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It Better Be What You Want

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Erik stares at both of them, unable to glean which is real and which is Raven. It had better be Raven; if not, it's some other metamorph, and he hasn't seen one of those come past Cerebro in weeks. The one they did track down was in no condition to be doing this; reshaping one's body into sculpted muscle is one thing, but hand-to-hand combat like this one is carrying out with Charles is something else entirely.

Charles would be losing badly if it weren't for the telepathy. Being able to read an opponent's mind means being able to block almost anything, so long as the body permits-- as Erik knows only too well. They're both hurting, both bruised, both sweating, both cut and bloody, and Erik isn't sure which of them he wants to fuck more.

"Oh hell," Charles says, just as his opponent flips him to the ground, and Charles glares at Erik. "Stop thinking so loudly, damn you, it's distracting me."

"Ah," Erik says, and he steps forward. He's no stranger to hand-to-hand combat, and not a weakling either, and there is just something-- magnetic, almost, and he winces at the pun-- about both Charles and his opponent. "I could provide further distractions if that would be helpful?"

Charles's opponent glances up, and Charles helpfully fills in the pertinent information. Wesley Gibson. Inherited mutation. Time-slowing, and something about bending bullets, I haven't figured it out yet. Erik meets Wesley's eyes and nods, and although Wesley doesn't seem to have Charles's gift for telepathy, he gives Erik a long once-over before rolling off Charles and taking to his feet again.

Erik stands back, well back, against the wall of the workout room, and when Wesley's eyes snap back to Charles and Charles sets up for another round, Erik shutters his thoughts. It won't do to have Charles know that he's thinking about wrenching Wesley's arm up behind his back and fucking into him while Charles projects filthy thoughts into his head; perhaps if Wesley were a telepath, but no, this fantasy he'll have to keep to himself. For now.

Now that he knows the details, it's easier for Erik to follow the fight. Bursts of movement that are impossibly fast (but nothing's impossible, not really), where Wesley's probably enforcing a time dilation field that probably doesn't extend any farther than his own skin, and Charles using everything he can glean from Wesley's mind to counter the attacks as they happen. Then pauses, and the verbal sparring dances in between the physical.

"Thought you weren't a big fan of violence," Wesley comments.

More flurry of activity, that ends with Charles pinned against a wall with one hand twisted behind his back, and his expression is a battle between pain and exultation.

"I prefer," panting, "only when," a hard swallow, "necessary why do you ask--"

He twists, ducks out of Wesley's hold, but Erik can tell that he's in a losing chess match. Then again, Erik figures he knows he's losing: the point is to test the new recruit. To push him.

Maybe also to push Erik.

"So why him?" Wesley demands, with a nod to Erik, and again their eyes meet. Erik feels a thrill run down his spine, and hopes that this one stays. Not all of the mutants they find come with them, not all the ones that come stay, and not all of the mutants are particularly useful in their abilities.

Or, Erik thinks, quite this fuckable.

"Who, Erik?" Charles blocks a move, fails to block another, and ends up flat on his back again.

"I've seen trained killers," Wesley says, kind of flatly.

"Erik's not--" Charles looks at Erik too, and cuts himself off. "That's not-- he--"

Sweaty, bruised, just this side of exhausted, and perplexed. Erik's grin widens.

"Not only," Erik says, and Wesley carefully peels himself off of Charles, stands up and bounces a little on his toes.

It's the clearest invitation Erik has gotten since the day Charles sent thoughts into his mind, thoughts of yes and will you and want, want, fuck me. Erik shucks his jacket, leaving it puddled on the floor by the wall, and comes forward.

He stretches out with his magnetism, feeling for anything he can get a handle on, anything he can use. Nothing on Wesley's tight long-sleeved t-shirt, but Wesley's wearing jeans. Rivets at either end of his pockets, one on the vestigial change pocket, the brass button at the top of his fly, the zipper. The belt offers a heavy steel buckle, even better, and oh yes, those are steel-toed boots he's wearing.

Charles backs up to watch, and Erik crouches down, arms extended, keeping his power in check for now. He'll see what he can do hand-to-hand, first, and go in with his power to end it.

Where Wesley can't see, Charles mimes putting his fingers to his head: a clear invitation of assistance, but Erik shakes his head. That, in his opinion, would be cheating.

Also, he really doesn't want Charles in his head. Not yet. When (and it's definitely a when, not an if) they're fucking, sure, but not now.

Still Charles slithers in with a be careful, he's--

Erik doesn't even see Wesley move, and it's only years of practice, of pushing himself to his own physical limits, that gives him even a chance of reacting. It's all instinct, none of it conscious thought.

--fast, Charles finishes, and adds ruefully, Sorry?

Erik spares enough energy to turn his head and shoot Charles a glare, in lieu of a verbal refutation, and then turns all his attention back to the man in front of him. He's a decent fighter, obviously not trained from childhood or anything that drastic, and obviously relying on his mutant powers as much as anything else.

All things considered, though, the guy's good. Even after fighting Charles, he's winded but not exhausted, not yet.

He's also a cocky arrogant little bastard-- a trait, granted, that Charles shares-- and so when Erik does end up pinning him down by boot and waist, trapping Wesley's wrists above his head and using his body weight as a completely unnecessary supplement, the thud of him going down is perhaps a little louder than Erik meant it.

But the guy just grins. "You don't play fair."

Erik raises an eyebrow at him. "Neither do you."

"Pretty much never," Wesley confirms, and his eyes slide over to Charles. Erik doesn't dare look back at Charles to see what that look means, how Charles responds to it, but Charles is there in the back of his mind anyway, whispering a yes, do it, want to see that at him.

He hesitates a fraction of an instant too long, and Wesley slips one wrist out from under Erik's grip, reaching up and catching Erik by the shirt. He drags Erik down to him, and his teeth are sharp where they cut into Erik's lip, but Erik's so busy forcing Wesley's mouth open and kissing him that he doesn't even feel it.

He does feel Wesley rippling under him, like he's trying to arch up against the magnetic restraints. Erik has a hand free now, so he presses it against Wesley's chest, keeping him down-- what he wouldn't give for a metal collar, and behind him, Charles makes a choked noise.

Erik pulls back from the kiss; his hand slides up to form a collar of sorts around Wesley's bare neck, fingers and thumb and webbing in between settling nicely against the sweat-slick skin. "It isn't nice to eavesdrop, Charles," he murmurs, deadpan.

Charles returns with a mental image of what he's seeing, and a wordless feeling of want-now-want-more-sofuckinggood-want-Erik-please, and Erik just laughs and dives in for another kiss, holding nothing back.

Wesley gives as good as he's getting, and for all he looks exactly like Charles-- well, the musculature is a little different, but superficially, the face, the bone structure, the height-- he doesn't kiss like Charles. Wesley kisses like a man who learned the hard way to take what he wanted, like a man who spent his whole life being what other people expected, and now his life's his own and he's damned if he's going to waste it.

He has a brutal, selfish way of kissing; he's opening his mouth against Erik's and licking in again, and again, no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners. It's so hot and so violently arousing that Erik can't stop himself from snarling, from grabbing Wesley at the shoulders and slamming him flat against the floor, from sending his magnetism at Wesley's fly and pressing against his cock in a way that's more punishment than caress.

"Shit," Wesley gasps, jerking his legs-- not going anywhere, though, not while Erik has him pinned. "Shit, yeah, give it-- give it to me, c'mon--"

His voice is higher than Charles's, his accent the boring flat vowels and sharp or swallowed consonants of North America, and Erik is consumed with the desire to hear what please, Erik, fuck me sounds like on Wesley's lips. He shoves a hand between them, fuck the magnetism, fuck the clothes, he just pushes his hand straight down the front of Wesley's pants and grips his cock, hard.

Wesley's face contorts in a beautiful mixture of pain and arousal and sheer ecstasy. He pushes up into Erik's grip, hands fisting in Erik's shirt, demanding more with every fiber of his being. "Yeah yeah yeah," he breathes, and pulls Erik down again, aiming not for his mouth but for his neck and biting down.

It's arousing as hell, but Erik growls, low and menacing. His grip on Wesley's cock tightens, relaxes, tightens again and holds. Wesley's groaning, and Erik bears down and says, "I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck you," Wesley snarls.

Erik throws his head back and laughs. "Close," he comments, "but not quite what I had in mind." But to be on the safe side he thinks a ?? at Charles-- normally not a reliable way to attract attention since he's got no telepathic abilities, but there's no way Charles isn't already listening in.

He wants, Charles confirms. I want.

"Care to join us?" Erik says aloud, at the same time as he floods his mind with images of the three of them together, of Charles fucking Wesley's mouth while Erik fucks his arse, of sheer primal need amplified by the adrenaline in all their systems from the sparring matches. He is rewarded with a deep groan from Charles's direction.

"Not fair," Wesley says. His tongue strokes up the side of Erik's neck, and when he pulls back, there's a furrow between his brows, like he's thinking hard-- and when Charles walks around to where both Erik and Wesley can see him, Erik has a suspicion that Wesley's thoughts were meant for Charles the same way Erik's own have been.

Charles strips out of his shirt, drops it to the floor. He kicks his shoes off and drops the sweatpants as well, the briefs, shoving everything well out of the way. That done, he kneels down next to them and murmurs, "Hang on a minute," and his fingers go to his temple and--

.....Dizziness, difference, three perspectives all at once. Kneeling on the floor, sweat drying between his shoulderblades, love and need and affection written all over his mind when he looks at Erik, fascination and interest and a hint of chagrin at the amount of attraction he has for Wesley. Lying on top of Wesley, body aching to take more, power thrumming through him as Wesley moves and tests the grip Erik has on him. Emotions turning cartwheels; deep connection to Charles, intrigue for the stranger, arousal from the fight and the bite and every little flare of strained muscle, lust overriding everything. Caught under Erik, anything but helpless, lonely too long and angry about it, ass aching to be fucked and he'd take it from either, from both, both at fucking once if they'd let him the hell up--.....

All three men groan out loud, and Erik comes up to his knees, still straddling Wesley at the hips. "Him first or me?" Erik asks.

Wesley just pants, eyes going from one to the other. Erik grins (and he's still got traces of Charles in his head, which means he can see the grin the way Charles does, teeth and need and ohgodwant) and pulls Charles in for a kiss; it's gentler than the one with Wesley, but not by much, and he can feel Wesley still aching underneath him.

"Shit," Wesley manages, drawing the word out. "Need-- fuck--" Half command, half plea, and the word sounds somehow coarser in his accent, more vulgar.

"Me, I think," Charles interprets. "To start." His voice is mild, but Erik's known him long enough to hear the undercurrents. "Erik, if you wouldn't mind?"

Erik grins and releases some of the magnetic hold he has on Wesley. Not all of it: just enough that they can get his jeans down and off. Wesley surges up immediately, grabbing for Charles's head and pulling him in for a hungry kiss, looking like he's doing his best to crawl inside of Charles and stay there.

So fucking beautiful, Erik thinks.

He snakes the belt out of the discarded jeans and whips it around Wesley's wrists, cinching it tight enough to bind without damaging anything. Wesley swears incoherently and bites Charles's lower lip, and Charles laughs, bright and giddy and full of need.

"Something else you might want," Erik says, using his power to draw his jacket over, and both Charles and Wesley look at him, faces mirroring each other in surprise and curiosity. They do look so much alike, and Erik's going to have them both before they're through, has every intention of going from one to the other and fucking into Charles, and then Wesley, and then Charles again, taking note of the differences and checking for similarities in the sounds they make when they're being pushed past the point of coherence.

Of course, the look on Charles's face quickly morphs into wicked anticipation, and he says, "You still have things from that night out, that's good, that's handy." He helps Wesley into a full kneel, kneeling in front of him to match, and he curls one hand around Wesley's throat and slips his fingers into Wesley's hair, smoothing sweat-slick strands back off his face.

Wesley's still keeping an eye on Erik, and when Erik finally gets into his jacket pocket and retrieves a strip of condoms and a few packets of lube, Wesley laughs. "So you do this a lot," he says.

Erik exchanges a look with Charles. "No," he says, and Charles confirms it with a wry twist of his lips. "But then again, not never."

Charles tightens his grasp on Wesley's throat, and Wesley grunts, his cock jerking. Erik comes over and sweeps a hand down Wesley's stomach to his cock, and he gets his hand on it, gives it a nice long stroke. There are differences here-- Wesley's cut, Charles isn't-- but the thick length in Erik's hand is more than pleasing, and the motions Erik uses when he's jerking off Charles seem equally effective with Wesley, who's moaning and pushing forward, a motion that presses his throat tightly against Charles's hand.

Erik places his free hand on the nape of Wesley's neck, his fingers overlapping Charles's, the two of them forming a collar of flesh. Wesley shudders hard, rocking forward again. Erik leans in to graze his teeth on the curve of Wesley's ear. "You're ours now," he whispers, and it seems to be the right thing to say because Wesley bites off a shout and comes, shooting thick jets over Erik's hand and Charles's stomach.

Slowly, relishing the way the other two are watching him, Erik brings his hand to his mouth and flicks his tongue out, tasting Wesley's seed. This, too, is different, nuances of flavour that Erik soaks in, memorizing as he licks his hand clean.

Tease, Charles says in his head.

"You're one to talk," Erik murmurs in response.

Wesley, still panting and still leaning into both of them, growls. "Enough talking, fuck me already."

"Well," Charles says, "since you ask so nicely," and he gives a slow lascivious smile.

Erik is by now the only one of the three of them still wearing clothes, which seems terribly unfair. Charles seems to have matters-- matters meaning Wesley-- well in hand, so Erik steps away, dries his palm on the thigh of his jeans, and starts stripping off.

On the floor, Charles leaves a series of small, gentle kisses across Wesley's face, all of them nearly chaste until he reaches a cut on Wesley's cheek, a light smear of blood drying there. He curves his tongue over Wesley's cheekbone, licks back and forth while Wesley hisses and does anything but pull away.

"Down," Charles says roughly, grabbing Wesley by the back of the neck and angling him onto the floor. Wesley doesn't argue it, though he grunts with the positioning; with his hands bound behind him he's got no choice but to put his chest down, his shoulder and face on the floor. He squirms and gets his legs spread, his knees still bent beneath his torso, and he looks every inch a slut just waiting to be used. Like Charles does, when it's just the two of them, only this time Erik gets to watch Charles's lookalike playing the role of slut and Charles himself playing the role of slutbreaker.

Erik's naked by now, and he passes a hand down his cock, urgent but deferred. He'll wait, damn it; he wants to see this happen too much to let himself get involved just yet.

"Tell me what you want," Charles says. There's silence for a minute-- silence and stillness, and this is one of the few times that Erik wishes he had his own telepathic ability, because something's going on between them-- and then Charles pulls back, fingernails scraping lightly against the length of Wesley's upper arms. "Don't think it. Say it."

Wesley's mouth snaps stubbornly closed, and the look he gives Charles is a challenge: make me.

Charles could, in a literal sense; he could get inside Wesley's head and use his body like a puppet. But that's not where the fun lies, and so Erik isn't surprised when Charles raises one hand and brings it down with a resounding slap on Wesley's raised arse. The skin goes pink, brighter than the flush in his face.

Wesley grunts and bucks upwards, every inch of him demanding more. Charles, looking as intent as though he's solving all the world's problems, passes the pad of his thumb in a swipe over the mark he left, and then bends down very gracefully to kiss the curve of the other arsecheek and then bite down, leaving also-flushed teeth imprints in the skin.

"Shit," Wesley gasps out, "fuckfuckfuck yes God yes more please give it."

Charles looks at Erik in amusement, head tilted, like he's asking for permission. Erik silently floats one of the condom packets over, helpfully even tearing it open for him, and Charles snatches it out of the air with a grin and turns back to Wesley.

At this stage even Erik's nearly ready to beg, a fact Erik desperately tries to conceal from Charles. Charles, though, is intent on what he's doing: rolling the condom down over his cock, sliding his thumbs into Wesley's cleft, holding him open.

"What do you think? Just like this, or do we play nice?"

Wesley grunts, hands clenching and unclenching. "Do it, do it, you guys are-- fucking cocktease, c'mon."

"Hmm." Charles shakes his head. "No. No, I think we'd better play nice."

He leans down and gets his hand into Wesley's hair, drags his head back so his neck arches. His throat works, silently, but if there's any part of him that's not sure, that doesn't want this, Erik can't see it-- and he's betting Charles can't, either.

"After all," Charles growls, "you could be taking both of us before you're through."

"All talk," Wesley says, but he's panting a little harder than he was before. He shakes his head, tries to tug it out of Charles's grip. Charles lets him go, and Wesley ends up on the floor again, wincing at the impact.

"Erik," Charles murmurs. "Would you?"

"I thought you'd never ask," Erik says. He grabs up a lube packet and snaps it open, and then he heads over to the two of them, squeezing the lube out onto three fingers and coating them carefully.

Charles still has Wesley held open, nice and ready for this, and Erik isn't cautious, doesn't go easy: he pushes all three fingers in, rough, twisting them, reaching forward with his free hand to catch Wesley's shoulder when Wesley starts gasping and squirming away. He's got enough armspan-- Wesley, like Charles, is shorter enough than Erik for it to make a big difference-- to drag Wesley back against his hand, over and over, opening him up and making sure he's ready.

"I guess I got to fuck him first after all," Erik murmurs, and he gives his hand one more rough, brutal twist, one that sends Wesley into incoherent yells.

He considers doing more, considers adding more lube and more fingers until his whole hand disappears inside. It wouldn't be easy, because he's not got the smallest hands in the world, but it would be so, so very gorgeous.

Charles clears his throat. "Not this time, Erik," he says, voice mild but hoarsened beyond his control.

Erik can see the change in Wesley's expression, when he goes from fucking teases still talking what is fucking wrong with them to actually processing the words and realizing that there might just possibly be a next time; for a moment there is a sort of hope in his eyes, but then it goes back to the impatience, the need to be fucked, and Erik grins and tosses the lube packet over to Charles.

Now it's his turn to hold Wesley in position, as Charles slicks himself up with very little ceremony and kneels up. He lets his fingers trail over Charles's cock as he lines up, and Charles gasps and sends him a mental stop that, and makes a face at Erik's innocent look. I want to fuck him, he adds, the mental voice a little plaintive.

"Nothing stopping you," Erik sends, not-so-idly reaching for one of the condom packets himself.

"You two," Wesley comments in a strangled voice, "are the worst-- oh fuck," as Charles enters him. "Fuck yes c'mon don't hold back--"

Charles is tremblingly still for a moment, and looks at Erik, raising an eyebrow. "You might need to brace him."

"Better idea," Erik murmurs, and-- when he's fairly sure Charles is at least half paying attention to Erik's mind-- thinks about what it would be like to have Erik fuck Charles while Charles is fucking Wesley.

Charles hisses out a "Fuck, Erik," which he chooses to interpret as a yes.

Another lube packet, then, because Erik's feeling generous toward Charles; he is, after all, agreeing to be the middleman in this delicious encounter. Once he's behind Charles, he slicks his fingers again-- but he doesn't move them into Charles's ass, not yet.

Wesley snarls and struggles with his bindings, and Erik takes pity; with no one to hold him in place, it might be nice to let him brace himself. He flicks the belt off Wesley's arms with a thought and a quick gesture, and Wesley responds by slamming one flat palm against the floor, explosive-- the floor shudders-- and then getting both hands beneath him as he slams back against Charles.

Charles gasps aloud and then catches Wesley's hips in his hands, holding on so tightly his knuckles go white. Erik, you'd better hurry--

He does; he drives his fingers into Charles and twists them, giving Charles a hell of a lot less tender caretaking, such as it was, and just opening him up as fast as he can.

From the way Charles is breathing, desperate growled rushes of air, Erik doesn't really think Charles minds.

Condom, yes, before he's too lust-maddened to remember such things; he rolls it on and he's ready, one hand coming up to Charles's shoulder as the other steadies his own cock.

Now, Erik, nownownow, Charles tells him, and Erik doesn't keep him waiting anymore: he pushes in hard, slamming Charles's hips against Wesley's ass in the bargain.

He doesn't even pretend to be gentle. Charles doesn't need it, Wesley doesn't seem to want it, and Erik's grip tightens on Charles's shoulder as he slams forward again. He can feel the rippling impacts: him against Charles against Wesley, who shoves back against every thrust.

Charles, caught in the middle, has his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He also has his mind open to both of them, reading and broadcasting what each of them are feeling, and it should be confusing as hell but it's also a feedback loop of sharp bright pleasure (and not just that, want and need and pleasurepain and jumbled emotions and racing disjointed thoughts) that just builds on itself.

Erik is used to this sort of feedback loop; it's the advantage and disadvantage of having a telepath for a lover. Doesn't make it any easier to deal with, though, especially not when there's three of them.

He wants this to last forever.

Can't, Charles manages to tell him, and even his mental voice is winded and broken and close to shattering with lust.

Without slowing the pace of anything, Erik leans in enough to nuzzle at Charles's neck, brushing his teeth against skin without biting down. Charles gives a wrenching sob and pleaseyes floods into Erik's mind.

Erik hums against Charles's skin. There's a gorgeous bruise starting to show from the earlier sparring session; Erik shifts to that and sucks, and he can feel the shiver of pleasure that runs through Charles's entire body.

Charles is holding onto Wesley's hips, and the way his fingers are digging in, there will be some extra bruising there too.

The way Wesley is scrabbling for purchase against the floor, struggling but not fighting, not unwilling, letting himself be taken? He's not minding in the least.

Erik can hold out, he's made it through mind-blowing encounters before and prided himself on having the strongest sense of-- control, discipline, whatever it is that can keep him driving into a partner again and again until his partner shatters. Charles, he's less sure about, and Wesley-- he's come once already, but Erik's gut tells him Wesley's up for at least one more.

Long as Erik's arms are, though, he can't possibly reach, so he slides his hand down Charles's arm and tangles their fingers together. "Be nice," Erik says, "give him a reach-around."

"Oh fuck yes," Wesley gasps, steadying himself on his hands, straightening his back so Charles has room. Charles slips his hand free of Erik's, flattens himself against Wesley's back, and works Wesley's cock-- and when he starts, he makes sure to send the feeling along to all three of them, each of them spellbound by the harsh, heavy strokes. It's one more sensation on top of everything else that's happened in this room today, and as Erik plants a hand on Charles's back, pinning him to Wesley, he lets himself get lost in them, both of them, all of them, Wesley and his aching ass and the urgent need to come again, Charles and his position between Wesley's gorgeous body and Erik's punishing thrusts, Erik and the rough drive into Charles that provides him with such an utterly perfect tableau, one into another into another...

"Fuck," Charles gasps, lost now, flying over the edge at full speed. He gets his hand into Wesley's hair and tugs, burying himself in Wesley's body until his thighs are too shot for him to move.

Wesley slaps his palm down on the floor again, this time in frustration. "So goddamn close," he growls out. "Don't stop now."

"Wasn't planning to," Erik shoots back, grinning fiercely. He strokes down Charles's arms, kisses the nape of his neck, and slides free. Charles whimpers slightly but manoeuvres himself out of the way, giving Erik straight access to Wesley.

Which he takes without preamble, eliciting a sharp noise from Wesley that could have been the start of a "Fuck" and could have just been him biting his lip hard enough to bleed and exhaling through that, but either way it's glorious. Erik doesn't bother with any additional lube, and a part of him wishes they didn't have to use condoms, because it would have been another level of fusion to be fucking Charles's seed deeper inside Wesley--

He isn't sure which of them groans, but it doesn't really matter.

Erik doesn't hold anything back. Neither does Charles, who is still maintaining a connection between the three of them: mingled sensations of fucking, of being fucked, of watching, Erik's iron control and Charles's sated pleasure and Wesley's aching need for more.

It's almost more than Erik can stand.


He slams into Wesley again and again, taking, claiming, owning. Wesley is making a high keening sound, punctuated by each thrust.

"Charles," Erik says, "if you would--"

And Charles, with a grin, wriggles into a position where he can take Wesley's cock into his mouth.

"So fucking beautiful," Erik murmurs.

If Erik thought Wesley was incoherent before, now he's nothing but instinct and lust and urgency; he fucks down hard into Charles's mouth, too hard if it weren't for the fact that Charles is used to that sort of treatment. Fucking Charles into you, Erik thinks, fucking you into Charles, embarrassment of riches, and there's a choking sound from Charles as the thought hits him and he tries to laugh.

But the vibrations do Wesley in, and he reaches down, gets a hand between his legs and gropes at Charles. Erik can feel what Charles is feeling, the awkward brush of Wesley's fingers against his shoulder, the much more certain motion when Wesley instead puts his hand at the base of his cock and lets Charles pull away and lick at fingers and shaft all at once, and then Wesley's hand grabbing up a fistful of Charles's hair, pinning him flat so Wesley can drag his cock across Charles's mouth and pant out, "Suck me."

Erik feels the thrill of triumph from Wesley, the satisfaction of being held still from Charles, and he slams into Wesley, sparked on to go harder as Wesley gasps.

And then Charles does something with his mouth and the words spill over Wesley's lips, his pleas nothing like Charles's, nothing like, because when Charles begs he knows he's going to get what he wants, and for Wesley it's just a long string of "need it, need it, please, fuck, please, can't, oh God, gonna, fuck I can't I can't--" and of course he can't; Charles is holding his orgasm off with his mind.

It's gorgeous. It's a leap of faith so wild Erik doesn't know how Wesley has the strength to make it, but he braces himself with a grip on Wesley's shoulders and moves in with intent, done waiting.

"Let him go," Erik breathes, and he can feel the key turning as Charles unlocks Wesley's capacity for orgasm. Wesley's motions go instantly erratic; he can't decide whether to push down and fuck Charles's mouth or push back and get fucked by Erik's cock, and it's everything, everyone's feelings at once, Wesley grunting with the rush of finally letting go, Erik moving inside him in a frenzy of want, Charles sucking and swallowing as he feels his lungs tighten with the strain of needing air.

Everything that Erik is feeling-- he can't keep them straight any more, who's feeling what, tightness around his cock as Wesley thrums with release, lungs straining for air even though he knows his mouth is clear, a feeling of finally oh God yes mingled with loneliness mingled with hope, overlapping with a mental wrench that has to be Charles wringing every last bit of pleasure from Wesley's mind even as Erik is doing with his body--

It's all too overwhelming, and Erik thrusts hard and lets himself disappear into the amalgam of their combined sensations and wants.

Erik, he can hear Charles say (and it's a mark of how far gone he is that he can't tell if he's saying it or thinking it). He pulls himself together enough to shift his weight off of Wesley with a grunt; but he keeps one arm draped across him, and Charles smiles brilliantly at him and moves in to kiss Wesley.

It's gentler this time, less like an attack and more like a caress, sloppy and lazy and full of all the tenderness in the world. Wesley groans, fingers tangling in Charles's sweat-spiky hair.

"It doesn't have to be," Charles murmurs, probably in response to something Wesley was thinking.

"Fuck," Wesley says, and something wrenches out of him that's half laughter and half sob. "I can't--"

"Can't, or don't want to?"

Wesley stares at him, and Charles smiles. Remember, we aren't limited by limits of the body, only the mind.

Wesley's whole body shivers at that, and Erik, not wanting to move, just thinks a lazy swat at Charles. He's used to it, to the times when Charles pushes him past what even he can endure and tugs pleasure out of him long after his body has surrendered, but Wesley probably isn't.

Charles gives a pleased hum, and reaches one hand out to Erik, lacing their fingers together over Wesley's back. "What do you think," he says impishly, "can we keep him?"

"That's not entirely our choice," Erik murmurs.

Wesley buries his face in the crook of one arm with a muffled groan. "Killing me here," he mumbles.

Charles disengages from Erik long enough to draw Wesley's arm gently away from his face, cupping Wesley's cheek in his hand. "It might not always be like this," he says, "but I don't think you'll ever be bored here."

Erik spoons in behind Wesley and presses his face against the back of Wesley's neck. Wesley exhales softly, his breath falling into a rhythm with Charles's. Erik's hand slips down to Wesley's hip, and he bites lightly at the place where Wesley's neck curves into his shoulder.

It's a hard thing, going from being alone and never really recognizing there's an option for anything else, to realizing someone's willing to take you in. Whoever you are. Whatever you've done. Charles's gift is acceptance; Erik's gift is something else. He digs his fingers in against Wesley's hip, and Wesley turns his head, looks back over his shoulder at Erik.

"If I stay," Wesley tells Erik, "I want a rematch."

Erik grins at him, at Charles behind him, whose eyes are lighting up with possibilities. "You'll get it."