Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Emma Frost did not wake up with the sun.

Not because she was a vampire—though she certainly had the aesthetic for it—but simply because she was, in no way or form, a morning person.

Still, being awakened by Scott Summers at the wee hours of the morning and having the first thing she saw be his face? The first rays of sunlight filtered through the window, glinting off the visor and haloing him in gold?

It almost felt like the sun itself was his ally, the source of his power, the reason for the deadly light behind his eyes. In that glow, he looked like something divine.

Again—Emma Frost was not a morning person.

But if waking early meant being greeted by this sight, and if Scott murmured his soft “Good morning” just for her…

Well, she could learn to tolerate dawn.

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Emma Frost took special pride in her hair—long, silky, and impossibly shiny, a waterfall of platinum blonde that caught the light like spun silver. Her daily routine could not be considered complete without brushing it at least twice, each stroke part of a ritual she’d perfected over the years.

This morning was no different—until Scott Summers strolled in.

He was wearing pajama pants, a coffee mug in one hand, and his ever-present ruby quartz sunglasses. There was a fond little grin tugging at his lips as he leaned against the doorframe, watching her with a sort of quiet amusement.

“Need a hand?” he asked, voice warm with playfulness.

Emma blinked at him, caught between skepticism and intrigue, before finally passing him the brush.

Scott stepped behind her, one large hand steadying her shoulder while the other began running the brush through her hair. His touch was unexpectedly gentle, each movement slow and methodical, as if he’d done this for her a hundred times before. It was so soothing Emma nearly drifted to sleep in her chair.

“All done,” he declared.

When Emma opened her eyes and looked into her vanity mirror—thankfully, that old myth about vampires having no reflection was just that—she saw he’d brushed her hair into a long, neat braid. Scott grinned sideways and rested his head against her shoulder.

“You look pretty,” he murmured.

The word caught her off guard. She’d been called gorgeous, stunning, breathtaking—even dangerous—but never pretty. Such a small, soft word. It lingered in her mind far longer than she would ever admit.

She kept her composure, smoothing the braid with her fingers. “Thank you, darling,” she said lightly, but her heart was anything but.

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One winter evening, Emma Frost and Scott Summers found themselves strolling through the park. Snow began to drift lazily from the sky, each flake catching in Scott’s hair and dusting his shoulders. The air had turned sharp and biting, the kind of cold that seeps into bones.

Without hesitation, Scott slipped off his jacket and draped it over Emma’s shoulders.

She didn’t need it. Couldn’t need it. Vampirism came with its own permanent chill, and no winter night could make her any colder than she already was. But Scott—foolish, noble Scott—had just condemned himself to the sting of the wind.

She watched him try to hide the tremor in his hands, his jaw tightening against a shiver. That was who Scott Summers was: a man who would rather suffer in silence than let someone else be uncomfortable.

It was a trait Emma both admired and despised—admired because it was so rare, despised because it was so him. Selflessness, even when it made no sense. Even when the one he was protecting didn’t need protecting.

And yet… she didn’t shrug off the coat.

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Emma Frost stood at Scott Summers’ side in the kitchen, knife in hand, slicing vegetables with meticulous precision. Scott was at the stove, stirring the pot, his movements sure and practiced. They traded easy remarks, little jabs and teases that drew the faintest curve to her lips.

On the surface, it was an ordinary evening. A warm, domestic scene. The kind you’d expect from a couple who’d known nothing but peace.

And she hated it.

Not the company—never the company—but the atmosphere.

It was too normal, too soft, too good. It felt like a scene stolen from someone else’s life. Someone who hadn’t worn the crown of the Hellfire Club’s White Queen. Someone who hadn’t carved a bloody history in both boardrooms and back alleys, her vampiric hunger sharpening every cruelty.

Emma Frost did not deserve this kind of warmth. Not from anyone. Especially not from Scott Summers.

And yet—just for a moment—she let herself pretend she did.

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Scott Summers was not a particularly physical man.

Affection for him came more often in the form of steady loyalty, a word of reassurance, or a subtle act of care.

Which made the rare moments he embraced her all the more precious.

When his arms slid around her, it wasn’t merely contact—it was grounding.

His hold kept her steady, tethered her to the present, and made the shadows in her mind fall silent.

In his embrace, she felt focus return, felt safety wrap itself around her like a second skin.

It was as if he were telling her, without words, everything’s going to be okay.

And even if she didn’t believe in such promises, she believed in him.

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Scott Summers was not a man of grand, sweeping gestures. When he did show his affection, it was in ways that felt almost old-fashioned—quiet, deliberate, sincere.

Once, he handed her a bouquet of white roses.

Emma almost laughed at the cliché of it all, but she accepted them with practiced grace, murmuring her thanks. The flowers were pristine—pure petals, green stems, and the faintest trace of his warmth lingering on them from his hands.

Later, alone in her room, her nature betrayed her. The vampiric hunger in her veins reached instinctively for the living energy within the roses, pulling it into herself until every bloom drooped and browned, their beauty drained away.

She stood over them, frowning at what she’d done.

Yet even in their wilted state, she could still feel the echo of Scott’s intention—his thoughtfulness, his quiet selflessness—woven into the gift.

And that, at least, could not be taken from her.

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Emma Frost was gorgeous—undeniably, unapologetically so.

She knew it, the world knew it. Years of luxury had sculpted her into perfection, and vampirism had only refined the result, sharpening her beauty into something flawless.

She had never imagined she would meet someone who could rival her in that regard.

And yet, she had.

Scott Summers was gorgeous without effort, without artifice—perhaps even without knowing it.

His skin held a natural sun-kissed warmth, his tall, lean frame living up to the nickname “Slim” while still carrying the unmistakable weight of strength. Broad shoulders and a perfectly proportioned V-shaped torso gave him the kind of presence that filled a room.

Waves of chestnut hair framed his face, soft to the touch, falling just so over the line of his visor. Full, pink lips that often settled into a faint pout. Sharp brows that could, with the smallest arch, be both judgmental and inviting.

His voice carried a quiet authority, deep and steady. His hands—strong, calloused—were made for holding.

And don’t even get her started about his hips. Or thighs.

There’s always a sultry tilt whenever he places his hands on his hips, one that makes heads turn. Which in turn brings more attention to his long and sturdy legs.

They look as though they can easily suffocate a man between them, and Emma knows that they’d die happily.

And then there was the visor itself, that constant, gleaming band of ruby quartz, granting him an air of mystery that made people want to know him even as it warned them to keep their distance.

Yes, Emma Frost was gorgeous.

But Scott Summers…

He was something else entirely.

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Emma Frost hated when Scott Summers got hurt.

You would think it wouldn’t happen often—he was careful, methodical, precise in everything he did.

But out there in the field, in the fight for mutant rights, facing people all too willing to kill them simply for existing, Scott could be uncharacteristically reckless.

That fire in him—the unshakable need to protect his people—burned brighter than his own self-preservation.

What she hated most wasn’t the sight of blood or bruises, though those were bad enough. It was the way he downplayed it.

The way he’d wave off concern with a flat, “I’m fine,” while clearly favoring one side, or hiding a cut that needed stitches.

He’d insist others receive treatment before him, as if his own pain was inconsequential.

Scott Summers didn’t mind getting hurt, so long as it meant someone else didn’t have to suffer.

And Emma, who had spent much of her life putting herself first, could not decide if that made him noble…

Or infuriating.

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Scott Summers was not innocent—at least, not in the way most people understood the word.

His life had been anything but gentle. He’d seen horrors no child should ever witness: losing his parents in a plane crash, enduring the cold neglect of the foster system, surviving the streets, and being exploited by petty criminals eager to use his powers.

Even his years as an X-Man, fighting endless battles in the name of mutantkind, carried their own kind of trauma.

No, innocence was not a word most would associate with Scott Summers.

But Emma Frost begged to differ.

Because despite all of it, despite the pain and the loss and the weight of leadership that had carved lines into his face, Scott still spoke softly—and hopefully—of a future where humans and mutants might one day live together in peace.

Emma, who had swum in the darkest currents of the world, knew better than to believe in such dreams.

But to her, that stubborn hope in his voice was innocence.

And she would protect it, even if she didn’t believe in it herself.

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Emma Frost did not get jealous.

She was the woman other people got jealous of—the one they whispered about, envied, coveted. She had built her life on that truth.

And yet… she was jealous.

Of Jean Grey.

Jean had been dead for years, and still Scott held her in untouchable regard.

He spoke of her with quiet reverence, visited her grave daily, and carried her memory like a constant, invisible companion.

Emma could see it in the way his gaze softened when Jean’s name came up, in the silence that followed.

It displeased her—no, it infuriated her.

Somewhere deep within, her inner predator bristled, the old hunger curling sharp and possessive.

The idea that another could still enchant her prey, even from beyond the grave, was unacceptable.

But in the quiet of her own mind, Emma admitted the truth that cut deepest.

She feared she would always be second in Scott Summers’ heart…

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There was one time when Scott Summers was kidnapped by a radical anti-mutant group.

Their strategy was simple: take the leader of the X-Men, and the rest would crumble.

They had not anticipated Emma Frost’s wrath.

Her inner vampire surged at the insult, furious beyond reason. How dare these pitiful humans lay hands on what was hers?

The hunger within her sharpened into something primal, and she left their compound painted in silence and blood.

When Scott was finally returned to the mansion and resting in the medbay, he asked her only one question. “Are they dead?”

Emma was quiet for a moment, her composure as flawless as ever. Then she gave him the truth. “Yes.”

Scott only nodded, accepting the answer without flinching.

And that—Emma thought—was another reason she loved him. Scott Summers did not judge. He understood necessity.

He would never condemn her for the choices she made when it came to protecting what she loved.

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Emma Frost liked Scott Summers’ lips.

Full, plump, and naturally tinted the softest shade of pink—as if they had been made to pout.

She took particular pleasure in the rare moments he allowed himself a grin, the corners curving upward in a way that transformed his entire face.

But what she liked most was how perfectly they fit against her own. Her lips, blood-red and sharpened by her vampirism, contrasted his softer, warmer ones in a way that made every kiss feel inevitable.

His mouth was always gentler than hers, always grounding her hunger, always coaxing restraint from the predator within.

And Emma Frost—who was not a woman prone to restraint—found she didn’t mind it at all.

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Emma Frost was a monster. She knew it. Everyone knew it.

Perhaps it was the ruthless deeds she had committed as the Hellfire Club’s White Queen. Perhaps it was the night she first sank her fangs into a victim and tasted blood. It didn’t matter anymore.

The reasons were irrelevant. This was what she was.

And yet… Scott Summers loved her.

He looked at the monster and saw someone worthy of affection. He touched her as though she weren’t dangerous, spoke to her as though she weren’t damned.

In his gaze, she found a reflection of herself that wasn’t twisted or broken.

Sometimes, that terrified her.

She didn’t deserve this softness, not with the weight of her sins pressing down on her, not with the constant threat of what she might become if Scott ever stopped holding her tether in place.

But she could not let go. She would not.

Emma Frost might be a monster—but she was his monster now.

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Contrary to popular belief, vampires could indeed sleep at night. Preferably in silk sheets—Emma Frost would never lower herself to the indignity of a coffin.

But one drawback of nocturnal rest was light sleep.

And so, when Scott Summers began to toss and turn beside her, Emma woke instantly.

His jaw was clenched, his body taut, cold sweat beading along his skin. She knew at once: a nightmare.

It was something she couldn’t relate to. One vampire myth that happened to be true was that they could not dream—and by extension, could not suffer nightmares.

A small mercy, Emma thought, because she carried enough sins in her past to fuel them for centuries.

She sat up, gently shifting his head into her lap. Her cool fingers threaded through his chestnut hair, brushing lightly against his temples as she adjusted the edge of his visor.

The familiar motion seemed to calm him, his breathing evening out as the tension in his shoulders eased.

Emma’s lips curved faintly. In that moment, Scott Summers didn’t look like the stoic, untouchable leader of the X-Men. He looked…

Like a boy.

She knew he wouldn’t speak of the nightmare in the morning—he never did. And she would insist it wasn’t healthy, because someone had to.

But for now, she allowed herself this quiet moment, running her fingers through his hair, watching him find peace in her presence.

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Scott Summers was a man of order.

He expected it. Commanded it. Breathed it.

Somehow, he could take the uncanny, chaotic collective that was the X-Men and make them listen, make them trust his judgment without hesitation.

He was the one who could stare down extremists like Magneto and force them to pause.

The one who could meet the gaze of cosmic entities and tell them—without flinching—to stand down.

That same order extended inward, too.

Scott Summers, condemned to live with a mutation he could never turn off, did not waste his life in misery. Instead, he had honed his curse into discipline.

Where others might have drowned in despair, he forged himself into something stronger, sharper—relentless in his mastery of it.

And Emma Frost, whose vampiric instincts recognized and respected strength, found herself utterly fascinated.

She didn’t just admire that authority—she craved it.

The predator inside her wanted to sink its teeth into it, to claim it, to be bound to it.

And perhaps, in her own way, she already was.

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Scott Summers was also a passionate man.

At first glance, one might not think so.

His demeanor was stiff, closed-off, all discipline and restraint. But Emma Frost had learned better.

When it came to mutant rights, Scott believed harder than anyone—fought harder, worked longer, bore the weight with unshakable resolve.

When someone he cared for was hurt, he would not rest until they were avenged, his quiet fury burning hotter than any wildfire.

When anger struck him, when frustration cut too deep, he didn’t hide it; his voice could shake a room, his presence alone demanding to be felt.

And when he loved—oh, when he loved…

He made his chosen partner feel as though they were the center of his universe, the only thing that mattered.

Emma Frost, who had lived lifetimes of indulgence and desire, realized she had never truly known passion until she met Scott Summers.

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Emma Frost was a queen—literally and metaphorically.

Once, she had worn the title of White Queen of the Hellfire Club with ruthless pride, her crown forged of blood, power, and fear.

Even now, long after, she retained the bearing of royalty: poised, commanding, untouchable.

But beneath the diamond-hard surface lay scars.

After a lifetime of betrayals and horrors, Emma had come to believe that ruling alone was the only way to survive—that solitude was the safest fortress she could build around herself.

And then there was Scott Summers.

He didn’t see a monster. He didn’t see a pawn. He looked at her and saw a queen. Not one to be caged or feared, but one to be respected, cherished, and—perhaps most dangerously of all—loved.

That was when Emma understood.

Being a queen had never meant ruling alone. It meant she had simply been waiting for a king worthy of standing beside her.

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Emma Frost’s forever favorite jewel would always be diamonds.

They were her signature, her armor, her reflection—sharp, unyielding, flawless.

Diamonds suited her in every possible way, from her mutation to her personality.

But lately, she had developed a fondness for another jewel.

Ruby.

Not the polished stones in a crown or necklace, but the constant, burning red that framed Scott Summers’ eyes.

His visor, his lenses, the barrier that held back the force of a star—all the things that made him dangerous, and yet all the things that made him him.

Emma liked the contradiction of it. A jewel that was raw and destructive, yet brilliant and mesmerizing.

She found herself staring at that ruby glow longer than she ever intended, the way others stared at diamonds.

Perhaps it was fitting. If she was diamond, then he was ruby—two impossible stones, cut from very different worlds, yet dazzling all the same when they were side by side.

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Emma Frost believed Scott’s surname was perfectly fitting. Summers.

He carried warmth with him wherever he went, sunlight woven into his very being. His skin always bore a golden tan, a soft radiance that stood in sharp contrast to her own unblemished, porcelain pallor.

Even the alleged source of his optic blasts—the sun itself—seemed to strengthen this notion, as though his power had been kissed into him by light.

And then there was the name in its plural form. Summers.

Not just a fleeting warmth, but an endless season.

To Emma, he became her eternal summer, her one inexhaustible source of heat and brightness against the chill that had claimed her long ago.

She was winter incarnate, cold and everlasting. Much like her own surname, Frost.

And yet, with Scott Summers by her side, she could almost believe the frost might thaw.

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Scott Summers rarely cried.

He once confessed to Emma that, as a boy, he feared what his tears might unleash. If every time he opened his eyes the world was scalded by uncontrollable optic blasts, what would it mean to weep?

The thought haunted him into manhood, and though the fear itself has long since passed, the habit remained.

Scott Summers did not cry. He endured. He suffered in silence.

Emma thought it a pity.

Because, though it may have sounded cruel—or even sadistic—she loved his tears.

On the rare occasions when he allowed himself that surrender, they gleamed beneath his ruby lenses like molten pearls. Beautiful, vulnerable, unguarded.

They were proof that beneath the leader, beneath the soldier, there was still a man.

And for Emma Frost, who had seen so much of the world’s ugliest cruelties, that fragile beauty was irresistible.

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Emma Frost could not die. That was the terrible certainty of her vampirism—an eternity stretching endlessly before her, diamond-hard and merciless.

And yet, the thought that chilled her more than centuries of existence was the day she would wake and find Scott’s warmth no longer beside her.

Scott Summers, on the other hand, did not fear death.

He carried it with him like a shadow, accepted it as a price of living for something greater. To him, mortality was not a curse but a measure of meaning.

So long as he fought for what he believed in, so long as his life was spent for others, then even death would not diminish him.

Emma envied that certainty.

She, with all her undying years, was the one who trembled before loss.

And he, fragile and fleeting, lived as though eternity were already his.

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Emma Frost could map out Scott Summers’ veins.

She could map out anyone’s, of course—that was the instinctual gift of every vampire, the ability to trace the lifeblood beneath the skin, to follow the intricate rivers leading to the heart.

But Scott’s were her favorite.

They ran in precise, elegant patterns, strong and steady, like the blueprint of a man carved from discipline and resolve.

Every pulse, every subtle rhythm, reminded her of the life that coursed within him. A life she could take in an instant.

A life she chose, again and again, not to touch.

It was hunger, yes—but it was also reverence.

His veins were not simply vessels of blood. They were proof of Scott Summers’ strength, his fragility, his humanity.

And Emma Frost, who had long ago surrendered her own, could not help but treasure his all the more.

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Emma Frost believed Scott Summers was fighting a pointless war.

Against humanity’s cruelty. Against enemies who rose again no matter how many times they were defeated. Against his own relentless, punishing sense of duty.

Such a war could only end one way—by consuming him.

And yet, Scott fought. He fought because someone had to.

Someone had to stand unyielding, to be the strength that others leaned on, the light that kept them moving forward even when the darkness seemed endless.

Even if it was hopeless. Even if it cost him everything.

That was Scott Summers. Tireless. Stubborn. Warm.

He carried that warmth with him into every battle, into every word, into every sacrifice.

Emma—cold, eternal, and unchanging—was drawn to it like a moth to flame.

Even if it burned her, she could never turn away.

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Emma Frost did not like Charles Xavier. In truth, she despised him.

She despised the way he cloaked himself in sainthood, parading as mutantkind’s benevolent savior while his hands were far from clean.

She despised how he preached peace while more and more mutants bled in the streets, as though a few carefully crafted speeches could end centuries of hatred.

She despised how he permitted himself as many morally dubious choices as he wished, yet condemned anyone else who dared stray from his doctrine.

But above all, Emma despised his hold on Scott Summers.

She admitted, Xavier had been clever. He found a starving boy abandoned by the world, but brimming with power and desperate for belonging, and he gave him the illusion of family, of love.

He molded Scott into the perfect soldier, obedient and devoted, ensuring the boy would mistake control for care.

Even now, as Scott carved himself into his own man, Xavier tried to reach back, to impose authority where it no longer belonged. But he failed to see what Emma saw:

The X-Men were no longer Xavier’s.

They were Scott’s.

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Both Emma Frost and Scott Summers yearned.

They yearned for many things—some spoken, most unspoken, and others they could not even name.

For peace that always slipped through their fingers. For love that didn’t come wrapped in pain. For a world that might finally stop demanding so much of them.

When Emma would press, Scott only smiled that thin, knowing smile of his and murmured, “Then we’ll just have to figure it out what we yearn together.”

It always made her chuckle, softly and against her will.

Because if there was one yearning she understood perfectly, it was this: the yearning never to face eternity alone.

And in Scott Summers’ quiet promise, she almost believed she wouldn’t have to.

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Both Emma Frost and Scott Summers carried zero regrets.

They had made mistakes—plenty of them.

Decisions that would forever haunt them, choices that could inspire hatred in others, choices that sometimes should have been avoided.

Emma did not care. She never had.

Guilt was a luxury she had long since shed; remorse was a sentiment she could not afford.

Scott, however, bore the weight of his actions differently.

He felt the scorn of the people he had sworn to protect, the consequences of every life touched, every misstep.

And yet… that sorrow never became regret.

He had told her once, without hesitation, that he would do it all over again.

Emma found that trait remarkable. Her own lack of regret signaled indifference; his, a quiet, steadfast courage.

He could feel sadness, weigh the world on his shoulders, and still move forward unbroken.

And in that balance—between her cold detachment and his unwavering resolve—they found each other.