Since you asked and I was clubbed in the back of the head by the fairy of inspiration on my way back from dream...
Not graphic, but...unambiguous. So...forewarned, yeah?
"How much further?"
"Far." But you've been at it all day. You might as well give them a break. "Take a load off. I'll let you know when I'm ready."
They sit. They rest. They eat. And you lean back against the trunk of a tree in the shade. You don't know what kind of tree it is and you don't care. You're watching her. You can because, for once, she's not looking at you.
Yeah, there's the long slender legs, graceful arms and full breasts. All of that skin, a pale purple that's too exquisite to have been created in this f'd up mess that calls it's self a world. But, it's her eyes that grab you every time. They might seem empty at a glance, but when you look closer, when you can stand to, they're not. Those eyes are full to the top with hope and trust and love that somehow hasn't been beaten out of her yet. Her every thought and feeling broadcasts in those eyes because she still doesn't know how to conceal or deceive and will probably never get a chance to learn.
You catch the other one out of the corner of your eye, the leash dangling because it's safe here. You're an animal and a brute, but you're not stupid. You see what they are. Your faithful dog and your faithful b__. The dark leather would stand out sharply against the her pale, slender neck. Those fragile wrists and ankles would wear chains like jewels. But she doesn't need a leash. You wouldn't have to chain her. All you'd have to do is say...
"C'mere Clarice." And she would. She'd stand in front of you waiting for you to tell her what you want. "On your knees Clarice." And she'd obey, because she doesn't know how to do anything else. She'd look up at you, big white eyes telling you she trusts you. "Open your mouth Clarice." Questions might filler eyes then, but all you'd have to do is gently brush her cheek and tell her, "I need this," and she would open herself to you.
You close your eyes and rest your head against the tree, letting your mind go where your body wants to. It would be so easy. And it would feel so good to have all of that innocence wrapped around you; to bury yourself in something so perfect and pure that you're blind to the ugliness all around you for a little while.
And you could be her first. Sure, others had used her body; she was born in the pens. But you would be the first that she gave herself to freely, the first she loved.
And even though she's so small, your hand is almost as big as her head, and seems so delicate, you wouldn't have to be gentle. You could be what you are. You could let the animal out. Because even at your most brutal, you can't match half of what she's already been though.
It would be easy, but you'd be a monster to take that innocence for yourself. You'd only have to walk two steps to find a man who deserved it more. You remember the other one. Ok three. You pound the thoughts down into the pit of your stomach where digestion can send them where they belong, and get yourself ready to be the protector, the father.
"Sir?" You hear the questioning lilt in her voice, it's a voice with music in it. Each word so perfectly formed that it dances along your outer ear before sinking into your brain. You could hear that voice chanting your name, all you'd have to do is ask.
You open your eyes, knowing you shouldn't, knowing you're not ready, knowing what you'll see. You're not disappointed. She stands head tilted in way that she thinks is questioning, but exposes her throat to you. Her hands are behind her back because she doesn't know what to do with them, but it thrusts her breasts forward as if in offering. You could show her what to do with those slim fingered hands. You know what they're for.
But really it's the eyes. It's always the eyes. Looking at you with concern. She knows you need something. She wants to give it to you, if you just tell her... You shouldn't. You let her think of you as a father....
F_ it. None of you are gonna survive long enough for it to matter anyway.
"C'mere Clarice."
"Yes Mr. Creed?"
...
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
I kinda shot this down, but PR got my mind wanderin' on the darker side...
His elbow flies toward your face, but you phase and it finds only air. You solidify to sweep his legs and are forced around by your momentum when he teleports. Fists and feet, hooks and blocks, each of you moving so smoothly between worlds that neither lands more than a glancing blow. The two of you spar, dancing and never touching. One of you will be forced to yield in the interest of time or fatigue, but the victory won’t be decisive.
You press in with a brutal offensive and force him into a rapid series of bamphs that chokes the air with poisoned fumes. You’re used to fighting through the mist, but a sulfur tainted drop of sweat falls into your eye and the burning sting forces you to blink.
Bad timing for you, good for him. Your feet are yanked out from under you and he lands on you heavily, pinning you to the ground. It’s a point, not a win. You phase into the floor, or climb through him to put yourself on his back, or roll to the side… He’s known you too long and too completely to not notice that you don’t. He’s like a brother to you; there’s no way he could misunderstand the expression on your face.
It works both ways. His face shifts in a way that tells you he’s not a priest today just before his mouth drops to yours in a kiss that the two of you will be joking about 15 minutes from now. Neither of you are laughing at the moment. For now you both surrender yourselves to a different kind of dance.
Tongues tangle in the exploration of something at once familiar and new; like an unlocked level in a favorite video game. Yours tests the sharp points of teeth. His is smoother than others you’ve know, and you wonder for the first time if he tastes things differently from everyone else. If he notices the lingering flavor of the orange juice you had earlier, or if he’s drinking something else when he dives deeper.
Dark velvet tickles your finger tips as your hands rest against his chest, hovering between a slight pressure that tells him to stop and a caress that tells him to go further. Those hands (traitorous or divinely inspired?) decide before your mind remembers to vote gliding over the steel and softness of lean muscle covered in soft, blue fur. And you wonder, not for the first time, if that fur…
He knows you too well. His mouth leaves yours to find your ear and whisper an answer to the unvoiced question. “Yes, Katzchen . It does.”
Lips that kiss the Crucifix brush the rim of your ear. A tongue that has tasted the blood of God traces its inner curve. The same tongue that brushes the roof of his mouth and the backs of his teeth- which are nibble gently at your earlobe- when he forms the syllables of In nomine Patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti.
You burrow your fingers in to the silken curls that crown his head and he whispers, “Oh Katzchen ,” with the same reverence he reserves for the name of the Mother of God. .
He carries Heaven in his mouth, but he wears Hell like a cologne. He’s cloaked in the sulfur/brimstone stench of eternal damnation. It makes your eyes water and stings your nose, but there is nothing in the world that makes you feel safer. It’s relief in battle telling you you’re no longer alone. It’s comfort when you have to push other men away because you know they aren’t good for you. And it’s happiness in the thousands of easy moments in between. Like when he tumbles onto the counter in a handstand while you’re drinking a glass of orange juice and offers you a toothy, upside-down grin. “Good Morning, Katzchen . Would you like to come and play?”
He murmurs words you don’t understand with a voice as light and delicate as angels’ hair and breath as hot against your neck as Satan’s flame. Three fingered hands caress you with a poetry as profound the Word while his tail- so like the Devil’s own- winds itself around your leg. The crucifix dangling between your bodies rests heavy against your chest as sharp, demons’ teeth bite down gently- but not too gently- on a tendon in your neck.
The gentle pressure forces, “Oh God!” between your lips in a groan from a place so deep inside you that it carries a piece of your soul up with it.
He laughs softly. “He’s not here Katzchen . There’s only me.”
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
Because I have a crush on him and he was a little jealous of all the attention Kurt was getting...
So you’re takin a little mosey past the gym thinkin maybe if no one’s there you might s without anyone gettin the idea that you actually give a s**t, when who do you catch givin some girl a different kind of workout but the little blue kraut. If celibacy’s out this week, Amanda must be in town for a quick howdyado. Just as you’re about to steer your mosey in the other direction, something catches your attention.
“Oh, Katzchen.”
… Kid sister huh? A better man might leave it alone, but you take a sort of demented pride in not being a better man. So you stroll.
They’re a little too hot and heavy to notice your approach so there’s no rush, but you’re thinkin it might be a good idea to move quick before righteous fury becomes murderous rage.
“Kurt.”
Too late. You’ve got a pretty strong preference for a different name passing between those lips in a breathy whisper. “Thanks for gettin her warmed up demon. I’ll take it from here.” You give him a less than gentle nudge with your foot to make your point.
Her eyes fly open and meet yours, and you’re lucky enough to see the transition from surprise through embarrassment and into anger. Good. So long as everybody’s on the same page. You mentally give the circus freak props for ignoring you, but you’re not backing down.
You give him a solid kick to the ribs. “I said bugger off Keebs.”
“What?” He says rolling off into a crouch looking more annoyed at the interruption than the abuse.
“Keebs, as in Keebler, as in elf, as in the fuzzy blue f**k who’s mistakenly thinking he’s puttin is fuzzy blue junk anywhere near my girl.” You crowd in a bit behind the words knowing he won’t be able to let it slide; you feel like breaking your fist against something, and you’re thinking his face’ll do nicely.
You aren’t disappointed. “I believe it has been a long time since you’ve had any claims here.” He keeps his tone is soft, but fills it with menace as he crowds right back.
“Yeah? Well I say my flag is bigger and I’ll plant it wherever the f**k I want.” Stares lock, hackles rise, teeth are bared…
“No! We are not doing this.” She’s phased in, but still steps right into the solid wall of testosterone between the two of you like it isn’t there. “Kurt, we’ll talk later. Apparently, Wisdom and I need to have this conversation again.” When he doesn’t move she looks pointedly at him and adds, “In private.”
You don’t bother trying to hide your grin from him. It’s too fun watching him know he can’t trust you alone with her but still be too much of a gentleman to argue with the girl who just let him stick his tongue down her throat.
“If you need me…”
“I’ll be fine.” She turns back to you and you let your expression shift sideways from the small triumph into the barely controlled anger that’s closer to what you’re really feeling. “This isn’t anything I havn’t had to deal with before.” And with that, her white knight gives a short nod and vanishes in a puff of smoke leaving Puss –you glance at her feet –in Sneakers alone with the ogre.
And you’re painfully aware of the appropriateness of that analogy seeing as how she always wins by out smarting you. Fool you ten times and you’re way past due on rethinking your strategy.
And so you wait. Let her be the one to start for a change; running off at the mouth is what usually gets you into trouble.
“What were you thinking?” Is her first question when she finally gets around to it.
“I should think I made that pretty f_ing clear.”
She evades. “You know I don’t like it when you talk to me like that.”
You were hoping to keep it down a little longer, but all of your pissed off, simmering so close the surface, erupts. “You know luv, I’m getting really f_ing sick of you attacking my every imperfection. ‘You should quit smoking.’ ‘You drink too much.’ ‘Watch your language.’ ‘Control your f_ing temper.’” You’re yelling. You’re bullying. You’re getting in her face, following her as she backs away because you want her to feel the anger cascading off of you. Essentially, you’re doing all the things you’re not supposed to do, and you don’t care because it feels really f_ing good to have her on the ropes for once. For once, forcing her to see your side of things. “And you know what the worst part is? I actually tried. I tried to do all of that s**t and never once, Not F_ing Once, gave you grief about any of your faults.”
There’s a flicker of something in her face. It’s tiny, barely there even, but you read her mind clear as crystal. Clear as if you were Jean F_ing Grey herself. What faults?
You finally have some ammo so you lock and load. “And that’s really the f_ing problem isn’it. You always thinkin’ you’re too bloody good for me. I’m alright for a tumble now and again when you feel like slumming it a bit but too rough around the edges to bring back home to meet the folks. Whatever happened to unconditional, Luv? How about a little patience and understanding. When are you going to f_ing grow, stop being such a spoiled little princess, and love me for what I am. For f_k’s sake Pryde, if I can manage it you damn well ought to be able.”
You realize too late to take it back, that you’ve flung an ultimatum at her that she’ll have no choice but to refuse because you attacked her and cornered her and threw it out in anger instead of talking about it like something that spends more than half of its time on two legs. And, since it’s looking like this might be the last chance you get in this reality, you drag her against you and lay into her with a kiss that tries to say everything you just said but without words.
That you love her. That you forgive her for tearing your heart out and stomping it into a bloody smear on the floor. That you’re sorry for pretending for so long that it didn’t bother you. That you’re not going to change and you shouldn’t have to, but she makes you want to.
It’s a terrible kiss. There’s no style. It’s tainted with pain and anger. You probably taste like an ashtray. She tastes like orange juice, and it pisses you off that you don’t know if it was her that drank it or the elf. You hate feeling rushed, knowing that any second now she’s going to dissolve from your arms and go back to him and cry on his shoulder and tell him what a complete ass you are. And you hate how his stink clings to her; like he’s marked her. This body that you know every inch of as well as if it were your own, if anyone has a right to brand it, it’s you. You know how to make it sigh, how to make it moan, how to make it scream your name.
It shouldn’t be so hard; you can feel her trying not to respond. Her hands crush your jacket collar so they don’t instinctively seek out the places that make you moan. Her tongue is relaxed in her mouth but twitches with the effort of remaining still under the coaxing caress of yours. She stifles a moan when you set up a rhythm to your kiss that foreshadows…or laments what should come next.
But more than anything you hate how she fits so perfectly against you, softness and warmth that seeps into your empty places and fills them. Because it’s going to be ripped right back out leaving you hollow and bleeding, and probably still too stupid not to tear the wounds open and try again.
You don’t know if you should be grateful or bitter that she lets you carry on until the anger drains away and the only thing left on your lips is an aching need that you’re as terrified of her never seeing as you are of showing it to her. At least she stops you on a human level; the arrow is eased through the other side instead of yanked back out.
“Pete.” There’s a pain in her voice that resonates with yours so perfectly that the vibration threatens to shatter the tenuous handhold you have on reality.
“I’m not sorry. I refuse to be sorry.” She’s not pushing you away out right, and her eyes are searching yours. Looking for what, you’re not sure, but you decide to give one final plea. “We work Pryde, why make it so difficult? If you put half the energy into fighting for us that you expend fighting against us…” You wonder if this is how Rasputin felt, as you stand there waiting for her to tell you to f_ off, and how he ever got over it.
“Katya?”
Oh that’s right, he didn’t. “Sorry, her dance card’s full. Let the Scarecrow know on your way out.”
“What?”
You turn to face the competition. It’s so much easier to fight the other guy. “Scarecrow, as in The Wizard of Oz, as in that makes you the Tin Man, as in march your shiny metal ass right back out the way you came before somebody gets theirs kicked.”
He doesn’t disappoint. “I’ll take door number 2.”
You know the steel fist flying at your head is going to hurt, but at least she’ll know you cared enough suffer a concussion on her account. And who knows, maybe she’ll be there when you wake up to kiss it and make it better. You have a fraction of a second to regret your impulsivity when you catch a bamph at the edge of your hearing right before the hollow, metallic thunk of a steel brick connecting with a bone bowl.
Sneaky little sonof-
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
Uh...a little soppier than I was really going for, but I ain't got time ta fix it. Anyway, as promised...or threatened...
You’re hunting tonight. If you wanna get picky, it’s daylight somewhere above, but if you wanna get picky, it’s always daylight somewhere. But not here; never here. You wade through the sludge, ankle deep and reeking powerfully enough to blind your nose. The solid, clogging stench of things unwanted by Man, stuffed back into the womb of his Mother. Super Man sends his unwanted things here too.
But today, or tonight, he’s asking for their help fighting his war. So you skulk in the darkness, ears and skin alone giving you the shape of the world. You hunt the dragon in its lair, not to pierce its heart as it sleeps. No, you’re gonna wake it up and try to convince it to eat your enemies instead of you.
Diplomacy is not what you do best, but Chuck was confident that your brand of persuasion might succeed where others would have their throats cut...Might end up like that for you too, but you’ll probably get over it.
You find a place, a crossroads of a sort, where your prey or someone who will lead you to her will have to pass through. Then you wait. You open your ears wider, not physically; you make them hear the things that the human part of your brain ignores. You notice the shuffle of tiny things on four legs-some of them not so tiny- and the alien cadence of things that scurry on six…or more. You count drips. You locate their source. Some are steady and predictable while others consistently fall too early or too late.
The sewer sings for you and you listen, but more important you understand. It’s not what you’re known for, but of all the things you do, it’s one of the ones you take the most pride in. Because it’s a skill, honed over decades of effort and use, not an accident of birth, not something shoved inside of you in a lab. It’s something you had to learn, and relying on things you’ve learned reminds you that you’re still just a man after all.
You’re patient and it pays off. It doesn’t bring light, its feet make no sound, but it creates a man shaped void in the music of caverns and dankness. Drops fail to land, scurrying claws change direction. You watch it with your ears as it moves past you. It stops. It listens, but it doesn’t hear the wrongness of your silence so it continues past.
There’s no need to bother remembering turns and twists and double backs. If things go well, you can be guided out. If they don’t, you probably won’t need to be. Your prey takes a snaking, indirect route to its destination. It stops frequently to listen. Habit? Or does it feel you behind it? Once it even moves toward you, but it must be mostly person because it decides you aren’t really there and resumes its trek. People are the only thing in this world with the power to imagine being hunted, so they’re the only thing willing to doubt the feeling.
It leads you deeper into the labyrinth. It leads you to dryer places where unloved things might be able to sleep if they huddle together and whisper soothing words to each other to keep the darkness from seeping into their heads.
Your ears loose her, as your nose –no longer strangled by stench –picks her up. You know it’s a her, because you can usually tell for one, but mostly because you recognize it as HER. Your target, the one the others are listening to this week or however long she can last. Your recognition isn’t because you know her that well. But you’ve met, and it’s a scent that’s hard to forget. She smells inside out; things that should be underneath thrusting out into the open air. You smelled something like it on yourself once upon a time.
You don’t wait, you pounce…“Hey girl, we need to talk,”…sort of. Of course, you’dve been surprised if it’d been that easy.
You’re not surprised by a bone javelin flying in your direction…well a little surprised, because it actually grazes you even though you aren’t where she should think you are. You’re less surprised that she’s not where you think she is.
So, you’re ready for the knife in your back and you shove yourself backward to meet it. The blade twists, hurts like hell, but it’s good news; means there’s a hand attached. You spin, grabbing the arm attached to the hand and use your momentum to slam her into a wall. Full force…The gloves are off, but the claws are in for now.
She bounces off and straight back at you, and it’s on. The two of you don’t dance; this isn’t a date, it’s a goddamn train wreck. You meet her charge, leading with your fists and ignoring the chunks of herself she rips off to stab you with. Bone clubs break under your blows leaving splinters in your knuckles. Blunt spears shatter against adamantium ribs, a few thin slivers sinking deeper than the rest. The tips of knives break off in your abdomen. And you wade through it all blocking out the pain and knocking attacks aside to lay hands on the flesh behind the wall of weapons.
A hand finds a neck. Yours on hers. And you squeeze; not to choke, but to cut off the blood flow to her brain. It should only take seconds, but in those seconds, an attack slips under your guard. A ragged shard slices through tissue, sliding between ribs to lodge in the lump of muscle that that keeps YOUR brain supplied with blood.
“Die upworlder.” She snarls, punctuating with a final shove of the blade.
Your claws unsheathe unbidden; a grating scrape of metal against bone that scuttles up your spine and sets your teeth on edge. You meet her eyes. You can’t see them, but you know where they are. Your free hand shoves hers away and tears the offending spike back out, reopening the already partially healed wound.
A wound which knits closed as you flick your blood onto her face so she understands. “It’s a little harder than that.”…But not much. “But it hurts like hell,” you send the blade clattering off of a near by wall. “Don’t do it again.”
“Life hurts, X-man.” She hisses the word, and spits on it, her contempt repiercing your heart. You’ve been hated, you’ve been disdained, but you’ve always thought you were on the right side. Her disgust cuts deep because it reflects your own doubts.
This is a story. One of the old ones, so important that it echoes across time. The Mother created her consort because she wanted something to love, and he rent his bride asunder to build his house on her bones. And when his seed spawned ugly things on her, he stuffed them back inside so that he wouldn’t have to see them. Then his beautiful children, the ones he kept and let play in the sun, called them from the pit to fight their wars. They made themselves kings with the blood and sweat of their brothers…and put them back again when they were done…
(Cont)
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
She knows what you are. She knows WHO you are. She knows she’s outclassed. She knows she looses this fight. But she fights anyway, because she knows she’s right. Her foot ramming into your armpit breaks your hold on her throat, and she crashes into you. She comes at you from above, adding gravity’s strength to her own as she slams her head onto yours.
You can see the stars because their on the inside. You stagger some but pretend more and she takes the bait pressing in. You let her take you to the ground pulling her with you, and the two of you become a rolling mass of muscle and blood and skin and bone as each of you grapples for dominance.
You’re both earth, but where you’re solid, she’s molten. She spews burning curses -‘Surface Dweller’, ‘Sun Worshiper’, ‘X-man’ - while you try to pin her to the ground and pound reason into her. She flows out of your hands leaving searing wounds in her wake. Her rage is volcanic, raining blows on you in rapid succession while you remain unmoved. Her strikes barely release a trickle of sand, the thrusts of her blades cause only a subtle shifting of gravel.
So it comes down to who f_s up first. You’ve both been doing this most of your lives. But you’ve been alive longer. You can hear the rising impatience in her grunts and shrieks. The frustration is tangible in her movements. She gets tired, not physically, but mentally. You let her get you on your back and, thinking that she finally has an opening, she scrambles to take the top. And you’ve got her.
You get your legs around her waist and lock your ankles behind her. She’s on top, but you’re in charge. She recognizes it for what it is; the mistake of a novice. She’s angry at herself, and flings that rage at you. You catch her wrists just as she stabs toward your thighs with twin shards torn from her shoulders.
“You do that and it just pisses me off.”
“I’ll kill you, surface-scum, if I have to suck your demon brain out through your nose and chase it with acid.” To emphasize her point, she pushes off of the ground trying to get closer to your head snarling and gnashing her teeth as she does. Cute.
You oblige, yanking her toward your face; close enough drive home who’s calling the shots, but not close enough for her to attack. You hold her off balance and suspended above you with no leverage to pull away or fight closer. She struggles anyway, trying to twist, trying to gain enough of a foot hold to push out.
So, to emphasize YOUR point, you apply pressure to her wrists and growl in the voice, low and menacing, that’s moved hardened fighters, sapiens and superior, to beg for mercy; sometimes appealing to you, other times to the divine. “You ain’t like me girly, I snap your wrists and you’re outa commission long enough that somebody else takes your place. Ain’t why I’m here, but doesn’t put me out none to do it.”
You’re more than half expecting to have to take your threatening up a notch, maybe even make good on it, but she went completely still while you spoke. Still and silent. For the first time in this encounter, blindness is more than an inconvenience.
“Why ARE you here X-man?” Her tone is unreadable when she speaks, but she is talking. And she’s not fighting.
With any luck, maybe she’s listening. “I’m here to talk…” supplication is a calculated risk and you’re not sure it’ll fly, but something tells you she’d like to see you on your knees. “More like begging really.”
She sneers. “Your pretty things won’t touch you so you hope to satisfy your lust in the sewers? Your firestarters and weather witches kick you like a dog so you come begging for scraps?”
…She’s noticed what’s going on in your pants (as a matter of pride you’ve ditched the tights). You COULD tell her that it’s no big deal (…big enough, but that’s not really the point), that it happens, that the line between the lust of battle and the lust of the bedroom, sex and violence, creation and destruction…it ain’t as solid as people like to think. Not really solid at all now that you mention it. Things blend at the edges. Sometimes it’s predictable, like say…when you’re rolling around on the ground with a girl who’s not wearing much of anything despite the damp and the chill. Sure she’s trying to gut you, but YOU'RE not trying to gut HER and that can make all the difference in the world. Other times you don’t expect it, like when you’re ripping the fiber optic spine out of a cyborg; never mind the moral ambiguities of killing something that might still be part human. And yeah, it scares the hell outa ya first few times, but you deal…or you don’t.
You COULD explain all that, and you're seeing enough of yourself in her that if you don't end up killing each other maybe someday you will, but now's not the time. So you laugh it off. “That wasn’t what I was after either…but if you’re offering…”
She’s not in a joking mood. Her growl is low and menacing, and you imagine that hardened fighters might appeal for mercy when confronted with it. “Others have sought what you seek, lapdog,” as she speaks, you feel a stirring under your hands, “they were not happy with what they found.” Jagged spikes of bone grow from her wrists, pushing against and, when you refuse to release her, into and through your palms. It’s a slow, deliberate, agonizing penetration…like a forklift in the gut. Sweat falls from her face onto yours and her breath comes ragged. “Tame your dragon before he gets himself hurt.”
There’s another story, older than the other. Before the Mother made her God. Before she felt the burden of loneliness. Before she gave something of herself to make him, she was everything. She was a stalactite cave, a toothed womb. She was life and death, beginning and end, pain and pleasure.
It echoes here in these dark places, away from the God who punished her for giving him half of herself, who built his houses atop her corpse and tried to make his children forget her. It can be heard by someone who knows how to listen.
You do, “Life hurts,” and that makes all the difference in the world. You bring her hand to your chest, finding the tear in your uniform directly over your heart. You press her finger tips to your skin, whole and unscarred. “Hasn’t stopped me yet.”
There’s a stutter in the pulse at her wrist and you release her slowly to your chest. When she doesn’t try to strangle you immediately, you know you’ve cracked the shell, and you find her mouth with yours to taste the soft things inside.
The world above is descending into- or maybe returning to- chaos, but down here is quiet shared breath, mixed sweat, combined heat. Above, the Father rages, visiting wrath upon the beautiful world where important things happen. Down here the Mother slumbers with her ugly, unwanted things in her arms.
You came here because of that other world, but what’s happening down here means more. You’re retelling a story, THE story. You’re a god and you rend your goddess in twain to remake the world. And who knows, maybe this act will carry the echo a little further, maybe forgotten things will be remembered, maybe unloved things will be loved.
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
Genosha, Disgruntled Ninja of the Black Lotus Clan, give a sigh of relief. Her hand trembles slightly from fatigue as she sets the pen aside.
Done at last. She's put the Words on paper, now she can rest.
There's a sudden chill in the air behind her. A draft. But she knows it's something else.
"Please." She whispers. "I can't."
His voice deep but light. It's hollow, empty of feeling, empty of warmth. It echoes within itself. "You will." She tries to resist, but she's only human. She shudders and doesn't want to know if it's fear or...something else.
"There's no more." Her voice, she always thought it was a strong voice, quivers.
She feels him lean in behind her and closes her eyes, refusing to look at the hands braced on the desk to either side of her. Refusing to acknowledge the arms caging her in.
"You will make more. Our half will be told."
"It's too ugly. I'm happy now."
"You said you loved us. Make one of those neat little circles you like so much. Make it whole. Make it fit."
She knows that she's already consented, the pen is in her hand, but she makes a final plea. "Someone else could do it better, someone with more time, someone who doesn't need to sleep."
"You can sleep when you finish what you started, Genosha."
"My name's not Genosha."
"Really. Are you sure?"
"..." Her hand hovers over the paper. "How many?"
His voice is already cold, but it drops a few degrees. "I do NOT like to repeat myself. But...for love...Make it Whole."
A small sob escapes her throat and lands on the paper mixed with a few wet drops. Four...maybe five. It's too much, but...she's only a human. How could she be expected to fight the monsters. Make it whole, make it balanced, make it complete.
*sob*
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
In case I wasn't clear, this starts the villains half
Because I was told that it could never happen and it was horrible and wrong and not even funny …Muhahahahaha….
But um...maybe a wee bit ...heavy? We'll see.
You study your captive trying to understand how she functions. You brought her here to satisfy your curiosity. She has become a significant player against all probability, and that alone makes her worthy of some small interest. And of course, someone tried to tell you that you couldn’t.
It should have been a simple task; lab work, psychological and intellectual profiling, observation, dissection, complying and analyzing data. But your work is stalled. You’ve hit a brick wall of sorts. Things are not adding up. The equation is inelegant. She is imperfect. Psychologically damaged enough to be diagnosable, IQ an insignificant two standard deviations above the mean, carrier of several genetic defects, mutant abilities deserving of consideration- you’ve dampened them, but she barely ranks in the top 10% of mutants you consider worth your time, physically…adequate.
Due to this, you regard her- pathetic, weak, small, broken, asymmetrical- as she stands before you wearing her enigmatic smile and wonder why you are on knees. You know you are sitting back on your heels watching and waiting because this is what she demands of you. Why you obey her is the puzzle. She does not compel you; no one compels you. She makes you want it.
A logical explanation would be her psionic abilities or an uncataloged power, but you’ve checked and rechecked meticulously. Her powers are completely suppressed; she is utterly helpless, at your mercy.
And yet, here you are. The most reasonable course of action would be to admit to your…tendencies and assign the task to someone else. It would be justified. You have more important research, other projects that require your attention. But you find the idea of another man bending to her will distasteful. Your stomach rolls when confronted with the image of another’s hand tracing the impossibly fascinating curve of her calf. The thought of eyes other than your own watching goose flesh form on skin- pale and delicate as bone china-as his fingers caress the back of her knee… it makes your brain burn.
Yours are the only fingers- a surgeon’s fingers, possessed of a practiced sensitivity capable of testing the viscosity of bile- too slick, too water, too granular- with only a touch, capable of measuring the rate at which the blood on their tips cools in a 20 degree room- that can appreciate the paradoxical texture. Smooth and soft, firm and supple, a fragile layer of tissue protecting muscle and tendons underneath, warmed by the blood surging with steady, quiet regularity just below the surface.
And the possibility of any two other ears drinking the warm amber of her voice, of her tongue wrapped around some other name in gentle admonishment, “Nathaniel dear,” makes your chest ache, “where are your hands supposed to be?”
You look up to see her regarding you expectantly one blond brow arched asymmetrically over eyes a shade too dark to be considered pure blue. You pause, keeping your hand on her just long enough to remind her- and perhaps yourself- that you choose to yield, before returning it, palm down, to your thigh. “Forgive me My Queen.”
“Of course darling,” your eyes wander down her torso as she teases you with honey soaked words, “I know how difficult it is for you.” You want to slice her open from sternum to navel, peel her skin back, and crack and spread open her rib cage so you can pull out her organs and weigh them. The answer has to be in there somewhere. “You will try a little harder I hope.”
She runs a hand through your hair dragging her fingernails lightly over your scalp, and your head drops forward to give her the back of your neck. Your voice is normally coldly arrogant, hollow. Some might even describe it as apathetic and…ominous. But this frail, fleeting thing makes you purr. “I will My Queen.”
Perhaps tomorrow. You are your own master, your time tables are for your convenience. And of course, once you’ve extracted her heart and dropped it into a jar of formaldehyde, you will no longer be able to feel it beat faster under your hand.
“You’re a learned man, Nathaniel.” She says as she indulges your silent request by absently stroking the back of your head. There is comfort in submission. “I forget, what is the name of that woman?”
“Shahrazad.” You make a mental note to have the dampening field checked again while you scrutinize the graceful lines of slender ankles over white stiletto heels. “But she told stories to avoid the lust of her captor.”
“Details, dear…and you’ve already had a warning about your hands.” You bring them back to their place, but too late. You studiously observe her retreating hips sway in defiance of the laws of physics as she goes to the table to get…the rope. You growl in irritation. It requires more effort to not break the rope. “Please darling,” the click of her heels reverberates off of the metal walls of her cell as she returns, “if it bothered you that much, you’d be more careful.”
You add an addendum concerning recalibration to your note.
Swallowing your humiliation, you allow yourself to be tied and are rewarded for your compliance with the soft press of her chest against your back as she leans forward to brush her lips across your cheek…And it occurs to you that your ivory mistress is much like those ropes, and that there is perhaps something…rewarding in the exercise of restraint. You are certain that once you quantify that variable…
“Would you like to know what I enjoy most about my imprisonment, Nathaniel?”
You are fairly certain you could make an accurate guess. But feeling the seductive slink of her thoughts passing through her body to be breathed into your ear where they melt into your brain, becoming part of you… “Yes. Please.”… is so much more.
She stands and lightly tugs your head back so that you look up at her as she speaks; her fingers and eyes following her words. “It’s the softening of your jaw, the disdainful curl falling away from your lip, all of the measuring and calculating fading from your eyes until all that remains is need, pure and unclothed.” Her fingers saunter lazily back down to your mouth. “The only word you can remember in those moments is ‘Please’, and, Nathaniel dear,” Your lips part under her gaze without waiting for input from firing synapses and hers curl in an upside-down smile, “There is absolutely nothing in this world more delicious than a proud man begging.” Her eyes shift down to yours and she leans forward slightly. “Shall I tell you what he tastes like?”
You hate the cracks that appear in your obsidian-smooth voice, “Yes My Queen,” but you know she loves them, so you let them show.
“You’re not begging yet, my dear.” She smirks suddenly withdrawing and returning your head to upright. “What will my reward be, I wonder, if I am able to distract you for as long as our Miss Shahrazad was able to distract her prince?”
…There are nearly three billion women on this planet alone, and logic suggests that, if you were seeking a consort, it would be nearly impossible to not find several candidates better suited to your purpose and ambitions. But when she comes back to stand in front of you stripped of her meager powers and completely at your mercy, you see her cloaked in a power you are unable to quantify because she’s greater than the sum of her parts and you grovel at her feet.
“What ever it is your heart desires, My Queen.” Bowing until your forehead touches the floor.
The smile that spreads slowly across her face is filled with a glee that you could only describe as…sinister. “I’ve lost track, Nathaniel dear. How long before have to decide what that is?”
You match it with one of your own. “648 nights and a night, Oh Queen of mine.”
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
Sort of a sequel to the pete/kitty thing under x-men couples
“I’m not sorry. I refuse to be sorry.”
“I know but…neither am I.”
And then she’d had the nerve to look at you with pity. You told your self that you were done with it, that you’d put it out there and she’d walked away, that you couldn’t wait around for Pryde to realize that her quest for something more meaningful than sex is just…bloody f_ing stupid.
Course that doesn’t stop you from sulking in some pub –not your usual place, because technically you’re here on business –about three shots along on your way to getting pretty bloody f_ing stupid yourself. And it doesn’t stop you, two f_ing months later- from mentally rewriting the scene with a dozen different endings, any of them better than reality.
You signal your man for another as set the glass down and check your watch. If your contact is on time, you should be able to wrap things up before the alcohol hits your system. You tap a match book on the bar while you wait, trying to not feel twitchy; or at least not let it show as much.
Your ‘business’ is effectively goin ta shake the snow globe up a bit…A lot. And all the little elves and snowmen aren’t attached to the bottom. People are goin ta end up dead. A lot of people. Everything gets shuffled and redealt. You’d like to say that it’s for some greater good, that it’s not just because you’re burnt out and lookin to say a big ‘F_ you’ to the powers that be in the spirit of British anarchy. And you’d really like to think that none of it has anything to do with how things ended between you and Pryde. And yeah, they ended.
Of course, your luck being what it is, he’s late. You lost count somewhere around the sixth drink so you hold your hand up to see how pissed you are but forget why you’re looking at your hand and put it down.
“Hey mate,” you get the barman’s attention, “how drunk do I look?” He looks up from the sink and just shakes his head, so you splash some water on your face and try to rearrange it into an expression of sobriety. You’re a fair hand at faking it when you have to. “How am I lookin now, mate?”
He spares you a glance and even a couple of words. “Drunk. And wet.”
You grin. “Just how I like my w-“
“Watch it mate, this isn’t that kind of place.” You were pretty sure that it was, and your suspicion is confirmed when the man rolls his eyes in the direction a woman sitting at one of booths.
F_. “How long she been there?”
A shrug. “A while.”
You take a minute to study her while you absently pat yourself down for your smokes. She’s looking out the window, so all you see is red hair, and you don’t have any smokes because you quit again for some reason. She checks her watch while you buy a pack…make that two mate, and you get a look at her face. Well isn’t that a kick in the junk.
You’re surprised to see her, on this side of the pond for one thing, but you were pretty sure you’d heard she was dead…again. She notices you looking her way, so you give a nod. “She drinkin?” Your mate shakes his head. “Is now, two of…” you glance over at her catching eyes- a bright enough green that you can see the color from across a smoky, poorly lit pub- shifting back up from somewhere lower to meet yours. “Four of what you’ve been feedin me.”
You manage to get to her without spilling more than a few drops, and you only collide with one table. “You’re one of the last people I expected to be meeting here,” you say as you sit across from her slide the shots over offering a shrug and “I got a bit of a head start,” in response to her questioning look.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” Her accent is that everyday American, particular to no region, but made common to all of them through the miracle of television.
“Not formally,” You half stand and extend your hand over the table, “Pete, you can call me Wisdom.” Her hand is unusually warm in yours, almost feverish, but her eyes are clear. “Is it Maddie or Madelyne?”
Her polite smile brightens a few watts. “Maddie’s fine. I thought you thought I was Jean.”
You scoff, if there’s one thing you’re careful about, it’s keeping straight the names women you wouldn’t turn away if they showed up on your door step naked. “The resemblance is entirely superficial. She’s…”you make a vague gesture with your hand. “And you’re…” You make a different, but equally vague, gesture.
“Well put.”
Fortunately for you, you aren’t going to put much thought into the difference until later, but where Grey is one of those women who wears her beauty like a suit of armor, sort of intimidatingly stunning, Pryor’s look is more …attainable. Jean wears her face like she expects people to love her. Maddie wears hers like she expects people to be disappointed she’s not someone else.
And she looks like you feel. Burnt out and sort of brittle, like the foundation is crumbling. Even when genuine her smile is a little forced and her eyes don’t sparkle with mirth; they glitter with something your not sure you want to identify. The s**t life’s thrown at her has beaten her down, and it’s the kind of pounding that leaves you tenderized instead of toughened up…Like you said, good thing you weren’t thinking that right then. It’s generally not a good idea to tell the girl you’re hoping to convince to crawl into bed with you that she’s looking rough around the edges. Even if that’s exactly what you’re in the mood for; something with too little self respect to put up a fight…Lucky for you that you don’t think that until later either.
“I’m thoroughly sloshed.” You say by way of explanation for your ineloquence.”
“Might be better that way.” She glances down at the shot glasses. “So, business before pleasure?”
You spread your arms in a gesture of openness. “I’m all yours, Luv.”
There’s no foreplay; she forces herself into your mind without so much as a ‘Brace yourself’, and begins ripping out the information where she finds it. You asked them to send a psion because you didn’t want a paper trail…but you’re suddenly regretting your pragmatism. She has the face of an angel, but her brutality is staggering. Black claws scrape away at surface thoughts to get at the juicy bits underneath. A writhing jaundiced tongue slurps up the exposed secrets, and you have a lot of them. From the mundane to the mutant, and you’ve been hoarding them for an occasion just like this.
(cont)
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
She tears through you, thrusting aside what she finds useless and taking what she wants. And when it looks like she’s gotten all there is, she burrows deeper dragging out all of those things you’d pushed down deep enough that you’d convinced yourself they’d been forgotten. Your personal stash. Then she pulls out abruptly and you can’t help feeling…used.
“Here.” She hands you a napkin.
You dab at the warmth creeping down from your nose and wince when you look. The fluid is clear, slightly pinkish. “Permanent?”
She shrugs. “Probably some, but no worse than what this crap does to you,” she replies absently as she lines up her shots.
You do a try to do a quick assessment, but, like walking into your apartment after it’s been tossed, it’s hard to tell right off if anything important is missing. So you light a smoke and offer her one, which she declines on account of having quit again for some reason. Then you make small talk. “So what brings you back to the world of the living, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“The powers that be.” When you use that phrase it’s accompanied by a vague gesture skyward. She gestures toward the ground.
“How much do you remember?”
“My masters are cruel.”
So…everything. “My condolences.”
She nods. “It sucks. Here’s an example.” She indicates the shot glasses she’s still arranging and rearranging on the table. “I was just, sort of absentmindedly, thinking that the last time I did shots like this was in college. And then for some reason that reminded me of Brandon Matthews, the guy I lost my virginity to and who didn’t talk to me all the next week even though we had three classes together, and who still expected to be able to hook up with me at a party the following weekend. And I was sort of half wondering whatever happened to the sorry SOB, if he knocked up that theater major he was dating and had himself a couple more kids and a divorce. And do you know what I thought next?” She looks up to meet your eyes and there’s pain in hers, the angry kind. The kind that makes you want to pick the world and shake it and leave the rest to fate.
“What’s that, Luv?”
“I didn’t go to college. I was built, memories and all, in a lab. And Brandon Matthews wasn’t even important enough to be given a false existence on paper.” She returns her attention to the table and knocks her shots back neatly. One. Two. Three. Four.
There’s nothing you can say to that. You can walk down the hall, knock on a door, and confront your most recent heart ache head on. And you really don’t want to try to imagine what it would be like to know that more than half of your life was bull**** and that some sick f_ thought it would be cute to make sure there wasn’t too much of sunshine and rainbows.
“Technically it was Scott.”
“I’m too much a gentleman to ask.” You make a note to knock a couple of the boy scout’s teeth out next time you see him, but then you remember that, he’ll probably be trying to kill you so you’ll have to do a little better than that.
“No you’re not.” She treats you to a wry smile that reaches her eyes, and you take a second to appreciate the subtly menacing glitter in them.
There are promises in those bright green eyes. “I was pretending to be.”
“Don’t.” Or maybe they’re threats. “Just be what you are, and I’ll either like it or I won’t.”
That’s probably one of the nicest things anyone has said to you in a while. “No need to bother chattin me up, Luv.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’d ask you if you really think you’re that smooth, but I already know you do.”
“So you know exactly what’s on my mind and you’re still here. Is that consent?”
You earn a laugh for your trouble. It’s a laugh that might send a chill up your spine if it were directed against you, but you stepped over a line tonight and that act put and her on the same side for now. It’s a laugh that smolders; a dark burning that sinks into and warms you like scotch, from the inside out. It’s a laugh that has been witness to and committed horrors unimaginable, and it gets your inner demons humming in harmony.
“Let’s call it serious consideration for now.” She slides over in the booth to make room for you next her, and you don’t wait for a formal invite. “You can ask me again after you’ve bought me a couple more drinks.”
You signal the bartender. “The lady’s playin catch up, mate. And for the record, she gave me permission to talk dirty to her.”
*** you wish.
Someone has driven a railroad spike into your head, and the bloody SOB is still pounding on it. You’re not unused to waking up with this sensation, but you remember more about how you got here than is typical. You try to turn your head, but it weighs a ton, so you feel for her. Disappointment, but not surprise.
You try to doze for another hour, but the incessant throbbing won’t let you. That and your mobile keeps ringing. You ignore it out of spite taking your time in the shower and brushing your teeth- too many mornings waking up face down in a pool of your own, occasionally someone else’s, vomit; you finally started planning ahead.
You find the note Pryor left.
Call me if anything new comes up…
Or if something’s just up.
Maddie
Left on the pad by the hotel phone like she didn’t give a f_ if you found it or not. You use your pencil to get a rubbing of the first note.
I can be reached at this number.
M.P.
Two different numbers. You pull out the disposable mobile you carry for emergencies and ring the number she wrote first. You smile as you hang up and dial the number she left for you. Her voice mail picks up. ‘If you’re calling, you know who I am. Give me an hour to get back to you before you start getting pissy.’
“Mornin, Luv. If you were in my philosophy class, I’d come sit next to ya. Don’t call this number, but I’ll be in touch.” You delete the call logs on the handset- which you do a factor reset on- and the SIM –which you melt down with the credit card you used to pay and its matching ID when you burn the note along with the pad and all - before pocketing to the handset to get rid of later.
You continue to ignore the ringing as you wipe down the room, paying particular attention to the dresser and the wall behind. Towels, toiletries, and trash go on the bed. You give thanks to the powers that be…whichever ones are looking out for you, when you find housekeeping in the hall and get a trash bag to stuff the linens and what not into.
You finally answer the phone while you do one last sweep of the room. “Wisdom.”
“Pete! I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I was asleep.”
“You didn’t come home…”
“I quite often don’t come home.”
“I think we should talk.”
“…”
“About us…”
“Sorry Pryde, you missed me moving on by about six hours.” You love the satisfying finality of the beep a mobile phone makes when you hang up. Like a little electronic F_ you. You switch off just as she’s ringing you back.
You know you’ve got no f_ing business feeling this good about yourself, and the self loathing will come crashing back down on you sometime in the next few hours. But for now you’re just savoring the electric tingle of an impending stor-
"Wait just a bloody minute! I don't belong in with this lot!"
Genosha looks up from the desk. "I think you swing both ways." She says with a shrug.
"Like hell I do! You need to fix this s_!"
"F_ you!"
"You wish!"
"Don't flatter yourself. All I'd get for my trouble is black s_ all over my sheet."
"Listen here you pen pushing little b_-"
"Back off inkstain! I've got nunchucks and no f_ing clue how to use em.
Wisdom takes a two dimensional step forward, and Genosha tucks and rolls to the side flinging her shuriken at him. Their just paper, but one of them catches him in the eye.
"Ow! I think it poked a hole."
"Sorry."
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
Ok, first is first. I finished Pete/Maddie while dude wasn't lookin. He'll be pissed about the dark turn, but ...you snooze you loose.
You know you’ve got no f_ing business feeling this good about yourself. Yeah, taking a tumble with some girl and not blowing her off after completely negates selling out the people who trust you, the people you claim to care about, the people you’re supposed to protect….Ah, hello darkness my old friend. You never feel more yourself than when you’ve draped yourself in self-loathing.
There are a couple of people who owe you more favors than they could ever repay, but you’re going to be putting that theory to the test over the next while, starting today. You ditch your evidence with a guy you think has the right balance of fear and respect that’ll keep him from ratting you out under anything short of real torture, knowing as you leave that it’s entirely up to you if it comes to that. It’s as simple as doing the smart thing and staying out of trouble; as simple not doing anything.
You stop off at a shop on your way home and come out with vodka, shaving cream, a cheap mobile, frozen waffles, condoms, orange juice, a snow globe, and batteries. The snow globe was cheap, but it’s ceramic and glass, no plastic. And the globe is actually a globe and not a dome. There’s glitter in the snow, and it sparkles a bit as you flip it over and watch it settle on the glass. The scene is a city block with snow covered rooftops. The streets are empty and the lamps are on, so it must be evening, maybe even close to midnight when St. Nick would be stopping by. You imagine all of the people suddenly tumbling to their ceilings, crashing into chandeliers, and clinging to banisters. China crashing with the beautiful musical tinkle of delicate things demolished. Christmas lights popping and sparking as they burst.
The globe gets a good shake before you set it right and watch the glittering snow drift quietly back to the ground while people scramble to call for ambulances, while shaking fingers pull shards of glass from slashed arms, while someone who lives alone struggles to summon the strength to call for help loud enough that someone might hear. When all of the snow is settled at the bottom, you give it another little shake just to let them know it’s not over yet, watch them squirm a bit, before you fling the globe at a wall and watch it explode in a spray of water, clinging snow and glitter, glass, and ceramic city rubble.
Most people look into anti depressants when they stand at the edge of the Abyss, but you mate, you f_ing leapt in head first.
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
And this one...I'm sorry people, it started off as something that was almost thinking about being a real story, but...dude got a little out of control. Had to just stop in the middle, but since I spent two nights on it...here ya go.
Ok, so you’ve been freelancing it for most of your career and gettin by ok, but recent events have been making descent paying jobs hard to come by. Like really hard to come by. Like you’re living offa Raman and ketchup. So when you get an offer, even though it’s shadier than you usually prefer, and you’re willing to go pretty shady, you jump on it.
This is one of those, scarce on the details, probably don’t want to know who you’re workin for, definitely don’t want to know exactly what you’re being asked to do until you’re so far in you don’t have a choice otherwise you’ll back out and f_ man you’re gonna end up with scurvy if you don’t get something with a little more vitamin C than a tomato that’s been squashed dead and resurrected as a soulless, zombified husk of its former self. And sure pirates are cool and all what with the booty and the chesty wenches and the buckling of swashes and the paying chesty wenches to unbuckle your swashes…Uh…Where was I? Oh yeah!
Anyway, so I get a call fr- … What? … Second person present tense? Seriously G, you’re killin me with this Choose Your Own Adventure crap. You wanna use me? Fine. But I’ll tell it my way, got it? … Ok, just so we’re clear. Anyway…Shit what was I sayin? Oh yeah. So I’d just killed all the zombies and I was lookin to blow off a little steam so I paid this gi- … What now? … Oh, sorry.
I’ll skip ahead a little. My instructions were pretty vague, everything was really. No details on the job, just a chunk of cash to get me reoutfitted and promises of an amount that sounded more than fair, considering my current rep, when I’d made good. But I’m not a complete tool, so I suspected that my boss was either gonna end up getting off real cheap or not pay up altogether because, seriously, who was I gonna complain to? But it’s not like I had anything else to do. Besides, my POC was supposed to be a chick so, what the hell?
I got hit with the good ol’ ‘show up here at this time and wait to be told what comes next’. So I was sitting, incognito, in a city whose name isn’t important, at one of those out door cafes whose sole purpose for existing is housing clandestine meetings and occasionally being demolished during car chases. I’d gone for the peach iced tea and wasn’t regretting it, and the portabella sandwich was pretty good. Since I wasn’t plannin on payin, I’d ordered one of those monster pieces of cheese cake and was still waiting for it when the girl showed up.
She was kinda cute if you like __s, legs, and ass, and I do. There was probably a head attached somewhere, but she was gone before I got past the __s…Are you bleeping me? ... PG 13? … You’re kidding right? … The violence alone is closer to NC17. … Whatever. Anyway, she didn’t stay to chat, just slipped a cell phone onto my table as she walked by, so I skipped the desert. And, I don’t know, maybe the guy was a latent telepath or something, but my waiter was eyeballing me, so I dropped some cash on the table before I left.
I strolled for a bit, and found a quiet spot to play a few hands of blackjack before I decided that nobody was gonna call and started messin with the phone. No messages or anything, but there was only one number in the phone book…
Other guy: Go ahead.
Me: How far?
Other guy: Who is this?
Me: That depends, are you Delete?
Other guy: Oh, I’m sorry, that means you’re supposed to delete the number from the phone before you dispose of it, Sir.
Me: Uh...yeah, that was a joke.
Other guy: No shit, like I don’t hear it 50 times a day. Please hold.
Me: Ok.
Other guy: (somekina classical music that sounded familiar but I didn’t know the name of. Made me think of Bugs Bunny). Still there?
Me: No.
Other guy: Go to this address (sorry client confidentiality). You’ll find-
Me: Another cell phone?
Other guy: Your partner, and they’ll have all the details.
Me: Who’s my partner?
Other guy: No idea.
Me: How come they got the details and not me?
Other guy: Look pal, I just work here ok? You call. I look at the list. I give you the information on the list.
Me: Ok, anything in particular I’m lookin for, or I’ll just know it when I see it?
Other guy: The list says, and I quote “Partner up at [address]. Partner has details.” Clear enough?
Me: Not really.
Other guy: Thank you, and have a nice day. (hangs up)
Left without much choice, I took care of the phone and headed for the address. Not straight for, I know the drill. I took the scenic route and changed faces a few times before I wandered through the door of the strip club. And unlike the first two I’d stopped at, this one was where I was supposed to link up. I scanned the place, but nothin jumped out, so I just kicked back and enjoyed the view…Pg 13 huh? … Fine, I’ll spare the details.
I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but I was actually starting to get bored of staring at bleeps by the time something that advanced the plot happened.
“Hey sweetie, interested in a private show?” I looked up at her, and then I looked a little higher. She was a blond-haired, blue eyed hottie that I didn’t remember seeing, but that didn’t really mean anything.
“Yes, quite interested actually, but unfortunately I’m waiting for someone.”
She did an exaggerated pout and reached out to touch me. “Hope it’s not a girl, cutie.”
First off, I’d like to meet the guy with the cojones to bring his date to strip club. To shake his hand or clean his clock depending on what day you catch me. But touchin’s a nogo. The projector doesn’t do a damn thing to disguise the shape of the mangled mess I’m lucky enough to call a face.
“Hey, doesn’t this place have a no contact policy?” I threw my hands up to ward her off.
“Yes, but that’s for my protection, not yours.” She was smiling suggestively, but I was more interested in her accent. It wasn’t quite foreign, but something about it was a little off.
“Not that I mind, I’m just not lookin to get my ass kicked.” I jerked my head toward one of the bouncers.
“I bet you could take him.”
That comment struck me as more than a little off. “Maybe, but I might wanna come back here some day, so I’m not really interested in finding out.”
She leaned in, pinning me to my chair under the threat of bleeps alone and said, “I’ll tell you what, this one’s on me. Long as you’ve been here, your friend deserves to be kept waiting.”
I grinned up at my partner. “Sold.” Strippers, especially in the kind of place that can afford more than one bouncer, don’t offer up freebies based on looks alone. You’ve gotta be a real VIP to get that kind of treatment.
I followed her further into the club appreciating the fact that the rear view was as nice as the front and fantasizing that she was a real stripper and would be so impressed by my warrior prowess that there would indeed be a private show at some point in the near future.
She went straight out the rear entrance, took a look to check that the alley was empty saying, “Pardon me while I change.”
“No problem.” Of course without explicit instructions to do so, I wasn’t turning around. She let me watch, but I was disappointed.
First, due to the lack of nakedness, and second to her changing into a guy. Not even a very good-looking guy. Sure I should have been suspicious considering we’d walked past dressing rooms to get outside, but a few hours of staring at women in various stages of undress doesn’t leave a lot of blood in your brain. Dude helped to fix that problem pretty quick.
“Tell me that’s another disguise.” I said, still hopeful, as I refreshed my own.
“Of course.” The voice sounded like the sort of voice you’d expect to come out of a face like that…not encouraging. Anyway, he motioned me to follow and what else was I gonna do?
“So…I was told you’d have details…Ms..tr…?”
“I do, but I’ll save that for a more secure location.”
“Sooo, you’re a guy…”
“Currently.”
“A name maybe? I go by W-“
“I know, I asked for you.”
“Should I be flattered or creeped out?”
“Depends on your perspective.”
“My perspective is, the chick who seduced me away from prying eyes with promises of bare flesh…pretty cool; wouldn’t mind getting to know her better. This guy I’m walkin next to…maybe grab a beer and call it a night….Uh separately…”
“I was offered this job and I said I needed help. I was told I could have one. I asked for you, because you’re good.”
“Again…flattered or creeped out? And you haven’t told me who you are.”
“Well, I didn’t get this guy’s name, so you can call me Tom if it makes you feel better. As for mine…does it really matter? You have no way of knowing if I’m lying.”
“Creeped out it is.”
The rest of our round about trek to ‘Tom’s’ and then ‘Lance’s’ and then ‘Carrie’s’…and so on, safe house was slim on conversation and events, so I’ll skip ahead. My cohort led me to a cheap ass apartment in a cheap ass building in a cheap ass part of town. She, because it was a she again, let me in and I immediately did a scan of the place trying to pick up a clue.
The apartment wasn’t Barbie pink, but there weren’t posters of motorcycles irritatingly obscured by scantily clad women hanging on the walls either. I was gonna have to dig a little deeper.
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” And she disappeared down the hall. (cont)
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
(cont)
I checked the fridge. A box of pizza, Chinese take out, jar of olives, bag of lettuce, lite beer…sort of girly…but not enough to bet my sexual orientation on. The cupboards were equally unhelpful, so I headed for the music/movie selection. The music was mostly classical and jazz, and the movies looked for all the world like they’d been grabbed at random from a bargain bin. Surf Ninjas 3, Conan the Destroyer, Gleaming the Cube…and I’ll spare you the rest because, believe it or not, it got worse from there. Bathroom! The must be something completely unambiguous in the bathroom.
“Hey…Dude, where’s the can?”
“On the left.” It was a woman’s voice, but not the same one she came here with. That was encouraging.
There were completely unambiguous things in the bathroom…There was make-up. There was cologne. Bras and boxers. Curling iron and beard trimmer. Again, it just gets worse form there. I was starting to feel nauseous. So, I was overjoyed to run into a familiar face in the hall.
“Oh Mystique, thank God.” I hugged her out of the pure relief of knowing what I was dealing with. Seriously, it had nothing to do with having those massive blue jugs pressed against me. … What?! … Fabric softener. She was carrying fabric softener.
“I’ve read your file, but I really don’t feel this close to you.” Sadly she pulled away instead of returning my affections. “Especially, since you didn’t wash your hands.”
“No worries, I was just snooping.”
“I guess that makes everything ok then.” She offered me a binder. “Here, the name of the game is Killing Spree.”
Oookay. I’m certainly not above takin a guy out, but… “As in walking down the street, guns blazing, women, children, and fuzzy kittens watch out, kind of killing spree?”
“Sort of.”
This wasn’t looking good. I might have to back out on this one. “It’s the ‘spree’ part that could be a sticking point.”
She gave me a sideways glance; I don’t know, maybe to see if I was joking. I wasn’t, and he rolled his eyes. “There are targets, but it needs to look like there weren’t. That means collateral damage.”
“How much we talking?”
“However much it takes to draw out the other targets.”
“Which are?”
“X-men.”
“...”
“...”
“So, where’ve you got the nukes stashed?”
“…”
“Ok, enough with the DotDotDot. You’re kidding right?”
“Wade, give me a little bit of credit. If this job wasn’t doable, I wouldn’t have considered it, much less agreed and dragged someone else into it.”
“Really. Mistress of the double-cross wouldn’t dream of grabbin some random idiot to sacrifice?”
“I would, but I would have gotten a cheaper one. I had to take a pay cut to get you.”
“Flattery might get you somewhere.” Probably not all the way there though. “But look, the X-men…One on one, I could take out or at least hold my own against most of them. Depending on which ones, I might even be able to handle tougher odds…No, I know I could. But as a group? Just plain stupid.” She was staring at me blankly, like I’d just explained to her why you’re not supposed to wear white after Labor Day, so I added, “Besides they never stay dead.”
“It’s not as bad as you think. We’re sort of…Culling the heard so to speak.”
“What? Like, draw them out, knock off the stragglers, and make like trees?” Suddenly, I was giving it serious thought. I really needed the money.
“Essentially.”
“Well, I wouldn’t mind some kind of guarantee that three months later, when the Phoenix –shock, horror, gasp –rises from the ashes, somebody isn’t gonna be asking for his money back.”
“I had similar concerns, and was told it was a non-issue.”
All of this was sounding a little outside of sane, even to me. “Lets try this again. We conduct a little random slaughter, X-men come running, we off a few of them indiscriminately, and it’s no big deal if a few minutes later they pull a ‘I’m not quite dead yet. No really, I’m getting better.’” I said the last in my Monty Python voice...Duh.
“Not random. I told you, we have targets.” She indicated the file she’d given me earlier.
I let out a low whistle as I flipped through information on about thirty seemingly random people. “What’s the connection?”
“I didn’t dig that far. If I’m caught, I didn’t want someone retracing my steps. But, I think it’s safe to say that these are the primary targets and the heroes are the red herrings.”
“That’s a long list to take out before the cavalry arrives. Work and home addresses all over the place.” I shook my head. “This could take weeks to get timed out, and there are so many variables it’s almost impossible for it to go off with out a hitch.” She grinned at me so I grinned back, not sure why we were smiling. “Why are we smiling?”
“I was trying to get you attention for nearly an hour back at that club. I was starting to think maybe you were slow.”
I get that a lot. And yeah, sometimes I play it up a little, but mostly I think I’m just lucky. “And what makes you think I’m not?”
“You’re asking all the questions I asked, and I know I’m not.”
“So, the answer to those questions is…”
“Take out as many of them as we can, and throw a couple of truly random nobodies into the mix just in case our employers weren’t smart enough, though I’d expect they were. I had time while you were being brought in, to do some of the leg work…”
I got a little distracted at that point thinkin about well… ‘leg work’. She was sayin something about catching most of the targets in the same location and a bomb and me lurking and picking off secondary targets, while she was going for high visibility.
“Are you listening?”
“Uhuh, ‘high visibility’ got it.” She didn’t believe me so she went over the plan again, which was great, because it gave me time to focus on the fabric softener. The way it shifted around while she talked, how it probably smelled really good, wondering what it tasted like.
…
.Huh? … Gen says she doesn’t think it’d taste as good as it smells, but I can tell ya from personal experience, it’s better. Way better. … Hazardous to Humans and Domestic Animals? Everybody came out ok, but the healing factor and superhuman stamina might have had something to do with it. … Oink Oink.
…
No, wait! I haven’t even gotten to the really good stuff yet! I’ll just cut out the boring details and get to the meat and potatoes. So, car bomb, blues fest, broken and charred bodies, stench of burning flesh, people screaming, o the horror, couple of dead Xmen...Say…the spunky Asian chick and the dude with the bad French accent, and I probably kicked Wolverine’s ass again. Anyway, Good times, Good times.
…
Well…yeah, totally reformed. I mean, I’m really eaten up about it, can hardly sleep, racked with guilt. I’m so opening an orphanage or something with my take. Obviously I was under the influence of a vile temptress and can’t be held accountable for my actions.
___
No Baby, not you the…other…vil- That’s not the right answer either is it?
___
Sorry G, we’re gonna have to finish this later. C’mon Rairai, I didn’t mean it like that…
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
Okay…talk about getting in touch with your inner dark and scary. This is a little closer to what I had in mind with the villain half. You might say it’s a cop out, considering I used Maddie and Pete again, but I thought their little What If had more to it.
It’s icky. It’s ugly. It hurt a little. Sorry.
“You look beautiful tonight, my love.”
You roll your eyes and resist the urge to glance at your watch. You just checked a second ago and already know that if you leave right now you’ll be on time. Still. Resigned, you turn and offer him your seductive smile under bedroom eyes. If you try to argue, you might win, but you’ll be at least half an hour late. “Thank you daddy.” You even giggle and squeal for him when he throws you over his shoulder. If you play along, you’re looking at 10 minutes at most.
He tosses you onto the bed and lands on top of you. Thank God, at least he’s getting to the point. Hoping it speed things along even more, you toss him a gasping, “Oh Sebastian!”
“Jean my love.” So…He’s in one of those moods again.
You’re not. You stare him down…the side of his head anyway; he’s kissing your neck, still not realizing that he’s done…Finished actually. You’re pretty sure you made it clear just how tired you were of that game the last time. He flinched every time you walked by for two weeks afterward.
“Do you feel hot?” You smile to yourself as he drops his affected aristocratic accent.
“Oh yeah daddy, I’m sooo hot.” You’re words have an extra ten pounds of sarcasm, but you don’t care anymore. In about 30 seconds he won’t either.
“No. I mean, it’s really getting hot.” He pulls away and finally looks at you, and you get the satisfaction of seeing the flickering green flame in your eyes reflected back at you in his.
“I think it’s just you, Sebastian.” Your eyes burn, but your voice is a sheet of ice. His hands go for your throat and you don’t resist. He’s way too late for that. You watch his rage crumble into horror as the fluid in his eyes begins to simmer and then boil. He tries to scream, but his vocal cords are already melted and he emits only a dry hiss.
You turn your head just as his eyeballs burst. There’s something so satisfying about the popping sound an eyeball makes when it bursts open. Like a little, biological F_ You. His corpse falls onto you, looking more surprised than accusing with its eyes all mangled the way they are. You shove it off of you.
Gross. He got eyeball juice all in your hair. Well, you might as well blow off your meeting and take a shower. It was just one of his stupid a-monkey-could-do-it errands that he sends…sent you on because you’re the only one he trusts…trusted.
That train of thought is interrupted by the sound of your phone ringing. You dig it out of your purse and glance at the number. Your first thoughts are warm ones. It’s Pete. A few months later and your fling is still…flinging. And the sound of his voice rebounding off a satellite still makes you want to giggle and twirl your hair.
But your second thoughts have your blood running cold. This is his regular number. The one he gave you and then told you never, under any circumstances, to call. “I’m serious, Luv. Unless the world is coming to a f_ing end, and none of the rest of it matters any more.”
You brace yourself and answer. “Pete?”
“Maddie!" That's not good; Pete's usually not a first name guy. It’s pet names or last names, even in his head. Only in those moments when his brain is turned off, does he forget. "I'm f_'d. Everything’s completely f_’d.” His voice has the faintly slurred quality of drunkenness squashed by adrenaline.
“What is it, Pete?” You sense your own panic rising, but keep your voice calm.
It seems to help. “I’m sorry, Luv. I shouldn’t call you with this, but you’re the only person I know who’d understand.”
“What do you need; just tell me.”
You hear him taking a breath, and you want to yell at him to get to the point. You’d tear it out of his head If he were here. “I was with a girl…It’s bad…”
“How bad Pete?”
“I can’t say. How soon can you be here?”
“Soon, where exactly?”
“Meet me.” He gives you an address that you recognize, but before you leave you send out a message. Tessa.
Yes?
I killed Sebastian. I couldn’t deal with it anymore. I have to take off on other business, but I’ll help you sort it out when I get back.
The body?
The bedroom. Don’t worry, it didn’t get that far. Sorry to leave you with the mess. I’ll try to be quick.
Take your time.
You take a step forward into the space between and your next carries you onto the street. There are a couple of people nearby who are surprised at your entrance, but you absentmindedly slap an adjustment into place. Of course she's been standing there the whole time. Speaking of which…you add 5 which puts it a little after 1AM.
Pete? You scan for him mentally while you search with your eyes. Your mind finds him first, a whirling black vortex of self directed hate. Like a black hole, you’re drawn to it, it’s inescapable; it threatens to rip your heart out of your chest.
I’m here. His inner voice is distorted by pain and confusion as you move toward him, having found him with your eyes. Outwardly, he’s deceptively calm shoving off of the wall of a building and flicking a cigarette away to meet your approach. You start to dive into his head to try and sort out the mess, but he’s reaching, grasping, trying to suck you inside and make you part of the madness, so you have to block it out.
You slip into his arms giving him your body instead, and he crushes you against him like he could pull you into him physically. He smells like a barroom floor at the end of a three day weekend and he’s slightly damp and cold from half drizzle/half flurry, but the shaking probably isn’t from the cold. Having a solid point of contact with the world lets some of that outer tranquility sink in and his first coherent thoughts and expressions are of guilt.
“I’m sorry for doing this to you. You should be the last person I unload this onto.” He’s thinking that he cheated on you and that he’s been using you. Poor sad little Pete. You wish you could make him understand how refreshing it is to be used for something as mundane as sex. How flattering it is that he goes to the trouble of trying not to lie to you. How cute it is that he thinks you deserve better and tries to give it to you when he can and beats himself up about it when he can’t.
His need is so pure; stark and simple and beautiful. No deception, no schemes, no plotting and double crosses and recrosses. Even if you weren’t a telepath, you’d be able to feel it. Every part of him cries out for you to love him, and he makes it so easy. His requests are so uncomplicated. Hold me. Tell me it’s going to be ok. Make me feel like there’s something in me that’s worth the trouble. And he feels guilty for those few silly little things he asks for, like he’s demanding the impossible.
What’s impossible is not giving. So you hold him. “It’s gonna be ok, Pete. I’m here now. I love you, and none of the rest of it matters.”
He sags against you, drinking in what you offer. “It’s bad Maddie. Really bad.”
“It’s Ok. Just show me.” He leads you a couple of blocks to a hotel. The kind he once told you he’d rather have you in the back of a car than take you to. You try to dig into his mind again as you walk, but there are no words, only a chaotic collage of sensory information. A woman is dead and a headache are all you get for your trouble. You’d already guessed the first, and the second you could have done without.
He pauses in front of the door to the room suddenly wanting to try to protect you. He thinks you’ll be hurt, that he was with another woman. He wants to explain. So you let him.
“I’m not sure what I was thinking.” Only partially true, but he'll get there, he just needs to decide how to say it. "I think I was trying to prove to myself that I wasn't in too deep. That I could drop this...whatever we're about. We should have. It’s just…bloody irresponsible is what." He's evading, there's more that he wants to say but can't find the words for. You could try to pull it out of him...but you decide you'd rather wait until he's ready.
"Look Pete, you don't have to apologize. You don't have to explain." He's still resistant. He doesn't want you to have to deal with the mess he's made of things. "You need my help. I'm here. Let me help."
He finally opens the door for you and steps aside. He doesn't want to go in, so you go alone. The light is on so you see the woman on the bed right away. And you see now why he was so reluctant to expose you to it, but he's right; you understand.
You understand what it is to hate something so much for making you love it and then rejecting that love, that you want to destroy it and everything it has ever touched. You know what it's like to have loved someone so deeply that when they turn away from you, you want to utterly unmake their existence. And you are intimately aware of what it feels like to sell yourself, body and soul, to attain power enough to do it.
The girl doesn't even look that much like her. Just a random brown haired girl about the right age, but that was enough to bring it all to the surface. She was even still mostly clothed. Things didn't get that far.
"Come here Pete." He needs to look at what he's done. He needs to understand why. And when he doesn’t respond, "Wisdom." You say it sharply; like calling a dog. (cont)
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
Last edited by Genosha on Oct 16th, 2007 at 10:39 PM
(cont)
He responds in kind, head down, tail between his legs. You rub his nose in it, but gently. "You have to look, Pete."
He does, and he goes white. There's a moment where you think he's either about to pass out or be sick, but he grits his teeth and swallows it down. "This is all f_'d." He says softly, threading his fingers into his hair. He's not done. So you wait. "I mean, I don't even..." He looks up at you. "Maddie, I love you."
You live in a world where you’re lied to more than you're not. Some people, if they're good, can smother their thoughts so the lie sounds flat and empty. But most people create this discordant feedback when their minds and their mouths disagree. It's a whining buzz in your ear and it echoes inside your mind. It gives you a headache to listen to it, and you listen to it all day long, every day. So when someone tells you the truth, it’s relief; it's like a little miracle.
The sound is clear and piercing. It cuts through the background noise of everyday garbage that you can only half tune out. It shoots into your brain and says 'hey, here's something that's actually worth listening to'. Even though he says it in that vaguely accusing tone of children when they say ‘It’s just not fair’, his declaration is clear and sharp as crystal. It slides smoothly into your heart. And the barbs hook into the meat of it, tethering you to him.
“And I don’t…I’m over it…I…” Pete also has way of lying that’s just adorable. He dances with the words, trying to find a configuration that he can wrap his thoughts around so that the end product is truth, even if all of the meaning is lost. He’s floundering on this one, so you throw him a line.
“It doesn’t work that way, Pete. You could go 20 years without even thinking about her, but when she shows up in your life again it’s like she never left. All of it comes rushing back. The good and the bad. You’ll remember his smell and the things he’d whisper to you and you’ll want to step into his arms and pick up where you left off. And you’ll remember how she tore out your heart and shoved it back down your throat and you’ll want to crush the life out of him. You’ll remember what it was like to have him smile at you, just for you, and then you’ll see her smile at someone else that same way and you’ll want to suck his soul out and tear it to pieces.” You take a second to stuff your own pain back down.
“It’s always going to hurt, Pete, and even when you find other people to care about…” You put hand over his heart. “Even when you care about those people on a deeper level than you ever cared for her, there’s always going to be a part of you that misses what you had. There’s always going to be a part of you that wants her and a part of you that wants to obliterate her because that’s the only way that you can really move on…”
You watch his eyes as the truth of what you said sinks in; his expression shifting between horror, dread, awe, and resignation in no particular order before trying denial on for size. “I’ve never wanted to hurt her.” His gaze flickers to the bed. It doesn’t fit, but he tries to make it.
You can hear him telling himself that it’s wrong, that he shouldn’t feel this way. That there’s something horribly wrong with him and he should get help, or put a stop to it once and for all before someone else who had nothing to do with it gets hurt. You watch him telling himself that he doesn’t want to be the kind of person who lets his darkness get so out of control that he destroys things…And you see the little epiphany flicker in his eyes when he realizes that’s exactly what he is.
You’re there to catch him when he falls. You hold him. You tell him everything is going to be Ok. And you tell him how beautiful and perfect his pain is as you drink it in to fuel the flame.
__________________
“I must be about 3 kinds of arrogant and 5 kinds of stupid, because I’m pretty sure I can have it both ways.”
KMC Community Forums
Fan Fication
Oct 13th, 2007 05:16 AM
Gen says she doesn’t think it’d taste as good as it smells, but I can tell ya from personal experience, it’s better. Way better. … Hazardous to Humans and Domestic Animals? Everybody came out ok, but the healing factor and superhuman stamina might have had something to do with it. 
… Oink Oink. 
