DrWorm (drworm) wrote,
DrWorm
drworm

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Oh... and the beginning of a new fic...

X-Men: Evo, of course.

Even if I am having these awfully tempting Jenner/Justin bunnies hopping up and down in my mind.

Would 'bunny' be the correct term for the idea of a story about two rats? I'm confused...



Saint Valentine Was A Martyr

Lance twisted his hands together, absently rubbing his skin and clenching his fingers into a fist, scraping his nails across his palms and cracking his knuckles. He stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, outside of a heavy oak door that had been left slightly ajar. After several moments of agonizing, he reached out as if to push the door all the way open, but seemed to think better of it and quickly snatched his hand away as if he'd been burned.
C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. Courage, courage, courage. You won't get what you want unless you go ahead and make the move for it, unless you make the effort. You won't be able to stand outside of his door all day, trying to make up your mind; that's what the past month was for.
Besides, today you have the perfect day. The perfect excuse. Take advantage of it before you chicken out and have to wait another year.

Hesitantly, Lance pressed on the door and waited as it opened. Hs expected it to creak- to make some sort of noise, any noise- but it was smugly silent as it swung on its golden hinges. Popping his head into the dimly lit room, he did a complete visual sweep of the premises, his brain excusing his paranoia in light of his agitated state.
The room was a complete mess, filled with junk, stuff, and crap of all shapes and sizes. At least, Lance had to admit to himself, it was organized crap. Clothes were exploding from the dresser made of slowly decomposing wood that they'd picked up by the side of the road. Magazines, books, and assorted reading materials were in the far right corner. CD player and collection were to the left. Sports stuff was molding in the far corner. A few unidentified moving boxes were stacked against the back wall. Miscellaneous crumbled paper and non-offensive garbage was strewn liberally across the floor. And an untouched backpack was keeping time behind the door, freed of responsibilities.
But the dominating focus of the room was a tiny box spring, which the current resident of the room was inhabiting comfortably. Which made this a bedroom.
And the person in the bed was Pietro Maximoff. Which made it Pietro Maximoff's bedroom.
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