comment fic: X-Men First Class and King Arthur
I had to struggle like a bitch to get these written, but they came and I am so thankful. What a lot of fun for both.
Enjoy.
Author: Ashley
Safe and Sound
warnings: none.
disclaimer: Marvel's.
summary: Erik and Charles and control.
"Erik."
When Charles speaks to him as opposed to thinking it, Erik knows something is amiss.
He looks up from where he's laying on the ground, the dirt hard packed and staining his light grey sweatsuit. The monstrosity that is is the satellite dish hulks over them, the sun blotted out by its steel bowl. It's chilly, but the snappy breeze that blows through Erik's hair feels good, and so he smiles when he meets bright blue eyes, focusing on him. Focusing only on him, as Charles is wont to do and so very well at that.
"Yes?" He cocks an eyebrow, but keeps his hands where they are, fingers spread slightly, half his brain concentrating on the dish, the other half concentrating on Charles and his interruption.
"What are you doing down there?"
His voice is melodic and concerned (Erik, you're not alone) and Erik looks away from him, letting his head rest on the ground, and focuses on his singular goal again. One finger, then two, twitching, seemingly aimless, but the direction his chosen path.
He grunts and feels sweat pop up on his brow, and the shrieking of the metal bits above his head would have another man fleeing in terror. Charles merely frowns more deeply, his hands thrust into his sweater pockets, his hair hanging a bit askew. The bolts that have suddenly come free swing in a circle around Charles' head, the four pieces of metal (Erik's friend before Charles) brushing his cheek as Erik concentrates, eyes narrowing, hands splayed, concentrate, focus, don't let him distract -
"I have a game set up. And it's time for dinner. You've been out here for hours, Erik. Come in, won't you?" Charles crouches, the bolts flying at Erik's command to follow him, the sweat coming faster now, his scalp wet, red skin flushing with the effort of control.
shriiieeeeeek
"Charles," Erik bites the name off, his eyes daring to dart to the other man, "why don't you get out from under here, as I don't know that I can hold this much longer." His voice is rough and worried but Charles in his inanity stays where he is, sitting on the ground next to where Erik is laying even as the girder above them begins to shift with the loss of its bolts. Erik's gaze snaps to the girder, and his left hand twitches toward it, holding it in place even as the bolts he's circling around Charles bob and weave and he sweats and grits his teeth and the girder shakes and the bolts fly everywhere and the wind is suddenly a gale force and he sits up, hand raised, shoulder tight, trying to damn well focus and he feels it slip from him and diving into Charles, he shoves the other man out of the way, the two of them tumbling out into the setting sunlight, the girder crashing in a twisted heap onto the dirt packed ground, where Erik and Charles had been a moment before.
Erik lays on Charles, his head pressed to Charles' neck, panting, the flush to his skin surely uncomfortable against Charles', but he can't force himself to rise just yet. He could have crushed Charles. He could have done something awful. He could have - he did - lose control and he could have killed him.
He swallows, a thick lump of anger and self rage that rises, spiraling, spinning, burning and catching everything he feels in its wake and he sucks in a breath even as he touches Charles, making sure the other man is fine, is not hurt, and he makes to shove off Charles but the other man raises his hand and with a whisper light brush touches Erik's temple and Erik stills.
It isn't words, but it's Charles and Erik shuts his eyes and relaxes against the other man's prone body, even though he's bigger and he feels
he feels
he feels Charles. And Charles says calm your mind, my friend, and he slowly drops his thin fingers from Erik's head, and Erik sits up, shaking and sweating and he wipes a palm over his face, shame and defeat sucking up the energy of rageragerage and forcing it away.
The sun has set. The wind is stronger, and Charles sits up as well, his eyes - that blue - catch Erik's, and Erik pinches his lips closed over the self hate he was going to spout. Charles can hear it anyway, he knows, and he cares more about that than he does saying it out loud.
"Dinner," Charles says gently, and stands, sticking out a hand for Erik, who grabs it after a brief second of black black, brain worn out like a trashed corn husk. He looks up at the hated satellite dish, something that will always defeat him most likely, no matter how much he practices.
"Charles," Erik says after a moment. Charles has turned to go back to the mansion, but pauses, not looking back.
I trust you, Erik.
He puts his hand back toward Erik again, and again Erik hesitates, but takes it more readily this time, the calm he feels now not projected through Charles' mind, but from Charles himself, and Erik thinks serenity, focus.
Charles.
They walk together as night comes on and the stars wink and are beautiful, but Erik doesn't notice. He only notices Charles' hand in his, and the smile on the other man's face.
Erik breathes, and will try again tomorrow.
Author: Ashley
Monster
warnings: language, violent sex, slash
disclaimer: not mine.
summary: Love is a monster that will swallow you whole.
Lancelot's throwing crockery.
The moon is huge and glowing and lovely and he hates it, and he throws more broken bits of pottery, the stable quiet save for the horses' breathing and he lets another piece fly, the bin almost empty of porcelain. He snarls and curses in his native tongue, Roman fucking bastard, and it's rough sounding and foreign to even his ears. That pisses him off more, and he curses again, ugly words his brothers had taught him, words that had earned him a slap from his father for using.
He raises his arm, the last piece biting into his fingers, a bit of blood trickling down to his wrist, wetting the torn sleeve of his ancient black tunic, and he releases to throw, teeth bared, Ras, his placid warhorse, watching him with an almost amused expression. He releases, but his hand is stayed by another, thicker hand, and he drops the plate and turns, jerking out of Arthur's hold.
"Fuck you, Castus," he kicks the plate out of the way, the crockery spinning and shattering as it hits the wall of the stable, the torch in its sconce above where it lands shivering with the impact. "Do. Not. Interrupt me when I'm having fun." He keeps stepping, and Arthur, to his very odd credit, does not budge, his stoic face blood spotted and dirty still. He crosses his arms over his own black tunic (the stitching popping at the right shoulder) and raises his brows, waiting. Waiting, calmly as he always does, and that pisses Lancelot off even more, and without warning the conscript howls and lashes out, his fist connecting with Arthur's left cheek, splitting skin and scraping bone and Arthur stumbles back, the surprise that etches its way across his craggy features a balm to Lancelot's angry, buzzing mind.
No one is around, save the animals, but Lancelot doesn't care - he leaps at Arthur, catching the Roman's shirt, fist flying, feet stomping, boots kicking and gouging at Arthur's shins as the other man tries to retaliate.
Normally Arthur can best Lancelot only through sheer size, but this time - it's like trying to catch a wet cat. Lancelot's hollering and screaming obscenities and Arthur tries to pluck the knight off him with a free hand, but he fails as Lancelot latches on with an elbow around Arthur's neck and shoves and forces the commander up against the wall, tunic totally ripped at the seam now, blood from the rough punch dripping down his face to add to the drying Woad blood already there.
There's a dagger at his throat. Lancelot's face, angles and shadows and black things Arthur's rapidly becoming afraid of, is right against Arthur's, and the blade slips a bit to connect at the join of neck and collar bone, the skin slitting just a bit, more blood decorating flesh. Lancelot's breath is fire and brimstone against Arthur's face, and the knight is silent, weirdly, his eyes ticking around Arthur's frame, hand absolutely still, the knife held tightly at Arthur's throat.
Ever the consummate swordsman.
They stare, unmoving, hatred and anger consuming Lancelot's body until his expression twists and contorts, lips opening, vile, putrid words rolling off his tongue like honey -
Arthur kisses him, bites his lip, the sound of Lancelot's intake of air shocking and cold and sudden. He kisses back, want and burning and heat firing him to the core and he grasps at Arthur's bloody face, their lips meeting with force enough to bruise, Lancelot's desire for vengeance taking a very sharp turn into desire for Arthur's mouth to posses his and for Arthur's flesh to posses his, raw and angry and he whispers Arthur's name on the other man's mouth. The word trickles to nothing when Arthur's tongue slips inside.
They back up, fumbling with each other's clothing, Lancelot tearing Arthur's shirt to get it off him, the knife slipping from his hands, clattering to the hard-packed dirt floor, his leathers off him, his hair hanging in his face, Arthur's hands snatching at him, slamming him into the opposite wall, the commander grunting and scratching at Lancelot's skin and
Arthur's inside him and it aches like he's being shattered and Lancelot yells and arches his back and clutches at the wall, the wooden struts cutting into his fingers and leaving splinters, blood and blood and more blood. Never enough blood for his taste, as that's all he can willingly give to this land.
The sharp tang of musk fills the corner of the stable and Lancelot bucks against Arthur, rising to meet the other man's thrusts and he snakes a hand to his own cock and relief is there, quickly, as he bites his lip, tearing it again, eyes squeezed closed, sweat coating him, making his dirty body a miasma of mud and pain and Arthur freezes, then jerks quickly, warmth flooding Lancelot and Arthur collapses over him, hands slapping the wall next to Lancelot's left one, the other one still holding on to his own cock.
Breathing, silence, the shifting of horses, motes of dust floating in the air from their violence.
Lancelot jerks an elbow back into Arthur's gut, and he falls off Lancelot, their separation painful and Lancelot's cold all of a sudden. He turns and shakes as he balances against the stable wall, his chin raised, his eyes glittering, his mouth a sneer of anger so fierce he could melt steel with it. Arthur's sitting on his ass, hands to either side, panting, blood coating his cheek and throat, the punch Lancelot had thrown purpling and swelling. He stares up at Lancelot, gaze never wavering, green eyes dark and so, so clear Lancelot can see himself in them.
Lancelot jerks his leathers up and fastens them with trembling fingers. His foot tinks against the dagger he'd dropped, and he bends stiffly to pick it up, examining the cut from the plate he'd picked up earlier, the red dripping still down his wrist. He raises the dagger and widens the cut, blood flowing faster, and shakes his hand over Arthur, drops flying and spattering and blending with the other man's blood that flows from his multiple wounds.
"There's my offering, Rome," he says, words clipped and Latin precise. "You have all of me, now. I cannot escape you. Not even in death." He flips the knife over and flings it to land, quivering, point embedded in the dirt next to Arthur's bare hip. "You have my heart, and fuck you and damn you for that, Arthur Castus. Rome." He feels wetness burn behind his eyes and he switches to the guttural British language he hates almost as much as the Latin. "Blood and heart and body are yours. Damn you."
He spits and tears what's left of his tunic off, throwing it onto the ground, and picks up his double swords, laying safely against Ras' stall where he'd left them. "Blood and heart and body were the only things I had left of my own. Not so much, now." He strides to the exit, and steps out into the courtyard, ignoring the strange looks he gets from the few folk out and about. He turns and heads toward the knight's quarters, and not Arthur's rooms, where he's been spending most of his nights since they'd started - whatever this was.
Love had come upon Lancelot in a way that had shaken him to his feet - and he falters once, twice, stopping as he's walking to the barracks. He and Arthur have been he and Arthur for only a few months, and this hated feeling has taken him by the nape and shaken him until nothing is left of what Lancelot was, before, and he sobs before he can stop, and he stumbles over a rock but finds his rooms and sets his swords down reverently and lays on the tiny uncomfortable bed, blood drying, itching, leathers snug over his groin still, his self-hatred and anger at the position he's found himself in eating him from the inside out. A ravening monster, love, and he lets himself weep, and when the knock comes at the door, he ignores it, hand covering his eyes, blank, empty.
He loves Arthur.
He might damn Arthur with words, but it's himself he's truly damned with his attachment, and he opens swollen eyes and with one last look at the door (another quiet knock comes), he turns and blows out the lamp at his bedside.
Enjoy.
Author: Ashley
Safe and Sound
warnings: none.
disclaimer: Marvel's.
summary: Erik and Charles and control.
"Erik."
When Charles speaks to him as opposed to thinking it, Erik knows something is amiss.
He looks up from where he's laying on the ground, the dirt hard packed and staining his light grey sweatsuit. The monstrosity that is is the satellite dish hulks over them, the sun blotted out by its steel bowl. It's chilly, but the snappy breeze that blows through Erik's hair feels good, and so he smiles when he meets bright blue eyes, focusing on him. Focusing only on him, as Charles is wont to do and so very well at that.
"Yes?" He cocks an eyebrow, but keeps his hands where they are, fingers spread slightly, half his brain concentrating on the dish, the other half concentrating on Charles and his interruption.
"What are you doing down there?"
His voice is melodic and concerned (Erik, you're not alone) and Erik looks away from him, letting his head rest on the ground, and focuses on his singular goal again. One finger, then two, twitching, seemingly aimless, but the direction his chosen path.
He grunts and feels sweat pop up on his brow, and the shrieking of the metal bits above his head would have another man fleeing in terror. Charles merely frowns more deeply, his hands thrust into his sweater pockets, his hair hanging a bit askew. The bolts that have suddenly come free swing in a circle around Charles' head, the four pieces of metal (Erik's friend before Charles) brushing his cheek as Erik concentrates, eyes narrowing, hands splayed, concentrate, focus, don't let him distract -
"I have a game set up. And it's time for dinner. You've been out here for hours, Erik. Come in, won't you?" Charles crouches, the bolts flying at Erik's command to follow him, the sweat coming faster now, his scalp wet, red skin flushing with the effort of control.
shriiieeeeeek
"Charles," Erik bites the name off, his eyes daring to dart to the other man, "why don't you get out from under here, as I don't know that I can hold this much longer." His voice is rough and worried but Charles in his inanity stays where he is, sitting on the ground next to where Erik is laying even as the girder above them begins to shift with the loss of its bolts. Erik's gaze snaps to the girder, and his left hand twitches toward it, holding it in place even as the bolts he's circling around Charles bob and weave and he sweats and grits his teeth and the girder shakes and the bolts fly everywhere and the wind is suddenly a gale force and he sits up, hand raised, shoulder tight, trying to damn well focus and he feels it slip from him and diving into Charles, he shoves the other man out of the way, the two of them tumbling out into the setting sunlight, the girder crashing in a twisted heap onto the dirt packed ground, where Erik and Charles had been a moment before.
Erik lays on Charles, his head pressed to Charles' neck, panting, the flush to his skin surely uncomfortable against Charles', but he can't force himself to rise just yet. He could have crushed Charles. He could have done something awful. He could have - he did - lose control and he could have killed him.
He swallows, a thick lump of anger and self rage that rises, spiraling, spinning, burning and catching everything he feels in its wake and he sucks in a breath even as he touches Charles, making sure the other man is fine, is not hurt, and he makes to shove off Charles but the other man raises his hand and with a whisper light brush touches Erik's temple and Erik stills.
It isn't words, but it's Charles and Erik shuts his eyes and relaxes against the other man's prone body, even though he's bigger and he feels
he feels
he feels Charles. And Charles says calm your mind, my friend, and he slowly drops his thin fingers from Erik's head, and Erik sits up, shaking and sweating and he wipes a palm over his face, shame and defeat sucking up the energy of rageragerage and forcing it away.
The sun has set. The wind is stronger, and Charles sits up as well, his eyes - that blue - catch Erik's, and Erik pinches his lips closed over the self hate he was going to spout. Charles can hear it anyway, he knows, and he cares more about that than he does saying it out loud.
"Dinner," Charles says gently, and stands, sticking out a hand for Erik, who grabs it after a brief second of black black, brain worn out like a trashed corn husk. He looks up at the hated satellite dish, something that will always defeat him most likely, no matter how much he practices.
"Charles," Erik says after a moment. Charles has turned to go back to the mansion, but pauses, not looking back.
I trust you, Erik.
He puts his hand back toward Erik again, and again Erik hesitates, but takes it more readily this time, the calm he feels now not projected through Charles' mind, but from Charles himself, and Erik thinks serenity, focus.
Charles.
They walk together as night comes on and the stars wink and are beautiful, but Erik doesn't notice. He only notices Charles' hand in his, and the smile on the other man's face.
Erik breathes, and will try again tomorrow.
Author: Ashley
Monster
warnings: language, violent sex, slash
disclaimer: not mine.
summary: Love is a monster that will swallow you whole.
Lancelot's throwing crockery.
The moon is huge and glowing and lovely and he hates it, and he throws more broken bits of pottery, the stable quiet save for the horses' breathing and he lets another piece fly, the bin almost empty of porcelain. He snarls and curses in his native tongue, Roman fucking bastard, and it's rough sounding and foreign to even his ears. That pisses him off more, and he curses again, ugly words his brothers had taught him, words that had earned him a slap from his father for using.
He raises his arm, the last piece biting into his fingers, a bit of blood trickling down to his wrist, wetting the torn sleeve of his ancient black tunic, and he releases to throw, teeth bared, Ras, his placid warhorse, watching him with an almost amused expression. He releases, but his hand is stayed by another, thicker hand, and he drops the plate and turns, jerking out of Arthur's hold.
"Fuck you, Castus," he kicks the plate out of the way, the crockery spinning and shattering as it hits the wall of the stable, the torch in its sconce above where it lands shivering with the impact. "Do. Not. Interrupt me when I'm having fun." He keeps stepping, and Arthur, to his very odd credit, does not budge, his stoic face blood spotted and dirty still. He crosses his arms over his own black tunic (the stitching popping at the right shoulder) and raises his brows, waiting. Waiting, calmly as he always does, and that pisses Lancelot off even more, and without warning the conscript howls and lashes out, his fist connecting with Arthur's left cheek, splitting skin and scraping bone and Arthur stumbles back, the surprise that etches its way across his craggy features a balm to Lancelot's angry, buzzing mind.
No one is around, save the animals, but Lancelot doesn't care - he leaps at Arthur, catching the Roman's shirt, fist flying, feet stomping, boots kicking and gouging at Arthur's shins as the other man tries to retaliate.
Normally Arthur can best Lancelot only through sheer size, but this time - it's like trying to catch a wet cat. Lancelot's hollering and screaming obscenities and Arthur tries to pluck the knight off him with a free hand, but he fails as Lancelot latches on with an elbow around Arthur's neck and shoves and forces the commander up against the wall, tunic totally ripped at the seam now, blood from the rough punch dripping down his face to add to the drying Woad blood already there.
There's a dagger at his throat. Lancelot's face, angles and shadows and black things Arthur's rapidly becoming afraid of, is right against Arthur's, and the blade slips a bit to connect at the join of neck and collar bone, the skin slitting just a bit, more blood decorating flesh. Lancelot's breath is fire and brimstone against Arthur's face, and the knight is silent, weirdly, his eyes ticking around Arthur's frame, hand absolutely still, the knife held tightly at Arthur's throat.
Ever the consummate swordsman.
They stare, unmoving, hatred and anger consuming Lancelot's body until his expression twists and contorts, lips opening, vile, putrid words rolling off his tongue like honey -
Arthur kisses him, bites his lip, the sound of Lancelot's intake of air shocking and cold and sudden. He kisses back, want and burning and heat firing him to the core and he grasps at Arthur's bloody face, their lips meeting with force enough to bruise, Lancelot's desire for vengeance taking a very sharp turn into desire for Arthur's mouth to posses his and for Arthur's flesh to posses his, raw and angry and he whispers Arthur's name on the other man's mouth. The word trickles to nothing when Arthur's tongue slips inside.
They back up, fumbling with each other's clothing, Lancelot tearing Arthur's shirt to get it off him, the knife slipping from his hands, clattering to the hard-packed dirt floor, his leathers off him, his hair hanging in his face, Arthur's hands snatching at him, slamming him into the opposite wall, the commander grunting and scratching at Lancelot's skin and
Arthur's inside him and it aches like he's being shattered and Lancelot yells and arches his back and clutches at the wall, the wooden struts cutting into his fingers and leaving splinters, blood and blood and more blood. Never enough blood for his taste, as that's all he can willingly give to this land.
The sharp tang of musk fills the corner of the stable and Lancelot bucks against Arthur, rising to meet the other man's thrusts and he snakes a hand to his own cock and relief is there, quickly, as he bites his lip, tearing it again, eyes squeezed closed, sweat coating him, making his dirty body a miasma of mud and pain and Arthur freezes, then jerks quickly, warmth flooding Lancelot and Arthur collapses over him, hands slapping the wall next to Lancelot's left one, the other one still holding on to his own cock.
Breathing, silence, the shifting of horses, motes of dust floating in the air from their violence.
Lancelot jerks an elbow back into Arthur's gut, and he falls off Lancelot, their separation painful and Lancelot's cold all of a sudden. He turns and shakes as he balances against the stable wall, his chin raised, his eyes glittering, his mouth a sneer of anger so fierce he could melt steel with it. Arthur's sitting on his ass, hands to either side, panting, blood coating his cheek and throat, the punch Lancelot had thrown purpling and swelling. He stares up at Lancelot, gaze never wavering, green eyes dark and so, so clear Lancelot can see himself in them.
Lancelot jerks his leathers up and fastens them with trembling fingers. His foot tinks against the dagger he'd dropped, and he bends stiffly to pick it up, examining the cut from the plate he'd picked up earlier, the red dripping still down his wrist. He raises the dagger and widens the cut, blood flowing faster, and shakes his hand over Arthur, drops flying and spattering and blending with the other man's blood that flows from his multiple wounds.
"There's my offering, Rome," he says, words clipped and Latin precise. "You have all of me, now. I cannot escape you. Not even in death." He flips the knife over and flings it to land, quivering, point embedded in the dirt next to Arthur's bare hip. "You have my heart, and fuck you and damn you for that, Arthur Castus. Rome." He feels wetness burn behind his eyes and he switches to the guttural British language he hates almost as much as the Latin. "Blood and heart and body are yours. Damn you."
He spits and tears what's left of his tunic off, throwing it onto the ground, and picks up his double swords, laying safely against Ras' stall where he'd left them. "Blood and heart and body were the only things I had left of my own. Not so much, now." He strides to the exit, and steps out into the courtyard, ignoring the strange looks he gets from the few folk out and about. He turns and heads toward the knight's quarters, and not Arthur's rooms, where he's been spending most of his nights since they'd started - whatever this was.
Love had come upon Lancelot in a way that had shaken him to his feet - and he falters once, twice, stopping as he's walking to the barracks. He and Arthur have been he and Arthur for only a few months, and this hated feeling has taken him by the nape and shaken him until nothing is left of what Lancelot was, before, and he sobs before he can stop, and he stumbles over a rock but finds his rooms and sets his swords down reverently and lays on the tiny uncomfortable bed, blood drying, itching, leathers snug over his groin still, his self-hatred and anger at the position he's found himself in eating him from the inside out. A ravening monster, love, and he lets himself weep, and when the knock comes at the door, he ignores it, hand covering his eyes, blank, empty.
He loves Arthur.
He might damn Arthur with words, but it's himself he's truly damned with his attachment, and he opens swollen eyes and with one last look at the door (another quiet knock comes), he turns and blows out the lamp at his bedside.