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Underneath Your Tide

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Erik never looses time when he's with Charles. Even in the darkness beyond the twin pinnacles of their pleasure, he experiences no gap in perception. It is not a void, but a well of expansive and momentary infinity. His own orgasm is powerful, and Charles rides it in that same smooth efficiency of motion with which he stays balanced astride Lehnsherr's hips and cock.

'(You are beautiful,') the metal-bender thinks, though his eyes are shut as he gasps for breath. He can still see Xavier though, in what is conventionally referred to as the 'mind's eye'. Even more than mundane sight, what he translates as that final vision is stylized by emotional perception, and he will not apologize for it. The old prickle of shame is still present, that he should be observed stooping to such idolatry but-- where he once might have killed to keep this aspect of his love a secret-- he is now simply rebelliously possessive of it. Bending to angle himself against the older mutant's chest, Charles looks in those final undulations like some sort of mer-creature effortlessly taming the ocean in which he has long held Lehnsherr ensorcelled.

"And you always make me look so lovely, dearest," the professor replies, accent crisp despite the quick tempo of his own breathing. Having wrested as much physical pleasure as possible from both their forms, Xavier's powerful psyche hovers briefly over expanding the current conquest to the less limited delights of the mind. Still embraced and imprisoned by his lover's flesh, Erik shudders from deep behind his hips, savoring as the tremors transfer into the slighter form above. It is an involuntary response of both fearful joy and greedy anticipation.

 

Charles has, on more than one occasion, spent the entire night (and even blush-colored hours of morning) mentally bent over the delicate metal strata of his lover's mind. The image he shares with Erik is like that of bismuth crystals, which form in natural angular perfection. He sees the metal-bender's essence almost as an electric charge, animating miniature ziggurats of seductively alien geometry, in all coruscating and impossible color. It's an over-extended metaphor but, like Erik, there are certain indulgences for which Xavier refuses to apologize. Mixing elemental physics and pillow-talk is just one of them. A pluck, a coo, a delicate 'breath'-- these perceptions slide covetously through Erik's mind, wringing countless purely mental orgasms from him while the telepath waits for their bodies to recover. Indeed, Xavier is sometimes disinterested in satisfaction for his own physical form, preferring instead to examine the craftsmanship of each sensation he lovingly inflicts on his partner. Charles has always maintained that Erik's pleasure feels quite different from his own and, deep down, Lehnsherr receives an atavistic thrill at being able to provide his liebling, his adored one, with yet another offering.

Charles has had Erik weeping with ecstasy and exhaustion, clinging to consciousness due only to verbal command, begging for relief and further stimulation all at the same time. The professor is a tender and devoted torturer, kissing and stroking his captive, returning always to delve yearningly into the cup formed by firm lips and chiseled jaw. His love-talk is all praise, expressions of devotion, couched in his sweetly condescending mastery of the other man and peppered with transcendent filth.

 

"My precious pet," Xavier murmurs presently, even as he is forced to allow Erik's withdrawal. The telepath shifts himself ever-so-slightly to nestle between the curved back of the divan and the older mutant's solid warmth. He strokes the member that so recently finished servicing him as though it is a separate entity-- another pet, which must be as cosseted and soothed from the high as Erik himself. "In a way," Charles chuckles low, responding to what is only really a half-conscious analogy. "It is lovely." The scribe's fingers move quickly, wickedly, to cup Erik in a gentle harness.

The other mutant's swift intake of breath is soft, but still clearly audible in the almost sacred space between them. He wants to beg, and refrains. From pride, or lack of permission? The answer used to matter, long ago.

"So warm," Charles continues. "That pulsing flutter in my hand, like a little dove." This last is followed by a tingling wave of reassurance, unnecessary but much appreciated. Erik has nothing to be ashamed of in that department, but it is the unique privilege of a telepath's lover to enjoy comfort and a little humiliation in the same addicting cocktail. He is lengthier than Charles, but without as much girth-- a description that has his mind wandering back to the as-yet-unutilized preparations he made in the bath. His attention is not allowed to wander for long, and Lehnsherr quirks a smile in embarrassment and pleasure as the object of their discussion stirs again to Charles' spell. "I like to hold it," the professor finishes, tilting those vivid lips up for a kiss as Erik meets him more than half-way. "It's almost as well behaved as you are."

With a final lingering caress, Charles stretches luxuriously, folding his hands under his cheek as he wriggles to find just the right little niche. Lehnsherr does not bother to hide his chuckle, even when the younger man makes a pillow of his lover's broad chest. There is little in Xavier's mood or visage to inspire feline comparisons; simply his curiosity, and one small idiosyncrasy only Erik is privy to.

 

Normally, the metal-bender perceives Charles' will as a molten flow of his own element, as elegant and sweet as it is absolutely powerful and tenacious. Yet, unlike metal, which can be cast, the tendrils of Xavier's psyche are a flow of liquid iridescence which refuses to be molded or checked. The telepath feels at home in his lover's mind to a degree that can never be duplicated. Charles heard its siren call that first night, like the ringing of grand bells in some lost ocean city, and sought Erik out just as the sailors of old. Where the minds of the untamed masses sometimes press in on the professor, with their nauseous profusion and outré variations on 'reality', he and Lehnsherr-- for all the dissimilarity in temperament-- are perfectly suited. Erik can feel his liebling move within his consciousness, especially in these quiet moments. Stretching with all the extensiveness of a kitten yawning, front paws down and blue eyes tightly shut as it kneads its chosen haven. Just like that borrowed image (which Erik dimly remembers from some old mill in which he took shelter), Charles' psyche then relaxes altogether, replete with the pleasure of their companionship.

 

Presently, Xavier 'bats' gently at Erik's comparison, but it is only a token gesture. By now, he's used to the varied-- and sometimes contradictory-- metaphors Lehnsherr's brain provides. The older mutant will never be a telepath-- he can only feel the professor's touch in a world of darkness, his own numb fumblings into the void based solely on faith that Charles will hear him.

('Always,') his dear one murmurs, below language and into the almost tactile perception of that ephemeral _thing_ even Lehnsherr is tempted to call a soul. ('I will always find you. Even if I lost myself, I will always know where and who you are.')

Unable to restrain his mental 'blush', Erik focuses on throwing a leg over Xavier's, covering the smaller body while imposing as little of his own weight as possible. Their sweat and spend are drying as their heartbeats even, and Erik wants his beloved sovereign to be as warm in their snatched physical paradise are they are together in mind. For his own part, Charles impishly borrows from his lover's earlier image, lapping delicately at where his own seed is splattered over the metal-bender's chest.

 

"How was the conference?" Erik asks, both from genuine interest and the need for a distraction from the erotic sight. He scolds himself for his lack of energy. The children are not *so* high maintenance that he shouldn't have vigor for his neshama's desires. Caregiving doesn't come all that naturally to the former assassin, but he has genuine affection for his charges-- though their energy and capacity for mischief are sometimes perplexing. If bottled, one could easily conquer a nation with it.

"Somewhat exhausting as well, I'm afraid," Charles says, unsuccessfully hiding a yawn as he cuddles closer. "Very interesting and productive, though. A brief stroll past the United Nations was also illuminating."

"What prompted that?" Lehnsherr inquires, stroking the younger man's hair. He knows that wasn't on the original itinerary.

"A stray thought from a young and rather over-worked grad student, doing fetch-and-carry for one Dr. Bolivar Trask." Quickly, Xavier telepathically displays the sequence events. Basic flashes of memory; the graduate student's frustration with Trask's less-than-personable demeanor and his tendency to weaponize any scientific discovery he encountered. Similarly, Erik can see that a good deal of the man's ambition has been checked. Trask's contact in the UN had hardly taken a liking to him, and Charles' little side-trip has accentuated this distrust. Morever, the telepath pushed a figure on Trask's calculations off by a thousandth of an amphere. The secret weapons demonstration planned for the following week will be an abysmal failure.

"A man like that will not be deterred by one defeat," Erik says, though it's hard not to smile at the deft and infinitesimal manipulations Charles so prefers. Chess may be the professor's game of choice but Go-- its strategies calculated with literally hundreds of zeroes-- is a better comparison in terms of his strategy for mutantkind.

"No," the telepath acknowledges, pinching his lover's ear just slightly in reproof. "And there may come a time when I permit you to deal with him as you will." While the words may sound like a concession, they are anything but. Erik cannot completely stifle his own helpless little noise, nor the brief but wanton cant of his hips, at the thought of Charles allowing him to take more extreme measures.

 

In the world above-- the 'real' world with its material considerations and proper roles to play-- Erik and his professor are almost always equals. Their school is a culmination of two dreams, providing both a safe haven and a potential fortress for their growing species. Together, Lehnsherr and Xavier do everything from planning investments and developing curriculum, to breaking up scuffles and contributing to household chores. Segments of his old life have mingled with the practicality of making an ideal manifest and, while Erik is grateful, no previous version of himself could have imagined this future for himself. Charles reigns in the metal-bender's violence; calls upon him to release the choking enemies, deflect bullets, drop missiles, and let the foot-soldiers live. So, should Charles ever deem it necessary to stretch out a hand for punishment, Erik will joyfully be his sword.

"Far too precious for something as simple as a blade, my love," the professor says. One regal finger hooks itself around Lehnsherr's new collar, and the older mutant bucks again, feeling both the physical warmth of the digit and an overwhelming mental sense of his lover's ownership. He wants so badly to be filled. Always, he is happy to serve Charles with his cock-- to serve in any capacity, really, since Xavier rarely gives orders outside of sexual congress. All the same, he wants his neshama's hardness within him. To be used, and wait patiently through that using, straining for that lyrical voice to tell him, 'you may, you can, good boy'.

"Take me with you, next time," Erik says, immediately biting down as though the words might be recaptured. The telepath knows his captive's desires sometimes before he knows them himself, but Lehnsherr's still astonishingly healthy pride insists he need not compound the his shame by speaking such weaknesses aloud.

"That would have been very distracting," Charles murmurs fondly, graciously ignoring his lover's half-conscious mental digression. "I wouldn't have made it to a single evening conference, if I'd known you were waiting in my bed."

 

Erik is not so confident in his own charms, knowing the professor's appetite for new data and discoveries. The whole house had been abuzz with preparations for the trip, the sheer breadth of the symposium delighting those with even vaguely scientific leanings. McCoy especially had not been shy about assigning lectures he wished to see by proxy, though the professor's reservations had already numbered in the double digits. Charles' first love has always been genetics, but he also has a great weakness for particle physics, astronomy, and pathogen research.

Chuckling, the metal-bender asks, "How many lectures *did* you attend, all told?"

"A fair few," Xavier replies, playfully mysterious. "I was fortunate enough to attend a particular presentation on fascinating new findings regarding subatomic particle behavior."

"You and your quarks," Erik says with fond exasperation. He smiles both because the term conjures roseate memories of their first union (in the seemingly separate country of endless highways, nondescript hotels, and Charles' adorably bad pickup lines), and because he finds the word itself amusing. English is a great magpie of a language, indiscriminately borrowing from others with impunity, and then going so far as to arrogantly make up its own.

('Poetry, in this case, actually.') Xavier murmurs through their internal embrace. ('James Joyce.') Lehnsherr gets a general sense of the poem from which the particle takes its name, but he's never been much impressed with more stylistically inventive modern literature. Nabokov, White, Elliot, even Rand-- those are more to his taste, each writer being wry, sensible, critical, and epic by turns.

 

"'He asked me would I yes to say yes'," the telepath recites faithfully, skimming a proprietary caress down Erik's flank. Again, the older mutant is treated to the general sense memory and associations of the passage. Charles, restless and not-quite homesick during his first months at Oxford, untethered by all those things he dearly longed to escape. Struggling to carve out context for himself as himself (no one's son or stepson now, thank you) amidst the overwhelming English damp and medieval architecture. Over a long holiday, he'd curled up by the radiator with a borrowed copy of Ulysses, knowing Raven would come soon and yet still wondering. Trying to fathom, in the yellowing lamplight made necessary by the sheer impenetrability of the fog, if anyone ever truly felt the joy described in those pages, such communion with another being. His gifts made him yearn for the notion even as he shrank from the constant hum of minds around him and, as ever, he'd heard the echo of his chosen sister stridently telling him to stay out.

Erik swallows around a depth of old sorrow that is not his own and then, taking up one of Charles' dear hands, kisses each finger with a reverence and blinding affinity that belongs to him alone. "I'm hardly a 'mountain flower'," he says roughly, affection bleeding through the mock offense.

"Perhaps not," the professor allows. "The mountain alone will do." The union of their mouths is less a kiss and more of a feasting as the taller mutant gives himself over, quivering but submissive to all the little nips and licks. "My austere and impossible peak." Xavier's grin is positively wicked, but it cannot hide his honest satisfaction. Impishly, he reaches for a part of Erik's anatomy that is very much aspiring to its pinnacle. Lehnsherr has half a mind to protest the compliment, even as he melts with it. Mountains, yes-- mountains that cascade back into their very foundations. Veins of ore bow that just as Erik does under Charles' will and adoration; peaks which he would move or ruin or thrust towards the sky, reordering the terrain to provoke that boyish sparkle of blue eyes.

Affectionately, but perhaps also tinged with a bit of sorrow, "You do have a penchant for grand gestures, love."

"Charles, I--" Erik bites down on his lip. There is so much that he will do, so much he has compromised for his schatz; those three little words-- in any language-- should be as easy as lifting a pin. And he has lain such verbal offerings at his lover's feet before, though the scant practice has never made them come more readily. Like mothers who give their beloved infants pet titles-- 'lamb' and 'dearheart' and 'lovey'-- to trick away the jealous spirits, who must know a person's true name in order to steal their soul. Bad luck, to speak such things aloud.

 

"Hush." Gently, Charles silences him with a finger. Not to the metal-bender's lips, but instead easing past his lover's tightening balls to circle that pucker
('So *spoiled*'), comes the loving chuckle.
"You are beautiful, priceless, and very much mine," Xavier continues firmly, punctuating his point with kisses to Erik's jaw. "When you are tempted to think otherwise," a kiss to the collar itself, "now you have this to remind you. Such a perfectionist." He strokes the older mutant's vulnerability, the soft unweathered skin between phallus, balls and that darker, intimate core with all the care he'd give a priceless artifact. A conspiratorial whisper, more a movement of lips against the shell of Lehnsherr's ear. "I know you compliments make you uncomfortable, but I fear I must ask that you indulge me on occasion."

"I know what I am," Erik gasps out, his mind's eye reflecting-- for the briefest but most tell-tale of instances-- his own form felled on the hot sand. That finger caresses, caresses, exploring the topography of his his hole, but it won't go in.

"Do you, now?" The professor's tone is silky smooth, and therefore all the more dangerous. "Then let's hear you say it."

"Yours," Lehnsherr admits on a sigh. Without thinking, he closes his eyes and licks his lips, anticipating the smooth entry of Charles' index finger. It's not the same as getting fucked, but the telepath is also adept at this sort of penetrative massage, often milking the his lover for everythingthe taller man is worth. Or perhaps more fingers will join, slow smoldering pleasure rather than the anticipatory burn of cock. The professor has fisted Erik once, some time ago, after what felt like hours and at least three times more preparation than was actually necessary. He'd held up a mirror so Erik could see, murmuring all the while about his accommodating darling, his pet of such voracious appetites. It was so good, Erik can still almost taste it-- how lost he was within the sea-caverns of his own submission, heated through until he matched the azure pitch of his liebling's eyes.

All the same, he's not sure he wants to do it again-- at least, not now. The last time, Charles wouldn't fuck him for more than a week afterwards and, every time the professor tenderly inspected his boy in the interim, Erik ended up sobbing and begging despite himself.

 

"And since when do you determine our itinerary?" Xavier scolds, but his tone is playful and the pinch to Erik's ass perfunctory.

"I'm yours," Lehnsherr moans again, canting his hips as much as possible-- waiting, waiting. The circuitous touches continue, never quite closing on their goal, and Erik's eyes fly open to gaze worriedly at the professor's face. He muffles a whimper-- yearning for instruction as to how he may correct whatever he has done wrong.

"Nothing, love," his captor soothes, dropping a few kisses on the metal-bender's mouth. "I'm merely patient. Tell me what you are."

 

Erik makes no effort to hide his frown. At this point, he is so lost in the conflicting waves of bliss and concern that he may not, in fact, be capable of dissembling at all. Conscious thought grinds to a further halt as Xavier bids the invisible bonds move and coil about Erik, as if they too are awaiting the correct answer.

"I'm your boy," he tries, fingers clenching ruthlessly in the cushions of the divan.

"Warmer," Charles says sweetly, the ever-present moon-tide that coaxes his lover so willingly into the depths.

Lehnsherr shakes his head, almost whipping it back and forth. He just needs: he's so keyed up right now that one extra push-- a nibble, a brush against his member, the small scrape of a nail-- and those words from his liebchen will send him over the edge…
Oh, merciful heavens, is that what the professor wants to hear?

('Yes.') Charles projects to him; each word an inarticulate melody of adoring avarice. ('And I want to hear it out loud.')

 

As though he truly is a small boy, Erik squirms-- not pulling away, exactly, but trying to make himself smaller. Instinctively curling inward in spirit if not in form.

('Come on, my sweet,') that beloved countertenor is a patient croon. ('I know you can do it.')

The frustrated whine that escapes Lehnsherr at this point is high-pitched and completely involuntary. Even worse, it sounds very nearly petulant once it reaches his own ears. There's always a difference between hearing a sound as its loosed from within and registering its odd echo in the air, the way other people must hear it. It's the closest parallel Charles has found to describe spoken language as opposed to his native, mental tongue.

Now, Erik flinches at his own behavior. An old prickle of fear comes to him; fresh needle tracks on defenseless flesh. Or, more appropriately, a fissure in the calm waters of bliss created by their love-making. He's not afraid of Charles. That first moment of awe, of recognition, has never quite left the metal-bender, so that even hinting at deliberate cruelty on Xavier's part seems like something of a sacrilege. The seeds of terror he is experiencing are old and ingrained-- very real no matter how quickly he wrests them down. Trepidation at every moment of delay, at his failure to obey with complete alacrity. His throat feels bone-dry as he struggles for words.

 

Charles kisses him, deftly licking the older mutant's mouth open, letting all sound be swallowed between them. His hands soothe at Erik's temples, caressing the older mutant's hair.
('You're good-- you're being so good. No one is timing you, no one is changing the rules.') This is the firm and inviolate ocean bed, for the professor is in fact the only ruler Erik has ever known who doesn't change the rules at whim.

The caprice of humanity, of the universe, are a given. The world is clogged with discordant martial fanfare and the nattering of drunken generals who will take blood because honor was never a possibility. Charles is far from perfect

(--his flaws match your flaws and you have decimated each other--)

but he is like the most glorious of Swiss masterpieces, tempo and metal-heart workings of a precise and singular breed. Even now, after so much, he is
(--almost--)
exactly as Erik always knew he could be. One wild swing of the pendulum, and both their worlds had changed irrevocably. There is no going back. Someday, the human would may see the transformation wrought by their foolish missiles on that beach. For now, only Erik truly sees the shift in Charles-- imperceptible as light sliding along its spectrum. Like everything else about his lover, Lehnsherr clutches this knowledge close, for he is the most greedy of prisoners.

 

('I told you long ago,') Xavier projects gently. ('You are not alone.') The continuing, lewd union of their mouths gives the metal-bender time to relax back within the professor's hold. It is less a kiss and more a ravishment. An oral fucking, sending another curl of arousal to blot out all but the two lovers. ('Perhaps I knew better once, but I cannot let you go.') There is almost genuine regret there, but not much, and Erik would never expect anyone to apologize for doing whatever is necessary to remain sane. ('Death, our enemies, or any unnamed force-- no one will take you from me. Would I treat you so carelessly, then? Would I harm the one who tries so very hard for me?')

"I'm your good boy," Erik admits at last, speaking the moment they part for breath. Not a small voice, but an infinitely delicate one. The professor moves those vivid lips to drop tiny kisses on every inch of Lehnsherr he can reach. The strong lines of clavicle, up along the jugular to press close against the pounding blood and taught muscles, and then peppering back down over the older mutant's heart. Charles even reserves a regretful, almost apologetic set of caresses for the scar on Erik's chest.

(-- almost lost you can't lose you; my civilized predator, my poor weary warrior; teacher brother lover adored--)

 

If Erik has felt Charles' absence keenly, then Xavier missed his lover to an equal or greater degree. Erik can see, through their intwined senses, how the professor thought of him aboard trains and through the tedious taxi rides so necessary in New York. Charles longed for their companionship as old sights-- cliched, in some cases, be originally viewed with Erik-- reminded him of their long ago recruiting trip. The ease of traveling-- even across country-- with his new friend had been unprecedented, filled with an amazing rapport that long predated their physical union. And yes, on this latest trip, the telepath had longed for his lover in those narrow, empty beds. Imagining, dreaming of Erik in the comfortless hotel rooms that comprise the kingdom of Could-Be-Anywhere. And, while some part of him has known this intellectually, Lehnsherr feels reassured and (guiltily) gratified to experience the emotions from Charles' side. There is no end to the bliss of knowing he is not alone in his avarice, in his grasping desire to stay by the professor's side.

 

"You are my good boy," Charles agrees, breathless with victory and the delicate handling of his captive. "Dear, wanton creature. Such a treasure, my little love. So thoughtful, steadfast, and obedient. Insatiable." For a moment, those blue eyes hide while he collects himself. When the telepath reopens them, a little quirk has returned to his smile-- harkening back to their love-play.

"And good little boys get rewarded."

 

 

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