FIC: Learning to Accept: 1/1: NC-17 [Logan/Rogue]
- View SourceTitle: Learning to Accept
Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
Summary: "It's not the most romantic love, or the biggest epic romance,
but we're going to do the best we can with what we've got."
Rating: NC-17 - sex, language. But mostly sex.
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; if you've already got my stuff, sure. If
not, please ask. I'll say yes.
Feedback: Feed me, Seymour!
Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete, Dot, and Meg. Especially Jen, who insisted
this wasn't too weird to post. Oh, and Eil, you probably won't read
this, but I even sort of worked in your cumshot...
Date: September 1, 2001
Couple of things:
One, the idea for this came out of listening to the song "Let Me Touch
You for a While" on Alison Krauss and Union Station's new album, "New
Two: This is my first ever attempt at first-person smut, and let me tell
you, it's not easy. Oh, no. Especially not when you're squeezed in
between two random people on the A-Train, fiercely hoping they can't
read your handwriting so they don't think you're some kind of pervert.
So please let me know what you think.
Learning to Accept
He disappears soon after the vows are exchanged, the sound of the bike
tearing off into the distance echoes through the yard. I'm surprised he
even stayed that long. I -- and everyone else, I think -- held my breath
when the minister asked if there were any objections to this union, but
he said nothing. Just a low growl.
Most of the wedding guests had no idea what it meant, but it damn near
broke my heart all over again.
I sit out the first dance, watching Remy whisper in Ororo's ear,
marveling at my own capacity for self-torture.
I'm happy for Remy. Really, I am. Ro is so much better for him than I
could *ever* be, offering peace and security, as well as passion, in one
beautiful package. He and I had had passion, but our relationship was a
never-ending emotional roller-coaster, two lost souls trying to forge a
connection and failing over and over again, hamstrung by our own trust
I sigh and straighten the emerald green satin gloves that go with my
bridesmaid's gown. All of us are wearing them. Jean hadn't wanted me to
feel like I stuck out. I appreciated the gesture. She's a thoughtful
woman, always trying to make everyone as comfortable as possible. She'll
make a great mom.
It's just too bad that what she needed to be comfortable and what Logan
needed were at opposite ends of the spectrum. She might have been
attracted to him, but she loved Scott more than life itself. I don't
think I've ever seen a more radiant bride.
The party is in full swing, and I decide no one will miss me. I slip
into the house, changing quickly into jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt,
pulling on a pair of short leather gloves and throwing a sheer scarf
around my neck to complete the outfit.
I linger momentarily in the garage, trying to decide which car to take
before settling on the Volvo. It won't stand out too much where I'm
headed, unlike the more expensive cars.
For such an unpredictable man, Logan has an unbreakable routine for
certain things. Tuesday is laundry day, and Thursday is, without fail,
movie night with me. In the five years since he's been at the mansion, I
don't think he's missed a Thursday movie night more than a handful of
times -- usually due to X-Men business -- even when we were both
involved with other people.
And wallowing in Jean-misery always means a trip to Artie's Grill.
It's a dive, but a slightly nicer one than the others he frequents.
There are no strippers or cage fights or bikers, just men from the
working class part of Throgs Neck, down in the Bronx. I think he began
going there as a way to watch out for me, since I followed him around a
lot in his first days back at the mansion, even into places most
seventeen-year-old girls wouldn't venture. At Artie's he could easily
watch out for me without being distracted by other things.
I'm lucky -- I find a parking spot right in front of the bar. I fluff my
hair and fix my lipstick; then I catch myself.
My crush for Logan had died a long time ago, snuffed out by his evident
devotion to Jean. He only dated redheads, apparently subscribing to the
theory that said if you can't get what you want, find a reasonable
facsimile and then make yourself miserable when it doesn't measure up to
The final nail in the coffin of my infatuation with Logan was Remy.
When Remy arrived in Salem Center three years ago, I fell, and fell
hard. Possibly, I was testing out that same theory.
Even though he's with Ororo now, and has been for the past six months, I
still wonder if there was something I could have done differently,
something that would have kept him by my side.
Anyhow, I'm long past the stage of primping for Logan, who's seen me
puking at three o'clock in the morning in ratty, old flannel pajamas and
never flinched, but I find myself doing it anyway. You never know who
you might meet, right?
I open the door and saunter over to the bar, scanning for Logan.
Ken, the bartender, smiles when he sees me. "The usual?" He's been
serving me since I was seventeen. One of the things I love about New
York City -- some of the bars would serve a five-year-old without
blinking, so fake ID was never a problem. Especially once they learned I
was with Logan.
He had been far more uptight about me drinking than I'd thought he'd be,
feeling he'd done enough to corrupt me, but I won him over by behaving
responsibly the first few times and saving the binge drinking for nights
out with Jubilee and Johnny, who drank like fish. Ah, college.
I nod and am soon holding an ice-cold bottle of Molson Golden.
I find Logan playing pool by himself in the back room.
I knew Jean's wedding would require something stronger than beer to help
him wallow, and I'm not mistaken. After each vicious shot with the pool
cue -- and the fact that he's missing more shots than he's sinking is
evidence that he's *really* upset -- he takes a long drink from a bottle
of whiskey that sits on the edge of the table.
He doesn't look up at my entrance, so I just sit on a stool and wait for
his fury to abate.
I crave a cigarette, but that's a habit I've given up. It reminds me too
much of Remy.
He continues with his game and no one else comes into the room -- word
must have gotten out that he was here and he was pissed, and no one who
was born the day before yesterday wants to be around him in this mood.
His moods don't frighten me, mainly because I've lived them. I already
had a bit of a temper when I met him, and getting him in my head just
makes it easier for me to kick it when I get angry.
Finally, his eyes meet mine in the mirror on the far wall. I raise an
eyebrow and he scowls.
"I'm not in the mood, Marie," he warns.
"How do you know what I've got in mind?" I ask.
"I don't, but if it's anymore of that Cosmo bullshit about exorcising
your ex or whatever, I ain't interested."
I fail to hide my grin. Yes, I had followed the ritual of broken-hearted
women everywhere and burned all my pictures of me and Remy, given away
all the stuffed animals he'd gotten me over the years, and lit candles
in a novena to the goddess of love.
I recommended the same course of action to Logan about a week before the
Of course, it didn't work. Neither of us got over our feelings for the
people we couldn't have. But just the thought of Logan reading Cosmo is
enough to make even him smile, and I can tell he isn't quite as upset as
he'd been when I arrived.
He jerks his head toward the pool table and I join him.
We play in silence for a while. After my third beer, and a swig of his
whiskey, I'm very aware of his body beside mine, smelling of whiskey and
smoke and leather.
I lean into him, and he looks down at me, surprised.
"What is it, kid?"
I don't say anything, just turn and wrap my arms around his neck. I
stare up into his hazel eyes, running my fingers through the hair hung
over his collar. His pupils dilate and his nostrils flare. When he
doesn't move away, I say, "I can make you forget her, even if it's only
He moves his legs, bringing his hips into contact with mine. "Marie--"
"Rogue," I whisper. "Marie was a scared little girl you picked up on the
side of the road. Tonight, I'm the Rogue, and I can make you smile. I
miss your smile."
He's tempted, I can tell -- I can feel the bulge in his jeans pressing
against my leg. But he says, "You're drunk, Marie."
"Rogue," I insist. "And you can clear that right up." I bring one of his
hands, which are hanging loosely at his sides, to my cheek, waiting for
his permission to lean into it.
We've done it many, many times. He heals my bruises after training and
my broken bones after missions. He even helped me out with a bad case of
bronchitis once. We didn't tell anyone. Jean would have been upset and
Scott horrified, I'm sure. Remy never asked about my lack of bruises,
and I never said anything. It was a secret. We'd learned how long he
could hold on without passing out, and he never minded sharing his
healing with me. My senses are now permanently heightened, though not to
his level, and I'd begun over the past year to heal more quickly even
without his touch, but he continued to heal me. The thought of me in
pain bothers him more than he'd ever admit.
He cups my cheek gently, and I feel the connection open. He's in me for
a moment, in a more profound way than the physical comfort I'd just
offered him. I pull away as soon as my head is clear.
He leans against me, pressing me into the pool table, slightly weakened
even by that limited contact. I bury my head against his chest,
listening to his heartbeat and inhaling his scent.
I kiss him through his t-shirt and he doesn't pull away. "I can make you
forget her, Logan. Let me touch you for a while," I murmur, lifting
myself up onto the edge of the table so I can wrap my legs around him.
He groans and rubs against me, his hips rocking into mine, and I know
"Let's get out of here," he says hoarsely.
We leave the Volvo and take the bike back to the house. The party was
still going on out back, so I don't think anyone noticed our return.
Even if they had, there was nothing odd in the fact that I'd gone after
him and brought him back. It was expected.
We slip into his room, and his hands are all over me, kneading my
breasts through my shirt and bra. He swings me up into his arms and
drops me onto the bed.
He reaches into his nightstand for a pair of gloves and then lies down
next to me, his hands already underneath my shirt, unhooking my bra,
which he tosses over his shoulder when he finally gets it off me. I
close my eyes and lift one leg over both of his, grinding my hips
He matches my rhythm and drops his lips to my breasts, his tongue
continuing what his hands had started.
"Are you in the mood now, sugar?" I tease between gasps.
He stops. "Are you thinking of Remy?"
I blink in surprise. "No. But, but it's okay if you think of Jean. I
understand." And I do.
"Fuck, Marie," he says, blowing out a gust of air.
"That's the idea, Logan. And it's *Rogue*."
"You deserve better."
"So do you, but sometimes you have to settle."
He backs off the bed and stands, breathing heavily, and not from lust.
"Jesus, kid, the things you say."
"I'm not a kid. And *what*? It's the truth, Logan. I don't want to do
this under false pretenses."
"So it's all right to fuck me, as long as you don't lie about it."
I push myself up on my elbows. "I'm trying to be a good friend, Logan. I
love you, even if it's not, you know, exactly what you want." I scoot
down the bed and rub one foot against his leg, trying for seductive.
He grabs my foot and sits heavily on the bed. He carefully removes my
shoe and runs his thumb along my instep, sending shivers through me.
I'm amazed at how much I'm *not* thinking of Remy, how much I *want*
Logan, and in a way that has nothing to do with the excuse I'd offered.
I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensations he's causing. He
starts talking again, but I can barely focus on his words. "...what I
I blink rapidly, trying to think of a way to fake it, but finally give
up. "I'm sorry, I'm kind of distracted. Could you repeat that?"
He looks down at his hand, still stroking my foot, and then drops it
like a hot potato. "I said," and he sounds pissed again, "that you have
*no* *idea* what I want, Marie."
I have to laugh at that. "Please, sugar. You want Jean. Everyone knows
that. It's okay. Really." I sit all the way up and reach over the side
of the bed for my bra. "I'm just trying to offer a little comfort, you
know. A way to forget her for a while.
"I mean, why *shouldn't* we be together? Give me one good reason. We're
both single, we're good friends." I press myself against his back. "It'd
be *really* good, Logan. Believe me." And I nip at his earlobe, careful
that only my teeth make contact. That wins me a growl, and not from
annoyance. Thinking that maybe he's done arguing, I slide my hands over
his shoulders and down his chest, finding his nipples and twisting
Another growl, but this time, he jumps off the bed, shaking his head.
"And if I'm looking for more than that?"
"I--" I don't know what to say.
"Can you give me more than that? More than a one-night stand?"
"Okay, who are you and what have you done with Logan?"
He doesn't laugh. In fact, he grimaces and says, "That ain't fuckin'
I walk over and put a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry. What are you asking
me for? A commitment? You got it. I will only have sex with you, if you
will only have sex with me. And give up your subscription to the
Redhead of the Month' club."
He runs a hand through the white streak in my hair -- it's always
fascinated him -- and then buries his face in my neck, protected by my
scarf. I feel his lips through the sheer silk and I let my head fall
back, my hand tightening on his arm. I'm afraid if I let go, I'll fall
over. I can't believe he found the spot on my neck -- Jesus, it took
Remy two *months* to find that spot, the one that makes me feel like I'm
going to come just from him kissing and sucking on it.
"Yeah," he whispers.
I don't hear him as much as feel his lips move, and I smile and say,
I take his other hand and lead him back to the bed. This time, he lies
down first, and I straddle him. I want this now, more than I've wanted
anything in a really long time, and I pray he's not going to keep it
He still hasn't answered me, but I'm not worried about that. I lean
forward, pressing my breasts against his chest and nuzzling at his neck,
using the scarf. You'd be amazed at how handy a silk scarf can be when
you've got deadly skin.
"Marie," he says, and I don't have the heart to correct him. He's the
only one who calls me that -- the only one of the X-Men who ever knew
Marie. I wonder vaguely, in the back of my mind, if he's so tenacious
about it because he doesn't know his own "real" name, and doesn't want
me to forget mine. It's an idea that's going to require more attention
than I can pay it at the moment, though, because his hands have become
active again, sliding up my arms and over my breasts.
"Marie," he repeats, "I want to be with you -- if we do this, I want it
to be *me* you're thinking of, *me* you're responding to." And he
unsheathes an inch of adamantium and cuts my shirt off from the inside
out. He leans up and takes my bare nipple into his mouth. I pull away
and he says, "I want you to know that I'm thinking of *you*, not her."
"I believe you," I whisper, touched. "And you've got my full attention,
Logan. One hundred percent." I grind down on his erection and he hisses
I move before he can touch me again, sliding down his body so I can
unbutton his jeans. He raises his hips so I can slide them down and then
gasps as I begin stroking his penis. I cup his balls with my other hand,
squeezing a little, and his hips buck. I kneel over him on all fours,
watching his face as best I can.
"Harder," he says, so I move my right hand a little faster. I know the
friction from the leather has to feel good.
While he's distracted by that -- he's making these sexy little grunting
noises -- I waft the scarf over him and lick the head. Another jerk of
his hips, accompanied by my name. A girl could get used to hearing her
name in that tone of voice.
I lick him again, this time from root to tip, and then take him into my
mouth. I hum softly, my fingers back to playing with his balls, as I bob
my head up and down. I'm using my lips, teeth, and tongue to make him
growl my name.
His hands twine in my hair and I can tell by the tension in his thighs
that he's holding himself back. I lift my head up and he groans -- in
frustration, I think.
"Let go, Logan. Just let go." I smile and feel a little dirty when I
say, "I want you to come in my mouth." Then I lower my head again and
take as much of him as I can into my mouth. I've always had a strong gag
reflex, but I'm determined not to mess this up. I want it to be good for
I'm feeling all sorts of warm and tingly feelings between my legs, and
as I scrape my teeth lightly along his shaft, my left hand unzips my
jeans and slides beneath the waistband of my panties.
I can't believe how wet I am, just from doing this. I find my clit
easily enough -- we're old friends, you know -- and I almost lose focus
on what I'm doing to Logan. But he reminds me quickly enough when he
lets out this roar and his hips thrust off the bed, forcing him deeper
into my throat.
I can feel myself beginning to gag, despite my best efforts. He must
notice, somehow, even while he's coming, because he pulls my head up,
leaving me with a mouthful of scarf, and spurts all over my breasts.
Normally not my kind of thing, but I'm willing to go with the flow here.
And I'm thinking, hey, that's a good idea. I grab the scarf and wrap his
dick back up -- up being the operative word here. He's hard again
*already*. Or maybe still. I'm not sure how the healing factor works
there. Anyway, I start rubbing it between my breasts, my other hand
still circling my clit.
I know I'm close and I hear this voice say, "God, Logan." It must be me,
but I sound really strange -- high-pitched, thin and needy.
He rolls away from me then, but I'm so preoccupied with myself that I
don't protest. I'm at the edge, and then his hand joins mine and I go
over, feeling every muscle in my body clench and release in this rush of
pleasure. I feel curiously empty, though, as if there's something
I collapse against him, careful to keep the scarf between my bare torso
and his bare legs.
"Marie," he says in this *tone* -- it's full of something I can't quite
identify, since I'm still coming down from my orgasm.
I realize what's missing and I say, "I need you inside me, Logan." Again
with the high and needy voice.
But it seems to be fine with him because he growls low in his belly -- I
can feel it and it sends shivers of pleasure through me. He says, "Yeah,
I know I said I wanted it to be all about him, but I think this will be
good, too. That's about the extent of my thinking capabilities at the
moment, so it's a good thing Logan's here. He zips my pants back up and
cuts a small slit in the crotch of my jeans and panties.
"Good thinking," I murmur, and he grins this adorable grin I've never
seen before but I wouldn't mind seeing again. A lot.
He's already got the condom out and he helps me roll it on. He moves to
turn us over, but I push his shoulders back down on the bed and say,
"Let me do this for you, Logan."
I straddle him, brushing my wet sex over his hard cock, making both of
us shiver. Then I lower myself down onto it oh-so-slowly. He's growling
again, a low rumble that sends shock waves to my core as I feel the
"Yeah, baby," he says, his hands resting gently on my hips. He's letting
me drive, and I feel heady with power.
Finally, after several excruciatingly long moments, I've got him all the
way inside me and *God* it feels so good. I press my knees into the
mattress, trying to get him deeper, and lean forward, looking for the
right angle to keep my clit happy. I roll my hips experimentally,
earning a groan that could have been him, could have been me. Not really
Yeah, this is good.
I begin moving, slowly at first, tightening my inner muscles. He picks
up my rhythm and we move in time for a while, just enjoying each other's
body and the close connection we're sharing. Then it becomes more urgent
as we're trying to reach that place again, the one where your whole body
flies apart because it feels so good and nothing else matters.
My hands are on his shoulders and I'm riding him hard, when I feel it
"Logan," I draw his name out and he growls as my fingers automatically
grab his t-shirt and I can feel myself clenching around him. His hands
dig into my hips and I know I'll have bruises -- well, I might,
depending on if my limited healing ability is working -- but I don't
care. He bucks up against me and plunges deep, yelling my name.
With his last thrust, he kisses me, no material between us, and I feel
his awe and tenderness and love for me.
That's who he's thinking of.
We collapse in a sweaty, exhausted heap and I try to figure out what
I stroke his chest lightly, and he growls playfully. "That tickles."
I grin delightedly. "I knew I could make you smile."
He laughs. "And then some."
I can't look at his face when I ask, "So, you never answered my
He puts a finger beneath my chin and raises my face to his. "Yeah, I
"I don't think so."
"What do you think this was?" He gestures to encompass the messy bed,
with us in it.
"Sex. Really, really good sex."
He sighs. "Marie. I'll help you forget Gumbo if you help me forget
"I wasn't thinking of him," I protest. "And I know you weren't thinking
"No, but--" he breaks off, and I can tell he's trying to figure out what
he wants to say. "I think we both need to learn to want what we've got,
"And what is that?"
Oh. "Oh!" I feel myself blushing and I bury my face against his chest.
"I could do that,"
"It's not settling," he insists. "It's accepting."
"Yeah," I say, knowing he's right.
It's not the most romantic love, or some big epic romance, but we're
going to do the best we can with what we've got.
"I got nothing to say I ain't said before / I bled all I can, / don't
wanna bleed no more / I don't need no one to understand / Why the blood
runs bold / The hired hand / On heart / Hand of God / Floodland and
Driven Apart / Run cold / Turn / Cold /Burn / Like a healing hand"-
"This Corrosion" - Sisters of Mercy
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