Chessmen, Part 2 (X-Men: First Class, Erik/Charles)
Chessmen
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Disclaimer: All of these characters belong to Marvel. And Stan Lee. If I owned them, this would be canon.
Part One is here
Rating: NC-17
2.
Sometimes he could swear Erik was a telepath; the whole ride to the strip club to find the first recruit he had been joking and grinning that grin again and never looking away.
“Let’s have a drink,” Erik said, when they reached the bar. “Brandy.”
“You don’t want brandy,” Charles had said, hand flicking almost reflexively to his temple. “You want something with an umbrella in it.”
“I know what I want.”
“No, I do,” Charles said. He’d looked up and grinned into the blue eyes when the waiter came. “Brandy and a daiquiri, please.”
It came with two umbrellas and two straws.
“You’ll have to drink that,” Erik said. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“It’s what you want.”
“Has it occurred to you that I may be playing mind games with you?” Erik said.
“You’re not that good,” Charles said.
“Am I not?” Again the grin. “All right. I’ll think of two things. Tell me which one I really want.”
“You can’t win.” Charles settled down with his finger to his temple. He ran immediately into a strong image of pie and a vague glimpse of a naked woman whom he did not recognize. “Pie.”
“Mm.” The eyebrows lifted. Charles found himself presented with a daiquiri and - an image of himself, naked, flushed, arms pinioned to a bedpost by coiling metal snakes. His mouth dropped open.
Erik’s grin broadened to envelop his whole face. The mental image of Charles made a pathetic little whimper.
“Erik, that’s juvenile,” Charles breathed, trying frantically to calm himself. Calm your mind, he repeated. Calm your mind. His mind was not being assisted by the sudden insistent throbbing in his pants.
“You’re going to be in my head, I might as well enjoy it,” Erik shrugged. The mental Charles slipped one hand free of the bedpost and began touching himself, emitting a strangled moan.
“You aren’t giving me enough credit in the trousers department,” Charles said, trying to sound as casual as possible. Erik lifted his eyebrows in response.
“Cheeky. Tell me I’ve won,” he said, his tone almost level. But Charles caught the hitch in his breath, and suddenly he was grinning too.
“I don’t think you have,” his mind whispered, pushing in a little farther, delicately. If he was hard now - and I am, he conceded - Erik was harder. He felt the frenzied effort at self-control, the insistent throbbing of arousal. There was something infinitely delicious about this precarious balance, and suddenly he wanted to see how far he could push Erik. He seized the image, pulled his imagined self free of restraints, adjusted it for scale, threw on an imaginary bathrobe-
“Well, really,” Erik said aloud-that was definitely disappointment Charles detected in his tone.
--and produced an equally tousled, naked Erik, hair askew, eyes alight, cock fully erect, sprawled on his back on the bed.
“Gah,” Erik murmured, biting his lip. Charles was laughing now, but he could feel his own erection throb under the table.
“You want me out of your head, I’ll get out,” he muttered, but he heard the roughness in his voice as he said it and knew that Erik heard it too, that they were locked into this battle now.
“Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” Erik said, and he was grinning again, and those blue eyes were laughing, and the sensation in Charles’ pants was almost unbearable, he wanted to touch himself so badly, to alleviate this any way he could, but instead he thought, “Calm your mind, calm your mind,” and Erik seemed to hear it, because he laughed, and said, “Calm your mind?” and Charles glowered at him, threw the bathrobe off his imagined self, and straddled the imaginary Erik on the bed-
“Gah,” he felt rather than heard himself saying, and he couldn’t help it, he was reaching for the fastening of his trousers, but the metal zipper refused to move and Eric’s grin told him exactly why it wouldn’t.
“Not fair,” he hissed.
And then Erik had seized control of his mental image again and the Erik on the imaginary bed had pulled his own image into a bruising kiss, flipped their positions so that now he was the one sitting astride, shoved Charles’ hands down against the mattress, and the imaginary Charles was emitting that same desperate whimper.
“Please,” Charles said, not knowing what he was asking for, only knowing that he was too far gone, there was no going back now, they had to finish it, and he suddenly did not remember or care particularly how it had started, he was so hard that he could not think, and he had begun shifting helplessly against the bar to find any friction he could. “Not here,” he began feebly, his cock straining against the unmoving zipper.
“Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” Erik repeated, but his forehead was soaking with sweat, his pupils dilated, and each word seemed to be ripped from his throat.
Then Charles’ hand had reached across the gap beneath the table and cupped him, firmly, through the front of his trousers, and his eyes flickered shut for a moment. “Not here,” he hissed.
“Can’t - stand - the heat-get out of the - kitchen,” Charles retorted, laughing, beginning to move his hand, and Erik’s image seized its Charles’ buttocks in strong long-fingered hands and pulled him nearer and the imaginary Charles murmured “Fuck me, Erik, please,” and Charles was embarrassingly unsure whether he or Erik had put this idea in the image’s head, but it was enough to make Erik shudder and emit a little gasp and Charles could feel a jet of warmth through the fabric of the other man’s trousers, and then he felt the world beginning to dissolve into little fireworks and he emerged from Erik’s mind in an explosion of white, spilling into the front of his own pants.
“I won,” Erik said, several moments later, after they had stared at each other slack-jawed for what Einstein would have called an eternity.
“I won,” Charles shot back, feeling unpleasantly sticky and momentarily wandering his mind around the room to clean up any traces of disturbance among the other people in the bar.
“You cheated,” Erik said. “You weren’t supposed to - you know.”
“You cheated too,” Charles pointed out. They looked down and noticed with a start that all the silverware had tied itself in knots. “Does this happen whenever you - you know?” Charles said.
Erik was regarding the silverware with some surprise. “It’s never happened before,” he said, casually untangling a fork. “But this was more -” He ran his tongue over his lips in what seemed almost an unconscious gesture, and Charles felt his spent cock twitch. “Volatile. Than usual.”
Calm your mind. Calm your mind. Oh, fuck. “I have to go to bed,” he said suddenly, getting up and stepping awkwardly away from the bar. “Tomorrow’s a busy day, recruiting and such.”
“We must do this again sometime.” That same unflappable grin. The eyes met his - apparently unashamed. He couldn’t actually want this, Charles thought. And that vision of me, glimpsed through those azure eyes, flushed and whimpering and pliant and wanting to be taken and fucked and bent as metal bends - that was not Charles Xavier, Phd. he thought indignantly. I’m in control. My mind is calm. I use my power. It doesn’t use me. I don’t want to be used and bent and pounded into oblivion with my wrists bound to the headboard and every inch of that perfect cock rammed inside me until I can’t even remember my own name and those eyes boring into mine and - Christ I’m glad I’m the telepath not him.
“You just whimpered,” Erik said.
“I didn’t fucking whimper,” Charles shot back. “I’m going to bed.”
“Alone?” Erik frowned.
“It was just a silly game, Erik.”
“For a mind-manipulating telepath you’re a terrible liar,” Erik said. He sounded very nearly disappointed. Charles continued walking away. When he got to bed he could not sleep. He wound up taking several cold showers, wanking furtively and furiously to the cacophony of images from the afternoon - Erik’s face, watching him, those pupils dilated, the lips gently parted, the feel of his cock through the fabric of his pants, the wanton picture they had painted together. He lay in bed spent and exhausted, his mind wandering in spite of himself through the door that separated their suites, halting on the shore of Erik’s mind. “Night, Erik,” he thought, softly. “Night Charles,” the thought returned, with the unexpected softness of a caress.
So they were both awake.
It was a challenge.
BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE
Pairing: Erik/Charles
Disclaimer: All of these characters belong to Marvel. And Stan Lee. If I owned them, this would be canon.
Part One is here
Rating: NC-17
2.
Sometimes he could swear Erik was a telepath; the whole ride to the strip club to find the first recruit he had been joking and grinning that grin again and never looking away.
“Let’s have a drink,” Erik said, when they reached the bar. “Brandy.”
“You don’t want brandy,” Charles had said, hand flicking almost reflexively to his temple. “You want something with an umbrella in it.”
“I know what I want.”
“No, I do,” Charles said. He’d looked up and grinned into the blue eyes when the waiter came. “Brandy and a daiquiri, please.”
It came with two umbrellas and two straws.
“You’ll have to drink that,” Erik said. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“It’s what you want.”
“Has it occurred to you that I may be playing mind games with you?” Erik said.
“You’re not that good,” Charles said.
“Am I not?” Again the grin. “All right. I’ll think of two things. Tell me which one I really want.”
“You can’t win.” Charles settled down with his finger to his temple. He ran immediately into a strong image of pie and a vague glimpse of a naked woman whom he did not recognize. “Pie.”
“Mm.” The eyebrows lifted. Charles found himself presented with a daiquiri and - an image of himself, naked, flushed, arms pinioned to a bedpost by coiling metal snakes. His mouth dropped open.
Erik’s grin broadened to envelop his whole face. The mental image of Charles made a pathetic little whimper.
“Erik, that’s juvenile,” Charles breathed, trying frantically to calm himself. Calm your mind, he repeated. Calm your mind. His mind was not being assisted by the sudden insistent throbbing in his pants.
“You’re going to be in my head, I might as well enjoy it,” Erik shrugged. The mental Charles slipped one hand free of the bedpost and began touching himself, emitting a strangled moan.
“You aren’t giving me enough credit in the trousers department,” Charles said, trying to sound as casual as possible. Erik lifted his eyebrows in response.
“Cheeky. Tell me I’ve won,” he said, his tone almost level. But Charles caught the hitch in his breath, and suddenly he was grinning too.
“I don’t think you have,” his mind whispered, pushing in a little farther, delicately. If he was hard now - and I am, he conceded - Erik was harder. He felt the frenzied effort at self-control, the insistent throbbing of arousal. There was something infinitely delicious about this precarious balance, and suddenly he wanted to see how far he could push Erik. He seized the image, pulled his imagined self free of restraints, adjusted it for scale, threw on an imaginary bathrobe-
“Well, really,” Erik said aloud-that was definitely disappointment Charles detected in his tone.
--and produced an equally tousled, naked Erik, hair askew, eyes alight, cock fully erect, sprawled on his back on the bed.
“Gah,” Erik murmured, biting his lip. Charles was laughing now, but he could feel his own erection throb under the table.
“You want me out of your head, I’ll get out,” he muttered, but he heard the roughness in his voice as he said it and knew that Erik heard it too, that they were locked into this battle now.
“Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” Erik said, and he was grinning again, and those blue eyes were laughing, and the sensation in Charles’ pants was almost unbearable, he wanted to touch himself so badly, to alleviate this any way he could, but instead he thought, “Calm your mind, calm your mind,” and Erik seemed to hear it, because he laughed, and said, “Calm your mind?” and Charles glowered at him, threw the bathrobe off his imagined self, and straddled the imaginary Erik on the bed-
“Gah,” he felt rather than heard himself saying, and he couldn’t help it, he was reaching for the fastening of his trousers, but the metal zipper refused to move and Eric’s grin told him exactly why it wouldn’t.
“Not fair,” he hissed.
And then Erik had seized control of his mental image again and the Erik on the imaginary bed had pulled his own image into a bruising kiss, flipped their positions so that now he was the one sitting astride, shoved Charles’ hands down against the mattress, and the imaginary Charles was emitting that same desperate whimper.
“Please,” Charles said, not knowing what he was asking for, only knowing that he was too far gone, there was no going back now, they had to finish it, and he suddenly did not remember or care particularly how it had started, he was so hard that he could not think, and he had begun shifting helplessly against the bar to find any friction he could. “Not here,” he began feebly, his cock straining against the unmoving zipper.
“Can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen,” Erik repeated, but his forehead was soaking with sweat, his pupils dilated, and each word seemed to be ripped from his throat.
Then Charles’ hand had reached across the gap beneath the table and cupped him, firmly, through the front of his trousers, and his eyes flickered shut for a moment. “Not here,” he hissed.
“Can’t - stand - the heat-get out of the - kitchen,” Charles retorted, laughing, beginning to move his hand, and Erik’s image seized its Charles’ buttocks in strong long-fingered hands and pulled him nearer and the imaginary Charles murmured “Fuck me, Erik, please,” and Charles was embarrassingly unsure whether he or Erik had put this idea in the image’s head, but it was enough to make Erik shudder and emit a little gasp and Charles could feel a jet of warmth through the fabric of the other man’s trousers, and then he felt the world beginning to dissolve into little fireworks and he emerged from Erik’s mind in an explosion of white, spilling into the front of his own pants.
“I won,” Erik said, several moments later, after they had stared at each other slack-jawed for what Einstein would have called an eternity.
“I won,” Charles shot back, feeling unpleasantly sticky and momentarily wandering his mind around the room to clean up any traces of disturbance among the other people in the bar.
“You cheated,” Erik said. “You weren’t supposed to - you know.”
“You cheated too,” Charles pointed out. They looked down and noticed with a start that all the silverware had tied itself in knots. “Does this happen whenever you - you know?” Charles said.
Erik was regarding the silverware with some surprise. “It’s never happened before,” he said, casually untangling a fork. “But this was more -” He ran his tongue over his lips in what seemed almost an unconscious gesture, and Charles felt his spent cock twitch. “Volatile. Than usual.”
Calm your mind. Calm your mind. Oh, fuck. “I have to go to bed,” he said suddenly, getting up and stepping awkwardly away from the bar. “Tomorrow’s a busy day, recruiting and such.”
“We must do this again sometime.” That same unflappable grin. The eyes met his - apparently unashamed. He couldn’t actually want this, Charles thought. And that vision of me, glimpsed through those azure eyes, flushed and whimpering and pliant and wanting to be taken and fucked and bent as metal bends - that was not Charles Xavier, Phd. he thought indignantly. I’m in control. My mind is calm. I use my power. It doesn’t use me. I don’t want to be used and bent and pounded into oblivion with my wrists bound to the headboard and every inch of that perfect cock rammed inside me until I can’t even remember my own name and those eyes boring into mine and - Christ I’m glad I’m the telepath not him.
“You just whimpered,” Erik said.
“I didn’t fucking whimper,” Charles shot back. “I’m going to bed.”
“Alone?” Erik frowned.
“It was just a silly game, Erik.”
“For a mind-manipulating telepath you’re a terrible liar,” Erik said. He sounded very nearly disappointed. Charles continued walking away. When he got to bed he could not sleep. He wound up taking several cold showers, wanking furtively and furiously to the cacophony of images from the afternoon - Erik’s face, watching him, those pupils dilated, the lips gently parted, the feel of his cock through the fabric of his pants, the wanton picture they had painted together. He lay in bed spent and exhausted, his mind wandering in spite of himself through the door that separated their suites, halting on the shore of Erik’s mind. “Night, Erik,” he thought, softly. “Night Charles,” the thought returned, with the unexpected softness of a caress.
So they were both awake.
It was a challenge.
BUT WAIT THERE'S MORE