[fic] Shelter
Pairing - Charles/Erik
Summary - Erik is too rough, and Charles is too tender. They almost get it right. But the realms of each other's bodies are foreign, incomprehensibly difficult to conquer. Written for this prompt at the kinkmeme.
Charles’ back is arched, hips thrusting towards Erik, needy and imprecise. Repeatedly, he surges up into Erik's touch, into the flex of Erik's hands, which are gripping Charles' hipbones hard enough to bruise. Few of the words stuttering from Charles' mouth could be located in Webster’s - they’re akin to noises, really, so feral, full of breath and air, punctuated by rare obscenities. Erik watches Charles' sweet mouth twitch; he hears please and God and his own name, too, though not just out loud - he feels, with equal force, the swell of energy from Charles’ mind, the filthiest of images set loose, running amok, projected into Erik’s consciousness. Stark visions of flesh, of the two of them colliding with one another. And every emotion Charles feels, however briefly, flickers through Erik's mind as well.
Surprise, yes, that’s palpable. Audacity - you went through with this, Erik, you dared -
Also, something he doesn't quite understand, can't quite place - relief in unexpected proportions, pouring through Charles in waves, pulsing, tipping them both overboard. Finally. Finally, Erik, what took you so long -
One of Charles’ hands curls around the back of Erik’s neck, fingernails cutting into flesh. Erik leans down, hearing breathing beneath him quicken. With his teeth, he renders a half-moon on the apex of Charles’ throat, and fucks him harder.
“Interesting turn of events, my friend.” Charles had choked. Only slightly nervous.
This was just fifteen minutes earlier.
Though the words were casual, the huskiness in Charles' voice gave him away. And, if not the huskiness, then surely the thoughts racing through his mind, the ones he had accidentally revealed to Erik. A vision, of nudity, of Erik bending him over, of Erik sucking on the juncture of neck and shoulder, of Erik whispering filthy things into his ear -
This was not part of the training. Not a part of the plan.
Charles had laughed nervously and adjusted himself, trying to get comfortable under Erik's enormous palm splayed flat against his chest.
"How long," Erik had gritted out. His other hand, Charles had noticed, was shaking badly, where it hovered ominously above Charles' belt. How long have you wanted this. It's a question they both know the answer to. It's an answer they've both tucked away.
Charles has been pushing Erik, both mentally and physically, on a daily basis. Challenges are part of their training, their routine, and, as creatures of habit, they submit to them gladly. Move this. Control that. Occasionally, Charles enters Erik's mind - with permission - trying to find Erik better means of controlling his emotions, his behaviors. He's cautious, of course (Charles is always careful with these things), but at the end of the day, Charles has to admit that even he is capable of error, of prying too deep or slicing too close to the bone. Oops, my mistake, it was a miscalculation -
Though it's far from mathematical - not to mention a bit of a shock - when Erik shoves Charles against the wall of his own bedroom, pins him there, hands clammy and relentless.
How long have you wanted this.
It's a question they both know the answer to, but it isn't a question a question at all. It's a command. It's a recognition of the energy between them, look what finally rose to the surface. And Charles couldn't have lied, anyway - as much as he'd have preferred to draw the moment out, savor it, kiss every inch of Erik's skin. Instead, this will have to do; loving hard and fast, shaking out everything they've pent up, everything they've caged and tamed and tucked away.
"Eons," Charles had said.
It felt like forever, anyway, since he first realized that he wanted this. Erik's eyes had widened slightly. In - what? Apprehension? There's no need to be afraid. Charles had closed his own steady hand over Erik's trembling fingers, easing them over the cool metal of his zipper.
Go ahead.
If Charles were to choreograph their lovemaking as he saw fit, it wouldn't be like this. It would be slow, not rushed, with less fury and less force. Erik's jaw would be slack and soft. Charles would cup it, in two hands, and taste the salt of his lower lip. Watch it glisten, pink.
Erik’s own fleeting fantasies have been vague, shameful. Specifics of the act have never been fully fledged. The concept is always embryonic, only existing in brief scraps of primitive desire. Wanting, heedless of consequences or logic or physical complications. Erik has always ignored the hows and whys because he's always perceived sex with Charles as an impossibility.
But Charles’ smile, the cool weight of his hands, the intimacy of sharing thoughts and memories - Erik has certainly grown fond of these things, of how much he likes them. He appreciates them, locks them away in an inventory of silence, of pure things.
(Such an inventory is, admittedly, comprised predominantly of moments between him and Charles.)
Or when Charles sits too close, stares at him longer than appropriate, pauses to talk to him, just him, achingly attentive - yes, Erik likes these rare instances - curiously, naively - and he examines his desire from a foggy distance.
Then, too, the cravings - the crude roil of hips on hips, nipping at a crimson tongue, how it would feel to simultaneously push and be pushed - Erik likes these things, too. Around midnight, with bleak moonlight spilling through the curtains, in bed his with his pants around his ankles, jerking off like a horny teenager, biting off the sounds he makes on his pillow. Erik can't get enough of these images, feasts on them - Charles, legs spread wide, lying in bed beside him, or on the pale blue sofa, over the kitchen counter, anywhere, everywhere.
These two very different ways of knowing Charles - the pure, the depraved - shouldn't coincide, not at all, but are somehow connected, interwoven, in ways Erik doesn’t understand. He wishes he did. If he did, he’d manifest the tenderness that Charles deserves, and offer it to him, willingly. But he isn't like that; Erik isn't that kind of person. He isn't gentle or sweet, doesn't know how to touch Charles, where to touch Charles, what to say, how to initiate such an act. Isn't a lover, he realizes with a pang.
In the meantime, this will have to do.
Erik likes the way Charles hisses at the sensation of nails being dragged down his spine, so Erik repeats the motion, makes the skin go red and raw beneath him. Charles’ fingers find Erik’s, but instead of twining them together, he guides them to the base of his skull, lets Erik’s fingers tangle into the soft hair there. His grip goes tight, tugs Charles' head back so he can kiss deeper into his mouth.
Not all of Charles’ noises are of pleasure; he cries out in protest when Erik shoves one spit-slicked finger into him, without warning. The lubricant is insufficient, Erik can tell by the way Charles' gnaws on his lower lip, trying to keep silent. Erik slows - barely - lets him get used to the rough pace before adding another. But when Erik finally pushes inside of him, breath ragged, words bleeding together - fuck, Charles, youfeelsogood, so good - the trembling moan that Charles lets out echoes through both of them. Sweaty, Charles' hands find the backs of Erik's thighs and urge him in deeper, force their bodies closer, closer, closer -
Dimly, it registers to Erik that he doesn't know what he's doing. He has no skill, essentially, no training or previous experience. Erik hasn’t done this before; he’s not familiar with this sort of desire, another man - sharp angles, lean muscles, breathlessness like an August swelter - and he's not sure he's comfortable with the way wordless aggression evolves from seemingly nowhere, consuming him. As though he’s removed himself from himself and become something else entirely -
- a flame; brilliant and sparking and then, sputtering out too quickly, too quickly to hold onto -
“Oh,” Erik says, after.
He continues to shudder, at intervals, not fully recovered from his orgasm. Between their bodies is infinite space, infinite heat.
Charles presses two fingers to his own chest, probes a bruise blossoming there. Visibly, he winces.
This is the place where it all crashes, so suddenly - throat closed, Charles’ mind suddenly blocked and inaccessible when Erik gropes for it within his own, the marks now peppering Charles’ body stark and frightening, didIdothat?, regret rising in Erik, begetting nausea, fuck, how -
“Didn’t mean - ”
Manic, Erik twists to turn on the light - he wants to take full inventory of the damage, fix Charles up. Wants to cover up the bruises - with bandages, his mouth, anything, just wants them to disappear. Wants to paint Charles like a canvas, make him blank and bare again. But Charles is faster, catching his wrist, reigning him in. “Don’t,” he says gently, pulling Erik’s hot mouth back into his domain. Reluctant, Erik ducks his head into the curve of Charles’ neck, and goes still. Charles’ hands move over the small of his back, soothing, without judgment.
- that night, In Erik’s dreams, there are doors he can’t open, fjords he can’t cross, palms he can’t touch with his own -
So Charles understands harshness, Erik learns, mild as his demeanor may be. Charles understands angles and corners and rough hands. Charles understands the hard slap of waking up alone in the morning, as Erik subsequently does.
Midday, Erik catches sight of Charles through a cracked bathroom door - he's pressing cotton and rubbing alcohol to a dark ring of teethmarks on his hip. A thin line of blood has risen to the surface, seeping. Erik feels nauseous. He broke skin, like an animal, like a dog that can’t be trained.
“Erik? I know you’re there,” Charles says, without looking over his shoulder. Probably hearing Erik's thoughts. His eyes stay fixed on the mirror, alarmingly calm.
Nudging the door open, slightly, Erik watches him from a distance, through the reflection, as Charles cleans the wound without fuss. Unexpectedly, a rush of affection that shoots through Erik. I need to take care of you. The urge is sudden, incomprehensible, and he lunges forward, as if to help.
Charles senses it, too. Turning back briefly, he shakes his head, smile soft, eyes crinkling. “’s all right.” And - you’ve got that backwards.
Backwards. It takes Erik the better part of the afternoon to understand what Charles means by this statement. Far longer for him to begin accepting it.
I need to take care of -
You need to take care of -
Avoidance becomes key. Erik commits himself to being a recluse for the better part of three days, gives himself time to reassemble his thoughts. Half-formed guilt gnaws away at him until finally, on the third day, Erik steels himself to stage a confrontation.
Before he can knock on Charles' bedroom door, it opens, and Charles is already standing there, ready. "Saw you coming," he says quietly, eyes gentle. "Two hours ago." It's true, Erik's been scripting this out for the better part of the evening - to no avail.
Erik swallows. "Yes, well."
Nothing he could say would suffice, Erik knows. And he's never given much thought to comfort, to need, to relying on another person or letting them rely on him, but he thinks of theses things now, vacantly, while studying the contours of Charles' mouth. Try as he might, he can’t map the boundaries of his pull towards Charles. Where it begins and ends, what he will and won’t do, the peaks and valleys of human desire. His love is a paradox - how can it be that he wants to simultaneously fold himself into Charles’ embrace and cover Charles' body with bruises?
“I apologize,” Erik says roughly, uncomfortable.
“Sorry?” Charles blinks. Polite, perhaps not quite understanding. Perhaps only pretending to not understand.
“Apologize,” Erik repeats, too loud, still trying to work out his next sentence in his head. “I should have stopped myself. Instead - I ended up hurting you.”
After a silence, Charles laughs softly. “Oh, Erik."
It's patronizing, even if Charles doesn't intend it to be. "What?" asks Erik hotly.
"It's just - I very well could have stopped you myself. If I had wanted to do so.”
That gives Erik pause. He swallows. Means he had it wrong. Can’t believe - the bruises - “But,”
“I didn’t,” Charles clarifies, sharp. His eyes seem very bright. His throat bobs, once. I didn’t stop you for a reason.
Because Charles understands tenderness, too. Impossibly. The softness of his eyes hurts, the sensation searing through Erik’s belly like wildfire, a sly truth he can’t deny. Forming words suddenly seems insurmountably difficult to Erik. Charles eases a hand back through Erik's hair, grazing the scalp. Involuntarily, Erik shuts his eyes, exhales shakily. “The right way,” he manages to mumble, and at first, Charles isn't sure what he means.
“Ah,” he says softly, realizing. His breath ghosts over Erik’s cheek, his lips. “Erik - there was nothing to be embarrassed about.” It’s too tender, too raw. It’s too kind of a gesture for the act he’s committed. Erik shudders. I could have stopped you. If I had wanted you to stop. I want everything you have to offer, Erik. The roughness, alongside the gentleness. I want both.
“Could we at least,” Erik forces, unable to open his eyes, unable to look.
Try, Charles completes for him, and leans in to kiss him, softer than either anticipated. Of course.
It might as well be their first time, for the way Charles' fingers fumble with the buttons of Erik's shirt, the way Erik laughs nervously when he overshoots a kiss to Charles' earlobe. The way they shift their respective weights, rearrange themselves, apologizing in whispers between kisses for bumping noses, bruising elbows. It's not perfect, no, but certainly breathless, certainly wild-eyed and fresh, certainly an adventure; each of them is trekking through uncharted territory, halfway terrified.
Charles climbs atop him slowly, settling in with determination. Twice, he kisses Erik's sternum. Is this all right? Erik nods. With hands pressed to either side of Erik’s chest, Charles trails slowly down his body, feeling Erik hard beneath him. Charles fits himself down against the heat of Erik’s frame, and allows Erik to enter him, slowly. “Fuck,” he hisses, rolling his head back, baring his throat. Erik surges up to suck at the little red wound there - the one he made himself - lapping at it with his tongue. Charles gasps, fingers winding into Erik's hair.
But it’s different, somehow, this time around. It’s as if they’ve managed to seize time, control it, roll it out in slow, slow sheets. Minutes stretch - as tight as Charles’ thighs holding tight to Erik's body, as agile as Erik’s fingers, straining for the untouched skin of Charles’ back - it’s as if they’ve become the whole world. Not conquered it, no, but their two bodies are the only thing either knows, the only thing in their awareness, in their consciousness, and there’s nothing beyond them, nothing.
Erik feels it then, rising in his belly, white-hot and overwhelming, slick, unchecked desire -
- Charles bends down to whisper into his ear. “Shouldn’t’ve beaten yourself up - over - ” the words are punctuated with sharp gasps, broken. “Don’t blame - wasn’t your - we both needed - ” And with that, Charles is within his mind, unfolding and spreading over everything, everything, come for me, please, Erik, needyouagain - and everything is shaking and spasming and crumbling apart.
For an instant, it's perfect, their bodies fitting together so sweetly. In the distance, the sounds of a grandfather clock are audible - ticking quietly to midnight and chiming, again, again, then silence.
Sweaty, their thighs cling together, legs tangled without grace. Erik closes his eyes, cheek scratching against the sheets.
Charles traces the outline of Erik’s mouth with such quiet fingers, movements delicate and measured. As Erik slips off to sleep, he catches flashes of their touch, all over him, running up his spine, coasting around his ribcage. It feels as though Charles’ fingertips are holding his body in place, anchoring him, tethering their bodies together.
It marvels Erik, the things that Charles can and can't do. Charles is perfectly capable of beating him at chess, navigating the labyrinth of his mind, speaking to him with jarring clarity, with an alarming calm. Of not giving up on him, of having faith that Erik will (one day, one day) conquer his own demons and find tranquility, contentment. That within Erik there is something worth saving, something worth digging for, something tender and untouched. Charles is capable of believing these things - these ridiculous things that Erik doesn't have the heart to tell him could never and will never possibly be true.
What Charles can't - or, rather, won't do is stay mad at him. The affection is unconditional; Erik can't conjure another word for it. It's as though Charles isn't even capable of being mad at him in the first place - everything is forgiven, automatically, without questions or caveats. Even the worst of Erik's habits, even the cruelest of his intentions - All right, all right, it's all right. Charles shows him mercy for things that Erik can't even forgive himself for. Charles can surpass all of that because he knows Erik, understands him on a fundamental level, unfathomably well. Better than Erik knows himself, perhaps.
Erik keeps looking for the catch - the snag in the cloth, the fatal flaw, the place where he and Charles don't fit perfectly against one another. Erik keeps looking and looking, but he's beginning to wonder if such an error exists at all.
It must, he tells himself. We can't go on like this forever.
Over and over again, Erik resists the peace that Charles offers. He runs from it because it's too good, too gentle, like Charles' eyes, an overwhelming softness that only juxtaposes the harshness rampant in Erik. No, Erik thinks, it's absurd for Charles to love any other human being with such force, let alone him. Such pure, all-encompassing love isn't normal.
Then again - neither are they.
Erik dreams of warmth, of shelter. Within his own self, forgiveness - that impossible spring which Charles can so effortlessly tap into. Water, pure - bathing them both. In his dreams, Charles’ fingers somehow reach every spot on his body, every joint and callous and papercut. The tattoo on his wrist. The hard scars on his back. In his dreams, Charles' fingers forgive all this pain, they blot it out, rub it away. Charles' fingers weave a web around their two intertwined bodies, obscuring them from prying eyes, from the outside world. Hiding them away, safe.
A/N: New fandom! New journal! Hopefully this is a satisfactory christening of both. <3