Summary: Erik gets bored at a stuffy party and pulls Charles into the bathroom for a quick reprieve. Written at pearl_o's behest, based on a picture of James McAvoy staring at a mirror whilst wearing a black suit and tie and looking vaguely annoyed. Rated M for, uh, mature situations. Slash, obviously. Set sometime during "First Class," probably their mutant recruitment road trip or something.

Black Tie Affair

They sneak off to the bathroom, Erik mostly tugging Charles by the wrist because he's bored, and by the time Charles has mind-tricked the man waiting by the sink to decide that he no longer needs to assist them with any of their toilet-related needs, Erik has already decided how this is going to go down. Before he knows it, Charles is being shoved into one of the tiny stalls, wherein he convinces Erik to leave the door open ("nobody is going to come in, I promise") because the small space is making him feel a little claustrophobic. Then Erik is finagling his pants and underwear down just enough so he can fit his cock neatly inside of the smaller man, and Charles somehow feels a little less crazed by the reality that, yes, still, Erik is fucking him in a like, five-by-five-foot box.

He moans loudly as Erik drives in at a particularly pleasant angle, and the other man clamps a hand tightly over his mouth, laughing in his ear. "Jesus, Charles," he mutters, and Charles whines and wonders idly how Erik managed to slick himself up with whatever he s using as lube now and, honestly, how he's not grunting and making the same obsequious animal noises as Charles. Charles' hands scrabble for purchase against the smooth walls of his toilet prison, and his eye catches the same bit of penciled graffiti as Erik fucks into him over and over again.

The other man comes first, and Charles feels a little of his spunk shoot down his own pants leg when he pulls out. "Erik, for God's sake," he growls, and the other man mumbles something that could be an apology, but then he starts giving Charles a reach-around, perfectly-manicured fingers (Erik cleans up really nicely, Charles realized earlier when he watched the other man strut around in a full tux, complete with tie and shiny, black shoes) gripping and sliding with just the right amount of everything, and soon, Charles gets over himself and kind of squawks and comes across Erik's fist.

"Excellent," Erik intones, breath tickling his jaw, and Charles tries to look put upon as he zips himself up again. Erik manages to gracefully launch himself out of the stall backwards and in front of the sink by pivoting on his heel with one swift movement, and Charles just sighs.

"We really should be getting back," he frowns, watching Erik wash his hands and give himself a perfunctory once-over in the mirror. "I really don't know how patient our host will be - or how willing to hear our proposal - if we keep her waiting much longer."

Erik smirks at his reflection in the mirror. "We'll get there." He nods down at Charles' sullied pants leg and snickers. "Maybe a bit less haste would be wise, though."

"Shit." Charles stalks towards a spare sink and, grabbing up a bit of paper towel, starts harshly rubbing at the come stain. When he succeeds only in slightly lightening it, he glares up at Erik, who is biting his lip in agonized amusement. "I hope you're happy. This was new, and now I'll be lucky if I make it to the car without anyone noticing. You're a real bastard sometimes, you know, Erik."

"That's what they tell me," Erik grins. Then, before Charles breaks something from his incessant fussing, Erik plucks the wad of paper towel from his hand and gently begins to rub at the stain. Somehow, as if by magic or Erik - 'probably Erik,' Charles thinks grumpily, and Erik hears and snorts - he manages to get Charles' dress pants looking presentable anew. "There you go, Professor," the taller man says, patting him on the head fondly. He reaches out and tweaks Charles' nose, and then makes miniscule adjustments to the smaller man's tie (black, of course). There had been some grand amusement at realizing that Charles had only ever worn clip-ons because "my father never taught me how to tie a real one, and I wasn't about to ask my stepfather for help of any sort," and then a slow-building pleasure at being able to rectify that.

"Pretty as a picture," Erik tells him once he's decided that Charles is all fixed up again. His hair is a little mussed, but they can chalk it up to the warm atmosphere of the party if anyone asks. Swinging open the main door of the bathroom with his magnetism abilities, Erik holds out an arm for Charles to take. "Shall we, Mr. Xavier," he entreats, drawing out the syllables of Charles' surname in an unnecessarily long fashion. It makes Charles smile, in spite of himself. Taking one last glance at his freshly-fucked frame in the mirror, he grips Erik's arm, and allows himself to be led back into the land of the living, secretly recognizing that, even if this night is a complete bust in terms of mutant recruitment opportunities, at the very least, he'll have this, them, Erik, and the newfound, handy knowledge of learning how to tie his own tie.