AN - I warned you it was coming. Now it's here. Dark Rogue at your service.
Massive thanks to amazing betas JohnPaulGerogeandRingo and Nebelwerfer42
Don't you think it's funny? Stories, no matter the nature, always seem to gloss over the menial details. Ordinary stuff the reader might find uninteresting. Like sitting on the toilet, for instance? Well, my story starts here.
The bathroom stall at a grubby bar in downtown New York. What I was doing in there was exceptionally ordinary, and my business, because it was quite literally, the business I was doing. Fluorescents buzzed, flickered overhead. The pumping music barely muffled from behind a plywood door with a single nail hammered into it for a 'handle'. Scrawled words, sharpied over every inch of walls, so cluttered and dense it was hard to make out what they said. Even if I was in any state to read them.
My head swirled with the pulsating beat and I slumped my head into my lap. Fuck, I definitely had had too much this time.
Once I'd finished peeing, I half stood, saw there was no toilet paper in my stall (typical), and reached underneath the partition to grab a handful off the floor. Finding a clean-ish square, I wiped, then pulled up my black, lacy tights.
I swayed a second, then leaned into the inked wall. I think I'm gonna…no, no. I'm okay…. The nausea passed as I pushed open the stall door and went to wash my hands at the single metal basin that was hanging from the glued-on tiles.
Catching sight of my reflection in the smeared mirror, I ran a hand over my short ice-blond bob, slicked back from the heat of the dance floor, then touched up my winged eyeliner and deep plum-colored lipstick before leaving the bathroom. Between that heavy, jaded makeup and the sheer bodysuit that covered me, tiny leather skirt and wedged combat boots aside, I looked nothing like myself, and for that I was glad.
I found Jubilee and Kitty where I'd left them, standing awkwardly near the bar holding fruity drinks and shooting passersby anxious looks. This was not the type of place they typically came to. I, on the other hand, had been frequenting these types of dives more often. They'd said they missed me and wanted to spend some time together, just like we used to. Back when we were barely old enough to get in anywhere, and dancing and drinking had just been for fun.
Ordering three shots at the bar, I carried them over to my friends, offering them the drinks I knew they were going to refuse. I only shrugged and swallowed two of them down in quick succession, relishing the increasing swaying in attempt to pass it off as dancing.
Clubbing had been an activity I partook in more often these days. A way to let out all the pent-up steam of adulting. Sometimes Kitty and Jubilee came with me. Those times were getting rarer now. I didn't care either way. I think they felt sorry for me.
The first time I'd come to a place like this, it had been out of desperation. A yawning ache. A chasm that needed to be filled. I'd longed for human interaction beyond the lingering meaningful ones forged with my adopted family. I wanted someone to see I was different now. Not broken. Undesirable.
I'd not lasted an hour. Skittering off like a frightened rabbit when an attentive biker sat down next to me. Despite the warning, an exploratory brush of the back of his finger against an exposed collarbone, back then I wasn't brave (or mature) enough to show cleavage. I pulled a string of filthy thoughts, foreign and red-blooded, the visuals enough to knock me off my stool like a physical blow and tumble back into the night.
The mistake was I'd come as myself.
The next time, I was more prepared. No less covered but dressed for battle. I was still terrified I was going to hurt somebody. Each time I returned, it was with another layer of defense. Darker make-up. Heeled boots - nothing I couldn't run or fight in though, a girl still needed her options.
It always came back down to the fact that the cure failed. It had lasted only nine months, a fact that wouldn't have been so bad if I could continue getting boosters. I would have kept mainlining it. Like a junkie. Like someone looking for release. But it had been banned. Damn those pro-mutant protesters. Some of us wanted to be normal, even if we had to pretend. I still think we should've had the choice.
Where it was supposed to protect, it knocked down barriers, letting the hurt come surging in. See, when your guard was up, you couldn't get hurt. When you had hope, it allowed you to become soft. Let you believe in foolish things like fairytales and happy endings.
The memories of those I'd touched eventually faded into obscurity. Melding with my own until they were indistinguishable from each other. The people I'd held onto for longer stuck around, stubbornly refusing to be ousted from their new home inside my head. Magneto. Remy. Logan. Especially Logan.
So, it was back to being untouchable. Only now it was worse. I'd had a taste, albeit a small one. When I picked up the last shot of tequila, it was with a steady hand, and I threw it back. It burned all the way down. Brought tears to my eyes.
Drinking seemed to be my only coping mechanism nowadays. That and the pull of a warm body. I could still fuck, even if I couldn't touch.
The phantom urges put me on edge. Malking me unstettled. Twitchy. The inescapable need to drink, fuck, fight. When I came out, it was for blood. I would say that was someone I absorbed, but that's all me. Brash, Self-destructive. Impulsive.
On cue, a cute college boy caught my eye. He winked at me and the corners of my lips twitched into a smirk. Just what I was in the mood for.
Ten minutes later, I was pushed face-first up against the brick alleyway wall with college-guy right behind me. He leaned in close, whispering filthy things in my ear, things that would have made me blush a year or so ago, but now lit my fire pretty good. I turned my head just a fraction to remind him, "Don't touch my skin."
"Kinky little thing, aren't ya."
"Just follow the rules, honey," I nipped sharply at his smooth jaw. The contact lasted a fraction of a second. Not quite enough to warn him of the potential dangers that lay in his wake if he decided to ignore me. It would be too easy to forget, until that inevitable slip-up, which would be too hard to ignore. Because he'd be dead. And I'd have another one locked up in my consciousness.
There was a distinct heaviness throughout my body, similar to fatigue with a chaser of calm. Like falling into bed after a long day. It felt safe. Comforting. Lulling me into a false sense of security. Allowing me to let go of the fear that seemed to intensify my mutation.
I never thought I'd be the type of girl who got ravaged in an alleyway, but here we were, rutting like two animals in heat. The fear of getting caught at the back of my awareness, keeping me on edge.
The desire for touch. Intimacy. The delicious ache and sweat behind the knees. Building right up. Then that long tumble down, wave after wave. I craved it like a drug. More addictive than my means of achieving it, and with more of a pay-off too.
It was never as good as my inherited recollections. I guess the male orgasm was just more intense. Nonetheless, it managed to partially scratch my itch. I could finish up myself later, using my extensive memory bank and imagination.
Forgive me if I sound crude, but that imitation physical is all I have left now.