married, mama wanda who canât get enough of her sweet little girl who also happens to be the nanny to her twin boys.
sheâs never been satisfied with a man (aka her husband), so when you came into the picture, all bright-eyed and eager to please her as your boss, she couldnât help but take advantage of the situation.
it started small. not so accidentally brushes along your arm, asking you slightly prying questions, telling you to sit real close to her because she âcanât hear youâ when youâre so far away. that morphed into changing clothes somewhere you could catch her, wearing outfits that accentuated her figureâespecially her boobs, and even touching herself when the boys were down so you could hear her soft moans through the door.
now, she fucks you every afternoon when the twins nap, and when she comes into your room at night under the guise of going over the day and planning the next one, she fucks you againâher sweet little girl.
and letâs not forget, even when you need her in the middle of the night, she encourages you to come and wake her up. she makes sure youâre both real quiet as she wraps you tightly in her arms and cradles the back of your head while you nurse on her tit. her husbands snores fill the room, a constant reminder you could be found out at any moment, but she just shushes you, brushing hair off your forehead as she tells you to continue suckling <3
âŤâ･⪠Now I see the world in purple âŤâ･âŞ
Pairing: Jean Grey x Fem!reader Word count: 7.7k (damn) Summary: Jean Grey grew up alone in this world, and you thought you were just as lonely, after a messy coffee introduction, an offer, a blunt rolled on a shaky hand that revealed secrets, you guys get to attached until Jean has to go back to reality. Warnings: Angst, Mild Sexual content, Weed consumption, also mild fluff, toxic!Jean (but she doesn't know), Mind control, Memory Loss , this is not movie accurate cause I started this before it even came out, and I just watched it yesterday, green eyed jean (as it should be), Gaslighting, use of y/n once or twice I think, Codependecy, Spidey references cause I missed him sm, Rich!reader mentioned (for the plot also), also I am very sleep deprived and I just finished editing this so if there's any mistakes I apologize, I already have a part two in mind so let me know if you guys want that!
It's funny, you met Jean by a complete misunderstanding.
"Y/n!" you heard the waitress call out, her voice cutting through the morning bustle of the bakery. You were camped on the top floor balcony with your laptop, supposedly working on your film studies thesis about subjective camera techniques in French New Wave cinema, but mostly you were just staring at the same paragraph you'd written three days ago. Your notes were a mess of half-formed ideas and coffee stains, the kind of mess that felt like a physical manifestation of your brain.
Standing up, you gave her a quick look through the railing, then started walking toward the other side of the massive converted warehouse space the bakery occupied. Jesus, since when does this place have all these stairs? you thought, but then, where does an almond croissant worth six dollars and your entire morning routine live if not up here, in this warm upstairs spot where at least the light was good and nobody could see you doing nothing instead of just another rich kid with absent parents and too much empty space in a penthouse you didn't earn.
Once you were on the main floor, you were literally skipping through the busy desks, trying to ignore the loudness of the espresso machines and the too-cheerful morning people who actually talked to each other before noon. You went to the counter where your order was supposed to be waiting.
It was not there.
Your gaze went to the baristas, and they had such a tired, thousand-yard stare that you decided not to burden them. In New York this stuff happened more often than anyone would like to admit-orders lost, names butchered, existential crises unfolding over oat milk availability-so with a deep breath you decided to make the line again and order.
Until.
A redhead with a heavy wool cloak passed right by you, shoulders touching, looking down at something in her hands. You saw her holding the exact same thing you ordered: a ceramic mug with the little heart the older lady at the counter drew for you every morning. She looked carefree about the world, moving through the crowd like she existed on a slightly different frequency than everyone else, like the noise and hurry of Manhattan couldn't quite touch her.
At first, you were going to shrug it off. It was just coffee. You could order again. But then you remembered your therapist's words from last Tuesday: "You need to start standing up for yourself. Your boundaries matter. Your needs matter."
Walking toward her with shaky hands, you tapped her shoulder. "Excuse me, I think that's my order."
"Hm," she mumbled without looking at you, her eyes stuck in the newspaper she was holding. Your coffee and croissant sat untouched and forgotten on the small table beside her, as if she'd picked them up by accident and immediately lost interest.
"I said-"
"No. I heard you." She still didn't look up. "I just don't understand. I don't work here."
Is this girl serious? You scoffed, looking around, ready to just leave and come back tomorrow, maybe try a different bakery altogether. But not without throwing a death stare to the thief. When you looked back at her, though, she was already staring at you.
But those eyes made your mean attitude drop instantly. They were green, like a clover that you were lucky to find in an empty field, and she looked truly confused and closed off, like she was stuck somewhere else entirely. She gave you a small nod, waiting for you to say something else, to explain what was happening in a way that made sense to her.
"Sara!" the lady at the counter called out, looking at the freckled face of the redhead with a sweet, familiar smile.
The girl's green eyes moved around, scanning the room, and her brows furrowed deeply. She clearly did not understand why her name was being called, why this stranger was smiling at her with such warmth.
You looked at the counter and saw another cup with a bag, pretty similar to what was on her table. Your heart broke a little. This girl was clearly not from here-maybe not from anywhere near here-and she might come from a dark place, somewhere she didn't understand the basics of a coffee place.
"That's yours," you whispered softly, pointing to the counter.
She left the chair quickly, clearly embarrassed, her cloak swirling around her, and went to retrieve the correct order. You saw her piece of newspaper as she stood-decided to take a peek at it: SPIDER-MAN SAVED A BUILDING FROM BURNING DOWN LAST NIGHT! Every time you heard about the insect guy, swinging through your city in that ridiculous costume, you just wondered who he was under the mask. Someone normal, probably. Someone who'd made a choice to be visible, to be seen. You couldn't imagine the loneliness of that, or the freedom.
"I'm really sorry about that," the redhead interrupted your thoughts with a trembling voice, back at her table now, clutching the correct coffee like a lifeline. "I didn't-I wasn't trying to-I don't understand how this works. Any of it."
"Don't worry about it. I can tell you're not from here." You smiled, trying to make it gentle, non-threatening. You grabbed your stuff and headed to the exit.
Almost headed.
"Wait!"
You turned to the girl quicker and stronger than you would have liked, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. You were overwhelmed with the situation and very hungry, your blood sugar crashing, your hands still a little shaky and cold from the confrontation that wasn't a confrontation.
"Where are you heading?" she asked very bluntly, like she'd never learned the social choreography of small talk, of easing into requests.
"I don't know. Maybe Central Park to eat. This place got too loud." You shifted your backpack, the weight of your camera attached to it pulling at your shoulder. "Take some pictures, you know. For school. I'm a film student."
That was surprising, even to you. You had no idea why you were that laid back with a woman you'd just accused of stealing your breakfast. She just felt safe, somehow. Like being near her was like stepping into a slightly warmer pocket of air, a place where the static of the city dimmed.
"Can I keep you company?" She asked it like she was testing the words, feeling their shape in her mouth. "Maybe buy you some more coffee. You know. As an apology. For the confusion."
And it's crazy how your instinct was correct.
By the time you made it to Central Park, the October light was doing that golden thing it does in late afternoon, turning everything into a movie set. You found a bench near the lake, and she sat close enough that her stupid overly big brushed your thigh, close enough that you could feel her skin, see the freckles all around her body
She told you her name was Sara. She told you she was twenty-one, two years older than you. She told you she was staying in a shelter downtown, that she had some money saved but not much, that she was trying to figure out how to exist in a world that felt increasingly hostile and complicated.
You told her about your thesis, about your parents who were never home, about the penthouse that felt like a museum of your loneliness. You told her things you hadn't told your therapist in six months of weekly sessions.
When your phone buzzed with a text from your mother-Dinner next month? I'll have my assistant send the reservation-you ignored it. When Sara's hand found yours on the bench between you, her fingers long and warm and slightly calloused, you didn't pull away.
"Your eyes," she said quietly, not looking at you, looking at the ducks on the water. "I still know them. From somewhere. I don't know where. But I know them."
You didn't understand what she meant. You didn't need to.
That night, you brought her home.
Not for anything romantic, you told yourself. Just-she had nowhere to go, and you had too much space, and there was something about her that made you want to be generous in a way you'd never been before. You gave her the guest room with its own bathroom, its view of the city lights. You gave her one of your father's old shirts to sleep in, watching the way the fabric dwarfed her, made her look small and breakable.
She stood in your kitchen at midnight, staring at your espresso machine like it might attack her.
"I don't know how any of this works," she admitted, not turning around. "The world you live in. It's so loud. So full of things that beep and flash and demand attention."
You showed her how to work the machine. You showed her how to use the shower, the thermostat, and the TV with its seventeen streaming services. She watched you with those green eyes, absorbing everything, and you felt seen in a way that made your chest tight.
When you said goodnight, standing in the hallway between your respective bedrooms, she caught your wrist. Her touch sent something warm crawling up your arm, into your shoulder, settling at the base of your skull like a cat making itself comfortable.
"Thank you," she said. "For not being afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you," you said, and you meant it, even though some part of you whispered that you should be.
It took two weeks for her to tell you the truth.
You were laying on the marbled floor of your living room, sharing a blunt you'd rolled with shaky hands, the city spread out below you through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The October rain was making everything blurry and beautiful, and you were talking about your thesis again, about how you wanted to make films that made people feel less alone.
"I need to tell you something," Sara said. She was staring at the ceiling, her red hair fanned out around her head like a halo. "My name isn't Sara. It's Jean. And people are looking for me. People who want to take me away again, lock me up, study me. Because I can do things. Things that aren't possible."
You turned your head to look at her. She looked serious, her jaw tight, her hands fidgeting with the hem of your father's shirt-she was still wearing it, had been wearing it every day, and you'd started thinking of it as hers.
"What kind of things?" you asked, not really believing her, wondering if this was some kind of delusion, some mental health crisis you weren't equipped to handle.
"I can move things with my mind. I can hear thoughts, sometimes, if I'm trying. I can..." She hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I can make people feel things. Change how they feel. It's not always on purpose. It's just-when I'm near someone, when I care about them, my mind reaches out. Like it wants to merge with theirs."
You laughed. You couldn't help it. It sounded insane, like something out of one of the superhero movies you analyzed in your film theory classes. "I don't believe shit of what you just said."
Jean didn't wait for your answer.
The ambient hum of the penthouse-the distant traffic, the low drone of the central air, the refrigerator's mechanical breathing-simply ceased. It was replaced by a heavy, magnetic warmth at the base of your skull, crawling softly into your thoughts like static on a silk blanket, like the feeling of falling backward into water and trusting someone to catch you.
On the marble coffee table, your heavy ceramic mug began to rattle. Slowly, deliberately, it lifted six inches into the air, hovering weightlessly, turning slowly so you could see that it was real, that there were no strings, no tricks.
Your breath hitched, but you weren't looking at the cup.
You were looking at her.
Her green eyes burned with an impossible, vibrant light that seemed to draw all the ambient color from the room directly into her, like she was a black hole for ordinary reality. Jean leaned forward, her warm palm cupping the side of your neck, and pulled you in.
The first kiss was electric, frantic, and desperate. Your hands tangled in her red hair, pulling her flush against you on the cold floor, the boundaries of your own consciousness smudging at the edges like wet paint. She tasted like cheap diner coffee and adrenaline and something sweeter underneath, something that made you think of summer fields and safety, and you couldn't get enough, your hands exploring, gripping, claiming.
And so it goes that, you thought dizzily, feeling her lips trail down your jaw, rough and perfect, she kissed your neck, made your paths intersect, 'til the two lines formed a circle.
She bit gently at your collarbone, and you gasped, arching into her, the telekinetic energy still humming in the air around you making your hair stand on end, making every touch feel amplified, like you were feeling it with more than just your skin.
You didn't know if it was the adrenaline, the high or her strength but in a blink of an eye: she lifted you easily, hands sliding beneath your thighs to gather you close, and settled you into her lap. Your legs wrapped around her waist instinctively, ankles locking at the small of her back as she pulled you flush against her. The heat of her through thin fabric, the solid press of her stomach between your thighs, the way her palms spread wide to cradle your hips and keep you there, just enough to let you feel her, the deliberate control as she held you exactly where she wanted.
You stumbled together toward the dark hallway, bodies tangled, her mouth still hungry on your throat, your pulse hammering beneath her lips. The heavy, intoxicating purple of the space swirled around you, swallowing the last edges of your restraint.
Jean's hands dropped to the backs of your thighs and tightened. "Got you," she murmured against your ear, and then she was lifting, hoisting you up with a soft grunt of effort that sent a thrill straight through your stomach.
"Jean-!" you gasped, legs scrambling to wrap around her solid waist, fingers clutching at her shoulders. "You can't-I'm too-"
"You're perfect," she cut you off, already walking, each step bouncing you slightly, pressing you closer against her. You felt the strength in her arms, the deliberate way she held you, like you weighed nothing, like she could carry you forever. She nudged the bedroom door with her hip, and it clicked shut behind you, sealing you both into the dark.
She laid you down on the bed like you were something precious, something breakable. The purple followed you in, thick as smoke, curling around the edges of your vision until the room felt smaller, safer, like a secret only the two of you shared. Jean crawled over you, her hair falling like a curtain, blocking out everything else.
"Tell me to stop," she whispered, her fingers tracing the waistband of your jeans, teasing, testing. "Tell me to stop and I will."
You didn't. You couldn't. The words wouldn't even form in your mouth, not with her looking at you like that, like you were the only thing in the world worth having.
She took her time. She always did. Every touch was a claim, every kiss a brand. You felt her in your mind as much as on your skin, that telepathic presence winding through your thoughts, amplifying every sensation until you couldn't tell where you ended and she began.Â
When she finally pushed inside you, slow and deliberate, you cried out into her shoulder, and she caught the sound with her mouth, swallowing it whole.
The night dissolved into fragments: her hands pinning yours above your head, the heat of her mouth on your breast, the way she whispered your name like a prayer and a curse. You lost count of how many times she made you fall apart, each orgasm rolling into the next, building until you were sobbing, begging, please, Jean, please, I can't-
"You can," she promised, her voice rough, her hips never slowing. "You can for me. You will for me."
And you did. You always did.
Afterward, she held you while you trembled, her fingers drawing lazy patterns on your back, her mind a warm blanket wrapped around yours. You were dimly aware that you should be exhausted, that your body should hurt, but the purple hummed through your veins like a drug, keeping you floating, keeping you hers.
"Sleep," she murmured against your temple, and you felt the gentle push of her suggestion, the telepathic nudge that made your eyelids heavy. "I've got you. I'll always have you."
You believed her. In that moment, with her arms around you and her presence filling every corner of your mind, you would have believed anything she told you.
You didn't see her watching you in the dark, her green eyes troubled, her fingers tracing the fresh marks she'd left on your skin. You didn't feel the weight of her guilt, the part of her that knew this was wrong, that she was taking too much, giving too little back.
You just slept, dreamless and deep, wrapped in her purple and her warmth, never guessing how close the end really was.
By November, the sterile, empty penthouse had completely transformed into a fortress for two.
Now a toothbrush, a coat, and a pair of shoes all come in double. You found yourself writing it in your journal one morning, sitting at the kitchen island, watching the words take shape in your cramped handwriting. Looking up, you watched Jean sleeping softly on the velvet couch you'd bought specifically because she loved the texture, because she said it reminded her of something she couldn't quite name.
You used to spend your weekends out in the city, chasing gallery showings and photography gigs, trying to build a portfolio that might get you into a real film program, might justify the expensive education your parents were barely aware they were funding. You used to have ambitions, plans, a vision of your future that involved festivals and premieres and your name in small but respectable font on opening credits.
It's crazy, you thought, closing the leather-bound book with a soft thump. I had big dreams 'til I tied myself to you.
Now, the thought of leaving her alone in this glass box for even an hour made your chest tight with anxiety. You'd skip classes to stay home with her, making up excuses about food poisoning or family emergencies. You'd turned down three different internship opportunities because they would have required travel, time away, leaving her unprotected.
Because that's what she needed, you told yourself. Protection. She was a fugitive, a mutant, something the government or worse was hunting. She needed you to be her shield, her cover, her connection to a world she didn't understand.
You walked over and turned on the TV, keeping the volume low so as not to wake her. The news was covering another Spider-Man sighting-some bank robbery in Queens, the masked figure swinging through traffic with impossible grace. You wondered, not for the first time, if he had someone waiting for him too. If he went home to empty rooms and the weight of secrets.
Jean stirred, her eyes opening slowly, that familiar green focusing on you with an intensity that still made your stomach flip after two months.
"You're watching the news again," she murmured, her voice rough with sleep. "Looking for me?"
"Always," you said, and it came out softer than you intended, more honest.
She sat up, the blanket falling away, and you saw the tension in her shoulders, the way her jaw tightened when she was scanning for threats. She did this every morning, every time she woke-assessing, calculating, ready to run.
"Come here," you said, and she came, folding herself into your arms on the couch, her chin on the top of your head, her arm caressing your hipÂ
"I had a dream," she whispered. "They found me. They came through the windows, and I couldn't-I couldn't stop them. And you were there, and I hurt you. I hurt you trying to get away." You could feel her bruised tone as she hide her face on your shoulder leaving a kiss thereÂ
You held her tighter, your hand stroking through her red hair, counting the freckles on her arm like you did when you couldn't sleep. "I'm not going anywhere. And neither are you."
She raised her head to look at you, and there was something in her eyes, something dark and desperate and hungry. "You don't understand. I'm not safe. The things I can do, the way I am-I'm a weapon. I'm a bomb waiting to go off. And you're standing right in the web of it
"Then I'll stand," you said, and you meant it, you meant it so completely that it terrified you.
Jean's hand came up to cup your face, her thumb tracing your cheekbone, and you felt that familiar warmth at the base of your skull, that magnetic pull that made your thoughts feel fuzzy, made your worries feel distant and unimportant.
"Let me in," she whispered, and you did, you always did, opening yourself to her like a flower to the sun, and you couldn't tell anymore where you ended and she began.
The fight started over something stupid.
You'd gone out for groceries-just a quick trip to the local store you'd started frequenting, the one where the cashier knew your name and asked about your "roommate" with a knowing smile. You'd been gone forty minutes, maybe forty-five, and when you came back, Jean was pacing the living room like a caged animal, her eyes wild, her hands shaking.
"Where were you?" she demanded, her voice too loud, too sharp. "I couldn't feel you. I reached out and you were just-gone. Do you know what that's like? Do you know what it does to me?"
"I went to the store, Jean. I bought milk. I texted you." You held up the bag, proof of your mundane betrayal.
"I don't care about the fucking milk!" She turned, and the coffee table lifted six inches off the ground, magazines and remote controls sliding to the floor. "You can't just disappear like that. You can't just leave me here, wondering if they got you, if they found me through you, if you're"
"I'm not your prisoner," you said quietly, and the words landed between you like a stone in still water.
Jean went still. The coffee table crashed back down, one leg cracking, ceramic coasters shattering against the marble. She stared at the damage, at the physical evidence of her instability, and something in her face crumpled.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just-I can't lose you. You're the only thing that's real to me anymore. The only thing that makes the noise stop."
You wanted to be angry. You wanted to yell about boundaries and trust and how her fear was suffocating you, how you'd given up everything-your dreams, your independence, your entire life-and it was never enough. But then you saw her hands, how they were trembling, how she was hugging herself like she might fly apart if she didn't hold on tight.
"I know," you said, and your voice came out gentler than you felt. "I know, Jean. But you have to let me breathe. You have to trust that I'll come back."
She crossed the distance between you in three quick steps, burying her face in your neck, her arms wrapping around you with a desperation that made your ribs ache. "I do trust you. I don't trust the world. I don't trust what they'll do to get to me. To get to you through me."
You held her, feeling the telekinetic energy crackling under her skin, unstable and frightened and dangerous. The cracked coffee table, the shattered coasters - this was what she meant when she said she was a bomb. This was what it looked like when she lost control.
That night, you made love with a ferocity that felt like desperation, like you were both trying to crawl inside each other and hide. Jean's mouth mapped every inch of you, her hands claiming, memorizing, as if she could brand you into permanence through touch alone. When she finally slid into you, she did it slowly, watching your face, her green eyes dark and endless.
"Let me in," she whispered, and you knew she didn't just mean your body. You opened your mind to her, felt her presence flood through you like warm water, filling every empty space, every lonely corner you'd kept hidden. She saw everything: your fear, your doubt, the way you loved her so much it terrified you. And she showed you herself in return, her own vulnerability, her own desperate need to be chosen, to be enough.
The pleasure built like a wave, doubled and tripled by the connection between you, until you couldn't tell where your sensations ended and hers began. When you came, it was together, her name breaking from your lips as her thoughts tangled with yours in a wordless cry of release.
Afterward, she didn't pull away. She gathered you against her chest, her arms wrapping around you like she could shield you from everything, even your own doubts. Her fingers traced slow, reverent patterns on your bare back, circles and spirals that seemed to draw the tension out of your muscles one stroke at a time. She pressed her lips to your shoulder, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, each kiss a benediction.
You felt that familiar warmth at the base of your skull, that magnetic pull that made everything feel soft and far away. But this time, she was careful. You could feel her holding back, keeping her presence gentle, a whisper rather than a shout.
"Is this real?" you whispered into the dark, not sure if you were asking her or yourself.
Jean went still against you, her hand pausing mid-stroke on your spine. "What do you mean?"
"This. Us. The way I feel when I'm with you." You turned to face her, searching her eyes in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "Sometimes I can't tell if I'm actually this happy, or if you're... making me this happy. If you're in my head, making me feel what you want me to feel."
Her face crumpled, genuine hurt flashing across her features. "I would never-"
"I know you wouldn't mean to." You touched her cheek, feeling the tension there, the fear. "But you said it yourself. When you care about someone, your mind reaches out. It wants to merge." Your thumb traced the line of her jaw, trying to soothe even as you spoke the hard words. "I just need to know that what I feel is mine. That I'm choosing this. Choosing you."
She was quiet for a long moment, her green eyes luminous with unshed tears. Then she reached for you again, her hands finding yours, intertwining your fingers. She brought your joined hands to her chest, pressing them flat over her racing heart.
"Feel that," she said, her voice rough. "That's yours. That's real. No powers, no mind control, just... me. Wanting you so much it physically hurts."
She rolled toward you, fitting her body against yours, thigh sliding between your legs, her free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. She held you like that, close enough that you could feel every breath she took, every tremor running through her.
"I can't promise I'm not affecting you," she admitted, her forehead resting against yours. "I can't promise that my presence doesn't change how you feel, how you think. But I can promise that I try, every second of every day, to let you be yourself. To let you choose." Her thumb stroked slow arcs against your scalp, gentle, grounding. "This is real. I'm real. And I love you, whatever that means, however it happens, I love you."
You wanted to believe her. You did believe her, mostly. But that tiny, dying voice in the back of your head whispered: Is she actually calming you down, or is she rewriting your brain so you won't leave her?
She felt the shift in you, the tension returning. Her arms tightened, pulling you impossibly closer, your own leg coming up hooking over her hip to cage yourself in warmth and weight. She buried her face in your neck, breathing you in, and you felt the deliberate pull of her mind retreating, giving you space, respecting your boundaries even as her body refused to let go.
"I'm here," she whispered against your skin. "Just me. Just us."
You couldn't tell anymore if the peace flooding through you was hers or your own. And as she pressed closer, her heart beating steady and fast against your chest, you realized you were too far gone to care.
December brought a cold that settled into your bones and wouldn't leave.
And we fight over who I'm hanging out with, like a real couple. You wrote it in your journal, the words bitter and self-aware, watching Jean pace the kitchen while you tried to explain that yes, you were having coffee with your classmate Marcus, and no, it wasn't a date, and yes, you understood her concern but she couldn't keep isolating you from everyone you'd ever known.
"He's just a friend," you said for what felt like the hundredth time. "We have a group project. We have to meet."
Jean slammed her palm against the counter, and every cabinet door in the kitchen swung open with a violent crack, dishes rattling, glasses threatening to shatter. "I don't trust him. I don't trust anyone who looks at you the way he does."
"Jean-"
"Don't." Her voice was low, dangerous, her eyes glowing with that impossible light. "Don't defend him. Don't defend anyone. They don't know you. They don't know what you need."
"And you do?" The words came out sharper than you intended, and you saw her flinch like you'd struck her. "You think you know what I need? Jean, I need my life back. I need friends and school and a future that isn't just... this." You gestured around the penthouse, at the gilded cage you'd built together, at the windows that showed you a world you no longer participated in.
She went very still, very quiet. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible. "You want to leave me."
"No." You crossed to her, taking her hands, feeling the energy there, volatile and wounded. "I want to have both. I want you, and I want a life. Is that so wrong?"
Jean looked at you for a long moment, her green eyes searching yours with an intensity that made you want to look away, to hide. Then she pulled you close, her lips finding yours with a hunger that bordered on violence, her hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
"Mine," she whispered against your mouth, and you felt that warmth at the base of your skull, stronger than usual, insistent and claiming. "You're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours," you breathed, and you didn't know if you were saying it because you meant it or because she needed to hear it, because the warmth in your head made disagreement feel impossible, unthinkable.
She kissed you then, deep and consuming, and you let her, let her push you back against the counter, let her hands roam with possessive desperation. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if this was love or compulsion, if the line between them had ever existed at all.
It happened three days before Christmas.
You'd gone out alone - insisted on it, actually stood your ground for once - to buy Jean a gift, something small and meaningful, a vintage camera you'd found in a shop in the Village that reminded you of the ones she described from her childhood, before everything went wrong. You were walking back, the camera safe in your bag, your mind drifting through possible wrapping papers, when you felt the hand on your shoulder.
"Excuse me, miss." The voice was polite, professional, and when you turned, you saw a man in a dark coat, his face pleasant and forgettable. "We're looking for someone. A redhead, about this tall, green eyes. Might be going by Sara, or Jean. We have reason to believe she's dangerous. Have you seen her?"
Your blood turned to ice. You opened your mouth to say no, to play dumb, to do any of the things you'd rehearsed in your head a hundred times, but then you saw the second man, emerging from a doorway across the street, and the third, watching from a parked car, and you knew they'd already found you, already knew.
"I-"
"Don't lie," the first man said, his voice still friendly, his eyes cold and assessing. "We know she's staying with you. We know about the penthouse, the parents who are never home, the convenient little hideaway you've provided. You're not in trouble, miss. Not yet. Just tell us where she is, and we'll handle the rest."
Your mind raced, panic making your thoughts scatter like startled birds. Jean had warned you about this, drilled you on what to do if they found you - run, don't talk, don't lead them back to her - but your feet felt frozen to the sidewalk, your tongue thick and useless in your mouth.
"Hey!" The shout came from behind you, familiar and furious, and then Jean was there, moving faster than should be possible, her red hair wild in the winter wind, her eyes blazing with that terrifying, beautiful light. "Get away from her."
The men reached for weapons - tasers, guns, you couldn't tell - but Jean didn't give them the chance. She raised her hands, and the air itself seemed to scream, a telekinetic wave of force that lifted all three men off their feet, sent them crashing into walls and cars and streetlamps with sickening thuds.
You stumbled back, your heart hammering against your ribs, your breath coming in shallow gasps. "Jean-"
She didn't hear you. She was advancing on the men, her hands still raised, her face a mask of fury and terror, and you saw the streetlamp above one of them begin to bend, to twist, metal screaming as she prepared to bring it down.
"Jean, stop!" You grabbed her arm, felt the energy there, wild and uncontrolled, burning hot against your palm. "You'll kill them!"
She turned to look at you, and for a moment, you didn't recognize her. Her eyes were pure light, her expression empty of everything but survival instinct, the need to protect what was hers at any cost.
"They were going to take me," she said, her voice strange and echoing, not entirely human. "They were going to hurt you. I can't let them. I won't."
"I know, but this- this isn't you. Please, Jean, come back to me."
Something in your voice reached her. The light in her eyes dimmed, flickered, and she looked around at the destruction she'd caused, at the men lying motionless on the pavement, at the bent streetlamp and the shattered car windows. Her hands dropped to her sides, and she began to shake.
"Oh god," she whispered. "Oh god, oh god, I didn't- I couldn't-"
You pulled her close, feeling her trembling against you, feeling the aftermath of her power still crackling in the air like static. Sirens wailed in the distance, approaching fast, and you knew you had to move, had to get her out of here before more came, before they saw what she'd done.
"Come on," you said, tugging her toward the alley, toward the back streets you knew from late-night walks. "We have to run."
The argument started the moment you got back to the penthouse, adrenaline still coursing through your veins, your hands shaking so badly you could barely lock the door behind you.
"You could have killed them," you said, your voice too loud, too raw. "You would have killed them if I hadn't stopped you. Do you understand that? Do you understand what that means?"
Jean was pacing again, her movements jerky and uncontrolled, her eyes darting to every window, every shadow. "They were going to take me. They were going to use me, experiment on me, lock me in a cage for the rest of my life. And they were going to hurt you. Don't you understand? You are the only thing that matters to me. The only thing."
"That's not an excuse!" You threw your hands up, frustration and fear making you reckless. "You don't get to decide who lives and dies because you're scared. You don't get to be judge and jury just because you have power. That's not protection, Jean. That's murder."
She stopped pacing, her whole body going rigid. When she turned to you, her eyes were glowing again, dangerous and wounded. "You think I'm a monster."
"I think you're dangerous. I think you lost control, and people almost died. I think-" You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat, but you forced them out anyway. "I think maybe you're right. Maybe you are a bomb, and maybe I'm stupid for standing right in the middle."
The air in the room went very still. Jean stared at you, her face pale, her lips parted like you'd slapped her. Then, slowly, the glow in her eyes faded, replaced by something worse - resignation, grief, a terrible acceptance.
"You're right," she whispered. "I am dangerous. I am a monster. And I've been selfish, keeping you here, letting you think this could work." She laughed, a broken, ugly sound. "You had big dreams, didn't you? Film school, festivals, a real life. And I tied you to me, made you give it all up for this. For me."
"Jean-"
"No." She held up her hand, and you felt that warmth at the base of your skull, but different this time - not comforting, not claiming, but sad, so infinitely sad, like a goodbye. "I need you to know something. What I feel for you - it's real. Whatever else I've done, whatever I've made you feel, this is real. I love you. I've loved you since that first morning in the bakery, when you looked at me like I was a person and not a weapon."
She stepped closer, her hand coming up to cup your cheek, her thumb tracing your jaw with heartbreaking gentleness. "But I can't do this anymore. I can't risk you. I can't be the reason you don't have a life, a future, everything you deserve."
"Jean, don't-"
She kissed your forehead, soft and lingering, and you felt tears on her cheeks, wet and warm against your skin. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. But this is the only way I can protect you. The only way I can love you."
The warmth at the base of your skull intensified, spreading through your thoughts like ink in water, and you realized what she was doing too late, felt your memories of her beginning to blur, to fade, to dissolve like sugar in rain.
"No," you gasped, trying to hold on, trying to fight, but she was too strong, too determined, and you were too tired, too broken, too in love to resist. "Jean, please, don't-"
She stepped back, her green eyes luminous with tears, her face the last thing you saw before the purple turned to black.
Melt with you 'til it all turns black.
She tried really hard to not get in that specific part of your brain but she was not strong enough for it.
And then, as she pushed deeper, an echo of your own voice bounced back to her, a memory of a lazy Sunday morning, tangled in these very sheets, sunlight streaming through the curtains.
You'd been draped over her like a blanket, your face buried in her neck, your legs tangled with hers. Every time she'd tried to shift, you'd tightened your grip and made a small, protesting noise. She'd laughed, that rare, unguarded sound, and stroked your hair until you'd finally lifted your head, bleary and half-asleep, your eyes soft with affection.
"You're ridiculous," she'd said, but her voice had been full of something tender, something that made her chest ache.
You'd nuzzled closer, pressing clumsy kisses to her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "Don't care. Stay here. Melt with me."
She'd gone still then, her hand pausing where it had been tracing lazy circles on your back. "What did you say?"
"Melt with me," you'd mumbled against her shoulder, too sleepy to be embarrassed, too content to care how vulnerable you sounded. "Till it all turns black. Just... stay. Please."
She'd held you so tightly after that, her face hidden in your hair, her breathing uneven. She'd felt the wetness against her scalp and realized, dimly, that she was crying. But she hadn't let you see, hadn't let you pull back. She'd just held on, rocking you slightly, whispering "okay" and "I'm here" and "I'm not going anywhere" until you'd drifted back to sleep in her arms.
Now, with her fingers trembling, she heard it again, that sleepy voice, that impossible trust. Melt with me. Till it all turns black..
The words echoed in the emptiness where your thoughts used to be, the only thing Jean could hear as she stood in the penthouse that no longer felt like home, looking at you where you sat on the couch, your expression blank and confused, your eyes dry and empty.
You didn't know her. You didn't know why you were crying, why your chest felt like it had been hollowed out with a spoon, why there was a vintage camera on the coffee table that you didn't remember buying.
Melt with you 'til it all turns black.
She'd left you everything - your name, your school, your parents' phone numbers. She'd left you the penthouse, the life you'd had, the dreams youâd bury.
Everything but herself.Â
She'd taken only the memories of her, the love you'd shared, the purple world you'd built together.
Are we so in love? Are we too attached?
Seeing those thoughts in the back of your mind made her realize (more like accept what was buried deep between both of you) She didn't know anymore. She didn't know if what you'd felt was real or manufactured, if her presence in your mind had been love or control, if the codependency that had consumed you both was passion or poison.
Melt with you 'til it all turns black.
She leaned down, pressing one last kiss to your forehead, feeling the familiar warmth of your skin, the life she'd almost destroyed with her need. "Thank you," she whispered, though you couldn't hear her, wouldn't remember her, would live the rest of your life not knowing why you sometimes woke with the taste of cheap diner coffee on your tongue, why you flinched at red hair in crowds, why you wrote the word purple in your journal over and over without understanding why.
When you get so close and you can't go back.
She straightened, pulling her heavy wool cloak around her shoulders, and walked toward the door. Behind her, you stirred, your brow furrowing, a single word escaping your lips like a prayer or a curse: "Jean?"
She paused, her hand on the doorknob, her heart shattering in her chest. But she didn't turn around. She couldn't. If she looked at you one more time, she would stay, would crawl back into your mind and your bed and your life, would keep being the bomb that destroyed everything you could have been.
Melt with you 'til it just feels sad.
She opened the door and stepped out into the cold December night, leaving you to the silence, to the emptiness, to the life she'd given back to you at the cost of everything they'd been.
The door clicked shut behind her.
And somewhere in the dark, in the space where memories used to live, you reached for a pen and wrote words you didn't understand, in a voice that wasn't quite your own:
I see the world in purple, purple.
The page stared back at you, blank and waiting, and outside, the city hummed on, indifferent and alive, while a red-haired girl disappeared into the crowd, carrying your love like a wound that would never heal, that she would never let herself forget, even if you already had.
Melt with you 'til it all turns black.
The last thing Jean heard, walking away, was your voice in her mind - the echo of something you'd said once, in the dark, when you thought she was sleeping: Don't ever leave me. I'd rather be purple with you than anything else without you.
She kept walking.
The city swallowed her whole.
And somewhere, in a penthouse full of ghosts, you stared at the word purple on the page, feeling like you'd lost something you couldn't name, someone you couldn't remember, a love that had burned so bright it had left nothing but ash and the faint, lingering warmth of a touch that might have been real, or might have been the last beautiful lie of a girl who loved you enough to let you go.
I see the world in purple, purple.
You closed the journal.
You closed your eyes.
And for just a moment, before the darkness took you, you saw it - a flash of green eyes, a taste of coffee and red hair, the ghost of a kiss on your neck that made two lines form a circle, that made the whole broken world make sense.
Then it was gone.
And you were alone.
AUTHOR SPEAKS: HELLO GUYS I AM BACK, also changed my layout what do y'all think, okay so I'm more in love with Sadie than ever so I think I'm gonna cook a lot still please please please send jean/max/sadie or even ellie sarsfield if anyone is interested on that lmao requests just read my rules and have fun, btw because Sadie is trending again as she should cause jean was genuinely so hot and I was drooling at the theatre cause jean was literally my gay awakening, my posts are kinda getting attention again so I want to thank you all for that <33333
It's been a while since you've been living with Jean Grey. she's a nice girlâquiet and not a bother at all. and she's definitely hot. but you try to hide what you think of her; after all, she's so reserved that you couldn't tell if she's into girls or not.
anyway, you try to keep your distance so you donât make her feel uncomfortable or anything like that, even though youâre so clueless that you donât realize sheâs actually trying to get closer to you.
coming into your room while you're getting ready to go out or right after you finish showering to âlook for somethingâ? I mean, once or twice could be a coincidence, but for it to happen every day?
she's obviously into you; too bad you don't realize it and you're too shy to even try anything.
but that was just the beginning, though. because then Jean started being more direct, cooking for you or putting on your favorite show âeven though she hates it, talking to you even more, and even inviting you to go to the park for a mini-picnic. It was a bit clichĂŠ, but it was so cute to you.
it took you long enough to finally say what you feel for her, you were so scared to ruin everything. but once she said she felt the same way as you, you could feel your heart melting.
she was just so pretty, and beautiful, and gorgeous, and.. and... being honest? she was extremely horny. sometimes you couldn't keep up her rhythm.
she was always kissing you, hugging you from behind while you're busy, getting into the shower with you or even using her mutant gen upon your body.
you could be so, so fucking tired but she controlled your body like a puppetâ it's not like you didn't like it, actually you kinda loved it. I mean... who wouldn't love being dominated by that beautifully sunset-haired girl?
It's weird to think back on how withdrawn and quiet she was when you two became roommates, and now she's the complete opposite. not complaining tho!
JEAN GREY is such a stalker. this girl becomes obsessed with you the first second she lays eyes on you. it doesnât matter if you talked to her or not; the moment you and her locked eyes⌠you fell victim to her fantasies.
she fucking follows you everywhere. from rooftop to rooftop, from which ever stores you find yourself in, sheâs always peering in. you always have a tiny bit of an itch that sheâs watchingâ thereâs a certain aura about the telepath that makes you believe sheâs nearbyâ but sheâs far too sensitive to ever make a move on you. but if she spots you flirting with another woman? oh best believe thereâs gonna be a reason that woman never talks to you again.
and donât you dare think her behavior stops when youâre home. she will absolutely sit outside your houseâ never in a scary way but rather⌠protective. always in the trees or if you live in an apartment, sheâs watching from the fire escape. she just wants to make sure youâre okay, thatâs all!
STALKER! JEAN absolutely masturbates on that fire escape too! she has no shame whatsoever. her fingers are curling in her cunt when she watches you pass by⌠too bad youâre distracted enough to never check your fire escape. she moans your name so low even sheâs shocked she can hear herself.
random gifts show up at your door as well. you mutter the words of needing a new something? it shows up at your door a day later. you find high heels and new dresses and new shirts and new⌠lingerie sets⌠day to day, night after night. thereâs never a long note, just a simple heart in the same permanent marker. youâve tried to run it for fingerprints but it comes out futile⌠you keep the gifts, wear the heels and wear the dresses, but it always stays in the back of your mind; someone is out there listening⌠but no harm has been done so far⌠so maybe itâs harmless. possibly. youâre not quite sure.
on social media? she finds everything she can find about you; old accounts, photos, school transcripts, job applications, anything and everything she can find on you⌠she gets her hands on. she stalks your friendâs pages just for photos of you, going to their tagged posts and going through that accountâs tagged post to get a glimpse of you. if anyone asked why her camera roll was just full of you? theyâd suspect youâre her girlfriend⌠but youâre certainly not that.
you canât even say youâre too mad about it either. not that you know any better. no creepy flirting attempts by anyoneâ STALKER! JEAN takes them outâ no weird messages, no men or women at parties trying to hit on youâŚ
itâs the most peaceful your life has ever been, all because one redhead mutant who canât bare to even ask for your name is always watching you. wether you want her to or not!
masterlist is here! click here for more!
â KENTLUV3RâS WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and donât repost to wattpad/ao3/c.
Summary: after offering to help Jean find her sister, she becomes a constant in your life. She is grateful to have someone willing to fight for her, and finds herself falling for you hard. With Peterâs somewhat reluctant help, you two embark into an adventure to take down the DODC. Itâs not your fault things start to get steamy
Warning(s): protective Peter Parker, platonic peter parker x fem!reader, praise kink, improper use of magic during sex, fingering (r receiving), oral (r receiving), service top Jean Grey, Jean is kinda obsessed with reader but she likes it, yandere Jean Grey if you squint, telepathic sex in a way
Word count: 5k words
a/n: thank you to everyone for being so supportive of this! Iâve decided to make it part of a series, so stick around for moređ
Part I
The first you noticed was Peterâs stance. He was rigid, in ways you had never seen him be before. At least not without the suit on.
âPeter,â you said in warning as your best friend called your name, moving to stand on a defensive position. âNo.â
âGet away from her,â Peter told you, eyeing Jean as if she were a wild, feral animal set free in the middle of a crowd. You needed to stop it, stop it before either of them did something they would regret.
Jean finally moved, taking in Peterâs stance for what it was; a clear threat. With arms raised, she stepped away from you and you let go of her hair reluctantly.
âRelax, Peter Parker,â Jean said, clearly not understanding the severity of the situation. âIâm not going to hurt her.â
âI donât believe you,â he said, pushing his feet firmly against the floor for leverage.
He jumped the next second, his eyes on Jean as he landed on her. The next second, he had her arms pinned to the floor and was stranding her torso. With a quick movement you barely registered, he used his organic webs to hold her hands.
âPeter!â
You jumped off the counter and ran over to him. He was brutal, in a way he never was; he was already hitting her right in the face by the time you got there; one punch on the jaw, the other on her lip, right where the cut had just been healed; another on her left eye, making her head push back against the floor.
Jean finally reacted, moaning in pain when she felt her head collide with the hard surface underneath her. She turned to the side, avoiding Peterâs next punch, which ended up creating a hole on the floor that you knew would never be able to explain to the landlord.
âFor fuckâs sake!â You screamed, grabbing him by the waist. You pushed, destabilizing him enough for you to be able to use your entire strength to send him to the side. He fell, a body made of tense limbs and hard muscles, and you went with him. âPeter!â
As you looked down at him, you finally understood what had happened; his eyes were completely black, void of any sclera, and his heart was beating alarmingly fast. Had it been someone else, you knew his heart would have already given up minutes ago.
âPete.â You held him down with your magic, trying to get through him, but there was no option.
You had made a monumental, stupid mistake. His⌠his changes, as he called them. They made him unstable, had been making him harsher than normal these past few days, and youâŚ
You have let in another predator into his lair. Another predator that had threatened him before.
âPeter!â
With a strong pulse of magic, you got through his mental barriers âall made of thick web that held you back with every inner stepâ and stood in his old bedroom back in high school. May was there too, sitting in bed with him, a hand on his shoulder, and as you stepped closer, she looked up and stood up.
âPeter.â
He looked up at the mention of his name. His eyes were the same unnatural black color, his hands tightened into fists.
âPeter, you need to control yourself.â
âIâm going to kill her,â he said through gritted teeth.
You stood in front of him and grabbed his cheek. âNo, youâre not.â
âI am.â
âYouâre not,â you repeated. âSheâs not a threat. Please, donât do anything youâre going to regret later.â
He closed his eyes, leaning his head into your hand, and when he opened them, they were back to being that shade of brown you loved so much.
With another blink, you were back in your apartment. Peter was still being held down by your magic, and with a look between the two of you where you begged him to let you explain and he accepted the request, you stood up and let him go.
âWhat a nice and warm welcome,â Jean murmured.
You cursed as you saw the state she was in; one of her eyes was already bruising and starting to blacken, her nose was bleeding and bent to the side awkwardly on the bridge, and her bottom lip had completely split open, helped by the hit you had provided the night before.
You kneeled down beside her, moving your hands to help her break free from the webs.
âEw,â you said, raising a finger to inspect the viscose piece of web at the tip of it. âHow is this even fucking possible, Peter?â
Peter sat up and went over to the two of you, wasting no time in freeing Jean from his own restraints.
âIt only comes out of the wrists,â he promised.
âI fucking hope so,â Jean threw back, looking at her left arm where some leftover web was still clinging to her sleeve. She sat up and raised a finger to touch her face, putting back immediately with a hiss.
âIâm giving you the benefit of the doubt,â Peter told her. âFor Y/Nâs sake. But if I donât like what Iâm hearing, Iâm delivering you straight to the DODC.â
Jeanâs shoulders tensed at that. âDelivering me?â She asked, standing up. âYou really think youâre one of the good guys, donât you?â
âWell, I donât go around possessing people and making them do your bidding,â Peter spewed back as he too stood up. âJust last night you were threatening my best friend. How the fuck do you expect me to trust someone like you?â
âI donât give a fuck if you trust me or not,â Jean said, stepping up to him. You moved without even thinking, putting yourself between the two of them. âI donât care what a man who trusts those people thinks of me.â
Jean and Peter stood looking at each other, neither of them willing to give in.
âAll I know is that you are a danger to this city, and I take care of dangerous things.â
Jean smiled; there was blood on her teeth from where her nose was still bleeding. With a nod, she took a step back and moved around Peter, reaching for the door.
âWhatever,â she said, slamming the door behind her.
Silence. You stood with your back to Peter, trying to clean up the blood from the floor. The hole next to it, you have already given up on; you would have to buy a carpet and pray the landlord never checked there until you have already moved out.
âListenâŚâ
You shook your head, eyes firmly on the bloodied floor. You hated how the entire situation had played out; one second you were going to help someone you felt⌠something for, and the next she was being beaten up by Peter of all people. Peter, who couldnât control his mutation anymore, and who was a hero to a fault.
âI donât wanna talk right now,â you said once he called your name.
Peter knelt on the floor beside you, putting his hand on your arm. âDid she force you to kiss her?â He whispered.
You let go of the damp rag to dry a traitorous tear that had fallen down your cheek. He squeezed harder, inspecting your face.
âNo,â you said. âPeter, she⌠she has lost her sister. She was taken. Her big sister. IâŚâ You shook your head. âI donât know what I would do if I lost you. I have to help her. You have to help her. Sheâs got no one else.â
âButâŚâ he gave you a once-over. âBut how can I trust that thatâs you talking, and not her in your mind?â
âShe canât get inside my head. Not without me letting her in. And she has let me inside her mind. Iâve seen it, the day she saw her sister was kidnapped.â You shook your head. âI know you donât trust her, but Pete, you need to trust me. Thatâs all Iâm asking for.â
Peter looked at you. âWhatâs my favorite color?â
You raised an eyebrow. âThatâs a given considering your suit. But I can tell you about the time you peed your pants during gym class in middle schoolââ
âFine!â Peter said, standing up. âIt is you. Gosh.â
You chuckled. âAre you going to help us?â
âYes,â he said. âAndâ well, I gotta apologize to her, I guess.â
âIâm going to look for her.â You stood up. âIs the mutation⌠are you okay?â
âWhat? Yeah, totally.â
âYou beat up a woman in your apartment. That doesnât seem right.â
âWell, when you put it that wayâŚâ He flexed his hand, looking at the already healing bruises in his knuckles. âI need to work on the chip. I canât control myself sometimes. What if IâŚâ
He gave you a look and a look of horror crossed his face. With a blink, he pivoted towards his computers.
You put your arms around him when he sat down. âYouâre never going to hurt me, Peter.â You kissed the side of his head and moved away. âI know it.â
He didnât say anything, bowing his head to inspect the chip. Without saying another word, you left through the door.
âI was expecting you to have an evil lair or something,â you commented, looking around the park. âYouâre a bad villain.â
Jean looked up at you and rolled her eyes. She was sitting on a bench with one of her legs propped up on it, her arm resting on her knee as her other hand pressed a bloodied tissue against her nose.
âAnd your friend is a bad host,â she replied. Your heart squeezed at the tone; it lacked any real bite or fight to it.
It seemed getting beaten up by Spider-man had left her feeling hopeless. You were starting to understand how he had succeeded in keeping the crime rate so low for so many months.
âWhat, you get your ass beaten by someone once and you give up?â You asked, putting your hands on your hips.
She gave you a hard look, one that made you swallow and take a step back.
âIâm not giving up. Iâm never giving up until I find my sister.â
âSo?â
âSo, what?â She asked, throwing the piece of paper to the ground. You made it levitate toward your hand and kept it in your pocket; the less people had access to Jeanâs blood, the better.
âSo what are you doing alone in a park in the middle of the night?â You asked her. âWhy did you leave?â
âYou have quite an inquisitive mind, you know?â She said.
Despite how bloodied and beaten up she was, the way she looked up at you through her eyelashes made you wish momentarily she could remain like that forever; her rugged beauty made you feel things you probably shouldnât be feeling.
âYou love it.â
She watched as you sat down beside her on the bench. She never stopped looking, not as you pulled out a pack of tissues from your coat pocket and handed them over to her.
âWhy did you want the bloodied one?â She asked, eyeing the other pocket where you had kept the aforementioned object. âAre you into some kinky shit?â
You laughed, throwing your head back. âDo you think itâs a good idea to give them free access to your blood?â You asked her once the laugh died down.
âI donât care what they do.â
You looked at her, shaking your head. âYou let him hit you.â
She tensed slightly. She licked the tissue and tried to wipe some dried blood from her nose. She didnât succeed.
âWhy do you care?â She asked defensively. You smiled; that tone was the only confirmation you needed.
âI just want to understand you,â you admitted. âYouâre so⌠you.â
âI would take that as an insult from anyone else.â
âBut not from me?â You asked.
She gave you a look before crumbling up the tissue. She presented it to you on top of her hand. âNever from you. Here, to add to the collection.â
âWow.â You grabbed and bowed your head mockingly. âUsually people give flowers on their first date, but blood is far more romantic.â
âFirst date?â She raised an eyebrow. You found it fascinating how her eyebrows were the exact same shade of orange as her hair. âYou consider making out and letting your best friend beat me up a date?â
âWell, itâs original.â You shrugged.
She sighed, looking straight ahead. âI deserved it.â
âDeserve what?â
âPeter kicking my ass.â She looked at you. âYou wanted to understand me, right? Well, Iâm not an idiot. I know what I did was not okay. Donât get me wrong, I will keep doing it until I find my sister. I will do whatever I have to. Tarnish my soul or whatever.â
âBut?â
âBut I shouldnât have gone inside. I shouldnât have kissed you. Not while yourâŚâ She gave you a look. âWhile your brother was trying to stop me.â
âAh, I see.â You smiled. âYou want to get in his good graces, uh? Trying to win him over?â
âNo.â She shook her head. âItâs just⌠itâs something my sister wouldâve done for me,â she said, standing up. With the flick of a hand, she was pushed back into the bench.
âWeâre not done talking.â
She looked at you. âYouâre bossy, you know that, right?â
âYou said that already.â
âIt hasnât stopped being true.â
You stood up from the bench, moving so you were in front of her to stretch out a hand. âCâmon.â
She looked at your hand, not moving a single muscle. âWhat now?â
âLetâs go home, have dinner, and start all over again,â you said. âIâve made Peter promise to listen to you this time.â Jean hesitated. âIf anyone can find your sister, itâs Peter.â
She grabbed your hand, the mention of her sister tilting the balance.
âFirst of all, Miss Grey, I would like to apologize.â
Jean blinked at Peter, then looked back at you. âDoes he have multiple personality disorder or something?â
âYou just caught him at a bad time,â you justified him, wrapping your hands around his arm. A silent warning; stay calm and docile, donât scare her away again.
âItâs, um,â Peter pointed at his desk, where the inhibitor was lying ready to be tested. Jean made a point of not commenting on how her jacket had been moved to the side by him. âItâs a mutation. My body⌠okay, so, I was bitten by a spiderââ
âI really donât care,â cut in Jean, walking to the kitchen. âI was promised some burgers.â
âAnd I was promised some peeled potatoes.â
Jean shrugged, feigning disinterest, but her eyes followed you everywhere you went. When you disappeared to the bathroom to wash your hands, you felt her in the back of your mind, reaching for you.
You replied with a playful tug on her own mind, and heard her little gasp as you walked right back out.
âWell, letâs cook dinner. Even though itâs like one a.m.â You said clapping your hands together.
Peter and Jean nodded, going along willingly to every order you sent their way. You tried not to find the predicament amusing, but you couldnât help it; the sight of them working on dinner together as they tried not to bicker was hilarious.
You thought of what life would be like, once Jean found Sara. Maybe they could move into the apartment next door; you could ask Yelena to help them get back on their feet. Maybe some fake identitiesâ or maybe not. If you played your cards right, you could end up unmasking the cruelty that hid behind the façade of the DODC.
Life could get better. You hoped it would.
Jean fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow, with her hair still damp from the shower she had taken after dinner. She was wearing your clothes, handpicked after what you considered an unsavory look through your closet. The wounds on her face, however, you had not managed to convince her to let you dress them.
She slept like a baby. You had never really understood the expression until you saw how she was sleeping. Arms stretched all around the bed, legs twisted together and mouth open to snore.
You could tell she hadnât slept properly in weeks, maybe even months. Being constantly on the run with her sister and then being too stressed and worried to properly rest had taken a toll on her sleeping schedule.
But there she was, sleeping peacefully. Because for some stupid reason, she trusted you enough to be vulnerable around you.
You werenât sure why you were so touched by that, but damn that woman and her way of making you feel too much.
It was well into the morning. You had had breakfast with Peter, and he had left a few hours earlier to try and discover something else about V-Max âwhatever that place or thing was. After washing the dishes and momentarily checking you didnât have any shift that day at the Deli, you went back to your room, leaning on the doorway as you inspected the girl.
She had shifted in place, moving to the side to hold your pillow hostage; her face was completely buried into it. With a smile, you walked to the bed.
âJean.â
âMhm.â
You sat up on the bed and shook her shoulder. âCâmon, you slept in.â
âMhm.â She turned to the side and grabbed your waist. The movement was too fast and sly to have come from a half-asleep person, and you tsked as she pushed you into the bed and hovered over you. âHi.â
âTraitor,â you told her. There was no bite to it, and she smiled when she noticed. âTaking advantage of a poor girl like me? Rude.â
She chuckled, looking down at you as if she wasnât sure what to do with you; where to touch you. She slotted herself between your legs, her hands going up until they got hold of your wrists. With your arms pinned to the bed, you felt your heart start to beat faster.
âYou, a poor girl?â She leaned down so that her nose was touching yours. âYouâre a she-devil.â
You threw your head back and laughed. Jean took advantage of the action and leaned forward, planting kisses on your neck. The laughter was cut short, turning halfway into a gasp of pleasure.
âI like you better like this,â she whispered against your cheek.
âHow?â You asked.
âToo busy moaning to talk my ear off.â
You raised your hand, aiming for her shoulder, but she held you in place firmly. âAsshole.â
She moved her head, your noses once more touching. âIs this okay?â
Her eyes were so pretty. Blue, with small dots of green and grey within the iris. It looked like an ocean during a cool winter morning.
You jumped into the metaphorical water, entering her mind so gently she barely blinked at the intrusion. You were getting used to it; to the feeling of Jean inside your mind, and you inside of hers. It was like a link that grew stronger the more you tested it.
âItâs more than okay,â you whispered in her mind. Jean shivered at the feeling of your presence invading her mind.
âI wasnât wrong,â she said, tightening her hold on your wrists. You took the gesture for what it really was; Jean trying to regain her composure. âYouâre a she-devil.â
âYour eyes are really pretty.â
She humped against your body. âStop doing that.â She hissed.
âMake me.â
Jean looked at you. Her eyes were so dilated you could barely see the blue you were starting to like so much.
âSuch a tease,â she whispered. She let go of one of your hands, but when you tried to raise it to touch her, she pushed it back with her mind. âStay there.â
You whined, but obeyed. With a chuckle of amusement, she grabbed your throat. The touch was unexperienced, and you could tell she was being frustratingly careful.
She kneeled on the bed and looked down at you. With a touch reminiscent of fire burning during a winter storm, her hands traveled down your body until they found the hem of your shirt. Her eyes went up to check on you, and you nodded.
Instead of taking it off, however, she sneaked her hand inside and draped it over your stomach.
âJean,â you whined.
âWhat a brat,â she leaned down and whispered against your mouth. Her breath was hot and it made you want to moan.
âBitch,â you threw back.
With a smirk, she watched as your body contorted in pleasure when her thumb caressed your nipple.
âSo responsible,â she said in awe. Your cheeks were flushed and warm, and as you looked up at Jean with begging eyes, she chuckled.
You werenât sure how, but Jean managed to take off your shirt and sleep pants without making you move too much. You raised an eyebrow, half naked as you were, at the action. She was goodâ too good at this.
She paused, her t-shirt in her hand and ready to be thrown to the floor. âWhat?â
âDo you do this to all the girls that let you stay in their house?â You inquired.
She didnât respond right away, her fingers massaging your hips as she inspected you; deciding what to do next, and how to do it.
Finally, she lowered her head and took one of your hardened nipples in her mouth, sucking it in just to tease you. You moaned, your hips going up until they met hers.
She let go of the nipple just to pass her relaxed tongue over the bumble of nerves.
âNo,â she said. The sight was as obscene as it was hot; Jean, half naked in your bed with hair still messy from sleep, with her lower lip pressed against your nipple. You were sure you would have a lot of fun me-time with your fingers and that memory.
âNo?â You managed to ask.
âYouâre the only one,â she said.
âOh.â
She giggled, and the sound was somewhat endearing considering the situation at hand. Her fingers slipped over your panties, some old ones you only ever wore around home, with the elastic band too stretchy. But as she moved lower and helped the panties out of your legs, she gave them one last look.
âAdorable,â she said, giving you a little smile. Her bunny teeth popped with the gesture, making your heart skip a beat.
âShut up,â you said, without any apparent hint of anger.
Her hands traveled over your body, caressing your legs and moving them. She laid them over each one of her shoulders, and gave you one more look.
âAlright?â She asked, her mouth halfway down your pussy.
You grabbed a handful of her hair and pushed her down. She went willingly, her tongue already out before you finally stopped lowering her head. When she first lapped at your clit, you held harder onto her hair. She hissed, but continued moving her tongue, lower and lower until it reached your entrance. She stopped there and you groaned.
âIf you ask me one more timeââ
Her tongue entered you, successfully shutting you up. Both her hands held onto your thighs, the rings she never took off digging into your skin.
You moaned, pushing the back of your head into the pillow.
âShitââ
You felt it, then, in the midst of pleasure; Jeanâs presence, entering your mind at the same time her tongue did, keeping the two of you connected as she began eating you out.
You knew Jean was harsh, a no-shit-taken type of person, so you had expected her to be fast as she fucked you with her tongue.
You, however, had not expected her to be so hungry. So full of want. So devoted to your pleasure she was devouring you.
âFuck, fuckââ
You put a hand over your mouth when she sucked on your clit. She all but growled, her fingers digging into your thighs with such strength you were sure they would leave bruises.
âI want to hear you,â she said.
She gave your pussy another lick, and when you still didnât remove your hand, she let go of your thighs to travel up your body. She grabbed your wrists and pushed them onto the mattress.
âI said I want to hear you,â she hissed into your mouth. Leftovers of your pleasure coated her chin and lips.
âJean.â You called in her mind. She shivered, feeling your mental hands touching her body.
âShit.â She grabbed hold of your hands and intertwined your fingers together. With your eyes burning holes into hers, she lowered her head and kissed your nipple. Your response was immediate; a loud moan that shocked you with its fierceness. âGood girl.â
Damn it if that title didnât make you want to come even harder. You loved how dirty and sweet she was being.
With your hands successfully trapped between hers, she went back to your pussy, sucking on your clit just to get a reaction out of you.
âSee?â She whispered. Her breath hit your pussy directly, making you hiss at the sensation. âI knew you could be my good girl.â
She devoured you for what felt like hours, her tongue switching from penetrating you and licking up all your juices. She was ruthless, stopping every time you were at the cusp of your orgasm; reading your mind to know exactly the moment to let go of you.
âJean, please,â you sobbed, pressing your cheek into the pillow.
âSeems like I managed to fuck the bratty attitude out of you,â she said. At your whine of complaint, she let go of one of your hands to introduce a finger inside of your waiting hole.
Shit, her fingers. They did fit right in as you had first suspected it, you thought as you closed your eyes and moaned. They were slightly curved at the tips, giving them the perfect angle to fuck you right. She hit that spot inside of you that made your limbs shake and breath get stuck in your throat.
You cried as you came, pulling on Jeanâs hair until she was hissing in pain. She didnât stop you, though, allowing you to respond to the pleasure she was giving you however you wanted to.
You thought she would slow down, but she only introduced another finger and kept fucking you, pumping them in and out until you were overwhelmed with overstimulation.
âJean, I canâtââ
She was on top of you in an instant, looking into your eyes. She smiled and kissed your cheek sweetly, even as she kept fucking you vigorously with her fingers.
âYou can take it,â she whispered, gasping into your skin. âBe a good girl, baby. Show me you can take it.â
Your hands went up to her back, fingers scratching her skin as you cried and moaned. Your nails dug into her hard and deep, creating a mess that had you feeling remorseful.
As you came for the second time, her nose against your neck and her body completely on top of yours, you looked at the ceiling and wished she could feel it too.
She was so good at making you feel good. You wanted her to know how much pleasure she was giving you.
Jeanâs back muscles went rigid suddenly. Her entire body locked on top of yours, her moans suddenly loud against your ear.
âFuckââ she called your name as she twitched, two of her fingers still inside of you. âWhat the fuck was that?â She gasped.
You noticed then, after the haze of pleasure dissipated a little, that you had somehow managed to make Jean feel what you had been feeling.
You had come, and so had she, without needing to touch her. Simply from the pleasure you had sent her way.
âThat was so hot,â you whispered, your voice hoarse. You ran a hand over her face, taking in the bruises. You hated seeing her like that, all beaten up and in pain.
As your thumb went over her bruised lip, the wound disappeared, as if it hadnât even been there at all. You watched, almost in a trance, as her face got healed wherever you touched her.
She pushed her fingers out of you, ignoring your moan of complaint, and grabbed your wrist.
âI fucked you so good I made you unlock some secret healing powers?â She asked, raising an eyebrow.
âIâ I think so,â you replied.
Jean lowered her head and kissed your nipple. You moaned, still sensitive. âYouâre a wonder, angel.â
You chuckled, but the sound got cut short when you felt her fingers hovering over your entrance again.
âI can feel you,â she told you. You heard it from within your own mind. âAll of you, all over me. Iâve always felt you since I met you.â
You werenât sure what it all meant, but as she pushed two fingers inside and the palm of her hand pressed against your abused clit, you threw your head back and moaned.
Jean was a constant in your mind as she built up to another orgasm, her head between your tits and your hands tangled on her hair.
You felt full of her; you were sure you would always feel full of her.
âYouâre not going anywhere,â she said. You were so close to your orgasm you could almost taste it. Your hold on the back of her head as she pressed your foreheads together must have been painful, but she didnât say a word. âWith me. Youâreââ She curved her fingers and you cursed. âYouâre staying with me.â
âI am,â you promised. The words you two were sharing felt heavy for being simple sex talk; there was a real promise within the gasps of pleasure. âI am. Forever.â
Remember in Thunderbolts when Yelena confessed to Alexei that she felt so alone and drepressed. That the only things she was able to do was going to work, stare at her phone and think about all the bad things she has done.
In the intro the Brand New Day we see Peter going full SpiderMan mode (working), stalking Ned on his social media (staring at his phone) and constantly visiting May's grave (thinking about the bad things he has done).
Black Widows were trained to easily read people, so the moment Peter walked into Yelena's "office" she clocked the same depression that tormented her for so long. Her comment about him being a "sad man" wasn't thrown randomly, she knew that it was true.
That is why she was geniuly happy when she saw him with friends; because it was having friends what ended up saving her and she truly believed that it could save Peter too. She was right.
Spider-Man: Brand New Day said it'll be hard and it'll be ugly and you'll essentially feel like it's so over but in the end love will save your soul and friendship and hope will prevail and we're so back and millions of teenagers worldwide said hell fucking yeah
spiderman brand new day and the importance of care. mj not loving peter due to not knowing him, but still caring about him enough to invite him up, to draw him, to send frank to watch him, to give him advice and be concerned. ned not remembering what spiderman means to him, but trying to find him anyway to thank him. frank worrying about this kid who is determined to save everybody he possibly could. peter caring about jean grey, taking a bullet for her despite almost all his interactions with her being antagonistic, because she exists, and she deserves so much better. jean crying over peter getting shot, because he was kind and promised to be there for her and made good on that promise immediately, even though she ended up there because of him. new york and their care for spidey.
peter parker and his care for everybody- his family, his friends, people he has never met, people who have continually tried to hurt him.
spiderman: brand new day and the importance of care of any kind.
áśť đ đ° (BRAND NEW DAY SPOILERS | MINORS DNI) it doesnât take a lot to get JEAN GREY to cum.
sheâs just so touch starved, so needy for any sort of human connection that isnât hands on her to arrest her, that the moment you start to touch her⌠sheâs putty. sheâs a puddle of sweetness. like, this girl who is the omega level mutant peter was scared about⌠looking up at you with so much need in her green eyes that you could never say no to her even before her sweet voice begins to beg for you.
you counted mentally; it took you ten licks and three pumps of your fingers in her cunt for her to cum.
she cried because of how pathetic she seemedâ cumming so fucking quick just by the littlest bit of touch, but you just licked those tears off her cheeks and let her have at your cunt.
when you let her use your strap and you ride her? god the eye contact fucking kills you. her glossy eyes, furrowed brows, with those plump lips that canât help but moan out your nameâ her hands meanwhile donât know where the fuck to stay because she wants to touch you anywhere and everywhereâ she loves your hips to be specific.
she moans against your skin when she kisses up and down your body, lips against your skin to feel every inch of you.
it helps that sheâs needier than you and she can handle so many rounds. she has a stamina youâve never seen in a woman before, and sheâs restless until she gets the need for you fulfilled.
masterlist is here! click here for more!
â KENTLUV3RâS WORK. all my fanfics (not the characters) is my very own, coming from my own efforts and my time. do not copy my work, rewrite it, shove it through an ai machine and shit out slop, and donât repost to wattpad/ao3/c.ai!
Summary: Jean Grey has been on the run for weeks, trying to wrap her mind around the events in New York and mourn her sister. The last thing she needs is falling for the girl at the cafe, but that seems to be increasingly hard when you smile at her like she isnât completely broken inside
Warning(s): protective Jean Grey, suggestive themes, trauma, kinda stalker Jean Grey, brief mentions of rape (not from Jean!)
Word count: 2.4k words
Jean Grey was utterly alone. She felt it with every passing breath; the sinking feeling in her chest, the numbness in her brain, the void in her stomach that seemed to stop her from eating anything solidâŚ
She didnât have anyone. No one was there for her, at least not the person she wanted.
Sara.
Fuck. There it was again, that sting in her eyes, that tremble on her lipsâ
No, she couldnât cry in public. She wouldnât. She was tired of it; sick of the tears, the pity looks, the having to smile and pretend her fucking world hadnât come apart the second she found her sister was goneâŚ
But damn it did she feel alone. She had never felt that way before, at least not when she was with Sara; not since she found her and took her out of her shitty foster house she had been forced to live in, full of kids her age who despised her. Sara had swooped in and grabbed her hand in the middle of the night, telling her without speaking to shut up and follow her.
And she did. She grabbed her backpack and her sisterâs hand and ran and never looked back. They lived off of whatever they could get away with at the moment, trying not to raise any alarms and choosing not to stay in the place for too long. Living like nomads, Sara had told her after making the cashier let them through without paying for the clothes they desperately needed.
And there she was, years later. Still a nomad, still alone, still sad.
âMore coffee?â
Jean raised her head at the voice. She looked up and was met with your face, calm and soft amongst the pain in her brain. You looked beautiful, so much so the redhead raised her hand to push her hood back. Just a little, just so she could look at you a little bit better.
âUmâ sure,â she said. She pushed her cut half-full of coffee towards the end of the table. You smiled, leaning down a little to full up the cup before giving her another look.
âYou okay?â You asked. Your hand, without meaning to, raised to grip her shoulder. She flinched and you automatically dropped, taking a step back. âSorry, sorry. I didnât mean to scare you.â
âNo, um⌠Iâ Iâm sorry. I justâŚâ Jean pursed her lips. Just what, Jean? Youâre not used to being touched? Stop acting like a weirdo. âSorry.â
You smiled once more, though your eyes were full of concern and confusion. âAre youâŚâ you took a look around the small diner, taking in the other two guests in the place. You set the pot of coffee on the counter and sat down in front of her. Jean awkwardly hugged her cup. âAre you hurt?â You asked her. âIs⌠did someone hurt you?â
Youâve seen it way too many times since you started working at Finniesâ Diner two years ago to pay the bills. Young girls running from someone, women hurt and in need of waiting out the storm their husbands were back at home. You had always wanted to help, but they rarely accepted the offer. It seemed the girl in front of you, with fierce red hair and broken green eyes wasnât going to let you in.
âNo,â she said. You could tell it was a lie. âNo, IâŚâ she shook her head. âIâm just tired.â
And she was. You could see it in her eyes; she looked like a war hero returning home after fighting in a war. Sunken eyes with bags underneath, chapped lips that had a smudge of blood on the left side from biting it constantly, and shaky hands that clung onto the mug with desperation.
âAlright,â you smiled at her. âIf you need anything, ask for Y/N, okay?â
Jean wasnât sure why she had chosen to stay another week in this town.
It was small, everyone was fucking noisy, and it smelled like the wood the local lumberjack apparently gifted to everyone in town, getting them ready for the winter. Honestly, it looked stuck in time, like one of those old movies Sara used to sneak them in to watch back in the city, all in black and white and full of handsome men with too many teeth. Sara loved them, the old movies with the loud voices and the cheesy lines, so she would religiously take Jean to see them whenever they played them at whatever cinema put them on to fill in the gaps from the lack of new movies and get some easy money out of nostalgic old people.
Jean had hated them with a burning passion, finding them lame and predictable, but she loved her sister and she loved watching her happy, so she would just lean back and watch her instead, her face full of unshakable happiness and relief at being able to be a kid for just a few seconds, instead of a forced adult taking care of her little sister.
Jean was lying to herself, actually. She knew exactly why she had chosen to make the man working at the motel let her stay for another month without having to pay a dime; you.
She liked watching you. She felt like a creep, but she couldnât help it; you were hypnotizing. From the way you moved to the way you wrote down every other order to how you would fill in the coffee machine as you hummed a little tune that sounded familiar to her ears.
She couldnât stop looking at you no matter how hard she tried to. It was borderline frustrating, the way you commanded her eyes to follow you wherever you went. She would watch, sometimes from afar and sometimes close, when she had waited enough time to not be considered a weirdo for drinking too much coffee alone at a deadbeat town diner.
She had memorized your schedules; not on purpose, but just from watching too much. She knew you had graduated from college, according to the diploma hanging from your wall in the living room. Your apartment was cute, and full of personality. She had only been there once, had only dared to invade your space for a few minutes before the guilt overtook her need to know more about you.
She watched and watched, and talked and smiled whenever you approached her, and slowly she found herself thinking about you instead of what had happened months ago.
Jean kept her distance, trying not to come off too strong, trying not to make you uncomfortable with her constant presence; she had been doing so for two weeks when she heard it.
The sound of dangerous thoughts. The feeling of blood pumping through veins fast in preparation of a tense situation.
She didnât turn; she didnât need to. She could read every thought in the manâs mind, feel the sickening feeling of want as he looked at you. She could see his face, clear in every memory she shuffled through of him waking up and looking at himself in the mirror every morning.
And the things he wanted to do to youâŚ
They made her sick. They made her angry.
âHey.â
She snapped her head up. You were standing next to her table, your uniform folded in your purse and a smile on your face. So innocently unaware of the sick man a few tables over, looking at you as if you were merely an object he wanted to stick his dick into.
Disgusting. Infuriating. Anger fueling her already on fire veins.
âHey,â she smiled up at you. You would never know she never smiled at anyone else.
âMy shift is over. Want to come over to my apartment? Iâve heard thereâs a new show out now thatâs really good.â
âDo youâŚâ she blinked a few times. You found it adorable. âDo you want me to watch a show with you?â
âI mean, if you want to,â you gripped the handle of your purse tightly, suddenly scared of coming off too strong. You couldnât help it; you were intrigued by the newcomer who had come over every other week to drink coffee alone. âItâs no big deal if you donât.â
âOf course!â Jean said, setting the palms of her hands on the table. The mug rattled at the movement, the already-cold coffee moving side to side. âIâ I have never really watched a show before. Not entirely, I mean.â
You raised an eyebrow, the intrigue over the woman in front of your spiking. Who was she, and where had she come from? You wanted to know everything about her.
âLetâs go, then.â
It became a routine Jean found herself falling in love with. Her, waiting for you to finish your shift so you could go back to her apartment to watch whatever show you felt like watching at the moment.
The knowledge that Jean had never watched a show before (due to her being on the system since she was a kid, she had once awkwardly explained) was, to you, perfect. You got to introduce her to every show you loved, from classics she had heard of to new ones that made her impressed by the technology that was invented into making art.
For two months you both kept the tradition going. First, you would sit on your tiny couch with a bucket of popcorn separating you. Then, the bucket got relocated to the coffee table, and after a few more days your legs wound up on her lap, your body fully stretched as she laid her hands on your shins, unsure of what touch was welcomed and which one wasnât.
But then it happenedâ Jean didnât make it to the diner in time, having been forced to take a nap midday from a painfully long headache that wouldnât go away, and you have had to walk back home alone. It wasnât like you could call her; she was strangely paranoid about technology, talking about how âthey could find anywhere with a phone in your hands.â You found the claim weird, but decided not to push it; very few foreigners make it to your hometown you had only left to get your degree, and the few that did only did it because they were running away from something or someone, and needed a place to lay low for a while.
Jean had woken when the sun was starting to set. She cursed, pushing herself off the bed and wasting no time to run over to the diner. It was relatively close, and she got there quickly, but once she looked inside you were already gone. The other woman who maimed the place, a middle aged divorced lady that always offered Jean a sweet smile, shook her head with a chuckle at the ginger. Jean had been looking out the glass window, her eyes scanning the place to try to find you. With the confirmation you were gone, she pushed herself off the door and walked towards the alley.
You always took that shortcut, saying you hated the main road as it made the time it took you to get back to your apartment double and sometimes even triple. Jean had told you not to go that way if you were alone, but it seemed you were as beautiful as you were stubborn.
The soft smile on her face that was always present when she thought of you dropped at the strangled sound that reached her ears. It was your voice, full of panic and fear, andâ
And she couldnât lose you. No, she couldnât. She would not. She refused the idea of it.
Never. Never again. She had lost too much, she would not risk you.
Anyone but you.
She ran, turning the corner of the alley to see you pushed against the wall. Your purse had fallen to the floor, its contents spilling all around you, and that manâ
That man had his fucking hands on your body. His dirty hands, as disgusting as his thoughts.
He wanted to hurt you. To make you cry. And Jeanâ she wouldnât allow it. Never. Never.
Without thinking, without even breathing, she made the man move away from you. She pushed, making his body levitate above you. You stared in horror, unaware of just how that man was floating.
What the fuck?
âY/N.â
You turned at the noise. It was Jean, standing a few feet from you. It was Jean, looking at you while the man choked on something you couldnât see. It was Jean, the one whoâŚ
âJean,â you called out to her, voice trembling and full of fear, and she went to you. She wrapped her arms around you, one hand pushing your face until it was buried in her neck, and then you heard it.
Bones breaking. A scream of pure, unforgettable pain. Something falling to the groundâ
Not something. Of course it wasnât just something. It was his body, broken and lifeless, crashing into the ground.
âWhatâŚ?â You found yourself asking. You clinged onto Jeanâs jacket, your fingers turning white from the sear strength you were putting into the hold.
âSh,â she whispered. âI got you. No one is gonna hurt you.â
You raised your head to see the man. He looked⌠wrong. His limbs were bent in unnatural positions, bones sticking out from every place, and his face⌠his face was full of terror, as if he had seen a ghost.
Jean. Jean had done that. She had raised that man from the ground without even touching him, and then she had shattered his mind before he turned his body into a disgusting mess of meat and bones.
Jean, kind Jean who always respected you and your space. That same Jean had killed a man for daring touching you without your consent.
And you found yourself craving that side of her. You wanted to know more of her. Of her⌠powers. Or whatever it was that she called that ability to destroy.
âIâm sorry,â she whispered.
âDonât be,â you whispered back. And once she looked at you, eyes full of remorse and fear, you pushed her into your body and kissed her.
Summary: Youâre Peter Parkerâs best friend, and Spider-manâs sidekick. Being the only one after Dr. Strangeâs spell able to remember Peter, you both stick together and form a life of being broke and kicking villainsâs asses. But when a new danger looms over New York, Peter takes it upon himself to stop it, while you find yourself questioning why that stranger was causing all this chaos
Warning(s): protective Peter Parker, platonic Peter Parker x fem!reader, enemies to lovers, mentions of kidnapping, Jean being down bad and lowkey hating it because it ruins her mysterious girl aesthetic, making out, kinda sexual
Request: here
Word count: 4.9k words
a/n: if you want a second part let me know!
You could count on one hand the number of times you have doubted Peterâs judgment. There had been that huge fight while in Europe, when he had willingly trusted Quentin because he was craving the father figure he had lost. That argument had been⌠bad. Awful. Unforgettable.
You had stormed off in the middle of the airport after his fight with Mysterio, swearing up and down you never wanted to see him again. You had stayed away from everyone, sick and tired of being ignored by who you considered your best friend, until you have seen it; Mysterio, in front of the entire world, revealing Peterâs secret identity.
The aftermath of that had been filled with very awkward conversations and the strength to hold back the need to say âI told you so.â There was no point in beating a dead horse, and Peter⌠he was beyond gone. Especially after losing May and having MJ and Ned forget him.
You had been spared, thanks to your magic you honestly had no idea where it came from. The spell hadnât worked on you, and in the worst period of time of Peterâs life, you had remained a stubborn constant, not allowing him to slip away into the darkness, begging to fight until he started to do it.
He had become an amazing hero; not that he wasnât before, but after May, he fought like it was his callingâ like he needed it as an outlet to not tip over the edge.
And you had been there by his side, watching his back and stopping him for going too far. His oldest friend, his trusted sidekick, which was the name New Yorkers had apparently given to you, despite how much you hated that title; you only fought to watch over Peter, not for glory or a cool name, but still⌠Spider-manâs sidekick? Really?
You shook your head, focusing back on Peterâs voice. You recalled quickly what he had been telling you, and blinked at his pacing figure in the living room of your shared apartment.
âA telepath,â you repeated, thinking over the words. âWho controls people.â
âYes,â Peter ran a hand over his messy curls. âItâsâ I donât know. Itâs something strange.â
âAvengers type of strange?â You inquired.
He gave you a meaningful look. âMaybe.â
âAlright,â you said, standing up from the sofa.
âWhaâ where are you going? Weâre in a crisis.â
âI know, dummy,â you said, going to the bathroom.
âIs that a swimsuit?â Peter called after you.
âYes!â You replied through the closed door. âIâm going to see Yelena and ask her what she knows.â
He sighed. âBe careful, please.â
âI will.â
With new (and albeit little) information, you departed Yelenaâs unusual office and made your way back home. It was starting to get dark, and you knew if you didnât get back soon, Peter would start to worry. You didnât blame him one bit, you always worried about him too. You had a rule to always call if you were a little late for dinner, just to not concern the other.
But as you took a left and entered a less crowded part of the city, you felt it; a small tingling in your hands, your hairs standing on end, blood pumping fast in preparation for a fight.
Shit. Shit.
Something slammed against you and pushed you into a wall of the deserted alley to your right. You tried to talk, but a gloved hand was pressed against your mouth.
A warm body moved until it was right over yours, grabbing your wrists and holding them in place against the wall.
âWell,â the voice was surprisingly sweet considering who âor whatâ was holding you down. âIf it isnât Spider-manâs sidekick.â
You almost rolled your eyes at the name, but you knew it wasnât the time to lose focus; you needed to stay on high alert.
You couldnât see the face, blocked by the hood over her head and the darkness of the alleyway, but as she moved closer you saw green eyes staring you down.
âAre you gonna scream?â She asked, almost mockingly. In response, you bit into her gloved finger. She put her hand back and used it to hold your arms more securely over your head. âFeisty.â
âWhat do you want?â You asked, sounding tired and frustrated. You hated that she had managed to sneak up on you, hated that you had been stupid enough to get caught. But mostly you hated that you would get an earful from Peter the moment you were safe. âMoney? Power?â
âI want to know where V-max is,â she said. âAnd you know it. I know he does.â
You found yourself looking into her eyes. They were⌠tired. Exhausted, even. As if she hadnât slept in days. She didnât look like a maniac on a power trip, but⌠but like a lost person searching for something.
âV-max,â you repeated. The name sounded utterly unfamiliar to you; you had never heard Peter mention it, and none of the villains you would beat up and send to jail had ever said anything remotely similar to what the woman said.
âYes.â She squeezed your wrists harder, pupils dilating in excitement of what she thought was the big reveal she had been waiting for.
âI donât know anything about that,â you told her. You hoped it sounded sincere.
She got closer, her nose almost touching yours, and her lips curled in anger as she spoke: âBullshit.â
You opened your mouth to reply, but something cut you off. The woman, she wasâ she was trying to get into your head. AndâŚ
She was succeeding.
You pushed against the invisible force trying to breach through your mental walls, forcing it out until she stumbled back, clearly taken aback by how strong you were.
âWhat is it with you and your boyfriend, uh?â She asked, breathing loudly through her nose. She was starting to get frustrated; you needed to get out fast. âDid you do something to make you immune to me?â
You threw your head back as much as the wall allowed and hit her square in the face with your forehead. The hit was enough for her to pull away from you and she stumbled backwards, cursing loudly.
You didnât stay to see if she was okay; you took off running as she watched, surprisingly docile as her prey escaped.
But you werenât escapingâ no, she was playing with you.
As you turned your head to the side, you saw bodies moving awkwardly. A young man with sporty clothes pivoted and ran towards you.
âI just want to know where V-max is!â He âsheâ screamed at you as he chased you. âI need to know.â
âFuck off!â You screamed, going up a fire escape staircase as the man observed, clearly done with the chase for the time being.
As you stayed on the roof and called Peter to come pick you up, you couldnât help but think of her words.
I need to know.
Why? Why was V-max âwhatever that wasâ so important that she was willingly antagonizing the most persistent hero in all of America?
There was something else, something far beyond the common villainous greed. Yesâ this was personal to her, and if you were to judge her sunken-in eyes, it was crucial.
But Peter had already made up his mind; she was a villain that needed to be stopped.
âShit,â you said, running a hand over your hair to push it out of your sweaty face.
You were going to have to go behind Peterâs back to figure out what this was all about.
Great.
âI told you to be careful,â Peter said, pacing back and forth in front of your bedroom door. âAnd what do you do? Almost get caught by her!â
âI didnât get caught!â You threw back, changing out of your work clothes. It was the following day and Peter was still freaking out about what had happened the night before. âShe couldnât get into my mind. Magic, remember? The thing that made it impossible for me to forget your annoying ass?â
Peter threw his hands in the air, clearly frustrated. Not with you per se, but with the situation as a whole. He hated the feeling of his loved ones being in danger; especially if it came from a person he seemingly couldnât stop.
âSorry,â Peter said.
You walked up to him, wearing your comfy pijamas you had bought with your first salary, and squeezed his shoulders.
âI know,â you told him softly. âAnd Iâm sorry too. I didnât mean to scare you. I know youâre angry at her, but you canât let her get into your head.â You paused. âLiterally and figuratively.â
Peter chuckled, moving to wrap his arms around your waist. âI love you,â he whispered, his voice cracking halfway through. âPlease donât die.â
âI love you too,â you squeezed his neck hard. âAnd ditto.â
He pulled away and reached for his mask. âIâm going on patrol, okay? Iâll be back before dinner.â
âIâm making burgers,â you told him.
âExtra cheese, please, maâam,â he told you as he opened the window of the living room.
You tried to ignore it at first. That gut feeling in your chest that was telling something was off about the entire situation.
You just wanted peace and calm. To have a laugh with Peter during dinner, go to bed early and wake up with enough time to take a hot shower before your shift as a cashier at one of the Deliâs around the corner.
But you couldnât help but feel as if something was wrong. Utterly, completely wrong.
With a sigh, you turned off the TV program you werenât even watching and stood up. You walked around for a bit, trying to think of something to do. Your eyes landed on Peterâs computers, an ugly sight that sometimes made you regret letting him set up his âofficeâ in the living room.
âFuck it,â you murmured, going up to one of the screens and turning it on. âHey, E.V.,â you called, smiling when the robotic voice welcomed you. âDo you think you can find me some info on V-max?â
âLet me check.â
After an agonizing minute and a half (not that you were counting or anything), the AI replied: âNothing. Maybe you got the name wrong?â
No. You could remember perfectly the feeling of her warm hands on your wrists, squeezing as she said the name. It was V-max, and whatever that was, it was so important that not even Peterâs super smart AI assistant could get access to it.
You checked the clock on the corner of the screen. It was early. You could go around and check on some of the facilities, butâŚ
But you would be a fool of you didnât try to question the girl again, before you went onto this tangent that could put Peter in danger.
Opening the window that led to the fire escape, you stepped outside and looked around.
âHey,â you called, because you knew she was close. You could feel her in the back of your mind, a tingling sensation that was almost playful. She must have followed you and Peter last night as he took you both home; she must be waiting for you to leave the house so she could get inside and get any dirt she could on your best friend.
God, what the fuck were you doing?
A body on the other side of the street moved, and soon enough another followed, until a woman was trying to climb the stairs.
âNo,â you said. âI wanna talk to you.â
The middle aged woman looked at you, blinking, before she moved around as if possessed; well, technically speaking, she was. The next second, she was looking around confused, not remembering how or why she had been trying to get up the stairs of a fire escape building.
Soon enough, a hooded figure walked the same path your eyes had tracked before. You were momentarily surprised she had decided to listen to you; she was either stupidly naĂŻve or desperate enough to obey your request.
As she climbed, her hood shifted to the side and you caught a glimpse of her vibrant red hair. Once she was in front of you, you noticed she was slightly taller, with too many layers of clothing andâ
Jesus, those eyes. They were full of indescribable grief.
âWhy do you want V-max?â You asked her, crossing your arms. Standing so close to her made you feel on edge. She was powerful, although not fully aware of it; you were sure if she really tried, if she put her mind to it, she could also control you as she did with everyone else.
âDo you know where it is?â She asked. She sounded skeptical, and hopeful.
âI donât even know what it is,â you admitted. Her shoulders dropped. âBut⌠tell me. Tell me why youâre searching for it.â
âSo you can snitch on me to your boyfriend and get me killed?â She asked, sarcastic and angry and bitter.
What the hell had she gone through to be so⌠so cynical?
âNot my boyfriend. And no,â you said. âI think youâre not a crazy person trying to destroy the world. I think you actually want whatever v-max is for something good.â
âOh?â She raised an eyebrow. âAnd how can I trust itâs not a trap?â
âListen, smartass, Iâm trying to help you here.â You hit her arm. She had the decency to pretend it hurt. âYouâre a scary cat that doesnât trust easy, fine. Show me.â
She blinked at you. âShow you what?â
âWhy V-max is so important to you,â you said. âLet me judge if youâre insane or not.â
âIf you want me to show youââ
âYou have to get inside my mind. I know,â you took a step back, sending Peter a wordless apology for what you were about to do. âIâm gonna let you in. If you take advantage of me and try to use me to get that thingââ
âI wonât,â she rushed to say. Under the bright sun, she seemed so lost. God, she was either an amazing actress or she really was being misunderstood by everyone. âI swear.â
You were a lifeline she was clinging onto; the one person giving her a chance to explain herself.
âThen do it.â
You took a deep breath and let your walls down for the first time in years.
You blinked to try to get used to the light blinding you. You looked around, noticing you were laying onâ
Jean. Her name was Jean. She was just a girl your age trying to find her sister. And the government was going after her, and so was your best friend, the closest thing to a brother you had; a big brother who was unknowingly getting in the way of Jeanâs big sister, andâ
And shit, you must have almost stumbled backwards when she had entered your mind. She had been harsh, probably not used to doing it gently, but she had caught you and held you as you watched her memories.
You werenât sure if she had entered your mind or had just led you into hers. Her emotions⌠they had hit you so hard you had wanted to cry. Jesus, she was so scared and aloneâŚ
âHey, sleeping beauty,â she smiled softly down at you. She was kneeling on the fire escape floor, using one of her legs so you could lead on her. Both her arms were carefully placed around you, being careful not to touch you too much in case it was unwelcomed, but ready to hold you if you started to slip.
âJean,â you said her name. âIâŚâ You sat up, trying to wrap your mind around everything. âWas V-max the organization that took Sara?â
âNo.â Jean sat down, resting her back on the railing opposite to you. âIt was the last thing she told me. In my mind. It was a few weeks ago. She sent me a message. A cry for help. She needs me to find her.â
You cursed. This was all a fucking mess.
âOkay.â You blinked at her. âOkay.â
âOkay?â Jean asked, frowning.
âHow did you know it was me?â You asked, changing the subject suddenly. It had been irking you, how she had been able to find you within the crowd so easily when you prided yourself in staying under the radar.
âYouâre the only person I canât read,â she said. Her hand raised and she played with the chain around her neck. She looked oddly⌠human, and you tried not to think how attractive she was with her hood down. âOut of this entire town, youâre the only one. I knew it was you who was protecting Peterâs mind. I just looked until I found you.â
Protecting Peterâs mind. Was that what you had been doing unconsciously? You had always wanted to keep him safe, so it was a given, but stillâŚ
âI can feel you,â you said. âJust like you can feel me.â
She pursed her lips, clearly unhappy with the knowledge that whatever it was going on between the two of you, it was mutual.
âYes,â she said. âI think⌠I think youâre like me.â
A freak. A contradiction of nature.
âI think so too.â
Silence. Jean looked down at her hands, sighing. She seemed even more troubled now that she had gotten confirmation that Spider-man and his friend didnât know anything about V-max.
âI didnât mean to,â you said. Jean looked up and found you looking at her lips. When you had hit her the night before, you had aimed for her nose as Peter had taught you; the bones in the nose were surprisingly fragile compared to other bones around, so you always aimed for it when an asshole tried to grab you without your consent.
But the headbump had landed on her lower lip instead, cutting it as it hit her teeth.
Jean passed her tongue over her cut lip. âItâs whatever.â
You stood up, offering her your stretched hand. âCâmon.â
She eyed it for a moment before she grabbed it, using your help to stand up.
âWhat are we doing?â Jean asked, observing you as you got back inside the house.
âIâm dressing your wound and feeding you.â
Jean waited a moment, trying to take in your words, and once she saw you looking at her challengingly through the window, she rushed in to get inside.
Jean was oddly still. It was something you had noticed when you first saw her; her muscles locked and her body stopped any motion, making it seem as if she wasnât even breathing.
She had stayed unmoving as you sat her down on Peterâs desk chair and disappeared to grab the first-aid kit you were constantly using with your best friend. It was more of a test on your part, to see what she would do alone in your apartment. You even waited an extra minute, looking through the med cabinet and humming as you checked the expiration date on any bottle you grabbed.
After you were satisfied, you walked back into the living room and inspected Jean.
Still sitting down where you had left her, her eyes on the ground as she waited for you to come back. She had even made a point of putting her hands on top of her thighs so you could clearly see her hands at all times.
âLook at you,â you said, walking up to her. âWho knew you could actually listen when I talk?â
She rolled her eyes. She kept her stare strictly on you, analyzing your every movement intensely.
âWhat are you gonna tell your boyfriend about me?â She asked. You pressed the gauze with isopropyl alcohol harder against her lip, making her hiss.
âI told you,â you said through gritted teeth. âNot my boyfriend.â
She raised an eyebrow, suddenly really interested in the conversation. âSo youâre single?â
You laughed. The sound made Jeanâs heart skip a beat. It was a melodic sound, albeit a little bit loud and high-pitched.
She loved it.
âWhy the sudden interestâŚ?â You tried to dig through your brain to remember Jeanâs memories, searching for the word you werenât sure had heard before.
âGrey,â she replied, seemingly able to understand where your mind had wandered to.
You held back the need to laugh and instead told her your own name. She whispered it back, her lips moving and grazing the back of your fingers. The touch set a shiver down your back.
âSo Jean Grey, uh?â You asked, smiling cheekily. You had finally finished disinfecting the wound you had caused, and were starting to pull everything away.
âYes.â
âFavorite piece of clothing?â You bit your lip at the awful joke. She eyed the movement with her blue orbs, the stare to instead you had to turn around suddenly.
She let out a laugh you barely heard as you walked up to the kitchen and threw away all the packaging you have used to play nurse with the ginger.
âWhat are you going to tell Peter?â She asked once you stood in front of her again.
You took a step back. âHowâŚâ You gave her an accusatory look. âDid you go into my mind?â
She raised her hands in a display of innocence. âNo. I swore to you I wouldnât.â
âSo?â
She shrugged. âI read it in your mailbox.â
You cursed. Of course. God, you were awful at this whole âmaintaining anonymity while saving New Yorkâ thing. It was a wonder no one had caught you yet, considering you tent to leave your bag with your I.D. inside in whatever alley you could find while you went on to save the day.
âSorry.â
She looked to the side, eyeing your mask. Peter had made it for you after Dr. Strangeâs spell, apparently too paranoid to want you to be a vigilante without the proper face cover.
âSpider-manâs sidekick,â she said. âWhen are you gonna be your own person?â
You gritted your teeth, snatching the mask from the table. With a smirk, she made the mask levitate towards her. You allowed it, observing her.
âYouâre a good person,â she whispered, looking into the eye lens from outside. You wondered what she was thinking about. âWhy are you helping me?â
âWell, you said it yourself,â you walked up to her and delicately grabbed the mask. âIâm a good person. I help people who need it.â
âSo Iâm in that selected category?â She looked at you through her eyelashes. They were pretty, more blond than ginger, but still visible enough under the light of the living room.
âYes,â you replied.
âWhat an honor,â she said, but there was no playfulness in her tone as she said those words. Her eyes were surprisingly kind as she looked at you. That was her saying thank you, you realized. The most vulnerable she would allow herself to be with a stranger.
You put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. âYouâre welcome.â
Her hand landed on your thigh, squeezing it back.
She remained seated as you moved to the kitchen. She was once again unnaturally still, hands on her lap. It was as if she was scared of moving, of catching someoneâs eye and giving away her location. You thought it over as you pulled the two packages of burgers from the fridge, deciding to make enough food so she wouldnât go hungry; she seemed as if she needed a good meal in her body. She was a little too skinny for it to be considered healthy, but taking into account she lived in the streets and her entire focus resided on finding her sisterâŚ
âHey,â you called, turning your body to give her a look. âCan you help me peel some potatoes?â
âSure.â She stood from the chair and walked over to you. You raised an eyebrow and she stopped.
âTake off your jacket. Put your hair up. And wash your hands.â
âJesus, youâre bossy.â
âLike you couldnât believe it.â
She took off her utter leather jacket, long and worn out, and laid it on the back of the chair. Standing there with her yellow jacket, she looked more⌠well, less intimidating.
âNice pants, Jean,â you said. She didnât dignify that with an answer, rolling her eyes and walking away to the bathroom.
Once she was out, with her hair in a messy bun and hands still damp, she walked to you.
âWhat are you going to do about Peter?â She asked once more.
âWell, he wonât be here for a while. I say we eat and you go hide in my bedroom once heâs here. And tomorrowâŚâ You shook your head. âIâll think of how to talk to him about this tomorrow.â
âHide in your room?â She asked. âWonât he be able to⌠feel me?â
âThat only works when someone is in danger.â You looked at her over your shoulder. âAnd youâre not going to hurt me, are you?â
Jean replied before you could finish the sentence. âNo.â
âGood.â You pointed at the washed potatoes on the counter. âThen you stay, and tomorrow weâll figure it out. I know you donât like him, but trust me, heâs a good guy. Heâll help us.â
Us. The word choice wasnât lost to Jean. It was refreshing to have someone on her corner.
Jean moved silently, even with her combat boots. She was graceful, in the way only someone raised to be quiet can be.
Jean rested a hand on top of the counter, palm down. Her rings shone in the light of the kitchen, making you swallow. Her hand was close to your waist, as if she had wanted to hold you there but thought better of at the last second. You could feel her; her warmth behind you, her presence on the back of your mind. When you turned, she moved her other hand and successfully trapped you between the counter and her body.
âAre we a team now?â She asked. Her breath was minty, probably from chewing gum she had thrown out before obeying your request to come inside to eat.
âI donât know,â you whispered. Her eyes felt like a physical presence that caressed your entire face. âAre we?â
âIâm used to doing things solo,â she replied. Her eyes went down from your eyes, going to your nose and then finally your mouth. âBut maybe I can get used to your help.â She smirked. âMaybe you could be my sidekick.â
You almost growled; the nerve of this woman⌠always joking, always pushing your buttons. You werenât sure what to make of her, but you knew just what to do to keep her quiet.
You hooked a finger over her chain, twisting until you had enough leverage to push her down. She went willingly, gripping the counter with all her might; she was holding back, letting you set the pace, and you loved it as much as you hated it.
You wanted to see her unravel. To wipe that knowing smirk from her lips. To make her lose the control she had been clinging onto for months.
When your lips connected, she moaned into your mouth. You expected her to take it slow, letting her savor your mouth, but she was greedy. She took everything you were offering her, seeking more the moment you wrapped your arms around her neck. Her hands were all over your body, as if she wanted to touch you everywhere and didnât know where to begin. She settled for the back of your thighs, pushing you up until you were sitting on the counter. She didnât stop there; her fingers, so long and sly, made you wonder what else she could do with them. They would fit perfectly inside of you, you were sure of it.
Fuck, she was driving you crazy.
Jean broke the kiss, and you pushed your head back a little, expecting her to talk. Instead, she grabbed the back of your head and began kissing your neck. Everywhere she touched, you could feel an aftershock under your skin. Your body was singing in pleasure, and you were sure you could hear her inside your mind, responding to you.
âShit, Jeanââ
She was hungry. You had been able to tell the first you saw her. Hungry for love, for answers, for help, for closure. But now⌠now she was hungry for you.
âIâm homeââ
You grabbed Jean by the back of her head and pulled on her hair, forcing her to move her body away from you.
Peter was standing in the doorway, a bag full of groceries in his hand. He looked at you, and you looked at him; with your body on top of the counter, your legs spread to accommodate Jeanâs body between them and her hands all over you, you knew there was no way out of this conversation now.
âHey, Pete.â You made Jean turn her head until your friend could take a proper look at her face. âI found the telepath thatâs been driving you crazy.â
He dropped the groceries, and you cringed at the sound of eggs breaking.
