|Fri, 05 May 2000
"Lightning and Yarn" 1/1 [PG-13]
They're Marvel's. No money. Don't sue.
Well, today's my two year fanfic anniversary, so I thought that to commemorate it I'd revisit one of my earliest stories, "To Let the Thunder Roll," and take a look at it from a different perspective...
Rated PG-13 for quite implicit sex. :)
Comments to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Lightning and Yarn
A steaming, caramel-mocha-woman in the dark.
That's what she is. Not a goddess. Not a crusader. Not a warrior.
Caramel sugar. Tongue-melting mocha.
More the last than anything else.
"You're staring," she tells me, laughing deep in her eyes, her lips barely curved in the faintest hint of what might be called a smile.
"I am," I agree. "I'm memorizing."
Her lips curve ever so slightly more. Nuh uh, windrider. Show me those teeth.
"What?" she asks, and I realize my face shows my dissatisfaction.
I arch a slow, enigmatic eyebrow upward and slip my leg across the chasm of inches between us, bridging the gap. "Your smile."
My calf slides up hers, over. My knee curves to pull her just that much closer. "Isn't."
Her eyes aren't laughing. She wants her composure back fiercely, with a suddenness that I can see, and she's seeking the cold...the ice of reservation and safety and solitude. Inside if not out, where she thinks I can't reach.
She should know better by now. She's known me for _hours._
I think I'm insulted.
But only just.
My calf flexes, draws her leg nearer. She watches me with that half-smile on her lips and the one in her eyes trying its best to suffocate on serenity. Serenity. Or me.
I know which one I'd pick.
So I blanket her. Forget cotton -- try flesh. I'm on her and over her and straddling her and crushing my smaller chest to her generous breasts, and then a flex of muscles (oh yes, 'Ro, how's that feel?) to coax the slinky firebreather back out of her hidey-hole. Skin. To skin. She smells like sex.
Her eyes are laughing again. Only a little, but the sky outside flashes and I hear thunder growling.
No, wait. That's me.
"You took notes from Logan, did you?"
I show her teeth. Finally, there, a flash of her own, bared for an instant.
"Logan," I tell her smugly, "took notes from _me._"
She laughs. She comes alive with her laughter and suddenly her arms, silken vises, encircle me, warm and tight and captivating. I remember a kitten, or a cat, or a feline of some age, and a ball of dirty yarn clutched so tightly in her grasping limbs. Maybe Ororo sees the memory, too -- her teeth nip lightly at my neck as she rolls us, I roll us, someone rolls us until we're hopelessly tangled. Hopelessly entwined. Hopeless...
My tongue parts her lips, skates past her teeth for a taste of elemental heat. Kissing Ororo isn't so much unlike kissing a tempest, shouting into it, knowing it could overwhelm you, swallow you whole, but challenging it regardless. Challenging it because you have to. You _have_ to.
And worse fates are surely out there than being lost in this storm.
She breathes my name. I wonder if we're already back into lovemaking, or if we ever stopped, or if she wants to talk some more or if I remember the language. Her thigh's between mine, mine between hers. I forget who's on top. No one's on top. There's too much motion between us for that.
The mohawk tickles my face when her mouth dips to my chest. Such a proud crest, that. Defiant. It suits her. I love it.
"I love it."
Warm breath over moist skin as she draws back an inch. "What?"
Her tongue teases. My growl's a purr.
"Wild woman," I whisper, halfway teasing, halfway not. "Did you know?"
Lips over that sensitive, oh _yes_ sensitive flesh. "Know...?"
"That you--" and I catch my breath-- "had it in you? Impulsiveness?"
Clever fingers. Stroking palms. Ancestors, spirits, I love this woman. "I had...suspicions."
"Oh?" Such a quick learner. Such natural aptitude. "I had my share...of suspicions...about you." Oo, there, rough silk, wet warmth, lightning again with a flash and a *CRACK!* loud enough to deafen, and then I'm laughing. Again. Sweating and laughing and batting at the standing wave of snowy hair atop her aristocratic head. She looks a question at me with azure eyes that are so out of place, and so perfectly right, when gazing from that raceless face. I don't want to move. I want to watch her prowl up my length, stalking my lips.
"Tokyo," I manage with another show of teeth, "will be a very tousled city by morning."
She wavers, almost visibly, between reactions I can only guess at. This is a problem for me. A woman paused in thought is not a woman vigorous in action. Foolish of me, perhaps, to remind her of what her abandon seems to mean, but I was hoping to see those teeth again, bared and feral and understanding...
"Logan," she says, bringing that name back to my bed again. "Logan will be married in the morning."
"Good for him. Come here."
She doesn't. "Married to Mariko."
"Better than to me."
Her hands caress, maintaining warmth rather than sparking new heat. "Do you mean that?"
I swat her hair lightly, once, twice, and watch it wave. She thinks I'm denying my feelings. I never do that.
"Not even for him."
"I'm not certain I know what you mean..."
"Not even for him will I dress in white. It looks terrible on me." And it's the color of mourning -- of the bride's symbolic death as she leaves her family to join her husband's. I have no family to die for.
She takes my truth for what it is: enough. Her face breaks into a smile when I absently attack her hair again, then a more interesting grin as she...
_I_ didn't teach her that...
"You're a criminal. You break laws," she informs me, inching down, leaving a trail of singing nerves in her wake.
"One country's laws...are another's crimes..."
"Such wisdom." A nibble. A nip. "I was a thief."
"As a child. What I needed--" talk about _need_-- "to survive."
I take a moment to prove my flexibility, not content to merely receive. While she gasps out her response to that, I assure her, "I only steal what I can't afford." My single room, a shoebox even for Tokyo, makes elaboration unnecessary. "Adventuring doesn't pay well."
Her breath shakes. Mine's getting there. "Neither does...saving the world..."
So matter-of-fact. "Ahhh." Saving the world. I saved a cat once.
Or a kitten.
A feline. With a ball of dirty yarn.
"_Being_ saved, however..."
Is she speaking? Are those words?
"_Being_ saved appears to be far...more rewarding..."
"I'm sure." What did she say? "Can you do...do that ag--"
"Yes," she cuts in, doing it. I'm dying, I love it, she'll love it, the wind's screaming...
I see laughter in blue eyes.
Tokyo's going to shake tonight.