Here I am, almost dead in a shell that could live forever. I'm so tired. It's not my body, it’s my mind and my heart and my soul. Home. That was where I wanted to be. I needed a place to rest because I’d found out too much about myself and the life that was stolen from me. You were there. I wanted to be home with you. I came back to you, hoping that there was something in this shell that I could give you. You deserve so much more than me.
Did you know I dreamed of you? Your body writhing beneath mine interrupted the strand of nightmares, though not often enough. They weren’t beautiful dreams, even if you are beautiful. I fucked you in those dreams, abused you, bruised you, made you feel anything and everything I wanted to give. I felt so guilty because I loved those dreams. I love you.
When I did come home, you were waiting. The way you looked at me--with understanding, not pity--made me hurt. I wanted to scream and cry and shred and kill, break out of my body and let my soul live in you because you aren’t so far gone. It’s dark in my head. But I sometimes forget that it’s dark in yours, too. Whenever your eyes meet mine, I remember how old that mind of yours really is: old enough to understand and love me? I wished it so hard and, afraid that I’d see it declared impossible in a glance, I didn’t look at you anymore, not eye to eye.
Then you came to me. Every night before I try to sleep, I would think about the things I’ve learned and I try to imagine that they aren’t true. But I remember them now, so they must be. You knocked softly and opened the door, walked up to me and sat down next to me on my bed. Your hand, soft and shy, rested on my leg. I knew you could control your gift and I knew what you wanted to give me. Your every move was begging me to take it, so I did. I took you. Hard and quick, unceremoniously on my half-made bed.
Oh Jesus, I breathed out loud when I pushed myself inside you. What am I doing? My head was shouting at me not to continue this, begging me to stop as a voice tried to tell me that this wasn’t a dream--it was real and you were in pain because of me. I told the voice to shut the fuck up because it was too late now, it didn’t matter. I just kept going. I didn’t want to kiss you because we weren’t making love and I couldn’t look you in the eye because I was still afraid of what I might find there. And I didn’t want your fingers on me. Your small hands were trapped in mine the whole time because I knew you would try to forgive me with a touch. I don’t deserve forgiveness.
My skin slid against yours as I moved off of you. Your sweat was mixed with mine and I relished the smell. I sat up, almost unbelieving of what had happened, and locked myself in the bathroom. I had gotten what I wanted, only it wasn’t exactly how I’d wanted it.
When I heard you get up and fumble with your disheveled clothes, I turned on the shower. I inhaled once, imprinting your scent on my brain. I heard the door shut as you left and I slid against the wall to the floor, the running water’s white noise making the silence hum. It took a hell of a lot to make me cry. Hurting you, fucking you--that was enough.
After that night, I tried to stay away, to leave you alone. But the feeling of you beneath me and around me, letting me make you mine... It was a need that was eating me alive. You were as much a part of me as the metal that makes my body unbreakable. I wish it could do the same for my heart.
When I couldn’t wait anymore, I went to you again, letting myself into your room quietly. You were at your desk, reading from a textbook. I risked a glance. You were relieved, glad that I’d come to you. Then I begged you with another look. I begged because I was desperate for you. No one else. You.
And you let me have you again. I tried not to be so rough, but all of the pain in me had to get out. So I gave it to you in every thrust of my hips against yours. You accepted it so quietly. You wore the ugly marks that I couldn’t.
After that, I couldn’t stay away from you. You were my addiction, snaking into my veins through every pore of my goddamned skin. I needed you all the time, every night--except Sunday. I don’t know why I bothered avoiding Sundays because I was pretty sure that I would be going to Hell anyway. Maybe I thought you need a break. Maybe it was a break for me, too, because every time I came to you, I felt like I was ruining you for anyone else. And I hated myself for wanting that.
But I had to go to you because I need you, I want you, I love you. Someday I’ll tell you, when the words don’t scare me like they do now.
I promise.
So here I am, alone in my room that smells like waiting. Waiting until I can to go to yours. Here I am, still almost dead in a shell that could live forever.
The Wolverine & Rogue Fanfiction Archive
Barely Legal Since 2000