letterstonorah: (karaeyeofjupebygeekbynight)
[personal profile] letterstonorah
Oh my gods. You guys. I suck. I turned a prompt that should've led to awesome porn into this totally angsty, un-porny ficlet? What is wrong with me? I DO NOT PASS UP OPPORTUNITIES TO WRITE PORNZ. Sigh. I'm just angsting all over the place and out of emotional writing steam? Or something?  [livejournal.com profile] n_e_star -- I'M SO SORRY. But I hope this suffices. 

SIGH. NC17, 500 words, blah blah blah. angel!Kara, warnings for suicidal ideation.

Kara is a ghost, a soul without a body. Her legs, her arms, her breasts, her neck—she feels them there, sees that they’re all still in the proper place—but she knows that they’re just a projection. Souls don’t walk around and admire the countryside. Souls don’t breathe or dive into warm rivers. And yet here she is, going through the motions, wondering how the frak she got stuck in this netherspace.

She is the invisible woman, the soundless woman, the not-there woman. To touch anything at all—a rock, a body, a blade of grass—requires a Herculean effort of the will. Picking a flower gives her a nosebleed and a head ache. Reaching out to stroke Lee’s cheek throws her into violent shakes. Kara has become Rogue, the most tragic of the X-Men—unable to touch or be touched. She sees everything. No one sees her.

Earth is a bit of a joke, and she wonders why she died—twice(?)—to get the fleet here. The sprawling prairies, the dense jungles, the icy mountains—they’re beautiful, yeah, and teeming with life; but here is really no different than there. Same shit. Different planet.

Most days she spends hovering around Lee, watching him pretend to be happy. She cries—only she doesn’t cry, because souls can’t cry—watching Lee’s face as he tries to reason himself out of his loneliness. He’s drunk all the time. When he’s not drunk, he fiddles with his firearm, shifting it back and forth in his palms. He wraps his lips around the barrel, closes his eyes, and Kara reaches out to grasp his hand. He feels it. Puts the gun down. Kara spends the rest of the day vomiting.

At night, he jerks himself off using a pair of Kara’s old briefs. She watches, feeling a throb and heat growing between her legs. This is probably a violation—against some phantom code of ethics, but Kara can’t bring herself to care. Frakking is touching. Lips to lips, bodies to bodies, hands to asses, arms, cocks, cunts. But this? This is—nothing (and everything), and she allows herself the small pleasure of seeing him lose it thinking of her.

He lies back on his cot, nothing more than a pallet of blankets, wetting Kara’s underwear with his pre-come. He strokes himself slowly, mutters her name under his breath.

Kara does the same, strips herself completely bare—gets as close as she can without touching him. She dips two fingers into herself to get them wet, then rubs herself off as she watches Lee’s hips jerk up into his fist. She times it so that they come at the same time, both of them panting and moaning and crying out in unison.

It’s the closest she ever gets to not being alone. Him, too.

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