Mutants Do It Better

[zamwessell]

Title: Mutants Do It Better
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Erik/Charles, referencing Charles/Moira and Erik/Raven
Genre: PWP
WC: 4000ish
Summary: Erik believes that mutants are better in bed. Charles disagrees. Only one way to prove this hypothesis. Inspired by "I think that Charles is just horny, and just trying to get laid. Throughout the film. He’s like ‘human beings are cool, give them a chance’ because he just wants to have human being sex. He doesn’t want to have mutant sex. Whereas Eric really gets off on mutant sex." -Fassbender, natch.
A/N: Hi! This is your kinda-weekly gift from the Cherik pr0n fairy. I hope you enjoy it! This one is my vengeance for all those Charles/Moira deleted scenes. JK Moira I love you and you were good in Bridesmaids.
Your comments have been, like, insane, and I don't know if my writing "AHHH NO YOU'RE AWESOME I AM ACTUALLY VERY NOT WORTHY I DON'T HAVE GOOD SENTENCE STRUCTURE" in response to all of them will enhance your experience any, but I will be doing that this week, so get pumped! I guess? Anyway I love this fandom so much, you all are crazy but in the best way possible and I was supposed to stop writing Cherik at the end of August and mend my ways but, nope, looks like this is the summer fling that's sticking around and making things awkward at Rydell.

“You fucked Moira,” Erik said.


Charles spluttered. “I’m sorry?”

They were in the library drinking; Charles had beaten him at chess. Neither of them was quite willing to go to bed yet.

“You ought to be,” Erik said.

“Well, I’m not,” Charles managed, sipping again. He had almost finished his drink; by now most of it was ice. “Moira is delightful.”

“Missionary?” Erik said.

Charles nearly dropped the glass. “Erik, please. I - nonsense - not that that’s - there’s nothing wrong with - not that it’s any of your - not only that.”

“For a telepath, you’re rotten at lying,” Erik grinned. “Humans, Charles. Pity.”

“Oh don’t start on that,” Charles said.

“But Charles,” Erik began, and he could see Charles flinch a little at his tone. He had been noticing lately that he could make Charles do that, “humans are so boring. Especially - that way.”

“Oh, really?” Charles half-laughed.

“I guarantee mutants are better in bed, Charles,” Erik said, with finality. He drained his glass. Charles glanced at him and then drained his.

“You have no way of - how would you-” Charles began.

Erik brought the ice-bucket to hover over them. “Want something more, Charles?”

Erik watched confusion dart across Charles’ face. He had been trying lately to provoke that. He wasn’t sure why. The more he drank the more imperative it seemed to make Charles look like that. Then Charles nodded and held out his glass. Erik poured them several more fingers of whiskey each and tossed in more ice.

“Erik that’s more than enough,” Charles said.

“Mutants are better in bed,” Erik said again, stubbornly.

“How would you know?” Charles asked. There was a pause. Erik sipped thoughtfully and stared defiantly over the glass at him. “You didn’t, Erik. Oh God. Erik. The only two people in this house whose minds I don’t read.”

“Admirable restraint on your part,” Erik commented drily, trying to look a little less smug because Charles had the funniest little stricken expression and it felt almost unfair. “You look as though you need another.”

“I don’t, thanks,” Charles said.

“There’s hardly any left.” Erik brought the bottle over, filled Charles’ glass, and drank the remnant himself.

“I don’t know how you do that without choking,” Charles said, watching him. “Don’t you have a gag reflex?”

“Don’t force me to connect that remark to our prior conversation,” Erik said, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand. Charles - was Charles actually blushing? Suddenly Erik wished there were more whiskey.

“Moira was perfectly charming,” Charles said, very quickly and not looking at him.

“But?”

“But nothing.”

“There was something,” Erik said. He looked at Charles. “You’ve never fucked a mutant, have you?”

“I hardly know any mutants besides Raven, and I feel responsible for her, and Angel, and that would be wrong after promising she’d be able to keep her clothes on and -”

“I’ll bet you,” Erik said, suddenly. “I’ll bet I can make you admit that mutants are better in bed.”

“I just said I didn’t know any mutants on whom I’d be able to test your hypothesis.”

“It’s not a hypothesis, Charles. It’s a theory. It’s been tested.”

Charles sighed. “Erik could you - could we not - could we possibly abstain from this topic?”

“I think that’s the matter with you,” Erik said. “You’re always doing backbends for the humans and it’s because you’ve never fucked someone of your own kind. Someone on your own level.”

“I don’t think my sex life ought to be brought to bear -”

“You use that mutant line to pick them up, of course. You tell them they’re mutants. And it excites them. But you pretend it doesn’t excite you. Aren’t you curious?”

“I don’t share your predilection for blue women, Erik,” Charles said, suddenly, with a bluntness that seemed to startle him a little.

Erik grinned. “Of course not. I’d forgotten. You like women who aren’t deformed.” His voice lingered on the final word and Charles squirmed a little.

“I don’t mean that,” Charles said. “I’m not calling Raven deformed.”

“Magnanimous of you.” Erik took another sip. “Because she isn’t.”

“I wish you wouldn’t look so smug,” Charles said suddenly.

“Do I?” Erik asked, grinning.

“Come off it. You know you do.”

Erik grinned. He drained the glass.

Charles shot him a frustrated look. “Well, look, you have a hypothesis, Erik, which is very nice, but there’s no one here I could possibly test it with, so, there we are.”

Erik got up and opened the liquor cabinet and found a bottle of scotch.

“Erik I can’t possibly drink anything else,” Charles said feebly.

“If I’m going to propose this I’m going to need to,” Erik said.

Charles looked at him. “For God’s sake, Erik, don’t be ridiculous. I’m drunk but I’m not-”

“I think it would be good for you,” Erik said. “And since you’ve ruled out all the other possible participants.” He took Charles’ glass. “Here. You’re going to need it as well.”

“I hear it provokes the desire but takes away the performance,” Charles said, his mouth quirking up into the faintest hint of a grin.

“So you’re entertaining the idea,” Erik said.

“No I’m not,” Charles said. He cleared his throat loudly. “Er. Tchin tchin.”

Their glasses clinked together. For a moment their eyes met. Then Charles glanced instantly away.

“It’s a bet, then,” Erik said. “All right, we’re going to need to drink an awful lot.”

--

Just over an hour later Charles’ words were beginning to run together, like speaking through molasses, and Erik found himself reflecting that this wasn’t the first time that they had been this drunk together, the first time had been on the road, and the evening had concluded with him carrying Charles to bed and Charles clinging sullen and heavy on his neck and he’d had the dim sense that their faces were too close but in the morning it had dispersed and they hadn’t mentioned it again. So perhaps Charles was simply a grabby drunk and it wasn’t that the suggestion had already started taking root. Twice Charles had emphasized a point he was making by placing a finger on Erik’s chest and he kept grinning at him and the look was - he knew Charles wasn’t doing it on purpose - but it was the kind of knowing grin that he felt was calculated to make the pit of your stomach turn light and fluttery.

It wasn’t that he wanted to fuck Charles, exactly. But - well, there was a logic to it. Charles oughtn’t be fucking Moira. That seemed absolutely and patently obvious. Charles was a mutant. Charles was an exceptional mutant. He was the best of the lot of them, and to go and waste all of that - that keen penetrating mind and those slow smiles that couldn’t help being a little flirtatious and that musical low laugh and - and - Erik found his thoughts drifting to how Charles might look when he was in bed. Charles didn’t seem particularly athletic but he seemed to have a lot of enthusiasm and probably he would be flexible and - Pale, probably, and - smooth skin, Erik thought, and - supple white thighs and -- Charles didn’t seem as though he felt he had to compensate for anything, but it wasn’t something to which Erik had given any thought, not yet, but now he found his eyes glued to the crotch of Charles’ trousers and then Charles’ eyes snapped to meet his and he’d forgotten how alarmingly blue they were, or maybe the whiskey had finally gone to his head.

Eyes like that should not be wasted on humans.

The way he’d sounded using Cerebro had been positively indecent. He hoped Charles sounded like that between the sheets. But somehow he didn’t think that was the sort of noise Charles would be likely to make with Moira. But I could -- How did I start picturing this? Erik thought. All I know is it seems a waste when he could be -

Could be what? he heard, and he realized that Charles had been listening. Could be fucking you?

He found that he couldn’t meet Charles’ gaze.

My God, Erik, you do want to fuck me, he heard Charles think.

“You’re imagining things,” he said.

“No,” Charles said, “my friend, I think you’re the one who’s been imagining things,” and then Charles grinned and he found himself confronted with an uncomfortably direct image of Charles naked and gasping into the sheets as he thrust into him, and Charles was hot and tight and perfect and -

Erik felt an uncomfortable tightening in his trousers. “That’s not mine,” he managed. And then Charles didn’t look at him and he realized he’d been right.

“Well, this is a revelation,” he said.

“’S not my idea of a --” Charles said, suddenly trying to sound drunker. “Was only trying to - exemplify.”

“Shut up, Charles,” Erik said. Charles shut up. He looked propitiatingly at Erik.

You can’t possibly mean to look at me like that, he thought. Do you have any idea how you’re looking at me? You look like you want me to tear your sweater off and take you on the carpet.

You look like you want to, Charles thought back.

“Erik this is a very bad idea,” Charles said. “Dreadful. Awful. Absolutely rotten. Sodding -”

Erik pressed a finger to his lips. They were warm and dry and supple to the touch. Then he felt them part and Charles’ tongue darted out and drew a hot slick line across the pad of his finger and he choked and tugged his hand away.

“Sorry,” Charles was saying. “Sorry, I didn’t -”

Then Erik said, “Shut up, Charles,” and they were kissing, their mouths shoved together almost roughly, Charles letting out a little strangled gasp into his mouth that sounded almost like relief, and Charles was on his lap and his hands were catching Charles’ waist and roving over Charles’ back and Erik had the strange sense that everything had been leading up to this, all the chess, all the arguing and the catching each other’s eyes when someone else was talking, and it couldn’t be that he was - attracted to Charles, like that, but he had tugged Charles’ sweater over his shoulders and Charles had actually raised his arms to help him get it off and it was all far too natural and easy and - curiously impatient, as though it was a miracle they’d held out this long, and the fabric of Charles’ shirt tore under his hands and Charles was gasping, “I know,” and his mouth was on Charles’ neck, planting rough kisses along the line of his throat, and Charles let out a half-moan and was tugging Erik’s sweater off, like he had to get his hands on as much of him as possible, and then Charles’ shirt was all the way off and he was kissing Charles’ chest with a feverish urgency, and it was strange and wrong and different from Raven and he found he was wishing he’d done it sooner, and Charles was giving him a look like he felt the same way, and then he’d shoved Charles onto his back on the couch and was tugging at the fastenings of his pants and Charles gasped, “Here, let me help,” and undid the pants and the belt and Erik shoved them down and Charles kicked them off at the base of the sofa and while Charles was tugging off his shoes Erik tore off his own pants and kicked his boots off, cursing a little in his haste, and then Charles finished with his shoes, and they were both in their undershorts, panting, staring at each other.

“Erik,” Charles murmured. The word set a hot surge to the pit of his stomach. Charles had said his name before, dozens of ways, angry and delighted and perplexed and - but this was nothing like that, this was Charles breathless and almost naked and there was an unspeakable lust that curled around the syllables, and he thought, God, Charles, what are you, where did you learn that, and their eyes met, and then he was kissing his way down Charles’ neck and over the smooth chest and Charles said it again, and then he’d tugged Charles’ boxers off and hesitated just a fraction of an instant and Charles choked, “Oh God Erik you don’t have to - what are we even --” and then he’d taken Charles in his mouth and Charles’ whole body shuddered against him and Charles’ hands clenched in his hair and it was recompense enough.

This was not something Erik had done before. He fought back the urge to gag, tried to remember what felt good, carefully slid his mouth up Charles’ length and sucked, and Charles writhed under him and managed, “God, yes, Erik” and he thought, my God, if anyone had told me that we’d wind up like this when you pulled me out of the water, I would have called him a lunatic, and he pulled his mouth free and Charles actually whimpered. He glanced down at Charles, naked, sprawled bonelessly on the sofa, face gilded with sweat, eyes screwed shut, and Charles’ eyes flickered open and caught his and he thought, beautiful can’t be the word, obscene and beautiful like the way my name sounds when you say it, but I can’t think of any other words, I must be drunker than I thought, and slid his tongue experimentally along Charles’ length and Charles let out a perfectly gorgeous moan and thrust his hips up towards him, and he whispered, “Charles you’re easier to move than metal,” and Charles half-laughed and then his tongue flicked thoughtfully at Charles’ foreskin and Charles whimpered, and then he’d taken him in his mouth again, sucking hard, finding the taste of Charles strangely intoxicating and how Charles’ body arched under him and how Charles let out a little helpless moan and how pliable he was, nothing controlled about him, just - willing and eager even and this was better than beating Charles at chess, because Charles still looked a little supercilious even when he lost, and now Charles was gasping, “God, perfect, that’s perfect, mmmph, how do you,” and then “I’m - I’m - Erik,” and Charles’ release came hot and salty in the back of his throat. When he pulled free and looked down at Charles and swallowed Charles’ mouth was still half open, red and willing and lips a little swollen from kisses, and somehow he had to kiss Charles again. Charles caught his face in both hands almost clumsily and kissed him thoroughly, tongue foraying thoughtfully into his mouth, eyes flickering shut. Finally Erik pulled back and grinned down at him.

“Moira didn’t do that to you, did she?” and when Charles kissed his neck and muttered, “Don’t let’s talk about Moira,” he couldn’t help grinning.

“Never took you for a cocksucker,” Charles said, and Erik wondered why he found it strangely entrancing that Charles was clearly trying to sound harsh and assured and even so his voice was quavering and rough and breathless and Charles’ fingers didn’t stop tracing appreciative lines along his chest.

“I’m not,” Erik said, because it seemed the simplest thing, his mouth at Charles’ ear, thinking, If you’re like this when I’m sucking your cock then what on earth are you going to be like when I’m fucking you, and then he hissed, “You seemed to enjoy yourself,” and Charles didn’t blush and he liked that Charles didn’t blush. “Anyway I’m not done with you,” he said, and then Charles said, “You’re sure?” and Erik said, “I’m sure,” and he could feel Charles’ pulse begin to speed up and Charles said, “All right,” and that breathlessness in Charles’ voice was mesmerizing.

You like the way I sound, Charles thought, sounding almost puzzled. Erik nodded, kissed the side of Charles’ neck, thought back, Of course I like it. Why shouldn’t I like it? You’re obscene.

Then their mouths were meeting again and he could feel Charles’ fingers tugging his boxers off and Charles hissed, “How do you want me to - what should I -”

“Do you want to do this on a bed?” Erik asked. Charles swallowed. Now he was blushing. Erik couldn’t remember ever seeing Charles blush. It was mesmerizing.

“Perhaps we ought to,” Charles said.

“All right,” Erik said. “Mine. I’ve got - something to help -” and saying that made him a little startled because suddenly it was all about to be real, I’m about to fuck Charles Xavier, and the thought still managed to be surprising even though he was lying here naked on a sofa with an equally naked Charles locked in his arms, legs tangled around his, kissing him with a strange abandon, and their eyes met.

“Charles,” he said, and the name had never sounded quite like that, “you don’t - if you don’t want -”

Charles shot him an almost puzzled stare. “Don’t you want to prove your theory?” he asked, and there was a curious edge to the question.

Erik kissed the side of Charles’ neck and Charles exhaled noisily and arched a little into the touch. It was becoming harder and harder to resist the temptation that this Charles was becoming, and his erection was throbbing insistently and making it difficult to think of anything other than the wanton image that Charles had let him see, “If I didn’t know better I’d say I’d proved it already,” he said, and Charles chuckled.

“Oh, my friend,” he began, “I would hardly -”

“Shut up, Charles,” Erik said, and their mouths came together again, fiercely, and he thought, Where did you learn to kiss like that? and ran his fingers through Charles’ hair, and Charles pulled back and looked at him and muttered, “Erik, your bed, now” and then they climbed off the couch, a little dazed and sticky. They began to tug the clothes on again, Charles abandoning his shirt, and Erik couldn’t help grinning.

“What?” Charles said.

You, Erik thought. You’re naked in a cardigan. Naked, flushed, hair a mess, I never thought Charles Xavier could look so debauched, I never thought I’d be the one who made you look like that, and then I have to kiss you again and he’d caught Charles by the shoulders and shoved him against a bookcase and knocked off two volumes on genetics and his tongue was plundering Charles’ mouth and Charles was letting out another of those ecstatic little moans and he’d caught Charles by the thighs and lifted him and Charles’ legs were around his waist and Charles gasped, “Erik if I didn’t know better I’d say you weren’t going to be able to make it to the bedroom,” and Erik choked, “Charles we can’t just - like this --”

Then he’d thought of something and two doors down the hall the drawer of his dresser had tugged open and he was lugging the entire drawer down the hallway by the metal handles and - Charles’ expression was almost -- he couldn’t put it into words, because fawning couldn’t be the right word. Anyway it didn’t do to think too much about Charles, there was almost too much - it was intoxicating to have Charles like this, but it was threatening to undermine his control, and having to concentrate on something that wasn’t the scent of Charles and the way Charles writhed under him and how thirsty and delightful and maddening his kisses were, was absolutely essential if he was going to be able to hold out until -

“Give me a moment,” he managed, unlatching Charles’ legs from around his waist, and Charles nodded and clambered down from the shelf and he wandered over to the door and found the drawer waiting outside.

When he came back the tube was in his hand and he thought, “Slow, Erik, you have to, you can’t just,” but then it was almost impossible to think because Charles was giving him a look Charles had never given him before and tugging off the cardigan. “Where do you want me?” he said, and Erik felt a rush of images - Charles spreading his legs up against the bookcase, Charles on his knees on the carpet, Charles on the sofa clutching his knees to his chest and looking up at him with hungry blue eyes, Charles on the desk scattering papers everywhere.

“Anywhere,” Erik said, and their eyes met.

Charles grinned. “Honest,” he managed. Then Erik grunted, “Sofa,” and Charles nodded and lay down, and Erik hissed, “Like you pictured it, Charles,” and Charles nodded wordlessly and caught his knees and gazed up at him, and Erik knew that there was a hint of false bravado in that direct blue gaze and muttered, “I don’t - I’m not going to hurt you, Charles,” and Charles said, “Kiss me,” and Erik felt his heart leap up into his throat at the bluntness of the request and the fact that this was how Charles asked to be reassured and leaned down and kissed him, slow and gentle and careful and feeling something strange that stirred the hairs along the back of his neck.

“A bet’s a bet,” Charles said, quickly as though a door had snapped shut somewhere, but then Erik had slid a slicked finger into him, cautiously, and he felt Charles’ body open and writhe a little into the touch, and Charles’ eyes flickered shut.

“Am I hurting you?” Erik asked.

“N- no,” Charles said. “Actually that’s - ah,” and Erik repeated the motion, trying to memorize the spot, and feeling Charles relax around him, and then Charles let out a melodious groan and Erik slid another finger into him, thinking, Charles stop looking so perfect and sounding like that, if you want me to hold back, you’re impossibly sexy like this, and then Charles was shoving against his hand, and watching Charles fuck himself like that was too much, he slid another finger into him and then Charles gasped, “Do it, Erik, please,” and Erik didn’t need asking twice, Charles’ legs were over his shoulders and fuck he was tight, it was too good, and he was thrusting raggedly into Charles and Charles’ brow was furrowed at first in discomfort and then Charles was matching his thrusts and they both moaned simultaneously, and he was gasping, “Charles, my God” and Charles hissed, “Here,” and Charles’ finger touched his temple and then he felt the rush of Charles’ thoughts, suffused with sensations, the novelty of feeling someone there, strangeness more than pain, Erik, full of you, that yes that, never thought I’d - certainly not there, but God, I’m glad, this is good, you’re - fuck -you’re amazing, I want you, and Charles was hot and tight and perfect and the rush of sensation sent him over the edge, and he spent himself inside Charles, gasping, fingers tightening on Charles’ thighs.

Charles smiled up at him. And the look was - contented and delighted and -- smug. Yes, absolutely, smug. He pulled out carefully and settled next to Charles, half-falling off the couch, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling felt like a word whose meaning he had forgotten. His mind was empty. He exhaled. Slowly the thoughts began creeping back in - I am naked lying next to Charles Xavier on a couch in a library, I have just fucked Charles Xavier, I think I’ll die if I don’t do it again.

“Good God,” Charles said, after a time, with a contented-sounding laugh. “I seem to have just remembered my name.”

Erik grinned. “I told you, Charles. Mutants are better in bed.”

There was a pause.

“I believe any hypothesis must be tested at least three times before it can be considered a theory,” Charles said. And Charles’ voice was still rough and breathless and delightful, something Erik had never in a thousand years imagined hearing, least of all like this.

He leaned over and kissed Charles on the neck. “That seems only reasonable.”

His fingers strayed over to toy with Charles’ hair, and he felt Charles lean into the touch almost like a cat.

He was about to say something about humans and Moira but had a sudden fear of any words that might propel Charles away from him, especially when Charles was nestled against his side with one arm wreathed around his neck and he could feel Charles’ breathing growing steadier and calmer and the hushed throbbing of Charles’ pulse and it was all so - comfortable and right even as it was horribly achingly strange. He frowned. He was going to have to figure out what to do about Raven, because here was Charles, the Charles he argued with and irritated and played chess with, Charles who was his equal, Charles who’d found him in the water, Charles who understood him, Charles whom he’d - loved he supposed was the only word, like a brother, before even entertaining the idea that there could be anything else, and now there was, now it was the only thing, it had to be, it was like everything else with Charles which was to say that it was like nothing else on earth, absolutely incomparable, not apples to oranges but - nuclear bombs to apples, not that he could think of the right metaphor, but -

“I know,” Charles said suddenly.

Mutants to humans, he thought, ruefully.

“Perhaps we should try the bed next time,” Charles said. “In the interests of science.”

Erik laughed. “Naturally.”