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"Midnight Snack" Bobby/Logan [NC-17]

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  • Violet
    Title: Midnight Snack Author: Violet Feedback: Always - good, bad, gracious or blunt. Disclaimer: Please don t sue me, Mr. Claremont. Archive: Yes please. You
    Message 1 of 1 , Apr 2, 2005
      Title: Midnight Snack
      Author: Violet
      Feedback: Always - good, bad, gracious or blunt.
      Disclaimer: Please don't sue me, Mr. Claremont.
      Archive: Yes please. You don't even have to ask. Proper credit is all
      I ask in return.
      Rating: NC-17
      Pairing: Bobby/Logan
      Summary: The "calm before the storm" moment in X2 before the nighttime
      invasion of the mansion . . . in another reality.


      In another reality, it's just a late night at Xavier 's. Kids asleep,
      security system silently humming. There's no army of goons outside.
      Just Bobby, unable to sleep.

      He's been staring at the ceiling for over an hour now. Funny how you
      can't just will yourself to sleep. The mind's got to turn off, become
      susceptible to the seduction of the beta waves. It's like willing an
      erection. Like he's got any trouble there, too. You try dating a girl
      you can't touch. See how long you last. See how well you can sleep.

      Someone's up –he can hear the TV downstairs, see the cathode ray
      flicker lighting the staircase. His room's only a few feet from the
      grand balustrade. Isn't there ice cream in the fridge? The night air
      doesn't bother him, but he pulls on a t-shirt for modesty's sake.
      He'll never admit it, but he's still shy about his body. Too young, he
      thinks. Too skinny. No hair, except for a rough little happy trail of
      blonde ants down the flat below his navel. At least his shoulders are
      broadening, he thinks. He's seen the change in the past year. He's
      lost his puppy fat. After doing the compulsory training for a year,
      he's no gymnast, but he's getting there. He can feel the knot of his
      tricep when he tightens his arm, can see the tendons twitch in his
      forearm like the inner workings of a piano when he wiggles his
      fingers. It's harder to lay his hand flat on his shoulder, the lump of
      his biceps gets in the way. He can run faster and jump higher than he
      did a year ago –how much of that is the training and how much is his
      growth spurt he'll never know. Still, seeing Peter in the locker room
      after Danger Room practice - that can give a guy a complex. He checks
      the front of his boxers –no escapees –and heads downstairs.

      That strange kid is still up, flicking his TK at the TV. Bobby pays
      him no mind and heads into the kitchen, snapping on the light. It
      feels good to stick his hand in the fridge. It's not like he sweats
      everywhere he goes, but cold is a balm to him –the prick of icy air
      feels like a cashmere scarf and sets his neurons a-firing. He cups his
      hot palms around the pint of ice cream for a minute and savors the
      chill. The first spoonful on his tongue is even better. To feel that
      ice going down his throat and radiating through his core is utterly
      satisfying. And it's French vanilla, too –yum. He takes another
      mouthful and raises the carton to the nape of his neck. The chill goes
      right down to his balls.

      He's about to take another mouthful when he realizes Logan is standing
      in the door frame. Jesus Christ, that guy is good on sneaking up on
      you. It must be awfully hard to creep up on someone in cowboy boots.

      "Hey", says Bobby.

      "Hey", Logan says. His voice is a rumble. His eyes make quick flits to
      the four corners of the room, like a cat checking the all-clear before
      stepping over the threshold. "Doesn't anyone sleep around here?"

      "Not tonight. "

      "Got anything to drink?"

      "This is a school. "He points to the upper cupboard. Logan reaches in
      and takes out a warm longneck soda. Bobby can see the distaste wrinkle
      his lip for a second.

      Logan ponders for a moment, then hands Bobby the bottle. He knows just
      what to do.
      One breath from him animates the soda. He feels it grow frosty in his
      hands. He hands it back to Logan, locking eyes. Bobby thought his eyes
      were an appropriate ice blue but he can see Logan 's are an arctic
      color unforeseen, and the intensity of their gaze is known probably
      only also by small defenseless mammals, right before doom is upon
      them. He swallows hard and tries not to show it. He wasn't scared when
      he first met Logan, just the usual meeting-the-folks nervousness. But
      here, in the kitchen, the whole world dark outside . . . it is

      Logan's a killer. Bobby knows this. Wrapped inside the sinew of his
      arms are blades that have tasted blood many times. All it takes is a
      flick of a neuron and death shoots out of Logan's knuckles with
      frightening, unflinching speed. Bobby can't stop staring at those
      knuckles as Logan reaches for the soda. It's like having a gun muzzle
      in your face. It's like taking lunch from the jaws of a Doberman.

      Bobby can 't stop thinking this, and yet, twisted up in this morbid
      fascination is something else, something alien and unsettling but
      seductive, a little twisted notion screwing deep into the reptile part
      of his brain. He can't put a finger on it. But his eyes follow Logan's
      hand –Jesus, he's got big hands –up his wrists, up his scarless arms,
      as he drinks deep from the bottle and settles himself on the stool
      with panther-like efficiency. That must be what it is. He moves
      –fluidly. Effortlessly. Every muscle pulling its share. He is no brain
      in a jar. He's physical.

      This realization stirred something deep in him. He adored Marie –she
      was sweet, and pretty, and full of Southern gentility that he found
      totally enchanting –but one thing she is not, is physical. Not just
      that he couldn't kiss her or touch her or anything (as if that wasn't
      making him crazy enough) but there was nothing about her that
      preferred silk over wool . . . or the cleansing properties of a long
      jog . . . or even the icy delight of a swallow of French vanilla ice
      cream. It was as if she had rejected every sensual delight her skin
      could offer. She had left her body alone inside its numbed shell and
      settled for a bloodless existence, a platonic relationship with
      everything the physical world could offer.

      And how could he explain that to her? How could he articulate what
      it's like to be 17, to have a body that demands you to move and fuck
      and jump and fight, now, now, NOW? How could she ever understand the
      perineum-to-crown rush of reaching out into the air and making the
      molecules of water vapor vibrate with delight, tremor themselves into
      crystalline mandalas, millions upon millions of specks of vapor locked
      in tantric embrace? For her, a mutation was a layer of gauze between
      her and the physical world. For him, it was the extension of his
      sensual self into infinity.

      And here he was, alone in the kitchen with a man who was nothing but
      nerve and impulse and fast and slow twitch muscle. And it was
      intoxicating. It was making French vanilla ice cream uninteresting by

      "So you and Rogue, huh?" Logan must have been reading his thoughts.

      "Yeah." It's hard to get close to someone you want so badly. "

      Logan's intense gaze hardened slightly.

      "I mean, look at you and Jean Grey. "

      "Excuse me?" Logan put his drink down. Bobby felt a rush of naughty
      delight. He had hit a nerve. He had intended to. Logan wanted Jean -
      badly. Anyone could see that. Probably making him as crazy with blind
      frustration as Bobby was right about now over Marie.

      "Must be pretty frustrating." Slide it home.

      In one lightning move Logan stepped over to deep inside Bobby's
      personal space. Bobby gulped hard. Standing over him, a full two heads
      taller than him, was not a relaxing place to be the subject of
      Wolverine's gaze. He was close enough to smell him –aftershave and
      sweat and cigar smoke and leather and the clean laundry scent of his
      white tank top. His hot breath rained down on him. I 'm sure he can
      smell me too, he thought.

      "Listen . . . boy," Logan began, his words tight with menace, "if you
      got speculations about me and Jean . . . keep them to yourself." Bobby
      was close enough to feel the heat coming off his chest. A warm ache
      was growing deep in his belly and moving south. Who would have
      thought? An average white boy, who likes sweet Southern Belles, was
      actually getting hot over this man-animal ready to skin him alive? The
      deep pleasurable ache in his pants swept away any doubt. I deserve
      this, he thought. I've had blue balls over Marie for who knows how
      long. At this point, I don't care. I'm young, dumb and full of cum. I
      don't care if I die in the process, I just want to get fucked and I 'm
      not feeling picky anymore.

      As this thought rose up an intense calm invaded his mind. Total
      surrender. His skin tingled and he could feel his erection heading
      skyward inside the waistband of his boxers. God, even the elastic felt
      good rubbing against the tender spot on the underside. He looked up
      with supernatural calm at Logan's glare. Locking eyes with him, he
      reached out slowly to the crotch of Logan's jeans and dragged his
      fingers, front to back, pressing his palm against the denim around his

      "I think I understand," he said.

      You could see the confusion flit across Logan's face for a moment,
      only to soften and his lip tremble and his nostrils flare. Bobby felt
      Logan's dick jump under the zipper of his jeans. It must feel good.
      Did it really matter that he was the one doing it? He tiptoed his
      fingers up to the western-style buckle on Logan's belt and started
      creeping around the edge to find the mechanism that held it together.
      Bobby looked up into Logan's eyes. They were almost half-closed and
      rolling up towards the back of his head when they suddenly snapped
      open and locked with his.

      "No. "

      Logan's hand clapped around Bobby's wrist and tore it away from his
      belt. In a flash Bobby's hand was behind his back and oh my God, did
      it hurt. Logan smashed him into the kitchen table, bent over at the
      waist, his stomach flat on the table surface. Logan behind him,
      pinning him down. That unforgettable sickening SNIKT of metal on bone
      and Bobby was looking at three cold blades in his face.

      "I don't play that, bub. You got that? "

      "Ow. OW! I 'm sorry! Hey, stop, stop. Stop. Please listen to me.
      Please. "

      Logan, amazingly, stopped. Breathing hard, in the silence, he let
      Bobby talk.

      "Look, ok, I 'm 17. I 'm horny as hell. I can't even hold my
      girlfriend's hand. I've been going crazy for about a year. I know you
      have been too. I know you want Jean so bad it makes your bones ache.
      Believe me –"he was practically crying now –"I know how it feels. "

      Logan was silent.

      "Tell me why I shouldn't just kill you now. " he said.

      "Because I know you want it too. "


      "Look . . . I promise. "He wiggled free and turned to face Logan, his
      back on the kitchen table. He stared into those cold wolf eyes.

      "No one will ever know."

      Logan stared at him, for much too long to be comfortable.

      Then he let Bobby go. Bobby took a deep breath and raised himself up
      on his elbows, back still on the kitchen table.

      Then Logan crossed the room and walked out the door.

      Bobby lay there on the table. The pint of ice cream was still on the
      counter, metal spoon melting an indentation. The kid was still
      watching TV in the other room. The channels flicked by in rapid

      Bobby heard Wolverine's voice speak, low and inaudible. The TV flicked
      off. He heard the stomp stomp stomp of a kid's footsteps going up the
      stairs. A door upstairs slammed.
      Then footsteps, long and solid, heading back to the kitchen.

      Logan appeared in the kitchen doorway. Bobby stared at him.

      Logan flicked off the light.

      In the instant before his eyes adjusted Bobby was set upon by an
      animal force. It grabbed him and forced his back to the table, big
      hands fumbling under his shirt. Bobby smelled musk, smoke, heard the
      panting growl in his ear.

      "Flip over," it said.

      Before he could obey hands grabbed his slender hips and wrestled him
      onto his stomach, yanking his boxers to his ankles. Big biceps wrapped
      around his neck in a chokehold, pinning him to the table. Flesh and
      fur all over his back, his neck, his bare ass. He heard a zipper.

      And then, oh my god, yes, no, oh shit what have I gotten myself into,
      he could feel the deep pressure of Logan's cock sliding in the crack
      of his ass, pre-cum wet on the tip, and just as he was having some
      serious second thoughts about this Logan pushed inside him and he was
      totally consumed by utter searing ripping pain, a sensation that shot
      out of the top of his skull. He squirmed and tried to get free but
      there was no way, Logan had him seriously pinned and grabbed him by
      the shoulders and Bobby could feel his ass up against Logan 's hard
      hips and Logan was fucking him now, hard and MUCH TOO BIG cock reaming
      out his insides, too deep, too fast, too hard. The first crack of pain
      was subsiding but the strange wrongness of the sensation persisted . .
      . and then something novel, a deep satisfying ache, oooh, yes,
      something sweet, a-ha! Bobby's once dead hard-on was making
      reappearance at this new, thick, taffy-pull drag. He raised his hips
      up a little to meet him and -

      "Ohhhhhh . . . Bobby moaned.

      Logan clamped a hand over his mouth. "Shhh . . ."he hissed.

      Bobby's tongue sought out Logan's thumb and gave it a long slow suck.

      Oh my God, yes, now it was fine, now it was utterly deep and sweet and
      ohhhhhh . . . Bobby wondered if he could ever talk Marie into doing
      this to him. She wouldn't have to touch him. His cock was bumping
      against the lower edge of the table now. He spit into his hand and
      wrapped his palm around the burning head. Waves of indescribable bliss
      swept over him. More –and more- and -



      Sticky cum dripped from between his fingers and splattered on the tile
      on the kitchen floor. He was in such an opiated daze he didn't feel
      Logan getting harder and harder but he felt the last two thrusts and
      in a jellied haze he felt the splurt inside his ass and the sudden
      cold vacancy and heavy warm feeling somewhere up by his prostate.

      "Clean this up, "he thought he heard someone far away say, and then
      the lights flicked back on and he saw Logan 's back, exiting the room,
      buttoning up his fly. Footstomps up the stairs and silence again.

      Bobby looked around. He was naked. His boxers were around one ankle.
      Three chairs were knocked over. His ass was delightfully sore. And,
      looking like the streak of cum making its way down to the inside of
      his knee, was French vanilla ice cream, melted and all over the floor.
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