The remnants of their intense encounter still hung heavy in the opulent office, the scent of expensive limoncello, sweat, and sex a potent cocktail. Emma Frost, though physically sated and bearing the marks of their "competition," was mentally reasserting her formidable acuity.
She sat, not on his lap now, but close, their limbs occasionally brushing, a silent acknowledgment of the intimacy they'd shared. Ranger, equally at ease in his nudity, exuded a relaxed confidence, though his eyes remained sharp, analytical.
"You're a remarkably astute woman, Frost." Ranger began, his voice a low, contemplative rumble. His hand, which had been idly tracing the curve of her hip, stilled as he considered the chessboard of global power. "You have the intellect and the connections to navigate the treacherous currents between the American Government, the World Security Council, and the various mutant factions. You can play them off each other, glean information, position yourself advantageously."
His fingers resumed their subtle exploration, a feather-light touch that nonetheless sent a shiver down her spine. "Though." he added, his gaze meeting hers, "Even Queens bleed, Emma. I imagine you plan to be the last one standing."
He leaned back slightly, his analysis continuing, "Xavier's plans will undoubtedly be cloaked in humanitarian rhetoric, aiming for a peaceful coexistence that seems increasingly naive. Magneto, on the other hand, will likely advocate for a solution far too… unpalatable for the human world, perhaps even for many mutants. Others on the Silent Council, they will be far, far more radical."
"Fury? He'll weave a web so intricate that anyone caught in it becomes his asset, their agency slowly eroded until they're merely extensions of his will. The government will posture and make moves with their conventional forces, but they'll be largely ineffective against the true power players unless they manage to unleash and control something on the level of the Sentry – a terrifying prospect. And the World Security Council?" He let out a humorless chuckle. "They'll be looking out for their own skins, their own power bases, ready to sacrifice anyone to maintain their precarious hold."
Emma listened, her expression unreadable, though a flicker of respect, or perhaps calculation, danced in her ice-blue eyes. His assessment was blunt, cynical, and distressingly accurate. "An astute summary, Mr. Ranger." she conceded, her voice regaining its smooth, melodic quality, though a hint of the huskiness from their earlier exertions remained. Her own hand came to rest on his thigh, her diamond-tipped nails a stark contrast against his skin. "You seem to have a rather comprehensive understanding of the strategies at play for almost every major faction. But what of your own grand design in this impending war? That, you've been conspicuously silent about."
Ranger shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the weight of the conversation. "That's because I don't have one, Emma. Not in the way you mean or want." His hand covered hers on his thigh, his grip firm but not crushing. "This war… it's too vast, too chaotic. There are too many variables, too many omega-level temperaments, too many hidden agendas to predict any outcome with certainty. Any rigid 'plan' would shatter on first contact with reality." He paused, his gaze drifting towards the city lights beyond the window. "The best anyone can do, the best I can do, is to make meticulous preparations for the myriad of things that might happen. To anticipate, to adapt, to benefit."
"So." Emma purred, leaning closer, her breath warm against his cheek, her fingers subtly tightening their grip on his thigh, a silent assertion of her own agency in this exchange. "Your divulging the plans of others, this… strategic overview you've so generously provided… that was one of your 'precautions'?" Her eyes, now sharp and focused, held a sultry, challenging glint. "Am I, then, Mr. Ranger, merely another one of your carefully considered precautions?"
"Yes, Emma, you are." he admitted without hesitation, his voice dropping, taking on a more intimate timbre. His free hand roamed her back, pulling her closer until her breasts pressed against his chest. He savored the contact for a moment before continuing, "A high-level precaution, certainly. One of considerable value and… undeniable allure." He punctuated his words with a firm, deliberate spank to her still-sensitive ass, drawing a sharp, involuntary gasp from her. The sound was crisp, a clear assertion of the dynamic they had established.
"I will make it my business to ensure that you, and your daughters, survive the coming storm. That is, of course, contingent on you not deciding to… sell me out to the highest bidder."
He met her gaze, his own unyielding. "You can take the information I've shared, the assessments I've made, and present them to the Quiet Council, to your contacts in the government, to whomever you deem appropriate. I trust your intelligence, Emma. You're a woman who generally knows when to push, when to feign compliance, and, most importantly, when to stop before the entire board is overturned."
Emma's eyes narrowed, the sultry amusement replaced by a glint of steel. "And what if I don't know when to stop, Mr. Ranger?" she challenged, her voice a low, dangerous whisper. Her body pressed more insistently against his. "What if the offer for my survival, and that of my daughters, is too enticing to refuse? Your promise, as you call it, is nothing but spoken words. Air. How can I be certain it holds more weight than a guaranteed, tangible offer from a recognized power?" Her gaze was unwavering, digging deep into his, searching for any sign of deception, of weakness.
Ranger simply shrugged again, the casualness of the gesture almost infuriating given the stakes. He gently disentangled himself from her, rising from his seat. He paused, looking down at her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, before delivering another sharp, stinging spank to her backside. "Then I suppose, Ms. Frost." he said, his voice devoid of any discernible emotion, "you have absolutely no way to be certain that my words are anything but the truth. You'll simply have to choose what, and whom, to believe."
He turned as if to leave, then paused, his back to her. "Though, I am man enough to admit this: I tend to keep my promises, Emma. It's a rather inconvenient habit."
A beat of silence, charged and heavy. Then, Emma's voice, softer now, but with an undercurrent of something unreadable – fear, perhaps, or a dawning, reluctant trust. "Even in death, Ranger?"
He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes meeting hers.The city lights framed him, making him seem like a figure carved from shadow and resolve.
"Especially after death, Emma."
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The lingering scent of their intimacy still hung in the air of Emma Frost's opulent office, a stark contrast to the sudden, sharp shift in conversation. Ranger, now mostly dressed but still exuding an air of casual command, had dropped the name like a lit match into a room full of dynamite.
"Victor?" Emma's voice, moments before a husky purr, now cracked with genuine shock, a rare occurrence. She sat bolt upright, the silk robe she'd donned doing little to conceal her sudden agitation. Her eyes, wide and incredulous, fixed on him. "Victor Von Doom? What in all of creation could you possibly need from that armor-plated, ego-maniacal psycho?"
Ranger merely offered a noncommittal shrug, his expression unreadable. "Something important, Emma. Something… very important." He gave her that infuriatingly cryptic half-smile she was beginning to associate with him. "Just understand this: the true turning points of this impending war, the moments that will define its outcome, will likely hinge on the actions, or inactions, of two particular intellects. Victor Von Doom." he paused, letting the name hang in the air, "and Reed Richards."
He turned to her then, his gaze direct, intense. "So, the question is, can you facilitate contact? He should have provided you with a discreet method. If my information is correct, he graced your… rather exclusive Hellfire Gala last year, did he not? Doom rarely attends such events without ensuring future lines of communication, on his terms."
Emma's perfectly sculpted lips thinned. The audacity of the request, moments after their own intense 'negotiations', was not lost on her. "You will owe me for this, Ranger." she stated, her voice regaining its icy composure, though a spark of irritation flashed in her eyes.
"Remember that. Favors from the White Queen are not dispensed lightly, especially when they involve… Doom." With a flick of her wrist, a telekinetic summons brought a peculiar object floating towards her from a hidden compartment in her desk: an old, black rotary phone, vintage 1950s, conspicuously lacking any connecting cable. It hummed faintly with an energy that spoke of advanced, likely Latverian, technology.
Her diamond-tipped fingers, steady once more, danced over the dial, inputting a sequence: 1, 1, 1, 1, then 2, 2, 2, 2, 2. The phone emitted a single, resonant chime.
A voice, metallic, imperious, and utterly unmistakable, echoed from the receiver, filling the room with an almost palpable arrogance. "White Queen. To what does Doom owe this unexpected pleasure?"
Emma sighed, a sound of pure, put-upon exasperation, though her expression remained a mask of cool professionalism. She picked up the receiver. "Doom." she said, her tone clipped, "there is an individual here who requires a rather urgent… consultation with you." She kept it deliberately short, devoid of her usual flirtatious finesse.
This was business, and she was clearly not thrilled to be the intermediary for these two particular egos. She then extended the phone towards Ranger, her eyes conveying a silent warning: This had better be worth it.
Ranger took the phone, his gaze steady.
"Ranger, if Doom presumes correctly?" The voice on the other end was a carefully modulated baritone, each syllable dripping with regal self-assurance. "What is it that you require of Doom? Speak, and be concise. Doom's time is… invaluable."
Ranger didn't waste words, his tone matching Doom's for directness, though lacking the inherent arrogance. "To complete something that even Reed Richards couldn't complete."
A beat of profound silence crackled across the line. In the office, Emma Frost's eyes widened again, this time with a mixture of shock and dawning, horrified comprehension. To invoke Richards, especially in terms of failure, to Victor Von Doom… it was a gambit of monumental proportions. Even Doom, on the other end, seemed to pause, the subtle shift in the ambient hum from the phone the only indication of his surprise.
"And what task is this," Doom finally asked, his voice a fraction lower, laced with a dangerous curiosity, "that you believe only Doom, in all his unparalleled genius, can accomplish where Richards, in his limited capacity, has faltered?"
"To know the specifics of that task." Ranger replied, his voice calm, unwavering, "I require your personal assurance. I need you to bring me to Latveria, and then ensure my safe return to American soil, in one piece, unharmed. Promise me that, Doom, and the details will be forthcoming."
Another pause, shorter this time, but charged with consideration. Doom was no one's errand boy. Yet, the bait – a task Richards had failed at – was undeniably potent.
"Doom finds your audacity… intriguing, Ranger." Victor declared. "Very well. Doom gives his sovereign word. No harm shall befall you whilst under Doom's aegis within the borders of Latveria, nor upon your escorted return to America. You have the promise of Doom."
With that, the line went dead. Doom rarely indulged in pleasantries or farewells.
Almost instantly, the air in Emma's office shimmered. A perfectly circular portal, glowing with an internal, emerald light, tore open space near the far wall. From within, three identical figures emerged, clad in gleaming, dark green armor, faces hidden behind impassive metal masks. Doombots.
Emma Frost was on her feet in an instant, her telepathic aura flaring, her expression furious. "You dare violate the sanctity of my private dominion, Victor?!" she hissed, her voice vibrating with barely suppressed rage. "To send your automatons uninvited into my office?!"
The Doombots paid her outburst no heed. They moved with silent, synchronized precision, two flanking the portal, the third gesturing towards it with a metallic hand, clearly indicating Ranger should proceed.
Ranger placed a placating hand on Emma's shoulder, giving her a slight headshake. "Antagonizing Doctor Doom directly, Emma, especially when he believes he's extending a… courtesy, would do you no favors." Diffusing the situation and giving Frost a way out.
He leaned in, his voice a low whisper for her ears alone, even as he gave her ass a final, appreciative squeeze. "I believe I promised you more private conversations. I intend to collect." He gave her a wink, then turned and walked with measured steps towards the portal, the Doombots falling into formation around him.
The first thing Ranger saw upon stepping through the shimmering gateway was not a sterile lab or a military briefing room. He was in a vast, throne room, gothic and imposing, banners bearing the Latverian crest hanging from high stone walls. And seated upon a massive, intricately carved throne at the far end, regal and utterly still, was the man himself: Doctor Doom, in the flesh, his presence radiating an almost overwhelming aura of power and intellect.
His voice, no longer filtered through a phone, resonated through the chamber.
"Doom welcomes you to Latveria, Ranger. Now… enlighten Doom as to this alleged failure of Richards."
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Now comes Doom. Do-Do-Do- Doooom.
Hell, I might do the story injustice, even the Mc injustice but not Doom. I like him too much to show him the way Marvel comics does.
And I wonder what is the task that even Reed Richards couldn't do?