Title: Sacred (1/1)
Author: Shana (archiver: please note the new addy below)
Rating: R: language, sexual innuendo
Summary/content: Rogue POV, S/J/R, slash undertones
Disclaimer: Marvel Entertainment Group owns the X-Men, their universe and
all associated elements. No infringment intended, no money being made.
Please check your technicalities at the door.
Feedback: to ladycyke@...
. If you read the notes below, still read
on and didn't like it for the very reason I wrote said notes, don't whine at
me. Feedback is always welcome here, flames will be chucked in the nearest
Archive: The list of approved fic host sites is long since gone off my HD,
so contact me if you want to archive this.
NOTES: This is not a pro-Logan fic (nor is it a direct bashing of the char).
Neither is it a ringing endorsement of the whole L/R relationship. While I
have happily done explorations of that, this is not a piece for those that
can't bear to see ol' Wolvie cast in a harsher light, nor Rogue in her more
traditional sense. So, if that bugs you, or is not your cup of tea, bail
now. I am a voice-- or the fingers-- of the Muses, and this particular Muse
moved into my house for two days and blocked all other creative endeavours
'til I caved in and wrote. Many thanks to Misty for getting me to post this
Consider this my confession. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.
Or perhaps that should be "Mother," considering. I never meant this to
I could also argue that she never meant it to happen either.
Though maybe I should explain, since outside of this journal I've been
browbeaten into writing, only myself and the other two that are now
regularly in my presence know what I'm talking about.
And I'm not referring to Kitty or Jubes. Jubes would blow a gasket if she
knew, calm down and then smack me for not thinking her worthy enough to
confide in her in the first place.
But if a girl can't tell the number one telepath in the world, one Mister
Charles F-something Xavier, what makes anyone think that she could share
with a friend?
I got asked yesterday why I hadn't told Logan "yes" to his repeated attempts
to warm up to me again. One of the other students, someone I don't really
know. See, Logan's been back for three months now, and me on the verge of
being twenty, I'm apparently old enough for someone like him to pursue
without being accused of pedophilia by the populace.
Sadly, I can't say I want him to be near me anymore. Don't get me wrong. I
still like him, I still think he's sexy in a rough, unkempt kind of way and
I'd like him to be a friend...
But it's a bit too late to get the sour feeling that takes over my mouth out
when I'm around that much testosterone. Or maybe it's just his. Credit it to
Logan, that part of him I sucked in some time ago, leaving some enhanced
senses for me to grapple with, or the increased sensitivity I have to things
like that now because of my own choices.
But I'm still being vague here. I'm just not comfortable talking about
it-- don't know if I ever will be-- even though I accept that part of me,
and that part of her.
But Logan doesn't get any of that credit. He may have looked up and down
the length of a body I know pretty damn well now, but the bit of me that
still craves cigars isn't what sent me knocking on a medlab door a year ago
with a dream haunting me and the weirdest question on my lips:
"Does it mean anything when ya'd rather have sex with a woman in a dream?"
She practically dragged me to her little office when she heard that. It
wasn't disgust, it wasn't anger, it was...
Well, I took it as shock, and a little shame.
"Tell me the details, Rogue."
So I did. In graphic, public embarrassing details. Everything I could pull
from that weird little dream that woke me up after falling asleep at my
desk, studying for a physics exam that was giving the entire class
conniptions and caffeine stomach for all the prep it needed.
I've still not forgotten that dream. I still remember what was said to
And find it strange that the waking world mirrored those exact words not too
See, according to Jean, sexuality is a bizarre thing. Technically, we're
all programmed to breed, each gender for our own role. Biology and stuff,
the crap teachers dole out at half-asleep high school students with the dire
hope that the sixteen year olds aren't high, or too jaded to care.
But then there's people like some of the Roman Emperors, who would "do"
anything that moved. They threw out the biology argument for the sake of
pleasure, and wherever they found it, they kept going back.
I think that's my boggle. For everything anyone has ever told me, I've got
next to zero hopes that my skin will ever be normal. To me, that means no
husband, kids, two dogs and a house, or however that old song goes.
So, where comfort is found, comfort is taken.
It's funny how things happen. I get brought to this Notre Dame for mutants
by some fuzzy reluctant hero, and get left by aforementioned person to fend
for myself. Then I start discovering my new self, and think.
And think, and think, and think.
I hate being alone. The older I get, the more people I meet that don't
cower from me, the more I detest an empty room. I love my friends, they
make me laugh, help me feel my age.
But even an insulated touch is enough to soothe a longing soul more than
popcorn and a movie.
God bless her. God bless them. Even though I'd hardly call Alex and Dana
from Meridian High a good measure of what couples are like, I do know what
it's like to be around them. I skated on thin ice for weeks until I was
literally pulled aside and sent walking in the gardens with Scott, his gaze
almost too curious for my taste... at the time.
He thought it was a healthy notion, me wanting to take the questions a step
further. To breach the gap between theoretical and physical. That, as
long as no one was hurt-- a clear warning from him that he'd not have the
love of his life harmed by my powers-- he WANTED me to take a chance. That
he accepted that part of me, and that part of her.
Actually, he already knew about her. That she, to quote exactly "played in
the amateur ranks," didn't hate it, but neither embraced it wholly. And
that the only reason it'd not been a factor in their relationship before was
because 1-- he was too chickenshit in the beginning to pursue the person
that wasn't afraid of what was inside him when even he was, and therefore
didn't know, and 2-- like all things 20th century, both of them played the
fluid swapping game very carefully. She wanted him; past acts didn't hold
an influence over that want.
In close confidence I was told that he was her first... full male
experience. He's made the same offer to me-- in the future-- since he
knows how frustrated I get thanks to Logan. Somehow he knows that, like his
fiancée, there's something inside that shouldn't be ignored; even though I
don't think I'm ready for anything like that. And I'm seriously tempted,
one day, to say yes simply because he won't condemn me for my other choices,
nor leer and ask to watch when the answer's already "no."
The nights where there's a bottle of alcohol split betwixt the three of us,
we actually spend a lot of time talking about him. About how the addition
of one Canadian mutant with adamantium for bones unbalanced the mansion for
a while. About his animosity to Scott, the dangerous, forbidden-fruit game
he still plays with Jean, and how badly I want to hit him for still calling
I am NOT a kid. I haven't been for a long time.
And what goes on behind closed doors is none of his damn business. Salem
Centre may have a rumour mill to rival most sororities, but everyone I talk
to on a regular basis understands the "butt out" inherent in the word
Actually, Ororo just likes the fact that I smile a hell of a lot more
recently. I'm betting she has a good idea as to why, but won't ask.
I appreciate that more than she'll ever know.
But Logan. Crap. Half the time I don't know if I'm starting to mirror
their opinions of him-- not that either of them hate him, they just see him
as not ascribing to Xavier's ideals-- but I'm losing the logic that made me
understand him before. He can be so gruff and pointed, many times at the
expense of others, and finds it amusing when people get angry at him for it.
He expects the world to be dark, bitter and pointless, and when it's not his
survival he's not acting on, he becomes an indecisive idiot, destroying
emotional ties to those that look out for his well-being.
My example to that behaviour is his running that time. I call it the Dogtag
Incident now. I know he was seeking the past that haunted him, but Christ,
it had been lurking in the back of his mind for years, couldn't it have
waited a bit longer so someone-- like me-- could have known him better?
To keep someone like me from hating him for leaving? I mean, I don't
hateHATE him, but there were nights that I wanted to kick his ass up and
down that hall for leaving all that stuff in my head and not explaining any
of it. I didn't know what to do with it, and it's unfair to anyone else to
expect them to explain it.
Jean accuses him of perpetrating his own bad reputation. She also tries to
help with said memories since there's a level of trust that didn't exist
during the Dogtag Incident between us now.
But I still have this need to beat him over the head with his own rampant
masculinity. Especially now that he's back. Blew in on a stolen bike and
assumed that everything was peachy keen.
And then got angry three days later when I told him that, yes, I wasn't over
him, but no, that didn't mean we could pick up where we'd left off. He
stalked off in a huff and came back two days after, reeking of alcohol and
I think it had more to do with the fact that I defended Xavier's principles,
and then told him he was full of shit when it came to his estimation of
He actually accused me of wanting him. Specifically. As in, my one and only.
I didn't bother to correct him. Last thing I need is him fantasizing about
a still rather tame relationship with the cautious, intelligent and
open-minded fiancée of said male.
Being involved with a doctor has been good for me. The training makes for
Like I said, it's getting seriously difficult to be alone anymore. I
already feel isolated enough, caged in this poison flesh of mine, but to
actually be distant from another living being? Nuh-uh. I can't do it
But it's hardly as tawdry as one might think. Not even their relationship,
one I still think I'm impinging on, is as racy as Johnny jokes. Blame
teenage hormones for it, thinking that just because someone can walk the
walk of confidence and carry a healthy self-esteem, that they're some sex
kitten cloistered behind a degree.
Truth is, it takes a bit of prying-- and a fair share of inebriation,
alcoholic or otherwise-- to show that side of Jean. I walked into the
intimate life of a person with control issues-- explains the urge to play
God as a doc-- and drowned in them.
I like it that way.
No, it's not love. It's not even really lust. There's no using going on.
I'm comfortable. I'm happy. I can sit inside my deadly skin and feel
things I never thought I would, and look forward to more. I know one day
something will happen and things will change, but I can accept it.
I have to. I wasn't the first, even though I'd bet money that I'm the last.
I see it in her eyes-- I can't see his, even though I really want to now--
and it means something. She won't lie to me.
But none of us are wholly willing to move the topic beyond closed doors.
That's fine. I don't know if I can talk to anyone else about this-- hence
Xavier's suggestion that I write down what I can't even tell him. Those two
are entangled. And I mean entangled in the way that it might kill one to go
without the other. It's really easy to miss because they're just so
comfortable in each other's presences; one hand gesture, a peck on the cheek
can make all the difference between watching a movie then reading 'til
someone falls asleep and a passionate night. It's partially the telepath
thing. It's also the control factor. Chaos befits neither of them, and yet
when I'm around there's this air... it's hard to explain... like it doesn't
matter who does what. I always seem to be the most reticent, the most
willing to leave and let them carry on without an audience, but there's
never any force to keep me there. All choices are up to the individual. All
pain is consentual here.
All pleasure is sacred.
Christ, the sun is rising. I've been sitting for hours in a dark room
jotting on a piece of paper how I feel, and yet hardly saying anything. I
know the labels people-- even me-- would use if I could muster the need to
spill my guts. But I don't feel bad for it. Neither does she.
And I'll be damned if I'm giving up the only opportunity for a real massage.
Even Scott thinks it dangerous because she forgets, but only rarely, about
how risky complete touch is with me when she lets herself get caught up in
the energy. That when she leaves me relaxed and nearly asleep on the table,
she'll most of the time find him and exorcise the tension she can't with me.
I've heard stories about those times, and it only cements in my mind that
while the triangle exists peacefully, she can't give herself wholly to
anyone but him. I wouldn't expect anything else, honestly. I understand
what she sees in him now, and envy it.
And I don't think Logan will ever be able to understand. Part of me mourns
that. The other parts of me, they realise that that's how it is, and it may
or may not change in the future.
How unfortunate for him.
"'...this is my girlfriend, Charlotte.'
'I prefer the term Fuck-Puppet.'" Six Feet Under