#erik is mildly silly

[operas-phantom]

I am not playing dolls, it just looks like I am. I am actually celebrating the without-a-hitch run of my latest opera, and making figurines of my new friends on here. ERIK DOES NOT PLAY DOLLS.

[operas-phantom]

IIIIII’MM JUST ERIK-

Phantom of the Opera AU where everything is the same, except the Reprise is replaced with I’m Just Ken

[lilbeanz]

hello beanz, hope you're doing well! do you have any useless worldbuilding headcanons or jodt facts which are utterly useless or very mildly useful to the plot?

Hello lovely💗 I'm doing well, and I hope the same for you!

And gah! This is such a good ask! Definitely a thinker, too 🤭

The Useful Headcanons:

• The Wizarding World is called the Wixen World because fuck the patriarchy. (And yes, I realise both "wizard" and "witch" can be perceived as gender neutral, but typically, wizards are male, and witches are female (ugh👎))

• There are more magical schools than just eLEvEn, because as a wise man once said:

Take it from Hermione and Draco in GS,ch4:

“There’s around fifty in all of Europe,” Hermione began.

“Another fifty in Asia,” Draco carried on.

“Several in the Americas.”

“A handful of smaller schools scattered across the Pacific Islands.”

“And near a hundred in Africa.”

• Generally, wix are not homophobic, transphobic, or racist. Their prejudice problems revolve around blood and magical creatures.

Historically speaking, the Victorian era really fucked up Muggle society. And, yes, there was homophobic/racist ideology pre-Victorian era (1600s - 1700s), but by then, the magic and muggle world was already at odds with each other (Statute of Secrecy was eatablished in 1692) -- why would purebloods concern themselves with such trivial Muggle bigotry?

• Which leads me to my next worldbuilding point; Paganism. Traditional witchcraft and its influences on both the Wixen and Muggle worlds. Pureblood families are known to celebrate the Wheel of the Year -- equinoxes and solstices etc... Paganism existed before the statute and still exists into the Muggle world of course, which is how Muggles have wicca and the craft. Why Wiccan Muggles gather at Stone Henge for the summer solstice and all sorts. It just makes sense 🤌✨️

• Wolfstar. That's it. That's the whole bullet point. Just. Wolfstar.

• In Pureblood society, there is an unspoken hierarchy. The Malfoys' circle consisted of the Goyles, the Crabbes, and the Notts (and other notable Death Eater names), as well as the Parkinsons, the Greengrasses, and many other blood purist sympathisers.

Draco grew up with Greg, Vince, Pansy, Daphne, and Theo. The coming war will surely test the strength of childhood bonds...

• The divide between Draco and his father means Draco is becoming his own person as opposed to following in his father's footsteps. Draco finds himself striving to be a little more like his mother, and a lot more like himself.

The fire of rebellion flourishes inside him, but how far can he go before the flames grow out of his control?

The Not So Useful & Sort of Silly Headcanons:

• Crabbe and Goyle are not as thick as some people (*cough* Harry *cough*) perceive. Vince is a Transfiguration whizz-kid & Greg enjoys art.

• Pansy Parkinson falls in love very easily, but also very quickly moves onto her next meal -- ah, her next fixation.

• Mad-Eye Moody enjoyed a very relaxed year of his retirement from 1994 to 1995, with absolutely no home intrusions or attacks from dark wix.

• Lucius Malfoy has an unhealthy obsession with white peacocks. Especially his prized darling, Bartholomew Armand Malfoy the Third.

• Dobby has a cupboard specifically for storing all of his socks at Hogwarts.

• Professor Burbage had a groovy flower-power phase in the 70s.

• Harry sometimes finds himself talking to Draco's embroidered portrait on the Black family tapestry at Grimmauld Place.

• Erik, Nikolaj, and Katrina embark on a journey across America after graduating from Durmstrang. In their travels, they may discover many things...

I'm sure there's more! But here's what I can think of off the top of my head! 🥰💕

[hondafuckingodyssey]

X-men Apocalypse

So I've been watching through all of the x-men movies in my post deadpool & wolverine madness, and I've felt compelled to write my thoughts on some of them.

I genuinely do not remember liking this movie this much the first time I saw it. I think maybe I just know all the characters better this time around? I was just trying to run through them all before Multiverse of Madness the first time I saw it, and my heart wasn't really in it I think. I did so much more screaming at the television.

Like when they head to Alki lake, and I kept getting more and more excited, because I couldn't remember if our sweet baby boy was in this one. And he was, and he fucked shit up and it was amazing, even if he did look silly with that thing on his head.

I think I love the fight sequences in this one the best. Like, fundamentally the thing with the x-men, is that they work as a team. They get together and fuck shit up, and work with each other's strengths and weaknesses. And I felt like there were a lot of little moments like that. Kurt bamphing his teammates out of danger. Hank freeing up Scott so he can blast the bad guy. Jean letting Logan out of his cage.

And there's that moment when they're standing there at the door with Logan, and it's a little weird because they're all kids for now, but it's like these are all people who are going to love each other some day. (Cause in the comics Logan has slept with all three of them.) And at the time that seemed really touching, ok?

And the big last battle had me with tears just pouring down my face. The way they all work together. Ohanna X-men means family, and family means nobody gets left behind. The way Storm is just broken when she realizes that's her hero down there, and she switches sides. And then Erik throws those big chunks of metal down in a giant X. And then Erik and Storm and Scott are all shooting their attacks at him at once, and I'm yelling at my tv for Jean to get the fuck out there and kick his ass. Whoo. Good fight. Peak X-men.

Mildly annoyed at the way they threw Moira in there. Like all she added to the story was a veneer of heterosexuality. Let the old men be gay. And if you're going to throw a token straight human in, give her something more interesting to do for fucks sake.

Also, if you were to explode all of earths nuclear weapons in the upper atmosphere I'm pretty sure you'd start a nuclear winter. Or did they just go up there into orbit or something?

[keijislove]

Flirt: Erik Lehnsherr X Xavier!Reader

WARNING: Terrible pick-up lines + Charles being an ass.

Five times you’ve flirted with Erik Lehnsherr and the one time he flirted back.

1st time:

You were Charles’ younger sister and the day he introduced you to a friend of his, Erik Lehnsherr, was the day your life turned around. This handsome stranger piqued your interest at once and the fact that you were to train with him made you feel the necessity to make friends immediately.

That was the first time you’d ever flirted with anyone. It sort of just tumbled out of your mouth when Erik held out his hand for you to shake.

“Is there an airport nearby, or was that just my heart taking off?” you blurted.

You immediately went red in the face. Erik was looking mildly confused and rather taken aback by this welcoming gesture and Charles was trying his best not to laugh his ass off.

“That wasn’t – I didn’t-” you furiously began muttering, “No, I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me. I’m, uh, Y/N. Y/N Xavier.”

“Erik Lehnsherr,” he replied, the ghost of a small smirk gracing his amused face.

You wanted to kill yourself.

2nd time:

The second time you flirted with him was after you’d become slightly close and this time, it was completely deliberate.

Your training session had just gotten over and you were getting fairly good at combat, you just needed practice (A/N: your mutation can be whatever you want it to be 😊)

“Nice job, Xavier Jr,” Erik patted your head in a mocking way.

You scoffed before saying, “I hope you know CPR, because you are taking my breath away.”

Erik’s face morphed into one of those adorable confused looks he had and you giggled slightly, saying, “Deal with it Lehnsherr, I’m not gonna stop anytime soon.”

3rd time:

This one was after you’d almost gotten full control of your powers. As Erik smiled at you with a, “Nice job,” you smirked before walking up to him.

“Are you a camera? Because every time I look at you, I smile.”

Erik groaned slightly, “Why do you always do that?”

“Why indeed?” you mysteriously asked, disappearing to find your older brother leaving this poor man perplexed.

4th time:

By this time, you were a professional ‘flirter’ when it came to Erik. You were surprised how quickly your brain came up with cheesy pick-up lines whenever you saw him or spoke to him; they would simply tumble out into the conversation.

To say Erik enjoyed this was an understatement, though he’d rather die than admit it, he enjoyed the attention you gave him and your ridiculous attempts to flirt were extremely amusing.

This time, it happened during the last training session you were going to have.

You grinned at him from across the room before walking over and saying, “Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk past you again?”

At this, Erik scoffed, saying, “You have a whole entire encyclopaedia full of these and none of them are even good.”

“What, you don’t like my pick-up lines?” you feigned hurt, pouting.

“They’re embarrassing,” Erik rolled his eyes.

He flashed you a smile that made an icy wind whip at you: realisation.

You were absolutely whipped. And you had it bad.

5th time – the one he flirted back:

You had stopped flirting with Erik. You were absolutely and irrevocably in love with this man and he probably thought of you as some silly girl. Or worse, his best friend’s younger sister.

Yeah, seemed like that was all you were to him.

The night before the incident in Cuba, you had been acting very strange, and Erik had noticed this. Usually, you were the one who made everyone laugh when something saddened them like a training session gone badly or someone’s powers grown out of control.

Yet today, when the next day each and everyone of you was going to risk their lives, you sat quietly in the corner, subdued and announcing to go to bed at seven o clock.

Sean had followed you to your room and smirked at you, saying, “Someone has a crush.”

“SSSSHHHH!” you whisper-shouted, clapping a hand to his mouth, snapping, “How did you find out?”

“Oh, it was really hard,” Sean sarcastically said, “Totally not because of your heart eyes when you look at him or how you blush whenever he speaks to you or, oh! Almost forgot – how you’ve been flirting with him since he arrived here.”

“Shut up!” you yelled frantically, scared someone would hear.

“I’m just saying, maybe try telling him?” the freckled boy asked, “I don’t like this new, sulky Y/N all that much, I want the old, happy Y/N who is a complete sasspot and is always cracking jokes.”

“Aww Sean, thanks,” you giggled, pulling him in for a hug.

“Ahem,” a voice sounded from the door. Erik Lehnsherr had just appeared into your bedroom.

“Oh, Jesus,” Sean muttered, pulling away and walking up to Erik, saying, “Don’t kill me dude, we’re just friends.”

You threw a furious look his way and said, “Sean’s being an idiot, can I help you?”

“Yes, I wanted to talk to you actually,” Erik frowned slightly, “You’re not yourself these days. Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing is wrong,” you muttered, “I’m okay.”

“You realise this is the first conversation we’ve had when you didn’t use one of your terrible statements, right?” he questioned, “I can tell something is off.”

You scowled at him.

“What, no pick-up line?” he asked in a teasing manner.

You took a deep breath.

“I was wondering if you had an extra heart…because mine was just stolen.”

Erik smirked at you, “You know, it’s the basic law of magnetism that unlike poles attract. You and me, we’re as different as the north and south poles. If we kiss, will we stick together?”

Your mouth dropped open. Realising how stupid you looked, you hastily closed it before speaking with an unexpected boldness, “Why don’t you try and find out?”

And he did. And you stuck together perfectly. Forever.

A/N: Whoo, I hate myself :)

Also, I'm half British, and we write the spelling as 'realise' with an 's' instead of the z. I noticed some confusion among my readers for the same, so I hope this clears it :)

[catcorsair]

christine gets caught in the rain of her way to the theater (late for her voice lesson) and when the phantom sees how soaking wet she is he let's her change into some of his clothes so she doesnt catch a cold :)

Mildly smutty stuff continues under the jump! Very silly fluff (who even am I?) 

Enjoy!

––––

“Erik, I will do no such thing!” she exclaimed, frowning incredulously at the man sitting opposite her in the warm interior of their shared brougham, as it teetered down the uneven cobblestones of the Rue Paix.

But he was already taking off his cloak; the luxurious black cashmere swept about his shoulders in a gesture of refined majesty, remarkably contained within the confines of the swaying carriage. He had come upon her walking in the mild Summer rain, alone and without a cover as she headed for the Opera––following her at several paces behind in a cab, as was his oddly-endearing inclination––and insisted she enter the carriage. Now he stared at her with alarm.

“Christine, you are soaked to the skin. I will not tolerate your becoming ill on my account, just because I allowed your girlish whim of walking to the Opera––”

“We will be there in less than a moment!” she protested, laughing mildly at her companion’s serious expression, at the concern etched across all the visible parts of his severe face. “Angel, really––you must stop treating me as an invalid. It was only a spot of rain. There isn’t even a chill in the air––”

Undeterred, Erik thrust the cloak in her direction. “Christine, undress. This instant,” he said gravely, and dutifully averted his eyes.

Christine sighed as she collected the garment from his outstretched hand; he gave a low sound of approval as she took it from him. Still staring down at his lap, in a chivalrous attempt at preserving her modesty––though quite superfluous, frankly, as the man had already seen and sampled all the secret parts of her long before––Erik raised a hand to block his gaze, and repeated, “Christine, off with it, before you catch pneumonia!“

Muttering wordlessly, Christine started on the neat row of sodden buttons down the front of her walking dress. She was well-accustomed to the overly-attentive concern of her tutor; though sometimes unavoidably grating, she knew Erik meant well, even if his expression of it was perhaps over-the-top.

And so she had learned how to counter it, when necessary.

“I’m taking off my top, Erik,” she said quietly, as the wet fabric fell limply to her side.

Eyes resolutely downcast, her companion muttered, “yes, yes, on with it––”

“I’m taking off my skirts––”

“Faster, child!” he urged her, rapping his cane impatiently on the cabin floor, “before the damage is done!”

She peeled away another wet layer. “I’m taking off my corset, Erik––” she breathed, and now there was something soft and measured in her voice, as garment after garment flopped at her side and about her feet, “I’m taking off my stockings––”

He gave a low grunt in lieu of civilized speech, followed by an odd, strangled breath.

“Erik, I’m taking off my soaked panties––”

“Good, good,” he said absently, though his long fingered hand had curled into a tight fist atop his knee, and his every breath came loud and labored from his lowered face. “Right, Christine, stop wasting time––on with it––”

And then for the coup de grace: Christine slid a hand down her naked front and whispered throatily, “oh, Erik… I’m still so very wet…”

Now the yellow gaze darted urgently upward, as a short breath pushed raggedy from his slack and hanging mouth. Before him Christine sat, fully naked, upon the gently-swaying carriage bench, bare breasts moving sinuously with every bump in the road; Erik stroked the root of his cane in a senselessly obscene gesture, as his tongue darted over his thin lower lip.

“But the cloak…” he said stupidly.

Christine tapped a slippered foot in feined impatience and stroked at the fine cashmere, balled up on the bench to her side, atop her own soaked garments. Then, smiling wryly, she spread her thighs just enough to make the Angel cough inelegantly, and teased a fingertip over her bare thigh.

“Driver!” shouted Erik suddenly, urgently, without releasing Christine’s steady gaze. His fingers clawed at his trembling knee. “Driver! Stop here––pull over right here––damn you, man, pull over!”

Without looking back over his shoulder at what he did, he groped for his purse in his breast pocket and brusquely flung the entire thing behind him, through the chauffer’s payment window. “Make haste! And get out of the carriage for––”

“Several minutes,” offered Christine, as her finger slid between her thighs.

“––for several minutes,” he echoed, numbly. “Take a walk about the block––”

“Monsieur?” came an incredulous voice from the front of the brougham.

Erik rapped at the little window with his cane and hissed, “go, imbecile, before I throttle you! By God, man! Something has come up––”

Now Christine winked at her dumbfounded Angel, her gaze darting knowingly over his lap. “Go, Monsieur,” she added, leaning forward to slide her fingertips over the straining bulge of her companion’s groin, as he gave a shuddering groan at the touch, and his cane clattered to the carriage floor between them, “something certainly has…”

––––

Thanks Anon! This was a very specific prompt! (I love it!) I think I managed to squeeze most of what you wanted in there… <3

Just FYI––I’m not working on these in any sort of order, just whichever strikes my fancy! So I’m not skipping prompts, I just haven’t gotten there yet. 

Feel free to keep sending me prompts y’all… I’m too stressed to work on anything I am supposed to (the virus is pretty bad where I live) and I’ll likely keep slowly plodding along with these for the bulk of the quarantine (or until the baby is born!) :)

-Cat

[frostbeees]

which hockey player would you make a voodoo doll of, what is your favourite historical aesthetic and what dumb silly hockey controversy that does not really matter would you like to happen next

oh these are very interesting questions.

voodoo doll... erik johnson. and okay so hear me out. i would only want to use it to like mildly inconvenience him on a daily basis not like injure or torture just bc i think it would be entertaining just to get a rise out of him by like making his left ear itchy all the time

give me ancient greece all the way! long flowy dresses, intricate gold designs, art

and i’m not entirely sure what you mean? like make up a dumb controversy that i want to happen? or a repeat of one that’s already happened? i’m gonna go with a repeat and say that i just want more Canes win celebrations!

[mxliv-oftheendless]

Green Wounds, Ch. 6

Alright, we’re back with Green Wounds! I gave you guys a short filler that ended on a bit of a cliffhanger last time, but I promise this’ll make up for it! At least, I hope so lol. I’m actually seriously excited for you guys to read this chapter; it’s the first thing I wrote for this story, and it’s quite possibly my favorite scene out of the whole dang thing. I really really hope I did this scene justice, but I guess I’ll find out. Also on a side note, this picture is my favorite so far lol I love it.

Now without further ado, read on and enjoy!

All manner of folk came to the baby prince’s christening, even a trio of pixies who sought to foster peace and goodwill.

The christening had been wonderful so far for all parties. Gifts had been given for the baby prince throughout the day, and at the moment a crowd of people from all over the kingdom was gathered in the throne room, dressed to their finest, while King Ace and Queen Jeanette sat on their thrones. Off to the side, on a lower platform, was a bassinet, and inside the bassinet was the baby prince himself.

He was a month old now, so it was still a bit too early to figure out where he had inherited most of his traits from, but most people who had seen him said he looked rather like his mother. He was a bit small for a normal baby, but other than that was healthy and happy. His parents had named their newborn son Eric, and Eric had spent most of the day either dozing or blinking up at the people who looked at him.

Many in the kingdom had left gifts for their new prince. But there were those who had decided to bestow gifts from outside the kingdom as well.

Tiny male voices floated into the room, and the King and Queen, as well as the crowd, looked up as three pixies flew into the throne room, dressed in pink, green, and blue. Two of them, the pink and blue pixies, seemed to be bickering, while the green pixie was looking around in fascination.

As they flew closer to the King and Queen, the green pixie’s eyes fell on the cradle, and he grinned excitedly. “Look, there’s the baby!” he said to the other two, pointing to the bassinet. “I love babies!”

“Yes, I know, Erik, but concentrate, please,” the pink one said to him. “I’m not telling you again.”

Queen Jeanette smiled welcomingly at them as they hovered in front of the thrones, while King Ace gave them a look that seemed rather… impassive.

The pink pixie, who seemed to be the leader, went first. “Greetings, Your Majesties. I am Vinnie of the Moorland Fair Folk.” He bowed to them.

The blue pixie went next, also bowing. “I’m Tommy, Your Kingship… and, Queenship.”

The green pixie bowed next. “And I’m Erik, Your Royalnesses.”

Queen Jeanette looked at him. “Forgive me, but your name is Erik?”

Erik looked rather surprised at being directly acknowledged, but after getting a gesture to reply from Vinnie he bowed his head again. “Uh, yes… ma’am. Erik with a ‘K’.”

Queen Jeanette smiled slightly. “How funny—that is the name of our son.”

The pixie now was incredibly surprised. “Really?”

“Indeed… though his name is Eric with a ‘C’.”

Erik smiled. “Huh,”

Queen Jeanette turned to her husband, who was still looking silently at the pixies. “They bring gifts for our son, I believe,”

“We do,” Tommy said, smiling eagerly. He made excited gestures with his hands. “But these are not just any old gifts. For you see, we are magic!”

“And very good with children,” Vinnie couldn’t help but add.

King Ace seemed to be considering how to reply, and for a moment the pixies wondered if he would turn them down. But then he nodded and waved his hand. “Very well. Go on.”

The pixies grinned at each other, then flew over to the bassinet. Vinnie went first, smiling down at Eric and waving his hands, sending wisps of pink magic over the baby boy. “Sweet Eric, I wish for you the gift of kindness,”

He flew to the side and let Tommy go next. Twisting blue magic cascaded over the prince. “My wish is that you will never be blue, only happy, all the days of your life,”

Last to go was Erik. He smiled eagerly and let light green magic curl around his hands. “Sweet baby, my wish for you, is that you find—”

He never finished.

A powerful gust of wind tore through the room, blowing out all the candles and making the chandeliers groan and creak as they swayed dangerously above everyone’s heads. Grey clouds rolled over the sun, dimming its cheerful light and throwing the throne room into a light shadow. The powerful wind threw some of the people off-balance, and the three pixies were forced to grip the edge of the cradle so they wouldn’t be blown away. Cries of fear went up.

Then a dark shadow appeared on the wall, and footsteps echoed through the hall along with the constant, rhythmic tap of a walking stick. The cries died down to shocked, fearful murmurs as the crowd parted to make way for the surprise guest and the inky-black cat that followed at his heels.

Despite his best efforts to stay calm, Ace’s entire face went pale. In her throne beside him, Queen Jeanette could only stare blankly, though she was looking rather intimidated. The eyes of the three pixies widened and they whispered in panicked voices, “Starchild!”

A few more steps toward the thrones, and the dark figure came into the partially-dim sunlight.

It was indeed Starchild. Compared to the humans surrounding him, the faerie was perhaps of average height. But what he lacked in stature he made up in appearance. His paper-white face, the black star over his eye, and his blood-red lips all made for an off-putting look, combined with the look of cold, mild amusement on his face, as though the fear of the humans was simply rather entertaining. He wore all black—a black jacket with silver-studded collar and cuffs over a black and silver very-low-cut vest, black leather pants, and black platform boots that raised him up a few inches, all underneath a long black cape that showed off scatterings of silver glitter when he moved. In his left hand was his black walking stick, the constant echoing taps making everyone go silent. His entire appearance gave off a sort of poise and terrifying elegance. His cold eyes, which were fixated particularly on Ace as he approached, had a gleam of sinister anticipation—he’d made the right choice in choosing to bide his time. He’d been waiting so long for this day, and right now, it felt so much better than it would have been if he had just destroyed everything at once.

Not that he planned on doing that at all, however. Oh no; he was going to make sure everything Ace had worked for his entire life would slowly and systematically crumble.

When he had neared the steps to the platform where the cradle was, he finally stopped, with one final echoing tap of his walking stick. Starchild kept the cold look of amusement on his face. “Well, well,” he said pleasantly, as though this all was simply mildly yet pleasantly surprising. He let a sinister smile creep onto his face as he glided up the steps, his cape trailing behind him and Peter following.

“What a glittering assemblage, King Ace.” His tone was clearly mocking, and the fact that he was speaking directly to Ace made Queen Jeanette’s head turn to look at her husband. Peter jumped up to sit on his shoulder, and Starchild raised a hand to idly stroke his fur as he looked around at the crowd in pretend-interest. “Royalty, nobility, the gentry, and…” He turned to see the pixies by the cradle, Vinnie trying to glare at him. His smile widened, now having a tinge of genuine amusement, and he chuckled. He’d been wondering where the three pixies had disappeared to. “How quaint,” he sneered. “Even the rabble.”

Tommy and Erik sank down slightly, lowering their gazes, while Vinnie bravely stayed where he was.

Starchild turned from them to look back at Ace, and very nearly frowned. His face was still pale, and he looked afraid… but not afraid enough.

Starchild raised his head and projected his voice so that it echoed throughout the hall. “I must say,” he kept his voice light, full of faux-concern, “I really felt quite distressed at not receiving an invitation…” he trailed off, blinking innocently at Ace, as though to imply he wanted an explanation.

Ace finally spoke. “You’re not welcome here.” His voice was curt, but too quiet to be actually threatening.

The expectant look dropped from Starchild’s face, replaced by a look reminiscent of a kicked puppy. His eyes lowered, and he let out whimpering noises, as though he were about to burst into tears.

Then the look flipped into one of cruel humor, and instead of crying, Starchild smiled and began to laugh sinisterly. “Oh dear,” he chuckled. “What an awkward situation…”

Queen Jeanette leaned forward, her face still one of fear. “But you’re not offended?” she asked Starchild, her voice sounding slightly hopeful. Despite how much he was enjoying himself, he felt a quick pang of sympathy for the woman. She couldn’t be blamed for all this, and unlike her husband, she was afraid simply because of his frightening display. It wasn’t her fault she was married to such a horribly selfish man.

But even so…

Starchild turned to her, laughing lightly. “Oh, you silly dear,” he smiled sweetly at her like she was a cute little girl, “of course not. And to show that I bear no ill will… I, too, shall bestow a gift on the child.”

At that, Ace shot to his feet, now as afraid as Starchild wanted him to be. “No! We don’t want your gift!”

Peter hissed at him, and surprisingly, it made Ace fall still as Starchild glided over to the cradle.

“Stay away from the prince!” Vinnie demanded as he neared.

Tommy and Erik flew back up again. “Yes, stay away!” Erik echoed.

Starchild smirked. How adorable. With a simple flick of his hand he sent the pixies flying across the room into a small ornate chest, the lid slamming over them and trapping them inside.

Peter jumped off his shoulder onto the cradle’s canopy, and they both looked down at the baby boy lying inside. He stared uncomprehendingly back at Starchild, making the faerie wonder if he even knew what was going on… or what was about to happen.

Starchild stared at the baby for a long moment, letting out a remarking hum. It was the ever-so-annoying conscientious part of him that was making him pause. Are you really so cruel as to curse a little baby? it whispered, sounding desperate. He’s done nothing to you. It’s Ace you want to harm. If you do this, there’s no turning back.

But then Starchild thought of his wings. His beautiful black wings, the wings he’d never thought to cherish more until he no longer could. The wings that had been ripped away by the man who told him he loved him, all so he could have some meaningless crown on his head.

Starchild lifted his hand and made a slow circular motion in the air, deep purple magic swirling around his fingers. “Listen well, all of you,” he proclaimed, his voice echoing once more. He waved his hand so that waves of the deep purple magic cascaded over the baby boy. “The prince shall indeed grow in grace and kindness… beloved by all who meet him…”

Queen Jeanette, who had stood up alongside Ace, spoke again, perhaps in an attempt to mollify him. “Th-That’s a lovely gift,”

Starchild raised his head to glance at her, then turned his eyes to Ace. Ace shook his head at him, not quite pleading, but still rather desperately. “Don’t do this,” he begged, his voice so low only Starchild could hear.

How funny; he assumed he had a say in the matter.

Starchild raised a finger and pressed it to his red lips, almost playfully. Then he turned to straighten up and step away from the cradle. This was where, to use the human phrase, the other shoe would drop. And oh, would it drop.

But as Starchild turned his head, something in the far corner of the room caught his eye.

It was a spinning wheel, pushed haphazardly into the corner, but placed in such a way that the spindle still caught some sunlight. The tip of the spindle gleamed especially brightly.

Starchild almost grinned as his plan changed. He thought his original plan had been good… but this was even better.

“But…” He stepped away from the cradle so he was in the center of the platform, and lifted his arms. Deep purple magic trailed after his hands and enveloped his body like flames as his eyes gleamed the same purple. “Before the sun sets on his sixteenth birthday, he will prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel, and fall into a sleep like death! A sleep from which he will never awaken!”

A wave of the purple magic left him and traveled over to the baby boy, washing over him as his curse began to bind itself to the infant.

Whatever pride that had kept Ace from outright pleading was now gone. “Starchild, please don’t do this! I’m begging you!” He sounded incredibly desperate now.

Starchild’s mouth quirked up in a smile. Now that was the reaction he’d been hoping for. But now his mind was turning again. Perhaps he could work with this…

“I like you begging,” he remarked to Ace, his enjoyment in his voice. “Do it again.”

For a moment, Ace hesitated. His eyes left Starchild to look out at the now-silent crowd, who had been watching the entire thing. He didn’t particularly want to kneel, Starchild knew.

He was about to repeat his command when Ace slowly sank down to his knees. His eyes flicked briefly to the men watching from the side, before gazing at him imploringly. “I beg you,”

Starchild smiled wickedly at him. “All right,”

Hesitant relief came to Ace’s expression, but it quickly vanished when Starchild spoke aloud again. “The prince can be woken from his death-sleep. But only by…” he stared right at Ace, “true love’s kiss.”

He turned to look out at the crowd, raising his arms above his head. “This curse will last to the end of time!” he declared, his magic coiling tightly around him. “No power on Earth can change it!”

The magic exploded, flying out over the crowd and sending many to the ground. The crowd screamed in panic as the floor rumbled and the clouds outside darkened until they blocked out the sun’s light completely.

Grinning widely, Starchild walked briskly down the steps and left the hall, Peter bounding after him. He was sure he would never forget this day—it had turned out to be so much better than he could have possibly hoped. Intoxicating joy surged through him, and he threw back his head and began to laugh as he left the hall. It was a loud, wicked cackle that bounced off the walls and bore into the skulls of all who heard it. As Queen Jeanette raced to the cradle to check on her son, Ace stayed where he was, watching Starchild strut away, cackling loudly and carelessly.

And his laughter was all Ace could hear as Starchild swept out of the hall and vanished.

[thekrazykeke]

Title: Smash into You

Fandom(s): Black Panther, MCU

Permanent Taglist: Click here to be added.

Relationship(s): Erik x reader. M’Baku & reader.

Summary: You are not the result of your experiences, you are the result of what you choose to do with them.

Warning(s): Alternate canon divergent, world building, slow pacing

Tagging:  @hairhattedhooligan @lucidaquarian @tntnv @keya168 @ohmyfuriosa @supremethunda @melannchoholic @lauureeen @elaindeereads @autumn242 @punkrockwxnnabe @palmsofgranate @strawberryscat @wikiwakanda @lovemekaycee @managingmischiefdaily @gothambrat @babybluepeaches @redvonlace @chaneajoyyy @princessstevens @muse-of-mbaku @wakanda-inspired @bidibidibombaclaat @blackpinup22@thadelightfulone @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove @blackpantherimagines @theunsweetenedtruth @itsmegabaminooo @donut-crazs @theesotericqueen @enigamaticaprodhite @kvng-kyi @wildeespirit @my-my-15 @golden-girl1 @thadelightfulone @iamrheaspeaks @curls-and-crosses @bonita-juanita @yourfavoritefavorite @kristabella98 @mychemicalimagines @queenof-wakanda @izraahh1

Shout out to @yoongisbadgyal for creating those gifs of Michael B. Jordan as a smol bean, there really isn’t any made of him in his younger years. More’s the pity. Anyways~ I’m really sorry that it took me so long to update the next chapter in this series, especially so early on. Finding the right balance between just enough and no more has always been my downfall.

Hope you guys enjoy!

Part I Part II Part III

~

California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation 7717 Edgewater Dr. #200, Oakland, CA 94621 1/23/1994 9:34 A.M.

Erik hated this place.

Truly hated it, the way the fluorescent lighting made everyone’s complexion looked grey and washed out. He hated the uncomfortable chairs that dug into his back and caused him to move about restlessly, attempting to find a space or area that would lessen the tension in his upper body. 

He hated the way people eyed him with passive indifference, seeing him but not really looking, too lost in their own suffering and issues. The sight of the adults, grieving or angry parents, with their children. Some of the kids were either older or younger than he is, and already, he can see the beginnings of jaded disillusionment in their eyes.

He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, to tear this institution, this, this, this box, this cage down brick by brick--

A hand on his shoulder, warm and firm, brought him out of his wandering, dark thoughts. Looking up, he sees it’s Uncle James, and his features are deliberately trained to be impassive, Erik can catch a small glimpse of concern in his gaze, if only because he’s looking for it. 

It is this singular look that makes him calm down, or at least, attempt to. 

Breathing in deep, he held the breath for a few seconds, thinking of the long hallways in the castle, the markets and the people that come streaming in from all the tribes, how he’s never apprehensive and he can trust them to reach out to him, without worry of them aiming to hurt. He remembers the beauty of the Wakandan sunset and how his being warms from the inside out. Releasing the captured breath, he opens his eyes partially, and he’s found his center. He’s calm again. 

Just in time, too.

He sees the officer bring his mother into the room where the other prisoners sit, talking on the phones with their families or loved ones. Uncle James removes his hand from his shoulder, likely sensing the positive turn in his demeanor, and Erik strides over to the empty chair.

Picking up the phone, just as she does, Erik’s lips quirk into a smile and allows his gaze to soften a tad, his adoration and love for her, visible for her sight only. “Hi, mama.” 

Pointedly, he ignores how she’s lost even more weight than the last time he visited her. He ignores the fact that her hair has lost it’s vibrancy and shine, and now is dull, lifeless, probably falling out a little. He doesn’t take in the fact that she can barely sit still, even though she’s only just sat down. 

“Hey, baby.” 

He ignores the wispy, absent-but-not-fully-gone tone in her voice, and he ignores how she scratches at her elbow and neck. Because he knows that she’s taking some drug, maybe even a cocktail of them, just to get through the day, to function with a broken soulmate bond. 

Yet he doesn’t utter a word. 

The last time he’d brought it up, she’d...she’d completely flipped. Logically, he understands that the drugs make her verbal filter nonexistent and warped her personality but the things she’d said to him that day still hurt. It hurt even more because the next time he’d visited, she’d been sober enough and hadn’t remembered, hadn’t realized. 

And he was too weak to say something. 

So instead he tried to remember her a few years ago, before...

Before everything changed, before his father died and she was arrested. 

...Sometimes it even worked. 

The visit went okay. Erik talked about vague things, like his studies and the friends he’d made. Occasionally, he had to repeat something or neatly redirect the conversation to a different subject when it seemed like she’d bring up something about Wakanda and that was definitely a big No™.

“I love you, Erik.” His mother said suddenly, her eyes fixing on his with startling intensity. He paused mid joke, staring at her. “I-I-I know I’m no good--”

He couldn’t help but interject. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m not. I used to be, but...” Those simple words hurt so bad, and then she shrugged, scratching at her scalp. “I’m just not, baby. And I’m sorry.”

“Mama...”

“You shouldn’t come here anymore.” The words wooshed out of her, practically tripping over themselves as she said them hastily, clearly she’d been wanting to say this for awhile yet. 

Erik felt frozen. Glued to his seat.

“I know you’re just checking in on me, because...because you’re worried.” Bolstered by his silence, she continued talking. “But, Erik, that’s not...you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’re going to do great things, I know it. Your...your daddy knew it, too. Our little prince out to spread his vision across the world,” her voice broke slightly. “He...he was very passionate about that. So much that I couldn’t help but get caught up in his dreams, his wish for you.”

“Mama...” Again, he tried to speak up. 

“And it’s earlier than I’d like but I know it’s for the best, too.” Straightening up from her slouched position, she looked at him straight in the eye and Erik wanted to recoil from her gaze but he couldn’t. 

Couldn’t turn away from her gaze if he wanted to. 

“You can’t have a future if you’re constantly looking behind you and fantasizing about the past.” 

The words are like arrow bolts, hitting him dead center in the heart. Eyes welling up with tears, voice choked. “I’m...I’m not.” His words are quiet, hoarse, and although he tried to control himself, a tear squeezed out of his eyes anyway, dripping down his cheek. 

Her own eyes watered in response, but she managed to keep it together. Barely. “You are.” Her voice gentled even more. “We both know I’m not getting out of here. Not without a miracle.” Twenty five years to life, that’s the sentence the judge had given her. “I don’t want you to come here anymore.”

“And I’m telling you that I’m not just gonna abandon you!” His words are sharper than he wanted them to be, and Erik mildly regrets his tone when she flinches, just slightly. “You’re my mother. I don’t care what you did, I don’t care what you’re saying right now. Mama, I’m sorry if it makes you angry, but I ain’t giving up on you.” 

The officer is calling for her now, saying that it’s time for her to return to her cell. Erik doesn’t think twice, he places his hand on the mirror, looking at her, begging her with his eyes. For a moment, she just stares and then slowly, so slowly, her hand touched the mirror too, right over his.

Don’t give up on me. On us. On living.

“You’re so stubborn,” she sighs into the phone, voice slightly wobbly. “My silly little princeling.” 

The nickname makes something in him ache but he ignores it. 

“It’s my best trait and I get it from my mama.” 

His words cause her to smile, and she looks years and years younger. The officer calls out to her again, almost halfway to her by now. Not once does she take her eyes off of him, even as she slowly hangs up the phone, placing it almost gently in the cradle, and then she mouths three words to him.

Erik mouths the words back. He doesn’t look away from her for a second, not until she disappears behind the door, presumably on her way back to her cell. And even then, he just sits in that plastic little chair, feeling triumphant and exhausted and too many other emotions to name. His mother had, in so many words, begged him to forget her, to live his life without thinking about her. Yet he couldn’t do it. 

No, that’s wrong, he wouldn’t do it. 

Erik didn’t intend to give up and refused to let her give up on herself either. 

[tessatechaitea]

Teen Titans Spotlight #10: Aqualad

Who s the head that looks like a shark? Starfire?

Nine issues into Teen Titans Spotlight On and it's better than I remember. It seems to have run for 21 issue but I definitely didn't buy the entire series. My guess is that the last issue I bought will turn out to be Teen Titans Spotlight On: Cyborg before I became unwilling to spend the extra 75 cents per month to keep up with the series. I'm actually surprised I didn't dump it with Aqualad but then this issue was written by John Ostrander so I can see why I didn't mind picking it up. I have no memory of ever reading it though. The artist is Erik Larsen of Savage Dragon fame. I assume he's famous for that even though I've never read it. I'm only a fan of Savage Dragon in that he's the only Image founder who stayed true to the premise of Image Comics, drawing and writing every issue of his creator owned comic book. Obviously he didn't have to do that to stay true to Image's manifesto. But he certainly would have needed to pay anybody who worked on his book royalties on any characters he created. Just like Todd McFarlane should have done and eventually failed to do but then was finally forced to do by the courts. Because sometimes people believe the ideology that backs their effort to make more money and sometimes people just want to make more money.

Garth to his adoptive parents: "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck yoooooooouuuuuuuuuu!"

Garth has awoken in dark water unable to remember how he arrived at this point in his life. When you awaken from a blackout submerged in water, how do you know if you've pissed yourself? Garth could probably taste it with his super powers. I don't know what Aqualad's super powers are but what good is an underwater superhero who can't tell if some kid pissed in the pool? If that were canon, I'd finally stop claiming that Aquaman is a useless member of the Justice League. Garth finds himself in the throne room of his real parents, King Who-Fucking-Cares and Queen Whatever. King WFC is shooting everybody he sees with his finger guns because he's convinced they're going to kill him. And Queen Whatever, pregnant with Garth, believes everybody is trying to kill her baby. So I guess I now relate to Garth being that we both had a paranoid mother and an alcoholic father? And I can probably taste pee in a pool too except I've never tried! Because, thinking about it for even a second more, that's probably not a super power. Being able to taste pee is just part of the human condition. Jericho and Nightwing show up to kill Garth's dad. Jericho possess Garth to do it because that's hilarious.

Judging by the art, I guess this is supposed to be comedic?

Nightwing and Jericho kidnap Garth's pregnant mom. Garth tries to stop him but he can't because he's just Aqualad. Also because he gets sucker-punched by Cyborg.

The voice my brain read this panel in makes me think my brain is racist.

No wait! It's not my brain's fault! It's Aqualad's prejudiced perception of Cyborg! He's obviously never met Cyborg or else that panel would containt three "Booyahs!" and be super boring. Instead it's mildly interesting due to its exposure of Aqualad's bigotry! If I didn't love John Ostrander's work so much, I could have blamed the stereotypical black voice on him. But I know better! He's a true writer which means it's canon that Aqualad is fucking racist. Aqualad blows Cyborg to bits because Cyborg is just like Robotman and Red Tornado. It's fun writing stories where they wind up dismembered because it doesn't kill them. Next Aqualad runs into Changeling who's doing an impression of Jon Lovitz's pathological liar character, Tommy Flanagan. I didn't remember that's the name of the character. I used Google! Sometimes I want people to believe I know things I totally didn't know to make me look smart. But other times, I want to make sure people don't think I knew stupid bullshit that makes me look like a fucking asshole. So I guess the entire tone of this comic book is supposed to be humorous and surreal. It was hard to tell if Nightwing and Jericho threatening to kill a pregnant woman was funny because they were drawn in a goofy way or because threatening pregnant women is just inherently funny. See how you're thinking, "Is it funny? I don't know about that." I get it! You need further proof. Like that panel above where Garth shoots his dead square in the face! Sure, I found it funny! But I know not everybody is me. So for further proof, let me introduce "Cyborg's racist caricature" as further evidence of how wildly hilarious this comic book is! No, still not convinced? Well, the Gar bit has to convince you, right?!

What's funnier than an impression of a Saturday Night Live character?! Yes, yes, I know. But The Office didn't exist in 1987!

Some of you might not have read Teen Titans Spotlight On: The Changeling so you might be wondering, "What the fudge is going on?!" Well, for those people who didn't read my commentary for that comic either, Aqualad has been captured by Mento. He's being mentally tortured right now. Oh! Mentioning Mento, I just realized that maybe Aqualad isn't racist! Of course he knows how Cyborg speaks! It's Mento who doesn't understand the Titans and thinks of them as caricatures! He's providing the totally racist and not-at-all funny and super aggressive dialogue by the other Titans!

Weird. Mento totally nailed Wonder Girl's vibe.

I feel better now that I've concluded Garth isn't both useless and racist. While trying to save Tula, Garth learns from Mera that everybody who ever died did so because Garth couldn't save them. He finally breaks down and screams, "Nooooooooooooo!" Which I guess was the secret to breaking Mento's hold on his mind! Garth wakes up in a small aquarium to see Mento jerking off in his wheelchair. Catching him unawares, Garth is able to use his sea creature telepathy to take control of Mento's helmet. I could explain how it all makes sense since Mento and Garth explain it all but how much detail do you really need? It's a fucking comic book, people. As soon as you flip open the cover, you should be ready to buy into whatever lit-slop the writer shovels into your brain mouth. In Aqualad's fantasy for Mento, we learn that Garth might not be racist but he's super ableist.

This comic book should be framed and hung on Ethan Van Sciver's living room wall.

In the mental battle of wills that follows, Garth and Mento learn that each of them has lost their greatest love. The suffering they share breaks their mental link and Garth's prison shatters. While Garth feels pity and sympathy for Mento, Mento feels only anger that Garth would learn of his weakness. He curses Garth with a mental command that if Garth ever returns to Steve Dayton's residence, his body will believe it's been out of water for three hours and he'll instantly die! How come Grant Morrison never remembered that bit of continuity and used it to kill stupid Aqualad in a later book? Teen Titans Spotlight #10: Aqualad Rating: C. This was an average story about an average character. The theme was grandiose but I don't think Ostrander managed to convey the emotion of it with all the silly hallucinations. It was called "Scar Tissue" because it was about grief and opening oneself up to be available for healing even if it also opens a person to more pain and suffering. Garth is on the road to healing while Mento is covered in scar tissue. It wasn't until the very end where any of this becomes obvious and by then, I'd already been turned off by Changeling's Jon Lovitz impression. I mean by the sexism and racism!

[operas-phantom]

Hello down there!

:))

[killmvnger]

What You Need (Part 4) / Part 3 / Part 2 / Part 1

Killmonger/Black!Reader

Warning: Sexual content, use of n-word

Summary: You didn’t go to the club to find a man, but you sure as hell leave with one.

You rolled up the oversized sweatpants on your hips, folding the waistband over a few times so the material didn't drag under your feet. The jersey hanging loosely on your body, you tucked into the sweatpants so that it wouldn't look like a dress. He had the good grace to let you shower, providing you with toiletries and hair-care products that he said you were in dire need of. You squinted at his bold use of the word dire. If your hair was fucked up, it was his fault for ruining all the time you took to install your expensive ass wig. He had stumbled through the bathroom door with an armful of random hair products, saying something about his cousin needing to stop leaving her shit everywhere.

You were just about done fixing your hair when you heard a door slamming and then a chorus of 'ayy's.

You thought he was joking about the cousin thing, at first. For ten whole minutes, you laughed at him, rolling your eyes and hitting his shoulder insisting that he stop playing with you. But the proof was in the mysterious neon blue tattoo inside his mouth, the Wakandan letters sticking out and shocking you. You remembered watching the news on the day that King T'Challa announced the real treasures that lied within Wakanda, the vibranium and money, and brilliance. Then, you started reading up on Wakanda more, desperate to learn the customs and cultures that you otherwise wouldn't usually be interested in. You wondered if any of your family had somehow survived peacefully in the country if there was a separation between anyone while the slave trade happening. You'd often be around the new resource centers that they placed in Oakland, learning and sometimes just watching.

Now you're about to meet King T'Challa, the Black Panther, in huge sweatpants and without makeup.

Hesitantly, you tip-toe out of the bathroom, looking left and right through the huge hallway, then following the distinct sound of bickering. Your heart raced faster the closer you came to the disembodied voices, the more clearly you could hear that beautiful accent that you've only heard on television. As you continued down the hallway, you came to an opening which led to the largest, most lush kitchen you've ever seen. But you couldn't appreciate it now as your hands were shaking and the beginnings of sweat began to form in the pores of your forehead.

You could see the backs of their heads from your place in the hallway, sitting on the kitchen stools talking about God knows what. He's shorter than Erik, but he radiates this undeniable power, this authority that's as gentle and kind as it is biting and firm. You're stunned at his casual wear - a denim jacket with a black v-neck and basic jeans with black Jordans.

You were so lost in your analyzation of T'Challa that you didn't hear Erik say your name. He called you again, louder, and you jumped, almost bumping your head into the wall.

"You need to learn to be more sneaky, this shit getting embarrassing," he comments off-handedly as you get yourself together and walk into the kitchen, eyes stuck to T'Challa who was already staring at you. Awkwardly, and because you don't have a single clue as to how you could address him, your arms cross over your chest. The king laughs at you, mimicking your salute before sticking his hand out for you.

"Pleased to meet you." He says. The smile on your face is so big that it hurts. You rush to put your hand in his, shaking firmly, hoping he doesn't acknowledge sweaty palms.

"Likewise, Your Highness." You gush. He chuckles more at the obvious fangirling you were doing. Distantly, you think you hear Erik suck his teeth.

"It's okay. You can call me T'Challa." He takes his hand back once realizing you weren't eager to stop holding his.

"Okay, T'Challa. I don't mean to interrupt your conversation or anything, but there's just so much I want to ask you and talk to you about, ever since I first--"

Erik clears his throat too loudly. You ignore him.

" -- Since I first saw you on the news as the Black Panther fighting against--"

Hands grip your waist and pull you away from T'Challa. You finally break and glare at Erik. He looks mildly annoyed.

"Please, ignore his silly antics, I imagine it cannot be esteeming for him that your beautiful eyes have not yet given its full attention to his whining." T'Challa jokes. You blush pitifully, purposely avoiding Erik's eyes on you as you're blatantly flustered over his cousin.

"Nigga, watch your mouth. You may be the king, but you can still catch these hands."

T'Challa turns to you, smirking. "He thinks he's intimidating because he almost threw me off a waterfall."

Your eyes widen. Okay, family issues on one thousand.

"And I could've if I wanted to! Don't forget that shit. Flip-flop wearing ass bitch."

"I'm wearing sneakers!"

"Because you know I banned yo ashy ass feet from this house. Don't even think about taking them shits off, bro."

You're standing awkwardly in the middle of their bickering, so you carefully slide away towards the refrigerator. It's stainless steel and stocked to the brim, of course. You turn back to the island where they're still arguing.

"T'Challa," you call sweetly. He turns with a smile. "Would you like a drink?" You ask, gesturing to all the options inside the fridge. T'Challa places his hand over his heart dramatically.

"You have shown me more hospitality than 'Erik' here ever has, probably in his life." He gets muffed on his head by an annoyed Erik. "No thank you, beautiful, I should be on my way now, actually. Shuri wants to visit some amusement park."

"A'ight, bro. Tell Ri-Ri to bring me back a funnel cake."

They give each other a brief side-hug, in which you hear T'Challa whisper something in Xhosa to him. His eyes flicker to yours and back again, saying something else with a smile. He may be the king and all but this switching language has you feeling targeted. You realize that you were right when you suspected him speaking in a different language in bed, he's Wakandan, of course, he knows Xhosa. Erik replies out loud, so you could hear.

"Esi si cwangciso." He winks at you and you know it's just to rile you up because you don't understand him. You eye him suspiciously because he has that look on his face, the one that screams 'I know better than you', the one that made you want to kick his ass.

"Ndiyayithanda. Musa ukuphazamisa oku." T'Challa says, then walks over to give you a hug as well. You gladly accept though you're a bit wary because they could be talking about anything. "Hopefully, I'll see you again." He says and gets another blush out of you.

"I hope so."

"Okay, damn, get the fuck out." Erik sneers, interrupting yet another moment that you wanted to have with your literal hero. T'Challa rolled his eyes at him, waving you goodbye as he left the kitchen. You stared after him in awe, never breaking from your stupor until the front door shuts closed. When you finally relax and turn around, Erik is glaring at you.

"If I had known you had this weird hero worship thing with him, I would've told his ass I wasn't home." He comments. Your mind is still reeling.

"How are you two related? He's so..." You begin, then decide to let the thought fade out of existence once you see his expression. "It's not like I'm tryna flirt with him or anything," you walk up to him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't look too convinced, which was ridiculous considering you've let him keep you at his house after what was supposed to be a one-night-stand, you're wearing his large clothes around his house, and you've held your tongue multiples times when you had the opportunity to curse him out. What kind of girl would do all of that just to flirt with his cousin a couple hours afterward? Judging by the suspicious look on his face, apparently a few girls.

"Really?"

"Of course not, Erik. I wouldn't flirt with him right in front of you, I was waiting for you to use the bathroom or something!" You joke, laughing at his betrayed face. He tries to grab you but you run out of his reach. "I'm playin', c'mon! Trust me, if I wanted T'Challa instead of you, I'd be out that door following him. You know I'm not one to waste an opportunity."

"You was smiling a lil too hard."

"He's a king!" You justify. There's no way he expected you to mindlessly accept the fact that you were in the presence of black royalty. He's lucky you didn't ask for a picture like you really wanted to do.

"So? I'm a prince. You ain't trippin' over that."

"Aww," you settle closer to him and pinch his cheeks, "T'Challa was right, you just want a little attention." He flicks your teasing hands away from him.

"Attention? You couldn't ignore me if you tried." He pulled you in for a kiss. You smiled into the kiss before pulling away. It's like you had completely forgotten about all your plans on leaving, deciding to enjoy your time with him as long as possible. "That reminds me. I left your phone on the end table in my room. It's charging."

You laugh, pulling him back to your lips. The kiss lasts a few seconds, but it's sweet and solid. "I'll let it charge then. Tell me about you and T'Challa."

"Long complicated story." He huffs, looking too put off just by the mention of it to even dig into whatever happened. You shrug and move to sit on the stool beside him.

"Give me the short uncomplicated version. You can't just parade your royal superhero cousin around and not say anything. I don't care about the weird waterfall business, gimme the good stuff."

He looks away, hiding a soft smile, then turns back. "Okay. Good stuff only."

You lock into him as he begins his story, hanging onto his every word, filling in the blanks as well as you could. He spoke of his brief American life in the slums of Oakland before being taken to a place he's only ever fantasized about, being granted his fairy tale life and moving into the royal palace of Wakanda at only seven years old. He didn't linger on specifics, like his parents or his relationship with the previous King T'Chaka. He spoke of the mutual hatred that he and T'Challa shared for his first couple of years in Wakanda, how T'Challa was this spoiled brat that knew nothing of real pain. He didn't elaborate on that pain. They eventually grew on each other, though obviously the bickering never stopped, and as the years went on in Wakanda, Erik began feeling more and more like an outsider. He left when he turned eighteen, returning to America to attend MIT. Instead of returning to Wakanda, he joined the Navy Seals - for reasons he also didn't enlighten you on.

"And, what, you just decided to link up again after all those years?" You ask. He shrugs.

"Something like that. I told him to do more for America and...well, he opened them fucking resource centers." He scoffed, looking so personally offended that you didn't even wanna open that door. "But that shit's over with. All this," he gestures around him. "It's my inheritance as the 'prince' and shit."

"It's...a lot."

"Girl, don't act like you'd know what to do with millions of dollars in ya bank account. Probably fuck around and buy the entire section at Yves Saint Laurant because you can."

Oddly specific. "Is that what you did?" You laugh at his guilty face.

"Mind ya business." He replies, but you're already standing up and pulling him towards his bedroom.

"Oh, my God! Show me your closet, I gotta see if you really this damn foolish." He reverses the directions you're going in, pulling you this time.

"Nah, my bedroom closet is my everyday clothes. I keep my good stuff upstairs." He smirks and you squeal happily.

"You rich ass motherfucker! Two closets? Fuck you, oh my God."

"Hate is an ugly emotion, baby girl." He teases, which you hit him for. He drags you to the staircase that you noticed when first walking into the house and starts rushing up.

"Nigga, ain't nobody hating on you..." you say, but even you hear the obvious lie. "Okay, maybe a little bit. But you have two closets!"

"Three." He mutters under his breath but you still catch it and kind of want to kick him. Once you reach the top of the staircase, the hall splits three ways, but he continues pulling you forward to the middle. He guides you through a wide marble tiled hallway, stopping at the third door down. This door was different than the rest, it was doubled and had frosted glass with a golden lining around it. He opens it and you stand there slack-jawed.

You could barely call it a walk-in closet. Does it even count as a walk-in closet if the entire room is a closet? Another chandelier dangled in the middle of the room, shining down on a variety of shelves, cabinets, drawers, and mirrors. You walk in after him, admiring how tidy everything was. He must have a maid around somewhere because this house seems to be spotless in every nook and cranny. He opens a random drawer, revealing a collection of watches all lined up inside, all of them either Rolex or Cartier and glittering like the inside of a treasure chest.

You squint up at him once a certain thought crosses your mind. "I bet your third closet ain't nothing but shoes." You accuse, knowing just how niggas like him think. He has a goofy smile on his face that highlights the gold caps in his bottom row of teeth as well as those dimples you like so much.

"You already know. But that baby sealed with a vibranium forcefield and it only opens to my voice." He explains and you roll your eyes. Too much, as usual.

"This whole place is ridiculous." You mention as you walk towards his shelves, inspecting the folded stacks of dress shirts and varieties of ties.

"Oh, this ain't even half of it."

"For the love of God, do not show me the rest of this house, I will never fucking leave. Seriously. You'll get sick of me." You chuckle at the idea of just up and settling in one of his many rooms.

"How you livin' now?" He asks, his voice is much closer to you than before.

"Uncomfortably cramped with my two best friends in an apartment. The ones you referred to as 'sloppy'. That's Casey and Aaliyah. We've been together since grade school." You confess. He doesn't know much about your personal life, and after hearing all about his crazy one, you doubt he'd be interested enough to ask. Just thinking of your girls made you anxious to talk to them again and tell them about your day. You had an itch for your phone again. You turn around to tell him as much only to jump back in surprise at him being right behind you. He steadies you and shakes his head in amusement.

"I'll drive you back." He offers.

"Thanks, but you don't have to."

"It wasn't a question."

He spoke to you like certain things were a given like this was normal. It seemed all too good, especially with your track record of men. You didn't want to get too real with him only knowing him for less than a day, but you needed to know why he was acting like this, allowing you to invade his personal space and hear about his otherwise disclosed life. So, in a moment of insecurity, you look up at him with curious eyes and a stone-faced gaze.

"Erik. Why are you being so nice to me?"

He recoils at the question, visibly confused.

"I'm being nice?" He says the word like he's never heard it before in his life. You cross your arms.

"Yeah. I'm not gonna cry if you kick me out if that's why you're afraid of."

"Damn, do niggas be kicking you out?"

You continue on, ignoring his question. "I know you aren't nice, I can tell. You don't have to pretend with me to uphold whatever royal image you're trying to keep." You go on.

"Okay, you've obviously dealt with some 'ain't shit' niggas. I understand that. What I don't understand is why are you questioning a good thing?"

"Because it's too good." You reply too quickly. He smirks, sliding in closer to you.

"Oh, I'm too good?" He licks his lips. You groan, silently wishing he'd stop being so cute. His arms snake around your middle and pull you into his body. "I never heard a girl complain that I'm too good."

"You know that's not what I meant." You pout, staring up at him. He leans down to kiss your pouty lips.

"You never know when to shut up and let things happen." He responds. The comment stings a little because it's true and you know he's right. You sigh and wrap your arms around him, too.

"Only when I'm drunk." You snort.

"We could fix that with one trip to the kitchen," he suggests and you slap him away from you.

"Hell no, I'm not drinking ever again...until next week." He shakes his head at you. "C'mon, take me home. I'm not paying for your premium ass gas. In fact, you owe me money for ruining my underwear."

"Mhmm. How much you want, baby?" He asks, backing you into one of his dressers. You slightly hesitate at the mention of a specific price. You've never been put in the position to ask someone for money and, in a way, it felt wrong, like you shouldn't take anything from him. But he'd only insist if you didn't answer him. He noticed your awkward inner conflict and lent down to kiss your neck. "Let things happen." He whispers before swiping his tongue against your skin.

"They were really expensive, daddy," you moan out indecently as his hands move down to grab your ass.

"Bout a hunnid?" He asks, pulling you up to sit on his dresser as he kissed your neck. You shake your head, smiling.

"Five." You state boldly, half expecting some type of uproar. He just hums in approval, pulling the large jersey out from its tucked place in the rolled sweatpants. His hands slip inside the shirt, feeling up your stomach to your chest.

"Five hunnid? A'ight, show me how much you want it." He orders you and you two quickly fall back into your cycle of sex, except this time he was fucking you on top of thousands of dollars worth of clothes and jewelry, which somehow made it even hotter.

The drive back home was faster than you would've liked. You and Erik had been having a good time rapping along to his old school rap playlist. He was even somewhat impressed with your extensive knowledge of old school rap. When the car stopped in front of your apartment complex, you huffed and turned to him.

"This is me." You state. He nods. "I guess, I'll see you later?" You ask him.

"Definitely."

He grabs you by your neck and pulls you into him across the armrest, giving you a deep, passionate kiss that leaves you breathless. You almost don't wanna pull away, but you have to get back home, so you slowly come up for air and rest your forehead against his.

"Getcho fine ass outta here before I change my mind." He threatens. You smile as you unbuckle yourself and exit the car. He waits until you're through the front door of the apartment complex before driving away and you're left with a permanent smile on your face and fresh hundred dollar bills stuffed in your purse.

Esi si cwangciso - That's the plan. Ndiyayithanda. Musa ukuphazamisa oku. - I like this girl. Do not ruin this.

(Should she trust him, though?)

@sweettea-and-honeybutter  @coldcrevices  @nakh-es  @shesfromwakanda @nyxieso  @jaaystaar95 @tiava143 @lafayettes-baguettes-1 @tenxouttanine @ashleychristina73 @panthergoddessbast @artpoetx @im-not-always-a-jellyfish @thehomierobbstark @muffytheaardvarkslayer  @k-michaelis @yung-glvdn-goddess @localtrapgod  @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @pumpkinmcqueen  @lalasparkles @princessstevens @maya-leche @coldcrevices @youreadthatright @buttercup812 (sorry if I missed anyone, thanks for the love & support)

[statticscribbles]

BD: Mother’s Day

Summary: Cherik helps Peter make mother’s day presents

“Peter really it’s alright you don’t need to do anything if you don’t want…” Charles and Erik assure him and Peter looks mildly offended.

“She’s my mom.”

“Yes but..” Erik doesn’t say it, but Peter understands when he looks to his broken arm.

“She won’t; it’ll be fine…” He shrugs off his father’s concern, his latest training session had gone a little badly; he had been a little late in timing and when Logan had thrown the portion of the wall that Hank had ripped through Peter hadn’t moved in time. Well he had, he’d gotten Raven out of the way but himself was another matter.

“We can help if you..”

“NO! Uhh, No thank you. I want to do it myself.” His face is pink at his own outburst and Erik nods, simply leaving the card making supplies on the table.

“I know it’s a tradition but I think Madga will understand…”

“Let him try Charles, it’s tradition for him to make her at least the card on his own. We can help him with the gift then…” Charles seems pleased but laughs a little, no doubt having seen whatever Peter is endeavouring to give his mother for mother’s day.

Peter emerges later that day, card addressed, his writing only slightly slanted, but the way he hovers after dinner lets Erik know he needs his help.

“Yes?”

“You remember the photo album you helped me design?”

“Mhmm, do you want another one? I didn’t realize we had that many photos of your mother…”

“No, just, something similar, if you’re available.”

“I’m always here to help you Peter.”

“Even if I’m going to boss you around?”

“Especially then.” Erik laughs as Peter pulls out the picture, and the base frame.

Peter wakes up frantic in the middle of the night stumbling into their room in a way he hadn’t since he was little.

“Peter?” Erik grumbles and Charles is asleep, despite his gift he’d always been a heavy sleeper.

“I forgot to make one for Raven!” He sounds terrified, Erik sighs relieved they’re not having a repeat of the time he got a stomach bug, and he slides out of bed deliberately trying to wake Charles. It doesn’t work and  he brings Peter down to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and some food while he decides to help him with whatever last minute gift he’s decided Raven will appreciate.

“You’re almost eighteen you know; you don’t need to do this every year..”

“I didn’t, not for Raven; I haven’t done it in a while; but ever since Kurt showed up she keeps looking at him weird.”

”Weird?”

“Like how Hank looks at you and Dad, like he’s miss- no like he’s lacking something, like whatever is happening in front; anyways; I wanted to do something nice for her; like I used too..” He shrugs a little and Erik nods, surprised that Peter hadn’t caught on exactly who Kurt was. He’s confused at Peter’s request, it seems so simple, everything needed is nestled in the lab and the actual gift comes together in a few moments. Peter thanks him and Erik want’s to ask more before he can, Peter pulls him into a hug.

“I know it sounds silly, but she never wears anything in all her forms, each time she changes there’s nothing of who she was.” Erik nods still interested to see how Peter will explain it to her.

Magda spotted them when Peter had come in trying to hide the cast his arm was in. She’d teared up a little which had worried Peter more than Madga herself had been worried.

“I don’t see how it’s necessary.” Magda doesn’t bother hiding her smile.

“Well he would have tried to make one without our help; and I can imagine the rest of the house would have made a production out of it. I would rather not have my carpets covered in glitter. Again.”

Magda still has tears at the edges of her eyes from the card and Peter’s hug. She doesn’t say anything about how excitedly he’d screamed Mama before looking around the cafe embarrassed. A few people were smiling at all of them as they sat and ordered lunch.

“And your present!” He reminds her when they’ve finished lunch. Madge grins opening the box he’d pushed across the table, careful to avoid the plates that had yet to be cleared.

Madga’s staring at the picture; she knows it’s one Charles had captured. Her and Peter laughing, their faces locked in the same expression, Erik looking awkwardly at both of them, pie dripping off his face. Peter hadn’t stopped smiling for the rest of the day, Magda knows, much to their annoyance she’d cemented April fool’s day as the best day in history in Peter’s mind. The framework is Erik’s doing, but the design looks like something Peter and her were talking about the last time they had lunch together. It’s a soft shimmering metal, Madga can tell that much, having been with Erik means a basic level of metal types. The knotwork and winding spirals look even better than what she was trying to describe to Peter, the intricate braids and stitchwork from her grandparent’s blanket. She’d shown him the blanket in pictures; she didn’t have it with her; it had been lost when she left. Peter repeatedly asks her where it was lost. She doesn’t tell him, she can’t, not yet he’s too young and it’s too fresh for her; so she assures him she just left it in her attic.

Magda finds the blanket with a letter a week later. It’s Peter’s scrawl and assurance that he’d found a friend in high places that could take him to where Charles told him never to go. Magda meets Kurt Wagner two days later and he’s grinning looking sheepishly at the blanket and the floor instead of her eyes. He apologizes but that it meant so much to Peter he thought it would be okay, he offers to take it back to the building he found it in but she just asks to go in its place. She prays in her family’s home for the first time in years.

Raven doesn’t say anything when Hank hands her the card; she turns it in her hands. She recognises Charles’ writing but there’s no need to send her a letter when he’s a telepath and they’re in the same house. She opens it, and Charles can’t help but smile at the warmth and happiness that’re pouring out from her in waves. Peter’s grinning from where he’s hidden behind the couch, waiting to surprise her with the actual gift.

He frowns a little, he wasn’t expecting his aunt to cry at just the card and he’s worried the present will be too much. He hesitates but steps forward grinning when he runs to her and she pulls him into a hug.

“That was so kind Peter and- What’s this?”

“A present! Papa said if I gave Mama one I’d need to give you one too!” Raven nods glancing back to make sure the card, the drawing of her and Peter is still there. She’s curious now and when he offers the bag towards her she carefully sits down with it, to unfold the tissue paper.

A thin black ring is nestled under the mountain of tissue paper and she recognises it’s like the one Peter wears on his thumb.

“It’s a mood ring! It changes colours with how you feel! Kinda like how you can change!”

“Oh, it’s very pretty, thank you.” She slides it on over one of her fingers.

Peter watches her after missions, whenever she’s not in her natural form, he looks for it. The mood ring usually doesn’t fluctuate from the blue green of content. She notices sometimes it will change when she’s around Hank but he’d explained it as a temperature change, not an actual mood sensing device.

Peter thinks he caught her, she’s in her preferred human form, the blonde one; she’d been grocery shopping and Peter watches as she drops the form, his eyes focused on the scales changing on her hand, watching as they flicker under the ring, like always. He’s yet to catch her taking it off or faking wearing it.

Support My Writing?

[theairportau]

the airport AU, part 120 by rjdaae and hopsjollyhigh

Previous parts: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100 101, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09, 10 111, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19

CHRISTINE

Darius turns, and, still smiling, Christine hurries to follow. Despite their destination, her feet feel much lighter. The path towards the checkout counter still stretches ahead with all the uncertain promise of a frozen lake—but despite her worry, it doesn’t crack underfoot, and each step forward reassures her about the ones to follow. By the time the small cluster of cash registers comes into sight, Christine has changed her mind about leaving the skirt. And when Darius suggests that checking out would be a good opportunity to practise her French, her relief is nearly complete.

She nods in quick agreement at the idea, trying not to look *too* grateful as she says, “Yeah, I ought to try to do it myself. First, at least."

As they join the checkout queue, she keeps herself from looking too closely at the items that line it. The owner at her old shop had once gone on an improvement kick and read a few books on the psychology of store design; Christine remembers how the older woman had explained it to her and the other girls: the way the items closest to the register are chosen to snare the attention of people waiting in line, to entertain them until their turn at the register—and to hopefully accompany them there. Her arms already full—and unwilling to test her conscience any further—she finds it entertaining enough to simply watch Darius.

It strikes her suddenly how *normal* the moment is—shopping in a mall like anyone else, without worrying too much about what she’s buying; waiting in line with a friend, the way her old co-workers probably did whenever they’d gone out together. Darius laughs as he crowns her curls with the large, almost-silly hat, and the laugh she gives in return is as comfortable as if he were her own brother instead of someone she only met days ago. When the cashier calls him away, she nearly wishes that she’d chosen to stay with him instead of checking out on her own.

In the handful of moments before the other cashier beckons her, Christine’s thoughts go to Erik: Darius essentially *is* family to him, but she doubts that he’s experienced even a handful of such moments himself.

Even as she feels certain that the bright, noisy, crowded atmosphere of the mall would hold any  appeal to Erik, she wishes that he could somehow be there with them—that he could just have a piece of this *feeling*.

The cashier is older than the girl who offered to help her before—a young man with sandy hair, who smiles and says something cordial-sounding as Christine hands her bundle of items across the counter. There must be some uncertainty in the nod she gives in response—or maybe a nod just isn’t a fitting answer to whatever he has said: without missing a beat, the cashier speaks again, this time in what she knows enough merely to *recognize* as English.

"Oh, non,” Christine says, her tone apologetic, “je ne peux pas parler en–an–anglais; je suis *suédoise*.” Though he seems mildly surprised, the cashier gives an understanding smile, and a nod of his own, and continues with ringing up her purchases.

The rest of the transaction goes more smoothly than she might have hoped. Even when she hands the cashier €100 more than necessary, it only takes a moment for her to make herself understood; along with the actual change from her purchases, she’s able to add a manageable mix of tens and twenties to her wallet.

Zipping her purse back up, she gathers up her bags with a sincere, “Merci!”

“Bonne journée,” the cashier nods pleasantly, before turning to wave over the next customer.

Darius is already waiting by the door—the other cashier having moved through two other transactions in the time it took for Christine’s own. As she walks up to him, she pulls the jacket out of its bag, shrugging it over her shoulders. It clashes with the dark green knit of her dress, but neither the dress nor the mall itself is overly warm, and now that she’s found such a lovely jacket she wants to *wear* it. Besides, as the cashier counted out her change she’d gotten an idea.

“I’m ready to go,” Christine says brightly, tugging at the front edges of the jacket to straighten it. “I decided to get the skirt after all, so I don’t really need to buy any other clothes at the moment. Before we go, though, could you do me a favour?” Shifting the bags in her other hand, she digs her phone out of her purse. “Could you take a picture of me in it?”

---

DARIUS

Darius can’t help the excitement that washes over his face at the idea of taking pictures. “Of course!” he exclaims, and ushers her over towards a quieter corner, where he has he stand a few feet away while he takes at least ten different shots of her standing in her new coat, even pausing at one point to brush a piece of lint off of her collar before backing up again to take a few more. “You should show that kind old woman you talk to,” he says happily. “If she doesn’t use computers, we can even print them out and mail them to her, it’s plenty easy to do that, it just takes a little longer… that should be enough pictures for you to take a good one. But wait,” he says, moving his hand as she goes to retrieve her phone, “we should take a couple together! Here, come stand next to me!” He ushers Christine close to his side and holds the phone up to take a few more photos, beaming into the camera. It feels wonderful, to be out with a friend and doing something so normal. He hasn’t had a friend close to his age in such a long time. He’s used to the malls and the crowds, but only ever alone, feeling somewhat out of place as packs of teenagers roam together and families hold hands walking down the aisles. It really makes a difference to be with somebody. Khan doesn’t like going to malls or anything like that- if he needs anything, he goes directly to the store he wants and directly home. It isn’t often that an outing is actually fun. He passes her phone back to her after a few pictures. “I want to at least show you what the surface looks like around here a little bit,” he says. “Not exactly a tour of Paris if you don’t even see sunlight. There’s a park right nearby, we can drink a coffee and have a snack there, it’s getting close to midday,” he says, leading them back into the flow of people, headed up towards the mall’s exit.

---

CHRISTINE

A few yards away, the interior of the store is hung with over-sized images of sleekly-dressed models, elegantly showing off jackets and scarves and dresses of their own; in contrast, Christine practically trips forward into her impromptu photo-shoot. She isn’t exactly *surprised* by the whirlwind that replaces her friend the moment he hears the word ’picture’—but she hadn’t been *expecting* it, either, and it takes her a moment to regain her balance as he darts around with her phone. If she feels unsteady for a moment, though, it’s a *good* kind of unsteadiness—like the dizzy reel of a carnival ride; as he snaps her requested pictures, there’s no need for Darius to remind her to ‘smile’. (And no need to ruin the pleasant moment with attempts to explain the intricacies of what Mama does and doesn’t know.)

Christine trusts Darius, and is content when he pronounces that the pictures he’s taken should be enough; is happy just to have those few photos, and reaches to take back her phone with a grateful grin—only to be knocked off balance yet again.

She follows Darius’ gesture to his side, her eyes darting upward towards the phone as he turns it to face them; their smiling faces beam back from the glossy screen, and, in her own eyes, Christine can catches a flash of the surprise that hasn’t yet faded. The image seizes, freezing for a fraction of a second, the moment imprinted instantly on the memory of the phone, and by the time Darius is able to hit the button a second time Christine’s smile has grown even brighter.

She’d forgotten how *fun* it could be, just taking pictures with a friend.

When he finally *really* returns her phone, and they begin to walk again, it’s all she can do to put her phone back in her purse instead of immediately looking at the photos.

“I’m *ready* to go out there now,” she says cheerfully, gesturing at her new jacket, “And maybe I’ll actually *get* to see some sunlight this time!"

Luckily, the nicer weather from earlier that morning has held, and Christine and Darius emerge from the mall into a crisp, clear autumn day, the sun reflecting like gold against the yellow trees.

Every which way she looks, her eye seems to land on interesting things, places that she’s never been or seen before. Leaving the glass-paneled facade of the shopping center behind, Darius leads her up a narrow road that traces the edge of an expansive construction site; the mall had seemed massive to begin with, but now Christine realises that the building they’d been inside must be only the first phase of a much larger project, the yet-in-progress development sprawling across a cluttered lot on the other side of the fence that lines her and Darius’ path. On the opposite side of the street, a great Gothic church rises up before them, like some sort of ironic counterpoint to the newborn modernity of the shopping center. Christine cranes her head back as they step over the toes of the great building, which Darius points out as L’église Saint-Eustache, her eyes drawn to meet those of the gargoyles that stare down from the soaring limestone edifice.

The walk to the park ends up being both longer and shorter than she would have guessed; Christine could have spent hours walking down that sett-paved street, and still she would have regretted its eventual end.

That isn’t to say, though, that the *park* is a disappointment to her when they reach it: lying in the shadow of the magnificent dome of the Bourse de Commerce, it’s a comparatively simple space, consisting mainly of a sparsely-treed stretch of grass broken up by a number of paths and raised benches—but after days of seeing only stone and asphalt, the autumn-dulled green of the patch-worked lawn seems like a special marvel.

Here, too, there are signs of on-going construction and renovation. She supposes that the location of the park must make it a popular one in milder seasons—but a fair few people are scattered across the grass and benches even now, clearly determined to enjoy the break from the rain; across the way, through a cluster of shrubbery, she hears the sounds of children playing.

Darius knows his way around here as well as he has everywhere else he’s taken her, and before long they’re standing in line in a small cafe at the edge of the park, with the plan to grab a snack and drink to carry out and enjoy in the open air. With her newly-changed money, there’s no hassle for Christine as she orders and pays for a pastry and tea. Stepping aside to let Darius make his own order—and to give a moment for the harried employees to work their way through the rush of midday customers—she’s finally able to spare the attention to look back at the new photos of her phone..

At the first sight of the ones of herself with Darius, Christine feels the tug of another smile pulling at her face; it only warms further as she scrolls through each photo—thinking of a day when her phone might hold many such pictures, each a happy memory between herself and her friends.

As much as she’d like to devote more time to that pleasant thought, though, there’s something she needs to do; she hadn’t asked for the pictures for no reason. Flipping backwards through the photos, she finds those of her on her own—standing against a blank wall outside the H&M, happily swathed in her new grey jacket. Quickly, she weeds through them—brushing aside the first few, her eyes too-wide and shoulders hunched awkwardly; another in which she’d blinked; another taken in the middle of an answer to something Darius had said. She finally settles on one of the very last pictures to be taken: her pose neutral, relaxed but for the fingers caught twisted in the faux-lambskin trim of the jacket, her smile bright and proud.

The interface of the phone is thankfully very intuitive, and it only takes a moment or two for her to figure out how to attach a photo to a text message.

'Hej, Erik! Hoppas det går bra idag. Också—tack för min ny jacka! :)’

As she hits ‘send’, she feels a familiar flicker of worry that she might be disturbing his rest (even if it seems incredibly unlikely that he would still be *asleep* at such a late hour). But even more than that, she wants to *include* him in the outing in some way—and how better than to remind and thank him for his own contribution to it?

---

DARIUS

For Darius, watching Christine is more fun than watching his surroundings. He’s used to Paris by now- the commotion and the construction, flocks of tourists and locals trying to get through. Tehran had been similar, in that way, at least. It was busy. He knows that Christine’s experience has been quite different, and her pale eyes seem wonderstruck. He can almost see the workings of her brain, trying to process so much sensory information. It must be overwhelming. He is confident in where he’s going- in this area of the city, at least- so he doesn’t need to pay that much attention to anything else.

He’s definitely feeling hungry, though, and is grateful when he sees the familiar cafe set up on the edge of the park- a bit overpriced, but nothing more than one would expect in a touristy area. He absent-mindedly orders a drink with a shot of espresso, and a slice of pumpkin bread to eat at one of the benches, his attention still mostly on Christine, who has moved off to the side to wait for her order. When he turns fully to the barista, prepared to give her his money, he pauses, and smiles. Her sleeves are rolled up, and brilliant tattoos of translucent jellyfish flow up both of her forearms; he looks up at her and mentions them, telling her that they’re lovely as he passes his payment over to her.

She smiles in return. “You got any?” she asks, tapping numbers into the register almost without looking at it, with the ease and experience of someone who has worked in the same place for a long time.

Darius shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no.”

She doesn’t ask for further explanation; just smiles and goes about making his drink. He walks over to Christine and touches her arm lightly, gesturing to the barista with some enthusiasm, unaware that she’s texting Erik.

“I like her tattoos. It’s so interesting, what people put on them. I wish I could get one sometimes,” he says, mostly for the sake of making idle talk as they wait for their drinks and food.

Khan’s sleep is plagued by nightmares- the inescapable feeling of bones crumbling and cracking under his hands, no matter how tenderly he attempts to touch something; a young man’s face, unnaturally blue with bulging eyes, blood just managing to trickle out of his mouth, which is wide open in a noiseless scream- hardly more than a child, but Khan’s hands are on him, and he knows that this boy will never make another noise. No screams, no laughter, no last words. It goes on and on- he won’t stop struggling, a beached fish, flailing for his life, and Khan’s relentless grip won’t fail.

He wakes up with tears in his eyes, and lies perfectly still for a long time, breathing heavily and staring at the ceiling. Trying not to think about anything.

Finally, his concern for Erik begins to overtake the lingering traces of his dreams; if he had to take that on, to give sleep to his companion, perhaps it was worth it.

His feet are noiseless on the carpeted floor, and he peers cautiously into Erik’s room, the door still left a bit ajar, just in time to see the screen light up. Luckily, the phone is on silent; in the brief moment of light, he sees Erik’s face near the edge of the bed, his lips just barely parted and his brow relaxed- at peace. 

It isn’t often that he gets to see Erik in any state of peace. He has hardly moved since Khan left the room, still curled up impossibly small in his enormous bed, his breathing still even and deep. The light from the phone, however, also illuminates the angry red irritation of the cut across Erik’s face. It’s not exactly a surprise to Khan- wearing a mask over an injury isn’t an ideal way to help it heal- but he makes a mental note to get a better look at it. There is very little that is actually worth waking Erik over when he manages to fall into a decent sleep. Overall, it’s a relief- it has always been a relief, seeing him manage to relax. Back in Iran, his ordeal hadn’t felt over until he’d seen Erik in a hospital bed, fixed to so many machines but at peace for the very first time. It had been a feeling beyond description back then.

He never could have imagined in those days that years later, he’d still be struggling to get this impossible man to let his guard down and get some rest.

He turns reluctantly away from the door- no good to stand and stare at him, and risk coughing or sneezing in the doorway or something, and wake him up. He shuffles back to the guest room and takes his own phone off the nightstand, figuring that he’d better let Darius know the situation.

I’m awake. Was up late. Erik is doing well. Still asleep.

He sends the text and brings the phone with him to the kitchen, where he sets about preparing food for when Erik wakes up. He won’t get away with not eating while Khan is around.

---

CHRISTINE

“Oh?” Christine looks up with an interested smile, sliding her phone back into her bag. She glances back across at the barista, not having noticed the tattoos in her distraction while paying for her order; though the distance blurs the design ever so slightly in her vision, she can tell that they do appear to be particularly nice. There isn’t time for her to react with more than an appreciative hum, as one of the other employees calls for Christine to come pick up her drink—followed quickly by Darius’—but she turns to him to continue the conversation as they carry their snacks and cups out of the cafe.

“Why don’t you, if you want one?” she asks, pausing a moment to hold the door open with her shoulder as another customer passes on her own way inside. It’s the sort of question that Christine ordinarily might not have asked, painfully aware of how easily the answer might be, “because I can’t afford it”; but she’d spent enough time around her former co-workers to know that tattoos can be had quite cheaply, or even free—and anyway, Darius’ tone doesn’t speak of that kind of concern.

---

DARIUS

Darius directs them to a little wrought iron table to the side of the cafe once they exit, ready for a break after the morning’s shopping. He tucks his bags underneath his chair and takes a long sip of his drink before addressing her question.

“It’s kind of a religious thing? I don’t know. It’s not technically forbidden, but tattoos weren’t really looked on as a good thing when I was growing up. And they’re so permanent, it’s a hard thing for me to commit to. I know Khan wouldn’t approve. Of course, I’m always doing things Khan doesn’t necessarily approve of, but not things that last for the rest of my life. I don’t think I even know what I’d want if I did get one,” he admits, shrugging. “And obviously, Khan doesn’t have any. Erik has one professionally done one, though. He has a big hawk on one of his arms. And he used to do a lot of tattooing himself- it drove Khan crazy, he was always really worried about infections. I was too, to be honest, but he told us over and over again that he’d be careful. I guess that if you use a regular needle and some ink, you can tattoo yourself. Those ones are all pretty much faded away now, though. At least, any that I knew of. He had a Scorpio sign on one wrist, and Sagittarius on the other. He always tries to get Khan to acknowledge astrology,” he says, a bit of a laugh in his voice as he takes another sip from his drink. 

He looks up from the table, and gestures to Christine. “Now what about you, though? Have you ever wanted any?” 

---

CHRISTINE

It surprises her to learn that *Erik* would have tattoos—let alone a professional one; that he would have sat and bared any part of himself to a stranger with a needle in hand. She can’t find anything to say about the revelation, though—her thoughts turning too-easily to the more noticeable aspects of his arms, of his wrists, as well as to the deeper pattern of risky behaviour—and she lets the information pass without comment.

Darius’ question is safer ground. Christine shakes her head as she unwraps the wax paper folded around her pastry. “I’ve never really given it much thought, I guess. They’re really common back home, but, for me, there’s just…always been more important things to worry about. And, I mean, it’s probably better that way, considering the line of work I’m trying to get into,” she grins behind her paper cup.

It’s *nearly* the whole truth. Between scrimping and saving and planning for the future, few things could have seemed more foolish of an investment. Even without those concerns, though, she knows she probably would have kept her distance from any tattoo needles.

When the other shop girls had pricked designs into their ankles, they’d done so with a cluster of friends around to hold their hands and help them laugh through the pain. When her schoolmates had pressed their noses against tattoo parlour windows, making semi-imaginary choices from the flash on display on the walls, they’d been similarly accompanied. Alone–and with no great desire to emulate people who were perfectly happy to leave her on the sidelines—Christine had never really seen the appeal.

But it’s a nice morning, and Darius doesn’t need to listen to her complain about things that are firmly in the past. It doesn’t matter anymore: she’s moved on to more important lessons, and, if all goes according to plan, she need never share a cash register with her former co-workers again.

More worthy of thought are the new companions—the *friends*—that she has found *here*.

---

(Part 121)

[operas-phantom]

Ah, yes.. The Erik Show..

[gold-from-straw]

I tried to write a really silly crossover between the real life actors and the x men characters just to make James McAvoy tease Erik Lehnsherr... and it turned into Charles Xavier being desperately sad and not wanting to leave the real world because Hugh Jackman and Michael Fassbender we’re mildly concerned about him and looked after him.

Apparently i can’t do crack

So this stopped being a murder mystery and started being a quest to dispose of an entirely different body. 

Man, I can’t do any genre the way its supposed to be.