8. Wolverine and Rogue
Jean Grey guided her Porsche into the garage, but surprised herself by rejecting her allocated space in favour of another. Her spot near the lift was so brightly lit, she told herself, but here it was darker, and quieter. It suited her mood right now. She quelled the engine and tilted the seat back a little, luxuriating in the new car smell and feeling the butter-soft leather caressing her skin. It had been her 30th birthday present, this car, and if it wasn’t as new as it once was, it was still her favourite place to sit and think.
She was thinking of him.
He was a puzzle. She had tried a little push, and had been able to identify a hot tide of honest appreciation, and the warm buzz of amusement, but nothing else. Nothing so concrete as his plans, or even stray information held in random memories. The Wolverine’s mind was locked tight, Jean realised. As tight as his delicious body, or those sinful jeans he had worn tonight.
The intelligence hadn’t quite captured that, she mused. The photographs had shown the hard planes of his face, and the solid mass of his body, but she hadn’t been prepared for those eyes, or the power of him. Five minutes in the warehouse, and she had wanted to peel the silk from his body and sink her teeth into all that muscle. Tonight, though, she had passed him in the hall, and had nearly fainted with the want. He had looked like a bum. The type of man who would fuck you into the floor and not even offer you a hand up afterwards.
She hated herself for wanting that. She hated herself for sitting here, in the dark of the garage, next to the motorcycle bay. Not waiting, exactly, but knowing that if he did come back soon, she would be forced to make a decision. She wondered how long she was willing to sit there, not waiting.
*
The throaty roar of not one, but two motorcycles pulled her into wakefulness. Jean blinked, and swiped at her eyes before checking the clock on the dash. 4am? He had brought a woman back to the Mansion at 4am? The school would be stirring in just a few hours, and he had picked up some random stranger in a bar and would no doubt plan on fucking her loudly in the room he had been assigned at the end of the hall. It was unaccept… Jean’s thought processes ground to a halt as the Wolverine swung off his motorcycle and stalked towards his companion. So focused on her, his mind was open and unguarded.
Lust boiled from his thoughts, but that wasn’t all. He knew this woman – girl, the Wolverine insisted, even as it plotted exactly what it would do to her, how she would feel inside, how it would own her and make her scream for him and beg for him to fuck her hard, and harder, and harder like he never did, never had, then …
Jean pulled back with a gasp, nerves rubbed raw by the feral bite of his passion for this girl, whoever she was. She felt … burnt. No one had felt like that before. Such chaos and ferocity, bound tightly and buried deep. Realisation knawed at her. That man, today – he had been a construct. Something else lurked underneath the smooth manners and cold efficiency – something so well guarded, so hidden, that she would have never known it was there. Fear prickled up her spine. What kind of man was he, to be able to control that? To be able to command it?
Certainly not a man who would sell himself. If he was here, he had his own agenda here at the mansion, she admitted to herself. She was pondering that, trying to divine his purpose, when the girl ripped off her helmet and shook out her long, chestnut hair. The platinum caught the light even in the half-dark of the garage, and Jean nearly choked on her astonishment as Rogue’s bare, dangerous hands reached for the man she had tried to kill just hours before.
Long, leather-clad legs locked behind his back as he lifted her clear of the motorcycle to prop her on the workbench nearby, and Jean swore she heard a clash of teeth as they mauled each other in something too violent to be called a kiss. Metal flashed, and Jean gaped as she realised what he had used those claws for. Oh my. He was bent before her, using his tongue, and her hands were scrabbling at his belt buckle, trying to undo it.
And then he was fucking her. On the bench in the garage, as she watched. And Jean Grey had to throw up her shields, because the emotion rolling off them was too thick for her, too painful. Longing, and grief, and anger. Hate, and love. Need, and resentment.
She sat, barely daring to breathe, eyes riveted.
Wolverine and Rogue. Rogue and the Wolverine. It sounded like music, and felt like a car crash. They were at terminal velocity, hurtling through the night, towards something inevitable.
She shifted in her seat and tried to focus on how hot it was. How fucking beautiful. But the sense of doom would not leave her alone, and Jean shivered.
*
One hour earlier …
Rogue splashed water on her face and stared in the mirror. The ladies washroom at the Pen wasn’t worth the name, but right now, she wanted to wash his blood from her skin. Her bruises had faded already, and his would be gone, but dark splotches on her lycra bodysuit marked the ferocity of their battle.
She needed a shower, but the facilities here didn’t stretch to that. They would have to leave, and if they left together, she knew what would happen. Hell, the way she was feeling, they’d be lucky if they made it out of the carpark. She had waited long enough.
Rogue snatched a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall and wiped it over her arms and face before pitching it into the trash. Not exactly fresh, but then again, nor was he. She took a deep breath, and headed back out into the din, smiling and nodding at the roughnecks who gathered around the minute she opened the door. Even as she accepted their adulation, she searched for him. He was sitting at the bar, watching her, a hidden smile acknowledging her frustration. She wanted to be there, with him. But … he was expecting her to cross to him. To join him there, and flirt, and be that girl who had held her breath as she contemplated where to touch him, that very first time.
“Whatever you want.”
Her pulse shot into overdrive. She dragged the smoke into her lungs, and let it soothe her. Calm her. Normally it worked. This time, though, the languor seeping into her blood was punctuated by the memory of his voice, and how she had made him shake.
He’d withdrawn his hand, and busied it by rolling another joint. Took a lot to get the Wolverine high, and sometimes, she wondered if it did anything at all for him. Guess she was about to find out.
They’d been sitting side by side, backs against the wall and legs stretched out in front, an ashtray between them. She straightened up, moved it out of the way, and looking him straight in the eye, slowly climbed over him. Sat herself just above his knees, facing him.
She took off her gloves. Closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and reached for the switch Emma had said WAS there.
She had to want it. Want to touch him enough. Want to feel his skin, and the muscle underneath it. Want him whole, and unharmed, and not flowing into her.
Her hand moved out in front of her. Pale in the glow of the rising moon, and strangely naked. She willed herself to stop it from shaking. Where? Where to touch him first?
His face? That sharp cheekbone, where the skin was pulled taut? Or perhaps the cheek below his mutton chops. Or … did she dare touch his lips? Was she that brave?
She saw her hand move towards them, as if it was making the decision all by itself. Snatched it back. She had to decide. Not her body. Marie was in charge. Marie chose this.
Marie pulled her hand back altogether. Let it fall to rest on his chest, feeling the texture of white rib over the hard swell his pectoral muscle, bunching beneath her touch. Even through the fabric, she could feel the crinkle of hair, and ached to touch it. But first things first.
She leaned forward. Eyes wide open, staring into his. Placed her bare lips on his, and froze. Waiting. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Missisippi. Nothing. Nothing, except the feel of his lips, under hers. Nothing, except the stillness between them as she perched, terrified. Nothing, except a leap away from fear, and a long, dizzying plunge into sensation. Her lips opening, and moving over his. Her tongue, flicking shyly over his top lip, and then taste of him rushing into her. In a good way.
Nothing except his tongue, still, accepting. A moan, rising from him, and then he was kissing her and they were fighting to get closer and he was biting her lips she could feel everything and it was too much, too wonderful … and the horror rising as veins spread across his face and she was assimilating another dose of Logan.
Yanking away from him, horrified.
“Do it again,” he growled. And all of a sudden, practice looked like a fine thing.
She’d been just a kid, she told herself. It hadn’t felt like that, really. It couldn’t have been that good. She was just scared – poised on the brink again, terrified of losing herself, again. But she wasn’t a kid anymore.
She smiled at the guy who was recapping the fight, tripping over himself with admiration, and stroked a hand up his arm. Control. She was in control. Bent to whisper in his ear, then took leave of her fans and began to work her way across the room.
Changed direction halfway, plucked her coat from the wall, and recovered her bag from its hideyhole. Walked out the door, kicked the Harley into life, and peeled out of the carpark, onto the road north.
The lights of Danbury were glimmering ahead of her when she heard the roar of another motorcycle, approaching fast. She sped up, ignoring the suburban speed limit in a bid to reach the highway before he caught up with her. The streets were dead this time of night, anyway, she told herself as the speedometer crept higher, pushing 60 miles an hour as she swerved gratefully onto Route 84, bound for home. She could see his lights behind her, now, so speed limit be damned. She’d always wondered how fast this thing could go, anyway.
Very fast, it appeared. So fast her body was vibrating with the wind, and her eyes could barely focus. He had the advantage, here, she knew, and pushed herself harder. The needle flew past the 90 mile mark, and she prayed no one else would be on the open road. But she didn’t slow down.
Suddenly, though, he was there, beside her, flying with her. A grin, the likes she had never seen, splitting his face in two as his hair streamed behind him. Rogue yanked her attention back to the road as the exit for Salem Center flashed past. They would loop back, she told herself. They slid into the corner together, both bikes leaning into the road the same way, at the same angle. Riders rebalancing the same way, refusing the compromise on the thrill of speed.
The mansion, looming like her future. The garage, dark and quiet.
Him. Lifting her from her bike. The cold steel bench underneath her, the taste of him and blood on her lips, and the shine of adamantium as he slit the seam of her pants, and lowered his face to her centre, to lick, and taste, and tease.
Coming. So fucking hard. Her thighs just about swallowing him because my God he had to stay there and do that again or she. would. die. And fuck, if he didn’t do it again, licking her clean and making her wet all over again. But this time she needed him inside, and why the fuck was he still wearing that crazy ass belt buckle? Grabbing at it, but she was still convulsing and her hands just wouldn’t work. His low, dirty laugh as he took pity on her and unbuckled it himself, and dropped his jeans, and pushed his way inside of her.
She wasn’t a virgin. She wasn’t a kid anymore. But now that he was inside of her, stroking and pounding and shouting his pleasure into the quiet of the garage, she almost didn’t care.
***
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000
Author's Chapter Notes:
I've been tinkering with this one for a while and couldn't get it just like I wanted it ... maybe next chapter! Please forgive me the need to indulge in smut before I rediscover an actual plot.
Chapter End Notes:
Go on, stoke my enthusiasm. You know how ....