There was a special orientation on the first day of the semester for all of the so-called nontraditional students ("mandatory," Erik's advisor told him, with a gleam in her eye). It was a waste of time, mostly pointless mingling and socializing. What little useful information given was mostly just repetition of what Erik had already read in all of the literature the university had provided. For the most part, the other students are much older than Erik, middle-aged or retired, going back to school as some sort of self-improvement project.
Erik thinks he has very little in common with any of them. But then he has his first class filled with teenagers and kids in their early twenties, arrogant and entitled and so very fucking young, and he has to reconsider.
Erik's family hadn't had much money, but they'd lived just within the boundary of one of the better school districts, and Erik had gone to school surrounded by mobs of affluent classmates. Most of them had gone straight to college after graduation. Erik had stayed at home and gotten a job at a warehouse. After two years, he saved up enough to move out on his own and start taking classes at the public university.
He'd almost finished his first year when his mom got sick. He moved back home to take care of her. It took her a long time to die. Years. Afterwards, he went back to work at the warehouse. Work, home, sleep: repeat, over and over, an undistinguished haze.
One night over dinner, his father cleared his throat and ventured tentatively if Erik had considered school again. It was just, he had seemed so eager and excited about it when he was younger...
Something shifted in Erik's brain, breaking himself open suddenly to all the things he had forgotten to want.
There are rules against this sort of thing, of course. Erik has avoided looking them up himself, as though ignorance of the exact regulations is some sort of excuse or defense. He doesn't want to know. The professor would surely get into trouble, but Erik doesn't know if the disciplinary action would be more like a slap on the wrist or if his job would actually be on the line. Perhaps Erik could be in hot water, too.
It doesn't matter. He doesn't care. He wants, so fucking badly, and he's not going to stop himself from taking what he wants, not anymore. He thinks he's earned it.
Xavier's office is tiny, dominated by the books overflowing the shelves. It's located at the end of the hallway, and it's an odd shape, all corners and weirdly sloping ceilings; it's Xavier's first year, Erik knows, and that means he's low man on the totem pole, all the least desirable positions. It's certainly why he's teaching Erik's class, this boring broad survey that he (and he expects most of the others) is only taking for the general education requirement.
The room smells like pipe smoke, too, though Erik's never seen Xavier smoke. Maybe that's just an illusion of his inexplicable wardrobe, old and stuffy as it is. It seems like it should smell of pipe smoke.
It's barely three steps from the door to Xavier's desk. There's an extra chair, too, set up to face the desk, for all those curious inquiring students who show up at office hours. Erik has to shove it out of the way to make room.
Erik crowds Xavier against the desk, pinning him there with Erik's hands on his hips. He kisses Xavier, and Xavier kisses him back, just as hungry for it, just as desparate.
"Fuck, Xavier," Erik gasps against his mouth, "you're so fucking pretty."
Xavier's hands tangle in Erik's hair. "Charles, call me Charles-"
"Charles," Erik says. It's practically a moan, as he shoves his hips forward, grinding their erections together through the layers of clothing. Erik likes the way the name fills his mouth, the way it rolls around on his tongue so satisfyingly. "God, I just want to suck your cock. Can I do that? Can I suck you off?"
The noise Charles makes is high-pitched and sounds almost pained. He kisses Erik again, hard and messy. Erik takes that as a yes.
He reaches behind Charles - there's crap on the desk, spread all across it, and he's too impatient to do anything but sweep it all away, pushing it to the floor in one swoop, the crash muted by carpet. Charles makes a surprised "oh" as Erik lifts him up, sitting him on the desk's edge.
Erik drops to his knees and gets to work.
"Oh, god," Charles says, awed, "I think- I think you're going to be the death of me. Yes, Jesus, use your fingers, just like that."
Erik pulls off of Charles's cock just long enough to say, "If you want, I'll fuck you next. Right here on this desk."
Charles makes a strangled noise and kicks his heel heavily against Erik's back.
The next time Erik comes to Charles's office, the desk is perfectly cleared and clean. Perfectly, wonderfully tidy.
There's no way, Erik thinks, to take that as anything but an invitation.