Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7073479.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      X-Men_(Alternate_Timeline_Movies)
  Relationship:
      Jean_Grey/Charles_Xavier
  Character:
      Jean_Grey, Charles_Xavier
  Additional Tags:
      Telepathy, Teacher-Student_Relationship, Age_Difference
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-06-03 Words: 1386
****** you're one of my kind ******
by annejumps
Summary
     His bedroom door opens with a brief gesture of her hand. She closes
     it behind herself.
Notes
     Jean is seventeen. Pretend this is set just before the events of X-
     Men: Apocalypse.
See the end of the work for more notes
Jean knows that a lot of the students have crushes on the professor, and she
knows he knows, and that he finds it amusing. At the end of the day, however,
the fluttering, blushing whirlwinds of thoughts and innocent longings are
irrelevant to him and forgotten, and the less-innocent interest is something he
tactfully ignores, although he finds it all flattering, in its way. Beside this
knowledge, Jean places her awareness that not only does the professor go to bed
alone, he's lonely then, no matter how many minds are around him.
Jean is seventeen and the professor is the only other telepath she’s ever met.
He's also by far the kindest adult she's ever known. She can understand why the
students are crazy about him.
The darkness enfolds her mind sometimes, especially at night, when she wishes
she could sleep in peace, and she can't always tell if it's that or her
treacherous body that's to blame when she wakes fitful and sweating, with a
throbbing between her legs, a wetness. She's not sure which to blame when she
throws the covers back one night and walks barefoot to the professor's room,
shielding herself from all minds around except his as best she can. It's three
in the morning.
She's touched herself before, just not since she arrived here—the last time she
did, the effort to stifle herself failed and she'd had to wipe the memory from
everyone on the block. She hadn’t tried it again after that.
His bedroom door opens with a brief gesture of her hand. She closes it behind
herself. He's half-sitting up in bed, looking at her, having known she was
coming, and she's very conscious of her breasts, nipples tightening under the
soft, thin cotton of her nightshirt. She fights the urge to cover herself with
her long hair.
Jean, he says, and it's not a question, his voice low in the dark and in her
mind. He's not wearing a shirt, and she peels hers off as she walks to his bed.
Jean’s touched herself, but no one else has touched her, not the way she wants
to be touched right now. There's no one else she would trust.
As she climbs onto his bed, straddling his legs as he stares up at her, she
holds no romantic illusions, no expectation that the professor will fall in
love with her—she knows him too well, knows he’s too much like her in too many
ways. Despite the lightness of his fingertips on her jaw as she bends to kiss
him—she doesn’t know what else to do—she knows he harbors nothing like that for
her, either, nothing more than genuine fondness. Each of them is merely the
only person the other has met who is so much like themselves.
She does know, however, now, that he thinks she’s beautiful. Everyone scorns
her for her height, her pale skin, her long bright red hair. Everything that
makes her strange, makes her stand out, let alone how they treated her after it
became clear she was… weird. The professor, however, honestly thinks she’s
beautiful, and his regard is somehow almost pure, reverent, or at least free of
the slimy, fervent feel in the minds of the men who stare at her on the street,
in the mall. It’s that realization that emboldens her further, to part her lips
against his.
The few kisses she’d had before now have been clumsy, tentative, but his is
sure and skilled. Yet he’s gentle with her, mindful of her inexperience as he
slides his tongue into her mouth, his hand moving to thread his fingers through
her hair. All the same, his other hand is trembling slightly as it moves slowly
down her side, a thumb brushing over the swell of a breast before his fingers
rest on the waistband of her underwear. Her skin ripples in goosebumps for a
moment, and she feels a question from his mind to hers. Yes, she says. He pulls
lightly on her lower lip in acknowledgement.
His hand moves over the curve of her waist to her front, her belly, still slow,
slipping under the elastic, between the soft cotton and her skin. She’s
startled by how warm he is. As his fingers touch her thatch of hair, she can’t
help a whimper, her hips jerking. He pauses, waiting, and it’s as if he knew
she’d eventually push herself against his fingers. As she does, she hears his
intake of breath as his fingers part her folds, still careful. She’d been
wondering if she should be embarrassed by how wet she is, but he huffs softly
at that thought. On the contrary: he loves it.
The fabric of her underwear keeps his hand close to her, overwhelmingly close
as he rubs her clitoris with one strong finger. She clenches in little flutters
on nothing, rolling her hips in brief movements, seeking something more, and
just when she’s starting to gasp, frantic, he stops. Just as she manages a
frustrated groan of protest, soft in her throat, he slides a finger into her,
and the groan becomes a startled cry. Immediately, she rolls her hips again,
and he barely needs to brush over her clitoris with his other fingers before
she’s coming, harder than she ever has on her own.
Even as she’s tender from that, she can’t keep herself from moving and chasing
that feeling again, coming again around his finger as the professor cups her
breast, circling her nipple with his thumb. She has to pull back, then, to
gasp, and she rests her forehead against his for a moment.
She knows, then, that he felt it as only a telepath could when she came, and
had siphoned off some of that for himself to enjoy, like capturing an echo. He
could send it back to her, creating a loop that feeds it back to him tenfold,
but he won’t. He doesn’t want this to be about him.
She’s surprised to learn, then, that he’s never done any of this with another
telepath before. She wonders why. Are there so few of them?
He lets her discover and wonder, but doesn’t answer; instead, he moves his hand
and her breath hitches as she blinks at him. The professor smiles; I’ll stop if
it’s too much, he tells her, eyes almost luminous in the dark. They both know
she could easily make him stop.
Don’t stop, she tells him, and closes her eyes on a gasp as he slides a second
finger into her. Suddenly embarrassed even as she moans, she remembers how
poorly controlled her powers are at times like these. Professor. Can people
tell that I’m—
No, he soothes, working her on his fingers. You’re entirely shielded. You’re
safe. She ripples around him again, and he moves her so that he can put his
lips to the swell of her breasts, suck a nipple into his mouth. She cries out
again at the shockwaves that sends through her, and once more as he does the
same to the other; she aches as he pulls back, her nipples painfully tight as
the cooler air strikes them.
Once more for me, darling, then back to bed, he says, and she’s not sure if
he’s said it into her mind or whispered it aloud against her skin, because his
fingers are moving with renewed assurance through her slickness, and she comes
again on almost a sob, jaw and thighs trembling for some unknown reason. She
can feel the sweat drying at the small of her back.
There, he murmurs. The professor cups the back of her neck to pull her forward
so he can kiss her temple, and gently withdraws his fingers, waiting as her
shaking subsides. Feeling better?
The fire in her has died down; what’s left is a cool blue, a calmness. Yes,
professor, she says.
Back to bed, then, he reiterates, kind. On unsteady legs, she stands, and
retrieves her shirt from his bedroom floor.
As she pulls it on, the fabric cool to her sensitized skin, she knows she can’t
blame this on the darkness. She wanted this, and she’d sought it from him, and
he hadn’t turned her away. She’ll want it again, and she knows he’ll give it to
her.
End Notes
     I wrote this today for gerec and also widgenstain. Thanks, gerec, for
     cheerleading. Heh.
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