thank-yous, weekend plans, porn snippet
Shall be visiting my parents most of the weekend (Mom has tickets to Young Frankenstein: The Musical), but, before then, want a tidbit of the Erik/Charles hurt/comfort Thing With Porn? This will be mostly the same as the excerpts so far, only put together, but there're a couple of new paragraphs at the end.
It’s about trust. It always is.
That’s a word with so many layers, Erik thinks, watching Charles watch him, eyes endlessly blue as the depths of space, clear horizons with no clouds in sight.
It’s an odd kind of clarity, but Erik understands.
Charles doesn’t move, doesn’t shiver, against the backdrop of his blue satin sheets, luxurious against his skin. He doesn’t move because, in part, he can’t: Erik’s holding him there, arms stretched up above his head, fastened in place by handcuffs that shine like jewelry against pale skin.
There are matching cuffs around his ankles, too. Charles had looked at him, a bit surprised, at that one—normally one set is enough, or, sometimes, none at all, just the sound of Erik’s voice, and the acceptance of command—but they haven’t done this for a while, haven’t walked along that glittering path for far too long, and Erik wants to see how many steps further they can go.
The other reason Charles doesn’t move is simple: Erik hasn’t told him he can.
The first time had been an accident, almost a joke: Charles can be a terrible tease, in the bedroom, and he’d been driving Erik absolutely insane, talented lips and teeth and tongue moving busily and then stopping, and Erik had finally lost control, had flipped Charles over on his back and yanked wire hangers out of the closet without looking and pinned him to the mattress, strands of metal crisscrossing golden freckles like entwining ribbon, and those laughing sapphire eyes had gone all enormous with something that wasn’t fear at all.
He’d asked, silently, are you sure? And Charles had whispered, astonished but unashamed, yes, Erik, please.
So now they’re here. In the quiet and welcoming night, lamplight spilling amber warmth across Charles’s skin, catching in his eyelashes when he blinks.
“Charles,” he says, out loud, “are you comfortable?”
Charles thinks about that for a second. “If you mean am I uncomfortable, then, no, I’m fine. I am curious, though.”
Truthful, as always; that’s been one of the rules from the start. If Erik asks, Charles answers. If Charles is the one who asks for anything, needs anything, Erik will listen. Always.
“Good. And I don’t mind you being curious. But I’m still not going to tell you.” He sits down on the bed, next to Charles, who turns his head to hold onto eye contact. “Safeword? Pick something you can remember. Easily.”
“Safeword? Seriously?” But Erik can see the slight widening of those eyes, the flush of desire. Can hear the breathless edge to that question: Charles is thinking about what Erik might have in mind, and the anticipation echoes in the air around them. The antique bed, the sleek sheets, even the handcuffs hum with it.
“Seriously. Please.”
“Hmm. All right, beagle.” And please touch me now.
“Charles Darwin references? Now?” Not yet.
“You did say I should pick something I could remember.” Erik, I want you.
“So I did.” I know you do. And I will take care of you, I promise. He does touch Charles, then, running one fingertip lightly along his chest, across that stomach, dotted with golden freckles and not quite as firm as Charles would like—Erik can feel the edge of embarrassment, at that. Charles perpetually thinks he needs to lose five pounds, and he probably could if he really wanted to, but he never gets around to it. And Erik doesn’t mind.
Oh, so you like me fat?
“You are not fat.” He tugs on the cuffs, not sharply, but enough to make the metal bite into skin. Charles moans. Erik—
You are beautiful.
I am not.
Charles is far too articulate, at the moment. And far too inclined to argue with him. Clearly something needs to be done.
He lets his fingers drift back up to Charles’s face. Trails them against the curve of one cheek, down to those lips, so fantastically tempting and a little wet because Charles has been licking them, anticipating, when he thinks that Erik can’t see. Charles opens his mouth, and lets Erik slide the fingers inside, tongue caressing them, one by one.
And then he takes them back out, and walks them, gleaming with slickness, down to Charles’s cock, already needy and hard for him. Touches, but only barely, a featherweight of pressure against sensitive skin.
Charles whimpers. Erik doesn’t bother to hold back the smug expression. Definitely beautiful. “I think,” he says, into the listening night, “that you need more. That you can take more. For me.”
Please, Charles thinks back at him, voicelessly.
“Tell me what you want, then.”
Charles blinks, because that’s a new request: usually Erik just goes ahead, working mostly on instinct, listening to the responses, remembering what Charles has enjoyed from previous occasions. And he could do that now, of course. Could push Charles until they’re both panting and dizzy and desperate for release. But it’s not just about each of them getting off. They both know that.
More, then.
“Charles,” he says, softly, but letting impatience creep into his tone, “I’m waiting.”
I—I want you. I want you to—
“No. Out loud.” Which will be harder, he knows. Telepathy is easy, here. Too easy for Charles to just turn the emotions loose. Words require control.
Charles swallows. Blinks again. “Erik…all right. I want—I need you to—I need to be able to feel you. After. To know I’m yours. Completely. Please.”
“Excellent.” Not quite as specific as he’d been thinking, but that’s all right; Charles is already closer to that splendid incoherence than he’d expected.
Charles spends so much of his time reinforcing and building his control. It’s necessary, of course; one unconsidered suggestion, one tired slip-up of power, and Charles would have the world lining up for his every command. Could probably get every single member of the human race to bring him cups of tea, if he happened to broadcast the fact that he was thirsty.
And that image is amusing, and Erik does nearly smile—really, what would Charles do in that situation? Doubtless try to consume every last sip, for fear he’d offend someone—and it’s vastly entertaining to picture. But beneath that, it’s chillingly possible. And Charles knows that, too.
Charles can be impulsive, of course. Overconfident, irritatingly enthusiastic, instantly convinced that any decision he’s come to must be the right one and should be acted upon right away. But where people go wrong is in thinking that impulsive is the same as careless. It isn’t.
Everything Charles does is done with care. Erik knows this the way he knows his own name, or the sound of Charles’s heartbeat, in the sanctuary of the night.
This is why Charles needs these moments, though. Why Charles needs Erik—one reason Charles needs Erik, though it’s not the only reason, as Charles often reminds him under the light of day. But Charles needs someone who can carry him over that edge, who isn’t afraid of his darknesses, who can let him surrender that iron-clad control for a short while, a brief ellipsis in time.
Erik knows about iron. And he doesn’t mind darkness. And he will hold Charles through the implosions and the surrenders and, yes, the submissions, Erik’s desires and commands and controls replacing Charles’s own. And then, as gently as he can, he’ll put them both back together. With care.
Charles, right now, is trying very hard to be good and behave himself and hold still until given an order. But the tension keeps building, with each second in which Charles waits and expects and needs and Erik doesn’t move to offer him relief.
Charles breaks first. He always does.
They both expect that, of course. Erik’s patience has been well-honed by the long years and the determined missions, tuned to a fine point like the blade of a stiletto, and Charles, when he wants something very badly, has never been good at waiting.
But, Erik thinks now, even if things were different, he’d still win, at this particular game. Because he’s doing this for Charles. So of course he could wait forever, if he needed to.
Very secretly, and this is a thought he’d never imagined he might have, he’s still just a little glad he’s had so much practice with that patience, though.
This time, Charles’s capitulation comes out in a small whimper, a tiny frustrated wriggle against the restraints, and a mental plea: Erik, please.
Erik grins. Not very obedient, Charles. The answer he gets is only a wordless smile; but Charles, very deliberately, looks up at him, and then tests a slim wrist against unrelenting metal, one more time.
Ah. They’re doing that, then. He can handle that. “If you need to change positions so badly, I think you should. Over the bed.”
Charles breathes in, eyes closing at the order, and doesn’t move right away, most likely because he’s letting the recognition of Erik’s authority settle in, but Erik still can’t let him get away with the delay.
He wraps invisible fingers around the handcuffs. Pulls Charles upright. Charles gasps, startled, but then smiles again, and Erik wants to kiss him, or toss him back down into the bed and fuck him until they’re both exhausted and exhilarated, or just smile back, but none of those are the goal in this scenario.
Afterwards he can kiss Charles, and Charles will kiss him back, and they’ll fall asleep entwined in the luxurious embrace of Charles’s bed—their bed—but not yet. Charles is asking him for something more.
“Making me wait, Charles?”
Charles breathes “no,” in response, topaz light from the bedside lamp limning the contours of those lips, as he speaks the acknowledgement. And does move, then, gracefully rearranging himself the way he knows that Erik likes, hips lifted and presented for the first impact.
He could employ something else—they have paddles, smooth and black and eager, waiting in the closet—but he gazes at Charles, stretched out over the bed for him, and chooses to use only his hand. Skin meets skin, intimately connecting; he hears Charles moan again, a sound that might be his name, or more, or some other word entirely. The golden freckles hide themselves behind the first bloom of pinkness, the darkening marks and handprints and brightness that tell them both that Charles is, indisputably, his.
He pauses, for a second. Leaves the hand resting in place, extra weight against tingling flesh. Leans over and whispers, “Mine,” and feels Charles shiver, everywhere, at the word.
When he thinks it’s enough, when Charles is moaning almost continuously, little gasping sounds muffled by the sheets, and all that skin is hot against his hand, he stops. Says, “up,” and Charles takes that as the order it is, even though he can barely keep his balance when he moves.
Erik wants to touch him, but doesn’t, as Charles eases himself back down onto the bed. If he lets himself touch Charles right now, one or both of them might erupt. Instead he uses the cuffs, guiding with gentle nudges; Charles goes willingly, almost languidly, eyes a little distant. When reddened skin collides with the satin sheets, he gasps, and writhes, all over, helplessly, as if he can’t decide whether to flinch away or embrace the sensation. Erik whispers, “Shh, it’s all right, you’re all right, you’re doing so well,” and Charles shivers again, and then goes still, relaxing.
He wants, desperately, to take Charles right now, to cover that pliant body with his own, to slide inside, knowing that Charles would open up for him so easily, no resistance at all, not anymore. Patience, he thinks, one more time, and mentally clings to the concept with all ten fingernails.
He reaches into the drawer next to the bed, lifting the contents out with a thought. Charles keeps their lube in metallic bottles, because Charles thinks of these small details, and Erik collects that, and, also, something else. Two things, in fact, but one of them is something Charles won’t be expecting.