It's hot, stifling – the sheet at Charles' back clings, sticky and damp, when he arches his back and lifts his hips. Sweaty hands, large and slightly calloused, grip at slick skin - long, elegant fingers, dexterous from all those years twirling that coin, slips from his thighs to grip at his knee and ankle. Each deep breath fills his lungs with dense, wet air that brings little relief. The hands grip his legs tightly, pulling them wider, and the new angle hits that spot inside of him that causes his own sweat slick hands to grip at the sheets. The sharp inhale of shuddering breath escapes him in something close to a desperate moan and not even an ounce of embarrassment runs through his veins.
Charles feels like a slag when Erik fucks him like this.
It doesn't happen as often as Charles would have expected it to. In all honesty, Erik is a surprisingly gentle lover. All firm fingers, and deep breaths. Hands that cradle and hips that glide smooth... in and out... in and out. The first time they'd made love (and Charles does refer to those times making love) he'd been overwhelmed with the pure feeling that pulsed from Erik's being – a bone deep sensation that turned Charles' body to liquid. It was natural to assume, with Erik's tough exterior and threatening countenance, hard brandy, leather jackets and an all consuming urge to murder one man, he would be the same in bed. That intense focus and determination transferring over smoothly in the same sense. But that first night, Erik had lain him down, stripped him naked, and unraveled Charles painfully slowly. Pressed the length of his long, hard body flat against Charles' smaller, softer frame and rocked, lips pressed against the skin underneath his ear. Lips that framed words, so soft and fluttering that Charles couldn't hear but could feel, landing soft like a pearl on a pillow in his mind, dissolving like sugar, melding itself to every inch.
Charles, ever the sensitive fellow, decided afterwards, as he'd lain beside Erik, heart pounding, that if he wasn't in love with the man before then, he was now.
But those times are different. Those instances Charles takes, and wraps, and keeps in the back of his mind. Secret, safe, his, all his to cherish for years and on lonely nights. Despite the feeling of drowning in sweet emotion, he'd felt some semblance of control at those moments – it was all about give and take. About being equals and giving just as much pleasure as you received.
There is no mistake now, though – Charles has no control in this situation. He is the submissive, laid out to take whatever is handed to him. When it's like this, Erik uses his bigger frame to dominate, to use Charles as he sees fit and Charles revels in it. This isn't sensitive, isn't loving. It's rough, and fast and hard - so hard it makes Charles' teeth rattle in his head even as he clenches his jaw. He can't feel anything, focus on anything except for Erik's cock pounding hard, so hard, pleasure rippling through his own body after every thrust. His attention is solely on the strong, lean body attached to his only by the hands and cock, so unlike when Erik drags his long body slowly against Charles, with Charles returning the gesture as shamelessly as a cat.
The dragging as Erik pulls out only to plunge back in ignites his nerve endings, sending sparks up and down his spine. It make Charles feel young when Erik fucks him like this - yes, he may be only twenty-six years old, but a lot of the time he feels older than his years with his mutation being what it is. All of his life he has been inside the minds of others, hearing thei motivations, understanding their needs. Becoming sensitive and worn. But with Erik like this and Charles on his back begging for more, he feels alive, and young. Vital.
Charles huffs out strained breaths, hair damp, and mused, and entirely inelegant. The noises from his parted, swollen mouth are unrestrained and no where near self aware, and he feels dirty. Like a slag; like the Oxford boys who waited in the bathroom with the hole cut in the stall. The stall with all the filthy words and phrases Erik's mind projects into his as if he wrote all those words on the wall himself.
Yes, yes. You love this, don't you? I assume no one knows, with your bloody cardigans and textbooks. They all think you're so proper. No one knows – knows that you've been dreaming about this. Dreaming of my cock in your arse, making you come all over your little English stomach. Admit it. Sayitsayitsayit-
"Yes," Charles pants out, hands balling into fists so tight, he's sure his palms would be bleeding if the sheet wasn't a barrier. He can't think, let alone speak. "Yes, please, Erik just-" The words get lodged in his throat when Erik thrusts in harder than before. Charles opens his eyes, hooded in exhaustion and pleasure to watch him. Power radiates from him – his muscles strain up under skin everything around his body seems to blur, throwing his form into even sharper relief. Charles tracks a bead of sweat rolling down Erik's chest, only to have his gaze flit back up to the hard planes of the other man's face. He's determined, a look he wears so often, but for entirely different reasons. He's lost – lost in the feel of Charles' arse squeezing hot, and tight, and slick around him. His pace is getting faster, more erratic and Charles can sense how close he is as pleasure that isn't entirely his own coils in the pit of his stomach.
Come for me, he thinks and sucks Erik into his body. A broken sound rips from Erik's throat and Charles does it again. Please, come for me, my friend. Let me see you. I want to hear you… He can feel his own release gathering in his veins and, eyes still fixed on Erik, reaches his hand down to grip at his own leaking cock.
Don't. It is a demand and Charles pauses. Erik's head is bowed now, watching his hips piston in and out of Charles. Don't. Not until I tell you to.
A loud shuddering groan spills from Charles' lips, automatically, unbidden. At that moment, the hands on his ankles tighten almost painfully and Erik gives one final thrust before stilling, head thrown back, the tendons in his neck sharp. The pleasure of the other man's orgasm rips through Charles and almost sends him hurtling off of the edge, but he bites his lips until he tastes blood and it barely manages to get him through the after shocks.
His legs fall to the rumpled bed, useless and aching, but he is more focused on the wet warmth that is continuing to coat his insides. Erik falls onto his hands, panting hard. Every harsh breath rushes over Charles' stomach and the purpling head of his still fully hard cock. Please, he pleads silently. Erik please, I can't-
Erik slides out and a violent shudder runs through Charles' body when he feels the other man's essence drip out of him, wet and hot. Erik sits back on his knees, flushed and sweating, hair totally released from its slick, and surveys the smaller man before him. Charles' heart pounds, the feeling of his denied orgasm corroding his mind slowly.
Minutes pass, Erik's calculating gaze searing Charles' skin as Charles shifts his hips impatiently, hissing whenever his bobbing cock brushes against his stomach.
Finally, Erik moves. Slowly he leans forward and kisses Charles' stomach. The sparse hairs on his chest tease Charles' tip and he jerks automatically, searching for the friction. The lips against his skin curl into a grin, and continue to kiss up his body. Chest and, sternum - teeth pull at each of his nipples, tongue laving at the abused nubs. He is a proper mess by the time Erik's teeth are nibbling at the thin skin of his neck and bites down hard.
"Erik." The name is broken when it falls from his lips, a sob that is captured in the strong, hot, slick mouth of the man in question. Fingers slide down his stomach, by-passing the heavy appendage between his legs begging for attention. They tug lightly at his testicles, before dipping into his puffy, abused hole. His body jerks at the first touch and the long drawn out sound that rumbles from his chest is also swallowed by Erik's mouth on his own. Three fingers swirl and search before finding his sweet spot. They press down hard and his hips lift entirely off of the bed. One of his hands flies up to grip at Erik's elbow, the other to tangle in the short dark hair, gripping hard. Those fingers rub, persistent, over and over, and tangy nerves take over Charles' body, gathering in the small of his back and throat. Soft pads slide through the come still wet there, and Charles feels filthy, and used, and weak. He needs more. He's never wanted anything on the level Erik inspires, and he can feel it, coiling in his gut, and his hips thrust upanddown, upanddown, fruitlessly seeking friction. He wants to grip himself, but even as the thought enters his mind, Erik's voice fills his head. No, like this. Fall apart. Onlylikethis. The middle finger begins tapping a fast, staccato beat against his prostate and Charles rips his mouth away from Erik's as he falls apart, crashes into pieces against the bed sheets. Yes. Like that. Yesyesyesyes. Perfect soperfect.
"Oh God, oh, oh-" Come splashes hot, thick, and white against his stomach and the smell of sex surrounds them both, heavy and intimate. As he comes down, his body shudders with each pass of slick fingers. They aren't rubbing directly against his prostate any longer, choosing instead to thrust in and out gently, occasionally brushing against that spot, sending a cascade of shivers down Charles' spine, pleasure popping like champagne bubbles against his skin and mind.
The laugh falls breathlessly past his lips and he brings Erik's face down to his own, lips crashing against each other, hungry. Erik slips his fingers out of Charles and strokes his friend's cock gently, not wanting to excite any further, but to touch, to relish the feel him twitching and heavy, spent, in his hand. Finally they pull away, noses rubbing gently against each other, soft words on their lips.
They are exhausted and aching, and in desperate need of a shower, and as Charles lays in the other man's arms, smaller body utterly relaxed, cigarette smoke filling the room, it slips back into love.