Archiving older fic: Pressure
Sep. 30th, 2001 10:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eve11Pressure by Eve11
R rating
X-men Unspoken AU Round Robin entry (Role reversal between Rogue and Jean Grey in the movieverse): http://www.unfitforsociety.net/musesfool/unspoken/unspokenindex.htm
Timeline: Set after "Trying" by Minisinoo but before Victoria P.'s "Confessional".
-------------------
She was filthy.
Her clothes smelled like fucking algae and stagnant water. Goddamn lake water. She couldn't breathe for the smell. Didn't take but one breath in the hallway on the way back to her room, and it was enough to make her gag. So she swallowed and walked faster, because she didn't want to breathe it in.
The bright, stark lights and clean corridor walls just made things worse, like huge spotlights following her every move. Under all of the soggy, smelly clothes, she felt this new scrutiny on her bare skin -- electrified, intense sensitivity. Not from him; never from him. It was under the cloth and scarves, something Scott had never touched, not in seven years.
She was running by the time she reached the stairwell. She lost a might of composure with every step down.
Step. Bastard.
Step. Fuck him.
Step. Fucking redhead. Fuck her too. Step.
Step. And her goddamn Canadian lapdog.
At the bottom, she was a trembling missile streaking for the guest room door. These clothes were suffocating her. She reached the door and threw her weight into it, barely remembering to turn the knob. Once inside, she slammed it behind her and leaned against it, finally let out her breath. Uncooperative fingers fumbled with the lock until she was ready to scream at it.
Finally the mechanics gave way under her hand; the door secured her away with an audible 'click.'
In the dim room, Marie tore at her clothes. She burst the buttons on her blue shirt. Fell back onto the bed trying to throw her shoes off -- no time to waste on wet, double knotted laces. Spent too long getting out of the jeans; when she was free of them she flung them into the corner, heard a satisfying crash as they knocked over the standing lamp. Raked fingernails through delicate scarves and left them where they fell, didn't matter long as they weren't touching her.
That left the bodysuit. Foul thing; it smelled less of the lake and more of Scott. She stood up off the bed, unzipped it -- goddamn plastic zippers always stuck, and winced as it pulled out a few strands of hair on the way down. She peeled it off, turned it inside out in her haste, and left it like a husk in the middle of the floor. She took a breath, forced it out of her lungs with a snort. She couldn't stand it in here. The air in the room was still dank with the competing smells of proto-life and aborted sex. Naked, she crossed the room and opened the window, resting her forehead against the cool glass and the weight of the darkened sky beyond. Damp spots that had nothing to do with the lake left her skin clammy and cold against the draft. She drew the night air into her lungs and let it out again. Her bare shoulders heaved and stuttered with the breath, but she would not cry.
She was a fright. Her hair still stank, and her skin still crawled.
She left the window open and retreated to the private bathroom. She ran the water hot and harsh. Sponge puffs and freesia body wash were abandoned for a bar of Ivory soap and a worn wash cloth. She scrubbed until her neck, shoulders, chest and thighs stung from the effort. She used a heaping handful of Thermasilk on her hair, scrubbed it into a huge knot on the top of her head, and trusted the tangles to another handful of conditioner.
When she had washed it all away she stood with her eyes closed and head up, playing splayed fingers across the separate streams from the shower head. When she felt the first waver in temperature from hot to lukewarm, she turned off the water. The small bathroom was heavy with mist and warmth, but it was clean. She let herself drip dry for as long as she could stand it, then dried off quickly and opened the door.
The room was dark and cold. Her skin tensed at the chill but she wouldn't cover up. She was clean. The smell was gone, and she wasn't going to contaminate herself again with blankets. So she lay on the bed, let her hand wander where it would. Found herself twisting her pubic hairs around her fingers.
Goddamn them all. She didn't need them, none of them. Her fingers searched, played light and furtive over her skin. She was the Rogue, she'd been years on her own. And nobody hurt her, because you couldn't hurt what you couldn't touch. And nobody would touch her. Nobody had.
Nobody had touched her. Not Logan, not Jean Grey, certainly not Scott. Bastard.
She took in a breath of sharp, cold air, and it hitched. Her fingers lost their playfulness. She couldn't do any more on her own.
It was a lie. All the scarves and careful timing; it would never be enough, not for Rogue. But it had been. For them, it had been everything through a screen and Marie hadn't minded.
Truth was, she hadn't cared enough.
Her body was aching for the first time in seven years. Pale bare skin tingled with the lack of touch, like bursts of light from pressure on blind eyes.
She cried naked on the bed, and she let it ache.
--------------------
R rating
X-men Unspoken AU Round Robin entry (Role reversal between Rogue and Jean Grey in the movieverse): http://www.unfitforsociety.net/musesfool/unspoken/unspokenindex.htm
Timeline: Set after "Trying" by Minisinoo but before Victoria P.'s "Confessional".
-------------------
She was filthy.
Her clothes smelled like fucking algae and stagnant water. Goddamn lake water. She couldn't breathe for the smell. Didn't take but one breath in the hallway on the way back to her room, and it was enough to make her gag. So she swallowed and walked faster, because she didn't want to breathe it in.
The bright, stark lights and clean corridor walls just made things worse, like huge spotlights following her every move. Under all of the soggy, smelly clothes, she felt this new scrutiny on her bare skin -- electrified, intense sensitivity. Not from him; never from him. It was under the cloth and scarves, something Scott had never touched, not in seven years.
She was running by the time she reached the stairwell. She lost a might of composure with every step down.
Step. Bastard.
Step. Fuck him.
Step. Fucking redhead. Fuck her too. Step.
Step. And her goddamn Canadian lapdog.
At the bottom, she was a trembling missile streaking for the guest room door. These clothes were suffocating her. She reached the door and threw her weight into it, barely remembering to turn the knob. Once inside, she slammed it behind her and leaned against it, finally let out her breath. Uncooperative fingers fumbled with the lock until she was ready to scream at it.
Finally the mechanics gave way under her hand; the door secured her away with an audible 'click.'
In the dim room, Marie tore at her clothes. She burst the buttons on her blue shirt. Fell back onto the bed trying to throw her shoes off -- no time to waste on wet, double knotted laces. Spent too long getting out of the jeans; when she was free of them she flung them into the corner, heard a satisfying crash as they knocked over the standing lamp. Raked fingernails through delicate scarves and left them where they fell, didn't matter long as they weren't touching her.
That left the bodysuit. Foul thing; it smelled less of the lake and more of Scott. She stood up off the bed, unzipped it -- goddamn plastic zippers always stuck, and winced as it pulled out a few strands of hair on the way down. She peeled it off, turned it inside out in her haste, and left it like a husk in the middle of the floor. She took a breath, forced it out of her lungs with a snort. She couldn't stand it in here. The air in the room was still dank with the competing smells of proto-life and aborted sex. Naked, she crossed the room and opened the window, resting her forehead against the cool glass and the weight of the darkened sky beyond. Damp spots that had nothing to do with the lake left her skin clammy and cold against the draft. She drew the night air into her lungs and let it out again. Her bare shoulders heaved and stuttered with the breath, but she would not cry.
She was a fright. Her hair still stank, and her skin still crawled.
She left the window open and retreated to the private bathroom. She ran the water hot and harsh. Sponge puffs and freesia body wash were abandoned for a bar of Ivory soap and a worn wash cloth. She scrubbed until her neck, shoulders, chest and thighs stung from the effort. She used a heaping handful of Thermasilk on her hair, scrubbed it into a huge knot on the top of her head, and trusted the tangles to another handful of conditioner.
When she had washed it all away she stood with her eyes closed and head up, playing splayed fingers across the separate streams from the shower head. When she felt the first waver in temperature from hot to lukewarm, she turned off the water. The small bathroom was heavy with mist and warmth, but it was clean. She let herself drip dry for as long as she could stand it, then dried off quickly and opened the door.
The room was dark and cold. Her skin tensed at the chill but she wouldn't cover up. She was clean. The smell was gone, and she wasn't going to contaminate herself again with blankets. So she lay on the bed, let her hand wander where it would. Found herself twisting her pubic hairs around her fingers.
Goddamn them all. She didn't need them, none of them. Her fingers searched, played light and furtive over her skin. She was the Rogue, she'd been years on her own. And nobody hurt her, because you couldn't hurt what you couldn't touch. And nobody would touch her. Nobody had.
Nobody had touched her. Not Logan, not Jean Grey, certainly not Scott. Bastard.
She took in a breath of sharp, cold air, and it hitched. Her fingers lost their playfulness. She couldn't do any more on her own.
It was a lie. All the scarves and careful timing; it would never be enough, not for Rogue. But it had been. For them, it had been everything through a screen and Marie hadn't minded.
Truth was, she hadn't cared enough.
Her body was aching for the first time in seven years. Pale bare skin tingled with the lack of touch, like bursts of light from pressure on blind eyes.
She cried naked on the bed, and she let it ache.
--------------------
