FIC: every law of man & nature | x-men: first class; charles/erik
Title: Every Law of Man & Nature
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Charles/Erik
Warnings: Homophobia.
Summary: Charles is closeted and self-loathing; Erik persuades him that gay sex is boneriffic. Bonus historical football inaccuracy.
A/N: For this prompt at 1stclass_kink .
--
Erik Lensherr is, in his own way, exceptionally brilliant. He can't explain fission, but he can explain people. He knows that they are generally foolish, narcissistic, and evil. In the past he's wondered at the fact that Charles didn't see this and chalked it up to the idealistic tendencies of the wealthy Christian man, but lately he's beginning to feel he doesn't have the whole picture.
Charles is exceptionally paranoid about touch, for one. Not from women, mind you, and often he'll give a polite pat on the shoulder to Hank or Sean if they happen to master some task or another. But the instant a man reaches for Charles, he flinches. Erik had at first been surprised at Charles's rudeness after the submarine rescue, but he'd quickly learned that it was only typical; that sort of prolonged physical contact made him uneasy.
It's also worth noting that Charles is, politically speaking, not particularly revolutionary. Yes, he wants equality and the participation of mutants in the human world; yes, he wants understanding; but any talk of civil rights theory in general makes him crawl. Erik calls him on it, telling him it's hypocritical, and Charles brushes him off with, "It's not entirely relevant, although I suppose I see your point; can't we conclude this chat tomorrow?" They don't speak for days.
And, of course, Charles is a homophobe. They both see touches exchanged between Armando and Alex, and Charles sees the good sense to stay out of it, but the instant the telepath sees Hank eyeing Alex, he sequesters the young man for A Talk. Erik's fondest hope is that Charles didn't meddle in his mind, but he can't be certain one way or another; Charles certainly did not come out of that meeting with a smile on his face.
Erik chooses deliberately not to make assumptions about Charles, because like it or not Charles has helped him, but the way Charles shrinks away from reassuring touches and whispers that so-and-so on the street is a damn punk combined with his pompous pretentions at heterosexuality make Erik bristle. Perhaps the conclusion is best drawn, he thinks: Charles is like him.
Like him, except a self-righteous, hypocritical, self-loathing prick who's never been smart enough to get what he truly wants.
All right, maybe Erik is bitter. Maybe he's slightly invested. If he's going to work with these people - which he's still not entirely certain is the best plan - he's going to fuck who he wants to fuck. He's had more than enough of hiding in his life, and he's had more than enough brilliant sex. In the arse. With men.
Further, if Charles is going to work with him, he's going to have to smarten up. Fortunately, Erik has a plan. He always has a plan.
The next time Charles uses the word faggot in company, while everyone else is chuckling with some discomfort, Erik thinks very loudly about his arse. Charles colors and clears his throat, folds his arms and walks on. Raven looks at Erik, confused; his poker face is impeccable.
When Charles tries again - "Couldn't even beat Germany in the last Cup, what a lot of fairies" - Erik lets his hand rest in the crook of Charles's arm. Charles is too surprised to shake it off, and Erik stays put for half a minute despite the others' stares. He's surprised Charles hasn't started to vibrate; he doesn't need to be a telepath to know how uncomfortable he's making the man.
Regardless, he's comfortable being the bastard. He has to admit that he's curious, too. He needs to know where this curious blind spot came from, this rotten patch of self-loathing in Charles's psyche. Perhaps he hasn't had enough of himself ripped away to treasure what's left over and what's reclaimed. But Erik can't have that. He's too important. To the plan, that is.
Charles glares at him over dinner. He's not masking his thoughts particularly well. Things are leaking. He had a dream last night, Charles's pretty (very pretty, damn it) face twisting in ecstasy. He woke up this morning thinking - loudly, he worries - about the smell of Charles's sweat, tasting his mouth, marking his neck. Eating him out, for god's sake. It's juvenile and he despises himself for his lack of maturity, but Erik's stomach twists pleasantly at Charles's every glance his way, unfriendly though they are.
Charles probably despises him by this point. Nevertheless, one final shock to his system will put an end to things one way or another.
When Erik knocks at Charles's door that evening, there is no immediate answer. He steps in without waiting for one - the less time given Charles to back out of this confrontation, the better.
He finds his friend in an armchair by the fire, fingers to his forehead. He's almost amused. "Checking to make sure it wasn't me, Charles?"
Charles starts. Could it be that he hasn't heard the door? "Oh, Erik. No, I'm sorry." He shakes his head, frowning. "I have a great deal on my mind at the moment. Do you mind if we - "
Erik laughs mirthlessly. "Charles, my friend, I do mind quite a bit if we significant pause. I assume you were going to go on with, 'do this at another time'? No, we will not."
Something in Charles's face hardens, the twist of his lip indicating disgust, then despair. The former Erik saw enough of in the camps. The latter is a pleasant bonus on the faces of those he's killed, something he anticipates savoring in Shaw's eyes when the time comes, but Charles does not deserve it.
"I would rather not go down this road with you, my friend," Charles says softly. His voice wavers.
"I'm sure you would rather not suffer from your particular affliction at all, Charles," Erik says briskly, "but you know, and I know, and you know that I know. You can't cover it up anymore. Nor can I, nor do I want to."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."
Erik sighs. "Why do you persist in denying yourself happiness? Why must you chase after women who don't interest you rather than taking the slightest risk to achieve satisfaction?"
"Satisfaction? It's disgusting!" Charles explodes. "It's unnatural, it's evil, it's against every law of man and nature - "
"Listen to yourself, you idiot - "
" - and just because you have some perverted desire for me does not mean - "
Erik hits him.
It's not intended to hurt. If he'd wanted Charles to hurt, he'd have skewered him with the poker. Still, it's a tight-fisted blow, and it knocks him down. Erik stands over him, eyeing him coldly.
"You should know by now that I can separate the personal and the professional."
Rubbing his jaw, Charles laughs dryly. "Hardly."
"It was meant to be a joke."
"Of course it was." Charles winces, extending his hand. "Help me up?"
Erik sighs. He supposes he might as well. Some of the tension has dissipated. "Don't think we're done talking about this," he warns, pulling Charles to his feet.
And, oh, that's where the tension went - into the inch of space between their bodies. Erik wonders distantly as his skin tingles if Charles feels it, too. Charles's eyes have gone wide, but perhaps that's disgust again.
"You know," Erik says, not quite listening to what he's saying, focusing instead on the height difference, the possibilities of leaning down, burying his fingers in Charles's hair, devouring him like a fucking animal, "you know, you're talking about me when you say those things."
Charles's lips part, then press tight. "Yes, I, I suppose I've come to realize that. That. Yes." He coughs. "You, er, thought things, I heard them, I sup- yes. Yes you did." He pauses, eyes darting away, back, away. "Should I apologize? Should I - "
"Never apologize, Charles, haven't we been over this?" He doesn't want to think about Raven right now, but - "Mutant and proud? Et cetera?" His fingers twitch and, without thinking, he reaches out and strokes Charles's wrist. Just briefly, he thinks, surely that's all right.
"Not apologize about that." Is he closer? Erik swears that they weren't touching a moment ago. "Have you forgotten what we were talking about? My, ah, my gaffes. I wasn't talking about you, I was talking about - "
"Yes, yes," Erik says distractedly. "I know you're queer." He's having thoughts. He wonders if Charles can read them. Shit, he feels like a teenager, cock twitching at the sight of Charles licking his lips. He thinks of Moira in her underwear.
"I'm not supposed to feel this, you know," Charles murmurs. Erik's eyes almost roll back in his head at the feel of Charles's breath on the corner of his mouth. Fuck. He's half-hard and they haven't kissed, have barely touched -
He throws the plan out the window, twists his fingers in Charles's hair, and pulls his head back hard. He wants so desperately to bite Charles's neck so everyone will see it tomorrow, but instead he pulls his friend up, eyes flickering between his eyes and his lips.
"Don't you ever use those words again," he whispers, "all right? You let it go. You let it go with me right now because you know how much better this will be. Fuck your hangups, Charles, or are you too scared to take what you want?"
With a gasp, Charles leans up on his toes and kisses him, lips like a brand, shy tongue snaking between his lips. Erik's unleashed a monster, he knows as he parts his lips desperately, because Charles's tongue is fucking his mouth fast and hard and speaking of hard -
Charles's hand slips down between them to stroke himself through his pants, whimpering into Erik's mouth. Erik's never seen him like this, panting and unhinged, but he wants to see more. He grabs Charles's wrist and backs him up against the wall, pinning his arms above his head.
"Now," he says, and he'll admit to breathing hard but his voice certainly did not break, "I know I said 'take what you want,' but - "
And all words are gone as Charles cants his hips forward, pressing his hardness to Erik's, whose eyes fly open as Charles's slip closed. Whimpering, Charles grinds against him, straining to move his arms.
Time to use that poker, then, Erik thinks dazedly, and lifts it, twists it, pins Charles to the wall. "Stop doing that," he grunts, "stop it or I'll - damnit, Charles!"
"S-stop me, then," Charles manages, with a shaky grin. "Oh god, please try to stop me. What else - " He cries out as Erik rips his shirt open.
"What was that?"
"What else is in your head?"
"Here," Erik tells him, "I'll show you," and kisses him hard, bites the corner of his mouth, and sucks on the tip of his tongue, back to play again, thank god. His nails are too long as he scratches his way slowly down Charles's pale chest, jerking helplessly against Charles's leg as Charles howls into his mouth. The boy's a screamer; he should have known.
"Erik, I - " want you to - a flash of them sprawled on the couch, Charles's bed, pushed against the wall, fucking ravenously, Charles wailing and clawing at his back as Erik drives into him -
"You're going to make me come, you bastard," Erik gasps, ripping off Charles's tie and fumbling at his pants, pushing them down around his arse and fisting him hurriedly. All he's got is precum and he uses it as judiciously as he can manage, high on the smell of Charles's hair and the taste of his sweat. He bites Charles's neck sloppily and listens in a fog as Charles whispers his name.
"Please, Erik, let me touch you. Erik, please. Let me touch - please - please - "
"Maybe next time," he gasps. "You do - want there to be a next time - "
"Yesss. God, Erik, god!"
He can't take it anymore, unzips his pants and takes them both in hand, knees buckling at the heat of Charles, stripping them both fast and tight. There's no time for elegance. Next time -
"Next time I'll fuck you, Charles, is that what you want?" he moans.
"Yesss - " And Charles comes, shaking against Erik's neck; the heat of him and the tiny whimpers he's making are enough, and Erik's disgusted in the back of his mind that they're coming at the same time, it's unnecessarily romantic, but Charles is gasping against his neck, "Yes" and yes! in his ear and in his mind, and he shakes and bites Charles's lip and goes limp.
"Oh," he hears. "God."
Smiling, he shakes his head. "No . . . " he murmurs. "It's just us."
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Charles/Erik
Warnings: Homophobia.
Summary: Charles is closeted and self-loathing; Erik persuades him that gay sex is boneriffic. Bonus historical football inaccuracy.
A/N: For this prompt at 1stclass_kink .
--
Erik Lensherr is, in his own way, exceptionally brilliant. He can't explain fission, but he can explain people. He knows that they are generally foolish, narcissistic, and evil. In the past he's wondered at the fact that Charles didn't see this and chalked it up to the idealistic tendencies of the wealthy Christian man, but lately he's beginning to feel he doesn't have the whole picture.
Charles is exceptionally paranoid about touch, for one. Not from women, mind you, and often he'll give a polite pat on the shoulder to Hank or Sean if they happen to master some task or another. But the instant a man reaches for Charles, he flinches. Erik had at first been surprised at Charles's rudeness after the submarine rescue, but he'd quickly learned that it was only typical; that sort of prolonged physical contact made him uneasy.
It's also worth noting that Charles is, politically speaking, not particularly revolutionary. Yes, he wants equality and the participation of mutants in the human world; yes, he wants understanding; but any talk of civil rights theory in general makes him crawl. Erik calls him on it, telling him it's hypocritical, and Charles brushes him off with, "It's not entirely relevant, although I suppose I see your point; can't we conclude this chat tomorrow?" They don't speak for days.
And, of course, Charles is a homophobe. They both see touches exchanged between Armando and Alex, and Charles sees the good sense to stay out of it, but the instant the telepath sees Hank eyeing Alex, he sequesters the young man for A Talk. Erik's fondest hope is that Charles didn't meddle in his mind, but he can't be certain one way or another; Charles certainly did not come out of that meeting with a smile on his face.
Erik chooses deliberately not to make assumptions about Charles, because like it or not Charles has helped him, but the way Charles shrinks away from reassuring touches and whispers that so-and-so on the street is a damn punk combined with his pompous pretentions at heterosexuality make Erik bristle. Perhaps the conclusion is best drawn, he thinks: Charles is like him.
Like him, except a self-righteous, hypocritical, self-loathing prick who's never been smart enough to get what he truly wants.
All right, maybe Erik is bitter. Maybe he's slightly invested. If he's going to work with these people - which he's still not entirely certain is the best plan - he's going to fuck who he wants to fuck. He's had more than enough of hiding in his life, and he's had more than enough brilliant sex. In the arse. With men.
Further, if Charles is going to work with him, he's going to have to smarten up. Fortunately, Erik has a plan. He always has a plan.
The next time Charles uses the word faggot in company, while everyone else is chuckling with some discomfort, Erik thinks very loudly about his arse. Charles colors and clears his throat, folds his arms and walks on. Raven looks at Erik, confused; his poker face is impeccable.
When Charles tries again - "Couldn't even beat Germany in the last Cup, what a lot of fairies" - Erik lets his hand rest in the crook of Charles's arm. Charles is too surprised to shake it off, and Erik stays put for half a minute despite the others' stares. He's surprised Charles hasn't started to vibrate; he doesn't need to be a telepath to know how uncomfortable he's making the man.
Regardless, he's comfortable being the bastard. He has to admit that he's curious, too. He needs to know where this curious blind spot came from, this rotten patch of self-loathing in Charles's psyche. Perhaps he hasn't had enough of himself ripped away to treasure what's left over and what's reclaimed. But Erik can't have that. He's too important. To the plan, that is.
Charles glares at him over dinner. He's not masking his thoughts particularly well. Things are leaking. He had a dream last night, Charles's pretty (very pretty, damn it) face twisting in ecstasy. He woke up this morning thinking - loudly, he worries - about the smell of Charles's sweat, tasting his mouth, marking his neck. Eating him out, for god's sake. It's juvenile and he despises himself for his lack of maturity, but Erik's stomach twists pleasantly at Charles's every glance his way, unfriendly though they are.
Charles probably despises him by this point. Nevertheless, one final shock to his system will put an end to things one way or another.
When Erik knocks at Charles's door that evening, there is no immediate answer. He steps in without waiting for one - the less time given Charles to back out of this confrontation, the better.
He finds his friend in an armchair by the fire, fingers to his forehead. He's almost amused. "Checking to make sure it wasn't me, Charles?"
Charles starts. Could it be that he hasn't heard the door? "Oh, Erik. No, I'm sorry." He shakes his head, frowning. "I have a great deal on my mind at the moment. Do you mind if we - "
Erik laughs mirthlessly. "Charles, my friend, I do mind quite a bit if we significant pause. I assume you were going to go on with, 'do this at another time'? No, we will not."
Something in Charles's face hardens, the twist of his lip indicating disgust, then despair. The former Erik saw enough of in the camps. The latter is a pleasant bonus on the faces of those he's killed, something he anticipates savoring in Shaw's eyes when the time comes, but Charles does not deserve it.
"I would rather not go down this road with you, my friend," Charles says softly. His voice wavers.
"I'm sure you would rather not suffer from your particular affliction at all, Charles," Erik says briskly, "but you know, and I know, and you know that I know. You can't cover it up anymore. Nor can I, nor do I want to."
"I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."
Erik sighs. "Why do you persist in denying yourself happiness? Why must you chase after women who don't interest you rather than taking the slightest risk to achieve satisfaction?"
"Satisfaction? It's disgusting!" Charles explodes. "It's unnatural, it's evil, it's against every law of man and nature - "
"Listen to yourself, you idiot - "
" - and just because you have some perverted desire for me does not mean - "
Erik hits him.
It's not intended to hurt. If he'd wanted Charles to hurt, he'd have skewered him with the poker. Still, it's a tight-fisted blow, and it knocks him down. Erik stands over him, eyeing him coldly.
"You should know by now that I can separate the personal and the professional."
Rubbing his jaw, Charles laughs dryly. "Hardly."
"It was meant to be a joke."
"Of course it was." Charles winces, extending his hand. "Help me up?"
Erik sighs. He supposes he might as well. Some of the tension has dissipated. "Don't think we're done talking about this," he warns, pulling Charles to his feet.
And, oh, that's where the tension went - into the inch of space between their bodies. Erik wonders distantly as his skin tingles if Charles feels it, too. Charles's eyes have gone wide, but perhaps that's disgust again.
"You know," Erik says, not quite listening to what he's saying, focusing instead on the height difference, the possibilities of leaning down, burying his fingers in Charles's hair, devouring him like a fucking animal, "you know, you're talking about me when you say those things."
Charles's lips part, then press tight. "Yes, I, I suppose I've come to realize that. That. Yes." He coughs. "You, er, thought things, I heard them, I sup- yes. Yes you did." He pauses, eyes darting away, back, away. "Should I apologize? Should I - "
"Never apologize, Charles, haven't we been over this?" He doesn't want to think about Raven right now, but - "Mutant and proud? Et cetera?" His fingers twitch and, without thinking, he reaches out and strokes Charles's wrist. Just briefly, he thinks, surely that's all right.
"Not apologize about that." Is he closer? Erik swears that they weren't touching a moment ago. "Have you forgotten what we were talking about? My, ah, my gaffes. I wasn't talking about you, I was talking about - "
"Yes, yes," Erik says distractedly. "I know you're queer." He's having thoughts. He wonders if Charles can read them. Shit, he feels like a teenager, cock twitching at the sight of Charles licking his lips. He thinks of Moira in her underwear.
"I'm not supposed to feel this, you know," Charles murmurs. Erik's eyes almost roll back in his head at the feel of Charles's breath on the corner of his mouth. Fuck. He's half-hard and they haven't kissed, have barely touched -
He throws the plan out the window, twists his fingers in Charles's hair, and pulls his head back hard. He wants so desperately to bite Charles's neck so everyone will see it tomorrow, but instead he pulls his friend up, eyes flickering between his eyes and his lips.
"Don't you ever use those words again," he whispers, "all right? You let it go. You let it go with me right now because you know how much better this will be. Fuck your hangups, Charles, or are you too scared to take what you want?"
With a gasp, Charles leans up on his toes and kisses him, lips like a brand, shy tongue snaking between his lips. Erik's unleashed a monster, he knows as he parts his lips desperately, because Charles's tongue is fucking his mouth fast and hard and speaking of hard -
Charles's hand slips down between them to stroke himself through his pants, whimpering into Erik's mouth. Erik's never seen him like this, panting and unhinged, but he wants to see more. He grabs Charles's wrist and backs him up against the wall, pinning his arms above his head.
"Now," he says, and he'll admit to breathing hard but his voice certainly did not break, "I know I said 'take what you want,' but - "
And all words are gone as Charles cants his hips forward, pressing his hardness to Erik's, whose eyes fly open as Charles's slip closed. Whimpering, Charles grinds against him, straining to move his arms.
Time to use that poker, then, Erik thinks dazedly, and lifts it, twists it, pins Charles to the wall. "Stop doing that," he grunts, "stop it or I'll - damnit, Charles!"
"S-stop me, then," Charles manages, with a shaky grin. "Oh god, please try to stop me. What else - " He cries out as Erik rips his shirt open.
"What was that?"
"What else is in your head?"
"Here," Erik tells him, "I'll show you," and kisses him hard, bites the corner of his mouth, and sucks on the tip of his tongue, back to play again, thank god. His nails are too long as he scratches his way slowly down Charles's pale chest, jerking helplessly against Charles's leg as Charles howls into his mouth. The boy's a screamer; he should have known.
"Erik, I - " want you to - a flash of them sprawled on the couch, Charles's bed, pushed against the wall, fucking ravenously, Charles wailing and clawing at his back as Erik drives into him -
"You're going to make me come, you bastard," Erik gasps, ripping off Charles's tie and fumbling at his pants, pushing them down around his arse and fisting him hurriedly. All he's got is precum and he uses it as judiciously as he can manage, high on the smell of Charles's hair and the taste of his sweat. He bites Charles's neck sloppily and listens in a fog as Charles whispers his name.
"Please, Erik, let me touch you. Erik, please. Let me touch - please - please - "
"Maybe next time," he gasps. "You do - want there to be a next time - "
"Yesss. God, Erik, god!"
He can't take it anymore, unzips his pants and takes them both in hand, knees buckling at the heat of Charles, stripping them both fast and tight. There's no time for elegance. Next time -
"Next time I'll fuck you, Charles, is that what you want?" he moans.
"Yesss - " And Charles comes, shaking against Erik's neck; the heat of him and the tiny whimpers he's making are enough, and Erik's disgusted in the back of his mind that they're coming at the same time, it's unnecessarily romantic, but Charles is gasping against his neck, "Yes" and yes! in his ear and in his mind, and he shakes and bites Charles's lip and goes limp.
"Oh," he hears. "God."
Smiling, he shakes his head. "No . . . " he murmurs. "It's just us."