Good Boys
In spite of his best efforts, Charles had always been a good boy.
His eyes shoot open and his hands clench on Erik’s shoulders.
A good boy - it was the curse of neglect, not abuse, that made him think, “If I only tried a bit harder,” and “Perhaps this time, if I make everything perfect, they will notice.”
Erik laughs against the pale skin over his collarbone and plants a kiss on his neck.
And then after there was no longer any point in making them notice, there had still been the strange schoolboy’s pride at having raised himself. “Charles Xavier wouldn’t do that,” he would think. “Not because Mother wouldn’t wish him to or his stepfather might be incensed, but because it is not in Charles’ nature.” It was the sort of idea you got from reading too much Kipling, he’d thought later, but by then it was fixed in him. There were things that Charles Xavier did and things that Charles Xavier did not do.
“Fuck me,” Charles pants. “There. There. Erik. God - you’re - astounding.” The room seems saturated with new color. His whole body feels wildly, pricklingly alive. Erik’s cock nudges something in him again and he shudders and cries out, “I’m going to - you’re a god-you’re perfect-you’re huge--”
“You’re spoiled,” Erik hisses.
There were things Charles Xavier did not do, because Charles was a good boy. He did not go rampaging through the minds of strangers. He did not lie. He did not cheat at chess.
Erik is thrusting into him again and making Charles moan with abandon, his eyes flickering shut. Their breaths come raggedly, and Erik’s words are punctuated by his thrusts, fingers tightening on Charles’ hips. “You’ve - been waiting your whole -- life for this, haven’t you? To be fucked - like this? Haven’t you, Charles Xavier?”
“God, yes,” Charles shoves desperately back against him, wanting more. “I think I have.”
He did not fall for strange men. He did not fancy men at all. He had no interest in men, certainly not tall dark-haired Germans whose minds and bodies bore unthinkable strange scars, who could move metal with a thought or a touch.
There were things that Charles Xavier did and things that Charles Xavier did not do.
And allowing Erik Lehnsherr to fuck him in the ass fell squarely into the latter category.
At least that was what Charles would have thought three weeks ago.
“Fucking God, Erik,” Charles manages, tiny spots exploding behind his eyes, thrusting harder against Erik and seeing Erik’s eyes unfocus a little, and Erik murmurs, “Gott im Himmel, Charles, you’re too fucking perfect, you look fucking perfect like this, I’m going to-”
“Do it,” Charles groans, “I want you so fucking much, Erik, please,” and he can feel Erik’s release welling up and tightens his grip on Erik’s shoulders and Erik slides deeper into him, and his head lolls back and his eyes fall shut and his breath catches and Erik moans, “Charles - you’re so - fucking - exquisite,” and he feels the thought, I want to spend the rest of my life making you look like this, making you make that sound, making you come panting my name, you look perfect, you feel perfect, I have never wanted anything so much in my life, and then he can’t hold out any longer, feeling something unclench within him. As he comes he feels his body clamp around Erik’s cock, and Erik groans and spends himself inside him.
They sever reluctantly and Erik stares at him in awe. “Charles,” he whispers, “Are you sure this is your first time being deflowered? That was the sexiest thing I have ever seen in my life.”
Only then does Charles blush.
--
It was not supposed to go like this.
Charles was a perpetually good boy. It was simply a matter of control. He read genetics textbooks at the beach. At boarding school he had gone months without masturbating. Control. He liked women - scrupulously unscrupulous, his roommates had called him in college, after finding a table of the vital statistics of his most recent conquests that he’d been keeping in the corner of a notebook.
He knew that men existed who - preferred the company of men, to put it delicately - had stumbled across enough fantasies in the course of his perambulations through strange minds to know it was more common than even Kinsey suggested. Once at university he’d run into a rather peculiar fantasy in the mind of a friend from tutorial that involved himself in an extremely compromising position. It had cast something of a damper over their subsequent interactions. Charles couldn’t help noticing the way the man looked at him, and it made the hackles rise on the back of his neck to be the subject of that sort of gaze. It felt - more intensely wrong than anything he’d seen in girls’ minds. Those visions were naughty, yes, but - standard-issue. Girls did not picture you stretched out on a bear rug having unmentionable things done to you that made you quiver in revulsion and blush.
No, women were the sort of thing that Charles Xavier would like, he felt. Charles had always been fond of puzzles, and courtship was a puzzle. It was a complex mammalian interaction that varied in fascinating ways as the days of the month ticked by or as you altered factors such as pheromones and drink.
It was like a game of chess. And Charles was good at chess. Once you knew the rules, it was easy. You could play almost without thinking. And when the game was over - mate. Apt enough word. Simple. Not boring. Simple. Elegant. Not dull. You didn’t call a formula dull because you could grasp it the instant you glanced at it and spend the rest of the evening thinking about Gregor Mendel. (Dirty mind, for a monk, Charles thought, staring with an expression of exaggerated interest at some dark-haired Newnham charmer. Living vicariously through his bean plants.)
But in general chess was a dispiriting exercise. Nobody beat him at chess. No one had in years, since he was twelve and had moved the wrong bishop by mistake. Not to say that courtship was a dispiriting game, of course, or that his approach was so mechanical that sometimes even the girl would notice that he was not paying attention. No. Any lack of enthusiasm on his part no doubt sprang from the scientific temperament. And besides, there was a goal in sight. Charles was trying to reach a number of conquests that was a perfect square. He felt that this was the sort of thing that Charles Xavier would do.
He was on number fifteen.
And then this thing had happened.
He had found the German in the water.
Chapter Two
His eyes shoot open and his hands clench on Erik’s shoulders.
A good boy - it was the curse of neglect, not abuse, that made him think, “If I only tried a bit harder,” and “Perhaps this time, if I make everything perfect, they will notice.”
Erik laughs against the pale skin over his collarbone and plants a kiss on his neck.
And then after there was no longer any point in making them notice, there had still been the strange schoolboy’s pride at having raised himself. “Charles Xavier wouldn’t do that,” he would think. “Not because Mother wouldn’t wish him to or his stepfather might be incensed, but because it is not in Charles’ nature.” It was the sort of idea you got from reading too much Kipling, he’d thought later, but by then it was fixed in him. There were things that Charles Xavier did and things that Charles Xavier did not do.
“Fuck me,” Charles pants. “There. There. Erik. God - you’re - astounding.” The room seems saturated with new color. His whole body feels wildly, pricklingly alive. Erik’s cock nudges something in him again and he shudders and cries out, “I’m going to - you’re a god-you’re perfect-you’re huge--”
“You’re spoiled,” Erik hisses.
There were things Charles Xavier did not do, because Charles was a good boy. He did not go rampaging through the minds of strangers. He did not lie. He did not cheat at chess.
Erik is thrusting into him again and making Charles moan with abandon, his eyes flickering shut. Their breaths come raggedly, and Erik’s words are punctuated by his thrusts, fingers tightening on Charles’ hips. “You’ve - been waiting your whole -- life for this, haven’t you? To be fucked - like this? Haven’t you, Charles Xavier?”
“God, yes,” Charles shoves desperately back against him, wanting more. “I think I have.”
He did not fall for strange men. He did not fancy men at all. He had no interest in men, certainly not tall dark-haired Germans whose minds and bodies bore unthinkable strange scars, who could move metal with a thought or a touch.
There were things that Charles Xavier did and things that Charles Xavier did not do.
And allowing Erik Lehnsherr to fuck him in the ass fell squarely into the latter category.
At least that was what Charles would have thought three weeks ago.
“Fucking God, Erik,” Charles manages, tiny spots exploding behind his eyes, thrusting harder against Erik and seeing Erik’s eyes unfocus a little, and Erik murmurs, “Gott im Himmel, Charles, you’re too fucking perfect, you look fucking perfect like this, I’m going to-”
“Do it,” Charles groans, “I want you so fucking much, Erik, please,” and he can feel Erik’s release welling up and tightens his grip on Erik’s shoulders and Erik slides deeper into him, and his head lolls back and his eyes fall shut and his breath catches and Erik moans, “Charles - you’re so - fucking - exquisite,” and he feels the thought, I want to spend the rest of my life making you look like this, making you make that sound, making you come panting my name, you look perfect, you feel perfect, I have never wanted anything so much in my life, and then he can’t hold out any longer, feeling something unclench within him. As he comes he feels his body clamp around Erik’s cock, and Erik groans and spends himself inside him.
They sever reluctantly and Erik stares at him in awe. “Charles,” he whispers, “Are you sure this is your first time being deflowered? That was the sexiest thing I have ever seen in my life.”
Only then does Charles blush.
--
It was not supposed to go like this.
Charles was a perpetually good boy. It was simply a matter of control. He read genetics textbooks at the beach. At boarding school he had gone months without masturbating. Control. He liked women - scrupulously unscrupulous, his roommates had called him in college, after finding a table of the vital statistics of his most recent conquests that he’d been keeping in the corner of a notebook.
He knew that men existed who - preferred the company of men, to put it delicately - had stumbled across enough fantasies in the course of his perambulations through strange minds to know it was more common than even Kinsey suggested. Once at university he’d run into a rather peculiar fantasy in the mind of a friend from tutorial that involved himself in an extremely compromising position. It had cast something of a damper over their subsequent interactions. Charles couldn’t help noticing the way the man looked at him, and it made the hackles rise on the back of his neck to be the subject of that sort of gaze. It felt - more intensely wrong than anything he’d seen in girls’ minds. Those visions were naughty, yes, but - standard-issue. Girls did not picture you stretched out on a bear rug having unmentionable things done to you that made you quiver in revulsion and blush.
No, women were the sort of thing that Charles Xavier would like, he felt. Charles had always been fond of puzzles, and courtship was a puzzle. It was a complex mammalian interaction that varied in fascinating ways as the days of the month ticked by or as you altered factors such as pheromones and drink.
It was like a game of chess. And Charles was good at chess. Once you knew the rules, it was easy. You could play almost without thinking. And when the game was over - mate. Apt enough word. Simple. Not boring. Simple. Elegant. Not dull. You didn’t call a formula dull because you could grasp it the instant you glanced at it and spend the rest of the evening thinking about Gregor Mendel. (Dirty mind, for a monk, Charles thought, staring with an expression of exaggerated interest at some dark-haired Newnham charmer. Living vicariously through his bean plants.)
But in general chess was a dispiriting exercise. Nobody beat him at chess. No one had in years, since he was twelve and had moved the wrong bishop by mistake. Not to say that courtship was a dispiriting game, of course, or that his approach was so mechanical that sometimes even the girl would notice that he was not paying attention. No. Any lack of enthusiasm on his part no doubt sprang from the scientific temperament. And besides, there was a goal in sight. Charles was trying to reach a number of conquests that was a perfect square. He felt that this was the sort of thing that Charles Xavier would do.
He was on number fifteen.
And then this thing had happened.
He had found the German in the water.
Chapter Two