[fic] X-Men First Class: Student Curriculum
Student Curriculum
X-Men: First Class
Erik/Charles
NC-17
1409 Words
Summary: A nighttime lesson on resisting mental invasions by telepaths with questionable motives and a pathetic sense of humor.
Push me out, Charles murmurs, like a shadow whisper from a far corner of the room, c'mon, push me out.
The muscles in Erik's arms strain, sweaty and worn, but he can't move them from the headboard, can't do more than flinch and twitch. He knows Charles is less than a foot away, but it's hard to hear him over his own panting breaths.
It's not a position he normally likes to find himself in--isn't entirely sure he likes it now, only that there's little he can do to stop it--but he's more than a little helpless at the hands of a man nearly a foot shorter than him and about half his weight, and Erik isn't even tied up.
He can't twitch his fingers, can't dig his nails in when Charles squeezes his hand, bites his earlobe, pets his chest and scratches his nipples, lightly, too lightly, too faint and if he doesn't speed this up--
you're not even trying, are you?
--Erik will not be answerable for his actions. Even if those actions are only cursing in German and English and digging his heels into the mattress while Charles chuckles against his neck, breath damp and warm.
"Can't hold me forever," Erik mutters, still cursing in his mind. He’s never lost to Charles before, he’s not going to start now. "You don't have the stamina for--"
Charles brushes a mental finger over key centers of his brain.
When consciousness returns, in warm stutters and bated gasps that do not belong to him, Erik is vaguely aware his heels have stopped mining the mattress in favor of bruising (or attempting to bruise) Charles' back. His hips are rolling, bucking like a dog in heat. His thighs are shaking--purely physical response, nothing to do with him--and there are very real fingers in a very real place, very slick and steaming hot and the groan ripped from his throat is just a real.
It is very important to keep a firm hold on reality when dealing with telepaths, Erik is learning. Especially if the telepaths have a questionable sense of humor.
He can't quite breathe. That may not be Charles' fault, except it most likely is.
I'd think you didn't like me, kisses along his splayed thighs, spread out like an over-eager whore, this isn't who he is, really, this isn't what he does, the way you go on about how much you don't like me.
"I don't," Erik breathes, wheezes, waits. He's no more responsible for what he says in bed than any other man, and Charles isn't god-like enough to hold him to it.
"Mmmm," Charles hums against his skin, placid and tame as an old lap dog, before jabbing in deep and crooking his fingers in a way that has nothing to do with telepathy or mutations and everything to do with making Erik scream.
--fucker you fuck you bastard--
In his periphery he can hear metal groan in sympathy, creaking and screeching loud enough to wake the neighbors--the children--but he's really not collected enough to care. Caring is Charles' job; results are Erik's.
--Goddamn fucking bastard do it fucker please fuck--
Push me out Erik, teeth nip his stomach, too light, too fleeting, he's going to kill the bastard--
Push me OUT and fingers twist and pull at him, just hold him right above the edge, no where close enough but too close for him to ignore--
please damn it, please Charles--he isn't making that noise, that is not him, that's probably Charles or some cats outside or something else that is not him--fuck me just fuck me I can't I I can’t Ican't--
And the fingers recede. There are no teeth. The spider-touch in his mind, the shadow presence, is gone.
He still can't see, and his hands are still pinned. Frozen.
No.
He's going to kill him, and Erik is as aware of his actions as he is of dust settling on distant attics in the manor because what is truly important is that he has Charles Xavier flat on his back.
"Finally," Charles breathes proudly, probably grinning, "I thought--"
Erik doesn't care what Charles thinks. He doesn't care what Charles has to say, what cheap congratulation or hackneyed platitude the little...geek has to offer. He has no idea how he broke free, and he really can’t spare the time to care right now. He only really cares about getting the rest of Charles' cock inside and then riding him until he's unconscious and black and blue and finally silent.
"Ahh," Charles murmurs, looking very unprepared at nothing in particular, "mmm, I, don't hurt, ahh--"
It would be nice to gloat right now, to revel in the satisfaction of having finally rendered Charles Xavier speechless, but Erik has to focus on the pain. On leashing it, canning it...fingers are one thing, amazingly wonderful insufferable teases, but taking another man's cock, even if it is Charles...that requires some control. Discipline.
He tries to go slow. He’s not used to this; doesn’t think he ever will be.
Don't hurt yourself, Erik, the spider-whispers are thrill-laced, pleasure-drunk, there's no rush, don't hurt--
He pushes the rest of the way down, digs his nails into Charles and rocks, just enough.
Shut up.
He squeezes and rolls his hips, setting the pace for languid, intentionally torturous, slowly milking and grinding the bastard because really he owes Charles quite some revenge for all the earlier dallying. Besides, if Erik isn't a little evil then Charles starts to mistake him for someone else, for one of his tamer, domestic scholars.
And...anyway...it's quite nice. To see Charles like this. His head thrown back, one hand strangling the now-mangled iron headboard, the other gripping Erik's thigh hard enough to turn the skin white.
And it would be...quite nice...to hold Charles like this. To keep him like this, and pull back every time the man started to get close, to restart again and again, to finally shatter that irritating insufferable veneer Charles insists on but hasn't quite perfected, not yet.
But the problem is--the big problem is--Erik is roughly ten seconds away from coming, Charles’ dick now feels amazing, and Charles' hand scrubbing his dick is really not helping.
He is not responsible for his actions in bed. Especially since there is a telepath in bed with him. Especially since there is Charles in bed with him, and Erik is barely allowed to focus on his spine melting and his eyes rolling in the back of his head before he's dumped on his back and his knees are pressed against his chest.
Charles' tongue is in his mouth. He isn't sure how that happened, but it's rather nice.
Erik isn't sure he likes Charles' tongue, isn't sure he likes or approves of these impromptu lessons on mental defenses, but they really are nice. Pleasant. May one day come in handy, if only to shut Charles up and out when he chatters on inside Erik's mind about everything and nothing.
Charles’ nails dig into his hip, sharp enough to break the skin. His breathing sounds as shattered as Erik feels, and Charles’ makes all the little undignified sounds a learned and erudite man makes after an especially good fuck. He collapses on Erik, not quite heavy to be uncomfortable, but far too…presumptive. Too close.
Once he’s done being smug and exhausted, Erik will kick him off.
There's wet heat dripping down his thighs and over his stomach and in some uncomfortable places in his ass, but Erik isn't quite concerned about it right now. He isn't quite concerned about anything right now. He will be, later on, but right now he feels far too...drained.
What was that you were saying about stamina? I can't quite recall.
Right after he kills Charles. Right. Smothers him in his sleep.
Please; I'll be shocked if you can lift a hand.
Erik grunts. That's about all he's up to, right now.
"Mmm," Charles murmurs against his neck, kisses his jaw, and Erik may possibly, potentially, be up for more than grunting. In about ten minutes. Try thirty; you'd still be wrong, but at least it'd be realistic.
"Hm," Erik says.
"You're getting better, though," Charles murmurs, quiet and sleepy. Erik isn't sure if he's talking about resisting mental invasion or the sex. "We'll practice more in the morning."
He can work with that.
***
A/N: Wrote this in a couple of hours, is very likely there are spelling/grammar errors galore though I did a couple read-throughs to pick them out. Please let me know if you find any.
X-Men: First Class
Erik/Charles
NC-17
1409 Words
Summary: A nighttime lesson on resisting mental invasions by telepaths with questionable motives and a pathetic sense of humor.
Push me out, Charles murmurs, like a shadow whisper from a far corner of the room, c'mon, push me out.
The muscles in Erik's arms strain, sweaty and worn, but he can't move them from the headboard, can't do more than flinch and twitch. He knows Charles is less than a foot away, but it's hard to hear him over his own panting breaths.
It's not a position he normally likes to find himself in--isn't entirely sure he likes it now, only that there's little he can do to stop it--but he's more than a little helpless at the hands of a man nearly a foot shorter than him and about half his weight, and Erik isn't even tied up.
He can't twitch his fingers, can't dig his nails in when Charles squeezes his hand, bites his earlobe, pets his chest and scratches his nipples, lightly, too lightly, too faint and if he doesn't speed this up--
you're not even trying, are you?
--Erik will not be answerable for his actions. Even if those actions are only cursing in German and English and digging his heels into the mattress while Charles chuckles against his neck, breath damp and warm.
"Can't hold me forever," Erik mutters, still cursing in his mind. He’s never lost to Charles before, he’s not going to start now. "You don't have the stamina for--"
Charles brushes a mental finger over key centers of his brain.
When consciousness returns, in warm stutters and bated gasps that do not belong to him, Erik is vaguely aware his heels have stopped mining the mattress in favor of bruising (or attempting to bruise) Charles' back. His hips are rolling, bucking like a dog in heat. His thighs are shaking--purely physical response, nothing to do with him--and there are very real fingers in a very real place, very slick and steaming hot and the groan ripped from his throat is just a real.
It is very important to keep a firm hold on reality when dealing with telepaths, Erik is learning. Especially if the telepaths have a questionable sense of humor.
He can't quite breathe. That may not be Charles' fault, except it most likely is.
I'd think you didn't like me, kisses along his splayed thighs, spread out like an over-eager whore, this isn't who he is, really, this isn't what he does, the way you go on about how much you don't like me.
"I don't," Erik breathes, wheezes, waits. He's no more responsible for what he says in bed than any other man, and Charles isn't god-like enough to hold him to it.
"Mmmm," Charles hums against his skin, placid and tame as an old lap dog, before jabbing in deep and crooking his fingers in a way that has nothing to do with telepathy or mutations and everything to do with making Erik scream.
--fucker you fuck you bastard--
In his periphery he can hear metal groan in sympathy, creaking and screeching loud enough to wake the neighbors--the children--but he's really not collected enough to care. Caring is Charles' job; results are Erik's.
--Goddamn fucking bastard do it fucker please fuck--
Push me out Erik, teeth nip his stomach, too light, too fleeting, he's going to kill the bastard--
Push me OUT and fingers twist and pull at him, just hold him right above the edge, no where close enough but too close for him to ignore--
please damn it, please Charles--he isn't making that noise, that is not him, that's probably Charles or some cats outside or something else that is not him--fuck me just fuck me I can't I I can’t Ican't--
And the fingers recede. There are no teeth. The spider-touch in his mind, the shadow presence, is gone.
He still can't see, and his hands are still pinned. Frozen.
No.
He's going to kill him, and Erik is as aware of his actions as he is of dust settling on distant attics in the manor because what is truly important is that he has Charles Xavier flat on his back.
"Finally," Charles breathes proudly, probably grinning, "I thought--"
Erik doesn't care what Charles thinks. He doesn't care what Charles has to say, what cheap congratulation or hackneyed platitude the little...geek has to offer. He has no idea how he broke free, and he really can’t spare the time to care right now. He only really cares about getting the rest of Charles' cock inside and then riding him until he's unconscious and black and blue and finally silent.
"Ahh," Charles murmurs, looking very unprepared at nothing in particular, "mmm, I, don't hurt, ahh--"
It would be nice to gloat right now, to revel in the satisfaction of having finally rendered Charles Xavier speechless, but Erik has to focus on the pain. On leashing it, canning it...fingers are one thing, amazingly wonderful insufferable teases, but taking another man's cock, even if it is Charles...that requires some control. Discipline.
He tries to go slow. He’s not used to this; doesn’t think he ever will be.
Don't hurt yourself, Erik, the spider-whispers are thrill-laced, pleasure-drunk, there's no rush, don't hurt--
He pushes the rest of the way down, digs his nails into Charles and rocks, just enough.
Shut up.
He squeezes and rolls his hips, setting the pace for languid, intentionally torturous, slowly milking and grinding the bastard because really he owes Charles quite some revenge for all the earlier dallying. Besides, if Erik isn't a little evil then Charles starts to mistake him for someone else, for one of his tamer, domestic scholars.
And...anyway...it's quite nice. To see Charles like this. His head thrown back, one hand strangling the now-mangled iron headboard, the other gripping Erik's thigh hard enough to turn the skin white.
And it would be...quite nice...to hold Charles like this. To keep him like this, and pull back every time the man started to get close, to restart again and again, to finally shatter that irritating insufferable veneer Charles insists on but hasn't quite perfected, not yet.
But the problem is--the big problem is--Erik is roughly ten seconds away from coming, Charles’ dick now feels amazing, and Charles' hand scrubbing his dick is really not helping.
He is not responsible for his actions in bed. Especially since there is a telepath in bed with him. Especially since there is Charles in bed with him, and Erik is barely allowed to focus on his spine melting and his eyes rolling in the back of his head before he's dumped on his back and his knees are pressed against his chest.
Charles' tongue is in his mouth. He isn't sure how that happened, but it's rather nice.
Erik isn't sure he likes Charles' tongue, isn't sure he likes or approves of these impromptu lessons on mental defenses, but they really are nice. Pleasant. May one day come in handy, if only to shut Charles up and out when he chatters on inside Erik's mind about everything and nothing.
Charles’ nails dig into his hip, sharp enough to break the skin. His breathing sounds as shattered as Erik feels, and Charles’ makes all the little undignified sounds a learned and erudite man makes after an especially good fuck. He collapses on Erik, not quite heavy to be uncomfortable, but far too…presumptive. Too close.
Once he’s done being smug and exhausted, Erik will kick him off.
There's wet heat dripping down his thighs and over his stomach and in some uncomfortable places in his ass, but Erik isn't quite concerned about it right now. He isn't quite concerned about anything right now. He will be, later on, but right now he feels far too...drained.
What was that you were saying about stamina? I can't quite recall.
Right after he kills Charles. Right. Smothers him in his sleep.
Please; I'll be shocked if you can lift a hand.
Erik grunts. That's about all he's up to, right now.
"Mmm," Charles murmurs against his neck, kisses his jaw, and Erik may possibly, potentially, be up for more than grunting. In about ten minutes. Try thirty; you'd still be wrong, but at least it'd be realistic.
"Hm," Erik says.
"You're getting better, though," Charles murmurs, quiet and sleepy. Erik isn't sure if he's talking about resisting mental invasion or the sex. "We'll practice more in the morning."
He can work with that.
***
A/N: Wrote this in a couple of hours, is very likely there are spelling/grammar errors galore though I did a couple read-throughs to pick them out. Please let me know if you find any.