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So, um. I'm alive? *waves* I've been gone a while. It's been a little crazy. But I'm in generally good health and no one I care about has died recently, so yay.
I'm mostly posting to keep various fic that I've written even when I wasn't using LJ otherwise, so if you're one of the few people who friended me, sorry for suddenly flooding your flist.
Title: Distance (Sex On The Beach)
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Rating: FRM (We're not supposed to use movie ratings any more, right?)
Word Count: 1523
Pairing/Character: Erik/Charles
Prompt: SO. Charles' tacklehug attack on the beach degenerates into Preliminaries of Angry Sex. and Charles is all, 'Erik, the missiles,' while Erik is frantically trying to get him out of that stupid suit and obviously not paying attention. So Charles goes on, 'Erik, the fucking missiles!' and Erik is all, 'Okay, Jesus! *blows them up midair* THERE. Now stand still and let me fuck you.' (http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/6527.html?thread=11337855#t11337855)
Charles has never been so terrified in his life.
It's been a day for thoughts like those--the nerve-wracking fear of going into battle in the first place; the sharp-sudden jolt of the plane crash; the bottomless gut-clench he felt when he realized Erik was spinning out of control, but he had no choice other than to hold Shaw; and the stabbing feeling of betrayal when he realized that, after all they'd done, their allies were still going to gun them down.
This beat all of those.
The sky is filled with dozens of missiles, Russian and American, large and small. They gleam silver-bright in the cloudless blue sky, all turning as one to point at the scattered ships idling in the sea behind them. The distance makes them seem small, but Charles can hear the thoughts of the men on board as if they were all whispering directly into his ear. Those that can see--and those close enough to receive reports from those that can see--are awestruck, disbelieving. They don't want to die.
They're scared, their fear piling on top of Charles' but not even coming close to drowning it out, because they can only see the missiles, while Charles can see Erik. Erik, standing tall and stone-still, his hand outstretched and unwavering, his back straight and tense. Charles is close enough to see every crease and fold of his costume, but with his face turned away and that damned helmet on his head, there's more distance between them than there has ever been.
There are words sticking in Charles' throat, things that he could say to stop this madness, but he can't force them out. It's like choking on a mouthful of dust. Charles doesn't know what Erik's thinking, he doesn't know what Erik's feeling--right now, he doesn't know Erik, and he certainly doesn't know how to talk him down from this ledge he's climbed onto.
For once in his life, Charles doesn't think, all rationality drowned out by fear and desperation and something he doesn't have a name for, something between anger and want. By the time he becomes aware that he's moving he's already plowed into Erik, forcing them both to the ground with a jarring impact that makes Charles' teeth snap together so hard they nearly crack. His hands are going for Erik's face--no, for the helmet, if he can get that off he can end this--
But Erik's a much stronger fighter, has actually been in real fights before--has killed before--and in seconds he's flipped them both around, the harsh grit of the sand digging into the back of Charles' neck. Erik's staring down at him, helmet and the sun conspiring together to cast a shadow over his eyes, making his expression unreadable. Then Erik's raising his fist, and Charles is so frightened that time itself seems to have slowed down, letting him see how this will end--Erik finishing this fight, Erik shooting those missiles at all those ships where all those men wait and cry and pray--
Charles manages to get one of his own hands up over his face, sending up a spray of sand that nearly blinds him, and catches Erik's fist on his forearm. Pain sparks all the way down, but Charles isn't paying attention, not to that or the endless drumbeat of his heart playing doubletime in his ears or the frozen horror coming from the minds of everyone around him like some dark cloud. He's too busy trying to get Erik off of him, jabbing upwards with his other arm, bucking his hips frantically--
--and sparks of a different kind travel all across his body, because suddenly he's hard, and so is Erik, and their groins are so perfectly aligned that every motion Charles makes forces them to rub against one another. Charles can't stop moving his hips up, trying to unseat Erik or maybe just unable to keep himself still. Under the arm protecting his face, his mouth is gaping open, sucking in air even as his eyes flutter shut.
Erik's knuckles skim across his bruised forearm in a punch that has at the last moment lost all its momentum. Then the same fingers are digging sharp nails into the front of Charles' costume, and Charles can feel Erik leaning in and pushing Charles' arm away from his face, and--
--all the heat, all the momentum their fight had lost in that last moment is suddenly back. Erik's teeth knock into Charles' hard enough that he can feel blood at the back of his throat, but then all he can feel are Erik's lips on his, warm and wet, devouring him whole. Charles' eyes open again and his vision is filled with Erik, Erik's face right up against his, Erik's eyes looking into his, all hunger and intent. It's almost perfect, and then Charles manages to get a hand up long enough to knock the helmet off of Erik's head and then it really is perfect as Erik's presence floods back in, closing a hole in the world, or maybe just filling it with want and need and oh god--
Erik's hips grind down into his, keeping time with his tongue thrusting messily over Charles', and it's such ecstasy that neither of them wants to part for a moment. Finally lack of air forces them to, and in that split second Charles manages to pant out, "Erik, the missiles!"
"Right, fine," Erik says, pupils so large they drown out all color in his eyes. He flings one hand out as he closes in to kiss Charles again, other hand forcing its way into the space between their chests to work the zipper of Charles' costume.
Charles hears the echoed colors of the missiles falling harmlessly into each other and then the sea through the minds of the others, hears the awe and relief of the men aboard the ships, but he doesn't really feel it. It doesn't really touch him. He's enveloped by something else, by Erik's tongue and Erik's teeth and Erik's hips and Erik's growl when the zipper just won't give, until finally he forces it down with his power.
The top of the suit parts, revealing Charles' chest, and suddenly Erik can't stop touching his skin, skimming his fingertips down his abdomen or thumbing his nipples or scratching his initials into Charles' collarbone. And all the while they kiss, part, kiss, part, kiss, their hips moving and never stopping as their pleasure swells to greater and greater heights--
Orgasm hits Charles with no warning, catching him entirely by surprise. He cries out, inadvertently biting Erik's lips--and then Erik is coming too, shuddering against him, his body tightening and relaxing in waves that Charles feels through him, his eyes staring into Charles' and saying things he has no words for.
They stay there for another long moment, panting into each others' lips, staring into each others' eyes. Then Erik sighs and drops into the sand beside Charles, chest heaving, eyes shuttering closed. They aren't quite touching, but their fingertips are separated by mere millimeters in the sand and Erik's mind is warm and present. Charles could reach out and touch Erik at any moment, physically or mentally, and that's enough for him.
"Um," Sean says.
Charles blinks, momentarily thrown. He levers himself up onto his elbows with considerable effort and squints up at everyone else, fighting against the strength of the sun.
Moira is standing several yards away to his right. She seems frozen; her mouth is gaping open, and she has halfway pulled her gun out of its holster, though now her hand just tightens and loosens uselessly around the handle. To her right and almost directly in front of Charles, Sean, Hank, Alex, and Raven are clustered. Sean is looking straight at him, a disbelieving expression on his face, though he refuses to make eye contact when Charles looks his way. Raven's expression is indescribable, and after one glance at her extremely jumbled emotions Charles decides not to try to interpret it.
Alex had averted his eyes at some point, his face turned to the side looking at nothing, and he remains that way even when Sean nudges him, apparently hoping for some support. Hank has turned his back on them entirely, burying his face in his hands. With his shoulders curled in and his head ducked, he looks remarkably small for someone so big and noticeable.
To Charles' left, Angel, Riptide, and Azazel look much less broken and much more confused, though there's an element of bone-deep horror in their thoughts as well--well, except Angel. "They shared a bed together at a strip club," Angel is explaining to a troubled-looking Riptide. "Really, I'm just surprised they managed to keep their hands off each other this long."
Charles opens his mouth, then closes it when he realizes he has absolutely nothing to say. Then he opens it again, only to realize that he still hasn't thought of anything. He thinks that maybe his position would be stronger if he stood up and started ordering people around, but at that moment Erik shifts his hand in a possibly-accidental, possibly-calculated move that makes their fingers knit together, and Charles decides not to bother.
Instead, he says, "Good work, friends: we saved the world!"
I'm mostly posting to keep various fic that I've written even when I wasn't using LJ otherwise, so if you're one of the few people who friended me, sorry for suddenly flooding your flist.
Title: Distance (Sex On The Beach)
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Rating: FRM (We're not supposed to use movie ratings any more, right?)
Word Count: 1523
Pairing/Character: Erik/Charles
Prompt: SO. Charles' tacklehug attack on the beach degenerates into Preliminaries of Angry Sex. and Charles is all, 'Erik, the missiles,' while Erik is frantically trying to get him out of that stupid suit and obviously not paying attention. So Charles goes on, 'Erik, the fucking missiles!' and Erik is all, 'Okay, Jesus! *blows them up midair* THERE. Now stand still and let me fuck you.' (http://1stclass-kink.livejournal.com/6527.html?thread=11337855#t11337855)
Charles has never been so terrified in his life.
It's been a day for thoughts like those--the nerve-wracking fear of going into battle in the first place; the sharp-sudden jolt of the plane crash; the bottomless gut-clench he felt when he realized Erik was spinning out of control, but he had no choice other than to hold Shaw; and the stabbing feeling of betrayal when he realized that, after all they'd done, their allies were still going to gun them down.
This beat all of those.
The sky is filled with dozens of missiles, Russian and American, large and small. They gleam silver-bright in the cloudless blue sky, all turning as one to point at the scattered ships idling in the sea behind them. The distance makes them seem small, but Charles can hear the thoughts of the men on board as if they were all whispering directly into his ear. Those that can see--and those close enough to receive reports from those that can see--are awestruck, disbelieving. They don't want to die.
They're scared, their fear piling on top of Charles' but not even coming close to drowning it out, because they can only see the missiles, while Charles can see Erik. Erik, standing tall and stone-still, his hand outstretched and unwavering, his back straight and tense. Charles is close enough to see every crease and fold of his costume, but with his face turned away and that damned helmet on his head, there's more distance between them than there has ever been.
There are words sticking in Charles' throat, things that he could say to stop this madness, but he can't force them out. It's like choking on a mouthful of dust. Charles doesn't know what Erik's thinking, he doesn't know what Erik's feeling--right now, he doesn't know Erik, and he certainly doesn't know how to talk him down from this ledge he's climbed onto.
For once in his life, Charles doesn't think, all rationality drowned out by fear and desperation and something he doesn't have a name for, something between anger and want. By the time he becomes aware that he's moving he's already plowed into Erik, forcing them both to the ground with a jarring impact that makes Charles' teeth snap together so hard they nearly crack. His hands are going for Erik's face--no, for the helmet, if he can get that off he can end this--
But Erik's a much stronger fighter, has actually been in real fights before--has killed before--and in seconds he's flipped them both around, the harsh grit of the sand digging into the back of Charles' neck. Erik's staring down at him, helmet and the sun conspiring together to cast a shadow over his eyes, making his expression unreadable. Then Erik's raising his fist, and Charles is so frightened that time itself seems to have slowed down, letting him see how this will end--Erik finishing this fight, Erik shooting those missiles at all those ships where all those men wait and cry and pray--
Charles manages to get one of his own hands up over his face, sending up a spray of sand that nearly blinds him, and catches Erik's fist on his forearm. Pain sparks all the way down, but Charles isn't paying attention, not to that or the endless drumbeat of his heart playing doubletime in his ears or the frozen horror coming from the minds of everyone around him like some dark cloud. He's too busy trying to get Erik off of him, jabbing upwards with his other arm, bucking his hips frantically--
--and sparks of a different kind travel all across his body, because suddenly he's hard, and so is Erik, and their groins are so perfectly aligned that every motion Charles makes forces them to rub against one another. Charles can't stop moving his hips up, trying to unseat Erik or maybe just unable to keep himself still. Under the arm protecting his face, his mouth is gaping open, sucking in air even as his eyes flutter shut.
Erik's knuckles skim across his bruised forearm in a punch that has at the last moment lost all its momentum. Then the same fingers are digging sharp nails into the front of Charles' costume, and Charles can feel Erik leaning in and pushing Charles' arm away from his face, and--
--all the heat, all the momentum their fight had lost in that last moment is suddenly back. Erik's teeth knock into Charles' hard enough that he can feel blood at the back of his throat, but then all he can feel are Erik's lips on his, warm and wet, devouring him whole. Charles' eyes open again and his vision is filled with Erik, Erik's face right up against his, Erik's eyes looking into his, all hunger and intent. It's almost perfect, and then Charles manages to get a hand up long enough to knock the helmet off of Erik's head and then it really is perfect as Erik's presence floods back in, closing a hole in the world, or maybe just filling it with want and need and oh god--
Erik's hips grind down into his, keeping time with his tongue thrusting messily over Charles', and it's such ecstasy that neither of them wants to part for a moment. Finally lack of air forces them to, and in that split second Charles manages to pant out, "Erik, the missiles!"
"Right, fine," Erik says, pupils so large they drown out all color in his eyes. He flings one hand out as he closes in to kiss Charles again, other hand forcing its way into the space between their chests to work the zipper of Charles' costume.
Charles hears the echoed colors of the missiles falling harmlessly into each other and then the sea through the minds of the others, hears the awe and relief of the men aboard the ships, but he doesn't really feel it. It doesn't really touch him. He's enveloped by something else, by Erik's tongue and Erik's teeth and Erik's hips and Erik's growl when the zipper just won't give, until finally he forces it down with his power.
The top of the suit parts, revealing Charles' chest, and suddenly Erik can't stop touching his skin, skimming his fingertips down his abdomen or thumbing his nipples or scratching his initials into Charles' collarbone. And all the while they kiss, part, kiss, part, kiss, their hips moving and never stopping as their pleasure swells to greater and greater heights--
Orgasm hits Charles with no warning, catching him entirely by surprise. He cries out, inadvertently biting Erik's lips--and then Erik is coming too, shuddering against him, his body tightening and relaxing in waves that Charles feels through him, his eyes staring into Charles' and saying things he has no words for.
They stay there for another long moment, panting into each others' lips, staring into each others' eyes. Then Erik sighs and drops into the sand beside Charles, chest heaving, eyes shuttering closed. They aren't quite touching, but their fingertips are separated by mere millimeters in the sand and Erik's mind is warm and present. Charles could reach out and touch Erik at any moment, physically or mentally, and that's enough for him.
"Um," Sean says.
Charles blinks, momentarily thrown. He levers himself up onto his elbows with considerable effort and squints up at everyone else, fighting against the strength of the sun.
Moira is standing several yards away to his right. She seems frozen; her mouth is gaping open, and she has halfway pulled her gun out of its holster, though now her hand just tightens and loosens uselessly around the handle. To her right and almost directly in front of Charles, Sean, Hank, Alex, and Raven are clustered. Sean is looking straight at him, a disbelieving expression on his face, though he refuses to make eye contact when Charles looks his way. Raven's expression is indescribable, and after one glance at her extremely jumbled emotions Charles decides not to try to interpret it.
Alex had averted his eyes at some point, his face turned to the side looking at nothing, and he remains that way even when Sean nudges him, apparently hoping for some support. Hank has turned his back on them entirely, burying his face in his hands. With his shoulders curled in and his head ducked, he looks remarkably small for someone so big and noticeable.
To Charles' left, Angel, Riptide, and Azazel look much less broken and much more confused, though there's an element of bone-deep horror in their thoughts as well--well, except Angel. "They shared a bed together at a strip club," Angel is explaining to a troubled-looking Riptide. "Really, I'm just surprised they managed to keep their hands off each other this long."
Charles opens his mouth, then closes it when he realizes he has absolutely nothing to say. Then he opens it again, only to realize that he still hasn't thought of anything. He thinks that maybe his position would be stronger if he stood up and started ordering people around, but at that moment Erik shifts his hand in a possibly-accidental, possibly-calculated move that makes their fingers knit together, and Charles decides not to bother.
Instead, he says, "Good work, friends: we saved the world!"