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