The Softtail shivers and moans underneath him, and he strokes her flank and thinks she's true and whole and fucking there. That's how pathetic he's become, when 'there' counts for something. He remembers how he used to be, running and hiding and not even willing to smile at a woman because she might want him to stay. He wants that again, needs it back, and this is how he's going to do it. A clean break. He knows he needs to go, but he's here now, and it's hard. This place always makes a liar of him.

Logan throttles her down, coasts into the garage and unwraps himself from the bike, each vertebra popping as he stretches to full length. Old bones, old body. Just another reason he's got no business yearning for her. Too young. Too damaged. Too fucking taken, he reminds himself, but yeah. Lying. Taken doesn't mean squat. Never has.

Other men's wives were his favourite, for a long time. Didn't get clingy. Didn't get complicated. Fuck and run, and when he swung back through, fuck 'em again. But he never counted on losing interest in that life, on wanting something more.

Never counted on pure temptation in his camper, or exchanging souls in a fancy room in the biggest house he's ever seen. He shoulda been getting' on with leavin', but instead he was watching a curvy teenager wettin' her lips with a pink, pink tongue, and teachin' her how to put a man down with a kick and a punch. Busy tryin' to keep his hands out of her hair and off her ass, because she's got him all figured out and he's lyin' awake at night, cock in hand, tryin' to figure out what to do about it.

She was too young to fuck, but his own lust was staring back at him from huge brown eyes, and when she got him alone, gloved hands inevitably made their way south, full speed to fuckin' perdition. Was her mouth that did him in, though. Girl was good with her hands, but when he dreams, they're full of the things she could do with those red lips and that clever little tongue. The day she confessed she'd been having those dreams too was the day he should'a left, but instead, he's joining the team, all the X-men calling him a hero and clappin' him on the back for deciding to stick around. It made him feel like shit, because they both knew he's just waiting.

She found her switch a week short of her nineteenth birthday. He was rooting through the fridge for a beer when Yella and the Icekid started gossiping about her getting control, and he slammed the damn thing shut and headed out. Found her deep in the woods, and he still has nightmares about that day.

Didn't even kiss her. Didn't get the chance to - maybe he was whispering dirty things in her head, because her hands were at his belt before she'd even said hello.

“I heard,” he told her, and fuck, he'd never been that hard. (Fingers trailing along his cock. Bare. Grabbing his ass. Bare. Sliding his jeans down past his knees, dropping little kisses as she went.)

“Thought so,” she replied, and “mmmm,” because her mouth was full, hot madness around him, licking and sucking and tasting and not expert, not the best he's had, but fuck. It's Marie. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness, the slobber and scrape of her mouth making his cock pulse, the thought of being inside her, of owning her, of shaping her, of making her his … his balls drew up and he was fucking her mouth, no mercy, slamming into her face. He was probably hurting her, halfway down her throat, but that's not why he pulled back. He was beginning to spurt, and he wanted to see it. Wanted to see her sticky with him, cum coating her lips and on her cheek and in her hair. Needed to see it and smell it and lick it from her skin.

Two years there, and he'd been thinking he was almost human again. He'd been getting closer every day. His soul should'a been screamin' as he made her take it, jerkin' into her face and onto her tongue and liftin' her up and ripping her jeans down so he could taste her too, clumsy fingers in her cunt, sweet and virgen-tight. Growls start ripping out of his chest, and she's shocked, maybe even scared, but he didn't stop. Didn't even slow down, backing her up against a tree, shoving her knees apart and pushin' straight into her.

Snarling and growling and grunting like any animal in rut, he remembers, and the shame rises. Was that when he corrupted her? That first time, that should have been about love, and tenderness, and all those things she had in her heart, but didn't like to show? Did he murder soft, and sweet, and slow?

She'd come, sure. She'd come fuckin' hard. But ...

She'd been a little wet, but not enough, so he made her suck his fingers until they were slippery, and then slid 'em down to find her clit. They'd done this before, but never bare, and he'd never attacked her quite like that - pinches and hard pulls and vicious little flicks that had her spitting obscenities even as the slick and slurp of her told him something else. “Fucking move already!” she ordered, and he let loose, slamming into her over and over until she convulsed around him, her cunt a merciless fist squeezing tight around his cock. In the burn of that moment, crippled and blinded by his own orgasm, he let out everything he'd been keeping inside, and swore there'd never be another woman. He'd never leave. Never stop loving her.

Lies, mostly.

Didn't even make it a year together before they ran him off with their psychobabble. Some of it might'a been true - he and Rogue weren't always good together, too much yellin' and screamin' and gettin' off on adrenalin and blood. Those fuckers didn't get to see the quiet times, though, the way she wrapped around him after she came, or the tears in his eyes when he tasted her on his tongue, tangy and perfect and his.

She was young, sure, and neither of 'em were what you'd call balanced, but the dogooders were pretty fucking keen to tell him what she felt wasn't real. That it was just him in her head. He wanted to tell 'em that it wasn't him begging to go harder, wanting it to hurt, but that's when he began to wonder. Maybe it is him. He knows his heart is flawed; he knows what makes him weak – and maybe she's taking those things from him. Learnin' them.

He takes the road. Roars off in anger then stays away, licking his wounds. A year turns into two, but the accusations are still ugly in his ears, and he's not ready to go back. And then the invitation arrives, silver and green like her, and he needs the forest around him, holding him tight, soothing him. Locking him away, because it's only 42 hours to Westchester and he wants to burn the fuckin' place down.

Takes him a month to believe it, and another month to be able to think about it without needing to gut something. He can't believe it's a coincidence she gave him three months notice, because by that last month, he's learned to lie to himself.

It's for the best, he said. She's better off without me. She must really love him …

Her husband was a tall, red-eyed son-of-a-bitch with a few handy tricks and a ridiculous fucking accent. Remy, he called himself. All the time – Remy dis, Remy dat. He wanted to punch the fucker every time he heard that Cajun twang, but everyone was watching him like a timebomb set to explode, and he didn't want to give them the satisfaction.

And she does love him. He watched them laugh their way through the bridal waltz and could see it in her face. It hurt like a bastard, but he was happy, too, because she deserved that, something whole and healthy. Something he was never gonna be, and they both knew it. So she moved on.

But then it was their turn to dance, and his hands moved of their own accord, light over her shoulders, skimming over her waist, bracketing her hips for a moment before settling on the small of her back. She made a tiny noise, and her scent rose, forcing pretence out the window. His claws inched out and her skin yielded with a trickle of blood and a gush of arousal. That little gasp, the convulsive roll of her hips – it was all so familiar (oh god, there, Logan, please, touch me there) that he yanked her closer when she went to move away.

She looked up at him, begging, her eyes huge with shock and disillusionment. He let her go, but they'd both learnt a hard lesson. She's weak, and there's only one way he'll ever be able to leave her alone. He locks himself away for the rest of the night, then says goodbye.

“Gonna take the road,” he shrugged, and her smile was relieved and grateful.

He headed west, then north, then east again before Xavier caught up with him in Toronto, full of fine words about a mission to Japan that needed his expertise. Then China, then Vietnam, even Irian Jaya, tracking a mutant criminal as he toured the world's seedier fleshpots. Eats into your soul, living like that. Makes you crave home, something clean and warm.

Made him crave Marie.

Xavier's got a little house on the edge of the old town of New Orleans, and Marie opened the door with a wide smile, obviously expectin' anyone but him. She tried to turn him away, but he knows which strings to pull, and soon he was in her shower, and then her kitchen.

And then he was exactly where he wanted to be – balls deep, watching her scrabble for something to hold on to as he bent her over the kitchen table, feet leaving the floor with every thrust. He was putting horns onto her husband, and making her into a Jezebel. He hates it, hates how good it felt, so he slapped her ass and pulled her hair and marvelled at how hard she came when he got rough.

He asked her, the next time, what the tattoo meant. “Repentance,” she said, and he laughed in her face.

“Bullshit. You're not sorry. You just feel guilty about how much you like it,” he jeered, and the murderous look in her eyes told him he was right.

Sin by sin, she becomes a canvas, and by the time the eleventh tattoo blooms on her body, he knows it's got to stop. They've tried before, but this time it's got to stick - fuck by sordid fuck, he's losing his soul. He takes the road north and locks himself away for another Canadian winter.

He waits until spring break, when he knows hardly anyone will be home. He can't risk seeing her, but he wants the photograph he keeps in his dresser drawer, and several paintings she'd gifted him over the years. He's got a lockup in Vancouver, and he won't be coming back to Westchester again.

The moon is pouring through the long windows as he makes his way towards the stairs, and he drinks in the uncharacteristic quiet of the place, and tries to ignore all the memories. The light on the second floor suggests someone is still up, and given it's close to midnight, he figures one of the year-round kids has left the light on.

He's wrong, and that sleepy, delighted smile spells his doom, because he can't fuck this feeling away, dull it with drink or drown it in the fights. Her lips offer up drugging kisses that go on forever, and when she pulls him down on top of her, they lie together for a moment, breathing each other in. It soon heats up, but it's everything he ever wanted for her, and in the moments he'll never admit to, for himself. Soft, and sweet, and slow, and when they're done, she's content to snuggle in his arms and listen to his heartbeat as they ease into sleep.

Whatever they've got, it's messy and complicated and far from pure. But it deserves a chance, just like they do. He was done giving up on them, Logan thinks as his eyes drift shut. Done running away.

Next time he takes the road, he'll be following her.

fin

Disclaimer: This fanfiction was written for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement on the rights of the intellectual property owners is intended.