The Church was worse than Logan remembered. Rougher. Bloodier. In the years since Logan had last been there, it had become a place where mutants fought openly, showcasing a number of deadly abilities. A twisted sideshow of unspeakable horrors. Unfortunately, it meant he couldn't join them without revealing who and what he was. That irritated him, but Logan enjoyed his anonymity too much to piss it away so carelessly.
Something about it seemed fitting, though. Men still found absolution within the old stone walls, though not quite in the same way. It still involved blood and flesh and calling on the almighty, though, Logan thought with no small sense of irony.
He was almost glad the Rogue had declined to join him tonight. This thing between them was changing, becoming some sort of twisted game of sexual chicken. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Aside from masturbation, it was clearly Marie's only sexual outlet and he wasn't sure how smart it was to withdraw that abruptly now that they'd opened Pandora's box. He was also a man with few hard limits and generally met his sexual needs whenever and however they arose.
While he wondered about the emotional aftermath, he was still making inroads. Still pulling little details from her. And as wrong as it was, he still hoped one of these times would touch her deeply and break through her brittle shell. Move her enough that she'd show him some kind of overt physical response beyond clenched fists and shallow breathing and that painfully exquisite scent that told him she liked what she was seeing all too much, despite her sharp words.
Logan nursed a beer, thinking on the law of diminishing returns, and feeling like they weren't there yet. That maybe they just hadn't quite hit on the right mix of elements for Marie to find that place where she could just let go. To give as much as she took. While he was tired of waiting, he certainly wasn't ready to give up. They were both tough, and it wasn't like they hadn't been drawing blood with each other since the beginning.
If he were honest, there was a part of it that was wholly selfish, too. He wanted to watch Marie come. To see her touch herself. To feel her give herself up to the moment— and to him. To acknowledge not just that she felt something deeply, but that he was the reason for it. He needed to see the satiation reflected back in her eyes; to know that she felt safe enough with him to join him in that place. Even if he couldn't touch her— some part of him ached for that connection.
The animal was less forgiving. He had little patience for her skittishness and didn't understand her hesitation. He didn't need her submission or even her deference, but he was tired of waiting for her to join him on the field; to distinguish herself there, as he had. To meet him as an equal.
As the fights raged on, Logan couldn't help but wonder how things might have gone down if he'd had the chance to stand there toe-to-toe with ol' One Eye in a place like this. Thinking about Marie's first time with someone 'older' had him wondering about taking on the rest of the men as well. Hank could probably do him some serious damage. Stamina would be the deciding factor there. The Wolverine would win eventually. Same for Pete. That guy was built like an ox, but he wasn't built with limitless reserves. Logan was.
He had a fire burning in him too. The Wolverine was a nasty, ruthless son-of-a-bitch who didn't like to lose. He ate the pain, swallowing it and allowing it to become something terrifying, a freeing sort of blackness that consumed him. Survival came before everything else.
Calling for another beer, Logan let his mind wander. Macabre thoughts filtered in. He wasn't invincible. There was always a bigger fish. Another of Nature's laws. In a fair fight, he'd wipe the floor with Erik, but Magneto could no doubt crumple him into a ball like discarded tinfoil. Marie— Rogue. There was little doubt she'd put him down just as effectively. Sapping his strength. Using his gifts against him. Eventually sliding in close, touching him with those naked little hands and—
"Damn, hoss. That's some expression ya got there. What the hell are you thinkin' about, sugar?"
"Nothin'," Logan grunted, surprised by Marie's unexpected presence and annoyed that he'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't noticed her the minute she'd walked in. She'd changed. Dressed in black from head to toe now. Biker boots, jeans and her favorite beat-up black leather jacket with wings stitched on the back. Death from above. It invoked more a feeling of a valkyrie's fury than an avenging angel.
"Didn't look like nothin'."
"Mmph," he grunted, the tip of his cigar glowing red in the wan light.
"Tell me." Soft and low and shivery. Straight under his radar and right between his legs. That sweet, smoky drawl just did it for him. Always had.
"Thinkin' of you and me in there," he said, jerking his head toward the cage.
She laughed, intrigued. "Really?"
"Yep."
"That do it for you, cowboy?"
"Mmph." That was a little too close to the mark for comfort.
"Well, we both know how that'd end." She seemed quite certain. That unshakable confidence pissed him off. It made his cock twitch, too.
"Do we?"
"Sure. I always come out on top, unless you're willin' to kill me." She necked her beer.
"Don't tempt me, kid." He was only half kidding.
She looked him up and down, taking in his appearance— scruffy but not sweaty and spattered with blood. "You didn't fight?"
"Nah. Not really the kinda publicity the school needs, is it?" All it took these days was one dumbass with a cellphone and they were all fucked.
"History professor guts a man. Details at eleven," she quipped, easily following his lead.
"'Ro would be pissed," he allowed, wanting to deflect the conversation away from what he was actually feeling.
Marie laughed. "So you're more worried about her reaction than gutting someone? Typical."
Logan just shrugged. "There's lotsa assholes out there, darlin'."
She saluted him with her beer, pointedly. "Amen to that."
They drank in silence for a few minutes, until he just couldn't stand it anymore.
"Look, kid. Why the fuck are you even here?" Because it felt uncomfortably like a gauntlet being thrown down after their earlier encounter. They hadn't exactly parted on the best terms.
"How's your jaw?" she said in answer, rolling the bottle between her palms with a sparkle in her eye.
"How's your hand?" he shot back.
"Hurts like a bitch," she grinned.
"Heh. Good."
He couldn't help but be a little charmed by her response. She liked to fight. Girl could hold a grudge for-fucking-ever, but never about that. Their personal history aside, it was damn hard not to like someone who could throw down, hold her own and grin while she took a hard shot.
She'd actually been more pissed at him for accidentally buying a bag of decaf coffee once for field provisions on a long mission than she'd been for the black eye he'd given her when their sparring got a little out of hand three days in. Neither of them did waiting well. To this day, she maintained — loudly — the meanest thing he ever did to her was deprive her of real coffee for a week.
"You gotta damn hard head, cowboy."
"Yep," he agreed. That applied in more ways than one.
"And a nasty mouth on ya when you're all riled up." Her smile had faded.
He shrugged. That was true.
"So? That don't make what comes out of it wrong."
For a moment, her mask crumpled and he saw a flash of pain so profound it rocked him back. He hadn't felt the urge to wrap his arms around her and comfort her since that day on the train so long ago. A part of him was surprised that she could still pull that from him, that he was still capable of empathy — of such softness — after everything he'd endured. She had embraced the Rogue with such fierce enthusiasm it was difficult to remember pieces of Marie were still under that steely determination and sheer, stubborn grit.
"You know," she said calmly, signaling the bartender for another beer. He braced himself for the sharper side of her tongue. "You don't know a damn thing about me."
"Whose fault is that?" he returned evenly, as he signaled for another drink for himself as well. He had the distinct impression he was going to need something to put the flames out when she was finished with him.
"And," she continued, as if he hadn't spoken, "you know fuck-all about women except how to choose an easy mark. How to get in, get off and get away. You can make them come, sure." He winced at the truth, delivered so starkly. "But they want you because you're the biggest dick swingin', sugar. It doesn't have jackshit to do with who you really are."
"Shut up," he growled.
"Or what?"
"Or I'm gonna smash the fuck outta your glass house, baby." His smile was nasty. "Because we both know the real reason you're here is 'cause you're horny and as much as you hate it, watchin' me stick my big swingin' dick into one of these cage bunnies is still better than gettin' off alone."
He wanted to hit her. And kiss her. And fuck her.
She looked like she wanted to scratch his eyes out. And she smelled like pure sex.
"Well, hell, sugar. Maybe I'm just here because the batteries in my vibrator died." The Rogue was fighting fit, tonight. And taking no prisoners, as usual.
He suddenly realized that even though they were trading verbal blows, it wasn't fighting so much as foreplay. They were both wild, breathing hard and ruddy with a bloodrush that burned hot and fierce. He was hard. She was wet. They were both hungry and on edge.
"Her," he indicated with a curt nod. He was not in the mood to negotiate. Fuck the Rogue. She wouldn't be dictating to him tonight.
He watched the Marie's eyes slide over his choice; a striking woman with outrageous curves, caramel skin, pale eyes and kinky wild hair that surrounded her freckled face like a cloud. He generally tended toward petite, athletic frames, but tonight he wasn't in the mood to fuck a bag a bones. Or to be careful. Or even nice. Tonight he wanted to feel a Rubenesque woman under him. To spend himself against soft, lush curves. Someone his brain couldn't so easily pretend was Marie when he closed his eyes.
"Fine," the Rogue snapped, finishing her beer.
"What? No marchin' orders from On High tonight?"
He was in a nasty mood, and it showed.
"Nope. Tonight I just want to see what you want."
He'd thought he'd had the upper hand making all the decisions himself without any input from her— but she'd twisted it somehow. This was worse. A painfully revealing look at his most intimate sexual desires; what he liked and how he liked it.
A part of him was encouraged that she wanted to see it at all. To know something about the side of himself he'd always shielded her from. It was preferable to being the equivalent of her sexual puppet, but it was still damned uncomfortable.
"Anythin'?" he growled, wanting to make her as uncomfortable as he was. Where the Wolverine was concerned, anything covered a helluva lot of ground.
"Anything," she doubled down, sliding off the bar stool and looking at him expectantly.
"Fine." He threw her his keys. "For after." He had little hope with as bristly and antagonistic as she was tonight that she'd touch herself in his presence. Knowing she'd get off in his truck after was the next best thing. It was one part wanting to give her a safe place to go and three parts wanting to control her in the only way left to him. Making the Rogue do anything was a bit like wrestling with fire; impossibly frustrating and you still got scorched no matter which way you came at it. It was damned fun, though.
"No." She threw them back, eyes blazing.
Plucking them from the air without looking away from her gaze, he set them on the bar.
"Yes," he growled. "Pick 'em up or don't bother followin' me, kid."
Logan didn't even wait for her assent. He just turned and left, smirking as she snatched the keys with a huff and trailed after him through the crowd.
Up next: Blaze. To steal a phrase from The Man: 'I fell in to a burning ring of fire. I went down, down, down... and the flames went higher..."
Also: sexytimz. You have been warned. ;)