Disclaimer: Marvel's. Do I have to do this for every chapter?

I just read Phoenix Endsong 4 and I am not happy. I like Emma, don't get me wrong, but I HATE her with Scott. It is wrong. It makes me want to eat razorblades just so I can vomit them up. So this chapter was inspired by it. Take that you stupid, bleach blonded, scum sucker.

Mush Warning...I couldn't help it. :)

"This is special?" Rogue asked, stumbling off the bike. She scowled at Remy as she rubbed her sore thighs. Remy just grinned at her, rubbing a hand across his sore ribs. She sure had a grip. And considering he wasn't the most careful of drivers…he wasn't sure if any of them were still intact. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

He had taken her on a little used path through the forest, a small area on the way to the high school. Branches had whipped at them as he sped through the dense trees. Snow began to fall, blanketing the ground and covering the bare limbs of the trees. It had wet her hair so that it curled where strands escaped her soggy ponytail. He also noticed how the snow kissed her lashes, causing them to star up. The chilly air didn't bother him so much, but he noticed her shivering. She only wore a thin black cargo jacket, so he slipped off his trench coat. She stared at it dubiously.

"Go on," he said, motioning for her to take it. It was still warm from his body heat, and it wrapped around her like an embrace, smelling of dark spice and cigarettes. He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the small, crumbling cabin. A pond was half frozen beside it, and he walked dangerously close to the edge. He pointed out a small, decrepit stone bench being devoured by ivy. She shook her head.

"It stinks."

"You stink, chere, but people still like you." She looked sideways at him. He merely wiggled his eyebrows. "Well, some o' de time."

"Har har," Rogue snarked, tripping over a branch. He caught her by the elbows, pulling her up with surprising strength. She blew a strand of white hair out of her eyes, glaring at him. "If Ah break an ankle…"

"I'll carry you home on my fait'ful stead," Remy said, turning towards the cabin and dropping her hand, "Come on. Dis is de place I go t'escape. It may not look like much, but inside.."

"This Ah gotta see," she said, stepping carefully on the sagging, worn stairs. The porch was a mess, with only one board still intact. Remy balanced easily on it, pushing open the creaking wooden door. He hopped across the threshold and extended a hand towards her. She took it, gingerly, and made her way into the small cabin. It smelled like must. Remy moved away from her and lit a small lantern, casting more light than the dim, dirty windows did. The cabin was pretty bare, a rocking chair, a table with three legs, a sofa with the cushions eaten by some small rodent. But Remy smiled and held the lantern higher, and her breath caught in her throat.

Even the Professor's library didn't have this many books. She moved towards the walls, which were just shelves. She ran her finger along the dusty spine. All the classics, she pulled down a book of Shakespeare.

"Shakespeare's sonnets," Remy said, peering over her shoulder. "Good choice."

"You read?" she asked, astonished.

"Apparently," he said, taking the book from her hand. "Dis one is my favorite." He cleared his throat and started

"Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all; What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call; All mine was thine before thou hadst this more. Then if for my love thou my love receivest, I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest; But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest, By wilful taste of what thyself refusest." His voice was like dark smoke in the small room. Rogue found herself moving closer to him, unwillingly drawn by his sexy drawl.

The words were pulled from her, "I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief, Although thou steal thee all my poverty; And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief, To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury. Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes." She found herself dangerously close to him, their breaths mingling, her chest rubbing against him with every inhalation. The book hit the floor with a thud, forgotten, as he pulled her in his arms. She felt right there, went willingly, melted against him. She hated her treacherous body for begging for his touch, his gloved fingers feather light across her jaw, her cheek, his breath warm on her. She closed her eyes against the tears his gentle touch brought. He was murmuring to her in French, sweet, pretty words she didn't understand. She wanted so badly to be able to touch him. But she couldn't. She opened her eyes, a tear escaping and dripping across his fingers.

"Oh chere," he said, his voice thick. "Don't cry."

"Ah," she began, but the words were stolen from her as his lips brushed softly over hers. She felt the pull of her powers, but the moment was brief, so temptingly brief, and then he pulled back. His eyes glittered in the dim light.

"We should get goin'," he said, stepping back and distancing himself from her. She knew it was because he had felt it to, the tug of her mind on him. She wrapped her arms around herself and picked up the book. She went to put it back, but his hand on hers stopped it.

"Keep it."

"But…thank you," she said, tucking it in the pocket of her cargo jacket. She attempted a smile, but it was thin, watery. What she really wanted to do was bash his head in for playing with her feelings like that. She scowled at him.

"T'ank God," Remy said. "For a minute dere, I was worried you had forgotten how to scowl," he said.

"For a minute there," Rogue replied, already moving towards the door, the moment gone but not forgotten. "Ah thought you had manners."

Scott was mad. Madder than Hell. He didn't know what was wrong with him, but anger colored his cheeks, filled his head, fogged his vision. Rogue hadn't shown up for school, and he supposed that was what had started his mood. He felt a brotherly fondness for her, a need to protect her from wily, sneaky, Cajuns. But as the day progressed he had forgotten about it. That wasn't what had set him off.

He had come home to find them flirting. She was smiling at him, her brilliant eyes glowing at him. He was standing far too close to her, a matching smile on his face, eyeing her like she was covered her in barbeque sauce and he wanted to lick her like a rib. Her body had been turned to his, accepting his closeness. Then he had the audacity to turn to him and call him "kid." Jean's cheeks had colored, almost guiltily. For him being a kid. Logan had whispered something, his mouth far to close to her ear that had her blushing even more and casting her eyes downward, a wide grin stretching her face.

Laughing. At him.

He was madder than Hell. He had thrown a death look at Logan, but the effect was marred because of his glasses. He had stormed off, changed into his uniform, and went to the Danger Room to work off aggression.

He hated Logan. The man was a pompous ass. He strutted around like he owned the place, worse than the Cajun. He smoked his smelly cigars in the house, left his stinky clothes all over the place, and guzzled beer like it was going out of style. He was crass and rude and didn't handle authority at all. Of which Cyclops was his. Logan never listened in Danger Room simulations, preferring to go his own way and do his own thing and screw the team. Scott punched a robot, feeling the slickness of blood coating his knuckles. It felt good. He saw red, but then, it was no different than looking through his visor. He let loose with a succession of blasts, stopping the robots in crumbled, wiry messes.

What did Jean see in him? He was short and hairy and spoke with a rasp. He wore tight jeans and cowboy boots and let all his chest hair hang over his shirts. He smelled like a brewery. But she had smiled at him. A smile he had rarely seen sent his way. Jean deserved better. She deserved someone with at least a last name and a history that wasn't speckled and spotted and a contact of Emma Frost.

"Simulation Off!" he shouted, wiping sweat from his brow. It wasn't helping. It was just fueling his rage. The Danger Room shut down around him and he grabbed a towel and a water bottle.

He made his way into the hall, pausing only to rip his shirt off. He began to dry himself with a towel when he felt someone watching him. He turned, and Jean stood there, a dark look in his eyes as she stared at him.

He was beautiful. The most incredibly sculpted person she had ever seen. He wasn't too bulky, his frame slim and his muscles wiry, but roped and evident. Sweat gleaned on him, making his body shine. She lifted her eyes from his magnificent chest and caught him looking at her, his visor eerie in the dim hall light. He turned and strode to her with purpose. Her heart leapt into her throat at the look on his face.

He couldn't help himself. She shouldn't have looked at him like that. He grabbed her, molding her too him violently, all her soft places cushioning his harder ones. He wound a hand in her hair, jerking her head back, and then his mouth descended.

The breath slammed from her lungs at contact. His mouth was like wildfire, setting her on flames. He was forceful, almost bruising, his tongue forcing its way in and claiming her mouth. With a sigh she melted against him, loving the feel of his chest beneath her. She wound her arms around his neck, her fingers plucking at the damp curls at the nape of his neck. When she began to kiss back, he suddenly softened, his arms coming around her, his kiss less demanding. It was almost tender, his lips making slow, languorous love to hers, but the passion she felt pouring out of him was amazing. She felt something shift in her, something hot and black but she pushed it down. She wanted it to be Jean Grey here, kissing Scott.

He grabbed her lab coat, tearing it from her shoulders. His mouth descended on her neck, causing goose bumps to ripple along her arms. She pulled him backwards, into the room. He kicked the door shut behind him, his mouth never leaving her. She wiggled out of her lab coat, throwing it on the ground. She backed up against the table, then with a sweep of his arm, he cleared it, knocking down all her instruments. She didn't care. He picked her up and sat her on it. She leaned back; their bodies flush, wrapping her legs around his waist, never once stopping from kissing him.

Her mouth was amazing. Her body was like sin, as his hands roamed it, claiming it as his own. He couldn't think, so filled was he with the taste and scent and feel of her. She moved restlessly against him, trying to get closer. His hands slipped under her shirt, feeling the soft, cool skin of her belly. His hands were rough, callused, but she loved the feel of them on her skin, like streaks of fire.

The door opened behind them, and she heard a gasp, then a cough. Scott stiffened in her arms, pulling away. Jean sat up, her face as flaming red as her hair.

"Am I interrupting?" Logan said, scowling at them.

"Yeah," Scott said. Jean pulled her shirt down, hopping off the table. Scott turned to look at her, and wanted to take her in his arms again. Her hair was a mess around her face, her lips swollen and bruised from his, her neck scraped red from his stubble. She wouldn't meet either of their eyes, turning instead to pick up her instruments from the floor.

"What do you want?" Scott demanded, grabbing his shirt from where he had dropped it.

"You have a phone call," Logan said, turning and walking out.

Jean cleared her throat. "You should go."

He felt helpless. She looked on the verge of tears. She clutched a beaker to her chest, that had, mercifully, survived the fall.

"Jean," he started, then stopped. He merely scowled at her. It was one of the times he wished he were taller then her, so he could look menacingly down at her. But he wasn't. He had to be content with eye level.

"Don't look at me like that," she snapped. "You started it."

"Me?" he demanded, rounding the table so she couldn't escape him, as she had been edging toward the door.

"Yeah, you barged in here while I was working and…and…molested me!"

"Molested you? You were the one raping me with your eyes!" Scott shot back, lunging out an arm to catch her as she tried to dodge away from him. "And you were the one who pulled me in here to have your evil way with me!"

She laughed. "You put the moves on me!" she shouted again. "If I were going to put the moves on you I'd….I'd….do this!" she cried, latching on to his head and pulling his head down. He caught the strange look in her eyes before she was kissing him again, and he couldn't think of anything else. Then she released him, looking smug with herself, a smile on her face, "That is what I would do if I were going to put the moves on you." She stabbed him in the chest with her finger for emphasis.

He growled at her and caught her up in his arms again, sprinkling kisses over her nose, her cheeks, her chin, her eyelids. She squirmed in his arms, laughter bubbling up from her throat. "Let me go, you brute!" she demanded, smacking his hands as they found her breasts.

"Say please," he teased, squeezing her breasts like he was honking a horn.

"You have a phone call!" she said, finally wiggling out of his arms. She held the beaker in front of her like a weapon. "I have work to do! Stop distracting me!" she demanded. He grinned at her.

"Can I help it if you can't keep your hands off me?" he said, coyly.

He laughed as the beaker crashed near his head.

So there.

I decided it is easier to write Shakespeare without accents. It's just me being lazy. But I came across this sonnet in my English class and thought it just went perfectly for Remy and Rogue!