To Drown in Nostalgia - X-Men - Charles/Erik
Title: To Drown in Nostalgia
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Word Count: 5550
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the "sensation play" square of my kink_bingo card, although they're not exactly playing.
Summary: When Erik challenged Charles to put his powers to good use, he didn't expect Charles to go ahead. Now he finds his mind and senses under attacks of deliberate nostalgia.
"Come on, Charles," Erik had taunted at their last encounter. "Show me what you can really do."
He never expected Charles to take him up on that challenge.
*
It comes to him in the night, the first attack, sly and powerful.
Erik wakes but doesn't wake, in a bed that isn't his own; he recognises it well, the plush sheets and heavy blankets, the thick curtains holding out the sunlight, the piles of borrowed books on the shelves.
The mansion. Charles's bedroom.
He finds Charles dozing beside him, as peaceful and unguarded as Erik has ever seen him. His eyelashes are a dark blur against his pale, freckled face. His hair is mussed from a night well-spent between the sheets; Erik remembers it well, this night. He remembers the connection between them, burning bright while they tore at each other's clothes, the buzz in their heads only calming when they had skin on skin, mouth on mouth, all the physical contact they needed.
He can see it on Charles's neck, the speckled bite-marks and hickeys left by his mouth. They are dark splotches, and they won't fade for days. Erik's cock pulses at the sight; he'll be ready to nuzzle Charles awake and go again in no time.
"What are you up to?" Erik murmurs.
He can't reach out to touch. The moment is as still as a photograph, imprinted in his mind.
If he could touch, he could explore the endless bare skin that waits beneath him. He could lose himself in the taste and scent of before - as if they had never been parted, as if he had never left Charles behind, bleeding and broken.
"Charles," he rumbles, but no answer comes.
Just the sight of peace, laid out before him like a taunt. The very sight of it makes his eyes hurt. It's too soft around the edges. Erik feels like he's going to rip it to pieces; he's too jagged, too damaged, too sharp.
The image is a photograph.
Photographs can be destroyed.
*
"Are we playing games now?" Erik asked, breathing the words into the frigid air.
There was no answer in words, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood alert.
*
The military base smells of good cooking and furniture polish; sunshine, sweat and sex. He might have walked straight into the past, for what his senses are telling him.
Mystique looks back at him, blue and glorious, with her yellow eyes narrowed in a question.
"It's Charles," Erik answers. "He's in my head."
He shouldn't be smiling when he says that.
Mystique passes his helmet to him without a word. It's cold and unresponsive in his hands - ever so uncomfortable. It's tempting to leave it off; he'd like to see where Charles is going with this, what he might bring up next. There's so much that Charles could do in this world if he would only stop being so afraid of his own power, if he would stop restraining himself out of a sense of honour and fair-play. It's good for Erik that he doesn't.
After sighing, he lifts the helmet onto his head. The scent disappears immediately, the smell of the mansion and their shared time together vanishing as if it was never there.
"We need to be on alert," he says. "If Charles is here, his children won't be far behind."
They never are, trailing at his ankles like a set of hungry ducklings. Erik understands the impulse; unlike them, he is able to resist it. Charles holds no hold over him, he tells himself.
That doesn't stop his mind from dwelling on that scent, now that his thoughts are carefully hidden behind his helmet. It doesn't stop him from remembering what once was, even as he tears apart the world around them.
*
"You're hardly even trying," he murmured once he was alone, with his Brothers away to lick their wounds and heal their pride. The military base was safe for now, protected by Charles and his X-Men.
He wished he had Charles on his side; his mind, his wisdom, his leadership. It worked with Charles, in a way it doesn't seem to work with him.
"Don't I even deserve your full attention?"
*
"Oh, Erik," Charles sighs, his voice as warm and soft as if it has been spoken into his ear. He sounds as if his heart is breaking; Erik wants to claw it out for him.
(except that isn't true, isn't right, could never happen.)
"I'm busy," Erik insists, speaking aloud. Toad spares a glance for him, attentive as always, but a glare is enough to dispose of him. "Get out of my head."
"You've got your helmet. If you want me out, put it on."
Erik doesn't move a single muscle. It's different from usual, hearing Charles like this; it doesn't register in the same way as projected thoughts do. His ears hear the words, as plainly as if Charles were in the room, in his arms, in his bed. It's real, so real. Charles could change the very world beneath his feet if he chose to.
"Is this your latest plan? You want to irritate me to death?"
"I've never wanted you dead," Charles says - too open, too sincere, too caring. It makes Erik's skin itch. "My friend, you must believe that."
"You shouldn't call me a friend," Erik insists. By now, his followers are keeping their heads down with determined obedience. He could relegate his words to mere thoughts, but he wants them out in the open.
"I always will."
Charles is a soft-hearted fool. It's going to be the death of him one day; that's the hard fact that terrifies Erik most.
"Charles," Erik sighs. He loves the feel of Charles's name on his tongue. He doesn't get to say it often enough. There's nothing to follow it up with. There's nothing more to say.
Yet Charles stays with him, a deliberate presence that Erik can feel by his side, inside his mind, all around. It's like being back at the mansion, spending long evenings of silence in each other's company. Erik closes his eyes; he thinks that he can hear the sound of Charles's breathing, but he can't tell if that is anything more than a wistful illusion.
In either case, it is still there when he goes to bed that night. He falls asleep to the phantom sound of Charles beside him, and tries to pretend that it doesn't make him ache.
*
It was starting to become more than he can take. "Stop it," he insisted, his hands pressed against his temples. "I can't take much more of this."
It was when he was alone that was the worst; when he had nothing to distract himself with, nothing but old sensations and long-gone memories. The past was dead; the future was all that waited for them.
His head, his mind, Charles would not agree.
*
The hotel room melts away before his eyes. Cheap wallpaper morphs into wooden panelling, and the thin curtains thicken into heavy velvet. The hard mattress softens and widens beneath his back, and Erik is smiling before he even opens his eyes.
He sits up. His bedroom in the mansion looks exactly as he remembers, not a single detail out of place. Hardly surprising; Charles must have plucked the setting from his memories.
Near the doorway, Charles stands with a sheepish smile on his face, his hair a mess and his hands tucked into his pockets. His wheelchair is nowhere in sight, and when he walks forward it is smooth and untroubled. It's beautiful to see him on his feet again, as it should always have been, as it always would have been if Erik had not crashed his way into Charles's life.
"You'll have to forgive me," Charles says. "I like taking the opportunity to get out of that chair, even if it is just in the mind."
Mutely, Erik shakes his head: as if forgiveness would ever be required. All that he needs Charles to apologise for is refusing to be at his side. If they could master ideological differences, perhaps he might be able to find happiness again.
He clears his throat. It's a useless, sentimental thought, and he doesn't want to have to share it with Charles. "What are you doing?" he asks. "You've been stalking my mind for weeks."
"Put your helmet on if it bothers you," Charles suggests, with a dismissive curl in his voice - it doesn't suit him. "You can easily keep me out."
"For the time being, I'm curious." It's more than bland curiosity, but he won't say as much; it's the intoxication of Charles's presence, the calming ocean of his mind. Every sense is pricked to alert; the scent of the mansion, the temperature of the air, it's all pitch-perfect. To don his helmet would be to deprive them both. "You always have an angle, Charles. What is it?"
For all that Charles makes his claims to innocence and morality, there's a manipulative streak hidden beneath his blue eyes - it's unintentional, most likely. Erik imagines it was bred into him through riches and wealth, the solid certainty that he knows what is best.
"I miss you," Charles states. He tilts his head to the side; the smile on his face is too wistful to take in. "Would you believe that's all there is to it?"
Instinctively, Erik shakes his head. "I know you better than that," he answers. "You wouldn't walk into my mind without good reason."
"And the draw of your presence isn't reason enough," Charles concludes. His smile seems mocking now; perhaps it's even affectionate. "You have a low opinion of yourself."
Erik smiles too. It's difficult to restrain himself in Charles's presence. It's too warm, too familiar. "Far from it, as I'm sure you know," he says. "Mutants are the next stage in evolution: homo superior."
"You generalise with 'mutants' instead of talking about yourself," Charles says. He walks with a confident bound in his step to the bed, taking a seat on the edge. Erik feels the mattress bow to his weight. It's a struggle not to give in and pull Charles closer to him immediately. He knows that is what Charles wants; he holds himself back. "I enjoy your company. Spending your days with impudent teenagers leaves a person longing for civilised conversation. If I overhear one more argument about who the cutest Beatle is, I may decide to wipe all knowledge of their existence from the school."
"Seems extreme."
"Entirely justifiable, believe me."
They smile at each other, giggling like they are the teenage schoolgirls, and Charles never looks away, never breaks eye contact, allowing Erik to bathe in the blue of his eyes. He misses it so much that it hurts like a knife to the chest. Only Shaw has ever been able to hurt him like this. Charles is far more dangerous.
He reaches out to touch him, his fingertips against Charles's forearm. His skin is warm beneath him, invitingly so, and hope flares in Charles's eyes at the contact.
"Get over here," Erik sighs at him, worn-down and delighted.
Charles climbs into his lap, hot and warm-limbed and everywhere all at once. His arms slide around Erik's shoulders, holding him close as he rests their foreheads together. His eyes slide closed, but Erik can't stop looking at him, not for a moment. He can't stop thinking about how they could have had this, if the day at the beach had gone differently. He could have had Charles, for as long as he could hold onto him.
"You still could," Charles murmurs. His fingers stroke against the nape of Erik's neck, slow and comfortable. "It's not too late, you know."
He hears himself murmur Charles's name, and kisses him to stop him from saying anything more. Their lips angle together, awkward at first but settling into something that fits, something that's right. Erik pushes his hand beneath the thick wool of Charles's cardigan and onto the skin at the base of his spine. Hot and brilliant, there is no knot of scar tissue, not here in the world of his mind.
He rolls them over, pushing Charles onto the bed, as his heart begins to race. Lying beneath him, Charles looks up at him with an expectant sense of wonder. It makes Erik trace his cheekbone with the back of his fingertips; he wants to remember everything. Charles fades too quickly from his mind these days. The image grows fuzzier by the day, clouded by dark thoughts and deep regrets.
"Erik," Charles breathes, cupping his face. He draws them down to kiss again, his tongue soon pressing its way into Erik's mouth. Opening up, they groan together and push closer. Erik wants to fade all the way into Charles, wants to burrow beneath his skin and stay inside him for eternity. They belong here, together.
He can feel himself starting to lose his grip on his very thoughts, as everything ceases to matter but the heat of Charles's body beneath him, soaking through him. It's more addictive than any of the narcotics he's experimented with over the years. God, an addiction like this could bring the world to its knees.
"Come to the mansion," Charles breathes, barely able to tear his lips away from Erik. Erik's head drops to Charles's neck, the scent of him thick and heavy around him. He breathes deeply, taking as much into his lungs as he can. "Erik, are you listening to me?"
Erik chuckles, and presses his lips against Charles's pulse point. "You're proving rather distracting," he points out.
Charles threads his fingers through the short hair at the back of Erik's hair, holding him close. He doesn't object when Erik's hand slides down his front to the buckle of his belt. "I want you to come and see me again," he murmurs. Erik pushes his belt aside and reaches for his button, undoing it deftly and pulling down the zip. "It should be real. I'm waiting."
Erik is ready to plunge his hand into Charles's underwear and grasp hold of his prick when the scene fades around him. Charles's warmth is gone, and the room is dark; he collapses onto the mattress, his hands clinging onto a body that isn't there.
Blinking in the dark, his mind swirls in sensory confusion, blasted too quickly from scene to scene. It's not - It's not right to toy with a mind like this.
Erik stares down at his empty pillow and allows his hand to grab a fistful of the pillow case, teeth grinding together as he struggles to find a fading sense of serenity.
*
"That wasn't wise, Charles," Erik growled. He pushed his helmet onto his head and felt the cold surface against his skin, soothing, calming. His mind cleared. "I can play dirty too." Undoubtedly, he was better at it than Charles.
*
At night, Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters looks as if it has stepped out of a fairytale, the castle of a haughty royalty. It looms over Erik like a forbidding castle, but no dragon defends it. No moat. No battlements.
It's easy, in fact, to simply walk in the front door.
The ease of invasion leaves him unsettled: if the FBI came here, the police, the anti-mutant hordes, they too could simply waltz inside. The rooms are filled with children; upstairs, Charles sits defenseless. For all that Charles has accused him of being ruthless, the last thing he wants is for this sanctuary to come under fire.
The stairs still creak under his footsteps, in a pattern he still remembers. His gloved hand glides over the banister. Making his way down the corridor to Charles's bedroom, he feels like he is walking through a memory.
There is a faint light shining beneath Charles's door when he reaches it. Erik pauses outside, looking down at the glow. Without stepping inside, he thinks that he can already see Charles, curled in his bed with a book open on his lap, wasting away the midnight hours. He'll be exhausted tomorrow, if Erik has his way.
He pushes open the door.
Charles is sitting up in bed, watching him already. He's swamped in a pair of pyjamas; they make him look small and innocent in his bed, like a child rather than an opponent. Erik steps into the room as Charles quirks an eyebrow. He closes the door behind him. The lock melds shut.
"You haven't been playing very nicely," Erik chides.
Charles's answer comes in the form of a grin. "I was merely taking you up on your invitation," he answers. "You asked me to show you what I can do."
"You've been showing me parlour tricks. It's nothing like what you're capable of."
"No," Charles agrees quietly. "I'm capable of a great deal more. I wouldn't do that to you, not to anybody."
There's a part of him that wants to push and push until he can break through the barriers of Charles's tight morality and see what lies beneath. Charles's gift is untested, its depths far surpassing what Emma Frost has achieved. He could bring the world to its knees for Erik, but he never will.
"It's my turn," Erik says, stepping towards the bed, "and I have none of your moral qualms."
He pulls a set of coins from his pocket and holds them in an outstretched palm, aware of the curious heat of Charles's gaze following his every movement.The coins levitate into the air and spin once before Erik turns his fingers. At his command, the metal liquidates and runs into thin, mobile ribbons, his to do with what he wants. Like silk, the strips are light-weight and they run like dripping water through the air.
On the bed, Charles is watching him; he's still smiling, the bastard.
He sends the metal out towards him, and it snakes around his wrists, as soft as a lover's caress. Charles doesn't resist when the metal pulls his arms to the headboard and solidifies there, far more sturdy than any mere set of handcuffs. His legs, unmoving and unresponsive, don't need to be bound, but Erik sends two strips down to his ankles all the same, pulling his legs wide apart and leaving him spread-eagled before him. Still, Charles won't struggle.
"You think I won't hurt you," Erik states. He sits down on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to touch the inside of Charles's thigh, resting there passively. It's a thrill to know that he has Charles all to himself for tonight. He could do anything that he wants to with him. "Terribly naive."
"Am I wrong?" Charles asks with a searching smile on his face. Erik refuses to answer.
Instead he leans down to taste the lips of his captive, all the sweeter now that they are real, now that they are his. Short and chaste becomes long and demanding in no time at all, and his hand slides to Charles's neck, the leather of his glove a black contrast against Charles's pale skin. He doesn't press down, doesn't squeeze the life out of him, but he could. With his hand resting there, he wonders if Charles feels scared.
It doesn't seem like it, from the way that Charles responds to him and moans like an open harlot, the sound vibrating along his throat and through Erik's hand. Another coin slips from Erik's pocket, its edges sharpening to cut through ridiculous striped flannel, scalpel-quick and dangerous. Not a single drop of blood is spilt.
Erik breaks out of their kiss and pushes scraps of material out of his way, while Charles's chest shudders with laughter, quiet chuckles that make his eyes shine with mirth. Idiot idiot idiot, Erik thinks within the confines of his helmet.
Down he goes, turning his attention to peaked nipples, taking one into his mouth and running his tongue over it. Charles reacts with the startled gasp Erik had been expecting. He sucks hard, bites down, and keeps at it, knowing that a bruise will form, wanting it that away. He hears his name from Charles's lips; he sounds spent already.
He bites his way across Charles's chest, leaving mark after mark in his wake, and turns his attention to the opposite nipple. Charles shivers beneath him, and his hands clench into useless fists where they are bound. Erik smirks, hidden against Charles's skin.
He keeps it up, until Charles's chest begins to shudder beneath him, his pants for air becoming desperate gasps. He can see Charles's cock rising thick and hard but he pays it no attention, winding his way over Charles's torso again and again, leaving a trail of kisses and bite-marks behind, bread-crumbs to lead him home.
Above him, Charles is too stubborn to beg, too stubborn to plead, but he still says Erik's name, again and again, as if the word is an expletive. It explodes out of him every time. Erik's cock gets harder by the second.
He finds his way down to Charles's hips, his tongue tracing the hipbone, but he pauses before going any further. "How much can you feel?" he asks. His lips tingle, reddened and almost numb.
Charles closes his eyes and breathes, so Erik gives him a moment to gather his thoughts, running his thumb back and forth over Charles's hipbone. Beneath him, Charles's legs are weak and withered things, far from the strong limbs he remembers wrapped around him in the past, pulling him tighter, Charles's heels like bony daggers to his back.
"Not much, I'm afraid," Charles admits. Erik's jaw clenches and he closes his eyes; god, he hates this. He hates the heavy guilt on his shoulders, too much to escape. "They say the largest sexual organ is the brain. I'd still like you to fuck me, if you will."
Erik looks back up at him, and then looks at Charles's cock: stiff and ready, it's a trick. An involuntary response rather than anything brighter. He could suck it for hours and never be able to truly reduce Charles to a quivering mess like he used to be able to.
"You can't feel it," he manages to grit out, speaking around his rage.
With a benevolent chuckle that Erik wants to beat him for, Charles says, "You can."
It's not the same. For all Erik's claims to darkness and self-interest, he doesn't want this to just be about him. He hides his face against Charles's thigh and closes his eyes, trying to remember that he came here to torment him, filled with self-righteous anger and the desire to see Charles squirm.
"Erik," Charles murmurs. "Please. I'll beg you if I must."
Erik presses a weak kiss against Charles's hipbone and wonders if he can even feel it. He wants to create a map of Charles's body, wants to draw a line in metal of where he can and can't feel, so that he can look at him and see exactly the damage he caused. Perhaps, with such evidence before him, Charles would stop being so damn understanding.
"Take the helmet off, dear," Charles urges. It feels damnably as if Charles is the one with the upper-hand, even bound to the bed by metal under Erik's control. As soon as the instruction is uttered, Erik does as he's told. He pulls the helmet from his head, hair askew, and drops it from the side of the bed. Charles smiles down at him. "And will you release my hands? I'd like to touch you."
Erik shakes his head, although he hardly moves at all. "I want you like this," he says. "Trapped. Mine."
"I'm yours whether you have me bound or not," Charles points out, as if that is a simple fact of life: as if it could ever be so easy.
Erik sighs and presses his mouth just below Charles's navel, feeling the slight tickle of hair against his lips. "You're a fool, you know."
"Aren't we both?" Charles answers. It makes Erik ache to be with him; it's why it is best to keep their distance, to pretend that they are enemies and that all that would wait for him at the mansion is well-earned hatred and closed doors. "Erik, would you like to have sex with me?"
So simple, so polite. Erik can hardly stand it.
He nuzzles against Charles's belly and is delighted when Charles chuckles. He pulls a tube from his pocket and slicks his fingers, but Charles makes little response when he slides his hand beneath him and pushes his fingers inside. Watching his face, the truth is clear. Erik can see everything that he's taken from him.
"Have you done this with anyone else?" he asks. "Since..."
He doesn't know how to end that sentence, so he leaves it hanging in the air, open to interpretation: since me, since the accident, since what I did to you.
"It's been years," Charles answers. "I'm sorry to say I haven't waited."
Erik shakes his head. "Show me," he demands.
Gone are the days when Charles had to rely on the touch of fingers to a temple in order to amplify his gift. The memory is thrown from Charles to Erik, settling in his mind; a beautiful mutant girl spread before him, her skin tinged with green. Her thighs are parted and her fingers tangle in his hair (Charles's hair) as she gasps and begs under his tongue, trembling as he eats her out. Erik can feel Charles's delight in her every reaction, and can hear the rush of her thoughts sliding through his mind, scattered and broken in pleasure.
The memory fades and he is left smiling, easing Charles's body open with his fingers. "You are a terribly wicked man," he says. "Is she the only one?"
"Are you asking for a tour through my sexual history?" Charles teases.
"Tempting," Erik says, with a twist of his fingers that would have once had Charles writhing. "I think I'd rather add to it."
Charles rolls his eyes, but Erik can see the affection painted clearly on his face. It's enough to make him forget that he doesn't live here any more, that he and Charles are no longer together in the way that they ought to be. He is an invader in his bed, the monster in the closet. Not a friend. Certainly not a lover.
That doesn't stop him from pulling his hand free of Charles and pulling down his trousers and underwear. He shoves them down to his thighs, but Charles frowns when he stops stripping. "Take the rest of it off," Charles insists. "You've ruined my pyjamas. The least you can do is be naked with me."
"Only young boys and old men wear pyjamas anyway," Erik complains, but he does as he's told. "You know, I came here to tease and torture you."
"And how is that going so far?"
Erik raises an eyebrow in response.
When he peels away his clothes it is a delight to see Charles's appreciative gaze on his body. Charles's arms twitch; Erik knows that he would touch him if he could, that he would worship every inch of him. Perhaps later he will allow it - when he is done with him for the first time. They have all night. Sunrise is far away.
Bare skin against bare skin, their bodies slide against one another. Erik slicks himself up and raises Charles's ass, allowing enough slack in the bindings around his ankles for Charles's legs to hang over his hips. Charles's pupils are dark and blown as they look up at him; the gaze is almost too much to take.
He guides himself inside, pushing past muscled resistance. Charles is so much tighter than he remembers, and it steals the breath from his chest. He's been with others since Charles, bright-eyed mutants enchanted by their new leader, but it's been nothing like this. Nothing like Charles.
He glides all the way home, right to the root, until he can push no further, his balls flat against the curve of Charles's ass. His breath comes in short pants; Charles's chest heaves in time with his own. He lunges downwards to take Charles's mouth, tangling themselves in a blunt kiss while his hips move in short, frantic bursts. Shallow rocks produce aching friction.
It ought to feel like masturbation, he thinks, taking his own pleasure while Charles takes none, but it is nothing of the sort. Charles gasps and moans beneath him, groaning into Erik's mouth. Charles is there, completely and utterly, alive like fire beneath him.
Erik thrusts harder, faster, and makes a sound like he's crying. He closes his eyes and buries his face against the warmth of Charles's neck, breathing in his scent as he fucks him. It surrounds him, so much, too much, every sense drowning in Charles, drowning in memories of what could have been, should have been.
His fingers come to play with the bite marks on Charles's chest, thumbs pressing into bruises in order to make him gasp and keen beneath him. His other hand takes Charles's cock into its grasp; orgasm is a full-bodied exercise, after all. Charles's arms, strong with tight muscle, tremble where they are captured. Erik wants to keep him like this forever.
Could I? he wonders, as his orgasm tightens around him, getting closer and closer. Could I take you with me?
Bound and beautiful and his, always his. In the haze of sex he pretends it is a possibility.
"Do it," Charles gasps, listening in on his thoughts as if that's allowed.
Erik kisses him again and their surroundings melt; they are in his headquarters, and Charles is bound to his bed, his captive, his prisoner, his to do with as he pleases. He scratches his nails over Charles's skin and groans at the thought.
The plain metal rings around Charles's wrists have widened into shackles, silver and sturdy things engraved with Erik's initials. He wonders if Charles knows that he is playing with fate, dangling temptation in front of a tiger.
He thinks of having Charles, of truly having him, as his hips pump frantically in and out of his body. He thinks of what it might be like to return to base and have Charles waiting for him like this, bare and bound. Yes, he thinks of taking him and owning him and making him pant his name, just like this - he thinks about this and it happens in his mind, Charles twisting exactly where he needs to.
He comes hard, spilling into Charles's body with a long cry, and under stubborn manipulation Charles echoes him, his numb cock spurting onto Erik's stomach while his torso tenses. The students must think that Charles is being attacked, but if they are worried something must soothe them. No one comes to his rescue.
Erik drops, panting, and rolls off of Charles's body for fear of crushing him. With a tired twirl of his fingers, the metal binding Charles fades away, reforming into the loose change he brought with him and floating back to his trouser pocket on the floor.
Charles's presence withdraws from his mind, taking them out of the fantasy world of his headquarters and back into the dusky warmth of Charles's bedroom. He prefers it here; reality should always overcome fantasy.
Charles's fingers play with his hair, drawing out each sweat-damp strand while they both regain their breath. "Are you going to stay?" he asks.
"For the night," Erik says, because it's all he can give him.
It won't be enough.
It's all he has.
*
It's late afternoon by the time he makes it back to the Brotherhood's base, his helmet situated securely on his head. Mystique's yellow eyes take it in, aware that he only wears it when Charles may be a threat.
"How is he?" she asks.
He knows the smirk on her face. He's sure that she never used to wear that expression before they formed the Brotherhood. Charles would say that he has corrupted her; he would say that he's set her free.
"He is himself, as always," he answers.
He had left him before the rest of the mansion had woken up, getting back into his clothes while Charles watched him from the bed, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. "Promise me you'll stay out of my mind," Erik had insisted. "I don't appreciate the attacks of nostalgia."
"They seem to work in my favour," Charles had answered, but when Erik had scowled he had rolled his eyes and promised.
A promise from an enemy is nothing to put faith in, but even now Erik finds it hard to think of Charles as an enemy. A nuisance, certainly, and a persistent one at that - but when he can remember the taste of his mouth and the feel of his skin, he knows he doesn't truly want rid of him.
The nostalgia hangs heavy in his mind, with or without the help of a telepath. He'll always find his way back. Charles has no need to show him the way.
*
"I think you won this round," Erik said, whispering words into the air. He knew that Charles would hear him. "The next one's mine."
Pairing: Charles/Erik
Word Count: 5550
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the "sensation play" square of my kink_bingo card, although they're not exactly playing.
Summary: When Erik challenged Charles to put his powers to good use, he didn't expect Charles to go ahead. Now he finds his mind and senses under attacks of deliberate nostalgia.
"Come on, Charles," Erik had taunted at their last encounter. "Show me what you can really do."
He never expected Charles to take him up on that challenge.
*
It comes to him in the night, the first attack, sly and powerful.
Erik wakes but doesn't wake, in a bed that isn't his own; he recognises it well, the plush sheets and heavy blankets, the thick curtains holding out the sunlight, the piles of borrowed books on the shelves.
The mansion. Charles's bedroom.
He finds Charles dozing beside him, as peaceful and unguarded as Erik has ever seen him. His eyelashes are a dark blur against his pale, freckled face. His hair is mussed from a night well-spent between the sheets; Erik remembers it well, this night. He remembers the connection between them, burning bright while they tore at each other's clothes, the buzz in their heads only calming when they had skin on skin, mouth on mouth, all the physical contact they needed.
He can see it on Charles's neck, the speckled bite-marks and hickeys left by his mouth. They are dark splotches, and they won't fade for days. Erik's cock pulses at the sight; he'll be ready to nuzzle Charles awake and go again in no time.
"What are you up to?" Erik murmurs.
He can't reach out to touch. The moment is as still as a photograph, imprinted in his mind.
If he could touch, he could explore the endless bare skin that waits beneath him. He could lose himself in the taste and scent of before - as if they had never been parted, as if he had never left Charles behind, bleeding and broken.
"Charles," he rumbles, but no answer comes.
Just the sight of peace, laid out before him like a taunt. The very sight of it makes his eyes hurt. It's too soft around the edges. Erik feels like he's going to rip it to pieces; he's too jagged, too damaged, too sharp.
The image is a photograph.
Photographs can be destroyed.
*
"Are we playing games now?" Erik asked, breathing the words into the frigid air.
There was no answer in words, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood alert.
*
The military base smells of good cooking and furniture polish; sunshine, sweat and sex. He might have walked straight into the past, for what his senses are telling him.
Mystique looks back at him, blue and glorious, with her yellow eyes narrowed in a question.
"It's Charles," Erik answers. "He's in my head."
He shouldn't be smiling when he says that.
Mystique passes his helmet to him without a word. It's cold and unresponsive in his hands - ever so uncomfortable. It's tempting to leave it off; he'd like to see where Charles is going with this, what he might bring up next. There's so much that Charles could do in this world if he would only stop being so afraid of his own power, if he would stop restraining himself out of a sense of honour and fair-play. It's good for Erik that he doesn't.
After sighing, he lifts the helmet onto his head. The scent disappears immediately, the smell of the mansion and their shared time together vanishing as if it was never there.
"We need to be on alert," he says. "If Charles is here, his children won't be far behind."
They never are, trailing at his ankles like a set of hungry ducklings. Erik understands the impulse; unlike them, he is able to resist it. Charles holds no hold over him, he tells himself.
That doesn't stop his mind from dwelling on that scent, now that his thoughts are carefully hidden behind his helmet. It doesn't stop him from remembering what once was, even as he tears apart the world around them.
*
"You're hardly even trying," he murmured once he was alone, with his Brothers away to lick their wounds and heal their pride. The military base was safe for now, protected by Charles and his X-Men.
He wished he had Charles on his side; his mind, his wisdom, his leadership. It worked with Charles, in a way it doesn't seem to work with him.
"Don't I even deserve your full attention?"
*
"Oh, Erik," Charles sighs, his voice as warm and soft as if it has been spoken into his ear. He sounds as if his heart is breaking; Erik wants to claw it out for him.
(except that isn't true, isn't right, could never happen.)
"I'm busy," Erik insists, speaking aloud. Toad spares a glance for him, attentive as always, but a glare is enough to dispose of him. "Get out of my head."
"You've got your helmet. If you want me out, put it on."
Erik doesn't move a single muscle. It's different from usual, hearing Charles like this; it doesn't register in the same way as projected thoughts do. His ears hear the words, as plainly as if Charles were in the room, in his arms, in his bed. It's real, so real. Charles could change the very world beneath his feet if he chose to.
"Is this your latest plan? You want to irritate me to death?"
"I've never wanted you dead," Charles says - too open, too sincere, too caring. It makes Erik's skin itch. "My friend, you must believe that."
"You shouldn't call me a friend," Erik insists. By now, his followers are keeping their heads down with determined obedience. He could relegate his words to mere thoughts, but he wants them out in the open.
"I always will."
Charles is a soft-hearted fool. It's going to be the death of him one day; that's the hard fact that terrifies Erik most.
"Charles," Erik sighs. He loves the feel of Charles's name on his tongue. He doesn't get to say it often enough. There's nothing to follow it up with. There's nothing more to say.
Yet Charles stays with him, a deliberate presence that Erik can feel by his side, inside his mind, all around. It's like being back at the mansion, spending long evenings of silence in each other's company. Erik closes his eyes; he thinks that he can hear the sound of Charles's breathing, but he can't tell if that is anything more than a wistful illusion.
In either case, it is still there when he goes to bed that night. He falls asleep to the phantom sound of Charles beside him, and tries to pretend that it doesn't make him ache.
*
It was starting to become more than he can take. "Stop it," he insisted, his hands pressed against his temples. "I can't take much more of this."
It was when he was alone that was the worst; when he had nothing to distract himself with, nothing but old sensations and long-gone memories. The past was dead; the future was all that waited for them.
His head, his mind, Charles would not agree.
*
The hotel room melts away before his eyes. Cheap wallpaper morphs into wooden panelling, and the thin curtains thicken into heavy velvet. The hard mattress softens and widens beneath his back, and Erik is smiling before he even opens his eyes.
He sits up. His bedroom in the mansion looks exactly as he remembers, not a single detail out of place. Hardly surprising; Charles must have plucked the setting from his memories.
Near the doorway, Charles stands with a sheepish smile on his face, his hair a mess and his hands tucked into his pockets. His wheelchair is nowhere in sight, and when he walks forward it is smooth and untroubled. It's beautiful to see him on his feet again, as it should always have been, as it always would have been if Erik had not crashed his way into Charles's life.
"You'll have to forgive me," Charles says. "I like taking the opportunity to get out of that chair, even if it is just in the mind."
Mutely, Erik shakes his head: as if forgiveness would ever be required. All that he needs Charles to apologise for is refusing to be at his side. If they could master ideological differences, perhaps he might be able to find happiness again.
He clears his throat. It's a useless, sentimental thought, and he doesn't want to have to share it with Charles. "What are you doing?" he asks. "You've been stalking my mind for weeks."
"Put your helmet on if it bothers you," Charles suggests, with a dismissive curl in his voice - it doesn't suit him. "You can easily keep me out."
"For the time being, I'm curious." It's more than bland curiosity, but he won't say as much; it's the intoxication of Charles's presence, the calming ocean of his mind. Every sense is pricked to alert; the scent of the mansion, the temperature of the air, it's all pitch-perfect. To don his helmet would be to deprive them both. "You always have an angle, Charles. What is it?"
For all that Charles makes his claims to innocence and morality, there's a manipulative streak hidden beneath his blue eyes - it's unintentional, most likely. Erik imagines it was bred into him through riches and wealth, the solid certainty that he knows what is best.
"I miss you," Charles states. He tilts his head to the side; the smile on his face is too wistful to take in. "Would you believe that's all there is to it?"
Instinctively, Erik shakes his head. "I know you better than that," he answers. "You wouldn't walk into my mind without good reason."
"And the draw of your presence isn't reason enough," Charles concludes. His smile seems mocking now; perhaps it's even affectionate. "You have a low opinion of yourself."
Erik smiles too. It's difficult to restrain himself in Charles's presence. It's too warm, too familiar. "Far from it, as I'm sure you know," he says. "Mutants are the next stage in evolution: homo superior."
"You generalise with 'mutants' instead of talking about yourself," Charles says. He walks with a confident bound in his step to the bed, taking a seat on the edge. Erik feels the mattress bow to his weight. It's a struggle not to give in and pull Charles closer to him immediately. He knows that is what Charles wants; he holds himself back. "I enjoy your company. Spending your days with impudent teenagers leaves a person longing for civilised conversation. If I overhear one more argument about who the cutest Beatle is, I may decide to wipe all knowledge of their existence from the school."
"Seems extreme."
"Entirely justifiable, believe me."
They smile at each other, giggling like they are the teenage schoolgirls, and Charles never looks away, never breaks eye contact, allowing Erik to bathe in the blue of his eyes. He misses it so much that it hurts like a knife to the chest. Only Shaw has ever been able to hurt him like this. Charles is far more dangerous.
He reaches out to touch him, his fingertips against Charles's forearm. His skin is warm beneath him, invitingly so, and hope flares in Charles's eyes at the contact.
"Get over here," Erik sighs at him, worn-down and delighted.
Charles climbs into his lap, hot and warm-limbed and everywhere all at once. His arms slide around Erik's shoulders, holding him close as he rests their foreheads together. His eyes slide closed, but Erik can't stop looking at him, not for a moment. He can't stop thinking about how they could have had this, if the day at the beach had gone differently. He could have had Charles, for as long as he could hold onto him.
"You still could," Charles murmurs. His fingers stroke against the nape of Erik's neck, slow and comfortable. "It's not too late, you know."
He hears himself murmur Charles's name, and kisses him to stop him from saying anything more. Their lips angle together, awkward at first but settling into something that fits, something that's right. Erik pushes his hand beneath the thick wool of Charles's cardigan and onto the skin at the base of his spine. Hot and brilliant, there is no knot of scar tissue, not here in the world of his mind.
He rolls them over, pushing Charles onto the bed, as his heart begins to race. Lying beneath him, Charles looks up at him with an expectant sense of wonder. It makes Erik trace his cheekbone with the back of his fingertips; he wants to remember everything. Charles fades too quickly from his mind these days. The image grows fuzzier by the day, clouded by dark thoughts and deep regrets.
"Erik," Charles breathes, cupping his face. He draws them down to kiss again, his tongue soon pressing its way into Erik's mouth. Opening up, they groan together and push closer. Erik wants to fade all the way into Charles, wants to burrow beneath his skin and stay inside him for eternity. They belong here, together.
He can feel himself starting to lose his grip on his very thoughts, as everything ceases to matter but the heat of Charles's body beneath him, soaking through him. It's more addictive than any of the narcotics he's experimented with over the years. God, an addiction like this could bring the world to its knees.
"Come to the mansion," Charles breathes, barely able to tear his lips away from Erik. Erik's head drops to Charles's neck, the scent of him thick and heavy around him. He breathes deeply, taking as much into his lungs as he can. "Erik, are you listening to me?"
Erik chuckles, and presses his lips against Charles's pulse point. "You're proving rather distracting," he points out.
Charles threads his fingers through the short hair at the back of Erik's hair, holding him close. He doesn't object when Erik's hand slides down his front to the buckle of his belt. "I want you to come and see me again," he murmurs. Erik pushes his belt aside and reaches for his button, undoing it deftly and pulling down the zip. "It should be real. I'm waiting."
Erik is ready to plunge his hand into Charles's underwear and grasp hold of his prick when the scene fades around him. Charles's warmth is gone, and the room is dark; he collapses onto the mattress, his hands clinging onto a body that isn't there.
Blinking in the dark, his mind swirls in sensory confusion, blasted too quickly from scene to scene. It's not - It's not right to toy with a mind like this.
Erik stares down at his empty pillow and allows his hand to grab a fistful of the pillow case, teeth grinding together as he struggles to find a fading sense of serenity.
*
"That wasn't wise, Charles," Erik growled. He pushed his helmet onto his head and felt the cold surface against his skin, soothing, calming. His mind cleared. "I can play dirty too." Undoubtedly, he was better at it than Charles.
*
At night, Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters looks as if it has stepped out of a fairytale, the castle of a haughty royalty. It looms over Erik like a forbidding castle, but no dragon defends it. No moat. No battlements.
It's easy, in fact, to simply walk in the front door.
The ease of invasion leaves him unsettled: if the FBI came here, the police, the anti-mutant hordes, they too could simply waltz inside. The rooms are filled with children; upstairs, Charles sits defenseless. For all that Charles has accused him of being ruthless, the last thing he wants is for this sanctuary to come under fire.
The stairs still creak under his footsteps, in a pattern he still remembers. His gloved hand glides over the banister. Making his way down the corridor to Charles's bedroom, he feels like he is walking through a memory.
There is a faint light shining beneath Charles's door when he reaches it. Erik pauses outside, looking down at the glow. Without stepping inside, he thinks that he can already see Charles, curled in his bed with a book open on his lap, wasting away the midnight hours. He'll be exhausted tomorrow, if Erik has his way.
He pushes open the door.
Charles is sitting up in bed, watching him already. He's swamped in a pair of pyjamas; they make him look small and innocent in his bed, like a child rather than an opponent. Erik steps into the room as Charles quirks an eyebrow. He closes the door behind him. The lock melds shut.
"You haven't been playing very nicely," Erik chides.
Charles's answer comes in the form of a grin. "I was merely taking you up on your invitation," he answers. "You asked me to show you what I can do."
"You've been showing me parlour tricks. It's nothing like what you're capable of."
"No," Charles agrees quietly. "I'm capable of a great deal more. I wouldn't do that to you, not to anybody."
There's a part of him that wants to push and push until he can break through the barriers of Charles's tight morality and see what lies beneath. Charles's gift is untested, its depths far surpassing what Emma Frost has achieved. He could bring the world to its knees for Erik, but he never will.
"It's my turn," Erik says, stepping towards the bed, "and I have none of your moral qualms."
He pulls a set of coins from his pocket and holds them in an outstretched palm, aware of the curious heat of Charles's gaze following his every movement.The coins levitate into the air and spin once before Erik turns his fingers. At his command, the metal liquidates and runs into thin, mobile ribbons, his to do with what he wants. Like silk, the strips are light-weight and they run like dripping water through the air.
On the bed, Charles is watching him; he's still smiling, the bastard.
He sends the metal out towards him, and it snakes around his wrists, as soft as a lover's caress. Charles doesn't resist when the metal pulls his arms to the headboard and solidifies there, far more sturdy than any mere set of handcuffs. His legs, unmoving and unresponsive, don't need to be bound, but Erik sends two strips down to his ankles all the same, pulling his legs wide apart and leaving him spread-eagled before him. Still, Charles won't struggle.
"You think I won't hurt you," Erik states. He sits down on the edge of the bed, his hand reaching out to touch the inside of Charles's thigh, resting there passively. It's a thrill to know that he has Charles all to himself for tonight. He could do anything that he wants to with him. "Terribly naive."
"Am I wrong?" Charles asks with a searching smile on his face. Erik refuses to answer.
Instead he leans down to taste the lips of his captive, all the sweeter now that they are real, now that they are his. Short and chaste becomes long and demanding in no time at all, and his hand slides to Charles's neck, the leather of his glove a black contrast against Charles's pale skin. He doesn't press down, doesn't squeeze the life out of him, but he could. With his hand resting there, he wonders if Charles feels scared.
It doesn't seem like it, from the way that Charles responds to him and moans like an open harlot, the sound vibrating along his throat and through Erik's hand. Another coin slips from Erik's pocket, its edges sharpening to cut through ridiculous striped flannel, scalpel-quick and dangerous. Not a single drop of blood is spilt.
Erik breaks out of their kiss and pushes scraps of material out of his way, while Charles's chest shudders with laughter, quiet chuckles that make his eyes shine with mirth. Idiot idiot idiot, Erik thinks within the confines of his helmet.
Down he goes, turning his attention to peaked nipples, taking one into his mouth and running his tongue over it. Charles reacts with the startled gasp Erik had been expecting. He sucks hard, bites down, and keeps at it, knowing that a bruise will form, wanting it that away. He hears his name from Charles's lips; he sounds spent already.
He bites his way across Charles's chest, leaving mark after mark in his wake, and turns his attention to the opposite nipple. Charles shivers beneath him, and his hands clench into useless fists where they are bound. Erik smirks, hidden against Charles's skin.
He keeps it up, until Charles's chest begins to shudder beneath him, his pants for air becoming desperate gasps. He can see Charles's cock rising thick and hard but he pays it no attention, winding his way over Charles's torso again and again, leaving a trail of kisses and bite-marks behind, bread-crumbs to lead him home.
Above him, Charles is too stubborn to beg, too stubborn to plead, but he still says Erik's name, again and again, as if the word is an expletive. It explodes out of him every time. Erik's cock gets harder by the second.
He finds his way down to Charles's hips, his tongue tracing the hipbone, but he pauses before going any further. "How much can you feel?" he asks. His lips tingle, reddened and almost numb.
Charles closes his eyes and breathes, so Erik gives him a moment to gather his thoughts, running his thumb back and forth over Charles's hipbone. Beneath him, Charles's legs are weak and withered things, far from the strong limbs he remembers wrapped around him in the past, pulling him tighter, Charles's heels like bony daggers to his back.
"Not much, I'm afraid," Charles admits. Erik's jaw clenches and he closes his eyes; god, he hates this. He hates the heavy guilt on his shoulders, too much to escape. "They say the largest sexual organ is the brain. I'd still like you to fuck me, if you will."
Erik looks back up at him, and then looks at Charles's cock: stiff and ready, it's a trick. An involuntary response rather than anything brighter. He could suck it for hours and never be able to truly reduce Charles to a quivering mess like he used to be able to.
"You can't feel it," he manages to grit out, speaking around his rage.
With a benevolent chuckle that Erik wants to beat him for, Charles says, "You can."
It's not the same. For all Erik's claims to darkness and self-interest, he doesn't want this to just be about him. He hides his face against Charles's thigh and closes his eyes, trying to remember that he came here to torment him, filled with self-righteous anger and the desire to see Charles squirm.
"Erik," Charles murmurs. "Please. I'll beg you if I must."
Erik presses a weak kiss against Charles's hipbone and wonders if he can even feel it. He wants to create a map of Charles's body, wants to draw a line in metal of where he can and can't feel, so that he can look at him and see exactly the damage he caused. Perhaps, with such evidence before him, Charles would stop being so damn understanding.
"Take the helmet off, dear," Charles urges. It feels damnably as if Charles is the one with the upper-hand, even bound to the bed by metal under Erik's control. As soon as the instruction is uttered, Erik does as he's told. He pulls the helmet from his head, hair askew, and drops it from the side of the bed. Charles smiles down at him. "And will you release my hands? I'd like to touch you."
Erik shakes his head, although he hardly moves at all. "I want you like this," he says. "Trapped. Mine."
"I'm yours whether you have me bound or not," Charles points out, as if that is a simple fact of life: as if it could ever be so easy.
Erik sighs and presses his mouth just below Charles's navel, feeling the slight tickle of hair against his lips. "You're a fool, you know."
"Aren't we both?" Charles answers. It makes Erik ache to be with him; it's why it is best to keep their distance, to pretend that they are enemies and that all that would wait for him at the mansion is well-earned hatred and closed doors. "Erik, would you like to have sex with me?"
So simple, so polite. Erik can hardly stand it.
He nuzzles against Charles's belly and is delighted when Charles chuckles. He pulls a tube from his pocket and slicks his fingers, but Charles makes little response when he slides his hand beneath him and pushes his fingers inside. Watching his face, the truth is clear. Erik can see everything that he's taken from him.
"Have you done this with anyone else?" he asks. "Since..."
He doesn't know how to end that sentence, so he leaves it hanging in the air, open to interpretation: since me, since the accident, since what I did to you.
"It's been years," Charles answers. "I'm sorry to say I haven't waited."
Erik shakes his head. "Show me," he demands.
Gone are the days when Charles had to rely on the touch of fingers to a temple in order to amplify his gift. The memory is thrown from Charles to Erik, settling in his mind; a beautiful mutant girl spread before him, her skin tinged with green. Her thighs are parted and her fingers tangle in his hair (Charles's hair) as she gasps and begs under his tongue, trembling as he eats her out. Erik can feel Charles's delight in her every reaction, and can hear the rush of her thoughts sliding through his mind, scattered and broken in pleasure.
The memory fades and he is left smiling, easing Charles's body open with his fingers. "You are a terribly wicked man," he says. "Is she the only one?"
"Are you asking for a tour through my sexual history?" Charles teases.
"Tempting," Erik says, with a twist of his fingers that would have once had Charles writhing. "I think I'd rather add to it."
Charles rolls his eyes, but Erik can see the affection painted clearly on his face. It's enough to make him forget that he doesn't live here any more, that he and Charles are no longer together in the way that they ought to be. He is an invader in his bed, the monster in the closet. Not a friend. Certainly not a lover.
That doesn't stop him from pulling his hand free of Charles and pulling down his trousers and underwear. He shoves them down to his thighs, but Charles frowns when he stops stripping. "Take the rest of it off," Charles insists. "You've ruined my pyjamas. The least you can do is be naked with me."
"Only young boys and old men wear pyjamas anyway," Erik complains, but he does as he's told. "You know, I came here to tease and torture you."
"And how is that going so far?"
Erik raises an eyebrow in response.
When he peels away his clothes it is a delight to see Charles's appreciative gaze on his body. Charles's arms twitch; Erik knows that he would touch him if he could, that he would worship every inch of him. Perhaps later he will allow it - when he is done with him for the first time. They have all night. Sunrise is far away.
Bare skin against bare skin, their bodies slide against one another. Erik slicks himself up and raises Charles's ass, allowing enough slack in the bindings around his ankles for Charles's legs to hang over his hips. Charles's pupils are dark and blown as they look up at him; the gaze is almost too much to take.
He guides himself inside, pushing past muscled resistance. Charles is so much tighter than he remembers, and it steals the breath from his chest. He's been with others since Charles, bright-eyed mutants enchanted by their new leader, but it's been nothing like this. Nothing like Charles.
He glides all the way home, right to the root, until he can push no further, his balls flat against the curve of Charles's ass. His breath comes in short pants; Charles's chest heaves in time with his own. He lunges downwards to take Charles's mouth, tangling themselves in a blunt kiss while his hips move in short, frantic bursts. Shallow rocks produce aching friction.
It ought to feel like masturbation, he thinks, taking his own pleasure while Charles takes none, but it is nothing of the sort. Charles gasps and moans beneath him, groaning into Erik's mouth. Charles is there, completely and utterly, alive like fire beneath him.
Erik thrusts harder, faster, and makes a sound like he's crying. He closes his eyes and buries his face against the warmth of Charles's neck, breathing in his scent as he fucks him. It surrounds him, so much, too much, every sense drowning in Charles, drowning in memories of what could have been, should have been.
His fingers come to play with the bite marks on Charles's chest, thumbs pressing into bruises in order to make him gasp and keen beneath him. His other hand takes Charles's cock into its grasp; orgasm is a full-bodied exercise, after all. Charles's arms, strong with tight muscle, tremble where they are captured. Erik wants to keep him like this forever.
Could I? he wonders, as his orgasm tightens around him, getting closer and closer. Could I take you with me?
Bound and beautiful and his, always his. In the haze of sex he pretends it is a possibility.
"Do it," Charles gasps, listening in on his thoughts as if that's allowed.
Erik kisses him again and their surroundings melt; they are in his headquarters, and Charles is bound to his bed, his captive, his prisoner, his to do with as he pleases. He scratches his nails over Charles's skin and groans at the thought.
The plain metal rings around Charles's wrists have widened into shackles, silver and sturdy things engraved with Erik's initials. He wonders if Charles knows that he is playing with fate, dangling temptation in front of a tiger.
He thinks of having Charles, of truly having him, as his hips pump frantically in and out of his body. He thinks of what it might be like to return to base and have Charles waiting for him like this, bare and bound. Yes, he thinks of taking him and owning him and making him pant his name, just like this - he thinks about this and it happens in his mind, Charles twisting exactly where he needs to.
He comes hard, spilling into Charles's body with a long cry, and under stubborn manipulation Charles echoes him, his numb cock spurting onto Erik's stomach while his torso tenses. The students must think that Charles is being attacked, but if they are worried something must soothe them. No one comes to his rescue.
Erik drops, panting, and rolls off of Charles's body for fear of crushing him. With a tired twirl of his fingers, the metal binding Charles fades away, reforming into the loose change he brought with him and floating back to his trouser pocket on the floor.
Charles's presence withdraws from his mind, taking them out of the fantasy world of his headquarters and back into the dusky warmth of Charles's bedroom. He prefers it here; reality should always overcome fantasy.
Charles's fingers play with his hair, drawing out each sweat-damp strand while they both regain their breath. "Are you going to stay?" he asks.
"For the night," Erik says, because it's all he can give him.
It won't be enough.
It's all he has.
*
It's late afternoon by the time he makes it back to the Brotherhood's base, his helmet situated securely on his head. Mystique's yellow eyes take it in, aware that he only wears it when Charles may be a threat.
"How is he?" she asks.
He knows the smirk on her face. He's sure that she never used to wear that expression before they formed the Brotherhood. Charles would say that he has corrupted her; he would say that he's set her free.
"He is himself, as always," he answers.
He had left him before the rest of the mansion had woken up, getting back into his clothes while Charles watched him from the bed, his jaw set in a hard, stubborn line. "Promise me you'll stay out of my mind," Erik had insisted. "I don't appreciate the attacks of nostalgia."
"They seem to work in my favour," Charles had answered, but when Erik had scowled he had rolled his eyes and promised.
A promise from an enemy is nothing to put faith in, but even now Erik finds it hard to think of Charles as an enemy. A nuisance, certainly, and a persistent one at that - but when he can remember the taste of his mouth and the feel of his skin, he knows he doesn't truly want rid of him.
The nostalgia hangs heavy in his mind, with or without the help of a telepath. He'll always find his way back. Charles has no need to show him the way.
*
"I think you won this round," Erik said, whispering words into the air. He knew that Charles would hear him. "The next one's mine."