THE X-MEN FIRST CLASS KINK MEME: PROMPT POST
You know why you're here. You've seen the movie. You're asking yourself, "So where was the gratuitous Emma Frost as White Queen in a corset? When did Mystique totally make it with Beast? WHY IN HEAVENS DID XAVIER AND MAGNETO NEVER MAKE OUT
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Erik understood, as Herr Doktor pressed cloth and buttons, flesh and bone to his bare back. His gorge rose, but it would be foolish to bring up his bitterly earned supper, would be wasteful, so he swallowed hard, breathed through his nose, and clung to his silence. "You were doing so well," Herr Doktor exhaled into his ear, pressing one leg between Erik's thighs as if inviting him to yield his weight to the support. "And then this week, no progress at all. What must I do to move us forward again?"
Erik thrashed his head in a soundless refusal he knew Herr Doktor could feel, pressed tight together as they were. Herr Doktor pushed that leg a little more, so Erik was practically sitting on it despite himself, and also despite himself Erik sighed when the strain in his wrists and shoulders eased. He sighed and gasped and bit his lip again to silence himself, as Herr Doktor chuckled and squeezed his shoulders, then let go.
"So let's try a different tactic."
Herr Doktor's arms wound around Erik's chest, warm and strong against the chill of the concrete, and Erik swallowed a whimper as Herr Doktor slid a hand over his twisting belly. "All you must do," he murmured in Erik's ear, flattening his other hand over Erik's ribs, "is open those cuffs and free yourself. Bring your hands down to mine and you may walk out of here; your clothes are just outside the door." But as he spoke his hands belied his words, the fingers of one curving between Erik's ribs, the other curling between his legs, around disobediently stiffening flesh. "Just this little thing."
Erik winced away from Herr Doktor's hands, from this pleasure worse than pain, but there was nowhere to go, his struggles doing nothing but pressing him into Herr Doktor's broad body. "No," he choked out before he could stop himself, despite the consequences for defiance; this was never what he had wanted, not in the lonely stolen moments when he touched himself, not during the searing procedures when Herr Doktor's hands settled on him with lying gentleness before hardening into pain again and again. "Stop, Sir, please," because he never wanted it but no matter how hard he bit his lip the jagged pain couldn't drive the pleasure back, curling stroke by stroke through his guts, shivering down his thighs. Erik shook his head till his hair flew, struggling and gasping, "Please, Sir, please."
"Come now, Erik," Herr Doktor chided him, softly, warmly, his thumb an exquisite pressure smearing wetness, "No need for such fretfulness." His arm tightened possessively across Erik's chest so they shifted together with every breath, hand twisting in a stroke so intense it wrenched a moan from him. Cheeks burning as his own noise echoed around them, Erik tried all the harder to shut his mouth, but Herr Doktor hummed in his ear, a soft warm untrue sound as his caresses continued steadily, as Erik whimpered into another moan.
"You've moved bigger things before," Herr Doktor murmured to him over the rising throb of awful pleasure, over Erik's sobbing breaths. "Much bigger. But you need practice in refining your focus, and this is a pleasant game of it, yes?" Erik shook his head, or tried to, but it tipped back on his arched neck and rolled on Herr Doktor's crisp-shirted shoulder. "And I don't even ask that you return me pleasure for pleasure." The cuffs jangled above Erik's head, wild with his formless agitation, his rising arousal. "Though how you affect me, my marvelous boy." As he spoke, voice canting low, Herr Doktor's lips brushed Erik's temple, bristly moustache, damp flesh. "But this isn't for me, this is all for you. All you must do is open the cuffs, move a little piece of metal. You can do this, Erik. I know you can."
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The cuffs held and Erik broke, all his resolve shattered by wrenching gouts of pleasure. Head hanging, Erik sobbed as his mind flooded over, with Herr Doktor's deep pleased rumble vibrating into his back all the while. Soon enough the pleasure sank beneath an equally violent wave of rage, and Erik gritted his teeth and shoved at his stupid addled mind and the cuffs binding his wrists; now he forced the haze back and forced the rigid cuffs to bend until they keened a high bright note, the death-song of metal rending, and shattered like glass, fragments tinkling against the walls.
A piece slashed Erik's outer forearm and another clinked against Herr Doktor's glasses; he laughed, shaking Erik in a different rhythm than his chest heaved as he collapsed against Herr Doktor's chest, as he sank from the heights of anger, crumpling into tears. "Oh, Erik," Herr Doktor murmured, laughter still bubbling in his voice, as the sobs ripped through Erik from his guts upwards, jackknifing him forward so he slumped against the chill wall, his hands clutching at his face. "Oh, my boy. Come here." Erik's knees buckled and Herr Doktor smeared his wet hand up Erik's belly, folding the other around Erik's shoulder as they sank to the floor, as he turned Erik towards him.
There was nothing left in Erik to resist, nothing but hollow grief, and he turned his face into the warmth of Herr Doktor's chest, clutching a fistful of fine shirt as Herr Doktor stroked his hair and murmured, "It's all right, my boy, it's all right." Trembling and emptied, wrapped up in Herr Doktor's voice and arms and will, Erik wept out whatever was left of his heart.
* *** *
Charles is falling, the light blinding, he can't tell which way is up --
-- he lands hard on the base of his spine, thumping to the floor, one foot tangled in the bedsheets. He's fallen off the bed. Erik's thrown him off the bed, and no wonder, really; everything metal in the room rattles and hums, from the shivering lamp to the shuddering headboard to the ticking window frame. Charles shakes the sheet from his ankle and rights himself, swallowing hard as Erik's pure pulsating distress buffets him, pushes up onto his knees and slumps forward, pressing his brow to the edge of the mattress.
He waits there, folding his hands into the bedsheets, counting threads in the weave against his forehead and allowing Erik the next move. Erik sits motionless as a rock, but that's only because the room is trembling for him, the floorboards vibrated by the rattling pipes, the lamp flickering in unknown semaphore.
Charles waits, keeping his mind to himself, keeping very still, and at length the room shudders down to silence. At length Erik's feet appear, his legs swung over the side of the bed.
At length Erik says, "Charles."
Charles doesn't let himself look up. He keeps himself shuttered. He says, "Erik," aloud, and stays where he is.
Erik stands, the floorboards creaking again, and Charles watches his arm stretch into view, his long-fingered hand grab the pants he could easily levitate. "I'm sorry," Erik says softly, "I hope you're satisfied."
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Erik shakes his head once, his eyes downturned, glittering beneath the screen of lowered lashes, and when the lamp flickers again it shows every line sunk in his face.
Charles wants desperately and irrationally to kiss them all away. He tightens his hands on the mattress's edge and doesn't let himself move.
"You thought you saw everything before," Erik says tonelessly, as the phone rattles and the windows creak. "Now you've seen. How I gave in to Schmidt, how I became his creature --"
The "No!" is out of Charles's mouth almost before he realizes it. "No, that's not -- you never surrendered to him, Erik! He --" Fortunately Charles stops himself from blurting the rest of that sentence, the utterly superfluous bald description of the horrific memory they just relived.
The silence that falls is crushing enough. Erik's hands tighten around his clothes, the buckle of his belt quivering in midair. "This was a mistake," he says with eyes closed, and Charles's heart aches inside him. "I should never have inflicted myself on you." And he turns towards the door.
"Erik, please," Charles babbles with no idea what to say next. If Erik steps out that door -- Charles has no idea if he'll ever return, to their shared project, to their friendship, to, dare he even hope, his bed. Erik stands still as if cast of pale metal, his shoulder between them, and Charles hesitantly begins, "I know there are open wounds in your soul, my friend." Erik doesn't even breathe, and the air grows thicker and thicker, but Charles pushes his words out against it anyway. "I hope you know I would never willingly disturb them. But Erik?" Who takes a slow breath, lashes quivering faintly on his cheekbone. "If I keep away from all your scars too, I'll never touch you at all."
Please don't say that would be better, Charles thinks, keeping the plea safely contained inside his own head. Please, not now, not ever. No other words come to him, and he waits, heart a heavy stone in his chest and his gift begging him to let it show him Erik's mind as Erik's impassive face will not, while Erik stands halfway between him and the door.
Erik takes a deep breath, and Charles watches his shoulderblade rise under the strong muscles. "Why do you even want to?" he asks, and his voice is alive again, threaded with both pain and curiosity.
Charles opens his mouth, and shuts it. Nothing will sound credible, no words would be adequate, not now. He reaches out with the sincerity of his mind and shows Erik the blazing meteor he was, falling into Charles's life, the beauty and the fascination he possesses, the infinity behind his eyes that Charles longs to spend a lifetime exploring.
Erik's eyes flicker open, flick to Charles and back again towards the floor. "Really?" he asks, and he still sounds raw, but there's a thread of his dry wit too. "The more fool you, then." But he turns towards Charles, dropping one handful of clothes on the nearby chair, and holds out his hand.
Charles tries to keep his smile gentle rather than the wide grin of relief he can feel tugging the corners of his mouth. Erik doesn't smile, but there's warmth in the deep green of his eyes as Charles lays hand in hand and Erik pulls him to his feet.
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When he reclaims it even the air tastes sweet. "Yes," he has to say, and finally, surprisingly, Erik smiles, if just a little.
"I need to," Erik begins, tilting his head towards the door, and Charles nods so he doesn't have to elaborate on the images of a long walk, breathing night air, clearing his mind with the here and now; all of it is framed in a tender kind of certainty that at least for tonight he won't leave for good. "You should get some sleep."
Charles gives Erik his second best dubious look, and Erik smiles wide enough to reach both sides of his mouth and squeezes Charles's hand before letting go. Charles obediently crawls into bed as Erik dresses quickly, leaving undershirt and hat behind, and it aches a little to watch Erik walk away from him, though not as much as it buoys him when Erik turns and glances back at him before stepping out.
As Erik walks Charles stays aware of him, just enough to track him, and watches shadows and streetlights interlace across the blameless ceiling as he thinks: about what kind of man would so torment a boy, and what kind of man could reclaim himself after having been so tormented. He considers everything he learned about Erik in their ocean meeting as if he'd read a book of him at a glance, and everything Erik has lived through that Charles can never truly know.
At length, after an hour and a half of nighttime walking, Erik slips back into the room soundlessly, as if he truly thought Charles would be asleep. He stands behind Charles as he undresses, watching him breathe so intently the hair prickles on Charles's nape; then he walks around to the other side and climbs in facing Charles, who finally lets himself open his eyes and smile a greeting.
Erik narrows his eyes as he settles beneath the covers, and he takes advantage of the bed's width to keep to his own space, not touching Charles anywhere. Charles closes his eyes, balanced between childish disappointment and profound relief, when a brush of intent prickles his nerves a moment before Erik loops his fingers around Charles's wrist again, settling the pad of his thumb against a small scar on Charles's forearm from a childhood fall that broke a banister.
When Charles looks up Erik's eyes are shut, his mouth a slight downcurve echoing his annoyance with himself. "I shouldn't need this," he whispers into the breathing silence between them, and Charles's heart rises and thumps against his ribs.
"You're allowed to enjoy it," Charles murmurs in answer, curling his fingers down to brush Erik's for a moment before relaxing his hand. Erik's mouth reverses its curve as his fingers tighten gently over Charles's pulse, Charles closes his eyes for the last time that night, and that is how they fall asleep.
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