First fanfic in... SEVEN years?
Title: Training Sessions
Author: loonylupinlover
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5386
Characters: Charles/Erik
Warnings: Pretty fluffy stuff all around. Innocent metal objects may be destroyed.
Summary: In which tea is spit out, zippers are mutilated, and sex with mutant powers is awesome.
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Charles has been fumbling with the knowledge of Erik’s growing feelings for some time now. Even when he doesn’t, with permission, enter Erik’s mind specifically, he still gets flashes and half-formed thoughts that intrude into his own. Sometimes it’s a muddle of emotion so involved that Charles is sure Erik hasn’t a hope of naming those feelings, let alone understanding them. Charles can name them, though: the surprise and confusion at this, Erik’s first real friendship; the new feeling of respect, of pride between equals; cherishing the friendly, easy way Charles’ hand moves to Erik’s back or shoulder; I’m not alone; gratitude at being understood for all of his horrors. He aches for Erik, and for the way his mind is so focused in some respects, so messy and shadowed and painful in others. The other man’s emotions are so strong they shout in Charles’ mind, but aside from rage and hatred, he knows these emotions are largely unknown to Erik, barricaded in his subconscious to prevent vulnerability. The ache in Charles’ chest - wishing he could heal the wrongs that have been done to his friend - grows every time he gets a wave of accidental feeling from Erik.
And then there are the other feelings, the ones that are easier to name. Furtive snippets of lips colliding, of Erik imagining his hands on Charles’ chest, on his belt buckle. Flashes of Erik alone in his bedroom at the manor, masturbating furiously amidst confusion and thoughts of Charles. An urgent want mixed with awkward hints of love and shameful nervousness and What the hell am I thinking? There’s a constant struggle underneath these feelings, where Charles can tell Erik is trying, and failing, to ignore them.
Charles has been struggling, too, receiving these thoughts at often inopportune times. The first time nearly caused him to spit out his tea, when Erik came downstairs for breakfast and started bustling about with eggs and toast. Something in the set of his shoulders, higher than normal, and a slight flush in his cheeks gave Charles pause. He hadn’t wanted to pry, of course, respecting his friend’s boundaries. But then an embarrassed thought, the sort that the person frantically tries to avoid thinking, came bounding his way: Erik a few moments earlier, beneath his sheets, stroking himself and hissing Charles, Charles through his teeth. There was a garbled image of Charles nude - obviously Erik had only a vague idea of what Charles might look like without his clothes - on his knees, with Erik’s cock deep in his throat and his own blue eyes staring back up into Erik’s.
That was when Charles almost spit out his tea; he made a noise somewhere between a choke and a nervous laugh and only managed to keep the tea from spraying everywhere by half snorting it up his nose. He coughed and swallowed, horribly aware that he was starting to blush.
Erik quickly turned away from his omelet, the motion a little too fast to be entirely natural. He stared at Charles, his mouth set in a concerned line. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Charles picked up a napkin and wiped at the bit of tea that was trying to come out his nose. “Sorry - tea too hot,” he said.
Erik’s concerned look only deepened. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead turned hurriedly back to his eggs, which were now smoking. Did he see that? Did he hear me? Erik worried, loudly enough for the thought to carry easily to Charles. Charles threw down his napkin, got to his feet, and left the room without saying goodbye.
Since that morning Charles has been wary. Because until that point he had been content to regard Erik as a friend, an equal, a brother; he knew, from the moment he dove into the water, that Erik was special, and not just by virtue of being a fellow mutant. He knew then that the bond between himself and Erik could become deeper than any either had previously experienced. He hadn’t thought, though, that that bond would include… fucking.
But since getting those first snippets from Erik, he’s been able to think of little else.
He’s starting to be kept up at night by it. He thinks of Erik, all hard and lean in the jut of his jaw, the lines of his body, the way he moves with such power. He imagines Erik beneath him, his head thrown back against Charles’ pillows, his dark hair mussed from his writhing and from Charles’ fingers. His breath catches at the thought of being between each other’s legs, at feeling his cock in Erik’s hands, Erik’s mouth, Erik’s arse -
He usually can’t last any longer than that thought.
But he doesn’t know what to do about it. He’s a bit startled at his reaction to Erik’s thoughts; having always chased women in the past, he feels a certain detached curiosity about the way he feels about Erik’s smile. He’s all right with that, though; years of telepathy have taught him that it’s perfectly acceptable to be surprised by oneself, and men having feelings for other men is hardly the most surprising thing he’s come across in his study of human minds. He’s more concerned about what would happen if he and Erik did become lovers. He knows Erik’s fractured emotions constitute a psychological minefield, and he worries about what could happen if he ventured into loving Erik and said or did
something wrong. He fears that if he made a misstep with Erik in that way he could shut off the other man’s emotions completely, keep him from ever being able to access his own goodness. Charles does not want that on his conscience.
And yet, he keeps receiving images from Erik. Erik’s confusion is beginning to lessen, overtaken by a growing comfort in Charles’ presence. As a result, Erik’s fantasies are beginning to take wilder turns, turns that leave Charles pink-cheeked and averting his eyes, hoping Erik will not notice. Erik, for his part, goes suddenly shy at those moments, or takes the opportunity to wander off, and Charles is left feeling awkwardly aroused.
The younger mutants are growing more and more skilled in their powers, and it is after a particularly good session of encouraging Hank to release his full speed and strength that Charles moves on to his training session with Erik. Erik is waiting for him by the old greenhouse, and seeing him standing there, Charles quickens his steps. Erik sees him coming and his face cracks into one of those rare, enormous grins that show entirely too much teeth. Charles feels a hopeless, happy sort of leap somewhere in his chest at the sight, and smiles back nearly as broadly.
“Ready for today’s work?” Charles asks, keeping his tones easy. “Hank has just done a marvelous series of gymnastics, quite astonishing. You’ll have to concentrate to beat his efforts for the day.”
Erik’s grin fades a little into a look of determination. “I’m always ready to work. So what do you have for me today?”
“There’s a lot of interesting metal to work with in this greenhouse, if I recall,” says Charles. “I thought for today we’d work on control, and finesse: seeing if you can handle multiple types of metal, multiple sizes and objects, at once. I want to see what you can do with them. I know you can do very well with a few things at a time. But I want to see you try something more complicated.”
He turns to the door of the greenhouse, which is locked. He shoots a look back at Erik. “If you wouldn’t mind…”
The other man gives a flick of his fingers, and the lock falls off the door. Charles opens it and gestures for Erik to come inside.
The greenhouse had fallen into disrepair in Charles’ absence, though the manor had remained well-maintained. As a child he remembered hiding here on more than one occasion during nights where he wanted to try and drown out the voices. Being among the rich greenery and the blooming plants had soothed him, even when he couldn’t shut out the voices completely.
Now the plants are long since browned and shriveled. But all around them is the detritus of a well-stocked greenhouse: row upon row of filigreed iron racks for the plants, hoes, spades, trowels, and miscellaneous tools for odd jobs, like hammers and nails. Rusted mowers and rototillers lean against the wall, covered with dust.
“It’s a charming place, Charles,” says Erik, one eyebrow rising.
“Yes, it’s fallen into a bit of a state, hasn’t it? But I thought this was a good environment for you to practice in. After all, nobody’s going to mind if these things get destroyed.”
“I don’t intend to destroy them.”
“Good. Then we’ll be able to practice in here multiple times if we wish.” He turns to the other man, smiling a little. “I'd like you to build me something."
He looks taken aback. “I thought I was just going to move things. I’m no architect.”
Charles’ smile grows, taking in the way Erik stands there, a raw energy in the way he holds himself. Charles quickly squashes the thought of the other man’s body, though, and says, “It doesn’t matter. I’d simply like to see what you can come up with, utilizing as many of these objects here as you can. Take them apart if you will but I want you to put something together if you can.”
Erik’s face slips into a look of intense focus. Charles feels a thrill at the way the other man’s lips tighten, at the rough way he thrusts his hands out before him, the fingers straining to manipulate the metal. The noise of creaking, pulling metal clatters before them. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could sense the magnetic fields the way that Erik could, and that he could feel the way they bent and dipped and wavered under Erik’s power. It would be so easy to slip into Erik’s mind, wrap his own consciousness in his, feel the thrum of the fields… But he has no particularly good reason to ask Erik for that, it wouldn’t change anything about his training, and so he does not ask. It is just that he is fascinated by the powers shown by his fellow mutants, and fascinated by Erik in particular. He continues to watch the other man, marveling a little at the way Erik’s tongue slips out from between his lips in concentration, the sweat that is starting to bead his forehead, the way his fingers tremble -
Erik’s look of concentration falters and he turns to Charles, hands still outstretched. “Is this what you were after?” he asks, hands wavering.
With a start Charles realizes that he has been staring at Erik the entire time, instead of looking at what Erik was trying to do. He tears his gaze from Erik’s face and looks to see what Erik is doing.
Three of the hoes are levitating before them, caught in Erik’s grasp. They are bent, impossibly, into smooth curves, and joined to each other at multiple points to make a sort of revolving sphere. Fine spindles circumscribe the whole, remnants from the old rakes in the corner. In the center of the sphere a small constellation of nails, tacks and screws swirl gently, all of them buffeted on Erik’s power. Around the outside of the sphere is a delicate dance of what Charles thinks are trowels, though it’s hard to tell as Erik seems to have reformed them into clumsy globes. Charles claps Erik on the shoulder.
“I like it,” he says. “Sort of a miniature planetarium, isn’t it?”
Abruptly the little sculpture falls to the ground with a smash. Charles’ hand, still on Erik’s shoulder, squeezes it reflexively. Erik sighs. “I thought that would be easier than it was, since I didn’t try to use anything large. But it was surprisingly difficult to keep track of everything.” Charles nods sympathetically.
He is caught, then, with another burst of feeling from Erik. He has forgotten to remove his hand from Erik’s shoulder and Erik is glad for that, glad for the weight of his hand and the closeness of the rest of him. He sees himself through Erik’s eyes - short, pale, red-lipped and dark-haired - and feels with a jolt the other man’s affection, the other man’s desire. Charles had always considered himself a ladies’ man by virtue more of his intelligence than his looks, but realizes that to Erik, both are an exciting prospect.
He can’t help himself. He moves closer to Erik, their sides touching, and moves his hand so that he now has an arm around the other man. Erik breathes in sharply.
What am I doing, Charles wonders, but before he is halfway through the thought Erik looks quickly at him, his piercing eyes asking the same question.
Charles opens his mouth to speak, but instead settles for lowering his arm back down to his side and stepping away from Erik. He swallows.
“Charles,” says Erik, and it is in a tone of voice he has never heard Erik use before. It is low, almost throbbing. His chest rises and falls, heavily. “Charles, I -“ He stops himself and bites his lip, and there is a powerful wave of an image of frantic, clumsy fucking intertwined with embarrassment, with fear, with anger -
Charles feels the ache in his chest more keenly than ever. This is stupid, he thinks savagely, enough is enough. He takes a deep breath and looks directly into Erik’s eyes.
“I don’t enter your mind without permission, Erik. But I think you need to know something. When people think things that they feel very strongly around me, I tend to receive them, even when I don’t mean to. And -“ Here is where he hesitates. “I’ve been receiving things from you that I really don’t think you meant me to see.”
A dull flush rises in Erik’s cheeks. His eyes look shuttered, suddenly, closed off. “I apologize,” he says roughly. “I don’t mean to think those… those kinds of things.” He averts his gaze. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…“
Erik's hands are twitching. Metal is starting to dance around them. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles sees multiple tools on the ground vibrating, bucking against the ground. The smaller pieces are up in the air, quivering.
“The thing is, Erik, that I’ve been thinking much the same thing,” Charles says in a rush, and with that he raises his hand to his temple and sends Erik the image that had kept him tossing and turning all night: Erik on top of him, rough kisses, his hands in Charles’ hair, their cocks rubbing against each other, both of them writhing, rutting, sweating, grunting…
Charles feels his watch, his cufflinks, his belt buckle hum just a split second before something slams him into the wall, pinning him a few inches off the ground, his arms flung outward and his feet dangling. Erik is still a few feet away but he is charging to Charles, one hand out and trembling, his face locked into that desperate look of concentration. He reaches Charles and, shaking, catches his mouth in a hard kiss, a searching, needing kiss that leaves them both breathless. Around them the iron shelving groans and jitters, vibrating before the filigrees on the shelves start to unravel. Erik lowers his hand, panting, and Charles feels the release of the metal, and hears the shelves drop back onto the ground as he slides back to the ground himself. He stands against the wall, letting what has just happened sink in.
Erik’s breath is still ragged. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he says, staring with dilated pupils. He takes a step back from Charles and runs a hand through his hair. “I thought there was something wrong with me.”
“I was afraid,” says Charles honestly. “And I’m sorry for that. It’s a rather new feeling for me as well.” He steps forward to narrow the gap between them again. He can feel the heat of Erik’s body, the fierceness of his gaze, the thrum of the magnetism brimming beneath his skin. “But I’m not sorry for this,” he says, reaching up to pull Erik’s face back down to his. This kiss is almost languid, full, rich, and slow, and Charles takes in just how hot Erik’s mouth is, how wet and perfect, how those lips feel on his own. He imagines how they might feel elsewhere and groans, a long low sound. Erik’s arms wrap around him and Charles leans into the embrace, into Erik, and feels a hardness below Erik’s belt that mirrors his own.
Charles feels that barely perceptible hum again on his belt buckle and on the zipper of his pants. He pulls away with a smirk, looking into Erik’s smoldering eyes, noticing with satisfaction the way his lips are parted and moist. “Perhaps we should go inside for that, my friend,” says Charles silkily. “After all, these walls are made of glass. We wouldn’t want to frighten the children.”
The humming ceases, and Erik’s face breaks into a wicked grin. “Perhaps you’re right. Go on then. Lead the way.” He crooks a finger and the greenhouse door springs open.
Charles is having entirely too much fun.
He laughs at how, in Erik’s haste, he pulls at Charles’ belt and zipper with his power, willing so hard that he rips them right off the trousers . Charles is delighted at the way Erik moans at his slightest touch, at the filthy things that pour from his mouth in French, German, Polish as Charles keeps his own mouth busy. He loves the way Erik’s large hands feel, holding him down against the bed. He adores the way Erik’s facial expressions ricochet from agony to raging lust to a surprising tenderness. He cannot get enough of the kisses, the biting, the licking, the sucking. Erik is alternately clumsily gentle and aggressively fierce, a byproduct of limited experience in the physical and no experience in the emotionally intimate. It’s all right. Charles loves it. Charles loves him.
Erik is on top of him for now, though they keep switching around, each trying to climb on top of the other as they grind like teenagers. He’s clutching at Charles, trying to hold onto him as if Charles would leave him, as if that would ever happen. Charles reaches down between their legs and takes hold of Erik; Erik responds with a gasp, lowering his head to the crook between Charles’ neck and shoulder, kissing him there hard.
“Erik,” Charles growls, surprised for a moment at how guttural he sounds. “Erik, I want to try something.”
“What?” Erik bites out, groaning at the way Charles tugs at him. “God - how I’ve wanted…” He lets out a string of French curses, his voice unbearably smooth and menacing and fuck, Charles wants him.
“We’re both holding back,” Charles says into Erik’s ear, punctuating the sentence with a slide of his tongue all the way to Erik’s throat. Erik is now completely unintelligible, growling into Charles’ skin. “I want to see what you can do,” Charles says. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll show you what I can do for us.” He lifts his hand but avoids actually touching his temple until he gets Erik’s answer. Erik’s hips grind against his and he shudders.
“Yes, yes,” Erik groans. “Please, Charles -“
Charles nearly comes at the way Erik says his name, but holds back with difficulty. He reaches out to Erik’s mind and Erik, shaking on top of him, lets him in.
Charles savors the connection, marveling as always at the intricacies of the mind. Erik’s is more complicated than most, between his innate intelligence, his traumas, and his desire to wall off anything that could be painful. Charles makes sure to hold himself back, keep himself from sharing too much; he fears it could be damaging. He slides in between Erik’s walls and finds the area that’s lit up like a cityscape, the area that’s confined to here and now and this bed and Charles. He probes it and feeds his own arousal into it, flooding Erik’s mind with images of all the fantasies he’s collected and created since he first knew Erik wanted him.
It’s quite the catalogue and Erik is reeling at the images, his mind drunk on lust. His jaw is slack and he stares into a space somewhere above Charles’ head, and Charles allows himself a small grin at how thoroughly he’s fucking Erik’s mind.
He eases back slightly, giving Erik an opportunity to remember that Charles is really under him. He still has that punch-drunk, almost drowning look as he lowers his mouth to kiss Charles, moaning. Erik’s sounds and the feel of his mind overrun with desire feed Charles’ arousal, and he sends that back through the connection, building it until he’s quivering and Erik is grinding against him with his eyes screwed shut and he’s arching up against Erik’s belly and clawing at his back. But he wants this to last, and he keeps both of them just at the edge, preventing them from the rush of orgasm. He still needs something.
Erik, Charles says into his mind, and Erik forces himself to open his eyes and look at Charles, drawing slow, aching breaths in through his half-open mouth. Erik, remember, I want to see what you can do.
Erik nods, but cannot say anything, nearly paralyzed by the rush of Charles' lust in his head. His eyes are wide, his face half locked in an expression of unbearable pleasure. He looks down at his hands on the crisp linen sheets, and Charles follows his gaze to watch Erik’s fingers stretch out, then curl into the sheets. As they do, Charles feels the way Erik can just read the magnetism around him, how metal sparks and sings for Erik, how Erik feels the fields surrounding the bed frame, the lamp, the nightstand, the mirror. He realizes that in this moment, with all senses heightened, Erik can even sense the heme in their blood. It astonishes him. He watches Erik’s fingers twisting in the sheets as their hips buck against each other, and the bed starts to rattle.
Charles watches in fascination, awash in so many sensations: the thrill of Erik’s body against his, his own pounding blood, his own thrusting need. Erik’s feelings, too, are laid bare to him, want this, fuck, Charles please yes. And then the magnetism, the swirling of the fields he can’t imagine on his own but that seem so clear in Erik’s mind: he loves that as Erik’s hands clench harder on the sheets, the bed starts shaking, harder. Metal groans and out of the corner of his eye he sees the metal headboard unravel, then start tying itself in knots, Erik’s gift seemingly turning the hard brass into liquid. He feels Erik reaching, feels the mirror shifting, then shattering with a crash; the lamp melting and rolling itself into a ball; small things like the buttons on his jacket soar into the air after being ripped from the cloth.
It’s almost as if Charles can control the magnetic fields as well, and he thinks, if he lost control and took over Erik, that he could. But he doesn’t. Instead he shudders to feel Erik’s gift from the inside, to know that it’s his actions doing this to Erik, and he keeps feeding that excitement back into the other man’s mind.
Erik is frantic, kissing Charles hard, his hands clawing at the bed. The window frame shudders and Erik only just barely keeps the glass from shattering there as well. His long, fine fingers scrabble at the sheets and the bed gives a mighty jolt, then collapses entirely in a whine of tearing metal. Charles braces himself for the thump of their bodies hitting the ground but then realizes Erik has found something new, and he thrills to feel Erik’s wonder:
They’re floating. In his haze of mental fucking and physical sensation Erik’s not sure how he’s done it, and Charles isn’t sure either, having been distracted by everything else, but for a moment they stop and just sit there, arms and legs tangled, above the devastation of the bed, floating in the air like Charles’ buttons.
“Well, Erik, that’s certainly impressive,” Charles says, letting his pleasure and pride feed back into Erik. Erik gives him one of those crocodile grins and Charles reduces the strength of their mental connection, giving Erik enough focus back to speak coherently.
“Don’t know how - how I did that,” Erik says, still grinning and panting. He experiments, lifting one hand to raise them close to the ceiling, then lowering it and watching with delight as they gently sink towards the floor. It is a peculiar sensation, but exciting, too, feeling the warm air of the room on every inch of their skin, feeling unsupported but safe in Erik’s grasp.
“Stop here,” Charles says before they reach the floor. “I’d like to stay up here, if you think you can manage it.”
“I think so, for now,” Erik says. “But I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to maintain it. Especially with you --” He nips Charles’ shoulder affectionately, then moves in for a kiss, tugging at Charles’ lips. “In my head.” He shivers. “Come back to me, Charles,” he says quietly, resting his forehead against Charles’.
Charles doesn’t need any more persuasion than that. He’s back in Erik’s head, bridging the gap between their psyches. Erik sighs into Charles’ mouth, his mind wide open, and Charles is nearly overwhelmed by the amount of trust this wounded man has placed in him. He decides to push a bit further.
“Erik,” he says, his voice dripping with his desire. He sends him an image that sets Erik squirming: himself between Erik’s legs, slick fingers sliding in and out of Erik’s opening, sliding himself deep into Erik, bent over Erik’s strong, muscled back. Should I fuck you? he asks, as if it’s a rhetorical question, and he feels Erik’s want burning, white-hot, in his consciousness.
Erik answers by grabbing Charles’ hand and sliding his fingers between his lips, curling his wet tongue over them, scraping them with his teeth, setting Charles panting at the sensation. Erik’s lust is doubling at the projection of Charles’ feelings, and he rips his hand from Erik’s mouth to slide it down between his legs.
Erik hisses at the first finger, then slowly begins to move in time with Charles’ thrusts. Charles kisses Erik softly at first, and then hard and rough, tearing into him as his mind sends Erik image after lewd, frantic image. A second finger joins the first, and Charles drinks in the sounds Erik is making both out loud and mentally, loves the way that something this simple has Erik twisting in the air beneath him, his hands clenching in the empty space.
Charles can’t take it anymore. He spits into his hand and coats himself, then reaches out to Erik’s shoulders. Can you turn --? Erik kisses him harshly, then flips so that his front is facing the ground. He feels Erik’s concentration at holding them both aloft, the way Erik manipulates the fields so Charles is behind him, resting as if on his knees in mid-air. He leans down over Erik’s back, kissing his shoulder blades.
He enters Erik slowly, his mind almost scorching with the twin sensations of entering and being entered; Erik pants at the same feeling, rocketing back and forth between them on their connection. Erik feels so good, so fucking good, and Charles hardly knows what to do with himself, trying as he is to hold his mind back, at least a little. He’s thrusting, now, and Erik is gasping in German beneath him. The feeling of being supported in midair wavers and abruptly they drop about a foot in the air. Concentrate, Erik, Charles thinks, both teasing and encouraging him. The pressure of maintaining such concentration, combined with Charles’ images and thrusts, is driving Erik to the brink, and he writhes and clenches around Charles.
Charles’ breathing is ragged, and he’s scarcely aware of what he’s doing. He feels his control slipping away and in this state he can’t seem to recapture it: more and more of himself roars into Erik’s mind even as he thrusts harder, grabbing at Erik’s shoulders, pulling him down onto his shaft. Erik shudders and they drop another foot in the air, then jerk upward again, unsteady in the air. Charles doesn’t notice, he’s now so close, so close to what he’s wanted for so long, to what Erik’s wanted for so long; he reaches down and grabs Erik’s length, and the other man lets out a howl.
Yes, yesyesplease fuck cries Erik’s mind, and Charles is only too eager to oblige; his hand slides up and down Erik’s shaft as he slides in and out himself, and both of them reel from the other’s feelings. Charles is dimly aware of how much he is sending to Erik, how overwhelming it must be, and he can’t stop himself. A massive wave of lust and love and yes and you rolls out of him to Erik, and he gasps, “Erik, please -“ and then Erik cries out and he’s coming in Charles’ hand, hot and sticky, and Charles is coming, too, and the metal bed down below them crunches into a tangled mess before smashing into the wall, just before they hit the ground.
It takes them time to come out of the mental connection. Charles has learned that severing even a mild bond quickly can give a headache, and he’s desperate not to find out what ripping his mind out of Erik’s could do. Slowly, though, Charles eases out of Erik’s mind, trying to be gentle as they lie there in each other’s arms on the bedclothes, next to the wreckage of the bed. He severs the last thread of the bond. Erik is breathing hard, and Charles, as he catches his own breath, searches his friend’s face for signs of damage.
“Did I hurt you?” Charles asks nervously. “At the end there - I lost control of myself, of my mind. I sent you too much, I think. I hadn’t done that before.”
Erik’s eyes are wet, and for a moment, he looks frozen. Charles presses his lips to the other man’s temple. “Erik, please, tell me you’re all right.”
Slowly, Erik nods. He seems dizzy, though, and his eyes are still too bright, and Charles is kicking himself for getting out of hand. He cups Erik’s jaw in one hand and Erik forces a faint grin, shaking his head as if to clear it.
“I’m fine, Charles,” he says, and his voice is raspy. “You didn’t hurt me,” he says, but he frowns as he says it. “Or rather, it didn’t hurt until you left.”
Relieved, Charles pulls him into a closer embrace. “My friend,” he says gently, “I can’t stay in your mind forever. You would go mad. I could never do that to you.” He kisses Erik’s neck, tasting the sweat there.
Erik laughs, hesitantly at first, then more strongly. “It’s really all right,” he says. “It’s just - well - that was very intense.” He trails his fingers over Charles’ chest. “I have to wonder how I made us fly,” he chuckles. “I can’t figure it out, now.”
“Now that you’ve done it once, I’m sure you’ll be able to replicate it,” Charles says, smoothing Erik’s hair possessively. An unbearable fondness is rising inside of him. He curls into Erik’s chest.
“Will you come back?” Erik asks, his voice soft as he gestures to his head. “At least, now and then?”
“I’ll come back, Erik. As long as you want me there with you,” says Charles, and he means it more than anything else he’s ever said.
He doesn’t have to be able to read minds to feel Erik’s I’ll always want you with me. It’s in the way he’s holding Charles, the way their heads rest together. Charles smiles.
It’s been a fantastic day for training.
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Author's note:
So um. It's been kind of a helluva long time since I wrote any fanfic, or even read any. But X-Men: First Class just totally fucked my shit up and I have been hardcore shipping Charles and Erik (AKA Professor Xavier and Magneto). Today has been kind of amazing because I have spent the last TWELVE HOURS on the computer, I'm not even shitting you. I read a shit-ton of fic, reblogged a shit-ton of X-Men crap on tumblr, and I wrote a 10 page NC-17 slashfic. I'M NOT EVEN A SLASHER WHAT THE HELL. I've never written smut before. WTF, this day is bananas.
But I am posting this and then I am FINALLY GETTING OFF THE COMPUTER AND TAKING A SHOWER AND DOING LAUNDRY. GODDAMN hahahaha.
So if you read this, PLEASE PLEASE give me feedback. I had no beta and my eyes are crossed from staring at the screen so I apologize if bits get repetitive. And again, first slashfic let alone first pr0n, so, I apologize if I'm bad at this.
We shall see.
Author: loonylupinlover
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5386
Characters: Charles/Erik
Warnings: Pretty fluffy stuff all around. Innocent metal objects may be destroyed.
Summary: In which tea is spit out, zippers are mutilated, and sex with mutant powers is awesome.
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Charles has been fumbling with the knowledge of Erik’s growing feelings for some time now. Even when he doesn’t, with permission, enter Erik’s mind specifically, he still gets flashes and half-formed thoughts that intrude into his own. Sometimes it’s a muddle of emotion so involved that Charles is sure Erik hasn’t a hope of naming those feelings, let alone understanding them. Charles can name them, though: the surprise and confusion at this, Erik’s first real friendship; the new feeling of respect, of pride between equals; cherishing the friendly, easy way Charles’ hand moves to Erik’s back or shoulder; I’m not alone; gratitude at being understood for all of his horrors. He aches for Erik, and for the way his mind is so focused in some respects, so messy and shadowed and painful in others. The other man’s emotions are so strong they shout in Charles’ mind, but aside from rage and hatred, he knows these emotions are largely unknown to Erik, barricaded in his subconscious to prevent vulnerability. The ache in Charles’ chest - wishing he could heal the wrongs that have been done to his friend - grows every time he gets a wave of accidental feeling from Erik.
And then there are the other feelings, the ones that are easier to name. Furtive snippets of lips colliding, of Erik imagining his hands on Charles’ chest, on his belt buckle. Flashes of Erik alone in his bedroom at the manor, masturbating furiously amidst confusion and thoughts of Charles. An urgent want mixed with awkward hints of love and shameful nervousness and What the hell am I thinking? There’s a constant struggle underneath these feelings, where Charles can tell Erik is trying, and failing, to ignore them.
Charles has been struggling, too, receiving these thoughts at often inopportune times. The first time nearly caused him to spit out his tea, when Erik came downstairs for breakfast and started bustling about with eggs and toast. Something in the set of his shoulders, higher than normal, and a slight flush in his cheeks gave Charles pause. He hadn’t wanted to pry, of course, respecting his friend’s boundaries. But then an embarrassed thought, the sort that the person frantically tries to avoid thinking, came bounding his way: Erik a few moments earlier, beneath his sheets, stroking himself and hissing Charles, Charles through his teeth. There was a garbled image of Charles nude - obviously Erik had only a vague idea of what Charles might look like without his clothes - on his knees, with Erik’s cock deep in his throat and his own blue eyes staring back up into Erik’s.
That was when Charles almost spit out his tea; he made a noise somewhere between a choke and a nervous laugh and only managed to keep the tea from spraying everywhere by half snorting it up his nose. He coughed and swallowed, horribly aware that he was starting to blush.
Erik quickly turned away from his omelet, the motion a little too fast to be entirely natural. He stared at Charles, his mouth set in a concerned line. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Charles picked up a napkin and wiped at the bit of tea that was trying to come out his nose. “Sorry - tea too hot,” he said.
Erik’s concerned look only deepened. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead turned hurriedly back to his eggs, which were now smoking. Did he see that? Did he hear me? Erik worried, loudly enough for the thought to carry easily to Charles. Charles threw down his napkin, got to his feet, and left the room without saying goodbye.
Since that morning Charles has been wary. Because until that point he had been content to regard Erik as a friend, an equal, a brother; he knew, from the moment he dove into the water, that Erik was special, and not just by virtue of being a fellow mutant. He knew then that the bond between himself and Erik could become deeper than any either had previously experienced. He hadn’t thought, though, that that bond would include… fucking.
But since getting those first snippets from Erik, he’s been able to think of little else.
He’s starting to be kept up at night by it. He thinks of Erik, all hard and lean in the jut of his jaw, the lines of his body, the way he moves with such power. He imagines Erik beneath him, his head thrown back against Charles’ pillows, his dark hair mussed from his writhing and from Charles’ fingers. His breath catches at the thought of being between each other’s legs, at feeling his cock in Erik’s hands, Erik’s mouth, Erik’s arse -
He usually can’t last any longer than that thought.
But he doesn’t know what to do about it. He’s a bit startled at his reaction to Erik’s thoughts; having always chased women in the past, he feels a certain detached curiosity about the way he feels about Erik’s smile. He’s all right with that, though; years of telepathy have taught him that it’s perfectly acceptable to be surprised by oneself, and men having feelings for other men is hardly the most surprising thing he’s come across in his study of human minds. He’s more concerned about what would happen if he and Erik did become lovers. He knows Erik’s fractured emotions constitute a psychological minefield, and he worries about what could happen if he ventured into loving Erik and said or did
something wrong. He fears that if he made a misstep with Erik in that way he could shut off the other man’s emotions completely, keep him from ever being able to access his own goodness. Charles does not want that on his conscience.
And yet, he keeps receiving images from Erik. Erik’s confusion is beginning to lessen, overtaken by a growing comfort in Charles’ presence. As a result, Erik’s fantasies are beginning to take wilder turns, turns that leave Charles pink-cheeked and averting his eyes, hoping Erik will not notice. Erik, for his part, goes suddenly shy at those moments, or takes the opportunity to wander off, and Charles is left feeling awkwardly aroused.
The younger mutants are growing more and more skilled in their powers, and it is after a particularly good session of encouraging Hank to release his full speed and strength that Charles moves on to his training session with Erik. Erik is waiting for him by the old greenhouse, and seeing him standing there, Charles quickens his steps. Erik sees him coming and his face cracks into one of those rare, enormous grins that show entirely too much teeth. Charles feels a hopeless, happy sort of leap somewhere in his chest at the sight, and smiles back nearly as broadly.
“Ready for today’s work?” Charles asks, keeping his tones easy. “Hank has just done a marvelous series of gymnastics, quite astonishing. You’ll have to concentrate to beat his efforts for the day.”
Erik’s grin fades a little into a look of determination. “I’m always ready to work. So what do you have for me today?”
“There’s a lot of interesting metal to work with in this greenhouse, if I recall,” says Charles. “I thought for today we’d work on control, and finesse: seeing if you can handle multiple types of metal, multiple sizes and objects, at once. I want to see what you can do with them. I know you can do very well with a few things at a time. But I want to see you try something more complicated.”
He turns to the door of the greenhouse, which is locked. He shoots a look back at Erik. “If you wouldn’t mind…”
The other man gives a flick of his fingers, and the lock falls off the door. Charles opens it and gestures for Erik to come inside.
The greenhouse had fallen into disrepair in Charles’ absence, though the manor had remained well-maintained. As a child he remembered hiding here on more than one occasion during nights where he wanted to try and drown out the voices. Being among the rich greenery and the blooming plants had soothed him, even when he couldn’t shut out the voices completely.
Now the plants are long since browned and shriveled. But all around them is the detritus of a well-stocked greenhouse: row upon row of filigreed iron racks for the plants, hoes, spades, trowels, and miscellaneous tools for odd jobs, like hammers and nails. Rusted mowers and rototillers lean against the wall, covered with dust.
“It’s a charming place, Charles,” says Erik, one eyebrow rising.
“Yes, it’s fallen into a bit of a state, hasn’t it? But I thought this was a good environment for you to practice in. After all, nobody’s going to mind if these things get destroyed.”
“I don’t intend to destroy them.”
“Good. Then we’ll be able to practice in here multiple times if we wish.” He turns to the other man, smiling a little. “I'd like you to build me something."
He looks taken aback. “I thought I was just going to move things. I’m no architect.”
Charles’ smile grows, taking in the way Erik stands there, a raw energy in the way he holds himself. Charles quickly squashes the thought of the other man’s body, though, and says, “It doesn’t matter. I’d simply like to see what you can come up with, utilizing as many of these objects here as you can. Take them apart if you will but I want you to put something together if you can.”
Erik’s face slips into a look of intense focus. Charles feels a thrill at the way the other man’s lips tighten, at the rough way he thrusts his hands out before him, the fingers straining to manipulate the metal. The noise of creaking, pulling metal clatters before them. He wishes, not for the first time, that he could sense the magnetic fields the way that Erik could, and that he could feel the way they bent and dipped and wavered under Erik’s power. It would be so easy to slip into Erik’s mind, wrap his own consciousness in his, feel the thrum of the fields… But he has no particularly good reason to ask Erik for that, it wouldn’t change anything about his training, and so he does not ask. It is just that he is fascinated by the powers shown by his fellow mutants, and fascinated by Erik in particular. He continues to watch the other man, marveling a little at the way Erik’s tongue slips out from between his lips in concentration, the sweat that is starting to bead his forehead, the way his fingers tremble -
Erik’s look of concentration falters and he turns to Charles, hands still outstretched. “Is this what you were after?” he asks, hands wavering.
With a start Charles realizes that he has been staring at Erik the entire time, instead of looking at what Erik was trying to do. He tears his gaze from Erik’s face and looks to see what Erik is doing.
Three of the hoes are levitating before them, caught in Erik’s grasp. They are bent, impossibly, into smooth curves, and joined to each other at multiple points to make a sort of revolving sphere. Fine spindles circumscribe the whole, remnants from the old rakes in the corner. In the center of the sphere a small constellation of nails, tacks and screws swirl gently, all of them buffeted on Erik’s power. Around the outside of the sphere is a delicate dance of what Charles thinks are trowels, though it’s hard to tell as Erik seems to have reformed them into clumsy globes. Charles claps Erik on the shoulder.
“I like it,” he says. “Sort of a miniature planetarium, isn’t it?”
Abruptly the little sculpture falls to the ground with a smash. Charles’ hand, still on Erik’s shoulder, squeezes it reflexively. Erik sighs. “I thought that would be easier than it was, since I didn’t try to use anything large. But it was surprisingly difficult to keep track of everything.” Charles nods sympathetically.
He is caught, then, with another burst of feeling from Erik. He has forgotten to remove his hand from Erik’s shoulder and Erik is glad for that, glad for the weight of his hand and the closeness of the rest of him. He sees himself through Erik’s eyes - short, pale, red-lipped and dark-haired - and feels with a jolt the other man’s affection, the other man’s desire. Charles had always considered himself a ladies’ man by virtue more of his intelligence than his looks, but realizes that to Erik, both are an exciting prospect.
He can’t help himself. He moves closer to Erik, their sides touching, and moves his hand so that he now has an arm around the other man. Erik breathes in sharply.
What am I doing, Charles wonders, but before he is halfway through the thought Erik looks quickly at him, his piercing eyes asking the same question.
Charles opens his mouth to speak, but instead settles for lowering his arm back down to his side and stepping away from Erik. He swallows.
“Charles,” says Erik, and it is in a tone of voice he has never heard Erik use before. It is low, almost throbbing. His chest rises and falls, heavily. “Charles, I -“ He stops himself and bites his lip, and there is a powerful wave of an image of frantic, clumsy fucking intertwined with embarrassment, with fear, with anger -
Charles feels the ache in his chest more keenly than ever. This is stupid, he thinks savagely, enough is enough. He takes a deep breath and looks directly into Erik’s eyes.
“I don’t enter your mind without permission, Erik. But I think you need to know something. When people think things that they feel very strongly around me, I tend to receive them, even when I don’t mean to. And -“ Here is where he hesitates. “I’ve been receiving things from you that I really don’t think you meant me to see.”
A dull flush rises in Erik’s cheeks. His eyes look shuttered, suddenly, closed off. “I apologize,” he says roughly. “I don’t mean to think those… those kinds of things.” He averts his gaze. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable…“
Erik's hands are twitching. Metal is starting to dance around them. Out of the corner of his eye, Charles sees multiple tools on the ground vibrating, bucking against the ground. The smaller pieces are up in the air, quivering.
“The thing is, Erik, that I’ve been thinking much the same thing,” Charles says in a rush, and with that he raises his hand to his temple and sends Erik the image that had kept him tossing and turning all night: Erik on top of him, rough kisses, his hands in Charles’ hair, their cocks rubbing against each other, both of them writhing, rutting, sweating, grunting…
Charles feels his watch, his cufflinks, his belt buckle hum just a split second before something slams him into the wall, pinning him a few inches off the ground, his arms flung outward and his feet dangling. Erik is still a few feet away but he is charging to Charles, one hand out and trembling, his face locked into that desperate look of concentration. He reaches Charles and, shaking, catches his mouth in a hard kiss, a searching, needing kiss that leaves them both breathless. Around them the iron shelving groans and jitters, vibrating before the filigrees on the shelves start to unravel. Erik lowers his hand, panting, and Charles feels the release of the metal, and hears the shelves drop back onto the ground as he slides back to the ground himself. He stands against the wall, letting what has just happened sink in.
Erik’s breath is still ragged. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” he says, staring with dilated pupils. He takes a step back from Charles and runs a hand through his hair. “I thought there was something wrong with me.”
“I was afraid,” says Charles honestly. “And I’m sorry for that. It’s a rather new feeling for me as well.” He steps forward to narrow the gap between them again. He can feel the heat of Erik’s body, the fierceness of his gaze, the thrum of the magnetism brimming beneath his skin. “But I’m not sorry for this,” he says, reaching up to pull Erik’s face back down to his. This kiss is almost languid, full, rich, and slow, and Charles takes in just how hot Erik’s mouth is, how wet and perfect, how those lips feel on his own. He imagines how they might feel elsewhere and groans, a long low sound. Erik’s arms wrap around him and Charles leans into the embrace, into Erik, and feels a hardness below Erik’s belt that mirrors his own.
Charles feels that barely perceptible hum again on his belt buckle and on the zipper of his pants. He pulls away with a smirk, looking into Erik’s smoldering eyes, noticing with satisfaction the way his lips are parted and moist. “Perhaps we should go inside for that, my friend,” says Charles silkily. “After all, these walls are made of glass. We wouldn’t want to frighten the children.”
The humming ceases, and Erik’s face breaks into a wicked grin. “Perhaps you’re right. Go on then. Lead the way.” He crooks a finger and the greenhouse door springs open.
Charles is having entirely too much fun.
He laughs at how, in Erik’s haste, he pulls at Charles’ belt and zipper with his power, willing so hard that he rips them right off the trousers . Charles is delighted at the way Erik moans at his slightest touch, at the filthy things that pour from his mouth in French, German, Polish as Charles keeps his own mouth busy. He loves the way Erik’s large hands feel, holding him down against the bed. He adores the way Erik’s facial expressions ricochet from agony to raging lust to a surprising tenderness. He cannot get enough of the kisses, the biting, the licking, the sucking. Erik is alternately clumsily gentle and aggressively fierce, a byproduct of limited experience in the physical and no experience in the emotionally intimate. It’s all right. Charles loves it. Charles loves him.
Erik is on top of him for now, though they keep switching around, each trying to climb on top of the other as they grind like teenagers. He’s clutching at Charles, trying to hold onto him as if Charles would leave him, as if that would ever happen. Charles reaches down between their legs and takes hold of Erik; Erik responds with a gasp, lowering his head to the crook between Charles’ neck and shoulder, kissing him there hard.
“Erik,” Charles growls, surprised for a moment at how guttural he sounds. “Erik, I want to try something.”
“What?” Erik bites out, groaning at the way Charles tugs at him. “God - how I’ve wanted…” He lets out a string of French curses, his voice unbearably smooth and menacing and fuck, Charles wants him.
“We’re both holding back,” Charles says into Erik’s ear, punctuating the sentence with a slide of his tongue all the way to Erik’s throat. Erik is now completely unintelligible, growling into Charles’ skin. “I want to see what you can do,” Charles says. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll show you what I can do for us.” He lifts his hand but avoids actually touching his temple until he gets Erik’s answer. Erik’s hips grind against his and he shudders.
“Yes, yes,” Erik groans. “Please, Charles -“
Charles nearly comes at the way Erik says his name, but holds back with difficulty. He reaches out to Erik’s mind and Erik, shaking on top of him, lets him in.
Charles savors the connection, marveling as always at the intricacies of the mind. Erik’s is more complicated than most, between his innate intelligence, his traumas, and his desire to wall off anything that could be painful. Charles makes sure to hold himself back, keep himself from sharing too much; he fears it could be damaging. He slides in between Erik’s walls and finds the area that’s lit up like a cityscape, the area that’s confined to here and now and this bed and Charles. He probes it and feeds his own arousal into it, flooding Erik’s mind with images of all the fantasies he’s collected and created since he first knew Erik wanted him.
It’s quite the catalogue and Erik is reeling at the images, his mind drunk on lust. His jaw is slack and he stares into a space somewhere above Charles’ head, and Charles allows himself a small grin at how thoroughly he’s fucking Erik’s mind.
He eases back slightly, giving Erik an opportunity to remember that Charles is really under him. He still has that punch-drunk, almost drowning look as he lowers his mouth to kiss Charles, moaning. Erik’s sounds and the feel of his mind overrun with desire feed Charles’ arousal, and he sends that back through the connection, building it until he’s quivering and Erik is grinding against him with his eyes screwed shut and he’s arching up against Erik’s belly and clawing at his back. But he wants this to last, and he keeps both of them just at the edge, preventing them from the rush of orgasm. He still needs something.
Erik, Charles says into his mind, and Erik forces himself to open his eyes and look at Charles, drawing slow, aching breaths in through his half-open mouth. Erik, remember, I want to see what you can do.
Erik nods, but cannot say anything, nearly paralyzed by the rush of Charles' lust in his head. His eyes are wide, his face half locked in an expression of unbearable pleasure. He looks down at his hands on the crisp linen sheets, and Charles follows his gaze to watch Erik’s fingers stretch out, then curl into the sheets. As they do, Charles feels the way Erik can just read the magnetism around him, how metal sparks and sings for Erik, how Erik feels the fields surrounding the bed frame, the lamp, the nightstand, the mirror. He realizes that in this moment, with all senses heightened, Erik can even sense the heme in their blood. It astonishes him. He watches Erik’s fingers twisting in the sheets as their hips buck against each other, and the bed starts to rattle.
Charles watches in fascination, awash in so many sensations: the thrill of Erik’s body against his, his own pounding blood, his own thrusting need. Erik’s feelings, too, are laid bare to him, want this, fuck, Charles please yes. And then the magnetism, the swirling of the fields he can’t imagine on his own but that seem so clear in Erik’s mind: he loves that as Erik’s hands clench harder on the sheets, the bed starts shaking, harder. Metal groans and out of the corner of his eye he sees the metal headboard unravel, then start tying itself in knots, Erik’s gift seemingly turning the hard brass into liquid. He feels Erik reaching, feels the mirror shifting, then shattering with a crash; the lamp melting and rolling itself into a ball; small things like the buttons on his jacket soar into the air after being ripped from the cloth.
It’s almost as if Charles can control the magnetic fields as well, and he thinks, if he lost control and took over Erik, that he could. But he doesn’t. Instead he shudders to feel Erik’s gift from the inside, to know that it’s his actions doing this to Erik, and he keeps feeding that excitement back into the other man’s mind.
Erik is frantic, kissing Charles hard, his hands clawing at the bed. The window frame shudders and Erik only just barely keeps the glass from shattering there as well. His long, fine fingers scrabble at the sheets and the bed gives a mighty jolt, then collapses entirely in a whine of tearing metal. Charles braces himself for the thump of their bodies hitting the ground but then realizes Erik has found something new, and he thrills to feel Erik’s wonder:
They’re floating. In his haze of mental fucking and physical sensation Erik’s not sure how he’s done it, and Charles isn’t sure either, having been distracted by everything else, but for a moment they stop and just sit there, arms and legs tangled, above the devastation of the bed, floating in the air like Charles’ buttons.
“Well, Erik, that’s certainly impressive,” Charles says, letting his pleasure and pride feed back into Erik. Erik gives him one of those crocodile grins and Charles reduces the strength of their mental connection, giving Erik enough focus back to speak coherently.
“Don’t know how - how I did that,” Erik says, still grinning and panting. He experiments, lifting one hand to raise them close to the ceiling, then lowering it and watching with delight as they gently sink towards the floor. It is a peculiar sensation, but exciting, too, feeling the warm air of the room on every inch of their skin, feeling unsupported but safe in Erik’s grasp.
“Stop here,” Charles says before they reach the floor. “I’d like to stay up here, if you think you can manage it.”
“I think so, for now,” Erik says. “But I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to maintain it. Especially with you --” He nips Charles’ shoulder affectionately, then moves in for a kiss, tugging at Charles’ lips. “In my head.” He shivers. “Come back to me, Charles,” he says quietly, resting his forehead against Charles’.
Charles doesn’t need any more persuasion than that. He’s back in Erik’s head, bridging the gap between their psyches. Erik sighs into Charles’ mouth, his mind wide open, and Charles is nearly overwhelmed by the amount of trust this wounded man has placed in him. He decides to push a bit further.
“Erik,” he says, his voice dripping with his desire. He sends him an image that sets Erik squirming: himself between Erik’s legs, slick fingers sliding in and out of Erik’s opening, sliding himself deep into Erik, bent over Erik’s strong, muscled back. Should I fuck you? he asks, as if it’s a rhetorical question, and he feels Erik’s want burning, white-hot, in his consciousness.
Erik answers by grabbing Charles’ hand and sliding his fingers between his lips, curling his wet tongue over them, scraping them with his teeth, setting Charles panting at the sensation. Erik’s lust is doubling at the projection of Charles’ feelings, and he rips his hand from Erik’s mouth to slide it down between his legs.
Erik hisses at the first finger, then slowly begins to move in time with Charles’ thrusts. Charles kisses Erik softly at first, and then hard and rough, tearing into him as his mind sends Erik image after lewd, frantic image. A second finger joins the first, and Charles drinks in the sounds Erik is making both out loud and mentally, loves the way that something this simple has Erik twisting in the air beneath him, his hands clenching in the empty space.
Charles can’t take it anymore. He spits into his hand and coats himself, then reaches out to Erik’s shoulders. Can you turn --? Erik kisses him harshly, then flips so that his front is facing the ground. He feels Erik’s concentration at holding them both aloft, the way Erik manipulates the fields so Charles is behind him, resting as if on his knees in mid-air. He leans down over Erik’s back, kissing his shoulder blades.
He enters Erik slowly, his mind almost scorching with the twin sensations of entering and being entered; Erik pants at the same feeling, rocketing back and forth between them on their connection. Erik feels so good, so fucking good, and Charles hardly knows what to do with himself, trying as he is to hold his mind back, at least a little. He’s thrusting, now, and Erik is gasping in German beneath him. The feeling of being supported in midair wavers and abruptly they drop about a foot in the air. Concentrate, Erik, Charles thinks, both teasing and encouraging him. The pressure of maintaining such concentration, combined with Charles’ images and thrusts, is driving Erik to the brink, and he writhes and clenches around Charles.
Charles’ breathing is ragged, and he’s scarcely aware of what he’s doing. He feels his control slipping away and in this state he can’t seem to recapture it: more and more of himself roars into Erik’s mind even as he thrusts harder, grabbing at Erik’s shoulders, pulling him down onto his shaft. Erik shudders and they drop another foot in the air, then jerk upward again, unsteady in the air. Charles doesn’t notice, he’s now so close, so close to what he’s wanted for so long, to what Erik’s wanted for so long; he reaches down and grabs Erik’s length, and the other man lets out a howl.
Yes, yesyesplease fuck cries Erik’s mind, and Charles is only too eager to oblige; his hand slides up and down Erik’s shaft as he slides in and out himself, and both of them reel from the other’s feelings. Charles is dimly aware of how much he is sending to Erik, how overwhelming it must be, and he can’t stop himself. A massive wave of lust and love and yes and you rolls out of him to Erik, and he gasps, “Erik, please -“ and then Erik cries out and he’s coming in Charles’ hand, hot and sticky, and Charles is coming, too, and the metal bed down below them crunches into a tangled mess before smashing into the wall, just before they hit the ground.
It takes them time to come out of the mental connection. Charles has learned that severing even a mild bond quickly can give a headache, and he’s desperate not to find out what ripping his mind out of Erik’s could do. Slowly, though, Charles eases out of Erik’s mind, trying to be gentle as they lie there in each other’s arms on the bedclothes, next to the wreckage of the bed. He severs the last thread of the bond. Erik is breathing hard, and Charles, as he catches his own breath, searches his friend’s face for signs of damage.
“Did I hurt you?” Charles asks nervously. “At the end there - I lost control of myself, of my mind. I sent you too much, I think. I hadn’t done that before.”
Erik’s eyes are wet, and for a moment, he looks frozen. Charles presses his lips to the other man’s temple. “Erik, please, tell me you’re all right.”
Slowly, Erik nods. He seems dizzy, though, and his eyes are still too bright, and Charles is kicking himself for getting out of hand. He cups Erik’s jaw in one hand and Erik forces a faint grin, shaking his head as if to clear it.
“I’m fine, Charles,” he says, and his voice is raspy. “You didn’t hurt me,” he says, but he frowns as he says it. “Or rather, it didn’t hurt until you left.”
Relieved, Charles pulls him into a closer embrace. “My friend,” he says gently, “I can’t stay in your mind forever. You would go mad. I could never do that to you.” He kisses Erik’s neck, tasting the sweat there.
Erik laughs, hesitantly at first, then more strongly. “It’s really all right,” he says. “It’s just - well - that was very intense.” He trails his fingers over Charles’ chest. “I have to wonder how I made us fly,” he chuckles. “I can’t figure it out, now.”
“Now that you’ve done it once, I’m sure you’ll be able to replicate it,” Charles says, smoothing Erik’s hair possessively. An unbearable fondness is rising inside of him. He curls into Erik’s chest.
“Will you come back?” Erik asks, his voice soft as he gestures to his head. “At least, now and then?”
“I’ll come back, Erik. As long as you want me there with you,” says Charles, and he means it more than anything else he’s ever said.
He doesn’t have to be able to read minds to feel Erik’s I’ll always want you with me. It’s in the way he’s holding Charles, the way their heads rest together. Charles smiles.
It’s been a fantastic day for training.
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Author's note:
So um. It's been kind of a helluva long time since I wrote any fanfic, or even read any. But X-Men: First Class just totally fucked my shit up and I have been hardcore shipping Charles and Erik (AKA Professor Xavier and Magneto). Today has been kind of amazing because I have spent the last TWELVE HOURS on the computer, I'm not even shitting you. I read a shit-ton of fic, reblogged a shit-ton of X-Men crap on tumblr, and I wrote a 10 page NC-17 slashfic. I'M NOT EVEN A SLASHER WHAT THE HELL. I've never written smut before. WTF, this day is bananas.
But I am posting this and then I am FINALLY GETTING OFF THE COMPUTER AND TAKING A SHOWER AND DOING LAUNDRY. GODDAMN hahahaha.
So if you read this, PLEASE PLEASE give me feedback. I had no beta and my eyes are crossed from staring at the screen so I apologize if bits get repetitive. And again, first slashfic let alone first pr0n, so, I apologize if I'm bad at this.
We shall see.