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FIC: Edge (1/?) [Logan/Rogue] R-ish

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  • charon_mmm@hotmail.com
    Hi, my name s Charon and I m a Logan/Rogueaholic. This is my first post.. having joined about a day ago. From what i ve seen you re all great writers and i
    Message 1 of 1 , Sep 3, 2000
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      Hi, my name's Charon and I'm a Logan/Rogueaholic. This is my first
      post.. having joined about a day ago. From what i've seen you're all
      great writers and i adore the stories!! I will start giving feedback
      individually as well :) So, greetings all and tell me if i did this
      wrong.
      * * *

      Title: Edge Part 1/? (Alliance)
      Author: Charon [email: charon_mmm@...]
      Rating: R (language, sexual content, violence… not entirely just
      yet, but better safe..)
      Summary: Logan returns to find someone nothing like his Marie.
      Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. I intend to make NO profit,
      actually decreasing the likelihood of good grades here, so please
      take pity and don't sue me. *prostrates herself before the PTB*
      Archive: Wherever you want, but let me know as a courtesy please :)
      General Babble: Stupidity. I wrote this first section with
      enthusiasm, a thrill and was exceedingly happy with the results. Then
      I accidentally shut Word without saving it. So this is the second
      time I've written this part and I still like the first attempt
      more..
      :( Anyhow, all feedback wanted!

      Edge – by Charon
      Part 1: Alliance

      So much blood. Crimson and coagulating on latex and leather. This
      wasn't how I imagined we would meet again and I curse myself for
      not being here, not fulfilling the promise I made. A thousand times I
      have vowed to protect her, in a thousand different places along this
      destitute land of ashen dreams.

      [Breathe]
      I will her to show some sign of life. But the only response is the
      blood, pulsing from the wound along her torso. I cradle her awkwardly
      in my grasp, her bodyweight slight and the warmth of the fluid
      draining into my shirt sickens me.

      "Is she bad?" Storm is suddenly beside me, her voice filled
      with a passion I did not remember. Her eyes fade back into colour as
      her mutation ebbs away and she looks pleadingly. I feel absurdly
      detached by the situation, never having thought this would be the way
      of my reunion. No `Hello, how are you Logan? Did you enjoy
      wherever the hell you've been?'… just an entreaty. I adjust my little
      Marie's body and Storm is able to see the angry gash splitting her
      torso. She pales as much as her dark skin will allow.
      The X-woman's eyes meet mine again and I can see the tension, the
      desperation and I know she'll leave it unspoken. It's not like she
      has to ask anyway. I'd do anything for my Marie. I left her two
      pieces of metal and a promise, five years ago, that I would return.
      Granted that when I finally did I found the Mansion deserted and the
      Professor stoically informing me where the battle was taking place,
      should I choose to join. Of course I did, finding them here… The
      X-Men and Marie.. only finding her too late.
      <Almost too late..> Jean's voice warms my head as Storm tugs me
      towards the hoverboat. Further away the battle continues as X-Men and
      Brotherhood rage against eachother, while Storm throws a blanket
      hastily over a small expanse of floor. It's easier if we do it
      here. Last time One Eye almost broke his back hauling my ass off
      Magneto's damn contraption, not that I'm not grateful and not
      that I'd ever admit that.
      The fresh chill of the air outside is gone, the atmosphere in the
      cramped craft impregnated with sweet iron as Marie's figure settles
      onto the coarse blanket.
      Then a realization hits me. It's a realization that I don't want to
      have right now, and I certainly don't want to pass on to Marie, but
      want has nothing to do with it. Or more exactly, want has everything
      to do with it.
      She's not a child anymore, wasn't even one last time I saw her. But
      it's easier to pretend when those flowing cloaks hid her body. I
      realize that the shrapnel that tore into her skin had to tear through
      her uniform first. The metallic suit offered scant protection, it's X
      shredded and the material almost nothing from what I can see now. The
      sanguine stain contrasts acutely with her pale skin, lacing its mark
      across unmarred ivory and the twin rises of her breasts. I fight the
      red of my cheeks and the surge of an intense yet undefinable emotion,
      as I see the scrap of metal that rests across the softness of her
      left breast, hovering over her heart. The beaded chain attached to it
      holds it to her neck and I wonder if she ever took it off. I angrily
      suppress my thoughts, irritated that while I enjoy my voyeurism she's
      getting just that much harder to save.
      The stream of consciousness from my revelation only took as long as I
      did to kneel by her, remove my glove, think better of it and brush my
      lips gently across her lips.
      The rush is immediate, like a rollercoaster, like every conscious
      thought splintering, like your heart being torn out. And I know I'm
      addicted.

      * * *

      "You think, maybe I held on a little too long this time, O'?" I
      drawl, sauntering past the mahogany door. The older woman breaks her
      reverie of his face and looks up in surprise.
      "Oh, you're here, Rogue," she smiles warmly and I return the gesture.
      "Does this mean my vigil's up?" Ororo asks.
      "Looks like," I shrug and usher her out of Wolverine's room with a
      few more words. Jean thought he'd prefer to wake up here, this little
      place of memories. Where he slept for the few nights he was here,
      where he finally felt some comfort and rest.. even acceptance, away
      from the sterile medlab and its connotations. Here where his
      adamantium talons raked through my shoulder and I first tasted his
      life. Though I doubt she was thinking of that last one. He's
      asleep/unconscious on the bed and his face is as sedate as that other
      night.
      "Five years.." I whisper, trying for apathetic but it only sounds
      bitter. Five years ago he left.
      "Five years…" I can't help but whisper it again, sighing the words.
      My hand is bound by a knot of chain, where his dogtags are tangled in
      my fingers and I brush it past my thigh as I approach the bed.
      Someone went to the trouble of removing his clothes, bathing my blood
      off him, even trimming that wild hair of his, before bringing him
      here. That's why he lies there elutriated, clean, echoing a moment in
      the past. Only the moonlight is here now, spilling through the window
      and accenting his bare skin, where the sheet about his waist hasn't
      covered. I stopped hoping for his return, but I didn't stop wanting
      it. Yes, there's a difference. From a childish expectation, fuelled
      by the constant cool of his tags against my chest, it ascended to the
      ethereal. Wolverine became a concept and an icon of my adolescence.
      He was the intangible hero, as untouchable as my skin and though I
      knew, I thought I knew, he would never return I let him continue
      living in my mind. It fed my love for him and my lust. When his lips
      brushed mine, the memory absorbed into my unconscious mind, I knew he
      felt that too.
      Time changes things, time changes people. It changed me and he had
      noticed. That thought pricked a smile on to my face. Deny as I knew
      he would in the future, I could hold onto that mental image..
      watching my own body withering away and Wolverine trying to choke
      back desire.
      At least this way there would be little need for conversation, having
      his touch back in my mind. I knew where he'd been, what he'd
      seen.. who he'd seen. And that his dreams were as plagued with me as
      mine were of him. I remembered a night where I, no.. Wolverine, lay
      sweating heavily in a cheap motel room, having made a transition from
      thinking of me as sweet Marie, to Marie.. potential lover. He had
      been disgusted and appalled and thrilled.
      And his vision of more than a child was confirmed when he saved me. I
      never even got to say hello, the copper sculpture had detonated in
      front of me, instantly wiping out Glower who I'd been fighting.
      Wolverine saw the metal fragments cut me down just as he arrived. The
      rest is history. Or at least.. his story. And that's how we got
      here to a time when he's within my touch again.
      I lean further over the bed, breathing deeply.. every sense is acute,
      still alive with his mutation. With a glance to the doorway I can see
      it is shut and I reach a gloved hand across the bed to lightly slide
      across his face. He does not react and I release a breath, only then
      realizing I was expecting his claws to lance through me. With more
      courage I trace the contours of his face, trailing my way down past
      his throat, across the scape of his chest. I'm fixated by his
      chest, the way the muscles expand and undulate with his breathing.
      There's a chorus of girlish voices in the back of my mind, cheering
      that Wolverine has returned. <He's finally here! He's really here!
      Wolverine, Wolverine.. he's our man!> I smite them with vexation
      and continue the exploration.
      I trace along his torso, feeling each rib, each sinew. Our breathing
      patterns merge, though I can feel mine escalating. There's hunger
      too and I can't stand it anymore. Withdrawing one hand, I tug away
      the glove with my teeth. An infinitely more careful caress I use this
      time, my nails extending past my fingertips to grate along his skin.
      He flinches slightly, as though tickled and I carefully waver my
      fingertips away from his skin, careful to allow only my nail to
      touch. People were surprised when I found this out, that my nails
      have no touch of death. I don't know why. Hair and nails.. same
      thing really. All dead.
      But it's different with nails. They're connected to your
      hands. When they're moved, the points where they connect to your
      fingers can feel it, the vicarious touch. My nails lingered along his
      body, the firm muscle dimpled beneath the white crescents. I turned a
      digit over, pushing further, just above his navel. The skin of my
      thumb almost contacting. Then a little closer. Turning, closer. Back
      and closer. I wanted to lean a little further, a little too far.
      Actually feel his skin, then his mind being enveloped into me. A
      little further.. but not far enough. The slightest layer of air
      separated my skin from his. And I almost pushed closer.
      But my wrist was wrenched abruptly away. Wolverine had his eyes open,
      an unreadable expression on his face, eyes darkly intense. He seemed
      tired, but he had reacted swiftly, dragging a hand enclosed in the
      bedsheet up to my touch before I could respond.
      "Marie.." he whispered, questioning.
      I shook my head, trying to regain my breath, "Rogue."
      He tilted his head, cocking an eyebrow in a gesture of mock and
      familiarity.
      The sheet had pulled away from his waist when he had seized my hand
      and I could see the bare skin of his hip, taught over the bone and
      muscle. Suppressing a tremble, I unwound the chain of his tags from
      my free hand and let them fall onto his stomach, where the chain
      pooled at his navel. I raised my eyes back to his face, where his
      eyes bore into mine, making me feel absolutely vulnerable. Feel like
      Marie.
      "You might need these," I nodded to the tags and tugged my
      wrist away. I strode to the door and quietly left the silent room.

      I know Wolverine realizes I've changed, but he doesn't know how much.

      (to be continued..)
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