Work Text:
Happy Valentine's Denial
by Cocoa
Logan sat up and scratched his head. It wasn’t quite 7am but the sun was coming in strong for a winter month. He’d beat his alarm clock by ten minutes and quickly slapped it off when it began to ring. “Seven… O’clock… AM… Sunday… February… 14th,” it droned on regardless, then clicked off. He knew he should have bought a silent one.
Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he stood up and stretched, sunlight striping his body through the breaks in the Venetian blinds. Absent-mindedly scratching his chest and exposing gleaming fangs in a wide yawn, he trotted toward the bathroom and mentally shook himself awake. A cold shower, quick brush – both teeth and hair - two socks, jeans and flannel shirt later and he was trotting down the stairs to the kitchen to dig up some grub.
The smell of whiskey hit him first. Wrinkling his nose and sniffing more tentatively he caught the faint aroma of beer, at least one jello shot and even a whiff of tequila. My, my, someone had had a good night out – so good a night the smell of stale alcohol preceded him through the main door by a good 100 meters. The tang of citrus shampoo, musky cologne and spicy sweat was a close second, alerting him to the identity of the drinker before he could catch a glimpse.
Logan’s stomach fluttered and churned. He calmed it. Hungry! That’s it, he must be hungry, that’s why his stomach was making weird noises. Was his heart speeding up in his chest? Eager anticipation, of course… of the food! Of the food! As for his feet moving of their own accord toward the screen door? Well that was just good manners! He was going to prop it open for the incoming resident, like he’d do for any X-man. For any hot, slinky, sexy, stunning X-man, like the one who was striding toward him right now with a graceful if not entirely even step, a naughty smile on his face and an amused arch in his brow. He’d have done it for any X-man though, really.
“Mor-ning Lo-gan…” Remy slurred in a sing song voice as he climbed unsteadily up the front steps. Logan’s heart rode every dip and rise in his voice. “Comment allez-vous?”
Logan had no idea what he’d just said, and wouldn’t have even if he’d said it in English. He was busy staring at the nymph (nympho?) who propped himself in the doorway opposite him, leaning back against the doorframe on one bent knee. Remy balanced himself against the flat slab of wood, hips jutting out, chest leaning back exposing the lean lines of his stomach under a thin tee, head bent to one side as he pulled out a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in his leather jacket and lit one, pursing his lips to blow a long plume of smoke into the chilly morning.
As Remy busied himself drawing warm smoke into his lungs and blowing smoke rings which expanded out toward the sun, Logan soaked in each feature of the young man’s face. Not that he was staring! He wasn’t staring at all! It was just that, hell, with cheekbones that razor sharp a man had to watch out for his own safety, heh heh… And the eyebrows too, straight and fine and pointing down toward his nose with the single-minded determination of arrows. Warm embers smoldered in the boy’s eyes like campfires in the night and suggested something dark and wild and free. But it was the patrician fineness of the boy’s nose pointing south to Logan’s favorite feature that sealed the fate of his attentions.
Ahem! And by ‘favorite’, it was simply the feature Logan noticed the most. Not that Logan noticed any man’s features, exactly. No, no, it was the feature Logan felt OTHERS might notice most about the kid (*phew, that was close!*), ‘cause Logan certainly didn’t like men in that way, not that he thought there was anything wrong with that. And especially not men with lips like overstuffed pillows, lips with sculpted rounded edges carving them out from the rest of the face, lips with plush, pillowy centers which threatened to suffocate the fine creases anchoring them down, lips with hot, moist centers parting open to release curling fingers of smoke out of a dark, wet cavern. Those were the kind of lips he didn’t particularly notice.
And had he not been so busy not noticing those lips, he would have noticed Remy staring at him with wry amusement.
“Logan? What’r’y’ t’inking about?” Same sing song voice, and Logan’s heart kept time to it.
“Cock.” It was out before he knew it.
“BABCOCK! Babcock Sausages! Babcock Farm’s Smoked Sausages! With eggs. For, ahem, breakfast.”
Remy was smiling. Logan just knew he was blushing.
“Oh? Dey any good?”
“Oh yeah,” Logan chuckled, “they’re good!” Remy was pulling in another long drag, his lips wrapped themselves around the white shaft and sucked, his cheeks hollowing. Logan stared at him in
a trance.
“Yeah, Rem, they’re good,” he continued hoarsely, “they’re thick, and meaty, and spicy, and juicy, when you bite into ‘em the juice practically bursts into—”
“LOGAN! Arrête, mon brave! Y’ tryna make me come??”
Logan flushed as Remy took a shaky last drag off his cigarette and flicked the butt out onto the gravel footpath. The clenching in his gut was its own response.
Remy pulled himself up to full height and settled a dreamy gaze on Logan’s red and slightly lost face.
“Jus’ want’d to wish you ‘appy Valentine’s Day, homme.”
“Oh. Of course! Um, you too….”
Logan stared down at his toes wiggling in their socks, trying desperately to think up something witty to say. As he looked up at last with a comment on the tip of his tongue, the words were smothered against his lips by the same full, soft, plush lips he hadn’t particularly noticed earlier. Pushing his denials to the side for once, Logan responded to the kiss with a hunger all his own. They’d been making out for several minutes before they finally came up for air, Logan meeting Remy’s eyes with hunger and surprise, Remy returning the stare with a growing heat.
“Logan, mebbe we choke down some sausage later, hein?”
He had a witty retort to that too!
But he didn’t get a chance to voice it before Remy dragged him out of the kitchen by his belt. Can you guess what it was?...
HOPE YOU ALL HAD A HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!!!