XMM fic: Elephants, Chickens, and Circus Poodles (Scott/Warren/Hank, *adult)
Title: Elephants, Chickens, and Circus Poodles
Fandom: X-Men Movieverse
Pairing/Characters: Scott/Warren/Hank (Cyclops/Angel/Beast)
Rating: Adult (hard R?)
Word Count: 4000
Disclaimer: The X-Men belong to Marvel and 20th Century Fox, not me.
Summary: Pinfeathers, coming out, alcohol, and interesting dares. For most people, this would be a party. Or something. For Scott, Hank, and Warren, it's just another night at the mansion.
Notes: This takes place years before X1, when Scott, Hank, and Warren were at school together. "But their ages--the movies--it doesn't make sense!" you say. Um. About that. This was started LONG before X3, when I was happily assuming that these guys were contemporaries. So, rather than scrap the whole thing, let's just say it's AU, okay? ;)
Feedback is always welcome!
Elephants, Chickens, and Circus Poodles
"So," Warren said. He rolled onto his side to face Scott, who sat on his own bed with his back against the wall, a book forgotten on his lap. "How'd you know you were a mutant? Did you feel weird before, or did you just, like, wake up one day with powers?"
Scott pulled his knees up to his chest and clasped his hands around them. "I just woke up. Blew a hole through the roof."
"Whoa. Really?"
"No, I made it up." Scott shook his head. "What about you? You can't grow wings like that overnight, right?"
"Right," Warren agreed. One of his wings twitched, and he gave Scott a grin. "It was nasty. Wanna hear how it happened?"
"Sure."
Warren sat up and leaned forward. "Okay. So, this one day, these two spots on my shoulders just started itching, right? I was in class when it started, so it wasn't until I got back to my room that I could check it out. And when I finally got a chance to look, there were, like, these two red spots on my shoulder blades that looked kind of swollen. But I didn't think anything of it."
Scott nodded.
"I went to bed," Warren continued, "with these things itching all the while, like bug bites. And then I woke up the next morning so damn uncomfortable I couldn't go back to sleep! My shoulders were itching like crazy, and now they hurt, too. So I went and looked in the mirror, and the bumps had gotten huge--like baseballs!--and really red. They were like the biggest, nastiest zits you've ever seen."
"Gross. So, did you tell your dad or something?"
Warren gave Scott a look. "I was at school, Summers. My dad wasn't there. But no, I didn't go to the clinic. I just figured they were some weird, monster zits."
"Mutant zits," Scott said, snickering.
Warren grinned. "Right. So, a few days go by, and they're getting bigger, like softball or maybe half-a-volleyball sized, now--I started wearing my jacket all the time--and they hurt worse and worse, like they're just going to explode. And I'm trying to pretend they're not there, you know, but I can't keep from touching them. You know how it is--you get chicken pox, but you still scratch."
Scott frowned. "I didn't."
"You wouldn't." Warren waved it off. "Anyway, finally, I wake up one morning and look in the mirror--"
"Figures.”
Warren tossed a pillow, which Scott caught and lobbed right back. "At the bumps, thank you," Warren said, "and they've got these big, white heads. Exactly like zits. So of course I squeezed one."
"Of course."
"And it hurt like fucking hell, by the way. But I kept squeezing, and this hunk of feathers comes popping out, all covered with blood and stuff."
"Sick!"
"I know. I get pinfeathers now, like birds do, but that first time...” Warren shrugged and reached up to smooth his hand over the crest of a wing. “I guess my body thought it was an infection, or something. Couldn't handle it."
"Makes sense." Scott nodded. "But how'd you get from that to those?" he asked, gesturing.
"After that, they grew really fast. Like, within a week. I could feel it." Warren shuddered. "It really hurt. That's when I split." He gave Scott a tight smile. "I didn't want to be the freak with wings, you know?"
"Yeah," Scott said absently. "They are pretty cool, though," he added, trying to keep the envy from his voice. There were worse mutations than being able to fly, that was for sure.
"Hey, thanks," Warren said, and he stretched them a little. The white feathers rustled softly as he folded them against his back again, and Scott really, really tried not to be jealous. They even looked good, with Warren's tanned skin and blond hair, like he was some kind of angel, or something. It just wasn't fair.
Scott unclasped his hands. "Warren?"
"Yeah?"
"Uh. Could I touch one?"
Scott could've sworn Warren looked startled for an instant, but then he raised an eyebrow, cool and confident again. “This isn't a petting zoo, Summers.”
“Sorry,” Scott muttered, feeling heat creep up into his cheeks.
There was a pause, then Warren sighed. “No, it's all right. I just-you've felt them before, right?”
“Sort of. Not really.” Scott shrugged, not looking at Warren, not really knowing what to do with what he felt when he looked at Warren's wings. Not that he knew what he felt, or anything. It was weird. “I was just wondering...”
Warren stood and crossed to Scott's bed, the white feathers glossy in the lamplight. Up close, Scott could see the faint hairs on Warren's forearms and the three dark moles-or freckles-on his shoulder. He'd seen those things before, of course, but now they looked different. Interesting. He looked up at Warren's face and found him raising an eyebrow again and sort of smiling. “You were wondering?”
Scott swallowed. “Uh. Yeah.”
Warren snorted, and his eyebrow climbed even higher. “Wondering about...?”
“Um.” Sometimes Scott wished Warren was his age and not nearly two years older. Even though he was clearly teasing, he was really good at making Scott feel like a kid. Scott swallowed again. His throat seemed tight, for some reason. “Your wings?” Why did that sound like a question?
Warren shrugged. “Sure, you can touch them, if you want.” Then he tilted his head to the side and looked at Scott. “But.” Another pause. “If you do, you have to kiss me.”
“What?” Scott managed, so embarrassed he could hardly get the word out. “Why?”
Warren's face changed, his mouth going tense, and for a second, Scott thought he looked way too much like Dr. Lehnsherr. “No reason,” Warren said at last. “I was just wondering.” He smirked. “But I understand if you're chicken, Summers. No problem.”
“Chicken,” Scott repeated, feeling that weirdness again as he stood up. Standing put him really close to Warren, and he had to stop himself from taking an automatic step back. “Coming from a guy with pinfeathers.” He moved closer and set his hands on Warren's shoulders, feeling feathers barely brush his fingertips. Ignoring Warren's hiss of surprise, he leaned forward, tilted his head, and put his lips against Warren's.
Their door opened so fast after the quick knock that there was really no time to move. Scott's brain registered someone big before he moved-almost jumped-back so fast that his legs hit the mattress and he toppled back onto his butt. “Hi, Hank,” he mumbled, wanting to crawl under the bed and die.
“Don't you knock?” Warren asked at the same moment, folding his arms across his chest.
Hank blinked. “I did knock. Twice, in fact. I did not, however, realize I needed to wait for permission to enter.” He looked from Scott to Warren and back again. “If I've interrupted something, I could certainly come back another time.”
“No!” Scott said quickly. Warren and Hank both looked surprised, and Scott felt himself blushing again. “We were just... Uh. Playing a game.” Warren gave him a withering look.
“Ah,” Hank said. He didn't look or sound as if he really bought it. “Well, I'll leave you to it, then.”
“No! I mean, it's Truth or Dare. Want to play?” Scott asked. The words popped out without him really meaning to say them, but he didn't want Hank to get the wrong idea. If there was a wrong idea. He wasn't sure anymore.
Hank blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Name's pretty self-explanatory, McCoy," Warren said as he crossed his arms. "You tell the truth, or you take--"
"I'm familiar with the premise," Hank grumbled. "What I fail to see is...why?"
Warren shrugged. "Why not?"
"Warren said I'm a chicken," Scott explained. He slid off the bed to the rug, then looked up at them and tilted his head pointedly. "I'm not."
Without a word, Warren hooked his foot around one leg of Scott's desk chair and pulled it over. He sank down gracefully, sideways, and joined Scott in looking at Hank.
Hank stared back for a minute. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, and he heaved a sigh. "Well, let it never be said that I'm immune to peer pressure," he said as he joined Scott on the floor. "Now, who's going to begin?"
"Youngest first," Warren said automatically, giving Scott a subtle-but wicked--smirk. "So, Summers. Truth or dare?"
Scott stifled a groan. There was just no way for this not to be embarrassing. Still, it didn't take him long to decide. At least this way, Warren couldn't make him tell Hank what they'd really been doing. "Dare."
Warren looked surprised. Then thoughtful, and then he went to the closet and came back with a metal flask. "Take a big drink of that," he instructed Scott as he sat down again.
Scott looked down at it. Felt the cool, smooth weight in his hands. "It's alcohol?"
"No, Cherry Coke." Warren shook his head slightly, and Scott felt his cheeks getting warm.
"Fine," he muttered. It wasn't cherry, definitely wasn't Coke, and tasted like fiery barf-flavored Listerine from hell. Scott was still coughing a little and trying to catch his breath when Warren snagged the flask out of his hand and took a swig like it was no big deal.
This was a really dumb idea, Scott thought. He turned to Hank, who was watching him with his hands hooked around his knees. Scott gave him a quick smile, since Hank looked vaguely concerned. "Hey, Hank. Truth or dare?"
"Truth, please."
Scott frowned for a minute, trying to think of a good question. The hard thing about Hank was, he was always honest, and to find out what he thought about almost anything, you just had to ask. "Uh." He glanced at Warren, more specifically, at his wings, and that gave him an idea. "If you could have any mutation or power instead of what you have...what would it be?"
Hank looked thoughtful. "Are we speaking purely theoretically, or do you wish me to limit my answer to a mutation or ability of which we're already aware?"
"One we know of." After all, it would be stupid to wish for some imaginary, really super power, like being able to beam yourself anywhere or turn garbage to money or try anybody's power out just by touching them.
"All right," Hank said with a nod. "Simple. I'd very much like to be possessed of telepathic ability."
"What? Why?" Scott shook his head. "You know how hard it is for Jean, and the Professor has to have it worse."
One of Hank's big shoulders rose in a shrug. "I think it would be fascinating."
"I think it'd be lame," Warren said after he'd taken another drink. Scott's throat burned just watching him.
Hank glanced up and gave him a small smile, but there was something else in his expression that Scott couldn't put his finger on. "Well. You would."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Hank shrugged again and turned one of his broad palms up. "What would they call a man with wings, were he to walk openly among them?" he asked. "An angel? Seraphim? In some cultures, even a god?"
"A freak," Warren said shortly, but he didn't sound ticked off, and he dangled the flask down at Hank. "Besides, you shouldn't talk. You look pretty normal."
Hank took a drink and didn't act like it was too big of a deal for him, either. Scott had a feeling that all of them were looking at the way the flask almost completely disappeared in Hank's hand, so he cleared his throat before the moment could get too uncomfortable. "Are you going to ask him, or not?" he asked Hank.
Hank nodded and swallowed. "Truth or dare, Warren?"
"Truth."
"In the same vein as Scott's question... Are you glad you can pass without much difficulty?"
"The harness fucking hurts, McCoy." Warren's face was tight, and his wings twitched. "It's not easy. And I can't wear regular shirts, even when it's hot."
"Even so."
Warren shrugged. "Of course I'm glad. What kind of question is that, anyway?"
Scott got it, though, and he leaned back on his hands as he thought about it. "If you couldn't," he said slowly, "it'd make your decision easier. You wouldn't have to wonder what to do with your life, and if you should try to get a normal job. You could stay here."
"What, the elephant in New York City should stay in the zoo?"
Scott frowned and sat up straighter. "Well, if the choice is between staying safely in the zoo or-if it's even possible to make him sunglasses instead of a visor-having everyone think he's a weird elephant when he wears them inside, or a blind...elephant..."
"Regardless, it's really more of a wildlife preserve," Hank said mildly. Scott didn't know why that was so funny, but he found himself smiling, then Warren snickered, and then the three of them were practically killing themselves trying to be quiet.
"The Xavier-Lehnsherr Safari Experience," Warren gasped.
"School for the Training of Circus Poodles!" Hank shook with laughter, and Scott nearly choked.
"Primate Behavior Research Lab."
"Do not feed the students!"
"Do not get out of your car!"
Warren was still grinning when he moved from the chair to sit on the floor with them. "Chill out, you two," he said. "Summers, truth or dare?"
“Um. Dare again.” He still didn't trust Warren.
“Hmm.” Warren smiled and gave Scott a quick, unfathomable look. “I dare you...” he spoke slowly; paused just long enough for Scott's pulse to speed up. Crap. There was every chance he was going to dare him to tell Hank.
“...to...”
Scott closed his eyes. Not that they'd know it.
“...kiss McCoy, here,” Warren finished. “And by kiss, I do mean French kiss.”
Scott coughed. “What?”
“That's the kind with tongue,” Warren said helpfully.
“I know what it is. I--” Then Scott saw the tension around Warren's mouth as he tried to keep from laughing. Obviously, this theme of 'get Scott to kiss a guy tonight' was funny, for some reason. And, looking at Warren, he saw something else. Warren expected him to chicken out.
Slowly, as if this was no big deal (and also to give himself some time), Scott turned to Hank. Hank looked back for a minute, seeming a lot less flustered than Scott felt, and spread his hands. Okay, so, he was game.
Okay. So. Scott licked his lips. Decided now probably wouldn't be the best time to mention that he hadn't French kissed anyone, ever.
Warren snickered. "This year?"
Fine. Scott inhaled and put a hand on one of Hank's shoulders, which felt warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with his other hand, so he just kind of left it splayed on his thigh as he leaned over, closed his eyes, and put his lips against Hank's. Felt Hank's shoulder rise as he breathed in through his nose.
French kissing, apparently, didn't take as much planning as Scott would have thought. His mouth and Hank's opened at about the same time, and it was kind of weird but also seemed like the right thing to do to let his tongue move a little and find Hank's. And that felt-God. His fingers tightened, bunching t-shirt fabric. One of Hank's hands came up and spread along his side. Hank's mouth was warm, and now his tongue was tracing along Scott's, along the inside of his lips, and--
Hank pulled away, so Scott did, too. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips felt weird. Numb, or too sensitive, or something. Scott concentrated on not shifting, even though he was getting hard. Concentrated on not thinking about what that might mean, too.
He didn't even look at Warren. Just turned to Hank, even though he couldn't quite meet his eyes, and hoped Hank wouldn't know that. "Your turn. Truth or Dare?"
"Truth again, please."
"Afraid he might dare you to kiss him again?" Warren asked.
Hank shrugged and took a drink from the flask, then offered it to Scott. "Actually," he said slowly, "I'd be more worried that he might challenge me to kiss you."
Warren looked insulted. "What, you wouldn't?"
Hank only smiled, and Scott swallowed a grin along with a sip of the liquor. It wasn't so bad, this time, though it still made him want to cough. He passed the flask back to Warren. "Um. Truth. Okay." He looked at Hank and wondered, for a second, if this was going to open up a whole can of worms. "Are you...you know? I mean. Have you kissed another guy before?"
"I haven't," Hank said simply. He clasped his hands and looked up at Scott as if this were a perfectly normal thing to talk about. "And...I haven't given it much thought, honestly."
"But you're not sure you're not?" Warren asked. There was something in his voice that made Scott glance at him sharply, wondering, all of a sudden. Warren noticed, and his face went blank. He took a long drink.
"I'm not sure I'm not," Hank agreed, and he looked over at Warren, too. "Nor would I be ashamed if I were. Or see my friends differently if they were."
Warren opened his mouth, then shut it again. His lips twisted. He took another swig. "My turn. Dare."
Hank thought about it for a minute, then smiled the scary way he did when he'd just invented something really brilliant, or really insane, or both. "I dare you to kiss me or Scott. Your choice."
Scott winced inwardly, expecting...he didn't know what. He certainly didn't expect Warren to toss Hank the flask and give him a grin that flashed even sharper and brighter than the metal. Warren cocked his head and studied them, one at a time, then jerked his chin at Hank. "Fine, McCoy. Since you're obviously dying to be kissed by someone who has done this before..."
With an effort, Scott didn't let his jaw hit the floor like it wanted to. Even Hank's eyes widened with surprise, though he recovered quickly and shrugged a little as Warren rose up on his knees to lean over. And then...oh, God. Scott swallowed. He was not jealous. Was not, right? Because jealous would mean that he wanted Warren to kiss him, and that would mean. Something. Right?
But then, maybe it meant something that he noticed the way Warren's jeans stretched over his thighs. The way Hank's hands looked somehow even thicker and stronger than usual against the white feathers of Warren's wings, like they could snap them easily (though Scott knew they couldn't-Warren was tougher than he looked). But instead, Hank's palms were just sliding lightly over the feathers, over and over, stroking, and Scott felt all hot and didn't know which he wanted to feel more, the silky feathers or Hank's warm, kind of sweaty palms. And they looked-their eyes were closed, and they were both apparently really into this, and somehow it was...good, really good...to see Warrren, looking like an underwear model, and Hank, with his messy hair and big plastic glasses, joined at the lips and making these little groaning noises.
And Scott was hard again. Still. Worse. And Warren's hand was sliding up Hank's thigh. And more importantly, his other hand was reaching out blindly in Scott's direction.
Scott must've made some sort of noise, because Hank and Warren stopped what they were doing long enough to glance at him. "This isn't really part of the dare," he muttered, feeling like a dork and more disappointed than he wanted to admit.
Hank's eyes narrowed as he thought about this. "Well, if we assume that our spontaneous change of plans is both consensual and enjoyable, I propose that we-"
"Fuck the dare, Summers," Warren interrupted succinctly. "Get over here." With that, he moved forward to kiss Hank, who didn't seem to have any objections to non-dare kissing.
Scott hesitated for a second before deciding to think with his dick instead of his brain, for a change. For God's sake, if Hank was here, it had to be okay. And speaking of Hank, for some reason, Scott had the urge to lift the hem of Hank's t-shirt and slide his hands up over his back. So, after scooting over, he did. Hank didn't even flinch, just sort of arched back into Scott's hands, which Scott took for approval. His back was smoother than Scott thought it would be, soft and broad and really warm, and Scott got even harder feeling Hank's muscles bunch beneath his palms. He rose up on his knees to get a better angle to knead Hank's shoulders and found himself visor-to-eye with Warren, who'd pulled away from Hank's lips to grin at him.
"Dare you," Warren whispered, voice hoarse. But he didn't even need to, since Scott had already leaned forward, and Warren kissed him, anyway. Hard. Tongue going in deep, and Warren's teeth grabbing his lip, and then-fuck-Hank twisted a little, and his hand was splayed across Scott's thigh, grabbing, and one of his long, really fucking amazing thumbs was running over the bulge in Scott's jeans, and that-while he was kissing Warren-just-fuck.
He sprawled forward, sort of kneeling over Hank, and his hand was on Warren's ass, and that-firm underneath his grip, and silky feathers brushing the back of his hand-and he squeezed, and his other hand kneaded Hank's shoulder, and one of Warren's hands was up Scott's shirt, doing something to his nipple, and--
Dog piles weren't anything new to any of them. This was like that, but...not. Scott wasn't sure when they gave up with Hank muttering something about gravity and ended up on the floor, or who peeled his shirt off, who reached down whose pants first, but pretty soon, he was gripping somebody's dick, with his in somebody else's hand (and oh, that felt better than jerking himself off) and they were all just sort of frantically rubbing and kissing whatever they could get their mouths on and touching and groaning and--
Warm skin. Really soft wings brushing his bare stomach. Hank's glasses poking his cheek. Somebody's thigh digging his into the floor. Somebody's weight (that was probably Hank, actually) pinning his arm down, and even that was hot. And just. God.
It didn't take long before they were all like Jell-O and sweaty and panting, Scott trying to do it quietly, through his nose, Warren half-laughing, Hank in big, deep gulps. This was so much better than jerking himself off. Scott stared at the ceiling, grinning like a fool. He didn't care. Didn't want to talk, either, in case they felt weird or talking made him feel weird and he wrecked it.
Warren, of course, had no such worries. He wriggled a little, sprawled across Hank's chest, and twisted to poke Scott's calf with his toe. "So," he said easily, "okay. Whose turn was it?"
Fandom: X-Men Movieverse
Pairing/Characters: Scott/Warren/Hank (Cyclops/Angel/Beast)
Rating: Adult (hard R?)
Word Count: 4000
Disclaimer: The X-Men belong to Marvel and 20th Century Fox, not me.
Summary: Pinfeathers, coming out, alcohol, and interesting dares. For most people, this would be a party. Or something. For Scott, Hank, and Warren, it's just another night at the mansion.
Notes: This takes place years before X1, when Scott, Hank, and Warren were at school together. "But their ages--the movies--it doesn't make sense!" you say. Um. About that. This was started LONG before X3, when I was happily assuming that these guys were contemporaries. So, rather than scrap the whole thing, let's just say it's AU, okay? ;)
Feedback is always welcome!
Elephants, Chickens, and Circus Poodles
"So," Warren said. He rolled onto his side to face Scott, who sat on his own bed with his back against the wall, a book forgotten on his lap. "How'd you know you were a mutant? Did you feel weird before, or did you just, like, wake up one day with powers?"
Scott pulled his knees up to his chest and clasped his hands around them. "I just woke up. Blew a hole through the roof."
"Whoa. Really?"
"No, I made it up." Scott shook his head. "What about you? You can't grow wings like that overnight, right?"
"Right," Warren agreed. One of his wings twitched, and he gave Scott a grin. "It was nasty. Wanna hear how it happened?"
"Sure."
Warren sat up and leaned forward. "Okay. So, this one day, these two spots on my shoulders just started itching, right? I was in class when it started, so it wasn't until I got back to my room that I could check it out. And when I finally got a chance to look, there were, like, these two red spots on my shoulder blades that looked kind of swollen. But I didn't think anything of it."
Scott nodded.
"I went to bed," Warren continued, "with these things itching all the while, like bug bites. And then I woke up the next morning so damn uncomfortable I couldn't go back to sleep! My shoulders were itching like crazy, and now they hurt, too. So I went and looked in the mirror, and the bumps had gotten huge--like baseballs!--and really red. They were like the biggest, nastiest zits you've ever seen."
"Gross. So, did you tell your dad or something?"
Warren gave Scott a look. "I was at school, Summers. My dad wasn't there. But no, I didn't go to the clinic. I just figured they were some weird, monster zits."
"Mutant zits," Scott said, snickering.
Warren grinned. "Right. So, a few days go by, and they're getting bigger, like softball or maybe half-a-volleyball sized, now--I started wearing my jacket all the time--and they hurt worse and worse, like they're just going to explode. And I'm trying to pretend they're not there, you know, but I can't keep from touching them. You know how it is--you get chicken pox, but you still scratch."
Scott frowned. "I didn't."
"You wouldn't." Warren waved it off. "Anyway, finally, I wake up one morning and look in the mirror--"
"Figures.”
Warren tossed a pillow, which Scott caught and lobbed right back. "At the bumps, thank you," Warren said, "and they've got these big, white heads. Exactly like zits. So of course I squeezed one."
"Of course."
"And it hurt like fucking hell, by the way. But I kept squeezing, and this hunk of feathers comes popping out, all covered with blood and stuff."
"Sick!"
"I know. I get pinfeathers now, like birds do, but that first time...” Warren shrugged and reached up to smooth his hand over the crest of a wing. “I guess my body thought it was an infection, or something. Couldn't handle it."
"Makes sense." Scott nodded. "But how'd you get from that to those?" he asked, gesturing.
"After that, they grew really fast. Like, within a week. I could feel it." Warren shuddered. "It really hurt. That's when I split." He gave Scott a tight smile. "I didn't want to be the freak with wings, you know?"
"Yeah," Scott said absently. "They are pretty cool, though," he added, trying to keep the envy from his voice. There were worse mutations than being able to fly, that was for sure.
"Hey, thanks," Warren said, and he stretched them a little. The white feathers rustled softly as he folded them against his back again, and Scott really, really tried not to be jealous. They even looked good, with Warren's tanned skin and blond hair, like he was some kind of angel, or something. It just wasn't fair.
Scott unclasped his hands. "Warren?"
"Yeah?"
"Uh. Could I touch one?"
Scott could've sworn Warren looked startled for an instant, but then he raised an eyebrow, cool and confident again. “This isn't a petting zoo, Summers.”
“Sorry,” Scott muttered, feeling heat creep up into his cheeks.
There was a pause, then Warren sighed. “No, it's all right. I just-you've felt them before, right?”
“Sort of. Not really.” Scott shrugged, not looking at Warren, not really knowing what to do with what he felt when he looked at Warren's wings. Not that he knew what he felt, or anything. It was weird. “I was just wondering...”
Warren stood and crossed to Scott's bed, the white feathers glossy in the lamplight. Up close, Scott could see the faint hairs on Warren's forearms and the three dark moles-or freckles-on his shoulder. He'd seen those things before, of course, but now they looked different. Interesting. He looked up at Warren's face and found him raising an eyebrow again and sort of smiling. “You were wondering?”
Scott swallowed. “Uh. Yeah.”
Warren snorted, and his eyebrow climbed even higher. “Wondering about...?”
“Um.” Sometimes Scott wished Warren was his age and not nearly two years older. Even though he was clearly teasing, he was really good at making Scott feel like a kid. Scott swallowed again. His throat seemed tight, for some reason. “Your wings?” Why did that sound like a question?
Warren shrugged. “Sure, you can touch them, if you want.” Then he tilted his head to the side and looked at Scott. “But.” Another pause. “If you do, you have to kiss me.”
“What?” Scott managed, so embarrassed he could hardly get the word out. “Why?”
Warren's face changed, his mouth going tense, and for a second, Scott thought he looked way too much like Dr. Lehnsherr. “No reason,” Warren said at last. “I was just wondering.” He smirked. “But I understand if you're chicken, Summers. No problem.”
“Chicken,” Scott repeated, feeling that weirdness again as he stood up. Standing put him really close to Warren, and he had to stop himself from taking an automatic step back. “Coming from a guy with pinfeathers.” He moved closer and set his hands on Warren's shoulders, feeling feathers barely brush his fingertips. Ignoring Warren's hiss of surprise, he leaned forward, tilted his head, and put his lips against Warren's.
Their door opened so fast after the quick knock that there was really no time to move. Scott's brain registered someone big before he moved-almost jumped-back so fast that his legs hit the mattress and he toppled back onto his butt. “Hi, Hank,” he mumbled, wanting to crawl under the bed and die.
“Don't you knock?” Warren asked at the same moment, folding his arms across his chest.
Hank blinked. “I did knock. Twice, in fact. I did not, however, realize I needed to wait for permission to enter.” He looked from Scott to Warren and back again. “If I've interrupted something, I could certainly come back another time.”
“No!” Scott said quickly. Warren and Hank both looked surprised, and Scott felt himself blushing again. “We were just... Uh. Playing a game.” Warren gave him a withering look.
“Ah,” Hank said. He didn't look or sound as if he really bought it. “Well, I'll leave you to it, then.”
“No! I mean, it's Truth or Dare. Want to play?” Scott asked. The words popped out without him really meaning to say them, but he didn't want Hank to get the wrong idea. If there was a wrong idea. He wasn't sure anymore.
Hank blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"Name's pretty self-explanatory, McCoy," Warren said as he crossed his arms. "You tell the truth, or you take--"
"I'm familiar with the premise," Hank grumbled. "What I fail to see is...why?"
Warren shrugged. "Why not?"
"Warren said I'm a chicken," Scott explained. He slid off the bed to the rug, then looked up at them and tilted his head pointedly. "I'm not."
Without a word, Warren hooked his foot around one leg of Scott's desk chair and pulled it over. He sank down gracefully, sideways, and joined Scott in looking at Hank.
Hank stared back for a minute. Then the corner of his mouth twitched, and he heaved a sigh. "Well, let it never be said that I'm immune to peer pressure," he said as he joined Scott on the floor. "Now, who's going to begin?"
"Youngest first," Warren said automatically, giving Scott a subtle-but wicked--smirk. "So, Summers. Truth or dare?"
Scott stifled a groan. There was just no way for this not to be embarrassing. Still, it didn't take him long to decide. At least this way, Warren couldn't make him tell Hank what they'd really been doing. "Dare."
Warren looked surprised. Then thoughtful, and then he went to the closet and came back with a metal flask. "Take a big drink of that," he instructed Scott as he sat down again.
Scott looked down at it. Felt the cool, smooth weight in his hands. "It's alcohol?"
"No, Cherry Coke." Warren shook his head slightly, and Scott felt his cheeks getting warm.
"Fine," he muttered. It wasn't cherry, definitely wasn't Coke, and tasted like fiery barf-flavored Listerine from hell. Scott was still coughing a little and trying to catch his breath when Warren snagged the flask out of his hand and took a swig like it was no big deal.
This was a really dumb idea, Scott thought. He turned to Hank, who was watching him with his hands hooked around his knees. Scott gave him a quick smile, since Hank looked vaguely concerned. "Hey, Hank. Truth or dare?"
"Truth, please."
Scott frowned for a minute, trying to think of a good question. The hard thing about Hank was, he was always honest, and to find out what he thought about almost anything, you just had to ask. "Uh." He glanced at Warren, more specifically, at his wings, and that gave him an idea. "If you could have any mutation or power instead of what you have...what would it be?"
Hank looked thoughtful. "Are we speaking purely theoretically, or do you wish me to limit my answer to a mutation or ability of which we're already aware?"
"One we know of." After all, it would be stupid to wish for some imaginary, really super power, like being able to beam yourself anywhere or turn garbage to money or try anybody's power out just by touching them.
"All right," Hank said with a nod. "Simple. I'd very much like to be possessed of telepathic ability."
"What? Why?" Scott shook his head. "You know how hard it is for Jean, and the Professor has to have it worse."
One of Hank's big shoulders rose in a shrug. "I think it would be fascinating."
"I think it'd be lame," Warren said after he'd taken another drink. Scott's throat burned just watching him.
Hank glanced up and gave him a small smile, but there was something else in his expression that Scott couldn't put his finger on. "Well. You would."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Hank shrugged again and turned one of his broad palms up. "What would they call a man with wings, were he to walk openly among them?" he asked. "An angel? Seraphim? In some cultures, even a god?"
"A freak," Warren said shortly, but he didn't sound ticked off, and he dangled the flask down at Hank. "Besides, you shouldn't talk. You look pretty normal."
Hank took a drink and didn't act like it was too big of a deal for him, either. Scott had a feeling that all of them were looking at the way the flask almost completely disappeared in Hank's hand, so he cleared his throat before the moment could get too uncomfortable. "Are you going to ask him, or not?" he asked Hank.
Hank nodded and swallowed. "Truth or dare, Warren?"
"Truth."
"In the same vein as Scott's question... Are you glad you can pass without much difficulty?"
"The harness fucking hurts, McCoy." Warren's face was tight, and his wings twitched. "It's not easy. And I can't wear regular shirts, even when it's hot."
"Even so."
Warren shrugged. "Of course I'm glad. What kind of question is that, anyway?"
Scott got it, though, and he leaned back on his hands as he thought about it. "If you couldn't," he said slowly, "it'd make your decision easier. You wouldn't have to wonder what to do with your life, and if you should try to get a normal job. You could stay here."
"What, the elephant in New York City should stay in the zoo?"
Scott frowned and sat up straighter. "Well, if the choice is between staying safely in the zoo or-if it's even possible to make him sunglasses instead of a visor-having everyone think he's a weird elephant when he wears them inside, or a blind...elephant..."
"Regardless, it's really more of a wildlife preserve," Hank said mildly. Scott didn't know why that was so funny, but he found himself smiling, then Warren snickered, and then the three of them were practically killing themselves trying to be quiet.
"The Xavier-Lehnsherr Safari Experience," Warren gasped.
"School for the Training of Circus Poodles!" Hank shook with laughter, and Scott nearly choked.
"Primate Behavior Research Lab."
"Do not feed the students!"
"Do not get out of your car!"
Warren was still grinning when he moved from the chair to sit on the floor with them. "Chill out, you two," he said. "Summers, truth or dare?"
“Um. Dare again.” He still didn't trust Warren.
“Hmm.” Warren smiled and gave Scott a quick, unfathomable look. “I dare you...” he spoke slowly; paused just long enough for Scott's pulse to speed up. Crap. There was every chance he was going to dare him to tell Hank.
“...to...”
Scott closed his eyes. Not that they'd know it.
“...kiss McCoy, here,” Warren finished. “And by kiss, I do mean French kiss.”
Scott coughed. “What?”
“That's the kind with tongue,” Warren said helpfully.
“I know what it is. I--” Then Scott saw the tension around Warren's mouth as he tried to keep from laughing. Obviously, this theme of 'get Scott to kiss a guy tonight' was funny, for some reason. And, looking at Warren, he saw something else. Warren expected him to chicken out.
Slowly, as if this was no big deal (and also to give himself some time), Scott turned to Hank. Hank looked back for a minute, seeming a lot less flustered than Scott felt, and spread his hands. Okay, so, he was game.
Okay. So. Scott licked his lips. Decided now probably wouldn't be the best time to mention that he hadn't French kissed anyone, ever.
Warren snickered. "This year?"
Fine. Scott inhaled and put a hand on one of Hank's shoulders, which felt warm through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with his other hand, so he just kind of left it splayed on his thigh as he leaned over, closed his eyes, and put his lips against Hank's. Felt Hank's shoulder rise as he breathed in through his nose.
French kissing, apparently, didn't take as much planning as Scott would have thought. His mouth and Hank's opened at about the same time, and it was kind of weird but also seemed like the right thing to do to let his tongue move a little and find Hank's. And that felt-God. His fingers tightened, bunching t-shirt fabric. One of Hank's hands came up and spread along his side. Hank's mouth was warm, and now his tongue was tracing along Scott's, along the inside of his lips, and--
Hank pulled away, so Scott did, too. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips felt weird. Numb, or too sensitive, or something. Scott concentrated on not shifting, even though he was getting hard. Concentrated on not thinking about what that might mean, too.
He didn't even look at Warren. Just turned to Hank, even though he couldn't quite meet his eyes, and hoped Hank wouldn't know that. "Your turn. Truth or Dare?"
"Truth again, please."
"Afraid he might dare you to kiss him again?" Warren asked.
Hank shrugged and took a drink from the flask, then offered it to Scott. "Actually," he said slowly, "I'd be more worried that he might challenge me to kiss you."
Warren looked insulted. "What, you wouldn't?"
Hank only smiled, and Scott swallowed a grin along with a sip of the liquor. It wasn't so bad, this time, though it still made him want to cough. He passed the flask back to Warren. "Um. Truth. Okay." He looked at Hank and wondered, for a second, if this was going to open up a whole can of worms. "Are you...you know? I mean. Have you kissed another guy before?"
"I haven't," Hank said simply. He clasped his hands and looked up at Scott as if this were a perfectly normal thing to talk about. "And...I haven't given it much thought, honestly."
"But you're not sure you're not?" Warren asked. There was something in his voice that made Scott glance at him sharply, wondering, all of a sudden. Warren noticed, and his face went blank. He took a long drink.
"I'm not sure I'm not," Hank agreed, and he looked over at Warren, too. "Nor would I be ashamed if I were. Or see my friends differently if they were."
Warren opened his mouth, then shut it again. His lips twisted. He took another swig. "My turn. Dare."
Hank thought about it for a minute, then smiled the scary way he did when he'd just invented something really brilliant, or really insane, or both. "I dare you to kiss me or Scott. Your choice."
Scott winced inwardly, expecting...he didn't know what. He certainly didn't expect Warren to toss Hank the flask and give him a grin that flashed even sharper and brighter than the metal. Warren cocked his head and studied them, one at a time, then jerked his chin at Hank. "Fine, McCoy. Since you're obviously dying to be kissed by someone who has done this before..."
With an effort, Scott didn't let his jaw hit the floor like it wanted to. Even Hank's eyes widened with surprise, though he recovered quickly and shrugged a little as Warren rose up on his knees to lean over. And then...oh, God. Scott swallowed. He was not jealous. Was not, right? Because jealous would mean that he wanted Warren to kiss him, and that would mean. Something. Right?
But then, maybe it meant something that he noticed the way Warren's jeans stretched over his thighs. The way Hank's hands looked somehow even thicker and stronger than usual against the white feathers of Warren's wings, like they could snap them easily (though Scott knew they couldn't-Warren was tougher than he looked). But instead, Hank's palms were just sliding lightly over the feathers, over and over, stroking, and Scott felt all hot and didn't know which he wanted to feel more, the silky feathers or Hank's warm, kind of sweaty palms. And they looked-their eyes were closed, and they were both apparently really into this, and somehow it was...good, really good...to see Warrren, looking like an underwear model, and Hank, with his messy hair and big plastic glasses, joined at the lips and making these little groaning noises.
And Scott was hard again. Still. Worse. And Warren's hand was sliding up Hank's thigh. And more importantly, his other hand was reaching out blindly in Scott's direction.
Scott must've made some sort of noise, because Hank and Warren stopped what they were doing long enough to glance at him. "This isn't really part of the dare," he muttered, feeling like a dork and more disappointed than he wanted to admit.
Hank's eyes narrowed as he thought about this. "Well, if we assume that our spontaneous change of plans is both consensual and enjoyable, I propose that we-"
"Fuck the dare, Summers," Warren interrupted succinctly. "Get over here." With that, he moved forward to kiss Hank, who didn't seem to have any objections to non-dare kissing.
Scott hesitated for a second before deciding to think with his dick instead of his brain, for a change. For God's sake, if Hank was here, it had to be okay. And speaking of Hank, for some reason, Scott had the urge to lift the hem of Hank's t-shirt and slide his hands up over his back. So, after scooting over, he did. Hank didn't even flinch, just sort of arched back into Scott's hands, which Scott took for approval. His back was smoother than Scott thought it would be, soft and broad and really warm, and Scott got even harder feeling Hank's muscles bunch beneath his palms. He rose up on his knees to get a better angle to knead Hank's shoulders and found himself visor-to-eye with Warren, who'd pulled away from Hank's lips to grin at him.
"Dare you," Warren whispered, voice hoarse. But he didn't even need to, since Scott had already leaned forward, and Warren kissed him, anyway. Hard. Tongue going in deep, and Warren's teeth grabbing his lip, and then-fuck-Hank twisted a little, and his hand was splayed across Scott's thigh, grabbing, and one of his long, really fucking amazing thumbs was running over the bulge in Scott's jeans, and that-while he was kissing Warren-just-fuck.
He sprawled forward, sort of kneeling over Hank, and his hand was on Warren's ass, and that-firm underneath his grip, and silky feathers brushing the back of his hand-and he squeezed, and his other hand kneaded Hank's shoulder, and one of Warren's hands was up Scott's shirt, doing something to his nipple, and--
Dog piles weren't anything new to any of them. This was like that, but...not. Scott wasn't sure when they gave up with Hank muttering something about gravity and ended up on the floor, or who peeled his shirt off, who reached down whose pants first, but pretty soon, he was gripping somebody's dick, with his in somebody else's hand (and oh, that felt better than jerking himself off) and they were all just sort of frantically rubbing and kissing whatever they could get their mouths on and touching and groaning and--
Warm skin. Really soft wings brushing his bare stomach. Hank's glasses poking his cheek. Somebody's thigh digging his into the floor. Somebody's weight (that was probably Hank, actually) pinning his arm down, and even that was hot. And just. God.
It didn't take long before they were all like Jell-O and sweaty and panting, Scott trying to do it quietly, through his nose, Warren half-laughing, Hank in big, deep gulps. This was so much better than jerking himself off. Scott stared at the ceiling, grinning like a fool. He didn't care. Didn't want to talk, either, in case they felt weird or talking made him feel weird and he wrecked it.
Warren, of course, had no such worries. He wriggled a little, sprawled across Hank's chest, and twisted to poke Scott's calf with his toe. "So," he said easily, "okay. Whose turn was it?"