Logan frowned, getting himself into character as he parted the beaded curtains leading into Ol’ Reds, an establishment that only suited those with an acquired taste in Louisianan fare. The smell of cheap jambalaya and the sounds of a brass band chased after him down the stairs into the basement room that held a hidden bar, mingling with the smell of body odor, beer, and blood, accompanied by the rumbling of thunder from a distant storm. Not that you could hear the thunder with the amount of ruckus going on in this joint.
He smirked around his unlit cigar, held out of habit in the corner of his mouth. It couldn’t hurt to emphasize his badass image to the college age crowd carousing around a rumbling cage match. Logan, or rather, the Wolverine, he was loathe to admit, had a flare for the dramatic. Hell, half of a cage match was intimidating your opponent into pissin’ his britches. Looking the part was almost as important as delivering the goods.
He had shed his leather jacket in the sweltering Louisianan humidity. Hell, you could practically drink the air in the deep south. His tight undershirt clung to well defined biceps, the soft jersey cotton clinging to rock hard abdominals. Tight, dark wash, boot cut blue jeans were cinched up with a large, gaudy belt buckle. Logan distinctly recalled the pleasure of winning it off a fine piece of ass hooker in a strip poker match in Vegas. The buckle added a touch of glamour to his otherwise rough and tumble image, so he told himself, as well as giving him an excuse to wear his jeans this tight. Logan had never ridden a bull. He wasn’t crazy, you know. Not that he wouldn’t have tried, but, well, getting pissed and popping adamantium claws into one big-ass-mean-sonufabitch rodeo bull tended to be highly discouraged.
So besides looking like a raging, hormonal, testosterone fueled inferno of certain cage match death, Logan also oozed sexual appeal. Not a bad thing when one happened to be located amidst older teenage girls who he just might have seen in the last Girls Gone Wild video release. What? A guy has to get his rocks off somehow. Not everybody was a hooker from Vegas, and sometimes easy ladyfolks without dick rotting contagions were hard to find. Logan shuddered at the thought. Even if he was a superhealer, he had no desire to go through gonorrhea again.
Glancing around the bar, Logan slid his fingers into the comfortably worn front pockets of his jeans and strode towards the little sweet piece he could see running the betting table behind a curtain of cigarette and hooka smoke. Normally, Logan was content to get an eyefull of the bookie’s goods (if she was female, warm, and breathing, and did he mention breathing?) but this girl... her eyes were the first thing that caught his attention.
Deep brown eyes were framed by chocolate waves of softly curling hair. Two platinum strands framed her face, and smoky eye shadow drew attention to the wide-eyed innocent act he knew the kid must be using as her bartering chip. Light blush and deep red lipstick gave her the slightest man-eater affect, just enough innocence to get you off guard, enough attitude to bust your balls when you weren’t looking. Unlike the other scantily clad women mingling around him, this lady had enough clothing on to leave something to the imagination, and honestly, it was damn sexy.
A v-neck, tissue-weight, forest green long sleeved t-shirt covered her arms and gave a tantalizing glimpse of fabulous breasts ensconced in a lacy black bra. The t-shirt was tucked in to a similarly colored mini-skirt with girly ruffles to accentuate her backside. Her legs were crossed, allowing just enough silky smooth, pale thigh to peek from beneath lace tipped thigh highs attached to garter belt clips. Chunky combat boots with silver buckles and spur straps completed his observation, and his overall interest level in the minx had risen from cute to unbelievably fuckable. He could almost picture those thigh-high clad legs, feet still booted, around his waist in the nearest secluded corner.
“See something yah like, Sugar?” the girl purred, black fingernails tapping menacingly close to a six inch buck knife that he was almost certain hadn’t been on the table a minute ago.
“Matter of fact, yes, I do, little lady.” Logan smirked as she reached up to grab the cigar out of his lips. Taking her knife, she sliced the end off it and lit it, slowly bringing it to her mouth and inhaling deeply, lips closing around the habanero with practiced expertise.
Sexy as hell. God this chick had balls.
“You got a sign up sheet for this?” he said, leaning in closer, thumb gesturing back towards the cage where a skinny kid was getting smashed by a drunk trucker.
Still puffing on his cigar, the girl pushed him a ratty piece of paper and pointed to the top line. “Name here, sign that Reds isn’t responsible for bodily injury, harm, or possible death, here, and get in line.” she stated with sass.
Leaning in to reach the paper, Logan caught a glimpse of a high school ID hanging from a lanyard around her neck.
Fuckin’ jailbait.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Scribble. Scribble. Scribble.
“What kinda name is Wolverine?” Jailbait ballbuster asked, a coy expression on her face.
“I don’t know, what kind of name is Rogue?” Logan snarked back, nodding his head towards the ID dangling between her breasts.
“Name’s Marie, what’s yours?” she purred. Ignoring his blatant reference to her ineligibility on his playing field, one bare finger slid across the back of his hand to snatch the pen from him, and that sensation went from his hand, skipped his brain, and jumped straight to his cock.
“Logan.” he managed to growl out as he forced himself to turn his eyes away from her. Of course she had to be underage. What the hell were parents doing these days?
Jesus Christmas, he wasn’t a saint, he was the WOLVERINE. He frickin ate little pieces of ass like this for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, in bathrooms, hotels, motels, and the back of his shitty camper trailer. And he knew for damn certain that playing with a girl like this was like pissing in the wind -- there was always someone who was bound to find out and raise holy hell, even if it was their own damn fault they let their little Rogue out to play with the big boys.
He’d been planning to stay around Louisiana for a week or two. Didn’t need to get run out of the state for statutory rape. Luckily, his waist was hidden by the fold-up card table Marie was sitting behind. He managed to call an image of Scooter in his underwear to mind and was relieved when his libido rejected the image with a red flag and a roar of ‘no fucking way.’
Sighing in relief, he high tailed it towards the cage without another word to the kid. At least he could take out his rage at encountering an unmovable sexual mountain on the fatty who was currently dominating the stakes.
-------
Four hours later, three o’clock in the morning chimed out from a little church two blocks down the street. The Wolverine was busy counting his winnings, pretending to be completely unaware of the tempting morsel of underaged woman that dangled her legs off a freshly cleaned bar not six inches from him.
The thigh highs that had been hidden by her skirt earlier winked from beneath chiffon ruffles. He had to hold his breath when she casually reached down and adjusted a silky garter strap. Logan’s eyes were unintentionally drawn upwards to where the little piece of nothing disappeared into ribbons and lace. When she had approached him after the last match with a bag full of cash, her shirt had smelled of liquor, most likely poured on her by a spectator. Consequently, her tee was soaked clean through, and a fan mounted on the wall plastered the fabric to her like a second skin. Pert nipples peeked from behind that clearly visible lace bra, and that chocolate silky hair wafted around her deliciously.
“Does your mother know that you’re out?” Logan growled in her general direction as he plucked a grand total of a thousand dollars from his fifty percent house cut. He made sure to breathe through his mouth. One sniff of raging teenage arousal would only serve to drive him even more insane and possibly render him incapable of rational thought.
“Sugar, why do you think my mother would even care?” she hummed, swinging her hose clad legs back and forth, the heels of her boots clattering noisily into kick plate of the plywood bar.
Fed up and determined to shrug the kid off, Logan slid one claw out abruptly, ignoring her startled gasp as it snagged the high school ID off of her lanyard.
“See this kid?” he said, gesturing towards the ID now firmly in his fist, “Off limits. Off fucking limits.”
“Oooh you are a mutant, me too! I figured as much when you took so many hits without getting hurt.” she giggled throatily, then gestured towards the ID tag. “The fighting Trojans,” Marie said in a sing-song voice. “Wouldya fight me if I tried to slip a Trojan on you?”
Logan gulped as Marie flipped out a gold-foil package from her cleavage. “Whadya say?”
Logan shook his head up and down in a silent ‘hell-yes!’, then quickly switched to a side-to-side, emphatic, silent ‘fuck-no.’
Jailbait. Jailbait. Jailbait.
“At least dance with me then,” Marie said, smiling, “Ain’t had a man touch me all night.”
Unable to refuse, Logan found himself wrapped up in unnaturally strong arms that tugged him from his barstool and onto the deserted dance floor. Marie plastered herself into him, hands running up and down his back, fingernails digging in to the soaked thin cotton fabric. Her hips were pressed flush into his, and it was all Logan could do not to respond to the close contact.
The playlist still rolling through the dilapidated speaker system shifted to some sort of slow rock ‘n’ roll classic, and Logan, slightly shocked by Marie, no jailbait, couldn’t think of her as Marie, inhaled deeply to try and shake off some nerves.
Bad idea.
Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.
Really bad.
Her arousal hit him like a ton of bricks, and his brain went from rationalizing his actions to fuck the consequences in less than a nano-second. Before Marie could blink, Logan had her pinned against a stained, ratty-ass pool table, legs, skirt, and all hiked up around her hips. His firm hand squeezed tightly on her bare buttocks. Fucking minx didn’t even have the decency to put on panties.
Her fingers were at his belt buckle at what felt like mach-3, jerking the gaudy oval undone and sliding it right off of his waist. His pants came unbuttoned then, and vaguely through the haze of suckling Marie’s breast through her thin t-shirt he registered the sound of his zipper coming undone as his pants were shucked down to his knees.
Holee fucking shit.
This was wrong.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
“Wait, wait,” he panted, hands snatching at her petite fingers and pinning them down to the worn green felt beneath them. “We can’t do this, I’m, shit, I have no fucking idea how old I am, and you’re seventeen!”
“Who the hell said I was seventeen?” Marie smirked, lips pursed in a shit-eating grin. “Logan, maybe if you’d actually read the bottom of my ID tag you’d realize that I’m a teacher.”
“In fact, baby, I own this joint.” she purred, sliding off the pool table to rest on her knees between his legs, hand cupping his balls gently as her hot breath whuffed against his member, “I’m twenty-three.”
Logan gripped the edge of the pool table so hard that it hurt as her lips slid sinfully down his rigid length, gently sliding a condom over his length. His fist pounded gently on varnished wood as he threw his head back in absolute bliss as she suckled and nibbled on his package. Far too quickly, Marie slid back up to kiss him, his taste in her mouth. Unable to control himself, he flipped her on her stomach. That round, ruffle covered ass was propped beneath him, her waist and hands gripping the pool table as he slid into her with one thrust.
Tight. Tight. Tight. Tight.
There was a God in heaven.
And then it was nothing but noise, sounds, smells. Sensations. The feel of her pulling him deeper inside, the soft texture of her skin as she reached back to grab his face and pull him into a passionate kiss. Suddenly she was convulsing around him, yelling his name, dragging fingernail marks into the fabric of the pool table as he spilled himself into her with a ragged yell.
“Holee shit!” she whooped from beneath him, spent. He gently lifted her into his arms and set her on her feet, facing him. Everything about her was delicious, her smell, the flush on her face, the hickey he had left on her neck, and oh that handprint from where he had smacked her ass only moments before...
“You know,” not-jailbait Marie snickered, one hand reaching down to squeeze him gently, “I’m looking for a permanent partner in this cage fight management business...you interested?”
“Gotta make it worth my while, darlin’.” Logan purred deviously, fingers slipping towards the hemline of her shirt.
“Oh, I think we can manage.” Marie whispered, then leaned up to kiss him.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
A/N: This is a ridiculous idea that popped into my head this morning, lol. Listen to “Does your Mother Know” by ABBA, or pick up the version by the Mamma Mia movie or broadway cast.
It’s the inspiration for this plot bunny of pwp.
You’re so hot, teasing me
So you’re blue, but I can’t take a chance on a kid like you
It’s something I couldn’t do
There’s that look, in your eyes
I can read in your face that your feelings are driving you wild
Oh but girl you’re only a child
Well I can dance with you honey
If you think it’s funny
Does your mother know that you’re out?
I can chat with you baby
Flirt a little maybe
Does your mother know that you’re out?
It’s the inspiration for this plot bunny of pwp.
You’re so hot, teasing me
So you’re blue, but I can’t take a chance on a kid like you
It’s something I couldn’t do
There’s that look, in your eyes
I can read in your face that your feelings are driving you wild
Oh but girl you’re only a child
Well I can dance with you honey
If you think it’s funny
Does your mother know that you’re out?
I can chat with you baby
Flirt a little maybe
Does your mother know that you’re out?