for this.”
“Pretty sure I should thank you, you bought the tickets.” Peter tried to pull out but only managed to get a couple inches between them. Johnny’s hands were soldered to his shoulders.
“Well, whatever man, whatever. No big.” Peter waited to be released. He was not. Johnny had become perfectly still, staring at him.
There was something strange about his eyes. What exactly was imperceptible; a sudden but very slight squint, or a sleepy sag, something that dulled the glint in them. The dim navy light took on odd shadows across his face until Peter realized that it was his cheeks blooming red, the flush climbing to the nose and ears. Then Johnny was much closer. There was a pause, a count of two, hot breath dusting Peter’s lips before they connected completely. Johnny kissed him. Johnny was kissing him, it wasn’t stopping, he kept pressing in and pulling Peter’s lips apart with the force of his own while his hands cradled his head and waist. They were sealed together from the hips up. Johnny’s tongue slid into his mouth, curling softly. He tasted so much different from MJ.
Her name ripped through Peter like a bullet, sending him stumbling back as if there had been a real sniper against the skyline. Seismic wheezes for air wracked his body and he crumpled against the alley wall. Johnny blinked dumbly, mouth still open. Heat flooded Peter from top to bottom and pushed up gooseflesh, his pulse to banging against the cool metal of the webshooters.
Dully, Peter realized he had been kissing Johnny Storm for close to a minute and had done absolutely nothing to stop it. Johnny seemed to clue in to this that same moment. He turned from red to ash grey in a heartbeat.
“Wha–“ It was a dry, rasping note and it seemed that was all Johnny could manage. The alley burst full of flame and then Johnny was nothing but a streak of light in the sky. Going, going, gone. Peter shouted after him, but stopped when windows above him began to light up. With a sharp gasp he leaped for his mask and the bag with his clothes and sprung out of the alley, firing web after web and not stopping to slip on the mask until he was on the edge of Queens itself.
He debated for a while. MJ was the thought that stopped him. Only when he thought of her did he stop kissing what was likely by now his former friend, and for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why. He did not like Johnny Storm. He did not. Not in that way, never did, never will. He liked girls and that was that. But did Johnny like him? Why did he kiss him in the first place, and good god he could not spit out the taste of him enough. Why didn’t he have any tic tacs?
“Crap crap crap crap crap...” He paced torrentially. Pressed his palms hard against his head and searched the rooftop beneath him for an answer, then the stars above. Shook all over, stomped, muttered aloud to the point of neurosis and finally decided that no one would ever hear of it. Period. Especially not MJ. He wasn’t gay, it wasn’t him. But maybe Johnny was, or he was bi and maybe that was all okay, but Peter wasn’t and it didn’t matter that he let the kiss happen because he had just been stunned. Maybe they could talk about it when they had both cooled down and were thinking rationally again. No crazy hormones or misread signals involved.
That was that. Peter nodded and swung home with every confidence on his side, but suffered his worst sleep in ages that night. Worry kept him up for hours. His skin writhed under gales of hot and cold alike, and at one point he nearly tore his sheets trying to stop himself from burning to death.
He emailed Johnny. Too afraid to try by phone and still tiptoeing around the idea of prodding any of the other Fantastic Four, Peter left it at that and tried not to be badly discouraged when he had no answer the next day. The more he thought about it all the more awful he felt. Every minor exchange at the ball game had blown up into major signals that could be folded, mashed, and rehashed into something entirely different, so now Peter was half convinced that maybe this was his own fault. He could have been leading Johnny on from the start and never known. If he didn’t hear back before the weekend, he would track him down. For sure.
The only bright side was MJ’s being utterly oblivious. For now at least, because Peter figured that once the mess with Johnny had been worked out he could come clean and explain everything about how Johnny was confused, how he had been messing with his head unwittingly and it was all a just a classic Oscar Wilde fiasco. They would laugh and get pizza after, and everything would be okay.
“Will you move, Flash?” Peter scowled as he detoured around Midtown’s King of Tools, who was standing statue still in the middle of the hallway and looking mighty stunned to see Peter coming. “I’m not in the mood for a slam dunk in the toilet today.”
Flash only turned to watch him leave with a mouth agape, but Peter paid him no attention. He was on a mission to get home early today and nothing was stopping him. He would eat, finish his homework and study like MIT was knocking at his door, and then he would be free to swing around for the rest of the evening and do what he did best. Right wrongs and triumph over evil, that sort of thing.
The first part of the plan was going swimmingly. Aunt May was staying late to work tonight, and then she had a date (a date which Peter had yet to meet, to his great ire and suspicion). In all likelihood he would be home from crime fighting before she even pulled into the driveway. Peter devoured a bowl of instant mac and cheese and whizzed through calculus, French, and even a little bit of literature before he had a hankering for seconds. That was when he heard the rustling in the basement.
Peter froze. He narrowed his eyes and fished out a broom from the hall closet. His spider sense wasn’t buzzing, but that didn’t mean he liked having mystery guests in the house. Unless it was MJ. In fact there was a strong possibility that it was her after all, so Peter lowered his makeshift weapon as he sneaked out of the hall. Yet the inelegant thud of feet on stairs told him that this was not his girlfriend sneaking in for a quick make out before supper. Peter scowled and raised the broom again, poised just around the corner. That heavy foot hit the landing and he swooped out with a hefty swing to the gut.
“OOF – Shit, kid, are you going to hit me with a broom every time you see me?” Logan, the world’s hairiest mutant that wasn’t already half animal, kicked at the severed broom bits at his feet and popped his claws back in. Peter burned red around the ears, dutifully stooping to pick up the pieces. “Knew this was a mistake.”
“How was I supposed to know it was you?!” Peter seethed from below. “Why are you always breaking into my house?”
“Twice isn’t always, smartass.”
“It’s two more times than I’ve ever wanted, mister! And now you owe me another broom. Why are you even here?”
Logan peered around the place with an indiscernible squint as Peter deposited the broom in the garbage, penciling a trip to Home Depot on his to do list. Hopefully it would be on Logan’s dime, not his. “So your Aunt knows about you and your little tights now?”
“Suit, and yes.”
Logan snorted. “Suit. All right. She up for giving a room to a boarder?”
Peter’s jaw dropped in absolute mortification. “What?! Why?”
“’Cause I’m tracking someone and they’re parking their ass in New York. And now that my damn face got plastered on magazines suddenly the motels here ain’t so willing to let me take a room.” He finally looked Peter in the eye. “I’ll get you a new broom.”
“I’m willing to pay for it.”
“A million thousand times no, end of discussion!” Peter threw his arms in the air and signaled so wildly he might have fit in on a landing strip. “You are not staying here! Something bad always happens when you’re here, and I’m always the one who has to clean it up! I’m lucky my neighbors haven’t taken to torches and pitchforks by now. Besides, what am I going to say to people when they see the world famous Wolverine smoking cigars on my front porch?” He paused to glower. “And don’t say we’ll be cousins. I swear, if you pretend you’re my cousin again…”
All jokes were gone. Logan’s smirk evened out into a rigid line. “Kid. It’s important.”
He knew it would be. Peter grimaced, crossed his arms and privately admitted that in all honesty Logan would only be darkening his doorway if it was his last resort. They were not big time pals. He might not be half-hamburger this time, but a lack of exposed guts and bones didn’t mean there wasn’t an emergency. “Did Xavier put you up to this?”
“None of your business.” That was a yes.
“And you can’t stay at Kitty’s because…”
Logan’s expression dipped into something more akin to regret, but only for the barest moment. “She can’t get involved. You know she’d tag along.”
“And I won’t?”
“If you know what’s good for you. Your Aunt’s not here?” And they were back to normal. Logan had turned around to fling his jacket on the couch and slip off his boots. Peter’s hands locked into fists as he sunk into a deep, meditative breath.
“No. She’s out.”
“Then I’ll wait and talk to her.” Without so much as a nod or warning Logan quit the conversation, making a beeline for the kitchen. Peter squawked and ducked after him to squabble over the matter of food.
It was decided that Peter would at least have the decency to feed his guest, no matter how unwanted that guest may be. Peter took his revenge by playing dumb and reaching straight for the Kraft Macaroni and Cheese again, as if he didn’t know how to warm up leftovers or even chop up some stir fry. He got the milk and butter ready and poured the noodles into the pot, standing guard over the stove while Logan leaned against the counter and pretended to be too cool for conversation. It was all very tense.
“So if I guess it right, will you tell me what you’re in town for?”
Peter snapped his fingers. “Sideburn waxing.”
“Don’t give me none of this—“
“That Beyonce concert tomorrow?”
“No! Magneto’s going to the Beyonce concert and you’ve got to tail him.”
“Where do you come up with this bullshit?”
Peter shrugged. “But it is Magneto right?”
“You think they’d be stupid enough to send in one guy with metal on his bones to go after Magneto?”
The man had a point. Peter waggled his head back and forth in consideration. “Well, with the number of harebrained schemes I’ve seen executed in my time, it’s not entirely implausible.”
A snort of agreement told him he was not yet too high on Logan’s To-Slice-and-Dice list for tonight. “We ain’t the Ultimates, kid.”
The conversation could have gone on forever (he was half hoping he could irritate Wolverine out the door) and would have had Peter not suddenly lost his train of thought. He paused, staring down at the noodles as if they had had transfigured into tadpoles. And though the air conditioning was earning its keep handsomely, Peter found himself dizzied by the sun, scorching him through the windows. A glass of water was all he needed, really. He nodded to himself as he drained out the water and clicked off the burner.
“You all right?” Logan said.
Peter continued staring at the pot. Logan had to reach over and shake him to get an answer. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good. I just think, um.” He snapped his fingers in manic repetition as he fished for the right words and pointed at the fridge. “Think I need some water.”
He was acutely aware of Logan in all senses when he shuffled past him to the fridge -- bodily distance, scent, sight, the worn cotton of his shirt as he clipped the sleeve passing by. The way he could feel Logan’s eyes on him, even with his back turned, and was suddenly self conscious about how his t-shirt was sloppily tucked in at the back.
Now that he had the door open and was gawking at the water pitcher, he found that he was not thirsty at all.
“You know, I ain’t that hungry,” Logan said.
Logan’s eyes were just flicking back up to eye level when Peter made to face him again. That pressed upon some level of suspicion, but Peter was struggling to think. The sun seemed all the more insistent on burning him to a crisp. “Yeah?” he replied thickly.
Logan cocked his head and smiled. “You going to stand in the fridge all night?” Peter abruptly shut the door.
“Nope. No.” He patted the now closed fridge for punctuation.
“Then why don’t you—“ And here Logan snagged him by the brim of his pants, igniting several dynamite explosions when Peter felt his bare fingers curl against the skin just above his boxers, and yanked him directly into his chest, “—come over here?”
Peter could have protested. Definitely should have, but they were tightly compressed, and a strange quivering heat shook off Logan into his skin. Logan’s eyes held little light, heavy hooded as he took in air as if it was theft and nothing natural at all. The very sound of it put shivers in Peter from top to bottom. The real robbery began when Logan wove his fingers into Peter’s hair and pulled it back, leaving his jaw to drop and his mouth free to claim.
And Logan did so. He swiped the breadth of Peter’s mouth, teeth to tongue, and bit his lip on the way out. Then he dipped in again, feeding off the keens of shock that rattled weakly inside Peter, the sound swallowed up before reaching anywhere useful. After the second break Logan gave him a hard shove. Peter fell back into the fridge as Logan pounced again. He pinned him with his hips, the buckle stamping a pattern on Peter’s stomach through the shirt, and with one hand on a strained wrist while the other held his head back by the hair. Peter could not remember getting hard any faster in his life.
They couldn’t seem to stand the notion of separation. Logan was devouring him, and Peter had his free hand twisted so tightly in the back of his shirt he that he heard a few stitches rip around the collar. When they did pause Peter was left gasping in the reprieve. The attack turned to his neck. His face prickled as the blood rushed forth and the scratch of Logan’s stubble on his chin and cheeks was remembered, vivid red, and that not even paralleling his lips in color. Peter squirmed and moaned at the wet kisses fed to his neck. Not once did escape cross his mind. He was clinging to his captor instead, the splayed fingers of his only free hand clawing up at Logan’s shoulder blade. His legs spread just an inch for ease, knees curved around the older man’s to let him in closer, press as close as their clothes would allow and there was a bite at his collar as a reward. Peter yelped, laughed, breathless, and somehow victorious. He could feel the stiff bulge between Logan’s legs and it gave him a little jump in his belly: that was his. Logan was hard for him. He groped at Logan’s backside, pushing him in so that it strained against him through the jeans, and squeezed. Too muddled to discern how to get further.
Logan wasn’t half so naïve. A deep throated hum rumbled through him (it was faint, but Peter could feel the vibration of that too and it made his own trembling worse, highlighting the sweat that was beginning to bud down his chest and the back of his neck) and he clapped his hands on Peter’s hips before kissing him again. They were loud; it was sloppy but less in the literal sense of messiness than the lack of control. If there was any to be had it all belonged to Logan, he was the one who rolled their tongues together and had Peter’s neck craned back a full forty five degrees to do so. But it was rushed, loose cannons. No patience to be spared. A sentiment confirmed when Logan whipped the belt off and popped the button free on Peter’s jeans, yanking down his boxers and the pants in the back to grip his freshly bare ass. Peter seized up wholly in shock, then Logan’s kisses were gone and thick fingers were thrusting into his mouth, the hand at his rear seeming to knead in time with them. Peter didn’t so much as question it. He suckled at the fingers like he was teasing out the last bit of ice cream from a popsicle stick.
Nothing seemed lewd about it.
They peeled away from the fridge and Logan’s grip at the back began to delve further. Peter squirmed. It was all unfamiliar, private territory, and suddenly there was a pair of fingers circling what had been privy to no one. The hand at his mouth pulled away, the fingers extricated with a wet pop, and they invaded him from behind as well. The first finger probed the rim, dipped down, pushed in. Peter sucked in air with audible panic.
“Logan, I can’t –” The finger drove in further and Peter gave a salacious moan. It hurt but he craved it, higher, deeper, red hot waves pulsating over his body from the humiliation and the heat and just how much more Logan was than him. Burly, bulky man, hair from knuckle to toes and a smirk that could put Han Solo to shame.
“Shh, shh, I got you,” the man rumbled from somewhere beside his ear. He nuzzled Peter’s hair and took a nip at his earlobe, then latched his lips to his throat and sucked. Peter keened. The finger drove deeper and started to piston, in and out. It hurt so much more, but the motion started to soothe, the slow assiduating friction turning to a salve on its own, giving satisfaction impossible to describe.
The pair fumbled like this, Logan ravishing Peter’s neck and face while his hands made good use of his rear, towards the island counter in the center of the kitchen. Peter reached it first with a groping hand, desperate for a purchase. Logan came in second to swipe all its contents to the side as the second finger drove inwards. He kissed Peter ferociously twice then withdrew everything, turning him, taking the back of his head and pushing his forehead down to the cold marble. His ass stuck out in the air like an invitation, and the fingers returned at double speed.
The neighbors had to hear them. It was impossible not to. It would have taken a full marching band to drown out Peter’s hollering as he lay face down, Logan pushing up his shirt to lay primitive kisses down his spine. But he heard no protests, saw no shapes rise in the window curtains. His erection came loose of the hem of his pants as the whole affair finally fell to his ankles. Peter groaned thankfully and reached down to grasp it, discarding his pants entirely with a little shake of each foot. In the wake of the invasion behind him he had been too preoccupied to touch himself, and it had lost some steam over the rough start. Now it stood tall once more and wicked hot. There was no incline; he went straight to pumping it at speeds high enough to match his pulse. Anything slower would have driven him mad.
Logan had been using this time to make an exploration of Peter’s body. He found his hips, his sacrum, planted a kiss there and squeezed at the soft unguarded break of his waist, traced an old scar up to the ribs, rubbing his hand up and down there like his skin was velvet, and tucking under the already crumpled fabric of his shirt to probe the shoulders, smooth out the plane between them and kiss there too, lifting the shirt further to do so. He reveled in Peter’s skin, youthful except where it was broken by old burns and scrapes and even a bullet wound, were he to reach higher and hit the opposite shoulder. But somehow Logan still treated each mark as something sumptuous. Peter tried to shift his head back far enough to see his expression. Did Logan pity him? Did the scars excite him, as a man who could get none and might live forever because of it?
None of it seemed to matter a moment later. Logan pulled back, all fingers gone but his wandering hand now firmly planted on the small of Peter ‘s back. As if he could go anywhere. Peter pumped himself harder. Something unzipped. Peter’s leg twitched and he could swear his cock jumped in anticipation. He heard Logan spit behind him, felt the hand at his back rubbing him up and down, and sensed the shift of weight. Logan spat again and this time it hit him at his rim, sending Peter wriggling at the perversity of it all.
“Still, now,” came the soothing growl, the petting hand settling on his hip now with a firm command to stay put. Peter obeyed. Then, bigger than a finger and newly wet, Logan began to guide himself in.
“Oooh,” Peter moaned as he buried his face in the counter and gripped the ledge for dear life, even releasing his hard on to do so. He needed that extra bracing. He had only felt a bit of it through the very limiting stretch of blue jeans, but Logan’s cock was thick. Thicker than he was expecting, or perhaps that was because he had yet to lay eyes on it and had to estimate from how it felt as the head pressed inside of him. A small part of him was ringing an alarm. Peter jolted slightly, lifted from the counter a fraction and blinked up at the kitchen as the heat faltered, pain spiked, and he was struck very suddenly by how insane this all was.
Then Logan jutted forward just a hair forward and he was goo dripping off the counter again, gnattering and heavy breathing. “Slow slow slow, please, oh my god.”
“I gotcha, I gotcha.”
Logan hovered over him now, their bodies radiating the slim slice of air between his chest and Peter’s back, the cock sliding in just a bit more, little bit, further. Peter’s hair was sweat slicked and stuck to his brow and nape as he panted like a dog. Logan gave his sympathies with low whispers in his ear (“You’re good, kid, you’re so good, gonna be okay,”) and with a gentle massage to his side. His hands were massive. And at last Logan saw fit to call that enough, and he stopped to catch his own breath. He had been panting too.
Stuffed. Stuffed full, to the brim, to bursting, whatever phrasing suited your fancy, that was what Peter was. It was hot and stiff and he was afraid to move lest he break something. He clenched hard at the thought, quite against his will but his body was demanding that the thing get out. It only served to highlight the immense pressure of Logan’s cock inside him, and above him there was a heady moan. “Jesus, kid…”
And then the rest began. What came as a push and pull on the inside was a roll of the hips on the outside, the motion seamless and jagged all in one. Peter squeaked, it could not be helped, but after the first three or four his mouth stayed wide open with all sound on a halt. That same friction, that same rhythm that had started to feel more calm than alarming when the fingers were inside him was at it again, only this time more so; more of everything, bigger, slick and stiff, longer. And it was driving a little deeper each time. The outside was matching the inside now, all jamming and thrust. Greedy. Logan was getting greedy and Peter was melting underneath him.
There was a little patch that every time Logan hit it, it got a little more tingly. Pulsing. On the next thrust it increased, and on the next, then the one after that, a steady rise that chugged to life but once it was going, it was going. Strange at first but soon drifting toward divine. Peter was writhing like a serpent. He needed to touch himself again, Logan’s cock igniting every edge and nerve in his body but most of all in his rear and his groin. The sweat on his palm squealed against the marble as he slid it downward. But Logan beat him to it. With a hefty grunt and a shocking tug backwards, Peter was several inches further down the counter and his stomach half exposed to the air. Plenty of room for Logan to reach down and stroke his erection with hands much bigger, rougher than his own.
Lightning struck. Electricity shot out from his legs to his toes, shoulders to fingertips, spine to the top of his head. Everything in its wake turned to mush, blinking, heavenly mush. Peter was aware that he had screamed but he couldn’t remember prompting the sound; it just leaped out of him, chased out by the wash of pure lascivious bliss. He had come against the side of the kitchen counter, the big cupboard where Aunt May kept the soup pots and cutting boards. Big wheezing breaths were all he could manage, but there was a laugh in there somewhere. There was something very funny and very terrifying about all of this.
Logan did not let him go. He might have slowed down to let Peter ride it all out, but he was back to business soon enough and Peter had to rush to catch up. He pushed back against him even in his exhaustion, and moaned as Logan took ginger strokes to his spent cock. He was trying to coax it back into standing all over again. Peter swatted at the hand, thick-throated as he gave protest, “Wait, wait!” He needed a moment where he wasn’t in danger of burning straight to ashes. At the rate they were going and how delicious Logan felt from behind it might not take long at all.
Logan’s response was to change positions. He pulled out (Peter actually groaned in disappointment) and pulled Peter upright, flush against him. He tried to fit his cock inside again, giving a grunt of frustration before hefting one of Peter’s legs to sit on the counter and trying again. It was much easier this time, slipping back in with a simple swoosh and the thrusting resumed, shorter but faster from this angle. Peter immediately reached behind, batting Logan’s ear by accident before cupping his jaw like he wanted to. They stretched their necks to meet in a kiss, Peter leaning back as Logan reigned on top once again. It was too hard to keep up but they tried, wet smacks marking the breaks and finally settling on Logan kissing from his jaw to his shoulder, biting the cords of his neck when he thrusted deep. One hand was always on a hip to keep him well aligned, and the other roamed upwards to find his belly, his nipples, his ribs, collarbone. Smothering him and trapping him in close, even as Peter pushed back against Logan with the same eagerness that he was being thrusted into with.
He was hard again before long.
When Logan began to slow down everything got a bit rougher. Peter had stooped once more, hands stuck to the counter in support and Logan was slamming into him from the back. There was no tender touching now, both hands needed to keep a handle on Peter’s hips. Peter was howling again, and though Logan might seem to have a grip on himself Peter could hear his breath hitching every time he pushed in and heard the smack of their skin colliding. Three times, two times, once more, and then Logan was crouching over Peter and clutching onto him like he might fall to pieces if he let go, moaning into his ear and spilling inside him. It was shockingly hot, strange to feel it from the inside, but Peter knew what it was. It should have been disgusting. It should have been degrading, mortifying, but he found a wide toothy grin on his face instead. He was even stroking Logan’s arm where it wrapped around his middle.
The older man wasn’t so shaken as Peter was. Whether it was age or experience, Logan just being Logan or the strange powers he’d been born with, Logan smoothly drew back to his full height and pulled out, rubbing himself to ease the cock down. Peter took care of himself then, facing Logan with heavy eyes and a parted mouth. They held each other and kissed again, and when Peter came the second time it was on Logan’s stomach and the older man had to keep him from falling back down. Shaking, exhilarated, they simply held each other. Peter fit his head in the crook of Logan’s neck and let all sensation drain clean out.
But in its wake, he started to think again. By margins, but enough that he was washed with an ominous sense of dread.
Did he just have sex with Wolverine?
The concept bounced around his skull but never stuck to any cohesive thought. He felt horrified but lost the reason why the next second, turning to Logan for help. He only received the same dumbstruck stare back.
Peter tried to push off and stand on his own. He managed to keep his feet under him, but the first step alerted him to the fresh ache and tender skin inside. He nearly toppled with the shock and would have smacked his head on the kitchen tile if Logan didn’t catch him.
“Bed…” Peter groaned. He needed to lie down for a thousand years and it was the only thought he could grasp. Everything else was aches and fuzz and spinning rooms.
“Here I’ll help…up.” Logan’s speech was slurring. Neither noticed. Peter let the older man sling an arm around his shoulder and guide him up the stairs, both still half naked and utterly unaware of it.
When they hit the top flight they were kissing all over again, and by the time Logan threw Peter onto his bed and descended upon him with a roar they were both stiff as rocks. They rolled, rutted, laughed and hollered, Peter’s foot knocking against the wall as Logan pulled his legs wide for better angles.
Eerie silence all around. Pain in every inch of his body. His sheets felt damp, as if he had sweated out another night terror. The clock read eleven. He threaded his fingers through his hair and tried to suss out what had happened.
Memory crashed back into him with a near audible bang. Logan had been there. Logan had been kissing him. Logan had been inside him.
Peter crumpled on the bed, his grip on the edge of the mattress threatening to hole punch the fabric. He nearly got sick. From nerves, or shock, from the jolt of agony that came when he moved, he wasn’t sure. Thankfully he didn’t succumb, the sensation passed and he let himself sink from the mattress to the floor. He coiled there like a bug. A few times tears threatened to rise, but he batted them away.
Aunt May could not know about this. If that was her on the phone just now, she was either on her way back or staying even later. Peter couldn’t take any chances.
He extricated himself from the floor with great effort, hissing at the stab deep inside him. His hips had turned decrepit too, unbelievably sore and threatening to eject his legs at any second. In spite of all this, he dressed, he made it down the stairs and saw that Logan’s boots and jacket were gone, no note left behind.
“Hello…?” Taking survey of the entrance and the living room yielded no new clues. Not here. Peter supposed if it were him, he’d bail too. He shivered and pursed his lips.
He just needed to make sure everything would be okay. A spritz of Febreeze here and there, gather up his pants from the kitchen floor, wipe things off. Nothing of Logan’s remained there either. Briefly the cold pot of noodles held his consideration, but the clench in his middle promised a night spent over the toilet if he took a single bite. He stored everything into the fridge and stood very quietly in his kitchen. The neighborhood offered very little in the way of a soundtrack that night, as if it were just as spooked as he was.
Logan might have ghosted off, but he didn’t hallucinate it. The kissing and the hand job and the cold marble against his chest had all happened. But for the life of him, Peter couldn’t figure out why.