Loving You Against My Will- In the beginning, she was too young. As time continued, he grew more and more used to the idea of not having her, of never having her. And yet, he could never quite convince himself that he wasn't in love with her. One shot: Logan/Rogue

Setting: AU post X-Men: The Movie. Please, assume that X2 never happened, and therefore Stryker never invaded and Jean Grey never died. This takes place roughly a year and a half after the events upon Liberty Island, give or take a few months!

AN: This story was inspired by the song of the same title by the talented country artist, Gary Allen. Logan, Rogue, and any other mentioned X-Men characters are the sole property of their creators. Please, do not sue me. I have nothing save for this Reese cup! Er, except I just ate half of it...


Loving You Against My Will

He just needed to get out of the Mansion.

It was as simple as that, really, once he considered all of his options. He needed to pack his shit, hunt down his jacket, maybe say bye to Chuck and 'Ro– But he needed to do it now.

Every day that passed seemed to root him deeper and deeper into the School's very foundation. That very morning, he'd been amazed to find himself coaching a class of kids hardly old enough to be called teenagers. He'd stared at them, confused and oddly amused — as they all struggled with the simple defensive moves that he'd been pounding into their head for the last few weeks.

But, it wasn't until he'd exited the locker room some time later and found his way to the hangar that it had all really settled in.

His improved senses had been a hindrance more than once as of late, mostly due to the excessive number of students that seemed to have filed into the school over recent months. But, as he slipped into the hangar door, fully intending to fiddle around with one of Scott's latest toys (just to get a rise out of One-Eye, of course), he heard them.

At first, he thought it was St. John and one of his more recent flings. He'd caught the pyromaniac with more girls than he cared to think about. But, when he'd gotten closer he found himself frozen in place at the huskily murmured 'Marie'.

He'd taken some pretty heavy blows in his lifetime. Well, what little of his lifetime he could really remember. Hell, he'd faced the great Buckethead, and Ol' Mags didn't have shit on the pipsqueak Cajun bastard that had apparently weaseled his way into Rogue's heart. He'd suspected it, of course. Had seen the sly glances they had shared.

But, until he'd rounded that corner and seen her head thrown back in bliss, her lips rosy and puffy from having been thoroughly kissed, Logan had thought it was all a simple misunderstanding. There wasn't any mistaking the Cajun's back, the way that his muscles coiled as he trapped the Southern girl— the Southern girl that Logan had once picked up on the side of the road so long ago— against the wall.

It wasn't as if he'd caught them fucking. He'd told himself that over and over again, but it didn't seem to matter. Sure, they'd been sucking face and doing God knew what else– though, let's be honest, the nose knew. But, they hadn't been screwing each other's brains out. If nothing else, he thought that would have helped him to forget that startled look on her face as she'd looked up from the Cajun's ministrations, her lips falling open in shock as her face had drained of color.

For a split second, he thought he had seen something in the depths of those familiar brown orbs that would have made gutting that Cajun worth it. Instead, he felt a little guilty for the way that he'd handled the man; last he'd heard, LeBeau's left eye was still swollen shut, but at least he'd regained movement in all of the fingers on his right hand. Had it been regret, or even remorse in her gaze, he might have felt a little less hateful toward the Cajun bastard that had charmed his way into half of the School's female population's pants. Instead, he still couldn't figure out what he'd seen. Maybe he'd imagined it. Maybe he imagined seeing something in those dark brown eyes that he'd been looking for as long as he could remember.

In the last year and a half that he'd called the Mansion home, he'd never once considered what it was that kept him there. But, as he sat alone in his room, the curtains drawn and the door locked, he realized that it was the very same girl that had gotten him tied up in the whole X-Men business to begin with. If he hadn't picked her up— If he hadn't picked her up he wouldn't have met the windshield of his truck with his big head, he wouldn't have dealt with that hairy son of a bitch Sabretooth, and he sure as hell wouldn't have gotten stuck in a damned school filled with hormonal teens and scantily clad instructors. (Didn't Storm realize that her window gave everyone near the basketball court an eyeful? Though, thank God she did her morning yoga in the nude. Sure as hell helped wake a man up!)

All along, he'd thought that he'd finally found a place where he belonged. While Chuck didn't appreciate the fact that Logan insisted on keeping beer on campus (or the fact that he'd made St. John and Drake drink until they puked the single time they'd tried lifting a six pack), he tolerated it. While he was still regarded as the Big, Bad Wolverine, most of the students seemed to like him, and a few even clung to his shirttails. Sure, that bubblegum chewing Jubilation was a pain in his ass more often than not, but at least she idolized him. And, unless his guess was off, was willing to do whatever necessary to get her Wolvie in her pants.

But, he didn't consider himself to be he same man he'd been when he'd woken up, dazed and suspicious, in the Medical Bay of the Xavier Institute so long ago. His first instinct then had been to run, and to eliminate any potential threat on his way out. He hadn't wanted to believe the spiel that Xavier had tried to reel him in with, hadn't wanted to accept that, not for the first time in less than twenty years, he had absolutely nowhere to go. But, then he'd seen her; had taken a quick tour of the School with Xavier and seen the very reason his truck wasn't even considered scrap metal— He didn't know it then, but he'd already decided, at least in his heart, that he was staying.

Course, Logan couldn't tell her out right. She was a few months short of eighteen, not even a legal adult. And there was the fact that she was scared witless about her damned powers; it seemed him stabbing her through the chest and her using her ability to save herself, thereby punting him into a coma had that affect on a girl. Plus, there had been Jean. From the moment he'd woken up and caught her scent, he had wanted a taste. A lick. A tease. Something other than the shy (though exceptionally flirty) glances that she sent his way constantly.

It had been easy at first to pretend that the kid was a kid and nothing else. After Liberty Island, her close call, and his own brush with death, it had been easy to fall into a seemingly normal routine. She had class, and he had... Well, Logan always had something to keep him occupied. Maybe it had been Xavier's insight to the inner workings of Logan's mind, but he always knew just when the troubadour was getting itchy feet and dying to get the hell away from civilization. Only a few months after having settled into the routine, that's when his special missions had began.

Only Chuck and Logan knew any of the details; though it had taken Logan some time to get Xavier to agree to the secrecy, as the old man wanted to pull Scott's upturned nose into it. But, he figured, it was for the best. Nobody else needed to know the underhanded work that he did behind the scenes; the locks he lifted, the buildings he staked out, or even the files that he'd gathered slowly but surely. The special missions were few and far between, often only ocurring every few months, though normally lasting several days. Between missions, he worked with Xavier, searching for his past.

And he watched over her.

Sometime between Christmas and summer, she'd blossomed into something more than a scrawny kid with messy hair and too little meat on her bones. Ever since turning that special eighteen the fall before, he'd sensed a change in her. Gone was the fearful expression, the lowered eyes and layers of clothing. In place of the quiet and compliant Rogue was the fiery and cheerful, if not all-around improved, Rogue.

Marie.

As far as he knew, he was the only one that knew her name. Of course, judging by the fact that the Cajun had been muttering it mere hours before, he wasn't the only one.

His kid had transformed from an awkward and shy teenager into a voluptuous and wily woman seemingly overnight. That's how he remembered it.

He still remembered watching some hockey game or another with her. The den was empty save for the two of them, and they'd sat together in an oversized couch. She was leery about sitting so close, what with her skin and all, but he'd pulled her close and draped an arm lazily around her. After all, she was covered head to toe— bright green pajama pants and a long-sleeved shirt and socks. They'd joked and nudged each other and argued about their favorite teams. Along with his appetite for a good beer and an even better smoke, she'd picked up a few of his traits, including his love of hockey.

The next day, he'd had an early meeting and had spent the better part of his day meeting up with one of Xavier's contacts in the city. He'd returned to the Mansion, fully intending to have Drake ice down one of his six packs and find something on the tube, when he'd seen her walking down the main staircase. Hell, walking wasn't even the word for it; she'd been gliding.

He'd stood there at the foot of the stairs, ignorant to Jean's voice calling out his name, oblivious to the way that Drake, St. John, and the big guy, Pete, whistled and made cat calls. He'd felt the force of his body ricocheting through his truck's windshield, had felt his life force drain out of him thousands of times in the space of three or four seconds as he stared up at her.

The layers of clothing? Gone. The shy smile and lowered eyes? So fucking gone. The gloves? Still there, but so silky and sexy looking that he had the sudden urge to pull them off of her with his teeth.

He wasn't sure how she'd been able to pour herself into the pair of sinfully tight jeans, or even where she'd managed to find the low-cut shirt that showed off far too much skin. But, he did know that it had taken a fucking miracle from God for her to get more than a few feet in the boots that made her legs look a damned mile long. Her hair, usually dull and lifeless, was a curly mess and shorter than he could remember, framing her porcelain face with locks of whiskey and platinum. Eyes, so often naked and vulnerable, were dark and smoky, outlined in some kind of black and green stuff that made her eyes the focal attraction of her perfect face.

That is, until he saw her lips.

Full, luscious, and so often unpainted and plain, her lips were slathered with a glossy and shimmery siren red that stood out against her pale skin.

Her eyes had met his then, and yet he hadn't been able to find the words to say what had been on his mind.

Days passed before he spoke to her, before he found the ability to speak. They'd literally bumped into one another in the hallway, shared an awkward smile, and decided to grab lunch together down in the Kitchen. Not long into their little chat, he realized something was very, very different about the kid.

"Ah can control it now, Logan," she'd told him, the left corner of her lip curling upwards slightly. Then his gaze had been drawn to her hands, to the sheer black gloves that covered her hands. Her fingertips were rubbing circles against the surface of the table, and he had the strongest desire to lift her hand to his chest, simply so that he wouldn't be jealous of a damned inanimate object.

He hadn't known what to say. He never knew what to say. So, he'd found himself grunting as he took a swig of his beer, his head tilted to the side. "Catch the game last night?"

God, had she been pissed. Even during Danger Room sessions when she'd been pitted against a holographic Magneto had she never seemed so dangerous. Her eyes had narrowed into slits, her cheeks had flushed, and she had picked up that hefty sandwich she had personally made him and slung it at his chest. He'd thrown himself back immediately, eyes wide and confused, and spared his favorite flannel a single glance; the half slice of cheese and mustard and lettuce sticking to him.

She'd laid into him then. Her accent had gone thick and he'd had to grip the side of the table in order to remain standing as she lashed at him, lashed and yelled and screamed until he thought he'd rather die than take anymore.

She admitted she knew about his short-lived with obsession. Fumed about how pissed she'd been when she'd caught Jean and Logan locked in a passionate embrace in the Medical Bay, demanded to know if they'd had sex. Of course, Logan had been unable to respond, so she assumed the worse; which only lengthened her tirade. She hissed and threw a pan as she ranted about Ororo, complaining that the Weather Witch deserved more than Logan's one night stands. Had threatened to castrate him for touching an underage Jubilation, for being rumored to have screwed Kitty on the hood of Scott's car. Here and there, she peppered her onslaught with whore, slut, and trashy alley bitch that likely would have surely made her mother's hair go gray.

And, all the while, Logan stood in stunned silence, unable to respond. Not only was he confused— Hell, he was more than confused. He was bewildered. Somehow the conversation had gone from a joke about the size of the salami to her newfound control and then hockey and then, suddenly, he was being fucking washed down shit creek without a paddle. Fuck, he didn't even have a boat. He was going over the side of a waterfall, clinging to a measly fucking branch and the shit was just wailing him in the face. How in the hell was he supposed to react?

Course, their little fight, as the others came to call it, seemed to have more of a lasting effect than he'd anticipated. He'd hoped, foolishly, that it had been one of those womanly things, pure PMS that had caused his Marie to go bat shit and tear him a new one. When she refused to talk to him for a week, he'd accepted it as normal. But, when a full month went by with nothing but sneers and a few haughty hellos, he realized that he'd screwed up. Royally.

As he sat there, alone, on his unmade bed, he realized that he'd somehow screwed up the only reason he was staying in the first place. Yet, it had taken seeing her locked in the arms of another man (that double-crossing Cajun, to be exact), to really understand. By not speaking up, by not taking her by the hands and explaining all of the things that had been churning, festering, bubbling, inside of him since the day that he'd thrown that truck into park and had let her into his life— he had lost the only thing that had ever mattered.

Emptiness hallowed out a large portion of his gut as he quickly packed a duffel bag with all of the things he considered essential. With a few choice words muttered under his breath, he even included the roll of cash that he'd begrudingly accepted from Xavier some months before after a certain mission that had left more than a little dirt on his hands. Leather jacket slung over one shoulder, he ripped open his door and stalked into the hallway without a single backwards glance.

He was rather proud of himself by the time he made it to the garage; he'd passed at least half a dozen students without scaring them off or giving any impression of his imminent departure. As far as anyone else knew, he was simply going out for a ride. It was probably better that way, he reasoned with himself. Saying goodbye didn't do anybody any favors.

He'd already located a saddlebag and roughly thrown it over his favorite vehicle (though it wasn't his vehicle, per se) when the guilt had already started festering inside of him. While the cigar did help, a bit, he knew that it wasn't ideal to storm back inside and down a six pack of beer. And that's when he realized that he didn't want to give the little runts the 'wrong impression'.

With a hiss, he kicked open the garage door and stormed through the Mansion, no destination really in mind. His cigar was forgotten as embers flitted into the wind, ash fluttering into his muttonchops and onto the lapel of his jacket. When he reached Xavier's study, he ripped open the door and flung the cigar out of his mouth before the old fart could even issue the mental command, promptly extinguishing it on the palm of his hand before dropping it into a potted plant.

As he'd suspected, the study was filled with people; Jean and Scott on the love seat, St. John and Drake and Pryde on the long leather couch in the corner, the big Russian, Pete, stationary in the back with his arms crossed, and his Marie, front and center, sitting alone in a row of chairs, hands clasped in her lap.

With a grunt, Logan swung around and kicked the door shut with the toe of his boot, the door shaking as it slammed shut. A gasp echoed through the room as he turned on his heel, his eyes wild and his body poised as though ready to attack.

If it weren't for Xavier, blood probably would have been shed. As it was, the old man promptly urged Scott to sit back down before suggesting that Rogue escort Logan to the Kitchen, where they could no doubt talk in peace.

Surprised, Logan grunted his approval and jerked the door open roughly, refusing to meet her gaze as she swept through the door like a phantom. Her steps were light and sure as she stalked ahead of him, drawing his gaze, though momentarily, to the back of her bare legs and the way the skin-tight skirt cupped her ass. By the time they reached the Kitchen, he had nearly forgotten the reason for his outburst, for the shit that was already spewing out of the proverbial fan.

But, once she'd turned on her heel, arms folded over her chest, and fixed him with that cold as ice stare, it had all hit him again.

In his mind, he saw her again. He pictured her pinned against the wall, her legs trembling and her lips rosy. In his mind, he allowed himself to think of how soft her hair felt, how his body had ached at the sight of her hardened nipples beneath the thin material of her red camisole. Then, instead of seeing the back of the Cajun's head, he pictured himself. He saw his own hands cupping her curves, felt his own lips moving over her skin, causing her to tremble and moan softly. He pictured himself drinking in the sight of her with his hungry eyes, knew how she would smell if he lowered his head to her neck. He imagined her trembling against him as he dragged her hips closer, pressing himself against her in order to show her exactly what she did to him.

As he shook his head, fighting back the images and desires, he met her steely gaze. She still looked like the kid he had promised to take care of, still looked like the spitfire that had ordered him to show her how to throw a right hook when she'd been laughed off of the sparring mats so long ago. And yet, he also saw so much more.

He saw the circles under her eyes that the thin layer of foundation she'd used failed to cover up. He saw the trio of freckles on her neck, the long and dangling earrings that hung from her ears. He saw the way that she shifted her weight from foot to foot nervously, the way that the small movement caused her breasts to rise and fall.

What he didn't see was an admiration in her gaze that he'd taken for granted.

And that, more than anything else, made him feel as though finally letting go and drowning in the bottom of that sesspool of shit might really be worth it.

He'd faced Buckethead, had apparently lived through a grueling experiment that had left his bones covered in indestructible adamantium, an experiment that had given him claws, and he'd even faced the cashier at Wal-Mart the lone time that he'd been sent on a tampon run. He could sure as hell face her.

Summoning up his courage, he drew in a deep breath and nearly choked on it. For a split second, he saw her frigidness shift into worry before turning icier than before. Then, her lips trembled once, twice, and tears glazed over her eyes.

"Ah don't wanna do this," she whispered, shifting away from him even as he started forward.

Swallowing thickly, he began the speech that had been formed in his mind so long ago that it felt practiced, fake.

"I don't wanna stay here, I don't wanna give in. I don't wanna walk into a room hoping that you're gonna be there. I wanna resist you, resist this damned feeling that you've caused me to feel constantly. I don't wanna see you smile at me, look at me. I don't want to see you laugh, see the way that you toss your bangs out of your eyes when you're annoyed and readin' a book." He took a short break, drawing in another breath and continuing before she called bullshit and left the room. "I don't wanna think of how you'd taste, how yer lips'd feel against mine. I don't wanna know what it'd be like to hold you in the middle o' the night, how soft yer hair'd feel fanned over my chest. I don't wanna know how soft and supple yer skin is, how you'd move against me as I pinned you to the bed. I don't wanna feel you all around me, feel your hot breath on m' skin as I pull you close an' do things t' ya I ain't got no Goddamned right thinkin' about."

"But, the damned thing is," he gritted out, hands clenched into fists at his sides, "That I can't help it. I've tried. Fucking dammit, I have tried everything. I've tried booze, fighting, even a combo o' the two. I've tried fucking someone else, thinking that maybe a long dry spell was the problem. Don't gimme wrong, Ro's a real prize (and a damned wildcat in the bedroom) but it ain't what I want. I hate the way ya look at me whenever you see me an' Jean in the same room. That time you saw us? First an' only time. I had t' get her outta my system, so I did. She was too easy, I liked the challenge."

"I don't wanna call yer name, Marie. I don't wanna feel your heartbeat racing, and I don't wanna roll over in the morning looking atcha. Least," he paused, searching her eyes for some sort of clue. "Least, that's what I've been tellin' myself. I've been tellin' myself that it's easier pretendin'. You were too young at first. You an' I both know it. Then... I don't know." He raked his hand through his messy hair. "I keep tellin' myself that I don't wanna love you, been telling myself the same damned thing for so Goddamned long that I think part of me was startin' to really believe it."

"But, I don't want that— I don't wanna not love ya. The harder I try t' deny how I feel, the weaker I seem t' be to the truth. I know it's outta nowhere, that I'm too late, but I gotta at least tell ya. I gotta at least tell you that not a Goddamned day has gone by that I haven't fought myself, that I ain't fought the damned urge to tangle my fingers in your hair and taste yer kiss. It might be the animal in me— I don't know. All I do know is that I can't go away, thinkin' on never comin' back, without at least tellin' ya that I've been fightin' it, been hoping that I could keep going on not wanting ya. I want'cha, Marie. I been lovin' you against my will for so Goddamned long, that I don't remember it any other way."

Silence reigned over the two for a long moment as her arms slowly fell to her sides. Her eyes were still glazed over with tears, and her expression was completely unreadable. For a long moment, he feared she might strike him, might backhand him. But, slowly, her lips curled into a familiar smile.

"Make today different," she murmured, her voice huskier than he could ever remember it being. "Ah don't want it to be against your will."

What felt like hours went by in the space of a few seconds as he stalked forward. Quickly, not caring if he startled her with his speed or strength, he dragged her towards him. He cupped the back of her head with his left hand, his fingers tangled in her silky soft hair as he lowered his head toward hers.

Eyes wide, they stared at one another as their lips met for the first time, a soft and gentle brush before he pulled back slightly, as though expecting her to tell him to stop. When no such order was issued, he released a breath he'd been unaware he was holding and pulled her closer, clinging to her as he captured her lips with his again.

Her kiss tasted better than he imagined; her skin felt like silk and her breaths were like whispers from Heaven. As her tongue brushed gently against his, their eyes remained locked.

He hadn't wanted to want her so much, hadn't wanted to need her.

Yet, with her wrapped in his arms, he realized he couldn't have resisted temptation for anything less.


A/N: Yes, I am aware that Logan is probably rather OOC towards the end. Please, forgive me. I felt it imperative that his little speech feel a bit unreal, if only to get the point across that it's obviously something that he's spent hours thinking about. Feel free to review with your thoughts. (: