Chapter Text
In order for this thing to work, Logan sets one rule. No mind link. It’s impossible for a telepath to send messages without picking up on the thoughts running through the person they’re communicating with. It would kill the mood if Jean and Scott heard the flickers that whisper that he doesn’t deserve to touch either of them. Running into any of his memories couldn’t be pleasant either.
Jean described Logan’s mind as a moving labyrinth after the first time she encountered it, walls and floors warping and undulating as she journeyed deeper, unsure what sights might be unveiled with each corner she turned. He remembered the feeling of her psyche; the warmth that filled his senses made him ashamed of how horrible it must be for her to witness even glimpses of his life. He hopes she viewed things as an outside observer instead of from his perspective.
///
Logan scoops Jean into his arms before he tosses her easily onto the mattress. She lands with a laugh and yanks Logan forward by coiling her telekinesis around the front of his belt. Another bolt of pink energy pulls Scott to the bed by the collar of his shirt.
“So, if you’re callin’ the shots, what d’ya want from us, Red?” Logan asks as he removes his belt. Scott tugs his shirt over his head and dutifully throws it toward the half-full hamper.
“Start by getting over here,” she says. Logan leans forward and kisses her while his hands untuck her shirt and unbutton her pants. He pushes a hand under her top, squeezes one of her breasts, brushes his thumb over her nipple, enjoying how she gasps in surprise. His mouth meets the skin over her collarbone, gently, he reminds himself. The bed creaks as Scott climbs on, settling behind Jean. He sweeps the locks of hair off her other shoulder and begins kissing her neck. His hands rest on her hip bones.
Logan takes the opportunity to drop to his knees, his hands tugging her pants down her legs. He guides her knees to spread wider, resisting the urge to shove his face against her pelvis. He skims his palms up her thighs to tease his fingertips over the fabric of her black underwear, admiring the lace spiraling in intricate patterns.
“Put on the real pretty pair just for me, huh?” Jean’s neck flushes lightly as she nods. He can hear her heartbeat quicken.
“Told you he’d appreciate it,” Scott murmurs. Logan isn’t sure how to respond to that, so he ignores it. He ducks his head to mouth at her sex through the fabric. He can smell a new tinge in her scent, heady and intoxicating. There’s a hint of wetness that drives Logan to bypass undressing her fully, to simply pull the barrier aside and lick. Jean gasps at the first slide of his broad, strong tongue over her clit, then moans as he pushes closer, lips and tongue working over her vulva and labia, facial hair scratching the insides of her thighs. He could do this for hours, nothing registering or mattering to his brain but the scent and taste of Jean. He’d gladly wear his knees to the bone against the floor if she could last that many rounds.
///
In the beginning, it’s easy to indulge his oral fixation. Logan has long known he likes to have something in his mouth. Cigarettes, matchsticks, toothpicks, his nails; he tried chewing gum when it was first invented and found the flavor wretched. Now it’s all too intense, sweet or minty enough to make him gag. Cigars are best, they last longest. They’re meant to be savored, which gives you plenty of time to chew on the end. Logan had a pipe at one point, when they were fashionable. Carved it himself, he’s pretty sure, then ruined the handle with teeth marks.
Another point on oral’s score: whether kneeling or laid out on the bed, he doesn’t have to worry about crushing anyone if he loses focus. It doubles as a way to keep to the edges in case anything goes wrong too quickly. He also doesn’t have to worry about any stupid or revealing words tumbling from his mouth.
He finds every reason to press his mouth over his lovers’ skin, mapping by tongue, by scent. Learning the coordinates of each scar and freckle. Tasting Jean and Scott, pure, straight from the source. Better than whiskey, better than sake or rum or scotch, better than the purest, coldest water on a scorching August day.
Logan tries not to bite at all at first but that’s a lost cause. He loves the way Scott shivers when he scrapes his teeth along the long, smooth expanse of his neck. Jean moans and arches when he mouths and sucks at her breasts and shoulders. He tries not to leave marks but his teeth are sharp, his jaw is strong, every part of him is made for crushing and tearing.
So Logan licks, sucks, kisses, nips at every centimeter of Jean. With Scott he doesn’t push his luck. He keeps any touch deliberate and short. His lips and teeth press on the arch of a calf, the delicate inner skin of the wrist, the divots between vertebrae, the swirl on each fingertip, the dip of the collar bone, the curve of the lowest rib. He looks and listens carefully for a shiver, a noise, anything that means delight. Logan longs to sink his bite into the muscles of the thighs, biceps, shoulders, throat, but he keeps those desires tucked away, folded down as small as possible. What if he drew blood and lost himself and tore through soft tissue until he reached organ and bone?
He was never a praying type, never found solace in any church or religion, but each time his mouth meets their skin it feels like worship. A silent entreatment that he may continue to be in their orbit.
///
Before the first time, Logan asks Jean twice if Scott is only okay with it or if he wants it. He’s not sure he believes Jean when she says Scott is into the idea. That Slim wants him, as much as Jean does. Well, maybe not equally. He can practically taste Jean’s excitement when she grasps his hand and gives him a wink, her telekinesis accelerating the atoms around her to release excess energy. Logan experiences the shift in air like a hot flash.
Scott has the same cool air of professionalism as usual when Logan gets to their bed chambers the first time and every one after. He used to think Cyke hated him. He hasn’t been sure how Scott regards him for a while. They still argue, of course. It’s too comfortable a habit for either to ever give up.
The decision to flirt with Scott wasn’t all that intentional. Logan sized up Cyke the instant he first stepped onto the Blackbird and saw how ramrod straight Scott was in the pilot’s chair. His first thought regarding the other man was: Prissy SOB. But he never studied Summers all that much. Not that he wasn’t attractive, but there were few X-Men that weren’t smoking hot. Logan’s attention was better spent on less up-tight team members. (Ororo and Kurt could take a damn compliment with grace.) Until he’s up close and personal by sheer accident.
Logan was half-asleep, maneuvering mostly by smell, trying to make it to his bed. He’d driven fifteen hours to get back to the mansion after following up on leads about a new mutant Cerebro picked up in the vicinity of a U.S. army base and came back with nothing. He must’ve been too late. It was difficult not to let the failure eat at him. The weight of the bag slung across his shoulders reminded him of a yoke strapped to a plow stuck in dried mud.
One of his hands trails along the wall, guiding him through the turns until he rounds a corner and collides with a solid, warm body. Logan snaps fully awake and jumps backward, nearly tripping over the hallway’s rug. Scott’s face is so close that even though the moonlight is dim, Logan’s eyes pick out details he’s never noticed before. The sharp jut of Summers’ cheekbones and jaw, dark hair sleep-tousled instead of its usual comb-tamed swoop, a small scar in his hairline, the plush shapes of his lips. Logan shakes his head, curses under his breath.
“My bad, Slim,” he says, voice a low rumble, mind already back to how badly he wanted to be in bed. Even if it was cold and empty, it would be clean and he could sleep a full day away and not think about how satisfying it would be to bend over the X-Men’s commander and pound him into oblivion. To grab him by the waist and back him into the nearest wall, to watch that face, so careful and controlled, slip into pure reaction, overcome by his smaller, hairier, wilder comrade. Stop fucking thinking, Logan tells himself firmly. You’re damn lucky Jean ain’t awake.
He moves to duck around Scott and the man has the audacity to block his path with an outstretched arm. He looks back to Scott’s face, ready to spit out something cutting but Summers beats him to the punch.
“Welcome back.” Scott’s voice is sincere, but he’s wearing a version of the smile that never fails to activate the Canadian’s sardonic defenses. “I hope you get all the sleep you seem like you need.” Logan’s brain dimly registers that Scott’s hand lands on his shoulder. He sidesteps, pretends he doesn’t notice the loss of the heat of the other mutant’s palm.
“Don’t gotta insinuate I look like shit, bub, I fuckin’ know,” Logan snarls. He pushes past Summers more forcefully than necessary. God, he’s dying for a smoke. Scott frowns, but doesn’t put up any fight.
Logan stomps to his door and lets it swing shut behind him, kicking off his boots and shedding his jeans, coat, socks, shirt; every piece of clothing stinks and sticks. He runs a searing hot shower and scrubs his skin until he can only smell the pine and peppermint in the soap, barely manages to towel off, then collapses atop the sheets, naked as the day he was born, and finally crashes into unconsciousness.
His dreams are a mess, per usual. Logan’s mind often works against him, but tonight he is washed overboard in a storm. He whirls and tumbles through every memory of Scott’s bare skin his mind can pluck from the recesses of his brain. Fingers ungloved, long and precise in their movements. The edges of collarbones, exposed by the seams of a tank top. The back of Scott’s neck, hairline slightly overgrown as he bent down over a screen or paper. Lithe calves bared on a day sweltering enough that the Alaskan opted for shorts. His ass in the tight uniform material. Logan certainly wasn’t subtle in his ogling, of anyone, really. His gaze was as heavy as the rest of him. It was an undeniable truth for the Wolverine that when he started looking, it was wildly difficult to stop.
After that little trip down memory lane, it was pretty easy to extend his flirting to include Scott. The first time Logan called him ‘pretty boy,’ the outer curves of Scott’s ears turned a horrendous pinkish red. It was fun to make a straight man squirm sometimes. Logan would freely admit that if Scott ever asked why he did it. Summers didn’t.
After the first few instances, Scott seemed to mostly ignore the names, perhaps rolling his hidden eyes. The invitation, of course, made Logan rethink his assessment of Slim as straight. He certainly matched the physique of most gym rats Logan had encounters with in locker rooms. Nicely proportioned, muscle all over but still lean. Long, long legs that Logan could stare at the backs of for days.
Still, he doesn’t try to kiss Scott. Logan watches the other man’s face, but he can’t tell if Slim ever looks at his lips. Scott never leans in. Scott doesn’t kiss him hello or goodbye the way Jean will if they’re alone. He’s blown Scott but Logan has yet to meet a man that didn’t enjoy a mouth on their dick.
///
Logan wakes up each day in his own bed and pretends nothing is different. But the shift is unmistakable. As though Avalanche had learned how to make just enough of an earthquake to move all your furniture without causing damage. You wake up and everything looks the same but you ram into the corners of chairs and bureaus that are suddenly off-place. Waking up in his own bed, he sometimes thinks he has imagined it, all of it, dreamed it up in a flight of fancy, his brain turned against him, replaying false memories, or they had been implanted somehow. And then Scott or Jean will ask him to join them and he’ll cautiously say yes.
There’s rarely been a time where Logan could rip his eyes away from the two of them. But now, his senses attune to Scott and Jean with frightening speed, catching information like a deftly angled satellite. He gets distracted by the sound of Jean’s pulse or Scott’s measured breaths if he stands too near one of them.
Their scents affect him embarrassingly deeply, even small traces in rooms they’ve exited will cause him to halt and sniff, just to check if he’s imagining things. Jean is reminiscent of honeysuckle and citrus. Scott brings to mind fresh lumber and the ocean. He easily detects shifts in emotion through subtle changes in their pheromones, little tinges of sour or sweet or salty that give him insight before either of them speak. Logan tastes it when they’re stressed or tired, bitter and acidic. He holds his breath if he must walk past their bedroom door. In there the natural aromas are intense, concentrated enough that sometimes his body reacts before he can remember to stop inhaling.
Logan even suppresses his desire to smell Jean and Scott during sex because, well, that’s fucking weird, right? Mac tended to bat Logan away when he started to take deep inhales of the other man’s scent. If he did it to Heather, she would laugh, tolerate a few more sniffs, then push him off, claiming he was slobbering on her. The idea of Jean or Scott reacting in a similar way keeps him from leaning close and breathing deep, no matter how much his brain begs to fill with the scent of the couple.
The worst times are the mornings after he’s been in their bed. It’s barely there, the weakest of undercurrents, but Logan can smell himself on Jean and Scott. It makes the synapses of his brain light up with the desire to press close, thrust his face into their neck and take a breath, to be sure he’s not imagining it. Every time his mark fades, he longs to reinscribe it.
But Logan reminds himself to keep his hands off of them outside their bedroom. He dutifully smothers any urge to reach out and touch one of them, even if it could be read as friendly. He’s not suddenly their boyfriend. They don’t go out on dates or spend hours of time basking in each others’ presence. They didn’t invite him into their sex life because he’s a stimulating conversationalist.
Plus, Logan has zero doubt that Scott and Jean would prefer to keep their private life, well, private. Any smidgen of PDA would be picked up on and spread like wildfire through the student body. (Kurt made the mistake of kissing Ororo’s hand after a combat demonstration and they were hounded non-stop for three weeks.) Jean and Scott certainly don’t give any clues that he’s been in their bed. So Logan pretends that nothing has changed, yet finds that he often has no idea what he wants to say to either of them. It should be easy, rote almost, but half of the time, words die on his tongue.
///
Logan walks the perimeter of the school most mornings. Jean joins him on a random Wednesday, about a month into their arrangement. She falls into step beside him and smoothly tangles their fingers. Logan has a moment of surprise and contentment before he remembers anyone might see and detaches his hand, putting a few more inches between them, staring directly ahead. Friendly, respectful space. Professional distance. Jean looks him over quizzically.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, genuinely confused. Soft and sweet like he’s worthy of that. Like he’s Scott, her husband, her beloved. Like she can’t believe he would stop touching her.
“Someone might see and think you’re bein’ unfaithful,” Logan mutters, embarrassment creeping up on him. She laughs at that, the sound clear and crisp. Certainly she never expected something so cautious to come out of the Wolverine’s mouth.
“Let them think what they want.” Jean links her arm through his. Hot and cold flashes run through him. This isn’t part of their deal. Logan pulls away, curls his fingers into his palms and tucks them into his pockets. His legs stride mechanically, absently increasing pace, as though he can outrun the conversation. Jean, of course, remains in step with him.
“Thought we were tryna keep this under wraps,” he pronounces to the ground. The green of the grass is a smudge in Logan’s vision. He can feel every drip of sweat on his body. He hates talking about this, it makes him feel exposed. Their arrangement is supposed to be something tightly contained, only acknowledged within the four walls of Jean and Scott’s bedroom.
“Did Scott say that?” Jean questions. Her eyes blaze with anger.
“No.” Jean levels her gaze at him, face stony, waiting for elaboration. Logan nearly stumbles, all his focus on not tripping over his words. “Figured you two wanted privacy. School’s already a rumor mill as is. Don’t need the team or students speculating about your marriage.”
“You don’t have to duck around us for the sake of our reputation, Logan. If anyone has a problem, they can bring it to me.”
“Right.” He hopes that means the discussion is over. He’d rather be a secret. It’s easier that way, he rationalizes. No strings attached. No illusions about his role in their lives.
///
Early on, there’s a night where Logan makes his way to Jean and Scott’s suite slightly earlier than usual. Jean isn’t there. He’s about to depart right back out the door, when Scott, sat at his desk, says:
“Cold feet?” Slim’s got his usual civilian clothes on: signature sunglasses, cream polo with one button undone and navy chinos like he’s gonna hit up some hoity-toity yacht club. Even in the stupidest of outfits, the Boy Scout still manages to look enticing. Logan casts his gaze around for another subject to look at and fails to find anything.
“I can come back later—”
“Why?” Scott asks. He remains in the chair, but turns to face the other man. Logan realizes he didn’t anticipate that as a possible question. His mind stutters like a car engine turning over for a few seconds before he can spit something out.
“We ain’t exactly bosom pals. I get that you’re puttin’ up with this for Jean but y’ain’t gotta act happy ’bout me bein’ here,” Logan says, his eyes on the wall behind Scott’s shoulder.
Summers takes a mental note to talk about that later. Then he stands from his chair, cocks an eyebrow and says:
“I thought I’d been pretty clear about what I wanted.”
Not to me. Logan bites back the instant retort that rises in his mind. Honesty, Jean said. Try honesty.
“Didn’t think you were into men,” the Canadian grunts as he folds his arms, an instinctive closing off of the body. Scott smiles, almost certainly suppressing a laugh. He takes a few steps to be within reach of the other mutant.
“Of course, it’s not as though you could catch my wandering glances.” Scott is very close to him now, the shine behind his ruby lenses could rival the heat of the Phoenix. Logan can see a small cut on Scott’s jaw, probably nicked himself while shaving. Logan imagines running his tongue over it, tasting the dried blood and feeling the smooth skin.
“Let me show you what I like then,” Scott’s voice is seductive in a way Logan doesn’t expect. His hands land on Logan’s hips, fingers curling around the small of his back. The older mutant hasn’t felt diminutive in a long time but Slim’s got nearly a full head over him. Logan imagines how good it would be to arch and press up against him from beneath, to revel in the breadth of a powerful torso bearing down on him. The specter of Mac arises in Logan’s mind, holding him down, caging him in many ways, with his body and Department H and Alpha Flight, was it all ways to subjugate him? Make him docile? This isn’t like that, Logan tells himself. This is casual sex. Scott and Jean aren’t going to press-gang him into experimentation. He can leave whenever he wants.
Scott leans in, slowly enough to give Logan time to pull away, and kisses him. The shorter mutant pushes into the contact, letting his eyes close. He’s good at this. Touching. Holding. Squeezing. Logan’s hands barely make it past Scott’s ribcage before long fingers grasp his wrists. Fuck, Scott tastes good. Toothpaste is a lingering presence, but something underneath it, some unknown yet delicious flavor in the other mutant’s mouth makes Logan hungry for more. Summers backs off a few centimeters. Logan can smell the other man’s arousal as clearly as he feels blood rush to his own groin.
Scott guides Logan’s wrists to the solid, cool wood of the door behind him. The ruby glasses glint, impassive yet threatening, as he stares down at the other man.
“Are you going to be nice tonight, Logan?” Scott murmurs.
“Depends on your definition, kid.” Even this turned on he can still keep up the verbal sparring. Logan rolls his hips to grind his stiff cock forward, relishing the matching hardness he finds. Scott gasps sharply, caught by surprise, but regains composure quickly.
“Prove you can follow orders. For once.”
“Of course that does it for you.” It takes effort, but Logan resists the familiar urge to roll his eyes. Scott sighs, exaggerated, and starts to pull further away.
“Tell me what’cha got in mind, Summers,” Logan insists, intrigued. Scott lifts one hand to the shorter mutant’s sternum and applies gentle pressure until Logan’s spine meets the door behind him. Then Slim leans in close again, his cheek nearly knocking into the other man’s. Logan’s nails scratch at the wood paneling with the effort not to grab Scott, take control and assert his strength.
“Stay still for now. That’s an easy enough start, right?” Scott delivers the words how one shares a secret: hushed, directly into his ear. It should be humiliating, but heat swirls in Logan’s gut. In the next second, a memory splats over his brain matter, sudden and messy. Mac’s hard palm on the nape of his neck as his other hand twists Logan’s arm behind his back. The suffocating press of the larger man’s body as he’s shoved into a wall. He can’t remember the words Mac used, only the sensation of breath hot against his skin, convincing him to stand down and submit, to be quiet and still, lest the nearby teeth decide to open his pulse to the air. They’re different people, Logan says to himself. Scott isn’t reprimanding him. It’s simply a sex thing. He can understand those.
Logan expects the next move will be that Scott disengages, forcing him to wait, frustrated and aroused, until Jean arrives. Maybe he’ll only be allowed to watch the entire time. Told to sit and stay like a dog in obedience training. He always figured Scott would milk some excuse to punish him for the years of headaches Logan instigated during his tenure on the X-Men.
Instead, Scott folds to his knees while his hands roam over the expanse of Logan’s clothed thighs. His left hand lazily cups the bulge straining against the other man’s jeans, gently stroking and squeezing. Logan’s trapped cock gets harder than he thought possible. Scott could keep him here for hours, Logan thinks suddenly. What if Jean never shows up and this continues all night? How long could he endure such torturously slow, teasing amounts of friction before something in him snapped and he lost control of himself and hurt Scott in his frenzy?
Logan nearly moans in relief when Summers finally unzips his fly scant moments later and pushes the denim down to mid thigh. His fingers slowly trace the waistband of Logan’s briefs from hip to hip before sliding them lower as well.
They’ve barely even started and Logan is mentally a fraction away from grabbing Scott by the hair and shoving his rigid cock between his leader’s lips. He tries to resist shivering as the gentle stirrings of air pass over his bare thighs. Mercifully, Slim opens his mouth and slides his tongue over the head of Logan’s dick and the Canadian has to clench onto every thread of self-control not to cum then and there. Slim hums or moans, Logan’s not sure what the sound is exactly but he can smell the other man’s desire and satisfaction. Logan bites down on his tongue; blood fills his mouth as one of Scott’s hands strokes his cock.
“You don’t have to be silent.” Summers’ voice, slightly amused yet somehow fond, cleaves through the haze of lust in Logan’s head. He has no response to that. As he feels the heat of Scott’s mouth glide over his cock, a portion of quiet gasps and groans slip from Logan’s throat. Each time he fails to nip off a sound, he remembers someone might hear him if they walked past the room. That present danger makes Logan increasingly desperate to stay motionless, keep quiet, as much as he wants to growl and rut his hips forward. Every dip and bob of Scott’s head between his thighs makes his limbs tremble like a young sapling’s branches as more huffs of breath and noises tumble from his mouth.
It’s as though Jean pulled every sordid detail from Logan’s mind and fed it to Scott. Their commander, down on his knees, licking up the underside of his cock, pulling back his foreskin to thumb away beads of precome, luxuriating in the debauched act. Spit trails from the Alaskan’s mouth down his chin. He’s toying with Logan and enjoying every second.
“You—absolute—bastard,” Logan finally manages to grit out his first words in minutes. Scott doesn’t rise to the bait, his voice cool and placid despite the fact he’s giving an astonishingly good blowjob.
“You’re doing so well,” Scott praises. That sparks something in Logan’s gut that he viciously shoves down. The tips of Scott’s fingers drift upward, underneath the thin fabric of Logan’s tank top, simply touching the skin he finds. The shorter mutant shudders, unable to stop the reaction.
“I can ask Jean to hold you down if you need help obeying.” Logan can’t deny the way his cock jumps in Scott’s loose grasp at those words. The younger mutant, paragon of restraint, doesn’t laugh at him, simply leans in and bites at the crease between Logan’s hip and thigh before directing his attention back to the older man’s hardness.
The best (worst?) part is that Logan can smell how turned on Scott is. The savory tinge of lust overtakes Scott’s scent. There’s no easy way to fake that. How Summers could enjoy this so deeply boggles the mind. Scott is supposed to hate him, not—
Logan’s thoughts fizzle as Scott slowly sinks more of his mouth over the Canadian’s length. At this angle, a tantalizing gap between Scott’s glasses and his face is revealed. Logan can see the curve of his eyelids, adorned by delicate lashes. The lower ridge of the brow bone, the bridge of his nose. He wonders what color his irises might be. Brown? Hazel? Blue? Did his mutation make them red?
What part of him is Scott staring at? Terrible question to ask. It overlooks a yawning pit of uncertainty. His stomach is still mostly covered, but plenty of lines that begin higher up twist their way down his hips and thighs. Most scars fade to a lighter version of his tanned skin after a year or two, but new marks stand out brightly until then. There’s too many lines for Logan to worry about any of them in particular. Don’t look, is all he can think to say. Not a very seductive line.
“Lemme touch you,” Logan rasps, his voice nearly giving out halfway. Every muscle in his body is tenser than a drawn bowstring. Scott reaches out and guides one of Logan’s hands to his hair.
“No tugging.” Scott’s voice is stern, a sharp contrast to the flush across his cheeks and spit clinging to his lips. Logan barely manages to nod, smoothing his fingers through Slim’s hair carefully. Scott hums an appreciative note as Logan repeats the motion, resisting the urge to tangle his fingers in and yank. The Canadian withstands another few minutes of teasing that way, tentatively caressing the top of Scott’s head as the other mutant works his lips and tongue over Logan’s cock with a level of skill that the older mutant would have never dreamed Scott possessed. The metal-boned mutant’s lower lip weeps blood when his teeth finally part.
“No one likes a show off,” Logan snarks between panted breaths when Scott’s pace slows further. His voice wavers, betraying how deeply the other mutant has affected him.
“And yet you’re still making the effort to behave.” Scott’s voice is warm with a slight roughness from savoring the way Logan’s dick stretches his mouth obscenely. His long fingers slide up and down Logan’s shaft once. The urge to kiss Slim bursts through the older man and he drives his nails into the skin of his palms instead. Be still. Obey. If he’s good, Scott might allow Logan to cum down his throat.
“Do you think you can listen to me this well all night?” Scott’s tone has never been this gentle with Logan. The thought makes warmth snake through the older man’s chest cavity while fear tries to constrict around it. He’s not the one on his knees, yet Logan has never felt more at Scott’s mercy. Summers’ head tilts back, red lenses reflect Logan’s face. The Canadian works to unclench his jaw.
“What if I don’t?” He challenges. Scott shrugs, a move so flippant, so un-Cyclops, Logan might’ve laughed at it if he wasn’t so hard.
“Then you don’t.” Summers’ fingers scratch through the short, dense hair on Logan’s belly. “But I think some part of you wants to.”
If Logan admits that Scott’s right he’ll never hear the end of it. Thankfully, instead of demanding an answer, Summers grasps Logan by the hips and holds him against the door, speeding the pace his mouth slides on and off of the Canadian’s dick. Logan curls his toes and fingers against the rush of pleasure. His free hand flies to his mouth so he can bite down on the knuckles of two of his fingers. Motherfucker. If he came before Jean even arrived…
“Where the hell did you learn to suck cock like that, Boy Scout?” Logan asks, breathless, when Scott finally backs off.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Slim taunts, but it doesn’t have the snide tone that Logan was accustomed to from Scott. Maybe he knew how rare it was to have caught Logan in a mood where he was willing to be pliable. The older mutant takes a breath to retort and a knock on the door startles both of them. Scott pulls away to stand and Logan hurriedly yanks his jeans back up to a modest level, trying to ignore the way the fabric drags against his cock. He steps out of the way.
“It’s Jean,” Scott says, a millisecond before he opens the door.
“Hi, Scott,” the redhead says as she breezes in. Logan wonders if she’ll notice how wide his pupils are, the evidence of his hand mussing her husband’s hair, if Scott already told her through their psychic link that they got started, or if it’s something he’s not going to share. She kisses her husband. Blood rushes in Logan’s ears as he wonders if she can taste where Scott’s mouth has been. “Good to see you, Logan,” Jean purrs as she turns to him. Her mouth wears its perfect smile, red lipstick faded from a day of wear. The curve of her hip fits so well in Logan’s hand. He leans in and kisses her.
“Always a treat bein’ with you, Jean,” Logan drawls. His eyes flick from her to Scott’s face, only a pace away. Was he supposed to ask permission? He doesn’t know how far this new game with Scott will go. He worries now that Jean’s here, he’ll be forced to watch, maybe kneel in one of the corners, or kept close on the bed but tempted every second, holding his body so still that every joint aches, from his fingers to his ankles.
“Logan and I got started not too long ago,” Scott says, stepping close behind Jean, dispelling Logan’s thoughts, his left arm wrapping around her waist. “I asked if he could do as I told him tonight and he said he’d try.”
Summers’ right hand alights on Logan’s hip, shifting around to his back to pull the two of them closer to Jean. Logan can’t hold back a moan at the sudden pressure on his dick. Jean lets out a small gasp as she feels both men’s erections pressing against her through their clothes. She rocks her hips between the men boxing her in and kisses Scott over her shoulder before turning back to lock lips with Logan. The older mutant moves both his hands onto the center of Scott’s back and pulls hard, crushing the three of them together as he thrusts his tongue into Jean’s mouth.
Already Logan’s mind is aflame with their scents, the mouthwatering way their pheromones change when they’re turned on. The older mutant experiences a wave of deep, aching need to hear their blood pound and feel them tremble in pleasure until they scream. When Jean breaks the kiss to breathe, Scott leans forward to take her mouth’s place with a practically chaste brush of lips before he issues Logan another order, voice measured and firm.
“Strip and get on the bed.” Logan starts to snarl, he wants to stay here, against the heat of their bodies, but if doing what he’s asked results in Scott’s mouth on him again, well, he’s more than willing to play his part.
Logan sits on the edge of the mattress to remove his boots before the rest of his clothes follow suit. Scott and Jean are quiet, they must be conversing psychically. The Canadian suppresses a shiver. There’s no way for him to know what’s coming, no hint but the gleam overtaking Jean’s eyes as the two of them gaze at him.
“Center of the bed. On your back,” Scott says as Logan’s clothes meet the ground. The older mutant moves languidly where directed to cover how exposed he suddenly feels. Neither of his watchers have budged an inch.
“You joinin’ or gonna stare all night? It’d be pretty boring if I’m all by my lonesome,” Logan remarks. Jean smiles.
“Let a woman enjoy the view,” she says. “You’re always so quick to jump in, I rarely get to appreciate the whole picture.” Despite her words, she’s already moving toward him, telekinesis peeling off her blouse. After she shimmies out of her pants to reveal a pale pink bra and underwear, she crawls onto the bed. Instead of landing in his lap as he expects, she straddles his neck, knees on either side of his head.
“Give me a few taps if you need to breathe,” she says as she pulls aside the crotch of her panties. Logan nods and Jean lowers her cunt onto his mouth. His tongue is out before her folds are even within reach. Her scent is heavier here, reminding him of not only flowers but soil and bark and leaves. The smell hooks into the underside of Logan’s brain and drives him wild every time. He wants to use his hands to help but Scott hasn’t told him he can touch. His fingers grasp onto the sheets instead, balling up fabric in his fist.
“Yes, good, keep on, oh, keep going,” Jean encourages, voice a bit floaty. Her hips twitch as he flicks his tongue against her clit. “There, yes!” He’s good at this. Every sound that slips from Jean’s mouth reinforces his desire for more. Logan nearly forgets the room beyond the weight and taste of Jean until a hand wraps around his cock and pumps him slowly. His heels try to find purchase on the mattress so he can thrust up into the contact but another hand pushes his thighs back down to the bed. Both of those have to be Scott’s, Jean’s got one palm on Logan’s head and the other on the mattress to support some of her weight.
Jean’s body blocks any chance of seeing Scott. It feels like Logan’s mind is a ship on rough seas, listing between port and starboard, fore and aft. His awareness floats and sinks, stretches and compresses, rips and mends as it’s tugged back and forth between every nerve’s attempt to greedily soak up every drop of pleasure.
Fingers brush against Logan’s left wrist and coax the metal-boned mutant’s fist to relax. Gentle pressure guides his hand to land on Scott’s cock, hot and weighty in his palm. Logan’s fingers glide down and up instinctively. He hears the other man sigh out a quiet call of his name.
“Keep doing that,” Scott’s command is breathy. Vicious pride flares up in Logan’s gut. Summers leans into Logan’s vision, kissing Jean’s neck, up to her ear, along her jaw. Logan chooses that moment to thrust his tongue into her cunt, gratified by the groan he hears from her and how she drops a bit more of her weight onto his jaw. It makes him dizzy with satisfaction, she wants more of him, she wants to be closer to him.
Scott disappears again and Logan feels his right wrist get the same careful treatment. Soft, stroking touches relax the white knuckle grip on the sheets before Scott places Logan’s hand on Jean’s thigh. He digs his fingers into the flesh. Beautiful. Soft. He can do this. He knows what they want. He just has to do what Scott says. Scott wouldn’t let him endanger Jean.
Logan nearly forgets about the hand on his cock until the warmth disappears. His hips buck, seeking the lost touch as he pants against Jean’s skin. He turns his head and bites lightly at the interior of her thigh. Her nails scratch his scalp and it hurts, but it’s a passing meteor, bright yet brief. He can’t tell if he feels merely sweat or a wellspring of blood in its wake.
“You’re doing so good. Keep still for me a little longer.” Scott’s tone reminds him of Heather, her low, reassuring voice entreating him to get in the shower, to dress, to eat at a table, to speak.
Then slick heat envelops Logan’s dick, causing a loud moan to rip from his throat. He’s lucky his face is thrust into Jean’s hip, it muffles the sound only a fraction, though. Jean’s eyes are wide, she’s got an expression of… pride? He’s dimly embarrassed about nearly shouting but the humming pleasure flooding his brain washes it away. Because of his internal overload, it takes a few seconds for Logan to remember that it’s Scott on his cock and Scott’s dick in his hand. Logan tries to recenter and pay attention in four places at once but it’s like climbing a dirt path on a steep hill in pouring rain.
Jean leans back as Scott dips forward, so in sync it’s practically awe-inspiring. Scott’s hips start to lift and drop in a slow, steady rhythm while the two of them stare down at Logan. He shivers and closes his eyes, trying to ignore how their gazes make his lungs tighten. He sucks on Jean’s clit, short and quick, and the claws of his right arm shift when she throws her head back and lets out a drawn-out moan. He forces his hand to relax, to merely touch, not hold, and the blades settle. He keeps his mouth working, alternating between sweeping his tongue and pressing his lips down hard and sucking every few seconds until her legs are trembling, her voice melting from repetitions of his name into desperate gasps.
Once Jean finishes her ride through the waves of her orgasm, she lifts her hips off of Logan’s jaw and smoothly spins to kneel above his head, thighs bracketing his ears. It reveals a perfect view of Scott’s taut muscles flexing as the Alaskan slowly rides his cock. Logan reaches above his head, partially to feel her, partially to ground himself, and she takes hold of his wrists, kissing the backs of his hands before pinning them to the mattress just outside of her legs, forcing his elbows bent.
“Scott asked you to stay still, darling,” Jean coos, voice and eyes smokey. Logan’s stomach flips but he nods, hindbrain eager to slip back into the consuming haze of arousal. One of Jean’s palms leaves a wrist to drift through his chest hair, appreciating the toned muscles she finds. Her fingertips skid over a burn scar, its warped texture doesn’t deter her at all. Logan barely registers her touch, all his attention back on his dick now that he can watch as Scott sinks down to the base and stays there. Logan tries to get his heels on the bed again for leverage. He wants to fuck up into that heat so badly.
“Logan,” Scott says, steely, as he feels the man beneath him move. “Does Jean need to hold your legs down?”
Logan shakes his head quickly.
“Let me up,” he says instead. Attempts to keep it from sounding like a plea. He needs to get out from under them suddenly. It feels like there’s an explosive in his chest about to go off. It’s too much, his feral nature keeps pushing past his rational thoughts, hearsee and smelltaste and touchfeelhold, jumbled signals from nerves climbing all over him like licks of flames. He’s being trapped, he’s going to lose control if he doesn’t get out of this cage now now now. Scott and Jean look at one another, perhaps debating, considering his request. He summons some bravado.
“Lemme give you a real fuckin’,” Logan growls at Scott. His shoulders quake slightly. Gotta get up, escape the pin. Summers nods, Jean releases his wrists, and Logan lunges forward to grab ahold of Scott’s waist and scrape his mouth at the hollow of the other man’s throat. He feels ravenous, delirious. Logan twists and half-manhandles, half-throws the other mutant down onto the bed where he was laying a moment before, then thrusts back into the tight pressure of Scott’s body and downright snarls as pleasure soaks his drenched nerves again.
“Jesus, damn—Logan—” Scott can barely get a word out as Logan pounds into him with sudden ferocity. Jean’s fingers circle her clit as she watches the show. Logan licks one of thumbs and leans forward enough that he can push it inside her as he continues fucking Scott in short punctuated jabs. She shivers and Logan smells her getting wet again. Shit, he wishes he could fuck her after Scott finishes but once the duo orgasms, he leaves. They have normal libidos after all, unlike him.
“Yes, yes,” Scott’s nails sink into Logan’s waist as he throws his head back, enduring every brutal pump of the other man’s hips. “Holy shit—right there—oh—” and Slim is shuddering through his orgasm, cock spilling onto his stomach. Logan waits a few seconds then carefully withdraws despite the heat crackling in his gut. He didn’t do what Scott wanted, so he doesn’t really deserve to finish. He attempts to control his breathing, willing the throb of his arteries to settle as fast as possible.
“Where are you going?” Jean asks as he starts to shuffle off the bed. Logan’s eyes dart between her and Scott, the boy scout’s head resting between his wife’s legs. He doesn’t have a good answer. He was hoping both their eyes stayed shut or locked on each other.
“Figured you two were tapped out,” Logan says, trying to keep his voice nonchalant as he angles his front away from them, his cock still flushed and heavy with blood. Not quickly enough.
“You didn’t come?” Scott asks, sitting up on one elbow. Logan shrugs one shoulder, eyes sweeping the floor for wherever his clothes landed.
“Ain’t always the point of the thing,” he replies, voice nearly monotone. Jean’s and Scott’s brows furrow in sync at his words.
“Logan,” Jean says. He looks at her, dreading one of the small cruel things that sometimes came from her mouth. She’s practically glowing, face eased back into a smile again. Her pupils are wide, her hair sticking to her skin in some places where it’s slick with sweat. “Come here.” He’s frozen another moment before he acquiesces, crawling to sit at her side. Scott’s fully up by now, his shoulder pressed into Jean’s. When Logan settles, they both reach out to him. Jean’s fingers circle the head of his cock while Scott works the base of his shaft. Logan shivers at the sudden onslaught of stimuli. They work him up slowly at first, whispering things that pass through his ears undeciphered until his hips are twitching and his breathing grows ragged.
“M’gonna—” Logan growls as he’s approaching the edge. Jean captures his lips in a kiss as he comes onto the couple’s fingers. He slumps some of his weight against the two of them as he waits for the rush of his orgasm to recede.
Scott surreptitiously plucks a tissue for the nightstand to wipe his hand off while Jean gets up to wash her hands. Logan blinks slowly, trying to prod his brain to move faster but the animal within him resists. It wants to grab Scott’s hand and lick his own spend off. It wants to leave bloody bite marks on Scott and Jean. It wants to crawl under the covers. It wants to luxuriate in the afterglow, to be safe and comfortable and not alone. It wants to touch and hold and taste as much as possible. He shoves the desires back down to the depths of his mind and gets off the bed.
///
Logan spends much of his time in Scott and Jean’s bed aware of his extra bulk. He’s got at least eighty pounds over both of them, not to mention the deadly blades ever-ready in his forearms. If he loses focus he could hurt them. Will hurt them. Bite too hard, rest too much weight on them, hold them too tightly, thrust too sharply, the list goes on and on and on. He resists the urge to flop on top of Scott or Jean in the afterglow; even though his frame is smaller than theirs, Logan is sure it would feel suffocating.
Logan pins Jean to the bed by her wrists one night. He loves the way she writhes against his grasp, fully able to shove him away with a thought, yet adoring the experience of being at his mercy. The next day Logan notices dull purple bruises rising above the cuff of her sleeves. Instinct tells him to stay close, to protect her while she heals. Instead, he goes out for motorcycle rides to nowhere in particular to avoid speaking to anyone. He castigates himself in his mind the entire time.
The next night he’s in their bed, nearly a week later, Logan kisses the fading yellow splotches, mouthing apologies he can’t bear to speak aloud against her skin. He failed Jean, and by extension, Scott as well. He has to pay attention. He has to control himself. He cannot give in to his feral nature. He cannot let them know. They’re not like him.
Scars, more than any human could recover from, litter his body. Even when his skin regrows fully, his body remembers its grievous wounds. When you control a weapon completely, you don’t even have to do the hard work of disciplining it. The claws that plunged through other’s throats were just as easily turned against your beast’s own flesh. Simple, blinding pain if he ever resisted, from the only person he can’t outrun.
Logan awakes sometimes with gashes halfway to becoming scars, blood in the sheets, unsure how he cuts himself without waking. Did he saw himself open slowly? Does he move and a claw simply snags somewhere? They must deploy and sheathe randomly throughout the worst nights; he greets those mornings with numerous puncture wounds. At least they’re smaller, they get lost in the mess of lines.
Four months into his … Jean and Scott rendezvous, he wakes with blood crusted on his face. Ragged lines trail from the center of his forehead down his left temple and cheek. He strips the sheets, grateful that they’re not ripped to hell this time and resolutely doesn’t think about what someone might say. He’ll stay in his room until it’s fully healed. As he scrubs his face with a washcloth, fresh blood oozes out. It wasn’t even fully scabbed?
“Shit…” Logan mutters as he prods at the edges of the wound. Usually the sheer volume of scars obscures which injuries were self-inflicted. But this is too obvious. Jean and Scott are too smart to not put the pieces together. They’ll look at the fresh scars, and the next time he’s naked their eyes will magnetize to the trios of evenly spaced lines that signify the Wolverine’s handiwork.
Jean and Scott are, well, not unscarred, but radiant. Beautiful. Soft in so many places where Logan has nothing but thick bunches of warped flesh. He must scrape at them, his coarse hair and rough skin must create discomfort even when he works at generating pleasure.
It surprises him still, the way Scott or Jean will arch at his touch, their bodies wordlessly demanding more pressure, more caresses. Jean swears as he slips another finger inside her channel, her legs tremble as he rocks them in and out. Her hand lands on his shoulder, tugging him down for a kiss. Scott laces his fingers through Logan’s, smooths his palms over Logan’s torso, traces lines of muscles. He shivers deliciously when Logan licks anywhere on him, long and slow.
Logan wants to sink into them, of course, to trust, to listen to his own body, to seehearsmelltouchtaste , but it’s an irresponsible wish. Every time he catches himself getting too lost in pleasurable sensation, he reels his awareness back in, refocuses on listening to Scott and Jean, gauging reactions, carefully adjusting his grip and the allocation of his weight. He has to stay focused. He has to keep them safe. He has to be aware that anything could go wrong any second.
Jean and Scott are strong, of course, but when he lifts one of their arms or legs he marvels at how light they seem in his hands. Not exactly delicate, but still crushable. Flesh, organs, muscle, bone, all cleave easily when they meet adamantium. Sometimes Logan forcefully shakes his head to ward off visions of blood soaking the bed sheet, dripping down Jean’s calves, pooling on Scott’s stomach, following the curves of the other mutants’ scapulae and down the ridges of their spines.
Logan’s never paid attention so intensely during sex. It makes the entire process exhausting. He still experiences pleasure, of course, but he can’t (shouldn’t) chase his own. It’s all about Scott and Jean. Seeing their eyes flutter, the ripples of ecstasy down each limb, hearing every perfect sound he can elicit from their mouths. Giving, for once in his horrible life, instead of taking. Doesn’t matter if his heart rate spikes from fear when Jean’s telekinesis holds him down. Doesn’t matter if his stomach clenches violently when Scott tugs on his hair. He can ignore it all for them and be their perfect third the whole time.
///
In the dream he’s thrumming with excitement. It’s a beautiful day, he’s laying on a large blanket outdoors with Scott and Jean. The three of them aren’t even fucking, he’s simply nuzzling his face into every inch of the other mutants. Their scents are so strong his mind buzzes with pleasure. Wood and seawater. Oranges and flowers. It feels so right, so safe, to gently kiss and bite at them and hear their sweet surprised gasps of joy. Their hands stroke over his back, down his sides, through his hair. Soft, rumbling purrs reverberate through Logan’s chest as contentment fills him up.
A sudden shift, like a change in wind direction, and he’s on his back now, Jean pinning his legs as she rides his cock while Scott straddles his face, roughly thrusting into his mouth. This is right, this is good, he’s a tool that they use for pleasure. Logan can let himself drift in the lake of sensation as he simply lays there and allows them to take what they want from his body.
The setting morphs again, too quickly, vertigo-inducing. Cold dead air meets his bare skin, no breeze penetrates the walls that spring up. Scott and Jean shove him into a hard metal chair, darkness descends over his vision, any light blocked by the heavy helmet made for a non-human thing. He can hear the two of them laughing as the screws of the device tighten, biting into his scalp and then his skull. He thrashes in the chair, the inflexible restraints cut into his arms and legs. He wakes with a jolt to an empty room and sweat-soaked sheets.
///
Logan doesn’t drink before he has sex with them anymore. The first few times he needed a couple mouthfuls for the placebo confidence that showed up once the liquid hit his stomach. As soon as he put down the bottle, he’d furiously brush his teeth to banish any evidence from his mouth. The pitiful amount of intoxication it brought faded quickly from his system but he still didn’t want either Scott or Jean to taste his reliance on liquor.
The night that made him swear off booze before sex occurred when Jean and Scott invited him to bed after the reception at the wedding of Warren Worthington III and Candy Southern. There’s not many things you can say to get Logan excited. However, two special words always do the trick: Open Bar. It was summer, chilled alcohol was flowing all day long, the sun baked away some rational thought processes, so Logan said yes, the absurd cocktail that ran through his veins nudging his convictions loose. They’d all been graciously assigned rooms at a ridiculously expensive hotel because Warren insisted on a destination wedding in the mountains of Colorado.
Something at the party must’ve flipped a switch in Scott. Summers walks with a domineering stride, guiding the three of them back to his and Jean’s suite. Usually he prefers to hand the reins to the telepath. Today, Scott kisses his wife with a hunger Logan has rarely seen from him before. He walks with a hand around Jean’s waist and the other resting on Logan’s lower spine. The Canadian would be hyper-aware of the touch if not for the buzz covering his thoughts. Instead of paranoia creeping in, he simply accepts the pleasant warmth of Scott’s palm, a low rumble reverberating through his ribs.
Once they pass through the ornate doors, Logan hangs back as Scott and Jean walk further into the suite, shrugging off their shoes and jackets. Jean’s telekinesis removes all the bobby pins holding her complicated up-do in place and her red hair falls over her back in one smooth wave. Logan wants to card his fingers through it. He isn’t sure how long he spends standing there, thinking about the softness of Jean’s hair, skin, soul. Scott’s voice draws his attention back to the present.
“Come here,” Scott commands. Logan approaches, unsure exactly what’s in store yet still awfully eager to shed the restrictive tuxedo and be at the mercy of his… he’d rather not put a word to it. Even while drunk, he isn’t sure what to call this… arrangement.
Scott raises a hand to Logan’s face once he’s close enough. Due to his inebriation, the Canadian’s mind isn’t primed to repress the memory that surfaces: the way Mac would grab him by the jaw with one hand and then slap him sharply with the other, leaving flesh stinging and his lungs gasping for breath. Logan flinches away from the touch, his body convinced that a strike is going to land. He realizes his mistake a moment too late.
Fuck. He’s alert now. Awake and on guard, fighting through the haze of alcohol blurring his system. Logan abruptly leans toward the other mutant’s hand, shoving his face into it, trying to overwrite the way Jean and Scott’s expressions are shifting toward concern. He’s given himself away, that he expects painfearshame when they reach for him sometimes. He doesn’t need or deserve their pity. He’s not here for that. He’s been doing a real bang-up job at keeping his fucked up shit locked deep enough away that they won’t encounter any of it.
“What d’ya want tonight, Scotty?” he asks throatily, playing up the seduction. Scott’s fingers slide along Logan’s jaw and press against his lips. Jean’s eyes trace the movement. The shorter mutant opens his mouth easily to let the digits drift over his teeth and tongue. Anything to make Scott and Jean forget what they just witnessed. Anything to make his intestines stop cramping.
“Lay down on the bed for me,” Scott orders. His voice isn’t exactly the same as in the field, it’s much less urgent, but Logan feels the weight of each word, the expectation of obedience. He allows Scott’s fingers to drop from his mouth and starts to shed his suit, leaving its pieces crumpled on the floor. That’s what dry cleaning is for, he wants to say when he hears Scott sigh. The clarity of stress fades and the floor seems to tilt beneath Logan’s feet as he approaches the mattress. He lays against the ridiculously large stack of pillows, closes his eyes for a moment. When he cracks a lid, Mac and Heather have gotten onto the bed, more undressed than he remembers. Did he seriously drift off to sleep? It was a wedding today. Their wedding today. He shouldn’t be in their marriage bed.
“Earth to Logan?” Jean’s voice dissolves Logan’s thoughts. He blinks. Her face warps in his vision for a moment. Jean rests on all fours above him, Scott kneels behind her. They’re both nude. Their hearts pounding in sync reaches Logan’s ears. How long did his mind wander? The thought makes his blood ice over. He moves to touch her, hands drawn to her skin like he can’t resist.
“One hand on her,” Scott says. His voice is coated with the easy authority of someone used to giving orders. “You’re going to switch places once you make her cum, so give yourself enough time to prepare.” Logan shivers. He lifts a hand to Jean’s lips as Scott begins to thrust and she grants him access, laving her tongue over his calloused fingers.
Once they’re slick enough, he slides his digits down her chest to her pelvis. He bypasses her clit at first to rub two fingers on either side of her cunt as Scott penetrates her. She moans and arches, driving her hips back toward her husband. Logan rolls his fingertips over Jean’s clit as he coaxes her mouth open with his other hand. He could take Scott dry but a little foreplay makes a lot of difference. Fingering himself in this position is somewhat difficult but the first press of his own digit makes his cock twitch. It’s a difficult task to juggle, he barely remembers to prep himself, too focused on making the redhead hit her peak. Every detail of her is perfect, the creased lines of her eyes squeezed shut, the sound of her moans, the way Logan can feel her knees and arms shake as she holds herself up.
Above him, Jean’s breathing devolves into frantic gasping as Scott speeds his hips. Logan rubs his thumb over her clit hard and her hips spasm, first seeking more touch, then away, overwhelmed. Scott presses kisses and loving murmured words to her back as he pulls out. She lays down carefully next to Logan. He kisses her lazily. She smiles and wrinkles her nose when he backs off.
“You taste like whiskey.”
“Wedding’s th’perfect excuse for drinkin’,” he counters.
“Get up here,” Scott interrupts.
“What’s the rush, hotshot?” Logan jabs. He can’t resist. Scott leans down and grabs the other mutant by the meat of his thigh. The touch is possessive in a way that makes something feral in Logan’s mind blaze to life.
“Because I said so.” Logan’s anti-authority streak wants to flip Scott off. At the same time, some repressed part of the animal in him begs to roll onto his belly and spread his legs, to be owned, kept, to belong. He compromises, turning over onto his hands and knees sinuously slowly. Scott grabs Logan by the hips, lines up his dick and pushes in without waiting. The older mutant lets out a low, strangled moan. He definitely should’ve fingered himself more, but the burn tips his brain further into that deep, comfortable space where he wants to curl up like a beast in its den.
“Shit, so tight,” Scott mutters as he bottoms out. Jean’s hand curls around Logan’s cock and he gasps. Her face is close, the way she’s watching him makes his neck burn with embarrassment despite the fact he was in her position mere moments ago. Jean works his dick slowly as Scott begins to rock his hips. The world fuzzes out slowly, first only at the edges of Logan’s vision, then his hearing and touch and smell all become pleasantly dull, muted, jumbled, indecipherable. He’s floating in a warm, calm lake rather than the fighting against cold rough seas his mind often resembles. Noisy running water prompts Logan’s eyes to open, when did they close?
“If seeing Warren gets you in this mood, he should visit more often.” It’s Jean’s voice, leaking out from the ensuite bathroom.
“It’s not him. You insist on kissing him every time we see him.” Scott’s voice comes from the same direction. Sunlight streams in through the window blinds. Morning? Logan pushes himself to sit up. Terrible dryness in his mouth makes him rasp. A headache gleefully begins pounding at the interior of his skull.
“Most of the time he kisses me,” Jean argues. It’s clear they’ve had this discussion many times over. Logan slides off the bed, trying to rustle the bedding as little as possible. What time did they get back last night? How long were they having sex? His memory offers no answers. Out of habit, his eyes scan the bedsheets for any rips or bloodstains. He finds none.
“Well, you could stop him,” Scott grumbles. “We slept with him twice, I don’t think that merits a lifetime of kissing privileges.”
Learning that he isn’t the couple’s first third helps Logan feel a bit more settled somehow. It’s another confirmation that this is not about him; it’s just something the couple likes. Another body in the room to provide warmth and pleasure. Doesn’t matter who it is. He’s simply the closest and most eager participant.
Logan hears the faucet running and the drone of a hair dryer start up and increases his pace, throwing on his shirt unbuttoned, slacks with no belt, dress shoes with no socks, suit jacket slung over his arm. He slips out the door and stands in the hall for a moment, not sure which suite was supposed to be his. He searches his pockets for a key card. When he comes up empty-handed, he sighs, and strides toward the elevator. There better be some damn good continental breakfast in this hotel, he thinks.