Fic: Construct
Title: Construct
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: For the deleted scene.
Warnings: Crossdressing, flagrant abuse of telepathic powers.
Word Count: 1715
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: There were downsides to being one of the strongest telepaths in the world.
AN: Written for aeon_entwined who wanted something related to the deleted scene.
There were downsides to being one of the strongest telepaths in the world. Some of which Charles hadn't even realised weren't normal to start with. It wasn't until he was well into adolescence that he'd learned other people's subconscious minds tended to be less persistent - and vindictive. Also, they tended to stay inside people's heads.
It's three in the morning, and Charles knows perfectly well that the Erik leaning against his dresser is not, in fact, the real Erik. The outfit would have given it away, if nothing else. Which is exactly the same one he'd offered as a demonstration to Angel. The dress still looks ridiculous on him, that had been the point at the time, something sparkly, something delicate. The sequins don't suit him at all. Though Charles thinks that Erik is managing to pull it off with the sort of commanding magnificence that he does everything else. The hair is not making it easy on him though.
"My brain at three in the morning has a lot to answer for," Charles mutters to the world at large.
"How on earth did you think up the outfit anyway?" Erik is looking at him, from beneath that ridiculous fringe, mouth canted up at the edge in a way that says 'amusement,' and 'flirtation,' which is all he needs at three in the morning. Giving him lipstick may have been taking the whole thing too far.
"It was an example, for Angel. It was for her benefit entirely."
"Really?" Erik's dubious expression fits far too well on the construct. He's altogether too solid, and too real for Charles's liking, especially when he knows damn well that the real Erik is prowling around downstairs.
The boots make their way across his bedroom, and Charles knows he's only imagining - only forcing himself to imagine - the soft thuds, and the faint squeak of leather. It doesn't make it any less real, of course. His brain really is too clever for its own good sometimes.
Erik finally stops, leans against the edge of the bed, and crosses his ankles. The boots squeak again, skirt pulling tight in ways it was never designed to.
"You look ridiculous." Charles swallows around the catch in his throat. Erik's still smiling, but Charles will not be unnerved by constructs of his own making. No matter how convincing they are.
"Do you want to touch me?" Erik makes it sound far too casual. When Charles's reaction to it is anything but. Erik has that ability to make everything sound like the start of an interrogation. Enjoyment optional, and very much at Erik's discretion.
"No," Charles says, and feels rather proud of himself for it.
"Because you can, if you want to. I am very handsome, even in - what is this - sparkling, sky blue?" Erik frowns. "You have hideous taste Charles."
"I don't want to touch you."
"Liar." Erik tips his head forward, until his eyes are almost invisible beneath the fringe.
"I may be, a little, fascinated by you, distracted is perhaps a better term. But I don't -" He stumbles to a stop, because Erik has almost casually hiked the hem of the dress an inch higher. "Stop it," Charles says.
The hem stops, and the look Erik throws him is almost offended.
"You're the one that put me in a mini-dress. It's only fair that I be allowed to explore the situation. And stockings, really? I think we need to have a conversation in real life."
Charles decides not to answer that, on the grounds that he's already incriminated. He turns over in bed, and stares at the wall instead.
"You know that won't help."
Charles pulls a pillow over his head. Though he can still feel the sigh, and the faint jump of the bed when another body settles on it. The pillow's tugged away, tossed across the room. Usually his fantasies are more cooperative.
"At the very most this is masturbation," Erik says. Which Charles thinks is supposed to make him feel better.
"Will you please shut up."
Erik laughs, very quietly and then pulls on his arm, all wiry strength and unfair size advantage - which certainly isn't fair, considering he's very much currently a part of Charles's head.
"This will be much easier if you stop fighting, Charles."
Erik's smile is very close in the dark, and far too familiar, and Charles curses, repeatedly, before looping a hand round the back of his neck and pulling. He knows he's taken a step off the slippery slope. He knows it the second before he pushes Erik's mouth open. There's a sweep of hair across the back of his hand. Erik doesn't stop smiling, and he tastes like lipstick. Charles indulges in his own fantasy - he's grown far too used to doing that - for a long minute, before pulling away.
Erik - not Erik - tuts at him.
"You know as well as I do that he wouldn't mind you taking a few liberties."
"I believe he would mind the dress, and the lipstick, and the rather lurid intentions I'm currently having towards you - him." Very lurid.
Erik's fingers - and they feel far, far too real - catch his wrist, and pull his hand over. He slides it between his thighs with all the purpose of a man going to war.
"Erik, for the love of God -"
"You didn't construct me any underwear," Erik says.
Charles's hand has some sort of seizure, thumb suddenly discovering where stocking top becomes bare thigh, fingers tightening. He should let go, he should let go at once, and stop this before it becomes something he's going to have considerable trouble rationalising to himself later.
"Not helping," he manages to choke out, but for all his good intentions there is nothing he wants quite as much as to slide his hand all the way up, and confirm what he already knows.
"So do it then."
Charles squeezes as hard as he dares. "Get out of my brain."
"I am your brain, well, parts of it."
There's entirely too much of the real Erik laced through the body next to him, and it's playing hell with Charles's sense of right and wrong. He wants to refuse, or argue the point further. But instead he's pushing the dress, with its ridiculous sequins, and unsupportive back straps, up Erik's thighs; it's that more than anything else which assures him that this has gone much too far, and is in terrible danger of going further.
Erik has a hand in his hair, drawing his head down, and his voice is warm where it rushes against his face.
"If you want to shove the dress to my waist, and fuck me right here, no one will ever know, Charles."
The noise Charles makes is involuntary, deep in his throat and almost painful. He pins Erik - Erik's construct - still.
"I'll know - and God, you seriously underestimate Erik's suspicion and persistence."
There's another smile beneath him, and a strand of auburn hair is laid across Erik's cheek, shoulders looking oddly delicate where the straps dig through them. Charles touches them, can't help but touch them, palms sliding round the curves, thumbs trailing the muscle of his upper arms.
"Would he be offended do you think? Amused? Angry? Aroused?" Erik asks.
Possibly all of them, Charles thinks. The complexities of his own power, the shifting edges of how it can be used. What it does to questions about real, and not real. He's had to make most of the rules up as he goes along. Though he knows very well he's about to break one of them.
"Spread your legs," he says, instead of answering.
He watches the hem of the skirt pull tight, then slide up, the way it stutters up the tops of Erik's thighs and exposes him - already hard, viscerally, challengingly real - and Charles has to move his hands, has to shove it up the rest of the way, and drag his thighs open.
"This is your fault." He slides himself between, and Erik's skin is warm where it clutches - squeezes his own. The chill of leather boots at his hip, and the curve of his back.
Charles kisses him again, because he can, shoves the fringe out of his face and kisses him like he's wanted to for weeks, with little care for finesse, or niceties. Dirty, messy, and it's good, it's so very good - teeth catch at his chin, and his hands clench in the sparkly material of Erik's dress.
One of the straps tears, and Charles doesn't care. He tugs the dress down low enough to get his mouth around a nipple, which gets him a grunt, and a tightening of thighs, a soft, filthy laugh. The chances of him being able to stop this are sliding to nothing, and Erik has sharp fingers in his hair, nails dragging across his scalp. He wants so very, very badly to -
"I'm a construct," Erik reminds him. "You can do whatever you want." Charles swears and fights with his own conscience for a single, brief, painful moment. Before he's shoving his boxer shorts out of the way, tilting Erik's hips and there's no way he should be slick and stretched already - but Charles's brain has already proven it's capable of plotting his downfall.
He fits them together, in one rough push. Erik snarls, and it's such a beautiful noise. So very Erik, that Charles is deep before he means to be, aggressive, greedy. Caught somewhere between real and fantasy.
Charles shoves the dress higher, gets a grip on Erik's narrow waist, watches the fallen straps of it loosen and catch on Erik's arms, in a way that is so impossibly filthy he's not sure what to do with it.
Erik's still talking, rough, dirty things, things Charles has never admitted to anyone, words cut into pieces by the pushes of Charles's hips. It's too much.
Dear God.
Everything breaks.
Charles finds himself staring at the ceiling. The sheets are damp, and his brain feels like it's been pummelled. It also feels guilty, horribly, impossibly guilty, in a way that still feels a lot like arousal.
Definitely downsides
.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: For the deleted scene.
Warnings: Crossdressing, flagrant abuse of telepathic powers.
Word Count: 1715
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: There were downsides to being one of the strongest telepaths in the world.
AN: Written for aeon_entwined who wanted something related to the deleted scene.
There were downsides to being one of the strongest telepaths in the world. Some of which Charles hadn't even realised weren't normal to start with. It wasn't until he was well into adolescence that he'd learned other people's subconscious minds tended to be less persistent - and vindictive. Also, they tended to stay inside people's heads.
It's three in the morning, and Charles knows perfectly well that the Erik leaning against his dresser is not, in fact, the real Erik. The outfit would have given it away, if nothing else. Which is exactly the same one he'd offered as a demonstration to Angel. The dress still looks ridiculous on him, that had been the point at the time, something sparkly, something delicate. The sequins don't suit him at all. Though Charles thinks that Erik is managing to pull it off with the sort of commanding magnificence that he does everything else. The hair is not making it easy on him though.
"My brain at three in the morning has a lot to answer for," Charles mutters to the world at large.
"How on earth did you think up the outfit anyway?" Erik is looking at him, from beneath that ridiculous fringe, mouth canted up at the edge in a way that says 'amusement,' and 'flirtation,' which is all he needs at three in the morning. Giving him lipstick may have been taking the whole thing too far.
"It was an example, for Angel. It was for her benefit entirely."
"Really?" Erik's dubious expression fits far too well on the construct. He's altogether too solid, and too real for Charles's liking, especially when he knows damn well that the real Erik is prowling around downstairs.
The boots make their way across his bedroom, and Charles knows he's only imagining - only forcing himself to imagine - the soft thuds, and the faint squeak of leather. It doesn't make it any less real, of course. His brain really is too clever for its own good sometimes.
Erik finally stops, leans against the edge of the bed, and crosses his ankles. The boots squeak again, skirt pulling tight in ways it was never designed to.
"You look ridiculous." Charles swallows around the catch in his throat. Erik's still smiling, but Charles will not be unnerved by constructs of his own making. No matter how convincing they are.
"Do you want to touch me?" Erik makes it sound far too casual. When Charles's reaction to it is anything but. Erik has that ability to make everything sound like the start of an interrogation. Enjoyment optional, and very much at Erik's discretion.
"No," Charles says, and feels rather proud of himself for it.
"Because you can, if you want to. I am very handsome, even in - what is this - sparkling, sky blue?" Erik frowns. "You have hideous taste Charles."
"I don't want to touch you."
"Liar." Erik tips his head forward, until his eyes are almost invisible beneath the fringe.
"I may be, a little, fascinated by you, distracted is perhaps a better term. But I don't -" He stumbles to a stop, because Erik has almost casually hiked the hem of the dress an inch higher. "Stop it," Charles says.
The hem stops, and the look Erik throws him is almost offended.
"You're the one that put me in a mini-dress. It's only fair that I be allowed to explore the situation. And stockings, really? I think we need to have a conversation in real life."
Charles decides not to answer that, on the grounds that he's already incriminated. He turns over in bed, and stares at the wall instead.
"You know that won't help."
Charles pulls a pillow over his head. Though he can still feel the sigh, and the faint jump of the bed when another body settles on it. The pillow's tugged away, tossed across the room. Usually his fantasies are more cooperative.
"At the very most this is masturbation," Erik says. Which Charles thinks is supposed to make him feel better.
"Will you please shut up."
Erik laughs, very quietly and then pulls on his arm, all wiry strength and unfair size advantage - which certainly isn't fair, considering he's very much currently a part of Charles's head.
"This will be much easier if you stop fighting, Charles."
Erik's smile is very close in the dark, and far too familiar, and Charles curses, repeatedly, before looping a hand round the back of his neck and pulling. He knows he's taken a step off the slippery slope. He knows it the second before he pushes Erik's mouth open. There's a sweep of hair across the back of his hand. Erik doesn't stop smiling, and he tastes like lipstick. Charles indulges in his own fantasy - he's grown far too used to doing that - for a long minute, before pulling away.
Erik - not Erik - tuts at him.
"You know as well as I do that he wouldn't mind you taking a few liberties."
"I believe he would mind the dress, and the lipstick, and the rather lurid intentions I'm currently having towards you - him." Very lurid.
Erik's fingers - and they feel far, far too real - catch his wrist, and pull his hand over. He slides it between his thighs with all the purpose of a man going to war.
"Erik, for the love of God -"
"You didn't construct me any underwear," Erik says.
Charles's hand has some sort of seizure, thumb suddenly discovering where stocking top becomes bare thigh, fingers tightening. He should let go, he should let go at once, and stop this before it becomes something he's going to have considerable trouble rationalising to himself later.
"Not helping," he manages to choke out, but for all his good intentions there is nothing he wants quite as much as to slide his hand all the way up, and confirm what he already knows.
"So do it then."
Charles squeezes as hard as he dares. "Get out of my brain."
"I am your brain, well, parts of it."
There's entirely too much of the real Erik laced through the body next to him, and it's playing hell with Charles's sense of right and wrong. He wants to refuse, or argue the point further. But instead he's pushing the dress, with its ridiculous sequins, and unsupportive back straps, up Erik's thighs; it's that more than anything else which assures him that this has gone much too far, and is in terrible danger of going further.
Erik has a hand in his hair, drawing his head down, and his voice is warm where it rushes against his face.
"If you want to shove the dress to my waist, and fuck me right here, no one will ever know, Charles."
The noise Charles makes is involuntary, deep in his throat and almost painful. He pins Erik - Erik's construct - still.
"I'll know - and God, you seriously underestimate Erik's suspicion and persistence."
There's another smile beneath him, and a strand of auburn hair is laid across Erik's cheek, shoulders looking oddly delicate where the straps dig through them. Charles touches them, can't help but touch them, palms sliding round the curves, thumbs trailing the muscle of his upper arms.
"Would he be offended do you think? Amused? Angry? Aroused?" Erik asks.
Possibly all of them, Charles thinks. The complexities of his own power, the shifting edges of how it can be used. What it does to questions about real, and not real. He's had to make most of the rules up as he goes along. Though he knows very well he's about to break one of them.
"Spread your legs," he says, instead of answering.
He watches the hem of the skirt pull tight, then slide up, the way it stutters up the tops of Erik's thighs and exposes him - already hard, viscerally, challengingly real - and Charles has to move his hands, has to shove it up the rest of the way, and drag his thighs open.
"This is your fault." He slides himself between, and Erik's skin is warm where it clutches - squeezes his own. The chill of leather boots at his hip, and the curve of his back.
Charles kisses him again, because he can, shoves the fringe out of his face and kisses him like he's wanted to for weeks, with little care for finesse, or niceties. Dirty, messy, and it's good, it's so very good - teeth catch at his chin, and his hands clench in the sparkly material of Erik's dress.
One of the straps tears, and Charles doesn't care. He tugs the dress down low enough to get his mouth around a nipple, which gets him a grunt, and a tightening of thighs, a soft, filthy laugh. The chances of him being able to stop this are sliding to nothing, and Erik has sharp fingers in his hair, nails dragging across his scalp. He wants so very, very badly to -
"I'm a construct," Erik reminds him. "You can do whatever you want." Charles swears and fights with his own conscience for a single, brief, painful moment. Before he's shoving his boxer shorts out of the way, tilting Erik's hips and there's no way he should be slick and stretched already - but Charles's brain has already proven it's capable of plotting his downfall.
He fits them together, in one rough push. Erik snarls, and it's such a beautiful noise. So very Erik, that Charles is deep before he means to be, aggressive, greedy. Caught somewhere between real and fantasy.
Charles shoves the dress higher, gets a grip on Erik's narrow waist, watches the fallen straps of it loosen and catch on Erik's arms, in a way that is so impossibly filthy he's not sure what to do with it.
Erik's still talking, rough, dirty things, things Charles has never admitted to anyone, words cut into pieces by the pushes of Charles's hips. It's too much.
Dear God.
Everything breaks.
Charles finds himself staring at the ceiling. The sheets are damp, and his brain feels like it's been pummelled. It also feels guilty, horribly, impossibly guilty, in a way that still feels a lot like arousal.
Definitely downsides
.