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FIC: "All the Way" Magneto/Mystique, NC-17, X2, implied Prof X/Magneto

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  • candycornless
    Title: All the Way Author: candycornless Rating: NC-17 Pairing: Magneto/Mystique, implied Charles/Erik Summary: What happens after Mystique leaves Wolverine s
    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 7, 2003
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      Title: All the Way
      Author: candycornless
      Rating: NC-17
      Pairing: Magneto/Mystique, implied Charles/Erik
      Summary: What happens after Mystique leaves Wolverine's tent in X2.
      Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I am not making money off
      them. And please don't sue me, as I am not making much money off
      anything else, either. :)
      Feedback: Yes, please.


      All the Way

      The tent sat dark and empty in the shadow of a large pine, the open
      flap hanging still, the night too heavy for a breeze to move it.
      Magneto sat alone on the ground by the fire, arms crossed, legs
      stretched out for what warmth would penetrate the metal bottoms of
      his boots. He could just see the tent from here; it sat yawning not
      far from the ring of light. He looked at the motionless flap and had
      to keep from shuddering. He knew from experience that, where heavy
      nights were concerned, a cold one was far worse than a hot.

      But, then again, he *was* outside, wasn't he?

      Magneto smiled. Any kind of night was an improvement over that
      sunless, that moonless cell. He looked up at the stars, at the
      shining belt of Orion, at the comforting presence of the North Star,
      at the wide expanse of an unfinished universe laid out across the
      sky. Sometimes, if he concentrated very hard, he fancied he could
      feel the dauntless determination of the unformed elements: a tingling
      in the tips of his fingers that meant the pull of eager ions, the
      need of the matter-less to join, to merge among the distant galaxies
      and become solid, become earth and metal, form a new world.

      Where was Mystique? He owed her thanks of a sort he had not yet had
      time to give.

      He looked at the empty tent again and frowned. The other tents were
      not far away; they were clustered around the damaged jet like
      fretting drones around a wounded queen bee. Just think—without
      him,
      Charles' precious "X-Men" would be dead. And then where would
      mutantkind be? Magneto's frown deepened. Much closer to dominance and
      freedom, was the answer. He detested his dependence upon bleeding
      hearts; if he could only know everything, be everywhere....

      Stryker had Charles. Magneto felt something turn over uncomfortably
      in his stomach, but with a callousness honed through years of
      practice, he pushed down fear, concern, and—he admitted before
      banishing it—love, to a place he could not feel them. Stryker had
      Charles. How dare he. Jealousy, a thing more familiar, came stealing
      over Magneto: an indignant possessiveness of Charles' mind, a
      knowledge that he had never been able to harness it as Stryker could.
      Anger came over him with such speed and force that the tent blurred
      in his vision. Where *was* Mystique? In someone else's tent, no
      doubt. But he was too tired to stay enraged; he could not hold anger
      the way Mystique could. He could nurse bitterness and disillusionment
      for years and years, but it was not the same. Fury was a drug for
      which his body had little tolerance left. And just as he was too
      tired to hold anger, he was too tired to hold Mystique. She would go
      where she would. She was wise not to let herself be held.

      For a brief moment he wished himself back in his cell, back to empty
      days and long spells of overmedicated sleep, back to helplessness.
      Freedom was glory, but now there was once again a mission, there was
      risk and there was urgency. He had to face up to what he must do.

      What he must do to Charles.

      Enough. Thinking this way would get him nowhere. Magneto thought of
      the composition of steel, and tried to make his will the same. The
      beauty, the perfection, the strength of steel never failed to take
      his breath away. Charles...Charles was the past. He, Magneto, was the
      future. The past existed so that the future might be attained. While
      Stryker had Charles' power, Magneto had to take it from him. And use
      it.

      There was a rustle in the woods to his left, and he turned his head
      sharply in the direction of the sound. He saw her eyes first, bright
      gold in the firelight, watching him. After a few seconds the rest of
      Mystique came into view; she glided silently into the ring of light,
      moving with familiar primeval grace, and sat down on the ground
      several feet from Magneto. He watched the flickering light play off
      her scales, saw how the orange glow seemed to make her deep red hair
      come alive.

      "Where were you?" he said.

      "Nowhere," she answered, her refusal to confess empty of all shame.
      She shifted and sat Indian-style, quietly examined her toenails.

      Magneto looked at her a while before he asked, "What are you thinking
      about?"

      Shifting her scrutiny to her fingernails, Mystique
      replied, "Nothing."

      "And what sort of 'nothing' would that be?"

      She looked at him now. "I suppose," she said, "the same kind of
      nothing that you think about." She returned to her nails.

      He found his fondness for her return with full force, but he could
      not resist the question: "Is it the Wolverine?"

      Mystique did not miss a beat. Turning to him again, she asked, in
      perfect mimicry of Charles' voice, "Is it Xavier?"

      Magneto felt a wide smile unfold itself across his face. "Fair
      enough," he said. He held her gaze a moment, still smiling, then
      gathered the edge of his cape in his fist and stretched out his arm.
      She returned the smile and crawled the short distance between them on
      all fours, settled herself against him as he brought the cape down
      over her. She laid her head on his shoulder and allowed her hand to
      rest possessively on his thigh. He reached down and took the hand
      into his own, brought it out into the dancing light. He suddenly had
      the odd feeling that he had never really seen Mystique before; her
      exotic beauty thrilled him all over again.

      "You know, my dear," he said, turning her hand over, running his
      fingers over the lines of her palm, "they say things are always more
      beautiful in the haze of a fond memory, but in that cell, when I
      tried to remember your hands, they were never this exquisite."

      He turned her hand over again and gently kissed the back of it, the
      scales delightfully rough against his lips. He paused with his mouth
      still close to her skin, then kissed each of her knuckles
      individually, taking his time, moving on to her fingers, taking the
      tips of them into his mouth, teasing them with his tongue. There was
      a soft bristling sound as Mystique's scales began to stand on end all
      over her body; Magneto felt her chest rise and fall faster against
      his. He looked at her and she grinned, teeth shockingly white against
      the dark blue of her face. He chuckled and ran his hand over her
      hair. They rose simultaneously in a mutual understanding and went
      quietly through the night woods to the waiting tent. Here, out of the
      fire's reach, the night enveloped them, thick and blind. They
      communicated by touch: he softly nudging her into the tent, following
      her, zipping the flap behind them at last, closing it with his will.

      He rejoiced in the dark. No cameras, no eyes watching him, no more
      living like a specimen in a jar; here there was only indistinct
      shadow, rawness of sound, nearness, another body so close to his,
      wanting his. Here there was privacy, for satisfaction, for long-
      withheld sport. He found he could not stop touching her; the feeling
      of her, so alive beneath him, kept twisting something inside his
      chest, pricking his eyes until they threatened tears. He sucked her
      neck greedily, moved his hand boldly to the meeting of her thighs;
      she cried out hoarsely and pressed him against her with all her might.

      "Shush," he whispered in her ear. "They'll hear us."

      Mystique pursed her lips and continued to make long, low sounds in
      her throat as Magneto trailed wet kisses over her breasts and
      abdomen. He froze when he encountered the three raised scars just
      above her stomach. He had not seen them up close. Tentatively he
      examined them with his lips. She exhaled sharply and pushed his head
      further down.

      "They're nothing," she said, and gathered his hair in her hands none
      too gently as he moved his head between her legs; it was only moments
      before her hips went mad and her breath came so fast she half-choked
      on it. She arched her back as Magneto parted the zipper of his pants
      without touching it. He felt returned from the dead, intoxicatingly
      invincible as he entered her, began to thrust with power and purpose.

      Mystique gave a soft, raspy laugh and muttered, "Erik, you haven't
      changed at all."

      For a little while she was playful, mocking; she refused to utter a
      sound, to express any enjoyment whatsoever. At last it was too much
      and he gave in, relinquished the fantasy of superhuman virility,
      leaned in to put his face against hers. "Mystique," he moaned, and
      kissed her lips, welcomed her tongue into his mouth. She became
      responsive immediately, emitting pleading whimpers, clutching
      disconnectedly at his clothing. He allowed himself to be overwhelmed,
      let the bombardment of sensation after long suffering to blur his
      other senses. The cold of the night was gone, the Cause was gone,
      there was only the warmth, the reality of Mystique. She came beneath
      him, taking a wad of his cape between her teeth to keep from
      screaming, but he barely noticed; he thought he might crumble into a
      thousand pieces with the intensity of it; it had been so long since
      anything had felt good....

      He broke at last, pleasure bolting through him mercilessly,
      possessing him, and when he came into control again he was in
      Mystique's arms, catching his breath, his face sticky with sweat.

      "I missed you, Erik," said Mystique, sighing contentedly.

      "Not like I missed you," he murmured, and he knew she was smiling
      even though the darkness hid her face from him. In the warm afterglow
      of bliss, Magneto felt sleep stealing over him naturally, a feeling
      his mind associated with Charles, and memories came to him without
      his conjuring them: the smell of the mansion in the springtime, the
      way the wisteria crept, wilting-sweet and heavy, down to the basement
      on a lost breeze, how it mixed with the smell of grease and
      electricity, filled his and Charles' nostrils with hope and purpose.
      He remembered the gentleness of Charles' hands, the comforting
      presence of hushed lullabies inside his mind, sleepy tunes filling up
      the black spaces there. But now those spaces were empty again, musty
      and foul like buried bones with no hope of warming sunlight. He
      pulled away from Mystique and rolled over to face the cold dark of
      the tent.

      "What is it?" she demanded.

      "You know what it is," he replied, and shivered miserably.

      She paused. An owl hooted somewhere outside the tent in the long
      silence; the barely audible sound of flapping wings passed over them.

      "You're not having second thoughts, are you? Not after all I went
      through to get you out of there? Not after I took *this* for you?"
      She grabbed his hand and pressed it roughly against her scars. He was
      suddenly struck with the image of the adamantium claws penetrating
      her, driving their cold, unbending length into the closeness and heat
      of her entrails, marring the rare and exotic perfection of her body.

      He drew a long breath. "How deep?" he said.

      "All the way."

      "Then that, my dear, is the way we shall fight. And I could ask for
      no better warrior." He took her hand in his, kissed it again, and
      with one accord they nestled into one another's embraces. The urge to
      sleep was gone, and he felt Mystique lying wakeful beside him, but
      Magneto felt then the sort of peace that came from a bargain made,
      and welcomed the length of the night ahead of him: time for thought,
      for plot-making, for whispers and secrets, preparation for what they
      must soon do.
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