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Author's Note: This chapter doesn't necessarily follow immediately after two... more like during? I'm sure you'll get it...
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Over the Hedge, that belongs to DreamWorks and I am not a stockholder or anything important to them, just a fan. PLEASE don't sue.
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How it all began, Ororo wasn’t sure and yet she could remember how. It was three months after her divorce, right when she was going through that awkward stage of accepting what had happened while wanting to still hold on and wanting to get back out there while still hating/loving her ex. Her emotions were all over the place and it was hard for her to understand what she was feeling.

Ororo had never been particularly emotional: Being emotional didn’t always get things done. There’d been a few expectancies where she’d slipped and really “let loose” but they were few and far between. The night she met Logan she’d been “letting loose” per the request of a few, close friends.

Ororo, Jean, Marie, Ali, and Kitty all went out to celebrate the fact that Ororo had officially thrown out all of T’Challa’s things. She donned her tightest and shortest dress, pulled on her sexiest heels, and was ready to show off the new and improved Ororo Munroe. (Munroe: It was hard getting used to having her own last name.) Ororo thought it was stupid for a bunch of women in their late twenties to be bar hopping dressing like college girls, but she was in no place to argue-- Ororo was wearing the skimpiest dress.

“Take a shot!” squealed Jean. Ororo giggled at her red headed friend and obliged her. The shot was purple, fizzy, and tasted like rum; other than the warm burn it made on its way down Ororo’s throat, it was good. “Yeah!” she cheered.

Kitty giggled, half mad with the amount vodka she’d chugged two bars back. Ororo was thoroughly impressed-- who knew someone so small could slam back that much alcohol? “Feelin’ better?”

“I can hardly feel anything!” Ororo shouted; the music in the bar was too loud.

Ali and Marie fell together laughing, both drunk enough to find anything funny. “That’s the point, shoog. You ain’t supposed to feel anything, ‘specially if it’s fer that asshole you were married to.” A quick pang shot through Ororo’s heart. How could she not feel something whenever T’Challa was mentioned? They were married for five years and it wasn’t until the end did she start feeling miserable. But she had to admit that maybe she hadn’t felt much of anything to begin with. Or maybe it was the alcohol. She didn’t know. Didn’t really care, either. “Stop thinkin’ about him! You sold all his shit and now yah’re moving into a place you can call ‘yah’re own.’ That’s what we’re here ta celebrate.”

Ororo smiled at Marie and picked up another shot. She raised it in honor of Marie’s words, but mostly have her shut up; Ororo loved the Mississippi Queen but she was sort of annoying drunk. Once she put the shot back down on the table, Ororo noticed a man staring hard at Marie. “Mysterious man at three o’clock,” she warned Marie, smiling.

Not two seconds later did a man approach Marie, holding a beer and smelling slightly of sweat and smoke. “How ya’ll ladies doing t’night?” he drawled, his full attention on Marie. Marie, who’d been loud and talkative, immediately fell silent and shy. The rest of the women murmured hello. “And you, petite? How ah you doing?”

“Ah’m fine,” she said, clearing her throat. “You?”

“All the better f’ seein’ you.” Marie giggled a bit too girlishly but the man smiled broadly, as though pleased with turning Marie into a puddle of prepubescent-esque woman goo. (Wait, was that even a real thing? Ororo was really getting drunk.) “You ladies mind if I take this here southern belle away f’ a dance?”

“Take her ass,” drawled Ali, picking up a beer from a passing waitress. Whosever beer this was, they’d live, Ali rationalized.

“Ali!” giggled Kitty, swatting her shoulder. Ali looked innocently at Kitty, Jean, and Ororo. (“What? She was gonna go anyways!”)

The remaining girls watched as Marie threw her arms around the Cajun man’s shoulders and began moving to the beat. Ororo looked down at their table and noticed there weren’t any drinks left. After arguing that it was her night so if she wanted to get drinks for her friends, she would!-- she walked off to the bartender to get one Sex on the Beach for Jean, a shot of Jacks with another Corona for Ali, a Vodka Collins for Kitty, and a Salty Dog for herself.

While she was leaning over the counter shouting her orders, she felt a particularly strong presence saddle up beside her. Ororo glanced at who it was, ready to tell them to please take a few steps back when she saw his face. Or Logan’s, as she later learned.

He was so handsome. Those eyes were beyond enchanting and he had this crazy animal magnetism to him that was amplified by alcohol, his woodsy and cigar scent, her horniness, and his natural sex appeal. (Woof!- she was really gone.) A smile curled his lips. “Need something, darlin’?” he asked.

Ororo quirked a lopsided smile and leaned in close. “Maybe later,” she said coquettishly, taking her drinks from the bartender and quickly paying him. She could feel his eyes on her backside-- she could tell his from everyone else’s-- so she made sure her strut was extra proud and the swing of her hips was even more violent and accentuated. As she sat, she forced herself to only allow him teasing, flirting glances. He didn’t send a drink her way, something she found curious, but was certain he still wanted her. And anyways, if he really wanted her, he would approach her.

It didn’t take long.

She broke away from the rest of the group to play a game of pool. He came up from behind and asked for her name. She told him he could have it if he beat her. After three games, he never did, so he never learned her name, but he did offer his... behind the bar in an alley where they fucked.

It was irresponsible, Ororo knew, but he was giving it to her in ways T’Challa hadn’t since they first got engaged. She’d never felt so alive, being taken outside so roughly by a complete stranger. She wasn’t even completely undressed. He just pulled the brief dress up and pulled her panties to the side. Ororo simply wrapped a leg around his waist and prayed a cop didn’t walk by or a bar maid come out for her smoke break. But no came... except for them. (And at the same time... How strange!)

When they finished, Ororo kissed him on the mouth and dropped her leg. He had a sort of dreamy look on his face, as though he were seeing her for the first time. While she adjusted her skirt, he once more asked for her name and she coyly told him he didn’t earn it. (“Not even after I made you cum?” he asked.)

When she made her way back inside, she felt heady and alive, but wanted to leave. She didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of seeing the guy she just fucked and having to pretend for the rest of the night like they were an item; they both got something back in the alley, it should’ve been enough.

Should’ve been, she would later reflect, but was not.

Her friends thankfully didn’t ask questions.

When she got back home, she slept soundly. There were no thoughts of T’Challa, just a strange man with a perfect five o’clock shadow, strong hands, and perfect pace.


The second time she met Logan, she not only learned his name, but also his deceit.

He was a benefactor to the school she worked at; he owned a series of bars and restaurants and liked to give back to the poor for more than just publicity or a tax write-off; he was a “good” guy. His wife sang his praises as they walked through the halls of Charles Xavier School (grades K-12.)

James Logan Howlett picked the school after reading about it in the paper. He found Charles Xavier’s cause noble; he, himself, had been a homeless youth at one point and knew how hard it was to make it without the help of someone else. But before he donated one red cent, he wanted a tour of the premises. Ororo, who had plans of teaching her third grade class she was covering the basics of plant anatomy was forced to show Over the Hedge while she gave the Howletts a tour.

When she saw him she nearly threw up on her pencil dress. While she’d been pretty drunk that night, she was pretty sure it was him. He had the same animal magnetism about him even if he was cleaned up in a suit and tie (Ororo liked him better in flannel, leather, and jeans.) But what caused her doubt was not only the fact that he was apparently married, but how happy he seemed with his wife. They held hands, smiled, and doted upon each other.

So Ororo kept her cool and asked appropriate questions about him, his wife, and their work. He was professional and asked about the school, the cause, and her work.

She inwardly screamed every time his wife spoke up.

And his wife... Her name was Ophelia and Ororo had to admit the woman was attractive. Like Logan, she was in her mid forties, but it was cleverly masked by an excellent dye job, makeup, fantastic style, and what Ororo assumed was a great trainer. The diamond ring on her finger was beautiful if not a little gaudy. (Ororo quickly checked her jealousy.)

When the tour ended, Logan said he would be more than happy to donate thirty thousand dollars to the school and orphanage, but he would be back.

And when he came back, somehow he ended up kneeling before Ororo, feasting on her “delicious, pretty pussy” while she sat on her desk. It was crazy; one minute they were trying to figure out how to remain professional, the next the were arguing, and the next he was kneeling before her, groaning into her sex while rubbing the front of his pants.

Somehow they ended up going to lunch together to truly talk out their sexual tension/chemistry.

And if Ororo truly had to pinpoint where it all began, she would have to go with when he took her to a small coffee shop and ordered her tea without knowing what she liked. When she asked, he screwed a confident smile and simply told her: “You look like the type.”





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