Flesh and Bone
by Jane St Clair and Te
April 2001

Disclaimer: If they were ours, the movie woulda been delivered
in a discreet brown wrapper.

Spoilers: Quite vague for the movie.  Post-movie speculation.

Summary: Vocational training is good for *everyone*.

Ratings note: NC-17.  Yet oddly shmoopy.  Go figure.

Authors' notes: This was part of the original "who can we slash
with Marrow" speculation e-mail, but it came together more
slowly, and since it's movieverse it sorta stands on its own.

Acknowledgements: To everyone who has sent us feedback, and
to Dawn Sharon-san for asking pointed questions.

Feedback: Is a wonderful, sticky, joyful thing.
thete1@earthlink.com and janestclair15@hotmail.com


Jane: Rogue for reasons irrational.  Touch so nearly impossible,
skin to skin, but you have to wonder what flesh and bone could do
to each other . . .

Te: Oh *owww*.

Jane: But *vulnerable*.  Rogue's hands held away from her body
with the flat of a bone, palm-up against the wall.  And the glove
*splits* with just the faintest turn of the bone onto its edge, like
a knife.  And then bare skin, the small webs, the extreme *paleness*
of all that flesh, as if it were Rogue who lived underground, and
while what it's doing for Sarah is obvious, what it's doing for Rogue
is a mystery.  But still.  There's that . . . edge of a scent rising, and
Sarah knows it isn't from her body, and she knows that she couldn't
hold Rogue down like this if the girl didn't want her to.

Impossible, confusing power game that only intensifies when
Rogue shakes loose, rubs that scrap of pale flesh over and over the
bone. All Sarah can feel is pressure, the slightest impotent tingle,
and she wants *more*.  Shifts and grabs the torn fabric of the glove
with her teeth and rips it all the way off.

Leans back and lets the girl get the other one, stares at the length
of roan hair, and the skunk stripe marring it. It's mussed now,
tendrils brushing the silk of her clothes and now it's both hands . . .
all *over*, stroking and caressing the lengths of bone protruding
from thigh and breast and cheek and back, almost jacking them,
and all Sarah can do is watch. And struggle to feel.

Hidden in Cyclops' workshop, Marrow sent down here by the man
himself. Well, sent to find Rogue, still very obviously pining for
Wolverine, who Sarah's never met. Or maybe just hiding from the
slick-tongued new kid Marrow almost killed when she saw her
beautiful little spiked doll peeking out from under his rumpled

Detention for both of them. Extra reading. She still owes her
report on theories about the fucking *sanctity* of human life to
Xavier. She's got some ideas for *that*, all right. But Rogue had
asked her about her lack of control over her "power" and Marrow
had lost it a little.

Pinned her back against the wall for . . . this.

Stiffening up where it counts, and Marrow can smell her own sex
in the air.  Leans in to brush her tongue over the light sweat on
Rogue's forehead and the tingle's stronger, pain and pull fucking
irresistible with the feel of Rogue's small soft hands on her bones
and there's nothing innocent about this.  Nothing avoidable, even
when Rogue pushes Sarah back.

Rogue's face is too flushed, eyes too *intent* for that.

A moment just to stare and then Rogue glitters a smile at her and
breaks off the bone from her sternum with one amazing little
*snap*. Never had anyone do that for her before. Never had
anyone who wanted to touch her, not since Callisto, and this is
*nothing* like that.

And then Rogue turns on the sander.

It makes Sarah jump, big and wild like a hunting animal.  And oh,
*weird*, even by her standards, because the act was so *threatening*,
but when she looks Rogue's bent carefully over it like a book
illustration of a tradeswoman, guiding the bone along the sander
with both hands.  Curling it around to ease the jagged edges.

When Rogue hands it back to her, she can't quite believe that this
is one of *her* bones.  Milky opalescent and so *smooth*, like
something wet.  A little warm from the machine's friction.

Bashful gesture, handing it, but when Rogue looks at her, she's as
feral as Sarah, and Sarah can't help but wonder how much of *her*
that is, poured across their single touch.

One little hand closes on the bone pressing out of her left shoulder
and *pulls* Sarah by it, out to the middle of the shop.  Leaves her
there.  Motorcycle in pieces in the corner behind her and light
coming in through the high, rectangular panels in the door.  Rogue's
feet settle onto the tarpaulin spread out on the floor and kick the
two or three abandoned wrenches away.  Bright ring of their steel
on the concrete.

And while Sarah watches, Rogue unbuttons her blouse and pulls
one side of it away, exposing a single breast wrapped in
unreasonably chaste white knit, scored by tiny pastel flowers.  She
pulls the cup down, watching Sarah.  Makes the flesh its own living
thing, framed by her clothes.  Not a woman's breast, nothing like
the bareness of Callisto that Sarah remembers.   Elastic and thinly
freckled and somehow, despite the swell of it, light, the nipple
rising into the bright air.

One more flash of those eyes on hers before Rogue tilts her head
down to look at herself, almost vanishing behind the bashful fall
of her hair.  With the exposed hand, she reaches up and pinches
the nipple.  Makes it hard.  Teases it.  Tawny, barely-red nub that
she rolls between those naked fingertips.  Then lets go and reaches
across and does it again, but with the hand in glove.

Tiny, framed performance that she makes.  Flesh and cloth.

Produces something, finally, that Sarah takes a long time to
recognize as a tiny, sharp spike that was part of the now-sanded
bone.  Point on it so fine she can't make it out.  Which Rogue
brings up and scratches, just lightly, across the white top of her
breast, bringing up a line of red behind it.  Then brings it to her
nipple, cradles the breast in her gloved hand.  Stabs into the
aureole and arches her back a second later in reaction to the pain.
Head thrown back and the whole milky line of her from forehead
to waist exposed in that instant on that side.

And it's in the want that she feels. Tiny, fiercely red drops of
blood and pale, perfect, young girl skin. Too much to ask that the
splinter leave a mark, but the *gesture*. For her and of her. Like she
can be Sarah with this one, just Sarah, and one dangerously normal
girl who she'd maybe like to call by her own name.

Mary? Marie? Though it's clear as anything that, if she's thinking
of herself as anyone now, it's as Rogue. And so she's Marrow,
dancing on the fine edge of a pounce.

Rubs the smoothed length of bone over Rogue's breast, getting a
shiver and a tiny smear of red which she licks off slowly.
Wonderfully. *Tasting* her.

Brings it to the girl's mouth and watches the pink tongue move over
spit and blood -- this kiss they can have.

About to take it back for the sharing when Rogue wraps her bare
fist around, just above Marrow's own. Hand and hand and she
thinks there might have been something like reciprocation from her
touch, because every part of her can feel the tamped-down
smoldering rage at not being able to have *more*.

And Rogue takes it between her lips, watches Marrow through her
lashes as she sucks and tongues the head. Wants to ask which boy
she learned *that* from, but mostly just wants to watch. Push.

This is her. Her *bone*, and fuck every dirty joke she's ever heard
but, yeah, Marrow's got ideas. And scary as fuck, but she's got
*plans*, shaken beyond the moment-to-moment by the flash of
pointed pink tongue along the grain, by the small stretch of
Rogue's lips and the heat of her own sex.  Thighs wanting to
tremble with it.

Moves closer and starts a slow, steady fuck, motion perfect-bright
even as Rogue drops to her knees, even as Marrow follows and
follows until she's braced above that rose-flushed skin, fist around
her bone and *thrusting*.

Rogue's thighs wrapped around one of her own, pushing and
moving and Sarah can *feel* her not getting the right spot. Reaches
down and pulls up her skirt, stroking and fascinated by the flex
and work of very real muscle.  God, so *hot*, like suddenly every
woman she ever wanted or wanted to be, every girl that should
have *understood* is right here, writhing beneath her.

Wanting her.

Wanting *her*.

Shifts back, slips the bone out of her mouth and they're watching
each other. Lust and something tender and sweet that makes Marrow
kiss the bone a half-dozen times before sucking it into her own

Before reaching back with it and teasing at the tight leggings.
Leaning in to mouth and suckle the hidden breast through the bra,
wetting all the flowers and scraping her teeth on damp cotton,
Rogue's gloved hand on her cheek protecting and guiding her, and
Marrow wracks her brain for thoughts, ideas. What to *do* here?
Callisto had been easy, simple and good. Rough and ready and
more rough, and Rogue seems to like that fine, but Marrow
wants --

"Nibble at it . . . ah . . . you know, really ah *fast*."

Jealous of that memory, though she thinks, maybe this is the first
time Rogue's feeling it at this end. Marrow follows orders, presses
harder against the seam with the bone and moans helplessly.
Wishes to God she'd get bone growth in a *useful* place for once,
loses herself in Rogue's harsh little gasps and the motions that feel
so good . . .

Mind and soul stretching like a cat after what seems like forever,
and Rogue's blocked caresses.  And her bone.

Wanting to kiss her and understanding that it's impossible, that
one of their mutations would kill them if they tried.  Bone-spike
pushing out just below the socket of her eye to emphasize the fact
that it could be Rogue's as easily as Marrow's.  Dangerous.  So
much so that she's the only one who doesn't sit even *near* anyone
else in class.  Four feet of clearance on all sides, her desk off to the
side like the bad math student on some stupid-ass kid's show who
can't pay attention with anyone else around her.  Stupid and ugly
and mean, mean a function of ugly, so far out from people -- even
here -- that she's never really even thought about someone wanting
her.  Never.

Nothing like Rogue's little gloved hand moving to her own t-shirt
and rubbing her through it.  Just the small points of her nipples at
first, then the whole breast.  Little pinches and twists inhibited by
too many layers and somewhere in this, while her own hands are
pushing Rogue up against her, rubbing the bone on her, Rogue
sort of gasps, "Can you get your bra off?"

Understanding and still angry because she needs both hands to do it.
Has to give up a little of this mediated touch and pull back, hand the
bone to Rogue, who keeps them hooked together with the curve of
her leg.  Sucks the tip of the bone and watches while Marrow pulls
both arms back inside her shirt, unhooks her bra and pulls it off,
throws it out the armhole and lets her arms follow it out.  Her
breasts suddenly heavy without the support, very obvious under the
single-knit layer.  Translucent white cotton, black sleeves, somebody's
old softball shirt that she found in a box of give-aways, no point in
buying clothes she'll shred before the end of the week.

But so *soft* against her aching breasts, thin enough that she can
feel the small air current through it, and when Rogue bends, just
a little, and puts her mouth to the nipple that's already showing
through, there might as well not be anything between them at all.

Fucking amazing, that little mouth on her.  Just wet for a minute,
but then biting, sharply and then this long-drawn *chew* that sends
its wires back up into her body.  Twist and beg and she almost
doesn't scream fast enough to push Rogue away before the next
bone tears out of her thigh.

Real pain for a second and all she can do it pant through it.  Eases,
finally, the way it always does, and she snaps it off.  Sharp and right,
part of her in spite of the pain of its emergence, and she can use it.
Calls Rogue back to her and runs her hands up the covered legs,
pushing up the skirt as she goes.  It sits rucked around her waist
while Marrow rubs her, so wet she can *smell* her, through leggings
and panties.  Presses her mouth wide-open to the damp place just
barely showing and loves the moan she gets in response.
Almost-feeling of the little bare hand rubbing a bone protruding
from Marrow's shoulder.

Rogue lays trembling and wide-legged while Marrow rubs her
knuckles against her.  Louder gasp when she sees the new bone
coming up in Marrow's hand.  Tense and just barely trusting while
Marrow slits the knit fabric open and fingers the soaked panties
underneath.  Little push that takes the fabric up between her lips,
pushing up and just barely into her and so wet it's slicking her
hand.  Carefully stroking from clit backward, finding the hole and
marking the angle to it mentally, before she says, "Hold them tight
for me," and presses Rogue's fingers to the edges of the fabric.

Carefully, painfully carefully, slitting that open too.  Can't touch,
now, but she blows softly across the wet skin and hair and the
wracked moan is more than worth it.  Still massaging Rogue's thighs
and arching against the gloved hand in her hair and then Rogue
reaches down, almost tentatively, and traces the end of the sanded
bone along Marrow's jaw.

Says, "Do it.  Please."

And how can she not?

Holds the smooth bone to her lips, just watching the small pink
*aliveness* of Rogue's pussy, so wet and open, more open for all
the clothes surrounding it. Ragged thread from the leggings laid
flat against the hood of her clit and Marrow just stares at it,
fascinated at black against pink, at the springy curls of Rogue's
bush, at *everything*.

She doesn't feel like a woman, like *anything* that could have
something as pretty and infinitely desirable as that. Young hard-soft
girl, pink and wet and Marrow's sucking the bone hungrily now,
biting at it a little because she has to, wanting so bad that it's hard
to finally release it even with the goad of Rogue's moans to guide

Slicks it over and around the girl's sex, getting it wetter, shiny in
the muted light from the shop windows, Rogue push-pushing
against it, working her hips in ragged circles and thrusts,
shamelessly trying to get it *in* her. Succeeding for half a moment
that makes them both gasp, Marrow dumbstruck by the sight of
her beautiful bone being swallowed by wet and grasping flesh.

Thrusting once, twice, all the way in until the brush of hair on her
knuckles brings half a moment of sense she desperately wants to
ignore.  Only her need to taste Rogue making her pull back.

Wonders if Rogue took her own virginity, how and with *what*.
Wants to go back in time and make it *her* that did it, her that
lapped the blood from the bedsheets after, *her* that watched
Rogue sleep later, oh beauty, such beauty --

Tastes her tangy-sweet on the bone, rubs it all over her face and
licks like a dog, watching Rogue watch her, watching the flush
creep up from the tempting bare nipple over her cheeks. "You
taste so *good* --"

"Put it in me, Sarah please fuck me --"

"Yeah, yeah, OK, anything . . ."

Trails off, embarrassed and desperately horny. Slips the bone out
of her mouth with a nasty-good pop and brings it right back

Slips it in slow this time, all the way, deep and good, pushing
against the back wall of Rogue's cunt, in and out, speeding up
way before she wants to, nowhere near able to stay cool with
Rogue drawing her knees up, moaning out of the delicious 'o'
of her mouth, watching the bone get so damned *slick* and
Marrow would do anything to get tongue and fingers in there,
hell get a *foot* in there, anything, anything at all, but the bone
is good, too.

Bone is right and thick and hard and deep, unforgiving and
exactly what Rogue needs. She can see that now. Something she
can't hurt from someone with only the tiniest fraction of herself in
Rogue's head.

Yeah, OK, and Marrow awkwardly brings her own thighs together,
still up on her knees, but squeezing herself, thrusting against
nothing but it's still so fucking *good*, sneaking up her spine and
spreading over her brain like blood. Like come and bright sunlight,
like everything she's never had.

Fucking Rogue harder now, sometimes slipping out all the way to
tease at the swollen little clit, rub it and thump it gently before
ramming back in.  Rogue arching her back, sweating now, grabbing
at her own breasts and twisting her nipples.

"Yes oh yes *God* --"

And Marrow jerks, trembles, and comes in her pants, soft and
flowing.  Smelling herself on the air, humid and spicy with that
undercurrent of sameness between her and Rogue.

Fuckdrunk and *amazed* and so high on it that she's moaning
too, moaning with the aftershocks, twisting the bone a little with
each thrust, watching every muscle on the girl flex and release,
flex and release and

"W-would you . . . Rogue *come* for me . . ."

And she does, arching and crying out, toes curling, nails scraping
at the tarp and Marrow fucks Rogue through it, licking her lips
and desperate not to blink.

The sheer *beauty* of her, wet and flushed and liquid and female.
By the time Rogue settles, Marrow's hand is soaked and she can
*smell* Rogue on everything.  Releases the bone until Rogue's
lying back and then eases it out of her.  Careful lift where she brings
it into the light and runs her tongue delicately across the tip, hears
Rogue gasp at the sight.

Something about it enticing enough to get her up onto her knees,
all shredded leggings and hiked-up skirt, so that she can lean in
and *kiss* Marrow.

Just the briefest of touches, but purely skin to skin, and Rogue
licks her own taste off Marrow's lips.  This instant where she can't
breathe.  Flash of some vivid green in Rogue's eyes when she pulls
back, oh so familiar because Marrow sees it every time she gets her
nerve up to look in a mirror.  And she grins.

Keeps watching Marrow while this single, blood-edged bone
pushes past the surface and comes curving out from her forearm.
Only the smallest of flinches at it, though Marrow *knows* how
much it must hurt.  Traces a gloved finger over the bone's edge and
slits that glove open, too, and the tip of her finger.  By the time
she's popped the finger into her mouth to suck on it, there's that
softer, southern little-girl edge that's pure Rogue showing through
the manic Marrow-ness.  At total odds with her newly bloody

Long minute before Rogue giggles and blushes a little.  Pulls her
skirt back down and flops on her side, careful of the projecting
bone.  She offers the arm almost diffidently to Marrow and watches
wide-eyed while Marrow snaps the bone away.  Bloody after that,
but they can sort of bandage it with one of her gloves, and she isn't
going to die of it.

And then they just have long, silent moments to be somewhere
between shy and . . . giggly. Marrow definitely wants to giggle,
and not just because of the look-what-we-just-did glint in Rogue's
eyes. Like they just played a prank on the whole world. They.
*We*, Marrow thinks, and brushes her finger over the bandage,
wants to blush at the feel of the sticky bone she's holding with a
death grip.

*My dildo. Mine!*

And she does giggle then, looking at the bone and just shaking
with it. Even better when Rogue joins in.

"I think we should . . . keep it." Wicked little girl smile that Marrow
wants to kiss.

*We*. "What if the weird Cajun guy steals it?"

"Then we make him use it in front of us."

Marrow laughs so loud and sudden that she slaps a hand over her
mouth, knowing she looks all wide-eyed and ridiculous, but Rogue
is still smiling at her. Caught in those eyes and feeling stupid but
also feeling stupid enough to just go with it, twines mussed red
hair between her fingers. "We'd have to sterilize it when we wanted
to use it again . . ."

"Or we could just. You know. Make another."

"Yeah . . . we could do that, too." Smiling goofily now, and
nowhere near caring.

*But I like this one*


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