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FIC: F'in Fellini PG-13 (1/1) Logan POV

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  • My Destiny
    TITLE: Fucking Fellini AUTHOR: Elektra RATING: PG13 EMAIL: wxfonline@yahoo.com SUMMARY: Movieverse. A journey into the internal landscape. DISCLAIMER:
    Message 1 of 1 , Nov 16, 2001
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      TITLE: Fucking Fellini
      AUTHOR: Elektra
      RATING: PG13
      EMAIL: wxfonline@...
      SUMMARY: Movieverse. A journey into the internal
      landscape.
      DISCLAIMER: Everyone belongs to Marvel, etc. I am
      simply using them for my own amusement.
      DISTRIBUTION: If you would like permission to archive
      this story, please email: wxfonline@....
      OFFICIAL WEBSITE ADDRESS: http://www.wxfonline.com
      AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to Libby for handing over the
      muse for a few hours.
      DEDICATION: For Eiluned, I hope it makes you smile.



      The frantic staccato heartbeat of a bass drum was his
      first clear memory. Laying in a tangle of white linen
      sheets, sonic reverberations shaking his flesh, Logan
      thought that they must all be dead. Jean...
      Cyclops... Xavier... sleeping through this? Damned
      unlikely.

      Shifting quickly, the soft cling of fabric falling
      away, Logan's feet kissed the remarkably cool steel
      that blanketed the floor of his bedroom. The
      insistent, grinding whine of an electric guitar joined
      the beat of the drum. The mice had set the house to
      rocking.

      He shivered against the cool, crisp air that filled
      his room, only then becoming aware of the yawning
      chasm of his open bedroom window. He hadn't left that
      open. Moving across the room, he ignored the press of
      wind against his naked flesh. Who the fuck had been
      in his room while he was sleeping? And, more
      importantly, why hadn't he woken up?

      Logan scanned the section of the grounds that was
      visible from his bedroom window. The sky was clear,
      the full power of the moon's reflection flowing back
      toward earth. All was still; no one was out there, of
      that much he was certain. Leaning forward, Logan
      reached out into empty space for the windowpane that
      suddenly swung outward instead of up and down. As his
      fingers closed around the latch, a sudden flow of
      water rushed over his flesh; his hair stuck closely to
      his skin as beads of the liquid rolled down the thick,
      muscular plains of his chest, nestling into regions
      female students only dared dream about. In the
      distance, the rumble of thunder competed with the
      driving rhythms of rock music on acid.

      Rain? But the sky was... overcast, thick ropes of
      storm clouds blocking the light of his sister the
      moon.

      Retreating to what he supposed was the relative safety
      of his bedroom, hands clutched in tight fists, Logan
      shook the water from his body in a motion that was
      strangely reminiscent of his totem. He eyed the red
      cotton towel that had conveniently been slung across
      his desk. He could think of very few people who had
      the ability to control weather. Someone was fucking
      with him; beyond which, Xavier didn't own red towels.

      Looking around the room, Logan became uncomfortably
      aware that the length of red terrycloth and the window
      weren't the only things that had changed about his
      room. The walls, once tastefully painted, were now
      covered in a thick layer of what appeared to be black
      gesso. The beveled mirrors tiling the ceiling weren't
      too bad; but, the metallic monstrosity in the white
      artist's smock and red beret wasn't exactly his vision
      of a wet dream at 4:11 in the morning.

      "You are ready, my friend?" the mass of mobile metal
      asked in thickly accented English.

      Just beyond his unwelcome companion, Logan spotted the
      kind of cage strippers the world over used to help men
      blow their wads. Yeah, how many fortunes had he
      wasted at the foot of one of those cages? How much
      had he won?

      A body covered in gauzy gray material lay slumped on
      the floor of the cage. Logan stared. Alive? Dead?
      His senses felt dull, negated by powerful pull of some
      unknown mutant. Slowly, the figure roused under the
      pressure of his intense stare. Elegant white hands
      tipped in red pulled the slight frame upright. A
      curtain of mink brown hair masked most of the woman's
      face.

      Slick black lips grinned around gleaming white teeth,
      a glimpse of luscious pink hinted at the moist depths
      of both of the woman's mouths.

      Ignoring the insistent hum of desire that pulled at
      his groin, Logan turned back toward the greater of his
      worries. He frowned. Good old Pete had vanished,
      probably one of his smarter moves. But, classically,
      his departure hadn't signaled the end of whatever
      half-assed reality he now found himself in. Cyclops
      stood, unprotected green eyes burning in their
      sockets, watching him.

      Logan's brow wrinkled as he took in the absurd yellow
      and black spandex outfit that the other man was
      wearing. The nerve endings in the back of his neck
      prickled uncomfortably.

      "I bet *she* would like yellow spandex," Cyclops
      exclaimed, gesturing toward the woman in the cage.

      Strands of snowy white hair clung to the woman's lips
      as she began to laugh. She brushed her strange
      chocolate and vanilla hair from her face and began
      gyrating wildly to the never-ending strains of retro
      funk. The desperate, frantic quality of her voice
      pushed Logan forward.

      "Marie," he exclaimed, "stop it. We have to get you
      out of there."

      At this, the woman laughed harder, collapsing to the
      floor under the weight of sheer absurdity.

      "Logan."

      The gentle lilt of an unexpected southern drawl caused
      Logan to look back over his shoulder. Marie stood
      beside Cyclops, their hands entwined. She was swathed
      in lace and pearls, a hoop and several stiff
      crinolines forcing her long skirt away from her body.
      Giving him a gentle smile, Marie turned to Scott, who
      pulled a length of sheer fabric over her face.

      "We're ready," she said, turning back to him with a
      wry grin. "I have something new, something blue and
      something borrowed. Do you think these," she asked,
      gesturing toward three bloody gashes in her bodice,
      "will qualify as something old?"

      "Oh God, what did I do?" Logan exclaimed. "Not
      again. I swore it would never happen again."

      He tried to rush toward her, but the grasping fingers
      of the woman in the cage held him in place.

      Marie shook her head and looked at Scott
      exasperatedly. "Logan," she said, "you didn't give
      these to me. I gave them to myself." With an
      unconscious flexing of the muscles of her forearms,
      Marie released six smaller replicas of Logan's claws.
      "I wanted them; and, now they're mine."

      With that, she and Cyclops turned and began walking
      out of the room. As they reached the door that led to
      the hall, Marie turned back one last time.

      "Don't wait too long," she said, "you don't want to
      miss out on everything."

      As the door closed behind the couple, Logan tried to
      make sense of what he had seen. Pete and Cyke and
      Marie, mirrors and gesso and the moon, what did it all
      mean? Who the hell was making this happen? It had to
      be more than one of them. The weather, the music, the
      weird shifting of perception, was it a test? If so,
      how was he supposed to pass?

      Logan made a move to cross the room and follow his
      fellow teammates. He managed a single step before the
      hand closed around his wrist. The woman. He couldn't
      seem to recall the moment she had originally
      relinquished her hold on him. It wasn't important.
      She was there now; and, he'd be damned if he'd leave
      her in that cage to rot.

      Turning back toward the metal structure, Logan was
      stunned to see a pair of familiar green eyes.

      "Jean?" He asked.

      Slowly, she pulled herself free from the gauzy gray
      cloud of fabric that had entwined her. Underneath,
      she wore a simple white shift dress. Jean smiled, the
      rich color of her lips eclipsed only by the flame of
      her hair.

      "Ready to let me out?" She asked.

      "Cyke-"

      "-got his uniform from the Professor. That's all he
      ever really needed," she said.

      "Marie-"

      "-got her claws from you. And, that's all she ever
      really wanted."

      Logan opened the cage and helped Jean ease out on to
      the floor.

      "I-"

      "You," Jean said with a grin, "are very wet, which is
      why I brought you the towel. I thought you might need
      some help drying off."

      ***

      Logan awoke with a start. That had to have been the
      most fucked-up dream anyone had ever had. He rubbed
      at his face trying to dispel the remnants of the
      incoherent workings of his mind. Already, as he lay
      there, the images were fading back into the reaches of
      his subconscious.

      Weird.

      Looking at the flashing green light of his alarm
      clock, Logan decided to hit the hay for another hour
      before getting up for a run in the Danger Room. As he
      drifted off to sleep, his hand closed around the soft
      length of a red towel.

      One thing was for sure, no more Fellini movies before
      bed.


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