#stcro1x

〔 𓆣 : ･ﾟ * º • 𝔠𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔢𝔡 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔯   〕 » @stcro1x !! ❤︎'d my starter call.

〔 𓆣 〕  ... “ If there is one thing you've got over me during a fight its that you're mildly terrifying. ” They'd served with each other enough times for him to say that with his full chest. The woman was scary; what's worse was that she knew it and put it to use. When faced with her, it was no wonder that more often than not, people were going to surrender rather than continue the fight.

from @stcro1x ( she can be unserious but her sense of humor is bone dry )

〔 ꗞ : ･ﾟ * º • 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱   〕 » ARE YOU JOHN'S TYPE ? @stcro1x !!

“ I don't know what it is, but you not givin' a damn that I like to fix things rubs me the wrong way. I'll make my peace with it. ”

〔 ꗞ : ･ﾟ * º • 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱   〕 » SENDER kisses RECEIVER slowly, unhurried. @stcro1x !!

Monet was a peculiar woman. Specific about how she was approached, who was allowed to touch her, and how. Someone who knew what she wanted and took it when it pleased her, John appreciated women like that. They let you know when they wanted you, and the frequency with which she claimed moments of closeness with him made him feel almost honored.

His pride wasn't harmed by how she commanded him in silence with a touch, grabbing his chin in that confident and firm way she did and bringing him lower. When their lips touched, the lantern melted into her. Drawing her flush to him by her hips, then securing her near by applying pressure to the small of her back. His free hand rested on her backside with a solid squeeze.

〔 •ﻌ• 〕 ･ﾟ * º • 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 » 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇   𝐎𝐑   𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒 ? @stcro1x !!

“ oh, cutie, i've hardly known ye. ” however, that didn't mean he was without an opinion. beast boy often had an opinion. “ ya strike me as the stern sort, that kind of a woman who would take me by the chin and tell me to knock off my shit and get to work. i like that. 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇. ”

romantic or platonic?: romantic.

a night in or dinner out or an activity?: anything but being cooped up inside.

ice cream or chocolate covered strawberries?: the strawberries with a glass of dom perignon.

what's your perfect date?: we feed each other the strawberries and the champagne, clothing optional.

would you cook for me?: i don't cook.

would you let me cook for you?: do you cook, t'challa? don't stretch your talents thin for my sake, we can hire somebody.

can we make-out?: we must.

make out in private or in public?: it matters not.

do you like to cuddle?: secretly, yes.

blankets or no blankets for cuddling?: i don't see the cold being a problem when we're intertwined.

couch or bed?: bed.

what are at least 3 hobbies of yours?: shopping, traveling, sparring.

tell me something about you no else knows: my lingerie collection is curated to perfection.

why do you want to be my valentine?: our regal backgrounds juxtaposed with our combined sex appeal, why shouldn't we?

what makes you a good Valentine?: see above.

wakanda works like a well-oiled machine, and it’s every child of wakanda’s duty to make sure it continues to do so. it serves him well. especially in the rare hours he allocates to something personal. something untouched by council chambers or avenger briefings.

the panther king has never been a relic displayed between ivory pillars and gold-leafed ceilings. he moves. he travels. he is seen. there were years when that visibility unsettled certain voices within wakanda — too present beyond the borders, too entangled in global affairs.

those arguments belong to another season.

tonight required presence of a different kind. time with monet is arranged with the same care he gives a campaign — secured, purposeful, not a move made with careless abandon.

@stcro1x | HC ABOUT OUR MUSES.

001. they keep it honest with each other, no disguises necessary. momet respect that he never lies to spare feelings, hers or anyone else's. and he also respects that she never pretends not to know in order to keep things smooth with people relations. when the house is dirty, they clean it. the disagreement remains clean, an honest disagreement with no residual feelings of betrayal between either party. there is no posture about politics. they're the kind of people who can see the outcome ahead of time, calculate several plans of action on how to deal with issues that arise, prepared to fall back on plan b, c, d, e, and f as needed. even if monica's execution can be sloppy for his taste at times, or if t'challa fails to deal with a security measure he initially implemented, the level of trust remains with the other.

002. t'challa would rely on monet to itnroduce him to the mutant population living the spaces between the north african mutants in europe, the black mutants invisibilized and enslaved in the context of arabization, the immigrants whose mutation heightens their racial and religious sensitivity, and would want her to influence the kinds of policies that do not reduce mutant identity to a singular dimension. not "mutant first, everything else second," t'challa would not swallow that line. real security for humanity through multiple layers of safety nets that acknowledge the intersectionalities of race, languag,e religion, mutation under different regimes.

003. one thing that t'challa notices about monet is that she is comfortable moving around with other elites without getting ensnared in the process. she would work with him so that he can see how she operates as a wedge in mutant elite circles, vocalizing against how privilege is probably going to be replicating the same exclusivist logic mutants want to escape. he believes she understands or is aware of what it means to be in proximity of privilege without fully belonging to the groups that have an egregious monopoly over power.

004. faith is almost treated like a jurisdiction of study. monet has a belief that governs her life with discipline. t'challa notices this, out of curiosity and obligation. there's a shift in her mannerisms when ramadan comes around: the hours of fasting, how she conducts herself before iftar, the way her energy moves differently throughout her day. he even learns her preferred places of prayer. she never has to justify herself during their outings, and he knows how to make appropriate accommodations.

for instance, arrangements made while traveling together with monica are always premised on ease of praying and halal food handled with the utmost care (he doesn't partake in pork).

@stcro1x

❝ oof. you'd like a little truth wouldn't you? ❞ bobby wagged his finger, playful as ever. ❝ dare! ❞

he didn't even hesitate — truth was far too risky a gamble with monet st. croix behind the wheel. she'd dig. she'd peel back layers with that serrated doggedness of hers until she struck something tender—then twist the knife, just to watch the pulp twitch. all to satisfy her curiosity.

nah. not tonight.

he wasn't about to let his cool kamikaze itself this early in the night. transgressive vulnerability? in front of her? that was a rookie move. a searingly silly act of self-sabotage.

he sipped from his glass and grinned, foxlike. ❝ ms. messy-pants ain’t getting me on the record just yet. ❞

❝ e ai?! tudo beleza, fine people? ❞

sunspot graced the room like he smelled richer than everyone there. the scent of bad money moved with him—muddled cash, a dash of gunpowder, and cologne, with delectable citrus notes. his beard was thick enough to catch compliments and lies alike, and had he twisted the tail ends of his mustache, he might've passed for a supervillain at leisure. he walked heavy, like his thousand-dollar shoes were combat boots. but it wasn't the shoes that shook the room—it was the effect.

his frown, permanent. nothing was hidden behind his ray-bans. he scanned each face with clinical precision: who was laughing with fear latched onto the edge of his grin? who was smiling with an empty face, devoid of sou? he noticed every detail. even the elbows or fingers that were ashy enough to start a fire. unacceptable. that reminded him: as gears turned in head, he brandished out his stick of cocoa butter and moisturized his lips once more. a little self-care goes a long way in the confidence department.

the briefcase banged the table. clack! chrome latches snapped open, and inside: rows of ugly dead presidents, fossilized colonizers in pretty green print, yet with enough life to raise the dead. this was no flex. this was evidence. unadulterated capital.

❝ money, ❞ he said, ❝ makes the world cum. ❞

money, it opens the door for us to say america can be great. it's the greatest grade of ritalin ever made—it irrefutably commandeers attention, not even seasoned medicine men could concoct a better formula.

money, the peace-maker, the hope-dealer, and war-maker. it could go help build day cares or peddle nightmares and make ruins out of dreams.

as the room's dopamine levels elevated, roberto smiled like a man born under a lucky star but raised in the belly of the beast. that all american smile—the one they taught him to weaponize.

the devil's cursed god people, reversed god, made 'em dogs, and the sun child intends to follow in hannibal's steps and seize the day. how else could these wooly mammals claw back from extinction and gather here today, if not for his paleontological pedigree? if roberto was going to make changes, he was going to need the help of the underworld. this assembly of dirty old-world bastards had what he needed. what the people needed.

again, he has a world to devour. he'll bring out mortal shows and blow the game up and watch it all fall down like bush did when the twin towers dropped.

among the throng of shady characters, he spied monet's sexy self. he didn't need to know what her eyes were doing. they'd rehearsed this meeting, just not this version of it. the divergence was intentional. with sunspot, it always a performance. she will undoubtedly hate him for the play he was about to make. but, his mind was too preoccupied with running faster than cheetahs than be worried with coming to blows with his fellow mutant. he’d honed his thoughts to a lethality meant to rival a mountain of assassins of alamut.

❝ now, let's examine the facts, ❞ he said, assuming a seat on the single empty leather chair nearest to him and rolled himself around the room. he abruptly halted himself when he came behind monet. ❝ her and i, we are, perhaps, stand among the richest mutants you ever interacted with. ❞ 'berto planted a friendly palm on her shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze.

❝ sometimes, i wasn't sure how much that even meant, with genocide being so popular these days. ❞ he noticed how some in the room got slightly uncomfortable, probably wondering why he wasn't getting to the meat and potatoes of already. he'd oblige them soon enough.

❝ but that's nothing new to any of ya'll. i'm sure. from the favelas of rio to the rubbles of palestine, from brooklyn trenches to the ocean of blood mixed in with sudan's red clay, to the mutant kids dying with swollen bellies in the belly of the land of the free—oh, baby, weeee are in demand. we're not a board, we're a bloodline. and what kind of ancestor you plan to be, depends on what you build today. ❞

when you suffer through the daily vibrations of gunplay—witnessing global famine, weekly episodes of violent self-degradation—it stands to reason you’d be deep in thug season. thick skin ain’t optional. he had to, in order to navigate this ghetto world. it's survival, plain and simple. every second he breathes, somebody dies. silence might keep you alive, but hold it too long and it’ll start to kill you slow.

and roberto could feel the decay.

roberto had two jaguars vying for dominance in chest. one wanted him numb, disconnected, safely dead inside. the other wanted blood—wanted to shred through tyranny and tear the system down with its claws. if he wanted the latter to win, he’d have to sharpen the best weapon he had: his mind. because everybody got a heater. even the babies. kids who should be sucking binkies were out here toting blickies. the shit was ridiculous.

his tone sharpened, but never cracked. ❝ now, let's examine some fun roberto facts. first, wellness is wealth. ya'll agree? i'm stupidly successful. done a whole lot in life... and i still have a virgin asshole. not a drop of my spit's been swabbed by a pink dick. i've declined many invitations—always respectfully. let that be quoted. i know how those in power like their master-slave scripts. i don’t kink shame. but that? that ain’t for roberto. ❞

a pause.

❝ now, in the event i ever gotta play the running man for the man—i got enough bolas in this game to make a new year drop, and fuck hollywood like a rabbit in heat. if push came to shove, i can put cases on a lot of your favorites. but never mind that—what was i saying? ❞ he stood up from his cheer, strolled slowly around the room, reading the faces around while he gathered his thoughts and let his words marinate. it took a few seconds before he remembered his place.

❝ oh yeah! i am successful. look at me—living the american dream and pushing mutant drugs. and not to dash anyone’s dreams of brown nosing, but before i got here, i took a cute little #2—so while the thought flatters me, it won’t fertilize your garden today. ❞

❝ now—here’s something that'll cleanse your conscience and do your pores some good. ❞

he pulled a folded slip from his suit pocket, holding it like the golden ticket. ❝ tomorrow, we go to haiti, baby! ❞

a small eruption of murmurs reverberated around the room. some sneers around the table. others began to get up out of their seats in aggravation. roberto understood. they didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

❝ say what? ❞ said a elderly woman, before she proceeded to say something else in chilean spanish. 'berto knew her as a highly connected individual that was once apart of the DINA lineage in chile. though pinochet regime was long gone, there were still remnants that remained. remnants that wouldn't allow to let some parts of the old regime go extinct.

❝ no i said, haiti, ma'am, not what. and the reason your face twisted up like that is exactly why we're going. i don't do favorites on who i support. i'm a worldly guy, and my travels taught me that the more you see the world, the better you can appreciate it and what you have. that requires basic human empathy and sympathy. and in order to work me, i need to see that. i want you to see people you don't look like. to sit with kids who ain't been fed. to smell smells you ain't never smelled before. to listen more than you sell. we're going on a world tour. i want you all to learn something that i don't know. ❞

roberto gestured loosely toward monet—his silent co-curator, and the one he softly sabotaged with this maneuver. he gave her an apologetic look and light shrug, hoping she'd roll with the punches and understand.

he was a born hell-raiser, so he had to raise hell with a little flavor.

but knowing her... he hoped to keep his pretty head after this.