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Erik puts his palm flat against the door to Charles’s study and doesn’t knock, just waits, until he hears Charles’s amused voice in his head: Yes, you may come in, Erik. Most people knock, you know.
Yes, but if you’re going to be in my head, you might as well make yourself useful and eliminate the need for all those tedious niceties, Erik replies as he turns the knob and pushes the door open. And I’m not ‘most people’, Charles.
“That I have never doubted,” Charles says aloud, smiling at him from behind his desk in the flushed-cheeks bright-eyes way that would normally demand that Erik kiss him until he is breathless and disheveled—and Erik is intending to do just that, has been planning to do so since he started looking for Charles in the first place this evening, so it comes as something of a surprise when instead he stops in his tracks and from his mouth stumbles a startled, “Glasses?”
Charles blinks at him bemusedly, but Erik barely notices because Charles is wearing glasses— wire-rimmed, and Erik can feel the metal humming, traces without touch the way they follow the curve of Charles’s nose and rest behind his ears. They’re a bright silver that makes Charles’s eyes seem even more electric blue than usual. Charles looks impossibly academic—like someone who deals in papers and theories, someone who is neat and orderly, brilliant and a little arrogant.
Erik wants to fuck him until he’s sobbing for it. He wants to peel the composure from Charles one button at a time and take him over his desk; or perhaps have Charles on his knees, lips parted for Erik, and when Charles looks up through his lashes, through his absurdly intellectual glasses, Erik will hold him by the hair and fuck his mouth and make him beg for more.
“Really, Erik,” Charles says, possibly attempting to sound chiding. The breathless tone rather ruins it, to be quite honest.
“I didn’t know you needed glasses,” Erik says instead of pressing further for the moment, voice deceptively mild. Whatever Charles is reading from Erik—his thoughts, perhaps, or maybe just the way his whole body is leaning toward Charles like he’s an instant from pouncing—it makes a slow flush travel down his neck, a pink tease that Erik wants to touch.
“Only occasionally,” Charles responds, rallying admirably. “Sometimes I get headaches—one of the perils of being a telepath, I’m afraid—and then I can’t read too much or for too long without these.”
Erik frowns, momentarily caught between two warring impulses—Have sex with Charles battling with Charles is hurt, do something about it—before he sees Charles biting his lip, clearly trying not to laugh at Erik.
“Don’t worry yourself, Erik, I’m feeling much better now,” Charles says soothingly, lips twitching. At any rate, I suspect I’d have to be in a great deal of pain indeed to turn you away, he confesses, sweet and slyly provoking, and Erik growls and flicks his wrist sharply behind his back. The door slams shut, and at the twitch of Erik’s fingers, the lock turns over with a final click.
Erik yanks Charles over his desk by the front of his shirt so he can kiss him, and Charles responds happily, eagerly; his mouth is sweet and warm and hungry, and Erik kisses him and kisses him until Charles clearly realizes that his shirt is now hanging halfway off his shoulder, and he breaks away and says laughingly, “Erik, a little warning?” and Erik says, “Very well, do you consider yourself warned now?” and throws himself back at Charles’s buttons with all the force of a missile.
“Yes, thank you,” Charles says, grinning and batting his hands away, coming around the desk to sit on the edge, bracketed by Erik’s body; and then, looking impish, he thinks but wouldn’t you rather—
—Charles on his knees, fully dressed, all prim and buttoned-up and waiting to be corrupted, waiting for Erik to ruin him thoroughly, in all the best ways—
“I did catch that one,” Charles says, eyes bright with teasing humor and lust, and Erik watches with narrowed eyes and desire thrumming throughout his body as Charles carefully buttons his shirt again and straightens it crisply, and then slowly and gracefully sinks to his knees.
Erik hisses a breath in through his teeth. Charles is far from innocent, Erik knows; but like this, on his knees, he looks—dichotomous. Like the prim, proper sort of man who isn’t supposed to spend his time on his knees, but once you get him there he looks too perfect to ever let him up again. Charles’s glasses glint in the light, and his hair falls in neat waves, and his shirt is buttoned all the way up to the base of that pale, vulnerable throat; and his hand is sure and deft when it unzips Erik’s pants and wraps around Erik’s cock, taking him in a firm, familiar grip that Erik wants forever. Erik feels a little like he’s drowning.
“Erik,” Charles says, a laugh in his voice, “Erik, if you want this to continue, I’m going to need that back.”
Erik blinks and realizes that he’s held Charles’s hand in place by the metal in his watch, without a thought, and tries to suppress his flush when he releases him.
“Thank you,” Charles says solemnly, and Erik is a second from retorting when Charles leans in and eases his lips over the head of Erik’s cock, putting both hands on Erik’s spread thighs for balance and letting his eyes slide shut and looking like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
Erik puts his hands in Charles’s neat hair and tries not to bite his own tongue off when he grits his teeth against a groan.
Now that’s not fair, Charles says in his head. I’d rather like to hear that, if you don’t mind.
You’re a goddamn telepath, Charles, Erik retorts. You’re already hearing it straight from my head, do you really need the ego boost of hearing it aloud as well?
Well, if you’re going to be difficult about it, Charles thinks cheerfully, a tinge of glee in his mental voice at the thought of a challenge, I suppose I’ll just have to try harder. And then he swallows Erik’s cock down like, fuck, like he’ll take everything Erik has to give him and then ask for more; his throat works, eyes fluttering, and Erik can’t help himself: groans, a sharp aborted sound that shudders through him and makes him thrust forward. Charles doesn’t choke. He’s very, very good at this.
Charles opens his eyes fully at that thought, eyes that are blue and bright and pleased. His glasses are slipping down his nose. He looks thoroughly debauched, because of Erik, because Erik pulled on his hair and fucked his mouth and made his cheeks flush up a shocking pink. He looks like every one of Erik’s dreams incarnate. He also looks endlessly smug.
Oh fuck you, Erik thinks—vicious, happy, irritated, utterly enamored of this infuriating man—and Charles is laughing at him in his head while he sucks Erik off hungrily like he never wants to let Erik’s cock out of his mouth, and Erik tightens his fingers in Charles’s hair and brushes a thumb over his cheek and lets himself go. He has no pride left when it comes to Charles, anyway.
That goes both ways, you know, Charles says, and like this his sincerity is unmistakable, the tinge of amusement fading away into a deeper sense of something unshakable, warm, familiar. Something that is always there in Charles’s mind when he looks at Erik, in the background of everything else. Something he doesn’t want to put a name to for fear of dispelling it. Erik is getting everything from Charles, words, images, feelings—Charles loves this, the weight of Erik’s cock in his mouth, making Erik come apart for him, letting Erik take him apart in turn, falling into Erik’s thoughts like they were always made to fit him, and Erik—
Erik just wants. Wants to make Charles his, ruin him, shake his composure. Mark him and own him.
“Off,” Erik growls, and maybe he echoes it with his mind too, because Charles pulls off in one startled gasp; and maybe Charles has caught the thought that burst into Erik’s mind and surprised even him, and maybe he didn’t, but it doesn’t really matter. Erik wants this and Charles—he knows Charles will let him do anything.
Close your eyes, Erik says, and Charles makes a noise low in his throat and actually does as he’s told, and then all it takes is a few strokes before Erik comes all over his face, striping his glasses and his cheekbones and his lurid, swollen mouth, ruining perfect Charles Xavier and making him something filthy and beautiful and entirely for Erik.
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(BONUS THING IDK:
When Erik’s head clears and his ears stop ringing distantly, he focuses on Charles and realizes that Charles is gingerly holding his filthy glasses by one side, examining them dubiously.
Charles, once he notices Erik’s scrutiny, fixes him with a firm look that twitches with almost-hidden amusement and says, “You’ll be cleaning these for me if you ever want to do this again.”
Erik grins down at him, smug satisfaction coursing through his veins. It was worth it, he sends, along with a helpful image of Charles’s face striped with Erik’s come and the residual heat Erik still feels when he thinks about it.
Charles rolls his eyes and stands, kissing Erik hard and rutting against him until Erik very helpfully gives him a hand.
Erik, with the extraordinary amount of common sense at his disposal, doesn’t comment on the fact that Charles had to stand on tiptoe to make it happen.)
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