Illusions (X-Men, mf, Mystique/Wolverine)
May. 3rd, 2007 12:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
applecameronAuthor: Apple Cameron
Title: Illusions
Pairing: Mystique/Wolverine
Film canon only (X2), spoilers for the film. Ignores anything that happened in X3, since I haven't seen it.
She'd come to him out of nowhere, a flash of red and blue and an odor he knew. He always knew. She tormented him with her appearances, most recently as that Japanese woman he'd fought at Alkali Lake, who'd cried silver tears by the time they were done.
She never cried.
Mystique came to him out of nowhere, and disappeared the same way, and in between? In between they fucked.
Once she changed shape three times, Rogue-Jean-Storm right after the other, as he pounded into that hot wet cleft whose smell she couldn't hide, and he came like a freight train, so hard he popped a vessel in his eye.
It healed in a few seconds, just long enough for her to comment, lying there with an amalgram of faces in her, and yellow eyes. "Was it good for you?"
The Jean face was always torture. Yet he'd turn around, scenting the air, looking for her, no matter the face, as soon he caught a whiff of her.
The first time, in the tent, before Jean died, he'd known it was her. Kissed her, knowing it wasn't Jean. But wanting, nonetheless. Wanting. To believe. To believe she'd come to the bad boy.
And now he had his own bad girl. His own bad girl who could be the flavor of the month.
She liked the chocolaty contrast of Storm's skin on Logan's, at least that's what she said. After a few visits, when he was starting to get seriously disturbed -- what, had he not been before? maybe not -- by Storm's face and that smell, he'd commented, "blue makes a nice contrast, too." She just looked at him, yellow peering out from behind those brown eyes that belonged to another woman.
That was the first time she'd spent most of the night, and Logan went to sleep with a woman in his arms, one he didn't have to fear for.
And she was blue when he woke up. Easy as that.
Mystique liked to be on top. She'd torture him for an hour, sliding up and down around his dick. Eyes slitted halfway, looking like a cat in the dark.
But he knew, could smell it when the moment struck her, and all she wanted was to be thrown on her back and fucked mercilessly, as hard as he could, driving toward that sweet spot that made her scream, scream loudest, scream longest, lift him up with her body, hold him so tight and so hard, each marking the other with nails and teeth and (once) claws, and she never blinked, never ran away, finally dropping her mask when he dropped his, their bodies racing together to some eternity neither would ever live to see.
White hands on blue flesh did make a nice contrast.
Title: Illusions
Pairing: Mystique/Wolverine
Film canon only (X2), spoilers for the film. Ignores anything that happened in X3, since I haven't seen it.
She'd come to him out of nowhere, a flash of red and blue and an odor he knew. He always knew. She tormented him with her appearances, most recently as that Japanese woman he'd fought at Alkali Lake, who'd cried silver tears by the time they were done.
She never cried.
Mystique came to him out of nowhere, and disappeared the same way, and in between? In between they fucked.
Once she changed shape three times, Rogue-Jean-Storm right after the other, as he pounded into that hot wet cleft whose smell she couldn't hide, and he came like a freight train, so hard he popped a vessel in his eye.
It healed in a few seconds, just long enough for her to comment, lying there with an amalgram of faces in her, and yellow eyes. "Was it good for you?"
The Jean face was always torture. Yet he'd turn around, scenting the air, looking for her, no matter the face, as soon he caught a whiff of her.
The first time, in the tent, before Jean died, he'd known it was her. Kissed her, knowing it wasn't Jean. But wanting, nonetheless. Wanting. To believe. To believe she'd come to the bad boy.
And now he had his own bad girl. His own bad girl who could be the flavor of the month.
She liked the chocolaty contrast of Storm's skin on Logan's, at least that's what she said. After a few visits, when he was starting to get seriously disturbed -- what, had he not been before? maybe not -- by Storm's face and that smell, he'd commented, "blue makes a nice contrast, too." She just looked at him, yellow peering out from behind those brown eyes that belonged to another woman.
That was the first time she'd spent most of the night, and Logan went to sleep with a woman in his arms, one he didn't have to fear for.
And she was blue when he woke up. Easy as that.
Mystique liked to be on top. She'd torture him for an hour, sliding up and down around his dick. Eyes slitted halfway, looking like a cat in the dark.
But he knew, could smell it when the moment struck her, and all she wanted was to be thrown on her back and fucked mercilessly, as hard as he could, driving toward that sweet spot that made her scream, scream loudest, scream longest, lift him up with her body, hold him so tight and so hard, each marking the other with nails and teeth and (once) claws, and she never blinked, never ran away, finally dropping her mask when he dropped his, their bodies racing together to some eternity neither would ever live to see.
White hands on blue flesh did make a nice contrast.