It's hot, stifling – the sheet at Charles' back clings, sticky and damp, when he arches his back and lifts his hips. Sweaty hands, large and slightly calloused, grip at slick skin - long, elegant fingers, dexterous from all those years twirling that coin, slips from his thighs to grip at his knee and then ankle. Each deep breath fills his lungs with dense, wet air that brings little relief. The hands grip his legs tightly, pulling them wider, and the new angle hits that spot inside of him that causes his own sweat slick hands to grip at the sheets. The sharp inhale of shuddering breath escapes him in something close to a desperate moan and not even an ounce of embarrassment runs through his veins.
Charles feels like a slag when Erik fucks him like this.
It doesn't happen as often as Charles would have expected it to. In all honesty, Erik is a surprisingly gentle lover. All firm fingers, and deep breaths. Hands that cradle and hips that glide smooth... in and out... in and out. The first time they'd made love (and Charles does refer to those times as making love) he'd been overwhelmed with the pure feeling that pulsed from Erik's being – a bone deep sensation that turned Charles' body to liquid. It was natural to assume, with Erik's tough exterior and threatening countenance, hard brandy, leather jackets, and an all consuming urge to murder one man, he would be the same in bed. That intense focus and determination transferring over smoothly in the same sense. But that first night, Erik had lain him down, stripped him naked, and unraveled Charles painfully slowly. Pressed the length of his long, hard body flat against Charles' smaller, softer frame and rocked, lips pressed against the skin underneath his ear. Lips that framed words, so soft and fluttering that Charles couldn't hear but could feel, landing soft like a pearl on a pillow in his mind, dissolving like sugar, melding itself to every inch.
Charles, ever the sensitive fellow, decided afterwards, as he'd lain beside Erik, heart pounding, that if he wasn't in love with the man before then, he was now.
But those times are different. Those instances Charles takes, and wraps, and keeps in the back of his mind. Secret, safe, his, all his to cherish for years and on lonely nights. Despite the feeling of drowning in sweet emotion, he'd felt some semblance of control at those moments – it was all about give and take. About being equals and giving just as much pleasure as you received.
There is no mistake now, though – Charles has no control in this situation. He is the submissive, laid out to take whatever is handed to him. When it's like this, Erik uses his bigger frame to dominate, to use Charles as he sees fit and Charles revels in it. This isn't sensitive, isn't loving. It's rough, and fast and hard - so hard it makes Charles' teeth rattle in his head even as he clenches his jaw. He can't feel anything, focus on anything except for Erik's cock pounding hard, so hard, pleasure rippling through his own body after every thrust. His attention is solely on the strong, lean body attached to his only by the hands and cock, so unlike when Erik drags his long body slowly against Charles, with Charles returning the gesture as shamelessly as a cat.
The slick dragging as Erik pulls out only to plunge back in ignites his nerve endings, sending sparks up and down his spine. It make Charles feel young when Erik fucks him like this - yes, he may be only twenty-six years old, but a lot of the time he feels older than his years with his mutation being what it is. All of his life he has been inside the minds of others, hearing their motivations, understanding their needs. Becoming sensitive and worn. But with Erik like this and Charles on his back begging for more, he feels alive, and young. Vital.
Charles huffs out strained breaths, hair damp, and mused, and entirely inelegant. The noises from his parted, swollen mouth are unrestrained and no where near self aware, and he feels dirty. Like a slag; like the Oxford boys who waited in the bathroom with the hole cut in the stall. The stall with all the filthy words and phrases Erik's mind projects into his as if he wrote all those words on the wall himself.
