Author's Note: It's been done before, but I've been in a bad mood recently. Maybe I'm PMSing, I don't know. But this? Better than cutting.
Summary: It was a secret she only shared with the people in her head, the ones that didn't last long enough to be considered members of the club, and also those that got stuck.
On The Inside
Rogue never told anybody. Never would, because it made her a freak in more ways than just being untouchable.
It was a secret she only shared with the people in her head, the ones that didn't last long enough to be considered members of the club, and also those that got stuck.
David. Logan. Erik. Bobby. John.
Their reactions to her thoughts had become predictable. David would shout at her, that she was an abomination, that she deserved a fate worse than death. Erik would sneer and urge her to accept her nature. Bobby would be disgusted, and John would laugh at her although he silently pitied her.
Only Logan kept quiet, did not comment on those thoughts and feelings.
Rogue herself could hardly think about it without either blushing to her hair roots or crying uncontrollably. Because the more she used her powers, the more it started to feel like... sex.
With David, it had been a typical first time – awkward, disappointing and painful. Bobby was shy and overly careful, like he was having sex with someone who had AIDS. John had been a quick one-nighter in a dark back alley. Erik had been rape. And Logan...
Logan had been one of the few she hadn't been afraid to touch. The only one who hadn't been afraid to touch her. Touching him had carried a sexual innuendo, an unspoken promise of things to come.
But that other first time... When he had almost killed her, had stabbed her, had penetrated her. The other girls thought of whispered words of love, of soft caresses, when their hands slid under the bed sheets at night, but not Rogue. Rogue's mind was filled with the glint of surprisingly warm metal, with the feeling of three perfectly shaped blades thrusting into her and through her, of warm blood and the stench of sweat. Of fear.
She suspected he knew. He had to know, because the Logan in her head knew, and she had to project the horrible way these thoughts made her feel like a flashing red neon sign. But no one ever seemed to notice. When Logan had left to search a long-lost past, they all thought he was a passing fancy. No one suspected a thing. At times it made her want to scream. It got worse when he returned, because every time she faced him, her blood boiled and heat crept through her veins, and she wanted to cry in frustration because she couldn't stop herself from staring at his hands, wishing for the glint of metal in the sun.
And then, sometimes, he'd look at her with such a dark expression on his face that she knew that he knew.
He never said anything. Like the Logan in her head, he kept quiet. And on those days, she crept into bed in the evenings, pulled the blanket over her head and cried till her eyes bled, and even then the scent of her own blood was enough to arouse her again.
The attack on the Mansion had nearly been her undoing. After watching him kill the soldiers, she had been ready to pour her heart out to him, to tell him to please just kill her, to put her out of her misery. But he looked at her in the half-light of the car, his eyes telling her, "No, you'll live", and she'd kept quiet.
Ever since then, they had drifted apart slowly, but the thought of blade slicing through her flesh never left her mind. She laughed, she went about her business. But part of her was with him, always him. Always the feeling of him killing her, and her killing him. Always together, always apart. And nothing would ever change about that.