Fic: DAS: Addiction and Confession (1/1) Rogue
- 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
Rating: NC-17 Adult-ish content (yeah, sex) and
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
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
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
** ** 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
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
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 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
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
"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.**
**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
"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
"I can kill with a touch," I whispered, so low that
Jean had to lean forward a bit. "I can kill
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,
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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