Manly? Yes, But I Like It Too

BY : WolvieRules88
Category: X-men Comics > Slash - Male/Male
Dragon prints: 2285
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel or its characters, nor do I make any money off of them.

This story is a response, written with the author's permission, to a story entitled Spray Evenly Until Slightly Damp, by Azurine. You can find her excellent work at Azurine's Archive, or at An Archive of Our Own.

Manly? Yes, But I Like It Too

Who would have guessed that a stop at Girshwin's to unwind, refuel and mull over the last few months insane events would end with him shot six ways to Sunday, holding his own steaming, stinking guts in his hands?

That blonde had duped him. Easily, if he was honest about it. Sashayed through the door like she owned the place, talking him up, offering to buy his lunch. Admiring his so-called 'hero' status. Like she knew coming in he was distracted, vulnerable, even, to her attention. She smelled of wood smoke, musk, and steely determination. Golden hair and blazing eyes, just what the shrink ordered. He'd bet a c-note that behind closed doors she was just as volatile as Red had been... Logan groaned softly, scrubbing at his face, recoiling from the memory of the damage he'd inflicted on Jean's soul. For surely that was what he'd done, with his twisted loyalties, and equally twisted desires.

Just what kind of sad, despicable fuck was he? The worst, no doubt about it.

Maybe it was fate, maybe it was what he deserved, after his big deception. After his attempts to screw everyone over. Xavier remained alive and well. But Scott had paid a nearly fatal price. Logan was glad Scott had made it, as well as Charles, relieved he wasn't sitting here now listening to their dismal, dead voices whispering inside his head, accusing, judging. Condemning.

He was accomplishing all that quite well by himself.

Blondie here would be a welcome distraction, help to wash that bitterness from his mouth. Help him to forget, at least for a while, and move on.

It wasn't until the diner'd gone completely silent that he pulled himself out of his ruminations and realized she'd slipped away, apparently along with the cook. The place was deserted. Best thing would have been to beat it the hell out of there too but he was still caught up in his rather desperate imaginings. The taste of her mouth, the feel of her breasts. He went to the window to part the dusty blinds, realizing instantly it was a stupid move and far too late to rectify when the doors of three white vans slammed open and the whole damn world exploded with machine-gun fire.

He was hit, pummeled, dancing crazily as round after round slammed into him and through him, ripping chunks of flesh from his body, ringing repeatedly off his metal skull. On and on it went, an endless barrage of lead and pain. The roar of the vans tearing away was his respite for with the cessation of bullets his strings were cut and he fell to the floor, momentarily unable to do anything but lie on his back and groan and bleed.

Alarmed voices calling out in the street helped to pull him out of his stupor, reminding him he had to get out before he was scooped up by a waiting accomplice or hauled to the hospital by some do-gooder citizen where surely he would be found and finished off. He crawled to his knees and after an unsteady moment onto his feet, slipping in puddled blood, one hand pressing against a great wet hole in his belly. Trying not to think too much about what his innards would do if he took his hand away. Somehow he negotiated the diner's cramped kitchen, found the back door.

He needed a safe place to pass out. To heal. Sooner rather than later. The parking lot and back alley were tilting crazily and he flung out a hand--the one not already occupied--to anchor himself. What city was this, where the hell was he... God, yes. New York. Okay. He struggled to dredge up the street corners nearest this shit-hole eatery, and made his way up the trash-strewn alley.

Found it eventually, after an interminable, hellish walk, fraught with stray pedestrians and a trio of ribby mongrels intent on sampling his leaking flesh. The door was unlocked. Je-sus, the old woman needed to be more careful, bolt her damn doors. Why the hell didn't Parker tell her, or just do it himself. You never knew what sort of riff-raff might show up, hemorrhaging on your back porch. A break for him, though. The lock didn't exist that could keep him out but he didn't want to alarm the old girl, messing with it. He could smell the fragile, talcum powder scent of her somewhere deep inside the house. Parker wasnít around and that was another bit of luck. Easier to slip inside without his spider-sense or whatever the hell it was going off.

Basement. Typical for an old house. Damp, a little cold. Mildew. Faint stink of mouse. On one side of the room, a computer with books stacked to eye level. A TV and a ratty old blanket-covered recliner. The smell of teenage boy and day-old jizz was rampant. Evidently Parker'd been doing some serious whacking-off down here in his man-cave, in between homework assignments.

By then Logan was teetering on his feet, mind steadily stopping down to that healing coma he needed so badly to fall into. He snagged the blanket from the chair, gave it a suspicious sniff and went to the most secluded place he could find, the far corner behind the water heater.

Time passed. Something woke him. A stink so cloying he gagged, coughed, hacking a great gob of thick blood from his ravaged throat. Everything hurt. Everything itched. He struggled against the urge to savagely rake his nails across every damn inch of broken, torn flesh. And now he was being poked. This was fucked. Parker was right next to him, his thin nervous voice and anxious smell battering at Loganís senses. What was he saying, something about cleaning up? Least of my problems, kid. When the poke came again Logan flailed irritably behind, just missing Parker's face. Peter's scent spiked into fear and he started running off at the mouth again but Logan shut him out, let the blessed numbness of healing coma draw him under. It was only Peter, after all. No threat and nothing to concern himself with.

No real need to listen to him, either.

Most of these healing times he didnít dream. Or didn't remember them, anyway. But there in Parker's basement his mind was alive with a riot of vivid images, all of them Blondie from the diner. Gorgeous, sexy and dangerous, she was taking off his clothes, lifting, shifting him this way and that as he lay curiously inert. He could feel her sultry scent curling around him. When she said something about spider strength everything stopped cold and the dream abruptly shifted. Found himself outside, beneath a sky swathed in heavy clouds, peering into their depths. Watching as they released a precious load of pure, cleansing rain.

It sluiced over his body, in trickles and streams, soothing his mind and his madly itching skin. Alive, like fingers, massaging, caressing... Seeking out his nooks and crannies, drawing his deepest, most closely-held secrets into the light, where they floated slowly away, like bubbles, caught on the wind.

A slick, wet hand hesitantly touched between his legs, gathering him up.

The bubbles burst with comical, cartoon-like little pops.

This wasn't no dream.

This was Parker. Kneeling beside him, handling his cock.

Those dreams, okay, they were a result of Peter removing his clothes and washing him, for God's sake, washing him head to toe, and the little manipulation going on now was a continuation of that endeavor. Or not... He was clean, dripping. Smelling of... Irish Spring? Maybe the kid had a thing about cleanliness. Frickiní weird. He certainly was doing an extra-thorough job on his dick. So good, in fact, Logan had begun to respond.

He wasn't into men. Or boys. Never had been. Not that he had any sort of negative issues about it. Just wasn't his thing. To the best of his knowledge, no male had ever touched him there before. Most likely the flash of a canine was all it would take to send Parker scurrying. Popped claw, a sure bet.

But... hell. Face it. This wasnít exactly torture, now, was it? And judging by the aroma wafting from olí Pete, it was a goddamn dream come true.

Donít that just beat everything all to hell?

A forgotten memory shook itself loose, of himself coming across Parker and his pals at a mall. Kid's reaction had been beyond expectation. Soon as he clapped eyes on him the poor sucker was thrown into a state of utter confusion, his skinny, perspiring body exuding such an effluvium of embarrassment and arousal that Logan couldn't resist playing him a little. Tossing an arm around his shoulders, introducing himself as his cousin. Leaning close to ask his age and making a little show of a skeptical sniff or two at the ridiculously inflated answer. Parker'd gotten so tongue-tied and red in the face Logan eventually took pity and eased up, gave him some space, watching in amusement as the kid struggled to regain his composure.

Okay, so Spiderman had a thing for guys. Him in particular, if that scent was any indication. So what, wasn't any of his business.

But right at this moment Parker was making it his business.

He was finally released, and water, slightly warmer than body temperature, flowed over his genitals. Logan was rolled onto his side, Peter whisked the wet blanket from beneath, replacing it with a clean dry one. There was a long pause, silence broken only by Parker's uneven breathing at his side. Then, sure enough, the kid reached out again, carefully lifting Loganís heavy cock, feeling its weight, stroking.

He wondered how far Peter would actually take it.

And why was he, Logan, allowing it? Difficult damn question. That dream...? Not the part with Blondie. The other. It was like... absolution. Left him with a strange feeling of hope. Like there was a chance he could turn his back on the past ten years as Magneto's henchman, maybe even his rep as the baddest of all bad-asses. You know, a killer, a damn assassin. Like the jerk-wads that'd made this attempt on his life.

This kid had no real idea just how potentially dangerous a situation he'd put himself in. Parker was young, still wet behind the ears. Hormonally-charged, led by his cock to risk his damn life.

Even though Iím damn sure you figure I'm asleep. You must be horny as all get-out. What the hell happened to that spider sense of yours?

That thought gave him pause. Parker's spider-sense wasn't going off. Which meant (didn't it?), that the kid wasn't in danger. Wasn't about to get skewered. It was like the future was being told here: the kid was going to jack him off and he, Wolverine, was going to let him.

This was getting weirder by the minute.

Pete was, what, sixteen years old? In high school, for Chrissakes. Could just see the local headlines now: Wolverine Under Arrest! Accused of Molesting Our Very Own Spider-Man!

John Q. Public would believe what they wanted to believe, and the truth be damned.

Parker stopped his manipulations, gently releasing him, and sat back with a shaky little sigh.

Probably a good thing, kid. For you. Left me in a state, though, didn't ya, punk. Goddammit.

Sudden rustle of movement, accompanied by a sharp change of scent. Determined, excited. Parker swung a leg over Loganís knees, straddling him.

Well whadídíya know. This little dog and pony show ain't over yet. Part of him was glad. The other part was ticked that apparently he was the only one thinking about Parker's morals.

Well, screw it. He was nobody's keeper. Never had been. Sure as hell wasn't his job, keeping Spiderman's conscience all sparkly clean.

Even anticipating, Logan was taken by surprise when Parker leaned in, stroked his tongue from the base of Logan's aching cock all the way to the head, a long slow lick that forced the air from Loganís lungs, made his hips jerk.

Before he could draw in a fresh lungful Peter took him into his mouth and went still. The image of a deer caught in the headlights popped into Loganís mind. Kid was scoping him out, sure as shit. Checking that he was, y' know, asleep. Did he really still believe that?

Parker's lips tightened and sucked gently, taking in more. A moan escaped Loganís throat. Ah, fuck, it felt good.

His cock was as hard as the metal on his bones.

Hell with it. They were alone. Pete was hot to suck him off and Logan was fast approaching the line of no return. The kid wasn't going to blab, and as for himself, well, he knew how to keep his yap shut.

Total surprise, then, when Parker's hot, excited scent was suddenly crowded out, drowned by the bitterness of shame. He eased Loganís cock from his mouth and straightened up.

What the hell? Attack of conscience, now, Parker? Get real, buddy. I know damn well you want to finish this.

Took a moment for his throat to work but he finally managed to rasp out, ďShit, donít stop now.Ē

The effect was spectacular. Kid jumped, let out a squeak and froze, emotion rioting off him in waves. Humiliation. Guilt. Shame. Fear, for his life. And then his brain must have kicked in because all those negative flavors flipped in an instant to surprise and joy and downright lust.

Ol' Peter Parker, the Spider-kid, was giving him a goddamn blow-job. The thought made his cock jerk, his balls tighten. Parker's hand as well as his lips were wrapped around him, stroking, working. His flushed face and wet mouth were fucking hot, and why was that, for God's sake? Damn you, kid... Logan grabbed Peter's hair in his fists, fighting not to pull too hard and hurt him.

Everything fell away. Nothing mattered, except what Parker was doing to him. While obvious this was the kid's first honest-to-God blow job, he was a quick learner. When Logan responded to something he particularly liked, Parker kept it up, adding creative little embellishments that upped the ante and elicited a groan from between clenched teeth. He pulled Parker's hand away, pressed gently on the back of his head. The kid didn't hesitate, took him in, nearly the entire length of him, and on each upstroke did a sort of swirl with his tongue that nearly made Logan cry out, it was so exquisitely good.

By now his hands were shaking a little but he didn't care. Pressure in his groin was building, a gathering force, rising up from deep within... oh Christ, it was gonna be sweet. He stroked his fingers through Peter's hair, touching his damp face, and once, cracked his eyes open enough for another glimpse of Parker's wet lips sliding up and down his straining cock.

And here it was. The surge, the swell, the sweet ache of holding back as long as possible, giving way to the urgent and irresistible need to release.

Getting mind and mouth coordinated was an unwelcome task. Somehow Logan croaked, "You gonna swallow?" hoping the kid knew what the hell he meant because there really was no time to explain it to him.

Little nod of a response. Yeah, that's the way, Parker. Here comes the mother lode, and it's all for you, ya horny bastard.

He pushed down on Parker's head, thrust up with his hips, felt the head of his cock slip over the back of Peter's tongue as he spurted, once, twice, and then again.

Pete was struggling a little, bucking against his hand, a strange little gurgle issuing from his throat.

"Swallow, swallow, swallow," Logan murmured to help the kid out, hand still firmly in place, not wanting that warm mouth to leave his cock just yet.

Pete swallowed hard, twice, and wasn't that a kick, the convulsive push of his tongue, pressing him against the roof of his mouth. Logan found he had gripped his fingers into Parker's hair again and loosened his fists, lifting the kid's mouth away from his softening cock.

Kid was looking anywhere but at him. Wiped his lips and the sweat from his brow. Glanced at the stairs. Probably pretty damn anxious to go someplace private and take care of business. Logan wondered if the kid was going to ask him to reciprocate. Doubtful he had the balls.

And anyway, that just plain was not going to happen. As in not in his lifetime.

"Not bad for a rookie," he murmured. Parker finally met his gaze, and smiled a shy smile.

"Thanks." He was actually blushing. He got off Logan's legs, standing awkwardly. Didn't seem to know what to do with his hands. For once.

"Water?" God, he was wiped. Needed to sleep. Now.

"Yeah, hang on."

Hard to keep his eyes open. He watched Parker go to the sink, fill a glass. Poor kid's gait was a little spraddle-legged. Logan hid his smile, gulping down the cool water gratefully.

When he awoke next, he was healed and fit, ready to go back out into the world. Pick up the pieces of his fucked-up life, attempt to put them into some sort of order. Maybe even try to make amends. First thing, though, was figure out who the hell had been behind that assassination attempt, and why.

He dressed. His clothes had been washed, and that was a nice thing. Parker came down as he was pulling on his boots, bringing along a friend, cute little red-haired spitfire named MJ. She brought him soup, matzo-ball. Delicious, hot and filling. Spouted off something about wet-dog smell, looking him in the eye as she did. Logan bit back a snarky reply. New leaf. She'd fed him. She was okay.

Parker was sending out some weird-ass vibes, though. Wanted him gone, that was plain. That was understandable. Well, he was willing and, finally, able to oblige.

"I owe ya," he said as he moved to the stairs. "And I don't say that lightly." Parker's gaze fastened on him, a hound on a scent. Uh-huh. Led by his goddamn cock. Teenagers. What the hell. The kid was okay, too. He'd done him a good thing, here. In more ways than one.

Logan allowed a smile to lift the corners of his mouth. "I owe ya."

Let Parker take whatever he wanted from that.

He slung on his jacket and stopped dead, lifting his arm to his nose.

"What the hell did you do to my jacket?"


"It's Febreze!" MJ piped up.

"Christ almighty, it reeks. This is the same shit that you..."

Kid was looking a little green. "Sorry, I just, I mean I thought... Uh, well, the way I looked at is was, like..."

"Shut up, Parker."

At the top of the stairs, he turned. "The Irish Spring wasn't too bad, though."

Ol' Pete was going to have one a hell of a time, explaining that to his little friend.

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