Title: 'Just One Good Scratch.'
Author: Unanon
Disclaimer: Characters represented herein do not belong to me in the slightest respect.
Summary: Logan may not have been seduced by Mystique (during X2), but his subconscious certainly was.
Written for: The X-Men Movieverse Ficathon on LiveJournal at the specifications/request of LJ user ZeeleePenguin.
Pairing/scenario requested: Logan/Mystique. Condition: Mystique can't be pretending to be someone else.
Warnings (if any): Sexual type content. Minimal language.
The corner of her mouth always held the last laugh and Logan knew it. That laugh was taunting him now, openmouthed and jeering as he pinned her against the wall of a dingy motel room, his lips hot against her neck. The desk clerk had leered knowingly when he handed Logan the room key; he'd been confused as to why until he turned to discover Mystique had taken the shape of a coyly blushing Bobby Drake.
That Bitch.
He muttered the word into her mouth as he kissed her, penetrating that ever- present smirk with his tongue again and again though it disappeared or diminished. She knew very well who held the balance of power in this exchange, and her satisfaction only served to incite.
Logan ran his hands down her shoulders, fingertips tracing the scales that ran along the outside of her arms. He rocked into her, rolling his hips forward slowly as his thumbs traced the curiously soft, unprotected skin of the underside of her arms, her ribcage. She shivered briefly before hooking one long, bare leg around his thigh. One hand moved back up to grasp the nape of her neck, deepening the kiss while the fingers of his other hand took her wordless invitation, following the scales that ran downward like a love-trail from her navel.
She broke the kiss with a gasp when his hand slid between her thighs, her head rocking backward and rolling against the wall. Logan moved his lips to her exposed throat, scraping her jaw line with stubble acquired during a two-day bike ride. He locked his teeth over the throb of her jugular; the vibrations of her ensuing guttural moan resonated against his mouth, purring into his throat until his own breath trembled with the desire of it.
He wanted more and he hated himself for it.
It was more than four months after Alkali Lake before Logan realized the figure haunting his dreams wasn't Jean. He'd awaken to twisted sheets and rigid desire, sensations of a hot mouth and expert hands still ghosting over his body. He welcomed the dreams, clinging to the remnants of a barely formed attachment. The nightly visions became more lucid: pale flesh writhed beneath his fingertips, moist lips met his with abandon, insatiable. Every night Logan experienced the fire he'd sensed beneath Jean's cool reserve and, though awakening to the reality of her absence was torment, he sought the solace of his bed earlier every week.
Then one night everything changed. The soft Jean-like paleness in his arms arched back in ecstasy, moaning the first sound his dream-woman had ever uttered. Logan started awake with the unearthly musical tones of Mystique's voice still in his mind.
The following night his dream-Jean's eyelids fluttered open to reveal molten gold. The night after that her body read like Braille beneath his fingertips. The red of her hair intensified and the blue, which had once only been a delicate paleness on the underside of Jean's arms, deepened into a full-body indigo. She began speaking to him, whispering in his ear as he thrust into her, blue lips parting wetly, enticingly.
"No one's ever left a mark quite like you."
He tried his damnedest to purge her from his mind, to brush the taste of her out of his mouth every morning, but the woman was a plague, a virus. Logan resented her intrusion into his dreams, into his privacy, and how she'd tainted his memory of Jean. But most of all he hated the realization that he wanted her...wanted to possess her so badly that he'd find himself fantasizing about her during daytime hours.
There was just too much fucking blue in the world.
For the first month after his unhappy epiphany he grumbled and roared about the mansion with an aggressiveness that was extreme, even for him. He terrorized the students, irritated the staff, alienated the few who truly cared for his well being and, once, severely injured Kurt during a training session. At Ororo's firmly worded suggestion, he began meditating before bed every night, centering and cleansing his conscious mind. While he was amazed at how swiftly he picked up the discipline, his nights were still haunted. Eventually, Charles summoned him into his office. His scowl of displeasure rivaled Logan's own.
"This disruption must stop immediately."
"You kicking me out, Chuck?" Logan shoved is thumbs into his jeans pockets, "I always figured this was coming."
"Don't be absurd." Charles pushed a set of keys Logan recognized as belonging to Cyke's bike across the desk. "Take two weeks and settle this."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Logan grumbled.
Charles rolled his eyes. "She's in New Orleans."
Logan's hostility rose two notches. "Who is?"
"Enough!" Charles swiveled his chair toward the door sharply. "Go scratch your itch, Logan, before you drive all of us mad." The door swung closed behind him and Logan was left contemplating a set of keys and newfound free time.
"Well, New Orleans is as good a place as any to kill a couple-a weeks."
Approximately 1400 sleepless miles later he had her against the cracking plaster wall of that dingy room with two fingers inside her and her teeth clamped on his earlobe. Her hands fisted in his hair but they slid to his waist when his hands moved their attention to her breasts. She grappled with his belt buckle impatiently for a time before the catch cooperated and, instead of just letting it hang open, she pulled it out of the loops and tossed it across the room. With a quirk of a smile she reversed their positions.
Logan leaned against the wall breathing heavily and watched as Mystique's oh-so-pink tongue followed her hands down his body. He closed his eyes momentarily, giving himself over to the sensations before a sharp (though not at all unpleasant) nip of teeth reminded him that he should be on his guard. Mystique was an enemy and though she was (oh!) quite talented he couldn't afford to let her gain the upper hand.
In fact, he was having second thoughts about the whole encounter. It didn't feel wrong, exactly, but it didn't feel right either. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, effectively halting her progress.
The corner of her mouth laughed at him as she stood to meet his eyes. "Change your mind?"
He didn't answer her immediately. Instead, he ran his fingers down her side and across her belly, stopping at three familiar parallel marks. "Why do you keep these? I know you can get rid of them."
The smirk faded for a bare instant and her eyes darted sideways. "Maybe you just got under my skin."
He paused, thoughtful. "Fair enough."
Then he led her to the bed.
fin
Disclaimer: Characters represented herein do not belong to me in the slightest respect.
Summary: Logan may not have been seduced by Mystique (during X2), but his subconscious certainly was.
Written for: The X-Men Movieverse Ficathon on LiveJournal at the specifications/request of LJ user ZeeleePenguin.
Pairing/scenario requested: Logan/Mystique. Condition: Mystique can't be pretending to be someone else.
Warnings (if any): Sexual type content. Minimal language.
The corner of her mouth always held the last laugh and Logan knew it. That laugh was taunting him now, openmouthed and jeering as he pinned her against the wall of a dingy motel room, his lips hot against her neck. The desk clerk had leered knowingly when he handed Logan the room key; he'd been confused as to why until he turned to discover Mystique had taken the shape of a coyly blushing Bobby Drake.
That Bitch.
He muttered the word into her mouth as he kissed her, penetrating that ever- present smirk with his tongue again and again though it disappeared or diminished. She knew very well who held the balance of power in this exchange, and her satisfaction only served to incite.
Logan ran his hands down her shoulders, fingertips tracing the scales that ran along the outside of her arms. He rocked into her, rolling his hips forward slowly as his thumbs traced the curiously soft, unprotected skin of the underside of her arms, her ribcage. She shivered briefly before hooking one long, bare leg around his thigh. One hand moved back up to grasp the nape of her neck, deepening the kiss while the fingers of his other hand took her wordless invitation, following the scales that ran downward like a love-trail from her navel.
She broke the kiss with a gasp when his hand slid between her thighs, her head rocking backward and rolling against the wall. Logan moved his lips to her exposed throat, scraping her jaw line with stubble acquired during a two-day bike ride. He locked his teeth over the throb of her jugular; the vibrations of her ensuing guttural moan resonated against his mouth, purring into his throat until his own breath trembled with the desire of it.
He wanted more and he hated himself for it.
It was more than four months after Alkali Lake before Logan realized the figure haunting his dreams wasn't Jean. He'd awaken to twisted sheets and rigid desire, sensations of a hot mouth and expert hands still ghosting over his body. He welcomed the dreams, clinging to the remnants of a barely formed attachment. The nightly visions became more lucid: pale flesh writhed beneath his fingertips, moist lips met his with abandon, insatiable. Every night Logan experienced the fire he'd sensed beneath Jean's cool reserve and, though awakening to the reality of her absence was torment, he sought the solace of his bed earlier every week.
Then one night everything changed. The soft Jean-like paleness in his arms arched back in ecstasy, moaning the first sound his dream-woman had ever uttered. Logan started awake with the unearthly musical tones of Mystique's voice still in his mind.
The following night his dream-Jean's eyelids fluttered open to reveal molten gold. The night after that her body read like Braille beneath his fingertips. The red of her hair intensified and the blue, which had once only been a delicate paleness on the underside of Jean's arms, deepened into a full-body indigo. She began speaking to him, whispering in his ear as he thrust into her, blue lips parting wetly, enticingly.
"No one's ever left a mark quite like you."
He tried his damnedest to purge her from his mind, to brush the taste of her out of his mouth every morning, but the woman was a plague, a virus. Logan resented her intrusion into his dreams, into his privacy, and how she'd tainted his memory of Jean. But most of all he hated the realization that he wanted her...wanted to possess her so badly that he'd find himself fantasizing about her during daytime hours.
There was just too much fucking blue in the world.
For the first month after his unhappy epiphany he grumbled and roared about the mansion with an aggressiveness that was extreme, even for him. He terrorized the students, irritated the staff, alienated the few who truly cared for his well being and, once, severely injured Kurt during a training session. At Ororo's firmly worded suggestion, he began meditating before bed every night, centering and cleansing his conscious mind. While he was amazed at how swiftly he picked up the discipline, his nights were still haunted. Eventually, Charles summoned him into his office. His scowl of displeasure rivaled Logan's own.
"This disruption must stop immediately."
"You kicking me out, Chuck?" Logan shoved is thumbs into his jeans pockets, "I always figured this was coming."
"Don't be absurd." Charles pushed a set of keys Logan recognized as belonging to Cyke's bike across the desk. "Take two weeks and settle this."
"I don't know what you're talking about." Logan grumbled.
Charles rolled his eyes. "She's in New Orleans."
Logan's hostility rose two notches. "Who is?"
"Enough!" Charles swiveled his chair toward the door sharply. "Go scratch your itch, Logan, before you drive all of us mad." The door swung closed behind him and Logan was left contemplating a set of keys and newfound free time.
"Well, New Orleans is as good a place as any to kill a couple-a weeks."
Approximately 1400 sleepless miles later he had her against the cracking plaster wall of that dingy room with two fingers inside her and her teeth clamped on his earlobe. Her hands fisted in his hair but they slid to his waist when his hands moved their attention to her breasts. She grappled with his belt buckle impatiently for a time before the catch cooperated and, instead of just letting it hang open, she pulled it out of the loops and tossed it across the room. With a quirk of a smile she reversed their positions.
Logan leaned against the wall breathing heavily and watched as Mystique's oh-so-pink tongue followed her hands down his body. He closed his eyes momentarily, giving himself over to the sensations before a sharp (though not at all unpleasant) nip of teeth reminded him that he should be on his guard. Mystique was an enemy and though she was (oh!) quite talented he couldn't afford to let her gain the upper hand.
In fact, he was having second thoughts about the whole encounter. It didn't feel wrong, exactly, but it didn't feel right either. His hands came to rest on her shoulders, effectively halting her progress.
The corner of her mouth laughed at him as she stood to meet his eyes. "Change your mind?"
He didn't answer her immediately. Instead, he ran his fingers down her side and across her belly, stopping at three familiar parallel marks. "Why do you keep these? I know you can get rid of them."
The smirk faded for a bare instant and her eyes darted sideways. "Maybe you just got under my skin."
He paused, thoughtful. "Fair enough."
Then he led her to the bed.
fin