Ficlet, Magneto/Rogue, "Association"
I suppose I'm in a Magneto/Rogue mood. Though I've put on some gangsta rap to better channel my inner-teenage Pyro. *G*
Title: Association
Fandom: Xmen Movieverse
Pairing, etc: Magneto/Rogue.
Prompt: #18, Black. She likes the way his scent clings to the wool of his sweater.
Word Count: 576
Rating: PG13
Association
The fortress is freezing and she doesn't have any sweatshirts. She'd borrow one from Pyro, but she doesn't trust the frequency with which he does his laundry. Or more appropriately, doesn't.
Rogue finds herself nervously opening Erik's closet, tentatively turning the knob with her gloved hand. She almost expects him to be on the other side and chastise her for her audacity in going through his clothing and attempting to borrow something without asking.
He's not there, of course, and she really hadn't thought that he would be, but she gives a little sigh of relief nonetheless as she surveys his clothing, hearing the roar of the sea far below through the window. It's such a familiar noise by now, she's surprised she even notices it.
Erik is very neat-he has everything hung up or folded on the small wire shelves in the closet. He's fond of gray, red, and black; most of the clothes are solid colors, very classic. She reaches out and grabs a black, thick wool sweater off the shelf and pulls it over her head. It's too big for her, the sleeves hang past her hands but at least she's warm.
His scent clings to the wool, and as she breathes it in she finds herself both comforted and frightened; skin tingling as if she's about to fight, heartbeat speeding up, breath coming a bit too fast. Her body is reacting as if she's in danger, and maybe she is, and she feels herself flush as she stares at the bed with the mahogany wood headboard. She's always thought it was out of place in this island fortress of rock and metal.
As she turns to leave, she sees herself reflected in the mirror, wrapped in his black sweater. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her eyes seem very dark in the paleness of her face, pupils large and dilated. She brings her hands up and rubs the wool of the cuffs on her cheek, finding a curious comfort in the scratch of it against her skin, and in the indefinable scent that elicits both fear and that peculiar fascination she associates so strongly with him.
Rogue leaves the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. She does not see him until dinner, and a small smile curves his mouth as he takes in the sight of her in his sweater, but he does not remark upon it.
Later that night before bed, she opens the closet and reaches down for the hem of the sweater, intending to pull it off and return it to the shelf from whence it came.
He stops her with a hand wrapped around her wrist. “Keep it, you'll only be cold tomorrow.” His fingers tighten further and he pulls her to him slowly, and she feels a bit like he's unraveling her. Like she's a stray bit of wool that's come undone in his hands, and maybe she is. She knows that if he keeps pulling, she'll lose herself; at least for a little while.
She doesn't understand the pleased, rather smug tone to his voice, and she doesn't ask him about it either. She does fold the sweater carefully and lay it on the dresser for the morning.
Title: Association
Fandom: Xmen Movieverse
Pairing, etc: Magneto/Rogue.
Prompt: #18, Black. She likes the way his scent clings to the wool of his sweater.
Word Count: 576
Rating: PG13
Association
The fortress is freezing and she doesn't have any sweatshirts. She'd borrow one from Pyro, but she doesn't trust the frequency with which he does his laundry. Or more appropriately, doesn't.
Rogue finds herself nervously opening Erik's closet, tentatively turning the knob with her gloved hand. She almost expects him to be on the other side and chastise her for her audacity in going through his clothing and attempting to borrow something without asking.
He's not there, of course, and she really hadn't thought that he would be, but she gives a little sigh of relief nonetheless as she surveys his clothing, hearing the roar of the sea far below through the window. It's such a familiar noise by now, she's surprised she even notices it.
Erik is very neat-he has everything hung up or folded on the small wire shelves in the closet. He's fond of gray, red, and black; most of the clothes are solid colors, very classic. She reaches out and grabs a black, thick wool sweater off the shelf and pulls it over her head. It's too big for her, the sleeves hang past her hands but at least she's warm.
His scent clings to the wool, and as she breathes it in she finds herself both comforted and frightened; skin tingling as if she's about to fight, heartbeat speeding up, breath coming a bit too fast. Her body is reacting as if she's in danger, and maybe she is, and she feels herself flush as she stares at the bed with the mahogany wood headboard. She's always thought it was out of place in this island fortress of rock and metal.
As she turns to leave, she sees herself reflected in the mirror, wrapped in his black sweater. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her eyes seem very dark in the paleness of her face, pupils large and dilated. She brings her hands up and rubs the wool of the cuffs on her cheek, finding a curious comfort in the scratch of it against her skin, and in the indefinable scent that elicits both fear and that peculiar fascination she associates so strongly with him.
Rogue leaves the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind her. She does not see him until dinner, and a small smile curves his mouth as he takes in the sight of her in his sweater, but he does not remark upon it.
Later that night before bed, she opens the closet and reaches down for the hem of the sweater, intending to pull it off and return it to the shelf from whence it came.
He stops her with a hand wrapped around her wrist. “Keep it, you'll only be cold tomorrow.” His fingers tighten further and he pulls her to him slowly, and she feels a bit like he's unraveling her. Like she's a stray bit of wool that's come undone in his hands, and maybe she is. She knows that if he keeps pulling, she'll lose herself; at least for a little while.
She doesn't understand the pleased, rather smug tone to his voice, and she doesn't ask him about it either. She does fold the sweater carefully and lay it on the dresser for the morning.