Title: Paint it Black Author: A.j. (Aj2245@yahoo.com) Rating: NC-17 (My first!) Category: Angst, angst, and more angst. No, I'm not kidding. This isn't even slightly fluffy. At all. Well, there's sex too, but it's not very pretty. Archiving: Want? Take. It'll go up on The Peach Tree (www.the-family- archives/thepeachtree/) eventually. Disclaimer: So. Not. Mine. At all. Everything belongs to Marvel, even the screwed-up-ed-ness. Spoilers/Continuity: AU. Let's say Scott wandered off after Jean and Wolvie started doing 'things'. Definitely after 'Search for Cyclops'. Notes: Soooooo. This is different. This came about because Kossie dared Timey to write Scott/Dom. I somehow decided that it was a good enough dare and (mostly because it squicked Timey) decided to go for it. You go ahead and decided whether or not it was a good idea. *** Paint it Black *** "Have to let it go, It's time to let it go. Now I can't believe Took so long to leave... Perhaps one day, I'll grieve, Or I never will." -Bare Naked Ladies "Told You So" *** Domino is beautiful in leather. Scott's never noticed that before. There are reasons for that, of course. Very good ones. He's noticing it now. Quite clearly. There certainly is something about a woman in a half-undone leather corset that's sucking your brain out your dick. He's really having a hard time noticing much else, to tell the truth. And if he were twelve – or in any other situation, really – he'd smile about that pun. But he's not, so he doesn't. No, he just tilts his head back and moans. She is beautiful picture like this. Her eyes closed, cheeks alternating between hollow and full. Her hair, shorter than he's seen it, is still long enough to feather his thighs, tickling. It's an amazing sight. And sad too. Because even like this, especially like this, he can see how broken she is. He's not sure why he never noticed it before. Then again, people don't really try to find things they want to avoid. And he's been telling himself he's fine for so, damn long. He hasn't been. And neither has she. Because when he started to really look, he found her. He hadn't recognized her at first. It had been a long time since he'd seen her ghosting behind his son, a deadly shadow. In the way of things, she was younger now. The lines he vaguely remembered gone, leaving pale skin smooth and soft. He sighs as her cheek brushes his thigh and fists the coal-dark hair. She's warm and soft, and smells of cigarettes. He doesn't remember that either. But memory is a tricky thing, and the round globes of her breasts and her talented tongue are more than distracting. Up. Down. Push. Pull. Sex has never been like this. Not with anyone else. And he's so, so grateful for that. Because for the first time in so, so long, there's no pretend. Not here. He hurts. She hurts. They hurt. They share. If they were sharing a cup of coffee and a laborious discussion on how Their Lives Stink, people would applaud. And sympathize. There would be pitying looks and comments about How Sad it was. He can't help the groan as she sucks his left nut into her warm little mouth. No. He's had enough of that. He's tired and finished with that drama, and from the rather enthusiastic blowjob he's receiving, it's obvious she feels the same way. Probably. That's another thing that's changed. She doesn't talk anymore. He noticed it at the bar, right before they left. There'd been no words. Just a strange sort of understanding. The lack of alcohol on both their parts, and the softest kiss... He wasn't sure who'd initiated it. It had just happened, right there between the spindly legs of a bar stool and the beer nuts. And it - THIS - just was. One way or another, he'd lived with a telepath prancing through his brain for almost fifteen years. Scott'd never had that gift, and going some of the places he had, he knew he never wanted it. But Domino - never NEVER Dom - had been attached for almost as long. Headblind as they were... it was just so damn simple. Open your eyes, look and understand. See what's missing. They were rotting at the end of psi-links. Busted little pieces dangling on a tattered string that just. Wouldn't. Break. He can't live like that anymore, and although he's not sure, he doesn't think she can either. She wouldn't be here if she could. Probably. But he wasn't a telepath, was he? Now her hands were trailing up and down his thighs, her nails scoring the short hairs sprinkled lightly across his skin. And for a moment - one lone, pitiful moment - he saw another head, and felt another mouth, and watched as different hands performed the exact same act. Because that was all he'd known, and it was something he'd loved for so, so long. The mask fades though, leaving this woman and this place and this act. It's about control. Taking it. Abandoning it. Which is why he lets her hair go and smoothes his hands down the slope of her back, around and up to her breasts. Giving them a slight, if somewhat sharp, squeeze, they continue up until they're cupping her chin. With just a slight push, her face raises taking her mouth off him. Her lips pop as they break seal, and suddenly she's looking at him. Eyes wide and so incredibly sad. She nods, again understanding that it's time for this. For it. And just like that, she's on his lap, pushing him back towards the headboard. Pleasure spikes as they're both reminded that friction can be very, very good. With a quick check he notes that she's been multi-tasking all the while, and she's more or less ready for what's next. Carefully, he turns her so it's him cradled between her legs. He can see her like this, laid bare before him. Waiting. "Are you sure?" Because he needs to leave her this out. Deeper than the control or the pain or everything, there is that. Because there is a center to Scott Summers that not even life has touched, and it demands this. They're in this together. He needs to know that. He needs her to be sure. Because if she's not, he'll end this. Right here. Right now. "Fuck. Me." The ankles locked behind his back agree. It's enough. And he enters her, deep and hard. He can feel whatever this is growing stronger. Scott groans as he hits her cervix, trying like hell to block out her surprised squawk. Pleasure, pain. It's all the same, right? No, not really. This is about pain. Her screaming in his ear and her nails in his back aren't beautiful or good. They're bad and wrong and twisted, just like this thing. In. Out. Her thighs are soft and hard against his, and so incredibly strong. Break, smash, rend. Tear out any bit of the thing, so there's nothing left. Just scars where something pretty used to be. Because they aren't so pretty now, are they? He wants to excise all of it. A baptism of fire for the soul. Because being here, being inside this woman, is the last betrayal in a very long string. This is the end. Because after this is over, and you part ways, there is no going back. Burn, London Bridge, burn. Domino tastes of ashes and scotch. Not something he's used to. But it fits, here in this bed. Yes, say her name. Think it. Know who's here with you, because it's important. Domino. The woman, the idea. But at the same time, she isn't her. She's Jean, and Maddy, and Lee. She's Logan, and Nate, and Rachel, and Charles. She's his life embodied. And she knows that when his lips skim her forehead and eyes and nose and chin, hers isn't the face he's kissing. Because just like her, his lips aren't his own. But they're so, so similar to Nate's. And they both, him and her, need the similarities for this. Otherwise, the sticky tack holding them together will fail, and all the kings horses... Things that are broken don't get fixed by themselves. He can see the jagged pieces behind her eyes. They're more obvious here in this place, doing this thing than they were in the bar. He knows that if she could look him in the eye, she'd see the same thing. Maybe she does anyway. Maybe that's why she's letting him cut her like this. Turn about and fair play. He flips her then, being careful not to dislodge himself. Because as much as this is about pain, it's about control too, and for as long as he's clung to that illusion, she's never believed it. Domino's lips smile at him from their new position, and she pushes down. "Like this?" "No talking." She nods and lifts herself, just a bit. "Right." Then there's nothing but the sound of skin on skin. Up. Down. Push. Pull. Fucking. Smell, taste, sight, sound, feeling... all of it Domino. Spicy and so incredibly different. And not him. Because here, he lets it go. Suddenly, he isn't here. He isn't in a far away hotel room fucking himself stupid with the one woman on earth he shouldn't even be having sexual thoughts about. No, he's standing in a vast, open plane with nothing around for miles except Her. The other. Green and red spike through his mind, roaring through everything he is, or ever was... and then he feels it. Her. It. Cracking. That's the only word he can think of. The pain is intense, and even this far away from himself, and from his body, he can hear the screaming. Maybe it's just in his own head. The realization isn't very comforting. Nothing can be. Because She's here. Right there. Staring at him with those big, green eyes that can break him so easily. And they have. Too many times. "Why?" She's sad. There's a time he would have killed himself if he'd heard that tone. It wasn't so very long ago. But time, and reality are very different things. "WHY?" There's only one answer, really. "Because this has to end." She smiles, her energy not nearly as bright as it could be, and nods. And for the last time, he leans over and kisses his wife. In the same instant, he feels his body release itself into the other. Into Domino. And it's gone. Everything but the pain. And he thinks that when all of it starts to abate, it might not be so bad. Because as contrary as it sounds, pain can heal. Life retakes even the most scarred landscapes. And sometimes, what a soul needs is destruction so that it can make itself whole. Curled tightly around his son's ex-lover, Scott Summers hopes this to be true.