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FIC: Desperate Measures: L/R: 1/1 - R

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  • victoria p.
    Title: Desperate Measures Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@att.net] Summary: I have a new plan now, a new way to get his attention. Rating: Strong R for
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 20, 2002
      Title: Desperate Measures
      Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
      Summary: "I have a new plan now, a new way to get his attention."
      Rating: Strong R for sexual situations
      Disclaimer: Heh. If I owned them, Logan and Rogue would spend all their
      time shagging each other.
      Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool; if you've already got my stuff, sure. If
      not, please ask. I'll say yes.
      Feedback: Good, bad, indifferent - just talk to me.
      Notes: Thanks to Jen, Pete, Melissa, Dot, and Meg. I'm still not
      thrilled with the title, but in the end, it seemed more fitting than
      "Wordless" or "Your Silent Face". *g*


      Desperate Measures

      I slip down the hall to his room.

      I always sleep there when he's away, but tonight, I won't be sleeping. I
      have a new plan now, a new way to get his attention.

      He won't let me into his heart, won't admit that he wants me. At first,
      I thought he really didn't, that all his love was simply brotherly,
      despite the thoughts I'd absorbed from him the two times we'd touched.

      Now I know it's more than that -- it's guilt twisted up with pain and
      longing and fear. Fear that he's not good enough. Fear that I'll find
      out what he hasn't told me, what I already know.

      About that night.

      I take off the pajamas I wore to walk from my room to his, and slide in
      between the soft cotton sheets of his bed.

      I know my scent will torment him -- I hope it will finally push him over
      the edge, out of denial and into the truth.

      His scent overwhelms me as I pull a pillow over my face to muffle the
      sounds I know I'll be making in a few minutes. He smells of leather and
      sweat, tobacco and pine and a hint of hair gel. I breathe it in and feel
      myself get wet, nipples hardening against my palms.

      I close my eyes, even though I'm already blinded by the pillow; it's
      easier to call up the memories of his surprisingly smooth hands, the
      feel of his firm muscles under taut skin under the pads of my fingers,
      when my eyes are closed.

      He doesn't know I have these memories -- these are the things he's been
      trying to hide from me the past few months, the reason he can't look me
      in the eye, and Jean leaves the room when he enters.

      But that night...

      I had been the one who'd given Jean the news. It had been into *my* arms
      that Jean had fallen, limp with joy and relief -- and guilt -- that
      Scott was alive.

      The touch had lasted only seconds, barely long enough to knock Jean out,
      but enough time for the maelstrom of love and relief and guilt to
      imprint itself on my mind. Jean's memories of the night they'd lost
      Scott -- the night Logan had comforted her, holding her and making love
      to her as she'd cried for her vanished husband, whom we'd all feared

      They don't think I'd understand, but I do. I have many memories of loss
      and grief, and I would never begrudge anyone comfort under those
      circumstances. I know that's all it was. I'm sure Scott would feel the

      And those memories have given me something I didn't have before.
      Memories of what it's like to be touched by Logan.

      My hand moves between my legs, fingers sliding against the slick folds
      of my sex as I imagine him above me. Surrounded by his scent, Jean's
      memories of his clever hands and mouth guiding me, it doesn't take long
      for me to come, my hips bucking off the bed as I bite down on the pillow
      to keep from crying out his name.

      When I'm finished, I rub my sticky fingers on the sheets and slide the
      other pillow between my legs. I'm marking my territory, in a language he
      will understand.

      Then I dress and hurry back to my room, where I curl up and fall asleep,
      sated. As I drift off, I can only hope these desperate measures work,
      because my patience with his dithering is beginning to wear thin.


      He can smell it before he even enters the room.

      He closes his eyes and growls, but this menace can't be scared off with
      a show of force. He leans his head against the closed door to his room
      and inhales. He can feel his body respond, groin tightening, limbs
      growing heavy with desire, and he knows that eventually he'll either
      give in or run away.

      He knows he doesn't deserve her, doesn't deserve this. He's betrayed
      her, betrayed himself and Scott and Jean, all in an act of comfort.

      Sex had never meant much to him before he'd gotten involved with the
      X-Men; now, every look and touch is fraught with meaning, and the act
      itself become a signifier of feelings he never thought he'd have.

      He is guilty, and in his shame, he is punishing himself.

      He forces himself to enter the bedroom, where the sharp scent of Marie's
      desire and its satiation hits him like a blow to the gut.

      He strips the sheets from the bed with startling ferocity, stopping once
      in a while to press them to his nose, to imprint her on his brain the
      way he'd like to imprint himself on her body.

      He's almost vibrating from suppressed emotion when he hears footsteps in
      the hall, and then she's there in the doorway.


      I waited. I thought he'd come to me, but he hasn't. I know he's back. I
      heard him growling in the hall, and it woke me. I'm attuned to him. I
      was even before he touched me -- I know what he's feeling, and I know
      how to make it better.

      So I walk back down the hall, dressed and gloved, and open the door to
      his room.

      He's standing there, the sheets pressed to his nose, his body coiled and
      ready to strike.

      I know he knows it's me.

      We stare at each other for a moment, and then he says, "I can't. We

      I move closer, slowly, one hand outstretched to cup his cheek. "You
      can," I answer. "I know about -- that night. It's okay."

      "It's not. It's not fair to you. I'm not--"

      "You are. And don't you think I can judge what's fair and what's not,
      Logan?" I bring my other hand up and his nostrils flare. I can see his
      pupils dilate with desire even in the darkness of the room. I pull his
      face down to mine, brushing his lips ever so briefly with mine. "I wish
      I could let you feel how I feel," I whisper, running my hands through
      his hair. "I wish I could touch you and push all these feelings into
      you, so you could see how much I want you, how much I love you."

      "Marie--" he groans, his voice barely louder than mine. "You shouldn't
      say these things."

      "Why not? They're true. I wish I could feel you inside of me,
      physically, not just the way you're inside my head. I wish I could feel
      your skin sliding against mine. I want to taste every inch of you,

      "Marie, please--" Almost against his will, it seems, he drops the sheets
      and his hands begin stroking me, rubbing my shoulders and arms, bringing
      me against his body, which is drawn tight as a bow.

      "Yes, Logan. Anything you want."

      We're so close now that I can feel the growl vibrate through him, and I
      answer with a purr. He presses my head to his chest and rains kisses
      down on my hair as his hands roam my body.

      I know that he's understood my wordless message as he walks me back to
      the bed and lays me down gently. We're in tune with each other, and we
      don't need to speak, now that he's finally let me in.

      I know his heart, and he knows mine. He's still afraid he'll end up
      hurting me, and I'm afraid his fear will somehow take him from me, but
      for now, we're together, and I am content.





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