Fic: An Evening’s Rapture (X-Men: First Class, R)
title: An Evening’s Rapture
author: ilovetakahana
word count: approx. 1030
fandom: X-Men: First Class [movieverse]
characters: Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr
rating: R
notes: Inspired by the work of the amazing Keio, whose sketches of the Evening - a/k/a Erik as a tengu, watching over Charles the young lord in his mountain retreat - have been magnificent (not to mention incendiary). This particular portrait was such rocket fuel for me, honestly.
PWP, watching someone sleep, holding hands, kimono - these are just a few of my favorite things.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/.
He may cross the young lord’s threshold with his usual silence - but his eyes, and the rustle of his feathers, must give away his agitation. The moon is high in the sky, yin essence washing the mountain and its slopes in cold silvery light. It is late, and he has spent hours arbitrating a dispute between two families of badger spirits, and now only one light is left in the young lord’s home, in his little study: the guttering candle in its lamp casting both feeble light and wavering shadow over the low writing table.
A few feet away, almost completely lost in the deep night settling over the room, is a heap of silk and sleeves. The young lord breathes gently, slowly, curled into himself, wrapped up in an extra robe that serves him for a blanket. His dark hair in its soft curls is barely visible against the mats.
The Evening dispels his wings with a thought. Now he can sit down easily, next to the desk, close enough to touch.
He thinks perhaps he should be distressed by the strange, nameless feeling that makes him settle on his knees next to the sleeper. That gentleness that stays his hand, even as he pulls away the material covering the young lord’s face - distant scent of pine trees and ash and musk that fills up his senses - revealing closed eyes, soft mouth hanging open just a little, red lips shaping every near-silent breath. Dark eyelashes like a fan of shadows over skin paler than the cold moon. Shapely hands, loosely closed - one still clutching the material of his own sleeve, the other wedged lightly beneath his cheek.
The young lord spends his days writing poetry - he has a definite talent for it, when he writes about the seasons, the conventional images somehow coming to life in his hands, concealing truth and wit in every verse. Decisive and graceful penmanship, brushstrokes full of intent. Blue ink against rough paper, staining his fingers.
The Evening reaches out, then, and takes the hand wrapped loosely in silk.
The young lord reacts slowly, sweetly sleep-muddled: fingers tightening, a pull that is as inexorable as it is gentle - the Evening must follow its motion, must fall toward him, inevitable - down, crashing softly together, a stolen breath of a kiss.
When the Evening opens his eyes the young lord is smiling at him, just barely awake. “I’m sorry,” is the quiet whisper. “I should have stayed awake to wait for you.”
The fault is his, the Evening knows that, and just as he draws breath to disabuse the young lord of his silly notions he’s being hauled back in, and this time the kiss is a demand.
Well, this is more enjoyable than a conversation.
He takes over the kiss and the young lord sighs permission into his mouth, permission he doesn’t need, and the kiss is rough now: the Evening holds him in place with one hand around his throat and the other digging into his shoulder, pushing aside layers of silk to seize the softer skin beneath. He plunders the young lord’s mouth again and again, proprietary sweep of tongue against teeth, drinking him in. He sets a deliberate pace, and before long he can feel the pulse in the young lord’s blood, rapid beat against his fingertips, and he savors his need with a smile that he brands into every further kiss.
“Oh,” the young lord murmurs, “please,” when he lets him draw a breath.
There is no point in resisting that, the Evening thinks, not when it’s been offered so beautifully, and he pushes the young lord’s robes off his shoulders, pooling around them both - he bears him down into the smooth material, kisses and nips at his mouth possessively - almost enough to draw blood and a soft cry, and when he sucks ink-dark bruises into his white throat the young lord keens near-silent encouragement, hands skittering up and down the Evening’s arms, desperately clinging.
This time he twists nimbly, moves the young lord up and over to straddle him, so he can look up and in the shadows and pale light he misses the strange, clear blue of those eyes, but he can see how dark they are - overtaken with desire.
“Feel that,” the Evening whispers, and holds him firmly by the hips, down into his need, and he gets such a lovely groan in response, the young lord completely lost in him now, riding him, broken cries falling from his lips. In the next instant he strips them both, skin to skin and sweet scent and sweat, and he doesn’t know whose groan it is that falls into the space between them, hazy shadow of want, of joining.
He does recognize the quiet cries spilling from the young lord’s mouth - he comes so undone so easily; he’s so beautifully responsive, and the Evening has kept him waiting long enough.
“Say you want me, beautiful one,” the Evening growls, fiercely.
The young lord’s eyes fly open, and the Evening catches his breath at the promise in them, at the pure beauty and power of him. “Yes, I want you. Now and always.”
Inevitable. Perfect.
The Evening bows to his - their - fate.
He puts the young lord on his back, kisses him hungrily - the young lord keens and arches up into him, frantically, and there is just enough time to prepare him, and at last the Evening presses into him, sweet agony of coming together, and he swallows the young lord’s triumphant cry in a deep, biting kiss.
“Please, please,” the young lord cries, and faster and faster they move, struggling together, overpowering white-hot pleasure, until there’s nothing else but the slide of their bodies, until the Evening is all but blinded by it, until the young lord’s voice is all he knows, until the world and the moon flees away and there is nothing but them.
After, the Evening submits to the young lord’s touch, lets him pull in close, puts his hands in dark, sweat-tangled hair.
“Stay,” the young lord murmurs.
The Evening does.
author: ilovetakahana
word count: approx. 1030
fandom: X-Men: First Class [movieverse]
characters: Charles Xavier, Erik Lehnsherr
rating: R
notes: Inspired by the work of the amazing Keio, whose sketches of the Evening - a/k/a Erik as a tengu, watching over Charles the young lord in his mountain retreat - have been magnificent (not to mention incendiary). This particular portrait was such rocket fuel for me, honestly.
PWP, watching someone sleep, holding hands, kimono - these are just a few of my favorite things.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/.
He may cross the young lord’s threshold with his usual silence - but his eyes, and the rustle of his feathers, must give away his agitation. The moon is high in the sky, yin essence washing the mountain and its slopes in cold silvery light. It is late, and he has spent hours arbitrating a dispute between two families of badger spirits, and now only one light is left in the young lord’s home, in his little study: the guttering candle in its lamp casting both feeble light and wavering shadow over the low writing table.
A few feet away, almost completely lost in the deep night settling over the room, is a heap of silk and sleeves. The young lord breathes gently, slowly, curled into himself, wrapped up in an extra robe that serves him for a blanket. His dark hair in its soft curls is barely visible against the mats.
The Evening dispels his wings with a thought. Now he can sit down easily, next to the desk, close enough to touch.
He thinks perhaps he should be distressed by the strange, nameless feeling that makes him settle on his knees next to the sleeper. That gentleness that stays his hand, even as he pulls away the material covering the young lord’s face - distant scent of pine trees and ash and musk that fills up his senses - revealing closed eyes, soft mouth hanging open just a little, red lips shaping every near-silent breath. Dark eyelashes like a fan of shadows over skin paler than the cold moon. Shapely hands, loosely closed - one still clutching the material of his own sleeve, the other wedged lightly beneath his cheek.
The young lord spends his days writing poetry - he has a definite talent for it, when he writes about the seasons, the conventional images somehow coming to life in his hands, concealing truth and wit in every verse. Decisive and graceful penmanship, brushstrokes full of intent. Blue ink against rough paper, staining his fingers.
The Evening reaches out, then, and takes the hand wrapped loosely in silk.
The young lord reacts slowly, sweetly sleep-muddled: fingers tightening, a pull that is as inexorable as it is gentle - the Evening must follow its motion, must fall toward him, inevitable - down, crashing softly together, a stolen breath of a kiss.
When the Evening opens his eyes the young lord is smiling at him, just barely awake. “I’m sorry,” is the quiet whisper. “I should have stayed awake to wait for you.”
The fault is his, the Evening knows that, and just as he draws breath to disabuse the young lord of his silly notions he’s being hauled back in, and this time the kiss is a demand.
Well, this is more enjoyable than a conversation.
He takes over the kiss and the young lord sighs permission into his mouth, permission he doesn’t need, and the kiss is rough now: the Evening holds him in place with one hand around his throat and the other digging into his shoulder, pushing aside layers of silk to seize the softer skin beneath. He plunders the young lord’s mouth again and again, proprietary sweep of tongue against teeth, drinking him in. He sets a deliberate pace, and before long he can feel the pulse in the young lord’s blood, rapid beat against his fingertips, and he savors his need with a smile that he brands into every further kiss.
“Oh,” the young lord murmurs, “please,” when he lets him draw a breath.
There is no point in resisting that, the Evening thinks, not when it’s been offered so beautifully, and he pushes the young lord’s robes off his shoulders, pooling around them both - he bears him down into the smooth material, kisses and nips at his mouth possessively - almost enough to draw blood and a soft cry, and when he sucks ink-dark bruises into his white throat the young lord keens near-silent encouragement, hands skittering up and down the Evening’s arms, desperately clinging.
This time he twists nimbly, moves the young lord up and over to straddle him, so he can look up and in the shadows and pale light he misses the strange, clear blue of those eyes, but he can see how dark they are - overtaken with desire.
“Feel that,” the Evening whispers, and holds him firmly by the hips, down into his need, and he gets such a lovely groan in response, the young lord completely lost in him now, riding him, broken cries falling from his lips. In the next instant he strips them both, skin to skin and sweet scent and sweat, and he doesn’t know whose groan it is that falls into the space between them, hazy shadow of want, of joining.
He does recognize the quiet cries spilling from the young lord’s mouth - he comes so undone so easily; he’s so beautifully responsive, and the Evening has kept him waiting long enough.
“Say you want me, beautiful one,” the Evening growls, fiercely.
The young lord’s eyes fly open, and the Evening catches his breath at the promise in them, at the pure beauty and power of him. “Yes, I want you. Now and always.”
Inevitable. Perfect.
The Evening bows to his - their - fate.
He puts the young lord on his back, kisses him hungrily - the young lord keens and arches up into him, frantically, and there is just enough time to prepare him, and at last the Evening presses into him, sweet agony of coming together, and he swallows the young lord’s triumphant cry in a deep, biting kiss.
“Please, please,” the young lord cries, and faster and faster they move, struggling together, overpowering white-hot pleasure, until there’s nothing else but the slide of their bodies, until the Evening is all but blinded by it, until the young lord’s voice is all he knows, until the world and the moon flees away and there is nothing but them.
After, the Evening submits to the young lord’s touch, lets him pull in close, puts his hands in dark, sweat-tangled hair.
“Stay,” the young lord murmurs.
The Evening does.