Fic: "Pennyworth of Mortal Flesh", Emma/Kitty (Implied Jean/Emma) rated Adult
Title: Pennyworth of Mortal Flesh
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Emma/Kitty, implied Jean/Emma
Verse: Comic, set post-Torn (possibly post-"Unstoppable")
Rating: Adultish, mainly because of the warning. There is nothing graphic.
Warnings: This will skirt the edge of dub-con a little. Just with kissing.
Summary: There are many ways to talk to the dead.
AN: For Resolute, who gave me these lyrics and suggested Kitty/Emma, post-Torn, Jean's grave. Title/lyrics by the Flash Girls.
Pennyworth of Mortal Flesh
How can a pennyworth of mortal flesh hold
Anything more than a fever's dream/
they say the riders are near the threshold/
they say the fire is hot and clean.
__________________________
Wearing heels in the grass is difficult. When you walk, the earth sinks beneath your feet and the heels stick in the grass. Emma's heels are dangling from her finger, and she can feel sliver-slick grass on her feet when she walks. Somehow, it is more undignified to walk toddling like a child playing dress-up than barefoot. At least, to Emma it is. Though she cannot remember the last time she walked barefoot.
The moon hangs up in the sky, covered mostly by shifting clouds, which are growing thicker and darker. Every now and then there is enough light that breaks through, winning the struggle with the clouds and spilling out onto the lawn. Enough light to see the grave, and the writing etched in granite. Emma doesn't need the light, though. She know what it says.
She will rise again.
"I bloody hope not," Emma mutters. "Except that you will. I know it. You never do stay dead."
"Do any of us?"
The voice in the darkness is unexpected; a sign Emma is not concentrating like she should be. She should have heard Kitty coming and she didn't. Maybe Emma could have missed the footfalls in the grass, but the mental presence--yes, that. She should have felt that. As usual she makes Emma falter, throws her off her game. Even from the grave. How bloody typical.
"No," Emma says quietly, still staring down at the ground. There are roses that look black scattered on the grass, nonchalantly against the stone. It was her birthday a few days ago. Emma is sure that Scott came here and left flowers. Maybe Logan, too. Maybe all of them did, in some assembled sombre circle, and Emma was left alone in the house.
Emma doesn't come out here often. Not for holidays, definitely. Sometimes she does when it's nights like this; the air is too violent, and Scott's embrace is too gentle. She doesn't want to be loved. Too many specters in her mind, flaunting their dead smiles and taunting whispers, scratchy like tattered lace dragging over stone. When the end comes, aren't the dead supposed to rise from their graves? Maybe that is what Emma is waiting for. The end. Reckoning.
"What are you doing out here, Emma?" Alive, that is. Kitty doesn't even bother to hide it, that last thought. It leaks out like the first bit of rain from the clouds above.
Emma tilts her face up, towards the sky. She can feel wet on her skin, on her cheeks. Rain as light as an afterthought. Teasing with the promise of more. "I couldn't sleep."
Kitty must have been waiting for something else. Some glib response, some sarcastic barb. "Didn't take you for the walk amongst the dead type."
"I didn't think you took me for any type, Katherine." Emma slides her hand up over her cheeks, feeling her rain-slicked skin beneath her fingertips.
"Don't call me that."
It's so easy, really, with Katherine. Kitty. She's so quick to respond, to act. She doesn't think things through when she's angry. That's why Kitty would have done it. If Scott hadn't stopped her.
"I wonder where they would have put me?" Emma asks, voice faraway-soft. Water is dripping down her face, into her eyes.
"Who says you'd get a spot out here? Don't really think you've earned it, do you?" Kitty laughs. It sounds mean as nettles, sharp like thorns. "Not one up front, definitely."
"I don't think you're in any position to tell me what I've earned." Emma turns, her eyes narrowed. "You may stand out here in the rain and insult me, if you wish. I am going inside." Emma walks past Kitty, chin tilted. Like some doomed empress on her way to her execution.The rain is coming down a little harder, now, and Emma's outfit is almost soaked through. She wasn't wearing much, to begin with. The fabric clings, sodden white silk, molded to the curves of Emma's body.
"It's not an insult. It's the truth. This is a place for heroes. For people who fought and died protecting others. For people who were good. Not for you." Kitty is breathing hard.
"Not for you."
Emma turns her head. Smiles a little, through her hair, which is plastered against her face. Jean Grey devoured worlds. Emma, her crime--at least to Kitty--was creating one, and then ripping it away. Which is worse? Which gets you buried out in the far end of the graveyard, past the lawn, down where the grass slopes away into the woods? And which gets you a headstone with fresh flowers and tearful mourners who visit on your birthday?
"I know where my place is, Katherine," Emma says coolly. When she talks, she can feel rain slipping inside her mouth. Tasting faintly of ozone. "Perhaps your time would be better spent learning yours."
She should have known that would enrage the younger girl. Maybe that's what Emma wants, surrounded as she is by the dead. Kitty's anger is something living and hot, hitting Emma in pulsing waves. There is a moment when things are still and the sharpness of the moment burns like a memory behind her eyes; the darkness, the rain, the feel of the grass beneath her feet. Kitty rushing at her, crying out in rage, pushing cold fingers against Emma's shoulders.
Kitty is throwing out words hurtful and mean, but Emma has retreated somewhere deep inside herself and doesn't hear them. Instead, she wraps her fingers in Katherine's hair and yanks her head back, exposing her throat.
You used to do this to me, all the time, Emma thinks viciously. Do you like that I am doing it to your champion, your would-be successor? There is no answer in her mind. Emma doesn't care. Kitty is going to phase away from her, any second, but Emma knows how to stop it. A little push in Kitty's mind, find the center of her power and switch it off. Keep Kitty solid and there, unable to get away.
Emma does it, in fast like a thief, stopping Kitty's powers just as she tries to use them. Kitty howls in rage and kicks out, screaming. Emma is laughing, maybe, because this is what Kitty expects of her, isn't it? I am just doing what you want, darling. Playing the villain you've never stopped believing I am.
The heavens open up and there is too much rain, hard things pelting down that feel like hail, and the sky cracks with sudden sound and Emma presses Kitty's body against hers. Even though she is wet, too, Kitty's body is hot with shame and anger and fury--
Not as hot as yours always was--a fragment of a thought, hurtling downwards through the earth. To someone sleeping below who can't hear.
Emma presses her rain-slicked mouth to Kitty's, swallowing rage. Fear. Is this what I tasted like? she thinks, hands stroking down Kitty's body. They are standing together and Emma's hands are on Kitty's back, and Kitty is struggling but only a little. Emma wonders if this is how she felt; stubborn and defiant but gradually giving in, unable to stop it, the lust and the hate taking over, rising up and choking and drowning and burning--
Why is she doing this? Kitty is thinking, drowsy and confused and the words are still barbed but smoother-edged. Kitty's hands are twisted in wet silk and pulling half-heartedly, her intentions unclear.
Emma's mouth gentles. Her hands tease down Kitty's chest, skimming lightly over Kitty's breasts. Kitty's nipples press against the fabric, not from desire but from the cold. Emma's mouth is on Kitty's neck. She's taller, but only just, than the other woman. Just like we were, remember? Emma's tongue traces over Kitty's pulse. She presses her mouth harder there, feeling the erratic beat against her lips. Her hand slides up--oh, but Kitty is breathing so fast and hard and panting--and her fingers press into Kitty's warm mouth. Slide over teeth and tongue, stroke in and out. Slow. deliberate.
*Emma, please,* Kitty sends, psychic-voice soft and unsure. *You--what are you doing?* There is a little bit of suction against Emma's fingers; not a lot, not enough, but it is there. Kitty's tongue, tentative.
Why are you doing this? You don't even like me. Echoes from another conversation. When it was Emma, trapped and confused and irate. Fingers pressed into her mouth so she couldn't breathe, couldn't form words.
"Katherine," Emma breathes, tasting Kitty's skin and night air and rain. "You'll never know." Emma moves her fingers away and presses her mouth to Kitty's again. I never did.
Somewhere, in the dark recesses of Emma's mind, she thinks she sees something flash hot, the color of fire. Just for a second, and then it is gone.
Author: Sionnain
Pairing: Emma/Kitty, implied Jean/Emma
Verse: Comic, set post-Torn (possibly post-"Unstoppable")
Rating: Adultish, mainly because of the warning. There is nothing graphic.
Warnings: This will skirt the edge of dub-con a little. Just with kissing.
Summary: There are many ways to talk to the dead.
AN: For Resolute, who gave me these lyrics and suggested Kitty/Emma, post-Torn, Jean's grave. Title/lyrics by the Flash Girls.
Pennyworth of Mortal Flesh
How can a pennyworth of mortal flesh hold
Anything more than a fever's dream/
they say the riders are near the threshold/
they say the fire is hot and clean.
__________________________
Wearing heels in the grass is difficult. When you walk, the earth sinks beneath your feet and the heels stick in the grass. Emma's heels are dangling from her finger, and she can feel sliver-slick grass on her feet when she walks. Somehow, it is more undignified to walk toddling like a child playing dress-up than barefoot. At least, to Emma it is. Though she cannot remember the last time she walked barefoot.
The moon hangs up in the sky, covered mostly by shifting clouds, which are growing thicker and darker. Every now and then there is enough light that breaks through, winning the struggle with the clouds and spilling out onto the lawn. Enough light to see the grave, and the writing etched in granite. Emma doesn't need the light, though. She know what it says.
She will rise again.
"I bloody hope not," Emma mutters. "Except that you will. I know it. You never do stay dead."
"Do any of us?"
The voice in the darkness is unexpected; a sign Emma is not concentrating like she should be. She should have heard Kitty coming and she didn't. Maybe Emma could have missed the footfalls in the grass, but the mental presence--yes, that. She should have felt that. As usual she makes Emma falter, throws her off her game. Even from the grave. How bloody typical.
"No," Emma says quietly, still staring down at the ground. There are roses that look black scattered on the grass, nonchalantly against the stone. It was her birthday a few days ago. Emma is sure that Scott came here and left flowers. Maybe Logan, too. Maybe all of them did, in some assembled sombre circle, and Emma was left alone in the house.
Emma doesn't come out here often. Not for holidays, definitely. Sometimes she does when it's nights like this; the air is too violent, and Scott's embrace is too gentle. She doesn't want to be loved. Too many specters in her mind, flaunting their dead smiles and taunting whispers, scratchy like tattered lace dragging over stone. When the end comes, aren't the dead supposed to rise from their graves? Maybe that is what Emma is waiting for. The end. Reckoning.
"What are you doing out here, Emma?" Alive, that is. Kitty doesn't even bother to hide it, that last thought. It leaks out like the first bit of rain from the clouds above.
Emma tilts her face up, towards the sky. She can feel wet on her skin, on her cheeks. Rain as light as an afterthought. Teasing with the promise of more. "I couldn't sleep."
Kitty must have been waiting for something else. Some glib response, some sarcastic barb. "Didn't take you for the walk amongst the dead type."
"I didn't think you took me for any type, Katherine." Emma slides her hand up over her cheeks, feeling her rain-slicked skin beneath her fingertips.
"Don't call me that."
It's so easy, really, with Katherine. Kitty. She's so quick to respond, to act. She doesn't think things through when she's angry. That's why Kitty would have done it. If Scott hadn't stopped her.
"I wonder where they would have put me?" Emma asks, voice faraway-soft. Water is dripping down her face, into her eyes.
"Who says you'd get a spot out here? Don't really think you've earned it, do you?" Kitty laughs. It sounds mean as nettles, sharp like thorns. "Not one up front, definitely."
"I don't think you're in any position to tell me what I've earned." Emma turns, her eyes narrowed. "You may stand out here in the rain and insult me, if you wish. I am going inside." Emma walks past Kitty, chin tilted. Like some doomed empress on her way to her execution.The rain is coming down a little harder, now, and Emma's outfit is almost soaked through. She wasn't wearing much, to begin with. The fabric clings, sodden white silk, molded to the curves of Emma's body.
"It's not an insult. It's the truth. This is a place for heroes. For people who fought and died protecting others. For people who were good. Not for you." Kitty is breathing hard.
"Not for you."
Emma turns her head. Smiles a little, through her hair, which is plastered against her face. Jean Grey devoured worlds. Emma, her crime--at least to Kitty--was creating one, and then ripping it away. Which is worse? Which gets you buried out in the far end of the graveyard, past the lawn, down where the grass slopes away into the woods? And which gets you a headstone with fresh flowers and tearful mourners who visit on your birthday?
"I know where my place is, Katherine," Emma says coolly. When she talks, she can feel rain slipping inside her mouth. Tasting faintly of ozone. "Perhaps your time would be better spent learning yours."
She should have known that would enrage the younger girl. Maybe that's what Emma wants, surrounded as she is by the dead. Kitty's anger is something living and hot, hitting Emma in pulsing waves. There is a moment when things are still and the sharpness of the moment burns like a memory behind her eyes; the darkness, the rain, the feel of the grass beneath her feet. Kitty rushing at her, crying out in rage, pushing cold fingers against Emma's shoulders.
Kitty is throwing out words hurtful and mean, but Emma has retreated somewhere deep inside herself and doesn't hear them. Instead, she wraps her fingers in Katherine's hair and yanks her head back, exposing her throat.
You used to do this to me, all the time, Emma thinks viciously. Do you like that I am doing it to your champion, your would-be successor? There is no answer in her mind. Emma doesn't care. Kitty is going to phase away from her, any second, but Emma knows how to stop it. A little push in Kitty's mind, find the center of her power and switch it off. Keep Kitty solid and there, unable to get away.
Emma does it, in fast like a thief, stopping Kitty's powers just as she tries to use them. Kitty howls in rage and kicks out, screaming. Emma is laughing, maybe, because this is what Kitty expects of her, isn't it? I am just doing what you want, darling. Playing the villain you've never stopped believing I am.
The heavens open up and there is too much rain, hard things pelting down that feel like hail, and the sky cracks with sudden sound and Emma presses Kitty's body against hers. Even though she is wet, too, Kitty's body is hot with shame and anger and fury--
Not as hot as yours always was--a fragment of a thought, hurtling downwards through the earth. To someone sleeping below who can't hear.
Emma presses her rain-slicked mouth to Kitty's, swallowing rage. Fear. Is this what I tasted like? she thinks, hands stroking down Kitty's body. They are standing together and Emma's hands are on Kitty's back, and Kitty is struggling but only a little. Emma wonders if this is how she felt; stubborn and defiant but gradually giving in, unable to stop it, the lust and the hate taking over, rising up and choking and drowning and burning--
Why is she doing this? Kitty is thinking, drowsy and confused and the words are still barbed but smoother-edged. Kitty's hands are twisted in wet silk and pulling half-heartedly, her intentions unclear.
Emma's mouth gentles. Her hands tease down Kitty's chest, skimming lightly over Kitty's breasts. Kitty's nipples press against the fabric, not from desire but from the cold. Emma's mouth is on Kitty's neck. She's taller, but only just, than the other woman. Just like we were, remember? Emma's tongue traces over Kitty's pulse. She presses her mouth harder there, feeling the erratic beat against her lips. Her hand slides up--oh, but Kitty is breathing so fast and hard and panting--and her fingers press into Kitty's warm mouth. Slide over teeth and tongue, stroke in and out. Slow. deliberate.
*Emma, please,* Kitty sends, psychic-voice soft and unsure. *You--what are you doing?* There is a little bit of suction against Emma's fingers; not a lot, not enough, but it is there. Kitty's tongue, tentative.
Why are you doing this? You don't even like me. Echoes from another conversation. When it was Emma, trapped and confused and irate. Fingers pressed into her mouth so she couldn't breathe, couldn't form words.
"Katherine," Emma breathes, tasting Kitty's skin and night air and rain. "You'll never know." Emma moves her fingers away and presses her mouth to Kitty's again. I never did.
Somewhere, in the dark recesses of Emma's mind, she thinks she sees something flash hot, the color of fire. Just for a second, and then it is gone.