i will be your guardian

but you can never say never. an independent xmfc au rp blog. mun/muse both over 18. panfandom. multi-verse, multi-ship. may contain nsfw. you have been warned.

[asofterxavieracademy-blog]

359: Sure, play another song. I’ve got nothing better to do. 

[anironball]

this blog is so old we used to use gifs to rp when it was active

[anironball]

you think your dreams are the same as mine oh, i don’t love you, but i always will

01/03

[anironball]

COMPLETE BLOG OVERHAUL COMING SOON.

I will be rebooting Erik completely in the coming days.

[anironball]

∞

∞: For something/someone I love infinitely.

Her hair catches the sunlight and flickers redredred, firelight bursting from the crown of her head and tumbling down over her shoulders in wicked, knotted curls. Her eyes are bright and happy and just slightly too mischievous, something her mother insists she inherits from her father, and her father will go to his grave asserting that it’s entirely from her mother’s side of the family. Her knees have scabs over the scabs and she picks at them, flaking off the dead skin in the kitchen and making her mother throw her hands up in the air and swear in a language that only makes her laugh and laugh and laugh.

Her smile is crooked and uneven not just because half her mouth is faster than the other, but because her teeth have come in with a gap between the two front, and she sticks her tongue between it and wishes it were wider. There’s always dirt under her nails and every dress has a stain that her father can’t get out, because papa is always the one to do laundry (or at least he is ever since he made a sly remark at mama and she stalked out of the room with the clothes half-washed). 

Her voice is musical but not lyrical, a child’s high pitch that dips deep and rumbles when she tries to imitate her papa. Her temper is wicked and explosive, and sometimes that means she screams until she’s hoarse, and sometimes that means she holds her breath until her parents think she really might pass out this time. (Both of them claim her temper and they laugh about it, collapsed against one another, wondering how in the world they’re ever going to survive her teenage years.)

She is, when he is at wit’s end, still the only thing that he lovesloveslovesloves unconditionally. He thought he knew love curled against his mother’s side, her hand carding through his hair; and it was love. He thought he knew love with his lips pressed to his wife’s, hands sliding up her back, fingers tangling in her wayward curls; and it was love. But neither compared to what he felt holding his daughter for the first time, her body tiny and cupped in both his hands, her face red and blotched and eyes squeezed tightly shut. And he thought, holding her that first time, that he would never know a love greater 

                                but he did

                                                   because every day it grew

and it was never more powerful or terrible than the day she leaned out the window, screaming herself hoarse, smoke pluming over her head, screaming for him over and over and over

and it 

               has

                            never

                                             died.

(Though she has. Thousands and thousands of times, an ageless video reel constantly replayed in the back of every nightmare, a still-bleeding wound that has only half-scarred.)

[johnnystorm]

[graband-end]

I’ll — right.

[ It’s ‘he wants you to feel welcome’ that has her looking up again, brows pulling together and the corners of her mouth pinching into a frown. She knows he does — she can see it in his smile and hear it when he speaks, no matter what they’re talking about. She doesn’t think she’s ever met another person with a heart quite so big, and it’s the sort of generosity she doesn’t feel she deserves, sometimes. It made her curious initially — what sort of man opens his home without a word, without expecting anything in return, without asking any sort of questions? 

(He certainly hadn’t asked any of her when she’d gotten there. He’d been nothing but patient, hadn’t pushed in the way she’d grown used to over the past two and a half years.)

Josephine doesn’t think she will ever be able to thank them — because it is not just the Professor, but Erik and the others too, whether they were the ones who helped them from the lab or the ones who were there waiting when they got back. They’ve offered her a second chance and she has no idea how to tell any of them just how grateful she is for it. 

The need to t r y is there, though, swelling in the birdcage of her ribs when she looks at Erik, but she swallows it back down. No matter how much she appreciates everything they’ve done for her, no matter how welcome she knows she’s meant to feel, there’s still a part of her that doesn’t feel exactly right being there. She knows she’s safe at Westchester, regardless of how many nights she lies awake mistaking the bumps and groans of an old house for footsteps or something else entirely; she knows that this is her home now, if she wants it to be, and that she can stay for as long as she’d like.

                            But it’s so d i f f e r e n t; different than a tiny apartment

                            in New Orleans and different than a cell without windows,

                           and why is it so hard to get used to? Why can’t she be 

                           like the others, Luz and Lorna and Sean and Darwin, who

                          seem so comfortable here?

She hopes it won’t always be this way. ]

I know.  

It’s just that it’s — a lot. 

[anironball]

[One would think that this is a conversation Charles ought to have with Josephine. With any of them, really; Erik is not a people person. He isn't comforting, he isn't soft, he isn't gentle. He is -- uniquely unqualified for this, in just about every aspect.

Except.

                                Except he is the only person, he thinks, that these                                  mutants can talk to about their experience, if they                                 can talk to anyone. They may not want to, and he                                 will be the last person to force them, but --

                                Someone who doesn't want to talk won't open the                                 conversation. (Won't try to shove the lead weight                                 off their chest so they can breathe again.)

                                He liberated them, but he didn't s a v e them. He is                                 not arrogant or naive enough to believe that. But                                 perhaps he can try.]

It is.

I'd like to tell you it gets easier.

[A pause.]

And if it ever does, I'll let you know.

[graband-end]

Oh.

[ It doesn’t surprise her, not really; she’s seen the books in the Professor’s study the handful of times she’s been in there to speak with him, and she knows there’s a library somewhere that’s bound to be packed full. 

(Maybe the only surprising thing about it is that the Professor doesn’t particularly strike her as someone who leaves his things lying around, but maybe this is an exception.)

She opens her mouth to say something — what, she doesn’t know — but the only thing that comes out is an underwhelming, ]

— right.

[ She drops her eyes, looks down at her hands and the book clasped between them. She feels like she should say s o m e t h i n g but words fail her, as they so often do; she realizes, a split second too late, that this is the first time she’s spoken to Erik when he wasn’t in the company of the Professor.

                                          (Realizes too that her mind still skips between

                                           E r i k and M a g n e t o, unsure of which to 

                                           settle on.) ]

I’ll make sure to get it back to him, when I’m done.

[anironball]

[Erik glances at the book, not recognizing the title, and then settles his gaze back on Josephine. She's not comfortable here, that much is obvious, but then he doesn't expect her to be. Any of them, really; nevermind where they came from

                                        (and remembering where they came from still                                         makes the edges of his vision go a little white,                                         makes his stomach clench and his temper                                         fray just to think of it).

Westchester is not easy to grow accustomed to. He ought to know.]

More than likely, someone else left it out. I doubt he's worried.

[And it's a little strange, isn't it, that he can speak for Charles so freely, but --

It doesn't feel wrong.

After another moment, he inclines his head toward her.]

He wants you to feel welcome.

[graband-end]

[ She fumbles the book in her hands when she hears footsteps approach, slapping the cover shut as a flush of red crawls up her neck. ]

Oh — was this — is this yours?

[ A quick flash of the cover, as though it needs to be shown. ]

It was on the coffee table. I was just borrowing it.

[ She bites back ‘sorry,’ but only just. ]

[anironball]

[He slows his walk deliberately, not wanting to startle the girl, and slowly raises a brow.]

It belongs to Charles.

If he didn't want you to read it, he wouldn't leave it out. [Despite the bland, dry tone of his voice, his expression isn't particularly unfriendly.

Then again, it's not particularly friendly, either.]

[anironball]

nobody ships his mutant babies more than erik lehnsherr

and if you ever call him on it he'll say you're a dirty liar and pull all the iron out of your blood

[anironball]

i'm sorry but

my muse just walked down an invisible staircase

what has yours done today

[foundyouflightless-deactivated2]

[ He doesn’t think about it everyday; it’s not like there’s something to remind him that he’s different when he looks in the mirror in the mornings. But some days there’s an inescapable lightness in his center that he can’t help but focus on, trying so hard to weigh it down to keep himself grounded because it’s terrifying.

It’s terrifying because if he can’t keep his feet on the ground, he’s up in the air and people aren’t supposed to  f l y ,  not like that, and what would people think if they saw him? It’s terrifying because heights make him dizzy and heights disorient him and he has nightmares about falling.

And he’s scared, focusing so, so hard on staying grounded when he hears someone in the crowd shout ’Look! He’s flying!’

Logan whips his head in the direction he’d heard the voice coming from, only to find a woman pointing— ]

                                                                           [   —pointing in the

                                                                               opposite direction.

Sure enough, there’s a man in flight, high above a gathering crowd, and Logan feels himself rise, too distracted to stop himself. He hovers there, a few inches off the ground before he has the sense to clamp back down on that feeling again, but he doesn’t stop watching—

                                                                                 —doesn’t stop

                                                                                 thinking ’he’s like me.’

Before he knows it, he’s pushing through the now dense crowd to the front, staring upupup at the man in the air who’s very existence proves to him that he’s not alone. ]

[anironball]

[The demonstration is winding down. It's a publicity stunt; it's a reminder that he is h e r e, that his people exist, that they will not slip quietly into the night. It's a far cry different from the work he does under cover, from the liberation of his fellow mutants from the labs (from torture, from degradation, from a hell so many thousand times worse than death), but it's important.

It's important, and it's being broadcast across the nation.

It will be h e a r d.

His hands are flipped upward, fingers curled like talons, and around him, metal creaks and groans as cars lift into the sky. He's having a bit t o o m u c h  f u n, perhaps, but no one (Charles) will begrudge him his scene if it means no one is hurt.

His voice rings above the crowd, calm and measured, and the sunlight glints off his helmet.]

We are among you, and we are tired of hiding. We are tired of exposing our bellies to you and we are tired of living in fear.

Humans, you have made us angry.

[The cars twirl, spinning lazily, and before panic can reach levels of hysteria -- before they can respond and train their g u n s on him -- he lowers them to the ground, husks rocking on their wheels.

For this to work, for it to be a demonstration and not a battle, it must be brief. He rises higher, cape snapping behind him, and continues to shout.]

But it is not too late. We offer you -- [And it galls him, it grates in his mouth like gravel, it licks up his ribcage like open flame, but he p r o m i s e d] -- a chance. Mend your ways, humanity.

Or we will mend them for you.

[And his time is running out. In the distance, he can hear sirens. Below him, the crowd is pulsing, moving; the display of power has unsettled them, and g o o d. 

He folds his arms, teeth bared in a wide smile, and he descends an invisible staircase. His gaze sweeps the crowd and he sees fear, he sees confusion, he sees anger; the wail of sirens draws ever closer.

He plants his feet firmly on the ground.]

Have a good evening.

[And he begins to walk, stride purposeful and powerful, as the crowd parts around him. He has people on the ground; at the edge of a building, red lips stretch into a wide smile -- across the street, a woman materializes out of thin air.

They'll teleport out with Azazel, of course.

Their message has been received, loud and clear.]

[favoritelittlelyrics]

Jay-Z, Kanye West, Frank Ocean and The Dream, “No Church In the Wild”

[anironball]

it is unacceptable to bring taco time into my home and not give me some

just

for future reference

[anironball]

the sound of pulling heaven down

Erik releases Azazel's hand with the first wisps of smoke, already striding to the door before his stomach has eased its uncomfortable looping from the sensation of teleporting. He knows without checking that Azazel is a breath behind him, steps silent over concrete, understated in everything but the deep, ominous tone of his skin. It has been some time since they moved on a target, but that doesn't mean they've forgotten the dance.

His helmet glints in a streetlight and he opens his palm, cocking his head slightly as he frowns and wrenches his hand back, pulling the door neatly off its hinges and leaving it warped against the wall.

The smell hits them first, but neither Erik nor Azazel flinch. It smells like old blood, like meat, and Erik catches the flicker of movement behind a pillar. He barely spares a glance to the man, grabbing him by his belt buckle and wrenching him upward, slamming his body into the ceiling with less anger than casual indifference. Not who he's looking for -- at his side, Azazel's smile is a slow, understated smirk -- and Erik ignores that as well.

"Find the mutant," he says to Azazel, and there's a question in the silence. It's at the tip of his tongue, as it has been a thousand times, to say whatever means necessary because that is the Brotherhood's mantra, isn't it? but his eyelid flickers and he grits his teeth. "Disable. Don't kill."

Azazel inclines his head and disappears in a swirl of sulfur and curving, spiking smoke, and Erik reaches out, continuing to feel for the metal. It shapes in his mind -- tables and chairs and desks and nothing so damning as metal bars/cages/knives -- but he knows that these people will hurt. They hurt Luz, and he was the one to take her to Hank and see that her wounds were tended, to reassure her that she was safe and protected while rage coiled and simmered in his gut. He hadn't struck out then, as he wanted to, because he'd needed to know the whole picture--

Isolated incident?

The beginning of something more?

Or the actions of one belonging to many--

And he'd gotten his answer. Small, for what he was accustomed to dealing with. There was a district where mutants hid, where it was dark and subtle enough that even those with obvious mutations could duck their heads and hope at passably decent living, but they were scattering. Leaving. Because some self-righteous humans had noticed them and were unable to pass their physical markers off as simple human deformities any longer. It was becoming, in short, a witch hunt.

Luz had likely just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, using her gifts to make life a bit easier. She couldn't have possibly known she was skirting the edges of the pathetic humans' stomping ground.

And he wasn't going to tell her.

He hears muffled shouts and he follows them, skin itching with the need for action. He doesn't expect to find blood smeared across the floor, fingermarks streaked desperately through it, and a mass of humans being stalked by a tall, glorious woman. He lifts his hands immediately, the gesture both intended to placate as well as defend, and feels out the metal in the room.

She swipes at the humans, long, gnarled claws already slick with blood, and Erik tugs them just out of reach by their zippers, taking little care to make the gesture smooth.

Whirling, the mutant raises her hands, teeth bared. She seems to falter at his dress and pose, eyes flicking between his hands and the still-dragging humans on the floor, before demanding, "What are you doing?"

His voice is patronizingly amused as he steps neatly to the side, slamming the humans against the wall without even an attempt at gentleness. "Keeping them alive long enough to learn their lesson." After a moment's pause, eyes traveling from the top of her head to her knotted, overlarge feet, he breathes, "You're exceptional."

She bares her teeth, clicking her tongue against the backs of them and tensing up all at once. "Rich, coming from you, pretty boy." Her voice is rough and drenched in derision, eyes dark and hateful. "Fuck off and give me the humans."

[a-groovymutation-blog]

i think the funniest aspect of the miami scene in xmfc is the fact that when charles comes out of the water his hair is literally slicked back perfectly

[anironball]

[anotherpassingphase-blog]

Just passing through.

[An awkward choice of words, given that she’d been just finishing phasing through a wall when he glanced down the alleyway at her. She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed.

But he probably had.]

[anironball]

I noticed.

[And his smile grows, showing just the hint of teeth. It's sometimes hard to tell, what's a trick on the eye, but -- he doesn't think he's mistaken here.

And to think, he wasn't even looking.]

[He spreads his hands in front of him, calling to the metal in the area and shaking it ever-so-slightly.]

It seems... efficient.