The heart asks pleasure first
And then, excuse from pain-
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering;
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
-Emily Dickinson
Overlap: Chapter Four
I'm shivering violently. Tremors that started in my hands radiate up to my teeth and then down to my ankles. What little air that makes it into my lungs tastes frigid, like ice, like that road in Alberta, like that moment I thought Logan was going to leave me to die. Only it's worse now, because this time he is. He is.
I'm plummeting off a cliff, and maybe it's the air whooshing by that has me freezing in a usually well-heated library.
I stare at the door Logan walked through and shut behind him. Willing it to open by the force of my gaze. It has to work. It has to open. But it doesn't.
Thick rugs, walls that are meant to absorb footfalls but turn out to mask sobs just as well. Gotta thank the architect. High bookshelves I had always thought symbolized intrigue and tranquility. How many times have I come in here? For quiet, for a new book, for a fantasy. How many times did I sit in that corner chair, reading out loud because Hand said infants can hear, even inside the womb? How many times have I perused the Children's Section, planning for-for-
But those shelves are just dead wood, like the books they hold. Cold and indifferent pillars on a jailhouse. They're nothing.
That door matters; that door is everything.
Logan's going to open it.
He's going to come back.
He's going to come back.
The door stays closed.
And the minutes drop away from the clock, relentless and agonizing, and I fall a few more yards off that cliff.
And my muscles shake. Uncontrollable.
And my blood turns to sludge, then to cement. I fall faster. Those rocks are going to hurt. They already do.
And my eyes burn and my lips quiver and I'm swallowing around the blockage in my throat. Hyperventilating.
And that door stays closed.
And I don't think it's gonna open.
And this is really happening.
And he's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving. He's leaving.
He's gone, says a quiet voice in my head.
No. No. No.
I wrench my legs forward, my body clumsy, heavy. These limbs can't belong to me. It's hard to get my fingers around the knob, even harder to twist it.
Logan.
Logan.
Please.
My fault.
The entrance hall has never seemed to large. People stare, flutter around, with high-pitched coos of , 'What's wrong?' I ignore them.
I'll-I'll stop Logan. I'll apologize for everything I said. I'll beg. I'll say-I'll say he can sleep with Jean, if he-if he really needs to. It's okay. It's okay. He can do whatever he wants. As long as he stays. As long as I can look at him. And hear his voice. And maybe-maybe hold his hand.
I turn for our room, but a sound beats against my eardrum, reverberates through the air to the pit of my stomach. It's just an engine, and doesn't seem to trouble anyone else, if they hear it at all. But to me it's loud as thunder, and signifies everything. I brush off the students, my old friends, and teeter towards the front door. Why does it feel like I'm trying to push through water, with the currents against me? Maybe I hit the ocean instead of the rocks.
"Is she having a panic attack?"
"Nervous breakdown."
"Should we take her to the med lab?"
"What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?"
"Where are you going?"
The air is still outside, and heavy. It's cold, the kind of chill that comes after a humid day, just minutes before the rain leaves the clouds. Soon water will slicken the cobblestone, bounce off the gravel as if angry with the concept of gravity.
The tires make a harsh crackling over the drive. He's already pulling out of the gates--not the motorcycle he arrived on, but the black pickup Xavier's payroll furnished. A used model (though he could certainly afford better), chosen because Logan said it'd be healthy for the garage to meet a little rust. And the windows aren't tinted, like the others. I can see the hard set to his shoulders, the head of brown hair that doesn't twist, doesn't glance back. Not once.
I yell for him, but it comes out as a croak. Logan should have been able to hear me anyway.
But he doesn't.
And the pickup screeches at the jerky turn.
And he doesn't stop, just like he didn't open the library door.
And the gates swing shut.
And the rocks cut my feet. I'm not wearing shoes.
And I'm screaming for real now, but he can't hear me. Or doesn't want to.
And I'm crying.
And I'm alone.
And I scream. And scream. And scream. And scream.
Logan.
Logan.
Logan.
"Stop it," Jubilee's fingers, digging into my elbows. I don't know how long she's been there. She doesn't say anything else, for which I will always be grateful.
I want to keep screaming.
My airways are thick with the kind of pain that clogs when you cut it off suddenly. I feel like lights are shutting down in me, one after the other. The occasional tear wells over, trickles down my cheek to join the rest on my shirt collar. But most of them stay, a cold sheen over my eyes that turn everything into a smear.
Jubilee pulls me back into the school, and I go without protest. I'm meek, pliable as a doll. You could shove me into a furnace and I wouldn't even squeak. Of course, fire wouldn't hurt half as much as this.
Logan.
"Jesus. What's the matter with her?"
"She's lost it."
"Leave her alone." .
Of all the faces turned my way, her's is the only one that's clear to me.
Jean is poised at the foot of the staircase. She gives me a low, unreadable stare from red-rimmed eyes. Looks down at her dress, which she smooths, and then back up. Jean's body is a little slumped, or at least not straight with that airy self-confidence. I neither know or care if it's an act.
I approach her using muscles that work like an engine about to break--by habit alone. If thinking were required to walk, I wouldn't have made it off the driveway.
"Rogue," Jean greets soberly. Her voice quavers, just a bit. "I know how you must feel. You may be angry, inclined to place some measure of blame on me. However, you will soon realize whatever I have done was for your benefit. He would have left soon any--"
It's strange, that a telepath couldn't see the blow coming. Of course, I didn't know I was going to to hit her either, so maybe that's why.
I also didn't know my skin would be turned on.
As my knuckles connect with the fine bones of her cheek, Jean's face exhibits shock, and then agony, which deepens with the suction of a mutation long suppressed. Veins bulge out of creamy skin; her jaw clicks into a locked position. And then she's falling.
Her slender, high-healed legs fold under her at an unnatural and certainly painful angle. The back of her skull clips the bottom step and then Jean is still.
There are shouts, many voices. I feel nothing, not even the humming half-excitement-half-terror that used to come with touching someone. I go upstairs and no one stops me--perhaps too busy attending to Jean, or too afraid of my very much exposed skin.
My feet seem to weigh a ton each. So tired. I can feel dregs of Jean's power pulsating in my chest; they'll disappear before I can learn to use them. It was a brief touch, so I didn't get much. Just those dregs--maybe enough to make a paperclip twitch, and a loose clutter of her memories struggling for an available slot in my overcrowded brain. She thinks about Scott. Alot. Arguments, weeks without speaking to each other, a pregnancy scare. He left days after she got her period. And she thinks about me. And Logan. I feel her anger. Her longing.
As I reach the door to the room I shared so long with someone else, I see Jean kiss Logan. I see her legs winding around his hips, and how he grabbed at her. Despair, like a physical laceration, cuts through my marrow. I shudder, push Her deep down into my mind, into a box like Magneto.
Grey, miserable room. Half-open drawers, empty of Logan's clothes and Logan.
A resounding, booming silence that says--once someone was here, but now they're gone.
I quietly close the door, take the last few steps to the bed. Noiselessly let my body drop, curl up on the sheets. I can't imagine ever moving again.
There's a great ripping inside me, like all my organs and nerves are separating, draining out. I thought I'd known what empty meant.
Tears reemerge--or maybe I was wrong, and I'd been crying the whole time. They run sideways, over the bridge of my nose to the covers.
I'm quiet, except for a few whimpers.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
An animal roars, from deep inside him. The Wolverine is throwing himself against the metal bars of his subconscious cage, sending vibrations up Logan's throat. Not fury: anguish. He wants to howl.
Instead, he presses his lips tightly together, shoves his tongue against the roof of his mouth to stifle even a growl.
Her eyes are wide and dark and wet, and every nanosecond spent looking into them makes turning away more inconceivable. And if it's inconceivable, isn't it impossible? He has to stay. He has to stay.
'You don't matter', Logan tells himself. Only, always, Marie.
For her, Logan thinks, and pulls his gaze away. For her, he thinks, and twist his body. For her, he thinks, and walks step by step to the door. Pain. So much of Logan's self had been stitched into Marie; he expects to peer down and find his chest bloody. Strips of his soul--if he has one--ripped, clinging to his girl. For her. For her. For her.
She stands stock-still, crying quietly, and Logan fight not to jump at the opportunity, because there's an emotion inexplicably lacking in her scent. Relief. He wants to think some part of Marie wants him. But all he can smell is grief. Logan can see now that how selfish he has been, blind to how he's been hurting her.
He's sure that the relief will come later. After he's gone. She'll heal, move one.
It's quite literally the only the only thing that keeping him glued together.
Out of deference, Logan shuts the library door. Marie doesn't like others to see her cry. He hopes that Jubilee will come and comfort her. Yellow is an idiot, but at least she can keep the vultures away.
(For her. For her. For her. For her.)
It would be easier to walk out the door right now, ('Easier being, of course, a relative term. Hit by a car instead of a train), while he still has some measure of nerve. But everything he owns is upstairs. Clothes he could, and had, live without. But without money and his car keys, returning would be too much a temptation.
And perhaps he imagines the library door opening. Marie running out and throwing her arms around him. Saying she believes him, forgives him, loves him.
The door stays closed.
Maybe--maybe in a minute or two...
It's hard to think that she is only two inches of wood and a strip of Persian carpet away, when so much else is between them.
(For her. For her. For her.)
Logan hurries to the stairs, around a couple popcorn-bearing girls who don't seem fazed by his disheveled state. They've seen it too often. He spots Jean at the far end of the kitchen. The redhead raises her arm, mouthes the word 'wait', but Logan doesn't give her a second glance.
He rushes up to their bedroom--just hers now, he supposes with a sharp flinch. Gathers his stuff into a dusty pack that had been pushed, over time, into the back of the wardrobe. Shirts, pants, belt, wallet. The sight of her toothbrush alone in the little green mug almost breaks him.
Their unmade bed, the indent of Marie's head still in the pillow and he remembers trying to hold her. Books and pictures and playing cards, all things she'd held in those lily-soft hands. The ultrasound in the bedside table. There was only one copy, and it was unquestionably hers.
Logan wants to cram all of those items into his pack, take as much of Marie with him as he could. He restricts himself to a couple of her blouses--none of her favorites, nothing she might miss. Just a few pieces of her scent he can indulge his torture affinity with.
Logan?, a telepathic voice speaks hesitantly, and he slams down all the shields in his head. He doesn't have the energy right now for Chuck.
Back down a staircase he'd descended more times than any other. Little contractions in his chest when he sees that library door still closed, hears her heart beating and little gasping breathes from behind it. He swallows, ignores the burn that begs, 'One more try.'
Jean is waiting for him, as she always seems to be. Lines in her forehead he hadn't noticed before, a hopeful expression that's somehow vulgar. She lays her hand on the banister, but in his mind she's touching his arm again. Logan is too preoccupied with his own self-loathing to blame the doctor, but her desperate green eyes still spark a dangerous revulsion.
"Please, Logan. May I have a word with you?"
"No."
"It would just take a moment."
"No."
He hears her sniffle back a sob, from behind him. Smells frustration and heartbreak. But maybe that's just him.
(For her. For her. For her.)
An ornamental string of Chinese symbols--love, peace, prosperity--last year's Christmas gift from Marie, hang from the rearview mirror. They sway and jingle with the movement of the pickup. There's a chiwawa bobblehead on the dashboard that she put there as a joke, a shoelace in the cup holder that the once broke--neither of which Logan ever got around to throwing away. She's imprinted on every part of his life.
His hands shake, and he misses the ignition slot the first few tries. Then Logan grits his teeth, clamps an iron grip about his body and thoughts. Squishes any and all emotion far, far down. An old trick. His spine straightens; his muscles tense; his shoulders harden. Anyone looking would see the fine-tuned killing machine who had stalked the Canadian Wilderness for years...before meeting Marie.
You are The Wolverine, Logan tells himself. You are in control. Dignified.
He ignores the animal part of his conscious. It's whimpering.
Rolling, purple and ebony clouds are expanding from the North. He'll be driving right into them, but it feels more like the blue sky above him is retreating--sucked back toward the mansion and Marie. Logan fixes his gaze on the strip of the driveway just a few feet ahead of the pickup--no further.
When he passes through the gates, Logan is so focused on the breaks that he nearly forgets to turn. He jerks the wheel fiercely--although driving into the trees feels like a beautiful idea. He grips the cracked, rubbery leather tightly, flails for that control, and drives toward the thunderstorm.
(For her. For her. For her. For her. For her.For her. For her. For her. For her. For her.For her. For her. For her. For her. For her.)
~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~@~
There is an ache between my legs, like a curling iron burn after it's been smothered in cold cream. And each time I move--even slightly--it pinches. And I have the feeling it's only a precursor, will grow steadily more painful throughout the day.
I couldn't care less.
Every time I feel that stinging, I'm reminded of how it came to be and that's--that's a very nice thought.
We are a strange pile of limbs. My cheek rests on his shoulder, and the arm of that shoulder stretches down my back, cradling. Our legs are tangled, wrapped over and around each other. His are bent a little, just enough to not crush my thighs. I'm straddling him from the side and it shouldn't be comfortable, but it is.
I'm not sure how long we've been asleep. A long time, I think. But the light coming through the window is the creamy brand of early morning. I'm still tired, but awakening quickly by the sight of his fingers splayed out on his stomach, mine right beside them. That's the kind of image that sends a jolt of adrenaline right through your bloodstream. I can see where that line of hair leads now, nothing obstructing my view. The strands become darker, curlier, and wrap around the base of a fleshy strip who's base is stained red. I recognize my blood with the most quiet of shocks, blinking rapidly. He's half....ummm....half up.
As I watch, the muscle stiffens, rises like it's being inflated with a balloon pump. I blush so hard it feels like a match was stricken and held to my cheeks. Oh. My. God.
What we've done should have rid me of any and all self-consciousness. I mean, if you've had something in you, you should be able to look at it. Right? But despite this logic, I find myself embarrassed, mortified. I shouldn't...I shouldn't look at...at that. That's his. That's private.
Slut, condemns the voice of my mother--the memory of her, at least. Cheap whore.
I shove the words back to their corner, but squeeze my eyes shut anyway.
In the next half-instant, Logan's fingers are off his chest and in my hair. I didn't know he was awake. He runs the digits through the strands, gently separating the tangles. It feels good. So good.
"Mornin', Baby."
Have I mentioned how much I love that endearment? So soft and warm it seems to caress my ear. And when Logan speaks--even quietly--his throat rumbles, sends vibrations all through his chest. It tickles.
I open my eyes, straighten my neck to see his face. Our foreheads brush against each other. I'm close enough to count the pores on his cheeks, should I choose to do so.
I'm not really sure what the Morning-After protocol is. Nobody ever sat me down and layed out what was expected of me. But Logan's eyes don't say, 'I'm done, you're done--get out.' He appears comfortable, at peace. "Good morning."
"You sleep okay?", he queries. I've never heard such tenderness in his, or anyone's, voice before.
I'm aware of how his right hand brushes the base of my spine and a little further down, a spot I've never pictured anyone holding. How I'm pasted to his side, my ribs fitting into the grooves of his. How that dark, wet part my body touches his hip bone and makes some muscle in me tingle, contract.
"Ye--"
Suddenly, Logan smiles, broadly. He plucks a piece of General Tso's from my hair, holds it up in front of me.
"Oh!", I gasp. Will I ever be able to stop blushing around him? I laugh a little, helplessly, and his nose rubs my cheek, nuzzling affectionately. It's gross, but more evidence of Sex With Logan is never an unpleasant thing.
"Do you think--can I use your shower?" I ask hesitantly.
He pulls back.
"Of course." He seems surprised.
I maneuver myself into an awkwardly upright position. My limbs feel like they've never been used before. Fresh off the factory line. Too weak for complicated things like standing. I'd like to flop back down and curl up with him, but I don't want 'grimy' to be the first adjective to come to Logan's mind when he thinks of me.
Everything smells like soy sauce. I won't be able to eat an eggroll the same way again.
I tense a little, involuntarily. The bathroom is on the left side of the room, several feet away. I'm naked. Really naked. Really really naked. And I know what you're thinking: I've been naked all this time and it shouldn't be a news flash now. And it's not. It's just...it's a little different when you're so close, no one is in full view.
My clothes lay on the floor, but my pants are on his side of the mattress. Besides, how stupid would it be to get dressed, just to go to the bathroom?...I think about wrapping the comforter around me, like in the movies, but it's dirty and Logan might think I'm immature. He's just laying there, with his head propped up on the pillow. Eyeing me boldly, completely unabashed about the state either of us are in. Little tolerant smirk that says something about me is hilarious.
Aw, screw it.
I swing my legs around. My feet want to recoil from the chill of the floor. Up. Make my way around the bed frame. I try not to clench, or suck in my stomach but I don't quite succeed. Try to pretend that Logan isn't staring, that I don't look like a mess. I fight the urge to cover what parts I can with my hands.
Downside-up boxes and noodles squished into the carpet at the foot of the bed. I tiptoe through the mess.
His bathroom is larger than mine, though that's not saying much. Warm, creamy marble. Mahogany. An 'X' engraved into the sink's metal. Dirty sock by the toilet. Empty whiskey bottle on the counter where you'd usually find mouthwash. Towels bunched together, a few falling off the rod. Little puddles on the floor. Half-used soap bar, generic shampoo--neither scented.
You'd never mistake this for a girl's bathroom.
I'm leaning over the rim, pull up the little bar over the spout. Adjust the shower nozzle, and I hear the mattress creak.
And then he's behind me.
I straighten, spin slowly. Gulp.
Logan's shoulders are loose today, at ease. The lines around his eyes aren't scrunched together in coping or strategy. He's so much calmer than me, and that's good. It lets me know how I should act.
I try to keep my eyes above the waist.
He scratches his neck, raises an eyebrow at me as if to say, 'Go on'.
I blink. Does he...does he...does he want to get in the...in the shower with me?....Uhmmmm.....Ummm....How would that....I've never.....How....
"You want me to wait 'til you finish?" Logan asks, kindly.
Yes? No? I don't know. How many times has he showered with other people? I mean, how do you clean...those places with someone watching?
"No. Uh...I mean, if you--if you want." I try to smile, but my mouth only twitches, spastically.
He grins, reaches around me to twist the shower handles. Water spritzes out, over my back. Though it's warm, my skin reacts to the sudden tickle. Logan edges me back, over and into the tub. The ache flares when I lift my leg, and a little more fluid trickles out to join the dried stain on my thighs.
He follows me in. There's not much room in here--three feet length wise, at best. And I think I need to mention again how large Logan is. Everywhere I turn there's his arm, or his chest, or his--
"How do you feel?" Logan murmurs.
Hot spray hitting my hair, slickening it down. Little streams running into the drain. His eyes.
"I'm okay."
His lips turn up again. Before I can think, the back of his hand rubs, taps between my legs. I jump.
"I meant here."
I flush, look away.
"Oh. It, um, hurts. A bit."
I wish I was cooler. I wish I could bring back that limp casualness from last night.
"Sorry about that," Logan says seriously, and picks up a blue washrag hanging over the side of the tub.
I haven't been washed by someone else since I was a baby--by my mother, in our kitchen sink. And this...this is certainly a far cry from that.
Logan presses the cloth against my skin, gently pulls it up and down. I feel so small, so secure. I measure each lungful of air against the rise and fall of his shoulders. I let my muscles loosen; my cheek falls and comes to land beneath his collar bone.
I'm right under the nozzle, but he's hardly getting clean at all. I feel guilty about that for a moment, before Logan kisses my brow and urges me to tilt my head back.
I used to hate this part, ever since I was a child at the hair salon. I'd choke, uncomfortable with my exposed throat and someone else's opinion of the right angle. I don't think twice about it, with him.
I keep my eyes closed as he works a soapy lather into my hair. It's still hard to breathe, arched like this. I learn that his body feels even firmer when wet, rigid like cobblestone.
I can feel that part of him, stiff against my leg. The flesh there is silky, not what I'd expect and probably not that way anywhere else on him. I forget the pain, recall that second time we did it when the twinges were so powerful I screamed and shook for a half hour afterwards.
I find myself balancing on one leg, trying to hook the other around his waist. Wanting that again. But Logan groans, pushes my leg down a bit and touches me instead. Separates the little folds of flesh. Inserts--inserts his fingers--I'm not sure how many--just barely inside. Tugging and pressing. Jamming his thumb against a spot right above and circling it.
I jerk, bang my head against the wall. Can't form words. Can't understand how he's doing what he's doing, how he knows how to manipulate my body into reactions I never planned to make. I can't speak. My head is thrown back; water trickles into my open mouth and I swallow convulsively.
I've always imagined that who you were was determined by the words you hear in your mind, that first-person narrator of your conscious that translates your emotions and prompts your actions. I thought my Self was in my brain, and that my body was just a well-designed carriage that allows me to move around.
I was wrong.
Everything--everything that is me is in my limbs, my cartilage and tissue and skin and pounding blood. More specifically, the place Logan is touching. Stroking. Pulling. And I'm reasonably certain that if he takes his hand away, I'll die. It's that simple. I'm convinced that nothing in me was really awake, that every idea I ever nursed was just nonsense to keep me occupied until that moment when absolutely no thought is possible.
I'm grabbing his arms as tight as I can, but if Logan wasn't holding me close, holding me up, I'd have collapsed long ago. The shower knobs are poking into my back; Water is stinging in my eyes. Tears of exertion and soap spring out. I can't see Logan's face, but he's growling.
I'm just beginning to come down, my tendons starting to unbuckle from their exquisite clench. I slump forward, my brain like cotton-candy. Like electricity, the current of pleasure left me dizzy and weak.
Logan kisses my shoulder. "Good girl," he says, and his voice sounds pained. I don't understand, until his knee slides up, nudges mine apart again.
It's not slow or particularly tender. He doesn't speak at all this time, and I would mistake these blunt thrusts for savage, angry, if it weren't for the way his hand cradles my skull.
It isn't long before those twinges set off in my stomach again. I finish with a choked yell, he with a barely-audible grunt.
White spots of light.
Stars-no fireworks.
Am I breathing?
A tickling bonelessness all through my thighs.
Soft kisses.
Lifting my head, even twitching my index finger would require too much strength and concentration. I can't understand how he's capable of keeping himself, let alone me, standing. How he's able to switch off the shower and pick me up.
Cold air.
A towel.
More cold air.
And then Logan's admantium-strengthened legs beneath me.
I doze on his lap, while his hand resumes it's earlier position in my hair.
&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&
He'd done alot of things with women in bed, but sleeping wasn't one of them. No matter how exhaustive the activities had been, Logan always made sure he was awake enough to leave or escort the woman to the door (paying her, if necessary). Open eyes might mean the difference between a one-night-stand or a bloody end for his bed mate, and he had only to remember that to keep himself conscious.
So how is it that he broke that long-held custom with the one girl he had already clawed, the one girl he feared harming most of all?
In the second that Logan transferred from Asleep to Awake, he felt no surprise to find Marie beside him. No flicker of that slumber-induced amnesia. He knew she was there: her scent, the weight of her body was not something The Wolverine could be unaware of. The only shock Logan experienced was at not having pieces of her fear congesting his airways. When he realizes that the next few moment won't involve adamantium and a perforated lung, Logan closes his eyes and draws a shuddery breath of relief. Euphoria.
She's pressed securely against him. Marie's skin is moist and he's desperately grateful for her mutation's inactivity. The pillowy tips of her fingers trace absent, reflexive circles on his stomach. Logan wonders when she first stirred, bites back a little disappointment. He'd imagined kissing her awake.
Her head is down and he stresses over that stringent embarrassed scent and it's cause. He's not equipped to deal with a young girl having second thoughts.
Logan reaches up, caresses Marie's hair lightly. His instinct's answer to the necessity of comfort. he delves his fingers into the locks, pulls at the tousled knots. Grooming.
"Mornin', Baby," Logan says, making his voice slow and nonthreatening. Testing. Already preparing for the worst and wanting to quash any last-minute regrets before embarrassed becomes anxious and anxious becomes afraid.
Marie lifts her head.
He feels tiny muscles in his body shift her way, tugged as if by magnets. It won't be long 'til the rest of him follows. Her eyes probe his face, searching. And that uncertainty, faint as it may be, keeps Logan still.
"Good morning," she whispers. His morning hard-on twitches in response to the low register, and he hopes it won't alarm her.
"You sleep okay?"
Her irises darken without warning, and arousal joins the fragrance of blood and Singapore noodles. She bucks slightly, rubbling, and he nearly whimpers. She's going to kill him.
Marie starts to say 'yes', but the sound dies off when he pulls the piece of Chinese food from her hair. They must have rolled in it, and ain't that an the perfect image to have in his head when he's trying not to roll over and fuck her silly.
Logan makes himself grin at her. It would be good if Marie relaxed, learned now that she doesn't have to take everything in bed seriously.
"Oh!" she cries out, and chokes out a little giggle. That circle her mouth forms could make a man cry. He wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her.
Logan pulls his leash tight, reminds himself of the delicacy the next few minutes require. Breathe in. Breathe out. Stay still.
"Do you think--can I use your shower?", Marie stammers, flushes. Looks at Logan as if expecting him to physically kick her off the mattress and out the door. He tries not to bristle at the insult. How could she know what he's done with other women?
"Of course," he tells her quietly.
Logan watches Marie sit up, notes how her shoulders hunch and head twist this way and that. Her fidgeting might be comic if he weren't so concerned...and if that crescent-shaped curve of her left breast wasn't distracting him. He makes sure his tongue stays in his mouth, and the smile stays on his lips. A little shyness is okay, natural for a virgin (not that he's an expert in that class), as long as she doesn't get worked up enough to bolt.
He doesn't think The Wolverine would let her.
He had a half-formed resolve to lay in bed and wait for Marie to get cleaned up, calmed down. But that plan snaps like a twig--a termite infested twig. She's bashful and inelegant and completely unaware of how she's twisting his insides. Logan is torn between saying, 'aw', and pinning her to the wall.
Marie treads around the bed and into the bathroom, her gait just a little too quick. She doesn't look at him, keeps her hips angled slightly away...giving him the perfect view of some well-place dimples that he wants desperately to bite. Marie's muscles are tight and Logan thinks about making her stand in front of him spread-legged until that blush reaches her ankles or she realizes how desirable she is.
Maybe later, he tells the part of him that's nodding enthusiastically to this idea and eagerly suggesting others.
Slow, Logan tells himself, not entirely sure of the word's definition. You have to take things slow with this one. Careful. Slow. Slow. Slow.
But he half-leaps out off the bed the moment she's out of view.
Marie's eyes grow cartoonishly large when he steps into the small room behind her. It's priceless, and oh he's going to corrupt every bone in her body. Logan isn't sure whether he's more guilty or excited at the prospect. He's laughing inside, but trying to keep a straight face lest she be offended.
Her toes are curled and her spine is bent shyly and Logan thinks, Slow. He'll give her privacy if Marie thinks she needs it. He can manage that.
Marie's needs and those of his body are locked in a tug-of-war match. Each time one of them wins the title of Top Priority, the feeling slips back to Unimportant before it can be fulfilled.
"You want me to wait 'til you finish?"
It's interesting, that bloom of surprised curiosity in her scent, laced with a strip of lust. And his priorities shift again.
"No. Uh...I mean, if you--if you want."
Several flustered moments and a staring contest (which Marie looses) pass, and she reveals no intention of moving. Logan decides to help her along. Steps forward and leans, grabs the false crystal knob. Streams of water jumping out. Her nipples tickling his chest.
He could write a book, A Thousand and One Things To Do With Women, all less tame that taking a shower...Many of which are banned in forty-four states, and under debate in the remaining six. But that Bambi-shocked expression is precious, and he isn't bored. He could get addicted to that look.
Marie wriggles, as if trying to find the perfect groove in the tub, the perfect place to stand. Logan grabs her shoulders, pulls her just under the water, facing him. There's pain on her face, and he remembers the place in her that's especially new to this.
"How do you feel?"
She blinks, sweetly. Stares at him. "I'm okay."
"I meant here."
"Oh...It, um, hurts. A bit."
"Sorry about that," Logan tells her, and means it. He wants her to look at him. Wants to make that nervousness disappear. He does his best.
A rag and deft fingers. Water sluicing off crusted blood and semen.Some carefully-chosen pressure points; gentle, skilled massaging until she's comfortable, malleable in his arms. An animal tending to his female. He's breathing through his nose, and moving by instinct. Hands running over her shoulders, her scalp with shampoo that seemed to appear from nowhere.
Her well-being and his want stop their fight for dominance, merge together into a warm throbbing deep inside him. Logan stares at the soft white petals of her eyelids, and everything slows down.
There's a noiseless, steady pulse that directs his movements, like the bass rhythm in an orchestra. It continues to feel that way, slow, even when he places his fingers in that little crevice. Even when she undulates and gasps. Even when he replaces fingers with his shaft, and the rest of him flies--untethered and frantic and static shakes every cell in his body.
The Wolverine lurches free, desperate to cover as much ground as possible before Logan locks him away again. And That pulse still beats, an unfaltering: Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie. Marie.Marie.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Hello! Let me start, as usual, with an apology for how late this chapter is. I was certain I'd have it fineshed within a week, but a lot of things kept me from writing (some in my control, others not)....Grandmother sick (very frightened for her), Grandmother's birthday, volunteering at Grandmother's nursing home, organizing a picnic, organizing a movie party, and finally, a bout of Writer's Block that had me literally cussing out my notebook. I'm so sorry.
Thank you, to the >please insertyour favorite adjective< reviewers, your incredible feedback was like chicken soup for a person with a cold...and then a piece of cake once the fever passed. I hope you'll forgive the slow update, and enjoy this chapter.
Oh! I forgot, and almost did again, to mention the poem that was referenced in the last chapter with the phrase, "The liberty to die."
I'm more of a Millay fan, but I couldn't get this Emily Dickinson poem out of my head for the longest time. I'll paste it here, so it won't be missed.
And another 'Oh!' I just now noticed that the title of the previous chapter was mistakenly labeled as 'four'. It was supposed to be 'three'. Corrected. :-)
Thank you, to the >please insertyour favorite adjective< reviewers, your incredible feedback was like chicken soup for a person with a cold...and then a piece of cake once the fever passed. I hope you'll forgive the slow update, and enjoy this chapter.
Oh! I forgot, and almost did again, to mention the poem that was referenced in the last chapter with the phrase, "The liberty to die."
I'm more of a Millay fan, but I couldn't get this Emily Dickinson poem out of my head for the longest time. I'll paste it here, so it won't be missed.
And another 'Oh!' I just now noticed that the title of the previous chapter was mistakenly labeled as 'four'. It was supposed to be 'three'. Corrected. :-)
Chapter End Notes:
After that long rambling mess you found in the top notes, I'm not really sure what to say. Nothing fresh: just that I sincerely hope what you've just read met your approval, and that I will be biting my nails and crossing my fingers (not at the same time; I'll take turns) that you will review. Please, please, and uber-please.
I've got the ending to this story mapped out in my head, and it should be fineshed in one or two chapters. If two: you'll see the next update in a week. >knocks on wood< If one, then it'll probably take about two weeks. You'll know either way by Saturday. Thank you!
I've got the ending to this story mapped out in my head, and it should be fineshed in one or two chapters. If two: you'll see the next update in a week. >knocks on wood< If one, then it'll probably take about two weeks. You'll know either way by Saturday. Thank you!