We are sitting at the end of the dock, poles resting on the weathered wood, lines cast slackly into the water. It’s quiet. I hear him breathing next to me, hear a fish jump near the far shore of the lake. The light has started to shift and cast evergreen shadows on the stilling water. It occurs to me that we haven’t spoken in minutes, maybe a half hour. I don’t remember the light shifting across the water, the sun rolling slowly behind the trees. I have been sitting and staring into space for a long while.
A warm wind picks up over the lake, rustling the trees, and I feel a breeze on my ankle. I look down with impossible wonder that my legs are bare, the freshly shaved skin so sensitive to every current of air. I kick my legs back and forth, but my bare feet don’t quite touch the water’s surface. My toenails are painted a deep dark purple.
I graduated from college last weekend. This was Logan’s idea of a graduation present. A three day trip in the mountains. He’s not a jewelry or flowers kind of guy. Or one to give the Complete Shakespeare I got from Wheels, or the pretty necklace from Jean and Scott.
Besides, we’re only friends. Beer buddies. Pool buddies. Partners in crime. Danger Room sparring partners. The fact that I can control my skin for the most part has only served to murk up the waters of our relationship, not, contrary to popular belief, catalyze some sort of tempestuous white-hot union.
There is tension, sometimes pleasant, sometimes not. But mostly he’s my best friend, as he’s always been, ever since he returned from Alkali.
The day is cooling only slightly, and the soft wood below us holds the residual sun-warmth. I lay back on the dock with my feet up, get an eyeful of blue sky. It’s beautiful out here.
It suits him. It suits us. This is the most peaceful I’ve ever seen him. He is at his best, at his most healed in nature, and it does me good to see it. I’ve crashed on his couch and awakened to his screams more times than I care to count.
“What’s wrong, kid? You tired?”
I see him looking at me, as if right through me. I feel that warm hum I get sometimes when he is looking down at me and I’m wondering what he is feeling.
“Nope. Just chillin’.”
This is the extent of Logan’s neurosis - this trip is his gift to me, but he’s afraid he’ll enjoy it more than me. He needn’t worry. I always have fun when I’m with him. Even that time were upstate and his truck was stolen, leaving us stranded at closing outside a shitty bar. Even that time when we were stoned and he decided he was going to crash my eight a.m. biochem class with me and I was certain everyone around us could tell we were baked.
“Logan.”
“Hmm.”
“The dock is warm.”
He looks at me as if I have three heads, eyebrow up, a look that has long since stopped to faze me. “O-kay,” he says.
“It’s warm and it sways,” I say, moving from side to side. The dock sways gently in response.
“You’re very observant,” he says, giving me the grin I love best.
“Lie down and look at the sky, you’ll see. It‘s very cool.”
One of the things I adore most about him is that sometimes I am whimsical and silly, but he accepts it at face value, doesn‘t make fun of me for it (at least not much), and embraces it wholly. He leans his rod against the forked stick and leans back, lying next to me, exhaling softly. The metal weight of his body makes my side of the dock rise up, then lower, as equilibrium is reached.
He is quiet for a minute, seeing what I see. His chest rises and falls slowly under his warm white tee shirt.
He turns and I feel him looking at me. I don’t look back, just watch a crow swoop and caw from this strange perspective down the other side of the lake.
He looks for a few long seconds, then turns his head back to the sky. We lie there like that for minutes.
“Logan?”
“Hmm.”
“What’s the wildest thing you ever did?”
He huffs out an amused breath, not quite a chuckle. “Probably rescued your ass from the Statue of Liberty.”
“I mean sexually, doofus.”
It is very quiet. Without consciously deciding to make the choice, it seemed, I’ve upset the equilibrium.
He is quiet. This is new and sensitive territory for us. Due to societal and physical restraints I am only newly touchable. That potential has stretched endlessly between us, things unsaid gaping like a chasm. We’ve never talked about sex before, though we’ve shared other illicit misadventures: alcohol, marijuana, and petty theft (which I prefer to think of as merely a particularly ingenious prank).
“Why’d you wanna know that?”
“Why not? I’m sure you have some pretty good stories. Besides, I know all the other dirt on you, so you might as well tell me.” I glance over to gauge his reaction, suddenly nervous. I hope he doesn’t smell it on me. His face is deliberately inscrutable. I look back to the sky, feign calmness.
“You sure you wanna know this?”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“Okay. Hmm. Let me think.”
So, he’s been busy.
For a second I feel jealousy, then I remind myself to breathe. My own vitae in that area is comparatively blank.
“Well,” he said, and I sense that he’s editing the story for my benefit, which irritates me. “I was with two women once, that was the only thing wild about it.”
“Really?” I said, intrigued. “Were they hot?”
He thought. “I honestly don’t remember. It was like ten or twelve years ago.”
“Well, was the sex hot? I mean, that’s supposed to be the holy grail of sexual experiences for a guy, right, two chicks at the same time?”
That was the singular upside of being untouchable. I was one of the guys, privy to The Man Show and locker room talk The guys came to me with their girl troubles. And the girls came to me with their guy troubles, assuming I understood the male psyche so much better. The irony of it was that I had zero experience at the time.
“It...” I glance over and see to my delight that he is blushing. I bite my lip to let him finish.
“Yeah. Hell yeah, it was hot,” he says quietly.
Logan, aroused. I feel myself flush in key places.
“That is hot. Tell me about it,” I say.
He looks at me, incredulous. He’s cute when he’s
baffled. “Why?”
“'Cause, I think it’s hot. And it's not like I've had a wealth of my own experiences, duh.”
He is quiet now. I look over to see that he is biting his lip. Yeah, this is the singular and very effective way to flummox the Wolverine. Good to know.
“Well, these two women and I were at this bar in the middle of a snowstorm. They had an apartment above it. I knew the owner, and he was their friend, so sort of as a favor to him they let me crash, or at least that’s what I thought.”
“Yeah, so then what? Did they just simultaneously put the moves on you?” I ask, looking over at him.
His gaze flicks nervously to mine. “No, one was in the shower, and the other one came up behind me and started kissing my neck-”
I can’t help the half-hiss, half-gasp that comes out of me. The thought of kissing his neck is so hot. The thought of him being turned on by someone kissing his neck is hot...
Oh, shit. He’s looking at me. The look in his eyes is complex and nothing like any look he’s given me before.
“What?” he asks. I have never seen him this flustered.
“I didn’t say anything.” I laugh, then look back to the sky. “So were these two women doing each other too, or just you?”
Logan sits up then, suddenly all tension.
“So what about you, Marie? What’s the wildest thing you ever did?” It hurts like a kick in the teeth, not because he says it with anger, because I know he thinks I have never done a thing.
Turnabout, and fair play and all that.
“Made out with Scarlet Witch and Gambit at a party.”
I see his eyes widen in profile, because he won’t turn to face me.
“Yeah, it was junior year of college, and I was having this party. Wanda made this bet that she could disable my mutation with her own. I never woulda let her try it but she was drunk and she just did, and pow, no mutation. Of course she tested it by leaning in and kissing me. Her lips were so soft, it-”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Well, we’re friends, and friends talk about stuff like this, right?” It sounds weak, even as I say it.
“That you made out with two other X-Men?”
“I’ve even got pictures.”
Then he turns to stare at me. If I thought the look in his eyes was complex before, well, this is nothing. The emotions there are practically roiling.
I see anger there, and maybe jealousy, and sadness, and frustration. And desire. I see desire in his eyes, not that I haven’t before, but it has a focused quality now that changes everything.
Our whole world turns on the axis of that desire, and everything changes.
“Why does this make you so uncomfortable? I thought I was your friend, your equal.”
“I didn’t say you weren't.”
“Whatever. I guess we can bullshit and hang out and I can be one of the guys, but that’s always it, huh? I don‘t really qualify to have my own stuff going on, do I?” And suddenly I don’t know what I’m talking about, but it’s not this.
And simultaneously I know exactly what I’m talking about. It’s an old wound, made obsolete by my touchable skin, but the pain lingers. And most of it has nothing to do with him. I know he’s kept his distance for other reasons, legitimate and respectable reasons. I look away, at the cat o’ nine tails lining the marshy shore.
I’ve learned that when Logan gets silent to be patient. It doesn’t mean that he is ignoring me, just trying to formulate his thoughts. It takes some time when he is angry or upset, as he clearly is now.
“Marie, I don’t know-”
I wait, but he doesn’t finish the sentence. I sit up too, kick my bare legs again, but suddenly I am cold.
“You don’t wanna talk about this now?” I say gently, suddenly overcome with love for him. My best friend.
He shakes his head back and forth, not looking at me, not saying anything.
“Okay. I’m gonna go get started on these fish.” I caress his ear with the back of my hand, pull the stringer out of the lake, and with it the five or six silvery fish we have caught, and walk away.
The walk back to the cabin takes several minutes. I set up with old newspaper and a filleting knife on the picnic table in back. My mood is well-suited to killing, gutting, and cleaning the fish. Three trout, one catfish, and two of something neither of us could identify. The precision of it is grounding. First a good konk on the head to kill them quickly. First sever the heads, then a slit down the belly, It’s easy to clean out the centers. The analogy is not lost on me. I’m taking something complex and breaking it down into component parts. It’s the scaling that gets tricky. I save the catfish for last, working around his barbs and whiskers. I keep working though, determined to finish this, as if I have to prove something.
It’s nearly dark by the time I’m done scaling the last fish, and I’m sweaty, fishy, and scaly. I put the meat in the fridge and then go directly to the shower, peeling off my clothes. The water stream heats up and the pressure is surprisingly good for a cabin in the woods.
I hear him come back inside. I press my forehead to the tile of the small shower. What was I thinking? I hope I haven’t ruined things, upset a delicate balance.
My motives are damn obvious to me. I had every intention of inflaming him, of deliberately and forcefully making him see me as something other than a child. Guilt hits me hard.
There is a knock at the door. I am suddenly very aware of the sheer shower curtain.
“Yeah?”
He cracks the door open but does not come in, or look in for that matter.
“We eating in tonight?” His voice is normal. He isn’t mad. It comforts me.
“I guess, the fish are ready to be cooked.”
“Okay.”
I shampoo my hair and over the water’s hiss I hear him outside splitting logs into kindling. I am apparently not the only one who finds solace in purposeful, forceful activity.
I finish showering and realize that I have no clean clothes to change into. Freudian slip-up, I tell myself, giving myself a smack on the forehead. He is still outside splitting wood, though, so I take the opportunity to dash up into the loft in a towel, my feet smacking wetly on the rough stairs.
Comfortably dressed in clean clothes, I come down the stairs, combing my hair as he comes in with an armful of kindling. It is much more than we’d need to cook a week’s worth of dinners.
“Don’t think you have enough wood there, Bub,” I say, and with a grin. He grins back. Yeah, we’re best friends, and everything again seems normal on the surface.
We get busy making dinner, and since we are busy the time passes quickly. He turns the radio on to an AM blues station, and Billie Holliday’s voice fills the cabin.
I dart a glance at his ass as he bends over and plucks foil-wrapped corn from the fireplace.
“Beer?” I ask, turning my eyes away.
“Yeah.”
I uncap two cold ones and sit down at the table. He drops the hot corn on a plate and licks his burnt fingers.
“You know, they have this newfangled invention nowadays called an oven mitt.”
He grins. “What fun would that be?”
I smile. We eat. For a minute it is quiet.
“I’m sorry.” I take a sip of my beer. “I didn’t mean to squick you out.”
His eyes meet mine and for a second I feel I’ll wither from the intensity.
“You didn’t squick me out.” I believe him.
“Okay. Well, I made you uncomfortable and that wasn’t my intention.”
We eat in companionable silence. The fish is flaky and perfect. I get the impression he’s working up to say something.
“So, you have pictures, huh?”
I put my fork down and laugh.
“Well, not pictures of the whole... episode, but yeah.”
“So who else was there?” His expression is carefully neutral.
“Jubes and Kitty.”
“How come I never heard about this?”
Yeah, right. Be the bearer of bad news and get a belly full of metal? But that would require me to explain that everyone assumes we each have some sort of hold on each other, and that’s precisely the issue we're trying to skirt.
“I dunno,” I lie, and continue to chow down.
We’re quiet for a while. A commercial for a country store comes on, and then there's more blues.
I finish first and take my plates to the sink. I let them soak and take the skewers from the counter.
“How do you want your marshmallows?”
“Shaken, not stirred.”
“Medium rare, comin’ right up.”
I hold one in the flame for me, and one above for him. Mine catches fire and I let it burn, then blow it out with one mighty blow. I set the skewer across my knees and let mine cool, then go about lightly toasting his.
I watch the flames lick at it. Wonder where this escalating tension will wind up. I feel ennervated and hyper-aware. Behind me I hear him get up and put his dishes in the sink, then open the fridge, and uncap two beers. I stare at the fire until my vision unfocuses and am startled by something cold on my shoulder. He is nudging me with a second beer.
“Thanks, sug.” I take it, brushing his fingers in the process by accident. Being around him for the last few days has been turning me on, and in the last few hours arousal is growing and winding its way through my body... Oh, I want him.
I finally conclude that his marshmallow is perfect by Logan-standards I get up and go to where he is rinsing dishes, and hold out the skewer. Instead of taking the marshmallow, he moves to engulf it with his mouth. The whole thing, the crisp outside and the gooey white center. He meets my gaze with a mischievous look and licks his lips.
That bitch. He knows full well what he’s doing to me; he can probably smell it on me.
”Hell yeah, it was hot,” I recall him saying in a low, excited, flustered voice.
We play cards until eleven when I announce that I am beat and am gonna hit the sack. When we arrived Logan insisted I take the loft; he has slept on the sofa. At first I wondered how such a big man could rest on such a flimsy sofa, but every night he’s been down there snoring like a buzz saw. He just gets up in the morning, stretches like a cat, happily cracks every bone in his body, and he’s good to go: bright eyed, bushy-tailed, ad nauseam.
I peel off my shirt and shorts, letting them fall. I pick up my nightgown, and at the last minute put it back on the chair and climb into bed nude. The sheets feel sinfully good against my bare skin.
I have every intention of going to bed to process everything I was thinking and feeling, but it never happens. Exhaustion creeps up on me, and I fall.
I wake up the next morning to the smell of coffee. I’ve slept soundly and dreamlessly, without interruption from Logan or otherwise, yet I feel restless and unsettled.
I pull on my clothes and walk barefoot downstairs. I pour coffee into my speckled metal mug and sip it black.
Logan is out on the porch, reading. I can see him through the screen door, head bent down, long legs stretched to the railing where his feet are comfortably propped.
I put the coffee down and walk outside.
“Mornin’.”
“Hey,” he says.
Without thinking about it, I put my hands on his shoulders. He tenses, then relaxes. I rub his shoulders affectionately, not necessarily sexually.
“Sleep okay?“
“Yeah.“ In the last few years his nightmares have come maybe every other night. “You?"
"Like the dead."
In a few moments he relaxes so much that his head lolls to the side, showing an expanse of warm neck. I bite my lip.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” he says it quietly.
I’m quiet, and I continue kneading his back.
“It’s okay.”
I pull the other chair up so I can sit behind him. I keep rubbing, now working down his spine. His head lolls forward. He doesn’t relax often, but when he does it is complete. I can just barely hear a soft thrumming purr in his throat.
A few seconds later it stops abruptly. “I just don’t wanna fuck things up, you know?”
My heartbeat quickens. I hadn’t expected him to want to talk about this today, not necessarily.
“Believe me, I know. I totally know.”
Now that we are not facing each other, and I am looking at the back of his head, talking is easier. “You’re my best friend, Furball,” I elaborate.
“Thanks,” he says facetiously. I can tell from the sound that he is trying to hide his smile.
I start in on the knots in his neck. Despite carrying a disproportionate amount of weight in his arms, he stores his tension here. I knead with my thumbs in circles and then push upward. He groans softly. I am close enough that I can smell him. He smells like soap and warm linen and laundry and cigars. Good.
“Sometimes I’m just not sure how you see me,” I say suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
Shit.
He asks it with so little affect that I know he’s nervous.
“Like what am I to you? Am I your little sister, or what? It’s confusing, and that’s not your fault, the situation’s obviously been complicated for a long time, but... you know, still I wonder.” Still being vague, but circling closer to the heart of it.
I am now rubbing between his shoulder blades. “I definitely don’t see you as a little sister,” he says.
Relief rushes over me, so profound it is like a physical wave.
“That’s good to know,” I whisper, adrenaline snaking through my body.
“I-” the syllable hangs on the air, disembodied like his voice. I want to see his face, but I know we have to say these things to each other, and if not looking at each other is what it takes, then that’s what it will be. There is only the rustling of the trees, faint birdsong.
“D’you know how hard it is for me to trust people?”
“Yes,” I say simply and truthfully. I’ve seen it over the years.
“So you know I don’t do it easily."
“Yeah."
“If something were to fuck up what we had I don’t think I could deal with it.”
“I know,” I swallow. I feel like a giant fist is clenched around my throat and I can’t breathe. The feeling is not entirely unpleasant. My hands move back to his shoulders. Slowly massaging.
“Me too,” I whisper. “I’m afraid too that... Not taking that step could ruin us too. Does that make sense?”
Please say yes. Please say yes. Don’t make me spell it out any more clearly.
He nods. I rub my thumbs alongside his spine. I am so close, just on the edge, of crossing that chasm. But I’m so scared. I need a sign from him.
“I don’t think I could take that step. For so long you were off limits, I’ve trained myself to . . . Not go there.”
Oh.
“Do you wanna go there?” I ask without thinking.
My hands stop moving.
This is the crux of it, right here.
My heart pounds in its cage.
“Yes,” he says simply, something between a whisper and a choke.
My fingers curl on his shoulders as I exhale deeply.
Then, I am leaning forward and kissing him. I feel dizzy. Point of no return... The phrase echoes in my head.
He feels my breath on his neck before my lips, and he tenses, My nails are pressing gently into his skin through the tee shirt and I’m not even aware of doing it. Then I’m kissing him all over his neck and he moans, a sound that stirs me up inside so that I am burning, humming, dizzy with it.
“Ohh... Marie.” This time it is a whisper and it’s like a match flicked on sandpaper.
Enough. Time to look each other in the eye. I stand up and he looks up at me, wondering why I stopped. I face him.
His face is bright red, from excitement or embarrassment, I’m not sure, and his eyes are so intense. His calloused hands take mine, sort of reverently, in a way that makes me sing inside, and I plant a leg on either side of his chair. I sit on his lap, looking into his eyes. He swallows. Still my heart is pounding and I think I might explode. He’s as floored and helpless as I am. Fear and joy and longing, all of it.
I lean in and touch my lips to his. He kisses me and I kiss him, so gently, and then his hand is in my hair and he makes a fist and I can tell he wants to be rough but he lets go. I kiss him harder, tell him it’s okay, and at that second every gap between us is gone, we are equal and ageless. He’s a mutant with a long life and no memory and I am one with a short life and too many memories. It cancels out. We're on the same page.
Everything has changed.
He is so good, as good as I knew he’d be, and his hand on my neck makes me shudder as he brushes that simplest and most profound of erogenous zones. We are a tangle of lips and fingers and hair. The chair creaks under our combined weight. I can feel the heat coming off of his body, the novel and amazing texture of his skin, his hair under my fingers.
He pulls away. His lips are red from kissing me hard. His gaze lingers on me, then he lifts the hair above my ear and leans in to press a kiss there. “God, I hafta have you,” he whispers with a most desperate and naked want.
“Yeah,” I whisper, and pull my shirt over my head. No bra. The morning air is cool on my nipples. His eyes widen. He didn’t expect that, right on the front porch. But the area is deserted, and we have privacy.
With one hand he touches my breast. His fingertips are rough and his touch is gentle. He inflames me. Moves in leisurely circles, in random patterns down my waist and up my back, under my hair that feels so sexy falling down my bare back. I tilt my head back and moan and feel him throbbing under me.
With one fluid movement he stands, holding my legs. He moves so quickly it startles me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and kiss him. He carries me right up the stairs without looking down and we tumble to the bed in a column of sunlight.
My nails are scratching, dying to remove his shirt. He is breathing harshly and our eyes meet and something sparkles there. I push the soft cotton over his head and he discards it to the floor. Then quickly his mouth is on my nipple, nipping and soothing with his tongue and nipping again. I feel molten. I feel like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point, ready to snap back with a sting. I feel like the room is spinning. I hear these soft insistent cries, and realize that they’re my own.
“Logan.”
“Hmm?”
“Jeans.”
He stands up abruptly and in one deliberate movement he is naked.
Oh. Oh, my god. He’s hard and soft and beautiful, metal and skin, strong solidity and fearful insecurity in his eyes.
I’m fumbling with the button on my shorts and my hands are just not cooperating. He reaches down and slowly undoes them, eyes on mine. Not a word. God, so damn sexy. I feel his large hand move over my small one, thumb moving over mine as he unbuttons the button, as he leans down to kiss my hip. He lingers there and kisses as he pushes my shorts down. Then I am naked, still he hovers there, nuzzling that place on my hip for no particular reason.
I’m whimpering without any conscious thought, the noises coming out of my throat a surprise even to me. I reach for him, touch the soft skin of his side, pulling him up to me. He obliges, collapsing onto me in a delicious press of flesh.
“Logan...”
“Hmmmm?”
I have no answer to that question. I kiss him again and reach for him. Oh, so silky soft and hard at once, like Remy, but not, solid and good and throbbing under my fingers. His breath catches and there is a barely audible growl in his chest.
Then I know the answer. “Now.”
“Marie... You sure?” He presses his cock against me and I moan. “Now?”
I wrap my leg hard around him and pull him close. “Now.” The sound of my voice is foreign, like that of a woman I don’t know. And I arch my lips up and he tries to hold back, but then he is in me. He breathes out loudly. All the way. He is in me and I am surrounding him and we are entwined. Ohsogood.
“You’re so wet.” He doesn’t move.
“Three days of this, yeah.”
He smiles, and chuckles. I smile and look at him and he smiles and I pull him down for another kiss which he greedily accepts and returns. Then he presses his face to the side of my neck. I like him there. He fits.
Then he moves, and the burning pressure makes me sigh. “Okay?” he tenderly asks, nuzzling my lips with his.
“So okay.”
“You feel amazing.”
I just moan. We find a rhythm together, moving in the sunlight. I can’t take my eyes off of his face and his shoulders and his naked body moving inside me. This is Logan, I tell myself. This is really happening, Logan and me.
He catches me looking. “Whaswrong?” He has a slight smile on his face but an anxious look in his eyes.
“Nothing.”
I want to tell him I love him but I’m afraid it’s too soon, afraid he'll misinterpret it. I just give him a smile, and get one in return.
He pulls my legs up to his shoulders and suddenly everything changes. He is deeper inside me, more present, and everything I feel is more real and the friction is unbearable. My head is tossing back and forth and I’m whimpering nonsense and I feel as if I’m going to burst. And all this time he is in me, moving, and we are moving together.
“Marie..."
He is getting close, I can tell. It doesn’t seem real. So many times I've envisioned him saying my name. So many times I’ve fantasized about him losing control, giving this to me, ever since I was sixteen.
The way he is murmuring my name is making me high. I’m writhing underneath him. And suddenly I’m close, myself.
“Ohh,” I hiss, turned on by the sound of my own voice. This is bliss. This is perfect. I am so close.
“I love you,” he says. My eyes fly open and I see him moving above me, suddenly fearful. He means it. I believe him. He gently touches my cheek.
Suddenly I’m swallowing tears. “Me too, sugar.” A whisper is about all I can manage.
He gets that low growl back, the one that is more like a vibration than an audible sound. His eyes flutter shut and he moves harder, breathes harder, keeping the same pace, and I am right there with him.
“Oh god. Oh!”
I leap, and I am flying out over naked space. Fists tighten. Toes curl. Waves and waves of bliss.
I open my eyes. He sees it, feels it around him, and quickens. Then he cries out, and holds still deep inside me. I feel the pulse as he comes into me.
He kisses my temple softly, and rolls over, and together we lie, still caught up together. Somehow now he is without words, and I trace the line of his eyebrow lovingly, smiling to let him know it’s okay.
“We’re still alive,” I point out. I watch dust motes drift in the light.
“Think so,” he smiles.
“I do love you,” I say, meeting his eyes.
“Me too.”
“Cool?” I ask.
“Sooo cool.” He says. His voice is low and thick. He opens his eyes and looks at me in a way that makes me flutter inside. I take his hand as my eyes close.
We’ve landed, warm and safe on the other side.
END
"Her Man" by Gary Allan:
I'm gonna change my way of doin' things around here
Well I'm turnin' over a new leaf, gonna get myself in gear
Cause I've got a woman who's better than most
And I've made a mess of her plans
Startin' today, all I'm gonna be is her man.
'Cause I've been a wild catter, and a go-go getter
Been an S.O.B. right down to the letter
I've had misadventures, I've even got pictures
I'm even more than I can stand
But startin' today, all I'm gonna be is her man.
I'm gonna give it all back, cause all I've done is take
Well I've put her on the back burner while I was out on the make
But I've got a woman who's good enough to give me
A second chance again
And startin' today, all I'm gonna be is her man.
I'm a little bit late but I'm wisin' up
Now I'm takin' her by the hand
And startin' today, all I'm gonna be is her man.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Story Notes:
This was done for the X-Men lyric wheel. Interested parties may join the XMLW list at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/XMLW/. Lyrics submitted by Maggie Carlson. I had every intention of writing a steamy threesome, but this kept wanting to go shipper. And I'm glad it did. You might want to read it from my website, where there's formatting: http://www.novemberotica.com