Archive of Our Own

so close, enough to taste it
almost, I can embrace this
feeling on the tip of my tongue
well, I am so much closer than
I have ever known…

The burly mutant in the bar says, “Go fuck yourselves,” and Charles laughs, and tilts his head, and catches Erik’s eye: shall we?

He’s not genuinely expecting the yes—Erik’s been very unforthcoming on the subject these last two days, the two of them sleeping curled together in bed but nothing more, no discussion, adamantly keeping any mental debate away from Charles’s curiosity—but he figures he might as well flirt anyway. Erik will either play along or he won’t, and either way it’ll provoke some reaction.

Erik pauses. Raises eyebrows.  Are you certain he won’t come with us?

Very certain. Ah. Erik’s thinking about recruitment, focused on the mission. Of course. They both should be, really. Being professional.

He is the best at what he does, but what he does isn’t very nice, and he’s not precisely a team player.  Maybe someday, but not now.

Someday, then, Erik agrees, no response to Charles’s flirtation at all, no indication of whether that’s registered—Charles sighs, not letting the exhale become obvious—and turns and heads out of the bar. Evidently they’re done here. Just like that.

He has to run a bit to catch up. Shorter legs, versus Erik’s longer ones. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Erik’s doing that on purpose.

Erik says nothing at all as they get into the car, and continues to say nothing as they drive away, and Charles stares out at the wintry landscape and wonders what he’s done wrong, why they’re not talking now, why after all the confessions, after he’s been trying so hard, everything Erik’s asked for, nothing’s being given in return.

Maybe Erik’s decided he’s not interested. That Charles isn’t worth it after all.

He can’t blame Erik for that one. It’s not as if he’d be interested, were he the one looking. Damaged goods and all. Asking too much. He’s always known that.

The snowy scenery, whisking by outside the car window, has nothing to say. Charles closes his eyes, briefly.

He’d thought that something might change. That he might possibly, conceivably, be able to find a safe place, a harbor, for a while.

Ridiculous, really. Why should now be any different from ever before?

“Charles,” Erik says, driving.

“Hmm?”

“Are you wearing a watch?”

“Yes?”

“Are you…particularly fond of your watch?”

It’s expensive, but— “No.”

“Good.” Erik doesn’t look away from the road, but the links whisper like silk along Charles’s skin, smooth and sinuous. The metal twines and flows, more like a bracelet now, or—or a cuff— He breathes in, abruptly.

Erik grins.

The cool band of it tightens, pressure increasing. “Erik,” Charles says, not sure why.

“Something wrong, Charles?” Perfectly innocent. The metal flutters like a heartbeat along the soft skin of his wrist, ripples that extend all the way through his body, reverberating up and down his spine.

“You—we’re not—you said you needed time to think about—”

“Charles?”

“…yes?”

“I have thought about.”

Oh, Charles starts to say, but for some reason no sound comes out.

“Other wrist,” Erik says.

“…what?”

“Both hands.”

Charles shivers. Slowly, lifts his other hand. Holds them both out, wrists up. Erik doesn’t acknowledge the gesture aloud, but a tendril of the once-watch flows over onto the other arm as well, coiling and consolidating and fusing into an unbreakable bond.

“We’re in a car—”

“You can keep anyone from seeing us. And you offered, just now. When I asked.” You could’ve said no.

“You told me to—” I know.

“And you listened.” Erik hooks invisible fingers around the wrist cuffs, tugs. You like this? Being restrained, tied up—or down—so you have to wait for me to release you?

“No,” Charles says. Yes.

“Ah.” Understood. The next tug of power pushes his hands down into his lap. His cock’s already stirring, growing hard, responding to the forcefulness.

“I was thinking,” Erik continues, “about many things, Charles. Mostly involving you. And what I might do with you, back at the hotel.” Charles?

…yes?

This is…working for you, right? The orders? The—oh, you like the voice? Good, then— The twitch on his wrists indicates that Erik wants him to move the hands. Wants him to…

“Here? Now?”

“You’ve been good.” Erik glances over, just enough to meet his eyes. “Not touching. Not getting yourself off, in the shower, or at night…you’ve been trying hard, haven’t you? So you can have a reward. Indulge yourself. And yes, here, and yes, now.”

Charles moans, because he can’t quite manage a yes or a no. Tips his head back against the seat, and feels the inexorable slide of the zip, his pants, opening.

He should say no. He should stop this. They’re in public and Erik’s pinning his hands together around his cock and making him give in, making him do this, not letting up. It’s the surrender he’s always feared.

But he wants it all. He just wants, with a heat that’s shocking and raw and dizzying in its intensity. To do this, to be Erik’s, to let Erik reward him…

He has control over his fingers, for now. He moves his hands, as far as Erik will permit him, and finds an easier position, and then strokes, and the sensation’s so good, so sweet, every centimeter of skin already awake and alert and craving more.

“Charles,” Erik whispers, and then makes his hands move faster, harder, a brutal rhythm, and Charles moans and whimpers and can’t help thrusting up from the seat, into his own—Erik’s—grip.

“So beautiful,” Erik says this time, and Charles trembles, and he’s right there, on the edge of orgasm, and Erik hasn’t said he can and the cuffs tense even more around his wrists, stopping the motion, sudden denial, and he sobs in impossible frustration and then Erik stops for a red light and there’s another car beside them—

Charles slams all his shields back up, reinforcing frantically, and the other couple won’t notice anything, certainly not his flushed and leaking cock, jutting up out of his undone pants, or his hands, trapped there holding himself; and the distraction-humiliation-desperation snaps him out of the dreamy haze, and he’s doing this all in a car in public, letting Erik tease him and make him beg and make him come, oh god—

He’s distantly aware that he’s on the verge of panicking. Erik, he gasps, because he doesn’t trust his voice.

Erik takes one look at him and swings the car off to the side of the road, too fast and precise to be anything but that ability at work again. The metal snaps off, away from his wrists. Tumbles to the floor of the car with a dull clink. Charles—!

I’m—all right, I just—need to breathe—

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. “Too much?”

No, Charles almost says, because then Erik will do it again sometime. But Erik’s leaning terrifiedly across the seat and the concern is so distinct, so clear, in those eyes, in their heads, ink printed sharply on a page, tangible and real.

He takes a deep breath. Shoves back some of the stampeding emotions. “Yes. Only at the end, though.” I was—it was good, at first. I think I simply—overreacted.

“No, you didn’t.” Erik reaches for him. Charles, afraid he’s going to cry, gingerly leans over, too, and accepts the embrace. You only reacted. Honest emotions. And I was asking a lot of you.

He does cry, then. Not much, but a little. It’s all right. Erik’s told him it is.

I’m sorry, Erik murmurs, into his thoughts. I was—I just thought—I’d meant to wait, until we were back at the hotel, someplace more private—but you, in the bar, looking at me like—I did tell you I’ve never done this before, it was only what came to mind, I’m sorry—

No, Charles replies, shakily, you were good, you were brilliant, I love what comes to your mind, I was fine until the other people—

Not in public, then?

“N-no. Maybe not. Or not yet. But…” You…with the hands…that was…I don’t regret my watch at all.

And Erik laughs, through all the concern. Takes Charles’s closest hand, and fits it under his, on the knob of the car’s gearshift, so that Charles can’t move it unless allowed. When Charles smiles in response, drives one-handed, the entire rest of the way.

The wind’s picking up, by the time they arrive at the hotel. It rattles the leaves as they skip across the ground, and flirts with the car as Erik parks it, and sends prickles of sudden cold along Charles’s skin.

The cold’s not all from the wind. It’s from the emotions, the earlier loneliness and the headspinning eroticism and the panic and the comfort, whiplash setting in at last. Too many extremes. Not enough space.

He trails Erik up to their room, and tries not to think.

They take the elevator, even though it’s only two floors, because Erik likes elevators, the friendly affirmation of surrounding metal. Erik looks at him curiously, eyebrows knitting together, when Charles stays quiet during the ride.

Looks at him again, with more obvious concern, once they get to the room. Starts to say something, stops, and then takes off his own leather jacket and puts it around Charles’s shoulders. “You look cold.”

“I’m all right.”

Erik begins stalking the elusive thermostat anyway. Discovers it tucked away high on a wall, someplace Charles would’ve never been able to reach on his own.

It’s not a bad hotel, as hotels go. Charles had taken one glance at their proposed expense account from the CIA, sighed, and mentally resigned himself to sacrificing at least a portion of his own funds, because he refuses to stay anyplace where the existence of clean towels is dubious at best; but this one hadn’t been too expensive, and the opulently plush carpet is an unexpected bonus, under his toes.

It reminds him a bit of Oxford, in fact. Not the familiarly swooping medieval spires that still say freedom! to his mind and heart, but the common rooms, the old-fashioned coziness, the sense of cheery wear and tear and sturdy antique furniture that’d seen scholarly generations come and go. He’d thought about saying as much to Erik, but hadn’t been sure that sense of security’d make much sense to anyone other than himself.

Erik’d asked for one bed—one king bed—when they’d checked in. Hadn’t consulted with him first. Charles had opened his mouth to object, and then reconsidered. Not as if he’s actually angry that Erik wants to sleep beside him, after all.

Erik’s jacket smells like crisp air and worn leather and something else less definable that he thinks must be the scent of Erik’s body, not cologne—an unnecessary indulgence, no doubt—but hints of soap and warm skin and something temptingly spicy, rich dark earth in autumn. He shuts his eyes, and the scent envelops him.

“There,” Erik says, and comes back over and actually kneels down next to him, where Charles is still sitting on the bed. From the floor, takes his hands. “It ought to be warmer, for you, in a minute. Tell me if you’re still cold.”

“I’m fine. Thank you.” He squeezes Erik’s hands, in his. “Why’re you down there? Sort of…the opposite of what we’re doing, I thought?”

Are we still? Doing that? “I…was…never mind.”

“You’re attempting to not frighten me, aren’t you?” Yes? If you still—if you’re not saying no, then I’m saying yes.

I’m not saying no. “Is it working?”

“Erik, I do hate to be the one to tell you, but I’ve never been frightened of you.” Then we can try again.

“You should be,” Erik says, in a somewhat plaintive tone he’ll doubtless deny if mocked about it later. “I am frightening.” Do you feel up to it?

Now? Give me a minute or two, if you wouldn’t mind. But come up here and hold me, perhaps? “Oh…sorry. You’re utterly terrifying. Daunting. Ferocious. Any better?”

“Charles,” Erik says, shaking his head; but he gets up off the carpet and puts both arms around Charles and the jacket anyway. “Daunting, you said?” Like this?

“Positively fearsome. And…yes.” He leans into Erik’s chest, secure under the dark shelter of Erik’s coat, Erik’s scent. Outside, the wind yips and mutters, companionable.

It’s still afternoon, but only just. Edging on towards night. And the curtains are drawn, in their room, the way they’ve been left by housekeepers on their daily rounds. The muffling drapes form a cocoon, a fortress, a private space for the two of them. And Erik keeps the arms in their barricade around him. Doesn’t push him, doesn’t ask, doesn’t demand anything more.

It’s that lack of demand that prompts his decision. If it can be said to be a decision. More of an acceptance, if he has to give it a name.

He wriggles an arm around—Erik, startled, loosens the hold instantly—and gets fingers into his pocket. Finds what he’s looking for, touches it, smiles. Erik recognizes the metal immediately also.

“You kept that? I never saw you pick it up…”

“When you were glaring at the stoplights. They don’t all hate us, you know.”

“They weren’t letting me take you home. I didn’t think you’d want—not after that.” Erik studies the sleek strip of metal, once a watch, that’s sitting placidly on Charles’s palm. But you did keep it.

I told you that it was good, at first. That you—we—were good. So, yes, I did. “I want it. I want you.”

This time it’s Erik who says “…now?” Charles has to laugh. “Well, now is when I’m asking, yes…” You even made it warmer in here for me. So I won’t be cold, when I’m naked.

You want me to tell you to be naked? But that desire’s already picking up, heightened pulsebeats, arousal becoming palpable, simmering in the air. Erik does want him. Wants this, Charles belonging to him, wholly, giving him everything, so that Erik can give him everything in return.

He sits up. His hair, too long, catches on the collar of Erik’s jacket. Yes.

Erik sits up, too. And then stands up, and stands there looking down at him, as Charles stays put on the bed. Abruptly, he feels smaller. Vulnerable. He doesn’t move.

“You look delectable,” Erik murmurs, “wearing that. Wearing something of mine. I wonder what you’d look like in only my jacket, Charles. Like divine temptation, probably.”

Charles tips his head to one side. “Divine?”

“Did I say you could talk? I think you should strip, instead. Clothes off, Charles.”

When he breathes, in and out, the last of the tension, and the knots that’ve been mutely dissolving themselves in the warmth of Erik’s arms, all float out along with the air. Relief. Release. The quiet is intimate, and welcoming, and profound.

He’s reluctant to emerge from Erik’s coat, and when he does he’s not entirely certain what Erik wants him to do with it. He inquires silently; Erik’s lips quirk upwards, not quite a smile. “Um…chair? Anywhere, really. But not on the bed.”

He nods, and listens, and does as asked. Leaves his own clothes on the chair, too, since Erik’s not given him any different instructions. But he finds his not-watch again, before he turns around. Keeps it in one hand, feeling the metal warm up against his skin.

“Come here,” Erik says, and Charles crosses the room back to him. Barefoot, he can feel the luxurious depth of the carpet on his toes, the sensation very cleanly defined, every thread caressing his steps.

He starts to kneel, and Erik stops him, one hand on his arm. “Did I tell you to get on your knees?”

“No.” His gaze slides away from Erik’s unblinking one. “I’m sorry.”

Erik mutters something that sounds like an obscenity under his breath. “No, don’t. I’m sorry. I wasn’t clear. I just want to look at you, for now. All right?”

“But,” Charles says, before he can stop himself, “why?” and Erik grumbles, “Dammit, Charles, accept the compliment, I want to look at you, you’re beautiful,” all newly-provoked irritation, not at Charles himself, but at anyone who might’ve been the reason for the question.

The wind dwindles into nothingness, for a moment, outside.

Charles licks his lips, and nods, and stands very still as Erik touches him, fingers tracing fire over one hip, lines that he thinks will never go away, because they’ll be carved into his bones, his skin, his heart. The arousal’s obvious, and sweetly omnipresent, centered in his cock but everyplace else as well.

“Tell me how you’re feeling.”

“…what?”

“Charles.” Erik’s fingers dig into the curve of his hip. Not hard enough to bruise, not yet. But almost. He can’t keep back the escaping sound.

“Oh…” Erik studies his own hand, over acquiescent freckles. More?

I…yes?

Then talk to me. “I asked you a question, Charles. How do you feel?”

I’m—Erik, please, I need you, I need this, and I want you so badly it hurts but—

It what!

Not like that—more intense, like—like waiting underwater for a breath of air, as long as you can, down where everything’s blue and calm and still, and when you come up it’s as if you’ve never tasted air before—

Interesting metaphor. Erik presses the fingers into his hip again, same spot as before, harder now, and either time separately might not’ve left a mark, but both together might. “Do you want me to let you…come up, Charles?”

No please not yet— Honesty. Instinctive and unassailable. It’s the right answer, because Erik smiles.

“You said, last time, that it felt like a reprieve. Like respite, from the world, and the voices, and all the noise…” Are you feeling that now?

Yes.

“And you’re not talking out loud.” Erik plainly recalls that conversation also: this is an indicator, and a good one, they both know it is. What are you feeling, then?

Only you.

Tell me. In words if you can. Erik leaves the hand on his hip. Expectantly.

“You feel like thunderclouds,” Charles tells him. “In my head.” Not in a bad way. Purple-black clouds and lightning-brightness and power and strength. Electricity in the air and the taste of ozone and the promise of rain.

He tells Erik that as well, wordlessly. Feels, and sees, Erik’s grin. “You’d stand outside in the storm, wouldn’t you? You probably have. Hair all wet, your shirt getting soaked, lightning overhead, and you wouldn’t be afraid. Not you. You’d just stand there looking at the sky with your eyes like…” Like the way they are now, looking at me.

And he gets a glimpse of double-vision, a flicker of himself through Erik’s eyes, standing there in the middle of the silent hotel room perfectly naked and trusting and enticing and so brave—brave??—with eyes like oceans on a rainy night, all blue-black tempestuous deeps. Erik’s desire scorches through both of them, a complex and contradictory flame: the need to have Charles, all of him, to touch him and claim him and leave marks, bruises and bites and nail-lines that’ll last, tangible reminders that those eyes and those deep waters belong to Erik and no one else; the need to take while Charles is offering because nothing lasts forever; the need to keep all that pale skin clear and safe and unmarked and not wounded by anyone ever again.

The need to be what Charles needs, if anyone can be, if Erik can be enough for him. The need to try, and to not cease trying, for as long as Charles might accept the aid.

“Some things do last,” he suggests, once he can talk, as the vision of himself fades and dissolves away, as Erik looks at him, unsure. “Sir.” You can have all of those things. I’m not—everything you think, when you think about—but you can have me. And then he holds out his hand, that thin line of metal lying innocuously over his palm.

“Oh,” Erik breathes, “but, Charles, you don’t see yourself,” and then visibly straightens those shoulders, reasserting the role like a cloak, imposing and assertive. Do you want this back on?

If you want me to wear it, yes.

“One arm for now. Only a reminder…” The once-watch shimmers its way up from his palm, wreathing around his wrist and settling in, solid and comfortable there. Erik smiles a bit, watching Charles’s face.

“I could decorate you like this. With your watches, your cufflinks. We could fit them around your arms, your ankles…” One finger runs up the inside of Charles’s arm, lightly. He parts his lips. Waits for the decision. “You couldn’t move, then. Unless I chose to let you. You’d be helpless, for me.”

He gasps, words like a physical impact, and he’s not certain whether that’s arousal, or fear, or indignation—he wouldn’t be helpless, he can’t be, he’s spent his life not being helpless, thank you—but then he catches the glint of real amusement lurking in Erik’s thoughts, and relaxes again. It’s not a serious suggestion; that’s there for him to read.

“You don’t like that idea, do you?” More accurately…you don’t like that you like it, is that closer?

“No,” Charles manages, voice steadily more uneven as Erik keeps touching him, wandering fingertips exploring the curve of his elbow, the line of his shoulder, his chest, the hard pebble of one nipple, which Erik brushes over and then comes back to pinch, sharply enough that his knees threaten to buckle. And yes. To that second question. I can’t—I’ll say yes to you but please…

No, sorry, not trying to make you uncomfortable, or not more than you want me to, I won’t say it again. At least not in those words. The finger travels upward. Taps at the hollow at the base of Charles’s throat. “Would you trust me with this? If I wanted to hold you down everywhere, even here?”

Yes, Charles whispers, unthinking. It’s true.

Oh—Erik stops, suddenly. Lifts the hand away. You mean that. You would—would let me—you believe in me that much, you think I won’t hurt you—but you can’t know, Charles, you can’t—and I’m not—I HAVE hurt people, you know I have, with these hands—

I know. He swallows. Reaches out, finds Erik’s clenched fingers, folds his own around them. You’re right about me and the thunderstorms. And I’m not scared. And then he has to laugh, both at himself and at Erik’s incredulous expression. “No, sorry, I am scared. I’m terrified. But not of you. You won’t hurt me.”

“How can you—”

“You did stop. Earlier. In the car, when I asked. Actually I didn’t even ask, I only said your name.” And you apologized. To me.

“Of course I did! You looked—you were—I’ll always stop if you need me to!” If you still want—if you want to keep trying—

“And that’s how I can know.” I want you. And you, with your hand there, just now…I don’t know if you noticed, but I rather liked it. I like you being your intimidating self. You’re a very nice thunderstorm.

Oh, really? Erik turns his hand, laces his fingers through Charles's. After a second, grins again, displaying teeth and teasing in return. “If you’d be interested…I do know thirty-seven ways to kill a person with a paper-clip.”

I shall have to keep you away from paper-fastening implements. “Thirty-seven, honestly? I can only think of fifteen. Not that I’d need them.”

“No,” Erik concurs, “you wouldn’t, you could stop me, you could stop anyone, anytime, if you wanted to.” You could stop me right now. But you don’t want to.

“Erik…” Yes. The wind, popping back in to comment, yelps with glee. Not subtle, but then the universe hasn’t been opting for subtle today.

He’s quite naked. Erik isn’t. They both become aware of that fact, really aware of it, at the same instant. Erik waits just long enough to drive the point home, and then: “Last time…you never finished something, Charles. One particular task. I think you should.”

“Yes,” Charles says. Yes, sir.

No, wait. Use my name. Around the words, a sense of easier/for both of us/more about you and me and who we are.

That’s new. He’s always tended not to say, or in some cases even know, the names of the men and women he’s let push him to his knees or tie him up and fuck him until he screams. He’s never wanted to.

But this is Erik. And everything is new.

“Yes, Erik,” he agrees, out loud, and the sound of his own voice, consenting, makes him shiver.

Erik’s answering Good makes him shiver even more. Because it is.

He’s a bit awkward, undressing another man; he’s done it before, but not often, and his hands’re clumsy, lifting that dark turtleneck, fumbling at Erik’s belt. Erik doesn’t comment, though, so he must be doing well enough.

He removes Erik’s slacks, and everything else as well, and then stops, breathless.

“Something you like?” But the mental presence that’s Erik in his head, all complex and intricate layers like an iron sculpture, glows and tints rose: Erik blushing.

“Oh, I definitely like. All of you.” He means every piece of Erik, not only the rather impressive erection inviting his gaze—truthfully, that’s going to be a bit of a challenge, but a slow swirl of excitement coils inside his stomach regardless, as he thinks about taking all that length, about Erik making him take it—but the rest of that body is beautiful also, all lean muscle and finely-wrought planes and sleek lines. Like masterfully carved marble, in which even the scars and imperfections in the stone flow into pieces of the whole.

There aren’t really that many scars. The ones that are most noticeable appear to be the oldest, acquired before Erik’d honed his hunting abilities to their current peak. Erik is good at what he does.

Erik’s good at whatever he wants to be good at, truthfully. Including this, right here and now; including the way he ensnares an unwary wrist when it comes within grasping distance, long fingers folding over tendons and bone. Not a surprise: he’s probably approached this situation as methodically, as strategically, as he does everything else, targeted toward one specific goal and implacable until the desired result is achieved.

Erik sounds entertained, in their heads. I can be rather single-minded, is that it?

I didn’t say I didn’t approve.

No, you like it. “You don’t get to approve, Charles. Or to disapprove. Remember?” In a flash of motion, both of his hands end up behind his back, held there by force while the streak of body-heated metal twists itself, serpentine, into unbreakable cuffs. “You asked me for this. You want to listen to me. You want me to tell you what you’re allowed to do.”

A pause; Erik might be waiting for an answer, but Charles literally can’t think of any words. It’s the voice. The command. Control that isn’t his, ropes and knots that can replace his own frayed supports for a brief span of time, hands to be strong so that he can give in.

And oh god he wants to give in.

“Knees,” Erik says, and emphasizes the order with a tug on his wrists, not unkindly.

Charles drops to the floor. Then leans forward, obeying a sudden idea, and kisses the inside of Erik’s thigh, quickly, a swift touch of lips to that unscarred and surprisingly soft place. He doesn’t look up, after, even though he’s tempted; the temptation gets decidedly overruled by the other need, the one that says: surrender, let yourself fall, be caught. Submit.

Erik, telepathic presence tinged with startled pleasure from Charles’s spontaneous gesture, rests a hand on his head. And Charles shuts his eyes, just to feel the weight, the world around him, superheated and serene.

He’s never felt like this. Not with anyone else. Not ever before.

The pleasure turns into amazement, and something like wonder, at that.

And then Erik says, deliberately, “You know, Charles, I don’t think I want you thinking about how you’ve felt with anyone else at the moment,” and sets a finger over Charles’s lips, pressing down until they part of their own volition.

No, sir—

“What did I tell you about using my name? Say my name, Charles.”

Erik—

Better.

It is better, or maybe it’s worse, he can’t tell. The need and the ache and the ecstasy all blur into different jewels in the kaleidoscope, and the view spins every time Erik touches him. And it’s glorious.

“No one else,” Erik says, and the metal bites down around his wrists. Charles hears himself gasp, as if from a distance. Feels the rush of blood to his cock. “No one else, ever, from now on.”

Yes—

“Out loud.”

“Yes, sir—Erik—”

“If you need something, if you need this, if you need more…” Erik’s hand threads through his hair. Pulls his head back. Prompts a moan. “You ask me. Only me. And I’ll tell you yes, or no. Sometimes it might be no, if I’m not in the mood, or if I choose to make you wait, understand?” Only if it won’t hurt you to wait. If you ever can’t wait, if you feel like—the way you were feeling, before, the first time we—just tell me. And it’ll always be a yes.

And Charles focuses on that promise, that anchor of certainty in both their heads, long enough to find stability and reply. Thank you for that.

Of course.

“You didn’t answer the question, however.” Erik gazes down at him, tall and authoritative and disapproving, except for the sparkle of warmth dancing back there in the eyes. “Tell me you understand. That you’re all mine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say so.”

“Yours,” Charles whispers. All yours. Erik, please—

“Mine,” Erik agrees, and shifts his weight, and Charles knows what he wants without having to ask, and opens his mouth even more and lets Erik push inside with all that length, slow but inexorable, inch by inch.

Erik’s enormous. The size stretches his mouth, pushes back into his throat, makes him gasp and struggle and fight to accommodate it all, but he doesn’t pull back, and Erik doesn’t relent.

Erik tastes like arousal, hot and salty and eager, and like that indefinable scent from earlier, smoke and spice and bonfires in the dark, or maybe none of that, just Erik, filling all his senses.

He licks, and sucks, and uses his tongue; not elegant, not practiced, no rhythm, he can’t think enough for rhythm. Erik tastes good, and is inside him, and all of his nerve endings are aflame with only that.

Erik swears softly, wraps the hand more tightly into his hair, holds his head in place, and fucks his mouth, hard, setting his own pace now. Charles hears someone moaning, sound indistinct around an obstruction, and he’s aware that that’s probably him but he can’t be bothered to try to stop.

Look at me, Erik pants, and Charles does because that’s a clear order, words directed at himself, and his own neglected cock pushes hotly against his stomach, flushed and ready.

Their eyes meet, then.

“Charles,” Erik gasps, in the wake, can I—and the image that follows bursts through both their heads like an imploding diamond, searingly hot, shattering whitely across the leather-dark night.

He can’t talk, for so many reasons; the yes explodes out anyway, inarticulate agreement, and he strokes his tongue across Erik’s cock, sucking hard, feeling Erik push deeper into him, and he almost chokes at the hard length filling his throat but that’s all right, Erik’s hand tightens on the back of his head and holds him in place and that’s perfect, support and roughness all in one, and he moans incoherently at the sensation, himself growing all wet and messy and well-used, as Erik takes him and takes his mouth and claims him, wants him, desires him.

Yes, oh, god, yes, Charles—you—Erik loosens the hand in his hair, pulls back; Charles knows what he intends and stays on his knees, face tipped up and waiting, and Erik groans, a frantic little sound, and wraps one hand around the base of his own cock and comes, wave after wave of white heat landing on Charles’s face, his lips, his chin.

Mine, Erik thinks at him, breathless and possessive and amazed, and Charles, on his knees and sticky with Erik’s come, mind full of nothing except pleasure and yes and need and Erik, gasps again at the force of the word. His own cock is desperate for relief, for contact, for something, and he can’t touch himself, can’t find reprieve, unless Erik tells him to.

He’s not asking, not exactly, but the nonverbal need must spill over regardless, because Erik, between breaths, says, “Up,” and tugs him to his feet; Charles staggers, balance difficult, and Erik whispers, “Shh, all right, I’ll take care of you,” and pulls him closer and pushes one thigh between his legs, so that Charles is straddling that firm muscle, helplessly caught between Erik’s hands on his body and the friction.

He can’t help moving, thrusting, rocking into the sensation; Erik breathes, “Yes,” into his ear, and he feels himself shudder all over.

Erik wants this, wants him to come like this, hands still tied behind his back, getting himself off on Erik’s leg, god, and he can’t stop, it’s too much and it feels too good, whatever Erik wants to permit him to have, and his hips jerk forward and his cock slides along hot skin and he’s mindlessly asking for more, shameless and begging, rutting up and riding Erik’s thigh as Erik’s fingers dig into his hips and pull him down harder in place, and when he licks his lips he can taste Erik there too.

Everywhere. Everywhere. The shock of it makes him lose his rhythm, and Erik growls softly and shifts his knee just a fraction and drags one hand up over Charles’s bound wrists and squeezes, and Charles cries out, not out loud, only in their heads, delirious with need now, the world consisting only of himself and these sensations, this craving, the building ecstasy and pain of not-yet-fulfillment and Erik, who can tell him yes or no or anything, anything at all, right now, because he is Erik’s, completely, thrillingly, because he wants to be.

There’s a sudden ripple of astonishment, and maybe it’s Erik realizing something but Charles is too far gone to process that now, only impressions left, overwhelming and dissolving into each other and leaving him dizzy, and Erik whispers his name and makes him tremble, and then orders, gently, “Come for me,” and Charles arches his back and rubs up once more and the release hits like a tidal wave, entire body flooded with release, pent-up climax spilling out across Erik’s lean thigh over and over.

Erik’s the one who gasps, because Charles can’t make his own lungs work; one hand lifts away from his wrists and fastens around his cock and strokes one last time, long fingers sliding through the sticky mess at the tip, dipping into that oversensitive slit, and Charles feels the throb like a scream inside his veins, one more brilliant starburst, a final spurt of wetness, and then the world turns into sparkles and mist and he’s dimly aware of collapsing into Erik’s arms.

He’s not out that long, and he’s never really unconscious; he registers the change when Erik releases his arms, when Erik sets him down on the bed; hears that gorgeous voice saying, a bit shakily,  “Charles? Charles, please—” and hears, too, the wonder and worry and tenderness and concern that pour out behind and around the words, sweet and just the right side of too intense in his head at the moment, molten honey over raw places inside.

He thinks back, here, and opens his eyes, and Erik says “Oh thank god” from inches away, hovering above his face. Charles say something please please be all right did I hurt you—

I’m all right, Charles whispers back, and then tries to reach for him, needing contact, needing another body to hold onto; his arms feel weak, though, and he can’t quite manage the gesture. But Erik gathers him up in an embrace almost instantly, before the unsteadiness can turn into tears.

Shh. It’s all right, I’m here, you’re all right—you are, please be all right—you have bruises, I’m so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you, Charles—

You didn’t. I’m not—it doesn’t hurt, exactly, I just feel—I don’t know.

Too much?

No…I’m sorry, I can’t…I don’t know how to explain. Kind of…inside-out. Everything’s…brighter. And more sensitive. But it doesn’t hurt.

“That sounds like it should hurt.” Please don’t cry.

I’m not…

Come here. Erik puts both arms around him, not speaking, no judgment evident in expression or thought, only strength and bare skin in the broad expanse of the bed. The sheets rumple up around them, peacefully.

Better? Erik says, after a while.

Yes. It’s…comfortable. The world, I mean. In my head. He’s exhausted, and the euphoria’s omnipresent, in his bones and Erik’s heat and the happy sheets and the curious wooden furniture and the yelps of the wind. He never wants to move again, except that he also wants more of everything, reactions still tinglingly aware of every miniscule shift, small fireworks going off distantly every time Erik adjusts their position.

Good. Erik touches his hair, looks down at him, blinks. “Ah…I ought to…just wait here? I’m coming right back.”

He lets out a deprived little complaining noise, mostly because he wants to, as Erik eases him down into the pillows. Where…

Stay put.

Couldn’t move if I wanted to.

Excellent. Erik gets up, finds a washcloth and warm water; proceeds to clean him up, with unselfconscious tenderness. This is what Erik looks like when he’s happy, Charles thinks, vaguely, through the all-encompassing afterglow: loyal and protective and domestic and determined to do everything he can for someone he cares about and calls his own.

“You’re smiling.”

Am I?

“Still not talking?” So beautiful, Erik’s thinking, not quite a directed thought but with enough emphasis that it all but bounces off the walls.

Mmm…not yet. Also, you currently have a washcloth on my face.

So I do. You were…rather sticky. From me. Is this better? And under that, there’s a very clear spike of proprietary pride: Charles as Erik’s, marked and claimed and pronounced as such, and consenting to be.

Yes, Charles sends back, to all of the layers of that thought. Better is somewhat of a relative term, as his entire body’s continuing to send messages about oversensitive skin and washcloths and aftershocks, foundations not yet stable, but it’s close enough.

They get cleaned up—as clean as things’re going to get without a shower, at least, but that requires energy—and Erik tucks the sheet around him, and then fits an arm beneath it to find Charles’s skin regardless. The arm feels nice there.

“I think we need a system.” Erik’s hand wanders up and starts playing with his hair, idly.  Charles yawns, blissfully fatigued, the whole world humming with splendid serenity.

A system?

“Rules. For this. So that we know if—if something is too much. For you, or for me, I suppose, that could happen. But mostly for you.”

Oh. You mean safewords.

“I…suppose I do. Would you mind?” You looked—you practically passed out in my arms, and—

I’m fine.

I know you are. This time. But what if I—what if you weren’t, and— “We’re making that part of the rules, as well. You’re not allowed to let me hurt you.”

What?

I know you—you enjoy the intensity. So do I. Obviously. But I’m not going to hurt you, not more than you want me to, never seriously, and I’m asking you—no, wait, that’s an order, Charles. Don’t agree to anything that might leave you in pain, after.

But—

Not negotiable. Not ever.

Charles breathes in, tilts his head up, not bothering to move anywhere else, seeking Erik’s eyes. And then moves after all, slipping his own arm around that slim waist. “All right.” All right. But this time…you don’t need to worry. That was spectacular. We’re spectacular together. And then, an afterthought, lets Erik hear all the peacefulness, as it resonates through his bones.

Oh…Charles, thank you. “And…all right? I thought you’d argue.”

“No, it makes sense. We’re both awfully new at this. And you said it was for both of us, and that makes sense, as well.” Of course. It’s because of you, in any case.

Erik tugs him a little closer, and buries his face in Charles’s hair, briefly. Charles breathes, inhaling the scent of that skin, and strokes Erik’s back with his available hand, and they hold each other, while the wind purrs.

So… Erik says, eventually.

Sorry, did you mean I should come up with something this instant?

“You did say you like me being focused. Single-minded.” I’ll…feel better about this. Please. And then, thoughtfully, half-teasing: I’ll be happy with you.

Oh—yes, then. I mean…yes, Erik. “Hmm. Pineapple. For good, I mean. Green.”

“Seriously?”

“I like pineapple. And I like you.”

“I…suppose that’s a compliment…very well, yellow?”

“Mango?”

“This is a thing? The tropical fruit?” I’m learning interesting tidbits about you all the time, Charles.

“You don’t know everything about what I like. Yet.” I like…exotic flavors.

Erik stares at him wide-eyed for a second, and then catches on to the fact that Charles is teasing him. Slowly, starts to smile. “Well…we’ll see if I can discover a few of those…exotic elements, then. How do you feel about ginger?”

Charles blinks, puzzled. “As a spice? Um, no objections?”

Good, Erik says, smugly pleased, and then sends him an absolutely filthy image, involving Charles on his lap and reddened buttocks and something else, too, burning and tingling and inside him, and when Erik clarifies ginger root Charles ends up a little lightheaded from the vividness of his own imagination.

What—where—how did you even come up with—

Breathe, Erik admonishes, and cuddles him a little more closely, hands tracing parabolas and arcs and other soothing shapes over his back. I read something about that, once. A punishment, in Victorian times. For disobedient wives. Are you going to be disobedient, Charles?

Charles swallows. Squirms against the persistent cadence of those hands, caressing his skin. Someplace deep inside, the arousal’s building, not as fierce and sharp as before but mellow, persuasive, pulling him into an ocean of light. His half-hard cock brushes along Erik’s hip, and he moans.

Do you—do you want me to be?

“You did tell me once that you’d argue with me.” Erik walks a hand down his back, trailing his spine, too softly; Charles whimpers. “Shh. I said I’d take care of you, and I will. How’re you feeling?”

“Mmm…” Erik’s petting his hip, now, long gentle strokes. He’s not sure whether to push up, into the hand, or forward, into Erik’s body, where his cock can find friction.

“That’s not an answer, Charles. I asked you a question.” The hand lifts, and then snaps down once, hard, and the pink heat blossoms in the wake of the impact, bright and disorienting. Charles moans again, incoherent; lifts his hips.

“You like that, too? Anything I want to do with you, is that it? Anything at all.” If I want to hold you down, over my lap, and spank you until all that soft skin turns red and hot and you’re begging me to let you come, you’d say yes, wouldn’t you?

Yes, Charles whispers. Yes. Yours. Please. And the words feel right, the world settling into place as he says them, picking itself up and shaking itself out and turning around and easing into a new configuration that’s precisely the way it was always meant to be.

“All right, then. You—wait.” You forgot one word, earlier. The most important one.

…what?

Red, Charles. What’s your stop?

“Strawberry,” Charles says, out loud because Erik wants him to; Erik raises both eyebrows. “Not tropical, this time?”

“Strawberries are red,” Charles explains, contentedly, drowsily, “and I don’t mind the flavor, but I utterly loathe the tiny seeds,” and Erik actually laughs, shaking his head. “You’re perfect.”

“I am not.” Do that again, please?

So polite when you want something. “This?”

I don’t have the energy to argue. “Yes that—”

I like you arguing with me. “Though I think I like you this way, as well. All thoroughly ravished, and so compliant, so submissive, for me, and all mine…”

Erik, Charles pleads, because the hand on his cock is insistent, now, and the pleasure’s escalating in twisting spirals with each new demand. Erik, please—

“Do you want me to let you come again, Charles? For me, my hand on you, right now?” I could put that a different way. Do you want me to make you come, again?

Oh god Erik PLEASE—

“Or…you could wait. Because I would like to try something else, with you.” Erik leans down. Whispers, words hot against his ear, “I would like to be inside you, Charles. To feel you, when you come. And when I do. In you.”

He can’t answer, because his brain whites out at that image. Himself, on the bed, beneath Erik, pinned down by Erik, filled up by Erik—

“So you like that. You want me to…fuck you.” Still here?

I—you—yes, please, Erik, yes—

“I wanted to that first night we met.” Erik’s continuing to tease him, hands and words and images all occupied in flooding his body with impossible need. “After you pulled me out of the water, and you had hair in your eyes and I was shouting at you in German, why did you do that, what were you thinking, and you looked at me like you’d never seen anything so amazing, and you smiled…I wanted to shake you until your teeth rattled, and I wanted to kiss you, and I wanted to take you off to the closest bunk and fuck you until you were screaming my name. And then I wanted to wrap you in blankets until you stopped shivering. You confused the hell out of me, Charles.” You still do. But I enjoy being confused by you.

Please, Charles sobs, not quite processing, as busy fingers flick over his too-sensitive tip, as they find and draw out streaks of wetness over burning skin. Erik, I need you.

Erik lifts him, turns him onto his stomach, handling him with an ease that earns a shiver of pleasure. When he pushes his hips down into the mattress, seeking friction, Erik laughs, and sets one hand over his hip, and then further back, heat over the curves of his bottom. When the hand hesitates, briefly, Charles moans, and spreads his legs, unconsciously.

“So impatient,” Erik admonishes. “You want this so badly, don’t you? You want me.”

Yes.

“I—we need something, if we’re going to do this, wait—”

He doesn’t want to wait. Tells Erik so, in soundless dazzling images.

“I know, I know, Charles, I promise, but…” I am NOT going to hurt you.

The certainty’s a rock, an anchor, in the shifting seas. This time he manages to send back an image: the small bottle, in his bag, across the room.

Erik’s off the bed and back before Charles’s skin has time to feel lonely. “This?” There’s not much here… That’s a question, as hard as Erik’s fighting not to let it be.

He clings to the anchor for support, answering. I’ve had it for ages. I hadn’t—before that night, when you—it’d been a long time. Too long, really, and he’d been needing it so badly. I had it in the bag just in case… Erik’s hand cracks against his ass, not hard, but startling. In the glittering shock of the impact, he loses that anchor. Tumbles back into crashing waves. Sensation, everywhere.

Charles, Erik orders. Look at me.

He recalls how, after a second.

All right?

Pineapple. We’re testing that, aren’t we…

Yes. “And…no one else gets to see you like this. Not ever again. You agreed.”

No one else for you either, Charles says, dreamily.

He’s half-teasing—he doesn’t genuinely expect Erik to run out and sleep with the next person who crosses his path, but he’s also not asking for commitment that Erik’s not offering—but Erik stops, and looks at him, frowning slightly. “No. Of course not.” You don’t think I would—no. Never, not now.

Thank you.

Not as if I’ve acquired an extensive sexual repertoire in any case, Charles.

You HAVE done this before… Talking provides clarity. Pulls him back from the depths a bit. Erik seems not to mind; possibly even appreciates the shallower waters, for now.

“Yes, I have. Thank you for inquiring.”

About how often, precisely?

“If you honestly want a number…” That ember of rueful amusement’s back, gleaming in the depths. “Three.”

“…three?”

“Three people. Three times. And they all, ah, took care of this part, I’ve never had to…”

He can’t hide the wave of surprise/shame/distress, at that: Erik’s practically a virgin. Erik is a virgin. And Charles has asked him for—

“Shh.” Erik pets his back, gently, in reassuring strokes, until some of the fretfulness eases. “I am enjoying myself. You’d know if I weren’t. I only meant, you’ll need to help us out with this.” Only if you’re feeling up to it.

Mmm….I think so, yes. That languid, intoxicated feeling’s back, liquid sunlight through all his veins. You have to talk to me, though. Please. Sir.

“Charles,” Erik says, and shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Of course. So…if I touch you, here, and you move your legs somewhat…”

Like this?

“Exactly like that. And I can touch you…here, as well.” One finger. The lightest brush possible, over that tight entrance. He wants to inhale and scream and push upwards and beg for more and plead for anything Erik wants to give him.

“What did we say about you being impatient? Behave, Charles.” The finger lifts away. Returns, cooler and slicker than before. Here?

Yes please.

Pressure, first; then a slight burn, as Erik enters him. Negligible. Pleasurable, even.

Good? Tell me.

Yes—He lifts his hips, shifts the angle slightly, gasps. Erik has very long fingers.

Charles—

No, that was good, you couldn’t tell?

I thought so, but—more?

Yes, Erik.

“Charles,” Erik says aloud, mostly a groan. More. Two fingers, the second one easing inexorably in alongside the first. Tell me what you want me to do.

Charles, who can’t form words any longer, sends images instead, flickering glimpses that flutter and fall like leaves, scattered in their heads: movement, stretching, scissoring, opening. Curling at just that angle.

Erik’s a quick study. Charles ends up trying to scream into the pillows, and failing because he’s out of air, the third time Erik finds that bundle of nerves and just keeps stroking.

Erik, he whimpers, incoherent.

More? Erik grins. “I think you can take more. For me.” Three fingers, and Charles hears himself panting, showers of sparks like rain, and Erik’s voice through it all, telling him he can do this, he can have this, he can.

You, he gets out, through all the coruscating waves. Erik’s asked him to talk. He can do what Erik asks. He can be good, for Erik.

“You are,” Erik whispers. “You are.” And you can have me. All of me.

Yes, Charles begs, yes, on every level and in every way that he can conceivably say the word; and Erik’s fingers slide out and away and he’s devastatingly empty, and then he’s not, because Erik’s there and that’s a hard blunt weight pressing into him.

It hurts a bit—Erik’s bigger than fingers, even his own lengthy fingers—but the pain adds brilliance to the pleasure, bitterness that highlights the sweet. Erik pauses, picking up some of that as Charles’s shields quiver and fall, overwhelmed.

Are you—

Don’t stop!

Erik doesn’t answer in words, but pushes into him one more time, deeply, completely, and Charles clenches and tightens and pushes back and feels Erik inside him, buried all the way home.

Erik’s broadcasting something like dazed awe, in their shared thoughts; Charles wants to reassure him, but can only manage a helpless little twitch of hips, lost in the iridescence.

Charles…Erik breathes, shakily; finds better balance with hands, pulls back, thrusts in again. Gets a desperate moan. Charles, say something.

I—can’t—

—that’s an order, Charles, answer me!

Charles whimpers, digs fingers into the mattress, finds a word.

Guava, Erik echoes, laughing; drops his head to rest between Charles’s shoulderblades, for a moment. Tropical—Charles, I love you.

You—you—what—

I love you, Erik says again, incredulous, still laughing, I do, I love you, Charles Xavier, and Charles gasps, Yes, I love you too, you know I do, now please move! And Erik shouts back, brimming over with joy, Yes!

And then moves. Faster. Harder. Because they both know how much they want that, Erik slamming into him, making him feel every inch, each thrust, each collision that sets off tiny supernovae throughout their joined bodies.

Charles, eyes closed, burrows fingers into the accepting mattress again; Erik flings hands upward, grabs his wrists, pins them to the bed, and demands, Mine, Charles, come for me, now, and Charles cries out wordlessly and comes, at Erik’s command.

Erik gasps, “Charles,” out loud, and then, helplessly, shudders over that edge too, as if coming on the sound of that name.

They collapse together, sweat-sticky and exhilarated, after.

Charles, Erik manages, after some indeterminate while. Charles?

He can’t talk. But he can shiver, at the sound of his name, in Erik’s voice.

Charles, Erik says again. Come on, come back, come—up for air, you said—please? I’m here, I love you, I’m here.

Erik.

Yes?

I love you.

You—you still—we said—but you were so, so far under—

You meant it. Charles opens one eye, then the other. Finds Erik’s face very close to his, gaze all silvery-blue-green with concern. I heard you. I can hear you, there. I meant it too. Still mean it… He can’t help the yawn.

Erik looks, and feels, astonished. Then laughs, warm and joyous. You do. And so do I. “I’m sorry, Charles…you must be exhausted. You feel…” One hand lifts off his wrist, strokes along the corresponding bicep. Charles makes a noise that is absolutely not a disconsolate whine.

“No, come on, I felt that too. Here…” Erik moves the other hand. Then moves out, and away. Charles trembles, off-balance at the hollowness left behind.

Sorry. Erik kisses him, gently. Puts one hand back on his wrist. Better?

Yes. Slower, please…

Anything you want. Erik touches him, running a hand over his hip, his thigh, his ass. Charles sighs, wriggling under the caress, boneless and happy.

And then Erik’s exploring hand nudges his legs further apart, leaving that space between visible, stretched and loose and messy, lube and Erik, and Charles panics, or would panic if he had the mental processes necessary.

Don’t—

I told you that you were beautiful. That I love you. That means all of you. “And this…Charles, you let me—this is me, and you.”

He can feel himself blushing. Hides it in the nearest pillow.

Please, Erik says, and kisses his shoulder. Come out of there. Come back to me. And it’s the words and the emotion—the wondrous/yes/incredible/mine! that’s so vivid, no regret or remorse or disgust at all—that get him to emerge, and to look up at Erik, and smile, in return.

You love me.

And you love me.

The wind selects this moment to gust especially loudly around the windowpane. Joining in all the love.

Erik grins. Pulls him close, radiating fierce joy. Guava, honestly…what happened to the pineapple?

You were distracting me. You’re very distracting. “And I might be a bit hungry…”

So you ARE all right. “You—I have an apple.” Erik’s off the bed, then back, that well-honed economy of motion that nevertheless always appears dramatic. “Here.” And then takes it back and slices it for him, knife conveniently levitating itself up out of the bag on the floor.

Charles would roll his eyes at that, but he’s utterly worn out, and his muscles’re suggesting that they really ought not to stir any time soon, and so he simply appreciates the gesture. He does almost ask why Erik has an apple, but the shark’s-fin of memory surfaces unbidden—hunger, loss, uncertainty, practicality, provisioning.

Erik’s eyes meet his, the next time those fingers hand him a slice of red skin and white flesh.

Erik, I’m—

“No. I want you to have it. Please.” You said you were hungry and I need to—that’s an order, all right? I want you to eat all of it.

Oh…thank you. And Erik’s expression lightens, stormclouds lifting, visibly and not.

His stomach wholeheartedly approves, and he does finish off the apple, except for the last slice, which he holds up until Erik gives in and eats it from his fingers. That’s not precisely following orders, you know.

Oh, I know. You can spank me later. Or whatever you’ve got in mind, because I know you do. But you need sustenance, also.

“I have quite a few things in mind,” Erik murmurs, and then takes Charles’s hand and licks, cleaning apple juices from fingertips with a determined tongue. Charles forgets to breathe when he’s next supposed to. “I plan to indulge myself, with you. But not now. Now I believe I should find you more food. And possibly the shower…” You taste like apples. And I love you.

“And I love you.” Out loud, echoed in the song of the wind and Erik’s elusive heartfelt smile. And yes to all of those—shower, food—but not yet. Right now I’d like—can you simply hold me? For a while? 

It’s still a question. There are still so many uncertainties. This life, their mission, his own darknesses and Erik’s quest, all those seen and unseen obstacles lurking in the way. Erik might say no.

Erik tosses the knife back into his bag, tugs Charles down into the circle of his arms in the center of the bed, and says Yes.