Title: Violence and Sugar
Characters: Wolverine/Rogue (Logan/Marie)
Word Count: 500
Summary: It wasn't soft or slow, or even remotely romantic. But it was real.
Author's Note: This is just the result of a 500-word writing exercise I occasionally like to do. I have no idea what the deal is with the word count over here, other than it seems like no two word count readers count the same way. *shrugs* I swear it is 500 words exactly according to my computer. Set sometime post-X2. Title is a lyric (sorta) from the Deftones song MX.
Violence and Sugar
It wasn't soft or slow, or even remotely romantic. But it was real. Harsh, and rough, and a little bit awkward and frightening. Imperfect in exactly the right way. In the only way that something can be when you have spent the vast majority of your time assuming something's out of reach, only to have it thrown at you with the velocity of a hurricane, and your breath stolen from you by the impact.
It was something she never thought she'd have, and she cherished every, single second. Later, she'd lock the memories, these moments, up in a box. Secured, and padlocked and shuffled down; down deep within herself, where she could look on them whenever the need – the want – arose, and she'd be thankful for them.
Thankful for every inch of scratched skin, for every purple bruise, for every over-sensitized nerve ending rubbed raw and leaving her aching in its wake. She'd be thankful for all of that. She'd even be thankful for the tears she knew she'd shed in the morning, once the sun peered over the horizon and she was left alone. Be thankful for the sharp sting of pain that she knew would find her when she awoke to cold sheets, and an empty heart.
She'd be thankful because it meant that for tonight, for just this once, she'd be touched.
And more importantly, that for tonight, he was hers.
Even if in the morning, he wouldn't be.
It hardly mattered, not when he was here now. Stubble covered chin scrapping the skin along her neck, and breast – leaving rash pebbled flesh in its wake. Not when his hands, encased in leathers smelling of grease, and beer, and her were carving patterns along her hips, her thighs, the ticklish space beneath her ribs. Not when his warm, whiskey scented breath was panting out harsh grunts, and even harsher pleas.
Not when she had him, pressed down against the bed, sprawled beneath her body – entirely hers for the taking. Chest heaving in tandem with the rocking of her hips. Fingers fisted in her hair, by the nape of her neck, and teeth and lips – protected by the chestnut strands – leaving raised welts along her throat.
And certainly not when her world tilted, and he tugged her close, flipped her under him. The flannel and cotton rubbing against her almost as erotic as she imagined his skin. One hand stealing its way between their bodies, finding her warm and wet, and pressing against her. Spasms jolting through her body, from her center, down her limbs, and back to her core. His body heated steel as he pistoned into her, scrambling a hand beneath one knee to alter the angle, made her shout, tears leaking from closed lids, and down her face until she could taste salt on her lips. A cry of Logan pulled from her lungs.
She could almost hear the sound of a motorcycle revving in his broken whisper of Jean.
Author's End Note: Little aside, I adore Jean, and I don't blame her for this scenario. Logan, on the other hand, might be a little responsible...