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fic: Almost You

Title: Almost You
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Angel Salvadore/Raven Darkholme (Mystique)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Wordcount: 1120
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine.
Summary: She's used to men taking her body for what they want, staring at her, touching her, but this... She doesn't even know what this is.
A/N: for kalypso_v, who requested post-beach fic with Mystique and Angel - friendship, femslash, rivalry or a mixture of all three. Fill for the "mirrors/doubles" square on my kink_bingo card. Heartfelt thanks to [personal profile] thimpressionist for beta wisdom, cheerleading and general enabling.

In this life you've got to look out for yourself; no-one else is going to do it for you. Angel learned that early, and she's never forgotten it.

When Lehnsherr and Xavier offered her the chance to get out of that crummy strip joint, she took it. When the CIA couldn't, wouldn't protect them, she chose to go with Shaw. When Magneto killed Shaw, she knew what she needed to do. Azazel and Janos made the same decision, after all: if you're going to pick a side, pick the side that's going to fight, not the one that's lying whimpering in the dust.

She's not sorry Shaw's dead. Rise up to rule, he'd said; live like kings and queens. He'd wanted the same as the rest of them, though: she wasn't a queen to him, just another piece of meat.

Magneto's different; he doesn't look at her that way. Too hung up on Xavier. She could see that, the first time she met them. Emma Frost isn't going to fill that gap in his life. The only one he's really close to is Raven, Mystique now, and even that's more like a brother-sister thing. Guilt about Xavier binding them together, probably.

Raven's the one with something to feel guilty about. Not her.

The bitter words linger in her mind hours later, a row that had seemed to come out of nowhere.

How could you do that to us? Raven yelled. We were your friends. Shaw killed Darwin. Killed him right in front of us, for trying to save you.

Fuck you, she snapped back. What friends? And who says I needed saving? You know nothing about my life.

She's seen it now, the house where Raven and Xavier grew up, seen it in Magneto's surveillance footage, and it's huge. How easy life must be if you've always had that kind of privilege. If you can make yourself into whatever you want. Just get up in the morning and decide to be a pale-skinned blonde-haired all-American girl. Raven has no fucking idea what it's like to be her.

I'm not the one who left my brother paralysed on the beach. She'd thought about shouting it after Raven, but something held her back.

Raven's off sulking somewhere now, probably in her room. Spoilt brat.

Angel's still angry, and the words left unspoken roll around inside her, filling her up till she can hardly breathe. She feels her wings unfold, quivering with rage, and she's up in the air before she knows it, skimming along the line of windows till she finds the right one, feeling the burning saliva gather in her throat.

The sight that meets her eyes jolts her so hard she almost falls back from the open window: herself, lying on Raven's bed, head thrown back, eyes half-closed, one hand working between her legs as the other grips the headboard.

Angel gives a shocked cry, and the figure on the bed looks up and gasps. There's a flurry of different shapes: blue Mystique, blonde Raven, an older woman who looks a bit like Emma Frost, a momentary flash of Sean looking confused and panic-stricken, and finally a furious blue Mystique again, golden eyes sparking with rage.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she yells at Angel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Angel spits back, diving through the window and narrowly missing the chair by the washstand.

She's used to men taking her body for what they want, staring at her, touching her, but this... She doesn't even know what this is.

There were mirrors everywhere in the club, but she'd never seen herself like that. Not putting on a show but doing something so private, caught up in her own pleasure. The image burned into her mind makes her feel breathless, makes everything feel suddenly too hot and too tight and too close.

Mystique's stretched out on the bed, panting and angry, coming down from the shock. She's still wearing a black halter dress that's the twin of Angel's own, familiar and strange against her textured blue skin.

Angel wonders what that skin would feel like to the touch. Wonders how Mystique felt, being her. Touching her. She wonders whether the blue skin ever becomes flushed with heat. Whether this body gets wet, the way she does when she's aroused.

The golden eyes are darker now, fixed on her. One sign that's the same, she thinks.

“Show me,” Angel says. Her mouth is dry.

Mystique stares at her, unmoving.

“Show me what you were doing,” Angel says.

“You're kidding,” Mystique jeers, but her voice cracks.

Angel shakes her head. “Do it.”

Mystique shudders, and her blue body ripples, and then Angel's looking at herself again, dress rucked up over her thighs, right hand moving quick and rough as she grits her teeth and digs her heels into the mattress.

“Stop,” Angel says. “If you're going to do it, at least do it right.”

The reflection on the bed looks back at her, dazed and bemused. Angel pulls the chair closer and straddles it, looking down at that strange familiar body spread out before her.

“Slower,” she says. “Put your hand flat, there. Now flex your fingers and slide, drag, up again, that's it. Press your hand down more. Yes. Rock your hips up to meet it. Like that, yes. Not too fast.”

She hears her own voice coming from that other mouth in a moan that makes her aware how wet she is already, how tight her breasts feel. She knows the sensations going through that other body at those precise touches and pressures, just the way she likes them, and the thought of it makes her ache for release.

She breathes deeply, gripping the back of the chair to keep from touching herself, and goes on issuing instructions till the Angel on the bed is quivering and gasping and flickering helplessly between her own form and Mystique's blue one. The urgent cries are her own and not her own, the sound cut through with something that's recognizably Mystique.

“Please,” the voice from the bed begs. “Angel, please.”

She can't hold back any longer – it's crazy and quite possibly the most perverted thing she's ever done, but she's pulling her clothes off and pressing herself down against that wet heat, sliding, pushing and twisting her hips as Angel/Mystique pushes up to meet her, the pair of them shouting and crying and clutching at each other, rolling over and over till they can't tell who's who any more.

“Obviously we should fight more often,” Angel says, when she can finally speak again.

Mystique, blue Mystique, pulls her close, rippling with laughter. “Want to see who else I can be?”


Title from Elvis Costello, "Almost Blue"

Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/89512.html with comment count unavailable comments.


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