Ficlets: Various, Marvel-verse and Profit.
Various Ficlets, Various Pairings. Celebrating my OTPs/OT3s!
Thanks to Resolute and inlovewithnight for looking these over :-)
Nathaniel/Rachel, Rated PG. Unquiet Affair-verse, no warnings.
Heartbeat
"Does your expression ever change?"
Rachel is sitting astride Nathaniel's waist, legs tucked under themselves, while he lays on his back. He's not wearing a shirt, and Rachel is tracing her fingers over the corded muscles of his stomach, her eyes on his impassive expression.
"No."
She's not sure if he's joking or not. "Really?" Rachel slaps him, hard, on the shoulder with her palm. He doesn't flinch. "Hey," she says, slightly offended. "I can hit hard."
"Not as hard as Apocalypse," he answers, hands behind his head. Rachel takes a moment to study him. He looks the same as he always does. But there is something, maybe the set of his mouth or the curve of his brow, that makes her think he's relaxed. His expressions are subtle, but they're there. Maybe no one will ever notice but her. She thinks he's looking at her, but it's hard to tell.
"Did he sit on top of you and punch you in the arm?"
"On occasion." Nathaniel lifts his hand, brushes it against her cheek. His fingers are cold. He's always cold. It's hot outside, too hot for England anyways, and yet his hands are still freezing. "Though he preferred to watch others do it in his stead."
"That's kind of creepy." Rachel shifts, a little, pushing her hips against him. She slides her hand up, resting over his heart, feeling the slow, steady rhythm. "Mr. Sinister has a heart. Who would have thought it?" She smiles at him, head cocked, eyes half-narrowed in playful regard.
Nathaniel's hand rubs lightly over her lips. "Indeed," he says, and Rachel looks up, hearing something in his voice, something slight and quiet.
Maybe subtle is all they're going to have.
X-23/Sabretooth: Rated R for content and themes.
Faded
There is no reason why Laura should be here, and she knows it. Emma would have her expelled, would throw her out with nothing more than a sneer, if she found out. Maybe that's why Laura does it, she doesn't know. Nobody knows about it. She's never going to tell. Why should anyone know?
The hotel room is surprisingly nice, this time. Sometimes he does that, gets places with jetted tubs and soft, thick terrycloth robes. Sometimes they're in rooms with vibrating beds and timers for the bathroom lights. Dingy curtains over dirty windows, buzzing lights right outside the window that hum all night long, light peeking through faded cloth.
They don't talk, usually. Oh, sometimes he growls at her and shoves her against the wall, because that's what he does. And Laura closes her eyes and feels his claws against her throat, and she thinks about all those things she doesn't let herself dwell on at the school. Emma would see it, if she did, and Emma hates her enough already.
He likes her claws. Likes them in his back, when his are poised at her jugular, so sharp that one wrong move will cause her bleed. He makes her bleed a lot. They're both going to heal, so what does it matter? The scars fade by morning, anyway. Laura likes it when he does it when she's on all fours, when he's behind her and she can feel him, painful and sharp and driving harder and harder, when she can hear him growl, feel his hand fisted tight in her hair. But she can't see him. And that's okay. If she thinks about it--and sometimes she does--Emma won't be able to see who it is behind her in the dark.
Laura is afraid of being thrown away again. She doesn't want to care. She doesn't know how. She wants something that feels good but that she won't care about if it's taken away. He hates her because of Logan. He can't do anything but hate her, not really. And that's good. That's what she wants. If he's gone tomorrow she won't mind. Those are the only kind of things Laura can have for herself, things that are easy to get rid of.
Sometimes when they're done they take a bath. Laura watches him smoke cigars and calls him Mr. Creed because he likes that. He likes her firm young body and her serious expression and the fact she smells like Wolverine, and that he can think about burying his claws deep in Wolverine's gut. She knows this because he tells her, while he's fucking her, and it always makes him laugh. He would have a nice laugh, if it ever sounded like he meant it.
He throws money at her when they leave in the morning. Laura knows he means it to be insulting. She keeps the money anyway. She's used to getting paid for it. She doesn't see why it should matter. She's going to keep what's hers, what she's earned.
Profit/Gail: Rated R, D/S themes, no sex.
Typo
"Do you see why you can't do this, anymore, Gail? Why you can't make these kind of mistakes? One single typo could send them over the edge, and then what would we do? Hmmm? What do you think we would do, Gail?"
It's very hard to answer questions for Mr. Profit when she's not wearing any panties and bent over his desk. Gail thinks about complaining to upper management, but Mr. Profit has them all blackmailed, so it wouldn't really matter what she said. "Um," she says, feeling a bit light-headed, trying to blow the strands of her hair out of her eyes so she could see. "I guess--I guess so, Mr. Profit."
He smacks her ass again. Mr. Profit is wearing gloves. That's how Gail knew she was in trouble, really. The gloves. He'd called her on the intercom, voice demonically cheerful (that wasn't really out of the ordinary, for a Monday--whatever Mr. Profit did on the weekends, he came in whistling, usually, bright and early), to "ask her about the memo". When she'd closed the door behind her, she'd turned to see him there--wearing that smile that looked like the devil's leer, dark eyes fixed and steady and unblinking like a hawk--and she'd seen the gloves.
She knew then she was in trouble.
"You guess so? Gail. I do not pay you additional wages to be so disrespectful. Did you know that Julie in marketing is always saying she wants to come work for me?"
The sting of the leather against her ass makes her bite her lip, makes her kick her feet up just a little. She tries not to do that--he hates it, says it's dramatic--but she can't help it. Leather hurts, on bare skin. And Mr. Profit is lean and looks nice in a suit, but he's got muscles beneath it. Gail breathes, deep and even through her mouth. Then let her. Dear God. I'll go work for that bitch that heads up marketing as long as she doesn't administer corporeal punishment. "I--yes, sir, Mr. Profit. I won't--I won't do it again."
She must have taken too long to answer. He bends down, one glove resting next to her head. The wood of his desk has warmed beneath her cheek. He likes it when she cries, but this offense has not warranted that. "Do you want me to have Julie from marketing take your place, Gail?" His voice is a threatening purr, low and dark like espresso poured over the darkest of bitter chocolate.
"No," she breathes, closing her eyes. His hand rests on her ass, rubbing gently. The pain is a gentle memory, and indistinct buzz in her head. He straightens up, walks over to the window. Gail wonders what sort of things Mr. Profit thinks about, at night, when he goes to sleep. She knows, now that he's left her alone, that she can stand. Her legs shake, and Gail reaches down to pull her panties up from around her knees. She straightens her skirt, running an unsteady hand through her hair. When she's somewhat put together, she stands straight with her hands clasped behind her back. She waits. Eventually he turns around, like he always does, and he's silent for a long moment as he looks at her.
"Good girl. Go get me some coffee, would you?" He smiles at her. His smiles all look the same, like he doesn't ever mean them. Gail thinks maybe he can't, anymore. She hopes she never finds out why. He looks kind. It's all a lie, but Gail smiles back at him. It's just easier that way.
Jean/Emma: PG13.
Sweet Sixteen
"I don't want to watch this."
It's two am. There is no reason why either of them are up, much less in the rec room watching television, but they are. Each on one side of the couch (there are chairs, comfy ones, scattered throughout the room--for some reason, neither of them think to sit there), the distance between them a gaping chasm of dislike. The show is something on MTV, some slick show about spoiled teenagers getting expensive cars and having overdone parties.
Jean smiles over at Emma. The light makes her look evil, highlights all the shadows on her face. "Remind you of your childhood, Frost?"
Emma snorts. "You grew up in a mansion, Grey. Are you trying to play the oh poor me card? Didn't you get a party, when you were sixteen?"
Jean's still staring at her. The white light from the television looks like it's captured in her gaze. Emma imagines fire burning there, bleeding white. She tires not to shiver. Jean's smile widens. "Sure. You're not telling me the darling Frost daughter didn't get a party?"
Emma thinks about it, her sixteenth birthday party. Standing in the corner, a death-grip around the crystal stem of her Moet Chandon, a frozen smile on her face. A room full of people she didn't know. A room full of people who's thoughts were deafening. "Yes. I did."
There is a long, pregnant moment of silence between them. Jean crawls over the sofa, towards her, and it is an inhumanely graceful gesture. Like Mystique, Emma thinks, and watches as Jean draws closer. "Poor little Emma," she sing-songs, reaching up, tucking Emma's hair behind her ear. "Is that when you left to become a stripper?" Jean moves closer, backing Emma up against the sofa, her body blocking the light and the television and all of it, the dark room and the shadows too.
Emma doesn't say anything, as Jean kisses her. Opens her mouth, shifts to her back. Does what Jean wants. There's self-loathing thick like honey on Emma's tongue, and her only consolation is she can't tell to whom it belongs.
Scott/Emma: Rated PG Dress shirt mentioned JUST for likeadeuce!
Drunk
"Hey, Ems. Watcha got there?"
Emma looks up at Scott. His tie is askew, his hair a bit mussed. There's a button on his dress shirt that's been unbuttoned, probably when he loosened the tie. He looks devastating adorable, but they're at some crashing bore of a function and he's supposed to look professional, not adorable. She holds up her glass, still half-full of her first glass of wine. Clearly, Scott was not exercising as much restraint at the open bar as her. Emma sees Hank across the room, gesturing wildly and laughing loudly, and Logan engaged in what looks like actual civil conversation.
Ah. They were all drunk, then. "Chardonnay," she says stepping up to him. She does up his button, fixes his tie. "Darling, it's only nine-thirty. You shouldn't look like this until the bar closes at midnight."
"I got there right after dinner," Scott supplies, grinning at her. He has the cutest smile, slightly crooked. Emma feels her expression soften, just a little, and she gives him a small, secret smile in return. "Is that wine any good?"
"No, it's awful." Emma rolls her eyes theatrically. "Of course it's good, silly. Do you think I drink wine that isn't?" Emma brings the glass to her mouth, pressing it lightly against her lips. She touches the bottom of her tongue to the rim of the glass. Scott's reaction is not visible, but mental; it makes her smile wider and turns her voice into a purr. "Mmm. Those are nice things you're thinking, about what else I could do with my mouth." Emma leans forward, as if she's adjusting the back of his collar. "And I won't do any of them if you're drunk." She pulls back, winks at him, and walks across the room.
The next time she sees him, talking to Tony Stark (who is probably the only other sober person there besides her--ah, the irony), Scott's drinking a glass of water. He must know she's watching him, because he lifts the glass slightly, like a toast. A salute, maybe.
He's a smart man, Scott.
Scott/Jean/Emma: (OT3!!), Rated Teen. (ZOMG, this is kind of happy? For a bit?)
In the middle
"I don't see why you get to pick, is all."
"Because I'm the one who got the remote first."
"You have telekinesis."
"Yup. Sorry. We can't all be gods, I guess."
"According to Magnus, we can. Didn't you see his recruiting materials last month? Nice four-color glossy brochure."
"I must have missed them. Maybe he took me off the mailing list. How sad." Jean flops on her stomach on the bed. She's wearing a small, silk cami in a pretty shade of green. Emma is in her usual white, lying next to her. They both have mussed hair, and Jean's lipstick is smeared on her bottom lip. Both women sprawl languidly, limbs close but not touching, as Jean starts the pay-per-view movie.
Scott is staring at them from the bathroom doorway. They're bickering--of course they are, they always do--but not fighting. The energy in the room is calm. Maybe not serene, but closer than usual. "Why can't you do this all the time?"
"Watch movies in our underwear?" Jean asks, and Emma giggles. Giggles.
Emma Frost.
Scott looks between the two of them. "Um. You know." He waves a hand, encompassing where they are lying on the rumpled sheets of the California King where they'd just been--otherwise engaged. "This. Where you don't, you know, yell at each other all the time?"
"Darling, we don't yell," Emma says, rolling on her back. "We're women. You and Logan yell."
"Well, whatever," Scott says, still standing halfway in the bathroom. The hotel is a nice suite. This was probably Emma's choice, this time around. He and Jean usually spend a lot less money when it's their turn to plan illicit trysts. He wonders if that maybe is insulting to Emma. Scott doesn't want to think about it. This situation causes enough anxiety as is, the last thing he needs is to worry about the accommodations. "I mean, if you guys could just get along like this all the time..."
"We wouldn't need to come to hotels and have sex with each other, and you, to clear the air." Jean finishes, nudging Emma with her elbow. "Move over, so Scott can be in the middle."
"Am I having deja vu? I swear you've said that to me once already." Emma moves, obligingly, and pats the bed. "Come along, darling. You know this nice reprieve never lasts. We shouldn't be next to each other, really, when it ends."
Scott tosses the towel back in the bathroom. They're weird. This is weird. He thinks about what Emma just said. He's usually in the middle, all the time. It's usually only during these few stolen hours that he likes it.
Magneto/Rogue: Ideology-verse (which is movieverse), Rated Teen. For Willowaus :-)
Intangible
Rogue hates shopping.
She's been with the Brotherhood for two years now, long enough to have forgotten a lot of what it was like to be a civilian. To forget pushing through crowds of people and pretending she's harmless, that she's normal. If she's learned anything in two years, it is that she is neither. And she's proud of that.
The store is full of families doing back-to-school shopping. She maneuvers easily, head down, distinctive white streaks hidden under a hat. There are racks of clothes on clearance, things on sale. Rogue grabs a lot of shirts in plain colors. She buys some for herself, some for Pyro. Some for Gambit, though he's pickier than the rest of them about clothes, but there are a few things she thinks he'll like. If not, Pyro could wear them. Pyro's grown three inches and put on twenty pounds of muscles in the last couple of years. He's not as tall as Gambit, but he's catching up.
Rogue finds a dark gray, cotton long-sleeved shirt that she thinks will look nice on Erik. She holds it in her hands, thinking. Even after all this time, she's still not quite sure if she should buy him presents or not. They have their moments, she and Erik. Once she moved out of their bedroom for a week. They had a fantastic argument, shouting and metal things tossed across the air, and then they'd had sex against the door. Then she'd moved back in.
Mystique told her that he did that, sometimes. Erik was never comfortable sharing himself with someone else. Rogue was learning that, too.
There are new people in the Brotherhood. Skids, who hero-worships Rogue. Avalanche, who has a bad attitude and a habit of staring too often at Mystique. Some kid Victor picked up in London, who can raise the dead. She has a thick accent and Rogue can't ever understand a word she's saying. Rogue doesn't know what to buy for them. She does the best she can and hopes they like it.
It takes her a few hours to get everything. She bumps into a few people, but she's mostly covered up. The gloves feel strange on her hands; hot and stifling. Erik never lets her wear them at home. The others know she's got deadly skin, and they know not to touch it. Just like they know never to fall for Gambit's pick a card, any card, or Pyro's, hey, need a light?. It's just knowledge, and there's nothing all that special or interesting about it other than the pride they all take in being mutants, and sometimes Rogue wonders if Erik ever realizes how much that means to her.
Of all the gifts he could give to her, that one has meant the most.
She gets home and falls on the bed, bags at her feet. "I finished the shopping," she mumbles into the pillow, hearing someone entering the room. It has to be Erik. No one else comes in their room without knocking.
"Good," he says simply, in that voice of his, the one that still makes her shiver a little with fear even as she's come to find it a comfort. Her general's voice. Her lover. It is all the same, in her head. She feels the bed move as he sits next to her, feels the warm weight of his hand on her back. He does not rub muscles sore from training, does not pat her back to soothe and relax. It's enough, though, that his hand is there. Rogue has always appreciated touch, no matter how simple it seems. It is not simple to her.
Reed/Victor: Movie-verse, Rated Adult. For Inlovewithnight :-)
Mask
The mask is in a glass cabinet, now, but it wasn't always. It used to be in the bedroom.
Reed never liked being there at night. Victor doesn't have blinds of any kind--he's up too high, his penthouse, why does he need them?--and it makes Reed feel exposed, like some sort of performer. Maybe that's the real reason why Victor likes the windows bare, because he can see on Reed's face how much he hates it, and Reed is beginning to think Victor's favorite sexual kink is debasement.
There are books written about that sort of thing. Maybe he'll get Victor one, when this debt is repaid, and suggest the man contact a therapist. This can't be healthy.
Victor does not let Reed on the bed. Victor presses Reed up against the glass window, naked and aroused and shamed, or pushes him to his knees on the thick carpet. It's nice and soft, but it doesn't matter after awhile. Even Aubusson leaves burns on your knees when you're kneeling long enough.
It's one of those times, on his knees with his hands clasped behind his back, that Reed first sees the mask. Greenish gleaming metal, it's resting atop the high armoire. Victor has his hand fisted in Reed's hair, and when he pulls back, Reed thinks he's showing off for the damn thing. Then he wonders if this is something Victor's even proud of, fucking Reed, if Reed doesn't even merit the bed. Victor's a strange man.
He wonders idly, his tongue swirling over the head of Victor's cock, if Susan makes Victor put the mask away before she'll go to bed with him. He kind of hope she does. If she's the kind of girl that likes that, though--well, maybe that explains what she sees in him. Reed chokes on Victor's cock and Victor pushes his hips forward with a growl, and his hand in Reed's hair tightens and jerks, and Reed forgets all about masks and Susan and everything else.
It's over between them, for good, the night before they're supposed to leave for Victor's space station. It's the only time Victor fucks him on the bed. Reed turns his head and sees the mask, and wonders why it seems like it's trying to warn him.
"Where did you get that?" Reed asks later, dressing slowly. He's knows it's over. Victor is still naked, lounging on his bed, smoking a cigarette. How typical. Reed wonders if he's taking after-sex lessons from Tony Stark. Stark seems like the kind of guy who smokes in bed. On a bearskin rug or something. Maybe more exotic than bearskin. Zebra. Some type of greater kudu, maybe. Is there enough fur on a kudu--
"What, Reed? Good lord. If you're this distracted on the ship, we're all going to die."
"The mask. Up there. The creepy green thing, that stares at me while--" Reed coughs. "That stares at me."
Victor is looking at him with that half-smirk on his face that makes Reed want to...well, it doesn't matter, does it, because he's going home in ten minutes and he's not coming back. Ever. "I sponsored some program for starving children in Latveria. Where I'm from," he explains, stubbing out the cigarette. He never finishes them. Reed thinks Victor probably only smokes in front of him to look cool. Either that, or he has a really good air circulation system, because the place never smells like smoke--
"Reed."
"Oh. Sorry. I was just thinking about air filtration. And for feeding kids? Wow, that's...kind of creepy. You should--don't you have somewhere else to keep it?"
"Why, Reed," Victor says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, standing up and stretching with slow, deliberate grace. "I didn't know it bothered you. You should have said something."
"You would have put it on," Reed mutters, raking a hand through his hair.
Victor smiles at him. He doesn't answer, just walks into the bathroom. Reed hears the shower start, hears Victor whistling.
Reed lets himself out.
Thanks to Resolute and inlovewithnight for looking these over :-)
Nathaniel/Rachel, Rated PG. Unquiet Affair-verse, no warnings.
Heartbeat
"Does your expression ever change?"
Rachel is sitting astride Nathaniel's waist, legs tucked under themselves, while he lays on his back. He's not wearing a shirt, and Rachel is tracing her fingers over the corded muscles of his stomach, her eyes on his impassive expression.
"No."
She's not sure if he's joking or not. "Really?" Rachel slaps him, hard, on the shoulder with her palm. He doesn't flinch. "Hey," she says, slightly offended. "I can hit hard."
"Not as hard as Apocalypse," he answers, hands behind his head. Rachel takes a moment to study him. He looks the same as he always does. But there is something, maybe the set of his mouth or the curve of his brow, that makes her think he's relaxed. His expressions are subtle, but they're there. Maybe no one will ever notice but her. She thinks he's looking at her, but it's hard to tell.
"Did he sit on top of you and punch you in the arm?"
"On occasion." Nathaniel lifts his hand, brushes it against her cheek. His fingers are cold. He's always cold. It's hot outside, too hot for England anyways, and yet his hands are still freezing. "Though he preferred to watch others do it in his stead."
"That's kind of creepy." Rachel shifts, a little, pushing her hips against him. She slides her hand up, resting over his heart, feeling the slow, steady rhythm. "Mr. Sinister has a heart. Who would have thought it?" She smiles at him, head cocked, eyes half-narrowed in playful regard.
Nathaniel's hand rubs lightly over her lips. "Indeed," he says, and Rachel looks up, hearing something in his voice, something slight and quiet.
Maybe subtle is all they're going to have.
X-23/Sabretooth: Rated R for content and themes.
Faded
There is no reason why Laura should be here, and she knows it. Emma would have her expelled, would throw her out with nothing more than a sneer, if she found out. Maybe that's why Laura does it, she doesn't know. Nobody knows about it. She's never going to tell. Why should anyone know?
The hotel room is surprisingly nice, this time. Sometimes he does that, gets places with jetted tubs and soft, thick terrycloth robes. Sometimes they're in rooms with vibrating beds and timers for the bathroom lights. Dingy curtains over dirty windows, buzzing lights right outside the window that hum all night long, light peeking through faded cloth.
They don't talk, usually. Oh, sometimes he growls at her and shoves her against the wall, because that's what he does. And Laura closes her eyes and feels his claws against her throat, and she thinks about all those things she doesn't let herself dwell on at the school. Emma would see it, if she did, and Emma hates her enough already.
He likes her claws. Likes them in his back, when his are poised at her jugular, so sharp that one wrong move will cause her bleed. He makes her bleed a lot. They're both going to heal, so what does it matter? The scars fade by morning, anyway. Laura likes it when he does it when she's on all fours, when he's behind her and she can feel him, painful and sharp and driving harder and harder, when she can hear him growl, feel his hand fisted tight in her hair. But she can't see him. And that's okay. If she thinks about it--and sometimes she does--Emma won't be able to see who it is behind her in the dark.
Laura is afraid of being thrown away again. She doesn't want to care. She doesn't know how. She wants something that feels good but that she won't care about if it's taken away. He hates her because of Logan. He can't do anything but hate her, not really. And that's good. That's what she wants. If he's gone tomorrow she won't mind. Those are the only kind of things Laura can have for herself, things that are easy to get rid of.
Sometimes when they're done they take a bath. Laura watches him smoke cigars and calls him Mr. Creed because he likes that. He likes her firm young body and her serious expression and the fact she smells like Wolverine, and that he can think about burying his claws deep in Wolverine's gut. She knows this because he tells her, while he's fucking her, and it always makes him laugh. He would have a nice laugh, if it ever sounded like he meant it.
He throws money at her when they leave in the morning. Laura knows he means it to be insulting. She keeps the money anyway. She's used to getting paid for it. She doesn't see why it should matter. She's going to keep what's hers, what she's earned.
Profit/Gail: Rated R, D/S themes, no sex.
Typo
"Do you see why you can't do this, anymore, Gail? Why you can't make these kind of mistakes? One single typo could send them over the edge, and then what would we do? Hmmm? What do you think we would do, Gail?"
It's very hard to answer questions for Mr. Profit when she's not wearing any panties and bent over his desk. Gail thinks about complaining to upper management, but Mr. Profit has them all blackmailed, so it wouldn't really matter what she said. "Um," she says, feeling a bit light-headed, trying to blow the strands of her hair out of her eyes so she could see. "I guess--I guess so, Mr. Profit."
He smacks her ass again. Mr. Profit is wearing gloves. That's how Gail knew she was in trouble, really. The gloves. He'd called her on the intercom, voice demonically cheerful (that wasn't really out of the ordinary, for a Monday--whatever Mr. Profit did on the weekends, he came in whistling, usually, bright and early), to "ask her about the memo". When she'd closed the door behind her, she'd turned to see him there--wearing that smile that looked like the devil's leer, dark eyes fixed and steady and unblinking like a hawk--and she'd seen the gloves.
She knew then she was in trouble.
"You guess so? Gail. I do not pay you additional wages to be so disrespectful. Did you know that Julie in marketing is always saying she wants to come work for me?"
The sting of the leather against her ass makes her bite her lip, makes her kick her feet up just a little. She tries not to do that--he hates it, says it's dramatic--but she can't help it. Leather hurts, on bare skin. And Mr. Profit is lean and looks nice in a suit, but he's got muscles beneath it. Gail breathes, deep and even through her mouth. Then let her. Dear God. I'll go work for that bitch that heads up marketing as long as she doesn't administer corporeal punishment. "I--yes, sir, Mr. Profit. I won't--I won't do it again."
She must have taken too long to answer. He bends down, one glove resting next to her head. The wood of his desk has warmed beneath her cheek. He likes it when she cries, but this offense has not warranted that. "Do you want me to have Julie from marketing take your place, Gail?" His voice is a threatening purr, low and dark like espresso poured over the darkest of bitter chocolate.
"No," she breathes, closing her eyes. His hand rests on her ass, rubbing gently. The pain is a gentle memory, and indistinct buzz in her head. He straightens up, walks over to the window. Gail wonders what sort of things Mr. Profit thinks about, at night, when he goes to sleep. She knows, now that he's left her alone, that she can stand. Her legs shake, and Gail reaches down to pull her panties up from around her knees. She straightens her skirt, running an unsteady hand through her hair. When she's somewhat put together, she stands straight with her hands clasped behind her back. She waits. Eventually he turns around, like he always does, and he's silent for a long moment as he looks at her.
"Good girl. Go get me some coffee, would you?" He smiles at her. His smiles all look the same, like he doesn't ever mean them. Gail thinks maybe he can't, anymore. She hopes she never finds out why. He looks kind. It's all a lie, but Gail smiles back at him. It's just easier that way.
Jean/Emma: PG13.
Sweet Sixteen
"I don't want to watch this."
It's two am. There is no reason why either of them are up, much less in the rec room watching television, but they are. Each on one side of the couch (there are chairs, comfy ones, scattered throughout the room--for some reason, neither of them think to sit there), the distance between them a gaping chasm of dislike. The show is something on MTV, some slick show about spoiled teenagers getting expensive cars and having overdone parties.
Jean smiles over at Emma. The light makes her look evil, highlights all the shadows on her face. "Remind you of your childhood, Frost?"
Emma snorts. "You grew up in a mansion, Grey. Are you trying to play the oh poor me card? Didn't you get a party, when you were sixteen?"
Jean's still staring at her. The white light from the television looks like it's captured in her gaze. Emma imagines fire burning there, bleeding white. She tires not to shiver. Jean's smile widens. "Sure. You're not telling me the darling Frost daughter didn't get a party?"
Emma thinks about it, her sixteenth birthday party. Standing in the corner, a death-grip around the crystal stem of her Moet Chandon, a frozen smile on her face. A room full of people she didn't know. A room full of people who's thoughts were deafening. "Yes. I did."
There is a long, pregnant moment of silence between them. Jean crawls over the sofa, towards her, and it is an inhumanely graceful gesture. Like Mystique, Emma thinks, and watches as Jean draws closer. "Poor little Emma," she sing-songs, reaching up, tucking Emma's hair behind her ear. "Is that when you left to become a stripper?" Jean moves closer, backing Emma up against the sofa, her body blocking the light and the television and all of it, the dark room and the shadows too.
Emma doesn't say anything, as Jean kisses her. Opens her mouth, shifts to her back. Does what Jean wants. There's self-loathing thick like honey on Emma's tongue, and her only consolation is she can't tell to whom it belongs.
Scott/Emma: Rated PG Dress shirt mentioned JUST for likeadeuce!
Drunk
"Hey, Ems. Watcha got there?"
Emma looks up at Scott. His tie is askew, his hair a bit mussed. There's a button on his dress shirt that's been unbuttoned, probably when he loosened the tie. He looks devastating adorable, but they're at some crashing bore of a function and he's supposed to look professional, not adorable. She holds up her glass, still half-full of her first glass of wine. Clearly, Scott was not exercising as much restraint at the open bar as her. Emma sees Hank across the room, gesturing wildly and laughing loudly, and Logan engaged in what looks like actual civil conversation.
Ah. They were all drunk, then. "Chardonnay," she says stepping up to him. She does up his button, fixes his tie. "Darling, it's only nine-thirty. You shouldn't look like this until the bar closes at midnight."
"I got there right after dinner," Scott supplies, grinning at her. He has the cutest smile, slightly crooked. Emma feels her expression soften, just a little, and she gives him a small, secret smile in return. "Is that wine any good?"
"No, it's awful." Emma rolls her eyes theatrically. "Of course it's good, silly. Do you think I drink wine that isn't?" Emma brings the glass to her mouth, pressing it lightly against her lips. She touches the bottom of her tongue to the rim of the glass. Scott's reaction is not visible, but mental; it makes her smile wider and turns her voice into a purr. "Mmm. Those are nice things you're thinking, about what else I could do with my mouth." Emma leans forward, as if she's adjusting the back of his collar. "And I won't do any of them if you're drunk." She pulls back, winks at him, and walks across the room.
The next time she sees him, talking to Tony Stark (who is probably the only other sober person there besides her--ah, the irony), Scott's drinking a glass of water. He must know she's watching him, because he lifts the glass slightly, like a toast. A salute, maybe.
He's a smart man, Scott.
Scott/Jean/Emma: (OT3!!), Rated Teen. (ZOMG, this is kind of happy? For a bit?)
In the middle
"I don't see why you get to pick, is all."
"Because I'm the one who got the remote first."
"You have telekinesis."
"Yup. Sorry. We can't all be gods, I guess."
"According to Magnus, we can. Didn't you see his recruiting materials last month? Nice four-color glossy brochure."
"I must have missed them. Maybe he took me off the mailing list. How sad." Jean flops on her stomach on the bed. She's wearing a small, silk cami in a pretty shade of green. Emma is in her usual white, lying next to her. They both have mussed hair, and Jean's lipstick is smeared on her bottom lip. Both women sprawl languidly, limbs close but not touching, as Jean starts the pay-per-view movie.
Scott is staring at them from the bathroom doorway. They're bickering--of course they are, they always do--but not fighting. The energy in the room is calm. Maybe not serene, but closer than usual. "Why can't you do this all the time?"
"Watch movies in our underwear?" Jean asks, and Emma giggles. Giggles.
Emma Frost.
Scott looks between the two of them. "Um. You know." He waves a hand, encompassing where they are lying on the rumpled sheets of the California King where they'd just been--otherwise engaged. "This. Where you don't, you know, yell at each other all the time?"
"Darling, we don't yell," Emma says, rolling on her back. "We're women. You and Logan yell."
"Well, whatever," Scott says, still standing halfway in the bathroom. The hotel is a nice suite. This was probably Emma's choice, this time around. He and Jean usually spend a lot less money when it's their turn to plan illicit trysts. He wonders if that maybe is insulting to Emma. Scott doesn't want to think about it. This situation causes enough anxiety as is, the last thing he needs is to worry about the accommodations. "I mean, if you guys could just get along like this all the time..."
"We wouldn't need to come to hotels and have sex with each other, and you, to clear the air." Jean finishes, nudging Emma with her elbow. "Move over, so Scott can be in the middle."
"Am I having deja vu? I swear you've said that to me once already." Emma moves, obligingly, and pats the bed. "Come along, darling. You know this nice reprieve never lasts. We shouldn't be next to each other, really, when it ends."
Scott tosses the towel back in the bathroom. They're weird. This is weird. He thinks about what Emma just said. He's usually in the middle, all the time. It's usually only during these few stolen hours that he likes it.
Magneto/Rogue: Ideology-verse (which is movieverse), Rated Teen. For Willowaus :-)
Intangible
Rogue hates shopping.
She's been with the Brotherhood for two years now, long enough to have forgotten a lot of what it was like to be a civilian. To forget pushing through crowds of people and pretending she's harmless, that she's normal. If she's learned anything in two years, it is that she is neither. And she's proud of that.
The store is full of families doing back-to-school shopping. She maneuvers easily, head down, distinctive white streaks hidden under a hat. There are racks of clothes on clearance, things on sale. Rogue grabs a lot of shirts in plain colors. She buys some for herself, some for Pyro. Some for Gambit, though he's pickier than the rest of them about clothes, but there are a few things she thinks he'll like. If not, Pyro could wear them. Pyro's grown three inches and put on twenty pounds of muscles in the last couple of years. He's not as tall as Gambit, but he's catching up.
Rogue finds a dark gray, cotton long-sleeved shirt that she thinks will look nice on Erik. She holds it in her hands, thinking. Even after all this time, she's still not quite sure if she should buy him presents or not. They have their moments, she and Erik. Once she moved out of their bedroom for a week. They had a fantastic argument, shouting and metal things tossed across the air, and then they'd had sex against the door. Then she'd moved back in.
Mystique told her that he did that, sometimes. Erik was never comfortable sharing himself with someone else. Rogue was learning that, too.
There are new people in the Brotherhood. Skids, who hero-worships Rogue. Avalanche, who has a bad attitude and a habit of staring too often at Mystique. Some kid Victor picked up in London, who can raise the dead. She has a thick accent and Rogue can't ever understand a word she's saying. Rogue doesn't know what to buy for them. She does the best she can and hopes they like it.
It takes her a few hours to get everything. She bumps into a few people, but she's mostly covered up. The gloves feel strange on her hands; hot and stifling. Erik never lets her wear them at home. The others know she's got deadly skin, and they know not to touch it. Just like they know never to fall for Gambit's pick a card, any card, or Pyro's, hey, need a light?. It's just knowledge, and there's nothing all that special or interesting about it other than the pride they all take in being mutants, and sometimes Rogue wonders if Erik ever realizes how much that means to her.
Of all the gifts he could give to her, that one has meant the most.
She gets home and falls on the bed, bags at her feet. "I finished the shopping," she mumbles into the pillow, hearing someone entering the room. It has to be Erik. No one else comes in their room without knocking.
"Good," he says simply, in that voice of his, the one that still makes her shiver a little with fear even as she's come to find it a comfort. Her general's voice. Her lover. It is all the same, in her head. She feels the bed move as he sits next to her, feels the warm weight of his hand on her back. He does not rub muscles sore from training, does not pat her back to soothe and relax. It's enough, though, that his hand is there. Rogue has always appreciated touch, no matter how simple it seems. It is not simple to her.
Reed/Victor: Movie-verse, Rated Adult. For Inlovewithnight :-)
Mask
The mask is in a glass cabinet, now, but it wasn't always. It used to be in the bedroom.
Reed never liked being there at night. Victor doesn't have blinds of any kind--he's up too high, his penthouse, why does he need them?--and it makes Reed feel exposed, like some sort of performer. Maybe that's the real reason why Victor likes the windows bare, because he can see on Reed's face how much he hates it, and Reed is beginning to think Victor's favorite sexual kink is debasement.
There are books written about that sort of thing. Maybe he'll get Victor one, when this debt is repaid, and suggest the man contact a therapist. This can't be healthy.
Victor does not let Reed on the bed. Victor presses Reed up against the glass window, naked and aroused and shamed, or pushes him to his knees on the thick carpet. It's nice and soft, but it doesn't matter after awhile. Even Aubusson leaves burns on your knees when you're kneeling long enough.
It's one of those times, on his knees with his hands clasped behind his back, that Reed first sees the mask. Greenish gleaming metal, it's resting atop the high armoire. Victor has his hand fisted in Reed's hair, and when he pulls back, Reed thinks he's showing off for the damn thing. Then he wonders if this is something Victor's even proud of, fucking Reed, if Reed doesn't even merit the bed. Victor's a strange man.
He wonders idly, his tongue swirling over the head of Victor's cock, if Susan makes Victor put the mask away before she'll go to bed with him. He kind of hope she does. If she's the kind of girl that likes that, though--well, maybe that explains what she sees in him. Reed chokes on Victor's cock and Victor pushes his hips forward with a growl, and his hand in Reed's hair tightens and jerks, and Reed forgets all about masks and Susan and everything else.
It's over between them, for good, the night before they're supposed to leave for Victor's space station. It's the only time Victor fucks him on the bed. Reed turns his head and sees the mask, and wonders why it seems like it's trying to warn him.
"Where did you get that?" Reed asks later, dressing slowly. He's knows it's over. Victor is still naked, lounging on his bed, smoking a cigarette. How typical. Reed wonders if he's taking after-sex lessons from Tony Stark. Stark seems like the kind of guy who smokes in bed. On a bearskin rug or something. Maybe more exotic than bearskin. Zebra. Some type of greater kudu, maybe. Is there enough fur on a kudu--
"What, Reed? Good lord. If you're this distracted on the ship, we're all going to die."
"The mask. Up there. The creepy green thing, that stares at me while--" Reed coughs. "That stares at me."
Victor is looking at him with that half-smirk on his face that makes Reed want to...well, it doesn't matter, does it, because he's going home in ten minutes and he's not coming back. Ever. "I sponsored some program for starving children in Latveria. Where I'm from," he explains, stubbing out the cigarette. He never finishes them. Reed thinks Victor probably only smokes in front of him to look cool. Either that, or he has a really good air circulation system, because the place never smells like smoke--
"Reed."
"Oh. Sorry. I was just thinking about air filtration. And for feeding kids? Wow, that's...kind of creepy. You should--don't you have somewhere else to keep it?"
"Why, Reed," Victor says, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, standing up and stretching with slow, deliberate grace. "I didn't know it bothered you. You should have said something."
"You would have put it on," Reed mutters, raking a hand through his hair.
Victor smiles at him. He doesn't answer, just walks into the bathroom. Reed hears the shower start, hears Victor whistling.
Reed lets himself out.