#char: Emma Frost

[excelsiorfics]

That Which We Are

Date: April 1, 2018 Author: GrayJay Rating: Not Rated Word Count/Status: 3,482, complete Dynamic: N/A Characters: Scott Summers, Christopher Summers, Charles Xavier, Jean Grey, Logan (X-Men), Ororo Munroe, Emma Frost, Hank McCoy, Moira MacTaggert, Nathaniel Essex, Alex Summers Tags: Medical Trauma, Needles, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Closeted Character, Trans Male Character, Canon Compliant, Character Study

Summary:

The day he loses his glasses and brings down half the orphanage is the day he becomes Scott for good.

(Or: The universe where Scott isn't born Scott.)

[scottxlogan]

5 Sentence Drabbles

20. Cookies (Bucky/Tony)

76. Broken Pieces (Emma/Steve)

Okay so I cheated a little bit in these as I think they might've hit the 6 sentence marks lol, but still....here you are. (Under the cut)

20. Cookies (Bucky/Tony) Thick clouds of darkened smoke poured out into the hallway accompanied by the piercing sounds of the smoke detector as Bucky rushed into the kitchen area fully prepared to find a war taking place. Instead, Bucky discovered Tony hunched over the now open oven with a red and white checkered hand towel in front of the cloud of smoke, waving it in a desperate attempt to pave the way towards leaning forward and salvaging the charred remains of what he’d been working on within the industrial sized oven. “What’s going on in here?” Bucky was almost afraid to ask as a visibly flustered Tony worked to extract what was left of the blackened, round rocks of death he’d been baking before his lover’s arrival.

“You talked about loving chocolate chip cookies, and I wanted to surprise you by giving them a go for your special day…so happy birthday baby,” Tony beamed with the same sideways, triumphant smirk he’d carried with him in his every attempt at problem solving as in this baking disaster Tony was still bubbling with the same enthusiasm Bucky had grown so very fond of.

Bucky took it all in with a smile, soaking up the smoke and the sight of the cookie batter over Tony’s Kiss the Chef apron with the way Tony’s eyes lit up at the sight of Bucky while Tony proudly held his charred death rocks on the cookie tray, so hopeful in his approach as Bucky bridged the distance pulling Tony into a deep, appreciative kiss knowing that in that moment he’d never loved Tony Stark more.

76. Broken Pieces (Emma/Steve) A diamond is never supposed to shatter, but for Emma Frost she’d spent a lifetime hoping to pick up the fractured pieces knowing that the dream of the knight in shining armor was nothing more than a fable told to placate young girls into believing in true love, yet she knew better than to believe. Scott Summers had proven that even the good guys were capable of far more pain than love was worth, so after that Emma had closed herself entirely until that fateful Hellfire Gala when Steve Rogers came searching around working to find his way into her world. Steve had been relentless and determined, hoping to prove that not all nice guys could prove to be thoughtless and horrible and soon Emma began to feel her diamond-hard skin repair itself and heal finding hope for the first time in a long time that perhaps the white knight was more than a myth.

“Give me a chance to prove you wrong,” Steve had once suggested as he laid his claim to winning over Emma’s jade heart and soon much to her surprise and delight, Steve proved to her in his valiant efforts that romance was still possible for a broken girl with a cold heart who’d been lost from the world for so very long.

Now as Emma found herself staring into the impossible blue eyes before her of a man determined to prove her worth, Emma found herself coming around to believing that perhaps true love was still a possibility in her life after all.

Thanks for these. They were fun!

Five Sentence Drabble Prompts

[laceratedlamiaceae]

L and X for the fandom meme :3

(alphabet fandom meme)

L - Say something genuinely nice about a character who isn’t one of your faves (chars you’re neutral on are fair game, as are chars you dislike)

Ed has pretty eyes and he's very charismatic.

X - top 5-10 characters who are yoUR PRECIOUS BABIES AND YOU WILL DIE DEFENDING THEM

Izzy and Calico Jack top the list, obviously. I don't think there's anyone else I like from ofmd that really needs defending, so I'll take a few from comic books: Emma Frost is literally perfect and Magneto did nothing wrong. Also it's okay that Peter Quill and Gamora are literally war criminals because they felt kind of bad about it afterwards <3 and if you ever say anything bad about Richard Rider I'm coming to your house and murdering you personally

[girlsofthemcu]

Starter Call -- Mutant and Proud (because now I have these chars on the brain, thanks HS BFF)

Like or reblog for a starter from one of the following:

Emma Frost

Wanda Maximoff

Aimee Drake

Sandra Cassidy

Remember to specify who you would like the starter from and, if you are also a multi, who you would like the starter for.

[marveltrumpshate]

March 2021 MTH fills part 1/3

Happy spring! The best way to see all the fills that have been shared with us is our monthly roundups tag or our #MTH-fills channel on our Discord, but you can also view them through the following methods:

Our Tumblr tags: 2018, 2019, 2020

Our AO3 collections: 2018, 2019, 2020 (only has works posted to AO3)

Completed works tag list: 2018, 2019, 2020

To find specific content, use our completed works tag lists above which includes instructions on how to search for a particular character, gen or romantic relationship, universe, and fanwork type. 

@ali-aliska “Safe House” (post-CA:TWS Bucky/Tony secret identity hurt/comfort AU fic) for @whatshouldntbe (MTH 2019)

@areiton - “chains around my daemons” (Steve/Tony soulmate daemon AU fic) for @bthehufflepuff208

@bachaboska - “Second Chance” (video where Brock Rumlow is used by the Avengers to find his lover, Jack Rollins) (also on AO3) for @kalika999

@blue-scribbl3s - Art of pre-serum Steve on a white background with red and blue watercolor paint splatters for @haspel-and-berry (MTH 2019)

@cakeisnotpie - “The Hawk and the Mage” (12th-century masked heroes Clint/Phil AU fic) for @miladydragon

Celticas/@quartzcelticas - “A Bullet is Worth a Thousand Words” (Bucky/Daisy post-TWS/AO3 season 3 fic where both of them meet while on the run) for @jaune-chat

@flightinflame - “Her Flawed Gem” (Emma/Scott hurt/comfort fic) for @mmgth

@geekymoviemom/@geeky-writes - “Heart of Blue” (fluffy, domestic Superfamily fic that is a missing/extra scene from their fic "Pieces of Echoes") for positronic - “Trapped in the Shadows” (Steve/Tony bookstore AU fic) for @betheflame

@glittercake - “Shaken” (PI!Sam/barman!Bucky meet cute AU fic where Sam goes to a dive bar to investigate disappearances in the city and meets Bucky) for @velociraptorerin

[beginagaininspo]

BEGIN AGAIN + TEXT POSTS (PT 4)

feat: @immortalweapon​ @itsnightwingarchived​ @heartheblackdamncanary​ @ofcosmicwonder​ @whiteqveendarling @speedinreverse @master-of-magnetism

[incorrectbeginagain]

Emma Frost: You amuse me. I will make you mine.

Clint Barton: Like as a boyfriend or a slave?

Emma Frost: Yes.

[lifeinccrnate]

@whitequeenemma

(✉️ ➡️ Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes): Just your daily reminder… (✉️ ➡️ Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes): You’re tacky and I hate you.   

(✉ → bitch.): UNSENT I wish I singed you, just a little. Not a thorough scorching, but enough to take your irritatingly perfect eyebrows off. (✉ → bitch.): Hate is such a strong word, Emma. You didn’t learn the power of positive speech during your training? (✉ → bitch.): Maybe I should take a page out of your book and make the entirely tasteful fashion statement that is white leather and fur. Nothing tacky about /that/.

[ironiccrus]

Beep (Nat & Emma & Jen)

A sad text || for @ofblxckwidows

(✉ → natalie rushman): before you ask, yes i’m slightly drunk, but i can still see the keyboard, so that’s not why i’m saying this(✉ → natalie rushman): when you were gone -- everyone really thought you were dead(✉ → natalie rushman): i couldn’t believe it. i figured i would feel it if you were gone, you know?(✉ → natalie rushman): i guess what i’m trying to say is ... i’m sorry if you feel it, when it happens

A weird text || for @whitequeenemma

(✉ → frosty): hey emma, quick question(✉ → frosty): that thing we did with the whipped cream in france, can you remember if it involved strawberries or whiskey liquor?

A one word text || for @lawyerwalters

(✉ → jen darling): shit.

[klauswalz]

Favourite Comic Book Characters: Emma Frost

[sariahsue]

Miscommunication

"You otay, Dada?" Hugo's chubby baby face looked down with concern as Adrien stared at the clock face.

He'd slipped - probably on that puddle of cake batter that Louis had spilled - and was now trying to figure out exactly how much time he had left until Marinette got home. She'd said 7. The clock said it was 4. He still had three hours. The clock's hands twitched feebly in place, and ice coursed through Adrien's veins. The clock was dead. What time was it?!

He scrambled to his feet, patting Hugo on head to reassure him, and ran to the counter to grab his phone. Two hours. He only had two hours. Well, two hours was enough, wasn't it?

Adrien scanned the kitchen. Louis was sounding out words in the recipe. Hugo was spreading Legos across the kitchen floor. Little Emma was in her high chair and had frosting on her hands, across her cheeks, in her hair, and (Adrien squinted with suspicion) in between her toes.

Flour dusted every surface, like someone had emptied a bag right in front of a blowing fan. Adrien's third attempt at cake batter was looking delicious, but still in the bowl. As soon as the dinner was out of the oven, he could pop the cake in. Two hours was enough time to bake a cake, right? Dinner, cake, and… he was sure he was forgetting something.

Everything had to be perfect. It was the last night of Marinette's first Fashion Week, and she'd been so stressed over it for months and worked so hard. She deserved to come home to a perfect dinner. Two hours would have to be enough time.

"Louis, let's practice your numbers now. What do you see on the recipe?" Adrien looked over his son's shoulder as he struggled. Adrien glanced up at the clock, which of course still wasn't working, and then back down at Louis, and held his tongue. They had enough time. He didn't need to rush Louis, he reminded himself.

Louis raised both hands high in the air. "Forty-five!"

Adrien smiled and praised and high-fived and poured the batter into a pan and smelled something burning and groaned. He'd meant to make baked ratatouille, but it looked more charred than edible.

Ordering in would be just as good, or probably better than his cooking. And Marinette came from a family of bakers. She would appreciate a homemade cake.

Emma shrieked while the phone rang and Hugo banged his Legos on the ground. Louis hopped off the stool to play with him, and Adrien slouched over the cake recipe. Forty five minutes. 170 degrees.

Oh, no! The strawberry reduction sauce! That's what he'd forgotten!

Adrien didn't want to look at the clock anymore. He could feel time slipping away as he put the cake in the oven, washed and cut the strawberries and put them on a plastic plate on the back burner and put a pot full of sugar on the front. No more mistakes. This was for Marinette, and she deserved the best.

Cake check, sauce almost check, dinner would be someone else's problem. Emma shrieked. Louis came back, head poking up eye level to the pot before he stepped back up on the stool.

"Sorry, kiddo," Adrien said. "You can't help with stove top stuff. You know the rules."

"Uh." Louis pointed to the back burner, where the center of the red plastic plate was melting.

Adrien whimpered and lifted up the plate. Strings of plastic stretched out. A strawberry fell through the hole and splattered across the stove top. And Marinette walked into the kitchen.

"Need some help?" she asked.

"You weren't supposed to be home until 7!"

"Tomorrow," she said, kicking Legos out of her way and picking up Emma, who had started to cry. "You're making dinner for me?"

"No, I've got the luck of a black cat, remember? I'm ruining dinner for you."

"So thoughtful." Marinette used her free hand to pull him down for a kiss, and Adrien felt himself sag underneath her compassion. He'd failed her.

"Sorry, bug" he said. "I know you've been having a bad week. I just wanted to make you happy."

Marinette laid a hand over his heart and smiled up at him. She smiled at him anyway. "Thank you."

"But I made such a mess."

"It's just a mess, and you make me happy, kitten. Everything else you do for me is just a bonus. Haven't I told you that yet?"

Adrien pulled her into a hug. "Must have forgotten."

"I'll always remind you," she said. "Now, what kind of dessert are we having?"

***

Author's note: In apology for yesterday's angst, here's some domestic fluff. This was written for an event I'm hosting: @post-reveal-revelry!

[sareyen]

A Machine Without Feelings: A Jane Eyre AU (Part 10/11)

Read on ao3

Chapter 10

Charles kissed Jean and Ororo’s cheeks in that sequence, the women both squeezing his hands for good luck. Jean murmured that they would be waiting here for good news – because, they refused to believe that things would go badly. Charles was grateful for their positivity in a time when his stomach was tying itself up in knots.

Charles left Jean and Ororo at their hotel in the town just outside of Ironfield, the same town that Charles had been walking to when he met Erik for the first time.

It was now almost a year later that Charles has returned, and the day was bright and sunny, unlike the day he ran away. Many things had changed in that time; Charles was older and wearier, even if he did not look it. His soul, a soul that was as much Erik’s as it was his, was tired and withered. The string tied beneath his left ribs tugged painfully, but as the carriage had neared, he could feel it knotting itself back together.

People that loved each other would only part if one of them wished it. Charles had always been the one who, naively, thought that Heathcliff’s words had been beautiful. It was funny how he was the one to have caused the pain those words warned him about.

Charles had heard nothing from Erik, not that he had tried to contact him recently. Part of Charles held a fear that Erik had moved on. Unlike Charles, Erik had been in relationships with women before, and many more than one. What if Charles was just another one? One of his mistresses that he fleetingly loved because he abhorred his mad wife?

But Charles couldn’t bring himself to believe that, not when he knew Erik. Erik had withheld things from Charles, yes, but the parts of himself that he did let Charles see, they were real. Erik had shown Charles that he loved him, even when he hadn’t told him everything. While Charles still loved Erik, he was sure that Erik still loved him.

‘He’s still calling my name, I can hear it,’ Charles thought to himself, heart hammering as he hobbled out of the hotel with the aid of the walking stick Logan had made for him on his nineteenth birthday.   

The dirt roads leading up to Ironfield were impossible to traverse on his wheelchair, and Charles was resolved to get there on his own. Charles limped his way to hail a carriage from the front of the hotel, which soon dropped him off at the closest stop along the road to Ironfield. Charles paid them, before beginning the trek up to the grand house.

Charles had always enjoyed this walk, and remembered how he felt when he and Erik would walk it together in the light of dusk. Erik would sometimes tug him behind a stocky tree and press him up against its trunk, sealing Charles’s red lips with his own and kissing him until he couldn’t breathe.

Now, the walk was laborious, a little sweat building on Charles’s brow as he hobbled down the familiar road.

It was when he drew close enough to break through the veil of overlying trees that Charles stopped dead in his tracks, walking stick clattering to the ground.

Ironfield Hall, his home, was a ruin.

What had used to be battlements that stood tall and proud against the horizon were charred black and crumbled, revealing burnt exposed rafters that splintered into jagged pieces. Ironfield no longer had a roof, its walls now mere slabs of broken stone on the ground.

It looked like fire had razed Ironfield to the ground, and Charles suddenly couldn’t breathe.

Charles fumbled to pick up his discarded walking stick before hopping and dragging his maimed leg forwards and forwards, numb to the pain as he stared with wide eyes at the remains of the once-grand mansion.

Crows squawked around the caved-in roof, Charles pushing his way through the non-existent door, which had been reduced to black coal.

The inside was as bad as the exterior, if not worse. It looked like no furniture had been spared from the inferno, the wooden banisters of the staircase mere twigs on the ground. Charles wobbled forwards, heart growing more and more frantic as he realised that the estate, the estate where he had fallen in love and had his heart filled and broken, was a wasteland.

“Oh, God,” Charles choked out, falling into Erik’s downstairs study. It had also been touched by the fire, and was devoid of its books and souvenirs from abroad, his desk black and empty. It seemed like, apart from the fire, looters had ravaged the place bare.

‘Where is Erik? Moira? Alex? Where is everyone? What happened? Oh God, I’m toolatetoolatetoolate.’

“Who goes there?!” a sharp voice called out, Charles whirling around at the sound of the voice. Footsteps rushed forwards, before bursting into the study. The man who tore through the room skidded to a stop when he saw Charles, stumbling back with a double take that would have been comical in any other situation.

“Charles?!” Scott yelled, rubbing his eyes like he had seen a ghost. It was indeed Scott Summers, looking different but the same. While before he had always worn a coachman’s garb, he now donned a fine suit and spectacles. His hair was neatly styled, longer than it used to be – he no longer looked like a young coachman, but a wealthy lord. Like someone who finally married a wealthy woman like Emma Frost.

Charles was speechless and in shock, Scott recovering first and rushing towards him.

“Charles, is that really you?” Scott asked frantically, pulling at Charles’s cheeks, like he expected his hands to go right through him. When Charles yelped at the pain of having his cheeks pulled so harshly, Scott jumped, apologising profusely. “Charles, what are you- Why are you here? When did you return? We thought we would never see you again, we thought you had perished, we didn’t know…”

“Scott, what happened here?” Charles asked, hand holding his walking stick shaking desperately. “Scott, where is Erik? Is he… He can’t be…”

Charles’s mind reeled back to the night he had saved Erik from being consumed by flames in his bed. Erik had left that incident unscathed, healthy, safe and whole, but this time… If this time Erik had died in a fire, when Charles had left him…

Charles felt sick, and swayed on his feet.

Scott saw him begin to topple over, quickly rushing and catching the former tutor, snagging his arm before he fell to the ground.

“Charles! What happened… oh, your leg,” Scott said, noticing the walking stick and the way Charles didn’t put any weight on his left leg. “Never mind. Here, let’s go to another room. The drawing room is one of the only rooms that is still functional. Let’s sit there, and I will explain what happened.”

Charles weakly nodded, letting Scott help him down familiar yet broken halls to the drawing room he and Erik had shared many chess games together. When Scott led him through the doors, he could hear the clink of their glasses, the scrape of wood against wood as someone moved a chess piece, an occasional laugh, an impassioned voice as they argued, the soft press of Erik’s lips against his.

Scott lowered Charles into his old seat, which appeared to have remained in the same spot beside the chess set. There was no chess set in sight, though – it had been taken by looters some time ago as well.

Scott was about to take the seat opposite Charles – Erik’s seat – but he must have seen the pain cross Charles’s face, and stopped part way. Scott coughed, standing up to lean against a shelf instead.

“Where do you want me to start?” Scott asked, Charles licking his lips. He wanted to know if Erik was alive, but he was afraid to ask the question. If he asked, and Scott said that he had died…

“The beginning. From when I left,” Charles said, voice shaking. Scott nodded, rubbing his face and taking in a deep breath.

“We found out that you had left when we heard Erik scream out your name. He had gone to your rooms at around ten that morning, wanting to talk to you again, to try and explain himself. He had knocked on your door for a long time, until he felt like something was truly wrong, and that you weren’t just ignoring him. He burst down the door, and that was it. You were gone. He had screamed out name over and over, we could hear it from the other side of the mansion.”

‘He had been calling for me, and I had heard him.’

“Erik… Erik was beside himself, of course,” Scott said, Charles growing pale. “He ordered us to look for you, and took off on his horse himself – but by then, you were long gone. He locked himself in your chambers then, for two weeks straight. Moira had to bring him all his meals, and even then, he seemed to have no appetite. He began to eat more when we all… well, at that point, we weren’t afraid of losing our jobs anymore.”

“He recovered physically after that, and on the outside, he was the same Mr Lehnsherr. Maybe more bitter and snappy, but his mood had always been changeable. Inside… inside he wasn’t the same. We all know why you left, Charles. The master did, too. Before you ask, no, he never blamed you for leaving. He knew he had done you wrong, and he believed that he was paying for his mistake. He never stopped loving you or waiting for you, though. Moira caught him praying, every night – and you know that the master was no Christian.”

‘He never stopped loving you,’ Charles repeated, stomach twisting. Why does that make it sound like he…

“It was about a month after that. His wife… Creed’s sister, she escaped one night and took a candle from a sleeping Anna-Marie. She set fire to all the curtains, to the beds, to everything. She burnt Ironfield Hall down, Charles, but before it was completely destroyed she climbed onto the tallest battlement and threw herself off it.”

Charles gasped, somehow able to picture it clearly. The ghost – Clara Creed – with her long blonde hair and white night dress, bare footed and wild. He could see her leap through the air, thinking that she was a dove, and falling until she hit the hard stone below. She would have died instantly.

Scott paused, letting Charles stomach the news, only continuing when Charles nodded slowly.

“Moira and the other girls escaped in time, but…” Scott’s voice grew thick then, and Charles knew what was about to come. “Peter was trapped in his room, terrified. Alex and the master looked for him, and the master found him and got him out. But Alex… Alex became trapped when the rafters collapsed. He… my brother. He passed that night,” Scott coughed, overcome with emotion. “We held the funeral for him the week after.”

“I’m so sorry, Scott,” Charles said, voice shaking as he closed his eyes. Apart from Moira, Alex was the person Charles was closest with amongst the staff. Alex, the first person he had met when he arrived at Ironfield Hall. Alex, who had smiled at him and made him feel welcome, who had told him that ‘so you love a man? What is so wrong with that? Someone people never love at all in their life, and is that not worse?’

“Thank you. It was six months ago now, Charles,” Scott said, trying to give Charles a reassuring, thankful smile. “We have begun to heal. Alex… Alex considered you a close friend. Everyone did. After you left, we all missed you, and talked about you often. We all prayed for you to be safe, but we never knew where you had gone, even when Erik had hired investigators. It was like Charles Xavier had vanished off the face of the Earth. Where did you go, Charles?”

“Past the Moors, to a small parish there. I… I was taken in by the inhabitants at Eden House,” Charles said softly. “Two of them came here with me today.”

“We’d all be glad to know that you weren’t alone,” Scott said, stepping forward now to gently place his hand on Charles’s shoulder.

Charles had to ask the question now, unable to take it any longer.

“Scott, is he alive?” Charles asked, the man blinking.

“He? Oh. The master. Yes, Charles. Yes, he’s alive. I should have told you that from the start, I’m sorry,” Scott said quickly, Charles releasing a breath he did not know he had been holding, letting out a choked laugh.

“Oh, thank God,” Charles shook, folding over on himself, dropping his head into his hands and wiping his wet eyes before turning to Scott again. “Where is he then, Scott? I came back for him. I… I heard him calling for me.”

“When Ironfield burned down, we could no longer live here. He relocated to his second, smaller residence a little further into the country. It is called Genosha Manor,” Scott explained, and Charles’s legs, even maimed as one was, itched to run there immediately.

“It is small, and didn’t need many people to maintain it. Only Moira and Lorna went with him and Peter. Moira has written to me recently, though, and it appears that the master has sent Peter to school. Now, only Moira is there to tend to him. Angel found a new situation, and Anna-Marie… Anna felt guilty about not being able to stop Clara, and couldn’t bear to work for the master any more. She found new work a few shires over, for a family that lives at a place called Westchester.”

Scott jumped when Charles let out a shocked, incredulous laugh. Coincidence, or fate?

“How far is it to Genosha?” Charles asked, Scott beginning to smile now.

“Only a few hours by carriage. If you leave now, you can get there in the afternoon,” Scott said, Charles nodding, gripping his walking stick tightly with newfound determination.

“Thank you, Scott. For everything,” Charles said, Scott nodding and helping Charles to stand.

“I have to tell you though, Charles. The master, he is not the same man. When he went to save Peter from the fire, he did not come out unscathed,” Scott said, and Charles just shook his head, patting Scott’s arm.

“Neither am I. Neither of us are the same, now – and maybe, that’s why we will be fine this time.”

***

Scott did not accompany Charles to Genosha, since he had to return to his and Emma’s own home. Emma was currently with child, and Charles did not want to take him away from her side during such a critical time. He had only been at Ironfield to try and salvage what the looters missed, but found that he was too late. Scott had been too kind, still offering to escort Charles to Genosha when he saw how poorly his leg was. Scott only gave in when he met Jean and Ororo when he dropped Charles off at the hotel. Charles doubted that Scott would have left him in anyone else’s hands.

Charles told Jean and Ororo about what had happened, and they had held Charles’s hands the entire coach ride. When they arrived at Genosha Manor, within the boundaries of the afternoon as Scott had said, Charles was suddenly frozen in fear as he took in the unfamiliar building.

It was no Ironfield Hall, and was a simpler country house, though Charles knew that it would have costed a hefty price because of the sprawling lands that came with it. The manor itself, however, was small compared to the extravagant Ironfield.

The manor was made of a warm-toned stone, in contrast to the dark greys of Ironfield. Rustic glass windows spanned the walls covered with climbing ivy. The manor was not imposing compared to Ironfield, and in fact looked inviting and warm from the orange glow the early sunset was beginning to cast upon it.

Charles breathed in and out with every step Jean took as she wheeled him across the gravel walk way to the manor.

Ororo knocked on the door, before stepping to stand beside Charles, clutching his hand.

Charles’s breath quickened when he heard footsteps reach the door, the sound of a lock unlatching loud in Charles’s ears. The door soon swung open inwardly, revealing Moira, who was dressed in a dark black dress. Her hands froze mid-motion, the door only half open as she stared at Charles, like he was a phantom.

“Hello, Moira,” Charles said, Moira’s eyes immediately filling with tears as she opened the door fully, cupping Charles’s face with her hands and letting out a sob.

Moira opened her mouth to say something, but was cut off by an achingly familiar, cold and brusque voice.

“MacTaggert! Send whoever they are away! I don’t want to be disturbed!”

“Erik,” Charles whispered, Moira letting out a quiet laugh, wiping her eyes.

“Charles, you’ve come back,” Moira said, taking all of him in. “I knew you were alive. Others thought that you maybe… But no, no. That doesn’t matter anymore. You’re here now.”

“Yes,” Charles said, Moira looking away from him then, finally noticing that he was not alone. “Moira, these are two of the people that cared for me while I was away. They are like sisters to me. This is Ororo, and behind me is Jean. And this is Mrs Moira MacTaggert, my dearest friend.”

Moira beamed, eyes a little wet again, and she smoothly curtseyed at Ororo and Jean.

“Charles’s family is considered my family,” Moira said, smiling at them warmly. “Come in. Charles, as you probably heard, Mr Lehnsherr is…”

“In one of his moods, like always?” Charles supplied, Moira letting out a laugh, a wondrous sound, like she still couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

“Yes, exactly. And I suspect, like always, you have a remedy to temper such a mood?” Moira said, eyes twinkling.

Charles nodded, mouth curving upwards.

“Of course, Moira. Now, where is Erik?”

***

Erik sat outside beneath a shaded tree with Magneto lying at his feet. He couldn’t see what the tree looked like, and didn’t know whether its leaves were whole and green or yellow and sparse. He could hear the wind run its threads through its branches, though, and the rustling was loud.

Whole and green then, he pictured in his mind’s eye.

It had been months since Charles had left; almost a year, now. Erik didn’t know exactly how long it had been, because the loss was still as raw as it was that first day. Erik could still feel the gaping hole in his chest when he had kicked down Charles’s locked door and seen the wide-open window and billowing curtains. The room had been so cold and so empty, so devoid of everything that was bright.

It was also hard to count the days when every day was cast in darkness. After his wife had burnt down Ironfield, Erik had gone blind. He no longer witnessed sunrises and sunsets, and simply spent his days sitting in the library or outside under this tree that he had never seen before.

Erik did not know why he spent so much time in a library full of books he could not see. Maybe it was because the room smelled like Charles, like ink and parchment, or books and dreams. Sometimes when he closed his eyes, his vision not changing at all, he could imagine that Charles was sitting next to him.

But Charles was not. If Charles was here, he would have let Erik rest his head on his thighs, gently brushing a hand across Erik’s eyelids, comforting his broken eyes. If he were here, he would clear his throat gently and read Erik passages from Brontë, or poems by Donne. He would read about Heathcliff, and Erik would have made a sarcastic comment about it. About how Heathcliff pined, and how Catherine left him.

Erik had never liked Heathcliff, but he could maybe understand him a bit more now.

Charles felt the breeze change, growing chilly. It would be around now that Moira would come to fetch him for supper, even though he was not hungry. She would offer him her arm, to guide him through thicket and the shrubbery, and he would snap at her for belittling him. She wouldn’t say anything, but would make sure her footsteps were loud enough so Erik could follow.

So, Erik sat there beneath a tree that he could not see, waiting for a person that he wished was someone else.

***

Charles saw Erik from afar, and his breath caught in his throat. Scott and Moira had told him – warned him – that he was not the same man that Charles remembered. That he was blind and hurting, much like Charles was.

But, when Charles saw him, he did not see a broken man. No, Erik was still beautiful to him, in every way. His hair was overgrown, falling over his eyes that could not see any way, and his beard was thick and messy. He did not bother wearing a neck tie these days, frustrated that it was difficult to tie without eyes, and he apparently always wore the same brown pants and the same white shirt. What did it matter, now that he couldn’t see it? What did it matter, when Moira was the only person to ever see Mr Lehnsherr, the fallen former master of Ironfield Hall?

Erik may have looked different, but the way he made Charles’s heart quicken and squeeze was very much the same. Charles still loved him, that had not changed.

Jean wheeled him as close as she could take the wheelchair, the contraption unable to weave between the bushes and thicket. Charles thanked her softly, and she gave Charles a smile, before retreating with his chair back into the manor with Moira and Ororo.

Charles gripped his walking stick, and began stumbling back to the man that he still loved, even when they were worlds apart. Even when the string between their left ribs was stretched, making their hearts bleed, it had not snapped.

No, it was still there, drawing the two closer and closer together, until Charles was standing before him.

Magneto smelled Charles before he saw him, and immediately recognised the man. Magneto rose to his feet immediately, letting out a happy bark, racing over. Charles smiled quietly, bending down to rub the dog’s head, the creature barking again.

Erik’s head snapped towards the noise, hearing his companion bark and the snapping of twigs under a human’s feet.

“Magneto, down. It’s just Moira, Christ,” Erik snapped, his dog’s barking too loud. Magneto listened to his master, but licked Charles’s hand once more, trotting with glee back to Erik’s side, sitting there with his tail wagging while looking at Charles.

Charles smiled a little at Erik’s snappish tone, glad that the man had not lost all of his fire and passion. Charles just hoped that, somewhere buried under all of that pain and hurt, there was still a man that could smile in that singular way of his that showed too many teeth.

Charles grew closer, and Erik’s unseeing pale eyes looked in his general direction. While his eyesight was no longer with him, his other senses had heightened. He heard the crunching of twigs and fallen leaves, but the steps were too heavy, the rhythm unlike Moira whom he heard every day. There was no swish of a skirt against the ground, and Erik tensed his muscles at the intruder.

“Who’s there?” Erik asked, Charles’s heart fluttering. When he didn’t answer, Erik’s eyes narrowed, the man shifting where he sat. “Who is that?”

Charles sucked in a breath, taking in the man in front of him, before finally speaking.

“Magneto knows me, Sir.”

Erik’s hand immediately flew out and grabbed at the phantom-like being, unseeing eyes widening. Erik’s hand slapped Charles’s wrist, making the man laugh a little, before reaching out to meet Erik’s touch half-way. Erik’s hands sought Charles’s, wrapping around his palm and his digits, running his fingers through them with an unmistakeable tremor.

“I know this hand,” Erik breathed out, pulling at Charles’s hand until it was close enough for him to press his mouth against, breath shuddering against Charles’s skin.

“I would hope so, Herr Lehnsherr.”

Erik let out a choked noise, kissing the hand in his before dropping his forehead to it, breathing heavily.

“Charles,” Erik whispered, the owner of the name letting out a sob-like laugh, falling to his knees, his legs unable to keep him upright any longer. Charles let his walking stick fall to the floor, using his free hand now to cup Erik’s cheek, feeling the unfamiliar beard beneath his fingers. Erik’s cheeks were wet.

“I am come back to you, Erik,” Charles murmured, craning his neck upwards to press his mouth against Erik’s. The kiss was not perfect, not in the slightest; Erik’s lips were shaking, and Charles couldn’t breathe. But, it was a kiss that was real, as real as it could be.

“Are you really here, Charles?” Erik demanded to know, letting go of Charles’s hand to grip his face, thumb smoothing over the familiar slope of his cheeks, nose, lips. These were Charles’s features, real and warm under his fingers. “I’ve imagined you like this so many times, but…”

“I am here, Erik. I’ve come back to you,” Charles assured him, kissing him again, and Erik finally kissed him back after loosing a wrecked sob.

“I thought I lost you,” Erik choked against his Charles’s mouth, Charles letting out a noise from the back of his throat. Charles shook his head, their noses bumping.

“Never, Erik,” Charles said, pressing his forehead against Erik’s. “I heard you calling for me. You never lost me. I’m here, and I’m not going to leave.”

Erik was too overcome with emotion to speak, his body, heart and soul filled to the brim with relief, thankfulness, disbelief, love, passion, everything.

So, Charles just kissed him again and again, before pulling back only a touch, to whisper;

“And don’t forget, my love – you still owe me wages.”

Erik laughed, for the first time in a long time.

And, for the first time in a new forever.

Next chapter (11/11 epilogue) →

[thecorteztwins]

Um not to be rude but what about Shaw’s relationship with Emma Frost?

Hey not rude, you didn’t call me a misogynist abuse apologist or anything!

This is something I’ve addressed a LOT on my Shaw blog but since I’ve started crossing that over here it’s understandable people who follow me here and not there would be UMMM

So you know how lots of chars have shit changed or retconned about their backstories? This is one of those cases. Shaw and Emma are depicted as equal partners in evil during their first appearances, just two bad guys who work well together and have little to no indication of a relationship beyond that. And he’s sure as hell not in charge of her I any way, let alone abusing her. And that’s the case for thirty years, until in the 2000s, long after Emma has joined the X-Men, stories started to depict a very different relationship in flashbacks than what we actually saw, with comments from Emma supporting this new version in which Shaw was a cruel creepy mentor/father figure who molded her, beat her, and is implied to have sexually abused her.

I don’t like this for a lot of reasons, most of them feminist ones. It’s uncomfy to me that modern writers looked at evil 80s Emma, a woman with agency who made her own choices for her own gain and was on equal (or greater) footing with a powerful man and NOT fucking him...and then decided it was a better story if they changed all that? It’s gross. Women don’t need to have their stories changed from ones of power to traumatic ones for them to be worthy of redemption and heroism, they don’t need to be have the blame (and thus their agency) for their actions taken away by making someone else the real bad guy who MADE them, and they don’t need a man behind things in order to be a villain. It also contradicts a lot of canon in small ways too—-timeline stuff, characters not knowing things they were supposed to know, stuff like that. You know, typical retcon problems.

I also don’t like it for Shaw. It’s not that I think it’s impossible for Sebastian at all—-look what he did to Shinobi, he definitely is an abuser and has the capacity to do this without remorse—but it doesn’t track with the dynamic we actually saw between him and Emma, nor the dynamic we saw previously when he’s in a relationship, and a lot of previously established small stuff about him no one cares about but me. As weird as it sounds, it can make sense for someone to be abusive to their child yet not their partners. And I think that’s the case with Sebastian, because he can change his partners, he can choose them, but he can’t choose his kids, all he can do is try to “fix” them through hurting them, and then hurt them more as punishment when that fails. He can be like that and also be a total sub for strong women. Both these things can be true. And honestly? I like classic pre-2000s Shaw, who has these complexities and contradictions, than I do post-2000s generic Lifetime movie misogynistic abuser Shaw. He’s a lot more interesting.

So like most people when it comes to a retcon they don’t like, I ignore this one in my depiction and the content I create. I can understand why some people would find that problematic, and I respect that. I just ask people not be dicks to me over it. Which, you were not, so yay!

[souldagger]

💖 + x men?

actually making me choose a fave xman is illegal, i love all my children equally,

send me  💖 + a fandom and i’ll tell you my fav character!

[beginagaininspo]

“That's how I survived. Time and time again. That's my secret. I survived because I willed it to be. ... How did I survive apocalyptic fire? I simply refused to feel the flames.”

--- @whiteqveendarling

[incorrectbeginagain]

Raven Darkholme: Did you hear that noise?

Emma Frost: Probably the sound of you being an idiot.

Raven Darkholme: You're probably right... dickbiscuit.