Happy Little Sounds: A Story of Christmas at the Mansion
by
Jenn


It's Marie's fault. All of it. The lights I had to put up outside, the tinsel that I keep finding in my clothes and hair no matter how many times I shower, that fucking ridiculous little green felt hat that's sitting on the chair by the desk, mocking me.

I'm not a fucking elf.

And I've told everyone that, many times. In many ways. But the whole costume is sitting on the chair and I have a bad feeling I'll be wearing it come tomorrow morning.

Shit.

"Hush, " Marie tells me, rolling over and hitting my arm. "I need to sleep. Santa doesn't come unless you go to sleep. You know that."

Theoretically, Marie has her own room. I'm not sure she's even seen it for the last few months, if the fact that my closet is now a girl-zone of little skirts so short you can see the color of her underwear when she moves, shirts in pastel shades, and can she really wear all those shoes?

There are some disturbingly cheerful pictures hung on my walls now. Not to mention the bathroom, which makes me a little nervous, seeing the fluffy yellow rug that no self-respecting man would put on his floor, the shower curtain with a trio of yellow ducks on it, or the assortment of cosmetics, brushes, and other Marie-things that I have to fight on a daily basis to get access to the sink.

It's a losing battle. I'm minding less and less.

I'd tell her what she can do with Santa Fucking Claus, elves, and green hats, but one little green-velvet clad hand rests on my chest before she goes to sleep again. I stare at it and then at the ceiling, growling and think about what a fucking pansy I've become. Curl my fingers around her hand, hear her sigh, her forehead pressed to my arm, and then I have to smile.

It's still her fault, though.

* * * * *

I came home this last time, just as I always did. Flirted with Jean, annoyed Scooter, had long talks with the Professor that don't scare me like most Long Talks tend to do, and played pool with Ororo, who kicked my ass thoroughly. Wandered about the school, renewed my reputation for being a hot-tempered jackass, had my usual good time. In a fit of good humor, even gave private lessons to some of the older kids--Jubilee, Bobby, Remy, Kitty, and of course little Marie, who suddenly didn't look quite so little all encased in spandex and watching me with a knowing grin when I looked just a little too long.

Bad thoughts. Bad, bad thoughts. Little girls who still wear pink pajamas to bed and feel perfectly comfortable snuggling up to you on the couch at ten at night to watch television should not a good fantasy life make. Suddenly, the movie Lolita was making a lot of scary sense and yeah, so Marie's nineteen, still, I'm not her type at all, damn it--

Of course, I didn't know Marie was Planning Something. If I had, I'd have probably made a run for it, and she knew that. Little vixen had me just where she wanted me. Damn her.

So she played it up. All the cute little-girlness that usually just nauseates me--but this was my little Marie, who called me in to ask if her Winter Dance dress looked okay and left me pretty much the definition of 'fucking floored' with the neckline dropped almost to her fucking waist and heels that would have been more appropriate for a stripper. Giggled and smirked and dropped in my lap with perfect timing and played the kid to the point it just became scary and I started to seriously wonder about my own peccadilloes, when seeing pink flannel became a turn-on and I know she could feel it every time I saw her.

Looking all adorable and sweet when begging me to take her to the mall and somehow getting me to walk into a lingerie store while she asked me with perfect seriousness if I could tell if this bra would be okay on her or would look too slutty.

Held it up to her chest and *asked* me that, damn it. Bought her three sets without even knowing what I was doing.

That night, I dreamed of green satiny unmentionables and promised myself I'd never, ever even *consider* how she'd look in that black lace ensemble that she was staring at with such an intense expression. It was enough to make me start sweating while standing in fucking snow, trying to curb down that inexplicable need to wander over to her room and ask if she'd try those things on for me, just to make sure they looked okay.

God, I'm a sick bastard.

Scooter started looking amused and Jean snickered and fuck it if they weren't managing to somehow get me alone with Marie every opportunity. What kind of people throw a nineteen year old kid at someone who is best known for his bar fights? Fucking freaks, which is the definition of life at the mansion, so I can't even say I'm that surprised.

So she played it like that through Labor Day--the first holiday I can remember celebrating in a damned lot longer than I have memories to account for--then suddenly, feeling that I'm pretty well softened up, perhaps because every time she walks in the room I lose the thread of the conversation, who else is there, and sort of forget that there is, in fact, a world outside of her--she ambushes me.

In bed.

At night.

Not too late, so she has to figure out how to wake me up without killing her by accident, not too early, so I can find a legitimate excuse of finding something else to do. Walks in, locks the door, drops her clothes while I'm still blinking and wondering when my dreams started coming *before* I fell asleep and crawls into my bed and that, as it is said, is that.

I'm a fucking man. And she was wearing the black lace and this bodysuit with strategically placed openings and God, God, God--

Life is good.

But I forgot all about Christmas.

Forgot that this is a school. With kids. Young kids.

Shit.

* * * * *

"Marie."

It's barely a whisper--early mornings agree with Marie. Before her, I liked the sun to be well on the horizon--perhaps midsky--before I hauled my ass out of bed. But Marie, realizing this, figured out a new way to wake me up that's getting me rapidly reconciled to sunrise.

I hear her giggle, which shoots straight through me, before she lowers her head again and takes every inch of me inside her mouth--and no one, and I repeat this, *no one* in this world can give head like she does. Drops her jaw just a little and I can feel her lips through the fine silk of the scarf against my pelvis and I'm all the way down her throat and I let out a breath that sounds like a whine and she giggles again, how I have no idea--

"*Fucking* hell."

Long brown hair across my thighs and hips and her gloved fingers braced on the bed on either side of me as she applies a little suction and slowly comes back up and my entire body tenses like a spring about to go off. I twist one hand in her hair, just liking the feel of it on my bare hands, as she pulls back up, then that delicate little tongue twists all around the head--

"God, Marie--"

"Shh. Someone'll hear you." Then back down, slow, still using her tongue in ways that make me just thank God I'm alive. Another twist of her mouth, and I feel my back arch, and she settles into a comfortable rhythm that makes me forget my own name.

I'm not usually a talker during sex. Never have been. Until Marie. She likes the encouragement and over the last few months of our relationship, she's gotten the point across very clearly. And I'm all for encouragement.

Which is what got me into this fucking elf-mess in the first place. Which is why right now--shit!--I'm promising her anything she wants--yeah, baby, that's it, right there, please--if she just--won't--stop. Ever.

Another groan is torn out of me when she uses one hand to run those long, velvet-covered fingers down my inner thigh. Then, slowly, she lets me out of her mouth, half sitting up to crawl all the way up my body, smiling down at me.

"Good morning," she whispers, lips an inch from mine.

It's fucking unfortunate she ain't the type of girl you can just roll on her back and get to it. This takes preparation. Planning. Time.

A convenient condom, five inches to my right in the drawer.

I don't need to look--and I can't get past staring into her eyes anyway, while her hand slowly pumps up and down my erection, like I need anything to keep me up after that little wake-up call.

She takes it from me with her teeth, grinning, sliding back down and dropping her scarf on the floor--I'm surprised Wheels hasn't complained about the price of scarves in bulk we go through on a weekly basis--and opening it with her teeth, flashing me a grin, before dropping her head, condom between her lips, and lowering it back over me--and we're all back with the twisting and profanity and telling her in long, broken sentences anything I can think she wants to hear.

When she lifts her head, she settles her legs on either side of me, the silk bodysuit I bought for her protecting my hips and thighs, and begins to lower herself--teasing at first, rubbing the tip of my erection slowly over the cloth, over her--and I slide my fingers in her hair, careful to avoid touching her skin.

"Marie, please," and I sound so pathetic, but during sex, I could really care less. She smiles again, settling herself over me, and slides down and--

--God, that's good. That's *so* damned good.

I've never tried to define why sex with Marie is so different from the other lovers I've had--and there have been a lot. It's not just the special clothing arrangements, because you'd be surprised by the sheer number of people with peculiar fetishes out there, and I've slept with a hell of a lot of them. And it's not like Marie wants anything particularly exotic--in fact, she's still pretty fascinated by the basics. And it's not that she was a virgin and I was her first lover--though I am willing to admit that being the first and only and as far as I'm concerned *ever* lover she's gonna have is something I take immense satisfaction in.

Sometimes I think, a little vaguely during post-orgasmic bliss, it's because I love her.

She moans softly when she's finally resting over my abdomen, lowering herself onto her elbows, staring into my eyes for a minute. Then pulls a scarf out from somewhere to our left and drops it over my face and kisses me--lightly, mouth closed. Almost like the first time, when she wasn't sure what to do, even all in black lace looking like something out of my more questionable fantasies.

Then her tongue slips out, tracing my lips, and I grab the bed below us when she lifts her hips and comes back down, before she sits up, pulling me with her, and I bend my legs behind her back and lower the scarf to her neck, biting her through the cloth when she raises herself again and comes back down hard--enough to force a gasp out of her, enough to make me bite a little too hard and draw blood, which makes her moan again.

She likes that, which is damned good, because I do too.

One silk-encased arm goes around my shoulders, and through those gloves I can feel her nails digging into my back. Long hair falls around my face and I love how it smells, how it feels, and she begins to moan softly, encouragingly when I move down to her breasts, catching a nipple between my teeth, licking it so she moans again, sucking until her rhythm falters because she loses her concentration.

It's easy to roll her on her back, look down at her when her eyes close--

"Open your eyes."

Her face relaxed, fingers digging into my back when I thrust into her and she reaches up and grabs the headboard when I take her hips in my hands. Knowing I'll leave little finger-long bruises on her hips when I thrust again, harder, making her moan, and about that time she stops caring if we'll wake up the entire floor--which happens often, though the complaints have finally stopped--and Marie is a talker. A big talker, which is one of the single most exciting things I've ever been witness to, because Marie, sweet little darling Marie, is fucking *explicit* when she gets aroused. Really explicit, very complimentary, and if I didn't already have an ego, an hour or six making love to Marie would be enough to give me one.

"Yes, sugar, Logan, yes, please" A choked breath "--harder that's it, that's great, fuck *Logan*, please baby, do it, yes, wonderful, perfect baby, faster, Logan, *harder*, Logan, oh damn that's good, good, *good*, please sugar--yes, yes, *yes*--"

It doesn't take long--just looking at her twisting below me is plenty of encouragement, and I push into her again, her legs locked around my waist, staring up into my eyes in wonder before she loosens one hand from the headboard and grabs mine, lacing our fingers together, holding hard enough that if I couldn't heal so fast, she'd bruise me. Then her other hand, and I pin them both above her head and stare down at her, loving how she looks when she comes for me, loving how she screams my name, loving that scent that I get off her when she finally releases and shakes below me, and it's two more thrusts before I finally go with her, collapsing against her body, both of us shaking and her skin feeling damp. I let her hands go and those silk-encased arms go around my shoulders and hold on and she whispers that she loves me.

After a few minutes, I roll off her, looking into her face--she has this look of perfect contentment that I know she never had before us. The 'us' where she can touch all she wants, can share a bed with someone, has me around with what could be considered really disgustingly obsessive devotion. I like to know I can do that for her.

"That was fun," I comment, and she opens her eyes and laughs up at me, turning so she can bury her head against my chest.

"I told you it's good to get up early."

She grins and stretches, like a cat, then twists to brush a kiss against my face--so brief her skin doesn't even get the chance to know it's touching something living--before she's gone, walking to the shower. It's a damned nice view and I take a few minutes to enjoy it before finally getting up and following her in, searching--again--for my razor.

"Second drawer," she calls out. I hear vigorous scrubbing and sigh. Lucky sponge.

And there it is. Second drawer.

Have I mentioned she rearranged the bathroom?

So I shave and she sings something that's a little off-key and in Spanish but really cute, since I know enough Spanish to be aware that she's massacring the lyrics. And then she steps out--reaching for a towel--and twists her hair up in it.

She never covers her body first. Temptation. Damn her anyway.

She gives me a saucy grin, reaches by me while I stare, grab the other towel, and meanders back into our room.

"Hurry," she calls out. "We gotta be ready in fifteen minutes."

That's when I remember the felt hat.

Shit.

I stare in the mirror and see the whipped pansy staring back. Whipped pansy with shaving foam that gives disturbing images of Santa Claus.

Shit, shit, shit.

* * * * *

Marie is dressed in red--good enough to eat and damn, is that a thought I shouldn't be following very far. A little Santa hat perched on her head. Sits on the bed, putting on her boots, smiling a little when I get out of the bathroom, showered and ready to face my doom. Feeling a little punchy because of what I'll be doing in a few minutes. Stare at the bed, where it's all laid out.

All of it. Fuck.

"Come on, elf-boy."

I growl and she giggles.

"Why did I agree to this again?" I ask and she smirks as she gets on her knees and reaches for the tunic. It has bells on it.

Fucking *bells*. Happy little sounds. God, I can't do this.

In a single movement, she stretches out on the bed, head in one hand, twisting a strand of dark hair across her mouth, and there's a trace of smug satisfaction in her eyes.

"You said anything I wanted."

Sex will bring me down in the end, I can feel it.

* * * * *

There's a nice, full-length mirror Marie installed on the closet door a few weeks ago--have I said anything about the changes to my room since she showed up?--that I'm looking at right now.

God. God, God, God.

I can't believe I look like this. Shit, I can't believe I'm actually going to walk out into *public* looking like this. Voluntarily. Every move I make, hell, when I *breathe*, those little fucking bells go off.

Ten of them.

I must've lost my fucking mind.

Marie walks out the door first, smiling so hard I know she's suppressing laughter. Damn her. Then slowly, theatrically, she turns around and looks at me, arms spread, and her eyes are dancing.

"No one's around. Come on out."

Slowly, warily, like I'm entering Magneto's latest lair, I skulk into the hallway and look around personally, then try and pick up any scents that are within a fifty foot radius, those fucking bells--and you have any idea how loud those thing are?--tinkling merrily with every damned movement. And she's right. There's no one around. I breathe a sigh of relief. A small sigh. Very small. So small she may not hear it and I won't lose any more masculine pride than I've already sacrificed for this.

Marie's having *waaay* too much fun, though. I'm gonna to remember that.

"You look great, Logan." Her nod is so enthusiastic that her hat flops. I don't see her wearing any bells, no sir. "I mean that."

She's lying through her perfect teeth.

She extends one red-gloved hand and takes mine, and it's a good thing she's so strong, because every masculine instinct in me is screaming in horrified protest about the drop in dignity I'm about to face, and my feet just won't move on their own.

I'm not a coward. Usually. But there is fucking *nothing* about this situation that's usual.

"Marie! Logan!" Behind us.

Oh God no.

It's Jean. And where Jean is...

"Hey!" Marie twists around and I don't want to turn, I don't, I don't--

"Logan, you look adorable." Jean's voice is just fucking *shaking* with amusement. I growl. And Marie, being so strong, finally gets me to turn and I stare at Jean, because meeting Scooter's eyes I cannot do, and she's all in red, like my Marie, but the bitch of it all is I really can't enjoy it.

I stare down at my feet.

Green curled shoes. For some reason, I'm just not getting used to this.

And then there's the sound of those fucking bells again and I realize they aren't mine--

--and suddenly, the world isn't so dark and evil, because if I look bad--

--Scooter-boy looks just as bad.

I'm willing to share the misery.

Green hat, like mine. Little bells hang off it limply. Dark green tunic. Green shorts--like me. Green tights.

Yeah, Marie got me to wear tights. You wanna fucking make something of it, huh? Go right the fuck ahead. You try to say no when she has you against the wall of the garage half-way down her throat and you're not even sure if you have a name anymore.

Scooter takes a long breath--maybe its a sob, I don't know. The shame is, we understand each other in one hurried glance, and who'da guessed green tights could bring us together, huh? And we both stare at our curled toe shoes, because this is what Christmas is really about.

Utter humiliation.

"Scott looks cute, Jean," Marie says, and I know she's working hard not to laugh.

Our women, of course, are loving every minute of this nightmare.

Marie lugs me along, and behind us I can hear Scott shuffling sadly, bells a'tinkling--I hate bells, I hate them now for so many reasons and in so many ways--and he really doesn't like this either, which I guess should be a surprise because this sort of shit is what Mr. Sensitivity lives for, right? Marie tells Jean that it was harder than she thought to find an elf suit in my size--what a shock--and Jean comments that Scott was really easy.

I'll fucking bet he doesn't like hearing that. I glance back and Scooter just turned quite an interesting shade of red.

And the girls pause frequently and from the sounds of their breathing, they're working *really* damned hard not to laugh.

I'm beginning to be really suspicious as to whose idea this little kiddie production is.

You see, the school has grown--alot. And it ain't just adolescents anymore. Mutants have kids just like the rest of mankind. And some kids are born and one look tells you that they aren't gonna be normal.

So they come here.

Then there's the sponsors that just seem to have some weird fucking fascination with spending money for Xavier, and they bring their families sometimes--usually because a member themselves spent some time with us--and there you have it. A range of kids, rugrat to teen, all waiting downstairs, and this year, with all those little kids wandering about, Xavier's wants to do something special.

This is his idea of special.

Fuck the bastard. He just wants to get a kick out of seeing us humiliated.

We're almost to the stairs when Scott and I both jerk.

There are the sounds of footsteps and--more bells?--and both Scott and I come to a screeching halt. I hear Jean mutter something, which means maybe Scott tried to make a break for it, and if he does, I'm going with him, no question, even if I'm sleeping in the stables for the rest of the month.

But no--it's more elves.

Oh the poor little bastards. The poor, poor little bastards. If I could pity someone other than myself, I'd pity them.

Remy, the new French kid, looks less than arrogant today. Bobby seems a little wilted. Marie starts giggling and she gets a glare from both of them, and yeah, I'm her boyfriend, but I can't defend her, no way. Then both look at me and Scott, and their mouths just *drop* open--

"Don't say a fucking word," I growl and without even thinking about it, an inch of metal comes out. On both hands.

For once, I think Scotty-boy is in complete agreement. And whatever those two kids were going to say, laugh, smirk, or otherwise, dies on their lips, but I get the feeling I'm going to have to kick their asses in the Danger Room a few times this week to scrape this image out of their heads.

I may never get it out of mine. Like I fucking *need* more nightmares.

"Logan," I hear and a hissed "Scott!" from Jean, and then Jean and Scott walk past us--well, Jean does, lugging poor Scooter behind her. Marie glances up at me, giving me a long, serious look.

"Logan, be nice. It's Christmas."

Is she serious?

"I can't believe you're making me do this."

She smirks and pulls me along behind her, and the other two poor elves follow us down, and I think the sound of bells from all of us has to be the single most depressing sound I've ever heard.

I hate Christmas. Fucking hate it.

We go down the stairs, and even though no one is in evidence--they will be soon. Sixteen more steps. Fifteen.

I will never let her do this to me again. Never. I will never promise things during sex, never, ever--

--oh, who the hell am I kidding?

Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve--

--and why the hell couldn't Jean and Marie be elves? They'd look good in green. They wouldn't suffer the loss of dignity, self-respect--oh shit, they *knew*. They saw the costumes and knew that even they couldn't carry off fucking little bells and these godawful shoes and the tights are fucking itching and scratching just isn't an option.

Eleven, ten, nine--

"Will you relax? Think of all the kids that will be so happy elves came for their Christmas!" quotes my Marie and I start growling again. She punches my arm--damn, she's getting strong.

Happy? They're going to collapse, laughing their little asses off.

Eight, seven, six--

I hear Jeannie tell Scott to smile, that elves should be happy. Marie gives me a glance and has the good sense not to even *try* that crap on me.

Five, four, three, two--

Fuck.

We're downstairs and Marie looks up at me and smiles.

"I'm so glad you're doing this, Logan."

Melting smile. Her best, and she has quite a repertoire of them to pull out for any and all occasions. This one is brand-spanking-new, too, all liquid dark and sweet and despite myself, I begin to melt--

--no fucking way, baby. I'm wearing curly shoes and green tights and fucking bells. You owe me. Big time.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I mutter and she squeezes my hand then lets go, turning to Jean. Scott gets a desperate look on his face and Jean has to pry his fingers off her hand, and suddenly there's a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Jean--where the hell do you think you're going?" Scooter's voice is at least an octave too high and I've never heard him use profanity. There's something very wrong here. Jean takes a step back, still smiling--oh, the hell she is, that's a smirk. That woman is fucking *smirking*.

"Go on in, boys." She waves one arm to the door--leading to that big, formal living room that I've managed to avoid since I first saw it. "Have fun."

All of us realize it at the same time.

They're sending us in there alone.

"No fucking way." I'm adamant. Damned straight--bad enough to go in there wearing this. I'm not going in as part of the Elf-Brigade, all alone, no sir. Not in this life. I hear the kids behind me jingling in a way vaguely rhythmic, which could mean they're shaking.

I'm not. But that's because I can't believe my Marie would do this to me.

"See ya in there, elves!" says my little girl, before she throws me a grin and she and Jean stroll off, probably to go in through another door and get good seats to watch us make utter and complete asses of ourselves.

"They're kidding." It's Bobby, the poor bastard, and yeah, he's shaking and turning the same shade of green as his tunic. He looks at me, sort of gaping. "They're sending us in there *alone*?"

I'm wondering if it was Miss Pryde or little Miss Lee who got those kids trapped into this. Wonder if they used the same method. Maybe I'll ask.

God.

Scott turns to look at the doors, and he doesn't need to say anything at all.

And I think we all just sigh, because fucking hell, this can't be happening. We didn't let them get us. I didn't let Marie do this to me.

I'm so whipped it's pathetic.

* * * * *

It's a good ten seconds before any of us has the balls to move. I'll never be able to look myself in the face after this. Never.

Scott draws in a deep breath that makes every one of his bells go off and he grabs the tip of his hat, giving it a dirty look--and I'm damned impressed he can manage that expression with the glasses on. The looks at us, realizing suddenly he has Duty or some crap like that to fulfill. Draws his back up straight--more jingling of those fucking bells--pulling on the tatters of his Fearless Leadershipness. Hehehe, this would be *sooo* fucking funny if I wasn't a part of it.

I love my girlfriend. I'm proving this. She better *remember* this next time I wanna watch football on Sunday.

"Ready?" His voice is firm and maybe it's only me than can pick up that smell of terror. Yep, Cyke can face down Toad, Magneto, and Mystique without breaking a sweat, but this shit is a nightmare come true.

I even understand. See, I'm not always a bastard to him.

Ready? Ready to stumble into a room full of people I don't even know, dressed as a fucking *elf* wearing fucking *tights* that *itch* with fucking *bells* jingling all around me? Ready to publicly humiliate myself? Ready to sacrifice completely and for all time my masculine dignity?

You can't get *ready* for that. No man can.

Scott turns briskly on one heel and pushes open the doors (gotta give him credit for courage, at any rate) and so is the first of us to see what we're in for, and immediately stumbles back (not so fucking brave, are you, Elf-boy?), his usually pasty face drained of the remainder of its color. Just over his head, I take a peek at what's inside, because like most men, I have that car-accident fascination with seeing my own doom in preview.

Oh shit.

First thing I notice, it's damned *bright*. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's Christmas and somewhere along the line consumerism called for every conceivable place in the house be lighted with little multicolored bulbs that break when you try to fix them--yeah, I'm talking from experience here. But damn--its fucking unreal.

Second thing, and the part that just makes me want to slink upstairs with my tail between my legs and I don't even fucking care anymore how unmanly *that* is--

--there are a fucking *lot* of people stuffed in there.

Piled in couches, on the floor, in chairs from the dining room--hell, they're standing up against the damned *walls*. I mean--shit. Way too many. Don't they have somewhere to be for Christmas? Like, their own homes? Is humiliation of the X-Men so much fun they just couldn't stay away?

God, did Wheels *advertise* what he was gonna do to us?

Third--those are fucking video cameras. This is going to be *taped*. For posterity. Shit, I may see this humiliation on that fucking TV every day for the rest of my life.

Fucking hell.

And my Marie, the one I can make scream my name in under five minutes, who curls up looking so sweet and innocent in my bed, who tells me all the time how much she loves me--

--oh, that little girl is sending me in here alone--and the doors are what everyone is looking at. We're right in front of the fucking action, folks, the place everyone is just staring, waiting for us to emerge in our green-clad wonder.

With the bells.

This is going to be *taped*. I can't get over that, and checking out Scott, I think he's probably thinking the same thing.

I love her. I will tell myself that every few minutes, so I don't wring her little neck when I see her again. I love her.

Scott mumbles something uncomplimentary about Jean and I check out the boys (still looking rather green, I might add), then decide I gotta be the man, damn it. And it takes everything in me to take that breath and put one little green-curled foot in front of the other.

Bells jingling away.

I walk in there.

Cocky doesn't work when every fucking movement makes the bells jingle and these tights are still itchy and, damn, am I tempted to do something indecent real fucking quick. Being masculine and threatening and looking dangerous--no, not even I can do that. Not with fucking bells.

The silence is complete and my nerves, already pretty much shot to hell, just want to shatter right then and there, because all the lucky guys without orally-gifted girlfriends are sitting out there looking a cross between really fucking amused and relieved as all hell. The bells are jingling as Scooter and Co, not being quite as Manly as I am, follow me in like whipped puppies. In the distance, I hear a giggle, and God help whoever had the temerity if I ever find them, and I don't care *how* old they are.

I need a drink. Badly.

"The Elves are here!" comes a booming, suspiciously familiar voice, and I turn my head enough to see Wheels, complete in Santa garb, motion us over towards the tall, extremely bright Christmas tree, and the overwhelming scent of pine just washes over me and I want to sneeze.

God, I'm not just becoming a pansy. I am one.

Santa Wheels. Wheels got Santa and I got Elf. I'm older than him--I think--and I get stuck with fucking Elf. With bells jingling and the one on my hat is hanging way too close to my damned ear and jingles with every movement.

I hate Christmas.

I don't think the Prof is laughing under that beard, though I can't prove it--probably because he knows I can and will kill him if I see it, witnesses or no witnesses.

Somehow--I have no idea how I manage--I get over there, and the Elf-Brigade is right behind me, jingling away--we move as a group, less likely to be caught alone to be stared at. Nearby, I see Ororo, looking like she's gonna collapse, and Jean, whose taking long, slow breaths--

--and my Marie, my darling Marie, who has her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking.

God, she owes me.

"Merry Christmas!" says the Professor, whose really into the spirit of it, I think. Beard, big red suit, pillow for the abdomen, Santa in a wheelchair, ho, ho, ho, and what I wouldn't fucking give for Magneto to break out of prison right this damned minute. The Professor wheels himself around to get between me and Scott--let's keep the attention all on us here, thank you *so* much--and then leans back in his chair.

"Friends, on this most special of days, I'd like to welcome you..."

Oh God, there's a speech.

Why the hell didn't I expect that part? Not only am I an Elf, I gotta stand here with all those eyes and cameras--someone just took a picture and whoever he is, he better fucking hide--while Santa-Wheels starts talking about the Season.

Marie has her head down still and she's gonna need medical help soon. I don't think she's been able to draw a clear breath yet. Serves her right, yes sir it does.

"...and it is an honor to have you with us, sharing..."

It lasts hours--actually, it doesn't, but the hose are itching and my feet hurt and every time I twitch a bell goes off and all eyes are right back on me with all that damned amusement and God, what the hell can you say about the season that isn't said on every Christmas Special from here to kingdom come? Yes, get along with others, love thy neighbor, all the crap, in the name of God let this end.

"--so I hope that this day will be a turning point for mutants and mankind to live together in peace--"

He's running the party line *now*?

"Let us pray."

That means heads down, no one is looking. I get to scratch. Hey, I never said I was the most religious person on earth. The world looks a little better afterward--not a lot better, though. Not by much.

He says more, but I'm not listening--my focus is on Marie, Who Is Going To Pay For This for *years* if I can help it. Marie, who has finally composed herself enough to lift her head and look at what she's done to her bad-ass boyfriend (that's a term I'm still getting used to)--God, she's enjoying this. She's seriously *enjoying* this.

Then she whisks out a camera and snaps a picture. Gives me a smirk.

I growl. And Santa-Wheels hears it.

"Let's distribute the presents." Gives me a Look--like I give a shit--then wheels himself back toward the tree with purpose, leaving me and the Elf-Brigade to scamper behind him because we'll be damned if we stay standing there like idiots any longer than absolutely necessary.

Again, I'm not seeing what's coming immediately, but I'm getting the shape of things now. It's not enough that I am dressed as a fucking Elf. That I am part of an Elf Brigade. That I'm wearing fucking Bells, Itching Tights, and a Green Felt Hat.

There's more. I can feel it.

The Professor just said--distributing Presents.

Shit, that's what elves do. I gotta walk this place carrying *presents*.

Marie just collapsed into her chair and Jean is bent over her and both of them are going to suffer one day and I'm planning it already. Scott is as red as Santa-Wheels coat. I may let him in on this one. Maybe Bob-boy and that Remy kid too.

The Professor gives me a warning glance--very possibly he's read my face, read the homicidal tendencies, remembered quite suddenly what I do for a living, and maybe he sees that all I want is an excuse--hell, if he's reading my mind, he knows *exactly* what I'm thinking. Any excuse. Scott, trying yet again to be Leaderish--and damn, it's funny as all hell to see him stumble along in those shoes and why can't I appreciate it more, damn it--comes up and mutely takes the nauseatingly-cheery parcel from Santa-Wheels' hands. Calls out the name written on the cute little tag with a really sad lack of enthusiasm.

Then, before I can get away, before I can formulate a Plan--any plan--something large and indecently covered with tiny cartoon reindeer (which I can tell you aren't this cute up close and personal and I fucking know what I'm talking about) is shoved into my hands and I get Xavier's Look of Patience and realize--

--God, I gotta talk to kids.

* * * * *

Before you think even worse of me than I do of myself--and ain't that a sad thing to say--this whole elf-business really was cumulative. I'm not a fucking puppy, present circumstances notwithstanding. This wouldn't have happened two months ago, no sir. I didn't give in to her cutesy entreaties to go in costume to the Halloween Soiree or whatever the hell Xavier called it. Me and Remy played cards all night and the kid lost a *lot* of that mystery money that he keeps coming up with and got wasted as hell and sick to boot.

Considering he was hittin' on Marie earlier that week, I went easy on him. It was a good night.

Even better when Marie got back and I got to enjoy the many fascinations of a gauze-dressed girlfriend I got to unwrap one layer at a time.

A *fucking* good night, in every sense of the word.

Over time, though, I was worn down. She had time, energy, and the accumulated memories of at least three people with damned good sex lives on her side. She had persistence. Determination.

Did I mention the sex?

In short, she had me pretty much by my balls. And my girl *knew* it.

I stare at Xavier, really unable to still believe he's serious about this, despite the proof in my hands. He is, if that smirk means anything.

The reindeer package has a cutesy-girl name on it and God help me, I have to actually say it out loud.

"Buffy."

People name their kids that? What kind of a fucking world do we live in?

Instantly, a little blonde materializes in front of me. Maybe she walked, but I'm trying to keep my eyes on the convulsing Marie and think of the many and varied ways I'm gonna make her suffer for this, just to keep my sanity. I hand over the box, which she barely glances at--apparently less than impressed by the reindeer--then looks up at me and holds out both chubby arms.

"Hold me!"

Shit.

"Can I get a picture?" Asks the dad, who apparently followed the little rugrat up here, camera in tow. Already drawing out the damned thing, taking for granted that of course, I'm gonna be honored to be immortalized holding Blondie. God, didn't Chuck give *anyone* the standard lecture on who the fuck we are? I'm not a fucking Elf. I'm a bar fighter. I fight for *money*.

The little blonde takes another step forward and gets a stubborn look on her face.

"Pick me up!"

I've been reduced to taking orders from someone one quarter my height and maybe a twentieth my weight. Slowly, reluctantly, I crouch down and lift her up, and she instantly braces a tiny elbow on my shoulder and grabs a sideburn as an anchor.

Giggles.

God, I may kill myself after this.

"That's sooo cute!" coos a feminine voice and a glance confirms the presence of a woman hanging off the man's shoulder. The whole damned family is here. Oh hell. "Smile for the camera, sweetie!"

Their only saving grace is that they didn't ask me to smile. Maybe they knew they'd be pushing it. A lot.

Buffy pulls my hat, making that fucking bell hang in my fucking face, which to be perfectly honest was the best thing that could have happened. Less of me will show in that picture. The kid must finally smile at some point, because the flash goes off. Her parents coo again and I think every eye in the place is on us now and a fucking *lot* of careful laughing is going on. I let her down and try to disattach her hand from my head, but it ain't moving, and something like panic seizes me.

What the hell do you think I'm gonna do, claw a little kid? Even I know better than that. But Little Blonde ain't letting go and that fucking hurts and behind me I hear Jean finally give in and start laughing like there's no tomorrow--which at this rate, there may not be for her, and that's a promise. If Scooter don't have the balls to take her down, baby, I do.

When I get my balls back, that is, from the girl who stripped them from me in the first place. Oh Marie, you have *sooo* much to answer for.

Another flash from my left--oh fuck, Marie just took another picture.

After considerable coaxing from her parents, who are apparently not big into corporal punishment, Blondie lets go. Her mother picks up the gift, giving me a semi-apologetic smile. Fuck her, she isn't sorry, she likes seeing her offspring maul X-Elves.

I retreat--I'm fucking forced from the field by a four year old, and the fucking crowd *dares* to laugh at my green back. But the other elves aren't laughing, no sir. They see their future. Remy, holding the next little bundle, looks scared as all hell and gives me a desperate look. All I can do is slap his shoulder and let him know I understand.

The older kids have sense. They take one look at us, get their little gift, and make a run for it, which was all well and good, even if Xavier gives me significantly evil glances every few minutes. Like I'm the only one.

The little rugrats--they're a whole fucking other story. I have visions of the next time I'm in a cage and someone will bring this up. I know it will happen. I *know* it.

Luckily, Chuck figures out real quick that the X-Elves are getting desperate--I hear Remy mutter that the Brotherhood doesn't have Christmas parties and Bobby looks interested. Even the Fearless Leader--whose hat has been pulled at several times, who's getting awfully paranoid about his glasses, seeing as every kid is just fascinated by them--pauses briefly to consider that interesting idea. The rest of the horror goes pretty fast and I'm only caught in two more pictures, maybe because every time a gift comes into view, I get the hell out of range if I can manage it. Scooter and Remy are pretty good at dodging, too--

--leaving poor Bobby to fall on his sword. Sorry, bub. Use it later, on Kitty or Jubes or whoever suckered you into this merry little hell. Use the anger.

We all make a break for it at the same time--the *second* the formal crap ended and the socializing or whatever the hell it is started. We all head off in different directions. No doubt they're looking for the chicks that screwed *them* into this. I'm looking for Marie.

Who, no surprise, is nowhere in sight.

Marie has some great self-preservation instincts--I'll give her that. She disappeared as soon as the last little paper wrapped gift was shoved into the arms of the last little kid. My girl doesn't have a stupid bone in her tasty body. And if she thinks she gonna get out of this *using* that body--God, does she have a shock coming.

It should say something about my mood that my first thought is *not* of getting my ass upstairs and into something decent and bell-less and ungreen. Or even take a moment to shred the godforsaken hat into centimeter wide strips of cloth. No sir, my very first instinct is to hunt down the girl of my nightmares and have a little chat.

Taking a breath, I get over to the last place I saw my little darling. Too many people. There ain't *no* way I can get a good trace from this mess without wasting a hell of a lot of time Marie can use to her advantage. A fast turn, searching out the crowd for a certain redhead co-conspirator--

--and there she is.

Jean, apparently thinking she is Immune to Harm, is standing by the tree, chatting up the moneybags clustered around her like flies. Nervous sponsors back away when the notice the Pissed Elf coming their way--ah, but they know me, they know this particular X-Elf, and they should fucking consider themselves lucky that I'm deliberately not remembering whether or not they were among the Laughers. Bells ring with my every stalking movement. I can live with that right now.

Barely.

"Where is she?" Ask I of Jean, who is still flushed and grinning from her little laughing fit--fuck that, it was a big laughing fit--and staring at me as if she has no idea what the fuck I'm talking about. She tries to look innocent. Like that works on me.

"Logan--" Conciliatory my ass. I see Scooter zooming in on us, looking none to happy--and ya know what, I don't think this time it's to protect his girl here, either. So I gently turn Miss Jean Grey so I can look straight in her eyes--maybe lift her a few inches off the floor as well--and ask again, very slowly and very, very sincerely and my claws come out exactly one inch, which has the added benefit of sending the other people around the tree into a quick dash away. Hehehe, that feels fucking *good*.

Just to remind her I'm not a Fucking Elf, no matter how many bells are ringing with every twitch.

"Where. Is." I bring her up two inches exactly from my face. "*Marie*."

I make it *fucking* clear. She gives a quick glance to Scooter--but ya know, Elf-bonding is on my side, he understands and doesn't say a word.

I could learn to like him.

"She's in the dining room," Jean says slowly, carefully, perhaps realizing The Elf Has Turned. "But Logan--"

I'm sure she wants to say something soothing. Fuck that. I have a girlfriend to stalk.

The dining room is exactly what I'd expect of Marie, someone who knows exactly what I'm capable of. Large crowd, mixed scents of food, strong odor of evergreens from all the fucking greenery old Chuck moved in for the occasion. I can pick her up, but it'll take a little time. Good enough--she's gonna make this fun. I deserve fun. I had a kid tell me that I'm cute. Little brunette, five years old, wore bows.

Pink bows

I had to smile through that. Had to fucking *smile* when she pulled the bells on the hat while her parents, doubtless seeing the Poking Of The X-Elf as some sort of sign of brilliance, gaped with enchantment at her antics.

She called me *cute*.

Light trace--Marie wears a distinctive perfume, and now her scent is definitely laced with some apprehension, and she should be fucking nervous after this. I follow it to the buffet table. Laid her hand here briefly, chatted up someone, probably watching the door the whole damned time.

"Logan?"

A pluck at my arm, and the only thing that saves whoever the fuck is trying to get my attention is the fact that my focus is still on the room and that very light Marie-scent that's getting steadily stronger.

I get two steps toward the end of the table before someone grabs my arm and that just pisses me off

"What the fuck do you want?"

One glance down, and why, it's little Miss Jubilation Lee. The precious little brat looks scared under that little Santa hat. No bells, damn her.

"You seen Remy or Bobby?" Keeps her voice low. Looks around nervously. Has a camera in her pocket--great, she immortalized this too. And guess what--I do see them. Right over her head, on the other side of a round woman dressed like a collision between a laundry day and a nightmare. Both of them.

They don't look happy.

Gently, I turn Jubilee in the proper direction and give her a push.

"REMY!"

This serves more than one purpose, by the way--first, Marie now will know, wherever the fuck she is, that I'm perfectly willing to shout down the entire fucking place to find her. Second--it's the Elf-bonding.

Red eyes come up, see me, see girl, light up like a Yuletide log. Jubilee starts in horror and Remy starts his stalk through the crowd, a crowd that perhaps senses that the Elves are no longer Merry, if we ever gave that impression. Which is unlikely but possible.

Bobby is a breath behind him.

*This* is what Christmas is all about.

"Have fun, darlin."

I have bigger fish to fry.

I catch the scent again on the other side of the table, leaving Jubes to Remy's custody and I'm almost--not quite but *almost*--tempted to see what they have in mind for her. But a certain scent is calling me.

Now, in a normal situation, people get out of my way--I take that for granted. They look up, see me, perhaps sense that I Am Not A Nice Guy, and move. But the Elfness is seeping into me apparently--I barely get a glance and the temptation to pop the claws and maybe clear out some space is tempered by the fact that in a stampede, Marie can really get lost and stay lost, and it'll be *hours* before I can track her down.

She may think that this could be a Good Thing, that my temper will have had time to cool. She may think that I will Put Things in Perspective.

Baby, you can't put fucking Bells in perspective.

Asking anyone is out of the question--maybe because I'm pretty much reduced to growling. Ah, notice, that moves some slow asses outta my way, though. Because I'm thorough, I check under the table, around the chairs--hey, get the fuck outta my way and don't you even think of saying anything--back behind the curtains.

A look around, another breath, concentrate--and a relatively fresh trail leads straight to the kitchen.

I break through a couple of groups that don't have the good sense to get the hell outta the way, and one group of vaguely familiar moneybags that recognize and run--shit, that feels good. I get to the door and stalk into the kitchen, though I'm pretty sure by now where's she's headed.

One breath in the kitchen confirms it all. Yes, the scent is strong in here--perfume, Marie-scent, and definite nervousness. And it leads straight out the damned door.

We're good to go. I can even guess where she's going. Absently, I pull on the gloves I had the good sense to drop in my pocket before this whole nasty situation began.

Marie, darlin', we're about to have a talk.

* * * * *

"Hello, Marie."

It's easy to pick her up in the stables--horse, straw, other less palatable scents, but over it all, her. Three stalls down, standing near the end of the line by the last horse, whose head comes up when he picks up my stalk toward them.

Her reaction almost makes everything worth it--almost. A jump, a jerk, and she spins on her heel, dropping the bucket she's clutching. A little startled, a little afraid, a lot nervous. She plays it off well, throwing out a smile I'll just *bet* she wishes was casual. Like she ducks into the stables every day during big parties for no reason.

Like she's even *been* in the stables for the last year or so.

"Hey, sugar. Whatcha doin' down here?" Her hands run down her legs absently and I wonder, just for a second, if she's too old to be spanked. I lean casually against the door, take in the flushed face, that little red dress, long legs. Is it tempting?--hell yes. Am I going to be swayed, even with that little skirt riding that high on her thighs?--hell, no.

Absolutely fucking not.

She bites her lip and keeps her gaze very steadily on my chest--can't meet my eyes.

"I could ask you the same question, darlin'."

"Thought the horses might want their Christmas snack." Her right hand reaches down suddenly and grabs the bucket stationed conveniently at her feet. I give it a look and now know why her scent was on the refrigerator. Very smooth. Make it look planned, getting carrots for the horses. Uh-huh, Marie, you *know* you did wrong.

She takes a moment, studying my face--then does what I don't expect.

"God, Logan, that was funny." She leans back against the wall, and starts *giggling*. "I know, sugar, you didn't have fun--but really--you were *sooo* cute."

You see the thing I said about Elfness seeping into me? Here's the proof: my girlfriend, the one that watched me beat the crap out of two people in Laughlin City and damned well enjoy it, the girl who absorbed my memories and knows all about the things that I've done that aren't even *that* clean, the chick who I trained, who's watched me work out in the Danger Room--this girl feels it's safe to *mock* me.

I'm not an Elf. Now it's time to prove it to her. Hell, at this point, I need to prove it to myself.

Maybe she picks up the scent or she sees my expression change, or the fact that I'm taking even, quiet steps toward her is the tip off. I don't know. The smile disappears when her eyes dart down to my gloved hands, and she starts slowly backing up.

"Logan--" says my girl, and she tries to smile again--but ya know, those cute little smiles only work on the Pansy-Elf. Not on me.

Slowly, I work her backward--a little left, more to the right, that way just a bit and don't let her look back, let her think the danger is all in front of her. It's a slow process, but hell, anticipation is half the fun.

When she comes up against the back wall of the last empty stall, all the color drains from her pretty little face. I smile, walk in, and shut the stall door behind me.

She's all mine.

* * * * *

"Logan, listen--this was--" She trails off, eyes very wide, very worried. Damn, they should be.

"Was what?"

Don't wanna scare the horses--they get nervous already when I'm anywhere near the stables. So I keep my voice low. Don't want anyone out there to notice there's *anything* interesting goin' on in here.

This quiet also doubles to make Marie nervous. Very good.

She swallows, licking her lips--fun to watch, definitely. Tries to appear casual while her little booted feet shift uncomfortably in the straw. Uh-huh, her scent is giving off a hell of a lot more than she's showing.

"It was just for fun, Logan. Don't take it so personally."

Personally? I had to wear tights and a hat. Green clothes. Get mauled by small children.

I had to wear *bells*.

"Marie, darlin'--that ain't gonna cut it." I lean against the door, relaxed, casual, calm. Because really, I haven't come up with a suitable revenge for this--and not just anything will do here. No, this has to be special--

"It was just for fun," she repeats, maybe a little desperately, and she's flushing even more and giving off some damned interesting scents. Hmm. Despite myself, I take two steps toward her and have to stop myself from bringing up images of exactly how far down her neckline that flush goes. Bad thoughts. Not conductive to revenge, no sir. "Come on--have a sense of humor or something."

I remove the hat and toss it to her, and her mouth twitches when it lands in her hands.

"There are bells on that hat. I had to wear that."

Her mouth twitches again and she slowly runs her velvet covered fingers over the surface. The little bell at the end jingles merrily. She lifts her eyes, studying me carefully, apparently trying to decide something. Then a slow smile, a smile I know, and despite all my best efforts--hell, a lot of effort--all the blood in my body heads south instantly.

How the hell does she do that?

"I'll make it up to you." She's almost purring. I will not be led around by my hormones. No fucking way.

"No fucking way," I tell her.

Her smile changes just a little and she leans back against the wall, bracing a foot up and letting that little skirt ride up enough for me to draw in a breath and deliberately call up appalling images of everything I went through this morning. Apparently, she's considering her options--maybe running through a few memories to see what she can use against me now. Like *anything* she comes up with could possibly remove what will appear on all those videos if I can't get to them before the day ends.

"I kind of figured you'd be a little upset," Marie finally says, softly, absently tracing the hat still with the tips of her fingers. A slow motion that I'm trying very hard not to watch--those fingers have done interesting things to me before. A little upset? A little upset was what I was when I walked into my closet one day and found most of my clothes replaced. A little upset was waking up one morning to find her--God--hanging up those duck shower curtains and giving me a sunny smile. Comparatively speaking, a little upset I would be if Sabertooth attacked right this minute. I'm not even in the fucking *ballpark* of a little upset. "So--whatcha gonna do?" A long pause, and she licks her lips again. Slowly. "Or will you accept a counter-offer?"

She's trying to *bargain* with me? The bitch of it is, I still haven't worked out a Plan. Marie is a woman--Christmasy things are their forte. There's *nothing* I can think of that will come close to what she's done to me.

Nothing.

Watching me the entire time, she removes her hat, dropping it to the straw on the floor. Places the little green felt nightmare on her head--and you know what, it looks pretty good on her. Even with the bell, hanging very nicely over one delicate little ear.

Shit, stop thinking like that.

Still watching me, she unbuttons the top of her dress--red, I was there when she picked it out. Nothing beneath but dangerous skin. Lots of apparently bare dangerous skin.

Oh fucking hell, there *is* something beneath, and I take two more steps without even realizing I'm doing it. She's wearing something transparent and protective and if I don't miss my guess--

"Covers all the way--with an exception or two," she tells me, leaning back casually against the wall, those velvet covered fingers running down her thighs with purpose. "Wanna check the exceptions, sugar?"

Anger has two outlets for me--Marie knows that. The girl is good at what she does. Before I know it, I'm less than a foot from her and she's staring up at me with an unmistakable expression--not that I need to see it. The smell of an aroused Marie is pretty damned obvious.

And yes, fuck it, I do. I want to check and see where that exception or two is, even if I can guess. Even if I know.

Oh fuck.

She made me become an Elf. With bells. Remember that.

"No."

Another slow smile and she straightens and takes the step that separates us. Raises herself up in her heeled boots until I feel her breath against my ear.

"Yes you do."

No I don't. And I'm going to tell myself that, tell my fucking hormones where they can go and what they can do because she made me suffer, damn it. She was *prepared* for this, no question, before she got me tucked into green felt and bells and sent me on my merry way. She pulls a scarf from somewhere and dangles it in front of me. One little velvet-covered hand drops and traces my waist over the green felt and then finds the bottom of the shirt and slides inside, circling slowly around my back, then a smooth slide of fingers across my stomach. Every muscle in my body clenches and hell, she can feel that.

I won't touch her. Not even when--oh *fuck*.

"Marie!"

I catch her wrist--touching her at all is a mistake, but I haven't got much of a choice, and she grins, and twists her fingers around until that wonderful soft velvet is rubbing against me--

--*God*.

"Like it?" she murmurs.

Of course I fucking like it! That's the entire problem, and for some reason, I'm having a hard time concentrating on exactly what I'm supposed to be doing here.

"It's *not* gonna be that easy."

I'm not easy. No fucking way.

With another grin, she takes the front of the green shirt and pulls me forward until her back is against the wall. And I let her--only to throw her off that I'm Planning Something, of course.

I wish I knew what the fuck I was planning, though.

"You can get me for this later," she whispers huskily, and those velvet-covered fingers begin to move and fuck these tights gotta go soon. How she does it, I don't know, but there's the sound of boot heels against wood and she braces herself up against the wall, one indecently long leg around my thigh, an elbow resting lightly on my shoulder.

Maybe, just maybe, the Planning can wait. For a few minutes.

She lifts the scarf up and I kiss her through it, pushing her flat against the wall, running my hands down those long bare thighs, feeling her shuddering sigh through my whole body. Which is merely encouraging all that forgiveness and forgetfulness crap that the Season is supposedly all about, damn it, but she tastes good when she opens her mouth and I bite her lip to hear that soft moan. Run my tongue over her teeth, trace the lines of her mouth, pressing her head flat against the wall, trapping her free hand beside it with mine. She moans and pushes against me, arching enough to start a slow, rhythmic rub that ends any real hope of getting out of this--like at this point I care. Her skirt is already jacked up somewhere around her waist--thank God for short skirts--and I run gloved fingers over her hips and thighs. I can feel, even through leather, the different textures of bare skin and fine silk. Then between those long legs--and yes, there it is--

"God, Logan," Marie moans softly, her body stiffening, when I slide one finger carefully inside her, movingn in a slow circle, feeling the clench of her muscles around me. "Please, sugar--that's good, yes--"

Marie has given me a few interesting little habits that I should probably be really worried about. Always carry gloves--a basic must when you're bedding a girl who can kill with a touch. I've caught myself grabbing them whenever I leave our room--fuck it, see, it's even *our* room now, when the fuck did that happen? But the one that probably most males pretty much have down pat is always carry a condom, no matter where the hell you are or what the hell you think you're gonna be doing. Me, I've learned that lesson and it rates right up there as a rather disturbing obsession--if I was the kind of guy who thought about things like that. And the absolute necessity dates from a certain day in the Danger Room when she was watching me work out, a day that reminds me that telepaths have a sick sense of humor when you're in a hurry to get to your room.

Believe it or not, even as an Elf, I remembered. But Marie--who as I said, is prepared, damn her--reaches back into her boot and pulls one out and manages to not even miss a thrust of her hips. Or a single move of those velvet-covered fingers.

"Fuck, Marie."

A brilliant smile from her very flushed face.

"That was the idea, sugar."

With the sound of ripping foil, a movement of her thigh, she gets both hands down and unfastens the shorts, still using one hand to keep my attention, so to speak--yes, that's damned good, don't stop--locking a calf around my back and the heel of her boot digging into the back of my thigh.

*God* she's good at this.

She gets the shorts down quick; the tights--now living up to their name, by God--she jerks down--*shit*--and she grins up at me again and then takes me in one hand and slides it right on. Looks up, bracing a gloved hand on my shoulder, and I push her back against the wall and lift her hips. One quick thrust--

--dear *God* that's good.

"God, Logan--yesss." Her neck arches and I draw the scarf down over it, tasting her skin through fine silk when I push inside her again and her other leg locks just over my hip. She moans, head still pressed to the wood, hands digging into my shoulders. I push the top of her dress down and she shrugs out of the top, sliding her arms free of the sleeves, then wrapping one arm around my neck for balance, legs tightening with perfect rhythm.

My Marie has had a lot of practice at this.

Changing the angle of my hips, I push her up higher, running my fingers down the silk covering her skin, so fine it's transparent, I can almost taste her through it. One hand locked in my hair, she arches her back as I cup one breast.

"Logan, yes, please--that's it--" Marie's voice is almost too low to hear--I'm guessing she's thinking that scaring the horses into a stampede probably wouldn't do much for the continuance of this little endeavor. She moans something I can't quite hear and through the velvet I feel her nails dig into the back of my neck and her legs tighten again.

I'm not going to last long at this rate.

"Marie--"

"Come on," she whispers when I run my teeth across her collar, dropping to her chest. "Please, baby, come on--" A gasp when I get a nipple between my teeth and she shudders hard, drawing in a strangled breath and the bells on her hat jingling--and you know, that jingling rhythm isn't that bad by way of encouragement.

And as stated, I'm all for encouragement.

Bracing an arm by her head, sliding an arm around her waist, I meet her eyes and thrust again, hard enough to make her scream that she muffles against my shoulder. I drag her face back up, looking into dilated eyes, breath panted against my cheek, twisting one hand in her hair so I can watch her bite her lip, her body beginning to convulse.

"That's it, baby--" I hear myself whisper when she draws in a shaking breath and her legs tighten instinctively. "Come on, Marie--that's it--good girl--that's it--"

Another thrust and she cries out, her whole body tensing around me and I know--oh damn--I'm not far behind her. Another thrust and she lets out a scream--oh fuck the horses anyway--and her body convulses around me. Still locking her against the wall, I get two more quick thrusts before I feel it begin, closing my eyes with the memory of her face hovering in my mind and--

"*God*, yes, Marie."

Slowly, we both slide down the wall, resting on what is hopefully clean straw, feeling her head drop to my shoulder, her breath still erratic.

"Nice," she whispers, lifting her head, and that hat, which has somehow survived the last few minutes, jingles--

--jingle, jingle, jingle--

--oh fuck, I forgot. She grins at the look on my face and starts to stand up.

"Still mad, sugar?"

And I look up at her and acknowledge the fact that, yes, sex will indeed be my downfall.



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