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X-men: First Class Drabbles, August 2011 onwards

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This is going to be a repository of my X-men: First Class drabbles written for . I hope to write my usual range of drabbles (gen, het, slash, femslash, threesomes, etc) and post them here chronologically. Let's see what I can come up with.

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Raven wouldn't've done this.

Raven accepted sweet boys, meek boys who earned her brother's smiles, who brushed gentle hands through her false blonde hair and never jostled her control.

Raven wouldn't writhe in bed with a laughing demon, his flexing tail tangling around her hands, his eyes flaring gas fires when she reflects his face, slips her thinned wrists from his hold, slams him onto his back. Raven wouldn't relax to blue as he swears in joyful Russian, gripping her textured hips, thrusting searingly up into her, unafraid of breaking her.

It's Mystique, hidden all that time, who laughs groaning as Azazel's tail curls tight around her, skimming her cheek, who sinks her teeth into hot red skin, licking brimstone from his shoulder as fierce pleasure takes her. It's Mystique who rides him proudly, flesh slapping, breasts bouncing, uncaring of how she looks, exulting in how she feels. It's Mystique, not Raven, now.

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Up at the lectern, Hank looks good receiving his second doctorate. The image emitter works beautifully, disguising him as the grown-up version of the tall gawky boy Raven met those few long years ago. The illusion's perfect until he turns and his hair doesn't shift as he moves.

Mystique applauds with the oblivious audience. Hank won't know this face, blended from Charles and Moira, her blonde facsimile and his own wide eyes, but as he scans the crowd he pauses on her for a flickering moment, smiling uncertainly at the familiar-looking stranger.

She makes herself wait until his gaze travels onwards to smile back, and as she slips from her seat she wonders if he'd recognize her from up close. Perhaps she could entice him out for coffee, or to bring her back to the mansion --

--that's not the plan. These aren't her thoughts.

She turns, not knowing where to look first, but the milling crowd parts to show her Charles, perched in a chair, legs crossed as if he merely chose to sit, smiling directly at her with that familiar, utterly obnoxious tenderness.

Mystique scowls at him as she drags herself back, and strides from the auditorium while she still can.

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Perched like a gargoyle, searching among the humans for his prey, Azazel finds his gaze caught by swinging arms, puffy black curls, springy energetic strides.

Eyes narrowing, Azazel observes the pretty youth: richly toned skin, aquiline nose, wide lapels, a subtle sway. He plunges into the crowd, who flinch screaming from the apparition, wraps his tail around that trim waist, teleports away.

When he flings his prize against an alley wall, the boy's already laughing, teeth gleaming unchanged as he ripples into blue beauty. "I can't fool you," Mystique says, arms flung round Azazel's neck.

"Not anymore, charovnitsa*", he tells her. "Not anymore."


*: Enchantress.

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When Charles emerges from Dr. Wilkins' back office he hands Hank two extra pairs of glasses, saying, "Take good care of these." Facing straight ahead, he maneuvers past Hank into the empty waiting room.

"Of course, but --" Hank reluctantly comprehends. "You didn't!" Charles squares his shoulders, not looking back, and Hank shuts his mouth but can't help thinking, He smiled at me. A honest smile, surprised but not fearful.

Charles rolls implacably forwards; Hank presses tongue to canine till it hurts, momentarily remembering Raven. But, at the door, Charles looks back, smiling gently, sadly. "I'm sorry, Hank," he says. "Turn your image emitter on. We need to leave before Dr. Wilkins wakes up."

Hank sighs and shakes himself, presses the switch that hides him, and follows Charles.

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Before hearing a footstep Charles reflexively reaches to whomever's approaching, so he knows Erik will appear in the office doorway three steps before he does. Still, Charles smiles in surprise, mostly at how intensely glad he is to see Erik, and a little at how pleasantly sore he still is, perched on his hip in this chair.

The true shock of wonder comes with the light in Erik's eyes as he glances at Charles, his chagrined delight at having changed his mind; Charles has to fill his lungs, steadying his voice before he can say lightly, "Erik! You've decided to stay!"

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Darwin's gonna die.

Angel stumbles backwards, Mr. Shaw's hand encasing hers, unable to watch where she's going. Darwin shivers, choking on the ball of energy Mr. Shaw shoved down his throat, flashing desperately from one material to another.

He tried to stop her from going with Shaw, which was stupid, which was fucking noble bullshit, but the curdling in Angel's guts isn't anger at all. She almost pulls forward when Darwin starts to disintegrate before her eyes, but red smoke curls around her and with a thunderclap she's standing on creamy carpet in an enclosed room. Inside a submarine.

Shaw squeezes her hand, just barely, but her fingers creak. The choice is made, there's no point to changing her mind now. Taking a deep breath, she exhales the last of the CIA and puts Raven and the boys from her mind; as she looks up at Mr. Shaw, Angel makes herself smile.

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The scrawled numbers dance before Hank's eyes, with excitement and because it's past midnight. After one more calculations check Hank dashes from his room, through the gray corridors to Professor Xavier's quarters. He's a scientist, he'll understand.

"Professor?" Hank calls as he knocks; Xavier murmurs sleepily and Hank winces with second thoughts. Stlll, the door opens and Xavier appears, rumpled but alert, smiling invitingly.

"I was thinking about Cerebro," Hank begins, describing his observations of an actual telepath using the device, ideas for improving its range and ways to dampen feedback. He displays his calculations, or tries to, but Xavier watches Hank's face, seeming more interested in listening until Hank's cheeks warm and his smile bashfully widens.

Still, something seems off as Xavier nods, slaps Hank's shoulder and wishes him good night. Hank turns to return to his room, then realizes that both times the door opened the air didn't displace at all.





The longer he must wait, the tighter Erik closes his teeth on Charles's ear, until Charles growls deliciously and bangs his heel into Erik's calf. Erik chuckles, letting go to push his chin forward, licking Charles's fingertips where they dent his temple. Charles hisses and kicks harder, but the movement shifts him searingly around Erik so they both gasp.

Distracting, Charles thinks, knuckles tightening on the sheet, and Erik presses bared teeth to Charles's cheek as Charles trembles beneath him, into him. At long-awaited last Charles slumps panting, forehead on the mattress. He's gone, he tells Erik as McCoy ambles away. God, I thought he'd talk all night. His ideas are intriguing, but --

"But nothing," Erik grumbles over Charles's nape and curls his tongue there, tasting warm skin, prompting another gorgeous shudder. Now may we?

Yes, Charles thinks. "Move," he orders, with a lilting groan of relief as Erik obeys.

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Charles's zippers jerk open as buttons lodge beneath his skidding fingers, but he can't fault himself or Erik for rapt distraction when Raven writhes into an arch of trembling blue, her ruby hair strewn across the pillow, her fingers sunk into Erik's tousled hair between her thighs.

Unwilling to waste even a moment sorting himself, Charles abandons his shirt and watches Raven's chin and hips tilt upwards as Erik's pale fingers curl tighter over her thighs. Her lips part, lushly vulnerable, around a rising moan, the rosy flush across Erik's shoulders sets off her luminous blue, and Charles's tongue slides tacky-dry across his lip. Cheek creasing, Raven grins and screams, her pleasure washing into Erik, and Charles soaks up their effervescent delight, tastes her richly on Erik's flexing tongue and whimpers in something like wonder.

Raven pulls a hand up, flinging it out towards him, her eyelids fluttering over gold blown black, and Charles staggers forward even before come here surfaces from the whirl behind her eyes. Her belly a textured curve beneath his hand, her tongue slipping hot over his, Charles senses Erik's hair whispering between her fingers; he squeezes Erik's hard shoulder, feeling him clutch the padded firmness of Raven's thighs. The slightest graze of Erik's careful teeth sets her shuddering, nails digging bright dents into Charles's back, and he drinks down her screaming ecstasy, tingling from lips to fingertips to toes, nerves blazing as fire floods his mind.

Charles comes back to himself with Raven puffing fond giggles against his mouth, to the stickiness of having come in his pants. He groans, forehead pressed to Raven's silky-rough shoulder; Erik rests his cheek on her thigh, smudges his knuckles across his mouth and licks them with lascivious satisfaction, grinning smugly as Charles gasps briny sweetness and Raven laughs breathlessly.

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Deep into a pleasurable night after a productively long day, Charles's cavernous bedroom creaks contentedly around his overstuffed bed. Tucked between fluffy pillows and Charles's firm shoulder, their legs warmly entangled, Erik feels both blown open and coddled, tender in every sense of the word. Perhaps that's why he lets himself loose this confession tonight.

As his fingertips skim through damp curls, Erik thinks into the soft quiet, I've wondered, would you tell me?

Anything, Charles answers, drowsy and fond. Anything. What is it?

Would you tell me if this is your doing? Erik remembers Charles's voice behind him, all quiet arrogance and guileless friendship, remembers turning despite himself to follow Charles back inside. If you made me love you? underlies his intended words, undeniably audible, the risk of speaking mind to mind.

Charles goes rigid, shoving up on his elbow, his eyes blazing gasfire blue. His choked, "I would never do that," crashes between them.

So this unmasks your anger. Between discovery and pain, Erik helplessly aches in sympathy. "I know."

Erik reaches up, but Charles shuts his eyes, thick lashes trembling above a livid flush. "On my honor," he growls between clenched teeth. "I would not."

Charles is too beautiful enraged to be angry in return. "I've seen the worth of honor," Erik sighs, "but I know you didn't." Charles breathes, his shaking easing to stillness, and Erik deliberately pulls up memories from his last several years, his ongoing hunt for Shaw, his ruthless suppression of all other desires. Erik watches Charles read him and relax, jaw unclenching, forehead smoothing, and slowly settles his palm beside Charles's temple as those eyes flicker open, glimmering blue.

"I believe you, Charles," Erik admits, as Charles leans into his touch, "because you never needed to." Because my soul longed for you for years before we ever met.

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Some nights, often after Charles has sunk deeply into his mind, Erik unconsciously speaks in German. It's not a language they share -- Latin and French as well as English -- but even if telepathy didn't translate, Charles has the impulse -- besotted, he knows -- to think he would always understand Erik.

So, he's free to love the sound of Erik murmuring drowsy German. Whether whispered amidst dawn-lit lovemaking, mumbled during brief waking, or texturing hazy thoughts, it effects subtle changes, rendering Erik's voice both deeper and crisper, more elegant and more menacing, so that a thrill tingles down Charles's spine and heat pools heavily between his legs. The rich sensations haunt Charles until he finds himself wishing Erik would speak German even during the day.

Instead he leans over Erik in bed, smoothing his sleeping mind into peace; Erik murmurs, "Liebling," and Charles shivers happily, whispering in answer, "Darling, yes."

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On the ledge above the target's house, Raven takes a steadying breath. "There's no romance in a mission," was Erik's last admonishment before he left. "This is extremely dangerous. Don't ever let your guard slip."

She'd nodded dutifully, biting her lip to keep from laughing, from saying he sounded like Charles. He'd stared at her, stern and stony until sparks lit his eyes, and leaned to kiss her forehead.

She can still feel the warmth, just above her eyebrows. She smiles, holding its shape with a changed mouth as she transforms. Remembering Erik's confidence and Magneto's plan, Mystique stretches out a satiny sienna arm and concentrates on forming the precise crisp texture of a shabby but well-kept cotton dress, then practices a demure stride as she walks down the hill.

Showtime, she thinks, and rings the doorbell. To the woman who answers she says, lilting just so, "Ma'am, I'm here about the position...?"

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The CIA facility's not like prison -- too sterile, too calm, too controlled -- but it's still confined, it still makes Alex twitchy. Some restless nights he wanders shadowed hallways until he's staggering, trails his hands along smooth solid walls and wonders if he could blast through them.

One night he smells something tasty. Sweet. Chocolate? Following his nose to the kitchen, he finds Armando, lanky and unselfconscious in a flour-speckled apron, stirring a bowl of dark batter while two pans cool on the counter behind him. "Just making some brownies, man," he answers Alex's unasked question. "Here, have a taste." Scooping some batter from the bowl's edge, Armando offers a long chocolate-smeared finger.

Alex -- doesn't let himself think. He breathes in and leans in, curling his tongue along Armando's finger; watching Armando's bright grin widen, Alex feels warm sweetness filling his chest, like he'll never have to be hungry again.