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Subliminal	By : FairyArmadillo Category: X-Men: (All Movies) > Slash - Male/Male > Charles/Erik Views: 2303 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the X-Men movies, or any of the characters from them. I make no money from from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Subliminal: thoughts on a prison cell

Title:"Subliminal: thoughts on a prison cell"

Author: Fairy Armadillo

Disclaimer: It is my opinion that disclaimers offer no legal protection to writers of fanfiction or sites that host such works. Since this pointless exercise is now *mandatory* on all stories archived on aff, I will state that I do not hold the original copyright to these characters, and I make no profit from them or this story. Whee.

Pairing: Xavier/Magneto

Rating: R

Feedback: Oh, *please* pleasepleaseplease!

Warnings: Um. Angst. Old-guy sex.
Summary: There's nothing to see here. Just two old men playing chess. Unless you look beneath the surface.... [X/M]

This story is indirectly the fault of my father, for allowing me to teach myself to read with his stack of ancient, mouse-chewed X-Men, Man-Thing, and John Carter of Mars comics.

This story is more directly the fault of a certain two wonderful actors, and Alara Rogers, for obvious reasons.
~Xavier's thoughts~

/Magneto's thoughts/

*emphasis*

~~~~~ ~~~~~

"Subliminal"

Outwardly, there is little to see. Two old men: one crippled and in a plastic wheel-chair, the other clad in the stark white of prisoner's clothes. Both are hunched over a plastic chest set, seemingly lost in contemplation of the arrangement of pieces.
Inwardly, there is much taking place.
~Erik...~ A mental caress. The mind behind it yearns to delve deeper. Heat that is not heat surrounds them, makes the space between them seem humid and warm.
/No, Charles./ Habitual refusal, undermined with want. An assertion of control, or a simple desire to tease himself and his companion? /Not yet./
~Very well, Erik. Soon.~
/But not yet./ Despite the denial, he is eager. They both are.
The mental caresses continue, tantalising the mind, evoking sensations of touch where there are none, phantoms of smell and taste and hearing. Outwardly, the two men stare at the chess board, lost in thought. Inwardly, they couple passionately, sprawling across softness, their bodies twined together and moving urgently. They are twenty again, whole and healthy, delighting in the give and take of lust and pleasure.
It requires a certain talent, to stimulate the areas of the brain where such experiences lie. To trigger the fugue state of dreams so that the voluntary muscles are paralyzed, while leaving all other faculties intact.
Charles Xavier is a consummate telepath. He is also a consummate lover, as Erik has long known.
He slowly brings Erik to full arousal, and Charles must take care that no outward sign shows, that certain autonomic responses do not occur. Erik's body does not flush. His chest does not heave. His eyes, those windows to the soul now safely downcast, are permitted to dilate, but no perspiration forms on his skin. His penis remains limp and quiescent beneath pristine white fabric.
But Erik is wound to fever pitch now, and Charles can wait no longer. ~Now, Erik.~
/Yes,/ he replies, breathless even in thought. /Yes, now./
Erik is given a dream of penetration, sinking deep into Charles' tight, heated flesh. This was always how it had been for them, Charles receptive under Erik, whose need for control could permit no other role. Simultaneously, however, the considerable mental shields are dropped, allowing Charles to forge closer still, winding his mental touch within and around the synapses of Erik's hind-brain, reaching for the most primal centers of the mind. From any other man, it would have been a violation of the highest order, but this was Charles, and Erik desires it. And he still has control enough to quiet the anxious jangling of his nerves; he can still push Charles from his mind. He has done it before.
But he does not wish to do so now. Now Erik wants only the phantom sensations of rutting with Charles, the other man's body yielding so sweetly to him. In his mind's eye Charles moans and pants, pushed to the extremities of passion, and Erik relishes every second of it. And then Charles' mind-voice, as rich and exquisite as his speaking one, resonating right through to his heart:
~Erik. Ah, Erik, how I love you.~
The pain is like breaking, and not given by Charles. Instead, Charles shares it with him, the despair that this is all that they can ever be: inwardly lovers, but outwardly only and forever dire enemies.
/Oh, Charles./ Despair and breaking rapture, love. Erik cannot articulate it, even in his thoughts, but knows that Charles can feel it there. Matched and met by answering feeling, and Erik knows this is no phantom sent to please. There can be no denial here, nothing of subterfuge between them, not with Charles so deep in Erik's mind. Here, there is love and pleasure and sharing and truth and trust. Nothing for the outward world to see. Two men, bent over a chess set.
It is possible to experience the pleasure of orgasm without ejaculation, or even erection. The Tantrics have known this for centuries. Erik Magnus Lehnsherr experiences it now. His body does not arch. He does not cry out, or claw at the plastic table, scattering the plastic chessmen to the plastic floor. A deep, indrawn breath, held for a second, and then released. A fine, imperceptible shiver runs the length of his body. Within, an electrochemical storm is wracking the pleasure centers of his brain.
/My God, Charles!/
~Yes. So good, Erik. So good.~ Charles vicariously savoring Erik's climax, postponing his own lest his control falter. It will happen later, at his own hands, violent and messy and very real, as he plays back these memories with his telepath's perfect recall. Later still, he will share the memory with Erik and bring the circle full. Right now, Charles cradles Erik with mind and phantom body, patiently waiting for his friend to calm down.
Slowly, the neuro-transmitters metabolise, and Charles can withdraw from Erik's mind without leaving him a panting wreck. He disentangles himself gradually, tenderly, and with great reluctance, the way a lover leaves the bed of his secret love. Charles does not want to let go. He knows that Erik does not want him to go. Erik would hold him if he could, but they have both been down that road before, and blood paves the way.
He watches Erik's grey eyes darken, post-coital tristesse taking him powerfully despite the fact they have not touched. But no, Charles is fooling himself. It is simply the recognition of the reality surrounding them: the cold plastic box and staring eyes, sterile days stretching forward until the inevitable moment that Magneto walks free. There will be blood on that day as well.
Dread and anticipation mingle as Charles thinks of it. Erik caged is a travesty. He deserves his freedom as much as any untamed creature. The lion *will* be free, but Charles has his lambs to protect, and the thought makes him uneasy.
"It's your move, Charles."
Charles starts. "Ah. Forgive me, I was woolgathering." Erik's voice is remarkably relaxed. Quite abruptly Charles is grateful for the concealing blanket in his lap, and eager for the privacy of his bedroom tonight. He lifts a pawn and nudges it forward. Erik immediately takes it with his knight, and Charles counters with his bishop. He recognizes the pattern of the board: they've been here before. "Stalemate, I believe. Care to play it out?"
Erik smiles. "No, I think not." He touches the white king carefully, tips it over, and runs his finger across the cool plastic. Charles shudders at the intent perceptible in Erik's mind. Erik wants to touch him. Erik wants to hold him. Erik wishes, for a brief instant only, but with a child's fervent intensity, that the world could bend itself to his will like metal.
For an instant, Charles wishes that very same thing. Then he pulls himself to earth and pushes away from the table. "Until next time, then."
"Yes. Next time." The mouth curves faintly, distant echoes of pleasure and love there, but the grey eyes are bright with challenge. As it should be.
Charles returns to his mansion, and his X-men, and his students. Patiently, he teaches physics to children who would rather be laughing with their friends. Bobby Drake makes perfect cubes of ice in class, perfect little boxes. Xavier remonstrates with him. Later it is tiny sculptures in frost, half-concealed in the boy's palm. They melt in an instant, mortal as snowflakes in the spring warmth. Charles sighs but says nothing, and continues to instruct his students in the laws of reality.
That night, Charles dreams of the savanna, wide open and rolling and *alive*. The fat, red sun beats down on his skin, making the heat shimmer in his veins. Charles walks -- always, in his dreams, he walks -- among the tall sere grass and the hardy acacia scrub. The shrill songs of insects fill the air, and the scent of green growing and dusty earth is heady. Nearby comes the soft lowing of animals, gathered at the water-hole. They sip carefully, caution in necks and flanks and flickering ears.
In the distance, Charles can hear lions.

~~~~~ ~~~~~

END
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Subliminal