All he wants is a girl he can fuck.
Preferably a blonde -- No, scratch that. Preferably someone who's not a redhead or, Christ, a brunette. Definitely no brunette's on the menu tonight.
His requirements are pretty damn simple, really. No Westchester-types, no-one wearing gloves, and a girl - - correction, a woman -- who's old enough not to be tempted to scream 'daddy' when she comes.
So he sits down at the bar and orders a beer, can't quite keep himself from remembering another bar, another beer, and a girl that he thinks about far too often for morality's sake. He's left alone by just about everyone, save the bartender, and there are no women coming on hot and heavy just yet. Right now he's dangerous, yeah, but so's just about every man who swaggers into this part of town at this time of night. They're waiting to see what he can do, if he can use those large fists to put someone down, put someone out . If -- when -- he succeeds, they'll either press around him like bitches trying to hump his leg, or approach him separately, slyly, telling him he's so hot, so sexy, he makes them so wet, and there's an alley out back that is just made for skirts-up, jeans-unzipped fucking.
Oh yeah, after the fight, in the cage or just a commonplace bar brawl, he'll have every opportunity in the world - and then some - to get laid. In a few hours he'll have his pick of women, of men, even, and his hand'll be slick between some girl's legs, fingers pumping briefly just before he replaces them with his cock. Her eyes will be big and brown and shiny, with lust and innocence, and the combination- Oh, God, the combination will just about make him come on that first thrust into her tight body. That, and knowing that that look in her eyes, the musk and heat of her pussy are just for him.
His every thrust will cause her to clutch at his shoulders, her legs wrapped awkwardly around his waist as she doesn't quite know what to do, her dark hair pressing damply to her temples from the heat outside, the heat inside. And he knows he'll have to work a little harder to make her come before he does, because for once there's no false advertising, and she really is as innocent as the shy tilt of her head suggests, and she's so beautiful and so pure and so fucking his that his cock feels like it's about to explode. His hand will tangle in her hair, yank her head back to expose the vulnerable line of smooth white throat, and while he wants to bite, desperately wants to break the skin so she'll be forced to remember this, and him, forever, he can't abide the thought of hurting her. At least, not that badly. So he'll release his hold, slightly, and let his gaze fall to her mouth. He'll stare at that lush, wet, passion-swollen mouth that so reminds him of the wet folds his cock is buried in, stare at it for so long that her heart rate speeds up, and she gets even wetter and hotter and maybe begins to wonder how just contemplating a kiss is turning her on just as much as his being inside her is.
Only when she's so aroused by the thought of it that she's arching up, begging him wordlessly with her body and her throaty moans to kiss her, to end the torment and the wondering, will he do what he's wanted to since he first saw her.
He'll dip his head, just a little, and lick her lower lip. He'll do it that way, slowly instead of simply diving in, because he's a hunter at heart, and making his prey wait, anticipate what's coming and yet be unable to do anything about it only heightens the desire. He'd have another reason, however, one that isn't anywhere near as feral, but is just as basic. He'd want to acquaint himself with the taste of her, the tang that the warmth of the evening coats on her lips, the faintly bitter hint of his sweat from where she bit his shoulder, the sweet glide that is all her, only her. He'll press his lips to hers in a kiss that is chaste for the moment, but then, oh then, he'd nudge her lips apart with his knowing tongue, and just sink into her before she has a chance to make a sound.
Her mouth will hum while he traps her words with his avid mouth, his greedy tongue, and while her eyes are wide and startled and just a little bit wary, he'll be exploring her, stroking and plunging and fucking devouring her luscious pink mouth the same way he's exploring and plunging into, fucking and devouring her luscious little body. When her tongue touches his and her eyes are still wide and a little wary, but hotter than sin and just as tempting, he'll growl and she'll moan and he'll teach her how to kiss a man so that he'll never be able to think of kissing, or lips or teeth or tongues without thinking of her. He will, only-
She's already accomplished that with him, without his having to teach her anything at all.
He'll suck on her tongue until his cock aches with need, until she's close to screaming for release, and then he'll grip her hips and withdraw a little and then thrust back in, and he'll be fucking her so hard she won't be able to walk the next the day.
His hand, the one not working her hips, will slide down her back and beneath her skirt and through the damp curls and over the slippery skin so it can work her clit. So he'll be able to ride her and not have to worry about moving her anywhere but on and over and up and down his cock, and then he can concentrate on just how deep inside her he is, how embedded in that so-recently virginal body. He'll have penetrated her so fully she'll never be rid of him, and the idea of that will make his balls tighten with that throbbing tension and he knows it's going to be incredible. He'll pinch her clit, hard, and slam into her so that her back will be imprinted with the rough brick of the alley wall, and then...
He'll pull back one more time, thrust in one more time, and he'll come in a blaze of fire and wanting and hot seed, and when her muscles clamp and shiver around his cock, he'll know that he's never experienced anything like it, and not simply because his orgasm has never been that powerful before, that draining, that... fulfilling.
He'll hold her till the tremors ease a little and then he'll kiss her mouth, softly, and her name will be a benediction on his lips.
"Marie..."
And when his mind rejoins his body, he's at the bar, still alone, still drinking beer, and as frustrated as he's ever been in his remembered life.
She's too young for those kinds of thoughts, too good, and infinitely too precious. On top of all that, she's untouchable, and his fantasies could never be realized. He ignores the voice that reminds him of all the ways around that particular barrier, and reaches for his beer.
It's only when he notices that his hand is shaking slightly that he decides to take action. He needs a fight, and he needs a fuck.
He slams the near-empty glass down on the bar-top and makes his way towards the cage.
He's in the alley outside the bar, and the woman he's chosen for tonight is a pretty, knowledgeable blonde with hard blue eyes and a firmly athletic body. His hand is on her waist and he's whispering to her that he wants her, so badly, and while it isn't exactly the truth and she's only temporary, he sees no reason to make her feel that way.
She tells him that she likes it good and rough, and she's on her knees before he can say another word. It's while she's unzipping his jeans that he notices she's wearing gloves, and he has an uncomfortable moment of wondering if he chose her subconsciously for that very reason.
Then her gloved hand reaches into his jeans and he realizes, shockingly, that he can't do this, not with the memory of her and his fantasy still fresh in the forefront of his mind.
He pulls the woman up and zips his jeans and tells her that he's sorry but it isn't going to happen, not tonight. And he's surprised when she remarks, with great perceptiveness, that a quick fuck behind a bar is no compensation for holding the woman he loves in his arms.
He shakes his head, because he doesn't love Marie, he really doesn't, and when the thought comes to him that he'd also said he didn't desire her, and yet she's starring in his most erotic fantasies, he wants to pop the claws because it's a little too logical for this hour and a little too honest for a man looking for reasons to stay away.
But... Perhaps, he admits grudgingly, as he walks back into the bar, he cares about her a little. Still, that little is enough to ensure that he won't go near her, not for a few years at least, not until she's of an age where fucking her is acceptable. And yes, dammit, he's fully aware that she's seventeen and legal back in New York -- it's one of the main reasons he left -- but she's still so much a girl, so much an innocent.
Although, technically, she isn't. Not really. Because she's borrowed memories and she's borrowed years that aren't her own, and the last time he'd seen her she hadn't been truly seventeen anymore, but...
There are other reasons to stay away.
He takes a drink and tries to remember them all, but every beer he has, every shot of bourbon and tequila, and Christ, even whiskey, tastes like the tinge of smoke that had clung to her hair when he'd given her his tags, and he knows that she had that scent because of his habits, knows also that he's probably tasting his own cigar smoke at the back of his throat, but the notion remains.
It unsettles him just enough that he orders more drinks than even he can put down and walk away from, and this time, this time it's worse. This time they taste like her lips, like summer and sweat and purity and sweetness, and he snarls at the shot glasses lining the counter, because when the hell had they started flavoring his drinks with her taste?
He licks his lips and can almost hear her voice in his head, murmuring, moaning, something about promises, and before he's fully aware of what he's doing, he's thrown down enough cash to cover his drinks plus a hefty tip for the bartender, and he's headed out the door.
Because maybe he doesn't need a girl he can just fuck and leave. Maybe-
Maybe he just needs Marie.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This is slightly more explicit than my usual fics. Thanks to: Karen, Helena, Caroline and Heather for previewing. Dedication: to Heather, for everything.