Work Text:
Charles wakes to the sensation of hot lips pressed against the junction between his neck and jaw, the scrape of stubble at the sensitive skin there. The light slanting into the tent is still cool and grey; it must be just past dawn. Too early to be awake.
"Erik," he mumbles sleepily in greeting, burying his face deeper into the soft furs of their sleeping pallet.
Erik, predictably, does not reply. But he kisses Charles' skin, firm and insistent, and his calloused hands knead at Charles' back. At his chest. Down his sides, until Charles feels himself flushing all over, blood warm.
Still more asleep than not, Charles moans as heat stirs deep in his belly. Instinctively, he shifts to lie properly on his front, spreading his legs. He feels more than he hears Erik's low rumble of approval, and the furs rub pleasantly against his skin as Erik adjusts his own position and climbs on top of Charles.
A second later he feels the head of Erik's cock press against his entrance. Through a haze of sleep Charles arches his hips invitingly, moaning again as Erik's whole length sinks easily into him, his hole still slick and loose from taking Erik's knot last night.
He drifts in and out of sleep as Erik fucks him, long and slow. It must be another two or three hours before he wakes properly, and by then his bed is cold and Erik is long gone, nothing left of him except his scent and the trickle of his seed down Charles' thighs.
All in all, a typical morning.
***
"Erik mekt lat?" Where is Erik? Charles asks Hank, feeling clumsy and childlike as he tries to wrap his tongue around Genoshan's distinctively different pronunciation. Languages have never been his forte; words, unlike thoughts, are so easily lost, so easy to misinterpret.
"Mekt," Hank corrects him patiently. "Try a bigger emphasis on the kt."
"Mekt," Charles repeats. "Erik mekt lat?"
"Ta isk." Hunting. "Tek ahn nemekh-lut shun lat."
"Sorry?"
"He will be back before sundown," Hank translates, and Charles sighs, rubbing his temples. This would be so much easier with his telepathy. He had planned to learn Genoshan properly, of course, but telepathy would have helped smooth the transition.
Hank gives him a sympathetic smile. "Please don't be discouraged, Your Highness, you've been making very good progress."
"Thank you. It's just..." Charles exhales sharply, not knowing if everything he says to Hank will just be relayed back to Erik, but he's so damn sick of keeping everything to himself. "I just wish I knew if Erik actually wants me to learn Genoshan."
"What do you mean?"
"Even with the language barrier, he sends such incredibly mixed messages. One second he's smiling when I try to speak Genoshan with him, and the next he's all...scowling and closed-off. He's only tried to respond to me the once or twice, did you know that?"
Hank's face falls. "Oh. Um."
Charles pins him with a sharp look. "What is it?”
Hank wrings his hands, and Charles sighs. "Hank..." With effort, he musters up an encouraging smile. "Just tell me if you can, please? I'd just like to know if I'm doing something wrong."
"No, of course not, you've done nothing wrong." Clearly torn, Hank hesitates for a long moment, then he gives a tight little smile. "You remember, back on the day you arrived, the Chieftain wanted me to examine you before the ceremony?"
Charles refuses to blush. "Of course." He can hardly forget the humiliation he felt - or the outrage. "Wait. You can't be serious, does Erik still not trust me? For godssakes, we're married! Mated, whatever you want to call it! I'm in his bed every night, I'm - "
His hand goes to his stomach, self-conscious of the new life - lives - inside him. Hank averts his eyes.
"The Chieftain takes the welfare of Genosha very seriously," he says uncomfortably. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but if it helps, some of us disagree with his decision."
"But not enough to fight it," Charles says flatly.
Hank looks miserable. Charles turns away. "I'm sorry, Hank, but I think I'd like to be alone for a while."
***
Erik's large, calloused hands, pinning his wrists over his head. His own voice, pitched high with desperation, begging to be fucked and filled in increasingly shameless little gasps and whimpers. Charles throws his head back and moans, heat burning in his blood, legs splayed obscenely wide as he hooks his knees around Erik's waist.
Slut, Cain's voice sneers inside his head. Little omega whore, good for one thing only.
"Yes," Charles hisses, "Harder, harder, please - " He breaks off into a strangled shout as Erik reaches down and begins to jerk him off roughly in time with his thrusts. Charles clenches around Erik's cock, bucking helplessly against him, unable to stem the flood of embarrassing, indecent noises tumbling from his mouth.
It's only later, with Erik's knot softening inside him and the sweat cooling on his skin, that the shame sets in.
Gods. What is wrong with him? He's - he's pregnant already, he knows that the same way he knows he had lost his virginity in front of hundreds upon hundreds of pairs of watching eyes, which is to say, it all feels like a dream. A bad dream, a guilty dream, the fevered imaginings of a heat-mad mind.
Shaking, Charles presses one hand against his stomach. Anywhere from two to six, Hank had said, with three and four being the most common.
In Westchester, even four is a rarity. It's a sign of moral failing, evidence of an omega unable to keep their legs closed when they had already been properly impregnated once. Slut, Cain's voice hisses again, venomous, and Charles presses his face into the furs. He's not. He's not, so why does his body enjoy the attention so much?
Behind him, Erik stirs, gathering him closer. Charles swallows and tries to stay still, but his thoughts race uncontrollably.
Multiple sires. That's the worst thing of all. It means utter, immediate ostracization. Only the lowest of the low allow themselves to be mounted by multiple alphas; the desperate and the destitute, selling their heats to alpha after alpha...
The press of Erik's body against his is suffocating. Charles can't help it anymore; gingerly, he tries to shift away, heart pounding in his chest. He needs to get out. Erik is still inside him, why is he-
"Zu nak?"
Charles freezes. He woke Erik.
"Zu nak, Charles?" Erik repeats, voice gentled by sleep. Are you all right, Charles? His calloused hands stroke gently down Charles' front, coming to rest on his stomach. He says something else in Genoshan, too fast for Charles to catch.
"Mena nak, matk te." I'm fine, thank you. But Charles can't stop the faint shivers coursing up his spine. Haltingly, he tries to cobble together an apology for waking Erik, but before he can get halfway, Erik kisses the nape of his neck and presses a finger against Charles' lips, hushing him.
Too close. Charles' pulse spikes, shoulders seizing together, and Erik makes a questioning little noise. Charles shakes his head. "Mena nak, mena nak," he repeats, with something approaching desperation. He needs to please Erik, he can't forget that. Please him, so the might of the Genoshan hordes won't be unleashed on the innocents of Westchester.
"Zu ekt nak," Erik rumbles. You're not fine.
This must be the longest conversation they've ever had. Just a few hours ago, Charles would have given anything for Erik to show the slightest bit of interest in him beyond the physical, but now, he's terrified. Terrified of being found wanting.
"Mena nak," he repeats.
Erik doesn't answer him. He only pulls away, and Charles flinches at the drag of his cock against the tender skin of his hole. Unsure of what to do, he stays curled up on the pallet as Erik looks through the tent for something, utterly self-assured despite his nakedness. Charles hears the sound of a match being struck, and a moment later Erik returns to him with a lit candle and a book in his hands. He offers it wordlessly to Charles.
It's one of the books from the small bundle Azazel had stolen back from his rooms. Charles takes it tentatively, then looks up at Erik, unsure of what he's after.
In the muted glow of the candlelight, Erik's usually stern expression has softened into something gentler, warmer. He reaches out to stroke a finger across Charles' cheek, and although Charles can't understand his next words, even his usual brusque tone had gentled. Erik climbs back into their shared bed, leaving the book and candle with Charles.
"Nekcah," he says. Read.
Does Erik want him to read aloud? Damn the suppression collar. Charles sits up carefully, wincing at all the aches in his body, and props the book open on his lap. It's an old childhood favourite - Charles wonders wryly if Erik had picked it out for the horse on the cover - and even just reading the first sentence feels like coming home to an old friend. Calmness settles over Charles like a blanket, and finally he wonders if maybe this was Erik's goal all along, to take his mind off the near-panic that had been threatening to overwhelm him moments earlier.
Cautiously optimistic, Charles begins to read out loud:
"In those days, far south in Calormen on a little creek of the sea, there lived a poor fisherman called Arsheesh, and with him there lived a boy who called him Father..."
***
He wakes with a muffled shout to rough hands hoisting up his hips and a heavy weight on top of him. Erik's harsh panting fills the tent. Fingers tangle into his hair, forcing his face down against the bed, and Erik's other hand swats his ass hard enough to leave an imprint of heat.
"What-" Charles makes a noise of protest at the rough treatment, but his growl swiftly turns into a low whine as Erik unceremoniously pushes two fingers into him, then three. In. Out. Slick gathers, and from there it's all a blaze of heat and need.
Erik fucks him with bruising force, holding him down by the hair the whole time, slapping Charles' hands away when Charles tries to reach for his own cock. It goes on and on, Charles muffling his helpless keening against the furs, clenching wantonly around Erik's cock, trying to shove down the shameful thoughts of more, fill me, please...
Suddenly, Erik pulls out of him, and Charles whines at the sudden emptiness and pushes his hips up. He can hear the slick noises of skin against skin, then-
Oh.
Sticky heat, landing in thick stripes across his twitching hole, painting his thighs white. There's enough of it that some splashes onto the small of his back. Erik just - just came on him, marking him like an animal, and somehow that only makes Charles' cock harder. He muffles a whimper, and this time Erik doesn't stop him when he reaches for his cock.
Erik doesn't do anything, really. He's getting off the bed and walking away without a backward glance, and Charles is so dizzy with lust that he doesn't even try to stop him. Red-faced with shame, he spreads his legs wider, one hand working frantically at his cock as he fingers himself with his other hand, smearing Erik's seed against his hole.
It only takes another few seconds for him to hit his climax, come splattering against his hand and stomach.
Another few seconds, and his reason returns back to him like a shock of cold water. Charles cringes as he cautiously lowers himself to rest on his side, Erik's come and his own come drying on his skin, their scents mingling. He feels filthy. Used. Animalistic, devoid of self-restraint, party to his own debasement.
And Erik is long gone. So much for his optimism of the previous night.
***
He waves Hank off that day, electing to spend time with his books instead. Erik doesn't talk to him when he returns that night, just strips off his clothes and mounts him with sharp, angry thrusts. His hands squeeze at Charles' nipples, palming at his belly - another reminder that his only worth here is to lie on his back and bear Erik's children.
Erik comes on him again, marking him with vicious satisfaction. Of course. He's been impregnated already, leaving Erik free to spend his seed wherever he likes. And what Erik seems to like is asserting his claim in every way possible; before the break of dawn, Erik has spent himself on Charles' face in addition to his belly and thighs.
Charles is tempted to dodge Hank again, but he knows if he's to have any worth beyond a broodmare, he'll have to make a place for himself. After taking his daily draught of the absolutely disgusting barek fa, he makes himself smile at Hank. "I think I'd like to see the encampment again today."
"Of course!" Hank smiles in return, looking relieved. "If you don't mind me saying so, Your Highness, you looked so listless yesterday that I. Um. Decided to arrange a surprise for you?"
"That's very kind of you," Charles continues to smile, flawlessly hiding his apprehension. "What is it?"
"As chief healer, I oversee and replenish our store of medicinal herbs. Many of our herbs we trade for, but there's also many we gather our own. I'm heading off on a gathering trip today. Would you like to join me?"
Charles isn't blind; a task like that is the sort of work that is usually delegated to people working under the chief healer. Hank must have just come up with it as an excuse to spend some time with Charles away from the constant crowds of the Genoshan camp. As much as Charles wants to know his new people, it would also be a relief to have a day alone, not constantly wondering if he's making some sort of social faux pas.
"I would love to," he says sincerely. "Are we going far?"
"Oh, yes. We'll be riding. I spoke to Ororo yesterday, and she's agreed to accompany us - if you don't mind, she's quite interested in learning the Westchester tongue."
Charles blinks. "Did Erik agree to this?"
Hank's wince tells him all he needs to know, but he's quick to add: "I'm sure it'll be fine, Ororo's skill and honour are above reproach. You'll be perfectly safe, and the fresh air and exercise will be good for you."
Gratitude warms Charles; Hank must have taken their previous argument to heart. "Thank you," Charles says with all the sincerity he can muster. "I appreciate all you're doing for me, Hank, truly."
"It's nothing." Hank's cheeks are pink. "Alex and Angel may have to come along too, or Erik will have their hides, but I'm sure they won't cause any trouble. And Ororo is very good at smoothing conflicts over."
She's certainly been the most approachable of Erik's War Council thus far. The cape she had given him remains one of Charles' most treasured possessions, a beautiful gift given at a time when he was feeling most lonely and desolate. He hurries to fetch it now as Hank exits the tent to talk to Alex and Angel in a flurry of Genoshan too fast for Charles to follow, and before Charles knows it, the four of them are walking together to the distant fields where most of the Genoshans' horses are kept.
Ororo joins them halfway there, smiling when she sees Charles. "Daka-ru," she greets him. Blessed Bearer. Charles knows it's a sign of respect, but to him it's an unwelcome reminder of his position - his only purpose - in Genosha. He fights the urge to touch his belly, wondering if her child is growing inside him even now.
"Tekh lut," he greets her in return, and Ororo looks pleased with his attempts at Genoshan. She steps closer, running her fingers against the soft white fur of the cape she had given him, then against his cheek.
"Beautiful," she says, in the Westchester tongue, and Charles didn't expect the way his heart would somersault upon hearing his native language spoken by one of Erik's War Council. That she cares enough about him, as a person, to try and communicate with him...
"Thank you. Matk te," he says, and he isn't really thanking her for the compliment. Ororo seems to understand, giving him another warm touch to his cheek.
"I do not know very many words yet," she says carefully, clearly reciting the phrase from memory - she must have planned this with Hank. "But we can learn from each other, yes?"
"I would love that," Charles says honestly, and repeats the sentiment in faltering Genoshan. Compared to the purity of telepathic communication, he feels like a babbling child, but Ororo only smiles warmly at his attempts, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
"Kelekt," she says. Come. "Tena khalasa an hrazef."
"Our horses wait," Hank translates, and Ororo repeats the phrase carefully.
The three of them - plus Alex and Angel following behind like sullen shadows - reach the fields quickly, with Hank pointing out various objects on the way and naming them in both Genoshan and the Westchester tongue. The handlers fetch their mounts, but Ororo is the one to personally bring Charles his horse.
She's a beautiful mare, tall and graceful, with a soft coat of dappled grey-white in a thousand subtle hues. Charles has hardly ever been given the freedom to go riding since Kurt usurped his throne, but even he can recognise the mare in front of him is an exquisite creature, her gait smooth and flowing as water, her dark eyes gleaming with intelligence as she watches him with ears pricked.
"Zu rukthan da Erik."
"Your bond-gift, from Erik," Hank translates. "By custom he should be the one to give it to you, but with the way things are going..."
"Will he be upset?"
"We'll handle it," Hank says, with uncharacteristic firmness. "Have you had much experience riding, Your Highness? I haven't made much study of the topic, but I hear Genoshan-styled saddles are quite different from the ones in Westchester..."
"I'm sure I'll figure it out." With freedom so close, Charles doesn't want to give it up for anything. Under the Genoshans' watchful eyes, Charles - much to his relief - mounts without any difficulty, and within minutes they're off.
Later, Charles won't remember much of the specifics of the day, but the sheer sense of freedom will linger with him for the months to come. He was born the child of Westchester, their omega prince, treasured and protected but never left to roam free even before the dark days when Kurt usurped his throne. He's never before ridden quite like this, with the wind ruffling through his hair and an endless expanse of verdant green meadows stretching before him, birdsong in the air.
They spend much of the day traveling. Charles has not often ventured this far afield, but he was raised the prince of Westchester: he knows the maps, he knows the land, and he ends up being the one to direct their expedition. Together they gather baskets and baskets of herbs, chatting as they work with Hank acting as a translator. Even Alex and Angel end up joining in, Angel in particular enjoying the attention as she flies on her iridescent dragonfly wings to reach the herbs too high up for the rest of them. Alex, not to be outdone, ends up scaling a fruit tree on his own, and the five of them laugh merrily as they stop for a break to eat and gather the fruit Alex tosses down at them.
It's not until late in the afternoon that they turn back to the direction of the horde, and by the time they reach the outmost cluster of encampments, the first stars are beginning to appear in the sky.
They aren't the only group making their return. A column of riders is sweeping in from the south - from the direction of Westchester.
"What's happening?" Charles asks Hank.
"Nothing you need to worry about, Your Highness. The Chieftain is in the middle of tying up the last of the negotiations with Westchester and overseeing the transfer of their gifts."
"Oh." Erik had never told him that they're still in talks with Westchester. No one had.
Hank shifts awkwardly on his horse, sensing the dark turn of Charles' mood. Ororo looks between the two of them and urges her mount forward decisively. "Kelekt, Charles, Hank, tena ahn mekhta Erik lat."
Come, we'll meet Erik there, Charles translates, and guides his mare into a smooth trot behind Ororo. Hank follows. Alex and Angel are muttering worriedly among themselves, but they stay with the rest of them nonetheless.
Erik is at the head of the column, mounted on his own horse, a lean grey stallion with a distinctive metallic sheen to its coat. It snorts when it sees them, nostrils flaring.
The look on Erik's face is equally thunderous. He barks a sharp question at Hank, guiding his horse into a restless, intimidating back-and-forth pace. Hank hunches into himself but doesn't back away, and Ororo spurs her horse forwards and intercepts Erik's flurry of questions with unshakable calm. She even chuckles once or twice, riding close enough to lay a hand on Erik's upper arm and nudging him firmly at Charles' direction.
What he wouldn't give to know what they're saying...
At last Erik scowls and barks an order at the column. Then he motions for Charles to follow him.
And what would come after that? Another night of rough fucking, followed by another day of being ignored by his mate?
No. Charles has had enough.
"Come with me, Hank." His voice is steely. It's an order, not a request, and although Hank swallows nervously he does as he's bid. Erik scowls at Hank but doesn't order him away, and together they ride back to Erik's tent. The horses are given over to Alex and Angel for feeding and grooming.
Then it's just the three of them, alone, in Erik's tent. Charles settles himself calmly into the furs. Erik elects to pace, the same restless back-and-forth he had urged his stallion into. Hank hovers between them, uncertain.
"Erik," Charles says firmly. "Zu kha Westchester?" What are you doing with Westchester?
Erik makes an impatient slicing gesture with his hands, and Charles barely needs Hank's translation: "The Chieftain says it is not for you to worry about."
"No. I won't accept that." Calm. He wipes all trace of frustration from his face and voice. "Tell him I will not sit here like a useless bit of decoration as he's making decisions that affect my former people and my current people. Tell him I want to see the treaty agreements. Tell him I can help. I will help."
Hank looks pale, but he relays Charles' words. Afterwards, Erik is quiet for a long moment, his pale eyes boring into Charles' with an intensity Charles has never seen before, as if he's seeing Charles for the first time.
Charles meets his gaze steadily, boldly. He does not need words to communicate his conviction.
After a long moment, Erik nods. Charles thinks he may even be smiling.
"You will have the treaty agreements." Hank is unable to keep the surprise out of his voice, eyes darting between the two of them. "But he asks if you will be willing to wait until tomorrow. He would, ah, like to spend the night with you."
"Te. Mena enfarr." Fine. I accept.
Hank bows quickly to the two of them and hastily makes his exit. The instant he's gone, Erik steps forwards, bending to lean over Charles and cupping his face in his hands to draw him into a long, deep kiss. Charles kisses him back fiercely, tangling his fingers into the grey streaks of Erik's hair and yanking him down to lie on top of him.
"Zu mena," Erik rumbles. You're mine. "Charles, zu mena, nemekh mena, cetah nemekh mena."
You're mine, my sun, my blazing sun.
"And so are you," Charles replies. "Zu mena," he murmurs right against Erik's lips, and Erik groans, rutting against Charles, greedily kissing him again.
They part just long enough to rapidly shuck off their clothing, Charles already slicking up, Erik huge and hard. He wants it rough and fast tonight, Charles decides, so he climbs onto his hands and knees, and is rewarded with a guttural groan from Erik as he displays himself without shame. A second later his mate is on him, pounding into him as Charles arches his back and breathlessly demands more, harder.
Erik ends up fucking him into the furs as Charles writhes and bucks, rutting against the furs as Erik holds him down and gives it to him, just the way Charles wants, groaning in pleasure every time Charles gasps his approval. Charles can't really say who comes first - he can feel his hole stretch, Erik's cock swelling-
Charles hits his climax with a shout, squeezing tight around Erik, moaning long and loud as his body milks Erik of every drop of his come. There's so much of it, an endless wet heat that fills him perfectly, and Charles feels his body seize again, fingers and toes curling as another orgasm shudders through him.
"Zu mena," Charles repeats hazily, breathless and sated, yet high on adrenaline.
"Te," Erik agrees. "Nemekh mena."
He drops an affectionate kiss against Charles' spine, right between his shoulderblades, and Charles lets out a sigh.
For the first time, he has hope that things may work out between himself and Erik.