The saints are drunk howling at the moon
The chariots of angels are colliding
Well, I'll run, babe, but I'll come running
Straight to you. —Nick Cave, "Straight to You"
"Where you think you're goin', kid?"
Rogue stopped, cursing loudly in her head, her gloved hand resting lightly on the wood rail of the porch. She'd been discovered, damn it, and she'd been so close…she was slightly tipsy from a night of illicit drinking, not drunk, but pleasantly woozy enough to fall into bed and sleep without dreams.
Which had been one of the reasons she'd drank all that vodka.
The problem with sneaking back in to the mansion was that there was only one way to do it, through the back door that Logan invariably left open so he could go out and smoke on the patio. Unfortunately, it meant you had to time your re-entry for when he wasn't there, because Logan wasn't all that keen on people sneaking out and in through a door he left open. He took it as a matter of pride.
She wasn't usually the sneaking-out type, not really. It was just that, on occasion, the urge to do something bad overpowered her. Maybe she got that from him, from the residual press of his mind on hers, who knows. All she knew was that there were times she had to leave, had to escape the mansion, be alone.
Or- at least- alone as she could be with all the people yammering in her head.
He was in the shadows, reclining back on one of those wrought-iron chairs, the spill of moonlight glinting off his claws. The smell of tobacco was thick in the air. It was close to two a.m., the somber dusk of the night broken by crickets chirping merrily in the darkness and the low, mournful cry of an owl. The lights in the mansion were dim, the bright light of the almost-full moon sparkling off the dewy grass. It was a peaceful scene; Rogue rather resented it for being so.
"Goin' to bed, Logan. Why? You gonna eviscerate me or somethin'?" Rogue swayed lightly on her feet as she moved to the door, blinking through the haze as everything took a misty appearance and seemed to waver before her. Was that the alcohol, making everything look all fuzzy?
Oh, no. It was just the smoke. Rogue coughed irritably and waved her hand, though the smoke didn't bother her.
"Fancy word you're usin' there. And I thought you might be an intruder. You're lucky I know what you smell like." Logan's voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "And that's Mr. Logan, to you, kid."
Rogue snorted, emboldened by liquor and too many thoughts in her head that weren't her own. "I got pieces of you in my head, Mr. Logan. Think maybe you could can it with the professor act?"
He moved fast; she'd forgotten his reflexes were so sharp. He was suddenly looming over her in two seconds flat, scowling and trying to intimidate her. Logan wasn't a tall man by any means, but his presence was enough to make up for what he lacked in physical height.
"What, you gonna flash those claws at me again? I'm tired," Rogue snapped pettishly. He'd have to try harder than that to scare her. She'd had those claws of his stuck in her chest, and so she wasn't as afraid of them as she might have been had that not happened.
All a matter of perspective, after all.
"Be less tired if you wasn't sneakin' out and—" Logan sniffed at the air. "Drinkin'? You ain't old enough to be sittin' with the grown-ups, and you've been drinkin'?"
If there was one thing that made Rogue furious, it was that constant identification he seemed to make with her that she was a child. "I ain't a kid, Logan," she growled back, her voice unconsciously mimicking his.
Somewhere inside, she thought she heard Erik laugh; a cold breeze over her mind. She shut it out with effort. Logan's anger was better than Erik's cynical amusement any day.
"Yeah? Only kids gotta sneak out of the house and drink," he snarled at her, and she wondered for a second why he wouldn't let her go. Did he think it was her place to punish her? Erik laughed louder and she narrowed her eyes at Logan.
"Really? What's your excuse then? You do it, and I thought you were older than the Professor even," Rogue threw back recklessly.
"That's enough outta you," he growled, and he was so close she could smell him; tobacco smoke and something else, something that was just Logan, indefinable and…arousing, her mind supplied, and Rogue laughed.
*Never gonna happen, Marie. Get it out of your mind. He sees you as a child and always has. Always will.*
Unfortunately, she had his mind in hers but he didn't have that luxury, and all he heard was her laughter and of course he thought it was because of him, what he'd said. His hands pushed her back roughly; she hit the stone wall of the house and winced as he crowded her.
"Ouch! Logan, what the hell—" Furious, she glared at him, trying to see the glint of his eyes in the darkness.
"You think it's funny, do you? Remember how easy he got you the last time, Marie? Magneto ain't locked away all nice and safe in a plastic prison anymore, and I don't think our little joint effort is enough to keep him from tryin' to capture you again." Logan's breath was warm on her face.
"Yeah, well, I ain't that worried about it. Takes a long time to build a death machine, I'd imagine. Maybe he's got one in the works, but it'll be awhile before he needs me to pilot it." Rogue narrowed her eyes at him, and Erik peeked out as her voice came out in a slow, cold drawl with an edge of amused cynicism. "What's the matter, Wolverine? Afraid you'll fail to keep me safe again?"
The problem was that Erik knew how to manipulate with the mind, and Rogue knew Logan's mind, and sometimes it made her say things that she shouldn't. She knew he felt bad, still, about Liberty Island and even before, when he'd stabbed her in his room.
Rogue didn't precisely want to taunt him like that, but alcohol made her tongue loosen and apparently lifted the lid on the sociopath that had taken up residence in her brain.
"You shut him the hell up, kid. I ain't in the mood for Magneto's bullshit," Logan snapped. "You shut him up right now." His body was all hardened muscle and adamantium steel, his breath hot on her face and smelling of smoke. Voices crowded in her mind and she felt trapped, which must have been why she was pushing at him and trying to dislodge the warm weight of his body. She'd have died to have had this at any other time, but now all she wanted was for him to leave her alone. At least, that's what she told herself she wanted.
"Ain't that easy, Logan. I got too many people in my head; Erik, and you, and sometimes Bobby, and even Pyro. Can you imagine that I want to go out somewhere and forget about it? They're all men, and they all drive me crazy, and sometimes I wish I would've touched Mystique so I could run away or be someone else. Since I can't just be me anymore." Her hands, gloved of course, came up immediately to push him away.
He didn't budge under her admittedly half-hearted attempt. "I don't blame you there, kid, but drinkin' your sorrows away ain't gonna do a damn thing but make `em worse."
She snorted. "You know what? That ain't true. It's nice not to have all of you offerin' opinions, and if drinkin' straight vodka is what it takes, I'll do it." Her hands curled on his shoulders. "I ain't got nothin' else, Logan." Her voice was quiet, infused with the rhythms of her Mississippi home, slow and sweet like molasses.
"The hell you don't." He put his mouth right next to her ear and said in a low whisper, "You got everyone here, kid. You got me. Said I'd take care of you, remember?"
Growling in frustration, Rogue shoved against him, harder this time. The closeness of his body was unbearable to her, because it was so apparent that all she'd ever be was a student, and all he was trying to do was intimidate her. "Don't you call me that, and don't you dare patronize me. I don't think you understand, Logan—"
"What?" He interrupted her, voice hardening in apparent temper. "I don't understand not knowing who you are? I think I might know that even better than you, Marie. And I'll be the first one to tell you that the drinkin' only makes it worse." Logan angled his body to keep her from escaping; she tried to duck away from him but he threw his arm out with apparent ease and caught her under the throat, forcing her back against the wall. His other hand came up and braced on the wall next to her head, his face scowling face staring down into hers.
They stared at each other in perfect silence, each measuring the other, combative training at odds with personal desires. She took slow, even breaths and contemplated her next move. She wouldn't take her gloves off, no matter what he did. Perhaps she should just give in, let him drag her in front of the Professor and confess her misdeeds.
She spent a moment looking at him, catching the moment in her mind, sizing up the situation in an analytical fashion that would have made Magneto proud. Though if she listened too closely, she thought she heard him bemoaning her taste in men. Shut up, you psychopath.
He wasn't handsome, Logan, not like Bobby was, or even Mr. Summers. Sometimes she'd blushed around Jean and Kitty, and she even found herself occasionally wanting to reach out and trail her fingers down Professor Xavier's face.
Besides Bobby, however, these were not her reactions. These were the impressions left by those whose thoughts she had absorbed; but Logan, Logan was hers. It was one thing she had that she knew originated from her own mind, not some amalgamation of everyone she touched.
Rogue reached out and caught his shirt up in her gloved hands, twisting it slowly. With a narrow-eyed look and a snarl that did him justice she snapped, "You got any better ideas?"
"Yeah," Logan snapped back, and shot his claws out. "Think I do."
"Gonna eviscerate me after all?" Rogue's heart was beating, quickly, her breath coming in fast, uneven bursts as he dragged those metal claws down her face, her throat—lightly, gently, almost teasing. The cool metal barely nicked her skin, but he pressed them to her hard enough so that she was reminded that they could kill. They traced down her skin leaving the slightest of marks in their wake, but this wasn't serving to frighten her or make her acquiesce and give in.
It was as close as she had ever come to having someone touch her face for longer than a few seconds, and she was shivering beneath that steel caress, and she thought she heard Magneto purring in her mind as the metal slid over her flushed skin.
Logan shook his head. "No," he said huskily, "I ain't gonna do that." He was staring down at her as if he'd never seen her before, and he no longer looked angry. He looked…she blinked, startled, as she felt the air shift between from anger to something thicker, heavier, and far more intimate.
She released his shirt, but her hands stayed pressed against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her palms begin to increase in a steady, staccato rhythm. "Logan," she said, voice uncertain. "What—"
He used his claws to touch her lips, and the metal was cold against them. She felt some bizarre attraction to them that she blamed on Magneto, strong enough that before she knew quite what she was doing her tongue had dashed out and licked the edge of his claw lightly.
"Christ, Marie," he groaned, and tilted his hips forward, and then, it all became very, very clear to her what he wanted. Years of wanting this very thing crashed down upon her, and she was absolutely still as her eyes searched his face.
"You…how…when?" She trembled, glad now for the wall at her back, because the combination of excitement and nerves would have caused her to collapse. Was this even…was this really happening to her, or had the vodka made her hallucinate?
"Don't know when. Know it ain't right, shouldn't even think about it. Doesn't seem to matter." He sounded frustrated. "I do. Think about it. A lot."
"Y-you do?" Hardly able to believe this was Logan saying this, Logan pushed up against her, Logan with his claws touching her since his hands could not… "This…this isn't some trick, is it?" Rogue chewed on her bottom lip and stared at him, just able to see the harsh planes of his face in the moonlight.
Suddenly, he pushed himself harder against her, until his body was flush to hers, hips pushed against her, arousal evident. "That feel like a trick, baby?"
Rogue shook her head, dazed. "N-no." Her hands crept up slowly to rest on his shoulders. "Logan…"
"Quiet," he hissed, and started moving against her. "Just…just be quiet."
All this physical contact—safe enough with the clothing between them—made her weak, made her nipples tighten and desire coil low and warm in her belly. "Logan, I don't think…I don't think I can stand," she said honestly. The scratch of his clothes against her own was a torment; the closest she could ever come to intimacy.
"I got you," he said, maneuvering her so that he was rubbing against her, so that his leg was pressed between her thighs. "You don't gotta worry."
She nodded frantically, grasping at his shoulders and pressing herself against his leg. "Okay," she said, suddenly agreeable to whatever he wanted as long as he didn't stop. She moved her hips tentatively, shivering at the pleasure it brought as she rubbed herself against him.
He groaned at that, his movements becoming faster, more intense. "That's it, baby," he encouraged her, and his hands went beneath her to cup her bottom and drag her harder against his thigh as he pushed his cock rhythmically against her jeans-clad leg, and this was far beyond anything she'd ever experienced; primal and intense and everything she would have imagined it to be, yet still she moved with him in perfect unison, as if she knew exactly what to do.
Rogue felt the world fall away as pleasure engulfed her body and rushed through her in delicious, sharp spikes. She touched his face, curling a hand behind his neck, rubbing herself on him with enthusiasm. "God, Logan," she moaned. "Want this…"
He growled something unintelligible and put his face in her hair. "Shh. Don't wake everyone up." He laughed, the sound masculine and pleased. "They might fire me for this one."
"Can't…can't help it," she gasped, making choking little cries, eagerly riding his thigh and searching for something that was so close, better than vodka, promising oblivion and she wanted it…oh, she wanted it…
"Bite my shoulder," he growled, and the way he said it was so delicious she could not help but comply, and sank her teeth in his shoulder and tasted the rough cotton, and wished it was his skin.
It didn't take long for her, and as she came she sobbed out his name and tightened her legs around his, bucking hard against him. Flashes of white and gold went off like fireworks beneath her closed eyes and she made a low, keening sound of pleasure.
Logan tried to quiet her by pressing his claws against her lips; it made her lick at them again, and she opened her eyes to watch him as his movements became more frantic, jerkier. He hauled her up to him, his breath hitching and a low, soft growl escaping him as he pressed himself hard against her, as she felt his body spasm and it was so intense she nearly fainted.
He came with a soft groan, hands clutching desperately at her. She felt powerful, that she had brought him to this, a powerful and dangerous man, whom she had wanted for so long and never dared dream would ever want her in return.
They both were struggling to breathe, and he pulled away from her and turned his back as he ran his hands violently through his mussed hair. She noticed with pleasure that they appeared to be shaking slightly. "Shouldn't have done that."
She laughed huskily. "Likely not." Did he regret it? Would he think her a whore now? "Logan-" She took a step towards him, gloved hand outstretched.
He turned back to her and there was a slight smile on his face. "Doesn't matter. Probably gonna do it again. You think next time you want to sneak out and get drunk, Marie, maybe you could just sneak over to my room. Easier to do this in a bed."
She shivered at the image his words produced, his heavy weight atop her and pushing her down into the mattress and she nodded, docile, unable to speak through her haze of dazed pleasure. "S-sure, Logan," she stammered, hardly believing he was serious.
"Good. Now go to bed. You got class early." He strode over towards her and kissed her roughly, as if he couldn't help himself, hand tangled in the thick mass of her hair. He pulled back just in time, and just that brief touch fused her with him a little, so that she could taste his reluctance to stop even as he tore his lips away, before her power rushed to the surface and threatened to engulf him.
He left her there on the patio and Rogue fell, boneless, into the wire chair he'd been sitting in. His cigar was still smoking on the ashtray, and the smell made her shiver with remembered pleasure. She picked it up and took a drag, tasting him on it, and stared up at the moon and smiled. She felt very sober, awake, alive, and most of all…
Her mind was deliciously quiet, and all her thoughts were her own.
~Finis
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