She tries not to think about that time in her life. She's happy with Remy, with her work-- despite the constant threats to her very existence and the fact she can't touch him. She loves her friends--her family really--her life.
But, sometimes, late at night, when she can't sleep because it's too damn cold even with insulated walls and a pile of blankets, she remembers.
Naked flesh touching hers.
Nothing happening but pleasure.
He told her he was too old for her--despite the rejuvenation, he had been in a World War II concentration camp, he was much older than her.
He was the first person able to touch her since she'd been a child.
She didn't care.
He didn't kiss like an old man. He didn't taste like one or smell like one.
He smelled of heat and strength and tasted of something rich and hungry.
After the first, hesitant kiss from her, he touched her like he couldn't get enough.
He showed her so many things, taught her how to please and feel pleasure, taught her so much more than her own fumbling fingers.
For her, he left his past behind, became the man he'd been meant to be. For him, she became a woman.
In those weeks in the Savage Land, Rogue experienced so many things she never has since, and she misses them.
But, more, she misses him.
The man he'd been there. The man he'd been there for her.
Erik, not Magneto, not even Magnus.
Erik, her first lover.
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