Loading ...
Sorry, an error occurred while loading the content.

Fic: The Empire of the Senses 1/1 [L/R]

Expand Messages
  • victoria p.
    Yeah, more from me. I m on vacation this week and finishing off a lot of stuff. Title: The Empire of the Senses: A Prose Poem Author: Victoria P.
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 4 5:56 PM
      Yeah, more from me. I'm on vacation this week and finishing off a lot of

      Title: The Empire of the Senses: A Prose Poem
      Author: Victoria P. [victoria_p@...]
      Summary: If Logan were more of a poet, he might think like this about Marie.
      It's very mushy. He'd be embarrassed, I'm sure.
      Rating: PG
      Disclaimer: I *wish* I owned Logan, but I don't. Sigh. Marvel & Fox do.
      Archive: It's cool - just let me know.
      Feedback: It gives me the warm fuzzies, so please do...
      Notes: Thanks to Dot, Jen, Meg & Pete. The title comes from the song "Love
      Is the Seventh Wave" by Sting.

      The Empire of the Senses


      I watch her.

      She's everything I'll ever need, and everything I'm not allowed to have.

      She's grown, changed, not a kid anymore. Her body, long, lithe and sleek,
      curved in all the right places, appears in my dreams. Dreams of her have
      replaced the nightmares that filled my sleep for so long. In a way, they're
      just as bad, because they'll never come true. When I wake, I can look, but
      never touch. And not because of her skin. I know a dozen ways around that.
      I'm creative; I'm experienced.

      Her eyes are dark and shadowed. I'm no poet, but she makes me wish I were.
      Her eyes are full of pain -- old pain that no one should ever have to
      know -- but she carries it like a saint. A real saint of flesh and blood --
      not some stupid plaster statue. I want to make the pain disappear. I want to
      know what her eyes look like in the frenzy of passion and the warmth of the
      afterglow. I want to see my love for her reflected back at me, the last
      thing I see at night and the first thing in the morning.

      But she's too young and fragile, old before her time, and I see the way they
      shake their heads at me. So looking is all I'm allowed to do.


      Her voice. I listen for the sound of her voice. It soothes me when nothing
      else can. Soft, her accent comes and goes now, with her emotions. The years
      have worn it away. It's stronger when she's excited or upset. It makes me
      wonder what she'd sound like beneath me. Would she scream my name or would
      she whisper, soft cries in that honeyed silk that pours over me 'til I think
      I'm going to drown? A man could drown in that voice, and thank God while
      he's dying.

      The wind carries it to me when she's out of my sight. I know every tone and
      nuance -- laughter, tears, terror. Too much of the last two. Too much pain
      in my girl's short life. I'd protect her from it all if I could, but I know
      that some of it is mine. I've caused her pain, and that hurts me more than
      anything -- more than not knowing who I am, more than the nightmares of what
      they did to me. And more than anything, I want to take that pain away.

      I could, too. She would let me. I can hear her heartbeat as I approach; it
      always speeds up when I'm around. But they tell me it would be wrong. I know
      she's too young, the voice I love so much is that of a girl just growing
      into womanhood.

      But it stays with me and I hear it in my dreams -- it drives away the


      I would know her scent anywhere. They could strip my mind again, make me a
      drooling imbecile, and I'd be able to find her, track her, bring her home.

      It's sweet and young and sometimes fearful, but never of me. Not even when
      we met in that dingy bar in the back of beyond did she fear me. And I love
      her for that courage, for her belief that I would never hurt her, even
      though I have, over and over again, without meaning to.

      Her smell comforts me. Just knowing she's been in my room, knowing she's in
      my life, gives me a peace I've never felt. When I go away, and I do, I
      always come back, because I carry her with me, her smell lingers in the air
      around me, guiding me to her like the North Star guides sailors.


      I've tasted her skin. I have, and it's sweet and salt and everything
      wonderful that taste can be. I wish I could taste it again, when it's not
      cold and dead under my lips, when I'm not praying to whatever gods exist
      that she be all right, that I should die instead. I wish I could taste her
      long and graceful neck, the crook of her elbow, the skin behind her knees
      and all the secret places women have that make men wild.

      I know she would taste like heaven, like nothing on this earth has ever
      tasted before. And I would let her linger on my tongue, content with
      whatever she'd consent to give me -- I would taste her tears and her
      laughter and her sweat when we make love and food would never appeal to me


      There's the problem. She's untouchable, encased in a prison of her own skin.
      I could get around it, easily. Skin-on-skin is great, but it's not
      necessary. I could make her feel things she's never felt before, and I could
      do it without getting hurt. But it's not myself I worry about. We need to
      touch, people do, and I know I'm the only one not afraid to touch her, even
      through her clothes. And that should be enough, should show them that I
      wouldn't hurt her, would rather use these damned claws of mine and rip out
      my own heart before I did. But they tell me I'm wrong, I need to keep my
      distance. They hold me back with gentle touches, a delicate hand on my arm
      that I shake off, but I fear they may be right.

      So I touch her in little ways, my hand in her hair, where it's safe. A
      squeeze of her shoulder to let her know I'm around. A hug on her birthday,
      when everyone gets to touch and no one can frown if I linger longer than the

      But they frown when I wear my gloves all day, looking for opportunities to
      brush my hand down her cheek, making her smile. They shake their heads when
      I caress her back, massage her shoulders after a long day of training. And
      they mutter at me when I pick her up, cradling her against my chest, and
      carry her to her room after she's fallen asleep on the couch downstairs.

      And I listen to them, and know that I'm the problem. Everything about me is
      tainted, and with one touch -- two -- I've tainted her. Now they're afraid
      I'll break her. Use her and leave her, like I've done with every other woman
      in my life. But I won't. I can't leave her. She's everything that's good in
      me -- my hope when I want to give up, give in to despair, and my peace when
      I rage against the hand this life has dealt us.

      I've got these supersenses and they let me have her in ways other people,
      the ones who frown and shake their heads, can never understand. She's the
      empire I seek to conquer, the unexplored continent I wish to make my own.

      And I will. Someday.

    Your message has been successfully submitted and would be delivered to recipients shortly.