#were those the Charles that decided to be selfish and be with Erik at the cost of everything ese???????

[brainrotcharacters]

"every once in a while I do get a Charles around here" are those the ones who chose Erik?

[free-pool-trash]

happiness - peter maximoff

yay a new peter fic <3 i was feeling a little unmotivated for a few days (since our boy wasn’t in episode 8 at all :/) but im back 😎 although im back in school so i might be on and off for a while 😩✋🏻

!!!it’s not a songfic those lyrics at the start are just my inspo!!!

word count: 5k <3 😳

warnings: maybe swearing but i dont think so i cant remember, peter being sad, angst, but mostly fluff, WandaVision spoilers maybe??? I pretty much made up this plot so idk, endgame spoilers, reader was an avenger, kissing but it’s not graphic😽 probably some mistakes yk how it is

feedback is appreciated <3

tagging: @enchantedcruelsummer (should i make a peter maximoff taglist? let me know and I’ll do it)

masterlist

haunted by the look in my eyes that would’ve loved you for a lifetime

leave it all behind

& there is happiness

Loneliness had always been something that plagued him. That and a plethora of other negative emotions.

There wasn’t a day that went by where Peter Maximoff wasn’t made to feel like a loser. Admittedly, he’d never held himself to a high standard, he grew up thinking that he’d never fit in anywhere and eventually that thought mutated into a lifestyle as he began isolating himself from the world around him, either far too good or heartbreakingly not enough to be a part of that crowd.

He liked spending time with himself. Nobody else knew him the way he knew him, and still, he found nothing but an overwhelming hollow space where his deepest most important hopes, aspirations, dreams and self discoveries should have resided.

Peter had always put this feeling of exile down to the fact that he was a mutant, it was the most likely explanation, right?

It was only when he’d decided to join the X-Men that he finally came to the conclusion that maybe the rest of the world wasn’t the problem, nor was his mutation the problem, but that he himself was the problem. For even in a school full of people exactly like him he was still the same loser that he was in his mother’s basement.

And he was under no illusions that that was exactly what his teammates saw in him; nothing. No potential. Just a space holder to bring the numbers up.

Super speed was incredible. That’s how Peter acknowledged jobs well done, he praised his speed but never himself. He just saved Charles and Erik from a room full of armed guards? No that wasn’t him, that was simply his speed. He saved an entire mansion full of people from a potentially fatal explosion? Nothing special, Kurt probably could’ve done the same.

Forget all of the good deeds and saved lives because the bottom line of it all, to him at least, was that all he was good for was cheeky one liners and hopeless kleptomania.

His life took a turn for the worse when he found himself being mind controlled in an alternate universe. And even then, he was playing the part of someone that wasn’t him, the thought humbled him, reconnected him to his roots and reintroduced him to his life long philosophy that he’d never be anything more than a social pariah. Not even an alternate reality could accept him for who he was. There wasn’t a warm welcome and despite not knowing what was going on, the definition of “imposter” or the weirder, “recast”, still shot to kill.

He settled on the notion that he was an inter dimensional waste of space. At least in WestView he could be blissfully ignorant, let the real him be drowned mercilessly in favour of being an integral part of someone’s life- to feel important, even if it wasn’t real.

When WestView fell apart he was completely lost. In every sense of the word. In a new world with no way home and as it turned out, nobody was looking for him. Although he didn’t expect anyone to care, it still stung that nobody did. He always hoped that one day Erik would step up as a father figure for him, this; getting kidnapped and smuggled into a different dimension, seemed like the perfect moment for that epic father son moment, but it wouldn’t surprise Peter if his father has yet to notice his disappearance.

But then, seemingly out of nowhere, he came into contact with a beacon of hope. A guiding star that might possibly lead him to an existence consisting of something other than misery and self loathing.

It offered him a choice; return to being the self proclaimed loser he was known as or start fresh as someone new and mysterious, with first impressions yet to be made and conclusions about him yet to be drawn. Peter had known himself to be rash in the past, when it came to making decisions he had the tendency to act impulsively, never putting too much thought into how his decisions would affect his life in the long term. The choice before him now is no different, he knew exactly what he wanted going forward, however selfish the choice may have been, the second he realised it was an option his heart was set on it.

That previously mentioned beacon of hope arrived to him in the form of a girl, in the form of you. An ex-avenger and close friend of Wanda’s, you were hired by S.W.O.R.D to help them clean up the more ‘sensitive’ fallout that the fall of WestView brought about. Obviously, they were sticking you- the only other avenger with magik- on babysitting and rehabilitation rather than letting you go after your best friend who had gone completely off the rails. Having said that though, you didn’t want anyone else handling him.

You hadn’t watched WandaVision, nor were you even aware that any of it was going on until it had reached a boiling point and you got a call from Monica Rambeau, she’d begged you to come and wait on the edge of town while she went in and act as her eyes on the outside along with Jimmy Woo.

That’s where you stayed until the hex broke down.

As soon as the barrier came down the base you manned was overrun by an armada of terribly confused and distressed citizens, Monica and Wanda were not among them but in their places stumbled in Darcy and the man playing the role of Pietro.

Jimmy appointed himself to Darcy, who in all honesty seemed relatively unscathed by the situation while you made a beeline for the dirty blonde charading as your former, dead teammate.

Peter was, to put it simply, completely enthralled by you as soon as you’d strolled over to him and in the moment he’d put his almost magnetic attraction to you down to the fact that you were the first friendly face he’d seen upon breaking free of Agatha’s possession.

But one thing in particular struck him; you’d asked him his name. You hadn’t immediately assumed him to be some knock off Pietro, as everyone else had. You acknowledged that he had his own personal identity and despite how often he caught himself hating the person he was, he found that when it was torn away from him that he wanted it back. The simple question you posed gave him the opportunity to regain his identity.

“Peter. My name is Peter.” He answered you, almost unsure of himself and you found your interest in the man piqued even further.

He remembered with perfect clarity the way you’d offered him a grin, tilted your hand, extended your hand and said, “Well it’s nice to meet you, Peter. Come on, I’ll be your babysitter for the next while.” There was something about the way you’d laughed after saying the words and the slight, yet unmistakable, glint of mischief in your eyes that had him captivated from the get go.

With you came a whirlwind of new emotions. After only a few weeks of knowing you, Peter noticed he wasn’t as lonely as he had been back home. He didn’t hate himself half as much either, he wasn’t entirely free of self deprovative tendencies and maybe he never would be, but undoubtedly, he likes himself more in this world than he ever had in his last. He thanked you and your determination to make him “a functioning member of society” for that.

It didn’t feel belittling, the way you helped him. You hadn’t dragged him to your favourite mall every weekend just to taunt him about how he couldn’t stop himself from stealing something. Even the very first time, when he’d sped away from you and returned within a second adoring a pair of freshly stolen sunglasses. Your only reaction had been to laugh and casually place your hands on both sides of his face.

“At least remember to take the tag off next time, speedy.” You’d muttered, subtly pulling the tacky stickers off the arms of his shades. No, you weren’t dragging him sight seeing or forcing him to help you go clothes shopping because you thought he was a loser who needed reforming you were doing it because you were a true friend who wanted him to succeed.

The pair of you seemed like two peas in a pod. Which to be fair, you were. Peter Maximoff intrigued you in every sense of the word. He was new, quite literally other worldly, he was kind, he was funny, he was perfectly mischievous and completely wonderful.

What caught your eye the most was the way he held himself, as if he wasn’t entirely comfortable in his own skin. It became apparent to you that he lacked confidence with the phrases he usually tacked onto the ends of his sentences. When you’d invite him to hang out in the beginning his response would always be something along the lines of, “Sure. If you want me to.” But the excitable puppy dog eyes told you that he was dying for someone to want him to tag along some place.

There was a certain understanding between you. You were both more than accustomed with the harrowing feeling of being alone and even though you’d never exactly voiced those thoughts with each other, you couldn’t deny that his was a spirit kindred to your own and he felt it too.

Since the Avengers has disbanded, one of your best friends, Natasha, was dead and your other best friend, Wanda, was gone completely off the rails and the people chasing her wouldn’t let you anywhere near her or even attempt to help pull her out of her darkness. You were being kept as a wildcard in case they needed her taken down. Peter was no stranger to the feeling of being cast aside and so he quickly responded to your frustrations, and in doing so, forced himself out of his comfort zone to be there for you. To his complete shock though, you’d been so appreciative of his efforts.

You never failed to thank him for the little things he did for you, always complimenting his mutation when he’d use it and giving him the recognition he never received at home. The friendship he formed with you was so… two sided, again, something he wasn’t accustomed to before. It didn’t involve him giving everything he had to offer and receiving nothing in return, you matched his energy meticulously and never left him hanging.

In a series of firsts, he didn’t wonder whether or not you genuinely liked him, never feeling the need or want to question it as you’d left him with no reason to doubt.

As he walked around the mall with you now, his mind brought his attention back to the question you’d asked him rather casually a few nights ago. You were both lounging on your couch, watching some ridiculous reality show (a favourite of yours and Peter’s) when you’d turned your head to look at him, a thoughtful look on your face. “Do you think when S.W.O.R.D figures the technology out to crack into other realities, you’ll go back to yours?”

The question had taken him aback for a second, in all honesty, he hadn’t thought about going home, not when he was with you at least and considering he’d become your roommate about three weeks after he got out of WestView, the thought of returning to his old life had barely crossed his mind.

Being an ex-Avenger you were fairly well off, you lived alone in a two bedroom apartment in New York that you’d bought to be closer to Stark tower. Peter had nowhere to go and aside from having a spare room to offer you’d also been sort of lost in the current of the busy city with everyone you once loved in the area either dead, on the run or busy elsewhere.

While the question hadn’t crossed Peter’s mind, it had crossed yours on several occasions. He’d been staying with you for six months and the moment you realised that he was becoming one of the most important people in your life, the thought of him leaving you too weighed on your mind but at the end of the day you wanted him to feel happy. He deserved to feel happy and if going back to his reality brought him that happiness then you’d support him.

“Dunno,” he’d replied, turning to face you, chucking a handful of popcorn at you when you looked incredulous at his response, “To be honest I haven’t really thought about it, m’way too busy babysitting you anyway.” He joked, effortlessly dodging the few pieces of popcorn you attempted to throw at him.

For the last few nights, the question haunted him, but it wasn’t just the question that was bothering him. You were at the forefront of his mind as he replayed the past six months of his life which also happened to be the best six months of his life. WestView put him through hell but coming out the other side of it and meeting you felt like heaven.

He weighed up the pros and cons of returning to his native timeline. The cons: he’d have to leave you behind, he’d go back to being the loser who nobody took seriously, his talents would be downplayed and disregarded and he’d inevitably end up revisiting his lifestyle of solitude. Then there was the pros: he’d get to reunite with his pac man machine. He couldn’t manage to think up anything else.

If he stayed he’d have everything he ever wanted and needed. You’d be there and he knew you always would be, besides he couldn’t leave you knowing that you needed him. If he left who would wake you up when you had night terrors about the catastrophe that your reality was still recovering from? There would be nobody there to comfort you when you woke up from the nightmares, reliving the deaths of Natasha, Tony or Vision and the experience of being snapped out of existence? If he wasn’t there to make you laugh when you were about to cry then who would be? In his heart of hearts he knew you had a huge support system at your disposal, he’d met most of them. Even though he was well aware that Sam visited you as often as he could, that Bucky wrote you letters on a monthly basis and sometimes tagged along with Sam on his visits, that Stephen Strange appeared in your apartment whenever the urge struck him, that the literal god of thunder invited you out for beer whenever he was visiting Earth, that the little spider-kid, also named Peter, swung by your apartment at least once a week to tell you all about school and his good deeds. Despite knowing all of this and knowing all of these people loved you dearly, Peter wanted to be your main source of support, he didn’t want to be someone who came and went, who’d love you then leave you. He wanted to be with you through anything and everything and the feeling that you’d love him for a lifetime had him satisfied with the decision he was about to make.

If leaving his old life meant he could stay here, with you, and experience happiness for more than a fleeting moment then he’d simply; leave it all behind.

“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me the other night.” He spoke through a mouthful of curly fries. You were sitting in the food court of the mall when he decided to let you in on his desire to stay with you indefinitely.

You raised your eyebrow, “You? Putting thought into an answer? Peter, I think I’m starting to become a bad influence on you.” You told him teasingly, taking a long sip of your drink as he rolled his eyes humorously.

“You’re a terrible influence which is exactly why I’ve decided to stay here and put you on the straight and narrow.” The glee you felt at his statement was undeniable, your eyes lit up and your lips curled upwards.

“You’re staying? Really staying?” Your smile was contagious, Peter’s face now painted with a wide grin as he nodded his head.

In a moment of weakness he frantically added, “Y’know only if you want me to though. If you don’t that’s completely cool.” He rushed through the words, feeling more embarrassed when the fond look on your face never faded.

“Of course I want you to stay. You mean a lot to me.” You reassured him, a gentle smile on your lips as you reached across the metal table, intertwining your fingers with his.

Peter squeezed your hand gratefully, holding it in his grasp securely and allowing his smile to return to his face, “I know. You mean a lot to me too.” It was somewhat of an understatement, he was starting to understand that you didn’t just mean a lot, but that you meant everything.

His resolution lifted a huge weight off your shoulders that you wouldn’t be losing yet another best friend. You were glad he’d be with you when everything blew over with Wanda, the two of them definitely had the potential to develop a beautiful sibling relationship and they both deserved that. Of course, Peter would never replace Pietro and having known them both it was obvious just how different the two men were, the only thing they had in common being their powers and last name. Still, he and Wanda would still be able to work on it. He didn’t hate her after WestView and you knew Wanda well enough to know that she was kind hearted and she’d be more than willing to give him a chance. When she eventually comes back to her senses, that it.

As the months went on, life with you and Peter seemed to only get better. You never stopped laughing, your nightmares died down and Peter had taken on a whole new lease of life. Yourself and Peter were the perfect example of meeting the right person at the right time, you balanced each other out and accentuated the other’s good qualities.

Peter could now say with complete confidence that he was happy and what’s more is that he was finally sure that he was making someone happy.

Up until nearly eleven months of living together your relationship had been purely platonic, save for the constant flirting but flirtation pretty much ran in yours and Peter’s blood. Peter wasn’t going to lie to himself, he’d fallen for you the second you’d peeled the security tags off his stolen sunglasses.

You, on the other hand, had been fighting with yourself because yes, you love Peter but you couldn’t have told him when there was the possibility he’d eventually leave and now so much time has passed and you’ve got such a good thing going you didn’t have it in you to ruin it.

However, all of that changed when your original Maximoff best friend came knocking on your door.

Wanda was on the run. She’d caused an amazing amount of chaos but Stephen Strange and S.W.O.R.D were hot on her trail and now she needed a place to lay low with the twins. She figured there was no place more reliable to go than to the always open arms of her best friend, who conveniently had a divinity for earth magik and could muster up a protective barrier without raising suspicions. And that’s exactly where she found herself; outside your door.

You’d been chasing Peter around the apartment when you heard the knock on the door. Peter was on the opposite end of the kitchen to you, using the bar as a shield from you. “You better get that.”

“Oh you’d like that wouldn’t you?” You glared as you spoke, it was his own fault really. What sort of idiot jumpscares a witch while she’s mid-meditation? He’d frightened you so badly you accidentally blasted a ball of your signature green energy and ruined your favourite couch throw pillow. When you were ready to pounce on the scared speedster the knocks sounded again, more frantic this time.

With one last glare towards Peter you stomped towards the door. Your anger melted away completely when you saw her. Her hood was up and she looked completely exhausted, two small hooded little boys by her side.

“Wanda…” You breathed out, relief flooding your system at the sight of her alive. She didn’t get a chance to speak before your arms were pulling her against you tightly, hugging her as if your life depended on it. Wanda returned in your embrace, allowing herself to relax for the first time in nearly a year, she sniffled against your shoulder, holding back tears as she realised how much she’d truly missed you.

Billy and Tommy watched in confusion as their mother cried into your shoulder. They didn’t know who you were, all their mother had told them was that they were going somewhere safe.

It was the yell of one of the boys that caused you and Wanda to separate, “Uncle P!” With that you felt a familiar rush of air across your leg but instead of Peter appearing one of the kids was gone.

You shared a perplexed look with Wanda, although your confusion was for different reasons.

“Hey hell raisers!” Peter responded, catching the mini speedster who all but threw himself at him barely regaining his balance before the other child had flung himself into the hug.

“Wanda? Those two… are they...?” You started, at a loss for words Wanda cut you off quietly, her tone as disbelieving as yours.

“My children? Yes. Is that…?” You nodded your head numbly, anticipating the end of her question.

“Your fake brother? Yeah.” Quickly, you realised you and a wanted woman catching up with the door wide open wasn’t ideal and you ushered Wanda inside, shutting the door when she walked in.

“Hey.” Peter greeted her simply, as if he hadn’t been used as a meat puppet in her altered reality. It wasn’t in his nature to hold any grudges.

“Hi?” Wanda replied, her voice still twinged with confusion.

“Peter, will you keep an eye on the kids for a bit? Wanda and I have some catching up to do.” You asked him with a nervous laugh, just thankful that Wanda was too tired to argue with your suggestion.

Peter ruffled the boys’ hair and gave you a grin, “Only if you stop trying to kill me.”

You rolled your eyes as you began to lead Wanda into your bedroom, “You’re on probation, jerk.” You called over your shoulder.

Once you were securely in your bedroom, the door locked and sitting comfortably you fixed Wanda with an amused look, “I’d ask you what’s new but I’m not sure I even wanna know.”

Wanda gave you a sad smile while she shook her head, “No, you probably don’t. I will tell you tomorrow, I don’t want to get into it tonight. I’m so tired.” She admitted, her voice overcome with sadness.

“I’ll pump up the air mattress and you and the boys can sleep in here for however long you need. I’d offer you the spare room but that’s where Peter’s been staying and I don’t think empty food containers are the kind of decor you’d be into.” Wanda nodded, squeezing your hand gratefully.

“So his name is Peter?” She asked, curious about the man Agatha had used to trick her in WestView.

You nodded in confirmation, “Yeah. Peter Maximoff, actually.”

Wanda’s brows came to a furrow at that, “Maximoff? So he’s a relation?”

“Yes and no. Peter is from a different reality but he’s still a Maximoff and he’s got super speed. So, and this is just my theory, while you’re not directly related he could still be your brother- if you wanted him to.” You explained, as gently as you could, not trying to push her too far but to nudge the idea in her direction.

Wanda, to your surprise, didn't seem to hate the suggestion, “What is he like?”

A genuine smile made it onto your face then, as you shot into your description of your roommate, “He’s caring, funny, a little bit of a kleptomaniac but he’s working on it. He’s understanding and moronically selfless, moronic in the sense that he doesn’t even realise he’s being selfless. Huge pain in the ass too.” Wanda had a soft smile on her face by the time you’d finished.

“You like him.” Was all she said and you let out a laugh in disbelief, standing up and opening the door.

“Go grab a shower. I’ll have Peter blow up the air mattress while I go introduce myself to my god sons.”

“I thought you’d at least wait until I actually asked you.” Wanda laughed as you walked out of the room.

Things moved fairly quickly after that. As promised you introduced yourself to Billy and Tommy as their god mother, which they seemed more than thrilled about and you assumed that excitement had to do with whatever description of you Peter had given them. Wanda and the twins were all cleaned and fed and had all but collapsed into bed, foregoing the air mattress and huddling together in your double bed instead.

“Where are you sleeping, mother Teresa?” Peter teased as he noticed your eyes drooping where you stood.

“On the couch probably. Or the air mattress.” You mumbled, cutting yourself off with a yawn.

Peter, unimpressed with your options, scoffed, “No way. Come on, you can bunk with me.”

Much like Wanda, you were too tired to argue and you let Peter pull you to his, surprisingly clean, room by the hand.

You both crawled into the bed, lying close together despite the amount of empty space on the mattress.

“How are you feeling about all of this?” Your soft voice broke through the silence and Peter turned his head to look at you.

“About Wanda?” You nodded your head, watching him intently as he rolled onto his side, facing you more comfortably.

Peter shrugged lightly, “I’m feeling ok. Just glad the twins still see me as their cool uncle.” You let out a small laugh at his response.

“Wanda was asking about you. Seemed interested in getting to know the real you.” You informed him, your heartwarming as you watched a hopeful look fall across his face.

A lull settled over the room once again and Peter caught himself staring at you. His eyes drifted over every visible part of you, reminding him of most of the points on his pros list for staying in your universe; your eyes, your lashes, your nose, your lips, you.

“What’re you thinking about?” The sound of your tired voice pulled him out of his thoughts and ultimately pushed him to bite the bullet and tell you how he’s feeling. With you curled up beside him, in his bed, fighting sleep just to stay in his company for as long as you could; he knew there would be no better time.

“Just about how happy I am to be here with you.” He answered you honestly, the butterflies in both of your stomachs fluttering in sync at his words.

You trailed a hand under the duvet and onto the bedsheets between your bodies, feeling around until you found his hand and gently intertwined your fingers. “I’m happy you decided to stay.”

“What you’ve all gone through in this timeline sucks- don’t get me wrong-“ Peter started sincerely, scooting closer to you and dropping his head back down on the edge of your pillow, leaving the pair of you practically nose to nose as he went on.

“And I hate that Wanda had to go through so much… but I’m really glad that it led me to you.” Peter swore in that moment, right after the confession left his mouth, that he could die right now and be completely content knowing that you now knew how he felt.

His heart stopped, and he thought that maybe he was about to die, when you gave him the softest, sweetest smile he’d ever been on the receiving end of and whispered, “I feel the same.”

Time moved in slow motion as he felt you moving your intertwined hands towards your lips, your lips pressed gently against the back of Peter’s hand before you brought them to rest against your chest.

It was a fact to say that Peter Maximoff had never felt intimacy quite like this before. But, experiencing it now, with you, led him to wonder how he’d ever survived without it. He wasn���t sure whether it was natural to crave more, especially when the affection you were showing him was so gentle, but he didn’t care as he let the impulsive side of him take over.

Not sparing another word, Peter closed the small distance between your lips and his. His free hand cupped your jaw while yours wasted no time in getting tangled in his silver hair.

His lips moved softly and surprisingly slowly over yours and he savoured the feeling of your hand holding his while your other got lost in his hair, your body pressed up against him, the way your jaw moved against his palm as you reciprocated the movement of his lips and the taste of your lips, promising himself he’d never let the memory slip from his mind for as long as he lived.

With complete clarity, Peter could say he had felt true, genuine happiness and he had no doubt in his mind that there was absolutely nothing Charles, Hank, Scott or anyone else from his original timeline could say to make him leave this happiness behind. Because in the process of forgetting his old life, he couldn’t deny that he has undoubtedly found himself in the position of a man who had so much more to live for.

[pinkoptics]

Cherik ‘Fallen Angel’ Fic

Part 2 (of Chapter 1)

Find Part 1 (of Chapter 1) here.

Charles is an angel. He loves Erik. He saves Erik. God takes issue with that. Hilarity and adorableness (with a smidge of angst) ensues. In this part, protective!Erik makes an appearance at the hospital.

*

“I don’t know what his last name is!” Erik growled at the nurse, just barely managing to hold back the ‘fucks’ he wanted to pepper the sentence with. “I wasn’t exactly trying to get all of his info while he was bleeding to death on me.”

Erik released them in his mind— Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She’s just doing her job. She’s just doing her job. Don’t strangle her with metal.

“I told you,” Erik gritted his teeth and repeated a variation of the same combination of sentences he had already uttered twice. “I was crossing the street. The car barrelled through the red light. He jumped in and saved my life. I tried to return the favour. His name is Charles. He’s cute. I promised to take him to dinner. That’s all I know and that’s as far as we got before he passed out.”

How was Charles? Was he okay?

It didn’t seem like he could be. It had looked like so much fucking blood. The utterly insane things the man had said (“You should know you’re beautiful. Before I leave this mortal realm, I want you to know that”). Those spectacularly bright blue eyes fading to a frightening dullness. Not that Erik knew anything about anything medical, but none of that had seemed promising. So, not only was this nurse annoying as all fuck, she was stonewalling him. They wouldn’t tell him a goddamned thing because he wasn’t Charles’ next of kin. No one, in fact, knew if he had any next of kin in New York because he didn’t have a wallet, ID or phone on him. This was why the nurse was presently grilling him for information he did. not. have. They hadn’t let him ride in the ambulance, so he’d taken a cab and prayed that the ambulance had made a hell of a lot better time than he had. The only reason they were talking to him at all was because he had been there, had a name, a first name, and that was it.

The swinging doors opened and a woman in scrubs emerged. Erik nearly lunged.

“Are you Erik?”

“Yes.”

“He’s asking for you. I don’t want to let you in at all, but I don’t think we’re going to be able to start anything beyond emergency treatment until he talks to you.”

Asking meant conscious. Living. Thank fuck. The relief was powerful and nearly knocked him on his ass. Later, when he wasn’t teeming with barely contained frustration, and desperately trying to ascertain just how okay Charles was or wasn’t, he might spare a moment to think about how unexpected it was to be so powerfully moved by a stranger (a cute stranger who’d saved his life, granted), but not now.

“How is he?”

“He lost some blood, will need stitches on his arm and he has a few fractured ribs, but he’s stable. He’s going to be fine. After he stops trying to get out of bed to talk to you, we might actually be able to treat those things with something other than bandages.”

If Erik had thought the first wave of relief was powerful, he was not prepared at all for the second.

She sighed deeply and gestured to the double doors from which she had emerged. “This way.”

He followed her a short way down the hall, nearly stepping on her heels each step of the way. She stopped so abruptly before they entered the room that Erik nearly ran straight into her back.

“I should warn you that he’s... well, you’ve both been through a trauma. The mind processes such things in all sorts of ways. If he doesn’t seem... ‘all there’ don’t be overly concerned. Play along, don’t distress him further.”

Charles certainly hadn’t been ‘all there’ at the scene of the accident. His bizarre last words kept spinning through Erik’s head at random intervals— you are so loved. On their own, they were strange enough, but the reverence of Charles’ tone had sunk the words into Erik’s bones like a telepath projecting the emotion behind what they were saying. He hadn’t heard the words, he’d felt the words. Even if Charles was a telepath, it didn’t make them make anymore sense. More forthcoming then... he nodded at the doctor.

“You’re here!” Charles beamed at him from his sitting position on the hospital bed, looking much happier than anyone had any right to be in his situation. “And, you look well. Are you well?”

Charles did too, relatively speaking. He was a little pale, a little bruised but nowhere close to as bad as Erik had expected. Though the car had clipped him as he’d tackled Erik out of the way, it seemed to have been a case of looking much worse than it was at the scene. Small miracles.

“I’m fine.” Fine enough, at any rate. Like Charles, he was understandably bruised, and it was probably going to hurt more in the morning, but his suit had taken the harder beating. Between contact with the pavement and Charles’ blood, there would be no saving it, not that that mattered in the slightest. “You’re the one who was bleeding out all over me. How are you?”

Erik was sitting at his bedside now, the doctor presumably hovering in the background for all Erik’s attention was on Charles. The man in question blinked, cocking his head slightly to the side and giving Erik’s question a more thorough consideration than Erik would have thought necessary.

“I really don’t know,” he finally answered. Charles stretched his injured arm out in front of him, now bandaged (if not stitched) and looked at it with a plainly perplexed expression. “I’ve never been hurt before you know. It’s curious... interesting, but I don’t at all recommend it.”

“You were hit by a car.” Erik couldn’t help but be amused. Perplexed Charles was endearing. “Not something that happens to a person every day.”

“Quite.” Charles conceded the point. He went from staring at his arm to deliberately poking his own rib cage, and subsequently wincing. “You’re all very fragile, you know. So much could kill you every single minute of your life and yet so many of you manage to survive until old age. How do you do it? I’ve only just arrived and I’ve already nearly died.”

He turned his focus from his ribs to Erik and genuinely looked as though he were waiting for a response. Erik opened his mouth and then closed it. Despite the doctor’s suggestion to ‘play along’ he didn’t have one. Erik decided to change course.

“The hospital needs your personal information— last name, address, insurance.”

“Oh, well, that’s easy enough. I don’t have a last name. Just Charles. Or an address for that matter. I feel it’s unlikely my former profession came with any benefits.” Charles suddenly laughed. “That’s not true. It absolutely had many benefits, but certainly not State Farm. Besides, I’m no longer working for Him.”

The emphasis on the last word was... odd. Was Erik supposed to know who he was?

“I was... goodness. I was fired I suppose. Fired. That means I’m—I’m unemployed. For the first time in a millennia, I’m... on the pogey!” He laughed a little harder, the edge of hysteria he’d had at the scene worming its way back in. “Wait, no, you don’t say that anymore, do you?”

Pogey?

“Oh you look so confused. I apologize. It’s a Canadian phrase come to think. Or it used to be, a century ago.”

Shit.

Had Charles hit his head? Was this some kind of bizarre amnesia? The doctor hadn’t mentioned either possibility but... Erik side-stepped again.“How about family? Is there someone I can call and let them know you’re here? Maybe they can provide your information?”

The shift in Charles’ expression and demeanour was so abrupt and dramatic that Erik’s gut clenched. The stunning blue eyes that had stared up at him with such naked concern and relief, took on an unmistakable sheen. The wetness made them impossibly bluer, an unnatural colour that was as striking as it was otherworldly. The tears did not fall, yet Erik somehow knew that Charles would cry beautifully if they did. Erik somehow also knew what the response was going to be before he uttered it.

“No. There is no one. Not anymore.”

Erik surprised himself by doing something he would normally never do, under any circumstance, even with someone he knew well, let alone someone he had just met. He reached out and took Charles’ hand, squeezing it gently. His was a pain Erik was all too familiar with.

“It’s all right. We’ll... we’ll figure this out. You’re Charles. You saved my life. You have me. That’s all we need to know right now. Don’t worry about the insurance or anything else.”

Charles stopped staring out into the middle-distance and focused on Erik. “Truly, you don’t owe me anything.”

Erik snorted. “The hell I don’t. Besides, we’ve got to get you healed up. I can’t take you to the diner in this state. We’ve got date, remember? So there you are. Here you think I’m indebted, but really my reasons are purely selfish. You’re hot and I want to date you. Humour me.”

The wetness retreated and that red mouth quirked up into a small smile.

“As long as you’re being self-centred.”

“Oh, trust me, I am.”

Somewhere behind them, someone cleared their throat. Erik turned. Oh, right, the doctor. “As much as I would love to watch the two of you keep flirting, we need to take care of those injuries.”

She was right, so Erik reluctantly stood and even more reluctantly released Charles’ hand.

“I’ll be back later, so stop trying to leave and let them take care of you, all right?”

Charles nodded. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

Erik forced himself to turn and exit the room. Only after he’d left it, did he truly exhale. Charles was okay. Charles was okay. Charles was flirting even... well, possibly. They were still on for that date. Erik took a few much needed breaths and strode more determinedly, and much less frantically, back toward the nurses’ desk. He would take care of this.

He would take care of Charles.

*

Thanks for reading 😊. I really hope inspiration continues to strike because I’ve had a lot of fun with this thus far.

On to chapter 2 part 1

[iamhereonlytobeanunstableshipper]

Your Universe (A Cherik One Shot)

Read on AO3

Summary:

Two years after the incident with Apocalypse, Charles hasn't seen Erik again. When his old friend's birthday comes, Charles finds himself looking at the calendar all day long. Would it be a good idea to wish him a Happy Birthday? Well, it will be just a moment, Charles thinks. A brief touch of his mind. Two words, as a sign of peace. And that's it.

But of course, nothing is that easy when we talk about love.

Notes:

I wrote this a long ago, and I know it's not perfect. But this fanfiction kinda grew up on me because it was the first Cherik one I ever wrote. So, I'm finally posting it. Hope you enjoy it!

Also, I'm not a native speaker. So my English is a mix of public school lessons, google translate, and Grammarly. Sorry and feel free to correct me if I wrote something wrong :)

The chestnut eyelashes tinkled like the flutter of a soft butterfly in the ample room, gently pushing away the dust that was approaching the oceanic irises. They stood out like sapphires in the dim light that the sleepy sunset allowed to pass through the windows.

The man was resting on his comfortable mattress, a pillow lifting his head slightly. His hands were placed in his lap, while his left thumb repeatedly stroked the knuckles of his right hand, a gesture he used to do when he thought about a difficult subject.

Meanwhile, his ruby lips were nibbled over and over again nervously by his pearly teeth, unconsciously.

Something had been haunting the telepath's head since, the night before, his watch had marked midnight.

He remembered it as if it were yesterday when, in one of their many whiskey and chess nights, a deep-eyed man confessed that his birthday was that exact day that now passed through the calendar.

It had been two years after he had last seen him, in the incident with Apocalypse. He had hoped that now that things ended with no fights involved, the magnetic man would one day go back to the mansion (to say hi, at least). But the weeks ran one after another, and Charles could only try to convince himself that he didn't miss Erik at all.

Fake it 'till you make it, they say.

But, oh. Sometimes faking it was harder than letting himself drown surrounded by those memories. Charles could still feel those piercing eyes watching him with an indecipherable gaze, sometimes so intense that Charles wondered who was the telepath there. His coffee scent, striking his pituitary, was so sweet and so sour. Always sweet and sour, of course. His smirk, showing his gleaming and sharp teeth. His messy kisses, exploring Charles' mouth during that night that had been carved into his memory like a mantra.

It was a blessing to remember all this with acute certitude but a curse to know that it would never happen again.

Loving a memory was the most addictive and delusional form of torture the telepath could ever experience.

Despite all the pain, the anger, the betrayal, it was impossible to hate that man. And the desire to see him again or simply touch his mind was unshakable. And, now that he knew Erik no longer carried that helmet, the desire was unbearable.

Erik's birthday was the perfect occasion to wander through his mind, even if it was just a simple touch.

Charles decided not to think about it anymore. It had been torturing him for hours, and that was enough. He knew right away that he would regret it, but the decision was made.

The mansion halls seemed to be sleeping, just like the students did. Charles could feel the tall walls judging him as he passed by.

Sooner than he had expected, he arrived at Cerebro. Charles reached there by inertia because he surely wasn't paying attention as he wheeled through the mansion. He was too busy thinking about how stupid was what he was about to do. Without paying too much attention to his common sense, he placed the helmet-like machine on his head. He hid his blue orbs behind his lids and focused on his telepathy.

Finding Erik among all the other minds was frighteningly simple. As if it was a reflex action.

As soon as Charles entered Erik's mind, a sense of nostalgia intoxicated every inch of his being.

He stopped for a few moments observing the beautiful work of art that made up Erik's mind.

He explored with his telepathy the brain connections of the opposite, feeling with amazement how each neuron connected with the rest, creating constellations of stardust around him. An infinite universe of dark nebulae elegantly intertwined with each other, creating lugubrious galaxies of thoughts and emotions.

Charles gazed in awe at the mental barriers built into Erik's mind, how impressive they were to be made by someone who wasn't a telepath. He remembered when he had taught the man about telepathy in one of their many conversations. Those barriers housed Erik's most significant memories, Charles noticed right away. Most were gray; they gave off inhuman suffering and loneliness, creating a gloomy atmosphere between all those galaxies. But there were some, only some, so beautiful and brilliant that they would beat the sun any other day.

Charles shuddered to see that in most of those beautiful memories, he was the protagonist. The telepath's ruby smile was kept in the German's mind like a precious treasure, like the brightest star in all that small yet infinite universe.

Between the painful and the brilliant memories, all those agitated galaxies that comprised the place were created. The telepath could feel the magnetism being born from all that nebulae in a stealthy but persistent way.

Erik's mind seemed like the Guernica painted with stardust. So full of war, beauty, disorder, sublimity.

Meanwhile, Erik was sitting on his bed, looking outside the window. He had lived in the mutant shelter for quite a while now.

It didn't take long for him to realize that something was wrong with his mind. He realized that a presence was in there, and it took just a brief second for one of his most precious memories to come to mind like déjà vu, instantly recognizing that person.

Recognizing when a telepath is inside your mind is not an easy task, but Charles had taught it to him years ago. Now, the telepath wondered if it had been a good idea to have taught that to Erik.

"Charles?"

That precious name touched Erik's lips in a hopeful sigh. The man wasn't quite sure if he had drunk too much whiskey and was beginning to imagine things.

"Happy birthday, Erik."

Said a voice pearled with memories within the magnetic's mind. His tone was calm and somewhat carefree as if that situation was the most normal thing in the world. But slight nuances of nostalgia, pain, and... love colored the letters of the man's name.

Charles was grateful that he didn't have to speak aloud, so that the opposite would not have to hear his voice breaking more and more with each syllable, making a clear portrait of his trembling heart.

Before leaving the mind of the other, the telepath stopped for a moment to feel how sadness and happiness were intermingled in each star of those nebulae, creating a battle that they both knew would win the distance from each other.

A selfish thought crossed Charles's mind, as a small part of him was glad that Erik still cared, if only a little.

Erik felt Charles's presence fade from his mind, leaving it with a cold feeling of loneliness. For a few seconds, he forgot that he was the great and impenetrable Magneto. He forgot about his promise of never to love anyone else. He forgot to forget about affection. For a few seconds, he was Erik again. That boy who jokingly kissed the hand of a young blue-eyed man while taking him out to dance to the sound of Can't help falling in love.

Magneto had dedicated half of his life to lock Erik in the depths of his mind. And with him, all the memories of those crimson lips he longed for.

But, with a simple touch, Charles managed to make Erik dominate every cell of his body, making that song resonate in his ears, accustomed to the deafening sound of bullets. What Charles had given him, Erik didn't know. But he guessed he really couldn't help falling in love with that man.

The two men would never talk about the tears that were created in their orbs. Or the small smiles that raised the corners of their lips. Neither the heavy knot that closed their stomachs or the devastating cold that harbored their minds. Not even the glass that they both served themselves, knowing that neither one nor a thousand could fill the void that the other had left in their lives.

[master-sass-blast]

Front Lines.

Summary:  Given the immense violence law enforcement keeps showing towards those protesting the death of George Floyd and the systemic racism infecting the law enforcement system, the X-Men decide to help protect the protesting groups -and you and Piotr are right there with them on the front lines.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Rating: G.

Warnings: Mentions of police brutality, heavily reflects the current political/social situation in the United States, but NO scenes of violence.

Set after “It’s Truly Magical,”  but this one's kinda outside the canon timeline; if the protests hadn't popped up, this fic wouldn't have happened. I doubt it'll be mentioned in other fics or used as a timeline measuring point, but Piotr's mentioned as your husband in this, so it's after the wedding/honeymoon.

Author’s Note: Just to be clear, this isn't me coming back from my hiatus. However, given the protests and the particularly depraved nature of Mr. Floyd's death, I did want to make it clear where I stood --and where the series stands, in particular.

The X-Men, as far as I'm concerned, would never take an idle role in letting the police brutalize protesters. They would stand and protect the crowds and do what they could to ensure that the citizens involved in the (non-violent) protests were as safe as possible. This series doesn't view them or their role as protectors any differently.

Granted, I didn't write a quarantine fic --and I'm not going to. It's the result of an entirely different set of problems, has at least impacted certain communities to some extent on a unilateral level, and -frankly--I'm too stressed out over Coronavirus to want to commemorate a fic to it.

This is different. The history of racism and abuse towards African-American communities --towards all communities of color--in America is far too longstanding. There may be good cops, but the law enforcement system and justice system as a whole are corrupted, abusive husks of what they were intended to be.

I don't want the protests --specifically, what the correct side of the protests were--to be forgotten. Hopefully, this fic will help ensure that they aren't.

I also didn't include any scenes of what happens during the protest or on the front lines because, frankly, I don't think it's my place to. I don't want to set any sort of tones predicting how a protest would turn out; I also don't want there to be any sort of debate over whether it "ought" to end peacefully or not. Also, I think that, while unfortunately realistic, including potential scenes of police brutality would be highly traumatic for any readers, so... Yeah. No protest scene. No recap of how it went. Those aren't the important parts, in my opinion. Feel free to disagree, but it won't change the fic or my stance on what ought to be included in it.

If you are participating in any protests, demonstrations, or marches, please use your best judgement and stay safe. Don't do anything that would unnecessarily put yourself or others at risk. (And yes, I know, the protests have inherent risk because of how the police forces are responding to protesters. All I mean is don't go out of your way to do something risky, please.)

Black Lives Matter.

No taglist for this fic. That’s not what this is about.

There’s a lot of fear. A lot of hesitation and questioning and second-guessing.

���Okay, say we go,” Russell pipes up, breaking the silence that had settled after the Professor’s announcement. “What happens when law enforcement kills another mutant? Or when the government tries to put more restrictions on us? Are these people even going to remember us?”

“Besides, what’s even going to happen to us?” Kitty added, forehead creasing. “We’re all going to be in our suits. We’re easy targets –and the cops already totally hate us.”

It’s understandable, the fear. The doubt. The need for assurance.

You’ve all felt society’s anti-mutant sentiments at more than one point in your lives.

“We’re going to take every precaution necessary to safeguard the members of our group,” Charles states, tone reassuring. “We will not be recklessly risking ourselves or partaking in violent movements. But these protests are important. They reflect law enforcement’s and the government’s ongoing deliberate ignorance to society’s discontent with the status quo –a status quo that impacts mutants, too. And it doesn’t matter if any of the protestors or communities of color remember that we were there. We’ll remember we were there –and, more importantly, we’ll remember that we weren’t.” He pauses, smiles despite the melancholy look in his eyes, and adds, “Sometimes, doing the right thing means there’s no guarantee you’ll gain something from it, even if that something you want isn’t inherently selfish.”

You look up at Piotr, trying to gauge his reaction to everything.

Your husband looks pensive –but also resolute. From the straight set of his shoulders to the determined glint in his baby blue eyes, you can tell he agrees with everything Charles is saying.

Piotr notices you watching him. The corner of his mouth twitches up. He puts an arm around you, kisses the top of your head, then goes back to giving his full attention to those around him.

You lean against him and do the same.

In the end, there’s no way either of you are staying out of this.

***

 The rules are made clear to the nth degree.

First: No member of the X-Men –or those specifically joining the X-Men during the protests—will be armed or interact with law enforcement, members of the National Guard, or other protesters in a violent manner –including partaking in looting and destruction of public and-or private property.

“This protest is about drawing attention to the atrocities suffered by African American communities at the hands of law enforcement, as well as other communities of color,” Charles states, tone brokering no room for retort. “None of us are going to make things more difficult for them or contribute to casting these protests in a negative light. Anyone who refuses to comply will be escorted back to the mansion and held in a safe room until we’re all back before facing further consequences.”

Second: All members of the X-Men participating in the protest will wear last resort masks, both for personal health and the public image of the protests.

“The media’s already trying to treat the protests as a reckless act, given the ones that have devolved into riots and the pertinent Coronavirus threat,” Hank says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Aside from taking steps to protect the members of our team, we need to make sure we don’t inadvertently expose the protesters to additional criticism.”

Third: Senior members of the X-Men –specifically those with abilities that will let them shield the protesters from potential violence—will stand at the edges of the group. Junior members will stay further in the group with various team leaders for their own safety.

“We have the ability to make sure no one else gets hurt,” Jean says, impassioned. “We need to ensure these people can be heard without risking their safety.

Fourth: Should things devolve into violence, junior members of the team will be promptly taken back to the mansion for their safety. Senior X-Men will stay only as long as necessary to promote the safety of the public, then leave as well.

“We’re not tryin’ to win any fights here,” Logan speaks up when Ellie raises the question of possible rioting. “The only goal is to get people in immediate danger to safety, and then to make sure we all stay safe.”

“But everyone’s going to be in immediate danger,” Ellie argues. “These cops –these soldiers—have guns. And rubber bullets. And –and mace and riot shields and tear gas and—”

“Which is why only senior members would stay, NTW,” Piotr interjects, voice soft and soothing. “And only for short time. We have training to handle dangerous situations and to weigh out who needs immediate help. Everything will be fine.”

“What if we get arrested?” Russell asks, frowning. “Or picked up by the Icebox guys?”

You exchange glances with the other adults in the room. “Pretty sure that’s when Nathan and Wade would break us out of prison.”

“That would be illegal,” Scott says, crossing his arms over his chest. He frowns at you. “The X-Men don’t interact with criminals.”

“Pretty sure the pole up your ass is in violation of the Geneva conventions,” you snap, “but you don’t see any of us whining about it.”

“Measures will be taken to ensure the safety of our fellow mutants –which, for the sake of plausible deniability, will not be discussed at this time,” Charles states, fixing both you and Scott with a stern look. “Are there any other questions?” When there are none, he nods. “Alright. We’ll leave at one in the afternoon tomorrow. Don’t hesitate to come to me with any other queries or concerns before then.”

***

 The crowd is massive. Borderline gargantuan.

“Can we even cover everyone?” you murmur, regarding the throng of demonstrators and signs with concern.

“That’s why we’re here.” Erik lands next to you, along with a few less recognizable –read: “smaller rap sheets”—of his brethren. “To add to the numbers.”

Nathan, Neena, and Wade stroll up to where you’d all parked, along with Piotr’s family members and your uncle.

“We’ve got this covered,” Neena says, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly. “We’re gonna handle it just fine.”

“Is that your way of saying you’ve got a good feeling about this?” you mutter as you eye the litany of cops and National Guard soldiers. “Because I’m not sure even you can swing things in our favor.”

“Doesn’t matter how I feel,” Neena says firmly. “We’ve got it handled because we have to. Plain and simple.”

You hang back as everyone else heads to talk with the protest organizers. You’re not regretting showing up –far from it—but all your scuffles have been with other mutants or the rare team of traffickers, not the people sworn to protect you and this country.

Daunting doesn’t even begin to describe the situation.

“Myshka.” Piotr puts his hand on your back. He’s not armored up yet; he’ll do that at the front of the crowd, when there’s no risk of crushing any feet. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just… a lot.”

“I know.” He draws you into a hug and kisses your temple. “But you can do this. We all can.”

“I don’t think we can protect everyone if this goes apeshit, honey. There’s a lot of people –on both sides.”

“We’ll do our best,” Piotr says. “That is all we can do.”

You take a deep breath, then nod. You interlock your fingers with his. “Let’s go do our best.”

The two of you walk into the crowd.

[masterofmagnetism]

Impotent || Self Para

“It is not power that corrupts but fear. Fear of losing power corrupts those who wield it and fear of the scourge of power corrupts those who are subject to it.” ― Aung San Suu Kyi, Freedom from Fear WHO: Erik Lehnsherr, mentions of @firstxman, @mistressxfmagnetism, @disarraycd, @burdenedxtelepath, @maidenxfmight, @mysteriousmutant WHERE: His rooms at the Brotherhood HQ. WHEN: After his confrontation with Alex and Scott. WHAT: Unable to access his powers for the first time he can remember, Erik finds himself alone with the hallucinations and memories dragged up by the Enchantress’ spell.  Except, maybe not alone--the Phoenix, unrestrained by the collar or Erik’s natural resistance to telepathic interference, takes advantage.  WORDS: 2.3k

TWs: Holocaust mention, child abuse, torture, experimentation, child death, paranoia, anxiety, guilt.  Uhhh.  Lots of TWs.  Par for the course.

He asked for this.  

He asked for this, and yet he still can’t catch his breath because there is a collar around his neck and the world seems to have lost a dimension without the gentle humming of the metal he can see around the room brushing against his senses.  He’s always filled his rooms with metal--from furniture to trinkets.  He liked to have access to it, needed to have access to it.  But it sat there dead to his senses, now, and Erik would have preferred the loss of an arm, the loss of nigh on anything else.  

Except.  

If he had them, he could hurt his family.  Would hurt his family (again), because he couldn’t tell what was real and what was fake and what was once real but couldn’t be now and they were all too close.  Stupid, stupid.  There had been a time that he’d worked largely alone, a very long time, and that had been safe.  Safer than settling down in a cabin in Ukraine as if he’d ever be allowed to have a family, safer than making friends with another Mossad agent and seeing the hole in their head and knowing he hadn’t gotten there fast enough, safer than staying at a school full of children who looked at him like he was anything like a hero until he put a bullet in their headmaster’s spine.  All that had happened when his perception could be trusted, and even that wasn’t the case, now.  He couldn’t trust his own eyes, his own ears, his own mind (that wasn’t even his own, anymore, some part of him reminded him distantly).

Freezing Alex’s blood had been easy, too easy.  Had Scott come a few moments later, he could have killed him:  the man’s brother, Lorna’s boyfriend, one of the many children he considered to be like his own.  Another child to pay the price for his powers, like Anya had.  

No, no.  That wasn’t your fault.  You tried to save them, to save her.  They did it.  You know how humans are: violent, dangerous.  Traitorous--your own coworkers, your own wife, neighbors whose houses you would visit, whose kids you would babysit; they all would have seen you dead.

( It sounds like his mental voice, sounds like Erik himself, and he doesn’t know when the Phoenix learned that.  He can’t even say with any certainty that it isn’t him, the words fitting so neatly into his stream of thoughts that it may well be.  Two layers of thought--Charles had said that was possible, and while he’d never known himself to be aware of it happening in his own mind, usually so carefully linear, it was possible. 

So, he noted absently in a thought that disappeared in the next moment, was the chance that he was losing his mind. )

“Please, Max.  Don’t act like this is news to you,” says the man that haunts his nightmares, where he sits in Erik’s chair like it’s his own, regarding the metallokinetic in his spot in the corner.  He’d hoped the two walls against his back would help.  They aren’t, much--any consolation they would provide is negated by the fact that he’s not certain they’re real at all.  The room keeps shifting around him--lab, gravesite, cabin, field, Raft, park. He remembers a scene from nigh on a century ago when his mother had wrapped him up with a coat to take him to the fair in town and crouched down to cup his cheeks and warned him if you get lost, stay where you are and someone will come find you, and so he refuses to move.  He thinks Scott knows where he is--that memory is clear enough, but then again, so is the man sitting in front of him who should be dead dead dead but yet continues to speak.  “I told you long before Vinnitsa that humans were the enemy.  They’re vermin, compared to us, and you know it.  Scheming.  Deceitful--and so are their sympathizers.” 

Charles, the most vocal of all of them in favor of the humans, who decided to recruit children to the cause for the sake of optics, who worked with the CIA, who got into his head, into Lorna’s head--

“I did warn you, Max.  But you always did need a heavy hand to pick things up, I suppose.”  Shaw, the one from Cuba, wavers, slips into the man Erik had first known him as in the camps, and Erik clenches his hands around his knees as the room shudders back into the lab he’d hated so much.  “Let me give you a hand,” he says, and Erik’s stomach rolls as the prod he’d hated so much comes into sight and the collar around his neck seems to soften into the strap they used to hold him down and then he feels--

Fire.

Licking at his legs, at his arms, singing his clothes but still too far away to catch, as he tears his way through the collapsing house.  He’d seen her fall, from her place in the window, as the floor collapsed underneath, but she was still here, maybe she was more alive than the men laid across their front yard like a battlefield.  “Anya!”  No response, but there was a shoe, and he feels what’s left of his heart plummet straight through the floor like she had because there’s a heap of wood still smoldering but ready to catch ablaze at any moment just a few meters away.  She’s there, but he knows she’s gone before he manages to dig her out.  

The house collapses just a few moments after he’s out, but he doesn’t care about anything but the girl lying limp in his arms like the ragdoll her mother had made for her.  Her mother who was gone, now, in a way that hurt almost worst than the way that his child was gone because she’d chosen it.  He’d only glanced at her for a moment before plunging into the house, after killing the humans who’d held him at bay, but the image was seared into his mind like a brand.  

He’d never seen her look so afraid, so disgusted, and it was directed at him.  

She claimed to love you for years, and look how easily she left.  One glimpse at what you are, and they go running.  Who you are doesn’t matter, only what.  It’ll never matter to them.  

Humans always saw things in black and white, as much as they’d profess to the contrary.  And that black and white was always selfish:  is this for me or against me?  They liked boxes, categories.  The Nazis had exploited it: here, here’s a list of the people you can blame for your problems.  It doesn’t matter how young, how good--the Jews, the Roma, the Sinti, the Slavs, the gays, the ‘asocial’.  Every war in history was based on that tendency to categorization--race, politics, religion, gender.  Us versus Them.  Them versus Us.  And the humans couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop.

Mutants were a team, together--their shared evolution, shared gifts, was a stronger tie than any artificial separations amongst themselves.  They were different, better, more evolved, more capable of working together.  The ‘split’ between the Brotherhood and the Institute had been overhyped to begin with, and never had it been clearer than now, with Xavier’s first and most devoted students now joining with the very group they’d once fought.  It was Charles who had become the sole standout, still too interested in the humans to see the truth.  

No, more than that--he split you to begin with.  He told you to leave, told Raven to do the same, and then let the others paint you as traitors.  He let the X-Men fight you for the sake of human credibility.  You told him you wanted us all to be brothers fighting for the same cause and he didn’t just say no--he made sure it wouldn’t happen.  

( He doesn’t remember reading the situation in Cuba exactly like that, before, but it sounded right.  The memories lined up.  The Phoenix shows you the truth. )

There was a reason Charles had been left out of the preparations he was making.  He couldn’t be trusted--had been far too sympathetic to the humans for too long, had taken on their habit of categorizing.  Us and Them.  Institute and Brotherhood.  

The only Them, the only Us, that mattered were the humans and everyone else, and that wasn’t prejudice but scientific fact.  Humans were less evolved.  Humans were dangerous.  The others tried to live in peace while humans hadn’t had peace for their entire existence.   

Waging war for peace.  A human concept, innately hypocritical, and yet: “Tactics based solely on morality can only succeed when you are dealing with people who are moral or a system that is moral.”  He remembers reading those words in a cafe in Dallas in 1964 like it was yesterday, hearing them ring as true as anything he’d ever heard.  King walked his followers into water cannons and dogs and bullets and asked them to lay down nicely for the cameras while it happened.  X spoke of an eye for an eye, matching guns with guns, dogs with dogs, and Erik remembered all too well that the only reason he’d gotten out of that hell of a camp with Magda was because the people of the camp had fought back and stopped being docile.  

( He couldn’t remember the rest of that saying, though, the phrase slipping from his mind and a moment later he couldn’t tell you there was another half at all. )

His mind shot to the Park, to the images they’d played on TV and that he’d gleaned from Jean’s mind the last time they’d shared headspace.  To the way that his people had been simply enjoying a warm day, harming no one, threatening no one, only to be met with armed enforcers and one of their own dying choking on his own blood in Logan’s arms.  Raven had--

Raven told the Enforcers they were there, but she didn’t make them pull the trigger.  They chose violence, like they always do.  This is what happens if we don’t fight like they do.  

More dead children, one of his greatest fears, the reason he has this blasted collar on in the first place--because Erik will do anything to keep the family he has now safe.  

Anything.  

Anything at all.  

Another shift, back to his own room--but not this one, the one in Brooklyn, the one where he and Jean had nearly taken the building apart in one confrontation that had almost gone as wrong as the one with Alex ( was that just an hour ago?  How long had he had the collar on?  How much time had passed? ).  There’s the haul from L-Corp sitting dismantled on his dining table, and Erik is reading the papers he’d stolen along with everything else, and his stomach feels odd the more he reads.  

Excitement? Fear? Guilt? He didn’t know, he still didn’t know.  The idea had crossed his mind back then but made him feel faintly queasy, doubts and concerns that he could no longer put his finger on making him reluctant to use the data he had the way the bird was whispering to him that he could.  But the feeling he had now looking back on it is something colder than that had been.  Matter-of-fact.  He knew what he needed to do.  

Supergirl agreed with him.  Agreed with the need for safety, agreed with his anger, agreed with everything except wasn’t willing to take the steps he was.  

Help her.  Help her, help us.  

They needed a win against the humans.  They needed it now, because Enforcement wasn’t getting any looser.  Erik’s plan was good, he felt it--he’d gone over much of it with Scott, tweaked the things that needed to be tweaked, and it felt like as good a plan as any.  But nothing was infallible.  

Why deprive yourself of an advantage against an opponent who won’t do the same?  We can help all of them--mutants, inhumans, aliens, metahumans.  We’re doing this to help them.  Any help from any of them is another point to balance the scales in our favor.

War was coming.  Even Scott and Jean believed it to be necessary.  He couldn’t afford to lose.  They couldn’t afford to lose.

Shaw was back, and Erik tried not to shudder as the sensation of the wall morphed into a knee as the man’s voice drifted down from above.  “You’re creative, Max, I’ll give you that.  It’s not the way I’d do it.  Bit more hands-on than a nuke would have been, but that’s the price you pay for trying to spare any of them.  I still say you kill them all--but who knows, you may well end up doing that anyway.”  No.  The threat would work.  It had to work.  The country’s principle of non-negotiation could hardly extend to millions of lives in the balance of their willingness to play ball.  “They’re stupid, we both know that.”

Can he live with the possibility of having that much blood on his hands?  

Can he live with what’ll happen if negotiations fail and he doesn’t?

“You’ve lived through so much, Henryk,” and that was Magda now, and Erik shook his head as if that alone could drive her out.  He didn’t need this.  

“Is there anything that you can’t live with?”  

The lines he drew in the sand have been moving for decades.  Things he swore he’d never do, he’d done, time and time again, promising himself that he still wouldn’t do this thing or that thing until the time came that his hand was forced and it was started all over again.  Even now, he’s doing something he’d promised he wouldn’t, locking his power away for the sake of his family.

He can’t have it all be for nothing.  Can’t live with the thought of being powerless to save his people yet again.  He’s an Omega-class mutant backed by Omega-class mutants.  He’s sharing the Phoenix Force.  He has to win.  He has to.  He has to. 

No matter the cost.

[aaron-golden]

That friend I had? The one that claimed to be Jewish?

He doesn't make that claim anymore. Being a Jew has turned dangerous again thanks to the inertial powers of prejudice and ignorance. He's cut ties with any of us that actually are of the faith. It wouldn't surprise me if he's now playing for Team Hate.

I hope he isn't. I hope he's okay.

Our Jewish Community Center got another bomb threat earlier in the week. We live in Vancouver and it's in the hart of Kerrisdale, across the street from a multi-faith old folk's home that it helps to run. There was worry that the bomb might strike there, so the old folk's home was cleared out. So was the daycare and other health, faith, and social services that our JCC offers to people regardless of their faith.

It's interesting how several thousand years of oppression have given us a sense of kinship with the downtrodden and anyone that needs help.

Another guy I know – not a friend, this time – tried to give me the whole thing about how anti-Semitism isn't about Judaism, that only Middle-Eastern people are Semitic. I tried to explain to him about the rapes that happened during the diaspora, how our people were abused and kept apart but were the playthings of European nobility but that was a little much for him.

“Jews are white people, but not really,” he said. “They're Russian or whatever.”

I tried to explain to him that when the Romans destroyed Judea that they scattered the Jewish people across their empire. Jews were uprooted and moved everywhere, kept apart because of lies and politics, abused because it was convenient, and scapegoated because it was expedient.

“The Jews control all the money,” he said, and then quoted the Protocols of the Elders of Zion at me, a Russian retread of a failed French philosopher who was exiled to Belgium. The Protocols have been discredited so often that one would think that no one would think they were real anymore, but hatred cares nothing for evidence.

Jesus – whose name is a mistranslation – forbid the lending of money and charging interest. The European nobles and their Church liked the idea of doing that and found a loophole: they'd allow Jews to live in ghettos (yes, the word is Italian, and, yes, it originally applied to us) in their territories and offer marginal protection if we lent their money for them and charged interest. Of course, they'd keep everything because it was their money, and any time the peasantry complained about taxes or wealth inequality the nobles and Chruch would point at us and say “the Jews did it.”

Another reason to hate us. Another reason to kill us.

Tens of thousands of us were killed every few decades in every Christian nation in Europe. We know this because the Church kept records. The Holocaust wasn't anything new; it was just larger and more organized and we know exactly how many people were killed because the Nazis kept records: they wanted a record of what they'd done. They wanted documentation that they'd wiped out everyone that didn't live to their ideals of racial purity, a concept made all the more laughable by German history.

Even after the war, the surviving Jews had to smuggle themselves out of Europe and into Israel. And before then, when the Jews who'd managed to escape to America got to this continent, we were given two choices: banking and entertainment. So we got into film, we got into novels, and we pretty much invented comics.

Superman is a Jewish creation. Captain America. Namor. Even Thor. And when comics moved from golden to silver age, there was an upswing in stories that dealt with marginalized peoples finding a place for themselves and becoming heroes in spite of the prejudice they faced: Spider-Man. The Incredible Hulk. The X-Men.

The X-Men comics tied themselves to the concept of racism right out the gate: they were a new evolutionary path for humanity, feared and hated for being born. They had no choice in what they were, only in how they chose to do it, and the themes lent themselves to a greater exploration of racism, misogyny, and bigotry. The X-Men set Charles Xavier as a stand-in for Martin Luther King, Jr, and Eric Magnus Lehnsherr as their version of Malcolm X.

What made things interesting was the militarism that Magneto employed. He formed brotherhoods, attacked humans, stole their weapons – but the reasons why were rooted in his past. He was a survivor of the camps, a sonderkommando who had managed not to die. 

If you’re wondering what a sonderkommando is, the Nazis chose some male Jews to go and collect the bits of Jew they wanted to keep: gold teeth, hair for wigs, skin for lampshades. Those who didn’t do it were tortured until they did or they died, often in front of other Jews. This was a real thing that the Nazis did. 

So here’s the story of a boy who'd lost his home and his family and everything he’d known, been tortured and forced to become an active participant in his own destruction, but even then he was willing to walk away from the conflict. He married a Romani woman, settled down, and lived in peace until prejudice reared its ugly head and killed his wife and, he thought, his children.

The attacks that followed were based on this trauma: he'd lost both his people and his family and he would not stand by and watch as ignorance and hate claimed people again. As he aged, his choices became more subtle, his actions less about attack and more about avoidance. He reformed his belief structure, became more interested in discourse and working with people than outright slaughter, but his every effort was met with ignorance and hatred and consequence.

More interesting still were the shades of gray added to his character when he was still bordering villainy. Loki put a team together of ultimate villains to go against the heroes of the Marvel Universe, and it was the first time Erik had come face-to-face with the Red Skull – an actual Nazi in charge of an actual Nazi organization called Hydra.

The result speaks for itself:

Things have changed since then. The Europeans and their descendants promised never again to allow a genocide to occur, not that this has stopped America from doing all kinds of terrible things to foreign countries, the consequences of which they'd decided to meet by making the same mistakes all over again while actually becoming Nazis themselves. 

And that brings is to Marvel Comics and their decision to turn various anti-fascist characters into Nazis. They've got a writer named Nick Spencer writing for them. He made Captain America a Nazi and then tried to explain that Hydra isn't a Nazi organization while also confirming that Hydra is a Nazi organization while supporting an actual Nazi. 

Nick Spencer also had Falcon – the new Captain America – apologize to a group of white supremacists for playing the race card when that group was being, shockingly, racist. He'd tried to remove Captain America from being a political figure when Cap has been tied to World War II, Vietnam, the corruption of the Nixon administration, the lies of the Gulf War, the lies that led to the second Gulf War, and others.

See, Captain America is supposed to be what America can be, the living representative of the American Dream:

And what Nick Spencer has done is murder that. See, this is always going to be someone's take on Captain America, now. Someone, somewhere, is going to dismiss the inherent decency and compassion that were Cap's greatest powers because of the taint that Nick Spencer inflicted on him.

The fact that Steve Rogers was created by two Jews to both criticize the Nazi ideal while shaming America into action during World War II is now completely undone. The character has no meaning anymore and we will never again look at him the same way because Marvel let this happen.

And now they're doing it again, but this time it's worse.

Much, much worse.

Erik Magnus Lehnsherr, Jew and Holocaust survivor, the character that once took Kitty Pryde to the Holocaust Memorial Museum, is now joining Hydra. A Jewish man who watched everyone he loved burned to ash and was forced to become complicit in his own genocide by as a child is joining the organization that did it.

Nick Spencer is turning a Jew into a Nazi.

I'm told we live in a post-fact world, where alternative-truths need to be accepted instead of called out as the lies they are. I'm told we have to bow our heads while greed co-opts faith, and selfishness is recast as a virtue by Conservatives and Republicans and other people who are more interested in comforts they'll never use while people around them starve to death.

Nick likes to argue that Hydra isn't a group of Nazi and likes to use Hydra Bob as an example of “Hydra is okay now, not really bad guys.” Marvel sometimes backs him up by claiming that Hydra isn't Nazis while using Nazi imagery, symbolism, and having Nazis run the group that was started by Nazis.              

They also don't understand why people might find this irresponsible or offensive and refuse to see the real world consequences this decision has or the consequences of their actions.

I mentioned previously that a big part of Jewish philosophy: this two shall pass. For those that missed the previous explanation (link), a big part of the Jewish experience is waiting for the latest atrocity to pass. We're taught to duck our heads and wait out the storm, but as anyone that has been bullied can tell you, ignoring the problem never works.

Conservatives tend to believe that progressives are the death of a culture but that's not how anything works. Movement and civilization happen because people want to change and grow; Conservatives are the very opposite of that and their focus on the past means that they will and have lie about the future and so will movements based in their ideologies. 

Naziism, for example, promotes nostalgia for a fictionalized past and the dehumanization of their victims and, eventually, themselves. To do this they lie about their intent, their philosophy, and their actions to themselves and one another and anyone that bothers to listen to them.

And this happens because progressives get to a point where they want to be tolerant in compassionate. They want to listen, to understand, the find a middle ground with people whose whole ideology is that there is no room for compassion or middle-ground, that they are Right and everything else is Wrong. 

This is why Conservatives can murder doctors and ruin the lives of poor people (including themselves~!) while calling themselves pro-life; this is why they  can destroy government after claiming that government doesn't work; this is why they can denigrate education and betterment of self while promoting ignorance and selfishness as the highest possible ideals; this is why they feel comfortable lying to spread their hate.      

Part of the Conservative mindset – and the Nazi mindset that results from it – is the corruption of symbols. If you can corrupt the symbols of a people and making it so that meaning is meaningless, you can destroy the people for whom those symbols matter without ever firing a bullet. You turn their arguments to mush by taking away the meaning of those arguments, invalidating their existence.

I'm a Jew. We've seen this happen before.

We're seeing it happen again right now.

Where are your promises, people that told us this would never happen again?  

And this is why Nick Spencer feels comfortable lying about what Hydra is, why he feels comfortable making Captain America a Nazi, and why he feels comfortable making a Jew a Nazi. He's destroying the meaning of our symbols to try and dehumanize the people those symbols have meaning for and to ultimately destroy us.

And, this, too, shall pass – but the symbols he's destroyed? They're lost. And while we might go on we will never forget because we can't... sometimes, the only thing we can do is mourn.  

Thankfully, we’ve gotten very good at mourning. 

Yit'gadal v'yit'kadash sh'mei raba b'al'ma di v'ra khir'utei.

[cherik-sonakuranyria]

Let Me Go, Liebe.

Rating: Mature Warning: Alcohol Abuse, Suicidal Thoughts, Paralysis, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content

It's one of those nights. The three other male mutants have noticed the decline in Professor X's health. He was severely wounded from the bullet that had sprung into his spine. He had lost his ability to walk, was projecting his telepathic skills uncontrollably. The other men uncomfortable with the emotions and images they saw. Charles knew how evasive he was but it had multiplied by a few hundred times. He couldn't stop entering the mindset of his fellow pupils. His headaches now constant irritable migraines. He was a fucking  burden now. He once was strong but now he was incapable of managing his mutation. He felt stupidity crushing him as he faced his students. He was managing well enough but every once in awhile he had to call on someone to reach something or to help him transfer into his chair. Or dress. That was the most humiliating thing. Of course the boys tried to reassure him that there was nothing shameful about it but he could feel sympathy radiating off of them. Charles felt more of a charity case.

So on the nights where he felt his depression sink in, he decided to drink his problems away. He wanted to forget Erik Leshnheer existed. He wanted to erase Raven, the woman who he named as his sister. The weeks passed by bitterly and Charles slowly regained control of his power. He felt the need to run but with no legs to carry him, how could he? Hank had mentioned that he was working on an exoskeleton that could help but Charles had dismissed the notion. He didn't want to become a cyborg. He just wanted to be himself again. He was located in his study. Holding Erik's gun. The older man neglecting to clean out his room before abandoning him. The boys had left to enjoy an evening away from the mansion. They wanted Charles to tag along but he refused. He sent them off with a wave of his hand. Reluctant as ever, they went. He was now all alone. So bloody lonely. He had never felt such a pain since Raven had entered his life. Now she had swept his joy away. He took a large swig from the bottle of gin. He hated his chair. He hated his body. He hated himself. He hated Erik. He hated Raven. He hated being a mutant. Every ugly thought that passed his mind was met by another drink. He was buzzed enough to be unaware of any presence that had entered the study.

"Charles,"

Charles turned his head slowly, lips still sucking the alcohol down. There he was! The man of the fucking evening! Fucking haunting him!

"Ah! Erik, my dearest friend or should I say my newest enemy! I must be utterly wasted!" Charles giggled out as he downed the rest in one gulp. Erik was standing there wearing one of his black turtle necks and that fucking leather jacket that Charles thought made him look sexy. Always made him look so fucking edible. Erik stood there, arms clasped behind his back, watching the crippled man roll over to his desk to grab his grand stash of drinks. He selected the whiskey next. Drunken grin on his lips as he cheered to what must be an illusion of Erik.

"Why is that you aren't wearing that ridiculous head gear? You aren't afraid of my special abilities anymore?" Charles asked, he had rolled himself over to where his untouched chess board sat. He hadn't rearranged the pieces since his last game with Erik. Examining the dust, another swig of whiskey.

He continued talking when he received no reply.

"Can you believe that one fucking bullet deflected into my spine would have paralyzed me? Would have made me so fucking weak? Since you're undoubtedly a drunken image produced from my depression! I can say all the things I've been meaning to tell the real Erik."

Erik was still by the doors and watching him with sympathetic eyes and Charles snarled at him.

"I don't need you of all people to feel sorry for me, Erik! I'm fine by myself!"

Charles knew he was lying, he felt the tears dripping down and the reddening of his cheeks. The throbbing in his chest. Oh so familiar sensation of loneliness. Erik had approached the now much shorter man. He took a seat in one of the chairs. Settling into it with ease, eyes cast around the room. Charles didn't understand why his ghost wanted to taunt him. He yanked the gun out. Erik's fucking gun. Placing it beneath his chin. Mouthful of whiskey. Head full of thoughts. Eyes full of tears. Throat filled with words. He grinned, pressing the barrel harder against himself.

"Charles, I came here to see you." Erik said, Charles closed his eyes as he took in the rich sound. Oh how much he loved it. He felt a sob escape, his finger on the trigger and he wished he would just pull it. End it all. Yet, even with Erik's shadow gazing at him from across the chess board, he couldn't do it. He couldn't leave his students to fend for themselves. Who could they rely on then? Fucking Magneto! The only mutant leader beside Charles. He laughed at his cruel life. He should be more selfish. Less trusting. Less open-minded. Erik had clasped his hands in a tight cradle, eyes cast on Charles. Those eyes warmer than ever before. He leaned forward, adjusting the chess pieces into place.

"You are unwelcome in my home, Erik. If you've come to collect your things then please do so. The boys will be back soon."

"I came to see you." Erik's voice even, sliding a pawn over to Charles' side. Charles laughed harder than before.

"Well what if I don't want to see you?"

"If you truly wished me gone all you had to do was erase me from your line of sight."

Charles felt his stomach turn. He frowned and drank till half of the bottle existed. Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Erik was leaning forward now. Hands in a prayer pose. His chin hooked onto his thumb, elbows digging into his knees. Charles wasn't sure when Erik had shrugged his jacket off, casually draped over the arm rest. Charles felt his pulse light up from those eyes peering at him from under long eyelashes. He wheeled away from the table, feeling more sober but in reality most certainly drunk. Wheeling over to his desk, placing the bottle on the wooden surface. His other hand gripping the gun tighter. He felt tears slipping down, he felt a hand gripping his shoulder. Firm. He sniffled, laying his hand over it. He knew the rough texture. He lifted towards his mouth pressed into the palm. He let those long fingers cradle his chin, a thumb swiping at the tears. He could see Erik from the corner of his eye. He knew he could stop this madness now. If he could just let Erik go.

"Erik-"

"Charles, I need to tell you that I'm sorry for what happened."

Charles gasped loudly, his lips parting as he choked on his laughter.

"Oh no, don't give me that rubbish shit. Why can't you just leave me alone? Why won't you just vanish from my head, Erik?" Charles breaks off in sobs, gripping the ghostly hand closer. It's so fucking cold but Charles loves the feeling of it. He misses the friendship, the intimacy. He craves Erik like a drug. Not even Raven made him ache this harshly.

"I can't live without you, Erik. I just can't."

"You don't have to. You just choose to live without me."

"That is not true!"

"It is true!"

Erik releasing himself from Charles. He walked back over to the chess board. His weight shifting the cushion. Charles could hear it. Could turn and see it. Was he really dreaming? He grabbed his flask. He enjoyed rum more than ever.  

"Charles, you never drink rum." Erik stated, his nose twinged at the thought.

"Times have changed." Charles found himself propped over the chess board.

"Not so far as you to drink this much," Erik made a gesture at Charles desk. "You used to know how to tame yourself."

"Before I met you I did. When I was with you I did. When I had Raven I knew how. Now we three are on different spheres. You're shagging my sister and I have no say in it." Charles pointed out as he took a swig.

"Raven and I only slept together once, you know that."

"No, no, no. I only know what I have seen. I only knew of it because of how much lust you were both projecting at each other." Charles found himself laughing. It was hysterical. "You both were on each other like naughty school children. All over the room, fucking like it was the only way to survival! My God, she is beautiful in her own way. I just didn't gravitate towards her in that manner. I'm jealous to say the least."

"Jealous of me?" Erik inquired, he had slipped the flask away from the younger man.

"No, I'm jealous of her."

Erik spat out the rum on account of what he had heard.

"Pardon?" He asked, choking as he managed to drink some of the rum.

"I'm jealous of her. Just forget it, Erik. I'm too drunk to speak clearly. Yet I keep forgetting you're not real. So perhaps I can vent openly and be rid of you after." Charles snatched the offered flask back, knowing the liquor would spill if he tilted towards his mouth. He grabbed the straw off of the side table.

"I'm jealous of her. I mean you are one of the most attractive men I have ever seen. More handsome than myself. That my friend is a true accomplishment."

"Conceded much?"

Erik with that well known smirk. Those sweet lips. Charles wanted to suck his bottom lip and rip through it with his teeth.

"Contrary to belief I have had low self-esteem for years."

"Hm?"

"Yes, I have always been a bit at odds about myself. My looks and intellect have always made me feel strange. Attempting conversation with women always led to pointless flirting. In hopes of finding a warm  body to thrust into."

Erik concentrated on Charles' mouth or at least Charles wanted the illusion to do. Stare at him with passion. He shook his head to erase the idea.

"Charles, are you saying that you're in love with me?"

Charles' stomach flipped. He cleared his throat. Examining the chess board. He felt his numb fingers find their way to one of his pawns. He slid it a space and sat back. Fumbling for his straw. Everything was clear with the alcohol in his system.

"I have been projecting my thoughts so frequently that the boys get antsy. They locked up the tools from me. I had an image of me sawing through my legs. They know I won't use the kitchen knives because they won't go through the bone."

Erik laughed, countering Charles' move.

"Well, that is certainly interesting way of saying 'I do love you, Erik'."

Charles feels the tingling of regret on his lips. The secret exposed between them. He feels the secure weight of the gun in his hand. He taps it against his knee in an ugly off beat rhythm. It's a harsh instrumental as he moves one of his Bishops closer to Erik's Knight. He relaxes backwards into his chair as he lets the weight of his soul settle. Shaken up and descending in a pattern of his own design. He wondered if the most disgusting sound was the racing pulse in his ears. He wish he could carve up the veins and replace them with new ones.

"I'm curious to know if either one of us is truly surviving. If we are content with what we are or if we need to thrive off of each other." Erik stated, he had retrieved a martini and he sipped on it with casual intent. His eyes running over the chess board and then Charles' features. Such a wretched expression. Charles wondered if the most horrid thing he had ever bare witnessed to was Erik feeling guilt and sympathy. The Telepath never felt sympathy often. He felt a gracious amount of empathy. He knew haunted souls and shattered lives. Ruined hearts and severed ties.

"What would you like the answer to be, Erik?"

"I want us to be connected and emotionally distraught when we part."

"You don't think we've had enough drama and anguish?"

Erik's blue eyes combing through Charles' strays of hair. Charles' eyes felt droopy. He yawned as Erik contemplated a move.

"No, I think we could suffer just a bit more. I can say that the only love worth fighting for is a love so gravely lost. Would you not fight till the ends of the Earth if that meant bringing me back to you?"

Charles smiled lightly, moving to capture one of Erik's Rooks. He felt Erik leading his hand up to cup Erik's face. Nuzzling Charles' wrist. Charles felt the lump in throat. He hit the gun harder against his knee. Wishing he could feel the pain. Knowing he was creating a bruise. He wanted to balance the sweetness out. Wanted to balance the kindness out. Drown out the familiarity of his illusion.

"Answer me." Erik's whisper commanded. Charles kept his eyes tightly shut. The flickering of light from the fire place rushing in through his skin. As cold as Erik's hand was he could feel the warm breath.

"Answer me, Charles." Erik's mouth coaxed, his tongue licking the younger man's vein. Charles shook his head. He wanted to melt.

I can't say it to him.

You can! He doesn't fucking exist!

Let it all out now-

"Charles, you're projecting." Erik drew the Telepath out of his mental conversation.

"I'm sorry," Charles said. Erik stood up. Drawing his jacket on. Charles wanted to hold his hand just a little longer. Erik leaned over to Charles. His hands resting on Charles' wheelchair.

"Professor X, we're home!" called Alex. He was standing outside of the office door.

"Time's up, Charles." Erik whispered.

"I know!" Charles yelled in frustration. He drew the gun up against Erik's head. Erik smiled, leaning in to kiss Charles' head. They could hear Alex retreating away from the study.

"Stay with me, please." Charles found himself begging. His mouth dry. Erik shook his head, 'no'.

"Please."

"Charles-"

"Please don't go."

Erik kissed the tears on Charles cheeks.

"Let me go, Liebe."

"I can't."

This illusion was all he had left. He needed Erik. He pulled the trigger. Silence. Erik still leaning over Charles. The bullet crushed on the Charles' lap. He tilted Charles' head upwards. Placing a kiss on Charles' lips. Sucking in those sobs. Charles' ached from it. He cried harder and gasped, feeling a tongue slip in. Charles was startled by a knock on the door. He attempted to pull away but Erik shifted the file cabinet to lock the students out. Charles went limp when Erik cradled his head. Rubbing the tension from his neck. Dominating Charles. He pulled back when the door was forced open to a crack. Backing away to the window. Alex peeked his head inside.

"Professor, are you okay?"

"I'm fine..." Charles said, Erik's illusion grinning at him as he leaned on Charles' desk. Hank used his new found strength to shove the door wider, allowing the boys to enter.

"We thought we heard a gun."

"I was um target practicing."

"Professor, you reek of alcohol!"

Charles rubbed a hand over his face. Tracing his lips. Holding the bullet in his fingers.

"I had a celebration of sorts."

"You should go sleep it off," Alex walked over. Slipping the gun from Charles' grip. "No more fire arms either till you're absolutely sober."

All Charles could do was nod his head in agreement, eyeing Erik who was pacing around the desk. How the hell could no one see him? Charles burst into laughter when Erik made a silly face, blowing kisses at Charles.

"I think he's wasted." Alex said to Hank who shrugged. The boys discussing who should help him into bed. Hank finally agreeing after much persuasion from Alex.

"Come on, Big Guy." Hank lifting Charles from the wheelchair. All tenderness as Alex began to pick up the scattered bottles, pushing the filing cabinet back. He wondered how the hell Charles had managed to move it but he let it go, considering drunk people gained some type of unknown strength. Hank started up the steps and Charles watched as Erik trailed behind them. Hungry eyes on Charles. His footsteps light. Hank stopped abruptly, turning around and sniffing the air. Charles stared in wonder. Hank just shook his head and continued to Charles' bedroom. Charles had buried his face in the blue fur, rubbing his face in it.

"You smell like Downy, Hank!" Charles blurted out as he was laid on the bed. Hank smiled at him, slipping off Charles' shoes. Erik standing on the other side of the bed.

"Sleep well, Professor." Hank wished as he closed the door. His feet on the steps. Erik settled in beside Charles. Grasping the younger man's hand. He pulled him in for another kiss and Charles willful as he let Erik's illusion take over. He didn't care if this was fake. He needed it. Charles found himself in a blur of time. Suddenly blinking and he was undressed. Erik settled behind him, kissing his neck. He had pushed Charles' knees into his chest, exposing his hole. Erik's cock hard as he rubbed the lube on Charles' ass.

"Erik-"

"Don't worry. This will feel great, Liebe."

Erik's promise made Charles relax as a finger plunged in. He winced and whined. Unable to buck his hips away from the intrusion. Erik soothing him with a shower of sweet nothings. His fingers shoved in Charles' mouth. Two in Charles' ass. He bit around those phantom digits when Erik introduced his cock. He could almost taste iron from the blood that gushed out. Erik hissed telling Charles to suck his fingers. Charles whined when Erik pulled his cock out. Working on stretching the younger man. The older man thrusting further every time he re-entered. They both moaned when Erik settled in fully.

"Good boy, Liebe."

It's all Charles can do not to cry out for someone to rescue him from the intensity of it all. Erik is his only shelter as the man thrust into him causing a fire to ignite in every fiber. He's not sure when they've changed positions but Erik's on top of him now. Gripping his hair and exposing his neck for teeth. Teeth that rip into sweaty flesh. Erik's hand working on his cock. Charles mouth hanging open in a silent scream as he let's himself come undone. Erik finishing him off with sloppy strokes. Charles tears springing. Renewed when he comes by command. Erik slows his punishing pace to simple pushes til he pulls out entirely, stroking himself on Charles' stomach. When he's finished, he runs cum stained fingers in Charles' hair. The short sleek style now filtered in with their essence. He strokes Charles' hair til Charles finds himself drifting to sleep.

When Charles' wakes up he's aware of a hang over. His body hurts. His knee is bruised. He looks at his bed and finds no signs of anyone else there. He sighs in deep. Erik's illusion no longer there. He checks his body for any cum and there is none. When Hank assists him into his chair, he tells the younger man that he won't need further assistance. Hank leaves only to return moments later with a note.

"Professor?"

"Yes, Hank?"

"Alex said he found this pinned to your desk yesterday." Hank states, handing the ripped note over, eyes cast on Charles. Charles takes it, his mind banging but through his blurred vision he can make out the odd handwriting. He's certain it's not his own. The curved strokes of a fountain pen.

He reads the words:

When you're ready, Liebe. You know how to find me.

He feels his lips pull into a grin on their own accord. Fucking Erik Lehnsheer and his damn presence lingering even long after he's gone. He feels the tears slip and he laughs to which Hank nods his head in uncertainty and leaves his Professor alone.

"Oh, old friend. I most certainly do, don't I?"

[sugarbabyloki]

talk me down

not even 2k of famous singer!loki and bodyguard!thor, written last night as basically a gift for myself.

also here on ao3 .

There's nothing like being on stage.

Nothing like singing, and dancing, and shouting to a crowd all too eager to shout back at you. Loki loves it, loves it, loves it.

He's come so far from being the shy, scornful boy who writed songs and hid them, not wanting anyone to know; now he takes pride in everything he does, everything he had to do to be where he is now: on a stage, his band behind and beside him, a sea of people in front of him. They watch him greedily, singing along, whooping and cheering and maybe even fainting a bit when he gets a bit provocative. Or more than usual, really. He sings and moans and sashays his way across the stage, and if he bends at the waist facing his drummer, if he turns and winks at his audience, if the crowd roars and he catches Leah's eye from where she's shaking her head fondly backstage, well.

Nothing out of order for Loki Laufeyson, one of the most controversial stars the show business has to offer.

*

He would like to think that he has friends. There's Leah, his manager; there's his band, there are even some who might be considered childhood friends, a miracle by Loki's standars.

Erik Lensherr is not his friend, more of a tolerated acquaintance, but still, when Loki is in the area the two will most likely meet for a scotch or two. Inevitably bitching at each other is a bonus, one they are both well-versed in.

"This tastes like bleach," Loki says unceremoniously, elegantly sprawled on an armchair. He's currently in the living room of the Xavier estate, or, as Charles always likes to say, all doe-eyed, the Lensherr-Xavier estate. One time he went so far as saying Lenshavier, and it would have been much more enjoyable if Erik had limited his reaction to his eye-rolled 'you're so lame', instead of following to it with an all too fond kiss to Charles' forehead. Ugh, married saps.

"This is Charles' own reserve," Erik sniffs, looking aloof and detached, but there's a glint in his eyes that warns Loki to proceed with caution in judging the professor's taste; Loki can never turn down a bit of teasing, though. Charles can most definitely take it, a thing that can't be said for Erik.

"I didn't say I won't drink it," he shrugs, "But for a millionaire, dear old Charlie should probably offer his guests something that doesn't taste like a disease." Lensherr glares. Loki grins and downs his glass in one go.

*

It's just difficult, restricting himself to a drink or two when Lensherr is in the picture. Charles is, as ever, and irritatingly enough, a darling; sardonic and sarcastic as he is, the man is also always ready to lend a hand or, in most cases when Loki is involved, an invite to spend the night without having to drive while tipsy. Loki though, ever the cat, can't help but bristle a bit at the insinuation that he's not perfectly able to do something on his own, thus deciding to go back to his hotel room.

"You're an idiot," Erik states calmly as Charles waves, clearly biting back a grin.

"Cheers," is Loki's response, and then he closes the car's door and, after some fumbling, drives away.

*

Going from New York to the Westchester's estate after a show and coming then back to NY makes for a pretty late bedtime and Loki is, admittedly, a bit tired; which is the only reason why his guard is down enough to jump and let out a yelp when, after entering his hotel suite, he turns the light on only to discover a man sitting on his bed.

"What the fuck," he breathes, going fast from frightened to embarassed to angry. "Thor!"

Because it is Thor. Golden, huge, perfect...very angry, if the rigid posture and his brows mean anything... Oh, crap.

"Loki." His voice is positively thunderous, and Loki can't help the small shiver running down his spine. Whatever.

Loki saunters to where his bag lays, hoping to convey an air of indifferent nonchalance. "I thought you were going to get back the next monday."

He can basically feel the glare on his back, and takes great care in rummaging through his stuff in the hope that the view of his ass will be enough to distract Thor a bit. "I was," Thor says slowly, "but then I called Volstagg and the things he told me were enough to help me speed things up a bit."

Loki sighs. He's going to murder that oaf, he is. He turns around, flashing a brilliant smile at the other man, "Well, it's not my fault he could not handle me. Way more interested in food and women, he is, and I'm sorry but, as you well know, neither is a particular interest of mine."

He sees Thor's fists tighten. "He was supposed to be your bodyguard for just a few days, Loki! No need to sneak off or bribe him not to follow you around!"

"I am perfectly capable of going somewhere without a mountain of a man with me every second, thank you very much!" he snaps, and Thor's voice raises accordingly: "You pulled that shit with me at the beginning, Loki, now it's time for you to grow up and see that it's dangerous for you!"

"Dangerous! Get me some of that pepper crap and I'll be fine."

Thor bristles. "People are sick, Loki. Maybe they wouldn't get so obsessed with you if you didn't–" Loki rolls his eyes, mouths along, "basically have sex on stage every night for the world to see–"

"Thor." he has to interrupt, "Thor. I could be a fucking porn star and that would not justify the stalking, alright?" Thor flinches, his beautiful features grimacing for an instant before returning smooth, his jaw still set. "It would not. I'm sorry, how you act onstage is your business and you should always do as you best please. But not," he remarks sternly, "when you are off that stage and there's no one to protect you in public. I'm sorry, Loki, that's just stupid and I thought I was done arguing with you about it."

The thing is, Loki doesn't mind arguing with Thor. He rather likes it, actually; though the other man isn't quite as vicious with his words as Loki is too quick to get, his physicality is impossible to ignore even when he's calm and serene; when irritated or enraged, Loki is sure that pure electricity fills the room. However, he pretty much can't stand when Thor looks and sounds like this, like he's disappointed, saddened by something Loki did. It makes Loki grudgingly feel disappointed in himself, too, and this was not how he intended his night to go. Ugh, feelings.

"I went to Westchester," he says, more softly than intended, like an olive branch. "I doubt anyone apart from Xavier and Lensherr knows where I've been."

Thor's eyes get a bit softer, too, but his mouth is still turned downward. "Glad you weren't actually being that irresponsible while I was speeding to get here and find you."

Sometimes Loki hates him. Hates how Thor has the capacity of making him want to kneel at his feet without a word being said. That is what Loki wants to do the most right now, so he does.

He pads quietly across the room, eyes on Thor's bright blue ones, going to where Thor is still sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the ground and elbows on his thighs, hands clasped tightly. Those hands clench and then separate as Loki goes down on his knees, pretty gracelessly for one such as himself; he straightens a bit, shuffles in between Thor's legs, and bends his head to look down, ignoring Thor's sharp inhale and the way he goes perfectly still. Thor's thick, strong thighs are beautiful. He's wearing sweat pants and Loki wants to bend further and lay his head on Thor's legs, wants to say that he's sorry for making Thor worry, but can't quite make himself because maybe it's not really the truth.

He closes his eyes against a powerful rush of feeling when Thor's hand cups the back of his neck and gently, yet firmly, guides his head down where Loki wants it; he suddenly feels a bit like crying.

"I've missed you, too," Thor says, voice rough. Loki swallows, his arms circling on their own accord Thor's calves, holding on tight. "Darling," Thor murmurs, one hand firm on his neck and the other stroking his hair. I'm selfish, Loki should admit, I'm selfish and I can't stand when you're not around and I act out and you should always pay attention to me, Loki should admit, but doesn't say. Thor is not stupid, though. Thor is funny and bright and beautiful and tender, generous and reliable, but there is something in him, too, something darker that, Loki knows, is as greedy for Loki as Loki is for him. Something that makes him recognize why Loki acts like he does, and makes him accept it. Makes him, in a way, darkly pleased, genuinely satisfied of how Loki's need of him can make him illogical.

They are silent for a while, then Thor speaks. "I get that it's hard to have to account for every little move you want to make, but I'm afraid that your safety is my top priority, and you know I say this not only as your bodyguard. If there's a message you want to get across, try a different method."

Loki hides his smile against Thor's inner thigh. If you want to get back at me for not being there, get naked on camera, get a bit too handsy with someone else, trash your room.

Loki raises his head to look at Thor, still grinning a bit. "I'll keep that in mind." The other man is making that odd, soft expression he only ever makes when he sees Loki genuinely smile, and he must be able to detect that Loki is about to mock him for it because he suddenly rushes forward to capture his lips in a kiss that, frankly, feels like coming home. Loki sighs. Married saps everywhere, he always complains, yet when Thor holds him like that, his traitorous brain thinks that he wouldn't mind so much becoming one of them.

[magnetiik]

|Reflection and Release|

            It was the little things.

     Why do people always say that? If they matter so much, why call them small?

There were things that Erik carried with him that would be considered small-- but they, truly, were the things that meant the most. It was cliché.

Being a cliché wasn’t something he enjoyed but that part of him wasn’t well known. So he let it be.

Erik’s mind was wandering and wandering and his feet carried him throughout the halls right along with it. Whether he wore his helmet or not was hit or miss-- sometimes he would, sometimes he would leave it behind. Other times he would carry it with him. There wasn’t much of a rhyme or reason to it.

          There wasn’t much of a rhyme or reason for anything at the moment.

It was a little before sunset when Erik began wandering the halls on one specific night. He left his room with three things: two he pocketed, and the third was his helmet, which he quickly drew to him last second as he crossed the threshold into the hallway. He held it tucked underneath one arm-- tonight he simply felt better having it with him. Almost like a safety blanket.

Unlike most other nights, he had a destination. There was still time to aimlessly walk the halls before he headed down, though. The sunlight filtering through the windows became warmer and darker as he made his way around, and he took slow and steady steps like he knew exactly where he was going, even if the truth was that (for the moment) he didn’t care. It was quiet and no one bothered him, which were the only two things he required.

As he moved, his left hand pulled out a coin-- one of the things he pocketed before he left his room. It weaved over and under his fingers, slowly and smoothly, helping to calm any anxious energy that he couldn’t contain inside.

But at the center of everything, it was his heart directing him tonight. At one point it finally decided that it was time to go where it needed to-- and his brain didn’t argue. Down he went, and after a short journey he arrived:

                   Cerebro

The door was locked, which didn’t surprise him. Erik found himself staring at the bright blue center as he stood there, left hand holding the coin frozen a few inches above his palm. A quick flick of his wrist flung it back into his pocket.

He couldn’t stand there forever.

Normally, it wouldn’t be possible for anyone other than the intended user to get into the room that stood before him. Erik had never had much of a reason to go in without him, so he never had a reason to break in before. But now he did.

He set the helmet down few feet off to the side and took in a deep breath, closing his eyes and shutting off the world around him. Both hands lifted to a position in front of him, ready to fall flat against the cold metal surface in front of them. They were shaking-- so they never made it to the door.

In a small fit of frustration Erik made fists and sharply shot them back their place at his sides. He needed to get his control back, and it just wasn’t happening. As a result, the tension around him built and built-- the dead silence of the hall filled with the soft jingling of metal from Erik’s pocket and the dragging sound of his helmet being slowly called towards him across the floor.

Then the tension reached its breaking point.

But he kept it together. In his loss of control he somehow found it, and the movement of metal stopped as silence once again took over. Erik was able to flatten his palms against the door. 

Now he needed to concentrate.

The inner workings of the door were certainly complicated. Using his powers as an extension of himself, he felt his way through the interlocking pieces and began forming an internal map-- by the end of his journey he knew exactly how everything fit together down to the smallest detail.

                       Another deep breath.

A sharp series of clicks signaled the release of the door. Finally opening his eyes, Erik took a step back and effortlessly slid open the two sides of the entrance with his powers while retrieving his helmet. He now was staring down the bridge into Cerebro-- and after all that effort, he found himself frozen in place, unable to take another step forward. It was daunting-- almost terrifying.

They were still in the process of fixing the inside of the room-- but it wasn’t the debris that bothered him-- it was everything else. With it came that overwhelming feeling that he had failed. That he should have done more, that he did everything wrong. His heart was beating out of his chest-- so forceful and strained that it was almost painful.

His heart had wanted him here but at the threshold his head was frantically telling him to leave as fast as he could. There was no sense in being here-- it would only bring more pain. There was nothing here that he needed to see or needed to do, so why even be here at all?

              Because he needed to be.

Before he knew what he was doing, Erik was making his way down the narrow bridge. Every step echoed in the hollowed room, bouncing quietly off panels both untouched and damaged beyond repair. He made the door close behind him and there he was-- alone in his own little world. The silence was deafening-- another cliché, but he found it to be painfully true.

       In here, in that moment, Erik Lehnsherr felt like the only man left on earth.

He stood centered in front of the panel, looking out to the curved walls that surrounded him. Cerebro’s helmet was in the same place he had left it, which he found both oddly comforting and painfully sad. A quick glance down at it chilled him to the bone.

                  Charles was gone.

Why was it so hard to even think his name? He noticed that he hadn’t spoken it since the day of the fight-- and it wasn’t out of some forced habit he made himself acquire. He just couldn’t do it.

After what seemed like an eternity, Erik set down his own helmet right beside Charles’. They both faced him, mirroring one another as if they had always been meant to be next to the other. Erik had to remind himself to breathe-- something so innate and necessary was odd to think about, but as he was currently, his body needed reminders like that.

In one swift motion, Erik pulled the second object from his pocket and took to the floor, legs crossed one over the other. The surface of the console above him created an even smaller world that he gladly let himself become consumed by-- he was here, nothing outside of this room mattered even slightly.

Erik placed both hands in front of him and opened them into a cup-- in the center was a small metallic object, smaller than the coin he had been playing with earlier. He rolled it into one hand and gently pinched it between his fingers, slowly turning it around like he was seeing it for the first time.

In his hand, Erik Lehnsherr held the bullet that tore Charles’ world apart all those decades ago.

The bullet that was meant for him, not for Charles.

The bullet that to this day, had a tight and suffocating hold over him.

Erik’s life was filled with mistake after mistake. What he found to be the most cruel was how his mistakes always, always ended up hurting the people around him. The people that never deserved any hurt to begin with. Why was it that the ones he cared for paid the price for his misdoings?

Charles Xavier had been the one person he seemed to hurt time and time again, despite his efforts otherwise. Was it coincidence? No, no it couldn’t have been coincidence. He was the one person he loved most in this world-- whether he ever even admitted it to himself or not. Charles was destined to be repeatedly torn apart since the moment they met, and that was something that Erik just could not forgive himself for.

There was an emptiness inside of him after losing Charles. It was consuming him second by second, threatening to collapse in on itself. Everyone felt Charles’ loss, but for Erik it was-- it was unbearable.

He wasn’t sure if he believed in soulmates. The idea always seemed too simplistic. To say that there was one person you belonged with, meant to feel connected to with some unbreakable and inexplicable bond-- yet another cliché that he wanted no part in. His heart felt what it felt and it cared for the people it cared for. At times it was selfish and it took more than it gave, but was there truly a person alive who wasn’t guilty of that? Erik watched people come and go in all areas of his life, and soon enough he found himself casting others away before they got too close. If his heart wanted a soulmate, it never made that clear.

That’s what Erik had believed and stood by for years. But Charles had a way of silently and seamlessly breaking down every barrier he fought long and hard to build. Charles was gentle and kind, willing to always give more than he received. There wasn’t an exact moment that Erik could pinpoint-- but in time the telepath had become part of him. And that was something he never wanted to lose.

What was it that he said to him?

“There is so much more to you than you know-- not just pain and anger. There’s good, too. I felt it.”

Good? Magneto was not good. He was harsh and unforgiving. He fought hard for what he believed even when it required sacrifice of the worst kind. He was known for his ruthless ways and terrorizing facade. He was a man controlled by loss and a need for control-- because if there was only one thing he could accomplish in this life, it would be to prevent his past from repeating itself. Never again. That is what he promised the world.

Erik Lehnsherr was not a good man. He never believed that about himself.

What Charles did was make him believe that maybe-- someday-- he could be.

Perhaps the two of them were soulmates. Two sides of the same coin. The light and the shadows. Balancing each other like the sun and the moon.

One without the other-- that was something that should never happen.

Erik had never felt so alone.

In the center of Cerebro sat a man, heartbroken and unaware of just how much he was hurting.

They had gone through too much together only to be ripped apart like this. They had died and been brought back to life. They fought and they screamed and they were at each other’s throats-- but they also knew that they could never truly hate each other. They were different, but at their core they were fundamentally the same. It slowly dawned on him that they were meant to be in each other’s lives-- always being drawn together and yanked apart.

Erik loved Charles. He loved him-- wholeheartedly and without regret.

But now it was too late.

The broken bullet fell to the ground with a sharp clang. His hands were shaking again, much more harshly than before, as they lifted to cover his face. The crying began slowly but it quickly escalated into sobs that wracked his body from the inside out. For days he had held everything inside, keeping quiet and keeping away from other people as much as he could.

Was he destined to lose the ones he loved one by one? He felt cursed-- he was a poison, a disease to anyone who was close to him. Perhaps that was his punishment to bear, but loss after loss slowly chipped away at him. He pushed through it every time, because he was a survivor. But everyone had their breaking point.

If anyone’s time on this earth was meant to come to an end-- it was his. Not theirs.

Max Eisenhardt, Erik Lehnsherr-- Magneto.

It didn’t matter who he was-- death followed him wherever he went.

Through his sobs, Erik forced apology after apology from his lips.

“I’m so sorry Charles-- I’m so sorry---”

I should have been able to save you.

[masterofmagnetism]

Monster || Self Para

“He had become a monster, happily, for just a moment of having his head above water.” -Ian St. Martin, Lucius: The Faultless Blade

WHO: @master-of-magnetism, mentions of @burdenedxtelepath, @jeanelcinegrey,@mistressxfmagnetism, @jameslogans, @apoisontouch, @shakeandquake, @firstxman,@mysteriousmutant

WHAT: In the aftermath of finding out about the firebird that’s taken up residence in Erik’s mind, Charles grows wary of his old friend.  Erik sees him flinch and starts down a spiral that changes how he thinks of himself and those he holds dearest.

WHEN: After Lorna’s visit to see Charles at the Institute.

WHERE: The Institute and one of Erik’s safehouses.

WORDS: 4k

WARNINGS: Holocaust mention, depression, anxiety, PTSD, child abuse, child death, paranoia, smoking, guns, manipulative behavior.

He’d been a fool.  A blind, naïve, sentimental, stupid fool.  

Even with how sudden the shift in the tides was, the abrupt influx of old enemies and estranged family alike returning to his side in the aftermath of Central Park and the Raft, the thought to examine why hadn’t crossed his mind.  It seemed self-evident, at the time—they had finally seen what he’d seen for decades, from the humans.  They had seen the inevitability of the war, the atrocities humans were willing to commit against their people.  

How very uncharacteristically optimistic of him that belief had been.  As always, the truth was far less pleasant to entertain.  Perhaps Charles had rubbed off on him rather more than he’d thought he had; Charles always was prone to telling people pretty half-truths as opposed to what Erik had thought of as ugly truths.  

At least one of the other man’s half-truths had clearly made a home in his mind, and he was paying for it now.

That day years ago in the gardens outside the Institute, Erik had let Charles into his head further than he’d trusted anyone--even himself.  There were ghosts in the corners of his mind that he’d always thought best to let lie as much as he could; they haunted him enough on the hard days that he saw no reason to try and wake them on the easy ones. But he’d let Charles in, and the man had reached into his mind and dredged up a memory from the depths where he’d buried the thoughts of the first family he’d lost all those decades ago.  The point between rage and serenity, he’d said, and used that precious memory of his mother to coax Erik into turning the satellite for him.  Like a performing show dog.  Pathetic, that that was all it had taken, but even more pathetic was how quickly he’d internalized the words the man told him after.  There's so much more to you than you know. Not just pain and anger. There’s good too, I felt it.

And that had been all it took—Charles saying those words, looking at him like that.  Having his mind opened and being reintroduced to the most invaluable memories had flayed him open and soothed the sting all at once, and in such a state, he’d taken the words in like air to a drowning man.  They had wrapped their roots around the fragile parts of his psyche and taken hold, may as well have shifted the world on its axis.  

Erik hadn’t thought of himself as a good man since he’d lived in Ukraine.  Not since the day Anya died, when in the ensuing surge of anger he’d swept away the lives of twenty people as easily as drawing breath.  That single moment had sent his wife, who he loved as dearly as the daughter he dug out of the ashes that day, fleeing from him with terror in her eyes.  He’d never laid a hand on her, never dreamt of it.  But when she had seen that side of him, she had decided that it outweighed all else.  She had decided that she couldn’t stay in the presence of a monster like him, even to bury her own daughter.

It wasn’t the first time someone had thought as much of him—Sonderkommando hadn’t been well-regarded in the camps.  They had always been kept separate from the rest of the camp, put up in dormitories isolated from everyone else.  Some people thought they got special privileges. Others dismissed that as rightfully laughable, and hated them anyway for the jobs they imagined they were made to do.  The camp administrators kept that secret, and accordingly rumors had abounded of what atrocities they may have been made to help perpetuate.  That had stung in his throat: the hatred of his own people being directed at him.  It didn’t need to be everyone—it was enough, those few glares that they got when they did come into contact with the others in the camp, to make him feel nauseous and guilty anyway. Those stares were unavoidable if he wanted to see Magda.  But they’d been at least tolerable, so long as she never looked at him that way.

And then she had, that day in Vinnitsa, and Erik had lost everything in one fell swoop.  His daughter, his wife, and any idea he’d had that doing what it took to survive and protect her had made him a good man.  

Maybe Schmidt had taken out what made him good, in all those days at the camp, and turned him into something else.

That thought had lingered for decades.  When he went to Israel, when he started hunting Nazis, the idea was only reinforced.  Everyone he ever worked with had signed up to do the very same thing as he had, but stared at him like there was something wrong for the ease with which he would end the lives of their quarries.  Left to his own devices, Erik never let them die swiftly.  He thought it righteous retribution, justice, to let them feel a fraction of what he and so many others had.

( He never had quite seen the difference, between the two things: what was justice if not balancing the scales?  If not an eye for an eye?  There were other teachings, of course, later teachings about turning the other cheek, but as far as Erik was concerned, they’d had it right the first time.  His family had turned the other cheek, when all this started, and all they’d gotten for their troubles were torture and unmarked graves.  That wasn’t justice.  Justice was making their enemies feel for even just a few hours what he and six million of his kinsmen had suffered for years.  The scales would never be righted, but he would be damned if he wouldn’t try. Leaving their punishments to a G-d who had watched as the camps were built and his chosen people were slaughtered didn’t seem enough to even things out as much as what he could accomplish with his own two hands.  Maybe it was blasphemous to think that way.  He rather thought that if it was, he’d earned a bit of leeway. )

The others were afraid of how easily the cruelty came—maybe they thought he’d been one of the unfortunates made to perform such acts on his own people, in the camps, or maybe they had sorted out that difference he’d never seen. Either way, eventually the partnerships had stopped coming.  They’d never pulled him back from the field, probably because he was efficient if nothing else, but he’d stopped getting others assigned to help back in the seventies.  It’d been fine.  He worked better alone, without their stares upon his back and the green tint to their faces when he’d finished with his target.  When, in showing his partners the meticulous pins that could sometimes fill the walls of entire rooms he was staying in, he didn’t have to hear the whispers under their breath calling him a blood-fueled machine.  

( If only they knew the half of it. )

And then he’d met Charles, and the man hadn’t looked at him like that, despite the situation he’d found him in.  Erik had been prepared to kill Shaw on that yacht, and this little Oxford professor-type had dragged him out of the water, knew it, and still looked at him like he was a marvel.

Like he was worth saving.  

After so many years, it’d been intoxicating, the way that Charles looked at him.  The way the man relaxed around him—even when he was curt and abrasive, Charles never went tense or looked at him like he was the cold-blooded hunter that he’d become.  More than that, Charles had asked Erik to stay, to set aside the mission and help him help others like them.  He’d spoken about his vision, about wanting to build a safe haven, had been willing to trust Erik in the care of children.  And as much as the thought terrified him, it was everything that he’d ever wanted, and Erik couldn’t say no.  He knew from a lifetime of experience that inevitably, Charles and whoever they brought under their roof would pay for their association with him the same way both of his families had.  The same way Suzanna had just years before.  The same way everyone always did.  But Erik was a selfish man, and Charles’ optimism was in some ways contagious, and Erik couldn’t leave that acceptance behind to go back to working alone when he’d had a taste of what a partnership was supposed to be like.

Monsters didn’t get happy endings, though.  And surely enough, Charles had paid for it.

They’d planned Cuba for weeks.  Charles had never liked Erik’s goal of killing Shaw, though he had come in recent months to understand the necessity of taking the man out of action.  The telepath thought they could hand him over to law enforcement.  That the combined efforts of the entire team would be enough to overpower Shaw and his allies, enough to let the worlds’ governments step in and take care of him in the legal way.  The humane way.  

It was the most severe in a line of miscalculations Erik had been quietly cataloguing for months, the worst of the times that Charles let his idealism get in the way of his brilliant intellect.  Erik didn’t trust any government to be competent enough to take care of Shaw, especially when it seemed the man had been manipulating the Americans and the Russians to the brink of war for years.  He knew all too well the effects that Shaw could have on a person--how the man’s madness and cruelty could be dressed up in charisma and the air of power that seemed to suck the air out of any room he was in.  Charles wanted to believe that mutants and humans could work together against greater threats, but there was no amount of reasoning Erik could try that would convince his dearest friend that the humans would never see them as any better than the worst amongst them.  They couldn’t even respect their fellow humans that much, let alone another species.  Their differences would be enough to earn the humans’ contempt, even if not all of them made the leap that Charles himself had in his genetics thesis--that they were the next step of evolution that would wipe homo sapiens out if nature ran its course.  

Charles was dangerously wrong, and it was going to get him and the whole team killed.  So Erik had made his own plans, like he was used to.  He had willfully and shamelessly tricked Charles into being an accessory to murder, and while he regretted the pain it had caused the man, he would do it again in a heartbeat, because this was bigger than one man’s pain.  Charles could take it, had taken it seemingly no worse for the wear by the time he’d gotten out to the sand to see the evidence that Erik was right pointed at them.  And even then, even with a hundred missiles pointed at them threatening to blow the island into so much rearranged sand, Charles had argued for the humans.  Had said those most hated words, that the men on the ships were just following orders like every single man in the camps who marched after Hitler’s vision over the corpses of his people, and Erik had seen red.

The next minute had passed in a blur of thrown fists and metal singing to him as it hurtled across the sea towards its targets--and then Moira had shot at him.  Shot metal bullets at a metallokinetic.  And Charles, in all his eternal wisdom, had not hit the ground like everyone with sense and without Erik’s powers should when a gun went off, but had stood behind him while Erik’s attention was a million places at once, the past included.  It didn’t matter that Moira and Charles both had been stupid, though--Erik had been the one to curve the bullet.

Laying there in the sand, Charles had told him that he didn’t want to be by Erik’s side.  That they did not want the same things, despite months of conversation indicating otherwise in all senses but for the one.  In less than an hour, Erik had made a murderer and a cripple both of Charles, and so he had finally done what the man seemed to want, what he should have done from the beginning, and left.

The guilt for the bullet never went away.  The guilt for tricking Charles into violating his beliefs was worse and more complicated because he didn’t feel guilty enough that he would change it.  The bullet, of course.  But not that.  It had eaten him, that he was willing to use someone he truly cared about like that and not want to take it back.  Surely a good person wouldn’t be.

Erik had been content to leave it there: that Charles had been wrong about him the same way he’d been wrong about so many other things.  But no--he hadn’t been wrong at all, Erik knew now.  

He’d simply been lying.

Because today, when he’d been at the Institute, when he’d been trying to care for the man, Charles had been perpetually watching him out of the corner of his eye.  The telepath had made excuses for why they needed to go somewhere around other people, despite his studious avoidance of contact with anyone who wasn’t Jean, Hank, or himself for weeks.  Erik had been sitting at his bedside taking care of Charles since the rescue without issue. But then Hank had said something, when they were all together in the kitchen, and Charles had flinched when Erik’s voice got harder when he snapped his response.  

The first moment after, Erik had thought that perhaps it had just triggered memories from the kidnapping, but then the pieces fell into place with a sickening clarity that made his chest feel like it was caving in.

Hank had raised his voice, first, and not gotten a flinch.  Charles had been trying to keep from being alone with him all day, had been watching him like a bomb in the corner of the room.  He was afraid--not of the raised voice, but of what he must have somehow found out despite Erik’s efforts to hide it.  Charles knew he had the Phoenix, and he was afraid of it.  

But, had prompted that little voice in his mind, he isn’t afraid of Jean, is he?

No.  Even when Jean had nearly taken apart rooms of the house in fits of frustration or anger or sadness, Charles had never looked at Jean once in anything like fear.  Charles didn’t tiptoe around her, didn’t hate being alone with her—he enjoyed it, being with their daughter alone.  Even when said daughter was the living conduit of the Phoenix force.

Which meant it wasn’t a Phoenix problem.  It was Erik.  

Charles was afraid of him.  And all at once, Erik had felt the dizzying vertigo of familiarity—the rug being pulled from under his feet as someone he loved, someone he thought loved and trusted him, looked at him like he was feral.

Erik had made his excuses and left immediately, because he knew the emotion welling up in him was dangerous. Just like Charles thought he was—he was right, Erik was a time bomb, and he refused to go off at the Institute.  

His safehouse hadn’t been so lucky.  The place was a mess, but Erik had a few feet of clearance around himself where he sat against the wall, staring at the opposite wall absently as his mind twisted, reconciled itself with a reality he’d refused to consider before.

Charles was afraid of him.  Not the Phoenix.  If that was the case, it couldn’t be new—maybe more pronounced, now, but not new. And the more Erik considered it, the more he realized it had to have been true.

The near-nightly chess games had been more than simple friendship, they’d been check-ins.  The constant brush of Charles’ mind that he’d found so comforting for his months at the Institute wasn’t out of intimacy, it was monitoring.  

There’s good too.  Not a statement of fact, but wishful thinking.  Trying to make him something good, through the access Erik had given him to his mind and heart rather than through fists and fear as Schmidt had. And Erik hadn’t ever even considered it. He’d welcomed the man into his head after a few short weeks, let him set up an outpost, let him see things Erik had never—

So fucking stupid.

Of course that had been what it was.  Erik had known he wasn’t a good man, but had believed from the moment that he met Charles that the telepath was one. He’d thought that the man chose to associate with him because maybe, maybe Erik had been wrong about himself, but no.

Charles had seen what he was.  It’d been an exercise in containment. He’d seen that Erik wasn’t a good person and lured him to the Institute to keep him contained in a cage dressed up far nicer than the one Schmidt had used.  He had put him under him in the X-Men because he had seen that Erik needed to be controlled, and Erik had gone along with it because he’d been following orders his whole life and because he had trusted Charles.  

How useful that was for him, in recruitment, in boosting his ego.  The telepath had been right, on that beach when he'd told Erik that they didn't want the same thing.  Erik had always wanted freedom.  Charles wanted control.  Charles wanted to fix people, to trot them out and say look what I did.  He’d made Raven stay in a skin not her own for years around other people.  He'd hidden himself as a telepath from others, Raven said, and simply done whatever it took to win them over until Moira McTaggert.  Always about being liked.  Always about hiding the things that didn't fit the picture.  Always about the people around him keeping up the all-important image Charles cared so much about, cultivated so carefully.  Why, then, associate with Erik?  Erik, who was rough around the edges, who was sharp and dangerous and too hot-headed for his own good and nothing at all like the type of person Charles would’ve associated with in Oxford.  Erik, who Charles believed with every fiber of his being was fundamentally wrong about the world.  Why bother with him?

Certainly only for the satisfaction of a job well done.  What an image boost that would be, wouldn’t it?  The man who trained a housepet was nothing compared to the man who brought a feral animal to heel.  Rehabilitation was a lofty ideal, one that Charles could say he’d accomplished with someone as fucked up as Erik at his back.  Look, I can bring even the worst down to settle.

Erik had been too broken even for that.

And Jean—

Jean was afraid of him, too.  Oh, he had no doubt that she loved him, because she had been too young to fake it then and he still felt it now, when he let her into his head.  But she was afraid, too. She did what Charles had done, dressed it up in concern about his well-being, but it’d slipped through in her conversations with him, too, even if he’d been too stupid to see it at the time.  

That’s a fantastic idea, Erik. Lose your inhibitions even more.  

Sober up before you hurt someone not on our hit list, would you?

The chosen avatar of the Phoenix force was afraid of him—his daughter was afraid of him.  Of what he was willing to do.  Of what he would do if he wasn’t kept on a leash. She wasn’t here to help.  She was here to do damage control.  Just like the father she’d chosen years ago.  

Jean had said, time and time again, when he talked to her about the force running through both of them, now, that the Phoenix cuts through lies.  The Phoenix shows the truth.

The next hour was spent wrapped in smoke as he made his way steadily through nearly a whole pack of cigarettes, carefully cataloguing all the data he’d gotten but ignored regarding the people he surrounded himself with.  He stepped back, looked at it from out of himself, from the Phoenix that apparently could see what he would not, and evaluated all the little details he’d disregarded out of fear of disturbing the fragile self-image he’d started to repair all those years ago.  

They were all afraid of him.

When he’d tried to talk to Logan about Terry, the man had jumped immediately to telling Erik to stay away from her, threatening to kill him if he hurt the woman.  As if Erik would.

Daisy had been surprised, the morning after, because she hadn’t expected he would do something so basically polite, something he considered baseline etiquette. She’d expected something meaner.

Lorna had balked, during the rescue, at the lack of care he’d had for torturing the man for information about his leader.  She’d been disgusted, had avoided looking him in the eye for hours after.

Anna had left him once already because she was afraid of what he was willing to do.  He’d thought that they were getting back on track.  But she had been appalled, he vaguely remembered, when he’d told her about the plan while drunk and devastated against her side. She’d covered it with agreement, but he’d felt the way she shifted beneath him.  He hadn’t wanted to look at anything from that night, when he’d woken up the morning after, but now?  Now he saw.

And Raven.  Raven, who he thought might know him better than nearly anyone.  She’d told him flat out that she was afraid of him, too, that he sparked the same fear she’d been fighting as a child.  He’d felt so betrayed when he found out about the Park, but maybe she’d been right.  Maybe she’d seen in him what he wouldn’t see in himself.

One by one, he felt the rocks that he’d been braced against slipping under the water.  Charles, Jean, Logan, Daisy, Lorna, Anna, Raven.  All but one.

Scott—Scott wasn’t afraid of him, he was certain of that.  When Scott had been a student, Erik had noted quietly the similarities between himself and the boy.  When he’d found out years later that Jean and Scott had fallen together, he’d felt almost relieved, because Scott was like him--Scott would do anything to protect Jean, he knew.  ( And if Jean liked Scott, maybe they were similar enough that she didn’t hate Erik as she had every right to, now. )

When they’d teamed up that handful of times before Scott had formally come to his side after the Park, Scott had never once been afraid of what Erik did to those who got in his way.  Scott knew what he could do, what he would do, surely enough, but hadn’t hated him.  Scott had looked at him in exasperation, irritation, concern, amusement, but never fear. Not once. Not even as an X-Man.  

He could trust Scott.  The other one who’d had the Phoenix force pressed upon him, the one Erik had long thought was more similar to himself than the younger man would admit to himself, who he now realized Jean clung to because she had the best parts of himself without the rest, without the parts that terrified her and everyone else he’d ever loved.

Scott was a good man--the best of himself and of Charles.  Scott hadn’t lied to him.  Scott hadn’t tried to control him.  He could trust Scott.

If no one else.

He needed space, needed a few days to sort through what was true and what wasn’t.  Seeing things with clear eyes would be essential, in the coming weeks, and he wasn’t there. Not yet.  But he was getting there.

He left the safehouse he’d been staying in in its state without bothering to straighten anything.  He would come back in a few days.  For now, he left the contents scattered around the room in pieces, alongside the lie of what he’d pretended to be.  He was right, in that bar years ago, when the Nazis he’d left to choke on their own blood asked him what he was.

A monster.