Work Text:
Cairo, 1961
Dust was settling slowly and Erik could finally see what caused the tremor that disturbed a centuries old accumulation of dirt. He felt scratching in his throat even with a scarf protecting his mouth and nose, but he didn’t dare to cough. There was something moving in the darkness of the underground burial chamber, rising from between the rubble. One of the nazis that Erik followed all the way down to this place was still moving, but something cracked dully and he stopped. Whatever had risen from the tomb was staring at Erik now, and he could feel that gaze like a physical touch.
“You are not one of them.”
The words were flowing like a whisper, but were loud and clear even with all the dusty space between them. Erik blinked and now there was a tall, hulking figure towering over his crouched body. All the instincts wanted him to fight, but instead he remained frozen like a mouse trapped in a hypnotic gaze of a snake. Then whatever it was, bent down and with gentleness defying it’s enormous size, brushed accumulated dust from Erik’s eyelashes. He blinked again, but it didn’t vanish.
“You are strong. Come with me.”
Erik looked at the offered hand, confused and just a little bit dazed, and it looked like no dust flying around was settling on the open palm. He could run. He could strike. He took the hand.
He got pulled up to his feet, and suddenly he could feel the hot wind from a desert on his face, even when they were still standing in a cold and dark cave. There was something warm encompassing him like a blanket, and it was a weird feeling, one that he hadn't felt in over a decade, how suddenly he felt calm and safe. The same bright presence settled around his mind, not bothered by all the spikes and sharp edges - it seeped into all the cracks and breaks and Erik felt himself letting go, letting it mold him in a less hurtful shape.
“Those fools came here to steal my power and use it for their petty goals, but they were weak. You came here hunting for them, and that was a waste of your potential. With me, you will go after true prey, one that matters.”
“And who are you?” Erik sounded hoarse in his own ears.
“I am the first one. The beginning and the end, the bringer of the apocalypse, and you have been chosen to be my sword.”
Erik let himself be led to the centre, and he had half a mind to be careful of rubble and bodies on the stone floor, but they were scattering into sand and seeping away. At the center, among all this destruction, stood a sarcophagus made of cool stone, unaffected by time or falling rocks. Intricate carvings covered four sides of the stone block, but it was too dark for Erik to see what they depicted, and the top plane was smooth and unadorned. That’s where the body was lying all those centuries and under his palms Erik could feel that the surface retained some of the dry heat of its occupant. But then he was pushed to the same place, gently but firmly, as he turned to face The First One.
“What are you doing?” he murmured, unwilling to disturb the heavy silence of the grave chamber.
“Tempering your blade. Making you whole.”
Stone under Erik’s back went soft and malleable, and he felt doing the same himself. It had been a long time since he let anyone touch him, even longer since the last time he didn’t expect evil intent in other’s hands, but now it just felt right. Even if those palms with strong fingers could easily snap his bones or crush his skull, there was nothing violent or rushed in any of those touches. Erik thought that maybe he should reciprocate, but he was pressed back onto the stone and hushed. His breath hitched as those dry, warm fingers pushed up the material of his shirt, revealing all the scars maring his torso. It would be too dark for his eyes, but he knew that the Apocalypse saw everything clearly, and a moment later he felt fingertips following the ragged ridges of old wounds. Immense gentleness of that touch made his breath hitch, and he had to close his eyes, overcome with unfamiliar emotion.
Warm palms were drifting everywhere on Erik’s body, calm and careful, and seemingly without any plan or goal. He didn’t know how long it lasted, only that it brought him into a trance-like state, when he felt more vulnerable than he ever had, but also somehow safe and cared for. When one of his hands was lifted up, and then he felt a kiss pressed against his rough knuckles, he could only let out a muffled sob, completely overwhelmed. He resisted the urge to pull the hand back - before he fought with it, killed, and brought pain, so it didn’t feel right to treat this bloodied tool like something precious. And yet-
“Good,” said Apocalypse and Erik couldn’t resist a shiver. “Open your eyes for me, my sun.”
He did, and immediately had to blink, because his vision was blurry and unsteady. Only then tears started to flow from the corners of his eyes to sink into the dark hair at his temples. He could see Apocalypse bending over him, his pupilless eyes focused and attentive, broad hand that wasn’t holding his own cupped his face gently, thumb tracing the wet trails on his cheeks. He wanted to apologize for those unexpected tears, but the fingers moved, and pressed against his parted lips.
“I know. It’s all good, you’re safe here.”
Safe. He didn’t know he even understood what it meant, but right there and then he was learning it anew. He let himself be led. A bit unsure but determined, he gave a tentative lick to the fingers resting against his mouth, and he felt a soft inhale overhead. It made him grow bolder, parting his lips even more, and tasting the salty dryness of other’s skin. He softly licked and kissed, focused only on this, emptying his mind from any other thought besides slow drag of his tongue against spit slicked ridges and creases. When suddenly the pressure lifted and he could feel cold air against his wet lips, he felt robbed. Before he could voice any protest, he felt a kiss scorching like a desert sun capturing his breath and any noise he could make.
With this silent seal the pledge was made. He whimpered softly as the spit slicked fingers pushed into him gently, with no discomfort as his whole body yielded under the soft caresses of the scorching lips. He let himself be taken right there, on the ancient sarcophagus, with the enormous girth that should split him in halves if not for how malleable and relaxed his body became, taking it all without resistance. His insides were painted searing white, marking him as something more than he had been before. No longer Frankenstein’s monster, no longer a lone wolf biting everything coming near in furious fear.
Before he was drifting - now his master shaped his formless rage into a goal. In return, he was going to forge his master a sword out of the blood of their enemies.