She said she came for fun. I don't know. That may be true; she was definitely crazy enough to think of menacing me with a gun and playing make-out-with-the-enemy as fun.

Me, though, I got no problems with revenge. In fact, you could even say I'm heavily invested in the idea.

I'm sitting in a bar at midnight, somewhere in Los Angeles. There's a girl two seats down looks like she's pretty interested in a li'l game of strip poker, but I'm ignoring her. Right now, there's only one woman on my mind.

There's part of me, crazy as it sounds, thinks that that whole scenario was pretty fucking hot. I don't get that. I wish I could just compartmentalize it away, like they say guys are so good at, but I've never been all that good at emotion control. That's not to say I can't smooth over my face, but inside, at least, I don't get rid of what I'm feeling. And right now, I'm feeling a little confused. Conflicted, you might say. See, the one part wants to find her, let her chain me to a cheap motel bed and fuck her till neither of us remembers who killed who when. The other part, 'course, wants to chain her up, rip her heart out and set it on fire while she watches.

The nice thing is, both of those sides of my head agree on one key point:

Hunting down Kitty Pryde.

"'Nother," I call to the bartender, slapping the wood in front of my left elbow. He ambles over, slaps down a shot glass. I down it, my throat burning faintly. The bartender gestures to his eye.

"Somebody likes you," he comments dryly. I raise my hand and touch the lump on my own brow, one side of my mouth crooking up.

"You could say that," I reply. I remember her hitting me with the gun, just taking it and whaling at me. The crooked smile spreads a little, the horny side taking over. Nothing wrong with a little S&M, in my book. Never expected Ghost Girl to get a yen for the dominatrix side of things, though. Still, she seems to have taken to it. I have another flash of memory, this one of her kissing me, her lip between my teeth, her hands shoving me to the floor. My hand clenches on the shot glass reflexively. It shatters across the bar top, leaving me with the thick base in my fingers. The bartender looks over, sees the broken glass, and goes back to his job. I drop the base, pulling a sliver of glass out of the pad of my thumb with a hiss. Blood wells up, dripping down to the meat of my palm.

She hit me. That's ok; I like a woman with confidence. You know, just as long as she knows I'll hit back twice as hard.

When she doesn't have a goddamn gun in my face, that is.

And there's the rub, isn't it?

She made me kneel. She had me on my knees. I kneel for no one, least of all some tripping, war-fucked nympho who can't decide if she wants to fuck me or hurt me or both.

The girl two seats down gets up, saunters over, slides a hand down my shoulder.

"Baby, wanna have some fun? I could make that cut all… better…" She smiles at me, seductively wanton. I turn my head and look at her. She's got dark hair, like Kitty's, but it's longer. Her skin isn't as pale, her eyes not quite as deep brown. I shrug her hand away.

"Not tonight," I tell her, sliding off the barstool. She sees something in my face, maybe, because there are no more cajoling attempts to talk me into her bed.

I'm walking out of the bar, leaving a sexy girl who just wants a good time, and I'm all too aware of the reason why.

The real problem isn't that I almost got shot with a Cure bullet.

It isn't that I was chased down and cornered by an X-Man.

It isn't even that Kitty Pryde got the better of me.

The real problem is, even though there's no way she's getting away with what she did to me… What she did to me left me wanting more.

"Fucking whore," I snarl, my Doc Martins scuffing loudly against the pavement as I head towards my bike. You don't really think that. You really want her to hurt you just a little more, maybe let you touch her just a little bit higher, kiss her somewhere besides her mou-

I shut that voice down, swinging my leg over the seat of my motorcycle and running a hand through my hair. Sure. I can admit things to myself. I'm not a fan of denial. I want her. But that's just because she kissed me, yeah? Any guy is bound to get turned on by a woman with a weapon, especially a woman with a weapon who kisses you like you're both on fire and the only way to put it out is by getting your two mouths as close as possible.

But I have priorities, and those priorities do not include playing sub to Kitty's dom. She got me to submit once, and she needed a threat way worse than a couple bruises and a scar to do it. This time, we're playing the game by my rules. I'm not just some streetwalker she picked up to scratch her little sadomasochistic itch.

I'm Pyro, the one who killed Bobby Drake and watched Warren Worthington take a dive even his precious white wings couldn't save him from. I'm the one who turned his back on everything life ever gave before life could take it away again, and became the living embodiment of everything the humans feared.

And I bow to nobody.

I rev my engine, pushing away from the sidewalk smoothly. I feel much calmer now. That's why it's good to confront your emotions, get it? Deal with the unpleasant ones. Prioritize. For instance, sex is good. Rough sex is even better. But, back to my very first little point…

Revenge is the best of all.

It doesn't take long to find her. She didn't leave the city. Stupid, stupid little girl. Probably figured I'd be too cowed to come after her right away. I doubt she knows exactly what I've been through, and what it takes to really get me scared.

Although, funnily enough, I was scared. Her waving that gun in my face, asking about Magneto, then bringing up Bobby, then randomly kissing me? Most frightening thing of all is someone with a weapon who doesn't know what the hell they're doing. She could have done it. I don't doubt that a bit. She would have done it, too, after she had her fun. But she didn't. Why didn't she? After we kissed and she pushed me… What went on in that twisted mind of hers? Something, anyway. Something big enough to get her to let me go without shooting me in the back. I would have shot me in the back.

Then again, she isn't me, is she?

I have the idea that she didn't know she was gonna do all that stuff. Now that I think about it, I think she did track me down for vengeance. Throw some malice and just plain boredom in there, too. War changes people, it really does. So the idea of Kitty Pryde hunting down an enemy soldier just to pass the time doesn't strike me as that insane. But that other stuff? The first kiss, the taunting, the second kiss, the letting me go… That wasn't in the plan.

So what made her do it?

I smirk. She wanted to, that's what. She had the gun. She had the power. She had me, at her feet, mad as hell and just as helpless. Must have been… well, it must have been intoxicating.

"You wanted me before, too, didn't you," I ask aloud in the silence of my cheap, two-room apartment. I've got my laptop out, and I'm looking at the hotel records for the downtown Hilton. Pryde, Katherine. She didn't even try to hide, so sure she was that I would not be walking out of that alley a threat. "You wanted me as soon as you saw me that night, but was it the power? Was that what made you kiss me?" I like the sound of my voice asking the questions I won't bother to ask the real girl. "I think not, sweetheart. I most definitely think not."

I catch a glimpse of my own face in the wall mirror across the room. I look downright evil, with my earring and my long, spiky hair. Most of all, though, it's the look on my face. I smile wider, pleased. I look like a predator.

It seems the tables have turned, yeah? It seems so indeed. She wants me just as much as I want her, and it's just as twisted from her side, too. She got the better of me once, but it's my turn to humiliate. My turn to hurt. My turn to dominate.

I take out my cell phone, dialing the number I memorized before hacking into the hotel records.

"Hello, can I have the number for Katherine Pryde's room? Oh, that's fine. Do you- Well, has she been in today? Really. And you think what, nineish? Great. Thank you so much for your help. Yup, her brother. Ok. Bye." I hang up, stretching. Took me a while to learn, but eventually the lesson sank in: nothing makes people more gullible than a good helping of politeness. Miss Katherine Pryde has been in town for a week, and every day (with the strange exception of two nights ago, when she didn't return until the following morning), is the same. She leaves at noon, telling the concierge not to release her room number because she has a phone with her, and returns at nine.

Just. Like. Clockwork.

I shoot her as she walks in, right as she's half-turning to close the door. The gun is a little leftover from my sniper months, right after the first major battle. The Cure was still a big thing then. People hadn't realized that it wore off, unless given in doses much stronger than the ones they were doling out. I'd decided to take myself out of the spotlight for a bit, at least until there was a lull in the Cure craze. The war, of course, continued, even as the humans bickered over their scientists. When I went back to direct fighting, I took my .22 and a nice assortment of bullets along with me.

The silencer works nicely, but it wouldn't have been needed. I didn't pass a single guest on my way up to break into Kitty's room. Sleep is a long time coming in the City of Angels, and nine o'clock is early. Kitty drops like a stone, the dissolving tranquilizer knocking her out milliseconds after leaving the gun itself. I drop the gun back into my bag, padding over to the body on the floor. Kicking her feet out of the small gap in between the door and the frame, I shut the door and lock it. Just in case, I slip out my lighter and flick it, wrapping the metal knob with flame, carefully guiding it into the lock and melting the entire thing into a twisted mass that won't open even if Houdini himself takes a crack at it. I let the lighter fall back into my pocket, once again cursing the day my wrist-lighters were torn away in a particularly vicious fight.

The door taken care of, I turn around and hunker down, grabbing Kitty beneath the shoulders and knees and lifting her easily. She really is a tiny thing. I carry her through the kitchenette area, dropping her onto the perfectly made queen-sized bed. Returning to the duffel bag I left on the little end table beside the desk, I pull out the coils of double-weave rope and the little glass syringe. She won't be getting out of this any easier than it was for me to get out of her little game.

When Kitty opens her eyes, I'm leaning against the wall directly across from the bed. She wakes up all at once, with none of the sleepy confusion that was the trademark of the schoolgirl I remember. When her eyes open, she immediately focuses on me, snarls, and tries to sit up.

When she notices the ropes securing her wrists to the bedposts, as well as the empty syringe I've left lying just out of her reach on the bedspread, her face goes dead white. The color drains out like wine being poured, and it is a beautiful sight. Her eyes are burning as she struggles against the ropes. I push away from the wall, moving calmly around the foot of the bed to stand beside her.

"I would have just threatened you with it," I say easily, "but that's been done, see. I try to be original."

"You bastard," she hisses, and her voice sends a chill down my spine. I shrug it off.

"Well, if I didn't Cure you, I wouldn't be able to do this, now would I?" I reach out and stroke a finger down the side of her face, the same way that she touched me two days ago. She twists as far away as she can, nearly spitting with fury. I lean down over her, my face inches from hers. Her nostrils flare warningly.

"I promised," I tell her coldly, the teasing out of my voice. My heart is racing, but my voice is steady. "You really should have killed me, Kitty, because I can assure you, I've got no intention of letting you go. Don't worry about the Cure. By the time it wears off, you won't care. Trust me."

"And the ropes? Some sort of sick fantasy you've got going on?" She doesn't sound afraid. She sounds dangerous. A thrill of excitement fills me.

"Says the girl who forced kisses with a gun," I sneer.

"You didn't seem to hate it all that much," she sneers back, voice dripping derision. I close the distance between us in a hard, fast kiss. Not quite fast enough, though; before I pull away, she's caught my lip between her teeth. She bites down hard, and when I straighten with a hiss, she spits blood. "That the best you can do?"

The look in her eyes says she's expecting anger. Instead, I laugh.

"Take it while you can, baby," I say with a smile. "'Cause I hate to remind you, but I'm not the one tied down."

"You just can't take that I beat you, can you, Johnny? I mean, let's face it. I trapped you. I got you on your knees in front of me. I got you to shut up on my command. I got you scared." I hit her, and her head rocks back against the headboard with a crack. She pulls hard on the ropes, hoisting her upper body higher off the bed, and uses the newfound leverage to pivot her waist and piston her legs out in a savage kick that catches me square in the stomach. I double over, my breath whooshing out as pain blossoms to envelope my entire abdomen. She tries for another kick, aiming for my lowered head, but the angle is all wrong and she misses. One arm cradling my aching belly, I fall sidewise across the bed, my upper body pinning her legs to the covers. She curses and twists, trying to worm her legs out from under me. I let go of my abdomen and lunge again, army-crawling my way up the bed until my legs pin hers and my hands, bracing my torso, are planted on either side of her chest. "Get off me!" We're both panting now, and I can feel her breasts against my chest.

"I wouldn't be on you if you hadn't kicked me," I say silkily. "But now that I'm here, I'm thinking it's a better idea by the second." My arms still supporting most of my weight, I kiss her again, and again, it's hard and cruel and dangerously close to painful. But she doesn't bite me this time, and without any real leading up to it, my tongue is in her mouth and the kiss has slowed to a near torturous intensity. I relax my legs so that I'm straddling her with my knees, sliding my hands up under her shirt and feeling the hard nubs of her nipples beneath my fingers. We break away for air, but I don't give her time to spit in my face or say something in that cold, nasty tone she gets. As soon as we've both gotten a breath, I go back in and take her mouth again, my hands working the buttons of her blouse until it hangs open beneath me. Her eyes are clenched shut, as if she's trying to convince herself this isn't happening, but she arches her chest towards my hands as I explore the forbidden ground beneath her bra.

I leave her mouth to kiss her neck, biting her there. She gasps.

"I fucking hate you," she whispers, and I believe her.

"I'm still going to kill you," I whisper back.

"Let me out of these," she grits out, tugging with her left arm.

"Like hell," I reply, tracing a vein across the side of her breast. "You think I don't remember you slamming me in the head just for talking out of line?" She tugs her arm again, the muscles bunching.

"You loved it," she says throatily, almost wickedly. I laugh, but my laugh is nowhere near as aloof as I was aiming for. "Untie the rope, Pyro." I consider it. She has no advantage now, it's true. Plus… I've always loved games. Why not raise the stakes? I reach up to her left wrist and hook a finger into one of the loops, yanking hard. It loosens. Kitty twists her wrist, working it free of the makeshift handcuff. I half expect her to pull back and slam her fist into my face, but she reaches across her own face to undo the knot on the other wrist. There's a moment of stillness, where we just stare at each other, taking in the odds. It's me with the strength, the upper hand and the fire. Her advantages are drastically lowered from the last time we stared at each other like this, and we both know it.

And then, she somehow squirms her lower body up through my legs, using her arms to brace herself, and wraps her own legs around my waist. With another jerk of her lower body, she's flipped us on the bed. Suddenly, I'm on my back with her strong, toned arms pinning my wrists on either side of my head, and I'm not too sure about who exactly has the advantage here after all. She leans in, writhing her torso sinuously.

"Say please," she says softly, sweetly.

"I'm not begging you for anything," I snarl back. She bends her head and licks my throat. My head snaps back against my will, baring my throat to her in an unconscious call for more. She laughs lowly, and I clench my jaw. I'm not entirely sure where I lost my mind, but it must have happened sometime between shooting her and right now, because getting pinned beneath a half-naked, all-dangerous Kitty Pryde was not in the plan.

"Say please," she says again. I lunge my head forward, catching her lips and kissing her fiercely. There's an instant of uncertainty, and then she returns the kiss with as much dark, poisonous pleasure as I'm giving it. I draw my head back and she stays with me, refusing to break off the kiss. I use the moment of abandon to flick my wrists out and to the side in a swift, sure motion that breaks her hold on me and gives me a chance to grab her own. We're playing a very fragile game here, she and I, passing control like a kid's toy ball. I roll us, still kissing her, coming off the bed and standing. Her legs stay around my waist as I walk us to the wall and press her against it, trapping her with my hands on either side of her head. I pull away from the kiss, and smile darkly.

"Now who's begging?"

"Shut the fuck up and kiss me," she snaps.

"I'm still killing you later, you little bitch," I growl back. Our eyes meet in hot, fearless understanding, and then we're attacking each other again, our hands roaming. I think it's kind of agreed that, for now, control will be a mutual thing.

After all, we gotta prioritize.

And maybe, on second thought, revenge can wait.