No Strings - Hers
by
Paxnirvana
Archive: Ask and ye shall receive.
Author's Note: Minor 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.
He calls me Bea. Beatrice. I let him. It's an old name, and the one he first met me under a long time ago, but it's not the oldest name. It doesn't matter because now there's only Domino. Even in my own head.
Logan's edgier than I've ever seen him before. Watching Cyclops. Acting strangely protective of the man when it's been an open secret among those who wear the X that he's pined after his wife for years.
I almost laugh.
Cyclops has always bugged me. Starched, uptight, self-righteous prick. So ultra-conscious of his power, his responsibility, his duty until it drained him of any semblance of humanity. Only magnify that by a hundred times now, since he let Apocalypse into his brain. All that self-sacrificing Summers nobility is probably in terminal overload.
It doesn't help that he's Nate's goddamn father.
Nathan Christopher Charles Dayspring Askani'son Summers. Cable.
He's got so many names. And I've only got one left.
You're why I'm naked and locked in Logan's bathroom, crying my eyes out, you bastard. While he's out there lying on the bed pretending he can't hear me. But I know he can. Enhanced senses.
The running water at least gives both of us plausible deniability. I fight the tears back finally. Wash my face. Pee. Flush. Stare into the mirror and ruthlessly fight the flinch at what I see there.
I'm young again.
That still pisses me off. Damn alien technology. It was supposed to kill me, but instead I got young. Lucky, that. I barely recognize myself. Oh, I'm me all right. In the head, anyway. But I was used to the aches that never quite faded, the slight slowing of reflexes, the lines in my face, the old battle scars. My old, familiar, experienced body. I used to feel like a match for him, a woman almost as tough and hoary and heartless as the time-lost Askani'son himself. All of that's been wiped away.
Logan's hot. He's even good in bed. And he gave me exactly what I wanted. Sex. Hot, mindless, mind-blowing sex. A way to forget when the vodka isn't enough. And it worked, like the vodka, just while it lasted.
It's the after part I'm no good at. Never had been. But I wanted to be. I dreamed those silly little girly-dreams of contentment and caring in those tiny hidden parts of my heart that hadn't been thoroughly stomped by my ex, by life. Dreamed of having them with you, Nate.
It nearly killed me to fight my way back only to find you'd been with her for that year while I was in hell, a prisoner, tortured. And all the while she'd fooled you so completely that you never even suspected it wasn't me you were fucking. It wasn't me you were waking up beside. It wasn't me you were building something with in those kids. It was Copycat, pretending to be me. And doing a much better job than I ever had.
It wasn't even me in your head, and you never knew.
God, I still hate her. But not half as much as I hated you.
And then you met someone else. The waitress. Stacey. And I saw the way you looked at her, saw the dreams of Jenskot and what might-have-been flare to life again. Saw it all reflected in a normal woman's eyes.
I hate her too. Worse, I pity her.
Your thrice-damned Askani destiny finally reared it's ugly head and you dumped us all, running off to save the world. Running off determined to take on Apocalypse all by yourself and damn the consequences. Leaving me with a bunch of kids who loved you and trusted you and were cut to the bone by your abandonment. God, I'll never forget Sam's face. Devastated. Broken. Then getting hard. Just like you. You left him determined to prove to you that he could make it on his own. Reckless and dangerous and wild. With only Pete Wisdom, for fuck's sake, to give him direction, someone even more cynical than me if you can believe it. And because the rest might have loved you too, but they loved Sam more, they followed him. Even worse, they trusted him.
There's a sense of sickly twisted irony in the fact that the only one we lost in that alien hell-hole was the only one you'd never trained: Jesse. But in a way you did train him. He learned by example. About loyalty and causes and hard choices. He learned from Sam and Tab and Jimmy -- the children you never even saw you had.
In the end Jesse gave himself up for us, as you never could. Not and risk your precious destiny.
I'm too old for this shit. But the girl in the mirror isn't, and she's crying again. Fuck you Cable, fuck your whole damn noble, idealistic clan. Because you failed anyway. You threw us all away for your precious destiny and you failed anyway. Now your father's broken. He broke himself for you and where are you, you bastard?
I scream it. Pound my fist on the mirror. It shivers but doesn't break. Luck. Why do I let you do this to me, still?
"Bea?" Logan's outside the bathroom door now, his tone concerned. He tries the knob. It's locked. So he pounds on the door.
I stare at the girl in the mirror. See the tears. If I had my gun right now I might blow her fucking head off. Might because my luck's tricky that way. Logan probably thinks I'm certifiable. But who cares, it was just a fuck. A roll in the sack between friends. A way to scratch the itch. Like RisquÈ. She scratched the itch whenever she felt it, with whoever took her fancy.
No strings. And look what happened to her. Dead. With no one but me to mourn her. Well, shit, aren't I pathetic?
He pounds again. "Damn it, Bea," he growls from outside. "Open the flaminí door."
No strings. It's what I wanted. But who was I kidding? Who was he kidding? The strings are always there.
I hear his shoulder hit the flimsy door and it pops open to slam against the wall. He's there, glowering at me. I turn and stare, daring him to say anything. I can see us both reflected in the mirrors on the wall. Chalk-white naked girl, tipped in black. Short, naked hairy man. All muscle. And two sets of eyes older than all of the world.
"Christ, Domino, yer scaring the shit out of me."
A domino is a kind of mask.
I reach out for him, my pale hands dropping down into that thick mat of dark hair on his chest. Like fine wire -- smooth, crisp. I move forward, press my breasts to his chest. The texture is enticing, exciting and he's so warm while I'm so cold.
He hasn't moved, an arm still braced against the open door, the other on the door jamb. Watching me. He's my height, which is wrong, but he's there, which is right.
I kiss him, hands sliding up his neck, burrowing in his hair. Press myself to him, wind a leg around his hip. He's solid, heavy; braced like this I could never move him. I kiss him harder and he lets me, with still no response other than the automatic hardening of his cock against my lower belly. I finally pull my mouth away, trail it across his face, his bristly cheek, the springy hair on the side of his face. Suck on his ear. Tongue his neck.
"Ah, Bea," he says in that rumbly voice of his. And I pause for a moment, feel the air conditioning chill my wet cheeks. I grab his face in my hands, stare into those brown eyes. See sadness and understanding and compassion. No pity. Thank God for that. I don't know what he sees in my eyes.
"No strings," I say. And even I can hear the lie.
His arms come around me, warm and firm, and he picks me up. Carries me back to the bed. I wind around him like a monkey during the trip. Hot and aching and eager. Kissing any part of him I can reach. He leans over the bed, lowers me down until my back rests on it, leans forward on me, then catches my wrists and pins them above my head. My legs are around his hips, his hard cock pressed against my sopping wet entrance, but not to penetrate.
He's just watching me with that sad wisdom in his eyes. And it makes me furious. I snarl, twist, struggle to get away where before I only wanted to get closer. He holds me easily. He's got me pinned and I know it.
"Bea," he says, catching my gaze as well. I just glare back at him, tempted to spit. He knows this and says anyway, "Go find him."
"Bite me!" I yell, twisting again. He pushes forward enough to drive some air out of my lungs. I grunt and suck in more air.
"Hash it out with the stubborn asshole," he rumbles, watching me. "It just don't pay to let it tear you up like this. . . " I buck up against him and feel the surge in his cock. His eyes narrow. He's wound up, and trying to be noble about it. He wants me. Wants to fuck me. I fall back down on the bed and take deliberately deep breaths. Breaths that make my breasts heave, the tips of my hard nipples brush against his chest. He shivers, a low growling sound starting in his chest. His gaze drops down, raking over my body. It's like a wave of heat washes through me. I'm smiling, I think. Or I might be snarling.
"You wanna fuck or talk?" I say harshly, throwing his own earlier words back at him. "If you're not interested, then let me the hell up."
He snarls right back. "I'm interested all right." Then he pulls back, lines himself up and pushes his cock into me, deep and fast. It's good. I groan. Hard and hot. Pulsing in me. He holds himself there, glaring at me. "But it ain't me you really want, darliní."
I glare back at him. "You knew that up front, Logan, so what's with this sudden conscience shit?" He's watching me, sad, tired. And I am too, but wanting, needy, and he feels so good inside me. Filling the aching emptiness for a little while longer. And I know it's the same for him, in a way. He stares at me so long that I'm almost afraid his conscience will win out and he'll leave me like this. And then I'd die.
"Just don't forget and use his name," he finally says.
"Oh, I know exactly who's inside me right now," I say in a purring whisper as he releases my hands. I bring them up, wind them in his hair again, pull his face down to mine. And I kiss him. Kiss him deep and long like I want to kiss the someone else who isn't here, so instead Logan gets it all.
That's enough to convince him. He's moving in me, and it's heaven and fire and wet, sloppy motion. I slide my legs high around his waist so he's driving deeper into me with each thrust, so deep it almost hurts, but then I can feel it shake me inside. All the way. I clamp down on him, make him groan and snarl, his lips against my neck, his breath hot on my skin. I claw at him, desperate. Feeling. Connecting. He's shaking and growling my name, my only name now, as he comes with a shout. And I almost do, but don't, breath freezing for an endless moment before it races out. But a healing factor is a wonderful thing, and he's still hard and starts moving in me again.
We're both sweaty and hot. Slick. Too slick, maybe. I cry out, because I'm still not quite there. He can sense it, smell it, so he lifts up a bit, rakes his hands down my sides, cups my hips in hard, callused hands. Slams into me even as he pulls my hips toward his own. Driving so deep, it's like nearly being split, but even that's not quite enough.
I want to be impaled, filled, consumed. My hands fall away from his flesh, clench in the bedspread above my shoulders to brace me, as I press down against his thrusts. He snarls, a hand slides down my slick back and he bends enough to catch one hard nipple in his mouth.
He sucks on my breast and the world blows apart.
And my body, this new girl's body holding a tired old woman's soul, is shivering, shuddering with ecstasy but in my mind, my heart I'm calling someone else's name even as I shout out Logan's.
And I hope he hears me.
No strings, Nate.
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