galaxy news radio

Fri, 10 Aug 2012 15:17:01 GMT

A writing meme-type-thing I made up off the top of my head because it's a slow day at work. In a textbox for easy copypasting into your own LJ!

Three things I like about my writing: 1. 2. 3. Three things I dislike about my writing: 1. 2. 3. Three fandom authors I would like to write like: 1. 2. 3. Three IRL authors I would like to write like: 1. 2. 3. Three favorite kinks/tropes/plots to write: 1. 2. 3. The three best/favorite things you've ever written (and why): 1. 2. 3.

I'm actually stuck on my own answers because I can't think of what I like about my own writing, haha.

rec: the avengers - "resurgam"

Fri, 22 Jun 2012 12:29:26 GMT

Resurgam (by lanyon)
~3,000 words, Steve/Bucky, Clint/Coulson, Tony/Pepper, PG. Post-canon.

He doesn't quite understand how the world works. There is a language barrier and no one speaks English anymore. He's told that most young people communicate through pop culture references and he's the only twenty-something year-old who looks blank at the mention of "The Simpsons." He's not twenty-something, of course. He's ninety-four. He's strong and he's beautiful and he's at a loss. He's listening to Bach and wondering what it is to have a cellist.

rec: the avengers - "when i am king you will be first against the wall"

Thu, 31 May 2012 02:26:47 GMT

when i am king you will be first against the wall (by paregmenon)
~4,000 words. Post-canon with warnings.

It dawns on Clint at three in the morning while he's making coffee for himself and Stark: it's not Coulson. There's something walking around in SHIELD headquarters, with access to just about everything, wearing Coulson's face, and claiming to be him, and something is very wrong.

open promptbox

Wed, 23 May 2012 04:40:15 GMT

Fic prompts! Leave them here.

1. Anyone is welcome to prompt.
2. No promises.
3. Anything goes.
4. Comments are screened.
5. Star Trek or Avengers-related verses only.

fanart rec!

Mon, 30 Apr 2012 03:41:03 GMT

So there is a beautiful piece of Community fanart that is getting a lot of love on Tumblr but not enough on LJ, and this just didn't seem fair considering how lovely and sweet and detailed it is. Take a look!

Kiss by inksnax (Troy/Abed, G)

Thu, 29 Mar 2012 19:26:50 GMT

HEY IF YOU LIKE WHITE COLLAR YOU SHOULD READ THIS FIC [NO SPOILERS]

IT'S REALLY GOOD AND I'M CAPSLOCKING BECAUSE I CAN'T EVEN

IT'S SO GOOD

rec: star trek xi - "in having new eyes"

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 22:47:37 GMT

In Having New Eyes (by betweenthebliss)
~43,000 words, Winona/George, Pike/George, PG-13.

Author's summary: Winona always thought she knew the path her life was going to take, but it seems every time she turns around something happens to show her just how wrong she is. This is the love story of Winona and George, but it's also the love story of Winona and Starfleet, and the story of how Winona learned things about herself she never knew she needed to learn. This is the story of a smart and determined girl, the stubborn farmer's son who made her fall for him, the ways they changed each other and the dreams they had of changing the world.

"You should come with us," he blurts. "Luo Hong is head of Engineering and he needs a second. It's a short mission, four months tops, and you can bring the boys—" he stops as she makes a wordless sound, frozen in place for a second; then she realizes her hand is trembling and shakes her head violently, clenching a fist.

"I can't," she says, fiercely adamant. "That's—how can you ask me to do that? Today of all days, Pike, Jesus fucking Christ, you—" she stops, presses her lips together, and shakes her head again. "It's only been four years," she whispers tightly.

"I know that," he replies, his own voice strained almost to breaking. "Don't you think—Winona, I've counted every day that's passed since then and you damn well know it. It's not about that—it's about Starfleet, about going back out there because you love it and you're good, you're so good at what you do and you're wasting—"

"Wasting time with my kids? With George's sons, Chris?" She's too tired to summon ire, but she can make sure he knows how much of an asshole he's being. "I spent tonight watching my four-year-old start a food fight and then go off to do his seven-year-old brother's math homework for him. Tomorrow Jim and I will go grocery shopping and try to get him a new pair of shoes because he lost one of his last pair swimming in the river. This is my life," she says, loathing him for forcing her to defend it to him. "And fuck you if you think it isn't worthy."

my dear watson.

Tue, 28 Feb 2012 12:45:26 GMT

So Lucy Liu was cast as Joan Watson in Elementary, CBS's adaptation of Sherlock (which, as you remember, is also an adaptation of the Arthur Conan Doyle books from the nineteenth century), and fandom is, shall we say, displeased. These are my two cents: maybe not the brightest pennies in the box but it's my metaphor and I'll mangle it if I want to.

I know that the BBC version of Sherlock is a precious thing to many of us and a lot of people don't want to see it become tarred in any way by Elementary, which people are already sure is going to suck by the sheer virtue of it being American. There's talk of "shitty adaptations" and "it's not Sherlock Holmes without London" and "stop ripping off good British TV" and even "CBS is homophobic and cutting out the slash potential by making John Watson a woman"—these are all legitimate concerns. I understand where you're coming from and the problematic concepts you're trying to address.

But as for the casting of Lucy Liu as Joan Watson, if you could take a second and ask yourself this: how many female Asian-American live-action TV characters can you name from when you were young?

Can you name any?

I asked around tonight, gave people about a minute to answer. The first friend I asked (an Asian-American male) couldn't name a single one. The second (also an Asian-American male) named the Yellow Ranger and Mulan. My sister named the exact same ones I came up with. Now, we're all university-age, so maybe we've missed a few in between our piano lessons and SAT books. But I guarantee you, this is the kind of thing kids like us looked out for when we were young; if there was an Asian on our TV, we knew about it. Hey, everyone, put down your rice bowl and pay attention. And it wasn't just my family—John Cho's family did it, and maybe yours did, too. (Mine still does; old habits die hard.)

As a teenager, I never identified with Rory Gilmore on Gilmore Girls (2000), but as for her best friend, Lane Kim, played by Keiko Agena? Oh, I was Lane Kim—traditional upbringing, overbearing parents, the desperate need to escape cultural restrictions. And maybe I was never a spaceship interface (Lexa Doig as Rommie on Andromeda, 2000) or a Starfleet communications officer (Linda Park as Hoshi Sato on Star Trek: Enterprise, 2001) or a Cylon sleeper agent (Grace Park as Sharon Valerii on Battlestar Galactica, 2004), but they were my favorites anyway. Why? Because they were smart, competent, and in the right light, they almost looked like me.

But other than that? I can't recall a single other Asian-American female regular character on all the live-action TV shows my family watched. Not on 24 or The West Wing or CSI or Law and Order or Firefly. (Rosalind Chao played Keiko Ishikawa-O'Brien on Star Trek: TNG way back in the late '80s/early '90s, but she wasn't a regular, and her main purpose on the show was to create marital discord and have a baby during a shipwide crisis. And I suppose Lana Lang on Smallville (2001) does count because Kristin Kreuk has some Chinese ancestry; I'll include her for completeness' sake.)

I mostly stopped watching TV around the time I went to university, but I kept hearing of female Asian roles popping up on TV: the half-Tibetan (!) Dichen Lachman and the Filipina (!!!!) Liza Lapira on Dollhouse (2009); Ming-Na as the (canonically lesbian!) Camille Wray on Stargate Universe (2009); Jenna Ushkowitz as Tina Cohen-Chang on Glee (2009); and Grace Park as Kono Kalakaua in Hawaii 5-0 (2010). Out of these I've only seen H50, but let me tell you, Kono Kalakaua is not a weak character by any means.

So what am I complaining about, right? There are a fair amount of examples here. Asian-American women aren't completely invisible in today's media—I just named about ten.

Ten.

Ask me to name Caucasian female characters and I'll keep going till you stop me. Ask me about African-American women and I can name ten easily, ponder out ten more and then Wikipedia another ten. I'm not playing Oppression Olympics here, but I'm just saying. Women of all ethnicities have it rough in the media; I couldn't name five characters played by Latina/Chicana women, or women from the Middle East or South Asia or South America, or, goodness, Native American women. But there's at least one Caucasian woman on every American TV show, and as for Caucasian men? It's a given.

So am I glad Elementary's Watson is now a woman? Yes. Am I glad she's a woman of color—a woman of my color? Definitely yes. (I'd actually prefer Lucy Liu as Holmes and Jonny Lee Miller as Watson, but I'll take what I can get.) If Elementary was about two white guys running around solving crimes—sorry, but you'd have to count me out. The pair in BBC's Sherlock are already white and male; I really don't need more of the same.

Maybe Elementary really is going to crash and burn. But to be honest, if this show fails, it's not going to be because Lucy Liu was cast as Joan Watson. It's going to be the scriptwriting or the production quality or the chemistry between the actors. Would fandom still be making all this fuss if John Watson had been a Caucasian woman? We wouldn't know. But there are plenty of crime procedurals (yes, even American ones!) with a male-female duo that works well together—Bones, The Mentalist, Castle, In Plain Sight, The X-Files, Law & Order: CI, Law & Order: SVU, Lie To Me, Covert Affairs, and doubtless countless other shows I've forgotten about, haven't watched, or have never heard of. Not every male-female pair on television is bound to turn into sexual tension; and if Elementary does, so what? Fandom picks up on the sexual tension between Sherlock and John in Sherlock, and as for the sex appeal factor—the shirt Sherlock first wore in "The Great Game" has its own Urban Dictionary entry, and if I had a penny for every time I saw people reblogging pictures on Tumblr of Benedict Cumberbatch's ass (nude or clothed), I'd probably be up by a dollar by now.

Talking about race or gender is difficult, and talking about the intersection of race and gender is even harder. I don't have a degree in ethnic or gender studies; my only "qualifications" are the race and the gender I was born into. But for an informal, non-academic opinion post like this, maybe that's enough. And it's probably going to be enough for some Asian-American girl somewhere, watching Elementary and seeing a reflection of herself in Lucy Liu's black hair and narrow eyes and thinking to herself, you know what, if Joan Watson can be amazing, so can I.

x-men: first class - charles/lamps otp!

Wed, 01 Feb 2012 00:37:27 GMT

OKAY I WOULD LIKE TO PRESENT A BRIEF PHOTO-ESSAY TITLED "CHARLES XAVIER'S OBSESSION WITH LAMPS."

There's really nothing wrong with a desk lamp. Nothing at all.

Desk lamps can be quite useful.

I'm not sure what lamp #2 is pointing to, but lamp #3 seems pretty useful to read from. If your book was, you know, in the path of the light.

WHY DO YOU NEED FIVE AND A HALF LAMPS IN YOUR FLAT, CHARLES XAVIER.

WHY DO YOU HATE THE ENVIRONMENT, CHARLES XAVIER.

And let's take a minute to point out the furniture in their flat:

I have this image of Charles and Raven going to pick out this furniture and Charles is very hungover and they finally just grab the cheapest curtains (not that they'd like, keep them closed or anything while Raven is in her natural form), and on the way home they pass a chair being thrown out, and they're like, ah, what the hell, let's bring it with us.

But the most important question of all:

WHAT IS THIS DRAWING.

Why does this poor gorilla only have one leg, Charles Xavier.

Why, Charles.

But, you know, at least he eventually tones down his lamp obsession when the war comes and he has to be a responsible grown-up.

fic: star trek - "starlight mints"

Tue, 31 Jan 2012 22:51:35 GMT

For sharpestscalpel, because she prompted song titles and for some reason I decided to go with the song artist, I don't even.

Starlight Mints
Star Trek XI | Kirk/McCoy | PG | 400 words
Jim and Bones's first date does not go according to plan.

Jim out of uniform is about as subtle as a Mississippi matriarch on moonshine and twice as handsy, and Bones has to pry Jim's fingers out of his waistband twice before they've even left the restaurant. "Don't even think about it," he growls, fishing through his pockets for the keys. "This is the first date I've had since the 2240s, and I'm not about to let you screw it up by getting us both arrested for public indecency."

"Aw, Bones," whines Jim, twining his arms around Bones's neck. (Bones isn't fooled—it'll take more than a glass of Saurian brandy to actually get Jim drunk, and they both know Jim's absolutely playing it up.) "It's my first date ever, and you're not even getting it right."

They've reached Bones's car, and Bones pins Jim against the door. "I'm not getting what right," he says. "We watched a movie, we got dinner, I paid—" because Jim sends all his paychecks home to Winona, and Bones is never going to argue with that—"so if you would please enlighten me to where exactly I've gone wrong?"

"Ah, Bones, Bones," says Jim, raising a finger, and this is the kind of attitude that once got him slapped five times in even fewer hours by key members of Sigma Psi Xindi. "You've done everything right so far. It's just that there's something . . . missing."

Jim punctuates this with an obscene quirk of the brow, and Bones shakes his head. "I told you, Jim, we're not having sex unless it's in a locked room with a bed and no one else present. So no, I am not going to—"

"Why do you always think so badly of me, Bones?" says Jim, but Bones's answer gets swallowed up in a kiss. Jim's mouth is warm and sweet, sugar leaking from the mint he's got tucked against his cheek, and Bones chases the flavor with his tongue, licks across Jim's teeth until he's sure he could recall the shape of them from memory.

Eventually the catcalls from the parking lot bring Bones back down to Earth, and he finds he's got his hands fisted in Jim's collar. They're the same height, and this means Jim doesn't have to crane his neck to nip gently at Bones's ear.

"See," says Jim, pulling back, a grin on his face like he's won the lottery, "now that's a date."

rec: xmfc - "wear sunlight"

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 11:48:51 GMT

Insta-rec:

Wear Sunlight (by etirabys)
~15,000 words, Charles/Erik, NC-17. D/s, politics, meta, feelings.

This is what fanfiction is for. Nothing else will ever be this good again.

Erik mutely shrugged. He didn't like labs very much. "What can you do?" he asked. It was an offensive question- nearly politically incorrect, in fact, these days, when people had become hypersensitive about mutations and special abilities, and the level of privacy they warranted. At least in this country.

Charles blinked, and smiled up at Erik. Cute, Erik thought, my type. Harmless, not so much. "Oh, I thought this was one of those things people discreetly asked about as soon as they walked into a room full of mutants. I'm a telepath."

Erik opened his mouth. There weren't many in the world, which probably reduced the controversy surrounding how well-regulated they should be. Charles, he thought again.

"Xavier. Precisely. Very good."

fic: x-men: first class - "things we lost at the beach"

Tue, 13 Dec 2011 06:35:18 GMT

So pearl_o and sharpestscalpel somehow both requested the one where Erik and Moira are secretly banging for the entire movie for the three-sentence story-I-didn't-write meme at exactly the same time, with sharpestscalpel's additional stipulation that Charles later finds out, and I obviously fail at counting, because this is definitely over three sentences.

Now it's off to do—surprise—yet more schoolwork. Eventually I'll be allowed to sleep, right? Right?

things we lost at the beach
X-Men: First Class | PG-13 | Erik/Moira | 300 words
The trick to erasing memories is knowing exactly what to take.

He starts with Raven and goes through each of them one at a time, gently excising them from Moira's head like pulling books from a shelf. Everything from before Westchester stays, but he takes the rest: Hank's increasingly genuine smiles, Sean's warm hugs, Alex's gruff good mornings in the downstairs kitchen. The pride Moira had in them, the sense of home she'd felt even though she'd been the odd one out from the start—it all dissolves at Charles's touch, nothing more than dust, and oh, it shouldn't be this easy, but it is.

He leaves himself and Erik for last. They're the leaders of their respective—organizations, he supposes—and it's likely he'll have to take more than just the mansion; it won't do for the CIA to know how either of them strategize, or the depths of their weaknesses. He's not expecting to find anything besides tepid memories and some lingering resentment when he concentrates on Erik—who doesn't resent Erik for what he's done, even just a little—but instead he gets flashes of lust, dark laughter, soft sheets and slick skin—

—it's a shame you're human—

and Moira's answering amusement as she clenched around him, leaned down to press their bodies together for what was far from the first time. It's an endless, dizzying array of nights Charles never knew about: every bruising kiss a challenge, every breathless fuck a victory for both sides.

—it's a shame you're not—

In the end Charles takes these, too. It's safer this way; and surely it's a mercy as well, Charles decides, thinking of the way Moira hadn't hesitated for a second at the beach, hands steady on her weapon, determined not to miss.

ao3 quickfix codes

Sat, 12 Nov 2011 22:10:28 GMT

Sorry for everyone seeing this a million times, but I wanted to make a public post for this. Um, feel free to share?

AO3 recently updated its layout. I've designed a few quickfixes for readability, separated by function: they're about a few lines long each, and you can use as few or as many of them as you'd like. This only works for people with AO3 accounts, sorry.

Behind the cut are combined & separate codes to:

— change the background color to white
— force all fonts to your preferred font
— uncapitalize fic titles
— make the margins on fic text larger
— add back the divider between the summary/notes and the fic text
— make the input boxes white instead of lavender
— make boxes white instead of lavender on author pages
— ETA: un-shade the relationship tags (forgot to add this earlier, sorry)

Implementing the combined code will give you this (serif and sans serif), and the author pages will look like this.

Because I don't like change, I've messed around with the layout and now mine looks like this: fic page and author page. If you want of the particular fixes you see here, let me know, and I'll dig through my code and get back to you.

How to install:

1. Go here.
2. Paste this stuff into the CSS field and click submit.
3. Scroll down to the bottom of the next page and click use.

Combined code:

/* changes background color to white */ body,#outer { background-color: #fff; } /* forces all fonts to [preferred font] */ body,workskin,blockquote,pre,.heading .actions,.heading .action,.heading span.actions,span.unread,.replied,span.claimed,.heading,h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6,a.work,.system .intro,.system .module h2,.system .intro a,.system .intro em,.system .latest h3,.system div.news h3,span.symbol,div.preface,.preface blockquote,.preface h2.title,.datetime,input { font-family: georgia !important; } /* uncapitalizes the title */ .preface h2.title { font-variant: normal; } /* fixes the margins on fic text */ div.userstuff { margin: 1.5em 3em; padding: 0.643em 0.643em 0; } /*adds a divider between notes and fic text */ div.preface { border-bottom: 3px double; } /* makes the input boxes white */ input,textarea,input:focus,select:focus,textarea:focus { background-color: #fff; } /* makes boxes on author pages white */ .listbox .index,.dashboard .listbox .index { background-color: #fff; } /* un-shade the relationship tags */ .tags,.tags a,.tags li { background-color: #fff; }

Code snippets:

Changes background color to white:
/* changes background color to white */ body,#outer { background-color: #fff; }

Forces all font to your preferred font:
/* forces all fonts to [preferred font] */ body,workskin,blockquote,pre,.heading .actions,.heading .action,.heading span.actions,span.unread,.replied,span.claimed,.heading,h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6,a.work,.system .intro,.system .module h2,.system .intro a,.system .intro em,.system .latest h3,.system div.news h3,span.symbol, div.preface,.preface blockquote, .preface h2.title,.datetime,input { font-family: geogia !important; }

Uncapitalizes fic titles:
/* uncapitalizes the title */ .preface h2.title { font-variant: normal; }

Fixes the margins on fic text (larger margins)
/* fixes the margins on fic text */ div.userstuff { margin: 1.5em 3em; padding: 0.643em 0.643em 0; }

Adds the divider back between summary/notes and fic text:
/*adds a divider between notes and fic text */ div.preface { border-bottom: 3px double; }

Makes input boxes white instead of lavender:
/* makes the input boxes white */ input,textarea,input:focus,select:focus,textarea:focus { background-color: #fff; }

Makes boxes white instead of lavender on author pages:
/* makes boxes on author pages white */ .listbox .index,.dashboard .listbox .index { background-color: #fff; }

Un-shade the relationship tags:
/* un-shade the relationship tags */ .tags,.tags a,.tags li { background-color: #fff; }

closed.

Mon, 31 Oct 2011 05:38:32 GMT

dreamwidth : masterlist : ao3

rec: xmfc - "narcissus" by aestheticized

Mon, 17 Oct 2011 07:17:20 GMT

Insta-rec: Narcissus by aestheticized
Raven/Charles, /Erik, /Azazel, /Angel, /Destiny | 2,860 words | warnings in the fic header
Raven doesn’t have a type, but she knows how to be one. Or: Raven is pansexual, polyamorous, genderfluid, and blue. It's difficult.

This fic is kind of ridiculously fucking gorgeous, okay? I know every other Raven fic out there is a story of self-discovery, but trust me, this is lovely and you'll want to read it. UGH MY REVIEW IS DOING THIS STORY ABSOLUTELY ZERO JUSTICE. Like, I just kept rereading this fic for twenty minutes because there is so much here to absorb.

Also, Raven/Charles will do it for me every time, but this story isn't even about the pairings; they're integral but also auxiliary, because this is Raven's story and this fic is just vast and complicated and tangled, and I'm still trying to work it all out in my head. And did I mention the prose is ridiculously fucking gorgeous?

fic: x-men: first class - "body next to another"

Fri, 16 Sep 2011 21:37:08 GMT

pearl_o pointed out that I essentially ship Charles/everyone ever, and then I replied with a comment about Erik and Moira time-sharing Charles: Erik gets him for chess matches, but Moira gets him for actual dates out on the town. He spends three nights a week with Erik and three with Moira, and one on his own. Erik and Moira are totally not interested in each other, but they have a grudging sort of respect for each other considering they're both professionals and pragmatists and, like, if you can handle Charles Xavier, you deserve that respect. And Charles is just like, perpetually smiling and delighted and totally, always, getting his way. And then this happened.

If anyone wants to take any of the ideas in this fic and run with them, please do go ahead. I wrote this rather quickly and there's probably so much more to be said about the three of them.

Disclaimer: I know nothing about poly relationships besides having a few poly friends, reading sexuality blogs, and dating a guy for a year who in retrospect was almost certainly poly. I could very likely be getting this all wrong. Consider this a mono-person's attempt to imagine navigating a poly relationship. Could I say poly one more time.

body next to another
X-Men: First Class | PG | Charles/Erik, Charles/Moira | 1,250 words
Erik and Moira agree to time-share Charles. It goes better than expected, for a certain value of better.

It occurs to Erik in the middle of negotiating Charles's daily sleeping schedule that this wasn't remotely what he had expected when Charles first leaned in and kissed him.

It occurs to him, too, that, despite everything, this works for him.

—

There are rules. There would have been rules even if it had only been the two of them, but the addition of Moira (Charles propositioned her first, technically, but Erik's possessiveness runs miles deep and Charles had been making eyes at Erik long before he first slept with Moira) meant the rules needed to be verbalized, reworded carefully, agreed upon by all parties involved. The rules are mostly for Charles, who overindulges and babbles when he's excited and doesn't seem to understand why Erik, who spends inordinate amounts of time pleasing and being pleased by Charles, would want him to keep half his life a secret.

The rules are:

1. no permanent marks
2. no sleeping with both Moira and Erik on the same night
3. no bringing up the third party in conversation unless Moira or Erik brings them up first
4. no bringing up the relationship in public
5. no sleeping with one party three nights in a row
6. if anyone sleeps with someone outside the group, everyone has to start using protection
7. anyone can leave, any time.

Erik adds two additional rules for Charles, between the two of them:

8. no mind-reading, during sex or otherwise
9. don't ever say I'm yours.

—

It's not to say that he doesn't get jealous of Moira, or that he never tries to blow Charles's mind every time he gets him alone in bed (or the library, or Charles's study). Neither Erik nor Moira have the time or energy to handle Charles full-time, and just like Erik has nights where he finds Charles's company more tiresome than invigorating, he's sure Moira has nights where she'd rather be alone, strategizing or reading or doing whatever it is a semi-rogue CIA agent does in her free time.

Tonight is supposed to be Erik's turn with Charles, but after Charles shows up at Erik's door with a headache so intense Erik can feel the pain wafting off of him, he insists Charles get some rest and then leaves him there. He intends to go for a walk, get some fresh air, but Moira's sitting at the kitchen table, a map spread out in front of her and the end of a pen in her mouth, and he stops in the doorway and clears his throat.

Moira's head shoots up in surprise. "Oh, it's you," she says, recovering her dropped pen. "I thought you were supposed to be with Charles—is he all right? Did something happen?"

Erik shakes his head. "He's fine. Just got a headache, I'm letting him sleep it off."

"I told him he was overworking himself," says Moira. "He's spending too much time in the basement with Henry, it was bound to catch up with him sometime." She makes a mark on the map with her pen. "Do you want some coffee?"

"No, thanks," says Erik. After a second he moves to stand closer to the table, but doesn't sit down, instead looking over her shoulder at the map. It's a mostly empty expanse of blue, but Moira's marked down positions and flight routes for a military scramble out of Miami. "Making contingencies?"

"Mm," says Moira. "They won't be any use to us if we run into trouble, but we might need them afterwards to destroy the jet and any evidence that we've been there."

"Comforting." Erik doesn't like the idea of cremation by long-range missile, but he supposes he's long since forfeited his right to a proper burial. "Let's try not to let that happen." He goes to fill up a glass of water from the tap, downing it in one go. "I'm going out for a walk; I'll be back in an hour."

Moira doesn't say anything, and when he stops in the doorway and glances back at her, she's looking in his direction.

Erik says, "What?"

"It's not a competition, and you know that," says Moira; her tone isn't reproachful. "You don't need to prove anything. To either of us—or to yourself."

"I do know that," Erik says, "and I'm not."

This isn't the first conversation they've had about Charles, but they usually try to avoid discussing him. Erik's disdain for her has mostly faded, but he'd never go so far as to say they're friends. Sharing Charles with him seems to make her think she's entitled to a familiarity that she hasn't earned. Still, he has an obligation to hear her out. Charles cares about her; the least Erik can do is try to figure out why.

"If you say so." Moira holds up her hands in a conciliatory gesture. "We talk about you sometimes, Charles and I, and he thinks—he thinks you're afraid of losing him." She gives him a half-smile. "I'm just saying, Erik—he loves you, too."

"I don't need you to tell me that," says Erik. "Good night, Moira."

—

Charles leaned in and kissed him and it was like the biggest revelation in the world, like everything coming together all at once, miraculously, unexpectedly. He tasted faintly like tea and smiled against Erik's mouth when he reached up to cup Charles's jaw, when he twined his fingers in Charles's hair. Erik clung to him, unwilling to let go—afraid that the second he did, Charles would simply disappear and Erik would have nothing to hold onto.

—

Charles's feet are cold under the blankets when Erik slides in next to him. He's still sleeping, folded in on himself like a child, and Erik spoons up behind him, wraps an arm around his stomach to hold him there.

"Erik." Charles stirs awake in his arms, exuding warmth and worry as he turns to face Erik. "I was wondering where you'd gone."

"It was just a short walk," says Erik. Charles's eyes are still closed, and Erik brushes a kiss to each eyelid and then his mouth. "Go back to sleep."

"I felt you and Moira talking," says Charles, soft and sleepy. "What was it about?"

Erik sighs against the top of Charles's head. "Strategy," he says, "nothing important."

"All right." Charles is drifting off again—Erik can feel it in the way his muscles relax, the way his focus dissipates just as suddenly as it appeared. Erik holds him close, listens to his tiny puffs of breath. Does Moira do the same thing, holding Charles as he sleeps? Or does Charles hold her instead, does Charles wrap himself around her like a warm blanket, pulsing drowsy affection like an anaesthetic? Does he slide up against her mind in sleep the way he appears by Erik's side in his nightmares, holding the hand of his fourteen-year-old self and promising it will all be all right?

Erik's heart is barely big enough for one person; he doesn't understand how Charles's is big enough to handle two.

When he dreams that night, it's of himself and Charles and Moira planting coins and broken glass in the garden. Moira is wearing a long white dress, and there's dirt on her knees, and when she laughs Charles starts to laugh, too, and Erik's too busy wiping his hands on his trousers to remember not to join in.

—

Erik adds yet another rule, this time between the three of them:

10. talk.

fic: x-men: first class - "front row"

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 14:12:16 GMT

For this prompt on the kink meme, and for the voyeurism square on kink bingo.

Oh, god, I wrote an entire story about sketchy wanking, what even. I'm sorry.

Front Row
X-Men: First Class | R | Darwin/Alex | 1,300 words | unintentional voyeurism
Alex isn't exactly a bad roommate, but he's got one habit that Darwin would really like to change.

Darwin gets it. He really does. He was eighteen once, trying to fill out college applications when all he could think about was sex, getting so turned on by a two-second glimpse of cleavage he could barely see straight. Hormones are uncontrollable, uncontrollable, and not your fault—you just have to take care of it quietly, as soon as you can, and no one ever has to be the wiser.

But. The point is to take care of it in private.

And lying in a bed three feet away from where Darwin's trying very hard to pretend to be asleep is most decidedly not.

To his credit, Alex is being pretty quiet about it, and if Darwin hadn't already been awake, he wouldn't have even known it was happening. Alex never does any of that ridiculous manly grunting stuff, like he's trying to wrestle an alligator, and he never—thank god—actually speaks. This is already pushing the limits of Darwin's cool; if Alex was lying there crying out the names of ex-girlfriends, then Darwin would really have to do something about it.

This hadn't been an issue during the four days Darwin had shared a room with Hank, before Alex and Sean had decided their sleeping habits were irreconcilable and asked Charles to arrange a switch. Maybe Hank had taken care of it the same way Darwin did—in the showers, with soap and, if you timed it right, privacy—but then again, he doesn't really want to think about Hank's masturbatory habits, either. Maybe he's getting it on with Raven—good for him, she's sharp and pretty and if Darwin were into girls, he'd probably be into Raven, too.

Alex chooses that time to let out a whoosh of breath, and Darwin can barely keep from groaning in embarrassment.

He cracks his eyes open a sliver to check the time: It's two in the morning and if he wants to be at all rested for tomorrow, he had better get back to sleep now. He closes his eyes again and by god, he tries. But the sheets on Alex's bed keep rustling, and eventually Darwin just rolls over onto his back: there'll be no sleeping until Alex is finished, and from the sounds of it—and how wrong is it that Darwin can tell?—he's nowhere near close.

Darwin hums the loudest song he can think of in his head, trying to drown out the sounds, but his stubborn ears refuse to seal themselves over and the noises still reach him anyway. The sharp inhale-exhale through Alex's nose, the brush of forearm against sheet. No slick slap, though: Alex always does it dry, and Darwin can't help thinking it must be uncomfortable like that, too much friction and not enough glide. It would feel a lot better with lotion, or a palmful of spit, he thinks, or Darwin's own mouth—

Well, shit.

Darwin's rock-hard and he didn't even notice till now, and he'd be lying if he'd never thought about Alex that way. Always in passing, though, never anything serious, just idle thoughts about kissing Alex's mouth after a game of pinball, about putting a hand on the back of his neck and stroking the pale skin there with his thumb. Thoughts about other things, too, if he's honest with himself—but Darwin's got a good six years on Alex, and considering Alex's been in prison for the last three, who knows if Alex has ever even been kissed?

Alex might be legal, but it doesn't make Darwin feel any less guilty for wanting to screw him. And now this—it's clearly the universe's way of screwing with him, putting something so tempting within arm's reach.

He really shouldn't be fantasizing. He isn't fantasizing, he tells himself. He's just—theorizing.

It would have to be Alex who made the first move. Darwin doesn't know all of Alex's issues—he's definitely got serious issues—and he seems like one of those guys who doesn't like being touched without permission, so: Alex's move. Let him decide when it's time, and then Darwin would take care of the rest. He'd kiss Alex until he was breathless and panting, making the exact same noises he's making now, and he'd take it just as slow or as fast as Alex needed him to—adapt or else—and he'd enjoy the look of his skin against Alex's, like rich coffee and sweet cream.

Darwin doesn't let himself think too much about the details, because he's sure he'd go off at the barest hair-trigger touch, and he knows for a fact it's something he won't be able to hide. He settles for trying to control his breathing, focusing on the rise and fall of his own chest as Alex heaves quiet gulps of air, his hand working frantically under the sheets. Come on, Darwin thinks, come on, baby, just a little more, you're almost there—

Alex comes, gasping weakly for half a minute before remembering to close his mouth, drawing in labored breaths through his nose. Darwin hears Alex's hand fall away under the covers, and then he goes completely still, forcing himself to calm down. He hasn't even cleaned himself up; always just falls asleep like that, and it has to be uncomfortable in the mornings.

When Alex's breathing starts to even out, Darwin lets himself relax muscles he hadn't known he'd been tensing. He turns over onto his stomach, trapping his own hardness against the bed; it's a little painful, but there's no way in hell he's going to jerk off to thoughts of his eighteen-year-old roommate jerking off. He's pretty sure he's gotten away with it, too; he allows himself a small moment of guilty satisfaction, congratulating himself on not making this a worse mess than it already is.

Then Alex says, so quietly he can barely hear it, "Armando?"

His voice is cracked at the edges, sounding half like an apology and half like reproach, and Darwin freezes up completely. What the hell are you supposed to do in a situation like this? Faking sleep obviously won't work at this point; Darwin counts to three, and goes for it.

"Alex," he says, cautious. "You, uh—everything okay?"

Alex shuffles around in his bed for a minute or two. "Yeah," he finally mumbles. "Sorry about that. Didn't know you were up."

It's the most surreal conversation Darwin's had in ages, and just this afternoon he was imploring Angel to drip acid onto his arm. "Don't worry about it," he responds, already thinking about how awkward this is going to be tomorrow. He can probably play it cool, or at least cool enough that no one besides Charles would be able to pick up on it, but he doesn't know if Alex can, or if he's going to keep his distance from now on. Are they going to have to switch up rooms again, or are they just going to pretend this never happened and try to get on with saving the world?

Alex answers the question for him, though—there's the space of two footsteps and then Alex's knee is edging its way onto Darwin's bed, Alex's hand is questing blindly for Darwin's chest. Darwin catches it before Alex can sock him in the jaw, and holds on tight.

"I'm not worrying about it," says Alex, other hand already slipping beneath the blankets. "Are you?"

Darwin yanks him down for a kiss, and Alex tastes like sleep and toothpaste and a thousand stupid, impulsive decisions made in the middle of the night. "Nah, it's cool," he says, and pulls Alex down by the wrist.

fic: x-men: first class - "bed of roses"

Wed, 31 Aug 2011 05:41:26 GMT

Originally posted on the kink meme 2011/07/20, for this prompt (hi, rubynye! gosh, am I glad you liked this despite its cheesiness!) and this semi-NSFW picture.

Locking this because it was my very first XMFC fic, written in an hour, so the characterizations are still up in the air; and also because I still feel awkward about that Charles/Moira scene, uh, yeah, I am going to have issues about that for a while. This starts out pretty obviously crack, and then takes a sharp left into sappy angst. WELP.

2011.09.06: Now unlocked for public consumption!

Bed of Roses
X-Men: First Class | Charles/Erik | PG-13 | 1,000 words
Post-canon. Charles shows up in Erik's room with a surprise. Erik's not pleased.

Erik really has to start locking his bedroom door.

First Raven, back at the Xavier mansion—and while that was a good bit of fun it was also, in retrospect, a bit of a mistake. It's bad enough to sleep with the sister of your best friend, but it's another thing to have left him bleeding out on a Cuban beach while absconding with his sister to form your militant resistance group and Erik had apologized but months later she was still (perhaps understandably) upset and, honestly, Erik doesn't want to think about this, not right now, not with this sight in front of him—

"Erik," says Charles, smiling warmly up at him from where he's lying on Erik's bed, naked but for a strategically placed bouquet of roses. "It's been quite some time."

Erik stands stock-still for a moment, then finally remembers to shut and bolt the door behind him. "Frost," he growls, just this side of furious, because this is Charles, this is the one thing that is off-limits and she knows it, "do not play such cheap tricks on me. End this now and I won't have to make my displeasure known when I find you."

"Oh, Erik, it's not a trick," replies Charles, looking like he might laugh. Erik just stares incredulously at him as Charles stretches his upper body: long lines of his arms and torso, pink-flushed skin. The bouquet shifts dangerously, threatening to reveal far, far too much, but thankfully remains in place. "Would Emma Frost have ever engineered such an inept seduction?"

Erik means to throw him out. He means to shout at him, get angry with him, what are you doing here, why this, why now (why did it take you this long). Instead he says, "Get off my cape."

"Oh." Charles shifts around some more, pulling the violet fabric out from under him and laying it smoothly aside. "Sorry, I hadn't noticed." Erik looks up, away, anywhere but at Charles's wriggling, naked body. This is decidedly not what he expected to return to after a long day moving freight trains at the railyard. And Charles's wording is, indeed, accurate: there isn't a person alive who would fall for this. But perhaps maybe the incompetence is the method, and Erik's just never bothered to learn what constitutes a good seduction.

"Consider this a return to my roots as a terrible flirt," says Charles, and Erik's panic flares briefly for a moment before he realize he's still wearing the helmet. "Come, Erik, you must be tired, lie down."

"How did you get in?" Erik demands. "I had Janos stationed out front; he would have seen you long before you'd had a chance to touch his mind."

"Ah, see," says Charles, "but not if Raven had relieved him of his guard." He smiles—that same warm smile Erik remembers from months ago. "You didn't honestly think I could have done all this on my own, did you?"

Erik scoffs. "Couldn't you have?"

Something about Erik's words makes Charles's expression go blank, downcast, only for a second, and Erik follows the path of his eyes and it's then that he finally sees it: the wheelchair, sleek and futuristic, that's half-hidden behind Erik's desk. He reaches out to the chair with his senses: no metal, otherwise he'd have sensed it before he'd even opened the door.

Erik looks down at Charles in something like shock, and Charles just nods.

"Raven knew," says Erik, keeping his eyes fixed on Charles' face. "Raven knew, and she didn't tell me—"

"I told her not to," Charles says, and Erik's temper flares again, briefly, because what right did Charles still have over Raven, if ever he had? "Erik, I knew you would have wanted to see for yourself. And now you can."

"You should have said something," says Erik. His voice sounds rough to his own ears. "I would have been there."

Charles says, "I know." Perfectly neutral: there's nothing in those words, neither resentment nor forgiveness.

"Plastic," Erik says. "Hank's design?", and he means precautions.

Charles nods again, understanding. "He didn't want to take the chance," says Charles—he, not I, and Erik feels a surge of—something—in his chest. Those legs that seemed almost tantalizing mere minutes before are now the most undeniable proof of Erik's guilt. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do now.

If he thought it would make any difference, Erik would apologize. But the words I'm sorry, no matter how heartfelt, will never be enough. He takes a step forward, tugs off his gloves, drops them on the desk. He asks, "Why are you here?"

"Take the helmet off and I'll show you," says Charles. Erik hesitates: he would never harm Charles, but there's nothing keeping him from simply leaving the room altogether. But Charles' eyes are blue and so very, very kind, and—

Erik removes the helmet and places it on the desk.

Suddenly Erik's head is filled with his presence: nothing concrete, just abstract, hazy feelings. There's too much for Erik to completely comprehend at once, but for the most part, the gist is clear: Charles wants a second chance, wants to give Erik a second chance, wants this night to be the start of something new. Erik comes back to himself feeling lightheaded and bewildered, and looks back down at the bed, where Charles still lies outstretched, waiting for Erik.

Now will you lie with me? asks Charles. His smile is sweet and wistful, and Erik wants nothing more than to cover it with his own mouth. He folds onto the bed, kneels over Charles—heedless of the roses, crushing the petals and stems under his weight.

No promises, Charles, Erik thinks back, nothing beyond tonight. It'll have to be enough for now.

Charles leans up on his elbows to kiss Erik, and Erik leans down. It lasts at once forever and not long enough, and when Erik pulls back, he's breathless and so turned on he can barely see straight.

"So it seems the roses worked, after all," says Charles, eyes sparkling.

"You give yourself entirely too much credit," says Erik, and after that there is no more talk.

x-men: first class - film timeline

Thu, 25 Aug 2011 16:02:56 GMT

I rewatched parts of XMFC to try to figure out the timeline, and this timeline is so fucked up I don't even. There is basically no way to explain this timeline without bending space-time.

Dates we know from history:

1959: According to Wikipedia, "in October 1959, the location of the third and final Jupiter MRBM squadron was settled when a government-to-government agreement was signed with Turkey." At the Hellfire Club, Shaw talks to Hendry regarding a motion to put Jupiter missiles in Turkey, then the scene cuts away to the Pentagon meeting, where they are discussing the motion. This scene must therefore be set pre-1959.

October 18, 1962: Kennedy meets with Soviet foreign minister Gromyko. Emma and Shaw are seen watching this broadcast in the submarine. This is shown directly after the protagonists' arrival at the CIA compound, but it's possible there is a time delay between the CIA compound and the submarine scene.

In between October 18 and 22, 1962:
— Bromance World Tour
— Charles, Erik, and Moira travel to Russia
— The CIA compound is attacked and everyone relocates to the mansion in Westchester. In between these scenes, there is a scene at the Pentagon where an official states: "The Russians have sent their warheads to Cuba. We have a week before the ship meets the coast. Our fleet can be on this line when the Russian missile ship arrives."

October 22, 1962: The satellite scene. They're called in to watch Kennedy make his speech about the arms buildup in Cuba. At the end of this scene, Erik says, "So much for diplomacy. I suggest you all get a good night's sleep." This statement strongly implies that the beach scene takes place the next day, on October 23.

October 25, 1962: According to Wikipedia, "at 7:15 am EDT on October 25, the USS Essex and USS Gearing attempted to intercept the Bucharest but failed to do so. Fairly certain the tanker did not contain any military material, they allowed it through the blockade." This is probably the situation used as a reference for the beach scene.

November 20, 1962: Kennedy gives the speech that is played between the beach and the ending scene with Charles and Moira.

Now, normally I am the biggest stickler for canon, but . . . THIS TIMELINE MAKES NO SENSE AT ALL.

For one thing, there's no way the movie started out in 1959. For another thing . . . just, no. How much stuff took place in this week? Training. Traveling (Florida to Virginia to the Bromance World Tour back to Virginia to Russia to Virginia to New York to Cuba). Manufacturing of equipment and costumes. Not to mention INTENSE EMOTIONAL BONDING. Oh, and somewhere in the middle, Charles and Moira find time to start an affair. Just. No.

Fandom seems to have decided that the time spent at the CIA compound ranges from a few weeks to a month, and the time at the mansion is one to two months. I was initially very concerned about getting the timeline right with regard to the film, but now that I've worked it out? FUCK THE TIMELINE. Fandom knows best.

(Also, this has nothing to do with the timeline, but I'm pretty sure Erik saying "god damn it" is like, a pretty un-Jewish thing to do. Also, what's up with Michael Fassbender using seventeen different accents in this film.)

fic: x-men: first class/sherlock - "if convenient"

Tue, 16 Aug 2011 10:00:41 GMT

So this is some kind of . . . weird AU-fusion thing that will make no sense at all if you haven't seen the first episode of Sherlock. If you're just here from XMFC fandom, this might not be entirely clear or satisfying to you.

For this prompt on the kink meme, because I felt like a tool for making a lot of stupid comments and not actually contributing fic. If you want to play around with any of this, by all means please feel free. There's a ton of random speculation/backstory in the linked thread and the comments here.

2011/08/18: OH GOD YOU GUYS sussexdowns DID ME ONE BETTER. one explanation of some of the facts is their remake of "The Blind Banker," and it is just so fantastic and brilliant and not remotely silly at all.

If Convenient
X-Men: First Class/Sherlock | G | gen | 950 words | slight AU
Charles is a consulting telepath, Erik is a war-wounded metalbender. Together, they solve mysteries!

Angelo's turns out to be a quaint Italian restaurant a few blocks from Langley. Erik is grateful for the walk, the cool night air, the chance to clear his head and stretch his legs. So much has happened already today: nothing like a surprise kidnapping to make you look forward to a good meal and a good night's rest.

Beside him, Charles walks with his hands crammed in his pockets as he surveys the people around them, smiling benignly. He notices Erik looking askance, and gives him a nudge with his elbow.

"Just keeping an ear out for clues," Charles says, "it never hurts to keep looking, does it?"

Erik nods agreement. It isn't as if he had ever intentionally turned his own powers off, either, and if he still had them he'd be able to feel the hum of the metal in the storefronts and streetlamps, in Charles's wristwatch and the rivets of his jeans. He's not sure he approves of Charles indiscriminately casting his telepathy over the nighttime crowd, but there's a reason he has such a high crime-clearance rate.

(It's also the reason most of the CIA refuses to work with him, but humans are always so scared of the unknown.)

They're welcomed into the restaurant by a jolly man who hugs Charles as if he's his beloved son. "This man got me off a murder charge," he says proudly to Erik, before proclaiming that everything on the menu is free, "for you, Charles, and for your date." He's lighting a candle for the table and disappearing into the kitchen before both Charles and Erik can protest.

Charles, to Erik's surprise, actually blushes, ears turning red above the edges of his scarf. He ducks his head, trying to hide a smile, and it's suddenly very clear to Erik.

"Are you—" Erik knows a few gay men, but they've tended to be fiercely flamboyant and avoid women altogether. Earlier today Erik had watched Charles flirt outrageously with Agent MacTaggert, brushing her hair from her face, touching the small of her back. Charles doesn't seem the type at all. "He actually thinks I'm your date?"

Charles peruses the menu for longer than is strictly necessary. "I may have been—indiscreet before. In the past." His eyes flicker up briefly to meet Erik's before he turns to stare out the window, and Erik gets a flash of sensation, lips and skin and large, strong hands that he desperately hopes is his imagination and not Charles's unconsciously transmitted memory.

"So I'm guessing you don't have a ladyfriend, then," Erik says, glancing over his own menu, striving for casual.

Charles doesn't take his eyes off the view of the street outside. "Despite what you saw today with Moira, women aren't really my area," he murmurs, "as you seem to have already figured out."

Erik hesitates. "Do you have a . . . a gentleman friend, then? Which is—fine." Something Erik should probably have asked about before agreeing to move in with Charles—he's still in denial that it's actually happening—but better late than never, better than walking in unprepared on something he'd rather not see.

"I know it's fine," says Charles, sounding faintly surprised. "And you sound as if you actually mean it."

"I do mean it," replies Erik. He knows, on two fronts, what it's like to be an outsider; it would be hypocritical to judge Charles simply based on the people he takes into his bed. "So you've got one, then?"

Charles just gives him an even, steady look. "Not currently, no."

Erik very carefully does not breathe a sigh of relief, but it probably shows on his face all the same. "So you're unattached then," he says, "like me. Fine. Good." The fewer people in Erik's living space, the better—it's bad enough they're already sharing the duplex with one of the CIA's white coats, but McCoy looks easily intimidated and he won't be causing them any trouble.

Charles turns away for a second, considering; Erik suspects he's combing through his mind. Then Charles extends his hand, laying it briefly on Erik's wrist.

"Erik," says Charles earnestly, "I know you consider yourself married to your ideology, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I hardly think we would be compatible in a romantic—"

"I'm not asking," interrupts Erik a little too sharply, shaking his head. He barely even knows this man. "I'm just saying—it's all fine."

He finds himself offering Charles a tight smile that he honestly intends to be kind, but Charles seems to get the idea, as he smiles back and digs his fork into the plate of pasta that's just arrived.

Erik gets halfway through his meal before Charles's head jerks like he's been slapped and that same fork goes flying halfway across the table and Charles is pulling on his coat and scarf, gesturing to Erik to hurry up and follow. It isn't until they're both leaning against the wall of their shared apartment, gasping for breath from a foot-chase across the D.C. rooftops, that the sheer absurdity of the day catches up with him.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," says Erik.

Beside him, Charles smooths down his clothing, runs his hands through his hair. "And you once lifted an entire submarine out of the ocean."

"I attempted very hard to," clarifies Erik, but he can't help grinning, and Charles matches it, bright and infectious. Erik laughs, and feels a coin begin to quiver in his pocket, and though the movement is so faint he can barely tell, it still feels like the start of everything.

rec: xmfc - "anthem for doomed youth" by fahye_fic

Sun, 14 Aug 2011 02:40:57 GMT

Insta-rec: anthem for doomed youth by fahye_fic
Charles + Raven, Raven + Erik, Charles/Erik | 12,000 words | brief attempted sexual assault

Raven will be anything, tonight. She can be anything. She's this close to screaming, shrinking inside her borrowed skin, and Erik stands there looking so damn untouchable, like he's never held his iron bar of an arm across her shuddering neck and laughed at her as they fought, like he's never felt Charles inside his head and kissed him anyway. It's bullshit.

But Erik surprises her, as he's been doing since he hurtled wet and incredulous into her life. He rejects her; he praises her. He tells her to get out; he tells her that she's a tiger. Next to Havoc and Banshee, and even Hank with his speed and strength, nobody's ever thought Raven might be dangerous, and it sends joy singing in a copper-wire path through her heart.

This. Just. Go, read, now. This story is so expansive and clear-eyed and heartbreaking, and my own words are inadequate.

fic: x-men: first class - "selfish"

Thu, 04 Aug 2011 08:21:30 GMT

The reason I have so many WIPs is because I always start out wanting to write PWPs and then after 500 words or so, they all inevitably devolve into Feelings. Tonight I challenged myself to write a very simple PWP, with a minimum of Feelings, and I think I managed to succeed. Fingering and dirty talk ahoy, watch out if that's not your thing.

For this prompt on the kink meme. Hey, it's 3 am and I have a Chinese final today and I forgot to eat dinner. Priorities! I has not them.

Selfish
X-Men: First Class | NC-17 | Charles/Erik | 1,200 words
Charles always makes Erik do all the work, so maybe Erik shouldn't be indulging him now.

Charles makes a soft, pained noise as Erik pulls out, even though he's being as gentle as he can. Erik murmurs wordlessly and soothes him with a hand on the small of his back, and when Erik is finally withdrawn Charles collapses onto his front on the mattress, spent and unmoving. He looks almost like he's fallen asleep.

Erik very carefully does not sigh. It's typical: Charles is nothing if not selfish during every stage of the sex act, always demanding more and harder and Erik, and the aftercare is no exception. He can't remember the last time Charles cleaned up after himself. He's not sure if Charles ever has.

So Erik levers himself out of bed, reluctantly, and makes his way to the bathroom. He cleans himself off there and wets another washcloth to bring back to bed, grimacing at his reflection in the mirror. There's an unmistakable set of teeth-prints on his neck from the foreplay; self-control is another thing Charles utterly fails at, and Erik is running out of turtlenecks.

Charles is not snoring softly when Erik gets back, as he'd expected, but it's a very near thing. Erik manhandles him a bit, turning Charles onto his back and running the wet cloth across his smeared belly, his soft cock, the curls it's nestled in. Charles makes a small noise of protest—the water is cold—and Erik takes no small satisfaction in it, but he leans down to kiss Charles's mouth, anyway.

"Turn over," says Erik, nudging at Charles's hip, and Charles surprises him by complying. Erik folds the cloth in half, swipes it down Charles's sweat-slick back, nudges Charles's thighs apart with his knee. Charles actually does moan at that, a muffled, wanton noise, as if he hasn't just spent the last forty-five minutes being very thoroughly fucked. You're impossible, thinks Erik, loudly enough for Charles to hear. Charles just moans again, spreading his thighs even farther.

Well. If he's going to be like that.

Erik settles in more firmly between Charles's legs, wrapping his hands around Charles's hips to tilt them up. The reddened globes of his arse part obligingly, exposing him completely. His hole is red, too, wet and swollen and used, clenching reflexively when Erik brushes his thumb against it.

"Erik," whines Charles into the pillow, "Erik, I can't." But his hips push back into Erik's touch, and when Erik applies the barest pressure with his index, Charles opens up around him like he was born for it. Erik's finger slides in deep, made easy by the slick and Erik's own come, and Erik wastes no time in adding a second, working them back and forth in the mess he left behind.

"You're wet as a girl, Charles," says Erik, voice rougher than he expected. His fingers make the most obscene noises as he slides them in and out, deeper each time, and a third goes in without any effort at all. "So wet, so loose, someone's fucked you well tonight, haven't they?"

Charles is propping himself up on his elbows, now, and with every thrust of Erik's fingers he gives a sharp exhalation of breath. "Yes," he says, "yes, Erik, you have." His head is bowed, his shoulders tensed so that Erik can see the shift of muscles under his skin. "Never had it this good before, never."

"Making me do all the work," rasps Erik, "just lying there and taking it." He follows it up with a twist, and Charles's hands fist desperately in the sheets. Erik doesn't even know if Charles can come again, but his cock seems to think so, rising between his legs out of Erik's sight. Once was enough for Erik: he'd like nothing better than to slip back into Charles's perfect arse, but this will have to do for now. Doesn't mean he can't have some fun.

He stills his fingers, keeping them outstretched but motionless. Charles's head whips back in confusion—why did you stop is something wrong oh god keep going—but Erik only grins, opens his fingers that much wider.

"I'm tired," announces Erik, and Charles sends off panic and disappointment like a flare. Erik shushes him. "You can still get what you want, Charles, but you'll just have to work for it this time."

"Oh, god," sobs Charles, "Erik," and shoves back onto Erik's fingers so violently that he has to fight the instinctive urge to recoil. It's like Erik's kicked him into high-gear, and in no time he's just bucking frantically, despite the awkwardness of the position, and as much as Erik loves the sight of Charles gone half-crazed with lust, he's as desperate for Charles to come as he is.

"You poor thing," Erik says, withdrawing his fingers completely. "Come here."

Charles ends up in Erik's lap, arms wrapped around his neck. They do nothing but kiss for a few minutes, rocking against each other, giving Charles some time to recover. Erik wipes his hand on the sheets and slips the same three fingers of the other into Charles—technique isn't an issue now, when all Charles is doing is riding Erik's fingers. Even now, he's letting gravity do most of the work, barely edging up before landing himself heavily, screwing his hips down as far as they'll go.

He's gasping, struggling for air like he's underwater, and if he doesn't come soon Erik's worried he'll asphyxiate.

Next time I'll have you on top, forms Erik, bundling it with a set of images and projecting loudly at Charles. He can't quite find it in himself to speak. I'll lie back and watch you slick yourself up and pin yourself on my cock, watch you ride me, I won't lay a single finger on you. Oh, Erik can imagine it so clearly: the flex of Charles's pale thighs as he rocks himself; his hands roaming over his own body, pinching and scraping, leaving marks in their wake; the hot slickness surrounding Erik's cock, grasping tightly, hungrily.

Charles comes with a harsh cry, entire body jerking in Erik's arms; clenches so tightly that Erik loses sensation in his fingers for a brief moment. Erik holds him close until the shivers subside, dropping kisses on Charles's neck and chest.

Finally Charles pulls back. His blue eyes are still unfocused, and there's a tear track running from one of the corners. Lips bright red from where he's bitten down on them, when it got to be too much. He looks wrecked, and Erik's immeasurably proud of this. Not many people get the chance to wreck Charles Xavier.

"It feels better when you work for it, doesn't it," says Erik, brushing Charles's hair out of his face. "When you earn it."

"Possibly," replies Charles. He gives a shaky, nervous laugh that rattles all the way down in Erik's bones. "Do you really think I'm that selfish in bed?"

Erik pinches the skin over Charles's hip. "Yes," he says gravely, and he does, but he also knows he's exuding a foolish, unbridled affection above all else. Charles knows this, too, and the only way to wipe the complacent look off his face is for Erik to lean in and kiss him.

fic: x-men: first class - "mutatis mutandis"

Sat, 23 Jul 2011 08:25:36 GMT

At the risk of becoming that kid who writes only second-person transfic, I present to you . . . more second-person transfic. Written over the space of a few hours, more of an abstract idea than an actual plot.

For these prompts on the XMFC kink memes.

A note for archivers: please file this under transgender fic and slash (M/M), not genderswap or het (F/M).

Mutatis Mutandis
X-Men: First Class | PG-13 | Charles + Raven, Charles/Erik | 1,200 words | allusions to Marvel canon
Charlotte Xavier graduates from high school and is never heard from again.

1.

Perhaps it's unfair. Perhaps it's selfish. Perhaps it's fundamentally wrong that you are the most powerful telepath in your knowledge, that you make your life by reading other people's secrets, and yet you think it your right to keep one of your own.

Raven knows because she was there. To her you are the boy (the girl) who took her in, who fed her and sheltered her, who protected her with your mind from the violence breeding under your roof. You are the person who gave her a way out. She will always love you for this, even years later, when the two of you stand on opposite sides of the battleground; she will always remember a kitchen in New York, and the way you held out your hand and said, take whatever you want.

To Raven you were (are) her best friend; to everyone else you are Charles Xavier, Ph.D, one of the most respected scientists in your field. The kind of person who, no matter how far back one digs, has no skeletons in his closet (you've hidden them so well). A man with an open, honest face; a man you can trust, implicitly, with anything.

2.

Raven tries on bodies in your bedroom, the one place the two of you feel completely safe. You watch, mesmerized, as she ripples pink and blue and pink again: your mother, your stepfather and stepbrother, the groundskeeper, the maid. She's still not perfect, but she's getting better at imitating voices and mannerisms, the way your stepfather glares, the way your mother sighs.

"Try someone who isn't real," you say, chin propped up on a pillow. "Can you shapeshift into someone who you've never seen before?"

Raven smooths her hands down the front of her (your mother's) dress. "Let's see," she says, reverting to her blue self. "Who should I be?"

"Whoever you want," you tell her. Raven quirks a smile, and her skin ripples again—and settles, and you nearly fall off the bed in fright. "Who is that supposed to be," you ask, throat dry, voice squeaky.

"It's you," says Raven, and blinks your blue eyes, licks your red lips. "If you were born with a Y chromosome and not two Xs. You did say to make someone up." (She's been reading science books with you, late at night under the covers, by flashlight. You think you want to be a scientist one day, to figure out what it is inside your brain that makes other people's walls drop and flood you with their thoughts.) She turns back to the mirror, pinches her cheeks. "You're quite handsome, you know. A strapping young man."

Raven, you say, lost for words, and the expression on her (your) face is full of apology before she realizes the desperation in your voice isn't a command for her to stop.

3.

Charlotte Xavier graduates from high school and is never heard from again. Charles Xavier graduates from Harvard at sixteen and Oxford at twenty-two and becomes one of the world's most renowned geneticists, a crusader for mutant rights, headmaster of the finest (only) institution for impressionable young mutants.

No one ever asks about Charles Xavier's childhood; no one inquires after missing documents or baby pictures or why you get headaches after a long day of classes and socializing (of making people see what you want them to see, quashing any doubts that come even close to the truth, you know, Charlie, you're damn pretty for a guy). The testosterone pills take care of the rest.

In retrospect, you've had a secret identity your whole life.

4.

"Heterochromia," you say to the girl at the bar, and three minutes later you are telling Raven to get her coat.

You bed women now and then, when the mood strikes, because it's easier to be straight than bent. You've always preferred men, hard angles and the rasp of stubble, but women don't ask questions when your face is pressed between their thighs; when you slink out the door, afterwards, still fully-dressed.

You're fuming the entire way home, and Raven knows you well enough to keep silent. You wanted to go home with someone tonight, a point of contact with someone who wasn't Raven, because as much as you love her, sometimes you can't bear to look at her. She's blonde this time around, curvy and perfect, and it makes you want to press your hands to your flat chest and say, I earned this, I bled for this. But you've never been able to stay angry with Raven for long, and that night you both fall asleep on the sofa, wrapped around each other like children.

5.

When your past becomes a secret, and when a fiction becomes your present, and when your present is the body you wake up in, the face you see every morning in the mirror, what, then, becomes the truth?

6.

Erik Lehnsherr is at once everything you want and everything you want to be.

Except—no. You could do without his obsessive quest for revenge; the simmering rage that he just barely manages to keep hidden, that sleeps, sometimes, on days when training goes well. How one man can speak of his desire for murder in one moment and then smile so broadly in the next is (nearly) beyond you.

(Humans and mutants alike thrive on contradiction.)

Erik is not the most violent man you have ever met—that title goes to a man long dead—but he is singularly the most terrifying. Not in terms of what he can do, but in terms of what he makes you feel. You dream about him, you want him like you have never wanted anything before in your second life. But for Erik, it seems, Shaw is everything: you (the chess matches, this school you have built, the memories you still build) are just a means to an end.

The kiss, when it comes, is unexpected. The two of you are walking through the corridors of the mansion; you are thinking about Darwin and Angel, and how you failed them both, and Erik looks sideways and says, "I can hear you." His hands come up to your shoulders and your back hits the wall, and then his lips are on yours. It's glorious. It's everything you wanted and more.

Erik presses his body to yours, hard against your hip. His hands wander lower, lower, and you gasp yes into his mouth as his fingers reach the clasp of your trousers. Perhaps you should know better. Perhaps you should be pulling away. You don't.

You can tell when he realizes; when his fingers meet with empty space, when he panics, briefly. Your arm shoots out to stop him from pulling away, catching him by the elbow.

"Mutatis mutandis." You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears. "Necessary changes."

Erik stays exactly where he is. "Perfektion," he says, and kisses you again, the word echoing in his thoughts and his lips and his hands, mapping your body like new land.

fic: thor - "a good day to do what has to be done by me"

Sat, 04 Jun 2011 14:59:25 GMT

ITS TIME FOR LOKI ODINSSON TO LIVE UP TO HIS FAMILY NAME AND FACE FULL LIFE CONSEQUENCES

fic: sherlock - "equivalence"

Fri, 28 Jan 2011 23:43:31 GMT

[Original author's note redacted.]

12/2011: I have gotten about fifteen PMs asking whether this fic will continue to stay around on the internet, and the answer is yes. It can also be found here on AO3 in the case that this journal is taken down. Anyone is free to save my fic to their hard drive, but I ask that you please do not repost it anywhere on the internet.

Equivalence
Sherlock | PG-13 | Anthea/Mycroft | 2,000 words | mentions of transphobia
Sometimes you're Anthea, sometimes you're Anthony, but you're always still you.

i

John Watson asks, is that your real name, and you pause for a second and say no.

ii

You were born Anthea Westermarck, christened in a pink dress with bows on the collar. Anthea, Greek for flower: you were livid when you found out, jealous of all the other girls whose names meant strength or courage or power. Your very name condemned you to femininity, to short skirts and the demure flutter of eyelashes, because it was what was expected of you.

You were born Anthea Westermarck and you lived as Anthea Westermarck for over two decades before you ever realized there was an alternative. Your life was a series of thought-you-weres: at seven, you thought you were a tomboy; at thirteen, you thought you were a lesbian; at eighteen, you thought you were a freak, caught between two extremes, confused and unable to compromise.

At twenty-one, you found a sort of equilibrium. You dressed androgynously, trimmed your hair, pressed yourself into the liminal space between male and female where you fit, almost perfectly, for years. When you started to outgrow it, when the compromise became erasure instead of freedom, you panicked: you picked a direction, and you fled.

At twenty-three, you started to live as a man. You threw out your old wardrobe and quit your job and picked your brand-new name out of the paper: James Moore, round and smooth like a glass marble on your tongue. You rented a tiny flat and got hired as an office boy; your coworkers drew their own conclusions, and you let them. You taught yourself how to walk with your hips stiff and your shoulders squared, how to knot a tie around your own neck, how to give up your seat on the tube, how to buy a woman a drink. You thought you had finally found who you were meant to be.

You were James Moore until the morning you turned twenty-five and the name fell to sand in your mouth. All that remained was Anthea, and you tucked her close to your heart and held her there, still and quiet and scared.

iii

You never expected to end up working for the British government.

But then again, you've never expected most of the things that have ever happened to you.

iv

The first day you came to work as Anthony went like this:

You woke up, brushed your teeth, took a shower. Made a quick breakfast and checked your Blackberry for any new messages, thumbed perfunctorily through the Times. You took only eight steps from your front door before suddenly the outfit you were wearing felt abhorrent, felt wrong; you nearly broke your ankle in your rush to get back inside, to toe off your heels, to unzip your skirt and fling it hastily to the floor.

For one and a half years, you'd kept a box taped shut in the back of your closet, covered by your spare duvet. You'd never needed a label to know exactly what lay inside.

You arrived at the office wearing an extra layer under your shirt, sharply-pressed trousers instead of immaculate, run-less stockings. Your passcard let you in (a face that wasn't yours, not that day), and you made your way up the endless staircase to your boss's office, feeling something vaguely akin to fear in the pit of your stomach.

You took a breath, and knocked once before walking inside.

If he was surprised to see you (and he must have been—or perhaps he wasn't, perhaps he'd read this in you from day one and was simply waiting for it to happen), he didn't let on. He regarded you with the same cool, calm interest with which he had always regarded you, taking in the low ponytail at the back of your neck, the minimized swell of your chest that you'd never completely be able to hide without surgery, the way you stood with your feet shoulders' width apart, just so.

He folded his morning paper crisply along the lines, rose behind his desk, said: Mycroft Holmes. I don't believe we've met.

You tried not to shake as you held out your hand. Anthony Westermarck, you said. The pleasure is mine, sir.

v

As Anthea, you look nothing like your mother.

As Anthony, you look everything like your father.

vi

Your last girlfriend thought it was cute, at first. She ran her hands over your lapels and down into the waistband of your altered trousers, leaned up to kiss you with a laugh in her mouth. My charming man, she said; two weeks later she was no longer charmed, and she cried for the remainder of the month before finally handing back your spare key, entirely willing but entirely unable to understand.

Your last boyfriend loved men. He adored the outside of you, your sharp sense of style, your low-pitched laugh, your precise mannerisms; but he would only fuck you in the dark, hands searching in vain for the nonexistent sharp edges of your body. You asked him to move out four days shy of your one-year anniversary, sat at your kitchen table with your head in your hands, your chest heaving underneath your bonds.

Your last boss claimed he fired you for the quality of your work. You had never been anything less than perfect, and this you both knew.

vii

You're given a substantial bonus a few months afterwards, seemingly for no reason (the date bears no significance, but only within your own personal knowledge). Your salary is already far above that of a typical PA, but your employer is eminently practical, and you've never been one to question generosity. That weekend you buy Chanel pumps, two new dresses, and a handbag to match; one weekend later you blow the other half of the cheque on a new suit and a set of Yves Saint Laurent loafers. The first time you wear them, you end up glancing at your feet so often you nearly trip down your own front steps.

Gradually, the closet in your flat begins to split: neatly divided like that of a married couple, one side hers, one side his, a row of delicate blouses across from starched shirts. The harmony pleases you in a way you can't define, the two halves complementing each other perfectly. Each item is quietly stylish and extremely well-crafted: you're expected to look your best at all times, no matter which one of you shows up to the office on that particular day. Appearances are everything, after all.

viii

There are certain people you are constant around. You know their susceptibility to a flash of cleavage or a whiff of cologne, or you might see them so infrequently it's an inconvenience to have to explain. You are female for instances when it's to your advantage to appear approachable, submissive, or even vulnerable; for the sake of boarding airplanes unimpeded. You are male for the authority it gives you, for the way people take your words more seriously, for the greater distance afforded to you by strangers.

The younger Holmes brother is callously misogynistic, and you learned early on that you had to be Anthony to merit even the barest courtesies. In a skirt you're invisible to him; even when you're wearing men's clothes he still calls you Miss Westermarck, smirking with one side of his mouth, daring you to correct him. You've learned to cope with it: to tamp down the bile rising in your throat when someone uses the wrong pronouns; when you're Anthea and someone asks if you're in drag; when you're Anthony and someone calls you beautiful instead of handsome.

You are always Anthea to your mother until the day you choose not to be. (The two years that you were James, she thought you were travelling abroad: you weren't ready to break her heart just yet.) You sit across from her in your parents' kitchen, wearing your finest suit, as she cries delicately into a handkerchief; you are expecting the worst and it surprises you when she reaches for your hand, says, I always knew you were a boy, asks if she can be there for the surgery.

It takes a second, but then the disappointment materializes: it's only a shade of what might have been, but still it weighs heavy in your chest. Your shared blood hasn't given her insight; she can't comprehend that what you are trying to explain is something bigger, something more vast and complicated than simply choosing which road to take, which door to open.

You've thought about surgery before, about how much easier it would be to pass for male, how much dissonance you could eliminate on those days when your female body doesn't quite match your mind. The days when you wake up and there is a strange, foreign weight on your chest. The days when you can't bear to touch yourself intimately, knowing fully what your body lacks. But other times, you feel absolutely at peace with your body, and you find yourself beautiful: the roundness of your breasts, the soft skin of your abdomen, the curves of your hips and thighs, the slickness of your sex. Other times, you feel gloriously right.

Maybe you're making it hard on yourself. Maybe it would be easier if you relinquished the struggle, picked a side, stood firmly in one place. You never chose this, and it's never been easy, but recently you've wondered if you might be one of the lucky ones: standing with a foot on either side of the spectrum, straddling the world.

ix

He touches you one night. Just the barest brush of fingers against wrist, light enough to be accidental if he were a less purposeful man, a less calculating man. But if there is one thing Mycroft Holmes is not, it is careless—and the context terrifies you, makes the worry coil in the pit of your stomach. You excuse yourself politely and lean against the other side of his closed study door, panicking for the first time since you first introduced him to your other self. It's Anthea he's touching, your feminine grace and lush figure he wants, not your masculine solidity and flattened chest; the small, simple gesture has upset the balance irreparably.

You stay Anthea for three entire weeks after that night, waiting (hoping, willing, needing) for it to happen again. You take late-night brandies in his office, sit a hair's-breadth closer to him in the back of the car; terrified he'll make another move, desperately wishing he would. You give him every opportunity to repeat himself, and he takes none of them.

Eventually you return to work as Anthony, even more buttoned-down than usual: covering your uncertainty with professionalism, looking sharper and crisper than ever. And that's when he kisses you for the first time, soft and chaste, a half-empty glass held steady in the space between your bodies. You start to protest, to push him away, but he cuts you off. His eyes are very, very blue.

I would not have done this, he says, had I not been fully accepting of all that this entails: of all that you are. And then he kisses you again, full of heat this time, and you let him.

Sometimes there is lace and silk strewn across the bedroom floor; sometimes there is a second dress shirt, a second pair of trousers, a second tie. Sometimes his fingers peel away stockings and garters, sometimes a compression shirt and plain cotton shorts. But it doesn't matter: his hands on your body are always the same. Gentle and reverent, unwrapping you slowly, never disappointed with what they find underneath.

i

John Watson asks, is that your real name, and you pause for a second and say no.

That would imply you only have one.