Fic - Another Collection of Comment Fics
I haven't had the time to write a full-length fic lately, but I've been keeping busy over at comment_fic! Fun little variety of fandoms here, hopefully everyone can find something they like.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Number of fics: 2
Ratings: PG
Characters/Pairings: Charles/Erik
Theme: Watching a Show
Prompt: Charles/Erik, Some Like it Hot
Title: Nobody's Perfect
Stretched side by side on the king-size bed, they meet at the headboard in a tangle of arms and Charles’s head resting snugly against Erik’s broad shoulder. They started off as parallel lines, but Erik has a way of decreasing the distance between them--- a wandering hand, a shift of weight, drawing Charles into him like a gravitational force until they’re hopelessly tangled. Funnily enough, Charles doesn’t seem to mind. In the background he’s watching Some Like It Hot on the flickering television. In the foreground he’s watching Erik’s bare foot trace the edge of his own, stroking it idly the way one might stroke a cat snoozing in one’s lap.
“Such a lovely creature,” Erik sighs abruptly.
The film sharpens into focus as Charles returns his attention to the screen, realizing that Erik must be commenting on what it currently displays. It’s Marilyn Monroe, of course, glowing in close-up. Charles has always adored her, although he’s always felt that, even with all the time and space between them, he could somehow sense the terrible sadness that followed her like a cloud. Still, this is one of his favorites, and he’s moved every time by her performance, by how fervently she hopes for--- and believes in--- love.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” he murmurs in agreement. “Positively radiant.”
“Radiant,” the other man repeats in an appreciative tone. “Radiant, yes. That’s just the word I was looking for.”
“It suits her.” Charles nods.
“Actually,” Erik says distantly, almost absentmindedly. “I was thinking about you.”
And Charles turns his head against his companion’s chest, hiding the smile and the blush that are rapidly spreading across his face as his fingers curl gently, possessively, into the soft material of Erik’s cashmere sweater.
Onscreen, Marilyn coos: I want to be loved by you.
Theme: Just Like An Old Time Movie
Prompt: Charles/Erik, Casablanca
Title: We'll Always Have Paris
The melody catches in his ear like a fishhook. One moment Erik Lensherr is pausing to say a polite hello to a table of his regulars--- then he’s twisting away from them like his head has been forcefully grabbed and yanked, the skin on his forearms rising into gooseflesh as the familiar tune stabs his memory: You must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss. His guests are all staring at him, their faces shadowed with a mixture of confusion and alarm. He holds out a placating hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you’ll have to excuse me.”
As he bolts across the crowded floor of his cafe, his temper is already straining at the leash, though he keeps his face in a neutral mask. He forces himself to remain calm. He hasn’t made it this far by succumbing to his anger. He nearly lost his life on the battlefields of the Spanish Civil War, a slave to savage impulses and his own desire to fight. These days he plays his cards much closer to the vest. One tends to be cautious when one has suffered a broken heart. Erik no longer trusts the passionate heart that once drew praise from a long-lost lover, and he chooses instead to follow the instructions of his cool and calculating mind. Now there’s a war storming across the continents. Once upon a time, when he was a young and restless man, Erik might have rushed to the front lines, but he’s grown older and wiser, and tired of fighting for anyone’s well-being but his own. He’s a disappointment to no one but himself and he likes it that way, but there’s still one person whose memory plagues him with guilt--- the one who taught him how to fear is also the one who would now scold him for being afraid.
It’s this particular person that led to the banning of this particular song, the one that brings out a cold sweat on Erik’s brow, the force of the bitter reminiscence so strong that it nearly drives him to his knees. He draws up alongside the piano like a battleship preparing to fire, his hand slamming down on the top of it as he hisses, “Sam, I thought I told you never to play---”
But Sam signals him with his eyes, shoots a significant glance at the nearest table--- and when Erik follows his indication, the image takes his breath away.
It’s Charles, radiant, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, apparently just waking from a reverie induced by the haunting melody. Their gazes meet--- and hold. He’s lovelier than ever he was in Paris, the cut of his suit flawless and his hair a bit longer, showing its natural wave as it curls up from the nape of his neck. His lips part with a breath, with perhaps the desire to speak, but they just stare at each other, lost for words. Sam, wisely, makes himself scarce.
All of Erik’s considerable willpower goes into battling his instincts, the compulsion to throw himself forward, to drag Charles into his arms and crush him against his chest, never to release him again. The urge breaks on his senses like sheet lighting, electric, and the only way to fight it is to remain completely still, giving his body no chance to betray him. He clings to the neutral expression that he wore all the way across the cafe floor, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a grim line. The pain of it nearly kills him.
Years from now, he will look back on what happens next with indecision--- for at that exact moment, Renault arrives for introductions. In the heat of the instant, Erik is overwhelmed with gratitude for the distraction, for the horrible silence to be broken by an outsider, the voice of reason and reality. Later, however, he will wonder if it might have been better if they had not been interrupted, if they’d been forced to confront each other while their hearts were still rattled and raw from the unexpected collision of their reunion. Before either of them had a chance to put the mask back on--- if Erik had only been able to sit down and look directly into those aching blue eyes and ask, after all these years of suffering: Why?
“Well, you were asking about Erik and here he is!” Renault exclaims, his voice grating after the magnified silence. Gesturing loosely between them, he continues, “Monsieur, may I present---”
Erik interjects coolly, “Hello, Charles.”
And Charles answers softly, “Hello, Erik.”
Fandom: Priest
Number of fics: 1
Ratings: PG
Characters/Pairings: Priest/Black Hat
Theme: Light
Prompt: Priest couldn't help but think of his friend, dragged into the darkness of the Hive and reaching desperately for the last shreds of light.
Title: Lest Darkness Come Upon You
Bonus: This fic has been translated into Hungarian by zsemle! Read it here!
There’s one image that haunts your nightmares. It’s not his wide, startled eyes--- though they plague your every waking moment, appearing in mirrors carelessly glimpsed. It’s not his panicked, pleading cries--- though they ring in your eardrums, a distant echo in silences too deep. No, although every inch of him is burned into your memory, every heartbeat spanning a century, every breath lasting a lifetime, there’s just the one sight that seems to follow you.
It’s his hands. He had his palms upturned--- almost as if expecting a Communion wafer--- but no, he wasn’t reaching out to the Monsignor. He wasn’t even reaching out to God. He was reaching out to you. And for a moment you thought you had him, your heart screaming God, please, give me the strength to hold on. But He didn’t.
You should have been strong enough on your own.
Your limbs have felt heavy and numb since you returned from Mira Sola, having failed at the only task that mattered: keeping him safe. Did your love for him mean nothing? Could it not inspire in you the power to pull him back? At the crucible--- was it your body that failed you, or was it your heart?
You felt your grip becoming weaker--- he did, too, the moment before it broke altogether. You saw it in his eyes, the agony, the betrayal, as his hand slid inexorably from your grasp. He knew, the split-second before it happened, that you were going to let go, and that made the moment all the more unbearable when he was finally torn away and you realized that you had just held him for the last time.
He was gone so quickly that it was almost as though he had simply vanished. Your dreams, however, have a horrible way of slowing that instant into an hour, giving you time enough to notice and bitterly curse every mistake you made. Finally, you notice his hands. Still upturned, still reaching out--- but no longer for you. In that awful, endless instant, you know that he no longer has faith in you. His eyes are turned upwards, but he’s not reaching for God, not even now.
He’s reaching for the light. His fingers curl desperately into claws as he attempts to catch hold of the dusty sunbeams that have just saved your pathetic life, splintering down from the mouth of the entrance--- that’s how close it was. After the murky passages of the hive and thanks to the motes dancing in their golden glow, the shafts of light look almost tangible, almost whole. But his hands pass through them, clutching at the air. It’s the last light he’ll ever see, ever touch. There is nothing left for him but endless darkness.
You try to imagine what that must have felt like--- the final, fleeting kiss of heat on his desperate fingertips. You try to imagine that it was comforting, that he was consoled by this last brush with sunlight. You hope that he was reminded of happier times spent in its warm glow.
You try not to imagine how cold he must have felt, at the end.
Fandom: The Boondock Saints
Number of fics: 1.2ish
Ratings: R
Warnings: coarse language.
Characters/Pairings: Connor/Murphy
Theme: Free-For-All
Prompt: Connor/Murphy, ugliest Christmas tree ever
Title: Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree
“I kinda like it.”
Connor makes right angles of his thumbs and forefingers and fits them together as a picture frame, tilting it this way and that as he studies his subject.
“It’s got personality.”
Murph spares him a sneer of disbelief.
“It’s fuckin’ ugly.”
That’s a fact, not an opinion. The Christmas tree looks like it’s been on a week-long bender, the wire branches stripped bare in some places and irreparably twisted in others, the ornaments so few and so scattered that it would probably be better off with none at all. Only the lights on the bottom half seem to work.
“So are you,” Connor retorts. “But I don’t hold it against ya.”
“Don’t be a cunt,” Murph huffs, kicking his brother in the shin. “Where’d you even find this scummy thing, anyways? The dump?”
“I got it from Rocco.”
“And where’d Rocco get it?”
“That’s the funny thing,” the older MacManus laughs. “He doesn’t remember. He woke up Saturday morning with the tree at the foot of his bed.”
“Jesus,” Murph chuckles. “That sounds about right.” He reaches out and half-heartedly attempts to straighten one of the more crooked branches. “It’s a sorry little fucker, isn’t it? Ain’t even got a star on top.”
He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice Connor sneaking up behind him, not until his brother’s arms loop around his waist and that stubbly chin is nuzzling against the crook of his neck.
“You know, Murph,” Connor purrs. “It’ll probably look a whole lot better once you’ve got a few drinks in ya.”
“Oh, yeah?” He reaches back to tousle his brother’s hair. “Did the shitty tree come with matching spiked eggnog, now?”
“Nope,” says Connor. “But it did come with this.”
He plants an arm over Murphy’s shoulder, and dangling on the end of his hooked middle finger is a sprig of cheap plastic mistletoe.
“Nice, eh?” Murph can’t see his face but he can feel Connor’s smirk against his ear. “I figured if the tree didn’t get you into the holiday spirit, this sure as fuck would.”
But of course, it’s never wise to wave a prize in front of a MacManus boy. Murph snatches the mistletoe out of his grasp in a blink, pivoting away from him and brandishing it with a triumphant expression.
“Tell ya what,” he grins. “I’ll bring this, and you bring the whiskey.”
Connor raises his eyebrows, impressed.
“All right, but on one condition.” He points at the horrible little tree. “Tell me you like it.”
“Uh-uh, Connor,” Murph taps the mistletoe against his chin. “You’re gonna have to convince me.”
“Oh,” Connor licks his lips. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Theme: Six Words
Prompt: Connor/Murphy, bleed for you
Connor's wrists are ringed with scars.
Theme: Six Words
Prompt: Connor/Murphy, quiet
Connor's finger against his lips - hush.
________
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Number of fics: 2
Ratings: PG
Characters/Pairings: Charles/Erik
Theme: Watching a Show
Prompt: Charles/Erik, Some Like it Hot
Title: Nobody's Perfect
Stretched side by side on the king-size bed, they meet at the headboard in a tangle of arms and Charles’s head resting snugly against Erik’s broad shoulder. They started off as parallel lines, but Erik has a way of decreasing the distance between them--- a wandering hand, a shift of weight, drawing Charles into him like a gravitational force until they’re hopelessly tangled. Funnily enough, Charles doesn’t seem to mind. In the background he’s watching Some Like It Hot on the flickering television. In the foreground he’s watching Erik’s bare foot trace the edge of his own, stroking it idly the way one might stroke a cat snoozing in one’s lap.
“Such a lovely creature,” Erik sighs abruptly.
The film sharpens into focus as Charles returns his attention to the screen, realizing that Erik must be commenting on what it currently displays. It’s Marilyn Monroe, of course, glowing in close-up. Charles has always adored her, although he’s always felt that, even with all the time and space between them, he could somehow sense the terrible sadness that followed her like a cloud. Still, this is one of his favorites, and he’s moved every time by her performance, by how fervently she hopes for--- and believes in--- love.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” he murmurs in agreement. “Positively radiant.”
“Radiant,” the other man repeats in an appreciative tone. “Radiant, yes. That’s just the word I was looking for.”
“It suits her.” Charles nods.
“Actually,” Erik says distantly, almost absentmindedly. “I was thinking about you.”
And Charles turns his head against his companion’s chest, hiding the smile and the blush that are rapidly spreading across his face as his fingers curl gently, possessively, into the soft material of Erik’s cashmere sweater.
Onscreen, Marilyn coos: I want to be loved by you.
Theme: Just Like An Old Time Movie
Prompt: Charles/Erik, Casablanca
Title: We'll Always Have Paris
The melody catches in his ear like a fishhook. One moment Erik Lensherr is pausing to say a polite hello to a table of his regulars--- then he’s twisting away from them like his head has been forcefully grabbed and yanked, the skin on his forearms rising into gooseflesh as the familiar tune stabs his memory: You must remember this: a kiss is just a kiss. His guests are all staring at him, their faces shadowed with a mixture of confusion and alarm. He holds out a placating hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “But you’ll have to excuse me.”
As he bolts across the crowded floor of his cafe, his temper is already straining at the leash, though he keeps his face in a neutral mask. He forces himself to remain calm. He hasn’t made it this far by succumbing to his anger. He nearly lost his life on the battlefields of the Spanish Civil War, a slave to savage impulses and his own desire to fight. These days he plays his cards much closer to the vest. One tends to be cautious when one has suffered a broken heart. Erik no longer trusts the passionate heart that once drew praise from a long-lost lover, and he chooses instead to follow the instructions of his cool and calculating mind. Now there’s a war storming across the continents. Once upon a time, when he was a young and restless man, Erik might have rushed to the front lines, but he’s grown older and wiser, and tired of fighting for anyone’s well-being but his own. He’s a disappointment to no one but himself and he likes it that way, but there’s still one person whose memory plagues him with guilt--- the one who taught him how to fear is also the one who would now scold him for being afraid.
It’s this particular person that led to the banning of this particular song, the one that brings out a cold sweat on Erik’s brow, the force of the bitter reminiscence so strong that it nearly drives him to his knees. He draws up alongside the piano like a battleship preparing to fire, his hand slamming down on the top of it as he hisses, “Sam, I thought I told you never to play---”
But Sam signals him with his eyes, shoots a significant glance at the nearest table--- and when Erik follows his indication, the image takes his breath away.
It’s Charles, radiant, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, apparently just waking from a reverie induced by the haunting melody. Their gazes meet--- and hold. He’s lovelier than ever he was in Paris, the cut of his suit flawless and his hair a bit longer, showing its natural wave as it curls up from the nape of his neck. His lips part with a breath, with perhaps the desire to speak, but they just stare at each other, lost for words. Sam, wisely, makes himself scarce.
All of Erik’s considerable willpower goes into battling his instincts, the compulsion to throw himself forward, to drag Charles into his arms and crush him against his chest, never to release him again. The urge breaks on his senses like sheet lighting, electric, and the only way to fight it is to remain completely still, giving his body no chance to betray him. He clings to the neutral expression that he wore all the way across the cafe floor, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a grim line. The pain of it nearly kills him.
Years from now, he will look back on what happens next with indecision--- for at that exact moment, Renault arrives for introductions. In the heat of the instant, Erik is overwhelmed with gratitude for the distraction, for the horrible silence to be broken by an outsider, the voice of reason and reality. Later, however, he will wonder if it might have been better if they had not been interrupted, if they’d been forced to confront each other while their hearts were still rattled and raw from the unexpected collision of their reunion. Before either of them had a chance to put the mask back on--- if Erik had only been able to sit down and look directly into those aching blue eyes and ask, after all these years of suffering: Why?
“Well, you were asking about Erik and here he is!” Renault exclaims, his voice grating after the magnified silence. Gesturing loosely between them, he continues, “Monsieur, may I present---”
Erik interjects coolly, “Hello, Charles.”
And Charles answers softly, “Hello, Erik.”
Fandom: Priest
Number of fics: 1
Ratings: PG
Characters/Pairings: Priest/Black Hat
Theme: Light
Prompt: Priest couldn't help but think of his friend, dragged into the darkness of the Hive and reaching desperately for the last shreds of light.
Title: Lest Darkness Come Upon You
Bonus: This fic has been translated into Hungarian by zsemle! Read it here!
There’s one image that haunts your nightmares. It’s not his wide, startled eyes--- though they plague your every waking moment, appearing in mirrors carelessly glimpsed. It’s not his panicked, pleading cries--- though they ring in your eardrums, a distant echo in silences too deep. No, although every inch of him is burned into your memory, every heartbeat spanning a century, every breath lasting a lifetime, there’s just the one sight that seems to follow you.
It’s his hands. He had his palms upturned--- almost as if expecting a Communion wafer--- but no, he wasn’t reaching out to the Monsignor. He wasn’t even reaching out to God. He was reaching out to you. And for a moment you thought you had him, your heart screaming God, please, give me the strength to hold on. But He didn’t.
You should have been strong enough on your own.
Your limbs have felt heavy and numb since you returned from Mira Sola, having failed at the only task that mattered: keeping him safe. Did your love for him mean nothing? Could it not inspire in you the power to pull him back? At the crucible--- was it your body that failed you, or was it your heart?
You felt your grip becoming weaker--- he did, too, the moment before it broke altogether. You saw it in his eyes, the agony, the betrayal, as his hand slid inexorably from your grasp. He knew, the split-second before it happened, that you were going to let go, and that made the moment all the more unbearable when he was finally torn away and you realized that you had just held him for the last time.
He was gone so quickly that it was almost as though he had simply vanished. Your dreams, however, have a horrible way of slowing that instant into an hour, giving you time enough to notice and bitterly curse every mistake you made. Finally, you notice his hands. Still upturned, still reaching out--- but no longer for you. In that awful, endless instant, you know that he no longer has faith in you. His eyes are turned upwards, but he’s not reaching for God, not even now.
He’s reaching for the light. His fingers curl desperately into claws as he attempts to catch hold of the dusty sunbeams that have just saved your pathetic life, splintering down from the mouth of the entrance--- that’s how close it was. After the murky passages of the hive and thanks to the motes dancing in their golden glow, the shafts of light look almost tangible, almost whole. But his hands pass through them, clutching at the air. It’s the last light he’ll ever see, ever touch. There is nothing left for him but endless darkness.
You try to imagine what that must have felt like--- the final, fleeting kiss of heat on his desperate fingertips. You try to imagine that it was comforting, that he was consoled by this last brush with sunlight. You hope that he was reminded of happier times spent in its warm glow.
You try not to imagine how cold he must have felt, at the end.
Fandom: The Boondock Saints
Number of fics: 1.2ish
Ratings: R
Warnings: coarse language.
Characters/Pairings: Connor/Murphy
Theme: Free-For-All
Prompt: Connor/Murphy, ugliest Christmas tree ever
Title: Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree
“I kinda like it.”
Connor makes right angles of his thumbs and forefingers and fits them together as a picture frame, tilting it this way and that as he studies his subject.
“It’s got personality.”
Murph spares him a sneer of disbelief.
“It’s fuckin’ ugly.”
That’s a fact, not an opinion. The Christmas tree looks like it’s been on a week-long bender, the wire branches stripped bare in some places and irreparably twisted in others, the ornaments so few and so scattered that it would probably be better off with none at all. Only the lights on the bottom half seem to work.
“So are you,” Connor retorts. “But I don’t hold it against ya.”
“Don’t be a cunt,” Murph huffs, kicking his brother in the shin. “Where’d you even find this scummy thing, anyways? The dump?”
“I got it from Rocco.”
“And where’d Rocco get it?”
“That’s the funny thing,” the older MacManus laughs. “He doesn’t remember. He woke up Saturday morning with the tree at the foot of his bed.”
“Jesus,” Murph chuckles. “That sounds about right.” He reaches out and half-heartedly attempts to straighten one of the more crooked branches. “It’s a sorry little fucker, isn’t it? Ain’t even got a star on top.”
He’s so distracted that he doesn’t even notice Connor sneaking up behind him, not until his brother’s arms loop around his waist and that stubbly chin is nuzzling against the crook of his neck.
“You know, Murph,” Connor purrs. “It’ll probably look a whole lot better once you’ve got a few drinks in ya.”
“Oh, yeah?” He reaches back to tousle his brother’s hair. “Did the shitty tree come with matching spiked eggnog, now?”
“Nope,” says Connor. “But it did come with this.”
He plants an arm over Murphy’s shoulder, and dangling on the end of his hooked middle finger is a sprig of cheap plastic mistletoe.
“Nice, eh?” Murph can’t see his face but he can feel Connor’s smirk against his ear. “I figured if the tree didn’t get you into the holiday spirit, this sure as fuck would.”
But of course, it’s never wise to wave a prize in front of a MacManus boy. Murph snatches the mistletoe out of his grasp in a blink, pivoting away from him and brandishing it with a triumphant expression.
“Tell ya what,” he grins. “I’ll bring this, and you bring the whiskey.”
Connor raises his eyebrows, impressed.
“All right, but on one condition.” He points at the horrible little tree. “Tell me you like it.”
“Uh-uh, Connor,” Murph taps the mistletoe against his chin. “You’re gonna have to convince me.”
“Oh,” Connor licks his lips. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
Theme: Six Words
Prompt: Connor/Murphy, bleed for you
Connor's wrists are ringed with scars.
Theme: Six Words
Prompt: Connor/Murphy, quiet
Connor's finger against his lips - hush.
________