SPARTA'S REPRISE
folder
X-men Comics › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,546
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
X-men Comics › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,546
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own X-Men comics, or any of the characters from it. I make no money from from the writing of this story.
SPARTA'S REPRISE
SPARTA’S REPRISE
Logan, Victor Creed
643 words
R
Characters copyright and property of Marvel Comics Group. Story and plot copyright 2002 Blu Fiction and property of Atomic Fantasy – all rights reserved. Please contact the author for archive permission and feedback.
~
I can smell him from here; his scent’s like a beacon callin’ out to me. I can smell it all; the heat, the sweat, the sinew and bone, the soap, and the chlorine stench of chemicals lingering faintly over it all, lacing through it until it gets to me and I take it all in.
I’ve watched him a dozen times, a hundred times, a thousand, millions. In here; in my dreams at night; when I shut my eyes; when I hunt. I’m a hunter and right now I’m stalking him. I’m quiet and I don’t make any noise, don’t give him any signal. I know how to hunt; I’m an animal at heart, always have been.
This is a man who’s just like me: feral, hardened, grim, with a streak of insanity just scratching the surfaces of his brain, always there taunting him, testing him, trying to break him and make him into that animal. Maybe that’s why we were picked out for this deal, he and I; so alike.
You would think that two men so much alike one another would have more to say to each other; would talk more, be more friendly. Well, aside from this bein’ the last place ya wanna get friendly with someone, we have to consider our positions. I know I shouldn’t torture myself thinking like this; I know it kills me every time, but I can’t help it. As it is,don’don’t say much, don’t talk. We are trained to take our orders in silence, and when that’s all you’ve known for so long, for nearly all you can remember of your life’s memories, you don’t change the routine; it changes you.
Silence is the name of the game, here. This is our private time. The only time we have where we can keep our own thoughts, where we can maybe let something out, drop our guard for just a few minutes. It’s not much, but it’s my own little piece of Heaven. The rest of my day is one long drawn out Hell.
I’m watchin’ the water run down his back in tiny streams. The lights above us are red, and the steam makes this place surreal. I can see his muscles tensing and flexing with each pass he makes over his chest, cleaning himself. I’m done cleaning lf blf but I stay under the water anyhow, just watching. Each time he finished is the same: he turns around, and we stare at each other for a split-second, right into the eyes, and then he turns without a word and leaves, and I follow him out, and we dry off, and go to the bunks, and sleep.
Tonight I follow him out, and stop him. I’m tired of stalking; tired of cat and mouse. I can see in the faint light his tags, just like mine. We never take them off; they are the only things we own, here; the only things we can clamp onto with our hands, and know they will always be there. His hand right in the center of his chest, right down the middle. They’re wet and still warm from the water; or maybe they’re always warm. I’ve never touched him before so I don’t know.
His skin feels hot, electric. There’s somethin’ in the touch that gets me going, something deeper than physicality. We share a bond, he and I, no matter how much we try to ignore it, no matter how much we pretend to not see one another day in and day out. This contact is like life itself, like God’s finger touching Adam’s. I feel alive; I feel connected. The Spartans must have known what they were doing.
I can see his eyes trying to get into my head, look through me. I smile, and I lean forward, and I kiss him.
Logan, Victor Creed
643 words
R
Characters copyright and property of Marvel Comics Group. Story and plot copyright 2002 Blu Fiction and property of Atomic Fantasy – all rights reserved. Please contact the author for archive permission and feedback.
~
I can smell him from here; his scent’s like a beacon callin’ out to me. I can smell it all; the heat, the sweat, the sinew and bone, the soap, and the chlorine stench of chemicals lingering faintly over it all, lacing through it until it gets to me and I take it all in.
I’ve watched him a dozen times, a hundred times, a thousand, millions. In here; in my dreams at night; when I shut my eyes; when I hunt. I’m a hunter and right now I’m stalking him. I’m quiet and I don’t make any noise, don’t give him any signal. I know how to hunt; I’m an animal at heart, always have been.
This is a man who’s just like me: feral, hardened, grim, with a streak of insanity just scratching the surfaces of his brain, always there taunting him, testing him, trying to break him and make him into that animal. Maybe that’s why we were picked out for this deal, he and I; so alike.
You would think that two men so much alike one another would have more to say to each other; would talk more, be more friendly. Well, aside from this bein’ the last place ya wanna get friendly with someone, we have to consider our positions. I know I shouldn’t torture myself thinking like this; I know it kills me every time, but I can’t help it. As it is,don’don’t say much, don’t talk. We are trained to take our orders in silence, and when that’s all you’ve known for so long, for nearly all you can remember of your life’s memories, you don’t change the routine; it changes you.
Silence is the name of the game, here. This is our private time. The only time we have where we can keep our own thoughts, where we can maybe let something out, drop our guard for just a few minutes. It’s not much, but it’s my own little piece of Heaven. The rest of my day is one long drawn out Hell.
I’m watchin’ the water run down his back in tiny streams. The lights above us are red, and the steam makes this place surreal. I can see his muscles tensing and flexing with each pass he makes over his chest, cleaning himself. I’m done cleaning lf blf but I stay under the water anyhow, just watching. Each time he finished is the same: he turns around, and we stare at each other for a split-second, right into the eyes, and then he turns without a word and leaves, and I follow him out, and we dry off, and go to the bunks, and sleep.
Tonight I follow him out, and stop him. I’m tired of stalking; tired of cat and mouse. I can see in the faint light his tags, just like mine. We never take them off; they are the only things we own, here; the only things we can clamp onto with our hands, and know they will always be there. His hand right in the center of his chest, right down the middle. They’re wet and still warm from the water; or maybe they’re always warm. I’ve never touched him before so I don’t know.
His skin feels hot, electric. There’s somethin’ in the touch that gets me going, something deeper than physicality. We share a bond, he and I, no matter how much we try to ignore it, no matter how much we pretend to not see one another day in and day out. This contact is like life itself, like God’s finger touching Adam’s. I feel alive; I feel connected. The Spartans must have known what they were doing.
I can see his eyes trying to get into my head, look through me. I smile, and I lean forward, and I kiss him.