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Fic: Agony and Ecstasy (2/3) RATED NC-17

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  • D. Die
    Continued from part one where all disclaimers reside . . . ~*~ Much as he wanted to blame it all on Logan--Scott couldn t bring himself to so much as say a
    Message 1 of 1 , Sep 7, 2000
      Continued from part one where all disclaimers reside . . .


      Much as he wanted to blame it all on Logan--Scott couldn't bring himself to
      so much as say a harsh word to the man.

      Logan was a wreck. It was three in the morning, Rogue was tucked away with
      Jean in the lab with no hope of coming out any time soon--and Logan had been
      banished to his own devices for the time being.

      His own devices had included drinking every single drop of alcohol in the
      liquor cabinet. There had been enough there to kill a few men--and Scott was
      half worried that even with his healing abilities, it'd still do Logan some
      hefty damage.

      He was sprawled in a chair, his head resting on one hand as he stared at the
      other, clenching it into a fist over and over again.

      All the angry words died on Scott's tongue. He had never seen a man who
      looked like he hated himself more. His eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed
      from crying, which was probably the most unlikely sight he'd ever seen.

      Scott settled into a chair across from him, but Logan didn't even look up.


      "It's my fault," Logan said, his voice dead. "It's all my fault. You should
      kill me know for what I did to her. My fault."

      Scott stiffened. "What is your fault, Logan?" He was proud of how steady his
      voice was. How calm. Not accusing. Not yet.

      "I stabbed her," Logan said softly. "I stabbed her through the chest and she
      took my sick, twisted memories into her mind and convinced herself she liked
      it. I never should have let her touch me."

      "Be reasonable, Logan." He couldn't believe he was telling a man with a few
      liters of alcohol in him to be reasonable. "She would have died if she
      hadn't touched you."

      "She died anyway." Logan's fingers clawed at the table, and Scott winced as
      he heard one of the other man's nails break. "She died inside, turned sick
      and twisted because I was in her head. I killed her. Killed her innocence."

      Scott leaned forward carefully, fully aware of the way Logan's instincts
      tended to go. Reaching out a hand, he set it on Logan's shoulder, squeezing
      it slightly. "It's not your fault--Logan."

      The other man's head snapped up, his eyes wild. "Why the hell won't you be a
      bastard?" Logan demanded angrily, wrenching away from Scott's hand. "Damn
      it, just be a bastard! I fucking well deserve it, don't I?"

      Scott grimaced. It would be pointless to reason with the man now--with all
      the grief and guilt, not to mention the alcohol, raging through his system.
      "All you have to do is set it right, Logan. You can help her get better."

      "No I can't," Logan growled, his head falling to his hand again. "I destroy
      everything I touch. I'll just break her again."

      He sounded so sure, Scott couldn't find anything to say in response.


      Jean washed Rogue's hands in silence, so worried and heartbroken she
      couldn't speak. The feelings and thoughts washing over her from Rogue
      weren't helping--the girl was such a tangle of emotion and confusion that
      she was developing a severe headache.

      The girl's hands were a mess, crisscrossed with scars and half-healed cuts,
      a few of them still bleeding sluggishly. Jean washed her hands and wrapped
      thick bandages around both of her hands, securing them tightly before
      helping Rogue to pull her gloves back on over them.

      "Do you want to talk to me?" Jean asked finally, reaching up carefully to
      tuck a strand of Rogue's hair behind her ear.

      The younger woman's eyes were blank as she stared up at her friend, her face
      a mask of indecision. "I--" She swallowed hastily, blinking as tears formed
      in her eyes.

      "It's okay," Jean whispered, leaning forward carefully and bringing the
      girl's head to rest against her shoulder. "It's okay, Rogue. It's okay to

      Rogue stiffened, pulling back. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm
      so sorry--"

      "Shhh." Jean kneeled down in front of the chair Rogue was in, resting her
      hands on the younger girl's knees. "You don't have anything to be sorry for,
      Rogue. Nothing at all."

      "I hurt him." The words seemed torn from her throat, and Jean blinked

      "Hurt who, Rogue?"

      Rogue's voice was filled with self-loathing. "Him. I hurt Logan. I never
      meant to hurt him--I never meant it to go so far. I didn't mean to be so

      "Shhh." Jean leaned forward to brush the same strand of hair back from
      Rogue's face. "You're not sick, Rogue. You just need to talk to us. Let us
      help you--"

      The tears that had been threatening boiled over. "I hurt him, Jean. I hurt
      him so bad--"

      "He understands," Jean whispered softly, unsure if she was telling the
      truth. Unsure if Logan even cared enough to understand. She leaned forward
      to wrap the trembling girl in a lose embrace, determined not to show her
      doubts. "He's just worried, Rogue. Like we are."

      "It's different," Rogue whispered. "He knows. He knows it all."


      If Rogue had been a normal kid, they would have sent her to a psychiatrist.
      But she wasn't a normal kid, she was a mutant--and she lived in a house with
      two telepaths, which should have solved the problem.

      It didn't help them much. Rogue refused to talk about it, and Xavier
      wouldn't force his way into her mind. The weekly sessions with Jean were
      pointless--she went, she talked about nothing and how much better she felt,
      and she left.

      Jean checked her hands every time she was there--but despite the fact that
      it was more than obvious she wasn't getting better--there were no new cuts.
      It disturbed Jean. She could tell Rogue was still looking for pain, and the
      idea that Rogue had found something different--something potentially more
      dangerous--kept her up at night.

      But unless it became so serious that it was obvious Rogue's life was in
      danger, the Professor wouldn't let her pry.

      Sometimes Jean hated ethics.


      Logan had taken the glass from her room and begged her not to touch it

      Truth was--she didn't have to. She'd learned something new with Logan's
      arrival--something that made it easier and harder.

      Emotional pain was just as satisfying.

      It was agony. Looking into his eyes was more painful than slashing herself
      from shoulder to wrist could ever be. The self loathing, the disappointment,
      the pain--he thought he hid them, but she knew him better than he thought.

      She saw him all the time. He sought her out in the hallways, came to her
      room after her classes. He stroked her hair and touched her gently, touched
      her shoulders and her hands, always so careful. It was strange, being
      touched, but she understood why he was doing it.

      He was trying to fix her. Scott had called him and he came home and he was
      going to put her back together--make her normal like everyone else--then
      he'd pick up and leave again. Go back to wherever he had been, live the life
      he had when he wasn't trying to save her . . .

      She hated it. Hated how good it felt to have him touch her, because she knew
      he was doing it from pity. From some deep seated need to make her be like
      everyone else.

      And so it was agony, and ecstasy, and it kept her teetering on the knife
      edge. But it was still Logan, and he could make her smile and laugh, and the
      more time he spent with her the more she laughed, and the more he touched
      her, until the touches weren't quite as innocent and the laughter was
      real--and everyone thought she was better.


      He'd been home for five weeks when his body betrayed him.

      He was sitting on the side of Marie's bed, rubbing her back softly because
      it helped her sleep and she'd just woken up from a nightmare she wouldn't
      tell him about. So he sat and rubbed her shoulders and made sure she knew he
      was there. A big, warm presence at her back that chuckled softly as she
      almost purred in contentment.

      He wasn't really thinking. His hand was moving on instinct as he stared at
      the wall, at the map she had plastered up with little stars marking all the
      places she'd been, others marking the places she wanted to go. He didn't
      want to think about what the large green circle around Laughlin City meant.

      Her body went still, then shifted, and when he looked down she was lying on
      her back staring up at him, and his hand was resting on her breast, still
      sliding in idle circles that stilled as he swallowed hastily.

      He tried to pull his hand away, but her gloved fingers locked around his
      wrist as she stared up at him, her body pressing up towards him. Her mouth
      fell open as she shifted her breast against his hand, her eyes growing wide
      with drowsy pleasure.

      God he was a man. A man who had spent more than one night dreaming of this
      body, of this woman, of touching her in places that would make her scream.
      Of doing things to her that no one had ever done before.

      But he wasn't just a man. A man would have pulled back. A man would have
      told her that he cared about her--that he /loved/ her--and that he couldn't
      do this yet. That they needed time to think. That they needed time to make
      sure she was okay.

      Even though he wasn't just a man, he almost did that. Almost did it, until
      her fingers slid off his wrist and to his leg, and slid up to stroke at him
      in a way she had no /right/ to know about--her fingers too skilled and too
      knowledgeable as she stirred his flesh to life.

      He groaned. He fought the battle knowing he'd lose it, knowing that he was
      something more than a man, and that she was something more than a woman.
      Knowing he'd take her in any way he could think of, and that there was no
      stopping the momentum.

      The only thought he clung to as he growled, clasping her hand and climbing
      on top of her, the only thought that remained was that it had to be soft and
      good. Pleasure. Ecstasy. And nothing else. No pain, nothing to make her
      think it had to hurt.

      Her body was soft and pliant beneath his, arching up to mold to him in every
      place that it should. She moaned and whimpered in pleasure, mewling softly
      as he cupped a breast in his hand and laved the soft fabric covering it with
      his tongue. She cried out as he slid the straps of her nightgown off,
      pulling it down far enough so that he could circle a nipple with the tip of
      his gloved finger.

      She was molten beneath him, her hips grinding up into his as he pulled her
      nightgown off all the way and carefully, so carefully, pulled her naked body
      tight against his clothed one. He rolled to his side, keeping her flat on
      her back as he ran hands over all of her, watching her face so carefully as
      he touched and caressed and drove noises from her that made his muscles

      He watched her eyes as they drifted open, searching for pain, searching for

      They were a mystery, and it disturbed him. It bothered him that he couldn't
      see the pleasure in her eyes clearly. He growled even deeper, his hands
      sliding between her legs. Warm, so warm he could feel the heat through his
      gloves, and he growled and hid his face in her hair because he couldn't hold
      on, couldn't keep the shreds of his sanity together as she started to thrash
      against him.

      Her hip was pressed tightly to his groin, and every buck of her hips sent
      tremors of pleasure through him. His breathing got heavier as he found the
      place that made her scream, her hips rubbing against him as she begged
      shamelessly for more, faster, more.

      His lips were so close to her ear, just the fall of her hair blocking him.
      He began to whisper, not knowing what he was saying or why, not caring.
      "Come on, Marie, come on--" Senseless pleas punctuated by groans as she slid
      against his erection, her body twisting into him and making him see stars.

      "That's right honey, that's right," he begged as her hands flew up to grasp
      his arm, her body starting to tense. "Oh god Marie it's good, it's good
      without the pain it's good--"

      Her body came apart in his arms, sliding so jerkily against his groin that
      he growled and clenched his eyes shut and cursed his lack of control as his
      body let go, and he knew that his pants would be damp and he'd mock himself
      later but now all that mattered was the fact that she was crying in release
      and he was with her.

      And he floated there--in blissful tandem--until he heard her choked sob as
      her body started trembling, and her voice whimpering softly.

      The words tore him in two.

      "Hurts it hurts, oh god it wasn't supposed to hurt this much--"

      Ice flooded his veins as he opened his eyes and stared down at himself,
      gloved hand resting between her pale legs.

      What the hell had he done.

      He tried to get her to open her eyes, to look at him--but she kept them
      clenched shut as she continued to whisper, her hands balled into fists at
      her side. "Wasn't supposed to hurt so much, it wasn't supposed to hurt like
      that--wasn't supposed to be so good--"

      "Why did it hurt, Marie?" God what had he done to her. He'd shattered her
      somehow. Because he couldn't keep his hands to himself, he'd shattered her.

      Eyes opened finally, and the self-loathing in their depths cut at him.
      "Because you don't love me. It hurts because your doing it--" her breath
      caught, and she choked back a sob as she pushed him away, scrambling from
      the bed. "--you're just doing it to fix me. And I let you, I knew it would
      hurt and I let you because I wanted it--wanted it to feel good and wanted it
      to hurt--"

      She tugged on her nightgown and wrapped trembling arms around her body. "I'm
      sorry, Logan--but it hurt too much. I can't--I can't do it. It hurts too

      He tried to stay, tried to talk to her, tried to do /something/ but she just
      sat there and shook her head, refusing to listen, and finally asked him to
      leave her room.

      So he went to his room and he changed his pants and went downstairs and
      found the liquor cabinet restocked.

      Three bottles of the expensive scotch fit under one arm, and a bunch of
      cigars got shoved in his pocket. He went out on the roof and stared up at
      the moon as he drank.

      And he hated himself.


      She found him on the roof.

      They'd asked her to look for him because she was the one least likely to get
      a bellyful of metal. Jean was with Rogue, who'd come crying to her room a
      few hours before and Scott had his own problems with Logan and the last
      thing they were going to do was let Remy anywhere near him.

      So Ororo wandered the house before finding a window hanging open, and
      glanced outside to see a man sprawled on his back.

      There were three empty bottles next to him, and for a moment Ororo was
      terrified before she remembered it was Logan--and he /probably/ wouldn't die
      form alcohol poisoning.

      He had a pulse, but the minute her fingers landed on it his hand was wrapped
      around her wrist and she found her body pressed into the ground, his leaning
      on top of her with his fist to her forehead.

      He sniffed once before releasing her in disgust, and Ororo took a deep
      breath, fighting the claustrophobia as she shoved up at him, trying to get
      him /off/ of her.

      "Had a little too much to drink?"

      The man rolled over to his back and groaned. "Not nearly enough. I woke up."

      Ororo blinked. "Are you alright, Logan?"

      "No, I'm not alright." Logan covered his face with one hand and shook his
      head slowly. "Go get Jean. Tell her to go to Marie's room. I--I should
      probably leave."

      She froze, every sense on alert. "I think you should stay here," she said
      slowly. Afraid of what could have happened between them. They'd been so
      happy--seemed so normal . . .

      "If I don't leave, Scott's going to throw me out on my ass anyway." She
      watched Logan push himself to his feet, swaying. He was obviously still a
      long way from sober.

      Which could be a problem. Charles had told her in no uncertain terms that
      Logan was not to leave. If it looked like she couldn't stop him, she was to
      call for him at once, and he'd take care of it.

      As she moved to put a hand on his shoulder, Logan's claws popped out, and
      she realized she might have to.


      //Yes, Ororo?//

      Ororo stepped in front of Logan. "Don't go, Logan. Please."

      He growled and lifted his hands in a threatening gesture. "Outta my way,

      //I can't keep him here.//

      From far away, Ororo felt something almost like a sigh. Logan was moving
      towards her as she backed up, keeping between him and the window. Logan
      growled, making it clear he wasn't going to let her keep him away.

      If Charles didn't do something soon . . .

      //Make sure he doesn't hurt himself when he falls.//

      Two seconds later, Logan was lolling on the ground, his claws vanishing
      inside his hands. Kneeling down, Ororo straightened his head gently,
      brushing his hair back. //He's alright.//

      //Good. Scott and Remy will be there to bring him in. Stay with him until

      The Goddess of the winds sighed, staring down at Logan's suddenly peaceful

      Whatever had happened--it wasn't just between him and Rogue anymore. It was
      running deeper--far deeper.

      They had to pull out somehow.


      Scott had never actively wanted to kill a member of his team before.

      Holding a trembling Rogue in his arms as Jean knelt in front of her and
      tried to get her to talk to him was enough reason to change his mind.

      The girl was heartbroken. Terrified. She wouldn't look them in the eyes or
      say anything about what had happened, but it seemed clear enough to Scott.

      Logan had forced himself on the girl. And the thought of it made Scott want
      to kill.

      "I hurt him again," she kept mumbling, over and over, and Scott's fury grew
      as he tightened his arms, meeting Jean's sickened eyes.

      She was as upset as he was.

      And it was his fault. He never should have called Logan. Never should have
      given him the opportunity to walk back into their lives. He'd been fine on
      his own, and they'd been fine here--and Rogue would have recovered with a
      little time.

      But he'd panicked, and he'd called the man who had proved before that he'd
      do anything to save Rogue.

      Some things never change. Others do. It wasn't his fault that this had been
      one of the later . . . but the guilt still cut deep.

      "I hurt him, I hurt him, I didn't mean to make him do it." Rogue's eyes were
      squeezed shut. "I didn't want to hurt him again."

      She thought it was her fault. She thought she'd /made/ him do whatever it
      was that he had done.

      She sounded like a rape victim, and his anger jumped another notch.

      Logan was unconscious in the other room, strapped to the table. Scott wanted
      to go in there and wake him up, pound him to the ground and make him bleed.
      Hurt him. Hurt him for every second's pain he'd caused the girl trembling in
      his arms.

      Jean was still whispering to Rogue, her hands resting on the younger woman's
      shoulders. After a long while, Rogue's sobs slowed and stopped, and she
      opened her eyes.

      "I don't want you to see what I am," Rogue said softly. "That's why I can't
      show you what I did to him."


      For as long as she could remember, Jean had never been quite this angry.

      She'd seen friends hurt before. She was a doctor--her job was to fix up her
      team when their enemies got too rough.

      She wasn't supposed to have to protect them from each other.

      Rogue was sleeping under Scott's watchful eye, her mind numbed by careful
      application of a light sedative.

      She'd forbidden Scott to come follow her in to check on Logan. He thought it
      was because of how angry he was--but he was wrong.

      Jean didn't want any witnesses.

      The door slid shut behind her, and she activated the lock before walking
      around to the head of the table, staring down that the man laid out upon it.

      What she was about to do was worse than rape. Worse than anything. The
      Professor would be furious--/Logan/ would be furious . . . but she had to do
      it. She /had/ to know what had gone on . . . what Logan was thinking.

      What Logan had done. Because if he'd done what she thought she'd done . . .

      She'd /help/ Scott throw the bastard out.

      Her hands rested softly on the his temples, his head twitching briefly at
      the contact even heavily sedated. Clenching her eye shut, she focused all of
      her will and pushed.

      Inside his head was chaos.


      Rogue dangled on the end of his claws, her body already bleeding sluggishly.
      The light fading from her eyes.

      // . . . I stabbed her I stabbed her oh god what have I done . . . //

      Fingers, small delicate fingers, reached towards him. Brushed his face,
      brushed him so gently. He felt pain, pulling, tugging--and something else.
      Her voice, inside his head.

      // . . . feels good, Logan. You. It's you. It's you inside me and it feels
      good, god it hurts, Logan. It hurts . . . //

      Pleasure in her eyes as she lifted a hand to the wounds in her chest.

      // . . . don't want her to think that pleasure is pain . . . //

      His own face in a dirty mirror, eyes bloodshot from too much to drink.

      // . . . I hurt her, warped her, destroyed her--and going back will only
      make it worse . . . //

      A mangled phone, his claws raking at a broken desk.

      // . . . twisted her. I took that bright, sweet, innocent girl--and I warped
      her. Sullied her. I should have left her on the road in Canada . . . //

      Her door. The smell of blood and pain lingering in the air as he smashed the
      lock in. Marie. Sitting on her bed, eyes wide, making herself bleed.

      // . . . nothing has ever hurt this bad. She's mutilating herself because of
      me. Because it reminds her of me. Because /pain/ reminds her of me . . . //

      Marie staring up at him, her eyes wide, her hands clutching at his as she
      rubbed her body into him.

      // . . . can't do it--can't--can't--oh god, stop Marie, stop--I can't--I
      can't stop . . . //

      Her body arching beneath him, crying out, screaming his name.

      // . . . just pleasure, just pleasure--Marie it's for you . . . //

      Wide, tear filled brown eyes. Her pain, and his. His heart breaking as she
      turned her back on him. Told him to leave.

      // . . . I deserve death . . . //


      . . . continued in part 3 . . .

      Darth Diebin
      Loyal Bodyguard to the President of PETS
      -=People for the Ethical Treatment of Scott=-
      Keeper of all of Her Own Fic

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