Chapter Text
X
“Captain, ship spotted off the starboard side—”
“They’re running!”
“All hands to stations!”
“Incoming!”
A blast of plasma cannon fire glances across the hull, rocking the ship as the smell of singed wood fills the air. Thundering footsteps echo across the deck as the crew runs to their battle stations, a hive of activity as the other ship, a smaller, dingier vessel, lights up her thrusters, a jet of blue flames spurting out behind her stern as she takes off.
“Only fourteen percent hull damaged sustained!”
“Cannons warmed up, ready to fire on command!”
“Sir, your orders?”
Captain Charles Xavier stands just behind the helmsman on the quarterdeck of the RLS Aphthoria, arms folded neatly behind his back and sharp blue gaze trained unblinkingly on the running ship ahead. From graduate with top honors at the Interstellar Academy after two years, serving a year each as Second Officer and First Officer respectively, at 24 he’s the youngest captain in the entire Fleet—and there are very few who would dare protest his rank.
“I’m wondering whether they haven’t heard of the Aphthoria,” Charles muses idly, watching the rapidly diminishing ship as she gets further and further away, “or if they just don’t realize it’s us.”
The helmsman spits to one side derisively. “Probably don’t believe the hearsay, Captain. Fools.”
“I don’t always believe the hearsay either, Mr. Howlett,” Charles answers calmly, glancing down briefly to ensure the man’s spit hasn’t landed on his shining black boots, which is far more productive than trying to get the helmsman to cut the habit. Knowing how to pick your battles—Charles is well-versed in that particular lesson. “I am almost offended, though, if that’s the case. One would imagine by now that we’ve proven most of the hearsay true, don’t you think?”
“Think! Think! Think!” Nightcrawler swoops down from the rigging, making a face and gnashing little fanged teeth in the direction of the other ship before settling above Charles’ shoulder, hovering over his crisp uniform jacket.
Charles smiles at him, and then tilts his head in the direction of his First Officer standing by for orders. “Run them down, Mr. Summers.”
“With pleasure, sir.” Scott strides forward so that he stands prominently beside Logan at the wheel, taking in a breath before raising his voice to a shout. “Prepare for pursuit, employ full sails! Thrusters on maximum, full speed ahead!”
Charles has long since perfected the art of bracing himself even while appearing as if he isn’t, standing tall and straight as the engines begin to hum, vibrations running up beneath the deck while flashes of light lance down each of the three masts, sending collected power from the solar cells to the engine room. The Aphthoria takes off with a roar, blasting forward in hot pursuit of her fleeing quarry.
The Aphthoria is not only captained by the youngest captain in the fleet but is also the fastest ship in the fleet, her speed yet to be matched by any other vessel, friend or foe. Charles loves the initial takeoff, that first burst of speed and power that presses air backwards in his lungs and reminds him of when solar surfing was his only way into the skies, heart lifting as if it too could fly, light and free.
They swiftly gain on the smaller ship, eating up the distance between them in seconds, drawing closer and closer. The other ship doesn’t stand a chance, and even with her thrusters burning on full the Aphthoria looms closer, cutting through empty space and riding the invisible gravity lines with almost careless ease.
Logan lets out an oath when the smaller ship suddenly swerves off to the side, pulling hard to starboard and zipping into the asteroid belt that they’ve been skirting, weaving between deadly chunks of floating rock.
Even Charles raises an eyebrow at this particular tactical move. “They’re mad,” he remarks idly, and Scott is already turning around to face him with a look of trepidation so he smiles, brief but amused. “You know what to do, Mr. Howlett.”
“Sir,” Scott says hesitantly as Logan lets out a loud laugh, pulling a sharp starboard, “I don’t think—”
“Please advise the crew to hold on,” Charles says cheerfully, putting one hand out to grip the railing. “Good man.”
Scott looks like he wants to protest more, or maybe just sigh, but he dutifully faces forward again as the Aphthoria approaches the asteroid belt. “Brace yourselves for complex maneuvering!”
“Yeeeeehaaaaaw!” Nightcrawler shrieks in his tinny little voice as they enter the belt, Logan’s hands flying all over the wheel as he steers them up and around the dangerous obstacles while the Aphthoria continues at her full speed.
Charles finds that he’s grinning, adrenaline rushing with exhilaration at both the thrill of the chase and the recklessness of their near-misses, giant rocks passing in blurs as the ship lurches back and forth. He trusts Logan to steer them true, so he doesn’t worry as they dive through the space debris, following the twisting, turning path of the smaller ship ahead that reminds him of a side panel of a plasma cannon and a stuttering engine from only a few short years ago.
Logan is cursing freely as he handles the wheel, which is his only mark of truly enjoying himself, and no matter how quickly the little ship changes direction or dodges behind asteroids, she can’t shake Logan, who pulls off the exact same feats with their larger, bulkier ship and stays right on her tail.
“Asteroid off the bow!” Scott shouts as they come up on a massive, slowly-spinning rock that’s three times the size of the Aphthoria. Ahead of them the smaller ship keeps streaking towards it, flying at it straight-on. “They’re going to crash!”
“Negative,” Charles shouts back over the sound of the wind, leaning forward in anticipation, “they’re trying to fake us out! Mr. Howlett, steady on course! Be prepared to pull up on my mark!”
“Aye, Captain,” Logan answers, keeping the Aphthoria straight on her course.
“Sir,” Scott insists as they draw closer and closer to the asteroid, neither ship showing signs of wavering, “we really—”
“Steady,” Charles orders, eyes focused on the little ship ahead, trained on the dual white-hot jets of plasma flames emitting out from her stern. “Steady...steady...now!”
Logan yanks back on the upthrust levers, and Nightcrawler lets out another wild whoop as the Aphthoria angles upward, her bow pointing nearly straight up and perpendicular to their previous vector, soaring upwards and skimming over the rock face of the asteroid by mere feet. Charles has to hold onto the railing with both hands now to keep from falling completely backwards as the ship tilts at such a sharp angle, the cost of coasting up and over the asteroid at the last possible second.
Logan brings the ship level again once they’ve cleared the top of the rock, bringing their target back into view again. The other ship too has made it up and over, though just barely—she must have clipped the rock while trying to avoid smashing into it, and is definitely limping now as she struggles to stay ahead.
“Gentlemen, I believe this chase is over,” Charles says as he straightens, absently pulling down on his jacket so that it rests straight and fitted across his shoulders. “Bring her in. Port side, Mr. Howlett, and Mr. Scott, only two cannon fires should do it.”
“Come on, Captain,” Logan says with a feral grin even as he moves to obey, turning the wheel so that the Aphthoria will come up on their target’s port side as they draw even, “it’s your last day before shore leave, don’t you want to go out with a bang?”
“No, I want to be able to actually start my leave as soon as we make dock,” Charles answers with a small laugh, “and the paperwork for blowing a ship out of the sky is infinitely longer.” The Aphthoria is neck-and-neck with the other ship now, and Charles gives Scott a nod. “Fire at will, Mr. Summers.”
“Cannon fire on my mark!” Scott shouts down to the crew below. “Two blasts in three! Two! One! Fire!”
The Aphthoria’s twin cannons fire in unison, neon green plasma blowing holes in both the side of the other ship and through her single mast, which splinters with a loud snap and sends her sail crashing down into her deck. Logan eases off on the Aphthoria’s speed, keeping her even with the other ship as it’s forced to slow down, her thrusters not powerful enough to keep going for long without her sail there to collect energy.
“Board her, secure any hostiles,” Charles says as the two ships glide to a halt, or as much as a halt anything can come to in open space, sailing alongside each other at equal speed, “you know the drill. No casualties, detainment only.”
“Do you ever ask for casualties?” Logan says with a snort, running a few checks on the status of their own engines as the thrusters power down and Scott descends from the quarterdeck to relay and carry out Charles’ orders.
“No,” Charles says firmly, scratching Nightcrawler beneath the chin as he watches his men leap from the Aphthoria to the deck of the other ship, spreading out to search for anyone aboard, “they’re obviously guilty of something if they fired at us and tried to escape, but whatever it is, they can stand fair trial for it back home.”
“Am I really supposed to believe that you once sailed with pirates?” Logan asks skeptically, bushy eyebrows raised.
Charles gives a short laugh, shaking his head. “They told all sorts of stories about us back at the Academy, didn’t they, Nightcrawler?”
The little Morph snickers, changing into a mini pirate captain, complete with an eyepatch, peg leg, and tiny hooked hand that he brandishes at Logan. “Argh! Argh!”
“Eight men detained, Captain!” Scott calls over from the other ship. “Smugglers by the looks of things.”
Charles looks up sharply. “Line them up,” he answers after a half-second’s delay, walking over to the stairs, “and round up all their cargo, too.”
“Aye, Captain.”
By the time Charles has descended down to the Aphthoria’s main deck, his men have set up a small gangway crossing between the two ships, so there’s no need for him to make the jump. He walks across it swiftly with Nightcrawler trailing him, straight-backed and composed. Scott has all eight of the captured smugglers lined up on the other ship’s deck, hands tied behind their backs and guarded by several of Charles’ own crew. They stare at Charles stoically as he approaches and after a brief glance across each of their faces, Charles allows himself to let out a silent breath in relief—none of them are familiar.
He comes to a stop beside Scott. “None of them will answer any questions,” his first officer reports, one hand resting idly on the plasma pistol at his hip, “not that we’ve asked much.”
“Good thing it’s not our job to ensure that they do,” Charles answers, “that’s for the constable to worry about.” He surveys the silent and grim-faced men, who still stare back at him expressionlessly. Depending on what they’re smuggling, their sentences may not be so long or harsh. “Take them down to the brig. We’ll drop them off when you all drop me off.”
“No wonder you’re more reckless than usual today,” Scott says as the smugglers are led across the gangway and onto the Aphthoria, “you always get restless when your shore leave is soon.”
“Everything was perfectly under control,” Charles answers calmly, but he grins a little as Nightcrawler hovers behind his serious first officer, taking on his form and making ridiculous faces, “but yes, I love sailing and I wouldn’t trade the career for anything, but I’ve been out for four months now. I miss my solar surfer.”
“Of course your hobby is solar surfing,” Scott says, dry as dust, and Nightcrawler sticks out his tongue right at the back of Scott’s head.
“You could do to stand for a little more excitement in your life,” Charles tells him pointedly, and Scott ducks his head a little in acknowledgement. Charles turns to head back onto the Aphthoria as well, calling over his shoulder, “Get their cargo sorted quickly, Mr. Summers, I hear they’re having excellent updrafts on Montressor today.”
X
The sun is setting on Crescentia as the moon-shaped spaceport orbits around Montressor by the time the Aphthoria reaches her dock, sliding neatly into the berth without bumping the sides once. Charles has been packed since the night before so his departure is a short affair. All it takes is for him to stop by his quarters one last time, slinging his small duffle bag over one shoulder, and after bidding farewell to Scott, Logan, and a few other various members of the crew that he’s friendly with he makes his way down the gangway onto the dock, Nightcrawler flying in wide circles over his head in the form of a gullray.
“Captain Xavier,” his relief greets him at the bottom, shaking his hand. “Had a good run?”
“As ever, Captain Munroe,” Charles says, returning the handshake. “There are a few smugglers locked down in the brig to make life exciting for you. Just picked them up on our way back by chance.”
Ororo grins. “You can never have a boring, regular ride, can you?”
“Never,” Charles assures her, and tips her a cheery nod. “See you in four months.”
Crescentia is the same as ever, unchanged from the very first time he walked down its busy wharves. Even with the onset of night the port is still bustling, full of travelers and spacers and all manner of people and aliens coming and going in every direction as they carry out their business. The only thing that is different is that people pay more attention to him now, clearing out of his path as he walks, most spacers giving him a polite nod in recognition of his uniform and the rank he wears on either shoulder; a far cry from being jostled around and flat-out ignored when he’d been fresh off of Montressor in his dusty jacket and trousers.
It’s good to be back, he thinks as he enters the market district, leaving the long row of docked ships behind. It’s not a sentiment he ever imagined having towards Montressor, but it’s always good to be back at first, to relax from the daily grind of ship life. By the end of his leave, however, Charles always finds himself ready to go again, impatient and eager to answer the alluring call of the sky and return to wild, open space.
“What do you think, buddy?” Charles asks Nightcrawler, who darts around to peer at all the goods stalls as they pass but never strays too far, always returning to hover at Charles’ shoulder. “We should stop by the inn for a couple days, don’t you think? Wade will be happy to see us.”
Nightcrawler turns into a mini version of the deranged android still currently employed in the kitchens of the Marko Inn, chanting, “Tacos! Tacos! Tacos!”
Charles bats at him with a laugh, shaking his head. The inn had been completely rebuilt four years ago, the simple fundings of a small bag of gold coins going a long way to see the project done. He tries to stop by at least once during his shore leave, mostly to visit his mother and Wade, only sometimes exchanging a stilted, awkward word or two with Kurt. Visiting Hank and Raven at Hank’s estate up the road from the inn is another frequent stop, and Charles always goes prepared with a few trinkets to gift to their four boisterous children, that he makes sure to pick up along his travels. It’s good to see his family and his friends, but it’s not the only reason he enjoys his small stretch of time at home.
Charles skirts past a large crowd in front of one of the food stalls, turning sideways to edge along the grimy building wall. It’s dinnertime, and walking through the open market is currently more akin to a fish attempting to swim upstream, he thinks ruefully, snatching Nightcrawler out of the air with one hand when the Morph snaps his teeth at someone who unknowingly bumps into Charles on accident.
“Easy,” Charles warns him, though not without a certain degree of fondness, jiggling him within the confines of his fingers for a moment before releasing him. Nightcrawler cheeps, abashed, but otherwise flits ahead again, the galaxy’s smallest watchdog.
A hand darts out of the nearest open alleyway, grabbing Charles by the arm and tugging him off the street before he can think to resist. He pivots with what little balance he has left, hooking an automatic punch towards his assailant with his free arm but his fist is caught before the blow even lands, and then warm, familiar lips are pressed over his.
Charles relaxes immediately, his fist uncurling and his lips parting, tilting his head back to give better access. The hand on his arm slides up along his shoulder to fist in his hair even as Charles feels himself being walked backwards, duffle bag plucked off his shoulder and dropped carelessly to the ground as his back hits the wall lightly, a firm body pressed up against his front.
“And what, please enlighten me, is wrong with just saying hello?” Charles asks, slightly breathless, once the tongue that had previously been tracing along the inside of his mouth slides out, allowing him to actually focus on the man casually pinning him in place.
“Hello,” Erik says, so supremely satisfied with himself that it would be annoying if Charles weren’t so happy to see him.
“Hi,” Charles says, leaning up to kiss him again. He groans a little into Erik’s mouth when he feels the unyielding firmness of Erik’s robotic leg slip between his own, slotting his knee right beneath Charles’ crotch. “Really, Erik, we’re in a dirty alleyway, you’re going to ruin my uniform.”
“Have I ever mentioned how attractive you are in your uniform,” Erik says silkily, casually sliding his knee up a little further to press against the growing hardness in Charles’ trousers. “Captain Charles Xavier. If only they could see you now.”
“Shut up,” Charles snaps, even while he shivers, rocking his hips forward somewhat shamelessly, he’ll admit, for an esteemed captain of the interstellar fleet. “This is why I asked you to wait at home. You’re insatiable.”
“You’re insatiable,” Erik answers, flashing his teeth in a quick grin. He eases back, withdrawing his leg but otherwise keeps his grip on Charles, one hand in his hair while the other rests on his hip. “Did you honestly expect me to wait at home while you took your sweet time in arriving, off socializing with someone like Wade?”
“And Hank, and Raven, and my mother,” Charles points out. He’s able to maintain seriousness for all of two seconds longer before he laughs, wrapping his arms around Erik. “It’s good to see you. Even though it’s only been three weeks this time.” They’d had a night together in the Hylian spaceport, when the Aphthoria had stopped in for a supply pickup.
“Any amount of time is still long,” Erik says simply, holding him back.
Charles nods. The longest he and Erik had spent apart had been his two years at the Academy, when he was bogged down with classes and the typical, trivial duties saved for all greenhorn spacers. After that, however, once Charles was officially graduated and shipped out, it was easier to see Erik, meeting covertly in various spaceports sprinkled throughout the galaxy whenever Charles’ ship was in town and Erik was nearby enough to make it, busy with his own smuggling enterprises. Now Charles’ shore leaves make things even easier to see Erik and spend more than just a few stolen hours’ worth of time together, allowing them long, blissful months instead.
He’s happy. He’s the captain of his own ship and he has Erik too. The only thing that could possibly be better is Erik joining the fleet and being assigned to Charles’ ship, but Charles has long since accepted the impossibility. He’ll take what he has over any other alternative.
“We picked up some smugglers on our way in today,” he says after a few moments of quiet, merely soaking up each other’s presence, “I was afraid at first that it was you.”
“As if I’d let a Fleet ship catch me,” Erik says, arrogant grin evident in his voice alone.
“I’d run you down into the ground, Lehnsherr,” Charles says coolly, but smiles again when he feels Erik’s chest vibrate with a chuckle.
“I don’t think I’d make much effort in trying to escape from you,” Erik answers lightly, “so you win by default alone.”
“I’ll win every time,” Charles says, ramping up the haughtiness in his voice just to make Erik growl. It works, just like it does every time.
Nightcrawler comes shrieking down the alleyway, having finally caught up to where Charles had abruptly disappeared to, zooming around Erik like an over-excited puppy. Charles laughs again as he lets go to allow Erik the space to greet the Morph, stooping slightly to pick up his duffle. The motion is awkward due to his still-interested cock that’s half-hard in his pants, but he doesn’t say anything, just watches with a small smile as Erik riles Nightcrawler up even more, play-fighting with him for a few moments before finally catching him to give him a good scratch.
“Come on,” Erik says finally once he’s released Nightcrawler again only to have the little Morph settle on top of his head. He lifts the duffle out of Charles’ hand and slings it over his own shoulder before offering Charles his hand. “I got us a room up here for the night.”
Charles makes a face as he accepts Erik’s hand, allowing himself to be led back out into the busy street. “Spaceport inns are so expensive, we should just catch the next shuttle headed down planetside and stay at Kurt’s.”
“I’m not fucking you in your mother’s inn,” Erik answers slyly, navigating them both through the crowd, “and anyway, you’re worth it, schatz.”
Charles takes a steadying breath, torn between an unfortunate mix of scandalized and aroused. “Well,” he says, in what he believes to be his best diplomatic voice, “if you put it like that.”
Erik gives his hand a squeeze, and otherwise keeps foraging through the mass of people.
The inn Erik has chosen is small and out of the way, not located directly on the main streets of the port. He leads Charles in past the front desk and common area, where a good amount of people have gathered for an evening meal, and up a small flight of rickety stairs. They pass down a long, narrow hall, heading straight to the door at the end, which Erik comes to a stop outside of, fishing a key out of his jacket pocket.
“This is your stop,” he says to Nightcrawler, brushing the Morph out of his hair. Nightcrawler grumbles but obeys, licking Erik’s cheek and winking at Charles before taking off back down the corridor, no doubt to go put on his best adorable act and beg for table scraps downstairs.
“You should take him with you some of the time,” Charles says as Erik unlocks the door with a scrape, “he misses you a lot.”
“I like him looking after you better,” Erik says, shouldering the door open and pulling Charles inside. The room is small and cozy, well-lit and reminds Charles, almost, of a bigger version of Erik’s steward’s cabin back on the Klirodótima.
“I don’t need a sitter,” Charles reminds him, “I never have and I never will.”
Erik laughs, dumping Charles’ duffle into a chair. “Haven’t heard that one in awhile.”
“It bears repeating, apparently.” Charles folds his arms and keeps them there, even when Erik steps up to him and runs his hands up and down Charles’ shoulders, feeling him out underneath his uniform jacket.
“Then maybe,” Erik says, leaning in close so that his lips brush against the shell of Charles’ ear with each word, “I just like having him stay with you to make sure everyone else knows you’re mine.”
There are a hundred different protests against this logic Charles could make, starting with the fact that no one even knows he’s seeing a smuggler, let alone that it’s Erik, but instead he shudders, the words going straight down to his cock which perks up again in interest, swelling in his pants. He unfolds his arms and grabs onto the front of Erik’s jacket, yanking Erik down into a kiss. This one is sloppy and wet, their teeth clicking together as they attack each other’s mouths with abandon, unable to resist each other as always.
“As much as I love a man in uniform,” Erik murmurs against his lips, clever fingers already at work on the buttons of Charles’ jacket and popping them open one by one, “this needs to come off.”
Charles doesn’t answer, too busy tugging on Erik’s worn, less-official jacket in a direct echo of the same sentiment. They make short work of peeling each other out of their clothes, all but experts at it by now—they’ve had time to learn each other, in the past five years. Charles tips his head back with a hum as Erik mouths at the side of his neck, wrapping the fingers of one hand around Erik’s thickening cock, jacking him lazily for a few moments as they stand naked together in the middle of the room, the heat of their bodies enough to keep them warm.
Erik’s hips twitch forward, fucking into Charles’ hand, his sticky precome smearing across Charles’ palm while Erik rests his forehead on Charles’ bare shoulder, looking down to watch his cock disappear in and out of the circle of Charles’ fingers. Charles lets go of him, and when Erik lifts his head to look at him he meets Erik’s gaze and holds it while he raises his hand and licks, the salty precome sharp and bitter on his tongue but not altogether unpleasant.
Erik makes a small noise as he watches, pupils blown wide. “Charles,” he says, and it’s secretly one of Charles’ favorite things when he renders Erik so turned on that he sounds helpless, watching Charles lap up the rest of his precome.
“I was led to believe that I’m getting laid tonight,” Charles says primly once he’s finished, trying his best to sound unruffled and collected but there’s only so long he can last like that, especially with the way Erik’s regarding him now. “So far I—”
Erik tackles him down onto the bed even as he cushions Charles’ fall, making sure he lands without hurting himself even as he pins Charles resolutely down. They kiss again, Erik licking his way back into Charles’ mouth as if he’s determined to taste himself there, and Charles would complain about territory marking except at the moment he couldn’t care less, spreading his legs beneath Erik and kissing him back hungrily.
“Where—?” Charles asks blankly when Erik abruptly withdraws entirely, the sudden absence of the warmth of his body over Charles’ making him shiver.
“Forgot,” Erik answers, already halfway across the room. Charles sits up to admire Erik’s bare ass when the pirate-turned-smuggler flips open his trunk and bends over to dig through it. “We need the oil unless you want me going in dry.” He shifts a few things around inside the trunk, cursing under his breath as it evidently doesn’t unearth the little bottle of oil that’s seen a lot of use and refills over the years.
In lieu of answering Charles climbs back up to his feet, padding silently on bare feet across the hardwood floor over to where Erik stands. He drapes himself across Erik’s back, standing up on the very tips of his toes so that he can press a kiss against the side of Erik’s neck, his hands sneaking down around Erik’s torso to run up and down his belly and chest.
“Found it,” Erik says after a small pause, and from his vantage point Charles can see the corner of his mouth curling upwards in a grin.
He feels the muscles in Erik’s back ripple, and that’s all the warning he gets before Erik straightens, sending Charles sliding off, his feet flat on the floor again. Erik turns around and starts walking Charles backwards, one hand pressed against his chest and pushing lightly, his gait slow and predatory as he advances. Charles goes with the motion, walking backwards until he bumps into the wall, his cock curving up against his stomach, hard and leaking.
“The bed’s over there,” he says, nodding to the opposite side of the room.
Erik smirks, uncorking the bottle with his robotic hand and upending it for a moment, letting the slick inside drizzle out onto his fingers. “I know. Spread your legs.”
Charles widens his stance as Erik sets the bottle down, and his breath hitches when Erik hikes up one of his legs at the knee, leaving Charles scrabbling to grip Erik’s shoulders as he’s left to balance on one leg. Erik reaches down to Charles’ hole, metal finger tracing around the rim of his entrance before dipping inside.
“Ngh,” Charles says articulately, head thumping back against the wall as Erik pushes in deeper, stretching him open. Erik’s metal finger is the same length and width of a normal human finger, but the steel is less yielding than flesh and bone, making it feel more like Erik is fucking him with a toy than his fingers.
“Hope we don’t have any neighbors,” Erik says, sliding another finger up inside Charles, thrusting them in and out of Charles’ hole at a steady, even pace. Both of Charles’ legs twitch, the one Erik holds up bent at the knee kicks out slightly while the one he balances on buckles slightly, his hips making an abortive motion forward as he tries to move counterpoint to Erik’s fingers—because while they feel good, it’s still not enough.
“Fuck me,” Charles grits out through clenched teeth, his entire body hot all over, even with the cold wall at his back, “come on, Erik—”
“Captain’s orders,” Erik says with a low laugh, sliding his fingers out of Charles’ ass with a wet squelch of flesh that makes Charles’ hole clench down on empty air, desperate and wanting. “If they could see Captain Charles Xavier now, at the mercy of a smuggler,” he breathes, and Charles shivers in Erik’s grip. “Hold onto my shoulders, schatz.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what that means,” Charles demands, even as he reaffirms his grip on Erik’s broad shoulders, eyes trained on the way Erik slathers his own cock with the rest of the oil still left on his hand.
Erik hums noncommittally as he lifts Charles up by the hips, pressing him back down harder against the wall to brace him there while Charles gets his legs around either side of Erik’s waist. He jumps a little when Erik’s hands move down to squeeze his asscheeks, supporting him from there even as he spreads them open, lining his cock up with Charles’ hole.
They groan in unison as he sinks Charles down, and Charles will never grow tired of experiencing that first burning stretch of Erik penetrating him, pushing in past the ring of muscle to sheathe himself fully in Charles’ body, hot and hard and pressing up against all the right places inside him. Charles’ thighs squeeze Erik’s waist, his head thunking back against the wall again as his spine goes ramrod straight on its own accord, mouth falling open and panting.
Erik holds him steady, his grip on Charles never weakening nor threatening to fail, his real arm just as strong as his robotic arm. He pushes his cock up into Charles all the way, bottoming out when his balls brush against Charles’ ass, holding him there and giving him time to adjust. Charles tips his head down for a kiss, and it’s almost novel, in a way, to be in the position where he’s higher up than Erik, Erik leaning up to him for once rather than the other way around.
“You’re beautiful,” Erik murmurs when they part, and then he begins to move.
Whatever answer Charles thinks he might have come up with in response is swallowed by a moan as Erik thrusts up into him, Charles’ body bouncing slightly with the motion. He’s pinned against the wall and held splayed open by Erik’s body, with no choice but to hold on and just take it, with no leverage whatsoever to either pull back or push forward.
Erik fucks him relentlessly, setting up a brutal pace at just the right angle, the fat head of his cock inside Charles nailing his prostate on every upthrust. Charles gasps out a small, wrecked noise every time, the sounds forcing themselves out past his lips unbidden, stomach muscles already seizing up as he curls forward against Erik, eyes closed and forehead resting against Erik’s clavicle. Pleasure flares up his spine with every forward snap of Erik’s hips, driving his cock in deep, radiating through him like a livewire, charged with electric heat. His own cock strains between them, brushing against Erik’s flat stomach and Charles is close, so close, to release.
“Let me see you,” Erik says breathlessly, his rhythm never faltering, “let me see you, Charles, I want to see you when you come for me.”
Charles leans back with a ragged gasp, just far enough for Erik to catch his lips in a messy kiss, their eyes meeting in mutual rapture and that’s all it takes—Erik bites down on Charles’ lower lip as he slams his hips up one last time and comes, hot stickiness spurting deep inside Charles’ ass, most of it leaking down immediately due to the angle. Charles follows suit with a muffled whimper, coming with his cock untouched between them and striping both of their chests with white as he shudders apart in Erik’s hold.
They stay as they are for a few moments, catching their breath in between slow, lazy kisses, sloppy and unhurried as they come down from their shared high. Erik’s cock slips out as it softens, making Charles squirm as more of Erik’s come drips out of his ass, feeling more than a little dirty and used, but Erik only chuckles, making him hold still and feel it.
“Put me down,” Charles says at last, trying to wiggle out of Erik’s grip even though he’s certain that his legs are far too shaky at the moment to support his weight. He’s already sore, but pleasantly so, most of the vaguely uncomfortable twinge drowned out by the happy contentedness that bubbles up in his chest, affectionate and relaxed.
Erik merely tightens his grip on Charles and then carefully pulls him back from the wall, carrying him over to the bed where he gently lays Charles out, depositing him on his back and crawling up beside him. Charles rolls onto his side and snuggles up against Erik, tucking himself beneath one of Erik’s arms, head resting against his shoulder, and stretches luxuriously, relishing in the burn of well-used muscles.
“You really want to know what it means?” Erik asks after a small silence, absently rubbing his thumb against Charles’ hip bone, head turned sideways so his nose is pressed against Charles’ hair, breathing him in.
“I’ve only been asking you for five years now,” Charles answers, but his voice holds no bite, his eyelids already drooping sleepily, his warm position cuddled up with Erik too comfortable for its own good. He could get used to this, he thinks idly, covering Erik’s hand with his own, he has gotten used to this.
Erik chuckles again, no doubt amused by how pliant Charles is, something he’s endlessly fascinated by. He presses a small kiss against Charles’ temple, and they’ve come along way from wary first meetings and heartbreaking betrayal and carefully-mended forgiveness but Charles has never felt as if he’s tamed the ruthless pirate captain more right now than ever before.
“Treasure,” Erik answers him, and Charles feels finer than gold, priceless and brighter than starlight, cherished in Erik’s deft, strong hands, “you are my treasure.”
