Normally, Erik doesn’t open anything Azazel sends him without a) running a full virus check, b) making sure he’s not the only person to whom the e-mail is addressed, c) texting him to ask what it is (almost always pointless, but if it’s something boring and class-related, he’ll usually say), and d) crossing his fingers and praying that he won’t end up having to take his laptop to his resident computer assistant for the five millionth time. At this point, the RCA has stopped believing that it’s Erik’s best friend’s fault, and just thinks Erik's a pervert, or a sex addict, or something, and the only way Erik manages to get through the teasing and leering is by glaring and staying as silent as he can.
(The last time, the RCA had even had the nerve to suggest porn sites where Erik could go without ending up with a computer more virus-ridden than the CDC, which was patently ridiculous; Erik does not need help finding his own porn, okay, he just needs a best friend who’s less of a troll. Or more robust anti-virus software. Or both.)
But this time, when Erik opens the e-mail from Azazel (after running the full virus check and noting the lack of attachments and the decent spelling in the subject line—even if it does say “DUDE OMG YOU HAVE TO LOOK AT THIS”), all he sees is the words, “THIS IS SO HOT,” followed by a seemingly innocuous link to a porn tumblr (fuckyeahfucking, how original). And while tumblr is certainly the dregs of the internet, where all bad things go to either die or produce millions of capslocking, squeeing babies, Erik has yet to hear of anyone getting a virus from it. (With his luck, of course, he'll be the first.)
A quick safe search reveals the site won’t send Erik running back to the RCA, so he shrugs, thinking, What the hell, and opens the link.
And stares. Then stares some more.
He thinks he blinks at some point—at least, biology would demand he do so, or he’d be going blind right about now (to be honest, if this is the last thing Erik sees, he’ll go blind pretty happily)—but his eyes stay glued to the screen. He doesn’t think he could look away even if he wanted to. (He definitely doesn’t want to.)
It’s a gifset of a guy putting on his pants. And okay, watching some random guy getting dressed should not get Erik from zero to rock-hard so fast that he could probably win some kind of Olympic medal. But everything about the gifs, from the way the guy’s ass jiggles as he jumps and pulls the waistband of his jeans all the way up, to the seductive swing of his hips once his ass is fully hidden, to the way the guy’s cock swings forward before it, too, is tucked away (and fuck, what Erik would give to see that cock hard and jutting out from those jeans, to close his lips around the head and suck), is so damn perfect, and so exactly tailored to Erik’s tastes, that before he knows it, his hand is down his pants and he’s breathing heavily as he jerks himself off, hard and fast.
He barely remembers to grab some tissues so he won’t get jizz all over his computer (he knows from experience that it’s a real bitch to get out of a keyboard, and it makes everything stick; and then he'll have to go to his RCA, who'll give him that awful, knowing smirk he always gives when Erik goes to him in despair)—and then he’s coming, coming harder than he has in a long time, his entire body tensing and arching as his eyes slam shut, his jaw drops open, and he shoots off into the tissues wadded around his dick.
When he’s caught his breath and regained the ability to see clearly, the unnamed guy’s ass and cock are still bouncing up and down on his computer screen, blissfully unaware of what they’ve just made Erik do. He groans and flops back in his chair, wrenching his eyes from the screen and staring up at the ceiling of his room as his heart rate slows back to normal.
“Fuck,” he breathes. And then, louder: "fuck."
Maybe Azazel isn’t the worst best friend in the world.
That isn't the end of it. It should have been; Erik is neither sex-starved nor porn-deprived enough to justify keeping the tab open after that initial, frantic jerk-off. But even after he's bookmarked the page in three different browsers and saved it to his porn folder (internal and external hard drives), he can't bring himself to close it—leading to several near-misses while he's looking things up in class.
Two weeks later, the tab is still open, and Erik's jerking off to it so regularly that he essentially has every moment of the gifset memorized. To say that he's obsessed is something of an understatement. He hasn't gone looking for porn in weeks; nor has he turned to any of the other images or videos saved on his computer.
Well, okay, he has gone looking for porn, but only insofar as that involves looking for more images or gifs or videos of Gorgeous Cock and Ass. Unfortunately, as far as Erik's been able to tell, the guy hasn't done anything else, or if he has, it's been under a different pseudonym. The original tumblr gifs link back to a post from a blog with a URL of "unzipmygenes.tumblr.com" that is 90% nerdy bio jokes, 7% technobabble, 2% random crap, and 1% That Gifset. As far as Erik can tell from scouring every single post on that tumblr, said gifset is not only the only NSFW post; it's also the only post that shows the poster himself. Even then, though That Gifset post is tagged with "#gpoy," there's no guarantee that it's actually a picture of unzipmygenes. The only personal details Erik has been able to glean from his stalking are that the guy is a student of some sort, as evidenced by the posts about problem sets and exams, and that he's at least cursorily interested in lab sciences, as the random reblogs from whatshouldwecallgradschool suggest. It's less than Erik would like to know—but at least he has those gifs.
Eventually, Erik's masturbation fantasies evolve from replaying the gifs to imagining in explicit detail exactly what he'd do to that ass and cock if he ever encountered it: the way he'd grip that ass and squeeze it, spank it, bite it, leaving his mark; the way he'd stroke that cock and rub its tip along his lips, smearing precome on them before opening his mouth and sinking down, all the way down, cupping and teasing those balls in his hand as he sucked eagerly and messily, spit dripping down his chin. He dreams of fucking that ass, being fucked by that cock; he's never wanted anything, or anyone, more.
It's kind of becoming a problem.
On the Friday before Dead Week, Erik stumbles into his dorm early in the evening, bleary-eyed and half-delirious from having pulled an all-nighter and then some to finish the stupid Archaeology paper his sadistic professor had decided to make due at 9pm tonight. (Seriously, Gen Ed requirements are the worst.) He hasn’t slept in over thirty-six hours, and all he wants is to crawl into his bed and pass out for the next day—or possibly forever; he hasn’t decided.
So, of course, as soon as he enters the dorm, he’s hit by the sounds of what appears to be a mini-rager. Closer inspection finds the epicenter in the RCA’s room—which, because Erik just can’t catch a break, is right below his own. He groans to himself and debates the merits of trekking back to the library and sleeping in a carrel; he’s not sure the extra hours of sleep would be worth the inevitable full-body soreness, or the embarrassment he’d face if anyone he knows happened upon him there. On the other hand, he is moments away from collapsing right here in the middle of the hallway, and if he’s kept awake too late by this party, his entire weekend is going to be shot. Given that finals start in a little over a week, that isn’t really something he can afford.
He dithers in the hallway, fiddling with the strap of his messenger bag as he thinks—or, really, as he tries to keep himself upright while he pretends to debate a decision he’s already made. There’s no way he’s going to get back over to the library, so he’s just going to have to suck it up and hope his earplugs will block enough of what’s going on for him to at least fall asleep. Now he just has to make it down the hallway without being noticed...
Damn. As he turns around, Erik tries to arrange some sort of pleasant expression on his face. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t succeed, but it doesn’t matter, really.
The dorm’s RCA is leaning out of the doorway to his room, hair mussed, cheeks flushed, a beer in one hand. He reaches out with his other hand and says, again, “Erik! Hey!”
Erik sighs. “Charles,” he grits out. “Hi.”
“How are you?” Charles asks brightly, trotting down the hallway. He throws an arm over Erik’s shoulder and starts maneuvering them back to his room. “I haven’t seen you in ages.” The suggestive look accompanying this statement makes it clear that "see" is code for "wipe your hard drive and reformat and restore your data to get rid of yet another porn-related virus while spending the whole time flirting and poking fun at you."
“I’ve been busy,” Erik replies. “Classes and stuff—you know how it gets.”
“I do indeed,” Charles says sagely. “That’s why we’re drinking.” He takes a long pull of his beer to demonstrate; Erik tries to avoid staring at the pale skin of his exposed throat, at the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, but he’s lost the battle before it’s begun.
Charles releases the beer with a smack of his lips and an audible sigh. Erik rolls his eyes; Charles is so ridiculously obvious that it’s a miracle anyone agrees to sleep with him. (And agree to it they do, if campus rumor—not to mention the regular parade of walk-of-shamers Erik sees when he leaves for class in the mornings, or the noises he hears through the oddly thin floors—is to be believed.)
“Come on, Erik,” Charles says, smiling invitingly. “Join us!”
“I really can’t—” Erik protests.
“Nonsense,” Charles says, waving off Erik’s protests as he drags him into his room, which appears to have been transformed into a vague approximation of a club. There’s a makeshift dance floor denoted by Dance Dance Revolution pads, one of those cheap plastic disco balls spinning in the middle of it; Charles’s desk is laden with alcohol and EANABs of all kinds, along with a number of jiggers and cocktail shakers; and there’s even—fuck Erik’s life—a karaoke machine, though thankfully, it’s not currently in use. There aren’t too many people; Charles’s room is big, certainly, but not that big. Still, there are enough to make a great deal of noise, and Erik resigns himself to hanging out here for as long as it takes to get drunk enough that he’ll fall asleep as soon as he gets up to his room, even with the party and the thin floors.
“Here,” Charles says, leading Erik over to the drink table and shoving a red cup in his hand. “You look like shit; drink.”
“Thanks,” Erik says dryly, accepting the cup. He peers into it—he's exhausted, not stupid—and asks, “What’s in it?”
“Garden variety screwdriver,” Charles says.
“You forgot to mention the amaretto,” says a pretty blonde Erik’s never seen before, as she sidles up and leans on Charles’s shoulder. Charles laughs, a bright, bubbly thing that lights up his whole face.
“Raven!” he exclaims, slipping his arm around her and turning his head to press a kiss to her temple. “You’re looking radiant, as always.”
“And you’re drunk, as always,” she retorts, rolling her eyes; but she doesn’t push him away.
“Not always,” Charles protests. “It's just that you only visit when there’s a party, and of course I’m going to drink at a party; it’s simply good manners.”
“Sure,” Raven says. Then she jerks her head at Erik, raising an eyebrow. “Speaking of good manners, are you going to introduce me to tall and broody here, or what?”
Before Erik can protest that he is not broody, just exhausted, Charles perks up and says, “Oh! Yes. Erik, this is Raven, my lovely younger sister. Raven, this is Erik.” Charles beams, and Erik just knows whatever he says next is going to be ridiculous and embarrassing, and he’s right: “Erik here is my best customer.” He shoots Erik a look through his lashes; Raven looks speculatively between the two of them.
“Not like that,” Erik says hurriedly. “We’ve never...”
“It’s true,” Charles says, with a theatrical sigh. “More’s the pity.” He shakes his head. “No, what I meant was that Erik here,” he nudges Erik with his hip, “is always asking me to, ah, debug his laptop—though he hasn’t come to see me for several weeks.” He winks at Erik. “Took my advice, did you?”
“No,” Erik says shortly. “It wasn’t necessary.”
Charles raises an eyebrow—but before he can comment, he’s called away to fix the karaoke machine.
As soon as Charles is out of earshot, Raven whirls on Erik. “Stop looking like someone killed your cat," she says, expression hard. “And,” she adds, nodding at the drink in his hand, “you should probably drink that. The amaretto improves it; and as much as you seem to hate him, I swear Charles isn’t trying to roofie you.”
“I didn’t think he was,” Erik says, a little taken aback.
“Then maybe you should stop looking at him like you think he’s going to club you over the head and drag you back to his cave to have his way with you,” she says shortly. “If you’re not interested, just tell him. Don’t do this weird glowering and sulking act—it’s kind of attractive, but it gets old fast. It's already old, and I've known you for all of three minutes.”
“Who the hell asked you?” Erik snaps, maybe a little more sharply than usual.
“No one,” she says, with a shrug. “But he’s my brother. I have to look out for him, or no one will.” She shakes her head. “Just...think about it.”
And then she sashays away, the pendulum of her hips almost an exact mirror of Charles’s. Erik idly wonders if she got it from him, or if it’s the other way around, or if their mother walks like that, too.
Then he thinks about what Raven actually said, and he grimaces and takes a defensive sip of his drink. (She was actually right about the amaretto, which only serves to irritate him further. He’d throw the drink away, but he’s not angry enough to waste perfectly good alcohol for the sake of his pride.) Then he takes another sip, and another...
He wakes up the next morning with the worst hangover he’s had in years, no voice (he has a vague memory of belting out “It’s My Life” into the karaoke mic sometime late last night), and (thankfully? disappointingly?) no one else in his bed.
It’s both awful and exactly what he’d needed.
The thing is: Erik doesn’t hate Charles Xavier. It’s a common enough misconception, but Erik finds Charles more irritating, more frustrating, than anything else. There are plenty of reasons for this: he’s condescending; he’s arrogant; he has no concept of personal space; he’s spoiled, clearly born to wealth and privilege, and it sometimes shows in a way that grates on Erik, as when he’d offered to buy Erik an actually decent antivirus software (or, better yet, he’d insisted, a Mac—which, fuck no); and, to top things off, everyone else loves him. Even Emma Frost, who hates everyone, loves Charles.
But for Erik, the biggest problem he has with Charles is that it would be easy, so easy, to fall into the same trap as everyone else: to slide into Charles’s orbit and never work up the courage or the willpower to leave, always craving that small piece of attention Charles gives to whomever he’s fucking that week. Charles constantly hits on Erik, but never shows any sign of follow-through; frustrating as it is, it’s...better that way. Erik can lust from afar, if he must lust at all, and there’s no danger of him developing any kind of real feelings for Charles.
(Emma tells him his attitude is unhealthy; Erik tells her to look in a mirror. Azazel just laughs at all of them and keeps spamming everyone—but especially Erik—with porn of dubious quality and origin.)
Besides, now that he has the unnamed guy of the ass-and-cock gifset, Erik doesn’t need Charles. He has a new unattainable fantasy, one that doesn’t raise his eyebrows at Erik or criticize his taste in porn or listen to music too loudly on the weekends or laugh in a way that makes Erik just want to pin him to the wall and kiss the laughter off his lips.
In fact, since Azazel sent him that gifset, he’s barely even thought about Charles at all. He supposes that’s one positive outcome of his obsession.
Well, that and the really, really, really amazing orgasms.
Spring break arrives two weeks later, and not a moment too soon. Erik is one of the few people left in his dorm after everyone has cleared out to warmer, more party-filled climes; he'd entertained vague thoughts of heading home to see his mother, but he’s still got a metric asston of work to do for his thesis, so here he'll stay.
As Erik learns when he answers a knock on his door the first Sunday of break and is presented with a bottle of wine and a chess set, Charles has stayed, too.
“I thought now might be a good time to take you up on that game you promised me,” Charles says. He must be drained from finals, Erik thinks; he looks less brashly confident than usual, possibly even nervous.
“Promised—?” Erik asks, looking between Charles and his proffered items. “I don’t...”
“It was at my pre-Dead Week party,” Charles says. “You saw my set, you asked about it, I asked if you played, you said you did, and you promised you’d—and I quote—‘Kick my ass up and down the hallway until I begged for mercy.’” He grins, cocking a hip. “So I thought I’d take you up on it, given we’re two of the only people around here.” After a brief pause, he adds, with a slight air of chagrin, “Well. It was that or drink miserably and pathetically alone in my room.”
Erik shakes his head. “I don’t remember this at all.”
“Oh,” Charles says, straightening up and letting his arms fall to his sides. “Well, then, sorry for bothering you, I'll just—”
“But you brought wine, so you might as well stay,” Erik finishes. He's not quite sure what’s got into him. It certainly isn’t Charles’s strangely disappointed look, or Erik's vague feelings of loneliness. Definitely not.
He just...hasn’t played chess in a while, that’s it. Nor is he one to pass up an offer of better alcohol than the swill he can afford on his student budget; and there's no question that any wine Charles has is good—excellent, even.
“Oh, I see how it is.” Charles grins, shoving his way past Erik into the room. “You only like me for my booze. And my skill at fixing computers.”
“That’s pretty much it, yeah,” Erik says lightly, closing the door behind him.
“Speaking of,” Charles says, setting up the chessboard on the bed, “how is your darling laptop? Still virus-free?”
“Two months and counting.”
“How wonderful." Charles's look seems to say it’s anything but. “White or black?”
“You choose,” Erik says, sitting across from him. Charles offers him black, and Erik grins; that’s what he would have picked, anyway.
They’re about eight moves into the game, each of them short a pawn or two, when Charles stands abruptly. “I forgot to bring glasses. And a corkscrew.”
“I have some,” Erik says. “Here, let me—” He makes to stand, but Charles waves him back down.
“Just tell me where they are, and I’ll go look,” he says. Erik blinks.
“Uh, okay.” He points. “That drawer, over there, the middle one, there should be cups and a corkscrew in there.”
Charles walks over and opens the drawer, bending over to rummage through it; almost automatically, Erik’s eyes fix on the curve of his ass. He finds himself thinking Charles should wear jeans more often—he usually wears khakis, or corduroys, or some sort of slacks, always looking a bit like the prep school kid Erik knows he must have been, and none of them flatters him the way this pair of jeans does.
Charles straightens up, corkscrew and bag of clear plastic cups in hand. He sets them on top of the chest of drawers, swaying his hips to the left. Something about the motion sparks Erik’s memory, so he looks closer—and notices the stitched detail on Charles’s back pockets.
Charles's jeans are identical to the ones in That Gifset.
But it’s just a coincidence. It has to be. They’re not custom-made jeans, as is evident from the brand label on the waistband; there are probably plenty of guys with those jeans, with asses of the same general shape and size to fill them out perfectly. There’s no way Charles is...
There’s no way.
“Drink’s up!” Charles says as he turns around, holding two plastic cups of red wine and grinning widely. Then he catches a glimpse of Erik’s expression; his smile starts to fade. “Something wrong?”
“Not at all,” Erik says hurriedly. He pastes a smile on his face with some effort, hoping he looks pleasant and not like he’s about to eat someone (according to both Emma and Azazel, this is apparently a real concern). He walks over and takes one of the cups from Charles, holds it up. “To break.”
“Amen to that,” Charles sighs, touching his cup to Erik’s. Then he smirks and sashays his way back over to the bed; Erik’s eyes stay glued to his ass the whole time.
“Well, come on,” Charles says, settling himself against the headboard. “I’m about to take your rook on my next move; you’re not going to just stand there and let me, are you?”
“You wish,” Erik says, recovering himself and resuming his place on the bed.
There’s no way, he tells himself firmly, as he studies the chessboard to keep himself from staring at Charles’s face—or worse, his crotch.
Except then Erik keeps looking for signs. There’s a small fan in Charles’s room that looks similar to the one in the gifset—but it looks like a common enough dorm accessory, one of those things people buy at Bed Bath and Beyond or Walmart. The door handle’s pretty standard, too, not even unique to their school. And camera angles are impossible to figure out when Charles keeps changing the configuration of his furniture every week or so.
Erik doesn’t know why he’s being so ridiculous; as he keeps reminding himself, there’s no way Charles is that guy. And yet he can't stop trying to find something, anything, to prove it one way or the other. Charles has certainly noticed Erik's increased scrutiny, and has been giving Erik confused (and slightly smug) looks in return; but, oddly enough, he has yet to actually say anything (read: leer at and tease Erik incessantly) about it. Erik isn't sure if he's relieved or insulted.
The chess games become a nightly thing, one game turning into a demand for a rematch into best out of three, of five, of thirteen, of twenty-five. Erik can hardly even admit it to himself, but...he’s enjoying himself more than he’d thought. They’ve started having philosophical discussions over their games, the chess turning into a backdrop rather than the main event as they debate politics and civil liberties and free will and drone strikes and the War on Terror among more traditional, PHIL1-type questions.
By the end of the week, they’ve started sharing more personal stories over their chess games; Charles has told Erik some things about his stepfamily but more about Raven, Erik’s talked about his parents (particularly his mother), they’ve both commiserated about the nightmare that was high school, and talked about their plans for the future. Erik knows Charles wants to go into medical genetics, possibly starting his own biotech company; Charles knows Erik wants to discover and manufacture new, more ecofriendly components for portable electronics, or to come up with new materials for photovoltaic cells.
The ease with which Charles slides into Erik’s life is unsettling, mostly for how uncomfortable it isn't. Sometimes, Erik forgets that they aren't really friends, that the chess games are a recent development and not something they've been doing since the start of college. It's hit the point where he can barely remember his reasons for disliking Charles in the first place; but whatever they were, clearly none of them can have been more important than the ever-growing number of reasons why Erik likes Charles—and probably more than he should.
That Friday night, when everyone is starting to trickle back into the dorms, Charles shows up at Erik’s door with a bottle of vodka and no chessboard.
“I’ve had one of those days,” he says. “All my experiments failed, my data analysis software kept crashing, everyone keeps asking me to fix whatever asinine thing they decided to do to their computer over break, Raven and I are in a fight and she won’t tell me why, and to cap it all off, my always-lovely stepfather called, and we had yet another fight about my trust fund and the house.”
Erik says nothing; he simply grabs the vodka from Charles and walks to his desk to retrieve the shot glasses he’d purchased from the school bookstore at the start of the week, then pours two shots and holds them out to Charles.
“Thanks, darling, you’re a love,” Charles says ferventtly, taking both glasses and downing them in rapid succession. He reaches for the bottle to pour himself another, but Erik grabs his wrist.
“Slowly,” he says. “You don’t want to be up half the night puking out your liver and intestines.”
“Maybe I do,” Charles retorts. Erik raises an eyebrow and tightens his grip; Charles sighs.
“Oh, fine,” he concedes. “But I didn’t bring any chess.”
“You don't really seem like you’re in a position to remember which way the pieces move, let alone play a decent game,” Erik points out. “We don’t always have to play chess.”
“But it’s our thing,” Charles protests. “You won’t hang out with me unless we do.”
Erik blinks, then decides he’s clearly too sober for this. So he pours himself a shot, tosses it back, and then does it again. When he thumps the glass on the desk, he looks back at Charles to find him wearing an odd expression that Erik can’t make out for the life of him.
“Here, come on,” Erik says, grabbing his computer and sitting on the bed. “Let’s watch something.”
For once, luckily, that gifset isn’t the first thing that pops up when he opens his laptop—though Erik’s definitely been getting a hell of a lot of mileage out of it this week. He clicks aimlessly through his non-porn videos folder before pulling up Netflix, and then hands the computer to Charles.
“Here, pick something.”
“I don’t care, anything.”
“Even if you hate it?”
“If I really hate it, I’ll change it.”
Two and a half episodes into The IT Crowd, Charles grabs the vodka bottle and starts drinking from it directly. Erik holds out his hand; Charles passes it over wordlessly, and watches as Erik takes a sizeable gulp of his own. They continue to pass the bottle back and forth for the rest of the episode, and by the time it finishes, Erik is feeling more-than-pleasantly buzzed. From the look of things, Charles feels more or less the same.
“Another episode?” Erik asks, his cursor hovering over the button.
Charles shakes his head. “I don’t feel like watching anything right now.”
“Okay,” Erik replies. He takes advantage of the break to briefly check his e-mail; nothing of interest, unless you count yet another link from Azazel—and this one Erik doesn’t even have to scan before deleting. He’s been to that site before, and remembers the destruction it had wrought.
“You weren’t entirely lying,” Charles says, looking over Erik’s shoulder. “Your best friend has horrible taste in porn.”
“I’ve been telling you.”
“I liked to think you kept flooding your computer with viruses so you'd have an excuse to come talk to me,” Charles says. He’s clearly aiming for joking, flirty; but it just comes out tired.
“I’m not that stupid."
“Clearly,” Charles says quietly, looking away.
“Okay,” Erik says, more calmly than he feels. He closes the laptop and puts it back on his desk. “What’s going on?”
"I don’t understand you,” Charles bursts out. “You don’t respond to my flirting, you seem to hate me, then you act all jealous when you see me with anyone else—oh, don’t give me that look, you nearly ripped Raven’s head off before I told you she was my sister—and this whole past week...I don’t even know what this past week has been. I thought, okay, he’s never going to sleep with me, even if he wants it, that's fine, I can at least try to get him to stop looking at me like I’m something nasty on his shoe, and then all you've been doing for the past week is staring at my arse. Unless, of course, that's why you hate me, but honestly, I've been making my interest obvious for ages now, and if you just want to have a hatefuck and get it out of your system, then let's do it, because I actually like hanging out with you—"
Before Erik can think better of it, he leans forward and kisses Charles—mostly to get him to stop talking, but also because Charles is incredibly cute when flustered, and Erik just can’t help himself. He stays in place until Charles starts to return the kiss, at which point Erik pulls back and says:
"Shut up, oh my God. I don't hate you."
Charles’s responding expression is incomprehensible. “So you want to fuck me?"
Well, yes, but that wasn’t what Erik had meant for Charles to get out of that. Half diversion, half actual question, he asks, "...Why are you so impossible?"
"It's a relevant concern!” Charles exclaims. “You just kissed me!"
"I am also,” Erik points out, “pretty drunk."
"So am I,” Charles says sensibly. “But I still know I'd like to fuck you.” Charles smirks before pouting lasciviously. “Come on, Erik,” he coaxes, “admit it: you want me." He leans forward, crossing his legs, which apparently requires more coordination than he currently has; the movement sends him tumbling forward into Erik's lap, his head landing scant inches away from the zipper of Erik's jeans. Positioned like that, he can't miss the fact that Erik is half-hard, and getting harder by the second.
"Hello," Charles purrs, his eyes latching on to the line of Erik's erection. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, so quickly that Erik would have missed it had he not been staring at Charles with the same intensity Charles is currently directing at Erik's cock.
Charles brings his hands forward, stopping just shy of the button of Erik's pants. The tips of his fingers graze Erik's waistband, lightly enough that Erik almost thinks he'd imagined it, except then Charles looks up at him through his lashes, his smirk growing even wider.
"May I?" he asks quietly, tracing the circumference of Erik's metal button with his middle finger. Erik shivers—and hesitates.
There are so many reasons why they shouldn't do this: they're drunk; Erik doesn't want to be yet another name added to Charles's list; Charles is clearly in a fragile emotional place; Erik doesn't even like Charles all that much.
(All right, fine, that last one is a lie. Erik may as well give up the ghost at this point.)
Erik dithers for long enough that the smirk fades from Charles's face; he slides back a little, so obviously taking care to avoid touching Erik that it makes him ache.
"Sorry," Charles says. "I'm sorry, that was too much, I shouldn't have pushed you—"
"No," Erik says sharply, grabbing Charles's arm to stave off the hollow feeling building in his chest with every inch put between them. "I'm sorry, I...it's just a lot, really fast, and I needed a moment to think." Charles looks skeptical.
"I want you," Erik affirms, "I do, I just..." He sighs, runs his free hand through his hair. "I've spent so long trying to not want you that admitting I do is...hard."
Erik winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He's clearly more drunk than he thought; it's too much of the truth, more than he'd ever meant to say, more than he'd ever have admitted to himself. And it doesn't seem to appease Charles terribly much: his face falls even further, and while he doesn't tug himself out of Erik's grip, he doesn't move closer, either, just stays where he is, his arm awkwardly outstretched as he looks everywhere but at Erik.
"That's what I don't understand," he says, finally, sounding exhausted, drained. "I know I'm not always the...easiest person to get along with, and I know I can come off a bit strong, but I don't know why you would actively try to not like me. I've tried to think of what I could have done to you, and the worst I can come up with is playing my music too loudly when you were trying to sleep. And maybe making fun of your taste in porn sites, but for God’s sake, Erik, an HIV lab is less virus ridden-than your computer."
Erik barks out a laugh; after a moment, Charles smiles hesitantly, breaking some of the tension that's settled over the room.
"You're not exactly the most...monogamous of guys," Erik hedges after a minute or so, choosing his words carefully. "And I think I knew there was a chance I could like you too much, and, well, I...don't like to share." Charles's lips twitch; Erik hazards a smile. "And if you weren't going to feel the same way, to want the same things as me, I didn't want to be...in that position, or be the guy trying to put you in that position." He feels so serious again, so exposed, so he rolls his eyes, and adds a flippant, "And you were so obnoxious whenever I brought you my computer. I've told you, it was always Azazel's fault; I know how to find my own porn, thank you very much."
Charles laughs. "I'll believe it when I see it," he says, in his usual flirtatious tone. But when he leans forward a moment later, reaching out to frame Erik's face with his palms, his expression is completely serious, in a way Erik has never seen before.
"I don't like to share, either," Charles says, dark and low and full of promise. And then he's kissing Erik, and it's nothing at all like their kiss from several minutes ago; it's gentler, more intimate, all lips and no tongues or teeth, so much emotion writ between them that Erik thinks he might bubble over with it. His hands latch on to Charles's waist, holding on for dear life. When Charles starts pushing forward, Erik goes, lying flat on his back and pulling Charles on top of him, their mouths locked together until the motion of Charles's hips as he settles himself rubs their cocks against each other, and they both break apart with a gasp.
Charles grinds down again, deliberately. Erik's head falls back, his eyes closing at the sensation. When Charles repeats the motion, Erik lets out a loud, high-pitched whine, and he'd be embarrassed, except that it just feels so good.
"Come on," Charles says, his voice rough and breathless. "Come on, Erik, open your eyes, look at me—" Erik does, and he almost wants to slam them shut again; Charles's expression is so open, so intense, that Erik simultaneously feels like he's on display and like he's seeing something he was never meant to see. It's hot, and intimate, and when Charles presses himself down, covering Erik's body with his own, it's almost more than Erik can take.
"God, Charles," he breathes, reaching with a shaky hand to tuck a lock of Charles's hair behind his ear. "You're so...God," he finishes lamely, as Charles leans down and licks along the outer shell of his ear.
Charles laughs. "Thought I'd at least have to get my cock in you before you started calling me 'God.'" Erik's cock, completely without his consent, twitches at the thought. Charles laughs again, the vibrations resonating through Erik's chest. "Oh, I see you like that idea."
"Shut up," Erik glares, thrusting up with his hips and feeling a vicious burst of pleasure at the incoherent, pleading noise Charles makes in response. He does it again, just to hear that sound a second time.
And then their eyes lock with something that's equal parts emotion and challenge, and it's as if someone's flipped a switch: suddenly they're rutting against each other like animals, not even bothering to make a cursory effort to pull themselves out of their pants. There'll be time for proper sex later, for nudity and blowjobs and rimming and fucking, but right now, it's about something else, something deeper and fiercer. The drag of their clothed crotches against each other is more of a distraction than anything, keeping them from pushing too far, or looking too deep.
Charles's teeth close around the pulse point at the base of Erik's neck, and Erik comes, the world going white for a moment as he shoots off in his pants, and it's completely undignified, but completely worth it for the way Charles gasps and arches and comes when Erik reaches down and squeezes his ass, hard.
Erik squeezes a few more times, just for good measure, as both of them come down; Charles nips him lightly in response. And then they lie there, sweaty and (somewhat) sated, basking in the afterglow, fingers loosely interlaced atop Erik's quilt.
A few minutes later, Charles lifts his head from where it's pillowed at the juncture of Erik's neck and shoulder, and says, amazed and uncertain, "Well, that was..."
"Shh." Erik places his finger to Charles's mouth, then kisses him lightly for good measure—because he can, now. "Don't overthink it."
"You're overthinking it right now," Charles grumbles, but he relaxes against Erik, his tension dissipating as suddenly as it had come. "Your face is overthinking it."
Erik laughs. "You're not even looking at my face."
"Don’t need to look,” Charles says into Erik’s chest. “I know." Erik laughs again and pats Charles gently on the head, earning himself another nip to the chin before they settle back into comfortable silence.
Finally, though, the stickiness in Erik's boxers and the faint itchy sensation of drying come become uncomfortable instead of merely faintly annoying. He gently rolls Charles off of him before sliding out of bed, shoving his jeans down to his ankles as soon as his feet touch the floor. He heaves a sigh of relief as he's finally released from that constriction, though he still feels kind of gross. He turns around to look at Charles, who's settled in on his side, head propped up on his hand, his expression wary.
"I'm just going to go to the bathroom and clean myself up," Erik explains, reaching for the towel draped over the back of his desk chair. He tries to ignore the way Charles's eyes follow his every movement. "You're probably going to want to do the same."
"Yeah," Charles says, his expression still tight. Erik can understand the feeling; he doesn't really want to leave the room, either, scared that when he comes back, Charles will be gone. Best to make things clear, then.
He walks back over to the bed and kisses Charles briefly but firmly, pulling back before Charles has a chance to react. "Meet back here in ten?" he says, trying not to sound as unsure as he feels.
"Yeah," Charles says again, a world of difference in his tone, now warm and fond against the curtness of half a minute ago. He stretches languidly, clearly showing off. Then he sits up abruptly, grinning as he says, "Why are you still here? Go on, then." He makes a shooing gesture. Erik rolls his eyes and grabs Charles's offending hand, giving it a warning squeeze.
"No idea," he retorts with a smirk. He leans down to give Charles a kiss that belies his words before walking briskly to the door. "No jerking off in my bed while I'm gone."
"Oh, darling, I'd never dream of letting you miss the show," Charles returns. His eyes narrow. "As long as you promise you won't get yourself off in the shower."
When Erik returns to his room precisely nine minutes later, showered and brushed and feeling distinctly more human, he finds Charles lounging on his bed, his hair wet and curling down onto his forehead, stray drops of water trailing down his naked chest. But what makes Erik stop dead in the middle of the doorway is the fact that Charles is wearing Erik's boxers.
Charles smiles slowly as Erik stares, and then stretches widely, his muscles rippling and flexing. A few drops of water fall from his hair and onto his neck, sliding down slowly, inexorably; Erik wants to lick them off Charles's skin.
"Come here," Charles murmurs. He crooks his fingers, and Erik can't help stumbling forward, his dirty clothes and towel falling to the floor. Charles's eyes instantly fly to Erik's crotch, and his smile turns predatory before he repeats himself, more commanding: "Come here."
"Hang on," Erik says, floundering. He trips over to his dresser and grabs a pair of boxers—he's not going to be completely naked if Charles isn't—without looking, unable to take his eyes off of Charles, and pulls them on as he stumbles over to the bed. Charles hasn't said anything, but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes say he understands exactly what Erik's doing, and why.
And then Erik's lying down on the bed next to Charles—it's a squeeze, on the tiny dorm mattress, but that just gives him an excuse to drape an arm over Charles and pull him closer.
"Hey," he says quietly.
"Hey," Charles says, just as soft. Slowly, tentatively, he slides his arms around Erik's waist and presses himself even closer.
They stare at each other, neither wanting to break the suddenly fragile silence that's settled over them. Erik doesn't know what to say, or even if he should say anything—so he just buries his face in Charles's neck and inhales deeply. Charles sucks in a loud breath, his entire body tensing in Erik's embrace. Erik waits him out as he relaxes, inch by inch, until, with a loud sigh, Charles turns his head to press a kiss to Erik's temple.
Immediately after that, he yawns loudly, and Erik can't help the laughter that spills out of him, or the yawn that follows.
"I guess we should sleep," Erik says, half into Charles's neck.
"Probably a good idea," Charles agrees. He starts sliding his hand along Erik's spine, moving up and down in a motion that, at this point, is more comforting than arousing. Erik shifts a little, finding a position that works for both of them. He thinks about saying something, maybe teasing Charles about petting him like a cat, but before he can find the words, he's asleep.
When Erik wakes the next morning, it takes him a few minutes to remember the events of last night. Once he’s come to terms with the facts that he and Charles have apparently had some sort of heart-to-heart, and that they are (probably, almost definitely) going to have sex within the next twelve hours, it still takes his brain several moments to register that the unfamiliar weight in his bed is Charles. And oh, that’s Charles’s arm slung over Erik’s waist, and Charles’s toes flicking against Erik’s calves, and Charles’s breath against Erik’s neck, and—Charles’s hard-on against Erik’s thigh.
Erik’s suddenly very conscious of his own erection, pressed up against Charles’s hip. He tries to keep perfectly still, not wanting to risk disturbing Charles, or to make him feel pressured into anything. But now that he’s noticed, it’s all he can think about; eventually, he can’t help jerking forward minutely, seeking out just a little more friction.
Charles’s breath hitches.
Erik waits, not daring to open his eyes to see if Charles is actually awake, to see if that pause was something good, or—
Charles rolls his hips, slowly, deliberately, dragging his clothed cock against Erik. Erik groans—and then he remembers that Charles is wearing his boxers, and he groans again, his hips thrusting forward with intention this time. Charles’s hand latches onto Erik’s hip, holding him still; and then Charles rolls Erik onto his back, moving himself to straddle Erik’s thighs. He leans down and kisses Erik, open-mouthed despite what has to be horrible morning breath, tongue flicking briefly against Erik’s before he pulls back, leaving their mouths scant inches apart.
“Erik,” he breathes; and that’s the cue Erik needs to finally blink his eyes open. He squints against the brightness of the sun, and as his eyes adjust, Charles’s face comes into focus, bright and smiling at Erik with a soft warmth that has Erik reaching up and pulling Charles down for another kiss.
“Charles,” he says quietly, when they pull apart. Charles is slightly flushed, and he bites his lip when Erik reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, a tender gesture Erik never would have associated with himself. He can't help staring: Charles is gorgeous—and he’s in Erik’s bed. So Erik kisses him again.
It’s more raw this time, crush of mouths and clack of teeth and nipping and biting and growling and pressing the lengths of their bodies together, grinding their pelvises against each other at an accelerating pace. Erik is close, so close, when Charles pulls away, with a final nip at Erik’s mouth, and he all but whines when Charles sits back up, settling his weight onto Erik’s thighs.
“Don’t worry, darling,” Charles says, sliding back a little further. “You’ll get off soon enough.” His gaze shifts south from Erik’s face, until it lands on the tent Erik’s cock has made of his boxers; he grins. “I just thought that, since we didn’t quite get around to it last night, I might...” He trails off, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.
“Oh, fuck, yes,” Erik groans. He tilts his hips up slightly, inviting. Charles smirks, lowering his torso and sliding further down the bed until he’s face-to-face with Erik’s cock. Erik watches, transfixed, as Charles pulls down his boxers, just enough for Erik’s cock to spring free. He gasps loudly as Charles breathes over the head before ducking down and licking a long stripe up the underside of his cock, gripping the base tightly as he does so. Erik’s hips, despite his best efforts, snap forward slightly, and Charles laughs.
“Easy,” he murmurs. His hands latch to Erik’s hips, pressing them down to the bed as he lowers his head and takes Erik’s cock into his mouth.
“Fuck,” Erik says. Charles looks up at Erik through his lashes, obviously pleased with himself, clearly aware of the picture he’s making. “Fuck,” Erik says again, louder this time. Charles slides down a little further, then slowly pulls back up and off, dropping a kiss on the tip of Erik’s cock.
“Hold still,” he commands, and practically dives back in. He bobs up and down, taking more of Erik’s cock in each time, his hands toying with Erik’s balls, his perineum, teasing in the direction of his ass, but—much to Erik’s disappointment—not going any further. Erik’s muscles quiver with the effort of staying still; Charles knows what he’s doing—when to suck, when to lick, when to use just a hint of teeth, scraping lightly and chuckling at the moan that elicits from Erik—and while just lying back and watching Charles blow him is more than enough, he can't help wanting to be a more active participant, Charles's instructions be damned.
It isn’t long before Erik gasps out, “Charles, Charles, I’m gonna—” and reaches for Charles’s head to pull him back, but Charles bats away his hands, hums around Erik’s cock, and runs a finger down his ass. And then Erik’s coming, tossing his head back and yelling, not giving a fuck that he’s in his dorm room, that people are back from break and can definitely hear him; all that matters is the movement of Charles’s throat as he swallows down Erik’s come, the drops that linger at the corner of his mouth before he licks them away.
“Fuck, Charles,” Erik says, shoving himself up into a sitting position. He grabs for Charles, a little uncoordinated in the wake of his orgasm, and pulls him into a messy, frantic kiss. Charles groans, responding with just as much desperation, hands tangling in Erik’s hair, hips rocking against his stomach. Erik’s had guys swallow for him before, so the sensation of his come on someone else’s tongue isn’t new, but it’s still unbelievably hot, and he keeps licking into Charles’s mouth, chasing the taste until Charles pushes him back.
“What—” Erik starts; Charles places a finger over his lips, silencing him.
“If we kept going, I would have come in my—well, your—boxers again, and I was rather hoping...”
“Yes?” Erik asks. Right now, he thinks, he’d give Charles anything he wanted.
“I’d like to fuck you,” Charles says. He leans forward and replaces his finger with his lips, a brief kiss. “Would that be all right with you?”
“Would that—” Erik breathes. He laughs, shakes his head. “Of course it’s all right. It’s more than all right.” He backs up a little, evaluates how to make this work on his ridiculously narrow bed, then looks back up at Charles. “How do you want me?”
And now it’s Charles’s turn to say, “Fuck,” and he lunges forward, toppling Erik onto his back and kissing him within an inch of his life. When he finally lets up, he says, “On your back, just like this—that okay?”
“Fine, that’s fine,” Erik says, kissing Charles anywhere he can reach him—cheek, forehead, ears, neck—until Charles draws back and sits up. Erik stares at the ceiling, trying to catch his breath as he feels Charles tug Erik’s boxers all the way off. When Charles leans back down, pressing his body all along Erik’s, he’s naked, too, his erection rubbing tantalizingly against Erik’s still-oversensitive cock and making Erik whine.
Charles drops a kiss on Erik’s cheek. “Condoms, lube?” he asks.
“Top desk drawer,” Erik says. “Here, let me—” He makes to get up, but Charles pushes him back down. The way he’s been manhandling Erik is incredibly arousing, to tell the truth; Erik hadn’t expected that, and it’s a more than pleasant surprise.
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll get them,” Charles says. He slides off the bed and darts over to Erik’s desk—and like every other time he’s retrieved something from there, Erik watches him go; but unlike every other time, Charles is naked, and Erik can actually see everything, and—
He knows that ass.
He knows that curve, that crack, the little divot in the right cheek, the way it jiggles, knows it almost as well as he knows his own ass—better, perhaps, because he doesn’t see his ass on his computer screen every day, multiple times a day. But he can’t believe it, won’t let himself believe it until he sees—
Charles turns around with a triumphant, “Ah-ha!” and Erik stares even harder. It’s erect, and he’d only seen it flaccid before, but he’d know that cock anywhere, too.
Erik could die laughing. Charles Xavier is Cock and Ass Guy. Charles is Cock and Ass Guy. And he’s naked and in Erik’s room and holding a condom and a bottle of lube as if they’re trophies, and suddenly this has stopped being funny and Charles is entirely too far away.
“Come here,” Erik says, his voice hoarse. He sits up and holds out his hand. “Charles, come here.”
“Of course, darling,” Charles says, hurrying back over. He deposits the condoms and lube on the table by the bed, and then climbs back up into Erik’s arms, where Erik kisses him like a man starved. He’d say he doesn’t know what’s got into him, but of course he does—this is The Guy, the one Erik’s been fantasizing about for months, and now he has the chance to do everything he’s been dreaming about, and the only issue he has is where to start.
“Erik,” Charles gasps, when they separate. He looks like he’s about to say something else, but Erik can’t stop, doesn’t want to explain, so he just shoves Charles until his back is up against the wall, and then throws himself on his stomach between Charles’s legs and takes Charles’s cock into his mouth. Charles groans and threads his hands through Erik’s hair—not holding or directing, just resting—as Erik re-enacts every fantasy he’s ever had about sucking that cock. It’s wet, and messy, and there's spit everywhere, and Erik nearly gags himself as he tries to get as much of Charles's cock into his mouth as possible. He props himself up on one hand and starts rolling Charles’s balls in the other. Charles groans again, his hands fisting in Erik’s hair and tugging, gently, just enough to direct Erik to move back a bit and play with the head of Charles’s cock, tongue his slit, taste the drops of precome that have collected there.
“God, Erik,” Charles breathes. “You’re—I wish you could see yourself right now, fuck, you're so hot—” He breaks off as Erik hums around his cock, as Erik’s hands abandon Charles’s cock and balls to grip Charles’s ass and squeeze, hard.
“Fuck,” Charles all but shouts. “Fuck, Erik, if you don’t want me to come in your mouth you’d better pull off right now, because I’m about to—”
Erik squeezes again, tips of his fingers just barely dipping into the crease of Charles’s ass, and Charles yells and comes, spurting into Erik’s mouth, some of it dribbling out and sliding down Erik’s chin and dripping onto the sheets. Erik stays in place until Charles has finished, until his cock starts softening, and then pulls off and swallows. Charles touches his hand to the corner of Erik’s mouth, tender even as his thumb rubs his come into Erik’s chin.
But amazing as that was, as much as it was everything Erik’s been fantasizing about, it’s only part of the fantasy. So much more of that gifset, of Erik’s attentions in general, have focused on that ass—Charles’s ass—and right now, he needs to see it, needs to have his hands, his mouth on it, anything.
“Can I—” He stops, waving his hands aimlessly in some sort of attempt at a gesture that makes sense. “I want to—your ass—”
Charles laughs, a little breathlessly. “Erik, darling, after that, I’m quite willing to say yes to practically anything you propose.” He smiles—not a grin, not a smirk, a real smile, one of his rare ones—and says, “Just tell me how you want me.”
“On your front,” Erik replies immediately, then remembers to add, “please?”
In answer, Charles waves Erik away so he can have enough room to slide back down the bed and turn onto his stomach. He bends his knees and lifts his ass slightly; Erik is transfixed, as he was the first time he’d opened that link. He raises his hands, but lets them hover, not quite able to bring himself to touch.
Charles turns his head and raises an eyebrow at him.
“Well?” he says. “I know I have a particularly fine arse, but if you’re just going to do is stare at it all day without doing anything...” He makes to get up, at which point Erik reaches out and take two handfuls of Charles’s ass.
“Mmmm,” Charles says. “That’s it. Grip it harder.”
Erik does, digging his fingers in until he’s sure he must be leaving marks, squeezing and letting go, squeezing and letting go, watching Charles’s ass bounce each time. Almost like a man possessed, he finds himself falling forward until his face is level with Charles’s ass, and it’s the most natural thing to stick out his tongue and lick it.
Above him, Charles sucks in a large breath, and now it’s his turn to tremble with the effort of holding still as Erik drags the flat of his tongue over every inch of Charles’s ass, soothing the places where his nails dug into flesh, memorizing its shape and feel. Charles is panting harshly, and when Erik finally points his tongue, spreads Charles’s cheeks, and licks along his crease, Charles makes a needy, high-pitched sound that could generously be called a squeak. Erik does it a few more times before he decides he’s tired of teasing and goes in for Charles’s hole.
Charles shouts as the tip of Erik’s tongue slides in, as Erik spreads him even wider for better access. Erik rims him enthusiastically, losing himself in the clench of Charles's muscles, the firm plushness of his ass, the delicious sounds he's making above him—this is so much more than his masturbation fantasies, so much better, because it's not some anonymous guy with a great package and perfect ass; it's Charles, who lets out a stream of filthy, filthy cruses when Erik flicks his tongue against his hole, who rubs his dick against the sheets as he starts to get hard again just from Erik rimming him, who goes wordless and makes incoherent noises when he gets close, whose ass quivers right before he comes for the second time, getting come all over Erik’s sheets.
Charles collapses onto the bed, with no apparent concern about the come he’s smearing all over his front. It’s almost too much for Erik, but he manages to drag himself up so he’s kneeling over Charles, straddling him, his cock dragging against the crease of Charles’s ass. He rocks forward experimentally, and bites his lip against his groan. Then he does it again, and again—but he stops himself every time, before he can get too far into it.
“Do it,” Charles says, turning his head to the side so his voice isn’t muffled by the pillows. “Do it, Erik, come on, I want you to come on me, get your come all over me, make me filthy with it, come on—” And Erik, now galvanized into rutting mindlessly against Charles, stills and orgasms, painting Charles’s back and the sheets. Charles moans quietly, his eyes closed.
Erik makes to get up, but Charles, without opening his eyes, reaches back and grabs him, yanking him down, pressing his front to Charles’s back, smearing Erik’s come all over both of them.
“Stay,” he says.
Erik turns his head and kisses Charles’s cheek, the space behind his ear. “Okay.”
Later, after they’ve (sort of) cleaned themselves up and changed the sheets (Erik foresees doing a lot of laundry tonight), and have settled back into bed, wrapped around each other, Erik’s head tucked into the crook of Charles’s neck, Charles stroking Erik’s hair, Charles says, “Not that I’m in any way complaining or criticizing—but what, exactly, brought that on?”
Erik shakes his head and hides his face in Charles’s shoulder. He’d known this question was coming, but he hasn’t thought of a good answer for it yet.
“Erik,” Charles chides gently. “Come on. I’d like to know what it was that had you going after me like you wanted to eat me whole. Mostly," and now Erik can hear the grin in his tone, "so I can make sure I do it again."
There's a long pause as Erik thinks.
“It’s...weird,” he says, finally. He knows Charles, knows he isn’t going to let this go; he might as well tell the truth, and hope Charles isn’t too freaked out. “You’ll laugh.”
“I won’t,” Charles promises, sounding so earnest that Erik almost believes him.
It’s enough for Erik to raise his head to look at Charles and say, making his eyes as wide as possible, “Go get my computer?”
Charles heaves a long-suffering sigh, but drags himself up, grumbling all the way over to Erik’s desk. He grabs the laptop and brings it back to the bed, placing it delicately on the mattress before climbing up and settling himself against the wall. He pats the mattress beside him, looks expectantly at Erik, and says, “Well?”
Erik lets out his own sigh as he pushes himself up—with great effort—into a sitting position, and arranges himself so his side is pressed against Charles’s. Charles drapes a sheet over them and balances the laptop on his thighs, opening it to reveal the Netflix window from last night.
“I really hope you’re not about to tell me it’s because you suddenly thought I looked like Roy, or Moss,” Charles says lightly.
“Smart-ass,” Erik says fondly, smacking Charles gently on the shoulder. “No, okay, give it here.” Charles hands over the computer, somewhat reluctantly, and makes sure he has a good view of it as Erik closes Firefox and goes to his desktop. He clicks through a few folders until he gets to the “English essays” folder. He highlights it, and then pauses, giving himself a minute.
“Moby Dick?” Charles grins. “A 'white whale'?”
“Shut up,” Erik snaps. “You promised you wouldn’t laugh.”
“Right, of course, sorry,” Charles replies, quieter. He presses an apologetic kiss to Erik’s shoulder, and Erik takes a deep breath and opens the folder.
The titles of the files don’t leave all that much to the imagination; Charles, of course, recognizes the folder for what it is almost instantaneously. He grins up at Erik. “‘English essays,’ mm?”
“Well, no one’s about to go snooping in there.”
“On an Engineering student’s computer?” Charles says. “Bit suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Bit uninteresting, don’t you think?” Erik retorts. Charles laughs.
“Based on our chess games, I’d say any essays you wrote for English class would be anything but boring." He shrugs. “But yes, I see your point. So it’s something in this folder?”
Charles grins. “Do I look like one of your favorite porn stars or something?” He flips his hair and bites his lip.
“You’re ridiculous,” Erik growls, though he eases the sting with a light kiss before answering, “Or something.” Then, before Charles can start clicking around Erik’s porn and making this entire situation far more embarrassing than it already is, Erik double-clicks the file labeled CAA—and the gifset, in all its glory, pops up.
There’s a long silence.
“Oh,” Charles says quietly. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Erik says. He closes the laptop, sets it gently on the floor next to the bed. “Az sent that to me a while ago, and I kind of...got obsessed.”
“Obsessed?” Charles asks, blinking up at Erik. He hasn’t run for the hills screaming about how Erik is a pervert and a stalker and has a tiny prick to boot, so that’s...something. But Erik can’t quite read his expression.
“Jerked off to it a lot, fantasized, the usual stuff you do with porn,” Erik explains, waving his hand absently. “Memorized it, that kind of thing.” He does his best to sound flippant, make it sound like less of a big deal than it is, but he’s not sure how successful he is.
Charles narrows his eyes at him. “How long is a while?”
“...Maybe two months?”
Charles shakes his head. “And then you saw me naked, and you realized it was me, that’s it?”
“Last Sunday,” Charles says. Erik can see him putting the pieces together, figuring it out.
“Yeah. But I thought—it couldn’t be you, you wouldn’t—”
“Do something like that?” Charles says, with a laugh that’s more self-mocking than amused. “Who does that, right, posts a video of themselves getting dressed, shows off their cock and ass to the whole internet—”
“Hey, no,” Erik says, grabbing Charles’s hand. “Not like that, I...I don’t know what I thought. It just...seemed a little too convenient, too good to be true, you know?”
“Yeah, okay,” Charles says. He smiles, but something about it feels...off. “Well, it’s true, you found me, I’m your porn fantasy, you can have all the sex you want with me.”
“Oh, for...” Erik groans. He grabs Charles’s other hand, turning him so they’re facing each other head-on. “This”—he gestures between them with their clasped hands—“did not happen because you happen to have a great ass and dick that I’ve been jerking off to for ages. That’s...bonus. I—” He rolls his eyes, looks off to the side. He can’t believe he’s about to say this, but Charles looks like a wounded puppy, and there’s nothing else he can say. “I want to be with you for you, not just for what you look like or what you post to the internet.”
“Sap,” Charles accuses, but he looks slightly happier.
“Your fault,” Erik says, pulling Charles back into him. They’re quiet for a little while.
Then Charles says, “I only posted it because Raven dared me and we were drunk.”
“You would have. Eventually.”
Erik shrugs. “You don’t know that.”
“I know people,” Charles says. “You fix enough people’s computers, you learn things about them.” He grins up at Erik. “Of course, you can fix someone’s computer multiple times, and still not learn valuable information like where he keeps his porn.”
“I’m going to have to rename that folder,” Erik mutters.
“I’ll still find it.”
“I’ll encrypt it.”
“You forget, darling,” Charles says. “I’m very good at what I do.”
“Well, if we’re talking blowjobs...” Erik says, leaning in and kissing Charles languidly.
“Arse,” Charles says, shaking his head. “Though, speaking of arses...I really was hoping to fuck yours.”
Erik grins. "Well, when you put it like that, how can I say no?" He presses his lips quickly to Charles’s before drawing back and settling onto his stomach, pillowing his head on his forearms.
"With great difficulty, I'd imagine," Charles replies, reaching for the lube. There's the distinct click of the cap opening, and then a few seconds later, a wet finger starts tracing Erik's hole. "Though I suppose you could have had some other desire, or fantasy."
"Too many to count," Erik agrees, breath shallowing as Charles dips the tip of his finger—just the tip, no more—in.
"Mm," Charles says, sounding maddeningly calm. "You'll have to tell me about them, especially your more...recent ones."
"This one was pretty high up there." Erik throws back his head with a gasp as Charles finally, finally, stops teasing and breaches him. It's still just the one finger, though, so he clenches and angles his ass up a little. "More, Charles, please, more."
"Patience," Charles says, not altering his slow thrusts, inexorable and maddening. After a little while, he crooks his finger just so, and Erik arches, keening. "What was at the top? Fucking me, my arse?"
Erik takes a breath to answer, which is of course the moment that Charles, the bastard, adds a second finger and spreads him. All the air flies out of him, and it takes him a few minutes to recover enough to groan, "Sixty—ah!—nining," as he lets his head fall forward.
"Even better." A third finger, now; Charles appears to be as impatient as Erik. "Should we do that next time, do you think?"
"Sure, whatever," Erik gasps, "just fuck me now, please, I want—" He breaks off with a moan as Charles wiggles his fingers, just barely brushing Erik's prostate.
"Now?" Charles asks, teasing—though there's a breathy edge to his voice that shows he's more affected than he's letting on. "You want my cock now, want me to shove it in and drive into you hard and fast, fill you up, fuck you so hard—"
Erik squirms, clenches, arches, everything, and says, "Yes, yes, all of that, now, yes, just—"
"Yes, darling," Charles says breathlessly, his words clearly having affected him as well, "hold on—" There's the sound of ripping foil, and then Charles's fingers vanish; but before Erik can protest, he feels Charles shift, feels the weight of his cock against Erik's ass before he pushes it in slowly, until he's completely buried in Erik's ass.
They hold for a long moment, the quiet only broken by their loud, panting breathing; then Erik shifts slightly, and Charles groans—and then Charles is fucking Erik, exactly as furiously as he'd promised, and it's all Erik can do to hold on. At some point, he has the vague realization that he's actually getting fucked by That Cock, the one that's been haunting his wet dreams, and it's that thought, combined with holy shit That Cock is Charles's cock that sends him tumbling over the edge, Charles not far behind.
Later, much later, when they’re lying on Erik’s bed in a tangle of limbs, so exhausted they can barely move, Erik finds himself thinking he should give Az a present.
He thinks better of it two hours later, when he finally checks his e-mail and finds not one, not two, but ten suspicious links in his inbox. He deletes every single one without even bothering to open them.
Charles probably has better porn, anyway.
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” Erik grumbles, crossing his arms protectively across his chest.
“Oh, come on, Erik,” Charles says, waving his phone. “You promised.”
“I don’t want to! I don’t see why I have to—you’re the one who decided to display yourself to the internet, I don’t see why I have to do the same!”
“Worked out pretty well for you, didn’t it?” Charles points out, arching an eyebrow.
“Well, yes, but...”
“And didn’t you say you were tired of people sending me pictures of their dicks, and propositioning me, and you wanted to make it stop?”
“Well, yes, but...”
“So posting a picture of my very hot, very muscular boyfriend, and labeling it as such, should at least help.”
“I’m still failing to see the logic in this,” Erik mutters.
“You promised,” Charles singsongs. Then he changes tack, coaxing: “Come on, you won’t even have to show your dick on camera. Or your face.”
“Just my abs?”
“Just your torso,” Charles says. “I promise.”
“And when we’re done, you’ll do the thing I like?”
“I will do all the things you like,” Charles promises.
“Fine,” Erik huffs. “But I want the record to note that I am doing this under duress.”
“Noted,” Charles says, raising the phone. “Now, darling: take off your shirt.”