Imaginings and Intimacy
by
Dee


I tilt my head back to let the spray drum against my closed eyelids, my hands braced against the wall. I decided on hot in the end, and although the steady pounding of water is relieving my body's aches, it is doing nothing for the tempest that rages in my mind. A welter of images and emotions threatens to overwhelm me. There are less pleasant things to drown in, but one day I must do something about reining in my overactive imagination. Then again, until last night, I had no idea it could be so... creative.

I am bombarded by what might have been in the kitchen just now, but for Logan's intervention, variations on the theme and continuations. I doubt anyone would eat on that table ever again had my subconscious had its way. Finally, my skittish mind veers away from that topic, to what had been, last night in the warm, firelit den. That first twist of alcohol in my system as I imperiously demanded that he take off his shirt, barely believing it even as the words left my mouth. My difficulty in maintaining composure when his business-like removal of the shirt left me with the heady sensation he was performing a strip-tease. I dared Logan to dance, but all I wanted was to see Scott. More of Scott.

But despite all my feverish imaginings during that game, he'd seemed so calm, collected, completely at ease. My heart had sunk. I didn't think he was interested. I could almost hear his reply, feel his breath on my cheek; 'I'm very interested.'

Goddess. I reach out and shut off the water quickly, raising my hands to wipe the excess water from my eyes, wring it from my hair. Stepping out of the shower, I reach for a towel. I need to find him, before my mind drives me entirely mad.

I dress for comfort, still not feeling entirely well, in track pants and a T-shirt. I am hurriedly towelling my hair when a thought occurs to me; a thought I can scarcely believe is crossing my mind. Though why it should surprise me given my current tendencies, I don't know. Slinging my towel over one shoulder, I open the drawer of my bedside table, reaching to the back to retrieve the package Jean and I had bought once in a flurry of unwarranted girlish excitement about a date I went on. It had been a waste, the man an idiot, and the package had sat, unneeded, ever since.

Feeling almost guilty, I reach into the package and pull out one of the small, foil-wrapped circles. It sits on my palm, almost burning, like the blush I can feel creeping up my neck. It is as good as a declaration of intent, taking this with me. Hello world; I, Ororo Munroe, am going to find Scott Summers and have sex with him. But honestly, who do I think I am fooling? Myself, with that contraction of my stomach and a tingle on my skin? So I take one, slip it into my pocket. As a just-in-case, nothing more.

After hanging up the towel, I pull out the package again, and take another one. Definitely just in case. My cheeks burning up, with bare feet and damp hair, I leave my room.

Scott is not in his room. I step as quietly as possible past the door of Jean's room, hearing Logan's rumbling voice in low tones as I pass. Scott is nowhere downstairs either, not in the kitchen, or the den, or the library that it causes a flutter in my stomach just to enter. So I head downstairs again, descending into the metallic corridors of the business-side of the school. Past the med-lab, further along, and I know where he is now. The Danger Room.

There are the sounds of the room in use, muffled considerably by the padding on the walls. It is not the sort of place you just walk into unannounced on the best of days, and I am feeling more than a little nervous now. I raise a hand, take a deep breath, and knock.

A last muffled thud from inside, then his voice, calling: "Come in."

I open the door just enough to slip inside, and lean back against it, pushing it closed. Only then do I allow myself to look at Scott, standing in the centre of the room. His physical appearance is like a punch to the stomach, forcing the breath out of my lungs. His hair is sweat-darkened around his face and his lips are slightly parted as he breathes heavily. His chest - bare, as it usually is while he is training - heaves with each breath. He is wearing track pants, his feet planted in a firm, unshakable stance. He looks like he has been working hard, sweat-slicked, but business-like, calm.

My thoughts are anything but. I want him. Badly.

"Ororo," he greets me, my name expelled on an exhalation.

"Scott," I return. Part of my mind is screaming at me not to waste my breath in talking, just to throw myself on him. But I do not consider it. Well, not seriously, anyway. While such actions have their good points - their very many good points - it would be too much of an admission, too much a loss of control. He is going to have to work harder than that to break me. And I, in turn, will work to break him. Fair is, after all, fair. "Mind if I join you? A little exercise might help clear my head." I step away from the door, but towards the empty floor, not him. He watches me, completely calm, as I take up position a few metres away from him. I raise an eyebrow at him. "Are you going to turn the program back on?"

Now one corner of his mouth quirks up, and he shakes his head. "The training programs are good, but there's nothing quite like a little one-on-one."

Wonderful. We have not even begun and already my heart is racing. But the teasing is good; it lightens an atmosphere I had not even noticed was so tense, and I laugh and flip my damp hair over my shoulder. "Well then, come on."

As he leaps in on the offensive, I wonder briefly if he expects me to be lenient, make this just a little love-fight, a play tussle. Not on his life. Besides, Logan has been teaching me a little, and I have a few surprises up my sleeve. Scott does not seem disconcerted as he is forced back step by step. Only a few steps, though, and then he seizes the initiative once more, and this time I am the one to retreat.

Scott is right; there is nothing like a little one-on-one. Adrenaline surges through my veins, and it does clear my head, blowing the hangover-cobwebs away. It is warm in the Danger Room, and soon my skin is prickled with sweat as well. Back and forth we trade blows, neither really having an advantage. He fights with precision and economy, every movement using just as much energy as it needs. Nothing flashy, just compact grace. He is magnificent, I allow myself to concede, somewhere in the back of my mind. I had watched him in action before, of course, but never through eyes veiled in desire.

Then it comes, just a tiny over-extension, and I pounce, moving all-out on the offensive. Scott backs away, barely managing to defend. But somehow, just a pace from the wall, he dodges my final blow, catching my wrist and swinging me around with the force of my own momentum. My breath rushes out in a gasp as my back hits the wall.

I have no chance to regain it, either. His body presses me back against the wall, every glorious inch along the length of me, and his mouth captures mine. My beautiful, delicate memories of last night are incinerated in the heat of this embrace. There is nothing delicate here. His tongue is ravaging, his lips hard and demanding, and so is his body, pushing against mine.

I have died and gone to heaven. I swallow the moan that wells up in my throat and concentrate on giving as good as I am getting. My tongue slithers against his, my mouth as hungry, and I splay my fingers on his back, desperate to touch as much of him as possible.

When he breaks the kiss, leaning back a fraction, we are both breathing heavily. I run my hands up over his chest, because he is there and I want to and I can.

"That was an unorthodox move," I say, somewhat surprised to note that my voice is a little breathless and husky, but otherwise steady. "Not that I am complaining, of course."

Scott smiles. "It seemed appropriate." His voice is steady as well, even as he leans back towards me, whispering, "You're a drug, Ororo. The more I have, the more I need..."

This kiss lingers somewhere between our previous two. I slide one hand up the nape of his neck, curling my fingers in his hair as the work of his lips and tongue surpasses the fantastic and enters the realms of 'knee-weakening'. His hands sit, warm and heavy, on my hips. My other hand drifts down his back, fingertips skimming the flesh, over the waistband of his trackpants to grip one of those muscular buttocks. I pull him to me, quick and hard.

Scott's sharp inhalation is as intoxicating as the feeling of him against me. His teeth nip my bottom lip even as his hands sweep up from their resting places, sliding underneath my T-shirt to smooth up my back and press my torso against his. I am left, open-mouthed and breathing heavily, as his lips leave mine to trail a hot, wet line along my jaw to the hollow just under my ear. His hands on my back are maddening, sliding over my skin until his fingers find the clasp of my bra. And just as all my attention is focused on the anticipation of him unfastening it, his thigh slips between mine, pressing hard against me. The sigh is torn from me, my lips shaping his name. "Oh, Scott..."

"Yes," he rasps, his voice low and husky in my ear. My bra unfastens with a sudden snap; one of Scott's hands presses against my back, holding me to him, while the other slides around my ribs. "Say my name again," he demands, nibbling on my ear lobe.

"Scott." I love his name; I love saying it here, now. My voice is still steady, though low. Steady, that is, until his fingers move up, brushing over my nipple, already over-sensitised. I gasp. "Oh Goddess... Scott -" I am cut off as his mouth covers mine, swallowing my faint moan as he takes my nipple between his thumb and finger, cupping my breast. I am left helpless, writhing against him. I arch forward, squeezing his thigh between mine, and he breaks the kiss with a gasp of his own.

Both hands tug at the bottom of my shirt now, and I raise my arms so Scott can pull it off over my head. It is tossed into the corner, and a moment later my bra follows it. I lean back against the wall as his hot gaze, hidden behind those glasses now as always, travels over my naked torso. "Ororo," he says, my name sounding somewhere between a groan and a prayer. His hands run down my sides, over my waist, down my hips as he leans closer again. "You are so beautiful..."

That, of course, is when he finds them. Those incriminating foil packages that I had forgotten until his hand brushes over the lump in my pocket. He pulls them out, and with one look he knows it all; he reads their statement, gleans my intent, and not just one, but two.

The growl that wells up in his throat would have done Logan proud, and he yanks me towards him. One hand stays low, in the small of my back, pressing me against him even as the other hand tangles in my hair, holding me still as his tongue plunders my mouth.

It is the end of restraint, as we sink to the floor. Our remaining clothes are an unwelcome impediment, to be shed as quickly as possible. So much of his skin against mine is dizzying, and I no longer bother to censor my sighs and gasps of pleasure. I feel my control slip out of my grasp, and know that my eyes have whited over, and outside the weather will be more than tumultuous. I am beyond caring, though. Nor does Scott bother about his moans, and when he whispers my name his voice breaks and I exult. His control, as mine, is shattered.

When he finally takes me, however, it is with a rhythm slow and measured, increasingly hard and insistent. It leaves me speechless, inarticulate, clawing at his back and tilting back my head as he nips at my exposed throat, taking away the sting with a swirl of his tongue. Release cannot come soon enough, and I half-scream as explosive pleasure claims me. As I descend from the spiralling heights, he sags against me with a juddering groan that becomes my name.

He rests his head on my shoulder as we lie together in silence, sweat making our limbs stick to each other. His fingers trace lightly over my stomach. "What're you thinking?" he murmurs.

I smile lazily and run a finger down his spine. "I am wondering how my world managed to change so much in the last 24 hours, that I could go from distant wonderings to lying replete in your arms."

Another slip, and he picks up on it, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at me, his face serious. "Distant wonderings? Ororo, how long have you... ah..."

"Been interested in you?" He nods and I sigh. Now that it is out there, I may as well tell the truth. "I do not know when it began, to be honest. I have asked myself that as well. I do, however, know when I realised. About two months ago, after we returned from that mission where we attempted to capture Sabretooth. I was thinking that we all have our rituals to calm down after missions. I go off into my greenhouse, and you and Jean used to closet yourselves together. Then, I realised that you couldn't do that any longer, you weren't together."

I take a deep breath, and smile as his attention is distracted by the rise of my chest. I tap him on the cheek. "Pay attention. Anyway, if I was thinking, I would have been suspicious right then, because I wasn't worried about how Jean was coping with her solitary post-mission stress, just about you. I went looking for you. You were down here, and I could hear the program running, it sounded like you had it turned way up. Then it finished, and I was about to knock when... when I heard you crying." I cannot look up at his face, so I look at the hand on my stomach instead. It slides further around my waist. "They were huge, heart-rending sobs. It sounded... as if your heart was breaking. I was an inch away from coming in when I realised I didn't want to comfort you purely as a friend. It was startling, and confusing, and the more I watched you over the next while, the more I wanted things not to be purely friends. But it was stupid, I told myself, and it would disrupt the team, and when you get right down to it I didn't have the courage to say or do anything."

There is silence, and I manage now to gather the courage to look up into his face. Not that that tells me much, since it is back to his usual composure.

"I thought my heart was going to break," he says quietly, so I can barely hear him. "That night after the mission. It had finally really and truly struck home to me that I didn't have Jean any more. I felt so overwhelmed with the energy of the mission, and frustration and hurt. So I came down here and ripped through the program, fueled by pure emotion." You would not guess it from his dispassionate words now, but I believe him. I know him, this stone-faced man. "And after I cried so long and hard I thought I would never recover, I did. It was the beginning. Once I'd completely accepted that she was gone, I could start to move on." The hand around my waist pulls me closer to him, and he smiles down at me. "But the final part didn't come until you did get the courage to do something," he murmurs in my ear. "You followed me out of a dinner and told me to face my ghosts and you made me dance." His hand slides down to my hip, so warm on my skin, like his breath on my neck. "You put my hands on your hips and you told me I was in control. I dreamed about you after that, you know. The dreams I told you I only ever had about Jean. They're a hundred times better when you're the star."

I wonder if this is a beautiful dream of my own, that some time very soon I am going to wake up from. And decide that if that is the case, I had better make the most of it while it lasts. So I roll against him, throwing a leg over his. With a swirl of my tongue in his ear, I purr: "Where did you put that second condom?"



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