7. Victories
She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see, except for a pinprick of light so faint it looked as if it was streaming through a keyhole.
Sound came to her ears, but it was distorted, and muted, as if someone had been playing with the settings on her iPod. And something told her she desperately wanted to hear … someone was saying something, speaking to her.
Wrapped in blackness, she felt nothing, except a sense of displacement, and a nagging feeling that she needed to be somewhere else. Something was going on, and she had to get there - but she didn’t know what it was! Was she late? Had she forgotten? Where was she meant to be?
The wrongness grew. Why couldn’t she feel anything? Where was she? What was that noise, buzzing in her inner ear?
It grew louder, and louder. And suddenly, sensation returned. Fire. In her belly, and lower. A man, making her feel. Pain, as he mauled her lips with his, and bit down on her tongue, and pinned her to the side of the cage with his body. The cage? His body?
Rogue obliterated Sabretooth’s control with a blaze of fury. She refused to share this, to cede this. Wolverine was hers to fight, and this was hers too. She tasted her own blood, and retaliated, dragging his lip between her teeth and grinding, then chasing his tongue with her own to share their blood, share the pain. Tasting him deep, gulping him down, straining against his hold, but knowing she wasn’t trying to escape. She was fighting to get closer, to crawl inside him and steal his soul. To breathe his breath and score his bones and own him, just a little, the way he did her.
“Rogue,” she heard. “Marie.” Want, and need. Power, and weakness. Killer and victim. Who was he kissing? Why?
He wanted them both, he said. A scream rose, inside. Why? What did the girl have worth wanting? No hope. No choice. No power. No strength. No courage. No choice. No choice. No. Choice.
Blackness crept back, and she could no longer feel his hands on her. But then, he rocked into her, saying something, and the pleasure pulled her back, made it worth staying. His body anchoring her, eyes trapping her soul.
“… control,” he was saying. “…you aren’t them. You sure as hell aren’t him.”
They rattled in outrage. She was them, she was! A clamour of protest, that was Rogue. Marie was quiet, though. Did she have nothing to say? No thoughts on this matter? She walked from that girlish room, smiled her girlish smile, and stood on tiptoe to speak in Rogue’s ear.
“Trust you. Do this for me.”
… And he was waiting. She drew the fragments of herself together, and threw them at him. Without the beast, she felt weak, but the cage was crystalline in its clarity, and she could feel every pore in her skin, every bruise forming as her fists thumped into him, and the beautiful aches blossomed. She could see the beauty of her kick, as the foot flashed out in front of her, and knew what to do next, and next, and next after that. Her blows might not fell him, but she would dance out of his way and use the lithe beauty of her body to strike as he recovered, and do the very opposite of what he had taught her, because he wouldn’t expect that.
Waiting, was he? She saw the grin spread across his face as he was forced to move faster, to leap and dodge and then stand like an oak to take the unavoidable ones. She had no need for his blood, anymore, no need for slaughter, but submission, she’d take that. She’d like that.
But maybe that was another battle, she thought, and smiled at him when they were locked in each others arms for an ecstatic moment. Felt him rise in answer, as he pushed her backwards into the mat, and knew they’d really rather be fighting somewhere else, and if she let him finish her now … como muy tentador.
But not as tempting as winning, then winning again. She slipped out of the hold, sinuous as a snake, and turned it on him, pressing him beneath her. He swung his legs around, somehow, and she was locked between them, massive treetrunks either side of her shoulders and his groin in her face …
No rules here, after all. Nothing to say she couldn’t touch him in passing, the weight of her hand pressing down on his hardness in a swift, hidden stroke as she twisted clear of his lower body, and moved behind him to take the advantage.
And why shouldn’t she press the length of her body into his back, knowing the feel of her would be scorching into his bare skin, and it would feel so fucking good that when she slammed him forward and face down that his cock would be trapped and a stamp on his tailbone would be more effective than the most practiced mouth in the world. She saw the shudder ripple through him, and dropped down to pin him there, knees either side of him and the core of her hot and wet against the small of his back. Hands either side of his neck to pin him there, unnecessary really, but it allowed her to lean forward and trace her victory on his back with the aching points of her nipples, and to whisper in his ear.
“Fight’s over, sugar. Sure that’s the best you can do?”
He was too wired to laugh. But she could feel the amusement rising from him, and satisfaction too. Gotta love a man who liked to lose.
She waited for the count, then rose on unsteady legs. Adrenalin had made her shaky, she noted, as she watched him draw himself upright, and turn to face her. A bow, low and respectful, and she knew it wasn’t for their fight.
It was for hers. Rogue’s real victory.
Time to collect my winnings, sugar, she thought, and felt her heart leap in a way it hadn’t in years. This feeling … it was anticipation. She remembered it well, waiting, and wanting, and knowing it was going to be just. so. fucking. good when he finally, finally touched her.
*
She had hovered by the pool and wondered if she looked like a black crow against the blue sky … ominous, and out of place. It hurt to remember that poor girl, so uncomfortable in her own skin. The restful luxury of the house in Santa Maria had made her nervous, and the heart stopping beauty of the beach had left her rigid with frustration.
He’d brought the girl who could kill with a touch to a house by the beach, with a pool? She stomped inside, where he had sunk onto the leather couch, already halfway through a bottle of something dark and aromatic. No shirt, no shoes, a pair of jeans hacked off above the knee in deference to the tropical humidity. She gulped. Reached for the hurt and anger to swamp those other feelings, and glowered at him.
“So, what are we are doing here, again? Besides renewing your stash of illegal drugs?”
“We, kid, are chilling. Call it a holiday. We’ll do a little training in the mornings, but the rest of the day is yours. You can hit the sights, get a tan, read a book … whatever you want.”
Cruel. Fucking. Bastard. “I don’t own a bathing suit. I burn in the sun. And in case you’ve forgotton, I have poison skin, Logan … I don’t need no fucking tourists in my head!” She stomped towards the room he’d dropped her duffle into, and threw herself on the narrow bed.
He followed, and lounged in the doorframe, still chugging on his beer. She refused to look.
“Lose the attitude, kid. Go shopping. Buy some sunscreen. Get yourself a bikini. There’s nobody here to hurt, just you and me. Hell, swim naked if you have to. Commune with fucking nature and find some zen.”
He lowered the beer bottle to look her in the eye. “Because I am fucking sick of your whinging and whining and complaining, and I need a break. We both do.” He didn’t waited for her response, disappearing out to the pool to fall asleep on a lounger.
She had been spitting with outrage, Rogue remembered. So mad, she couldn’t see straight. Wanting nothing so much as to make him take it back, to stuff his long suffering act down his throat until he gagged on it. She had stomped to the door, stripped his wallet of several hundred pesos, and clumped out into the tropical afternoon, bristling with plans for gruesome, glorious payback.
“Wuh?”
The bucket of water had done its job beautifully, Rogue smirked. He was awake, angry, and very, very wet. Water dripped off the wild points of his hair, and created an array of tantalising tracks down his bare torso. The cutoffs were soaked, making the worn denim cling even closer. She would have enjoyed it more if she hadn’t been laughing so hard.
“What the FUCK, Rogue!” He leapt to his feet, and advanced on her with arms akimbo and eyes wild. Looked at her in disbelief, and then saw her. Looked again. Eyes tracking from the tiny bikini bottoms, down, down, down the length of her legs, to her bare feet, and moving up again, lingering on the ridges of muscle that bracketed her bellybutton before disappearing under the black fabric. She wondered if he’d forgotten to breath, then, and when he jerked his eyes away, she heard the tiniest moan, as if he was in pain. She smiled.
“Sorry Logan, didn’t want you to fall asleep in the sun,” she quipped, moving closer, slow enough for him to mark the sway of her hips before his eyes moved inevitably upwards, glowing hotter as they drank in the swell of her breasts, spilling out over the sides of the triangular cups. She could feel a blush threatening to rise, but willed it away. Chased it into retreat by reaching behind herself to untie the bow, and swinging the tiny top from one finger as she watched him try to swallow his own tongue in shock.
“You said ‘commune with nature’, Logan,” she told him as she sunk on to the lounger opposite his, and stretched luxuriously.
“I’m just doing as I’m told.”
She’d won, that day, she remembered. It didn’t feel like it at the time, because Logan hadn’t been able to lie beside her for long, and had vanished into the Old Town on an errand. He’d brought a woman back with him, and Marie had been devastated until she realised he was blind to Emma Frost’s hungry glances and obvious flirtation. Instead, he grilled her about trauma, and how it could manifest in a mutant. He asked about her experience with empaths, and other mutants that has psycho-physical interactions. Emma had talked, and Marie had listened, and when he shot her a significant glance during a lull in the conversation, had gathered her courage, and plunged.
“Emma?” The blonde’s eyes swung away from Logan and widened with surprise. Marie hadn’t said a word so far – by all appearances, she’d been sulking in the corner of the big couch while the grownups talked among themselves.
“Yes, dear?” Marie tried not to bristle at the condescension, and struggled to strike an even tone.
“My skin. It sucks the energy from people. I get their memories, their personalities, and if they’re mutants, their powers too. I can’t control it.” She stopped, unwilling to have her voice break in front of this woman.
“After I’ve absorbed someone, their personality is in my head. Some for a few days, if it’s just a touch. Some always.” She didn’t explain what it was like to have someone’s dying scream in your head. What it did to you to have the memories of the pain you caused, and the horror you brought, rolling through your brain like a film you couldn’t shut down.
Emma Frost’s mouth had dropped open, her forehead creased with scepticism. She shot Logan a look of disbelief, only to meet a fierce frown. His face softened as he looked at Marie, giving her the courage to continue.
“Can I learn to control it? Do you think you could teach me?”
The White Queen, as Logan called her, was more than willing to help. Daily visits with Logan seemed to be a big attraction, Marie remembered, but she had to give the woman credit – she knew her stuff, and Rogue presented quite the intellectual puzzle.
First, Emma decided, they had to help Rogue gain control of the personalities already in her head. The list wasn’t long, at that point, and the technique was simple, if arduous … a wall of brick to lock her father in solitary confinement, and a little sitting room to visit with Mama. Cody lived in a facsimile of his own bedroom back in Meridian, and Logan-in-her-head shared a recreation of the cottage with Wolverine.
It took them a week of working together to build the habitats, and another week to hone her will sufficiently to lock her guests in, and let them out, as she wished. They shared a triumphant afternoon of testing her progress, before moving on to the big one. The hungry beast that was her skin.
“I’m thinking there are two steps here, Rogue. Firstly, you have to let go of whatever it is that made your skin react the way it does in the first place, and then, you have to make it work the way it was supposed to,” Emma explained.
Marie had never shared the details of her abuse, but the woman was a mind-reader, after all. She could no more speak of what her father did than she could speak of what she had done to him … but she knew she had found her catharsis. If a block existed, it was bound up with her notions of touch. Of choice, she suspected.
Her skin ensured she could not be touched against her will, but in doing so, eliminated her right to choose. Her right to touch someone, and be touched if she wanted it. And she did. Desperately.
They sat side by side on the terrace, passing the joint companionably between them, and feeling their awareness reach out into the sultry night. A flight of birds wheeling against the setting sun seemed vastly amusing for a moment, and her giggles made him chuckle too. Suddenly, though, the sadness of the moment crept in: a picture perfect, romantic night, designed for hot kisses and slow exploration. And here he was, with her.
“Logan?”
“Yeah, kid.”
“Would you let me touch you?”
He shot her a puzzled look – he had never been afraid of her skin, and had touched her several times to share his healing, or heighten her senses prior to a job.
She dragged in a deep breath, and rushed into the abyss.
“However I want. Whereever I want.”
He was so quiet that she steeled herself for a rejection. She began to babble apologies into the silence, until he stopped her with one gloved finger sliding over her lips.
“Yeah, kid,” he said, in a hoarse, shaky voice she had never heard before.
“Whatever you want.”
***
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This one might be a bit rough due to my daughter's impending birthday party.
Chapter End Notes:
Feed the muse, keep a writer writing!