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It was a shitty, little fact of life that Logan didn't sleep much. It
wasn't only because every unusual sound, from snoring to wind to possums
in the trash, startled him into wide-wakefulness. A lot of his insomnia
was a result of Weapon X, when he'd gotten the adamantium bonded to his
skeleton. It'd been at least fifteen years ago and he still remembered
it like fuckin' yesterday. 'Course, it wasn't a usual occurance for a
person to have molten lava pumped into 'em.

Logan could handle regular pain. He'd been sprayed with a thousand
bullets, had trees pokin' through his torso, forgotten how many times
he'd broken every bone in his body. Didn't matter. He always healed
himself and he always took the pain in silence.

He had a dream once where he was running naked through the woods when he
felt something sharp nip into the back of his thigh. When he pulled it
out, he discovered a dart with an empty, orange capsule. Logan didn't
know if that was real or just something in his subconscious, but the
smoky-edged memory of the laboratory was somehow associated with that
dream.

From that point on, the dream varied. Sometimes, he was tied down,
catherized, I.V.'d and put in a tank of fluid. Other times, he was
standing half-clothed with a helmet that projected images of death and
war into his mind with a reward system linked to his brain that made him
salivate. One of the more disturbing ones involved a large, brutal
animal with long, blonde hair who reached into Logan's chest, ripped out
his still-beating heart and ate it, laughing as Logan watched, horrified
and powerless.

The one he never told anybody about revolved around his prostate being
milked so they could create more just like him. He'd been raped
mercilessly over and over and over. But the most horrifyin' one was in
the tank. He wanted to scream then and couldn't around the air hose they
shoved down his throat. He was trying to scream because of the pain. No,
not just pain. Excruciating, abysmal agony. Even through the sedation
and painkillers, it was torture. If he'd had the means, he would've
killed himself, but they wouldn't let him do that either. He had to just
take it.

The X-Men all knew about the nightmares. So did the students. Poor
Marie'd gotten in the way during one of 'em and gotten a chestful of
claws for tryin' to help. He was a flamin' monster, shouldn't be within
a hundred miles of anybody, but he had to stay. He knew how to kill.
They needed him.

So he stayed and spent 'bout half the time he should've been sleepin'
workin' out or patrolling the grounds instead. If he didn't have the
healin' factor, he would've been seriously screwed, but he had a rep. He
was the best there was at what he did and what he did wasn't nice. He
wasn't afraid of anything.

'Cept himself.

Logan's ears perked at the sound of the boathouse door openin' and he
carefully stalked toward it. It was the Cajun draggin' his sorry ass
home in the middle of the night. From the smell and sound o' things,
he'd had a good time. Logan scowled. Least somebody was.

The boathouse was located well away from the mansion and Gambit hadn't
seen a need to put up curtains or drapes, which afforded the feral
Canadian an unobstructed view as the lanky thief shrugged out of his
duster and tossed it on a green, velvet chair. He must've been hittin'
the champagne again 'cause he was staggerin' a little. Like most
mutants, booze didn't really affect his altered physiology, but give him
two glasses of bubbly and he got as wasted as an old maid's trousseau.

Logan was straight, always had been far as he knew an', always would be,
yet he couldn't help an appreciative grunt. Even with his clothes on,
the Cajun was a beautiful man, long-limbed, not an ounce of fat on him,
taut muscles givin' a lean'n hungry look to that houndish body topped by
a heavy mane of luxurious, soft cinnamon. He was a motherfucker in a
fight, usin' his bo (staff) to lay out the bad guys or flinging
kinetically charged cards all over the place.

'Course, there were the other things too. Rumor had it that he wasn't
real picky about the sex of his lovers. Logan had to chuckle when Gambit
patted Cyke on the ass and got rinsed in a shower of outraged spit. What
wasn't so amusing was when the Cajun did it to Logan.

There was also the matter of the smell. The kid put out enough
pheromones to choke the Western Hemisphere, but nobody seemed to be
aware of it except Logan. The others only knew that they wanted to be
around the terminally horny Acadian, touching and fondling his body.
They didn't know why.

Along with the charm scent, there was yet another odor wafting off
Gambit's skin. A smell of secrets and hiding. 'Ro indicated that the
Cajun'd had some trouble in New Orleans, but she was a classy woman who
valued her friends and wouldn't tell them anything else. When the kid
was ready to reveal his past, he'd have to do it himself. Couldn't be
soon enough for Logan.

Logan shook himself. He'd been looking at Gambit's unbelievably tiny ass
and fantasizin'. Kid must be fairly reekin' charm tonight. He'd put on
some music and was dancing around, totally uninhibited and unaware that
he was being watched. The Canuck was surprised at what was coming out of
the expensive speakers. He half-expected Zydeco or some sorta other
Cajun shit, but he recognized the tune.

Baby take off your coat real slow
and take off your shoes
I'll take your shoes
Baby take off your dress
yes yes yes

Lebeau was singin' along, totally into the heavy beat. Even Logan's head
was bobbin' a little, but he stopped quick when the lithe young man
began unbuttonin' his shirt. The Canadian's mouth dropped open and his
lips split in a knowing smile. The kid was strippin'.

You can leave your hat on
You can leave your hat on
You can leave your hat on

During the chorus, Gambit neatly rolled a black fedora from the coatrack
onto his long fingers and then to his shoulders, giving it a little flip
to settle it low on his forehead. Logan bit his lip, feelin' a hard-on
stirrin' in his already-crowded jeans.

Go on over there
turn on the light
no all the lights
Come back here
stand on this chair
that's right
Raise your arms up to the air
no shake 'em

The shirt was now undone, revealing golden skin, light covering of hair
runnin' down the midde of his chest and flaring out under each pectoral.
Hard nipples. The voyeur drooled as he bumped and ground his way around
the room.

You give me a reason to live

Trouser button unfastened.

You give me a reason to live

Zipper descended.

You give me a reason to live

Dirty bop.

You give me a reason to live

Jesus Christ Almighty. No underwear.

Sweet darling

The expensive, silk shirt was tossed aside.

You can leave your hat on
You can leave your hat on
you can leave your hat on
you can leave your hat on
you can leave your hat on
you can leave your hat on

By the time Cocker finished the second chorus, Gambit was butt-ass naked
and a certain short, hairy Canuck had his own Grade A in his hands,
feasting his eyes on the sight of a dancing, nude Cajun. The long
muscles bunched and flattened as he swayed and dipped.

Suspicious minds a talkin'
try'n' to tear us apart they don't believe
in this love of mine
they don't know I love you
they don't know what love is
they don't know what love is
they don't know what love is
I know what love is

Lebeau was totally unselfconscious, strokin' and touchin' himself
lovingly, driving Logan crazy with the thought of running his hands and
tongue over that sinuous, cat-like body, tastin' the pretty, coppery
nipples, separated the divoted cheeks and...... Holy God. His cock was
long and lean and elegant, just like the rest o' him. Logan stroked
faster, his breath misting and raspy. A long string of drool hung
suspended from a sharpened canine as he panted.

Sweet darling
You can leave your hat on

The hunter and the prey pumped in rhythm while the music reached a
crescendo. Remy continued to dance. The only thing he wore was the
fedora and he was thoroughly into the spirit of the thing.

You can leave your hat on

Logan wanked furiously, his fisted hand already covered with spunk as
the thief twirled in complete abandon to Cocker's rough intensity. A
sudden urge to hunt and pursue came over him, the sound of a pounding
heartbeat, the smell of adrenalin when the kid was cornered, the taste
of sweet, hot blood welling into his starving mouth.

You can leave your hat on

The brassy trumpets spurred him on. Lebeau whirled, threw his head back,
exposed a delicious throat, a vulnerable Adam's apple. The Wolverine
wanted only to pin him against the wall face-first, penetrate and breed
until his mate screamed for mercy. His bitch/prey would do anything for
him. Logan's eyes began fluttering as he approached yet another orgasm,
thinking of Gumbo's mouth wrapped tightly around his swollen meat,
kneeling between his legs and looking up at him, begging to receive his
load with those flaming, red-on-black eyes.

You can leave your hat on

F...fuck!! The Cajun's body tensed and arched as hot, thick cum spilled
out over his agile hand. Logan followed a second later with a stifled
grunt, probably the fifteenth time he'd come since the striptease began.
It only took him seven seconds to ready himself for another round. The
thought made him smile wickedly. Gambit had a nymphomaniac's reputation.
He didn't even know the meaning of the word, but Logan was gonna teach
him.

Real soon.