Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit.
A/N: This drabble exists in a world that doesn’t exist. It is my own little made-up X-men world where the actions described below are not only plausible but probably occur daily. Maybe hourly. As always, I’m at Xfjnky2@yahoo.com
“I wonder what all that ice looks like when it melts.”
It was only one of the many things the darker part of her mind whispered to her in unguarded moments. And, most of the time Jean was able to wrestle the unbridled id of the Phoenix force into submission, stubbornly and rather desperately clinging on to her cloak of morality and decency like the protective shield it was.
This time, she had been pleasantly surprised to learn that ice melted into a scalding puddle against her tongue and brought with it the sweet sting of slightly too sharp nails digging into her scalp with more force than was technically comfortable.
Ice whipped through her on a sibilant hiss, sending a single syllable rippling down her spine to light a fire.
Ice whispered her name like a reverent prayer, glacial eyes filled with a warmth that flickered with the hint of flames – flames that licked across pale, translucent skin in a sizzling, teasing touch that left no mark, that made the palest of blonde silk glow a rich, burnished amber.
She wondered briefly if she was literally going to set the bedding afire.
Ice slipped free of the restrictive mask of arrogance and pride and begged for her. Because of her. In need of her. And it was beautiful, glorious and so insanely, indescribably, unapologetically and commandingly arousing that she burned with it.
She learned, with a small amount of shock, that ice was remarkably adept at reforming itself. It was mutable. Unpredictable. Searing in a way that was both pleasure and pain. Ice was attack, not defense.
“God, Emma. Please.”
The room glowed as if lit by the flickers of a thousand candles.
“Tell me you’re mine, Jean.”
She lamented the momentary loss of power for a fleeting second as ice consumed flame, turning radiant red a cool, incendiary blue.
And finally she learned, contrary to popular opinion, that ice didn’t quench fire. It didn’t extinguish it. It built it, fed it, razed the world with it.
Jean so loved the heat. She kept that fact hidden deep inside, afraid the others would be horrified to learn of it. Occasional lapses into homicidal mania aside, she was supposed to be the good girl.
For now, she was going to burn hot. No matter how many times ice re-crystallized into shimmering, intimidating perfection, she was confident that she could always make it melt.
Truth was she’d rather smolder out than be placed in the pantheon of heroic mutant martyrs, anyway
Besides, good girls never did get to have any fun.