Little Red Riding Rogue
by
Albertina
Teaser: a very silly and naughty Halloween X-men story.
Note: This story is dedicated to Tygerzeye, who would love to tie up Logan, and Devil Doll, who would soooo be looking up under that kilt.
It's Halloween in Westchester. Jean is carrying a pumpkin for Hank. She is attempting to carve the face of a somewhat generic-looking alien into the pumpkin. Hank is an avid X-files fan and the only human alive proficient in the entire alien conspiracy storyline. He is dressed like Fox Mulder tonight, replete with the F.B.I. badge and the monotone speaking voice. Jean had agreed to dress as Dana Scully out of kindness and because she's currently the only redhead in attendance.
Charles Xavier wheels himself onto the porch. He's dressed in a round green bulbous costume with a long wooden stick piercing it middle, a bright red knit cap on his head.
Jean stares at him.
"Professor...uh...what are you supposed to be?"
"I'm a cocktail olive, Jean, can't you tell?"
He looks disappointed.
"Oh...uh...okay. You look really cool."
He beams at her.
"Is the red cap supposed to be the pimiento?"
"Yes, exactly. The pimiento."
She nods and smiles weakly.
The Professor had been trying, to let his hair down lately, so to speak. It was disconcerting.
Remy LeBeau wanders up. He's wearing a kilt and some kind of sleeveless leather-look tunic, blue paint all over his face.
"William Wallace?" she says.
"You got it, chere."
"You look really barbaric."
"All I have to say is...FREEDOM! Dat's all I'm gonna say all night."
"Oh...yeah...good idea."
He walks back into the house.
Scott walks through the door. He's wearing his ever-present sunglasses and a long black leather coat with black leather pants. He's going as Neo from the Matrix.
"Hi, Jean. How do I look?"
"Huh?" She is wondering what Remy is wearing under that kilt. "You look very Keanu Reeves."
"Thanks, dude."
* * * * *
Meanwhileback at the mansion. . . . .
Rogue slips on the red fishnet hose and a high-heeled red shoe. She checks herself out in the mirror. She looks very naughty. She looks perfect. Now for the red riding hood. She slips it on and rearranges her braids. Hmmmmm. She'd forgotten the basket of goodies. Oh well. She has her own basket of goodies, doesn't she? She fingers the rope she's concealed underneath the little red-and-white checked baby-doll dress.
She has plans.
Ever since she'd accidentally touched Remy during a mission, she'd felt a curious change in herself, a ravenous consuming libido that seemingly had a mind of its own. Her flirtatiousness had been raging out of control. She'd even come on to Scott which struck everyone as weird. It pissed Jean off. The two women were barely speaking.
Rogue didn't care. She was hungry. Hungry like the Wolf. And she was tired of being the biggest, oldest virgin in residence. She knew what to do. She smiles to herself as she admires her reflection. The only thing that would satisfy her was her short, hairy, lupine friend with a healing factor, Wolverine.
* * * * *
"Hi, Jean. Where's Logan?" Nightcrawler asks.
He's using Xavier's image inducer to mask himself in the appearance of Charlton Heston from Ben-Hur. He looks very yummy in the little skirt with the flaps and the open-toed sandals.
"Oh, he's down at the boathouse, hermiting himself."
"Why?"
"It's the anniversary of one of his girlfriends' deaths. I don't remember which one. He's bummed out."
"Is he mourning one of your deaths as well?"
"I've never thrown down with Logan, dammit. Why does everyone think that?"
Nightcrawler chooses to ignore this comment.
"Gee, won't be the same without-Holy Chariots of Fire-would you look at that?"
He's looking at Rogue. He checks out the tiny checked dress, the fishnet hose, the low-cut bodice, the bulging bosom, the whole nine yards.
"Wow," he says.
Jean sniffs. She's still mad at Rogue.
"She looks like one big metaphor for the dangers of a young girl's sexual initiation."
"What? She looks like Little Red Riding Hood."
"Like I said."
"Hi, y'all. Anyone seen Logan?"
"He's at the boathouse. Why?" Jean narrows her eyes at Rogue.
Rogue narrows her eyes at Jean.
"Ah just want to say 'hello.'"
"Sure you do."
"Okay. See ya'll later."
"Wait, Rogue. Take this little basket of goodies over to him, would you? It's some cookies and some lasagna."
* * * * *
Logan is slumped into a chair, smoking a cigar. He's decided that the whole mutant superhero thing wasn't working out after all. He was tired of never being able to keep a girlfriend. It was bumming him out. He was really horny.
He'd been wondering what sort of profession a guy like him could take as a second career. What did he have to offer? Hmmmm. A semi-psychotic side to his personality, really sharp claws, and lots of dead girlfriends. Not a real good resume, he had to admit it.
What was it he'd heard once? That there was no subject more poetic than the death of a beautiful woman?
(Author's Note: this is attributed to Edgar Allan Poe who wrote lots of poems about dead women, for some reason).
Well, he'd known plenty of those.
He decided to be a poet. Yes, a poet. There were lots of brooding, tortured, sarcastic, anti-authoritarian poets out there and they got lots of chicks.
It was perfect.
He picks up his pen.
Once upon a midnight dreary, as I was ponderin' weak and weary. . . "
That sounded good. Very poetesque. Sounded a little familiar, though, didn't it? Nah.
Suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at the boathouse door.
Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap.
Rogue.
"Hey there, Logan. Open up. I've got a basket of goodies."
"Beat it, darlin'. I'm creatin'."
"Logan. Open the door. I brought lasagna."
"Run along and play, Rogue, I'm busy."
He hears her trot off into the woods.
He turns back to the poem. He writes:
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had tried to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost---
He decides to leave that blank for the time being. He pushes on.
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named---
Hmmmm. This was a tough one. He writes Silver Fox. Scratches that out. Then he writes Mariko. Scratches that out. Then he writes Jeannie. She wasn't currently dead, although you never knew with her. She died a lot. He scratches that out.
He thinks for a minute.
Then he writes:
Nameless here for evermore.
Yeah. That was good stuff.
Rap. Rap. Rap. Rap.
"Whadya want?"
"Logan, open up. It's...uh...Jean."
He gets up and opens the door. It's Rogue in all her naughty, red, Lolita-esque glory.
"Oh my, what big breasts you have."
"All the better to seduce you with."
"What? What are you talking about? Why did you say you were Jeannie?"
"To get you to open the door, stupid."
"Go away, Rogue."
"No. Ah'm not gonna." She sits down by the door.
He shrugs and flops into the chair in front of the fire. He picks up the pen. He reads aloud as he writes.
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-on this home by Horror haunted---tell me truly, I imploreis there a balm in Westchestertell metell me, I implore!
Quoth the Rogue:
"You're plagiarizing Edgar Allan Poe, you illiterate ninny."
"What? Cripes!!"
He wads up the paper and throws it across the room.
Rogue seizes the moment. She's across the room in a flash. She's tying Wolvie to the chair, ripping at his clothes. He's so startled, he can't speak. He blinks. She does look pretty cute. Maybe this poet thing was still a good idea.
"Oh my, Logan, what a big. . . ."
* * * * *
Later, Rogue walks back into the mansion. She looks ruffled. Her white tuft of hair is sticking straight up. One of her fish-nets is missing.
Everyone turns and looks at her.
Remy is standing on a ladder trying to hang some lights. Jean is rubbernecking, trying to look under his kilt.
Rogue looks at Jean. She looks at Remy.
"Hey darlin', leave Gumbo alone. He's mine."
Rogue winces. Oh Shit. Busted.
Jean glares at Rogue, her hands on her hips.
"Why that little psycho midget. I oughta." Remy looks around for something that will piss off Wolverine. He grabs Jean and kisses her, pawing her all over her body.
Jean looks startled and then she kisses him back, one hand snaking up under the kilt.
"What in the flamin' hell is going on here?" It's Logan chewing on a mouthful of lasagna.
Snikt!
"Get off of her, bub."
"Get off of him, darlin'."
The four X-people descend on each other in one big pile of flailing arms and legs.
Prof X wheels in. He looks at the four of them rolling around on the floor. He shakes his head and mindwipes the whole lot of them. Then he wanders off, muttering to himself.
Logan forgets about being tied to the chair.
Gambit forgets that Rogue just called him "bub."
Rogue forgets that she'd just put the "ride" in Little Red Riding Hood.
Jean forgets what she'd felt under Remy's kilt.
And everything is back to normal, more or less, relatively speaking. They all get up and wander over to the punch bowl. They have a really good time and stay up all night, drinking and dancing in one big pagan Bacchanalian revel. They thoroughly enjoy themselves on this most unusual of Halloweens.
Happy Halloween, everyone!!!!!
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