War
Title: War
Fandom: X-Men (First Class)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG-13 for inexplicit sexual content
Prompt: Sex Injuries, Hair
Wordcount: 432
Other: written for emerald_embers for the Five Acts meme. You can find the original here on emerald-ember's LJ.
Erik loves like a man waging war.
Charles supposes that he should have expected no less, but he has spent his life with sorority girls, pre-law students, and the sort of young women who are actually impressed by his canned smooth lines. They were all quite content to allow Charles to take the lead. The most rebellious lay he’s ever had was an art major - a modern art major, he adds a moment later, because that made quite a difference.
But pretending like any of them had been like this was like trying to compare a candle to a wildfire. Another man or woman might have been content to submit under the onslaught that was Erik, but Charles fought back.
It was always the moment that Charles matched aggression for aggression that something lit in Erik’s eyes, and then they were slammed against a wall, shoulderblades aching and cutting against the ridges of the hardwood paneling. Charles was the only one to wince when they were too loud; Erik only murmured a rough, ‘Let them listen’ against the skin of Charles’ stomach, and then his fingers would be twisting in Erik’s hair as his jaw clenched, and he’d stop caring entirely again.
When the morning light drifts through the old lace curtains draped loosely in the warped glass windows, it illuminates blossoming bruises, scratches, and tears. As Erik lays next to him slumbering, Charles silently counts the battle scars, tracing over them with his eyes. The raw, red ridge on Erik’s neck where his teeth had scraped. The scratches down his own sides that were a match to the splay of Erik’s fingers. The blotch of brown-blue on his elbows from - Charles frowns a moment. He doesn’t actually remember that one. He’s sure it must have been enjoyable at the time, though.
He doesn’t dare move at all to touch the marks. Even the slightest shift will make Erik snap to wakefulness with the long-trained nerves of a hunted man. Charles has seen the nightmares that plague him some nights, dreams of razor blades held behind bulletproof glass, of tramping through mud puddles swirling with blood, of snow falling on thin, striped shirts. It is only on the nights that Erik has worn himself out at war with Charles that he lies still instead of half strangling himself in the sheets as he twists and turns to escape. And though the tear in Charles’ lip burns when he leans to kiss Erik awake, he knows that he would allow a hundred more war wounds for the sake of another night of peace.
Fandom: X-Men (First Class)
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Rating: PG-13 for inexplicit sexual content
Prompt: Sex Injuries, Hair
Wordcount: 432
Other: written for emerald_embers for the Five Acts meme. You can find the original here on emerald-ember's LJ.
Erik loves like a man waging war.
Charles supposes that he should have expected no less, but he has spent his life with sorority girls, pre-law students, and the sort of young women who are actually impressed by his canned smooth lines. They were all quite content to allow Charles to take the lead. The most rebellious lay he’s ever had was an art major - a modern art major, he adds a moment later, because that made quite a difference.
But pretending like any of them had been like this was like trying to compare a candle to a wildfire. Another man or woman might have been content to submit under the onslaught that was Erik, but Charles fought back.
It was always the moment that Charles matched aggression for aggression that something lit in Erik’s eyes, and then they were slammed against a wall, shoulderblades aching and cutting against the ridges of the hardwood paneling. Charles was the only one to wince when they were too loud; Erik only murmured a rough, ‘Let them listen’ against the skin of Charles’ stomach, and then his fingers would be twisting in Erik’s hair as his jaw clenched, and he’d stop caring entirely again.
When the morning light drifts through the old lace curtains draped loosely in the warped glass windows, it illuminates blossoming bruises, scratches, and tears. As Erik lays next to him slumbering, Charles silently counts the battle scars, tracing over them with his eyes. The raw, red ridge on Erik’s neck where his teeth had scraped. The scratches down his own sides that were a match to the splay of Erik’s fingers. The blotch of brown-blue on his elbows from - Charles frowns a moment. He doesn’t actually remember that one. He’s sure it must have been enjoyable at the time, though.
He doesn’t dare move at all to touch the marks. Even the slightest shift will make Erik snap to wakefulness with the long-trained nerves of a hunted man. Charles has seen the nightmares that plague him some nights, dreams of razor blades held behind bulletproof glass, of tramping through mud puddles swirling with blood, of snow falling on thin, striped shirts. It is only on the nights that Erik has worn himself out at war with Charles that he lies still instead of half strangling himself in the sheets as he twists and turns to escape. And though the tear in Charles’ lip burns when he leans to kiss Erik awake, he knows that he would allow a hundred more war wounds for the sake of another night of peace.