#jean gray

You meet Jean Grey on a bus. It’s a really rather crowded bus with seats that are too worn and smell of musk and moldy rot wood. You step onto the bus with your book bag, eagerly waiting for the next stop, wanting nothing more than to be home after the day you’ve had. A day full of rigorous work, classes that never end, and a back that never stops aching no matter how many times you lessen the load in your pack. You have half a mind to pick a seat in the back, it’s always been a place you’ve felt safest. To your luck (bad luck) the back is full so you settle for the only available chair, next to a redheaded girl who looks as uninterested in life as you feel. Her grey hood is pulled over her head, and you can spot the carrot red hair peeking out from the side, baby hairs that crumple each way.

The girl’s blue eyes flit to yours as soon as you sit down onto the seat, you notice her pale complexion, the way she scoots just a bit closer to the window seat, like she’s trying to put as much space between you and her. You don’t take it personally, you just offer her a kind smile. It’s soft and sweet and perhaps a bit too sweet because the girl’s eyes flit away, onto the coming green trees.

The girl’s clutching a bag to her pale white knuckled fingers, like her life depends on it, her leg shakes, once, twice, enough for you to realize that she’s nervous. Or anxious. You don’t know how it starts, one minute you’re sitting still, eyes bored and downcast, the rumbling of the bus’s wheels sloshing in the rainy weather, when the girl suddenly speaks.

It’s a quiet voice, but firm in the way she speaks, “you look exhausted.” The voice is a bit rough around the edges, like she’s strained her vocal chords, but the edges of her lips lift up in a slight smile, an acknowledgment of the kind smile you had given her before. You blink, once, twice, but then find your footing, moving subconsciously to move your braid to the side and trace your hands down your skirt. “It’s been a long day.” Your voice is truthful, tired, worn down, but still a spark lingers underneath. You think about so many things, recounting your day, waking up at five in the morning, herding your five year old niece into clothes that resemble matching, making oatmeal with chocolate chips (requested by Lily, of course) and then racing her off to drop off at your mom’s before walking the few blocks to ESU. Your feet had been aching the whole way, but you never complained, didn’t complain while all your other friends went off to bars, to parties late at night on campus, begging you with puppy eyes to put down the books, even for a while.

But you never did. Because Lilly would be waiting for you with her soft grey eyes and curly beyond curly blonde hair and cuddles that soothed every ache away. It wasn’t your fault your sister died in a car crash. It wasn’t your responsibility to care for a six year old who was as stubborn as mule, you didn’t have to accept the responsibility, you were a young women with her whole life ahead of her. University, a job, friends, girlfriend, boyfriends, sky was the limit. But you had taken one look at a five year old Lilly, who was shaken and terrified and wanting nothing more than to hold onto you, her aunt, her cool aunt who drove with the music to loud and would scare away monsters at night with dance parties, and you had accepted custody. Your mother bless her, took Lilly during the day when you would attend classes, and nights when you had big finals and your job at the local library . You’d have the apartment to yourself tonight, which you needed, desperately.

“What about you? Long day?”You tilt your head, giving her that lopsided smile, one that comes from lack of energy and genuine awkwardness, and from keeping constant company around a five year old little girl. Jean’s grey eyes seem to crinkle at the edges, her lips moving into a faint smile, like it hurts to smile, but she lets out a laugh, a small chuckle, it makes your heart warm, knowing you can make a stranger smile.

Jean for her part nods, once, red bangs bopping underneath the grey hoodie, the smile faded as quickly as it had came, “I’ve had better days. Hell…my whole life has been a rough day”. You stay quiet for a second, but then you nod along, eyes far away, clinging to the distance, the rough road ahead of the bus, where salt has just been thrown on the road. “Sometimes life just seems so unfair. Cards are delt wrong. I didn’t think my life would look quite like this” you state.

Jean doesn’t pry, instead her grey eyes seem to flicker over you, eyes set on your face, careful of her movements through the hoodie. Her eyes take in the deep way your eyes are nestled in thought, the slope of your chin, and without much thought, she’s use to this by now, she allows her mind to take over, and seep into your body. It’s just curiosity.

It’s not as forceful as some takeover’s that she’s done before, it’s gentle, like a key sliding into a lock, your breathing gets heavy for a second, and then your eyes remain glossed over and your head briefly shakes forward. Jean feels everything. It’s immediate. The weight of being the sole provider, school which is long and hetic and seems to get worse with every class you take. Formula’s and concepts you struggle to memorize. She feels your body, the way your bones ache, your feet from the cold and the walks to and from campus. She feels the hurt, the dark feeling of something she’s familiar with that sits lodged in your chest like a weight that won’t ever leave. Loss. Grief

It’s a feeling so deep, it tangles along your heart and squeezes, she sees the tears on your pillow, feels the uncertain cries you take in the mirror when you’re alone trying to be tough. It’s emotions she’s much too delicate for in this state-she sees Sara, and instantly she lets you go, for once feeling something like regret for invading your mind. You blink once to break the curse, and then you’re turning to Jean, and for a second, just a second, Jean thinks you’re onto her, that you know what she just did. She’s seconds away from explaining herself, trying to find the words, but you stop her.

“I don’t know why I didn’t ask this before. I guess it must be my brain-you’ll have to forgive me, I’m a bright girl, it’s just lately it’s felt like my head is all frazzled” you begin, but then your eyes catch hers, and it’s like you understand her?

“I should have asked this already” your thumbs twirl, but then you’re meeting her eyes confidently, “do you need a place to crash? I just noticed you’re only traveling with a pack-and I just-I just wanted to know if you’re okay. If you’re hurt or..” the words are soft, said through earnest eyes, and Jean lets them sink down, lets them penetrate her heart enough that she cracks one eyebrow, “and you’re confident I’m not an axe murder?”

Your lips move, like you’re trying to decide if it’s funny or tangible, logical, but the more you look at Jean, at the red bangs below her hoodie, the soft nail beds of her fingers, the converse that are dirty and streaked, crumpled clothes that look far from washed, you know in your heart that she is not an axe murder. “No. No I don’t think axe murders ask their victims that.” The giggle you let out travels, and Jean hates how much she likes it.

Jean nods, every bone in her body is telling her to decline, that she doesn’t need help. She reminds herself of the words she has spoken to Peter Parker just hours before, how people like them, didn’t get to have love, friends, family, and now just a few hours later, here you sat. This kind hearted, hard working girl who had seen her. The real her. And offered her a warm place to stay. ‘It’s just one day’ Jean thinks, justifies to herself. So she says yes. It’s a kindness she doesn’t get offered to her everyday. And it feels different. A good different.

“People aren’t usually kind for no reason” Jean finds herself saying, following you out of the bus, arms folded and clutched to her backpack, still on alert. Something in your heart breaks at that, the way Jean eyes you like she’s grateful, so grateful, but wary,it’s then you know you’re dealing with someone with trust issues and perhaps more hidden beneath her skin. So you settle on a kind smile, sweet, “maybe I’m weird” you offer.

The small walk from the bus stop is calm, you don’t check to see if Jean is behind you, you just stroll the familiar way. The building itself isn’t glamorous, it stands still and looks like every other cement apartment complex. “It’s not much. But it’s home” you utter to Jean. The lobby is warm-the type of warm that Jean is not use to feeling. Being in foster homes, placements, meant you didn’t get to have these luxuries, and even then, her and Sara lived off what they could after they had left. The warmth is inviting and comforting, and the lift is a simple elevator, with silver buttons that you press with ease.

Jean takes the time, the small amount of ten seconds while the lift elevates, to study you. Your frame is smaller than she’s noticed, but you had been sitting on a bus chair. Your eyes are a unique color, mundane to others, but special to Jean, because they now reflect kindness in the purest form. You’re calm, she can tell by the way stand. Your heart is calm, and your mind-

Jean’s jaw clenches, your mind is a mind that’s so unlike any other she’s been in. It’s unique and interesting and inspiring. You thought with such clarity, your empathy was wild and free, and you weren’t afraid of your heart. Others had been, she’s been in enough mind’s to see true selfishness. Yours made Jean want to know more about you. Like an itch that begged to be scratched.

When you reached your door, you took the jingling keys out of your pocket, but before you could reach the lock, a pale hand stopped you, cold burning fingers wrapping around yours, the touch was firm and solid, “you’re sure? You don’t even know me”. That was true, you didn’t even know her name, and yet, for some unknown reason, you felt like you did. Maybe you were insane, maybe you were putting yourself in danger at this very moment, but the feel of cold fingers-seemed to crawl inside you.

“I think I’m suppose to know you.” You settled on. It’s ominous and perhaps not quite what Jean was looking for, because she eyed you like you were insane, but you just opened the door.

The apartment smells like pine needles, leftover oatmeal, which is left on the hob still in the pot. Jean allows her eyes to wander, to reach every crevice of space. It isn’t too big, two bedrooms from what Jean can see. The fridge is littered with drawings, little stick figure tigers, monkeys, and Spider-Man. That brings a smile to jean’s face, because the stick figure Spider-Man reminds her of Peter, and she’s hopeful that he’s back on his feet. Her eyes sway from the kid drawings to the crayons littered on the floor, she accidentally steps on one, a snot coloured green. You’re quick to pick up the crayons, blushing, like you wish you’d picked them up before you left, or had Lilly do it.

“My niece” you said gently, eyes creasing, like just the thought of her was enough for heart eyes, “she just turned five”. You scooped up the remaining crayons, “we’re working on being independent and not needing others to fix your messes” you spoke, and Jean almost felt like laughing, because you had said it in such a way that made her believe you were indeed a mother.

Jean moved cautiously to the small picture frame on the wall, hands in her pocket, grey eyes taking in the picture of you, sitting on a swing, Central Park, with a little bundle in your arms. A little girl with a bow tied to her head, smile wide, not more than six month old. It took center stage. For all to see.

“My sister passed last year. Car accident. It was sudden. She died instantly.” The words were spoken fast, like you just had to rip the plaster off, you said it while busily reaching for each toy and putting them in an orange bin. The movement was easy, but the stare was another. Far away. Pain. Grief. Still evident. Still coursing wildly through you. The loss Jean had felt-was the loss of your sister.

It was a gut punch. And Jean had to turn her eyes away from the picture frame, she allowed the grief of Sara to pass through her, just for a moment, and when she met your eyes, she felt seen.

“My sister passed too. Quite recently” Jean uttered, hating the tears that fell, and quickly wiping them away. You didn’t pry, just eyed her with soft eyes and a head bowed, “I’m sorry.” That’s all you said, no how’d she die, or other questions that would have seemed inappropriate to ask.

“You’re raising Lilly then?” Jean found her lips forming the words, inquisitive.

“Trying my best at least” you utter. Trying my best. That’s something that’s never been done before in jean’s life. Her own mother refused to do even that. But to know that a person like you, existed, set her heart aflame. It made her smile, “she draws you a lot” Jean spoke, pointing to a stick figure with your hair color and Lilly’s entangled hands.

Your eyes crinkled, “she’s clingy” you said with a laugh, “I don’t mind”.

Once you’re done settling the toys down in the rightful spots, colored bins kept neatly behind the tv screen, you turn to Jean, “first things first” you move to extend your hand, hoping you don’t come off as awkward or any other adjective that reflects the word, you tell her your name, plain, simple, and Jean immediately, without thought shakes your hand. Her pale fingers extend over yours with a touch so gentle, so soft, it leaves you with a smile. “Jean. Grey. My name is Jean grey” she speaks with a careful cough, the edges of her lips lifting into a smile. Minuscule, but enough it makes your stomach twist.

“Welcome Miss Grey.” You give her a playful wink, a bow that’s thrown half hazardously, with your hair that flops every which way as you stand back up, and you swear you catch the flicker of amusement on her lips. From there you show Jean the tour of the apartment. It’s no bigger than any student in college apartment in New York, cramped, small, but inevitably home. Lilly’s room is next to yours, it’s a room filled with laughter and light. A small toddler bed, pink with polka dots and toys that are neatly cleared away, you’re doing. Jean notices the way the room is spotless, intentionally clean. Your room is freshly cleaned, a king sized bed, large enough for two, and so big for a girl so small framed, but Jean doesn’t question why she thinks about sleeping in the bed with you. It’s perfectly natural to think you attractive. Jean knows that. You were a sweet tempered, hard working, kind, hottie of an aunt who offered her aid because she needed it. so Jean allowed herself to entertain the thought, you, her, the bed, clothes off, enjoying the desires of sexual pleasure. It was a thought, and then like most thoughts it tampered off.

“I only have the one room. Lilly won’t be home tonight, she’s staying over at my mother’s tonight. So if you feel more comfortable I can set up the mattress I have in Lilly’s room. Or the couch, I know it’s not very comfortable-I wish I could offer you more-“ you begin, scratching your head, eyes alight, cheeks red.

jean holds her hand up, silences you, “you’ve been more than accommodating. I’m a bit apprehensive about you offering a random young women off a bus to stay the night with you-please tell me this is not a usual occurrence?” The joke surprises even Jean, the way it falls so easily off her lips, the way your lips lift, a hand covering your face, bashful, it makes jean’s heart race, but also, it makes her smile.

“It’s not a usual occurrence. I just-I like you miss grey. I’ve only known you for about two hours” you count on your fingers, “but I gather you and I-“ you step closer, just a small step, enough that you and Jean are face to face, and Jean’s heart does a somersault, because your eyes are a mound of color, of life, and overwhelming kindness and the power in her yearns to bask in it. For your gentleness, your warmth, your compassion. Being deprived of it for so long makes her feel like a rabid animal.

“Are going to be good friends”. The word friends hangs in the air, settling between you and Jean, and she nods, “I’ve never been very good at friends”. That part is true. Jean’s never been in one place long enough to make true friendships. Never had a person she relied on. Till Peter. Who showed her you didn’t have to bare it alone. And until you.

You feel it too. The pull, the way Jean’s eyes are a swirl of marble, fresh tidal waves that if you look too deep into, they’ll pull you down into its depths. She’s different. Her energy is calming, yet chaotic. Her eyes are deep and mysterious, part of you knows she’s dangerous, that she’s running from something. The chaos that has spread across New York, the people that had been suspended, stopped in their tracks, by this mysterious sheen of shimmering waves. The mysterious people who had done horrible things only to say someone else had done it. Had taken control of their bodies. The suspicion-that the girl in front of you was her. Was loud. But the other part, whispered softly that Jean wasn’t dangerous. She was hurt, in pain, suffering for much of her life. She wasn’t the villain in the story. And you believed it.

“Well I’ll just have to teach you how to be good at being friends. Step one, name exchange is done, so-“ you hung onto the word, let it dance between you, “the next step is to eat delicious food and enjoy the evening. What do you like to eat Miss Grey?” You stomped over to the fridge, “are you a pizza type of girl? A pasta type of girl? Or a protein type of girl?” The last option made your eyes subconsciously scan Jean’s body, through the grey jacket, the t-shirt, and the jeans, you could easily make out the defined muscles underneath her skin, the thought made your stomach drop, hotly, because yes, Jean was undeniably hot. Sexy, attractive, and you were just a young woman with a good heart and a libido that was never satisfied. Which was why when Lilly was away, you’d spend the evening in bed with a few fingers inside you, and a pillow to your lips to muffle your whimpers.

“Um-I guess pizza? You-you like that right?” Jean’s voice was rough, her eyes puppy dog like as she scanned your face, hands in her pocket, and you nodded, “Lilly and I are pizza girls through and through. Now, have you ever made your own pizza before?”

Jean’s eyes widened, and she gave you a blank look, “foster homes aren’t exactly great in the cooking department”. No. The answer was no. “Got it. It’s really rather easy. Here, I’ll show you”.

Jean stood close, too close as you stood closer to the counter, rolling out the doe, her eyes watched as you rolled the doe with nimble fingers, catching the slope of your chin, the dip of your neck. You pretended not to notice the way her eyes ghosted over with something close to desire, because this wasn’t just something you did-giving aid to young twenty year old women with issues-letting them stay and hoping to fuck them-no…this whole situation was new. And so, you focused on showing Jean how to add the tomato sauce. How to add the cheese, the toppings. Jean actually seemed to perk up at that. Yours was a mountain of toppings. Peppers, mushrooms, meats, ham. Jean’s was simple, cheese and meat. Nothing more nothing less.

You sit side by side on the sofa. Just enough room to make it comfortable. Jean took comfortable bites, realizing this was the first piece of food she hadn’t had to mind bend for, like she had been for the past years, using her powers to stay rent free at an apartment . This was something that was freely given. The act of you, showing her with kind eyes and giggles how to make pizza, was simple, yet Jean found it addicting. And it frightened her, because she could get use to it.

“I’m not asking this to make you uncomfortable in any way” you began, wiping your mouth, and putting your pizza down. Your eyes were calm, kind in the way they formed the words, “but I’d like to know, if you’d let me, what you’re running from”.

Jean’s body freezes, and her eyes which swirl with fear, and anger, and grief, manifests itself in a deep snarl, “what makes you think I’m running?” It’s the closest to cruel she’s been with you, besides the mind bending on the bus, and the minute she says it she sighs, “I’m-I’m sorry. I-I’m not exactly a saint most days”.

You just give her a lopsided smile like you’re use to cruel comments, raising a five year old does that, “I’m aware.”

Jean’s nails tap against the paper plate in her hand, and then her blue eyes fizzle to you, and she rips off the band aid, fast and hard. “I have powers that allow me to mind read, to take over others bodies, soul and mind, I can move things with my mind, and I used them for my own selfish gains. My mother disowned my older sister and I when we were young. I was put in foster homes, moved around. Till a few years ago, my sister found me, Sara, and we fled. We lived off our powers. Using them to stay in apartments that weren’t ours. My sister, Sara, died because she was experimented on. I saved Spider-Man’s life recently. He taught me a valuable lesson. You ask why I’m on the run-who I’m on the run from-“ Jean’s eyes moved to yours, swiftly, truthfully, “it’s me I’m on the run from”.

The admission makes you swallow, and Jean thinks in a moment she’ll need to take her things and go, you won’t want her around a little girl, but all she sees in your eyes is-she can’t quite make it out. She wills her mind to read your thoughts, but she stops. Not yet.

“I think you’re brave. And I think you need someone to help you. I don’t care what you did, or how you did it, what I care about is you’re safe. Because you deserve it. So you’re going to stay here as long as you want. You are safe Jean grey”. The admission makes her blink, blue frosted eyes, blinking, and then you’re taking jean’s plate which is empty, she ate four slices in one go, and it tells you she was beyond hungry.

You clean up the small mess of the evidence of the pizza making, taking the small tins and throwing them out, you rinse a rag and clean the counter tops, it’s a usual everyday occurrence. But it feels weighty now, because Jean sits on the couch, grey eyes watching every movement. Like she’s trying to analyze you, to figure you out, like you boggle her. Her gaze is piercing, hot in some ways, the way her head tilts, her jaw becomes defined as she clenches it. You will yourself to stop looking, and finish cleaning. It’s only when you have one more thing to do, take out the trash that Jean stands, “I’ll do that for you. It’s the least I can do” she rises to her feet, takes the bag from you, hands brushing up against you, fingers hot as coals, and you notice the way your breath hitches, and Jean-she smiles. Like she enjoys it. “Tell me where you put the garbage?” She asks, and you stutter, “d-down the stairs.” Jean nods once and descends down the steps.

‘Get ahold of yourself. You’re acting like you’ve never had human contact before. Stupid girl’ you tell yourself. It makes sense, the energy between you two, the push and pull, the day on the calendar on your phone should tell you all you need to know. Ovulation day. It’s a relief, it’s just your body manifesting itself, it’s not truly you. You wipe your face, pull down your hair from its bun, and let the strands fall over each way. Your phone rings, a ringtone you know by heart, and a smile so wide fills your face. You answer, “hello little munchkin. Did you brush your teeth or are you eating sweets with gram?” Your voice is sweet, young in time, mature in words. Lilly’s voice is wild and free, “I haven’t brushed my teeth yet but I lost a tooth!” Your eyes widen, “a whole tooth? Well I bet you’ll get a five, maybe two, a nickel?” It’s said teasingly, and Lilly giggles over the phone, “a nickel can’t buy you a doll”. “Oh you want a doll? I’ll see if the tooth fairy can part with a twenty. You being a good girl for grandma?”

You don’t notice Jean standing just outside the door, the way her stance freezes as she hears you, the maternal way your voice settles, the way the cool sound of your voice bubbles into her chest, she can hear Lilly’s giggles through the line, soft and airy, and undeniably cute. The whole conversation should make her feel angry. Put off. Should make her think about her own mother figure, but instead it doesn’t. It makes her feel-oddly whole? Oddly safe?

The conversation last another minute, you sending hugs and kisses and a “sleep well kiddo” before the call hangs, and Jean allows herself to enter, taking her shoes off and placing them by the door, besides yours. “Sure is a lot of steps. You do that every day?” It’s teasing, but also a real question.

You nod, “it’s good cardio.”

Jean nods, moving to sit down on the couch next to you, “I should wash my hands” she mutters, and then she rises, takes of her grey sweater, and you suddenly have to fight your thoughts. Because jean’s arms are pale, much like her complexion, but defined, muscles that clench subtlety, and it makes your throat dry, and your heart dance, stupid hormones.

“Thanks for taking the trash out Jean. I usually do it in the mornings. I don’t like alleyways. I’ve seen enough dateline” at that Jean chuckles, a soft small thing, and you make the mistake of allowing your eyes to dance over her hands.

It’s a mistake. Her hands are wet, fingers slim and slender, rings adorn her fingers, making the slight blue veins prominent, again you bite your lip, leg moving to quell the unholy thoughts. Jean doesn’t seem to notice, she drys them, them comes to sit back down next to you. She rests her arms on her legs, which are open, jeans that look uncomfortable. You reach for the remote, trying to put something on that will hold the energy at bay. “Do you like sitcoms?” Jean doesn’t say anything, just gives a nod and an approving sound of her throat.

Her eyes dance over your face, your features, your nose, your jaw, baby fat still clings to your face, but it pools at your cheeks and defines your jaw, your lips are pink and moist, you take care of yourself. Applying chapstick or moisturizer every day, jean’s hands twitch as she allows her eyes to selfishly drape down your frame. Your t-shirt dips at the collarbone, and the outlines of your bra is prominent. Jean bites her lip, before pulling her eyes away. She’s not some creep.

Reruns of I love Lucy play in the background, laugh tracks, and Jean watches. You laugh at all the jokes, a giggle here, there, but it makes jean’s stomach open. You’re just a girl. With a responsibility of a life on your shoulders. You get homework done while watching, settling close to Jean, pencil in hand as you work on homework. Jean lets you, she doesn’t bother, she just sits. It’s calm, the most calm she’s had in a while. It’s peaceful.

After the reruns finish and you put down your homework with a yawn, your eyes move to Jean, “shall I help you with your bed? Do you want the couch? Or the mattress in Lilly’s room?” You ask. Jean looks at Lilly’s room, then yours, and decides the couch is farther. “The couch is fine”.

Jean settles into the bathroom, in your room while you get the couch ready, she brushes her teeth, ties up her long strands of fiery hair in a ponytail and puts on a sleepshirt, sara’s, and sleep shorts. When she pads out of the bathroom and into the living room the couch is already made. Soft pillows, silk cool blankets. It’s luxurious. And her eyes find yours as you turn on the air.

“It gets hot in here at night.” Your eyes scan jean’s legs, her thighs, and Jean notices, notices you noticing, and her eyes darken, but again, she nods, voice gravely, “thank you”.

You move to walk around the couch, “if you need anything..anything at all-I’m-I’m right down the hall.” You offer her a smile, and then move slowly to press a kiss to her cheek, it’s just a kiss, a press of lips to jean’s pale cheek, but still it awakens her veins. And then you move down the hall, closing the door softly.

Jean settles on the couch, it’s soft and plush and comfortable. The urge to read your mind is loud, she wants too, she really does, to be in your head again, but it’s a beautiful place, but she stifles it. Closes her eyes, and sleeps.

When she awakes it’s to soft green eyes. At first Jean doesn’t react, but it’s only when her eyes focus that she notices. A little girl in a yellow raincoat, a smile like yours, and a finger that’s about to poke her cheek, Jean startles, wakes up fully. The little girl stands on her feet, shoulders sluggish, but she smiles. It’s a disarming smile, full of kindness.

“You’re my aunty’s friend” she states, proudly, “I’m not supposed to to wake you up. My aunt said you’re tired. Do you work a lot?” It’s a simple question, and Jean blinks.

“If you consider what I do working”.

The answer makes Lilly laugh, “I like your hair. My friend Timmy has red hair at school and the kids tease him.”

Jean’s eyebrows raise, “that’s not very nice”.

Lilly shakes her head, “no. It’s not. He cries a lot and I sit with him and play”. Kindness must run in the family.

Your door opens softly, and then you’re rushing out, “baby-I couldn’t find your swim shorts-so I got you the Ariel one-“ your voice is quiet, trying not to make noise, and when your eyes catch sight of Jean, sitting up on the couch, and a animated Lilly, you sigh.

“Lilly I told you not to wake Jean up” you state, moving to pick up Lilly and hold her on your hip, “I’m sorry Jean. She’s at that age where everything is Interesting.” Jean watches as you put Lilly down, putting sunscreen on her face, her neck, “now you stay close to grandma at the water park. And at the ice cream shop.”

Lilly nods, “I will I promise”. Then Lilly’s eyes find Jean’s and she’s eagerly hopping on one foot, you don’t seem annoyed by the way she hops, “is Jean staying with us forever?”.

You laugh, “no. Just for a while baby”.

Lilly’s eyes deflate, and Jean finds it cute, so she sends her a wink, “I’ll be here when you get back. Maybe your aunty and I can draw with you. I hear you like drawing” Jean’s never been good with kids, but Lilly’s eyes shine, “yes! Yes!”

The smile you have is not lost to Jean. Once Lilly is done you move to grab a bag, “say bye to Jean. You won’t be back till dinner”. Lilly nods, walks over to Jean, and bear hugs her. Jean stiffens, but ultimately hugs Lilly back, “have fun dude” she says, not sure what to say. Lilly nods, “back at you dude”. For such a small thing her character is large. You laugh, taking Lily by the hand and the bag, “I’ll be back. I’m just going to take her to my mom’s car”.

The door closes and Jean gets up, brushes her teeth. By the time you come back in your making your way to the bathroom, “sorry about Lilly. She’s just really likes you. Already” Jean spits, rinses and spits again, and god help you but you find it so sexy.

“She’s a sweet kid. You’re raising her well” Jean speaks, wiping her mouth. Your cheeks blush, “thanks”. Jean moves out so you can brush, “feel free to shower…if you want..I have extra clothes if you need and the washer and dryer are across from Lilly’s room”.

Jean nods.

She showers, the water is hot, calm, and seems to do nothing for her rapid mind. This whole situation is insane. She’s never done this before. Willingly accepted an offer. Made dinner with a girl before, sat and watched black and whites and watched her do homework because your hair was over your face, and your eyes were beautiful. But yet, here Jean was. Jean brushed her hair, and pulled out another clean outfit from her bag, jeans, and a long sleeve black runner. When she exits the bathroom she finds you sitting on the bed. In your room. On your laptop.

Your eyes catch hers from the hall, “Jean, do you fancy breakfast tacos?” The question catches Jean off guard, but she nods. “Yes”.

“Good. A place opens up in an hour. Can you wait that long for breakfast?” You ask with a tease, and Jean eyes you with a raised brow, “can you?” Jean’s legs take her to your room, even though she screams in her mind not too.

You pat your bed, “come sit for a while”. You say it confidently, and Jean hates the way it comes off more flirty. Jean sits besides you, and you smile at her, sweetly. “I’m trying to decide which courses to take next month.” You tug your lip between your teeth, and suddenly the dam breaks in Jean’s mind. Her fingers slowly move, across the silk bedding, across the chasm of ‘don’t do this’ until her fingers meet your own. Your fingers stop on the mouse, breath hitching, and your eyes scan down to where Jean’s fingers lace with your own.

Jean’s fingers softly take your hand, and move one sneaky finger around the palm, featherlight, still seductive in motion. The way your eyes catch hers, like you’re not sure, but also the way your heart beats against your pulse tells another story.

Jean’s fingers move to lace both hands through your fingers, and then her head tilts, one single strand of red hair from her ponytail coming down, and you gulp, “I-Jean”. It’s a whine, and Jean nearly loses all her footing. Her lips bite down on her tongue at the way it sounds, innocent yet not. Needy yet alive. “I’ve been holding back on not listening to your thoughts”. Jean says it between gravely breathes, her face inches closer, closer, till her blue eyes are a silver of black constellations, till you can see the grey in her eyes.

The admission makes you smile, “it’s a good thing you didn’t. You’d think of me differently”. Jean’s lips move into a predators smile, it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand, but also makes white hot heat flash down your body.

“Not so innocent are you? Offering a stranger on a bus to spend the night?” Jean’s fingers reach your waist, and slowly, like she’s testing, travel underneath your shirt to cup your skin, and immediately you whimper. “Jean-please don’t tease”. It’s said between fast breathes, and you try to inch your face closer, but Jean pushes away, just enough to hover over you.

Her eyes are alight with power, with mirth, and with lewd behavior. It makes your stomach drop, because this was what you thought of last night. Between sheets and your own fingers.

“You’ve been so kind to me. So gentle. Giving me a place to sleep, making dinner with me..such a sweet gesture. Such a lovely gift” jeans fingers move to cup your chin, two fingers hot on your chin, confident in the way they rest, hard in the way they press into your chin, and Jean moves and moves until she’s right in front of you, pink lips, blue eyes hollow, and then she’s kissing you. Her tongue is bitter and sweet, her lips force themselves onto you, not in a way that’s bad, in a way that makes who whine against her mouth. Jean’s lips pull and beg, they plead, you wrap your hands around Jean’s neck, fingers already cupping the back of her neck, indents in her pale skin. Jean hisses, but whimpers into your mouth, “strong girl. Such a needy little thing. I’m going to enjoy this.”

She’s talking from pure desire, and then her lips pass over your neck, moving your head back, and Jean softly places you on the pillow, and you willingly let her, soaking into the bed, even as Jean’s lips pass over your neck. Softly, tender kisses, before her mouth, hot and heady, slip over your pulse point, Jean’s tongue licks over it, then bites, hard.

The whine you let out is nearly pornographic in nature, and Jean’s eyes darken even more, her fingers move to your shirt, “can I take this off babygirl?” She speaks into your ear, and you nod, eagerly, desperately clawing into her. Jean’s fingers are shaky as they lift the shirt, and once it comes off and she’s met with the sight of your bare chest, no bra, Jean’s lips tug into a hard bite. Her cheeks are flushed, her chest rises with unsteady intensity, and she looks you dead in the eye.

“No bra? You’ve been sitting here with no bra? What a naughty girl” Jean hums into your ear, sliding her tongue and kissing the ridge of your lobe, your eyes are closed, enjoying every sensation. Jean’s attention shifts to your chest. It rises fast and the tips of your nipples, peak in delicious red flesh. Large for such a small form, and Jean lick her lips, before placing a soft kiss on your collarbone, Jean traces the bone with devotion, her tongue lapping, she kisses the skin of your neck, your stomach, “your stomach is so cute baby. So cute-so adorable-I could grind on it all day oh god”. She’s slipping, letting her desires come out, her fingers move to ghost over your nipples, and as soon as they ghost, feather like nails, you moan. It’s a sound so hot and wild Jean immediately goes from one to a hundred. Her patients fingers suddenly grab both nipples, soft in touch, but rough in the way they glide over them, rubbing in such sinful ways, a cross between gliding over the Sensitive peaks, and squeezing. Jean’s other hand glides over to cup a breast, and Jean’s eyes meet yours before she allows her pink tongue to sliver over one, and her eyes roll back, and without thought Jean grey begins sucking. She sucks hard and fast, her other hand pinching and abusing your already hard nipple.

The sensations dance across your ribcage, flutter around your heart in a plethora of pleasure, and without much thought you whine and moan and writhe, “yes-yes-“ it’s a whisper, it makes you feel so warm, and when the pleasure swirls in your belly, from just nipple okay alone, you feel it, the heat rising from your cheeks down to your panties. “Jean-“ you utter, a cry in your words, you know it’s coming, “Jean-I-I’m-“ but jean knows. Her pink lips suck harder on your nipple, teeth grazing against a single spot, and fireworks happen between your eyes. Your hips lift, and all you can feel is pleasure. You whine, “Jean-jean-“ and jean grey basks in the way your eyes close, your lips pout in need, and she can feel the way your body responds.

“Sensitive girl. I didn’t know you could come just from your nipples being played with…that’ll be fun for later” Jean says it so casually, her lips are wet, spit that gleams on her mouth, your breast are pink and abused, sore in the most amazing way, and then Jean’s eyes gleam down to your pants, where you’re busy trying to keep pressure.

Jean moves to kiss your lips, once, twice, a deep one that makes you lose focus because her hands cup your cheek reverently, and her red hair and ruddy cheeks make you lose your mind. She’s beautiful.

“I think it’s about time I repay you for your kindness. Don’t you think little one?” She speaks, breath mingling with yours, and all you can do is nod, too far gone, too into her trance.

Jean’s lips lift up and she pressed a soft forehead kiss, something she doesn’t know why she does, but because she can, and then she’s descending with hot fingers to pull down your pants, her eyes meet soft thighs, soft skin that feels hot to the touch. Jean’s eyes appraise your legs, nails gliding from your thighs down to the heel of your foot, “gorgeous girl” she whispers, more to herself than you, and then she’s moving the palm of your hand to your underwear, cupping the soiled stained cloth, your breath hitches and your hips buck, and Jean only watches, “easy babygirl. I’m going as fast as I can. Let me enjoy this too-“ and then her fingers pull down the cloth, all the way down your legs in teasing motions.

Jean’s fingers ease your thighs apart, soft in the way she does it, and when her eyes meet your slick heat, the heartbeat in your pussy gets louder. Jean smiles, the widest you’ve ever seen, “one of the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. You should be proud little one” and then her fingers, cold, run over the length of your slit, collecting juices, bringing the lone finger which is gleaming to her mouth, sucking on it with that devilish grin. Before ghosting her fingers across your clit, feeling the blood pool into it and cause a gush of want into her fingers.

She starts with one finger, easing you into it, kissing your hairline, “feels so good to be spread out and used like this doesn’t babygirl? Is this what you wanted when you smiled at me on the bus? This??” Her fingers pistons harder, hitting a spot that makes you nearly scream, “harder Jean! Please” your voice is frantic, and Jean smiles, “of course baby”. She adds three fingers, and soon the pull of her fingers makes you see stars. Jean kisses your lips as you come, whining into your mouth with open mouthed kisses and a tongue that’s curious.

Then what comes next is Jean’s lips, over your pussy, sucking greedily, she uses her tongue, ghost over your wetness, and you come again, and again, and again, it’s as if Jean has some sort of magic to her, or maybe she knew what was going on in your mind, all the obscene mess of your thoughts.

All you know is, your spent. Body used, drenched in sweat, jean seems amused by it, she doesn’t stop kissing you, even well after you had begged her to stop because it was too sensitive, instead she kisses your cheek, your jaw, your neck, your nose.

“I think I’m going to keep you little one.” She speaks it against your lips, and when you simply fall asleep she smiles.

You wake up an empty bed, crinkled sheets, and a sheet over your naked body. Your first instinct is that Jean is gone. That she used you, or thanked you for the hospitality and left. But the voices in the other room tell a different story. Your body is covered in bruises, black and wild and thick, but you put on shorts and t-shirt, and immediately walk out of the room.

What meets your eyes makes your heart soar, Jean is sitting with Lilly, a parlor hat on, and a pink tea cup in hand. She looks surprised to see you out of bed, her eyes still have that dark gleam, but it’s more fondness now.