X-Men Fic: to earth, many thanks

[shroomystar]

Title: to earth, many thanks
Rating: Explicit
Prompt: #112 Supplicant
Fandom: X-Men (Comicverse)
Author: shroomy(y)star
Ship/Characters: Emma Frost/Kitty Pryde
Warnings/Notes: krakoa era, transfem emma, dom/sub, top kitty, face slapping, mouth kink, strap-ons, blow jobs, telepathic sex
Word Count: 3663

Katherine has made her a supplicant. Above, there’s her: hair wild, clad in her red pirate jacket with the smile to match, tassels gold on her shoulders. Below, there’s the sea.

Emma does not like being on sea very much, it turns out. There’s something romantic about it, sure, and it can be enjoyed, as well, but there’s always an undercurrent of… well, not fear, not exactly. But the ship—the Marauder, thus christened by Kate, which is a rather interesting name to choose, but Emma won’t patronize her—sways on the waves and Emma’s stomach feels it, just a little, just around the edges. It’s easy enough to distract oneself, but in the end, what it is, too, is best avoided.

Close to the ground—the ground; and in reality, what’s under her is the ocean, of course, vast and endless and deep and dark, but it’s a trick of the mind, that’s all everything always is—things are easier, so Emma kneels. Kneels at Kate’s feet, with Kate on the edge of the huge bed with the crystalline bed frame that they have managed to fit into this onboard cabin that is, in name at least, Emma’s.

There’s not much else in the room: a walk-in wardrobe, filled to the brim with lingerie, jewelry, makeup and other such fashion. The lingerie she’s in right now belongs in there, usually, too; after all, what good is it to be unprepared?

As if reading her mind—roles reversed in their entirety, or something ironic like that—Kate’s eyes trail off to the wardrobe doors. “You know,” she says, almost conversational, “it always did strike me as odd that you decked this thing out so much and put so much stuff in there and then proceeded to almost never go on the ship. I’m not complaining, of course, but…”

So, Emma knows that Kate comes in here on her adventures (or rather, on downtimes between adventures, but nonetheless still at sea), sometimes to sleep, sometimes in search of the scent of Emma’s perfume (there’s no way it’s present anywhere here, is there; there’s no way it lingers that long, is there), sometimes to just rummage around the lingerie in something Emma would describe as probably half-fascination and half-perversion, though some might argue them the same thing. Something like that. So, Emma knows these things because she is a telepath, though it isn’t like she went looking for them. She has a good idea of the fact that Kate isn’t complaining, is the point.

Though—Emma thinks, with a rush of dreadfully delightful sparks in her chest that nearly succeed in making her face flush—Katherine likely much prefers the room with Emma actually in it. What a concept!

There’s not much else in the room. A rug under the bed, pillowing Emma’s knees somewhat. A nightstand, wedged into the space between bed and wall, where things get tight. There’s a book in there Emma has only read half of, and she’s not sure if she’ll ever finish it, together with reading glasses studded with diamonds. Then, to Emma’s left, a window.

It’s early in the morning—perhaps entirely too early for shenanigans such as these—but one, of course, would not be able to see that—much, that is—because the window only shares a glimpse of the ocean surrounding them. Emma still cannot bear to look.

Luckily for her, right now, she does not have to. There’s plenty to distract oneself with around.

And above, there’s Katherine; framed by dark curls, her midriff—the line of her abs, the white sports bra—framed by her jacket. She’s still in pants, and in those dreadful boots, too, though luckily, she keeps them clean. Emma would not be kneeling so close to them if she didn’t. A pirate…!

“Well, Kate,” Emma says, tilting her head to lean it against the inside of Kate’s thigh, “I do always like being prepared.”

“Of course.” A pause. Then, “Rather eager for this then, huh?”

Emma glares up at her. The smugness of it all…!

Well, to be entirely fair, Emma is the one on her knees, right now. Right now, right here, Katherine has made a supplicant out of her.

“Please,” she says, because that is her line, and because pride is hubris, and because of the delicious shiver that it causes to go down her spine, the heat that it causes to bloom inside of her. Heat that nearly makes her squirm where she’s kneeling, but that’s perhaps too much and too much overt eagerness, indeed.

For her troubles, Kate sighs like she is unreasonable and overly demanding—the shiver turns sharper, more indignant, and all the more blissful for it—leaning into one of her hands pressed into the mattress behind her—and all of her is so very casual: slumped back into the bed, knees far apart, feet kicked out—before slapping Emma across the face. It manage to be quite the shock; of course, it was part of the whole deal, but there’s something about it actually happening. There’s something about the burst of sharp pain erupting on her cheekbone, the way her head rocks to the side in surprise. The gasp that leaves her lips, unbidden.

There’s something about the look in Katherine’s eyes.

Emma has never played like this before—not willingly, that is—but she supposes it just makes sense for Kate to be the first. After all, Kate and her, they’ve always been… intertwined, one might say. In a way, it’s always been Kate and Emma and Emma and Kate, in all of their many forms, and for this, that is…

Well. Emma tongues at the inside of her cheek, but the initial sting aside, there’s no real damage. The flesh inside doesn’t even taste like the iron tang of bruised, sore skin. Pity.

She bats her lashes; brushes her hands up Kate’s spread knees to Kate’s thighs, feeling the texture of her pants under her palms. Bows her head just a little, just enough to be able to look up at Kate from under her lashes, for Kate to be able to see the hint of tongue at the very edge of Emma’s mouth. It looks good, the contrast: black pants and the pale of her hands, the long, diamond-studded nails digging ever so slightly into the fabric. Emma shudders under it, under the warmth spreading relentlessly all inside of her, the ocean surrounding them, swallowing them whole, be damned.

“Well,” she purrs. “That wasn’t very hard at all.”

Which earns her another slap, of course, this time aimed at the other side of her face. This one doesn’t catch her off guard, but still nudges her head aside with its force, still makes a few strands of her hair fall out of place. Still pull a gasp out of her.

Still stings, warm and delicious. Grounds her to right here, right now, with Kate above and the Earth—glorious Earth, even if just a simulacrum; belief, perception, does many things, after all—below.

This time, the flesh does taste tender. The flesh yearns, supplicant, too; thrumming everywhere, but coming to a peak between Emma’s legs where she’s cupped by lace, in her clit and her labia, swollen and thrumming with blood to a degree that would perhaps be judged as embarrassing given how little has actually happened.

Yet, if the glimmer in Kate’s brown eyes is anything to go by. Or perhaps not, if she is indeed intent on torturing Emma this fine morning.

She’d deserve it, too, which is the root of all this, is it not? Atonement turned sexy. How positively insipid.

“Open your mouth,” says Kate, which is similarly insipid, but still inspires a rush of hot buzzing through Emma’s body. Nobody can be perfectly refined and above it all in all aspects all the time, she supposes, but it still twists in her stomach. Much better than what the ocean does to it, however.

Emma wallows in it. Emma lives for it, in a sense. She does, of course, also open her mouth.

Katherine did wash her hands before this, Emma watched her do it, but it still runs through her mind as she reaches out, as she nudges her thumb into Emma’s mouth and onto her tongue. It tastes like human salt and nothing else. Emma stares up at her, tries not to squirm again. Ridiculous. Ridiculous, ridiculous, ridiculous.

“Look at you,” Kate says, smile turning just a touch softer, but nothing so ridiculous as Good girl or anything like that, which is good, because Emma doesn’t think she’d like being on the other side of that particular flavor of it. This is… more tolerable.

(This makes her pulse, pulse, pulse.)

Emma, naturally, doesn’t say anything, and not only because it’s rude to speak with your mouth full. Her tongue keeps twitching under Kate’s touch, and she cannot make it stop doing that for the life of her. It’s quite exhilarating. She doesn’t need to worry about that for much longer, however, because Kate moves on to brush the pad of her thumb along Emma’s molars, pressing down as if feeling them, feeling their sharpness.

“You should turn diamond,” Kate breathes. “For me.”

Emma narrows her eyes. Kate’s smile widens, turns blithe, finished with an innocent bat of her lashes, and it does break the mood a tiny bit—does almost make Emma laugh, but there’s a thumb in her mouth—but it also makes Emma’s shoulders sag. Makes Emma roll her eyes.

You are ridiculous, she says, telepathically because it is rude to speak with your mouth full, and, Be careful. Then she does turn diamond.

Kate, luckily, has the wherewithal not to flinch. Emma’s teeth aren’t very sharp, even like this, but they are a lot harder and a lot more unforgiving and they are, as human things tend to be, a little jagged. It’s not like Emma has ever tried, but she’s quite sure she could cut human skin with them if she did just that; if she tried only a little, since this is of course already very possible with bone teeth. But she’s not trying now: she’s just kneeling here, supplicant and agreeable, while Kate prods at her teeth. Rubs over her tongue experimentally, sucking in a small breath when Emma nudges it up against her. Pulls out only to push index and middle finger back inside, scissoring them around Emma’s tongue, all the way back to the end of Emma’s molars, wedging her jaw open. Emma could bite, but she doesn’t.

That’s the thrill of it, isn’t it? The thrill of making her turn diamond? Kate’s pupils are dilated, courtesy of the half-dark, yes, with the window submerged in water, as crystalline as it is this early in the day and in this steady of waters, but there’s something else, too. Kate’s pupils are dilated, her eyes big and dark, her cheeks just a little bit flushed. Her lips parted, her breath hastened a tiny bit. That’s the thrill of it, Emma thinks.

Then she doesn’t think much else, because Kate pushes her fingers to the back of Emma’s tongue until Emma, caught off guard, gags. Quickly, but still controlled, Kate pulls her hand away.

Emma turns flesh again, and with it returns feeling. With it returns the unrelenting throbbing between her legs, and she squirms under it anew.

Still, she spits, voice cracking, “I told you to be careful.”

Kate wiggles her fingers in the air. They’re a little spit-shiny from before the diamond, and unharmed. “Nothing happened, though. See?”

Emma does see. Emma can see. She swallows, then swallows again, then squeezes her eyes shut for a small moment. Like this, in flesh, feeling returns. Her face stings and her clit throbs. She feels flushed all over, everywhere.

At least in this Kate seems to be faring much the same, however. At least they are both in this together.

Now, if it was Emma in Kate’s position, she would—and has—command Kate to undress her, or to just pull down her pants, or something. Would make Kate lift her leg by the ankle and kiss her way up or down, and would watch it all from up above, down, down, down. But it is not Emma, it’s Kate, and Kate reaches down to unbuckle her belt all by herself. Emma takes the opportunity to make things difficult and rubs her cheek into the inside of Kate’s knee, fabric rough on her tender skin. Though it’s probably not all that tender anymore, though she’s probably just sensitized by all of the heat rushing through her, by all of the need.

Kate clicks her tongue, but she doesn’t say anything. Lifts her hips off the bed just a little, leaning back, to wriggle out of her tight pants, tighter even for what’s inside of them.

Which is, of course, a strap-on dildo. Something like this has been inevitable, really, ever since Emma managed to get it out of her that she sometimes just wears one under her clothes—under the Red King pirate outfit most of all—just because she likes the way it makes her feel. Just because it tingles inside of her, just as it now does inside Emma.

And Emma is no stranger to feelings such as these—she had her actual flesh taken off and turned inwards, of course, but wearing something expensive, something heavy, something manmade to push inside over top of real, actual flesh is such a rush, to her, too—of course, but it sure is something like this, the other way around. It sure is something on someone else. It sure is something to see Kate pull it out of her pants, semi-flexible silicone, clear red in color, fastened by a golden ring.

Unbidden, much as anything, Emma licks her lips. Flicks her gaze up from Kate’s strap to Kate’s face, tilted ever so slightly, looking at her expectantly with blown pupils and a red, panting mouth.

“Please,” Emma says, again. Again and again and again. Here, under water—terrible and terrifying it might be—it’s like it doesn’t happen, it’s like nobody else in the whole world could hear.

Kate grabs the strap in her hand and strokes it as if it were an actual penis. “Please what?”

Emma swallows. Flicks her eyes back and forth, slowly, slowly, from Kate’s hand and Kate’s face. The ship rocks a little, underneath then, all around them. Kate squeezes the silicone in her grip, around the tip of it, until Emma can see it bend, just a little.

She leans her cheek to Kate’s knee again, moving her arms to clutch around Kate’s leg for effect. Bats her lashes. “Please let me suck you off.”

Which makes Kate shudder, apparently. It breaks the mood a little, should break the mood, Emma supposes, that Katherine is still so… hmmm, bendable, perhaps. She’s not solid like Emma is, and never has been, which is perhaps rather on the nose, but still. It should break the mood, but instead, Emma finds that it makes it all feel even easier yet. Instead, Emma finds that she’s wallowing in it again, that it nearly makes her forget about being on sea entirely. And so early in the morning, too!

“Go ahead,” Kate breathes.

It’s all a bit silly, in the end, the concept of it. Emma, on her knees, clad in lingerie and not naked, blowing Kate’s strap-on dildo instead of getting her mouth on her in its entirety, on her actual flesh. Where Kate is wet and hot. And still, even without that contact, and without promises of that contact on the horizon, Kate is very clearly aroused. And still, the same can very much be said about Emma.

It’s all a bit silly, but Emma has always reveled in games such as these, even if her role has mostly been different. Go ahead, Kate says, and she does.

Leans in and parts her lips, ever so slightly, to press an open-mouthed kiss to Kate’s tip. Usually, her lipstick is smudge-proof, but for this, she put on some that isn’t, and so, blue stains red. Smears right there, in sync with the stutter of Kate’s breath, the buck of her hips.

“Yeah…” Kate murmurs, like she can actually feel it. Emma feels it, for her part. it seems alight in every last one of her cells.

She cradles the tip and it’s nondescript silicone taste on her tongue, bats her lashes up at Kate. Molds her lips around the strap and sucks, hollowing her cheeks, watching the flex of Kate’s hips. Imagines the way Kate’s clit must be rubbing against the blunt side of it, where it’s fastened, designed to grind against. Imagines sucking Kate’s clit into her mouth instead, feeling the dampness of her against her face, pubic hair bristling.

Sinks down. Kate, despite the intense glow in her eyes, despite how she’s slightly leaning forward to better watch, despite the excitement Emma can see in her thoughts, despite the way she’s biting down on her bottom lip, cannot actually feel it, but that doesn’t mean Emma can slack off.

Actually…

Kate swallows down a garbled half-whine when Emma pulls off, a string of saliva connecting her mouth to Kate’s strap. “Permission to make you feel it,” Emma says, voice wet. After a too-noticeable pause, she adds, “Please.”

Kate’s lashes flutter in apparent confusion, but they’ve fallen in close enough together that Emma doesn’t feel like she has to ask for permission to illustrate her point to her, without saying a word. After all, what good is sleeping with a telepath if one doesn’t make use of it? And alright, yes, sometimes Emma just wants to lie back and enjoy instead of meddling around in people’s heads, but like this, it’s…

“Yeah,” Kate says, almost a stutter. “Yes, yeah.”

Silly girl. “Thank you,” Emma says, if only to add fuel to the fire burning inside her—arousal and humiliation both, and Emma wallows, wallows, wallows—and to the fire burning on Katherine’s face. Such a lovely red, all of it.

So she brushes her hands over Kate’s thighs again, the bony knees and then the outside of them, digging into the flesh through fabric ever so slightly. So she presses another kiss to the tip of Kate’s strap, sending an impulse to Kate’s brain with it, and this time, Kate gasps out a sharp noise like she felt a small jolt of electricity.

“Oh!” she says. Emma takes her into her mouth, cradles her there. “Oh, fuck, Emma, that’s…”

Yeah. Yeah, Emma knows. Can feel it, see it, too: the sparks of pleasure lighting in Kate’s mind at her urging, the way they prickle through all of her. Through all of her, Emma, too. It’s a bit alien a sensation to someone not used to it, she supposes, and Kate squirms under it, thighs flexing where Emma’s hands are petting them. Groans low at the back of her throat as Emma moves down until the tip of Kate’s strap bumps the back of her throat.

It’s quite nice, the feeling. The faint ache of Emma’s knees, and Emma’s throat, and Emma’s jaw. The feeling of weight on her tongue, and the movements of bobbing her head, of pressing her tongue to the underside of the strap, of hollowing her cheeks around it. Kate’s hips twitch, and Emma is tempted to admonish her, but that would break this feeling. Emma, kneeling at Kate’s feet, sucking her off. Emma, on her knees, with Kate looming above. Emma, down, down, down.

So she tolerates it even when Kate reaches out to thread her hands into Emma’s hair, when Kate nudges her hips against her and Emma’s head down, when Kate, for all intents and purposes, starts fucking her mouth. Here, if Emma focuses, she thinks she can smell Kate’s arousal, musky and tangy and beautiful.

Kate lets go of her again after a few thrusts, apparently unsteady; leans back into one hand pressed into the mattress, head rolled back, the line of her throat and her jaw on display, curly hair tumbling down over her shoulders. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

“Emma…” she gasps.

Emma moves off her, mouthing down the side of the strap, wrapping her hand around the tip of it to massage it, to stroke it nice and tight, smearning lipstick around further. Mouthing down, down, down, until her lips meet Kate’s hips, licking at the golden ring fastening the dildo to the straps, mouthing at the leather, nudging her tongue underneath it.

Kate smells stronger here, like sex and sweat and slick, and Emma’s head spins and sings with it. There are her fingers around Kate’s strap, her fingers in Kate’s mind, and Kate’s fingers threaded into her hair, pulling her a little closer, sparking over her scalp. There’s Kate skin, warm and salty, and the prickle of hair, and, hidden by leather and silicone, Kate’s pussy with the throbbing, swollen clit. Emma can feel her need, after all. Emma can—

Well, before she can do anything more, Katherine comes. Hips jerking, chest heaving, fingers clawing. Gasping a pearl-string of whines, of grunts, of groans, pushing Emma closer, closer, closer. The strap bobs with the movement, and Emma strokes her through it, fast and insistent, until she’s shuddering in overstimulation. Until Emma gives it a last, tight squeeze, before retreating from Kate’s mind and the stars spinning inside of it, around and around and around.

Her own mind turns out to be no less dizzying. There aren’t even any less stars there, Kate’s orgasmic feeling still lingering in her own body, where she’s squirming at Kate’s feet, on a ship, early in the goddamn morning. Katherine has made her a supplicant.

“Please, Red King,” she gasps, and the twitch of her lashes is hardly entirely affected any longer. “I did good, did I not?”