Title: Twisted
Author: Spyke Raven
Email: spyke_raven@yahoo.comSummary: Cyclops POV of the very special relationship between him, Jean and Charles Xavier. Read at your own risk.
Rating: NC-17. Please do NOT read if underage.
Genre: Bad language, disturbing thoughts, many, MANY references to m/m sex and sado-masochism. I also count references to 2 m/m pairs and 2 m/f. Not a romance. Genre? I'd say, angst. Read at your own risk.
Feedback: Much appreciated
Dedication: To Bishy-Kat, who has the most beautifully convoluted mind I know.
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**
It's interesting that when I fucked him, he looked straight into my eyes, unflinching. Not smiling of course, (too much to ask?) but at least he looked at me.
When he fucked me, (fingers only, hah!) I thrust my head into a pillow and refused to think beyond rough shoves and jabs.
Fingers only. He missed the prostrate. I know now, because it's the image I hold. At night, after she's gone to him. When it's just me alone and aching, remembering it all.
Maybe that was his attempt at love. I don't know. Maybe that was how he tried to love me.
It didn't work. And I'm glad.
It was only once.
Wish it had never been.
**
Jean cuts herself. I know she does.
At the age of fifteen their pain overwhelmed her.
Faceless, nameless, HEARTLESS 'they'.
Random people who broadcast their emotions far too loud for her sensitive ears.
She took the knife to her wrists, not hoping to drown their pain, but at least needing...
Needing to make her body respond.
Respond to what?
The pain in her heart.
Stupid fucks.
She's not the only one.
**
That's how it started. That's what she tells me. At the age of fifteen when she took the knife to her wrists, she heard a voice telling her, "Too close. Higher."
So she learnt how to place cuts in invisible areas that hurt the most.
Armpits. Upper arms. Below her breasts, Amazon like. Even the folds - but he stopped her there. I should be grateful.
Bastard King.
He made her lie to me.
**
At seventeen he called her, and she came, with the knife. It was hidden in her dress somewhere. God knows where; she was a babe at seventeen.
I know. I saw pictures. All the pictures in her mind.
"Sit down," he told her. And closed the doors to all prying eyes.
She sat and she trembled. Till he rolled up his sleeves and showed her.
I've seen it myself. It made me cry too.
Cuts. Bruises. Old slashes. Deep pain.
Remnants of dark nights and aged hate.
She cried because she recognised him. I cried because I hate him. We both cried, together, separately, and all the while he sat emotionless.
I hate him. He hates himself.(Oh, twisted love.) My fallen King.
He took her then. It began that night.
They used the knives to mix their blood. Never touched, except the mind. (And the soul; that's where it counts.)
Some strange, tormented, loathed passion. The two of them weren't the only ghosts there. He used her in place of the man he'd lost. Used her again, and again that night. Till she sobbed with the pain and screamed with the need and that night became every night. And again and again and again...
**
They were happy I suppose, in some strange way, together. So why'd mess it up? Why choose me?
To be Crown Prince. Court Fool.
Why the fuck choose me?
I was chosen for her. Not for him, but for her.
He only took me once, and that was as a gift.
**
So I was young. She was my first. I thought maybe all women were born that way.
Tracing lines, half-healed scars. I believed her when she said "Fencing lessons."
She was my love. She still is. I'd believe my own death if she told me.
Some places were so secret, so strange to have wound marks - but back then all flesh was strange. I'd never seen. Never touched. But her gasps were real and I couldn't believe my luck.
I must have slept deeply, because I didn't feel her leave.
She left that night. And every night.
She leaves every night. After we
**
She goes to him.
They fuck differently.
Maybe not love. It hurts too much.
(Take knives to skin. Cut flesh so it bleeds. Open minds, close hearts, let the pain be all...)
Where does it change from obsession to need?
Such twisted consummation. I've felt it in the dark nights with Jean open under me, gasping, denying... now I'll press on, demanding. Slicing, cutting, with words, flesh or nails. Whatever weapon I have, I'll use. I gain her surrender. Now I need it too badly.
She gives in now. Never did then.
Never wanted me to know, I suppose.
**
How could they think I wouldn't know?
Maybe they hoped I'd never find out.
Oh God, that hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
I hate him. I love her.
I fucked him.
I need her.
**
A year. It took a bloody year before the Crown Prince stopped being a fool.
Too careless, Jean. Not the inner elbow. No, not there. You shouldn't have. You wouldn't have. He must have told you. It must have been.
Did you tell him how I love to kiss that skin? Gently touch lips and feel the veins throbbing with need? I bit you there, that night - put my brand on you. Possessive, because I feared you weren't mine.
Is that why he told you to mark yourself there?
That part of you. Was part of me. The part. Where I.
You're mine. I'm yours.
Aren't you?
Isn't he?
**
He went too far.
So did I.
"Come in Scott."
The words were strange, unnatural. Warm, as always, but now the room's too cold.
"There's something I want to ask you, sir," and he looked at me and knew.
And knowing, closed heart and mind, and took me inside to see.
**
There were no words. Only scars.
I undressed him. He wouldn't touch me.
Slowly. So carefully, I peeled off layers and layers of cloth and skin. Revealed the man. He was still my King.
My bid for power would have become worship. If he'd let me... but he didn't. Instead... instead.
Instead he let me fuck him. Hard and foolish as I was.
His body became a temple. A temple I desecrated.
**
He was tight, yes. Hot, no. When blood runs cold, there's no cure for the chill.
No lube. No preparation. Just its-my-first-time-here Scott, learning loss of control.
You tell me if I hurt him.
You tell me if he hurt me.
And when we fucked - no, I fucked him - he looked at me and I died.
**
Revenge or love?
Whose?
Somewhere it became mine.
The new scars pulled a little. I picked at the scabs, thinking 'Why?'
I nearly asked him but remembered it wasn't allowed.
No contact. Not like that. Not mouth to mouth; kiss to kiss. Skin to skin - only to take, to bleed. If it doesn't hurt, it won't be allowed.
But my words would have hurt. He should have let me say.
**
Afterwards, I came back to Jean. Who knew, of course, before I told her.
Didn't she? Think it showed...
Don't know now. Don't care anyway.
She took to the knife. The knife I used. And she didn't cut me. Because she knew I bled.
From the heart, see? From the mouth, from the tongue...
From the lies you both told me.
Oh, I bleed, I bleed.
When they're fucking with knives I use fingers to bleed. And I hope, every night, it's my pain that they feel.
**
Afterwards we talked. Jean and I. Compromised. Maybe we shouldn't have, but we did.
We decided. What we decided.
We decided it will always be.
**
If he wanted me like I want him -
But he doesn't. And he won't. So I don't touch him, though I want to.
Christ yes, I want to, but he doesn't want me. I'm too young, too male. Too much like the other.
So much like the other, he won't let him want me.
So she is our link and our blood. I take her. She takes me. He takes the two of us in, together. My blood becomes her blood; my seed becomes his need...
Somewhere, deep inside him, is a place where this is all worked out.
At least I hope it is. I'm damned if I can work this out.
Strange isn't it? I trust him. I trust him to hold us together and pull us through. I trust him, though I hate him, because once he made the blind to see.
And I still love her though I want him. Which makes us one Royally Fucked Up Trinity.
End.