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He hadn’t noticed it the night Charles had pulled him out of the water. That night had been full of an incredible anger and panic and the heart wrenching despair of failure, and all he could really remember was a man in the water with him, soaked through and calling out “we’re here!” and then lower, “You’re not alone.”

That night Erik had hauled himself on a boat crewed by members of the American Naval Service, had found himself interrogated one moment, and then coerced into joining up with a secret division of the CIA the next and then, finally, collapsed into oblivion in the backseat of a non-descript Chevy when they were back on dry land.

Suffice to say, Charles Xavier, shivering and dripping wet and wrapped in an ugly grey medical blanket didn’t really capture his attention.

Even during their time at headquarters, or touring around rural America, or in Russia, he didn’t truly come to recognize the person standing next to him. Sure, he felt how Charles was digging into him mentally, emotionally, like fine strands of metal stretching out and hooking in and wrapping him up, drawing him closer and closer, Charles, in all his painfully naïve ideology and his frustratingly hopeful optimism. 

But Charles in his suits and ties, dressed to impress, formal and posh and oh so very English, never struck him in a visceral, physical, lustful way. Not in the way Erik had longed for since that night in Belarus, since he found the battered magazine in the bottom of a hotel drawer, tasteless and glossy and garish and full of men in various stages of undress, men portraying every insipid fantasy the lonely and desperate could dream up…

It wasn’t until Westchester and the mansion. It wasn’t until Erik went looking for Charles the day of their arrival, after settling into his own room, placing his few meager possessions in drawers and a closet full of empty hangers. It wasn’t until Erik finally found Charles after searching for him down endless corridors and in a maze of rooms, one more uselessly extravagant then the last.

It wasn’t until Erik found Charles in the mansion’s personal Library that he realized what had been under his nose the entire time. He took in Charles, standing at the top of a tall ladder, sliding a book back into place on a high shelf, his trousers pulling taut across the gorgeous curve of his ass, his cardigan riding up to reveal a strip of smooth, pale skin.

And then Charles turned back to him, a new book caught in his hand, and sunlight from the massive windows lining the opposite wall glinted off the frames of his glasses, and, oh god, how had Erik missed that Charles needed glasses?

Erik was reminded, all in a flash, of that crumpled magazine, and how he had clutched it in one guilty hand as the other stroked at his cock furiously, how he writhed and panted, hips jerking up toward his fist, and how he had curled over, coming hard across the image of a boy in glasses and a tight sweater, the “Naughty Librarian,” a tiny speech bubble asking the reader in broken English to “check him out.”

And now there is Charles climbing slowly down the ladder, relaxed and frumpy, hair loose and curling from where he’s obviously run his hands through it, a pen caught between his teeth, smudging blue ink on his bottom lip, his sweater frayed and falling over his wrists, his glasses too large for his face—Charles, dressed down and looking like an elderly bookstore owner, and Erik has never been more attracted to him. 

It’s like the boy in the magazine come to life, but more beautiful and brilliant and real then even Erik could have dreamed up. And oh, Erik wants him.

But he doesn’t get him until later. It takes everything in him to walk out of the library, to fumble his way into a shower before he allows himself to touch his aching cock, to come with a stroke and a moan, splattering across the olive green tiles. He stands gasping for air, allowing the water to wash all the evidence away, and he plans his seduction.

In the end, it’s less of a seduction, and more of a demonstration of lust. It’s Charles in a sweater vest, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar undone, pushing his glasses up his nose as he reads by the fire. It’s Erik, witnessing this as he stands in the doorway, a bottle of wine and two glasses dangling limply from his fingers.

It’s Erik dropping everything and striding over to Charles and knocking the book out of his hand, pushing Charles’ legs apart and kneeling in between them, reaching up and curling his fingers into that soft brown hair and pulling Charles down, sliding their lips together and kissing him breathless.

When Charles pulls back, his eyes are wide and incredulous, but Erik can feel an excitement and arousal pulsing out of him, vibrating into Erik’s head and down through his spine. 

“Well…that was certainly surprising.” Charles says, and Erik can’t help the smug smile that crawls across his face. It probably takes a lot to catch Charles off guard.

“Not that I’m complaining,” Charles continues, catching Erik’s face and stroking his thumb along the seam of his lips, “but what brought this on?” 

Erik smiles at him and pushes the image of Charles and his glasses and sweaters and books, layered over the image from the magazine and the growling attraction that has been coiling in his stomach since the morning, in the library.

Charles gasps when he receives it all, and Erik watches his eyes flicker back and forth as he tries to process it. He watches a rosy blush rise on Charles’ cheeks with a great deal of satisfaction, and grins shamelessly when Charles glances down at him again.

“I see.” He says, and Erik suffers one split second of doubt as Charles pushes him back and stands, and moves away from his chair by the fire. But any and all doubt drains happily away when Charles circles over to the large heavy oak desk tucked back in the room, and leans against it provocatively, and says in a slow, dragging tone,

“I’m afraid you’ll have to pay the fine, Mr. Lensherr, or we will be forced to penalize you.” 

Erik remains where he is, kneeling on the floor, and he is aware is mouth is gaping open, and his hands are dangling limp at his sides, but he can’t seem to get his brain to click into action. Charles grins at him wickedly and slides himself leisurely back onto the desk, leaning back on his palms.

There is a gentle nudge at the back of his mind and it’s enough to propel him into action. He stands slowly and crosses the room, standing in front of Charles, who rolls his head to the side to glance upwards at him, the light from the fireplace reflected orange and yellow and red in the lenses of his glasses.

“And how much is the fine?” He’s surprised at how level his voice sounds, as though his entire body isn’t actually quivering apart underneath his skin.

Charles pushes his palms against the desk and propels himself upright, moving his body closer to Erik’s, until they are almost eye level. He drags a finger down the soft material of Erik’s turtleneck, following the hard line where his ribs fuse together, and says,

“It’s quite a lot.” The burning trail following his fingertips arrives at the bottom edge of his shirt, and they both look down towards it, as though Charles’ hand is now moving of it’s own volition and they both eagerly anticipate it’s next decision. 

Charles dips his fingers under the hem and slowly slides his hand up inside, feeling along the smooth muscle of Erik’s stomach. Erik hitches a breath and tries not to squirm, and everything is moving like honey and molasses, each moment slow, and thick, and so sweet.

Charles looks back up at him again, his hand curving around under Erik’s shirt to cup his waist. He squeezes and says,

“More then you can afford.” He seems to have moved impossibly closer, his face swimming in Erik’s vision, the blue of his eyes seemingly magnified by his glasses, his mouth a red smear in the corner of Erik’s eye. He swallows, hard,

“What do you suggest, then?” 

Charles shifts again, and now Erik can no longer see him, but he can feel him, his breathe damp against Erik’s mouth, his other hand sliding around under Erik’s shirt to rest at the waistband of his pants, just above his ass. He can feel Charles using him as an anchor, pulling against Erik’s body to draw himself in closer, sliding himself along the wood of the desk, and now he can feel Charles’ chest against his own, and now he can feel how hard his cock is, rubbing against Erik where he can feel sweet and agonizing pressure building in his own body.

“I think we can find a way for you to work off your debt.” Charles says, directly against his mouth and then Erik can’t stand it anymore, and he brings his own hands up to Charles’ arms, his shoulders, the back of his head, and they are falling into each other.

He pulls Charles against himself roughly, and Charles makes a delicious sound that Erik licks directly out of his mouth. Charles is twisting and hooking his legs behind Erik’s ass and grinding himself against Erik, and all he can think about is all the time they’ve wasted, time debating and conversing and playing chess when they could have been doing this oh god—

You’ll drive yourself mad thinking about it that way Charles murmurs in his mind, even his mental voice sounding fuzzy and sensual and dripping with arousal. Erik growls and bites down on his lip, and hooks his hands under his sweater vest, yanks it over his head, and tosses it across the room. It knocks his glasses askew, and when Charles reaches up to remove them, Erik reaches out to stop him,

“Leave them on.” He says, and Charles smiles knowingly and readjusts them to sit on his face properly, the edges of the frames resting just above the crest of his flushed cheeks. Erik takes the moment to pull off his own sweater, and then grabs at Charles’ shirt, yanking it open, buttons popping and scattering across the desk and the floor, ping pinging across the hardwood.

Erik pushes the edges of the shirt back, revealing the smooth pale expanse of Charles’ chest and stomach, bending over to lick a stripe across the freckles sprinkled along his collarbones. Charles arches backwards, and Erik uses the momentum to press him back against the desk. 

He feels the metal of Charles’ buckle, a bright spot in the periphery of his mind, and he slides it open and then yanks it hard, whipping it through the loops of Charles’ trousers, and then he’s peeling the worn corduroy down his legs and away, smoothing his palms up the sparsely haired legs and pressing down against the bulge in Charles’ cotton boxer shorts to see him moan, and writhe. 

Charles, with his soft, curling hair, and his glasses, and his open, torn shirt, and obscenely tented underwear, looking every inch the naughty librarian Erik has thought about and desired while he touched himself in dark hotel rooms and moldy bathrooms over the years.

Erik looks down at him and feels like he might come on the spot.

Please don’t. Charles thinks at him, I’d rather like you to fuck me. Erik groans and fumbles with his own pants, getting them caught on his boots before he kicks it all off and across the floor, straightening and looking back at Charles who is lounging on his elbows and raking his eyes up and down his body. When he finally meets Erik’s eyes again, he licks his lips, and says, out loud,

“Come here.” 
Erik doesn’t need to be told twice. He leans forward, kissing Charles again, hard and messy as he fumbles with his hands, stripping Charles boxers away and grasping him by the hips. He pulls him to the edge of the desk, and falls to his knees, licking up Charles’ cock from base to tip just to hear him shout and then pulling Charles’s cheeks apart and curling his tongue, dipping inside him.

Charles’ entire body shudders and his hips flex as though he wants more, but can’t bear it. Erik’s hand slides up his body and nudges at his mouth and Erik’s moans at how easily it opens, Charles’ wicked tongue licking in between his fingers, and rolling around his knuckles. 

He gives back as good as he gets licking upwards and swallowing down around Charles’ cock and Charles groans and his teeth graze Erik’s fingers as though he wants to bite down, but stops himself just in time. Erik smiles around his mouthful of cock and withdraws his hand, smearing his fingers against Charles’ abused mouth before bringing them down and pressing the tip of one against his hole.

Charles tenses, and then relaxes as Erik slowly pushes the finger inside him. Erik releases his cock, and moves upwards, the better to take in Charles, his mouth slung open, spilling out tiny, urgent, panting moans as Erik works his finger in and out. 

He presses a second finger inside and the noises get slightly louder and his eyes scrunch closed and Erik can’t take it anymore, he has to kiss him, and he does, Charles releasing his white-knuckled death grip on the desk to clutch at him, to rake through his hair and hold him close to devour his mouth.

They kiss and kiss and Erik presses in a third finger, and now Charles is moving his hips, getting into the rhythm and when Erik thinks he can’t take it anymore, Charles pushes him back and says, breathlessly,

“Ready, I’m ready—“ And Erik thinks THANK GOD so loudly Charles laughs outright and when he licks wetly up his palm and grabs Erik’s cock, pumping it slowly and spreading precome and saliva along the length, Erik blanks out for a moment.

When he comes back into himself Charles is wrapping his legs around him and murmuring come on come on come on in his mind, and finally, finally Erik lines himself up and presses inside.

They both choke and attempt to breathe, and Erik is frozen at the tight heat of Charles, pressing around him, and then Charles rolls his hips, and Erik has to dig his nails into the desk to hold on for just a little bit longer. He looks down at Charles who blinks lustful, hazy eyes at him through foggy glasses, and he says,

“Come on Mr. Lensherr. You have to pay up one way, or another.” And Erik, who had forgotten completely about the fantasy and the roll-play, groans and kisses him to shut him up. 

You can’t actually shut me up, you know-- Charles says smugly in his mind, and Erik takes great satisfaction in thrusting, hard, and causing Charles’ mental presence to stutter away.

And then it’s only slick, hot movement, and the sweat of their skin clinging where their bodies touch, and Charles panting gorgeously against his mouth, and digging his nails into Erik’s back. Erik angles his thrusts and Charles arches, crying out and Erik kisses him hard, and presses in again, and again, hitting that spot each time until Charles is incoherent, mindless, his toes and fingers curling into Erik, his head falling backwards.

Erik holds him close and can feel it when Charles comes without being touched, his cock rubbing against Erik’s stomach with every thrust, and the way he tenses and the way he clenches down on Erik’s cock, and the way he moans, his face open and beautiful, all of it pushes Erik over the edge. For a long, aching moment of pure bliss everything is white and heart wrenching and so, so good, and then he comes back into himself, dizzy, black spots dancing in his vision. 

His face is tucked into Charles neck, and he recognizes Charles’ hand threading through his hair lazily. Pushing himself up on shaking arms he looks down at Charles who smiles languidly up at him. He reaches up and adjusts his glasses and says,

“Remind me to wear these more often.”

Erik laughs and lowers himself to kiss him, slow and shallow and sweet. 

The glasses. It seems to silly now, that fantasy, pale and superficial in comparison with the real thing. With Charles, and everything that he is under the sweaters and suits and ill-fitted pants.

“It’s not the glasses.” He murmurs against Charles’ mouth, kissing him again, smiling as Charles tilts eagerly into it.

“It’s you, Charles.”