Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men. Marvel does.

A/N: Writer's block buster, for the challenge of posting anything I write. Total crack fic. Don't ask. Just enjoy. ;D


Rating: T for language and brief mention of drugs.

The Block

The Xavier Mansion was cold. It was dark. It was gloomy. Cries of a past filled with grievous torture seemed to echo throughout the halls, pulsating like blood through veins. Phantomized echoes, but still real. Still... (damn)

Rip out paper. New piece in. Try again.

The Xavier Mansion was cold, dark, and gloomy, resonating with the cries of past and grievous torture that seemed to pulse through the walls like blood through veins - the structure of the Mansion. It's skeleton. It's... (double damn)

Rip out paper. New piece in. Try again, again.

The Mansion was stuffy, like stale blood was hanging in the air, the bodies that had once held it still alive, still moving. Reaching out, desperately trying to scream, even though their voice boxes were closed, empty. But their cries of past and grievous torture still resonated, bouncing off the walls like sharply thrown but blunt spears, trying to find a target, trying to make someone listen. The Xavier family had a history... (damn it!)

Sean stared at the words on the paper and the typewriter they had come from. "I hate you," he snarled viciously at both. "I. Hate. You. Hate. Hatehatehate. Haaaaaaaaaaaaate." He hissed the last word dramatically.

Tears of monumental frustration prickled at his eyes. He sniffled, anger dying down to a simmer as the paper looked back at him innocently. No. No. There was no need to be rude to the story. It hadn't done anything wrong, no. He just needed... to try again. That was right. That was it. Just try again. Calm down, and try again. Try again.

He slid in a new piece of paper, and timidly pressed on another key.




(son of a bitch!)

"WHY WON'T YOUR WRITE YOURSELF YOU SORRY EXCUSE FOR LITERATURE? Stupid piece of metal garbage, oh my God! Go jump off a cliff and die! Stupid story, stupid story plot, stupid cliché piece of shit. I hope your BABIES come out looking like trash! Oh wait. THEY ALREADY ARE COMING OUT LOOKING LIKE TRASH. VIA MY STORY."

The tears finally spilled out, adding a flush to his face that contrasted horribly with his hair, and he sniffled again, harder this time, and slammed his hands down on his desk. His brain was not this typewriter's birth canal, damn it!

He could feel his story inside of his head, crying, yearning to get out. His hands practically trembled with the words, but his brain, this typewriter. Ugh! It just wouldn't come out! It was there, but it wouldn't come here, onto the keys, onto the paper, where it was supposed to be!

Mouth closed, Sean screamed in frustration and pain. How could he get the story out. How could he make it come out...?


His eyes lit up along with the light bulb above his head, a slow grin forming across his face that chased away the unsightly flush. Aha. Ahahahaha.

What better way, than with a telepath who could freaking read his mind for him?

Sean was instantly up, darting from his room and running down the hall.


It was a large mansion.


A very large mansion.


Obnoxiously large, really.


Sean! Professor Xavier's voice slapped across his mind like a wall. Please use your inside voice. I have already replaced enough windows this week. I am in the study if you need to talk-.

Sean was already bursting through the door, breathing heavily, mindless of the other (very dangerous) man in the room (who loved to push little helpless frightened children off of huge gigantic gonnadie satellites for fun) and the chessoard that was obviously locked in an intense battle. Instead, he focused solely on his professor, grinning madly at the startled wide blue eyes as he clutched to the doorknob for support. Finally.

"Professor." He panted. "Thank God. THANK. God. You have to help me, please!" And maybe his voice had more of a desperate, needy twinge to it than he thought, because suddenly not only the professor, but Erik freaking ILovePushingYouToYourDeath Lehnsherr, were sitting up straight in their chairs, ready for anything.

"Sean?" The professor's voice was concerned, fingers straying to his temple as he searched for trouble. "What is it, what's wrong?"


The immediate silence was deafening.

"I...I beg your pardon?"

"My MIND, man!" God, the story was pounding at his head now. "Look, Professor. Wonderful, awesome, amazing, perfect," here, Erik growled quietly, "beautiful Professor. Kind, benevolent, wise-."

"What is it, Sean?" The telepath interrupted, laying a soothing hand on top of Erik's because the mutinous mutant was growling louder now. The teenager missed the movement.

"I can't write." Sean's tears were suddenly back as he explained. "The story is in my head, but it won't come out onto the damn paper! And I've tried, I really have. I was nice to it. I coaxed it. I complimented it. I babied it. I CUDDLED it."

"You...cuddled your story?" The professor's eyebrow ticked upwards, and Sean groaned.

"Yes, I cuddled it, but that's not the point, okay? The point is, it's in there, and it won't come out, and I need you to go into my brain - my BRAIN - and get it out. You need to tell me what it's saying because it's not telling me and it won't listen to me and it WON'T. WRITE. ITSELF. So PLEASE. Professor. READ. MY. MIND."

And then the tears were falling all over again and that flush was back and Sean face planted straight into the wall, missing the confused, worried, should-we-have-him-committed glance the two older mutants exchanged.

"Er, Sean. Se-please don't do that. Sean?" The professor's voice was soft, soothing, and he slowly pulled his face away from the wall. "I am afraid I cannot read your mind and get your story out for you."

Again, deafening silence.

"But my STORY. Professor, you don't understand!" He was so desperate. "It's KILLING me. Driving me mad! I can't do anything else, because I want to write it. But when I go to write it, I want to do something else. Every time! I have eaten a sandwich every half-hour for the past five hours because I feel like I'm burning energy by my BRAIN."

"So that's where all the lunch meat disappeared to," Erik murmured, and the professor pulled his attention away long enough to hum in agreement before returning it back to his charge.

"Please?" Sean whimpered, and he sighed.

"I cannot. But," he added quickly as the tears began forming again. "I can tell you what to do that may help. You have Writer's Block, my young friend, and while exceptionally nasty, it is not unbeatable." The look of worshipping hope that dawned on the freckled face was inspiring.

"It's not?"

The professor chuckled. "Oh no. You have many options. First, try writing the beginning of your story from a different perspective, or scene. It will give you new insight into the plot. Second, try starting it from the point of view of a different character. Much like the first option, but it might open new windows for you - the one your story needs to jump out of your head, for instance, and onto the typewriter's keys." He smirked here as Sean laughed at the morbid metaphor. "The problem may also be that you are starting it wrong all together, and need another plot device. You may want to try changing it."

"But ... but that would mean rewriting the whole thing!" Sean was aghast, but the professor looked dubious.

"And how many words would that be exactly, that makes the task so daunting?"

"... a paragraph..."

"Come again? A paragraph?"

"Well, maybe a little less. The introduction. Which is hard enough on it's own really, daunting and shit because it has to catch the reader's interest, without the pressure of coming up with some new plot device to add..." His words faded off as his eyes finally landed on the chessboard.

And on the two interlocked hands on top of it.

"Oh." The professor frowned.



"Did you break the boy, Charles?" Erik was smirking, but the other shook his head, horribly confused, as Sean suddenly burst with gleeful giggles.

"OhohohoHO! Yes! YES! That's IT! That's what I needed! Right there! Perfect! I can feel it now, all coming to me - yes! Sonofuhyes! Professor!" a brilliant beam. "Erik!" a slight glare "Thank you!"

And with that, he took off from the study, racing back to his room and the waiting (bastard!) typewriter.

Unaware that he left two very stunned men sitting in his wake, confused and bemused very overwhelmed.

"I think..." He would not hear Erik say. "That we need to take away his grass."

And he would not see the professor's lips quirk, or the quick press of those same lips to scarred knuckles, or hear the reply. Which was a shame, really, because he could have used the warning. "I'll get it during your training with him tomorrow. Now. I believe it is your move."

But he did write thirty pages of deep, psychological thriller involving the Xavier Mansion, blood, and a violent metal-bending maniac of a knight rescuing a distressed telepath of a prince from his abusive, murderous family, whisking him away to a happily ever after involving marriage, a large house, and five equally gifted children.

Sean - 1. Writer's Block - 0.

Raven, Angel, and Hank claimed to love it, while Alex had insulted it's "horrible romantic" storyline (though Sean had yet to be returned the copy he had made for him).

The professor had been oddly quiet after reading it, but Sean felt extremely vindicated when Erik spent the entire day after snapping at everyone, a slight blush to his face.

Sean - 1. Erik - 1. Ha. Equal footing once again.

There had been a very descriptive love scene towards the middle that Hank and Raven had provided in-depth details for.


Like I said, don't ask. XD But feel free to drop a comment if, at some point, you laughed or sympathized with Sean (who I used because he doesn't get enough love. Really. Poor baby). ;D