Title: My Beauty|
Fandom: X-Men (movie)
Rating: R for sexual situations and probably language, knowing me
Summary: Rogue seeks comfort in the arms of Logan. Fluff. It's a good thing.
Setting: Four or five years post movie.
Disclaimer: I own not. You sue not.
Archive: If I've said yes before, I'll say yes again.
Author's Homepage: http://www.diebin.com (yeah, waste your money why don't you Die)
He felt her coming long before he heard her, and he crawled out of bed to get ready. The long sleeved shirt was there where he had left it, and he pulled it over his head quickly before reaching to the table next to his bed for the soft leather gloves.
To be truthful, Logan couldn't say why he knew she was coming--but he did. He always seemed to know when Marie awoke from a nightmare--knew when she started the walk down the hallway to find comfort from him. He could feel it in his bones, grafted to him as surely as the adamentium he'd long since accepted as part of him.
A few moments after he felt her, he heard her. A whisper of feet against wood, the sound of her long nightgown trailing against the floor. The rhythm of her breathing, always slightly erratic after one of the dreams.
And he could smell her, too. A soft, clean scent that was hers alone, a scent he could pick out clearly from any room or crowd. She smelled faintly of the perfume she favored for special occasions--a sharp, spicy scent that made heads turn as she floated by.
Heads turned anyway, even without the perfume. Marie had grown into herself--had grown into the name she'd given herself. When among others, she was Rogue--the deadly, gorgeous vixen who fought and flew and killed with a touch.
With Logan, she was just Marie.
He heard the whisper of fabric as she raised a hand to tap slightly on the doorframe, knowing he'd hear it louder than any knock. Smiling, he moved to stretch out on the far side of the bed, propping his head up on his hand as he waited.
The door slid open, and she stepped through, staring at him with wide eyes. "Logan--"
"Shhhh," he soothed, holding out his hand. She gave a stifled sob, letting the door swing shut behind her as she padded across the room and slid onto his bed, burying her face gratefully in the folds of his shirt.
She had nightmares a lot. Sometimes they were her own, sometimes his--sometimes the dreams of others she'd touched over the years. She never talked about them--never told him what it was she saw that kept her from sleeping.
She had told him once, staring up at him with drowsy eyes, that she never had bad dreams when he was with her.
Logan slid an arm around her back, raising one gloved hand to stroke at her face gently. "Talk to me, Marie." She just shook her head, her tears soaking through the thin fabric of his shirt.
There wasn't much he could do for her--but he could hold her. And he did, cradling the back of her skull in one broad palm as her body shook with barely concealed sobs.
They slowed finally, one small hand tangling into the fabric at his waist as she lifted ageless eyes to stare up into his, a lock of white hair falling across her forehead. "It hurts, Logan."
"I know, baby." His arms tightened without thought, the low rumbling growl that formed deep in his chest held back only by pure willpower. There was no enemy to fight here--no one he could point to and blame for the torment the girl in his arms was in.
No one he could pin to the wall and hurt, like he wanted to.
His lips fell to her head, brushing across the thick brown hair as she wiggled closer, stretching her body out against his with a hollow sigh.
It was always like this, the love and caring and comfort tempered with the loss and anger and frustration. The knowledge that no matter how hard he tried to fool himself, he'd always resent how careful he had to be when touching her. How creative his caresses had become, trying to touch every inch of her without touching her at all.
Sometimes it was physical agony. Logan had spent a long fifteen years living by his instincts alone--and even the past years living with Marie's calming influence hadn't been enough to purge the animalistic side of him. It was there, lurking beneath his skin and urging him on.
And sometimes, when Marie was lying next to him, her skin heated from his touch and her breath erratic--sometimes he had to pull back and listen to the blood pounding in his ears, listen to his gasping, panting breaths--listen to his instincts crying to throw caution to the wind and just roll her under him and make lover to her. Fast, slow, long or short . .. it didn't matter to the animal inside him.
He just wanted to touch her.
He lowered her to the bed and twined fingers in a lock of her hair, pulling it until it was tight against her cheek. Smiling into the wide eyes that stared up at him he lowered his lips slowly--carefully--and ran them down the strand of hair, his breath feathering against her cheek as he kissed the only part of her that wasn't deadly.
She lay still, knowing that even the slightest twitch of her face would bring his lips into full contact with her skin. It was hard, knowing that the heat of his lips were so close--knowing that shifting an inch to the right would bring his lips in full contact with her own.
The lips slid off of her hair and Logan slid his fingers to the scarf at her neck, untying it slowly and stretching it out across her neck before descending again.
Marie arched into him, her gloved hands flying to the back of his head and grasping at him as she pressed her head back into the pillow, her hands tightening as he kissed her neck with a low growl.
It was always like this, sudden and crazy, her body writhing under him at the slightest touches. It was always more crazy after a nightmare, with Marie clinging to him and trying to drown the fear in his arms.
Her nightgown covered all of her, and for a split second he was grateful as he slid down further, hands and mouth running over the curves of her body that were familiar and a mystery at once.
She moaned, a sound that never failed to enflame him. Large brown eyes stared down at him as he lifted his head, and she smiled, one of her fingers trailing down the side of his face and across his lips.
He hated the way the fabric tasted--hated that it wasn't skin against his lips as he pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of her finger. God he needed to touch her.
"I know," she whispered, and Logan hated himself as he saw the pain in her face. She always knew what he was thinking--always could tell when he was angry or upset or suffering.
He buried his face between her breasts, feeling as one hand stroked his hair gently. "I'm sorry, Marie. I--"
The body beneath him twisted, and Logan glanced up to see Marie reaching over to dig through the drawer in his bedside table, pulling a thin gauzy veil out and handing it to him.
"Kiss me," she whispered. "Pretend--pretend we can."
Logan draped the veil over her face, staring down at the face made blurry by the translucent covering. "It's not pretend," he said gruffly, twining fingers in the hair that fanned the side of her face as he lowered his mouth. "Does this feel pretend?"
And then he kissed her, slowly and deeply, so used to the way a kiss felt through the veil that it was almost second nature. All he cared about was the way her lips yielded under his, the way she kissed him back, urgency rising.
She made the most adorable little whimpering noises as she twisted her body up into his, rubbing against him in ways that set his heart to pounding so loudly he was afraid the entire building could hear it.
Or hear hers.
Whimpers turned slowly into moans as Logan slid a hand down her side again, gloved fingers trailing to the hem of her dressing gown and sneaking slowly underneath. He longed to feel skin--smooth, pale skin--beneath his fingers, but it was almost enough to just know she could feel his touch . . . feel as the soft leather trailed slowly, carefully, up her leg.
Almost enough. It would always be almost enough.
Marie tried to lie still as his hands slowly bared her legs. It was a form of torture, their touches--always forced to be so in control, so careful. Knowing that a movement at the wrong moment could kill the man she loved--sometimes Marie was surprised she could enjoy the contact at all.
The kiss slowed, and as Logan pulled back Marie shifted her head slightly, letting the thin veil slide to the bed. "I love you," she whispered, her gloved fingers sliding down to twine with his where they rested at her hip.
The words hit him in the gut. He lifted one hand to trace the curve of her eyebrow, the line of her cheekbone, the full swell of her lips. The animal in him cried out to possess, to own, to take.
Instead he held. Caressed. Loved. Listened to her contented sighs as he curled up behind her, pulling her back so that she was snug against his chest. He stroked her hair and cheek as she sighed gratefully, her breathing slowly leveling out into the calm, measured rhythm of sleep.
He loved being able to give her this--because it was something he could do. He could hold her and shield her from the dreams. He could make her feel safe. He could make her feel loved.
And he could do it without touching her.
He could hear the steady, calm beat of her heart. Stroking his gloved finger down her cheek one more time, he placed a kiss on the top of her head. "I love you too, Marie."
Marie quirked a smile, never opening her eyes. "I know."
Logan nipped at her shoulder through the thin gown. "My Brat."
Marie sighed and snuggled back into him. "My Beast."
He waited until she really was asleep this time before answering.