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Fic: DAS: Addiction and Confession (1/1) Rogue

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  • Ally
    I know some of you from WR list may have read this, but I decided to post here anyway. :-) Title: Dance Among the Stars: Addiction and Confession Author: Ally
    Message 1 of 1 , Mar 2, 2001
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      I know some of you from WR list may have read this,
      but I decided to post here anyway. :-)


      Title: Dance Among the Stars: Addiction and Confession
      Author: Ally
      Email: roguegirl01@...
      Rating: NC-17 Adult-ish content (yeah, sex) and
      language.
      Summary: Rogue's addicted. 'Nuff said. Read to find
      out what happens.
      Series: Dance Among the Stars #1
      Category: Rogue POV, some L/R (implied, mostly, and a
      bit twisted 'cause that's the mood I was in when I
      wrote this.)
      Disclaimer: If I owned all of these people, do you
      think this would be a mere fanfic? No, it'd be canon,
      blazoned on the walls, etc etc etc. So, let's just say
      that, since you haven't seen this on the big screen,
      in an authorized book, or on TV, the characters in it
      aren't mine. Of course, if you hadn't wanted me to
      write about them, why the hell'd you let 'em clamor
      about in my head for gods only know how long, making
      me have to write this? Hmmmm? And I guess while I'm at
      it (although I forgot before), the story at the
      beginning, the one about the princess, is not mine. I
      sort of paraphrased it from one told on the newest
      episode of Dawson's Creek. Hey, don't give m those
      looks!
      Archive: WRFA, lists. Otherwise, ask. You'll receive.
      Trust me. I have no dignity.
      Author's Notes: There's angst. A lot. You might want
      to keep away if you can't stand the heavy stuff.
      Suicidal tendencies and some slight m/m implied. Not
      much of the latter. Trust me. It's not a fave of mine,
      but necessary in this case. (Hey, she's got Eric in
      her head.)

      ** ** mean that we're looking at one of their memories


      -------------------------------------------------------


      When I was a child and I couldn't get to sleep on dark
      nights with the wind howling and the shadows in my
      room seeming to rear up, ready to devour me, I would
      call out for my mother. She would always come to me
      and tell me stories to help me fall asleep again. As I
      lay here in this cold room, unable to move on a bed
      which offers no comfort, I remember my favorite story.


      "There once was a princess whose only love was to
      dance among the stars which made up her home in the
      heavens. She would dance from star to star, touching
      the native peoples with her passion and her courage,
      her love for the universe and her unswerving devotion
      to dance. However, the princess could never stay long
      at any one star. She was always filled with sadness
      when she was forced to continue her dance, no matter
      how much it pleased her, for the people of each star
      quickly became her friends."

      "Soon, although she did not wish it to, her sadness
      spread into her dance, and the people of the stars she
      danced on suffered greatly. The princess felt great
      anguish at this, and resolved to stop her self-pitying
      ways. It wasn't so easy, though. Each star she was
      compelled to leave for the next drove her to lower
      depths of despair and doubt. Soon, she had lost the
      will to dance, but her pattern was established and she
      could not stop."

      "Then, one day, the princess danced to the star which
      our Earth revolves around. Here she found a people
      whose nature could be as dark as her own had become,
      if they let it. However, these people were happy, for
      the most part. Soon the princess discovered why. The
      people of Earth knew how to rejoice in the simple
      things which made them happy, how to search out love
      and cherish it above all else. Soon, the princess took
      to heart the lessons the people of Earth had been so
      eager to teach her. She fell in love with a young man
      from a small kingdom and they married. The princess's
      dance had ended, and with its ending her life began."

      I whisper the story to myself as I look at the ceiling
      which glares at me. So white. Too white.

      The story has begun to destroy the numbness I've felt
      inside for longer than I care to think. As that
      protective barrier cracks, my memories trickle through
      it. I try to force them back, but they keep coming and
      coming....



      -------------------------------------------------------

      I sat beneath a tall elm tree and gazed out at the
      gardens which were displaying all of the brilliant
      colors of fall. My fingers idly played with the chain
      that I always wore around my neck. The tags which lay
      over my breast were both a comfort and a reminder of a
      touch I could never know without pain and sorrow
      accompanying it. Truly bittersweet. It was here that I
      allowed myself to become lost in thought for the first
      time in public, the first time during the light of
      day.

      I'd been at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters for
      two months, yet I hardly knew any of my fellow
      students. I knew that it had seemed strange to
      everyone around me when, after such a promising start,
      I had taken to keeping myself as isolated as possible,
      to staying in my room with my headphones on and a book
      in my lap. Yeah, I heard all that straight from
      Cyke-even now I can't stop the Logan in me from
      thinking of him like that--when he was talking to
      Storm, although I'm sure that neither of them knew I
      was there, hidden two rows of books to the right of
      where they stood in the library.

      I didn't want them to find out. I knew that if they
      did, they'd make me stop. They wouldn't want me to
      cause myself so much distress, or so they'd put it.
      They just wouldn't understand. I was so sure of that.

      Like I said, normally I only thought about this at
      night, with my face pressed into my pillow and
      repeating to myself that I was *not* going to cry.
      That day was different, though. The night before, I'd
      almost been caught. I'd been indulging, not for more
      than a few minutes, when Kitty had rushed into the
      room I shared with her and Jubilee. I had barely
      enough time to open my eyes and paste on a smile
      before she asked what was wrong. I told her I had a
      headache, and she left it at that.

      I was almost disappointed. Who knew being so close to
      being caught could be such a thrill? I had pressed my
      face into my pillow for a far different reason that
      night. I was exhilarated.

      I knew that it was dangerous. I knew that, if I wasn't
      careful, I wouldn't be able to go back to being "me"
      one day. That didn't matter, though. Not when I could
      feel. Not when I could touch. And it seemed like such
      an easy answer to me at the time, despite the danger.

      At least once a day, I lost myself in the memories.

      Not my memories, of course. I had been so naive, so
      young, that I hadn't known how to value a touch before
      it was too late. I had never reveled in the smallest
      brush of skin upon skin, as I should have. Instead, I
      had wasted the precious little time I had.

      I had several sets of memories to choose from. Then
      there were only the three men. Who to choose? Who,
      indeed. That was always my first question. Some
      nights, actually, many nights in a row, it would be
      Logan. I would crave the animalistic nature that could
      be mine only when I was immersed in his past. What was
      the harm?

      The night Kitty interrupted me had been a rare Eric
      night. He I tried to ignore at all costs, but there
      were times when I couldn't stand it anymore, and he
      would surface and his memories would engulf me. The
      pain of the camps, the feel of the dead bodies. The
      pleasure from the touch of the one person who had ever
      been able to affect his life in any positive way.
      These memories intoxicated me, dragging me under in a
      dizzying well of pure, raw emotion. Eric was never
      half this and half that. I'll give him that much.

      Even rarer still were the times when I indulged in the
      sweet and still-tender memories of David. He'd been
      almost as bad as me, not understanding the potential
      in touch. That in itself was more than enough of a
      reason to avoid him except when I needed only to feel
      that I was being held gently and lovingly. It's
      strange, you know, to remember holding yourself, your
      hand running up and down your own bare arm. Yet it
      isn't your hand at all and you know that. Yes, very
      very strange. And very seductive.

      That's how I'd come to describe every memory gifted to
      me. Seductive. They called to me, beguiling me to live
      with touch through them. Who was I to say no? They
      pulled at me, not too strong, not strong enough to
      subvert how I really am. I was always so positive
      about that one. Isn't it nice to know that you can be
      wrong once in a while?

      But back to that autumn afternoon. I laid back against
      that elm tree and sighed happily, already feeling a
      chill of pleasure run down my spine at the thought of
      doing this so openly. I tried to decide who to call up
      this time. Not Eric, no, I'd had enough of him the
      night before to last me for at least another week or
      so.

      The feeling of cool metal in my hand made me look at
      it curiously. A spark caught fire in my mind when I
      saw my fist curled around the tags. I lovingly traced
      my thumb over the raised letters stamped into the
      metal.

      "Wolverine," I whispered solemnly, not really reading
      the name so much as breathing it in. A small smile
      curled over my lips. "Logan."

      The decision had been made. Not that I had really
      surprised myself, of course. I found myself coming
      back more and more often in those days to Logan and
      his memories. I believe that Jean saw some of this and
      interpreted as a crush. Little she knew.

      Logan had been gone almost as long as I'd been at
      Professor Xavier's School, and I'd known him for an
      even shorter time. Not even a week, really, when all
      was said and done. However, he'd been the only one to
      touch me, skin to skin, without fear and thinking only
      to save me. Even the first time, that had been his
      main worry. Hell, why not? He'd just buried nine
      inches of adamantium in my chest. The second time had
      been a bit different, you see. He knew what he was
      doing. He didn't give a tinker's damn if he lived, so
      long as I didn't die. You want to think that turned my
      head a bit? That maybe that was the reason I'd chosen
      Logan's memories so many times? Fine, you be my guest,
      sugar. After all, who am I to argue with the truth?

      But back to that day. Shit, I do tend to get
      sidetracked in my own memories. It was a good thing
      for me, or so I thought at the time, that when I let
      myself enter their memories, I could focus like a
      fucking priest during mass.

      I apologize. Even as I'm remembering this, Logan's
      pull is strong. Do you really think I would use
      language like that? I'll try to tone down the Logan
      growling in my head right now at myself--now, ain't
      that just a pretty picture--and get on with the
      telling of it.

      It was as if thinking of Logan as I leaned back
      against the rough bark of that tree triggered the
      memory I needed. It was one with a lot of skin
      involved. His usually were.

      **She was an ex-stripper who had moved to Vancouver to
      start up her own strip club. That wasn't where I met
      her, of course. Nope, that was in a little bar--and
      the Rogue in me prompts me to add "seedy" to that
      description--a few miles outside of the city. She was
      miles of bare leg and tits that practically fell out
      of a neckline so low I wondered why she bothered with
      the shirt at all, and I wanted her as soon as I laid
      eyes on her. Apparently, the feeling was mutual,
      'cause when I was at the bar getting my first shot of
      whiskey I smelled a cloud of some musky, sexy perfume
      approaching. That's why her hand on my shoulder didn't
      get the attention of the metal in my hands.

      Her name was Cindi. She said it in such a gaggingly
      cute voice that I almost lost all the interest I'd had
      before. Then she pressed herself against me in a way
      that just shouted, "I know how to make you scream,"
      which, of course, I wanted to find out.

      On the way back to my motel, she gave me head in my
      truck. It was a pretty damn good feeling, her mouth
      all hot and wet on me. Enough to make a man think of
      other hot and wet places he could be diving into.

      We were inside my room and stripping each other in a
      frenzy to touch about two seconds after I unlocked my
      door. I soon had her bare breasts in my hands--wasn't
      that difficult, after all, since she'd been as near to
      hanging out of her shirt as she could get and still be
      considered decent by most standards--and that's when I
      started to feel that buzz that sex usually brought me.
      Damn, but it's a great buzz while it lasts.

      We dropped to the floor, not even bothering with the
      bed just yet. I touched her between her legs, not very
      gently, and found that she was indeed as wet and hot
      there as her mouth had been only minutes before. I
      didn't keep up that touch for long. I couldn't. She
      was whispering naughty little things in my ear, what
      she wanted to do to me, what she wanted me to do to
      her. I couldn't resist it. I spread her legs
      wide--shit, did I mention that her legs were so
      fucking long and shaped in a way that would make a
      fucking corpse's mouth water?--and began to pump into
      her, hard and fast. She was screaming, begging me not
      to stop, begging me make her come. Damn, that was a
      good night for my ego.**

      "Rogue."

      **She was lying next to me in the bed, which we'd
      somehow managed to crawl into. Her hand was playing
      with the hair on my chest, circling, moving lower and
      lower until she wrapped her fingers around me and
      began to rub. Her smile was playful and fierce at
      once.**

      "Rogue, are you all right?"

      I opened my eyes, recognizing that voice, praying to
      whatever power was out there that she hadn't seen,
      that she hadn't pried. Not that she had a habit of
      doing that, mind you, or that she could be that
      strong, but maybe this once...

      "I'm fine," I said, making my voice as groggy-sounding
      as I could. There was no use in telling her the truth.
      Let her think I had a bad dream or something.

      "You sure?" Jean asked. Damn. She suspected something.
      I knew that.

      I looked off into the distance, trying to think of
      what I could say that would shock her into silence.
      Something that would have the ring of truth to it, the
      kind of tone that would convince her that I was
      worried about something, or that I was unhappy. Not
      that I'd just been getting high on touch.

      Jean's eyes were fixed on a point beneath my chin. I
      looked down, and it was only then that I realized that
      I still held Logan's tags tightly in my fist. I
      slipped the chain and its tags inside my shirt where
      it usually resided, and in that instant I knew exactly
      what I could say that would make her believe me. That
      would scare her, maybe even scare her away. Something
      she might not be willing to tell anyone else.

      I began to speak, turning my head to gaze out over the
      School's lovely grounds, so bright with red and orange
      and yellow, as I did so. The reds just reinforced what
      I was going to say.

      "Do you know how lucky you are, Jean?" I asked,
      letting my voice get all hoarse and choked. "For a
      mutant, you're pretty normal. Your powers can be
      controlled. You don't kill, ever, unless there's no
      other choice, and then it's just the enemy you can
      destroy, so it's not all that bad. You can touch
      anybody, anything you want to. Your body isn't a
      prison that you'll never escape."

      I could feel Jean staring at me, could almost feel the
      waves of shock emanating from the woman kneeling
      beside me in the thick grass. I was beyond caring
      about Jean, caught up in the flood of emotions that
      had accompanied my words. Damn, I hadn't been prepared
      for that. Hadn't wanted it.

      "You can let yourself care for someone. I can't
      because, sooner or later, I'll want the kind of
      tactile response that you'd expect to go along with
      affection, with love. A hug, a kiss, even just a hand
      squeezing mine with no glove to get in the way. I have
      to deny myself all of that, every day for the rest of
      my life. My skin would kill the ones I love the most,
      and I couldn't bear that."

      Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I really didn't
      care. I didn't want to wipe them away at first. They
      were the only tears I'd cried in a long while. Maybe
      too long. Anyway, inspiration struck just then. I
      looked at Jean and lifted my right hand. I slowly
      pulled off my glove and lifted my bare fingers to my
      face. As I wiped the moisture away, I made the
      ultimate confession.

      "I can kill with a touch," I whispered, so low that
      Jean had to lean forward a bit. "I can kill
      anyone--except me."

      I struggled to my feet while Jean was absorbing this
      with the shock I had desired to make her feel. I
      pulled on my glove, looking down at her bent head.
      Without giving her a chance to speak, ignoring the
      hand she stretched out to me and her pleading eyes as
      I backed away, I left. Hurrying across the lawn to the
      School's back entrance, I only looked back once. Jean
      stood now, and even from a distance of more than a
      dozen feet, I could see the anguish in her eyes.



      -------------------------------------------------------

      Thus was the beginning of my dance. I didn't recognize
      it as such, of course. Not yet. Not for a good long
      time. And that realization almost came too late,
      anyway.


      =====
      You know what they say. Big claws, big....
      ~Sarah says from the Wolverine X-Fiction Site

      It's the people who claim they're perfectly sane who really scare me.

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