sometimes it rains

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Cesare: turtletotem: : Just want to point out something. unforgott3n: Because...

turtletotem:

: Just want to point out something.

unforgott3n:

Because the internet keeps annoying me re: this.

But.

Charles Xavier is not a woobie because his sister and boyfriend want him to respect the fundamental privacy of their minds.

Want to argue that Charles is a…

fourteenacross:

velarfricative:

[~]

I CAN’T HANDLE TODAY ANYMORE. MCAVOY’S FACE, PLEASE MAKE IT BETTER.

One day, I will stop procrastinating in advance of tomorrow’s exam, but until that point, why, yes, this is my head canon of Charles for this snippet:

Charles’ mind brushes against Erik’s when Erik is five blocks from home. It’s a rather conservative distance for Charles, who has sent Erik messages across the city and even, occasionally, across the country without breaking a sweat, but then, if Charles is home, he has a right to be distracted.

The source of Charles’ distraction doesn’t notice Erik until he’s shifting through the tumblers of the front door’s lock, making them slowly click into the right position, hands full of redwells, the plastic bag full of take-out from the Turkish place near them, and his briefcase. Even Charles is not sure what the full extent of Jean’s powers will look like as she grows up, but at the age of four, she can already wreak havoc on their offices with her telekinesis and recognize whenever someone else is manipulating objects in the house.

“Daddy’s home!” she shrieks and tumbles out of the library into the main foyer.

Erik drops what he’s carrying before Jean stumbles into his legs and wraps herself around him. “Hello, schatz,” he says, bending over to disentangle her and then hoist her up in his arms. She clutches at his face, warm and smelling strongly of fabric softener and little girl, and Charles peers around the doorway, smiling when he sees Erik. He’s carrying a green-covered Christmas book that Erik knows he ought to recognize and wearing a Santa hat, pushing the pompom out of his face with a sheepish smile. Erik lets his amusement seep through to Charles and feels Charles give the mental equivalent of a shrug.

I was distracted, Charles projects more clearly.

What he means, more likely, is that he knew that the sight of him still in the hat, pants covered in lint from sitting on the rug in front of the fire reading to their daughter, would make Erik smile.

Well, Charles says, I rather like it when you smile.

disbelief11:

sigh

He’s so pretty.

(This is reminding me of stlkrchk’s funny photoshoot fic. “Why are there eight pictures of him with his head against the wall?”)

why thank you!  this is exactly the picture i was thinking of when i wrote that part…  seriously, james, why?

fourteenacross:

ninemoons42:

Hey freckly baby.

I HAVE FEELINGS ABOUT HIS FRECKLES

Charles comes back from vacation to Menorca freckled and a little bit tan, with chapped lips and bags under his eyes from too many late nights watching football in the mostly English pubs that dot the southern coast of the island.  He and Raven parted ways in Barcelona; Raven is going back home to New York, and Charles is landing in Heathrow.  He’s completed all his academic commitments here, of course, but Charles still has things to see to in Oxford, not least of them Erik, who has finished sitting for the last of his A-levels while Charles was away but has not yet started packing.  Charles gathers his headphones and stuffs them into his carryon, then checks his watch as he stands in the aisle of the plane and waits to be able to move.  The flight has landed ten minutes late, which is nothing to complain about, although Erik will most likely find a reason to.

Surprisingly, Erik is waiting for him at the end of the queue to get off the plane instead of idling the rental and making Charles drag his bag by himself through the brightly lit corridors of the airport.  Never one for public displays of affection, he eschews Charles’ movement in for a hug or kiss with a quick, “You’re back.”  He seems distracted by something.

Charles frowns.  ”Yes.”

“Good.  Okay.  The car’s waiting.”  He grabs Charles’ bag from him and starts walking off.  The tenuous grip he has on the handle gives away that he’s probably using his powers to hold it up.  Charles hurries to catch up.

“I missed you,” he says plaintively.  The surface of Erik’s mind is full of practicalities, cataloguing entrances and exits, plotting paths through the various other people around them.  Charles can’t see anything deeper without delving into Erik’s mind, and Erik can be touchy about that.

Erik looks over at him.  ”Hmm.”

“Hmm?  That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“I talked to you almost every hour while you were away,” he says, touching a hand to his forehead to indicate exactly how those conversations took place.  ”What’s there to miss?”

Charles stops walking.  He opens and closes his mouth a few times, but nothing comes out.  It would be completely overly dramatic to say that his heart aches, but it doesn’t feel like that; it feels like exactly the right words to describe what’s going on right now.

Erik turns around.  The line between his brows furrows.  ”Let’s go.”

Charles shuts his mouth and starts moving again, but he feels like he’s walking underwater, his limbs not responding properly.  The sensation isn’t helped when his arm is grabbed and he is pulled over into one of the telephone stations along the wall of the baggage area.  Erik shoves him in and closes the door behind them.  He drops his bag on the ground—“My iPad!” Charles says—and pushes him up against the one bare wall of the tiny cubicle and kisses him, hot and hard and desperate.  Charles forgets all about his bag and presses up against Erik, losing himself in the heat of Erik’s body, the slight scratch of his calloused fingers against his cheeks and through his hair, the delicious sensation of Erik’s tongue sliding against his, the incredible loop of his mind thinking about Charles and Charles’ thinking about him.

“Mmm,” Charles says when they finally separate to breathe.  ”What brought that on?”

“You have freckles,” Erik says helplessly.  He pulls Charles back in again.

When they separate for air a second time, Charles swats Erik on the chest.

“What was that for?” Erik grumbles.

“What’s there to miss?” Charles asks.

Erik kisses him again.  ”I may have been overstating things a little.”

Charles laughs.

// I am so sorry for getting (melodramatic) fic all over your tumblr

Chiasmus posted this and this, and apparently I ended up posting…a lot of words about Charles Xavier the actor/media darling and Erik Lehnsherr the grumpy photographer.

“Why is he eating his shirt in this one?” Frost asks, laying one neatly manicured nail across the glossy page.

“I—he said it would work?” the photographer says. “That’s what he wanted to do.”

“And this one, where he’s twirling behind—is that a traffic light?”

“Yes?”

Frost sighs and shakes her head. “Lehnsherr, you’re working with him next time.”

Erik stirs when he hears his name. “Hmm?”

“You’re working with Xavier next time he comes in.”

“What? Why?”

“Because then I won’t have to deal with pictures of him trying to eat his shirt. We can’t use any of these.”

“Fine,” Erik says with a huff. “But I expect double.”

“You expect double?” Frost says incredulously. “Just be grateful I’m not sending you to Bosnia again.”

Erik smiles, making sure to show all his teeth. “I like Bosnia. I don’t like spoiled starlets.”

Frost returns the smile in that terrifying way she has; if he liked women, and if he weren’t sure she would happily eviscerate him, Erik would ask her to marry him. “Cooperate, or I’ll make sure Xavier knows you call him that.” She calls one of her thousand, waif-like aides over and moves on.

Xavier shows up 20 minutes late on Thursday for the shoot. He is wearing a button down shirt, unbuttoned at both the top and bottom, a blazer, and a pair of beat up jeans, and one of the guys from wardrobe is trailing miserably after him.

“Please, sir,” the boy says, “you’re supposed to wear the suit.”

“I like what I came in better,” Xavier says. He tucks his hair behind his ear and smiles charmingly at the boy, who visibly relaxes. “You don’t mind, do you, Sean?”

“N-no,” Sean says, blushing to the roots of his red hair.

Xavier turns the smile on Erik. It is…rather overpowering. “I apologize for being late. Do let me know where you’d like me.”

Erik scowls. “They want some shots on the bed.”

“My,” Xavier says. “How forward of you, Mister…”

“The bed,” Erik repeats. “And they want the suit.”

Xavier shrugs. “We all want many things, Mr. Nameless Photographer. It’s a pity we can’t get them all.” He shoots a sly look over his shoulder at Erik, then clambers onto the bed, which bounces under his weight. Xavier stands up on the bed, testing its balance, and jumps on it, which catapults him into the air. When he lands, Xavier beams at the room. The aide next to Erik audibly sighs. Erik glares at her. Xavier bounces again. And again.

Twenty minutes and three rolls of film that are completely useless later, Erik roars, “For the love of Gott in Himmel, will you put on the damn suit and act like a grownup?”

Of course, that ends up being even worse.

“I said on the table, not in a pushup on the table,” Erik grouses. “And can’t you make a normal face?”

“People like my face,” Xavier says. “Why wouldn’t they like it like this?”

“Because it’s annoying,” Erik says. He’s well aware that it’s not one of his stronger arguments. “Just—at least pretend that you’re not damaged in the head.”

Xavier sighs and looks dejected. One of the lighting guys scowls at Erik. Erik seriously contemplates smacking his head against a brick wall for a while and says, “Fine, you can go back to jumping on the goddamn bed.”

Xavier vaults off the table and sidles up to Erik, pecking him on the cheek. “Mr. Lehnsherr, you are far too good to me.”

Erik very firmly does not watch his ass as he saunters across the studio, back to the bedroom set.

By the end of the day, Erik has six micro cards full of photos and a migraine the size of Texas. Azazel leans over Erik’s shoulder to examine the photos while the rest of the team cleans up the sets and Xavier changes into the outfit he arrived in.

“Wow,” Azazel says. “Do you think he’s surgically attached to the wall?”

“I think he’s an asshole,” Erik grounds out. And yet still attractive, his mind adds. “Also, are you the one who told him my name?”

Azazel looks as innocent as it is possible for him to look, which isn’t very. There’s a reason Erik likes working with him. “Oops. Was he not supposed to know?”

“You’re also an asshole,” Erik says.

“And yet you work with me.”

“Only because everyone else is too incompetent to handle.”

“A compliment from you, Lehnsherr? I’m honored.” Azazel squints at the screen. “Why are there eight pictures of him with his head against the wall?”

Erik drags another photo onto the USB he’s planning on submitting to Frost. In it, Xavier is balanced precariously on a chair and reaching for something on the table. The light illuminates his shirt and face and softens the rest of the room, and Erik would love the composition of the shot if he had anything to do with it. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Charles, Moira thinks at him, pushing her straw around in her daiquiri, when I said all you needed to become fully lord of the manor was a pool boy, it wasn’t really a suggestion.

Mmm, Charles replies.  But he’s lovely.  Can’t I keep him anyhow?

As if he can tell what they’re thinking, the man takes off his aviators to reveal light eyes; his pose against the wall of the poorhouse highlights the muscles in his arms, his strong neck, and the hint of muscle in his chest.

Oh, alright, Moira thinks, I take it back.

(via xcastle)

Hels Yeah: B&D: Intermission! Homeward Bound, chapters 1 & 2

helens78:

Ahem!

So if you’ve been reading Unbound (by me and the fantastic Cesare), you may have noticed that things have gotten… really dark and angsty. >_>;;

Rather than leaving you with all that angst over the weekend, we’re going to switch gears and take an intermission of sorts. We’ve cleaned up…

Hooray!!!  I am incredibly appreciative of the light and fluffy.  And kittens!

• Kate Winslet: ‘Oh God, my knickers have gone up my arse.’
• Alan Rickman: ‘Ah. Feminine mystique strikes again.’
• -Overheard by Emma Thompson on the set of Sense and Sensibility

Stewardess: lostwiginity: jamesorangecat replied to your post: CARL AND...

stewardish:

lostwiginity:

jamesorangecat replied to your post: CARL AND VALENTIN

it does look like he’s mouthing “porn”

YAY!! The book I ordered, The Freud/Jung Letters*, just arrived. I’m working on a sequel to A Cure Through Love, and this book was essential for…

THERE IS GOING TO BE A SEQUEL!  Words cannot fully convey how excited I am about this.