Fic: Agony and Ecstasy (1/3) RATED NC-17
- Title: Agony and Ecstasy
Rating: NC-17 by the Misty Rating Association (Darkness, angst, pain, sex,
darkness, pain, did I say darkness?)
Archive: All lists
Summery: Rogue tries to grow into herself, and is confused by what she
Pairing: We got ourselves a Logan/Rogue here. Surprise surprise.
Disclaimer: Marvel and Fox. Bah Humbug.
WARNINGS: See, nice and big. THIS GETS DARK. I provided a happy ending,
because I thought I needed one . . . but I'm talking dark, DARK, dark stuff.
Dark pain, dark sexual themes. If you want Logan to come home and sweep
Rogue off her feet and live in never never land . . . umm . . . don't read
Special thanks to: Woah. Umm . . . where do I begin? Well, probably Misty
since she's gotten the play by play of this whole sordid thing. She
encouraged the original evil bunny, and you have NO idea how many times she
stopped me from trashing the whole thing. Then there's Shana, who was every
bit as good, and helped move the plot along in a major way. Then there's
Nancy, who just shows me hot pictures of Hugh when I'm trying to write and
kicks butt. And Nickle, who I don't even know well, but she's an Angst Grrl
and makes me giggle. And then there's Elizabeth who gave me a nice read over
and also kept me from trashing it--and then there's Caeryn, who I just thank
for everything because she's her.
And having written the longest thank you paragraph ever, here's the story.
It had been two years since she thought of herself as a virgin.
It made her feel guilty, made her feel sick--but she couldn't help the way
she always remembered that night. The night she'd had the closest thing to
sex she ever would.
The night Logan had almost killed her.
God the agony--god, the ecstasy . . . the feeling of contact, something
touching her that wasn't cloth or her own fingers.
Steel. It was warm--warm from being inside of him. The air hardly touched
it, hardly kissed it as it flew from his body to hers, sinking so deep
inside her that she could feel the pricks in her back.
It had been sex, only more. More pain, bleeding into more pleasure--the
feeling of someone being /one/ with her more overpowering. The sharing of
thoughts and feelings more complete as her fingers brushed his face, drawing
everything that was him inside so that it was her.
Inside her. He had been inside her, in so many ways, so many intimate ways.
Inside her head, inside her body--god, who could possibly say that he hadn't
been her first lover, her only lover . . .
It was sick. It made her feel dirty, made her feel guilty. Only sick,
twisted people relished pain as pleasure--and here she was, reliving the
feel of sharp metal tearing through her body as if it were the sweetest
It tormented her. But that didn't stop her from thinking about it.
And in the nights, when she sank her fingernails into her skin, leaving tiny
red crescents that barely bled--she thanked all the gods she knew of that
Logan had not returned home yet.
She couldn't face him. Not like this.
The old nightmares were gone, and he missed them. Longed for the half
flashes and shaded images of men with needles and scalpels. Wished more than
anything to have dreams of his own pain.
Not dreams of her, hanging like a limp doll on his claws, her eyes alight
with something that was so close to joy that it sent shivers down his spine.
Not the knowledge of what she had been thinking as she laid soft fingers to
It was the secret he held deepest in his heart. She'd never know, if he had
anything to say about it--she'd never know and he'd never tell her. Never
give any indication that the transfer had gone both ways--that in that brief
moment of contact, he'd known everything she was thinking and feeling.
Sometimes the rage overtook him when he awoke from the dreams. He'd find
himself shaking in bed, claws unsheathed and crying for blood. He wanted to
hurt something, wanted to cause pain to anyone he could who had caused the
feelings that he had sensed that night. Destroy something for the fact that
Marie, his little Marie, had decided that agony was the closest she'd ever
come to ecstasy.
The angry times were the good times. Sometimes he woke aroused and hungry,
his body reacting to the impossible need to lay her back and show her
ecstasy without the agony. Those times were the worst, with the guilt and
the pain and the need . . . ravaging his body until he went out and picked a
fight, pounding someone into the ground to satisfy his body's need for
He would never forget the rush of pleasure that had flooded his mind when
her fingers landed on his face--her entire being alight with satisfaction
that a man had finally touched her, that someone had breached her deadly
skin. Ecstasy that it had been him, so entwined with the agony that she
didn't know which was which.
It scared him. It was what kept him on the road, kept him running. The
knowledge that thanks to him, Marie would forever think pleasure was pain.
The knowledge that he had hurt her, warped her, destroyed her--and that by
going back he could only make it worse.
The fear. He wasn't used to fear--especially not fear for someone else. It
kept him up at night, woke him up before dawn--tormented him every time he
thought of her. He was so afraid he'd twisted her forever.
He was afraid to go back and see what he had molded her into.
It took a long time to figure out a way to recapture the pain.
Knives wouldn't work. She'd tried, once, in a moment of desperation--sitting
in her room with a small razorblade clutched between her fingers.
It had been horrible. The second the metal slid through her skin, all she
could feel was a sick, twisted pleasure rising up that wasn't her own. The
dormant presence inside of her uncurled as Magento's essence scrambled up
towards her skin, clinging to the feel of the metal. He reveled in it, he
lived for it--he twisted all of her feelings into a sick tangle of need and
longing and love of pain.
She threw the razor blade away, hearing it clink softly on the other side of
the room. Clutching the small cut, she closed her eyes and let herself fall
back to the bed, trembling as she fought the memories.
She didn't touch metal for three days after that, not even the dog tags that
usually hung around her neck, pressed against her breast.
It wasn't until she dropped Kitty's mirror and sliced open her finger that
she found what she needed.
The glass was cool. Clean. It slid through her skin with none of the sick
pleasure that the metal called to the surface. Just a smooth slice of pain
that cleared everything else from her head.
She swept the rest of the mirror into the dust pan, but kept one long shard
and hid it under a stack of notebooks in her desk. When she was alone at
night, she'd pull off one glove and slide the glass over her skin, over the
skin between her knuckles, echoing the pain she remembered from somewhere
/Does it hurt when they come out?/
Long lines of sliced skin, small drops of blood welling out.
Every time. Every time she thought of him, she brushed her fingers against
her knuckles, feeling the often abused skin stretching and tugging with a
She started wearing surgical gloves beneath her regular gloves, to keep the
blood from seeping through and giving her away. She snuck into the lab one
night and took a whole box, shoving them under her bed. Whenever she ran
low, she'd sneak into the lab and steal a new box, praying Jean never
Sometimes they broke, though, so when Jubilee and Kitty went to the mall,
she trailed along and bought a whole stack of extra gloves. No one said
anything--they always tried to pretend she wore them for style, not out of
If anyone noticed that she never took her gloves off anymore, they didn't
Scott found the glove shoved in the back of the cupboard in the laundry room
when he was looking for a missing shirt.
There wasn't much question who it belonged to--only one person in the school
wore full length opera gloves habitually.
It wasn't the fact that it was balled up in the laundry room that disturbed
It was the stains of blood across the knuckles, clearly evidence of some
fairly serious cuts. It didn't worry him too much--Rogue was an active girl
and probably just scraped herself up and hadn't told him. After all, she was
old enough to take care of little bumps and bruises.
A chance comment from Jean that night, however, shattered his peace of mind.
"I would give anything to figure out who is stealing from the lab," Jean
muttered under her breath as she took out her earrings before bed. "It's
just not like the students to take stuff without asking--especially
something like latex gloves."
Scott paused. "You're missing latex gloves?" Something tugged at his
mind--something about the glove he'd found earlier that day. "Rogue is the
one who would have need for some kind of gloves."
"That's what I thought too," Jean replied, setting her earrings down on the
bedside table and turning to face him. "I know she'd asked me for some in
the past, if hers got ripped and she hadn't had a chance to buy new ones.
But Kitty told me that she just bought an entire bag of extra gloves a week
ago. So it can't be her."
Extra gloves. Surgical gloves. Bloodstained gloves.
He didn't want to upset Jean for no reason--but he couldn't just let
something this strange go. He worried about Rogue. Worried about how she
never seemed to have gotten over the trauma of two years ago. Worried about
how she never seemed to have gotten over Logan.
Worried about how every day seemed to distance her more and more from those
So as he settled into bed, clutching Jean a little more tightly than usual,
he promised himself he'd watch her.
He talked to Professor Xavier every other month, and had been doing so since
he left two years ago. It kept him in contact, kept him up to date--and kept
him alerted to Rogue. If anything was wrong--the Professor wouldn't be able
to hide it from him.
The third week of the month, it wasn't the Professor who called.
Scott's voice was anxious, full of confusion and no little accusation.
"Something's wrong with Rogue."
Logan tensed. This was the call he'd been waiting for. For two years he'd
been praying every time the phone rang--praying it wouldn't be those words.
"What's wrong with Rogue, Summers?" His voice was almost calm. His hands
were shaking though.
"I--I'm not certain about it--but I think she's . . . she's hurting
The claws flew out, and he crashed his hand through the desk.
"I'm here," he growled softly, staring at the huge gouges in the wood.
Wishing it were his own skin. He deserved worse. So much worse.
"Logan, do you know what's going on?" Oh, more than a little accusation
there. Scott's voice was full of implication.
"No, Scott." He managed to grind the words out, even though he couldn't
maintain his calm. "I--I need to come back."
"Why? What are you going to do that won't just make it worse."
Logan crashed his hand into the desk again, nearly slicing it in half.
"Damn, damn, damn it."
"You know what's going on, don't you?" Scott sounded furious. "Tell me, you
bastard. You can't hide it. She needs help."
"I don't know!" Logan roared, clenching his eyes shut. "It was so long
ago--I don't know what she thinks anymore!"
"Okay, Logan--easy." Scott's voice took on his teaching tone, slow, easy,
calming. "You can't come back yet if you somehow affected this--"
"You bastard. You /fucking/ insensitive bastard." Logan's voice was ragged.
"You can't call me and tell me something like this and refuse to let me go
to her. You can't. You can't!"
"I'm coming home, Scott."
The phone slammed down, metal claws smashing into it until it was just a
mangled pile of plastic.
He slumped to the floor, his claws retracting as he stared at his shaking
hands. God, it was worse than he thought. He'd twisted her. He'd taken that
bright, sweet, innocent girl--and he'd warped her. Sullied her.
He should have left her on the road in Canada. No one could have hurt her as
much as he had.
Should have. Could have. It didn't matter now--all that mattered was the
little girl hiding in a school in New York, her mind twisted by his. He had
to stop running. It wasn't just about him anymore.
It was about her. He had to help her if he could.
He was just so afraid he'd hurt her again.
Scott had been prying for a week. She didn't know why he was suspicious--but
he was, and he was prying. Mentioning that it was warm and she should take
her gloves off--he wouldn't mind. Popping in on her unannounced and staring
at her with such intensity she could almost see his eyes through his
He must have talked to Kitty and Jubilee--one of her roommates was in the
room with her at all times suddenly. When she tried to leave the grounds,
one of them, or sometimes Scott himself, would show up, ask if they could
walk with her.
They were watching her, their eyes judging and weighing. All it did was make
her feel sicker. More twisted. They knew what she was doing. They pitied
her. They thought she was unhealthy. They knew she was warped.
She started lingering in the shower, scrubbing her body until it was pink,
letting the water run so hot that it almost burned her offending skin. It
was the only way she could feel clean now that they wouldn't leave her alone
long enough to take the glass out.
They knew she was dirty. They despised her for it. It twisted her mind into
more knots, deeper knots. She felt guilty. Guilty that she wanted it--guilty
that she needed it. Guilty that she hadn't told anyone.
Sometimes she considered telling Jean. Asking for help. But what could the
doctor do? What could anyone do, except tell her it wasn't right to hurt
herself. And leave her where she had been to start with.
It had been two weeks without touching the glass when Kitty's mother died.
Her roommate was distraught, upset--confused as hell. Xavier arranged for
her to go home. Jubilee agreed to go with her, to give her moral support and
make sure she was okay.
They didn't ask Rogue to go. Kitty and Jubilee could look like normal
people. Could blend in. Swathed from head to toe in fabric, not able to so
much as shake hands--Rogue never could.
Scott couldn't exactly spend the night in her room--so for the first time in
two weeks she locked her door and opened the drawer on her desk.
The glass shined in the light as she stared at it, suddenly afraid. Afraid
of what she was--what she had become. The feeling of sick guilt ran deeply
through her--but not deeply enough. Not enough to stop the agony and
It was late when he finally arrived. Something was wrong--horribly wrong. He
could feel it in his bones. Feel it so strongly that he nearly vaulted from
the bike, entering the building and starting his hunter's prowl.
Her scent was everywhere, confusing for a moment until he picked up the
freshest one, leading him up the stairs and through a mess of hallways.
It was strongest outside of a particular door. The room inside smelled of
teenage girls, of her, of candles and coca cola and the sweet little
chocolates that he suddenly seemed to remember her loving so much.
And it smelled of fear. And pain. Guilt--agony--ecstasy . . .
And something else. Something that made his blood start pounding with fury.
Something that made his claws pop out, smashing into the door lock before he
could even think.
He could smell blood. Fresh blood. Her blood.
She looked like a deer in headlights, her eyes wide and guilty as the
shining piece of glass dangled from her hand. She took a shallow breath,
glanced at him, and then looked down at her lap, shoulders suddenly shaking.
He was across the room before he knew it, thanking god he was wearing gloves
because he didn't even think as he grabbed her wrists tightly, his fingers
plucking the red tinted glass from her hand and throwing it across the room
"Marie--Marie what the hell are you doing--" His gloved fingers grasped her
injured hand, spreading the fingers out as he stared down at the thin scars
and cuts that lacerated the back of her hand and knuckles.
What had he done to her.
"I--I'm sorry--" Her body shuddered once. "I--it was all I had left of--"
she trailed off, but staring into her eyes, he could see what she had been
about to say.
It slashed through his heart. Nothing had ever hurt so badly as this--as
this girl telling him she was mutilating herself because of him. Because it
reminded her of him.
Because /pain/ reminded her of him.
He dropped his face to her lap, his hands sliding down to tighten on her
hips. He was trying to keep from crying--he couldn't remember the last time
he had cried. Maybe he hadn't since he woke up seventeen years ago half
naked in the woods. Maybe he'd never cried, because the way it felt--the
burning behind his eyes, it was so strange that it scared him.
He knew he'd never cried for somebody else. He'd never cared enough.
She heaved a deep breath, the feeling of his face pressing into her legs
disconcerting. No one had touched her like this since he left. They were all
too afraid to get close. Too afraid that even through cloth, she could hurt
She took another breath, and began to talk. She told him about the agony.
About the ecstasy. About the night she'd almost died. About how the feel of
pain kept her whole. About the guilt for how twisted she was.
Half way through, she felt the warm, wet heat on her legs, and it shocked
her to realize he was crying.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry--" the words were torn from her throat as she buried
her hands in his hair, rocking back and forth slightly. "I didn't mean to
Logan couldn't look up. Couldn't bear to face the mess he'd made. Couldn't
stand to see the darkness he'd caused where there had been only light.
That was how Jean and Scott found them--his face buried in her legs as he
cried, her bloody hands running through his hair as she rocked back and
It took Storm and Remy's help to separate them.
Continued in Part 2 . . .
Loyal Bodyguard to the President of PETS
-=People for the Ethical Treatment of Scott=-
Keeper of all of Her Own Fic
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