(Table of Contents)

Printer Chapter or Story

- Text Size +


Author's Chapter Notes:
WARNINGS: Logan uses a relatively harsh derogatory term for a Cajun in this fic, and there's some pretty disturbing imagery in here, too. What can I say? Jealousy can do horrible things to a man.
LAME DISCLAIMER: I own nothing except Logan's bruised knuckles. No, really. No, really. Don't ask.
FEEDBACK: Yeah, I think my Logan!Muse could use a cuddle after this one. It hurt.
A/N: WTF am I doing writing angst?? I think I broke my brain or something.
It wouldn't be so bad if I couldn't hear them fucking.

If I couldn't hear the bed squeaking, the soft, breathy little moans she makes, that godawful Cajun French bullshit he spews when he's really havin' a good time.

There's no way to drown it out - they're two doors down the hall from me, for Christ's sake! How the hell Pete manages to sleep through that shit, I'll never know.

And then there's the scent. The sweet little tendrils of her arousal that seep through the crack under the door and get blown at me in hot gusts from the ventilation system. If it were just the scent, I might be able to handle it, smother it with air freshener and aftershave and the smell of the Zen aromatherapy candle on the nightstand.

But I can hear them.

I hear his breathing speedin' up, and the headboard bangin' against the wall; I hear her unintelligible moans of pleasure turn into "Oh god"s, and I can't ignore it anymore.

Because that's what she says when I fuck her that hard.

Those moans are mine, you coonass bastard - I've fucked her in that bed, and she's made those noises just for me. Is she as wet as she was when I fucked her last night? Is she hangin' on to you with both legs, coverin' you with so much sticky sweetness that it's drippin' off your balls and makin' your thighs slippery? I hate you so much right now, LeBeau, and all I want to do is bust in there and wrap your girly-ass ponytail around my fist and drag you offa her - but I can't. I got no right to. Because she picked you, and she didn't pick me, and I'm just the other man.

But you don't know that. Don't know she was in my bed last night while you were at the bar gettin' juiced. Don't know it was my ear she was pantin' all those dirty words into. Don't know I was poundin' your woman into the mattress almost every night the entire three weeks you were in Shreveport on recon.

Of course you don't know.

Because I'm the other man.

Her dirty little secret.

And god damn my overactive imagination, because I can see her in my mind, the way she is right now: all that long, beautiful hair spread across the pillow; those big green eyes lookin' up at you all dewy and half-lidded; those full pink lips parted and moist, beggin' to be kissed and bitten. I see her arch and I hear her gasp and I smell her come and I have to get OUT.

I could go to the bar, have some nameless, faceless fuck, lose myself in another woman's arms - but it's pointless, because the only woman I want right now is getting fucked by her boyfriend.

I find myself in the woods, and I ain't too surprised, because Nature always takes care of her own; even though I'm a good half-mile from the mansion now, I imagine I can still hear it - the sound of my girl, who is not my girl, in the arms of another man, and the rage swells in me. It churns and roils and grows, rising like the lava in a volcano; my heart is pounding, driving all that boiling, frothing blood into every goddamn vein in my body, and if I don't destroy something, I'll explode.

The forest offers up a sacrificial lamb: a cluster of maple trees growing by the ravine at the edge of the cove. I pop the claws and make some kindling, but it doesn't help. I stab the blades all the way into the fat trunk of a big old oak tree, but that doesn't help, either. I pull the claws back in and pummel the tree until chips of bark are flying and the skin is flayed off my knuckles and I can see the glint of metal through the gaping, ragged holes in my hands - but that doesn't help, either. The pain in my chest is still worse than the pain in my hands, tight and suffocating and miserable.

My hands are sticky and dripping with blood, the tree is pulped, and I want to go back in there and repeat the process on LeBeau, to bash his pretty face until it's unrecognizable, and then I'd cut a nice painful hole in his chest and rip his heart out, just so he can see how it feels. Then, just as the light's fadin' from those glowy red eyes, I'd throw Rogue down on the floor beside him and fuck her into the carpet - just so the last thing he'd see is the man those moans are really meant for.

The lump in my throat fights its way out and becomes a horrid sound, not quite a howl and not quite a groan; it's hoarse and broken and wretched, a sound that should never have come from a man like me, and I hate it.

I hate it even more when I realize it's a sob.

My legs give out on me and I sink to my knees; the earth opens up its moist, mossy arms and welcomes me; and although a part of me wishes she had heard the door slam and had come after me, I know she won't, and I'm sorta glad for that, too.

Because this moment is mine and mine alone, and no one ever has to see the baddest motherfucker on two legs face-down on the forest floor, choking on rage and bitter hatred and dead, squashy leaves.

Right now, he's probably coming deep inside her, just like I did last night, and she's probably tearing long, deep scratches down his back with her nails, just like she does to me. But those scratches heal right up on me, and no one ever sees the evidence; and he'll go out in the morning and play basketball shirtless and show off just how damn good a lover he is. The only things I'll have in the morning are the memory of this moment, and bruised knuckles - I've pulverized 'em pretty bad this time, and by the time my healing factor gets everything knitted up real good, it'll be lunchtime.

I hate myself for this night, this moment of weakness I told myself I was strong enough to bear; I hate him for doin' all those things to her, even though it's his fuckin' right to; and for one tiny fraction of a second, I try to hate her - for lettin' him do it, for enjoyin' it so damn much. But I can't. It ain't her I hate - never has been, never will be. She's got every right to enjoy it. He's the one she picked; he makes her happy, she was his long before she was mine-and-not-mine, and I'm just the other man.
[Report This]
You must login (register) to review.