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

 

orb01:

attempt to draw cherik for kiss day, ended up with no kissin at all.. o{—-{

mordororbust asked
Fic writing questions! Very curious about 6, 9, and 18. :D

6. Idea that you always wanted to write but could never make work?  

I kept meaning to write a Cherik story where Charles gets dark, really dark, after the whole beach scene.  It was going to be longish, and I got 3000-4000 words into it when my computer ate it.  It was going to be from Erik’s perspective and opened with Charles using a new Cerebro to slowly break Emma Frost’s abilities.  Erik of course realizes there’s only one mutant powerful enough to do it, though it makes him sick to realize that it’s Charles.  They were going to have a trully gutwrenchingly emotional fight and Erik was going to have search deep inside himself for a glimmer of good in order to bring Charles back.  

Also, I still can’t seem to finish that fic where Charles and Erik fight off zombies.  I have the ending, it’s literally 500-1000 words I need to write to get there and I just can’t seem to do it.  Dammit Gina! 

9. Favorite character to write?

This is a tough one.  I loved writing fics about John Doggett, back in the day, as he got so little love.  His perspective was also easier for me than Mulder or Scully’s for some reason.  Now I love writing fics about Shepard, though that’s a bit of a copout since your Shepard can be anyone.  I realized I really loved writing from Liara’s perspective in After the Dark.  Both Booker and Elizabeth are really enjoyable to write.

18. If you could go back and revise one of your older stories, which would it be?

Oh man.  Ah.  Possibly Minor Variation, a Doggett/Scully fic from… 2001? 2002?  It was one of my best X-Files fics because it was written when I was a little older, at the end of high school.  When I first discovered XF as my first fandom, my writing was all shippy, gooey nonsense about Mulder/Scully, written quite mawkishly.  The grammar was good and the descriptions all right, but the characters were pretty OOC.  It didn’t help that I’d never even kissed a boy, let alone been a thirtysomething FBI agent, so it took a year or two of reading better fic to kind of help correct myself.  I still enjoy this story but I think I could do it quite a bit better now.  I picked this one because it was the least embarrassing of my XF fic, I think, haha.

Pain’s Narrow Aisle, my only published foray into Harry Potter fic, was pretty good but I think could tighten it up.  Angsty Lupin.  Mmmm, angsty Lupin.

(psssst someone please ask additional questions I love these!)

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)