suchmiracles | IC; Deerington Inbox

IC; Deerington Inbox

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For a man as big as he, Wrench needs remarkably little space. He's well-adapted to fitting his long limbs into the hollows of corners left by others. Ice fishing huts, tents pitched under the boundless expanse of a night's sky, attics and cellars, and once or twice even the narrow backseat of a a rental car. Despite the introduction he gave Jim's headache when he first crawled out of the canopy of trees, he knows how to be quiet too. It takes a considerable effort, and there are times it must be apparent to the two other men who occupy this space how hard he's trying. The way he swallows back his own breath and moves like every footstep is laced with his intentionality is almost comical, but he's trying. Not to shrink himself away or to disappear. Wrench hasn't done much to concern himself with the open invitation he's been handed. But he's fashioned himself with the respectful posture of a man who must hope to be understood as less than he appears, and more than he's been taken for.

It feels wrong to appreciate the quiet of those lingering days when another member of the cabin is suffering, but Wrench finds relief in caretaking like he might never have known. Anything seems better than the Deerington that waits for them beyond the dead-bolted door, but steeping leaves for tea and running cloths under cool water makes him muse over what else his hands are capable of. Wrench has only considered them in two dimensions before: tools of aggression, and weavers of language. Now he finds his energy in watching how they can draw out a smile, or move a grimace towards something more relaxed. He knows he's a fool to hold this place in any sort of regard. It's captured them, tortured them, and now it's made the most impervious among them weak and sick with its illness, but it's still a far cry from the wandering dark of the woods or the creeping realization that a lifetime of captivity is all that's waiting for him elsewhere, too.

Wrench barely sleeps. It comes as no surprise to Kurt, he's sure, and he doubt Jim minds the restlessness that keeps their bed a space of limited occupancy. The hours the two men spend fighting their demons for precious moments of rest, he reads, devises puzzles on the sheets of paper that once contained their written conversations, and stalks the area around the cabin for what he can trap and gather. A few times Wrench has put his mind to cleaning or shuffling cabinets, but a harsh word from the man whose head still pounds quickly put an end to the more enthusiastic of his activities.

He doesn't always keep his distance, though. Sometimes he's overt about it, and once or twice Kurt has stumbled out of bed to find Wrench curled up on the floorboards. Even more often, he takes refuge with them on the sofa and traps them both with his legs or his arms wound around them, refusing to see any protestation. But usually it's enough just to know where they are, to keep them in his easy sights should he look up from a page and find himself wanting in the moonlight. He's drifted on and off a few times already tonight. The change in barometric pressure and the heavy streaks and trembles across the night sky might keep others awake, but to Wrench they're a beckoning lullaby in his chest. When he startles awake for the third time he sits up from the couch, passes a hand over his lips, and turns to peer from the back of the furniture towards the bedroom.

It hasn't been easy to see Logan unwell. Not only because of the disruption it brings to the cabin, but also the way it awakens difficult memories, times that Kurt would rather forget. Times when the health of the strongest of the X-Men was not only a personal fear, but the barometer for the safety of their entire species, too many fates resting on those weary shoulders. It brings back most strongly the reminders of those final days before Logan had disappeared for the last time, before they'd all learned that he was gone for good. As it had been then, it's hard to watch him carefully measuring out his strength as if he's feeling every year of his age, suffering through the days and nights, and knowing there's nothing anyone to help.

So when Logan suggests he's feeling better, even as a joke, Kurt is all too eager to seize upon it and hold the gruff words close in his heart. If Deerington has taught him anything, it's that moments like these are meant to be savoured, talismans to grip in the face of whatever's waiting in the future. He's too aware, now, of how quickly it can all be taken away, or changed for good into something warped and strange.

He lets out a long, shivering breath of gratitude and pleasure as Logan digs his fingertips into his fur. He shifts on the bed, lifting his legs up so he can put his knees over Logan's wide shoulders, an easy position for a lifelong gymnast and a familiar one besides. The wandering tail in question slips down between them, the tip of the spade trailing slowly down the muscled curves of Logan's stomach.

"I don't know where you learned these terrible lines, Liebling," he points out, his voice low and soft, "but you had better not stop there."

Edited 2019-09-18 16:39 (UTC)

He knows Kurt worries. Even now. It's all in vain he suspects, but you can't talk a man down from his concern for others. Even if you're the other in question. There's some amount of guilt on Logan's shoulders for that too. Beyond the hurt and fear he caused some days ago the helpless he knows Kurt feels now isn't much better. It's hard not to feel some responsibility for that. The way the man seems more tense now. More prone to startle. Doing something to ease the man's tension seems like the least he can do. Especially, if it's not exactly selfless work.

"John Blake school of pick-up artistry..." he mumbles. Maybe Kurt's never met the guy and it won't mean a damn to him. He can't keep track. But his desire to be a wise ass is a mood that's quickly losing ground to more important things now that Kurt's awake and encouraging what he started.

"fuck..." he mumbles appreciative but absently. Eyes so dark Kurt might see little more than his reflection in them when the lightning washes the room. Kurt's legs folded over his shoulders make for a difficult invitation to ignore for even a moment, but he tries, just for the sake of surprise, as long as his willpower will hold out. Kissing that knee at his ear, he moves away instead of forward, until those thighs are wrapped around his ears and his mouth around Kurt's dick. Burying himself between those legs as he draws Kurt in to just enjoy the way the man's stomach flutters there at the end of his nose when pulls him in deeply and lets his hand follow the curve of his ass to work two slicked fingers inside him.

For a long breathless moments he's unrelenting about it. Intent on making his partner twist and squirm until one of them can't take it any more. This time it's Logan. He's been up too long already, fascinating himself with the man next to him to wait much longer when Kurt's so graciously offered up everything he needs. When Logan sits back it's with a heavy pull for the breath he was getting so little of while buried against Kurt.

He kisses one of the leg's still draped over him and leans in to put his lips to Kurt's. Setting his weight forward finally, like he'd been invited to. Leaning into the backs of those strong thighs and rutting himself against the cleft of his ass. "You're ready?" he asks, not a warning, but a courtesy as Logan holds himself between them, working himself to a point of eager wetness that'll help let him in.

The shapes at the back of the cabin are muted in darkness, and for a time Wrench finds himself chasing illusions along the walls. He watches the patches of deep twist and startle under the crack of lightning and imagines a much more elaborate piece of drama acted out by those shadow puppets. It holds more interest to his weary mind than the disconnected drone of words on a page. Here in the cabin everything hums with life and energy, every action held together by a story all its own he'd like to uncover. Not for a moment has he stopped wondering about the two men with whom he shares the offered space: the one with blades buried up his hands, and the one who can make himself disappear in a puff of ozone. Wrench imagines where they came from and how they found one another, what circumstances conspired to bring them together even before this place, and what's changed for them now that they're here together again.

He watches so long as the thoughts drift in and out of his mind that it takes him by surprise when another errant crack of lighting reveals the figures in bed have moved after all. Their steady drift toward one another has not just been the figment of his imagination. It makes him sit up a little more, watching in the pale moonlight as they pull towards one another in darkened suggestions of action. A leg here, an arm there. Wrench feels his breath increase when the storm reveals Kurt's foot lifted high in shadow towards the window. He bites around his own tongue, but soon finds his own hand disappearing between his waist and the back of the couch, fingers dragging down his zipper to give a little more room to what his thoughts are doing to him.

Wrench has known them both individually. Felt the specific weight of both man's hands in his hair and against his hips. The flush of their skin brushing against his own, and the taste of each one in his mouth. Now he imagines them tasting one another. The beckoning of their bodies towards that center point in the middle of the small bed. He feels the tingle of anticipation in his chest, and takes himself in his own hand, easing himself with a gurgle and a sigh as he begins to stroke.

Kurt doesn't need to wait for lightning to be able to watch the dip and curve of Logan's shoulders as he settles between his legs. His night vision casts the room in shades of grey and gold from the glow of firelight coming in through the door; he studies with renewed appreciation the shape of Logan's hands on his thighs. Then Logan lowers his mouth onto him and all thought of visual appreciation becomes secondary to the wave of sensation, the hot wet heat on him, the faintest touch of pointed teeth.

Unable as ever to stay still under such attention, he grabs fistfuls of the sheets and curls forward, moaning and rapidly cursing in German as Logan takes him deeper, then arching his back, helpless, as Logan's hand slides down and pushes into him. Instinctively he pushes his thighs further apart, eager to be pinned between fingers and mouth, crossing his ankles behind Logan's shoulders. Logan is as relentless as his codename and holds him there until Kurt is writhing in the sheets, trying to rock his hips but not quite able to get what he's seeking, waves of heat and pleasure shuddering through his body.

When Logan pulls back he's almost at the edge of losing it, only the desire to make things last for as long as he can holding him back. He opens his eyes and looks up Logan, the man's leaning weight bringing his knees almost back to his chest, his mind spinning and dazed, washed clean of the ability to do anything except croak out: "ja, bitte, Logan."

He moans again and sighs as Logan slides into him, shameless and careless, not wanting for anything besides more of this moment. Though, perhaps, not too much at once.

"Slowly," he breathes, somewhere between a request and a command as he reaches up to run his hands through Logan's hair, holding the back of his neck.

There's a bittersweet note to every one of Logan's longest lasting relationships. Namely that he's watched his favourite people in the world grow up or grow old faster than him. But when Kurt's whole body twists like that under his touch. When the man lapses into German when he moans, and bows his back and clings to the sheets he's that same incorrigible young man he was the first time Logan held him down like this in some bed at the estate. And rather than mourn the years that have gotten away from them, Logan a swell of joy for all the years he's spent coming to know exactly what makes the man come apart at the seams.

The breathless way Kurt begs him on is almost enough to make him think the younger man wants to finish this. Then that one word changes everything. The hands in his hair and trailing down his neck hold his focus on Kurt's eyes a moment. "Slowly." He growls. It's an agreement and a promise and a mantra with which to steady himself as he presses his weight forward. Slowly means deeply. Deliberately. Intensely. All of which, a man who enjoys his own personal torment could go on doing all night.

His hands slide up between Kurt's back and the bed beneath him. Rocking his hips forward against Kurt's thighs. Pressing in until he can feel the younger man's prick hot and wet between their stomachs and he can't possibly get another closer to the body against him. His substantial weight holds him there a long, languid moment. A moment Logan takes to relish every inch of himself inside him. He opens his eyes to study the subtlest expressions on Kurt's face. Kissing his bottom lip when his mouth opens in a quiet gasp. "slowly..." Logan growls. A gentle threat for Kurt, a reminder for himself.

People talk of figuring it out like the act of self-discovery has been somehow revolutionary. Of coming out, as if the timeline of life and attraction exists in segments before and after. Wrench has always known, and never said. His sense of what it means to be attracted to men has been colored by his observations more than the language anyone has used for these acts or those who undertake them. It's been shaped by the landscape of the places he's gone looking for experiences, and what he's learned about himself and the world in the process. How he's come to understand the certain uses of his own body, and the expectations of others. As with so many things in his life, there's been a lot of watching here too. Peering into darkened corners to catch glimpses at the things no one brings forward with intentionality in conversation. Learning by acting, and by fucking up time and time again.

Tonight, he lets himself fall into those familiar habits. Into the feeling of holding life itself at a distance, and being privy to the way it shapes and forms for others as he drifts along on a quiet breeze. Wrench fascinates himself with the way the two men come to each other, the simple negotiation, and the way they seem to fit with none of the clumsiness of probing another's boundaries. He feels their familiarity and aches for it himself. Feels desperate to pull it in and claim it as his own, transpose himself in their places and feel the embrace of ghosts. He rolls his hips and fucks his own hand, gasping a breath of hot air and tipping his head toward the ceiling where he can imagine himself in both roles at once, giver and recipient. Wrench's own touch makes him grumble, and his long legs rattle the couch as he finds his pacing.

There's a teasing, almost torturous element to Logan's restraint that has always been enough to drive Kurt to distraction, even outside of the bedroom. It's a quality that he himself has had to learn, being more used to launching into the center of the ring to tackle whatever wants his attention. But Logan can sit by and wait for as long as he has to, marshalling his silence and his strength for the perfect opportunity. Those who don't know him, who expect him to be a brute and a thug, would perhaps be surprised to learn which of the two of them is more capable of patience. Kurt knows that it amuses Logan to prove people wrong, and especially amuses him to use his skills to make Kurt regret every syllable of his request as he stops moving, deliberately, and rumbles his own words back to him.

Kurt shivers underneath him, a soft pleading noise in his throat, almost a whine, unable to stop himself rolling his hips, chasing more of what he wants and can't have. What he needs and doesn't want. It's part of the game, he knows, like the way they used to play tag in the forest. The hunt, the stalk, the give and take of who gets to win this time and who ends up buying the beer. Still, it's infuriating, and that's why Kurt loves it.

He tugs Logan's head down to return the glancing kiss he received, tasting himself on Logan's tongue, groaning into his mouth when the other man starts moving again. He knows how long this can go on for, how long Logan can hold them both on the edge; the anticipation winds through his limbs, making his hips stutter, his cock sliding against Logan's belly.

Slowly, he'd requested, and Logan seems more than happy to fulfill that. Kurt releases him to fall back against the pillows, wanting room to stretch out and let the building rhythm of their joined bodies roll through every inch of him. He takes a breath and a little of the world outside comes back, the sound of the rain and the scent of the fire in the wood stove, and overlaying that Logan's heavy breathing, his own soft helpless noises, the steady creak of the bed. And another sound, which he recognises, but it takes a moment for him to remember where he heard it. In this bedroom, a different night, shaped by gentle hands and the sharp breathless heat of new discoveries in each other.

Kurt opens his eyes, peering past the curve of his own arm crooked above his head, and sees out in a pool of fire-limned warmth a book discarded, long outflung limbs and the column of Wrench's throat as his hand moves in his lap. For a few heartbeats Kurt just watches him, suspended between the weight and fullness of Logan moving inside him and the long silent wood-walled distance between himself and Wrench. The thrill of knowing that Wrench has been able to see them this entire time, that he's been driven to slake his own need through witnessing theirs, sends a spark of redoubled desire shivering down Kurt's spine.

"Lo.. Logan," he breathes, lifting his head to kiss his partner's neck, licking the salt of sweat from his skin, "we.. ahh.. we have an audience."

That give and take of control and restraint, tension and relief, desperation and satisfaction is what Logan craves about these moments. No matter how urgent or slow it is, the push and pull they wrestle one another though demands as much from their bodies as it does from their minds. Logan's version of slow can border on tantric. Languid and meditative, he moves against Kurt in a way that luxuriates in everything the younger man gives him. His forehead fallen to feel the plush of Kurt's chest. His open palms feeling for the way his back flexes. His focus fighting for all of those slight sensations above and beyond the singularly encompassing feeling of Kurt's body around him. It all puts the instinctual and intellectual into such stark relief in a way that few things do. In a way that makes him feel more uniquely human than almost anything else he knows.

He's certain he can feel when Kurt is lost in it too. And when he's trying to postpone that sensation that threatens to drown them by relaxing himself. Pulling in a breath of cool air not heated by the body of the other man. Logan tries to relax with him. Pulling back from the void that they stumble towards when they start writhing against each other with every muscle taut.

He slows to a lazy rocking. Holding himself up with his palms against the mattress to give Kurt enough room to breathe.

"I know..." he the words rolls from his chest on a growl, but he gives no indication of how long he's been aware and either unperturbed, or perhaps emboldened by their onlooker. "You're not shy, are you?" even the way his lips curl to ask proves Logan already knows the answer to the question he goads him with.

"Do you want him to watch?" he asks instead. Sitting up on his knees he kisses that leg draped over his shoulder and his hand make an admiring pass over Kurt's stomach. "Or do you want him to touch?"

It might be difficult for anyone else to be relaxed while in such a position, but Kurt's unique physiology means he can more than manage it. He sprawls in what room he's given, bracketed by Logan's arms either side of his head, then propped up by him as he sits back. The change in position makes his breath catch and his hips jump, as does the brush of Logan's hand through the fur of his belly, close but not close enough to his cock.

With an effort, he resists the urge to glance over to see if Wrench is watching, wanting to spend a little longer as the apparently unknowing subject of the man's attention. They've been dancing around this possibility since Logan returned, trading touches and kisses, not sure how to navigate what they've become to each other. Kurt feels more than a little responsibility for shaping them, his grief the dark core that holds them together, and is glad to be asked, though he knows it's as much part of the game as a request for guidance. Logan is certainly familiar enough with his voyeuristic streak to know that the question is a difficult one to answer. Kurt listens to the sound of Wrench's gasps and groans, the shift of clothing moving at an increasingly frantic pace, and knows what he wants without having to think much longer about it.

"T.. touch, ahh, Logan, please," he manages to say, the ability to form words becoming increasingly distant as Logan rolls his hips forward. "Can.. you.."

"Can I what?" he asks, knowing the answer, and still needling Kurt to say it. He rocks forward again. Slow and deliberate. Enjoying the way the younger man stumbles when reaches for his words around the pleasant pressure Logan fills him with. "Go get him? Tell him to come watch me fuck you?" He bites gently at the leg over his shoulder. "Tell him how to fuck you, while I watch?" The possibilities that come and go from Logan's mind like fleeting glimpses through a window made foggy by the heady humidity in their breath. Maybe Kurt's been specifically waiting for this moment. This opportunity have Logan be the one to extend such an intimate invitation. Maybe he just knows Logan is shameless enough to do it without batting an eye. Whatever the case, he doesn't intend to stand between Kurt and those fantasies that make him the center of attention.

He peels himself off Kurt slowly and carefully, as if moving any faster will provoke some kind of electric shock that threatens to debilitate him. It takes Logan a long moment of steadying his breath before he even trusts his feet to hold him. When he finds the floor under him he takes Kurt behind the knees and drags him across the bed, leaving him there at the edge of the mattress. His hands follow Kurt's flanks up to his arms, stretching Kurt's reach up above his head until Logan can hold the younger man's hands against the sheets. "Stay," he says with a voice so stern it belies the smirk on his face. "No touching. S'not for you," he warns with a kiss and leaves him there. Padding barefoot across the old wooden floor. First to the fridge where he helps himself to a beer. And then turning to look at the man on the sofa with his own dick in hand.

The cap lands in the sink with a clatter and Logan tips it up for a long cool drink. He set the cold glass bottle against his temple a moment. It's not just a refreshing change from the heat between them, it quells the flush on his skin from this low grade fever that comes and goes these days.

For a man as naked and unabashedly hard as he is Logan manages to look unflappably casual. He nods in Wes' direction when those eyes find his in the low light. Don't hurt yourself, he smiles a smug smile. get your pants off. He's waiting for you.

Edited 2019-09-21 01:49 (UTC)

Half-taken by his own imagination, Wrench tips his face toward the ceiling and breathes heavy puffs of air from his burning lungs. The distance that separates his wanting body from the two men curled towards one another in the center of that bad seems vast. Like a dizzying Alice in Wonderland dreamscape, the room seems to pitch and tilt in the low light, and it's too much to keep up with his own voice alongside the pool of warmth in his belly and the yearning of his own body. It makes Wrench careless with his voice, and those simple sounds of his own interested pleasure filter across the space unchecked as he thumbs circles around the tip of his cock and teases his length against the fabric of his unshed jeans.

He wonders how well Jim knows Kurt's body. When he first traced the lines of his ribs, and held him at his hips. How man times has he tasted the man between his lips, and felt that tail capture him at the thighs? And for Kurt, has he ever insisted Jim's claws out in their bed? Does he have another man for the name when they fuck, something reserved for just the two of them? Wrench remembers the grip of Kurt's fingers, and the strength of Jim's bucking hips.

He's vulnerable like this, too caught up in the desires that prickle his own skin to keep his eye on his own surroundings. When Wrench's hazy eyes turn back to the bedroom, he nearly jolts to realize he's lost the sight of the two men crooked together in the light of the storm. The surprise of the movement out of the corner of his eye makes him flinch, and his grunt comes out as a strangled, shrill sound of surprise to see Jim with the beer in hand, watching him. Wrench finds his concern mingling with desire, and the push and pull of his fear at being caught and his trill to see eyes on him makes him rut himself against the cushion and try to hide what he's doing.

It's not enough. The effort is foolishly ineffective, and Jim's insistence brings Wrench stumbling to his feet. He growls to feel the rough pass of fabric over his sensitive hard on, but frees himself to the chill of the cabin and looks to the open bedroom. To the negotiation of Jim drinking his beer, still hard, but beckoning. To Kurt stretched widthways across the mattress, writhing at his own situation. Left exposed to the interests of both men. Their hungry, lavishing attention. You too? Wrench asks the man even as he wanders into the bedroom and drapes himself next to Kurt to kiss at his neck.

I've been watching, he admits, just to see how the statement lands. I wanted to see how you show yourself off for him.

The absence of Logan's leaning weight between his legs, the pulse and pressure of him inside Kurt's body, is almost as difficult to endure as the teasing had been. It's almost enough to make him want to shrug off Logan's command and follow him out into the kitchen, continuing things against the counter or the floor instead of the warm bed. Almost.

Thankfully, Kurt has learned to savour anticipation as well as gratification, and the way that Logan leaves him, sprawled and needy and on display, one foot crooked against the edge of the mattress and the other skimming over the floor, makes the savouring of it sweet indeed. So he stays like that, obedient as any student, arms up over his head as he listens to the dim roar of the rain and the thunder of his own heartbeat that seems just as loud as the storm. The bed is much more comfortable than the floor of the Danger Room or the training mats at the circus, but he knows this feeling just as well. Cast adrift, floating free but fully present in his body, his thoughts brief scraps of things that don't linger long enough to trouble him. Instead he focuses on the dampness in the fur low on his belly, the tight hot need between his legs, the pleasant ache of lightly used muscles and the cool floorboards under his toes. He drags the tip of his tail down over his chest and wonders if Logan's stipulations about touching himself only cover his hands.

Between the noise of the weather outside and the tidal surges of his own breathing, as well as the man's own proficiency in stealth, Kurt can't quite hear Logan move through the cabin. He does, however, catch the startled noise as Wrench, presumably, becomes quickly acquainted with that particular ability, and grins up at the shadowed ceiling.

Still, it seems as though Wrench isn't particularly put off by being snuck up on by the Wolverine, because his yelp of fear is quickly followed by the thud of his footsteps moving towards the bedroom. Kurt catches his lower lip against his sharp teeth, the speed of his breathing and heart-rate increasing as he realises he's being approached. He remains true to his word, however, and doesn't so much as twitch until Wrench's weight is tipping the mattress down and his breath is hot in the fur of his throat. Kurt groans at the touch, unable to help himself, turning his head and opening his eyes to catch the movements of Wrench's hands between them.

Did you like it? He asks, as if he can't feel the evidence of how much he liked it against his hip or indeed hadn't spent the last few minutes listening to his appreciative feedback. His tail is more direct as it slips down the man's body, winding a slow coil around his length and stroking upwards.

His smile is all too pleased with himself when Wes startles to attention and does what he can to maintain some amount of modesty. It's all in vain of course. To his nose, the whole place smells faintly of sex and sweat and testosterone. All of which only serve to keep him keyed up even when he's sucking on a beer and not Kurt.

He's tempted to same something toward the fact that no combination of the three of them haven't seen each other naked at this point, but clever wordplay isn't all that easy when his dick is hard. Instead he drinks and watches Wes strip.

"I'll be along..." he promises, answering the question a nod as well. And he's true to his word. He just doesn't hurry. Taking that drink with him he leans on the door jamb a moment just to watch. To see the way these two reach for each other. Which angles of one another they gravitate to.

From where he watches and waits, feeding his appetite with just his eyes and the occassional lazy stroke, Logan wishes he'd been a fly on the wall that first time. Oh, to have witnessed Wes' first fascinations with that lean, lithe body he knows so well, extra appendage and all.

"If I didn't know better, Elf. I'd think you had a t-y-p-e."

I wanted to come in here and see it myself. I wanted to watch what he was doing to you. Wrench sits back on his heels to paint the picture for the both of them of a man yearning for a closer look at the things they inspire in one another. I want to know what you look like when you give yourself up to him. The spade of Kurt's tail makes him shudder, and he trembles at the sensations the man can inspire while keeping his hands free. It makes Wrench nip his lip and look back at the other man tending to himself languidly as he leans against the wall. Watching between the two of them makes his skin prickle to life, and he extends a hand out to Jim to invite him nearer again to the bed.

Why don't you let him fuck you, and I'll take care of this? He takes Kurt's cock in his hand with enough certain insistence to inspire a reaction, but not to satisfy. Just to keep him on the very edge of his own agonizing pleasure, tilting closer to helpless frustration than release. Wrench keeps Kurt in his warm palm as his eyes wander to the other man for his confirmation, wondering what he thinks of the idea of sharing.

Wrench's language lessons have been extensive and wide-ranging, covering everything from the necessary pragmatism of medical nomenclature to fishing stories. Kurt has come to appreciate, in many ways, the increasingly poetic syntax of his hands and the expressions of his face. Now, lying in the rain-filled darkness that's full of the spicy heat of sex, he realises the beauty in the way a crooked finger and glancing palm can make him shiver even before they touch him. Want and need are written in the air as plain as the pulse he can feel against his tail.

He's glad, though, when that palm crosses the divide between them, sliding along his length as he lifts his hips to follow it, making a soft tense noise in the back of his throat. He reaches out a hand out to touch Wrench's thigh, fingertips seeking any part they can reach, wanting to ground himself, reassure himself, in the solid feel of him before anything else happens.

Kurt doesn't reply to either of them, at least not with words, letting the accepting shudder of his body be any answer they need.

Edited 2019-09-24 09:03 (UTC)

Logan has patience. His mastery of apathy makes him look calm even in situations that don't call for it at all. Despite the languid way he moves, it doesn't take more than Wes' suggestion to have him nodding and returning to the bed he warmed for them.

He sits at the edge of the mattress and drains the last of his beer. Setting the bottle precariously on the top edge of the headboard. It's just wide enough to set there, but he's being optimistic if he thinks this bed sturdy enough that it will stay.

He watches the way they approach each other a long moment. It's nothing like the way Logan tends to reach for either of them. What's between them seems gentler. More flighty. Moving from one spot to the next like neither can decide what they most want with the other man. Logan tends to know what he wants. At least in such a situation as this. He catches Kurt at the hip and pulls him closer. Dropping a hand to his thigh as if to encourage him there. "sit" he says, an invitation to perch upon him like some kind of arm chair.

It takes a careful moment to settle him there seated firmly against Logan's hips, but when he relaxes, leans back into Logan's chest, the older man leg's his legs fall open in a wide V, parting those legs that straddle his as well. Had at Kurt's hips, he reaches around to stroke him lazily once or twice. As if to serve him up to the tall blond who's eyes follow every movement intensely.

When Wes's touch replaces his own, Logan's hands are free to wander. Coursing up that lithe body, encouraging Kurt's head back against his shoulder so Logan can reach his long neck with his teeth.

It's the picture Wrench wants the most, served up to him like he's front row for a pornographic home video. He's reached into those planes and explored the peaks and valleys of both men's bodies curved towards him. Now he watches with admiration as they angle towards one another. What he could only glimpse at across the distance of the cabin is here now in front of him, in all its living definition. The way the two men find each other with ease and settle in like two pieces clicking together. Wrench finds the wanting there in the pit of his stomach, where the warmth has pooled. It tugs at him to see it, and he comes to his knees on the floor of the cabin in front of the two men and lifts his head toward the flashes of lightning behind them.

His lips take their time, pressing at the inner joint of Kurt's kneecap first. He nuzzles the soft skin, letting his mouth and tongue taste the heat and the beads of sweat up the inside of his thigh. When blue intersects white and the fur becomes more coarse along the leg of the other man, Wrench pauses there as well. He lets his nose bury itself along Logan's open thigh a moment, then gives the points of his canines gently to the raking exploration. For a moment he lavishes the both of them with his tender attention, touching, tasting, smelling them as they bury themselves into each other. Then Wrench takes Kurt into his mouth, letting the strength of Logan's wanting thrusts urge him more deeply.

The surrender of giving up his body to be used by the two men who surround him, heart and soul, is not an unfamiliar feeling for Kurt. In the circus he was an instrument of entertainment and joy, risking himself freely as he moved through the smoky atmosphere of the big top. With the X-Men, it had cost him in more than just bruises, but it was a cause he dedicated himself to nonetheless, and he was glad to be the sword that caught the edge of a stronger blade. Now, in the storm-lit room, his audience is smaller, but no less important to him.

His gaze is soft and dark, his eyes lit through smoked glass, as he moves easily, obediently, from the bed into Logan's lap. A loop of his tail and long nights of familiarity with Logan's body make it easy; he moans, a small helpless noise of pleasure and release, as Logan pushes up into him again. He crooks his feet around the backs of Logan's calves, letting the man underneath him spread his thighs as he settles back, hips already moving even as Logan's hand finds him.

Wrench's skin has lost some of that sun-touched glow in the flat white brilliance of the lightning flashes, but it still feels warm under Kurt's palm as he settles his hand first on his shoulder, then sliding up to the back of his neck as the man explores the space between them. Kurt lets his head loll back against Logan's shoulder, his breath catching at the feel of the Wolverine's teeth against his throat, then again as Wrench takes him into his mouth. He buries his fingers in Wrench's hair and his tail grips Logan's ankle and lets it all roll him under.

For a time he's able to stay there, rocking between heat and pressure, letting the tension build on waves of sensation, each one rising higher than the last before falling again. But he's been on edge for too long and it's too much, almost, of what he wants.

The movements of his hips, riding the swell of Logan's thrusts, become steadily more erratic. His hold on Wrench is an anchor against the tide, but it's clear he's heading towards a foregone conclusion.

He arches his back against Logan's chest, reaching up blindly, seeking the curve of Logan's bowed head, flattening his palm against the nape of his neck.

"Logan.. I, ah, I need.. bitte Liebe, can I.."

Permission granted or denied, it doesn't matter, he's lost to it anyway. With a hoarse cry and a shudder that runs the length of his body, he comes hard enough that for a moment the world is lost in a sea of shadows and thunder.

Logan's never fully understood Kurt's desire to be the focal point. The object of such scrutiny and attention, but he takes plenty of joy in giving over that focus when it makes Kurt writhe like he does now.

With one arm crossing Kurt's chest like a strap, he holds their bodies flush together. The other hand tugs gently on a fistful of hair, coaxing his chin towards the ceiling so the view from over his shoulder is nothing but taut, chiseled angles from his Adam's apple to his collar bone, all the way down to his stuttering hips.

At first he takes his time. A deep and deliberate rolling his hips against Kurt's backside just to enjoy the view from up here. Watching Kurt's fingers curl involuntarily around a handful of Wes' oatmeal blond hair. The way his stomach inflates with quick puffs of breath when the younger man devours him. The way he tightens his thighs when the younger man teases him and rewards his patience by drawing him in.

He groans against Kurt's neck and drags his teeth gently over that pointed ear. "you're so damn thirsty," he growls only to catch the sight of Wes' interested eyes looking up to follow the minor movement of his lips. He drags a finger down Kurt's throat to his sternum. Signing his intention on the other man's body.

That broken string of half requests feels like a thought shattered by the tectonic shift threatening to quake his entire body. It begins in his hips. His tail seems to tighten around Logan's leg and Logan holds him tighter as the younger man shivers against his chest. Splaying his heavy hand low across Kurt's stomach as he starts bucking sporadically towards the mouth that finishes him.

"Fuck..." he growls, biting the shoulder just below his chin. He doesn't bother holding out. Instead of conjuring up the willpower to wait, he leans into it. Letting the way Kurt's body tightens around him be the catalyst for his own shuddering end.

Taking a moment to collect himself, his own breath feels hot and damp in the crook of that fuzzy neck. When his eyes open, Wes is sitting back on his heels and Logan looks down at him until he catches his gaze. Your turn.

His hands seek the touch of both men as their arcing rhythm becomes more erratic. Wrench draws Kurt in with his lips and Logan with a grasp to his captured waist in a tangle of discordant flesh and rising heat. From his vantage point he can watch and feel as they both come crashing toward their own ends. Muscles freezing and twitching, the gasping shudders, and the half-formed pleas that shape both men into something feral and pure all at once. There's no space between them for lies or deceit. Not a breath reserved, even, for self-consciousness or polite reservation. He feels it as they both give in to the most primal parts of themselves. That flash of tension before they lose themselves to waves of earnest pleasure. Maybe it's the one thing Deerington can't corrupt. The single thing they own in this place that can't be taken from them or twisted and manipulated to be used for harm. It's gratitude unfolding from a singular point, and rippling out in long and languid waves.

When Kurt is depleted -- body still humming in aftershock -- Wrench sits back on his heels and wipes his lips. He regards the two men with green eyes made bright by the distant crackle of lightning. A smile parts his lips and reveals the gentle gap between his front teeth. The earnest expression seems for a moment almost shy or startled by what he's done, but the longer he goes on watching himself be watched by the two men who haven't even found the wherewithal to separate themselves, the more that grin shapes the curved corners of his mouth into something more coy.

He holds up a hand to stop the man who beckons him, and shapes his fingers into a spread Y instead. Stay, Wrench insists of the both of them, and crawls on his knees just far enough backward to be out of reach. Nipping his lower lip, he takes himself in his own hand, not so unlike the way he'd been before he was discovered. Just feet from them, he gazes unflinchingly at his rapt audience as he strokes himself more urgently, wetting his lips and letting his own breaths fall heavily as the little urgent sighs give way to deeper groans. The mounting sensation of his own pleasure makes him want to tip his head and gasp toward the ceiling, but he keeps his focus on the two men, insisting their attention as he writhes under his own doing and works himself to a moaning completion for their own observation.

The feel of Logan bucking and shuddering underneath him is delicious enough to extend Kurt's own pleasure, shivers running like the pulse of electricity through his body in gradually slowing waves. His awareness thrums, cast wide and held in small individual moments at the same time. The ache of Logan's teeth against his shoulder, already bruising; the warmth of Wrench between his legs and the slide of his tongue and lips as he leaves him, replaced by the cool breath of the night air.

Kurt leans back against Logan's solid warmth, his breathing becoming steadier as he watches, through lowered lashes, Wrench move to sit back away from them. He's tempted to ignore Wrench's instructions and follow him, replacing his fingers with his own mouth, but the thought of watching him touch himself is enough to keep him in place for now. He rolls his body a little, enjoying the feel of Logan still inside him and the low rumble of his response. Reaching down, he encourages Logan's hands to dig into his fur, not quite tired enough to resist the urge to be playful as the storm accompanies Wrench's moans.

His softly glowing eyes devour the sight of their newest partner reaching climax, his pointed teeth catching his lower lip as his own hips rise and fall in unconscious response. As Wrench subsides, he carefully lifts himself off of Logan's lap, giving the Canadian a lambent glance and a brief caress of his tail across his jaw as he stands up, only slightly shaky. This, he decides, is far from over.

He pads over to Wrench, the shadows of the dimly lit room turning into inky brushstrokes across his fur, then kneels between his spread legs. Slowly, he reaches down and takes up Wrench's hand in both of his, raising it to his mouth to carefully and delicately lick it clean.

Edited 2019-09-29 21:51 (UTC)

When Kurt finds his feet gracefully, the groan that escapes Logan is anything but. A short, pained and totally involuntary sound brought on by the unexpected stimulation and shiver that takes place of the warmth that once surrounded him.

More exhausted than he'd typically expect to be after just one round, he can't help but feel like that lethargic feeling that people tell him will eventually go away has already over stayed its welcome. He lets himself drop back to the bed, but's a short lived relaxation when Kurt's tail gazes his chin and pulls his attention down towards the pair of them knelt there before the bed.

If watching Wes make a show of himself wasn't already enough to make him think he can rally for more of this, he moans some frustrated obscenities when the two of them paw at each other. Propping himself up on an elbow he watches a long moment, stroking himself, letting his breath heave, until that ragged breath dissolves into a cough.

"If you're gonna keep that up you both need to get up here where I can reach you," he grumbles. Maybe it's the minor work out, his shallow breath or just his satiated expression, but Logan, despite himself, looks more tired now than he did when he woke them up for this.

Arced back on his heels, Wrench feeds Kurt his fingers like a priest offering blessed communion. The body is his own, shared at the other man's lips and compressed against his tongue until his own mouth parts in kind and he shudders out a hot, quaking breath. The heady insistence leaves no room for his gratitude, but it's what Wrench feels most profoundly as he looks past the man drinking him in to the bed where the third in their trio lies stretched across the mattress like a fresh body laid to rest. For a moment he's overcome by what he doesn't know about these men -- what they still don't know about him -- but the peace he's found here nevertheless. There's an implicit understanding shared in the silence between their bodies. A sort of forgiveness between men like them who know better than to ask the questions they might not want to answer for themselves.

Wrench drags Kurt's lower lip into a pout with his finger and leans in to kiss him, brazen and unapologetic and intended for the watchful eyes of the man on the bed whose hand moves against himself again. When Logan beckons to them he smiles and finds his feet, dragging his shorts back up himself but discarding his undershirt before offering a hand down to his companion. He gestures to the bed, but doesn't move to join the duo immediately. Instead Wrench notes the flush on Logan's skin and the bead of sweat that lingers on his brow. You need water, he notes, and pads through the darkened cabin to the kitchen to return with a filled glass for the man.

He doesn't intend to stay, expecting on this night like the ones before that his restlessness will only keep the two men up. But as Wrench settles at the edge of the bed to insist that Logan drink, he finds his own sense of exhaustion almost overwhelming, and the desire to settle in with them almost unignorable.

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