
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/912022.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      X-Men:_First_Class_(2011)_-_Fandom
  Relationship:
      Erik_Lehnsherr/Charles_Xavier
  Character:
      Erik_Lehnsherr, Charles_Xavier
  Additional Tags:
      De-aged_Charles, X-Men_First_Class_Kink_Meme, Underage_Sex, Di's_Underage
      Porn_Thing, Erik_Has_Feelings, Charles_Is_a_Darling, Shota, POV_First
      Person, Spanking, Blow_Jobs, Rimming, Perversion, Despoilment, Plot_What
      Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, Age_Difference, Established_Relationship, Loss_of
      Virginity, Fucking, Anal_Fingering, Fisting, Sappy
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-04 Completed: 2014-02-17 Chapters: 6/6 Words: 6294
****** Barefoot Muse ******
by velvetcadence
Summary
     Prompt: "Charles is deaged to a small-sized nerdy looking kid/teen.
     Erik is fascinated and can't keep his hands off the soft smooth skin
     of this Charles. Charles obliges, trusting Erik blindly because Raven
     had told him that Erik is a close friend of his older self.
     Bonus if Erik takes Charles's "first time" this way."
Notes
     Prompt here.
     Props to Kage for the quick beta.
     Now with art from the brilliant Asix-oud!
***** Chapter 1 *****
It's exquisite to splay you atop the cotton sheets, to have you nubile and
pliant at my command. I have no love for little boys, but I will have you in
any way I can, my darling. You're as trusting as a lamb. What does this say
about your childhood, I wonder? Or are these little trembles from fear? Don't
be afraid, I whisper as I curve my lips above your navel. You've nothing to
fear from me.
My little kisses tickle you. You laugh as I track them all over your torso, and
when I poke you below the ribs, you try to wiggle away like you've always done.
Gasp, when I flick my tongue out to your nipple, your eyes wide at the obscene
licks. I watch you watch me, trying to get away, trying to push back.
Does it hurt? I ask as I tend to the other one, rolling it gently in my
fingers. You shake your head. It's strange, you say.
But good?
...Yes.
I blow at the wet peak, urging a squeak out of you. I could do this all night.
I could watch you writhe from this alone, confused by pleasure, and from so
small a touch. But that is not my design tonight.
Are you old enough for wet pleasure, Charles? Does it elicit anything when I
lightly trace the tip of my finger over your slit and down your shaft? What's
this? Ah, perhaps you are. I always liked the weight of your balls in my hand,
lightly furred and heavy when you are erect. I like it no less now, smaller and
more sparse, for I know the man you'll grow to be.
Would you let me between your legs and spread my hands on your soft thighs? The
coax is enough to position you as I like.
Erik, you say, trembling now in earnest. Shhh, I urge, kissing the down above
your little cock. Your hands are lost, wandering between clutching the sheets
and gripping onto my shoulders. I guide your wrists to your chest and leave you
to fondle yourself as I buss a kiss to the head of your cock. The touch is
electricity to you. Your thighs twitch in my hands. Tut tut, my love. Shall I
cuff you to the bed?
N-No...
Shh, it is alright. You are just learning. I will teach you very thoroughly
tonight.
Watch me, as I hold your shaft by the base and flatten my tongue to the length
of it. Watch, as I close my lips on the tip and swirl my tongue and suck and
suck and--
The taste of you comes swiftly on my tongue. How can I describe it? It is a
lighter brine, and less than I am used to, but I can't complain. The surprise
in your eyes fills me up with pride and sates me even as I lap up the rest of
your pleasure. Your bones look like they have melted, so languid are you on my
bed.
I kiss you again, between your legs, and then kiss you on your lips, lick your
taste into your mouth. You take my tongue with no complaint, pretty little
thing, and even decide to touch the tip of yours to mine in a play-fight.
I take advantage of your pliant state and coat my fingers with oil. You've not
the sense to question it, neither do you flinch when I spread it on your hole
with a finger. Are you reading my thoughts now, Charles? Can you see my plans
for you tonight?
No matter how well you anticipate it, you still make a high sound when the tip
of my thumb breaches you to the first knuckle. By the gods is it hot inside
you, and the grip is tight, tighter than you've ever been. I like the thought
of being your first cock twice. I'll gloat when you return to yourself, when
you can take all of me, when I can rut in and against you with abandon. For now
I'll take care not to push you too hard or stretch you too wide, because there
is a sweetness in taking your virginity like this, Charles, when you're young
and tender and naive.
Have you ever touched yourself like this? I ask as I circle my fingertip
against the sacred whorl of your hole.
No, never.
You'll like it, I promise. It's a different pleasure, Charles. You might even
like it a little too much, I say with a knowing smirk.
Nothing can prepare you or me for the effect of tapping my finger against that
special place inside you. You gasp, arch off the bed, clutch my shoulders like
it can save you. What was--you try to say. You can't even finish your sentence.
I smile and kiss your chin. Did you like that? Yes? Would you like me to do
that again?
I turn us to our sides, to make it easier for me to hold you. I rest your head
on my arm, and spend an eternity just caressing your hair back from your face.
You're so beautiful, it makes my heart ache. I miss you even when you're here.
I spread my hand down your flank, rest it on your rapidly moving ribcage,
before dragging your leg over mine. That way I can continue to fit two of my
fingers in you, tight as it is already, to rub insistently against your
prostate.
You whimper as I play you just as you like it. I'm an expert of your body,
Charles. There's not an inch of you I don't know, from the texture of your
knees to the dimples on your arse to the freckles on your back. I know the
hidden scar at the back of your head and the precise angle of where to fuck
you. I know the arch you'll make when you come.
And arch you do when you come. So pretty, so sweet. I lick it all off when
you're done, and swipe my tongue at your crack for good measure. I'd rim you
now if I had the inclination for it tonight. Or perhaps…perhaps I'll do so
anyway, after I've come. Your hands are soft and small as they hold me,
tentatively, slicked by oil and sweat. I guide both of your hands with one of
mine, and teach you to twist at each stroke. You learn quickly, and soon I am
fucking into your grip, chasing release.
I fall to pieces at your amateur touch, but I am grateful for the way you touch
your lips to mine. You guide me to the bed and burrow into my arms. I smell
you, sweet with youth, clean like milk. Ha. Don't think I can't see you
sneaking a taste. Open up, love, and suck the come from my palm. Later, when I
recover, I will lick my way into you until you can take three of my fingers.
I'll fuck your thighs while you're stuffed full, and make you come from that
too.
It's a promise.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Summary
     The morning after.
Chapter Notes
     Di wanted moar. Bless her shota-loving heart.
How now, my love? You’re beautiful in sunshine as in moonlight. Your freckles
are better seen, and I can see the glow of the peach fuzz of your skin. I like
the smallness of you tucked into me, and the length of your foot cupped in my
hand. I like the way you mewl when I slide my hand up your calf, and down the
underside of your thigh to press at the bruise there. Two cherry dots to mark
my kisses, two little bites to hide under your cotton pants. Two little secrets
we’ll only share between you and me, along with the others I’ve hidden in the
seam of your lips and the pucker of your arse.
You clench as I prod you there, sensitive from last night’s stretching. Hurts?
I ask. No, you say, trying to move towards my fingers already. You’re a natural
slut, I marvel. You’re a creature of desire. What else can you be when every
atom of your body attracts me to you? This is the science of you and me, and I
love you to the depth and breadth and height--
Don’t laugh, I tease, even as my fingers flutter over your ribs. This is what I
get, for trying to be sweet?
I don’t expect you to cup my face with your palms, small but sure, and your
smile is the same as it ever was. Erik, you say, and something heavy settles
over the air, my soul throbbing with all of the great things you inspire in me.
I kiss your wrist in fealty. Even with your body and your mind diminished, you
can still move the very core of me.
Up, I tug at you, my kitten needs a bath. You laugh and push at my shoulder;
gasp when I affectionately smack your bottom when you refuse to budge. With a
flourish I lift the sheets off and heft you into my arms. I’ve only done this
once before, with you drunk and stupid with it, enchanting with the flush
reaching down your neck and to your chest. You nuzzled into the crook of my
neck then as you are doing now, and though I miss the older you, I like this
too.
I seat you on the tile counter and run my hands down your soft thighs when you
shiver, dropping a kiss at your mouth while the bath runs. Another to the tip
of your ear just to hear you squeal. One last kiss to a stiff nipple, and then
the bath is ready, the room already filling with steam.
I let you lean on me, back to chest as the water swirls about us. I watch the
water drip down your arm as I lift your hand up. How small, I whisper. How
small the vessel that holds the world.
You undulate against my cock, which is still stiff from waking and from your
kisses. I slip my fingers in you, clean you from the inside out until you’re
panting into the quiet air. Please, you say. Please, Erik.
You beg very prettily, I say, but I have greater things in mind. 
The rest of the bath is perfunctory. My scrubs are firm but never rough, so
eager am I to get you clean and back to bed. I’d just remembered the promise I
made last night.
Do you know what rimming is, Charles? I ask. You shake your head, even when the
answer can be easily plucked from my mind. Let me show you.
I arrange you as I like back in bed: on your knees, clutching a pillow to your
chest, presenting your clenching hole to me. You’re trembling, darling. Shhhh,
don’t be afraid.
I’m not afraid, you whisper.
Just desirous then? I quip, and lean in and lick your hole just as you open
your mouth to reply. What escapes is a moan instead, and little gasps that you
can’t help. Even this young, your body knows how to dance to carnal pleasure. I
love to watch the milk-skin of your hips move, how the dips and curves invite
my mouth to suck on them.
I like watching you clench around air when I pull away to suck at my fingers.
You mewl when I touch you again with a finger, and dip into you until only the
first knuckle. I let my tongue explore the rest, watch you flinch when I spit
at that rosy pucker and tongue into you again. Two fingers in now, and long
slow licks at your rim, coaxing a groan out of you. I’ll have you loose enough
to take three if I can help it.
Perhaps I overestimated you, Charles, for the moment I wrap my hand around your
cock, you shoot like an arrow around my grip, a delicious splash of seed. No
matter. If it keeps you open to me, I will not lament it, and your thighs look
wonderfully debauched when I spread your come on the insides.
Together, like this, I coax, as I guide myself between them. There’s nothing
sweeter than the clench of a boy’s thighs around your prick, the Greeks
profess, other than his mouth. Like this, I get to feel the squeeze and slide
of my cock against your skin and the underside of your balls. Perfection.
Could you fit three of my fingers, d’you think, Charles? You moan, mouth open,
wrecked and panting. I can’t tell if it’s a sight that belongs to a Botticelli
angel or a whore. You’re sweeter than any heaven I know and as damning as any
sin, but the way you open around my fingers is worth any divine punishment.
I fuck your thighs with my prick and I fuck your hole with my fingers, and you
love it, you love the feeling of being full and used and mine and you love me,
Charles, only me, tell me you love me--
I add to the mess of your thighs, panting with exertion. You’re sleepy and
sated beside me, your mouth a red, kiss-stained bow. I kiss you, one last time,
before closing my eyes and nuzzling into the nape of your neck.
***** Chapter 3 *****
I saw you earlier today trying to reach the top shelf in the library. I wanted
to take your thin wrists in one hand and take my pleasure without mercy, press
my erection into your backside and ride you into the spines of the books, my
hand cupping your front and rocking you into the warm hollow. I know you knew I
was there, despite my best attempt at shielding. I always want you in a number
of nameless ways, but this particular way shames me when I stop for breath.
You feel so fragile underneath my scarred hands, thin silk stretched over
bird’s bones for all that you could destroy me with a thought.
Tonight I seat you on my lap and let you read your books to me. Novels,
textbooks...anything you like as long as I can keep holding you like this. I’ve
not held a child since...since before, and Charles, it alarms me when I look at
you eating at the kitchen table, small and delicate, your hair curling about
your ears like a cherub, and feel nothing but the burn of want for you.
The only pure thing I ever knew about me was my rage, but even that—even that
you’ve managed to corrode with you just being yourself. Now the only bright
thing about me is my utter devotion to you. You must know that. You must.
The weight of you is heavy on my thigh.You’ve got delicate feet, darling.
They’re soft and ticklish when I run my thumbnail to the underside of it. I’ve
often wondered what you looked like as a babe, with your little pucker of
strawberry lips and your ocean eyes, vulnerable to the thoughts of wicked
things.
Erik, you say. Don’t be sad.
I kiss the skin at your nape. I have been eyeing it ever since you bent your
head towards your book. You are no longer reading aloud, absorbed by other
worlds too easily. No, you say. I’m still here with you. And you turn your head
to me with such a smile I cannot help but press my own against your cheek.
I’m growing hard again, which doesn’t surprise me. The heat and the heaviness
of you is enough for my body to miss the clench and slide of your skin. I want
to rut into your thighs again, come at the sight of your spine arching beneath
me. Or over me, as you flex against me again and again. I love the way you
sigh, the way your eyes lose focus and learn to moan like a whore on the docks.
I like the juxtaposition: you with your choirboy mien, the angelic curl of your
hair sticking to the wanton flush on your cheeks, your arse squeezing around my
thumb.
Oh, but I am still a stranger to the ecstasy of your lips. Would you like to
try something new? I ask.
What is it?
Something good. Kiss me here first.  I point to my mouth.
There. Now what?
Kiss me again, but here. I hold your gaze steadily as I unzip my cock, soft now
but already filling with arousal. Your mouth drops open at the sight,
fascinated as it seems to double in size.
Can I—
Yes. Touch.
Your hand wraps around me, careful and hesitant. I squeeze my fingers around
yours. It’s not so fragile, look. A strong squeeze draws a bead of precome at
the tip, and I coax you to kiss the tip. You pucker your lips and peck.
A little more, darling. You look up at me from under your lashes and take the
head in your mouth, knowing already to sheath your teeth with your lips, clever
boy. Swirl your tongue around me, I instruct, letting my hand curl at the base
of your skull.
Is this good? You ask, kittenish at my lap.
Very good. I assure, caressing the smooth skin of your back. You’re doing so
well, love. The words make you bloom like a flower, growing pink under my
fingers. For all the filthy, lascivious things that we’ve been doing, it is the
compliments that make you blush the most. Why is it, I wonder, that you hardly
bat an eyelash when I think of fucking you into the mattress, hard enough for
it to hurt, and yet you turn shy at my little words.
You bend your head again, sucking wetly at the tip, and half of the pleasure is
watching you discover the taste and texture of me inside your mouth. Wonderful,
lovely Charles, I whisper, urging you into swallowing a little more.
***** Chapter 4 *****
When I was thirteen I had been stripped of everything. I lost it all: my
autonomy, my dignity, my personhood. Eisenhardt was the proud name my parents
bore, ironheart, iron-willed; in the office of Klaus Schmidt it was killed with
a single bullet. I had not known it at the time, but the Eisenhardt boy within
me died right there. I had lost everything, but in Schmidt’s hands, reduced to
grit and gruel, I also became something more. More angry, more hungry, more
fearless of countless nameless things.
When I escaped him, I gave myself a new name. Tabula rasa it was not. I had no
intention of forgetting the past, but for once I had a hand in shaping my
future. I refined myself like iron smelted from ore. When you met me, I was a
product of years of hammering my rage into a weapon, spirit hardened from cold
hate.
It isn’t that I hate you now, Charles. I could never say that I hated you. But
I amangry, and your plaintive whimpering won’t change the fact that you’ve been
stupid with yourself. I had forgotten how vehemence could shift the center of
my gravity; its been too long since I indulged myself in it.
I refuse to be soft to you when you continue to be so stubborn. What is the
saying? Spare the rod, spoil the child? If I punish you, it’s for your own
good. Bad children deserve to learn from their mistakes, and pain is the
easiest way to make one remember.
(Remember well, Little Erik, Schmidt had said to me once as he dug the butt of
his cigarette against my thigh, I am only doing this because it’s for your own
good.)
Why struggle? Why be so bull-headed? I’m disappointed in you, Charles. Stop
pulling at the cuffs. There’s a reason I’ve bound you to the bed with it. No
amount of weeping will do you any good; I know you don’t mean it. Any tears you
shed for the pain from my hand will not be in penitence, but in frustration. I
know you. Stop making a show of it and lay still, you foolish thing.
(Schmidt had restrained to my cot, once upon a time. Left me alone for days and
days. It was one of his more merciful punishments.)
You begin to quiet as I sit at the edge of the bed, filling my lungs with air
and measuring each exhale. The rage is familiar, but I had never recalled it
ever being so...so consuming or visceral, or so sharp. Sharing my life with you
has made me soft. Shame on you, stupid man, but the greater fool me.
I’m not stupid, you begin to protest. I circle my hand around your ankle and
squeeze hard until you’re tightlipped with anger. I’m sure to leave bruises,
and I’ll likely rue my existence later, but oh! How you infuriate me!
I’m so exasperated I’m beyond words. There’s nothing I can do except to turn
you on my lap like the child you’re being and spank the vindictiveness out of
you.
You shriek into the pillow at the first hit. The sound is satisfying,
cleansing. Your toes curl, but it’s nothing I know you can’t take. On the
second, you grit your teeth against the feral scream wanting to tear out of
your throat. I keep you still, my palm wide as it presses against the small of
your back, pressing indents against your tender flesh. You struggle against me
not for any real purpose, but on principle.
If you truly objected to this, you would have taken my mind and be done with
it.
Instead, your arse clenches rhythmically after the fifth, the skin already
reddened to touch. It’s unfair how the very symmetry of you enchants me; every
spank that ripples your skin draws my eyes greedily to it, and I want to tongue
the dip of your spine, the crevice of your rear. I want to catalogue the way
your whole body shudders through a hit, how the flush of passion stains the
back of your neck the most enticing pink.
Each strike chips my anger away until what’s left of me is control. And each
strike leaves you a little more pliant, a little more tender. Apologetic, even.
(Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. I stop at an even number, an acceptable number.)
And that’s better. Much better, darling.
Shhhh, I soothe, turning you on your side and wiping your tears away with the
pads of my thumbs. Your tantrum slopes down into even breathing. I settle
beside you, patient, my rage purged and still you continue to sniffle, little
hitching sobs that shake your frame. Your mind is a tentative touch against
mine, a warm hand on a glass door. I let you in, coax you to dip into the hard-
won peace that’s settled into me, shoving past the anger and the worry to let
you see the fierce love that’s defined who I’ve become for you.
You calm eventually. I peel the rest of your shorts away to cup your prick in
my hand, play with the foreskin as you try not to rub against the sheets. I
could put my mouth on you, fuck you with my fingers until you’re begging for it
the way you think is shameful but I find delicious. Or I could kiss the skin of
your arse better, and if you’re good, I might be bothered to claim you with my
tongue.
I’ll be good, Erik,you promise, grinding against my hand.  I swear not to be
foolish anymore. I just wanted to help.
You overestimate yourself far too much, Charles, but I accept the apology for
what it is. Wordlessly, I turn you onto your stomach and unchain you from the
bed, careful not to press my lips too hard on your reddened skin. I circle a
dimple with my tongue, and when you whimper I kiss the pucker of your entrance.
Can you feel how much I want you, darling? I’d keep you eternally in my bed if
I could.
I tease you for your earlier insolence with shallow thrusts, just quick dips
and laps of tongue. The stubble on my cheeks and chin scratches you, but you
arch into the sensation all the same, insatiable faunlet that you are. The
carnal roll of your hips pushes you back and forth against my tongue and the
sheets, and when you’re moaning almost continuously under me, I reach in deeply
for the spot that never fails to make you rigid with pleasure.
Your undoing prompts mine, and quickly I unbutton my trousers and pull at my
stiff prick. You turn your head to watch me from the corner of your eye and
that is what tips me over the edge: your wanton profile flush from orgasm, hair
curling from your sweat and mouth blood-red from being bitten.
I splash my pleasure over the globes of your plush arse, watch it drip into the
crevice. My thumbs hook you open in time to see a drop to make it inside the
rim, and wouldn’t that be beautiful? To claim you fully with my cock, mark you
as mine from the inside.
When I look up, you’re already dozing off, no doubt exhausted from the day. I
plant a kiss on your cheek and murmur comfort into your ear, rubbing the pad of
my thumb over the wing of your shoulder until I’m sure you’re asleep. In
slumber you’re as beguiling as fair Endymion, and I close the curtains so that
the moon cannot peek and decide to take you away. You are mine, after all.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
I’ve been thinking, darling, I casually say, two fingers buried to the knuckle
into your secret heat, I'd like to fuck you.
You whimper as I curl my fingers, dragging the tips of them just past the spot
that makes you buck and shiver. Erik—
Think of it, Charles. I’ll finally get a cock in you, fuck you good and proper,
I say, watching the redness on your cheeks reach the back of your neck. It’s
terrible of me, I know, but I do so enjoy it when you blush like the virgin you
aren’t, and all it really takes is a few coarse words. Sometimes even the
compliments I drip into your ear like honey make you flush the most. It’s
easier to do so when you’re this young and just as sheltered from the world,
when everything you’ve known thus far has been the neglect of your mother and
the nightmare of your stepfather. The Charles I known would have matched me wit
for wit, barb for barb, a haughty eyebrow raised, a tongue sweeping over his
lower lip.
I catch the thought quickly, containing it within the thick walls around my
mind. I’m starting to think of you and he as separate beings when in all
honesty, you’re not. You’re still my Charles after all, just in a different
shape and form. Just without the memories, and so without the ragged edges of
the past weighing us down.
Yes?I ask, letting the tips of my fingers rest lightly, so lightly against the
swollen spot inside you. I have you held just on the precipice of orgasm,
stretched sweetly around three fingers. I can undo you in less than a
second—say the word Charles, and your wish will be my command.
As soon as you murmur your assent, I press my fingers in firmly, and you thrust
down into the bed. The sound you make is indecent, a cross between a gasp and a
moan. It looks like you’ve been electrocuted by pleasure, like lightning has
struck every inch of nerve and all you can do is let yourself strain against
the sudden, brilliant tension that’s seized your spine. It’s magnificent to
watch. The muscles in the small of your back twitch under my touch; I kiss the
wing of your pale shoulder, murmuring, there’s my boy, there’s my good, darling
boy.
With you half-melted into the bed, I let myself indulge in the jiggle and
movement of your arse. I finger the crease just above your thigh where I’ve
left hickeys and dig my fingers in the slope of your rear just to see it mark.
You’re ruined, darling, I think with not a small amount of pride.
Now how should I have you,I murmur. On your front? Your back? Shall I have you
astride my lap?As I contemplate this, I pull off my pants and reach for the
slick. I thread my clean fingers through your hair and turn you around for a
kiss. I like you like this, soft under me, pliant like the purest of iron.
Well, darling?
However you like,you finally tell me, opening your mouth when I bite your lower
lip. The sweet lilt of your moans is enough to goad me; I leave a bite on your
chin and settle back on my haunches. The skin at the back of your thighs is
silken and littered with bruises, and I admire them as I push them back,
exposing your prick and your little red hole to me.
Your belly is still wet with come. I should like to lick you filthy thing, but
I like more the memory of you open and vulnerable and lustful when I finally
despoil you. I take my cock in hand and let the tip kiss your hole, watching
your wide-eyed face as I push in.
By the gods is it hot inside you. Your hands clutch at my arms and leave
crescents on my skin. Does it hurt, Charles? You must tell me if it does.
I—no, but—
I slide in an inch. Your limbs stiffen under me, and I hold my breath, cock
throbbing for release. I want so desperately to fuck into you, never mind the
tears in your eyes. Instead I take your prick in hand and squeeze, encouraging
your arousal, urging you back to hardness. I press my thumb at the slit, the
way you like it, and thrust in with each stroke of the shaft.
Erik! you cry, and I pull you down the bed so that our hips are flush together,
bend your knees to your shoulders. It’s a learning experience given our new
physiological differences, but I still know the precise angle with which to
fuck you the way I know how to breathe.
The pace I set is agonizing, which is a contrast to the first time I had you.
The first time, we’d been drunk on scotch and the scent of each other, and you
were tight then too but you weren’t a virgin. You were a man in my arms, an
equal who could take the rough rolling fuck you demanded. With you as a boy, I
want the slow lovemaking you deserve. I never asked who taught you about the
logistics of sex, but I could tell whoever did it still cast shadows in your
eyes.
I want none of that. I want you to never flinch away from my touch. I want you
to seek it, to crave me as much as I crave you, I want you wanton and freely
desirous the way you could be. I want sex to be a joy to you and not the
punishment you sometimes think it is.
Charles, love,I coax, gathering you into my arms and smelling the sweet musk of
your neck. You gasp into my ear and tangle your mind around mine as closely as
you’ve tangled around my limbs. I know the exact moment you learn how to milk
pleasure from a cock inside you; I’m stunned from the sensation and have to
stop, tilting your jaw towards me for a deep, drunken kiss.
We part for air. I cradle your head in my hand and start to thrust in earnest.
As a lover, you are exquisite: responsive, intuitive, instinctive. This is a
dance you innately know, I'm simply leading. You're doing magnificently.
When your entire being squeezes around me, I can scarcely breathe, so
overwhelmed by your presence that my body is merely an animal that heels at
your command. I come helplessly with a groan, muffled against your swollen
lips, and my pleasure is echoed in the shape of your open mouth.
You wince when I pull out, long moments after. My body hurts with exertion, but
it must be nothing compared to the tender puffiness of your sex. This I circle
with a careful finger, but I find nothing amiss, no break of skin, just warmth
and a wetness that’s fascinating in itself.
Impatient with my inspection, you crook your leg around my hip so I have no
choice but to lie back beside you. You’re sleepy, body singing but mind heavy.
I feel the same, tiredness weighing my thoughts down and muffling every other
sensation. It takes great effort to pull the duvet over us, but it’s a
necessary evil.
Once settled, I draw you to me, feeling your heartbeat under my palm, and I
know with a fierce certainty that we are bookends of the same soul.
There can only be one for me, and that is you.
 
Chapter End Notes
     Leave a comment if you enjoyed it! And if you've got any kinks to
     share, I am totally open to suggestions. Next chapter may or may not
     be a fisting chapter.
***** Chapter 6 *****
There’s nothing quite as extraordinary as watching my hand disappear into your
greedy sex. It is you who must give, who must accommodate me as I cram my
fingers into you, rigid and unrelenting. The first four fingers go in easily,
slicked with lube and saliva, the pucker of your arse stretched wide. You
flinch at the feeling of my knuckles breaching, and I wait until the arch of
your back melts, soothed by my low murmurs and whispered encouragements.
So good, Charles, I say, smoothing my hand over the small of your back, rubbing
circles over the dimples there. It’s one of my favorite parts of you, these
little digs and grooves in the muscle that invite my eyes and finger to touch.
Darling, darling,I praise, so good to me, now just a little more.
You take my fist with such grace I cannot help but pepper kisses all over the
wings of your back. The flat of my palm has gone in, and you clench around my
wrist like a vice. I still, wait for your body’s command, your ribs expanding
and contracting with quick breaths. Hush, now, hush. Tell me how it feels,
Charles.
Oh… You moan, your thoughts a jumble of arousal and pain, the stretch of my
hand exquisite. I can feel you tremble with it, overwhelmed at my touch, and
you sob as I move my fingers fractionally, a slight spread that nevertheless
rocks you to the core. I lick at the rim of your hole, spread wide and slick,
so slick for me. There’s a wet patch on the bed from the trail of precome
leaking down your little cock.
I’ve never seen you so small, darling, crouched as you are on our king-sized
bed, fucked wide open right to my wrist. I don’t know why we’d never tried this
before. I know you like my hands. The aesthetics of it, I suppose, is pleasing:
long fingers, a strong palm, the hands of a man who could have been an artist
in another life. Although I suspect your fondness for them it isn’t so much
what they look like as much as what they do. They’re good, capable hands for
fixing all the old broken things around this damned castle, warm on cold days,
and loving whenever I touch you. Compared to your child’s hands now, they’re so
much larger. It’s even more apparent when you twine your fingers through mine,
squeezing them in tandem with the way you’re squeezing around my wrist. The
irony is beautiful—predator that I am, caught by my own device.
Your thighs are trembling with the effort of staying up. I wait, let your
arsehole clench repeatedly around my wrist. I don’t stop you from pulling at
your prick because my fingers are starting to strain from their fisting
position, but oh, darling, how lovely you look with the sweat curling at your
nape and your blush reaching down your back, literally at the mercy of my hand.
I twist it, just a little bit, just to see how you’d react, and the squelch of
the movement is obscene. I see how the sensation ripples from the small of your
back up to your neck; the line of your spine bows forward, your toes curl, you
squeeze with your whole body as orgasm rushes through you. I almost come just
from that. Almost.
You whine when I let myself free, turning over so that you can take big,
shallow gasps, your eyes taking on a dazed sheen. I could do anything to you
right now and you wouldn’t protest. As it is, I want your mouth on me, I want
your lips puffy not just from kisses and bitten-down moans. You’re insensible
from pleasure, however, head lolling when I cup the back of your neck to guide
you to my cock.
A vision flashes through my mind, the same hand that I fucked you with gripping
my prick and making me come. I’m so hard I can barely think, I’d do anything
for release right now, so I acquiesce and kneel, placing my knees on either
sides of your chest. I brace myself against the headboard and masturbate to the
sight of your afterglow; when I come, it catches on your cheeks and open mouth
and pools on the dip of your clavicle. I spurt, one last time, to you licking
that wetness away from your lip, held thrall by your eyes and your self-
satisfied smile.
 
 
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