No Strings - His
by
Paxnirvana
Archive: Ask and ye shall receive.
Author's Note: Major spoilers for New X-Men Annual 2001. It's a damn good annual. For once.
New Improved Disclaimer: Characters belong to Marvel Comics. This story is not sanctioned by them. Nobody makes any money here, so your over-priced and bored lawyers should just consider this free advertising.
Hong Kong.
Dirty smell. The stink of too many bodies too close together. The waste and raw sewage of human existance, of human arrogance. Like they're the only living things on the planet and only the moment matters. Their shit plays hell with my senses. Mostly. Learned a long time ago to tune out the excess human crap. To pick and choose.
But tonight.
Death. Skin-thing clones that slice just fine and a reward of crude iron keys. Mutants being stripped of their manifestations by human wannabes in an effort to be fashionable, to ride the next wave. Enough to make a real man puke. But here we are, resting for the next day's adventure. Taking time to drink and smoke and think and wish the world was something other than what it is and wondering why the hell we even bother anymore.
Then there's the ladies.
I can see already that me 'n Emma are gonna butt heads. She's on the make, the White Queen is. Circling around Scotty-boy like a vulture, looking to hook with the head man if his life, his marriage goes to hell. And not even waiting for the body to stop moving. But what does that make me? I took a stab on the other side. Moved in one the one who isn't wrestling with the dregs of a madman in his head. Just took advantage of her pain, is all.
Jeannie, I'm sorry. But words won't make it right.
So I guess that makes me the biggest fuck-up of the bunch.
What a sorry bunch of mutants we are. Out to save the world from it's own damn self with a group of people who might once have been heroes but now are so battered, so beaten we aren't sure what the hell we are any more. Then there's Bea. Lonely, bitter and so damned familiar it's almost like looking in a mirror. She's lost and so am I. Lost in this world of broken heroes and evils that never fade, like prejudice and pain.
So here we are, in a fancy hotel, the stink of death down the hall. That poor mutant kid tortured and stripped of her wings by madmen. Dead. Despite the best Hank could do. A changed Hank. The big brain housed now in a body that betrays it. The fine motor skills may never come back. The hands are too big for a scalpel but not for a remote control. A Hank who now sits and watches movies endlessly, escaping in the face of our life, our world into fantasy.
Can I do any less?
She comes to my room. All sleek in tight black leather and pale, pale skin. The dark patch over her eye looking like an old bruise. The door locks itself behind her. Lucky, that.
"How do you want it?" she says, hand on the zipper of her suit. And I swallow the last of my drink and give her my best charming snarl. Get up off the bed where I've been lying, waiting and wondering. Shirt off, boots gone. Just black pants and hair.
"Fast and hot, darlin'," I say, walking over to her. She gives me that quirky, dangerous smile. That one that means either impending death or a hellacious practical joke's been played on someone somewhere. I almost shiver.
"Hot and fast works for me. No strings, Logan," she says as she slides the zipper of her leather suit down to her waist, baring her pale breasts. Her nipples are the color of her patch, startlingly dark against that chalky skin. "I'm done with the angsty pseudo-relationship crap. I'm too old for that shit anyway."
"You here to fuck or to talk, Bea?" I say, moving in close. Eye to eye. I can smell her. She's hot and ready. She wants me as much as I want her. But only for the night. Only to forget that there isn't someone out there, waiting, for either of us.
"To fuck, Logan, why else?" she says, her gaze as ruefully bitter as my own. Then reaches up and grabs the back of my head, pulls my mouth onto hers. She's warm and eager and tastes like vodka. Knows what to do with her tongue. It gives me ideas for other things, later. I put my hands on her, pull her close. Sleek and alive. Feminine without being weak. All woman but would kick your ass for telling her that.
I pick up her, feel her strong legs go around my waist. Damn, but she knows what to do with her tongue. Awkward, but I carry her to the bed. Drop her down, following hard. I'm heavy but she can take it, expects it somehow. And I flash on Nate. All that weight. I shake the image out of my head. The last damn thing I want to think of is Cable when I've got her under me.
She breaks the kiss finally, gasping. Slides herself up the bed with a quick motion, making sure to rub all over me on the way. I growl and follow her. She's suddenly got too many clothes on, but I bend over and take one of those tight little purple nipples into my mouth anyway. Just to see what it tastes like.
Good. It tastes good. Like her. Like a little piece of heaven on loan.
She moans and throws her head back, strong hands winding in my wiry hair. Her body pushes up against mine, a hand sliding down my back to slip under the waistband of my pants. Gives me a squeeze on the ass. Makes me laugh against her breast, the noise, the rumble making her gasp and hold on harder. Legs in black leather rise around mine.
I lift my head. "Got too damn many clothes on, Bea," I say. She smiles, thin and desperate, dark eyes flashing in the reflected lights of the city. Something like luck in the left one.
"So do something about it," she said with a low laugh from under lowered lashes. I lift my hand and pop a claw, calling her bluff, and she gives a little shriek of outrage. "Not my working suit! Damn. Wait a second!" And she's moving under me, shimmying out of the tight leather. And that feels pretty damn good all on its own. I let the claw slip away, just feeling her body move against mine. Not helping, not lifting up very far. Just feeling woman move.
It's a fine thing.
She's giving these amused little snorts. She knows exactly what I'm doing, I can see it in the little sidelong looks she gives me. But I just lean over her, watching, feeling. The suit's down around her hips now, hung up on me and my legs between hers.
"Move, oaf," she says, pushing at my waist. So I obligingly hook my arm around her and roll us both over on the bed. She pops up right on top of me, bracing herself against my chest to shake herself out of the rest of the suit a leg at a time. And right there above me are those pretty little nipples again. I put my mouth, my teeth on one and she about collapses on me. Writhes a little bit. Moans. Likes it, apparently. I slowly let the nipple go, the break in suction giving with a wet popping sound. She bites her lip, her eyes crushed closed. Arms trembling.
"Suck on my tits again and I might just be done with you," she says, panting slightly. I know she's exaggerating. Her scent's hot and liquid, but not that close.
"Can't pass it up," I say. And suck on the other one again. She winds her hands in my hair, pressing her chest closer, legs braced over mine. Moans and shudders. If I didn't have a mouthful of her breast, I could look down and see all of her, naked and leaning over me. Pale, pale skin. Like an albino.
I clamp my hands on her hips, shift her up. Can feel the wet heat of her against my stomach. Smell her. And suddenly I want her so bad. My cock's hard and throbbing. Has been since she walked in the door, but it's aching now. She leans up, breaking my mouth away from her breast with another soft pop. Her hands go to work on my pants. Unsnap. Unzip. Push the pants out of the way. Damn boxers. She laughs softly and I realize I said that out loud. Snort and growl a little and lift her up. She's pushing the waistband down and I'm pushing her down and I feel her slide right over me. Luck again. Then groaning. Both of us.
Hot and tight and wet. She groans once more as I slide all the way inside her, hands on her hips to keep her in place. Deep. Hot. I'm watching her, but her eyes are closed. She throws her head back, her hands come forward and clamp tight on my sides. She's all pale. Those big dark-tipped breasts bouncing as I lift her, bring her back down again hard. She cries out. Blue-red lips part, a tongue darts across them. It's not lipstick I realize suddenly, but her own skin tone. Her mouth opens again. But then I'm the animal. All I can feel are her sleek hips under my hands, her tight body over mine. The glorious wet woman-heat of her.
And I drive into her, hard and fast. Just like she wanted. I feel her own hands come down to where we're pushed together. She works at herself as I just hold her and pump up into her over and over and over again. Until she's clamping down hard on me, shivering and crying out. Her hands pause, move, then catch at my wrists, but I'm not quite done.
Shifting fast, I roll us both over once more. Pinning her under me on the bed. I grab her wrists and pull them out to the side. And her dark eyes open, look into mine for an instant, then close again. Her head turns away. And I thrust into her again, once, twice more, then I'm coming. God, like fire. It almost hurts, it's so intense and I ram deep into her, holding there as I spurt into her, feeling her legs come up around me, pressing me closer and she's squeezing and shaking around me again, coming with me this time. Lucky.
Breathing hard, I collapse over her. Panting, really. Shifting enough to the side so she can breathe. But she's used to that too, and has an arm between us, giving herself, her ribs a break. We're both sweaty and hot, and between us is all the wet mess leaking out all over my bed.
"You're pretty good at that for an old guy," she says, between gasps for air. She's still not looking at me, but more like somewhere near my ear. I just give her a short laugh, low and rumbling. The cynical one. The one I know she wants to hear. Only then does she look at me, a relieved look in her eye. As if she's afraid I'll get all serious on her now.
"Not so bad yourself, lady," I say. And flamin' hell, but I want to pull her close, snuggle down and just breath the scent of her skin for a while. But that's not the kind of thing to do here. Not the kind of thing either of us is comfortable with. Already I can feel her tensing. Trying to find a way to extricate herself, to go, without seeming in too much of a rush.
I close my eyes, imagining for a moment that she's who I want her to be. But fantasy was never my strong point. And the images hurt too badly anyway. Bring too much guilt because I honestly respect Scott. He's a better man than I am. So I open my eyes again, looking right into hers.
"Doesn't work does it," she says, something like pain in that dark gaze. Regret. Loss. Then she turns her face away. And she's pulling away, sliding away from me. Her pale body shaking and I pretend I don't notice.
She climbs off the bed and walks naked to the bathroom. And I hear water running in there, and for an instant I think she's doing those things women always do in the bathroom after sex. The cleaning and the washing up. But faint underneath the sound of water I can hear crying.
And I lay there in the dark, hands under my head, staring at the patterns of light from the city outside. The hustle and life and pain that never slows, never stops.
No strings.
Yeah, sure Bea. No strings.
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