Ultimate X: Orgy at Emma's

"Can you prove right now there were never any female knights? No? Then shut up. God, you're cute, but at what price?"

"You say things like that, then you tell me you and Raven aren't related..."

"The female knight," Rogue interjected, quite loud, "rode for many days, searching tirelessly for the slightest trace of a clue, going where no man would dare to tread. Until finally, she found a castle deep within the darkest woods. She scaled its great walls, fought her way through the many enemies that sought to slay her—"

"Of course they're trying to slay her, she's invading their castle for no reason."

"The prince is there, you know."

"How does she know that?"

"Women's intuition."

"Oh, please."

"After she had killed all the enemies—absolutely all the enemies—she searched the castle, evading its many traps and mazes, until finally, in the highest room of the highest tower, she found the sleeping prince. She tried to wake him, but the enchantment was too strong. She knew she'd have to be creative."

Here, Rogue carefully pulled away the remainder of the cloth covering Scott's groin. She was quite gratified to find that her continued presence had had an effect. A very noticeable effect.

"You know," Scott said, "the prince really hasn't consented to this. Your knight's kinda a rapist."

"Too bad for him," Rogue shot back, and kissed him hard, letting her lips play lovingly over his. "Good story, huh?"

"Yeah, but you forgot one bit."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Scott dragged her atop himself. "The ride back."

Rogue tugged at her gloves. "Was it a fast ride?"

"Yes. Very, very fast."

He ripped at the yellow-green bodystocking she wore as a last line of defense against her powers. It tore reluctantly, but quickly once he put his muscles into it, ripping almost the whole thing away in one go. Now there was nothing left but her cropped brown jacket, tattered shreds of yellow and green, and a pair of army boots. He cupped her naked ass, wondering for a moment how many men had wished to be able to do what he was doing as he squeezed it roughly, then he pulled her to his quiveringly erect cock. Rogue's eyes bulged at the feel of his hardness against her snatch, his hands on her ass.

"This what they call a happy ending?" she asked sassily. Her body stingingly excited, Rogue lowered herself until she felt him press into her entrance. She wasn't Mystique. She'd only done this once before, and her memories were hazy. She acted on instinct more than thought, wiggling her hips until he was inside her, in her burning place, and it felt so good that she kept going down until he was enveloped in her cunt. Scott encouraged her, his hands coming up under her jacket to cup her breasts. She loved the feel of his callused hands on her swollen, sensitive flesh.

"Ride that cock," he told her, the commanding tone coming easily to him—Rogue's eager submissiveness practically begging for it. "Ride it until you get my cum."

Obedient to a fault, she bounced up and down enthusiastically, impatiently on his cock. The feeling filled her mind, exorcising memories of her doubles being so similarly filled. She wasn't sure if what she was feeling was real or remembrance, but for the first time, she didn't care. Rogue only needed to know that her juices were boiling in her cunt, right alongside his cock.

"That's it, that's it," she chanted as each bounce layered a new flush of heat atop her body. She could feel the singing expansion of his cockhead inside her body. He was on the cusp, right beside her. "Oh, gawd—my cunt is just made for your cock!"

His hands slid off her breasts, leading to a groan of dismay, but then they were holding her face, fingers cunningly kneading her brow, and she felt a sudden sense of peace through all his pleasure. He forced her to look into his eyes. His perfect brown eyes. "Come," he told her, and she simply had to follow orders. She let her body go and it orbited hotly around the male presence deep inside her. For a moment, her pleasure was blindingly, overwhelmingly real. Not a memory. Hers alone.

Then it was all Scott's. He'd been tied up in knots, stiff, blocked up, suffused with an unclear ache. Stress and guilt and lack of sleep. Now it all fell away. He thrilled to a sudden height, felt pure delight wash out his body. He went taut, a good stretch, every muscle snapping to limberness, every bone clicking into place, as an orgasm pulled him tight at his belly, his thighs, his asshole and groin. Paralyzed, with a wounded grunt, he poured himself up into Rogue. Dizzy with spinning, exalting pleasure. Spurting in limitless, ever-lasting shots that poured straight out from every congestion and knot in his agonized body, each more delicious than the last. The relief he felt afterward was almost better than his climax.

"Oh yes, oh yeah!" Rogue moaned into his cupped hands. "Oh-oh-oh—!" He got his hand over her mouth before she screamed louder than she had ever screamed before, a blisteringly hot exhalation into his strong fingers. Then he took his palm away and her old moan continued, almost uninterrupted. "Gawd—I love your hot cum inside. I came too! I came, just like you said!"

She fell into him as he rutted into her one last time, the last of his jism draining into her.

"Thank fuck," she whimpered, "I needed that."

"Same here," he whispered back, pulling her up beside him so her lips were level with his. They met quickly and lengthily. Then she curled into him like the afterglow was a physical thing, spreading between them like body heat. She felt so elaborately satisfied that she didn't know what to credit it too, besides his presence. It never felt this good by herself.

She heard him open up the nightstand, rustle around, then felt him bring something to his face. A rush of gas told her it was Banshee. So did the feel of his cock rising against her buttocks. He pulled her close. She felt her serene afterglow torn apart, replaced with urgent, heated need.

"I forgot to mention," he said. "It was a long ride, too. A long, hard ride."

***

It offended the hell out of the feminist in her, but sitting in Peter Parker's attic, sewing up his costume, put Mary Jane at peace sort of. It wasn't that it was women's work or some bullshit like that. It was just that while she couldn't do anything for the bumps and bruises Peter took, saving the city, she could at least have him looking natty while he did it. Patching up the holes in his costume, making him look invincible, was the next best thing to being able to heal him. And she still loved the big lug, even if they weren't dating anymore.

Walking around between boxes of Christmas ornaments, old clothes, and family memories, Gwen fiddled with one of Peter's webshooters. "Don't touch it," MJ warned her, but she ignored her.

"I cannot believe he's just out there." Gwen worked the reloading mechanism on the spinneret. "Magneto. He blacks out the whole city and they're just letting him run free. They should nuke that stupid island."

Mary Jane winced as she jabbed herself with the sewing needle. Hated when that happened. "Gwen, c'mon. They don't even know if he's still on the island. They do anything, he might hit us again."

"So we're just letting him rule us, then. He wins, we lose. Fucking bullshit." Gwen aimed the webshooter and fingered the palm-control. It fired a webline out to one of the ceiling beams.

"Gwen!" MJ cried angrily, setting aside her sewing.

"Chill, chill. I'll stop touching it." Gwen began unstrapping the gauntlet.

"He spends a lot of money on that stuff, you know."

"He should get a Paypal account then. Kickstarter. Have people donate. I mean, he saves them, right? Least they could do is take a bill from their beer money and give it to him."

MJ took up sewing the suit again. "They're going to catch Magneto. These guys always get caught."

"Yeah, then they always break out... fucking fuckers—I used to think mutants were cool..."

The attic door creaked open and they heard footsteps coming up the ladder. Mary Jane hid the costume under a blanket, while Gwen made one last attempt at loosening the webshooter, then hid it behind her back. Liz came up in her usual burst of cheerleader athleticism.

Since she'd started dating Gwen, MJ had been more prone to noticing women. Liz was easy to notice. Her long, curly hair was a rich gold, not at all like Gwen's pale, Norwegian platinum. Liz's skin was also a deep, juicy tan. And while Gwen wasn't shy, with her belly shirt and hip-hugging jeans, Liz was an exhibition—tight cut-off jeans that clung to hips all the more tightly for how precarious their hold was. They barely reached down to cover the lowest curve of her ass. They similarly clung to the crease of her thighs, while her sleeveless cut-off tee ended inches under her cleavage. She wore no bra. MJ was surprised May had let her in.

"Sup, girlfriends?" she called.

"Nothing... girlfriend," Gwen replied, tone awkward both from hiding her hand behind her back and from her eyes wandering over Liz's golden body.

"I'm in the mood for a pizza, but I'm poor and fat, so I thought I'd split the damage with you guys both ways. How about it? Large meat and cheese from Mancini's, we all go in on it, you promise not to let me have more than two pieces. Okay? Promise."

"Liz," Mary Jane said inelegantly, "do you think we could get a moment? We were kinda in the middle of something."

"Oh. Oh!" Liz said sharply, raising a hand to her mouth. "It's okay, it's cool, I know. You wanna get pizza or not?"

"You..." Gwen's hidden hand relaxed a little. "Know?"

"Yeah. You guys are totally lesbians. I think it's cool. You think I wouldn't rather date a girl than Flash? I am tragically heterosexual. Xena does nothing for me, it sucks. Is that a no on the pizza? Do lesbians not eat pizza?"

Gwen ducked behind a stack of old junk to work the webshooter off her. "Pizza sounds fine. Order-in or take-out?"

Liz didn't notice, wandering to the eyebrow window like it was no big deal. "We should walk there. I could use the exercise. Hey, what's with that big Hummer with the SHIELD thingey on it pulling up to the curb? Are they shooting a Michael Bay movie here or something?"

***

The trip to New York had been a complete success. Scott had flown them under the radar, Regan and Martinique swapping illusion duties between them every hour, cloaking the Blackbird as everything from a small storm front to a pod of dolphins leaping into the air. Wanda had chipped in, altering the small probability of them being caught so that it was virtually impossible.

Martinique had applauded her new costume, especially now that she'd trimmed the bodice into a severe V-cup, the twin projections from her bodice cupping her breasts while leaving most of her chest exposed. Regan thought it lacked dignity, now that she had assumed the added responsibility of representing Magneto's wishes.

Upon landing in Manhattan, they'd all switched to civilian clothes. Scott's had been packed for him by Rogue, as a lifetime of the color red had left him little ability to color-coordinate. He looked dashing enough in a red shirt, jeans, and black leather jacket—and virtually unrecognizable with the scruffy stubble and lack of sunglasses. Wanda had trimmed her hair and put on heavy make-up for an experimental goth look: corset top, leather pants, and a red duster. The Masterminds dressed as they usually did—blouse and slacks for Regan, cut-offs and crop top for Martinique, and they both illusioned themselves as wearing haute couture.

A quick hex from Wanda had led them to a car with the doors unlocked and the keys in the sun visor. From there, it was a quick drive to the Allan residence. Martinique drove, Regan in the passenger seat. In the back, Wanda sat on Scott's lap. She told the twins to make the approach. They made themselves into teenagers, dressed in Gossip Girl regalia, and walked up the house's front steps.

"What do you think of Scott?" Martinique asked. "Now that he has eyes, I mean."

Regan thought about it. Like her sister, she was single, and there was only one context in which her sister would bring up a guy. "He's cute, but too much baggage. You know Raven always goes for the broken birds. Him, that creepy Southerner..."

"Yeah," Martinique sighed longingly. "He needs to recruit some new blood. There's no one cute left in the Brotherhood. I'm thinking of asking Mystique to turn into Chad Michael Murray, just so we have someone to run a train on."

As always, Regan's friendly overtures ended with a hiss. "I'm not running a train with you!"

"We never do anything as a family anymore..."

"It was one time!"

Mrs. Allan came to the door. For a woman who had once fucked the Blob, she looked pretty suburban. You never could tell, Regan thought. Look at her—the height of sophistication, and look at Martinique. The exact same face. What did it mean? Who knew?

They asked about the girl and Mrs. Allan, thinking they were just schoolmates, told them she was off at a friend's house. Regan got the name, thanked her for her time, and went back to Scott. Wanda was still giving him a slow-motion lapdance, Scott's eyes clear but his hand firm on her leg.

"Well?" he asked, as if there weren't a woman dry-humping him.

"She's off with some schmuck named Peter Parker."

Scott nodded. Finally having enough, he pushed Wanda back into her seat. She clung to his arm. "Alright then. Let's go see Peter Parker."

***

"We need to talk about Peter," Carol Danvers said.

"Tea?" May Parker replied.

"Yes, thank you." Carol wore a smart-looking business suit that looked more expensive than the house. Her two lackeys were similarly dressed, though their bulky linebacker physiques had nothing on Carol's toned, fashionable silhouette. They were close-cropped, clean-shaven Secret Service types in blocky sunglasses. One was sweeping the house for bugs; the other had found the girls in the attic and herded them out to the backyard.

It was a lazy Monday, would've been even if May's work and schooln't had been closed by the ongoing disaster. May was still in her house coat, but her voice was razor sharp as she put the kettle on.

A gesture to the bug-sweeper sent him out of the room to guard the front door. He was a local New York agent, not cleared for anything like secret identities—expected to suit up, shut up, and do his job. He wouldn't ask what they were doing in Queens, wouldn't wonder.

May sat down in the kitchen, waiting idly for the kettle to come to a boil.

"Let me begin by saying you and your nephew are not in any trouble. Whatever the legality of your actions, it has no bearing on what I'm here to say. We have a clean slate. May I ask where the boy is now?"

"Upstairs. Asleep. I'm sure you can imagine what dealing with this thing of yours has been like for him."

"That's good. You have any disagreement with letting him sleep for now? This doesn't concern him yet."

"No. Let him sleep. Whatever you have to say, I'd like to hear it first."

Carol loosened her tie. Took off her sunglasses. It was an informal gesture. A practiced one. She got the feeling May saw through it, knew they weren't friends, but still felt compelled to make the tiny play.

"I realize, sitting on the sidelines, that it must look as if the Persons of Mass Destruction situation is totally out of control. And that's just not the case. Up until recently, very recently, the genetic situation was—pretty much the Wild West. Nick Fury, the current head of SHIELD, was not operating by a playbook. He handled situations as they arose, on a case by case basis, and that led to inconsistencies. None of which is strictly speaking your concern, but I can tell you that he ruled over American superheroics like his own private kingdom and allowed multiple individuals to operate their own little fiefdoms. The Fantastic Four were allowed to attend to certain matters as they pleased. The X-Men and Charles Xavier were almost wholly in charge of the mutant problem. The Ultimates were under our control, and that was good enough for the voters, good enough for Washington. We thought we had the nuclear option—that was how it was understood. If the Four, or the mutants, or anyone else stepped out of line, we had all the heavy-hitters, and we could step on them if worst came to worst, end of story."

"And then this Magneto business." It wasn't a question.

Carol nodded. It felt good not to have to spoon-feed. "Yes. The Magneto business. I can't speak to the wisdom of Fury's agenda, but for a long time, the feeling on the mutants was that Magneto was our—Yassir Arafat. We'd let the mutants deal with him in-house, and if we didn't radicalize anyone too harshly, the day would come when we'd open negotiations. Xavier assured us that his second-in-command, Cyclops, would be reasonable when Magneto stepped aside or was captured. This isn't to say we gave Magneto a free hand, but we did operate with kid gloves. There was a certain lack of escalation. Other countries which were more aggressive in their dealings with mutants were most often targets; we've never had a confirmed attack on American soil by the Brotherhood until now. And never anything like this. So we let Xavier deal with it, as he said he would. History will judge that decision far better than I can—at the time, it seemed very liberal in comparison to having fleets of Sentinels making arrests and giving us casualties. But however effective that policy was, it failed us now. And the ripples of that are spreading. I said Fury operated without a playbook. Well, now Washington wants a playbook. No more Wild West."

The kettle went off. Carol gave an uneasy smile.

"And here's where your nephew comes in."

***

Peter woke up hugging himself. He was having a dream where people were talking about him. Somehow, he could hear them, even now. He strained his hearing, slipping out of bed to press his ear to the floor. He could hear Aunt May talking and it was almost like his spider-sense was going off...

***

May poured into Carol's cup. "I appreciate your candor, and your diplomacy. I thank you for only bringing two people with you, instead of a goon squad meant to intimidate me. But I hope you appreciate that only makes me think you want a knife in my back instead of my front."

"I expected you to be protective—"

"Ms. Danvers, you haven't seen me protective—"

"Agent Danvers. If you must." Carol held up her hands. "Picture the movie of Peter's life. He's a fifteen-year-old boy in a costume he sewed himself. He's using webbing he bought on his own dime. He gets shot in the arm doing the police's job for them, so he goes home and, what, you pull the bullet out with a set of pliers and sew him up like he's a Christmas sweater?"

"I'd do more for him."

"Ms. Parker—"

"Mrs. Parker," May corrected her. "I'm a married woman."

Carol nodded. "Is the movie I'm telling you about one you'd like? Or would you be asking why someone isn't paying for his webbing, and tending to his wounds, and training him? I appreciate that he's done well so far. Spectacular, in fact. His competence isn't in question, or his intentions, just the fact that he is in a position that is simply not tenable."

"And making him a, what, Ultimate would be better? You must've seen who he fights. Bank robbers. Muggers. Not terrorists. Not soldiers. Petty crime who are more of a danger to innocent people than they could ever be to him."

"But that's not all he fights. He gets into situations where the threat is much larger than that, which is simply the world we live in. And he's somewhat effectual there. But in situations like the one we've faced this past month, I'd rather he be on deck than a loose cannon. He could've done a lot more good forming a response with the Ultimates than putting out fires."