Title: Not Quite Domestic|
Fandom: X-Men (movie)
Rating: Strong R for the 'Logan makes Marie scream one-handed'
Summary: Logan does dishes. Rogue does Logan.
Pairing: Three guesses, first two don't count.
Archive: Sure. Take it. :)
Reason for existing: It's Donna's birthday. She wanted raunchy debauched smut. I couldn't do that, but damn at least I kinda tried dude.
Thanks to: Devil Doll for making my day yet again today. ;) She does that an awful lot. And Nancy and Misty and Shana for the encouragment, as per usual.
And now . . .
HAAAAAPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU
I hope you sing better on my birthday. ;)
It's not exactly a word I ever would think of to describe Logan. He's wild and he's free and he's male and he's intense and he's my life . . .
But he's not domestic.
Which is why I find the sight of him washing dishes far more entertaining than the homework lying unforgotten in front of me. Watching him mutter around the cigar that dangles from his lips as he scrubs away at the dinner dishes has got to be my favorite thing to do in the evenings.
Well, my second favorite thing, anyways.
I never could have dreamed it would come to this, this almost normal life that we're living right now. Oh, I know it's on borrowed time--I've only got two semesters left before I finish my degree, and then the two of us are packing back up and going back to the team. That was our deal with Xavier. The rest of our lives in exchange for a little time to pretend we're a normal couple.
Okay, not quite normal. I'm a college kid and he's probably twice the age of most of my teachers, and while I'm at class he's out prowling the bars, and though he denies it I'd bet anything he's doing a little fighting on the side. And when he comes home, I make dinner and we eat, sometimes with me doing homework at the same time, sometimes with him reading the paper or flipping through the channels on the TV . . .
But we're together, in a tiny little apartment on our borrowed time, and even though I know it's almost up, I can't help but be insanely grateful for every day past, and every day to come.
Even more so when he's being all domestic.
"If you don't stop smirking at me I'm going to put you in this sink and wash you," he mutters without turning around, and I have to bite back a smile. It's almost a ritual now, him muttering as he does the dishes and pretending to be offended that I get so much entertainment out of watching him.
"Yes, Logan," I reply, like I do every night, and made an effort to focus on my schoolwork.
Engineering. It's not my favorite subject in the world, but by the time I'm done with this I'll be able to take the Blackbird apart and put it back together blindfolded. And the fact that there aren't all that many girls in my major gives me an excuse for being eccentric--all the guys in all my classes are so used to girls with strange piercing and hair color that doesn't come from nature that they think my gloves are about the most normal thing they've ever seen.
Engineering may not be my favorite subject, but you do have to pay a fair amount attention if you want to actually get it right, so I honestly didn't notice when Logan finished up the dishes and turned around and propped himself against the counter top in that way he has . . . with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs braced apart a little and his eyes just boring into me.
He liked to do that a lot. Probably because it didn't matter what I was doing, when he struck that pose, it was like a siren's call. I'd drop anything and walk to wherever he was, and the fact that my skin was poison and his knuckles sprouted metal never mattered anymore, because damn we were getting good at getting around it.
So the fact that I was engrossed in my equations and not paying him any attention was making him more than a little frustrated. Apparently enough so that by the time I registered movement over there, his shirt was gaping open and his belt had hit the floor.
So did my jaw. One of the two windows in our apartment is right over the sink, and the setting sun painted all those glorious chest muscles and bounced off of them as he shifted and I could feel my heart just pounding as I watched the slow ripple of muscle beneath tight skin.
He can hear my heart pounding too, I guess, because his lips curve into that lazy smile that I only see when I am about to be reduced to a quivering mass of nerves.
Damn I love that smile.
The only problem with the smile is the state of my knees. Weak doesn't even begin to describe what they were doing to me . . . I think that I'm actually incapable of standing up. Despite what everyone seems to think, Logan and I aren't holed away in here going at it like rabbits . . . so when he actually does unleash all that sexual magnetism on me, I damn well can't resist it.
"Are you going to make me stand here all day," he drawls, and my heart skips a beat. He really did have it in for me tonight. Apparently it's payback time for the fact that I'd ignored him for most of the week in favor of studying for a test.
"Uhh, I'd love to come over there Logan," I say with a weak smile, "but honestly, honey--I don't think my knees would hold me."
Men shouldn't be able to move that fast. Men also should not be able to pick you up with one arm and practically sling you over their shoulders.
I'll complain about all the things men shouldn't be able to do later though, because right now I'm just way too distracted by the fact that he'd deposited me on the countertop and had one hand braced against the cupboards on either side of my head, his hips fit snugly against mine.
I was going to say something intelligent and witty. I was going to inform him that he had no right to go caveman on me and drag me off to his cave by the hair. I was going to do anything but whimper.
Well, I was going to. When Logan's around, nothing ever seems to go according to plan. Especially when he takes it into his mind to . . . do things. Really nice things.
I'll never get over the way he knows how to touch me. I mean, it's not like he's got all that many options, but still he can somehow reduce me to just carnal need without even breaking a sweat.
He always starts with the same thing though. He leans forward and I freeze as his mouth goes down until I can feel his breath feathering against my ear. And we sit there, god knows how long we sit there sometimes . . . with him breathing against my ear and my fingers getting tighter and tighter around his shoulders or whatever handhold I can find . . .
And then he pulls my hair so it covers my cheek and leans in and grasps my earlobe between his teeth.
It's just about the closest thing to contact that we get, with my hair cushioning his lips and his teeth dragging softly against my skin--and it's always so slow and careful, because if either of us slips than we both know that all fun is over for a good chunk of days.
And he waits until I let out a low moan, and then he presses a kiss to my cheek against my hair and pulls back and smiles . . .
And from then on out, anything goes.
He's definitely feeling a little more persistent now, the usual slow seduction tossed away in favor of a little overpowering passion. His hands lock around my waist and pull me forward a little as his mouth falls to my shoulder. "Where the hell's your scarf?" he mutters, the fingers of one hand tracing the line of my collar.
It's hard to think with his mouth pressed against me and his hands smoothing over fabric so close to my skin, and even though the fabric is too thick for me to really feel the heat of his mouth or his fingers, I know it's there, and that's always good enough to get my blood pounding.
"Scarf?" I squirm forward a little, letting my feet wrap around the backs of his legs and tug him closer against me. "Why are you worrying about putting more clothing on me?"
He chuckles, the hand that had been sliding over my heart running down to start rubbing smooth, knowing circles around my breast, still just teasing, painfully close to contact. "You know how I like that pretty neck of yours," he responds, the words low in his throat. "I was hoping I could--"
I cut off his words by wrapping my legs tight and jerking his hips tight against mine, and I can tell he's already half way gone by the tight hardness pressing against his jeans. "You could take me to the bedroom," I whisper in his ear, carefully, my bare hands resting tangled in the shirt hanging from his shoulders.
Bare hands. It was a sign of how much he cared for me that he let me run around our apartment with bare hands, and he never even acted like he noticed. He'd hug me and ruffle my hair and drop kisses on my shoulder, and the fact that he trusted me to be careful not to touch him when I shouldn't--it meant the world to me.
Of course, they were damn inconvenient now, since all the places I wanted to touch him were pretty much off limits without gloves.
"Or I could leave you right here on the countertop." His eyes have a strange glint in them, and he gives me a slow smile as his hands run down my legs and untangle my feet from behind his hips so that he can take a slow step back. "I kinda like how debauched you look, sprawled out against our cupboards."
I roll my eyes and hold out my arms for him to come back to me, but he doesn't . . . he just keeps standing there just out of reach, his eyes running over me and his face almost pondering.
And then his eyes fall on my ankle, of all things, and they light up.
Before I know what's happening I have a pair of insistent hands tugging on the buttons of my jeans, and I realize he must have noticed that I wore my nylons under my pants today, because I had a study session at a classmate's house, and since it's polite to take your shoes off, I always feel a lot more comfortable with that extra layer just in case.
And my body just gets a whole lot warmer, because nylons are thin enough to feel heat through, and Logan has proved more than once that he can be very, very resourceful with them.
So he lifts me up a little and tugs the fabric over my hips and down my legs, and I can tell he's impatient because he's not even making any effort to make the clothing removal seductive--he just wants it off of me.
And then his hands fall to my legs, and I'm feeling pretty impatient too as the almost touch of his hands slides up a little and then down, running outside my legs to my knees as he steps between my legs again, his body snug to mine. "I love group project days," he rumbles, his thumbs starting to move in slow circles just inside my knees.
I was thinking of responding, but he isn't in much of a conversation mood apparently, because he frees one hand from my leg and lifts it to flick the first few buttons on my shirt undone, giving me a slow smile. "Don't move."
I wouldn't dream of it. His hand gather the collar of my shirt and carefully, oh so carefully tug it down until it is resting just below the pale cotton of my bra, which certainly is thin enough for me to feel heat of his fingers through it as he rubs in time with the thumb that is creeping up my inner thigh.
It's been a while since he touched me, so my head smashes back into the cupboard with a moan when his mouth replaced his hand, and you just knew how practiced we were at this because he knew how long it took for the wet heat to sink through and when to move his lips and gods above, his tongue--
I feel fingers in my hair and realized I'd been knocking my head back into the cupboard until his fingers curled around to cradle my head, and when my eyes shift open he's just staring up at me with this totally satisfied look on his face that just screams that I'm all his and he's pretty damn happy about it.
I can't really argue with that. No other man can affect me like this--hell, no other man is even brave enough to try. And when his smile gets bigger and he slides his hand a little higher up my thigh, I know that even if the other men were braver--even if I could touch anyone I wanted--it would always be him.
And then the hand on my leg can't slide up any farther and his thumb starts rubbing in this wickedly knowing way as he stares at me and dares me not to react.
I react. God do I react. I don't even care how pathetic I must look as I lift my legs, feet scrambling against his legs for some kind of hold as he presses me harder into the counter, his other head still buried in my hair and keeping me from knocking myself unconscious against the cupboard.
It's Logan, so it's like heaven and hell all together. I don't know if other men are like him--but he has this way of going so fast and still making it seem like he's dragging things out forever . . . so even though I've been sitting on the counter for about five minutes, all I can do is whimper and wonder how many more days he's going to leave me hanging here for before he lets me fall.
For all the clothes flying around a few minutes ago, he seems like he's bent on taking his time all the sudden. When I manage to pry my eyes back open he's just sitting there and staring at me, his hand pressing against me but not moving, and it's almost impossible to get enough leverage on the counter to move myself.
My hands had been clamped on his shoulders, so I drop one to the countertop and wrap my fingers around it, feeling the cool tile against my bare fingers--and that reminds me that I have to be careful. The other hand slides up his arm over his shirt before wrapping around the wrist just below where his hand is propped up against the cupboard again.
Then I shift my knee over a little and smile in satisfaction as his eyes go slightly wide. "Marie--" It's almost a warning.
"Logan--" I mimic, rubbing my knee in a slow circle and trying not to whimper as his body jerking manages to press his hand more firmly against me.
I rub my knee against him again, and am rewarded by a low growl and his hand sliding back down my leg to catch around my knee and pulling it away from his body before he steps closer so that his hips are cradled between my legs.
I give him a little pout. "You're no fun."
All I get is that raised eyebrow . . . and then his hand is back at the top of my legs and this time he's not teasing, he's using all that skill he picked up god knows where and twisting me all up inside until I'm spun tighter than a top and I know something's going to give.
With almost painful clarity I feel the muscles in his arm bunch beneath my clenched fingers as he leans forward and rests his forehead against the cupboard inches away from my cheek. "Love you," he whispers, and his hand rubs against me in that way that makes everything rush towards me while my body tenses.
I close my eyes. I scream his name. And I watch as the pieces of reality fall away in bright little slices of fire, feel the tightening in my chest and the way my body snaps, feel everything break apart and the only reality is the arm I'm clinging to and the hand pressed tight against me.
When I'm leaning my head back against the cupboard and gasping for breath, I feel the faintest brush of his lips against mine, quick and fleeting and safe because my body is too tired to try to take him in after all that he gave me.
He's smiling when I open my eyes, one of his rare, beautiful smiles that I treasure so much because I'm one of the few who sees them. He smiles and I smile back, and I mouth the words, "I love you too," at him.
And then, because I'm feeling pretty good and because it's Friday and I don't have to go to class tomorrow and therefore it's okay if I blow the entire night coming up with interesting ways to touch without skin, I wrap my hands in his shirt and launch myself off the counter into his arms.
He's strong, my Logan. Strong and quick and usually very coordinated. He's also as turned on as any man I've ever seen and slightly startled by my rapid recovery, so we go down on the kitchen floor in a satisfying tangle of arms and legs, my deadly hands still shielded in his shirt and my barely clothed bottom resting right where I want it.
Because he's Logan, and he has to be cool, he props his hands behind his head and stares up at me with a slow smirk. "I thought I was no fun, Marie."
A little hip wiggle shuts him right up and I smile. "I changed my mind."