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It Is What It Always Is

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Charles pushes in, quick and easy, one hand wrapping around Erik's face to cover his mouth. There are other ways to ensure Erik won't make a sound, but this one presses it into Erik's skin, where Erik can't hide from it.

He wasn't going to make a sound anyway; it's not as if Charles hurt him. Which isn't to say Charles couldn't, if he wanted to-- oh, God, he's big enough for that, his short stature betraying nothing of what he has between his legs, what Erik's been desperate for since they first met, what he's wanted Charles to give him since he felt Charles's arms around him the first time, in the water.

But no: tonight it didn't hurt because Erik was ready for him. Erik spent the whole night slicked and ready, lying in bed, on his stomach, waiting for Charles to slip out of his bed and into Erik's. He was nearly sweating with anticipation, shaking with it, by the time he felt the mattress dip down and felt Charles draw the covers away.

Charles is always quick, selfish, going in with a particular rhythm that he likes, driving in with sharp little thrusts that make Erik pant against his palm. It doesn't matter. When the speed picks up and Charles gets close, Erik always comes, eyes shut tight, cock jerking underneath him. He always stains the sheets with it and has to fall asleep in the damp spot, after.

And this time it's no different, Erik fucking back hard against Charles's cock, his own cock thrusting against the sheets. He doesn't even need a hand; he doesn't need Charles to touch him, doesn't need to touch himself. He shoves his ass back against Charles's cock and comes, moaning and gasping against Charles's hand.

It doesn't stop Charles. Charles goes at him again and again, thrust after thrust, until Erik has to grit his teeth together and hold his breath. Now it hurts; now Charles is using the strength in his hips and his thighs and his back, every inch of Charles's body focused on fucking Erik as hard as he possibly can. And as Charles presses him down into the smears of his own come, Erik thinks: please, please, don't ever let this end.

It's either irony or a sure sign that Charles is listening in, the timing. As soon as Erik thinks it, Charles comes, giving Erik one last achingly deep thrust before collapsing against his back. He presses his face between Erik's shoulderblades, breathing warm air against his skin.


Erik closes his eyes, tries to imagine his words carrying back to Charles through the air, like radio waves. «Charles...»

And then Charles is moving, slipping free of Erik's body, climbing up another few inches to get his teeth on the back of Erik's neck.


Erik shivers, presses his face into his pillow. «Yes.»

Charles licks over his bite and finally slides out of bed, disappearing into the bathroom. Water runs; he can hear the splash of it in the sink, the quiet sounds of Charles cleaning himself up.

Erik doesn't bother. He never bothers. He breathes in deeply, tries to hold onto the smell of sex and shame for as long as he can. There's something about the way Charles thinks whore at him that makes him feel bright inside, brittle, but warm. Maybe it shouldn't be a surprise, that the telepath he's been traveling with all these months knows exactly what he needs.

He hears Charles come back out of the bathroom, hears the soft creak of bedsprings as Charles climbs back into his own small bed. He falls asleep with his back and ass bared, sheet tugged down around his thighs, come sticky and cold against his thighs and his cock and his stomach.

He wakes up warm, blankets pulled up to his shoulders, sheets a bit stiff but body cleaner than it has any right to be after all that. A wisp of memory, waking up to the sensation of a warm washcloth on him, a soft mental suggestion that soothed him back to sleep: «shhhh, you don't have to wake up, it's all right.»

Charles is already up, showered, dressed. "Did you sleep well?" he asks, when Erik comes up on his elbows and looks blearily around for coffee.

"Yes," Erik murmurs, "like every night."

Charles smiles at him. Erik tugs on a pair of boxers, under the bedsheets, and then pads to the bathroom to get ready for the day.