BY : Amandasfire
Category: X-Men: (All Movies) > Het - Male/Female > Logan/Jean
Dragon prints: 1899
Disclaimer: Marvel owns em, not me. I just play with them after hours!

Disclaimer: No, I don't own ANY OF THE CHARACTERS FROM MARVEL, nor any of the characters of X-Men the cartoon, comic, or movie, NONE of them, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WOLVERINE, JEAN, CYCLOPS, or anyone else who might get mentioned! I just borrow them, let them play, and then sneak them back home to Marvel before anyone notices they're missing.

This is a fan fiction, it's a work of fan appreciation, and I'm not selling it or making any kind of money off of it.

Feedback: Yes!

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No lights.

No voices.

Just the sound of skin.

Skin sliding against skin, slick wet sounds, hurried rhythmic breathing. Gasps, startled, shy and astonished.

Hands, rough hands. Moving, squeezing, fingertips brushing over flesh and memorizing it by touch. Broad fingers shaking with urgency and pent up lust, thumbs hooking under leather and pulling it, clinging, tugging down over milky white thighs.

Hair, plastered down with sweat. Deep red against freckles and ivory. Fire bright strands twisted and wet, hanging like strings of fireflies over her face, her chest, her back.

Teeth, his teeth, canines dangerously skimming down her neck, her jugular, licking, kissing, tasting her. His teeth, lightly closing around the tip of a nipple, squeezing, releasing, trailing down her stomach and the crest of her hip.

Her fingernails, gripping, digging, carving little half moons into his body, his shoulders, his back, tightening their hold with every kiss, caress, bite. Dragging hard, mercilessly, leaving bright streaks, streaks disappearing like jet trails.

Smell, an overwhelming sense. Pheromones, sweat, shampoo, an apple, musk, salt, and the heavy curtain of lust that drives out every other thought, every sight, every sound. A tunnel, closing in, all focusing on one thing, her.

Feelings she can sense like an echo, burning dark and low and wild, the intensity, the sudden whispered thoughts, the obscene climax, the instinct, the pull together almost magnetic, alluring, unstoppable.

His hair, brushing against her face, soft, untamed. Falling back as he tilts his face away, finally feeling the sweet wet sheathe close over him, drowning him, head under water.

A moment of complete silence, of reverence, as they are bonded. Her shuddering gasp swallowed by a kiss.

Soft, gently curved lips. Her lips, pressed against his lips. Her mouth, open to his mouth.

A full pout falling open to a moan. A hiss.

Naked pink tongue darting out and wetting the chapped skin. Her lips, calling out, fingers flying to cover her mouth, falling away as she arches suddenly and nearly loses control. Biting down, feeling her teeth squeezing until the salt sea of blood springs out.

Her moment. Wild red hair flung back and across the pillow in a messy swathe of fire, body tense and humming like a violin as she watches where they're joined and the world comes rushing at her like a thousand mile train, hitting her straight on, ripping the control from her hands and releasing a scream, inside her head, outside her head, everywhere.

His name.

His edge. Her voice, pushing him over. The struggle he loses completely as the mask slips and the utter surrender shows so clearly on his face, the man, the animal, everything he is all suddenly given at once, delivered, so physical and imperfect and achingly beautiful in every way. A roar to a moan, the shiver of dense muscle, the words falling out of his head, dropping on her, against, her, wrapping them both up in the story of the two of them.

The secret, their secret.

The sweet afterglow.

Heartbeats slowing, heads feverish with blurry bliss and fulfillment. Not thinking straight. Not thinking at all. Being warm. Being whole. Two bodies together, two minds as one, merged and melded and run together like bright wet paint.

Bed, her bed... but not his. Wrong, all wrong. Her marriage bed, her marriage to another. Not his bed. So forbidden. So good and so satisfying. So guilty.

The feelings well inside her like a thousand demons crawling from slowly from her soul. So guilty, so wrong.

Tears, her tears, tracing small translucent paths across her face, pooling at her chin. Dripping, sliding, mingling with sweat. His fingers, rough but tender, sweeping them away, holding her, pulling up the covers and burying both of them together back in warmth.

The silence.

"You want me to go Jeannie?" he asks softly, voice as frightened as she's ever heard it. It must be the silence. It must be the dark. There's nothing to hide here, naked in every sense, together in their cocoon. Doing what is unspeakable in the daylight, what is silenced in the bright conference rooms, what is airily dismissed in daily errands, in gossip, in life.

No one knows about it, and therefore it doesn't really exist.

Everywhere except here and now.

Pretend it's all different. Pretend we can change. Pretend like the pressure, the ache, the sting when we're apart isn't real. Just smile and carry on. And wait.

This is the only way.

"God, I don't know why I need you like this Logan," she replies, and her tone is that of frustration and reverence. Her words are bathed in worry and sluggish honey. "Again," she pleads with sudden intensity. Her face lights up like a candle. "Please, again, I need you, I need this, now."

A fierce growl and her wrists are bound in the grasp of his hand as he binds her against the bed, and give in again.

He's already moving and she's already there, matching him, and it's his hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, it's her hips pressing against his urging him on, it's the slow inexorable build to what they both need, both want, both too ashamed and scared to show to anyone except for each other.

Except for here, and now.

Two souls, twisted and bent and breathtaking, forging together in the dark.

And there's no lights, no voices.

Just the sound of skin.

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