Chapter Text
Charles is enchanting. This fact is incontrovertible: like stars in the sky, like magnetic north on a compass. Charles is enchanting, and so: Erik is enchanted.
He twists fingers, thoughtfully. Slides them out, then in, deeper, reveling in the slick wet sounds, Charles’ body opening up around his hand, muscle trembling and giving way to the invasion. Charles cries, though not from pain as much as overstimulation; Erik’s made him come twice already, hot wet spurts of fluid pulsing out over Erik’s hand, his own flat stomach, Erik’s bed. Erik’s made him come at the touch of a hand, Erik’s fingers buried in his body, Erik’s mouth on his lovely swollen prick teasing him back to full hardness.
Erik hasn’t come. He’s got enough self-control for that, enough patience, honed like a sword-blade and polished to bright steel. He’s had enough practice.
His cock aches, though. He presses a hand against it through his trousers, indulging in the denial. Crooks the fingers buried inside Charles once more; Charles sobs and writhes on the bed, hips arching against the erotic torment, but doesn’t say no. Doesn’t beg him to stop. And Erik grins, wide and feral.
They’re here in Erik’s ostentatious London townhome, all jewels and red silk and magenta satin, Turkish carpets and the sensual sculpture of white Greek marble. Tasteless, the London papers’d called it, in tones of awed astonishment: the home of a retired pirate, a man who’d brought back a fortune as a privateer and then proceeded to purchase the most desirable estate in the city from under the nose of one of the royal dukes. In this year of the Regency, under the banners of the government who’d supported his commission as he hunted his prey, Erik’s got every right to his wealth, and he knows perfectly well that Society’s fascinated by him even as they gasp in shock at his exploits.
And at his decorating sense, of course. But he likes red. And magenta.
He also likes Charles. He leans down. Bites the nearest quivering hip, teeth over tender freckles, enough to bruise. Charles whimpers, and his hands tense, then relax, on the pillow.
“Shh,” Erik whispers. “You wanted to be here, Charles, remember? You came with me willingly. You want this. You want to know.”
And Charles nods, though without opening his eyes.
Charles had come with him, willingly. That’s a fact as well. Erik luxuriates in the knowledge.
He’d known the name before they’d ever met, of course. Charles Francis Xavier, Viscount of Westchester. Famous, or infamous, for those scandalous little books of poetry, plain-bound and sold under discreet covers and scorchingly breathtakingly obscene. Those books had accompanied Erik on many long voyages, under covers in the captain’s bed, late at night with only the sea and the stars and the gentle rocking of the ship at anchor and those white-hot words for companions: I would love you, Charles had written in one of them, with my body and my soul; I would love you as I moved inside you; I would love you as we made each other whole…
The most delicious, most titillating, secret of the poetry: half of them, or more than half, were directed at an unnamed man. The man of whom Charles had written: I crave your hand, so large, upon my wrist; I crave your weight atop me, within me, your body telling mine that I exist.
Erik had wondered, on first reading that one, what man it had been written for, and whether that man appreciated the courage it took to put such thoughts to paper in this so-moral new century; and whether, if that man had ever come to Charles in response, he’d known how to be properly grateful for such a gift.
Erik thought not, somehow. He’d been sitting high up in the crow’s-nest of the ship under the setting sun, one leg dangling; and he’d thought, out of nowhere: if I met him, this poet, he’d know. He’d know what it means to be alone, and to be lonely, and how those two words are not the same.
He’s read everything Charles has ever written, from the sparklingly profane ballads full of astoundingly dirty puns—Erik suspects Charles of trying to see how far he could test his publishers, with that one—to the pensive melancholy ache of the latest collection, not erotica at all but full of images: moonlight, faded manuscripts in a library, a weary pen laid down.
He pauses to kiss the spot he’s just wounded, blood rising to the surface under English-fair skin. Charles murmurs his name, breathing swift, inhales catching.
They’ve known each other for four hours. Plus a lifetime of poetry, of course.
He’d been visiting his preferred bookshop, hoping for some new volume. Had realized a reading was in progress, some slim tidy young man with unruly dark hair and an expensive spruce-green waistcoat. Had almost left. And then had heard the words.
He’d known those words.
He’d frozen in the doorway, wind whipping at his coat, coaxing him on.
He’d been in shock, at first. The boy reading was so young, too young; barely out of his teens, if that, all endless eyes and aristocratic accent and even freckles, demure innocent gilt-edged sprinkles of brown sugar over pale skin. This boy could never have written those words, could never have wanted to be claimed and plundered and overrun, territory yielded, flags planted in virgin ground—
Ah. And he’d thought, then: of course.
After, Charles had smiled and signed copies and nodded to assembled lords and ladies, unruffled and self-possessed despite the way that mouth’d just been shaping lines about suckling and sweet honey and thorn-pricks. Erik’d deliberately shouldered a pasty-skinned little lordlet out of the way and put himself in front of Charles, knowing precisely what those blue eyes would see: the height, the muscles, the scars, the unapologetic presence of an ex-pirate-lord, dangerous and not bothering to hide it.
Charles had breathed in, audibly. Those enormous eyes had gone even wider, containing oceans. Erik had taken his hand—ungloved, and he’d thought at the time, oh, Charles, so easily you tempt fate—and murmured, “You’re a virgin, aren’t you, Charles,” and Charles had stared at him, façade cracking to reveal the innocence. Had stammered, no longer the arrogant purveyor of his own fantasies to his captive audience, “That’s hardly a polite introduction, is it, Captain Lehnsherr, and I fail to see how it’s any of your business—”
Erik had laughed. Tightened his grip on those fingers, in his. “Tell me I’m wrong. Or I’ll tell all of them. You’re not as depraved as you make them believe you are, are you, Charles? Not even close.”
“I’m not a virgin,” Charles had said, but the way he’d been staring at Erik’s hand suggested that if this wasn’t technically a lie it wasn’t far off. “I’ve—does it matter, if I can write the words, if they feel—I’m sorry, we’ve not even been properly introduced, and you’re a bloody pirate, would you let go of my hand—”
“You know who I am,” Erik’d said, “you knew my name, of course you knew it, because, Charles, you like the pirate, you like the danger, you want to know, you want everything you write about, you want me to tie you to the bed and put my cock inside you, my hand inside you, my mouth on your sweet little virgin hole—you’ve never been kissed there, have you, Charles, opened up with another man’s tongue—and you’d love it all…”
Charles’ hand had trembled in his; not with fear.
“Come home with me,” Erik’d said. And Charles had whispered, “Yes.”
He’s had Charles spread out on his bed for hours, now. Pale skin over red silk, priceless, captured in a cargo from India. Charles is his captive too, as surely as any of those other conquests; and worth more than them all.
Erik suspects that there may be more to this captivity—the way he can’t stop looking, can’t stop touching, finds himself drawn back to the bed. The way he’s not yet fucked Charles even though he’d meant to, had meant to take that trembling innocence once and for all—but Charles is a virgin, and is a paradox: sweetly responsive, unpracticed, utterly unafraid. Enticing. Complex.
He slides his hand out—Charles is still so wet, very wet, from the oils they’ve used, white roses and a touch of ginger—and enjoys the way that ring of muscle flutters, tries to clench around nothing, slick and pink and puffy from use. Charles sobs. “So lovely,” Erik tells him, “like this, so loose, so ready for me…you love the way this feels, don’t you, Charles? My fingers inside you, making you scream?”
“Yes,” Charles gasps, “yes, Erik—please—”
“Please what?” One finger, tracing the rim; Charles tries to push back against him. Erik moves the hand. “What would you like? Tell me.”
“You—” Charles is begging now, tears brilliant in those oceanic eyes. “Your hand—fingers—anything, Erik, please, I need—”
“You need to come for me, is that it? You’d get off on my fingers, my cock, anything I choose, inside you?” Charles had written, early on, half-playful outrageous lines, a nod to the deceased Earl of Rochester: I do know Signior Dildo; we’ve been great friends, he and I; at home upon the love-seat, you know; or in the park, waving, to unsuspecting passersby…
“You were made for this,” Erik murmurs, and strokes a finger inside those slick walls, watching each joint disappear, sucked into greedy flesh. Charles’ cock leaks copiously, spilling across his belly as he pants. “You love this, don’t you, Charles? Little Viscount Xavier, proper scion of British nobility…spread out in my bed, in a pirate’s bed, like a dockside whore. And you love it all.”
Charles moans, whole body shuddering with it; his cock jumps. Erik orders, softly but implacably, “Tell me,” and Charles whimpers and whispers back, “Yes, Erik, please, all of it, I want you, I’ll be that for you—your whore, your boy, anything, please, please fuck me…”
Erik raises eyebrows. “Such a filthy mouth, Charles. Slut.” And Charles gasps, a trickle of need spilling from his cock, from that yearning slit. Erik leans down. Licks it up. Then presses his lips to Charles’ parted ones, tongue pushing forward. Making him taste himself, his own want.
Charles moans, dazed. Those legs spread even wider, unconsciously. Erik laughs. And feels that odd tugging under his breastbone again, in his chest. As if this boy, not even nineteen and inexperienced and dreaming of love, has reached into Erik’s heart and set a hook in place, a tether, so that Erik will never imagine wanting to leave his side. And he doesn’t want to imagine it.
He doesn’t want to think about that small fact, either, so he repositions his hand, thrusts—three fingers, no warning, and Charles cries out, back arching off the silk—and holds those thighs open with his other hand, knowing he’s leaving bruises, fingerprint marks on mapping-linen skin.
He finds that electric bundle of nerves. Rubs. Once, twice, again, friction right over that swollen singing spot. Demanding that Charles feel it all.
Charles screams, and shudders everywhere, and white jets of orgasm splash from his cock. Less, now, third time in four short hours; weak but present, body surrendering to the relentless use. Erik smiles. Strokes that spot inside him until Charles is sobbing, clawing at the bed, trying to curl up around Erik’s hand where it’s tormenting him with the pleasurable pain of too much stimulation. He collapses at last, shaking, unresponsive except for tiny incoherent twitches as Erik withdraws the hand, pets his cock—this gets a whimper—and checks him over, carefully. No tearing, no injuries; tender flesh, as expected, but Charles is unhurt.
His own erection throbs, unsatisfied. But Erik is a patient man, methodical, well-schooled in self-denial. He can wait. The ultimate result, after all, will be so much sweeter.
Charles is unhurt, yes; this means that they can continue. Not just yet—Charles will need the rest—but soon. He touches one freckled cheek; Charles mumbles, a wordless sound that might be Erik’s name.
“Was that good,” Erik asks, very softly, and he’s not sure why he’s asking, the point is to fuck Charles and use Charles and ruin Charles and give Charles all that experience he pretends to possess—but he is asking, and he finds that he cares about the answer.
Charles opens one jewel-hued eye at him. Sapphire treasure, in Erik’s bed. Scattered breeches and waistcoat on the floor; night descending, velvety and intimate, outside.
Charles says, “Yes.”
Erik smiles. “Stay for supper?” He’s not meant that to be a question, wanted it to be a command. He amends, distracting by means of excessive detail, “I’ve got an excellent cook. I stole him from the Duke of York. I pay in rubies. He’s very good with curry, if you have a taste for…the exotic.”
Charles says, “Yes” again, no hesitation, only sparkles emerging anew behind all the exhaustion, radiant stars in a worn-out twilight sky. And Erik’s smile broadens. That is a yes; and he considers evening plans. After all, they’ve barely begun. There’s so much more in store. And introducing Charles to it all will be such exquisite fun.