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Title: Just Breathe
Author: jenn (jenn@igg-tx.net)
Codes: Rogue, Logan/Rogue
Rating: NC-17 for fairly explicit sex.
Fandom: X-Men, movieverse
Summary: It's still love.
Author Notes: I spent a lot of time wondering just how dysfunctional a good sex life can be.
Dedication: Sare, for the beta, great advice, and for being remarkably inspiring. Ally, for beta and thoughts that are still haunting me. Beth, Ann, and Lena, for not blocking me from their AIM lists when they saw where I was going. Nice girls. I love them.
Disclaimer: I always forget this. You know why? If I wrote for them, the comics would be in plastic wrap beside Hustler Magazine and require ID to buy. So I figure no one could mistake me for the owners.
Archiving: List, otherwise ask.
Feedback: With coffee or soda. I'm not picky--just get a huge kick out of it.


She can't say it like he does--mine. With certainty, with unembarrassed truth. Unable to, really, the word never sounding as sure because she's not as sure. Doesn't want to, on some unconsidered and probably best hidden sublevel of her brain, where she stores the things that bother her for future obsession.

Sometimes, though, late at night, she says it to herself, wrapped naked in his shirt so his scent is all over her and she can't escape him even if she slid through his arms and retreated to her own room to pull the shreds of Marie back together again. He's soaked into everything she owns, everything she is. Mine.

So she says it, but she never believes it.

A growl against her hair when she shifts, possessive leather-coated hand warm against the smooth skin of her bare stomach. Chest against the back of her head, erection pressing the curve of her ass through the fine material of the sheet wrapped loosely around him. More for her protection than his--he can't die, no matter how much she rips out of him, but there's so little of her left inside that she wants to keep it.

Just that little bit that likes to eat quiche and prefers orange juice to beer. Just that. She's not asking much. Not really.

He's awake--sleeps so light she wonders if it can even be called rest. Animal awareness of the warmth of her body, of her presence, the hand casually tracing her skin, nothing in it but simple warmth, simple knowledge that he could. Knowledge that no one else ever had or ever would.

"Marie?"

Hates the sound of her name sometimes, how harsh, how young it makes her, reminds her how young she really is, even compared to those her own age. Incredibly young to the man behind her, breathing against her hair, touching her body with easy familiarity.

"Yeah." Staring at the window and the splash of cold moonlight on the plain wooden floor. Her clothes piled in a chair out of reach of her arm, even if she wanted them. A stir and the arm under her head tenses. Just a little. She lifts her head obediently and the hand on her stomach presses her back, against the pillow. Staring down at her, hazel eyes taking her in.

She wonders, in that curiously suspended portion of her mind, when it began, how it began. How easy it was to fall in love with him at seventeen, how it should never have been returned, ever. When sleeping in his bed became expected, when fucking him had become normal. When the sound of his breathing was the only thing that could get her to sleep.

A breath against the exposed skin of her chest, and she winds a gloved hand around his back when he presses closer--so dangerous, so hot, knowing how close he is, the part of him awakening in her and growling back from between her lips, in her voice. Lost in that sudden, animal-intense tide of pure lust, of need, of whatever it is he wants her to be.

"Yes," she whispers, as a scarf ghosts onto her chest and he bites lightly at her shoulder just above the range of the material, no skin, no touch, not really. Just teeth that could sink into the bone of her shoulder if he wants that, and she'd let him without a quiver of protest, without a word to stop--she's never wanted anyone but him, doesn't know how much of what he does arouses her and how much arouses him, so imperfectly blended within her. "Logan--"

"Shh." Shifting her a little more, pulling the pillow from behind her head, hands closing on her waist, hard enough to bruise anyone else. Anyone else not as shaped as she was, as trained, as perfectly created. He'd never had a lover who he could lose himself in, could wallow in without that nagging worry of hurting them. Not until her.

"Yes." Running hands through his hair when he ducks to her breast, licking slightly at the thin skin between, down to her stomach. Slow. Careful. Imprinting her, imprinting himself, the scrape of teeth against her hip and then up to outline her ribs. She arches her back a little as he shifts her legs apart, the sheet harsh on her inner thighs, feeling him settle between, the heat of his body warming her fast, her arousal warming her faster. Hands braced on either side of her, then settling back on his heels, pulling her hips up, into his lap. She breathed out sharply at the feel of him against her. The perfect submission of posture while he looks at her, mapping her skin with his eyes. A hand running firmly down her side that she twists against, hearing the soft moan of her voice. Settling on her hip, waiting.

She wonders, sometimes, when she became used to the nudity, used to letting him look at her and touch her with only their gloves between them. She's not sure when it changed, how it changed, from the first time he slit her bodysuit from her skin and laid her out on his bed, when she discarded her nightgowns and underwear instinctively come nightfall. When the physical things, the things that defined her as Rogue, were stripped from her, when Marie suddenly was alone with him.

"Logan," she breathes, and he pulls her up, into his lap, and he's hard against her. Her hand catches the sheet, bringing it between them so their skin doesn't touch, his hands on her back pressing her hard against him. The scarf pulled up and over her face, then his mouth on hers--searching, expecting, wanting, never gentle, never hurried, always thorough. Opening her lips to feel the silk-covered tongue inside her mouth, and thought is somehow secondary to just feeling--losing herself in pure sensation. In him.

Her leggings are somewhere close--on the floor, perhaps, near in any case, he knows where they are. Growling soft and low when her fingers dig into his shoulders, into his hair, trying to get closer to the warmth of his body, into him. His hands are on her shoulders, pushing his shirt from her, and she lets her arms fall, the catch of the sleeves at her wrist before he pulls it off, tossing it behind him, off the bed. Pulling her close again with leather against her back, then in her hair, pressing her mouth closer, tasting her, brushing toward her neck. Freeing her finally to breathe, the scarf drooping to her throat as she tilts her head back against his hand and he bites the delicate skin of her neck, her jugular pounding hard against his mouth as he opens it over the silk. She knows how the blood is gathering under her skin in the shape of his teeth, of his mouth, but it just feels too good to care, how fine a line he can walk in being both himself and being human.

And her hips slide against him--exquisite, pure sensation from between her legs. So good. So hot. She shifts, getting her knees settled on either side of him and grinding down. He growls low in his throat, vibrating in the chest against hers.

He wants her, only her. She knows that, knows that in the body under hers, in the mind inside hers, slowly reaching outward and into her, changing her response to him--not-seventeen, not-young, not-fragile. When her nails bite into his back through the leather and he pushes her down on her back, his full weight on forcing her deep into the mattress, making her shiver and moan softly, pushing between her legs, rubbing against her clit until she shuts her eyes tight and begins to wonder again, wonder--

--wonder about that first time all in silk, long legs wrapped around his waist and holding the headboard with both hands, screaming from the rush of pure sensation she'd only experienced in foreign memories. Hot and bright and twisting in her, when bare lips covered hers briefly so the flood of his orgasm consumed her, submerging her in unending physical release that left her spent and breathless, knowing how she felt to him from the inside out. What she was to him, what she meant to him--

"God, yes," she hears herself whimper, when he runs a hand down her body and his gloved hand slides between her legs, folds of the sheet barely protecting his arm. Long fingers sliding between, testing how she felt, how much she wanted to, how wet she already was. Sliding deep inside, slowly, her hips arching involuntarily to follow the slow thrust of his hand. His thumb rubbing circles on her clit, his mouth back on hers, opening her wide to everything, and she locks a sheet-covered ankle around his calf, trying to get closer, trying to get him deeper, farther into her, farther into him, wondering how much more of herself she could afford to lose. How much of Marie still lived in her and how much of what she'd been made. "Please, Logan."

The slit of the blanket between her legs--not-safe, not-perfect, not-like her bodysuits so carefully designed, so-good. A condom from the drawer beside her she grabs for blindly, ripping the package, feeling his eyes on her when she rolls it on, her fingers trembling, wanting, wanting, wanting this now, and then pulls him down as he presses between her legs--her back arching, legs coming up--

--wonders why he loves her, if it was because of her, Marie, or because she was his first, before anything else. That before she was his lover, she was his daughter and his ward and his source of peace. Because he lives inside her mind as much as her body.

"Logan, yes, baby--" Words wiped away in pure sensation when he stretches her, opening her body for him. She's panting when he finishes the first thrust, seated inside her, then the slow pull out, agonizingly slow, before the next, a little faster. Breath against the side of her neck, the back beneath her fingers tense, arms braced on either side of her. Whispers something in a language she recognizes but doesn't know, before another thrust into her and she moans. Wanting it now, she's ready, she's so ready. "Please--"

It's hard--hard and fast. When everything like thought stops, all reaction and not enough air, not enough space to find herself, not even caring. Growling into her ear, biting the side of her arched throat when she throws her head back, her lover, her protector, telling her things, how tight she is and how beautiful and how he owns her down to her soul. Things that he means, things that are true, things she knows in her bones, written into her flesh. Things that once frightened her and sent her to hide away and try to whisper no, that she wasn't just his.

That was a long time ago. That was seventeen. She'd been more Rogue than Marie.

Against her closed eyelids, the world is lit up in brilliant white flashes, echoed from the body under his, her body, pushing up against him with every thrust, fingers trapped above her head in his. Crossed her ankles behind his back, wanting more, wanting it now, arching up against him.

"Yes, Logan, yes, please--" Her body aches for this, the long muscles of her thighs already shaking from her desperate grip. Feeling the heat spreading, thickening through her, trying to get everything she could. "--please, let me, let me--"

So hard, so fast, his mouth just behind her ear, silk not any sort of shield, and she screams out her release, running through her entire body, every nerve alight. He likes that, wants that, wants to watch her lose control, twists around to meet her wide eyes, then a groan that's her name when he comes too, sending aftershocks coursing through her with bare lips brushing hers--the Logan-within that much stronger, that much more of her lessened, and as he withdraws from her body, condom removed, the ache of her muscles dims. Freeing her hands and she lays still under his eyes--

--wondering if this had been what she always wanted in her fantasies of love. It had to be. Had to.

"Love you," he whispers against her hair, and she knows he means that too. Means it absolutely, completely, without question. And she believes that. Absolutely. Completely.

"I love you too."

Without question. Always, only him. Staring into his eyes and wondering how much of himself he could sense in her now.

Sliding in behind her, sweat drying the sheet against them both. Feeling him around her, and she turns, pulling the sheet up until she can rest her cheek against his chest, her hair a double shield, feeling the beat of his heart until hers matches it, until their breathing is synched. Needing the closeness, the warmth, the knowledge, so she can whisper against his sheet-shrouded skin--

--mine.

Maybe she'll believe it.

His hand settling in her hair, stroking softly, and she shuts her eyes--

--knowing she'll sleep tonight with the sound of his breathing against her.

The End


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--Er.... that's whizzing past Fruedian Avenue, making skidmarks on Suggestive Lane and speeding right down Pornographic Highway!!--Nacey on Hugh Jackman and a sausage

--She has all the passion and attraction of airplane noodles.--Nacey's opinion of Jean's wild side


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