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Ultimate X: Orgy at Emma's

By: Zev95



The Genoshan mess hall seemed even quieter than it was. When the Brotherhood had captured it, there'd been a feast. Human prisoners made to serve a banquet to their former captives, food whipped up and brought back to life by Good Doctor, who could revitalize a rotting cabbage as easily as a wounded arm. The taste had been exquisite. No preservatives, no artificial flavoring, just pure life. 

Now—nothing. The island of Krakoa was being evacuated. Only a flag presence of combat members were staying, for the time being, ready to put up a defense if and when the humans attacked. But most were being evacuated back to the Savage Land, save for those who simply wanted to leave. There were more than a few. 

The mutants had never expanded their hold to the mainland. It had still fallen, but now the country of Genosha was locked in civil war. Neighboring countries, African warlords, Muslim fundamentalists, mercenaries representing corporate interests—all factions infighting amongst each other in the chaos Cyclops had left. 

He ate. There was so much to coordinate, so much to do, that even this late at night, he couldn't quite believe there was nothing else but to wait. Madrox was populating the island, covering the evacuation as Gateway teleported out the civilians. Letting the military believe that the Brotherhood wasn't going anywhere—that they had all the time in the world to formulate a response. 

Under normal circumstances, Gateway could only teleport ten people a day; maybe make a return trip. On Banshee, he could transport a hundred at a time. Soon, the island would be emptied. That was the one upside in all this. The Banshee. It had proven very useful. But it was no replacement for Magneto. 

His power, his charisma, his vision—the world was still convinced he was the real threat, and no one outside the Brotherhood knew if he'd stayed or gone. They wouldn't attack, with all their metal, not unless they'd taken Erik out first. They had no way of knowing Scott had already done it for them. 

Scott went over his thoughts again, shopworn as they were. The Ultimates. They wouldn't like being used for a police action, an act that could be thought of as racial violence. Not when Magneto wasn't on Krakoa. Thor, at least, would be against it. He wouldn't like being used as a weapon of mass destruction. But who else? Who wouldn't fall in line, simply because they were given an order? Erik had made it so easy, dammit. So easy for them to be hated... 

The voices carried before they entered the room—a few bodies to restore some of the faded luster. When they opened the door, the light spilled in, illuminating the half-finished mutant fractals Skyhigh had been lasering into the walls. A fresco, turning it from a place of death into a celebration of life. Toad and the Mastermind sisters walked in. 

"So how big is your tongue, Mort?" Martinique asked, cheeky as ever. 

"Let me put it this way. It's almost as big as my—" Toad saw Scott and stopped short. "Oh, hey ya there, boss-man. Me and the birds were just looking for a late-night snack." 

"Yeah," Martinique added, rubbing Toad's chest. She'd been hanging on his arm. "We're ravenous." 

Regan rolled her eyes. She was, as always, the mirror image of Martinique, despite all they'd done to differentiate themselves. They always came out looking like the before and after in some commercial, though which was which—and what the commercial was advertising—was never clear. 

Regan wore a professional black evening gown, even in their informal setting, while Martinique paired short-shorts with a camisole top that cropped just below her breasts. Mort was handsome enough to attract at least one's attention, in an unconventional sort of way. Maybe his green skin was as appealing to them as Mystique's blue hide was to Scott. 

Raven... 

Regan went to serve them while Martinique lolled indolently across a table, Toad jumping up on one as well. Scott wondered if Regan had lost a bet. "Hey, boss-man," Mort led, "you look good without the shades. Weird, but good." 

"Thank you, Mort. Interesting to see your shade of skin." 

"Yeah." Mort scratched himself. "Not a bad sack, is it? That Banshee is a helluva thing, guv." 

"Yes." Scott agreed. "Would you like to try some? It's very unpredictable. You might complete your metamorphosis. End up a different shade. Regan, Martinique—who knows? Your illusions could be real." 

They exchanged looks. "Thanks," Regan said from the kitchen. "But we're good as is." 

"Yeah," Martinique agreed. "Messing with our chromosomes got us into this mess in the first place." 

"Would you like anything, Mr. Summers?" Regan asked. "A drink, perhaps?" 

Scott shook his head. "I'm full." 

She brought out plates of reheated food, dropping them in front of Mort, and with a sniff, Regan. Then sitting down herself at Mort's table. 

Scott took it back. Them being here didn't do anything to restore this place to its would-be glory. It just made a point of how desolate it was. 

"Hey, Scotty," Mort called. "If you don't need the shades anymore—why do you call yourself Cyclops?" 

"It is kinda a dorky name," Regan agreed. 

"You could do better. Fearless Leader!" 

They all joined in quickly. "Slim. Slim Dayspring. Something fantasy..." 

"Just Red, I think—" 

"Red Summer!" 

"Basilisk!" 

"Apocalypse!" 

"Cyclops is fine," Scott reiterated. 

"C'mon, mate!" Mort cried. "You gonna let someone what's named Professor X tell you what to call yourself?" 

Regan kicked the table under him, Scott didn't need to be psychic to read her look. Too soon. 

"Oh," Mort said. "Sorry, guv." 

Scott nodded absently. He remembered when he'd first found them. Leading the X-Men. Just finding stray mutants, rescuing them, taking them back to the mansion to be protected and taught. Before the schism. Before the killing, and the deaths. He missed that simplicity. He missed Jean. He missed the look of himself in the mirror, red as it was... 

They'd just been students. Not X-Men. Never like him. "I thought it was cool enough," he said shyly, and got up, hearing small laughter echoing in loneliness. "Masterminds, report to the flight deck, full gear and civilian luggage, 0800 hours. We're headed out." 

Their affirmatives followed him out of the cafeteria. Are you missing Magneto yet? He wondered. 

*** 

The trophy room had been cleaned since Magneto's death—part of their cover-up—but there was no concealing the damage that had been done to the room. In the end, they could merely hope it was taken as leftover from the initial incursion, or evidence of a brawl between two mutants. Not uncommon with the volatile personality of your average mutant terrorist. 

Raven noticed this as she noticed all things. They swam in her subconscious, bubbling up when needed, free-thinking, mental association. Before, she had filed away that places in the room were definitely scorched, and had only thought that this was good. It would conceal Scott's involvement. Now she wondered how the concussive force of his optic blast had melted metal in places, singed carpeting, otherwise burnt the room. The Banshee? She wondered—filed it away again as she focused on the coin. 

The coin sat on the floor. An old Deutschmark, the German eagle face-up. Rogue stared at it, seated on the floor, knees to her chest, arms wrapped around them. She still wore her protective costume, even the gloves. Raven wondered if they were more concealment to the rest of the Brotherhood—or a comfort to her? 

"It's alright, Marian," Raven said gently, standing in her white dress on the other side of the coin. "You can do it. Move the coin." 

Rogue gave her an imploring look—for Raven to do what, neither of them knew—then focused on the coin. It moved. As did every other piece of metal in the room, the floor shifting, medals in their display cases flapping against the glass, Raven's keys flying from their pocket. Rogue stopped before they could glue themselves to her, as they had before. 

With a growl, she was up on her feet. "Magneto had a lifetime to learn how to control this—it's not like telekinesis, it's—magnetic waves going through the atmosphere, all up and down the poles, the magnetosphere, and I'm supposed to—" 

"Sweetie, no one expects you to learn it in one week." 

"Scott does." 

Raven reached out and ran her hand along Rogue's arm. "He doesn't. He just wants you to try. That's why he left it to me." 

"Yeah..." Rogue looked away. Back off in her own little world—the chorus of souls she carried with her. Raven almost wished she was a part of that background noise. That Marian could feel her love for her wherever she went. 

"Let's try a different tack," Raven said, kicking her keys up into her hand. She went to the corner, where she'd stowed a duffel bag between two cases. It'd had a hard time escaping during Rogue's attempt to use Magneto's power. "How are you with controlling metal you're in contact with? Have you been practicing?" 

"Yeah. A lot. Not that it's easy, with a billion people around—not like any of them can know I have these powers." Or where she got them. 

Raven nodded. She brought out the gauntlets first. "Titanium alloy. Move them, instead of the metal outside yourself. Effectively—you can punch someone with all Magneto's power." Then the boots. "Steel soles. You can levitate yourself, stick to walls." Then the chainmail. "I've seen Erik run a current of magnetic energy through his own armor, protect himself like a forcefield. Wear this under your clothes." Then the helmet. It was almost like Magneto's, except the slit had been filled with ruby-quartz—hiding the face. "Your clothes used to be a hiding place. Now they're weapons." 

Concentrating, Rogue managed to pull the helmet to herself. Her reflection filled the red crystal. "This is like Scott's visor." She looked over the helmet to see Raven. 

"We wear his colors now," Raven informed her. 

"Or... if I ever took his power?" 

"A lot of things can happen on a battlefield. Or anywhere else, for that matter." 

"He's not Erik!" Rogue protested. 

"I know that. I won't let him be. It's just in case he's incapacitated, but we still need him in a fight." 

"I don't want him in my head, mother. It's crowded enough." 

Raven went to her. She went slowly. Giving Rogue time to feel her approach, her nearness. Then she touched her. Marian gasped. Still not used to the strangeness of touch, much less Mystique's coolness, the raised whorls of her scales. Rogue stared at the hand cresting her chin like it was a supernatural visitation. 

"You've given so much for the cause—carrying Magneto's power for us—I am so proud of you. You won't have to do anything you don't want to do. You've done enough." 

"Please don't let go." 

"I won't, dear." 

But Rogue was vexed—poisoned. Like the hand was a burning iron, she pulled away from it, tears in her eyes. "I don't remember!" 

Raven followed her. This time she put her hands on Rogue's shoulders. The girl was more used to being touched through cloth. "Tell me. Now." Her voice was warm, but left no room for disobedience. 

"That night, with you... and Scott? It's all a blur. I was so many people then. I have all their memories. And they all felt differently—I don't know what to feel—which one was me. Part of me just sees you as my mother. And part of me... I have these dreams." Rogue reached up to put her hand over Raven's. "I remember how good you made me feel. Both of you made me..." 

Raven spun Rogue around. She was wearing nothing. Her costume fallen away to the scaly blue hide she favored sometimes. She pulled Rogue to her and Rogue didn't know if she was going to be hugged, going to be kissed— 

Scott walked in, finding the two women locked together. In the darkened room, they were one shadow. "I need some cover identities for a trip to the US. Myself and three women. Line of credit as well. We're going after Blob's daughter." 

Raven let Rogue struggle away from her. "Really? Why now?" 

"There's nothing more I can do here. This we probably won't be able to do it later, so we'll do it now." 

Raven nodded. She was already grinning at the prospect of a day trip. Scott needed this, she thought. Had to need this if it was bad enough for him to ask for it. A break from everything. A divorce from Genosha. Time to rest, think—a milk run. "I'll have them ready in an hour. Would you like me to go as a man or as a woman? Man could be... interesting." 

"You're not coming. It'll be me, Wanda, and the Masterminds." 

Raven's eyes flashed yellow. "May I ask why?" 

"I need you here to hold down the fort, impersonate me or Magneto if need be. You can manage that, right?" 

"Yes. Quite." 

"Good." Scott rubbed at his eyes. Even with the Banshee, their bloodshot nature nearly turned them red. "I'll be in my bunk." 

"That's good," Raven said. "You should get some sleep before your mission." 

He gave her a look Raven recognized all too well. Don't tell me what to do. He left without saying another word. 

"Is he mad at you?" Rogue asked. 

"Oh yes." 

"Why?" 

"Because I'm who I am and he's who he is. Even now." Raven looked at her daughter. "Go to him. I know you want to. It'll be easier than with me." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Yes. He won't be sleeping anyway." 

*** 

Scott laid in bed, half-awake. A world away, it was primetime in America. His TV lit up the dark room, a news program with its kaleidoscope of news tickers, graphics, split-screens. On one side, Jean Gray, the new headmistress of the Xavier Institute, was giving an interview. The other showed streaming footage of the relief efforts coordinated between the Ultimates and the X-Men. The devastation of New York was mostly contained—now they were helping with the clean-up. Their mutant gifts, their evolutionary advantages; gone to make garbagemen. 

Still, he was relieved to see them. These people he had considered friends so long ago, it felt like he'd known them as a different man. They were alright. For now, at least. It was foolish for Jean to put herself out there so soon after the tragedy. The mob would be riled. They wouldn't care whether it was one unstable individual, the Brotherhood—just that it was mutants. Jean was giving them a target. Foolish, foolish girl. 

The interview droned on. Some of the X-Men had left the school—the unspoken subtext, that they had feared reprisal—the rest were getting ready for Xavier's funeral, as soon as New York was no longer a disaster area. What really surprised Scott was how little he cared. He was concerned about the X-Men, of course, especially now, without the Professor... but Jean? He didn't think he could care less. Where had it gone, the overwhelming need to keep her safe, to be with her, to be hers... worthy of her? Had Raven drained it out of him. Replaced it, bit by bit, kiss by kiss, fuck by fuck, with herself? No. He didn't feel for her what he had felt for Jean. 

He still remembered it, almost warningly. The sting of a hot stove, forever reminding you not to touch it. His love for Jean had burned. It'd been pure. Sweet. Light. It'd filled him. 

He was full with Mystique too, but it wasn't all love. Not that puppy dog affection, that need, he'd had with Jean. No, there was resentment, frustration, mistrust, compromise. He wondered if what Charles had put in his head—if Charles had put anything there, if Erik wasn't lying—was some idealized thing. Maybe what he had with Raven was real love. Flawed. Tinged. Unreliable. 

It made him wonder. He'd wanted to visit Xavier's grave before. Pay his respects. Should he thank him for giving him this thing with Jean, whatever it was? Or should he hate him for cursing him to know what it was like to have something you could never keep? 

A knock hit the door. Scott muted the television. "Come." 

Door opened. Head poked in. White streak through chestnut hair. Raven. Scott nodded to her in welcome. She stepped inside, glancing at the glaring TV screen, eyes narrowing at the sight of the caption. Jean Grey. "Is that your old girlfriend? She's pretty." 

"Yes. Yes, she was." 

Rogue stared. Scott had showered before bed—his hair was still wet. He laid atop the covers of the bed with the terrycloth towel still wrapped around his waist. It was all that covered his tanned, well-muscled body. She could see scars that she didn't remember him having. She wondered if they were new or if she just hadn't noticed them before. 

Scott shifted, sitting up. His towel unsnapped from its binding, exposing a region of his hip and groin. Rogue saw where his pelvic bone dipped toward his groin. 

"Can I help you with something?" Scott asked impatiently. 

Rogue remembered, and tightly clutched the papers in her hand before holding them up. "Raven finished your documentation." Before she could think better of it, she walked it over to him, setting the papers down on the bed. This close, she could see the bulge of his cock under the towel. It was large, but flaccid. She felt disappointed at the lack of response. 

Scott uncrossed his arms to shift through the papers. "Mr. and Mrs. William Dickson Boyce. Founder of the Boy Scouts of America. Cute." He tucked his arms back together, relaxing against the headboard. Rogue stared at the muscular arms—not enough to cover the thick growth of dark hair over his chest. She seated herself on the bed, feet pulled up, torso still aloft. 

"Raven didn't think you would sleep." 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah. She thought I should tell you a bedtime story." 

Scott was far better at reacting to these kinds of things when he had ruby-quartz to cover the look in his eyes. "And you're going with her not being sarcastic there?" 

Rogue stretched out, laying her head on his damp chest. Looking down, she could see a ways under his towel, some of the crisply curling hairs of his groin. Scott almost pulled away, but relaxed when he felt her porcelain skin strike against his with no sparks. 

"How is this—" 

"A micro-magnetic field," Rogue explained. "Bioelectric shield surrounding my body. If you really focus, you can feel the tingle of the electricity. It's just a few molecules apart, but I can—I can touch you." 

"Magneto," Scott realized. 

"Hush. Let me tell my story. Once upon a time, there was a handsome prince. He was the son of a wise old king, and everyone looked forward to the day when he would take the crown, to continue the happy kingdom's peace and prosperity." 

Scott put his hand on Rogue's shoulder, bare between her shirt and her gloves. It was amazing. No matter how hard he pressed, nothing of his would go into her ravenous body. He felt a flicker of static, like the buzz of electricity from a high-voltage wire. That was all. "If the king was so great, why was everyone looking forward to the son taking the crown? Wouldn't they be the same either way?" 

"It's a fairy tale, Scott, go with it." She kissed his chest. Her lips crackled. "Unfortunately, a wicked witch, despising the good kingdom and the happiness of the people, kidnapped the handsome prince and took him to her castle, where she enchanted him to fall into a deep slumber." 

"Hate it when that happens." 

"Shush," Rogue insisted emphatically. "Many years passed and the good kingdom fell into disarray. The crops wilted, the summer grew short, and the winter grew long. Though all the king's men searched and searched, none could find the handsome prince. Until finally, one day, a beautiful knight set out on a quest for him, vowing not to return until she had found the prince." 

"A female knight?" Scott asked. 

"Oh, the witch and the magic sleeping is okay, but girls can't be knights?" 

"Just didn't know we were doing a politically correct thing." 


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." 




Ultimate X: Orgy at Emma's



"That's easy to say when you're not the one feeling the heat." 

"She was," Peter said. He stood on the stairs. Dark jacket, white T-shirt, and black jeans. He didn't look like he'd be moving. 

"Peter, this is—" 

Peter's eyes were locked on the SHIELD woman. "Make your pitch." 

Carol pursed her lips. She'd sort of been expecting May to be the tough one. "Your cover would be as an intern in a SHIELD science program. That would be the explanation of why we're here, if and when your friends ask. In reality, you would be working for a SHIELD office liaising with the NYPD. You'd be something like a SWAT team, going on patrol and given calls just like any police officer, but being 'swept' toward large-scale problems." 

"The problems I deal with, police tend not to care about." 

"That's not really my line." 

"Sure it isn't." Peter cocked his head. "That the end-game?" 

"No. When you're eighteen, you will be given options. And these options have not been set in place yet, but you'll know what they'll look like. Programs like the Fantastic Four, the X-Men, the Ultimates—in whatever shape they've taken—you'll be in a system. Until then, you'll be given training—" 

"No." 

Carol blinked. Once. "We have volunteers. People like Iron Man, Captain America—people who'd like to lend you their expertise." 

"Don't need 'em. Don't need you. There's the door." 

May stood. "Peter, I think there's something to be said for this plan." 

Carol chimed in. "I understand your hesitation..." 

"You really don't. Guess how many of the problems I have are because of you people. Guess." 

"That's not my bailiwick—" 

Peter's hand gripped the bannister, but not to steady himself. "Ever since I've been in this, you people have been telling me how it is. No negotiations, no—you just tell me. In your leather trenchcoats and your Italian sunglasses, you come to me and you talk to me like you have some right. And I stand there—listening to you—and I worry. That you're going to throw me in jail or experiment on me. But you can't even keep your own house clean. Do you think you could stop me, if I went out that door right now? Do you think you could hurt me worse than I can hurt you?" 

May's lips were tight. "Peter, this is not the way to talk—" 

"You know what I see when I look at you? I see people who bust into a house and wave guns around. Do you know what I do to people like that when they don't have badges-?" 

The bannister cracked. 

*** 

The street that the Parker home laid on was mostly barren. In the wake of Magneto's attack, many had fled the city. The rest were staying indoors. Schools and shops were largely closed, the jails fully packed with looters and false arrests. It would all take time to sort out. So there were few people to observe Agent Joshua Tad, New York branch, standing outside his SHIELD-issue Humvee. If anyone had peeked outside to see it, the logo on the side would be enough to send them either out of the neighborhood or into the basement. No one was taking any chances. 

Thus, there was no one but Tad to bear the brunt of Liz's gossiping. 

"He's a mutant, isn't he? That's it—Peter Parker's a mutant. I knew there was something off about him! I knew it!" 

"Ma'am, I can neither confirm nor deny—" 

"If he's a mutant, you have to tell me, don't you? I go to school with him! Imagine me going to school with a mutant this whole time! What if he used his mutant powers to cheat off me? Or make me go on a date with him? Or make me mess up a cheer routine! That is so irresponsible if you're not telling me! I could sue!" 

"Ma'am!" Tad said firmly. "I'm just an escort. I wasn't briefed on anything except the route to drive here and the route to drive back." 

"So you don't even know what his mutant power is? What if it's turning into flies? I hate flies!" 

While Liz and Tad argued by the Hummer, Gwen and Mary Jane sat on the porch swing silently. Gwen put her hand on MJ's thigh comfortingly, seeing the worry written on her face, but Mary Jane was quick to remove it. 

"What?" Gwen asked. 

"What what?" 

"I can't touch you now?" 

"No, you can't grope me in front of government agents and/or classmates, I thought that went without saying." 

"I was comforting you. You look upset." 

"Of course I'm upset, we're under armed guard, Peter's being interrogated, and you're trying to finger me." 

"First time you've said no to being fingered. Guess it's not the same without Peter around." 

"And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"Don't play dumb." 

"You really want to do this now? Now?" 

"You'd rather listen to that?" Gwen asked, jerking a thumb over to the Hummer. 

"I heard that there are these aliens, okay, right?" Liz was saying. "And they're helping the Brotherhood because aliens created the mutants, right? Give me a nod if there are aliens. Can you not nod? Is that not allowed? Could they be able to tell? Okay, blink if there are aliens. You blinked! Wait, was that a deliberate blink? Don't blink if you don't mean it, jerk." 

"Okay, you got me," MJ said. "What is it you think is going on with me and Peter? You think I'm cheating on you?" 

"No, I think you're trying to make him jealous." 

"Please." Mary Jane tossed her hair. "If I wanted him jealous, I wouldn't have to try." 

"You're different with me when he's around. You always call me babe or sweetie, which you never do when he's not here. And when it's just the three of us, you jump me." 

"I jump you plenty!" MJ argued. 

"Yeah, but how many times has he walked in on us? I know he's not trying to, so it's gotta be something—" 

"You're being ridiculous." 

"And I didn't put you up to getting that tongue piercing." 

"You love my tongue piercing." 

"You click it when Peter's around. You click it against your teeth—" 

"Oh my God, are you a crazy person?" 

"I counted. During the attack, when Peter was off being—working for the Bugle, you never clicked it. He came back, you immediately started clicking. You went seventy hours without clicking, MJ." 

"You want me to click?" MJ tapped her piercing against her teeth. "There! I'm clicking without Peter Parker. Now you can stop thinking I'm not over him—" 

"You said it, I didn't." 

"You were implying!" 

They didn't notice the van crawling up the street. Nor did Gwen, expositing about the space pirates she had heard were being hunted by the mutant aliens, one of whom was Cyclops's father. But Tad eyed it as it came to a stop, and when the people inside climbed out, he recognized them by the trill of his psi-filters against attempted intrusion and the faces that were drilled into every SHIELD trainees' psyche. Scott Summers. Magneto's daughter. They were here, in Queens, right in front of them. 

He drew his sidearm even as he tongued on his communicator. "Mutant!" 

*** 

Carol's bodyguard came in from the other room. "There a problem here?" 

"We're fine, Fenson," Carol said. "Back to post." 

He eyed Peter suspiciously. Peter didn't like the look. He took a step down. Fenson kept eying him. His hand was by his rib cage, that lump that the cut of his suit was meant to hide. Peter took another step. Another. The stairs creaked under him. He smiled. 

"Fenson," Carol said gently. Too gently. 

Fenson moved to the foot of the stairs. Looking up at Peter. His sunglasses holding in a smug look. You had to mess with people like that. Peter's hand tightened on the bannister as he circled over it, coming down on the hardwood floor, just as Fenson's earpiece screamed "Mutant!" 

He reacted automatically. Drew his sidearm and Peter went for him. He only meant to push him back, that's all, but it was like he'd just gotten his powers again. He was so much stronger now. Fenson went flying. Hit the wall and it cracked. May was stunned speechless. Peter's gaze whirled to Carol, daring her to do something. Then he heard the gunshots outside. He took no chances. Peter webbed Carol where she sat and rushed for the front door. 

*** 

Tad's first discharge was a snapshot, hasty, unfocused. It shattered the windshield of Scott's van, two feet to his right. Scott responded instantly. His eyes glowed for a split-second, long enough for Tad to duck behind his Hummer, and then an optic blast lanced out of Scott. It hit the hood of the Hummer, punching right into the engine block. The Hummer skidded on its locked tires, slamming into the curb it'd been parked next to. Liz was hit by the careening vehicle. She fell screaming to the lawn, a large gash on her leg. 

"Back in the car," Scott ordered Wanda and the Masterminds, but he didn't follow, advancing on Tad's smoking cover—the ruptured Hummer leaking oil and engine fluids into the gutter. 

Wanda drove as Tad tried to get a shot off, but Scott sent another blast through the car roof, turning the thing into a convertible. He quick-drew his weapon as the front door flew open and, without looking, laid down suppressing fire. 

Peter ducked back behind cover as bullets thudded into his house's doorframe and façade, some shooting through the open door and into the floor or stairs. 

Tad assumed Scott was distracted. He leapt out to fire and caught an optic blast directly in the chest. It sent him flipping across the lawn, knocking flat the shrubbery in the neighbor's yard. He laid still, his only movement the smoke oozing from his body. 

Scott covered him anyway, training his pistol on the still body as he looked at whatever threat was coming from the Parker residence's front door. So he saw the webline shoot out, unerring hit his gunhand, and jerk the pistol from it. He watched it go with some astonishment. SHIELD was a surprise. Spider-Man was—shocking. 

"If you're who I think you are," he called, "I'd really prefer avoiding a confrontation. I admire what you've accomplished, all on your own. Real mutant excellence." 

"If you're who I think you are," a voice replied from inside the house, "then I think I fucked your girlfriend." 

*** 

Fenson recovered quickly. Being embedded in the wall had knocked him for a loop, but the firefight outside quickly roused him. He came to to find his commanding officer cocooned to the couch, May Parker freeing her with a steak knife. So far, she'd managed to uncover Carol's hands. 

"Front yard!" Carol ordered. "Go!" 

Fenson undid his pocket knife and tossed it to her. He ran for the door so fast, he didn't even notice his suit jacket snagging on a nail of the ruptured wall. It tore a streak of fabric right off. 

*** 

Spider-man dove outside, landing in a crouch on the footpath. He'd changed into his costume so fast, it almost seemed like he'd merely thought about it and it'd happened. He was in the zone. He thwipped at Scott, Scott blasted his webs out of the air. Then, the element of surprise lost, they both stared at each other. Both waiting to see what the other would do. 

Liz ended the stalemate. She'd been frightened enough: hit by a car, seeing a man blasted by a mutant terrorist in front of her. It was all she could take. Seeing Spider-Man jump out for a confrontation was more. She exploded. Literally. 

Scott's reflexes were honed from years of dealing with mutation. He saw the warning signs. Rolled over the trunk of the Hummer and ducked behind its hull as she went off. Bursting into glorious white light. 

Her father's mutation burned in her. 

Peter blacked out instantly. His newfound strength, speed, it just shut off. Confronted by the flame, he went limp and was buffeted away by the shockwave, thrown clear. Gwen and Mary Jane shielded their eyes, but the blast still knocked them for a loop. They went down hard. 

And Fenson looked out just in time to see his goddess alight. 

"What the hell?" he heard behind him, and looked back. Carol had quickly freed herself with his knife's mono-blade, drawn her weapon now. Fenson's mind worked fast. He couldn't let her threaten the goddess. Couldn't let her do anything to prevent him from taking his goddess to his masters. The decision was made quickly. He pivoted on his heel, aimed at Carol, and discharged his weapon. 

Carol was down before she even knew what was happening. 

*** 

Liz walked to her friends not understanding what was happening. Where was that light coming from? What was burning? It was only when she saw her shadow fall over them that she noticed the shades of the smoke curling off her silhouette. It was her. She was on fire. 

She collapsed, her flame snuffed out like a candle, as Agent Fenson shot his boss. 

*** 

If Fenson had been looking when he stepped out onto the front lawn, he would've seen Cyclops knocked out by the pressure wave of blast, sagged against the Hummer's smoking ruin. Or Spider-Man, rolled across the lawn, unconscious in the rosebushes. But he only had eyes for the goddess. He saw three of them—three unconscious young girls collapsed by the porch swing, clothes singed. Which of them was it? 

Fenson swore. He had no time to decide. He ran to May Parker's car—the tires dripping melted rubber—and smashed through the window with the butt of his pistol. Unlocked the car, dropped his gun in the passenger seat. Opened the trunk. Luckily for him, he worked out and the three girls were thin as only teenagers could be. He fit them all inside the trunk with room to spare. His frantically working mind made a note to find out the make and model of the car later. He'd have to look into buying a newer model with the money his masters would surely reward him with. 

Sitting down, he quickly hotwired the car and drove out of there, seconds before the Brotherhood's van returned. He did it all so fast, he didn't even take time to brush the glass off the driver's seat. It would pain him for several miles as he drove into the city. 

*** 

Wanda ran to Scott, finding his ears bleeding. She shook him, working all her energies—changing whatever injuries he might have suffered to the mildest, the most miraculous outcome. In a moment, he was blinking awake. Sure focused on the mission.  

"That was her," he gasped, coming awake. "Blob's daughter—mutant!" 

"We have to go," Wanda said, pulling him to his feet. 

"No. Not yet." Scott quickly took stock of the situation. Spider-Man was useless to him. Just a would-be hero sticking his nose where it didn't belong. But the agent he'd fried was beginning to stir. Scott pointed to Tad. "Bring him. We need to know where his partner went." 

"And the arachnid?" Wanda nodded to him. 

"Fucked my girlfriend," Scott said wonderingly. "Getting to be a big club." 

*** 

Peter woke up from a nightmare of fire. He limped back into the house to the tune of sirens, finding Carol Danvers down from a gunshot wound, Aunt May putting pressure on it. He'd seen enough to know it wasn't serious—a hurried through-and-through. 

"Where are the girls?" he asked. 

May looked up at him. "Peter, what is—" 

He refocused on her. Felt like he was iron sights swiveling between targets. "Get out of here. Find a friend, someone who lives in the city, and lay low. I'll find you later. I'll take care of her." 

She thought it over, just for a second, then nodded him closer. Had him put his hand on the dish towel she was using to stop Carol's bleeding. 

"I don't know what you're going through. You're not all the boy I remember raising. Please, whatever you're going to do, don't break my heart." She pulled him to her. Her hug was quick and desperate, as tight as she could make it. 

"I won't let you down," he told her, feeling the words like a sting. 

He watched her leave, making sure she was really gone, then attended to Carol. Took the towel away. A little bit of webbing staunched the bleed. It didn't look like she had any other injuries. 

"Who did this?" 

"Agent Fenson. Guy you put through a wall." 

"Why?" 

"If I knew that, I would've shot him first." 

Peter felt himself rushing through the questions; impatient, desperate. "Did you order the girls taken?" 

"What girls—" 

"Gwen Stacy, Mary Jane Watson, Liz Allan! They're gone! I saw him loading them into a car—" 

"Look at me, Peter. You really think I was in on it? He was just hired help—a SHIELD agent in our New York branch, I never met him before today. Peter, we'll find out who he's working for, we'll get your friends back..." 

The sirens were closer. Inside the neighborhood. "No. You've done enough. I'll find him. And when I do—" Peter took her hands and put them on the webbing, motioning her to apply a little extra pressure. He left her to the coming paramedics and went to the hole he'd put in the wall. A scrap of fabric dangled from a nail. The guy couldn't have dropped his wallet... 

Peter took it. Who did he knew that could track someone from just a bit of tailoring? 

*** 

Fenson was ushered through the club, slowly, slowly. Only allowed a glimpse of the pleasures inside, never allowed to linger and listen to the music beyond the colored doors. The valet had the car. By now, they would know of the girls in the trunk, but there was no avoiding that. The Mistress would still want to hear him explain. The Mistress was kind. The Mistress was merciful. 

He still couldn't believe his good fortune in meeting her. For so long, he'd thought he was a freak. Even online, there were only a few like-minded individuals, and none of them would admit to feeling what he felt. The things he pictured himself doing, with Sondra, with Alicia, with little Evan... no one understood, no one. He'd started calling phone sex lines, paying people to understand, to share his fantasy. It must have been because he was in the FBI that she found him—he wasn't an idiot. He knew there was a reason. There was a reason for everything the Mistress did. 

She had found him and she had told him—for the first time in his life, he had heard someone say it—he wasn't sick. He wasn't wrong. He was special. Different. Unique. What a wellspring of pleasure it was to hear someone say it, most especially the Mistress, the perfect-perfect Mistress. Specialdifferentunique. Born in a world that didn't understand. He was like the mutants, but his mutation was in arousal, in eroticism. Why, if it weren't for people like him, there would be no pornography, no orgasms, just—procreation. In the dark. Missionary position. Men like him, they pushed the boundaries. 

Specialdifferentunique. 

With her help, he had conquered himself in her name. She scrubbed him and his record clean of those messy misunderstandings that SHIELD would look for before they hired him, and without those obstacles in the way, with the Mistress's blessing, he had soon found himself on the ground floor of SHIELD itself. A suitable position to be of use to the Mistress. 

He wasn't an idiot. He knew the Mistress's power. As much pleasure as she brought him, she wasn't really doing those things. And that was only right. No one as perfect as her should be with someone as lowly as him, even with how specialdifferentunique as he was. But she was so generous, his Mistress. She let him actually pretend she might do those things. Those special things, those different things, those unique things. 

She didn't keep him waiting long. Sometimes, when it wasn't urgent, she made him wait for hours. Days, once, because she was so important. She worked so hard, that she couldn't even make time for him some days. But this... the Goddess... 

It was blasphemy, but having seen all three of the potentials, he thought not even put together were they as perfect as the Mistress. But perhaps that was just his love for her talking. The Goddess could forgive his love... 

She came out in her violent white, skin and clothing, and her golden hair, and her blue diamond eyes. God, to look at her—to see her... 




Ultimate X: Orgy at Emma's



"What brings you here unannounced, Walter?" she asked, using his name. His name! "Some new twisted thought in that head of yours you'd like us to explore together? Something about Mona, perhaps? I do so enjoy the ones about Mona..." 

"No, Mistress," Fenson said, fighting to control a burgeoning erection. The sight of her alone... but the sound of her voice too! "It's the Goddess—I've found the Goddess!" 

"Those girls in your car? And here I thought you'd brought some toys to play with." Her voice was rich and amused, her gloved hand touching her breast—he could almost feel it at his own fingers. "The Goddess, you say?" 

"Oh, yes Mistress! I saw her! I saw her flames! I don't know—which of them it is, but it has to be one of them!" 

"So you brought all three. That was very clever, Walter. Very well done." 

Fenson moaned. He couldn't help himself. Her praise overwhelmed him. He fell to his knees, vaguely aware of his own ejaculation. 

"But..." She was in his head. He could feel it. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. "Oh, my. Shooting your superior officer?" The Mistress tsked. "That won't be good for your career." 

"It was worth it, Mistress. To get the girls." 

"Yes, I should say so. But that does put your usefulness to an abrupt end." 

Fenson cringed. He fell. Curling into a fetal position. They'd never talked about that—what would become of him when the Mistress was done... 

"Don't fret, Walter. Don't worry your filthy little head. The church will reward you for all your years of service. Tonight, we'll celebrate your heroism. Tomorrow, an island with no extradition treaty. How does that sound?" 

"Will... will you be there?" 

"Oh, Walter—" She leaned forward on her throne. "Only during bikini season. Now, on the off chance that SHIELD does pick up your trail, we can't have you hanging about here. That would be... embarrassing. Wash up and change; I'll have a slave drive you someplace suitable to wait. How's that sound?" 

"Wonderful, Mistress," he gibbered, his mind nearly gone. It never lasted long in the presence of perfection. "Unspeakable... but... please... my apartment... my things..." 

"The church will provide you with new things, Walter. Pretty new things for your pretty new life. On the island." 

"Yes, Mistress. But my father's watch—it's all I have to remember him by. Please, Mistress?" 

She was checking her phone. "My, these girls—where did you think you picked them up? Queens? I had no idea they were growing such good crops. A Goddess—and two maids, I should think. Once we've sorted them out." Her phone chimed as she blacked it out. "You've made me feel exceptionally grateful, Walter. Three women; three favors. I've already given you a new life, now I'll send someone to retrieve your precious watch as well. And what is your third wish?" 

Fenson could only think to ask for one thing. "Please, Mistress, please... may I see you from behind?" 

She stood, high heels clicking like chess pieces in motion. Her white gloves worked deftly at the clasps of her cape, and like that, it fell away from her like a dream upon waking. Then she turned. He saw the creamy petals of her ass, separated by only a white streak of fabric. 

Fenson moaned as he came again. 

It was of no consequence to the Mistress. She enjoyed Fenson's addicted devotion. It was only right and proper for a sophisticate and a power such as she. Besides, she had been brought up to act in accordance with her mood, and her mood was now one of extreme satisfaction. After the extreme poor taste of that Magneto business, everything was coming together. 

Who could stop her now? 

*** 

Barbara thought about Thor as she masturbated. She thought about Thor a lot these days—now that they'd started dating. The thought of her big, strong Asgardian boyfriend was like a warm fluffy blanket to her. God was her boyfriend, but not in some lame Midwestern way. In a sexy way. 

Her mind was a flip-book of cocks jabbing into her, strong hands groping her willing body, thick gooey cum covering her like frosting. She kicked the covers off her sweaty, naked body and turned to look at the photo collage covering the wall. She kept the more immodest pictures of Thor on her phone, where they were safe, but a lot of the posters were of Thor with his shirt off and he'd signed them too, showing his eternal love for her. Her entire body quivered, seeing her sexy boyfriend, and she skimmed her jerking hands all over her body until they were kneading her soft, sensitive breasts, nipples taking an electric charge from frantic fingers. 

"Oh, shit," she sighed, "Thor, where are you? I need some hammer so bad..." 

Her hands were tired of tits. She ran them down her sizzling body, feeling slim hips and soft stomach on the way to moist, sticky sex. All chiseled, all sweaty, all perfect. Who else had the tight, taut bod worthy of the God of Thunder? A hundred cheerleaders put together didn't have the flesh to match hers. Her hips rocked, but she didn't put her fingers in her sopping wet pussy. She was saving it for Thor. She knew if he weren't needed in Asgard, he'd be here, pleasuring her like he had so many times before, and some day he would be back, and he would burst in to see her fucking herself, and he would take over. Her big, beefy Viking warrior and his sweet little love slave Barbara. 

She couldn't wait any longer. Barbara brushed her fingers across her cunt's swollen lips and felt her hot, moist passion searing her fingertips. She moaned, spreading her legs wide, bending her feet back with all the flexibility of a good shield maiden—she would splay herself for Thor when he got back. 

"Do me, Thor!" she cried, impassioned, in love. "Do me, I'm your Viking bitch!" 

She thought of his big, hairy muscles—his long, fat cock—his piercing blue eyes and ruffled beard and long, flowing hair. Her body almost fucked herself, he made her so hot. She lunged up into her own touch, eyes glassy with her pleasure and the thought of Thor finally penetrating her. She screamed, rolling over onto her belly, tormenting herself by rubbing her clit into the worn sheets. Flashes of ecstasy lit up her body again and again, cries of need muffled with her face buried in a hot pillow. Her blonde hair fell down her back almost to her small, heart-shaped ass. 

"This is your pussy, Thor! Your Valkyrie pussy! Come and get your pussy!" 

Her entire body working like some machine at full power, she went mad with want—wriggling her hips, grinding her belly, fucking the bed like she was trying to show her Asgardian mate what she wanted him to do to her. Her face turned red. Her eyes bulged. Drool issued from the corner of her mouth. Every strike of her engorged clit on the mattress got her closer and closer to the kind of orgasm her Thor would surely give her if only he had one finger inside her, one second to be with her, one word to whisper in her ear-! 

"You can fuck my ass, Thor! You can fuck my fat, rap-video ass!" 

She clawed the sheets, pounded the bed with her wet cunt, her juices boiling, her inner channel ready to embrace whatever slender invasion it was offered. In a stroke of comparative genius, Barbara groped under her humping body and entered herself with herself. Her clit swelled and she twisted around like a dancing snake, but even her long fingers were nothing compared to Thor's big, callused digits. It was torture! She stayed at her peak, in a state of ecstasy that was beyond anything she had ever known—before she had met Thor. Now, it just wasn't enough to make her cum. 

Barbara was about ready to sob at the injustice of the universe when her phone began to rang. Her phone, which she had set to vibrate. 

Another moment of inspiration—two in one day, a record for Barbara—had her snatching the phone up. She used it to find the bloated need of her exposed clit. It whirred viciously at her with each ring. That was all she needed. In one short, smiling second, she was thrashing wildly, screaming "You're making me come, Thor! I'm creaming!" 

And she did just that. Her empowered body, supercharged in every aspect, climaxed like it was entertaining a nuclear blast, the orgasm sweeping through the young woman like a tornado. Her contracting sex pumped out a cloudburst of cream, gushing down to stain sheets that had long since been discolored. 

The sheer potency of her finish was so addictive, it was no wonder she had done it three times in the last hour, her broken vibrator finally convincing her to swear it off. But now that she knew how truly versatile her smartphone was... 

"You're what?" Carol demanded, and Barbara was confused enough to wonder if she and Thor had had a threesome again—wait, Thor was still gone, right, she'd just been masturbating...? Then she remembered the phone. Apparently, it wasn't quite waterproof enough. She brought it up to her ear, grinning at the sweet smell it bore. Thor loved how her pussy tasted. 

"I said I was dreaming. As in, I was asleep? So this had better be something good. I'm an Ultimate, you can't just wake me up and stuff!" 

Carol sighed. People were always sighing to Barbara. What was it with SHIELD agents and being rude? "Suit up. I need you in Queens. The Brotherhood is in the city and you're the only superhero I've got." 

Miles away, in a now-heavily-fortified hospital with a well-bandaged gunshot wound and tubes going everywhere, Carol mused that it was statements like that which had driven her to try recruiting Spider-Man in the first place. 

"The Brotherhood?" Barbara asked. "Is this, like, a black thing, because I don't think Thor would approve of me fighting a bunch of black protestors who are probably really being peaceful, it's just the media that—" 

"The Brotherhood of Evil Mutants," Carol interrupted harshly. "Magneto? Scott Summers? Does this ring a bell?" 

Just then, Carol would've taken the spider-kid and his anger management issues for her division in a heartbeat. They could hate stuff together. 

"Yeah. Those guys are gross. I'll be there right away." 

"Thank you, Valkyrie," Carol said, feeling more relief than she had when the painkillers kicked in. 

"Wait, Carol?!" 

"Yes?" 

"Was it good for you too?" Barbara laughed as she hung up. But underneath her sunny exterior, Barbara was troubled. Haunted even. 

I need a cock, she thought to herself. 

*** 

They brought Agent Tad to one of the closed schools, Midtown High. In the boiler room, no one could hear him scream. No one but Scott, upstairs, sitting against a line of lockers. He didn't think he'd ever be comfortable in a school, not after Xavier. You never quite learned the right things in one. 

Wanda came up to him, her ankh catching the light that seeped into the darkened halls. "What are the Twins doing to him?" 

Scott pursed his lips. "Showing him his worst nightmares. Covered in spiders, that sort of thing." 

"Sounds unpleasant." 

A particularly loud scream echoed up through the floor tiles. "Yeah." 

"C'mon. Let's go mess around in the teacher's lounge. They've always got good shit in the teacher's lounge." 

Scott looked at her. With the visor gone, he wasn't used to having to hide his anger. "I'm having a man tortured, Wanda. The least I can do is not pretend otherwise." 

Wanda crossed her arms. With Magneto gone, she was in similar straits. Not used to expressing herself. "This was supposed to be our honeymoon, remember? You haven't even touched me since we got here." 

"We have business—" 

"Your business! Not the Brotherhood's! We should've bugged out already!" 

"We don't leave our own behind!" 

"She's not one of us, I am! Doesn't seem to be helping me out much." Wanda turned away. "Would you rather pretend I'm her doing a shift?" 

Martinique came up the stairs. She found Scott and Wanda leaning on opposite ends of the hallway, standing on a floor littered with dropped books and incomplete homework. "He's ready to talk." 

*** 

Tad was in a cold sweat, his eyes bugged out. Scott imagined his hands, held behind his back by duct tape, were locked into white-fingered fists. "Address." 

Tad nodded desperately. "305 Ansbury Drive, apartment 403. But you won't find him there." 

Scott took a step closer. "Why not?" 

"He... he... he..." 

Scott glanced at Regan. "I told you to go easy on him." 

"He's a fucking SHIELD agent! They don't break easily." 

Scott moved in, grabbing Tad by the chin. "Agent! Where can I find Fenson?" 

And suddenly Tad's hands were free and a knife was in his right and Scott was backpedaling, Tad lunging for him, knife held high—and the light went out of his eyes, all at once. He stumbled drunkenly into Scott's arms, the two men doing a clumsy pirouette as Scott tried to hold the knife away and hold onto Tad at the same time, but the dead weight was too awkward for him to manage. Tad slipped out of his hands, leaving the knife. He hit the ground dead. 

"Brain aneurysm," Wanda said. "Very hard to do on short notice." 

"Yeah, you rocked it, Wand," Martinique said. 

Scott whirled on the Witch. "You didn't have to kill him!" 

"He didn't have to come at you with a knife! And I know you're not lecturing me on when to kill someone!" 

Scott bit down an angry reply. His words leaked out, slow and bitter. "He was just doing his job." 

"So is everyone else who ever hurt us. You can't help him now. Let's find your goddamned girl and get out." 

*** 

Don't do it, Peter. The thought sounded a lot like Uncle Ben. Or Aunt May, or his father, or his mother, or Nick Fury, Captain America, Carol Danvers—all the other people who wanted to run his life. Don't do it. 

Well, why shouldn't he? (And this voice sounded different, new. Peter wondered if it was himself.) He'd been looking for Gwen, and Liz—and Mary Jane for hours. He'd combed the city, interrogated a couple dozen crooks, pissed off every gang in the Five Boroughs: nothing. He'd tried calling Sue and she wasn't there. 

He hadn't even had time to repair his costume. He wore a hoody and slacks, his mask, gloves, and boots underneath. It felt looser. Like something was moving around his body underneath. Maybe he'd broken a rib and it was floating around in there. That'd be just perfect. 

So now he'd try this. 

He crouched on the steel tower of the George Washington Bridge, watching and waiting until the van bearing the legend 'New York's Boldest' came through. Correctional department. He took off, dropping a few stories before firing a webline that brought him parallel to the van, then a quick shimmy through the air dropped him lightly on top of it. The driver probably hadn't even heard. 

In the present crisis, all but the essential services were shut down. That including the justice system, except when it came to super-criminals. They were still being processed, one judge, one transport. There were only about a half-dozen cases to be run through, and Peter was hoping his still hadn't been done. Creeping to the back of the van, he poked his head down to the wire-mesh glass providing a view of Manhattan receding. Inside was Ana Tatiana Kravinoff. 

Her blonde hair was tamped down by a few days of prison shampoo and her orange jumpsuit did little to flatten her. Still, she was radiant. He'd ask her out if he weren't a little afraid she'd eat him. He tapped on the glass. 

She looked up sharply. "You!" she cursed. Her chains rattled as she jerked toward him, soundly securing her to the van's bench, its only occupant. "I will kill you for what you did to my mother and I!" 

"Hi Ana, nice to see you too, how's your guest spot on Orange Is The New Black going?" 

Ana jerked her head away, facing front, as if resolved to ignore him. "What do you want?" 

Peter looked around. Yup, the van was empty. "Where's your mom?" 

"Escaped," Ana spat. 

"She forget something?" 

Ana stared at him out of the corner of her eye. "She said if I was worthy, I would free myself." The chains strained again. "And when I do, arachnid, I will tear you—" 

"Okay, pause, pause button," Peter interrupted. "That's cool and all, but how about we make a deal instead?" 

Ana hissed. Literally hissed. Her eyes trailed over him, what little she could see of his body through the window. "What kind of deal?" 

Peter eyed her in turn, noting that her hair had been cut short in prison, a sort of flattop look that reminded him of a lion without its mane. The lionesses—they did all the real hunting. "I let you out, you track someone for me, then we go our separate ways." 

Ana laughed. "How do I know you will not just put me right back in here when you've done with me—had your way," she added, leaning back against the wall, legs spread. 

"How do I know you won't try to kill me?" 

"I could always give you my word, arachnid. What word have you to give?" 

"Uh, the word of being a superhero and not a crazed furry?" 

Ana kept staring, like a cobra trying to hypnotize. "Why would you do this thing? My world's Spider-Man would never free such a dangerous person as I." 

Peter counted off on his hand. "One, don't flatter yourself. Two, you know people think you're crazy when you talk about how you're from another dimension, right? Three—" He tapped three fingers against the glass. "Much as I hate to admit it, you're probably going to bust out sooner or later anyway, so you might as well do some good while you're at it." 

Ana faced the opposite wall again. "As you say—I don't need you to escape. My mother will come for me—eventually." 

"If you can't get out yourself, you mean?" 

Ana bit her lip. Her voice turned strident. "If I agree, you must provide me with suitable attire! Cloth befitting the line of Kravinoff!" 

"Well, I was doubtful for a second, but it's official—you're a girl." 

*** 

An abandoned costume shop netted them a lion's-head vest, like the one ol' Sergei had used to wear on his reality show—discounted, since his show was canceled, he was put in jail, and he'd tried to invade the White House with Norman Osborn. Peter was grateful for that, leaving the appropriate payment on the counter. His costume may be shitty, but at least it had pockets now. A Victoria's Secret in the same mall gave Ana a leopard-print bra and cheetah-print pants, which was apparently all she needed, because she left the dressing room looking like that and didn't ask for anything else. It was more of a hit to Peter's finances, but at least he didn't have to buy her a shirt. 

"What do you have to go off of?" she asked, running her hands over her body as if gauging her attire. "Spoor? Tracks? Watering hole?" 

Peter showed her the piece of fabric he'd gotten off of Fenson. With the mall mostly empty, two weirdoes in costumes weren't to be disturbed, but he still felt like a tool. 

She sniffed it. "He sweats—the scent is strong. Good. It will make tracking him easier. You must convey me to every subway station in the city. Perhaps the great luck of the Spider Totem will prevail." 

"You're a funny gal, Kravinoff. Tina Fey should be worried." 

"I do not know this woman." 

"Oh, they don't have her in your world? What do you do when you need to make fun of Sarah Palin, just listen to her? Like yokels?" 

Ana put her hands on her hips. "Will you be carrying me to nearest subway station or not?" 

He eyed her. She hadn't even zipped her vest up. "Tempting, but I can't be seen swinging around with someone who wears fur. Totally ruin my rep with the vegans." He stepped outside, raising his hand. It wasn't long before a taxi, grateful for a fare in the empty city, pulled up. "I need to go to the nearest subway station." 




Ultimate X: Orgy at Emma's



The cabbie eyed them. "Sure you don't want a motel?" 

*** 

They visited three subway stations, Peter's meager savings get even meagerer, until Ana located the scent. 

"What would you've done if he didn't take the subway?" Peter asked. 

"Tried the bus stops." 

They took to the rooftops to continue the hunt, arriving at Fenson's apartment almost at the same time Cyclops and the Brotherhood did. 

*** 

There was obviously no escape from the room. As prisons went, it was lovely. A spacious, richly appointed room full of ultra-modern furniture—Mary Jane guessed because they didn't want to go to too much expense to replace the stuff if a captive broke it. There was even a fully stocked refrigerator and a small but high-tech television facing the couch. Not that they had it on. Too depressing to watch the news and not see any story about their disappearance. 

"I don't wanna die," Liz said, having flatlined right past denial. MJ could almost admire that. 

"We're not gonna die!" Gwen fired back. The refrigerator had plenty of glass Evian bottles and she was planting them around the room, ready to be used as weapons. Mary Jane didn't know what the point was. If someone opened the door and pointed a gun at them, what were they going to do? 

"Gwen, c'mon," Mary Jane called, sitting on the couch beside Liz. Gwen looked at them, torn between letting Liz simper and doing something for group morale or whatever. Eventually, she sat down on the other side of Liz. "We're not going to die, Liz. There are like fifty superheroes in New York and look at this place. This is clearly a supervillain lair. Someone is going to bust in here and save us any minute." 

"We're going to die," Liz insisted. 

"No, sweetie." Gwen put her hand on Liz's thigh, rubbing it meaningfully. "You just gotta think of something else. What are you gonna do when we get out of here?" 

Liz looked at her, thinking, brow furrowed. Then she burst into tears. "We're not getting out of here!" 

"Jesus," Gwen swore. "MJ, you do something. You're the guidance counselor." 

"I am not a guidance counselor." 

"This is exactly the kind of shit Peter pulls and you always handle that." 

"He doesn't cry," MJ insisted, even as she drew Liz into a warm hug, rubbing her back. "It's okay, honey. Come on. Come on. Think of all the crazy shit the three of us have been through. All the mutants and robots and monsters? We didn't get through all that just to die in some fucking Stanley Kubrick exhibit." 

"Yeah, c'mon." Gwen embraced Liz from behind, surrounding her with loving pressure. "There's no point in letting these assholes get you down. That's what they want. Think about something else. Anything else." 

"Say anything," MJ added. 

"I... I just... I don't want to die a virgin!" 

Gwen's head jerked up like a dog hearing a whistle. "Uh... isn't it a little late for that?" 

"Gwen!" Mary Jane cried. 

"Hey, if we can't be honest while we're hostages in some hollowed-out volcano..." 

"I know it's ridiculous," Liz continued, sobbing faintly. Mary Jane offered her a tissue and she wiped her nose. "I'm not, like, a virgin-virgin. But I've never really... enjoyed it. I just did it because it's something you're supposed to do, like putting on make-up or whatever. I wish I had had it like they do in the movies, where it's all soft and there's jazz playing or... like when you do it. It's good when you two do it, right? Because you're both girls?" 

"It's very good when we do it," Gwen said, pressing a small kiss to Liz's shoulder. 

"Gwen." Mary Jane said it softer than she had before, still irritated with her, but more annoyed with herself—that she was actually feeling a coiling heat within her as images of Liz with another woman slid into her mind. Images of Liz with Gwen. Liz with herself... 

Liz turned her head to receive another small kiss from Gwen, this time on her chin. "I don't wanna die not knowing how good it can feel." 

"We can show you." 

"Gwen." Again, but this time MJ found herself rubbing Liz's bare leg, feeling how warm the skin was, how soft and smooth... 

"We can both show her," Gwen said, and turned Liz's head back to face MJ's luscious, parting lips... 

*** 

"Well done my pet," the mistress said, watching through the one-way mirror as the women began to undress. Sometimes her work was so rewarding. She petted her angel's blonde hair. "You deserve a reward." 

As her angel continued to inflame the three's senses, lower their inhibitions, the mistress ushered her down between two legs of pale gold. She was already naked but for her fur cloak, and as her angel began to eat, the mistress covered the both of them in white fur. She wasn't sure which of them was more fortunate, herself for being able to enjoy the show, or her little angel for being able to taste such a divine cunt. 

*** 

Liz felt Gwen's fingers steal along her thigh, sending some weird electricity right up to her throat, making her pant with desire. Like she'd just run a marathon, God, panting. She opened her legs. Felt a woman's touch on her pubic hair. It was so exciting—wrong—right. "Never been touched by another woman... never like this!" 

"Oh, do you like it?" Gwen teased. "Just how much? Would you like Mary Jane and I to play with your little pussy until you come?" 

"Yes, please," Liz replied, then laughed at her own politeness. "Pretty please..." 

"Of course!" Mary Jane giggled along with her, a small part of her surprised at how quick she was able to forget their circumstances, lose herself in this new game. "I think Gwen would enjoy fingering you more than you'll enjoy being fingered!" 

"Oh, I would?" Gwen kissed Liz passionately as she unbuttoned the girl's blouse from the bottom up. Mary Jane laughed like she was high; the sight of Gwen kissing another woman seeming absurd but also tantalizing. "Kiss her belly, MJ. You always love kissing mine..." 

"But she doesn't have a sexy little belly button ring," MJ teased laughingly. 

As Gwen pulled the two halves of Liz's shirt aside, MJ laid down flat on her stomach on the couch, wrapping her arms around Liz's sleek middle—kissing the soft flesh of Liz's tight little belly, licking it, then dropping her face to the beginnings of Liz's skirt. Gwen helpfully pulled it down, exposing Liz's groin as they kissed, Liz feeling lips all over her body as MJ kissed through her panties. When Liz started to moan, Gwen just had to draw back to watch her sexy little face contort trying to fit all the pleasure she was feeling. 

"It's never felt so good," Liz muttered. 

"Are you a little lesbian now?" Gwen asked, running her finger down Liz's face, over her lips. "Do you like fucking girls?" 

"Oh God..." 

"Are you a hot little dyke like us? Do you want MJ to kiss your pussy like she does mine?" 

"God, God... please? Could you please? I've never..." 

Mary Jane licked across the satin of Liz's panties, curling Liz's toes, screwing her eyes shut—she started to pull the panties down out of the way, but Gwen twisted her finger in their elastic band, holding them up. 

"She'll do it if you're a lesbian like us—if you like kissing girls—if you like fingering them. Do you like fingering girls, Lizzie?" 

Gwen took Liz's hand, the cheerleader staring transfixed as Gwen brought it to her mouth. She licked it, then sucked on it, slurping on each soft finger, and knew Liz's long gasp had nothing to do with Mary Jane's kisses. Gwen took Liz's fingers out of her mouth and down her body, until it was slipping into her pants. She felt Liz's fingers curl against her pussy—then reach into her soft warmth. 

Gwen returned the favor, reaching down and putting her finger on Liz's clit as Mary Jane ripped her panties away. Liz had broken out in a hot sweat. "Eat her pussy, Watson." 

Mary Jane's lips sealed to Liz's cunt. Her jeans ride low; Gwen could see the waistband of her panties twisting as she fingered herself. She kissed Liz—Mary Jane bucked her ass up and down in needful agitation—Liz moaned and panted and gasped as she was fingered, licked, kissed. Her breasts were fondled, by both Gwen and Mary Jane, then she felt a hand on her ass. Heat was rising in her body, growing, burning. She felt like she might explode! 

"I'm gonna come!" she wailed in disbelief. It had never happened to her before. "I'm gonna come!" Not with Flash, big surprise. "I'm gonna come!" She'd never masturbated; it'd always seemed so weird and shameful. "I'm gonna—gonna-!" 

Her flushed body was suddenly hot enough to burn. Mary Jane and Gwen pulled away from her before they were scalded, and then jumped away as Gwen burst into flames. 

*** 

"Magnificent," the mistress breathed, standing, unclasping the furs from her neck. She strode naked into the room, the glass automatically opening for her, her body shifting to its crystalline form as she walked in among two cringing girls and the object of her desire, the burning naked body of Liz Allan... who could not imagine what was happening to her, could not fit it into her mind... knew only how good it felt. 

The mistress embraced her, kissing her, penetrating her with a pair of diamond fingers, Liz's flames burning brighter, from orange to blue, licking harmlessly at the mistress's impervious body. 

"Feels nice, doesn't it Ms. Allan?" She took Liz's hand and led it to her own needful clit, swollen by the submissive tonguing it had received from the psychic. "I'll wager you knew, on a subconscious level, that such a volatile feeling would trigger your mutation. It's why you've never really indulged your lustful nature. You just needed a little push, that's all. A little help from Auntie Emma." 

The mistress lowered Liz's mouth to her breast and Liz was quick to obey, desperate for anything to continue the thrilling sensation she felt. She sucked as best as she could on the lovely glass nipple. 

"Mmmmmm, yes," Emma drawled. "Make me come—fuck me with my fingers—we'll come together!" 

"YES!" Liz exploded, her flame snuffing out with the force of her orgasm, suddenly a naked teenager again, pressed against the wall by a diamond statue that shifted back to flesh with her own climax. They kissed, softer but just as hot, before Liz collapsed, exhausted by the first orgasm she'd ever had—and the second use of her mutant power. 

Emma Frost gathered the semiconscious girl up in her arms, turning on her heel to strut right back out of the room. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance as well, Phoenix." 

*** 

Scott stayed in the van with Wanda. Martinique was in the driver's seat, looking with binoculars through the window. Regan was down the street, staring up with a high-powered lens. Fenson's apartment was at the corner of its building, so looking in both the north and west-facing windows, they could see almost everything. Together, they projected an illusionary diorama in the middle of the van. People the size of action figures, replicating what the twins saw. 

There were two men in bulky coats. Scott recognized the kind of disguise that advanced mutations like Nightcrawler or Beast would favor, but now that they were in private, they let the coats fall open. Inside were not mutations, but cybernetic parts. 

"Reavers," Wanda said. "And here I thought we got all of them on Krakoa Island." 

Scott was lost in thought, but enough of him was present to answer her. "The technology wasn't Genoshan. A piddling banana republic coming up with cybernetics rivaling the US of A? No. Somebody gifted them those things." 

"Who?" 

"Someone who wanted to see how their tech would do against mutants. Or just didn't care, so long as they got volunteers crazy enough to be experimented on. Those two aren't too worried how they'll look at their daughter's wedding." He turned his attention to the outside of the 'diorama.' Spider-Man clung to the side of the building in that shitty Eminem costume of his with a girl hanging from the ledge of a closed window, the two of them peeking inside and apparently exchanging words. Hiding their presence from the two Reavers. 

"Who's the girl?" Martinique asked. 

"Ana Kravinoff." Scott said it with confidence. "Claims to be the daughter of Kraven the Hunter. Superhuman strength and speed, advanced hunting abilities, skilled martial artist." 

"Of course you'd know that..." 

"Why's she with Spider-Man?" Wanda asked. 

Scott rubbed his chin. "She's tracking someone for him." 

The Reavers found whatever it was they were looking for. Although the Masterminds' vantage point obscured it, one bent down, put something in his coat, then the two went to leave. Spider-Man began crawling down the side of the building, Ana following him. 

"Spider-Man's a do-gooder," Scott continued. "He's going after the girls. He finds Fenson's place, happens upon those two—decides to follow them." He came to a decision. "Let's let the pawn go first. Get Regan inside. We follow Spider-Man." 

*** 

Inside SHIELD's NYU office, Carol centered herself again against the pain. The wound was treated, but she couldn't have painkillers dulling her reflexes. Still, she didn't think less would be thought of her if she sat down and didn't move much. 

Around her, the situation room was at a boil. SHIELD agents AWOL, Spider-Man gone rogue—they were already stretched to the limit by Magneto. Carol had gone deep into the B-team to get manpower on this comparatively small issue. Most of the staffers under her now were raw recruits. 

They didn't even have any satellite coverage. They'd had to deploy an aerial drone just to get surveillance on Fenson's apartment. Now it'd paid off. 

"Track Spider-Man," she said, gritting her teeth against the pain. "Let's see what he's up to." 

"Should we redirect Valkyrie?" 

"No, let's not let that particular bull into the china shop yet. When he reaches his destination, put her nearby." 

"She's—" the case officer rewound his headphones' auto-record to replay what Barbara had just said. "She's asking if she can stop for a latte, Agent Danvers." 

*** 

Fenson was nervous, waiting in the dingy apartment the mistress had sent him to. He didn't mind the squalor. It was only for a little while. But the thought of it being so long before he saw the mistress again— 

He jumped to his feet as the door clattered open. Those two cyborgs. He could almost wince at the sight of their mechanical deformities, but those were the very things that let them spend so much time with the mistress, serving her more directly than he ever could. He envied them. 

"Here's your watch," the first said, tossing it onto the bed where Fenson had been sitting. "Shut up, lie down, we leave in the morning." 

"But when will—" 

"No talking," the second stressed, dropping onto the seat opposite the TV. The other had mechanical legs, and didn't mind standing. 

The TV turned on—Reavers didn't need a remote—and music blared from it. Fenson laid down on the lumpy mattress. Worse than the one he had at home. It didn't matter. It wouldn't be long now, not long until he was far from all this ugliness, this metal city, these needling people, it would just be him and the mistress— 

The knock came unexpectedly, followed by a heavy Spanish accent. "Housekeeping?" 

"Do not disturb," the first Reaver retorted. 

"Qué? It's housekeeping!" 

"I said go away." 

"Cómo estás? This is housekeeping. I'm here to clean the room?" 

He got up to walk to the door. "Goddamn immigrants—nobody speaks English in this town anymore." 

Pulling his coat tightly around him, he undid the door's bolt. When it made a noise, the rest happened. A red glove cracked through the door's thick wood, ramming into the Reaver, fingers splaying on his chest and, like a junkyard magnet, pulling him back through the door and out into the hall. 

The second Reaver drew a gun, but someone was already through the window—Ana Kravinoff delivering a fast kick to his head, damaging the organics, then going after the machinery—pounding on the metal, popping compartments out, ripping at the wires and circuitry. 

Outside, Fenson heard the little sonic booms of superpowered blows being exchanged. The room shook like a train was going by, then the wall bulged inward, something being pressed against it, and the noise stopped. Replaced with a spritz of sparks and whining as the second Reaver powered him. 

Fenson had time to do nothing more than curl into a fetal position. 

*** 

There'd just been enough time to get an agent on the scene when it started. 

Twenty monitors made up the Wall in the SHIELD situation room. They pulled together camera feeds, updates on what was being worked on, streaming information, status reports, everything germane to the situation. Six grouped together to show a blowed-up view of their man on the scene's sunglasses-cam. Staring up at a second-story motel room as a Reaver's head was smashed through the window, then pulled back inside. The view momentarily shuffled as the agent backed away. 

"We've got engagement—" the case officer reported. "Six calls to 911—" 

"Reroute them," Carol ordered. "Josh, Abdul, you take them. Tell them to just fucking leave." She stopped, peering at the Wall. "Stop. Rewind that, my monitor." 

The cam's feed was duplicated on her workstation. She rewound it, eyes scouring the footage. As their agent had moved away, his feed had captured some of the bystanders watching the disturbance. 

She swiveled back up to the Wall. "Patch in CCTV, scrutinize the crowd, I want facial rec on everyone. Agent Ramirez, do not move. Take off your sunglasses and hold them sixty degrees to your right." 

While Ramirez, their agent on the ground, continued to watch the motel room, he redirected the feed as instructed. Now everyone saw it. A van parked on the side of the road, a man in the driver's seat, head hanging out the side, elbow leaning on the door. 

"He doesn't have his visor," the case officer said, though his disbelief was less for that, more that Scott Summers was really there at all. 

"I've got a view in the passenger's seat," another agent reported, putting their CCTV feed up on the wall. The facial recognition scan came back positive for the Scarlet Witch—Magneto's daughter. 

Carol didn't wait a breath. "Alright, I want STRIKE mobilized. We keep NYPD out of the loop, there's no time to liaison. Move Valkyrie in, but it do it quietly, we don't know how many Brotherhood members are on site. Get me Fury, get me the Ultimates, hell, see if you can get me the Fantastic Four. I want anyone who has so much as the power to burp the alphabet on this." 

The case officer swiveled to her. "Ma'am, what about Spider-Man? The girls?" 

"Another day. Which do you want on your resume, Magneto's second-in-command or three little girls?" 

*** 

He was out of web-fluid. Ana could tell. He changed the cartridges, but it wasn't as polished a motion as her Spider-Man would make. Not as practiced. 

The webbed-up Reaver he tossed inside, pulling up the door behind him and webbing it in place. He glanced at Ana's more effectively disabled foe. 

"I said no killing." 

"He's not dead," Ana pointed out. "Just depowered." 

Spider-Man looked at the Reaver's rising chest, nodding. "Means we can't interrogate him, though. Maybe we can check his hard drive. Or—" He glanced at Fenson. "You could help us." 

"No, never, I don't know anything—" 

Ana didn't think Spider-Man listened any more than she did. He let Fenson babble while he ripped a page out of the motel's phonebook, crumpled it up, went to Fenson, and jammed it in his mouth. 

Then he curled his middle fingers inward, stuck his pointer and pinky out, and tapped the heel of his hand with his thumb.