... mind // nothing but a cave

terminator: scc/fight club; someone else (john/riley)

2008-11-11T03:10:10Z

terminator: the sarah connor chronicles/fight club. john/riley. R; slight sexual references (underage) & violence & some bad language. about 2545 words :: It smells like violence and faith, like blind belief. Like a new, different kind of future.

SOMEONE ELSE

When the other kids would run around the suburban yards and taste and breathe innocence in the way it was meant to be experienced, you'd be chased through the moist woods in Mexico and bathe in blood. Battle (because you have to). For their sake and for their future.

Whereas they'd laugh and dream of treasures at the end of rainbows, you'd shriek and hurt and fight a nightmare (the weight of the world on the shoulders of a little boy). All that for the sake of human race, for its right to exist. Every cut and wound and cry of pain. Just for them.

Most of them will die never even knowing your name.

---

You're always thinking why and do I have to and what difference does it make but you say yeah and okay and fine, I'll do it because that's how you stay alive.

You may not like being John Connor and sometimes you may even wish you're somebody else, somebody with a different kind of past, different future, but nonetheless, you do like living (though you rarely feel alive).

Most of the time, anyway.

---

"You're a pawn, John," you remember your mother saying once, out of blue. You were just a kid, but you understood what she meant though you probably shouldn't have. "We both are," she continued, shaking her head slightly, "But you know what happens to a pawn when it reaches the other side of the board."

It wasn't a question, there was no don't you? but it demanded an answer anyway. You whispered, simply, "It changes."

She smiled and even so young, you could tell there was something sad and haunting about it, in the way it didn't reach her eyes. It never does. "Yes," she confirmed taking your head between her hands and kissing your forehead, "that's right, it changes. Turns into something completely different. That's the beauty of the game, isn't it?"

---

They don't like you hanging around with Riley, having her in the house day after day. They've made it clear by telling you how stupid your behaviour is, how you should stop being so childish but you don't really care what they think. You've noticed you care less and less about less and less these days and it doesn't bother you that much, the way you slowly stop feeling. You figure, being forced to be John Connor gives you every fucking reason in the world to be angsty.

And the funniest thing is, your mother seems to think you do it to annoy her and Derek, to show her bits and pieces of the life you want but can never have. There could be some truth behind that, you don't deny it, but mostly you just like spending time with her, with this girl who seems to like you back just the way you are. You like the way she speaks and thinks and moves and the way her mouth tastes and how sexy she sounds when she's panting your name. She's not an innocent little girl and she's not sweet, you like that too. When she fucks you, she says the kind of things you've only heard in movies and you like the way she can turn you on and off whenever she wants to.

You're not her first, but she's yours. That doesn't bother you, either.

---

You trusted her, your mother, with your life. Maybe because she gave birth to you or because for the longest time she was the only one you had. Before Cameron, before Derek. Maybe you trusted her because she said, promised, she'd take care of you and protect you till the end of the world and after, if need be. She'd die before letting anything bad happen to you. She didn't. She broke the promise without meaning to and it made you like this.

You can't forget and you can't forgive and when Derek tells you that the life you took was just a step to be taken, nothing more, you hurl a punch at him, meaning to crack his nose. You want to draw blood (doesn't really matter if it's yours or his since blood is blood). You don't, though, because half-way through he catches your wrist like you'd still be four, his fingernails digging into your flesh. Painfully, like he'd want to make you pay for everything you've done (in the future). Like he'd seen it coming.

"Been through that one time too many," he says softly, still holding your wrist at bay, "Go find someone else to take it out on, I'm done with that."

---

To you it seems he gave you an order and for once you're happy to comply. Derek should've known better. Or maybe he did. He's made it his daily mission to remind you that he knows what you were, are and what you'll become even if you don't. Maybe he knew you'd sneak out the house in the middle of the night. He told you, told you to go find someone else. You think he really meant it because he never, ever, volunteers to go anywhere with the machine but that night - that night - he insisted her assistance and took Cameron with him. The job took only 20 minutes, give and take, but it was all the time in the world you needed.

You escape.

Only for the night but as it turns out, sometimes that's enough.

---

You go looking for trouble but in the end, it's the trouble that finds you. It's some inmature idiot who thinks he can rob you or scare you, whatever. Some asshole who thinks you care when you don't. Who thinks a knife will stop you, your breathing. It doesn't, not after that.

You, your muscles, they do what they're trained to do. You fight (to protect the future or to protect you?). You twist the weapon out of his hand, breaking two of his fingers by doing so and enjoying the sound. He falls down on his knees in obvious pain, biting his lip to keep the curses in and you nearly smile. If that ain't another soldier, then you don't know what defines a soldier anymore.

He says, grunts, snarls --- he says, "fucking hell. My bad, dude, sorry. You wanna see something really cool, huh?"

---

You follow the white asshole. The warehouse smells of blood and sweat and you feel at home.

They all say, whisper and tell, Tyler Durden, that man right there, that man in the middle, that man, dude, can't you see? They say Tyler Durden is the boss who made it all happen and they say he's the messiah who will free them all, make them see, and you're thinking if only someone could.

Someone else, but not you.

---

When the man, the one they called Tyler, speaks, no one else says a word. The air is crackling with tension and excitement and anticipation and something more, something vaguely familiar, but not quite. It smells like violence and faith, like blind belief. Like a new, different kind of future.

Maybe that's the real John Connor in disguise, the man they're looking for instead of you. Maybe this is the messiah who can fight and kill and lead us to victory. Maybe it was never meant to be you. You hope your mother got it all wrong.

Tyler says, "If someone says stop, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over." You wish it would always be that simple.

---

In the morning you go downstairs only because you know you can't avoid the inevitable. No point in stalling. So you take a shower, get yourself ready, grab your school bag and go eat breakfast. The moment you step into the kitchen, her rough hands are all over your face. Making sure. Cut lip, black eye, a whole bunch of bruises. No brain trauma. Hallelujah. She should see the rest of your body... or maybe not.

"What the hell, John?" she demands, always demanding and you tell her you got into a fight last night, in the park, with some stupid kid who was showing off, bullying you, wasn't your fault, no worries, you know what to do, keep your head down, it was a mistake, won't ever happen again. You promise you'll take care of it. You don't know if she believes you or not, can't quite read that stunned look in her eyes, but she leaves it at that, saying, "Okay, good. I hope so." Or else --- you hear the warning, you've learned to recognize it so well though she never says it.

Derek says nothing then, only looks at you, eyes narrowing slightly and later when neither she or Cameron is around, he finally decides to speak. He says, "hope no one died" and that's that (he doesn't sound surprised or angry and it makes you wonder). You want to tell him, snap. Of course no one died because you were raised to protect your own ass and you said stop before it got too far. But it's not like you can tell him that, right? Can't tell him that if you hadn't stopped yourself, it, him, someone else would've (and you would've been grateful for that). You remember the first two rules and hell, you if anyone in this world are made of rules, right?

---

"I think it's kinda hot," Riley confesses two days after your fight, tracing your lips with her index finger and not caring it still hurts. She's lying against your side (warm and warming you), one leg thrown over yours. Her soft fingers are distracting you from your own thoughts by tracing patterns on your skin, counting the cuts and bruises and guessing how many of them will scar.

"Great, me getting my ass kicked is hot now?" You ask and laugh weakly. She knees you in the thigh, playful. The knee hits a bruise and it hurts. You wince, but it's okay because somehow, when she's there and you're not alone, it's the right kind of pain.

"Tell me the truth. Who did it?" She asks, whispers against your shoulder, "Not your mom, right?" You tell her she'd never, not Sarah. Only... she kinda did.

---

You were on your back, attempting to catch your heaving breath (no such luck there) and trying your best to force your body off the cold ground (no such luck there, either). You tasted the blood in your mouth, felt it all over, wet, warm. Everything hurt, every inch and spot and breath and swallow. Even thinking. Everything burned and tickled and just for a moment you thought you might burst into tears because you fucking went and did it again. You told yourself you wouldn't, but you did, you yelled the damn word and the fight was over. They all know who you are, or what you are, and they leave you alone. You and your silent curses. The last time someone did offer a helping hand, someone usually does, but that one time you refused to accept it. You would refuse again. You're John fucking Connor.

Tyler said, "Fights will go on as long as they have to" and that's precisely the goddamn problem. It won't ever be over, not till you fight back instead of run. It's not enough that she wants to keep you safe, it'll never be enough. You killed and even that doesn't cut it. It's just a step, it's you trying to stay alive. The war needs more. From you. You wonder, sometimes. How far could you let yourself go if you didn't have to worry about the fate of an entire planet? Would you kill even if it was a choice between only two souls, the other being yours?

"Johnny, that's your name, right?" a voice says from somewhere above. You can't see but you can hear and for a moment it feels like God were speaking to you from the heavens. "Well, John," Tyler says, imagine a white ball of healing light or something 'cause you can't stay there forever, they need to lock the place up and you open your eyes.

---

After Tyler decides to fight you and dislocates your shoulder a few times, your mother figures she's given you enough time to deal with your issues and now it's time for her to butt in. You get it, she's worried and angry and frustrated and decides for you the way she's decided since you took your first breath. "This has to stop," your mother says, eyes screaming murder, "you can't keep doing this, whatever this is. It's not your mission and you have to stop. I'm ordering you to stop."

But this is no fight club and she can't tell you to stop. Somewhere along the way, her orders have changed, you suppose. They are gray and colorless and fade to black now, while everything else is slowly regaining their true colors.

You ask, "why" and "do I have to" and "what difference does it make?"

---

The guy you're fighting is probably twice your size but you learned to compensate around the time you learned to walk. It's all you ever do. Try fighting a terminator without compensating and you'll get why. You hit and block and kick, nothing in your style has changed since the last time you were here, but somehow you feel more focused than ever before. Alive.

Like maybe your mother taught you all the right things you need in order to survive, to be strong and independent. Maybe she taught you to compensate because she knew you'd always feel less. Maybe you can fight a little bit better if you trust you can. Maybe it really is about faith, about blind belief and hope. Those are your gifts to the humankind and the only things your soldiers will ever have.

Maybe your mother broke the promise because she knew she needed to. Because she's known all along that there's nothing more important than fighting for what's right. So the circle never breaks. You do it for them while she does everything she can (for you) to make sure you will. Since you're John Connor and all.

---

The fight ends the moment you yell stop and this time you don't feel like a loser at all. Instead, you say, "Tyler, I need a sec with you. Outside."

Tyler wants a war, you know this much. You don't know why he wants it, just that he does and you suddenly figured you could always try and give him something easier than philosophy, but something harder than humans to fight. So you tell him the truth and Tyler says, "What we really should do is just kill everyone, the whole government and just. Everyone. That way it won't happen, man."

You smirk and tell him, no. You don't take over the club, it was always meant to be his, but you do take over the cause and make it yours. The first wave of your future Resistance; you made it happen, made them see. You don't tell your mother about it though 'cause that'd be against the rules.

-FIN.

a/n: I have no idea what went through my head when I wrote this or what made me write it. I wrote it before I saw 2x08 and it was supposed to be John/Cameron, then John/Sarah (I'm weird, maybe?) and then it turns into John/Riley though I don't even *like* Riley that much. Or didn't, not before I saw that episode a few hours ago (my gods, loved it!). So, yeah, I dunno. Feel free to point out all typos and errors and whatnot and please tell me what you thought. Thaaaaank you.

Prompts, please?

2008-06-07T11:22:32Z

So, alright, here goes nothing. So far I've completed, um, *counts*, 16 of my 50 X-MEN: ROGUE/PYRO prompts (that you can find here) which basically means I still have a whole lot of scenes to write... Yes, I'm only realizing it now.

This is where (and why) you, hopefully, will step in and help me out a little.

I fear I'll end up repeating myself and that stupid fear always leads to the bitchiest writer's block - so, I need as many new possible scenarios to play around with as you can come up with! If you have any ideas for a ryro scene, be it smuttish, character study, totally AU or a missing scene ---- whatever, now's the time to tell me! Any scene you'd like to see written, share!

You can be as detailed as you want, give me a quote to use, a plot bunny (just note that as they're for 50scenes I can't write anything but scenes of a sort) to ponder upon or simply a direction to follow.

I'll pick the ones I want to try and write and we'll go from there :) Also, after reading the shit spfizz just threw at my face, I feel the need to make it perfectly clear that I'm allowed to rape your prompt to any form and shape I want and you have no say on it, alright? So, yeah.

~~If no one decides to help me out, I swear I'll not only cry a lot, but send all kinds of hellhounds after you people. 'Kay?~~

SO FAR WE HAVE...

1. Pyro&Rogue (der), ice cubes, squealing like a little girl, and hilarious hijinks dealing with a singing trout named Scott. (The trout don't have to be real.)

2. Must include: an uber new mutant kid who totally thinks he's Harry Potter because he can shoot sparkly shit out of his fingers, shredded gloves and a turnip. A GIANT turnip. Oh, and the kid's gotta try and Avada John at some point while breaking a vase in the process.

3. Must include: purple stockings for John, someone losing their voice and Kitty kicking an unsuspecting man in the balls. Preferably Scott or Wolverine. There must also be a painfully embarrassing question brought up.

4. Must include: An irrational fear of lawnmowers and a mud fight. There must also be a creepy old gay guy named Eldridge who is randomly missing his two front teeth and suavely asks John if he has a name for his "manly bits".

5. Aandhi ho ya toofan ho, meri mann mein rahey tu sada
If you're a monsoon or a storm, in my heart you remain safe.

6. Mere mehboob, qayamat hogi
My love, the end is coming.

7. Aaj rusva teri galiyon mein muhabat hogi
Today, love will be shamed in your streets.

8. Teri dil ko bhi sanam, tujhse se shiqayat hogi
Even your heart, my love, will have complaints against you.

9. Raat hamari to chaand ki saheli hai
Our night is a friend of the moon.

10. Chingari koi bhadke to sawan usey bhujaye
Sawan jo agan lagey, usey kaun bhujaye?
If embers spark, the monsoon will wash them away,
But if the monsoon spurs on the flames, who will put him out?

11. Koi gham na phir hoga mujhe,
Agar khwaboun mein tum aaogey
There will be no sorrow in me,
So long as you visit my dreams.

12. Door jitna bhi tum mujhse,
Paas teri mein
As far as you are from me,
I'm as close to you.

13. Oh and here's a thought for you. Rogue and Pyro get sepparated when they flee from the manson back in X-2. Where would they go to be safe? What'd they do without any means of contacting the others, hmmmm?

14. One more: Use the song "Enough" by Disturbed and write a Brotherhood Ryro story with it as inspiration.

PIMPING!

2008-06-07T10:16:24Z

I signed up, you should too ^^;

ALSO! Go vote at scc_stills just for fun cause there aren't enough people voting! :)

FAN FIC: X-Men: NOVOCAINE FOR THE SOUL (rogue/pyro)

2008-06-06T20:24:52Z

TITLE: NOVOCAINE FOR THE SOUL
FANDOM: X-Men (AU)
SERIES: NONE
STATUS: 1/1 aka standalone
---
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: about 4600
WARNINGS: rated just for the language
PAIRING: Rogue/Pyro
SUMMARY: What if Rogue's answer to the infamous question asked by John in the jet before taking off, had not been the timid silence that it was, but a firm "no" instead? What if she'd gone with him?
---
PROMPT: #036 ideal for 50scenes
PROMPT TABLE: HERE
A/N: I have no excuses other than that a bitchy writer's block hit me and I had to find a way to break free from the damned thing. Obviously, this is the path I chose and hopefully you guys will like it. The title was inspired by Eels' "Novocaine for the soul" because it's one pretty song and well, that's that. I am exhausted and half blind now, I swear. Comments feed my muse!!
DISCLAIMER: Not mine and the last time I checked, I got no money out of this, either. Even the 'homo sapiens' line belongs to Magneto who said it or something like it in X-Men 1.

NOVOCAINE FOR THE SOUL

---
Life is white and I am black
---
Jesus and his lawyer
Are coming back
---
Oh my darling will you be here
---

Ever since accidentally putting her first boyfriend to coma for three weeks and running away from home carrying nothing but a single duffel bag filled with everything that still connected her to the world, she hasn't been one to care for earthly possessions.

She appreciates all sorts of beautiful things like anyone would and has taken a liking to snow globes featuring countries she's never seen or even heard of, but she rarely if ever feels the need to have them sitting on top of a drawer or decorating the fireplace.

Still, the apartment which she occupies at the moment isn't empty of those. Some people are comforted by material things, she's noticed this, and she really doesn't count herself as one.

She just happens to live with one, is all.

There are, in fact, a few brand new snow globes above the fireplace, but most of the random things one sees lying around here and there aren't even hers and definitely the kinds she could live without. Technically, of course, they're theirs as the two of them share an account as well as each other, but to her, they're more his than anything else.

They're something he buys or steals, depending on the situation and brings home to show her and she's happy every time he does, but not for the same reasons he is. She's happy because during those rare moments, he's once again the young boy he was when she first saw him in that classroom all those years ago, playing not only with his lighter, but with the fire in his veins... showing off, as usual. The memory as well as the thought brings a flash of smile to her eyes and to the corner of her mouth, but only for a second.

She never tells him, never lets it leak through her carefully guarded shield, but sometimes she finds herself missing those days and that innocence because once upon a time, it was the only consistent thing she ever had.

Every new snow globe he brings her, partly because he knows she likes them, but mostly because he needs the assurance, is another reminder of why she has stayed with him through it all, no matter how ugly it has gotten between them. In his own twisted way, he loves her and she loves him back just as much, just as passionately, and in this fucked up world it's probably more than one can ask for.

She finds it funny somehow that every damn time they've been made and forced on the move again (which actually hasn't happened that often lately, she notes) it's him that wants everything boxed, saved, and taken away with them to the new, unknown destination.

But she's okay with it, with all his demands and quirks, because while he'd never admit it, those things he claims are just for her, or for cover, do mean a lot to him and she figures he's lost enough as it is. She doesn't want to add to the burden he's already carrying so heavy on his shoulders that sometimes he stands in the shower for hours, refusing to come out. He never makes a sound then but sometimes when she's leaning against the bathroom door, pleading him to come out and tell her what's wrong, she's pretty sure she can smell his tears and feel his body tremble in the kind of waves only profound pain can cause.

They never talk about it.

Perhaps it's a burden he has always been carrying, she wouldn't know because she doesn't know that much of his past. He never talks about that one, either, and if she asks, he shuts her out completely with a stern glare relished with equally demanding silence. But the hurt, bitter look that briefly visits his eyes whenever she brings it up and before he can shake it off, well, it tells her more than his words or denial ever could.

And sometimes she thinks it's probably better that she doesn't know.

Right now, though, none of that sentimental, angst-flavored crap with what she always tries to justify his actions as well as her own, matter the slightest. In fact, she only forced herself to think of the snow globes in the first place to get rid of the foul mood she's in but the pretty things aren't really doing the trick this time. She isn't sure why because it usually works like a charm.

It's nearly one in the morning and he isn't home yet, which is why she's pacing around the dimly lit living-room like a mother expecting her daughter home on a prom night well after the agreed time. Except that she's no mother and he's no little girl and he doesn't owe her anything anyways.

They share a rented apartment with cracking wallpapers, a dangerous job that defines them and spiraling lives, a life, but they've never had such things as agreed homecoming times.

She's beginning to think that hell, maybe they should.

After gazing the clock on the wall for the fifth time, she decides it's batteries are probably dying on her as according to the damned thing, time doesn't seem to go forward at all whereas to her it feels like she's been pacing around the room since morning. She hasn't, but it makes no difference.

Where the fuck is he?

She never really worries for his well-being like this and so she is growing annoyed not only at him for making her worry, but at herself too.

The years spent together have taught her a thing or two, after all, and she knows, so fucking well, that he is more than capable when it comes to protecting his own ass. So, honestly, why is she wasting her time worrying when she could simply take a few painkillers, go to bed and sleep everything away?

Yeah, she echoes her own thoughts silently, then snorts aloud and places a gentle hand around her middle hoping pressure would somehow relief the cutting pain.

The little mission she'd been sent on a few days ago had not worked out exactly like she'd planned it to and the nasty wound on her side is starting to make itself known again.

She'd tried reaching his cell earlier, a few hours ago or so, but had only been greeted coldly by his answering message saying, Me. Leave a message if you have to.

What a fucking way to greet your lover. She'd growled and cursed, whined fuck, Johnny and demanded him to call her as soon as possible because if he didn't, she might come after him herself instead of sending a search party and hang him by the balls no matter what kind of situation he was in.

She figured the message, both the words and the venomous tone (as well as the fact she called him Johnny which is something he hates), had been clear enough and still, not a word from the guy.

Unbelievable, really... but mainly because it isn't like him. He can be an ass at times, an idiot when he wants to and a jerk even when he doesn't. He's one of those that can go from sweet and gentle to a total son of a bitch in a second, just like that, but this is something he simply does not do. Not even after a fight of theirs, no matter how huge it'd been or what kind of words had been exchanged, never did he make her wait like this.

My gods, if it turns out he is enjoying himself in a strip club somewhere with his mates, drinking away all his problems and theirs while at it, she'll make him sleep on the couch for the next month or so. Not that he would stay there, on the couch, that is. He never does because he isn't someone you can push around and she's learned that too, but at least by voicing it, she can let him know she is actually pissed off and he'd be forced to acknowledge his actions and their consequences. It isn't something he likes to do, isn't even good at, but he does it sometimes, just for her.

Still, as unpleasant as the whole thought of a strip club is, she holds onto that a little while longer and by doing so, refuses to think of the alternatives. Mainly because after her own mission gone bad, most of those other theories her mind comes up with, leads to a fight of his, also gone wrong. That naturally leads to dark images of blood on his pale face, makes her see his lifeless body thrown into a ditch somewhere and that is something she is not prepared to think about.

So she keeps pacing and cursing and thinking of ways to make him feel as anxious as she is feeling.

When the front door finally makes a sound, key twisting in its lock and then, the familiar creak as it's pushed open, she stops pacing immediately and spins around to stare at the door.

She can't see him, just his fingers curling around the edge of the door and, "yeah, yeah," he says, voice dripping with fatigue and something else that she can't recognize, but would sure as hell like to.

"Don't worry about it, 'kay?" he continues, "it's gonna be fine, the whole thing. These damn things happen."

Someone says something but she can't make out the words. But she does hear him chuckle at the words spoken and, "Yeah, well, you should've seen Rogue the other day. If that ain't a mission gone sour, I don't know what is so really, don't worry. I'll be peachy by the time Magneto's done with your lecture, I swear. Not like I've never taken a bullet before." A pause, then, "Ciao."

The tired smile on his bruised face dies the minute he steps inside and sees the glazed look on hers.

"Oh," John exhales, tongue testing the cut on his bottom lip only to realize it's still bleeding, "you're up. Thought you'd be sleeping by now."

Her answer is an accusing glare and a pair of pursued lips, accompanied by a slight tilt of her head. She notes there's a cut on his lip and another across his cheek. She wonders how many new cuts and bruises she'll find on him after tonight. How many new scars she'll have to kiss and memorize.

His hair is a messy bundle of brown locks, blood and possibly dirt and the color red, it paints his face and all of his clothes, gathering into a small pool right beside his feet.

She hopes the hallway doesn't look as bad as their floor will. The janitor, that old bastard of a man, hates them enough as it is and they don't need another reason to be told off.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she's also thinking, holy fucking shit and it takes every ounce of willpower she has not to step forward and cradle him just because he's taken a beating and apparently a fucking bullet too, and thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God-

He's still alive.

He studies her features for a short moment before calmly closing the door behind him. He isn't exactly sure where he's standing with her right now or if she's actually mad or what, but he figures she'll tell him without him asking. So, without saying anything else, he lets his gaze drop from her eyes while he opens his leather jacket and shakes it off, grimacing at the pain shooting through his arm with every single move he makes.

Fucking homo sapiens and their stupid guns, indeed.

"You've been shot," she declares then, as if the words she heard and the state of his appearance would only now be sinking in. It isn't the first question she meant to ask, but it is the first that gets out.

And then, "How the fuck did you get shot, huh?" she asks, because it's the only reasonable follow-up she can think of right now.

She doesn't understand why he's smirking at her like that, like nothing was wrong, but John, he actually thinks it's kind of amusing how she seems to be angry at him for getting shot.

"Hey," he says softly and with a smile tugging at his lips because really, it is somewhat hilarious in that freaky, surreal kind of way, "the damn bullet came after me, not the other way 'round."

Yeah, he would've gladly jumped away from its target line, and he tried to, which is why it only pushed through his arm, not through his chest. But he leaves that unsaid.

"Okay," she spits through gritted teeth, "Fine."

He's about to say something, but she beats him to it, "I left you a message," she tells, voice still accusing him of all the crimes ever committed in the whole wide world.

"My fucking battery died," he confesses as his jacket lands somewhere near the clothing rack on his right and soon after, his beloved flame thrower device is thrown on the floor next to it. She watches him in silence and doesn't even attempt to help him.

After the task is complete, his eyes return hers, but she's still sending the kind of cold vibes that make him frown curiously. He knows her, this woman in front of him probably better than he knows himself and so he can tell without a shadow of a doubt that she's somehow different tonight.

Rogue sighs and there's something vulnerable in that sound, something that gives him the feeling she's softening up. Good.

She eyes him from head to toes, taking in his looks and decides the fight, or whatever it was that she was after only a moment ago, it'll simply have to wait. Whatever it is, she'll throw it at his face in the morning, or some other time when he won't hurt himself further by trying to grab her.

Because wounded or not, that's one thing she knows he'll try and do, and right now, it would only make his state a lot worse, a lot more painful.

"Want something to eat?" She asks then, actually managing to surprise them both. He cocks his head and then takes a step forward. Since she stands her ground, not moving away or showing any signs of retreating, he takes another and another till he finally reaches her.

"Well, yeah," he admits matter-of-fact, healthy hand wrapping around her waist and bringing her close, "I'm starving."

She smiles faintly, resisting the urge to tell him that it's nothing new; he's always hungry. Instead, she lets out all the air from her lungs, shoulders collapsing and eyes closing on their own and for the first time in hours, her body seems to relax. She feels him rest his forehead against hers the way he often does and everything seems a little better, a little brighter. Safer, warmer.

She breathes in again, taking in air as well as his scent, drawing endless amounts of power from something so small and simple. But then, that's the way it's always worked between them.

Suddenly his fingers on her hip dig a little deeper into her flesh, his breathing stops and then it's nothing but YOU ALWAYS DO WHAT YOU'RE TOLD NO THE COME ONE I DON'T KNOW IF THAT'S SUCH A SMART BUT AND YOU ALWAYS DO YOU ALWAYS ALWAYS DO WHAT YOU'RE TOLD AND NO-

She breaks the skin contact by turning her head to the side the second she feels fragments of his mind fusing with hers. Usually he's able to resist her mutation longer, usually she wouldn't mind even if he didn't, but given the weakened state he's in, she concludes it's no wonder and probably not wise, either.

"You're bleeding all over the carpet," she whispers, eyes still shut, but he can detect the hint of amusement lurking behind the front of her words and it twists his lips into a mischievous smirk.

He tells her, "I'll buy you a new fucking carpet" but opens his own eyes nevertheless and straightens his back.

His arm is hurting like hell and as much as he doesn't want to, he knows something has to be done about it. A fucking arm infection is the last thing he needs right now.

She doesn't need the skin contact to know what's on his mind and so she clears her throat, saying, "I'll go raid the fridge and you go clean that thing up."

He doesn't argue and she's already turned around and on her way to the kitchen, when she suddenly stops and faces him again. "You're okay, right? You can do it, right?"

"Yeah," he assures, liking the fact she's for once showing actual signs of worry, "I can do it." It's not that she didn't usually worry, she does sometimes and he knows that because her eyes give it away every single time, but she's usually not that keen on showing it and she's gotten pretty good when it comes to hiding these things.

When he'd entered their flat, he'd honestly expected her to be asleep.

She opens the fridge and takes out enough ingredients to make a sandwich of a kind, but she doesn't even note half the things she's doing. The knife moves and the cucumber is chopped to pieces and she doesn't even register she's the one doing it.

All she can think of or focus on really, are the small sounds she hears him making while moving from room to room. Footsteps telling her he hasn't fainted anywhere, the faucet being opened and closed making it known he got to the bathroom and then there are the snarls and growls, assuring her.

Well, perhaps she should be grateful her strip club theory didn't turn out to be correct.

The sandwiches are done in no time and after that, she cleans the counter without thinking about it, throws the used knives into the sink like she always does and then stands there for a moment, by the sink, just catching her breath.

She's always known their lifestyle is nothing if not dangerous and she's never had any trouble accepting it, which is why it feels weird to her she'd react this way to -- well honestly, she's not even sure to what she actually reacted in the first place.

She turns around only when she hears his footsteps approaching, both hands still gripping the edge of the sink. The knot in the pit of her stomach opens the minute he enters the kitchen for despite the swollen bruises, he looks more like himself now. Wet hair, worn jeans and a simple, white t-shirt and if she ignores the bandage on his arm, she can almost pretend it never happened.

"There," she mutters, voice cracking slightly while nodding towards the plate on the counter between them. He sits down on one of the stools, pulls the plate closer and eats in silence. She doesn't say anything either, but that's because she can't think of anything to say that doesn't sound childish or petty somehow. Pathetic, even.

And whatever she is, she refuses to be pathetic because that's all that Marie ever was and she's no longer her.

When he's done eating, he pushes the plate farther away and then crosses his arms dropping his elbows on the counter, eyes burning hers.

"You know," he starts voice husky and smiling faintly, "you could just tell me what's wrong."

She's quick to deny it, shakes her head and tells him, "Nothing's wrong." He's tempted to ask if she thinks he's really that fucking stupid or if the words were actually meant for her, not for him.

He doesn't ask though, because he indeed is not stupid and he really doesn't want to fight right now if it can be avoided but, "Oh yeah, this is how you act every time I come home from work."

She laughs at that, almost mocking.

Hell, "It's not work anymore, John," she tells him simply and if he wasn't so determined not to raise a fight, he'd once again ask, order, demand, beg her to call him Pyro. She never does, at least not when there isn't others around, and he always pleads her to simply out of habit. Frankly, if she started calling him Pyro now he'd probably find it suspicious and end up accusing her of fucking someone else.

Sometimes, as much as he hates to admit it, he even feels more like John than Pyro around her anyways.

His thoughts return the moment at hand and to the words she'd spoken, not that he'd really get what she's trying to say. "Then what is it?" He asks, curious. They get paid for it, whatever they do during the days and well, doesn't that define it as work?

She sighs, frustrated and tired and not really sure what it is that she's trying to say, either. It's something that's been bothering her for days now, weeks even, it's something she feels and thinks but afterwards forgets completely.

He watches how she raises a hand to massage the side of her neck in what seems to be a rather futile attempt to channel the stress away.

"Our life," she says then, shrugging casually.

"But-"

"I'm not complaining," she interrupts his argument bluntly, something she knows will agitate him for sure but she's not in the mood to care about that right now, "I'm just saying that it's all we do. Every day is another fight in a world that's so fucked up, so ugly that sometimes I don't think we'll ever stand a chance. When is it gonna stop, John?" She asks the question with a straight face, no self-pity or sadness within her voice and for that, he loves her a little bit more.

Just a simple question to which he's got an equally simple answer though in reality nothing is ever that straightforward.

"Never," he tells her gently the only truth he's ever known. The world will never accept them for what they are, not while there are humans in it, and though she's so annoyingly hell-bent on making sure that no one that doesn't deserve to be hurt gets in the crossfire, he knows so much better.

He's come to terms with the fact that sometimes sacrifice doesn't mean losing your own life or losing the one you love, but living with the knowledge you've made others lose theirs.

Not that it'd bother him anymore; maybe it never really did, he can't remember. Either way, it's Rogue who still can't sleep through a night without nightmares after draining a life she didn't mean to take.

To him there's no real difference anyways, but he never sets her straight. Sometimes it's easier to let her have her delusions; they're what shape her, after all, and no matter how annoying the woman can get at times, it's still the shape of hers that he's grown so weirdly fond of.

He calls it love, not caring about the fact he's not all that sure how love is supposed to feel like to begin with.

"I can't keep doing this forever," she continues, waking him from his thoughts and he can sense a but approaching, an ultimatum of a sort, "I mean, I like the fact we're out there doing something important, but... I want a family one of these days, you know."

He blinks, surprised, "You do?"

What, a family? Like a bunch of little rogues running around the place, demanding, needing, looking all pretty with their big brown eyes and therefore making his life a little bit more complicated? That kind of family, huh?

Suddenly he's a little terrified which is a whole new concept, at least to him and that alone terrifies him even more. It's a fucking circle, he concludes, and a damn vicious one too. Hell, even when he'd been face to face with that damn gun, he hadn't been terrified. Not even scared. A little worried, maybe, but that was about it.

How is it that the simple thought of having a kid scares the living shit out of him?

Rogue looks at him, eyes searching, trying to find an actual answer somewhere between his features and his eyes, but she can't. He's glad to realize she's completely oblivious to the path his damn thoughts were about to step on. Did, in fact, step on.

She's fidgeting a little, though she tries not to, and he's pretty sure nothing good can come out of this one.

"Well," she questions then, the head of her thumb between her teeth, "don't you?"

No, his mind says instantly but his voice chooses a longer, more polite version for which his brain is actually grateful afterwards, "I've never thought of it," he tells and she seems satisfied enough by the vague reply.

She moves, tucking a lock of gray stripe behind her ear, eyes dropping onto the tile floor and, "Anyway," she starts, eyes avoiding his, "I'm tired so I'm gonna go to bed now."

He lets her exit the room without trying to stop her, without even saying anything. Without trying to explain.

Not that she would have expected anything.

All the way to the bedroom, she allows her fingers to travel against the wall, against the drawers, against the paintings he's hung there. It's her whole life, and his, beneath her fingertips and still she wants something more.

She assumes it quite possibly makes her a one selfish son of a bitch, but then again, he's always being a selfish son of a bitch too, so maybe it's only fair.

When she finally reaches the bedroom door, she's beyond tired. She's a wreck, both outside and inside and her whole body wants to shut down already. Her side is hurting, but she can't be bothered to find the pill jar and she can feel a headache setting in.

She closes the door behind her carefully and somehow it feels like she was actually separating two worlds by doing so.

Suddenly there's no more shield or shell or a layer of any kind to protect her from the cold and she's nothing but all alone.

She shivers involuntarily, but ignores it completely. Instead, she sheds her clothes on the floor, a pile forming by the bed and then, slips under the thick covers hoping they'll warm her enough. Lying on her stomach, face buried into the pillow, she falls asleep somewhat instantly.

Unfortunately, she wakes up only about five minutes later to something soft and warm touching the back of her arm. Grunting a protest, she opens her eyes and mutters, "fuck off, Johnny, seriously."

And lying there on his side, he only laughs at her crankiness, at the fierce look in her eyes and leans closer to kiss her shoulder quickly, but gently.

Her heart as well as her breathing stop momentarily, the way they always do when she's not prepared to be touched, and it's all it takes for her to be fully alert again.

The smirk on his lips tells her he knows something she doesn't, and so she stares at him with the kind of demanding glare that does all the speaking for her.

"I was thinking," he says then, offering an explanation alongside with a small shrug, all the while his index finger plays with one of her gray stripes, "I was thinking it's not the time, but it wouldn't be so bad if it was with you. Novocaine for the soul and all, you know?"

He doesn't have to word it any other way, doesn't have to say anything more because she knows exactly what he means.

In fact, she can't help but smile, a little amused, but mainly damn happy, because really-

it's nearly as good as if he'd brought her another damn snow globe, if not better.

ZESKIMO

2008-05-29T12:27:29Z

I am (sort of) DONE moving stuff to zeskimo ^^; (at least I think I am) so yes, all you who fancy my icons and whatnot, go friend/join the community :) there will be NO MORE ICONS posted to this journal, ever. I have deleted all the icon entries that I moved to the new community and it nearly made me cry because I lost all the wonderful comments :( I hope to get them back one of these days, hee.

Hopefully I'll see you there! ♥

FAN FIC: X-Men: I can't tell the sun from the moon (rogue/pyro)

2008-05-19T21:37:12Z

TITLE: I CAN'T TELL THE SUN FROM THE MOON
FANDOM: X-Men
SERIES: none
-
RATING: PG-13 (just for the language, I suppose)
WORD COUNT: about 1311
PAIRING: Rogue/Pyro
SUMMARY: Because in her head, it wasn't about right and wrong then. It was just about being together.
-
PROMPT: 043 entwined {for 50scenes}
TABLE: HERE
SEQUEL to those 50 sentences (and to EPSILON series) that I wrote for 1sentence
-
A/N: I don't know. It's just something I wrote. Either you get what I'm trying to say here or you don't. Do tell me what you think, though. Btw, should the rating be simple PG? I never know.
AND: infiticus rocks a lot.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own the X-Men, I just play around with them.

I CAN'T TELL THE SUN FROM THE MOON

#50 - Believe. The day he leaves the school, you don't cry or wail because you believe that when he's ready, he'll come back for you and when he does, you know that this time around you'll fucking take his offer.

When she was younger, a lot younger than now, she believed.

She believed in a lot of things, actually, but above all she thought she believed in John, in Pyro, and in the man he could be.

Though she never really learned to share his hateful view of the world and humans, never came to approve of his need for violence, she still understood with perfect clarity where all the burning hatred originated. She understood what he'd been through and because of that she never wanted to change him. To heal the wounds and help him get over the anger, that’s what she wanted. At least that’s what she thought then.

It isn’t a question of changing who he is, she claimed once when Jubilee demanded to know what the fuck was going on with her and the psychotic pyromaniac (Jubilee’s words, not hers).

Really, it isn’t a question of changing who he is, she’d repeated, determined to explain, to make her understand that it's about loving what he will be.

Of course, years later she learned it was actually the same thing; exactly the same deep structure, only in disguise.

But before she learned that and her own foolishness, she also believed some time apart would make him realize that he needed her. He'd be forced to realize that he loved her just as desperately as she loved him.

A week maybe, two, no more than a month and he’d see that, feel what she felt every day he wasn’t there, near. She believed, like only a naïve little girl can believe, that he would miss her so damn much that he simply couldn’t stay away. That he’d come back, just for her.

Even if he'd come back and asked her to join the Brotherhood for him, she would've done it.

At least when she was younger, a lot younger than now, she would've.

Because in her head, it wasn't about right and wrong then. It was just about being together.

And so, every night, for years and years, right before falling asleep she’d be tucked safely under the warm covers, all too content in her belief, and she’d imagine all the different ways he could reappear and change her life. Not for good, not for bad, but for ever.

In these fragments, he’d save her and she’d save him in turn and they’d both be granted redemption, despite the sins they might have made in the past.

Just because they loved each other.

Believing in that fantasy was what moved Marie then; what got her bones up in the mornings and made her sleep through the nights.

Truthfully, it wasn’t until her 21st birthday that her faith faltered and she thought, just for a moment, that maybe he wouldn’t come back. The first time she thought that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t come back because he couldn’t. Maybe he’d been killed in the midst of war; simply one more faceless victim of hate on the endless list of lost souls and no one from her side even knew.

She grieved for two years.

And then Bobby tells her, so fucking casually, that he’s not dead like everyone thought he was. Like she thought he was.

No, he says as nonchalantly as if it was someone they don’t even know, someone they never cared about. And then, not seeing the tears in her eyes, he says with a sad shrug, but apparently Johnny killed 12 humans…

Bobby says, they’d taken the cure the day before, so.

And she says, fuck and her whole world comes crashing down.

Until that moment, she’d honestly thought grieving for a loved one was the worst it could get. It wasn’t.

So when she turned 23, she finally came to the conclusion that his reasons, whatever they were or might have been, didn’t matter anymore. It hurt, a little, to realize all those years spent praying for his well-being; years spent waiting had been for nothing. And only then, she gave up on believing.

So to celebrate her 24th birthday, she went out with a few of her closest friends and didn’t even think of him or his betrayal, not even once.

After that it was a lot easier and those days, the ones going by without Pyro entering her head at all, they were a lot more frequent and somewhere along the way she learned to embrace them. They made her happier, even.

Though that among many other things have changed, there are things that haven’t. The war is still on and now at 26 she’s growing tired of it, of all the battles and deaths. Frankly, she no longer gives a rat’s ass who wins in the end. She’s not even sure if this fight will see an end, ever, but she keeps hoping for it regardless.

For one, it would make her little life so much easier. It frustrates her, the whole fucking war... and maybe it makes her a bad person too, she's not sure, but every time there’s a new article in the paper, or something about yet another mutant death on the news, it makes her grieve. Only, not for the persons lost, but for herself.

Those dark flashes of black on white, of blood and pain, they keep reminding her of that childish dream she once had. Make her remember how fucking childish she once was.

Sometimes she’s able to erase their existence; ignore the small details she doesn’t want to face. Sometimes it’s way too easy to close her eyes and ears and simply turn away from everything rotten and pretend she has no clue.

That there is no past for her to regret.

And then sometimes… well, sometimes it’s not that easy at all.

Like today. Like when he’s there, in her pastel-colored living room, sitting on her favorite armchair with a cocked head and a smirk on his lips, asking, “So, Roguey, wanna offer me a beer?”

***

When he was younger, a lot younger than now, he believed.

He believed in a lot of things, in a lot of stupid things too, but above all he believed in Magneto and the word he was spreading.

In fact, he's never stopped believing but it's not enough anymore.

And he knows, just like he's always known, that trying to explain everything won't do any good because deep down she has never seen it through his eyes and she will never, not ever, understand it the way he needs her to.

But it doesn't matter. After all, he's Pyro and he can live without her acceptance.

"So, Roguey," he starts, fully aware of all the damn risks he's taking, "wanna offer me a beer? Or should I just cut to the chase?"

It's surreal, the moment that really isn't a moment at all, but simply something that they're having, lingering between.

He thinks it might be two lifetimes; two sets of past, the shared present and the one future they entwine.

She stares and then, after a awhile of deafening silence she actually snorts, growling, "No. I want you to fucking cut your heart out. I want you to give me back all the years I lost and-" she breathes in, anger radiating hotly, "I want you to get the fuck out of my house."

He chuckles, soft sounds of laughter forming in the back of his throat, because this is the kind of woman he always wanted her to become and hell, because-

"Can't do any of those," he says simply, "but I can tell you one thing. When we have kids, we ain't naming any of them Bobby, okay?"

Because while he can live without her acceptance, he can't live without her presence.

***

On her 28th birthday, 7 months pregnant, she has come a full circle and decides their first-born will be called Logan.

-fin.

FAN FIC: X-Men: somnolence [unveiled] 4/5

2008-03-20T22:53:28Z

TITLE: Somnolence (it’s all about banked embers)
FANDOM: X-Men {post X3}
SERIES: UNVEILED (4/5) {after winter in my heart}
---
RATING: PG (i think?)
WORD COUNT: about 1800
WARNINGS: some bad language, is all
PAIRING: (implied) Rogue/Pyro
---
SUMMARY: It also worries him, a little, because there’s always been only one thing in the whole world that has ever managed to calm his nerves like nothing else - and it has always, always been fire. Just fire. Up until now, it would seem.
PROMPT: 032 doll; written for 50scenes
TABLE: HERE

A/N: I know you probably want to throw sticks and stones at me for not getting this done sooner -- and when you find out this isn't even the smut part I promised but that it'll come next, well... I know, I'm sorry! Heh. It's safe to say I suffered from a huge writer's block and the fact I felt guilty about it, well, it didn't help. Anyway. Now we're again getting somewhere (for now), yay! So, anyways, Rogue will be in the next (and final!) part of UNVEILED, trust me on that!

Special thanks go out to both
· infiticus for coming up with the title and for being the divine ryro-vibe, as usual.
· goblie for there's no better cheerleader in the world (not even in Heroes!) Plus, she spent like hours talking about the language of this fic and all sorts of weird grammatical stuff and for that, I owe her *hugs*

AND: The previous fics written for 50scenes can be found HERE
DISCLAIMER: The characters you know from X-Men (both movieverse as well as the comics)? NOT MINE. The characters you don't recognize, at all (as in, Shelby)? Guess whose?

SOMNOLENCE (it's all about banked embers)

Click, click, click.

The metallic sounds echo in the dimly lit spaces, roam around the expensively furnished hallway and visit the small bedroom it’s connected to. To think of it, the sharp noises can probably be heard through-out the whole flat, but John Allerdyce's not that concerned about it. At all, actually.

Well, shit, it is his flat anyways--

or it was before they took over with their hairbrushes and lipglosses and God knows what else.

And hell if he isn't entitled to do whatever the fuck he wants inside these damn walls just because!

The sooner the two ladies learn and memorize that small piece of information, the better for everyone!

And!--

He heaves a tired sigh while rolling his shoulders in another wasted attempt to release the strain and then, against all odds, simply lets the train of thought go. No doubt it's a battle he's determined to win, at some point, but just not in this red instance... Seeing as there's no one with whom to actually battle besides himself.

At least not awake, that is.

It's become a habit of sorts, one that she's entirely aware of though she never shows it. Every single time he leaves the flat, no matter what, he stops there at her door to look at her for a moment. Be it a fleeting second or a minute or two, he stops and stands and stares in complete silence, never saying a word. Never expecting a word, either.

On most occasions the kid ignores John on purpose and simply turns her back to the unwanted visitor continuing whatever it was that he walked in on.

Sometimes she's way stealthier than that - that's when she chooses to pretend she's asleep, clearly thinking her father can't tell the difference. But he can, easily. He's not sure why, or how, but he's smart enough to realise it's probably got something to do with the fire in their veins because in the most peculiar way, even the air around her feels different somehow when she's actually up and alert. Warm, fierce... electric.

The bedroom door is open, like he’s noticed it often is and still – or maybe because of that, the little girl is sleeping as soundly as if there was no one there watching her in the dark. The fact that her deep slumber doesn’t seem a bit bothered by his sudden presence or by the sounds his lighter keeps making, brings a proud, dare say, victorious smirk to his lips.

He whispers, “Good girl” to no one in particular, but what he really means to say is ‘my girl’ and those words are meant for her.

***

After a few minutes go by, he fidgets like only a nervous man does. And then, almost as if to test how cold the waters truly are, he tries something he hasn't before. Not ever.

John takes a hesitant step closer, cocking his head in anticipation but nothing happens. Then a few more, one, two, three, four or so, all the way across the room until he reaches the bed. He stops only when the wooden edge is so close it’s nearly touching his legs. He waits, but his patience only lasts for a moment. A very short moment, too, after which he continues the same old routine of-

Click, click, click.

He’s been doing it, clicking the lighter, right there in hearing distance for about five minutes now - perhaps even longer, he can't tell for sure. Truthfully so, he tried to keep track of time, really, he did, but managed to lose the count of the clock’s ticks (and the clicks of his own making) awhile ago.

There's one thing he's sure of though, and it's that all the while he’s stood there, hovered above her like a ghost in the night, she has not moved a muscle. Hasn’t made a single sound or shown any signs of disturbance. Even the steady rhythm of her breathing has stayed the same ever since he first entered the room.

Or, you know, if anything, the rhythm has only got steadier, more even, more peaceful.

There's something warm and soothing prickling in the core of his spine and it takes a moment before he understands it's her.

The realisation wipes off the malicious smirk, completely – and while he’s too busy to notice it, the dying smirk leaves only a gentle smile in its wake. Naturally, if he did notice, the smile would be gone in the matter of seconds... but it doesn’t change the fact it’s there, now.

Not knowing what to do, how to proceed exactly, he goes with the only option he can come up with. A careful click followed by a short pause. The kind of pause during which he tilts his head again, observing, wondering, and another round of clicks cut the air. Just in spite. Just to see. To know for sure.

This time she lets out a muffled sound, something that could be defined either as a snarl or a purr (or a bit of both) and he’s tempted to laugh aloud. Instead, the smile only softens.

***

Twenty minutes and counting. Or more, whatever, what does it matter anyway?

With no plans for the evening he’s in no obvious hurry and she’s, as proven, fast asleep. It’s the middle of the night, later even, and there’s nothing and no one expecting him, nowhere.

Well, just Scarlet, maybe. That, however, is no cause for worry; has never been. He knows her and the way her mind works, and she sure as hell knows him. Knows him better than to stay up and wait for an appearance that might or might not take place at all, depending on his stormy mood. He’s slept in her bed for six nights in a row, there's no denying that, but somehow he doesn’t feel like leaving the kid alone… nor Rogue. Not tonight, anyway.

Why not, John? Nothing’s changed. So, why the hell not?

He'd like to think it's just temporary, just for tonight. Maybe it is.

Who cares, honestly? He growls at himself, frustrated as hell, because fuck, no one cares, absolutely no one and hell-

Only, damnit, it’s a lie and he can tell. It sucks, really, but he does care.

Moreover, realising that, it irritates him and makes his skin crawl; the tension headache is already there, eating its way from the back of his skull to the front. He's John Allerdyce, Pyro for fuck’s sake and he of all mutants, he's not supposed to care or worry about stupid, irrelevant things-

about them.

Because even when it's not known to all, there's still a war raging between the different stages of evolution and in that struggle, there's no place for such a thing as caring. It's a damn character flaw, a weakness, that's what it is... and he cannot afford those.

So, yes, it’s freaking him out, the fact he sort of does care (even if it's just a little), and he doesn’t want to think about it more. So, don’t. And he tries not to.

The mutant lets his eyes focus on the sleeping figure to try and keep his mind from dwelling upon those highly unnerving thoughts. She’s put herself in a somewhat odd position, at least he thinks she has and if he wasn’t so damn afraid of waking her up, he’d move her a little. Just enough to ensure she won’t cut off her own blood circulation or something.

Well, she’s a kid and they are known to be idiotic, at times. In other words, anything is possible.

He figures it's a reasonable worry since she’s lying on her right side, stiff as ever with fingers laced together and placed underneath her chin in a (what he thinks to be) rather self-protective manner. He’s pretty sure her back will kill her tomorrow but then, she is a kid so, maybe not. Half of her cheek is covered with brown locks of bushy hair as the side of her face is resting against the pillow - on which, he notes with a hanging smirk, there’s also something that looks a lot like a small pool of drool.

But the amusement doesn't last for long, as in the next minute, the sight actually summons back a nearly lost memory.

That one night years and years ago, the first and only night, that is how her mother looked when he woke up next to her. That's exactly how she looked when he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, careful not to wake her up. And she remained the same while he gathered his wrinkled clothes from the floor and left her to greet the morning on her own.

The kid, he has to admit, she’s as beautiful as her mother has always been - but then, he likes to think his genes have got something to do with it, too, and that it’s not all her. Well, she’s got his gift, does she not?

And in the aftermath of that one simple thought, his shoulders relax, the headache disappears and the air, it flows all the way to his lungs and out again, free of all restraints. Such a simple thing and yet, he’s missed that. A lot.

It also worries him, a little, because there’s always been only one thing in the whole world that has ever managed to calm his nerves like nothing else - and it has always, always been fire. Just fire.

Up until now, it would seem.

But maybe, he concludes with a knowing grin and a quick quirk of an eyebrow, maybe it’s all ‘cause in the end-

she was born from fire, wasn't she?

***

It’s an hour and half (and lots and lots of clicks) later that he decides it’d be best to give up on staring and just go to bed. It's not like she wouldn't be safe and secure if he left the room, or even the building. Hell, he could even leave the country if he wanted to and be sure of her safety... It's not likely for his men to make the same mistake twice, so.

Yet knowing all that makes no difference and even after he’s ordered his body to move (several times), commanded himself to get out of her room and go to his own, a moment later he’s still right there beside her bed like a statue, watching.

Protecting.

(For another hour and half.)

A lot later, when John finally does move, it's only because he knows that when she wakes up in the morning, she'll wake up to find his lighter standing on her nightstand; and for now it's more than enough, because she'll understand what it means--

even if he doesn't.

ICONS: reaper

2008-02-18T22:53:53Z

Yeah, here's some REAPER icons -- only because this seriously awesome show is so not getting what it deserves. Which is attention, damnit. Someone cap this damn series so I can make a whole bunch of icons!! Eh, anyway.

TEASERS

1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

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// Credits located in my resources post.
// Yksi ... comment and tell me what you took, ok? All the comments will be read and are truly appreciated, even if I don't have time to reply each and every one ^^;
// Kaksi ... CREDIT charming_syrai !!!
// Kolme ... no editing: textless icons are not bases! no hotlinking!
// Neljä ... Sadly, I don't have that much time to post around the communities anymore so to be updated quicker, feel free to friend my journal :)

HOW TO CREDIT:

NOTE: f-list cut!

2008-02-14T01:49:09Z

Okay, some of you guys have been with me since the very beginning and know this journal used to be my personal blog - which basically means I've friended a lot of people that aren't here for my fics or icons, just for my rants :)

Now that this journal is no longer my personal space nor 'friends only' -- so as rude as it sounds, I see no point keeping you all friended anymore. Basically nothing will change; my fictions and icons are and will remain public and all my personal ramblings are posted to syrainator like they have been for a while now.

Those of you who want to be able to read my fic rants and therefore dropped a line HERE will remain friended -- or be friended in case you weren't before.

Just letting you guys know so that no one will think I suddenly don't like them anymore, heh.

FAN FIC INDEX: X-MEN: the question trilogy :: unveiled :: stormwind

2007-10-10T23:41:29Z

:: links. story summaries. x-men. ryro.

:: includes the question trilogy & its sequels which are at the moment mostly (or only, that is) written for 50scenes.

· the question · 015 question · pg-13
summary: "Mom? Why did Dad leave?"
· not done yet · 020 writer's choice · pg-13
summary: "No," you say and take a step closer to him, hands on your hips, "you don't get to break into my house and tell me to shut up."
· the kill · 025 unaffected · R-ish
summary: Whereas a moment ago you were only fantasizing about smashing the phone against his nose, now you actually act on it...
status: 3/3

· sorry go 'round · 026 trauma · R
summary: "Look, Rogue, let me be honest with you," the woman speaks bluntly and Shelby can only barely swallow the pained sound, a yelp, trying to climb up her throat, "First of all, have you never ever wondered what the letter M stands for?"
· welcome home · 035 lithium · pg-13
summary: She gathers all her strength into a one neat push and manages to make him budge. The arm loosens, a little, and she can once again draw air into her lungs and ask, defying, "You'd rather she die as a mutant than live as a human?"
· winter in my heart · 048 december · pg-13
summary: It's almost dark already, cold, and he figures that's why she's wearing one of his jackets - not that she'd need it, if she actually knew how to control her power better. She's so small, though, so fucking tiny, that it's really more like the jacket is wearing her; she is drowning in it, he notes, and somewhere deep inside him something stirs.
· somnolence (it’s all about banked embers) · 032 doll · pg
summary: It also worries him, a little, because there’s always been only one thing in the whole world that has ever managed to calm his nerves like nothing else - and it has always, always been fire. Just fire. Up until now, it would seem.
· fuel for the fire · 005 redeemer · COMING SOON.
summary: -
status: 4/5

summary: -
status: 0/0

FAN FIC: X-Men: winter in my heart [unveiled] 3/?

2007-10-03T05:47:21Z

TITLE: Winter in my Heart
FANDOM: X-Men (post X3)
SERIES: UNVEILED (3/?)
---
RATING: PG-13 (wtf?)
WORD COUNT: about 3950
WARNINGS: some language
PAIRING: (implied) Rogue/Pyro
---
SUMMARY: It's almost dark already, cold, and he figures that's why she's wearing one of his jackets - not that she'd need it, if she actually knew how to control her power better. She's so small, though, so fucking tiny, that it's really more like the jacket is wearing her; she is drowning in it, he notes, and somewhere deep inside him something stirs.
PROMPT: 048 december
TABLE: HERE
SEQUEL to welcome home

A/N: Will I ever shut up? Probably not ---

1. Okay, let's get this over and done. To those of you who read my fic-related rants here on livejournal regularly, well, none of this will be new, but:

First of all? Thanks, guys, for reading and reviewing and liking my stuff. That, of course, makes me glee and gloat insanely and it's definitely the reason I keep writing.

2. I went to bed around 11pm, slept two hours and came back so if I don't make sense at all, well, tough. Anyway, there's one more part to UNVEILED (series) after this particular fic, unless my plans change, but - fear not. For one, by the time I'm done with this series, I know for a solid fact that I have left so many little things and details unexplained and totally on purpose, too… So, to be fair, another damn sequel to the sequel is in order. You're asking me why I simply won't give in and continue UNVEILED with a few more fics, aren't you? Of course, if I was smart, I'd do that, BUT, I don't want to - why make everything so easy, huh? Basically, I don't want to continue the series, because the fics to come would, no matter what, break the flow of the four previous fics... um. Does that clear it up, at all?

Still. Continuing this storyline… well, I think it's not only fair to you guys and to Shelby, but at this point, to Pyro and Rogue too, because hell - after the part following this one -, they and their relationship, if you can call it that, deserves to be explored more carefully. Am I right or am I right? Well. You wouldn't know, would you? I haven't published the said final piece yet. Oh well, give me a few days ::snort::

3. Special thanks go out to

· lilhobbit (aka F aka my X-Men Comics Consultant, honestly) and still for the same reasons. I tell her my problem and she goes over her way to fix it. ::shrugs:: crazy girl.
· infiticus for taking time not only to betaread this thing and therefore making it (and me) better, but for bothering to pick it apart and talk about it for like, um, hours. She's got some pretty amazing suggestions (like the *new* finishing line, mwuahaha!), dude. ::miniwaves::

4. Before you ask who the woman briefly mentioned is or point out that Shelby seems totally freaky in this one… well, I did mention about those details left unexplained, didn't I? Yes. I'll get to the weirdness if (and when) I actually write the follow-up series. Or whatever it'll turn into. This is just my way of leaving you guys -hopefully- wanting more ::rolls eyes::

How evil am I, really?

AND: The previous fics written for 50scenes can be found HERE
DISCLAIMER: The characters you know from X-Men (both movieverse as well as the comics)? NOT MINE. The characters you don't recognize, at all? Guess whose?

WINTER IN MY HEART

He'd asked for so little, honestly.

At least he thought so a moment ago. So when the two mutants John ordered to stay with the kid at all times knock on his door and walk into his office, ashamed, it requires all his willpower not to throw a fucking tantrum and blow them to pieces. Or, technically, torch them to ashes.

He does, however, cock his head to one side in attempt to restrain his anger - a sign the two men recognize all too well and which makes them exchange hesitant glances. At least it seems to work… breathe, swallow, and a fucking repeat. Eventually, it leads to calming down. Okay, there. Good.

"How the fuck can you lose a little girl?" He demands, standing up from behind his desk. It's not like he'd asked them to grow a pair of wings and go find another planet for the mutant race to inhabit… Now, a planet where to stick the humans…now that then again, is definitely a thought worth pursuing, isn't it?

Although, right this minute? Yeah, so, not important.

Back to business; the burning glare he gives his employees makes them gulp in fear - it usually does. Pyro, he's a damn good leader to have when it comes to fighting the enemy or simply pissing someone off, they know that, but they also know you don't want to get on his black list because you don't live long if you do. And well, they're kind of fond of their lives and all. Magneto sure trained him well, didn't he?

The nearly stuttered explanations, they make John smirk - but only on the inside. On the outside he's nothing but hot, liquid anger. Fire.

Well, the way John sees it? These guys sure as hell don't need to know what kind of thoughts he's got storming on his mind right now. It's bad enough they know he once upon a time slept with a damn human and went as far as fathering a child. Unknowingly, sure, but inside their pretty little heads, no one gives a shit about that piece of info in these crowds and he can tell.

Scarlet would call him paranoid -did, actually- but hey, that's what's kept him alive this long. Why throw a good thing away?

Sure, things haven't changed much. Yet. Give it some time and soon no one will remember that when he did find out about her, he chose to stay with his kind, far from her… And the more time goes by, the less they'll fear him… and well, that's not good. And, if some genius actually does dig up the real reason for the distance he kept, well, hello pain and suffering. Goodbye wealth and reputation.

Yeah, the truth is that if he doesn't come up with a way to preserve both the situation and the fear as they are… well, things will simply get ugly, hot and damn conflicted. Two of those he doesn't care for, at all.

He sighs, returning his attention to the expectant figures in front of him.

… But when a few minutes go by without him actually saying anything, the other culprit decides to try and smooth it, "She took us by surprise," he says and if he wasn't talking about a 12-year-old, it might have worked as an explanation - but in this case? Not so much. "She's surprisingly smart," he continues, not realizing how thin the ice underneath him just got, "Cunning, even."

John's eyebrow quirks in sarcasm. Surprisingly smart? Cunning? Imagine that.

Would they take it the wrong way if he snorted and rolled his eyes? Probably.

Oh well. He goes with the snort and lets the roll go.

Of course the kid's fucking cunning and damn smart! She's got his genes, after all, so what the hell did they expect? Idiots. Honestly, were where they when he told them, twice and with the famous glare, that they shouldn't buy anything - not a damn word she says or even let her come too close? The "she's got that killer skin of her mother's now" wasn't clear enough for those dumbass jerks?

Guess not. Fine. Maybe it's time to renew the whole fucking staff, then. He can live with that.

"Go away," John barks after a moment of pensive silence, startling the shaky mutants, "I'll find her myself. Just don't let Rogue know she's missing, alright?" The last thing he needs is Rogue breathing down on his neck like the little mommy tiger she is. He's had his fair share of that already, okay? Yeah, stalking him, bothering him, asking question after question after question - those are practically the only things she's been doing ever since the kid woke up last night and now that he finally got her to attempt resting, there's no way in hell he'll let something like this reach her ears.

Because that if anything would be ugly.

"Think you boys can handle that, huh?" He drawls and the boys are smart enough not to respond the baiting comment and for that, he's glad. They only nod, eyes nailed to the floor, and leave the room quietly.

Fucking great. As if he didn't have enough things on his mind because of the royally fucked up situation, but now he's got to go and find the runaway child, who, obviously, can't take a fucking order? He told her to stay put, didn't he? Yes, he did. The damn doctor told her to stay put. Repeatedly. Rogue told her to stay put… Although, honestly, after recovering from the shock and realizing just what her mother had left untold, the kid hadn't exactly been in the mood to listen to a single word the woman had to say.

Not that he'd blame her. That was to be expected. Running away? That was kind of expected, too, which is exactly why he ordered his men to watch the kid in the first place. Oh, well, you get what you pay for. Never sleep with an X-Man.

The good thing is he only has to think about it for five minutes, if even that, before it becomes perfectly clear to him where she'll most likely be. How he can tell, he doesn't know, but he's got a hunch and that's that.

Man. Some security system upgrading is needed, that's for sure. If they can't even find a little girl without his help, well, then something's obviously wrong. He sighs, wiping his face as if to chase away the exhaustion and then, pushes himself to get on the move.

John finds her from the roof, standing on the edge and looking down.

It's almost dark already, cold, and he figures that's why she's wearing one of his jackets - not that she'd need it, if she actually knew how to control her power better. She's so small, though, so fucking tiny, that it's really more like the jacket is wearing her; she is drowning in it, he notes, and somewhere deep inside him something stirs.

What the hell have they been teaching her in that school of hers anyway if she can't even handle the cold? He'll just have to look into that, won't he?

She heard the door open, recognized the soft creak, and so she knows someone's there, but doesn't look over her shoulder to see who exactly dares to disturb her.

Plus, he has a feeling she knows already.

For a minute and a half John simply stands there in weirdly peaceful silence, but soon enough he finally figures it's time to move. The kid will freeze her ass off soon if they don't.

"What you doing here?" He asks, calm, and closes the door behind him. The wind blows her hair, and his, and yeah, it is damn cold, but it doesn't bother him. Not for long, because the moment the cold starts to eat its way through his skin, his temperature rises on its own and all is good again.

She inhales loudly, almost as if to deliver a point and says, "The view, it's pretty amazing." Pretty self-explanatory, right?

Maybe, but it doesn't sound like something a kid would say and honestly, something about her appearance seems weird, too. Different, somehow - almost as if the truth had added a decade to her age. He frowns and takes a hesitant step closer. Fine, it's true he hasn't spent that much time near her, not this close anyway and he can't deny that… but fuck, he knows her. What is this?

But he lets that go and drags his attention back to her comment… right, the view. Well, considering it's a damn skyscraper and a tall one at that, "Yeah," he agrees softly, "I know it is, but you really don't have to stand on the damn ledge to see it." When she doesn't seem to get the hint -or pretends she doesn't, that is-, John's eyes narrow, flashing, and he takes yet another step forward, only this time determined one. He practically ordered her to move and she knows that… yet nothing happens.

Is she disobeying him? To his face? No, not gonna work, kiddo.

That is why he, with the kind of demanding voice he normally uses only on his employees, adds, "Get down."

"Don't tell me what to do!" Shelby snaps in irritation and throws a dirty glare over her shoulder before returning her eyes to the fall in front of her. When she speaks again, her voice is much composed, flavored with both sadness and anger, but still it's nothing more but a mere statement, "you're not my father."

The fire in his veins surges hotter; the rage washes through. Oh, he isn't? Since when? He knew she'd be there, didn't he? And, hell, he was the one to come after her. He could've just as well told those idiots to come and correct their mistake.

He didn't.

That's got to mean something, even to her.

It might not be on her birth certificate - for which she can't actually blame him anyway, but, "Like it or not, kid, I am," John tells, consciously ignoring the slight sensation of disappointment at her claim. And maybe, just maybe, it's the same disappointment and his attempt to ignore it that makes him chuckle and say, just out of spite, "Actually, I even think it's my genes in that DNA cocktail of yours that told you to come up here. Great place to think and brood, you know."

Like anyone who has spent enough time near Logan, Wolverine, she knows sarcasm when she hears it, but instead of arguing, she surprises him with a surrendering shrug and a question he never knew to expect, "Did you kill them yet?" Now she actually turns around, meeting his eyes in a cold stare - only, from her eyes, the coldness fades away quickly and all that is left is easily detectable curiosity.

"It depends," John responds with a casual shrug of his own, trying not think about how fucking huge the fall will be if she misses a step, "Who?"

And they say he's smart? Whatever. "It's not like they could've done anything to stop me," she goes on with sad voice, "They fear me now."

Ah, right, he gets it then. "Oh, them. No, I didn't kill them," he tells her. Yet.

He should've known, though. So fucking typical for her kid to care about something as meaningless as that. His kid shouldn't, but yeah, trust her to fuck the kid's DNA for good. Like the whole killer skin wasn't enough. Not that he'd have anything against the skin, of course not, but he's got to admit it was different when it was Rogue. But why it was, that's something he chooses not to contemplate.

One question at a time.

"I glared at them, that's all" he continues then, indifferent, "but it seemed to work just the same."

She tilts her head and the way she does, it knots his insides… and makes him go back to the first time he saw her. How the fuck could he not see it then; feel it? Even now, he can sense her, practically smell the fire within and it's the kind of connection he never thought he'd have. Whether it's a good thing or bad, he hasn't decided yet, but it doesn't exactly seem that bad, does it?

"It's not that I care about whether you kill them or not," she says almost as if she'd read his mind and noted he's done with that particular train of thought, "I was just curious."

Okay, how the fuck is he supposed to react to that, huh? What, is he supposed to tell her good because really, she shouldn't care about those guys anyway, she's above them for fuck's sake, or to chide her for being so-

Wait, who the hell is he kidding here?

"Good," he tells meaningfully and smiles faintly. She on the other hand says nothing, just nods, accepting and glances to her side. Another silent moment passes by, only this time with her staring fixedly, away, and with him just watching her. Seeing her.

He knows; feels what she's doing even before she does it. Or, better yet, even before she herself knows it. Maybe it's the connection telling him beforehand, or the years behind him, but the moment she absent-mindedly summons her power and ignites the small flame in her fingers, he's already fixed his anxious gaze upon her hand. At first it's a poor spark, then an uncontrolled flame, but as the realization dawns in and she actually does notice, it morphs into a neat bolt.

Hell, Rogue had told him about this; he'd known what she can do - what he can do, but more and his stomach squeezes with pride and pain and fuck! Still… he's mesmerized; can't look away. So he watches in silence, enjoying the familiar, almost identical way she plays with the bolt… before cruelly suffocating, killing it with her fist.

"Show-off," he snorts, but it comes out somehow wrong. Amused, soft.

That is when she finally looks up and as her eyes catch his again, accusing, the spell is broken - it's like a cold smack against his face and the nearly visible smile disappears completely.

"I used to think they were lies," she says innocently and so child-like, the way she's supposed to be, but he knows better. Something in this picture is so utterly wrong that it makes sick to his stomach, twisting inside. And well, that alone is wrong, because nothing is allowed to make him feel sick. Unless it involves a hangover and-

His eyebrows furrow as a clear sign of confusion. Hold on, what the fuck is she talking about, anyway? And, more importantly, what the hell did those white coats give her? Is that it, is she high on something?

"Yeah, seriously," she insists, though he never even argued, "but that woman, Emma… Frost, whatever her name was, her mind told me differently."

Her mind… told differently? What the fuck?

"About you," the girl continues, explaining and spreads her arms to her side, creating imaginary wings, "About mom."

Okay, that's it. Even he can't handle everything.

"Get down, now," John orders suddenly, strict, but it doesn't come as a surprise to her, "I'm not gonna tell you again."

It's not a lie and she can tell - it's always the same with Mom. The feeling… But something forces her to say otherwise, "Yeah, you will," she tells him defiantly… and, as he notes, smiles maliciously.

Oh, says who? Yeah, wouldn't be too sure about that. The kid obviously doesn't know everything yet - at least nothing of value, he figures, because no one, absolutely no one, gives him a smile -or is that a smirk?- as defiant as that. She'll learn, eventually and he'll make sure of that. Rogue's methods are a thing of a past, that's a stone hard fact.

"Hey, kid," he chucks viciously, "for your information, I'm not afraid of you."

Seriously. Either she's stepping down on her own, right now, or he's forcing her down. And after that, he decides, he'll just drag her downstairs to the infirmary and tell the fucking doctors to do their damn job and figure out what the hell is wrong with his little girl! Also, he'll be sure to point out that they will do that if they care about their pathetic lives, at all, because he's running out of patience and that's never good.

They know that. At least they should.

"It's not like you can stop me either," she points out matter-of-factly, interrupting his unvoiced rambling and for that, John simply gives her a knowing look. That so?

"I didn't fear your mother," he says truthfully, "or her skin and I'm not about to start now."

The claim draws a frown out of the little girl, because while she can tell his words are true, she's still having trouble believing it. Probably because hell, "I could kill you."

She's got a point, naturally, but she's so young and there are so many things she doesn't understand. Life's nothing without a little risk, right? "Yeah, well," he shrugs it off, eyes on her, "a bird could shit on my head any day but it doesn't keep me from going out."

Shelby seems to think his words over, which gives him the most perfect opportunity to close the gap between them and grab her arm. Within a second and with a swift jerk, she's finally off the ledge and on the ground on her knees. He's pretty sure it hurt, a little, but she doesn't let out a single whimper or cry a tear.

That's his girl, all right.

John stays hunched over her, holds her arm firmly to drive his point home and only after a moment, leans closer and tells her, "you're not as tough as you act." But he sure appreciates the effort.

Then, just as suddenly, she's pulled up and onto her own two feet and the minute she is, he takes a step back. John doesn't look apologetic, mainly because he isn't, and she in turn doesn't seem angry like he assumed she would.

Mainly, because she isn't.

But she is curious. "Where is she?" The girl asks, clearly forgetting -or wanting to forget, anyway- the previous subject as well as the stunt he just pulled.

Who, Rogue? Or, he corrects in aftermath, in this case, it'd probably be Marie. "Sleeping," John answers, but cautiously, because you never know… maybe she's trying to distract him, lull him into false sense of security before rushing to claw his eyes out the same way her mother always does… it could be genetic or something. "Or she's trying, anyway," he adds with one-sided shrug.

She bites her bottom lip the way he knows she always does when there's a question ransacking her brain. He's seen it before.

Just ask, kid. Fire away.

"In your bed?"

Okay, stop right there. Admittedly, it's not the question he thought he'd get, but whatever, at least she's still not attacking him. Now… sure, he could tell her the simple truth. He could tell the kid that yes, in his bed, but only because it was the only place where she seemed to calm down enough to sleep - or where he could lure her and lock her into, which is closer to the truth anyway, but instead he sucks his lip thoughtfully before asking, "Why, does it matter?"

The look on Shelby's face doesn't change, it's as indifferent, as empty as it's been throughout most of the conversation. All she does, is shake her head with a quiet "no" while trying to remove the swirling locks from her face by tucking them behind her ear. They don't stay there for longer than a second, though.

She's shivering again, which to John's ardent surprise, is something he actually really doesn't like to see. It brings back last night and he doesn't like that, either.

"Listen," he starts, clearing his throat, "we're gonna sort this out and you're gonna be okay." Technically, it's not a lie. If the obvious weirdness is set aside, she seems pretty okay already. "Your mom's been harassing my men for hours and I'm pretty sure she'll continue that as soon as she's allowed to leave my room."

Which, if he had his way, would be, well, never. Because the moment he unlocks the damn door and lets the furious woman out, she'll be at his face with clenched fists and keep harassing him the same way she's been bothering his staff non-stop and that's something he'd like to avoid by any means necessary. Maybe he could tie her up and-

A whisper interrupts his master plan. "She lied to me," she says, sad.

Yeah, well, welcome to his life. "Yeah, well," John responds cynically, "she had her reasons."

For fuck's sake… why did he tell her that? He isn't supposed to say a word to make it easier for her, not for Rogue. Let the woman clean up her own fucking mess - that's the plan. Or it was.

At least his words have an effect - something in her eyes changes. They come to life and that he does like.

"Why are you defending her?" Shelby asks, voice thick - this time it holds signs of anger and frustration, "Even you hate her for lying."

No, not actually - you see, "I don't hate her, kid," he corrects. He used to hate her? Check. He wants to hate her? Check. "I'm angry at her, furious, pissed off. But between those, there's a big difference, you know."

In all honesty? The only time he's ever hated her… that was when she took the cure. Definite check.

"What's the cure?" She prompts immediately, but he chooses to ignore her question… which, he supposes, is probably not the best option to go with, but fuck, he's not gonna be the one to tell the kid about that. No, not when there's a chance she might damn well want it, in which case, he'd have to also be the one to tell her she can't. Not ever.

So, instead, he goes with the second best option and distracts her by asking a question of his own. "Why did you touch her?" It's actually been bothering him more or less ever since Rogue explained him the details of what happened and well, Magneto did teach him to never let an opportunity go wasted.

She fidgets and brushes her chin against her shoulder to avoid his eyes.

But when she does speak, her eyes return his again - and it makes his skin crawl.

Demanding. Pleading. "Don't tell mom, okay?"

If it was anyone else, any other situation, he'd probably decline for no reason. Actually, not probably - he would decline for no reason and he'd enjoy it, too. But it doesn't occur to him this time… maybe it's okay for him to blame it on the connection, on her genes, on the fact she's got his eyes, because damn, he hears himself agreeing, "Okay."

Suddenly she tears her eyes from his and gazes the floor… and giggles slightly.

He frowns, more than little puzzled. What, she giggled? Alright, interesting… and definitely not something he expected to hear from her mouth. Like, ever again.

When she lifts her chin, this time there's a bright smirk on her lips and a sparkle in her eyes and she says, mischievously and not a bit sorry, "I wanted to burn her brains."

Her words, they bring his trademark smirk back to its rightful throne.

"Yep," John tells her with an amused snort, "Definitely my genes, kid."

And, well, maybe that is exactly what makes Shelby's smirk deepen. "Mine now," she shoots back sarcastically and with a clearly hostile pause, "Dad."

FAN FIC: X-Men: welcome home [UNVEILED] 2/?

2007-10-01T01:27:40Z

TITLE: Welcome Home
FANDOM: X-Men (post X3)
SERIES: UNVEILED (2/?)
---
RATING: PG-13 (wtf?)
WORD COUNT: about 2355
WARNINGS: some language
PAIRING: Rogue/Pyro
---
SUMMARY: She gathers all her strength into a one neat push and manages to make him budge. The arm loosens, a little, and she can once again draw air into her lungs and ask, defying, "You'd rather she die as a mutant than live as a human?"
PROMPT: 035 lithium for 50scenes
TABLE: HERE
SEQUEL to sorry go 'round

A/N: Okay, um, I have a few things to say. again ---

1. If you're wondering why these fics are written as separate fics instead of one long, multi-chaptered fic, it's because I always lose my interest in those. So I'm cheating my muse like this, pretending to be writing standalones when in reality, it really IS a one damn long fic - shhh, don't tell the damn muse.

2. Thank you for those who reviewed! It means a lot, it does. Oh and, special thanks, again, to

· lilhobbit (aka F aka my X-Men Comics Consultant, honestly) who never tells me to shut up when I rant and whine, but always tries to figure out stuff with and for me. She asked for ryro hug, btw.
· smartasschef14 (♥) for telling me there were no grammatical errors this time. I think she's just blind and failed to notice them, but, whatever. ^^; No, wait, she found at least one... but know that I have messed around with the fic since she read it and the mistakes you find, are probably all mine.
· spfizz for always managing to make my day somehow brighter, for making me wanna write more and to be better, and for being such a great, hyper and supportive whackjob.
· infiticus for sprucing it up a ~~little~~ lot. And for being my ryro vibe. Also, SHE is the amazing creature behind the title of this series.

3. I love John.

4. This is was supposed to be three parts long, but at the moment I'm pretty sure there's at least two more parts. That's the plan, anyway. Eeek. We'll see.

5. COHEED&CAMBRIA rocks my world. And FYI, so does their song 'WELCOME HOME' ::grins::

6. If you're interested in reading my fic-related rants, then check this entry out :)

AND: The previous fics written for 50scenes can be found HERE
DISCLAIMER: The characters you know from X-Men (both movieverse as well as the comics)? NOT MINE. The characters you don't recognize, at all? Guess whose?

WELCOME HOME

The coldness has eaten its way into her bones, to her spine; dug a hole in there somewhere, and Marie doesn't think it'll ever go away again. No, of course it won't, and she's gonna feel cold and empty 'til the day she dies because that's how the real world works. There truly are no happy endings.

The bedroom in which she sits, at the end of a massive four-poster bed hands in her lap, is expensively furnished and huge, but those are the last things on her mind right now. At least they should be. Still, weirdly enough, she remembers vaguely that when she first entered said room earlier that night, her mind had momentarily stopped to make a mental note that had absolutely nothing to do with the current situation. If it had been day, she thought then, the whole space would've bathed in warm, bright light and it would've looked beautiful.

But it's not day and so the only light illuminating the otherwise dark room is the moon's, filtering through the blinds and creating stripes all over.

She feels like crying, but hasn't been able to shed a tear and she wonders whether that's a good sign or bad. Maybe, she figures, she's still in shock.

Not that she'd be the only one. Marie doesn't know where John went after placing their daughter into a bathtub filled with cold water and ice cubes - and well, asking hadn't occurred to her when he'd exited the bathroom and left them into the questionable safety of his penthouse.

Marie had sat there next to her daughter, on the bathroom's tile floor for as long as she could, but after an hour or so she'd been ruthlessly forced to get out. Forced to escape the heat and the flames. That, having to flee the room for that, it'd actually hurt more than she could've imagined. Never before had the girl used her powers that aggressively, never unconscious… and never, ever, on her mother. Now she'd done all three simultaneously.

That, she realizes, was about ten minutes ago so actually, maybe she really should go back and check on her. Just in case.

Slowly, as if in slow-motion, Marie wills herself to move, to get up. Take a step, walk, go to the door.

Every step seems to drain her energy more and more and she doesn't really understand why her body is putting up such a fight. Why the hell is she so hesitant to go see her own kid when really, she's the only thing Marie can't imagine living without? And Shelby, despite everything, she needs her mother, now more than ever, and what kind of a person does it make her, if she bails on her child because she's afraid.

What is she afraid of anyway? Of what'll happen or afraid of… her?

Because the latter? That'd suck.

When she finally reaches the bathroom's door, she presses her ear carefully against its wooden surface. There are no sounds to be heard, no whimpers, no nothing and so she concludes it's safe enough for her to enter now.

But instead of walking in like she planned to, Marie only pushes the door open, revealing the sight that breaks her heart every time she sees it.

Shelby, she's in the bathtub with a pained grimace shadowing her face, clothes on and trembling.

Though, really, Marie isn't stupid enough to think she'd be trembling out of sheer coldness like she is, because the water is practically boiling now and all she wants to do is go there, pull the plug and rescue her. But then, that wouldn't rescue her at all, now would it? As far as Marie knows and according to the doctors, it might make everything worse instead and she can't risk that. Can't risk her life.

She doesn't notice the slight shift of air around her, not before it's too late - a pair of very familiar arms sneak up and around her, capturing her, pulling close and she simply lets him. John, he feels unbearably warm against her back, almost as if his insides were on fire, burning, but she only wants more. It's so fucking cold, okay? She just wants to be warm again.

Unexpectedly his head comes down to meet the nape of her neck and she can feel his breath against her cold skin… her eyes close, but the weird thing is that unlike a moment ago when she was all alone, she can breathe freely again. His hands travel from her stomach to her middle, slowly, and as they do, the grip only tightens. She frowns, eyes still closed, when she hears him draw in a breath… hears him sniff. What the… Well, she definitely didn't see that one coming.

Marie has no idea what's happening or why, really, but it's not the right time for the questions yet. Mainly, because she has no idea what the damned questions are or should be and even if she did, she's too tired to ask them anyway because-

Her brain is shutting down.

He seems to notice this, the way her body gives in and relaxes against his, and that's when he opens his mouth to murmur, "don't worry, I'll take care of it." But the comment isn't comforting like one would think - and it isn't even meant to be. It, like the tone used and the man using it, is cruel and cynical, full of poison and bitterness and its only purpose in life is to throw Marie off. She knows this; she can hear it.

And it does upset her, by reminding her of the twisted lie she told him and of things she left untold; of what's behind and between them and has always been. With that realization, her eyes snap open and she tries to elbow him off, angry. To her surprise, John doesn't fight; no, instead, he opens his arms lifting them in mock-surrender and takes a step backwards, giving her enough room to spin around.

Spin she does. So fast, in fact, that she almost loses her ground and stumbles a little, but she barely notices it.

"Don't," she says as if to warn, voice edgy and yet desperate somehow, "don't blame me for this!"

She knows he'll tilt his head in about a second, give her a pointed look of mock and anger, and then step all over her with a simple smirk. That's what he always does.

John, as she assumed, tilts his head while stuffing his hands into his pockets and the look on his face, hell, it cuts right through her soul. He's furious and he's furious at her and shit, he has no right to be, because-

"I didn't do this!" She spits with something heavy pressing her throat, "It isn't my fault!"

John's - no, Pyro's jaw tenses dangerously - Pyro's, because right now, she knows it's Pyro standing in front of her, trying to keep his emotions in check, and there's absolutely no traces of John left on his features.

And well, that means she's in even deeper shit.

"She could die," he says then, clearly accusing her; eyes burning with the kind of hate and resentment that Marie actually shivers through and through.

"She won't," she claims in haste as if letting him say that would somehow make it true, "she won't die, 'cause you're the fucking leader of the damn Brotherhood and you've got about thousands of doctors and scientists smart enough to figure out what's wrong with her. You just had ten of them taking tests!"

Her claim, accusation, whatever it is, it makes him chuckle coldly before he tells her the truth he has never bothered to clarify, "I'm not the fucking leader of the damn Brotherhood and even if I was, it wouldn't matter. She could die, Rogue, get that?"

It takes a while before her mind can grasp his words fully. All of them. Her heart skips a beat, nearly stops and so does her breathing.

"No," she pipes, shaking her head. Of course he's the leader of the Brotherhood and of course Shelby won't die. With her inherited genes, how could she? She's too stubborn, too lively, too strong, way too strong to die, way too strong, way too strong, way too-

"The doc says her body can't take it much longer," John informs the panicking woman, cutting through her primitive train of thought, bringing her back, "The kid's own powers, they're draining her."

Well, if that's the case, "Then take them away!" Marie tells, raising her voice with desperation. She takes a step forward without realizing and fails to notice the way his eyes darken at that.

"What?" John questions, uncertain, as if he was hoping he didn't hear her right… she can't honestly think he'd ever agree to that kind of shit, right? Not when it's his kid in question - no fucking way, unless it's over his dead and buried body. And hell, not even then.

She swallows hesitantly, avoiding his eyes and confirms his suspicion, whispering, "The cure." She doesn't dare to look, doesn't want to see the way his face reflects his anger - she knows damn well, even without looking, what kind of reaction she'll receive.

Shaking his head and with narrowing eyes, he growls, "No. Fucking. Way." Yeah, that kind of reaction. At least he didn't slam her against the wall like she thought he would. Well, the night's young and she's got more to say.

Like, "Even if she does live through this, do you actually think she'll want to spend the rest of her life like…" she stumbles, not knowing how exactly to word it, "like that? With that?"

He is anything but content with her and the topic of their discussion as he hisses, teeth gritted, "It's not your decision to make."

She blinks, trying to process, trying to take it all in. Not her decision? How the hell can he say that? He's got it all wrong, so fucking wrong that now it's her anger flaring up, bright and hot.

"When it comes to saving her life," she practically shouts, "it damn well is!"

That's when her back finally connects with the wall next to the bathroom's door - painfully, and she realizes that his face is only inches from hers. She lets out a whimper to channel the pain out, but opposed to being helpful, the small sound coming from her throat only causes his arm to press harder against her throat and the pain does nothing but increases. His eyes are storming, so full of raw emotion that she actually stops breathing… besides, the arm on her throat really isn't helping in that department, anyway.

"Try anything like that," he snarls, eyes locked with hers to make sure she hears and understands every single damn word he's about to lay out, "anything at all, and I will not hesitate to take you down, Rogue."

A threat, not a promise - she knows he isn't lying. He'd have her killed, or probably go as far as killing her himself just to get his way. What a fucking asshole.

She gathers all her strength into a one neat push and manages to make him budge. The arm loosens, a little, and she can once again draw air into her lungs and ask, defying, "You'd rather she die as a mutant than live as a human?"

Something in his eyes flash, saying yes while the words coming out his mouth deny it, "I'm not saying that," he sighs, irritated and she notes how he glances to his side, once, before returning his gaze into her eyes, "I'm just saying it's not your fucking decision, Roguey."

She's about to argue, tell him to go fuck himself or something, but a sudden noise draws her attention. And his, too.

The hands retreat and she's free again.

Then she hears the same noise again, stronger, and oh my God-

John is the first one there, first one to kneel down next to the bathtub and grab Shelby's shoulders. He pulls her up from beneath the waving surface and with one hand presses the coughing girl against his chest while the other supports her head. She's still half way in the now hot water, hands squeezing his arms with all her might and, well, panicking.

When Marie finally comes to from the shock of hearing her cough, she makes a run for the bathroom - she nearly falls due the wet tiles, but it doesn't stop her rush and she kneels down behind John, grabbing his arm in attempt to balance herself while reaching to touch her cheek. But just as her fingers graze the hotly radiating skin, she remembers the other thing, and jerks her hand away.

And she wonders, bleeding inside, if she'll ever again be able to touch her own child without pain and suffering.

She's still coughing, trying to get the water out of her lungs and John? Well, John is the one hushing her like he'd always been there to hush his crying child, petting the shaking girl softly and that way, leaving Marie with the option to do nothing but stare. Even when the coughing subsides and the panic seems to fade, the shaking doesn't.

"Mom?" The girl whispers, still clutching onto John and with wet hair almost hiding her eyes. But Marie, she sees them, and she sees something she's never seen before. Only, she can't put her finger on it and right now, it doesn't weight much anyway.

"It's okay, kiddo, just calm down," she tells her, resisting the urge to cup her face and kiss her forehead, to lie, "it's gonna be okay."

Shelby draws in a breath, deep, calming, and then she glances to her side, taking in her surroundings fully - and realizes it actually isn't her mother she's holding onto for life.

"What-" That's as far as she gets before Marie interrupts her, saying, "that's John. You know, your-" stupid, arrogant, idiotic, cold-hearted killer of a "-father."

FAN FIC: X-Men: Sorry Go 'Round [UNVEILED] 1/?

2007-09-28T19:44:00Z

TITLE: SORRY GO 'ROUND
FANDOM: X-Men (post X3)
SERIES: UNVEILED (1/?)
---
RATING: Rish
WORD COUNT: about 5868
WARNINGS: some language and violence
PAIRING: implied Rogue/Pyro
---
SUMMARY: "Look, Rogue, let me be honest with you," the woman speaks bluntly and Shelby can only barely swallow the pained sound, a yelp, trying to climb up her throat, "First of all, have you never ever wondered what the letter M stands for?"
PROMPT: 026 trauma for 50scenes
TABLE: HERE
SEQUEL to the question trilogy}

A/N: Okay, um, I have a few things to say and therefore ---

1. I'm probably not the only one who felt The Question Trilogy needs a sequel - no? I thought so. Seriously speaking, I'd hate myself if I left the storyline hanging like that… although, really... that's just my lame excuse. In reality I adore Shelby too much not to write.

2. Special thanks to

· FORSAKEN aka lilhobbit (my X-Men Comics Consultant, honestly) who once again helped me with shit load of little details as well as the twists and plots. I haven't read the comics (only a few) and she has and therefore I sort of lean on her… a lot. She's the best, dude, and without her input I'd probably never get anything done. Ever.
· smartasschef14 for trying to do the impossible and correct my grammar. Again.
· infiticus for coming up with a title for the series. UNVEILED, that is.

3. Emma Frost is a complete mystery to me - I'd never even heard of her before F mentioned her to me so in case she's all fucked and not even remotely like herself (well, as canon as she in this universe *can* be), then I'm sorry. Or, really, I'm not, but I can pretend if you want me to. Or if you pay. Oh and, I've taken liberties to mess around with her superb abilities... in case you were wondering.

4. This is supposed to be three parts long, much like the previous trilogy, but as it is me writing, you never know.

5. I was somehow inspired by POETS OF THE FALL and especially by the song "sorry go 'round" - don't ask me why, though, because I have no idea.

6. It may not seem like Rogue/Pyro, but I assure you, it will. You didn't think Pyro would just watch from afar and let all this happen, did you?

AND: The previous fics written for 50scenes can be found HERE
DISCLAIMER: The characters you know from X-Men (both movieverse as well as the comics)? NOT MINE. The characters you don't recognize, at all? Guess whose?

SORRY GO 'ROUND

Her last name is D'Ancanto and she damn well knows that. She's grown up with it so of course she does and she's even proud of that, of her name and her heritage, but sometimes, when no one's watching and she knows Mom isn't going to be home anytime soon… that's when she unleashes her imagination and plays mind games with another possibility. The kind that creates a mischievous smirk on her lips and at the same time, makes her skin crawl for no apparent reason. It's not like she'd change her name if given the opportunity, but come on, who doesn't like to dream and pretend every once in a while?

In that department Shelby D'Ancanto is just like every other 12 year old kid in the world. It's the part where she's a mutant with the gift of creating fire that sets her apart from the most crowd. Although, inside the walls of her school, she's one of the many and the ability to mess around with fire, it only makes her super cool.

Seriously, on a scale from 4-10, she totally scores 11. Sometimes she wonders how much cooler she'd be if they simply knew the whole truth. Perhaps she'd get 15 then, possibly even 16 - or at least she calculates so… and that simple calculation she bases solely, and sourly, on the memory of that stupid Amara Aquilla girl scoring 17 damn points last year just because she can generate and control lava. Who cares about stupid lava? No one.

But her secret?

For one, it totally explains why all her best friends went to Charles Xavier's school for Gifted Youngsters whereas she, despite the many arguments she had with her mother about it, did not.

Instead, she ended up into another academy much like Xavier's school. Only difference that she can think of is the fact hers goes by the name of House of M - so far it's actually been good. Being around other mutants; it feels like a consolation price of a sort, but one that she'll gladly accept when offered.

At school, they've all heard about him, heard the whispers of what he was and of what he became, and it kills her -every single day- that she can't even brag.

If only, for once in her life, she could take part in a conversation regarding him and tell them, everyone, that really, if her parents had got hitched like she wishes they had, her surname would actually be Allerdyce, not D'Ancanto.

Well, the good thing is, no one would probably even believe her... The downside is that she'd have the power to change their minds. With her ability she could totally prove it.

It's rather logical, at least to her it is, that the daughter of the infamous Pyro would possess the same natural talent of her father's and so they'd have to believe. Especially since her mother has no powers, at all, which makes her ordinary. Not that she minds, because no matter what, she loves her mother - more than anything in the whole wide world. More than the thought of him and that says a lot.

Though, the rumors which she's heard about ten hundred times and more, they say that he actually can't create fire, only manipulate it and she's not sure what to think of that.

On the other hand, that sucks a little because rumors like that kind of takes away from his magic. But then… on the other? It sort of makes her even cooler, doesn't it? Because she sure as hell can create it.

But if Dad knew about her and her power, he'd be damn proud and that's all the comfort she needs to get by.

She's heard about the Brotherhood, they've talked about its history and timeline vaguely at school a few times, but Shelby refuses to believe all the things they say about it. Besides, even if all the things the adults have said when they've been under the impression there are no kids around, even if all that was true, then so what? It was before - before he joined them.

And Mom always says that the past doesn't mean anything, but that it's the future that counts.

She doesn't always listen to her mother, especially when the conversation has something to do with bedtimes, vegetables or why shoplifting is bad and how it'll get her grounded every single time, but occasionally the woman does know what she's talking about and Shelby has no issues when it comes to admitting that.

"Honey?" Speak of the devil - it's the hollering voice of one Marie D'Ancanto coming from downstairs that shatters the moment radically. The piece of paper in Shelby's hands gets quickly thrown into the steely trashcan and only a second later, it flares up and then, burns to dust. The last thing she wants her mother to see is a postage filled with different variations of all the possible ways to write down Shelby D'Ancanto, Shelby Allerdyce and, of course, Shelby D'Ancanto-Allerdyce.

Because honestly, Shelby would rather shoplift and get caught red-handed, again, than let Marie know her daughter dug up the one and only secret she's been trying to protect since before the day she gave birth.

"Honey? You home?" The second time she hears her voice, this time colored with slight worry and uncertainty, the girl finally makes a move. "I'm coming!" She yells back, pushes her chair away from the desk while getting up and rushes off the room. She even gets half-way down the stairs before running into Marie.

A pair of arms close around her immediately, pulling her close and Shelby doesn't even consider protesting like many girls of her age would. Instead, she closes her eyes and inhales deeply, enjoying.

She's never figured out why, not that she'd even given it much thought, but just the smell of her mother has always been enough to calm her nerves down - no matter what the cause.

"Well, it's definitely the funkiest way to welcome one home," Marie speaks then, pushing the girl a little farther. With adoring look, she cups Shelby's face with both hands and gives her a pointed smile, adding, "but honey, think we could move off the stairs before I fall down and break my neck?"

"It figures," Shelby snorts dramatically, but with laughing eyes and a hint of smile tugging at her lips, "it's always your neck that matters."

The statement draws out a deep, rolling laughter from the older D'Ancanto and a malicious smirk from the younger. With a wide grin -and completely ignoring the damned images that familiar smirk on the child's lips arise-, Marie lands a kiss on the top of her daughter's head before shrugging nonchalantly and says, "I would argue, but we both know it indeed is the prettiest neck in the house."

"Only," Shelby starts, tilting her head, "because mine hasn't fully developed yet. Give it some time, Mom, 'cause I'll catch up with you for sure."

Marie smiles, but it's easy for Shelby to notice how there's something sad, protected about her smile when she replies softly, "Yeah, never doubted that one for a sec, dear."

They're not talking about her neck anymore, are they? It's the tone of her mother's voice and that smile -sad and longing-, both telling Shelby to damn all the possible consequences and just do it without thinking. It's obvious Marie is thinking about him, because he's the only one who can bring that hollowness into her eyes, and this would be such a perfect window to ask about him. Smoothly.

But before Shelby can come up with the most perfect way to be smooth about it, like she knows she has to be if she wants to succeed, the moment's gone and Marie's already turned around.

"I'm gonna order pizza," she says, sounding tired, and Shelby can tell it's simply her way of changing the course of the previous moment, "and I suspect you have no-"

"Nuh huh," Shelby assures right away, shaking her head, "no complaints from here."

"Good," Marie throws over her shoulder while descending the stairs, "'cause I cannot be bothered to cook today."

"Good," Shelby retorts somewhat automatically, the way she always does and follows her mother into the kitchen, "'cause I cannot be bothered to lie about its quality today."

It's not that her mother can't cook well… It's that she can't cook at all. That, however, has never bothered neither Marie or Shelby, but it is something she loves to throw at her mother's face just for meaningless fun.

"You're such a smart-ass, kiddo," Marie laughs, grabbing the phone from the wall and hitting speed-dial. It's always amused Shelby to no end - the fact they actually have all their favorite take-away places on speed-dial as if that was all they ate. It isn't, really, but it makes life in general a whole lot easier, according to Mom anyway and who is she to argue about the facts of life?

"Just like my father?" The question slips out so mischievously, and totally without Shelby's consent, and she's almost tempted to clap her hands on her mouth to keep it from saying anything else.

But Marie, unlike Shelby thought, doesn't seem bothered by it. The sad smile reappears hand in hand with amused glint, but that's about it and then, to Shelby's surprise, she nods and says, "Just like your father."

Shelby, she can't remember the last time they would've talked about her father. At all. No, wait, there's this one memory she's been holding onto for as long as she can tell, with them both here, in the kitchen, talking about him -fighting about him- but she can't remember any of the words exchanged. But she remembers, quite clearly, how upset Mom was afterwards and maybe that's why she promised herself she'd never ask about Dad again. Not from her, anyway.

She's tried asking Bobby - many, many times actually, but so far the man has proven to be of no use. Whenever Shelby even so much as thinks of asking, this sudden tension takes a hold of his features and silences her unspoken questions before they even get a chance to come out. She's not sure how he does it, but it freaks her out and-

Is that the doorbell?

Without wasting a look on her mother who's still on the phone, Shelby practically runs to the door. Well, there's only one person who would come to their door this late - and she's counting on that.

When the doorbell rings three times in a row before she gets to the door, she already knows she was right. The impatient ringing always gives it away.

Mom always says she should peek out from the window to see who it is, just in case because you never know what's out there, but if Mom isn't there standing behind her back, watching, Shelby never bothers to go through with the ritual. Instead, she usually pulls the door open and like now, with a delighted shriek, leaps against the guest in excitement.

Logan only smirks, lifting her better up into his arms and steps over the threshold like the owner of the house. She's not as light as she used to be, he can tell, but it's no issue and he figures, it never will.

"What ya up to, kiddo?" He asks and closes the door with the heel of his boot. Logan, he always calls her kiddo, much like Mom does and Shelby's convinced that's from where she picked it up.

"Besides bothering Mom?" She questions, pensive, "Nothing much."

The reply earns a chuckle from him - and a slight shake of head. He carries her to the kitchen and she wonders why he never ever has to ask where Mom is. How can he always know her exact spot no matter where she is? It's just as unnerving as the fact he seems to be able to smell her lies a mile away. Though, really, usually that's no problem and therefore she doesn't mind; Logan isn't the type to rat her out unless she's done something really, really bad.

Which she has, occasionally.

"Should've known you've been bad, firestarter," he returns, almost as if he had read her mind and she could go on with it, make funny comments all night, but she doesn't want to. She's too curious to know-

"Where you been, Logan?" She asks, "Mom kept asking around for like two weeks and you know how she gets when she's worried. It was hell on earth."

"Sorry," Logan says, but she knows he doesn't mean it.

Then, without him saying anything, giving no explanations, she is gently dropped on her own two feet. Marie's done with the phone call and is now cleaning the dinner table with a rag, but the moment she sees Logan, her face lights up and the cloth falls from her fingers. Shelby can't help but smile.

"Logan!" Then it's Marie's turn to hug him and Shelby simply watches the moment, happy. It's nice, the freeing effect he always seems to have on Marie and she hates to admit that the only way it could be better is if it was him instead. That particular train of thought makes her feel guilty every single time, though and so she usually tries to steer clear from it.

"Where the hell have you been?" Not knowing, Marie repeats the exact same question as her daughter, although with a bit harsher language. It brings a smirk to Shelby's face.

"Around," he says, shrugging, "here and there."

Yeah, sure, as if Mom would actually let that reply slide...

As expected, Marie takes a step back and crosses her arms. Oh, boy - Shelby knows what that look combined with that posture mean. Despite the fact Mom is damn happy to see her old friend, Logan is still in for a massive amount of trouble. Well, this time Shelby agrees with Mom, because yeah, he most definitely deserves it after vanishing without a word. You don't do that to your family and that's exactly what she considers him to be.

"Well, doesn't 'here and there' have any phones?" Marie prompts, eyes narrowing the way they always do when she's riled up, "You know I've been worried sick about you and the least you could've done is like, I dunno, call and let me know you're still in one piece." The comment makes Logan snort in obvious amusement and roll his eyes - and that in turn makes Shelby frown. What was so funny about that, huh?

"Kiddo, don't lecture an old man," Logan sighs then, but like Shelby, he too knows well enough to keep all signs of annoyance inside, "I've been around long enough to know I can take care of myself."

Marie shrugs, but now there's a weak smile hanging on her lips, "Still," she says, clearly giving up on anger, "We missed you."

"Well," Logan grunts back like a caveman would, "I'm here now, aren't I?"

Indeed, but, "For how long?" Shelby cuts in, growing suddenly worried. Sure, she loves to hear him tell lively stories about the journeys he's made, about the things he's seen, but it doesn't change the fact she never wants him to go.

"Don't plan on leaving any time soon," Logan replies, but something in the way he says it, in the tone used, tells Shelby it's nothing but a big fat lie. Whatever it is that's going on, it's something big.

And then? Her skin crawls unexpectedly, cold shivers traveling from her head to toes. That's when she notes the way his face suddenly changes and they watch him sniff the air like he often does and hear him say, "Something's up."

A moment goes by in utter silence but soon enough it's broken by the recurring sound of the doorbell.

Logan sniffs again, only stronger this time and then glances at Marie. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No," Shelby replies before Marie can say anything - is it just her imagination or did her mother just go completely pale? Well, anyway, "I mean, besides the pizza delivery guy, but there's no way he could've been this fast, because you know, he's always late and that's why we always get a discount and once he-"

"I got the point, kid," Logan interrupts her speeding rambling, "Simple no would've worked."

Right. Of course... But Shelby rarely goes for simple and he should've learnt that by now.

The doorbell rings again and when Marie still doesn't move, or even seem like she'll attempt to any time soon, Logan takes the lead. Which, really, doesn't surprise Shelby at all, because that's the way he is. Logan always takes the lead, even when Marie doesn't want him to and on most times, it leads into a verbal fight very similar to a small world war.

But it's not like Logan would take a hint and learn of his mistakes when it comes to macho male-stuff like that. At least that's what Mom once said.

"Stay here with her, kiddo," Logan orders and though she usually would, this time Shelby doesn't argue. For one, she isn't quite sure if the command was directed to her or Marie and either way, someone's gotta stay and take care of Mom... because seriously, she's gone about as ashen as her skunk stripes and that's never promising. On most cases it involves vomit.

What in the world is going on with her, huh?

Logan's already at the door and if she tries really, really hard, Shelby can almost hear the soft tones of a female voice. She can't make out the words, at all, but it's definitely a woman at their doorstep.

"Marie?"

It's Logan, obviously, and this time his voice seems to snap the woman out of it - whatever it was. She blinks a few times and inhales sharply - almost as if she'd been without air since the first rang of the doorbell and who knows, perhaps she was. Wouldn't be a first.

Shelby doesn't speak, only watches how Marie swallows and wets her lips before clearing her throat. She's seen this act so many times before that she knows all the little gestures by heart. Mom, she's simply collecting herself, taking back the control of the lost moment.

And when she's done, she looks as normal as she always does and-

"Marie?" Logan calls out, impatient, and when she replies, there are no traces of the previous collapse in her voice, "In a minute!" she shouts her reply and then turns to Shelby, who's now sucking her bottom lip rather pensively.

"Stay here," Marie says firmly, echoing Logan's earlier command and Shelby shrugs, not bothering to come up with a retort. But come on... where the hell do they think she'd go, honestly?

And so she's left alone. Left into the kitchen, alone... left wondering what's going on and whether it was Dad that Mom pictured standing behind the door a moment ago.

It would've been kind of cool, huh? - Though that doesn't make any sense to her, at all. Because if she had; if Mom did think it was Dad making an appearance after all these years, then why did she look like she was about to be sent to Hell's Gates?

Must find out. And Shelby, she knows exactly how to attempt that.

Sure, she was ordered to stay put... but surely they didn't mean she can't walk around in her own home. What if she needs to go to the bathroom?

Still, careful not to make any avoidable sound, she forgets all about the command and sneaks through the kitchen door, towards the lobby and stops at the other end of the empty living-room, close enough to hear what is said in the space located on the other side of the wall.

The conversation seems to be heated, despite the fact it's spoken with low volume.

The first thing she clearly hears is Marie's voice, saying, "No, thank you, but I'm not interested." She sounds... cold. That's odd.

The stranger lets out a cynical laugh sounding just as cold; the kind meant to act only as an ice dagger thrown at Marie, meant to hurt. Yeah, the kind of laughter that would've only a few months ago undoubtedly made Shelby torch the sofa. Whoops. Lucky for, well, everyone in their neighborhood, for everyone in their lives, a few anger management lessons took care of that little problem pretty quickly.

"Oh, you aren't?" The baiting voice asks then and as a reflex Shelby, she sends out a short prayer, wishing Logan would do what he always does and smack the owner of that damn voice for being so damn annoying and mean. Preferably hard and a few times in a row.

Shelby actually expects Marie to speak up -no one talks like that to a D'Ancanto and gets away with it-, but surprisingly, it's the stranger who rambles on, "Why, I thought finding a different school would be your top priority," she continues almost immediately and Shelby can just tell it's not gonna be good, "considering you've without knowing put your daughter into a school run by the Brotherhood, I figured you might be. I always thought you X-Men were, well, how would I put? Above that?"

Shelby's mind draws a full-fledged blank. Huh? Her mother has put a what where?

Because for a moment there, as stupid as it is, it sounded like the woman had implied that Marie, her mother, had not only put her, Shelby, into a school run by the group she considers to be evil but that... she, her mother, would be part of X-Men.

Which in itself is totally ridiculous and so not possible, because in order for one to be an X-Man, you'd have to be a mutant and well, everyone knows that is something Marie D'Ancanto is not.

That chick, she's some looney who's lost her marbles.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Marie denies then, after a small pause, but something in her tone creates a wrinkle on Shelby's forehead. What, she's lying? She does know, doesn't she?

The confusion comes in nearly suffocating waves and Shelby has no clue what statement to pick apart first. They all seem equally impossible, anyway.

"Look, Rogue, let me be honest with you," the woman speaks bluntly and Shelby can only barely swallow the pained sound, a yelp, trying to climb up her throat, "First of all, have you never ever wondered what the letter M stands for?"

That's when Logan's limits are finally met and Shelby can imagine, even without seeing it happen, how his face looks when he growls and grabs her arms to push her towards the still open door.

"That's enough, Frost," he drawls, angry and ready for a fight, "get out."

But unlike one would think, she's not that easy to get rid of, not at all.

He manages to get the petite blond out the door into the veranda, but that's when she decides to quit the games and put up a fight. Only, it's not a fight at all, because she seems to have no issues holding her ground against Logan. Like it was nothing, she grabs his arms and somehow -though Shelby can't understand it, because Logan is the strongest guy she's ever known- somehow the woman manages to stay rooted on the spot.

"No, seriously," she tells mockingly and clearly amused as her skin gains a weird kind of glow. It seems she's not a bit bothered by the fact Logan's still at her face, growling and trying to push her further from her shocked mother, "Think about that for a second, will you?"

Marie, then again, is standing there in the lobby like a stone statue and simply stares at the figure in her front yard trying to decide her next step - but it's decided for her, because at that point Shelby can no longer hold it in.

"Mom?" She shrieks, voice weak and trembling, "Mom?" She steps around the corner at the same time as Marie spins around on her heels.

Her mouth opens and closes and then opens again as if she was struggling with the words, like they refused to come out and-

"Yes, Rogue, honestly," Frost snickers, shoving Logan forcefully off her, "you might wanna tell her who and what her real parents are!"

Then, the one thing Shelby has never expected to see, happens. Frost, she shoves Logan one more time and this time he actually falls.

That's when it occurs to both Marie and Logan that something really has to be done, right now, or else-

"Marie," Logan growls, knuckles opening and claws appearing, "go!"

Shelby can only stare.

But this time her mother doesn't stay clueless - she comes to life and reacts. Perhaps the motherly instincts kick in, the will to survive and protect, Shelby doesn't know what it is, but a moment later she's being grabbed by the wrist and being dragged forward.

And all the young girl can see in front of her eyes; all she can think about, while being led towards the backdoor in the kitchen, is the image of Logan and the claws she just saw appear.

It's not that she's never seen anything like that happen before - she can create fire out of thin air, okay, so claws appearing out of nowhere is not that unusual.

But claws appearing out of Logan's knuckles, well, that most certainly is unusual.

Very much like her mother being called Rogue.

Because everyone knows who Rogue is and that's not her mother. It isn't.

The fingers wrapped around her wrist are gripping so tight it hurts, but it's nothing compared to the painful feeling of something squeezing her heart. The running, she realizes coming to, they're still running.

When did they get out through the backdoor, she has no idea, but there they are, in the middle of the streets, running.

"Come on, baby," Marie pleads in between breaths when Shelby's pace suddenly slows down, "you've got to run."

She has no idea why they have to run so hard, but the desperation in Marie's voice leaves no room for questioning. And so she tells her body to stop whining and runs, as fast as she possibly can and-

Marie is the first and only one to smack against something hard, but the collision flies her backwards and she pulls Shelby with her, on the ground.

She whimpers and Shelby doesn't know why and there's no time to ask, because Marie is already forcing them both up, telling her to stop crying and start running again, because baby, everything's gonna be okay-

"No, it isn't," a voice says and there's no doubts about to whom it belongs. Frost.

Shelby's fingers close around the hem of Marie's shirt while her head presses against Marie's back. She's shaking, shaking so damn hard that Marie can almost hear the rapid beating of her heart and smell the fear.

Everything, it's too much and Shelby can't watch, can't deal.

Which, Marie figures after fully registering the sight in front of her, is probably for the best considering her mental health. It's more or less at stake already, anyway.

The smirking mutant -oh yes, Marie's come to the conclusion it indeed is a mutant and a crazy one too- in which she slammed against, is bleeding all over her white outfit, deep red claw marks decorating her face and one can only wonder how she's still standing. Or where Logan is... no, can't go there, can't think about that, gotta focus on the moment-

And yet, despite the pain Marie is convinced the woman feels, there's a glorious smirk twisting the mutant's mouth as if there was no blood at all.

"What the fuck do you want?" Marie spits, furious, because if this is another stunt pulled by John than she's gonna murder that bitch and her boss and-

"Oh hush with that kind of language, darling," Frost barks and the thing that amazes Marie is the fact she sounds as if she was scolding a bad behaved kid, "And stop screaming like that, alright?"

Screaming like what?

"Blaming Pyro really isn't gonna get you out of this situation, now is it?"

A telepath, Marie realizes and just like that, all the hope she might have had buried somewhere deep within, vanishes to thin air. She's facing a damn telepath - great.

Where are his fucking gorillas when you need them?

"Oh," the bitch replies, the probably forever-malicious smirk still plastered on her face, "they're napping, sort of."

Of course. Trust John fucking Allerdyce to find the kind of idiots who can't even beat one damn telepath bitch.

It's amazing, really. How the Brotherhood has managed to survive this long, it's a damn miracle.

"I agree, it is. I wouldn't like him much right now, either," Frost responds, grimacing and the indifferent way she tosses a lock of blond hair over her shoulder makes Marie want to bounce her, "In fact, I don't like him, period."

Yes, well, join the fucking club.

"He's a fuck up, a failure and honestly, how you ever ended up in bed with that shithead is beyond my understanding... " her voice lingers there, but not for long, because naturally she's not done with the subtle insults yet, "but hey," she continues perkily, "each to her own, right?"

Okay, interestingly put. Could it be this whack-job in the sluttiest outfit Marie has ever laid eyes on, is actually one of Pyro's abandoned sluts in a war path towards revenge?

"Don't call me a slut!" Frost snaps angrily and Marie snorts (because seriously, who in their right mind wears a dress that revealing?) and tells her, "If you don't want people to think that, then maybe you should every once in a while glance a mirror on your way out."

"Hey," the mutant throws back, "you're the one he walked out on. Don't blame it on me."

Um, what? She hasn't-

"It sounded like you did," Frost supplies tonelessly.

"You," Marie stresses in obvious disbelief, "are fucking insane."

Whatever happened to the type of enemies that instead of chatting, prefer killing in silence? And well, is it weird Marie herself prefers those, because my gods, this skank is driving her insane. Been there, done that, no need for a repeat.

"Insane? Yes, that's what they keep telling me," Frost sighs like the drama queen she is, "It doesn't change the fact you're about to suffer, though..." And then, of all things, she chuckles happily to whatever thought it was that happened to cross her mind, "Or to think of it, maybe it is the reason you're going to suffer, I don't know, but if you'd only agreed to send the kid to one damn school, we wouldn't be here."

Well, it wasn't like she appeared on her doorstep and told her what to do - or else. No, not once during that short conversation of theirs, did she mention what would happen if Marie didn't agree to pull Shelby out of her current school and send to another, and honestly, what kind of idiot is she anyway?

"So you actually believed that I would, knowingly, ship my daughter off to some school founded by a gang of terrorists?" Marie snorts and this time it's her turn to make a mocking face, "Oh, yeah, how silly of me. Of course I'd do that."

The telepath snarls and it becomes clear to Marie that Frost, she loves icy comments, but only when they're coming from her.

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you," she says with a straight face and for a moment there Marie, as much as she hates it, is almost scared. Because you don't annoy a crazy person and survive - every one knows that… but when the said crazy person is attacking you and therefore a real threat to your only child, it's kind of hard not to bite back.

"How surprising," Marie retorts through gritted teeth, "because I sincerely thought I could talk myself out of this, but oh well-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Frost snaps and takes an irate step closer, eyes flashing dangerously and Marie can barely keep herself from backing up, which is exactly what every fiber of her being demands her to do. To run and get away, to get Shelby to safety... But to be realistic, what are the odds of that working out as planned? Even if she did try anything as risky as running, she'd most likely only end up knocking Shelby on the ground and well, Marie is somewhat sure the girl's suffered trauma huge enough for one day - no need to add the raw murder of her mother's into the list of traumas.

"You know what?" the blond mutant asks, grinning viciously and really, Marie does know, "I thought I could be nice. I thought I could simply take the kid and leave you to your pain 'cause it would've been painful, I know that for sure. But at least you would've been alive…" she pauses, but only for an effect, "now, however, I'm thinking I'd much rather kill you and-"

That's as far as she gets - all the sudden there's a bright light and it momentarily forces Marie to shield her eyes with her hand, blinding her sight at once. But her closed eyes, they don't make much of a difference; she hears the pained cry coming from Frost anyway and she can smell the familiar scent of fire.

Oh my god - Shelby!

Indeed, only then she realizes that Shelby isn't behind her anymore; her hands have left Marie's shirt and the strong chin is no longer digging into her backbone like it was a moment ago.

Her eyes snap open instantly, ignoring the light and the pain it might cause-

But it doesn't matter, doesn't hurt because the light is gone and all that it has left behind, is an image that will forever stay, be forever burned into Marie's consciousness.

Frost is on her knees and Shelby.... she's moved in front of her, both hands on her face and she's taking such strong, heaving breaths that you would think there's no air anywhere near.

But her mother knows better - it's not the lack of air that's making her gasp.

Because my gods, the horrified -drained- look on Frost's face; Marie recognizes it immediately and how could she not? She's seen it too many damn times in the past, but never like this, never as an outsider. Her shaking hands travel up to cover her mouth in shock.

It only takes a few seconds before the woman falls on the ground with a loud thud - unconscious or dead, Marie doesn't know nor care at that point, and a moment later the little girl follows.

But unlike the psychotic telepath, she's got someone there to grab her before she hits the dirt.

FAN FIC: X-Men: Do me a favor and I'll do you (rogue/pyro)

2007-09-16T18:39:59Z

TITLE: Do Me A Favor And I'll Do You
FANDOM: X-Men

{AU - set during X2, though}

RATING: high R or weak nc-17 ^^;
WORD COUNT: about 1630
WARNINGS: baaad language and smuttish stuff?

{the usual}

PAIRING: Rogue/Pyro, implied Rogue/Bobby (horror!)
SUMMARY: Even in his dreams, it'd always been him. It'd been his choice and he'd chosen to let her have the lead. But he hadn't chosen that time. Or the next. And well, after a month, it'd become pretty damn clear he wouldn't, not ever.

{for 50scenes}

PROMPT: 039 facade
TABLE: HERE

A/N: Well. I wanted to write... something.

Something were Rogue wasn't the sweet Marie we all know from the movies and where Pyro's the um, heartbroken one? I love Rogue, you know I do and I'm not mean to her on purpose, really (there *is* a reason behind her behavior, but I'm saving the explanations for the very -damn- possible follow-up, gah), but damnit I just wanted to write something different for a change. Sue me.

Let's blame lilhobbit just for the sake of blaming.

♥ goes out to smartasschef14 who tried to kick some sense into me - grammatically. All the mistakes you can find were probably pointed out by her and turned back by me, so, I guess... blame the frogs. Because what other possible use could you have for frogs?

AND: The previous fics written for 50scenes can be found HERE
DISCLAIMER: Dude, sure. I'm also the santa. The one that invented a time machine and fired the reindeer.

DO ME A FAVOR AND I'LL DO YOU

She'd said, with the huskiest and most seductive tone he'd ever heard, she'd said ya've got to teach me, Johnny and placed her fingers suggestively just above his knee. And she'd squeezed, gently, but hard enough for it to have an impact. He'd cursed underneath his breath, eyes closing and opening, closing and opening, closing and opening-

She'd known immediately how the scene would play itself out.

John hadn't, but then, that'd been her plan right from the start and that much he'd known all along.

Her self-satisfied smile had only grown when she'd heard him make a deep, growling sound at the back of his throat - he hadn't meant to, seriously, but he couldn't stop it from escaping - and then, he'd grabbed her hand and almost told her to fuck off.

Nails digging into her gloved wrist, he'd thought of it; thought of how her face would've fallen if he'd actually done that, said those words. Told her to get lost. He'd known, even then, that later he'd regret it if he didn't say them and now, after everything, there's no one else to blame, but himself.

Though, to be fair, he blames her a little, too, but mostly he blames himself for being so fucking weak.

He'd forced his eyes open and met her brown ones, asking, why the fuck should I do that, Marie? - and he'd watched, with thrilling fascination, how her eyes had seemed to flash at his words and he'd realized his mistake.

"That's exactly why," she'd said playing around with his words, whole face radiating with the kind of smile he had no describing words for, and he'd swallowed. In pain, because my god, his pants were starting to feel way too little for him.

When the delicate fingers had moved upwards, even if it had been just an inch or so, the growl had escaped - again.

She'd laughed, but to his ears it'd been a full-fledged moan meant to drive him insane and nothing but.

He'd dreamed of that -of her willing hands working on him, playing with him- about millions of times, but apparently in real life, it hadn't been what he wanted. Not then anyway. Not like that. It was never supposed to be her; the one to make the first move. To surprise him, to leave him speechless.

Even in his dreams, it'd always been him. It'd been his choice and he'd chosen to let her have the lead. But he hadn't chosen that time. Or the next. And well, after a month, it'd become pretty damn clear he wouldn't, not ever.

In the end the whole concept of choice and free will - it lost its meaning and he hadn't cared about any of it after that point.

Just like he hadn't cared that through it all she'd been with Bobby - and he'd known that. Only, a lot later he'd realized that maybe -'cause life's shitty that way and all- maybe he did care.

Nothing had changed then, because he hadn't let it. He hadn't said anything. In fact, he'd gone as far as refusing to believe it himself so why the hell would he have told her? And hell, how?

Hey, I do love all the wonderful things you do to - and with - my dick, but guess what, I think I love *you* too.

As fucking stupid as it was, he'd thought of that, yeah - thought of saying those words to her face, but he'd never, not once, been able to picture what her reaction would be-

And that was why he hadn't said anything. He hadn't wanted to give her another chance to surprise him.

She'd been with Bobby while the guy's best friend had gone out of his way to teach her stuff-

And every time she'd throw it back at his face like it didn't mean a thing, didn't matter at all. Bobby would sneak back into their dorm, flushed and reeking of sex, of her and he'd tell his best friend, with an all-saying smirk, that the killer-skin really wasn't an obstacle anymore.

Of course, being the fucking gentleman he is, at first Bobby hadn't told John anything - at all. For a week or so John had constantly been telling himself he was glad for that... but after a little while he changed his mind and started asking, started asking what exactly had happened with the iceman and his girl and he'd even managed to put it all on male arrogance and Bobby hadn't questioned it. It was all on guys being guys and teenagers being teenagers and well, on a bunch of lame ass sayings like that.

Finally, after a lot of covered up begging and conscious manipulating on John's part, Bobby had finally caved in and told-

You wouldn't believe, he'd said to John once, the things she's come up with to make this happen, and he'd nearly snorted and been too damn tempted to tell him otherwise.

I love her, you know, Bobby had continued and for the first time ever - or at least, for the first time in ages - John, he'd felt something break and shatter inside.

And hell yeah, he'd regretted ever asking, still does, but it wasn't like he could've taken it back, so after that he was sort of forced to listen-

Listen, how all the things he'd shown her because she'd fucking asked him to, she'd show to Drake and make them mean something.

She hadn't seen it coming and neither had he, but after a year, he'd grown tired of it. He'd realized -and regretted- it was too little and too fucking pricey.

And yet he's here; in one of the secret rooms the mansion holds and they discovered (accidentally), when, really, he could've just stopped coming altogether and be done with it.

He snickers, but more on his own expense than on hers. Not only is he there, but like a fucking boy scout, he's there on time too. She never is.

She's supposed to show up any minute now, though, and usually he's already laid down on the mattress, relaxing, by the time she does.

This time he isn't.

He stands there in the middle of the room with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, fingers caressing the zippo affectionately, and he's trying to collect his fucking thoughts, those damn sons of bitches and he's trying to make sense of them, but it's not really going anywhere.

Because all he can think of, really, is the way her skin feels when she lets him touch it.

That's about the only thing he has and Bobby doesn't.

At least he did.

When she finally does appear, she's wearing blue jeans and a gray t-shirt, saying 'do me a favor and I'll do you' with pink letters and he snorts at the double-meaning - and its accuracy.

She doesn't waste any time - not this new, improved Rogue John's got the privilege of seeing her turn into. He feels a tad cynical, sure, but hell, can't deny he has every fucking right to.

Rogue moves as fast as she always does after a brief, unintentional skin contact with Wolverine and before he knows it, she's already clinging onto his body like she'd drown if she didn't and momentarily he loses both the start and the end of his mission.

Her lips crash on his, hard and demanding, and his hands creep up to her hips, squeezing. But no, not gently because she - she doesn't deserve it.

Or want it.

Though that knowledge alone is almost making him want to take it slow. Just in spite.

But not that surprisingly, he doesn't. Somehow her hands manage to be all over him at the same time, because the moment he's sure they're clawing his back, trying (but failing, because she doesn't have the patience to complete the said task) to pull his shirt off, one of them is actually unzipping his pants and wraps around his dick and he forgets everything else. Like how to breathe.

Her teeth clash with his, trying to force him bend backwards and he's fighting against her, pulling her closer-

Though no one ever brings it up, it's always, always a battle for domination and they are all too aware of it. All the time. Sometimes he wins, sometimes he doesn't. Either way, he's stopped minding a long time ago.

The kiss, in all its brutality, it seems to last and last until finally, he feels the familiar tug - the way too familiar sensation of pain, of life being drained out of his veins, and though she feels it too, she doesn't back off.

No, but she smiles and gives him one more; one more peck on the lips because more than anything, she loves to play with fire.

Shit, isn't he a living proof of that, huh?

Then she releases him, pushes him backwards (more roughly than needed, of course) only because she knows he doesn't have the strength to do it himself anymore; to put the needed space between them.

A moment goes by with him trying to return his breathing to normal and with her, well, trying to understand the images his kiss brought into her head.

Because that, she can tell, was far from their usual kisses.

She blinks in shock, but with his eyes cast on the floor, he misses that.

He's going to stop it? He's going to walk away from it, he's going to say, no, no more games, Roguey and hell, he actually thinks he can do that?

Well, he can't.

"Rogue-" John starts, swallowing hard, and lifts his chin to meet her face and-

"It's okay," she says, dripping cold, "I'm done with the lessons anyway."

FAN FIC: X-Men: The Kill

2007-09-14T21:35:15Z

TITLE: The Kill
FANDOM: X-Men

{post X3}

RATING: R-ish for the language and mild violence, I guess.
WORD COUNT: about 5845
WARNINGS: Don't kiss your mama with that mouth - I wouldn't.

{the usual}

PAIRING: Rogue/Pyro
SUMMARY: Whereas a moment ago you were only fantasizing about smashing the phone against his nose, now you actually act on it...

{for 50scenes}

PROMPT: 025 unaffected
TABLE: HERE

{sequel to Not Done Yet}

A/N: Once again, NOT PART OF EPSILON SERIES... BOOYAH.

Funny thing happened, btw. You see, lilhobbit wanted more violence & action, less talking and of course, out of principle, I always have to go the other way round. Only, I didn't do it on purpose this time, I swear. Perhaps I shall try and write something... less-talkative next time around? But honestly, this one - as usual - wrote itself out on its own and I had no control over it. So, because of that, there's talk. A lot... but really, it was too much fun to leave it short... just so you know, I stayed up till 4.30 (and yes, I had work the next day... I went through this day with the sheer power of coffee, as I told F already) and so if it's funky or whatever, blame that. Or F. I find it funnier to blame her, actually.

Anyways. This is the end of THE QUESTION TRILOGY (for now) so be happy. I might write more later if I feel like it (or people want me to ;)), but it'd probably be from Pyro's pov and Shelby would have grown a few years. And it'd deal more with the tricky relationship between our favorite mutants, mwuahaha.

And let me just point out (for the sake of my mental health and hopefully yours, too); I really do not like Tobey Maguire that much so the fact the little kid's got a horrible taste in actors doesn't mean I do, okay? I rock, babe... seriously, I do *glares*

... Yes. I was listening to 30 SECONDS TO MARS's 'THE KILL' ... I'm a freak.

It was, yet again, the amazing infiticus who betaread this thing for me. However, being the stubborn bitch I am, I don't always listen to her, so all the mistakes you spot, are probably mine.

AND: The previous fics written for 50scenes can be found HERE
DISCLAIMER: Dude, as if.

THE KILL

Maybe you are a little too naive for your own good, whatever, but you actually were under the solid impression there's not a thing he could do that would still surprise you. Be it roses on your doorstep or a stone thrown through your bedroom window, you thought you've seen it all when it comes to him and his grand gestures.

The truth is you got neither of those and now you're kind of wishing you had. At least if it were roses or a rock you'd know what to do with it, but this, you have no idea what to do with. The roses would obviously go into water or the trashcan, depending on your current mood at the time. Or into both, though the order is unknown; no one knows for sure how that one would go down and right now, it doesn't matter much anyway. The window, you imagine, would have to be fixed and the stone you'd keep hidden in some shoe box, top-shelf, behind the extra pillows and blankets. In other words, far away from Shelby's prying eyes and never-ending questions. But still, you'd keep it just to remind yourself that you can do better.

He's an ass and you never wanted him anyway.

The tension headache is there, hammering in the back of your head like a bad hangover and his eyes on you, the cold but yet burning stare, it doesn't help at all. There was a time when you would've shrunk under those eyes; would've looked away like a child in shame but those days are over and you're planning to make it known.

You snort, letting him know you're anything but happy with him and the way things are going. Sarcastic, frustrated, cynical, pessimistic, discontent - take your pick. Anything but happy, seriously.

And it's - of course - all his fault. The accusation playing on your lips, demanding to be voiced; it makes you fold your arms in a manner meant to send him a clear message without you actually having to say it. This way you stand a chance. Now you can deny it, the whole message, if things get heated. With him they usually do, don't they, and Wolverine taught one always needs to have a backup plan, a way out.

Instantly you feel the desire to look over your shoulder, to make sure the door, your one and only exit, is still there. But you don't look, because you don't want to give him the satisfaction of breaking the hostile stare. Plus, you're in enemy territory now - which, you figure, might not have been as smart a move as you thought it would be - and you are never ever supposed to take your eyes off the villain. You've seen the horror movies, okay?

For some reason you want to be the one to speak first, yeah, but you're not sure what to say. Or how.

Other than blame him loudly, that is, but you doubt it gets you anywhere. Sure, the reason it's his fault and not yours is logical to you, but he certainly won't see it the same way - and that's not why you're here anyway. You're here simply to tell him to fuck off, right?

Seriously though, how could you have known? The shock of seeing him there, in your home, standing in your living-room, it's making your memories a little hazy, fine, but you have no difficulties whatsoever recalling his last words to the damn dot.

He'd said don't think we're done here yet and trying his best to make it sound like a poisonous threat, but really, in your ears it was more like a promise.

That should say it all. That's why it's his fault.

Because at the end of the day, Pyro, John, whoever the hell he wants to be for the time being - you don't ask because you don't care -, he's always been good with threats. They're his second nature and always kept, but his promises, as far as you can tell, are always empty.

So when the two delightful fellows, looking more or less like some PCH bikers gone over the edge with the all-covering tattoos and piercings, start popping up at every corner and window you stop to look at, you are (as noted), not happy.

Truth be told, it actually starts with Shelby telling you how she thinks she saw some funny looking dudes - her words, not yours - watching her while she played in the park. At the time you waved it off. I'm sure it's just your imagination, sweetie and she shrugged saying maybe it is, whatever, Mom.

You worry for a few days, but when she doesn't mention the dudes again you kind of forget all about it.

But then you, being the sensible adult and all, start sensing them around -constantly- and though you try not to show it, it really does freak you out. It's when your spine crawls as if your spider senses were telling you something's not quite right that you know they're there again, somewhere. A quick glance on the surface of the nearest window and you can almost swear you saw their reflections lurking behind your back.

Still, at first you insist blaming your daughter's imagination and her undying love for Tobey Maguire. Honestly, no woman can be forced to watch that damn movie ten times a week without it leading to some sort of mental damage (paranoia, in this case) and that, you reason, is what this is all about.

Yeah, that's what you thought. Up until the day you were almost hit by a car, one driving straight at you and your daughter while you were crossing a busy street. Then, the next minute, you heard a smooth woosh and the world turned up-side down for a moment. You closed your eyes as the cold breeze hit your face violently, brought tears, and when you opened your eyelids again - somehow, you don't know how - you found wide-eyed Shelby in your arms, safe and secure.

It took another minute before you registered she was not the only one being held. You were in someone's arms too, far away from the dangerous scene and you blinked, drawing Shelby closer to your chest. Then you realized, with a kind of weird relief, that you were face to face with the same guy - one of them, anyway - you thought you'd seen around.

You remember thinking, fucking hell, a mutant and well, that's when it all started to make sense. Please, even a kid could've done that equation.

You were dropped on your feet rather softly and you in turn set your child on the ground, behind your back. Then you made your move.

After doing the unthinkable; slapping your tattooed savior instead of thanking him for saving your life - and your daughter's --, you demand some answers and he gives them, though not that cheerfully.

He told you, you might wanna take this to the boss and you frowned, asking out loud what the hell would Magneto want from you?

A smile spread on his face and he chuckled, shaking his head as if you'd just come up with the joke of the day and it annoyed you. Lady, he started, still chuckling, aren't you forgetting something?

With hands behind your back, holding Shelby in place, you're about say, what, what do you mean, but you don't get that far. Because you did forget something. Oh, right, you said, right.

How the hell did you forget that? Maybe because he, Magneto, is about the last person on Earth you like to think about... but you, like everyone else, do know he isn't the boss anymore.

You didn't know who was, but for what it's worth, you did -and do- have a one good guess.

Finally, for the first time you can think of, John gives in right in front of you. First you hear a deep, annoyed sigh, which makes you focus your stare again and then you hear it, the actual question.

"You do realise," he drawls with a cynical face, leaning back against the soft looking armchair, "you've stood there for 20 minutes without saying anything, right?"

Yeah, you do realise that, though you're thinking no one could blame you if you didn't. Anyone would still be a little shocked and dumbfounded. Because yeah, you - like any other person who's known him for as long as you have - are finding it really damn hard to believe that John Allerdyce has an office. A real office, the kind that isn't hidden in the woods, built underground, but is located in an actual skyscraper in the middle of San Francisco. And the fact it's as neat and official as this one, well, that's just another surprise to add to the fast growing pile of unexpected.

"Yes," you answer, trying to keep your tone as cold as possible though you're trembling inside. From anger, from fear, from everything. You're not gonna let him do this. He, you think, can go to hell and stay there for the rest of his pathetic days.

"Well," he barks back, "fucking stop it. I have things to do."

He's got the office of a businessman, you give him that, but the attitude is still that of a spoiled brat. Some things don't change and though you probably should be glad, you're not. Maybe because you'd kind of wished this one would.

"You fucking stop it," you return with a snap and take a dangerous step closer, "you had absolutely no right to send those damn gorillas after me!"

The bored look disappears and as always, the smug smirk returns to its throne. "They weren't after you, Roguey," he points out and you can't help but imagine grabbing the nearest thing - oh, look, a phone - and slapping him around with it, "They were just keeping an eye on the kid."

All you have to do is remain calm. Stay cool. Ignore his baits, state your business. Professional, unaffected.

Still, you tell him, "the kid's name is Shelby", because you hate the fact he refuses to call her by her given name. It's always that girl or the kid or something else as impersonal as that. You figure the main reason he's lowering her to the status of a thing is just to annoy you and you shouldn't let it bother yourself. However, like most things in life, it's easier said than done.

"Only 'cause of you," he shrugs and you fucking hate it how you're tempted to defend yourself. And, what's worse, to ask - ask what name he would've preferred if you'd given him a choice. It shouldn't matter to you now. Not when it didn't even matter then.

The fact that that for sure was your own fault, you coldly ignore.

"Whatever, John," you force out tonelessly, exhale and keep going because you're half sure a pause would break your float and the train of thought, "Anyway. Believe it or not, we don't need you. I've taken care of her for quite a few years here in case you didn't get that and I think I've done fine so thank you, but no thank you. We don't need your men ogling us, okay?" There, it's almost said, good.

"Just..." you lick your bottom lip pensively while trying to decide how to put it, "just leave us alone." Please. It almost slips out, but you manage to bite your tongue in time. Thank the higher powers.

Your silent 'thank you's are forgotten when you sense a slight change in his stare though he doesn't even move. But you feel it anyway - there's something overtly challenging about the way he's looking at you, isn't there? "If I thought that, I wouldn't have sent them, you know," he says and you hold your breath, hoping he's not gonna go where you think he is, "You think you can take care of her, but really, you've just been lucky, that's all."

You want to scream at him, tell him to shut his fucking cakehole all the while you contemplate - again - on grabbing the phone, but his icy tone keeps you frozen.

You almost feel guilty and it hurts. Because he's wrong and you damn well know it.

"I've seen how you are with her," he continues, ignoring but most certainly enjoying the pained expression on your face, "You let her run around in the park with some kids she's never met before. You take your book and you read," he spits the words out through half gritted teeth, making you think of a hissing snake.

He is furious at you. That fucking prick! What right does he have to judge you?

And why the fuck is the guilt in the pit of your stomach only expanding? There should be no guilt at all, damnit!

"You fucking read, Rogue," he stresses, "and while you get lost in that fantasy world of yours where everything is so perfect and shiny, anyone could come up and grab her."

For a moment you simply gape at him, astonished. The nerve of this asshole!

You must really have offended him somehow when he was still at the school because you don't think he'd have gone this far if you hadn't. All this to hurt you? He seduced you - it was him, naturally, because you were drunk and out of it and he used you. And as if that wasn't painful enough, when he finally did find out about her, he ran away.

What the hell is driving him forward, you wonder. Was he trying to get back at Bobby through you? Was he trying to hurt him or you?

Maybe you should've told him to go after Jubilee. Since she's Bobby's wife and all. Would've saved you from hell... only, the down side is, you wouldn't have her.

So really, it's kind of hard to regret.

"Oh," you snort tossing your hair over your shoulder and let out an arrogant laugh, "so now you care about us?"

The smile on his face, you swear it goes from evil to satanic under a nanosecond. "No," he replies, shaking his head with the kind of smile you'd gladly punch in, "I take care of me and mine."

Ah, of course, to him there's a difference.

"She's mine," he finishes. Yep, there's the implication you expected to hear. You get what he's saying, you do. He might have slept with you once, but it doesn't change the way he sees you now. In his eyes you're still the vermin you turned into the day you decided to give up on your most precious gift and he, then again, is the king of the world.

Perhaps he really is the new leader of the Brotherhood, you don't know. It would certainly explain his forever-growing ego.

"I wouldn't have bothered if you could actually handle her," John says, snapping you out of it again and the funniest thing is he actually sounds like he'd have a clue, which he doesn't, "It's not my fault you suck as a mother."

Right. You were supposed to stay calm, yes, and cool and unaffected. Yes, you were indeed supposed to ignore his baits all together and let him have his insults.

Of course, reality - that bitch - has the habit of stepping in the way of your plans. Because somehow that simple sentence of his, said with the kind of loathing and condescension you can not take, it's the last straw.

Whereas a moment ago you were only fantasizing about smashing the fancy table phone against its owner's nose, now you actually act on it.

You grab the phone on his desk without thinking it further and send it flying to his direction... but you aren't fast enough or then he simply saw it coming. He manages to lean to one side, efficiently getting out of the target line and the phone hits the wall behind him.

He smirks at you with laughing eyes and stands up - and all you can think of is, what else to throw, what else to throw, what else to throw, but because you don't dare to glance around, you come up with no answer.

If you didn't have your keys in your purse with all the other important belongings, you'd consider giving it a try. Whatever, you don't have it on you anyway - it's lying on the chair next to you and being the cocky son of a bitch he is, he'd figure your plan out if you bent down to pick it. So, there goes that one.

You expect him to throw a tantrum, jump you, slap you, whatever. You do not, however, expect John to walk around the desk all calm and smirking as if you hadn't just tried to assault him. Well, he's most likely gotten used to the violent kind of reactions anyway, so.

But even then, this seems wrong somehow, surreal and so unlike him. That is probably why you're still expecting him to grab you and as much as you'd want to take a step back now, run and flee to Mexico with Shelby and never come back, you don't move an inch. You swallow, hard, breathe, and blink a few times, yeah, but that's about it.

Apparently some things do change and you ain't complaining - a slap on the face really wasn't in your agenda for today anyway. Well, not on your face.

He's leaning against his desk now, way too close to you because his leg is brushing against yours. He's doing it on purpose, trying to shake you up.

The cocky smirk has morphed into one damn alluring smile and you have the weirdest - yuckiest feeling of a déjà vu. The memory flashes in front of your eyes and you almost grunt out loud. Yeah, you've seen that smile, alright.

"You don't like it," he speaks then, so softly that first you have no idea what he means by it, "I know that, but hey, truth hurts."

Then you, well, snap. That's all there is to it. You snap.

You don't even feel the movement, but all the sudden you're there, in his face, hitting and punching, clawing and screaming and pushing him backwards. He grabs your arms, trying to keep his balance and get you off, but you're too high on adrenaline and rage.

What you're trying to accomplish with that little stunt, you don't know and don't really care either. All you do know is that the fucking smirk glued to his lips has to come off even if you have to beat it out of him.

Which is quite accurately describing the scene between you two.

You manage to nail him in the nose with a strong punch of some kind and enjoy hearing his sudden inhalation and the snarl of pain. He doesn't shriek, of course not, but the snarl works for you quite nicely too, so you don't complain. Your fingernails leave a scratch on his cheek and you hit him so hard in the chest, or somewhere near, that your fingers actually hurt afterwards.

It's over way too quickly, though, when he recovers from the shock and is finally capable of pushing you away. Only, he doesn't push. He pulls.

And then, all the sudden, you're the one breathing in sharply, the one on the table and he's pinning your arms down, face hovering dangerously above yours. You'd kick him, or knee him, one way or another, if he didn't have your legs captured against the desk in rather suspicious position.

Not good.

"You're fucking unstable, too," he growls, hot breath brushing your face, tingling, and you can't believe how familiar he smells - or the fact your stomach tightens. Maybe, you put together, you should get laid more often or something because hell, this is kind of ridiculous.

"Go tell that to a judge, fucker," you cry out, shielding your thoughts from him by attempting to push him off with all your might and every inch of your body. To your misfortunate, the damn mutant stands his ground like you were nothing but a little bug trying to roll over a stone - and the smirk doesn't fade away, either. Assholes, you decide, both of them! The boy (not a man; never a man) and the damned smile.

He doesn't say anything back, not at first and it puzzles you a little. The way he's only observing your face with a tilted head and then, believe or not, he actually frowns. You enjoy seeing how his eyes darken with nearly unnoticeable surprise. Usually you never know what's going on inside his head, but this time you notice it. He's just as puzzled as you are.

And you love it.

"You're not afraid," he states bluntly, taking you off guard because you didn't expect him to say that and then, out of blue you're flying across the air and onto the floor. Only, before you hit the hard floor, you smack against one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Then, and only then, you fall painfully on your knees and shriek like a little girl. Shit.

It hurts - a lot - but you try and rise above and beyond, try to ignore every trace of the pain because that is the only thing you can think of to lessen his victory.

"What a way to let a girl go, John," you sigh tiredly, brushing the hair off your face and use the armchair behind you to prop yourself up as if nothing happened. Guess it's a theme today between you two. He's settled against the desk again and if his face didn't look like that, bloody nose and long red scratches on his other cheek, you wouldn't even believe what happened a moment ago.

But it did and hey, the smirk is finally gone. If you were Hermione Granger, you'd totally deserve 50 house points right about now for your courage or something. Take that, slytherin.

And with that thought it actually occurs to you. He was right - you aren't afraid.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, this crap and bullshit he's making you go through, you stopped fearing him. How'd that happen?

"What is your freakin' problem?" John questions, seemingly irate and holy shit - you can't believe he's even asking that. How in the world does he not get it? That was a rhetorical question, right?

"And here I thought I was making it very damn clear," you answer anyway, with as much sarcasm and venom as you can stick into it, "You, John, you are my freakin' problem."

Still no sign of that annoying smirk and for a brief second you pat yourself on the back, savoring the moment. After that's done, you get over it. It might be his face that makes you forget to be proud because he looks... weird.

Then his mouth opens and you can see his lips moving, but the words simply do not register.

I was just making sure she's safe.

Maybe his words don't want to register because somehow, they sound sincere and that can't be. Frankly, he even looks sincere and that definitely cannot be.

You refuse to believe he'd actually care - obviously it's nothing but another way to get under your skin.

Because, "No, actually," you protest with a sour glare, "you were just making sure she's safe because apparently, I'm such a horrible mother I can't take care of my own child."

His eyebrows quirk in poorly hidden amusement, and there, in the corner of his mouth, there it is again - the damn smirk, lurking as he speaks, "Is there a point there somewhere?"

"Stay away from us," you state without hesitations. That's all.

But apparently he's decided to make it as difficult for you as possible. What does he want? You to beg? And you know, you would do that - beg - if you knew it'd get him off your back. But honestly, what are the odds of that happening? Like ever?

"No," he puts back, once again shaking his head and its cap of blond curls. "The way I see it, we've got two options."

Two? Well, that could almost be called something like progress because it sure as hell is one more option than you would've guessed... You would've thought there's only one option - his and his only.

"I kill you or you kill me?" you quip defiantly and draw a smirk from him. Only this one isn't a smirk, really, but something that could almost be described as a genuine smile and it sends shivers through-out your whole body.

Pathetic, much?

"Tempting," John chuckles, once, before continuing and you hope to God he doesn't know what's going on inside you - physically, that is, "But no. Either I take her or you accept my help."

That's when you come to the conclusion that maybe, perhaps, you should've waited with the phone assault. Because this moment, right here, this is when you should've clawed his eyes out. And considering the rage building up inside, you could've even won this time.

But you don't do anything, because you recognize a threat when you hear it and that most certainly was a threat, not a promise, and suddenly you're a little scared again.

Not that you'd let him see that. "No way in hell, John," you return making it sound like it's a done deal already - like he'd have no say on it, at all. It makes you feel better, a little, though you know better than that. You're both probably thinking the same thing anyway.

He could and he would and that's that. Unless you take him up and play this stupid game of his. You don't know what it's about, not really, or what's at stake here, but you know it's nothing but a little mind game to him.

"Then we have a conflict," he points out, sucking his bottom lip and you try not to focus on that, "and I don't like 'em that much."

Yeah, well, you don't like stray cats either, but somehow they always find their way into your little cozy backyard and into Shelby's sand box. Tough shit, lover.

"Boo hoo," you drawl, irritated. Maybe it's the delicate combination of rage and frustration that's making you act and sound so bold, you don't know, don't care, but you do love the way it makes you feel. Stronger.

It also makes you want to ask - though you're smart enough not to actually say it aloud - if this is going anywhere or really, are you gonna be forced to spend an eternity in his office exchanging insults because if yes, then he's gonna be the one paying for the babysitter.

Hell, it actually isn't such a bad idea and you make a mental note to work on it. After all, cash doesn't grow on trees and you're all too familiar with that fact. At least not on the trees you've seen around.

You find it refreshing that he's tense again - it means he isn't enjoying himself anymore and you take comfort in knowing that. Plus, the smirk's gone into hiding somewhere for which you're also pretty damn grateful.

So grateful that it actually makes you smile. Widely. For the first time during this conversation, argument, battle of wills, whatever, you smile without having to fake it. No, you smirk. Like he'd smirk if it was him cornering you and he notices it right away. It takes one to know one.

"Don't fuck with me, Roguey," he snarls, trying to turn the tables on you, but you're too far away now and he can't reach you.

15 minutes ago you would've taken that comment of his badly. Now you're simply laughing inside. No pun intended, John?

Now you get it; why others' desperation is always so funny to him.

"You should've said that 6 years ago," you say sweetly, a smile on your lips through the whole sentence and you think you're high, "you little piece of shit."

His anger has faded away too and there's only amusement left. "Nice one," he laughs and weirdly, you agree with him. That's a first, you note, but it's not like you can deny it - you are getting the hang of this, though why he doesn't seem bothered by it, that you don't get...

"Fine," you sigh with a shrug - and a plan, "Okay, have it your way. If you want to protect her, then do it," you tell him with mocking tone, "By all means, protect her."

He looks pensive, as if he wasn't quite sure whether you mean it or not and he's not exactly alone with that thought. You don't know either, it just sort of came out on its own and now you're gonna have to stand behind it.

All you know is that you want to mean it and that settles it.

"But I swear to God, John," you go on, "if you don't send guys that actually blend in instead of giving my daughter nightmares, I'll come back with Wolverine and have him dice you like the meat you are."

To that he snorts and rolls his eyes much like you expected him to. Well, you had to say something and you imagine threatening him with your right hook wouldn't have done the trick. The one you picked didn't either, but you had to choose from two evils.

"Right," he rivals cynically, crossing his arms onto his chest, "'cause we all know how fucking scared I am of dear Wolvie."

Maybe not, but, "You should be." You even mean it. A little.

You guess you're tiring him out because without any warning at all, he suddenly sighs and rubs his face - it strikes you odd, the way he's letting his guard down, but you let it go.

"Okay, enough," he says then, arms going back to the folded posture while his gaze finds yours. You stay silent but only because he's got this odd look in his eyes and suddenly you're a little confused again.

"So you accept my help?" He asks and you're almost too tempted to throw it back at his face. His normal tone, that is, not the actual offer - because he's Pyro for fuck's sake and now it seems to you as if he was asking your permission instead of telling how it'll be. Call you crazy but somehow it doesn't fit the profile and you'd have so much fun pointing it out to him.

But you let that one go, too. "Help?" You repeat his word, tasting it and deciding it doesn't quite taste right, "If you can call it that, then yeah, fine, I accept it."

John stares at you with an openly contemplative look on his face, one eyebrow quirked up into an unvoiced question.

You choose to ignore the question, whatever it is, and tell him, "I'll take your stupid gorillas and, in addition, I'll take your money."

That earns you an actual reaction - a question spoken aloud. "You'll take my money?" He says and though you know it's supposed to be a question, at least you think so, it doesn't really sound like one. It feels more like he'd already known what you were gonna say and been completely fine with that. You frown, but only inside.

"Well," you begin though you have no idea how to put it, "the Brotherhood seems to be doing well. I have no fucking clue how or why or if this thing you're doing here is even legal or if it's you who's doing it, but you know, I don't care."

In the end your safest bet is to go with the truth and that's what you do.

"I have a kid to feed and rent to pay and if you're insisting on helping, then do it properly."

He only nods, saying, "fine," and behind the facade you're more than a little surprised.

"Okay," you clear your throat, once again wiping the hair off your cheek because you have to do something and that's the only thing you can do without acting suspicious, "So we're good now."

No, you'll never be good, things can never be good with you two, but it's simply an expression.

He smiles, but it's not the genuine, almost warm smile you received earlier, but kind of ice cold and sneering. "Not really," he says, "but we'll get there. I'll make the arrangements."

There's a whole lot of things you never thought you'd hear him say and now you realise I'll make the arrangements falls within that category perfectly because it feels like it was someone else saying the words. That sounded too official to come out of his mouth. Too mature.

Now it's time to end this. You won your battle and you don't want to face another one right away.

So you say, "you do that," and grab your purse just to underline the fact you indeed are done with this thing. "Now, excuse me, I promised the babysitter I'd be home soon."

He rotates his shoulders - to ease the tensed muscles, no doubt and says, "Oh, about that-"

And as scary as it is, he doesn't have to finish the sentence because you're way ahead of him, "Of course you do," you interrupt him with completely conversational and normal tone, but neither of you seem too surprised by it, "Yes, I know, you want her to have a decent babysitter. A mutant in other words."

"Yep," he says, a victorious grin on his lips.

You, on the other hand, are way too past that and only later you start to question it - the way his smile deepens even further when you tell him, "Whatever. Find her one, then. Go ahead and invade our life, see if I care. As long as you don't show your face to her - unless you intend to make it a habit."

And all that you say with that normal tone of yours. Almost as if this freak show taking place could even be compared to a real conversation.

"Don't worry," he tells you (funny how it doesn't stop you from worrying) playfully, "I don't."

"Good." Now you adjust the purse's position on your side and on your shoulder and say with a tired smile, "Goodbye John, have a fantastic life ruining mine."

You don't wait for the reply you know you'll get, but turn around instead and start walking towards the door - just for effect.

No, of course he can't let you walk away with the last word and when your fingers wrap around the handle and you open the door, that's when you hear him mutter, "Oh, count on that one - see you around, Roguey."

You choose to ignore it and only slam the door shut behind you.

Whatever, Pyro.

FIC RANTS - yay/nay?

2007-09-11T21:22:51Z

Here's the deal. From now on, I'm gonna start writing my fic rants into this journal (well, whenever I'm in the mood anyways) but because I'm nice and all that crap, I'm giving you a choice; I guess not all of you are interested in my pointless fic rants, so.

If you want to be added to the friends group allowed to read these fic rants (both original and fan fic), please, please comment here and say so. In that case I'll friend you (if I haven't already) and add you to the FIC RANT group, yay!

Then again, if you rather stay out of the loop then ignore this entry all together and go on with your little life, okay? ^^;

Oh and, in general my fic rants (other than being very random and possibly rare because I'm lazy) simply mean my insane monologues where I tell about my future plans or how I'm doing with a fic I'm trying to write. Of course, there's a chance I'll be flooding your friends page with those and if you want me to take you off the list, all you have to do is let me know.

Ranting, well, it's just one way for me to break down my writer's block when one cruelly slaps me in the face. I like to talk about my characters and ideas with others, big deal, who doesn't? *snort*

Anyway, let me know :)

ICONS: the sarah connor chronicles (pilot) {batch 1}

2007-09-08T21:07:17Z

If it wasn't for lilhobbit, I would've never made these. Thank her for the caps.

And yes, I intend to make more... can't leave it halfway, now can I?

TEASERS

001 002 003
004 005 006
007 008 009
010 011 012
013 014 015
016 017 018
019 020 021
022 023 024
025 026 027
028 029 030
031 032 033
034 035 036
037 038 039
040 041 042
043 044 045
046 047 048
049 050 051
052 053 054
055 056 057
058 059 060
061 062 063

// Credits located in my resources post.
// Yksi ... comment and tell me what you took, ok?
// Kaksi ... which brings us to rule number two. CREDIT charming_syrai, because stealing is rude, so you know.
// Kolme ... as long as you credit me, I don't care whether you use the the icons in GJ or LJ or whatever. Whatever floats your boat.
// Neljä ... no editing and NO hotlinking.
// Viisi ... to stay up to date, feel free to friend my journal (just check the info first). Nominations make my day ;)

ICONS: X2

2007-09-04T21:11:52Z

HERE

FAN FIC: X-Men: Not done yet

2007-08-26T12:21:37Z

TITLE: Not Done Yet
FANDOM: X-Men

{post X3}

RATING: PG-13 (just to be on the safe side...)
WORD COUNT: about 2475
WARNINGS: I'm getting better at behaving nicely.

{not the usual}

PAIRING: Rogue/Pyro
SUMMARY: "No," you say and take a step closer to him, hands on your hips, "you don't break into my house and tell me to shut up."

{for 50scenes}

PROMPT: 020 writer's choice
TABLE: HERE

{sequel to the question}

A/N: NOT PART OF EPSILON SERIES.

I'm still suffering from some sort of writer's block and this is the best I could do. I'm not quite satisfied, but it could be worse, I guess.

In case you're wondering, infiticus is the weirdo who tried to fix my grammar (but I'm stubborn and sometimes end up ignoring her advice... booyah!). Thaaank youuuu, hon, for trying ^^;

DISCLAIMER: Dude, as if.

NOT DONE YET

It's Friday night, around 10pm and to think of it, a week since that dreadful conversation you shared with your daughter about her father. Or her lack of one. A week since you kissed your daughter on the cheek, gave her a hug and told her to get in Bobby's car and read her new book... after which you punched Bobby in the chest and told him what a fucking moron he is. You're pretty sure you garnished the accusation with a few repeats of "You're a dead man, Drake" but that's beside the point.

Bobby of course had no idea why you suddenly went mental on him and because of that, he simply stood there with mouth hanging open and stared at you in confusion.

After a few minutes you were able to calm down and you told him if he ever again talked about John the way he had with Shelby in the house you'd castrate him and make Jubilee a widow. That was the moment he finally realized what was going on and tried to tell you he'd had no idea Shelby had been listening to the conversation and that he'd been so mad he hadn't been able to think straight.

"Whatever," you said, "just don't do it again, okay? I don't care what you say about him, really I don't, but never again with her in the same house, get that?"

And he did... because really, you don't need your power to scare a guy. Being a protective mother works just fine on that department.

But it's all behind you now and Shelby seems to be fine... Though you wonder. She hasn't mentioned him all week, not even once and you're not sure whether that's a good sign or not. You, of all people know what a few strong, bottled up emotions can do to a person and that's the last thing you want for your kid.

Her breathing is even and you know she's asleep. Has been for about 15 minutes already, but you haven't had the strength or the will to remove her from your side. You're leaning against the headboard, right arm around your child, supporting her small frame and petting her hair while the other one is still holding the book you were reading to her.

You glance down and smile to yourself. It's the first Harry Potter book in your hand. Well, you figured magic was the best way to explain her new power to her... at least for now.

She knows about the mutants, of course she does though she doesn't really understand what it's all about - or that she really is one of them despite the fact you have tried to explain it thousands of times.

But yes, she knows that mutants do exist... the whole concept of Mutant Registration Law has been on the news ever since Liberty Island and it seems there's no end to it - never will be. There are always gonna be those in favor of it, those who'd rather stone to death everyone with special abilities and that's the one reason why you always feel distressed when Shelby isn't home with you. When she isn't safe.

She's safe now and that's all you care about. The arm around her is going numb but you don't care. You only lean closer and kiss the top of her head before placing the book on the nightstand and clicking off the lights.

Then you close your eyes.

It's a presence that wakes you up. A feeling of danger approaching increasing your heartbeat, making you shiver even through the sleep and your eyes snap open when the message reaches your mind.

You notice the figure in the doorway right away, leaning against the frame with folded arms, staring.

The room is dark, but the lit hallway behind his back casts a shadow on the floor in front of you. You can't make out his face but then again, his identity is about the last thing on your mind right now. Instead, you're trying to figure out if you can move fast enough and kill the guy with Harry Potter.

"I just wanted to see her," a familiar voice speaks and your mind goes blank immediately.

It takes a minute before you accept the fact it is not a dream.

"John?" You breathe out, puzzled. What is he doing here? How did he get inside? Hell, it's Pyro you remind yourself, he can do anything.

"You owe me that much," he continues and the shock of hearing his voice makes you tremble. He's here. He really is here.

After what seems like an eternity you finally force yourself to move. Slowly, careful not to wake Shelby up, you lay her on the bed and get up.

You still can't see his face, but you're sure you're in for a fight... not that you didn't deserve it. It's just not something you'd like to admit to him.

You swallow, breathe in and start walking hoping your knees won't collapse. He doesn't move from the doorway, but turns sideways to give you enough room to walk past him.

Which is exactly what you do.

You step into the hallway, back facing him and try to search for something to say. Anything to change the direction the situation is heading in. But nothing comes to mind.

You can't even turn around, can't face him. Which one would actually hurt more? The anger or the indifference? You don't know... so you only listen how he rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration before softly pulling the door closed.

It's a gesture that squeezes your heart.

"She's grown up," he says and something flickering in his voice makes you turn around.

He looks different. The hair is still blonde, he doesn't look much taller, perhaps a bit more muscular, but still, you sense something is different. You guess it's because he's older too.

"It's been three years since you saw her, John," you respond, examining his features, "Kids tend to do that."

His eyes harden as he raises his chin. A sign of discontent - that much you know of him.

"Don't use that voice on me, Roguey." You weren't aware you had, but more than that, it's the way he said your nickname that surprises you. Roguey. He's the only one who ever calls you that. And the only one you let.

"I'll use whatever voice I want," you retort, ignoring the fact you hadn't used a tone to begin with. It doesn't matter if you did.

But then, you're caught off guard when he grabs your arm and you're dragged towards the stairs.

"Hey!" You resist out of principle, trying to struggle free, "get off!"

He doesn't look at you when he speaks, simply forces you down the stairs and towards your living room. "No, I'm not gonna fight with you outside her door," he says and the words melt away your resistance.

You let him guide you to the living room, but still you can't help but mutter, "As if you care."

His fingers leave your arm rather violently as he pushes you away, forcing you to grab the arm of the sofa to keep your balance. "Shut up," he tells you, eyes glaring and you're strangely happy you don't have the fireplace lit.

Your body straightens up on its own. "No," you say and take a step closer to him, hands on your hips, "you don't get to break into my house and tell me to shut up."

He sighs and this time when he speaks, he sounds less angry. "I just wanted to see her." Sad, almost. Drained.

And for a moment all you want is to take another step and reach for him.

But you don't, because whatever he is now, it's not your problem. It never has been. One drunken night and a child doesn't change anything between you two. He's still the guy who left the school and joined the enemy. Still the guy who's hurt you and your friends, killed and murdered.

Just because you call him John in front of people doesn't change the fact he's still Pyro to you.

Does it?

"You could've rung the doorbell like normal people do," you say, ignoring the battle inside your head.

John, as always, gives you a cynical look and your skin starts to crawl the way it always has when his eyes are on you.

"It might've woken her up," he says rolling his shoulders, a wicked gleam appearing back in his eyes, "and besides, I'm not like normal people. You should know that."

Yeah, and you do know that. It's kind of hard to forget... especially when you're reminded of it every day one way or another. She takes after him more ways than one, is all.

"Fine," you return with a casual shrug of your own, trying to match his arrogance, "You saw her. Now go."

But to your big surprise he shakes his head, saying, "No."

It's a firm, decided no and you know you could argue, and you will, but it still confuses the crap out of you. You don't understand, you don't understand any of it. Why is he here, really?

Plus, you're getting angry. Every minute he stands there is another minute you're reminded of that day, of what happened.

"Why not?" You ask bitterly and you hate the fact you sound like a scorned ex, "That's what you did last time."

His eyes become cold and for a moment it looks as if he'll grab you all over again and throw you against the wall.

"Oh give me a break," he snaps, grabbing your wrist and pulling you close. "What did you expect?" It's more like a hiss than a question and you look up to his eyes, nervous. You could swear you see the flames there, hot and burning.

"It'd been three years since I last saw you, Marie," he speaks before you have time to say anything and his grip only tightens, "and then all of a sudden you're there in my face with Bobby and a fucking kid."

Indeed. And then? "You tried to kill Bobby."

His anger seems to pause momentarily and your arm is free. He's standing sideways again, not looking at you, but trying to cool down, get his emotions under control.

"Okay, yeah," he says then, giving you a sideways glance, "I overreacted. Big deal."

That he did, yes. Though you never quite understood why.

"You tried to kill Bobby… not only in front of a lot of people," you remind him with a sour tone in case he's forgotten just how much he did overreact, "but in front of my daughter."

My being the operative word and he catches that easily.

"Well," he says, the trademark smirk returning his lips, "I didn't know she was mine then. And she was asleep."

You guess you deserved that one and so you look away, ashamed... But if he thinks the fact Shelby was asleep during his little attack is in any way working for his advantage he's gone completely mad.

After a moment, you gather yourself and meet his eyes again. "But after I told you-"

"Yes," he cuts you off, cold eyes on you, "after you yelled at me to let go of Bobby or you'd fucking kill me - right after you told me she's actually mine not his, I turned around and left. I know what I did."

Okay, yeah, maybe you didn't handle the situation that nicely either. But come on, he was strangling Bobby for no obvious reason and you thought telling him about Shelby was the only way to shake him off. And it did work.

"Again, what the fuck did you expect me to do?" He demands, "You said you'd take care of it. You said you'd take care of it, Rogue."

He sure as hell doesn't look pleased and if anything, he only looks more furious when you tell him the truth.

"And I have!" you tell him angrily. Well, he can't deny that.

Unexpectedly John laughs, hands coming up to rub his face. "Un-fucking-believable," he snorts, "that's rich. Really."

Why the fuck is he standing there, laughing? Instantly you want nothing more but to wipe that damn smile from his lips. And you know just how to do it. "You said you wouldn't leave the Brotherhood for us."

The laughter stops and he turns to look at you again. Ah yes, emotional crap laid on his shoulders has always worked on him.

But surprisingly, John doesn't actually sound cold when he replies, just matter-of-fact. "There was no us."

Which, you have to admit, is true. You were drunk, miserable and then met him in a bar and well, that's the simple prologue to your fairytale. "No, there wasn't... but that's not the point. You said you wouldn't leave the Brotherhood."

He opens his arms in question, obviously not following. "So?"

"So?" You spit the word - he really can't be dumb enough to ask you that question, can he? "You're the bad guy, John," you tell him as if it wasn't the most obvious thing in the whole damn world, "Did you think you could be in the Brotherhood and play Dad at the same time?" Seriously, get real.

And well, "Would you even have wanted to?"

He looks suddenly softer, almost human. "Maybe not," he says and you're actually glad he's being honest with you. You've had your fair share of lies and deception. "But I had the right to know."

Yes, he did, you know that, but, "I can't change history." And you don't even know if you want to.

A moment goes by in weirdly peaceful silence, but when it gets too much for you to handle, you break it with a question to which you really don't want an answer. "What are you doing here, honestly?"

"I just wanted to see her, that's all," he says again and you feel something boil and bubble inside. Goddamnit, this isn't fair - you're so close to crying you can actually feel the hot tears behind your eyelids and you hate yourself for it. You have no reason to cry. You did the right thing. You protected your daughter from a monster. What else could you have done?

But you refuse to give him your tears, or the apology he's after and so you say a quiet prayer in your head and tell him, "Well now you have. Can you please go?"

"Yeah," he barks, startling you with both the word and the tone, "But don't think we're done here yet."

And when you finally hear the front door slam behind him, you fall down on the couch beside you and try to breathe.

50scenes - 002 (grave) - Romy/Trey

2007-08-11T09:31:57Z

Written for 50scenes
Title: THE FUNERAL SONG
Author: charming_syrai
Fandom: Anguish Series – original fiction
Pairing: Romy/Trey
Prompt: 002 grave
Word Count: about 1938
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: bad language?
Disclaimer: 100% mine.
Prompt Table HERE
Summary: If I talk first it means she wins, but I don't care. I want her out of here.

Author's Note: You might wanna read "Shades of Truth" or at least "Awakening" first but whatever, it's your call.

--- ♥ When I started writing this, the radio was on and it was playing THE FUNERAL SONG by Rasmus. I guess that explains the title, right?

THE FUNERAL SONG

The grass is wet, like it usually is in the mornings after a night of heavy rain, and partly because of that the air feels pretty moist to my skin... and my sneakers are soaking, dammit. Well, at least the wind hitting my face is refreshing... yeah, think happy thoughts. They make you fly and all that jazz.

I couldn't sleep last night; I kept seeing really weird, disturbing dreams where I had a wife, a house and a handful of kids that looked like little parrots, and so a little after 6am I finally gave up and decided to head to the office to hide from those images. There's always something to do there - if not work, then it's Parker. Of course, if she'd heard me say it like that, she'd slap me again. Or knee me. Yeah, wouldn't be a first.

Anyway. She's one of those freaks who actually show up at work at the break of dawn whereas I usually step over that threshold only when I absolutely have to. If even then. It's a damn shame, really, because I used to like my work, you know? Not so much anymore - only when it involves nothing but me, gun and a hunt, that's when it's candy.

But unlike usually, this time Parker wasn't in the office, nor in the sleeping quarters and absolutely no one knew when she'd be coming in. They all just shrugged and went their way, ignoring me like the important mad hatters that they are. Scientists. All the same.

Naturally I tried calling her cell because I'm not an imbecile, but I was greeted by the simple, Parker. Leave a message. And I grunted like a cave-man would, telling her to call me back the minute she gets the message. I might have used a few extra curse words to emphasize my point, fine, but other than that I kept it pretty short.

After hanging the phone and stuffing it into my back pocket, I stood there in the hallway for a short moment, thinking. In my head, I was rapidly going over her possible locations as well as worst case scenarios, when the realization suddenly hit me heavy and clear.

Crap.

After a deep, tired sigh, I checked the pager resting on my belt, turned it off and exited the building without explanations to anyone. I wasn't on duty anyway so why bother.

And so, here I am, sitting on a cold grave stone, watching her in silence. I don't know if she's noticed me yet, but I don't think so - she hasn't looked back, but she might have sensed my presence anyway. Though, I figure if she had noticed, she wouldn't be kneeling on her mother's grave, talking to the dead as if she could hear.

Of course, what she doesn't know is that her mother actually isn't in that grave so even if the dead could hear, she'd be wasting all that muttering anyway. I trusted her to catch the tail of it sooner or later, but so far she hasn't and I'm starting to doubt if she ever will. I didn't think she'd be naive enough to think the Centre would actually let a study subject rot in the ground just because it happened to be the mother of one of their agents - not a snowball's chance in hell, my dear. It's an empty coffin there, I know that and I burn with the desire to let her know, too.

I haven't witnessed the scene in front of my eyes before, but I do remember Raven telling me about it.

That's right - it's been three years since Parker killed her mother and on the said date, every year, he's find her here, on her mother's supposed grave, staring into the distance. Completely shut down.

Maybe she's sorry for what she did, I don't know, but my God I wished she'd have more sense in her brainy little head. Even Raven was suspicious and hesitant when the Centre arranged the witch's funeral, but no, not my Parker.

I mean, honestly, what is she thinking? Did she think she'd get away with this? That it wouldn't matter?

Dude, you can't visit the dead witch's grave and still be considered loyal to the Centre.

Then again, she's never been labeled as trustworthy when it comes to Centre, now has she? No, but that's not the point - the point is that she doesn't know it.

Wake up, girl. Please.

She shows no signs of stopping any time soon and a brief glance at my watch tells me I've waited long enough for this scene to end. I cock my head, take a deep breathe, exhale and roll my shoulders. Okay. All done now - here we go.

"Parker," the unexpected sound of my dark voice startles her and she twists to look over her shoulder. "We should go," I say, "It's gonna rain soon anyway."

She blinks, staring at me with a frown, as if I'd done something wrong. As if I wasn't supposed to be there, with her. Which, to think of it, is the only place where I actually do seem to want to be and that's fucked up. That's not normal.

Mom would kill me if she knew.

"Where's Raven?"

Oh well, there's a question I didn't see coming. At least not with that blunt tone. What, I get no credit? Not even though I came here, sat there for 15 minutes instead of grabbing her by the arm and dragging her off like I wanted to? Gee, thanks.

"It's his day off, remember?" I try to sound patient, though at the moment it's one of those feelings I have no room for, "Guess he's with Jenny."

"Oh," she lets out, eyes falling on the ground. She's disappointed, I can tell and I hate how it annoys me. So what if she wanted him to find her, what do I care?

And, shit, why the hell am I annoyed by the fact it wasn't Raven? He's supposed to be her best friend and he sure as hell knew what day it is - shouldn't he be here? For her?

Not that I'd like it when he enters my territory... but it's the matter of fucking principle, okay?

I really should get my head checked, I reckon, 'cause the storm going inside my head is eating me alive... it doesn't help that the next few minutes go by in silence giving me more and more time to think. With her still kneeling on the wet ground, sad eyes cast down, and with me glued to the grave stone looking at her, taking in her pain, we probably look like something straight out of Nora Roberts novel. Big fucking yay.

If I talk first it means she wins, but I don't care. I want her out of here.

"Parker?" I call for her, trying to snap her out of it - and myself, "I mean it. We should go."

When she doesn't reply, I sigh and force my body to stand up slowly when in reality, I'm fighting the urge to jump and charge. She doesn't seem to notice my approach and only when I grab her arms and pull her standing, her eyes find mine again. The look in her eyes, it makes me think of a cornered reindeer - the one being harassed by the big bad wolf.

Oh, so now she's scared of me? Great. Really great.

"I-" she starts hesitantly, but I don't want to hear it - so I cut her off, boldly. "I don't care," I say, because really, I don't, "You get that? I don't care. We're gonna go, now."

But that is when she decides to put her feet down, so to speak, and without a warning she tries to pull away from my grip. Of course, just because I didn't expect it, doesn't mean I can't counter it.

My grip stays and if anything, my fingers only dig deeper into her flesh. Still, she keeps struggling.

"Get the fuck away from me!" She hisses, trying to push me away, and I'm thinking something's not right. This is definitely not Romy Hensley being shut down.

Was Raven having me on, huh?

Then, as if to echo my thoughts, she goes and tries to kick me, efficiently connecting with the side of my shin, by the way, and I curse under my breathe. Fucking hell, woman.

"Calm the fuck down," I tell and I don't know whether it's my glare or the used tone, but she stops fighting. Her hands fall to her sides, idle and she draws in a breath. Okay, good, now we're getting somewhere... although if she did try something now, it wouldn't surprise me one bit. So I stay on guard, obviously.

She's not looking at me and so I have to bend my neck to bring my eyes to her level. She, of course, turns her head to the side the minute my gaze connects with hers.

Normally I'd grab her chin and force her to look at me, force her to face the problem, but right now I'm feeling humane. "I'm gonna take you home now, okay?" I say as softly as possible and slightly loosen my grip on her arms to make it known I'm not angry. Well, to pretend I'm not, that is.

Apparently something I said hit a target, because suddenly she's looking up at me again with fierce, almost furious look. "And fuck me senseless, huh?" She bites, "That's your cure for everything, isn't it?"

Wow. I wonder if I'm supposed to know what caused that baiting remark... for now I'm gonna let it be, but I shall look into it later.

Frankly, I'm a little amused though she obviously meant to insult me. Or maybe that is exactly why I'm amused? So I tell her, "not in this case, no."

Parker snorts with a sneer, a sarcastic laugh sounding in the back of her throat, "Then what, you wanna talk?"

What, is she trying to piss me off?

"About this?" I shake my head, making a face. "No."

As if sensing how damn close I am to snapping her neck in two, Parker moves in my arms opening her own in attempt to push mine away and this time I let her. She doesn't take a step back and neither do I, so we both simply stand our ground and glare. But whereas hers is vicious and furious, mine is mocking.

"Then what the fuck do you want?" She demands and folds her arms in frustrated manner. The gesture says a lot - no doubt is she trying to build a mental wall between me and her, something to keep us apart.

I feel tempted to tell her it's not gonna work, that she can't shut me out. I know too much. You would've thought she'd gotten it by now, but apparently not.

"I just want to take you home," I practically whisper and the furious look on her face melts away. It doesn't lose the edge or the fire, but she doesn't look angry anymore. That's always a plus.

"Fine," she sighs then and starts moving all the sudden - I turn with one eyebrow raised as she passes me by and so does she. "But," she continues while walking backwards and with a half smile tugging her lips, "if you think I'm giving you a blowjob just because of this, you can forget it."

I chuckle, shaking my head.

Somehow I already knew it.

FAN FIC - X-Men: The Question

2007-08-03T21:42:23Z

TITLE: the QUESTION
FANDOM: X-Men

{post X3}

RATING: PG-13 (just to be on the safe side...)
WORD COUNT: about 1465
WARNINGS: I think I behaved quite nicely this time.

{not the usual}

PAIRING: Rogue/Pyro
SUMMARY: "Mom? Why did Dad leave?"

{for 50scenes}

PROMPT: 015 question
TABLE: HERE

{standalone}

A/N: NOT PART OF EPSILON SERIES.

I don't know what possessed me... I started writing, simply to get rid of my block and this is what you get. For ridiculously obvious reasons, IT IS Pyro/Rogue though you might want to argue about that. I don't care. I could, however, maybe write a sequel scene to this one if people want me to. If not, then no biggie.

Let's all bow to the hotness that is infiticus because she's the poor soul who this time betaread my fic.

AND: The previous fics written for 50scenes can be found HERE
DISCLAIMER: Dude, as if.

THE QUESTION

It starts with a simple question.

"Mom? Why did Dad leave?"

Yeah, it starts with a simple question, asked by your 6 year old daughter, who's sitting at the table with a bowl of strawberry ice cream placed in front of her. You on the other hand have bent down to empty the dishwasher, but when the soft words reach your ears, your hands still and you turn around to face her. She's looking at you packed with the kind of innocence only someone so young can possess and for a moment your mind hits pause - it's her eyes. They're exact copies of her father's in every sense of the phrase and sometimes, like now, it extracts a sigh from your parted lips.

Why did he leave? Funny. You've been wondering the same for the past 6 years.

Only, whereas she has no clue, you do.

"It's complicated, hon. Eat your ice cream," you say, trying to smile and turn back to your chore before she can detect the hint of sadness in your eyes. To your huge annoyance she's a master when it comes to picking up things like that - subtle hints, shelled emotions - and you know from experience she won't let go until her curiosity is satisfied and right now, you can't handle that. Truthfully, you can never handle it, unless she's curious about unicorns and flowers or nice stuff like that. When she's curious about babies and male anatomy, that's when you usually feel you're on thin ice and about to fall through.

It's complicated, all right. And it's ugly and stupid and definitely something you would rather keep buried in the past, hidden. She doesn't need to know. She's too young to know. She's too innocent to know.

But the truth is... it's not that. She's his daughter and that's the only reason she doesn't need to know.

How can you tell your daughter it was a mistake, but the kind you'd do all over again if you had to choose? How can you look you into those beautiful eyes and tell her that you know he left because he doesn't believe in the same things you do?

In fact, his ideal world would be the exact opposite of yours.

"Elise has a dad," she points out matter-of-factly while eating a spoonful.

Your hand shakes ever so slightly when you reach for the final plate, pull it out and place it on the shelf in line with your eyes and then, turn around. How can it be that something so small can find a way to drain your energy in only a matter of seconds? On second thought, look who's talking. Before the Cure you could do it too, couldn't you? For the millionth time you're grateful for the fact she didn't inherit your mutation... she got his.

You found out a few months ago when the curtains suddenly caught fire.

"Yeah, I know she does," you say, blinking, because that's the only thing you can say. You've always known this topic would be brought up eventually but you always thought she'd be older and that you could sit down with her and talk it through, woman to woman. It's not the time.

Then again, it never will be if you have your way. If there's any way you can protect her from the things he did then that's what you're gonna do. Fine, you're not stupid, you know that eventually she'll have to face your past and his. Eventually she'll suffer for the things you've done, but not yet.

"He hasn't left," she says then as stubbornly as always, and you bring your hand up to massage the side of your very tensed neck. You close your eyes for a second and sigh - again - and then, slowly force your eyes open.

What could you possibly say to that?

"Shelby, honestly, eat your ice cream," you repeat tiredly, leaning against the counter behind your back, "Bobby is gonna be here any minute now."

She makes a face, shoulders collapsing. Then, "Do I have to go?"

"Yes," you reply and this time the smile on your lips isn't forced. She loves spending time with Bobby and Jubilee and their kids whenever it's possible, but like a true little girl, this Friday she's decided to be difficult. You'd guess it's because she's not satisfied by your answers and she's punishing you.

Just like her father.

"He doesn't like Dad," Shelby continues, completely oblivious to the painful thoughts raging within your soul, "He hates Dad."

You snort. That's the understatement of the year, but again, not something she needs to know.

"No, that's not true," you lie - whoever said lying to your kids to protect them isn't smart was obviously someone with no children, "He doesn't hate Dad. They just never really got along," you explain and stop to think, "Kinda like you and that Jessie girl, you know? You're constantly getting into fights at school, which by the way, has to stop."

This time it's Shelby looking pensive. So pensive, in fact, that she ends up scratching an itch next to her nose with the spoon and leaving a trail of ice cream in its wake, but before you have time to mention it, she throws another question into the air - "Do I look like him?" she asks and your heart skips a beat while your fingers wrap around the counter's edge to keep you from faltering.

Oh gods. "Yes," you breathe in, "honey, you do." Breathe out. And again. If your voice actually worked right now, you'd tell her she's got his eyes and the hair color, and the damned attitude and the gift that always meant the most to him.

She tilts her head the way her father always did and narrows her eyes. One doesn't have to be a genius to know there's another question trying to find its way out of her head.

"Bobby was talking with Jubilee one day and he said that Dad's 'a stupid fuck'," she rambles on, completely innocent and you gasp for air, no words coming out.

"What does that mean?" She prompts at the same time as you finally manage to shriek, horrified, "Shelby!"

"Bobby said it first!" She hurries to her own defense, a discontent frown wrinkling her features and you make a mental note to bitchslap that stupid assface to hell and back.

"Yeah, well," you speak, but through gritted teeth - you might sound much calmer now, but it's not how you're feeling inside, "what have I told you about repeating that kind of stupid stuff?"

She rolls her eyes, knowing the answer, but refusing to voice it, "But what does it mean?"

What indeed... violence, pain, wrath. You gape, though obviously, it's not her fault your friends are idiots. "It means I'll kick his sorry little ass when he gets here," you hiss, "Now eat!"

Probably realizing the sudden change in your mood isn't a good sign, she gives with a shrug and returns to her ice cream.

There's a long pause, during which you simply stand there, gripping the counter and staring at your daughter, trying to will your strength back.

Finally the silence is broken, though, and you can almost guess the next question before it slips through the pink lips.

"Mom?" She whispers, glancing up and your heart breaks, "Does he know about me?"

It starts with a simple question. You can see him in front of you, fingers raking through the blond curls and hear his words in your ears as loudly as he was there, next to you.

So, you're telling me, he snorts inside your head, that just because I fucked you - once - you're knocked up?

And you can hear yourself saying, well, yeah, haven't you read the books? It only takes one time.

Then it's his voice again, angry and frustrated, there's no way out of this. I'm not leaving the Brotherhood for... and I'm guessing-

Your voice, sharp and cold, no. I'm not leaving my people. Not for a one night stand that never meant anything.

A moment later you hear him clear his throat, stating rather than asking, so you're getting rid of it.

Don't worry, John, your voice bites, I'll take care of it.

And you did. You took care of it. Been taking care of it for 6 beautiful years and you wouldn't trade it for the world.

Stupid fuck, indeed.

It takes some time to swallow the heavy lump inside your throat and gather up enough courage to look at her without giving away the pain you're feeling.

"No, honey, he doesn't," you lie, because sometimes a lie is the only thing you can say.

ICONS: Grey's Anatomy

2007-07-29T15:12:38Z

Back again with some GREY'S ANATOMY icons. Yeah, because it's not called an obsession for nothing, people.

Btw, if you guys have any specific wishes on what episodes and moments to iconize, drop the suggestions into THIS entry and I'll look into it - thankies ^^;

On we go.

TEASERS

046 047 048
049 050 051
052 053 054
055 056 057
058 059 060
061 062 063
064 065 066
067 068 069
070 071 072
073 074 075
076 077 078
079 080

// Credits located in my resources post.
// Yksi ... comment and tell me what you took, ok?
// Kaksi ... which brings us to rule number two. CREDIT charming_syrai, because stealing is rude, so you know.
// Kolme ... as long as you credit me, I don't care whether you use the the icons in GJ or LJ or whatever. Whatever floats your boat.
// Neljä ... no editing and NO hotlinking.
// Viisi ... to stay up to date, friend my journal (just check the info first). Nominations make my day ;)

ICONS: Grey's Anatomy

2007-07-28T19:11:13Z

Oh yeah, I've found a new obsession after a long, long, long pause. Seriously. I've been having what seems like an endless GREY'S ANATOMY marathon (almost done with the third season, yay! well, almost half way through which is basically the same thing anyway) and what can I say?

WELL. A lot, but I'll cut it short (spoilerish rant for those who haven't seen the show, perhaps?): I seem to be in love with Izzie, Cristina (and Burke) and Alex whereas George annoys the living crap out of me and McDreamy is just stupid. He should be McStupid, really... McSteamy on the other hand is... yeah, steamy. And Addison ^^; Oh the pairings I've come up within my eh, dark and twisted mind... you wouldn't believe, mwuahaha (although, I do have a hunch about Addison and certain intern... no, not Meredith, though she does tend to sleep around, doesnt' she?). I have no comments on Meredith, though. I'm rather neutral about her, really, because she just... IS neutral. She's funny and sarcastic in her own way, but hey, not nearly as damaged (I do love that word) as Cristina so there you go. Fine, I like Meredith, but if her life would be in danger and she'd be like, um oh, I dunno, holding a bomb I might not care whether she lived or died. Perhaps she'll grow on me or something.

Anyway, now that I got THAT out of my system... there's about 46 icons under the cut, if I remember right, heh. Mostly Izzie though cause I love her. Seriously. Despite the fact she's like an emotional volcano... plus, girl, be nice to Callie! Callie rocks. Funny how Katherine seems to fancy the name Izzie and is always having a thing with a guy named Alex, heh. Roswell, Roswell, I miss you so much.

Har har. Someone should count how many times they say seriously on that show... seriously.

XXX btw. I'm most likely gonna stop posting icons in several icon communities (well, actually I stopped a while ago, but figured I should at least tell you guys) because I just don't have the time so be sure to check my journal from time to time for new goods, oki? ^^; thanks.

TEASERS

001 002 003
004 005 006
007 008 009
010 011 012
013 014 015
016 017 018
019 020 021
022 023 024
025 026 027
028 029 030
031 032 033
034 035 036
037 038 039
040 041 042
043 044 045
046

// Credits located in my resources post.
// Yksi ... comment and tell me what you took, ok?
// Kaksi ... which brings us to rule number two. CREDIT charming_syrai, because stealing is rude, so you know.
// Kolme ... as long as you credit me, I don't care whether you use the the icons in GJ or LJ or whatever. Whatever floats your boat.
// Neljä ... no editing and NO hotlinking.
// Viisi ... to stay up to date, friend my journal (just check the info first). Nominations make my day ;)

FAN FICTION - X-Men: ... head like a hole (epsilon series)

2007-06-08T18:13:08Z

TITLE: … head like a hole
FANDOM: X-Men

{AU-ish world}

RATING: PG?
WORD COUNT: about 1090
WARNINGS: My mother never washed my mouth with soap and you can tell.

{the usual}

PAIRING: Rogue/Pyro
SUMMARY: … You saw them and you heard how she laughed, punching his arm and you felt a twinge of jealousy, of hurt and pain, so unbearable, and you knew this is something you have to do.

{for 50scenes}

PROMPT: 056 pitiful
SENTENCE: #21 - Fool. You're hiding in Bobby's goddamn wardrobe when he storms in, walks straight to the closet (how the hell does he know you're there, you wonder) and pulls you out in rather violent manner saying, you little fool, there's better ways to spy on your ex having sex, you know and you glare at him, tell him to fuck off, it's not that, I just wanna see what she's got that I don't, and the fucker only smirks enjoying your misery.
TABLE: HERE

{epsilon series}

A/N: I feel weird and I feel this fic is weird too. Not what it was supposed to, but I guess it doesn't matter. Just a little insight to their relationship... in a way.

AND:

Previous fics HERE

The original sentences can be found HERE in case you're interested. This thing hasn't been betaed, but if you'd like to be the one to do so, lemme know.

DISCLAIMER: Dude, as if.

... head like a hole

If anyone had told you about a girl who's done what you're about to do, you would've laughed and laughed, made faces, snickered and called her an idiot, pathetic. The rest of the day you would've spent making fun of her with your friends because that's the way it goes and you wouldn't have even considered to stop and wonder why. What drove her forward, caused it, why she did it. Why she needed it so bad.

But if it happened now, you would. You'd stop.

It's been a month. A month since you found yourself having sex with Pyro, on regular bases might one add, but still you can't let it go. Can't let him go and you need to, you need to feel whole and actual again. Like always when it comes to you, you need to know why so that you can work with the problem, around it, and make sure it never happens again. Not to you, not ever.

So that's how you reason it to yourself, you hiding in Bobby's dark wardrobe. It's not like the pretty birds woke you up this morning and suddenly you opened your eyes deciding this is the day you're gonna do what you've wanted to do for weeks, but you saw them at breakfast and you froze, tried not to look, but couldn't keep your eyes off of them. You saw them and you heard how she laughed, punching his arm and you felt a twinge of jealousy, of hurt and pain, so unbearable, and you knew this is something you have to do.

After lunch you talked with Jubilee and told her to do something for you, begged, but careful enough not to arouse her suspicions. She didn't understand why, but simply gave you a big wide-eyed stare and with a weak, stuttered okay she left to accomplish the mission you set her out to do.

And you, you did your part in a manner of which a real cat burglar would be damn proud of. You took a deep breath and went to see if John was in their shared room for you know Bobby wasn't. No, but neither was he and that's when you made the final decision, or rather, ignored the quiet reasoning in the back of your mind, echoing with all the other voices and you walked to the wardrobe, opened it, stepped inside and pulled the doors close. It let out an ear-hurting sound while at it, but you didn't even flinch. It's dark in the wardrobe, in the room, but you can see through the shades, can see everything's that happening and after five minutes you're thinking of leaving, abandoning the ship.

Are you a fucking idiot?

And inside your head, you hear his voice, Pyro's, strong and taunting, He's with her, doesn't give a shit about you anymore so what the fuck does it matter anymore, Marie?

But it does.

Because you need this, need the clarity of mind, need the truth no matter how painful it is. Because you can't stop loving him, not this fast, not the way he's stopped loving you.

The door opens and you cease breathing, horrified, excited, scared and then it all goes to ashes, the whole damn plan.

It's not Bobby that walks into the room, storms towards the closet you're in. The door gets pulled open, violently, and John grabs your arm and pulls you out with an angry grimace burning on his face, darkening his eyes and even with him holding you, hurting you, you have time to enjoy it. The shadows in his eyes.

"You little fool," he snarls, eyes pouring accusations, curses, insults, "there's better ways to spy on your ex having sex, you know."

"Fuck off!" You snap back, "It's not that," it was never about that, you damn idiot, and you tell him, with defiant eyes easily matching the fire in his, you tell him, "I just wanna se what she's got that I don't"

And he smiles, a corner of his lip twisting into a smile and if he wasn't holding your arms the way he is, firmly in place, you'd slap him hard.

But the hands go nowhere and you guess he's learnt his lesson then.

"Stop that, stop looking at me like that!" you bark after awhile, after the stare in his eyes gets too pressuring, too something, and his grip on you softens.

He chuckles, anger fading into obvious amusement. Neither of which he has any right to feel, not now.

"You're such a pathetic little thing," he chuckles aloud, shoulders shaking in tune with his laughter and just like that you feel your own anger subsiding, retrieving back to the darkness of your mind. There's something about the way he smiles that makes you melt inside, the way his eyes shine, pure and boyish with no trails of deception, of Pyro and you love to see it.

In fact, you're almost ready to admit you love being the only one who ever gets to see it.

"I'm not little," you put back, glaring, but not even trying to fight back the equally amused smile, "But I admit being pathetic."

But it's not your fault, it's not, because you don't want to love him anymore, miss him, you don't want to care about him and his stupid new girlfriend, but you do and it tears you apart, pains you. You want him back and you don't and you hate him and you love him and it's all so fucked up you don't know whether to cry or laugh and John, he knows it. You don't want him to, you never told him, but he does and he's taking it all in, enjoying the fact you're broken inside. Broken the way he is, damaged goods, beyond repair.

And he, while still chuckling faintly, pulls you close and traps you against his chest and you can't help but breathe in his scent, the one you're grown weirdly fond of. But it's all okay, because here, in his arms, vulnerable and exposed, it's actually when you don't feel so pathetic anymore and pieces fall into their places.

Most of them, anyway, and that's about all you can ask for.

The funny thing is that you don't even realize it then, don't want to see, to know, but these are the only moments in your life it's completely silent inside your head.

Too bad you never notice what you've got until you lose it.

FAN FIC - X-Men: ... close to the flame (epsilon series)

2007-05-27T18:16:37Z

TITLE: … close to the flame
FANDOM: X-Men

{AU-ish world}

RATING: PG-13?
WORD COUNT: about 1155
WARNINGS: My mother never washed my mouth with soap and you can tell.

{the usual}

PAIRING: Rogue/Pyro
SUMMARY: … That is not your pillow. One drowsy sweep around the room and you notice, this, is not your room either.

{for 50scenes}

PROMPT: 004 sore
SENTENCE: #04 - last. The last thing you imagined to happen - ever - was to wake up from his warm bed one hazy morning, but it happened, and you know, you're pretty fucking glad it did.
TABLE: HERE

{epsilon series}

A/N: There. Enjoy. I know I did.

AND:

Previous fics HERE

The original sentences can be found HERE in case you're interested. This thing hasn't been betaed, but if you'd like to be the one to do so, lemme know.

DISCLAIMER: Dude, as if.

... close to the flame

You're not sure what exactly woke you from your sweet slumber a few minutes ago but you suspect it had something to do with the bright light invading your vision, clouding your head, hurting. Instead of getting up as the sunshine no doubt wants you to do, you roll over to your elbows ignoring the pain it causes, keep your eyes firmly closed and thwack the pillow hoping you'll catch the tail of your previous dream 'cause if that wasn't hot, you don't know what is and-

Then you frown for suddenly the pillow underneath your cheek feels weird and it.. it smells different.

Yeah, that's what actually gets you to open your eyes, the acknowledgment that everything's not quite right and the frown only deepens when you come face to face with the soft bundle in front of you.

That is not your pillow.

One drowsy sweep around the room and you notice, this, is not your room either.

You wipe your eyes with one hand to oust the sleep in them, trying to catch the moment, understand. What… what exactly happened last night? You were hurt, feeling all empty and broken and you needed to be fixed, to talk with someone. You'd walked all the way to Jubilee's room only to remember at her door that she wasn't there but at home with her family and friends. And then, after you'd gone back to your room you'd seen the silver lighter on your nightstand and you'd thought that maybe, just maybe…

Oh God. No… no, no, no, no! You weren't that stupid, were you?

Memories flood back to your mind and your peaceful awakening is no longer peaceful at all.

Yes, you were.

"Fuck," you mumble, letting your head fall down and hang in the air. Your hair hides your face, caresses the pillow and you're just lying there wondering where the hell has your ribbon vanished and wishing the earth will open up and swallow you whole, take you away. Well, now it's proven. You really are the president when it comes to making a bad situation worse. It's a skill you've mastered so fucking perfectly, isn't it?

And where the fuck is he anyway, huh? That piece of shit, asshole! You're suddenly very, very angry and the fact he isn't there to experience your wrath, it only angers you more.

This is so fucked up, so fucking wrong.

You need to get away from here before John comes back, you need to get away from the warmness of his bed, escape his strong and familiar scent, run away from his damn kingdom and forget, forget it ever happened.

And still, even then, you know… As if he'd ever let you forget.

You're already on your feet, clothed again with the nightgown you found couching on the floor and on your way to the hallway when the doorknob turns making a sound and the door opens slowly. Your fists clench on their own but you don't even feel it.

And then he's there, on the doorway making it impossible for you to escape now, and you forget how to inhale.

Instead of cursing out loud, instead of giving him a piece of your mind like you originally felt like doing, you just stand there staring at him in shock.

What the hell's happened to him?

There's blood all over his beautiful face, his clothes, the ones you ripped off him yesterday, and you watch in silence how his free hand moves up, wiping the side of his nose with a grimace. Then he steps over the threshold, closes the door and everything else disappears from your mind.

"Planning a grand escape?" He questions with thick, cynical voice and you don't know whether he's annoyed at you or highly amused or which one you'd actually prefer. It's all messed up inside your head and nothing makes sense.

"What's happened to you?" You step closer, worry twisting your insides and you can't understand why. Why the fuck would you worry over his bloodied face, over his pain? You don't care, not anymore.

"Had a round with the iron fist," he tells you, familiar smirk lurking in the corners of his mouth. Complacent, satisfied.

You had a round with… what? "Iron fist?" You repeat, astonished, but only for a second before you catch his meaning. Oh no… no fucking way. "Peter?" You decode, "Peter did this to you?"

Eyebrows quirking playfully, he nods. "That he did."

No, that's not possible. Peter would never ever stoop that low, he'd never hurt anyone, make them bleed.

"But why would Peter do anything-" you start before it dawns on you, becomes so clear it almost hurts. Yeah, Peter would never ever hurt anyone… not anyone that didn't deserve it anyway. Not anyone that wasn't begging for it. "He didn't, did he?" you speak, shaking your head in disbelief. "It was you. You started it."

His smile doesn't fade, not till he attempts to take another step closer. The pain, however, stops him, twists his lips into a grimace that cuts you too and you hate it, hate feeling for him that way.

"Doesn't matter," he says between breaths, "I got my point across."

Yeah, sure looks like it… "So did he, apparently," you snort sarcastically and his eyes laugh when he replies, "Guess so."

Then it's yet another moment of silence between you two, the kind you shared the day before, but only… it's not awkward, not uncomfortable like you'd imagine it to be. It's just you and him, staring and you feel something you never thought you would.

You're sorry. For fuck's sake, why are you sorry?

You approach him carefully and the question in the back of your mind floats out without you thinking about it. "Does it hurt?" You ask and he snorts in the back of his throat, eyes closing for a second before they open again and he says, "Like hell."

You're close now, so close his uneven breathing sounds like a waterfall in your ears and everything inside your head is somehow foggy, unbalanced.

Neither of you seem to know what the hell is going on, but it doesn't matter, not even the slightest and when your hand acts on its own and touches his bleeding lip, trailing the wound softly, you hear him intake a sharp breath. The kind that makes you tremble, from head to toes.

"You're playing with fire, you know?" He whispers against your fingers, a hand finding its way on your hip and you nod, smiling weakly and say, "Yeah, but I've never liked cold that much anyway."

When he pushes you down on the bed, body ignoring his pain and falling on yours, you ignore your own too and then it's just you two, needing, burning.

For hours.

And the next time you wake up, feel his warm naked flesh against yours, you 're everything but angry. Complacent, satisfied.

You giggle, actually.

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