Not That Kind of Guy
Title: Oh Gods, Why Is This So Good of the
'Verse: Bad Things
Fandom: X-Men: First Class, Shame
Rating: R
Pairing: Charles/Erik, Charles/Logan; past Erik/Magda, Alex/Erik, Erik/Raven
Summary: Anticipationwantneedlust. It's not something he can control.
Warnings: mentions wanking in public places, violence, past infidelity, pain play, and comments mildly mocking Sexaholics Anonymous.
Previous Bits: one, two,
When he gets home, Erik swears off sex. Promises that he isn’t going to rut against pretty uni boys with pretty blue eyes in gritty bathrooms and he’s not going to get the shit beat out of him but surly boyfriends. He isn’t going to close the door to his office mid-day and sink low in his chair and beat off to thoughts of Moira’s cleavage and her low slung skirt. No more pitstops to the third floor copy room with Alex. And definitely no more pressing down on yellow-green bruises until he’s coming with his vision blacking out. No more porno mags. No more internet porn. No more wanking. No sex. Period.
Three day later, he’s pressing himself into a pretty young blonde with pretty green eyes and forgetting all about his sabbatical.
He’s not even close to being sated when she’s begging please, Mr Lehnsherr get up get off too much it’s too much but he slips out of her and rolls onto his back and staring at the ceiling because he’s not that kind of guy. He can’t be. It would only serve to make Emma and Janos right and they can’t be; Erik’s nothing like those low life’s in the SAA meetings that they brought him to, Emma saying this is where you need to be sugar because Erik is not and never will be controlled by sex. His life does not revolve around getting off.
So it’s a wonder to him that he thinks why why why what the fuck am i doing here, long after the girl - Robin? Raven? Rachel?- is gone.
And it’s a wonder to him when those thoughts turn to those particularly masochistic and self loathing ones he tries to avoid throughout the day. He thinks back to Magda and her round brown eyes and curly red-brown hair and her swollen-round belly and all encompassing smile and her musical laughter and the ring on her finger. The ring that he put there. The promise that he made and broke twelve times over.
It’s when these thoughts cloud his mind, that Erik wishes it was different. That she was still here in his bed in Manchester, warming it, rather than in some arse-ended place in Europe with some fucker touching his babies, loving them, and getting called dad.
He sits up and stretches. Takes a deep breath and turns on the lamp with one hand as he reaches to his bed side drawer with the other. He pulls out the short stack a paper. He runs his fingers over the edges of a particularly worn picture. He looks at the faces of his two children smiling and rosy cheeked. Wanda’s in a beanie that looks like a lion and Pietro’s face is painted to look like Spiderman’s. It sets a small smile on his face.
He shifts through the papers and pictures to find their latest letters. Something sad stirs in his chest when notices that Wanda’s spelling is getting better and Pietro is writing in cursive.
He gathers all he papers together and slides them back into the drawer and closes his eyes. He hiccups out something that’s a mix between a sob and and a gasp. He bites down on his lip and curls in on himself. And thinks to himself this isn’t right this isn’t i want my babies back why why why the fuck is wrong of me until he doesn’t know if he’s dreaming or if he never fell asleep in the first place.
Next Bits: four, five