X-Men belongs to Marvel Comics and 20th Century Fox. The story is just a fantasy. I am not speculating on the sexuality of any of these actors. Don't read this if you aren't over 18. Don't distribute this without asking me first.
I haven't gotten any major feedback or comments, only a few at best, with the last few chapters. So if you want me to keep going, please let me know, and tell me what you want to see, what is and isn't working for you, etc.
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Logan hated inactivity. He lived to fight, to bleed. When he had to sit on his ass in an infirmary bed hour after hour, his only enemies were the demons swirling in his mind. The one set of foes he could never kill.
He could still picture the hotel room meltdown in his mind. It had only been a few days, although sometimes he thought years had passed. Scott huddled on the floor, writhing in agony, letting out the most intense, bloodcurdling screams Logan had heard since his days as a military guinea pig. They'd just had a ruckus of a fight over their "relationship" (Logan hated that word almost as much as he hated "people person" or "lite beer"), and lots of touchy-feely crap that made Logan's eyes glaze over. Logan didn't want to discuss who was top and who was bottom. He knew what got his rocks off, and Scott hadn't complained either. Yeah, Logan had freaked out at the finger in his ass, but that was unexpected. Scott forgot the key rule: never surprise a wild animal. Wasn't Logan's fault.
Scott just needed to overanalyze, turn everything into a daytime talk show. He couldn't admit that he and Logan were hot, horny, virile studs, working through the pain of a mutual love's death and the disdain of the world around them. They made each other feel good. Not good, fantastic. Nothing more complicated than that.
Or at least that's what Logan wanted to believe. He wasn't sure why he'd been so stunned, even hurt, at the accusation he was using Scott as a substitute for Jean. And when Scott had his optic overload, or whatever the fuck the technical term was, Logan felt pain surging through himself long before the shards from the mirror sank in. He was used to being the uncontrollable beast, the wild one. Scott was softer, his torment on the inside. Seeing Scott lash out that way had made Logan question so many parts of the "relationship", and if his feelings went beyond mere fuck buddy status.
He was damn lucky for his superhuman healing ability. The beams blasted in his direction had been two, possibly three times more painful than his past exposure to Scott's lasers. At one point, as he crashed into the mirror, he was convinced he had been cut in half. Yet, even as his feral howls quickly lapsed into total darkness, he was as worried, more worried about Scott's pain than his own. His last thoughts had been that he had broken Scott, damaged something inside his tender lover that could never be repaired. The best thing he could do for Scott would be to stay away. Let the kid find a simple, doting girl, or boy, to wash his feet, massage his temples, build the white picket fence Scott always seemed to be yearning for.
A few days into the plan to ignore Scott, and Logan was ready to tear the sheets into a noose. His only visitor was Rogue, and after she'd choked out an anguished apology for indirectly causing Scott's episode at the motel room, she was so hesitant about what to bring up that their conversations had begun to veer toward staring contests.
Halfway through Logan's third day, he awoke to a strong, austere scent. He knew who the guest was before he even opened his eyes.
"Professor."
Xavier met his puzzled, sleepy yawn with the imposing, all-knowing stare Logan had come to expect from him. But there was something else, barely hidden behind Xavier's impassive, smooth features. Logan knew, without having to ask. He turned away from the hard gaze, burying his beard in the flat pillow.
"Don't wanna hear about Cyclops."
Those grey eyes were boring into his head. Logan was immune to Xavier's telepathy, always had been, but not from the cloud of doom and gloom that cueball could swarm over him.
"Wolverine, I try my utmost to stay out of the personal lives of my team and my students. Surely, you realize the urgency behind this conversation."
Logan was practically smothering himself at this point. Egghead Xavier, always had to know everything, had to be so damn smart...
"He needs an anchor. He needs you."
Logan snorted, semi-derisively.
"So I'm the Jean knockoff now?"
Xavier clucked his tongue, nearly impossible to detect, but enough to show his disapproval.
"Jean was a calm sea. You are a raging hurricane. Two remarkably different psyches. If you tried to mimic her, Scott would recoil in disgust. I've sensed an unspoken...bond between the two of you for some time now, but only in the past few days, when I've probed his mind fully, have I realized how much you push his buttons, and how much he thrives on the challenge."
Logan finally detached himself from the down-coated shield, his fiery eyes blazing and more than a match for Xavier's clinical stare.
"Whaddya mean probed his mind fully? What's wrong with him? What caused his big hissy fit? It was me, wasn't it? Prof, that's why I need to stay away. Seems obvious to me."
Xavier hesitated a moment before continuing with the conversation.
"When Cerebro located Scott, the energy traces registering on the scales were among the highest I have ever seen. When I tracked him down, he was living on the streets, and had been for some time. His eyes were tightly blindfolded. He was in a state of constant physical torment. His mutant powers had activated before his body could fully adjust or compensate. If I had not found him when I did, his head literally would have exploded."
As Xavier paused, letting the words sink in, he picked up a brief flash from Logan's normally closed-off mind.
/Holy shit./
Xavier grimly nodded.
/Those were my exact words. Logan, if you can hear this, then open your mind to me. Please. Let me show what I cannot adequately describe./
Reluctantly, Logan gave his consent. He hated having people poking around in his head, but he knew Xavier would never ask unless circumstances dictated. The images flooding Logan's mind spoke for themselves. He saw Scott slowly gaining full mastery of his powers, learning meditation and focus techniques from Xavier. He saw Jean becoming the center in Scott's life, and how only the sheer will of not wanting to let her down had kept Scott going in the initial months after her demise. He saw Scott watching him as he slept, studying every inch of his body, curling up against him, Scott's smooth cheek scraping against his furry chest as he drifted into a rare night of slumber. He saw Scott's struggle for self-control and peace every time they argued. He saw Scott's perspective on the attack, the utter blackness punctuated by screams he quickly recognized as his own. He saw Scott near the edge of hysteria, being calmed by Xavier on myriad physical and psychic levels after the fiasco in the hotel room. He saw Scott, practically making the Danger Room his new home, training, fighting, teaching Colossus, so desperate to be strong that he could not even begin to hide the guilt and loneliness seeping from every pore of his sweating, half-clothed torso.
At the end, Logan only saw Xavier, an overpowering mental force slowly retreating from his rapidly retreating mind. Before Logan put his mental barriers firmly back in place, he let one last, insistent demand slip through.
/Get Scott here. NOW./
--
Scott needed to push his limits. Letting emotions get in the way had nearly killed his teammate, and himself as well. He never wanted that to happen again. If that meant staying away from Logan, and settling back into a life of isolation, then he would just channel those energies into other activities.
Colossus, also known as Peter Rasputin, was certainly not going to complain. The brawny 17-year old secretly idolized Cyclops' gentle yet forceful manner, his elegant carriage, and of course, the way his impossibly round and pliant buttocks were poured into his wardrobe. Whether in khaki trousers during class hours, skintight leather uniforms on the battlefield, or snug, high-cut shorts during workouts and training sessions, Cyclops, Mr. Scott Summers, had an ass which begged for touching and tasting. While evading the optic beams and smashed the usual array of mechanical monsters which were whaling against his steel frame, Peter fantasized of locking his massive thighs around Scott's waist, of pulling him in for a deep, bruising, man-to-man kiss, of yanking at his teacher's hair as those made-for-cocksucking lips swallowed every inch of his steel sabre.
"Lesson's over, Peter. Thanks for the workout."
Scott headed to his own private shower. If he realized the effect he had on the young, tall, dark-haired Russian-American pupil, he did not show it. The way Peter openly ogled his rump as he walked out of the room was certainly a clear sign. But Scott had a lot on his mind these days.
Peter headed for the room he shared with Bobby Drake. Hopefully the shower would be free. As much as the raw, pungent stench of another man turned him own, he was seriously ripe. The sweat droplets slid down his broad, hairless pecs and trim waist, into his tight black shorts, as he traversed the stairs. Bobby was cute, adorable even, but over the past few months, Peter had been far more interested in their developing friendship to consider turning Bobby into a crush. Besides, Bobby would probably turn his head into an ice cube if he ever found out just how much Peter was itching for peek at his fleshcicle.
Peter returned to his room. As he ran his water, he absentmindedly scribbled in his worn sketchpad. Drawing was his main passion, aside from bodybuilding; he felt truly inspired and happy when translating the fantasies and fears in his mind to the printed page. Before he could stop himself, he was etching out crude pencil portraits of Scott Summers naked, his beautiful eyes freed of those horrible ruby glasses, his penis hard, his toned, hairless body reclining as he masturbating. Peter pulled down his shorts, breathing hard as his beefstick gooily slapped his abs, staring in the mirror at his swelling pectorals while he continued to draw. His wide, heavily veined penis engorged to a throbbing 9 inches, his boy sauce slick against the underside of the drawing paper, as the canvas was overtaken by illustrations of Bobby on his knees, his trim thighs, sexy feet, and dangling shaft covered in a thin sheen of ice, his chest, biceps, and boyishly dashing face sweating and smooth as he fellated half of an arching Scott's long, thin erection.
Peter tossed the pad onto the covered toilet seat as he climbed into the inviting shower. The spray soothed his aching joints. He soaped up his meaty, dark brown nipples, sliding in sloppy circles down his flawless six-pack, stopping only to methodically tug on his bull balls and stroke his enraged manhood. After a few years of confusion and denial, Peter had recently accepted that he loved boys and men. He lived for the day when he could feel another penis in his large hands, scraping against his strong jawline, or sliding into his marble-carved bubble butt, the same buns he was now pushing two sudsy, thick fingers in and out of. He wished for an era when he could buffet a warm facehole or slide into a tight, puckering rectum, see if he could pierce another man's sweet ass with his metallic shaft. He longed for a time when his sexuality would not be a deep, dark secret. He briefly willed himself to turn from flesh to steel, noticing his muscles tighten to perfection, his already large girth swell to 11 gleaming, towering inches. As he moaned over the constant torrent raining down on his head, he returned to flesh. His massive load pumped onto the slippery floor and down the drain. Toweling off, he dreamed that a day of freedom could come soon. So absentminded was he in that moment that he forgot just where he had left his sketchpad.
--
Scott didn't want to see Logan, nor did he want to open himself back up to the chance of more violence. But he had learned long ago never to refuse Professor Xavier, lest he risk a stern lecture, or at the very least a heavy wheel over his left foot.
When Scott stood over a silent, intense Logan's bed, waves of remorse unsteadied him. He could practically see the scars, barely healed, which he had created. He expected a stream of profanity, or a death threat. Actually, he had no idea what to expect, which is what terrified him more than anything else.
Logan grabbed Scott's hand, squeezing hard, trying to shatter all those layers of fear and repression.
"We gotta talk, kid."
Logan's voice was hoarse, commanding, strained. Scott knew how much of an effort he must be making to actually discuss his feelings. Scott could barely wrap his brain around the idea of Logan, all action and no talk, wanting to hash out their relationship.
"But first..."
Suddenly, Scott was yanked in for a thorough, stubble-laden, sloppy tongue kiss. Every nerve ending was set on fire as Logan probed his mouth. By the time Scott pulled away, he was sure he'd just been given a tonsilectomy. But those eyes, the determination, the passion, were even more frightening and commanding than Logan's lips had been.
"Better than ever, Scott. Now, like I said, we gotta talk."
--
The rigorous schedule of classes and workouts had hit Peter much harder than he'd expected. A short stretch-out on his bed turned into a long nap.
Meanwhile, Bobby bounded into the room. Peter had promised him a sketch of Rogue, for her birthday. He didn't want to wake his roommate up. Fortunately for him, he quickly spied the drawing pad left in the bathroom.
Quietly, Bobby padded to the john. He didn't want to compromise his friend's privacy, but what could he see that was so awful? He'd just skip the pages until he found the picture of Rogue.
Or at least that's what he had in mind until he saw nude men. Erect, sweating nude men, sucking and fucking each other.
As if that was not enough of a jolt, he then saw pencil drawings of himself. Dripping wet. Hard. Dressed. Half-dressed. Totally naked. Bending over. Being fucked by Colossus. Being fucked by Wolverine. Fucking Cyclops. "Well, at least that's some variety." Bobby thought to himself in a moment of dark humor.
He couldn't believe this. His friend, the man he slept so close to every night, was a queer. Just like Wolverine and Cyclops. Just like so many others.
What was he going to do about it?
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Please e-mail at HotStoryLvr@hotmail.com
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Other stories include: Locked Out Lucked Out at gay/adult-friends