Premise: Krakoan era, you get your period (it’s a PCOS period, agonising, tiring- you get it)
Authors note: not insanely accurate this is mainly self indulgent.
Despite the multiple invitations and reminders of the gala, you regretted to inform everyone that you might not show up and even when asked why you could only shyly look away and whisper a small, "period."
Emma's perfect features twitched in confusion, asking how on earth you were confident about your uterus's timing and why it even mattered.
Anna Marie, however, shot you a knowing look. She'd been there when you were both young at Westchester, the entire mansion would hear your cries and yelps until you grew wise enough to mute the agony out with pills as per her recommendation.
"Only issue is," you continue to explain to Emma, "I've taken so much pain relief in the past that I have to take a shit ton now. Which only redirects the agony to my livers."
She swirls around her wine in her gloved hand and raises a suspecting brow, "Had I been you, I would've fought Beast for a cure."
Anna sits up on her seat properly, "best we could do was stay outta her damn way," she snorted in memory, "poor Remy was the only one who didn't understand-" you both laugh as if the exact same memory replayed in your head.
The Cajun stood in your doorway, dropping peace offerings whilst ducking hard launched pillows you'd used your gravity mutation to attack him with, screeching at him to go bother someone else.
"Careful cherè! Was only checkin' on ya- AGH!"
The memories rushing back only makes you sigh, hoping sincerely that your little prediction was incorrect and that the little cramps and cravings were just a coincidence and that tomorrow- upon the gala's day, you'd wear the gown you saved and make it to the event.
You cut the little hangout short after a few more stomach pangs.
The green pathway was clear and direct, towards the pod you share with your husband, Erik. Along the way, you grow weary and slow enough not to notice the tall figure following from behind.
Instead, you curled on the little stone steps, hugging your stomach.
Leafs and plants swaying amongst the silence soothe you into small chills through the dull pain.
You shriek at the deep baritone voice, flinching towards the direction to find a mildly amused Erik.
"You arse-" you hiss before quickly shutting up and forcibly softening yourself, sitting back on the steps. "Sorry, sweetheart... didn't see you."
The same shit eating grin lit his face. "I was beginning to wonder when you'd notice me," he kneeled in front of you, his white strands mussed from a long stressful day.
The steel blue eyes you woke up to every morning travel across your features, down your body as if he was trying to make sense of your weary state.
Then, he peels his glove off.
"I would be dutiful in reminding you the Gala's tomorrow," the back of his ungloved hand presses to your forehead, "however it doesn't seem as though you are fit to attend," he hums and pulls back. No heat.
"It's my period, Erik." You reassure and eventually stand to enter the warm home. "I wouldn't be fit to get out of bed, let alone a whole Gala..."
His chuckle vibrates through the vacant entry of the home, "Oh, I am well aware of your mighty periods and the doom they cast upon your day."
"Not enough to stop you from scaring me apparently." you limp to the couch, curling up to warm your tummy.
"Come now, my dear, it was only done in jest." He beelines to the kitchen and rummages around until a few minutes later. He emerges with a mug smelling of multiple seeped plants. The mixture of herbs that usually soothes mild cramping.
You carefully take it from his steady hands and take a few sips. "Forgiven," you sigh and lean back as if your shoulders weighed you down.
You melt at the genuine fond look he shares. "I'm not sure if my period is coming anyway, could be a scare." You whisper as he sits beside you, an arm behind your shoulder.
He hums in response, sharing his bodily warmth with you.
You add hoarsely, "I'm excited to see you there too... I mean I saw your outfit and I can't wait to see how Charles reacts when you out do him again."
Erik laughs heartily at that, slender fingers burying into your hair to carefully bump your forehead with his. "He will be rendered speechless- as he is every single time."
Your eyes softly flutter as fatigue grasps you, his warmth paired with the tea reduces you to a yawning mess.
Erik helps you into bed and you curl up with a few sleepy prayers about your period delaying for the gala's sake.
By the time the cool summer air drifted in through the windows and the Krakoan sun bathed the bedroom, you find yourself in a cocoon with a heating pad on your lower belly. However, it didn't seem to do much.
Despite the fresh breeze and the calming serenity of the morning your stomach tied in knots, releasing in a dull clench before repeating the same agony.
Erik opened the door at the sound of your whimpers, in the midst of getting dressed- no doubt. His white brows furrow before he hurries over and tries to do something to the iron in your blood, which makes you yelp and flinch onto your side. "E-Erik...! M-Meds..." you pant breathlessly.
Without a nod, the old man leaves your side and returns before another dull wave washes over you.
You drink the two pills he often lectures you against having, his hand cradling your head as you chug the water.
To settle in your system, it would take twenty more minutes. You refuse to cry like you did back in Westchester. No, not at such an age. You're a woman now.
You grit your teeth as Erik adjusts the heating pad and rubs your stomach in slow circles.
"G-Gala... go..." you sigh as relief barely washes over you, "I'll be fine"-
"Nonsense," he dresses your cold feet in fuzzy socks to lock warmth in. "Krakoa will survive without me for one evening," Erik half jokes.
"It isn't nonsense..." you whisper between huffs, "Erik, you deserve to be celebrated... you played a huge part in keeping mutants safe..." You bit your lip, trying not to grow too emotional in front of him. "Don't stay because you pity me,"
At the sight of your tears, he assesses again, scanning where your most coiled and stiff movements were to understand where you're hurting.
And of course, Erik Lehnsherr ignored your pleas.
Instead, your poor husband spent the better half of the morning and afternoon around you.
"Not yet," you rasp, half spent from muffling your sounds of anguish the entire hour.
Erik furrows his brows and leaves to go fix the issue. Somehow problem solving every discomfort the best he logically can.
By then, the afternoon slipped by in a haze of blankets, heating pads and junk food.
It destroyed your carefully balanced meal plan but your husband only protested once- mainly reluctant.
"You'll feel terrible if you eat all this," he sighs before sitting down.
"I already feel terrible," you switch on a random film to distract yourself, curling against his side. Jane Eyre. You think nothing of it.
Between scenes and a few weak nibbles on a bar, you end up with your back half to his chest, his arm curled around you to secure your position.
In the distance, the sounds of laughter and music pangs, muffling in the Krakoan air. The gala being hearable wasn't helping your case- not as the film takes an emotional turn.
Jane had discovered Mr Rochesters mad wife in a locked room shortly after their interrupted wedding, disturbed and confused. Mr Rochester attempted damage control by pleading with her, crying into her dress and explaining why he lied, yet it wasn't getting through to her.
So she ran away, down the window, through the grassy desert.
Both your guilt and the scene of Mr Rochester calling desperately for Jane on his horse builds up into an ugly ball of emotion.
Your eyes immediately began to sting, a broken whisper flying from your lips, "oh God."
Besides your ear came a very familiar sigh, one earned from years of learning how emotional you could become during certain films.
You sniff, thickly swallowing. "Oh Erik... this is awful." You wipe your tears, "he loves her,"
Your lip trembles as the rain soaks through her hopeless sobs, thinking she found someone who truly loved her just for it to be a lie.
Behind you, Erik slightly shifts. Not because he was uncomfortable but because he knows whats to come.
A broken sound leaves you, turning to peer over at the old man, "are you judging me?"
His lips curl in a soft smirk, “I wouldn’t dare,” Erik beckons you closer, hand slipping over your stomach to check the heating pad. “It may be mildly amusing when you shed tears over fiction, though I suppose that only means you wear your heart on your sleeve,”
You snort and curl up into him properly, legs tucked under the little blanket and cheek nuzzled into his chest.
“It means,” he corrects the fabric around you to trap heat, “You are deeply sincere,” he taps your nose, “Maybe even an open book,” another tap.
“Erik,” you sigh and grab his hand before he does it again.
“Sleep, you look exhausted.” His cheek rests on your head, hiding his dreary expression as the two protagonists on screen yearn for each other.
Your arm tucks against his middle, losing the battle against fatigue. Another issue he’ll have to hunt a solution for.
When you’re finally out, he presses his lips into your hairline, smoothing hair back from your face.
