Fic: Day of Beauty: 1/1: R-NC17 (Logan/Rogue)
- Title: Day of Beauty
Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
Summary: Wolverine was bored...
Rating: R/NC-17 - language, sexual situations
Disclaimer: All X-Men characters belong to Marvel and Fox; this piece of
fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.
Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool, all others - if I've already said yes, go
ahead; if not, please ask first.
Feedback: Eases tension like a good massage.
Notes: Thanks to Dot, Meg, Jen, and Pete. More foofy vacation fic. I
thought of this after reading Dala's "Razor Run" and spending the
evening before I left on vacation doing pretty much what Rogue is doing
in the story. Unfortunately, I didn't have a bored Wolvie looking for
some fun to liven up my night. <g>
< > indicates thoughts
Day of Beauty
Wolverine was bored.
It was a beautiful summer Saturday. The brats were out doing things --
baseball, swimming, trawling the mall for sales -- and the X-Geeks were
all occupied as well.
Logan had the whole damn mansion to himself, it seemed. He sat in
solitary splendor in the living room, a six-pack of Molson at his side,
enjoying ESPN Classic's rerun of Game Seven of the Rangers-Devils
Eastern Conference Finals on Chuck's new wide-screen TV.
Soon enough, though, Howie Rose shouted, "Matteau! Matteau! Matteau!"
and there was nothing else on.
Channel two -- golf, channel four -- golf, channel seven -- women's
golf. Cable was no better.
He looked at the clock above the TV; it was one o'clock in the
afternoon. Where the hell was Marie? She usually spent most of her free
time with him, especially since she and that Remy punk split up. And he
enjoyed spending time with her; Marie was a lot of things, but boring
was never one of them.
After running through the channels one more time -- "Figure skating," he
snorted in disgust. "It's freakin' July!" -- he turned the television
off and went in search of her.
His three years at the mansion had mellowed him a little, and his
friendship with Marie had been the first step he'd made toward rejoining
society as something more than a badass cage fighter.
She'd gotten under his skin in a way no one else had before or since,
though he did have a small coterie of youngsters who followed him
around. He was popular with the younger kids because he didn't bullshit
them, and they appreciated that, despite Jean and Scott's admonitions
that he should be less frank with the kids.
<Kids can smell bullshit a mile away,> he thought, and speaking of
smells -- he was down the hall from Marie's room when he caught a whiff
of the most potent, heinous chemical scent he'd ever had the misfortune
to encounter. He didn't even think -- his nose screamed (well, it would
have if it could have, that's how bad the smell was) Marie was in
danger, so he acted.
Bursting into the room, he saw a startled Marie jump off her bed. She
wore a short terry-cloth robe and her hair was wrapped in a towel. He
grabbed her and whirled her to face him.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Marie! What the hell happened to you?"
Her face was covered with blue goop; her finger and toenails were
painted fire-engine red, and the way her robe gaped gave him an
interesting view of Marie-parts he'd never really looked at before.
"Day of beauty," she finally said.
He blinked and felt his ears burn as the blood rushed to his face. "Oh."
She grinned at his discomfiture, cracking the blue stuff on her face.
"Yeah." She pointed to her face. "This is a blue corn scrub mask from
the Body Shop. It exfoliates the skin and cleans the pores."
He sniffed. That wasn't what he'd scented. Now that he was in the room,
he recognized the chemicals -- depilatory cream and hair dye. His
suspicions were confirmed by the pink bottle of Nair sitting on the
"Whatcha using that shit for?" he asked, jerking his chin in the
direction of the bureau.
"Bikini line. I don't like shaving there, and can't wax myself." She
sounded calm, but she was rubbing her hands -- her bare hands --
"Well, because waxing hurts like hell, no matter what they tell you, and
I'm not a masochist. I'm not going to inflict pain on myself if I don't
"No," he interrupted, "why you worrying about your -- bikini line? You
don't wear a bikini." <Not that I would mind seeing you in one,> he
thought. <Whoa! Where'd that come from?>
"Well, ever since Remy and I started going out, he preferred, um, he
liked me to, um, you know, keep my goodies neat--"
Logan nearly released the claws. "What the fuck was that boy doing near
your -- goodies?" he roared.
She had the audacity to laugh at him. "He was my boyfriend for a year
and a half, Logan. What do you *think* he was doing?"
He growled. He imagined Marie taking her robe off and giving him a good
view of her "goodies" as he drove into her. <Don't go there. That's
trouble. Get back to the issue.> "You don't need to shave your cooch
like some two-bit stripper."
"Well, you've seen enough strippers to know, eh?" she said.
"Yeah." She frowned and he realized that wasn't the best thing to say.
"But you're not like that."
"No. I'm not," she replied. The ice in her voice would have routed a
He was aware that he was still in trouble for some reason. "Can I help?"
he asked, figuring it would get him out of the doghouse.
She cocked her head and lowered her eyebrows -- trademark
"Marie-thinking" signs. Finally, she said, "Yeah."
She pulled the towel off her hair and handed him the hairbrush. She had
done something subtle to it; he could smell the dye, but couldn't see
any change in the color. <Probably those highlight things. ... I know
way too much about women's hair care products.>
She sat on the bed and he settled in behind her, used to this ritual.
When he first came back, at the end of the day, he'd stop in and see
her. He'd always managed to catch her just as she was brushing her hair.
Those mahogany and platinum locks held some strange fascination for
him -- even he wasn't sure why.
He settled into a steady rhythm, working silently to detangle the knots
until her hair hung straight and heavy down her back.
"I'm thinking about cutting it," she murmured, lulled by the
He leaned forward and said, "Don't." His breath on her ear sent shivers
down her back. His lips hovered over her neck, and for once he was
unsure how to proceed with a woman.
Logan wanted the moment to last forever, charged as it was with a
tension he was all-too-familiar with, but never in connection with
Marie. It was that delicious feeling in the pit of his belly that
signified the chase was on, and the consummation would soon follow. His
But she moved off the bed after an endless moment, taking the brush from
his nerveless fingers and setting it down on the dresser.
"There's more, if you still want to help," she said, her voice a throaty
purr he'd never heard before. He nodded, unable to speak.
He waited as she went into the bathroom. He heard splashing and then she
emerged, her face free of blue goop, carrying a pair of latex gloves and
a bottle of -- "Massage oil?" he choked out.
"Jean and Storm went into the city today for a day of beauty --
hair-cut, manicure, pedicure, waxing, facial and massage.
"I can't go, for obvious reasons, so I did most of the stuff myself. But
I can't give myself a massage. Remy used to --" she broke off as he
growled low in his throat at the thought of the Cajun massaging her.
"Anyway, it's the only thing missing. Jubes was going to do it for me,
but she got distracted by the sale at Saks, so--" He tuned out at the
thought of Jubilee massaging Marie. <Yeah, there's some interesting
fantasy material,> he thought before shaking his head. <Stop thinking
like that, dumbass. You're in enough trouble as it is.>
"No? You won't do it for me?" Marie was asking.
<Oh.> "Of course I will, darlin'. Come on, take your robe off." She
frowned. He wasn't doing too well today. Usually he and Marie got along
like a house afire, but today he kept putting his foot in his mouth. He
felt their relationship was suddenly unbalanced, what with her
practically naked and him lusting after her like an untried schoolboy.
"Uh, okay, wait a second." He went into the bathroom and pulled two
towels off the rack.
Laying them on the floor next to the bed, he gestured for her to lie
down. "I'll wait in the hall and let you get ready. Put the other towel
He stepped out of the room and tried to get his suddenly raging hormones
under control. <This is Marie, for Christ's sake!> he told himself. But
the thought of Marie, naked except for a towel, on the other side of the
door, only increased his arousal. He knew he loved her -- always had,
since the moment she'd sassed him in his trailer. But he'd never
associated that love -- pure and deep and transfiguring -- with the kind
of animal passion now moving him. He wondered, suddenly, if this was
what being *in love* was like; if it was, he could see why poets had
written about it, and wars had been fought for it, for thousands of
"I'm ready," Marie called, her voice slightly muffled by the door, but
completely audible to his super-senses.
He opened the door and caught his breath. She'd lit some candles, and
drawn the blinds, so the room was dim and heady with the scent of
cinnamon and Marie. She lay between the towels, primed and waiting for
He took a deep breath to settle his shaky hands and said to himself,
<This is Marie. You've known her for almost four years. You can do
After bringing the gloves into the bathroom and holding them under the
hot water for a few minutes to warm them, he knelt on the floor next to
where Marie was spread out on the towel. Another deep breath, and he
drew the towel covering her back down to pool at her waist.
He admired the perfection of her back as he poured the almond-scented
massage oil into his hands. She was all smooth, porcelain skin, lightly
dusted with ginger freckles, the arch of her spine calling for his touch
like a siren. He slid his hands over her shoulders and felt her sigh
Her breathing was even as he touched her. At first he was impersonal,
working the knots out of her shoulders and back expertly, knowing
exactly how much pressure to apply to ease the tension that hard
workouts and too many long nights saving the world had made almost a
permanent fixture in the set of her shoulders.
But as his hands moved over her neck and massaged her scalp, he could
hear her heart race and the hitch in her breathing.
Both of them were breathing raggedly as he motioned for her to turn over
so he could work on her legs. He held the towel for her as she turned
over, and it was only through a Herculean effort of will that he averted
his eyes from her nakedness.
She smiled a small, secret smile at that, one seen on women's faces
since time immemorial. But Logan had never expected to see it on
Marie's. He covered her with the towel, but she flicked it off, exposing
herself to his hungry eyes.
Her body was flush with arousal and the dim light cast her partly in
shadow, a chiaroscuro of love and desire, glistening with almond-scented
His hands stroked her legs reverently, easing the muscles of her thighs
and calves before gently rotating her ankles and pulling on each toe. He
licked his lips and fought the urge to take each slim digit into his
mouth. At her knees, he found a spot that made her purr when he stroked
it; that made him grin with delight.
Slowly, ever so softly, he moved his hands over her inner thighs until
he reached the small patch of hair at their juncture.
"Marie? Can I--"
She answered with a thrust of her hips.
He ran a finger over her glistening sex and enjoyed the sight of her
back arching, breasts thrust in the air, as he touched her.
"Logan," she moaned, lifting her hips to press herself closer to his
gloved hand. "I need--" she broke off as he found her clit and circled
it deftly with his thumb, slipping his index finger into her tight
"Is this okay, Marie? I don't want to do anything you don't want me to,"
"I want, I need you, Logan. I lo-- like it. I like it a lot," she said,
and he wondered at the shift in her words, but decided to worry about it
"I'm glad you like it, darlin'," he replied. "I like doing it to you. I
want to make you come, Marie. I want you to feel good. I love you." It
slipped out, just like that, and hung heavy between them in the
cinnamon-and-passion suffused air.
"I love you, too, Logan," she whispered, turning her head away, suddenly
overcome with shyness. He heard it and smiled. He moved up her body and
ran a hand over her hair before brushing his lips across hers so lightly
that her skin didn't have time to react.
"Marie," he said, and it was a prayer.
"Logan," was the only response necessary.
He stroked her and she clenched around him, finding her release with a
force that surprised both of them.
Later, after they were sated for the moment, Logan reflected that he'd
been right -- Marie was many things: sexy, vulnerable, loving, and
*his*, but she was never boring.
"There's nothing I won't do, but some things are gonna cost you extra."
Mike Kellerman, _Homicide: Life on the Street_
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