Fic: Whatever Will Be (X-Men comics)
Feb. 19th, 2008 10:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seriousficTitle: Whatever Will Be
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Jean/Emma, Scott Summers
Word Count: 2,574
Summary: Around the events of New X-Men 139, Jean discovers why Emma singled out Scott Summers.
Emma.
Fucking.
Frost.
Jean hated her, hated her for what Emma’d done to her friends, for what she’d done to the school, for the cynicism and amorality she’d brought to the team. Jean could hate quite brightly now, could hate every thought Emma had without a shred of doubt. Because she was learning Emma, through and through, learning everything she could and hating it all.
It was only natural to want revenge on the woman who seduced your husband. And to be honest, part of Jean wanted to know what Scott found so appealing about that pile of artifice named Emma Frost. Jean was real, as real as God’s wrath, so what did Scott need with a fake British accent and silicone breasts?
Emma was having a nosebleed already. Like a virgin deflowered. Jean had never gone this deep into someone’s head before, and Emma had never been penetrated so thoroughly. Idly, Jean wondered if Emma would get off on it. She was kinky enough.
“Out~ my%*—head!” Emma said before she regained her thought processes. “I never so much as touched your bloody husband, and even if I had, you have no right…”
“I’m not touching you either, Frost,” Jean said. And she didn’t have to, not when Emma was just lying there on the bed where Scott had been ravaging her in the dream-world.
Her impractical, slutty costume was ajar and Jean pulled the bedsheet over Emma’s shame, covering up the sweat and the ugly blood where her fingernails had clawed into her own breasts.
“We’re telepaths. We’ll handle this as such.” Jean bent over Emma, smiling the Phoenix’s smile. “Don’t bother getting the door for me, Emma. I’m coming to you.”
Emma’s mind tasted of smoke and stunk of sex. But for all that, it was ordered with the self-discipline only a master telepath could muster. There was none of the cluttered minutia and chaotic surface thoughts of a norm. Everything was crystalline. Sparkling. Perfect.
Jean burnt it black.
“No right, no right, no right…” Emma said as Jean dragged her along through the flames, the cleansing flames.
“Nothing I’ve done can’t be undone,” Jean hissed. “Because I’m merciful. Not like you. I’m an X-Man. And you’re just a petty, vindictive bitch who thought it’d be fun to play superhero.”
“At least I can still have fun, you pathetic cow! You just judge everyone and everything around you because you think you have some holy mission! Is it any wonder your darling husband would find someone who didn’t judge him? He felt weak, inadequate, unfit. I made him feel strong. I made him feel like a man.”
Jean felt the fire under her skin burn bright, closer to the surface. It’d take so little effort to stroke it just a little hotter, to watch Emma be consumed by it. The ice queen would melt and run and bubble and she’d laugh and Scott would breathe against her neck like he used to, telling her how good and noble it was. But that was only the Phoenix talking, and she had to discount the Phoenix’s advice when she was upset, because it didn’t always come to the truth from the same place she did.
A pillar of fetishes crashed, a spire of tastes cracked. Jean cut through it with blowtorch swords, sifting through the rubble until she found what she was looking for in the subconscious. If you went deep enough, there was always something kept hidden.
“So, you’re not just pop psychology and instant gratification,” Jean mused with a cutting tongue. “What’s this bauble?” Her flames licked at its egg-like contours. “A memory? How droll.”
“Stay away from it, Jean! I never touched your husband; it’s not fair!”
“You wanted to, Emma, ‘doll’. What’s in your past that’s so private? You got drunk and let some freshman feel you up? A teen pregnancy, perhaps? Oh, now you’ve aroused my curiosity.”
Jean split it open and poked her head inside, Emma’s scream fracturing the remainder of her crystal mind.
Red, the red of hair Jean saw each day in the mirror, twixting over a man’s manicured fingers and handsome, cruel face. He purred his way up a strand of hair until he reached her ear, which he licked devilishly.
“Oh, you mustn’t!” the remembered Jean said, her hair loosed from its bun, her dominatrix costume a perverse irony to her buttoned-up morals. “You hideous brute!”
“You love it,” Jason Wyngarde said as he caught her squirming legs and forced them to stay open.
“Oh, I do, but I’ll love it so much more on our wedding day.”
“You’ll love it whenever I give it to you.” Jason undid the first stitch on her corset. “Consider this practice.”
Emma, the Emma of Emma’s memory, romanticized by nostalgia into a screen siren of old, cleared her throat with an eloquent noise. Her countenance, always cold, was glacial. A corset of snug white leather hugged her waist and lifted her breasts. Riding low beneath a sleek sliver of stomach was a thong of the same white as the corset, which left her legs bare until they met thigh-high white boots which ended in stiletto heels. A cloak of white fur dangled from a pair of fearsome epaulets which gave her an aggressively masculine, broad-shouldered look. Her ice-blue eyes were traipsed with boredom, but the voyeuristic Jean of the present could see the… irritation they hid.
Jason looked up from Jean, his face suddenly coarse with sick lust.
“What are you doing?” Emma asked demurely.
“Enjoying myself immensely.”
“If you want a girl, Sebastian’s provided you with plenty. What’s one virginal little sapling compared to those exotics?”
“I don’t care how exotic they are!” Jason crowed petulantly. “I want her!”
Emma calmly gestured with her riding crop as she drew closer to the absurd tableau. “I know she looks like an innocent little collegiate, but inside that underdeveloped frame is an engine of destruction such as the world has never seen. Should we fail to control it, I think it best not to give her reason to revenge herself upon us. So, much as it must pain you to not to take advantage of your precarious position, I really must insist you keep your dick in your pants or I’ll warp your mind so thoroughly you won’t be able to get an erection without thinking of a blood relative.”
Jason sneered at her. “Maybe I settle up with you sometime.”
“I doubt it. Take whatever form you please; you’ll still be nothing more than a peasant to me.”
Jason growled and swaggered out, giving off fumes of black rage. Emma smiled at his retreat, then sat down next to Jean and fixed her bodice. Jean was dressed identically to Emma, save for her color being black. Emma’s idea. She fixed up the cracks in Jean’s mental prison, shored them up so that the darkness had passed over her soul, and Jean was once more smiling in her gilded lie.
Emma sat down on the chaise lounge, plush and of beautiful oak under its red cushioning. She leaned against the armrest and patted her lap; Jean obediently sat down there. She stayed still, pretty as a doll, as Emma combed her hair. Emma loved Jean’s hair. Her own was dyed and shampooed and false, but Jean’s was luscious and smelt of fine things and a joy to run her hands through. And as Emma combed, Jean sang a song and it went like this.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
Emma smelled the crown of Jean’s head. It didn’t smell like smoke or fire or anything like that. It smelt like the air after a rain, fresh and full of promise.
“I must tell you something, Jean, though I know you can’t hear me. You don’t hear anything that troubles you, do you?” Emma petted Jean’s hair as she threaded a ribbon in it. “You’re lucky that way. The world is far too harsh for your beauty. Imagine, if you’re remained with someone like Scott Summers or that bestial Logan? No, here you’ll be sheltered. I’ll protect you.”
When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows? day after day?
Here's what my sweetheart said.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
Emma wrapped the ribbon along Jean’s thick mane and slowly curled it into a French twist. Adorable. Perfect. They matched so beautifully, Jean’s short hair and Emma’s long. Like sisters. Emma’s sisters were all bitter, thieving whores. But not Jean. Jean would be how sisters were supposed to be.
“I know you’d think this was silly if I hadn’t… placated you? Yes, that’s a good word for it. I know you’d call me a poor little rich girl, but I don’t have many friends. Not any. Not real ones, like you do. I’m sure all your good friends are planning a rescue. They’ll fail, of course. They can’t keep us apart.”
Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, what will I be?
Will I be handsome? will I be rich?
I tell them tenderly.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
Jean stopped singing, kept humming. Emma put the finishing touches on Jean’s French twist, then moved her fingers down over Jean’s temples and neck to massage her bare shoulders. Jean wasn’t tense, not in the slightest, but the constant soothing motion had the desired effect. The redhead moaned and shut her eyes and thought of nothing but how good it felt as her humming went up a pitch.
“But you’ll be my friend now. And you’ll never betray me or lie to me or insult me because that’s not how I programmed you to be. I got in your head and made you the perfect friend.”
Her hands moved down Jean’s shoulders, ever stroking, ever moving, down. Slowly, lightly, down Jean’s slender white arms. Jean tilted back until she was resting against Emma, Emma feeling a more than pleasant tingle as Jean’s back pressed against her nipples. Emma’s panties were feeling sheer as saran wrap and she felt the lacing of Jean’s corset press and rub and move right where it was thinnest. As she became aroused, Emma’s voice became huskier, lower, and more intimate.
“And we’ll have such fun together, ruling the world. We’ll teach all the children to love each other and themselves, and even if you weren’t placated you would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes mistress,” Jean said, the Phoenix bright in her eyes.
Emma delighted in the submission even without realizing it. Her hands slid artfully into the belly-baring gap between Jean’s bodice and panties, where they pressed hard and deep into the muscular stomach. Jean kept good care of her body. Emma approved. She worked in expanding circles around Jean’s cute little belly button, skirting the top of the panties and the bottom of the corset.
“You’ll teach me too, won’t you Auntie Emma?” Jean asked as she put a hand on Emma’s bare thigh, between the thigh-high boot and the moistening cotton of Emma’s panties. “I’m so eager to learn and I…” She took Emma’s hand and forced it lower, fully under her own panties. “I so want you to teach me. Teach me everything.”
Emma felt Jean’s wetness, hot and wicked. This thing, this baby doll was a construct she’d created to hold the Phoenix, a boiler to stroke its flames. If only she’d known that the Phoenix could not be caged, merely clothed. Watching the memory, Jean could hear the Phoenix’s deafening roar, its hunger growing… then abating as White Queen embraced Black, clothes lost until they were just pale skin against tan, then finally no more struggle, just the slow crackling of embers.
“It wasn’t you,” Emma cracked, her bitter modern-day voice so at odds with her contented, happy cradling of the Phoenix. “It was some thing that thought it was you, some fragment of your soul that never made its way home, and you cow, you never let me feel that happy again!”
“I didn’t… know,” Jean said as Emma pushed herself out of the relived memory, clothing herself back in the indomitable purity of her white, two broad bands of porcelain flesh unveiled in the shape of an X by the scraps of clothing she called a costume.
“No, how could you? How could you, a goddess, deign to look upon a mortal… a mortal who wasn’t Scott Summers, worthiest of the unworthy?”
Brought back to reality, Jean backed away from the bed in a tumult of emotions. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so safe to toy with Emma. Suddenly, Emma lurched up from the bed, the sheets falling away from her body-in-dishabille, one breast exposed, hair disheveled, mascara running with the most unladylike of tears.
“I had to split the two of you up,” Emma said, laughing madly when she wasn’t crying. “I had to. Because having him was a little like having you and if you weren’t with him then you could be with me and if you hated me… well, hate’s something to work with, isn’t it? I’ve done so much with hate. It’s so much easier than affection or trust or respect.”
Emma carelessly disrobed as she stepped out of the bed. Naked as the day she was born, she was for once without poise or grace. Jean saw the scars whose concealing make-up had been washed away by sweat, saw the five pounds Emma had ruthlessly been trying to exercise away, the pubic hair she hadn’t waxed away yet.
“Of course you hate me. I hate you too. But I don’t let it stop me from loving you.” Emma pressed herself against Jean’s body, and for once her body didn’t have the chill of marble. It was on fire, virtually feverish, and Jean wondered how it was that someone could flare hot enough to burn the Phoenix. Then Emma’s lips were against hers, displaying the instincts of nothing more civilized than a wanton predator, and the Phoenix answered in kind.
Sometime between Jean throwing Emma down onto the bed, and Emma licking her thin lips and Jean beginning to strip off her own clothes (they were just too cold to stay on), something afflicted Jean and she staggered away. Half-dressed, leaving Emma writhing on the bed, she shoved past concerned, deluded Scott and ran out onto the yawn. She rended the clothes from her flesh, that damn utilitarian body armor that made her look like some weird neofascist, and burned.
Jean flew off on wings of flame and Scott rode off again to lose himself, crushed by the fact that the new woman in his life was attracted not to him, but to seemingly the only thing that made him special… the love of Jean Grey.
And Emma, Emma collapsed in Hank’s arms and sobbed against his fur, asking herself why she had to fall in love with Jean bloody Grey.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Jean/Emma, Scott Summers
Word Count: 2,574
Summary: Around the events of New X-Men 139, Jean discovers why Emma singled out Scott Summers.
Emma.
Fucking.
Frost.
Jean hated her, hated her for what Emma’d done to her friends, for what she’d done to the school, for the cynicism and amorality she’d brought to the team. Jean could hate quite brightly now, could hate every thought Emma had without a shred of doubt. Because she was learning Emma, through and through, learning everything she could and hating it all.
It was only natural to want revenge on the woman who seduced your husband. And to be honest, part of Jean wanted to know what Scott found so appealing about that pile of artifice named Emma Frost. Jean was real, as real as God’s wrath, so what did Scott need with a fake British accent and silicone breasts?
Emma was having a nosebleed already. Like a virgin deflowered. Jean had never gone this deep into someone’s head before, and Emma had never been penetrated so thoroughly. Idly, Jean wondered if Emma would get off on it. She was kinky enough.
“Out~ my%*—head!” Emma said before she regained her thought processes. “I never so much as touched your bloody husband, and even if I had, you have no right…”
“I’m not touching you either, Frost,” Jean said. And she didn’t have to, not when Emma was just lying there on the bed where Scott had been ravaging her in the dream-world.
Her impractical, slutty costume was ajar and Jean pulled the bedsheet over Emma’s shame, covering up the sweat and the ugly blood where her fingernails had clawed into her own breasts.
“We’re telepaths. We’ll handle this as such.” Jean bent over Emma, smiling the Phoenix’s smile. “Don’t bother getting the door for me, Emma. I’m coming to you.”
Emma’s mind tasted of smoke and stunk of sex. But for all that, it was ordered with the self-discipline only a master telepath could muster. There was none of the cluttered minutia and chaotic surface thoughts of a norm. Everything was crystalline. Sparkling. Perfect.
Jean burnt it black.
“No right, no right, no right…” Emma said as Jean dragged her along through the flames, the cleansing flames.
“Nothing I’ve done can’t be undone,” Jean hissed. “Because I’m merciful. Not like you. I’m an X-Man. And you’re just a petty, vindictive bitch who thought it’d be fun to play superhero.”
“At least I can still have fun, you pathetic cow! You just judge everyone and everything around you because you think you have some holy mission! Is it any wonder your darling husband would find someone who didn’t judge him? He felt weak, inadequate, unfit. I made him feel strong. I made him feel like a man.”
Jean felt the fire under her skin burn bright, closer to the surface. It’d take so little effort to stroke it just a little hotter, to watch Emma be consumed by it. The ice queen would melt and run and bubble and she’d laugh and Scott would breathe against her neck like he used to, telling her how good and noble it was. But that was only the Phoenix talking, and she had to discount the Phoenix’s advice when she was upset, because it didn’t always come to the truth from the same place she did.
A pillar of fetishes crashed, a spire of tastes cracked. Jean cut through it with blowtorch swords, sifting through the rubble until she found what she was looking for in the subconscious. If you went deep enough, there was always something kept hidden.
“So, you’re not just pop psychology and instant gratification,” Jean mused with a cutting tongue. “What’s this bauble?” Her flames licked at its egg-like contours. “A memory? How droll.”
“Stay away from it, Jean! I never touched your husband; it’s not fair!”
“You wanted to, Emma, ‘doll’. What’s in your past that’s so private? You got drunk and let some freshman feel you up? A teen pregnancy, perhaps? Oh, now you’ve aroused my curiosity.”
Jean split it open and poked her head inside, Emma’s scream fracturing the remainder of her crystal mind.
Red, the red of hair Jean saw each day in the mirror, twixting over a man’s manicured fingers and handsome, cruel face. He purred his way up a strand of hair until he reached her ear, which he licked devilishly.
“Oh, you mustn’t!” the remembered Jean said, her hair loosed from its bun, her dominatrix costume a perverse irony to her buttoned-up morals. “You hideous brute!”
“You love it,” Jason Wyngarde said as he caught her squirming legs and forced them to stay open.
“Oh, I do, but I’ll love it so much more on our wedding day.”
“You’ll love it whenever I give it to you.” Jason undid the first stitch on her corset. “Consider this practice.”
Emma, the Emma of Emma’s memory, romanticized by nostalgia into a screen siren of old, cleared her throat with an eloquent noise. Her countenance, always cold, was glacial. A corset of snug white leather hugged her waist and lifted her breasts. Riding low beneath a sleek sliver of stomach was a thong of the same white as the corset, which left her legs bare until they met thigh-high white boots which ended in stiletto heels. A cloak of white fur dangled from a pair of fearsome epaulets which gave her an aggressively masculine, broad-shouldered look. Her ice-blue eyes were traipsed with boredom, but the voyeuristic Jean of the present could see the… irritation they hid.
Jason looked up from Jean, his face suddenly coarse with sick lust.
“What are you doing?” Emma asked demurely.
“Enjoying myself immensely.”
“If you want a girl, Sebastian’s provided you with plenty. What’s one virginal little sapling compared to those exotics?”
“I don’t care how exotic they are!” Jason crowed petulantly. “I want her!”
Emma calmly gestured with her riding crop as she drew closer to the absurd tableau. “I know she looks like an innocent little collegiate, but inside that underdeveloped frame is an engine of destruction such as the world has never seen. Should we fail to control it, I think it best not to give her reason to revenge herself upon us. So, much as it must pain you to not to take advantage of your precarious position, I really must insist you keep your dick in your pants or I’ll warp your mind so thoroughly you won’t be able to get an erection without thinking of a blood relative.”
Jason sneered at her. “Maybe I settle up with you sometime.”
“I doubt it. Take whatever form you please; you’ll still be nothing more than a peasant to me.”
Jason growled and swaggered out, giving off fumes of black rage. Emma smiled at his retreat, then sat down next to Jean and fixed her bodice. Jean was dressed identically to Emma, save for her color being black. Emma’s idea. She fixed up the cracks in Jean’s mental prison, shored them up so that the darkness had passed over her soul, and Jean was once more smiling in her gilded lie.
Emma sat down on the chaise lounge, plush and of beautiful oak under its red cushioning. She leaned against the armrest and patted her lap; Jean obediently sat down there. She stayed still, pretty as a doll, as Emma combed her hair. Emma loved Jean’s hair. Her own was dyed and shampooed and false, but Jean’s was luscious and smelt of fine things and a joy to run her hands through. And as Emma combed, Jean sang a song and it went like this.
When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be?
Will I be pretty? will I be rich?
Here's what she said to me.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
Emma smelled the crown of Jean’s head. It didn’t smell like smoke or fire or anything like that. It smelt like the air after a rain, fresh and full of promise.
“I must tell you something, Jean, though I know you can’t hear me. You don’t hear anything that troubles you, do you?” Emma petted Jean’s hair as she threaded a ribbon in it. “You’re lucky that way. The world is far too harsh for your beauty. Imagine, if you’re remained with someone like Scott Summers or that bestial Logan? No, here you’ll be sheltered. I’ll protect you.”
When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows? day after day?
Here's what my sweetheart said.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
Emma wrapped the ribbon along Jean’s thick mane and slowly curled it into a French twist. Adorable. Perfect. They matched so beautifully, Jean’s short hair and Emma’s long. Like sisters. Emma’s sisters were all bitter, thieving whores. But not Jean. Jean would be how sisters were supposed to be.
“I know you’d think this was silly if I hadn’t… placated you? Yes, that’s a good word for it. I know you’d call me a poor little rich girl, but I don’t have many friends. Not any. Not real ones, like you do. I’m sure all your good friends are planning a rescue. They’ll fail, of course. They can’t keep us apart.”
Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, what will I be?
Will I be handsome? will I be rich?
I tell them tenderly.
Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.
Jean stopped singing, kept humming. Emma put the finishing touches on Jean’s French twist, then moved her fingers down over Jean’s temples and neck to massage her bare shoulders. Jean wasn’t tense, not in the slightest, but the constant soothing motion had the desired effect. The redhead moaned and shut her eyes and thought of nothing but how good it felt as her humming went up a pitch.
“But you’ll be my friend now. And you’ll never betray me or lie to me or insult me because that’s not how I programmed you to be. I got in your head and made you the perfect friend.”
Her hands moved down Jean’s shoulders, ever stroking, ever moving, down. Slowly, lightly, down Jean’s slender white arms. Jean tilted back until she was resting against Emma, Emma feeling a more than pleasant tingle as Jean’s back pressed against her nipples. Emma’s panties were feeling sheer as saran wrap and she felt the lacing of Jean’s corset press and rub and move right where it was thinnest. As she became aroused, Emma’s voice became huskier, lower, and more intimate.
“And we’ll have such fun together, ruling the world. We’ll teach all the children to love each other and themselves, and even if you weren’t placated you would like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes mistress,” Jean said, the Phoenix bright in her eyes.
Emma delighted in the submission even without realizing it. Her hands slid artfully into the belly-baring gap between Jean’s bodice and panties, where they pressed hard and deep into the muscular stomach. Jean kept good care of her body. Emma approved. She worked in expanding circles around Jean’s cute little belly button, skirting the top of the panties and the bottom of the corset.
“You’ll teach me too, won’t you Auntie Emma?” Jean asked as she put a hand on Emma’s bare thigh, between the thigh-high boot and the moistening cotton of Emma’s panties. “I’m so eager to learn and I…” She took Emma’s hand and forced it lower, fully under her own panties. “I so want you to teach me. Teach me everything.”
Emma felt Jean’s wetness, hot and wicked. This thing, this baby doll was a construct she’d created to hold the Phoenix, a boiler to stroke its flames. If only she’d known that the Phoenix could not be caged, merely clothed. Watching the memory, Jean could hear the Phoenix’s deafening roar, its hunger growing… then abating as White Queen embraced Black, clothes lost until they were just pale skin against tan, then finally no more struggle, just the slow crackling of embers.
“It wasn’t you,” Emma cracked, her bitter modern-day voice so at odds with her contented, happy cradling of the Phoenix. “It was some thing that thought it was you, some fragment of your soul that never made its way home, and you cow, you never let me feel that happy again!”
“I didn’t… know,” Jean said as Emma pushed herself out of the relived memory, clothing herself back in the indomitable purity of her white, two broad bands of porcelain flesh unveiled in the shape of an X by the scraps of clothing she called a costume.
“No, how could you? How could you, a goddess, deign to look upon a mortal… a mortal who wasn’t Scott Summers, worthiest of the unworthy?”
Brought back to reality, Jean backed away from the bed in a tumult of emotions. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so safe to toy with Emma. Suddenly, Emma lurched up from the bed, the sheets falling away from her body-in-dishabille, one breast exposed, hair disheveled, mascara running with the most unladylike of tears.
“I had to split the two of you up,” Emma said, laughing madly when she wasn’t crying. “I had to. Because having him was a little like having you and if you weren’t with him then you could be with me and if you hated me… well, hate’s something to work with, isn’t it? I’ve done so much with hate. It’s so much easier than affection or trust or respect.”
Emma carelessly disrobed as she stepped out of the bed. Naked as the day she was born, she was for once without poise or grace. Jean saw the scars whose concealing make-up had been washed away by sweat, saw the five pounds Emma had ruthlessly been trying to exercise away, the pubic hair she hadn’t waxed away yet.
“Of course you hate me. I hate you too. But I don’t let it stop me from loving you.” Emma pressed herself against Jean’s body, and for once her body didn’t have the chill of marble. It was on fire, virtually feverish, and Jean wondered how it was that someone could flare hot enough to burn the Phoenix. Then Emma’s lips were against hers, displaying the instincts of nothing more civilized than a wanton predator, and the Phoenix answered in kind.
Sometime between Jean throwing Emma down onto the bed, and Emma licking her thin lips and Jean beginning to strip off her own clothes (they were just too cold to stay on), something afflicted Jean and she staggered away. Half-dressed, leaving Emma writhing on the bed, she shoved past concerned, deluded Scott and ran out onto the yawn. She rended the clothes from her flesh, that damn utilitarian body armor that made her look like some weird neofascist, and burned.
Jean flew off on wings of flame and Scott rode off again to lose himself, crushed by the fact that the new woman in his life was attracted not to him, but to seemingly the only thing that made him special… the love of Jean Grey.
And Emma, Emma collapsed in Hank’s arms and sobbed against his fur, asking herself why she had to fall in love with Jean bloody Grey.
