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Sometimes Charles Xavier thinks back to that sandy beach, surrounded by palm trees and the scent of saltwater and ash; of shouts of desperate pleas for the goodness of mankind and mutantkind alike, where the imminent threat of extinction loomed over them in the forms of nuclear destruction and political ideals.
Sometimes Charles thinks back to the very second where everything went completely wrong. Not when Erik put on that damned helmet– not even when the missiles started flying, no–
Sometimes he thinks he can still feel it: the sharp pain at the end of his spinal cord being pierced by a stray bullet and then… nothing. Nothing except the arms of a friend and the warmth of an anxious gaze.
Erik's words, rough and extreme as they may have been, struck Charles somewhere in his soul that filled the nothingness below his waist. He doesn't even remember what he said to Erik that day to make him stay, but he is forever grateful that he chose to.
If you ask Erik, he'd say the same.
Raven likes to jokingly say that they must have gotten lost in each other's eyes, to which Charles chooses not to comment.
But it all pretty much went downhill from there. Erik returned to the mansion ( “this is your home, Erik. You belong here, with me”) with Charles, Raven, Hank, Sean, and Alex, and since then, Charles could not stop thinking.
He thinks of saltwater, ash, sand, metal, chess… chess with Erik… the sun, the park… walking in the park with Erik…
“You called?”
Charles’ head whips around in the direction of the voice, tearing his eyes away from the window, where the sun beams down on his pale, freckled face through the glass.
“Um- No?” He chuckles, turning his chair slightly to face Erik, who is holding a cup of tea with both hands and approaching him. Charles watches, utterly adored by the man who was once prepared to throw this all away.
“I felt you nudging at my mind as if you were beckoning me,” Erik replies, moving in front of Charles to place the steaming cup of tea on the ledge beside him.
And, oh, okay, Charles definitely did not mean to project his thoughts of Erik to, well, Erik. Ears turning pink, Charles swallows and opens his mouth to ask about the tea when,
“It's that Japanese tea you enjoy so much,” Erik says, jerking his head towards the cup, smiling down at the telepath, endeared. Charles snorts softly, amazed by how in-tune they always seem to be. He leans forward to curl his finger around the handle, bringing the porcelain cup closer to himself carefully.
“And I'm the mind-reader,” He jokes, widening the smile on Erik's lips.
“Just drink it, liebe ,” and who is Charles to disobey?
Charles' lips pucker slightly as he blows on the hot beverage, cradling the extremely warm cup in his clammy hands. He licks his lips and brings it forward, about to take a sip, when something else warm makes contact with his forehead, beneath his hair.
He freezes, moving the porcelain cup away from his mouth a fraction to look up at Erik, whose hand is currently pressing against his equally sweaty forehead. Erik's eyebrows are creased in a slight frown as he stares anxiously down at Charles, eyes almost frantically scanning his overall appearance.
“You still have a fever,” Erik comments, as if it is so distressing, “When did you last sleep?”
Rolling his eyes with a soft scoff, Charles reaches up to remove Erik's hand from his skin, the touch just about as electrifying to either of them, “I had managed to get some good rest just moments ago.”
Erik’s eyes narrow, as if he doesn't believe him. With a sigh, Charles plants his own memory of waking up into Erik's mind, hoping that would satisfy him. What a privilege it is to have such free reign of such a complicated and previously closed-off mind.
Fortunately, Erik buys it, expression shifting from skepticism to acceptance, accompanied by a smidge of concern, “Regardless, you've been ill for too long.”
“It has only been three days!”
“That's three days too many!”
Charles can't help the laugh that suddenly sputters out of him at Erik's quick response. He rattles the piping hot cup of tea in the process, causing Erik to kneel at once, reaching out to steady the cup over Charles’ hands.
“All I ask is that you drink the tea,” Erik says, terribly serious, boring those passionate eyes into the sea of blue that brightens Charles’ own.
In all the time that Charles has known him, he has observed Erik to be passionate about everything– mutants, literature, chess, politics, and, apparently, Charles’ well-being. Charles had never encountered an individual as passionate as himself. Not a single person has ever been able to hold a conversation about convoluted things such as genetics and politics. No one but Erik Lehnsherr. With Erik, Charles finds the thrill of an intense and arousing debate about stuff that any ordinary person, or Sean, would find deathly boring.
Charles supposes that that is where much of his attraction towards his companion lies.
Casting Erik a soft look, Charles concedes, bringing the porcelain cup to his lips and finally drinking, taking great care not to burn his tongue.
“There you go, that's it,” Erik murmurs, intently watching the ill man as he… nearly chokes on the tea.
Immediately, Erik moves his hands over Charles’, keeping the cup steady, worry etched on his features.
“I know it's hot, but you can take it, yeah?”
Something is wrong. Something is seriously wrong, Charles knows it, because now his mind is involuntarily drifting to a place he has never entered before, at least not with Erik.
Erik's tender words of attentiveness, unbeknownst to the man in question, carry a sense of titillation that Charles can feel in his bones. The telepath is abruptly transported into his bed– no, Erik's bed– in his broad imagination, during a time that seems so far away and yet so fresh; legs spread and twitching as they are bent downward at the knee, leaving Charles utterly exposed and ready to be devoured…
And then Erik is above him, penetrating him slowly yet surely, inch by inch stretching Charles for all he's worth, tugging the most breathless gasps of pain-pleasure from those sinful lips of his, all the while uttering those very words: there you go, that's it…
Charles’ imagination makes Erik's face twist up into pleasure as the scenario jumps to him grinding into Charles at an unrepentant pace, the telepath pawing and clawing at Erik's arms with every fierce push to that sensitive button buried deep inside of him. He's begging desperately for some kind of mercy, shaky, wanton cries bursting out of his throat, but Charles figures that Erik wouldn't be listening, drowning in his own pleasure of being repeatedly enveloped by the tight heat of his lubed up entrance.
Charles bets that Erik wouldn't even let up despite his wails for mercy, shoving the telepath deeper into the mattress with his unforgiving thrusts, making his eyes roll into his head from the intense pleasure. He would continue to babble mindlessly (“ I-I- ghh-! I can't-! ), to which Erik would respond with the same: You can take it… You can take it…
Charles is ripped from his thoughts when he feels two hands on his warm cheeks, cradling his face. He blinks twice, three times, and rejoins the world– his world– ahead of him.
Erik's face is extremely close to his, dark eyes moving at near rapid speed as they scan every feature of Charles’ face.
“You're worse off than I thought,” He mutters, eyebrows creasing once more, “Mein schatz…” he mumbles, as if his heart had been wrenched from his ribs, and Charles wishes that he spent a little more time learning German.
Standing to his feet, Erik quickly wipes the creases and dust from the hardwood floor off of his pants. He flicks his wrist and Charles’ wheelchair is promptly lifted 5 inches from the ground, following closely next to Erik as the taller man heads out of the room. “You're going to get back into bed and wait there while I make you some soup,” he goes, and Charles does everything he can to suppress the smitten grin that threatens his lips, failing miserably.
* * *
When their very first student arrives, it's Alex's younger brother, Scott Summers. The quiet, timid boy, hiding behind his older brother's leg, is welcomed warmly with smiles and open arms. Charles must say, it has been much more lively around the mansion with a child running around. The boy brings out the best in everyone: Raven teaches Scott how to braid her hair and annoy Alex in ways the boy couldn't have imagined. Hank shows Scott the inner mechanisms of a computer, nearly boring him to tears when he begins describing what a motherboard is capable of. Sean is just about the worst influence a young boy could have, scheming and roughhousing with all the love of a(nother) big brother. And Erik…
The way Erik just changes when he’s in the presence of that kid astounds Charles, pulls at his heartstrings, has him yearning for the domestication of family outings, cribs, tying little shoelaces, playgrounds, and the like.
Presently, Scott is sitting on Erik's thigh in a spacious room in the mansion, observing the sizable train set in front of them. Charles almost wheels in, intent on finding Scott to rehearse some control exercises in regard to his mutation, but comes to a halt when he sees the pair. He backs up just enough to be able to eavesdrop from mostly behind the wall in the hallway.
Leaning forward to peek in, Charles witnesses Erik pushing little Scott's sunglasses up on his nose as the boy comments on an aspect of the train set. His heart clenches at the scene unfolding before his eyes, an endeared smile forming on his lips. Erik never looks this… happy … when dealing with others. It is wonderfully obvious that children bring out the inner boy in him.
When Scott squirms, Erik hoists him off of his lap, watching with a fond and amused expression as the boy hurries to make a sudden elaborate change to the set. Charles doesn’t understand; It seemed fine the way it was. But, he figures that from the proud way Erik responds to Scott's actions, the changes are necessary.
“Well done, little one!” Erik says enthusiastically, grinning as he leans forward to rub the younger's back, like a father would, “You've done so good. Such a smart one, aren't you?”
To literally anyone else, this is a scene composed of pure innocence. Just a man and a boy playing with a train set, right?
Wrong, according to Charles’ perverted brain.
Charles knows he should be very normal about this, but when Erik says those damned words of praise it brings forth thoughts and images of impurities.
And as a highly intelligent and skilled telepath, he should have better control over what happens up there. He most certainly should be refraining from thinking of kneeling on his working knees between long, toned legs, face-to-face with a tall, angry and weeping girth belonging to none other than Erik Lehnsherr.
Charles’ imagination hits play on this scenario, where he's slightly gripping Erik's thighs as he swipes his tongue over his lips, wetting them in preparation. He’s gathering saliva in his mouth, and then he's leaning in, mouth parting, two or three strings of saliva connecting those plump lips until he's finally engulfing the rather thick appendage.
Erik’s mouth drops open in silent pleasure as his hips lift off the chair– bed– couch– marginally. He sinks his fingers into the soft, chocolate brown locks atop Charles’ head, pushing himself deeper into Charles’ throat, and the telepath takes it, takes it all.
“Fuck, yeah … just like that,” Imaginary Erik gasps, looking down at Charles with hooded eyes glazed over with unadulterated lust. His thighs would open wider, solely an outcome of direct stimulation to an oversensitive extremity.
In this particular scenario, Charles doesn’t choke on the thickness of Erik's cock; just bobs his head, repeatedly sucking him, drawing out shallow gasps and weak whimpers from the man above him, tasting his precum and spreading it over his hot, throbbing length with every messy slide of his wet lips.
“ Ah – So good, Ch-Charles… You're doing s-so– nghh – so…!” Erik's voice trails off into a sharp gasp and his face screws up in pleasure when Charles suckles extra sloppily at the head of his cock, where Charles imagines is his most sensitive spot.
The scene crumbles abruptly when Scott appears in front of him in real time, tapping his hand.
“Professor?” The young boy says, and Charles sucks in a breath out of surprise, clearing his throat and frantically attempting to place his full attention on the child. His smile barely reaches his eyes when he regards the small boy. Erik is still in the room, smiling to himself and swiftly taking the train set apart with his mutant abilities, the pieces smoothly de-assembling. And yet, Charles still cannot focus.
Oh, God… What is Erik doing to him?
* * *
Charles’ predicament only worsens. His attraction to Erik, previously thought to have been minor or casual, has officially developed into something all-encompassing. The others have noticed how Charles is effortlessly distracted and unfocused, most notably when Erik enters a room. Charles himself has even noticed that his telepathic control is slipping. At times when Charles thinks of a certain passionate, metal-manipulating man, Erik will just appear as if out of thin air, claiming to have felt his mind being gently intruded by his own, beckoning him to come.
It is a problem, to say the least.
Nonetheless, Charles manages. He doesn't let his wild attraction disrupt his teachings and everyday routines.
One of his favorite, more sporadic routines involve a long, stimulating game of chess with the object of his desires.
Erik sits opposite of him, elbows resting on his knees as he leans forward, dark eyes scanning the wooden board and wooden pieces with his hands clasped and hanging in the open space between his knees.
Charles had just made a move that he knew would stunt his gorgeous opponent. He can tell by the certain way his concentrated frown tightens specific areas of his face. But if there's one thing the telepath loves about the man ahead of him, it's his resilience.
Charles has lost himself in his thoughts again, drifting to a place that he is sure would send him directly to Hell in the afterlife. No, no, he won't be entering the pearly gates with this imagery, not when Erik has his legs leisurely spread open as he cups his chin, thinking of his next move. Charles’ eyes drift to his long fingers, which move upwards to caress underneath his lip, a habit Erik possesses when he is deep in thought.
And Charles wouldn't normally be so acutely aware of Erik's fingers had his mind not been tainted by– well– he is not sure how this all happened to be honest– regardless, Charles’ attention swiftly drifts from the wooden chess board to faint blue-greenish veins adorning slender phalanges, lining those digits attractively, flexing against pinkish skin with every slight twitch Erik makes.
Charles’ lips part unbeknownst to himself as he stares, damn near drooling, salivating even. All self-awareness makes itself scarce when Charles practically sees himself– oh– well, isn't that nice…
Erik takes such good care of him consistently, adeptly, inexplicably, with such unfettered fealty that of course his brain would take him here: where his working legs are parted obscenely wide– no, being held obscenely wide by strong arms hooked underneath his bare (bruised, his brain unnecessarily supplies) thighs. He's on a lap– Erik's lap– head dropping to his imaginary (potential? - his mind foolishly hopes) lover's shoulder when he's too weak and mindless to watch Erik stroke his pretty cock that drools with every calculated and precise stroke.
Essentially, it's all so… filthy . Erik's enticing fingers, covered in Charles’ own spunk and even a bit of Erik's saliva, squelch on each upstroke of Charles’ solid erection that curves towards his abdomen. Erik's skilled, veiny hand carefully squeezes the wet and leaking appendage whenever it reaches the thick head, causing more pre-cum to dribble at the tip, as well as wring utterly debauched noises from the depths of Charles’ being.
Oh, he's taking such good care of him… yeah…
“...You like my hands on you?” Charles hears this Imaginary Erik whisper huskily in his red-tipped ear, and then Erik is flicking his wrist in just a way that forces a lewd, high sound past his lips, "Yeah? Y’like when I touch you like this, don’t you, love?”
“ Yeahyeahyeah ,” Charles babbles under his breath, gasping for air as he thoughtlessly ruts up into Erik's sopping fist, eyes crossing underneath hooded lids. It's a valiant effort, he must admit, but Imaginary Erik has something even better in mind.
There's a warm hand fondling Charles’ balls– he gasps, shudders, and arches all at once when it happens– and then Erik's middle and third fingers are breaching his tight entrance, easily from the profane amount of precum that has coated those beautifully adept digits. Charles imagines that Erik would find that unspoken spot within him quickly, and: jackpot!
Charles cries out breathlessly– the sound humiliatingly high-pitched– arching back against the other's front, eyes cinched shut. Erik's fingers never cease, avidly bringing forth sobs of sheer pleasure and moans of bliss from the rapidly unraveling man on his lap. Charles’ legs are restless where they are firmly held open as his toes curl and wiggle, and soon, his gut will coil and burn with a familiar hot sensation mounting in urgency.
When it does, Charles imagines that Erik knows. He imagines that Erik's long fingers deftly seek out his prostate and press , massaging the nerve while his free hand moves to the base of his cock, stroking him so abruptly and quickly that Charles just doesn't have the self control to refrain any longer.
“ H-Oohh , fu-uck!” Charles’ body goes taut and curls in on itself before shaking violently against Erik's body as the man milks his spurting cock, and Charles can probably swear that his heart stops for one milisecond at just how fucking sensational this is.
Quite the active imagination, huh?
“That's it… just beautiful, darling, ah ,” Imaginary Erik murmurs in awe while Charles’ cum dribbles down his fingers, gliding gracefully down the digits in small waterfalls of off-white.
Charles can't– doesn't– come down from the best orgasm he's never had because now Erik's fingers are in his face, snapping at him, chucking him out of this glorious (and ridiculously graphic) scenario conjured by his heavily compromised brain.
“Charles, you’re doing it again,” His companion’s weary voice intrudes on his thoughts indefinitely, returning Charles’ awareness to himself once again.
Blinking, the telepath utters, “Apologies– what?” as he sweeps his hair away from his forehead, the fluff of brown falling obediently back in place just after.
“You’re spacing out again. Let’s continue this–”
“Check,” Charles interrupts, his hand flying out to move his rook as if on autopilot; as if his body (and brain) returned to life, setting his instincts back online. Erik stares down at the chessboard in astonishment, lovely, thin lips agape as he frowns. He makes a quick, short sound as he freezes, unable to process the strange event that has just taken place.
Charles leans back in his wheelchair and smiles warmly– wickedly, if you squint– commiserating Erik on his hapless dilemma.
“Your move, darling,” He goes, voice casual and soft, unbothered. Erik only huffs through his nose, shaking his head in amusement, and grins as he leans forward just as he did before, fully concentrating.
So, yes, sometimes Charles will think back to that fateful day on the beach. Although, lately, only Erik can cause his mind to venture towards much more eidetic thoughts; thoughts that plague Charles’ every waking moment, each one as all-encompassing as the last.
Why they consist of unspeakably graphic sexual situations, Charles doesn't know, but he bets that each of them has to be even better than in his head.