My shrink says I have a problem with internalized aggression. She says that’s why I hold grudges so well and why I’m difficult to be around. In order to give a tangible quality to my underlying frustrations, she prescribed you to me with the express orders to write down my “feelings,” however trivial. She’s even given me a rubric detailing how I should write, what I should write about, and how long each entry should be.
I write this now as a warning to anyone who continues further: contents may be considered offensive or inappropriate because I will destroy your soul if I find you reading this.
So diary of mine, let’s start with what I conceive to be the root of my lamentable flaws. It springs from two simple words:
And she punched me in the face. A meaningful punch from a meaningful lady, but believe me, it hurt no matter how I looked at it. So why would a purported fighter of virtue deck another human being for a rather warm greeting? Well, Ororo and I, we have a past, one colorful enough for her to justify ramming her fist into my cheek while she escorted a cadre of students--you remember, the joyful Jubilation and the rest of her merry compatriots--into my care.
She just walked past Sean, ignored my greeting, and punched me. Did that one punch start me on the long road to anger, debauchery, and affection for white leather? No, by God no, I’d already been entrenched in my ways long before, but the punch did bring back so many fond memories.
Like I said, we have a past. As I remember it...
“You’re sexy bitch, aren’t you?”
The unfamiliar woman in the full length mirror stared back, every inch of her foreign except for the smirk. My smirk.
Her hands reached back and unzipped the strap of leather holding her supple, soft breasts in place. Hazy blue eyes drifted down, waiting, watching for the mounds of flesh to escape their prisons. And what an escape they made as the hands finally did their job. With nothing but an exhale, the measly clothing fell.
Amazing. Now freed, every breath made the mounds shiver in rapt anticipation. They were firm without a hint of sag or falsity. The nipples blushed as red as summer roses, the air conditioned room coaxing them into a full bloom. The woman in the mirror licked her fingers and pinched the little buds.
A jolt of electricity ran through me.
Oh my, “Just your every day average nympho. Who would’ve guessed Ms. Pryde’s guardian angel would be such a dirty slut?”
Even her voice left me breathless. She was innocent and tempting, a siren who had no idea what she was. To think, she was mine, every bit of her was mine. I moved her eyes, her hot mouth, her silky thighs. I was in her body and she couldn’t do anything about it.
Ultimate power: the ultimate turn on.
Two fingers wormed their way in her tight, hot vagina. I sucked in a shot of air, and suddenly, I wasn’t just rubbing myself off. I was fucking Storm with her own fingers and fucking myself while I was at it. The distance I had with her body fuzzed away; in that moment, I felt the skies swell with my arousal. I curved the fingers and rubbed against my inside, her innermost spot. A thumb came down and massaged a bundle of very pink, very wet flesh. Those weakened legs, however strong they were, couldn’t hold the body up anymore and sent me stumbling into the mirror.
Like a cloudburst, I came, a fountain of her splashing downward against the glass. As I collapsed onto my rear, my fingers came out with a pop.
So she was tight but no virgin.
“Pity,” I said to her cum distorted reflection, “I wanted to be your first.”
With the smirk returned to the tired face, I used her tongue to clean off my mirror.
Joy, another mandated writing session. Honestly, this is helping me sleep better: I couldn’t help but bring myself to a shivering climax after thinking about those stolen moments. And sleep comes much easier after I cum. Sigh, Ororo is ever so exquisite with her intense eyes and that little sneer she has whenever I pleasantly smile at her. Yes, and that hair, that almost silvery hair.
I have it on good authority that the color is natural, thank you very much.
Seeing as how I have yet to even put a dent in the word limit, I will regale you with another encounter of my current obsession. More? Yes more, and this one so happen to be set a tad before the aforementioned near-masturbatory debacle. I believe it also was our first encounter.
As I remember it...
“You know, Ororo, you really mustn’t fight my psychic probes. The harder you resist, the more this’ll hurt.” I put my hand on her sweat filmed forehead and grinned. “I don’t want to hurt you, my dear. I want us to be...”
What was the word I wanted? Ah, yes, “Friends.”
I could almost feel her brain shorting out as I exerted my will over her. From the pit of her soul came a ferocious cry she hadn’t let out since her parents’ death. What an interesting specimen I had here, strong willed and yet so vulnerable. How could Xavier ever place his trust in someone like this? How could he hope to destroy the Hellfire Club with naïve followers?
“Leave us,” I commanded the guards, “Watch for the X-Men. I am not to be disturbed, understood?”
The lackeys disappeared and like that, we were alone.
I walked around her a few times: not a blemish on her skin. Deceptively muscular, I could tell she’d been worked into a specialized task. The combination of attractiveness, shapely legs, and lithe fingers suggested thievery but I couldn’t be sure till I peeked further into her mind.
And I hated peeking. Guessing and making up stories was much nicer.
“Are you a thief, my darling?” Of course, she couldn’t hear me. After what I had planned for her, she’d be lucky to be alive. “You have that look of someone used to following orders and never thinking for yourself. You worked for someone, didn’t you? You worked for someone before Charles came to you.”
Her smell--a blend of rain and budding flowers--prickled my nose as I got so close to her. “Not just a thief of possessions, I’d venture to say. Perhaps a thief of the heart too? Did you sleep with old, wealthy men to steal their money? Is that how you met Charles?
“An enigma, aren’t you? There’s a naiveté to be sure, but you have a dark side just waiting to come out. What happens when you stop following orders? What happens when you start thinking for yourself? What happens when you decide you won’t be a good little human being anymore?”
I brushed my lips over each of her closed eyes, leaving behind a trail of lipstick. “A pity you won’t get to find out, Ororo. What a shame: if we’d met before Charles, I’m sure we could’ve been something great. For now, I’m just going to have to send your mindless body back to the X-Men as an example.”
I grabbed her right breast and squeezed. “That is, of course, after I open your brain like a tin can and empty it out for my own enjoyment.”
Just before I advanced to the last stages of the full mind wipe, a red head barreled down the door.
And the rest, as they say, is history.
My shrink asked me to personalize you, maybe give you a name like Anne Frank did hers. From now on, I will refer to you as Diary. Diary, meet fountain pen. Fountain pen, this is Diary. I’m sure you two have met before.
So besides asking me to name you, my shrink also asked me to review my past entries and come up with a list of unifying themes. That’s easy: sex. Sex, sexual fantasies, sexual obsessions, sexual deviance, sexual tension, sex, sex, sex. I said as much to her and she postulated that my aggressions might stem from sexual frustration.
She asked with the straightest face, “Are you sexually gratified right now?”
Right now? No, and at the moment, I wasn’t looking to bed a truthfully unattractive woman who acted more like a shrew than a doctor. Was I sexually gratified? In the Hellfire Club, yes, and every night too. Technically, I could still return to the place and exercise my privileges but the satisfaction of having an attractive, opportunistic man and/or woman service me didn’t resonate as loudly anymore. I guess I’d grown beyond the phase of wild sex parties, which if my shrink should ever hear me say it, would’ve been a revelation of some psychiatric significance.
But sex wasn’t the only thing on my mind. Ororo was too. Why, only about two hours ago we got into a heated argument over the Institute’s curriculum. I asked who’s idea it was to teach these children as if they were to become bands of mutant vigilantes. The elder, more stuck up Summers took offense to the question, saying something about that’s way Xavier did it so it had to be the “right” way. Ororo, because of our past, defended Summers to spite me. I called her on it, she accused me of using my telepathy to invade her privacy, I said she was being transparent, she asked me what that meant, I told her to get a dictionary, blah, blah, blah.
She didn’t punch me this time, which was a pity. Why, right after she punched me during the formation of Generation X, we had the most riveting of conversations.
As I remember it...
“I hate you.”
As I massaged the plastic bag of ice over my throbbing cheek, I glanced at her with my lip twisted and eyebrow raised. “You punched me. Isn’t that suppose to be my line?”
“Stop victimizing yourself, Frost. I don’t know what you did to convince the Professor that letting you teach these impressionable children was a good idea, but I promise you, if you harm them or lead them astray, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
Funny that, “I thought X-Men didn’t kill.”
“Death isn’t the only way to dispose of a nuisance.”
Heavy words from a determined woman. “I’m impressed, Ororo. You’ve grown some fangs since we last met.”
Good girl, I always knew she would too.
“Fangs are for monsters,” she said, the controlled evenness in her voice a sign of her restraint, “And if I must become a monster to stop you from corrupting the X-Men, I will without hesitation.”
Her empty threats, however cute in her uppity sort of way, didn’t sit well with me. This talk about victimization, disposing of people, and fangs reminded me too much of the Hellfire Club: I didn’t like the Hellfire Club anymore, least of all Sebastian Shaw.
And she talked to me like Sebastian talked to me, demeaningly and arrogantly. Sebastian got away with it because I needed him, but Ororo...
I didn’t need Ororo.
“First you punch me. Now, you disrespect me in my school. Do you expect me to take your insolence without consequences?”
“I’m waiting for your consequences,” she answered as we came face to face with each other. “Just give me an excuse to unleash my wrath and I will. My defenses against your mental powers may not be much, but it will be enough for me to cause irreparable harm.”
She paused to let the tension soak in.
“What are you going to do? Mind wipe me? Try to take over my consciousness? Blast me with a jolt of psychic powers?”
I smiled at her. “No, I’m going to call Charles.”
Ororo and Logan are fucking. I don’t quite know what to think of that. On one hand, I couldn’t give a damn about what or who she decided to have in her. On the other, I feel violated that the object of my recent sexual fantasies is being touched by a hairy man standing about five foot two.
I don’t like short men. I don’t like hairy men. Summers, while an insufferable puppy, is also the perfect specimen of a man: tall, rugged but neat, handsome, and very well endowed if that old yellow-blue costume he wore was any indication. Logan? Squatty, cigar smelling, grimy Logan? Logan. What was so attractive about him anyway? On top of everything, he was a simpleton too.
It must’ve been the hair.
Who was she going to have her sights on next? Kurt Wagner? Hank McCoy? Well, I guess she always had a dash of that wild child in her. Who else would dress as butch as she did, get a mohawk, and still claim to be a tree hugger?
Speaking of the mohawk, she gave me quite some ammunition against her back in the days of Magneto’s leadership of the X-Men. As I remember it...
“We have much to discuss.” Shaw had a hand on Magneto’s shoulder and an eye on me. “Show the X-Men the Hellfire Club’s hospitality, Emma.”
They walked away, the door to one of the club’s many rooms closing with a resounding boom. Like distasteful children, each and every one of those despicable X-Men dropped into some kind of defensive posture, watching me, daring me--the only member of the Hellfire Club here--to make the first move.
Defusing the situation would’ve been simple but bland. I didn’t do bland.
“No, no, no, no, no,” I sighed, shaking my head and walking up to Rogue, “You, ladies and gentlemen, are simply not dressed for the occasion. Look at you, look at this hair--this isn’t an audition for a glam rock video.”
“Ya get away from her, bub!”
“And you,” I said, finger pointed at Logan, “What are those things on top of your head? Wings? Please, Thor is not a welcomed guest in this place and I ask you not to emulate him. Our Black Queen had a sour tête-à-tête with him and I doubt she’d approve.”
The way the little man foamed at the mouth couldn’t have been healthy. I could actually hear his teeth grinding against each other while he debated whether or not to impale me. Honestly, I had no fear of them: for all their foaming and growling, these wayward children of Xavier’s feared Magneto greatly. He declared a truce, and until I did something to break it, they wouldn’t attack.
So I continued playing with the well trained dogs. “Nightcrawler, I applaud your fine use of red and black on your distinct pigment of blue. If we could only find a suitable paper bag for your face, I’m sure you’ll be a hit with the servants tonight.”
Ok, the paper bag comment stepped out of line, but I couldn’t stop, not when I was on a such a hot streak. “Fashion disasters, all of you! The true culprit, I’d assume, would be Ms. Munroe in the back.” Nice doggy, good doggy, Auntie Em won’t hurt you. “An ensemble from your local Goodwill store is hardly appropriate. The chains, the leather vest, and the beaten fingerless gloves scream of a station well below where you should be occupying. And the haircut, my Lord, the haircut! What would ever possess a woman like you to shave paths down the side of her head? Darling, if you haven’t noticed, the Sex Pistols have been gone for years, and try as you might, they’re not coming back.”
That’s when a leather bound fist flashed across my vision and knocked me to the floor.
Supposedly, I’m in love. You read right: I’m not in lust, I’m in love. My jealousy of Ororo’s newfound relationship combined with my near constant sexual thoughts of her has “moved this woman into a prominent position of my emotional issues.”
On a lighter note, I’ve fired my shrink for being utterly useless and incapable of looking beyond the obvious.
Love, love, love, love. I love the way her tight uniform molds to her shapely contours when she moves. I love the way she balks at me whenever I say something to shake her comfortable, virtuous world. I love how she thinks she’s a dangerous predator when she was (and in some respects, still is) delicate prey. I love the exasperated gasp she lets out when I’m around. I love needling her and waiting for her to fight back.
As my former shrink said, I love pain and Ororo is the sweetest kind.
She is a rose, beautiful to smell and see but a chore to keep. Every prick of her thorns feels so good and affirms how alive I am; every time I bleed, I love her even more. She is the thrill of the hunt, a kitten finally grown into the leader of the pack, the strongest of all the X-Men. She is a challenge and the challenge is what makes her so alluring.
The Hellfire Club could never offer me this intoxicating chase. The Hellfire Club would’ve never allowed me to pursue someone simply because she consumed my every thought. The Hellfire Club wouldn’t let hellfire consume one of its own.
Here, few give a damn, much less waited in the wings for an Inner Circle member to show signs of weakness. Here, lusting after possibilities and then trying to fulfill them are the norm.
We are, after all, fighting for peaceful coexistence. In the end, where does this leave us? Ororo, in the arms of Logan. Me, a target of her hatred. I characterize our current relationship as coexistence. Peaceful, not quite, and it certainly leaves no room for romance.
I see this’ll require some work.
My sweet, sweet dear Diary,
Great news! Jean just died!
Oh, I know, I shouldn’t be rejoicing that one of the few women I respect in this mansion is dead, but do you know what this means? Logan will be leaving on another one his infamous soul searching journeys. Yes, he might’ve been fucking Ororo but everyone knows where his heart is. His leaving leaves Ororo alone, bitter and perhaps looking for a bit of reprieve. No woman likes to be second best... and then have that tasty fact thrown in their face.
We passed each other in the hallway today. Nothing happened, didn’t say a word to each other. Poor Ororo. Such a wounded animal, still proud yet unable to even summon her hatred for me--she would’ve broken my heart if I didn’t realize this unfortunate series of events opened previously closed doors.
Jean (Fine, I’ll write it: God bless her red headed soul.) was her best friend. Logan (See, what did I write about short, hairy men?) is gone. The other X-Men (Sensitive to the very recent losses of both Psylocke and Jean.) are walking around on eggshells with her. Ororo’s just a lonely woman trapped in a sea of familiar faces, isn’t she?
From tragedy comes rays of happiness... if only a person can fight through the grief and see what’s before them. A choice confronts me, a choice which I thought would never be. Should I or shouldn’t I pursue the object of my late night affections? Is tasting her from the past and afar better than the real thing (Don’t fantasies trump reality?)?
My impotent father always said, “The measure of a man is the choices made when confronted with the full graveness of a decision.” I’m not a man, but every other word in that saying applies to me.
To woo or not to woo.
The choice seemed so much easier before I started writing down my thoughts.
Excuse the ballpoint pen tonight. I am in the Blackbird right now, jet setting off to help the “mighty” Avengers subdue one rampaging Scarlet Witch who is warping the very fabric of the universe to dismantle them. What they expect us to do I have no clue--aren’t we just a bunch of dirty mutants to them? In more important news, the X-Men are in shambles: the Professor disappeared the week after Summers left. The mansion still lies in ruins and “human rights” protestors hound our doors every day.
Most of the team wants to relocate, perhaps to the kinder, more accepting west coast. Those of the original X-Men (Warren, Henry, and Robert) along with Ororo don’t want to lose the mansion. Of course, no one asked my opinion which means I get a carte blanche to do whatever I desire.
I could live up to my devilish reputation and destroy the X-Men: take their base, steal their technology, sell them out to the nearest mutant hate group. What else had I gotten from them except grudging acceptance? When I was on my best behavior, they treated me like scum, not much more different than when I was with the Hellfire Club.
It’s not all doom and gloom--Henry doesn’t hate me. We get along together in a Beauty and the Beast sort of way. His superior mind forces him to be a reasonable person, and for that, I’m grateful. The Pryde girl lies on the indifferent end of the anti-Emma Frost scale now; one less person wants to see me dead. Then there’s my former charges, Jonothon, Jubilation, and Paige, each of whom hold an amount of gratefulness toward me.
Finally, we have Ororo who’s been remarkably dead to the world. She still leads the X-Men, she still finds a way to put on a brave face, but I’m a telepath and she can’t hide from me. She’s frustrated, scared, and above all else, losing control of her unraveling world. The weaker part of her wants to hide from the responsibilities, but she is strong and stays. I respect that, and perchance, this is another one of those psychiatrically significant findings creeping up on me again.
Ororo is more than a sexual object.
We’re landing now. The Avengers building looks like it’s been passed through a torch, singed but still whole. This better not take long.
***~~~~*@(#@)(In another reality, another place where mutants aren’t afraid and the House of M rules$$$@!#*()~~~~***
We are in Paris tonight. I write “we” but we didn’t come together, just like last time, just like all the times before. I’m bitter, no use in denying it. I’m bitter because she hides me like a dirty secret. I’m bitter because while she loves me, I’m second to her people, her country.
I am second to no one!
I am Emma Grace Frost, the pinnacle of what our species strives to be. I am Tony Stark’s rival, the only mutant who can claim such. I have Magnus’ attention, something any two legged creature on this planet would kill for. My riches extend from one hemisphere to the next, made by my mind and my two hands. I am everything the world wants, but in her heart, I am second.
In the place which counts the most, I can’t win.
It would be easier if I knew she didn’t love me and only used me for my power. I never took kindly to being used, but she never did. She never begged me for help when her people starved. She never asked me to get Magnus’ audience. She never wanted anything from me but my love--I gave her that.
Princess Ororo, Princess of Kenya. She won the Nobel Peace Prize for breaking the leashes of poverty and AIDS in her country, elevating that tiny land mass into a relevant contributor to the world at large. She is her country’s soul and when I asked her for her love, she gave it to me. She couldn’t give all it to me, but she gave what she could.
It wasn’t enough.
I tried winning her over: Frost International is the biggest employer in Kenya. I tried removing myself from her: we always came back to each other in times of crisis. We love each other, but I am her dirty secret.
Tonight, she announces her engagement to T’Challa, King of Wakanda and noted human. Their marriage combines the most prosperous African nations and hopefully will spur the rest of the region into better times.
I met T’Challa years ago at a global summit. He’s a fine man, learned, observant, righteous, noble, intelligent. He is everything Ororo should have if she didn’t have me. You what know though? She does have me!
She says our relationship can’t be known. She says her people love her but are still entrenched in their beliefs that two women cannot be together. She says we are forever even if others don’t know. She says T’Challa doesn’t have her heart like I do. She says T’Challa also loves another. She says sacrifices must be made for the greater good and that I knew from our first days together that her country always came first. She says she loves me, that if she were someone else, we’d be together without this shroud of secrecy.
She talks and I listen. We argue, then, we cry. I hate her, but I’m a telepath. I see she truly loves me... just not as much as she loves her country. I see the ease and difficulty of her choices and I ask myself: is life better with or without Ororo? With is infinitely better. I can’t imagine any other choice. I want more of her but I can’t have any more.
She says she knows how I feel. I wonder if she really does, if she really feels that empty pit in me. After tonight, I will be with someone else’s woman. I never intend to stop loving Ororo and T’Challa is hardly an obstacle. I just wonder if this is an end to another chapter of us. I wonder what tomorrow will bring as I become more than a secret, when I become the Princess’ mistress.
Dear one version of Diary,
Wanda Maximoff must die. Magneto must die. These are statements of fact. We’re on a plane right now headed straight back to Paris. We? Who is we? Well, I’ll tell you it’s more than Ororo and myself. “We” includes Logan, Mystique, Katherine Pryde, Tony Stark, Warbird, Spiderman, Daredevil, Layla Miller (The certain someone who made us see how false this world was.) and looky here, Cyclops too. No Jean, which make Logan (or should I say James?) and Scott look like someone crushed their favorite toy.
I hate this. I hate this reality, I hate the people around me, I hate this version of Diary, I hate this version of myself, and I hate Wanda Maximoff. I hate how some people feel like this world is better than our own. I hate being stuck here under Magneto’s ultimate rule. I hate how all my dreams have supposedly come true even though they haven’t, not by a long shot. I hate what I’ve read about myself because I sound like some kind of romantic sap pining for Ororo’s royal pussy.
And speaking of Ororo, I hate how this world has implanted the pleasurable existence of “us” into my insidious brain. We look at each other with unsure glances now, the traces of our comfortable hatred all but thawed away.
Thank you to whom? Logan, who else? He came to us yesterday like a bat out of hell.
As I remember it...
I gasped as Ororo retreated her slickened fingers. My shoulders slumped, finally exhausted from our day of raw passion. We hadn’t made love like this since that assassination attempt on her three years ago, since the time I thought I’d lost her for good. I was needy then, mewing and moaning and wanting her to answer me to prove she was real.
Today was no different.
She came to me like she always did: with her powers of flight and disguised by an image inducer. I had no words for her because of the hurt in my heart. When I closed my eyes, I still saw T’Challa kissing her as the entire gathering of the world’s most powerful beings burst into applause. She had no words for me, nothing able to ease the rising dread.
“Don’t leave,” I whispered, “We can stay here and no one will ever know about us.”
“I want to, my love, but I can’t.”
“It’s a free world, Ororo. There’s no mutant registration act or anti-homosexuality law. We can do anything we want.”
And as always, she squeezed her eyes together and conjured up the devastating losses her people had gone through, the bloated stomachs and fly swarmed bodies of parents. She conjured up these images for my sake, so she knew I saw what she fought against. These conditions might not have been reality today, but with one wrong step, it could happen again.
“What about me?” I asked, touching her face, “What happens when you marry T’Challa?”
“I will still have you, Emma.”
“This coming for a woman who talks about upholding moral values most of her day?”
“T’Challa and I have an... understanding.”
“What? In a marriage of convenience, you can have something on the side?”
“No, we respect each other but we don’t love each other. Our hearts belong to someone else-”
“And your heart belongs to your country.”
“Emma, don’t be difficult.”
Silence. We hurt each other like this all the time, me being stubborn and she trying to balance every aspect of her tumultuous life. I needed to say the things I said, if only to let them out and make myself feel better. She knew I’d never leave her, marriage or not, but I didn’t have to like staying with her. We lay in my bed, thin covers separating us but feeling ever so much like an ocean.
Without warning, the door came flying off its hinges and in came the most hairy looking man I’d ever seen in my life.
You should’ve been there. Logan almost had a stroke and Ororo, once Layla made her come to her senses, couldn’t get far enough away from me. And me? I laughed bitterly.
*****Step back to reality******
Everything has fallen apart. The mansion is still in ruins, the X-Men are still in shambles, and we still remember the House of M. There’s a current of uneasiness everywhere: people are slow to act, even slower to thought, and worst of all, the mutations are gone. Well, most of our mutations are gone. Some of us still have powers (like us X-Men, oh joy), but all across the globe, reports are coming in that almost all of the population is human again.
It’s all because of one Wanda Maximoff. As she said, “Daddy, no more mutants.”
And poof, we were gone from the House of M and back into this house of shit, minus about a few million of my species. Henry goes on and on about what happened to the energies from so many people, that while Wanda could warp reality, she couldn’t create or destroy it, that the extra power now sapped from most everyone had to go somewhere. He busies himself in the lab while everyone else slowly decompresses and self-destructs.
Forgive me if I don’t feel like writing today, but I’m tired of all this. I think Summers had a point when he said he was tired of all this superhero garbage. Without mutants, without students, what am I fighting for? Why am I here? I have no one to impart my knowledge to, and as a teacher, that’s the worst feeling to ever have: no students left to teach. I guess this is the end, if you don’t mind me saying. There’s more chapters to write, more gloriously bitter days ahead, but today, the dream dies, at least for me.
Thank you, Diary. It’s been a gas while it lasted. Guess I’ll have to thank that fired shrink for you, don’t I?
Emma crossed the “T” in her name a final time before closing the diary. It was red, small, and remarkably durable given how leather bound it. The Mont Blanc fountain pen found itself tucked back into her shirt pocket.
“C’est fini,” she repeated aloud. It’s finished.
In front of her was the mansion’s fireplace, the flames stoked to a small inferno. Orange light illuminated the now cold, impersonal recreational space, reflections dancing off of liquor bottles and recently replaced windows. She had a small suitcase at her side, stuffed full of only essentials and valuables. Wouldn’t take long to move the rest of her things from Westchester to Manhattan, but it’d be best to do in the night while no one was awake.
Wanda’s actions still made everyone unaccustomed to each other and the world at large.
With a casual fling, Emma watched her diary hurl into the fireplace. At first, the leather refused to burn, but when the pages inside did, the rest of it followed suit. Another chapter closed, another dream ended. Funny how most of her life punctuated itself with these stark divisions.
Her childhood ended when she ran away from home.
Her adolescence ended when she joined the Hellfire Club.
Her villainous days ended when Trevor Fitzroy killed the Hellions.
And now, her virtuous days ended when the Scarlet Witch turned the world inside out.
No Xavier. Disheveled X-Men. A resentful society. No students. All that meant no more dream of coexistence. All this boiled down to survival, not coexistence. Survival Emma could do on her own and without anyone’s help.
She was always a survivor.
As she turned around to wheel her suitcase and herself out of this life phase, she saw Ororo standing at the doorway. She wasn’t hateful this time. Her eyes had a sad quality to them and her jaw wasn’t set on edge like it always was when around Emma. The insecurities of the past weeks pierced her galvanized exterior and made her seem small.
No punch. No growl. No retort. Not even a scowl. Everything changed between them, both women knew the signs, and Emma didn’t like it. She wasn’t a romantic sap or second best. She wasn’t some princess’ fuck toy. She was Emma Grace Frost, and in this reality, Emma Grace Frost wasn’t some weak, pitiful lapdog.
“Emma, could we talk?”
“Sure.” She waited a second. “Are we done yet?”
Ororo ignored the comment. “When Wanda did what she did and we were together...”
“No, we weren’t together. I was your bitch: I am nobody’s bitch.”
More ignoring. “... supposedly, she gave us all we ever wanted. Magneto ruled the world. Spiderman had a child. Kitty became a teacher. Logan found out about his past.”
Emma moved straight into Ororo. “Excuse me, I’m leaving.”
“Was I really all you ever wanted?”
The answer came abruptly. “Maybe.”
Ororo took that as a yes. “Why?”
“I should be asking you the same thing. I wasn’t the only one jabbing her tongue in someone’s mouth.”
“I want someone strong who could be my equal, my subordinate, and my superior all at the same time. I want someone who would support me and know what I needed. I want someone who is loyal to a fault like I am. I want someone tender but aggressive, someone roughly gentle.” She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. “I thought that person was Logan.”
“Go back to him. The Emma Frost you had dangling on your finger never existed.”
Her voice became hard for a brief second. “I’ve answered you, so tell me what you wanted.”
Somewhere in the back of her mind, Emma thought she heard the words “To woo or not to woo.” It was like the ghost of Diary decided to come back and have some fun with her. The depressing sourness of this mansion mixed with Ororo’s unwavering gaze, her sweet cum running down that mirror, and the promise of a foil, a never ceasing opponent who was an equal in different ways.
“I...” Her throat went dry. “I...” God, this was so embarrassing. All the things she wrote about Ororo in Diary resonated like ghostly echoes. The demeaning but praising but ambiguous ideas made private but now threatening to spill into the open made Emma frown--because of what she didn’t know (though if she was really honest, she’d say most likely because of self-mortification).
She tried again, this time with conviction. “I wanted you.”
If the admission stunned her, Ororo didn’t show it. “You didn’t want an ideal like I did?”
“No,” replied Emma, shaking her head, “I wanted you.”
“This... this is quite a revelation.”
“I wanted someone perfect and Wanda put us together.”
That meant on some level, Emma was perfect for Ororo. That meant everything Ororo ever wanted in another--the devotion (or stubbornness in Emma’s case), the strength (or determination in Emma’s case), the aggressiveness (or superiority complex in Emma’s case), and the equality (or the refusal to be second best in Emma’s case)--was indeed present in Emma. That meant Ororo wanted Emma.
And Emma wanted Ororo. Period.
“Do you still want to leave?”
Emma let go of her suitcase and folded her arms together. “I may be persuaded otherwise.”
“We haven’t gotten along well in the past. Maybe we can wipe the slate clean and start over?”
“You’re going to have to do better than that, Ororo. I still remember how you treated me in that other world. I’m second best for no one, not for your country, not for Xavier’s dream, not for the X-Men.” Emma gave a sad smile. “You have a choice: those other things or me. If you can’t choose, I don’t want to waste my time.”
Waste my time. Emma half expected a punch to come careening into the side of her face because of those three words. Heavy feelings floated in the air and to have those potential emotions called wastes of time didn’t set well with most people.
Then again, Emma just had to know: anything less would be settling for second best.
This wasn’t the House of M anymore. Wanda wasn’t the puppeteer behind everyone’s strings. The days ahead could be the harshest imaginable or the most fulfilling of all. Choices, and as old Winston Frost said, “The measure of a man is the choices made when confronted with the full graveness of a decision.”
“You,” softly spoke Ororo, a form finally given to her longing ideal as she saw Emma for the first time.
“Me.” Emma unfolded her arms to pull Ororo closer.
- The End