SCARLET, SONJA, SPIRAL, SILVER: Chapter 1

Massachusetts. The dead of winter. 

When Cerebro had detected an emerging mutant up in Vermont, Scott had wanted the recruitment to go nice and simple. After the team’s escapades with Magneto, Omega Red, and Sabretooth, let them rest. It would just be him and Psylocke, whose psychic powers would cover his own skill and training in comforting and calming this possibly volatile new mutant. They wouldn’t even take the Blackbird. It would make for a nice drive, in a sporty sedan that Scott hadn’t taken on the interstate for far too long. The smooth ride would equally appeal to Betsy’s lush tastes—as would the driver, if she were being honest.

Then a nor’easter had swung in to slam against Boston, shutting the city down and turning the East Coast into an ice storm. It turned out the other X-Men would be needed after all, on disaster relief. Scott didn’t exactly regret not being there. In this scenario, Storm was more than capable of leading the team and probably the best person for the job. But he didn’t like having plans go afield, even ones as casual as this one.

Betsy sat in the driver’s seat of Scott’s BMW 850CSi, having traded off with him at their last rest stop. It had still been light then. Now the halogen headlights stabbed out into the night at full blast, but revealing little more than swirling snow and sweeping sleet. The blinding whiteness that dwarfed their headlights’ output made a mockery out of the headlights as well as the night itself.

“I hope you’re rethinking your decision to leave the Blackbird in the hanger,” Betsy said, her clipped British accent adding a bitterness to her words that otherwise went unvoiced. She wasn’t angry with Scott, per se. She was more bitter with the storm itself, for turning what would otherwise be an intimate, even romantic getaway with Scott into a harrowing drive. Typical X-Men business…

“Avoiding a squall like this is exactly why I went with the BMW,” Scott replied. Sitting in the passenger’s seat, he pored over a Palm Pilot—or rather, what passed for one after Beast had tuned it up to X-Men standards. Like Professor X’s ‘wheelchair,’ it now bore little resemblance to what most of humanity would’ve referred to.

“I’ll give German engineering its due,” Betsy said, “but I rather think I’d put my money on Forge’s work.”

Scott grinned ruefully. “Let’s not find out either way. There’s a cabin a few miles off. One of Warren’s holdings. I’m sure he won’t mind if we gate-crash.”

Betsy could’ve laughed. Trust Scott to have an exit strategy. He had probably worked out safe houses and potential allies all up and down their route. For a perfectionist like Betsy, it felt good to have her diligence duly met by another. It was almost enough to make her relax her self-imposed vigil—a combination of ninja training and psychic self-preservation that was now so deeply held within her that she would’ve thought she’d never find someone she could trust to watch her back.

But there was a reason Scott was leader of the X-Men. His well-ordered mind was as scrupulously maintained as her own, and not out of necessity as in Betsy’s case, but out of choice, sheer discipline and determination to never let down any of his brethren. She found her eyes drawn away from the swirl of snow and road that was the only point of interest through the windshield, instead regarding Scott’s handsome face, his clean-cut features, every part of him chiseled and firm as if to match his steely will. 

It actually proved relaxing, following the instructions of Scott’s cool, stoic voice as he guided her step by step through winding roads to the promised cabin. Betsy wondered if one day a similar system wouldn’t be available in every car. Not a person physically reading out electronic maps, but something along the lines of Cerebro or the Danger Room’s vocal interface. The technology the X-Men and their fellow superheroes traded in usually seemed lightyears beyond so-called cutting-edge tech like this BMW she was driving, but she wondered how long it could possibly be before the likes of Steve Jobs and Bill Gates equaled at least some of it. The day might come when the LAPD had their own Heli-Carrier, not just SHIELD.

“Here we are,” Scott said tersely, and true to his word, the view through the windshield finally showed a feature beyond snow and darkness. The cabin was conservative, understated, classical—the kind of place Betsy would associate with Warren Worthington’s maturing tastes. If half the stories she’d heard about him as a teenager were true, he once would’ve settled for nothing less than a mansion, not this rustic and almost quaint cabin that seemed to boast no more luxury than being cozy and comfortable.

That still left the exacting trip to the cabin. The road terminated in a garage—that looked safe enough—outside which was a flight of stairs leading up the hillside at least two stories to where the cabin was finally situated atop the crest of the hill. It gave the cabin a majestic vibe and surely promised a stunning view. But the frigid rain had already sorely taxed the BMW’s heater. Betsy didn’t like to think about what it would do to the flesh she took such pride in.

If Scott had any misgivings about the last leg of their trip—Betsy would’ve been content to huddle in the garage, especially given the company—he showed no sign of it. He had insisted on bringing cold-weather gear and without hesitation, he went around back of the car and opened the trunk, retrieving thick parkas for both of them as well as overnight bags. No words were necessary. Scott thrust Betsy’s parka to her and she threw it on over the sedate sweater and jeans that were already doing their best to keep her warm.

“You know,” Betsy said, “I bet if you pointed that visor of yours straight up and gave the rain an optic blast, we could make it to the cabin without being totally drenched.”

Scott zipped up his parka. “Running keeps people plenty warm.”

Betsy bit off further complaints. He was, after all, the one that covered his entire body in advanced X-Men spandex. She on the other hand wore a one-piece bathing suit and, admittedly, some very high boots. 

Scott opened the door leading out of the garage. “On your mark… get set…”

They made the run up to the cabin in record time, although that hardly mattered. The storm soaked right through their coats, more like waves crashing on a beach than cute little raindrops. Finally, they reached the cabin. Scott moved with a grace that Betsy, for all her ninja agility, could only envy. As though he had rehearsed each step a million times, he retrieved the key to the cabin from inside a lantern on the porch, then wrestled it into the lock and let them in.

Inside, his actions were no less decisive. With almost brutal efficiency, he stripped away his parka, then the leather jacket he’d worn beneath it. “Your clothes are soaked, Betsy. Get out of them.”

Betsy was taken aback for a long moment. Did Scott truly intend to strip naked in front of her? Was he finally returning her flirtation as he seemed to do everything else, swiftly and resolutely?

Scott ripped off his drenched shirt, dropping it to a puddle on the ground. Betsy’s eyes roved over the strong muscles that defined his chest, the supple firmness that ran through his shoulders and down his arms to his nimble fingers. There was nothing obscene or excessive about Scott’s musculature—he was not a hulking brute like so many superheroes. Instead, his body seemed set with practiced, prepared muscle, like he was an Olympic athlete, his strength meant for precise use instead of narcissistic show. 

“Strip, Betsy,” Scott continued as though she hadn’t heard him. To Betsy’s disappointment, he stopped his own disrobing at his jeans, instead bending to pull off his sneakers and wet socks. “Do you need me to do it for you?”

“Hardly,” Betsy retorted, unzipping her own parka with a sizzling thiip! Scott paused in his otherwise military efficiency, as though picking up on the fact that Betsy was thinking about stripper poles and lapdances far more than she was avoiding hypothermia. 

She shucked off her parka, then pulled her sweater up over her head, showcasing the promise of her full breasts within the tight tanktop she wore. With its white cotton soaking wet, her bra was revealed in all its glory. Betsy beamed as she took off her tanktop too, leaving her in nothing but gleaming wet skin and her concealing black bra. Perhaps she’d misjudged the storm. It was proving very useful.

Scott, however, turned and walked away rather than stay and watch… as though his ever-present sunglasses were those of a blind man instead of an X-Man. Betsy wondered if he was truly so duty-bound that the implications of their present circumstances escaped him, or if it was just that he meant to drive her truly wild before he fell into bed with her.

Either way, at the moment, Scott was not answering the fervent desire Betsy felt as she undressed. He stooped over the fireplace—unsurprisingly left with plenty of firewood, as Betsy would’ve expected from someone who trained under and beside Cyclops himself—and quickly, efficiently built a fire. He stoked it with single-minded determination, until in what seemed no time at all, it was a roaring inferno, the perfect thing to warm them.

He then looked to Betsy. Betsy had gone to the hall adjoining the living room, opening up a hall closet to find a selection of towels and shower robes. She had also finished undressing while he was occupied. Scott was treated to the sight of her naked ass as she fetched towels from the closet. He had thought her uniform left little to the imagination, but in its corset tightness, it did manage to tamp down a little on her voluptuous body. Her breasts were restrained as they would be in a sports bra, appearing a size or two smaller than they really were, as Scott could see merely by the sides of her cleavage. And her ass—always flaring out buoyantly from the narrow athleticism of her waist—now appeared outright curvaceous, a fruit that simply could not get any riper, anymore amply juicy… anymore ready to be eaten.

“Guess we’ll need to put something on until our clothes dry,” Betsy said, tossing Scott a towel and a robe.

“Y-yes, I, uh—“ Outside of battle and the cool rundown of his seamless plans, Scott seemed ill-equipped to handle the attentions of such a beautiful woman. Odd, considering he was married to the world-class beauty of Jean Grey. But perhaps that only made him more awkward, more vulnerable—a perfectly dominant, aggressive man in every respect, but still waiting to yield to Betsy’s seduction, to surrender. She wondered what waited beneath team leader and uneasy conquest alike: sheer animal passion that he tried hard to deny or the kind of submissive pleasure that might appeal to a woman like Jean?

Scott shrugged on the robe. Then, turning his back to Betsy, he worked his jeans and sodden underwear off before tying his belt shut. “I’ll hang these up,” he said, dangling his jeans from the nails on the mantel that would usually hold Christmas stockings, then going to retrieve their other clothes from around the front door.

Barefoot, Betsy walked to the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace and sat down cross-legged. As if obeying some soulful desire to seduce—something far beyond her telekinetic powers—her robe fell open in front, allowing the fire’s heat onto her breasts, her belly, between her legs. 

Scott returned, hanging up the remainder of their clothing to dry in the fire’s heat. He looked at Betsy, blinking his eyes as though she were more apparition than woman. If he had somehow become used to her appearance in the abbreviated lingerie that passed for her X-Men uniform, he was completely unprepared for how she looked in nothing more than a fluffy white robe. Having seen her bare body for a crucial few seconds earlier, that robe now seemed offensive—a blasphemous sin against the perfection of her naked flesh. 

He retreated from that overwhelming awareness of Betsy’s beauty, into his sense of duty. “Well, as team leader, I suppose it’s my duty to feed the troops,” he said, only half-joking.

Betsy watched as he went to check out the larder, the icebox, the bottles of water, and the stove—all located within the same large living room as the fireplace. Unsurprisingly, there were little more than essentials. “Powdered milk—Hershey sauce—marshmallows… we could make hot cocoa,” Scott suggested.

“How traditional,” Betsy said. “Christmas in July, or rather, November.”

She stood to her full, supermodel height. Scott had a hard time not staring at her in her white robe, her bare feet, her long legs going all the way up from her lacquered toenails to the hem of her robe. He remembered the glimpse he had gotten of her naked ass. What would it be like, grabbing her from behind, pressing his swollen prick to that perfect ass? She was completely nude under that robe. He could still find out. Scott quivered all over.

“Not to contradict you, fearless leader,” Betsy said, and for a stomach-dropping moment, Scott thought she had peeped on his thoughts. “But it’s not your job to feed the team.”

“Oh?” Scott asked weakly.

“Rank hath its privileges. You could always tell me to do it. I don’t mind taking orders.”

“Not very feminist,” Scott mused, for lack of anything else safe to say.

“Really?” Betsy retorted. “I’ve always considered myself a strong woman. If a man is strong enough to tell me what to do, well… should I demand he not be in charge—not be on top—just because he’s a man and I’m a woman?”

“Well, I—“

“If someone’s capable of handling me, I’ll let them. Whether they’re a man or a woman. And since you got us out of that awful rain and into this nice, warm shelter… I’d say at the very least, you deserve a reward.”

“A reward?”

Betsy smiled. He wanted her. She knew it. She could feel his eyes on her half-naked body every bit as much as she would if he were unleashing an optic blast. “Sit down by the fire. Relax. Take a load off. I’ll make us something to eat.”

“Sure you’re being feminist?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Rather, think of it as an opportunity for me to dispel some nasty stereotypes about British cooking.”