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Perception	By : Mishizu Category: X-Men: (All Movies) > Slash - Male/Male > Charles/Erik Views: 3995 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own the X-Men (proof: Professor X and Magneto aren't happily married) and I make no money from this.

Chapter List
- 1-Perception
- 1
Title: Perception

Fandom: X-Men First Class

Warnings: BL, NC-17, masochism. It's a kink meme for crying out loud.

Spoilers: Well, not too much. It only briefly mentions the gayest scenes in the movie and very little plot.

Pairing: Charles/Erik

Summary: This be the prompt on 1stclass_kink:

Because of Shaw's brutal conditioning Erik's uncapable of getting aroused unless someone's causing him pain/is humiliating him. He and Charles are getting closer and closer, but Erik's very anxious about an impending sexual encounter, fearing that his needs would disgust Charles. Charles, of course, knows everything and does not judge, nor is he disgusted, but indulges Erik as best as he can, all the while being absolutely determined to break the conditioning and eventually be able to make tender love to him that Erik would be able to enjoy.

Comments: First time writing for this fandom, and it took on a life of its own, and I'm not sure how it turned out quite the way it did. I proofread and edited this, not to mention got some second opinions, so it should be better than the version on the kink meme itself. The key word is "should." Share your thoughts because I wish it were better than it is, and maybe you'll see something I missed.

~I~

He isn't sure how or when it started. When pain stopped being just pain.

But he thinks he discovered the disturbing change when the usual session with Herr Doktor left him with something to take care of in the shower.

In retrospect, he supposes it must have been a self-defense mechanism. Every species was built with the ability to adapt, and none faster than homo sapiens. Arguably, a more evolved being like himself would be even more adaptable.

The perception of pain was all up in the mind, after all.

All things considered, he could have taken away something far worse from his childhood. There are worse things in the world than liking a bit of pain in the bedroom. Like the realization that he doesn't just like pain.

The sun is setting outside the window as they walk back to their rooms with Charles talking about his plans to stop the upcoming war, and all he can think about is the telepath's presence in his mind earlier that day, those clear blue eyes misting over as they saw right through and into his soul, and the weight inside still threatens to choke him. Fuck the president, fuck his stupid address, fuck the humans and their sodding war. He grabs Charles by the arm, spins him around and kisses him.

It doesn't do it.

It's good, and it makes that weight at once heavier and lighter, but it's not...it doesn't give him that jolt that a scalpel slicing into his chest does. So he pulls the Englishman into a fierce hug instead. It makes the nearby candelabrum twist into itself in frustration.

Charles, of course, accepts that he isn't ready and, ever dignified, leaves it at that.

~II~

That night, Erik tries to think about the nice things he'd like to do to Charles. He imagines that Charles would like tender touches and soft words, that he'd moan Erik's name as he was caressed, that those azure eyes would mist over just like that time when their lips were red and wet from drawn-out loving kisses. He admits it's heavily romanticized, but probably fairly close to the truth. And it's beautiful; Charles is beautiful, looking at him through the shade of brown lashes over a glistening shoulder, tongue and fingers pressing into him carefully, soft lips peppering his body with kisses.

It's beautiful, but it's not enough.

Instead, it's the feel of cold metal pressed to his forehead, the memory of Charles' finger on the trigger, that sends a shiver down his spine. It's the thought of clean fingernails raking over his skin hard enough to draw blood, of teeth sinking into his flesh, that makes him undo his pants to touch himself. It's the image of those lips worrying cuts and bites, a pink tongue darting out to lap up the blood on tanned skin, and the pain of pressing dry fingers into himself that makes his hips jerk in pleasure. And as he imagines Charles drawing a blade over his skin, nails slide free from the walls to plunge into his thigh; he has to muffle a loud groan with a pillow as he comes into his own hand.

As he lies panting, he remembers that Charles would never do those things to him, that the telepath would be disgusted by these fantasies. Whatever he might think of the man, he doesn't think Charles enjoys inflicting pain. It seems a belated realization, but he's never had to worry about it before.

He's never had to worry about Charles before.

~III~

The following morning, he rights the candelabrum.

Then he occupies himself.

He doesn't see Charles more than in passing, but each time he does, Charles looks like he wants to say something, but there are always people. He could just say it into his mind, of course, but he doesn't. He could make the people leave, of course, but he doesn't. Instead he just gives Erik that look. And each time he does, Erik gives him a small smile and leaves.

~IV~

It's ten at night when Charles intercepts him on his way to his room with the chess set in hand and asks him to play a game. He thinks to decline, but he doesn't, and he doesn't know if Charles made him agree.

They set the board up in the library, and he downs the tumbler of fine scotch he's offered in one go before they even start. He can barely focus on the game from the trepidation, but Charles seems equally distracted because it doesn't end as quickly as he expected, and he's grateful when the Briton offers him a cigar because the entire process of cutting, lighting and smoking is both soothing and distracting. Charles is taking a black rook when he finally speaks.

"Erik, will you tell me what is bothering you?"

"Don't you already know?" he counters, taking a white bishop and swirling sweet dark smoke in his mouth before exhaling it through his nose. It is fine, expensive, like everything Charles owns.

Charles' hand hesitates for the briefest of moments as he reaches to move a pawn forward. "You, of all people, should know that I don't pry intentionally." There is an instant's pause before he adds, "If I regularly took my liberties, my friend, I wouldn't bother asking on occasion, would I?"

"Or perhaps you ask occasionally to convince us that you don't do it without our realizing it?" Erik challenges, taking a knight with his remaining rook.

At that, Charles falls silent. He doesn't even make his next move. At least a whole minute passes before he speaks again, and all Erik can think about in the meantime is how many times Charles can comb through his thoughts in sixty seconds. It's not that he dislikes having Charles in his head per se, quite the opposite if he were perfectly honest with himself; it's that he really doesn't want Charles to see certain things presently, and the more he sees of the man, the more he's convinced that the telepath's moral compass is far too relative for comfort. And while Erik can't criticize, he can certainly be wary.

"Why don't we talk about where this is coming from?" Charles suggests, looking away, and his frustration is palpable. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately. Raven's another one."

"Maybe it's that you treat her and Hank so very differently, Charles," he interjects quietly, setting his cigar down on a silver stand and leaning back in his chair now that chess is clearly no longer on either man's mind.

Again, Charles says nothing for the longest time, but the professor's silence is more telling than anything he might say. It's not unconscious, Erik realizes; of course, it isn't. Charles is many things and not without his foibles, but more than anything, he is a teacher, and his desire to protect is almost as strong as his desire to nurture. Or, in Raven's case, stronger. Hank is a friend, a comrade, but Charles grew up with Raven. He doesn't want her to kill, to join this war, Erik thinks, suddenly understanding. Like any brother, he wants to keep his sister out of danger, and as long as he can keep making the excuse that she's not ready...Erik swallows thickly. Sometimes, he forgets that Charles is more devious than anyone realizes, and there's something strangely alluring about that realization.

"We're not here to talk about Raven, Erik," the telepath says at length, looking at him once more.

"No," he agrees, rising. "And since you seem to have lost your interest in chess as well, I think I'll head to bed." He walks to the door, suddenly eager to leave. "If you'll excuse me."

"Wait!"

He stops, but it's not of his own volition, and he knows it. "Charles," he snarls, an angry warning.

"Oh. Sorry." The telepath releases his hold, but not before he's physically there to stop him by wrapping his arms around his waist. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I swear. I just..." Erik feels him bury his face in his back. "Please, Erik. Can't we talk about this?"

"No," he answers flatly, but he doesn't try to escape the embrace Charles is holding him in.

"Erik, my friend, is it something I did? Don't make me read your mind to find out."

"So you would?"

"I'd rather you told me yourself."

"But you would?"

Charles hesitates before answering. "It's better than you being like this."

"Let go of me."

"No! I don't get it, Erik. What's gotten into you suddenly? I thought... We're friends, aren't we? Why are you suddenly being so...distant? After..." He doesn't have to be a telepath to hear the click in Charles' brain. "That's it, isn't it?"

"Good night, Charles."

He tries to prise the arms encircling him. This time, Charles doesn't speak. He shoves Erik against the nearby bookcase forcefully with more strength than Erik had ever imagined his slighter body could contain and presses their lips together. The impact turns him on more than the kiss ever could, and he catches the other by the deep blue silk tie around his neck to keep him from pulling away as he repeats his earlier question.

"Don't you already know?"

Charles shakes his head, and his clear blue eyes are honest. "No, Erik, I haven't been reading your mind without your knowledge. Do you not trust me, my friend? I haven't changed your mind about anything either. I could, and in some cases, I'd like to, but I won't. You, of all people, should know it's not my way."

"Do I, Charles? What makes someone different from the people you've already done it to? How do you pick and choose who you will or will not do it to?"

The Englishman looks away and doesn't answer, but Erik thinks he already knows. It's not about them, is it? It's about you. What is one stranger? But you're afraid of feeling your power over crowds, afraid that you can't stop once you've started. You're afraid of using it on people you know because you're afraid that everything they do, say or feel will someday be a lie you... He searches for the right word in English. ...fabricated for yourself, and nothing and no one will be real anymore. Is that it, Charles? He knows Charles heard the thought because the telepath visibly flinches. You don't want to kill because you're afraid that once you've crossed that line, there won't be anything to stop you from doing it with your mind, he adds slowly as it dawns on him. You're afraid of yourself. Suddenly, he thinks he understands Charles better than he'd ever thought possible.

"Is that really the problem?" Charles asks quietly, deliberately glossing over his words as their eyes meet again. "Are you afraid of me? Now, when you've so willingly let me in previously? What changed, Erik? What have I not seen that you suddenly can't show me? I won't hurt you, my dear friend, especially you. That hasn't changed. If I wanted to, I could have done so every other time before."

"Then do it," he says softly. "Look."

For a long moment, the other searches his eyes, his face, for a sign to determine whether it's a challenge or an invitation, whether it's a good idea no matter the consent, whether the consent only makes it worse. Then, hesitantly, he touches two fingers to his temple, and after a final check for a reaction, any reaction, his eyes slide shut, and he's in.

Erik?

Come, Charles, deeper.

Some part of him registers Charles pressing closer to him in physical reality, not even attempting to conceal his desire as he's drawn in, welcomed. Then Erik is pushing the images toward the telepath at dizzying speed, and he hears Charles gasp and wince. It's not the disgust he expects that rises in the other; it's pain, and it's physical because he gets the attached sensations as well, but suddenly, it's more than that. He can feel Charles searching his mind, tracing the connections between his thoughts; briefly, the instinct to stop him flares, but he pushes it back, opens up to that familiar presence, and he's sure he hears the other sigh his name into his shoulder as if from a great distance away. Then Charles seems to find what he's searching for and pulls back before he can even figure out what it is, and all of a sudden, they're back in the library, half their clothes have already come undone, and he has a moment to admire Charles' ability to multitask when said mutant drops to his knees and OH.

He's brushing his lips over where the nails pierced last night, and the twinge from the wounds as dry lips worry the scabs goes straight to his groin. "Is that what you want, Erik?" he whispers the question against tanned skin, and Erik realizes that Charles hasn't completely left. He can still feel the other's presence inside, a little sorrow, a lot of affection, but mostly, he senses that Charles understands. "I don't... God, those nails were an inch long, Erik! I can't... I couldn't do that to you." He's certain the telepath picks up on his disappointment instantly because he quickly adds, "But the other things you showed me. Well, they're less extreme, and I... I could... I could magnify your perception of pain if it's not enough."

Abruptly, Erik feels a grin splitting his face, and he crouches to cup a rounded cheek and slide his fingers into soft brown hair, turning Charles' head to face him. The perception of pain is all up in the mind, after all. "And that's an acceptable way to use your powers?"

"If that's what you want. Alternatively, I could manually alter your..." He seems to perpend the appropriate phrasing for it. "...conditioning, but that's even more irresponsible. And if I did, I can't be sure you'd still be you."

"I want many things, Charles. Is that all it takes?"

"Only if it doesn't involve anyone else."

"How do you know you didn't make me want it?"

Charles grins back. "I couldn't come up with such morbid interests by myself."

"Hmph, you're killing the mood."

"Is this better?"

The image of Charles carving his initials into his lower back flashes through his mind, and he is floored by how incredibly arousing the idea is. "God, Charles." He's not too sure where the knife is from, but it flies into his hand easily through the open window, and he presses it into Charles'.

"You want me to?"

"Please."

Blue eyes move from the knife to his expression and back. "Should we go somewhere more...comfortable?"

"Such as?" he murmurs the question against soft lips before kissing the other again, burying his hands in chocolate hair and massaging circles into his scalp.

Amid the taste of scotch and tobacco smoke, he hears Charles decide that the table is just fine, no, anywhere is fine, Erik, mm, don't stop, as a hand fists in his hair and pulls hard. He moans, fiddling with the buttons on a white dress shirt; Charles is a fast learner, and he's pulling Erik's black turtleneck off as the blade sings on his tanned skin. The scraping tip doesn't hurt, but then it does, and he lowers the other to the floor to trail kisses downwards over fair skin. Charles arches into the contact; as he expected, their tastes are definitely on opposite ends of the spectrum. They roll over, divesting each other of their remaining clothing, and Charles settles between his legs, tenderly kissing a path down his spine. When wet lips reach the small of his back, the voice in his head asks, Right here?

Yes, Charles, yes, he answers, and it sounds like a desperate plea, but he can't find it in himself to care.

Then the blade cuts into his skin slowly, and he gasps. Charles is careful with the knife, careful not to cut too deeply even as he traces circles on Erik's inner thigh with a featherlight touch, leaning forward to lap up the blood with his tongue occasionally to keep it from obscuring his handiwork. Do you want to see, Erik? he asks, sucking lightly on the laceration to clear away the blood.

"God, yes," he whimpers, and it's hard to believe how much blood he sees through Charles' eyes when he can feel so much of it pulsing elsewhere, how much love and desire he can sense in the scene, and he can't help feeling a little apologetic because it hurts Charles to hurt him even like this, and Charles is a bit sad, but It's all right, Charles whispers soothingly, and he's not sure if it's in his head or aloud, but it is.

The C complete, Charles starts on the F, and as he does, his fingers find Erik's entrance and rub into it. The combined sensation makes his hips jerk and his back arch, and Charles has to pull the knife away to keep from either ruining the carving or stabbing too deeply by accident. Hold still, my friend, he instructs, cleaning off more blood with his tongue.

"Unless you do this to all your friends, Charles, don't call me that."

The telepath chuckles breathlessly. Sorry, force of habit. Mm, you look quite perfect like this, Erik. Can you see? Someday, I hope we'll do this without the knife, and you'll beg me for more just the same. He moistens his fingers in his mouth and presses one of them inside.

"Ach, Gott, mehr," is all Erik can manage in response, spreading his legs wider in invitation. "Bitte. Ahh..."

Charles doesn't need to know German to understand, and he finishes the F as he probes deeper. He adds a second finger as he starts on the X, and Erik has to bite his own arm to keep from waking the mansion as the digits strike home the same instant the first line of the X is completed.

"Ch-Charles," he pants as cool lips draw the blood away from inflamed flesh once more, and those scissoring fingers are still rubbing that place inside him, and he's so close. His fingers are scrabbling uselessly for purchase on the wooden floor, and his teeth draw blood in his arm when the X is finished with a quick incision that makes everything explode in searing white. "Charles," he pants again, and a tongue is licking the blood off gently.

Then the other man is gone, walking back to where they'd been playing chess earlier to fetch his cigar and the half-empty tumbler of scotch. Erik props himself up and accepts it, taking a drag as Charles returns to his earlier spot. He drinks one mouthful of the liquor and pours the remaining one over the cuts, and the burn of alcohol on raw flesh makes Erik sigh with satisfied pleasure.

"You and your rich doctor sensibilities," he mutters with fond exasperation.

Charles laughs. "Hardly, my love. What I should have done is sanitize the knife before we started and clean and dress those with proper antiseptic, but I don't suppose you'd appreciate my leaving to find the first aid supplies now." He sets the now empty tumbler and the knife aside and moves to lick up the excess scotch and blood before letting Erik pull him up for another kiss. Scotch and blood taste unexpectedly good together, he remarks as their tongues intertwine, lying down to let the kiss deepen.

I can tell, Erik replies, combing damp hair back as he plunders his lover's mouth thoroughly. There's that feeling in his chest again, that warm weight, and Charles gasps into his mouth as if it threatens to choke him too. They break apart, and he moves to trace the shell of an ear with his tongue, suck lightly on an earlobe and leave a mark on a pale collarbone, teasing rosy nipples with his free hand. Charles sighs his name, and he pulls away to take in the sight. "Get on the chair," he commands gruffly, and Charles doesn't hesitate to acquiesce, rising to take a seat in the leather armchair by the table. He takes a final drag of the cigar before replacing it in its stand and exhales the rich dark smoke through his nose as he kisses his way up a sweat-slick thigh.

Charles quivers and buries his hands in dark hair, then he's in Erik's mouth, and OhGodErikyesChristyesErik he knows his experience is shared because he can't stop himself, nor does he want to. He thunks his head against the back of the chair, his grip on almost black strands tightening to something painful, and Erik moans around him; it's almost too much, he gasps, and God, Erik is pushing skin back with his tongue, and it's just the right pressure and suction everywhere. Charles bites his lip hard enough to draw blood; Erik is too good at this, he thinks. God, I can't... Erik, stop, stop, stop.

Erik does, leaving him glistening with saliva in the lamplight with only the barest hint of surprise, and he nearly falls off the chair to kiss him. Erik hardly needs the reassurance, and he can offer it more deeply in his mind, but he wants to. Because it's not enough. It's more real when they're touching. Because he can imagine anything, and he's done that all his life, and now it just isn't enough. His hands sweep across the other's broad tanned chest, and he pinches perked nipples when he finds them. Erik groans his approval into the kiss, warm hands reaching around to squeeze his arse affectionately. Harder, he hears Erik tell him, and he obliges. Harder, Charles. And he can't bear to, so he does the only other thing he knows how, and God, he feels Erik his Erik stiffen completely against him as the arms around him tighten.

"I want t--"

"Please," Erik interrupts, and he turns on his knees. "Charles," he groans brusquely as they start. "Just go. All the way. Now."

Charles gives in to instinct at that request, sheathing himself fully in a quick movement, and Erik whimpers, but pushes back against him.

"Move, Charles."

"Are you sure you don't mind walking funny tomorrow?" he asks breathlessly with a laugh.

"I don't care. I'll kill anyone who comments. Now, move, dammit."

"That could be problematic, but I admit..." he murmurs, pulling out. "...that the thought of you feeling me inside all day tomorrow is rather irresistible."

And then Charles is thrusting into him at that perfect angle he'd found earlier, and it takes every ounce of concentration Erik can muster to keep from ruining every metal object in the vicinity. He has to wonder if Charles' control is slipping too, but he can't tell, and the telepath's presence in his head is letting his lover's feelings and sensations bleed over, so he can barely maintain coherent thought from the sheer pleasure. Charles is moaning his name like a litany, and he's close, they're close, but it's not enough. "Charles," he gasps as the idea occurs to him, and he moves the silver piece within reach. The other comes inside him as he obliges, and when the cigar sears the inside of his right thigh, he very nearly jackknifes off the floor as he comes, and God, he doesn't think he's ever come this hard before. The cigar stand crumples, and every metal fixture in the room rattles, but it's a brief enough lapse that he manages to stop himself from doing severe damage just in time.

"Thank you," Charles murmurs against his skin where he's blowing the ash off the burn and soothing it with a wet kiss some indeterminate amount of time later.

"Hm?" It's not terribly coherent, but he's too spent to care, and Charles would understand anyway.

"I appreciate not having to pay for repairs." Charles muffles a chuckle by nuzzling the back of his neck as he moves to blanket Erik's form with his slighter one. "Despite what you may think, my love, my wealth isn't endless."

"Shut up," he mutters sleepily, lacing their fingers together.

"On the library floor, Erik? In this mess? Heavens, I think not." He reluctantly lets his host pull him to his feet and kiss him on the cheek. "Come on now, my room is just down the stairs. We'll clean this in the morning, and I'll make sure no one stumbles upon it until then."

Obediently, he trudges after the other, mostly because he's too tired to argue. "You and your rich doctor sensibilities." He's not beyond a little grumbling.

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Perception