#all-or-nothing-writes

cherik WIP, set during 'x-men: first class', rated teen (subject to change), charles POV, first kiss.

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With vision still blotted with his friend's tears, an admittedly prideful Charles watches on in awe.

Erik—a true force of nature—is now masterfully harnessing his powers: turning three-thousand tons of satellite dish, slowly but very surely, towards the balcony on which they stand.

Charles is mostly watching Erik, though.

The man is… incredible. Everything about Erik leaves Charles a little breathless. His extremely impressive mutation is exemplary, of course, but what really wows Charles is his layers of complexity. Erik is the archetypal lone wolf, yes, but one that actually craves a pack. Charles can feel it; can almost taste Erik's loneliness. Also, how one man can have endured so much pain and suffering and loss and yet somehow managed to have come out of it stronger, is a simply baffling concept. Charles respects his ruthlessness and resilience. His determination. But above all, after just sharing such a beautiful memory, Charles now marvels at the fact that Erik Lehnsherr still has so much love inside of him. It may seem, to Erik, to be buried deep, but Charles can see it lays rest in only in the shallowest of graves.

Charles senses it. All of it, all of the time. It permeates his every fibre, emotions stronger than any he has previously felt—in himself or another. It's intoxicating, actually. So much so, Charles knows he is drunk on it.

Drunk on Erik.

It may not be a good excuse, but it's definitely the reason Charles now throws all reasonable acts out of his mind's conjured Room of Reason and moves too, too close to Erik, flinging an arm around broad shoulders as they laugh heartily in exhalation at Erik's impossible feat.

With Erik exuding all manner of wonderful feelings, Charles is overwhelmed and therefore taken by surprise when Erik throws all of himself around Charles in turn, in an embrace where—as much as is physically possible whilst standing—every bit of their bodies seem to be touching.

Maybe Charles is just making more of it than he should. He becomes aware of the fact he isn't breathing.

Hands still clutching at Charles's shoulders, a beaming Erik now pulls back, but only enough to whisper a "thank you," very intimately into Charles's ear, warm breath ticking at tiny hairs and causing neurons to shoot through Charles's body like wildfire, licking at something more than mere arousal.

For a fragment of a spilt second, he has the vague thought that what he's contemplating is probably simultaneously the best and worst compulsion he's ever had. But then it passes before he has the time to think about what he's going to do, completely swept up in the their exuberant moment.

Charles turns, angling his head just-so, and kisses Erik, just a small peck to the corner of still-smiling lips.

Oh, God.

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note: i've almost completed this oneshot and it'll be somewhere around 2k when done (with the possibility of it turning into a series). if anybody would like tagging in when i link the finished thing, pls feel free to let me know in the comments :)

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i'm roxy music. i'm eventide. i'm the coffee liqueurs that nobody likes. i'm that new book smell. i'm tinkerbell. i'm watching twilight when you were twelve. i'm oh captain! my captain! i'm true romance. i'm giving a dumb old bird a second chance. i'm the goose to your maverick. i'm humming church hymns. i'm your humming bird. i'm when the blackbird sings. i'm tyler durden. i'm a horror b-movie. i'm swapping food for smokes when you're back in juvie. i'm getting more freckles in the sun. i'm two fresh sticks of big red gum. i'm deep secrets. i'm somebody's type. i'm a white ford capri with black go-faster stripes. i'm fairies wearing boots. i'm sand dune grasses. i'm your high-school crush wearing reading glasses. i'm a handsome stranger smiling shyly at you. i'm this so called life. i'm lonely, too. i'm the chocolate chips in mint ice cream. i'm trouble. i'm the late 90s post-grunge scene. i'm wearing smudged two-day-old eyeliner. i'm the exception to the rule. i'm jörmungandr. i'm daddy kool. i'm lana del rey. i'm the moon and its stars. i'm mandalay. i'm making mix tapes. i'm butterflies. i'm the amazing devil. i'm galvanised. i'm charms on a bracelet. i'm slaughter house five. i'm tyler durden. i'm choosing life. i'm lions and tigers and bears, oh my! i'm never wanting to say goodbye. i'm learning only dirty words in french. i'm glitter. i'm soul. i'm ubërmensch. i'm gold leather chaps. i'm thunderclaps. i'm reading shakespeare in the laundromat. i'm seven deadly sins. i'm crushing on your dad. i'm sleeping with your mom. i'm leningrad. i'm a ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb. i'm tiny white lies. i'm my own date to prom. i'm all those sad songs you write at midnight. i'm faux fur. i'm tic-tacs. i'm candlelight. i'm tears of joy. i'm a lonesome cowboy. i'm sweet emotion in constant motion. i'm crying just for crying's sake. i'm slush. i'm ogdens' nut gone flake. i'm flying. i'm chancing. i'm ian curtis dancing. i'm doin' just fine. i'm walking the line. i'm beatles songs. i'm tourmaline...

oh baby, i'm my best damn daydream <3

a destiel poem, dean POV.

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I cannot stress

quite enough

(and let's be honest here,

it's nowhere near the bellyful of)

how much I need

your constant breezy

fierce-fondness,

kindness,

shameless snideness,

(its love, I know) and more

bedsides,

—even though

my insides want; they twist and shout

for more! more! more!

with no time for breath,

no intervals—

in my mind's eye

I know that I

don't tell you near to close to

an amount that will ever be

enough.

And

I cannot stress

quite enough

(though I try; I'm trying, yeah, yeah,

I know) that even though

you say you know how much

fierce-fondness,

kindness,

shameless snideness,

(its love, you know) and more

bedsides

there is in me, you don't!

Because even with that unmeasured lot

—that big, big much

that's bigger than I know how

to word

or give—

that grows like weeds

in our not-so-secret garden,

I still doubt that

that amount will ever be

enough.

.

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At first, it's disbelief. That this is even happening. But when one corner of Cas' top lip curves a little over his own, Dean knows that yeah, this is definitely happening.

Then it's surprise—surprise he can still feel this way at all. Y'know, all butterflies and goosebumps. Like a goddamn teenager reaching first base.

And, shit! It feels so good.

So when Cas takes a breath and gives a gentle flick of his tongue? Oh, man.

All bets are off.

"Cas... " Dean actually full-on moans the name.

a destiel poem, dean POV.

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I wait.

Static, here, 

porous for your

chorus of angel

song that strains

through

borrowed pores

and every shore

of your coastal 

love-gone postal

for me:

a soapy sponge, 

for dirty you.

I want to clean your bones.

I wait.

Impatient, though 

I will always wait for you.

...an unbeknownst brow burrows deep, searching, furrowed in on itself in curiosity or pain or joy or relief or a softness that started between folded ribs and travelled, far and wide, coming to a head in a head filled by flowing, reaching veins and shooting star nerves and singing synapses and so very many things that feel.

...the eyes, they burn from tireless invisible blue, from exposure, from impatience, from the hurriedness of an insatiate state. they grow wide and dark and bright and maybe brim right over from time to time with the sheer enormity of the knowledge of this thing simply being.

It was in one of the bunker's bathrooms, when he went to chage a constantly flickering bulb in the light fixture.

A barn in Pontiac, Illinois.

It was in the bartender's baritone at Jimmy's Joint.

"Hello, Dean."

It was in some damn stupid song playing on the radio at Deluth police station.

Angel With A Shotgun.

It was in the Lebanon Times, some article about a Christian healer.

Emmanuel.

It was in the raspberry Slushie he bought for Jack on the way to see Donatello.

Gas'n'Sip.

It was in Charlie's godawful taste in music.

"Mornin', Sunshine."

It was in the fruits section of the grocery store.

Peanut butter with grape jelly.

It was in the laundromat.

A crisp white, bloodstained shirt.

It was in the thunderstorm he and Sammy got caught in on the way back from a Rugaru hunt.

Divinity.

It was in the librarian he interviewed in Hot Springs, Akansas.

Blue, blue eyes.

It was in driving down some highway, alone in Baby, to try clear his head.

A pretty field with a windmill.

It was in every death scene in every movie.

"I love you."

It was in every phonebox in every town in every state he visited.

"...I do."

It was when he started to see him. Everywhere. In everything he did and saw, everyone he met...

destiel, rated teen, 1500 words, s5, unrequited love (not actually unrequited), getting together, first kiss, fluff, idiots in love, castiel’s natural scent is eau de thunderstorm.

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Dean pulled Baby over, into what looked more like an area where the roadside had simply worn down from vehicles stopping there than an actual rest stop, and cut the engine.

Both the ember smell of late September air streaming in through open windows, and the tree, had decided for him.

The Impala cooled, clicking like it was trying to match the dusk's cricket chorus, and Dean rubbed each hand up and down denim thighs and felt like one of the noisy critters himself. His thoughts were just so loud.

Dean barked out a laugh at himself then brutally chewed on his reddened bottom lip some more.

Get a fuckin' grip.

Sudden dizziness reminded Dean he was supposed to breathe.

After yanking the keys from the ignition, Baby's driver door creaked that homely creak as Dean hauled ass out of his car.

You couldn't even really call the twigs and chicken wire that separated the road from the field a fence and it barely came up to Dean's knees. He stepped over it with ease and now trod size eleven Loggers through the dust-dirt and crepe paper grasses. That smouldering smell on the still fairly warm breeze was stronger now, and Dean pulled long drags of it through flared nostrils. Couldn't get enough of it.

That's the damn problem right there.

Mumbling, "Shut up, man," to his annoying-as-shit inner monologue, Dean trampled towards the big Oak he'd spotted from the road; it reminded him of The Shawshank Redemption and, well, Dean was never one to shy away from a good movie reference.

When he reached it, he let his feet give way and his back slid down the huge trunk until he sat beneath the tree's sparse canopy. He was facing west. He knew because of what was left of the evening's sun and how it was bright in his eyes, painting him in pinks and lilacs and oranges. Dean brought tired knees to his chest and draped his arms over them, looking up at the sky and its slender clouds, curling around its edges. The scene was like some enormous portion of dessert—the one Missouri made for him and Sammy that one time, the one with fruit in it, and yet Dean hadn't even minded because it had tasted so frickin divine.

Ambrosia.

Yeah, this was an Ambrosia sky, if Dean had ever seen one. He smiled, knowing he was procrastinating, and fingered the blade in his jacket's right pocket.

Dad's jacket.

Dean vowed to himself, there and then, that he'd take off the leather when he got back to the motel and hang it on the hook on the back of the door—and he'd leave it on the hook on the back of that door in that shabby motel room near Glenvil, Nebraska when they left. And he'd never go back there again. He didn't need nothin' from John no more.

Dean cleared his throat, took another breath of woodsmoke-laced air and told himself to get on with this.

Clearing his throat again, Dean then said, "Cas? Hey, you around, buddy? Kinda need you to lend me your ears, if you're free…"