Barsoom Boom-Boom (Patreon)

With a bamf! that itself seemed to boast of irrepressible braggadocio, Kurt appeared at the entrance to the Danger Room.

He tried not to abuse his mutant power of transportation, owing both to not wanting to put too much of a strain on an ability he might need at any moment—and the smell—but today, he felt it was justified. With nothing else to do on a doldrumsy weekend, he’d decided to gift Scott some time in the X-Men’s famous combat simulator. Their fearless leader loved it when any of the X-Men honed their skills at the glorified obstacle course that was something of a second significant other to him.

And Kurt agreed—with the crises their mutant hinterteil so frequently found themselves in, everyone needed to be at their best. But there was no reason he couldn’t have some fun while he was getting his practice in. Play-acting as Robin Hood or Captain Jack Sparrow would still test his reflexes to the limit, even if Scott frowned upon pretending to slay undead pirates or oppressive Normans.

Kurt wondered what he would think about playing John Carter of Mars, in full kit to boot—not that there was much of it. At the moment, Kurt was wearing less than Colossus usually did and Scott was not a man susceptible to such frivolity.

Then again, the man had had that thing with Psylocke. So Kurt doubted he would come down too hard on showing a little skin. But, best to let sleeping dogs lie. What Scott didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Calling up the program from the Danger Room’s databanks… his blue brother Hank had encoded it for him, having a literary appreciation for the works of Edgar Rice Burroughs… Kurt took a last moment to adjust his costume.

Looking at his glossy reflection in the Danger Room door’s stolid metal, he saw the usual handsome devil. Just rugged enough not to be baby-faced, and just baby-faced enough not to be Logan. Blue hair curled boyishly on top his head. He wore a leather harness with nothing underneath besides the fine layer of fur that covered his entire body. Although his muscles weren’t as defined as some of the X-Men’s powerhouses, his slender body was by no means androgynous. He had prominent biceps and his abs showed through light swirls of blue.

At his narrow waist, a loincloth afforded Kurt enough modesty to be comfortable—he was a showman, not an exhibitionist—and held his sheathed sword and holstered pistol. His legs were strong and healthy-looking, with the bottoms of his sheath and holster strapped to his thighs to keep them from flopping around during his trademark acrobatics. And, though it handicapped his prehensile double-toes, he wore a pair of leathery buccaneer boots. Sometimes, image had to take precedence.

Besides, Kurt reasoned to himself, you never knew when your toes might be disabled in battle. And he could still rely on his long, spade-tipped tail for a solid grip.

If only Hank had included a holographic Dejah Thoris for some of that gripping. But then, that thought was probably greedy of Kurt. It wasn’t like there were any shortage of beautiful women on the X-Men. Perhaps if he were to stroll through the mansion looking like this, instead of teleporting from his room to a deserted destination…

Then again, it was a school for children. The last thing any endangered minority needed to do was strut their scantily-clad bodies around in front of little boys and girls. Kurt didn’t think even the X-Statix were that dumb.

Then he opened the door and was all but struck unconscious by what he saw. Here was the familiar Barsoomian landscape, with the sprawling red sands and towering rock formations worthy of an alien Lawrence of Arabia, but there was one important addition to the scenery. Something far more spectacular than a Thern or Thark.

Ororo Munroe.

Kurt was, more or less, used to Ororo’s stunning beauty. And her sensual body was always well-served by her stylish and frequently revealing costumes. But there was the meal and then there was the feast.

Ororo was dressed in Helium fashion—or lack thereof. A neckpiece was her most extensive garment, collaring her stately throat, coming up to her chin, and covering her clavicle in an expanse of gold embroidery centered around a gleaming jewel. Gold chains hung from it, looping across her cleavage and belly; both were otherwise unencumbered.

A girdle about her waist, consisting of more golden chains, drew the eye slightly from the tuft of white hair at her pubis. A length of gauzy cloth was belted to her pelvis, but it was as airy and insubstantial as a fogbank. It barely covered Ororo’s groin more than Kurt’s loincloth did him… now that his rising reaction to Ororo’s nudity seemed determined to jar his coverage aside.

Loops of more gold graced her toned arms and nimble fingers, a clear afterthought to that which graced her body.

Lastly, a scattering of gold anklets and garters accentuated Ororo’s long legs, as would jewelry. Two garters held, almost mockingly, an expanse of creamy translucent silk that covered Ororo’s leg from knee to calf. It seemed to serve the same purpose as the gold circlet in Ororo’s hair—showing that she was fully capable of covering herself, but had deliberately chosen to reveal and enhance her nakedness to its fullest, most exotic potential.

Of course, all the gimmicky little coverings in the world could only elaborate on a statement the physique already made. Ororo’s body spoke as loudly in this smattering of flourishes as it would in her most fashionable attire. Her long, limber figure was pure perfection. No, not just perfect. Even a perfect body could be carried and posed in a way that fell short of its potential.

But Ororo was utterly magnificent in her regality. Her breasts stood out full and firm, really not needing any support at all. Her belly was long and flat, though as supple as her curves even in its leanness, and her thighs were plush but toned. Just enough succulence to go with the strong muscle that was inherent to her athletic body.

She twisted away from him and Kurt saw that, as might be expected, there was a similar length of clear silk in back of her girdle, hiding her ass… but only the innermost crevice. It was barely half as wide as the loincloth was in front and Kurt’s hair went on end at the sight of those twin globes of smooth, tawny flesh… not a hint of a tanline. There, too, Ororo was absolutely delicious.

“So,” Ororo asked, with a completely deadpan lack of irony. “How do I look?”

“L-look?” Kurt stammered, aware once more that English was a second language to him, because he feared he couldn’t possibly have heard her right. Ororo would have to be brain-damaged not to know how she looked.

“My costume,” Ororo elaborated. “I heard about you doing exercises with this particular theme and it sounded fun. Moreover, it sounded like a good excuse to enjoy your company. You don’t mind, do you? I thought this garb would fit the setting.” She paused, seeming to ever so slightly acknowledge the irony by eying him, in his own abbreviated garments. “You look splendid,” she noted.

“Yes. Right. Sehr gut. Sehr, sehr gut. You look great!”

Ororo inclined her head, almost bashfully, though she was so free of neurosis that she couldn’t really summon up false modesty. It was more like she was slightly embarrassed by how good she looked, like a rich person might be abashed to pay for some deli meal with a hundred dollar bill.

“Well then, shall we?” Ororo asked, drawing her eyes reluctantly from his exotic attire to scan the horizon, gauging the environment for use as a battleground.

“Ja. My pleasure, junge dame.” Kurt’s tail couldn’t stop twitching if he drove a nail through it.

***

Fifteen minutes later, the session was not going well. Or rather it was going great for Kurt’s fantasy life—horribly for his training. Every time he tried to focus on parrying and thrusting and riposteing with Warhoons, he caught a glimpse of Storm and only wanted to thrust.

It wasn’t that she was poetry in motion. That was a gruesomely inadequate descriptor for Ororo. She was a song: heart-pounding, blood-thumping, making Kurt feel like he was dead if he didn’t dance to it.

How was he supposed to focus on green people with any amount of arms when Ororo was looking like that?

Time and again, sword-wielding rascals that should’ve been easy pickings managed to get the better of Kurt as, distracted, he bumbled about. Mistiming jumps, teleporting into inopportune places, and fumbling trapeze-grips he should’ve had more than enough fingers for. And his tail acted more like an intoxicated snake haphazardly attached to his rear. It made for an unimpressive showing while Storm was at her most impressive.

Ororo, of course, wasn’t embarrassed or offended or seem in any way awkward on the receiving end of his attention. She was only mildly amused at him getting dinged by a radium rifle yet again.

“I’m surprised at you, Kurt. I always thought of you as something of a charmer. You know—a man of experience. But here you are, getting flustered by a girl. Am I really so distracting?”

“Yes, liebchen!You most certainly are!” Kurt panted, trying to catch his breath after the painful but nonlethal impact the simulated projectile had made on him. “Perhaps something a bit more modest while I am trying to hone my skills? I am only human, after all.”

“Mm. I think not,” Ororo said after a musing pause. “There’s no shortage of beings such as ourselves that seem to dress like an afterthought. Our own Emma Frost, for instance. If you can’t get in the habit of blocking it out, then any female antagonist will know she simply has to wear something skimpy to have the advantage on us.”

“Ja,” Kurt said. “Wouldn’t that be awful?”

***

“She said what about me?” Emma asked a day later, with that vein in her forehead that showed she was trying not to frown and contribute to any future wrinkling of her gorgeous face.

Kurt tightened his hold on his thoughts—instantly regretting having recalled Ororo’s words as Emma passed him in the hall. But in his defense, it was hard not to think of what she’d quite accurately said when Emma was wearing a plunge mini dress just to go to the kitchen and make herself a sandwich.

“Unglaublich, Emma, stay out of my head!” he chastised her.

Emma folded her arms at him. “I would if you’d stop thinking such unbecoming thoughts. Does Ororo think I dress too skanky? Her, whose idea of dressing modestly is all black leather?”

“I think she dresses quite nicely,” Kurt said with winding civility. “As do you. She really wasn’t being mean, just, ah… realistic?”

“Because I might turn on the X-Men and need to be brought down and do it while wearing nipple pasties? Says the man whose mother hardly ever wears anything?”

“Ach du lieber, don’t remind me. And I would think you’d like the idea of being associated with wearing next to nothing.”

“I like being associated with great beauty and sensuality, as showcased by my wardrobe choices. Only paltry peasants have their clothes do the talking for them. Which you should know—“

“Being a circus performer, ja, ja.”

Emma’s chin wrinkled. Like anyone on the X-Men, she couldn’t stay mad at Kurt for long. “You do have a very aesthetic costume, Kurt. But this isn’t a problem you have a deal with. Everyone associates you with yellow eyes and blue fur and a tail, no matter what you wear. Imagine being on a team with another four blue people!”

Kurt counted on his fingers. “Beast, Archangel…”

“Okay, okay,” Emma interrupted. “Well, imagine one of them is red-haired and keeps stealing your man.”

“Ah, so you are freaking out because you worry people see you as slutty, not hot, and it makes you feel inadequate that you’re not hotter than Jean…”

Emma’s hand shot up. “If you want to psychoanalyze me, buy me dinner first. And you can’t afford to buy me dinner.”

“I could cook un schön roast.”

Her lip twitched just at one corner. “You’re sweet. But I’ve grown tired of this conversation. One more word and I’ll put a knot in your tail.”

And she wonders why people think of her as kinky…!

Emma allowed herself a frown. “I heard that!”