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FIC: Are We Having Fun Yet? (L/R, implied L/J) ***NC17***

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  • My Destiny
    TITLE: Are We Having Fun Yet? AUTHOR: Elektra EMAIL: wxfonline@yahoo.com DISCLAIMER: All the characters in this piece of fan fiction belong to Marvel, Fox,
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 17, 2002
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      TITLE: Are We Having Fun Yet?
      AUTHOR: Elektra
      EMAIL: wxfonline@...
      DISCLAIMER: All the characters in this piece of fan
      fiction belong to Marvel, Fox, etc. The lyrics belong
      to the fellas of Nickelback.
      DISTRIBUTION: If you would like permission to archive
      this story, please email: wxfonline@....
      OFFICIAL WEBSITE ADDRESS: http://www.wxfonline.com
      RATING: Rated NC17.
      CONTENT: L/R, L/J implied
      SUMMARY: Movieverse. Sometimes reality isn't all
      it's cracked up to be.


      *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

      Never made it as a wise man
      I couldn't cut it was a poor man stealin'
      Tired of livin' like a blind man
      I'm sick of sight without a sense of feeling

      This is how you remind me
      This is how you remind me of what I really am

      *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


      He comes to me at the oddest times, liking the
      perversity of making me squirm in public places. He's
      been in my lecture halls and at the supermarket. So
      far he's been lucky and we've never been caught. I
      can see the Professor's face now, horrified by what
      innocent Marie has done.

      His favorite spot is the public library. He likes to
      catch me there, unaware, trying to prove that I'm not
      paying attention. I suppose that's why he does it.
      This is, of course, why I never actually tried to
      become a member of the X-Men. He knows this. So,
      maybe that isn't his goal after all; maybe he just
      wants a quick fuck, something to ease the burn.

      I walk into the stacks and he makes himself known. I
      guess, not certain of how I'll react, he doesn't want
      to take the risk of going wholly public with our
      encounter. The woody, whiskey scent of cigar smoke
      fills my nose, and though I haven't smelled that
      particular brand in years, six to be exact, I'll
      always know who it belongs to.

      The odor surrounds me, leaving me dancing in a veil of
      perfume. As it grows stronger, I begin to sense the
      undertones of sweat and musk and sex. That's what he
      smells like, sex. I don't mean that he's just rolled
      out of bed with someone else to come to me. No, it's
      pure, unadulterated Parfum d' Logan and I want to
      drown myself in it.

      I don't know why he waited so long to come to me. I
      had been there forever, longing for a little
      something, anything to remind me of what it felt like
      to be whole, to be a woman, just like the rest of
      them.

      I find myself clutching at the bookcase in front of me
      as the pressure of his body melts into mine from
      behind. My eyes drift closed as the steel of his arms
      wrap around my waist, teasing the bare flesh at my
      midriff. His fingers flick lightly at the tiny bell
      pierced to my navel. The heat of his breath caresses
      my neck. As warm and gentle as the trade winds, it
      dances across my skin, raising goose bumps in its
      wake. I can feel his amusement at those little bumps
      of flesh.

      That amusement surprises him. I suppose, it's because
      in the past he's only allowed himself to feel the fire
      of animal passion. His discomfort fades quickly
      though and is soon surpassed by a swell of cocky male
      pride.

      Personally, I don't pay that much attention to the
      whims of his psyche. He's there, flesh pressing
      intimately against mine and that's all that really
      matters.

      His hands slide upward, slowly mapping the terrain of
      my torso. I feel my body move of its own volition, my
      breasts thrusting forward and my ass pressing backward
      toward the firm length of flesh that would soon become
      one with my body. How many times have I fantasized
      about the things I can do to him?

      No other woman will ever know him the way I do. I
      have a catalog of every sexual encounter he's ever had
      in my head. I know about the woman who liked to suck
      him off while he drove down the interstate at a
      hundred miles an hour. I know about the cage groupies
      who would do anything to feel the length of his
      erection thrusting up inside of them. I know he'd let
      them service him because he couldn't return the favor.
      He didn�t want to remember their scent, their taste.
      He didn't want to feel the emptiness of those random
      sexual encounters.

      I move to reach behind me to touch him and am
      surprised to feel a firm pressure on my wrist. It
      isn't going to be the old way this time. In his own
      way, a way without words, he is letting me know that
      this is different. Together, we're different.

      I keep my eyes clamped shut, hoping desperately that
      he won't simply disappear as easily as he emerged. My
      fingers adjust their grasp on the metal of the
      bookshelf as I feel the warm, wet length of his tongue
      wrap itself around my earlobe. The contact sends
      waves of energy skittering through my body. I try to
      contain the moan that wells up in my throat, but who
      knows if I manage. I find myself quickly slipping
      into sensation and I don't much care what anyone else
      thinks.

      Finally, his hand closes against the mound of my
      breast. He gently eases the lace of my bra aside,
      exposing my nipple to the unnaturally cool
      air-conditioned atmosphere of the stacks. He runs a
      finger 'round my areola as it tightens in response.
      My breath catches in my throat as he flicks his
      thumbnail slowly back and forth against my plum pink
      flesh.

      His free hand begins it's trek southward, mercilessly
      teasing my skin as he goes. He slowly massages my
      hips, my stomach... where my clothes go, I'm never
      sure. All I know is that he is here with me. And, as
      his fingers play against the intimate areas of my
      body, I find myself clasped in a strong, protective
      embrace. We stay like that for a time. He wants to
      make sure I understand that he isn't going anywhere.
      He is home, here to stay.

      As his fingers brush against the raven curls at the
      juncture of my thighs, I feel the tears that have
      filled my eyes begin to fall. Unspoken, I feel the
      loving tenderness in the gesture. Though he will
      never say the words, I know that he loves me.

      *Rogue?*

      Jean's telepathic call brings it all to a stop. When
      I open my eyes, he's gone, as silently as he came.
      The fragrant smell of smoke in my nose is the only
      thing left to tell me he was really there.

      Our time together is damned to be brief. Those stolen
      moments, our oasis from reality, is all we will ever
      have. But, my lips curl involuntarily as I remember
      the sandy silk of his body next to mine.

      *Rogue, we have a fitting in twenty minutes*

      She's marrying Logan, you know. The tent, the brass
      band, he's giving her the whole bag of tricks. He
      loves her, always has. I suspect he always will.

      I suppose it should hurt, seeing them together, but it
      doesn't. She'll never know her Logan the way I know
      mine. The Logan in my head, he let's me see things
      she'll never know exist.

      As I pick up my bag, I feel the soft bristles of the
      hair on his face, the warmth of his lips on my neck.

      "Let's roll. I have a bridesmaid's dress to try on."

      This is how he reminds me who I really am.


      Fin


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