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st_aurafinaTitle: Takes One to Know One
Fandom: X-Men comics (post-Decimation)
Rating: R
Pairing: Emma Frost/Valerie Cooper
Summary: O*N*E Meetings bring out the worst in Emma.
Notes: This is for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
resolute who asked for any non-canonical pairing. Thank you to lilacsigil for the beta.
Valerie Cooper's mind is dry and dense like towering walls of phone books. As she casually picks through lists and files, Emma wonders if this is some kinds of military defense strategy against telepathic intrusion – to bore the intruder to death with meaningless statistics.
It's not often that she abandons a mental landscape for the more mundane view for which other people must settle, but really, is that all that poor, peri-menopausal Val is thinking about? Emma suppresses a yawn, flexing her facial muscles to prevent herself from opening her mouth jaw-crackingly wide. That would not be appropriate. She allows herself a quirk of her eyebrow at Scott sitting opposite and two seats down, and smiles to herself, knowing that his eyes have narrowed behind his glasses. Now that he's safely occupied wondering what she's getting up to, Emma feels free to examine Valerie Cooper in the real world: pale blue eyes, hair the colour of straw, no attempt to hide the tiny folds and creases around her lips. Everything about Valerie is slightly desiccated, thinks Emma, and for heaven's sake, why would a professional woman let herself go like that?
The O*N*E meeting is a dreary necessity. Every tiny detail about the Sentinel program must be pored over and fussed with like a nervous bride in an ill-fitting dress. Neither party are ready to allow the Sentinels to set iron feet on school property yet. While a technician drones on and on about fail-safe protocols, Kitty is nodding along as though they were all at a summer-camp singalong, and Scott is frowning over the guidelines that he has spent the last three nights reading and re-reading. And Valerie? Valerie is looking at Emma, assessing her with eyes like old ice. Emma feels a flush rising, a stinging burn, like sleet on skin.
When the meeting is declared to have run late enough, Kitty is whisked away by the O*N*E techs to talk networking specs, and Scott dashes off to the Danger Room, certain that after ten minutes of unsupervised time the students would be busily disassembling the equipment. Emma waits for the elevator, and is irked when Valerie chooses to take the stairs; as though Valerie has silently ascribed Emma's choice to laziness. As the sterile cube of air moves silently upwards, Emma twitches at her cape angrily, then chastises herself for fidgeting, and stands completely still. The heavy fabric shifts back into position and the satin lining feels slick and cool against her arms. The recirculated breeze brushes against the tiny hairs on her neck. She breathes slowly, relaxes her frown. Two more floors, and she will be ready to step out, composed and assured.
One level too early, the elevator lurches to a halt and the doors begin to part. Valerie is through the door before it has completely opened. She flips the emergency stop button with a backwards flick of her arm. Emma has a moment to admire the graceful economy of the woman's movements before she is pinned against the wall of the elevator with a shove that forces air from her lungs.
Through the pale sleeves of the utilitarian shirt, Valerie's arms are lean and muscled, on her neck the skin is stretched tight over the contours of flesh. Emma barely has time to realise that Valerie's teeth are bared before they click against her own. Hands entangle in Emma's hair, splay it against the metal surface of the elevator wall, and a knee slides between Emma's legs, pushing them apart, pressing a thigh up against her.
And yet, Valerie's mind remains dry and composed, though the papery surface has warmed a little under Emma's telepathic touch. While her head tilts upwards to meet Valerie's mouth, in the mental landscape Emma trails her fingers along yellowing stacks of foolscap. Every sheet is printed with the same words: "Your pageantry and mind games are nothing. I do not disguise who I am." Emma shifts her assessment of Valerie from mindless bureaucrat to potential threat. It takes a self-made predator to recognise the same in others.
In the real world, she tilts her hips just so, and slides her hands up Valerie's back, pulling herself hard against the leg between her thighs, bending her knees a little to help maintain the friction. It's all over fairly quickly, now that the wordless negotiations are complete, which is for the best, since the emergency stop button triggers an alarm. Someone, probably Scott, will be along shortly to investigate. Emma rests her head against Valerie's chest, listening to the heartbeat that never changed its steady, slow pace. Valerie pushes her hands against Emma's stomach, smooths down her shirt, and presses the emergency button back into place. They both face the door as the elevator engages smoothly, moving on to its original destination.
Fandom: X-Men comics (post-Decimation)
Rating: R
Pairing: Emma Frost/Valerie Cooper
Summary: O*N*E Meetings bring out the worst in Emma.
Notes: This is for
resolute who asked for any non-canonical pairing. Thank you to lilacsigil for the beta. Valerie Cooper's mind is dry and dense like towering walls of phone books. As she casually picks through lists and files, Emma wonders if this is some kinds of military defense strategy against telepathic intrusion – to bore the intruder to death with meaningless statistics.
It's not often that she abandons a mental landscape for the more mundane view for which other people must settle, but really, is that all that poor, peri-menopausal Val is thinking about? Emma suppresses a yawn, flexing her facial muscles to prevent herself from opening her mouth jaw-crackingly wide. That would not be appropriate. She allows herself a quirk of her eyebrow at Scott sitting opposite and two seats down, and smiles to herself, knowing that his eyes have narrowed behind his glasses. Now that he's safely occupied wondering what she's getting up to, Emma feels free to examine Valerie Cooper in the real world: pale blue eyes, hair the colour of straw, no attempt to hide the tiny folds and creases around her lips. Everything about Valerie is slightly desiccated, thinks Emma, and for heaven's sake, why would a professional woman let herself go like that?
The O*N*E meeting is a dreary necessity. Every tiny detail about the Sentinel program must be pored over and fussed with like a nervous bride in an ill-fitting dress. Neither party are ready to allow the Sentinels to set iron feet on school property yet. While a technician drones on and on about fail-safe protocols, Kitty is nodding along as though they were all at a summer-camp singalong, and Scott is frowning over the guidelines that he has spent the last three nights reading and re-reading. And Valerie? Valerie is looking at Emma, assessing her with eyes like old ice. Emma feels a flush rising, a stinging burn, like sleet on skin.
When the meeting is declared to have run late enough, Kitty is whisked away by the O*N*E techs to talk networking specs, and Scott dashes off to the Danger Room, certain that after ten minutes of unsupervised time the students would be busily disassembling the equipment. Emma waits for the elevator, and is irked when Valerie chooses to take the stairs; as though Valerie has silently ascribed Emma's choice to laziness. As the sterile cube of air moves silently upwards, Emma twitches at her cape angrily, then chastises herself for fidgeting, and stands completely still. The heavy fabric shifts back into position and the satin lining feels slick and cool against her arms. The recirculated breeze brushes against the tiny hairs on her neck. She breathes slowly, relaxes her frown. Two more floors, and she will be ready to step out, composed and assured.
One level too early, the elevator lurches to a halt and the doors begin to part. Valerie is through the door before it has completely opened. She flips the emergency stop button with a backwards flick of her arm. Emma has a moment to admire the graceful economy of the woman's movements before she is pinned against the wall of the elevator with a shove that forces air from her lungs.
Through the pale sleeves of the utilitarian shirt, Valerie's arms are lean and muscled, on her neck the skin is stretched tight over the contours of flesh. Emma barely has time to realise that Valerie's teeth are bared before they click against her own. Hands entangle in Emma's hair, splay it against the metal surface of the elevator wall, and a knee slides between Emma's legs, pushing them apart, pressing a thigh up against her.
And yet, Valerie's mind remains dry and composed, though the papery surface has warmed a little under Emma's telepathic touch. While her head tilts upwards to meet Valerie's mouth, in the mental landscape Emma trails her fingers along yellowing stacks of foolscap. Every sheet is printed with the same words: "Your pageantry and mind games are nothing. I do not disguise who I am." Emma shifts her assessment of Valerie from mindless bureaucrat to potential threat. It takes a self-made predator to recognise the same in others.
In the real world, she tilts her hips just so, and slides her hands up Valerie's back, pulling herself hard against the leg between her thighs, bending her knees a little to help maintain the friction. It's all over fairly quickly, now that the wordless negotiations are complete, which is for the best, since the emergency stop button triggers an alarm. Someone, probably Scott, will be along shortly to investigate. Emma rests her head against Valerie's chest, listening to the heartbeat that never changed its steady, slow pace. Valerie pushes her hands against Emma's stomach, smooths down her shirt, and presses the emergency button back into place. They both face the door as the elevator engages smoothly, moving on to its original destination.