Archive of Our Own

1996
Washington, D.C.

Once in a very long time, Erik finds himself thinking he is the luckiest man in the world.

It’s almost as if the universe will feel bad for him after an extended period of suffering. He’s had just about the worst luck a man can have since the day he was born: his sister passed away at a young age, he lost Lorna’s mother during childbirth, the twins’ mother divorced him after only a year of being wedded to him, and now he’s a single father with an underpaying job in youth athletics. Good luck is long overdue.

Well, here it comes.

It all happens so quickly—somehow, he’s convinced an incredibly handsome man to grab a drink with him, and now they’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at a bar in the city, chatting each other up and flirting and bantering and getting tipsy together. Erik hasn’t been on a date since he met (and consequently separated from) Magda Maximoff. This is groundbreaking for him. He’s doing it, he thinks—this functional adult thing, going on dates and getting back out there as a young, single man.

It’s not a normal date, either, because it’s not just any man he’s on a date with: it’s Charles Francis Xavier, the most talented mutant in football history. The most intelligent telepath in the world. The man at the forefront of the mutant rights movement.

Small talk isn’t Erik’s forte. He’s typically dead-silent during these sort of social interactions—something his ex-wife always complained about—and he’d be struggling for something to say even if he wasn’t completely tongue-tied by the most beautiful blue eyes he’s ever seen in his life. But for once, his penchant for silence seems to work in his favor. Charles Xavier loves talking. And Erik’s actually quite happy to be talked over when it’s the soccer player he’s had a crush on for years now.

Xavier talks a lot. He raves about specific plays from old games, then rants about the player drafts for the upcoming season. He tangents into mutant politics with fiery passion, inviting Erik to chime in; Erik, surprisingly, finds himself creeping out of his usual comfort zone to argue back with this angelic man whose opinions all seem to be frustratingly close to being correct but not quite. Xavier seems more than delighted to have such an engaged conversational partner.

Talking is actually…fun, Erik finds, when he’s not being forced to talk about stupid things like the weather or whose kids did what last Tuesday. He likes all the same things as Xavier—things that usually bore Magda or Emma to death, things that his five-year-old daughter is not yet old enough to understand despite her shared love for soccer. It feels strange to not be told to shut up after half an hour of uninterrupted soccer talk, chess theory, and mutant politics.

And the whole time, he can’t stop staring. Charles Xavier. In the flesh. He’s so beautiful, there’s no way he can be real. God couldn’t have possibly created someone with such blue eyes.

Erik continuously pinches himself to make sure his luck is real.

It’s no surprise that they wind up all over each other in the hotel afterward.

Erik hasn’t made out with anybody since before the twins were born. It’s actually a lot more fun than he remembers. He’s barely opened the door to the room when Xavier seizes him by the collar, drags him inside, and slams him against the nearest wall, the door shutting behind them with the distracted flick of Erik’s wrist.

Their mouths collide, frantic, hot, desperate to taste one another for the first time. Erik doesn’t even have time to worry if he’s kissing correctly. He just kisses back with everything in him, his hands flying up to grasp Xavier’s face at the same time, pulling him close, smushing their noses together. Xavier groans hungrily. His fingers dig into Erik’s cheeks with just as much fervor.

Without breaking the kiss, Xavier seizes him by the wrists and promptly pins them over his head. The submissive position goes straight to Erik’s cock. He feels helpless, despite the fact that he is the larger man and could easily break free if he tried. Not that he would. This is right where he wants to be.

Furthermore, it may be his first time kissing a man, but he’s already decided he likes it, very, very much. He likes how wet and messy it sounds when their lips slip and smack against one another. He likes the sensual scrape of Xavier’s stubble against his chin, the way it sends shivers down his spine, the way Xavier swallows every needy sound he makes. Erik keeps his wrists obediently crossed overhead once Xavier lets go and allows his hands to roam free: big, masculine hands that squeeze at the muscles on his chest, pull him in by the waist, and palm against his ass.

It’s the most attention Erik’s ever received during a make-out session. He can’t lie—it’s nice. Every time Erik thinks he’s about to be done, thinks he’s finally tired of all this kissing nonsense, Xavier picks up the pace and kisses him somewhere new. His breathing grows ragged, hot on Erik’s throat, on his jawline, the lobe of his ear. Xavier nuzzles and nips gently. He swipes his tongue over the love bites as if to soothe them better, then quickly moves on to suckle tender hickeys on the other side of his lover’s neck.

When Xavier finds his sensitive spot, Erik moans aloud for the first time since they began making out.

As soon as he hears himself, everything stops. Erik goes rigid. Xavier gently pulls back. Erik’s eyes snap open in an embarrassed daze, worried he’s ruined the mood, but Xavier is simply caressing his cheekbones with pupils blown wide.

“Don’t stop now,” he murmurs sweetly. “A good partner likes to hear how you’re feeling.”

“I don’t like to do noisy,” Erik mumbles, humiliated.

“Ah, but I think you do.”

Xavier recaptures him by the mouth at once, pressing in to close the remaining gap between their bodies. Suddenly, Erik is maddeningly aware of a new problem: this very handsome man’s cock is grinding against his thigh.

He’s never touched someone else’s cock before, not even through clothes. Honestly, it just might be enough to kill him on the spot. It’s hot, hard, and unexpectedly intimate, unlike anything he’s ever experienced with a woman: he can feel Xavier’s outline and shape, and it takes no effort to imagine just how big—or small—he is beneath the trousers. Though he’d like to see it for himself, he’s perfectly content to stay here, too; he counts himself lucky just to be in the same orbit as Charles Xavier.

As if picking up on this thought, Xavier hums and wraps a muscular arm around Erik’s torso. He throws them down onto the bed with ease, a breathtaking show of his strength, and Erik squeaks in surprise as Xavier crawls on top of him, reconnecting their mouths without missing a beat—and then Xavier, damn that man, he actually smiles, smiles against Erik’s lips, all the while rocking his hips tenderly, getting off on Erik’s thigh alone—

Erik’s eyes screw shut, just to fully take in the erotic sounds of the other man’s desire. The animalistic groans. The wet pop whenever he finishes a hickey. Xavier kisses his jaw as it drops in bliss, grunting like Erik’s leg is nothing more than a pillow to hump and pleasure himself with—

“Oh, fuck,” Erik whimpers. “Oh, fucking, fuck—”

Xavier grins wider than he has all night, his eyes locked on Erik as he lets out a strangled, trembling whine. His back arches, his legs shake, his vision goes white; he tips his head back and moans unabashedly now, bucking senselessly in time with the throbbing of his spurting cock, Xavier watching all the while, admiring the scene, carding his fingers through Erik’s silver hair.

“That’s it, love,” he coos. “That’s the way. Show me how good it feels.”

The high seems to last an eternity, only heightened by the unexpected praise and encouragement. Erik rides it for as long as he can before he’s forced to come back down, falling like a feather into Xavier’s arms again. Xavier kisses the freshly-pressed hickey in his neck, a low thrum of bruising pain that feels absolutely delicious in the afterglow.

And then, of course, Erik realizes what’s happened.

What he’s done.

As soon as it clicks, Erik shoves Xavier away, mortified. Xavier flinches at the abrupt withdrawal. He opens his mouth to ask if everything’s okay, but Erik jumps out of bed, his hands covering the wet spot on his trousers.

“I—” he starts. “I, um—didn’t—mean to—”

Xavier tilts his head, smiling politely, looking slightly perplexed if anything. And Erik can’t think of anything worse than being looked at like that.

He makes a beeline for the bathroom.

Cursing, he throws himself into the bathroom and slams the door behind him. He hastily magnetizes the lock shut, nearly melting the metal in his desperation to hide away. He collapses onto the closed toilet lid and puts his head in his hands.

Of course he’s fucking ruined this. He ruins everything.

Including his pants, apparently.

He jumps to his feet and turns the faucet on, wiggling out of his trousers as quickly as possible before sticking them beneath the running water. He looks up at himself in the mirror. His hair is a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and he looks ruined, too. All from what? Making out?

Knew I should’ve jerked off this morning, Erik thinks bitterly.

Now he’s stuck in this miserable predicament. There’s nothing he could possibly say to save face. The very thought of it makes him want to laugh. Hey, sorry I came in my pants! Will you please get the fuck out so I can wallow in my shame?

Maybe Xavier will take the hint and disappear graciously if he hides in here long enough. That would be ideal, now that he’s decided this serendipitous hookup is officially beyond salvaging—but then, Erik thinks, what if Xavier runs off and tells people about what happened? He could turn to the news outlets, to the paparazzi, to interviewers who are still exploiting the crumbs of Erik’s past career. He can see the headline now: I slept with Erik Lehnsherr, and I didn’t even need to TOUCH his pathetic little cock!

Erik turns the faucet off and bows his head over the sink. The thought of ending the night on such a pitiable note breaks his heart as much as it mortifies him, but it seems like the only possible outcome—

Wait a second. Charles Xavier is a telepath.

He could be listening right now.

Okay, he needs to focus. Erik straightens up, determined to handle this with as much leftover dignity as possible, at least until Xavier is safely out the door. Then he can wallow. First he needs a clean pair of pants and underwear. He tries to remember where he put his suitcase—in the hallway? Can he magnetize it from here?

No, wait. He tucked it under the bed. That’s on the opposite side of the room.

Shit.

Erik draws a defeated breath before nudging the door open a crack. He pokes his head out and surveys his surroundings.

Much to his horror, Xavier is still there: sitting cross-legged on the bed, no less, his shoes kicked off to the floor. He’s pointing the remote at the TV, which displays the channel guide; his eyebrows are furrowed, like he’s visibly disappointed at the unimpressive selection the hotel has to offer.

The level of concentration he’s pouring into this mundane task is completely disarming. He just looks so effortlessly at home. Like nothing’s even wrong. Like he belongs in Erik’s hotel room.

What the fuck is happening?

Xavier perks up as soon as he notices Erik peering out the bathroom door. Their eyes lock at once, and now it’s too late to duck back inside.

“Hey!” Xavier calls. “Everything alright in there? I was beginning to worry you’d fallen in.”

Erik narrows his eyes suspiciously. Did Xavier somehow not take notice of what transpired? Or is he just that fucking polite? The polite thing to do would be to get the hell out.

“I—I’m fine,” Erik stammers. “I just—I have a stomach ache. It’s fine.”

He immediately curses himself. A stomach ache? Really? How is shitting his pants any better?

Xavier pouts with a concern that is all too sincere for this situation of Erik’s own making. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that! May I be of any use to you? Would you like me to fetch you some water?”

“No,” Erik snaps.

“Tums?”

“No.”

“Pepto Bismol?”

“No!” Erik exclaims. “It’s not that kind of stomach ache.”

“If you say so.” Xavier grins cheekily, and for a second, Erik can’t tell if the telepath is toying with him or not. “Perhaps you drank too much,” he suggests. “Well, when you’re feeling able, clean yourself up and come sit with me. We can find something to watch on TV.”

With that, Xavier casually returns to channel-surfing, his brow creasing again. Erik takes advantage of the distraction and slides out from the bathroom, his ass concealed against the wall, edging closer to the bed until he can magnetize the suitcase out from underneath. Xavier mercifully keeps his back turned as he digs through his clothes and wiggles into a clean pair of sweatpants.

Still on edge, Erik eyes the back of Xavier’s head. Wondering if he’ll say something—chasten him, belittle him, even reassure him for what happened. But Xavier is very insistent on ignoring the elephant in the room. Erik holds it in until he just can’t take it anymore.

“Why the fuck are you still here?” he bursts out.

“Hm?” Xavier barely looks up from the TV. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Read the fucking room!”

“But I did. You don’t want me to leave.”

“No, I don’t want you to leave, I just need you to leave, because—” Erik’s mouth goes bone-dry. “I—you—I never said that! Damn you! Are you eavesdropping?”

“Oh, you’d feel me if I was; your telepathic shields are the strongest I’ve ever seen in a non-psychic.” Xavier finally turns away from the TV to face Erik with a cocky smile. “No, darling, you’re the one projecting to me. Are you aware that you do that? You’re friends with Miss Frost, the telepath—has she ever told you how hard it is to ignore your every thought?”

“You—I—go fuck yourself,” Erik blurts. “What happened was a fucking accident. A one-time thing. I—you don’t—”

“You need not feel embarrassed, my friend,” Xavier insists, shifting positions, folding his knees under him, and his socked feet look so infuriatingly tiny when he sits back on them. “I won’t tell a soul what happened, and if it helps to know, I really did find it sexy. I’ve never brought somebody to orgasm without touching them before. I’d be honored to see you do that again.”

Now Erik is angry and speechless. But Xavier just keeps smiling. He’s being serious. He’s not disgusted, or mocking him, or any of those things.

“Are you…are you sure? You really want to stay?” Erik asks.

Xavier nods enthusiastically.

Erik’s shoulders sag, the anger deflating out of him and leaving nothing but shame. He reluctantly lowers himself onto the bed beside Xavier.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to…raise my voice. I don’t mind if you use your telepathy to read my thoughts. That’s not the part I’m upset about, as you probably already know.”

“Oh, don’t feel like you have to placate me on my behalf,” Xavier replies modestly. “Most people are understandably upset when they learn I can hear their thoughts. I’ve been accepting of that since my powers first manifested.”

“No, the telepathy is not a problem,” Erik insists. “You are not a problem. At all.”

Now it’s Xavier’s turn to be caught off-guard. His cheeks turn a rosy color, and he fiddles with his hands in his laps.

“Err, thank you,” he manages.

“You’re welcome,” Erik answers, just as bashfully. He squirms in his seat. “So, um…what…what are we watching?”

“Well, I was hoping they’d have a sports channel,” Xavier sighs, happy to take the out. He scoots closer to Erik until their legs and shoulders are touching. “I’m afraid there’s not much on right now. Oh, they have the Discovery Channel! Do you ever watch that with your little ones?”

Erik laughs at the very notion of educational TV playing in his household. “Absolutely not. Have you ever tried to keep a two-year-old seated for anything that isn’t a cartoon?” he snorts. “My son throws a major tantrum if I put on anything that isn’t Pokémon.”

“Ah, I see.” Xavier looks disappointed. “Does your daughter have a favorite cartoon?” he inquires meekly.

“Wanda isn’t very much into the TV,” Erik considers. “But right now it’s Curious George for Lorna. Monkeys have been her favorite since her class took a field trip to the zoo.”

“Oh, how lovely! Monkeys are some of the most—” Xavier frowns suddenly. “Curious George isn’t a monkey, Erik. He’s a chimp.”

Erik rolls his eyes at this radical suggestion. He thinks he’d know if his five-year-old’s favorite monkey was, in fact, not a monkey. “Monkey, chimp. What difference does it make?”

“A world, actually. Monkeys have tails. Curious George doesn’t have a tail.”

“Yes he does.”

“He most assuredly does not.”

“Okay, for the sake of the argument, say he doesn’t have a tail. Are you telling me only ‘real’ monkeys have tails now? Who made you head zoologist?”

“Well, there are tailless monkeys, but Curious George is not one of those. His facial structure also bears closer resemblance to a chimp.”

“Does he really not have a tail? Stupid fucking hat, and no tail?”

“Yes, Erik!” Xavier is beginning to laugh now. “Look it up, if you like! I promise I wouldn’t lie to you about something like this. I quite enjoy animal biology.”

“Whatever. Chimp, monkey, I don’t like any of it.” Erik waves his hands, flopping back on the bed and propping his head up on a pillow so that he can still see the TV, which is currently playing some boring science documentary that neither of them are truly watching. “It’s the same shit with red pandas,” Erik adds hotly. “They’re not real pandas. Why call them that? They’re raccoons. Fancy, shitty raccoons, and everyone thinks they’re cute, just because they’re small and do the silly paws-up thing to scare off predators—what? What’s so funny?”

Xavier is laughing in earnest now, perhaps the sweetest sound Erik’s ever heard. He looks at Erik with such pure joy in his eyes that Erik can’t help but join in.

“What?” Erik demands again, snickering.

“Nothing!” Xavier giggles. “You’re just adorable when you’re mad. And, I hate to break it to you, but…red pandas aren’t raccoons.”

“Are you joking?”

“No. They’re an endangered species that occupy their own distinct category.”

“This is what I’m talking about!” Erik explodes, and Xavier laughs along, falling back into the pillows beside him, using the change in position as an excuse to rest his head on Erik’s chest.

They giggle some more, and even when their laughter gradually tapers off, their contented smiles remain. Xavier feels warm on Erik’s chest, and his soft dark hair smells like lavender and honey. It’s making Erik want to kiss him on the forehead, but that feels too sensual for a first hookup. Xavier looks up at him with sweet eyes, as if he heard the thought.

He sort of reminds Erik of a red panda, actually. Very small and cute. Big, sweet eyes.

“Can we just…stay like this for the rest of the evening?” Erik asks suddenly, blushing. “And maybe we can…kiss a bit more?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Xavier grins. He snuggles closer. “Of course, love. We can stay like this for as long as you like.”

• • • •

“Psst. Xavier.”

Charles groans and buries his head deeper in the pillow. He’s dated a lot of people, and never in his life has a one-night-stand stirred him in the middle of the night—unless it was with a blowjob, and this clearly isn’t sex-related.

“Psst! Xavier!”

But Erik Lehnsherr is not the average hookup, is he?

So, instead of shoving a second pillow over his head, Charles begrudgingly rolls over to face his date, who is sitting up in bed with a laptop out for some god-forsaken reason. He catches a glimpse of the clock on the nightstand: three o’clock in the morning.

Christ. This better be good.

“What th’ bloody hell is it?” Charles mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Has something happened?”

“Aw, someone’s cranky,” Erik teases, as if it’s normal to be up at this hour and Charles is the lazy one for sleeping through it. He angles his laptop at Charles, who winces at the bright light. “Check this out. I’ve been telling you all this time, Xavier—”

“You know you can call me Charles, right?” he interrupts.

“Okay, well, look at this, Charles. Look what it says here.” Erik impatiently repositions the screen closer. “Here, and I quote: ‘Curious George is a fictional monkey created in 1939.’ Hear that? He’s a monkey. Not an ape.”

“I never called him an ape, you dolt.” Charles sits up with a petulant sound. “I told you he was a chimp. A chimpanzee is a species of ape, not a distinct category from it.”

“Well, he’s a monkey.”

“Did you seriously wake me up just to tell me I’m wrong about an argument we had four hours ago?”

Erik pauses, belatedly realizing the short-sightedness of his actions. “No,” he lies. “I just…I couldn’t sleep, and I thought you would want to know about this, so that you don’t walk around being confidently incorrect.”

Charles easily yanks the computer in his direction. “Where are you even reading this nonsense?”

“Don’t try to poke holes in my sources now that you know you’re wrong,” Erik snarls, curling around his laptop screen.

“Is that bloody Wikipedia?”

“What’s wrong with Wikipedia?”

“Wikipedia isn’t a reliable source of information, Erik. You work at a school. Surely you know this.”

“You’re just upset that I’m right and you’re wrong.”

“I’m known to be a sore loser, yes,” Charles chuckles. He reaches over, gives Erik a playful peck on the lips, and closes the laptop lid for him. “Okay, he’s a monkey. Now turn that off. There’s no reason you should be up at this hour.”

“I—I was having—I have a hard time sleeping,” Erik repeats, disoriented by the unexpected kiss.

Charles smiles. Kisses come a dime a dozen for someone as famous as Charles—frankly, they’ve lost their luster over the years—but he thinks there’s something exceptional about kissing Erik Lehnsherr. Something that makes kissing feel special again. It’s the way Erik’s mind blooms in response to being touched, how it reacts to even a simple brush on the lips: there are sparks flying in his head, little pings of surprise and delight and the sort of nervousness you’d associate with a blushing schoolgirl. That stuff is the well Charles draws his confidence from.

“Insomnia is a pain in the arse,” Charles sympathizes. He rolls over and settles himself on Erik’s chest. “Sometimes I can’t sleep, either.”

Erik’s eyes go adorably wide. As if they haven’t already spent the entire night cuddling just like this. “Y-yeah?”

“Yes, and seeing as we’re both awake now…”

“What are you doing?”

Charles seductively pushes himself back onto his knees, sitting up until he’s straddling Erik’s waist with his thighs. He runs a hand slowly down Erik’s clothed chest.

“Finishing what we started,” he replies smoothly. “I’ll be gentle. First time with a man, was it?”

Erik bares his teeth. He thinks to struggle a bit more for the sake of appearances, but his body remains frozen, betraying his true desire to remain out of control.

“No,” he bites. “I’ve slept with plenty of…men. Men who…they…I…oh, fuck off. How could you tell?”

Charles gives him a look.

Erik grimaces. “That obvious?”

“I could tell before I’d even read your mind.” Charles grins mischiveously. “Don’t fret. It’s not my first time deflowering a virgin.”

“I am not a fucking virgin!”

“Ah, but women are different, my friend.” Charles lightly caresses his knuckle against Erik’s cheek. Erik blinks dolefully up at him, too stunned to formulate a comeback. “And even if that weren’t true, I can personally guarantee…”

Charles leans in as if to kiss him again, halting just short of Erik’s ear.

“…that you’ve never fucked someone like me.”

Erik shudders, letting out a shaky breath that almost comes out like a whine. That’s the sound Charles has been chasing, he thinks. He knew from the moment he put his lips on Erik, that this quiet, scowling man held great potential to be loud. The panting, the groaning, the whimpering when he came all over himself…Erik, lost in his orgasm, browline creased and his mouth hanging stupidly ajar…and how much better will it be when they finish the job properly? How good will it feel to ride the high along with him, lodged deep inside of his mind as well as his tight, clenching heat?

Erik’s eyes glaze over with desire. Charles realizes that now he’s the one projecting.

“Could…could you…?” Erik whispers, his eyes darting back and forth. Unable to put words to his want. “The telepathy part, especially?”

Charles strokes his thumb against Erik’s temple. “It’s tempting,” he says. “But…it’s already a rather intense experience, forming a psychic bond between two minds, even without the added layer of a sexual environment. I don’t often partake in connecting with non-telepaths at that level. My power has the potential to be…overwhelming.”

“Well, la-dee-da, Mr. Telepath,” Erik huffs. “Am I supposed to be afraid, or something?”

“You probably should be,” Charles admits.

“Scramble my brain, for all I care. I just want to feel you inside my head when we—when we—you know.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking for?”

“No. That’s why I’d like you to show me.”

“And there’s no convincing you out of this?”

“Hey, I’m trying something new. It’s only fair that you do, too.” Softening a tad, Erik kisses Charles on the back of his hand, returning his reverence, gray eyes half-lidded. “And…I want to know what it feels like,” he confesses. “To have you. As you are. And…you are a telepath. I know it’ll feel good. Doesn’t it just make sense to do it this way?”

“You’re not understanding what could happen if I lose control,” Charles murmurs. “If I falter, for even a second…”

“You won’t hurt me. You wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Erik smiles in sincerity, and Christ, Charles keeps forgetting what a beautiful smile he has—he’s all teeth, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. It’s easy to forget that’s what he looks like under all the scowling. He certainly never smiled like that for the cameras.

Erik hums, stroking Charles’ flank, unaware that he’s been so wholly admired in silence. “I want to see what it is that you’re so scared of showing everyone else,” he continues. “If you’re spending the night with me, you might as well stop hiding now. What’s the point of getting to know one another if you’re lying about who you are from the start?”

“I don’t hide, or lie,” Charles shoots back. “The world is sufficiently aware that I’m a telepath! I was the first mutant in international football to come out! My mother nearly disowned my over the whole affair—it’s practically my entire brand!”

“Then why are you still hiding with me?” 

Charles inhales sharply. It takes him an embarrassing second to realize that, somewhere along this little tangent, his eyes have begun to sting. He wipes his face hastily. He’s not ready to explore the reason why this topic makes him well up with tears, yet—there’s too much to unpack, and he’s certainly not going to make it this handsome young man’s problem.

Determined to recover the confident persona he’d been riding all night, Charles smiles coyly, bringing two fingers to Erik’s temple.

“Fine. But before I do this,” Charles says quietly, “I must impart caution on you. The sensation could very quickly become overwhelming. You’ll feel things you’ve never felt before. Not merely in your head, but all throughout your body.”

Erik nods breathlessly. “Okay,” he whispers. “And then…?”

“My thoughts, feelings, and sensations will become yours—and vice versa. I’ll be able to do anything I want with your mind once I’m inside. I’ll know exactly where your pleasure center is, for example…” Charles leans in until their noses are a mere inch apart. “…and it’ll be all mine. Do you believe you can handle that? Another man, completely and wholly inside of you?”

Erik swallows, imagination running wild at such filthy words. He nods, just barely.

Ah, closeted men. They’re always so easy to get off.

Charles finally leans in for another kiss, chaste and tender this time. Erik timidly kisses back, his eyes slipping shut, and as they kiss, Charles gently begins to push inside.

Erik tenses at once, though he relaxes with another soothing stroke to his cheek. He enters at Erik’s pace, one inch at a time, careful not to get pulled in ahead of himself. He knows he’s fully seated when Erik lets out a long, low moan. 

“Oh,” Erik breathes, head dropping back into the pillow. “Oh, wow. That’s…th-that’s…”

“Good?” Charles asks nervously. “Am I hurting you?”

No. It’s fucking amazing, Erik thinks back. You’re amazing, Charles.

Charles smiles shyly, feeling uncharacteristically flustered by such a simple-yet-sincere compliment. Moreover, he’s never seen someone’s soul in this much detail before—and conversely, he has never let anyone see his soul laid bare like this. It’s an entirely new facet of sex and romance for him, a muscle that he’s never had a chance to stretch out.

Erik goes blissfully quiet as Charles begins to move through his mind. The racing thoughts, which Charles had been involuntarily privy to all evening, come to a gradual stop upon registering the newcomer’s presence, circling him like curious animals carefully regarding a stranger. Charles brushes up against them the way a child would run a gentle pair of fingers over passing sting rays in a tide pool. Just to let Erik know that he’s here and he sees him. Erik doesn’t think his response so much as he feels it: wisps of pleasure, joy, and excitement radiating from the center of mind and outward. It encompasses Charles like a welcoming blanket. It says, I’m happy to have you here.

“God, Charles, you—fuck,” Erik chokes out loud, his voice thick and husky. His hands palm at Charles’ ass in real life, slipping beneath his waistband with a shaky exhale of breath. You fit so perfectly inside of me, he thinks, too intimidated to say this part out loud. I like it. Keep…keep going…?

Charles nuzzles against Erik’s mind, quieting his bubbling anxieties, sending him a warm signal to just relax and lie back. Patience, my friend, he purrs. I’ll take care of you. Do you think you can last a bit longer this time?

Mhm. I can. I can.

You’ll cum when I tell you.

Yesyesyes.

We’ll go slow.

Taking a deep breath, Charles begins to rock against Erik—who, of course, is already fully erect and straining in his sweatpants, a tiny spot of pre-cum leaking through the ash-gray fabric. His bulge feels so much bigger and thicker than Charles expected it to be. If he wasn’t so dead-set on taking Erik apart tonight, he’d be riding that monstrous cock in an instant.

Panting, Erik begins to roll his hips of his own volition. They frot mindlessly against each other’s cocks, fully clothed, dry-humping like two teenagers still learning to navigate each other’s bodies. Erik’s breathy groans steadily increase in pitch, sounding more and more like proper moans by the minute. But not quite. Each time, he tries to cut them off before they can fully escape his throat.

Now, I told you not to hold back anymore, Charles chides, running his hands down Erik’s sides until his fingers hook beneath his waistband. I want even the neighbors to know how good another man is making you feel.

Erik bobs his head in a flustered frenzy, tiny gasps filtering through his teeth. Okay. Okay. Okay, he pleads.

Charles slowly pulls Erik’s sweatpants down, revealing just the head of his pink, drooling cock. He swipes his thumb over the pre-cum, and Erik moans, mouth falling ajar and eyebrows pinching.

He’s touching my cock, Erik thinks. Oh, my god, he’s touching my cock, he’s touching MY cock—

Charles hums in amusement before pulling the sweatpants all the way down. Erik’s cock springs free against his stomach: cut, thick, and veiny, pulsing with need. The mere sight is sinfully pornographic. It just might be the biggest, prettiest cock he’s ever seen, either in real life or in naughty magazines—and it looks absolutely perfect on Erik in particular. It accents his toned stomach, the V-shaped gutters of his hips, the silver curls that grow at the base of his prick.

Newly inspired, Charles undressses himself as fast as humanly possible. He tosses his clothes haphazardly aside, desperate to be pressed against Erik’s bare skin, and lowers himself onto his stomach where he can properly begin to lap the pre-cum drooling from the tip of Erik’s cock.

“Oh,” Erik moans, biting his lip. “That’s—ah—”

Enjoying such a reaction, Charles takes him deeper into his mouth, bobbing up and down, progressing slow enough that it’ll all fit without triggering his gag reflex. Each time he pulls up, he works his tongue in gentle circles along the underside of Erik’s crown, a move that Erik particularly seems to love, if his whines and bucking hips are any indication. Charles begins to pump his hand in tandem with his bobbing head.

Erik practically chokes. His teary eyes dart back and forth in disbelief, like there’s no way he’s sleeping with someone this fucking gorgeous, no way he’s getting a blowjob from lips that swollen, soft, and red.

Good boy, Charles thinks, and Erik’s mind sends back flares of pleasure. I’m so proud of you. I’ll let you cum soon. But before that, I want one more thing.

Erik stares at Charles with wide eyes. He’s already picked up on what Charles is going to do; they don’t need words for it with a telepathic link established.

Are…are you sure?

It’ll feel good, darling. Don’t be shy. I can tell you’ve been wanting to try it for a long time.

But will it be good for you, too?

Oh, certainly. Charles scoots further down the mattress, hooks Erik by the back of his thighs, and pulls him close. Erik groans as his legs are promptly spread apart. He’s never, ever been put in a position like this.

Charles reassuringly massages his ass, shushing him with fondness, simultaneously reveling in such vulnerable exposure with glee and self-satisfaction. Erik’s hole, as expected, is impossibly tight. He rubs the pad of his finger over it, and it winks around nothing. It’s practically begging to be used. To be stretched out. To be fucked so thoroughly it can no longer close on itself.

Erik reaches to stroke his cock, but Charles swats him away, clicking his tongue playfully.

You won’t last a second like that, he scolds. Hands off. Only I get to touch.

Erik snaps his hands to his sides obediently, mouth pressed into a wobbling line. Charles experimentally licks a slow, wet stripe over Erik’s perineum, and the unexpected intimacy squeezes the most pathetic sound out of Erik.

It’s perfect.

Charles looks up at him with a smug smile. He resumes licking, squeezing Erik’s balls with his free hand, running the other hand over Erik’s flat stomach and the taut muscle beneath his skin. I have you, he promises. Relax.

As if succumbing to mind control, Erik immediately falls limp, save for the quivering of his thighs. A whine begins in his throat as Charles licks his entrance, getting it wet, acclimating him to the feeling of another man touching him in this extremely vulnerable place. He gives the skin there an open-mouthed kiss, observing Erik’s reaction. When Erik groans happily, he points his tongue and pushes past the ring of muscle.

Oh god, Erik thinks, voice cracking even in his mind.

Charles hums and squeezes his ass, spreading him open for easier access. He flicks his tongue around the rim, diving back in and out at a steady pace, pushing deeper with each pass.

Erik’s mind turns into a slur of incomprehensible pleasure. He whimpers hazily, eyes fixed on Charles’ head between his legs. I think I like this, he chokes out. Oh fuck, I think I like this—

His thoughts are cut off as Charles inserts the tip of his index finger, working alongside his tongue. Erik cries out. He arches his back, unoccupied hands blindly scrabbling for purchase—he settles on Charles’ hair—his cock throbbing heavy and untouched. His pleasure tonight is completely within Charles’ control. He’s finally letting go of all the shame he’s felt the entire evening. Chasing pure pleasure now. Pleasure. He wants to feel good. This feels good, being with Charles—

Charles pushes deeper into Erik’s spasming hole, feeling nearly like he’s being sucked in. Erik moans with abandon as he sinks in to the first knuckle. He’s thinking, right now, about how different this is; his own fingers are long and bony, but Charles’ are thick and strong. He can feel the difference right away.

(He treats Charles to a brief visage of the memory, of his first time attempting to finger himself: in the dark, lying in bed on his stomach, pathetically humping a pillow and trying to get his finger inside at the same time. Just to see if he’ll like it. He’s making a clumsy mess with the lube; he’s crooking the fingertip while still jerking himself off, and fuck, it does feel good, ‘til soon he’s clenching around his finger in orgasm—)

Charles adds a second digit, and Erik’s face contorts into one of pure ecstasy. He has never felt this stretched before. He whines like he’s already being fucked, and Charles forces himself to hold steady, to move slowly, to be patient until he can very cautiously push these two fingers in to the last knuckle.

Erik keens, and Charles groans. He scissors Erik’s tight hole open, lapping at the space between his fingers; he spits generously, fucks it into him, and repeats. It makes a bit of a mess, but Charles can’t resist the obscene sound of his fingers plunging in and out of Erik’s sloppy, swollen rim.

And all the while, Erik’s mind has returned to its usual degree of chaos and volume:

Charles.

CharlesCharlesCharlesCharlesCharlesCharles.

Doyoulikeme?
Am I good?
Tell me I’m good.
Tell me I’m good.
Tell me I’m good.
Tell me I’m good.

“Oh, love,” Charles gasps aloud, barely able to contain the surge of protectiveness and affection he feels for Erik in this moment. He runs his clean hand up Erik’s thigh, massaging and squeezing with as much reassurance as he can muster. “Of course you are good,” he whispers. “So very perfect.”

Erik makes a short, strangled sound. His chest heaves and his cock kicks helplessly against his navel. But at least his mind quiets a little bit after that. Aloud, he keens for more. He’s completely unlike his broody, stoic self, sinking down on Charles’ fingers in desperation, rutting against empty air, writhing indignantly when he finds there’s nothing left to take.

Charles begins to fuck him in earnest.

Erik sobs. He blindly fumbles to squeeze the base of his cock. “Fuck, Charles, fuck, fuck, there!” he cries. “Charles, I can’t—I’m—I’m—”

“Cum for me, darling,” Charles growls. His fingers pound faster and faster against Erik’s prostate, the whines growing higher and sluttier. “You earned it. That’s it. Show me how good it feels to cum on my fucking fingers.”

Erik arches his back and lets out one last broken, high-pitched sob. His untouched cock spurts a rope of cum onto his chin, the rest pulsing onto his chest and stomach. Charles watches hungrily, feeling Erik clench hotly around his fingers, and it takes every ounce of willpower not to cum at the same time, tied together by their telepathic bond.

“Ohh,” Erik sobs. “Oh, ohh—”

“That’s it, love,” Charles hums soothingly, stroking him through the high. “There we are. Doing so well.”

“Nng—hah—Charles—”

“Just like that, love.”

As Erik emerges from his orgasm, he weakly raises a hand, reaching out for him in a lost daze. Charles takes his hand and presses an affectionate kiss into it.

“Alright?” he asks. “You must be exhausted. Two in one night, hm?”

“Y…yeah.” Erik shivers and twitches as Charles withdraws both his fingers and his psychic reach. Even after the bond severs, their minds remain loosely tangled together, Erik’s consciousness thrumming like a current beneath Charles’. “I…you’re…that was fucking amazing, Charles,” he breathes. “I didn’t know I could feel like that. You’re an angel.”

“You’re simply impressed because you’ve never played with your prostate before,” Charles teases, reaching for a handful of tissues off the nightstand. “Magical, isn’t it? All these years, and you never knew you had a secret pleasure button at your disposal?”

“Shut up. It’s not like I let either of my wives go exploring up there.”

Charles raises an eyebrow, amused. “Wives? Plural?”

“Ex-wives,” Erik corrects hastily. “I mean, one is dead, but—don’t worry about it. I’m single.” He waves his hand. “Point is, in my experience, most women look at me and…assume. Based on my appearances. I’m tall…athletic. I should act like a man in the bedroom.”

“I see,” Charles says, displeased. “Well, lucky for you, I’m not one of your girlfriends.”

“Boyfriend?” Erik jokes coyly.

“Mmm, a bit soon to be thinking about that, love.” Charles plops back into bed, snuggling beside Erik, a contented sound squeezing out of him when he finds the perfect nook. “I’m afraid I’m not exactly what you’d call a stay-in-one-place sort of fellow. Perhaps if I found ‘the right person,’ and they played all the right moves. But I’d have to somehow play the right moves, too. I don’t know if that’s possible.”

Erik leans his cheek against Charles’ head. “You talk about it like it’s a game of chess,” he remarks.

“Well, that’s all monogamy is, no? Just a series of meticulously planned moves against your opponent. You have to think carefully, or you’ll wind up sacrificing too many of your pieces.”

“For someone so optimistic about humanity, you have a very grim perspective on relationships.”

Charles giggles and runs a circle around the hair on Erik’s chest, contemplative. “Perhaps,” he admits. “I must confess, this is the most fun I’ve had with someone in quite a long time. I don’t usually linger for much more than the main event, you understand. But this—this entire evening was pleasant.”

“Really? Even though I came in my pants like a fourteen-year-old?”

“Especially so,” Charles says earnestly, kissing him on the nose.

***

The next morning, Charles has places to be.

It truly is unfortunate. He leaves without saying goodbye to Erik, who seems to have finally passed out, snoring peacefully beneath the covers. It seemed too unkind to stir him.

Charles leaves his phone number scrawled on a piece of notepad paper, along with a brief apology for disappearing, and simply hopes it makes up for the lack of a personal goodbye.

What he doesn’t tell Erik is that his new stint overseas starts this week. They need him in Europe for a couple of conferences, the usual mutant activism shite, as well as the next football season, which starts only a month from now. He already knows that work will have him completely booked for the foreseeable future. He’ll be too occupied to think about anything long-distance, especially with someone he just met.

Yet, somehow, Charles catches himself looking at his phone constantly. He’s waiting for it to ring, hoping he’ll find either a text or a missed call the next time the screen lights up. Nothing comes. He tries his best not to be disappointed. He and Erik will probably never see each other again, anyway.

All week, it gnaws and gnaws at his heart: the way Erik looked at him that night, the way he entrusted a stranger with his everything. He constantly wonders what Erik is doing. He thinks about him whenever he jerks off. He reads a particularly riveting article about chess game theory, then briefly mourns that he has no way to show it to him.

By the time he’s waiting for his luggage to pass through TSA, he’s feeling a bit insane for still checking his phone. He takes a seat at the terminal gate and plugs his laptop charger into the wall. He might as well get his work emails out of the way. It’ll be something to keep himself distracted until his flight starts boarding.

His heart skips a beat as soon as he opens his personal inbox.

To: Charles Xavier <[email protected]>
From: Erik Lehnsherr <[email protected]>
Subject: [no subject]

It takes every ounce of willpower to not immediately grin at his screen like an idiot. He clears his throat and clicks on the message.

Hi,

 

 

- - - - - - -

Erik Lehnsherr
P.E. Instructor & Coach
Do NOT contact me with questions.

Charles blinks. He goes back to his main inbox, and breathes out in relief when he finds a second message waiting, the timestamps only a minute apart:

To: Charles Xavier <[email protected]>
From: Erik Lehnsherr <[email protected]>
Subject: sorry
Body:

Hi,
Please ignore that last email. My idiot toddler slammed his face into the keyboard while I was still writing it.

I have been informed that the ‘polite’ thing to do after a date is to follow up with a phone call or text. Well, I do not have a personal cell phone, and I would not pay for one in a million years. I hope you don’t mind that I asked Emma for your personal email instead.

I had a good time with you. I know you said you’re not looking for something permanent at the moment, but I am interested in seeing you again sexually (if not romantically).

Romantically is okay with me too though.

Thanks,
Erik

P.S. I am reaching out with my work email because I don’t have a personal email account, and I would not sign up for one in a million years.

- - - - - - -

Erik Lehnsherr
P.E. Instructor & Coach
Do NOT contact me with questions.

Charles bursts out laughing. A couple of people turn heads to see what’s so funny, and he quickly hides his mouth in his hand. He doesn’t even know which part he’s laughing at. All of it. All of the email is adorable, and it makes him want to print it and frame it—preserve it forever in its wholeheartedness.

To: Erik Lehnsherr <[email protected]>
From: Charles Xavier <[email protected]>
Subject: re:sorry
Body:

Hello Erik,

It’s a delight to hear from you! I would like it very much if we

Charles’ fingers hover over the keyboard. He’d like it if they…what? He’s already run all the outcomes in his head.

Some bloody timing.

He saves what little he has as a draft and closes his laptop, disheartened. He leans back in his chair. Chews his thumbnail, tries to think. Airports are good for that. Charles does all his best thinking at airports—he loves people-watching while he’s mulling something over. He sees an old woman, pushing her elderly husband in a wheelchair. A veteran, walking his service dog. A lone college student, listening to Nirvana on his Walkman.

A little girl in pigtails, walking hand-in-hand with her father, her favorite stuffed monkey in tow.

Charles’ stomach drops. For a second, he almost mistakes the pair for Erik and Lorna. But that’s silly. Erik wouldn’t be at the airport in Westchester. And he certainly wouldn’t be here with his five-year-old daughter, whom Charles has never even seen to begin with.

Rationally, Charles doesn’t believe in signs. But…

He takes out his flip phone and immediately dials his best friend, Hank McCoy, who works as a medical specialist for the same football team as him. Hank picks up on the first ring.

“Charles! Where are you?” he shouts, white noise roaring in the background. “I’m at the conference center. Are you on the way yet?”

“Slow the roll, my friend,” Charles chuckles. “Plane doesn’t take off for another hour, remember?”

“Right, s-sorry! It’s just, everyone’s asking where you are, and you know I don’t like talking to people without you here.”

“Actually, about that. I’ve been thinking, and, err…” Charles bites off the corner of his thumbnail, realizing he probably should’ve called his agent, not his friend. “…I think I want to stay in New York for another month or two,” he confesses.

“What?” Hank exclaims. “Charles, the conference is today. I mean, tomorrow in your time, but you know what I mean. You can’t cancel now!”

“What are they going to do? Fire me?”

“They very easily could, for a violation of your contract!”

“They need me more than I need them.”

“What am I going to tell people?”

“Why are you worried? This is the kind of thing I pay a publicist for.”

“Yes, and she is not going to be happy.” Hank sighs. “Can you at least tell me why you’re not coming? Is it bad? Are you drinking again?”

“Christ, man, no!” Charles briefly contemplates honesty, but God just sent me a sign at the airport to keep seeing the guy whose arse I ate out last Tuesday somehow doesn’t sound right. “Remember the chap I shared a drink with in D.C. last week?” he asks.

“You mean Erik Lehnsherr, the weirdo with anger issues who used play for our rival’s team?” Hank asks wearily. “Yes, of course I remember. Don’t tell me you—”

“Yes. I’m thinking of seeing him a second time.”

“God damn it, Charles.” Hank sighs so loudly even he can hear it through the shitty international connection. “You can’t seriously be staying in New York to answer a, uh, booty call. The worst kind of booty call, by the way. You told me that he…” Hank pauses, as if to look around before continuing in a hushed tone. “You told me that he finished in his pants.”

Charles snorts at the notion of uptight, dorky-looking Hank stumbling around sex-related vocabulary. He really is a good friend for following the gory details of Charles’ sex life.

“Why are you laughing? I’m trying to be serious,” Hank cries. “He sounds horribly unattractive.”

“Erik Lehnsherr is a very handsome man,” Charles replies defensively. “We had a fine time after the fact. Besides, I can excuse overeager performance for a hot body. Have you seen his arms? His jawline?”

“No. I can’t say I’ve spent a particularly long time studying those things,” Hank grumbles.

“Then what’s the judgmental tone for?”

“I’m not saying he’s ugly on the outside. I’m saying…” Hank sighs again, sounding more and more troubled by the moment. “Charles, listen. This Erik guy, he brings trouble wherever he goes. You don’t need to messing around with crazy right now—professionally, I mean, but mostly, uh, sexually.”

“I can handle a bloody friend with benefits, Hank.”

“But he’s got a history. Just look up his name! He acts up all the time. And he’s got kids.”

“Goodbye, Hank.”

“Charles—”

Charles snaps his phone shut.

At peace, he sits back with a satisfied groan, taking in the airport ambience a second longer now that he’s decided he’s going to ditch it all. He soaks in the rushing thoughts of frantic passersby, the mixed emotions of those either bidding goodbye or reuniting with a loved one. For once, he doesn’t feel overwhelmed by the medley of voices in his head.

He’ll call his agent in a second.