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 :)
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...
ps the title eludes to a analogy dean uses in an endverse fic of mine, The Day The World Went Away, that you can read HERE ...and then there's the shameless TWIST AND SHOUT line bc, well, y'know.
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.
...hunched over, a crumpled quasimodo frame—a human question mark—for too, too long now. hurting hands gripped as claws (no matter), each knob of spine screaming murder! in unison that falls, heavy in the arms of switched-off ears.
...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.
...and so it goes, on and on, the rush and the push and the red/amber/green that comes with the crazy, insane greed; that greedy, greedy greed that stems from the absolute need for more, more, more! now, now, now!
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…"
Nothing became angel in a heartbeat, in a rush of unseeable feathers and lightning-charged ozone–that same charred smell, only much stronger.
"Hello, Dean."
"Hey, man. Thanks for the flyby, " Dean smirked nervously.
"I've told you, I'll always come when you call, Dean. Although, I am somewhat confused by your request; I'm unsure of how I would go about lending you this vessel's body parts."
Dean pulled a face. "What? Oh, right, the ear thing. Nah, man, that's just a turn of phrase." He cleared his throat again, though there was nothing left to clear. "Listen, Cas. I, uh. I got somethin' to say."
"Well, I'd be a little annoyed if you didn't."
"You might be a little annoyed regardless," Dean muttered under his breath, momentarily forgetting Cas could still hear him.
Cas now doing the head tilt thing was just too fucking much. Dean felt like he was going to burst.
"Thing is, Cas…"
Dean took the switchblade from his pocket and when Cas' expression changed to that signature confused-yet-earnest look, it was the last straw.
"Yep, so there is obviously no way I can do this while looking at you, dude. Don't know why I ever thought I could. So, I'm just gonna… I'm gonna close my eyes and… pretend I'm on the phone to you, okay, buddy?" and Dean screwed his eyes shut and brought his left hand, now curved into the shape of an old-school telephone receiver, up to his left ear.
What the ever-loving fuck are you doing?
He cracked one eye open to see Cas had done the same as him with the hand-phone thing. Cas still had his more than perplexed eyes fully open, though.
Dean scrunched his open eye shut again. He now absently spun the switchblade in his right hand, antsy, but luckily remembered to breathe. He took a few deep ones and tried again.
"So, it's just… Thing is, I—okay, here it is: I can't fuckin' concentrate for shit with you around no more, man." It came out much harsher than he'd meant it to. “You're too distracting." Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
He opened his eyes to barely slits. Cas blinked. "And does Sam also feel this way?" he asked.
Dean cursed the fact he hadn't yet mastered the art of telepathy and shut his eyes again.
"No, man. It's just... that's just me. It's like… You're just so there when you're around, you know? And it's distracting. For me. Like, with your super hot shoving me into walls crap and your gravel on sandpaper voice and your blue, blue eyes, you know? And man, that gooddamn addictive woodsmokey smell which, fuck, I love it?! And it's almost October so everywhere smells like you! And it just… it just makes me horny, okay? Like, I want you to touch me and shit. But more than that, Cas. I like you. Like, like you like you. And I don't normally do that kinda thing anymore. And all of this is just no good at all because... because you don't shit where you eat, know what I'm sayin'? And we're like brothers, right? That's why I brought the blade, by the way, so you can carve your initials next to mine and Sam's on the inside of Baby. We can be brothers, too. Because… Because I know you don't feel the same. So, I just had to get it out in the open so I can move on. And before you say anything, I know, I get it, you don't have to explain; you're an angel of the Lord and you don't even know how to feel these things, and even if you did, you obviously wouldn't feel 'em for a grunt like me—"
The ozone smell surrounded Dean and the burning breeze whipped at his cheeks as lips pressed, hard, onto his. Dean's eyes flew open to see Cas' face—close up and all out of focus—and his head felt at once like he'd been holding his breath for way, way too long.
Cas was kissing him.
Cas was kissing him.
Cas had Dean by the scruff of the neck, fists balled up, white-knuckled, with handfuls of Dean's shirt and the angel was now opening his mouth, opening Dean's mouth with his chapped lips, and fuck, his tongue, that was there and it was licking into Dean's mouth, licking Dean's own tongue and teeth and fuck fuck fuck. It was like Cas was trying to consume him.
Dean dropped the switchblade into the paper grass and grabbed onto Cas' solid arms, just as his own knees gave up on him.
Yeah, Cas was definitely kissing Dean. Like it was feeding him. So, Dean fed him. And it was fucking sublime.
When Dean thought he might pass out, Cas pulled abruptly away from him. Dean was embarrassingly panting like a damn puppy dog and he had Castiel's scent all over him.
Cas looked slightly irritated. "Why didn't you tell me sooner, Dean? We could have been doing this the whole time," was all he had to say.
Dean's brain shorted a circuit. Or ten.
Cas liked him back?
Dean threw his head back to the fresh stars in that Ambrosia sky and tried to breathe again, gulping for the oxygen his brain badly needed. When he tried to speak, he only managed to gurgle out a his second strangled laugh of the day. He looked back to Cas and knew he must've finally lost his damn mind.
When he could form a sentence, the words, "Cas, did God invent Ambrosia, or was that all mankind's good work?" was all Dean had to say.
* * *
After informing Dean that he'd thought the hunter had wanted to stab him again, like when they'd first met, the angel proudly carved his name into Baby's interior; CAS, the name Dean had christened him with. Then Dean drove them back towards the motel under that barely there fruit-whip sky that was now silently fading to black.
They didn't have much to say to one another then, either. Talking could come later. Dean was too busy experiencing Nirvana for things such as mere words. And Cas? He was always happy with a comfortable silence. And he looked happy, Dean thought. Really happy. For the very first time since Cas and him had met in that barn a couple years back.
Dean realised: everything was exactly the same. Only… better. Especially the way he too now smelled like Cas, and how Cas' gorgeous fingers seemed to fit so neatly between his own.
