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A Study in Advanced Lecherism

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“Just what the fuck,” a brief, menacing pause staggers the words, “do you think you’re doing?” Erik’s voice is like silk in the twilit room. It winds its way out from the door frame and wraps around the shadowy figures grinding obscenely against the wall. A collective shiver passes over them and the standing figure wipes around, revealing more of the man kneeling between his legs.

The brunette Erik doesn’t know says, “Hey man, what the fuck?!” just as Charles manages to choke out an, “Oh, Erik, ermm hello.”

Erik thinks it a miracle he can talk at all after the thorough throat fucking he just received.

“You know this asshole?” The guy mutters, dick still prodding obscenely at Charles’ glistening lips.

“You,” Erik says, sharp, “don’t speak. Don’t say words. Don’t even grunt like the Cro-Magnon imbecile you are. In fact, if you leave now, silently, you may even retain some of your limbs.”

Erik steps further into the room, eyes glued to Charles’ where they blink up at him from behind this man’s body and god. God. This is so wrong. So horribly, disgustingly wrong that it actually hurts. He knew coming here was a bad idea. He knew what Charles was doing. Knew that he was drunk. Though, granted, Charles doesn’t get well and truly sloshed at the drop of a hat, but Erik had known this was coming, had seen it coming for weeks.

The stress of study’s beating down on Charles even if he is a genius and even if he’s shrugged it off, Erik should have know it would end at the bottom of a liquor bottle with someone else's cock between his lips. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s caught him out at it either, but that was freshman year. Freshman year before he knew what the bitter swell of rage in his chest meant. Before he understood.

“You’re not moving fast enough,” Erik grates out, and then he’s in motion. He’s across the room in three strides, slamming this asshole who isn’t him into the wall he’d just been grinding his face into, moaning into, as Charles’ clever tongue stroked over his unworthy dick. Hands gripped tight in this douchebag’s argyle sweater vest, knee shoved between his legs, hands pinioning him to the wall. Erik has his throat caught between his palms, veins shifting beneath calloused fingers.

He supposes this guy is attractive enough. Neat dark hair, bright gray eyes, high cheekbones. Too many teeth for Erik‘s taste. His lips are swollen red, kiss bitten by Charles’ drunken mouth. Erik’s fingers tighten a little and the guys teeth click closed with a hiss.

Something is rubbing against Erik’s leg. A quick glance down tells him it’s Charles. Because of course it’s Charles. Because why wouldn’t it be Charles.

His head is resting against the wall, throat bared. He’s licking his lips and, christ, there’s precome running down his chin. His fingers where they’re curled loosely around Erik’s ankle have slipped up under the cuff of his jeans and are caressing the soft skin beneath.

Erik doesn‘t know if he wants to moan or cry. Instead he presses in hard with his knee, the guys now sickeningly flaccid dick caught beneath it, limp against his dress pants. Speaking of pants, Erik makes a mental note to burn the jeans he’s wearing.

“We,” rough twist of fingers, shaking breath, “Don’t,” release, and the guy is gasping for air, pushing past Erik and out of the room fast as he can. “Touch,” Erik whispers. He barley feels it as his fist cracks though the plaster in front of him.


When the all encompassing rage abates somewhat, simmers beneath the surface rather than blinding him entirely, Erik drops to his knee in front of his wayward best friend. Charles has this sloppy grin on his face and he looks more than a little wanton.

At some point between Erik’s entrance and his lovely display of failed anger management Charles has managed to shed both his jacket and half his t-shirt. A shirt which, upon closer inspection, turns out to be Erik’s AC/DC tee. He finds himself laughing, despite the fact that he still really wants to find Argyle Sweater and kill him with his bare hands.

“You complete and utter lush.” He says, reaching out to help Charles back into his clothes. Charles, however, seems to have another agenda entirely and tugs Erik forward by the lapels of his leather jacket.

“Wasn’t he pretty?” He slurs into Erik‘s chest, not noticing the way Erik stiffens and draws away from him.

“Who, Argyle? I’ve seen prettier,” the words are grated out, like he’s having trouble forcing them past his lips. Charles’ brows draw together in confusion.

“S’names not ‘Argyle,’” he mutters, “it’s…” His eyes loose focus a little and his brows, if at all possible, draw further together. A second later he bursts into a fit of hiccupping laughter.

“I don’t remember his name actually. Bugger. Not as good as the real thing anyway,” he gasps, still laughing like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world that he can’t remember the name of the man whose dick was just lodged down his throat.

Erik doesn’t even try to contain the growl that bubbles up in his chest, and really, this is getting ridiculous. He’s the one who’s supposed to get drunk and make horrible life decisions and forget his conquests names, not the other way around.

“Come on, Charles,” the words are pushed out through clenched teeth. “Time to go home.” He reaches over and slips his hands beneath Charles’ arms, cupping his shoulders and dragging him up with him as he stands. Charles maneuvers himself around until he’s pressed to Erik’s side, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. And Erik, oh how Erik wants to punch him. Wants to hurt him for making Erik hurt. But then Erik’s never been particularly fond of hurting Charles.

So, instead of pushing him out a window like he really, really wants to, Erik wraps an arm around his shoulders and begins the arduous process of dragging him back to their apartment.


Ten minutes later and they're in the street outside the dorms. Erik thinks it’s a miracle they made it out at all. The warm crush of bodies and heavy scent of alcohol and bad decisions pressed in on them all the way into the hall and down the stairs.

Now that they’re on the street though Erik kind of wishes they were back inside. With no people to waylay him and no threat of Charles wandering off and finding some new and previously un-plundered source of alcohol, there is nothing to distract him from the way Charles is clinging to him. He smells so good it should be criminal. People this drunk should smell like the inside of a landfill, not sugarcoated sin.

This is literally the worst night of Erik’s college career. Charles, were he sober, would probably argue for that time in sophomore year when they’d both been put on academic probation for the incident with the dean’s car and the bison. However, Charles is currently preoccupied with trying to worm his way into Erik’s jacket, which Erik is still wearing.

“God. Charles, really,” he huffs, removing the icy fingers that have crept up his shirt and around his ribs, trying to ignore the way all the blood in his body seems have sped to his already painfully hard cock. “Are you trying to kill me? Or do you want me to kill you? Because I am so, so close to pushing you out into oncoming traffic.”

Charles just frowns at him, looking up and down the empty street before taking a step away, wobbling so hard he almost falls over.

“I can’t help it if you’re warm,” he says, “Besides I don’t know what you’re talking ‘bout anyway. S’not like I’m poisonous or something.” His petulant little frown is back and his hair is flopping into his eyes and if Erik doesn’t get him home immediately he’s going to take him right there on the sidewalk.

He recaptures Charles’ wrist and begins to pull him along once more, if a tad less gently. He thanks all the gods he knows and a few he doesn't that their apartment is only two blocks away. “When you’re sober, I’m going to kill you. I’m going to make you regret the day you were born. I’m going to make you regret the day your parents were born. Jesus Christ, get your hand out of my shirt! Your fingers are like ice!”


The rest of the walk home is unmemorable save the fact that Charles manages to find the one unfrozen puddle in the tri-state area and promptly fall right into it. Now Erik is trying to hold onto a very wet, very cold, very English, and so very, very drunk Charles as he fishes around in his pockets. Keys are soon located, and though it takes him much longer than normal to fit them into the lock, they are soon inside.

Thank the gods.

“Alright, do you feel up to a shower, you slobbering drunk?”

Charles is leaning back against the door, apparently fascinated by overhead light fixture. He is shivering uncontrollably, deep body wracking spasms, Erik’s shirt plastered to his skin beneath his jacket.

“What?” he asks, looking for all the world like a drowned kitten.

“Nope, no showers for you then. You may actually drown yourself. Towel, then bed.” Erik grabs Charles’ by the shoulders and steers him towards the linen closet down the hall. Grabbing a fresh towel, Erik then shoves Charles towards his bedroom. His boots make sad little puddles on the floor as he plods along, Erik behind him, rubbing the towel roughly over his hair.

Erik is almost, almost home free. But then they reach Charles’ bedroom. It’s a good thing Charles is so organized, because getting him across the room to the bed would be an even more daunting trial with obstacles to avoid.

As it is, Charles reaches the bed and collapses onto it face first, not bothering to take off his clothes. Erik stares down at him for a moment, seriously considering leaving him there to die of hypothermia, or stupidity, whichever is more convenient. He leans over and taps him on the back instead.

“Charles. Charles, turn over,” when this raises no response, Erik leans over further, preparing to flip Charles over and strip him himself. “You owe me so, so much. I’m drawing dicks all over your face and sending you to class like that,” he’s ranting now, and he knows he’s ranting, but he just can’t seem to stop.

“ I’m hiding all the good highland scotch. You get none of it. I mean, I was saving it for your birthday, but now you get nothing. I wont even acknowledge your existence, let alone that you have a birthday. I may even sell your half of the flat to someone who isn’t an asshole and doesn’t go on wild benders and suck off random assholes whose names he can’t even remember and is absolutely heinous and can’t play chess and who I could never ever fall in love with.”

That last just kind of slips out, and Erik instantly regrets it, because the now face up Charles’ eyes snap wide open and focus on the face mere inches from his own.

“And of course, of course you would be sober up enough to hear that part. I hate you. Did you know?” The word “know” never actually passes Erik’s lips as more than a muffled “mff” sound because Charles has dragged his face down until their lips are smashed together.

It’s not the most effective kiss Erik has ever shared, in fact it’s rather lacking in finesse, but christ he’s wanted this for so long and never thought he could have it. Charles is soft and plaint beneath him and he tastes so fucking good.

Under the bite of vodka it’s just Charles and Erik should really, really be disgusted because Charles had some other guy’s dick in his mouth less then half an hour ago, but he can’t seem to tear himself away.

“Warm,” Charles murmurs into his mouth, and just like that Erik is snapped back to the present. He can’t do this. Charles is completely shit-faced, more than shit faced actually, and Erik is burning up suddenly.

And well, that’s a hand on his cock. How did Charles even get his hand down the waist of his jeans without him feeling it? Drunken British ninja will be the death of me, he thinks. Charles flicks a surprisingly deft finger over the head of his cock. Slick through the precome that’s already beaded there during the mobile cuddle session that was their walk home.

Erik hisses, because how is that so good? Charles has managed to pull him closer in the time it takes him to register what's happening. Soft lips ghost up over his ear, down the taut muscles of his neck, then sharp clever teeth nip at his collar bone, making him shudder.

“Want you,” Charles murmurs into the skin above his shirt collar, “Want to taste you,” his accent is thicker than usual and god, Erik is dying on the inside. How long has he waited for those words? For anything. And now that he has them he can’t use them. Fate is such a colossal  bitch.

But why not? A sick, niggling voice whispers at the back of his mind. It’s not like he’ll even remember. It’s not like he’ll want you when he’s sober. You’re damaged goods, Erik. And really, that’s enough of that.

Charles has his fingers curled into Erik’s hair now and is attempting to pull him back down. Erik groans.

“You. Are. Insufferable.” he says, punctuating each word with a swift kiss before drawing up and away, dragging Charles’ shirt off as he goes. He immediately throws the discarded towel over Charles’ chest and despite the whine he gets in return, stands up and backs towards the door.

“Don’t fall asleep with your pants on, you’ll get a cold and I really, really cannot deal with you whining at me for a week about how you’re dying. Again,” Erik says from the doorway.

He stands there long enough to see Charles shimmy awkwardly out of his wet jeans before flipping out the light and pulling the door half to.

“I hope you have the world’s most infamous hangover in the morning and you spend the entire day with your face in the toilet,” he shouts through the door. “And I hope you don’t remember any of it,” he adds silently to himself. He realizes that he’s not even really angry anymore, but then, such is the power of Charles Xavier. He receives a muffled grunt from the other side of the door before turning and heading down the hall to his own room.

If, when he’s safe between his sheets, he slips a hand between his legs to thoughts of Charles on his knees, spit slicked lips open and waiting for him, no one has to know. Besides, he’ll have worse things to deal with than guilt tomorrow anyway.


Charles wakes up and is immediately certain that something has died in his mouth.  He lays  where he is for a moment, spread out on top of the coverlet, cataloging his limbs before attempting to move.  Having ascertained that everything is, in fact,  attached, he rolls onto his side and off the bed.

However, everything does not go according to plan. His legs are, apparently, not yet fully awake and therefore reluctant to preform basic tasks such as standing. Rather than descending like proper landing gear they simply fold beneath him, carrying him to the floor with a dull thud.

"Bugger," Charles mouths into the carpet. The pile isn't doing anything for the horrendous dead animal dosed with old liquor taste in his mouth.  He rolls onto his back, feels goose flesh begin to rise up along his arms and legs. He's only wearing boxers. 

"Where the fuck are my pants?" he asks out loud, because he's always been the type of person who talks to themselves. Oh, that's right, he thinks, as memories of the night before slowly trickle in.  He lays there for a minute more, staring up at the ceiling, trying to reconcile his memories with reality. 

"..and who I could never ever fall in love with."

"Fuck," Charles murmurs, and begins the arduous task of dragging himself into the bathroom and locating a toothbrush. 


Erik, because he's a complete wanker, is still asleep when Charles pokes his head around the door at 6:23. He's curled up in a ball under the comforter, because it's cold and he'd always insisted that Charles needed the room with the properly working vent.

"I like the cold," he'd say, obstinately, whenever Charles tried to get him to trade.

So he's curled into a ball, cocooned by covers and, Charles discovers upon walking over to him, still in last night's clothes. Charles sits on the edge of the bed, leaning over to brush Erik's hair from his eyes. He remembers everything that happened last night.

"I think we may be the worlds two biggest idiots, my friend," he says, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Erik's hair. Erik shifts closer to him, rubbing his face into Charles' palm sleepily. "I love you too," Charles says, running his fingers through Erik's hair. Erik smiles in his sleep. 

The worlds two biggest idiots, Charles thinks, and decides to go for a run to clear his head.


The thing about Charles Xavier is this: He doesn’t get hangovers. Erik has never, throughout the duration of their friendship, seen him have the decency to muster so much as a headache after a long night of drunken revelry.

He can drink himself under a table, blackout, be arrested for misconduct (although admittedly both times that happened it was Erik‘s fault,) and while Erik crawls around hating his life and swearing never to drink again, Charles is as bright and cheerful as ever.

So of course that’s exactly how Erik finds him the next morning.

When Erik scrapes himself out of bed at , oh christ, seven am? Why in god’s name hadn’t he turned off his alarm last night? Charles is already sitting at their tiny kitchen table, drinking coffee from his favorite star trek mug and reading the newspaper.

His hair is faintly wet, curling around his ears and steadily dampening the back of his t-shirt. He’s clearly already taken a shower, which means he’s probably also gone for his morning run. The sick bastard. Erik steps further into the room, eyes tracking the path of a droplet as it streaks down Charles’ neck, over his collarbone, and under the edge of his shirt.

Erik could kill him, but he settles for slamming himself down in the chair across from him. Less blood this way. Charles, previously oblivious to Erik’s presence, jumps about a foot in the air, spilling undoubtedly over-sweetened coffee all down his front.

“Really, Erik was that necessary?” He demands, affronted. He drops the mug to the table top and stares down at his now sodden shirt. Erik’s eyes narrow to dangerous slits. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes and he’s had about three hours sleep total, not to mention his hand is fucking sore from it's lovely trip through the dorm wall.

“Necessary?” he purrs, the low seductive quality to his voice belaying the ill concealed fury thrumming under his skin. “Oh I’d say it was pretty fucking necessary,” he continues, leaning forward. “Do you know what else is necessary?”

If the completely stunned look on Charles’ face is any indication, he is totally  not expecting it when Erik's fist smashes into his jaw. Erik smirks, self-satisfied, as Charles flails backward comically, his chair carrying him hard onto the linoleum floor. Erik's already pained hand cries out in protest, but it's totally worth it.

Erik get's up and walks around the table slowly, a predator stalking his pray. Charles is laying spread eagle over the chair back, rubbing at what is undoubtedly going to be a very large knot at the back of his skull. 

"What the fuck was that for?" he moans, blue eyes half open and dazed. "Oh, don't worry. You deserved it," Erik says, extending a hand to Charles. He takes it and is summarily dragged to his feet.

"Oh. I'd rather hoped I'd imagined last night. " Charles mumbles. Erik groans eternally. Really, of all the times for Charles to remember his drunken escapades, why did this have to be one of them? Erik is fairly sure that someone, somewhere has it out for him. 

He takes a step back, then thinks better of his continued proximity to Charles and moves around the table, dropping into his chair once more. He wants to be as far away as possible for this conversation.  He'd lock himself in the bathroom and shout through the door, but that might seem slightly suspicious.

"So, uh," he starts, eyes roaming everywhere but where Charles has propped himself up against the countertop. "What do you remember?"

"Um, not much actually. More bits and pieces than anything," Charles murmurs, eyes narrowed in concentration. "I remember getting to the party, then you shouting about something and calling me a lush, which, by the way, I am not," Charles continues, smiling now. " I remember at some point being very wet and trying to crawl into your sweater, but not much else." Erik breaths a short lived sigh of relief.

"Oh, and I remember giving a very ill-conceived blow job to someone who I vaguely recall as being named 'Matt' and then basically attacking you with my face," Charles is out and out grinning now, wide and somewhat feral looking. Erik's head snaps up so fast he almost gives himself whiplash. He blinks once and Charles is... Still grinning at him. Fucking grinning at him. And what the fuck does that even mean?

"Oh, yes," Charles continues, and for all his voice changes he could be talking about the weather or the price of tea in China, or anything other than the drunken embrace he'd shared with his roommate last night. "I also seem to recall something in there about you being in love with me?" The muscles in Erik's face twitch.

Charles is still grinning at him but Erik sees what he thinks is a hint of trepidation in his blue eyes. Could just be the glint of pure, unrefined evil though.  He's really going to have to find a place near campus in which to stash the body of a dead Englishman. 

Erik gets to his feet slowly, pushing past the table and stepping over the still floored chair. He moves right into Charles' space, Charles, who is still grinning at him in a truly shit eating manner.  He can't believe Charles is smiling at him and he can't believe he's standing this close to something he's wanted for so long. 

Erik's heart is beating out a staccato rhythm in his throat and his breath is pearling white against Charles' lips in the cold morning air and Charles, who's apparently had enough of waiting,reaches up, cupping his face between broad warm, palms, and drags him down. Erik has time to gasp out, "You insufferable little shit," and then their lips are meeting and really, it's all very romantic. 

Their mouths fit together clumsily, rough and overeager. There's too many teeth and too much biting and a veritable war of tongues and all Erik can think is more. Charles' teeth close over his lower lip, tugging lightly and Erik groans.  Deft fingers have found their way inside the waist of his hastily donned jeans and when Charles' fingers scrape over his hips Erik can't restrain himself. He pushes Charles up onto the counter behind him, mouth wandering away from Charles' to explore the bare expanse of his neck. 

He smells faintly of the plain soap he uses that's been inexplicably driving Erik up the wall for years now, and Erik can't resist the urge to close his teeth over his throat. He's leaving a bruise and he knows he's leaving a bruise, but he can't bring himself to care. Charles is writhing against him, long fingers thoroughly mussing Erik's already sleep tousled hair and this is all he's ever wanted. 

Charles letting him, fuck, letting him have this. Letting him thoroughly ravage him against a countertop in their tiny kitchen. Charles sober and wanting him. Erik is sure he'll never be lucky again at anything in his entire life. 

"Jesus, fuck, Erik. Come here," Charles gasps, pulling him back up and attacking his mouth once more. He tastes just as he did last night, sugarcoated sin, minus the alcohol and the bitter aftertaste of someone else's semen. Erik's fingers are spread over his jaw and it feels like he could swallow Charles whole. His hand grazes over Charles'  jaw where the skin has already begun to redden and bruise. Charles hisses into his mouth but doesn't pull away.

"I'm not sorry I hit you," Erik says,"Totally not sorry." 

"Well you'll probably want to hit me again in a minute once you've regained basic brain function and or motor control," Charles murmurs, drawing away from Erik's lips once more to drag at his shirt. When, in his haste,  he fails to get it all the way off, he simple drags down the collar, dropping wet little kisses onto the faintly freckled shoulder made available to him. 

"Every other day you parade around shirtless. Ever. Single. Day," Charles says between kisses, "But of course not today."

"Motherfucker," Erik hisses, pulling back a little from where Charles' slim fingers have slipped around into the front of his jeans, closing over his cock. Charles lifts his head, grinning at him, then leans back a little, peering at him intently. 

"Why didn't you ever say?" He asks, and Erik just blinks at him a minute, hips stuttering and cognitive powers severely diminished. Charles adjusts his grip, grinning wickedly as he sets up a steady rhythm, hand squeezing and twisting over Erik's dick. 

Erik's lets his head fall forward onto Charles' shoulder, and really, he thinks, this is just untoward. "This is untoward," he rasps because, well, it's true. "Really. You can't just ask emotionally charged questions like that when you've got your hand on someone's--unngggh," Erik's response stutters into jumbled syllables as Charles' fingers tighten and he flicks a thumb under the head of Erik's cock, dancing over the nerves clustered there. 

"I call foul," Erik moans as Charles repeats the motion a second later. "Foul. So many fouls. Infinite fouls. Penalties everywhere. You are benched for life," he says, rolling his head slightly to glare up from Charles' shoulder. His fingers grip at Charles' hip for balance, probably gentler than he means for them to be.

Charles huffs out a laugh into Erik's hair. "Really, Erik. So far this morning you've made me spill hot coffee all over myself and punched me in the face. If anyone gets penalties for life it's you," Charles says, lowering his head a little and running his tongue into the spiral of Erik's ear. Erik makes a noise that is most definitely not a squeak. He's embarrassingly close to coming already and Charles really isn't helping the situation. 

Charles runs a hand under his face, lifting it from where it's pressed into his shoulder, "Don't be like that," he coos at Erik, and Erik isn't entirely sure he's not dreaming. Charles leans in further, recapturing his mouth and running his sly tongue over Erik's lips. Erik leans into him heavily as Charles' hand begins to move rapidly, the deft twist of his fingers matching up with the rhythm of his tongue as it tangles around Erik's.

I'm drowning, Erik thinks, and really it's not that far from the truth.
He's grinding his hips into Charles' where they're braced against the counter, trying to push himself into Charles, to get as close to him as he possibly can. One hand is still pressed too tight against Charles' jaw, the other pulling through the thick strands of his still damp hair. 

"I'm going to-" is as much as he gets out before Charles' tightening his fingers and twisting and Erik is coming,  searing, blinding, into Charles' hand. Really, it's just as well that he didn't bother changing out of yesterdays clothes. Erik's head falls back to Charles' shoulder. He's resting there, panting, one arm hooked around Charles' waist and reveling in the feel of Charles' fingers carding through his hair, when something occurs to him. 

"Did you just pull me off in our kitchen to distract me from the fact that I hate everything you have ever chosen to be?" he slurs, raising an eyebrow. "Frankly I'm offended by your obviously nonexistent opinion my scruples" Charles answers, grinning and kissing him again and, unsurprisingly, Erik finds that answer perfectly acceptable.

Erik is still kissing him two minutes later, slow and languorous like it wasn't before,  when Charles pulls back a little. He places his palms on either side of Erik's face, forehead bumping against his and his eyes are so impossibly blue. 

"I have class," he smiles into Erik's lips. Erik blinks at him, "Is there some point here?" Erik asks, because really it's too early in the morning for psychology. "Let me rephrase," Charles says, and the mischievous grin from earlier is back. "I'm going to class," he nips at Erik's upper lip, "Now."

"But," Erik reasons, totally not doing something extremely ridiculous like kissing the tip of Charles' nose, "Today is world religions right?" Charles nods, calm as ever. "Then why are you going exactly?" Erik asks, running his hands down Charles' sides to rest loosely at his hips.

"Because it is a class for which I receive a grade," Charles answers, all logic. "We can't all skip our classes and yet still inexplicably get top marks." Erik grins at him "Well I'm sorry everyone can't be a charming and roughish super-genius, but I distinctly remember your explanation for taking world religions in the first place." He straightens a little, puts on his best "Charles face" and precedes to do an almost perfect imitation of him. 

"The babes, Erik. It's all about the babes. World religions? The babes love world religions. It's a veritable babe hotspot," Erik recites, " I remember you saying this because you were very, very drunk at the time and Logan may or may not have gotten it on video," he continues, moving back into Charles' space. 

"Well then," Charles answers, shoving him back a few feet and trying very hard not to laugh. " I'd best be going hadn't I? Wouldn't want to disappoint the babes. You know how they pine."

Ten minutes later a very amused  Charles makes his way out into the hall, only to be pinned against their front door for one more drawn out goodbye kiss that he doesn't have time for. As Erik watches him hurry down the hall he thinks to himself, well, you've made a complete ass of yourself. Basically attaching yourself to him by the lips. You don't even know how the insufferable idiot feels about you.

He berates himself all the way back into the apartment, into the shower, into his clothes, out of the apartment, all along the walk to campus, and into his econ lecture. By the time he's seated in the back of the hall, jacket pulled up around his shoulders and hunched over his laptop, he's made himself thoroughly miserable.

He's going to actually discuss feelings with Charles when he gets home. Feelings. Honestly, what could be worse than feelings? Well, maybe hangovers, he concedes, but feelings still run a close second.  This is going to be the longest day of Erik's life. 


Erik’s right. It is the longest day of his life.

He spends all of econ running through possible and increasingly ridiculous scenarios. Charles was still drunk this morning. Charles only wants him for sex. Charles has gone mad and Erik will return home to find him laying on his stomach in the kitchen floor, counting individual grains of salt. 

By the time he stumbles out of his metalworking studio at 3:30, he's convinced that Charles was abducted by aliens and whatever was in his apartment this morning is nothing more than a clever imitation. The doppelganger's prime objective is obviously to preform sexual experimentation on him in order to further understand human biology.

As Erik walks over the bridge on the way home, he briefly debates whether or not throwing himself into the river would be the most sensible option. He's still debating with himself when he enters their building ten minutes later.

"No," he mumbles to himself as he climbs the stairs, "He's not a terminator. Just accept it." Erik makes it to the door, pressing his face onto the cool metal and taking a minute to breathe. I've way had too much caffeine today, he thinks, unlocking the door and stepping inside.  


Charles has this thing about the floor. He likes to sit in it. The habit had developed sophomore year, when he and Erik had first moved in together.  Erik hadn't had enough money for any proper furniture other than a bed and Charles was always weirdly obstinate about dipping into his trust fund. 

So, when they'd first moved in, the only furniture they'd had was a ragtag (but deceptively comfortable) old couch, two twin beds, a couple of dilapidated bookshelves, and a dinning set that had seen better days. 

Due to the lack of desks, Charles had made the floor his home. The carpet in his room had been completely covered in books and papers, all organized by subject and labeled with index cards.

Over the years, as they'd gotten jobs and earned grants, things had slowly begun to trickle in. A coffee table here, new chairs there. At some point during junior year new beds were purchased (doubles, thank god) and a desk had wandered in some time later.

However, despite the desk, Erik still finds Charles in the floor most days, seated Indian style or laying on his stomach with his nose buried in a book or his laptop.

That's where he is when Erik enters the apartment. He's sitting, legs crossed, in front of the couch. His laptop is propped up at eye level on the faded cushions and he's glaring at it like it's resisting torture. There's what looks to be a forgotten cup of tea cooling on the table behind him.

"You know," Erik chuckles from the doorway, all panic forgotten in the face of normalcy."It's not actually possible to write your thesis through intimidation alone."

"Shhh," Charles hisses, not bothering to look up from the screen. "I'm lulling it into a false sense of security," he whispers, eyebrows drawing further together.

"Yeah?" Erik says, hanging his coat and laptop bag on the rack by the door and wandering over to the couch. Because he's more than willing to admit to being an asshole, he throws himself down onto it, jolting Charles' laptop so hard it almost hits him in the face.

"Prat," Charles sighs resignedly, before reaching over to close the laptop and shoving it under the couch. He rests his forehead against the cushions in front of him and closes his eyes. Before he can talk himself out of it, Erik swings his leg over Charles' head, dragging himself over so that Charles is seated directly between his legs. Charles blinks, frowning up at him.

Erik leans over, brushing his lips over Charles' down turned ones, before running his fingers up into Charles' hair, drawing him in more fully.  Charles makes what can only be described as a keening noise, opening to him. His tongue slips out to meet Erik's, tangling roughly as he pushes himself up.

"Hi," Charles says, smiling when Erik draws back. Erik is particularly fond of the way Charles' hands have viced over his knees.

'Hi," Erik responds, running his thumb lightly over the place where Charles' face has begun to purple. Fuck, but it looks painful. He's starting to regret hitting him, as much as it was deserved.

"So, about this morning..." Erik begins, drawing back from Charles, "I--" Erik starts, but Charles interrupts him.

"Shut up." And all the thoughts Erik had entertained about meaningful discussion and finally telling Charles all about his infamous feelings drop out of his head. He watches silently as Charles runs sure hands up his legs, pulling himself to his knees and dipping his head forward, eyes glued to Erik's. 

Erik's mouth is dry as the desert as Charles' fingers deftly unzip his flies. He's already half hard when Charles eases a hand inside his boxers, clever fingers running over him and Erik's cock twitches with interest, blood rushing to the places where his fingertips touch. Charles smiles at him, open and completely incongruous. 

"Come here," Charles commands, laughter edged with lust dragging his voice down a register. Erik can't imagine what his own face looks like, but it's probably more than a little embarrassing. He slides forward, hissing as Charles' hand begins to stroke firmly up his cock. His mind goes entirely blank when Charles slips it from his pants, leaning forward to lick a strip up the underside. 

Charles grins at him once more before lowering his head completely, sealing his lips over the tip and swirling his tongue around it. Erik's hips twitch a little, straining against his own willpower and Charles' fingers where they've latched onto his thighs. Charles' eyes are on him, clearly laughing at him, lips stretched over the head and ridiculously pink. Charles begins to move, his hand stroking up as his mouth works down, twisting and slippery and so fucking good. 

When Charles relaxes his jaw and takes Erik in all the way, throat muscles fluttering lightly around the head of his cock and eyes still glued to Erik's, Erik knows he's never going to last like this.  His fingers, where they've twisted into Charles'  hair, yank up roughly. Charles, horrid little monster that he is, scrapes his fingernails lightly up the shaft of Erik's dick as he pulls off with a wet pop

"What?" Charles asks, all innocence. His hair is falling into his eyes and his lips are bruised and red and shiny and he knows exactly what. Erik would glare at him if he could summon the the strength it would take to control the muscles in his forehead. 

"You are ridiculous," he says, because Charles is ridiculous. He is probably the most ridiculous person Erik's ever met, and the feeling is more than likely mutual. Charles quirks an eyebrow at him, then drops his lips back to Erik's neglected dick, kissing the tip. His tongue flickers into the slit briefly before Erik pulls him upwards once more. Charles' knees settle on either side of Erik's waist as his fingers find the hem of Erik's shirt.

"Get your kit off," Charles says, running his hands up under the worn fabric and pulling it up over Erik's head. Erik is more than happy to comply, first reaching up to peel Charles' sweater off before raising up and kicking off his own boxers and jeans. Charles' mouth is on him now, wet and hot over the curve of his shoulder as he claws at Charles' pants, flinging them across the room with much more force than necessary. 

Charles recaptures Erik's mouth, bare curve of his ass rubbing tantalizingly over Erik's dick. 

"Oh my fucking god, Charles. Oh my god. Please tell me we have lube somewhere in this apartment. Suntan lotion, shampoo, olive oil, anything," Erik gasps into Charles' neck, nipping the words into the flushed skin there. 

"Come on," Charles laughs, dragging Erik up and after him to his bedroom. After much slamming into walls and one very memorable moment against Charles' bedroom door, they make it to the bed. Charles falls back onto it, dragging Erik down with him, and Erik has a weird moment of déjà vu. But this is not last night and Charles is sober and beautiful beneath him, arm reaching blindly for his nightstand, tongue burning a path down Erik's torso. 

His fingers close over the handle, yanking it open and searching around inside, lips searing patterns into Erik's very bones. When he lifts out a packet of condoms and a small container of lube Erik pulls back, raising an eyebrow at him. 
"What?" Charles asks, tracing a finger over said brow, "I knew you'd come around eventually." 

Erik makes a choked sounding noise, sliding his arm under Charles' back and flipping him over in one neat twist. Charles huffs out a laugh that quickly becomes a sort of purring noise, Erik's fingers soft over his spine.  Erik smirks. Such a cat, he thinks, continuing to pet him as he gropes around for the discarded lube.

He files the feline tendencies away for later, popping the cap on the lube and pouring a generous dollop onto his palm, spreading it over his fingers. Charles shivers as Erik rubs one slick digit over the crease of his ass, teasing at the tight ring of muscle there. The shiver turns to a full out spasm as Erik pushes it inside, crooking the tip into searing heat. 

He drops open-mouthed kisses to the base of Charles' spine, lips and tongue ghosting over the notch of bone there. Charles is pliant and soft beneath him, muscles occasionally twitching with pleasure. Erik smiles into the skin of his back, lips moving lower, tongue trailing further down.

"Erik what are you--" Charles' sentence trails off into unintelligible syllables as Erik's tongue trails over the crease of his ass, over his hole, stopping to lave delicately at the skin of his perineum. Erik  presses in a second finger, licking up to accompany the digit with his mouth. His lips trace over the the taut, wrinkled skin, tongue dipping inside as he scissors his fingers apart. 

He keeps up a steady rhythm, tongue slippery and probing, until Charles is keening into the mattress, hips stuttering and grinding into the mattress beneath him. 

"Erik, jesus, enough. Please, please," Charles pants, Erik relents, slipping his fingers free and sliding up Charles' body. "I just--" Charles stutters wildly, flipping over to meet Erik, biting at his jaw, "need you to fuck me, " he finishes, fingers slipping down and around Erik's cock. 

Erik growls, wrenching himself up and out of Charles' grasp before savagely ripping a condom open and rolling it on. He lines up, head of his cock pressed tight against Charles' ass, and leans to recapture his lips. They bite at each other as Erik pushing in, steadily, achingly deeper, Charles moaning into his mouth and vibration beneath him. 

Erik starts out slow, bottoming out before drawing back, just the head of his cock still caught inside. Charles is scrabbling at his shoulders for purchase, tongue and teeth seeking out every rise and dip of Erik's throat. Erik manages to keep his rhythm for some time, Charles' nails raising furrows in the skin of his back, Charles' dick caught hard and aching between them. 

Charles' mouth seeks his once more, tongue sweet and heavy with the taste of Erik's skin, and he can't control himself anymore. His thrusts turn from slow and steady to rough and driven, pushing Charles up the mattress. 

"Bleeding, bloody, buggering fuck, Erik, harder," Charles gasps into Erik's ear. And Erik really doesn't know how much longer he can last. His hips piston, cock pounding into Charles, drawing all sorts of wonderful, gasping, hiccuping noises from him that Erik swallows greedily.

Erik leans further onto one arm, hitching Charles' leg up a little more and gripping his cock at the base. His strokes are slow and measured, maddening counterpoint to his wildly juddering hips. Charles keens into his shoulder, biting down hard. Erik likes the idea of him leaving a bruise.

"Is it pon farr or something?" Erik pants out, raising himself up a little further in order to see Charles face. His head is thrown back, the long, milk white column of his neck streaked red with exertion and the faint beginning of bruises. His eyes are half closed, eyelids flickering each time Erik slams into him.

"Don't," Charles moans,"make Star Trek references," he hooks his ankle around Erik's thigh, pulling him impossibly deeper, "when I can't properly tease you for it," he gasps out, reaching up and fisting his hands in Erik's hair. He drags his face down roughly and Erik is never going to get over how fucking blue his eyes are,or how little of them he can see behind his blown pupils.

"Don't-" Whatever Charles was going to say is lost as Erik's next thrust catches over his prostate, ripping a low, almost pained sound from somewhere deep in Charles' chest.

"Don't what?" Erik asks, the wicked grin evident in his voice, as he leans in, nipping at Charles' bruised jaw. Charles whimpers and Erik's dick jumps a little inside him, drawing forth another low sound.

"You're going to kill me one day," Erik says, recapturing Charles's mouth just in time to catch his choked growl as the Erik's hand on his cock tightens. "You'll like it, I assure you," Charles pants. His hips are stuttering up in aborted little motions now, pinned by Erik in him and above him.

Erik gives one more rough twist and feels Charles' come spurt hot over his hand. Charles bites down on his shoulder, and Erik knows that's going to leave a mark. If he could think past the coiling pleasure at the base of his spine he might even manage to be pleased about it. Charles is brutally tight around him, and he can't resist any longer. 

He comes in long, drawn out spurts, dick twitching feebly as he's milked dry. He pulls out roughly, ignoring Charles' hiss of discomfort, tying off the condom before hurling it in the general direction of the bin. That done, he flops down, dropping face first onto Charles' stomach. 

"You do realize what you've just done, don't you?" Charles' voice drifts through his awareness from somewhere above him, sated and sleepy. He ignores it in favor of concentrating on the feel of the fingers that have begun to card through his hair. 

"Rocked your world?" he mumbles in answer, a response which he will later blame on the brain cells that seemed to have gone missing mid-coitus. "Yes, well, that too," Charles chuckles sleepily, "But actually I was referring to the veritable puddle of come you just dropped your face into."

Charles' chuckle mutates into riotous, full blown laughter as Erik rockets up, clawing at his face. He sighs disgustedly, pinching Charles hard on the thigh before getting up and wandering to the bathroom in search of a washcloth and his dignity. 


Charles is dozing, eyes closed, spread out over the mattress, when Erik comes out of the bathroom with a damp towel. Erik watches him for a moment before whipping the towel across the room. It hits him squarely in the chest with a loud plop, sending him bolt upright.

"Bastard," Charles growls, quickly wiping the come from his stomach and hurling the towel at Erik's head. Erik dodges it neatly, much to Charles chagrin, and throws himself down onto the bed. He rolls on top of Charles, who attempts to glare at him but just manages to look really, really ridiculously pleased instead.

"I hate you," Charles says, matter-of-factly. He's still grinning, making Erik grins widen in answer. Erik will never get over the way his entire fucking face lights up when he's happy. "So should we--" Charles begins, and Erik thunks his head down onto his now semen-free stomach. 

"No awkwardness until sustenance, okay?" It comes out more of a muffled "mmmm vmsvsksdjds kk?" than actual words, but Charles has always been able to read his mind anyway. When Charles turns his face into the pillows and mumbles something that sounds remotely like "chinese food," Erik shoves himself up once more and wanders off in search of the phone.


Thirty minutes later, having thoroughly scandalized the delivery guy by answering the door in nothing more than a hastily knotted sheet, Erik trundles back into Charles' bedroom, arms laden down with much more food than was probably advisable. 

He dumps it on the floor at the foot of the bed, then stoops to grab Charles' ankles, hauling him backwards off the mattress and into the floor. 

"Watch yourself Lehnsherr," he says, pushing the hair out of his eyes before pulling himself into sitting position.

"Aw, it's cute how you think you're intimidating," Erik smirks at him, lowering himself to the floor to peruse the contents of the bags. All of the sudden he's fucking ravenous. Charles makes a noise of protest when he begins pulling out containers and organizing them on carpet, but Erik ignores him. Kitchen tables are for suburban families and lonely workaholics, not people who've just had  marvelous, life-altering sex. 

They eat messily, chopsticks picking through cartons, shoulders brushing companionably, legs spread out before them. Erik's still wrapped in his sheet and Charles is wearing a pair of truly hideous soccer shorts that Erik had begged him not to put on.

They fight over who gets the last piece of broccoli with brown sauce and Erik can't get over how fucking normal it all is.  Yesterday he was walking in on Charles with some prick and now he's sitting next to him, watching him chomp on his broccoli victoriously, an unruly strand of hair flopping into his eyes. 

Having demolished the broccoli, Charles leans over and drags a box out from under his bed, removing lid to reveal entirely too much candy for any one person. He lifts out a thing of milk duds as Erik looks on with two parts horror one part disgust, ripping the top off the box and dumping a couple into his mouth.

"Dude, I find your exam week eating habits to be deeply, deeply frightening," Erik says, setting down the rest of his mei fun and leaning back against the bed. Charles shrugs, nonchalant, before popping another handful into his mouth. 

"You like me anyway," he says around a mouthful of chocolate, sparing Erik a disdaining glance. "Yep. I really like you. You're such a joy to be around," Erik says, in what he hopes is a sarcastic tone of voice, bumping Charles' shoulder hard with is own. He must not have pulled it off though, because Charles looks at him thoughtfully, head cocked slightly to the side, before reaching up and stuffing a couple milk duds into Erik's mouth. 

Erik glares at him, jaws working to masticate the chocolate coated caramel, and Charles sighs, dropping his head onto Erik's shoulder. "It's okay, I'm rather fond of you as well," he says, and Erik can hear the contentedness seeping into his voice,  wrapped tight around the elongated vowels and fatigue roughened syllables. 

He swallows the last of the candy, reaching up to rest an arm over Charles' shoulders. "I guess that makes us a pair of assholes then," he says, turning to rest his chin atop Charles' head. He feels rather than hears Charles' answering laugh and really, he thinks, taking in the fast food wreckage and tangled sheets and three years of wasted time, that's exactly what they are.

"I'm moving into your room though," he says, voice ruffling Charles' hair "Mine's colder than the arctic."  He chooses to interpret the grunt and bite to the shoulder he receives in turn as assent, closing his eyes and leaning further into the warmth that is Charles curled against his side. 

"You're not a terminator, are you?" He says into Charles' hair, fingers ghosting up over his jaw. And he must have sounded truly concerned because Charles mumbles "Wasswrong?" pulling back slightly to look up at him. "Nothing," Erik says, grinning when Charles drops his head back down with a huff, forehead thunking dully against Erik's bare shoulder. 

Absolutely nothing.