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FIC: A Little More Than Intimate: NC-17: Rogue, Logan/Rogue

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  • Jenn
    Title: A Little More Than Intimate Author: jenn (jenn@igg-tx.net) Codes: Rogue, Logan/Rogue Rating: strong R Summary: Rogue reflects on Logan,
    Message 1 of 1 , Jul 6, 2001
      Title: A Little More Than Intimate
      Author: jenn (jenn@...)
      Codes: Rogue, Logan/Rogue
      Rating: strong R
      Summary: Rogue reflects on Logan, relationships, and a toothbrush.
      Author Notes: Interestingly, this was the original storyline for the
      stories in the Hope continuity. I changed the format of the series and
      decided tonight to re-write this completely and see what happened.
      Dedication: To Andariel for the beta, and Beth, Diebin, Ann, and jengrrrl
      for chickeny-soup type stuff. I love you guys. Thanks, I needed it.
      Archiving: WRFA, XMMFC, otherwise please ask
      Feedback: With chocolate au lait, gratefully accepted.


      You'd think--you know, just once--fate would give me a break. Not a big
      break--I'm not askin' that ye olde Mother Nature step in and reverse my
      mutation here, though that would be all kinds of swell. I'm not asking for
      world peace--today, anyway--or that all humans and mutants come together in
      the love and all that crap. I'm not asking much, all things considered.

      Just one date where Logan and I don't end up in a situation. Just
      one--one, normal, eat your dinner and pay for it, then leave without
      bloodstains on your clothes date. Seriously, that's *not* too much to ask.

      The guy was very unconscious less than fifteen seconds after it started,
      and Logan had a grip on my arm before I'd even had the fun of enjoying the
      moment, palm covering my knuckles. Even through the gloves, they felt

      "Come on, darlin'."


      "Yeah, I know." He kicked the guy's body out of the way, dropping a wad of
      cash on the remains of our table before leading me calmly toward the exit.
      I glanced briefly around the silent restaurant before Logan opened the
      door, glancing outside before ducking us both casually onto the sidewalk,
      dropping his jacket around my shoulders to hide the streaks of blood on my
      shirt, arm around my waist. "Fucking idiot."

      "Yeah, I was thinkin' that, sugar." It never failed, which was why I just
      gave up altogether on heels and went back to either boots or flats whenever
      we went out. Behind us, there was the sound of sirens and Logan jerked me
      into an alley. Leaning against the wall, I stripped off my slippers and
      noted the silk had become stained with--fuck, blood. I wasn't even sure
      Jubes could get that off. Chinese silk too--Logan bought them for me in
      Hong Kong a few months ago. Fuck twice.

      "One date." Logan was talking through his teeth as he checked the street,
      before coming back to me and taking my shoe. "That isn't much. One.
      Fucking. Date."

      Logan observed awhile back that there was just something about me that
      screamed people should touch me. Random people, for no good reason. Now,
      besides the danger factor, which really must just soak off of me like a
      scent (Logan says I smell like apricots, but he's a guy too) and requires
      idiots to try their luck, Logan has odd and distinct ideas of what
      constitutes proper behavior toward me. Touching me is a punishable
      offense. Usually accompanied by some sort of physical reminder that they
      can take home with them--black eye, scar, a rib or two. Nothing serious.
      Or more than a hospital night or two.

      Don't get me wrong, I don't get off watching men fight over me--but I do
      get some thrills over being part of the fight. That's the Logan in me, so
      he really can't complain too much.


      And God, Logan's hot when he's fighting.

      But one date. One single date going right wouldn't hurt, would it?

      "I need new shoes." He shrugged, reaching down for my foot and slipping
      the shoe back on while I braced a hand on his shoulder. "Damn."

      "I'll get you more."

      "I like these."

      A soft growl--not at me, particularly, just in general. When he
      straightened, I pulled my arms through the jacket and buttoned the top,
      then let him slide an arm around my shoulders.

      "Okay, so where to now?"

      Good question. Logan glanced out the street, then shook his head,
      carefully walking me out. With the shoes and their oh-so-interesting
      brown-red patterns. Well, as long as no one checked out my feet, we'd be
      okay. Normal people walkin' down the street. Nothing odd going on here.
      So the girl looks a little young. In New York, no one gives a good fuck.

      "When are you due back?" Logan asked me and I tried to remember.

      "Ummm--not 'til tomorrow. Same time you are. Tryin' to get rid of me?"
      Fat chance--Logan hates sharing at all, especially on the rare nights when
      it's just us. Especially when they turn out like this.

      "Nah. Wondered if you were drivin' back or stayin' the night."

      He never takes me for granted, ever. I rolled my eyes, wondering in the
      back of my mind if the day will ever come he will trust me enough to not
      feel the need to ask.

      "Like I'd come into the city and not stay. Come on, sugar. Let's go."

      It was three months after we first had sex that Logan got the apartment.

      When he was on-duty, he stayed at the Mansion. The apartment was his own
      private retreat--I don't think any of the other X-Men know where it is and
      it'd be a cold day in hell before I show them. In fact, I considered it
      something of a relationship milestone when he asked me to come with him to
      look over a few--because it's one thing to be fucking him, but quite
      another to be allowed to know him.

      Hell, the fact he actually went and *got* it was a hell of a milestone in
      general. I don't think other people quite understand that him getting that
      apartment meant he was stickin' around. When he stopped staying at the
      Mansion every trip to Westchester, when he invested money, everything
      changed. New York was someplace he chose to stay in, not merely one of a
      thousand different stops, and he had the legally-binding lease agreement to
      prove it.

      Back entrance, of course--the entire reason he chose this place was the
      number of ways in and out. There were a lot. Good security, but not so
      good as to make criminals curious what was in there. Nice to look at but
      not too nice. A relatively safe part of town, but not too pricey. Not
      because of money--because of caution. And the building didn't have too
      many tenants and not one of them was the type to be neighborly or curious.

      Logan down to his toes.

      On the second floor, and he got out his keys, opening the door to usher me
      in first--somewhere along the line in his past, he'd picked up some
      seriously archaic little mannerisms like that. The place was still in
      progress--or rather, accretion. Left to his own devices, Logan actually
      only required two things--a bed, a working refrigerator, and a television.
      Preferably in the same room. At which point he discovered that dating me
      had certain perks--not the least of which was the fact that I had Jubes and
      Kitty and unlimited funds to play with. Made the purchases, and Logan and
      I personally picked up the furniture that night.

      His personality is stamped over everything. He approved of everything I
      bought, but the fact that I picked out the furniture puts me in here too,
      and I think he likes that.

      At the door, I took off my shoes, glaring at the stain, before dropping
      both by the door. Pulled off the jacket, putting it up before Logan could
      comment, and finding my way through the dark by memory before finding the
      couch (falling over it, shit, memory be damned). Logan chuckled and
      flipped the lights on while I righted myself and brushed my hair out of my
      face. Picking my legs up, he sat down.

      "You okay?"

      I shrugged a little, and laying down was sort of nice, with Logan rubbing
      my feet absently through my hose and drawing leather-covered hands over my
      calves. Soothing, even.


      "S'okay. Next time, we order in."

      I sat up, turning slightly to see him in the dim light from the window, and
      he brushed his knuckles over my face briefly. "Or maybe that diner
      downtown you like so much."

      "Yeah." He mulled that briefly--he likes going there, but not when it's
      just us. We're bound to run into someone we know, and Logan's time with me
      is his time, private time. Period. I understand that--I never feel like I
      have enough time with him. It just seems wrong to lose any more.

      "I'm gonna go change," I said, glancing down at my shirt. Ruined. Damn.
      Logan turned his head and the hazel eyes rested warmly on the
      bloodstains--which happened to cover a certain part of my anatomy he's
      always found interesting.

      "Mind if I help?"

      I grinned and stood up, stretching a little, feeling his eyes on me.

      "Thought you'd never ask."

      His room's pretty large--a huge selling point, believe it or not, with lots
      of closet space. The better to store the weaponry, my opinion on the
      subject. Glancing into the open bathroom door, I focused briefly on the
      sink, where two toothbrushes were in residence.

      I have a toothbrush here, all my own. That's when I realized Logan meant

      We'd been having sex for four months and it was one month after the
      acquisition of the apartment that I stumbled into the bathroom and saw it.
      I always brought my own stuff. Always. I never take anything for granted,
      ever--and I think Logan likes that, that I didn't expect anything more than
      he's willing to give, any more than he's ready for.

      Never pushed, except for that first night when I crawled into his bed and
      explained that I wasn't his student, that he didn't have to keep me at a
      distance anymore. We'd been growing apart and it frightened me until I
      understood why. Understood that in growing up, I'd lost something, that if
      left to his own devices, Logan would lock me out. He couldn't handle
      wanting someone he'd treated as his daughter. He'd bandaged my wounds and
      slept with me through my nightmares, threatened my boyfriends and taught me
      to fight. Logan in the middle of a reverse Oedipus complex--he could
      sometimes make things more complex than they really needed to be.

      I had to prove it--prove I wasn't the skinny kid he picked up or the little
      girl he'd promised safety. Logan wasn't big on discussion or philosophy,
      so sitting down and explaining the lack of bloodtie, my way-beyond-jailbait
      age, and my interest didn't cut it. Stripping my clothes off inch by inch
      in front of him and letting him shift the child I'd been into the woman I
      was--that was the sort of message that got through. The first time for us
      together, in his bed in the Mansion, when he watched me undress for him,
      touch him, when I slid down onto him, with that first sucked breath as he
      entered me, my hands braced on either side of him--that was the evidence he
      needed. Concrete things. Physical proof of an abstract concept.

      He memorized me that night--every inch of my skin, every mark, ever scar,
      every curve, every sound I could make, every way he could arouse me. In
      the morning, he pulled the curtains closed and since it was our day off, he
      locked the door and got back in bed with me. Took in everything about me
      so the shift was complete and concrete, until in his mind I wasn't a child
      and never would be again. Until there was nothing about the woman that was
      a mystery, until he wrapped me up in a sheet and went to sleep beside me
      for the first time, curled into his arms, our combined scents imprinted
      into us both.

      Four months later, I had my own toothbrush at his apartment. Red, his
      favorite color on me, by the sink, just waiting for me to notice.

      I locked the door and got in the shower and cried for fifteen minutes. It
      was the first time he acknowledged, even like this, that I was more than
      one of his many lovers, that I was important enough to rate something like
      this, something permanent.

      He was telling me I was permanent.

      Other things came after. The section of the closet. Two drawers in the
      dresser, one stocked with scarves and gloves and bodysuits and assorted
      specialized merchandise for skin issues. My favorite shampoo and
      conditioner and shower gel. My own sponge. Things that were meant to be
      permanent, things he'd probably thought about long before he'd got them.
      Because Logan might act on pure instinct, but his life was his and his
      alone, and sharing even a little took effort. And his instincts were
      rarely exactly in my favor in that way.

      I didn't bother with the lights--I was going to trust that my memory was
      good enough and that he hadn't bought any new furniture or left any sharp
      objects--say, newly-cleaned katanas--out where I could trip over them.
      Finding the wall, I braced a hand against it as I began to unbutton my
      shirt, but his fingers on mine stopped me, turning me around to face him,
      taking a breath, as if to confirm who he was touching.

      Slowly, he finished with my shirt, sliding it off my shoulders, then my
      skirt, marking me with the brush of gloved fingers on bare skin. Tracing
      the line of my waist, my hips, up to my breasts, my shoulders, cupping my
      face briefly. Down over my back, then crouching and slowly pulling down my
      hose and underwear, lifting my feet to remove them. Surrounded by a circle
      of silk and wool, he unhooked my bra and let that fall too.

      "You're beautiful, baby," he breathed, and I blushed, always did.
      Dangerous, five feet eight inches of possible death in front of him, and
      that's what he thought. No one else could I do this for, no one else could
      I ever have stood naked in front of, nothing to do with modesty or
      vulnerability, everything to do with fear and danger. No one else could
      make me feel secure when I could kill them by accident. He's the only
      lover I've ever had that I could make love to without my clothes to protect
      my skin and my soul. Only my gloves that cover me to my elbows.

      But Logan's never been like anyone else. I've loved him for so long, but
      it's only recently I've come to discover that even though I have so much of
      him in my head, there's so little I truly know about him.

      Gently, he pressed me back against the wall, one of my scarves draped
      across my throat. Kissed me through it, the line of my shoulder, gloved
      hands still tracing my skin. Up my throat, a brush of his tongue, just
      behind my ear, a shiver running through my body. Bit lightly, not enough
      to break the skin, enough to bruise.

      A private place to prove ownership with my blood.


      "Shh." A breath against my ear, cupping my breasts with leather-coated
      fingers, forehead against the wall beside my face. Breathing me in. He
      always touches me like I'm fragile at first, even after watching
      approvingly when I knock out a man twice my weight.

      Then he kissed me, through the fine silk of my scarf, opening my mouth.
      Tongue running across mine, over my teeth, sealing my lips to his until I
      couldn't breathe and didn't want to ever again, and he was pressed to every
      inch of me. I draped my arms across his shoulders when he worked his
      patient way down my body with only that scarf between us--my breasts, my
      stomach, my inner thigh, a matching bruise just inside. Places on my body
      only he's ever seen and touched and mapped.

      Then slowly back up, until his scent was all over me, from his hands, his
      mouth, his body. Lifting me up against the wall, kissing me again when I
      locked my legs around him, the jeans harsh against my inner thighs. Gloved
      fingers between my legs, pressing inside.

      "Wider, baby."

      I ran my hands down his back, arching a little into his touch. He knows
      how to make it fast or slow, how to build it up so hot I forget everything,
      every lover I've ever had, every encounter in every European slum and every
      high-class hotel and every endless night alone.

      "Good girl." A breath against my mouth, when I struggled to get his jeans
      unbuttoned, finally getting the zipper down, touching him with gloved
      hands--always somewhere in me relieved, so relieved, that he wants me,
      can't truly believe it until I can touch him, see him, know physically that
      it's true. The condom was in his pocket, and I tore the foil myself,
      putting it on him, arching slightly to encourage him--then the first hard
      thrust that pressed me into the wall when he covered my mouth with his,
      taking in my first gasp.

      First time is always about possession--so I'm marked inside and out, so
      there's nothing about me that is anything but his. Tracing my body with
      each thrust, kissing me so he feels every gasp--he never loses control that
      first time. It's not about him at all--it's about me, about ownership,
      about showing me everything he can't and won't say the only way he knows
      how. It's about feeling me shiver against him, hearing me moan, watching
      me come just for him, for what he does to me. His mouth was against my
      throat when he came, and he braced a hand against the wall to hold us
      steady as we shuddered through the aftershocks.

      "I love you," I whispered against his hair, feeling his panting breath on
      the bare skin of my shoulder, wrapping my arms more tightly around his

      And always--always, it's like the first time for us both. The first time
      he pushed inside my body and inside my mind. The way he meets my eyes so I
      know everything he doesn't say.

      I know he loves me.

      * * * * *

      It was early morning when I felt something on my back. Faintly cold, and I
      grasped at it, frowning as I brought it around. Stared at it vaguely for a
      second before the sense penetrated my sleep-fogged mind and I half sat up,
      hearing him chuckle beside me.

      "You sleep light."

      "Eh, it's my day on-duty. Whadya expect?" Turned it over in my hand,
      hoping to God I wasn't shaking. My keychain, a new key and a piece of
      paper wrapped around it. Key to his apartment and his security codes.

      Another small step that was so big it shook me.

      "Just in case." He covered my gloved hands with his, smiling a little like
      a kid who knew that it was Saturday and time to do some serious mischief,
      before he licked my shoulder. Bodysuited now, pulled on earlier that
      night, definitely not going to be used again. "Feel free to use it."

      "I can have wild parties here?"

      "If you clean up afterward, feel free, baby." A brush of his lips against
      my shoulder before he went to the shower and I rolled on my back and stared
      up at the key clutched in my hand.

      A concrete thing. Physical proof of an abstract concept.


      The End

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      "...I deserve to be left alone with nothing but dirty movies and my hand to
      pleasure me." -- Sabretooth to Toad, in Andariel's unnamed first draft
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