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FIC: Viscosity: Into the Light (1/1) L/R NC-17

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  • Sare Liz
    Title: Into the Light Author: Sare Liz, teknovamp@yahoo.com Series: Viscosity; after Seven Towers, before Burning Incense Rating: NC-17 Disclaimer:
    Message 1 of 1 , Jul 9, 2001
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      Title: Into the Light
      Author: Sare Liz, teknovamp@...
      Series: Viscosity; after Seven Towers, before Burning Incense
      Rating: NC-17
      Disclaimer: Belongs to others.
      Archive: if you have standing permission, you may archive it. If
      you do not, please contact me. teknovamp.com

      Author's Notes: This was inspired by the selfsame picture from DeeJay
      as the other Viscosity stories, the one where it seems like Logan is
      worshiping Marie, as well as an incarnation of U2, this time a cover
      done (by whom I don't know) of One, which reminds me a little of what
      my Logan used to be like, before I rejoined civilization. The title
      is from the lyrics of 'One': It's too late tonight to drag the past
      out into the light. We're one, but we're not the same. We get to
      carry each other.

      Dedication: To Jenn, who had wanted to see this for so very long and
      encouraged me so viscerally to write it. For you, chica. Sexo
      Liquido, porque es un necesidad para la vida, no?

      *

      It's all about touch. It was always about touch. Rogue and touch
      don't seem to go together, if you'd ask anyone in the place but no
      one really asks about Marie and touch. Me and Marie and touch and
      there couldn't be any better thing I could think of, than me and
      Marie and touch. It's like everything else, if you really think about
      it. Most people could go an entire day and not touch anyone and never
      think a damn thing about it. Some people go weeks without a single
      brush. Maybe some little part of them might miss it, deep down, but
      maybe not. It's when you know you can't have it, when you know it's
      been completely and utterly revoked from you that it suddenly becomes
      an issue. Then it's not about touch anymore, really, because in the
      average day, no body really gets touched anyway, it's becomes about
      proximity and that's a bunch of bullshit, if you ask me. Proximity
      is just the potential for touch and I guess they figure that if they
      shouldn't touch they shouldn't have the potential to do it, and that
      does make a certain amount of sense if you're figuring like a cold
      hearted bastard.

      Interestingly enough I've been called one of those. Maybe the only
      person around here to claim that, I don't know, but there you are and
      even a cold hearted bastard wouldn't do that to her. Then again, it's
      damn hard not to see the situation from exactly the place I'm seeing
      it and I sure haven't been acting like a bastard lately, at least not
      to her. All I want to do is touch her.

      I crave her proximity. I know that's what set me apart so early on.
      It wasn't really what little past we shared, though that was
      something remarkable, sure, but other shit had happened, shit I
      missed out on, shit other people were around for, so all that wasn't
      as important as it maybe could have been if everything had been a
      little different. It was the fact that no matter what I was doing, no
      matter what she as doing, if we were doing it within sight of each
      other, we were usually doing it within reach of each other. Scared
      the fuck out of her little friends at first, I remember, but they got
      used to it. Maybe it got them a little used to the concept of Rogue
      and proximity, but I wouldn't push it.

      I think it's the proximity that gets her the most, or at least, when
      my lips hover over her throat, so barely close to touching her, in
      such close proximity, when she feels my breath over her flesh, the
      caress I cannot give, she shivers in a way I can't reproduce
      otherwise and I've tried. It's only when I give her what everyone
      else is afraid of - actual human proximity - that she melts and
      whimpers just so.

      I heard once, one of her little boys say I got off on it. Now, what I
      don't understand is this: I've got Marie in my arms. What else on
      earth do I need to get off with? I've got *Marie* in my arms. Do I
      really need anything else? I would say no. Apparently though, some
      think that there's got to be something else that keeps me, besides
      just wanting to be with her. It's kind of insulting when you think
      about it. I don't get a rush when I think that it could be dangerous
      because the only one it's dangerous for is Marie. The last thing she
      needs in her head is me, *again*. Life and death situations are one
      thing, sex is another. I'm not going to risk her sanity and sense of
      self just for sex. And how could I get a rush off of Marie getting
      hurt? I'm not that kind of cold blooded bastard, thanks. But I do
      have control and if an honest accident happens, we'll both live, and
      live happily and well and it'll be worth it to give this to her, this
      utter closeness. This thing she wants more than anything else.

      I can never decide which is really my favorite. Marie just says
      that's my excuse for trying everything as often as we do, but it's
      the truth and I think she knows it. She knows from past experience
      that I know what I like. I do, it's the kind of person I am. I find
      out something I like and I stick to it because sometimes constant
      change is a good thing, and sometimes you need a hiatus from it and
      you just need a little bit of self-created status quo. She knows I
      like to find the favorite, and she knows I like to stick to it, but I
      can't with her and I'm not sure I'll ever really be able to. It makes
      me wonder if the hiatus is over, but seeing as the thought isn't a
      haunting one, maybe it *is* time. Time for change.

      Maybe I'll start with Marie. Maybe I haven't found a favorite because
      I haven't been creative enough. Maybe there are no favorites. Maybe
      favorites don't matter, because I'm with Marie and that's what
      matters. Somehow, that last one sounds about right.

      And it's a thought that leads to branching out and branching out is
      good. I wonder what we could do with latex. I wonder if Jeannie knows
      a place we could get some interesting outer wear.

      And it's kind of like the thought of Marie in leather pants, though
      through latex she'd be able to feel more. There's a certain sex
      factor to leather though, and maybe that's just a created image
      that's thrown at us, but it's damn powerful and who am I to argue
      with what works? The way her teeth held her bottom lip the first time
      I slit a pair of leather pants she was wearing was among the most
      priceless things I've ever witnessed.

      She just laid on my bed, her hair all mussed from me running gloved
      hands through it, her stomach clenched, curling her body so she could
      see. I had one hand running hotly from her bent knee to the outside
      of her completely delicious thigh and I stayed like that, massaging
      her hip and rubbing my knuckles into her still covered core. And I
      know she knew what I was going to do and the anticipation was getting
      to her. It was getting harder for her to take full breaths, harder
      for her to just lean back and enjoy the interactive show.

      I don't know why they did it for her, but for whatever her reasons,
      she really liked the claws, and I'm so much more than willing to
      accommodate her. It made her heart race to hear them slide out and
      if it was quick it was a shock and I could see it in her eyes but if
      it was slow, drawn out I could hear her heart slowly begin to beat
      faster as her breathing became harsher. I don't know what she thinks
      about at times like that but I know it isn't about getting hurt. She
      knows I never would, but I wonder what, then. I should ask, at some
      point.

      Didn't just then, of course. Don't want to look a gift horse in the
      mouth. You say 'thank you mister gift horse, now get lost' because
      you're about to make your baby come seven ways from Sunday and you
      don't need an audience for that.

      And I let the claws slide out slowly and just a few inches and yea,
      my wrist was locked but it was that or julienne my mattress,
      something I had no intention of doing. I was very absorbed in
      kneading Marie's thigh, something I could do for extended periods of
      time so long as the mattress stayed in one piece.

      She moaned and her hand gently touched mine, one fingertip at a time
      always lightly tracing over my knuckles, the flat of my claws, the
      back of my hand, my frozen wrist and it was a moan of need, of pure
      desire. Those fingertips curled around my wrist and pulled me up,
      briefly intertwining with my fingers, long enough for her to breath
      out her request, that the claws come out completely, and I knew it
      was coming so the instant it was out of her mouth I snapped them out
      and she gasped. She gasped and she arched and ground her self into
      my other hand and gasped again, except it was my name this time and
      it was a beautiful thing, to hear my name wrenched from her lips when
      she's so close to coming.

      She guided my hand to her breast then, my bare hand to her covered
      breast and I took her gift and let my claws point at her rounded
      shoulder but I couldn't resist her pull. I shifted my weight and
      nuzzled into her stomach and it was all there, all over again like
      new, being close to her, breathing in her smell through her thin
      cotton tee shirt. I've never wanted her more than times like that,
      when I just wish I could absorb her into myself.

      And I wondered, sometimes, how it would be like to have her in my
      head, what she would do, what she would say to all the things that go
      on that I can never really put to words, but there is so much more
      than words between us, so maybe it wouldn't be such a great shock for
      her, being in me. But how would it feel to have her there, so close,
      so near to every part of who I am inside. She would be able to touch
      me then, in ways nobody really thinks about, not normally anyway.
      Sometimes I think she sees it, though. I think she sees it in how I
      watch her, in how I touch her, in how I can't get enough of just
      being near to her so that even though she's not in my head and I'm
      not in hers we still have something a little different, a little more.

      And maybe it's just young love. That's what Scott said when he found
      me gathering the longnecks and cold friend chicken. He smirked at my
      attempt at a picnic and commented on the sweetness of it all. I
      didn't have anything to say to him because it *was* damn sweet - she
      was sweet, the lunch would be sweet, and with her drunk and giggling
      and me feeding her fried chicken, we'd be sweet together. Go get
      your camera, Scott.

      And it was just as sweet as it could have been until the moment she
      looked into my eyes with such a relative level of seriousness that I
      paused and had to readjust my thinking because we'd just changed from
      a Kodak Moment to a Polaroid Amateur Night and we were only a little
      way off from everyone else, only barely out of sight in the trees and
      I couldn't have cared less because we were close then but she wanted
      me closer and who am I to argue with my…

      And I can't put a name to it, to her, to what she means to me. She's
      a friend, a lover, a companion of all sorts, the keeper of my sanity
      and my rage but I can't seem to quantify that, to couch it in ways
      others easily understand. To say that I love her isn't enough and to
      say more is too cliched and usually glossed over. It leaves me
      completely unable to explain to others how much she means to me but
      luckily enough the ones that matter caught on quickly enough.

      I sometimes wonder if it matters to her, though. I wouldn't insult
      her by grouping her with her age because she's so much more than just
      the set of years that marked her time, but there is something to be
      said about fitting in and being accepted and I know that it was
      something once important to her, though things are different now and
      normal isn't a part of it. And you would think that nothing would be
      normal at that school that seems to occur around us but despite its
      obvious understanding of certain things it is surprisingly demanding
      and the social life that occurs is just like any other, or so I
      gather. Even mutants have a standard for normal, and she still
      wasn't it. Accepted by the team, she didn't quite fit in there
      either and to see the looks of some of them - any of them - she
      didn't fit right with me either, but that's where she fits the best,
      with me.

      On my bed that night with my right claws out as I kneaded her breast,
      my face buried in her stomach and rising, my other hand firmly
      embedded between her leather clad thighs, I was determined to show
      her exactly how well we fit together. Literally.

      Her hand was gripping my bicep, grasping at my forearm, sliding down
      to caress the nine inches of metal from between my knuckles and then
      back again to hold my hand against her, as if I had some better place
      to be. I didn't and I was out to prove it I think. I moved up and
      nuzzled right between her breasts, a place I could happily call home
      if there was any question at all and she moaned again, this time
      happily, contentedly with none of her former urgency. Now I like
      urgency, don't get me wrong, but you can only be urgent for so many
      years and then you need a little bit of contentment to fall back on
      and maybe more than just a little. Maybe you need a lifetime's
      worth, and now is the time to start building it.

      I shifted a little then, loosely straddling her leg so I could move
      up more and not do a mood crashing rendition of crushing her and I
      let my hand slowly come up her hip, her stomach to her other breast
      because I had plans, plans that involved my lips where my hands were
      so everything had to shift. Carefully my hand went through her hair,
      smoothing it down, deftly avoiding getting some caught and thus cut
      by my claws and her own arm came up and pulled my lips to her ear.

      I told her I loved her and it felt so good, so full, like if I did it
      a hundred more times it would only get better with each telling, and
      then a hundred more onto that and it would still somehow be better.

      She told me she couldn't live without me.

      There are several things I'm fairly certain anyone likes to hear from
      the object of their affection, and I'm damn certain that's one of
      them. It's things like that, completely unexpected bounties that
      strike the hardest and though you'd think I would be prepared for all
      sorts of things along that line, I hadn't been and it started as an
      audible sigh as I breathed, a humming, sighing vocalization of the
      perfect contentment I'd been building with her, finally released.

      I could feel her hands clench on me, on my shoulders, on my back and
      her entire body stilled for a moment, reminding me of how wonderfully
      squirmy she can be, as she asked me with amazement in her voice, if I
      was purring.

      As I couldn't possibly be, though I was too damn preoccupied to
      really argue, I just stopped dead too, stopped everything I was
      doing, and tried to stop everything I was feeling.

      At which point I realized I was purring.

      I also realized that I couldn't just stop feeling so I might as well
      not just stop doing so I whispered back to her that it was only
      something I could ever do for her, or at least I was fairly certain
      about that as it had never happened before that I could remember, and
      I resumed my caress and she resumed her beautifully contented moans.

      I moved my head down to her breasts again because in all honesty
      there are few places on her body I enjoy as much -- her neck,
      uncovered, her clit, too covered, her lips, been there, done that,
      going back real soon but not just yet. I bit gently on hardened nub
      and through the cotton it was just the perfect pressure for her
      because I didn't want her coming, not yet. We'd done all of this
      before in stolen moments on the lawn, against the pool table, after
      double overtime, in her room right up to and sometimes beyond when
      her occasionally oblivious friends came in for whatever reason. She
      always wore scarves and they always were so convenient and I'd
      managed to bring her off a dozen times between the first time and the
      *first* time, on my bed that night, but that time it was in my hands
      and I wanted us to come together, or reasonably close and I wanted to
      be inside her when it happened.

      One more way I'm dying to be near her.

      When she was ready, so beautiful and ready, my hand slipped down
      again and my knuckles brushed against the leather, the tiny sliver of
      adamantium neatly slicing open a slit letting my fingers probe gently
      in, caressing gasps from between her lips as my fingertips slid along
      her labia to circle her clit, now blissfully uncovered, or reasonably
      so.

      And she complained then, that both of us shouldn't have our clothes
      on and she started tugging at my shirt. She whined when my claws
      snapped in as the sleeves drew across my hands but sighed in happy
      relief when I let the set out again. I rolled over on my back and
      silently dared her to finish. She did, telling me all the while that
      I'd ruined her new leather pants, disclaiming any rebuke present with
      the little grin she wore.

      I had to ask her what in hell she thought I'd bought them for. She
      giggled then, and tugged my jeans down and never did answer the
      question.

      I looked at her then, and just drank in the sight of her in the tight
      white little tee shirt that said 'mutant' in red rhinestones across
      the front, the wine red opera gloves, the leather pants that were
      about to be broken in, as she sat back on her heels, on my calves. I
      murmured that it would hurt less if she were on top, and that it
      would feel better, too.

      She blushed, just the tiniest bit and I wasn't sure she was still
      capable of blushing with me but I suppose she was, though when she
      asked for the condoms the look wasn't embarrassment or shyness, just
      need.

      I always think I'm ready when she touches me, when she wraps her
      fingers around me and squeezes, when she puts the condom on with her
      lips and cheats with her tongue, but I never am, and that time was no
      different, though it was. It was so different.

      They say the anticipation of death is worse than death itself and
      while that may or may not bet true, there is a certain merit inherent
      in the statement. So it is with Marie. Knowing that I was
      imminently close to being inside of her, physically being where I'd
      been only psychically before, that I was the first who'd been this
      close to her, who'd even dreamed about fulfilling this proximity,
      *her* first, made my previous raging need for her a palpable thing
      that grew from the base of my spine to the pit of my stomach to what
      felt like the most central part of myself and it just rested there,
      trembling, growing, becoming something more. It grew with my
      breathing, the wanting her, the needing her until I needed her more
      than the next breath though I stayed as I was, only with my hands
      encouraging her to do what she wanted, and eventually, what I wanted
      too.

      She called my name and it surprised me, so concentrated on
      distracting myself to just breathe that I didn't even notice her
      staring, though her hands kept moving on me.

      She wanted to know why I was growling.

      I was so far beyond argument, beyond understanding it myself that I
      gave her the most direct answer my mind could come up with, no
      dancing around the subject or coating it in other things.

      "I need to be inside you, baby. Deep. Deep inside you." I think I
      was shaking. I know I was still growling.

      And I gasped because just like that she placed me against her
      entrance, rubbing the head just a little, up and down, up and down,
      small strokes, small strokes, smaller strokes, oh --

      Oh, fuck. Fuck it was good. Just like that and I knew what heaven
      was like because she was so slick and perfect and tight and I hated
      condoms but I was so beyond even realizing I had one on that it
      didn't make any difference. I was in and out, in and out, so
      shallow, still not breaking her barrier and she was just teasing me
      now, having fun with the fact that she could giggle and I was still
      growling. Since two could play I grabbed her hips and snapped the
      other set out, ready to ride out her tremors but completely
      unprepared for her to sink all the way down on me, right to the root
      and cry out my name and I knew I'd lied to myself before because
      that, right there, as deep into her as I could be and just holding it
      there - *that* was heaven. No doubt in my mind.

      She shuddered over me, a full body tremble and I gingerly pulled her
      down to me and held her as she buried her face in the pillow beside
      me. I knew it wasn't pain because its not always painful and some
      women don't even feel it, but it was still there because she was
      still shaking and now, as close as we'd been with me inside her, that
      was when she needed me most of all, I think.

      One hand stroking her lower back and one smoothing her hair when I
      asked her how she was doing, my girl, my baby, my Marie. Her breath
      was shaky as she turned her lips towards my ear and with her fist
      curled up by my shoulder she just breathed - it was so aligned, so
      intimate that I throbbed inside of her and her breath caught by my
      ear and she involuntarily clenched and, oh fuck. I groaned because
      she was so tight and perfect and it was just the two of us creating
      this incredible haven inside each other, only for the other and when
      her muscles clenched around me, grasping me and swallowing me down it
      was everything I'd ever needed, right there, inside of her.

      She asked softly, timidly, whispering it into my ear, if I could feel
      that.

      It wasn't that it occurred to me through a fog, that she didn't know
      how much she affected me because my every sense, my every thought at
      that moment revolved around one single solitary thing - Marie. I
      took it no easier, however because how could she not know? How could
      she not understand how much it meant to me? What's more, how could I
      make her understand? To that end I didn't try, I just did.

      I told her, as my hand moved over the curve of her hip, as I pulled
      her tight, leather-clad ass closer and heard her whimper for it, that
      I couldn't feel anything *but* her.

      She stammered in a whisper that she wasn't naked, and how I might
      like it better if she were naked and she had the temerity to actually
      apologize.

      Clearly, she'd gotten derailed at some point.

      Since there was no pain, only confusion I moved both hands and slid
      the claws back in right before I grabbed her ass and thrust up and
      into her, hard. She gasped and her head snapped back and she arched
      nearly off me.

      I asked her to look at me but she refused, so I demanded.

      "Look at me, dammit."

      The biggest, darkest, most tumultuous brown eyes stared at me and I
      couldn't read them but to realize there was a storm coming.

      "I love you, baby," I whispered to her, always remaining still inside
      of her even as she pushed herself off my chest and pushed me even
      further inside of her.

      "But, I…" She looked down at herself, at her clothes and she was
      close to crying.

      "You're so sexy, baby." I had to show her somehow and I didn't know
      how but my hands were already moving, trying to touch all of her.
      Underneath her shirt, pushing it up, up over her ribs, beautiful,
      delectable, gorgeous ribs, ribs that were normally so ticklish but
      now just made her moan to be touched.

      "So beautiful, Marie. So beautiful." Up, up just above her breasts
      that fit so perfectly in my hands and I still had her eyes with mine
      as I held her and brushed my thumbs over her hard, jutting little
      nubs.

      "Can't you see how perfect you are to me?'

      Her eyes closed and her head lolled back as she moaned my name and
      clenched around me again and I think she started to understand. I
      pulled her little white tee shirt back in place and smoothed it down
      her back, across the tiny curve of her stomach, molding it to the
      perfection of her breasts. It was about then that I did the most
      practical application of a sit-up ever performed by man and latched
      my mouth around one of those perfect breasts. She gasped and her
      breasts heaved beneath my hands and my mouth, my mouth that was
      making some serious progress on one of two wet patches of her shirt,
      and her arms wrapped around me, holding me to her securely.

      She moaned my name again and I nuzzled in-between her breasts, the
      rhinestones hitting my nose.

      Nose still buried between her breasts, I told her how much I loved
      her and when I looked up it was into her eyes to tell her how badly I
      wanted her.

      "I love you so much, Logan. I want to give you everything."

      Her hand cupped my face and I could see it in her eyes, how deeply
      she meant it, as deeply as I did. And I grinned, because I loved her
      completely and it wasn't something to be worried about, it was
      something to be celebrated and celebrate it we would.

      "Then ride me, Marie," I said, pushing myself into her the little
      that I could from the position I was in. "I know you want to, I know
      you need me as badly as I need you."

      And words have power, names have power, they must because every time
      she says my name, every time she breaths out 'Logan', possession for
      her seethes out of my skin like a drug. I want to fold her up and
      keep her safe inside of me. I want to hide her behind me and keep
      her a secret so no one will ever take her away from me. I want to
      fuck her, to secure her to me, I want to mark her as mine so she'll
      never leave and no one will ever take her. Whenever she breaths my
      name, I want *her* and I want her so badly I can't think.

      She rocked on my hips tentatively as I went back to my sucking and
      kneading that I'd neglected.

      "Oh, Logan," she moaned, "I do want you. I do." And she rocked,
      setting up her gentle rhythm as she sighed and held me close to her.

      She rocked on in a silence filled only by my now incessant growling
      as I suckled and punctuated at first sparsely but with growing
      frequency, her chant, a litany of my name.

      I suckled all the harder.

      She didn't speed up, but her climax took her all the same, sneaking
      up on her and taking her by surprise, wrenching an indistinct cry
      from her lips as she ground herself down, clenching wildly, tightly,
      irresistibly around me.

      "Come on, baby, come for me," I coaxed because she was so
      breathtaking when she came and for the first time I was within her
      as she writhed out her waves of pleasure and the spectacle of her
      beauty was compounded upon itself until I couldn't be silent, not in
      the face of it.

      "Beautiful. So beautiful."

      She was shaking now, gasping and she wrapped her arms tighter around
      me and I around her and I rocked her down from her high.

      "Beautiful Marie."

      She whimpered and clung bonelessly to me so I eased us down and swept
      her hair across my chest just before she collapsed on me, murmuring
      that I hadn't come, and why hadn't I come?

      And I thrust my answer inside of her more deeply and she gasped with
      new life and ground down on me. Amazement and shock danced through
      her eyes as she panted.

      "Again?" she gasped out right before rolling her hips and making me
      snarl at the depth of her, the renewed feeling of slick tightness
      milking me.

      "Again." My voice was low and gravelly and that's just the way it
      was because I'd been growling softly but when I'd thrust and she'd
      arched I'd gotten louder - a hell of a lot louder - and I hadn't
      stopped to speak, I'd just shaped the growl into a word because I
      wanted her even more now than a moment ago.

      "Hard, baby," I growled, thrusting into the shuddering hips I held
      above me. "I want it hard, baby."

      "Hard," she said, as if the word was washing over her, seeping into
      her skin and making her feel something completely different,
      completely new. She rocked on me, the hips I held, with increasing
      strength. "Like this?" she asked, slamming against me with almost a
      rough intensity and holding it there.

      "Yea, baby, just like that." My hands kept her close to me as she
      looked up and into my eyes. "Ride me, hard as you can. Don't stop
      for anything."

      She leaned in slightly and braced her hands on my shoulders and began
      rocking against me, but hard this time, so deliciously hard and fast
      that with each breath the growling turned into snarling because it
      was so good, so good, so good and she couldn't stop moaning my name.

      "Logan, please," she cried out as she straightened up and I slipped
      naturally just a little deeper.

      "Deeper, Logan," she moaned. "I need it harder. Help me go harder."

      The first time I thrust up into her as she rocked down on me she
      cried out, then cried out my name but I didn't stop and neither did
      she.

      "Claws, Logan. Please. Oh, baby, please."

      I thrust six more times into her, popping one each time, feeling her
      grip on my arms tighten as her grip on my cock tightened.

      "Lemme see, Logan. I have to see," and she pulled my hands off her
      and held them in her own, sliding her fingers to the sides of the
      blades and the tension grew in our arms as in the rest of our
      bodies. We rocked like that, hard, together, in complete unison of
      thought and feeling. She filled herself with my hardness again and
      again, shuddering from it and clenching around me as she time and
      time again pulled away, leaving me barren and bereft, alternately
      breeding heaven and loosing it. She teased me with the loss of her
      perfection but I couldn't blame her because she teased herself too,
      pulling back and seeing how long she could stay just at the top until
      she couldn't anymore, until the craving, the need was too great for
      her to bear and she'd have to slam me back into her, desperately
      pushing and straining to go as far as our bodies would allow and
      because it was never enough, pulling back just slightly and trying
      again and again and again and again.

      I wanted to come inside of her so badly, I wanted to mark her despite
      the condom somehow but mostly I needed to come inside her and I
      needed her to come, too. I could feel it building.

      I didn't want it to be over, but it was coming and that was only the
      beginning of our first real night together, the beginning of a long
      string of nights together, sometimes just holding and being held,
      wrapped up in whatever was convenient because after the first night I
      couldn't sleep without her. My bed felt empty. My arms felt empty.
      *I* felt empty and I lasted two hours. Two hours of wakefulness and
      wondering only briefly why, before I padded silently down the hall to
      the room she shared with her friends and I never thought then, that
      it was the beginning of something more, me coming to her then, I
      could only think that I needed her and maybe she needed me. I stood
      at the foot of her bed just entranced to watch her sleep because she
      was beautiful and I couldn't disturb her but I couldn't sleep and not
      sleeping in her room was better than insomnia in mine. Her movements
      were slight at first, her eyes darting behind her lids, her breathing
      a little irregular, her heart a little quick, but I soon realized it
      wasn't a dream, it was a nightmare. I sat on the edge of her bed and
      leaned down to her, gently holding her shoulders if she should wake,
      and whispering in her ear that it was alright, that I was there, that
      she could wake up now.

      She did wake, that night, with questioning eyes but I couldn't muster
      anything better than a simple 'couldn't sleep'. Maybe it was because
      of her nightmare, but she seemed to understand and since that first
      night when she came around me, her hands clutching mine, moments
      before my release, I just couldn't seem to sleep without knowing she
      was there. It wasn't enough that she was safe in the room down the
      hall, tucked into her bed because all I seemed to want to do was
      crawl into that bed with her, a mistake I only made once, waking up
      to the yellow wonder's nonstop litany of reasons I shouldn't be
      there.

      I seemed to have only two choices at night - sleep with Marie tucked
      snugly at your side, or don't even bother trying. All in all, it
      could have been worse.
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