A Thousand Ways (PG-13) - X-Men
Aug. 9th, 2007 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tommygirlTitle: A Thousand Ways
Author:![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-userinfo.gif)
tommygirl
Fandom: X-Men movieverse, Pyro/Rogue
Rating: PG-13
A/N: I'm officially broken. Angsty/sexual innuendo 'o plenty/ambiguity and second person point of view. Feedback always appreciated.
A Thousand Ways
There are a thousand ways to destroy a man, and this, you muse, is but one of them as her hands glide over your chest with lethal accuracy. Her palms roam along your sides, garnering a small, if not unwilling smile (you swore you would make her earn this, earn you, after choosing your friend numerous times before), due to that annoying ticklish spot, and find their way to the middle of your back. It arches, betraying your cool exterior and letting her know that you do feel something, and she takes this as a sign to continue upward, rubbing the hairs at the nape of your neck between her fingers like grains of sand. Her eyes remain locked on yours the whole time, savoring every nuance of muscular reaction you allow, and you wonder how you waited so long for this, why hasn’t it happened sooner?
The heat is almost unbearable, blinding behind the eyes. But it’s not you, you realize quickly and surprisingly, but rather her fingers running through your hair and over your eyes. You want her to take the gloves off, to do this for real, no more make-believe or half-ways.
“Your eyes,” she says lightly, her cheeks flushing as if she hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but she doesn’t avert her gaze from yours.
“What?” you hear yourself say in an almost dreamy response. You order yourself to snap out of it, it’s just a girl (not really), and your beyond this high school bullshit (obviously not), but the cloudy haze remains when you inhale her freshly showered scent.
“Nothing.”
“Okay then.”
It’s exactly the way you’ve imagined it numerous times. You’re not scared, never scared, too caught up in the thrill of it all, the proximity of her body, practically resting against your chest. The way her smoothness coalesces with your coarseness. She is yours in this moment. She’s different, but the same in so many ways. Same electric strand of white hair, same fervent and eccentric walk, same disregard for rules. It’s beautiful to you and that’s the girl who you dream about. Not the classmate. Not Bobby’s girlfriend who plays her role dutifully and has no desires of her own outside “doing the right thing.”
That’s not the girl with you now and you’re sure that death would be welcome if it meant this feeling swelling in the air around the two of you, stifling heat off your bodies mixed with the urgency of want, that you would walk willingly to the pearly gates claiming eternal devotion to the girl that sapped it all out of you.
“You want me to kiss you, don’t you, John?” she says in a shockingly coy manner that causes the breath to stick in your throat until it builds up and comes out as a long, slow hiss, blowing back the wisps of hair clinging to her neck. Not purposefully, of course. Well, not completely.
“I think the better question is what you want from me?” you ask, not requiring an answer as you tilt your head down until it’s perfectly aligned to hers. You wait impatiently until her lips part slightly and she gives you that look, you know the look; the one that reads like burning desire mixed with sheer terror and appears to have been patented by Harlequin.
Her lips are cool as she bites down teasingly on the tip of your tongue and you want more. You pin her against the wall, the sole separation between the two versions of the same girl, and nibble down the length of her in an agonizingly slow way. But she pulls back, eliciting a groan from you, and you notice that her eyes seem to have flames for irises.
“Is this about him?”
“He’s your friend, John.”
“And?”
“Why do you want me?” she asks in that way she has. That strange directness that throws you off your game and makes you want to curl up in a ball until the sting of it passes. Only she can do this to you, you observe.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s not the wouldn’t that worries me. It’s the would.”
“I don’t do riddles after midnight,” you comment with a forced bravado that you know she sees right through. It’s something in the taste of her, you decide, that has displaced you. Cinnamon? Or maybe ginger mixed with a dash of sweat? Whatever it was, your tongue aches for more of it, dare you say, yearns.
“John.”
“Rogue.”
“There has to be a reason.”
“Why?”
“Because—“
“Because that’s what people have led you to believe. When are you going to think for yourself? Realize that all you need, all you want, is right here in this room.”
“It must be so easy to be you.”
Your laugh is abrasive and the wistful ambiance of seconds’ earlier fleets away through the open window and into the blackened sky. Your hands reach into her jeans pocket, the way this whole thing started, a warped mutant foreplay, and you grasp your lighter. You pull it out, flicking it in annoyance, trying to convey with the swish, flick, swish, flick movement all the emotion she's sucked out of you, not through her uncanny knack for such things, but her eyes. Damn fucking eyes that make you want her even more.
“John, would you stop?”
Swish, flick, swish, flick.
“John,” she repeats, this time much less confident, her voice nothing more than vapor in the air, clinging to your damp brow. “Fine,” she goes on, stepping away from you—why is she always stepping away from you with a maddened glint in her eyes—and scurrying to the door, ripping her gloves from her hands as if they can act as voodoo dolls and break your spine with each whipping of the fabric into the air.
You note that her whole demeanor changes. She is a different entity when she leaves the small contained space the two of you share. You watch her, same as every day, from the shadows, biding your time for your chance, and it hits you. It is your turn. She sought you out. She followed you to the linen closet and cornered you there, casually leaning across your bare chest to grab a towel. She remarked on your unhealthy attachment to a lighter before removing it from your hands and laughing, saying “Come and get it.” She wants you and you know that you can’t turn away from that, try as you might. She wants you and you’ve waited too long for this to allow the opportunity to pass you by. Otherwise you’re him, too scared of all that loving her entails.
You can’t stop yourself from closing the distance between you and her, placing your hand on her left shoulder. Her back straightens, her muscles tensing under your palm, and her throat constricts. You turn her around, well aware that this is the hallway, lightened, in full view of other students and faculty and Bobby, especially Bobby.
She calls your bluff though. Not moving, her breathing falls in synch with yours and she studies your face. It’s an appraising look, the type that tells you that you have no secrets from her and your tough-guy façade is just that. You don’t shy away, despite the fact that your arms suddenly feel like jelly, your legs wobble, hoping to make a mad dash for the safety of your room and the dark, and that no words will escape from your mouth.
You’re not sure how much time passes while the two of you are locked in this battle of wills, who the stronger person is and who can hold out the longest for what you both crave. The silence isn’t threatening like most silences are. It’s understanding, mutual meeting of the minds, and comforting in a way that you didn’t expect. She smiles, an almost-sadistic grin, and says, “He holds my hand.”
“What?”
“Bobby. He always reaches out for my hand, wherever we go. Always.”
You roll your eyes. You can’t help it, but talk of your friend and her together makes you slightly nauseous, and you say, “That’s extremely cheesy. You’re much better than that.” You stare at her, your eyes like liquid brown fire trying to infiltrate her, and add, “Besides, he’s not really holding your hand, is he?”
“What?”
“The gloves,” you reply. Her hands are bare now and you pick one of them up for emphasis, despite the strange sensation it creates and say, “This is holding your hand.” You massage her fingers with your thumb and raise it to your lips, kissing each knuckle separately and ignoring the way her eyes dart around the hallway before settling back on you.
Her face is neutral—emoting nothing that you can read anyway—and she pulls back, shaking her hand as if it has been bitten. She sighs and asks, “What am I going to do with you, John?”
“Come back to the room, Rogue.”
“John.” There it is again. Your name. The way she says it, the way she allows it to linger on her lips as if it takes everything out of her. Your lips turn upward, a small, crooked smile, and she says, “You’re so annoying.”
“Yeah.”
“And arrogant,” she adds, rolling her eyes. She swings her glove in the air and it grazes your cheek as she adds, “The most annoyingly arrogant guy that I’ve ever met!”
You chuckle deliberately, ignoring the loud thumping occurring beneath your ribcage. You start walking back to the closet, fiddling with your lighter with every step, refusing to look back. After all, it’s never been your ammo; hindsight and insecurity aren’t words in your vocabulary.
Swish, flick, swish, flick.
You re-enter the large closet and lean against the shelves in what you imagine is a provocative stance, as much as that is possible surrounded by teddy bear linens and duck-shaped soaps. You recall how you used to stare at the items in this closet as if Satan himself were holding the items—hell, why had you agreed to come to this place—and now it feels like a haven. Your eyes shut and you roll your thumb over the lighter, acutely conscious of footsteps in your direction and her sweet, sticky aroma.
Her arms are covered again, you realize as her gloved fingers traverse your shoulders and lock together at the base of your scalp. She sighs again and her exhalations dance across your cheeks, stirring the blood about until your coloring reddens, causing your eyelids to lift and you meet her gaze.
Her face reads like a thousand different things at the moment—confusion, desire, frustration, anger, desire, bliss, fear, and oh yeah...desire—and you want to present her the world on a silver platter. A song. A poem. A manifesto even. Something immortal that will live on long after both of you have passed on, something that will prove to her that she is not some prize to be won, the trophy to his ongoing battles with his best friend.
Swish, flick, swish, flick.
“John. So help me God—“
You cut her off with a kiss. She’s much more amiable when her lips are tangled with yours. She tightens her grasp on your neck, pulling you closer, and you think, there is no way to get close enough, never going to be enough to satisfy this innate urge webbing out of your gut…as things start to blur, you force yourself away—an act of God in itself—and say, “That was...well, I think I’m...did you--”
“John, are you actually speechless? I should kiss you more often.”
“You should do more than kiss me, Rogue,” you respond, arching one eyebrow and grinning unabashedly.
Her fingers hook onto the belt loops of your jeans and she positions herself against your body, one of those abstract paintings where man and woman are melded together as if that is how they are meant to be. She removes one of her gloves and moves it like a paintbrush across your abdominal area, up your chest, and over your Adam’s apple. The glimmer in her eye is evil, diabolical, and she whispers, “Is that a fact?”
You nod. All you can do is nod. So much for Mr. Cool and Collected.
“Something like this,” she asks, not waiting for an answer as her teeth sink into the cartilage in your ear. You groan, pressing the palms of your hands into the shelving behind you, and she slowly runs her tongue down your neck before pulling back. She tilts her head in an amused fashion and asks, “Or was that better?”
“Did you hear me complain about either?”
“Nope,” she says. She steps away from you and starts to walk back out into the brightness of the hallway.
“Rogue?”
She leans against the doorframe and glances at me with a mischievous leer, “Yeah?”
“What the hell was that?”
“Only the beginning, John. It's a beginning,” she states with a look that promise a future of further adventures in this linen closet before spinning around, her hair flying in slow motion behind her, and heading to her bedroom.
You stand there—alone again, but not quite, not truly—and swish, flick, swish, flick as you ponder what is to come. It’s never been your favorite thing, but now the unknown has a strange thrall to it. You rub your fingers over your lips as if to memorize the taste of her and reflect again—there might be a thousand ways to kill a man, but this is, by far, the most enticing of the bunch.
{/fin}
Author:
tommygirlFandom: X-Men movieverse, Pyro/Rogue
Rating: PG-13
A/N: I'm officially broken. Angsty/sexual innuendo 'o plenty/ambiguity and second person point of view. Feedback always appreciated.
There are a thousand ways to destroy a man, and this, you muse, is but one of them as her hands glide over your chest with lethal accuracy. Her palms roam along your sides, garnering a small, if not unwilling smile (you swore you would make her earn this, earn you, after choosing your friend numerous times before), due to that annoying ticklish spot, and find their way to the middle of your back. It arches, betraying your cool exterior and letting her know that you do feel something, and she takes this as a sign to continue upward, rubbing the hairs at the nape of your neck between her fingers like grains of sand. Her eyes remain locked on yours the whole time, savoring every nuance of muscular reaction you allow, and you wonder how you waited so long for this, why hasn’t it happened sooner?
The heat is almost unbearable, blinding behind the eyes. But it’s not you, you realize quickly and surprisingly, but rather her fingers running through your hair and over your eyes. You want her to take the gloves off, to do this for real, no more make-believe or half-ways.
“Your eyes,” she says lightly, her cheeks flushing as if she hadn’t meant to say that aloud, but she doesn’t avert her gaze from yours.
“What?” you hear yourself say in an almost dreamy response. You order yourself to snap out of it, it’s just a girl (not really), and your beyond this high school bullshit (obviously not), but the cloudy haze remains when you inhale her freshly showered scent.
“Nothing.”
“Okay then.”
It’s exactly the way you’ve imagined it numerous times. You’re not scared, never scared, too caught up in the thrill of it all, the proximity of her body, practically resting against your chest. The way her smoothness coalesces with your coarseness. She is yours in this moment. She’s different, but the same in so many ways. Same electric strand of white hair, same fervent and eccentric walk, same disregard for rules. It’s beautiful to you and that’s the girl who you dream about. Not the classmate. Not Bobby’s girlfriend who plays her role dutifully and has no desires of her own outside “doing the right thing.”
That’s not the girl with you now and you’re sure that death would be welcome if it meant this feeling swelling in the air around the two of you, stifling heat off your bodies mixed with the urgency of want, that you would walk willingly to the pearly gates claiming eternal devotion to the girl that sapped it all out of you.
“You want me to kiss you, don’t you, John?” she says in a shockingly coy manner that causes the breath to stick in your throat until it builds up and comes out as a long, slow hiss, blowing back the wisps of hair clinging to her neck. Not purposefully, of course. Well, not completely.
“I think the better question is what you want from me?” you ask, not requiring an answer as you tilt your head down until it’s perfectly aligned to hers. You wait impatiently until her lips part slightly and she gives you that look, you know the look; the one that reads like burning desire mixed with sheer terror and appears to have been patented by Harlequin.
Her lips are cool as she bites down teasingly on the tip of your tongue and you want more. You pin her against the wall, the sole separation between the two versions of the same girl, and nibble down the length of her in an agonizingly slow way. But she pulls back, eliciting a groan from you, and you notice that her eyes seem to have flames for irises.
“Is this about him?”
“He’s your friend, John.”
“And?”
“Why do you want me?” she asks in that way she has. That strange directness that throws you off your game and makes you want to curl up in a ball until the sting of it passes. Only she can do this to you, you observe.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s not the wouldn’t that worries me. It’s the would.”
“I don’t do riddles after midnight,” you comment with a forced bravado that you know she sees right through. It’s something in the taste of her, you decide, that has displaced you. Cinnamon? Or maybe ginger mixed with a dash of sweat? Whatever it was, your tongue aches for more of it, dare you say, yearns.
“John.”
“Rogue.”
“There has to be a reason.”
“Why?”
“Because—“
“Because that’s what people have led you to believe. When are you going to think for yourself? Realize that all you need, all you want, is right here in this room.”
“It must be so easy to be you.”
Your laugh is abrasive and the wistful ambiance of seconds’ earlier fleets away through the open window and into the blackened sky. Your hands reach into her jeans pocket, the way this whole thing started, a warped mutant foreplay, and you grasp your lighter. You pull it out, flicking it in annoyance, trying to convey with the swish, flick, swish, flick movement all the emotion she's sucked out of you, not through her uncanny knack for such things, but her eyes. Damn fucking eyes that make you want her even more.
“John, would you stop?”
Swish, flick, swish, flick.
“John,” she repeats, this time much less confident, her voice nothing more than vapor in the air, clinging to your damp brow. “Fine,” she goes on, stepping away from you—why is she always stepping away from you with a maddened glint in her eyes—and scurrying to the door, ripping her gloves from her hands as if they can act as voodoo dolls and break your spine with each whipping of the fabric into the air.
You note that her whole demeanor changes. She is a different entity when she leaves the small contained space the two of you share. You watch her, same as every day, from the shadows, biding your time for your chance, and it hits you. It is your turn. She sought you out. She followed you to the linen closet and cornered you there, casually leaning across your bare chest to grab a towel. She remarked on your unhealthy attachment to a lighter before removing it from your hands and laughing, saying “Come and get it.” She wants you and you know that you can’t turn away from that, try as you might. She wants you and you’ve waited too long for this to allow the opportunity to pass you by. Otherwise you’re him, too scared of all that loving her entails.
You can’t stop yourself from closing the distance between you and her, placing your hand on her left shoulder. Her back straightens, her muscles tensing under your palm, and her throat constricts. You turn her around, well aware that this is the hallway, lightened, in full view of other students and faculty and Bobby, especially Bobby.
She calls your bluff though. Not moving, her breathing falls in synch with yours and she studies your face. It’s an appraising look, the type that tells you that you have no secrets from her and your tough-guy façade is just that. You don’t shy away, despite the fact that your arms suddenly feel like jelly, your legs wobble, hoping to make a mad dash for the safety of your room and the dark, and that no words will escape from your mouth.
You’re not sure how much time passes while the two of you are locked in this battle of wills, who the stronger person is and who can hold out the longest for what you both crave. The silence isn’t threatening like most silences are. It’s understanding, mutual meeting of the minds, and comforting in a way that you didn’t expect. She smiles, an almost-sadistic grin, and says, “He holds my hand.”
“What?”
“Bobby. He always reaches out for my hand, wherever we go. Always.”
You roll your eyes. You can’t help it, but talk of your friend and her together makes you slightly nauseous, and you say, “That’s extremely cheesy. You’re much better than that.” You stare at her, your eyes like liquid brown fire trying to infiltrate her, and add, “Besides, he’s not really holding your hand, is he?”
“What?”
“The gloves,” you reply. Her hands are bare now and you pick one of them up for emphasis, despite the strange sensation it creates and say, “This is holding your hand.” You massage her fingers with your thumb and raise it to your lips, kissing each knuckle separately and ignoring the way her eyes dart around the hallway before settling back on you.
Her face is neutral—emoting nothing that you can read anyway—and she pulls back, shaking her hand as if it has been bitten. She sighs and asks, “What am I going to do with you, John?”
“Come back to the room, Rogue.”
“John.” There it is again. Your name. The way she says it, the way she allows it to linger on her lips as if it takes everything out of her. Your lips turn upward, a small, crooked smile, and she says, “You’re so annoying.”
“Yeah.”
“And arrogant,” she adds, rolling her eyes. She swings her glove in the air and it grazes your cheek as she adds, “The most annoyingly arrogant guy that I’ve ever met!”
You chuckle deliberately, ignoring the loud thumping occurring beneath your ribcage. You start walking back to the closet, fiddling with your lighter with every step, refusing to look back. After all, it’s never been your ammo; hindsight and insecurity aren’t words in your vocabulary.
Swish, flick, swish, flick.
You re-enter the large closet and lean against the shelves in what you imagine is a provocative stance, as much as that is possible surrounded by teddy bear linens and duck-shaped soaps. You recall how you used to stare at the items in this closet as if Satan himself were holding the items—hell, why had you agreed to come to this place—and now it feels like a haven. Your eyes shut and you roll your thumb over the lighter, acutely conscious of footsteps in your direction and her sweet, sticky aroma.
Her arms are covered again, you realize as her gloved fingers traverse your shoulders and lock together at the base of your scalp. She sighs again and her exhalations dance across your cheeks, stirring the blood about until your coloring reddens, causing your eyelids to lift and you meet her gaze.
Her face reads like a thousand different things at the moment—confusion, desire, frustration, anger, desire, bliss, fear, and oh yeah...desire—and you want to present her the world on a silver platter. A song. A poem. A manifesto even. Something immortal that will live on long after both of you have passed on, something that will prove to her that she is not some prize to be won, the trophy to his ongoing battles with his best friend.
Swish, flick, swish, flick.
“John. So help me God—“
You cut her off with a kiss. She’s much more amiable when her lips are tangled with yours. She tightens her grasp on your neck, pulling you closer, and you think, there is no way to get close enough, never going to be enough to satisfy this innate urge webbing out of your gut…as things start to blur, you force yourself away—an act of God in itself—and say, “That was...well, I think I’m...did you--”
“John, are you actually speechless? I should kiss you more often.”
“You should do more than kiss me, Rogue,” you respond, arching one eyebrow and grinning unabashedly.
Her fingers hook onto the belt loops of your jeans and she positions herself against your body, one of those abstract paintings where man and woman are melded together as if that is how they are meant to be. She removes one of her gloves and moves it like a paintbrush across your abdominal area, up your chest, and over your Adam’s apple. The glimmer in her eye is evil, diabolical, and she whispers, “Is that a fact?”
You nod. All you can do is nod. So much for Mr. Cool and Collected.
“Something like this,” she asks, not waiting for an answer as her teeth sink into the cartilage in your ear. You groan, pressing the palms of your hands into the shelving behind you, and she slowly runs her tongue down your neck before pulling back. She tilts her head in an amused fashion and asks, “Or was that better?”
“Did you hear me complain about either?”
“Nope,” she says. She steps away from you and starts to walk back out into the brightness of the hallway.
“Rogue?”
She leans against the doorframe and glances at me with a mischievous leer, “Yeah?”
“What the hell was that?”
“Only the beginning, John. It's a beginning,” she states with a look that promise a future of further adventures in this linen closet before spinning around, her hair flying in slow motion behind her, and heading to her bedroom.
You stand there—alone again, but not quite, not truly—and swish, flick, swish, flick as you ponder what is to come. It’s never been your favorite thing, but now the unknown has a strange thrall to it. You rub your fingers over your lips as if to memorize the taste of her and reflect again—there might be a thousand ways to kill a man, but this is, by far, the most enticing of the bunch.
{/fin}
