Archive of Our Own

It started, the first time, in the woods surrounding the Mansion. Far before it was ever the Jean Grey School, back when the Gifted Youngsters of its title was closer to including Kurt and his friends than any of the following generations of students it would eventually hold. They were unable to run drills in the Danger Room because Kitty—newly a part of the team, still going by Sprite, but less nervous of Kurt now that she had been possessed by a future version of herself who held him in loving regard—had lured an enormous alien monstrosity into and then through it, and it was, as it so often would be, in shambles. Kurt and Logan would spend weeks repairing it, working together in an easy comradery that still felt new on Kurt’s skin, not quite settled into its eventual shape, familiar as breathing.

But here, crouched on a branch in the gathering dark, Kurt felt every shift on the night air in his fur. He had excellent night-vision, and could easily pick out the prowling shape below, but just being able to see him didn’t really reduce the buzzing awareness in his ears. He narrowed his gaze, watching the way Wolverine moved, the shifting of his muscle beneath his skin. 

Kurt had grown up in the circus, and he'd known strong men, as well as Strong Men. They were all of Piotr's type—their bodies powerful of course, but a self-conscious power, contained and on display. They all had an almost polished look to them, as if their muscles had been carefully painted on, or cast from burnished bronze.

Wolverine, though he was as strong or stronger than the men Kurt had known, had none of that polish, and none of the self-consciousness, either. All of his strength was—focused, purposeful, dangerously confident. His very frame seemed to pull him forward toward whatever goal he was pursuing, whatever prey he was hunting. He was all rippling lines converging on a single vanishing point, set by the sweep of his gaze and the scent on the air.

Currently, that point was Kurt, a thought that made his pulse quicken in something close to but not entirely fear. He licked his lips, tempted to laugh aloud at himself, and then, impossibly, Wolverine vanished.

Kurt blinked, twisted to scan the other half of the forest thicket, then the treetops around him. Had he just leapt, faster than Kurt could see? But long moments passed, and Kurt’s knees began to ache. He shifted position, then sighed and curled the mental fist of his mutant power, twisting whatever metaphysical handle or doorknob existed in some interior place, not quite mind nor body, an aspect of soul that Kurt could not yet understand. The familiar rush hit his ears, and then the bamf of displaced air as he was no longer in the treetops but crouched against the silent forest floor.

Silent for only a moment, because suddenly the bushes to his left shifted, and Wolverine flung himself outward, fist-first, into Kurt’s chest. He pulled the blow, claws sheathed, but it was still enough to knock the breath from Kurt’s body. He ended up on his back, one of Wolverine’s hands on his shoulder, pressing him down into the soft earth. Wolverine’s knees were bracketing his hips, and Kurt sought to meet his eyes through his mask as he pulled back his free hand, claws shining. He tried to gather his wits enough to curl his soul-fingers again, get out of the way of what would clearly be a fatal blow, and found that he was prevented not only from the blow to his chest but also by his own conflicting drive. He didn’t want to move. There was a delicious edge to this helplessness, to being butterfly-pinned by Logan’s singular attention. He wanted to trust—that Logan was his friend, fast becoming his best on the team, and would never hurt him; that if he could see through the opaque whiteness over his eyes there might be mirrored enjoyment there, maybe even mirrored pleasure.

“Game’s over, elf,” Wolverine growled, “an’ you lose.” 

He slammed his fist forward, and despite both his trust and his desire Kurt cried out, “Wolverine—don’t!”

Impossibly sharp, unbreakable claws sank into the soft loam next to his ear, and Kurt let his body go loose with relief, staring up at his friend.

“Shucks,” said Wolverine, his rounded Canadian drawl in full force, “I missed.” He was smirking, his wide mouth smug, and when he sat back he ran the knuckles of the hand he’d been using to hold Kurt down along the curve of his side—his chest, his ribs—before offering him a hand up. 

Kurt took it, biting his lip, tempted to just flip them over right here and see what happened.

But Wolverine dropped his hand and shook his head. “I scared you, didn’t I?” he asked, quieter. “Serves you right, Kurt, after making a dumb move like that.”

He rarely addressed Kurt by his name rather than “elf” or “‘Crawler”, and it broke Kurt out of his daydreams so he could meet him on this rare, more serious level. “I should have stayed in the trees,” he acknowledged. 

“No foolin’,” Wolverine said drily.

“Your disappearance rattled me,” Kurt said, pushing himself to his feet, and Wolverine stood, as well. "How did you do that, Logan? I never took my eyes off you.”

The corner of his friend’s mouth twitched downward just for a moment, and Kurt worried he’d crossed a line using his name—it had been revealed to him in the same sideways, accidental way as everything else he knew about his friend, and while he’d shrugged it off— you never asked— when Kurt inquired as to why he’d never revealed it himself, Kurt had a sense this was pretense, covering his genuine reluctance to be known. Then again, he’d invited Kurt north with him to make amends with his Canadian friends, and now, before Kurt could ask about it, he restored his smug expression and slung a companionable arm around his shoulders, launching into a story about his time in Japan and how many cases of beer Kurt owed him for his “victories” in their sparring sessions.

When they reached the warm brightness of the entryway to the mansion, Wolverine let his hand fall from Kurt's back, giving the waiting figure of Ororo a nod. She nodded back, looking distracted, and then said, "if I could speak to you for a moment."

Wolverine pulled the hood of his costume back from his face and ran a hand through his distinctive points of hair. "Sure," he said, and let her draw him aside. 

Kurt lingered a moment, but from the low, urgent way Ororo was speaking it could be a long conversation. Feeling foolishly disappointed, he drifted up the stairs. 

On the landing he felt eyes on him and turned. Wolverine had shifted so that he was facing him, though he was still listening to Storm, and when Kurt met his gaze he blinked, slowly, the weight of his attention sweeping from Kurt's face to the tips of toes and back up. 

Kurt smirked, all his disappointment disappearing, and teleported away.

+

Their impromptu training exercises continued. Often Storm had them do group training, which Kurt did enjoy - he was especially glad to get the chance to cement Kitty's comfort with him, and her friendship, and in fact every chance to get to know any of his team members was welcome. Even with Angel’s discomfort with Logan—and Logan’s open disdain for the senior X-Man—they grew closer as day by day. More than a team, they were becoming a family.

But there was a specific thrill in the exercises that were he and Wolverine alone, or as alone as they could be on a campus watched over by such a powerful telepath. There was nothing so overt as that lingering glance over his body that first night, but occasionally there would be touches--just in passing, like that first slide of knuckles along his side. Fingers at his jaw after a fight, as if checking for bruises. A hand curled around Kurt's bicep for just too long.

He gave as good as he got, and he had to admit that his power set gave him an advantage on the unnecessary-touching front. Half the time he teleported in behind Logan it was just to run a hand down his spine or twitch fingers at the nape of his neck or, once, daringly, press a kiss to his cheek; and every time they truly grappled Kurt made sure to press as much of his body against Logan’s as possible under the pretense of attempting to pin or otherwise restrain him, only to bamf away as soon as Logan attempted to get a hand on him. 

This backfired, of course, and finally Logan managed to pin him for real, his hands around Kurt’s wrists against the wall of the danger room, bracketing him with his whole body as if it would impede his ability to teleport. Kurt grinned at him. “Well,” he said, breathing hard, “now that you have me, what do you plan to do with me?”

Logan barely hesitated, nostrils flaring as he leaned in, their noses brushing, and Kurt—too aware of the danger room’s recording devices, and too possessed of a mischievous spirit even if he hadn’t been—twisted himself through the rushing nothing and back to his bedroom just as their mouths touched.

He had no intention of making Logan wait long, though. He stripped himself out of his costume and showered, quickly, drying himself briskly. Ignoring his half-hard cock and his clothes both, he picked up a six-pack of beer he’d kept around for this very purpose and snuck, impossibly quietly, through the Mansion. He could have teleported, but it would have defeated the purpose of showering in the first place, and anyway, everyone else was out; they had, for once, been left to their own devices.

Logan was sitting at the desk in his rooms. He hadn’t showered, but he’d traded his yellow-and-black spandex for a plain white t-shirt and jeans, and he had an open beer on the table in front of him. His brows were drawn, his gaze heavy. He looked like the antihero in a Western, missing nothing but the black cowboy hat.

He looked up as Kurt slid through the door, no doubt warned by a dozen of his sense despite Kurt’s objectively excellent capacity for stealth, and his eyes widened.

Kurt licked his lips, his heart beating hard in his chest as Logan’s eyes caught on his mouth. “Logan.”

Logan’s throat visibly bobbed. “Elf.”

Kurt stepped toward him, a deliberate sway to his steps, lifting the six-pack in his hand. “A small payment toward my monumental debt.”

Logan reached out, and Kurt thought he would take the beer, but he ran his fingers up the back of Kurt’s hand to curl around his wrist instead.

“You use scented soap to hide it,” said Logan slowly, “but you still smell of sulfur.”

Kurt flushed, glad his skin and fur hid it well, and set the beer on the table as best he could without dislodging Logan’s grip. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It—”

Logan shook his head and pulled him in so Kurt was standing between his knees. “I like it,” he admitted. “Being surrounded by it whenever you fuckin’ jump in to tease me has me like,” he paused. “That scientist. With the dog.”

“Pavlov?” Kurt asked, unable to keep his delight out of his voice, or resist the urge to squirm a little when Logan wrapped his arms around him.

“That’s the one,” Logan said, and buried his face in Kurt’s stomach, breathing him in. Kurt ran his hands up and down his back, savoring the heat of his skin, keyed up and turned on and a little wondering. This was slower than he’d expected to go, but he found he didn’t mind at all.

“I also like it,” Logan said, nudging up Kurt’s chest, close enough to Kurt’s heart he could surely hear it thundering, “because it always lets me find you.”

Kurt snorted. “And that way you win more beers from me, ja?”

There was a pause, just barely too long, and then Logan said, “yeah,” and sank his teeth into Kurt’s collarbone.

Kurt moaned, repositioning slightly and letting himself sink down onto Logan’s lap, and Logan’s hands gripped his ass, pulling him impossibly closer. He was already embarrassingly hard, months of tension turning every nerve in his body into hyperdrive, and he took a moment to acknowledge that part of the thrill was the contrast, too. It was exhilarating, being completely naked while Logan was still fully clothed, clean while Logan smelled intoxicatingly of sweat; the denim of his jeans pleasantly course against the underside of Kurt’s thighs, the soft fabric of his t-shirt trapped between their chests. He wanted his hands all over Logan’s skin, but on the other hand there was something incredibly hot about the idea of wrecking him entirely and then leaving him here, still clothed, as if nothing had happened.

Kurt wrapped his tail around Logan’s throat, using it to pull his head back, gentle but not too gentle, and tilt his jaw up. Logan went gratifyingly still—all that power, waiting —and Kurt leaned down, grinding his hips down into Logan’s covered dick and kissing him hard at the same time. 

Logan growled against his mouth. Kurt grinned, lips parting, and Logan’s parted in response, their kiss turning wet and filthy. Logan fumbled between them, undoing his belt one-handed, and Kurt grabbed his hand and put it back on his hip, taking over. He broke from Logan’s mouth, breathing hard, and slipped two of his fingers between Logan’s lips where his tongue had just been. Logan nipped at them, teeth sharp, and Kurt bit at his jaw in response, his own small fangs enough to draw blood.

Logan sucked hard at his fingers, as if in thanks for the pain, and then laughed, low and rough. Kurt pulled his hand away and loosened his tail enough to let him talk. “Y’wanna measure canines?” Logan asked, breathless, as if it were the funniest thing in the world, his hips still twisting up against Kurt’s thighs in want of stimulation. “Y’know, since we’re already measuring di—”

Kurt rolled his eyes and cut him off by wrapping his hand around them both, gratified that Logan was as hard as he, if not harder, the spit on his hand almost unnecessary as they both grew slicker with pre-cum. Logan ran his hands up and down his back, gripping and releasing him seemingly at random, his breath harsh. Kurt kept kissing him and then losing the plot of it, thrusting into his own palm, and then one of Logan’s hands joined his and they were rocking together. Logan kept letting out little grunts and half-curses, mostly in English but occasionally, to Kurt’s fascination, in Japanese, and Kurt nipped and licked at his mouth like he could eat them and through eating them, know.

He felt he did, or was learning to, somehow, incredibly—so much of Logan was physical, and every moment contained a hundred new things he understood, little pieces that he wouldn’t be able to assemble for years but that he gathered up eagerly. He’d had been wrong, he thought, when he compared Logan to the Strong Men of his circus youth. He may not be polished, or self-conscious, but he was always, always holding on to his strength, keeping it tightly wound in the curve of his spine. It was made so clear in all the ways he held himself, here, in this heated intimate space.

The way he trembled, as if trying to keep all movement to himself. The way he refused to close his eyes, like he was collecting things, too, like he needed to be watching, the way his gaze swallowed Kurt up almost more than the loose circle of his hand, than his mouth on Kurt’s skin. The way he curled forward, almost protective, just before he came. 

Kurt wrapped his free hand around his shoulders, clawing him desperately close, and murmured, “Go on then, mein freund. Let me see you lose control.”

Logan spat a broken “ fuck, ” against his cheekbone, surging up and nearly sending them both tumbling from the chair. Kurt wrapped one foot and his tail around the legs of desk, keeping them steady, all gymnast’s instinct, his brain lost in heat and need. A few more thrusts, his own body taught and shaking, and Logan kissed him through it, slow and thorough and insistent, until they were both a boneless tangle of limbs.

When either of them could move again Logan stripped off his shirt, using it in a half-hearted attempt to clean them up, and then tossed it into the corner of his room. Kurt thought about climbing off his lap and then thought better of it, instead just turning so he was sideways, his ass perched on one of Logan’s thighs, his feet dangling over the arm of the chair, and reached out with a languid tail to bring the six-pack closer to them.

It would be a long time before they did this again, a longer time before they put words to any of it. But this was the first time, and there was something forged, here; the steel supports of a structure that would one day see death and life and unimaginable loss and still continue to stand.

Logan popped a single claw and used it to open two beers. “To you, elf,” he said, “for a hell of a ride.”