Happy Birthday!
Title: Braver at Night
Author: musamea
Pairing: Emma Frost/Jean Grey
Rating: Decidedly NC-17.
A/N: Happy birthday, sionnain! I'm incredibly happy we're fandom friends and wish you the best in this next decade of life! Here's some smut for you. :) I tried to throw Scott in there, too, but the girls kept kicking him out. I also tried to keep it from getting too angsty, but again, Jean and Emma had minds of their own. Title from Anne Sexton's "Her Kind," of course.
It's one thirty in the morning and the only bloody alcohol in this entire bloody school is a sticky bottle of Jose Cuervo shoved in the very back of the minifridge in the staff room.
"Bloody birthdays," Emma mutters beneath her breath. The party for Jean's thirtieth ended a couple hours ago, and it looks like every single drop of decent wine in the mansion was consumed in the course of the evening. She considers driving to the nearest twenty-four hour grocery market, but thinks better of it. Any woman buying wine, alone, at this hour runs the risk of looking desperate to the shop clerks.
She's not desperate. She's not, and she's damned if she'll let anyone find her pathetic.
That decides matters, and she seizes the bottle of tequila in one hand and closes the fridge door with the other. Maybe there's some cranberry juice in the kitchen. She can at least make herself a shooter.
She passes through silent hallways, not sure if she's more surprised or relieved that the students have all, apparently, obeyed Scott's command to follow the lights-out curfew for once. But it's been a long week, and Emma's pretty sure she saw more than one bottle of vodka circulating surreptitiously among the students at the party. Serves them right if they all wake up with massive hangovers in the morning. Well, it's not like it was her job to police the children anyway.
The tile of the kitchen floors is slick and cool beneath her bare feet, and the light momentarily blinds her when she flicks it on. She sets the tequila on the counter; the bottle's beginning to sweat, and she runs one finger down the glass before turning to the refrigerator.
The sudden blast of cold air when she opens to the door feels almost like an embrace, and her body tightens and reacts like it would to a lover. She rummages past two gallons of milk, several cartons of eggs, five packs of deli meat and good God, what, exactly, does it take to keep this school of hungry teenagers fed?
There's a sizeable amount of birthday cake sitting neatly wrapped next to Tupperware containers of other party leftovers, and for a moment, the urge to rip the entire shelf out of the refrigerator and smash it against the wall nearly overwhelms her. Who gave Jean Grey the right to take over even this part of the school? Doesn't she understand that the twenty-four hours of the world celebrating her are over? It's supposed to be a birthday, not a fucking weeklong event.
But it's just like Jean, isn't it? Little Miss Perfect, who can eat any world that threatens not to revolve around her.
I need that drink, Emma thinks.
"Looking for something?"
Emma freezes. Dammit. She can just picture the sight greeting Jean's eyes right now -- her blonde hair mussed from tossing and turning, her ass sticking in the air and probably hanging out the bottom of her short silk chemise. The bottle of tequila shining like a beacon on the counter. She straightens and turns, slowly.
"Couldn't sleep, Frost?" Jean asks, and Emma can practically smell the birthday sex on her.
She lets the door fall closed behind her and crosses her arms across her chest. "I just wanted some water."
"Right." Jean walks to the counter and picks up the tequila. "And old Jose here was just keeping you company while you looked for it?"
Emma glares at her. "Or maybe I was trying to find something to make the crap liquor that this staff buys a little more palatable before I drank it."
She can almost feel the amusement rising from Jean's mind. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, baby."
"Shut up." Bitch.
Is it her imagination, or do Jean's eyes grow darker, her expression more fierce? "Don't mess with me tonight, Frost," she warns.
Emma tosses her head back and laughs. "Or what? What will you do? Cause another holocaust? Birthday's over, darling. You're just one of us again."
Jean takes one step toward her, then checks herself, and Emma feels a smile curl over her own lips. A low heat slowly coils in her belly, as if she's already downed a shot of that tequila. "Oh, that didn't sit too well, did it? You just hate being told you're ordinary."
It's Jean's turn to say, "Shut up," and she crosses the remaining distance between them, still gripping the bottle in one hand.
If there's one thing that Emma hates about Jean Grey -- well, if she had to pick one of the many things, that is -- it's how damn tall the woman is. She hates having to tilt her head up to meet Jean's gaze, and right now's no exception.
The silence begins to stretch too long, and Emma imagines that she can feel the anger sparking off of Jean's skin. "Don't you have a husband waiting somewhere?" she drawls, just to have something to say.
Jean's fingers are around her throat before Emma can blink, and she leans in so close that Emma can feel her breath against her cheek when Jean speaks. "Don't you dare. Bring Scott. Into this."
Oh, darling, I'd love to bring Scott into a lot of things, Emma thinks at her.
The heat of Jean's glare might peel the skin right off her skull, or maybe it's her fingers wrapped around Emma's throat. But whatever it is feels dangerous and thrilling and somehow right. White bursts begin sparking behind her eyelids every time she blinks.
Then Jean is bending toward her, the pressure easing off her throat, and she has one second to wonder if this is all happening before Jean's lips find hers.
If Emma could analyze this kiss, she'd say it lacked the finesse that she usually preferred in a lover. But Jean's mouth against hers is hard as a bruise, and she's got one knee shoved between Emma's thighs, and the fingers of one hand tangling in Emma's hair and the refrigerator magnets are digging into her back and God, but Jean tastes like ashes and salt and the entire universe all at once. She kisses Jean back.
When Jean finally pulls away, they're both panting, and Emma notes with some satisfaction the color rising in Jean's cheeks.
"What the hell was that?" Emma snaps, quickly, before she says anything else. (Anything like "Get away from me," or, maybe, "Kiss me again.")
Jean smiles, and it's almost a gentle smile. "You didn't get me a birthday present."
"So you just take what you want? How typical."
Again, with the darkening of Jean's eyes. Emma tells herself it's only a trick of the light, because to think further on the implications of what this might mean are far too dangerous. She doesn't want to think of holocausts tonight.
Neither do I. Jean's voice rings in her mind, clear as a bell and tinged in red and gold. Aloud, she only says, "I give, too," before pulling Emma away from the refrigerator. It's a mix of telekinesis and Jean's hands and maybe her own will that lifts Emma onto the counter. From here, she can look down on Jean Grey, for once, but Emma finds herself unable to lift her gaze from the low neck of Jean's tank top and the slight swell of breasts that she can catch whenever Jean moves. She can see the clear outline of Jean's nipples through the thin cotton, and she knows her own are just as hard, and she's torn between wanting to leap off the counter and run and wanting to reach out and touch Jean's skin with hands and mouth.
Jean leans forward, bites her clavicle lightly, murmurs against her neck, "Ever done a body shot, Frost?"
A what?
She feels Jean's smile against her skin, and suddenly a succession of images flicks through her mind -- the smooth burn of tequila, Scott's mouth on Jean's stomach, his tongue lapping at her belly button before dipping lower, her hands threading through his hair as he languidly works between her thighs --
Emma snaps their mental link shut, uncomfortably aware of how wet she is. "I thought you didn't want to bring Scott into this?"
"It's called an illustration," Jean says, rolling her eyes and pushing lightly at Emma's shoulder.
"Don't you dare," she says, refusing to lie back. "Don't you dare pretend you're willing to share him."
Jean pauses, then reaches out and cups her cheek with one hand. Staring straight into Emma's eyes, she says, "I can share more than you can imagine. 'I am large. I contain multitudes.'"
The literature teacher in Emma recognizes the quote as the White Queen in her warns against pushing further. This is Jean and not-Jean, and Emma already knows she'll recant her words come morning. Some things are more easily done in the dark, and confronting old demons (or giving in to them) is one of those things.
So she allows herself to be pushed onto her back, damp skin slicking the counter, lets Jean drizzle some Jose Cuervo into her mouth, lets her tug down the straps of her chemise and pour tequila into the hollow between her breasts. Jean's mouth traces a trail down her stomach and her hand drifts down lower, fingers slow and sure against hot flesh.
Emma bites her lip to keep from whimpering, the tequila burning a faint trail down her throat. It's too much and not enough at the same time, fear and lust playing a symphony in her mind, with neither movement able to drown out the other.
Her fingers scrape against the counter and she arches into Jean's touch, and it's still not enough, but then Jean thinks at her, You can think about him, you know.
But she doesn't. She thinks of wings and flames instead, thinks of the world's ending and life's ironies, and when she comes it's with a small shudder and nothing else.
Jean pauses. "I can--"
"No," Emma says. She blinks away sudden tears and looks at Jean, who no longer looks so all-powerful, not with her hair tangled from Emma's fingers and her mouth glistening from tequila. Emma suddenly feels tired, and very old, and she slides off the counter and away from Jean, stumbling a little when her feet touch the floor.
"Go back to bed, Jean," she says. I don't know what this was, but neither of us should be here. She's not working to project, so she's not sure if Jean catches that thought, but Jean's mouth tightens and she gives Emma a curt nod before swiveling on her heel and stalking away. She pauses at the kitchen door and says, without animosity, without looking over her shoulder, "It kills you, doesn't it, seeing that you and I just might understand each other?"
And then she's gone, swallowed in the darkness of the hallway, and Emma presses her hands to the countertop and stands, chemise bunched at her hips, skin sticky with sweat and tequila, staring unseeing at the bottle sitting in front of her.
Author: musamea
Pairing: Emma Frost/Jean Grey
Rating: Decidedly NC-17.
A/N: Happy birthday, sionnain! I'm incredibly happy we're fandom friends and wish you the best in this next decade of life! Here's some smut for you. :) I tried to throw Scott in there, too, but the girls kept kicking him out. I also tried to keep it from getting too angsty, but again, Jean and Emma had minds of their own. Title from Anne Sexton's "Her Kind," of course.
It's one thirty in the morning and the only bloody alcohol in this entire bloody school is a sticky bottle of Jose Cuervo shoved in the very back of the minifridge in the staff room.
"Bloody birthdays," Emma mutters beneath her breath. The party for Jean's thirtieth ended a couple hours ago, and it looks like every single drop of decent wine in the mansion was consumed in the course of the evening. She considers driving to the nearest twenty-four hour grocery market, but thinks better of it. Any woman buying wine, alone, at this hour runs the risk of looking desperate to the shop clerks.
She's not desperate. She's not, and she's damned if she'll let anyone find her pathetic.
That decides matters, and she seizes the bottle of tequila in one hand and closes the fridge door with the other. Maybe there's some cranberry juice in the kitchen. She can at least make herself a shooter.
She passes through silent hallways, not sure if she's more surprised or relieved that the students have all, apparently, obeyed Scott's command to follow the lights-out curfew for once. But it's been a long week, and Emma's pretty sure she saw more than one bottle of vodka circulating surreptitiously among the students at the party. Serves them right if they all wake up with massive hangovers in the morning. Well, it's not like it was her job to police the children anyway.
The tile of the kitchen floors is slick and cool beneath her bare feet, and the light momentarily blinds her when she flicks it on. She sets the tequila on the counter; the bottle's beginning to sweat, and she runs one finger down the glass before turning to the refrigerator.
The sudden blast of cold air when she opens to the door feels almost like an embrace, and her body tightens and reacts like it would to a lover. She rummages past two gallons of milk, several cartons of eggs, five packs of deli meat and good God, what, exactly, does it take to keep this school of hungry teenagers fed?
There's a sizeable amount of birthday cake sitting neatly wrapped next to Tupperware containers of other party leftovers, and for a moment, the urge to rip the entire shelf out of the refrigerator and smash it against the wall nearly overwhelms her. Who gave Jean Grey the right to take over even this part of the school? Doesn't she understand that the twenty-four hours of the world celebrating her are over? It's supposed to be a birthday, not a fucking weeklong event.
But it's just like Jean, isn't it? Little Miss Perfect, who can eat any world that threatens not to revolve around her.
I need that drink, Emma thinks.
"Looking for something?"
Emma freezes. Dammit. She can just picture the sight greeting Jean's eyes right now -- her blonde hair mussed from tossing and turning, her ass sticking in the air and probably hanging out the bottom of her short silk chemise. The bottle of tequila shining like a beacon on the counter. She straightens and turns, slowly.
"Couldn't sleep, Frost?" Jean asks, and Emma can practically smell the birthday sex on her.
She lets the door fall closed behind her and crosses her arms across her chest. "I just wanted some water."
"Right." Jean walks to the counter and picks up the tequila. "And old Jose here was just keeping you company while you looked for it?"
Emma glares at her. "Or maybe I was trying to find something to make the crap liquor that this staff buys a little more palatable before I drank it."
She can almost feel the amusement rising from Jean's mind. "Don't knock it 'til you've tried it, baby."
"Shut up." Bitch.
Is it her imagination, or do Jean's eyes grow darker, her expression more fierce? "Don't mess with me tonight, Frost," she warns.
Emma tosses her head back and laughs. "Or what? What will you do? Cause another holocaust? Birthday's over, darling. You're just one of us again."
Jean takes one step toward her, then checks herself, and Emma feels a smile curl over her own lips. A low heat slowly coils in her belly, as if she's already downed a shot of that tequila. "Oh, that didn't sit too well, did it? You just hate being told you're ordinary."
It's Jean's turn to say, "Shut up," and she crosses the remaining distance between them, still gripping the bottle in one hand.
If there's one thing that Emma hates about Jean Grey -- well, if she had to pick one of the many things, that is -- it's how damn tall the woman is. She hates having to tilt her head up to meet Jean's gaze, and right now's no exception.
The silence begins to stretch too long, and Emma imagines that she can feel the anger sparking off of Jean's skin. "Don't you have a husband waiting somewhere?" she drawls, just to have something to say.
Jean's fingers are around her throat before Emma can blink, and she leans in so close that Emma can feel her breath against her cheek when Jean speaks. "Don't you dare. Bring Scott. Into this."
Oh, darling, I'd love to bring Scott into a lot of things, Emma thinks at her.
The heat of Jean's glare might peel the skin right off her skull, or maybe it's her fingers wrapped around Emma's throat. But whatever it is feels dangerous and thrilling and somehow right. White bursts begin sparking behind her eyelids every time she blinks.
Then Jean is bending toward her, the pressure easing off her throat, and she has one second to wonder if this is all happening before Jean's lips find hers.
If Emma could analyze this kiss, she'd say it lacked the finesse that she usually preferred in a lover. But Jean's mouth against hers is hard as a bruise, and she's got one knee shoved between Emma's thighs, and the fingers of one hand tangling in Emma's hair and the refrigerator magnets are digging into her back and God, but Jean tastes like ashes and salt and the entire universe all at once. She kisses Jean back.
When Jean finally pulls away, they're both panting, and Emma notes with some satisfaction the color rising in Jean's cheeks.
"What the hell was that?" Emma snaps, quickly, before she says anything else. (Anything like "Get away from me," or, maybe, "Kiss me again.")
Jean smiles, and it's almost a gentle smile. "You didn't get me a birthday present."
"So you just take what you want? How typical."
Again, with the darkening of Jean's eyes. Emma tells herself it's only a trick of the light, because to think further on the implications of what this might mean are far too dangerous. She doesn't want to think of holocausts tonight.
Neither do I. Jean's voice rings in her mind, clear as a bell and tinged in red and gold. Aloud, she only says, "I give, too," before pulling Emma away from the refrigerator. It's a mix of telekinesis and Jean's hands and maybe her own will that lifts Emma onto the counter. From here, she can look down on Jean Grey, for once, but Emma finds herself unable to lift her gaze from the low neck of Jean's tank top and the slight swell of breasts that she can catch whenever Jean moves. She can see the clear outline of Jean's nipples through the thin cotton, and she knows her own are just as hard, and she's torn between wanting to leap off the counter and run and wanting to reach out and touch Jean's skin with hands and mouth.
Jean leans forward, bites her clavicle lightly, murmurs against her neck, "Ever done a body shot, Frost?"
A what?
She feels Jean's smile against her skin, and suddenly a succession of images flicks through her mind -- the smooth burn of tequila, Scott's mouth on Jean's stomach, his tongue lapping at her belly button before dipping lower, her hands threading through his hair as he languidly works between her thighs --
Emma snaps their mental link shut, uncomfortably aware of how wet she is. "I thought you didn't want to bring Scott into this?"
"It's called an illustration," Jean says, rolling her eyes and pushing lightly at Emma's shoulder.
"Don't you dare," she says, refusing to lie back. "Don't you dare pretend you're willing to share him."
Jean pauses, then reaches out and cups her cheek with one hand. Staring straight into Emma's eyes, she says, "I can share more than you can imagine. 'I am large. I contain multitudes.'"
The literature teacher in Emma recognizes the quote as the White Queen in her warns against pushing further. This is Jean and not-Jean, and Emma already knows she'll recant her words come morning. Some things are more easily done in the dark, and confronting old demons (or giving in to them) is one of those things.
So she allows herself to be pushed onto her back, damp skin slicking the counter, lets Jean drizzle some Jose Cuervo into her mouth, lets her tug down the straps of her chemise and pour tequila into the hollow between her breasts. Jean's mouth traces a trail down her stomach and her hand drifts down lower, fingers slow and sure against hot flesh.
Emma bites her lip to keep from whimpering, the tequila burning a faint trail down her throat. It's too much and not enough at the same time, fear and lust playing a symphony in her mind, with neither movement able to drown out the other.
Her fingers scrape against the counter and she arches into Jean's touch, and it's still not enough, but then Jean thinks at her, You can think about him, you know.
But she doesn't. She thinks of wings and flames instead, thinks of the world's ending and life's ironies, and when she comes it's with a small shudder and nothing else.
Jean pauses. "I can--"
"No," Emma says. She blinks away sudden tears and looks at Jean, who no longer looks so all-powerful, not with her hair tangled from Emma's fingers and her mouth glistening from tequila. Emma suddenly feels tired, and very old, and she slides off the counter and away from Jean, stumbling a little when her feet touch the floor.
"Go back to bed, Jean," she says. I don't know what this was, but neither of us should be here. She's not working to project, so she's not sure if Jean catches that thought, but Jean's mouth tightens and she gives Emma a curt nod before swiveling on her heel and stalking away. She pauses at the kitchen door and says, without animosity, without looking over her shoulder, "It kills you, doesn't it, seeing that you and I just might understand each other?"
And then she's gone, swallowed in the darkness of the hallway, and Emma presses her hands to the countertop and stands, chemise bunched at her hips, skin sticky with sweat and tequila, staring unseeing at the bottle sitting in front of her.