Trust
Title: Trust
Author: Alsike
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds x-over
Pairing: Emma Frost/Emily Prentiss
Rating: PG-13
AN/Disclaimer: Not my girls.
Word Count: 1518
Prompt: 015. Dominatrix
Apologies: Back to the time where they're moving into Emily's mother's old house.
Apparently no one has the same Japanese food fetish that I do, since no one seemed to read that one. So here's something else.
Emma liked things to be a struggle. She liked everything to be a struggle, particularly sex. It was a particularly counter-intuitive sort of struggle, because the point was to resist pleasure, hold it off as long as possible. Apparently winning was passive-aggressively making your partner feel like shit for not making you come, or for coming too quickly, preferably both.
Emily had learnt the rules quickly enough, and she was actually quite good at not losing. (Emma said she cheated, but she had checked, and making your move while your opponent was half passed out from their exertions was totally within the rules.) She wasn’t actually any good at winning, but as she didn’t find not coming and making your partner feel like shit to be a desirable outcome, it didn’t bother her unduly. Sometimes she even took the attack, won the first round, and didn’t just wait for the riposte.
(She often wondered if this game was more widespread than even Emma knew. Emily’s ex-girlfriends had played a different version that was even more insidious. One goal was to not come and make your partner feel like shit, but the other was to really enjoy yourself and then make your partner feel like shit for complaining about feeling vaguely used and unsatisfied.
Emily never managed to win at that game either.
This was why whenever Emma offered to mentally disembowel her ex-girlfriends she had a difficult time saying no.)
Emma had found a few things in the attic of her mother’s house that she had thought were long gone. She had worn a different style of clothes when she was a teenager, and not just because it was the eighties. She had never been short of money back then either, and since she had rarely been in a country where this sort of clothing was commercially available, it had been expensive and was obviously well made. She supposed that was why her mother had kept it. (Or she had just never looked in the trunks Emily sent home from school.)
She had lost a little weight since she was a teenager, but not too much. The soft buttery leather was tempting under her fingertips, and she kicked off her federal agent shiny shoes before she thought to reconsider. The boots came up to her knee and cupped her calf and heel with enough support that she felt comfortable, but not strangled by them. They didn’t have insane heels like the ones Emma owned, but the thick heel gave her about two inches of lift. (Emma would still have at least half an inch on her in bare feet, but not if she were on her knees.)
Tightening up the supple leather around her ribs made her feel something she thought she had forgotten. When she was sixteen and getting ready to sneak out to one of the underground clubs in South London or West Berlin, putting on these clothes had been like putting on armor. She had been able to be who she wanted to be for a little while, the darkness and the music supporting her persona. She could be dour and tragic and angry and sexy all at the same time. She didn’t have to smile and be polite, or efface herself like she did with her mother’s friends.
She felt the brush of that strength, that rebellion, again.
The lipstick spread easily over her mouth. The eyeliner wasn’t so easy. She was out of practice. But the result was fine. She twisted her hair up off her neck. Part of the game was about being wild and crazy, but the other part was about control, as much control as her mother used every day to guide the fate of nations. Leather and Goth Rock [Siouxie and the Banshees, The Mission, Bauhaus] had given her back her sexuality when she had thought she’d given it up forever. Few people understood that about her. One of her ex-girlfriends had informed her, on the eve of their break-up, that she was like an Emo teenager, who lead the most utterly banal existence and tried to make it mean something with dramatic music and bleating about inescapable pain.
The cassettes were in the bottom of the trunk. Butterfly on a Wheel, (she had listened to it lying back on her dorm room bed halfway through college. It had made her feel completely at home for the first time since she had left Europe.) A bootleg copy of Gods Own Medicine, (Michael had given that to her. He had been a Midlands boy lost in central London, and had understood her awkwardness and the feeling of being out of place.) It made her swallow hard to think of him. People thought she didn’t have many friends; they didn’t know that the best of them were dead.
---
“What’s that?”
Emma was in the kitchen, inspecting the dire state of supplies that were remaining and writing a shopping list. She didn’t turn around when the rhythmic echoing music started seeping into her territory.
“The Mission.”
Then Emma did look over. Her eyes widened and her jaw went half-slack, and she looked about twelve years younger. She tried to recover. “It sounds like… like the Church.”
Emily laughed. “Sometimes I forget that you’re actually younger than me.”
“Hey!”
Emily disappeared into the den and Emma abandoned her list and followed her, kicking off her shoes.
It was her father’s den, still untouched from the way he had left it when he walked out decades before. The leather couches and heavy curtains had been cleaned periodically, thankfully, but the books, even the cut glass brandy decanter hadn’t been moved. Emily stood still in the middle of the room and when Emma came in, chasing a still target, she glanced back and frowned.
“What do you want?” she asked coolly. Emma froze. Emily could see her feeling out the rules in her head and then reaching out tentatively with her mind. “No.”
She stepped towards her and caught her shoulder, pushing her down to her knees. Emma dropped obediently, a little more obediently than she ever had. She looked up, tilting her head to the side, and her tongue brushed absently over her lips. Emily slid her fingers around her neck, caressing the soft skin, and then she pulled the thin strip of leather out of her pocket.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She felt Emma swallow under her hand. “I want to fuck you,” she muttered, the words vibrating into her hand.
“I know.” Emily stroked Emma’s hair. It was baby-soft and fine. “Do you remember when I fucked you while you were wearing an inhibitor collar?”
Emma smiled tightly. “It’s kind of hard to forget, considering the result.”
Emily laughed softly. “I should have just buggered you, eh?”
Emma shook her head. “It’s worth it.”
“I wonder if you’ll ever tell her that?” She cupped Emma’s cheek and wouldn’t let her look away.
“She knows.”
“Did you ever think about offering yourself to someone… collared?”
Emma looked away, tension vivid in her shoulders. “Only you.”
“You’ve thought about it?”
Emma nodded roughly. Emily stood back, agape, she had never believed she would have actually considered it. Emma hunched over, her hair slid over her face, shielding her. “I don’t know if I could, but not because of you.”
Emily nodded and stepped in so that Emma’s head brushed against her stomach. She lifted her hair off her neck and tied the strip of leather around it. Emma breathed in through her nose, but didn’t try to move away.
“Can you promise that while you’re wearing this you won’t use your power?”
Emma nodded. Something bent in her, and Emily wondered if that was her real submission. It felt colder too, and she felt the absence of the light touch of Emma’s unconscious presence.
“Do you remember what you said to Didi when you were teaching her not to lie? You said that it’s perfectly okay to make a promise and not have any intention to keep it. But if you make that sort of promise it means you don’t respect the person you’re making it to. You respect me, don’t you?”
Emma nodded again.
“So I’m going to give you an out. If you need to break your promise to me, if you need to regain control, or if it’s too much and it isn’t good anymore, you must tell me.”
“What do I say?” Emma whispered.
“Say her name,” Emily responded, and Emma sighed, leaning forward and pressing her head into her stomach.
“I love you,” she murmured quietly. Emily felt a flush of pain through her chest. She had thought the collar would be difficult, but not such a trigger. But she hadn’t thought about how often Emma reached out for her mentally. Cutting that off was trapping her alone in her head. Emma hadn’t just given up her power, she had given up the intimacy that made her feel safe in her own head.
“I love you too,” she said softly, stroking her hair. “I love you too.”
Author: Alsike
Fandom: X-Men/Criminal Minds x-over
Pairing: Emma Frost/Emily Prentiss
Rating: PG-13
AN/Disclaimer: Not my girls.
Word Count: 1518
Prompt: 015. Dominatrix
Apologies: Back to the time where they're moving into Emily's mother's old house.
Apparently no one has the same Japanese food fetish that I do, since no one seemed to read that one. So here's something else.
Emma liked things to be a struggle. She liked everything to be a struggle, particularly sex. It was a particularly counter-intuitive sort of struggle, because the point was to resist pleasure, hold it off as long as possible. Apparently winning was passive-aggressively making your partner feel like shit for not making you come, or for coming too quickly, preferably both.
Emily had learnt the rules quickly enough, and she was actually quite good at not losing. (Emma said she cheated, but she had checked, and making your move while your opponent was half passed out from their exertions was totally within the rules.) She wasn’t actually any good at winning, but as she didn’t find not coming and making your partner feel like shit to be a desirable outcome, it didn’t bother her unduly. Sometimes she even took the attack, won the first round, and didn’t just wait for the riposte.
(She often wondered if this game was more widespread than even Emma knew. Emily’s ex-girlfriends had played a different version that was even more insidious. One goal was to not come and make your partner feel like shit, but the other was to really enjoy yourself and then make your partner feel like shit for complaining about feeling vaguely used and unsatisfied.
Emily never managed to win at that game either.
This was why whenever Emma offered to mentally disembowel her ex-girlfriends she had a difficult time saying no.)
Emma had found a few things in the attic of her mother’s house that she had thought were long gone. She had worn a different style of clothes when she was a teenager, and not just because it was the eighties. She had never been short of money back then either, and since she had rarely been in a country where this sort of clothing was commercially available, it had been expensive and was obviously well made. She supposed that was why her mother had kept it. (Or she had just never looked in the trunks Emily sent home from school.)
She had lost a little weight since she was a teenager, but not too much. The soft buttery leather was tempting under her fingertips, and she kicked off her federal agent shiny shoes before she thought to reconsider. The boots came up to her knee and cupped her calf and heel with enough support that she felt comfortable, but not strangled by them. They didn’t have insane heels like the ones Emma owned, but the thick heel gave her about two inches of lift. (Emma would still have at least half an inch on her in bare feet, but not if she were on her knees.)
Tightening up the supple leather around her ribs made her feel something she thought she had forgotten. When she was sixteen and getting ready to sneak out to one of the underground clubs in South London or West Berlin, putting on these clothes had been like putting on armor. She had been able to be who she wanted to be for a little while, the darkness and the music supporting her persona. She could be dour and tragic and angry and sexy all at the same time. She didn’t have to smile and be polite, or efface herself like she did with her mother’s friends.
She felt the brush of that strength, that rebellion, again.
The lipstick spread easily over her mouth. The eyeliner wasn’t so easy. She was out of practice. But the result was fine. She twisted her hair up off her neck. Part of the game was about being wild and crazy, but the other part was about control, as much control as her mother used every day to guide the fate of nations. Leather and Goth Rock [Siouxie and the Banshees, The Mission, Bauhaus] had given her back her sexuality when she had thought she’d given it up forever. Few people understood that about her. One of her ex-girlfriends had informed her, on the eve of their break-up, that she was like an Emo teenager, who lead the most utterly banal existence and tried to make it mean something with dramatic music and bleating about inescapable pain.
The cassettes were in the bottom of the trunk. Butterfly on a Wheel, (she had listened to it lying back on her dorm room bed halfway through college. It had made her feel completely at home for the first time since she had left Europe.) A bootleg copy of Gods Own Medicine, (Michael had given that to her. He had been a Midlands boy lost in central London, and had understood her awkwardness and the feeling of being out of place.) It made her swallow hard to think of him. People thought she didn’t have many friends; they didn’t know that the best of them were dead.
---
“What’s that?”
Emma was in the kitchen, inspecting the dire state of supplies that were remaining and writing a shopping list. She didn’t turn around when the rhythmic echoing music started seeping into her territory.
“The Mission.”
Then Emma did look over. Her eyes widened and her jaw went half-slack, and she looked about twelve years younger. She tried to recover. “It sounds like… like the Church.”
Emily laughed. “Sometimes I forget that you’re actually younger than me.”
“Hey!”
Emily disappeared into the den and Emma abandoned her list and followed her, kicking off her shoes.
It was her father’s den, still untouched from the way he had left it when he walked out decades before. The leather couches and heavy curtains had been cleaned periodically, thankfully, but the books, even the cut glass brandy decanter hadn’t been moved. Emily stood still in the middle of the room and when Emma came in, chasing a still target, she glanced back and frowned.
“What do you want?” she asked coolly. Emma froze. Emily could see her feeling out the rules in her head and then reaching out tentatively with her mind. “No.”
She stepped towards her and caught her shoulder, pushing her down to her knees. Emma dropped obediently, a little more obediently than she ever had. She looked up, tilting her head to the side, and her tongue brushed absently over her lips. Emily slid her fingers around her neck, caressing the soft skin, and then she pulled the thin strip of leather out of her pocket.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She felt Emma swallow under her hand. “I want to fuck you,” she muttered, the words vibrating into her hand.
“I know.” Emily stroked Emma’s hair. It was baby-soft and fine. “Do you remember when I fucked you while you were wearing an inhibitor collar?”
Emma smiled tightly. “It’s kind of hard to forget, considering the result.”
Emily laughed softly. “I should have just buggered you, eh?”
Emma shook her head. “It’s worth it.”
“I wonder if you’ll ever tell her that?” She cupped Emma’s cheek and wouldn’t let her look away.
“She knows.”
“Did you ever think about offering yourself to someone… collared?”
Emma looked away, tension vivid in her shoulders. “Only you.”
“You’ve thought about it?”
Emma nodded roughly. Emily stood back, agape, she had never believed she would have actually considered it. Emma hunched over, her hair slid over her face, shielding her. “I don’t know if I could, but not because of you.”
Emily nodded and stepped in so that Emma’s head brushed against her stomach. She lifted her hair off her neck and tied the strip of leather around it. Emma breathed in through her nose, but didn’t try to move away.
“Can you promise that while you’re wearing this you won’t use your power?”
Emma nodded. Something bent in her, and Emily wondered if that was her real submission. It felt colder too, and she felt the absence of the light touch of Emma’s unconscious presence.
“Do you remember what you said to Didi when you were teaching her not to lie? You said that it’s perfectly okay to make a promise and not have any intention to keep it. But if you make that sort of promise it means you don’t respect the person you’re making it to. You respect me, don’t you?”
Emma nodded again.
“So I’m going to give you an out. If you need to break your promise to me, if you need to regain control, or if it’s too much and it isn’t good anymore, you must tell me.”
“What do I say?” Emma whispered.
“Say her name,” Emily responded, and Emma sighed, leaning forward and pressing her head into her stomach.
“I love you,” she murmured quietly. Emily felt a flush of pain through her chest. She had thought the collar would be difficult, but not such a trigger. But she hadn’t thought about how often Emma reached out for her mentally. Cutting that off was trapping her alone in her head. Emma hadn’t just given up her power, she had given up the intimacy that made her feel safe in her own head.
“I love you too,” she said softly, stroking her hair. “I love you too.”