Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men. Marvel does.

A/N: Writer's Block buster. Started out as three sentences, and then Erik had angst. Can tie into Confused, or be a standalone.

Rating: T


Execution


The air is tight, bitter, angry. Unforgiving in its weight yet far too docile to form any sort of attack. It hangs unmoving, a tight unrelenting restraint, like a guard standing before an execution prisoner. Intimidating, yet holding no axe.

No. The executioner is not the air, but the human cradled by the air - its creator, its hypnotist - and the sharp blade of the axe are the words that fly swiftly from his tongue.

And Erik was not even given the courtesy of the black bag over his head to hide his shame under the condemning blue eyes of his judge.

"I have tried being patient with you."

Eyes he cannot look away from.

"Lord knows that of every person on this planet, of every person I have ever come in contact with, you deserve to be cared for and respected and loved more than anyone else."

Eyes that he silently pleads with to keep looking at him, damn it - don'tlookaway.

"But you cannot see it, Erik."

Oh, but he can. He can see it.

"I'm standing right in front of you. I am right. here., and all I want to do is be that person for you. I want to be what you need, Erik, whether it means protecting you or being protected by you - submissive or dominant or physical or just simply here. I want to be that.

But you won't let me."

And he keeps looking.

"Do you think you are the only person who has known hurt, Erik? Do you think you are the only person who has lived through pain and torture? Do you honestly think that no one else knows how it feels to be strapped down to a table? To be used? To be hated? To live every day wanting to die but still careful never to step on your own shadow?"

Poetry would have it raining right now, but all the comes through the window are bright beams of deadend sun to add to the staleness of the air.

"And yet you turn away from me."

He is wrong. The words are not the axe, but merely the bruising hands to soften his flesh in assault. The eyes are what slice through him, and while they are sharp, the slices are dull.

"I cannot be gentle with you again, Erik. And I cannot be patient for you any longer. You will not let me."

The hands that, though feather soft and only ghosting against his skin, burn like the searing hot fires of the camps as they touch him, leaving scars and bruises of claim in their wake that he wishes he had time to admire.

"I'm sorry, my friend, that it took me so long to figure out what you need."

Eyes that, sharp and cold and filled with dark fury, still project warmth and understanding and his mind spills pleaseplease Iamtheonewhoissorry. Pleasedon'tbeangry. Pleasedon'tleave.

"Let me give you what you need."

Charles.

A sharp, angry bite to his shoulder.

Please.

"Let me show you, Erik."

He sees it all perfectly.


A/N:

Originally, this story was just going to be a fight. A fight that would lead Charles to walk away from Erik. To which Charles promptly told me "fuck you" and pulled Erik away from me to go be dominant!Charles (lovelovelove) and yeah. I will have my fight, damn it! But apparently not today. But there will be more dominant!Charles.

On another note, I do believe my Writer's Block? Has been busted like a completed line in Tetris. 8D Which means I have a prompt/request/giftfic to fufill that I can finally pour a life into without having it crash on the table. Mindrape hurt/comfort, anyone? Heck yes.

Let me know what you thought? (: