Hm. This ended up taking more of a sensual turn towards the end than I was expecting. Also, sometimes I feel I spend way too much time in the characters' heads, but what the fuck ever, I think it's fun. Yaknow. I started this with it mind that this was taking place in present times but in my head when ever I imagine the scenes I keep seeing them all vintage, like in the 20s. I don't knooow.
Please enjoy this next chapter.

The heavy door banged shut behind him with a thud. He took a moment to recollect his self, brush a hand through his hair, rub his fingers across his face to smooth out the troubled expression, and take in a big breath before letting it out in a loud exhale. The empty span of the entryway and hallway after was daunting so he took quick strides through it, making his way to the room he knew his sister was occupying. She sat languidly at a table, fingers entwining in her blonde hair out of boredom and frustration from the work she was looking at. It could almost appear as though she really would pull her hair out. Trying hard not to pay too much attention to the problems she was supposed to be solving, she immediately heard her brother enter the room and looked up. At first she was smiling, but then she noticed the expression on his face.

"Raven, I think they're on to me."

"Already?" she whispered harshly, in compliance with her brother's own hushed voice. It was like in the back of their minds they thought it possible someone was listening in. "You just started this case."

Truth be told, Charles Xavier is a private detective. Not a very good one at that. Raven has harassed him relentlessly about taking up a more suited job, like teaching, but he simply refuses. Teaching requires more schooling, more money, and he hasn't the funds. Being a private detective isn't a stable job, not a very safe one either, but it does bring in some cash when he manages to actually solve a case.

And right now he was on a case. A dangerous one. A very dangerous one and both he and his sister knew so when he took it. The client who had come in with the commission had been beaten severely. He was in a wheelchair, both legs broken, possibly unable to ever completely heal. His face was an absolute mess, with several teeth missing, black eyes, and pieces of flesh trying to bring itself back together. There were bruises and cuts all over. Charles should have denied the request, admitted he wasn't suited for such a difficult job, but the state of the man had his morals getting the best of him. So when he was asked to investigate a certain loan shark company, not just to out its shoddy loaning business, he unwittingly accepted.

This was only a week ago. He had barely piled together an informative leaflet for himself on what exactly the company does, at least, what information can easily be obtained by anyone willing to deal with them. From his client he learned about the contracts, the consequences, and was even given a few names of other victims he could speak to. He had actually planned on taking out a loan himself just to get inside because the building he found to house the company was so heavily guarded it definitely seemed impossible to sneak his way in.

"Father took out a loan with them," he began to explain. "The contract looks so old though I have to wonder why they're just now collecting on it… unless they know."

"Charles, you need to get yourself out of this now. I am not going to let you get killed just so you can feel good about yourself." Raven put a disapproving eye on him, grabbing him by the shoulders to make sure he had every ounce of his attention on what she was telling him. She knows Charles and one thing he enjoys is a game. That's what this was turning into. He couldn't see that he was getting himself into a load of trouble. He only saw that the opposing player was making a strategic move and that he needed to find a way to stump it. Charles may be smart, he may be good at playing the other's hand, but he is not a detective and he needs to realize that before something really bad happens. "This isn't like a simple game of chess, Charles," she tries to explain further. "This is real life and you could be seriously hurt."

"Oh, but the man who came to our house was rather nice," he stated out of the blue, dismissing what Raven was trying to say. "He may be my ticket to solving this case."
He didn't quite like the thought of taking advantage of the man who was trying to help him in his financial problems, but now that it seemed impossible to take out a loan himself, his father's loan was his only way in. He could get to know this man, get him to trust him somehow, and then use him to dig out the dirty secrets hiding under the floorboards of that massive building. If he plays his cards right he may even be able to get inside the company. "This could work, Raven!" he coerced, wishing his sister would support him instead of trying to talk him out of it. He contentedly pushed his fingers through the side of his hair, "Oddly enough, the man seemed quite enamored with me."

"Don't flatter yourself," Raven rolled her eyes but he could tell that comment had lightened her mood, which was his purpose for saying it. It did seem relatively true though. Charles couldn't have not seen the way the shark kept eyeing him. It could just be wishful thinking, but it seemed highly unlikely that someone taught to be ruthless and unforgiving had left without putting a single injury on his person. He's heard plenty stories of the way these people work. They're quick to violence and won't leave without either money or some sort of painful collateral. Charles was left without giving either. Actually, he was more or less left with a promise of better comings.

Shitshitshit. Everyone within the vicinity of Erik's office could hear the bangs and crashes as he kicked and battered the walls and furniture. Not a single person had the courage to ask what exactly the commotion was about though. It was better to keep to themselves than face him in such a state, or ever, for that matter. So he was left to himself to knock over the only lamp, kick a hole in the wall, and storm around the wooden floor with loud, threatening clacking stomps of his feet. It took him a while to finally calm down enough to fall unsatisfied into his chair and slam his head onto the desk. Why. Did. You. Do. That?

He was busy reprimanding himself for the actions he took with Xavier. When he told Xavier that he would see what he could do he wasn't clearly thinking. He can't 'see what he can do'. There's only 'get money' and, well, 'get money'. There's no seeing. He's not working in a fucking bank. They don't try to work with their clients, help their clients, they just take and that is not what he did with Charles Xavier. If Shaw finds out about this he tells himself. He wasn't sure what would happened if Shaw found out, but in his gut he could tell it wouldn't be anything good. He'd just have to make sure the boss doesn't find out. Easy, right?

Then his phone rang.

He glumly stared daggers at it as it rang once, then twice, a third time and he forced himself to remove the receiver and bring it to his ear. "Lensherr."
"Erik! Any profits today? Any body's need cleaning up? What's the news?"

"I'll be sending the bit of income I acquired today shortly," he wanted to keep his responses short and simple. He needed to keep his voice steady. Shaw was sharp and could spot lies and mishaps from one little squeak.

"How about the Xavier case?"

Erik gulped. Shit. "About that. I don't understand why it was given to me. It's not my usual sort of job. I took care of it of course. The client can't pay at the time, but I made sure he understood our conditions and will be returning next week."

He could just about hear the venomous smile he knew was creeping up on that horrid man's face, "Good. Yes, the job isn't one you usually receive, but it just happened to be in your office. I'll be looking forward to seeing today's profit." Then he closed the call.

Once again, Erik was getting a strange feeling about this whole Xavier ordeal. That same sense when he first spotted the name on his list. Everyone knows Erik has a pristine memory and he knows for a fact that his shelf was devastatingly empty when he first entered this office. The only contracts on that shelf are the ones he wrote himself. So the only way Xavier's could have made its way in was if someone else put it there. Why though? What's the point?

He would understand if maybe he was some big time mob boss or a rich scoundrel who's trying to get away without paying. He'd have fewer questions if this was a big job, with big problems, that needed an experienced, well-trained man on the job. Even with the question of why they had to sneak it in wouldn't matter as much if it just wasn't Charles. Hell, what is he getting at? He doesn't know a thing about this man. For all he knows the fragile looking British boy could be one of those things. What does it matter if he's poor as fuck because of dead-beat parents, trying to take care of his sister and send her to school? What point does it make that he looks half-dead from exhaustion, probably due to late night worries and working himself too hard? Is it really so hard to believe that those thick thighs and slender arms—

He slams his head against the desk again.

This ridiculous infatuation was entirely unreasonable. He only just met the guy and for, what, ten minutes at most? Not to mention his usual utter disregard for such relationships and attraction. Why now? Why him? Fuck, why a man? It's incomprehensible as to why he's sitting here, doing nothing, with his mind wandering to perverse visions. Visions such as what he would like to do with those insufferably red lips, wondering if their soft or chapped, if the mouth behind them is warm and moist or dry from drink parched days. He wonders if the throat beyond that would produce piercing screams or low moans that vibrate through the body, if that soothing voice would talk dirty or constantly whisper sweet things against his skin.

At this point he shot up from his head to desk position and disheveled his hair with aggravated hands. He sat back against his chair with a huff and turned his eyes to the ceiling.
His eyelids slid down as his thoughts began to mosey on back to where they were stopped short, jaw clamping together at the erotic images he imagined. He wanted to know how that flesh would feel between his teeth and how the skin and blood and sweat would taste on his tongue. He just needs to feel what it would be like to spread those legs with his hands, his fingers running along the frame of them. He wants those soft (or maybe callused?) hands digging into his hair, nails scraping across his scalp and jolts of pain rushing down from the tugging and pulling. These fantasies are pushing him too far and he can feel, but not control, his hand that's making its way in-between his thighs.

A knock sounds at the door, the click of a doorknob turning and the door opening. "Mr. Lensherr?" a voice inquires, entering the room cautiously.

"What?" the man growls, slamming his hands against the surface of his desk. If not the tone of his voice and the violent act of his hands, Erik's positively tousled and hungry looking self was enough to make the visitor feel like a fish being thrown to a shark. "I… can come back later."