Fic: "a break in the weather", Scott/Jean/Emma, rated Adult. For Resolute!
Title: a break in the weather
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Scott/Jean/Emma
Rating: Adult
Summary: Sometimes all you need to clear the air is a storm.
AN: Written for my dear resolute on her the occasion of her birthday. Thank you for being such a fabulous friend, for all the awesome inappropriate porn-writing and the soothing of my flailing self so many times daily, and for generally just rocking in general. And for patiently explaining air traffic controlling to me, and telling me about zombie planes and the edge of space. ::Mwah:: Happy birthday, babe! I hope you like your pr0n. ::G::
Thanks to Eldee and willowaus for the beta!
a break in the weather
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short. --William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Second (Gaunt at II, i)
The hotel room is the kind of place where people go to forget about things. Maybe an unhappy marriage, maybe parents that just don't get it, maybe a past that's too close to catching up. The window faces a parking lot and you can park in front of your room. There's no vibrating bed, but it's the kind of place that probably had one until very recently. The curtains are flimsy and there's no such thing as room service.
"A motel," Emma says, lifting the curtain between pinched fingers. Her voice is so far past disdainful, there's not even a word to describe it. "The last time I was in one of these--oh, wait. Silly me. I've never in my life stayed in a motel. So glad I joined the X-Men. Perhaps you should add this to the recruitment materials. See the world, stay in the Bates Motel."
Jean is sitting on the second double bed closest to the bathroom, soaked through, dragging a comb through her hair with accompanying winces as the teeth pull through the tangles. "Shut up, Emma," she says, almost immediately. "No Hilton in the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. Sorry to disappoint you, but we need to sleep and this is as good as it gets."
The shower is running, in the bathroom. Scott is in there. Jean is thinking about sleep and wet clothes, and what she's going to wear in the morning. Scott is thinking about dinner and calling home. Emma is thinking about how much she wishes she at least had her own room, because Scott and Jean have a tension growing between them that makes Emma uncomfortable. It's resentment and want and it makes Emma crazy, because they're so busy feeling things and pretending they're not, they're sending it all out like a bloody scream, and it rings in her head and her ears and it hurts.
Not because she cares, particularly, about their little personal drama. It's because Jean, of all people, should know what it's like. Suffering through other people's angst, other people's traumas. Emma has enough of her own. She doesn't need Scott and Jean's, too. And Jean, that selfish bitch, should know better.
This makes Emma think that Jean is doing it on purpose. But that doesn't really make sense, does it? Jean thinks Scott wants Emma, and so Jean wants Emma to think that everything is fine, between her and Scott. And the resentment grows, all hot pulsing tightness, and Emma wants to sink nails into flesh and feel something give, feel something break. Skin. Someone's neck. Something.
Scott gets out of the shower. He stays in the bathroom for a while, and comes back with his hair slicked back and wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Emma eyes him appreciatively, because Scott Summers is a handsome man with shower-wet hair and toned legs and a shirt that stretches just a little over his chest. There's a wave of pure hate and that's Jean, then, who's noticed where Emma is looking.
Meanwhile, Scott is looking at Jean and thinking how gorgeous she looks, wet, with her hair a mess from the rain and her clothes clinging to the curves of her body. God. Jean's an idiot. She spends all her time snarling at Emma and ignoring what she has, right there, still wanting her even if he's forgotten exactly how to say it out loud. Emma thinks Jean finds it easier to hate her, Emma, than focus on her problems with Scott. It's easy to hate Emma, because Emma is external.
Emma's too tired to puzzle it out. She gets in the shower, without asking Jean if she wants to go next. There's this low-burning lust, between Scott and Jean, and the resentment and the anger only brightens it, like oil on a flame. If they were smart, they'd just fuck and worry about everything else in the morning. Emma just wants them to do it while she's in the shower. She'll be damned if she tries to sleep while the two of them go at it, trying to be quiet beneath the covers.
They're not. Emma finishes her shower and is dressed in a white chemise and silk panties, because that is all she has to wear. They were not expecting an overnight stay.
It doesn't matter what she's wearing. The room is dark when she emerges from the bathroom. No one has spoken a word since Jean's comment about the Hilton. No one is sleeping, either. Emma can tell that much, at least. She slides in the bed, wincing, wondering when the sheets were last laundered. These must be a thread count of what, six, seven? Emma thinks snidely, pulling the thin blanket up around her shoulders.
"Princess," Jean mutters, and Emma clenches her teeth in reaction. Why is it always her, when Jean's upset? Why is she listening to Emma's thoughts, instead of Scott's, who is lying beside her and miserable and angry and wanting and--
"Because it's always you, Emma, who has to make everything so difficult--"
"Oh, do shut up, Jean, I just--"
"Could you both be quiet?" Scott's voice sounds like he's been up for hours. He's not a telepath, but he's not an idiot. He can hear the leashed anger, and just because he doesn't feel it like a sharp sting, like Emma does, he still knows it's there. He's lived with a telepath his whole life, almost. Near enough to it, considering he's known Jean over half his life.
Poor thing.
"You are such a bitch-" Jean says, sitting up; Emma can see her half-rise in the darkness, emerging like some shadowy thing from amidst the blankets.
"Yes, I know," Emma says sweetly. "Some of us have learned not to lie to ourselves and pretend to be something we are not." She makes her voice saccharine. She knows that tone drives Jean mad. All honeyed syllables drenched in malice. Emma's on her side, facing the bed where Jean is. Emma can feel Jean's mind, burning daggers, warm fire, growing steadily hotter by the minute.
"Tell me, Emma, if we cranked up the heat in here, would you melt? Because I think I may try it." The heater switches on, from Jean's teke. "You'll be a puddle of water and trashy, too-small lingerie on that bed in the morning."
Emma snorts. "Oh, so impressive. Tell me, Jean, how does it feel? All that power, with the Phoenix. And now you're using it to switch on a heater, just to make some point about my demeanor?"
"Shut up, Emma."
Emma rolls over. It's freezing in the room, but after awhile, the heater starts to make her uncomfortably hot. She won't ask Jean to turn it off, so she throws back the covers and crosses the room. Reaches down and switches off the heater, since there appears to be two settings: off, and sweltering. She climbs back into bed, and just as she does, hears the unmistakable sound of the heater switching back on and the heat pouring out, full blast once more.
Emma swears she is going to ignore it. She kicks the covers off, and lays still as she can in the bed. Her hair is beginning to cling to her neck. She feels sticky, angry. The temperature in the room is rapidly becoming unbearable.
"Jean." Scott's voice is firm.
"What?" Jean's voice is wavering, a little angry, and testy. "It's cold. I'm cold. Do you want me to freeze just so she can be comfortable?"
Scott doesn't answer, but shifts. Probably turning his back on Jean. Facing the wall. They're all facing different directions. Scott's thinking, in the dark, that if they did this in a mission they would all die. Jean is furious and thinking about sleeping in the car, but she won't leave Scott alone with Emma.
The room is growing warmer, and the tension is thick like the thunderheads rolling and rumbling in the sky outside. Emma's skin is slick with sweat and her chemise is sticking to her back. Outside she can hear the rain on the windows, hear the wind rustling. It's like nature is mocking them, a little.
You just need a storm, too, and then you'll settle down.
"Turn off the heat, Jean," Emma says at length. Her voice is no longer sweetened by anything. It's rough and gritty, like she's just swallowed gravel from the parking lot. Sweat is running into her eyes and stinging. Her fingers are curled into her palms and she digs her nails into her skin, feeling the pain roll and undulate.
"No," Jean says, and her voice sounds strange. Hollow like rumbling. Like thunder. "I'm. Cold."
"I know," Emma says. She's staring up at the ceiling. There's a sliver of light coming in through the window, through the curtains. There's a stain, spreading out on the white. Water, maybe. A leaky roof. Emma hopes it breaks open, lets the storm in. God. Something, anything. "I don't think the heat is going to fix your particular brand of frigidity, darling." Emma stands up, again. She walks over to the heater. Switches it off.
Jean flips the switch on, again, with her powers. The heat hits Emma in the face. She can taste sweat and hate and something desperate, just on the edge of her tongue as she licks out and catches a drop of sweat on her lips. Outside, the thunder is getting closer. Louder.
Emma reaches down, and switches the heat off one last time. But as she does so, she flips the button next to it. Turns it from heat to cool. When Jeans turns it back on, again, Emma smiles in the darkness and goes back to her bed. Waits, and feel the gradual shift from hot air to cold. When the slight tease of coolness drifts over her skin, teasing and making her shiver in delight, Emma laughs out loud.
It's the wrong thing to do.
Jean's on her in a two seconds flat. Her hands are on Emma's neck, sliding like fire over slick skin, into Emma's hair. Pulling. Of course, hair pulling. Should Emma have expected finesse? This is pure anger, and maybe Emma's a little smug about that even as she struggles to make Jean release her hair.
"Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me." Emma bites the words and kicks her legs, lashing out, trying to get Jean off of her. There's a tangle of limbs and things end up confused, in the darkness. Jean's hands pulling and she's making sounds that would be rage if she had enough breath for rage, but they're short pants that sound like she's having sex, and maybe this is better than sex because Jean has certainly wanted to do this to Emma more than she's wanted to have sex with Scott recently.
Jean stops. She's straddling Emma, who is twisted beneath her, trying to get away. The heater-turned-air-conditioner is humming along happily, oblivious. "That's not true," Jean says, and her voice is strangled and raw. "It's not. It's not. It's not." She's saying it over and over again, as if repetition will make it true.
"Then get the bloody hell off of me," Emma snarls, and there's no pretense now, nothing calculated. Only honest anger, her hands on Jean's wrists, fingers curled and cruel and hard and pressing against bone.
"No." Jean's looking down at her. The light is coming in from the window and it makes Jean look sort of crazy. Throws a silver halo around her red hair, dampened and clinging to her flushed face. Her body is hot. Burning from within. She's breathing fast and hard, and she's grabbing Emma's hair at the roots and twisting her hands, trying to make it hurt.
There's a dark shadow, next to the bed. "This has to stop," Scott says. He sounds sad, almost. Emma doesn't know if he means right now, or just the constant battle between Jean and Emma. "Jean. Come back to bed. This isn't solving anything."
"Oh, the hell it isn't," Jean hisses. She pulls at Emma's hair, then smiles. It takes Emma a moment to figure out why. Jean's changing the molecules of the very air around them, back to hot again. "Let's see you make the air cold now."
"Jean," Scott says again, and he's on the bed now, too. He's kneeling behind Jean, who is straddling Emma. Emma is still holding Jean's wrists, and the fucking temperature is so hot she is going to scream. Scott tries to pull Jean away, his hands on her shoulders.
Jean throws her head back. She laughs. The sound is eerie and wrong. Something starts glowing. Emma is, for the first time, afraid of Jean Grey-Summers. Emma shrinks back, against the bed. The room has a faint red-orange glow, like the last gasp of the sun before night falls. Emma looks up at Scott. He is sweating, too. He's not wearing a shirt. His thoughts are consumed by her, by Jean. Jean is staring down at Emma, with rage on her face and a glow like stars dying starting in the back of her eyes. Jean's thoughts are consumed by Emma.
Emma goes still. She can barely breathe. It's not the heat. Watching Jean in her anger is like watching flames grow, licking higher, sparking orange and deep red. She looks--
Beautiful.
It's Scott's thought. It's her thought, Emma's. They are all three still, paused, caught in the moment before the storm breaks.
Because it does break. There is no other way to end this.
Emma doesn't know what happens first. Scott's hands are cupping Jean's breast, and he's pushing himself against her. Jean's hands slide down, across Emma's throat, pulling at her sweat-soaked chemise. Jean tilts her head back, hair falling like flame down her suddenly naked back, and Scott kisses her. Emma pushes up, arches her back, and Jean pushes Emma's chemise up and out of the way. Finishes kissing Scott, and leans down. Trails her mouth (hot, burning) across Emma's throat. Licks the sweat, as Scott pulls the rest of Jean's clothes off in a hurry.
Emma's hands are rubbing up and down Jean's arms. It's like touching lightening, electricity. Her fingertips dance over Jean's breasts, down the other woman's stomach. Their breath crashes like the thunder outside. Emma kisses Jean and tastes hot dark want, and Jean bites her lip and Emma bucks beneath someone's hand on her thigh. Rough, calloused fingers. Scott's hand.
Jean pulls away. She looks over her shoulder at Scott, but doesn't speak. The moment someone speaks, this will all be over, and they all know it. She must be saying something telepathically, blocking Emma out. The warmth of Scott's hand is gone, and Jean's is there instead. Fingers slighter and nails sharper. A different weight, but still good. Emma spreads her legs for Jean's fingers, like she didn't for Scott's. Jean's half-lying on top of Emma, still pulling at Emma's hair, but different, now. Jean is naked and Scott must be too, but Emma's chemise is caught up around her neck. Jean pulls Emma's panties down, but leaves them around her knees. Emma's trapped in her own clothing, in white silk.
Jean's fingers are between Emma's legs, and her body is moving rhythmically on top of Emma's. Scott is behind Jean, one hand in her hair, the other on her back. He's fucking Jean slow and hard, with the ease of long familiarity, and he's projecting sex and want all over the room with ever thrust. Jean is whimpering; out loud, and in Emma's mind. Her fingers are hard and insistent, pressing inside Emma. Her thumb slides between slick folds and rubs hard at Emma's clit.
Emma's arms are suddenly forced above her head, though not by anyone's hands. Jean's power. Jean wants her to know her place, even now. Scott is fucking Jean and Jean is fucking Emma, and Emma is pinned beneath them both and she can't do a thing, can't touch or caress or seduce. She doesn't care. She can feel them, their lust, and the tension is growing again and better, now, because she knows how it is going to end.
Jean shifts on top of Emma. Kisses her and sucks on her nipples, and straddles Emma's leg. Fucks Emma with her fingers and Emma presses her leg up, because she can do that much, and Jean's wet and hot and rubbing, faster and faster, against Emma's thigh. The bed is shaking, the headboard hitting the wall, over and over and over. The room smells like sex. Emma tosses her head and Jean shoves fingers into her mouth and Emma sucks hard on them, tongue licking like a kitten, and Scott is groaning and Jean is shuddering and pressing, pressing.
When Scott comes, he gasps and shudders and projects it, all of it, and that makes Emma arch up hard against Jean's fingers and they're kissing again, she and Jean. Scott likes that and so does Emma and Jean does something so good with her fingers, and Emma closes her eyes and Jean knows, just knows, to grab Emma's throat and squeeze just a little, and there's a sound like a roar in Emma's ears and it all breaks in white and it's too much, and Emma cries out, maybe out loud, maybe not.
When she opens her eyes, she watches Jean come. Watches the other woman's eyes, as the pupils grow and black swallows green. There's a flash of light, deep inside the black, burning bright for just a second before it is gone. Emma watches while Jean shudders, breathing fast like a runner after a marathon, falling deadweight on Emma's body. She smells good, like cinnamon, maybe, or something spicy.
Emma's hands are free. She rests one, lightly, on Jean's head. Strokes her hand down Jean's hair, which is wild and red and beautiful. Jean raises her head, looks at Emma with sleepy eyes. She gives a small laugh and leans down, and kisses Emma's forehead like a blessing. There is no more feeling of fire. Jean looks tired and well-fucked, and a little embarrassed, maybe. But no longer like she is going to burn from within. Jean traces her fingers over Emma's mouth, and then pulls away. The air swirls, finally cool, around Emma's body. She pulls her chemise down, slides the silk panties back up her legs.
Scott is sitting on the edge of the bed. Emma doesn't try to see what he's thinking. The storm is a slow patter of rain against the window, now, fading. Emma yawns. Scott stands up, and stretches, and goes back to his bed.
Jean gets up, walks over, and turns of the heater. She gets into bed and curls into Scott's arms. Emma doesn't care about the blanket anymore, or the scratchy sheets. The air in the room cools gradually, until it's comfortable. Finally.
I still really hate you.
It's Jean, of course. Emma slides her arm beneath her pillow and feels herself smiling.
Mmm. Ditto, darling. She can still smell Jean, a little, against her skin.
In the darkness, Emma and Jean giggle like girls. Scott's immediate thought, that they both hear clear as crystal, is Oh, Christ. Now what? As dangerous as they are when they hate each other, it'd be worse, probably, if they didn't.
In the morning, though, it doesn't matter. The storm has passed in the night, off to the east. They ride back to the rendezvous point, and the relaxed energy shifts and changes. Tension grows and thickens, lengthens again. Jean glares at Emma, and Emma finds things to say that are insulting and laced with bitter sweetness, and Scott stares at them both and shakes his head and thinks about flying the Blackbird, alone, in a clear blue sky.
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Scott/Jean/Emma
Rating: Adult
Summary: Sometimes all you need to clear the air is a storm.
AN: Written for my dear resolute on her the occasion of her birthday. Thank you for being such a fabulous friend, for all the awesome inappropriate porn-writing and the soothing of my flailing self so many times daily, and for generally just rocking in general. And for patiently explaining air traffic controlling to me, and telling me about zombie planes and the edge of space. ::Mwah:: Happy birthday, babe! I hope you like your pr0n. ::G::
Thanks to Eldee and willowaus for the beta!
a break in the weather
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short. --William Shakespeare, The Tragedy of King Richard the Second (Gaunt at II, i)
The hotel room is the kind of place where people go to forget about things. Maybe an unhappy marriage, maybe parents that just don't get it, maybe a past that's too close to catching up. The window faces a parking lot and you can park in front of your room. There's no vibrating bed, but it's the kind of place that probably had one until very recently. The curtains are flimsy and there's no such thing as room service.
"A motel," Emma says, lifting the curtain between pinched fingers. Her voice is so far past disdainful, there's not even a word to describe it. "The last time I was in one of these--oh, wait. Silly me. I've never in my life stayed in a motel. So glad I joined the X-Men. Perhaps you should add this to the recruitment materials. See the world, stay in the Bates Motel."
Jean is sitting on the second double bed closest to the bathroom, soaked through, dragging a comb through her hair with accompanying winces as the teeth pull through the tangles. "Shut up, Emma," she says, almost immediately. "No Hilton in the Middle of Nowhere, Iowa. Sorry to disappoint you, but we need to sleep and this is as good as it gets."
The shower is running, in the bathroom. Scott is in there. Jean is thinking about sleep and wet clothes, and what she's going to wear in the morning. Scott is thinking about dinner and calling home. Emma is thinking about how much she wishes she at least had her own room, because Scott and Jean have a tension growing between them that makes Emma uncomfortable. It's resentment and want and it makes Emma crazy, because they're so busy feeling things and pretending they're not, they're sending it all out like a bloody scream, and it rings in her head and her ears and it hurts.
Not because she cares, particularly, about their little personal drama. It's because Jean, of all people, should know what it's like. Suffering through other people's angst, other people's traumas. Emma has enough of her own. She doesn't need Scott and Jean's, too. And Jean, that selfish bitch, should know better.
This makes Emma think that Jean is doing it on purpose. But that doesn't really make sense, does it? Jean thinks Scott wants Emma, and so Jean wants Emma to think that everything is fine, between her and Scott. And the resentment grows, all hot pulsing tightness, and Emma wants to sink nails into flesh and feel something give, feel something break. Skin. Someone's neck. Something.
Scott gets out of the shower. He stays in the bathroom for a while, and comes back with his hair slicked back and wearing a t-shirt and boxer shorts. Emma eyes him appreciatively, because Scott Summers is a handsome man with shower-wet hair and toned legs and a shirt that stretches just a little over his chest. There's a wave of pure hate and that's Jean, then, who's noticed where Emma is looking.
Meanwhile, Scott is looking at Jean and thinking how gorgeous she looks, wet, with her hair a mess from the rain and her clothes clinging to the curves of her body. God. Jean's an idiot. She spends all her time snarling at Emma and ignoring what she has, right there, still wanting her even if he's forgotten exactly how to say it out loud. Emma thinks Jean finds it easier to hate her, Emma, than focus on her problems with Scott. It's easy to hate Emma, because Emma is external.
Emma's too tired to puzzle it out. She gets in the shower, without asking Jean if she wants to go next. There's this low-burning lust, between Scott and Jean, and the resentment and the anger only brightens it, like oil on a flame. If they were smart, they'd just fuck and worry about everything else in the morning. Emma just wants them to do it while she's in the shower. She'll be damned if she tries to sleep while the two of them go at it, trying to be quiet beneath the covers.
They're not. Emma finishes her shower and is dressed in a white chemise and silk panties, because that is all she has to wear. They were not expecting an overnight stay.
It doesn't matter what she's wearing. The room is dark when she emerges from the bathroom. No one has spoken a word since Jean's comment about the Hilton. No one is sleeping, either. Emma can tell that much, at least. She slides in the bed, wincing, wondering when the sheets were last laundered. These must be a thread count of what, six, seven? Emma thinks snidely, pulling the thin blanket up around her shoulders.
"Princess," Jean mutters, and Emma clenches her teeth in reaction. Why is it always her, when Jean's upset? Why is she listening to Emma's thoughts, instead of Scott's, who is lying beside her and miserable and angry and wanting and--
"Because it's always you, Emma, who has to make everything so difficult--"
"Oh, do shut up, Jean, I just--"
"Could you both be quiet?" Scott's voice sounds like he's been up for hours. He's not a telepath, but he's not an idiot. He can hear the leashed anger, and just because he doesn't feel it like a sharp sting, like Emma does, he still knows it's there. He's lived with a telepath his whole life, almost. Near enough to it, considering he's known Jean over half his life.
Poor thing.
"You are such a bitch-" Jean says, sitting up; Emma can see her half-rise in the darkness, emerging like some shadowy thing from amidst the blankets.
"Yes, I know," Emma says sweetly. "Some of us have learned not to lie to ourselves and pretend to be something we are not." She makes her voice saccharine. She knows that tone drives Jean mad. All honeyed syllables drenched in malice. Emma's on her side, facing the bed where Jean is. Emma can feel Jean's mind, burning daggers, warm fire, growing steadily hotter by the minute.
"Tell me, Emma, if we cranked up the heat in here, would you melt? Because I think I may try it." The heater switches on, from Jean's teke. "You'll be a puddle of water and trashy, too-small lingerie on that bed in the morning."
Emma snorts. "Oh, so impressive. Tell me, Jean, how does it feel? All that power, with the Phoenix. And now you're using it to switch on a heater, just to make some point about my demeanor?"
"Shut up, Emma."
Emma rolls over. It's freezing in the room, but after awhile, the heater starts to make her uncomfortably hot. She won't ask Jean to turn it off, so she throws back the covers and crosses the room. Reaches down and switches off the heater, since there appears to be two settings: off, and sweltering. She climbs back into bed, and just as she does, hears the unmistakable sound of the heater switching back on and the heat pouring out, full blast once more.
Emma swears she is going to ignore it. She kicks the covers off, and lays still as she can in the bed. Her hair is beginning to cling to her neck. She feels sticky, angry. The temperature in the room is rapidly becoming unbearable.
"Jean." Scott's voice is firm.
"What?" Jean's voice is wavering, a little angry, and testy. "It's cold. I'm cold. Do you want me to freeze just so she can be comfortable?"
Scott doesn't answer, but shifts. Probably turning his back on Jean. Facing the wall. They're all facing different directions. Scott's thinking, in the dark, that if they did this in a mission they would all die. Jean is furious and thinking about sleeping in the car, but she won't leave Scott alone with Emma.
The room is growing warmer, and the tension is thick like the thunderheads rolling and rumbling in the sky outside. Emma's skin is slick with sweat and her chemise is sticking to her back. Outside she can hear the rain on the windows, hear the wind rustling. It's like nature is mocking them, a little.
You just need a storm, too, and then you'll settle down.
"Turn off the heat, Jean," Emma says at length. Her voice is no longer sweetened by anything. It's rough and gritty, like she's just swallowed gravel from the parking lot. Sweat is running into her eyes and stinging. Her fingers are curled into her palms and she digs her nails into her skin, feeling the pain roll and undulate.
"No," Jean says, and her voice sounds strange. Hollow like rumbling. Like thunder. "I'm. Cold."
"I know," Emma says. She's staring up at the ceiling. There's a sliver of light coming in through the window, through the curtains. There's a stain, spreading out on the white. Water, maybe. A leaky roof. Emma hopes it breaks open, lets the storm in. God. Something, anything. "I don't think the heat is going to fix your particular brand of frigidity, darling." Emma stands up, again. She walks over to the heater. Switches it off.
Jean flips the switch on, again, with her powers. The heat hits Emma in the face. She can taste sweat and hate and something desperate, just on the edge of her tongue as she licks out and catches a drop of sweat on her lips. Outside, the thunder is getting closer. Louder.
Emma reaches down, and switches the heat off one last time. But as she does so, she flips the button next to it. Turns it from heat to cool. When Jeans turns it back on, again, Emma smiles in the darkness and goes back to her bed. Waits, and feel the gradual shift from hot air to cold. When the slight tease of coolness drifts over her skin, teasing and making her shiver in delight, Emma laughs out loud.
It's the wrong thing to do.
Jean's on her in a two seconds flat. Her hands are on Emma's neck, sliding like fire over slick skin, into Emma's hair. Pulling. Of course, hair pulling. Should Emma have expected finesse? This is pure anger, and maybe Emma's a little smug about that even as she struggles to make Jean release her hair.
"Get. Your. Hands. Off. Me." Emma bites the words and kicks her legs, lashing out, trying to get Jean off of her. There's a tangle of limbs and things end up confused, in the darkness. Jean's hands pulling and she's making sounds that would be rage if she had enough breath for rage, but they're short pants that sound like she's having sex, and maybe this is better than sex because Jean has certainly wanted to do this to Emma more than she's wanted to have sex with Scott recently.
Jean stops. She's straddling Emma, who is twisted beneath her, trying to get away. The heater-turned-air-conditioner is humming along happily, oblivious. "That's not true," Jean says, and her voice is strangled and raw. "It's not. It's not. It's not." She's saying it over and over again, as if repetition will make it true.
"Then get the bloody hell off of me," Emma snarls, and there's no pretense now, nothing calculated. Only honest anger, her hands on Jean's wrists, fingers curled and cruel and hard and pressing against bone.
"No." Jean's looking down at her. The light is coming in from the window and it makes Jean look sort of crazy. Throws a silver halo around her red hair, dampened and clinging to her flushed face. Her body is hot. Burning from within. She's breathing fast and hard, and she's grabbing Emma's hair at the roots and twisting her hands, trying to make it hurt.
There's a dark shadow, next to the bed. "This has to stop," Scott says. He sounds sad, almost. Emma doesn't know if he means right now, or just the constant battle between Jean and Emma. "Jean. Come back to bed. This isn't solving anything."
"Oh, the hell it isn't," Jean hisses. She pulls at Emma's hair, then smiles. It takes Emma a moment to figure out why. Jean's changing the molecules of the very air around them, back to hot again. "Let's see you make the air cold now."
"Jean," Scott says again, and he's on the bed now, too. He's kneeling behind Jean, who is straddling Emma. Emma is still holding Jean's wrists, and the fucking temperature is so hot she is going to scream. Scott tries to pull Jean away, his hands on her shoulders.
Jean throws her head back. She laughs. The sound is eerie and wrong. Something starts glowing. Emma is, for the first time, afraid of Jean Grey-Summers. Emma shrinks back, against the bed. The room has a faint red-orange glow, like the last gasp of the sun before night falls. Emma looks up at Scott. He is sweating, too. He's not wearing a shirt. His thoughts are consumed by her, by Jean. Jean is staring down at Emma, with rage on her face and a glow like stars dying starting in the back of her eyes. Jean's thoughts are consumed by Emma.
Emma goes still. She can barely breathe. It's not the heat. Watching Jean in her anger is like watching flames grow, licking higher, sparking orange and deep red. She looks--
Beautiful.
It's Scott's thought. It's her thought, Emma's. They are all three still, paused, caught in the moment before the storm breaks.
Because it does break. There is no other way to end this.
Emma doesn't know what happens first. Scott's hands are cupping Jean's breast, and he's pushing himself against her. Jean's hands slide down, across Emma's throat, pulling at her sweat-soaked chemise. Jean tilts her head back, hair falling like flame down her suddenly naked back, and Scott kisses her. Emma pushes up, arches her back, and Jean pushes Emma's chemise up and out of the way. Finishes kissing Scott, and leans down. Trails her mouth (hot, burning) across Emma's throat. Licks the sweat, as Scott pulls the rest of Jean's clothes off in a hurry.
Emma's hands are rubbing up and down Jean's arms. It's like touching lightening, electricity. Her fingertips dance over Jean's breasts, down the other woman's stomach. Their breath crashes like the thunder outside. Emma kisses Jean and tastes hot dark want, and Jean bites her lip and Emma bucks beneath someone's hand on her thigh. Rough, calloused fingers. Scott's hand.
Jean pulls away. She looks over her shoulder at Scott, but doesn't speak. The moment someone speaks, this will all be over, and they all know it. She must be saying something telepathically, blocking Emma out. The warmth of Scott's hand is gone, and Jean's is there instead. Fingers slighter and nails sharper. A different weight, but still good. Emma spreads her legs for Jean's fingers, like she didn't for Scott's. Jean's half-lying on top of Emma, still pulling at Emma's hair, but different, now. Jean is naked and Scott must be too, but Emma's chemise is caught up around her neck. Jean pulls Emma's panties down, but leaves them around her knees. Emma's trapped in her own clothing, in white silk.
Jean's fingers are between Emma's legs, and her body is moving rhythmically on top of Emma's. Scott is behind Jean, one hand in her hair, the other on her back. He's fucking Jean slow and hard, with the ease of long familiarity, and he's projecting sex and want all over the room with ever thrust. Jean is whimpering; out loud, and in Emma's mind. Her fingers are hard and insistent, pressing inside Emma. Her thumb slides between slick folds and rubs hard at Emma's clit.
Emma's arms are suddenly forced above her head, though not by anyone's hands. Jean's power. Jean wants her to know her place, even now. Scott is fucking Jean and Jean is fucking Emma, and Emma is pinned beneath them both and she can't do a thing, can't touch or caress or seduce. She doesn't care. She can feel them, their lust, and the tension is growing again and better, now, because she knows how it is going to end.
Jean shifts on top of Emma. Kisses her and sucks on her nipples, and straddles Emma's leg. Fucks Emma with her fingers and Emma presses her leg up, because she can do that much, and Jean's wet and hot and rubbing, faster and faster, against Emma's thigh. The bed is shaking, the headboard hitting the wall, over and over and over. The room smells like sex. Emma tosses her head and Jean shoves fingers into her mouth and Emma sucks hard on them, tongue licking like a kitten, and Scott is groaning and Jean is shuddering and pressing, pressing.
When Scott comes, he gasps and shudders and projects it, all of it, and that makes Emma arch up hard against Jean's fingers and they're kissing again, she and Jean. Scott likes that and so does Emma and Jean does something so good with her fingers, and Emma closes her eyes and Jean knows, just knows, to grab Emma's throat and squeeze just a little, and there's a sound like a roar in Emma's ears and it all breaks in white and it's too much, and Emma cries out, maybe out loud, maybe not.
When she opens her eyes, she watches Jean come. Watches the other woman's eyes, as the pupils grow and black swallows green. There's a flash of light, deep inside the black, burning bright for just a second before it is gone. Emma watches while Jean shudders, breathing fast like a runner after a marathon, falling deadweight on Emma's body. She smells good, like cinnamon, maybe, or something spicy.
Emma's hands are free. She rests one, lightly, on Jean's head. Strokes her hand down Jean's hair, which is wild and red and beautiful. Jean raises her head, looks at Emma with sleepy eyes. She gives a small laugh and leans down, and kisses Emma's forehead like a blessing. There is no more feeling of fire. Jean looks tired and well-fucked, and a little embarrassed, maybe. But no longer like she is going to burn from within. Jean traces her fingers over Emma's mouth, and then pulls away. The air swirls, finally cool, around Emma's body. She pulls her chemise down, slides the silk panties back up her legs.
Scott is sitting on the edge of the bed. Emma doesn't try to see what he's thinking. The storm is a slow patter of rain against the window, now, fading. Emma yawns. Scott stands up, and stretches, and goes back to his bed.
Jean gets up, walks over, and turns of the heater. She gets into bed and curls into Scott's arms. Emma doesn't care about the blanket anymore, or the scratchy sheets. The air in the room cools gradually, until it's comfortable. Finally.
I still really hate you.
It's Jean, of course. Emma slides her arm beneath her pillow and feels herself smiling.
Mmm. Ditto, darling. She can still smell Jean, a little, against her skin.
In the darkness, Emma and Jean giggle like girls. Scott's immediate thought, that they both hear clear as crystal, is Oh, Christ. Now what? As dangerous as they are when they hate each other, it'd be worse, probably, if they didn't.
In the morning, though, it doesn't matter. The storm has passed in the night, off to the east. They ride back to the rendezvous point, and the relaxed energy shifts and changes. Tension grows and thickens, lengthens again. Jean glares at Emma, and Emma finds things to say that are insulting and laced with bitter sweetness, and Scott stares at them both and shakes his head and thinks about flying the Blackbird, alone, in a clear blue sky.