Movieverse. Logan/Rogue. NC-17. ~3400 words.
He wonders when she figured him out.
Rogue finds him in the back of the Blackbird hunched over a six-pack of empties, the last dangling from the loose clutch of his knuckles, dregs going warm and flat. His nose twitches at the new-leather scent of her uniform. Not for the first time he misses the smell of silk and cotton warmed through by her skin.
“‘Least I know you won’t be runnin’ in this,” she says, hand light on the paneling.
He snorts a laugh and drains his beer. It dissolves like bitter fluff on his tongue, wholly unsatisfying. She offers that shy shadow of a smile and tucks a white streak of hair behind her ear. A slow creeping itch starts up in Logan’s forearms. The world’s making her grow up too fast, and there’s nothing he can do to make it slow down even a bit.
She says, “We’re waitin’ on you,” and Logan hears, I.
Dropping the bottle into the case, Logan leans back. Closing his eyes only shuts out the light. “Be sober in a minute.”
“Okay.” Leather creaks, rubs softly against skin; her boots clang hollowly on the floor and first his lungs then his head fill with her. She sits close beside him, a gentle line of heat from shoulder to knee. He can pick out where she’s been by the trace of dishsoap clinging to the shampoo-smell in her hair and the arctic cool lingering on her gloves. Her lipgloss is something cheap from the drugstore, artificial strawberries and banana. It’s like a burst of flavour on his tongue when she rubs her lips together.
“Just say it, kid.”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” she says, too quick. A prod from her toes clank the bottles together. She’s taller than she used to be. Taller than him one of these days if she doesn’t quit growing.
He slants her a sideways glance. “I don’t need a sniff to know that was a lie.”
Quiet and subtle, her heart gives one syrup-thick thump. “Are you really drunk?”
“Not anymore.” A frown tugs at his mouth. He folds his arms and gives her a level stare. Months ago a look like that made her quail. Now she gives a tilt of her head that means something else entirely. She’s watched him with a shadow of that sparkle sitting bright in her eyes since Canada, back when she thought the thrill was worth the risk. “Why?”
“Got anymore?” she asks, leaning forward to peer under the seat. Her back is a long, smooth arch. Her hair slithers over her shoulder and she tucks it behind her ear again. She doesn’t tie it back much anymore, especially around him, and he wonders when she figured him out.
“Barkin’ up the wrong tree if you think I’m givin’ you booze in Xavier’s house.”
“I didn’t say I wanted any,” she shoots back, a spark of attitude flaring and dying all in the same breath because she did want some and she pushes harder at him than the others, knows he’ll give a little more. They’re all still kids to Storm’s eyes, even Scott’s when he manages to lift his head above the grief he’s mired in, but most times Logan’s not sure what he sees when he looks at them. He knows what he wants to see, and that’s not always what he gets.
“You can quit lyin’ to me anytime now,” he says.
Too late he figures out it was the wrong thing to say, or maybe exactly right. He can’t read the thoughts flickering in her eyes but he doesn’t need to; he can smell the sweetness of them and the ache that follows is swift and terrible. Her smile’s still shy but wanting, certain, and in a flash he remembers the girl that thought she saved his life, stole a ride and sassed him back, piloted a ship she didn’t know how to fly.
Level and strong, she says, “You first.”
He wants so badly to say she’s too young to know what she wants but he’s not going to insult her like that, and saying she’s wrong about what she thinks he does is just as bad. There’s the kid, boy her own age he should be marching her straight back to, and that’s another insult right there, him thinking she hasn’t thought this through. He’s the one who’s been avoiding all the thinking. Time’s are he really is the best at what he does.
Her hair’s body-warm against his knuckles when he pushes it back over her shoulder. Her pulse beats stronger when he leans in, breathes in the scent of her, soap and sweat and leather and the thin chemical trace of coloured powder. His mouth’s less than inches from skin and he knows how soft it is, the memory of it burned into his head the same as she says he’s in hers. He can’t touch her but he’s marked her on the inside, and he knows sure as hell that’s something he shouldn’t be so goddamn smugly satisfied over.
Her hand twitches against his leg like she means to bring it up between them. All she says, the lust he can smell soaking through leather thickening her voice, is, “Careful, Logan,” and he hears the whisper of eyelashes against her cheeks when she closes her eyes. He holds back the growl pushing its way up through his chest until the back of her hand resting lightly against his thigh becomes her palm skidding up over it.
A jarring clang of metal tells him he’s on his knees for her long before his head figures it out. The startled noise she makes, high and nervously happy, arrows straight under his skin. The shallow curve of her waist fits perfectly between his hands. Her knees fall open when he jerks her forward onto the edge of the seat, her ankle glancing off the case and rattling the glass inside, mirror image of the jangling of his nerves. Colour fills her face but she meets his gaze square on, gives herself away with a shaky swallow as he noses at the inside of her thigh. Fingers safe and untouchable beneath another layer of leather skim up his jaw, hook behind the hinge and urge him higher. He can smell the sweet ache that’s making her tremble long before he presses his mouth to it and then he’s snarling his frustration at finding the bitterness of leather on his tongue instead of her, so close but it might as well be on the other side of the world. He nuzzles harder, sucks at her through the suit, bares his teeth and bites down when a cry slips free. A second follows long before the first’s done echoing in his skull, edged with what might’ve been a curse, and he looks up to find she’s hanging off the seat, one leg thrown carelessly over his shoulder. Some of the haze clears from her eyes when she realises it too, the fresh rush of colour staining her cheeks at odds with the nonchalant shrug she can’t quite muster up.
“C’mere, darlin’,” Logan says, one part honesty and two parts pure badness’s sake. He wants to know how low that flush goes, if it’s him that’s making her blush so deep or if it’s how new this is. She clings when he pulls her from the seat, lets go again soft and easy when he lays her out on the floor. Turns out he’s not fast enough for her though, and she catches the zipper at her throat, starts tugging. All the willpower he’s got isn’t enough to make her stop but the knowledge that he’s not going to be able to touch her is and he forces her arm out of the way to skim his mouth over the swell of her breast. “I’m gonna want to see you,” he says, the flash of bare pale skin whittling away at his control, almost enough to convince him it’s worth dying a little to feel it. “As much as you wanna give me.”
She says, “I’m not shy,” and means it, the hitch in her words all for the scrape of his teeth over her nipple, the gentle tug he tries to give it through the suit. He opens his mouth wider, feels flesh and leather mound between his teeth and for a moment that’s all he needs. When she pushes up into him it suddenly isn’t anymore and he bites harder, keeps telling himself to ease up but those noises keep spilling out of her, quiet whimpers in the back of her throat like she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it. The only thing he ends up doing is rocking the heel of his hand against her cunt, coaxing her hips to meet the rolling rhythm. Her entire body sinks into it, the heat cupped in his palm growing damp. He can smell how wet she is, how she’s opening up for him, and he curves his fingers down to feel her muscles twitch, presses up and in as if he could sink straight through the leather into her.
He muffles a ragged groan in her belly. “Gonna kill me,” he says, dragging his hands away to brace himself above her. The breather he means to take to calm the blood pounding in his skull doesn’t happen, his palm already smoothing down the curve of her ass, her thigh, and she lifts her legs, the light in her eyes threatening to go as wild as the bits of hair clinging to her face. “That’s it, wrap ‘em around me.”
Before he can sink down against her, her hand darts between them, bold as brass when it curls over his dick. He ruts against her palm the same as she had his, wishing so goddamn hard there wasn’t anything between them but sweat and sin. Getting a hold of himself’s another fond wish to add to the pile when she starts yanking his shirt free, fumbling at the buttons one-handed until impatience finally gets the best of her when she finds his undershirt and she shoves up under the whole works instead. He’s the one that pops the buttons off, desperate to get her slim hands closer.
A wicked slant creeps across her mouth. She drops back to the floor, one hand landing carelessly on the cushion of her hair, the other skidding down over his arm, back up again to hook around his neck. The only hint of uncertainty in her when she says, “I want to see what you would do, if y’could,” is in the quick dip of her eyelashes, and god help him, it makes him try harder to do this right.
“Already doin’ it,” he says, then flashes a grin, adds, “most of it,” with his mouth skimming close to hers. He can taste those strawberries on her breath. “Later I’m gonna kiss you, and maybe you’ll knock me on my ass for a few days, maybe you won’t, but it’s gonna be worth it.”
“Logan,” slips into his open mouth, a warning crackle. Her legs snap tighter around his waist, jerking him down into a slow dirty grind. If she says anything else after that, he misses it all, too caught up in the give of her body beneath his, the way he can’t even smell the leather anymore, only her. He curls a hand over her hip and drives her down into his thrusts, fucking with their clothes on, and the thought rips a groan straight out of his gut. He wants to fuck her proper, feel her fall apart for the first time from the inside.
He noses aside her hair, whispers, “This gonna do it for ya?” in her ear to feel it shiver on down to her toes. Her answer is two small hands slapped to the small of his back and a moan when she finds the right angle to rub off on his cock. She’s not one bit shy about guiding him, one hand fisting in his belt to yank him down harder when she wants it that way, stronger than she looks when she holds him there and writhes. Too soon she arches up, quaking, and he gulps down greedy breaths leaden with the scent of her pleasure. He growls at her to open her eyes, look at him, but she bites her lip and shakes her head.
“Then go again,” he snarls, shoving his arms beneath her to roll them over, her a boneless sprawl atop him and his nerves singing, stretched taut. “C’mon, darlin’, one more time.”
She slaps a hand to his shoulder and levers up, her hair dragging across his face. “Sugar,” she says, a low teasing lilt, and catches her lip between her teeth again, arches her back and rocks down onto the hard ache of his dick. Slower this time, easier for her but not for him. Easy’s long lost and unforgotten on the sinuous curve of her body as she rides him, one hand stealing down to press against her clit, get herself off and watch him this time while she does it, something secret and satisfied lurking at the corners of her parted lips.
The tab on her zipper’s cool between his fingers, the sound of it opening loud through the echoes of her panting breaths. A flush ghosts the tops of her small breasts, two perfect handfuls he nearly bites through his own lip to keep from taking. “Surest way to sober up a man.”
Her belly draws in from the brush of his knuckles, a ticklish reflex that keeps him safe. “Keep goin’.”
“Pretty sure we got clothes to wear under these.”
“I’m wearin’ clothes.” Rogue glances down, filling her smile with her name when he stops short, staring at the cheerful scrap of teal plaid that’s playing at being a pair of panties. They’re wet halfway to the band. A fresh rush of blood heats her face and she shakes her hair back, pretends it isn’t. Her hands aren’t too steady when she reaches for his jeans, but she doesn’t smell one bit nervous now. She’s excited, eager, and he’s got no worries about any blood left above the waist to colour his cheeks.
He slumps back to watch, equal parts grateful and sore about the chance to catch his breath. Either way he wants to paint it, it doesn’t last long–she wraps him up in a snug grip and hauls him free of his shorts, gives him this look he can’t decipher but likes just fine all the same. Her gloved thumb skims down over the ridge, pushing his foreskin the rest of the way back. He still can’t read what’s in her eyes but he knows what it feels like; seen at least one uncut but never touched, and he ain’t no skinny-dicked teenager. “Wouldn’t love anything more than lettin’ you play for awhile, but I wasn’t kiddin’. You’re gonna kill me.”
“Can’t have that,” she says, all sass and sparks. She flexes her fingers on his dick, squeezes a bit. His stomach jumps. “Say if you want it different.”
It’s a bad idea, a whole week’s worth of them, to graze his fingertips over the front of her wet panties but he does it anyway, and then he goes and does it again, pressing harder to feel soft flesh part. His hand looks good on her. “Slick your fingers up for me.”
She looks down again, takes her hand from his cock to slip under the elastic. Another gentle flick of his knuckle brings her swaying forward, damp hair curling along the curve of her breast. His gaze hooks on the small peak of her nipple, his tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth when he imagines what it would feel like against his lips, between his teeth and on his tongue. A flex of muscle in her arm brings his gaze sliding back down to the curve of her fingers beneath thin cotton. Her glove leaves a glistening trail on her belly when she draws her hand free.
Pain lances through his arms. He grunts, forcing his claws back as he reaches for her hand, tugging it up to his mouth. The bitter leather’s easy to ignore this time around, easier to appreciate when it’s warm and supple from her body heat and he can feel her fingers beneath. He takes the tip of one between his teeth and flicks his tongue against the pad, thinking about how easy it would be to roll her over and suck on her clit, get her writhing and screaming proper this time.
Curling her wrist out of his grip, she drags her fingers across his tongue and then down over his cock. He bucks up harder than he means too, expecting it but not, and with a smile he’s sure she learned from somewhere she’s got no business being, she wraps her other hand up in his shirt to help keep her seat while she jacks him good and hard and far too skilled for the first time she’s put hands on him.
Either he’s easier to read than she is, though, or she’s just better at it, because she gives him another one of those smiles and says, “Told you, you’re in my head.”
“Sounds like cheatin’,” Logan grits out, a hell of a lot closer to losing it sooner than he wants with a lap full of half-naked woman to enjoy.
“I like it,” she says, teeth creeping out over her lip again when she rubs her thumb firmly over his slit. He’s got something else to say to that, something he’s sure needs saying, but she’s rising up on her knees, angling the head of his cock to brush too close to her cunt for him to manage anything more than trying to keep his lungs full of air. His knuckles go white on her thigh, probably bruised her already, and sweet Jesus if he had a rubber in his wallet he’d be begging baby please.
Rogue gives a shallow groan of her own and lists to the side, dropping down on her elbow and scooting closer without so much as a hitch in her rhythm. He plants his boots and drives up into her grip as soon as he’s free, the soft press of her breast through his shirt twisting the ache in him into a vicious knot. Looping an arm around her back, he drags her as close as she’s going to get without crawling up inside his skin. It feels like she’s already there, anyway, buzzing along his nerves better than the hum of alcohol, better than anything when she chokes on another noise and starts rocking against him, going for number three while he’s racing to hit the finish line. He muffles his groan in the thick fall of her hair, senses peaked for a brief moment of bliss where he can smell everything she’s feeling on the rush of her blood.
That’s what pushes the choice that’s been kicking round inside his head. Her startled noise is sweetly thick when he pulls her into a rough and clumsy kiss. She deserves better but he’s riding that edge of orgasm too close to try for it, the headlong rush rising up grab him by the balls seconds before the connection snaps into place. Everything blanks out on the sound of her taking his pleasure and making it her own.
She’s long done by the time he comes around again, stained glove open on his hip and a sliver of worry slipping from the slant of her mouth. “Shame I missed it,” he says, and she laughs low in her throat, tired and sated. The flush is fading from her face but her eyes are still hazed. It looks good on her, and he’s got more than his fair share of selfish pride for the part he played in putting that lax contentment in her bones. He jostles his shoulder to settle her head on his chest. “Not that I’m complainin’, but somebody’s gonna come lookin’ for ya sooner or later.”
“I told them to start without us,” she says, and curves a private smile as she combs her fingers through the hair curling beneath Logan’s navel.
He grunts a lazy laugh. The floor’s hard and cold but she’s soft and warm, smelling sweet with the scent of sex and sweat and strawberries. He knows he’s the one who’s gonna get slapped with the blame for her missing class, and she’ll smile that smile letting him take it.