Fic: Imaginings and Intimacy (Secret Garden, 2/2) NC17
- Title: Secret Garden, Part 2 of 2: Imaginings and Intimacy
Rating: NC17 (Yes, I'm cautious with my ratings, but I've had trouble with
offending the prudes before, so heads down: low-flying sex and adult
Short Summary: After "A New Name" and part 1 of "Secret Garden". What comes
next. Whaddya think's gonna happen? Get yer minds back in the gutter.
Archive: Anyone who wants it, just let me know.
Disclaimer: The X-men are not mine. Not even vaguely. I don't even want
them. They're in my head and that's bad enough. I'm not making any money
out of this, just doing it in the hopes that Scott, Ororo and the rest will
shut the hell up.
Note: Dedicated to Sophia for being wonderful, beta-reading this and
enabling me to send it to the list by telling me it wasn't as silly as I
thought it was. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Incidentally, am I the
only one who, when I'm writing a sex scene, feels my mother looking over my
shoulder and saying: "Where did you get *that* from?"
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...
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
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
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, then I 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
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
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
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
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
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?"