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FIC: "In a Thousand Miles": Rogue/Logan: NC-17: 2/4

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  • Jenn
    Part 2: Into the Woods Marie woke up with a tap on her cheek and tried to knock it away with one hand, turning to bury her head in--oh my, this wasn t her
    Message 1 of 1 , Nov 7, 2000
      Part 2: Into the Woods

      Marie woke up with a tap on her cheek and tried to knock it away with one
      hand, turning to bury her head in--oh my, this wasn't her pillow. She
      heard a low chuckle and opened her eyes, rolling on her back. Logan shook
      his head and she liked the smile on his face when he looked at her, a smile
      that was for her and her alone.

      "We're here."

      "Where's here?" It was dark outside and she couldn't get a view of the
      area from the window.

      "Look around." She reluctantly sat up and shook her head as he got out.
      Still nothing, but it was dark and she didn't have his vision either.
      Carefully, aware of the soreness of muscles that had spent too long in one
      position, she sat up and pushed the door open, balancing herself against
      the window and getting a good look around.

      It defined the term boondocks. There were trees and snow and what looked
      like a good-size cabin and a generator and that's all it had to recommend
      it. She pushed the door shut behind her with her foot and turned in a slow

      It was also breathtaking and isolated and she liked that more than she'd
      expected. A light wind picked up stray strands of hair like a caress and
      she tucked her hands up under her arms.

      She couldn't remember the last time she'd had the option of letting her
      hands get cold.

      Then she turned to the back seat and unloaded the remaining baggage they'd
      acquired at a hefty loss to his cash reserves. Logan usually traveled
      light--this was a concession to the fact that she'd never traveled at all.

      Maybe he'd teach her.

      But he wasn't in view even if she'd suddenly asked for lessons and she
      shook her head as she walked up the worn stone steps and into the door.

      The bags touched the floor and she felt him pick her up and the weight of
      both their bodies slammed the door closed. Her toes barely brushed the

      "How good's your control?" It was a whisper in her ear and she shut her
      eyes, dragging out the concentration lessons she'd practiced until she
      dropped--and she'd refined until she knew how far she could push herself.
      She turned her head, meeting his eyes, sucking in a breath at what was
      behind them.

      "Good enough."

      A bare finger traced the line of her jaw experimentally and she shivered at
      the brush of lips against the high bone of her cheek. And when he tilted
      her head to kiss her--it was hot and delicious and no fantasy could have
      prepared her for that

      She got her hands up and around his shoulders, avoiding exposed skin
      because there wasn't any good reason to take extra chances with bare hands,
      digging into his back when he lifted her off her feet, pressing her against
      rough wood, fingers twisting in her hair and drawing her mouth closer when
      she didn't have any intention of pulling away. She slid a leg around his,
      trying to get closer, pushing his jacket off and felt him growl softly into
      her mouth before he bit her tongue and it took everything in her not to

      God, it was good, it was better than any memory could ever be, and it was

      Seven years and a thousand miles and this was what she'd wanted since she'd
      first seen him, in a greasy bar that was so many years and memories ago
      that the colors of it shouldn't still be so bright in her mind. Then,
      slowly, he let her back down and she wasn't sure her legs would hold her
      when he did it.

      "Don't stop." She breathed it against his lips.

      It was too dark to see if he was smiling. One hand traced the line of her
      cheek and ended at the corner of her mouth.

      "Get unpacked."

      He had to have been a fucking general or something in that former life.
      She'd never been a good subordinate, but she was a damned good actress and
      could play the part when her heart was in it. He left her standing there
      and she waited a second to get her bearings and her head cleared before she
      fumbled along the wall for a light switch. When on, she gave a cursory
      look around a room that was spartanly furnished and wondered if they'd just
      broken into someone's little hunting lodge. There was familiarity here,
      though, in the design of the furniture and the simplicity of decoration and
      she wished she could put her finger on what about it was telling her she'd
      been here before.

      >From the other room--kitchen?--she heard his voice--apparently, there was
      telephone here somewhere.

      "We're fine."

      Then the phone was hung up and she watched him disconnect it from the wall
      and leave it on the desk, a big, expensive paperweight for all the use it
      was now, and something drifted to the floor when he dropped his coat on the
      chair. She watched him go out through the back door and went to pick it

      A scrap of pale blue paper, the stationary of a lady. The handwriting was
      Jean's and the directions were in northern Canada.

      She knew why she recognized this place.

      Slowly, she settled on the desk chair and gripped that paper for a moment
      that could have lasted forever and probably wasn't even long enough for her
      to blink.

      Second best, second choice, it stopped mattering, and she tucked the paper
      back in his pocket and went to find out what else this place had.

      It had one bedroom and a bathroom and was pretty much the concept of
      minimalism. It appealed to her in the light furniture and the high
      ceilings and she half wished Jean's taste wasn't so damned good. The
      kitchen was pretty bare but the freezer wasn't and Marie took a few minutes
      to peruse the contents and wondered, rather uncertainly, if Logan could
      even cook, because she certainly couldn't--the irony of starving to death
      surrounded by food appealed to her darker sense of humor, an inheritance
      from Magneto she rarely regretted. She shook her head and her gaze fell on
      the microwave.

      Oh yeah. She could use one of those.

      Well, barely.

      She unpacked the bags and went into the bathroom to strip off her clothes
      and get herself as clean as possible. The shower was large--she was
      getting amusing images of Scott and Jean trying to keep his visor out of
      the shower's range--{Is it waterproof?}-- against the tiled back and
      stifled a giggle that their Fearless Leader probably wouldn't have
      appreciated. When she got out, she dried off and lifted the his tags back
      over her head as she studied the clothes on the floor, poking them with one

      Clean ones had to be here somewhere.

      She didn't bother grabbing a towel to cover herself as she rummaged through
      the varied drawers. A green shirt that went spectacularly with red hair and
      jeans she was too short to wear. In the back of the closet were black
      leather pants that fit better and a loose white buttoned shirt that was too
      large. She put them on and pulled her hair back from her face and wondered
      what the hell he was doing outside.

      And stared at her naked hands for a long time and wondered how he managed
      to keep from flinching when he saw them. Even if her control was good,
      even if he trusted her, even if she was careful. She shivered at the sight
      of her own bare skin, far more unfamiliar to her than anything else on her

      After all, she didn't spend a lot of time staring at her own hands.

      "Marie?" A door closed with what was possibly a kick.

      She walked to the door and watched him--carry in firewood. He caught her
      look at the stack and grinned. Marie tried to remember the last time she'd
      seen him so relaxed and failed.

      "Central heating runs down the generator too much." He dropped it in the
      bin and brushed his hands off on his jeans and she sucked in a breath just
      watching him move around the room. Leaning against the doorway, she
      considered her options for conversation and decided on none of them.

      It was enough to have him to herself, even in Jean's cabin wearing Jean's

      "I'm hungry." It'd been hours since she'd finished the last of the bread,
      and fruit just didn't appeal to her right now.

      He gave her a questioning glance and she elaborated.

      "Can you cook?"

      One eyebrow arched.

      "What the hell do you think I eat when I'm gone?" The amusement was
      obvious and she smiled in response. She could imagine that he stopped at
      every fast food place that existed between destinations, but it was
      comforting to know that someone here could actually cook those steaks. The
      microwave wasn't going to cut it.

      But food was suddenly the last thing on her mind, because--he was watching
      her. Watching the nervous movement of her hands over the hips of her pants
      and her fingers playing with the edge of her shirt and she found her
      breathing was erratic and liked that too. Even liked the flush that was
      heating her skin and the focus of his eyes on the shirt she wore

      "Say something," she whispered, and she wondered if he looked like that
      when he fought in the ring and when he won--yes, he did, she'd felt that
      expression before on her own face in a memory or dream, she wasn't sure
      which. He moved toward her, and she saw he was gloved again and one hand
      reached out and traced the line of the chain from her collar into the
      hollow between her breasts.

      Then he met her eyes and she thought she'd waited her entire life for him
      to look at her like that.

      "I want you."

      Seven years wasn't so long after all.

      She set her concentration and brushed her fingers over the rough skin of
      his jaw and he didn't stiffen and pull away and then lifted herself on her
      toes and brushed her mouth across his, catching his lip briefly between her
      teeth. He backed her into the bedroom and she heard him kick the door
      shut, turning her against the door and she braced her hands on his
      shoulders and lifted herself flat against him. One hand was in her hair,
      tilting her head back and he bit the edge of her jaw lightly.

      They had to be careful. But she'd practiced for this.

      Never without her gloves, though.

      She'd expected it to go faster. But he didn't seem interested in moving
      on, working slowly down her jawline and pushing her higher on the door and
      she wrapped a leg around him to balance herself. She could hear her own
      breathing in the quiet of the room and was vaguely aware that his hands had
      slid beneath her shirt and were running up her bare back.

      She liked the feel of leather on her bare skin, always had. Leaned into
      the touch and closed her eyes and he slid his hands down her back, bracing
      her up, and she obediently wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her
      face against his shoulder.

      {Keep concentrating. Keep it even. Don't lose control.}

      She felt the mattress against her back and lifted her head, meeting eyes
      darker than she ever remembered seeing them before.

      "I didn't ask." His voice was soft and the fingers stroking her hair back
      were softer still. She sat up, trying to control her breathing and her
      hands that wanted to shake but she didn't want him to think he was afraid.

      "You don't need to."

      She watched him unbutton his shirt, her mouth going dry just from that,
      lowered herself onto his lap when he sat down so she could finish doing it
      for him, tracing the lines of skin and muscle and not a single scar
      anywhere when she pushed it off his shoulders, memorizing the feel of him
      beneath her hands. Dug her nails into his back when he kissed her again,
      slowly, parting her lips almost carefully.

      It could have been one of countless times in her plural memory, and she
      remembered him fucking a woman in Laughlin City fifteen hours before he
      found her in that bar. He hadn't been this careful, this restrained, and
      she knew he didn't want to scare her, not knowing that nothing he did could
      ever frighten her.

      "I won't break," she whispered, running her teeth across his ear. Being a
      superhero meant she knew how to take bruises. Having him in her head meant
      she'd learned to like them.

      He ripped the buttons straight down her shirt and she rocked up slowly
      against him, felt his low growl through her entire body when she did it and
      enjoyed the grasp of his hands on her hips, pulling her tightly against
      him, moving with her.

      He cupped her breast beneath her shirt and she moaned softly, rocking into
      him again, fascinated by the reactions she got out of him--her, not Jean or
      that nameless woman in a city she should want to forget. How hard he was
      between her legs and how much she wanted to touch him but wanted her gloves
      when she did it, because it would be just too ironic if her control slipped
      now. But she traced his stomach with her fingers and dipped them in the
      waist of the jeans briefly, then pushed him back and unbuttoned them with
      her teeth and slid the zipper down with the strength of her tongue,
      brushing his skin with every movement, her hair falling around his chest
      and hips. His fingers in her hair tightened and she didn't fight him for
      control when he pulled her back up to kiss her again, bruising her lips and
      breaking the skin so her blood was caught by the tip of his tongue in her
      mouth. He rolled her onto her back and pulled her shirt open and she
      rested her fingers in his hair when he followed the line of exposed flesh
      that should have scared any reasonable man. But Logan was anything but
      reasonable. She liked that about him.

      Then a soft gasp when he ran his teeth over her breast and her nails dug
      into his scalp and something wet slid up against her nails. She'd never be
      able to leave a mark on him--in some ways it was unfair.

      He traced the lines of her ribs and her stomach, leaving teeth marks
      wherever he stopped and she knew she'd be bruised tomorrow but could have
      cared less with each low gasp, and when he slid a hand between her legs,
      she shut her eyes.

      "God. Logan."

      She felt the low chuckle and let herself smile. Then it faded, when he
      pulled a glove off with his teeth, when she heard the unmistakable sound of
      metal and she jerked when she realized there was three inches worth on one

      "Trust me."

      That was easier than breathing. He cut the leather open from zipper all
      the way to her ass and she shivered when that ungloved hand spread her legs
      apart and traced the damp leather clinging to her skin. She arched into
      the careful touch and he pushed lightly into her with a finger, then hard
      enough to arch her off the bed--because, frankly, memory couldn't compare
      to the real thing by a long shot.

      She was five steps beyond ready.

      The Professor had never been surprised by how hard she worked to control
      her gift. She'd sometimes suspected he knew the reason.

      When he kissed her, she bit his tongue and he growled into her mouth.



      He met her eyes and she ran her fingers down to his lower back, pulling him
      against her and arching lightly, rocking until his eyes closed and his
      breathing became ragged against her ear. God, it couldn't be easy for him,
      she could feel the wanting coming off him and it must hurt to be that close
      and still two layers of clothes away.

      Hell, it wasn't easy for her, either.

      He let her roll him onto his back, pull down the jeans and the shorts,
      taking her time to touch every inch of newly exposed skin, study the
      contrast of colors and taste, trying to rein in what was building in her
      even when he was touching only her hair and stroking her thighs--because
      God, it had been too long and it was the first time both. And it was him
      beneath her hands and mouth and it was the achievement that only years of
      endless patience had managed and even if it was only once, she wanted it
      burned so deeply in her mind that no other memory could ever compete. She
      wanted it burned into him so no one else could ever dim it. She reached
      with one hand to the floor, found his jeans, pulled the condom from the
      pocket and ripped it with her fingernail.

      Latex would protect him if she lost control. And she would, because even
      now it was hard to hold on--it licked gently at her mind, wanting to draw
      him in and whispering she could have him forever this way.

      But it wasn't a temptation.

      It was a trick learned from a Vegas prostitute she'd never met, holding it
      lightly between her teeth and lowering it over his erection, feeling his
      hand on the back of her neck, liking the sounds she was getting out of him
      with every movement, and she held him there, briefly, feeling the shudder
      of his hips against her lips before she slowly dragged herself up his body
      and positioned herself over him, his memory guiding her every movement,
      letting his hands drop to her hips.

      "God, Marie."

      It was the first time and it was as new as it was familiar, and she
      shuddered again at the way he said her name. She bit her lip at the
      stretch as she lowered herself, hands braced on the bed, the feel, hearing
      her own breathing and the shock when he pushed up against her and was all
      the way in--God, it was so good and so natural and it was everything she
      had woken from alone on nights that she preferred to forget. Because
      reality was so much better than anything she could have imagined or

      He cupped her face as she shuddered over him. Leather and latex would keep
      them both safe. And he kissed her and she took in the taste of him and the
      feel, then reached for the sheet to pull between them, blocking the contact
      of bared skin and lowering her head to bite him through the finest linen
      she'd ever felt, a signal that she couldn't hold it much longer that he'd

      And slowly, she lifted her hips and his hands guided her into a rhythm that
      dug her bared nails into the bed on either side of his shoulders. It was
      slow--it had to be, as she felt the stretch and the heat and tried to
      temper the rise of her power within her, but it finally broke when he moved
      under her, guiding her movements when she stopped being able to, touching
      her with his gloved hand across her bare back and his ungloved stroking her

      Saying things she could barely hear, couldn't understand, feeling his gaze
      on her face.

      And then she couldn't think at all. Didn't want to when he rolled her onto
      her back and thrusted into her hard enough to lift her from the bed. She
      lifted her legs, wrapping them around his waist at the next thrust,
      grabbing the headboard so she wouldn't be tempted to touch him, breathing
      sharply at the build in her that was making her forget her own name.
      Careful of uncovered skin, he traced her body through the sheet with his
      teeth, finally burying his mouth in her protected neck while she cried out
      something that was his name--and God, it was everything she had ever

      She was still shuddering when he came too--saying something against her ear
      that she couldn't quite understand, and his grip on her hip tightened until
      she almost thought the bone would break under the pressure.

      God, memory had nothing on this. With care, she twisted her bare arms in
      the sheet and drew them around him, feeling the sweat soak quickly through
      the linen.

      As Logan might say, that was a *fucking* good ride. She was still
      twitching from the aftershocks when he slid over beside her, her shirt
      protecting his bare chest from her back, because she was too tired to even
      try to control her gift right now. His gloved hand traced her shoulder and
      slid around her waist, drawing her closer.

      "Be careful," she managed to whisper. "I can't--"

      "I know."

      Marie fell asleep almost before she felt the blanket wrapped around her.

      * * * * *

      The odd thing was that she didn't wake up alone.

      She expected to, was ready for it. But no--he was still asleep and the arm
      around her waist tightened when she tried to move.

      Apparently, he wasn't so asleep, which could have been a good thing. When
      he woke up badly he woke up very, very badly and she had no interest in
      finding out how those claws would feel going into her back.

      "Don't." It was a sleepy growl. "Good morning--shit, afternoon." A
      muffled afterthought and she felt him shift closer, head buried in her
      hair, protected from her skin.

      Why did this seem so--normal? Damn, she could get used to this--there was
      a certain amount of amusement in the fact that they were two people wholly
      unsuited to ever sharing a bed with anyone for a night. When one of you
      could kill with a touch and the other could put nine inches of metal in
      your flesh without thinking about it--well, it would certainly make
      domestic life interesting.

      "Good afternoon." For a shock, her voice didn't shake. Her stomach
      rumbled audibly and she choked back a laugh. "I'm hungry, Logan. Let me

      "I'll feed you if you just stay put." She felt his breath tickle back of
      her neck and was suddenly worried how close he was to her skin.

      "Be careful," she said. "I'm not--"

      "Yeah, got it." There was a pause and she felt him raise himself on an
      elbow behind her. It was sudden, a fit of shyness that made her flush.
      "Did I hurt you?"

      There was a throbbing between her legs that could have been pain but it
      felt too damned good and she shuddered a little in memory, feeling more hot
      color spread across her face.

      She owed Jean some new leather pants.

      "Nope." She covered his hand with hers, playing with the soft leather, and
      he laced their fingers together against her bare stomach. "Not really."

      He caught her shoulder and rolled her onto her back, pulling the sheet down
      below her waist and tracking her skin with his eyes, watching them linger
      on every mark. She watched the stretch of his arm just over her head and
      felt her mouth go dry--

      --how the hell did he do that to her just by moving?

      "It doesn't hurt."

      He nodded. He found his glove under her hip and pulled it on, then slid
      over her, stretching her arms above her head, fingers lacing through hers.

      "You look good when you wake up, baby."

      She knew what she looked like--God, did she touch him by accident and screw
      up his head? But he only smiled, brushing a kiss against her hair, eyes
      locked with hers and her breathing just stopped--she lifted a
      leather-covered knee against his hip, rubbing softly against him, saw the
      dark eyes close briefly--

      --and her stomach rumbled. And he began to laugh, collapsing safely beside
      her. She couldn't stop the giggle and tried to bury it in her hair, since
      her hands were still out of service above her head.

      "You said something about food." She tried to sound apologetic.

      "Damn it. Give me a minute--where are--" He did quick visual
      reconnaissance of the room.

      "On the other side of the bed."

      Reluctantly, she thought, he freed her hands and she felt the bed move as
      he went searching for his jeans. And it was cold--she turned on her side
      to watch him dress and he didn't bother with his shirt, which did nicely
      for the view but still--

      "Aren't you cold?"

      A flash of teeth in a grin.

      "Never." She smirked at him. "What do you want?"

      "What's there?"

      His eyes closed in mock patience.

      "I didn't exactly check for provisions, Marie."

      "Something fast."

      "That I can do." He padded out on bare feet and she tucked her toes up
      under the comforter in sympathy, imagining how cold that wood must be.
      Glancing out the window, she realized it was coming on late afternoon. The
      sun was orange on the horizon.

      She was--partially--naked in bed. And she couldn't help it--she ran her
      hands down her sides, wincing at the pull of bruised muscles, stretching
      her legs and hissing as the throbbing increased. It hadn't hurt--she'd
      thought it would, but then, God--. Stretching her arms above her head, she
      stared at the ceiling.

      "I don't believe it," she told it candidly.

      The ceiling didn't answer, but since it had witnessed the whole thing, it
      probably thought she'd lost her mind. And that was possible--but she'd
      lived her life with merciless sanity and what had it gotten her before?

      Then something--something *big* and growling and very warm--landed on her
      and she let out her breath in a gasp and she heard him laughing.

      "I hate you can move that quietly."

      "I never promised to play fair."

      He straddled her hips, putting something on the bed beside her and leaning
      so close she could feel his breath on her lips, eyes looking into hers, and
      she wasn't wrong, she'd never seen him like this before, and not just the
      half-naked on top of her part either. He worked the sheet out from between
      them and grinned.

      "Close your eyes."

      When she could look at him? She shook her head, and he took the simple
      expedient of pulling the edge of the sheet over the top of her face.


      And something sweet--an orange--was pressed between her lips and it was
      chew or choke.

      "It'd be easier if you didn't fight me," he commented, and she realized he
      was gloved when caught both her hands before she could think to use them,
      trapping them under his knees. "Better."

      "What the hell--"

      More fruit. She could get used to this.


      Another piece. He balanced himself easily when she tried to buck him off.

      "Damn, Marie--didn't they ever teach you anything useful in those combat
      classes? I gotta talk to Scooter 'bout that. Now lay still--I'm enjoying
      this. Nice view."

      That's right, her shirt was still unbuttoned. He ran a gloved finger
      between her breasts, following the line of the chain, and she shuddered,
      then laughed when he brushed against her ribs and almost choked on the
      slice of apple.

      "You didn't cook."

      He pulled the sheet off her face and she watched him cut another piece from
      the apple with a knife.

      "With the company I can get in here if I just scrounge through what we
      brought?" Carefully, he took the slice and cut it into pieces, carefully
      placing them in a line starting at her throat. She shivered at each touch
      of the soft leather on her skin, tracked his progress with every piece of
      fruit, until he ended at her stomach and she felt him lean over her.

      "I'll be careful," he said softly, and she shut her eyes when his teeth
      brushed her skin picking up the first piece. Then the second, and he
      shifted down, keeping her hands secure when he took the next piece. Then
      the next, and another shudder went through her body and she knew he felt
      it. "Never liked fruit much before now." He traced the line of her hips
      when he picked up the next piece and then a hand rested lightly between her
      legs with the last.

      And her hands were free but they were digging into the mattress.

      "Are you--" he stopped, obviously consider how to phrase the
      question--Logan being tactful, God, she'd never seen that--and she shook
      her head quickly, moving against his hand. He hesitated, studying her
      face, and she caught his other hand, bringing it to her lips, biting the
      tip of his finger.

      "I feel fine." Slowly, she traced the line of his thighs, heard his
      indrawn breath, and grinned a little wickedly. Sitting up, she continued
      the careful tactile survey of hard muscle and slid her fingers lightly
      between his legs. She heard his breath catch. "And so do you."

      He stopped her, one hand covering hers briefly, then twisting her onto her
      stomach, drawing a slow hand down her back. She wriggled her hips back
      against him, hearing the catch of breath, the growl, and grabbed the
      headboard in both hands.

      "Interesting," she whispered softly, as he brushed a kiss through her shirt
      on her upper back, the hand on her stomach lifting her and she repositioned
      herself easily, shutting her eyes at the feel of leather on her bare skin.

      "Creativity is never bad."

      "I'm not complaining." She hissed when the gloved fingers slid between her
      breasts, rubbing back against him, smiling when he groaned. "You're going
      to get a glove fetish out of this, you know."

      "I'm not complaining." His hands settled on her hips and she slid back
      against him, eyes closing at the sudden, convulsive grip on her waist.

      "What are you waiting for?" And a gasp as he slid fingers between her
      legs--and yeah, she was getting a glove fetish out of this too.

      "Not a damned thing."

      * * * * *

      webpage: www.geocities.com/seperis

      "If you had a cow and an apple tree, and if you tied the apple tree in your
      stable and planted the cow in your orchard, with her legs up, how much milk
      would you get from the apple tree or how many apples from the cow?"

      Take a guess
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