Title: we only stay in orbit
Info: Moira/Emma, telepathy. Written for a 1stclass_kink prompt. SPOILERS: Emma helps Moira regains some of those memories that Charles took away from her. Moira is understandably angry with Charles, but Emma diverts that energy toward something more constructive, like fucking. Bonus points for telepathy sex.
–
Well, if this isn’t the worst mess I’ve seen all day…
Moira jolts awake, tugging her sheets up around her body. Has she missed her alarm? No, too early. “Who– who’s there?” she tests her voice in the small apartment, hearing nothing but silence in return.
I should introduce myself, shouldn’t I? Before rummaging around in here. The voice is cool as ice, sliding through the crevasses of her mind. Moira has felt this before, once, Charles’ joking tone masking the seriousness of the situation. This, however, is no Charles. Moira shivers.
Emma Frost, pleased to make your acquaintance. Emma Frost? She’s heard that name before, doesn’t know where. That’s hardly relevant to the situation at hand, darling.
What situation? Moira lets the words form in her mind as a solid thought, remembers how it worked with Charles. Charles never felt like this, filling up every space inside of her. It’s almost…
Sexual? Yes, well. I seem to have that effect on people. And please, be quiet. I need to find some information.
Information? I can help you; what do you need? Emma Frost, she thinks, wondering why the name sets her teeth on edge.
Honestly, just lie back and try to forget I’m here. Charles left things truly wrecked in here. Bits and pieces just swept aside. I’m afraid for his sake that he’s quite unskilled at this sort of thing.
Charles… What? Moira’s up now, there’s no pretending that this isn’t happening. Sometimes she wishes for a time before mutants, before losing her job over the whole thing, before she saw that first glimpse of diamond. That first…
Moira blushes, trying to sweep the image from her mind. I should be flattered, I think, to have left such an impression.
You…?
Emma Frost, as I already said. Interesting. I should have guessed that someone gained access to the Club that night. I was, unfortunately, otherwise engaged, or we may have met earlier. A pause, almost like a deep breath, a sigh. But you were wondering about Charles, yes? Perhaps you’ve considered what a telepath might do to a mind that knows too much.
Moira falls back on her pillow. The images flash through her mind: Charles, looking up at her from–a wheelchair?–and touching her face. A kiss. He’s the reason she can’t– all this… whiteness?
I suppose I should apologize for being the bearer of bad news. It’s always nicer to believe that the people we love are incapable of such things.
“I don’t understand,” Moira whispers aloud, feeling gutted. She trusted him, still does, perhaps, in some corner of her mind, the part that hasn’t been violated. She worked at his side, towards the same end. A flicker. She’s shooting a gun, point blank. There’s Erik, wearing some sort of helmet, and the bullets. Charles. She might dissolve, she might break, from knowing this.
Emma interrupts. I can be going if we can meet out the location of Charles’ little school. Erik is fairly certain his former comrade has taken up his roots in Westchester, but it would be rather inconvenient to make two trips.
Moira shakes her head. “I don’t want to know.” And she doesn’t. There’s a subset to knowing that means she would have to see this through, have to confront Charles herself. It doesn’t help to know that he’d see her coming.
I’m sure it’s considerable, your anger. Believe me, we — The Brotherhood, rather poorly named, don’t you think? — intend to convince Charles of the errors of his ways. These men are so terribly stubborn, really.
If it is possible to tune out a voice inside of your head, Moira is doing just that. She sees Charles again, the images pouring over her. “Quiet!” he shouts, focuses serenely on locking her memories up, away. “I hate him,” Moira whispers. “I hate him.” And even as she rages, she feels her mind go calm, her body relax. Stop it, she thinks. “I know what you’re doing.”
Not that I’m not amused by your rage, Moira, I’m simply a firm believer of taking the easiest route possible, and meddling in your brain with you in a fit is less than easy.
I’m not in a fit, Moira thinks, before sinking back into sleep.
–
She doesn’t know how much time has passed, but when Moira opens her eyes, she sits up, looks around the room despite knowing that Emma was never truly here. “Are… is anyone there?” she whispers, knowing she could just think the question, but feeling that is far too immaterial right now.
The skin on her neck prickles.
“Ms. Frost?” Moira’s voice sounds weak to her own ears, exhausted.
A brush down her spine. Like fingers. You’re either very keen or very paranoid. Perhaps both. Moira blushes, and can’t quite comprehend why. The memory comes to her again, peering between bookcases, the diamond catching the light. This is… hardly necessary, my dear, but I’d like to thank you for your memories. I believe this will be quite useful, in the long run.
I didn’t have a choice, actually, Moira thinks, glancing at the clock and deciding she might as well get out of bed for the day. Are you going to leave me alone, now?
One question, first. The memory comes again, the limited view so honed in on the woman — first blonde and clothed, barely, in fine lingerie, then shifting quickly into a multi-faceted stone. This seems to come up quite frequently, and call me arrogant, vain, but I’ll admit that I am intrigued. In a wash, Moira understands: It’s been ages since someone gave Emma a second glance that wasn’t aimed at her tits, that wasn’t thrown right through her, that wasn’t calculating how dangerous (or not) she might be. That wasn’t cast in fear.
Moira tugs on her robe, suddenly feeling very exposed. “If I recall,” she says to the empty apartment, “That wasn’t exactly the memory you were after.”
That feather-light almost touch again. Things pop up along the way. Moira shivers, leaving the bedroom as if that will help her escape the presence in her mind. Emma — Ms. Frost — has no idea what it was like, one of the few women in the CIA, being cat-called simply walking through the office– Emma scoffs. Darling, if anyone knows, I dare say that I do. Moira’s skin feels electric: a pass over her cheek, down her neck. Lingering, just a moment, on her right breast. Moira clenches her fingers–she shouldn’t–but lets the robe fall open anyway.
The mirror in your hallway. Stand in front of it. Moira thinks, in passing, that Emma could very easily keep her tone calm, unhurried, but the almost brazen roughness that slides into her voice now causes Moira to swallow, to press her thighs together. She can’t deny it, not when Emma is in her head.
Moira moves to the mirror — full length. She doesn’t touch her robe, lets it hang partially covering her breasts, panties peeking out. That touch, again, along her stomach this time, and Moira watches herself as her body responds, nipples visible through her robe. She can feel how wet she is, just from this, just from a voice in her head. She should be ashamed.
Darling, there’s nothing wrong with this. Certainly far less wrong than some of the things we’ve done. We. Strange, Moira thinks, how a simple pronoun causes her to whimper, just a small quiet sound, made loud by the silence.
The touch moves lower, and Moira gasps, leaning suddenly and heavily with one hand against the mirror. Beautiful, she feels more than hears, watching her lips part in her reflection. Beautiful.
