Title: Dynasty of Pantheons
Author: Eightcrayondon
Rating: PG
Summary: A/U Storm, Northstar and Kitty are the last of significant power in an ancient line of witches. Unfortunately their awesome power is not their only birthright. Witch hunters and rival covens wish to destroy their lineage. FYI, Northstar is definitely gay in this one!
Disclaimer: Marvel owns all known X-Men characters; I make no profit from this story or the use of the characters. Just tooting my own horn but I do have a 1986 Cadillac with a radiator and oil leak.
Ororo Munroe
The sky is purple blue and the wind has a pleasant chill to it; I fold up the collar of my jacket to protect my neck from the distracting tickle in the air. My hands are dry; I look down at them, stretching my fingers in a clutching manner. I am a little embarrassed by the flaky grey skin, wishing that I had lotion to conceal it.
The buildings downtown are old and made of chipped red bricks; however, the entrance to Timothy's apartment is modernized. The door is secured with some kind of fortified glass and a large grey callbox to page residents. Despite how many times we have met here, my index finger still shakes a little as I press the button.
"Hello!" he says, loudly in a singsong manner.
"Hi," I say, repressing the overt jubilance that swells inside of me at the sound of his voice.
"Come on up baby."
Where the screen above the keypad said his name it is now replaced with a notification that the door has been opened. Inside the small lobby to his apartment is decorated in muddy reds with two lazy boy chairs and a thin table that would be level with the jaw of anyone that would sit in the chairs.
In the elevator I look at my reflection, the lighting makes me look old; at twenty-two years old it could only be lighting accenting the bags beneath my eyes. I pull my hair out of the folded ponytail, mussing the silver locks, hoping for a much more desirable outcome.
I still look like shit.
The elevator dings when it opens and I approach his apartment; he opens the door before I can even knock, leaning against the wall, looking at me seriously. Timothy doesn't say anything, simply starring at me, his green eyes are almost foreboding, with thick flecks of red scattered around his pupils.
I wonder if he finds himself with no care for the wife or child that wait for him in Washington. I know that I am wracked with guilt; wondering how it is that I am someone so different than who I believed myself to be: The idea that I would make myself close to a married man and then sometimes forcing myself to be angry and selfish; practicing the mantra, "it's my turn."
Timothy is a little taller than I am, his red hair is short but messy and he holds a wooden bowl in his left hand; I look in, spying peppered macaroni and cheese. He is a graduate student; his wife and son live in DC with her parents while he completes his degree.
"I've never had 'just add water" Mac and Cheese," I say, smiling nervously, still standing at the door.
He kisses me: I can taste the salty, peppered cheese, the noodles are not quite done but I kiss him back.
"Wow," I say, smiling. "That was disgusting."
"Hey, it's a free meal isn't it?"
He leads me to the couch, pulling me on top of him and he is instantly inside of me, kissing my neck and tentatively touching my face. We buck against one another proclaiming our adulations in-between raunchy requests that I would never have thought myself capable of entreating let alone performing. Before Timothy, I had classified myself as a prude and now he has me open to things that I could not have even fathomed before.
Jean-Paul Beaubier
The taxi smells of wet cigarettes and body odor, I try to breath through my mouth but I swear I can taste it. The partition that separates the passenger and driver is foggy from age and the red leather upholstery is ripped. The yellow cushion that frees itself between the tears is stained brown.
The driver looks like a character from a nineteen seventies stoner film; his hair is long with nothing clearly distinctively separating his locks and his messy beard. I muse that somewhere in the catastrophe there has to be a lost lollipop.
He pulls to the curb and I shove my crumpled bills through the cash slot, swinging the door open. I look down at my legs wondering why I didn't walk the few blocks to this party; my thighs are dimpling.
Bobby is in my ear. He's back in Port Washington with family; his mother insisted that he take the quarter off for the family to regroup. His father admitted his indiscretions with a zaftig red head secretary that sports a tacky orange manicure suitable for climbing tall trees.
When I met Bobby I wanted him so much; he was in love with some odd green haired punk rocker chick with an apple pie attitude. We were roommates. And because I am gay, he felt that my advice is a close second to the advice of a real woman. Although normally I would be offended, I found him adorable so I took it in stride. I relished our late night talks and even though he couldn't stop talking about Lorna I found myself gazing longingly into his eyes.
It took no time at all for him to start "play" flirting, it wasn't the first time that a "straight" boy has flirted with me and predictably this evolved into "humorous" groping. Sometimes, when we were drunk, he would make admissions to me; guising them as jokes. He told me that he loved me but he would marry Lorna; postulating that it wouldn't be cheating because of our sex.
After we first made love he never mentioned emotions again; he would just come to my bed some late nights and the next day he was always indifferent, even stoic.
I hang up while he's in mid complaint, deciding to claim dead battery while turning the power off on my cell phone.
"Hey bitch!" Constance, my obligatory hag, screams; practically falling down the hilly yard to meet me on the sidewalk.
I smile a little; patting her on the back is the only reciprocation that I can muster for her hug.
"What are you doing here? This is a gay boy's party," I ask, pulling away and looking at her thighs that rub visibly through her jeans.
"Well you know," she says, self-consciously moving her hands in an odd attempt to shield her thighs from my gaze. Her face is surrounded by a layer of fat on her face and she practically has no neck.
"You won't be getting any here," I reply, dryly.
"Duh," she manages, blushing embarrassed and indignant; obviously wondering why she keeps me as a friend.
She doesn't follow me; she just stands where I leave her watching me maneuvers my way through the crowd on the teeming porch.
I spot the "bar", the bartender is a lanky boy in a sky blue cardigan and fifty cent shades, he's a sore thumb in this crowd; apparently straight in a field of flamers.
The music is blaring and he turns his ear toward me as though he did not hear my order; I lean in so that my lips touch his ear and repeat my order of vodka. He smiles at me when I lean back.
I slam the shot and squint at him, flashing my most whorish smile at the same time deciding to ride him wearing only his off brand shades.
Kitty Pryde
"Ok finished," Carol says; we were facing the mirror the whole time but I was thumbing through Vogue, coveting two thousand dollar jackets.
"This has to be a conspiracy," I say, looking up and laughing.
I had asked Carol to put my hair in a ponytail; somehow while I wasn't looking things went wildly off course. The ponytail is up too high and on the left side of my head.
"Its eighties vintage," she replies, smiling wryly.
"Care, come on," I respond with my head tilted downward and my eyes glued to her reflection in the mirror. "This is guerrilla warfare."
"You could have done it yourself you know," Carol says, checking out all of her angles in the mirror and looking at me when she's finished.
"Saboteur!" I scream, smiling, standing and walking toward the bathroom.
"Kitty!" She screams from the bedroom, "it looks hot!"
"Next you'll have me in rhinestones!"
I laugh, looking at my reflection in the wide bathroom mirror; imagining what I would look like if she had done my make up and picked out my clothing.
Lots of denim and blue eye shadow.
I pull the rubber band out of my hair and shake my head, deciding to keep my hair loose. I turn on the water, splashing my face and turning on the hot. I use a small washcloth, letting it soak up the steaming water and squeezing the rag until it doesn't drip. I wash my face without soap.
I can hear him knock on the door and I'm instinctively nervous.
Stupid hands! Stop shaking! I command, holding them in front of me; this is my first date with Peter. We're in a few of the same classes, he's two years older than me but we're both seniors; in junior high I tested out of a lot of classes and they promoted me up two grades.
When I got to high school they wanted to promote me again but my mother wouldn't hear it; she was afraid that I would be ostracized with classmates so much older than me. My father was all for the idea, he enjoyed the bragging rights; boasting that his daughter is a genius was like a personal achievement. Instead they compromised sending me to this private school.
I slam the bathroom door when I hear Carol open the door. I don't feel very smart, starring at my shaking hands, unable to wrest control of myself.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
I lean against the door, holding my eyes closed. I feel overly dramatic when I swing the door open abruptly.
Peter starts to speak Russian but catches himself.
"Katya," he says in his low voice, thick with his Russian accent. "You look," -- he pauses, "wonderful."
Stupid girl! I think, reprimanding myself when I feel my face growing warm and blush. I avert my eyes and thank him. I grab my coat and when he starts to help me I rush into it.
"You guys have a nice night," Carol says, somehow mocking me without Peter noticing, looking at us from the futon.
"Expletive," I reply, smiling pleasantly, banking that Peter's English isn't good enough yet to know what I mean. Sadly, most people whose first language is English wouldn't catch it at first.
When we hit the street I thank God that we're going to see a movie first because I'm not obligated to shine as a conversationalist.
I smile at him awkwardly and he smiles back, equally awkward. He makes me wonder if he is already bored with me or if it's possible that he could be as nervous as I am.
Talk about science fiction, hot foreign exchange students don't get nervous around girls with washboard chests
A nun approaches us, visibly clutching her rosary in her worn hands.
"Hello children," she says in a thin, whispery voice.
"Um, hi," I say, stopping short, having to take a step back.
She looks at me with her rich blue eyes, almost studying me and I'm immediately uncomfortable.
I'm a Jew, I reason. I shouldn't feel weird just walking away.
She lunges forward as if I had triggered some sort of offence and I jump back again and when I notice the jagged blade in her hand I fear it's too late. Peter pushes her backward and she stumbles a little but quickly regains her footing, I didn't think that anyone could use a knife like that outside of movies: The nun cuts Peters forearm and stabs him in the shoulder, I watch horrified while she finishes him off; punching him in the throat.
She settles her eyes on me and I thank God that my mother insisted I do something normal, joining the track team. I run as fast as I can, too afraid to look over my shoulder to see if she's closing in.
If I die tonight, I have no desire to see it straight on.