Gina
29 and unfortunately a grownup
Fanfemme and proud
Veterinarian in real life
Dangerous-Nargle on DeviantArt
My fanfiction on AO3

Mass Effect | Welcome to Night Vale | Bioshock | X-Men: First Class | The Avengers | The Hunger Games | Harry Potter | The X-Files | Buffy the Vampire Slayer | Lord of the Rings | Quantum Leap | Star Trek: The Original Series | Twin Peaks | Mystery Science Theater 3000 | Batman | Wheel of Time

 

starxapple:

the ships that i end up investing myself the most in are the ones where at first im like, “meh i guess i can see that” and then somewhere along the line my brain just fucking snaps and i cant control myself its like a demons possessed me and im going 900mph to hell

Me thirty minutes into X-Men: First Class: “meh I guess I can see Charles and Erik”

Me forty-five minutes into X-Men: First Class: “FUCK MY LIFE”

Also that whole goddamn Shakarian business!

fanfoolishness:

Director: “Cut!  Michael, question?”
Michael: “So, just to be clear, I should be kissing him now, yes?  I mean we’ve been leading up to it this whole time.”

In other news I am still stunned this is going aroundAh, Cherik, I was so obsessed with you! Then vet school happened. Then video games happened. And now I am a broken shell of the slasher I used to be, heh.

fanfoolishness:

Director: “Cut!  Michael, question?”

Michael: “So, just to be clear, I should be kissing him now, yes?  I mean we’ve been leading up to it this whole time.”

In other news I am still stunned this is going around

Ah, Cherik, I was so obsessed with you! Then vet school happened. Then video games happened. And now I am a broken shell of the slasher I used to be, heh.

Some nights, when Charles cannot get to sleep, he searches for what used to be.  He tosses and turns beneath the covers, his legs dragging behind him like dead things, and he plays movies.
He knows it strictly is not ethical.  And he knows it does not help him, does not ease the ache inside his chest, tearing at his belly.  But still he does it.  He finds Hank, Alex, Sean; sometimes he is even able to reach Moira, reaching far across the miles, peering beneath the layers of misdirection and forgetting that he himself had placed inside her head.
He searches through their memories.  He is ashamed of what he does, how self-centered, how narcissistic it is.  But even knowing this there is a part of him that thirsts to remember what things were like before.  What he was like before.
So he plays their memories like little films inside his head, rendered in full immersive definition, far beyond what they can consciously recall.  For who among them would have noticed the way that Charles ran, or stepped, or jumped?  Which of them would have focused on the way he stood there on the beach that day, at full attention, drawn to his full height?  Yet he can pull those scenes from their minds with ease, blow them up, until all that shows of the memory is what his body used to do so easily.  He drinks it up; this is not nostalgia, this is need.  He cannot bear to think of what he would be if he forgot that he once walked.
He shies away, though, from some things; the memories of what come next that day, the fight, the punches thrown.  He does not need to loot someone else’s memories to recall that.  He remembers it too well already.
Some nights he runs his hands along his withered legs, shivering at the atrophy that has occurred, cursing the hollow deadness of his own touch.  Some nights he cannot name the loss that is greatest.  Is it his own mobility?  Is it Moira, friend, companion, working for justice in any way she could — now shamed, alone, facing failure for things beyond her control?  Is it Raven — a lost little girl, a sister, friend, in a house too large for one alone?  Is it a man, whose face hid a broken nature that Charles could not repair?  He remembers the ways he tried, oh yes; the chess and training, the jokes and discourse.  He remembers, too, hot kisses, a rampant, urgent need.  But Erik is beyond him, now, and the pain of that is sometimes too much to bear.
Sometimes Charles torments himself with stolen memories until he cannot sleep, can scarcely breathe.  White wine brings him back to something like reality, if reality is numb and nauseated, and the spinning of the room lulls him to sleep.  If he’s had enough to drink, the dreams and memories he taunts himself with fade into grey.  Only then can he stop the movies, and stop clinging to the things he used to know.

Some nights, when Charles cannot get to sleep, he searches for what used to be.  He tosses and turns beneath the covers, his legs dragging behind him like dead things, and he plays movies.

He knows it strictly is not ethical.  And he knows it does not help him, does not ease the ache inside his chest, tearing at his belly.  But still he does it.  He finds Hank, Alex, Sean; sometimes he is even able to reach Moira, reaching far across the miles, peering beneath the layers of misdirection and forgetting that he himself had placed inside her head.

He searches through their memories.  He is ashamed of what he does, how self-centered, how narcissistic it is.  But even knowing this there is a part of him that thirsts to remember what things were like before.  What he was like before.

So he plays their memories like little films inside his head, rendered in full immersive definition, far beyond what they can consciously recall.  For who among them would have noticed the way that Charles ran, or stepped, or jumped?  Which of them would have focused on the way he stood there on the beach that day, at full attention, drawn to his full height?  Yet he can pull those scenes from their minds with ease, blow them up, until all that shows of the memory is what his body used to do so easily.  He drinks it up; this is not nostalgia, this is need.  He cannot bear to think of what he would be if he forgot that he once walked.

He shies away, though, from some things; the memories of what come next that day, the fight, the punches thrown.  He does not need to loot someone else’s memories to recall that.  He remembers it too well already.

Some nights he runs his hands along his withered legs, shivering at the atrophy that has occurred, cursing the hollow deadness of his own touch.  Some nights he cannot name the loss that is greatest.  Is it his own mobility?  Is it Moira, friend, companion, working for justice in any way she could — now shamed, alone, facing failure for things beyond her control?  Is it Raven — a lost little girl, a sister, friend, in a house too large for one alone?  Is it a man, whose face hid a broken nature that Charles could not repair?  He remembers the ways he tried, oh yes; the chess and training, the jokes and discourse.  He remembers, too, hot kisses, a rampant, urgent need.  But Erik is beyond him, now, and the pain of that is sometimes too much to bear.

Sometimes Charles torments himself with stolen memories until he cannot sleep, can scarcely breathe.  White wine brings him back to something like reality, if reality is numb and nauseated, and the spinning of the room lulls him to sleep.  If he’s had enough to drink, the dreams and memories he taunts himself with fade into grey.  Only then can he stop the movies, and stop clinging to the things he used to know.

(Source: mcavoyclub)

ninemoons42:

knockedupsunshine:

X-MEN: FIRST CLASS.
by ~jen-and-kris
<3 
I have a huge love for back-to-back poses, but this kind of composition breaks my heart. The expressions are gorgeously detailed, and oh, man, Charles, why you gotta look so apprehensive? T___T

ninemoons42:

knockedupsunshine:

X-MEN: FIRST CLASS.

by ~jen-and-kris


<3 

I have a huge love for back-to-back poses, but this kind of composition breaks my heart. The expressions are gorgeously detailed, and oh, man, Charles, why you gotta look so apprehensive? T___T

Cherik crack!fic: Balls. Balls everywhere!

imagineyourotp:

Imagine your OTP in a massive ball pit.

Charles dove through the brightly colored plastic orbs with something approaching an embarrassing amount of glee.  ”Erik!” he crowed, twisting among them as he slithered towards the last place he’d seen the other man.

"Charles, this is ridiculous," Erik’s voice said in clipped sharp tones.  Charles reached for the other man’s mind and found chagrin, consternation, and endless amounts of disapproval for the fact that the balls were made of plastic and therefore immune to Erik’s power.  

"None of that, now, Erik," said Charles, swimming through the balls, half sinking, half staying abreast of them.  He could just barely make out the back of Erik’s head looking quite dour as it rose above blue and yellow balls.  With a great push Charles leaped forward, arms thrust out, and clapped his hands against Erik’s back, shoving the other man forward.  

"Charles!" roared Erik, sinking through the balls despite his flailing efforts to stay afloat.  Charles gave another great push and did a belly flop on the balls, sinking through them until he was suddenly straddling bony arms and legs.  He pressed through the balls until he and Erik were face to face.  

The look on Erik’s face was so deeply irritated that Charles burst out into laughter, which echoed weirdly among the plastic.  The funny noise had Erik’s lips twitching at the corners, though his eyes were still stony blue.  Charles kept chortling, and almost against his will Erik started laughing, too — softly at first, then progressing into chuckles and then into full guffaws.  Charles wriggled closer to the other man, pressing their bodies against each other, and gave Erik a full kiss over his laughing mouth.

"All right, Charles," said Erik begrudgingly, wrapping his arms around Charles and returning the kiss.  "I concede.  A giant ball pit can be rather amusing after all."

Mortuis, Vivit: Zombie Cherik fic, chapter 7

Title: Mortuis, Vivit

Genre: AU with powers, zombie AU, Cherik, action, angst, hurt/comfort, violence, death

Warnings: Zombie-grade violence with great detail; death; sexin’; cursing, angst.

Rating: R

Length: ~9000 words, in 8 total chapters (that’s right suckas, I know what the last chapter will beeeee).  You can find the other chapters here and here.  This chapter is 1900 words.

—————————-

Chapter 7: Cursus 


Erik is tired of fighting.

It’s a thought that has never before occurred to him.  When he escaped the camps, he embarked on a ceaseless journey of movement and stalking, hunting, killing.  He reveled in his work.  It had become his sole comfort to him, a way to soothe the many agonies buried deep within him. 

Now he fights, and the only reason for it is locked in an iron collar, moaning incessantly in his ears, clawing at him more weakly by the day.

“Charles,” he says today, as he has said for the past four days.  “You are Charles Xavier, goddammit.  You’re a man.  Wake up.  Wake up.”

Erik flinches as his mind curdles with violent hunger.  Charles is still a telepath, even when locked in the grip of a dead mentality, and he can still receive and project with astonishing clarity.  Thankfully, he does not appear to be able to control Erik in this state; Erik supposes that a conscious will is necessary for mind control.  But receiving the images in Charles’ mind is a form of torture that Shaw would have been pleased to use.

Erik shakes the images away.  He does not know what to do, and the feeling is unsettling in a way that makes his stomach ache.  He is a man of action.  This sitting and hoping is a foreign, nihilistic exercise and the waste of it makes him sick.

He rummages through their supplies.  He cannot pretend to himself any more that they can simply wait out Charles’ latest fugue.  They need to move, or they will die of thirst.

He moves more slowly than he would like.  The days of little food are beginning to take a toll on him.  Erik knows his reaction times are dulled, that if a horde were to happen upon them, he would not be at his best.  They need to leave now,  or never again.  And looking into those blue eyes, no matter how wild, Erik knows he cannot make a choice that leaves Charles with only certain death.

So it is that he packs the scant contents of both packs into a single bag, and straps the weapons to himself in a familiar routine that today is muddled.  He swallows, then reaches out his hand to call the metal in Charles’ chain.  It leaps to his hand gratefully, and before the terrible simulacrum of Charles can leap to bite him, Erik pulls the chain, jerking Charles viciously to the side.

Read More

Cherik drabble: summer

Summer in upstate New York was a cruel thing, Charles thought ruefully.  He sighed.  In an astonishing oversight, the library had been built on the third floor.  He could have collected the books he wished to examine and taken them down into the cool bunker underground, but he would have had to make several trips in the heat, in which case staying upstairs in the first place was the most appealing option.

So he sat there in one of the plush overstuffed chairs, feeling a little foolish in his undershirt and a pair of shorts, and still feeling dreadfully hot.  The air lay thick and heavy on him.  Even with the windows open, the world outside refused a breeze.

A knock at the door to the library had him stirring from his reverie.  He looked toward the door, moving sluggishly through the humid air.  ”Who is it?” he called.

Erik poked his head through the doorway, his face shining with sweat.  He, too, was stripped down to a thin white undershirt and flimsy shorts.  ”How can you possibly concentrate in this hellishness?” he asked dryly.

"One does what one must," said Charles, though it was with the weakest enthusiasm that he turned the next page in the heavy genetics tome.  

"You could have at least asked me for a little help," said the other man, a wry grin twisting his face.

"How do you figure?"

Erik stepped into the room, pulling up the chair next to Charles and settling into it.  He nodded to the metal bookends keeping the books separated and neat, then gestured.  Five of the bookends flew out to hover above them as Erik lazily twirled a finger.  The brushed steel that had looked so modern — something Erik had suggested, instead of the baroque wooden bookends that had been there for ages — now seemed to melt and flatten above their heads, transforming now into a familiar shape.  The new fan whirred merrily above them, sending a blessedly cool stream of fresh air down into their faces.

"Better?" asked Erik.  His lips pulled back into a smile, revealing a long row of gleaming teeth.  His eyes, so often cold, were now quick and playful.

"I suppose now you think that you’re earning your keep," said Charles.  "Seeing as you’re being so helpful and all."

"No, no," said Erik seriously.  "I know I need to do rather more than that." 

He leaned over and pulled Charles’ face close to his, meeting his lips with a kiss that was full and hot and wanting.  Charles moaned, closing his eyes and savoring the sensation of Erik’s wet mouth on his.  The book in Charles’ lap clattered to the floor, as up above the fan’s cooling breeze wavered.  

"Ah… perhaps you should put that down for the moment," said Charles, glancing up to see the fan wobbling madly in midair.  "Concentrate on… other endeavors."

Eric gestured slightly and the fan made a hasty landing on the floor.  Charles didn’t notice what happened to it after that, as he was too busy climbing over his chair and onto Erik’s lap, sweat and humidity and stickiness be damned.

Perhaps, he reflected, before Erik tore his undershirt off, summer wasn’t so bad after all.

Fewer clothes to get in the way.

THE FUCKING BEACH SCENE
JUST FML YOU GUYS
WHY DOES IT STILL HURT SO BAD
the way Charles can&#8217;t give up his ideals even in the face of certain death
the way a part of Erik dies (just look at his eyes for fuck&#8217;s sake) when Charles says they don&#8217;t want the same thing
the way Erik and Raven leave&#8230; without knowing Charles is paralyzed
THEIR FUCKING TRAGIC LIVES WHYYYYYYYYY

THE FUCKING BEACH SCENE

JUST FML YOU GUYS

WHY DOES IT STILL HURT SO BAD

the way Charles can’t give up his ideals even in the face of certain death

the way a part of Erik dies (just look at his eyes for fuck’s sake) when Charles says they don’t want the same thing

the way Erik and Raven leave… without knowing Charles is paralyzed

THEIR FUCKING TRAGIC LIVES WHYYYYYYYYY

that Erik/Raven kiss still feels like it came totally out of left field to be honest

I love Raven, and I know her sexuality is an important part of Mystique, but I think it would have been a better choice for Erik to give her his little pep talk and then send her on her way without a kiss, but both of them clearly friends

also it makes it easier to write Charles buggering Erik two seconds later

(because dammit I still persist in loving top!Charles in this fandom so there)