Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3627.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      X-Men_(Movieverse)
  Relationship:
      Bobby/Rogue
  Character:
      Bobby, Rogue
  Additional Tags:
      Het, Kink
  Stats:
      Published: 2005-05-23 Words: 4156
****** You Get What You Need ******
by norah
Summary
     Directly after the events of X2, Rogue can't sleep. Neither can
     Bobby.
Notes
     For the 2005 Kink/Cliché Multifandom Challenge (verbal domination and
     exhibitionism). Betaing and hand-holding by Minisinoo, Mofic,
     Fanofall, and Wild Boys, who are all fabulous; Min and Mo,
     particularly, kicked my ass when I needed it and made extensive
     helpful comments and suggestions on the characterization.
It's been a long day, and Marie's got too much on her mind to go to sleep. Too
much on her mind in a very literal sense. She feels crowded, mentally, with so
many new imprints.
That’s how she thinks of them – imprints. It’s not like the people she's
touched, the people she's absorbed, are actually inside her head, and they’re
not just memories, or voices, either. She tried to explain it to Bobby, once;
she told him it was like living inside a bunch of other people, only in her own
skin. He didn’t really understand, but that’s the closest she’s ever gotten to
being able to put it into words.
Marie can still feel St. John, his anger, his frustration, his delight in his
own power. The imprint is strong and fresh, overriding older voices like Erik's
and Logan's. His feelings and reactions, memories and thought patterns, are
heavy in her mind and she's not sure how much it’s bleeding through, but she
suspects it’s quite a bit. She catches her fingers twitching, trying to flick a
lighter she’s never owned.
It took her weeks after Ellis Island to stop calling the Professor "Charles"
and leave off whirling white-knuckled and ready for action at the slightest
disturbance; months more for the dreams to stop, of cages and uniformed men in
laboratories, of smooth metal and grimy old streets. It isn’t all bad; trig
suddenly makes a lot more sense, though she’s not sure which one that came
from, and she wasn’t the one who knew enough about planes to half-pilot that
jet, either. Still, she’d give just about anything to make it go away.
It's not as bad this time. She didn't take as much from St. John as she had
from the others. Just enough to make him stop. But it's still bad. And he's not
the only new imprint, either. She's got a bit of Bobby in there now too, sad
and wistful and wanting and when you put the sad with the angry and the wanting
with the frustration and think about the fucking awful things that have been
happening – well. No wonder it’s two in the morning and she’s still staring at
the ceiling, wide awake.
Dr. Grey is dead. St. John is gone. She’s been to Boston, Canada, and the White
House in the last few days, been shot at and psychically attacked, flown a
multi-million dollar stealth plane (badly), met her boyfriend’s family, had the
second (and third) kiss of her whole life, and gained two new imprints. It's
enough to make her want to scream or fight or fucking burn the mansion down or…
She can't burn the mansion down. That's not her power. She shoves the thought
back, sits up in bed and puts her arms around her knees. Fuck.
She needs to talk to Bobby. He's probably not asleep either; without knowing
how she knows (is it his imprint? St. John’s? Or did he tell her and she just
forgot?) Marie is sure he's awake. And she has a good idea of where he'll be.
Shoving down the sheets, she hops out of bed, putting on the long gloves from
the nightstand out of habit, and finding a warmer robe to go over her thin
satin nightgown. The hallway outside her room is dark and silent, and the rug
runners are cool and soft against her bare feet. Closing the door behind her,
she pads down the hall and up a small flight of stairs.
Bobby's sitting in the reading nook in front of the open window. The wind is
blowing in; it's cold, but of course he can't feel it, even though all he's got
on is a thin t-shirt and his boxers. When he hears the door open, his head
snaps up – he's still wound tight from the day, and Marie can see every muscle
in his body tense before he sees it's her. He slumps back and gives her a small
half-smile. "Hey, Marie."
She goes over to him and closes the window, sitting down next to him and
curling carefully into his side. She wraps her hands, warm in the long gloves,
around his waist, and leans her head against his shoulder, making sure her hair
shields his skin from hers. He worms an arm around her in turn and for a while,
they just sit like that.
It's good, just being with Bobby. She likes him. She trusts him, and she
doesn't trust many people, even now she's been at the school for a while.
Remnants of Erik or Logan, or maybe just her own experience, have taught her
that; she can remember the look in her mother's eyes the day she sent Jason to
the hospital in a coma. Human affection is a fragile thing. Especially when
you're a mutant.
The memory of her own parents reminds her that she's not the only one hurting.
Bobby lost his family today, or as good as, and he's probably just as raw and
hurt as she feels now. Friendly, open, loving Bobby, who wears his heart on his
sleeve. She squeezes him a little tighter and murmurs into his neck, "Bobby."
He hums a little interrogatory noise and kisses her hair.
"Bobby, your family –" he goes still above her, but she's said it now, she has
to continue. "I'm so sorry."
He shrugs, but she can feel the tension in him, the way his shoulder curls down
a little more under her head. "Well, I guess I didn't really expect them to be
happy about it. I hoped …" his voice chokes off, and he shrugs again. "Maybe
they'll get over it." He doesn't sound as though he believes himself.
Marie pulls back, looking at him as she smoothes one gloved hand through his
messy, every-which-way hair. His face is pinched and unhappy as he stares back
at her.
"I wish I could kiss you," he says suddenly. "I wish I could touch you." His
voice is fierce, and his hand tightens on her hip.
"I'm sorry, Bobby." And she is. "I don't want to hurt you." He looks away and
hangs his head. She rubs at one thigh, feeling the satin shift against her
skin. She's hypersensitive, her body aware of the slide of the fabric, the
warmth of Bobby's arm, the cool air on her skin.
Marie wants to touch as badly as he does, though she's learned to ignore the
low-level craving that's always with her. Tonight, especially, she needs
something to ground her, to lessen the tension, to center her on her own
reactions, focus her in her own thoughts.
"We could, um . . . " she's blushing now, and can't quite say what she's
thinking, but she can tell he's listening. "Look, Bobby, I wish we could, I
really do."
"It's okay," he says, a little too quickly, and she knows it's not. They're
coming of age in wartime, whatever the Professor says, and Dr. Grey is dead and
St. John is gone and they can't even fucking touch each other. It's not okay.
The anger and frustration comes slamming back, and even being held like this
isn't enough to calm her. Her hands twitch again, but there's no lighter, no
adamantium, nothing but her own blocked and starved and deadly skin beneath the
gloves. She feels reckless, dangerous.
She slides her hand over, onto his thigh, and leans back.
"You could touch yourself for me." And just saying it is a rush, power and sex
and possibility. She can hear St. John say "Because I can," leaning back in his
chair at the museum with that cocky grin. Hears it in stereo, surround sound,
her memory of it merged with Bobby's merged with St. John's. Remembers the
heady rush of using power just because. Just because she can.
Bobby swallows hard, and before he can open his mouth to start asking questions
she reaches over and takes his hand in hers, moves it up and sets it at the
juncture of his own hip and his thigh, over the thin cotton of his boxers. "Go
on, Bobby. I want to watch." She takes her hand away and scoots back, moving
out of the snug circle of his arm to the other side of the windowseat.
He's still staring at her with his mouth hanging open, not moving. She hears
herself say, "What's the matter, Drake, you chicken?" and knows it's not her
voice, not her words, but the bravado seems to be helping, so she doesn't shove
it back down. She lets the robe fall back off her shoulders and draws up one
bare foot onto the cushion.
She knows that her nipples are hard in the cool air, poking through the satin.
She knows, because Bobby can't keep his eyes off them. His gaze has dropped
from her face and he's staring, though he yanks his attention back up to her
face when she reaches up and pinches at one of them.
Knowing he's watching her is kind of hot, but she's not going to do this alone.
"Bobby," she says again. "Go on. I want to see you. Please." His hand twitches,
an abortive movement like he's not sure whether to try to hide his growing
erection or help it along. She reaches for that voice, the brash part of her
mind that calls him "Drake." She needs the borrowed confidence for this,
because God knows she'd never ask on her own.
And St. John wouldn't have either, but this desire she feels isn't all hers.
She feels pieces of it that have a different … texture, or something. Like, but
not like. It's a bit of a shock to the part of her that isn't wrapped up in
this, the part that's still observing, but she realizes dimly that it makes
sense. She and John both wanted this, and this is the only way they'll get it;
his words, her body. Bobby's reacting to them both, in a way, almost holding
his breath as he watches her, pressing his palm against his cock, camouflage
and contact both. She smiles, and it's a dare, a goad.
"Take your shirt off." She's coaxing, but the smile remains, taunting; she can
feel it, knows how it looks on her face, St. John's smirk. She's still toying
with her nipple and Bobby swallows as his eyes drop to watch. He puts his hands
to the hem of his shirt and hesitates. "Good boy, Bobby," she drawls, and he
sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening in the material.
The shirt comes up and over his head in one movement; he tosses it next to
himself on the floor, like if he thought about it any more he'd chicken out.
Part of her is shaking – my God, he's almost naked – and part of her already
knows what he looks like, smooth and pale with sleek muscle just beneath the
skin.
He's all the way hard now, his boxers poking out in front, the gap in the fly
pushing open under the pressure. Marie's never seen a man's cock before, but
she's got enough men in her head that some days she can't believe she hasn't
got one of her own. After Ellis Island sometimes she'd wake up in the middle of
the night to take a piss and stumble half-asleep into the bathroom to stand
over the toilet before she remembered she had to sit down to pee. But knowing
what it feels like to have a cock and seeing someone else hard for you are two
different things. She licks her lips.
"Show me." Telling Bobby what to do is hotter than it should be, and it goes
straight to her clit when she sees him run his hand over his cock through the
cotton. He's still blushing, but he lets out this little gasp when he does it,
too. "Wish I could kiss you, Bobby Drake," she says, and she feels St. John's
frustration and longing, indistinguishable from her own. "Wish I could touch
you. Touch yourself for me," and he's got a good grip now, he's stroking
himself slowly through the cotton, "let me see you."
He shudders and his head falls back a little, but he's not just giving in. "You
too," he manages, and his voice breaks, but he continues. "You touch yourself
for me, too."
She grins a little. He’s right - fair’s fair, and if he's taking off clothes
for her, she should reciprocate. Just too bad for him she's got a little bit
more on to start with. She struggles out of the robe completely and lets a
strap of the nightgown fall down her shoulder, far enough that one side slips
over the peak of her nipple. "I can do that," and she's teasing a little, now,
reaching up to cup her breast, running her thumb up and over the tip, feeling
the areola draw tight and catch on the fabric of the glove. "If you'll take
your shorts off."
He's staring at her, at the curve of her breast over the dark satin of her
gown, and when she reaches up with her other hand to scratch at the other
nipple through the satin he brings both hands up and hooks his thumbs in the
waistband of his boxers, pulling them out and over his erection, watching all
the while like a man in a trance. He kicks them off and God, he's completely
naked, thick cock standing up eagerly from its nest of dark blond curls, skin
shining cold in the moonlight. "Go on," Marie prompts him, and he wraps his
fingers around the shaft and starts to stroke, slow and even.
She bites at the fingers of her left hand, using her teeth to pull off the
glove, the stretchy fabric clinging and resisting. She's done that twice in the
last two days, stripped off her glove; once to make John stop when he'd gone
crazy on the porch, and once in anger at Magneto's taunts. It's dangerous, her
skin, and she unsheathes it like the weapon it is.
Bobby stops the motion of his hand to watch her take the glove off and set it
carefully aside, and he can see that he's pressing hard at the base of his cock
as she dips two naked fingers in her mouth. She can't believe she's doing this,
but it's so good, the way he's looking at her, the way he's gasping now, quiet
shuddering breaths. And maybe she couldn't pull this off without a head full of
other people, but it's not all bad. Sometimes you get what you need, she thinks
to herself, and she'd laugh if it weren't so deadly serious.
She sucks at her fingers, watching Bobby's cock. She knows what it would taste
like; too many men in her head for her not to know that taste. Maybe she even
knows what Bobby tastes like, maybe some of that knowledge she can't quite sort
out comes from Bobby, his fingers in his own mouth, licking himself clean.
Tasting himself.
It's a heady thought. She takes her hand away, pulls up the hem of the
nightgown in big slithery handfuls over her bare thighs until it's half-pooled
around her waist. She's naked from the waist down, now, one leg drawn up on the
cushion and the other stretched down over the side. He probably can't see much
in the shadows, but she drops her bare hand down and rubs at her clit anyway.
She can hear him whisper, "Oh shit, Marie" as her fingers slide over slick,
swollen flesh.
She's almost too wet; her fingertips can't give her the friction she needs, but
the look in Bobby's eyes is making up for that. His hand is moving over his
cock again, short, sharp little jerks, and his eyes are wide and dark as he
watches her hands work, the one bare in the shadows between her legs and the
other dark-gloved at her pale breast.
"Jesus, Bobby, that's…oh, fuck," she can't even tell him, can't find words,
she's just slipping her fingers lower, pressing her thumb down hard on her clit
as she pushes fore and middle fingers inside her, reaching up and pressing in,
over and over. This is good; this is perfect, exactly what she needed. There’s
nothing in her imprints like this, like fucking herself on her fingers, like
the tight build of pleasure centered on her clit. This is hers. She focuses on
the sensation, lets it ground her in her body. And Bobby's watching, watching
her.
His balls are drawn up round and tight against the base of his cock and he
looks a little desperate and a little lost as he speeds his hand. His eyes are
totally intent on her, and she moans a little at how good it is.
"Don't come yet," and the command in her voice surprises her even as it makes
her squirm, fuck herself harder on her fingers, get deeper. It doesn't matter
where this comes from, this sudden ability to direct, to demand. It's hot, and
she can tell Bobby thinks so too, because he gasps and makes a little strangled
noise and snatches his hand away. His cock twitches up against his belly, and
he digs his fingers into his thighs, like he’s holding on out of sheer force of
will. There's a thin rime of frost around the indentations of his fingers, and
his breath hisses out, loud in the night air. The way he's looking at her, like
she's the only thing he wants…God.
Marie lets her breath hiss out between her teeth and pinches her nipple hard,
rolling and twisting it between gloved fingers. She hitches her hips down a
little further on the cushion, moves her foot a little closer to the window, so
she's spread wider, so she can reach the perfect angle more easily.
He’s shaking, hands clenching rhythmically, staring at her. Part of her can't
believe she's doing this in front of someone — maybe the last vestiges of
Southern propriety crying out — but she feels heady with power and sex and his
eyes on her, and really, it's too late to stop now anyway.
She can feel her orgasm tightening low in her belly and she presses her thumb
harder against her clit. It's never been this good, alone in her bed at night.
She stares at his mouth, remembers the way his kisses tasted, wants that again,
fiercely. His eyes are fixed on her, roaming over her hands, her face, and she
needs him to watch her like this, to see her.
It's so close, and she's panting, gasping out broken words; she wants to come
like this, with his eyes on her. She wants him to, oh fuck — "Bobby," she says,
and the words are thick in her throat, "Bobby, oh god, look at me, look, ah,"
so close she can taste it, and he's looking at her, whole body tense and hard
and wanting, frost forming underneath him on the cushion. "Bobby, I'm going to,
oh … watch me, watch me come," and he makes a low broken noise and just like
that, she's gone, pulse roaring in her ears, muscles snapped rigid then
clenching, violent, ebbing slowly in pulses of release and relief.
So good. There's no room for anything but her own body's response, her own
reaction. It's oddly purifying, a sweet reminder of her own discrete self. But
with the renewed awareness of herself comes the beginnings of self-
consciousness. She's barely come down when she opens her eyes.
Bobby's still looking at her, still trembling with suppressed tension and want.
His hands are off his thighs now and reaching for himself, hovering, and she
panics a little, fumbling for her discarded glove.
"Wait, Bobby, not yet," and she's pulling it on over sticky fingers and
scrambling over to him, nightgown still half off her shoulders and shaky with
aftershocks. She barely avoids falling against him in her haste and catches
herself, one gloved hand on his shoulder. He's braced against the back of the
windowseat, staring at her, looking almost afraid. "Let me," she says.
It's not gentle, with her still clumsy from her own pleasure and him wound so
tightly, but it doesn't matter. He chokes out her name at the first touch of
her gloved hand on his cock, too loudly, and she fumbles blindly for his mouth
with her other hand, covering it, fingers slipping in. His mouth is warm and
wet through the fabric; he sucks her fingers and she knows he can taste her.
"Like this, Bobby," she says, and he thrusts up into her grip jerkily, moaning
around her hand. It's not more than a few seconds before he comes messily,
suddenly, over his stomach and her glove, hips working through the last
shudders of it.
There's a sudden awkwardness, when his body relaxes and he opens his eyes. She
takes her hands off him, quickly, and unthinkingly raises one to her mouth,
licking at her glove. Salty and strong; she sees him shudder, watching her, so
she doesn't make a face, but she doesn't lick the rest of it off, either, just
drops her hand to her side, wipes it on her gown. For a moment it seems like
there's nothing to say.
Until he gives her a little half-grin, and blushes so hard she's sure he'll
melt some of the frost around them. "Damn, Marie," he says, "I kinda…I kinda
want to touch you even more, now." And she knows exactly what he means, but she
starts giggling and she can't stop. They just had sex and he still can't touch
her, and somehow this strikes them both as the most hilarious thing in the
world. They're both doubled over laughing, careful not to touch, but cracking
up and unable to stop until they both run out of breath. It feels good.
"Hey," Bobby says, when they're both done gasping for air. "Get your robe back
on and come over here again." While she's retrieving her robe, he scrambles off
the seat and finds his boxers and his shirt. He uses his shirt to wipe himself
off before putting it back on, grimacing and throwing her a rueful glance.
"Guess I get to sleep in the wet spot."
He sits back down on the windowseat, propping himself up against the side again
and patting the space by his side invitingly. He's got a big smile he can't
seem to get rid of, and she's pretty sure she looks about the same, though
she's having a little trouble looking him right in the eye just at the moment.
Covered now, and warmer, she crawls back over and tucks herself into his side.
When his arm steals around her, it's like they're back where they started, like
none of it happened at all. Except that she feels calm now, and a little empty,
and a lot good. She giggles softly, and he drops a kiss on her hair. "Damn,
Marie," he says again, "full of surprises, aren'tcha?"
He can't see her blushing, but she can feel her face get hot. She thinks about
some of the things she just said to him, some of the things she just did, and
goes quiet and still with embarrassment.
Bobby's arm tightens around her waist. "I liked it," he says softly, and she
relaxes a little. "I just wasn't expecting anything like that. I mean, we never
…"
"I know," Marie says, and she does. She wasn't expecting it either. "I just …
it's been a long couple of days, Bobby. And I …" she's not sure how to explain
what happened, why she suddenly needed that so badly, where it all came from.
Some of it isn't hers to explain, and some of it's just impossible to put into
words. If Bobby couldn't understand when she tried to tell him about the
imprints, this whole thing will sound completely crazy. "It just seemed like
the right thing."
He laughs quietly, above her head. "Don't hear me complaining. I feel like I
might actually be able to get some sleep now." He moves his arm to get at the
hood of her robe and draws it up, pulling and tugging at it until it goes over
her head and she can lean her cheek on his shoulder with the warm fleece
between them. There's a lap blanket pushed over near the window, and he throws
it over her legs before gathering her back in. "Don't wanna move, though."
"Mmmm." She's warm and comfortable, and her head feels clear for the first time
in days. She can feel him getting heavier, the grip of his hand on her waist
slackening as his breathing evens out. Out like a light. She snuggles in a
little closer and closes her eyes.
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