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Fic: Winner Takes All (1/1) R

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  • Diana
    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
    Message 1 of 1 , Feb 27, 2001
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      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
      AUTHOR: Diana
      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.

      WORDCOUNT: 1350

      =====

      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
      of breath.

      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
      been.

      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
      everything.

      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
      like.

      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
      him.

      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.

      ======= http://viscerate.com =======
      "Now, when I listen to loud music, it's not
      teenage angst, it's dark and brooding."
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