I do not own, or profit off any Marvel character named herein. I am writing a story for entertainment purposes only.
There is a kind of irony in that I have one hot, definitely to die for, bod.
A sick irony. Because if a man were to touch me, especially if he held on too long, that's exactly what would happen.
He would die.
I would suck him dry, and leave nothing but a failing shell.
His power, if he had any. His memories. His experiences. Everything that made him, him. I'd suck it all in, and leave nothing.
And I would still be fine.
Alone, but fine.
For thirty-nine years I've lived my life one step away from anyone that might get too close. Sometimes I've purposely used my power, my curse, to help my friends and teammates. Sometimes, it was only an accident. And, yes, sometimes….. Sometimes I used it out of rage.
Fury that I, just I, should be so cursed that just touching me should be a taboo that forces everyone to stay away. That makes it impossible for anyone to get too close.
Thirty-nine years, and I have a boatload of issues drawn in with the borrowed powers, memories, and lives of those I've touched, and ended up sucking completely dry. Even I don't remember how many any longer. Even I don't remember how many have died from my touch.
Yet some people still call me a hero.
Some…. Those that know better. They call me monster.
They hate me. Mock me. Spurn me.
But they'll never touch me.
And none of them will ever know just how much I wish someone…. Anyone….. Could just hold me. Just for a little while. Just once. If only for a second.
Only I know that will never happen.
I might have been born with the usual family, and grown up….mostly normal.
But my life is far from normal now. And I know, absolutely know, I'll die as I've lived.
"Rogue," a gruff voice shouts from down the hall, and a grizzled man older than he looks sticks his head in my room as I put on my own mask. The one that mocks my own pain. That uses sarcasm and arrogance to hide the true me.
"What now," I complain, turning from the mirror where even my own reflection seems to mock my inability to touch.
"Chuck says we got a live one. Suit up, and get ready. We're gone in three."
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, and wave him out.
I can get dressed in thirty seconds if I have to bother, and he knows it.
Still, the mission offers me a rare chance. Even if I have to use gloves, for a moment, I can and do get to touch someone. And I can sometimes vent all the pain and grief I am feeling on some poor sap that probably has his own issues.
Still, even as I dress in my distinctive uniform all my teammates now wear, I sincerely hope this guy is tough. Because I'm really feeling like pounding on something today.