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Callisto says her tentacles get soggy if she stays in too long, so she leaves Yukio and Ororo in the hot tub. Ororo closes her eyes. She smells cedar wood, ginger, wicker, Yukio, boiled rice, steam. Vapor clouds form and disperse over Ororo’s arms, ribs, shoulders, over Yukio’s ample muscles and slim, not-quite-flat—

“Ororo,” Yukio says, arching one eyebrow and splashing her friend unobtrusively. “Is this water…. weather?”

“It belongs to the hydrodynamics that also encompass Tokyo’s water supply and the sea of Japan,” the regal mutant replies. “That is why I can avoid claustrophobia here. I draw strength from my connection to the whole.” She pauses. “And to you, my fierce friend.” She licks Yukio’s wrist.

“Good thing we cleared that up.” Yukio smiles, grasping Storm’s palm. “If it’s weather, could you…play with it?”

Then Ororo smiles. “Could I manipulate cross-currents in this hot tub at my pleasure, or for your own?”

Yukio spent so long making herself hyper-aware of her body, to fight and kill with it, that she takes special joy in knowing how every inch of it feels when she feels safe. And—Logan notwithstanding; Logan’s a gem, and a hottie—Yukio has never felt safer than next to Storm.

Or in Storm’s arms, or kissing Storm, giving Storm the taste of risk and recklessness that had never been hers till they met.

Yukio nods. “Can you, love?”

“I can and I shall.”

The Japanese fighter throws back her head and parts her lips slightly. Droplets fly from her wedge-cut hair. The water turns over, churning. New ripples form and spread; underneath them, new currents fly. Yukio shifts her thighs and parts her lips slightly. The water strokes her—Storm strokes her-- under the steam, where both of them know, and no one can see.