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Fic - Pyro - Some Kind of Boy 12

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  • Tara Ann
    Title: Someone s Favorite Possession (Some Kind of Boy – story 12) author: Tara Ann summary: John doesn t want to give Jill up. X2 Rating/warning &
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 14, 2005
      Title: Someone's Favorite Possession (Some Kind of Boy – story 12)
      author: Tara Ann
      summary: John doesn't want to give Jill up. X2
      Rating/warning & pairing: NC-17 for sexual content. Pyro/Jill
      *Characters do not belong to me except for Jill – she is mine and
      looks like Claire Danes.
      *Lyrics taken from "Offend in Every Way" by The White Stripes.
      ***Line belongs to me.
      ** I've liked Pyro from the first moment I saw him in X2. He's
      complex with confidence and vulnerability. I only hope I give St.
      John Allerdyce the respect and understanding he deserves. He is the
      boy with the soft edges and the palest pout.

      the fire burning inside is breaking me***

      I'll wait another day before I turn away
      but know this much is true
      no matter what I do
      offend in every way
      I don't know what to say
      but how much can I fake
      I'll speak until I break
      with every word I say
      offend in every way*

      Something was eating John Allerdyce from the inside out; it was too
      angry to be empty. He sat on the bed staring into the flame from his
      metal shark-mouthed lighter. Then he flicked it closed, open,
      closed, open, closed . . . his fingers itched quietly when he wasn't
      holding it. John had very few possessions he felt connected to – his
      lighter being the most important. He liked his brown leather jacket,
      too; he felt it gave him presence. He also put a lot of effort into
      his hair, slicking it back into the perfect rebel handsome bad boy
      style, but he would shrug it off if confronted. When Jill entered
      the room he didn't look up at her even though she made his fingers
      itch less.
      "Practicing," she said.
      "Practicing what?" said John. The expanded curling of the flame
      reflected like burning gold in his dark eyes. It moved towards Jill
      like ocean waves and coiled loosely around her tiny wrist.
      Blazie, the orange furball kitten with the bright yellow eyes watched
      the flame roll and meowed, rubbing up against Jill's ankle. The baby
      cat purred loudly and Jill stroked its small ear.
      She looked at him, her blue-hazel eyes innocent. That was when John
      noticed she wasn't wearing her signature smoky green eye shadow.
      Jill looked different in a rose-colored lady hat and matching
      corduroy pants. She unwrapped the blue and white stripped fleece
      scarf from around her delicate neck, the fire bracelet glowing around
      her pale wrist in tiny ripples.
      John Allerdyce believed he owned fire, but he could feel it consuming
      him and he was starting to lose his sense of self outside his mutant
      talent. Jill's girl flesh was his safety net. He was connected to
      his lighter, to the fire he manipulated with rigorous and sleek
      skill, and he hoped he was connected to Jill.
      "It's getting chilly willy outside," she said.
      "Did you cut your hair?" John said, flicking his lighter closed. It
      was six in the evening and he was wearing navy blue pajama pants and
      a gray tee shirt.
      "No," she said. "It's under the hat."
      He studied the peculiar shape of her face, the scar on her chin
      unmistakable. She stretched the scarf out and said, "I'm going to
      tie you up and tickle you until you can't stop laughing."
      John placed his lighter beside his thigh, his dark-brown eyes
      lighting up with new interest. "Where are you gonna tickle me?"
      Jill smiled. "I'm not a nasty girl."
      John nodded and smiled, the slithering twinkle in his eyes less than
      casual. "I think you are."
      "Maybe I'll blindfold you."
      His eyes glazed over the fire bracelet and when she walked to the
      foot of the bed he clasped his hand over it, his fingers tenderly
      tight against her skin.
      "I like your hair," he said. "I don't want you to hide it."
      "I know," she said. She reached her hands up above her head and
      slowly removed her hat.
      John held her small hips, his hands pulling up her shirt, his lips
      whispering over her jasmine milk skin. Her dirty blonde hair
      cascaded around her like the sea. He rubbed his cut cheek against
      her stomach.
      Logan had punched him the day before; then Rogue had slapped him.
      Logan felt bad about hitting the kid, but limits were being pushed.
      The truth was that John couldn't suavely avoid all the punches that
      would surely be coming his way; maybe the first one could change his
      Jill looked down at the wicked cut on his left cheek and brushed her
      fingers gently upon his skin just below it.
      "It hurts more than I thought it would," he said. Then he smiled
      faintly, his eyes gleaming dully in silent confusion.
      He knew he irritated people enough to make them want to hit him, but
      he'd never expected it from Logan. It heightened his secret fear
      that he wasn't good enough for them, for Jill, and that maybe he
      deserved the badness he could feel creeping through his blood and
      searing his skin.
      It also reminded him of how he couldn't fight back without fire.
      Maybe his father had been right about him being weak; he wondered if
      his mother had ever thought the same. The fire he manipulated had
      been his only true confidant for so long; he could tell Jill things,
      but she couldn't ever really understand what it was like for him.
      She wasn't like him and even those who were like him didn't know;
      maybe he just didn't talk to them enough. Maybe Logan knew; he was
      different from everyone else. John related to him more than the
      others at the mansion and despite the punching incident the guy was
      still letting the boy crash at his apartment.
      John didn't fight with his fists; he fought with fire and he didn't
      fight fair. Why should he? The simple fact that he could fight back
      with a single flame made him want to lash out at everyone and
      everything; the destruction he caused was invigorating and it was
      pointless to regret even one moment of it. Sometimes he felt he was
      loosing his mind and his sense of self only seemed centered when he
      was wreaking mass destruction with fireballs and elaborate wicked
      shapes; it was the only time he felt invincible. John didn't like
      uncomfortable silences and he didn't like feeling vulnerable. People
      who messed with him deserved to get burned. When he wasn't sparking
      fire tricks, thrills, and treats he could sense something wasn't
      right inside himself. The sensitivity inside him burned in eternal
      embers waiting too long to be rekindled and the more darkness he
      swallowed the more distant he felt himself becoming. Sometimes he
      wanted to watch the world fall apart without him through dark eyes
      screaming in silent longing, but the fire inside him wouldn't let him.
      Sometimes he thought about returning to Xavier's school and
      pretending his disaffection and discontentment didn't exist, but he
      was tired of pretending. He knew if he did return he didn't want to
      become one of the X-Men. He had thought about it, but there was
      something about the whole idea of it that didn't settle in his
      stomach the way he wished it would. Maybe he could find some sort of
      happy life writing and turning his cheek to the fire he enjoyed
      unleashing on to everyone and the world. He didn't believe in
      hiding, but it seemed like the only solution to soothing his soul,
      body, and mind. He was confident enough, but sometimes even his self-
      confidence wasn't real. The fire was real, his fire . . .
      "John," said Jill, and he realized her voice wasn't enough. It was
      supposed to be, but it wasn't.
      He looked up at her, his face silent, his eyes like black glass.
      She wrinkled her eyebrows, searching him and tears began to flood her
      "Are you starting to feel dead?" she said, towering over him in
      softness and grace. "It comes and goes. When it comes you feel it
      hard and when it goes you still can't breathe because you know it
      won't be long before it comes back and if it's gone for too long you
      start to wonder where it is. You become dependent on feeling so
      empty and lonely and when you don't feel it, anymore, you become lost
      so you start to fabricate more of it because you don't feel real
      without it. The twist is you don't feel real with it, either.
      "You've felt the one way for too long so that when you do feel
      something different and something good you know you have to ruin it
      any way you can because you decided that you like the misery and the
      pathetic pain. It's the only real thing you know, smiling and
      laughing become intangible ideals.
      "Once it wasn't your fault, but there was one moment where it left
      and you decided to hold it close, that's when it became your fault.
      You know it's your own fault, but you still continue to blame
      everyone else because they failed you. They won't understand this,
      and you could explain it to them, but they still won't understand.
      "You feel it burning. I feel it cutting. Sometimes I fantasized
      about slashing my face into nothing but thorn scratches and blood.
      Sometimes when I'm happy I remember that it goes against the image I
      tried so hard to maintain for too long, the identity I forced upon
      myself, the me I slipped into. You can't let yourself become too
      comfortable or you'll never try to leave it behind. I told myself I
      wanted to, but I was too lazy. It's still inside me."
      "You don't cut, anymore," said John.
      "No," she said, "but sometimes I hear it breathing in my skin and I
      feel like I have to just because I used to."
      He didn't think he'd ever heard her talk so much in one breath before
      and he realized he could probably share more conversation with her.
      Jill kneeled in front of him, her hands on his thighs.
      "The world seems boring to people like us. I still don't really feel
      like the me I'd thought I'd be, but I'm me and it's good," she said
      and shrugged. "I've decided that I'm going to play out every side I
      ever wanted to. I kept waiting for the day I would kill myself, but
      I know it will never happen so I content myself with the little
      things like jack-o'-lanterns and squirrels and Oriental babies."
      John smiled. "Why Oriental babies?"
      "They're cute," said Jill. "I helped with Bible School once, not
      because I cared about teaching God stuff, I couldn't be less
      interested in that, I just wanted to be with the little kids. They
      liked me."
      "You want kids?"
      Jill tilted her head to the side and smiled strangely. "With you?"
      "No," said John. "Not with me. I can't have kids."
      "You don't like them?"
      "I just can't have them," he said. "They might come out . . . like
      "That shouldn't matter," Jill said.
      John nodded. "It shouldn't, but it will."
      He told himself he never wanted to have kids, but he imagined it
      would be more than nice to have a perfect little girl.
      Jill leaned towards him and kissed his lips. "I love you John
      Allerdyce. I don't know in what way I love you, but I know I do."
      "Do you wanna go get something to eat?"
      "No," Jill said, shaking her head. "Your skin smells like coconut."
      "Do I give you more than casual thrills?"
      "Yes you do." She smiled and nodded. "My hands are cold. Could you
      warm them?"
      "I'll keep you warm until you say so," said John. He flicked his
      lighter open, let the flame caress his palm and fingers. Jill held
      her hands above his. Then he closed his hands over the fire and took
      her hands, wrapping them in his tee shirt.
      She nodded and smiled lolly pop lopsided. "Yep."
      Jill pushed him down on to the bed, her hands sliding underneath his
      shirt and over his skin.
      "I didn't want to touch you with cold hands," she said. "I kind of
      have bad circulation."
      "It's okay," he said.
      She climbed up on the bed beside him and slipped her hand down his
      pants, holding him, petting him, her fingertips tickling him slow.
      He closed his eyes and she laid her cheek upon his stomach.
      "I bet you're glad you warmed me up," she said.
      He moaned softly and decided to surrender to her. She delighted in
      playing dominant for once; she wondered how submissive he could be
      for her. The casual dominance during sex that John Allerdyce exuded
      so effortlessly was really just another pretense he felt he was
      expected to maintain; it was the only way he could control the
      situation and he needed to be in control to feel safe. He didn't
      lack complete self-confidence, but having someone else in control
      made him feel more relaxed and connected to himself and to the
      someone else. He used sex to release everything inside him he didn't
      like; he took the obvious pleasure in it, but once it was over he
      never felt any different and sometimes he thought it was pointless.
      Most of the sexual encounters in his young life had been meaningless;
      the complete opposite of what he wanted.
      Every time he made love with Jill he felt he was getting closer and
      closer to what he wanted; he was afraid that once he found it he
      wouldn't want it anymore or that it would be sadly disappointing.
      Still, he believed Jillian La Boy was the one girl he would love
      forever; the type of love that if ever lost would haunt him for the
      rest of his life in soft colors and vibrant scars. He believed if he
      loved her too much he would lose her. He also believed the world was
      against him and Jill would be the precious sacrifice.
      He wanted to open his eyes and make certain she was really there,
      that her hand was really where it was, but he was afraid if he
      glanced at her the wrong way she would vanish. His pants were pulled
      off his hips to his knees, her hand caressing between his thighs, her
      gentle knuckles nudging his balls. Her kisses stung him like warm
      whiskey with honey, her tender lips offering him delusional
      contentment. Sometimes he felt she wanted to devour him up as much
      as he wanted to let himself be devoured.
      John pretended he didn't need the photos of his family. Maybe he
      just wanted to be someone's favorite possession.
      If he returned to Xavier's school he knew he could hold on to Jill
      for a little while longer. He knew he couldn't stay there; the
      burning itch under his skin wouldn't allow it. He could persevere
      for Jill because it was the only way.
      He listened to the sounds of ecstasy his own voice made when she took
      him in her mouth; the tiny gasps and huffy moans sounded almost as
      unfamiliar as hers sometimes did. His hand clasped around his shark-
      mouthed lighter, the metal warm from the rising heat of his body.
      She licked him, kissed him, and he released his hold on his lighter,
      his fingers interlaced within the soft strands of her jasmine honey
      John didn't think he could ever feel harder; he no longer felt the
      throbbing cut on his cheek. He wanted Jill to swallow everything up
      he didn't like and he realized she was right; he was afraid that her
      being with him would make her dirty and she couldn't be dirty. It
      was why he wanted her and needed her; she made him feel good. She
      made the edges softer and easier to find. Jill wasn't just his
      girlfriend; she was his fairytale.
      The little match girl. His little match girl. Goddess, princess,
      queen. He could taste her smile in his sleep. There was just one
      problem. The little match girl burned herself to death.
      "I don't think I can swallow this," she said, looking up at
      him. "It's not because I don't like you."
      John opened his eyes, dazed, his breathing constant and ready; the
      ceiling seemed higher than usual. He sat up halfway, resting his
      weight on his elbows, his mouth slightly open and his eyes gleaming
      with interrupted fever.
      She was still there, still with him, and for one moment it was like
      time halted too suddenly. The intensity of the moment had been
      startled by her innocent uncertainty. He smiled slightly and took
      off his shirt, tossing it to her.
      "It's okay," he said, his cheeks glowing softly like lush
      embers. "Just spit it out."
      "In your shirt?"
      "Yes. Please," he said, his voice casually potent, and laid back
      again, except he couldn't close his eyes and he was forced to realize
      that everything was real.
      Not for too long, though, because several seconds after she took him
      in her mouth he came. John closed his eyes and licked his lips, his
      eager breathing easing into complete sedation.
      Jill watched him quietly, her finger stroking his hipbone. She
      stared down at his exhausted penis, waiting for him to say something.
      "You're uncomfortable with being comfortable," she said. "Pretty
      little possession. There's no such thing."
      He reached for his pants, his eyes still closed, and pulled them up
      halfway. Then he looked at her and she smiled half-heartedly. He
      took his shirt from her hands and tossed it on the floor.
      "Did it suck?"
      Her voice sounded unusually sad and he ignored it.
      "In all the right places," he said. "When I started having wet
      dreams I made my bed so my mother wouldn't know, but she knew. They
      just know. She tussled my hair and said, `My little spitfire.'"
      "Can you be my little spitfire?"
      "Sure," he said. "She really liked movies. She always made me watch
      them with her or she'd take me to see them."
      "We could go to the movies tomorrow," said Jill. She paused and
      pressed her lips together, licking them quickly. "I did try to kill
      myself once. I walked into the sailboat lake."
      "In Central Park? Near Alice?"
      "Yeah," she said. "I closed my eyes and floated. The water doesn't
      have to be that deep to drown in it. It wasn't for Ophelia."
      He stared at her, fascinated by her darling idiosyncrasies. "What
      "I held my breath, squeezed my eyes shut really tight, and decided it
      was stupid. For me, not for Ophelia."
      "Oh," he said.
      "I'm not the crazy little chica that could," said Jill.
      She smiled and combed her slender fingers through his slicked back
      dark hair. His eyes gazed at her sexy sleepy.
      John memorized her smile. She was saved. She could never get dirty.
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