Kinds (a coda to Milan)
Original Post: March 2001. Revised: November 2001.
Disclaimer: The characters most definitely belong to
Marvel. Notes: Inspired by the John Duffin's Silver Fox cycle. I
figure this is what could happen after the events of "Milan."
Call it a Coda if you will.
For: J. Sometimes a person must run
with it.
They'd been dashing up and down the Mississip' together, robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. At the time, Ororo knew that she'd never been so happy as when she was hanging on Gambit's arm, though back then her memories hadn't gone much farther than the two weeks before he rescued her from Farouk.
She would have been happy to be Gambit's partner for a very long time. Maybe for the rest of her life, but he'd been determined to poke into her past. It was he who connected her with the leader of the X-Men.
When it became clear that she, despite her barely pubescent body, was probably the grown-up, outlaw mutant terrorist known as Storm, their relationship underwent a peculiar alchemy.
She and Remy had been dashing up and down the Mississip' together, and she knew that by the standards of where she'd grown up she was a woman grown - and by the look in Gambit's red on black eyes when he sometimes regarded her - it was that way in his, too.
She expected him to love her.
He expected to love her.
Months of high adventure had cemented their bond. She came into his life in the body of a child and his behavior was beyond reproach; but when she began to admit the possibility that she, Stormy, and the leader of the X-Men, Storm, were the same, he became thoughtful in a way that she couldn't entirely trust.
She expected that, eventually, he would want her.
As soon as the body she walked in was her own again, as soon as her power and physical maturity were restored to her, she turned from Remy and grasped Forge's face between her hands and opened her mouth against his.
The kiss slicked through her quickly, leaving her breathless but unable to stop and take a breath. She held herself immobile, but still she'd been melting inside. Liquid. Heated. Pulsing on nothing. His hands on her hips, the false one almost crushing her-- when in the past he'd been always so careful of bruising her with it-- told her he missed and wanted her as much as she had him. The taste of him grew more familiar by the second. The brush of his mustache had made her lips and the skin around her mouth tingle.
In the midst of it she remembered her desire for Forge, though she'd kissed him because she'd remembered that he was the love of her life. With their embrace she knew it, like she'd never forgotten it.
That was years ago and Forge was her lover no longer.
Ororo closed her eyes and leaned her head against Remy's shoulder. She'd pushed up the arm of the flight chair and was sitting on the ground. She'd been there for the better part of an hour, her hand on the back of Remy's chair while she played with the ends of his loosed hair, her eyes on the hand she had on his leg.
She sighed.
"You sigh one more time, p'tite, and I'm gon' have you tell me what's been on your mind all this long day."
She snuggled against his shoulder and blinked. He dipped his head to brush the top of hers with his chin.
"C'mon, girl. I told you all."
Yes. That he loved Rogue and saw that he was bad for her. That he couldn't end things with Rogue himself. That he had planned to use Ororo in such a way that Rogue would be forced to break up with him.
"And things are bad indeed if you would go so far as to seduce me."
He grunted.
She sighed.
He waited.
She sat up and clasped her hands in her lap. She frowned, and crossed her legs.
Remy sighed.
Laughing, Ororo stretched her legs out in front of her, then drew them up to her chest. "I wonder where Logan went off to. He had to have seen us."
"'Peared he wanted to be left alone, 'Roro." She held her ankles, her gaze fixed on the controls in front of her. Her toes pointed forward. She shook her head and rested her cheek on her thighs and raised her eyebrows. "At best. He has been avoiding me, you see." Remy was beginning to think he did see. "I am in love with Logan." After a moment, Remy said, "Damn."
Her attic room. If it could be said that Ororo loved a thing, it was her attic room. Wide and spacious, she had taken it instead of the room Xavier had offered her and promptly filled the wide open space with plants. It was often warmer than the rest of the mansion. The bare wood floor was smooth beneath her feet. At night, she could hear the house settling, little creaks and squirks and quiet groans. It almost smelled like outdoors in her room, because of the greenhouse and the plants filling the living area. Over the years the flora had changed, as had the decor, but the placement of her bed below the sky-light remained the same.
There would be no rain tonight, and the sky-light was open.
Ororo faced the sky-light, her fingertips tangled in the strong and silky hairs that grew lower than her belly. The stars sparkled over Westchester. The seven stars of Isimelela were the same distance apart as they had been all season. When it was winter they would become closer. There were many stories as to why they gravitated towards one another when the days shortened. Ororo particularly liked the idea that they did it to share warmth.
The night was warm, a dry heat that raised the small hairs on Ororo's arms. High winds and heavy atmosphere made the stars flicker and flow into one another as she stared. In space the stars had colors, and their light was constant.
She should sleep, having been up for almost two days.
Ororo could hear her breathing. Could almost hear her heart beat, she almost frowned with concentration as she slowly tugged on her hairs. The moisture was beginning. Again. Hadn't left her, really. Not since she'd seen Logan bowing at Lady Mariko Yashida's grave.
His grief. It had almost choked her, but desire for him and desire to ease that pain had made her aware, more than ever, of how much she had wanted him.
Wanted him.
Ororo closed her eyes. Smelled earth, and growing things. She turned on her side, concentrated on the separating out the scents of palm fronds and banana leaves from the familiar spikes of cool cedar and warm pine.
She sighed and shifted, pulling her fingers away from her hair. Dark fingers, white hair. A strange contrast, even she, who should be used to it by now, wasn't; but she cupped herself, slid her hands between her legs and simply held her hand there. Pressed in, shifted restlessly than harder. Her legs widened and with her index finger she traced the center line of her outer lips. Reflexively her mouth opened and she bit her lip, her breath coming a little fast.
She bit back an oath, her neck arching as she rose into her hand. She was so much wetter than expected.
Middle finger joined her index. She licked thumb and index finger of her other hand and gently, gently caressed her clitoris. Sweet. Patient, rhythmic.
She groaned and rolled into a sitting position. Dried her fingers along her lower belly. Swung her legs over the side of her bed.
Wolverine had not been at the mansion when she and Remy arrived late in the morning. Rogue had been waiting when Remy wheeled his touring bike down the loading ramp of the Blackbird. She'd been hugging herself and her face had worn fresh hurt.
Ororo had crouched low to the ground and sprung up into the air, just as she summoned a wind to carry her aloft. It took her straight to Logan's cabin and she touched down on one foot. She'd seen that the door was shut. He hadn't been home. He hadn't returned.
He'd given her a leather jacket of his once, and his sunglasses. Told her the look suited her. The jacket remained and she slipped that on her naked skin. It did not smell like him, not anymore, but she pressed the lining to her nose and inhaled anyway and found a remnant of him.
Logan had his own scent, stimulating odor. Pine, cedar, man-- a little raw, a little cutting, bordering the fine edge of stink. She pushed her arm between her hair and her neck, pulling the masses of it free. It slipped up her back and she liked the feeling so much she almost took off the jacket and put it back on to trap her hair there again.
She crept in the dark to the greenhouse, where she'd tacked up oil paper. With the edge of a strong thumbnail she pulled up a tack, then another, and then another. The lawn gleamed at her from two floors down. The lengths of light shining from the windows cut onto the darkness of the lawn. Beyond the shadow, at the very edge, where the evergreen scents mingled and mated, was Logan's cabin.
"That's a great look for you, darlin'" he said and Ororo laughed because she could not be hearing things but there it was. Then a shadow reached out and touched her, a shadow that belonged to a hard hand with a gentle, callused grip.
Unlike her he was dressed; plaid shirt, another leather jacket, jeans. He clamped an unlit cigar between his teeth.
She narrowed her eyes at him, her mouth frowned. "What do you want of me?"
He made a sound in his throat-- too velvety for a growl. She stood taller, raised her chin, aware of the jacket-- his-- that barely grazed her hips and only one of her breasts.
She closed the small distance between them. Her eyebrow arched.
Logan plucked the cigar from his mouth. Tossed it into a planter. Logan leaned up and kissed her. Their lips touched and then he was caressing naked waist, hips, and buttocks. His rough hands following the crease of her buttocks to graze the seeping wetness between her shifting legs.
She caressed him, the caress became a mauling. She grabbed the collar of his shirt. her fingers clenched to grab and rip, but his denim clad thigh wedged between her legs turned her limbs to water and she almost swooned.
He almost stumbled as her legs folded, and was holding her up.
She lay her head on his shoulder and murmurmed, "I swear it, I will never forgive you if you do not."
"Shh, darlin. I've been at least two kinds of coward when it comes to me an' you."
Ororo's room had the tendency to see only a little less traffic than grand central station, so after half carrying her to her bed Logan took up a chair and jogged out of the room with the intention of jamming it underneath the doorknob only to find that wouldn't work because the knob was too high and the chair back was too short. He returned to her breathless, already pulling his belt out of the buckle.
She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands on the side, watching him.
They could see one another fine in the dark, but she reached for the lamp and turned on the light anyway.
The light in her eyes was welcoming and warm, but not as much as that thrown by the lamp. Her fair hair fluffed high and curly around her head and his jacket, which she'd draped around herself, dragged off one flawless shoulder.
Her face was solemn, though her breasts rose and fell with rapid breathing.
"You have been avoiding me," she said.
"Can't deny it."
"Do you want me, Logan?"
"You know I do."
Her eyes narrowed. She had another question but thought better of it.
His eyes almost closed but he clenched his jaw. Friend. Leader. Companion. Confidante? He crooked a smile at her, wondering if the racket of his suddenly erratic pulse and the tightness of his chest was fear. He'd asked M'iko for his heart back.
Damn thing hurt like a sonuvagun.
He pulled his belt out of the loops. Looped the leather around his hand, set it on the ground without looking away from Ororo.
She crooked her finger at him.
He advanced quickly, dragging his shirt out of his pants and divesting himself of it before he lost his nerve and knelt before her.
His hand settled on her knee and his face pressed against the other one. Her skin was as soft as he remembered. She'd washed in a rainstorm, she must have. She carried the scent of ball-lightning along with the rich loam-like call of her arousal.
"Ahh," Ororo said softly, running her fingers through the wiry hair of his sideburns, "your nerve."
"Said that out loud, didn't I?" Logan, more of a murmur against the soft skin of her inner thigh, just above her knee.
Her breath caught.
Her skin never felt so sensitive when she touched it, but his lips were smooth and the stubble on his face raised awareness, swirled up and rippling just over the surface of her skin.
They had a lot of kisses between them, surprise ones: deliberate, full-mouthed kisses of affection and respect and maybes.
This was slick, noisy.
Basso rumblings and twisting feminine groans embroidered the second. The third had Ororo sobbing in harsh little pants and Logan on the edge of a yowl, almost humping the air as her legs twined around his torso. His arms were so big around she couldn't close her hands on them. Her fingers clenched in his hair as he gained purchase on the bed by levering up on a knee.
Two graceful, deliberate movers that couldn't focus on the how of getting Logan out of his jeans. The man had hair everywhere-- his sides, his buttocks, his sinewy hips-- Ororo wondered at the thick black thatch at his genitals that met her hand when she drew down the zipper of his jeans.
"Don't you ever get caught?" she asked, and with a low laugh he nipped at her throat. She writhed beneath him, opening her legs. His weight was almost suffocating, so he spilled on his side. His thickening penis was a pleasant weight against his thigh. She reached out and touched it, wrapped her hand around the base of it. His testicles contracted smoothly and her intent expression softened with a smile. Logan took her chin in hand and kissed her. Her mouth was flooded with saliva. Slick the kiss, and he dragged it out until he was lightheaded and visited the breasts he'd been tracing with shivery motions while they embraced.
Her breasts were lovely. Lovely. He'd seen them countless times before but they tasted wonderful, felt fantastic. Smelling of her and his old bomber jacket. Humming, he chased the goosebumps raised by his fingers with his tongue, and by his tongue with his fingers. His leg he kept between hers, hard up against the give. She rode it, and he learned the length of her and pretty patience of her.
Time passed, and cradling the back of her head with his hand he settled on his back. She followed, her foot and hand moving alongside him in a way that reminded him of the last time they'd been like this.
She sat astride him. Her nails delicately scraped through the hair on his chest, made clockwise and counter-clockwise designs around his nipples. Then directly over them, sharp little scoring sensations that raised them hard. Her lips found one and then the other. His penis bobbed behind her buttocks. She teased herself, rose up on her hands and slid her opening against him.
Much as their faces, necks and shoulders fascinated one another, their tongues met and met. He caught her off-balance, ran his fingers up her thighs and held her there.
"You're beautiful," he said. She was. Venus above him.
In all seriousness she replied, "As are you," her thumb on his cheek, her voice grave. She kissed his regular nose, the fine cut lips. "You most definitely are."
He hugged her tight, held her immobile against his chest. She almost disappeared in his arms, but nudged at his penis and when that didn't work. Grabbed a twist of his hair and pulled.
Immediately his hands slid from around her, flopping on the bed. She propped her arms on his chest, clasped her hands and wiggled her bum. His thick fingers danced up her silken thighs, his thumbs deep-stroked over the curves of her generous ass.
The panted against one another, kissing as he squeezed and parted those curves. She shimmied ever-so-slowly as did so, building that arousal. Under the guidance of his hands she knelt up. His hands shifted to her thighs, taking her weight, and his penis butted against her. She reached behind herself, traced it along the bottom, circled the head lightly with her thumb and fore-finger. He hissed and thrashed, then entered her, slow. She whined and he went slower still, then withdrew while raising her higher. He held her just out of reach of his thickness, raised his hips enough to tease her with it.
She refused to move, staring into his eyes with equanimity though her pulse beat frantic in her throat and sweat dripped from her face and shoulders onto him. He leaned up to kiss her and eased her down a centimeter. Found that she was clenching in on herself. She was soft and tight and so slick, so smooth. Swollen. Barely any room for himself, but he resisted. Gave her another kiss, then another centimeter, and another kiss, their breath coming in short, deliberate bursts.
Moment by careful moment, increment by dewey increment he entered her until they were indistinguishable. For a moment they were motionless then she gave a thin cry, wicked sharp, and an orgasm came on hard and unexpected on the fading echo of it. Digging his heels in the bed, tensing all muscles he stopped it, but Ororo had gone limp and was sagging as if her spine had gone cartilage. Sliding his hands up to her armpits, he held her aloft.
"Ro?"
A gentle shake.
"Ororo?"
Her eyes fluttered open. She inhaled. Twisted her hips a few degrees to the east and a few to the west. He could hear it, her wetness, in how she moved.
She growled low in her throat. Ran her hands over his and his arms. "Logan," she breathed, her back arching as his grip eased. Languidly she began to move. They stared into one another's eyes for as long as he could manage it, which wasn't very. He could hear her swallow, hear her croon to herself, hear the ocean sounds of her first coming and all the ones that were to follow. Her lips shifted and demi-turned as she danced over him and around him, as slow and deliberately as the stars above.
They streaked across his vision when he closed his eyes.