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Three for Three

by Victoria P.

     Subject: Three for Three (BtVS/XMM)
     Date: Sunday, May 18, 2003 6:15 PM

     Title:  Three for Three
     Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p @]
     Summary: Another bar, another girl.
     Rating: PG-13ish
     Disclaimer: Logan belongs to Marvel, Tara to Mutant Enemy.
     Timeline: Between X-movies, pre-Seeing Red, obviously.
     Archive: Lists, Muse's Fool.
     Feedback: Mmm... we loves it, precious
     Notes: Thanks as always to Jen, Pete/Melissa, Dot, and Meg.
     Thanks to DD for the quickie beta. Written for the
     random_hundreds LJ community.
     I may be, er, a little obsessed with Tara's mouth.

Three for Three

She walks into the bar and everyone stares. It's hard not to.

Blonde, curvy, lush mouth just made for things that are probably still illegal in Texas.

He easily dispatches his opponents in the cage, keeping one eye on her at all times. She sips a drink and easily brushes off unwanted attentions from various losers who haven't realized yet that she will be going home with him.

When he's done, dressed and in possession of his winnings, he saunters over to her. The soft buzz of resentment from the other men in the place spurs him on almost as much as the thought of that mouth wrapped around his cock, that hair brushing against his skin.

"Beer," he tells the bartender, "and another of whatever she's having."

She shoots quicksilver glances at him, full lips quirked in a half-smile.

"Coke with lemon," she says, and that pulls him up short. He sits anyway, reminded of another girl, another bar. He pulls a cigar out of his pocket and glances at her, raising an eyebrow. She smiles. "I like the smell," she says, so he lights up.

He runs through lines in his head as he smokes. Usually he doesn't have to broach the subject -- his intent is obvious when he joins a woman at the bar. But this one doesn't seem to get that, and he groans inwardly. Another innocent. God help him.

But it's been a long time, and he needs to escape the memories of red hair and red glasses, the red haze of rejection and the bleak gray of loneliness. He needs to pretend he's not been looking for brown hair and white streaks, black gloves and the bright green of hope for the future.

He pushes aside thoughts of Jean, thoughts of Rogue. This one's blonde, and gives him no reason to think of women who deserve more than a quick fuck and a brush-off.

The bartender puts their drinks in front of them, and he watches, groin tightening, as she leans forward and wraps her lips around the straw. No lipstick residue is left on the plastic. Not only gorgeous, then, but natural.

This is going to be so good, he tells himself, already envisioning her on her knees between his legs.

She half-turns toward him, elbows on the bar. Her eyes are heavy-lidded, and in combination with that mouth, make her look like some silent screen sex goddess, not like the skinny shrill teenagers who populate the movies today.

"Thanks," she says. "I'm Tara." Her gaze flicks over him, and there's still a slight smile playing over her mouth. "Wolverine, huh?" He quirks an eyebrow and finishes his beer in one long swallow.

"Yeah. You wanna get out of here?"

She smiles again, eyes twinkling, and he can smell laughter on her, not lust.

"Sorry," she replies. "You're not my type."

He blinks; it takes a few seconds for her words to sink in. "What?"

She leans forward, drains the soda, full lips sucking that straw like-- he has to stop himself from completing the thought, because he's just been shot down for the first time since... Jean.

"I like redheads," she says, grinning, and hops off the stool. "Thanks for the soda though."

She walks out, hips swinging in what he recognizes is unconscious seduction, and he adds another face to his gallery of untouchable women.

Three for three, he thinks. One redhead, one brunette, one blonde.

He leaves shortly after she does. He thinks of women he's had, women he's lost. And of a woman who may yet be able to drive away his loneliness.

He decides it's time to head back to Westchester.



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