Timeline: An AU of the old culture of the Roman Empire; in terms of X-Men, movie-verse (as much as it can be, since Gambit wasn’t in the movie =)

Main chars: Logan, Remy LeBeau

Rating: NC-17 for obvious reasons………

Author's Web Site: www.i.com.ua/~lebeau

Author: Psycho

Beta work: Spirit Melody (a great beta-reader, I shall admit)

Summary: Logan, a troubled slave, gets bought by a young cruel master. But what if the young master is even more troubled then his slave?…

PART4

Sitting in a darkened room, Remy was lazily looking through some scrolls: various offers from traders, letters, other stuff. His thin fingers slid over the tough parchment, and it suddenly reminded him of the slave he had fucked a few hours ago.

~A strong man, he mus’ be wide awake right now.~ Remy thought, and returned his gaze to the scroll. Yet his mind seemed to be fixed on the slave. His body, his eyes, and the words he had said. ‘Think pushing others down the stairs into dirt will make you look nice and clean?’

He shook his head. Stupid slave. Why did he buy him anyway? Short and hairy – not even handsome.

~He’s de living engine. And y’ know it. Dat’s what you gave 2 hundred Denaria for.~

With a soft curse Remy got up, his lean body as flexible as a cat’s. Taking a glass from the table, he poured some white wine into it and made several delicate swallows. Thick lashes covered the unique eyes, and the image of the flame-hot deadly killing machine struck his vision. In his mind, he once again had his hands all over that threatening miracle, felt him from inside and outside, his harsh breathing, his convulsing body, shivering from the violence it was thrown into.

A small shudder traveled down Remy’s stomach to rest in his groin area. He took a deep breath, but it wasn’t that that made the arousal fade – it was those words.

Think pushing others down the stairs into dirt will make you look nice and clean?

Delicate hands tightened into fists. What right had the damn slave to say words like those?! For a moment Remy’s only wish was to return to the room and fuck the damned man until he’d take the words back. But the urge subsided just as quickly as it came. Sheer force was not what he wanted to have to use. He wanted resignation.

~He mus’ be bleedin’ now~ the thought came unexpectedly, almost unwanted. ~He must be hurting~ The sudden wish to caress that rough skin with true tenderness came to him, puzzling the young master. He paced restlessly in his quarters, the glass still in his hand.

~He’s jus’ a slave!~ He yelled in his mind, but the tiny voice whispered, ~He’s hurting badly, after wha’ y’ did.~

The vision faded, but the tingling taste of something he couldn’t define teased his senses. He swallowed more wine and sat on the edge of the table. "Mine an’ mine only…" he whispered in the empty room.

* * *

Logan came to his senses, his head feeling like it had been hit with a lead pipe. Slowly opening his eyes, he looked around, recent events finding their way back into his mind.

He was ready to find himself in the same room, or at least in the cell, yet he didn’t see any of that. The room was dim, just as previous one, but it contained no bed – that bare fact brought a small smile onto his face.

The same heavy carpets and luxurious furniture in black/bloody-red tones filled the room, the same candles and the same eerie aura seemingly everywhere. There were metal cuffs on his wrists, with a chain long enough not to rob him of movement… much.

Wolverine got up, irritated by the clinging of the chains, and paced around, letting his muscles get into norm as well as for the blood circulation to renew.

Blood… he could smell it, his own blood. His innards felt like they were on fire, and though his healing was slowly kicking in, the blood kept on flowing.

Soon he decided the inner bleeding demanded more attention then his muscles, so he laid back down on the couch on his side and closed his eyes, ready to doze off. He couldn’t remember how long he had lain there, when he heard quiet steps. Opening his eyes, he caught the sight of the lean frame of his master, and flinched before he could restrain the reaction.

Remy stepped closer and sat down straight on the floor, ceramic bowl in his hands. The couch was low, so the young man’s head was a bit above the head of the lying man. Wolverine eyed the exotic master, and didn’t find the cruel spark in those eyes. Yesterday’s rapist was now just a boy, who was looking at him with almost genuine sorrow.

"Here" he placed the bowl on the small table near the couch. "It’ll stop de bleedin’." His voice was soft and concerned, as if he was really trying to help, and Logan almost gave into the tunes.

~He raped ya, dammit!~ The thought shattered the image, and Logan growled. The growl was low, almost inaudible, yet the kid flinched and shifted away from him. Then suddenly reached out and caressed his cheek.

To Logan’s surprise, these fingers, with senses not sharpened by the drug, felt tender and almost pleasurable – if not the person they belonged to. Wolverine turned his head sharply, trying to bite the offending fingers. He would have jumped at the man – if he wasn’t sure he had no chances against him in his current state.

The tender fingers jerked back, and a weird expression passed through those unique eyes.

"Drink it" Remy murmured, and there was no threat or teasing in his voice – just concern. Logan eyed the bowl.

"Another drug? Didn’t ya have enough of me fer today already?"

The kid looked offended.

"It’ll stop de bleeding." he repeated, his eyes locked with Wolverine’s, carrying an expression Logan would have called guilty under other circumstances.

He eyed the bowl once again. ~If he wants ya ta drink it, ya better do it, or he could well opt ta pourin’ it down yer throat by force.~ Urged on by these thoughts, Logan reached to the bowl with one hand and brought it to his mouth, trying his best not to spill the liquid – his hand was shaking.

He made several swallows, and it seemed the bowl got lighter, much faster than he drank.

The liquid was warm and reminded him of the cherry grog he drank years ago. Logan finished the bowl and felt his hand slipping down, unable to hold it any longer.

To his surprise, the bowl didn’t fall but stayed in place. It took some time for his brain to register the thin delicate hand that was holding the bowl all the time while he drank.

Even before he could say something or even get surprised, his lids felt heavy, and his upper lip pulled up in a quiet growl. ~another drug…~ the thought jolted through his mind in lightening of terror, before the sleep claimed him.

Remy stayed near the man until he fell asleep. Taking the comforter from the chair, he pulled it over the muscular frame, letting his hand brush through the rich black hair before retreating. After several more minutes of listening to the soft snoring, he finally got up and left.