Armistice (5/?)
Title: Armistice
Rating: NC-17 now
Genre: WW1 AU
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Summary: 1917. Craiglockhart, a mental hospital in Scotland. Erik Lehnsherr is a Siegfried Sassoon-esque World War 1 poet, and Charles
Xavier (Wilfred Owen) is a fellow patient at the hospital who turns out to share more than Lehnsherr's gift for poetry. Everyone's still a mutant, but the origins of the mutations are a peculiar form of shellshock, and (given the dates) major hunks of folks' backstories are different.
He had been trying not to fall asleep. It had not worked. Now the nightmare caught him and it was worse than before.
He did not bother trying to cross the ledge of ice. He stopped at the edge and looked down. Then the ice began to crack and he was plummeting down and under the ice were dozens of frozen men with blue lips and clammy skin, clawing at him. He felt the ice begin to creep over his own features. Icy knives cut through him. He was a horrible cold thing, a clammy creeping thing, and the world was a field of ice -
It seemed that all along it had been an illusion that he was ever walking above the ice, that any part of him had been quick and warm and real. The world was ended in ice.
And then he was awake and he was screaming. The bedstead broke.
He stumbled out of the nightmare and down the hallway, not knowing what he was looking for, found himself in the hall bathroom, but the ghosts of the night still clung to him with stubborn invisible fingers and the bathroom began to break too. It was happening again and he couldn’t control it, but he could feel it, the metal rasping and twisting like a broken arm. The sink bent in two and the mirror shattered and the faucet twisted into a snake and then uncoiled and hung limp, and he was panting and white-faced and kneeling to pick up shards of glass when he heard footsteps in the hallway.
"Rivers?" he said, warily, trying to calm his breathing. "It's all right. Please don’t come in."
"I'm not Rivers," a familiar voice said, and then Xavier was on his knees next to him picking up glass. Their fingers brushed. "You're not alone," Charles said. There was a strange light in the blue eyes, and Erik suddenly felt that if the whole world were to go dark the last bright place would be Charles Xavier's face. "I'm like you, Erik. It's not only you."
"You can do this?" Erik gasped.
Charles looked at him and then he felt -- it was impossible to describe, Charles' mind was actually inside his mind, he could feel it like a touch, and he heard Charles' voice saying, "No, I can do this," and Charles' mouth hadn't moved.
Little, loquacious Xavier. Like him. My God.
Then he understood where the Apostle Thomas had been coming from.
He had to touch him.
His hands gripped Charles' shoulders and slid up to his face and Charles looked back at him. The look was different -- frank and warm and almost hungry, and it sent something curious and hot curling along his spine. Charles had not looked at him like that before. He knew Charles could read the same expression in his face. Suddenly both their breaths were coming fast and shallow and infinitely loud in the silence of the broken bathroom.
"I'm real," Charles said.
Their eyes met and then he glanced away again, feeling the lust hot and transparent in his eyes. Wrong, Erik, he thought. Not here. Not here.
"What do you need?" Charles asked, and for a moment Erik thought he had only imagined that he'd said something. "Take it," Charles whispered, and then Charles' hand slid up along the side of his face and made him meet his gaze.
"Take it," Charles whispered again. For an instant their eyes locked. Then Erik had captured that tempting warm mouth in his, biting Charles' lip, making Charles whimper a little, and was kissing him rough and hard and shoving him against the tile wall, and Charles's hand slid up under his shirt and along his back and he was doing everything in a desperate rush, somehow needed this, as much as a desperate anonymous fumble in a latrine or the nights when it was only his own hand, and he'd tugged Charles' trousers off and his undershorts down and could feel Charles' hands shoving down his own trousers and Charles' pulse beating rabbit-quick and Charles hissed, "Take it, Erik, please," and then his pants had pooled at his ankles and he bit a kiss into Charles' neck and Charles let out a half-gasp, half-moan, that was not the sort of sound he had ever thought the boy could make. Then Erik had shoved his fingers into Xavier's hot red mouth. The sight of those lips wrapped around his fingers made him think a dozen things at once-- Charles on his knees, dark head between his legs, Charles on a bed with hands braced around his thighs, fucking Charles' mouth -- but this was more urgent than that, he pulled his fingers free and shoved Charles up against the wreckage of the sink and then somehow the sight of Charles' hands bracing on what was left of the metal made him pause, gasping, everything uncomfortably real.
Then he felt almost a tugging in his mind, a door slamming shut somewhere, and his thoughts were eddying back towards the harsh unthinking lust, and he bit Xavier’s neck and Xavier hissed and arched back against him. Xavier’s eyes in the mirror were dark with desire, and Xavier caught his hand again, shoved the fingers in his mouth again, sucked, tongue playing obscenely over the pads, and Erik gasped out, “All right” and slid one finger wordlessly into him, feeling Charles buck back into the touch, eyelids fluttering, and then another, and hissed, "Sorry," but Charles was shoving back, eyes hungry in the mirror, and he was so hard he could barely think, he slid a third finger into Charles, spat on his hand and tugged it hastily along his length and then he was buried hilt-deep, gasping against Charles' shoulder, and their faces in what was left of the mirror looked frankly unfamiliar.
Charles was flushed and panting and his mouth was red and open and his blue eyes were wild, and his own face was a little distorted, eyes wide, lips sore, hair disheveled, teeth bared, and he had ceased to be in control of any of this, it was all violent hot and bestial and he could tell he was hurting Charles by the way Charles' mouth set itself in a tight line and his fingers whitened on the metal. He wanted to kiss Charles, wanted to cover his whole body in kisses and touch him gently and watch his face change and his eyes widen, but instead he gritted his teeth and thrust into him again and gasped, and Xavier was tight and hot and -- he needed this, needed the desperate hot press of flesh and Charles' fingers tightening on the remnants of the sink, the half-animal sound of pleasure Charles was making when he thrust deeper. Then Charles was pushing back against him, and his hips were driving faster into Charles and Charles was grunting, head lolling back, and he was feeling little strange slips of sensation, heat and fullness and sudden unfamiliar waves of hot pleasure when he nudged a certain spot, and Charles was gasping, "Sorry" and he caught his eyes in the mirror and bit another kiss into Charles' neck, thinking no do that again I want that again, slid a hand past Charles' waist, wrapped a hand around his length, and Xavier let out the most gorgeous sound he had ever heard, too loud, and he shoved a hand over Xavier's mouth, and there it was again, i'm going to -- you wanted this I felt you wanting this, wanted to take me like this but more than the tangled skein of words, sensations -- Charles impaling himself on his cock, the feeling of his hand on Charles' lips -- different from his own thoughts the way music was different from speech, throbbing and singing a strange hot pleasure through his veins, and then he felt something unclench within himself and came, hard, in a series of gasping thrusts. Charles' seed spilled into his hand and they sagged, stilled, together and what was left of the mirror had fogged so they were invisible again.
Reality broke over him like a pailful of cold water. Suddenly he was aware of everything, Xavier still panting and drenched in sweat beneath him, his fingers still clamped on the boy’s waist. Xavier seemed to realize it the same moment he did. They bent and began hunting for their discarded trousers, groping half-blind. Twice their fingers brushed again.
“Sorry,” Xavier murmured. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have -- I made you -- ” The blue eyes didn’t meet his. Then he was gone down the dark hallway.
--
The next morning Xavier wasn’t at breakfast. He hadn’t expected that he would be. But when the boy wasn’t at lunch and didn’t show up in the smoking room after supper he felt his eyes keep flickering over to the empty spot on the sofa.
“They took him in for more observation,” McCoy said.
“Oh,” Erik said. He hadn’t realized how easy his look had been to read.
Chapter Five
Rating: NC-17 now
Genre: WW1 AU
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Summary: 1917. Craiglockhart, a mental hospital in Scotland. Erik Lehnsherr is a Siegfried Sassoon-esque World War 1 poet, and Charles
Xavier (Wilfred Owen) is a fellow patient at the hospital who turns out to share more than Lehnsherr's gift for poetry. Everyone's still a mutant, but the origins of the mutations are a peculiar form of shellshock, and (given the dates) major hunks of folks' backstories are different.
He had been trying not to fall asleep. It had not worked. Now the nightmare caught him and it was worse than before.
He did not bother trying to cross the ledge of ice. He stopped at the edge and looked down. Then the ice began to crack and he was plummeting down and under the ice were dozens of frozen men with blue lips and clammy skin, clawing at him. He felt the ice begin to creep over his own features. Icy knives cut through him. He was a horrible cold thing, a clammy creeping thing, and the world was a field of ice -
It seemed that all along it had been an illusion that he was ever walking above the ice, that any part of him had been quick and warm and real. The world was ended in ice.
And then he was awake and he was screaming. The bedstead broke.
He stumbled out of the nightmare and down the hallway, not knowing what he was looking for, found himself in the hall bathroom, but the ghosts of the night still clung to him with stubborn invisible fingers and the bathroom began to break too. It was happening again and he couldn’t control it, but he could feel it, the metal rasping and twisting like a broken arm. The sink bent in two and the mirror shattered and the faucet twisted into a snake and then uncoiled and hung limp, and he was panting and white-faced and kneeling to pick up shards of glass when he heard footsteps in the hallway.
"Rivers?" he said, warily, trying to calm his breathing. "It's all right. Please don’t come in."
"I'm not Rivers," a familiar voice said, and then Xavier was on his knees next to him picking up glass. Their fingers brushed. "You're not alone," Charles said. There was a strange light in the blue eyes, and Erik suddenly felt that if the whole world were to go dark the last bright place would be Charles Xavier's face. "I'm like you, Erik. It's not only you."
"You can do this?" Erik gasped.
Charles looked at him and then he felt -- it was impossible to describe, Charles' mind was actually inside his mind, he could feel it like a touch, and he heard Charles' voice saying, "No, I can do this," and Charles' mouth hadn't moved.
Little, loquacious Xavier. Like him. My God.
Then he understood where the Apostle Thomas had been coming from.
He had to touch him.
His hands gripped Charles' shoulders and slid up to his face and Charles looked back at him. The look was different -- frank and warm and almost hungry, and it sent something curious and hot curling along his spine. Charles had not looked at him like that before. He knew Charles could read the same expression in his face. Suddenly both their breaths were coming fast and shallow and infinitely loud in the silence of the broken bathroom.
"I'm real," Charles said.
Their eyes met and then he glanced away again, feeling the lust hot and transparent in his eyes. Wrong, Erik, he thought. Not here. Not here.
"What do you need?" Charles asked, and for a moment Erik thought he had only imagined that he'd said something. "Take it," Charles whispered, and then Charles' hand slid up along the side of his face and made him meet his gaze.
"Take it," Charles whispered again. For an instant their eyes locked. Then Erik had captured that tempting warm mouth in his, biting Charles' lip, making Charles whimper a little, and was kissing him rough and hard and shoving him against the tile wall, and Charles's hand slid up under his shirt and along his back and he was doing everything in a desperate rush, somehow needed this, as much as a desperate anonymous fumble in a latrine or the nights when it was only his own hand, and he'd tugged Charles' trousers off and his undershorts down and could feel Charles' hands shoving down his own trousers and Charles' pulse beating rabbit-quick and Charles hissed, "Take it, Erik, please," and then his pants had pooled at his ankles and he bit a kiss into Charles' neck and Charles let out a half-gasp, half-moan, that was not the sort of sound he had ever thought the boy could make. Then Erik had shoved his fingers into Xavier's hot red mouth. The sight of those lips wrapped around his fingers made him think a dozen things at once-- Charles on his knees, dark head between his legs, Charles on a bed with hands braced around his thighs, fucking Charles' mouth -- but this was more urgent than that, he pulled his fingers free and shoved Charles up against the wreckage of the sink and then somehow the sight of Charles' hands bracing on what was left of the metal made him pause, gasping, everything uncomfortably real.
Then he felt almost a tugging in his mind, a door slamming shut somewhere, and his thoughts were eddying back towards the harsh unthinking lust, and he bit Xavier’s neck and Xavier hissed and arched back against him. Xavier’s eyes in the mirror were dark with desire, and Xavier caught his hand again, shoved the fingers in his mouth again, sucked, tongue playing obscenely over the pads, and Erik gasped out, “All right” and slid one finger wordlessly into him, feeling Charles buck back into the touch, eyelids fluttering, and then another, and hissed, "Sorry," but Charles was shoving back, eyes hungry in the mirror, and he was so hard he could barely think, he slid a third finger into Charles, spat on his hand and tugged it hastily along his length and then he was buried hilt-deep, gasping against Charles' shoulder, and their faces in what was left of the mirror looked frankly unfamiliar.
Charles was flushed and panting and his mouth was red and open and his blue eyes were wild, and his own face was a little distorted, eyes wide, lips sore, hair disheveled, teeth bared, and he had ceased to be in control of any of this, it was all violent hot and bestial and he could tell he was hurting Charles by the way Charles' mouth set itself in a tight line and his fingers whitened on the metal. He wanted to kiss Charles, wanted to cover his whole body in kisses and touch him gently and watch his face change and his eyes widen, but instead he gritted his teeth and thrust into him again and gasped, and Xavier was tight and hot and -- he needed this, needed the desperate hot press of flesh and Charles' fingers tightening on the remnants of the sink, the half-animal sound of pleasure Charles was making when he thrust deeper. Then Charles was pushing back against him, and his hips were driving faster into Charles and Charles was grunting, head lolling back, and he was feeling little strange slips of sensation, heat and fullness and sudden unfamiliar waves of hot pleasure when he nudged a certain spot, and Charles was gasping, "Sorry" and he caught his eyes in the mirror and bit another kiss into Charles' neck, thinking no do that again I want that again, slid a hand past Charles' waist, wrapped a hand around his length, and Xavier let out the most gorgeous sound he had ever heard, too loud, and he shoved a hand over Xavier's mouth, and there it was again, i'm going to -- you wanted this I felt you wanting this, wanted to take me like this but more than the tangled skein of words, sensations -- Charles impaling himself on his cock, the feeling of his hand on Charles' lips -- different from his own thoughts the way music was different from speech, throbbing and singing a strange hot pleasure through his veins, and then he felt something unclench within himself and came, hard, in a series of gasping thrusts. Charles' seed spilled into his hand and they sagged, stilled, together and what was left of the mirror had fogged so they were invisible again.
Reality broke over him like a pailful of cold water. Suddenly he was aware of everything, Xavier still panting and drenched in sweat beneath him, his fingers still clamped on the boy’s waist. Xavier seemed to realize it the same moment he did. They bent and began hunting for their discarded trousers, groping half-blind. Twice their fingers brushed again.
“Sorry,” Xavier murmured. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have -- I made you -- ” The blue eyes didn’t meet his. Then he was gone down the dark hallway.
--
The next morning Xavier wasn’t at breakfast. He hadn’t expected that he would be. But when the boy wasn’t at lunch and didn’t show up in the smoking room after supper he felt his eyes keep flickering over to the empty spot on the sofa.
“They took him in for more observation,” McCoy said.
“Oh,” Erik said. He hadn’t realized how easy his look had been to read.
Chapter Five