(X-Men) Burning
Title: Burning
Fandom: X-Men (movieverse)
Pairing: Bobby/Rogue
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1882
Timeline: Post-X3
Notes: For 50_smutlets, prompt "candles".
Summary: Marking the occasion.
It’s not their first Christmas together, but it is the first Christmas since Alcatraz, since the war, since the Cure. The first Christmas where they can wake up in the same bed, not afraid of accidental touches, wrapped around each other under the blankets with snow gently falling beyond the window.
The first Christmas where Bobby can wake Rogue with a kiss, and he wants it to be perfect.
They’re spending the day at Rogue’s apartment, heading for the Mansion in the evening for what Miss Munroe promises will be a feast to remember. Rogue’s decorations aren’t much, and many of them were discretely borrowed from the Mansion’s never-ending supply, but the effect is cosy, more welcoming, and she’s worked hard at making the most of what she has.
It was made clear that Rogue would always be welcome at the Mansion, even if she could no longer be technically classified as a mutant, but she was eager to leave as soon as possible. Eager to find an apartment and a job and live the normal life she’d never thought she could.
Bobby might be the one called upon to fight the bad guys when they creep out of the woodwork, but he suspects Rogue finds more happiness in the everyday occurrences of working in a bank and shopping in a supermarket than he experiences in the most exhilarating of battles.
Rogue’s still a light sleeper, jerking awake at every sound, at every movement. She’s slowly training herself to roll over, close her eyes again and fight the instinct to run, but there’s no sneaking from the bed without disturbing her.
“Bathroom,” he shrugs when she blinks groggily at him a little after midnight, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead, and he watches her nod and roll over, and waits until her breathing evens out before quietly closing the door behind him.
He figures he has less than ten minutes before she comes looking for him, and he reaches into his backpack and sets to work.
Rogue’s voice calls his name just over eight minutes later, and Bobby glances around the room one more time, satisfied with what he sees, before the bedroom door creaks open.
Rogue’s eyes are wary but they widen in surprise, mouth dropping open, as she takes in the room.
There are candles on every available surface, glowing softly, warmth filling every corner. Ivy and mistletoe and holly decorates every bowl and plate and candle holder Bobby could find on short notice. A blanket stretches over the cushions and spare pillows on the floor, and he sits in the centre, a glass of champagne in each hand, smiling at her shock.
“Merry Christmas,” he says softly, and Rogue’s mouth closes with an audible click.
She slowly walks across the room, eyes a little awed as they sweep over every lightly flickering flame, fingers reaching out and brushing holly berries and ivy leaves.
“I can’t believe you,” she murmurs, and there’s an amused smile on her lips as she circles the blanket and sits beside him.
Bobby grins broadly, holding out the champagne, and watches the graceful curve of her fingers around the glass and the glimmer of flame shining in her eyes.
“But the fire alarm?” she says with a glance up at the smoke detector, only to laugh at the thick layer of ice encasing it. “Hmm, you thought of everything.”
Bobby nods and presses closer, because Rogue’s always about the little details, and he’s learning to appreciate and emulate that. He jokes that being a bank teller suits her, because her trained eye suits forms and applications, and when Rogue tells him about her day, she always fixates on the trivial aspects, those small little things that make up the bigger picture of her new life.
The only thing she isn’t willing to share is the origin of her name tag, silver letters spelling out the word ‘Marie’, and she insists it was chosen at random, a new name for a new life.
Bobby doesn’t ask if it might just be her real name, because he already knows she won’t answer.
He doesn’t begrudge her secrets, can’t really begrudge her anything. He knows she’ll tell him when she’s ready, and if she’s never ready, he knows he’ll accept that.
Rogue slides her bare hand over his, and the shiver he feels at her skin against his own is still just as fierce as the first time they touched.
They gently clink the rim of their glasses together and drink, and Bobby tries not to wrinkle his nose at the taste. He’s never much cared for champagne, but he’s more nervous than he really should be, and champagne seemed the obvious choice. Rogue drinks without comment, so he hopes he made the right decision.
The heat in her gaze draws goosebumps across his flesh, and he knows there’s hunger in his own eyes as she takes the glass from his hand. Her hair is loose, swinging forward as she leans to the side to set the glasses on the floor, and he can’t help but shift closer, pressing his chest to her arm so he can reach the curve of her neck, kissing the soft skin there.
Rogue glances back at him over her shoulder, eyes hooded, and Bobby swallows thickly and doesn’t resist when she turns back and presses her hands against his chest, easing him back against the cushions. She slides a leg over his hips, straddling his stomach, and he feels his breath catch and his pulse begin to race as she slowly peels her top upwards, off her stomach, dragging the material higher over the curves of her chest, before tugging it over her head. Her eyes bore into him, a lazily seductive smirk on her lips, as she drops the clothing to the side, and Bobby finds himself hypnotised by the dance of shadow over her breasts, skin glowing amber in the candlelight.
His hands follow the line of her naked thighs, brushing upward to rest at her waist, and she stretches gracefully above him, spine arching and so wantonly displayed, making the softest noise of appreciation as she relaxes against his touch, all traces of sleepiness vanishing. One hand slips through her hair, lightly flicking it over one shoulder, while the other reaches for him, and he finds himself instinctively leaning up to meet her as she leans forward for a kiss.
Her lips are slow and leisurely over his own, and the tang of champagne tastes better on her tongue than it did from the glass, and Bobby finds himself warming to the taste. Her tongue swirls against his own, ripples against him, and her kisses are always so confident for somebody who spent so long afraid of touch. He feels surrounded, weak for her, always has been, and he lets her set the pace, accepts every movement of her lips, every meandering brush of her hands over his chest.
She leans more bodily into him, weight pressing him down, bodies sliding together, and it’s not enough, Bobby needs more, needs friction and pressure and her touch, but he could never rush her, and the tease of it always makes everything more real. He feels her shift, hand bracing beside his head, feels her fingers brush over his stomach as she reaches down, and she smiles against his lips as she slides her panties down her legs.
Bobby’s breathing is a little ragged as his own hands quickly shove his boxers down his hips, and Rogue makes an amused sound and pulls back to straddle him again, lightly kicking her panties aside. There’s a delicate flush across her face and her eyes burn brighter than the candles that surround them, and Bobby watches as she raises herself on to her knees, fingers slipping between her thighs, the taste of urgency in the air. He can never get enough of her; of the way her teeth worry at her bottom lip, of the soft gasp as her fingers press inside, of the slick slide of their skin together and the way her flesh shimmers. His eyes follow a single drop of perspiration, its path following the contours of her chest, and he knows he’s panting, and Rogue’s lips quirk as she positions herself. Her gaze burns at him and he needs to never stop looking at her but he can’t help the way his eyes flutter closed as she slowly lowers herself on to him, and heat and sensation grip him.
She pauses above him, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and Bobby trembles, hands fisted in the blanket, as he tries to catch his breath.
She rises up slightly, and he has to open his eyes again, has to watch. Her lips are parted and pink, face bowed forward before she sinks over him again and her head rolls back, throat exposed, and her husky groan fills his ears. The heat there is unbelievable, almost unbearable, and Bobby’s hands grip and squeeze at her thighs as she finds a rhythm that suits her and begins to ride him in earnest.
He hears his own raspy breathing mingle with her soft noises of hunger and need, feels her tremble around him, and he feels a chill sweep through him, although he’s trained well enough that it doesn’t reach his skin. Instead it moves within, ice cold flame that leaves him shivering, pleasure spreading through him and sweat on his skin. He can’t keep his hands from reaching for her, touching everywhere he can, and she always welcomes his fingers and their exploration. He holds her hip with one hand, not guiding her, only steadying her, and the other slides across, presses where she needs it, and her fingers join his and everything seems to speed up, seems to rock through him that much more forcefully.
He’s groaning, low and near-constant, and Bobby’s so close and the slide of it, heat all around him, makes his head spin, and he can’t get the leverage to buck into her movements. Doesn’t need it, is more than content to let Rogue take what she needs, and he can tell by the way she twists and rocks against him that she’s on the edge with him, can hear it in each little gasp that slips from her lips. She’s laid open above him, spread and bared and so powerful and so beautiful and so in control of her life, her destiny, and Bobby needs her, can’t be without her.
“Marie,” he whispers, and he feels her jolt of surprise before she tightens around him. She cries out, low and throaty, but he can’t make out any words there over the roaring in his ears, heartbeat echoing all around him as release grips him, takes him, and he shudders and arches into her. Her fingernails are at his chest and his hands grip at her hips as she gradually slows above him, her trembling rushing through him and leaving him breathless.
His vision wavers and settles, and she’s looking down at him with slightly wide eyes, but there isn’t any anger there. Just the two of them and secrets unsaid and the flicker of candlelight as snow falls outside the window, and Christmas morning.
Fandom: X-Men (movieverse)
Pairing: Bobby/Rogue
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1882
Timeline: Post-X3
Notes: For 50_smutlets, prompt "candles".
Summary: Marking the occasion.
It’s not their first Christmas together, but it is the first Christmas since Alcatraz, since the war, since the Cure. The first Christmas where they can wake up in the same bed, not afraid of accidental touches, wrapped around each other under the blankets with snow gently falling beyond the window.
The first Christmas where Bobby can wake Rogue with a kiss, and he wants it to be perfect.
They’re spending the day at Rogue’s apartment, heading for the Mansion in the evening for what Miss Munroe promises will be a feast to remember. Rogue’s decorations aren’t much, and many of them were discretely borrowed from the Mansion’s never-ending supply, but the effect is cosy, more welcoming, and she’s worked hard at making the most of what she has.
It was made clear that Rogue would always be welcome at the Mansion, even if she could no longer be technically classified as a mutant, but she was eager to leave as soon as possible. Eager to find an apartment and a job and live the normal life she’d never thought she could.
Bobby might be the one called upon to fight the bad guys when they creep out of the woodwork, but he suspects Rogue finds more happiness in the everyday occurrences of working in a bank and shopping in a supermarket than he experiences in the most exhilarating of battles.
Rogue’s still a light sleeper, jerking awake at every sound, at every movement. She’s slowly training herself to roll over, close her eyes again and fight the instinct to run, but there’s no sneaking from the bed without disturbing her.
“Bathroom,” he shrugs when she blinks groggily at him a little after midnight, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead, and he watches her nod and roll over, and waits until her breathing evens out before quietly closing the door behind him.
He figures he has less than ten minutes before she comes looking for him, and he reaches into his backpack and sets to work.
Rogue’s voice calls his name just over eight minutes later, and Bobby glances around the room one more time, satisfied with what he sees, before the bedroom door creaks open.
Rogue’s eyes are wary but they widen in surprise, mouth dropping open, as she takes in the room.
There are candles on every available surface, glowing softly, warmth filling every corner. Ivy and mistletoe and holly decorates every bowl and plate and candle holder Bobby could find on short notice. A blanket stretches over the cushions and spare pillows on the floor, and he sits in the centre, a glass of champagne in each hand, smiling at her shock.
“Merry Christmas,” he says softly, and Rogue’s mouth closes with an audible click.
She slowly walks across the room, eyes a little awed as they sweep over every lightly flickering flame, fingers reaching out and brushing holly berries and ivy leaves.
“I can’t believe you,” she murmurs, and there’s an amused smile on her lips as she circles the blanket and sits beside him.
Bobby grins broadly, holding out the champagne, and watches the graceful curve of her fingers around the glass and the glimmer of flame shining in her eyes.
“But the fire alarm?” she says with a glance up at the smoke detector, only to laugh at the thick layer of ice encasing it. “Hmm, you thought of everything.”
Bobby nods and presses closer, because Rogue’s always about the little details, and he’s learning to appreciate and emulate that. He jokes that being a bank teller suits her, because her trained eye suits forms and applications, and when Rogue tells him about her day, she always fixates on the trivial aspects, those small little things that make up the bigger picture of her new life.
The only thing she isn’t willing to share is the origin of her name tag, silver letters spelling out the word ‘Marie’, and she insists it was chosen at random, a new name for a new life.
Bobby doesn’t ask if it might just be her real name, because he already knows she won’t answer.
He doesn’t begrudge her secrets, can’t really begrudge her anything. He knows she’ll tell him when she’s ready, and if she’s never ready, he knows he’ll accept that.
Rogue slides her bare hand over his, and the shiver he feels at her skin against his own is still just as fierce as the first time they touched.
They gently clink the rim of their glasses together and drink, and Bobby tries not to wrinkle his nose at the taste. He’s never much cared for champagne, but he’s more nervous than he really should be, and champagne seemed the obvious choice. Rogue drinks without comment, so he hopes he made the right decision.
The heat in her gaze draws goosebumps across his flesh, and he knows there’s hunger in his own eyes as she takes the glass from his hand. Her hair is loose, swinging forward as she leans to the side to set the glasses on the floor, and he can’t help but shift closer, pressing his chest to her arm so he can reach the curve of her neck, kissing the soft skin there.
Rogue glances back at him over her shoulder, eyes hooded, and Bobby swallows thickly and doesn’t resist when she turns back and presses her hands against his chest, easing him back against the cushions. She slides a leg over his hips, straddling his stomach, and he feels his breath catch and his pulse begin to race as she slowly peels her top upwards, off her stomach, dragging the material higher over the curves of her chest, before tugging it over her head. Her eyes bore into him, a lazily seductive smirk on her lips, as she drops the clothing to the side, and Bobby finds himself hypnotised by the dance of shadow over her breasts, skin glowing amber in the candlelight.
His hands follow the line of her naked thighs, brushing upward to rest at her waist, and she stretches gracefully above him, spine arching and so wantonly displayed, making the softest noise of appreciation as she relaxes against his touch, all traces of sleepiness vanishing. One hand slips through her hair, lightly flicking it over one shoulder, while the other reaches for him, and he finds himself instinctively leaning up to meet her as she leans forward for a kiss.
Her lips are slow and leisurely over his own, and the tang of champagne tastes better on her tongue than it did from the glass, and Bobby finds himself warming to the taste. Her tongue swirls against his own, ripples against him, and her kisses are always so confident for somebody who spent so long afraid of touch. He feels surrounded, weak for her, always has been, and he lets her set the pace, accepts every movement of her lips, every meandering brush of her hands over his chest.
She leans more bodily into him, weight pressing him down, bodies sliding together, and it’s not enough, Bobby needs more, needs friction and pressure and her touch, but he could never rush her, and the tease of it always makes everything more real. He feels her shift, hand bracing beside his head, feels her fingers brush over his stomach as she reaches down, and she smiles against his lips as she slides her panties down her legs.
Bobby’s breathing is a little ragged as his own hands quickly shove his boxers down his hips, and Rogue makes an amused sound and pulls back to straddle him again, lightly kicking her panties aside. There’s a delicate flush across her face and her eyes burn brighter than the candles that surround them, and Bobby watches as she raises herself on to her knees, fingers slipping between her thighs, the taste of urgency in the air. He can never get enough of her; of the way her teeth worry at her bottom lip, of the soft gasp as her fingers press inside, of the slick slide of their skin together and the way her flesh shimmers. His eyes follow a single drop of perspiration, its path following the contours of her chest, and he knows he’s panting, and Rogue’s lips quirk as she positions herself. Her gaze burns at him and he needs to never stop looking at her but he can’t help the way his eyes flutter closed as she slowly lowers herself on to him, and heat and sensation grip him.
She pauses above him, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and Bobby trembles, hands fisted in the blanket, as he tries to catch his breath.
She rises up slightly, and he has to open his eyes again, has to watch. Her lips are parted and pink, face bowed forward before she sinks over him again and her head rolls back, throat exposed, and her husky groan fills his ears. The heat there is unbelievable, almost unbearable, and Bobby’s hands grip and squeeze at her thighs as she finds a rhythm that suits her and begins to ride him in earnest.
He hears his own raspy breathing mingle with her soft noises of hunger and need, feels her tremble around him, and he feels a chill sweep through him, although he’s trained well enough that it doesn’t reach his skin. Instead it moves within, ice cold flame that leaves him shivering, pleasure spreading through him and sweat on his skin. He can’t keep his hands from reaching for her, touching everywhere he can, and she always welcomes his fingers and their exploration. He holds her hip with one hand, not guiding her, only steadying her, and the other slides across, presses where she needs it, and her fingers join his and everything seems to speed up, seems to rock through him that much more forcefully.
He’s groaning, low and near-constant, and Bobby’s so close and the slide of it, heat all around him, makes his head spin, and he can’t get the leverage to buck into her movements. Doesn’t need it, is more than content to let Rogue take what she needs, and he can tell by the way she twists and rocks against him that she’s on the edge with him, can hear it in each little gasp that slips from her lips. She’s laid open above him, spread and bared and so powerful and so beautiful and so in control of her life, her destiny, and Bobby needs her, can’t be without her.
“Marie,” he whispers, and he feels her jolt of surprise before she tightens around him. She cries out, low and throaty, but he can’t make out any words there over the roaring in his ears, heartbeat echoing all around him as release grips him, takes him, and he shudders and arches into her. Her fingernails are at his chest and his hands grip at her hips as she gradually slows above him, her trembling rushing through him and leaving him breathless.
His vision wavers and settles, and she’s looking down at him with slightly wide eyes, but there isn’t any anger there. Just the two of them and secrets unsaid and the flicker of candlelight as snow falls outside the window, and Christmas morning.