I'm having A LOT OF FUN with Emma.
Emma never meant to take his words further than solely face value. She was too used to it, to this, to people lying and conning her, she sometimes wonders how difficult life must be for the people who didn't automatically know someone's true intentions. She saw him for the first time, and he was just so overwhelmingly charismatic, just filled with plans of him-and-her, king-and-queen, Emma believed him for a moment before she reminded herself with a thought and a phrase taken straight from his mind--"Us mutants."
Who cares if mutants won the war, who cares if people begin to fear us. Emma learned to block them out, she learned to make them forget, what use did she have for a system that made it wrong to hate them. But Shaw, all smiles and good looks, he tells her she'll never be alone again, Emma is reminded of her brother, and she subdues herself for his greater good.
Despite your personal beliefs, before Emma met Shaw, she did wear clothes. It was an offhand comment he made, something Emma could feel from their connection--she was only half sure he knew when she was in there, she never actually asked--meant more than he tried to make it seem, that maybe she would look prettier in skirts? As the months went by, he asked for, technically, less, and then one night she finds herself in bed with him, and it's utter confusion and complete satisfaction.
Being a telepath, she has a good enough grip on her own mind; she can understand her thoughts, grab hold of them, basically understand herself better than others. So a thought or a feeling to take her by surprise is almost nonexistent, she thinks things through, convinces herself and reassures herself, tells herself that, no, Shaw does not mean more than what he says.
She was expecting it to happen, sometime, someday, when it was late enough or he was lonely enough or it was quiet enough, she expected him to make a move that didn't end at amiable, that had some more carnal motives, and she had expected that she would respond in kind, a sort of compliancy that was needed, but she never expected that she would want it.
Afterwards, her mind found the connection, hidden somewhere deeper in her, in the place she had shoved her emotions to long ago, but at the time, all she knew was he wanted sex and she wanted him.
(The other word is just painful to say, Emma couldn't forget it, but, Gods, how she wanted to.)
He was smiling, like always, his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, his whiskey cup emptied for the eight time. She was tired of getting him ice, she had nothing much to drink, but scantily-clad as always, and they're talking about something inconsequential, this or that or another, and his hand finds his way to her knee. She sees it, ignores it, figures he waited long enough, and keeps talking, flips her hair some, invite him in, and his hands slides further up, warm and calloused, rugged.
He’s done talking suddenly, and his lips find their way to hers, and she’s done talking too, but she tries to keep herself from kissing him back because the urge--where was that hiding all along--is so strong, and she doesn't like looking desperate.
Her mind touches his, so slightly, touches ground, and the connection explodes, with all of these things Emma had been hiding, all of these things Shaw apparently can't keep down, and who knows where that cup went, but they're so close, so close. She breaks a nail unbuttoning his pants, but he's too much of a gentlemen, he kisses her hand, coos something into her ear, and he's inside, and Emma is on fire, boiling, she doesn't even know which thoughts are hers, and she's having enough of time trying to avoid accidental projection.
He’s breathing--he's--hard, heavy, thick, the ceiling is this bright white and his shirt is dark, he smells like cologne, expensive and flirtatious, Emma's pretty sure she breaks another nail and then it's all over and he's romantic enough to suggest continuing on the bed.
What Shaw is not, however, is patient, because he just makes her take him up on his offer, and the next thing Emma remembers is it being four hours later, with a rising sun and an impending sense of distress.
(When she notices his death, sure, it's painful, Emma feels like she's being stabbed, ripped apart, but she knows better, and moves along. Being a telepath, she knows herself too well, and she leaves those emotions, so pesky, back in the corner of her mind, blocks them, and then moves along, she always moves along.)
Who cares if mutants won the war, who cares if people begin to fear us. Emma learned to block them out, she learned to make them forget, what use did she have for a system that made it wrong to hate them. But Shaw, all smiles and good looks, he tells her she'll never be alone again, Emma is reminded of her brother, and she subdues herself for his greater good.
Despite your personal beliefs, before Emma met Shaw, she did wear clothes. It was an offhand comment he made, something Emma could feel from their connection--she was only half sure he knew when she was in there, she never actually asked--meant more than he tried to make it seem, that maybe she would look prettier in skirts? As the months went by, he asked for, technically, less, and then one night she finds herself in bed with him, and it's utter confusion and complete satisfaction.
Being a telepath, she has a good enough grip on her own mind; she can understand her thoughts, grab hold of them, basically understand herself better than others. So a thought or a feeling to take her by surprise is almost nonexistent, she thinks things through, convinces herself and reassures herself, tells herself that, no, Shaw does not mean more than what he says.
She was expecting it to happen, sometime, someday, when it was late enough or he was lonely enough or it was quiet enough, she expected him to make a move that didn't end at amiable, that had some more carnal motives, and she had expected that she would respond in kind, a sort of compliancy that was needed, but she never expected that she would want it.
Afterwards, her mind found the connection, hidden somewhere deeper in her, in the place she had shoved her emotions to long ago, but at the time, all she knew was he wanted sex and she wanted him.
(The other word is just painful to say, Emma couldn't forget it, but, Gods, how she wanted to.)
He was smiling, like always, his strong jaw and sharp cheekbones, his whiskey cup emptied for the eight time. She was tired of getting him ice, she had nothing much to drink, but scantily-clad as always, and they're talking about something inconsequential, this or that or another, and his hand finds his way to her knee. She sees it, ignores it, figures he waited long enough, and keeps talking, flips her hair some, invite him in, and his hands slides further up, warm and calloused, rugged.
He’s done talking suddenly, and his lips find their way to hers, and she’s done talking too, but she tries to keep herself from kissing him back because the urge--where was that hiding all along--is so strong, and she doesn't like looking desperate.
Her mind touches his, so slightly, touches ground, and the connection explodes, with all of these things Emma had been hiding, all of these things Shaw apparently can't keep down, and who knows where that cup went, but they're so close, so close. She breaks a nail unbuttoning his pants, but he's too much of a gentlemen, he kisses her hand, coos something into her ear, and he's inside, and Emma is on fire, boiling, she doesn't even know which thoughts are hers, and she's having enough of time trying to avoid accidental projection.
He’s breathing--he's--hard, heavy, thick, the ceiling is this bright white and his shirt is dark, he smells like cologne, expensive and flirtatious, Emma's pretty sure she breaks another nail and then it's all over and he's romantic enough to suggest continuing on the bed.
What Shaw is not, however, is patient, because he just makes her take him up on his offer, and the next thing Emma remembers is it being four hours later, with a rising sun and an impending sense of distress.
(When she notices his death, sure, it's painful, Emma feels like she's being stabbed, ripped apart, but she knows better, and moves along. Being a telepath, she knows herself too well, and she leaves those emotions, so pesky, back in the corner of her mind, blocks them, and then moves along, she always moves along.)