a butch from the south turned city kid who writes sometimes. a lover of angst, horror, and really bad garage bands. prob a werewolf. send me an ask, i don't bite. :-)
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
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requests welcome; minors dni
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fandoms:
➤ DC universe (Superman, Batman, Justice League)
➤ Hannibal
➤ House MD
➤ Marvel Universe (X-Men!!!!)
➤ Saw Franchise (Chainshipping <3)
➤ Stardew Valley
➤ True Detective (Season One)
➤ The X-Files
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all psyches having a certain feel to them to charles ---- erik's mind feeling different, intoxicating:
Erik Lehnsherr had a psyche like cigarette smoke. Every mind had its own kind of texture, its own kind of flavor, but Charles Xavier had never encountered one quite as suffocating as Lehnsherr’s. Like imported cloves that came wrapped in tar-colored paper, tasting of rough tobacco and the singe of spice. Numbingly strong — the sort of thing that clung to your skin, your hair, your clothes, staining the tips of your fingers.
Charles had spent a lot of time in Lehnsherr’s mind. He was a bad habit, a private ritual, a petty indulgence. He was the sort of thing that you couldn’t quit, the sort of thing that killed you — slowly. Inhale, exhale. Let the smoke make you dizzy, for just a little while. Promise yourself this is the last time and believe it, for just a little while.
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(taps microphone) fic where priest!kurt offers butch!logan penance. clinging to their vestments with bloodied hands, wanting salvation. oh, and they're both girls.
a/n: howdy losers, it's me, ur fav angst dealer. writing another cherik fic wasn't on my queue, but they've started to rot my minddd.
Fandom: X-Men
Pairing: Charles Xavier/Erik Lehnsherr
Rating: Mature
Word Count: ~3k, Completed
Warnings: Suicidal Ideation, PTSD, Religious Trauma
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Erik Lehnsherr is dead. Before his funeral, Charles Xavier revisits old memories.
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If there was a god, and if he was watching, he would have seen two drunk fools tangled together in the soft light, creating their own sort of heaven. He might have taken pity on them; they did not yet know they were doomed.
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Charles lit himself a cigarette with an unsteady hand. He hadn’t smoked in almost twenty years. It was unbecoming, set a poor example — but he made an exception today. He was sitting beside the window in his study. The door was locked, and a half-penned speech sat abandoned on the desk. His black suit had been carefully ironed. He had to wear it far too often in recent years.
Always another funeral, another eulogy, another of his little soldiers in the ground. He exhaled smoke through his teeth.
Dozens of other drafts were balled up and scattered across the ground. He had stayed up through most of the night trying to figure out what there was to say. Supposedly, he was the eloquent one, the sycophant in the nicely-tailored suit, giving charming speeches on the evening news. He shook the hands of diplomats, and he turned the other cheek when the crowds spat back. He delivered sermons with the self-assurance of a priest, laid hands on the sick and the lost, and fashioned himself like a small god — preaching about finicky things like love.
He did not feel like a god now. He felt like a man. He felt old. A headache pulsed behind his eyes, and his back was sore, and the tremor in his hand made it hard to hold the cigarette steady. Jean had made him breakfast — toast, eggs, and a cup of tea — which went untouched. He would let them go cold.
Erik Lehnsherr was dead. What was there to say about that?
The funeral was supposed to begin five minutes ago, and Jean was knocking very urgently against the study door. They would be waiting for him. They would look at him the way one looks at a god, and he would disappoint them. He would not be able to keep his voice from shaking this time.
He tapped his cigarette into the teacup. “Again, please.”
Cerebro obeyed.
.
..
…
..
.
It was July in Rome, and they were drunk on Aperol. In their early twenties, both pretending to be older than they were, pretending the world was a better place than it really is.
They had spent the last nine months working together at the field hospital in Haifa, in Hell, among orphaned children with tear-streaked cheeks and broken men and mothers with voices hoarse from screaming.
It had been Charles’ idea, heading to Italy for the weekend. Erik, always stubborn, hadn’t wanted to leave his patients for a moment, but months of little food and little sleep and little good had begun to gnaw at him. Be selfish for once in your sorry life, Charles had told him with a smile, shoving a pamphlet about the Tiber River into his chest. Just for a little while.
And now here they were. Erik’s accent had begun to slip, and his hair was rumpled, and he had slowly started to become human again. He was always so tightly strung, but the liquor loosened him up. Charles liked him when he was drunk. You could see in him, however briefly, the man he might have been.
Note: I apologies for any grammar mistakes. English isn't my first language and on top of that, I'm dysiexic and I have a mild astigmatism in my eyes 😭
Erik often flirts with Charles in German but he says it in an aggravated tone to make it sound like an insult so no one suspects them. (German is already such an aggressive sounding language that even the sappiest sentence still sounds like a death threat 😅). Nightcrawler always understands though, and Erik almost threatened him once to not expose them
This is loosely based on a comic but Mags is scary good at voice impressions, with his best being Gandalf.
He can also impersonate Severus Snape, Dumbledore, and Sherlock Holmes. He could probably also impersonate a few X men if he tried. However he would never doing it in front of anyone except Charles, Lorna and Wanda. (Sober at least)
3. Erik paints his nails, usually red, violet or black. Though he doesn't always find the time to do it.
4. I fear this one might be common but Charles loves playing with Erik's hair and beard when they're alone. Erik pretends to be reluctant or annoyed by it but he really enjoys it. Charles knows he's acting tough with no mind reading needed.
5. I believe Magneto is the type villain to beat the breaks off of you then when he's done with you he'd say something like "congratulations on your marriage " cause he noticed your ring and you're like "Uh thanks dude, but you almost killed me???"
6. Mags can sometimes feel when his mind is being read. He can't block it without his helmet but he can sense it
Anyway those are my fav Magneto headcanons! Thank you for asking Anon
2nd note: it's been pointed out to me that my comment on the German language may sound insensitive. I apologize for that. There's a better explanation in the comments
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