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Bid my blood to run

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He’s been gone seven months when her skin comes back to life.   A tingle becomes an itch, then progresses to a massive sensitivity to heat, light, touch. The first day someone snatches a hand back, stung, she apologizes and heads upstairs to pack.

She’s closing on Juneau when the suppressant finally leaves her system. Her skin purrs and stretches like a hungry little cat, every synapse snapping with the need to touch, to feed, to steal. Rogue takes a steadying breath and waits for the horror to come spiraling up from her gut, but it never does. She steadies the wheel with one hand as she rummages in her duffle with the other; by the time she finds her favorite pair of opera gloves her heart is thumping with anticipation. She pulls her truck to the curb to take her time putting them on, the luxurious stretch to settle her fingers into their silky prison, the sensuous drag up over her forearms and elbows until the gloves snug on her upper arms, a tiny sliver of exposed flesh all she has left to worry about.

Rogue is astonished to find herself grinning with joy.

(She takes them off not long after. They make reading the map tricky, and besides – she hasn’t seen another soul in two days.)

His cabin is northwest of Whitehorse, halfway up a mountain that only has a road circumnavigating its base. A two, maybe three hour hike, she estimates, more if she tries to stuff too much in her pack. He’s going to have everything she needs, Rogue reassures herself, so all she needs to take is her personal stuff. Underwear. Tampons. Three brand new, never worn microsilk bodysuits.

Condoms, she thinks defiantly.

How is she going to explain to him that she’d taken the cure for a kiss, a touch, then never wanted to do anything more than that? Had retreated into her head instead, desperately searching for him.

She’d felt so hollow, so abandoned, that she gone searching for them all.   She looks at Bobby, and he’s so flat, so uninteresting, without the freezing bite of his ice, and John, who’d been around more now they were officially cooperating with Magneto – just in time to be just another sullen kid, not that mesmerizing flame flaring to glory behind her eyelids. The Professor, her emotional rudder, warm and steady and wise, even Magneto, more useful than she liked to admit with his easy brilliance and razor wit – they’d been mere props in her head, compared to Logan.

He was more real in her head than anything that existed outside of it, his thoughts weaving around hers, his abilities always available to her, his memories a hodgepodge of horrifying and instructional and revelatory.

They’d talked about it once, sitting on his bed, watching the Flames demolish the Leafs offense, a six-pack between them. “I hate this stuff,” she’d frowned as she slurped back the beer, and he’d raised an eyebrow and asked why she drank so damn much of his beer if she didn’t like it.

“Because you do, sugar,” she’d sassed back, and he’d raised his eyebrows in surprise.


“I’m from Mississippi, Logan. We don’t have ice.”

“Huh. The bike?”

“Can’t say I could fix the damn thing before you, but that’s probably partly me, too. Not a lot of girls could say no to something like that between their thighs.”

His eyes had flared to yellow with that, and his lips had started moving before his good sense reminded him they didn’t talk about sex.

“What about other things between –“

If she’d been kind, she would have let him back away from that. If she’d listened to cacophony of voices in her head, she’d do the right thing/don’t tease the beast/back the fuck off please babygirl/ohyuckRogue/yeah Roguey, what’s him and what’s us and what’s you?

“I don’t know, sometimes. What’s me and what’s you, and what’s them … I was kinda young before all this. Hadn’t thought about it a lot.”

“Your first kiss,” he said sympathetically, and she had grimaced her agreement, looking up at him through the curtain of her hair.

“But that wasn’t really the start of anything other than, just – a horrible way for my mutation to kick in, you know? But Cody, having a boyfriend, being kissed – it didn’t teach me anything about … myself, or what I liked or anything,” she explained haltingly.

“It wasn’t until I saw you, that first time in the cage, that I felt, or even thought …” Rogue had succumbed to her teenage embarrassment and left the words flailing in mid-air. But she already knew she didn’t have to continue.

The sweet reek of her sex had made things perfectly clear.

Rogue wanted all kinds of things, because she was all kinds of people, but sweet Marie had wanted him even before she had learned what wanting was. Marie remembered how her breath had caught when the grotty sulphur-tinted lights first played across his back, and the way her entire body had shuddered as she watched his muscles shift under his skin.   Her horror, and fascination, as the blood flowed over his fists, and the way his voice had left her shifting on the bar stool, hungry for something other than food.

And after, the warmth of his camper and her excitement when, just for a minute, his gaze had lingered on her lips and then roamed her chest before casting her as a child, and himself as the reluctant, curmudgeonly adult she’d chosen to protect her. She’d played along, sure, but it hadn’t been innocent, not then, well before things had spun out of control and they’d had to settle on friends. That role, with its teacher-student overtones and sweaty sparring and regular life savage, came with a new set of boundaries that they were obliged to respect while under Xavier’s roof. Every time Logan yanked his gaze away from her lips, she wanted to tell him his blowjob fantasy was mild compared to the detailed scenario she had dreamed up as they crossed the snowy wastes together. But she didn’t, couldn’t, can’t.

“Goodnight,” she would say instead, and flick her tongue over the cupid’s bow he liked so much. “Stay cosy.”

It was cruel, perhaps, but an evening in his company sends her straight back to that cramped little camper. Those are the nights she needed to make herself come again and again, and it’s still her go-to fantasy. Dragging him away from the fights, then laying him down in the back of the camper, bathing him. Worshipping him. Taking what she so desperately wants, but can only have in fantasy, or dreams.

This Rogue – Marie – gets to soothe every fast-fading bruise and scratch with her fingers, and then her mouth. Her clothes melt away, his eyes burning as they take in the glow of her skin in the close, warm dark.   His mouth is hot as he sits up to capture one of her nipples, and her voice snaps with command as she pushes him flat, straddling him to keep him obedient.

She teases herself with him, slick, slippery petals swelling with want as she drags them back and forth, back and forth over his twitching cock. She smirks at his growl of frustration as she rubs herself to satisfaction, jerking and gushing, without once granting him entrance to her body. Smirks at his whine of repentance when she pushes herself off him, only to settle her pussy over his mouth as she licks him as assiduously as any girl with her favorite lollipop. He's licked his seed off her body and made her come twice before she surrenders to the need to have him inside, huge cock tearing

Rogue moans into the silence of the cab as she guides the truck off the main road and up towards the mountain.   He’ll smell her coming, that’s for sure. Will he know the difference, even before he notices the gloves? Will he somehow have heard?

Maybe he’ll pull her into his arms, and she’ll let him kiss her, lips to lips, just for a moment. He’ll never be whole again inside her head – please God, because she can’t bear to take him that close to death, never again - but just a taste of him would be enough.

Just a taste, a little every day, a little more each time, and she’ll never lose him again.

Never miss him again.

Never be alone, ever again.