“I have a proposition.” Her voice chimes through the Headmaster office as she struts inside, the door clicking shut behind her. Perching herself on the edge of Scott’s desk, she languidly stretches her legs outward — close enough for the warmth between them to blur into shared air, but never quite breaching the imaginary invisible line seemingly always existing between them. “I think it’s time the X-Men uniforms received a makeover.” Emma announces, as though presenting the most pressing matter in the universe at current. “And as luck would have it, the new creative director of Prada happens to be a dear friend of mine.” She can practically hear the questions assembling themselves behind the X-Men's leader before he voices a single one. [In usual fashion of him.] Mercifully, the blonde elects to answer them in advance this time around. “The colors remain untouched, of course. Our little identity has survived this long for a reason, after all.” One manicured nail traces a line across the polished surface of his desk, piercing cerulean gaze finally directing itself at him. “The silhouettes, however … they could stand to join the twenty-first century, darling.”
@thousand-faces