If you know me on tumblr most of this will look familiar, but there are a few extra parts that no one's seen before. :)
This is based heavily on the Bartimaeus Trilogy by Jonathan Stroud. This might also seem very choppy at the moment, but bear with me for the time being; all the pieces will start coming together as things progress.
Minor character deaths in this chapter.
Chapter I.
You are mine
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It has been a long time since he has been summoned.
The material word grates jarringly on his essence as he coalesces into shape, choosing to appear as a green fire that nearly licks the ceiling with its height. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees, lights flickering ominously as whispering seems to come from beyond, cold and angry and enough to make the hair on the back of any human's neck stand on end. The door to the small, cramped bedroom creaks loudly, groaning in its frame as the wood bows inwards as if under great pressure. Two angry red eyes appear in the center of the flames, glaring out across the room.
Erik immediately checks all boundaries of the pentacle he has arrived in with fingers of licking flames, but there's not a single weak spot to be found—no scuffs in the lines, or misplaced or misspelled runes. The pentacle is solid and will hold him trapped within for as long as his new master desires.
His new master, who is sitting cross-legged across the room in a pentacle of his own that is much smaller than the main pentacle and filled with different runes. He's young, which is momentarily surprising given the amount of power Erik had felt behind the summoning command, and can't be older than ten or eleven at most. He doesn't look the least bit scared, which is disappointing given the amount of effort Erik has put into his arriving theatrics, and is studying Erik with big, curious blue eyes.
Churning in his pentacle, Erik emits a large puff of noxious gas that has the distinct smell of rotten eggs.
The boy has the audacity to chuckle. "Are you quite finished, my friend?"
Erik doesn't answer, emitting more of the foul-smelling smoke. If he can help it, he's not going to listen to this brat unless it's a direct order—because, well, no one can avoid obeying those.
The magician sighs. He's a shrimp. There's no way he's the one who summoned Erik here. Erik casts his gaze around the room, flipping through the seven planes. This boy is nothing but an apprentice; surely his master is hidden somewhere nearby. But no, other than the young apprentice, the room is decidedly empty.
"My name is Charles Xavier." The boy speaks calmly, but the name drops like lead between them.
The name. His true name.
Erik freezes, and then before he can stop himself, he lets out a snort of disbelief. "Are you mad?"
Charles smiles. "No more than anyone else, I would expect."
"You've given me your name." Erik says. Stupid, foolish apprentice. Erik can't decide whether or not he should eat him now to save him the agony of being eaten by someone else later.
"Of course I have." Charles doesn't sound the least bit concerned. "I know your name, Erik, so you might as well know mine."
"You realize that you summoning me is now completely useless, yes?" Erik asks, still slightly incredulous. True names hold power. It's why magicians have always held supremacy over demons—magicians, who go by fake pseudonyms and summon demons from their long lists of demon names. It's a little unfair, actually. But now that Erik knows the boy's true name, the tables have turned.
This child has two years of experience at best. Erik has five thousand. He will be able to counteract any spell the boy dares to send his way.
He smirks to himself. Nor will he have to obey any order that comes out of this brat's mouth.
"Not entirely." Charles is smiling faintly, studying Erik with his keen gaze. "I didn't call you here to boss you around. I was rather hoping that we could chat."
The green fire morphs into a sullen black cloud with no discernible shape. "Just chat." No magician ever wants to just chat. This is not a phone call. This is a master-servant binding contract.
Or at least it usually is. But so far things here have not gone as usual.
"As equals."
Erik balks. "As equals? You expect me to believe that?"
Charles chuckles again. For an eleven year old, he is oddly sure of himself. "Well we're on first-name basis, aren't we? I can hardly charge you with obeying anything I say now that you know my name, so we'll have to converse as equals."
"There is nothing," Erik informs the precocious brat, "equal about this."
The apprentice pushes himself to his feet very suddenly. Even standing he's a tiny scrap of a thing, skinny and slight, but he holds himself with disquieting confidence. "I could make it equal."
Erik's eyes have moved down to the toe of the boy's shoe, which is millimeters away from the line of his pentacle. One tiny shift is all it would take. "You wouldn't."
"I'd have to trust you," Charles admits, "just like how you have to trust me right now. But I could step outside of this pentacle."
"I don't trust you." Erik says to him flatly. Then he turns his voice silky. "Go on, then. Step forward. Don't be shy."
Charles laughs again. "It'd be a pity if you ate me, though."
"Why's that?" Erik says dryly. "I see nothing wrong with it, other than the fact that I'll probably hardly taste you." He swears that they're making these apprentices smaller and smaller every decade.
Now Charles sighs again, dropping back down into a sitting position. Erik watches carefully, but damn—none of him crosses the carefully chalked-out lines. "I don't want this to turn into a pissing contest. I'd actually like for us to be friends."
Erik outright laughs at that, though he isn't sure what does it; the notion of being friends with his jailer, or the matter-of-fact way it'd been spoken. "Little apprentice. Charles Xavier. If you wanted a pet, you should have tried summoning a foliot or an imp."
Charles smiles. It is razor-sharp and oddly cold for an eleven year old. "I don't want a pet, Erik. I want an ally."
"Same difference, in this case." Erik says dryly. "Here's how this is going to go. You're going to dismiss me, and then never summon me again. If you're lucky, I'll forget to mention your name to anyone else who calls me up."
"It's just a chat, Erik." Charles sounds faintly amused. "I haven't once tried to order you to do anything, have I?"
Erik considers. "That doesn't mean you won't start trying." The black cloud grows teeth so it can smirk widely at the boy. "Not that it matters anymore, what with your name freely given. Just dismiss me, kid, and save yourself a headache."
"Do you hate humans?" Charles asks calmly, and for a moment it's such non sequitur that Erik blinks.
"No," he answers, "I have no interest in humans." He smirks again. "But I do hate magicians. Especially uppity little apprentices."
"I see." Charles sounds unbothered by Erik's jibe. "And why is that? Because we—the magicians—take away your freedoms when we summon and bind you?"
Erik makes a loud, rude sound that echoes slightly in the small room. "No, I just hate their hairstyles—what do you think? Would you like it if you're minding your own business one moment and then the next you're being dragged through the dimensions and placed in servitude under some sniveling hack?"
"Tell me how you really feel, darling." Charles says dryly.
The black cloud swirls in its pentacle petulantly.
Charles considers him. "Then I suppose it's not a stretch to assume that all demons feel this way."
"Why else do you all hide safely in your pentacles when you call us up?" Erik deadpans. "I would have eaten you on sight, personally, if it weren't for your little wards."
"Have you eaten anyone before?"
"Once." Erik recalls the memory fondly. His arrival theatrics aren't for nothing—they're meant to scare. He'd startled the old codger right out of his pentacle, which had been more than enough of a chance to swoop forward and swallow the man whole. "He didn't taste very good."
"Pity." Charles is smiling faintly again, but it's not quite reaching his eyes.
The black cloud swirls down to the ground, and Erik shifts into a crouching gremlin. "What manner of creature are you?" he wonders aloud, surveying the boy now that they're of equal height. "The last time I was summoned by an eight-year-old—"
"I'm eleven." Charles interjects.
Erik's gremlin face leers. "Ah, there's that youthful pride. But. You're no shivering and shaking greenhorn. You are a greenhorn, but you summoned me here."
"Not fit for novices, are you?" Charles' smile is a little more real this time.
"I use the bones of novices to pick my teeth."
"Charming." Charles shifts in his circle, arranging himself comfortably. "Maybe if I was an eight-year-old, that would scare me."
"You may as well be," Erik assures him snidely, "you're incredibly young. Don't go getting a big head just because you've summoned your first djinn."
"You're hardly my first," Charles assures him with another crocodile smile, "but you certainly are the most powerful yet."
"Flattery will get you nowhere." Erik does preen a little though, because he is allowed to be vain.
"What's the Other Place like?"
Another jarring question. Erik blinks again. What is it with this kid? "You truly want to know."
"Yes, I truly do." Charles is quite serious now, but patiently so. "I would rather like it if you'd tell me. Please."
Erik's currently nonexistent eyebrows rise. "Now there's a word I've never heard come out of a magician's mouth."
"You'll find that I'm not like most magicians." Charles answers idly. It could sound arrogant, especially coming from a child. But when Charles says it, it sounds like nothing less than the simple truth, given as freely as his true name.
Erik shifts into a human form, testing out this new body cautiously. He's a boy now too, though he's made himself a little older than Charles so he can continue feeling superior. But if Charles wants to play this game, Erik will try it out. He knows the kid's name, so if things go sour he can still defend himself.
Charles smiles at his new form, eyes crinkling. "You're quite versatile, my friend."
"We're not friends." Erik says, lounging back in his pentacle with a lazy smirk. It feels interesting, with this face and these muscles. "Now shut up and listen, because I'm not repeating myself."
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Rain.
He perches on the very edge of the building's roof in between two other gargoyles, hunching his stone back just like his fellows in order to blend in but mostly in a futile effort to cringe away from the ceaseless downpour from the sky above. The traffic below is heavy and slow, cars inching along like ants between the skyscrapers, and even up from high above he can hear the honks and shouts of angry taxi drivers.
This city reeks of humanity, and Erik has had enough of it.
Keeping stock-still in his crouched position, he flickers through the seven visible planes as he looks out across the city. The first two planes are empty, but when he reaches the third he can see dozens of imps flitting across the sky like birds, on errands for their masters even in this weather. One of them passes by particularly close and for a moment Erik considers snapping it up for dinner, but right now he really can't be bothered so he allows it to pass unharmed.
The next two planes reveal nothing but the faint, colored glow of protective charms and spells scattered here and there throughout the city, visible only faintly through the rain. It must be something, Erik muses, to be a magician—to have to choose between forgoing the spells and remaining defenseless or to set down the spells and at the same time light up the exact location of your home like a beacon must be quite a choice, especially given that so many magicians are crammed into this city like sardines.
The smell is no less foul, either.
The sixth plane is where things start getting dicey. Erik counts three other djinn visible in this plane besides himself out watching the city. Two of them are of a lower level than he is, but the third outranks him considerably, which is especially annoying because as soon as she sees him looking, she glides over to him in the form of a smoke cloud that gives off a particularly revolting scent of roses.
"No need to look so dour, Erik," she drawls as she switches forms, morphing fluidly into a gargoyle like him although hers has a considerably less grotesquely twisted face, "I just want to say hello."
"Hello Emma." Erik says pointedly. He's suddenly glad that his gargoyle teeth are already bared because it gives him an excuse to glare at her. Generally Erik treats anyone stronger than himself grudgingly with careful respect, but in all the centuries he's run into Emma, she in particular always takes the time to grind on his nerves.
"I see you're charming as ever." Emma says dryly, flicking her stone wings once. "You know, I haven't seen you back home in quite awhile. Your current master must really like you, though I couldn't begin to fathom why."
"I've been back and forth." Erik replies shortly. This is true. It's necessary for his essence to recover from spending so much time in the material world. "He keeps me busy."
Emma smirks. Her teeth are two inches longer than his. "Sounds like your master is up to something. Now, whatever could that be?"
"You know I can't tell you." Erik says dryly. "Bound to duty, sworn to secrecy. You know the drill."
"And what if it was my current task to find out?" Emma smiles sweetly, but on her gargoyle face it comes across more like a snarl.
Erik tenses a little. Odds are she doesn't even know who his current master is, but if she's telling the truth and it comes down to a fight, as much as it rankles to admit, she would win.
Emma laughs. "Don't worry, sugar, not tonight. I really am just saying hello to an old friend."
"Oh, we're friends now?" Erik asks pleasantly.
"For now." She smiles again. "I can't stay long, sugar. My master hasn't tasked me with sitting out in the rain all evening, unfortunately."
"Pity," Erik says, unfolding his stone wings, "but then again, neither has mine."
Before she can answer he launches himself off the side of the building, shifting forms mid-drop. He grimaces to himself a little when his newly-feathered wings spread wide and are immediately pelted with rain, his pigeon body already wanting to land again to seek shelter. He forces himself to wing away, even though he's certain Emma won't give chase.
It's not that she doesn't take pleasure in tearing lesser beings to pieces; it's more that she doesn't do anything that won't directly benefit her, which Erik can wholeheartedly agree with. It's not worth the energy to go around eating everyone, unless it's an order.
Then it's always worth the energy, because disobeying an order usually means a very long, drawn-out, and painful death. No one ever says magicians aren't sadistic.
Erik glides over the traffic, covering two blocks until he's forced to land because his feathers are soaked through. As soon as he touches the pavement, he shifts into a cat. The cat body likes the rain even less than the pigeon, but at least the cat is willing to dart along the sidewalk, ducking from dry patch to dry patch as he continues up the street. He doesn't have much further to go.
Still, cat body or not, he can't wait to get out of this damn rain.
By the time he reaches his destination, he is bedraggled and annoyed on several different levels. The building entrance is well-lit but fortunately empty of human life. A quick scan through the seven planes reveals only one small foliot on the fourth plane sitting morosely on the steps—a small guard meant only to sound an alarm, not actually defend.
No, any defenses the building might have will be much stronger than a foliot.
Erik sends a magical pulse at the foliot, and an oily vapor wraps around the lesser demon's head, making it sit up and croak, batting at the air wildly with its claws. Simple. While it's distracted, Erik slips past it as a fly, slipping right through the crack beneath the double glass doors and into the lobby of the building.
Then he shifts again, this time merely becoming a round, glowing orb the size of a baseball that hovers in midair and generally looks as nonthreatening as possible. Then he drifts forward through the lobby and down a long, richly furbished hallway towards the sounds of many voices talking all at once.
He reaches two tall, heavy doors that are open just a crack and pauses, looking into the room.
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It happens so gradually that Erik barely realizes it at first, but he slowly warms up to Charles Xavier.
Charles summons him daily, and by the end of the first week Erik forgoes his usual theatrical entrance and merely appears in the human boy form he'd chosen on the first day, lounged back in his pentacle with familiar ease.
The young apprentice keeps his word, which is interesting, and never tries giving an order. He stays well inside his own pentacle, keeping them at their stalemate, but asks Erik endless questions about his life, the magicians he's served under, the Other Place, and all sorts of other topics; their conversations lasting for hours and hours.
Erik answers him readily, and is initially surprised when he finds that he is actually enjoying this odd arrangement. Charles is an uppity little brat and Erik likes making the apprentice grind his teeth in frustration when the demon gives a particularly snide answer or disagrees with him on a point only in order to watch him squirm. More often than not, Erik also finds himself grinding his teeth in equal frustration as well when Charles gives it right back to him, smug and smirking.
Erik isn't sure where this strange creature came from, but he is literally the most interesting thing Erik has ever encountered in nearly four thousand years, even as infuriating as he is sometimes—most of the time.
Charles is intelligent, and while he's no less arrogant about it than any other magician Erik has ever met, he's also the only one out of the lot of them that is ready to use his intelligence—and yet Erik can't quite figure out his angle until three months into their strange relationship.
"Why do you keep summoning me?" Erik asks idly. He's in his human form, stretched out on his stomach on the floor, tracing a pattern absently near the chalk line of his pentacle. As far as he can tell, Charles is still summoning him daily. "You've practically exhausted my knowledge, and I'm useless to you as a servant."
"I told you, I don't want a servant." Charles answers absently. He's arranged himself comfortably in his own pentacle across from Erik, and the book in his lap looks like it's thicker than he is. "And you don't get to play the I'm-only-using-you-for-your-knowledge card. We have lovely conversations all the time."
"Don't you have better things to do?" Erik asks. He slides his finger closer to the chalk line, but doesn't dare try to touch it. He might know Charles' true name, but that doesn't mean he can combat the magic Charles has already laid down. It'd been apparent from the very first day that the apprentice is far from average.
"Not particularly." Charles turns a page, sounding supremely unconcerned.
"You're eight years old—"
"Eleven—"
"—and you spend all of your time sitting on the floor of this cramped little room talking to a demon. Aren't there normal human children things you should be doing? Making friends? Playing outside?"
"I am not a normal human child," Charles says loftily, "and I have far better things to be doing than silly, childish, commoner things like that."
"You're certainly not a normal human." Erik says dryly. "At all."
Charles looks up from his book for the first time, the corners of his mouth curling upwards in one of his cold smiles. It makes him look much older than eleven. "Well I never claimed to be, did I?"
Erik holds his gaze steadily, and they stare each other down for a long moment. "Answer my question, Charles."
"Don't say that name." Charles says absently, going back to his book. "It's Max. I told you last week that I finally got to choose my name."
"You don't look like a Max," Erik says flatly, "and since I know your true name, I'll call you whatever I want."
Charles sighs but doesn't respond, eyes skimming swiftly down the page.
"Charles."
"For god's sake, Erik," the apprentice says irritably, "I told you before. I want an ally."
"What could you possibly need an ally for?" Erik snorts. "Magicians always have enemies, but that's why you should just summon yourself a nice flock of foliots and put them to work if you're so paranoid, not summon a djinn and tell it your name—oh wait."
"All in good time, my friend." Charles murmurs, turning another page. "There are some things that I want to do."
Erik props himself up on his human elbows. "I don't have to help you."
"No, you don't," Charles agrees, "but that's the beauty of it." He looks up from his book again, blue eyes so earnest that he looks his actual age for once. "If we work together—truly work together, not as master and servant but as accomplices—just imagine what we could do, the power that we could hold."
Erik raises his eyebrows. It's a human expression that he's grown fond of, and he feels that it conveys his exact sentiments perfectly. "So you are no different from the rest. It's all about power for you. All you want is to put yourself on top of the totem pole."
Charles makes an impatient sound. "Did you not hear me? I want to work together. Demon and magician." He's closed his book entirely, leaning forward as if he longs to take Erik by the shoulders and shake him, but of course he still never passes the lines of his own pentacle. "Erik, I want to break the system."
"Oh?" Erik's eyebrows rise even further now, but this time in interest. For all that he's young and arrogant and so painfully human, Charles still never fails to surprise him. "I'm listening."
"Good," Charles says, settling back with a satisfied smirk, "it's about time."
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It's a large ballroom, with high arching ceilings and hideous crystal things pretending to be chandeliers, and it's filled practically to capacity with magicians, all dressed to the nines. Men are in immaculate tuxedos, tailored exactly, while women flow through the crowd in elegant gowns, not a single hair out of place. There is talking and laughing and servers bearing trays of hors d'oeuvres and glasses of champagne, and for a moment all Erik can do is hover in the doorway and stare at the gala that practically reeks of opulence and just plan excessiveness.
Then he flickers through the seven planes again to get a better feel of the place.
The ballroom is packed with magicians, so it's a given that on the other planes, it's going to be packed with demons. Erik himself should only currently be visible on the third plane and up, so it's no surprise that he's suddenly got a lot of company. Imps sit on shoulders or down on the ground next to feet, and foliots hover overhead or scamper after their masters. Erik notes a handful of other djinn and even one baleful-looking afrit hovering like a black cloud on one side of the room, and makes a mental note to stay far away.
Erik drifts forward, still as a glowing orb, searching. There is only one magician here out of the entire room that remotely holds his interest.
He finds him over near the great glass windows, deep in conversation with two lady magicians. Erik studies him. He's holding a champagne glass in one hand, swirling the pale liquid absently as he laughs, while his other hand keeps hold of his suit jacket that's draped over his shoulder, its absence revealing his crisp dress shirt and neat, fitted vest that automatically draws Erik's eyes down the magician's lean frame. Erik only has to hover for a moment before blue eyes flash up to his position in acknowledgement.
Erik stays where he is. He can wait. For now.
The young magician charms another laugh out of his two companions before he graciously begs their pardon, citing a need for the washroom. One of the ladies has an imp on her shoulder that rolls its eyes, and Erik considers how easy it would be to snap the little vermin up, but no—all that purple fur would probably get stuck between his teeth.
"Do hurry back, Max," the other lady urges, "we haven't heard that other story you promised."
He laughs, setting his champagne flute down on the wide windowsill. "I'll be back before you know it," he promises, and then he's moving through the crowd, slipping fluidly through his fellow magicians. Erik follows overhead, floating along and giving any imp that dares look up at him a dirty look.
As soon as he steps out of the ballroom through a small side door that leads to a quiet, dimly lit hallway, Erik is on him faster than he can even open his mouth to speak.
He flows down to the ground, shifting into a human form, making himself taller and leaner, the suit he forms just as sharp and tailored, and he has the magician with his back against the nearest wall all in the amount of time it takes to blink.
"Evening, Charles," Erik murmurs right against his lips as he crowds him back, slipping a knee between the magician's legs and pinning him in place.
"Hello Erik—" Charles starts to answer, but as soon as he opens his mouth Erik cuts him off by closing what little distance remains between them and crushes their mouths together with a growl.
Charles yields with a soft sigh, going lax in Erik's grip as his hands come up to fist in the front of Erik's jacket as their tongues slide together when Erik deepens the kiss, pressing into Charles' mouth with nearly single-minded determination to taste what is rightfully his.
Charles is panting a little when Erik lets him breathe again, moving down to his throat in favor of his lips, leaving a wet trail of marks. The back of Charles' head hits the wall with a soft thump as he tips his chin up with a strangled moan, shifting in Erik's grasp. Erik holds him firmly in place, shifting his knee up a little higher until Charles gasps, all the while keeping his mouth at the magician's neck, nipping and sucking in turns.
"Erik," Charles manages to get out breathlessly as he tries in vain to shift again, "this isn't—"
"What other story did you promise them?" Erik interrupts conversationally, moving his mouth right against Charles' Adam's apple as he speaks. He presses another open-mouthed kiss there before moving lower, tracking down to the soft bit of skin where Charles' neck meets his shoulder. "Another heroic deed by Max Eisenhardt? Translate another archaic text? Uncover another rare artifact?"
"It's not—"
"Or was it more personal?" Erik continues, this time biting down hard enough to bruise and enjoying how Charles jerks beneath him with another moan, his fisted hands yanking at Erik's jacket. "A story about how you'd show them a good time, maybe?"
Charles laughs, low and flat, one of his hands moving up to rest on the back of Erik's head, a warm weight holding him in place as he licks at the bruise he's left on the magician's neck. "Honestly, Erik," the magician says, "what do you take me for?"
For that, Erik presses his full body against the magician's and then grinds up, smirking when Charles' hips buck before he can stop himself. "I think you're a flirt," Erik murmurs, moving back up the magician's neck and grazing skin with his teeth until Charles is shuddering, "and I just want to remind you," he continues, drawing back a little to look directly into deep blue eyes, "that you are mine."
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Charles has been summoning him for nearly four months exactly when one day Erik feels the familiar tug on his essence of a summons and when he materializes in the small, cramped bedroom he immediately knows that something is different.
Charles is standing up in his pentacle for once instead of already curled up with a book, and he's looking over at Erik with slightly wide eyes, as if waiting for something he isn't sure he's going to like.
It takes Erik a moment to figure it out, and then he realizes—Charles has very deliberately scuffed his shoe through the chalk of his own pentacle.
The pentacle is broken.
The boundaries are void.
Erik takes a moment to gauge the apprentice, taking him in silently. He could do it. He could swoop down on Charles and swallow him whole and be done with this entire thing, whatever it is.
Erik's already in his human form, so he takes a step forward, crossing the lines of his own pentacle easily. It only takes him five steps until he's standing directly in front of Charles, the closest they've ever been to one another. Charles doesn't move, standing stock-still in the center of his pentacle, and Erik is pleased to discover that his human form is a good head taller than the apprentice—he'd measured well. At this distance, he can hear the human breathing, slightly shaky, and he can practically feel Charles' beating heart, rushing with blood.
Charles raises his chin slightly to look up at him. "Going to eat me?" He sounds defiant and unafraid, but beneath that is a wavering uncertainty that isn't entirely unwarranted.
Erik chuckles at that, and reaches forward to put his hands on the magician's slender shoulders, touching the human for the first time. He leans his head down until his forehead is resting lightly against Charles' so that they're eye-to-eye, peering at each other closely. "Hello Charles."
Charles smiles, one of his rare sincere ones that Erik prefers. "Hello Erik."
Erik doesn't eat him, and later sees this particular day as the true beginning of it all.
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Erik lets Charles return to the crowded ballroom, but not before he's left a sizeable mark on the magician's neck that is only just barely covered by the collar of his dress shirt. Among other things.
"Are you serious." Charles is breathless and strained, pupils enlarged with arousal, and he's glaring at Erik which is absolutely perfect.
Erik still holds him back against the wall still but at arm's length now, smirking. "You still have work to do, don't you? I wouldn't want to keep you," he says silkily, before adding, "especially not from your two friendswho I'm sure are pining for you already."
"They mean nothing and you know it." Charles snaps. "But you aren't seriously—you're not going to just—"
"Work you up and then leave you hanging?" Erik interrupts pleasantly. "Actually, I think that's exactly what I'm doing."
"You're unbelievable." Charles tries to struggle out of Erik's grip, but Erik just holds him there tighter. "If you really don't want to keep me, then let me go. Now."
Erik grins. The magician is well and truly pissed now, which will make things later all the more fun. "I will in a moment. How far along are you?"
"I was getting there until I was interrupted."
"I hardly interrupted you," Erik says with a snort, "you saw me and came running." He smirks again. "As you should."
"Forgive me," Charles says in his best snotty voice that usually serves to drive Erik up the wall, "I thought you actually wanted something."
"I did," Erik says silkily, leaning forward, "I wanted this."
Before Charles can even react, Erik has a hand down his pants and around his cock, jerking him off with quick strokes. He claps a hand over Charles' mouth when the magician comes with a shout, warm come spilling into Erik's hand as Charles' knees finally give out and he slides down the wall into a limp heap.
"Bastard." Charles says in between his panting when Erik removes his hand from his mouth.
Erik slides his other hand out of Charles' pants with a chuckle, giving his hand a long lick to taste the come smeared across his skin and smirking at the small noise Charles makes as he watches, staring. "Go drink some more champagne, Charles," he says, "but you might want to button up first." He brushes a finger across the mark he's made on the magician's neck.
Charles glares at him, already fumbling with his shirt. "I'll make you regret this."
"I gave you exactly what you wanted, so no," Erik replies smugly, "you won't."
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Charles had a girlfriend once.
Erik ate her.
"That's a pity, she was a nice girl," Charles says absently when Erik tells him, leaning further over the thick, dusty tome he has open on his desk, "I hope she tasted good."
"She didn't." Erik is spread out on Charles' bed on his back, head and neck hanging over the side so he's looking at the magician upside down. "You have poor taste in women."
"I'm sure you're right," Charles murmurs vaguely, turning a page, "I had a feeling she wasn't my type."
"You're not angry." Erik observes.
"Hardly." Charles lifts his head finally to shoot Erik a wry half-smile. "It's not going to cause me any inconvenience. She wasn't a magician. No one's going to come looking for a commoner."
"Then why even bother dating her?" Erik asks with a stretch. He's feeling rather irritated now for some reason.
"Oh, I don't know." Charles shrugs, turning back to his book. "She had a nice laugh, I think."
"You think?" Erik scoffs. "You don't even remember her name, do you?"
"It hardly matters now, does it?"
Annoyingly enough, he does have a point. Sort of. Erik shifts on the bed again, holding up his human form's hand to study it. It's a strong appendage, but also very breakable. Humans are full of so many paradoxes. "I'm sure she has parents who will wonder."
"You're awfully concerned, seeing as you're the one who swallowed her whole." Charles answers dryly. He mutters something in another language, presumably from his book. Erik had seen the cover before he'd opened it some hours ago. Bound with old, dried human skin—what a nice touch. Magicians are so dramatic.
"You magicians are quite above the common folk, aren't you?" Erik asks instead, because please, he could care less about the human girl he'd eaten on whim an hour ago. Something about her had gotten under his false skin, making his very essence itch. So, because their pact made no stipulations about things like this, Erik had removed the problem. Simple as that.
"Of course we are." Charles answers as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. To him, maybe it is. "We're the ones who can summon demons, aren't we? We hold the power. We keep the peace."
"And squabble with each other like paranoid misanthropes." Erik adds dryly.
The corners of Charles' lips quirk up. "Yes, that too. But we've been in charge for centuries now, Erik, as I'm sure you're aware."
"All too clearly."
A short laugh. "Well, there you have it."
Erik rolls onto his stomach. "That superiority complex makes me want to swallow you, if only to get you to shut up a little."
Charles merely chuckles, turning another page. "None of that," he says absently, "at least not yet. Besides, you've told me yourself that you like me just the way I am. What did you say again?"
Erik shows his teeth in a grin. "Perfection."
"Yes, there it is," Charles agrees, "so I can't be all that bad."
"You're a monster hiding behind a pretty face," Erik says flatly, "and I shudder to think what you'd be like were you a demon."
"A curious thought, isn't it?" Charles muses. "And I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Erik, I'm always getting compliments on how perfectly nice and charming I am in company."
Erik rolls to his feet, pacing across the small room to where Charles is curled in his desk chair, setting his hands on the magician's shoulders. At 16 Charles has grown into his body a little more now, but Erik always increases his own form's size proportionately, making sure that he's always bigger and taller than the magician—much to Charles' thinly-veiled displeasure.
Erik leans over Charles' shoulder, his mouth right beside the magician's ear. "You wear a thick mask, but one day your cracks will show."
Charles hums, nodding a little even as his eyes continue to track down the page in front of him. "That'll be the day when it's too late, my friend."
Erik laughs, giving his shoulders a squeeze. "So long as we're clear." He skims the page. It's written in Egyptian, the hieroglyphics neatly printed in vertical columns. "Project number two this evening, then?"
Charles nods. "Yes," he says ruefully, "because unfortunately, project number two is going to have to happen before we even begin project number one."
"Well, we always knew that." Erik agrees distractedly, still skimming the page. "I helped build the pyramids, you know."
"Slave labor, I presume?"
Erik nods. "They summoned thousands of us. It was quite a sight. But we got the job done."
"Evidently," Charles says wryly, and Erik huffs, giving him a small shake. "But you're fluent, then, I take it. What is this for?" He points to a glyph halfway down the page.
Erik takes a look at it and then smirks. "For your purposes, the general translation is discouraged. But I can tell you that the Egyptians meant something more besides just that."
"Oh?" Charles lifts an eyebrow, turning his head slightly to pierce Erik with his laser-like gaze.
"They also wanted to convey the feeling of absolute taboo," Erik tells him silkily, "and how condemned your soul will be if you go through with this particular magic."
Charles laughs, low and flat. "Well, if only they knew what we were doing for project number one."
"I'm sure the pharaohs are turning in their sarcophagi as we speak."
"Now that would be something, wouldn't it." Charles shrugs calmly out of Erik's grip, uncurling himself from his seated position and rising to his feet. He stretches and gives a light, satisfied sigh as his joints crack and pop. "I've had enough of this for today, I think."
"And the rest of the evening's agenda?" Erik asks, shifting into a cloud of neon blue smoke. Staying in one form for too long makes him restless.
"I think I'll go out for a bit," Charles says with a smile, casting an amused glance up in Erik's direction, "see if I can meet someone new."
"I'll eat them all."
"Darling," Charles says with a laugh, "that might be the entire point."
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Charles leans against Erik's shoulder heavily as he laughs, and Erik has to sling an arm around his shoulders as the magician stumbles. "You're drunk," he says into Charles' ear as they file out of the ballroom as a part of the crowd, "charming."
"The champagne was good," Charles answers, tilting into Erik's grip, "you should've tried some."
"You know I don't like what it does to my essence," Erik reminds him dryly, giving him a jostle just to hear him groan in protest, "I just like what it does to you."
"Unfair," Charles mutters, along with another few other choice words under his breath.
Erik snorts, continuing to steer them both through the crowd. The gala is finally over for the evening, and it certainly hadn't ended soon enough. Several people call out Charles' false name, vying for his attention, and Erik himself gets a few squinty looks as they try to recognize him, mistaking him as a fellow magician, but he keeps them moving, guiding Charles out of the lobby and down the steps onto the street. Fortunately the rain has stopped, and the cool air feels good.
"Valet has the keys." Charles says, trying to turn towards the throng gathered around the booth, but Erik tugs him in the opposite direction, walking him up the street.
"You need some air," Erik tells him, "so why don't we take a little walk for a moment. Let that line get a little shorter."
"Oh, you're just mad I stayed till the end," Charles answers with another laugh, his footsteps faltering a little, "so don't think I'm not aware of what this is really about."
"Are you insinuating that I'm making you suffer?" Erik keeps his arm around Charles, hauling him a little further away from the curb.
"I don't insinuate," Charles sniffs, "I know."
"I'm not one of your magician friends," Erik says, "I'm not out to get you."
Charles snorts, even as his head rolls sideways to rest on Erik's shoulder. "Oh, you're out to get me. Just not in the same way that they are."
Erik chuckles, because he can't argue with that. "Quite right."
The sounds of the crowd have been left far behind, and now that they've been outside for more than a few moments Charles is shivering slightly in the cold. Traffic is lighter now, only an occasional car or two racing by, and Erik glances down every dark alley warily that they pass, briefly skimming through the seven planes just in case.
"I am going to have the worst headache known to mankind tomorrow morning," Charles mutters, even as he straightens a little, regaining some of his finer motor control, "but at least it was worth it."
"So you got the information."
"Of course I did, darling. I would've even gotten it sooner had someone not distracted me—"
"You needed a reminder," Erik says pleasantly, "it was necessary."
"Ah," Charles says with a small laugh, "that's what you always say."
Without warning Erik tugs him into the nearest alley between buildings, shoving him up against the wall and putting his face close to the magician's. "We made a pact. Unless you've forgotten."
Charles leans his head back against the grimy brick wall, surveying Erik with half-lidded eyes that Erik can see clearly, even in the dark. "I don't remember this kind of thing being in the pact," he says, amused, "this is something entirely separate that you started—"
"—and you encouraged," Erik interrupts him, crushing him a little further back with every word that he hisses, "giving me what I want, making it mine, making you mine—"
"And you think I don't feel the same?" Charles asks, lifting an only slightly uncoordinated hand to slide his fingers through Erik's human form's hair, pushing down slightly so that their foreheads are pressed together. "You don't think I don't hate dismissing you, on the off chance that some other weak, pathetic excuse of a magician will summon you, and take what's mine?"
Erik can smell the champagne on Charles' breath but the magician's voice is steady as they lock eyes, staring each other down in the dim light. They are playing a dangerous game, but Erik has never known Charles to play anything else—ever since they first met so many years ago, the magician has always walked the line.
What they have, this thing between them, only complicates things further.
"Seven o'clock," Erik says, slowly showing his teeth in a grin, "are you ready?"
Charles huffs out a laugh. "I was wondering when you'd notice."
"I despise your impertinence," Erik informs him dryly, and then throws them both down and to the side as the entire alley lights up when a Detonation explodes five yards away.
Erik shifts as Charles pushes away from him, sliding out of his human form as he hits the ground and morphs into a cat as he lobs a Detonation of his own back in retaliation. Detonations mean djinn at least; no imp or foliot has enough power to produce one. He slinks beneath a dumpster as his spell explodes, making the ground shake with the blast.
If there's only one djinn, he can probably take them. If there are more, however, he'll need some help. Preferably from his magician, and speaking of which, where the hell is—
Charles' voice rings out in the alley, high and clear as he weaves a spell in an old tongue that makes Erik's essence suddenly feel like it's been liquefied. He gags, dissolving out of his form because he can't even hold onto it, quickly beginning to deteriorate, and then Charles ties Erik's name into the spell and he's suddenly solid again, protected from the effects by the parameters the magician has set.
Erik still takes a moment to lie where he is, his entire being crackling from the resonance of Charles' power. It's often too easy to forget just how deadly Charles' magic is when he means business. For all his arrogance, the magician isn't showy.
Until he has to be. But Erik's never exactly been on the receiving end before.
"Did I scramble you, Erik?" Charles' voice floats through the sudden silence in the alley. He sounds slightly strained, but for the most part, unharmed.
Erik shifts into a Minotaur.
The dumpster goes flying as he heaves it off of himself, straightening to his full nine-foot height and tossing his head with a snort. "Next time try putting my name in first." His long, thick horns gouge the brick wall like a knife through butter.
Charles is on the ground, leaned against the brick and giving Erik a thin smirk. "I might've overdone it a little anyway. I don't think our enemy warranted quite that level of an attack."
Erik steps down the alley, his new bulky form barely fitting as his flanks brush the walls. "You liquefied me; I can only imagine what you've done to whoever was attacking us."
Charles shifts a little, hissing when he tries to move his arm. He probably landed on it funny when the initial Detonation had gone off. His pristine clothes are now rumpled and covered in grime, yet he still somehow manages to keep up his distinct air of dignity. "Yes, my fault. I should've left enough to question. I wonder who sent them."
"If they were sent at all." Erik scoffs. "You practically radiate power these days. Even I would come sniffing around to see if you were worth taking a bite out of."
"Well, I have swallowed three so far," Charles says with a flat, dead sort of laugh, "and the information I gathered tonight will secure us a fourth. You think you can handle me, or should I summon more help?"
Erik looms over him, hooves very close to the magician's legs. He could smash Charles in a second. "I don't need any help to handle you."
Charles laughs again, his magic crackling across his chest and arms like tiny bolts of lightning. No magician's magic should ever be that tangible. "I rather thought you'd say that."
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Raven's family is middle class, certainly not rich but definitely not poor, common and simple. Her father works as a clerk in the Undersecretary Office of the Central Government, while her mother is a teacher. She loves her parents fiercely and together, for awhile, they are happy.
Her father is very proud of his job. Raven knows it is because he is one of the very privileged few of the common folk to work directly under the magicians. He is a firm believer of the fact that the magicians are doing a fine job as leaders of the country—one of his favorite sayings is "They've yet to lead us astray, Raven, and the system has been this way for thousands of years." Raven is proud of her father and his job, and when she is young and does not yet know better, she believes him.
She has one best friend who she spends nearly all of her time with. She and Piotr are thick as thieves and nearly as inseparable; always outside and in the midst of one adventure or another. Her memory of these happy, carefree days are a blur of alleyways and the marketplace and the park, but always standing out the brightest is Piotr and his deep, infectious laugh that still sometimes echoes in her dreams.
Raven isn't sure what she misses the most—his laugh or his smile.
She is eleven when her father goes into work one day and then never comes home.
Such a tragedy, the magician who knocks on the door early the next morning after a long, sleepless night of questions with no answers, what an unfortunate twist of fate. Clumsy apprentices are to blame, he says to her mother as Raven listens through the crack in the door, they're so forgetful when they're still learning to draw their first pentacles. It's so easy to leave out a rune or two and once a demon's loose, they attack the first poor soul they see. A cruel coincidence that your husband happened to be passing by at exactly the wrong moment.
Raven feels nothing but anger towards this lavishly dressed magician who delivers the news with his oily hair, smiling the entire time. He is not sorry in the least. He does not care that their small but happy family has been permanently shattered.
Her mother is never the same afterwards. It is like she has been shut down completely; once bright and vibrant with life, Raven feels that her mother now fades into a mere shadow of her former self. Eventually she is let go from her teaching position, which only serves to allow her to withdraw into herself even further, and no matter how long or how loud Raven screams at her makes a difference.
With her father gone and her mother close enough, Raven takes over. Even though she is young, she finds a jobs delivering newspapers in the morning and washing dishes at a diner at night in order to make ends meet. Her grades in school take the brunt of the blow, but it's hard to worry about a letter grade when she's too busy trying to pay the bills.
Even still they end up losing their house, so Raven packs up herself and her mother and they move into a small, cramped apartment in the city. Raven barely has time to see Piotr outside of school anymore, but he understands and never grows frustrated, for which she is eternally grateful—sometimes he even brings over homemade casserole from his mother that's enough to last for a week so Raven doesn't have to worry about food too. He is a good friend, through and through, offering her support when she can get it from nowhere else.
Despite all of this, it is still not until she is thirteen that Raven thinks her life really changes for forever.
It is summer, so school is out and Raven has a rare day off so she's spending it entirely with Piotr because by now she owes him a million times over, even if he laughs and tells her not to worry about it. Raven doesn't like being indebted to someone, even if it is just him.
They've already visited all of their old haunts, laughing at the memories of all the old games they used to play, so now they're wandering aimlessly; walking down the sidewalk through the city with no real direction or destination in mind. It's been awhile since Raven has laughed this hard—she actually feels her age again instead of what feels like several lifetimes older.
They're so lost in themselves that she doesn't realize that they've walked straight into the one part of the city she generally avoids—the magician district.
"We should turn around." Raven feels exposed and out of place here, as if she's walked into a fancy restaurant in nothing but her old, ratty pajamas. Ever since the loss of her father, she has been wary of magicians and the demons that they summon.
"Why?" Piotr asks. "We're not disturbing anyone. Just walking down the sidewalk."
"No one just walks through here." Raven says uncertainly.
"There's a sidewalk." Piotr says pointedly as he keeps walking. "They wouldn't have built one if they didn't want people walking down it. Look at these houses, Ray, they're insane."
Raven is still uncertain but he does have a point so she follows him anyway, jogging a little to catch up with his long strides. She has to admit, all of these enormous houses behind their tall gates are ridiculous in their grandeur. She and Piotr make their way down the block, pointing out features here and there on what they can see of the magician mansions, discussing and debating what they like and what they hate. Each one seems bigger and more lavish than the last, and despite herself Raven has soon forgotten her unease.
"Look at this one!" Piotr stops outside the main gates. Raven is half-certain they're made of actual gold. "All white! Who is crazy enough to have a house that's all white?"
"The upkeep must be crazy expensive." She agrees, peering through the bars of the gate. The mansion is nearly blinding with how white it is. "Or it's just magic." She wiggles her eyebrows and Piotr laughs.
"Do you think this is real gold?" he wonders, reaching for the gate.
Raven shakes her head. "You probably shouldn't touch—"
Piotr wraps his hand around one of the bars. "It's fine, see? No alarms. Jeez, Ray, you're jumpy."
"Am I?" Raven asks. Her unease is back in full force now.
Piotr nods. "Do you want to leave? We can head back to Main, and then maybe—"
Something on the other side of the gate begins to shift. Piotr quickly drops his hand, and takes a step back along with Raven as something begins to coalesce into shape. Raven watches with wide eyes as a thin cloud of smoke becomes more solid, morphing into a lion with a woman's face, taller than even Piotr.
"Two little monkeys." The creature speaks, its gleaming eyes taking them both in calmly. "Bumbling little apes who have stumbled into my territory. Which one of you touched the gate?"
Both of them are locked in a stunned silence, but then Raven clears her throat. "I did," she says boldly.
"Don't lie to me, little girl." The creature's voice is a snarl now, and both Raven and Piotr flinch back as it steps through the gate, passing through the bars like mist, padding out onto the sidewalk in front of them. Its paws are as big as Raven's head. When it speaks, its voice is calm again. "I will know when you lie."
"I touched the gate." Piotr takes a step forward, sliding in front of Raven a little bit. Behind him, Raven scowls—she doesn't need protecting. "It was me. But I didn't mean anything by it, ma'am."
The creature chuckles. "I'm sure you didn't. Ignorant little ants don't mean to run across the sidewalk in front of you, but still you step on them."
Raven doesn't like how they're being sized up. "Well, he didn't mean to, so we'll be going now." She grabs Piotr's arm, giving him a firm tug. They never should have come here. "Let's go."
The creature smiles, revealing long, pointed fangs. "Oh, I think not. You won't be going anywhere."
Raven glares. "And what are you going to—"
"Run!" Piotr shouts, and now he's the one pulling her arm as the creature coils the muscles in its huge hind legs to pounce with a snarl.
Raven turns and together she and Piotr run, sprinting back up the street the way they came. For some reason she has the silly notion in her head that if they can make it back out of the magician district, they'll be safe. Raven doesn't look but she knows that the thing is chasing them so she runs as fast as she can, breathing harshly, but Piotr's strides are longer than hers and she's starting to fall behind—
Piotr turns suddenly, catching her by the arm again and practically throwing her forward, so hard that she stumbles and falls, landing hard on the sidewalk. She scrabbles forward, flopping herself around so at least she can face her death head-on—
"Keep running, Raven!" Piotr shouts, but then the creature—the demon—is on him.
Raven can only watch, frozen in horror, as the demon once again loses its shape, growing into something much larger and far less defined as it swallows her best friend whole. He disappears in the blink of an eye and is gone.
The demon reassumes its lion shape, licking its lips. "Ah, it's been too long." It tilts its head, looking down at Raven. "And there's still one more."
Raven doesn't even move, still rooted to the spot. Piotr is gone. Piotr is gone.
The demon coils its haunches, springing forward, and Raven throws up an arm, squeezing her eyes shut and hoping that it won't hurt—
There's a cool sensation, like ice water being poured over her head, and then the demon is shrieking, harsh echoing screams that set Raven's teeth on edge. Raven dares to lower her arm, just in time to see the demon's form convulsing, sizzling like static as it flickers in and out of sight like bad television reception. Raven can only stare in horror and shock, unsure of what's happening and still unable to wrap her mind around the fact that Piotr is gone—
"You're resistant to magic, you little bitch," the demon hisses, barely hanging on to its solid form, "but that won't keep you safe forever. You'd better sleep with one eye open, sugar, because once they find out what you can do, they'll come for you and kill you." It sneers. "And I hope I'm there to see it."
Then the demon fades from sight and Raven is entirely alone on the sidewalk.
Her face is wet with tears, and it is a long time before she can move.
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Charles isn't afraid of anything except the dark.
Erik thinks about this as he waits on the curb for the valet to return with Charles' car. He's wearing Charles' form, hands shoved into his pockets as he rocks back and forth a little bit idly because he's supposed to be a little tipsy. There'd been enough light in the alley, he thinks. Charles is fine with even the barest sliver. It's the pitch dark that gets him.
Fortunately the crowd from the gala has mostly dispersed, many of the magicians already departed for home save for a few lingering stragglers. Charles probably knows all of them by name—fake name, at least—but Erik can never be bothered enough to remember.
If they're not Charles, then they don't matter.
"Max!"
Erik has to stop himself from cringing. He hates Charles' fake name.
One of the lady magicians he had found Charles talking to earlier approaches him and Erik plasters one of Charles' false, easy-going smiles across his face. It slips into place like a snake through grass.
"You're still here?" she asks with a smile. The imp on her shoulder is scrutinizing Erik closely, most likely able to sense that his aura is not human, but it takes a mere flick of power to seal its mouth shut. Imps are cannon fodder; really, he isn't sure why magicians even bother.
He surveys the magician for a brief moment. Unless imps are all she can handle because she's really that weak.
"The queue was awful," Erik tells her with Charles' voice, "but they're pulling my car around now."
"It was a successful evening!" she agrees brightly. "Such a good turn-out, and I really feel that the bar has been set."
Erik couldn't really care less. "I imagine so." He studies her for a moment. She's just as tipsy as Charles had been before they'd been attacked, her cheeks flushed and her eyes too bright as she leans forward into Erik's space, closer than normal.
If he really wanted to fuck with Charles, Erik could do something like kiss her and cause a scandal. But then she'd probably get the notion in her head that Charles actually does fancy her, and Erik would have to eat her because there's no room in the world for that kind of ridiculous thinking.
Apparently she's already doing the thinking because she leans forward even more. "Max, I—"
Erik turns when a sleek black car glides up to the curb, the valet hopping up out of the driver's seat and holding the door open. He uses Charles' best cocky smirk. "I had a wonderful time, darling," he says as he slides into the seat, "have a good evening."
Then he pulls the door shut on her disappointed face.
He rolls away from the curve, expensive engine a pleasant hum as he switches gears, shooting off up the street. Cars are something humans had gotten right.
Charles waits at the mouth of the alley, standing in a pose much similar to the one Erik had adopted, hands shoved into his pockets. He's standing directly in the center of a pool of light coming from the streetlamp, looking down at the sidewalk in contemplation, though he glances up when Erik sidles up to the curb.
"Drop it." he says flatly as soon as he pulls open the passenger-side door. He's barely pulled the door shut again when Erik takes off, the city passing by outside the window as a blur.
"Better?" Erik's image flickers as he switches into the human form he more often wears.
"It's a start." Charles says. The magician is slumped in his seat, one hand over his eyes as he massages his temples. Through the dim light, Erik can see a trickle of dried blood originating from his nose.
"Afraid to see yourself?" Erik mocks, taking a corner faster than is probably necessary. He can't help it; he likes the way the mechanics of the car shift too much.
Charles huffs out a light, breathy laugh. "Darling, you always add just a touch of too much glamour when you wear my face."
"Then you're afraid to see what you really look like behind that mask." Erik says with a smirk, this one entirely his own. "Such a pity."
"Do shut up, you're making my headache worse."
"You actually used that much power?"
Charles scoffs. "Hardly."
Erik snorts. "Too much champagne, then."
"Dom Perignon and magic unfortunately do not mix." Charles agrees idly, and then lets out a small groan of protest when Erik takes another sharp turn. "Now you're just driving that way on purpose."
"I plead the 5th." Erik says as they reach the wealthy district, buildings giving way to monstrous houses. The wealthy district, or the magician district. Erik floors the gas pedal and they practically fly through the neighborhood until they reach one house in particular.
"I could dismiss you for the night." Charles says, not without bite to his voice. Erik could roll his eyes. The magician gets bitchy when he's in a mood. It stands to reason—he's had to be charming and pleasant all evening, so now his less pleasant demeanor is rearing its considerably ugly head. "Have some actual peace and quiet."
Erik will just have to fuck it out of him.
"You wouldn't dare." Erik says calmly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he waits for the set of wrought iron gates to part. On the fourth plane, the gates glow silver. He can't even look at them on the fifth and up—Charles hadn't been lax with his spells.
With the amount of secrets he holds, he can't afford to be.
"Maybe I would."
Erik guides the car up the long drive. The Eisenhardt Estate takes up half a block because not only is Charles wealthy, he is obscenely so. The perks of holding power. Now if only they knew how Charles got that power, Erik thinks. "I'd short out every light fixture in the house before I left." He slides a hand over to rest on Charles' thigh, stroking with his thumb. "Wouldn't that be fun."
"I hate you." Charles says pleasantly, but he's gone very still beneath Erik's hand.
"Careful, Charles," Erik says as he puts the car in park right at the foot of the steps leading up to the front door, switching off the engine, "all that hate is going to burn you up."
Charles lowers his hand from his face, blue eyes searing as he smirks. "It keeps me warm at night."
Erik really does roll his eyes this time, even as he leans over across the front of the car to slant his mouth over Charles' while his hand slides further up the magician's leg. Charles gives a small hum, nipping at him lightly before yielding; opening his mouth to allow Erik access, which the demon takes full advantage of, casually dominating the kiss as he presses Charles back against the seat. There's still the faint tang of champagne but the magician tastes more like himself now, which is all really Erik wants—
Charles is gone.
It takes Erik a moment to realize that Charles has slipped out of the car, having fumbled the door open to make his escape. He's smirking at Erik again, the picture of smug. "Not in the car, darling."
Erik is still extended across the seat, the lingering taste of Charles still in his mouth. "You'd better run."
Charles merely laughs and slams his door shut, turning around and making his way idly up the steps.
Erik straightens, running a hand through his hair. The gates have shut, sealing the estate back in their protective circle. There's no one to check in with, seeing as he's currently the only one in Charles' service. The rest had been dismissed just this morning.
Erik prefers it this way.
He opens his door and gets out of the car, taking his time and straightening the front of his human form's jacket, adjusting his tie and smoothing his lapels. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Charles reach the top of the steps. The inside of the estate is already lit up, lights shining from every window.
Erik shuts the car door, automatic lock clicking into place.
Then he morphs, his essence's shape becoming blurry as he exchanges form for speed as he leaps over the car and rushes up the stairs, catching Charles from behind and scooping him up effortlessly, and Charles laughs again as Erik rips the front door open in the same motion.
Their trip through the house is a blurry rush of air, and Erik can already feel Charles' lips on his even though he doesn't reform into something solid until they're in the master bedroom and Charles' back has hit the bed; Erik hovering over the magician and bearing him down as he puts his essence back in order.
Charles is warm beneath him, arching up into Erik's touch as the demon makes short work of the magician's clothing, pulling open his jacket and unbuttoning his vest and dress shirt, peeling back the layers methodically as he mouths at Charles' neck. It only takes a flicker of power and his own clothes are gone.
"Are you still really that jealous?" Charles asks, even as he shivers when Erik drags the hand not holding him down across his stomach, trailing lower and lower.
"Shut up." Erik says, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to Charles' pulse point.
He likes the magician's heartbeat. He likes its steady pounding, likes how he can make it speed up, likes the feeling of hot blood rushing by underneath pale skin. It makes Charles startlingly alive and real, not just another wisp of spirit essence, immaterial as mist, and beneath that his power crackles, so strong and vibrant that Erik can practically drink it; so he does, moving up to Charles' mouth to taste him again.
"You shouldn't be." Charles whispers against Erik's lips when the demon draws back again slightly. The magician's eyes are half-lidded as he lies loose and pliant in Erik's hold. They close entirely as he arches again and lets out a shaky breath when Erik finally gets a hand down in his pants.
"You are mine." Erik starts to work Charles slowly, his hand a fist around Charles' already half-hard cock, relishing the hitched breaths the magician gives in return. "Mine."
"I thought that was c-clear," Charles stutters, struggling a little against Erik's hold now as he tries to buck his hips and thrust into Erik's hand, but Erik keeps him resolutely pinned, splaying his other hand out across Charles' stomach, "even before—god—we made the—the—" He can't even finish, throwing his head back and his mouth falling open wordlessly as Erik drags his hand all the way down.
"Having trouble concentrating?" Erik grins at him. Watching cool, collected Charles come apart is another one of his favorite things. It is also something that he is not willing to share. He rolls a thumb slowly over the magician's slit. "Use your words."
Charles' entire body shudders and he hisses out a spell from between clenched teeth that Erik immediately counteracts, sending it right back into the magician's face. The perks of knowing his true name, Erik thinks as he watches Charles' head snap back again, will never get old.
"Nice try." Erik says casually, taking advantage of Charles' momentarily stunned state to lift his hand off the magician's stomach to pull his pants down the rest of the way, and then reaches for the jar of slick on the bedside table. "I know you can do better."
Charles looks back up at him again with a sneer. In his half-dressed state with his hands clenched into the bedspread tightly, he looks entirely delectable. "I'm almost to the point where I won't need words," he says haughtily, "so soon you'll be—fuck, Erik—" He chokes when Erik slides a finger in past the knuckle without warning.
Erik shows his teeth in another grin, slowly moving his finger back and forth. "Seeing is believing, liebling."
"Oh god, we're back to German," Charles says, actually rolling his eyes even as he moves back against Erik's hand, "not again—" His voice cuts off with a whimper when Erik skips adding another finger and adds two instead.
Erik leans down to kiss him again, swallowing Charles' choked gasp as he moves his fingers, stretching the magician thoroughly. Charles jerks against him, arms coming up to wrap around Erik's back and shoulders, pulling the demon down closer so that Erik is pressed against warm, human heat.
"Now," Charles says, rolling his hips upwards to accent the order, "now, Erik."
Erik slides his fingers back out, nudging Charles' legs a little further apart. "As you command," he murmurs snidely with a smirk, using the rest of the slick on his hand to coat his own cock with a few quick strokes, lining himself up with Charles' entrance, "oh great enlightened one."
"You are such a—"
Erik slides home in one motion and they both groan. There's barely a second's pause and then they're moving together, hard and fast and furious, Charles' fingers digging into Erik's back as Erik licks his way back down the magician's throat, sucking his pulse point and reveling in the feeling of Charles' rapidly pounding heartbeat beneath his lips. Erik shifts over him, adjusting his angle until Charles is moaning, sliding into that tight heat.
Like this, everything about Charles is heat. Gone is the cold, calculating magician and in his place is Erik's Charles, who is vibrant and warm with life, unguarded and unreserved, blue eyes snapping open wide as he arches one last time, coming with a cry—
Erik thrusts into him, unrelenting in his pace and riding his orgasm out, until the hot, slick drag of flesh on flesh is enough to send him crashing over the edge as well, burying himself deep inside Charles as he comes with a low moan, dropping his forehead down to rest on the magician's shoulder.
They're both panting, pressed together tightly as humanly—someday Erik will change this to more—possible, and he lets his weight settle on top of Charles completely, covering the magician entirely and pressing him down into the mattress. It is comforting to feel Charles' body beneath his, right where it belongs.
Slowly Charles' tight grip on Erik's back relaxes, and he begins to trace idle patterns across the demon's false skin. With his eyes closed, Erik can feel the runes drawn out—Protect, Safe, Keep.
"You forgot mine." Erik says, turning his face sideways so that his lips are back against Charles' neck. He slides one of his hands up between them, resting his palm over the magician's chest, right over his heart. He can feel Charles' heartbeat slowing, going back to a more regular pace, but still beating strong. It is intoxicating.
He senses rather than sees Charles' faint smile. "Always," the magician says, voice slightly hoarse, one hand covering Erik's and then carefully moving the demon's pointer finger to trace out the runes of Erik's name directly over his beating heart together, "yours."