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It’s already dark outside; Charles is later getting back than he said he would be. Probably for the best, given this is about to turn into one of the Frost siblings’ famous shouting matches. Erik feels his grip tighten around the plastic of the phone and forces his hand to relax, along with his power - no point in frying the metal components inside, and he’d only have to explain it to Charles after. “I’m not an animal, Emma. I’m housetrained.”
“Oh, honey. You and I both know you have no interest in being well-behaved. Honestly, I’m surprised Charles hasn’t resorted to beating it out of you.”
Erik resettles himself on the couch and thinks about hanging up on her, crossing and uncrossing his ankles where his feet are propped up on the coffee table. He doesn’t even know why he called her. It’s been a long day, between having to force his subordinates to focus on their imminent deadline on a Friday afternoon and Tony’s ongoing teasing about Erik still being with Charles instead of fleeing the country to live wild and unDominated; Erik was already seething when he picked up the phone, and Emma always brings out the worst of that in him. It’s probably the self-destructive sort of wallowing in his negative emotions that Charles tells him off for and Emma always picks at. Brooding.
On the other end of the line Emma makes that clicking noise with her tongue that she knows drives him mad, and he can just imagine her - coiled like a snake in her favourite white armchair, examining her white nails even when she’s supposed to be concentrating on talking to Erik. “You have to know that at political functions it matters how you relate to one another. People will be judging Charles based on how you respond to him, and how submissive you are. Nobody’s saying you’re an animal, but it has to be said that you’re not one for bending your neck even at home, let alone in public.”
She sighs, and Erik feels the sound clench up all of his internal organs in a fit of fury he can’t take out on her, halfway across the city. “I’m not trying to be a bitch, sweetie. I’m just saying that as much as Charles seems to love you cantankerous, and he’ll probably let you have your head, he has to take you to these affairs and if you make him look weak then that’s going to weaken his position in places he can’t afford, with the election coming up so soon.”
“Politics,” Erik spits, and finally jumps up from his seat on their not-white couch to pace in front of the tall, square-panelled windows where they look out over Central Park, flexing his power to hold the handset to his ear while his fingers curl and uncurl at his sides. The ring on the front of his collar rattles against its fixing, tugging at the leather where it’s tight around his throat, until he has to hook his thumb through the steel loop to keep it still. The feel of his fisted hand against the underside of his chin is comforting, almost, reassuring in a way he hates to admit to and of course Charles always knows. “It’s none of their business.”
On the other end Emma laughs, suddenly, loud and clarion clear, a merry peal of amusement. He can almost hear her tossing her hair, overdramatic and full of herself. “Oh, Erik. I think you’re just scared you can’t do it. If I ever see you playing at being the perfect submissive then I’ll sell my favourite furs for charity - and you know how much I love that mink.”
Erik breaks, frustration and anger reaching its peak like the electric air gathering into a bolt of lightning.
“Consider it sold,” he snaps, and hangs up before he has to throw the phone across the room.
Charles gives him a curious look later when he gets home from his meeting with Senator Rowfield, but if he pries he does it so softly that Erik doesn’t notice. He doesn’t say anything about it, anyway. Instead he puts the take-out down on the kitchen table and waits for Erik to come over and set the table, then kisses him hello before going to change out of his suit.
~*~
Erik lies awake that night and watches Charles sleep, his Dominant’s arm curled over Erik’s side and palm pressed to the ridge of his shoulderblade to hold Erik close, protective and warm. Charles’ eyelashes are like charcoal smudges on his cheeks, his breathing slow and even against the hollow of Erik’s throat, everything about him comfortable and possessive.
The thing is, Charles is so patient with Erik, and he never pushes him to do anything he doesn’t want to do, even though Erik knows that it drives him crazy when Erik refuses to submit. Instead he waits for Erik to decide to do things for himself, and he never says ‘I told you so’ when Erik relaxes into it, enjoys it, even though he must sorely want to. It’s clear in the way he sleeps, refusing to let Erik roll away, keeping him where Charles wants him, that if Charles let himself in his waking hours he could be very Domineering indeed. And he chooses not to be.
Considering Erik had never planned to end up bonded to any Dominant at all, that he is bonded to Charles - and that he wants to bend for Charles, though he rails against it and struggles with it - surely he can bend a little further, to help Charles politically. It’s not as though he cares what any of those people think of him.
But he finds he does care, at least a little, what they think of Charles.
He struggles onto his back despite Charles’ irate grumbling, then waits for Charles to redistribute himself, even in his sleep his hand searching out Erik’s wrist in retaliation and holding it like a cuff, immobile, before he’ll settle. Damn Emma, anyway. Erik fully intends to tear those furs from her smug hands himself when he proves her wrong tomorrow.
~*~
Erik showers second that evening, and when he comes out with towel wrapped around his waist and another one in his hand drying his hair he finds Charles in their bedroom looking at his reflection in the mirror, adjusting his cuffs. It’s a good opportunity to just look, while Charles is occupied - Erik doesn’t like to stare usually, but in the soft electric light Charles looks so put together compared to his at-home dishabille that it’s almost shocking. Though he dresses smartly for work, this is distinctly different. Charles’ tuxedo is perfect midnight black, the sleek satin lapel laying perfectly flat and wrinkle-free, courtesy of the drycleaner; the shirt under it is crisp, unmarked white, marred only by the dangling tails of his unfastened bowtie.
When Charles turns his head to look at Erik he’s already smiling, eyes catching the light and creasing at the corners. “Would you mind tying it for me, love? I’m all fingers and thumbs with these things.”
And Erik - lets himself nod, dropping the hair towel onto the bed so he can cross over the thick carpet and take hold of the loose ends of the bowtie. He has to stand very close, the tie too short for distance. It’s hard at first to do it backwards, but when he thinks about the process he works it out and crosses the ends over correctly, begins tucking and folding the fabric in a pattern he more or less remembers from the last time he had to do his own, before he was claimed, when he could still hide his neck without Charles giving him a look and somehow forcing-without-forcing Erik to change shirts. The feel of Charles’ throat swallowing smoothly under his hands is intoxicating, the warmth of his body against Erik’s bare skin making the little hairs of his chest stand up with static longing.
It’s not cold in there, but it feels like all the warmth in the room is coming from Charles’ body.
“I got you something,” Charles says, tipping his chin back to give Erik more room to work. His hands move to Erik’s hips and settle, holding him only gently, not forceful but keeping him close, index fingers slipping just under the edge of the towel. “You don’t have to wear it, but I would like it if you did.”
Erik wants to refuse just out of reflex, but he squashes the impulse, and instead he says, “Oh?”, tugs the second tail of the bow tie through the little hole and forward to press it flat and open. “There.”
“Thank you,” Charles says, but he doesn’t turn towards the mirror. Instead he slips in between their minds, brushes warmly against Erik’s senses, borrowing his sight before slipping back out again and smiling widely. “That’s much better than I ever manage! Clearly you’ll have to do all of my ties from now on.” His thumb brushes Erik’s hipbone, proprietary, and then he tugs the towel down and off, a drift of terrycloth slipping down Erik’s legs to pool at his feet. “Put your pants on and I’ll show you.”
“Let go, then,” Erik says, mouth a little dry, and Charles’ smile curls into something hotter as he steps away, removing his hands and leaving Erik’s hips cold.
He watches Erik get dressed without sitting down, arms crossed loosely over his chest while his eyes follow the bend of Erik’s back and legs as he tugs on his boxer-briefs, Charles’ attention palpable like a physical touch - wherever he looks the flesh prickles and tingles, like a flush of blood to a numbed limb, so that Erik knows every second that Charles is caressing the curve of his backside with his gaze, the weight of his cock in the front placket of his underwear when Erik shifts himself about with one hand to make sure he’s going to be comfortable all night, the line of his spine and flex of his shoulders when he reaches for his shirt - pauses until Charles nods, and slips his arms into the sleeves, pulling it tight around his front so he can button it up. Metal buttons, like all of his clothes, though these ones have been painted with white enamel so they don’t show. His pants go on last, shirt tucked in neatly before he fastens the fly, careful not to catch himself in the zipper.
“Stop.”
Erik’s hands fall to his sides before he’s even thought about it, and Charles strokes his mind in approval, tosses him a pair of socks to put on while Charles goes to the lowest drawer of his dresser.
He pulls out - something fabric - Erik frowns, trying to make it out, but it’s not until Charles shakes the fabric a little and adjusts his grip that he sees it’s a waistcoat. The main body of it is made of the same sleek black fabric as his pants and jacket, the shoulders and back made of satin, coming down in front in points across his pectorals and with an open, folded-back collar of the same gleaming fabric. It looks a little narrow - perhaps Charles got the size wrong?
Then Erik sees the buckles on the sides, and realises Charles is holding a corset. He freezes, the bottom falling out of his stomach; somehow he manages not to rear back and away, kneejerk refusal dropping him from his good mood and shouting in his head, though he only lets out a sharp exhale.
“You don’t have to,” Charles says almost immediately, and of course he would feel Erik balking, pitches his voice calm and in control, as though Erik is a spooked horse. “But I think it would look very good on you, and it would make me very happy if you wore it.”
There was a time when that would have made Erik scoff and ask silently what kind of Dom Charles thought he was, giving in to Erik so easily. It took him a while to realise that more often than not, he did what Charles asked just to earn that feeling of Charles being pleased with him, so easily shared when his Dom was a telepath - that the orders were barely even necessary.
He swallows thickly, looking at the black fabric in Charles’ hands, and thinks about it - everybody knows he’s Charles’ submissive anyway, it wouldn’t be broadcasting anything they couldn’t already tell from his collar. He thinks about being restrained, about being unable to fight if he had to - but Charles will be there too, and it won’t impede his limbs or powers. He thinks about the feel of Charles’ control on his body the whole time they’re out there, another layer between him and all of those others, and shudders, a hot sick rush down his spine that makes him swallow and lock his knees.
Charles must feel Erik’s arousal, and his grudging consent, because the smile returns, pleased and private, and he strokes Erik with his happiness as he steps up to Erik’s front, looking up at him with approval even while he threads Erik’s arms into the armholes one after the other - lifts Erik’s arms with Erik’s own muscles, moving him like a doll until he can tug the waistcoat over his shoulders and align the hooks.
He uses Erik’s power, too, to make the hooks and eyes snap together in a ripple of metal from sternum to navel, then, after, each buckle one by one, from the ones right under Erik’s armpits to the ones over his hips, the fabric drawing in close - closer - enveloping Erik’s chest like a glove and pressing in against him, tight and all-encompassing, until he can feel each breath against it in exquisite detail, his own heartbeat throbbing against the steel ribbing.
It’s like being caged, the metal thrumming in lines along Erik’s torso, holding him in place. He grits his teeth, holds his ground and does not pull away even though he wants to, doesn’t want to, wants it, muscles twitching with the urge to resist, to push forward into Charles’ hands and gasp for breath.
Charles tugs the buckles at the narrowest part of Erik’s waist in tighter, stares at it with a flush of arousal rising in his cheeks, and tugs them tighter yet until Erik feels utterly captured, embraced by Charles’ control. He lets out a shallow, breathy sound and when he tries to inhale the corset presses in on his lungs, leaving him lightheaded.
“Come here,” and Charles drags Erik’s head down to kiss him fiercely, making him bend to Charles’ height and pressing Erik’s mouth open to bite at his lower lip with fierce teeth, tongue licking along it after, soothing. His hands on Erik’s face are broad and all-encompassing, like blinkers erasing everything else in the world. When Charles pulls back his eyes are sparkling, his hair a little mussed, and his command to Erik to put on his tuxedo jacket is wordless, an idea rather than a sentence.
Erik thinks it rather negates the point of putting on the corset if nobody can see it, including Charles, but once he has his shoes on - freshly shined - and he’s made sure his shirt collar is folded properly open, leaving his submissive’s collar fully on view, then Charles steps up beside him and puts his hand around Erik’s back and rests it on his waist, right over the buckles, and Erik understands.
Sometimes Erik is troubled by how much control he lets Charles have over him, but then Charles steps in close and presses Erik into service and he goes with it as though he’s never fought back in his life, Charles’ hands the only ones that can make him bend.
“Remember, we’re there for Senator Rowfield,” Charles says later once they’re sat in the back of the car, the privacy screen up between them and the hired driver. His hand is still on Erik’s waist, this time on the near side, tucked under the hem of his jacket so that Charles’ fingers are resting directly on the corset. He’s barely stopped touching it since they put it on. “I know he’s not our favourite person, either of us, but he’s far better than Kelly.”
“Not difficult,” Erik says, and Charles huffs with dry amusement. “You know I don’t like politics.”
“I know.” Charles is watching the street pass by outside the smoky window, fingers of his free hand tapping thoughtfully against his thigh. “But it’s the name of the game, unfortunately. And I play it very well, too well to step aside and let somebody else have a go. Much as I might want to.”
“Liar,” Erik murmurs, sinking back into the soft leather of the seat and slouching from the waist down while he still can, and instead of getting angry with him the way another Dom might Charles just laughs, turning his attention back to Erik. He pauses, taking in Erik’s splayed legs and louche hips, glances back up at Erik’s face with his own a little flushed, something dark and possessive in his expression.
“Thank you for wearing this. You look…”
“I don’t look like anything with the jacket on over the top,” Erik says, sitting carefully postured to keep the ribbing from digging in, feeling uncomfortably exposed even though it’s just hiding him further, and Charles says, “You do to me.”
The car pulls up to the hotel before Erik can respond, and there’s only a moment for them to compose themselves before the driver comes around to open the door for Charles; the look on his face vanishes as though he’s locked it all away and Charles gets out with a last private smile for Erik, his public face on now instead - genial, polite, unthreatening. The few enterprising photographers come to take pictures of the guests arriving have no idea. Charles offers his hand to Erik absently, but just as he remembers himself and starts to withdraw it - Erik would never usually accept - Erik grits his teeth and takes it, lets Charles draw him up and out of the car as though he needs Charles’ assistance, and gets a surprised glance for his trouble.
[?] Charles thinks, but Erik just ducks his head a little - it makes the back of his neck prickle, naked, but he keeps it there with gritted teeth and iron determination - and doesn’t respond to Charles’ probe, walks into the hotel quietly beside him, keeps his hands from curling into fists in preparation for taking on anybody who dares to treat him as a submissive.
Tonight, at least, he is going to let it happen and be good for Charles, and Emma is going to have to eat her words.
~*~
It’s harder than he thought it would be.
Erik ends up resorting to his boring meeting face, which is at least more neutral than his not-yet-telling-you-you’re-an-asshole face, and makes banal conversation with people in whom he has no interest whatsoever but whom Charles wants to talk to. The ballroom is packed, until it seems more like a rally than a ‘party’ - somebody has decorated it with red, white and blue bunting and balloons, and dimmed the lights just enough to hide the worst of people’s wrinkles. While Charles networks and pretends to be harmless Erik considers the metal in the room - a variety of watches, rings, earrings, nails in shoes, buckles, collars and leashes, table legs and electrical wires and rebar in the walls under the plaster, and knows that if he gets desperate he can collapse the entire place on them and bury them all alive while he makes his escape.
[I hope you’d take me with you,] Charles thinks, and he sounds amused, though his conversation with Rogaine Number Three doesn’t so much as falter, cheerfully discussing the man’s children while Rogaine’s clingy submissive clutches at his elbow and smiles as though anybody else cares about their spawn. Erik has to work hard not to open his mouth and say something rude.
Charles’ hand on Erik’s waist shifts, pressing harder for a moment before letting go. “Erik, go and fetch me another drink.” The sideways flicker of his eyes is a moment only, following the order, waiting to see whether Erik is going to refuse.
If he weren’t wearing the damn corset Erik would stiffen, but his back is already held rigid, forced into perfect posture, and it’s enough to remind him - be obedient. Be submissive. He thinks of how angry Emma will be if he manages it and it helps put iron in his resolve, makes it easier. So instead of scowling Erik just nods and reaches over to pluck Charles’ empty wineglass from his hand, waiting until Charles releases it before he steps away and into the crowd, heading in the general direction of the bar. He overhears the moment of surprised pleasure that escapes Charles before he pulls his emotions back - it makes a warm spot in the middle of his self-conscious prickling, setting his shoulders and lifting his chin so that nobody mistakes him for someone they can push around. Erik weaves between tuxedo- and ballgown-clad guests and even though he knows none of them probably even think it in any way a sign of weakness to submit, he feels vulnerable, like everyone is watching him go and marking him as easy pickings. It’s not a comfortable feeling.
He doesn’t speak to anyone, just avoids brushing against as many people as he can and moves with the eddies of the crowd. It’s easy to pretend he doesn’t recognise some of the people Emma usually schmoozes with, and his exchange with the barkeeper is terse and to the point, swapping the empty glass for a full one. It’s coming back with it that’s more difficult, and after he sees the first two people glance at his face then in surprise at his collar Erik tries harder to affect a more submissive expression, keeping his eyes on the wine to make sure it doesn’t spill. The red liquid sways in the wide bowl of the glass like a tiny ocean, and he walks with careful precision, avoiding the shift of elbows and backs, of sudden turns until he can make it all the way back to Charles, who takes it from him with a soft smile and a caress of his thumb across the back of Erik’s hand.
“You’re being very good,” he murmurs, lifting the wine to his lips and taking a slow sip, lids at half-mast as he looks at Erik from under them, assessing. They’re in an odd lull, the couple he had been talking to having moved on while Charles waited for Erik, and nobody having stepped in to take their place. The wine stains his lips a darker shade of red, and Erik grits his teeth but doesn’t pull away when Charles reaches up to touch Erik’s hair, a light caress that follows the curve of his skull, smoothing his hair, possessive and pleased. “Come on, let’s go sit.”
There are tables for the dinner later at the far end of the room nearest the stage, and Charles chooses the one at the front left, closest to the steps, glancing at his options before dragging a chair out from the table and taking his seat. Between each of the chairs is a cushion on the floor, and Erik comes to a halt behind Charles, out of his direct line of sight, pride and determination to prove Emma wrong warring inside him.
He’s barely willing to kneel for Charles as it is, at home where nobody else can see. This party is very, very public.
“The chair is fine, Erik,” Charles says without turning around, taking another mouthful of his wine, and reaches out with one hand behind him for Erik’s hand, tangles their fingers together.
Erik swallows hard, and then he thinks of Emma’s taunting, of Charles’ easy acceptance that Erik will sit in the chair instead of having to get down into a submissive position and show everyone, that Charles won’t think him ill-behaved for sitting at the table, and steps forward beside Charles’ seat. Moira has spent years trying to remind him he’s allowed to give way, that it’s in his nature and that he doesn’t have to be less strong to let someone else take the lead. He knows this, and yet his knees almost don’t bend. Charles isn’t looking, though, and Erik - it makes it easier to unlock his knees and fold down on himself, the thick padded cushion giving under his weight as he goes to the floor, still holding Charles’ hand and not letting the way his breath trembles in his chest out of his mouth.
The hand holding his - now at shoulder height, awkwardly raised - clenches tight, a small gasp of surprise the only sound Charles lets slip while Erik squeezes his eyes tight shut, fighting the impulse to get up and leave. When he opens them Charles is looking down at him with such a look of sweet, open happiness on his face that Erik has to close them again, dazzled, turns his face away so all Charles gets is the back of his head, which can’t betray him by expressing emotion. He feels dizzy, unsafe.
“Ah,” Charles says, and takes the hand he’s holding in his, bending with a creak of fabric to wrap it around his own ankle where Erik can hold on less visibly. “A little vertigo, perhaps? You’re very tall, the change of altitude can take people that way sometimes.” Both of them know he’s talking nonsense, but now that his hand is free he rests it on the far side of Erik’s head and presses Erik back around to meet his eyes, fingers tangling in Erik’s hair and nails scratching just a little at his scalp. “Hmm,” he adds, taking in Erik’s face, his breath just perceptibly faster than usual, and Erik can feel how pleased Charles is, both at Erik’s show of trust and his doing it spontaneously, without Charles even asking first, let alone having to press him to obey. It feels like summer sunlight on bare skin, like a naked Mediterranean morning sleeping on the tiles by the balcony door, baking everything golden and cypress-scented.
He feels dishonest, not mentioning Emma’s goading to Charles, and so Erik lets it float to the top of his mind, presenting it to him like a confession. He’s waiting for it, and so he sees the twitch of Charles’ smile pausing as he takes it in, but there’s nothing more than that, though surely it has to be disappointing, to find out Erik didn’t do it entirely of his own volition. Instead Charles just adjusts his grip on Erik’s head and tugs him until his cheek is pressed to Charles’ thigh, puts his hand over Erik’s eyes like a blindfold so that they have to close, lashes fluttering against Charles’ palm where Erik can’t quite convince himself to keep them closed. “I’ve got you,” Charles says quietly, and instead of pulling away - he knows he should, almost stiffens to pull back and stand, take himself off to the bathroom if nothing else, but something about not being able to see, about being there in the dark anchored by Charles’ touch and the warm enveloping presence of his mind lets him lean against his Dominant’s thigh and relax into it as though there is nobody else here, nobody else in the world.
“Like a hooded hawk,” Charles murmurs, sounding pleased again, and Erik can’t muster up enough affront to mind.
Other people come and talk to Charles after a while, and Erik hears the soft scrape of the chain legs against the wooden floor as they sit down, can feel their jewellery and metal fillings and one of them has a pin in his leg, probably from a broken bone. Nobody sits in the chair on his other side, though, and he can feel Charles warding them off even though he doesn’t say anything, keeping Erik quiet and undisturbed there in the dark - he couldn’t have stayed, if anybody had been that close, and Charles knows it, is doing something about it. Their conversation is boring, something about Senator Rowfield’s policy speech he’d made yesterday in which he’d airbrushed Charles’ mutant education initiative into sounding as though it was his own idea and not something Charles has been working on for months. Erik thinks about opening his eyes, tugging away Charles’ hand and joining in the conversation, but Charles thinks, [Don’t. It doesn’t matter so long as it goes through, and everyone who matters knows it’s mine. You’re doing so well, you’re being so good for me, Erik. I’m going to reward you when we get home.]
He stays there for a while longer, but his knees start to ache around the time the waiters start bringing around dinner, and it’s harder then to stay kneeling, especially when Charles has to take his hand away from Erik’s face in order to accept their plates. Opening his eyes is like being blinded, even looking into the darker space under the table, and Erik lets go of Charles’ ankle, too, sitting upright and away from him until he’s not leaning against the line of Charles’ leg, pressed shoulder to elbow against Charles’ calf the way he had been, dependent and flagrant.
There’s embarrassment blossoming in his chest like the blood from a wound soaking into his shirt, and Charles sighs quietly, too quietly for anyone else to hear, and says, “Go take a bathroom break and stretch your legs, love. Then come back for your dinner before it gets cold.”
He staggers a little when he stands, is grateful for the support of the counter in the bathroom when he stares at himself in the mirror, letting the blood drain back into his legs.
When he comes back Erik can’t quite bring himself to bend again, and so though he knows it voids the bet he made with Emma he sits in the chair at Charles’ side instead of getting back to his knees; the conversation around the table pauses, but picks up again after a moment in which they all glance at Charles to see what he’ll do, and in which Charles does nothing, says nothing, but to place his hand on Erik’s sore knee and squeeze gently, with another brush of his affectionate mind.
~*~
In the car on the way back home Charles wraps his hand around Erik’s wrist before he can buckle up and says, “Kneel between my legs. Sideways on, we’re not doing anything we can be prosecuted for or that’ll traumatise the driver.”
Erik pauses, caught in place as the valet shuts the car door behind him and closes them in together in the enclosed space in the back of the town car. His heart thumps loudly, and he’s sure Charles must hear it, too, can practically feel the displaced air of its motion. “What?”
Charles just raises an eyebrow and tugs on Erik’s wrist to dislodge the hand he has braced against the seat. “You heard me. Come on, love.”
“What if I don’t want to?” Erik asks, feeling grumpy now after a long night of socialising with people he has no interest in. He still feels a little lightheaded from spending so long in the dark at Charles’ side earlier, the backlash of waking up from whatever relaxed state he had been in leaving him almost hungover and less inclined to put himself there again, at Charles’ mercy. He can’t quite believe he spent so long like that as it is, out of himself and unaware of what was going on around him - anybody could have come up and touched him, hurt him while he wasn’t paying attention, off his guard.
“Oh, Erik. I was there the whole time. You were safe,” Charles says, and he lets go of Erik’s wrist, leans forward against his own seatbelt to kiss him as the car engine rumbles to life, hands sliding into Erik’s jacket on either side of his hips and taking hold of him where the corset drags him in narrowest, digging his fingers in against the buckles and splaying his palms over Erik’s sides as though he’s trying to get his hands all the way around Erik’s waist. “Nobody is getting past me to you,” he says when he breaks away, and his lips are wet, red from where Erik had pressed back. “Nobody could have crept up on you without you feeling them coming. Nobody at that kind of affair would have the balls, anyway. They’re all too aware I’ve taken a mutant just as powerful as I am for a submissive. They’ve started calling us a ‘power couple’.”
Erik laughs, despite himself, and Charles smiles, draws Erik’s head in towards him so he can press another kiss to his temple, press Erik’s forehead to his shoulder and wrap his arms around Erik’s torso, one hand curving over the back of Erik’s skull to cradle his mind. “Come on, love,” he murmurs into Erik’s ear, and Erik finds himself slipping off the edge of the seat despite himself, Charles’ arms still around him as he arranges himself perpendicular to Charles, sat between his legs, sub’s floorbelt around his waist and with Charles bent over him, embracing him. He feels encompassed by Charles. It feels good.
Charles slides his thumb through the loop on Erik’s collar, hand curled under Erik’s jaw, and keeps him there all the way home.
~*~
Charles doesn’t even need to gesture for Erik to follow him when they get into the apartment. Instead he just heads directly for their bedroom without looking back, reaches up for the bowtie around his throat and tugs it carelessly loose. A hand rubbed back through his hair leaves it ruffled and untidy, the product he had used to tame it earlier giving up its hold and leaving him fluffed and dishevelled. Erik toes off his shoes at the front door and follows, pacing quietly along behind him as though Charles has him on a lead rein - can see the motion of Charles’ arms suggesting his hands unbuttoning his shirt in front where Erik can’t see, the jacket slouching back off his shoulders to gather at his elbows and leaving his shirt-clad back half-bare before Charles slides it off and steps from the living room into their bedroom and - temporarily - out of sight.
A light flickers on in there, softer and further away than the overhead - one of the bedside lamps, then. The rest of the apartment is soft dark, the intimate blue-black of pre-dawn. Erik pauses in the doorway on the edge of the yellowed circle and watches Charles slip his jacket over the back of his dressing chair, fabric hanging empty over it and closely followed by the still-crisp white of his shirt when he takes that off, too. His back is gently muscled, shifting in the half-light when he twists to look at Erik over his shoulder and smiles. “Wait there, love.”
It’s a tease, to be stood half-hard and watching Charles moving around their bedroom taking off his watch and leaving it on the dresser, a sharp click of metal as the catch comes undone; he bends to take off his socks, and his ass is a round, gorgeous curve against the fabric of his pants that makes Erik’s cock throb and swell. Charles pads barefoot into the bathroom and comes out with a damp cloth and a tube of lubricant, leaves them on the side and goes back to his chair without so much as mentioning them. When he undoes the buckle of his belt it’s all Erik can do to stay where he’s been told and not go over to help him take off his pants.
Charles shoots him a sly look as he pulls down his fly, mouth twitching - he heard that for sure, takes longer now removing his pants, folds them carefully and drapes them with the rest of his tuxedo, smoothing out the creases with one hand while Erik watches.
His boxers come off last, and Erik forces himself to stay still in the doorway while his cock is pushing against the placket of his dress pants, heated arousal thrumming through him in anticipation and pooling in his lower belly, still fully-dressed while his Dom walks naked to their bed and climbs up onto it, settles himself among the pillows in the centre of the bed and stares back at him. His cock is hard and arched proudly from between his broad thighs, the foreskin starting to pull back from its swollen head. A trickle of sweat runs down Erik’s back under his shirt and catches on the top edge of the corset, unable to flow under the fabric where it’s clenched too tightly against his body.
“While I’d love for you to fuck me in that,” Charles says, reaching down and stroking himself almost idly - Erik’s attention is caught by the motion of his other hand reaching for the lube and flicking the cap open, “it would ruin the fabric. And I want you to wear it for me again, for other functions. So you’ll have to take it off for now. Unhook yourself. Slowly.”
It’s a struggle to pull the front of the fabric in enough to loose the hooks; Erik has to exhale almost all the air in his lungs, and then it’s a breathless few moments before the first of the tiny hooks comes undone, the fabric starting to gape a little at the top. He manages them in fours and fives, pinching the fabric carefully to bring it in enough to unfasten them. His chest seems almost to expand to twice its usual size once he has it undone halfway, only his belly compressed, and he shudders as his knuckles brush the head of his cock where it’s stood near-upright in his briefs along the line of his zipper. The last three inches of the corset almost ping open, and Charles tuts, eyes creasing at the corners even while he’s slipping two fingers between his own legs to his hole. “Fix the hooks, would you? I think you bent some of them.”
Testing, Erik goes for his shirt buttons instead, and he doesn’t even feel Charles take over, Erik’s hands stopping seemingly of their own accord. “This is supposed to be a reward for good behaviour. Don’t spoil it.” Charles is fingering himself loose without so much as a pause, and when Erik struggles a little against his hold the mental grip tightens, becomes palpable, keeping him still. “I think you want me to make you,” he continues, eyes darkening. He’s still relaxed on his back on the bed, no effort showing at all when he starts moving Erik like a doll. “Safeword if you need to.”
Erik pants, the rush of oxygen after the removal of the corset going right to his head even while his hands unbutton his shirt, revealing an ever-widening triangle of skin to Charles’ hungry eyes; in contrast to Charles’ careful treatment of his own clothes, Erik’s shirt is shrugged from his shoulders to fall onto the carpet in a tangle, joined by his pants after Charles has his fingers take down the zipper tooth by tooth, a slow, slow release of pressure that feels like flying. He says nothing, doesn’t even think his safeword other than desperately not to say it. Charles’ hand is still moving, and he can see his hole, stretching wide open around three fingers now, glistening with lube and clenching when he draws them out, loose and open.
“Come here,” Charles says when Erik is naked, and Erik goes to him under his own power, walking forward to the end of their bed and climbing up onto it so he can crawl on all fours to crouch over Charles, covering Charles’s body with his own. Charles tilts his head up and kisses him, one arm coming up around Erik’s neck, and his legs curl up and around Erik’s hips so Charles can tilt his ass up and draw Erik down towards him, grinding Erik’s hard cock along his cleft. He’s soft and taut there, firm and writhing everywhere else, his hands on Erik’s skin stroking everywhere they can reach. Erik groans, rocks down against him when Charles’ heels dig into the upper parts of his buttocks like spurs to a horse.
The kiss is wet, and forceful, and Charles bites at Erik’s lower lip, curls a hand into his hair and pulls hard to break the kiss, Erik’s lip stretching in his grip before tugging free with a pop. “You’re going to make love to me like a nice boy, aren’t you?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. “Hand up, Erik.”
It’s difficult to balance with one hand raised when Charles is pulling down on him with three out of four limbs, but then Charles squirts some additional lube onto Erik’s fingers and gives him a mental nudge until he reaches down to slick up his cock, kisses him again while Erik is still gasping at the touch of his own hand. “Come here,” Charles whispers, and tightens his grip until Erik is rubbing along his ass again, gentler this time; his lips brush Erik’s cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, his eyelids, and Erik’s cock catches on the rim of Charles’ asshole.
Erik moans, and Charles reaches down between them to wrap his hand around the shaft of Erik’s cock, then shudders on a groan when he presses the head of Erik’s cock inside of himself where he’s slick and hot.
He’s so - Charles is always so tight around him, and Erik’s hips jerk, trying to get in deeper, forcing Charles’ body to open up around him as Charles squeezes him. Erik moves down to his forearms so that he’s pressed all along Charles’ front, breathlessly close, thrusting forward in tight spasms. “Is this nice enough for you?” he asks. Charles shoves up to meet him, gasping into Erik’s mouth as they slide into one another. His cock is trapped between them, rubbing all along Erik’s belly and leaving a sticky trail of pre-come to slick its way.
“I always forget how big you are.” Charles clenches down around Erik, drags him the last inch inside by pressing down hard with his heels and pulling him in by main force until his balls are flush with Charles’ ass. “Mmm, oh, God, that feels lovely. You’re lovely.” He kisses Erik again, puts a hand on the back of Erik’s head to draw him down and licks into his mouth, holding him immobile at the hips. His face when he pulls back is flushed dark pink, pupils wide and dark and utterly gorgeous; Erik’s head is swimming, arousal and the animal need to move warring inside of him. At least Charles sounds breathless, even if he’s far too coherent. “Alright. No games. I just want you to make love to me. I’ll tell you if you’re doing it wrong, but I want you to please me, alright?”
“Alright,” Erik says, and bends his head to suck at the skin just over Charles’ pulse in his throat where he likes it best before he starts thrusting.
Under him Charles moans, wrapped around him and fingers tangling in Erik’s hair while he’s fucked, one hand slipping to the back of his collar and sliding a finger between the leather and his skin so that it sits a little tighter against Erik’s throat. His mind is wrapped around Erik too, sharing his arousal and drawing them close mentally until everything in the world is Charles, and all that exists is the need to please him, to give him pleasure. Erik’s cock is surrounded by hot, wet pressure, drags in and out of that slick channel until Erik’s whole lower body feels full and electric, fucking in and out of Charles’ body. Charles corrects him a little - a shove of his foot here, a nudge of his mind there - and Erik dips his hips, drives up at an angle until Charles moans louder, clenches hard around him and ruts against Erik’s belly.
“Prostate,” Charles pants, and Erik nods, kisses him on the mouth as he does it again, over and over, angling so that he can press against the sensitive gland each time he pushes in. It’s intense, the stretched-out swollen rim of Charles’ hole twitching around Erik’s cock every time he drives in, their whole bodies pressed together from mouths to groins, Charles holding him so close, surrounding him.
And when Charles wraps his limbs tighter around Erik and says, “Harder,” Erik does as he’s told, picks up his pace until he’s hammering his prostate and Charles comes with a loud shout and a hot pulse of jizz that streaks Erik’s chest, clenching so tightly that Erik’s orgasm hits him like a freight train, driven out of him on a series of hard rhythmless thrusts into Charles’ ass and a loud groan as his pleasure focuses suddenly in a sudden need to fuck forward, spurting into Charles’ hole and filling him up with his come until it’s dripping out of him around Erik’s still-moving cock.
“Ohhhhh.” Charles’ voice is a long and satisfied groan, his spine rolling under Erik even while he lets Erik finish his last few helpless thrusts, hands already stroking over him again, petting him like a prized possession as he stutters to an exhausted stop. “Oh, Erik, you’ve been so good today. I do love you so. And not just because you’re so good at that.”
Erik says nothing, is not sure what to say. Instead he lets Charles guide him down onto his chest, to lie down on top of him still connected at the groin and let Charles pet him some more, Charles’ affection pouring into him like spring water.
“I love you, too,” he says when he has enough breath to be sure his voice won’t shake, and he feels rather than sees Charles’ smile.
Eventually Charles’ hand stills on the back of his head, and he goes with it when Charles rolls them onto their sides, softened cock slipping out easily. Once he’s been wiped down with the cloth Charles had fetched earlier and rearranged to Charles’ liking - head under Charles’ chin, arms curled to his chest, leg laced between Charles’ so their ankles interlace while Charles drapes his arm over his side - Erik is almost about to drowse off when Charles speaks, jaw moving against Erik’s hair. “I’ll make sure Emma knows how good you were for me.” His voice is neutral, not cold but not as warm as usual, either, and Erik stirs, then holds still when Charles’ grip tightens.
He chooses his words carefully, knows Charles is listening to his decision making. “I wasn’t pretending. It was still real.”
“I know.” A press of lips, then, to the crown of his head. “I don’t mind, as such. It would just be nice if it was all for me, and not some of it for her benefit. I know she’s your sister, but I’m going to have a chat with her about it. You’re mine now. She should stop trying to train you - it’s up to me what constitutes good behaviour, not her.”
“If it helps,” Erik says to Charles’ collarbone, “she never got much good behaviour out of me to begin with.”
“You’re mine now,” Charles says again, possessive and drowsy, and curls closer around Erik, drawing him in close to go to sleep.
Erik doesn’t fight him on it.