the déjà blue circle released their superheroes BL anthology and I’m finally able to show you this guys! it’s several months old and I feel bad looking at Erik and Charles’ poorly rendered faces ;; but I still like their hands, so.. uh yeah.
there are plenty of super talented people in the book! I can’t wait to get mine ;v;
oh i love Charles’ tummy
I really cannot express how much I love this art style.
Telepathic dirty talk in mixed company. It went on like ALL the time.
ninemoons42 writes: what we have is gold
Erik feels the tug, and he closes his eyes and wills it away; he thinks, no, no, I can’t, I don’t want to, I won’t, and he looks down and watches his arms tighten over Charles sleeping in his arms, the blanket creasing beneath his fingers, and he can feel the entire length of Charles against him, warm against the soft sand; and Erik closes his eyes and opens them, and Charles is still smiling and still seems to be asleep, and there is salt silvering his eyebrows, fine grains rough against his freckles, and Charles is still flushed from the heady and thoroughly inadvisable mix of tequila and strong coffee from last night - and even the reality that Erik has to be very careful where he’s bracing Charles’s feet against his ankles is just another good detail about this still stolen time - the two of them just a few feet away from the eternal surf, in the shelter of a low dune.
He thinks about last night, thinks about Charles slithering neatly out of his wheelchair and sitting in the sand, seemingly content, seemingly without any terrible associations from three hundred and sixty five days ago - Charles’s smile that rivaled the golden sun throwing warmth everywhere, its light splintering and shattering on the stutter and crash of the waves - he thinks about the fact that Charles had packed sandwiches and blankets in a duffel bag slung across his shoulder and into his lap, and thinks about the easy way Charles had shed his thin cotton button-down and his shredded-hem chinos, completely unselfconscious about the way his shorts rode down or about the puckered scar in the small of his back.
He thinks about bringing Charles a bucket of seawater at his request, thinks about Charles dipping a finger in and then touching the damp tip right to his tongue - thinks about bright laugh and pucker face and then Charles upending the bucket over himself, shivering as the cool seawater soaked through his singlet and left it transparent and clinging; he thinks about stealing the first kiss, the bite of salt and the rush of blood and the two of them toppling over into the sand, thinks of bracing himself over Charles and thinks of Charles pulling him down pulling him in, hip to hip and fighting to get closer.
Erik doesn’t ever want to leave - he wants to be lost here, to be gone and washed adrift here, holding Charles in his arms and blotting away the memory of an interminably long year, six months of silence and the splintershock of finding out what he’d left behind, what he believed he’d lost, and then six months of clandestine messages and negotiations fraught with fear and regret and the mutual admission of I’ve missed you / I’ve needed you - all of which has led them here, to Charles struggling slowly up from the depths of sleep and the sun clearing the horizon once again, marking the passage of time, marking twenty-four hours, the time they’d agreed on for each other, too little time for everything they needed to say and do and make up to each other.
And Erik knows when Charles is awake - bright mind next to his, and he looks down again and Charles is looking up at him, and he’s smiling, wistful and happy and chagrined, and when he speaks Erik finds himself sitting up and paying attention, because he never expected this ultimatum, the beautiful thing Charles is laying out for him, and he doesn’t want to call the emotion rising up in him hope, for fear of letting it slip through his fingers or for fear of him recklessly casting it aside again: Charles is saying, Give me another year, and meet me here again, and if you still want to disappear, we can do that then - impossible, Erik thinks, as impossible as the previous day has been and yet he knows that he has lived it, every golden minute of it, and now it is just as possible as the two of them meeting once again, once again and this time for keeps.
You guys will hate me for this:
I don’t consider Cherik to be canon. All the arguments people make for them being canon except for when Erik says, “I love you, Charles Xavier” (while stabbing him, I might add) are actually just subtext and people rarely actually seem to…
I guess it depends on what you mean by Cherik, though. If you mean conventional romance and sex, no, of course that’s not canon. But there’s something going on between them and it’s not just friendship.
More than friendship, yes, that’s canon. The nature of that relationship, however is left ambiguous.
Yeah totally, I agree with this too.
You guys will hate me for this:
I don’t consider Cherik to be canon. All the arguments people make for them being canon except for when Erik says, “I love you, Charles Xavier” (while stabbing him, I might add) are actually just subtext and people rarely actually seem to know the definition of canon. I ship Cherik but I am starting to get sick of people claiming it is canon.
MacCassidy is canon. Alex/Lorna is canon. Ricstar is canon. Cherik is not canon.
Nah, I’d agree with this. It is based on subtext, but I still shamelessly ship it.
It’s completely overwhelming to have Erik this close to him. Charles had originally meant his jibe to be nothing more than a passive tease; how could one expect Erik to know how to dance when he had spent all of his life hunting for revenge?
Only now he finds himself swept into Erik’s arms, one of Erik’s hands resting on his hip, the other entwined with his fingers and held at shoulder-height. “I had to learn to dance in order to blend in with their society,” Erik murmurs, pulling Charles into a silent, music-free waltz. Charles’s feet feel heavy and resisting. “They’re rich, the people I’m hunting. They are rich, and powerful, and very, very bored.”
Charles looks up into Erik’s eyes, blue and unforgiving. He can feel the pain that reaches out from his mind; all he wants in the world is to be allowed to soothe it. He wishes that he could reach back and calm the rage that he feel pulsing within Erik’s mind. Such rage and such agonising pain. With well-timed care, Charles could ease his suffering.
He knows that Erik would never allow it.
Erik holds his gaze as they waltz, one two three, one two three, and Charles doesn’t dare to even blink. “Where did you learn to dance, Charles? Was it at the same society balls that I was infiltrating? Would I have met you there?”
Charles can hear the cold derision in Erik’s voice as clearly as he can feel it in his mind. Erik looks at him and sees a pampered prince who has lived in luxury all his life. Who is Charles to contradict him? He has been inside Erik’s mind. He has seen the horrors he has lived.
He has to look away from Erik’s eyes finally, turning his head to the side to watch the wall as they turn, around and around, a rhythm with no end. He could stop this at any moment. He could push Erik from him and leave, yet he can’t make himself do it. He can only stay where he is, trapped in Erik’s arms, able to feel his will failing him.
“My mother taught me,” he says, with his voice as light as he can made it. The confession still falls like a boulder between them. “It’s one of the few things she ever taught me. I have to confess that she taught me to lead rather than follow, but I think I’m doing an admirable job.”
He doesn’t look down at their feet. He just stares at the far wall and follows through Erik’s last remaining steps, until his friend brings them to a halt. Erik doesn’t release him. He holds him in place, until Charles finally looks up at him.
“Don’t pity me,” Erik states, cracking the silence.
Charles nods. “I wouldn’t dare,” he assures him. Erik doesn’t believe him. He can feel Erik’s disbelief and rage shaking from all angles. It’s difficult to keep his footing. “Erik, I promise. I admire you. And, of course, I disagree entirely with your methods, but…”
There is little to be done about that, unless he wants to plunge into Erik’s mind and fix all of the red, painful marks that have been left behind. He wouldn’t do that. He could never allow himself to do that.
“We’re going to have to have that conversation one day,” Erik points out, still holding him close.
It’s difficult to think like this, with Erik so close and his gaze so hard. Charles slips away from him on purpose, even as he feels the reluctant strength in Erik’s hand - yet Erik relents, and Charles is allowed the space that he needs. “I don’t think that talking is likely to help,” he points out. “I need some sleep, Erik. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He needs more than sleep. He needs space and peace and, most of all, he needs a very stiff drink.
GOD THIS FIC
nakereba asked you:
I AM CRYING SO HARD FROM LAUGHTER. OH MY GOD.
Red glasses and a strainer, yeah you would be Magneto. I’ll get working on my British accent.
#we’ll do dragneto next