Hello, dear readers! Quick update, and a pretty long chapter here (seven pages!), PLUS a lot of important plot development. After some not-so-important no-so-plot-development. I should be doing homework or studying for midterms, but that's not important. What is important is writing fanfic, smut, and fluff! Amirite?

Geez, this is getting really long, isn't it? I didn't anticipate this. I also realized this is an m-rated story and I haven't done any dirty scenes since chapter one. I'm going to put some masturbation in here. Please give me feedback on what you want. Don't worry; eventually ROMY will happen for real, but what do you want now? Do you want more fantasies? Do you want me to keep the perviness to myself until they can really, truly be together?

Also, a page and a half of Remy in the shower. You're welcome ;)

Enjoy!

-Forbala-

CHAPTER TWELVE: A TOUCH

Raoul got up with the sun the next day and immediately went to the bathroom across the hall. He brushed his teeth, admiring himself in the mirror. Yeah, he was hot.

He pulled his cotton boxers off and stepped into the hot shower water. He dipped his head back and let the water run over his face, back over his hair, and down his neck over his chest.

Rogue. Anna Marie. Marielle. He'd dreamt about her all night. He couldn't sleep. Her face, her hands, her body haunted him. He could think of nothing else. What had happened last night…he was getting through to her. He saw it. She had stayed on top of him, making only small, obligatory efforts to pull away. If she'd really wanted to escape him, she would have. Nothing he did could have stopped her. And what she'd said. She didn't want to hurt him, she cared about his safety and health. The look on her face when he'd alluded to sex…she'd looked like she was in pain. Her eyes were so expressive: she wanted to, she wanted to with him, but she didn't want to kill him. And he knew it wasn't just a general "I don't want to kill people" thing. He knew her. It was more like an "I don't want to kill you" thing.

Sex with Marielle. Just the idea made his breath hitch. Of all the many, many, many women he'd been with, he'd never wanted any woman as much as he wanted her. It hurt, physically hurt, he wanted her so bad. Not just sexually, but that too.

He loved her.

It had taken him a while to come to that realization, and then longer still to accept it, but once he had, he knew he had to be with her. When he'd kidnapped her, yes, it was to rescue his father. But there was an added bonus: time with Rogue. He could be with her, be around her, without the X-Men getting in the way and trying to convince her how bad he was. Well, he was bad, but in a good way.

She'd been furious with him, but she was so sexy when she was angry. Her face flushed and she yelled at him and smacked him, and it was wonderful. He loved it, everything about her. Okay, so he was a bit masochistic. Whatever.

Raoul felt his "little thief" swelling at the barrage of Marielle images in his head. Angry, happy, laughing…laughing was the best. Her face was amazing, but so were other parts. Her soft, creamy skin that went so well with her dark hair. Her smooth, womanly curves. Those fabulous breasts and hips that she kept hidden under layers of clothes.

Raoul pulled on his cock and hissed at the feel of it. He could imagine Marielle's soft hand, bare, in place of his own. Her full lips kissing him. Her soft breasts pressing against his chest as she jerked him off. He couldn't get enough of the image of her. He was cumming hard in a matter of moments, whispering, "Marielle, Marielle," desperately, as though he was a starving man and she was an eight-ounce steak. He had to lean on the tiled wall, panting, when he finished.

He stood in the water for another minute or two before he gathered the strength to get out. He looked at the fogged up mirror and then grinned wickedly to himself. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, low on his hips so as to draw the eye to the fun parts.

He swiped his hand through his hair and went into the kitchen. Much to his pleasure, Marielle was stumbling sleepily from her room, still in flannel pants and a loose t-shirt. She went to the fridge, saw nothing appealing, closed the door, and thunked her head against it, moaning.

"Morning, chere."

Marielle turned around and her eyes popped open wide as dinner plates. "Holy mother of God, Rem…Raoul! Put on some damned clothes!" she exclaimed. Her face was pink and Raoul smiled as the shade. He loved getting a rise out of her.

"I'm covered," he said with a smirk.

"You're…Jesus, you may as well be…go put on pants!" She spun around and hid in her room, slamming the door in an imitation of her anger last night.

Raoul sauntered to his room, quite pleased with himself.

X

Marielle paced in her room. Damn that idiot thief. Strutting around mostly naked like some rooster in a henhouse. Smiling like that. Moron.

She went to her closet and dressed in jeans and navy blue, nautical sweater.

She hated him. She really did. That damned thief. He had to goad her with the promise of touching, of kissing, of sex. He knew very well she could never have any of that, least of all with him. It was torture being around him. She wanted to love him, but she couldn't. She could never touch him. No matter what she did, she could never touch him.

She felt tears rolling down her face at the thought that had occurred to her a million times, tears that were identical to the ones that flooded her last night. She didn't even bother to wipe them away. It never helped.

Why couldn't he just leave her alone? She had accepted that she couldn't touch, but then he had to go kissing her, holding her, talking about kissing and touching and having sex with her. It was like rubbing salt in a gaping wound.

"Damn it!" she yelled, throwing herself onto the bed, sobbing. "Why? Why me? Why this? Why couldn't I have any other power? Even Toad is better off!" She pounded her pillow, imagining Raoul's smiling, flirtatious face, tempting her. "Why—why—why—why—why!"

After a few minutes, she simply collapsed in a pile of heaving, sobbing, and tears. She didn't hear the door creak open, or the footsteps approaching her bed. Or maybe she did, but she didn't care.

Raoul sat on the edge of the bed next to her, put his hand on her back, and rubbed softly. "What's wrong, chere?" he asked quietly, his voice soothing.

Marielle didn't answer him. She didn't have the energy or willpower. She just lay there and cried while Raoul rubbed her back and spoke softly. She didn't hear what he said, but it made her feel marginally better. After a long time, she had nothing left to cry out. She stopped heaving, stopped sobbing. She simply lay there in a heap, too drained of emotion to move.

"Are you okay?" Raoul asked.

"Fine."

"You want t' talk about it?"

"Go 'way."

"Chere, you can—"

"Just leave. Leave, Remy."

Raoul was heartbroken—both to see his chere so upset, and to be cast away by her—but he stood and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Marielle didn't come out of her room until Raoul was making lunch. She looked tired, still, but much better. Her eyes weren't red anymore.

"Hey," Roaul said. He poured her a glass of water and set it before her, then went back to making his chicken noodle soup.

"You've been to the grocery?"

"Yeah. There's a little market just around the corner."

Marielle nodded and drank most of the water in her glass. Raoul refilled it without asking.

"You feel better?"

"Yeah."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

Raoul poured soup into two bowls and sat down at the table. They ate in silence for a while.

"While I was out, I rented some movies," Raoul said eventually.

"Hm?"

"I got The Dark Knight and Gone With The Wind. I figure we can have a quiet day in before we really get settled in and go meet our neighbors."

"Sure."

"Are those okay movies?"

"Yeah, they're fine."

Raoul felt like he was walking on broken glass. He wasn't sure what had made her so upset, or what he should do to fix it. When he'd finished dressing and returned to the kitchen her heard sobbing and a bit of unintelligible screaming. He hated to see her so upset, and knew he was probably responsible, which only made it worse to see. Was it because she missed her friends and pseudo-family? Did she miss Logan? Did she resent Remy for stealing her away from her happy life? He wouldn't blame her.

Or was it something else? He wished he knew what he'd done so he knew how to fix it.

"Did we buy paint yesterday? I can't remember," Marielle said suddenly.

"Oh, yeah. We bought a few colors and some brushes."

Marielle nodded. "I think I'll start painting the walls."

Raoul nodded, fighting not to smile. Painting was cathartic. He knew she would feel better after an hour or so of painting. Plus, he would get to watch her paint and create something beautiful. He looked forward to that. He looked forward to some insight into that little head of hers.

After lunch, Raoul did the dishes while Marielle changed into work clothes and went to the paints and brushes in a corner of the living room. She looked at the colors they had, looked at the living room wall, back to the paints, and once more at the wall. Finally, she set to work.

Raoul stayed well out of her way while she worked, playing solitaire at the table. She moved the couch into the center of the living room, brought over a chair from the table, and began painting shades of green on the top half of the wall. It was well over an hour before she finished that and stepped back to look at it.

She had made a tunnel of trees with light shining through the leaves. She nodded and went back to work, using different colors. After another two hours or so, Raoul (who had begun doing laundry and making dinner) saw that she had painted a canal with a few boats tied to one wall and a bridge in the background.

"Chere, you are an incredible artist," he said, sitting on the arm of the couch.

"Thanks," she said. She looked much better than she had at lunch, and she was even smiling softly at her work. Raoul smiled when he looked at her, because there was paint on her shirt, arms, and face. She'd tied her hair back, but there were specks of paint in her hair too. It was a little sexy.

"What are you gon' do next?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'll paint my room, but I don't know what I'll do in there."

"May I suggest you do your bedroom in the morning, so you don't have to sleep with the paint fumes?"

"Yeah," she mumbled, only half-listening to him.

"Come on, let's eat dinner." Marielle washed her hands and face while Raoul served dinner—Cajun chicken, rice, and veggies.

"God, you're a fabulous cook, Swamp Rat."

"Whatever gets me into your good graces, chere."

That made Marielle's face fall a bit, and she tried to cover it, but Raoul had seen it. Hm, interesting. Was that related to her breakdown that morning?

"So," Raoul began as Marielle washed the dishes. He had moved the couch back closer to the mural, but still far enough away for the paint to dry. "Which movie do we want to watch?"

"Gone With The Wind, definitely," Marielle answered, laying the dishes out to dry. Raoul set the DVD box on the media center, nodding to himself, and went over to Marielle. The sun was setting and only the kitchen light was on; it was the perfect romantic moment. He wrapped his arms around her slowly, cautiously. She tensed, but didn't pull away, so he continued. He set his chin on her shoulder and kissed her cheek.

His little trick didn't work so well this time. He only lasted a few seconds before he felt his consciousness slipping away. He could hear Marielle cursing before he passed out.

He woke up a few moments later to find himself lying on the couch, his head on a pillow and Marielle far at the other end of the long couch. He sat up, holding his head, and saw that she'd already started the movie. It had just begun, so he hadn't been out long.

"What the hell do you think you were doing?" she asked tersely.

"I'm sorry, chere. I thought it would be okay."

"Stop coming onto me."

He nodded, but got up and moved closer to her, sitting less than a foot away from her. He saw her body go rigid, but didn't do anything—either to move away or move closer.

After a few minutes, Marielle relaxed, apparently decided he wouldn't do anything for the time being. About an hour into the movie, she relaxed enough to talk and joke and tease and berate Raoul, which pleased him immensely. When Marielle put in the second DVD, she sat closer to Raoul than before. At two hours, ten minutes, he ventured to hold her gloved hand and she didn't pull away, didn't even tense. At two hours, forty minutes, he put his arm around her waist. She let him. He smiled and his heart pounded. He was making progress.

Sometime around three hours, Marielle began to doze. She had seen the movie about two hundred times and, much as she loved it, she was exhausted from the emotional roller coaster and the painting she'd done. She didn't go to sleep, though, until three hours and twenty-five minutes. Her head rested on Raoul's chest, her right hand stretch across her body to hold Raoul's on her left side, and his head rested on hers.

At three hours and forty-three minutes, Raoul kissed her hair. The movie ended shortly after that and he turned off the TV and whispered to Marielle to wake her. She mumbled and shifted, but didn't wake. Raoul was fine with that. He extricated himself, lifted her up bridal-style, and carried her to bed. He looked at her, curled up under those bright satin sheets, sleeping and at peace. He couldn't help it; he had to touch her. He swept his bare hand over her cheek.

And nothing happened.

He hadn't been focusing energy on his hand. He had touched her, skin to skin, and he was not only still conscious, but not even affected. It was as if he'd touched any other woman.

He could touch her. He could touch her, provided she was asleep? Okay, maybe she'd developed a block and made herself think that she could never touch so much that she couldn't—not while she was awake. But while she was asleep, she was vulnerable and her mental walls came down. Or maybe he could just touch her, plain and simple.

He could touch her.

He knelt by the bed and kissed her forehead. Nothing. He kissed her cheek. Nothing. No absorption, anyway; he did feel something else: magic. Touching her, kissing her, was the most wonderful experience. He kissed her softly on the lips.

She stirred and he felt his consciousness slipping. He pulled away quickly and watched Marielle. She mumbled something and turned over, but didn't wake. Merde, that was close, Raoul thought. She'd remove his head and balls and put them on a stake in the front yard if she'd caught him.

He stood and left her to sleep in peace.

He could touch her. Now he just had to make her see that.