Fic; Bottled Up, Jean/Scott/Emma (Jean/Emma, Jean/Scott), Rated MA.
Title: Bottled Up
Author: Sionnain
Character/Pairing: Scott/Jean/Emma, though more correctly, Scott/Jean and Jean/Emma
'Verse: Set after the Cassandra Nova arc of Morrison's New X-Men, but you don't really need to know it, I don't think. Jean's alive and married to Scott.
Rating: MA
Warning: Slight, slight breathplay (blink and you'll miss it), girls being a bit naughty, a little touch of d/s. All of these are very very slight.
Summary: In the morning, they'd pretend this never happened.
AN: Thanks very much to Resolute for the beta! Written for the Jeannie_X_Slim Threesome Challenge.
Bottled Up
And the point of all this living, Is the dying's still to come. And I could be forgiven, But I just won't, I just won't.--Old 97's, Old Familiar Steam
There was a bottle of tequila on the table, half-empty (or half-full, depending.) A single shot glass resting neatly beside it. In the morning, these things would be put back in a hurry, into the hidden cabinet the students couldn’t find, and the three people sitting at the table would pretend none of this happened.
It had been Jean’s idea to have margaritas. But the rest of it had just happened, and she’d own to it in court if she had to. God, please make it so that she never had to.
She’d suggested it because they needed something fun, light-hearted, after what had happened with Cassandra Nova. Margaritas reminded her of the beach; warm sun and soft sand, drowning-blue ocean waves. Not megalomaniacal evil twins and astral planes and battles to the death in the mind.
Scott had asked her what drink, in fact, did remind her of megalomaniacal, evil twins and astral plane battles. Jean had answered “whiskey sours”, and then said it was because she got drunk once off of those in college and the resulting hangover had almost been worse than that entire thing with Cassandra. Scott had looked confused for a second. He didn’t know if she was serious or not. Then he’d shrugged and said they had some novelty glasses in the hutch, back in the back behind the good china they never used; little glasses with green glass cactus stems.
They’d offered to share with Logan, but he’d taken one look at the glass, snorted, and opted for a beer and a hockey game with Hank. So Jean and Scott were sitting alone, sipping their frozen margaritas at the table in the kitchen, the only sound the loud ticking of the clock. It didn’t remind Jean so much of the beach as it did a hospital waiting room or maybe a funeral home.
Things would have ended with the two of them hastily finishing their drinks and then going to do something else. But Emma chose that moment to saunter in with her hair back in a ponytail, her outfit suggesting she’d just been working out. Jean forced herself to smile at the other woman, annoyed that Emma had been exercising while she, Jean, had been drinking.
Emma smiled slyly and leaned against the counter with one hip thrust out. The way she looked at Scott made Jean want to break the top of the glass off and impale Emma with the broken shards of the little green glass cactus.
“Are you having a pleasant evening?” Emma purred.
“Yeah. You want a drink?” The way Scott’s voice lowered, just a little, made Jean want to impale him. She was feeling violent. Her fingers curled around the stem and she stared into the frothy green beverage, watching as the ice melted into margarita soup.
Maybe she’d just set the drink next to Emma. The frosty bitch could freeze it just by looking. Jean smiled.
I can hear you, you know, Emma drawled in her mind. The intrusion was unwelcome; Emma’s telepathic voice was like an ice-cream headache. Figured.
It was an uncharitable thought. Jean was tired of being charitable. She wished Emma would just come out and make a play for Scott, so they could…what? Get it over with? See at last if he would do it, would leave her- Stop it. Jean held her thoughts back with effort, veiling them from the other telepath, and pushed the pitcher of melting margarita towards Emma. “Drink?” It was as polite as she felt like being.
“No, thank you, darling. The last time I drank a drink out of a novelty glass I was four.” Emma smiled, but there something behind it that suggested she wasn’t intending to be bitchy. It was possible she was just tired. They were all tired. Jean remembered that, despite her personal feelings about Emma, the woman had been instrumental in saving everything that Jean loved from the ruin of Cassandra Nova’s demented plans.
“We have other stuff. Gin. Bitters. If you want a martini.”
“Wine,” Scott suggested, and there was a flash in his mind of Emma, in Tokyo, showing up at his room with a bottle and two glasses. He flushed and looked into his glass, the guilt strong and immediate. He’d not done anything with Emma that night. But Jean knew that he’d thought about it, had wanted to. They’d been having problems, and she was beautiful, Emma, even if she was a heinous bitch.
You are hardly Little Mary Sunshine, you know, even if everyone thinks you are. Emma’s mental voice was strained. The air in the kitchen was suddenly unfriendly. There was really only one thing to do, Jean thought. She pushed the stupid novelty glass away and used her powers to bring out the bottle of Cuervo Gold and a shot-glass. She arranged both items on the table and looked at Emma and Scott. “We’re here," Jean said. "We have issues. We’re tired. This’ll either be a fight or we can drunk and forget about it in the morning.”
Scott hastily grabbed the bottle, poured a shot, and downed it. “I’m for drunk,” he said immediately.
“Me, too,” Jean said, pouring herself a shot. The tequila tasted hot in her mouth. If the margarita was a beach vacation, straight tequila was the first day back at work when it was over. She looked challengingly at Emma. “You’re not a girl who takes shots, are you?”
“I don’t think you know what kind of girl I am at all, Jean,” Emma said coolly, and joined them at the table. She pulled out a chair and her icy blue eyes met Jean’s, waiting. Jean handed her the bottle. Emma could pour her own damn shot.
* * *
“Y’know, 's’not like I don’t like you,” Jean said seriously to Emma, pointing a finger at her. “I jus’, I think you’re bitchy. An' you want my husband. An' you’re evil.”
“Was evil,” Emma pointed out. Her eyes were slitted, and she was slowly pulling strands of her hair between her fingers. She didn’t bother to correct all of the other things, which Jean noticed through her slightly drunken haze.
Slightly, Jean thought to herself. Ha.
“You know, I’m right here,” Scott said indignantly.
“Oh, as if you don’t secretly enjoy it,” Emma snapped. “Bloody men. As if it isn’t a fantasy come true. Two gorgeous women wanting you.”
“Ha!” Jean said triumphantly, picking up the tequila bottle. “You do want him.”
“I’m only just saying-”
“But I’ve thought other women were hot before,” Scott interrupted. “I was even married to Maddie, and-”
“You thou' she was me,” Jean pointed out.
“Well, what about all of the other women I’ve thought were attractive and had fantasies about sleeping with?”
“Good lord, Scott, do you expect that to get you out of trouble?” Emma trilled a laugh that was only slightly inebriated. Jean, offended the other woman wasn’t drunk enough, revoked her “no pouring shots for former evil villains” rule (which, at some point, she may have said out loud) and grabbed the bottle. She poured a shot and pushed it at Emma. Some of the tequila spilled over the rim of the glass, splashing the table.
“We’ll have to clean that up,” Scott said immediately. “We don’t want the kids to smell tequila and know we were drinking.”
“Oh, f'r Christ’s sake, Scott,” Jean said, rolling her eyes. She nodded towards him. “Emma, pass him th' glass when you’re done.”
Emma took her shot with far more grace that Jean would have imagined her capable of, her hair falling back as she tipped her head, throat bared as she swallowed. She passed the glass to Scott. He stared at it, then at the two of them, and gave a little shake of his head. “I think we better stop.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, darling,” Emma cooed, leaning forward. “Jean said it was okay.” She smirked. “That’s just like having permission.”
Jean narrowed her eyes as the anger rose, sharp and hot as the tequila. “Tha’ wasn’t necessary,” she bit out.
“I know. Why is it, Jean, you are allowed to think such uncomplimentary things about me but if I make one remark you find out of line, you jump down my throat?”
I’d like to see that.
“Scott!” Jean turned, horrified, to her husband. That wasn’t…did he just…
“Sorry!” Scott buried his face in his hands. “I said this was a bad idea,” he mumbled.
“Poor boy. Two beautiful women, two telepaths.” Emma grinned. “I wouldn’t want to be you, either.”
“Yes, you would." Jean reached for the bottle again. "Oh, wait. You’d rather be me.”
“Are you so sure about that?” Emma cocked her head. At some point, she’d pulled the elastic out of her ponytail and her white-blonde hair was loose around her face.
“Just admit you want him,” Jean said. Why couldn’t Emma just do that? Then it would be out in the open and they could stop pretending, and in the morning, Jean could throw that no-good hussy out on her nicely-toned ass.
“Why, Jean. I didn’t know you’d noticed.”
Was Emma giggling?
I did. Scott sounded miserable.
Jean wanted to cry. Or maybe laugh. Instead, she grabbed the bottle again and drank out of it, sliding her mouth around the top, feeling the smooth glass against her lips. She felt a rush of heat as she did it, and it was from- No. It wasn’t Scott. Well, it was, but he was mostly just drunk and uncomfortable and embarrassed. No, it was- Jean choked on the tequila. Emma tilted her head back and laughed. She was pleased to have thrown Jean off her game, that was clear enough. Jean watched as Emma bared her throat, stared hard at the smooth curve of her neck. “Shut up. Stop laughing and jus' shut up,” Jean growled, standing up unsteadily. She went to peer down at Emma, shaking with rage (yes, rage, that’s what it was). “You’re never gonna have 'im.”
“Jean-darling, maybe it isn’t him I want,” Emma said, giggling again. Her laugh made Jean want to throw her out a window. Or maybe it was Emma's goddamn smirk.
Maybe it was just Emma.
“Well, too fucking bad,” Jean retorted. She wanted to pull Emma’s hair. Jean hadn’t pulled anyone’s hair since she was six and Grace Denton had called her a freak on the playground.
“I’ve never seen you so riled up. Shouldn’t you be angry at Scott?”
“Why would she be mad at me?” Scott demanded. “I haven’t done anything." He looked hopefully at Jean. "You know that, right?”
“But you wan'ed to,” Jean pointed out, swaying a bit.
“So did you. With Logan.”
Jean blinked, her mouth working, unable to think of anything coherent to say except for a weakly murmured, “Well, I didn’t.”
“And neither did I,” Scott said, raking a hand through his hair. Despite the fact he absolutely couldn’t be sober, he sounded very firm. “So stop punishing me as if I did something when I didn’t. If I can’t get mad at you for wanting to have sex with Logan, then why the hell are you going to get mad at me because Emma wanted to have sex with me?”
“As if you wouldn’t?” Emma tossed out, crossing her arms. “Telepath, remember? You didn’t, but you thought about it.”
Jean ignored her. “'B'cause.”
Scott’s mouth twitched as she he stared at her. “Okay,” he said agreeably. “Fine. So you can be mad at Emma because she kinda wants to sleep with me-”
“I’ve never actually said-”
“-But I can’t be mad at you for actually fantasizing -- in some detail -- about going to bed with Logan.” Scott reached for the bottle. “Glad we cleared that up.”
Jean was beginning to feel everyone shared some joke to which she was the punchline. She didn’t like it. She should have also remembered how angry tequila made her. And, for that matter, how mad Emma made her.
“Why don’t you just stop projecting all your feelings of guilt and inadequacy on me?” Emma said silkily, leaning back in her chair, legs spread. “If you thought you were a bad wife who ignored Scott because you wanted to get Logan into bed, that is hardly my fault.”
Jean might have been able to ignore that. In the reality where she wasn’t intoxicated and infuriated. She reached out blindly, wrapping her hand in Emma’s hair, and pulled. “Shut up. S'riously.”
Emma gasped, her hands scrambling out and curling around the edge of the table. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Maybe you wan' me to. Maybe you feel guilty since you know Scott loves me, and you want me t' hurt you so you don’ feel guilty anymore.”
Emma glared up at her. “That’s preposterous. That doesn't even make sense. I don’t feel guilty thinking Scott’s attractive.”
“Ha!” Jean crowed. “See.”
“I think you’re attractive. Would you like to pull my hair harder for that?” Emma was breathing shallowly, and Jean wasn’t shielding, and the other woman had to know how much she liked this, hurting Emma, liked watching Emma try to not show pain.
I would. Scott has his face buried in his hands again.
They both ignored him. Jean looked down at Emma, suddenly tired and sad and no longer wanting to play this game. “I jus' want t' make you quiet.”
There were several ways this could have ended. Emma could have pushed Jean away. Jean could have gotten a hold of her temper and let Emma’s hair go, and done the sensible thing and gone to bed. Which is what she would have done if Emma hadn’t smiled up at her like the serpent must have smiled at Eve and said, in that voice that sounded like cherries dipped in poison, “Make me.”
Jean shoved the chair upon which Emma sat back with her powers, and then she was straddling Emma and had both hands on her neck. “Don’ fucking tempt me, Frost.”
Emma’s eyes glittered malevolently. “Why not? It’s so very easy.”
Jean smacked Emma across the mouth, but not like she wanted to split her lip. Just a little bit, so she’d be quiet. “Jus' shut up an' listen to me.” Jean was breathing very hard and staring down at Emma’s face. Jean had never been this close to Emma before. The other woman’s body was warm, warmer than Jean would have thought possible. She was shorter than Jean. Her body was toned but her breasts were larger, and Jean could feel them pressed against her and was that what Scott wanted? Bigger breasts?
“No, um…Jean?”
Oh, Christ, had she said that out loud? “What?”
“You’re…um…” Scott sounded like he was being strangled. “Touching…her.”
Startled, Jean looked down. She was. She was tracing the curve of Emma’s neck with her hand, sliding her fingers over the other woman’s skin. “I thought you’d be cold.”
“You think a lot of things.” Emma’s voice was huskier than usual. “I’m a human being, regardless of what classification of reptile you think I belong in, and we are warm blooded.” Emma licked her lips. “That hurt.” She drew her tongue over her lower lip, slightly fuller from where Jean had smacked her.
“Well, think 'f it this way. I could save you money on collagen injec'ons.”
You should kiss it and make it better.
Jean shouldn’t have been surprised by Scott’s thought-he was only a man, and could she really blame him for thinking that right now--if that had, in fact, been his thought at all. Jean looked down at Emma, and then she kissed her. Pressed her mouth to Emma’s, soft and warm. Nothing at all like a snake.
Emma was surprised--I never thought you’d actually do it.
You can’t have him. Not while I’m alive.
Emma’s hands slid up Jean’s back, her nails dragging into Jean’s skin as she slid her hands into Jean’s hair. Fair enough. Emma’s mouth opened. She tasted like peppermint, and tequila. Mostly like tequila. What about you? When can I have you?
Jean pulled away and looked down at Emma. Jean was breathing hard. She had kissed a girl before, once, in college. At a party. It hadn't gone anywhere. Emma's eyes were heavy-lidded and her body was hot, like a brand. This could go somewhere. Jean wasn't sure she wanted it to, exactly, but she didn't want to stop. Yet. "I'm sitting 'n your lap. Tha' has to be an answer."
"I'm missing something," Scott said, still sounding a bit like he'd been violently knocked over the head.
"If you were 's much a tactical genius as everyone thinks, you'd know t' not complain now," Jean informed him, but she was still looking down at Emma.
Scott cleared his throat. Jean saw enough in his mind to know he was likening this to something he'd seen on Cinemax "Right. But, um. This is...anyone could walk in."
"No," Emma said, amused. "They can't. Did you forget we're telepaths? No one would come into this room right now if their life depended on it. I saw to that." Her voice was smug. "I'm very good."
"An' you talk too much." Jean pressed her fingers into Emma's mouth. To shut her up. Emma sucked, hard, and that felt...well. Jean was straddling Emma's thigh, which was conducive to friction, which was--
Emma's hands went to Jean's hips. She pulled at Jean, and yes, there, that was nice, but it annoyed Jean that Emma was trying to get the upper hand. That wasn't going to happen. She grabbed Emma's hair with her free hand and pulled, hard. "Quit it. God. Jus' be still or something an' stop trying to be so obvious about everything."
That didn't really make sense. Whatever. Jean took her fingers from Emma's mouth and grabbed Emma's shirt, then pulled it up over her head. She could have used her telekinesis, but that wasn't as satisfying. Emma was wearing a bra, which was pretty and satin and blue. Jean's was cotton. When was the last time she'd bought herself something nice like satin underwear? Annoyed, she yanked it off. With her TK. It was just easier.
"Um," Scott said. He sounded miserable but mostly because he was obviously enjoying this. "You want me to leave?"
"Of course she doesn't," Emma said, eyes narrowed. She was staring at Jean challengingly. Her face was flushed. Her nipples were hard. Jean knew this because she was staring at them. They were darker, smaller than her own. Emma was very fair; Jean could see the blue veins on her breasts. She traced them with her fingers. Emma's skin was soft, slightly damp. Different than Scott's, or her own. Huh.
"You can't do this, Scott. But I can." Jean smiled. She leaned down and sucked Emma's nipple into her mouth. Emma gasped and then her fingers, still pressed against Jean's back, tightened reflexively and her nails dug into Jean's skin beneath her shirt.
"Yeah that's...just fine," Scott said, sounding strangled again, and Jean pulled away from Emma and looked over at him. He was sitting in the chair with his hands folded on the table, as if he were at mass or something. She could see his knuckles were white. A quick scan of his mind showed her just what he was trying not to do. It made her laugh, a little, and she exchanged an amused glance with Emma. There was a first time for everything, and sharing a joke with Emma Frost was definitely a first. So was straddling her, though, which ought to be a bit more memorable.
She kissed Emma again, which was actually nice, but beneath whatever this was there was a silent battle for dominance between the two of them. It was subtle; Emma struggled, a little, against Jean's caresses, trying not to let on that she enjoyed them. Her body moved, sinuous, beneath Jean's; but there was a tension in her movements that suggested she was going to try to push Jean off at any second. The air grew thick, heavy.
Jean had her own shirt off. Emma's fingers were nimble on the clasp of her bra. "You're better th'n any guy 't that," Jean said. The whole thing was absurd. She was drunk and horny and sitting shirtless on top of Emma Frost, who was also topless, and she was--what? Having a good time? Maybe. Yes. Emma traced Jean's nipples with her nails, then scratched her. It hurt, a little, but it felt good, too. Emma's fingers were long, like a pianist's. She twisted Jean's nipples and pulled, made them hard.
"I'm better than a man at a lot of things," Emma said with a laugh, and she was smiling and there was something about her that made Jean see why she'd been the White Queen of the Hellfire Club; all that sex, wrapped part and parcel with Emma's unyielding self, and it was hard to look beneath that practiced, vixenish, veneer to the woman that was beneath.
Jean slowly realized that part of Emma's sexual enjoyment wasn't as honest as it appeared. Emma wasn't just enjoying the caresses. And it wasn't just because of Scott, their captive audience. The full reason was a puzzle, hidden beneath the obvious. Jean wanted to find it. Whatever it was that was making Emma want this, she wanted to know why. Not just because Scott liked it--that was easy enough to understand, though Jean knew there would be guilt in the morning. Scott's. Her own. Not Emma, though. No. How do you live without guilt? Jean looked down at Emma's face. There it was, beneath that faint sneer and the coldly perfect curves of her mouth. In the shine of her eyes, something dark swam beneath, something haunted and empty.
How are you so sure that I don't? Emma's answer was harsh, like glass breaking, in the depths of Jean's mind. Survive a genocide and then we'll discuss what it's like to be me for a while.
I don't know what it's like to be in one, but I know what it's like to cause one. Jean's mouth was pressed against Emma's throat. She kissed her, mouth open, tasting Emma's skin. To hear them scream. In your mind. So much screaming. To have power that feels like you will die if it doesn't burst forth. I know what it's like to burn. And to die.
Emma struggled in truth; she pushed out, trying to force Jean off of her. Jean held her down, forced her to stay beneath her on the chair. She put her hand between Emma's legs. Scott was breathing hard, and his hands were no longer on the table. Jean didn't care. She looked down at Emma, put her free hand around Emma's neck.
I hear them screaming, too. Emma's voice in her head was anguished. This wasn't about sex or lust anymore. Emma's eyes were wide, pleading. I still hear them. Her hips were moving, pressing against Jean's fingers. Her fingers were digging welts into Jean's back. She was no longer trying to push Jean away.
So do I. Jean pulled back so that she could watch. Pressed her fingers lightly against Emma's throat, against her pulse. Shoved her mind into Emma's, felt the way Emma wanted release and oblivion. Just like Jean did, sometimes. Release, at least. Release for the power that surged and swirled and pounded relentlessly, a storm in her body. Jean's fingers rhythmically pressed and rubbed, pressed and rubbed. She wanted to make Emma come. Wanted to watch.
Emma's body was taut, trembling. Jean still straddled Emma's thigh and was rubbing herself against it. She wanted release, too. But not oblivion. She'd already had that. She wanted to feel alive. Emma's fingers in her back hurt. Her thigh between Jean's legs felt good; abrasive, rough, and good. She let go of Emma's throat right before she knew Emma was going to come.
Emma cried out, but it sounded like a sob. She bit her bottom lip and pushed up, hard, against Jean's fingers. Her free hand tangled in Jean's hair, and her head dropped back, baring her neck. Jean moved faster against Emma's thigh and leaned forward, biting Emma on the neck. This was wrong, but it was right, too. When the pleasure crested, Jean moved her head and kissed Emma on the mouth, and she shoved all of it at Scott--her pleasure, her guilt, her sorrow and love and anger and hope. The windows rattled. Scott groaned, gasped, and Jean slumped forward, burying her face in Emma's neck as the pleasure finally broke.
There was a burning bright light behind her eyes, for a moment. Just a moment. Jean felt Emma's hands, rubbing against her back. Emma's mind was drowsy, replete. Sated.
There was silence, broken only by the sound of breathing, until Jean realized Emma's hair was tickling her nose. She pulled back and looked down at Emma, who, for the first time since Jean had known her, looked...vulnerable, somehow. Emma raised a shaking hand and ran it through her tangled hair. "Well. That was..." she gave a small laugh.
Jean smiled. She felt good. Thirsty. A little embarrassed. "If you ever tell anyone we did that..."
Emma snorted. "Right. That's the sort of thing I go about advertising." She shoved at Jean. "You got off. Now get off." She grinned; a quick, flashing smile. Genuine, too. It was gone in an instant.
Jean climbed off of her, then went over to Scott. He looked up at her, sheepish. "Ah...Jean, I--" His hands were still in his lap.
"It's okay," she said, and she meant it. "Really." They smiled at each other. Jean tried not to giggle. She swayed a bit on her feet. Oh, God. Had she really just...?
"How touching." Emma's drawl was only slightly barbed, which must have meant...something. Jean didn't care. She just wanted to go to bed, curl up with Scott. With his arms around her, safe. Loved. Emma could do whatever she damn well pleased. "I am going to have a shower," Emma said. "And then go to bed."
"Okay," Jean said, climbing on Scott's lap. She didn't care that he'd hastily tried to fix his clothes, that his pants were sticky. She didn't care about anything. Not until the morning. Then, maybe.
Of course you'll care. You're Jean Grey. Emma dressed slowly, then pulled her hair back up into a ponytail. Jean noticed her hands were trembling, a little.
It's Grey-Summers. And in the morning, you can pretend you don't care about anything again. Jean met Emma's eyes. "Good night, Emma."
"Good night, Jean. Scott. Thank you for an entertaining evening. I'll leave the room warded, if you like."
As if Jean couldn't do that. Emma didn't wait long to revert back to her true form. Jean smiled sweetly. "No, we can go have sex in our bed. Much more comfortable."
Emma actually laughed. "Right, then. Good night." She swept out of the room, without looking back. Closed the door behind her, firmly, but without much force.
"I really don't like her," Jean said, giggling. She pressed a (shaking, but she'd waited until Emma wouldn't notice) hand to her forehead. God.
"Could've fooled me," Scott said, then snorted. "You just...Jean. Do you know what you just--"
"Yes. And so help me God, Scott Summers, if I catch you thinking about that when we're in bed, I'll--" she kissed him, then gave a sheepish smile. "All right. You can think about it. But just...not without me."
Scott wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. "I don't want to do anything without you," he said, the words muffled.
Jean watched as the lights shimmered in the bottle of Cuervo Gold. It looked like fire trapped within, waiting. She swallowed. "Let's go to bed." She climbed off of Scott's lap and found her clothes.
Time enough to think about the future in the morning. It would come with a headache. The future so often did.
Author: Sionnain
Character/Pairing: Scott/Jean/Emma, though more correctly, Scott/Jean and Jean/Emma
'Verse: Set after the Cassandra Nova arc of Morrison's New X-Men, but you don't really need to know it, I don't think. Jean's alive and married to Scott.
Rating: MA
Warning: Slight, slight breathplay (blink and you'll miss it), girls being a bit naughty, a little touch of d/s. All of these are very very slight.
Summary: In the morning, they'd pretend this never happened.
AN: Thanks very much to Resolute for the beta! Written for the Jeannie_X_Slim Threesome Challenge.
Bottled Up
And the point of all this living, Is the dying's still to come. And I could be forgiven, But I just won't, I just won't.--Old 97's, Old Familiar Steam
There was a bottle of tequila on the table, half-empty (or half-full, depending.) A single shot glass resting neatly beside it. In the morning, these things would be put back in a hurry, into the hidden cabinet the students couldn’t find, and the three people sitting at the table would pretend none of this happened.
It had been Jean’s idea to have margaritas. But the rest of it had just happened, and she’d own to it in court if she had to. God, please make it so that she never had to.
She’d suggested it because they needed something fun, light-hearted, after what had happened with Cassandra Nova. Margaritas reminded her of the beach; warm sun and soft sand, drowning-blue ocean waves. Not megalomaniacal evil twins and astral planes and battles to the death in the mind.
Scott had asked her what drink, in fact, did remind her of megalomaniacal, evil twins and astral plane battles. Jean had answered “whiskey sours”, and then said it was because she got drunk once off of those in college and the resulting hangover had almost been worse than that entire thing with Cassandra. Scott had looked confused for a second. He didn’t know if she was serious or not. Then he’d shrugged and said they had some novelty glasses in the hutch, back in the back behind the good china they never used; little glasses with green glass cactus stems.
They’d offered to share with Logan, but he’d taken one look at the glass, snorted, and opted for a beer and a hockey game with Hank. So Jean and Scott were sitting alone, sipping their frozen margaritas at the table in the kitchen, the only sound the loud ticking of the clock. It didn’t remind Jean so much of the beach as it did a hospital waiting room or maybe a funeral home.
Things would have ended with the two of them hastily finishing their drinks and then going to do something else. But Emma chose that moment to saunter in with her hair back in a ponytail, her outfit suggesting she’d just been working out. Jean forced herself to smile at the other woman, annoyed that Emma had been exercising while she, Jean, had been drinking.
Emma smiled slyly and leaned against the counter with one hip thrust out. The way she looked at Scott made Jean want to break the top of the glass off and impale Emma with the broken shards of the little green glass cactus.
“Are you having a pleasant evening?” Emma purred.
“Yeah. You want a drink?” The way Scott’s voice lowered, just a little, made Jean want to impale him. She was feeling violent. Her fingers curled around the stem and she stared into the frothy green beverage, watching as the ice melted into margarita soup.
Maybe she’d just set the drink next to Emma. The frosty bitch could freeze it just by looking. Jean smiled.
I can hear you, you know, Emma drawled in her mind. The intrusion was unwelcome; Emma’s telepathic voice was like an ice-cream headache. Figured.
It was an uncharitable thought. Jean was tired of being charitable. She wished Emma would just come out and make a play for Scott, so they could…what? Get it over with? See at last if he would do it, would leave her- Stop it. Jean held her thoughts back with effort, veiling them from the other telepath, and pushed the pitcher of melting margarita towards Emma. “Drink?” It was as polite as she felt like being.
“No, thank you, darling. The last time I drank a drink out of a novelty glass I was four.” Emma smiled, but there something behind it that suggested she wasn’t intending to be bitchy. It was possible she was just tired. They were all tired. Jean remembered that, despite her personal feelings about Emma, the woman had been instrumental in saving everything that Jean loved from the ruin of Cassandra Nova’s demented plans.
“We have other stuff. Gin. Bitters. If you want a martini.”
“Wine,” Scott suggested, and there was a flash in his mind of Emma, in Tokyo, showing up at his room with a bottle and two glasses. He flushed and looked into his glass, the guilt strong and immediate. He’d not done anything with Emma that night. But Jean knew that he’d thought about it, had wanted to. They’d been having problems, and she was beautiful, Emma, even if she was a heinous bitch.
You are hardly Little Mary Sunshine, you know, even if everyone thinks you are. Emma’s mental voice was strained. The air in the kitchen was suddenly unfriendly. There was really only one thing to do, Jean thought. She pushed the stupid novelty glass away and used her powers to bring out the bottle of Cuervo Gold and a shot-glass. She arranged both items on the table and looked at Emma and Scott. “We’re here," Jean said. "We have issues. We’re tired. This’ll either be a fight or we can drunk and forget about it in the morning.”
Scott hastily grabbed the bottle, poured a shot, and downed it. “I’m for drunk,” he said immediately.
“Me, too,” Jean said, pouring herself a shot. The tequila tasted hot in her mouth. If the margarita was a beach vacation, straight tequila was the first day back at work when it was over. She looked challengingly at Emma. “You’re not a girl who takes shots, are you?”
“I don’t think you know what kind of girl I am at all, Jean,” Emma said coolly, and joined them at the table. She pulled out a chair and her icy blue eyes met Jean’s, waiting. Jean handed her the bottle. Emma could pour her own damn shot.
* * *
“Y’know, 's’not like I don’t like you,” Jean said seriously to Emma, pointing a finger at her. “I jus’, I think you’re bitchy. An' you want my husband. An' you’re evil.”
“Was evil,” Emma pointed out. Her eyes were slitted, and she was slowly pulling strands of her hair between her fingers. She didn’t bother to correct all of the other things, which Jean noticed through her slightly drunken haze.
Slightly, Jean thought to herself. Ha.
“You know, I’m right here,” Scott said indignantly.
“Oh, as if you don’t secretly enjoy it,” Emma snapped. “Bloody men. As if it isn’t a fantasy come true. Two gorgeous women wanting you.”
“Ha!” Jean said triumphantly, picking up the tequila bottle. “You do want him.”
“I’m only just saying-”
“But I’ve thought other women were hot before,” Scott interrupted. “I was even married to Maddie, and-”
“You thou' she was me,” Jean pointed out.
“Well, what about all of the other women I’ve thought were attractive and had fantasies about sleeping with?”
“Good lord, Scott, do you expect that to get you out of trouble?” Emma trilled a laugh that was only slightly inebriated. Jean, offended the other woman wasn’t drunk enough, revoked her “no pouring shots for former evil villains” rule (which, at some point, she may have said out loud) and grabbed the bottle. She poured a shot and pushed it at Emma. Some of the tequila spilled over the rim of the glass, splashing the table.
“We’ll have to clean that up,” Scott said immediately. “We don’t want the kids to smell tequila and know we were drinking.”
“Oh, f'r Christ’s sake, Scott,” Jean said, rolling her eyes. She nodded towards him. “Emma, pass him th' glass when you’re done.”
Emma took her shot with far more grace that Jean would have imagined her capable of, her hair falling back as she tipped her head, throat bared as she swallowed. She passed the glass to Scott. He stared at it, then at the two of them, and gave a little shake of his head. “I think we better stop.”
“Don’t be such a spoilsport, darling,” Emma cooed, leaning forward. “Jean said it was okay.” She smirked. “That’s just like having permission.”
Jean narrowed her eyes as the anger rose, sharp and hot as the tequila. “Tha’ wasn’t necessary,” she bit out.
“I know. Why is it, Jean, you are allowed to think such uncomplimentary things about me but if I make one remark you find out of line, you jump down my throat?”
I’d like to see that.
“Scott!” Jean turned, horrified, to her husband. That wasn’t…did he just…
“Sorry!” Scott buried his face in his hands. “I said this was a bad idea,” he mumbled.
“Poor boy. Two beautiful women, two telepaths.” Emma grinned. “I wouldn’t want to be you, either.”
“Yes, you would." Jean reached for the bottle again. "Oh, wait. You’d rather be me.”
“Are you so sure about that?” Emma cocked her head. At some point, she’d pulled the elastic out of her ponytail and her white-blonde hair was loose around her face.
“Just admit you want him,” Jean said. Why couldn’t Emma just do that? Then it would be out in the open and they could stop pretending, and in the morning, Jean could throw that no-good hussy out on her nicely-toned ass.
“Why, Jean. I didn’t know you’d noticed.”
Was Emma giggling?
I did. Scott sounded miserable.
Jean wanted to cry. Or maybe laugh. Instead, she grabbed the bottle again and drank out of it, sliding her mouth around the top, feeling the smooth glass against her lips. She felt a rush of heat as she did it, and it was from- No. It wasn’t Scott. Well, it was, but he was mostly just drunk and uncomfortable and embarrassed. No, it was- Jean choked on the tequila. Emma tilted her head back and laughed. She was pleased to have thrown Jean off her game, that was clear enough. Jean watched as Emma bared her throat, stared hard at the smooth curve of her neck. “Shut up. Stop laughing and jus' shut up,” Jean growled, standing up unsteadily. She went to peer down at Emma, shaking with rage (yes, rage, that’s what it was). “You’re never gonna have 'im.”
“Jean-darling, maybe it isn’t him I want,” Emma said, giggling again. Her laugh made Jean want to throw her out a window. Or maybe it was Emma's goddamn smirk.
Maybe it was just Emma.
“Well, too fucking bad,” Jean retorted. She wanted to pull Emma’s hair. Jean hadn’t pulled anyone’s hair since she was six and Grace Denton had called her a freak on the playground.
“I’ve never seen you so riled up. Shouldn’t you be angry at Scott?”
“Why would she be mad at me?” Scott demanded. “I haven’t done anything." He looked hopefully at Jean. "You know that, right?”
“But you wan'ed to,” Jean pointed out, swaying a bit.
“So did you. With Logan.”
Jean blinked, her mouth working, unable to think of anything coherent to say except for a weakly murmured, “Well, I didn’t.”
“And neither did I,” Scott said, raking a hand through his hair. Despite the fact he absolutely couldn’t be sober, he sounded very firm. “So stop punishing me as if I did something when I didn’t. If I can’t get mad at you for wanting to have sex with Logan, then why the hell are you going to get mad at me because Emma wanted to have sex with me?”
“As if you wouldn’t?” Emma tossed out, crossing her arms. “Telepath, remember? You didn’t, but you thought about it.”
Jean ignored her. “'B'cause.”
Scott’s mouth twitched as she he stared at her. “Okay,” he said agreeably. “Fine. So you can be mad at Emma because she kinda wants to sleep with me-”
“I’ve never actually said-”
“-But I can’t be mad at you for actually fantasizing -- in some detail -- about going to bed with Logan.” Scott reached for the bottle. “Glad we cleared that up.”
Jean was beginning to feel everyone shared some joke to which she was the punchline. She didn’t like it. She should have also remembered how angry tequila made her. And, for that matter, how mad Emma made her.
“Why don’t you just stop projecting all your feelings of guilt and inadequacy on me?” Emma said silkily, leaning back in her chair, legs spread. “If you thought you were a bad wife who ignored Scott because you wanted to get Logan into bed, that is hardly my fault.”
Jean might have been able to ignore that. In the reality where she wasn’t intoxicated and infuriated. She reached out blindly, wrapping her hand in Emma’s hair, and pulled. “Shut up. S'riously.”
Emma gasped, her hands scrambling out and curling around the edge of the table. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Maybe you wan' me to. Maybe you feel guilty since you know Scott loves me, and you want me t' hurt you so you don’ feel guilty anymore.”
Emma glared up at her. “That’s preposterous. That doesn't even make sense. I don’t feel guilty thinking Scott’s attractive.”
“Ha!” Jean crowed. “See.”
“I think you’re attractive. Would you like to pull my hair harder for that?” Emma was breathing shallowly, and Jean wasn’t shielding, and the other woman had to know how much she liked this, hurting Emma, liked watching Emma try to not show pain.
I would. Scott has his face buried in his hands again.
They both ignored him. Jean looked down at Emma, suddenly tired and sad and no longer wanting to play this game. “I jus' want t' make you quiet.”
There were several ways this could have ended. Emma could have pushed Jean away. Jean could have gotten a hold of her temper and let Emma’s hair go, and done the sensible thing and gone to bed. Which is what she would have done if Emma hadn’t smiled up at her like the serpent must have smiled at Eve and said, in that voice that sounded like cherries dipped in poison, “Make me.”
Jean shoved the chair upon which Emma sat back with her powers, and then she was straddling Emma and had both hands on her neck. “Don’ fucking tempt me, Frost.”
Emma’s eyes glittered malevolently. “Why not? It’s so very easy.”
Jean smacked Emma across the mouth, but not like she wanted to split her lip. Just a little bit, so she’d be quiet. “Jus' shut up an' listen to me.” Jean was breathing very hard and staring down at Emma’s face. Jean had never been this close to Emma before. The other woman’s body was warm, warmer than Jean would have thought possible. She was shorter than Jean. Her body was toned but her breasts were larger, and Jean could feel them pressed against her and was that what Scott wanted? Bigger breasts?
“No, um…Jean?”
Oh, Christ, had she said that out loud? “What?”
“You’re…um…” Scott sounded like he was being strangled. “Touching…her.”
Startled, Jean looked down. She was. She was tracing the curve of Emma’s neck with her hand, sliding her fingers over the other woman’s skin. “I thought you’d be cold.”
“You think a lot of things.” Emma’s voice was huskier than usual. “I’m a human being, regardless of what classification of reptile you think I belong in, and we are warm blooded.” Emma licked her lips. “That hurt.” She drew her tongue over her lower lip, slightly fuller from where Jean had smacked her.
“Well, think 'f it this way. I could save you money on collagen injec'ons.”
You should kiss it and make it better.
Jean shouldn’t have been surprised by Scott’s thought-he was only a man, and could she really blame him for thinking that right now--if that had, in fact, been his thought at all. Jean looked down at Emma, and then she kissed her. Pressed her mouth to Emma’s, soft and warm. Nothing at all like a snake.
Emma was surprised--I never thought you’d actually do it.
You can’t have him. Not while I’m alive.
Emma’s hands slid up Jean’s back, her nails dragging into Jean’s skin as she slid her hands into Jean’s hair. Fair enough. Emma’s mouth opened. She tasted like peppermint, and tequila. Mostly like tequila. What about you? When can I have you?
Jean pulled away and looked down at Emma. Jean was breathing hard. She had kissed a girl before, once, in college. At a party. It hadn't gone anywhere. Emma's eyes were heavy-lidded and her body was hot, like a brand. This could go somewhere. Jean wasn't sure she wanted it to, exactly, but she didn't want to stop. Yet. "I'm sitting 'n your lap. Tha' has to be an answer."
"I'm missing something," Scott said, still sounding a bit like he'd been violently knocked over the head.
"If you were 's much a tactical genius as everyone thinks, you'd know t' not complain now," Jean informed him, but she was still looking down at Emma.
Scott cleared his throat. Jean saw enough in his mind to know he was likening this to something he'd seen on Cinemax "Right. But, um. This is...anyone could walk in."
"No," Emma said, amused. "They can't. Did you forget we're telepaths? No one would come into this room right now if their life depended on it. I saw to that." Her voice was smug. "I'm very good."
"An' you talk too much." Jean pressed her fingers into Emma's mouth. To shut her up. Emma sucked, hard, and that felt...well. Jean was straddling Emma's thigh, which was conducive to friction, which was--
Emma's hands went to Jean's hips. She pulled at Jean, and yes, there, that was nice, but it annoyed Jean that Emma was trying to get the upper hand. That wasn't going to happen. She grabbed Emma's hair with her free hand and pulled, hard. "Quit it. God. Jus' be still or something an' stop trying to be so obvious about everything."
That didn't really make sense. Whatever. Jean took her fingers from Emma's mouth and grabbed Emma's shirt, then pulled it up over her head. She could have used her telekinesis, but that wasn't as satisfying. Emma was wearing a bra, which was pretty and satin and blue. Jean's was cotton. When was the last time she'd bought herself something nice like satin underwear? Annoyed, she yanked it off. With her TK. It was just easier.
"Um," Scott said. He sounded miserable but mostly because he was obviously enjoying this. "You want me to leave?"
"Of course she doesn't," Emma said, eyes narrowed. She was staring at Jean challengingly. Her face was flushed. Her nipples were hard. Jean knew this because she was staring at them. They were darker, smaller than her own. Emma was very fair; Jean could see the blue veins on her breasts. She traced them with her fingers. Emma's skin was soft, slightly damp. Different than Scott's, or her own. Huh.
"You can't do this, Scott. But I can." Jean smiled. She leaned down and sucked Emma's nipple into her mouth. Emma gasped and then her fingers, still pressed against Jean's back, tightened reflexively and her nails dug into Jean's skin beneath her shirt.
"Yeah that's...just fine," Scott said, sounding strangled again, and Jean pulled away from Emma and looked over at him. He was sitting in the chair with his hands folded on the table, as if he were at mass or something. She could see his knuckles were white. A quick scan of his mind showed her just what he was trying not to do. It made her laugh, a little, and she exchanged an amused glance with Emma. There was a first time for everything, and sharing a joke with Emma Frost was definitely a first. So was straddling her, though, which ought to be a bit more memorable.
She kissed Emma again, which was actually nice, but beneath whatever this was there was a silent battle for dominance between the two of them. It was subtle; Emma struggled, a little, against Jean's caresses, trying not to let on that she enjoyed them. Her body moved, sinuous, beneath Jean's; but there was a tension in her movements that suggested she was going to try to push Jean off at any second. The air grew thick, heavy.
Jean had her own shirt off. Emma's fingers were nimble on the clasp of her bra. "You're better th'n any guy 't that," Jean said. The whole thing was absurd. She was drunk and horny and sitting shirtless on top of Emma Frost, who was also topless, and she was--what? Having a good time? Maybe. Yes. Emma traced Jean's nipples with her nails, then scratched her. It hurt, a little, but it felt good, too. Emma's fingers were long, like a pianist's. She twisted Jean's nipples and pulled, made them hard.
"I'm better than a man at a lot of things," Emma said with a laugh, and she was smiling and there was something about her that made Jean see why she'd been the White Queen of the Hellfire Club; all that sex, wrapped part and parcel with Emma's unyielding self, and it was hard to look beneath that practiced, vixenish, veneer to the woman that was beneath.
Jean slowly realized that part of Emma's sexual enjoyment wasn't as honest as it appeared. Emma wasn't just enjoying the caresses. And it wasn't just because of Scott, their captive audience. The full reason was a puzzle, hidden beneath the obvious. Jean wanted to find it. Whatever it was that was making Emma want this, she wanted to know why. Not just because Scott liked it--that was easy enough to understand, though Jean knew there would be guilt in the morning. Scott's. Her own. Not Emma, though. No. How do you live without guilt? Jean looked down at Emma's face. There it was, beneath that faint sneer and the coldly perfect curves of her mouth. In the shine of her eyes, something dark swam beneath, something haunted and empty.
How are you so sure that I don't? Emma's answer was harsh, like glass breaking, in the depths of Jean's mind. Survive a genocide and then we'll discuss what it's like to be me for a while.
I don't know what it's like to be in one, but I know what it's like to cause one. Jean's mouth was pressed against Emma's throat. She kissed her, mouth open, tasting Emma's skin. To hear them scream. In your mind. So much screaming. To have power that feels like you will die if it doesn't burst forth. I know what it's like to burn. And to die.
Emma struggled in truth; she pushed out, trying to force Jean off of her. Jean held her down, forced her to stay beneath her on the chair. She put her hand between Emma's legs. Scott was breathing hard, and his hands were no longer on the table. Jean didn't care. She looked down at Emma, put her free hand around Emma's neck.
I hear them screaming, too. Emma's voice in her head was anguished. This wasn't about sex or lust anymore. Emma's eyes were wide, pleading. I still hear them. Her hips were moving, pressing against Jean's fingers. Her fingers were digging welts into Jean's back. She was no longer trying to push Jean away.
So do I. Jean pulled back so that she could watch. Pressed her fingers lightly against Emma's throat, against her pulse. Shoved her mind into Emma's, felt the way Emma wanted release and oblivion. Just like Jean did, sometimes. Release, at least. Release for the power that surged and swirled and pounded relentlessly, a storm in her body. Jean's fingers rhythmically pressed and rubbed, pressed and rubbed. She wanted to make Emma come. Wanted to watch.
Emma's body was taut, trembling. Jean still straddled Emma's thigh and was rubbing herself against it. She wanted release, too. But not oblivion. She'd already had that. She wanted to feel alive. Emma's fingers in her back hurt. Her thigh between Jean's legs felt good; abrasive, rough, and good. She let go of Emma's throat right before she knew Emma was going to come.
Emma cried out, but it sounded like a sob. She bit her bottom lip and pushed up, hard, against Jean's fingers. Her free hand tangled in Jean's hair, and her head dropped back, baring her neck. Jean moved faster against Emma's thigh and leaned forward, biting Emma on the neck. This was wrong, but it was right, too. When the pleasure crested, Jean moved her head and kissed Emma on the mouth, and she shoved all of it at Scott--her pleasure, her guilt, her sorrow and love and anger and hope. The windows rattled. Scott groaned, gasped, and Jean slumped forward, burying her face in Emma's neck as the pleasure finally broke.
There was a burning bright light behind her eyes, for a moment. Just a moment. Jean felt Emma's hands, rubbing against her back. Emma's mind was drowsy, replete. Sated.
There was silence, broken only by the sound of breathing, until Jean realized Emma's hair was tickling her nose. She pulled back and looked down at Emma, who, for the first time since Jean had known her, looked...vulnerable, somehow. Emma raised a shaking hand and ran it through her tangled hair. "Well. That was..." she gave a small laugh.
Jean smiled. She felt good. Thirsty. A little embarrassed. "If you ever tell anyone we did that..."
Emma snorted. "Right. That's the sort of thing I go about advertising." She shoved at Jean. "You got off. Now get off." She grinned; a quick, flashing smile. Genuine, too. It was gone in an instant.
Jean climbed off of her, then went over to Scott. He looked up at her, sheepish. "Ah...Jean, I--" His hands were still in his lap.
"It's okay," she said, and she meant it. "Really." They smiled at each other. Jean tried not to giggle. She swayed a bit on her feet. Oh, God. Had she really just...?
"How touching." Emma's drawl was only slightly barbed, which must have meant...something. Jean didn't care. She just wanted to go to bed, curl up with Scott. With his arms around her, safe. Loved. Emma could do whatever she damn well pleased. "I am going to have a shower," Emma said. "And then go to bed."
"Okay," Jean said, climbing on Scott's lap. She didn't care that he'd hastily tried to fix his clothes, that his pants were sticky. She didn't care about anything. Not until the morning. Then, maybe.
Of course you'll care. You're Jean Grey. Emma dressed slowly, then pulled her hair back up into a ponytail. Jean noticed her hands were trembling, a little.
It's Grey-Summers. And in the morning, you can pretend you don't care about anything again. Jean met Emma's eyes. "Good night, Emma."
"Good night, Jean. Scott. Thank you for an entertaining evening. I'll leave the room warded, if you like."
As if Jean couldn't do that. Emma didn't wait long to revert back to her true form. Jean smiled sweetly. "No, we can go have sex in our bed. Much more comfortable."
Emma actually laughed. "Right, then. Good night." She swept out of the room, without looking back. Closed the door behind her, firmly, but without much force.
"I really don't like her," Jean said, giggling. She pressed a (shaking, but she'd waited until Emma wouldn't notice) hand to her forehead. God.
"Could've fooled me," Scott said, then snorted. "You just...Jean. Do you know what you just--"
"Yes. And so help me God, Scott Summers, if I catch you thinking about that when we're in bed, I'll--" she kissed him, then gave a sheepish smile. "All right. You can think about it. But just...not without me."
Scott wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair. "I don't want to do anything without you," he said, the words muffled.
Jean watched as the lights shimmered in the bottle of Cuervo Gold. It looked like fire trapped within, waiting. She swallowed. "Let's go to bed." She climbed off of Scott's lap and found her clothes.
Time enough to think about the future in the morning. It would come with a headache. The future so often did.