"Hn." It's the sound of Logan resisting the urge to say he warned against drinking and eating all that shit laid out nice at the Mayer's to do. It smelled like a trap from the moment Logan saw that message, inviting the sleepers, captives, of this town to something that looked a lot like mercy. It could have only, at the very kindest, been designed to instil the transplants to Deerington with enough Stockholm syndrome to take root. And at worst. He's not sure he can guess at the worst this place can do anymore.
It's a kind of constant vigilance on his part to take where his mind wants to go with Kurt and redirect it. Push his thoughts back to platonic places. He's quiet a moment before he finds something else to focus on when it comes to Frank. "Where does he live?" If it's a weird detail to fixate on in the course of that story he buries it by adding something else as he shuffles about the cabin, finally cleaning up the mess he's left behind. "And who's Wynonna?"
Kurt knows Logan well enough to hear the 'I told you so', even if it isn't vocalised. He had indeed been told, more than once, but something at the party had taken hold of him -- an almost competitive desire to see how much he could toe the line, how well he could resist the effects of anything he drank. As it turned out, he had lost that particular personal wager, and lost it hard. The state of his head and belly is more than enough of a reminder of that without Logan's moral outrage.
Still, he's right, and Kurt lets him have it. Not that he has enough energy to do any more than that. It takes a measure of control for him to reach out and pick up the mug of water and hold it to his lips.
"His girlfriend," he replies after a long drink, breathing a little easier as the water cools the dry pounding of his headache. "They live in a barn by the reservoir."
He turns his head a little to watch Logan move around the room, collecting the bits and pieces of whatever had happened in his absence.
"Should I ask what I missed?" He indicates the blood spotting the table with a flick of his tail. If his tone is somewhat pointed, it could perhaps be blamed on the state of his hangover.
Lectures are for children. And Kurt, he thinks, knows full well why Logan got forceful in his effort to bring his friend back around. As if he could shake off whatever overcame him at that dining hall. Perhaps it was a good lesson learned for both of them.
"S'at so," he mutters looking at the little map of the town he's pinned to the far wall. The fact that the reservoir is all the way on the north end of town feels good to know. The idea of being neighbours would just irritate an already festering wound. "That's a long walk of shame," he snuffs a mirthless little laugh.
"Friend got hurt out in the woods. I patched him up and he spent the night." All the more reason that sounds like a good idea too, he thinks, of something was out there prowling the town that wasn't there yesterday. With the space a bit tidier he slings his shaving towel over his shoulder again and disappears into the washroom for his shirt.
"Sword's still next to the bed if you change your mind."
Logan's comment about the long walk feels as sour and acid as the taste in the back of Kurt's throat. The German mutant tightens his grip on the mug, trying to concentrate on doing anything besides flinging it at the obstinate mule of a man he happens to care so very deeply for.
He brings his head up a little at Logan's mention of his friend, noting the fact that he neglected to give his name. Kurt can't stop himself from glancing around the room again as Logan wanders into the washroom, trying to remember the state it was in before Logan tidied it.
"As I told you before, I'll be fine, Logan," he replies, sipping his water. "I always am." Then he adds, for no reason except the fact that he's in pain and tired of this strange tension that has been pushing and pulling at them for the last week or so: "Save your swords for your friends, since they are in such desperate need of your protection."
Logan's ability to wield cold indifference comes as naturally to him as the way his body heals. It's and impressive display of apathy that appears like a shield but on the right target lands like a weapon. And it should be when it's a manner of defence that he's possibly practiced more in life than his offensive skills.
Undershirt on first, he doesn't bother to button his red and black layer of plaid. "Thought that was my line," he grumbles and fills his pockets with a few stray items. That auto-knife on the table being one of them. It doesn't belong to him and it's better off in the hands of someone who needs it. He's almost in the clear too. Almost made his way though his morning routine and out the door without having to spend another minute trying to settle the idea of Kurt in a whole new place in his heart. A spot where they're comrades. Brothers. Merely friends. And any interest he has beyond that is entirely out of place. He's just getting the hang of that, he thinks when Kurt manages to disrupt the laborious effort he's putting into stripping away everything there but acquaintance ship with just one word.
He goes still, tucking one of those cigars into his pocket. Glad that for the moment his back is to his company. "I thought I was." Even that's too much now? " Then you just lemme know what you need from me."
Kurt finds himself watching Logan's hands as he gathers his things. Those wide palms, blunt knuckles, almost as familiar as his own. The memory of them sliding through his fur makes his tail twitch against his ankle, even as he raises eyes full of golden light and hollow misery.
On his way out the door and that is, indeed, Logan's line. Always fine, always okay, always the guy putting himself to the front because he can take what nobody else can. Assuming that everyone left in his wake will be just as all right with that as he is; that nobody cares enough about him to mourn the death he spends his waking hours waiting for.
Kurt's barb strikes home. The victory tastes bitter. He watches the line of Logan's shoulders, the wall going up between them, and hates every inch of it. Gott, if this was their second chance, what a mess he's making of it all.
He's standing up before he realises it, pushing the chair back. His head swims a little, but he ignores it.
"I think that is my line, mein Freund. You tell me one moment that you won't sleep in case I disappear, that you need me to stay, and we -- and when I ask for time, it's as if it never happened." He gestures wide with his hands, his voice cracking on those last words. "As if I'm nothing to you again. But I know you too well to believe your lies, Logan, even if you've fooled yourself into doing so. So I think you owe it to me, after all this time," he points at Logan's back, "to tell me what you need."
What strikes him like a hot iron is the implication that any promises he made have somehow been taken back. That this effort to reign in what Kurt doesn't want from him means he's taken back what might still be of value too? It's the last lash it takes to make the old dog bite back.
"And I'll keep that fuckin' promise!" He brings a fist down on the opposite side of that table, putting them face to face for the first time that morning. "Why the hell you think I fought so hard to drag you out of that God forsaken party? Why do you think I lurked around 'til I saw you leave with a fuckin' crowd? Why do you think I keep trying convince you to fuckin' arm yourself out there already? Because it's getting' God damn hard to keep my eyes on a man who doesn't want me near him."
There's a moment there when he takes a breath that his head clears of just enough anger to see what really propels him. The fear of losing Kurt. The humiliation of admitting so much concern for someone who so recently told him to contain those feelings.
"Time? You need time? To what? All these years ain't been enough distance from me?" He scoffs and it feels jagged and full of scorn for his own foolishness. It's not even made of enough genuine laughter to distract from the way he can't hold Kurt's gaze. "Time to see if I'll keep waitin'? Keep chasin' you? Still come nippin' at your ankles to see if I'm enough yet?"
He swipes his canvas bag off the floor as if he thinks he can make a clean break of this conversation. "That's never worked out for me."
There have been moments in Kurt's life where his instincts to teleport have saved him. The descending foot of a Sentinel, the whistle of a knife through the air, a gesture of a hand in his direction -- the ability to disappear had been, in those moments, the only thing that kept him alive. Now, facing Logan's anger and the full return of every rejected glance and shrugged off hand, he feels the urge to teleport building in his muscles once again. But this time it's not his life he wants to save, but the most important relationship he has.
But he can't. Not only because it would injure him, but because he knows he deserves this. The words Logan snarls out are all the more painful for being laced with the poisonous edge of truth.
Part of Kurt wants to move into the doorway, to force him to push through, but he knows if he tries that will be the end of it as surely as anything else. Instead, something inside him, worn down by grief and pain and hunger, splinters. He runs shaking hands through his hair.
"Gott, I never wanted you to chase me, Logan," he says, his voice a shade above a whisper. "I never asked for that. All I wanted was you. I respected your boundaries, your need for space. I always thought I was doing what you wanted. So many times, I came to you, to offer what I could, and you closed the door on me. Or I would wake up and find you gone already. Even when you were dying, I thought you might.. but you didn't, you just left us.."
He pulls in a trembling breath, grief hardening, sand and salt turning to glass. A twist of his mouth bares his fangs, an animal snarl.
"So don't whine to me about distance, Logan, when you are the coward who turns and runs from everything you have ever wanted, just to see if it will follow."
After what Kurt pulled out of him so easily, that flare of temper that exposed more raw nerves than his pride can stand, it actually comes as a relief to know that he's not the only half of this complicated equation that can be driven to such frustration and impassioned fury by the obstinance of the other. He's quite certain Xavier once told him there was nothing healthy about taking joy in the ability to drive someone to anger. But what did a mind reader need with proof that he mattered enough to get under someone's skin?
"To offer me what you could?" Logan narrows his eyes and grabs the back of an askew chair that blocks his path around the table. Sending it skittering backward and out of his way until it teeters over and he can step up, nose to nose, with Kurt. "What you could stomach to give me when it suited you? When there wasn't a better offer holdin' you back? Or was it the threat of damnation that always made this too much for you?" It can't rightly be called an intimidation tactic when Kurt isn't afraid of him. Less so than most, at least. But it is, if nothing else, a concentrated effort to make the other man mad enough to take a swing. Sometimes any attention is good attention.
Instead, it's words Kurt lobs at him. The impact of that is never as satisfying a sting. Least of all with someone who's probably seen his worst. Someone who knows his own persistence is part of the problem. His natural inclination to get back up like nothing knocked him down. For Kurt it's tantamount to stubbornness. A rejection of the vulnerability it takes to let someone in. For Logan it's what makes people think they'll always get another shot. He'll always be around later. "You ask me to give you space. Then you tell me I take too much of it. You don't want me right here. But you don't want me any further than the end of my leash. You're right. I am a coward. 'Cause I keep coming back for more."
A breath deflates him when those bright eyes bore into his. All fury and scorn and the things he brings out most in people. Even the good ones.
"Yer right. It's my fault. Jeannie always saw me for a sucker like that too. You both had me drag my fair share of pianos up mountains because you knew. You knew there was nothing I wouldn't do for you. That includes walkin' away when it's the only way I know to protect you." Right or wrong, it's a pattern in Logan's life and probably the answer to Kurt's burning question. The thing he really needs, but never finds the words for is the promise that this time it's not true. Gently, he tugs down the hem of that ill-fitting shirt, because the words he means to speak are briefly lodged somewhere in his throat. When they do come, they're barely whispered into the space it feels like a kiss should go. "You just take your time. Tell me when it's ok to want you."
Up close, Logan smells like shaving soap and the drift of cigar smoke clinging to his clothes. Better than brimstone. Better than a lot of things. Still breathing a little hard, Kurt searches his eyes as Logan talks, his anger dissipating, becoming something softer and infinitely more sad. The problem with living through so many wars, Kurt had always thought, was how difficult it became to stop fighting them.
Wynonna's tee is too small on his muscled shoulders and chest; Logan's twitch of the fabric only reminds Kurt how confining it is.
Take your time.
"I am done taking time," Kurt breathes softly into the space between them, a handful of inches, so close he can feel the brush of Logan's shirt against his belly. He thinks of long days and longer nights, all those years together. Like falling cards, the memories cascade in front of him.
"I've had so much I no longer want it. All I want is you, Logan."
And it's his turn to press forward, one hand sliding around the back of Logan's neck as the other clutches at the hanging tail of his shirt, meeting Logan's mouth with his with something that's part way between a sob and a moan, a helpless noise of apology and need, a desperate hope that it will be enough.
It’s hard to feel like anything but a fool for wanting what’s historically been bad for you. He knows it’s wrong to put Kurt into that category of people who’ve figured out what the right amount of affection can get out of him in return. It’s paranoia, and frustration and the fear that yet again, he’s tried to make more than there ever was of someones spare kindness.
What drew them together in the first place wasn’t history repeating itself, or some alignment of the stars, or some infernal interference in his life. It was being the outcasts in a room full of outcasts. It was being no one’s first, or easiest choice.
This close, Kurt smells of frustration, and anxiousness but the more he encroaches on the younger man’s space, the more he smells a bit like want. A bit like he did he other day in the trees before he asked Logan to stop. It’s enough for now that Logan knows it. Even if Kurt were to shove him off or deck him in the jaw for all the things Logan’s said, it’s enough to live on that some part of Kurt wants him.
What he’s braced himself for is not what comes next. Kurt’s breath on his lips and the way he hums his W sounds turning them into V’s makes the word want sound all the more earnest. It hits so much harder than anger ever could, that it takes a a moment of shellshock to realize he’s getting exactly what he’d asked for.
“You have me. You have me, damnit…” the words are growled breathlessly against Kurt’s mouth in the clumsy gaps that barely give them time to think or speak. Desperate to give him all the forgiveness, the assurance, the validation he needs to believe this is no mistake. Staggering into Kurt, Logan’s feet crowd his instep as he pens him in against the counter. Sending some precariously stacked tin dinnerware clattering into the sink when he throws his arms around Kurt’s back, burying his hand under that tight shirt and raking his fingers down the younger man’s back. “Please. Don’t tease me with this. Let me have you too.”
The counter thumps into the small of Kurt's back, sending shockwaves up into his aching skull, but he's far beyond caring about pain as Logan piles into his arms. Kurt repays him with nipping kisses, catching his lower lip with his teeth, darting his tongue into the other man's mouth as Logan drags his fingers through his fur.
"Stop talking," Kurt advises breathlessly against Logan's mouth, his own hands busy on Logan's shoulders, not pushing him away this time but pushing off his flannel shirt, spreading over the warm expanse of muscle beneath it.
With a move that sends more empty cans rattling over, he hitches himself up against the counter, wrapping both legs around Logan's hips as he kisses him again, hungrily, making up for lost time, for the mistakes he knows he's made, for everything he can manage.
Logan’s recollection of moments like this one refuses to include the fleeting moment by the lake that satisfied nothing for either of them. And now it’s all to easy to forget. Now that the very real thing he was after is here, and warm and soft in his hands just like it’s always been. Even since the first few times when at least one of them was a much younger man Logan’s only watched, often from afar, the way Kurt took shape under that thin veneer of fur. All long lean limbs and graceful angles. And now all the more striking with that indigo beard that cuts his jawline perfectly.
For a man with as many problems with authority as Logan, Kurt’s command, however gentle, ignites a spark in him. His blue eyes so dilated look drunken and dark as he nods dumbly— a quiet acquiescence for the order he’s been given as he watches Kurt strip him of the clothes he’s only just put on. When he joins in again, pulling himself away from the sight of those deft fingers all over him, Logan makes almost comically quick work of his belt and fly in one practice movement that barely wastes a moment with his hands on anything but Kurt.
With those legs around him, he takes the hem of that shirt that hugs him all wrong and heaves it over his head. Grinning foolishly at the way it tousles Kurt’s hair. Crushing his lips first to the younger man’s mouth, and then his neck and then the curve of his collarbone, the only noise that escapes him as they wrestle clothes off one another is the falling of his breath and a frustration growl when those stupid sweats get hung up between Kurt’s backside and the counter. “Off,” he grumbles knowing full well, even sort of hoping, Kurt puts him in his place for speaking out of turn again.
Kurt might not have Logan's enhanced senses, but he's experienced enough to know when he's said the right thing to the man between his thighs. It's something they've only ever briefly played with, their previous encounters being so infrequent and spread too thin to allow them to do more than learn the basic topography of each other, but the push and pull of power given and received has always been an undercurrent between them. Hands wrapped around wrists, the press of teeth and fingertips, the taste of blood; they're not the kind of men to be satisfied with anything less than bruises to show for their efforts. And Kurt is more than happy to play a role, especially one with such pleasurable results.
It is difficult, though, to keep his thoughts in check as Logan kisses his throat and his chest, his breath hot and damp in Kurt's fur, soft animal noises rising from them both as they move together, scattering bits of clothing and kitchen implements onto the floor. Kurt rolls his hips as Logan pushes against him and crosses his ankles behind his back, his tail looped firmly around Logan's thigh. Nobody, this time, is going anywhere.
Logan's growled request only earns him another kiss, Kurt making sure he feels the points of his fangs before he pulls back, but only far enough to rest his forehead against Logan's. He buries the fingers of one hand in Logan's hair and tugs on it, gently but firmly, enough for Logan to feel it and tilt his head. Kurt leans in to kiss and taste the side of his throat and the bristly angle of his jaw, enjoying being able to hold such a man so still. With his other hand takes Logan's wrist, slides his palm down his furry side over his belly and between his legs, so he can feel exactly what effect he's having.
There are so many faces to Kurt Wagner. The jovial clown. The faithful. The swashbuckler. The champion fencer. The flirt. But so few people, Logan likes to think, ever get to see him like this. In their earliest years he didn't imagine anyone would have believed him that such a chivalrous and charming young man might have purred like he did to be manhandled so roughly only his complexion hid those marks.
It was years later when Logan learned that the opposite was true too.
That Kurt's eyes burned so brightly just to revel in the delight of denying Logan his hands. He was briefly in charge of the X-Men back then and Logan hasn't for a moment forgotten the words that inspired that moment. Being in charge looks good on you, he'd said, blissfully unaware how much he'd come to mean it.
It was fun to be the sparring partner. The one with whom Kurt felt comfortable testing his own limits. But now, every kiss that draws Logan in right where he wants him, every time Kurt pulls his hair like he's holding him by the reigns, every demand he gives voice to makes it abundantly clear that Kurt knows exactly what he wants.
"Jesus..." Logan's groan comes from deep in his chest. That palm pressed between Kurt's legs wraps around the length of him as much as his grip can managed through the taut fabric of those fucking pants and there's nothing Logan wants more than to be rid of any lingering smell of Frank fucking Castle right now.
His hand is flat and firm against Kurt chest when he shoves the younger man back, leaning him deeper across the counter. As close as space allowed for laying him completely out. Hunched over Kurt's bare body he bites at the the plane of his stomach, ensuring his teeth catch flesh and not just fur. Hauling firmly on those sweats he pulls them down a few mere inches until he realizes its Kurt fighting his effort. Looking up at the man over his sort bare chest, it takes nothing to realize what he wants. "It'll hurt," he huffs. But all the younger man has to do is level that toothy grin and Logan doesn't hesitate.
A claw snikts from between his knuckles and Logan peels one of those long legs off of his waist. The blunt back side of that cold metal claw slips up Kurt's ankle. Starting its long slow run in the fabric right beneath the cuff. Over the curve of his knee. Logan's hand splays on his stomach. Enforcing his stillness firmly as that cold blade makes the most dangerous stretch of its journey. Carefully up the tender inside of his thigh and out through the waist band.
For a man who has bound so much of his life with faith and doctrine, Kurt has never found it easy to resist temptation. Over the years it's cost him deeply, though he does his best to accept those dark times and acknowledge that his loving nature has just as often saved his life. Older and perhaps a little wiser now, he finds himself more likely to agree with Oscar Wilde than the Bible on the matter. In some things, control is necessary. In others, it is far better to yield.
Kurt yields now, enough to push himself into Logan's hand as he grips him, matching Logan's murmured curse with a low noise of his own. He's not surprised and more than a little pleased when Logan's patience ends and he's pushed back onto the counter, though not gently enough for his tired body. He makes a small noise of complaint, quickly forgotten when Logan leans over him, setting his teeth playfully to the muscles of his stomach. Kurt yelps and swats the back of Logan's thigh with his tail, paying him back by stubbornly not helping slide the sweatpants off his hips, knowing he wants to push Logan a little more. He knows they both need this release, not only to satisfy their mingled desire but also to rebuild trust.
So, in the spirit of trust, he does indeed grin in response to Logan's comment. A little pain doesn't scare him, and perhaps it would do Logan good to realise that his partner isn't quite as fragile as he seems to think.
Though despite his bravado, Kurt realises that he didn't quite expect Logan to actually go through with it, and the feel of the hard flat blade against his ankle is enough of a shock to make him hiss out his breath. Logan's hand on his stomach is a steady weight, though Kurt would have preferred it a little lower as the claw slips through cotton with a soft hissing sound, gliding through his fur along his leg, and he has to grip the edge of the counter with one hand to keep himself still as his heartrate increases, danger and lust a heady mix as the blade skates over the inside of his thigh, so slowly, so carefully --
By the time the fabric parts at his waist, Kurt is almost painfully hard, pink tongue darting over dark lips as he looks down the length of his body at Logan, his breathing heavy. He shifts his hips a little, reaching down to push the remaining fabric down and off the rest of the way.
"Logan," he breathes, the single word a command and a request all at once.
For all the comments on his indestructibility there are to be made, the most of them are misnomers. Spurious understandings that he’s in no way impervious to pain. Just anatomical ramifications of injury. Where the lines between painful and painful get blurry is where the callouses build up. Never on his body but somewhere in his brain. Somewhere the mind ought to say too much. His remains quiet. A problem of practice not perception. It’s enough to make him uncertain where pain starts for other people. To make him perhaps, overly cautious, of those he’s most afraid to hurt. And more afraid to lose.
But he and Kurt have been testing those boundaries for the better part of their friendship. For all his desire to protect his friend from harm, it’s only fair that he trust what Kurt can take. So often he asks for the same after all.
Still. Logan notices every twitch, Even if he says nothing of it, every flinch and groan, impassioned or painful, he takes stock of. Like the way Kurt’s breath has gone ragged by the time Logan’s knuckles are brushing dangerously along his groin, denying him exactly what he wants while giving him exactly what he asked for. Or the way his eyes glow differently. More softly perhaps. As if the their were reduced by the dilation of some unseen pupil. Or the way Logan’s name sounds on his lips. It’s the last of those details Logan stops to study before his own willpower can no longer outlast Kurt’s.
That single claw snaps back into his arm. The garment comes away easily now, and Logan wastes not a moment on dispatching the desecrated remnants of Frank that dare to stand between them. His hands are firm on Kurt’s hips as he doubles over that body stretched out for him, burying his face in the curve of Kurt’s hip and biting his way from navel to the tender flank inside his thigh. There’s some joy to be had in seeing Kurt like this. Some sense of victory in seeing his friend so wanting. But it’s a difficult thing to revel in too long when the sight of Kurt so worked up makes him ache just as much. Logan’s hands splay across the blue expanse of Kurt’s chest when he closes his mouth around the Kurt’s cock. Drawing him in as Logan takes himself in hand. Working them both to the point they can be go on being rough without friction.
As a man who doesn’t typically mince words when he’s feeling impassioned, he’s decidedly quiet. Option for actions over words. Taking the hand Kurt’s bracing the counter with he replaces the younger man’s grip on his shoulders. It’s a warning of sorts. And the only one Kurt get’s when he hauls his partner closer to the edge of his make-do seat. A touch slick with his own anticipation presses deeply between Kurt’s legs and when he finally looks up with his breath heaving and his eyes blown wide there’s an unspoken request for any changes of heart before he loses himself in these long heated moments.
After all that has happened between them and during the time they have been apart -- death and war and worse -- it soothes something in Kurt's heart to know that Logan's touch can still make him groan. That his mouth still feels as good as it did years ago as he presses his teeth into Kurt's fur and flesh, his firm hands the only thing keeping him from falling off the counter as his back arches. Logan may be quiet, but Kurt is decidedly not, murmuring entreaties in German and English and half a dozen other languages between panting breaths. His tail wraps around Logan's waist, tugging him closer even as he leans in and puts that silent tongue to work.
"Ah, Gott im Himmel," Kurt gasps, hooking one knee over Logan's shoulder to encourage him. He watches Logan with glassy golden eyes, what little coherent thought he has left making a pledge to preserve this image of him between his thighs, naked and half-sunlit by the open door, the forest glowing outside.
Then Logan does something with his tongue and Kurt shudders, skating along the edge of losing it too soon, it's been far too long --
But Logan relents, hauling him back over the counter and that's almost good enough, feeling so pulled about, the strength in those wide shoulders and the grip of his fingers over Kurt's thighs as he spreads him. Almost trembling with anticipation, Kurt wraps his legs around Logan's hips and meets his eyes, then reaches up with both hands and buries his fingers in Logan's hair as he kisses him deeply, tasting himself, salt-sweet, on his tongue, and hoping that will be answer enough to the unasked question.
Sometimes those first moments are clumsy. That's how it used to be. When they were still learning what the other man liked. Still figuring out how their limbs and angles tangled together for the most satisfying sort of connection they could share. But now it's not about finding their way together. It's about getting back to somewhere they've both been before.
It's tempting to idle and admire the perfectly sculpted legs he's wrapped up in, but when the hands in his hair reel him in for a kiss that might as well be an order in itself his attention is so easily captured, drawn in like a hungry dog tempted by food. Just as obedient and single minded too.
He presses a half step closer and suddenly, locked to Kurt's lips as he is, every chord the sensation strikes in his body can be seen and felt across Logan's face. He catches Kurt's lip between his teeth through that moment of resistance. His mouth opens like a gasp for air that never makes it so far as his throat when Kurt relaxes just enough to take him. And then everything about the hard and stern expression on Logan's face, every furrow in his brow and curl of his lip, dissolves into a soft expression of slack jawed bliss as he presses himself closer still. Fitting himself between Kurts thighs where all their angles meet just right. For a moment he goes perfectly still, relishing that all encompassing feeling until his lungs burn for breath, before rolling his hips back and doing it again. This time with his hands on Kurt's lower back, hoisting his hips to an angle he can remember so vividly and precisely by the way Kurt looks when he's being held there and the way his accent get's thicker when he begs Logan's name.
He huffs ragged, humid breaths across Kurt's lips when those legs hold him so tightly there's no longer enough room between them to wholly withdraw. Instead he takes Kurt in hand again and buries himself completely, letting the younger man writhe against him towards his own satisfying end.
The prayers that Kurt is most familiar with are actions of thought, word and mind; hands clasped and hard floor under his knees, promises given into vaulted, patient silence. But he knows there are other types of prayers. The feeling of teleporting into the clouds and hanging, suspended for a brief second, above God's creation. Sunlight on his fur on a summer's day. The thrill of a tumbling trick perfectly performed. The warmth of a friend wrapped in his arms.
And, now, the way that Logan inhales as he holds himself on the edge of entering him for the first time in too long. A sharp pain from his lip, chasing him over the edge. He tightens his grip on Logan's shoulders, then folds his arms around his neck as Logan pushes forward. A brief, uncomfortable moment; gratitude welling in Kurt's chest like a song beginning. He moves his hips, relaxes, and utters a small soft noise as Logan slides into him as if he's meant to be nowhere else.
Kurt presses himself against him, knees high and ankles locked behind Logan's hips, secure between Logan and the counter but aching suddenly for more closeness, more movement, and Logan gives it to him.
"Liebling, bitte, I -- ah, Logan." The words tumble from him against Logan's mouth. He moans and shudders, breathless, as Logan's hand slides between them, pinned, held, but still needing more.
It’s the impatient movement of Kurt against him that brings Logan’s eyes open again. The need to satiate a hunger for the sight of Kurt like this. Winded and disheveled and rolling his hips for as much more as he can take from this position that leaves Logan with all the leverage. Somewhere behind that vacant expression that gets lost so quickly in the perfect contours of Kurt’s body he’s trying to conduct two trains of thought at once on a one track mind half determined to keep him here where pleasure is abundant.
When the other notion finally connects he gives no warning before acting on it. As if summoning that clarity through some love drunk stupor is a now or never moment. Pushing his hands up Kurt’s back, he pulls the younger man against him. Taking him firmly by the thighs when Kurt’s arms encircle his neck. It’s a shorter trip to the sofa. So much so it can be made with a few blind, staggering steps that don’t require he take his mouth off the lips of the man now perched above him, using the angles of Logan’s hips and legs like the footholds on a climbing wall.
Navigating the world by every sense but sight, something else clatters to the floor when they pull away from the counter. Either by the carelessness of Logan’s elbow or a lashing of Kurt’s tail. As soon as he can feel the sofa on his calves he drops into the seat, slumping low against the cushion with Kurt perched on his hips. There’s a moment of wrestling, readjusting the weight with which they hold themselves together and Logan’s hands realize they’re not needed now. Not for stability, or grip, just for whatever they can reach. How much of the younger man’s body they can map as he looks up at Kurt like a man witnessing a miracle.
Once, Kurt might have been able to do it himself, dropping reality out from under them and tumbling them in a cloud of purple smoke into Logan's bed, or the locker room showers, or the alley behind Harry's. For a split second as Logan pulls them away from the counter he misses it with a keenness that cuts through the pleasure rolling up through his body. And then Logan's mouth is on his again and he's able to let it go, letting Logan steer them across the room and onto the couch which creaks in complaint as they fall onto it.
The movement and the new position have Kurt gripping Logan's shoulders enough to bruise. He relaxes as Logan leans back, shifting himself to take advantage of every part of his innate flexibility as he rolls his hips in Logan's lap, breaths hitching as Logan slides in and out of him. Logan's fingertips dig channels in his indigo fur; Kurt leans back a little, reaching up to run his own fingers through his sweaty curls, his other hand braced against the wall above Logan's head as he settles into a rhythm.
"Ja," he sighs, "better."
It's a glorious thing to be able to look down at Logan from this angle; the sight of him so entranced precious as any treasure. Kurt touches his chest, runs his fingertips up his throat to his jaw, almost as furry as Kurt's own. He passes the pad of his thumb over Logan's lips, teasing, as he picks up the pace a little.
Kurt's particular talents always made these things a sort of trust game. Particularly if he's in the mood to flirt with anything of an exhibitionist streak. On the other hand, it made these little trysts of theirs that must easier to allow themselves when the control of being caught was so entirely in their hands. What started in the danger room could end up in private before the control room doors opened up. And with that thought, for a moment, Logan wonders if perhaps Kurt's initial hesitation wasn't doubt. At least, not so much as the discomfort of finding himself pulled from that particular driver's seat.
Over or under, Logan's hips push firmly against those thighs when Kurt's body sinks to meet him. He knows all his angles, Logan's often thought. Not just how to use them to his advantage but how to look unbearably good when he does it. Flipping his loose hair back like some kind of showman. It's a view that makes him ache. With one hand Logan's fingers dig deeper, more possessively, past the plush of his fur and well into the firmer flesh and the other closes firmly around Kurt's length, stroking him in a loose cadence with his thrusts.
For a man used to being used for the harm he can cause, there's few things more intoxicating than being used for someone else's pleasure. Watching Kurt lean over him, twist himself into spot that makes his breath hiss from between his fanged smile leaves Logan's mouth agape. At least until he catches that thumb in his mouth, dragging his teeth over the knuckle.
"Let me see..." the words have to picked out of the constant hum of his growl and even then they're monosyllabic and cobbled together poorly. It takes a few lazy tries to get to the statement he means to make. "Watch. Watch you cum. I want it."
Logan's fingertips up Kurt's side are points of pressure, dancing along the edge between uncomfortable and blissful, awakening older scattered bruises across his ribs and belly. Blossoms of pain race up his spine, making his muscles tense, chasing the firework-hot sweep of Logan's fingers on his cock. Kurt catches his lower lip under his pointed teeth and leans into the touch, his golden eyes glittering under heavy lids.
When Logan drags words out of his rumbling purr, they're almost enough to set Kurt off right then and there. The stark need, the want in Logan's eyes, in his voice, runs down Kurt's body. He shivers, his fond smile becoming a little sharp with wickedness, almost the devil he's been mistaken for so many times. His tail slips up underneath him, sliding along the inside of Logan's thigh.
Hips rocking, he leans down and captures Logan's mouth with his, meeting him growl for growl, then pulling back just enough to speak again. His hand slides down from Logan's jaw, thumb settling into the hollow of his throat.
Logan’s never been a man committed to proving people wrong about himself. It’s a philosophy that’s made him the resident bad influence amongst their found family. Mostly it’s a reputation he’s uses to hurt himself with. But truth be told, there are times, perhaps now more than ever, when he’s never been happier to be a less upstanding member of the X-Men. Moments like this one that make him feel like the sole cause of that devilish smile and Kurt’s budding enthusiasm for a such self-indulgent debauchery as this. If it’s a sin, he’ll never envy the saints.
Despite his upward straining, there’s precious little he can do from this angle to effect what Kurt lets him feel. And that is, in itself, so much a part of what sets that love-drunk look of aw across his face. If his hips and the hunger with which he tries to hang on to that kiss can’t beg enough, Kurt’s words make his whole body stutter. It takes a strained grunt and a growl before he can think through the fog in his forebrain to come to the very words Kurt just demonstrated for him, but that thumb on his Adam’s apple gives him pause.
His wide-blown eyes look like there’s no limit to the depth of them when he drags his hands roughly down the younger man’s plush flanks, and rakes his blunt fingers along those taut thighs.
“Please...” he whispers it at first as his fingertips follow Kurt’s elbow down to his knuckles. The same one he can feel sticky with the remnants of blood he put there. Closing his hand over Kurt’s, he tightens the grip on his neck, an inch or so at a time. And then with a little more breath in his lungs.
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It's a kind of constant vigilance on his part to take where his mind wants to go with Kurt and redirect it. Push his thoughts back to platonic places. He's quiet a moment before he finds something else to focus on when it comes to Frank. "Where does he live?" If it's a weird detail to fixate on in the course of that story he buries it by adding something else as he shuffles about the cabin, finally cleaning up the mess he's left behind. "And who's Wynonna?"
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Still, he's right, and Kurt lets him have it. Not that he has enough energy to do any more than that. It takes a measure of control for him to reach out and pick up the mug of water and hold it to his lips.
"His girlfriend," he replies after a long drink, breathing a little easier as the water cools the dry pounding of his headache. "They live in a barn by the reservoir."
He turns his head a little to watch Logan move around the room, collecting the bits and pieces of whatever had happened in his absence.
"Should I ask what I missed?" He indicates the blood spotting the table with a flick of his tail. If his tone is somewhat pointed, it could perhaps be blamed on the state of his hangover.
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"S'at so," he mutters looking at the little map of the town he's pinned to the far wall. The fact that the reservoir is all the way on the north end of town feels good to know. The idea of being neighbours would just irritate an already festering wound. "That's a long walk of shame," he snuffs a mirthless little laugh.
"Friend got hurt out in the woods. I patched him up and he spent the night." All the more reason that sounds like a good idea too, he thinks, of something was out there prowling the town that wasn't there yesterday. With the space a bit tidier he slings his shaving towel over his shoulder again and disappears into the washroom for his shirt.
"Sword's still next to the bed if you change your mind."
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He brings his head up a little at Logan's mention of his friend, noting the fact that he neglected to give his name. Kurt can't stop himself from glancing around the room again as Logan wanders into the washroom, trying to remember the state it was in before Logan tidied it.
"As I told you before, I'll be fine, Logan," he replies, sipping his water. "I always am." Then he adds, for no reason except the fact that he's in pain and tired of this strange tension that has been pushing and pulling at them for the last week or so: "Save your swords for your friends, since they are in such desperate need of your protection."
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Undershirt on first, he doesn't bother to button his red and black layer of plaid. "Thought that was my line," he grumbles and fills his pockets with a few stray items. That auto-knife on the table being one of them. It doesn't belong to him and it's better off in the hands of someone who needs it. He's almost in the clear too. Almost made his way though his morning routine and out the door without having to spend another minute trying to settle the idea of Kurt in a whole new place in his heart. A spot where they're comrades. Brothers. Merely friends. And any interest he has beyond that is entirely out of place. He's just getting the hang of that, he thinks when Kurt manages to disrupt the laborious effort he's putting into stripping away everything there but acquaintance ship with just one word.
He goes still, tucking one of those cigars into his pocket. Glad that for the moment his back is to his company. "I thought I was." Even that's too much now? " Then you just lemme know what you need from me."
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On his way out the door and that is, indeed, Logan's line. Always fine, always okay, always the guy putting himself to the front because he can take what nobody else can. Assuming that everyone left in his wake will be just as all right with that as he is; that nobody cares enough about him to mourn the death he spends his waking hours waiting for.
Kurt's barb strikes home. The victory tastes bitter. He watches the line of Logan's shoulders, the wall going up between them, and hates every inch of it. Gott, if this was their second chance, what a mess he's making of it all.
He's standing up before he realises it, pushing the chair back. His head swims a little, but he ignores it.
"I think that is my line, mein Freund. You tell me one moment that you won't sleep in case I disappear, that you need me to stay, and we -- and when I ask for time, it's as if it never happened." He gestures wide with his hands, his voice cracking on those last words. "As if I'm nothing to you again. But I know you too well to believe your lies, Logan, even if you've fooled yourself into doing so. So I think you owe it to me, after all this time," he points at Logan's back, "to tell me what you need."
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"And I'll keep that fuckin' promise!" He brings a fist down on the opposite side of that table, putting them face to face for the first time that morning. "Why the hell you think I fought so hard to drag you out of that God forsaken party? Why do you think I lurked around 'til I saw you leave with a fuckin' crowd? Why do you think I keep trying convince you to fuckin' arm yourself out there already? Because it's getting' God damn hard to keep my eyes on a man who doesn't want me near him."
There's a moment there when he takes a breath that his head clears of just enough anger to see what really propels him. The fear of losing Kurt. The humiliation of admitting so much concern for someone who so recently told him to contain those feelings.
"Time? You need time? To what? All these years ain't been enough distance from me?" He scoffs and it feels jagged and full of scorn for his own foolishness. It's not even made of enough genuine laughter to distract from the way he can't hold Kurt's gaze. "Time to see if I'll keep waitin'? Keep chasin' you? Still come nippin' at your ankles to see if I'm enough yet?"
He swipes his canvas bag off the floor as if he thinks he can make a clean break of this conversation. "That's never worked out for me."
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But he can't. Not only because it would injure him, but because he knows he deserves this. The words Logan snarls out are all the more painful for being laced with the poisonous edge of truth.
Part of Kurt wants to move into the doorway, to force him to push through, but he knows if he tries that will be the end of it as surely as anything else. Instead, something inside him, worn down by grief and pain and hunger, splinters. He runs shaking hands through his hair.
"Gott, I never wanted you to chase me, Logan," he says, his voice a shade above a whisper. "I never asked for that. All I wanted was you. I respected your boundaries, your need for space. I always thought I was doing what you wanted. So many times, I came to you, to offer what I could, and you closed the door on me. Or I would wake up and find you gone already. Even when you were dying, I thought you might.. but you didn't, you just left us.."
He pulls in a trembling breath, grief hardening, sand and salt turning to glass. A twist of his mouth bares his fangs, an animal snarl.
"So don't whine to me about distance, Logan, when you are the coward who turns and runs from everything you have ever wanted, just to see if it will follow."
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"To offer me what you could?" Logan narrows his eyes and grabs the back of an askew chair that blocks his path around the table. Sending it skittering backward and out of his way until it teeters over and he can step up, nose to nose, with Kurt. "What you could stomach to give me when it suited you? When there wasn't a better offer holdin' you back? Or was it the threat of damnation that always made this too much for you?" It can't rightly be called an intimidation tactic when Kurt isn't afraid of him. Less so than most, at least. But it is, if nothing else, a concentrated effort to make the other man mad enough to take a swing. Sometimes any attention is good attention.
Instead, it's words Kurt lobs at him. The impact of that is never as satisfying a sting. Least of all with someone who's probably seen his worst. Someone who knows his own persistence is part of the problem. His natural inclination to get back up like nothing knocked him down. For Kurt it's tantamount to stubbornness. A rejection of the vulnerability it takes to let someone in. For Logan it's what makes people think they'll always get another shot. He'll always be around later. "You ask me to give you space. Then you tell me I take too much of it. You don't want me right here. But you don't want me any further than the end of my leash. You're right. I am a coward. 'Cause I keep coming back for more."
A breath deflates him when those bright eyes bore into his. All fury and scorn and the things he brings out most in people. Even the good ones.
"Yer right. It's my fault. Jeannie always saw me for a sucker like that too. You both had me drag my fair share of pianos up mountains because you knew. You knew there was nothing I wouldn't do for you. That includes walkin' away when it's the only way I know to protect you." Right or wrong, it's a pattern in Logan's life and probably the answer to Kurt's burning question. The thing he really needs, but never finds the words for is the promise that this time it's not true. Gently, he tugs down the hem of that ill-fitting shirt, because the words he means to speak are briefly lodged somewhere in his throat. When they do come, they're barely whispered into the space it feels like a kiss should go. "You just take your time. Tell me when it's ok to want you."
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Wynonna's tee is too small on his muscled shoulders and chest; Logan's twitch of the fabric only reminds Kurt how confining it is.
Take your time.
"I am done taking time," Kurt breathes softly into the space between them, a handful of inches, so close he can feel the brush of Logan's shirt against his belly. He thinks of long days and longer nights, all those years together. Like falling cards, the memories cascade in front of him.
"I've had so much I no longer want it. All I want is you, Logan."
And it's his turn to press forward, one hand sliding around the back of Logan's neck as the other clutches at the hanging tail of his shirt, meeting Logan's mouth with his with something that's part way between a sob and a moan, a helpless noise of apology and need, a desperate hope that it will be enough.
no subject
What drew them together in the first place wasn’t history repeating itself, or some alignment of the stars, or some infernal interference in his life. It was being the outcasts in a room full of outcasts. It was being no one’s first, or easiest choice.
This close, Kurt smells of frustration, and anxiousness but the more he encroaches on the younger man’s space, the more he smells a bit like want. A bit like he did he other day in the trees before he asked Logan to stop. It’s enough for now that Logan knows it. Even if Kurt were to shove him off or deck him in the jaw for all the things Logan’s said, it’s enough to live on that some part of Kurt wants him.
What he’s braced himself for is not what comes next. Kurt’s breath on his lips and the way he hums his W sounds turning them into V’s makes the word want sound all the more earnest. It hits so much harder than anger ever could, that it takes a a moment of shellshock to realize he’s getting exactly what he’d asked for.
“You have me. You have me, damnit…” the words are growled breathlessly against Kurt’s mouth in the clumsy gaps that barely give them time to think or speak. Desperate to give him all the forgiveness, the assurance, the validation he needs to believe this is no mistake. Staggering into Kurt, Logan’s feet crowd his instep as he pens him in against the counter. Sending some precariously stacked tin dinnerware clattering into the sink when he throws his arms around Kurt’s back, burying his hand under that tight shirt and raking his fingers down the younger man’s back. “Please. Don’t tease me with this. Let me have you too.”
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"Stop talking," Kurt advises breathlessly against Logan's mouth, his own hands busy on Logan's shoulders, not pushing him away this time but pushing off his flannel shirt, spreading over the warm expanse of muscle beneath it.
With a move that sends more empty cans rattling over, he hitches himself up against the counter, wrapping both legs around Logan's hips as he kisses him again, hungrily, making up for lost time, for the mistakes he knows he's made, for everything he can manage.
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For a man with as many problems with authority as Logan, Kurt’s command, however gentle, ignites a spark in him. His blue eyes so dilated look drunken and dark as he nods dumbly— a quiet acquiescence for the order he’s been given as he watches Kurt strip him of the clothes he’s only just put on. When he joins in again, pulling himself away from the sight of those deft fingers all over him, Logan makes almost comically quick work of his belt and fly in one practice movement that barely wastes a moment with his hands on anything but Kurt.
With those legs around him, he takes the hem of that shirt that hugs him all wrong and heaves it over his head. Grinning foolishly at the way it tousles Kurt’s hair. Crushing his lips first to the younger man’s mouth, and then his neck and then the curve of his collarbone, the only noise that escapes him as they wrestle clothes off one another is the falling of his breath and a frustration growl when those stupid sweats get hung up between Kurt’s backside and the counter. “Off,” he grumbles knowing full well, even sort of hoping, Kurt puts him in his place for speaking out of turn again.
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It is difficult, though, to keep his thoughts in check as Logan kisses his throat and his chest, his breath hot and damp in Kurt's fur, soft animal noises rising from them both as they move together, scattering bits of clothing and kitchen implements onto the floor. Kurt rolls his hips as Logan pushes against him and crosses his ankles behind his back, his tail looped firmly around Logan's thigh. Nobody, this time, is going anywhere.
Logan's growled request only earns him another kiss, Kurt making sure he feels the points of his fangs before he pulls back, but only far enough to rest his forehead against Logan's. He buries the fingers of one hand in Logan's hair and tugs on it, gently but firmly, enough for Logan to feel it and tilt his head. Kurt leans in to kiss and taste the side of his throat and the bristly angle of his jaw, enjoying being able to hold such a man so still. With his other hand takes Logan's wrist, slides his palm down his furry side over his belly and between his legs, so he can feel exactly what effect he's having.
"Take them off for me," he purrs in Logan's ear.
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It was years later when Logan learned that the opposite was true too.
That Kurt's eyes burned so brightly just to revel in the delight of denying Logan his hands. He was briefly in charge of the X-Men back then and Logan hasn't for a moment forgotten the words that inspired that moment. Being in charge looks good on you, he'd said, blissfully unaware how much he'd come to mean it.
It was fun to be the sparring partner. The one with whom Kurt felt comfortable testing his own limits. But now, every kiss that draws Logan in right where he wants him, every time Kurt pulls his hair like he's holding him by the reigns, every demand he gives voice to makes it abundantly clear that Kurt knows exactly what he wants.
"Jesus..." Logan's groan comes from deep in his chest. That palm pressed between Kurt's legs wraps around the length of him as much as his grip can managed through the taut fabric of those fucking pants and there's nothing Logan wants more than to be rid of any lingering smell of Frank fucking Castle right now.
His hand is flat and firm against Kurt chest when he shoves the younger man back, leaning him deeper across the counter. As close as space allowed for laying him completely out. Hunched over Kurt's bare body he bites at the the plane of his stomach, ensuring his teeth catch flesh and not just fur. Hauling firmly on those sweats he pulls them down a few mere inches until he realizes its Kurt fighting his effort. Looking up at the man over his sort bare chest, it takes nothing to realize what he wants. "It'll hurt," he huffs. But all the younger man has to do is level that toothy grin and Logan doesn't hesitate.
A claw snikts from between his knuckles and Logan peels one of those long legs off of his waist. The blunt back side of that cold metal claw slips up Kurt's ankle. Starting its long slow run in the fabric right beneath the cuff. Over the curve of his knee. Logan's hand splays on his stomach. Enforcing his stillness firmly as that cold blade makes the most dangerous stretch of its journey. Carefully up the tender inside of his thigh and out through the waist band.
no subject
Kurt yields now, enough to push himself into Logan's hand as he grips him, matching Logan's murmured curse with a low noise of his own. He's not surprised and more than a little pleased when Logan's patience ends and he's pushed back onto the counter, though not gently enough for his tired body. He makes a small noise of complaint, quickly forgotten when Logan leans over him, setting his teeth playfully to the muscles of his stomach. Kurt yelps and swats the back of Logan's thigh with his tail, paying him back by stubbornly not helping slide the sweatpants off his hips, knowing he wants to push Logan a little more. He knows they both need this release, not only to satisfy their mingled desire but also to rebuild trust.
So, in the spirit of trust, he does indeed grin in response to Logan's comment. A little pain doesn't scare him, and perhaps it would do Logan good to realise that his partner isn't quite as fragile as he seems to think.
Though despite his bravado, Kurt realises that he didn't quite expect Logan to actually go through with it, and the feel of the hard flat blade against his ankle is enough of a shock to make him hiss out his breath. Logan's hand on his stomach is a steady weight, though Kurt would have preferred it a little lower as the claw slips through cotton with a soft hissing sound, gliding through his fur along his leg, and he has to grip the edge of the counter with one hand to keep himself still as his heartrate increases, danger and lust a heady mix as the blade skates over the inside of his thigh, so slowly, so carefully --
By the time the fabric parts at his waist, Kurt is almost painfully hard, pink tongue darting over dark lips as he looks down the length of his body at Logan, his breathing heavy. He shifts his hips a little, reaching down to push the remaining fabric down and off the rest of the way.
"Logan," he breathes, the single word a command and a request all at once.
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But he and Kurt have been testing those boundaries for the better part of their friendship. For all his desire to protect his friend from harm, it’s only fair that he trust what Kurt can take. So often he asks for the same after all.
Still. Logan notices every twitch, Even if he says nothing of it, every flinch and groan, impassioned or painful, he takes stock of. Like the way Kurt’s breath has gone ragged by the time Logan’s knuckles are brushing dangerously along his groin, denying him exactly what he wants while giving him exactly what he asked for. Or the way his eyes glow differently. More softly perhaps. As if the their were reduced by the dilation of some unseen pupil. Or the way Logan’s name sounds on his lips. It’s the last of those details Logan stops to study before his own willpower can no longer outlast Kurt’s.
That single claw snaps back into his arm. The garment comes away easily now, and Logan wastes not a moment on dispatching the desecrated remnants of Frank that dare to stand between them. His hands are firm on Kurt’s hips as he doubles over that body stretched out for him, burying his face in the curve of Kurt’s hip and biting his way from navel to the tender flank inside his thigh. There’s some joy to be had in seeing Kurt like this. Some sense of victory in seeing his friend so wanting. But it’s a difficult thing to revel in too long when the sight of Kurt so worked up makes him ache just as much. Logan’s hands splay across the blue expanse of Kurt’s chest when he closes his mouth around the Kurt’s cock. Drawing him in as Logan takes himself in hand. Working them both to the point they can be go on being rough without friction.
As a man who doesn’t typically mince words when he’s feeling impassioned, he’s decidedly quiet. Option for actions over words. Taking the hand Kurt’s bracing the counter with he replaces the younger man’s grip on his shoulders. It’s a warning of sorts. And the only one Kurt get’s when he hauls his partner closer to the edge of his make-do seat. A touch slick with his own anticipation presses deeply between Kurt’s legs and when he finally looks up with his breath heaving and his eyes blown wide there’s an unspoken request for any changes of heart before he loses himself in these long heated moments.
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"Ah, Gott im Himmel," Kurt gasps, hooking one knee over Logan's shoulder to encourage him. He watches Logan with glassy golden eyes, what little coherent thought he has left making a pledge to preserve this image of him between his thighs, naked and half-sunlit by the open door, the forest glowing outside.
Then Logan does something with his tongue and Kurt shudders, skating along the edge of losing it too soon, it's been far too long --
But Logan relents, hauling him back over the counter and that's almost good enough, feeling so pulled about, the strength in those wide shoulders and the grip of his fingers over Kurt's thighs as he spreads him. Almost trembling with anticipation, Kurt wraps his legs around Logan's hips and meets his eyes, then reaches up with both hands and buries his fingers in Logan's hair as he kisses him deeply, tasting himself, salt-sweet, on his tongue, and hoping that will be answer enough to the unasked question.
no subject
It's tempting to idle and admire the perfectly sculpted legs he's wrapped up in, but when the hands in his hair reel him in for a kiss that might as well be an order in itself his attention is so easily captured, drawn in like a hungry dog tempted by food. Just as obedient and single minded too.
He presses a half step closer and suddenly, locked to Kurt's lips as he is, every chord the sensation strikes in his body can be seen and felt across Logan's face. He catches Kurt's lip between his teeth through that moment of resistance. His mouth opens like a gasp for air that never makes it so far as his throat when Kurt relaxes just enough to take him. And then everything about the hard and stern expression on Logan's face, every furrow in his brow and curl of his lip, dissolves into a soft expression of slack jawed bliss as he presses himself closer still. Fitting himself between Kurts thighs where all their angles meet just right. For a moment he goes perfectly still, relishing that all encompassing feeling until his lungs burn for breath, before rolling his hips back and doing it again. This time with his hands on Kurt's lower back, hoisting his hips to an angle he can remember so vividly and precisely by the way Kurt looks when he's being held there and the way his accent get's thicker when he begs Logan's name.
He huffs ragged, humid breaths across Kurt's lips when those legs hold him so tightly there's no longer enough room between them to wholly withdraw. Instead he takes Kurt in hand again and buries himself completely, letting the younger man writhe against him towards his own satisfying end.
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And, now, the way that Logan inhales as he holds himself on the edge of entering him for the first time in too long. A sharp pain from his lip, chasing him over the edge. He tightens his grip on Logan's shoulders, then folds his arms around his neck as Logan pushes forward. A brief, uncomfortable moment; gratitude welling in Kurt's chest like a song beginning. He moves his hips, relaxes, and utters a small soft noise as Logan slides into him as if he's meant to be nowhere else.
Kurt presses himself against him, knees high and ankles locked behind Logan's hips, secure between Logan and the counter but aching suddenly for more closeness, more movement, and Logan gives it to him.
"Liebling, bitte, I -- ah, Logan." The words tumble from him against Logan's mouth. He moans and shudders, breathless, as Logan's hand slides between them, pinned, held, but still needing more.
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When the other notion finally connects he gives no warning before acting on it. As if summoning that clarity through some love drunk stupor is a now or never moment. Pushing his hands up Kurt’s back, he pulls the younger man against him. Taking him firmly by the thighs when Kurt’s arms encircle his neck. It’s a shorter trip to the sofa. So much so it can be made with a few blind, staggering steps that don’t require he take his mouth off the lips of the man now perched above him, using the angles of Logan’s hips and legs like the footholds on a climbing wall.
Navigating the world by every sense but sight, something else clatters to the floor when they pull away from the counter. Either by the carelessness of Logan’s elbow or a lashing of Kurt’s tail. As soon as he can feel the sofa on his calves he drops into the seat, slumping low against the cushion with Kurt perched on his hips. There’s a moment of wrestling, readjusting the weight with which they hold themselves together and Logan’s hands realize they’re not needed now. Not for stability, or grip, just for whatever they can reach. How much of the younger man’s body they can map as he looks up at Kurt like a man witnessing a miracle.
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The movement and the new position have Kurt gripping Logan's shoulders enough to bruise. He relaxes as Logan leans back, shifting himself to take advantage of every part of his innate flexibility as he rolls his hips in Logan's lap, breaths hitching as Logan slides in and out of him. Logan's fingertips dig channels in his indigo fur; Kurt leans back a little, reaching up to run his own fingers through his sweaty curls, his other hand braced against the wall above Logan's head as he settles into a rhythm.
"Ja," he sighs, "better."
It's a glorious thing to be able to look down at Logan from this angle; the sight of him so entranced precious as any treasure. Kurt touches his chest, runs his fingertips up his throat to his jaw, almost as furry as Kurt's own. He passes the pad of his thumb over Logan's lips, teasing, as he picks up the pace a little.
"Sehr gut, Liebling."
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Over or under, Logan's hips push firmly against those thighs when Kurt's body sinks to meet him. He knows all his angles, Logan's often thought. Not just how to use them to his advantage but how to look unbearably good when he does it. Flipping his loose hair back like some kind of showman. It's a view that makes him ache. With one hand Logan's fingers dig deeper, more possessively, past the plush of his fur and well into the firmer flesh and the other closes firmly around Kurt's length, stroking him in a loose cadence with his thrusts.
For a man used to being used for the harm he can cause, there's few things more intoxicating than being used for someone else's pleasure. Watching Kurt lean over him, twist himself into spot that makes his breath hiss from between his fanged smile leaves Logan's mouth agape. At least until he catches that thumb in his mouth, dragging his teeth over the knuckle.
"Let me see..." the words have to picked out of the constant hum of his growl and even then they're monosyllabic and cobbled together poorly. It takes a few lazy tries to get to the statement he means to make. "Watch. Watch you cum. I want it."
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When Logan drags words out of his rumbling purr, they're almost enough to set Kurt off right then and there. The stark need, the want in Logan's eyes, in his voice, runs down Kurt's body. He shivers, his fond smile becoming a little sharp with wickedness, almost the devil he's been mistaken for so many times. His tail slips up underneath him, sliding along the inside of Logan's thigh.
Hips rocking, he leans down and captures Logan's mouth with his, meeting him growl for growl, then pulling back just enough to speak again. His hand slides down from Logan's jaw, thumb settling into the hollow of his throat.
"Say please."
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Despite his upward straining, there’s precious little he can do from this angle to effect what Kurt lets him feel. And that is, in itself, so much a part of what sets that love-drunk look of aw across his face. If his hips and the hunger with which he tries to hang on to that kiss can’t beg enough, Kurt’s words make his whole body stutter. It takes a strained grunt and a growl before he can think through the fog in his forebrain to come to the very words Kurt just demonstrated for him, but that thumb on his Adam’s apple gives him pause.
His wide-blown eyes look like there’s no limit to the depth of them when he drags his hands roughly down the younger man’s plush flanks, and rakes his blunt fingers along those taut thighs.
“Please...” he whispers it at first as his fingertips follow Kurt’s elbow down to his knuckles. The same one he can feel sticky with the remnants of blood he put there. Closing his hand over Kurt’s, he tightens the grip on his neck, an inch or so at a time. And then with a little more breath in his lungs.
“Please.”
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