Fic: Winner Takes All (1/1) R
- I finally decided to stop agonising over this and just throw it out into the
world. Please give a nervous mother some feedback?
TITLE: Winner Takes All
RATING: R for naughty words and thoughts
PAIRING: Mystique and Logan
SUMMARY: Mystique waits. A vignette of a slightly dark nature.
DISCLAIMER: No ownership. No money. No nothing.
NOTES: The last time I watched the movie, it was so damn obvious.
If you could be anyone in the world, who would it be?
Well, it's not just a personality quiz for me, a hypothetical question you
ask to get to know someone better. And let me tell you, it's not that
brilliant. It was amusing at the start, I grant you. I flitted from life
to life, playing at being rich and famous, incredibly beautiful, male and
female and somewhere in between.
We all grow out of playing dress up sooner or later.
I take every opportunity to relax, to be myself. The time is long past when
I flinched at seeing blue skin in the mirror. Hell, call me narcissistic,
but I think it's healthy to spend a certain amount of time admiring
yourself. Sometimes, if you don't, no one else will.
But I do flinch when other people see me 'au natural' as it were. Because
they invariably look disgusted. Horrified. And how the hell do you think
that makes me feel.
Sometimes I flaunt it, just to be a bitch. A bar, a gorgeous body, a
drunken pick-up, and then I show him my true colours.
Yeah, I'm narcissistic /and/ a sado-masochist. On the surface I laugh at
it, because there's a slew of guys out there having nightmares featuring me,
and that's a damn good feeling. But deep inside it twists. Because that's
what I'm always going to get, don't you see? It's always going to be the
shock of horror, no matter what. The involuntary widening of eyes, the loss
I've seen it a million times, but it still hits me every time.
That's why I'm out here in this remote spot somewhere in the mountains. One
of the reasons. It's not wilderness. Not just yet. A little rest stop on
a seldom-used road. Some cleared land and a few old tables too far from
anywhere to even be the target of graffiti. There's nothing here but me and
the low, sleek black convertible I picked up a little while back. When it
became obvious that my transport was now my responsibility, and Magneto
wouldn't be around to give assistance any time soon.
Don't get me wrong, I'm devoted to him, but I'm also more than a little glad
that he's out of the way at the moment. Otherwise I wouldn't dare to be
here. To do what I've done, and what I hope to do. And if I hadn't dared,
I know I'd live the rest of my life wondering about it. What might have
I remember that night at the Statue for a lot of reasons. It was to have
been our greatest triumph, the first step in a wonderful plan. Thwarted.
But I also have other, more personal reasons.
I feel a smile curve over my face, completely unwilled. I can't help my
response. Whenever I remember that fight, my pulse speeds up, the
adrenaline starts flowing, and that smile sidles onto my lips. The
God-almighty rush of fighting for real. Not sparring, not just a little
boxing match, but full-blown do-or-die.
But it's not like that. It's like a dance. Like an embrace. It's not just
in the body, in the animal surge of instinct, it's also in the mind.
Strategy and strength. Cunning and cutting. It's life. It's death. It's
It had never been that way before.
I looked into his eyes - the Wolverine, that's all I knew him as - during
that fight and wondered if they were dark with fear or anger or hate. Or
maybe, just maybe, was there a hint of desire there too. Because I felt it.
And my God, I felt more alive than I ever had in my life.
No doubt you're expecting me to spout some crap about how I didn't want to
kill him anymore, and had to force myself to go on with the fight, but
that's just ridiculous. I still wanted to kill him. I wanted to plunge my
hand into his chest and drag his heart out, see if he lived after that. But
at the same time, I wanted to feel his claws rip into me, slice through
vital internal organs. I wanted to kill him, and be killed.
I wanted to fuck him, and be fucked.
I'm practically purring now, just thinking about it. I lean back against
the car, the metal cool against my bare, blue skin. I told you, I like
going natural. It's like an acceptance of myself. But I don't get much
chance to do it around other people.
That's the real reason I'm out here. Because as intoxicating as the fight
at the Statue was, it's not enough to make me throw caution to the wind and
send that sort of message to an enemy. I practically begged him to meet me
here. I don't know if he'll come. I don't even know if he got the message.
I have to hope, though. Because he could /smell/ me.
You don't understand, do you? You have absolutely no idea. No one does,
not unless they've been me and know what it's like. Yeah, this
shape-shifting thing is fantastic. You can look like anyone, /be/ anyone.
I'm the ultimate in fantasy-fulfillment. I can be blonde, brunette, a
redhead, bald if that takes your fancy. Any build, any complexion, anyone,
anytime. You want to fuck Angelina Jolie, then you can. Hell, you want to
fuck Russell Crowe, I can do that as well.
But does anyone want to fuck me?
You see it yet? Christ, humans do it all the time anyway. Just close your
eyes, and pretend the man sweating above you is someone else - Tom Cruise,
maybe. Just a little lie, to yourself, to the person you're with. And
that's just using your imagination.
I can do the real thing.
It doesn't take very long to get sick of the lies. To wonder if anyone at
all ever desired me. And even those that I've loved, the ones for whom I
took on a normal shape so they didn't have to look at the blue skin, even
with those I've wondered if they were pretending that this body was who I
really was. If they were really loving me, or just someone who I looked
Wolverine, he could smell me. As the miniature Statue. As Storm. I
changed completely, and he still knew it was me. Knew enough to plunge
those claws deep into the body of his teammate, into my body.
The pain had been incredible, amazing, but it hadn't been fatal. I'd known
that immediately. Under my heart and lungs, above my intestines, between my
ribcage and around my spine. Nothing vital. A surge of exultant triumph
had filled me - he'd made a mistake! - and I'd raised a hand to dispatch
Then I looked in his eyes, and that was the most staggering blow of all. It
was all there, laid bare. He hadn't made a mistake. He hadn't meant it to
be fatal. Now, there was business to attend to, and he needed to finish it;
that girl of Magneto's. But another time... There were all those things,
all the anger and hate and fear, but there was also desire, excitement. A
mirror to my own.
So I slid backwards off his claws, the slither of the blood-slick metal a
promise all of its own. I lay on the floor, waiting.
Waiting like now. Remembering the facts, and the implications. He'd
sniffed me out. He couldn't lie, not to himself, not to me. There would
never be any doubt.
The purr of a bike causes my pulse to jump, an almost lethargic flood of
adrenaline through my system. The bike's big and black and he's wearing
leather, looking like sex on legs, but that's all entirely secondary to the
fact that he's /here/. I didn't know how much it meant to me until this
moment when he pulled up opposite me, stopped the bike, swung off it.
He stalks towards me, closing the distance with animal grace, and in that
moment I don't know whether he's going to punch me or kiss me. I don't know
what I'm going to do to him.
I honestly don't care. The battle has rejoined. And the winner takes all.
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