You Won't Find Me Here (X-Men First Class, Charles/Erik)
...I always promise to make reaction posts about things and then I end up writing fic instead.
(Would you believe this is the first time I wrote fic for a kinkmeme, too? Yeah. It's different, but not bad, I don't think.)
Anyway, as I have expounded on before, the trailer for this movie made it look like it would be a bundle of Things That Give Me Joy. It was, in fact, a bundle of Things That Gave Me Joy. I find it hard to condense my thoughts any more than that (as several of you guys can attest).
The alternate summary for this, by the way, is "Erik whacks off and angsts about Charles," because coming up with serious summaries is hard.
Title: You Won't Find Me Here
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: X-men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik (more precisely, Erik-->Charles)
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~3000
Spoilers: Of the "it was his sled" variety.
Summary: Erik has barred Charles from reading his thoughts, but still Charles lingers, and Erik can't help but wonder what would have happened had Charles truly stayed by his side.
Notes: Originally a fill for 1stclass_kink, now reposted and revised.
He built the room to keep Charles out. A necessary precaution: Emma Frost can't shield his thoughts all the time, and Erik can't sleep well with a helmet on. The room was the first part of the complex he constructed, the first he raised from the metal and glass they salvaged and stole. Emma Frost suggested they use one of Shaw's (Schmidt's, he corrected her) facilities, but the Americans and Russians will be looking for those, and Erik doesn't wish to be found.
The room is quiet and mostly bare. A chair here, a table there, but nothing to distract him from what needs to be done. This is his planning room, his thinking room, his place of solitude. He doesn't bother telling himself that it's better this way, but for the moment it is necessary.
He sinks into the nearest chair, tilts his head back. This shouldn't be a necessity. If Charles had said yes-
The beach is vivid in Erik's mind as though he had never left it, bright and hot and cloudless. The ship smokes next to them, the metal flayed from its frame. The children are gathered around them, some torn and some bleeding but all sound enough, all whole, all living. The Americans and Russians make a show of unity that would doubtless impress the world and are then united in fear, quaking to see their own weapons turned against them.
He kneels in the sand, holds Charles close to him. Let them fire all they like at us, he thinks, giddy from the racing of his heart and the rush of his power and, yes, fear. If we stand together-if we all stand together-
"Charles," he says, "I want you by my side."
He remembers what Charles said. Some things are etched too deeply in him to forget.
But suppose, just suppose, he hadn't.
Erik grits his teeth, closes his eyes. There is no point in wondering, he tells himself. What was said was said, what was done was done, and you can bend metal to your will but not time.
Still, when Charles's face appears before him again it is tempting, so tempting, to change the shape of his lips into a yes.
And what then? What if he had said yes? The possibilities feel almost limitless, but for now, Erik will limit them to one, to the moment where he lifts Charles out of the sand. Gently, because Charles finds it hard to stand, but Erik will shoulder his friend's weight for now. Charles is panting, breath shaking, but his grip on Erik's shoulder is strong, and does not waver when Azazel takes them all away.
He digs his fingers into his own shoulder, testing, wondering, but abandons it. It's too obvious that it is his own hand.
Were it Charles's, though, he would not let it go. In the vision he is constructing, he doesn't focus on the medical specifics of Charles's recovery. Doubtless they would find some doctor capable of doing the necessary work, one of Schmidt's retainers or a hostage from a nearby hospital, or perhaps even McCoy. He would follow Charles, Erik is sure; Charles has that gift. Erik calls up an image of what Charles's bed might look like, white sheets and white walls and gifts, from Raven and the others. Charles is sitting up, his back supported by pillows, and they talk through the next steps necessary for their plan. I spent years tracking Doktor Schmidt, he says. I know where he keeps his money. I know who he knows. I know what we can use.
Charles listens, nods. Yes, he says, and has suggestions of his own-and here, obviously, Erik falters, because he is not Charles, and cannot pluck ideas from anyone's brain. What would Charles say? Would what transpired in Cuba have taught him more caution? Would he encourage Erik to move quickly, to gather as many followers to their cause as he could before the Russians or Americans caught wind of them? He would offer his own fortune, Erik is sure, but would he take them back to the mansion in Westchester? Perhaps briefly, if only to say goodbye. It seems the kind of thing Charles would do.
He settles back, pictures that: Charles strolls through the grounds and Erik follows. He asks no questions and doesn't need to. Charles comments, sometimes aloud and sometimes not, on the places they pass, the paths they cross and the forests they skirt and the stretches of grass they cut through. Raven and I used to chase each other through these trees, he might say, or I used to throw stones off this bridge, or I spent hours hiding in this bush once, waiting for Raven to find me. The ephemera of childhood, but no less significant for that. Erik spent days wandering the grounds but he doubts he saw them all, and Charles would show him what he hadn't seen. Charles would share that with him.
They would have one last run around the mansion, one last snack in the kitchen, one last chess match in the study. He'd light a low fire in the fireplace, its hiss and crackle steady. The game is almost prescribed by experience: Erik deploys his knights and bishops as soon as he can and Charles favors his pawns, advancing them steadily across the board until they claim their reward. Is that meant to be a metaphor? Erik asked him one evening. Charles laughed then and refused to answer, but tonight, in this night Erik is constructing, he smiles and says yes.
Charles's own taste in drinks is abysmal-English and American beers taste like warmed-over and chilled piss, respectively-but he keeps enough good vintages on hand. A shame to let them go to waste, he says, offers the glass to Erik. Eventually, when they've both made enough progress, he offers the bottle. They only toast the once: to our Brotherhood.
And would it remain brotherhood for them?
Erik's mouth dries. He swallows, for all the good it does. He is tightening, in his throat and beneath his skin and elsewhere, lower. The heel of his hand brushes his groin and he shifts into the pressure as much as he dares.
They kissed once, in the study. Charles nodded off in his chair while Erik contemplated his next move on the board; he captured Charles's queen, but Charles gave no sign he saw. Erik rested his hand on Charles's shoulder, gently, slowly, and when Charles blinked awake and murmured oh his lips parted in a way Erik could not refuse. Was Charles reading his thoughts then? Was that why he leaned up? Erik wonders what Charles saw in his mind when their lips met, because Erik remembers thinking nothing at all. He felt, though: the warmth of Charles's mouth, the taste of mint, the chapped corners of his lips. Oh, he heard, somewhere in his mind, and could not tell whose voice it was.
Someone--Hank, as it turned out--knocked on the door, and they pulled apart, and neither of them brought it up after. Perhaps Charles did not want to pry. It runs counter to everything Erik knows about him, but Erik isn't the one who can read minds.
Or Charles might never have leaned up at all, and never mentioned what happened to spare Erik's feelings. That would be like Charles. Erik's stomach knots, and the heat in his groin starts to wither.
He grits his teeth, forces his breathing to steady, runs his thumb up the seam of his pants. It doesn't matter, he tells himself. This is what should have happened, not what did.
In this night, then, in his night, Charles does lean up, and Erik takes him up on the invitation. It's slow and soft at first, a request for permission. They both obtain it and the kiss grows, heats, with Erik licking into Charles's mouth and Charles parting to welcome him, twining their tongues together. Charles can't speak, he breathes into Erik and Erik draws him in, but he lets Erik hear his yes, and that yes is breathless, as though his mind itself needs air. Erik runs his fingers through Charles's hair. He's done that before, technically, though that was a desperate grab and Charles's hair was wet and floating. This is different, slower, sweeping it back from his face. Charles can be meticulous about his hair; would he like it being touched? Would he lean into Erik's hand, nuzzle his fingers, reach for the back of Erik's neck to urge him on? Erik imagines the flush starting to creep into Charles's cheeks, and shivers.
He would not stop at Charles's hair, and in his mind he doesn't. He abandons Charles's mouth for now and focuses on his neck instead, tongues down to his collarbones, to the hollow of his neck. Charles's skin glistens, from that and from his own sweat; Erik thinks the shine from him is better than any of the facets of Emma Frost's body, and tells him as much. Charles laughs, out loud and in Erik's thoughts, and the reverberation makes his head swim briefly.
He remembers what it is like to have Charles in his mind, sliding into his thoughts and whispering, drawing some memories forward and nudging others back. There are things he has forgotten, over the years. That will never be one of them. To have Charles in his mind for this--he's almost surprised at how quickly he stiffens. He swipes the heel of his hand over his groin and shudders, strains for more. Erik pictures Charles straining for more, too, in body and in mind. He remembers how Charles used to call his name, the times when there was an implicit please attached--
Erik, don't do this--
Erik's eyes snap open. His arms shiver, and the table in front of him shivers as well, until the screws drill out of the wood and fall quivering to the ground. The table holds its shape for a moment before collapsing. Let it, Erik thinks, and sends the screws hurtling point-first into the tabletop. Nothing is working.
Charles's voice is in his head again, and were the room not shielded against telepathic intrusion Erik might think it was Charles himself and not a memory. Let me help you, he says.
Slowly, slowly, Erik rebuilds the study in his mind's eye, places the chairs and fireplace and side-tables back where they belong. He even reconstructs the chess game as best he can. He is kneeling before Charles and Charles is holding Erik's head in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. His skin is damp, and the salt gathered on it stings. Yes, he says again. Let me help you.
And it is Charles who cups the back of Erik's head, Charles who draws him close, Charles who kisses his lips and cheeks and jawline and the corners of his eyes. He wonders how he must look, and Charles shows him.
What would Charles see? Erik's seen himself in mirrors before, of course, has even seen himself in mirrors during the lead-up to sex, but Charles would give him more than an image. Charles would reflect his own desires back at Erik, what he thinks of the slickness of Erik's mouth and where it could go next and how many possibilities open up for them because neither of them need to talk. Erik tries to wrest his mind around the concept, of seeing and of being seen all at once. It makes his head reel to overlay those images, and he sags into his chair, his fingers splayed over his erection.
Erik kisses a line down the flat planes of Charles's stomach and feels small points of heat blossom on his own chest, because of course Charles would do that, of course Charles would share that with him. He fumbles with the catch of his pants, cannot open them fast enough or make enough room for his hand.
Erik undresses Charles more slowly in this than he has himself just now, peels his vest and shirt away to reveal what lies underneath. Charles is pale, he knows, but Erik doubts his cheeks and neck are the only parts of him that flush. He imagines red spreading over Charles's collarbones, highlighting the muscle in his arms. Erik is taller and broader across the chest but Charles is solid enough beneath his clothes, with a wiry strength Erik cannot help but want to test. He draws his hands down Charles's sides and it seems right for Charles to shiver at that, to thread his fingers through Erik's hair. Charles touches out of necessity rather than ease, Erik has noticed, likely because his powers grant him more intimate contact than his body alone can have. But he needs Erik now, he wants Erik, and shows him with the roll of his hips, the tightness of his hands, the steady flickers of not-quite-images and not-quite-words he sends Erik's way. Lust: the steady swell of his cock under his trousers. Heat: Erik's mouth stretched around his shaft, taking him all the way down. Yes: Erik around him, in him, tangled in body and mind until they flow into each other, until they feel each new breath and each new thought the other has.
It's dangerous, he knows, to let someone in so deeply. But this is Charles, and more importantly this is Charles who told him yes, and if he had said yes, everything would be theirs. Everything. They could show each other so much that night, and all the nights after.
His hand tightens around his shaft. His fingers shake, but he does not stroke, not yet. He will not until he reaches the trail of hair leading to Charles's groin. What color would it be? Darker than his hair, and coarser. It would scratch his lips, his nose, and he would welcome it, slide Charles's pants down his hips and take his underwear with them. (Briefs, no doubt. Boxers would ruin the line of his suits.)
What Charles's cock looks like is not nearly as important as how it feels, how it thickens as Erik's breath lands on Charles's thighs. Still, it is a sight worth seeing, and Erik squeezes his eyes shut tighter to get a clearer picture of it. Reddening, yes, and perhaps as long as Erik's but not as thick. He can't keep his mouth from it and wouldn't wish to if he could. He must not taste as sour as some others--sharp, but not sour. Erik takes more of him in, as much as his throat will allow, and Charles takes a sharp breath not unlike the ones he was prone to at the end of their runs around the mansion.
Erik doesn't doubt he'd need a hand on himself, much like he does now. It should be slow. He should savor each stroke, each suck. But with Charles in his mind-and he would be, in all the ways Erik would open up for him-he doubts he could. Charles knows where Erik's desire lies and knows how to magnify it, how to make Erik burn under his skin and moan around Charles's cock. Yes, Charles's voice echoes inside him, filling him. Yes, Erik, please, I want you. More flashes: the dampness of Erik's hair in Charles's hands, the searing tightness of his mouth, the steady thick pressure of his tongue. This time, Erik can't be sure whose mind they originate from. I need you.
He strokes himself as he would then, as he would take Charles down, hard and fast and relentless. His mouth and hand are raw and red from the use he's putting them to. Charles shakes, rocks into what Erik offers; he won't grip Erik by the hair and use his mouth, but he can't be as much of a gentleman as he appears. No, he knots his fingers tight and thrusts, shallow and unsteady and so close. How much of who he really is slips through in those moments? Would he claim Erik's mind and mouth both, flood them with his pleasure? Has he trained himself to hold that back? If he has, Erik can untrain him, and will. He swallows Charles to the base of his shaft, pulls back to lick the wetness at the tip and plunges down again. Let me, he thinks, and knows Charles will hear. There is nothing between them now, no helmets, no walls. Let me have you.
Yes, Charles says, and gives himself over. They are laid bare, body to body and mind to mind, and when at last they rise nothing can wrench them apart.
Nothing.
But in the haze after orgasm that vision, that moment, is already slipping away.
No, Erik tries to shout, but Charles doesn't seem to hear. The room dissolves at the edges and so does he. He points to where Erik knows the real walls are, the ones of mirror and metal he constructed from Schmidt's blueprints to keep Charles out.
Slowly, Erik opens his eyes. His come is cooling on his hand, he notices. He rids himself of it quickly. Truth be told, he needn't have bothered; the others know well enough not to disturb him while he's in here.
What do you know about me? he asked Charles, not so long ago.
Everything, Charles said.
And yet there are so many parts of Charles he will never touch.
His reflection flickers back at him from the corners of the room, and he looks at some point past them all.
.
(Would you believe this is the first time I wrote fic for a kinkmeme, too? Yeah. It's different, but not bad, I don't think.)
Anyway, as I have expounded on before, the trailer for this movie made it look like it would be a bundle of Things That Give Me Joy. It was, in fact, a bundle of Things That Gave Me Joy. I find it hard to condense my thoughts any more than that (as several of you guys can attest).
The alternate summary for this, by the way, is "Erik whacks off and angsts about Charles," because coming up with serious summaries is hard.
Title: You Won't Find Me Here
Author: puella_nerdii
Fandom: X-men: First Class
Pairing: Charles/Erik (more precisely, Erik-->Charles)
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~3000
Spoilers: Of the "it was his sled" variety.
Summary: Erik has barred Charles from reading his thoughts, but still Charles lingers, and Erik can't help but wonder what would have happened had Charles truly stayed by his side.
Notes: Originally a fill for 1stclass_kink, now reposted and revised.
He built the room to keep Charles out. A necessary precaution: Emma Frost can't shield his thoughts all the time, and Erik can't sleep well with a helmet on. The room was the first part of the complex he constructed, the first he raised from the metal and glass they salvaged and stole. Emma Frost suggested they use one of Shaw's (Schmidt's, he corrected her) facilities, but the Americans and Russians will be looking for those, and Erik doesn't wish to be found.
The room is quiet and mostly bare. A chair here, a table there, but nothing to distract him from what needs to be done. This is his planning room, his thinking room, his place of solitude. He doesn't bother telling himself that it's better this way, but for the moment it is necessary.
He sinks into the nearest chair, tilts his head back. This shouldn't be a necessity. If Charles had said yes-
The beach is vivid in Erik's mind as though he had never left it, bright and hot and cloudless. The ship smokes next to them, the metal flayed from its frame. The children are gathered around them, some torn and some bleeding but all sound enough, all whole, all living. The Americans and Russians make a show of unity that would doubtless impress the world and are then united in fear, quaking to see their own weapons turned against them.
He kneels in the sand, holds Charles close to him. Let them fire all they like at us, he thinks, giddy from the racing of his heart and the rush of his power and, yes, fear. If we stand together-if we all stand together-
"Charles," he says, "I want you by my side."
He remembers what Charles said. Some things are etched too deeply in him to forget.
But suppose, just suppose, he hadn't.
Erik grits his teeth, closes his eyes. There is no point in wondering, he tells himself. What was said was said, what was done was done, and you can bend metal to your will but not time.
Still, when Charles's face appears before him again it is tempting, so tempting, to change the shape of his lips into a yes.
And what then? What if he had said yes? The possibilities feel almost limitless, but for now, Erik will limit them to one, to the moment where he lifts Charles out of the sand. Gently, because Charles finds it hard to stand, but Erik will shoulder his friend's weight for now. Charles is panting, breath shaking, but his grip on Erik's shoulder is strong, and does not waver when Azazel takes them all away.
He digs his fingers into his own shoulder, testing, wondering, but abandons it. It's too obvious that it is his own hand.
Were it Charles's, though, he would not let it go. In the vision he is constructing, he doesn't focus on the medical specifics of Charles's recovery. Doubtless they would find some doctor capable of doing the necessary work, one of Schmidt's retainers or a hostage from a nearby hospital, or perhaps even McCoy. He would follow Charles, Erik is sure; Charles has that gift. Erik calls up an image of what Charles's bed might look like, white sheets and white walls and gifts, from Raven and the others. Charles is sitting up, his back supported by pillows, and they talk through the next steps necessary for their plan. I spent years tracking Doktor Schmidt, he says. I know where he keeps his money. I know who he knows. I know what we can use.
Charles listens, nods. Yes, he says, and has suggestions of his own-and here, obviously, Erik falters, because he is not Charles, and cannot pluck ideas from anyone's brain. What would Charles say? Would what transpired in Cuba have taught him more caution? Would he encourage Erik to move quickly, to gather as many followers to their cause as he could before the Russians or Americans caught wind of them? He would offer his own fortune, Erik is sure, but would he take them back to the mansion in Westchester? Perhaps briefly, if only to say goodbye. It seems the kind of thing Charles would do.
He settles back, pictures that: Charles strolls through the grounds and Erik follows. He asks no questions and doesn't need to. Charles comments, sometimes aloud and sometimes not, on the places they pass, the paths they cross and the forests they skirt and the stretches of grass they cut through. Raven and I used to chase each other through these trees, he might say, or I used to throw stones off this bridge, or I spent hours hiding in this bush once, waiting for Raven to find me. The ephemera of childhood, but no less significant for that. Erik spent days wandering the grounds but he doubts he saw them all, and Charles would show him what he hadn't seen. Charles would share that with him.
They would have one last run around the mansion, one last snack in the kitchen, one last chess match in the study. He'd light a low fire in the fireplace, its hiss and crackle steady. The game is almost prescribed by experience: Erik deploys his knights and bishops as soon as he can and Charles favors his pawns, advancing them steadily across the board until they claim their reward. Is that meant to be a metaphor? Erik asked him one evening. Charles laughed then and refused to answer, but tonight, in this night Erik is constructing, he smiles and says yes.
Charles's own taste in drinks is abysmal-English and American beers taste like warmed-over and chilled piss, respectively-but he keeps enough good vintages on hand. A shame to let them go to waste, he says, offers the glass to Erik. Eventually, when they've both made enough progress, he offers the bottle. They only toast the once: to our Brotherhood.
And would it remain brotherhood for them?
Erik's mouth dries. He swallows, for all the good it does. He is tightening, in his throat and beneath his skin and elsewhere, lower. The heel of his hand brushes his groin and he shifts into the pressure as much as he dares.
They kissed once, in the study. Charles nodded off in his chair while Erik contemplated his next move on the board; he captured Charles's queen, but Charles gave no sign he saw. Erik rested his hand on Charles's shoulder, gently, slowly, and when Charles blinked awake and murmured oh his lips parted in a way Erik could not refuse. Was Charles reading his thoughts then? Was that why he leaned up? Erik wonders what Charles saw in his mind when their lips met, because Erik remembers thinking nothing at all. He felt, though: the warmth of Charles's mouth, the taste of mint, the chapped corners of his lips. Oh, he heard, somewhere in his mind, and could not tell whose voice it was.
Someone--Hank, as it turned out--knocked on the door, and they pulled apart, and neither of them brought it up after. Perhaps Charles did not want to pry. It runs counter to everything Erik knows about him, but Erik isn't the one who can read minds.
Or Charles might never have leaned up at all, and never mentioned what happened to spare Erik's feelings. That would be like Charles. Erik's stomach knots, and the heat in his groin starts to wither.
He grits his teeth, forces his breathing to steady, runs his thumb up the seam of his pants. It doesn't matter, he tells himself. This is what should have happened, not what did.
In this night, then, in his night, Charles does lean up, and Erik takes him up on the invitation. It's slow and soft at first, a request for permission. They both obtain it and the kiss grows, heats, with Erik licking into Charles's mouth and Charles parting to welcome him, twining their tongues together. Charles can't speak, he breathes into Erik and Erik draws him in, but he lets Erik hear his yes, and that yes is breathless, as though his mind itself needs air. Erik runs his fingers through Charles's hair. He's done that before, technically, though that was a desperate grab and Charles's hair was wet and floating. This is different, slower, sweeping it back from his face. Charles can be meticulous about his hair; would he like it being touched? Would he lean into Erik's hand, nuzzle his fingers, reach for the back of Erik's neck to urge him on? Erik imagines the flush starting to creep into Charles's cheeks, and shivers.
He would not stop at Charles's hair, and in his mind he doesn't. He abandons Charles's mouth for now and focuses on his neck instead, tongues down to his collarbones, to the hollow of his neck. Charles's skin glistens, from that and from his own sweat; Erik thinks the shine from him is better than any of the facets of Emma Frost's body, and tells him as much. Charles laughs, out loud and in Erik's thoughts, and the reverberation makes his head swim briefly.
He remembers what it is like to have Charles in his mind, sliding into his thoughts and whispering, drawing some memories forward and nudging others back. There are things he has forgotten, over the years. That will never be one of them. To have Charles in his mind for this--he's almost surprised at how quickly he stiffens. He swipes the heel of his hand over his groin and shudders, strains for more. Erik pictures Charles straining for more, too, in body and in mind. He remembers how Charles used to call his name, the times when there was an implicit please attached--
Erik, don't do this--
Erik's eyes snap open. His arms shiver, and the table in front of him shivers as well, until the screws drill out of the wood and fall quivering to the ground. The table holds its shape for a moment before collapsing. Let it, Erik thinks, and sends the screws hurtling point-first into the tabletop. Nothing is working.
Charles's voice is in his head again, and were the room not shielded against telepathic intrusion Erik might think it was Charles himself and not a memory. Let me help you, he says.
Slowly, slowly, Erik rebuilds the study in his mind's eye, places the chairs and fireplace and side-tables back where they belong. He even reconstructs the chess game as best he can. He is kneeling before Charles and Charles is holding Erik's head in his hands, pressing their foreheads together. His skin is damp, and the salt gathered on it stings. Yes, he says again. Let me help you.
And it is Charles who cups the back of Erik's head, Charles who draws him close, Charles who kisses his lips and cheeks and jawline and the corners of his eyes. He wonders how he must look, and Charles shows him.
What would Charles see? Erik's seen himself in mirrors before, of course, has even seen himself in mirrors during the lead-up to sex, but Charles would give him more than an image. Charles would reflect his own desires back at Erik, what he thinks of the slickness of Erik's mouth and where it could go next and how many possibilities open up for them because neither of them need to talk. Erik tries to wrest his mind around the concept, of seeing and of being seen all at once. It makes his head reel to overlay those images, and he sags into his chair, his fingers splayed over his erection.
Erik kisses a line down the flat planes of Charles's stomach and feels small points of heat blossom on his own chest, because of course Charles would do that, of course Charles would share that with him. He fumbles with the catch of his pants, cannot open them fast enough or make enough room for his hand.
Erik undresses Charles more slowly in this than he has himself just now, peels his vest and shirt away to reveal what lies underneath. Charles is pale, he knows, but Erik doubts his cheeks and neck are the only parts of him that flush. He imagines red spreading over Charles's collarbones, highlighting the muscle in his arms. Erik is taller and broader across the chest but Charles is solid enough beneath his clothes, with a wiry strength Erik cannot help but want to test. He draws his hands down Charles's sides and it seems right for Charles to shiver at that, to thread his fingers through Erik's hair. Charles touches out of necessity rather than ease, Erik has noticed, likely because his powers grant him more intimate contact than his body alone can have. But he needs Erik now, he wants Erik, and shows him with the roll of his hips, the tightness of his hands, the steady flickers of not-quite-images and not-quite-words he sends Erik's way. Lust: the steady swell of his cock under his trousers. Heat: Erik's mouth stretched around his shaft, taking him all the way down. Yes: Erik around him, in him, tangled in body and mind until they flow into each other, until they feel each new breath and each new thought the other has.
It's dangerous, he knows, to let someone in so deeply. But this is Charles, and more importantly this is Charles who told him yes, and if he had said yes, everything would be theirs. Everything. They could show each other so much that night, and all the nights after.
His hand tightens around his shaft. His fingers shake, but he does not stroke, not yet. He will not until he reaches the trail of hair leading to Charles's groin. What color would it be? Darker than his hair, and coarser. It would scratch his lips, his nose, and he would welcome it, slide Charles's pants down his hips and take his underwear with them. (Briefs, no doubt. Boxers would ruin the line of his suits.)
What Charles's cock looks like is not nearly as important as how it feels, how it thickens as Erik's breath lands on Charles's thighs. Still, it is a sight worth seeing, and Erik squeezes his eyes shut tighter to get a clearer picture of it. Reddening, yes, and perhaps as long as Erik's but not as thick. He can't keep his mouth from it and wouldn't wish to if he could. He must not taste as sour as some others--sharp, but not sour. Erik takes more of him in, as much as his throat will allow, and Charles takes a sharp breath not unlike the ones he was prone to at the end of their runs around the mansion.
Erik doesn't doubt he'd need a hand on himself, much like he does now. It should be slow. He should savor each stroke, each suck. But with Charles in his mind-and he would be, in all the ways Erik would open up for him-he doubts he could. Charles knows where Erik's desire lies and knows how to magnify it, how to make Erik burn under his skin and moan around Charles's cock. Yes, Charles's voice echoes inside him, filling him. Yes, Erik, please, I want you. More flashes: the dampness of Erik's hair in Charles's hands, the searing tightness of his mouth, the steady thick pressure of his tongue. This time, Erik can't be sure whose mind they originate from. I need you.
He strokes himself as he would then, as he would take Charles down, hard and fast and relentless. His mouth and hand are raw and red from the use he's putting them to. Charles shakes, rocks into what Erik offers; he won't grip Erik by the hair and use his mouth, but he can't be as much of a gentleman as he appears. No, he knots his fingers tight and thrusts, shallow and unsteady and so close. How much of who he really is slips through in those moments? Would he claim Erik's mind and mouth both, flood them with his pleasure? Has he trained himself to hold that back? If he has, Erik can untrain him, and will. He swallows Charles to the base of his shaft, pulls back to lick the wetness at the tip and plunges down again. Let me, he thinks, and knows Charles will hear. There is nothing between them now, no helmets, no walls. Let me have you.
Yes, Charles says, and gives himself over. They are laid bare, body to body and mind to mind, and when at last they rise nothing can wrench them apart.
Nothing.
But in the haze after orgasm that vision, that moment, is already slipping away.
No, Erik tries to shout, but Charles doesn't seem to hear. The room dissolves at the edges and so does he. He points to where Erik knows the real walls are, the ones of mirror and metal he constructed from Schmidt's blueprints to keep Charles out.
Slowly, Erik opens his eyes. His come is cooling on his hand, he notices. He rids himself of it quickly. Truth be told, he needn't have bothered; the others know well enough not to disturb him while he's in here.
What do you know about me? he asked Charles, not so long ago.
Everything, Charles said.
And yet there are so many parts of Charles he will never touch.
His reflection flickers back at him from the corners of the room, and he looks at some point past them all.
.