To see if I could. And, because the lists seem kinda
*dead* lately. Write people!
Title: Moonlight Seranade
Author: X_tricks2000@yahoo.com
Series: no
'Verse: Comic, post Jean's most current death
Pairing: Emma/Jean? Belive it or not!
Disclaimer: Marvel ownes 'em, I do not.
Moonlight Seranade
There had been years when this was everything she wanted.
Emma's heels ticked softly on the floor, shadow and
moonlight sliding across her skin in turn as she walked the
halls of Xavier's mansion. Some years it had been revenge
she'd craved; revenge on DaCosta's son, revenge for being
thwarted - year after year by the sanctimonious X-men -
fury at Xavier's teachings that left his student's so
vulnerable to treachery from humans. In the later years,
when everyone was older, if not wiser, Emma craved the
mansion for a different reason entirely.
Now she had all she craved. The mansion, a position of
leadership, the responsibility of shaping the next
generation of mutant children - and Scott.
Her late night
wanderings had taken her to the Headmaster's office and she
poured herself a glass of whiskey.
"And still, I rate below a corpse," she tipped her glass to
the monolithic, stylized bird statue looming beyond the
window, stark in the moonlight and stone cold dead. Like
Jean.
Not that she believed that would last forever. Returning
from the dead was Jean's talent, after all.
Someday, somehow, Emma expected Jean would show up again.
She was certainly aware that Scott believed that too. Emma
swallowed down the whiskey, closing her eyes at the
satisfying burn then poured another glass.
She wasn't going to start simpering about the price of her
dreams now and took another swallow instead. Pushing aside
the curtain Emma stared out at the dark shadows and moonlit
stone. Scott had chosen it, the odd apricot alabaster and
the abstract design both. She wondered if Jean would have
liked it and guessed not. Jean, for all her prudish,
ill-tempered arrogance hadn't been much for big honking
statues in her honor. What the Phoenix believed … Emma
really didn't give a damn.
Emma found herself outside a little while later, circling
the statue while the night air slipped past the translucent
barrier of her nightgown. The silk clung to her hips and
to cold nipples, slipped apart to bare her thighs and that
was just the way she wanted it. Emma bought her lingerie
with an eye to who was going to be looking at it, not for
warmth.
The glass was cold on her mouth and, when she put her hand
to the stone statue, it was colder still. She saluted it
then, on impulse, poured a splash of whiskey at the base.
Remy LeBeau, superstitious Cajun that he was, would be
proud of her. Perhaps a tip of whiskey now and then would
keep Jean away for another day, another month, another
moment.
"Give me a chance, damn you," she whispered to the
soaring beak. It cut into the diamond bright moon, a
sharp, red edged shadow. Just like the shadow Jean still
cast over Emma's life. She had everything she longed for
and nothing. Nothing.
Emma hopped up on the base of the statue and sat, cold
stone biting through the pale silk of her inadequate
clothes. The expansive, and expensively repaired lawn, was
empty - or at least Logan was staying out of her sight.
The mansion was silent behind her, all the kiddies dreaming
of better days and Scott dreaming of Jean. She didn't even
have to dip into his mind to know that. It had been true
since before Jean had died and … Emma wasn't going
to bitch about lying in the bed she'd made for herself.
She was a substitute and she'd known it at the first kiss.
At least Scott was old enough now not to try and lie to her
about it and Emma supposed she had to be satisfied with
that. Or do without and she wasn't used to not getting
what she wanted. Except that she'd never bargained for
being a crutch and she leaned back against the cold stone,
cursing Jean's name and her yenta-arrogance for 'giving'
Scott into Emma's care like he was a crippled boy.
Which, Emma had to admit as she studied the dregs of her
drink, he was. It was like he'd lost a limb - or something
more significant. The ache of Jean's absence was always,
always there in his mind. For a telepath it was
maddening and nothing she did soothed that ache. Because
she wasn’t Jean.
And there, of course, lay temptation. She was a telepath
of no little power and she knew what Scott missed and
longed for as no one else did. It would be easy, almost,
to give him what he so desperately wanted. What he clearly
needed.
It would be easy to give him Jean.
Frighteningly easy, with everyone in the mansion holding
their breath and waiting for Jean's fiery return. It would
not be so hard to draw Jean's image and Jean's voice and
Jean's walk over her own. It would not be difficult to
find and fill all the spaces where Jean once had been.
They were not so different after all.
Both telepaths. Emma let her mind rove over the dreams
within the house behind her. Logan was asleep, amazingly
enough and for once, free of nightmares. Emma tip-toed
past his mind, wary of stirring him from his rare moment of
peace.
Both powerful. In their battles, sometimes Jean had been
the victor and sometimes Emma. As they'd aged, they'd
reached an impasse and it was only situational advantages
that kept them from stalemate. Emma liked to believe that
they had even come to a sort of understanding in the years
as opponents and uneasy allies.
Both women. Emma wound a lock of her moon-silvered hair
around a finger. Jean had been undeniably beautiful, in
the particular way of women who didn't care about their own
beauty. Emma traced the shape of her own mouth with a
fingertip; Jean's mouth had been a warmer shape - a little
irregular dip at the left. Emma could practically feel it.
The fuller shape, see the deeper red. She swept her
tongue over her finger.
Jean had been slender where Emma was fuller; a lifetime of
training as an X-man betrayed by sleek muscle if you looked
for it. Emma ran her damp finger down the length of her
throat, feeling a pulse stronger and deeper than her own.
Her nipples prickled, swelling from more than cold now.
She rolled the cold glass over her breast, gasping and
arching her back at the teasing chill. Cradling herself,
she pressed a palm over her nipple, rubbing in small
circles and breathing deep at the prickling warmth. Jean's
breasts were smaller, a petal soft handful with skin like
cream and nipples like rosebuds waiting for a touch to wake
them to pleasure.
Heat gathered and spread down to swell between Emma's legs
and she slipped off the cold stone only to lean against it,
spreading her legs to the night air and the phantom touches
that seemed so very real. A breeze that should have been
chilling but instead seemed hot, like breath, stole up her
thigh. Emma tugged her robe open, ivory gold skin framed
by ice white silk, the pollen gold triangle of pubic hair
silvered by moonlight and pale pale breasts flushed and
swollen with desire.
Hunger rippling through her, Emma closed her eyes and
dipped two fingers into her mouth. She bit at them,
imagining stronger hands, a longer body against her own, a
hot damp mouth closing on her pulse. Hands shaping her
breasts, kneading them, making he hips roll in feverish
answer. Pulse leaping against teeth and full lips, Emma
breathed Jean's name and inhaled the smell of her hair
brushing her cheek. Cinnamon hair, fire hair, warm hands
sliding over her waist, a warm tongue licking down her
throat. Emma gathered that hair in her hands, stroked over
satin skin and felt shifting muscles under her hands. She
was hot now, in the cold moonlight, beneath the shadow of a
dead bird. Hot and aching and wet.
Nipples between her fingers, hard, tight and swollen and
she pinched them, gasping as pleasure flooded her senses.
Cradled her breasts and offered them for touch and taste,
drawing nipples out between her fingers, milking the
pleasure that surged through her in sharp little aches.
Her skin felt too small, sweat gleaming, tracing the echo
of taste and touches. Emma scraped her fingernails down
the long curve of hip and waist, a hot cry flooded the air.
It was all heat now, heat and sweaty skin and the salty
smell of desire. Open mouthed moans carried in the night,
Emma's fingers chased shivers and gasps and tormenting maps
as they slid down to circle the small dip of a navel. The
skin under hands was so hot, so eager. She could
taste salt now, and shape the feel of swollen nipples in
her mouth. She could feel the patter of nips and licks and
kisses, each one a new spark of pleasure. Pleasure seeped
wet and languid down her thigh and Emma reached down to
slip her fingers across the silky fluid.
The taste of a woman's salt pleasure made Emma groan low
and long. Her free hand dropped to press against the fine,
wet hair between her legs. As she massaged the tender
fullness of her labia, Emma felt the gathering ache within
strengthen. Climax built in the hard ache of her nipples,
the shift and sway of her breasts, in the flush of her skin
and behind her closed eyes where red hair and fiery touches
lingered in her mind's eye.
Emma parted wet flesh, fingers sliding slick in warm
scented pubic hair, teasing the thinner inner lips as her
hips jumped in desperate hunger for more touch. The hot,
swollen nub of her neglected clit throbbed sharply in
demand and her hips angled forward in demand for more. One
hand pressed to her belly, feeling the shiver of muscles
there, she glided a finger between the folds of her body,
the anticipation of penetration making her pant.
Forefinger angling within, as she pressed deep Emma also
pushed her thumb against her clit and her body jumped in a
spasm of fierce pleasure.
Fluid wet her palm as she rocked her hips, riding the
finger within, thrusting against the tease of her own
thumb. She shifted, pressing two fingers inside, sighing
at the feel of pressure, the movement. She was so hot in
there, so wet, the bud of her clit hard and swollen and
throbbing in joy against her thumb. Emma circled herself,
nerves thrumming with pleasure, hand running up and down
her body, circling her breasts, stroking her nipples,
dropping down to push against her own hand and to feel more
pressure. Her hip rode the night, legs sprawled wide,
body arched across the stone and kissed by the moon.
Eyes squeezed shut, Emma could feel the rippling heat on
her skin, anticipation hurried her hands, thumb moving now
in strong, urgent circles, fingers rocking in and out and
in and out -
She was torn between holding off and rushing forward when
her hips snapped forward, climax blooming in a red rush
through her as her slick vagina clamped rhythmically
against her hand. The pulsing release throbbed wildly in
her ears, simmered over her skin and Emma wailed aloud,
crushing her palm against her labia and clutching the
moment, drawing it a series of long, ecstatic shudders.
Thighs shaking hard, Emma slumped against the stone, one
hand braced against it with the other still buried between
her legs. With a long sigh, hair tumbled across her
flushed face, she drew free; feeling the immediate, lonely
ache between her legs.
The wind was chilling now, when it had seemed so hot a
moment ago as Emma blinked dazedly into the night. There
was nothing out there, of course, and if her body hummed
and stung with the memory of presence, well that was
only a fantasy.
She pulled her inadequate silk robe tight around herself,
sticky hand leaving damp prints on the fabric. Emma knew
that Jean would return someday but she doubted it would be
to fulfil one of her private sexual fantasies. It was
unlikely that it would be the heat of Jean's passion she
would face when she returned.
Emma shook her hair back and walked, a tad unsteadily back
indoors. It was time for a shower and possibly time to
wake Scott from his dream fantasy and provide him a waking
one instead. Behind her, the whiskey spilled in idle
sacrifice gleamed gold and crimson in the white light of
the moon.
END (100504)
=====
XT
A hard-on dosen't qualify as personal growth.
My Site! http://x-tricks.slashcity.org
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