Three of Cups

BY : Norvegica
Category: X-men Comics > Threesomes/Moresomes
Dragon prints: 1349
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story

“Clowns. Ugggh,” Logan muttered.

“Logan, you're being very unfair. I've known many clowns in my life-”

Logan made a sarcastic grunt at that point.

“and they are some of the nicest people to know!” Kurt finished.

“...Right. Except for how they are nightmare fuel.”

“You are just terrible,” Kurt shook his head.

“You know it's true. Face it. If I did what I do wearing a red rubber nose, nobody would ever mess with us again because of the nightmares. Quit your laughing. Quit!”

“Why? If you did go around as a clown it would be perfectly logical for me to laugh. At a clown, because that is what you do! You get laughs. Unless you're one of those sad clowns. Like Pagliacci.”

Kurt pursed his lips, thinking.

“I haven't been to the opera in ages!” he realized.

“Sad or not, clowns are not right. Mimes are not right either, but only in that what they do just isn't entertaining. Oh, look, I'm stuck in a box that's not actually there.”

“Logan, you're missing the point.”

“You are not going to give me some Post Modernist bullshit about the deep meaning of the box that isn't there and how it symbolizes nihilist futility. Or something.”

“Never fear,” Kurt guffawed. “I'm just amazed at the expansion in your vocabulary!”

“I read that off of a CD cover.”

“A CD cover?”

“Somebody's a fan of death metal and they leave their stuff laying around in the TV room.”

“Oh. I was wondering why you didn't pronounce 'nihilist' correctly,” Kurt grinned.

“Cripes,” Logan grumbled half-heartedly.

“So you do not find clowns funny. On the contrary, you must have been traumatized by one long ago in your youth. I'm so sorry,” Kurt kissed Logan's cheek in mock comfort.

“They are not funny.”

“And what would qualify as funny? The Three Stooges are more to your taste?”

“No. Don't start-”


Logan didn't know exactly how it happened. All he knew was that within five seconds he was trading slaps with Kurt's tail-spade in classic Three Stooges manner, which was NOT right. Especially given said tail's length and flexibility; the times he did manage to block a slap aimed at his face just meant the tail's momentum would just keep it going around to slap the back of his head.

Kurt was having so much fun that he let his guard down. Which was just what Logan needed, because he grabbed Kurt's tail (Logan knew he would be paying for that later. He just didn't care at that moment) and used it as a convenient restraint while he lunged and simply sat on Kurt.

“Ow! Logan-!”

“Are you going to stop now?” Logan asked, bouncing once and making Kurt gasp for breath.

“You have a problem with humor, Logan, not me. I actually like laughing,” Kurt grinned, refusing to give further hint of discomfort from Logan's inert mass.

“Like laughing, eh?”

Kurt didn't get a chance to reply; Logan reached out and started mercilessly tickling him.

“SCOUNDREL!” Kurt howled, thrashing.

All that struggling didn't do one bit of good; Logan was solidly on him and he knew to keep hold of Kurt's tail; if he let go it would be whipping all over the place with more than enough sting to dislodge him. Or just plain bamfing away. Can't have that.

He tickled Kurt until he got hiccups before stopping.

“You- Hic! Horrid- Hic! Awful- Hic!”

“Well, hey. You said you liked laughing. Just obliging.”

“Ob- Hic! Obliging! Of all- Hic! All the- Hic! Ridicu- Hic!”

Kurt crossed his arms and pouted through his hiccups while Logan laughed and got off of him. Kurt couldn't help it; Logan's good humor left him in good humor and he couldn't hold his pout for long. Logan held him, kissing him, chuckling every time Kurt hiccuped into his mouth.

“I don't think- Hic! Think that kissing- Hic! Stops hiccups.”

“Maybe not. But this feels good anyway.”

“True. Hic!”

They went on and eased into a familiar teasing intimacy, distracting Kurt from the hiccups. Logan whispered something, Kurt laughed and they rolled together on the floor.

At that, a fog folded over them like a blanket in the Waiting Room, obscuring them completely as they willed themselves into privacy.

Kurt Darkholme exhaled the breath he had not known he was holding in the shadows and bamfed away, with no thought but to flee. Why torment yourself this way, he scolded himself. Where did this gluttony for punishment come from?

Time was stretched and suspended in the Waiting Room. He'd been waiting for so long, that it turned into a long sleep where he did not dream. So many of the others from his world shared that sleep that it became all that he knew. And then Management saw fit to call him up. It was so bright! Color, he was drawn again and he was moving again, he was having an adventure! It didn't last; Management seemed only to dust him off, put him through minor paces and then put him right back in the Waiting Room with the others. He had thought that little time on page was lucky; some people never got second chances to shine like that.

But something happened. He didn't know at the time how Management saw fit to make changes, how the stories of others were converging on his and he was pulled again back onto page.

He met another world.

He met Logan.

What is paradise? I have no need of Heaven, for he stands before me.

Kurt barked out an anguished cry from this piece of sentimentality and ran on, bounding on all fours. The Waiting Room felt his need and morphed around him, expanding into a simulacrum of a cityscape from Age of Apocalypse. He leaped and rolled onto a roof and began wall crawling, hurling himself into the air some more, bamfing to keep up his momentum as he swung from railings and lamp posts, dashing along power lines.

He could not help the shock of recognition in Logan's eyes when they met. He couldn't help but be impressed and gratified by the immediate overtures of friendship from Logan. He couldn't help the thrumming interest in his body; the force of Logan's personality had him vibrating like a struck tuning fork.

What he had control over, however, was his damned curiosity.

And he didn't control it.

They all returned to the Waiting Room as a manner of course after the last installment and instead of that gray sleep that used to be his lot, Kurt followed the light of Logan's passage. Management favored him; his colors remained ever bright. Who does he go to see?

He goes to see the doppelganger. Kurt Darkholme's doppelganger.

Kurt skid to a stop at a ledge, curling his tail around his ankles as he crouched and let his thoughts linger.

The other one. He had died. Management made fiat and that was that. Not that it mattered because the other one was serene. The other one smiled. The other one waited for Logan, greeted him with joy and why shouldn't he be joyful? Logan loved him.

He'd been shocked into stillness when he saw the way Logan took the other into his embrace with such ease and how the other returned it with such familiarity. It stunned him, how different their faces became when they started to make love right there, how free and abandoned Logan was as he let himself go with lust and enjoyment. Have I ever looked like the other, Kurt had wondered, unselfconscious while vulnerably naked and even more, completely secure in the knowledge of being desired and desirable? Kurt was sure that he had not, not ever.

He ought to have turned away. It wasn't for him, none of it was, but spying and sneaking in the shadows were too much a part of him and he stayed in hopeless thrall.

This is very wrong, he chastised himself at the time. This is terribly wrong and a fleet of Sentinels could not drive me from this spot.

He watched so that he could remember and torture himself with it afterward; how Logan would lick and suck and growl and bite, how the other made Logan yell and moan with a writhe, a scratch, a squeeze, a shimmy.

And the worst, the most delectable torment of all; seeing them drowsy and content together after and hearing the softest murmurs:



Kurt squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered. It was supposed to only have been that one time. One time, and he could lie to himself and say it was an accident. More, more, and now it was obsession.

The prickling feeling of being sneaked up upon shivered up his spine and he whirled, drawing his sword.


It was like looking into a mirror, only he'd never, he was also very sure, had such a quizzical expression on his face.

“This was all such a fascinating Room manifestation. I was exploring and wondering who made it and here you are.”

Darkholme's silence was beginning to unnerve Kurt.

“Am I bothering you?” he asked solicitously.

“How conveniently accurate,” Darkholme's fangs showed.

And that was all the warning Kurt got before he had to bamf away from a slash towards his throat. He reappeared on the next roof over.

“Bad day?” he called out.

Darkholme just bamfed right at him sword first and Kurt parried with a sword of his own that the Room manifested for him.

“Very bad day,” Kurt concluded.

Kurt Darkholme had never met his equal for swordsmanship in his world. There was a cynical assumption that since the other died, it must have been from a lack of skill. That was a pretty large assumption on his part, as Kurt Wagner may be more of a pacifist by far, but he certainly wasn't a member for show with the X-Men.

Darkholme was stymied; he knew it was too risky to have the both of them teleporting and he had to keep himself in check lest they tried to occupy the same space at the same time.

He didn't know what would happen when two teleporting bodies tried to occupy the same space. He didn't want to find out.

So it was pure blade work and deft footwork now and they ranged across that rooftop, Wagner with an infuriatingly bemused expression on his face the whole time and Darkholme barely keeping from sinking from his low of petty displeasure into the greater low of downright murderousness.

He's good, Darkholme had to admit. There was a battle hardened flavor to Wagner's style even though there was much classical formality and even some completely extraneous flourishes that were for nothing more but... show? Absurd.

Yet, he could gain no permanent advantage. His pride kept him at it, making him take risks he would not normally take.

He's good, Wagner smiled from the realization of it. It was very clear why Logan liked this counterpart. He didn't retreat because this was much more fun, much more earnestly dangerous than any simulation. It was thrilling.

He was beginning to feel his arm protest, though, as much as he'd like to prolong the duel. It also looked like his counterpart was not about to quit the onslaught in addition to being upset.

Wagner sighed inwardly at the inconvenience of fatigue.

“Would it- Would it be very foolish of me to concede?” he called out. “I'd like to, please, but you still seem to want my head off my shoulders and I would rather it stay where it is.”

The sheer politeness of it made Darkholme pause.

“...It doesn't matter. You've won, anyway. Where it counts.”

He stepped back and turned away.

“Won't you visit us? Please, I'd like that,” Wagner blurted out before Darkholme could bamf away.

When Wagner saw the way Darkholme's tail was rollercoastering, he knew that his invitation was being considered.


“Yes, Logan and I. Things aren't so peaceful on page and we thought that you'd like to be more comfortable while waiting here. I had wanted to meet you before, Logan's told me so much about you-”

That made Darkholme wince.

“We have cake!” Wagner hastily put out his last bargaining chip.

“Anybody could, if they want,” Darkholme shrugged. “The Waiting Room makes it if you want hard enough.”

“You'll forgive me if I brag. But I wish up the best cake. So you must visit and have a taste.”

Darkholme made a vague twitch of his tail.

“I'll think about it,” he said before bamfing away.

Kurt Darkholme returned to his own private space within the Waiting Room. A place of safety. A place of sleep.

It was, in short, a replica of the interior of a converted attic where Mystique had hidden him in his childhood. The only other options for the Waiting Room to become for him were variants of Magneto's safehouses; there were no real happy memories from those.

He curled under the covers of his old bed.

It was in the attic where Mystique gave him his first lessons in fighting; she faced his lack of inheriting her shapeshifting with practicality. She rued the constraints of needing him hidden and in silence, for she had dearly wanted to make him a marksman after her own skill with firearms. She made do by handing him a choice of blades and going off to learn what she could of fencing so that she could return and teach him herself.

He remembered her pride at his progress and his natural affinity with the sword.

“We'll make a proper killer of you yet!” she'd crowed when he first succeeded in disarming her.

She was rapturous, so relieved when he first teleported. It was just before the date of one of his birthdays, but it was so momentous that she rushed off after hugging him and returned with a cake.

“I wished for powers that would keep you safe,” she'd murmured as she arranged the candles. “My wish came true. Now you make a wish, Kurt. Don't tell, or else it won't come true.”

That cake. It was the best cake in his memory. It was practically the only one. It tasted sweet and good and it seemed like the world was opening up for him with possibilities. Mystique had told him so much about the world outside and now he would get to experience it for himself. That even though it was dangerous for mutants, with his power he was now more than formidable enough to go out and enter her line of work. They would carve out a niche in the mercenary field and take on all comers, she would teach him all she knew about the underworld and they would be the most prosperous, formidable, dangerous team around.

Kurt smiled just a little as he remembered how Mystique chattered freely that evening, making sneering remarks about one or another influential crime lord and regaling him with tales of double-crosses, close calls, and the heists and stunts that made one rich and even better, notorious.

He closed his eyes and opened them again. A cake, the memory of that cake, was sitting on his nightstand. He reached out and scooped a dollop of frosting off, bringing it to his mouth.

The taste was there, yes, the memory of it. But it had been so long. It was like tasting fog. He tried another bit of frosting and he could make it no more vivid than that. The memory was just simply too remote.

He turned over in bed and the Waiting Room made the cake disappear.

He didn't want any more of that gray, he resolved. Even if it pained him to be merely a friend or worse, just stand in for the other in Logan's regard while on page, at the least Logan saw him. Logan spoke to him, Logan had his back in battle.

Logan wanted him as a guest in their sector of the Waiting Room.

Logan thought of him.

He wasn't going to refuse.

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