Birthday!fic for Czarnyma.
This is written by both myself and MonstrousReg.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rrrriding Dirrrty
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Erik Lehnsherr has a lot of problems—problems, not issues, thank you and fuck you—and a lot of them unfortunately revolve around the people he surrounds himself with. Or rather the people Charles decides they need to be surrounded with. Charles obviously has a malfunctioning brain, not that this surprises absolutely anyone (the man likes scones for god's sake).
Take for example Logan Howlett. How in the world do you explain to someone, anyone, anything in this world with two inches of brain matter, the need to have someone like Logan Howlett around? The man can burn water in the kitchen. He is constantly surrounded by a cloud of acrid cigar smoke, like a moon orbiting its planet. He has a trigger-happy policy on his own foul temper, which is really just unfortunate, because Erik has the same policy about his own tempter, and, to quote Shakespeare, two stars keep not their motions in one sphere. And yes, he's read Shakespeare, everyone's very shocked, he knows.
He lives with a British professor. Of course he's read Shakespeare. Even though he hates it passionately because if he had had a king that gave all those speeches, he'd have put an arrow through his eyes two paragraphs into the second diatribe. God damn.
So yes, Erik Lehnsherr has a lot of problems, but one of his biggest problems is not, in fact, that Logan and Scott are one inch away from skinning each other (and half an inch away from fucking each other, and Erik isn't sure which one of those similarly unpleasant options is less attractive to him). One of his biggest problems, in fact, is his lover (he will skin anyone who calls Charles his boyfriend).
The problem here is Charles doesn't only adapt, he fucking molds.
"You're doing that thing again," he growls, fifteen minutes into the drive back from the airport, interrupting Charles mid-sentence. It's difficult not to. Charles talks a lot when he's excited, and he's always excited when he comes back from his travels.
Charles stops the gesture he was doing to blink at him, wide blue eyes guileless and warm.
"What thing?"
"That thing," Erik waves his right hand vaguely before returning it to the stick. Anyone can say whatever they want about it, Erik Lehnsherr will not be caught dead in a car with an automatic gear box. "Where you sound like you live in the place you visited."
Charles blinks slowly. "I sound like I'm from Argentina?"
"You're doing something strange with your r's."
"Strange how?"
Erik shrugs, slides the car into third gear and whips down the highway towards the city.
Charles takes his laconic attitude as…his usual laconic attitude, which makes sense, and takes no offense in Erik's silence. They fit together so well, he and Charles, because they know exactly how to treat the other, how to handle their strangest moods.
They've been together (they are not dating) for a little more than two years.
They live in a wide, spacious flat on top of an old apartment building that Charles' preposterously rich parents (both assholes, in case you were wondering) bought entirely for their lucky son's benefit. The idea behind this is most likely to give Charles a source of income for when—and they are sure it will happen—he got bored of being a professor and decided to crawl back to his upper-class British socialite life. Somehow this involves having a drink for breakfast—not tea—playing a lot with horses, and being a complete and utter snob. Charles' mother Sharon is particularly gifted at this lifestyle. If that's what you want to call it.
So Erik actually has a lot of problems, and all of them to the littlest one spawn out of his lover. He only sometimes wishes he hadn't met Charles. The rest of the time he's too busy desperately loving him.
Not that loving him with the intensity of a hundred suns keeps Erik from being an asshole about everything in their lives. Charles drinks tea. Erik is a dick. Those are just their quirks.
Anyway, the fact is that Charles owns the whole apartment building, and he rents out the apartments at offensively low prices to whoever is in need of help; which is how they wound up with a sixteen-apartment unit full of a motley crew of social misfits, each more freakish than the last.
And a janitor, because every building needs a janitor, according to Charles, which is how Logan turned up. If someone had put up a sign in a newspaper demanding for auditions for a man that looked like the lost link in the human evolutionary chain, Logan would have gotten the role without even auditioning, Harrison-Ford-like. Not that Erik had anything against chimpanzees. Except for the fact he'd prefer them not to have a key to his apartment, which they then made a liberal use of, claiming that their home theater system made Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy a thousand times more enjoyable, and if Erik protested, they'd yell 'and thanks for all the fish' at the tops of their lungs. They had an enviable capacity, cigar and all.
So arguably everything that went wrong in Erik's life can be blamed on Charles. Then again, so could everything that ever went well, so.
"What?" Erik whips his head to face Charles, frowning. Charles stops talking mid-word, mouth hanging open.
"What, what?"
"What did you just call me?"
"Erik?" Charles makes a bewildered gesture with his hands.
"No, you said it differently."
Charles stares. "Erik?" he tries again.
"No," Erik frowns murderously. "You accented the r more."
"Errrik?"
"Yes," Erik snaps, triumphant. "Stop that."
"It's not that different from the German pronunciation," Charles argues, thoughtful. "Errrik."
"That's not German. That's mangled Scottish or something. I'm not taking responsibility for that."
"At least I don't sound Russian anymore," Charles laughs. "Remember that one? Earick, tovarisch."
Erik makes a disgusted sound at the back of his throat, turning the car smoothly into the building's parking lot. The truth is that Charles has a ridiculous talent for languages, and can pick up entire phrases and pronounce them perfectly. If he doesn't quite know what the hell he's saying, he sure sounds like he does. Charles is just revoltingly talented at everything, damn him.
"I actually like it," the professor continues as Erik pops the trunk and picks up Charles' carry-on bag. Erik can be a gentleman. Occasionally. When the planets align.
"Like what?" he asks, distractedly, eyeing the long elegant line of Charles' throat. Charles has been away for a week and a half. Erik is a healthy young human male. His blood is beginning to heat.
Charles is, as always, perfectly oblivious. Normally you can't get Charles to get an erection unless you present him with the incontrovertible evidence that you have one already, unless it's morning, because of course he's a morning wood person. It makes the nights interesting to say the least, because Erik will wake up in the middle of it and wake Charles up for in-the-dark sex, and then Charles will wake up at whatever ungodly hour he wakes up—he doesn't sleep much—and wake Erik up for morning sex.
So the sex life is great, no complaints about that.
But Charles' libido is more of a reaction than an action in itself, so Erik gets to instigate the sex, which is fine.
"Errik," Charles sings, playfully, walking backwards into the apartment.
"Stop mangling my name, Francis," grumbles Erik, going to the bedroom to drop the carry-on by the wall before joining Charles in the kitchen where he is, predictably, already making tea. And coffee for Erik, god bless him.
"Sure thing, Errik."
He's doing something strange with his tongue. Instead of rolling it to pronounce the r he's making it vibrate against the roof of his mouth as he exhales, making a purring sort of sound. It wasn't as pronounced before when he didn't realize he was doing it, but now that he knows it irritates Erik, he's doing it on purpose and much more obviously, making a hard Spanish r instead of a soft one.
Let no one ever say Charles Xavier does not have a talented tongue.
"How was Buenos Aires anyway?"
"Hot and humid," replies Charles. "February is a bad month for Buenos Aires."
"Middle of summer," Erik nods, turning his head to watch the snow falling outside their kitchen window. "Conference okay?"
"Interesting," replies Charles, thoughtlessly adding to Erik's coffee the usual twist of milk he's insisted Erik needs to not make a hole through his stomach every time he consumes caffeine.
They take their tea and coffee to the living room low table, and Charles gives Erik a brief description of the subjects breached in the conference—all the while abusing that damn r. It puts Erik on edge.
They sit on the couch and Charles' thigh is touching his, warmth along its length. Erik can't feel the movements of muscles beneath the skin through the jeans they're both wearing, but he knows Charles' body as well as his own. He knows the curve of strong muscles that mobilize his deceptively lithe frame, the way they fit perfectly into flat lines and sharp corners. The only soft thing in Charles' body is his face, his soft plump lips, his electric blue eyes.
Erik must have zoned out or something (whatever, he's allowed to stare at his lover, who he has not seen in a week in a half, remember) because when he blinks and snaps back to the present Charles is looking at him knowingly with a slight smile toying at his lips.
"Something on your mind, Errrrrrik?" He drags the r out extra-long this time, smile morphing into a smirk.
That's it. Erik's had enough.
Charles laugh-gasps as Erik practically tackles him, pressing him down onto the couch and climbing on top of him and pinning him in place. "God, shut up," he growls, and before Charles gets a chance to retort he crushes their lips together, nipping at Charles' lower lip until the professor parts his lips with a happy sigh.
Charles is warm and wiggly beneath him, and Erik can't help it when his hips roll forward a couple of times, grinding their crotches together and making Charles moan into Erik's mouth. Having the real thing back as opposed to his imagination and his hand is making Erik even hornier than he usually is, panting as he gets to work on Charles' usual modest fair of grandfather clothes—honestly, he's goddamn lucky Erik doesn't give a shit about stuff like that because khakis and a sweater vest, really?—and rolling his hips some more until Charles is arching into him, hands scrabbling at Erik's back.
Once he has Charles stripped down to nothing but his briefs, Erik works his way down the professor's throat, working his way to stripping him down to incoherency with his mouth. Charles gasps and sighs as Erik trails open-mouthed kisses downwards, stopping for a moment to lick at his collarbone, biting at it lightly. Charles jerks up against him, and when Erik glances at his face the professor is flushed, bangs plastered against his forehead, pupils blown so wide that very little blue remains.
Erik doesn't smirk, fuck you very much, he just shows his teeth like a shark.
He continues his trail downwards, licking one long, wet stripe down Charles' chest. Charles whimpers when Erik reaches his cock, hard and leaking against the fabric of his briefs. Let it not be said that Erik isn't good at this instigating-of-the-sexual-relations thing, because frankly he is the best. He puts his mouth over Charles' cock, breathing warm and heavy against the fabric, and resists the urge to laugh at the professor when Charles tries to buck up into Erik's mouth—only in vain, because Erik is holding him down by the hips.
So, needless to say, it surprises the hell out of him when Charles sits up abruptly, pushing him back by the shoulders and climbing into his lap.
Erik blinks.
Well.
Charles takes his time adjusting himself, knees slotting neatly into place on either side of Erik's hips, and when he shifts back and forth on purpose Erik groans. "What are you doing?"
"Taking you for a rrrrride, darrrrling," Charles says, and Erik really considers throwing him across room for a moment but then Charles has unzipped his front and reached down to wrap his fingers around his cock, with a murmured, "Ah, I've missed you, my love."
Erik leans back bonelessly into the couch cushion, watching Charles through half-lidded eyes, jerking his hips lazily in time with Charles' strokes. Charles' weight is warm and familiar, finally a solid body after a week and a half—that's a long time, alright, leave it alone—and for a moment Erik is content to do nothing but soak up his presence.
While the good professor gives him a wank, of course.
Erik doesn't want to come yet, though, given that he's been promised a rrrrride—oh god, now he's starting to think in terms of the horrible accent. This needs to stop. This needs to stop, and there needs to be more sex.
Easily fixable.
He reaches around Charles, grabbing him by that pert little ass and dragging him forward so that he's flush against Erik's chest. Charles yelps when Erik slips a finger up near his hole, slowly drawing tantalizing circles around the entrance, teasing closer and closer. He tries to squirm away, thighs straining, but Erik holds him where he's got him, and alright fine, this time he does smirk at the low, drawn-out moan it wins him. Charles squeezes his eyes shut and ruts against Erik's stomach, his cock leaving a slick line of precum across Erik's skin.
Erik reaches down into the couch cushions and fishes out the bottle of lube he knows is there—it's been a long fucking week and a half, goddamn it—and pops the cap off, wetting his fingers liberally. Then he returns to Charles' hole, teasing around the rim for a moment before sliding one finger in.
"Erik," Charles gasps, clenching tight for a moment and Erik can't help but smirk again because he's finally dropped the damn accent.
"Loosen up for me, liebling," he murmurs in Charles' ear, purposefully thickening his own accent so that Charles shudders, and Erik feels his body relax.
He pumps his finger in and out of Charles, relishing in every gasp and half-formed word that falls from the professor's lips, and then slides in a second, wrapping an arm around Charles' back when the smaller man arches his back again, his spine a long, beautiful curve as Erik scissors his fingers in tight heat.
"A-ah, oh, Erik," Charles grinds out, in between breathless pants as he starts to come undone, "I want you—I need you—inside—"
Erik's not exactly unaffected himself by this point, so he pulls his fingers out with a slick, wet noise, bringing both his hands up to rest on Charles' hips. Charles bites his lower lip as he puts his own hands on Erik's shoulders, bracing himself, and then carefully lowers himself down onto Erik's waiting cock.
"Fuck, Charles," Erik hisses, unable to look away as Charles takes him in inch by inch, the sight accompanied by the feeling of tight, wet heat surrounding him slowly, "you're—you're so—"
"Perrrfect?" Charles purrs, and then chokes when Erik thrusts up into him.
Erik has several snappy responses lined up—he's a pretty witty guy, if he does say so himself—but Charles has other plans, picking himself up off of Erik's cock entirely before sliding back all the way down in one fluid motion, and Erik's responses get derailed since he's seeing stars at this point. Charles does it again, and they moan in unison, setting up a rhythm of Charles riding Erik's cock, sliding up and down as Erik thrusts up to meet him, making Charles' breath catch in his throat.
Erik keeps one hand on Charles' hip but the other slides up the professor's spine, trailing through the thin sheen of sweat beading on his skin, and reaching up to tangle his fingers briefly in Charles' hair, scratching lightly at his scalp so that Charles leans back into the touch, his chest pushed outwards as he continues to move on Erik's cock.
Erik is breathing raggedly, his thrusts becoming more and more brutal as he slowly loses control, coming apart at the seams by the sight Charles makes. He slips his hand out of Charles' hair, bringing it down to wrap around Charles' cock, which stands up between them, slick and straining. He gives Charles two long strokes and Charles comes with a cry, shaking apart on Erik's lap and spurting sticky white come between them.
There's a slow, roiling heat building up in Erik's stomach, and Charles leans forward to rest his forehead against Erik's shoulder as he bucks, still shivering in the aftershocks of his orgasm but intent on riding out Erik's. He lifts himself up again, and then this time when he slides back down he clenches tight, which is enough to send Erik cascading over the edge.
He grabs onto Charles as he shoots off straight up into the professor, pressing Charles' ass down onto his cock as he comes with a groan. Charles instinctively squirms at the sensation but Erik holds him down and makes him stay in place. Both of them are panting, wrung out but sated, basking in the afterglow together. Erik's already growing flaccid but neither of them attempt to move yet, keeping their bodies closely linked.
Erik jolts and Charles actually flinches when suddenly someone is banging on their door. "What the fuck, get a room!" Logan shouts at them from the hallway.
"We are in our room," Erik snarls back, ignoring how Charles actually huffs out a small laugh because seriously, Logan is not funny and in fact needs to die, "mind your own goddamn business you piece of—"
He stops dead when his gaze lands on the window over Charles' shoulder.
Wade Wilson, the building's window washer—and another useless waste that Charles insists having around—is literally hanging off of his washing platform, grinning widely at them. When he catches Erik's eye, he taps on the glass, and then shouts—holy shit that must be an ear-shattering shout because Erik can hear him crystal clear even inside—loudly, "AND THANKS FOR ALL THE FISH!"
What.
Does that.
Even.
Mean.
Charles buries his face in Erik's neck, and at first Erik thinks he's laughing but then he realizes that Charles is just making that damn r sound again and chuckling because of it.
Erik closes his eyes and instead of killing everyone he starts coming up with more useful things that Charles could be doing with that tongue of his.
It's the little things, really, that keep him from going insane.
At least not completely insane.
"Rrrround two, darrrling?"
Erik groans.