Title: Sleep
Author: Expected Aberrance
Verse: Post X3
Rating: PG13?
Pairing:Magneto/Rogue
Summary: At times like this, Rogue’s ability to find rest under any circumstance irritated Erik to no end...
Written (appropriately) after a bout of insomnia. Takes place in the same timeline as 'Corpusants' but it's not necessary to have read that to know what's going on. I'd like it very much if you did though.
At times like this, Rogue’s ability to find rest under any circumstance irritated Erik to no end. Especially at the moment, when he was unable to relax into slumber in a relatively large and comfortable bed in no small part due to her absence and the reasons for it, which in turn sent him searching for her in weakness he was loath to acknowledge. He well appreciated her flexibility on the battlefield and in the bedroom, but she had a habit of finding repose in the oddest of places--he’d witnessed her fall asleep twisted around a metal folding chair--in positions defying belief that they could be healthy, much less comfortable. Perhaps a carryover from her days as a runaway, he mused as he stalked the quiet halls of the fortress. Most of the base was silent and dark, and he navigated through the touch and hum of the metal walls. As he descended the stairs, he felt a drone consistent with LEDs and the high-pitched whine of a television emanating from one of the rooms ahead. Suspecting he’d find her passed out with every light and the television she wasn’t watching on, as he often did despite frequent admonitions against such wastefulness, he slid the door open silently.
Tonight she’d outdone herself; he’d seen rag-doll corpses fall haphazardly into more comfortable poses. Instead of seated upright–-perhaps slumped--as any normal person would be in an armchair, she’d planted herself headfirst in the seat, curling diagonally with her hip perched atop the armrest, torso twisted almost flat against the seat, and head tipped back, almost hyper-extended, into the inner side of the article of furniture.
The event precipitating his shameful turn as a lovesick fool had been a mission planned to destroy a government installation researching cyborg Sentinels. Rogue had led the team of younger Brotherhood members in a largely successful venture; they’d managed to demolish the base itself and the technology contained in it, but were prevented from killing the scientist masterminding the experiment by the Fantastic Four. She’d chosen to throw herself at the Human Torch, a solution that was admittedly unexpected and therefore a good surprise tactic, but also an inopportune time to experiment with whether her absorption powers extended to superhuman abilities of non-mutant origin. Fortuitously, they did, and she was able to absorb enough of the Storm boy before completely immolating herself, but she was quite lucky Blink had managed to transport her to the infirmary in time to prevent permanent injury. If it hadn’t been for the powers of Healer, she’d be in quite a lot of pain for some time. Indeed, he thought it might have been better to make her suffer through recuperation, if only to prevent such reckless behaviour from reoccurring.
Rogue was rather good at weathering his violent temper, but his ire at her selfless stupidity, compounded by his overly emotional reaction to the danger to her safety, culminated in a viciousness she’d left their rooms to escape. He’d lambasted her strategies, critical thinking, and leadership skills, called her careless, questioned her intelligence, and generally implied she was unfit to command anything more complex than a nursery school classroom. She’d responded that she’d done exactly what he’d trained her to do, laying out a well-formed argument that only angered him further. She’d taken her leave when all the metal in the room started shaking, and he’d hurled part of the wall at the door she shut behind her in a childish fit of pique. Rarely did he lose control so easily, and it’d been years since he’d allowed himself to act so without cold, calculated premeditation.
He stood over her still form, now a bit hesitant to wake her, as he knew she had demons of her own–-he could be considered one of them--and was content to watch her shallow breath for a few moments. He was hardly the ideal bedmate; his sleep habits vacillated between possessive clinging and severe aversion to touch, punctuated by bouts of unconscious flailing. One time, he’d given Charles a black eye inadvertently that the telepath hadn’t quite hidden from Jean Grey, and he’d had to assuage his student’s fears that his partner was not in fact physically abusive. However, the layers and sheets Rogue used to protect him from herself largely shielded her from such episodes. She wore less during the day than she had in the past, when she’d come to his side in search of a place to belong without real hope of finding it. He’d been quite taken with her newly disillusioned and emotionally scarred form: her skin, smooth, pale, and deadly, drove him to distraction despite himself. His attachment to her ran far deeper than he ever intended, and it was a mystery to him. It wasn’t as if she was any less stubborn than Charles; beneath that innocent, demure exterior lay a will that had been strengthened with hardship. No longer would she shy away from him as she had at Liberty Island. Neither did she idealize him, as Mystique once had. She feared and understood him in equal proportions, but did not shrink from challenging him when she felt it necessary. He had been able to abandon both Charles and Mystique for his cause, but had become almost dependent on his complex relationship with this little girl. He was rapidly losing the ability to sacrifice her as he would any other soldier in this war, and he didn’t know why or how to stop it.
“Marie.” He placed a hand on the inviting derriere presented to him, rubbing in slow circles as he leant over her. His other hand travelled to part her legs with some insistence.
“Erik?”
“I should certainly hope so.” His hand dipped further between her thighs and pinched through her layers of clothing, eliciting a delightful noise that couldn’t decide if it was a moan or gasp. Though he would prefer her to keep their relationship monogamous as he did, he was not so much of a controlling bastard as to forbid her to touch who she wished; rather, the returnee of such affections would relinquish claim to his or her life immediately upon his discovery of any such indiscretions. Erik had long ago reconciled himself to this apparent dichotomy in his character. As his touch awoke her slowly, he pulled her toward him by the zipper of her sweatshirt, the wariness he found so enticing mixed with welcome in her features.
“I should not have overreacted as I did.” He considered taking her right then, as the way she’d bent herself over the chair gave him wicked ideas, but thought it better to get her back into their rooms. “Come to bed.” She hesitated, clearly trying to determine his mood and whether he was likely to bring the walls down around them again. He smiled slightly, pulling apart the teeth of her zipper to inch the garment open, and she shivered in response. Searching him with wide eyes in manner that tested his resolve to wait until he’d enticed her back to the bedroom, and apparently assessing him to be less of an immediate danger than earlier, she rose from her awkward place in the chair. He stepped away before she touched him, turning on his heel to walk back toward their quarters without looking behind to ensure she followed. He waited until the door shut behind her and she opened her mouth to speak to attack, slamming her backwards with enough force to be just short of painful.
He loved pressing her up against the wall, enclosing, controlling her body between his and the steel behind, free to heat, cool, and feel every inch of her. In fleeting touches of skin on skin, not nearly enough to allow a transfer to start, caressing and biting quickly or through cloth, he used the very layers she’d once felt herself trapped in by her mutant gift to bring her pleasure. He entered her, keeping the barrier of material between them, hands roaming over curves and muscles as he fucked her in strong, slow strokes. He felt her close to orgasm, and varied his motions to deny her, savouring her every sound and movement of combined frustration and satisfaction. At last at her pleading he sped up, and she clutched at him desperately, but still managed to adhere to the restrictions he’d set not to touch his bare skin.
He brought her mouth harshly to his with the hand gripping the base of her skull, the push of his power into her timed with a few deep, twisting thrusts enough to force her over the edge to her completion and his apology. He came hard with her tightly undone around him, biting off her cries of pleasure and pain as she was finally allowed to place her hands on his neck and under his shirt. He didn’t release her or break their connection until their breathing slowed, when he drew away so that they could prepare for the short hours of sleep before dawn. After she had swathed herself in blankets and nightclothes, he gathered her bundled form to himself on the bed. He placed a kiss to the back of her neck in a gentler attempt at amends than before, his doubts and concerns settling by way of explanation into her mind.
“I know,” was her reply as her eyes shut. Infuriating girl, he thought as he planned exactly what he would do to her after training afternoon. His smirk relaxed as he finally found peace next to her, at least for the night.
Thanks for reading! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated (that's understating it--cherished would be closer to the truth, but far more desperate-sounding)!