Title: Girl in the Mirror|
Fandom: X-Men (movie)
Rating: NC-17, sexual situation
Keywords: X-men movie fic, post-movie, Rogue/Logan
Disclaimer: Damn! I don't own these wonderful characters!
Archive: Anywhere is fine.
Feedback: Ya'll write back now, ya hear?
The girl in the mirror. Who is she? The eyes of old stare sightlessly back at me. What happened to make those eyes so aged? What happened to the little girl she used to be? That can't possibly be me. But yet, those are the orbs of a soul I know only too well. No matter how empty I feel inside, those eyes are the gateway to my soul. They betray me, they allow everyone to see the raging turmoil that wars within me. I can feel the burn of memories that aren't mine tear away in me, each day succeeding in stripping the person I am into nothingness. Most days it's too much for me to handle, most days I'm tired of not knowing which memory belongs to me or if something I thought was mine really belonged to somebody else..
I can't help but lean into the mirror, my fingers pressing against the slick, warm, fogged glass of the mirror, blurred by the wisps of hot air that billowed from my shower. A temporary refuge for me, my hot showers. As I feel the searing sprays sting my scalp, my skin, every inch of my bared flesh, I savor it. It is a cleansing, a baptismal from all the dirt and horrors that are embedded inside of me. My skin is burned raw and yet I continue on in that pit of watery fire because it is the only purification my soul can allow to be cleansed by.
I'm only a young woman, but I've seen, experienced more than anyone should ever have to. I would never wish it on another living soul, let alone myself. Those knowing eyes see everything around me, hurting to watch as others have the one thing I can't, yet too entranced to tear their gaze away. I can't look away no matter how much it rips my heart out. The touch of a mother's caress on her nursing babe, the loving possessive strokes of lovers, as they are lost in a world of their own creation. The tender touch of a friend giving comfort. Each moment I watch is a new thorn stabbing into my bleeding heart.
Despite the pain, I envy them. All of them. They have the ability to feel the softness of another person's skin. They are able to feel the identity of the other person and be one with them. I can feel no other's skin but my own. I can never feel a real touch except through the barricades of the stifling clothes I am forced to wear.
I want so much. I want to be young. I want to be carefree. I want to love. I want to be loved. I want to be able to expose my flesh and not fear that I might kill someone by a hapless, careless touch. An accident.
Who am I kidding? I am an accident, a freak of nature. I'll be forever alone.
The tips of my fingers roam up the glass of the mirror of their own volition. I watch as they caress the face in the mirror, those knowing eyes that have seen, lived through the minds of hundreds of others. I'm scared that I might not even really be me.
The inside of my wrist is exposed to me, exposed like the rest of me. I have nothing to hide in here, away from the people who fear me. I am of no danger to myself and I am free to walk naked through my room.
My wrist glares up at me, a hideous reminder of the torture I felt...feel. I didn't have the courage to press that blade all the way through, I couldn't. As hopeless as I feel, I cannot willingly die by my own hand. The angry scar is a reminder to myself that I cannot die uselessly. I cannot lose to the dark pit that beckons to me. I have to rise above it. I have to.
I touch the ragged edges of my scar, my thoughts drifting to the only man who's never feared who I am. Logan. He is a kindred spirit, knows the hopelessness the longing, the fear, the anger. He is just as much a bottle of emotions as I am. Except he allows for the bottle to be uncapped and his every thought is seen and felt. He is an animal and acts out every basic instinct that storm inside the pits of his gut. And I love him for it.
I willingly bottle everything, keeping everyone out, except for him. He's been in my head, he's dormant now, but he's there. We are one and he is the only presence I do not regret having in there.
Why is it I can never get through a day feeling normal? A day without riding the emotional rollercoaster of deciphering who I am and what my purpose really is? Because I am anything but normal and my life will continue on that never-ending ride, whether I am in control or not.
I need to lie down. My weighted legs tremble as the heaviness I feel in my body becomes too much. The air hits my sensitized skin but I ignore the gooseflesh that prickles on my skin. I hear the rustle of Logan's tags jingle as I lay down on my bed. I lie on my back staring up into nothingness, feeling the same nothingness reflect itself in me. I can hear the echo of the hollowness bouncing on the walls. Logan's tags nestle between my exposed breasts, claiming them as their home. It is this thought that awakens the burning embers within me. I can feel the hot tingle of my thoughts of Logan slither towards my throbbing heat.
I feel shamed because this has become a ritual as well. No man can ever touch me where I yearn to be touched. And the man I want to touch me can never have that experience, so I am forced to compensate. I touch myself in his memory.
My eyes shut themselves from the reality of this world and I float to an existence where there is nothing but me and my fantasies of Logan, his hands replacing my own. I imagine that it is his hands sliding down my strained body. I imagine feeling every groove of his rough hands as they navigate my body. They are gentle, experienced in what I want, he knows how to make me squirm, to beg for more, to beg for him. I imagine his hands in time with my real ones, as they slide down stroking my hardened nub. My core is wet, aching for his touch, and I slide a finger inside, feeling it fill me as he would. My experienced hand maneuvers in the dance it knows so well and I am so very close to that edge, that edge that only Logan can bring me to. That's when I hear it.
One of my eyes cracks open and I see him, the real Logan standing just outside the doorway, blocking me from any outside voyeurs. He isn't shocked to see me this way, but his eyes are crackling with the animal heat he feels. I can see the desire scorching him, the need wafting off of him in waves. It's the same way I feel.
I suppose we may have looked awkward, him gawking at my naked, writhing body as I touch myself, and me lying absolutely still on the bed, my hand nestled below. I try to move my hand but Logan growls in protest. He conjures up a ragged voice telling me to stop. I have no choice but to listen.
I watch as he shuts the door and stalks towards me. I can see it inside of his eyes, the set of his body as he walks towards me. I am his prey.
His body is clad in that flannel shirt of his and in jeans that cling to him like second skin. What I wouldn't give to be his jeans.
Slowly, almost reverently, Logan sits on the bed and crawls up next to me, his gaze never leaving my face. My breath hitches as he moves so close to me, I can feel the heat of his breath puffing on my face. He has calmed somewhat, the feral animal replaced by a softer, loving man. The man he is when he's with me.
His throat convulses as he struggles to swallow, the bob of his Adam's apple signaling that he is all man. That ragged voice returns and commands me to continue what I've been doing with my hands. I try to close my eyes, to squelch down the rising embarrassment I feel, but he tells me to keep them open. He whispers that he's never seen anything more beautiful in his life. His hand moves to my hair, stroking it, memorizing each strand, and I feel the need rise inside of me once more.
Words rattle out of his mouth, but the drum of it soothes me. His hands have taken their own path. I am almost afraid that he'll accidentally touch me, but his face is determined to let his hands run their course. I feel the heat between us as his hands roam me, a breath of space between his innocent skin and my murderous one. They run their course just over my breasts, his eyes following his hand's movements, retaining everything. I watch him as he watches me. Nothing could have been more erotic.
I can see the white spots flashing in front of me, the touch of my hand and the breath of his beckoning for me to fall over that edge. His hands roam down, and pass over mine and then move back up to wear his tags lay nestled. I can almost see the envy he has on those tags, wanting to be able to rest where they do. The tip of his beautiful finger skims back up and traces the chain of the necklace, using it as a shield against my skin.
It is too much, the need to explode turning my insides into goo. This is all because of him, nothing more than his mere presence coaxing me into the most beautiful, most breathtaking, most earth shattering release I've ever had. As I convulse around my own fingers, I feel him shift on the bed, mentally riding out the waves with me.
After coming back down, his amorous affection adores my face. Logan leaned over and brushed his lips against mine, a whisper so soft, that I could barely feel it, too quick for my skin to react to. And yet, that whisper belongs to us and it is enough.
He pulls the blanket from where it is and drapes it around me, finally covering my quivering body. I can feel the hardness of his own evidence of need, pressing against my back, as he spoons behind me.
The comforting, protective shelter of his arms and the beauty of his strong face pressed into my blanketed shoulder drains all the tumult from earlier. Yes, I am still the girl in the mirror, the one with the lost, sad eyes, the girl who has too much in her mind for her own good. And yet, Logan is the anchor who has pulled me from the wreckage of my drowned ship. He, and he alone, is the only one who leads me back from the depths to where the girl in the mirror strays. He has given that girl in the mirror meaning. And I love him for it.