I always just assumed that the whole Chuck and Jean thing was just a device used to rub it in our faces how irresistable jean is supposed to be. something about purity of heart and crap like that.
Sorry. I say I try not to hate but...
And last I knew, and this was a while ago, Havok was with Maddie Pryor(sp?), one of the jean clones yeah?
Originally posted by Kyro4eva
i like Shadowcat and Pyro in the movies, Kitty and kurt in evolution adn Kitty and collosus in th ecomics
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.”
dang and wow .. you are an amazing writer, Genosha! This scene that you evoke before everyone's inner eye is sizzling hot and innocently touching at the same time, and it gives me a much deeper appreciation for the possibility of Kurt and Kitty together, as envisioned by the Evolution writers and brought to life for me by your few paragraphs.
Rock on!
ShukiShuki 😄 (a blasphemous corruption of Shukran-pron shoo kron; spelling negotiable-. Arabic for thank you)
But uh...Just for the record. I'm still not a big fan of the idea. And I also wish to let the record show, I was inspired more by the idea of their comic persona's getting together. I love Nightcrawler, but the teen-aged Kurt from Evo's a little on the twitchy side for my tastes.
Well, I was in the mood to write down something that ran counter to my sense of the natural order of things on account of the whole Emma Scott thing. So...yeah all for you my man.
Both this one and the Blink thing struck me at about the same time, just took a couple of days to get them into a form that might not get me kicked out.
Anyway, thanks for the inspiration...not that I'm calling you a fairy. 😄
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-