mystique/magneto
Erik makes her wait and wait and wait, until irritation bubbles up under her skin and tingles along her scales, settles heavy in her abdomen, mixing in with lust and anger and loneliness and inadequacy because she can be whoever he needs her to be, whether that’s brunette or blonde or blue — but he never asks her to, restricts himself (and her) to fleeting touches across her collarbone, her legs, heated eyes along the curve of her breast.
Raven shoves at his chest, hard, during training when she finally, finally disarms him with quick efficient strikes, “I’m not a fucking child, Erik.”
He laughs, a little relieved, and leans in, offering his mouth which she takes greedily as he breathes, “I know”, lets her press him to the ground, mark and taste him and he licks across her scales, warm hands everywhere, and she knows she’ll never get tired of the way he gasps and moans unabashed, the mighty Magneto needing her, little blue Raven, and curls his toes, and asks for her permission to come
a rosary of pleasepleasepleaseravenplease
until she says
y e s.