Aspects of Love
May 29, 2003
Disclaimers: Not even close to mine.
Spoilers: X2, some vague mentions of season one Smallville.
Summary: See title. Call it five things that haven't happened to Kurt. Yet.
Ratings Note: NC-17.
Author's Note: It occurred to me, while reading through some of my old stories, that I used to write quite a bit of porn. Recently, even. My attempt to recapture the mojo.
Acknowledgments: To the IRC crew for audiencing and encouragement, especially Bas for certain aspects of mutant biology. Thanks also to Jenn, and to Andraste for "Ten Thousand Candles."
Feedback: Always. email@example.com
It is not what he expected.
To say the very least.
The girl is so young, yes, and that is a part of it, but also...
He has never been in this position before. And the words make him blush, because... yes. But in all seriousness, beyond the sex, the physical aspects of which make him shiver and ache and oh, so many times he has found himself on the edge of teleporting directly to her bed, and never mind the danger inherent in playing surprise-games with any of these people...
But... when he had arrived, she'd already had a love. Two, if you counted the one she could not have. He had never even considered...
Ah, but that is a lie, yes?
She was beautiful then and is even more beautiful now, hidden not at all behind a rainbow of silk scarves (recovered from his time in the circus) and shifting and moving and --
Oh, yes and yes. There is nothing here he cannot have, and everything is so lovely. The hint of her sweat as he presses his tongue to the green scarf over her throat, the hardness of muscle hidden beneath such soft skin, such smooth skin --
"I can't believe I never thought of this before --"
Gloved hands in his hair, yanking him into a kiss. There is a touch of her perfume on the blue scarf over her face and he thinks he could maybe taste it, maybe just lose himself in this moment. Silk on his tongue getting wet, wetter, and when they'd first tried this there had been laughter, yes, and just a few times when choking seemed a possibility, but now there is only the sounds she makes.
That they make.
She hums against him and spreads her legs -- gently, thinly mummified -- and wraps them around his waist and pulls him in. Against her where it is hot, and wet, and he does not think he knows how to appreciate this.
He has to try, just the same. "Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes. Behold, thou art fair, my beloved, yea, pleasant: also our bed is green. The beams of our house are cedar, and our rafters of fir..."
She giggles. "Hey, are you praying?"
He nuzzles her throat and smiles, letting her feel his teeth. "Perhaps, just a little." Smiles at her. "It seemed appropriate."
She smiles, and strokes the scars on his face. "Mmm. I know those bits. My beloved is mine, and I am his..."
And ah, there is something in the Book for all things, all people, but perhaps especially for this. So easy to be gentle, reverent, to stroke his way down and down and she is wet through the silk, welcoming and fragrant and... his?
A dangerous conceit, but perhaps unavoidable in times like this, surrounded by her and working his way carefully, so carefully, inside.
"I never met anyone like you," she'd said the first time, and traced a path over his scars, his nose, his mouth before he could hide the sharpness of his teeth.
"You're not ashamed of anything, are you?" And she'd listened to him talk about his faith, about how God could never create anything that wasn't, on some level, wholly beautiful.
"Show me something beautiful," she'd said, and he'd kissed her before he knew what his body was planning, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close, held him steady when he started to shake.
And there was awkwardness, and hurt that he would do anything to wipe away, but Marie walks with him tall and proud, and if he will not dare to demand their censure, then she will.
And they are careful, yes, so very careful, but it only seems that way when they are not together. Like this, they can only move in tandem, her hand on him rolling the condom on. His mouth pressing everywhere he can reach, the silk utterly drenched with her scent, his doubts and hesitations lost to the perfume of it.
"So beautiful," she says, and Kurt has to close his eyes.
Because like this, with her, it cannot be anything but true.
Logan smiles in battle. He tells the children, when they ask, that it never fails to make an enemy apprehensive, but Kurt has always known that it wasn't quite that simple. Logan takes a simple, fierce, and undeniable joy in the clash of arms, and it is... disturbing.
Perhaps mostly because Kurt can see it in himself Feel it. Before Stryker, he had never considered using his strength and flexibility for anything beyond tricks and games. Performance.
There is something in him that has always thrilled to the crowds, the sound of their voices blending together into something more and less than speech, animal-pure and thrumming beneath his skin.
And yet, the X-Men's cause is just, and he must admit...
It is exhilarating to leap into a fight, to kink and punch and slap with his tail, to take their weapons -- if they have not made themselves weapons -- and teleport them far away where they cannot hurt anyone else.
It makes his blood pound, makes him feel every scar on his body as something like a holy absence, like a wordless prayer of the flesh. No amount of meditation could come close, could ever approach anything like the visceral thrill of wrapping his tail around the throat of someone who lives to kill and slamming them senseless against a wall.
"I wouldn't want anyone else at my back," Logan says, and Kurt has to wonder.
Does he smell it on him? Does he recognize that the pulse in his throat has nothing to do with fear?
The Brotherhood is... the only fear is in the fact that they believe. Beyond that, they are nothing compared to high school students dragged to see a show they believe is only for children, or to the people in the smaller towns and villages who had to be told Kurt was only in special makeup and yes, yes, he is not a liar.
This, too, fuels him as he fights. And he has always known that he could become angry, that he was no different from other men, and that the pain in his life could, potentially, make him something very ugly, indeed, and yet...
And yet when Logan takes his hands and spins him into a flying kick, or when he teleports against and off wall after wall until his opponent is dizzy enough to take out with a single punch, or when it's all over and Logan grins that secret smile at him from across the aisle of the jet...
He knows it will be all right. There are other ways to loose the things inside him he has always worked to deny. There are good works he can do with all those parts of him he would hide in scars or prayer.
And when they are back at the school, and everyone is sleeping but those of them who lived in night as much as Kurt himself, and Logan himself...
Logan often doesn't let him shower when they get home. Or, like now, follows him into the bathroom that they share and turns the water on full and hot until the whole room is steaming and hot and Kurt is sweating even more.
"I saw you out there," Logan says, and doesn't finish the thought. Cups him through his pants and licks a wet stripe up his neck and behind his ear and presses him against the tile.
"There's more in there than just the little blue preacher, isn't there?" he says, and Kurt considers telling him that we are rarely entirely what we seem, that God is, yes, in the details, but really, when Logan has him, the most he can usually manage is a moan.
Choked out curses in German and Romany that he didn't remember learning.
Encouragement in the English the man seems to determined to make him forget.
Logan's teeth are nowhere near as sharp as his own, but they burn against his throat, make him tilt his head back and open his mouth on something that might have even been words before Logan got his hands on him.
Inside his clothes --
"So many damned layers --"
Inside his clothes, and one hand sliding up and over his belly, chafing the scars with calluses. One hand around his penis sliding down careful of the foreskin and tugging at the ring.
"One day you're going to have to tell me about this..."
And Kurt has to laugh, and it makes the muscles in his belly move in ways that are suddenly interesting and quite wonderful. Slides his hand into Logan's tight, black uniform pants. "It seemed," he says, "like a good idea at the time."
He can feel Logan grin against his cheek. "Yeah, I was drunk, too, but the skin just grew back." Another lick and a squeeze and then they're kissing, eyes open and Kurt can see the laughter in Logan's eyes, smell sweat and blood and sex, and he thinks this is maybe not so different than the circus.
Except for the fact that the clowns here can freeze you where you stand, and the dancing bears there had never shown nearly so much interest in his penis.
He clutches their hands together, used to the moment's awkwardness as Logan adjusts for three fingers instead of five, and then they are guiding each other, Kurt wanting faster and Logan wanting harder and it doesn't last, never lasts long. He comes shuddering, tail winding and clutching at Logan's thigh and falls away from the kiss laughing.
Already replete as Logan comes on his sex and belly, already waiting for the next battle.
Ready on more levels than he can quite understand.
He really needs to learn to look where he is going. Or, at the very least, learn to plan ahead. Stealing General Spring's hard drive had never been considered an easy mission, and certainly there had been any number of soldiers to get away from, but still.
He had learned early on that teleporting without knowing precisely where he was going could lead to any number of unpleasant surprises, and this is...
Well, he can't say that it is exactly unpleasant. At least not yet. The bed beneath his feet is soft and large, the sheets soft cotton.
From what he can see of the room, it is very nice, indeed. Art on the walls he would've liked to study, and many, many bookcases. There is a breeze coming through the open window that reminds him of performances in the German countryside, and makes him breathe a little deeper. Yes, it is all very pleasant for the eyes and other senses, but he does not think the man on the bed is very happy to see him.
"Ah. Hello." He switches the CPU to one hand and waves with the other.
The man blinks. "Aren't you guys usually green?"
He tilts his head. "I do not know any green mutants, but I am sure there are some."
The man nods slowly, and turns over until he is fully on his back. He is curiously hairless, but does not seem in any other way different from other humans. "Is that my hard drive you're holding, by any chance?"
"No, no I do not think so. It belongs to General Spring."
"I see. Was General Spring in my house?"
It is possible... Kurt takes a closer look at his surroundings. Stone walls, nothing that looks particularly military... "No, I do not think so."
Another slow nod. "And the reason you're in my house?"
He smiles apologetically. The man blinks at his teeth, but doesn't seem especially afraid. It is a good sign. "A small accident while I was teleporting."
"I see." The man holds out his hand. "Lex Luthor. What can I do for you?"
Kurt shifts the CPU to under his left arm, and shakes. "Kurt. Kurt Wagner. It is a pleasure to meet you."
"Uh, huh. You know, you can put that down if you want."
"Oh, thank you so much. It is very heavy."
He places the machine carefully on the floor next to the bed and smiles at the man -- Luthor -- again.
"So you just kind of... wound up here."
"Yes, Mr. Luthor. I sometimes lose my way when I do not know where I am going. I am very sorry to interrupt your rest."
Brief bark of laughter. "No, really, that's all right. You're definitely more polite than my usual random, midnight, mutant visitors. And please, call me Lex."
"All right, Lex. You may call me Kurt."
"You... know many mutants?"
A small smile, just a little sharp. "You could say that."
Kurt isn't sure what to say to that, so he simply nods, and shifts a little in his crouch.
"That can't be a very comfortable position." And Lex is looking him up and down.
"Oh, no, it's fine. I was in the circus for many years."
"A-ha." Lex shifted over a bit to the side. "Still, wandering into military bases..." A question in his eyes.
"Wandering into military bases to steal the property of generals must be a little... stressful."
"Oh, yes. So many guns!"
Lex's tongue slips over his upper lip, and there is a look of... perhaps bemusement? Lex shakes his head and pats the bed beside him. "No reason not to relax a bit, right?"
"Well, I should really get back to my friends..."
"By teleporting, right." Another laugh, somewhat high-pitched. "But..." He raises an eyebrow.
"You've probably got a few minutes before you have to... teleport away, right?"
And Lex turns the sheet back, just enough for Kurt to see that he is, in fact, naked under there. And apparently hairless all over. He blinks.
Kurt thinks, for a moment, about the other X-Men, and then for another moment about all those guns, and then for another moment about Lex's smile, and Lex's very smooth looking body. Kurt smiles. "A little while, yes."
Lex hands find his uniform fastenings immediately -- much faster than he had the first time he'd tried to pull the thing off. "Is this leather?"
"Oh, yes. We all wear leather."
Lex nods and licks his lips again. "Of course you do."
And then Lex is laughing again, kissing him messily and sliding his hands under the leather and rolling them over until he's straddling Kurt.
"Is this all right for your... tail?"
"Oh yes, thank you."
Another laugh. "Oh, anytime."
And really, Kurt had never known the uniform could come off this fast, but Lex seems like a very clever young man. With clever long fingers and a very, very clever tongue -- "Oh --"
And then Kurt can't think very much at all, because Lex is very clever, and very friendly, and really very enthusiastic, what with those hands on his hips and that mouth...
Hot, and wet, and tight around him and then Lex looks up at him and Kurt feels his eyes roll back in his head and spreads his legs. Feels Lex laugh around him and that's perfect, that's wonderful, always so good to find someone with a healthy sense of fun.
"I think... I think I am going to come now."
And Lex wraps one hand around the base of his cock and pumps and squeezes and sucks at the head and Kurt clutches at the sheets with his fingers and toes and arches and spills and collapses. Panting.
Vague impression of a long, lean body crawling up over his and Kurt catches at him with his tail. "Mm, Lex..."
Wet sounds, and he opens his eyes to find Lex licking his fingers. "I could be wrong -- the light in here isn't the best, but is this... periwinkle?"
"Perhaps a powder."
Lex nods. "Of course." Looks down at the way Kurt's tail is sliding up and down his side. "Anything else you can do with that?"
Kurt smiles and turns them over. Wraps the length of his tail around and around Lex's cock. Squeezes.
"Did I mention that it was a pleasure to meet you?"
Kurt bows his head and concentrates. He can't quite stroke as well as he can with his hands, but...
"A genuine, wonderful... oh god --"
Leans in for another kiss and licks the taste of himself from Lex's mouth.
"Mm," he says, and just barely manages to rub the central ridge of his tail's point along the head of Lex's cock.
"Oh Jesus Christ --"
"Our Lord and savior, yes."
And then Lex is coming, clutching at his shoulders and making a flattering amount of noise.
Kurt licks the sweat from beneath his eyes, and then just continues down his cheek and up over his scalp. Lex laughs at bats him away.
"Just a bit."
And then they just look at each other for a long moment. "I..."
"Have to go, right. Don't forget the computer."
"Oh, no, that would be a terrible thing." Kurt uncurls himself and slips out of the bed, pulling his uniform back into something like order.
He looks up to find Lex staring at him speculatively. "Hmm?"
"You know your way here now..."
Kurt grins. "Oh yes, I think that I could definitely find my way back."
"You do that." And Lex pulls the sheets back up and waves.
Kurt waves back, and teleports back into the thick of things. Logan gives him an odd look, but that... is nothing new.
They go to mass together every week, or try to. There is often something that must be done, some mission that needs to be carried out, or perhaps some small crisis at the school to be taken care of, but Xavier is very good about this.
He always finds the time.
The church is not as beautiful as the one he'd found abandoned in Boston (and who would leave such a place?), but it is soothing, just the same. Incense, and they have become regular enough visitors that Xavier's request for traditional Latin service is met by Father Jameson with a smile and a nod.
When they go in the mornings, and it is only the two of them and a handful of quiet elderly women, Father Jameson slips into Latin easily.
He takes communion, and goes to confession when there is time.
It is... almost like home. It is not so difficult to imagine the priest's faint accent is closer to his own, that outside the doors of the church the streets are cobblestone, that the wood and statuary is old and crumbling, just a bit. Candlelight is very forgiving of such fancies.
Kurt always sits at the farthest edge of a pew, Xavier quiet and watchful beside him.
At first, he'd thought this was something the man did merely as a favor to him, something to help him become acclimated. But Xavier murmurs the prayers beside him, and always lights a candle. The rites and rituals are familiar to him, and when Kurt had asked, he found out that Xavier had been raised Catholic.
That there was a time when, perhaps, all of it had meant the same thing to him as it does to Kurt.
It doesn't seem so, now.
And Kurt is used to this sort of thing. Not many of the mutants he has known throughout his life have ever been particularly religious, and many of them had reasons for it that made him sad.
Preachers giving sermons on hate, parents who called their children devils or worse.
"God doesn't want us," one young man had told him when Kurt had given him food and offered to share a moment of prayer. That had been in Munich, but when he looks at the others, all of the teachers with black leather uniforms hidden beneath the school, all of the students with haunted eyes and families who do not visit...
He sees the same things.
He sees them in Xavier, too, though the man is always careful, always sensitive of his faith. But... it isn't what he wants.
He knows the care in Xavier for what it is -- sympathy and kindness for another person in need, and for the things they use to ease it, for whatever 'coping mechanism' they need. As if he was so strange for needing God, for loving God.
And it doesn't seem right, that someone so wise and so loving as Xavier should be so... separate from that which connects them all. It seems...
It is hard to listen to him when he speaks of tolerance, of the heritage they all share, human and mutant, because Kurt knows the only heritage that means anything is their common Father. Or... not quite the only thing that matters, but certainly the thing that ties everything else together.
All of God's children, united by love and faith.
Except that he has seen little of either, or little enough together. He knows that many of the people who subscribe to his chosen faith would have little to do with him, or little good. The Pope himself has offered the mutants in his charge little but the admonishment against using their powers.
Love the sinner, hate the sin. It is the old song, but Kurt thinks, maybe, that few people sing it quite right. And there is danger there, a pride in himself and in his faith that could lead him away from the right path as much as anything else, but... It is hard not to believe that his way is the right one.
The truest form of Christianity, in which all is one and all is loved.
It is something he brings with him to confession, and with his head bent as low as he is able.
Still, perhaps he could use it, find a way to make his trips to mass with Xavier something more than duty for the man.
He finds Xavier in his office, after first asking silently, diffidently, if he had a moment to spare.
Of course, Kurt, he'd thought in his mind, and Kurt had shivered a little at the intimacy of it. Wondering at what it must be like to touch the minds (and perhaps the souls?) of everyone, every day.
He files the thought away for a later conversation and walks into Xavier's office. Crouches in the chair in front of the desk, so as not to crush his tail against the back of it.
"We'll have to find a chair with no back for you."
"Ah, it is nothing, Professor. I am used to it."
A smile. "Perhaps you shouldn't be. And please, what will I have to do to get you to call me Charles?"
Kurt smiles, but he has to duck his head. Remembers Mystique by the fire, and the brutal simplicity of her philosophy.
"Kurt? Is something wrong?" Xavier -- Charles -- wheels closer. Rests his hand on Kurt's own.
"I... no." Shakes his head. "I was just thinking... that perhaps the best lesson we can all learn is compromise."
Charles raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"
"I am... I am comfortable like this." Kurt gestures to himself. "There is no need for special chairs, yes? I think... I think maybe there are ways for all of us, all mutants, to live in this world comfortably, even if we have tails that could be smushed if people are not careful."
Charles looks at him a long time, and nods. "True. Do you find yourself worried about our cause here, Kurt? Do you think we are trying to remake the world into something it isn't?" Gentle-voiced, and genuinely curious.
He cannot feel the slightest touch on his mind, and wonders what it is like to hold such power in abeyance. "No, no, that is... your old friend, yes? I would not be here if I thought you held such ambitions."
Charles smiles at him. "I know you wouldn't, my friend. I greatly admire your adherence to your morality."
"My faith, Charles."
"Yes, I know." He looks away for a moment, seeming to be focused entirely on the trees beyond his window. "I think that I know why you're here. I've been... expecting a conversation about my faith."
"Then you know that I am... worried for you."
Another soft smile. "I am content, Kurt. Be at ease."
"But..." He flails a little, feels his tail whipping back and forth. "Will you tell me why you no longer believe in God?"
"I would not say that I don't believe, Kurt." Charles rolls back to him and leans forward a little. "Perhaps it is simply the habit of a lifetime spent surrounded by the fantastic, but I am no atheist."
Kurt frowns. "Then... what?"
"There is a theory that God created the universe, and then left it and all living things on their own, to find their own way."
"The 'clockwork' theory, yes. I am familiar with it. But... does it not seem cold to you?"
Warm smile. "Perhaps. But I find it... soothing. A God who had enough faith in us, enough love for us to let us stumble and learn and grow, without interference."
And that is... not something he has thought about. There is something almost terrifying about it, like how he imagines what it must be like for a child to walk away from his mother. And yet... "And this God will never return?"
Charles laughs. "I don't think that's for either of us to say. But, to answer a question you didn't ask, I... I look at this world's churches, and all of the ways people find to serve and know the numinous and unseen, and... I can't quite find a place for myself. For me, it is enough to take what I've been given and try to be the best man I can."
Kurt grins. "To make your Father proud, yes?"
Charles folds his hands and tilts his head at him. "Perhaps. Does it make you uncomfortable that I can't share your faith?"
Kurt catches one of Charles' wrists with his tail, just long enough to squeeze gently. "I prefer to think it is only a matter of time."
Charles laughs, open and welcoming, and Kurt has to watch, has to bask in it a little Charles has a wonderful laugh, and he does not use it often. It makes him more real, somehow, human and beautiful.
He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft and dry, and leans back again quickly, blushing somewhere beneath his skin and bowing his head.
"I... you are a very fine man, Charles, and I appreciate this time with you. You have given me much to think about." He looks up again through his lashes to find Charles watching him curiously.
And then he nods, slow and thoughtful. "As you have with me, Kurt."
Kurt grins again and jumps down from the chair. "I will leave you to your work. Thank you."
Charles smiles somewhat ruefully and gestures at the door. "You're welcome, my friend."
Kurt leaves, closing the office door with his tail.
And thinks about buying Charles a rosary.
She is always feeding him.
He has asked her if she thinks he is too thin, and assured her that he is quite healthy, but she just looks at him strangely and says that she knows he's fine. And continues to bring him food.
Homemade hummus -- something he had never had before. Bowls of clean, cool fruit. Bowls of ice cream, and bowls of soup, and some special kind of rice that tastes good even without gravy.
He especially likes the fruit, though, because when she brings that, sometimes she stays to share it with him.
She cuts peach-flesh away from the stone with a small knife, and feeds them both with solemn care.
She flies to the roof and bids him teleport to join her, and they eat out of season apples and fresh, sweet strawberries until her mouth is red and Kurt's hands are hopelessly sticky. She smiles at him slyly and calls light rainstorms to wash them both, throwing her head back and drinking from the sky.
"Are you not afraid of catching a cold?" And he wonders if she would consent to wear his coat.
She grins at him, white-eyed and crackling with power he can feel. "Weather won't hurt me."
Kurt nods, and thinks that this makes nothing but sense. Bobby cannot ever get too cold for himself. He, himself, has never broken a bone or sprained a muscle, no matter how much he tumbled and flipped. There seems to always be a benefit to mutation, no matter how strange the mutation itself is.
When he looks up again, she is standing. Or, actually, hovering. Her arms are up, palms raised to the sky, head thrown back.
"You are a work of art," he blurts without thinking, and she thumps back to the roof, falling into a crouch. Kurt winces. "I'm --"
"Do you draw?" she asks, interrupting his apology. Water runs down her face, soaking her shirt .
Kurt swallows. "Only on myself." Tries for an apologetic smile and knows he's staring.
She comes closer, kneels and takes his hand and traces over the points of his claws lightly with her thumb. The part in her hair is, perhaps, the most vulnerable seeming aspect of her, and Kurt wants to cover it. Kiss it. "With these?"
Kurt blinks, tries to focus. "I... what?"
He can see her smiling, even though he can't quite see her eyes. "Did you do them with these?"
"I... oh, yes. It seemed... fitting, yes?"
She doesn't answer, but she does look up. A strand of hair is stuck to her cheek, and Kurt stares, feeling a little helpless. He knows that he is going to embarrass himself, very soon, but has no idea how to stop it from happening. And then there is roughness against his mouth, and the scent of sweetness.
The last strawberry, and Kurt bites down, taking half. She watches him and he watches her watching, and he can't quite taste anything but the acid hints of his own need. And then she pops the rest of the strawberry in her mouth, dropping the stem to float in the water pooling in the bowl they've brought with them.
She eyes him steadily as she chews, unashamed and open and so beautiful he aches. Soft hand on his face, palm rubbing against the scars, and there's a curious blankness in his mind for a moment, two, before he finds himself kissing her, tasting strawberry on her tongue and smelling sweet, summer rain all over her.
He slides his hands into her hair and she crawls closer, straddling his crossed legs and pushing him down into a puddle. He shivers and she purrs into his mouth, pushing her hips against his own --
"Oh, oh God --"
- and biting his lip.
Her eyes are still white, with just a hint of blue at the center. Difficult to focus on, impossible to look away from, and she does not seem to blink, just stares down and into him and... moves.
Dancing against him slow and purposeful, making him hard -- harder -- and making him need.
"Shh," she says, and Kurt realizes he is praying, but it is, perhaps, not right for this. There has been nothing in his life more viscerally holy than this moment, but right now, he has no prayers. Nothing within his experience, or his studies, though perhaps...
Perhaps something about goddesses, walking the earth independent of time and the faith of men.
She rears up over him and moves faster, wet jeans against the wet cotton of his trousers, and Kurt can't help but buck. Arch and gasp in rain, breath only incidental.
"You are... you are nothing I have ever known..."
She smiles down at him and grinds her hips until he can only moan. "Good."
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