Chapter Text
Year 205, Age of Prophecy
Castle Stark, Attilan
The fire is burning low when the knock finally comes, the moon well along its path across the midnight sky. Charles’ arrival is the latest it’s been these past few nights, and Erik is in a state of near panic; worried their affair has been discovered by the wrong people.
Or worse, that Charles is ending things before they’ve truly begun, after the years they’ve already spent apart.
He moves swiftly from his chair by the fireplace, swinging the heavy wooden door open to reveal his lover standing on the threshold. Charles smiles up at him, warmer and softer than Erik has been gifted in almost a decade, and quietly slips inside the room.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
“Were you?” Charles asks, his voice gently mocking. “I didn’t think the Warrior King of Genosha was capable of being afraid.”
The words are light and teasing, but Erik knows enough to recognize the bite beneath the playful banter. Charles does not trust him fully - not yet - but Erik is a patient man. He will earn back his rightful place in Charles’ heart.
“I’m afraid of losing you,” Erik admits readily, if a bit recklessly, as he trails after Charles into the inner bedchamber. “I’m afraid of never holding you in my arms again. Of never being able to kiss your lips. Of loving you with every breath and every part of me and that it still won’t be enough.”
There is a soft exhale of breath, Charles’ shoulders dropping slightly before he straightens once more, taking another step towards the large four poster bed. From his place by the door he sees only the soft wave of Charles’ brown curls; can only admire the drape of azure blue silk across those broad shoulders.
“Come to bed, Darling,” Charles says, turning to glance back at Erik expectantly. He lifts his arms, the layers of his robe unfolding to reveal the royal symbol of Westchester, the peacock’s tail unfurled and splendid in all its glory. Erik can’t help but stare transfixed, enraptured by a Charles that is stark and powerful in his beauty; so different from the boy he used to love.
“You are...perfect,” Erik murmurs, his hands coming to rest on Charles’ shoulders, slipping under the soft folds of the collar to slide the robe off his lover’s body. His breath catches as Charles’ nude form is slowly revealed, Erik’s hands following the lines down his muscled back to the slopes of his buttocks. “More beautiful now than the first time I kissed you,” he whispers, tugging gently on Charles’ hips, kneading and caressing the smooth skin with a gentle reverence. “Remember? On the banks of the river at Graymalkin.”
Charles turns languidly, stepping out of the silk pooled at his feet and into Erik’s waiting arms with a sigh. “And you haven’t changed at all. On that I can always rely.”
There’s a shade of regret in Charles’ voice that he finds disconcerting, though Erik is given no time to uncover its cause. As on previous nights, Charles is the one to initiate their love making, pulling Erik close and sealing their lips together in a kiss deep and raw with emotion. Erik’s knees nearly buckle from the intense wave of lust that swallows him whole, twining with Charles’ own arousal and heightened by his Gift. The rich and luscious scent of omega fills his lungs, dulling his mind even as it sharpens the burn in his blood. His hands grasp tight enough to bruise, his mouth licking hungrily as Charles wraps his arms around Erik’s neck and moans, loud and needy.
“The bed,” he breathes and Erik obliges, guiding Charles backwards while kissing him still. With a gentle shove he pushes Charles onto the bed and climbs on top, pinning him lax against the furs.
“Can I?” Erik asks, sinking down and grinding his clothed body against miles of warm and naked skin. The leather of his tunic and trousers are of the softest hide, though the friction still makes his lover whine. “Please. I want to see your face.”
Erik has asked to make love to Charles this way, each night they’ve been together since arriving in Attilan. He wants to see Charles’ face as Erik breaches him; wants to kiss Charles’ lips when his body thrums with bliss. But Charles has denied him every time, climbing on top of Erik to take his pleasure, or pushing back with a growl as Erik takes him on his hands and knees.
Tonight he finds Charles uncharacteristically compliant, a sly, indulgent smile on his lips as he nods in answer to Erik’s plea. It is enough to fill him with a tentative hope for the future - one where their heated clashes stay on the chess board rather than the battlefields of war.
“Well?” Charles says, interrupting Erik’s train of thought with an impatient huff. “Do you tire of me already? Are you planning to stay in your clothing all night?”
He grins, reminded of the demanding and petulant Crown Prince of Westchester he met almost eighteen years ago. They have both changed much in the ensuing years, their connection pulled taut with distance and strained to near breaking. The thought of Charles in his arms was near incomprehensible mere months ago; and there are no words now to express his elation for a reunion unexpected.
The tunic comes off quickly enough, Erik tugging his trousers off at an equally hurried pace. And though Charles reaches to pull him close, Erik grabs his hands to still him, eager for once to take the lead.
Just lay back. He pushes his thoughts at Charles, his inner voice soft but firm. I would take my time with you. Make you tremble from the feel of my fingers when I touch you. Let me show you how I love you.
Charles seems surprised, his expression wide and vulnerable for the briefest of moments, and Erik wonders what thoughts are running through his brilliant and complicated mind. Their frenzied couplings to date have been rough and passionate, bordering the edge of violence; Erik too greedy to hold himself back and Charles clamoring for his knot with no regard for foreplay. But now, lust sated after years of longing, Erik finds himself craving the easy intimacy of their younger days.
He kisses Charles again - slowly, tenderly, drawing heated moans from that soft, luscious mouth. Erik moves as an intrepid explorer in a newly discovered land; hands following every dip and curve of Charles’ body, his lips mapping the lines and freckles across his skin.
“Erik,” Charles gasps, as he slides between the omega’s thighs, hands under his knees to spread him wide. His tongue curls in and out languidly, lapping at the rich and heady taste like the finest of aged wines. Charles has never been more beautiful than in this moment, his hands fisting in the furs as he arches against Erik’s mouth.
When he adds his fingers Charles groans, rocking his hips down to take Erik deeper. His lover is magnificent in abandon, eager and unguarded in a way that makes Erik greedy for more. Many have coveted Charles of Westchester over the years, to lay their hands and sate their lust on the omega child of prophecy. And yet it is Erik who claims him now, dragging desperate cries and shallow pants from Charles’ swollen lips.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, stroking Charles’ erection in time with his fingers. “I want you so much. Want to be inside you.”
“Yes,” is Charles’ answer, both a demand and a plea. “Yes. Erik, now. Please.”
Erik slides his fingers from Charles’ slick entrance and shifts to kneel between his thighs. Taking care to be gentle he sinks in, slowly inch by inch, reveling in the tight clench of his lover. When he leans closer for a kiss, Charles moans, wrapping his legs around Erik’s hips as Erik pins him to the bed.
“Move,” Charles says, eyes half-lidded in pleasure as Erik buries himself to the hilt. The feeling is exquisite and Charles keens, throwing his head back as Erik begins to thrust. They move together as one, Erik snapping his hips as Charles pushes against him, their bodies fitting together as two halves of a whole.
He can sense Charles’ pleasure, radiating outwards to embrace him like a cloak before sinking deep into his skin. It’s a feeling he’s missed, Charles letting go and losing himself, joining their thoughts and emotions as one. It’s also how he knows when Charles grows impatient, greedy for faster and rougher strokes and ready to roll them over and take control.
No, Erik sends, his hands moving to grasp Charles’ wrists, dragging them up and above his head. His lover’s breath hitches though he doesn’t complain, staring at Erik with his bright blue eyes full of challenge.
What do you want? Erik continues, as he moves faster, rocking his hips as he tightens his hold. Tell me. I want to hear your words. He follows the command with a hard thrust that makes Charles toes curl against the furs, his lover arching his back with an obscene moan.
Fuck me, Charles answers, his inner voice breathless and dazed. Fuck me, Erik. Take me and mark me. I want to feel every inch of you inside me and never let me go--
The stream of words cuts off abruptly as Erik surges forward, devouring Charles’ mouth with a desperate ‘yes’. His movements are rough and frenzied now, slamming over and over in a savage haze to claim and to own. He can feel Charles nearing his peak, spurring him on to increase his pace, the tension driving them both relentlessly towards an explosive climax.
His knot swells, pressing in and spreading wide, pushing Charles over the edge with a hoarse shout. Erik follows, grunting as the pleasure slams through him like a tidal wave, dragging him under as he spills hot and slick inside Charles’ body.
He collapses with a groan, arms holding the brunt of his weight to keep from crushing his lover before leaning to press a soft kiss on Charles’ lips. There’s a smile there that warms his heart, and a look of contented bliss before Charles rolls them both onto their sides and tucks his body under Erik’s.
They lay together - for minutes, hours, he does not know – his fingers splayed across Charles’ back as they wait for Erik’s knot to subside. There is quiet contentment here, a rare thing in their lives even before they became kings; finding sanctuary in each other’s arms as they used to as children.
Charles is the first to move, pulling away slightly until they are face to face, bodies intertwined but no longer tied. “Erik, there’s something…I have news.”
“Later,” he mumbles. He has no desire to discuss the peace treaty, or anything else that Charles wishes to say about the Starks or their remaining time in Attilan. “Please, Charles. Let’s just enjoy this. I don’t want—”
“Erik,” Charles interrupts, “I’m with child.”
His fingers still on their path along Charles’ hip, and he can feel his lover tense under his touch. “You’re…what?”
Charles frowns, pulling himself up to sit beside Erik, his posture stiff and oddly distant. “I said, I’m having a baby.”
It’s what he’s wanted - to have a child with Charles - for as long as Erik can remember. But the image of Shaw’s face flashes before him unwillingly, as smug and satisfied in Erik’s mind as he’d always been in life. Hatred, dark and visceral almost overwhelms him, the thought that Charles – his Charles – could be carrying that man’s---
“It’s not Sebastian’s baby, Erik. It’s yours.”
The rage dissipates immediately, leaving a whirlwind of emotions in its wake. He’s elated, that he and Charles will be tied together by this most sacred of bonds. Surprised that a pregnancy happened so quickly, only days after their initial coupling. And excitement and curiosity at the child’s potential, with two parents so powerfully Gifted.
A wry chuckle brings Erik back to the present, as Charles gazes at him with unreadable eyes. “You’re happy?”
Erik laughs, dragging Charles close to pepper kisses all over his face. “Delighted. I couldn’t be happier.”
“And will you say the same to your wife, Erik? When you tell her about me, and the baby?” Charles continues, unaffected by Erik’s good humor. “Tell her that you took the widower of your greatest enemy to bed, mere weeks after you murdered him? And will you abandon Magda now? And your children? To build a life with me? Or do you think I will agree to be your dirty secret, and raise my child as a bastard with a father that will not claim him?”
The words cut Erik deep, Charles’ cold delivery and seeming indifference sparking an anger that he tries quickly to dissipate. He does not know what he will do…and Charles can no doubt see his discomfort clearly, their minds still closely linked from their love making.
“Are you…asking me to leave my wife?” Erik asks, his stomach clenching at the thought of hurting Magda. He does not love her as he does Charles, and yet he cannot claim to have no feelings for the mother of his children. And what will he say to Wanda and Pietro if he chooses this path? Could he bear the guilt? Or their pain and condemnation?
Charles’ hand on his arm grounds him, stilling the turmoil within his heart. “Peace, Darling. That’s not what I want from you.”
And yet, Erik knows with every fiber of his being that he would do this, even if Charles doesn’t ask it of him. Because they are no longer boys but Kings; not too young to withstand the machinations of others or too stubborn to make things right.
“I admire your sentiment, Erik but what I want is your silence.” Charles shifts away from him to swing his legs off the bed, making his way to the wine on the table, a gift from their hosts to the King of Genosha.
“You want…I don’t understand.”
He watches as Charles pours the liquid into two goblets, the light from the fireplace casting his skin with a golden sheen. Erik has never wanted anything quite so much as having Charles by his side once more, and he is not so magnanimous as to give in without a fight.
You have no choice, Charles sends, no choice but to pretend this never happened. He hands Erik one of the goblets, before taking a long sip from his own. There is no need for your family to know. Our affair ends tonight.
“No!” The goblet spills from his hand across the furs, staining dark red against the pristine white. He barely notices, so intent is he on his lover. “We’ll find a way to make it work! I can come to Westchester! Or you can see me in Genosha!”
Charles shakes his head and smiles, a bitter and wounded thing that cuts like a thin line across his handsome face. “Shall we forever meet as thieves in the night? Our relationship granted life by the mercy of your Queen?”
Wine forgotten, Erik kneels and reaches for Charles’ hand, pulling him back until they are facing each other on the bed. “I told you. I would leave Magda so we can be together. I don’t want to lose you.”
“You lost me long ago, Erik. You’re just too stubborn to accept it.”
That the words are true don’t make them easier to hear, and Erik has never been one to accept consequences as immutable. But it seems that Charles is set to have his way once more, his face grim with determination as he sets his goblet down on the end table and takes Erik’s face within the palms of his hands.
“Listen to me, very carefully,” Charles says, his eyes bright and hard as ice. “The world will know the child as mine and Sebastian’s, heir to the thrones of Westchester and Aerie. No one can know what has happened here…with the treaty signed and the war ended, you should be heading home to your family.”
He shakes his head, refusing to believe that Charles could-- “You would deny me my child? Raise him in Shaw’s name? The man I despised for what he did to my parents? For taking you from me?” Erik is shouting by the end, his hand gripping Charles’ wrist hard enough to bruise. But Charles calmly meets his glare, his voice reflecting none of Erik’s confusion and uncertainty.
“He loved your mother. As he loved you.” Erik growls in warning but Charles is not deterred. “And Sebastian can hardly have taken me from you, when you were the one to end our engagement.”
“You know I had no choice! Charles, I--”
“I understand, Erik. I do. We were born to be kings, you and I, and must make decisions not for ourselves but for the greater good. That you are Sebastian’s nephew and heir will not matter to the people of Aerie; they will not accept the man who led a war against them to rule now as their king.”
“I don’t want his lands,” Erik spits, “not anymore.”
Charles shrugs, as though the two were discussing the weather and not the fate of their flesh and blood. “And you will not have them, now that I am bearing Sebastian’s heir. There will be no debate in his Court and no one will dare challenge my right to rule Aerie in the child’s stead.”
The pieces fall together in an instant, and Erik curses himself for being too blind to see. “You planned this. To let me in your bed and give you the child you need. That you would use me, and use an innocent child--”
“Spare me,” Charles snaps, and it’s the first flare of emotion his lover shows, yanking his arm free of Erik’s grasp. “You hardly needed encouragement to fuck me, Erik. As though I needed to seduce you.” He scoffs, mocking Erik’s anger and indignation. “This child is mine. Not yours and not Sebastian’s. I will love him with everything that I am and protect him from harm with my last breath. I promise you, he will be loved and cared for every bit as much as your own precious twins.”
They are too close, voices raised and their faces mere inches apart, neither willing to back down from a confrontation that in hindsight was inevitable. Erik will not let Charles take his child away, to use as a pawn in his games. He will do what he must to stop Charles from leaving, even if he has to do so by force.
“Now, we come to the truth,” Charles spits out, his fury wild and dangerous as a coming storm. “So easy to read, even if I didn’t have my Gift. You profess that you love me and yet you think I’m a monster. You're a liar, Erik Lehnsherr. Faithless and without honor. How easily did you promise to abandon your wife? And how easily do you turn to threatening me now? As if you had any power to stop me.”
There’s no warning when it happens; no shift in the air that’s still heavy with their mingled scent. No gesture or change in Charles’ expression to signal the onslaught of his Gift. There is only Erik’s body toppling over on the bed, limbs unmovable like a puppet without its strings. When he reaches outwards with his own Gift he gets no response, the hum of the metal in the room completely silent and impervious to his command.
“I won’t let you do this,” Erik snarls, as Charles turns away from him, making his way to the table to refill his goblet. “I’ll announce to the world that I’m the baby’s father. I won’t let you lie for your own gain and deprive me of a relationship with my child.”
Charles appears completely unmoved; neither worried by Erik’s anger nor concerned by the unspoken threat. He takes a long, slow drink of his wine, watching him on the bed with assessing eyes, before making his way back across the room to Erik’s side.
“You can do that,” Charles answers, his voice deceptively calm as he looks down on Erik laying prone across the furs. “I won’t stop you. But I will tell our hosts – and your wife – that you raped me after you murdered my husband. That you took your enemy’s omega as your rightful prize for your victory against Shaw--”
“No! You wouldn’t--”
“—and who do you think they’ll believe?” Charles continues, as Erik watches him in utter horror and disbelief. “Will they believe the grieving widower, so distraught these past weeks over the loss of his loving husband? Or will they believe the Warrior King of Genosha? Who swore an oath of blood to kill Sebastian Shaw for his father’s death and his mother’s honor?”
The air in the room is suddenly too thin, and Erik finds it difficult to push down the overwhelming panic and despair. He knows Charles has him by the throat, for Erik is too proud to bring such shame to his father’s legacy. “You would do this, Charles? To me? Do I really mean so little to you?”
He can see it, for no more than seconds, the glint in Charles’ eyes softening as he stares at Erik, an expression of heartbreak washing over his youthful face. But it is gone in the blink of an eye and he is faced once more with a Charles that is impassive and implacable.
“You really have no idea, do you Erik?” Charles asks, as he makes his way to his discarded robes. He leans over to pull something from one of the pockets; a long, curved dagger made entirely of polished bone, the infamous Dragon’s Claw of the House of Westchester. Erik would shiver at the sight of it, if he still had control over his own limbs.
“You have no idea what I suffered at my stepfather’s hands because of you,” Charles continues, dagger in hand as he approaches Erik once more. “Because of you I married a man I did not love, but one who was good to me. One who cherished me for more than a pretty face and a womb to produce his heirs. Who taught me tactics in war and politics in peace and ruled as an equal by my side.”
With an impatient air, Charles shoves Erik onto his back and climbs onto his lover, his body sprawled in a mockery of their previous intimacy. A hand curls gently through his hair, cradling his neck as the blade moves slowly to rest, dangerously close to Erik’s throat.
“And you killed him,” Charles hisses, near enough that Erik can feel his breath upon his lips. “You are always taking from me, Erik, and giving nothing in return. So a child of our blood is the least that I am owed.”
The blade presses closer against the sensitive skin, bone edge razor sharp where mere hours ago Charles had kissed him, tender and affectionate. Erik holds his gaze perfectly still as his lover looms above him, eyes bright with determined fire. “If you follow me, I will kill you,” he says, voice too cold and precise to mistake the meaning of his words. “If you come for me or the child, I will kill you. Leave and go home to your perfect little family and forget this ever happened. And if I meet you on the battlefield again, Your Majesty - I won’t hesitate to slit your throat.”
“You don’t mean that.” The contempt in Charles' voice is palpable, and Erik has to swallow the helpless rage; has to smother the sliver of fear burgeoning in his gut at Charles’ stony countenance. “I love you. I know you love me too, Charles. How could you do this?” The words ‘to me’ he leaves unvoiced, though Charles is certain to hear the silent query.
Unexpectedly, the sharp edge retreats and he lets out a relieved sigh, the sound mingling with the soft clatter of the blade falling onto the cold stone floor. Charles follows it slowly, eyes never leaving his, broad hands seemingly reluctant to let go as he climbs off Erik’s immobile body.
“I do love you, Darling,” Charles answers, mouth gentle as he leans down to kiss Erik again, barely a whisper of space between their parted lips. “It’s the only reason you’re still alive.”
“No you can’t do this! I won’t--”
Another kiss, almost violent in its intensity, silences Erik mid-rant. “I will. I have,” Charles insists with an impatient air, pulling away from Erik now to slip back into his discarded clothes. He watches with mounting desperation as Charles throws the silk robe over his shoulders, sliding his arms in and cinching it closed, his body once again off limits to all but Erik’s imagination.
“Goodbye Erik,” Charles says, reaching to cup Erik’s cheek before pulling away with a sigh. “I…goodbye.”
He is losing Charles all over again, watching helplessly as his childhood love severs the last of their ties, both too damaged now to endure the burdens of their past. It's as though the past few days were nothing more than a dream, and Erik had spent it with a mere memory of the Charles that used to be.
I love you, Charles, he sends, hoping beyond hope that his lover will heed his desperate plea. I’ve loved you my whole life.
And what has your love ever given me, Erik, but pain and heartache?
His eyes grow heavy as he watches Charles turn and walk away, the last of his words echoing in Erik's mind before he knew no more.
