Pornlets
I wrote these pornlets for various requests on plurk, figured I'd post them here for people's enjoyment, and also so that they don't get lost on Plurk Paste or something. All R - NC-17, all involving the AU Charles that I play based in xprofessor and the WWII AU fic that I wrote.
~*~
Charles (AU)/Raven (AU)/Neal Caffrey, double penetration
When Neal feels Raven's fingers work into him, next to Charles' cock, he goes still. A shivery, shaky, devastated sort of stillness, and all Charles hears in his mind is want, want, want.
"Charles, I can't," he breathes, and Charles murmurs, "Relax," and Raven laughs against Neal's shoulder.
And then Raven is pushing inside him -- shapeshifters, Charles hears Neal think, I will never underestimate shapeshifters, and then Neal is breathing in nonstop gasps and groans and mewls, sounds that Charles will play back to him later, an affectionate tease.
Later:
"Next time, you're in the middle," mumbles Neal, mouth muffled against Charles' shoulder.
"He's right," says Raven. …wipe that smugness right off your face, says her mind, and Charles laughs.
~*~
Charles/Charles (AU), mindsex, telepathic illusions
One of them drags a tongue up the shell of his ear, an arm around his waist, fingers buried deep inside him; the other has a hand wrapped tight around the base of his erection. Charles lets out a choked sob, squirming and shaking from sensation.
"Come on," murmurs the one in his ear, "just tell us."
The other kisses him, and Charles clings to him desperately, gripping tight, gasping for much-needed air as soon as they break away. "Which one of us is the real one?" asks the other.
"Guess right, and I'll let you come."
Hands that are his own hands and not all at once grip his wrists and hold them at the small of his back. He bucks against them. Tries to gather the scattered shreds of his mental capacity and focus it.
There's no difference between them that he can tell. Both correct in every detail, from skin texture to warmth to -- oh god…. He lets out a high whimper. So close, and yet he can't -- he can't quite --
"Which one?"
"Neither," gasps Charles, helplessly, and he gives a helpless cry as the world fades to white, as pleasure wracks through him and holds, holds right at the peak, at the most intense point until he's pleading, pleading breathlessly, and he doesn't know if it's for more or for it to stop.
And then he's naked, panting and sweating, sprawled alone on the bed. He brushes hair out of his eyes and looks up.
His counterpart is still fully dressed, sitting back in the armchair, one leg crossed over another. But Charles can see the flush from here.
"Good," he says, "good." He clears his throat.
Charles is exhausted, but he can feel a wicked grin spreading over his face. "Your turn."
~*~
Charles (AU)/Neal Caffrey/Emma Frost, mind control, oral.
Devilish implications to the contrary, Neal actually does not have any stories that begin with "I walked in on" and end with a threesome. He's surprisingly monogamous. Surprising in that it actually surprises him, perhaps not that it surprises anyone else.
-- This is all beside the point.
Neal enters the penthouse and he doesn't sense anything. Maybe because he isn't trying to sense anything. "Charles," he calls, and he slides his bag onto the living room table. "Charles." He jogs down the hallway to Charles' room. "You would not believe--"
His words are cut off, of course, by the sight that greets him there.
They're both fully clothed, but this fact isn't what impacts first. What impacts first is the flush in Charles' skin, his closed eyes, the way his fingers have curled distractedly around Emma's shoulder. And then -- Emma. He only sees her from behind. She has Charles backed up against the wall, she's murmuring in his ear, and then Charles makes a choked noise and Neal suddenly really, really wishes that he knew what she said.
Charles' fingers tighten on Emma's shoulder.
I know he's here, Neal hears, in his mind. You don't have to warn me. The voice sounds amused.
"Um," says Neal, "I should…" But then he realizes he's already halfway to the bed, his tie off and in his hands. He stares at it, wondering how exactly it got there.
Emma, comes Charles' chastising voice.
I'm not doing anything he doesn't want, returns Emma and Neal is suddenly, devastatingly turned on. His eyes are wide as he watches Charles turn his head, kiss Emma. And what a kiss, really. He's not sure he's ever seen passion unleashed like that, on both sides. No wonder, right, because they can both feel each other's arousal and it would echo back and forth and that means that telepaths in sex, together, can't avoid losing control.
Neal's throat is dry.
A wave of passion he's almost completely sure isn't his washes over him. And he's pretty sure it's of his own volition that he slips his shirt off his shoulders. Charles is tugging Emma back towards the bed, and then, as one, they break the kiss and look to Neal.
Deer caught in the headlights, Neal thinks. No, not a deer. Something more helpless. Squirrel caught in the headlights.
Then, his mind skips a little, and the next thing he knows he's over Charles, kissing his neck, stripping his shirt off his shoulders. "Neal," says Charles, "Neal," are you all right, are you, and Neal nods.
I'm fine. Easy to figure out what's happening here. Emma sits back in a chair close by, sipping a glass of wine, her eyes fixed on Neal. She's puppeting him. She using him on Charles, the same way she would a toy.
Charles fingers are gentle and distracted, stroking over Neal's skin over and over again.
And Neal is moving, without his volition, again. Fingers slipping open the clasp of Charles trousers and palming him. Thumb smearing over the leaking tip. Charles jerks under him, with Emma and a "Neal," a strange harmony of telepathic and physical that would make Neal shiver if something didn't have an iron-tight grip on his body.
The taste of Charles blooms across his tongue. Warm skin, hard and sensitive. Neal's tongue traces up his length, while Charles makes these low, pleading noises, and then --
Well. Neal has never deep-throated, not in his life, but he does so now, without any trouble. Charles bucks underneath him, cursing mentally or physically, Neal can't tell, but he can hear the musical laugh from Emma behind him. Neal feels his tongue working, feels himself swallowing, and then -- and then --
Christ. Christ. Feels like someone is swallowing him but he recognizes the ghost of sensation, well enough to realize that it isn't real, it's Charles dropping the sensation into Neal's head. Reward for a job well done, perhaps, Neal thinks dizzily. He backs off enough to breathe and then goes down on Charles again, and he's gratified, for a moment, that he can hear Emma's breath growing short.
He loses track of how long it takes, loses himself in the rhythm of pleasure and denial and want. But then Charles is shaking and trembling and biting back noises into his throat, and he twists helplessly and comes onto Neal's tongue and Neal isn't even paying attention because the blind-white of Charles' climax is all tangled up in his and even Emma's. Talk about simultaneous orgasm -- Neal has never felt anything like that before and the next thing he's aware of is lying back on the bed with Charles curled next to him, mentally asking are you all right, was that all right, you're wonderful, thank you.
"Don't bother," sighs Emma, "he enjoyed it." She settles back on the bed next to them, and offers Neal her glass of wine.
He downs the rest of it without a thought. (Pinot noir, good vintage.)
She wrinkles her nose. "I don't suppose you want to get me a new glass."
What he wants is to sleep for a week.
Her mouth twists. "I'll give you an hour," she says. "And then we're going to try something new." She looks to Charles. "Aren't we, Charles?"
Charles' eyes are dark.
Neal can't tell what the hell they're thinking.
He really should not have this much of a telepath fetish.
~*~
Charles (AU)/Raven (OU)
He thinks she's beautiful. It's obvious to her, even though she's never quite seen that dark, entranced look on her Charles' face before.
"May I…?"
She nods.
His fingers start on her arm and trace the individual scales, with a quiet awe and gentle sweetness that feels completely foreign to her. She shivers, not from bad but from good, like being overwhelmed with goosebumps. Her hand twitches, like she feels she should cover herself up. Which she does.
"You're beautiful," he tells her. "You are beautiful." And she knows what he means. She's not beautiful because she's a novelty. Because she's a freak. She's beautiful because she's her.
Yes, exactly, ringing in her mind, and she resists the urge to push him out. This Charles is somehow so much less invasive than her own, even though he reads her thoughts more.
I don't disapprove, he postulates, in her head, as his fingers touch her throat. I'll let you be who you are.
She feels a little choked up, at this. Everything she's ever wanted, isn't it? A Charles who understands this.
I understand, I understand…
She kisses him before she has time to think about it, which is, no doubt, the only reason he's surprised. -- He kisses a little like she imagines Charles would kiss, but with more of an edge. He's raw. He needs, and she can feel it in the way he moves. She can fill that need.
Can you…? The words are unexpectedly vulnerable.
"Are you sure?" he asks her. Sure she wants this. That she wants to risk herself with him.
"Are you?" she returns.
Utterly, he tells her.
He touches her all over, and he never grows tired of the texture of her skin. When she flutters the scales against him, half-changing color, he laughs in delight and kisses her.
He opens her up until she's slick and warm, and she straddles his hips, riding his fingers as his free hand supports the small of her back. She climaxes like that, his mouth on her neck, and then the world spins as he settles her on the bed and pushes inside her. Gently, but no hesitation, none at all.
She pushes against him. "Slowly," she says, and he says Let me in? meaning mentally, not physically. She hesitates, and then she does, letting down those reflexive walls, and she feels him drift straight towards her own sensation. He's cheating, she realizes, but she can't bring herself to mind, because he makes sure it doesn't hurt, makes sure she's ready before he starts moving, makes sure of everything.
At another time, this might have felt overprotective. But here, it feels just protective enough.
She feels that warmth building again, surprised -- a second time? She could come twice? -- Rolls him over onto his back and guides the rhythm herself, mouth twisting triumphantly at the surge of surprise/arousal from him.
He pulls her down against him and, with a rough thrust, comes inside her (I did that, she thinks, I made him lose control). And he slips out of her, cradles her in the crook of her arm and rubs the heel of his palm against the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs. She bucks against him and this time the orgasm seems to come from deep inside her, a shiver-shake that starts somewhere under her rib cage.
He holds her close.
He isn't her Charles, she thinks. He's something better.
~*~
Charles (AU)/Tony Stark (AU). Almost underage sex.
The young Tony Stark surprises him. Eighteen years old, with a mind that's sweet and quick. He smiles and he wisecracks and Charles isn't even sure he's attracted but before long he's in bed with him, tussling and playing in a lighthearted way Charles has never treated sex before.
He makes Tony enjoy it. Grips his cock and jolts the sexual centers of his brain. Cheats and finds out what Tony likes and does it, melting the boy with the twist of his tongue.
(He delves deeper, deeper still into his mind, trying to find if Tony is like his father. No; Tony loves his father, but there's no real anti-mutant sentiment. In fact, the concept of mutants slips away like the thought is wriggling out of his psychic fingers. He gives up, and goes back to the sex.)
Tony is a lapful of enthusiasm. He is kisses that turn slick and wanting and sometimes draw blood (which, to his surprise, Charles doesn't mind). He fucks himself on Charles' cock and tightens around him in a way that makes Charles strongly suspect he's done this before. Perhaps quite a bit.
After a vigorous orgasm, Charles lights up a cigarette. Tony frowns, but doesn't complain.
"I'm a mutant," Charles tells him, finally.
"I know," says Tony.
And Charles is so surprised he coughs on the smoke in his lungs.
"You're Charles Xavier, right?" asks Tony. "I thought you were supposed to be dead."
Charles doesn't know how to respond to that.
"Anyway, I was curious." He takes the cigarette and puts it out, sliding back into Charles' lap. "I figured sex with a telepath would be better than that."
"It can't be," says Charles. "I can't risk losing control."
"I'll risk it," volunteers Tony.
Charles shakes his head. "Tony…"
Tony's fingers are tracing along old scars. "I'm not scared."
"I am."
Tony shifts closer, and kisses Charles long and slow. Charles senses emotions brewing in Tony that even Tony doesn't quite recognize. Emotions that are something along what a hero feels for someone they should help. Someone they should save. Charles touches these feelings, disarmed, uncertain.
"I'm not," repeats Tony. "So let's do this."
Charles turns them both, lowering Tony to the bed.
The second time is rather gentler. Both Charles and Tony remember it for the rest of their lives.
~*~
Romana/Charles (AU)
Romana goes about this scientifically. She does her research first, of course (including briefly questioning the Doctor) and then flipping through Charles' memories of intimate encounters, to his consternation. You're not supposed to see those, he says, not really trying to stop her, and she meets his eyes.
"I believe it's time I experienced intimacy," she tells Charles. "You are the best candidate I know to experience it with."
He's dumbstruck.
"I know roughly how this should go," she continues. "You won't have to guide me through it." She's blushing. Terrible. The blushing virgin stereotype.
He notices, but he doesn't point it out. Thank goodness for small favors.
"Well," he says, and then, in a move she can tell surprises him too, "all right."
Romana's research has told her little about kissing compatibility, except that it exists or it doesn't. So for a moment she's a bit disappointed, because the first few kisses are really nothing special, and then he shifts and she shifts and -- oh. Incomplete research, obviously, because no one told her that compatibility could develop.
Her insecurities vanish with the clothes, and with the barriers between their minds. Before long, his want is heated and bold in her mind, and she realizes that he's as uncertain as she is, though in different ways. That realization is important, because it allows her to take more of an active role.
It's all a little but too cautious and tentative on both sides, and they both make minor mistakes -- elbows and knees in the wrong places, for example -- but she finds that none of this really matters. Because it's Charles, and when he smiles at her it's always accompanied by a surge of liking. He can't lie. He doesn't try to lie, but also he can't, and Romana has never experienced quite as thorough a psychic bond.
In the -- ahem -- moment, itself, she notices that he clings to her harder than she does to him.
And so she curls around him in the aftermath and lets her fingers trace over his skin. Scientifically.
He hums in pleasure, and she, slowly, feels him drop to sleep.
~*~
Alba/Charles (AU)
They awake on a cloud.
Her wing covers him, feather-soft protection as he curls up next to her. She blinks in the sunlight, fingers brushing through the wisp-delicate texture of the cloud. He stirs and yawns and when they open -- the blue is lighter, icier than the sky, but more alive.
She runs her fingers through his hair, brushing it off of his forehead, and kisses him.
"A cloud?" she asks, her eyes tracing over his slick lips, his eyelashes shadowed against his closed eyelids. The way he smiles.
"Here, anything's possible," he tells her.
"Waking dreams."
She finds she's still slick from the night before. He hisses, arching under her as she slides down on him. "Oh," he breathes. Her wings furl against her back.
"Let us fall," she murmurs into her ear, and then the cloud dissolves beneath them.
The delightful free sensation of falling has her laughing into his neck, and he holds onto her in reflexive fear of the fall.
"Don't worry," she says, "I'll catch us," and she feels the moment where his fear dissipates, scattered to the wind and the sky. He gives himself to her.
She never expected to love someone like this.
But, then, he has shown her how to fly again.
~*~
Charles (AU)/Raven (AU)/Neal Caffrey, double penetration
When Neal feels Raven's fingers work into him, next to Charles' cock, he goes still. A shivery, shaky, devastated sort of stillness, and all Charles hears in his mind is want, want, want.
"Charles, I can't," he breathes, and Charles murmurs, "Relax," and Raven laughs against Neal's shoulder.
And then Raven is pushing inside him -- shapeshifters, Charles hears Neal think, I will never underestimate shapeshifters, and then Neal is breathing in nonstop gasps and groans and mewls, sounds that Charles will play back to him later, an affectionate tease.
Later:
"Next time, you're in the middle," mumbles Neal, mouth muffled against Charles' shoulder.
"He's right," says Raven. …wipe that smugness right off your face, says her mind, and Charles laughs.
~*~
Charles/Charles (AU), mindsex, telepathic illusions
One of them drags a tongue up the shell of his ear, an arm around his waist, fingers buried deep inside him; the other has a hand wrapped tight around the base of his erection. Charles lets out a choked sob, squirming and shaking from sensation.
"Come on," murmurs the one in his ear, "just tell us."
The other kisses him, and Charles clings to him desperately, gripping tight, gasping for much-needed air as soon as they break away. "Which one of us is the real one?" asks the other.
"Guess right, and I'll let you come."
Hands that are his own hands and not all at once grip his wrists and hold them at the small of his back. He bucks against them. Tries to gather the scattered shreds of his mental capacity and focus it.
There's no difference between them that he can tell. Both correct in every detail, from skin texture to warmth to -- oh god…. He lets out a high whimper. So close, and yet he can't -- he can't quite --
"Which one?"
"Neither," gasps Charles, helplessly, and he gives a helpless cry as the world fades to white, as pleasure wracks through him and holds, holds right at the peak, at the most intense point until he's pleading, pleading breathlessly, and he doesn't know if it's for more or for it to stop.
And then he's naked, panting and sweating, sprawled alone on the bed. He brushes hair out of his eyes and looks up.
His counterpart is still fully dressed, sitting back in the armchair, one leg crossed over another. But Charles can see the flush from here.
"Good," he says, "good." He clears his throat.
Charles is exhausted, but he can feel a wicked grin spreading over his face. "Your turn."
~*~
Charles (AU)/Neal Caffrey/Emma Frost, mind control, oral.
Devilish implications to the contrary, Neal actually does not have any stories that begin with "I walked in on" and end with a threesome. He's surprisingly monogamous. Surprising in that it actually surprises him, perhaps not that it surprises anyone else.
-- This is all beside the point.
Neal enters the penthouse and he doesn't sense anything. Maybe because he isn't trying to sense anything. "Charles," he calls, and he slides his bag onto the living room table. "Charles." He jogs down the hallway to Charles' room. "You would not believe--"
His words are cut off, of course, by the sight that greets him there.
They're both fully clothed, but this fact isn't what impacts first. What impacts first is the flush in Charles' skin, his closed eyes, the way his fingers have curled distractedly around Emma's shoulder. And then -- Emma. He only sees her from behind. She has Charles backed up against the wall, she's murmuring in his ear, and then Charles makes a choked noise and Neal suddenly really, really wishes that he knew what she said.
Charles' fingers tighten on Emma's shoulder.
I know he's here, Neal hears, in his mind. You don't have to warn me. The voice sounds amused.
"Um," says Neal, "I should…" But then he realizes he's already halfway to the bed, his tie off and in his hands. He stares at it, wondering how exactly it got there.
Emma, comes Charles' chastising voice.
I'm not doing anything he doesn't want, returns Emma and Neal is suddenly, devastatingly turned on. His eyes are wide as he watches Charles turn his head, kiss Emma. And what a kiss, really. He's not sure he's ever seen passion unleashed like that, on both sides. No wonder, right, because they can both feel each other's arousal and it would echo back and forth and that means that telepaths in sex, together, can't avoid losing control.
Neal's throat is dry.
A wave of passion he's almost completely sure isn't his washes over him. And he's pretty sure it's of his own volition that he slips his shirt off his shoulders. Charles is tugging Emma back towards the bed, and then, as one, they break the kiss and look to Neal.
Deer caught in the headlights, Neal thinks. No, not a deer. Something more helpless. Squirrel caught in the headlights.
Then, his mind skips a little, and the next thing he knows he's over Charles, kissing his neck, stripping his shirt off his shoulders. "Neal," says Charles, "Neal," are you all right, are you, and Neal nods.
I'm fine. Easy to figure out what's happening here. Emma sits back in a chair close by, sipping a glass of wine, her eyes fixed on Neal. She's puppeting him. She using him on Charles, the same way she would a toy.
Charles fingers are gentle and distracted, stroking over Neal's skin over and over again.
And Neal is moving, without his volition, again. Fingers slipping open the clasp of Charles trousers and palming him. Thumb smearing over the leaking tip. Charles jerks under him, with Emma and a "Neal," a strange harmony of telepathic and physical that would make Neal shiver if something didn't have an iron-tight grip on his body.
The taste of Charles blooms across his tongue. Warm skin, hard and sensitive. Neal's tongue traces up his length, while Charles makes these low, pleading noises, and then --
Well. Neal has never deep-throated, not in his life, but he does so now, without any trouble. Charles bucks underneath him, cursing mentally or physically, Neal can't tell, but he can hear the musical laugh from Emma behind him. Neal feels his tongue working, feels himself swallowing, and then -- and then --
Christ. Christ. Feels like someone is swallowing him but he recognizes the ghost of sensation, well enough to realize that it isn't real, it's Charles dropping the sensation into Neal's head. Reward for a job well done, perhaps, Neal thinks dizzily. He backs off enough to breathe and then goes down on Charles again, and he's gratified, for a moment, that he can hear Emma's breath growing short.
He loses track of how long it takes, loses himself in the rhythm of pleasure and denial and want. But then Charles is shaking and trembling and biting back noises into his throat, and he twists helplessly and comes onto Neal's tongue and Neal isn't even paying attention because the blind-white of Charles' climax is all tangled up in his and even Emma's. Talk about simultaneous orgasm -- Neal has never felt anything like that before and the next thing he's aware of is lying back on the bed with Charles curled next to him, mentally asking are you all right, was that all right, you're wonderful, thank you.
"Don't bother," sighs Emma, "he enjoyed it." She settles back on the bed next to them, and offers Neal her glass of wine.
He downs the rest of it without a thought. (Pinot noir, good vintage.)
She wrinkles her nose. "I don't suppose you want to get me a new glass."
What he wants is to sleep for a week.
Her mouth twists. "I'll give you an hour," she says. "And then we're going to try something new." She looks to Charles. "Aren't we, Charles?"
Charles' eyes are dark.
Neal can't tell what the hell they're thinking.
He really should not have this much of a telepath fetish.
~*~
Charles (AU)/Raven (OU)
He thinks she's beautiful. It's obvious to her, even though she's never quite seen that dark, entranced look on her Charles' face before.
"May I…?"
She nods.
His fingers start on her arm and trace the individual scales, with a quiet awe and gentle sweetness that feels completely foreign to her. She shivers, not from bad but from good, like being overwhelmed with goosebumps. Her hand twitches, like she feels she should cover herself up. Which she does.
"You're beautiful," he tells her. "You are beautiful." And she knows what he means. She's not beautiful because she's a novelty. Because she's a freak. She's beautiful because she's her.
Yes, exactly, ringing in her mind, and she resists the urge to push him out. This Charles is somehow so much less invasive than her own, even though he reads her thoughts more.
I don't disapprove, he postulates, in her head, as his fingers touch her throat. I'll let you be who you are.
She feels a little choked up, at this. Everything she's ever wanted, isn't it? A Charles who understands this.
I understand, I understand…
She kisses him before she has time to think about it, which is, no doubt, the only reason he's surprised. -- He kisses a little like she imagines Charles would kiss, but with more of an edge. He's raw. He needs, and she can feel it in the way he moves. She can fill that need.
Can you…? The words are unexpectedly vulnerable.
"Are you sure?" he asks her. Sure she wants this. That she wants to risk herself with him.
"Are you?" she returns.
Utterly, he tells her.
He touches her all over, and he never grows tired of the texture of her skin. When she flutters the scales against him, half-changing color, he laughs in delight and kisses her.
He opens her up until she's slick and warm, and she straddles his hips, riding his fingers as his free hand supports the small of her back. She climaxes like that, his mouth on her neck, and then the world spins as he settles her on the bed and pushes inside her. Gently, but no hesitation, none at all.
She pushes against him. "Slowly," she says, and he says Let me in? meaning mentally, not physically. She hesitates, and then she does, letting down those reflexive walls, and she feels him drift straight towards her own sensation. He's cheating, she realizes, but she can't bring herself to mind, because he makes sure it doesn't hurt, makes sure she's ready before he starts moving, makes sure of everything.
At another time, this might have felt overprotective. But here, it feels just protective enough.
She feels that warmth building again, surprised -- a second time? She could come twice? -- Rolls him over onto his back and guides the rhythm herself, mouth twisting triumphantly at the surge of surprise/arousal from him.
He pulls her down against him and, with a rough thrust, comes inside her (I did that, she thinks, I made him lose control). And he slips out of her, cradles her in the crook of her arm and rubs the heel of his palm against the slick, swollen flesh between her thighs. She bucks against him and this time the orgasm seems to come from deep inside her, a shiver-shake that starts somewhere under her rib cage.
He holds her close.
He isn't her Charles, she thinks. He's something better.
~*~
Charles (AU)/Tony Stark (AU). Almost underage sex.
The young Tony Stark surprises him. Eighteen years old, with a mind that's sweet and quick. He smiles and he wisecracks and Charles isn't even sure he's attracted but before long he's in bed with him, tussling and playing in a lighthearted way Charles has never treated sex before.
He makes Tony enjoy it. Grips his cock and jolts the sexual centers of his brain. Cheats and finds out what Tony likes and does it, melting the boy with the twist of his tongue.
(He delves deeper, deeper still into his mind, trying to find if Tony is like his father. No; Tony loves his father, but there's no real anti-mutant sentiment. In fact, the concept of mutants slips away like the thought is wriggling out of his psychic fingers. He gives up, and goes back to the sex.)
Tony is a lapful of enthusiasm. He is kisses that turn slick and wanting and sometimes draw blood (which, to his surprise, Charles doesn't mind). He fucks himself on Charles' cock and tightens around him in a way that makes Charles strongly suspect he's done this before. Perhaps quite a bit.
After a vigorous orgasm, Charles lights up a cigarette. Tony frowns, but doesn't complain.
"I'm a mutant," Charles tells him, finally.
"I know," says Tony.
And Charles is so surprised he coughs on the smoke in his lungs.
"You're Charles Xavier, right?" asks Tony. "I thought you were supposed to be dead."
Charles doesn't know how to respond to that.
"Anyway, I was curious." He takes the cigarette and puts it out, sliding back into Charles' lap. "I figured sex with a telepath would be better than that."
"It can't be," says Charles. "I can't risk losing control."
"I'll risk it," volunteers Tony.
Charles shakes his head. "Tony…"
Tony's fingers are tracing along old scars. "I'm not scared."
"I am."
Tony shifts closer, and kisses Charles long and slow. Charles senses emotions brewing in Tony that even Tony doesn't quite recognize. Emotions that are something along what a hero feels for someone they should help. Someone they should save. Charles touches these feelings, disarmed, uncertain.
"I'm not," repeats Tony. "So let's do this."
Charles turns them both, lowering Tony to the bed.
The second time is rather gentler. Both Charles and Tony remember it for the rest of their lives.
~*~
Romana/Charles (AU)
Romana goes about this scientifically. She does her research first, of course (including briefly questioning the Doctor) and then flipping through Charles' memories of intimate encounters, to his consternation. You're not supposed to see those, he says, not really trying to stop her, and she meets his eyes.
"I believe it's time I experienced intimacy," she tells Charles. "You are the best candidate I know to experience it with."
He's dumbstruck.
"I know roughly how this should go," she continues. "You won't have to guide me through it." She's blushing. Terrible. The blushing virgin stereotype.
He notices, but he doesn't point it out. Thank goodness for small favors.
"Well," he says, and then, in a move she can tell surprises him too, "all right."
Romana's research has told her little about kissing compatibility, except that it exists or it doesn't. So for a moment she's a bit disappointed, because the first few kisses are really nothing special, and then he shifts and she shifts and -- oh. Incomplete research, obviously, because no one told her that compatibility could develop.
Her insecurities vanish with the clothes, and with the barriers between their minds. Before long, his want is heated and bold in her mind, and she realizes that he's as uncertain as she is, though in different ways. That realization is important, because it allows her to take more of an active role.
It's all a little but too cautious and tentative on both sides, and they both make minor mistakes -- elbows and knees in the wrong places, for example -- but she finds that none of this really matters. Because it's Charles, and when he smiles at her it's always accompanied by a surge of liking. He can't lie. He doesn't try to lie, but also he can't, and Romana has never experienced quite as thorough a psychic bond.
In the -- ahem -- moment, itself, she notices that he clings to her harder than she does to him.
And so she curls around him in the aftermath and lets her fingers trace over his skin. Scientifically.
He hums in pleasure, and she, slowly, feels him drop to sleep.
~*~
Alba/Charles (AU)
They awake on a cloud.
Her wing covers him, feather-soft protection as he curls up next to her. She blinks in the sunlight, fingers brushing through the wisp-delicate texture of the cloud. He stirs and yawns and when they open -- the blue is lighter, icier than the sky, but more alive.
She runs her fingers through his hair, brushing it off of his forehead, and kisses him.
"A cloud?" she asks, her eyes tracing over his slick lips, his eyelashes shadowed against his closed eyelids. The way he smiles.
"Here, anything's possible," he tells her.
"Waking dreams."
She finds she's still slick from the night before. He hisses, arching under her as she slides down on him. "Oh," he breathes. Her wings furl against her back.
"Let us fall," she murmurs into her ear, and then the cloud dissolves beneath them.
The delightful free sensation of falling has her laughing into his neck, and he holds onto her in reflexive fear of the fall.
"Don't worry," she says, "I'll catch us," and she feels the moment where his fear dissipates, scattered to the wind and the sky. He gives himself to her.
She never expected to love someone like this.
But, then, he has shown her how to fly again.