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Into the Blue

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He gets past Jeannie, and the Professor, and even two minutes of being polite to Summers before he gives in.

“Where the fuck is Rogue?”

He can't hear her, or smell anything other than lingering traces of her presence. Days past, maybe even weeks, and nobody had thought to TELL him?

“She's living off campus these days – or more correctly, on campus. Rogue has moved into the dorms at NYU,” Ororo explains softly. “We thought you'd been in touch over the summer?”

Logan swallowed. They'd tried. But something had been bugging her, and their conversations either dried up or flared into arguments. When was he coming home? Was she just supposed to hang around and wait?

Oh. Yeah. He remembered now.

“But living on campus?”

“It took her a month or two to find her feet after she found her control, but once she did, there was no reason for her not to go,” Ororo smiled fondly.

“So many years within these walls. She's growing up, Logan. Some would say overdue her independence,” his friend chides, and she's right, of course she is, but it doesn't stop the churn of his stomach, or cure the tightness across this temples.

He needs her safe. He needs her here. Why the hell else would he come back to the mansion? Touchable had never been a consideration.

“Got an address? She can fucking explain it to me herself,” he snarls.


Room 1520. He double checks the number and takes a long drag of scent. Too many fucking people have made their way up and down this hall to make any sense of it – he can smell her, sure, but there's no obvious trail to tell him where she went, or how long ago.

“Well, hello, tall, dark and lonely! How can I help?”

The leggy girl leaning in the doorway across the hall stinks of peroxide and too much makeup. Logan tries to smile anyway.

“Hello yourself. Looking for Rogue.”

The blonde wrinkles her nose and looks perturbed. “Um – I don't know a Rogue. That's Marie's room, right there. Marie d'Ancanto?”

He swallows the shock and bares his teeth in a grin. “That's her. Know where she is right now?”

“The getup she had on earlier? I'm thinking the Rave down on seventh. Was planning on swinging by myself after I finish my Sociology reading.”

She scrawls the address on his hand with a stinking marker pen, glancing up into his eyes and licking her lips as adds her name and number as well.

“If you don't find her ...”

He barely notices her flirt, and doesn't even wait for the end of the sentence.


Sweat. Drugs, sweet and sharp alike. Sex, heavy in the air like mist. He's already growling even before he claps eyes on Marie, spinning and twirling her way through the ecstatic crowd.

She's blue. Not Mystique blue, or scaled, but painted, from head to foot. Cobalt blue, with paler zones the colour of an aquamarine sea, and stripes of indigo. Walking art, he realises slowly. Walking art with no sign of underwear, or any cover at all.

He chokes back the instinctive leer, but his eyes are already drinking in the delicious outline of breasts and waist and belly and legs. The pattern breaks over her nipples, denying him a clear view, and the layers of colour over her ass disguise its perfect contours, but it doesn't work. He's imagining them, just like he's meant to.

It's not the first time, he admits. Not even the first time he's been rock hard, thinking of her. But there's never been a torture like this before: everyone, everywhere, is touching her.

She leaves a trail of blue-stained hands across the dance floor, laughing and weaving and occasionally pressing herself up against a girl or boy who takes her fancy. She steals kisses, and dances close, and bites her lip as they slide their hands all over her.

Three long strides and he's in front of her, tipping her chin up to look in her eyes for the dazed, dilated pupils he surely expects to find.

“What the FUCK, Logan?”

She doesn't even smell of marijuana.

Smells of sex, though.

He breathes her deep, the power of it rumbling in his throat and making his fingers twitch with the need to touch her. He knows, immediately, that it won't be a friendly hug or an arm pulling her into him on the couch. It won't even be the relaxed sprawl on his bed during a hockey game, when she's inclined to use him as a pillow and he has to shift every now and then to stop her from figuring it out.

If he so much as moves his hand, he'll be sliding it along that delicate sky-blue collarbone, and following that winding indigo trail down her centre line. Maybe a deviation here and there, to pluck at a mysterious nipple, maybe discover how the paint tastes. But he'd be southward bound before long, because she's calling to him, wet and juicy and womanly and his.

“Oh. Well then.”

Logan starts as Marie dismisses him. She's already moving again, dancing, running from him like the tide.

Fuck that.

There's a couple boys caught up in each other right in front of him, so he steps around them, then ducks the other way to avoid a tall black girl who is swaying all by herself. Blue light is strobing off the ceiling, and it's hard to see, but he catches a streak of pale-blue on dark-blue on the other side of the dance floor and drags in scent be sure. Finding Marie is never hard, but this time it hits him anew, how intoxicating she is. All rich musk and liquid honey promise, shattering good sense and restraint alike.

He doesn't even speak when he catches her. No need. His hands are on her hips, hauling her back into him, his teeth already nibbling at her neck.

It's possession, he knows it. Every bite a brand, every laboured breath a scream of “mine.” He waits for the usual deluge of self-hate; the way he always gets when his feral self overwhelms his control. But it doesn't come.

She ignites him, instead.

All it takes is a long, rolling purr, deep in her throat – a feminine version of his own growl, he realises after a moment. She rocks backwards, unashamed in moving against him, massaging him.

“Outta here. Now,” he grunts, his every sense telling him she needs this too. That they've both needed it for longer than either of them are willing to admit. But instead of following him to the door, she grabs his wrist and tugs him deeper into the cavernous warehouse, then out a door that ends precipitously in mid air.

Marie giggles at his grunt of surprise, then yanks down a ladder he'd been too fixated on her ass to notice. Right. Fire escape.

And she's climbing, and for several long breaths, all he can do is watch, transfixed by the sight of her muscles rippling as she speeds up the ladder like the X-woman she is. The warrior he had trained; the innocent he had loved, his conscience reminds him. It should feel wrong, he should feel bad about this, but … Wolverine's joyous growl rips through the air as he leaps onto the ladder and throws everything he has into catching her.

It takes him long minutes to close the gap, and even she looks down with a grin and redoubles her efforts. He snarls up at her and doesn't stop until his feet are on the same rung, and her body is completely enclosed by his, hips trapping her hard against the ladder.

“Oh, Marie. If there's one thing you should know by now, it's to never run from a predator,” he breathes into her neck, catching at the flesh with his lips, and then his teeth. “I can't help but chase you.”

Her entire body shudders with a jagged intake of breath, and gooseflesh blooms in a dozen tempting places. He can't see her smile, but when she speaks, he can hear it in her voice.

“I do know that, sugar. Why else would I run?”

So wicked this girl. So sure and strong. But they've been teasing and playing for years now, and she needs to know this is no game. Logan rocks up against her, just enough to graze her with his bulge, locked tight in denim.

“What happens when I catch you?” he grits out, half expecting her to squawk in fright, or flick on her skin in shock.

Instead, she pushes herself back into him, and slides her ass from side to side, painting the front of his jeans with smears of blue. His hands are the same colour, he realises dazedly, and even his lips will be blue, when they're done here.

And if she has her way, they'll be done goddamn quick, because she's unbuttoning his jeans and sliding hungry hands inside. He gives in to the blind lust for a few insane moments, jerking helplessly into her fingers, then finds himself lurching to one side as he forgets to hang on.

“Fuck! We'll end up face down on the pavement if you keep that up!” he chokes. “You got a destination in mind?”

Marie looks down at him, biting her lip. “Every time you found me on the roof at the Mansion? I'd go up there to get away from my roommates and think about you fucking me,” she says baldly.

She'd been just a kid. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen when he left … but he'd known. Of course he'd known.

“This time? You won't be thinking,” he promises darkly, biting at the curve of her waist before slapping her rump. “Get moving.”

Marie moans her assent and he releases her to scramble up another rung, but then makes the mistake of looking up. Heaven. Glistening pink between two blue walls. Just about drippin' for him.

They'll be on the roof soon enough, he tries to tell himself, but he's already clamped a hand on her hip and stopped her just like that – one foot up high on one rung, the other a foot below. And a feast between.

Just a taste, he promises himself. Just to tide me over. But he'd been starving for too long.

Her knees nearly buckle when his tongue touches her, a brief voyage of discovery along the length of her slit. The paint is bitter on his tongue at first, but the metallic tang is quickly overtaken by the richness of her juices. Her initial slickness is delicious enough, but as he laves and licks, it becomes a gush of glory. Logan drowns himself in her generosity, chases down every last drop, and doesn't stop until she is shaking in his arms, spent.

“How'm I s'posed to make it up this ladder now?” Marie mock-complains when she finally stirs.

“That was just my entree, darlin',” he promises. “Now it's time to work on that dirty schoolgirl fantasy.”

Marie hums in the back of her throat and starts back up the ladder. He waits until she's two rungs, three rungs, four rungs ahead until he follows. And he doesn't actually 'fess up until they're climbing over the ledge together, hands already tangling in each other's hair.

“Question is, mine or yours first?”