Delphi (atdelphi) wrote in xmendrabble,

Magneto/Pyro Drabbles

Four drabbles, each 100 words not counting titles. Slash, Magneto/Pyro, rated PG-13 for naughty language.

Drabble #1

“Your name is St. John.”

“Uhm,” John mumbles around his breakfast.

There’s a folder on the table. His school records. He once broke into Xavier’s office to read them. Psychoanalytic bullshit. Johnny doesn’t play well with others.

“Sinjin,” his new boss muses.


Erik smiles at him, faintly. “Sinjin. It’s a derivative of St. John. No one has ever called you that?”

John shakes his head. That little smile always fucks him up. “No,” he says, and shrugs in a way that says Erik’s welcome to be the first.

He’d let Erik be the first in a lot of things.


Fucking meltdown weather. Makes his back stick to the vinyl chair. Makes him do crazy shit like walk into tattoo parlors.

He watches the piercing chick scrub up. The wrapped up needle on the tray looks fucking wicked.

The girl holds up a pair of rings. “These all right?”

He squints at them. “Those surgical steel?”


“That shit’s not magnetic, is it?”

“Nope. Top of the line.”

John frowns. “I need some of the nickel kind.” He looks down at his chest, his nipples hard with the heat and the rubbing alcohol.

He smiles to himself. “S’gotta be magnetic.”

Drabble #3: Breakfast at the Lair

A supervillain is making him breakfast. Well, brunch to be precise.

Magneto is barefoot at the stove, fixing John an omelette. And not just any omelette. This is a serious omelette – peppers, mushrooms, onions. Tons of butter. A splash of wine.

Best he ever got at Xavier’s was pancakes. And that was only on Saturdays. Jubilee always bogarted the blueberry syrup.

Magneto flips the omelette onto the plate. The edges have those little crunchy bits that John loves.

“Bon Appetit,” Magneto says. And places an orange slice on his plate.

John could definitely get used to this bad guy stuff.

Drabble #4: Dinner at the Hilton

You don’t remember me.

Two years ago? Chicago? Your towncar and me...on the corner.

Yeah, that was me.

Never mind. No one in Chicago knew my name. No one knew I was a mutant.

But you knew, didn’t you.

You took me to the Hilton. Paid for the whole night. Ordered up a plate of spaghetti and watched me eat it. You never took off your clothes. You sucked me off, and paid me five times what I asked for.

You told me not to despair.

They say you’re the bad guy. So what the fuck does that make me?

the end.
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