Previously posted as part of a Multifandom Drabble Collection.


Requester: zelha
Fandom:
X-Men (Movie-verse)
Pairing:
Logan/Rogue
Word/Situation:
blanket scenario
Mood/Theme:

Approximate Timeline:
Post 'The Last Stand'. Rogue has been cured.
Other:
smut


Title: Immortal
Author:
Winter Ashby (rosweldrmr)
Disclaimer: X-Men© Marvel
Rating:
M (strong M for sexual situations)
Word Count:
500 - exactly!
Summary:
The cure may have been manipulated into a weapon, stolen from a child, used against your allies, but just this once – you're happy you chose it. (Rogue & Logan)
Authors Notes:
My first X-Men fic. I tried out third person. I think it fits well for the situation and characters. but what do I know, I'm just the crappy author.


Skin on skin.

It's been so long.

And it feels right, like nothing ever has before. You ache for it, thirst and hunger bound in the hair on his chest, arms, face.

You bend, bow to it, this spiraling, frantic, godly sensation of warm flesh against you.

The friction of palm to breast and lips to throat make you gasp, turned upside-down and inside-out, you can't even form coherent thoughts except: more, more, more!

He's everywhere, but it's still not enough.

"Please." You beg him.

Not afraid to look weak, he's always protected you, always come for you.

The cure may have been manipulated into a weapon, stolen from a child, used against your allies, but just this once – you're happy you chose it.

His hands are wandering; his lips leave a trail of electric, erotic simulation across your stomach.

You don't remember how it went from sweet, innocent, well-meant, experimental, tentative touches to this: this hot, urgent race where the fabric of your shirt shreds in his hands.

You asked him to touch you. Downcast eyes and hesitant tone, you twisted your fingers and admitted you couldn't remember what it felt like to be touched.

"Please, Logan." You asked him, the only other person who managed to understand you, to save you, to exile himself as much as you have. "Please." You only needed to ask once, but the second time is raw and quivering so that when the tips of his fingers graze over your cheek your eyes swing shut and you arch into his stroke.

It's not soft, you never really expected him to be. Instead, it's feral and his palms grate at you, tear at bits you didn't even know were there. He disassembles you, piece by piece.

He's slow and methodical. You quiver now, pleading incoherently. But he knows better, he knows to take his time without having to be told. And all you can do is let him.

He makes sure to touch every inch of you: a hand through your hair, rough and clumsy; a kiss to the inside of your elbow, glancing fingers on the underside of your knee. Places you knew existed but never imagined could hunger like they do.

You feel like its 1000 degrees in your skin. You itch to be free of your husk, and climb into him. Shed the layers of yourself that ache from 18 years of misuse.

And when he's done, when he's sure he's touched every speck of you with flesh and lips and tongue, he lays you flat, bare and practically sobbing.

"Logan." You murmur as he hovers over you.

He doesn't ask. He already knows you'll die if he stops now. But as he slides in, he holds your face and watches you.

When it's over, you don't ask what it cost him to give you this. You just accept the memory of what it felt like to be touched by an immortal and curl up on yourself.

You don't regret it.