He was alone again.
And sitting in his motel room, empty of any personal possessions save his jacket strewn over the bed and the bottle of recently purchased bourbon set on the floor beside his chair, he fought the reminder that his solitude was his own fault.
He could've remained at the mansion and played at being a superhero and an upstanding citizen, while watching the redhead stifle her passion and tamp down her lust in order to be with the visored leader, and the brunette...
Hell, he shouldn't have even half the thoughts he did about her.
Another swig from the bottle and a willing fight groupie would wipe her from his mind easily enough, and while he knew he should reach for the bottle or head for the door to find a bar, a cage, a woman, he did neither, choosing instead to sit in the darkened room and watch the dust motes settle on the floor.
The scent of her reached him before the faint clip of her heels did, and his hands clenched into fists at his side in preparation for the fight that was sure to come. He could have stood, ripped the door open, taken her by surprise, but he remained where he was and waited.
The door opened, slowly, and she slipped inside, her breathing accelerated by either excitement or fear. He smelled both on her, and that in and of itself was strange, because the last time they'd met, she hadn't been afraid at all.
She leaned against the closed door briefly, then slid her hand to the wall and hovered over the lightswitch.
"I wouldn't," he said, not bothering to soften his tone or lower the volume of his voice, and she gasped, snatched her hand away from the wall as though he'd slapped at it.
"Logan," she whispered, and took a hesitant step forward. When he made no move to stop her, she quickened her pace, stopped only when she stood mere inches away from him. Her hand drifted closer, brushed against his jaw, and the sensation of soft, cool female flesh made him want to grab hold of her and-
A car pulled into the lot and the brief flare of light caught on her hair, burnished it copper and confirmed what he'd known since she'd entered the room. She slipped into skins as easily as others did clothing, shrugging off what didn't suit and using only what did, and he understood why she'd chosen the persona she had, but not why she'd come to *him*.
"What the fuck are you doing?"
She settled herself on his lap, legs on either side of his, and breathed, "I would've thought that was obvious."
He snarled and felt his knuckles itch with the need for a fight, for revenge, but didn't attempt to move her. She'd tell him what she wanted soon enough, and if he got a little something out of the bargain, well, he wouldn't complain about it.
"Why like this?"
She licked her lip, pressed her hands to his shoulders. "I thought this was what you wanted?"
He nearly snorted, choked instead when she transformed into Storm, dark skin smooth, hair white and gleaming in the moonlight.
He shifted, uncomfortably aware of the effect those white locks were having on him, and she cocked her head to one side, pursed her lips and morphed back into Jean.
"Better?" She asked, and rocked her hips into his, bit down on her lip at the evidence of his obvious arousal.
One hand slid beneath the fall of cool, slippery hair, cupped her head and dragged her face close to his. He increased the pressure of his grip until she winced. "How 'bout you tell me why you're here?"
She squirmed in a futile attempt to free herself, stilled when the action caused her to rub against his cock, caused him to swell and throb against the heat of her and his hips jerked involuntarily before he could control the motion.
Her eyes glinted with... amusement? Discovery? Interest? He wasn't sure, and the scent of her didn't help matters any. She was aroused and the musk-and-sweat pheromones she exuded overpowered just about everything else, made it difficult to think, to breathe.
"Why?" he gritted out, gripping her hip with his free hand to keep her from moving.
"I want... I want to. And," her breath hit his lips, cool and sweet, "I can be her."
"For what?"
"For you."
"You don't give a damn about me, so why would you-"
His grip on her head had slackened, and she leaned forward, pressed her lips to his. The first sweep of her tongue was tentative, almost innocent, as she explored the contours of his lips, gently licking the seam until she'd gained entrance.
Then slipped in, brushed against his tongue and rubbed her mouth against his, and he let her play because he didn't care enough to stop her and she'd tire of the game soon. The sound of a quiet slither, like a zipper being pulled down, and his hand contracted around a hip that felt rounder, his hand slid through hair that was thicker, longer, and when he opened his eyes, the eyes he saw staring back at him were still brown, but...
They weren't the same at all. Younger, darker, more chocolate than whiskey, and he knew without having to see the rest of her the woman he held in his arms was Marie.
Or Mystique's version of her, at any rate.
He reared back as if she'd bit him, tried to push her off his lap but couldn't quite manage it when the image of Marie lying sprawled on the ground, hurt and bewildered, flashed through his mind.
"What the hell-" was all she allowed him to get out before she pulled him back to her for another kiss.
He meant to pull away, was going to, but she felt so good in his arms that he promised himself he'd just kiss her once, just once, before throwing her out of his room.
He dragged her closer, parting her lips with his tongue and plunging in, kissing her with an avaricious greed he hadn't known he possessed, with a *need* he hadn't been aware he'd had until the moment his tongue had penetrated her mouth.
He growled when she pulled away, panting, and when he made a move to pull her back again, shook her head.
Dark hair slid forward, and as he watched, she shuddered and closed her eyes. He blinked, because he could've sworn he'd seen her... ripple, and she looked like she'd changed slightly, so very slightly he wondered if he'd imagined it. But... her eyes seemed browner, brighter, her features clearer, like a smudge wiped from glass.
And the faint scent that had, without his even being aware of it, tickled and teased and tempted him since she'd first entered the room, strengthened, shot through him and intoxicated him like the finest of whiskeys never could. Even as his cock hardened beneath her rocking hips, his grip on her shoulders tightened until she made a small sound, almost a growl, at the back of her throat, and those dark-velvet eyes snapped straight to his.
"What?" she asked, her voice slightly hoarse, and licked her lips, little pink tongue darting out to trace the soft contours, and he had to close his eyes to retain his thoughts, fuck, his *sanity*. A deep breath was all it took to remind him of exactly *why* he'd been disturbed in the first place.
"Why," he managed to grit out, "do you smell like her?"
She shook her hair back, the glossy strands slipping and falling over her shoulders, his fingers, and he itched to let them slide through that wealth of hair, to feel it tangling over his arms, his stomach, his-
"We were in close proximity for almost a day," she said softly, "it would be a strange thing for me *not* to have her scent on me."
He snarled at her reminder of where Marie had been, how long it'd taken him to find her, to help her. The beginnings of the rage he'd managed thus far to tamp down bubbled to the surface; he needed a release, he needed... her. But she was miles away, sleeping cozily and dreaming the dreams of an innocent -- he had no right to touch that, to despoil her of it.
A low moan as the woman on top of him leaned forward and pressed her hips down hard against his brought him back to the present -- and the perfect solution to his problem. Instead of throwing her out, he'd take what she offered, slake his desire in her and hope that, at least for tonight, it would be enough.
So he slipped his hand down between her denim-covered legs and cupped her; the heat of her seeped through the jeans and touched his hand, but it wasn't enough, so he slid away and unsheathed an inch of adamantium claw, sliced through the crotch of her jeans without warning her or telling her to remain still. This wasn't, after all, about love, or any emotion deeper than that of sublimation.
He slid two fingers in through the gap he'd created and stroked her wet folds through the soaked and supple panties. He worked the material up and into her, creating a friction he knew, from the pleasured and highly sensual sounds that vibrated from between her lips, would easily bring her to orgasm.
Then her gloved hand eased its way beneath his to rub and stroke and tease his swollen cock, and the sensations that produced, combined with the feel of her small hand pressing lightly against his pushed him to the brink of ecstasy, but as arousing as that was, it was only when he glanced up from the mesmerizing movement of her fingers and saw her eyes, those beautiful, familiar eyes drenched in pleasure, that he lost all control and tripped headlong into release.
The moisture flowing over his fingers when he came back to his senses, and the startled cry that sounded as if it had been wrung from her throat, told him that she'd come just as hard as he had, but when his free hand moved to slide into her hair and bring her, the likeness of Marie, forward for a kiss, she sprang away.
"No!" she cried out, hands outstretched as though to push him back, "Don't! Don't *touch* me!"
He sat in stunned silence as she ran for the door, too surprised to so much as utter a sound. It didn't make sense, none at all, for Mystique to react the way she had to a simple kiss, especially after what they'd just done. Frowning, he raised a hand to push through his hair, then paused in mid-motion, staring at his still sticky fingers. The scent of her, of Marie, was so strong -- surely Mystique couldn't have-
No. Mystique couldn't have, but Marie easily could have; just a single, swift touch to a mutant arrogant enough not to believe she needed protection and-
Shit.
He was out the door and running, tracking her scent, before he'd even fully realized what he was doing. As he rounded the corner of the motel, he was just in time to see the taillights of her car disappear onto the highway.
~end~
Notes: For the purposes of this fic, while in Mystique's form (or Mystique-as-Jean, and Mystique-as-Rogue), Rogue can touch.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
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Author's Chapter Notes:
To Helena, Happy Birthday! And thank you for the speedy beta, so many years later. *g* This was written when a certain scene in X2 was merely a rumour.