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Charles is damp and sweaty, but he doesn’t care. He actually doesn’t have a care in the world. The normally straight-laced professor of genetics has enough alcohol buzzing in his blood to make the world seem shiny and perfect, the music thumps so loudly in the club that he can feel it vibrate through his entire body, and he feels somehow free. He shakes and gyrates, works his hips to the music, feels the sweat roll down the side of his face. He brings a hand up to wipe it away, slicking his hair back a little, and pulls up the tight black t-shirt that Raven calls his only presentable piece of clothing to wipe some of the sweat off his stomach. He looks at his hand in the flashing lights and sees that it’s sparkling with glitter that had released from the ceiling not long ago, covering all the dancers in a shimmering cloud and causing a cheer to rise up from the crowd.
The bass thumps, vibrates, shakes the whole crowd, and they move in time, no longer individuals but one undulating mass, moved by the music, hot and alive, and it’s so good that Charles wants to stay like this forever.
It’s the club scene and there are plenty of beautiful men hanging around, looking for a quick fuck, a body to use for the night. This isn’t what Charles wants. He came to dance, to let go, to be free of all the responsibilities that come with being a child genius, a young professor, heir to the Xavier fortune. He just wants to feel nothing but the music pumping through him.
This is probably why he hasn’t noticed the man sitting in the corner booth who’s been watching him for the last thirty minutes. He is stretched out across the plush red seat, his long legs crossed casually at the angles, one arm slung across the back. He has been watching Charles move with hooded eyes, sipping at the drink that sweats on the small round table in front of him, his long fingers tapping slowly on its surface, as if he’s contemplating something. Charles doesn’t notice the way the man’s eyes follow him, watching carefully, as if he’s waiting for just the right moment; a break in the music, a certain shift in the room, or maybe it’s that there will be a point that the man can no longer stay seated and he must move, walk up to Charles and place those large hands on his waist, pulling him back against him and letting Charles press backwards, lean into his long, lean frame.
Charles isn’t entirely surprised when he feels hands on his waist. It’s the way of the club, after all. Even if he’s just here to dance, it’s only a matter of time before dancing slides into something else, and the buzz of alcohol is replaced by the low purr of arousal. It’s not what he really wanted when he walked through the door, handing his money to the large, muscled man at the desk, putting his hand out for a stamp that he will wear with pride the next day, evidence that Professor X might have a life outside grading papers and lesson planning. But now it’s here, a stranger touching him, and he feels those hands pull him backwards until he is pressed against the other man, the stranger’s hard cock pressed against his ass, one hand drifting to press hard against Charles’ hip the other sliding under the hem of his t-shirt, sliding across the slick, sweating skin there. Charles tips his head back involuntarily, unable to stop himself, and the back of his head hits the stranger’s shoulder. He rests it there as he lets out a moan that’s entirely lost in the loudness of the club. The warm hand slides upwards, further, ruching his t-shirt as it goes, until deft fingers find a nipple. They slide across it and Charles knows he must be a sight, leaning back against a stranger, mouth slack, debauched and exposed for all the world to see, but he doesn’t care. All he can focus on is the music and the feel of those fingers rubbing across the sensitive bud of his nipple. When they finally pinch, twisting, sending a spark of pure lust sizzling through him, it’s all Charles can do to stay standing.
“You’re spectacular," a voice rumbles hotly in his ear, “so responsive.”
“Please.” Charles whispers, surprising even himself by the fact that he’s in the middle of a club and begging, and he wants nothing but this stranger. No other time except right now. His cock, already half hard, starts to fill, to ache, and all his inhibitions start to slip away, leaving only hot, pulsing desire. He wants this man, whoever he is, to fuck him.
The music shifts again, pounding, pulsing. It’s rhythmic in a primal way, touching on something deep inside Charles, and he pushes back against the man, grinds his ass against that hard cock, and is rewarded with another quick twist of his nipple that shorts out any ability for rational thought he has left and the only thing he can conjure up is how much he desires this man.
The man’s hand slides out from under Charles’ shirt and Charles lets out a whimper, not caring that he would normally be mortified to be this gone, but he wants that touch back and doesn't care if he's begging. Now both hands grip at his hips, and he presses into their touch, thrusting into them, seeking more of everything. Then the hands are suddenly turning him around and a long, muscled thigh is slipping between his legs. Charles can’t help but grind down on it, seeking pressure, rutting in a way that an animal might. He moans, burying his face into the damp chest of the stranger, and his hands grip at his shoulders as he grinds down again and again, and if he does this long enough he’ll come right there on the dance floor, ruining his pants but getting the relief that he so craves.
“Not so fast,” the stranger murmurs, and Charles finally manages tilt his face upwards, to finally get a look at this man who has so bewitched him. The lights of the club flash and Charles sees a long neck that he wants to scrape his teeth down, a sharp jawline, short cropped hair, hooded eyes dark with lust. He is tall, lean, wearing a black shirt unbuttoned just the right amount. God, he's perfect.
"Fuck you," Charles mutters as he thrusts against the stranger's thigh one more time. He doesn't want to slow down, doesn't want to wait, and at the same time he locks his eyes with the other man, licks his lips, his tongue swiping along cracked, dried skin, and he might be concerned about his chapped lips being ugly, unattractive, except he feels the way the stranger tenses, the subtle hitch of his breath. Suddenly Charles is filled with a sense of power. He knows he isn't the only one teetering on the edge as those darkened eyes watch his tongue go back in his mouth. Charles goes up on tip toe, straining to place his mouth next to the stranger's ear.
"Actually, fuck me." Charles manages to whisper brokenly. The stranger startles at his words and he feels fingers curl around his jaw as his face is turned until they are again staring at each other.
"Erik." The man says darkly. "Fuck me, Erik."
"Fuck me, Erik." Charles repeats dumbly, then he says the man's name again, liking the way it rolls around in his mouth. "Erik. Yes, Erik. Fuck me. Please."
"Yes." Erik hisses and his thin lips descend to capture Charles' mouth in a kiss that is slow, filthy and wet. Charles' head is spinning with the heat of Erik's mouth and if this was all he ever got it might be the hottest thing he's ever experienced in his life. So when he ends the kiss then offers Charles a wide, lascivious smile followed by the word 'bathroom' in the form of a question, Charles' mind almost whites out. It takes all his effort not to sink down, unzip those expensive looking wool slacks and deep throat Erik right there in the middle of the dance floor. Instead Charles manages to nod dumbly, which appears to be enough consent for Erik, who grabs him by the hand and starts to make his way through the crowd, dragging Charles behind him.
When they finally push the door into the bathroom, Erik pulls Charles to him and starts to kiss him, at the same time slowly backing Charles into one of the cramped stalls, kicking the door shut behind him.
The stall is cramped and dirty, but Charles doesn't care. He pulls away from Erik then drops to his knees, his hands going to the zip of Erik’s trousers, pulling it down in one swift motion. Erik smiles from above him.
“So you’re a cock whore, um…” Erik looks down at Charles quizzically.
“Charles.” Charles says politely, figuring that if he knows Erik’s name, it's fair Erik should know his. “And yes, I am.”
He loves to suck dick, loves the feel of it in his mouth, the taste, and he’s happy to let Erik fuck his mouth, come down his throat, but he has something else in mind. Erik’s hand reaches down and pulls out his hard, hard cock, pushing down his underwear to free it, and it springs up towards his belly, but Charles wants more. He reaches to the waistband of those clearly Italian tailored grey wool slacks, hooks his fingers inside the waistband of both the slacks and the underwear, then pulls at them until they slip down heavily muscled thighs and end up pooled on the dirty, sticky floor. Then he glances up at Erik, staring up at him, almost daring him to do anything but watch. Charles places a finger in his mouth and sucks on it, wetting it with a purpose that he knows and Erik can only correctly guess. Erik groans deeply, and Charles thinks it’s his name. It sounds good coming from this man towering above him, his thighs trembling slightly with exertion, his dick hard and leaking. Charles reaches around and slides his hands up the backs of Erik’s thighs until he reaches his ass. He squeezes lightly then he slides a finger inward and finds the sensitive pucker of Erik’s asshole, and strokes at it. Once. Twice. A third time.
Charles knows he’s in control.
Erik leans forward and his arms come up to brace himself against the wall of the stall as he gasps out loud. His muscles tremble. Charles takes his spit-slick finger and presses inward, feeling the slight resistance of that ring of muscle, and just as his finger pops through that tight sphincter, he leans forward and takes Erik’s cock deep in his mouth.
“Oh, FUCK.” Erik shouts as Charles takes him in quickly. One of Erik’s hands reach down and his fingers weave into Charles hair then grip it tightly, pulling enough to cause pain, but he isn’t distracted from the task at hand. Erik thrusts forward almost unintentionally, then, after glancing down at Charles to see that he is a willing participant, he starts to thrust forward. Charles keeps his finger in Erik’s ass, circling and stroking, pulling out then pushing in, and all the while Erik fucks into his mouth. Then Charles finds that spot, the smooth gland, and as he presses and strokes at it, he feels Erik moan loudly. If his mouth wasn’t stretched so wide with a significantly large cock sliding back and forth over his lips, Charles might smile at how much power he has at the moment.
He feels Erik start to pump harder, more erratically, and that’s when Charles knows the other man is about to come. He pulls off Erik’s cock and is rewarded with a gratifying whine from the other man.
“Charles!” Erik gasps in protest.
“Come on my face.” Charles says quickly, and Erik’s objections abruptly turn to a groan of lust.
“Yesssssss.” Erik hisses and Charles looks up at Erik reaches down and starts to work his own cock with his large, square hand. It’s such a sight that Charles thinks he might come just from watching, so he quickly reaches down, undoes his tight jeans and pulls out his own cock. He starts to work it in time with Erik, moving his hand up and down the shaft, giving just the right amount of pressure, exactly how he likes it, but he does not thrust. He holds still and waits for Erik, who is starting to pump his hand even more furiously.
“Come on, dammit, come on.” Erik is muttering, and then he lets out a loud grunt and doubles forward as his cock jumps and pulses, and he comes, shooting semen all over Charles’ face. Charles looks up at him and smiles, feeling almost giddy with how wrecked the man standing above him looks, then he licks at the edges of his lips and tastes Erik.
“Jesus, you’re killing me.” Erik whimpers as he leans heavily on the bathroom stall, staring down at Charles, watching as Charles continues to work his own cock. It won’t be much longer now. Only a few more strokes and Charles is coming, pulsing all over his own hand, trembling with release and it’s so good he could cry.
“Fuck.” Charles says, shaking as he tries to stay kneeling. Erik reaches down, pulling him up into his now more steady arms, and he holds him tightly to his chest.
“No kidding.” Erik laughs, burying his nose in Charles hair, and Charles can feel the sound rumble deep in the other man’s chest. It's a pleasant, warm sound. Erik pulls his face back and peers down at Charles with a look that feels like it’s peeling away all of Charles’ layers. He wonders who this man is and what all this means, and for a long moment it feels like much more than anonymous sex in the bathroom of a club. Charles suddenly feels like he's standing on the edge of something much bigger than he realized. They stay like that, staring at each other for a long moment, until Erik clears his throat and says to Charles, in a shaky voice.
“So, want to dance?”
Charles blinks. Dancing, wrapping up in those strong arms, resting his head on that broad chest and pretending tonight is something other than a quick and dirty blow job kneeling on a sticky floor.
“Yes.” He answers. He wants to dance.
~fin~