Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1704617.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      X-Men_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Quentin_Quire/Daken_Akihiro
  Character:
      Quentin_Quire, Daken_Akihiro
  Additional Tags:
      Mildly_Dubious_Consent, Coming_In_Pants, Hand_Jobs, Manipulation,
      Masturbation
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-28 Words: 2002
****** Seduction of the "Innocent" ******
by DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary
     Quentin sneaks out of his room for a midnight snack, overhears a plot
     to bring down the school, and meets Wolverine's son. Wolverine's
     ultra-hot son.
Notes
     Please note: Quentin is still at the school in this fic, and this
     could be construed as underage. My intent was for him to be eighteen,
     it's right before he graduates, but I felt it needed the warning.
The Jean Grey School is dark at two in the morning, and quiet, especially when
there's been an emergency call and all of the X-Men are out. Not that that's
good,  and it's  definitely  in violation of  some  kind of law, and so Quentin
starts composing as he wanders through the halls toward the kitchen. This one
could be a speech. Or a  broadsheet,  he could bring broadsheets back into
fashion. A boarding school where students are frequently left unattended in the
night. No  wonder  people think the teachers are a menace.
 First order of business, though: snacks. Because all he's got in his room is
junk food, whereas in the fridge in the  teacher's lounge  he can get his hands
on some of the Wakandan sweet date pastries that Professor Munroe doesn't think
anyone knows about. And maybe he can get a beer. Not that Wolverine drinks
anything  decent,  but it's something.
But...he's not alone.
 He feels the minds coming before he hears anything, of course, knows that
they're not normal denizens of the school, knows moreover that they don't mean
well, and he's  curious.  So he ducks into the coat closet nearby and pulls the
door nearly all the way shut, slowly so that he doesn't squeak. And he listens.
 And as they come closer he hears their thoughts and realizes who they are and
he  shivers.  Not minds he  knows,  precisely, but minds he knows  of.  One of
them is Mystique.
 And the other one is Wolverine's son, Daken, and Quentin  knows  that's who it
is, because Logan's face floats high in his mind.
“New building.” Mystique's voice is lower than he'd imagined, and warm. Not
that he's ever imagined Mystique, not that he's weak enough to let that sort of
thing distract...no, all right, it's Mystique, she's totally hot. “I like it.”
 “I don't care if you  like  it, the question is can you  learn  it.” Daken's
voice. A tenor, carefully modulated. Faint accent. “And do you have a persona
yet?”
 “Please. I'm a professional. I'm only trusting you to come  up  with this plan
because you  amuse  me.”
“Hm.”
 Paying attention to two things at once is difficult, but it's a skill
Quentin's been working on for quite some time, and so he listens to their words
and  their thoughts, and while their words are  interesting— the plan they're
outlining is  fascinating— their thoughts are...distracting. Daken, who he can
see  through Mystique's eyes, is a  very  good-looking man, and Mystique is
considering. She's considering things. That they've done before. And Daken's
thinking something similar, Quentin can feel the smile at the memory of looking
up   at Mystique, watching her gasp and smirk as she rides him.
  Quentin takes a deep breath, feeling his cheeks go hot. He was already sort
of vaguely horny, in the way that he   always   is past eleven or so at night,
but he's also just tired enough that he's having difficulty blocking out the
more invasive thoughts of others. And then they get close enough to the closet
that he's a little worried about being spotted and he can   smell   Daken. Not
bad,   not   unwashed,   but something warm and musky and laced with expensive
cologne.
  The arousal hits Quentin like a punch to the gut. Suddenly he's   painfully
hard, his sleep pants tented out in a way that would be humiliating if there
was anyone around to see. Luckily, though, he's by himself, tucked into the
back of this closet against the softness of a wool coat, and the only people
nearby are too involved in their nefarious business or whatever to go poking
their heads in here.
He tries to think of something not sexy.
Idie!
  That is the exact   opposite   of what he needs.
Evan!
That should—ok, so that's apparently a thing he should think about in more
detail later, when he's feeling coherent.
Wolverine.
Also   turns out to be the exact opposite of what he needs, and he was   not
expecting that.
Ok, ok, Broo. Broo's not sexy. Broo is the   opposite   of sexy.
...his mind will never recover from the image.
And he's still hard.
  At this point he can barely even   hear   Daken and Mystique, who seem to
have stopped not far from the closet where he's hiding. Obviously they haven't
noticed him, so he's got some information he can use for leverage later, but
right now...
Fuck.
He doesn't care.
  He bites his lip, squeezes his eyes shut, and reaches down to cup the bulge
in his pants.   Make it quick. Just so you can walk. And think about something
sane.
He thinks about the smirk he saw on Mystique's face in Daken's memories, and
grips himself tight.
  And doesn't   quite   hear it when Daken murmurs, “You go on ahead, Mystique.
I think I just smelled a rat.”
  He's already deep in a fantasy when the closet door swings open, and he
freezes with his hand on his dick and a damp patch already forming on the front
of his pants.   Somebody's   found him. Hopefully it'll just be someone who
wants him dead and not, say, Professor Munroe, who wouldn't be pleased to find
him out this late (and even   less   please if she knew what he was just
thinking).
It's not Storm.
It's Daken.
  Who is...not as tall as he was somehow expecting, and   why   is that is
first thought?
  He tries to salvage at least a   little   bit of dignity, swallows hard, and
says, “I hope you're not going to say 'what have we here,' that's   such   a
cliché.”
Daken shrugs. “If you'd rather I didn't. So. What did you hear?”
  “Nothing. I was in this closet.” Quentin resists the urge to bite his lip.
Maybe, if the world is somehow a kind place, Daken will take him at his
word—and won't notice that he's still hard. “All   I   wanted was a snack.
Thought you were a teacher.”
Of course, the world isn't a kind place, and Quentin knows that damn well.
Because Daken looks him up and down slowly, eyes lingering on first his hair
and then the hand still hovering in front of his pants, and says, “You're
Quentin Quire, the psychic.”
“...you know me?”
  “Your name   was   trending on Twitter not too long ago.” Daken plants a hand
on the wall next to Quentin's head and leans in conspiratorially. “You were
listening to us.”
Quentin opens his mouth to deny it, but forgets what he was going to say almost
immediately. Daken's eyes are dark, his smile is sly, and he's
very...attractive.
  Daken lifts his free hand, pushes Quentin's chin gently up to close his
mouth, and rests his hand on the side of Quentin's face almost
affectionately,   thumb rubbing across his cheek. “Weren't you?”
“Y-yes?”
  “What did you hear?” The hand on his cheek slides lower, there's a faint
ssh,   and—Quentin feels a light pricking. A   claw.   There's a   claw   at
his   throat   and his heart starts pounding, not that it wasn't near there
already.
“Not much. You're going to have Mystique infiltrate the school.”
“And?” Daken's eyes don't leave his, he doesn't mention the potential for a
quiet, bloody death.
  “And nothing. She was thinking about. About   other   things. I got.” Quentin
blushes hotly, looking down. “I got distracted.” It would   maybe   be a
little   less embarrassing if his erection would go down. And if Daken was
ugly   or something.
  The world is   very   unkind tonight, and Quentin takes another gulping
breath as he realizes that he might die in a few minutes—or seconds—and there
are some things he needs to admit to himself, viz,
   1. He's into guys.
   2. Even when staring down the looming specter of death, he apparently thinks
      Wolverine's son is really fucking hot.
  Also maybe he shouldn't have thought of the world   fucking,   because he's
distracted again.
“Quentin Quire.” And—the claw's been retracted, and Daken is back to stroking
Quentin's cheek with his thumb. “I've heard a lot about you.”
  Quentin clears his throat, tries to summon something at least   adjacent   to
poise. “I'm very famous.”
  “You   are.  ” Daken's breath puffs warm on his skin. “And I could   use
someone with your talents.”
“...for what?”
“I'm going to take over this school. My father's no good at running it.” Daken
smiles at him. “Would you like to help? The X-Men will need a new leader.”
 Despite the distracting rub of Daken's thumb along his cheekbone, Quentin
can't quite help but imagine it. Leader of the X-Men.  Finally.  And working
with someone who recognizes his  genius.  Judging from the cut of his clothes,
too, Daken has more  class  than Wolverine, and he talks like an educated man.
He could—in fact, Quentin thinks, he  will— be  good  for the school. Better
than  Wolverine  ever could be.
 He says, not quite able to help himself, “ I  am an  excellent  field leader.”
And he tries to look Daken in the eyes again, but instead his gaze stops at the
other man's mouth, one corner curving up in his sly smile. “With. With
appropriate backup.”
“Of course, Quentin—may I call you Quentin?”
“S-sure.” His mouth is dry.
 “In fact, for the moment you would be an  excellent  embedded liaison for
Mystique. Agreed?”
“Um. Yes. Yes, of course.”
 “Good. I'll have her come find you when she's established her cover.” The hand
on the wall drops down, Daken squeezes his shoulder in a weirdly friendly way.
“I think we'll do  very  good work together.”
His other hand is still on Quentin's cheek. Quentin finds himself half-hoping
it stays there forever. His brain feels foggy. His cock is so hard that it
aches. He sort of wants Daken to kiss him.
There's a faint sound in the corridor and Daken half-turns, lifting his head
and sniffing almost imperceptibly. One of his knees brushes lightly,
accidentally, against the front of Quentin's pants—
 —and Quentin can't stop himself, he makes a little desperate noise in the back
of his throat, he would do  literally anything  to get Daken to touch him right
now.
Daken's thumb is suddenly against his mouth. “Ssh. We wouldn't want one of the
teachers to hear us.”
Quentin nods, frozen, eyes wide.
“Here.” The thumb—Quentin notices abstractly that Daken apparently paints his
nails black—teases his lips apart and slides in, warm skin soft against his
tongue. While he's still processing that, which is a little brain-scrambling in
and of itself, Daken leans in a little closer and nudges his legs apart with
one knee. His voice is soft now, coaxing. “Go ahead.”
It takes a moment for Quentin to process what he's being told, but his hips are
moving on instinct almost before the meaning gets through his brain. His cheeks
flush even hotter as he rides Daken's thigh, biting down on the other man's
thumb to stifle his own moans, fisting his hands in the front of Daken's shirt
because if he doesn't he might fall.
 And it seems like an  embarrassingly  short time before he jolts forward with
a muffled groan, sweat beading on his forehead and pink hair falling into his
eyes, and comes all over the inside of his own pants.
 They're very still for a moment, and then Daken withdraws his damp thumb from
Quentin's mouth, brushing it along Quentin's lower lip in a manner  deeply
suggestive, and says, “You should go back to your room before someone notices
that you're not in bed.”
Quentin bites his lip. “Don't you want me to...”
 “Don't worry.” Daken pats his cheek. “When I want something,  I'll  come to
you. ” His eyes flick down. “And in  any  case you should probably change out
of those. Hurry, there's nobody in the halls right now.”
 Suddenly feeling  deeply  embarrassed, Quentin stumbles out of the coat closet
and starts heading back towards his room, all thoughts of his original midnight
snack run forgotten.
 Daken's soft voice drifts along behind him. “I think we'll make a  wonderful
team.”
 
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