Loading ...
Sorry, an error occurred while loading the content.

FIC: Off the Corner - 1/1 [L/R] - R

Expand Messages
  • victoria p.
    Title: Off the Corner Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@att.net] Summary: Still AU. Logan takes Rogue home. Sequel to First Trick of the Day Series: Off the
    Message 1 of 1 , May 1, 2001
    View Source
    • 0 Attachment
      Title: Off the Corner
      Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
      Summary: Still AU. Logan takes Rogue home. Sequel to "First Trick of the
      Day"
      Series: Off the Corner - yeah, it's a series. Sigh.
      Rating: R - language, sex, implied violence/sexual abuse.
      Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of
      fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
      Archive: With "Angel of the Evening" and "First Trick of the Day"
      Feedback: You know you want to.
      Notes: Thanks to my beloved betas -- Dot, Meg, Jen, and Pete -- who
      don't understand my hooker!Rogue fixation any more than you do <g>. And
      to Dark Ferret for the lipstick idea.

      < > indicates thoughts
      // // indicates dreams


      Off the Corner

      Logan unlocked the door to the dingy apartment he was renting on the
      Lower East Side. His client had booked a room for him at the St. Pierre,
      all expenses paid, but that was too public, too easy to trace. Logan
      hired a homeless guy to check in under his name and live on room service
      and champagne while he rented out an old cold-water flat by the week --
      under an assumed name and in cash. Not traceable.

      Rogue took in the two rooms, which were strewn with what few clothes he
      owned, empty pizza boxes, fast food wrappers and beer cans. "Suddenly,
      my life doesn't look so bad," she muttered, picking her way through the
      mess to the couch.

      He stood in the doorway, realizing what it looked like through her eyes.
      "Hey, I can still get you a room --"

      She looked back at him, eyes wide, worried. <Does she think I'd actually
      throw her out now? Shit.> She was speaking again. "No, no. It's --
      cozy."

      "Cozy?"

      "Cozy," she affirmed, pushing some junk onto the floor and settling on
      the couch. "I kinda like it."

      He felt the goofy grin spread across his face before he could stop it.
      He didn't let it linger, though. He was the Wolverine. He was a badass.
      He wasn't at all nervous and happy because he had an eighteen-year-old
      hooker in his living room.

      "I'm gonna take a shower," he said, jerking his head toward the
      bathroom. "I'll be right out."

      She nodded, already absorbed in one of the newspapers lying on the
      couch.

      He shucked his clothes and stood under the hot spray gratefully. He felt
      dirty, which was kind of funny, considering what he did for a living.
      But just hearing that dickwad call Marie names made him sick; it made
      him think of the times he'd used her, paid her for sex. Was he really
      any better than the pimp?

      His thoughts were interrupted when she yanked back the shower curtain
      and stepped into the tub with him.

      "Marie!"

      "Lean back," she murmured, pushing him against the tiling. He noticed
      that even though she'd removed her boots, she'd kept her latex suit,
      gloves and stockings on. And she'd reapplied her lipstick. She pressed
      those wine-dark lips to the sensitive spot just below his ear and then
      dragged them down his neck and chest, leaving a waxy trail behind. She
      stroked his cock with a sure hand as she pulled the condom out of her
      cleavage.

      "Marie, what are you doing?" he choked out.

      "What's it look like, sugar?" she drawled as she rolled the condom onto
      his hard length.

      "You don't -- we don't --" he sputtered, blinking and trying to regain
      his focus as her mouth engulfed him.

      She stopped and he almost cried out at the loss of her warmth. "That's
      what you like, right?" she asked softly, her eyes dark with emotions he
      couldn't identify. No fear -- just gratitude, trust, and was that
      desire? He nodded dumbly, but then shook his head.

      "No, not like this," he said, his voice rough. He didn't want her to
      fuck him out of gratitude. But he did want to fuck her.

      She apparently didn't get it, because she swung them around -- he moved
      unresistingly -- and wrapped one leg around his waist, bringing her
      groin into contact with his. He gasped as he felt the metal of a zipper
      brush against the sensitive head of his penis, and then he grabbed her
      hips and pushed her up the wall, taking her other leg and pulling it
      around his hip. Her hands were already between them, one back to
      stroking him while the other unzipped the suit and let the full, rich
      scent of her arousal loose inside the steamy shower. He swallowed
      convulsively, breathing it in.

      He was poised at her entrance when he said, "We shouldn't-- You don't
      have to--"

      "I want to," she whispered, guiding him into her wet heat and dropping
      her head to the side. He leaned in to nuzzle her neck and she snapped to
      attention. "Be careful!" she hissed. "My skin --" He figured it was hard
      for her to form coherent sentences. God knows, he could barely
      understand a word she was saying, he was so submerged in the rhythm
      their bodies were creating. "My skin is dangerous," she murmured.

      "Okay," he replied, and then the time for conversation was past. He
      buried his face against her hair, where it appeared to be safe, and
      reveled in the feel of her gloved hands scraping down his back and her
      heels digging in to the backs of his thighs as he thrust into her while
      the hot water poured over them.

      "Logan," she whimpered, her voice thready. He could feel how close she
      was to coming; he could smell it. "Logan, please. Logan!" she moaned and
      then she made these little noises in the back of her throat as she
      climaxed. It was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard.

      He grunted and growled and cried out her name as he finished thrusting
      into her and shuddering with his release. "Oh, baby, fuck, Marie," he
      muttered when he could speak again.

      She trailed a gloved hand down his chest as she untangled herself from
      him. "Thank you," she said, in the same sweet voice she'd thanked him
      for dinner.

      Then she stepped over the edge of the tub and was gone.

      He stood under the water until it got cold, wondering what she was
      thinking, and what he should do next. He hoped that what they'd just
      done wasn't some sort of payment, or a mistake, because it was damn near
      the best sex of his life, and he'd had plenty -- that he could remember.

      He braced an arm against the wall and leaned on it after he turned off
      the water. He tried to think of something to say when he went out into
      the other room.

      ***

      Scott waited patiently as Professor Xavier finished his phone call. The
      professor had called him into the office for a reason, and Scott had a
      feeling it had something to do with the fact that Magneto's associates
      had been spotted a few days ago in Toronto.

      Xavier put the phone down and looked at his surrogate son. "Sabretooth
      is in New York. Mystique is with him." He steepled his fingers and
      sighed. "I'm afraid they are looking for the girl, Rogue."

      Scott looked up, startled. "Rogue?" He remembered the thin, scared girl
      whose life he'd saved at the Statue of Liberty.

      "Yes. She remained in Manhattan after she left us. I've been keeping
      tabs on her."

      "What-- Why--"

      "She may not have wanted to stay here, Scott, but since we failed her so
      grievously, I felt the least I could do was watch over her. She's not
      had an easy time of it."

      "No," Scott murmured, thinking of his own inability to control his gift,
      and how bad it must be to never be able to touch.

      "She's currently in the company of another mutant. His name is Logan.
      His thoughts are very confused, but I think he may be the Wolverine
      we've all heard whispers about."

      Scott raised an eyebrow. "I thought Wolverine was a legend, a story to
      scare children and keep mutants in line. I mean, a beast-man with
      razor-sharp metal claws? What kind of mutation is that?"

      "He exists, Scott, and he's with Rogue. I fear that the metal claws are
      the result of experimentation."

      "But how -- who would do such a thing?"

      Xavier sighed. "I don't know. I will keep an eye on the situation,
      Scott. You should keep the team on alert, in case Rogue needs rescuing
      again."

      Scott smiled grimly. "Of course. I'd like to avoid the mistakes we made
      at Liberty Island. And get rid of Sabretooth."

      The professor nodded. "It was not your fault she was hurt, Scott. And we
      did save her life."

      Scott laughed bitterly. "After what they did to her, I'm not so sure she
      should thank us for that."

      ***

      Logan took a deep breath and swung the bathroom door open. Marie was
      curled up on the couch, staring off into space.

      "Hey." He spoke softly, not wanting to startle her. She jumped anyway.

      "Hey, yourself." She swallowed and sat up, and he could see the mask
      slipping into place as she schooled her features to friendly
      disinterest.

      He sighed internally. He wanted her to be comfortable and he had a
      feeling that fucking her was not the smartest thing he could have done.
      He knew she enjoyed it -- wanted it, even -- but still, he didn't want
      her out of some misplaced sense of gratitude or pride. The next time
      they had sex, he promised himself, it would be on equal terms. She would
      come to him through her own choice, not because he'd taken her in when
      she had nowhere to go. He decided that casual would be the way to go for
      now.

      "You need a shower?"

      Her lips turned upward slightly, a hint of a smile. "Do you think I need
      a shower?"

      <Shit.> "That's not, that's not what I meant. I just thought you might
      like to, you know, clean up."

      She thought about that for a second and then nodded. "Okay."

      He reached into the closet, pulled out a towel and handed it to her as
      she brushed past him into the bathroom. "I'll find something for you to
      wear."

      "Okay."

      She shut the door and he looked at the clothing scattered in the room.
      He grabbed a sweatshirt and wrinkled his nose. Needed to be washed. He'd
      done laundry the other day. Where was the laundry bag? He found it,
      empty except for a couple pairs of boxer shorts he rarely wore,
      sweatpants, and an olive green t-shirt. That would do.

      He heard the water running, so he opened the door without knocking. He
      said, "I'll leave the clothes on the towel rack--" his voice died away
      as he got a good look at her. She wasn't in the shower yet; she stood
      facing the mirror on the medicine chest and turned at the sound of his
      voice. Her back was crisscrossed in scars like the ones on her face and
      there were others running along her belly and thighs. "Fuck, Marie."

      Her arms flew to her chest in an attempt to cover herself. "I'll go
      now," she said dully, reaching for her rubber suit.

      "God, kid, no. Just --" He shook his head, unable to think of what to
      say, knowing that nothing he said could make it better. "C'mere."
      Remembering what she'd said about her skin, he held the shirt in one
      hand and the shorts in the other and pulled her into a hug. She
      stiffened, then relaxed when he said, "I'm not gonna make you leave. I
      said I'd take care of you, and I meant it." He rested his chin on her
      head and she sighed.

      She sniffed. "I, I don't know what to say."

      "Then don't say anything," he replied, his voice gentle. "Take a shower,
      get dressed, and then we'll talk. Okay?"

      She swallowed hard. "Okay."

      He sat in the living room, trying to figure out what he could do to help
      her. He'd already stopped wondering *why* he wanted to help her -- he'd
      accepted her into his life and he wasn't letting her go. That was the
      end of it. And when she finally spilled the name of the bastard who'd
      fucked her up like that, well, the world would be short one evil
      cocksucker. Logan doubted anyone would miss him.

      He heard the water being shut off, and in a few minutes she came out of
      the bathroom wearing the boxers and t-shirt, wet hair hanging down her
      back and dirty clothing in her hand.

      "Better?" he asked.

      Again, the half-smile. "Much. You don't know how warm one of these
      things gets," she said, holding the suit up. He noticed she'd put her
      gloves back on, though they had to be wet from her time in the shower
      with him. She plucked at the boxer shorts. "I think I need something
      that gives me a little more coverage, though." He patted the cushion
      next to him, but she remained standing. "I told you, my skin is
      dangerous. Bad things happen when people touch it."

      "Like what?" He wondered how come nothing bad had happened to the
      asshole who'd shredded her.

      "I suck out their energy and their memories," she said softly. He
      blinked. "Yeah, freaky, huh?" He patted the sofa again. "Are you sure?
      Most people don't want to get too close."

      "I wouldn't ask if I wasn't sure, kid," he rumbled. "I got gloves around
      here somewhere." He leaned over and shuffled through some of the clothes
      he'd piled on the floor. Then he remembered. "You see that black duffel
      bag over by the TV?" She nodded. "Bring it here."

      She did as he asked. The bag was heavier than it looked. "What the hell
      do you have in here?" she asked, dropping it with a thump on the couch
      next to him.

      "Tools of the trade," he responded mysteriously, unzipping the bag and
      digging through it.

      "And what do you do, Logan?" she asked, her voice teasing.

      He liked that she could tease him. No one else ever had. He wouldn't
      have let anyone else get away with it. "I'm the best there is at what I
      do, Marie, but what I do isn't very nice," he answered, not wanting to
      tell her right away. As professions went, assassin wasn't much higher up
      on the social scale than hooker. He found his favorite pair of black
      leather gloves and pulled them on. "All right now," he said, deftly
      changing the subject, "I've got gloves on, so you can take those wet
      ones off."

      "But--"

      "Off," he commanded.

      "Yes, sir!" she snapped, with a mock salute.

      He grinned and pushed the bag onto the floor. "Now, sit down." He
      thought about asking for her story again, but turned on the television
      instead. They had time.

      When she fell asleep, he carried her to the bed and tucked her in
      tenderly, surprising even himself with the depth of emotions he felt.
      <Is this love?> he wondered, sliding into the bed behind her and
      wrapping her in his warmth.

      ***

      // He could smell the champagne mixed in with the blood. His blood. He
      wanted nothing more than to move, but he couldn't. He could only watch
      helplessly as they cut into him, the scalpels sliding easily through his
      flesh, cutting all the way to the bone. //

      He tossed and groaned, awakening the young woman sleeping in the circle
      of his arms. She turned to face him.

      "Logan," she whispered, "wake up." He didn't respond. His thrashing only
      got worse.

      //They were laughing. He could hear them laughing as he tried to scream
      in agony, only to be thwarted by the tubes shoved down his throat. He
      was going to kill every last one of them. He'd make them regret they'd
      ever been born. They called his name and he cursed them.//

      "Logan," Marie said, a little louder, leaning over to reach out a
      tentative hand and touch his shoulder.

      Faster than she'd have thought possible, he bolted upright; she felt
      something warm and cold at the same time slide through her body. His
      eyes were open but unseeing.

      "Logan," she said again, unable to move.

      Suddenly, he realized what he'd done. "Oh, God, no! Marie!" He retracted
      the claws just as quickly, and she fell back. He slid an arm around her
      and whispered, "Hold on, kid. Hold on," as he fumbled for the phone.

      "I'm sorry," she whispered, seeing the horror in his eyes as she reached
      a bare hand toward his face.

      "Marie," he groaned as her skin met his. He marveled in the feel of her
      soft, warm hand against his cheek. He pressed his lips to it, savoring
      the taste and smell of her before he became aware of a strange pull.
      Then he felt himself -- everything that made him Logan -- thoughts,
      memories, quirks -- flowing into her.

      She gasped as she felt his strength course through her, healing her
      wounds. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "It was an accident."

      Then everything went dark.

      ***

      The first thing he noticed was the scent. It was good. He liked it a
      lot. It was the girl's fragrance -- Marie. Her name was Marie. And it
      was mixed with his. There was salt, as well. He felt the wetness --
      tears.

      "Marie?" he asked, his voice rusty from disuse, opening his eyes slowly.

      "I'm right here." He felt rather than heard her words, her breath soft
      against his ear. She was behind him, her arms wrapped around his chest.
      She was wearing the sweatshirt he'd picked up earlier, as well as her
      gloves. "Are you all right? I'm so sorry."

      He turned over to look at her. "I'm the one who's --" his words died on
      his lips as he took in her appearance. "Marie?" He closed his eyes and
      then reopened them, unable at first to take in the sudden change in her
      appearance. He reached out and cupped her cheek, not even really aware
      that he still had the gloves on, not caring if he didn't. "You're even
      more beautiful," he whispered, running his thumb over her lips as his
      fingers traced the newly-healed skin of her face. "The scars?"

      She licked her lips and swallowed. "They're all gone. You, you healed
      me, Logan. All of me." She placed her hand over his and turned her face
      into his palm, placing a gentle kiss on the leather. "I'm so sorry. I
      just wanted to touch you once before I died. I didn't think it would
      hurt you." He felt tears splash on his arm. "I never meant to hurt you."

      He wrapped an arm around her as his right hand continued to stroke her
      face. "You didn't hurt me, Marie. You, you saved me, too. I--" He didn't
      have the words for it. His empty existence, the living from day-to-day
      that he'd been doing for the past fifteen years, had never brought him
      peace or happiness. He woke every morning and tried to kill himself, and
      cursed God and the doctors who'd cut him open as he watched himself
      heal. It was almost funny. At first, he'd gone to great lengths to die,
      but over the years he'd settled for cutting open a couple of veins and
      seeing if he'd heal before the blood-loss killed him.

      But now, now that he'd seen his own death -- stared it in the face,
      because he had no doubt this slip of a girl could have killed him if
      she'd held on too long -- he didn't want it anymore. He wanted to live.
      More specifically, he wanted to live with Marie.

      "I know," she answered, breaking into his reverie. "You're up here." She
      tapped the side of her head.

      "Ah, shit, kid. I'm sorry."

      "No. No." She shook her head for emphasis. "I like it. You, you fit. We
      fit. It's not like the others." His ears perked at that, though she
      didn't notice. "You're not fighting me -- you're just there."

      "Others?"

      She bit her lip at the slip. "Um, one or two. Mistakes." She pulled away
      and stood, wrapping her arms around herself. "The first boy I ever
      kissed was in a coma for three weeks. And, and--"

      "The bastard who hurt you," he prompted.

      "No. He used a knife or his claws. He never touched me. But Magneto--"
      she broke off. "This man who wanted to use my skin -- he touched me. And
      then the doctor -- you'd like her, she's a redhead -- she helped me, but
      she brushed against me accidentally. And her fiancé, when he saved my
      life..."

      "You got a real party goin' on up there, huh?"

      That won him a watery chuckle. "Kinda."

      He nodded toward the bed. "Get back in here, Marie. I'll feel much
      better if you're next to me."

      She shook her head. "Logan, I don't want to hurt you again."

      "Jesus, Marie, I put three metal blades through your chest. I'm --" he
      fumbled for the words, "stunned that you stuck around long enough to put
      some more clothes on. I'm the one who's sorry. I'm the dangerous one."
      It was sinking in -- the fact that he'd almost killed her. "It's what I
      am, Marie, what I do," he said in a low, harsh voice. "I'm a killer."

      "No, Logan. No." She denied it vehemently. "You saved me."

      "If I didn't have these things," *snikt*, "I wouldn't have had to." He
      retracted the claws and put his head in his hands. "*I* don't want to
      hurt *you* again."

      That brought her back to the bed. She put an arm around his shoulders
      and stroked the back of his neck. "It's not your fault. You didn't *ask*
      for them." He wagged his head, not committing to yes or no. "We're a
      fine pair," she said, laughing a little.

      "We certainly are," he replied, his own mouth starting to quirk into a
      grin. "Sleep now?"

      She nodded. "Okay."

      They rearranged themselves in the bed. Marie pressed herself to Logan's
      back, wrapping her arms around his chest, so that if he accidentally
      extended the claws while he was sleeping, she'd be safe.

      He lay awake, enjoying the feel of her against him, listening to her
      even breathing. Their conversation had drained what little energy he'd
      recovered, but he didn't want her to know how weak he really was. He was
      afraid -- yes, he, the Wolverine -- was afraid that she'd leave and
      never come back if she thought she'd hurt him. He'd decided that he
      needed her, and she him, and they'd work out the details later.

      End

      ***

      victoria

      --


      "I figure that if you love someone, they bring out the best in you, and
      they inspire you to be your best for them. You're changing you. Love
      just makes you more of who you really could be." Donna Moss in The Tears
      of St. Lawrence, by Pix

      --

      The Muse's Fool - http://musesfool.freehosting.net
      Unfit for Society - http://www.unfitforsociety.net
    Your message has been successfully submitted and would be delivered to recipients shortly.