collecting the three-sentence fics, mostly erik/charles edition
Here're the Erik/Charles two, plus one Brandon Sullivan/Johnny Martin, because, well, someone asked, and I'd actually never written a McFassy character pairing (Erik/Charles doesn't count) before! The McFassy fic will go up in the next post. :-)
Title: and they bloom even in the winter (brandon/johnny)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 277
Summary/Notes: for kageillusionz, for a prompt of “Brandon/Johnny, something domestic”; title borrowed from a quote from Penelope
Johnny composes music every day, out of his head and onto whatever scraps of paper happen to be lying around, snowdrifts of scribbles and ink: upbeat and inevitably profitable pop tunes, Broadway showstoppers, intricate rococo confections that tease playfully of bygone eras, the swinging tones of jazz, pure classical isolated melodies that make Brandon’s heart skip a beat each time at their haunting and haunted tones, every note perfectly calculated to reverberate in stillness with loneliness and joy and despair and promises unexpectedly kept at last.
Brandon kisses him softly in those moments, a swift press of his lips to messy hair, the top of that intent head, while the watercolor-blue eyes smile sincerely and distantly and the freckled fingers keep playing; they both know about obsession and about love, and together they might be maybe starting to know the difference, he thinks, when he hears Johnny play like an angel in concert and then moan like the embodiment of sin beneath him in their bed, all for him, only for him; when Johnny smiles as Brandon holds his hand at dinner, in public, unashamed; when they walk past swingers’ bars and nightclubs and gambling dens and other houses of ill repute without a second look, shared triumphs that end in wild joyous grateful loving orgasm, later, much later, or sometimes only thirty seconds later when one or both of them can’t wait.
When those skillful freckled fingers tap out their compositions along Brandon’s spine in the aftermath, both of them sweat-sticky and utterly satisfied and content, in the night; and also in the day, every day, each day they compose the music of their life together.
Title: the desire to do masterpieces (erik/charles)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 246
Summary/Notes: for kageillusionz, for a prompt of “Erik/Charles, Dorian Gray AU”. Title and epigraph, of course, from The Picture of Dorian Gray.
“The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” -Oscar Wilde
Charles is beautiful, Erik thinks, as he’s thought so many times before: red lips, pale skin, blue eyes that’re commonly compared to sapphires but in fact outshine any mundane precious gemstone. Like artwork, he’s always thought, and now, standing here in the dusty dimly lit attic staring at the painting, that painting, the one that shows all the lines of age and weariness and the despair Charles never speaks of, scars Erik’s never seen, now he can only think those words again.
There’s a soft footfall, a noise because Charles wants him to hear, and those red lips and blue eyes appear in person, hesitating but coming to stand at his side regardless, shirt collar open, hair tousled, the mark of Erik’s mouth still vivid upon his throat; Erik says, quietly, “You wanted me to find this,” and thinks at him, you wanted me to know, to know everything about you, your enchantments and your scars, your darknesses and your power, you wanted to know what I’d think of you if I knew it all, and Charles glances away but says Yes, equally honest, simple in a way that Charles is rarely simple, a single truth given to Erik here and now in the worn secret space of this attic, and Erik reaches out and takes his hand and answers, I think you’re magnificent, Charles.
Title: Veni, Vidi, Vici (Erik/Charles)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 248
Summary/Notes: for telperion_15, for a prompt of “Erik/Charles, veni vidi vici”
Erik stands by the window, gazing out to where the distant forests and hills of Britain are softened, at the moment, by night and fog, and the soft greys and blacks make this foreign land feel almost like home; not the sun-drenched capital of Rome, all grapes and heat-baked walls and dusty antiquity, but his own home, of years ago, where he’d been born years before among the German tribes, before he’d ever known the weight of Roman armor on his shoulders and a sword-hilt in his hand. Before he’d been sent here, to the outermost edges of the Empire, to pacify the wild borderlands, the native Britons; before he’d met the leader of those self-same Britons for himself, and fallen hopelessly, helplessly, under the spell of blue eyes and pale skin and a mind that could match wits with his own across, equally, a chessboard or a battlefield; now, standing at the fort’s window, he hears Caesar’s words again in his head, echoing in the Latin he’s not forsaken even though he’s broken all his soldier’s vows tonight, veni vidi vici, and he looks at the way the moonlight spills clear over the newly-explored territory of Charles’s skin, as blue eyes find his from the rumpled disaster they’ve together made of the bed.
“Well,” Charles says, mildly, teasingly, with a steel-edged question under the words, “you most certainly came,” and Erik takes a step in his direction and smiles, and says, “and I saw, and you conquered.”
Title: and they bloom even in the winter (brandon/johnny)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 277
Summary/Notes: for kageillusionz, for a prompt of “Brandon/Johnny, something domestic”; title borrowed from a quote from Penelope
Johnny composes music every day, out of his head and onto whatever scraps of paper happen to be lying around, snowdrifts of scribbles and ink: upbeat and inevitably profitable pop tunes, Broadway showstoppers, intricate rococo confections that tease playfully of bygone eras, the swinging tones of jazz, pure classical isolated melodies that make Brandon’s heart skip a beat each time at their haunting and haunted tones, every note perfectly calculated to reverberate in stillness with loneliness and joy and despair and promises unexpectedly kept at last.
Brandon kisses him softly in those moments, a swift press of his lips to messy hair, the top of that intent head, while the watercolor-blue eyes smile sincerely and distantly and the freckled fingers keep playing; they both know about obsession and about love, and together they might be maybe starting to know the difference, he thinks, when he hears Johnny play like an angel in concert and then moan like the embodiment of sin beneath him in their bed, all for him, only for him; when Johnny smiles as Brandon holds his hand at dinner, in public, unashamed; when they walk past swingers’ bars and nightclubs and gambling dens and other houses of ill repute without a second look, shared triumphs that end in wild joyous grateful loving orgasm, later, much later, or sometimes only thirty seconds later when one or both of them can’t wait.
When those skillful freckled fingers tap out their compositions along Brandon’s spine in the aftermath, both of them sweat-sticky and utterly satisfied and content, in the night; and also in the day, every day, each day they compose the music of their life together.
Title: the desire to do masterpieces (erik/charles)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 246
Summary/Notes: for kageillusionz, for a prompt of “Erik/Charles, Dorian Gray AU”. Title and epigraph, of course, from The Picture of Dorian Gray.
“The world is changed because you are made of ivory and gold. The curves of your lips rewrite history.” -Oscar Wilde
Charles is beautiful, Erik thinks, as he’s thought so many times before: red lips, pale skin, blue eyes that’re commonly compared to sapphires but in fact outshine any mundane precious gemstone. Like artwork, he’s always thought, and now, standing here in the dusty dimly lit attic staring at the painting, that painting, the one that shows all the lines of age and weariness and the despair Charles never speaks of, scars Erik’s never seen, now he can only think those words again.
There’s a soft footfall, a noise because Charles wants him to hear, and those red lips and blue eyes appear in person, hesitating but coming to stand at his side regardless, shirt collar open, hair tousled, the mark of Erik’s mouth still vivid upon his throat; Erik says, quietly, “You wanted me to find this,” and thinks at him, you wanted me to know, to know everything about you, your enchantments and your scars, your darknesses and your power, you wanted to know what I’d think of you if I knew it all, and Charles glances away but says Yes, equally honest, simple in a way that Charles is rarely simple, a single truth given to Erik here and now in the worn secret space of this attic, and Erik reaches out and takes his hand and answers, I think you’re magnificent, Charles.
Title: Veni, Vidi, Vici (Erik/Charles)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 248
Summary/Notes: for telperion_15, for a prompt of “Erik/Charles, veni vidi vici”
Erik stands by the window, gazing out to where the distant forests and hills of Britain are softened, at the moment, by night and fog, and the soft greys and blacks make this foreign land feel almost like home; not the sun-drenched capital of Rome, all grapes and heat-baked walls and dusty antiquity, but his own home, of years ago, where he’d been born years before among the German tribes, before he’d ever known the weight of Roman armor on his shoulders and a sword-hilt in his hand. Before he’d been sent here, to the outermost edges of the Empire, to pacify the wild borderlands, the native Britons; before he’d met the leader of those self-same Britons for himself, and fallen hopelessly, helplessly, under the spell of blue eyes and pale skin and a mind that could match wits with his own across, equally, a chessboard or a battlefield; now, standing at the fort’s window, he hears Caesar’s words again in his head, echoing in the Latin he’s not forsaken even though he’s broken all his soldier’s vows tonight, veni vidi vici, and he looks at the way the moonlight spills clear over the newly-explored territory of Charles’s skin, as blue eyes find his from the rumpled disaster they’ve together made of the bed.
“Well,” Charles says, mildly, teasingly, with a steel-edged question under the words, “you most certainly came,” and Erik takes a step in his direction and smiles, and says, “and I saw, and you conquered.”