BY : Blu
Category: X-men Comics > Slash - Male/Male > Logan/Scott
Dragon prints: 3000
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men comics, or any of the characters from it. I make no money from from the writing of this story.


755 words

The title of this story originally comes from the short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, who would either turn in his grave, or laugh his ass off that I'm using it in such a way.

Characters copyright and property of Marvel Comics Group. Story and plot copyright 2002 Blu Fiction and property of Atomic Fantasy Ė all rights reserved. Please contact the author for archive permission and feedback.


When Scott takes off his uniform, itís like a hurricane hits me. I canít do anything but stand still and try hard not to get blown away. Itís like sensory overload: all the angles, scents, sounds. I can see each of his muscles move one by one, independently working together as he slides t ont one forearm down and then the other, peeling away the tight suit. I can see small lines of sweat trickling down his back, and his chest; the sweat goes over the shoulder blades or down the middle, maybe runs between his pecs in that perfect little crease he has.

I practically slobber right there on the floor.

I have to quickly turn so my my hard-on doesnít give me away. Iím not a timid man Ė never have been Ė but when yer in the presence of leadership like that, ya donít want to embarrass yourself. I try to push myself further into the dark opening of the locker, hiding it away; I keep my face in the shadows; Iím glad for this dark hair oí mine to cover the flush on my skin.

But goddam that ass looks fine. Itís tight aní itís round and it looks fuckiní hard enough to crack walnuts with; I canít keep my eyes off his backside as he bends over to grab his towel, then stretches back, leaning just slightly so that his cock juts out in profile and his ass gets even tighter Ė and he towels off that smooth back of his. Back and forth, back and forth, until itís only damp-dry instead of wet. And I want to tell him that Iíll gladly lick every drop of the front side of him if heíll let me; he doesnít need to use a towel.

I donít Ė of course. I stand there with a hard-on like nothiní on this earth and watch secretly, keeping my jaw tight and my eyes almost down. Anyone would think, and everyone does Ė always Ė that Iím just lookiní at the floor, minding my own business. That seems ta be my brand, around here. But I got a sex drive that would kill King Kong himself, aní every time I see Scotty take that thing off I nearly lose my hold. One of these days itís gonna happen Ė itís only a matter of time. Only a matter of time.

It might be the same with Jean, but, truth be told I ainít ever seen her like this Ė not in this light, not with a body coated in a sheen of sweat and salt and smells; not flushed red from exertion like a two-dollar Hong Kong whore. Nuh uh Ė not like this. As much as I might like it, I havenít. But Scotty I see every other day at three oí clock, always the same movements, always the same schooled face: taut jaw with the hints of a five oíclock shadow just startiní ta show. Grim, determined, near dazed Ė and fucking to die for.

The only thought in my head by this point is how many ways I can knock him on his ass, spread his thighs and fuck him until the moon comes out.

Thatís pretty crude, I know. I never think Iíd be gentle. Even my own self-delusion has its limits.

Now Iím smirking to myself and heís noticed it. He gets that look behind his eyes Ė the one with the dark glowing tint that means heís annoyed or horny Ė and says ta me:

ďWhat now, Logan?Ē

ďNothin. Slim. Scott. Scotty,Ē I say while still keepiní my smirk exactly the same. I snap a towel out and nearly squirm at the slap it makes hitting him.

He snorts in derision like he always does when heís uncomfortable. I like making him uncomfortable. It gets me going. He goes back to cleaniní himself off. I like that he doesnít shower until night. I like the scent of a man. I like the scent of that man betterín most.

My hard-onís cominí down now, and Scott walks past me, just grazing my ass with three of his fingers. There isnít enough room to walk behind a person in the locker room without touchiní him. I count on this every time. I wonít ever get the chance. Yeah, shit I know. But itís damn good paradise while it lasts.

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