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FIC: Soft on Bright-- St. John: 5/8: St. John, Logan/Rogue (St. John/Bobby)

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  • Jenn
    And people said I d never get around to doing more of this one--pshah! Eh, yeah. Thanks to those who emailed me, wondering where the next part was and
    Message 1 of 1 , Jul 9, 2001
      And people said I'd never get around to doing more of this one--pshah! Eh,
      yeah. <g> Thanks to those who emailed me, wondering where the next part
      was and the ones that asked for more St. John. You inspire me.



      Title: Soft on Bright: St. John
      Author: jenn (jenn@...)
      Codes: St. John, Logan/Rogue (St. John/Bobbyish)
      Rating: R, sexual situations, humorish
      Series: Soft on Bright by jenn and Sare Liz (#5 in the series)
      Summary: In which St. John is trapped in the showers and is forced to
      Author Notes: You really didn't think I'd leave my Johnny out, did you?
      Disclaimer: First thing I'd do if I owned them--Pyro and Iceman would be
      getting some serious naked time together for at least forty-five minutes of
      the next movie. The rest would be L/R smut. But I don't, damn it.

      The first four parts of the series can be found at
      www.wolverineandrogue.com/seperis. But it reads fine standing alone, I
      think. Earlier parts are Scott, Jean, Bobby, and Ororo.


      St. John was going to die in the men's showers at ten o'clock that night.
      No question.

      Technically, he knew everyone died. It was inevitable. Didn't think about
      it too much, but in his line of work, it was a distinct possibility. No,
      not the teacher work, either. He accepted this--didn't brood, of course,
      because he left brooding to the ones that did it best, and frankly, he
      bored with it easily.

      So he didn't brood. Got it. He mulled, yes, and he worried (though he
      left the serious worrying up to Bobby, who could do it professionally), but
      he generally enjoyed his life. Didn't worry about things like--say, dying
      by adamantium claws through his chest in the team showers because, think
      about it, what *were* the chances of that happening?

      Currently, the odds were pretty damn good.

      "Logan, don't be such a baby." Rogue was still in uniform, gloved hands
      fisted on her hips, looking mulish, just outside the rain of hot water
      where Logan was currently hiding--eh, washing.

      Dear God. Dear, dear God, Logan was going to kill him. Just--slice, right
      through the chest. Convenient, too, in a shower, where the blood would
      wash away easily. Would anyone notice? Hide his body outside, say he ran
      away to join the Brotherhood or write gothic romance novels? Who knew with

      There had been so many possibilities just five minutes ago. There'd been a
      mission where St. John got to set so many interesting things on fire and
      watch them burn. Always fun. There'd been Ororo, making noises about
      going to Carnival in Rio and Jean eagerly agreeing. There'd been Logan's
      shock when Ororo threw out a phrase in what she said was Portuguese and
      Logan's answering.

      There'd been Rogue, casually slung over her seat and tapping her booted
      heel against the armrest, watching Logan like a hunter eyeing a
      particularly interesting deer. All she'd needed was a rifle and some
      camouflage, and didn't *that* thought just go places in his fantasy life
      that he seriously shouldn't be treading this close to death?

      At least, then, he'd *had* the possibility of a future fantasy life. Now
      there wasn't, because St. John was watching Rogue calmly stripping off her
      uniform piece by piece. And the worst part was, Bobby was waiting upstairs
      with whipped cream and some suggestions on the use of leather gloves during
      sex and *damn* he was going to miss it.

      He wondered if Bobby would mourn him for very long.

      Logan had since leaned back against the wall between two blasting shower
      heads--and it occurred to St. John to wonder, not for the first time, why
      they had this communal shower set-up. The women had stalls--the men
      didn't. If there had been stalls, St. John wouldn't have had to worry,
      because he wouldn't be seeing Rogue with her uniform top around her waist,
      working it steadily down her hips. He certainly wouldn't be seeing,
      through the haze of steam, Logan's growing interest around waist level. And
      he'd be able to get by without Logan seeing him at all.

      But that wasn't happening. St. John was currently trapped against the far
      corner and all roads to Rome--eh, to the door--went straight by Rogue, who
      was inconveniently situated near the center of the room. Rogue was taking
      off excess clothing, and was there a reason she couldn't do this in the
      women's shower? The women had nice showers, too, and that was another
      thing St. John wondered about, because damn, they had the good tile and
      shower heads with massage action and padded benches and the men had--well,
      this prison-chic look. And St. John knew prison chic--he'd spent enough
      time in them to be way too familiar with the hallmarks.

      This had to say something about Xavier's sense of humor.

      "Come on, sugar. It's post-mission. We always do something after a
      mission." Crouching to remove her boots, damp hair clinging to her
      almost-naked back. Breathe, Johnny. Better enjoy this. Because it may be
      the second to last thing you ever see.

      St. John tried to remember if Rogue came in the men's showers after every
      mission. Granted, sometimes he didn't use the showers down here, but
      still, wouldn't Scott get weird about Rogue seeing him unclothed? And why
      was he down here anyway, counting his last minutes of life? That's right,
      so Bobby could set up the whipped cream and gloves thing, and *damn* it was
      unfair that he was going to die before he got the chance to find out what
      Bobby had in mind. Because, frankly, Bobby wasn't exactly Mr. Kinky when
      it came to their sex life and this unexpected inspiration had been playing
      in St. John's mind like a bad porno since Bobby had returned from class
      that morning and told him the plan.

      Though he was curious now why Bobby had asked if he could growl.

      "I don't remember you comin' in here, baby." So no, Rogue didn't usually
      come in here after missions to shower. So there was that--this was
      different. And she had to be different on Whipped Cream night, and that
      just sucked.

      Generally, St. John was supportive of Rogue's right to be as contrary as
      possible. He was all for it. He'd noted that attention from his own
      peculiar peccadilloes--such as, say, bomb-making--were deflected when Rogue
      was feeling a need to assert her independence, womanhood, liberalism, good
      grammar, whatever she happened to feel needed asserting. Good for her.
      Always nice to see someone so comfortable with themselves. Yippee and all
      that. But this was an issue when there was sex upstairs, St. John was
      downstairs, and she was blocking his way to the sex.

      And the fact she was asserting something right here and now and that
      assertion required the removal of clothing and Logan was around and,
      knowing Logan, he wouldn't take anyone viewing Rogue naked very well. He
      was weird like that.

      Back to the death by claws. There were worse ways to die, St. John figured
      as he tried to melt into the wall. Just right now, he couldn't think of
      any. Or any he'd prefer to this one. How long did it take to bleed to
      death? Would he have time to get upstairs for sex first?

      "Rogue, put your clothes back on." Growling. Oh, not a good sign at all.

      St. John opened his eyes, then shut them tight again. Naked Rogue. Mostly
      naked Rogue. Bodysuited Rogue, which was very close to naked. Was a
      Rogue-specific version of naked. Did she shower in bodysuits? That would
      be uncomfortable. And odd, come to think of it. No, wait--

      "When the fuck did you start wearing that under your uniform?"

      Ah, so it wasn't normal. St. John opened his eyes and took a quick view.
      Mostly naked Rogue, check. No underwear or bra to be seen, check. Great
      ass, dear God, check.

      Logan was *interested*, check. St. John prayed for the floor to open up
      and swallow him. This was going places he was sort of sure he didn't want
      to see--okay, so he might want to see, but he wouldn't survive seeing.

      Logan cut off the shower as Rogue approached, dodging her and going for the
      towels on a bench nearby. St. John measured the space between the door and
      that bench. Still not good.

      Rogue was quick, though. Three short steps out of her uniform, she was
      already in front of Logan, straddling the bench and leaned her elbows onto
      the wood, bracing her face in her hands and smiling. Damp hair trailed down
      her back and St. John had a fabulous view of her ass. Damn good. This was
      looking up. So he was going to die--fine. But he got to see some naked
      Rogue, and karmatically, this had to mean something.

      Logan seemed less than impressed, or maybe the fact he was now swathed with
      a towel was interfering with St. John's observations.

      "Get out, baby."

      "Aww, sugar. Come on." She twisted one leg up on the bench, resting her
      chin neatly on her knee, smiling as if sitting in men's showers watching
      men--or Logan, rather--shower every day was just the most normal occurrence
      in the world. And hell, for all St. John knew, maybe it was--after all, he
      didn't know Rogue's peculiar kinks and maybe this was one of them.


      With one gloved hand, Rogue reached out and twisted her fingers in the edge
      of the towel around Logan's waist, looking up with a mischievous
      expression, before jerking sharply. She let out a low whistle at what was
      revealed, and St. John took a deep breath.

      You're in a committed relationship, Johnny. Remember that. Even seeing

      Damn, he needed Bobby, and right *now*.

      "Ah, sugar, you look interested."

      Logan's eyes narrowed--and St. John watched his chin come up sharply, head
      turning, and the dark hazel eyes fixed on him in the corner. Like he'd
      known he was there all along, just waiting for the right moment to pounce.

      His life flashed before his eyes. And fuck, there wasn't much interesting
      in it. Certainly nothing whipped cream and gloves related, and he hadn't
      had a chance to tour the world, eat escargot, or have sex on top of the
      Eiffel tower, and for some reason, that Eiffel Tower thing just stuck.

      But nothing happened. The hazel eyes went back down to focus again on
      Rogue and if St. John wasn't mistaken--and in this case, he could honestly
      say his view was too damn good to *be* mistaken--Logan had looked really

      Dear God, did that mean he'd survive?


      Rogue pushed herself forward on the bench, until her lips were only a few
      inches from Logan's--er, stuff. Shit, St. John, just say it, it's a penis.
      And don't remind yourself that you don't measure up to that or you won't be
      getting an erection for at least a month and the whipped cream and gloves
      thing won't be happening. Assuming you survive. Which is a lot to assume
      right now, but notice the lack of claws in your chest and take comfort from

      St. John took a deep breath and began to slowly inch his way along the
      wall--Logan was taken care of--that left Rogue. Rogue was unpredictable,
      but she was also a friend, and she probably wouldn't--inch a little more,
      there, just step over the puddle--get too upset that he interrupted her
      attempt at--whatever--with Logan.

      And you know, this whole naked with Logan naked thing might explain some of
      the weird looks 'Ro and Jean had been giving Logan and Rogue all day. Inch
      a little more, the door was in view, he was still naked, damn it, and
      weren't his clothes--

      St. John noted the sad fact that his clothes were just under the pile of
      towels on the bench behind Logan.


      "Logan," she purred, blowing a breath gently on the head before tilting her
      head back. "Come on, sugar."

      Logan's head tilted a little, before the slightest smile turned up his

      "We got some company, Rogue."

      There was, St. John was sure, a word that described his feeling when Rogue
      nailed him with a green-eyed glare that pressed him flat into the tiles
      wishing to God that he was Kitty and could melt through them. What it was
      he had no idea, but absolute terror just didn't seem to cover it.

      And he thought LOGAN would be pissed--

      "Turn around, Johnny. You even think about lookin' back, Bobby'll have to
      do without your services for a bit. Got it?"

      St. John turned. Because he liked servicing Bobby and he knew Rogue.


      "I'm not doing this--fuck."

      "That--" The bench made a strange sound--perhaps something like a large,
      metal encased skeleton covered with muscle would make landing on it--and
      the soft sound of Rogue's laugh, before a kick into the edge of the bench.
      "Yes, touch me. God, sugar--yes, please, right there."


      "Shh, don't think 'bout it, just do it. Please, sugar--yes, more, please,
      Logan. Right--let me--God yes." More shifting, Rogue panting, and St.
      John wished he could just vanish. Just--scoot along the wall until he
      found the door and would escape upstairs and then explain to Bobby why he'd
      never, ever be having sex again because Rogue had outbutched him in the
      showers, and didn't that say something about his masculinity? Logan, yeah,
      but ROGUE--

      "Yes, Logan--"

      "God, baby, you feel good."

      He was standing in the shower while Logan and Rogue did some foreplay.
      Which, granted, wasn't too weird. They were always around each other
      anyway and it wasn't like either of them were the inhibited type--witness
      the fact that they were having something sexual somewhere behind him while
      he was here. Yes, it was sort of fun, and yes, this *would* make an
      appearance in his future fantasy life if he got out of this room in one
      piece. But still...

      "That's it, baby--"

      "I--" The bench groaned again--or was that Logan?--and St. John wondered
      what they'd do if it collapsed. If they'd *notice* it collapsed. If he
      could slip out when it collapsed and hide under Bobby for the rest of the

      Mmm, not a bad idea.

      "--shh, that's it, Marie. That's it--"

      "I can't--" Rogue sounded like she was running the marathon and the bench
      made another sad little noise of protest as Rogue--he thought--shifted.
      "No, don't move your hand--right there. Right--*God*--there. Please--"

      "Come on, baby. You're close, I can smell it all over you. A little
      more--a little--let me see it, Marie. Let me--"

      "GOD! YES!"

      Rogue's scream could have shattered glass. St. John shivered and noted, to
      his own dismay, that apparently, he *wouldn't* have to worry about not
      being able to perform tonight.

      Rogue was going to kill him.

      "Shit, Logan--" Rogue panted. Maybe she'd forgotten all about him. Maybe
      she was in the throes of bliss and therefore would remember nothing.
      Maybe-- "Now wasn't that easy? We should try a little more--maybe in your

      There was a grunt and a peculiar sound--Rogue huffed something and St. John
      realized that peculiar sound was a girl trying to float as she was dumped
      on the floor.

      "Told you my terms, Marie," Logan answered.

      Terms? To sex? Granted, they both were weird, but sex required a
      contract? Come to think of it, that wasn't a bad idea. Guarantee so many
      nights a week, maybe so many positions, or the number of times one was
      required to go--

      "Fuck terms. You have some seriously strange ideas, you know that?" Rogue
      was pouting, usually a guarantee of getting what she wanted. Usually. St.
      John could almost see Logan's eyebrow go up.

      "Doesn't matter, baby. No sex." A pause. "Pyro."

      St. John didn't want to turn around--for more than one reason.

      "Get out of here. You breathe a word--"

      And St. John didn't need the warning. He was out the door before Logan had
      finished the breath.

      Talk about it? Ha. Bobby would *never* believe this.

      The End

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