A/N: Warning for infidelity issues. If you have a trigger for cheating, do not read this story, please.

Also, I wrote this story like, months ago. We're talking back in November, and I really didn't know where I was going with it, so I may or may not continue, depending on people's reactions I suppose. It's kind of fucked up and has controversial issues in it about cheating, so yeah...

Read at your own risk.

Beta'd, as always, by papercutperfect.

"Sometimes, I think about Erik coming up to me, gently pushing me up against the wall, and just undoing my shirt. I never wear button-ups; never worn one in my life. I think I own one — it was probably a gift from Brad—but I've never worn it. In my fantasy, however, I'm wearing one, and Erik's undoing it slowly. He's looking at me. He doesn't kiss me; he just looks me in the eye and unbuttons my shirt."

"Do you not consider it cheating unless he kisses you?"

Charles thinks for a moment. "No, I guess not."

"Okay," Steve nods. "Go on."

"So," Charles says as he runs his hand through his hair. He sits up a little straighter in the metal folding chair. "So, he's unbuttoning my shirt, and looking down at me—he's tall, very tall, and I'm…well I'm kind of short, so — so he's looking down at me, hotly, practically searing me with his eyes. I take a deep breath, probably a shuddering breath, and say nothing. I don't tell him to stop. I don't encourage him; I just breathe." He runs his right hand over his left bicep, leaning over in the chair. "Also, sometimes I wonder what it would be like if he were to…run his hand up my chest? Maybe slide the tips of his fingers over my nipple?"

There's a small murmur from the circle and someone comments, "That's almost crossing the line."

Charles nods. "Yeah, I know," he says in agreement, looking at the person across from him. "But…but…it's still not quite cheating yet, in my mind." He looks down and swallows. "And maybe…maybe he can also…lean down and…and lick one?"

"There we go," someone group gets a bit louder in their murmurs, and another person says, "That's crossing it."

Steve, the group counselor, just puts his hand up to silence everyone. "Okay, Charles," he says as the circle quiets down. "It's all right. Now, have you thought this fantasy through to the end yet?"

Charles looks at his shoes – his "workout" shoes– and swallows. "No, not yet."

"Okay." Steve nods again. "Perhaps you should. Have it all the way through, and then you can share it next time. Get it all out. Remember, Charles, what goes on in your head is in your head only. You can think whatever you want, so long as you don't act on it. We're all here for the same reason, and you know talking about it— not acting on it— can actually help you cope with the urges."

After all, this is Cheaters Anonymous.

Well okay, so the sign on the door doesn't actually say,'Cheaters Anonymous'. It says,'Infidelity Helpers'. But whatever; everyone knows why they're there, and they all know what it's really about.

Not everyone there is a cheater. Some are just there because they want to be, or have thought about cheating, or have almost cheated.

Most of them are cheaters, though.

Charles isn't. He hasn't, yet. He just thinks about it, fantasizes about it. He's afraid he's going to go through with it one of these days. Which is why he's here and not at the gym like he tells his boyfriend.

Three times a week.

Well, okay, he is technically at a gym, the YMCA to be correct; he's just not in the kickboxing class that he told Brad he was taking. Nope; he's down the hall in another room, sitting in a circle with ten other people and Steve Rogers, the group counselor, talking about a sexual fantasy he wants to happen between him and his boyfriend's bestfriend.

How fucked up is that?

But it helps, apparently. Talking about it, that is. Saying your fantasies out loud to a group of likeminded individuals is supposed to help. It's supposed to make you feel as though they were real, as though you've actually done them, with never really going through with them.

Does that really make sense?

Charles is having a hard time believing this. If anything, it's making him want to fuck Erik – or, well, be fucked by Erik – even more.

Not that he wants to cheat on his boyfriend; that's why he's here after all. It's just, well…fuck. He's been with Brad for five years now. It's getting old. Charles loves him, he really does, it's just… the sex has gotten boring. To be fucked by the same person, the same way, for five years… Christ. It's no wonder Charles has fantasies about Erik fucking him up against the nearest wall; one hand tight in Charles' hair, pushing his face into said wall, as Erik's other hand holds Charles' hip steady – all the while plowing relentlessly into him from behind.

And it's fucking amazing, it really is.

Well, at least it would be, if it were to happen.

And really, it's at the point now with him and Brad where they don't even kiss anymore during sex. They just fuck. Just get straight down to business. No foreplay, no kissing, no teasing; just fast fucking.

Charles actually prefers it from behind. He tries to think about it being Erik back there slamming into him, gripping his hips, and slapping his ass.

But it doesn't work. It never works. He still knows it's Brad. He knows it's Brad because he's been fucked by Brad for five straight years, and he knows how Brad fucks.

He fucks exactly how he fucked Charles five years ago, when they first met.

Charles doesn't want to cheat on Brad, which is why he's here.

He's trying to convince himself that it is helping.

"Okay, Charles," Steve says with that warm, non-judgmental smile of his. "Thanks for sharing. Let's move onto someone else." He looks around the circle. "How about you, Jennifer?"

"Okay," the middle aged woman says as she leans forward. "So, my twenty-two year old neighbor's out washing his car…"

…

When Charles gets home, he heads up the stairs to the shower.

"How was your workout?" Brad asks him from the couch, book in hand. He doesn't turn back to look at Charles.

"Fine," the brunet replies. "I'm just going to take a shower."

And then Charles is gone.

He tells Brad he works out – kickboxes, whatever – so that the second he gets home he can head straight to the shower and masturbate. He knows Brad won't want to have sex with him if he thinks Charles is all sweaty and smelly.

Brad doesn't like dirty sex; he likes clean, fresh-out-of-the-shower sex.

Not that Charles is going to have sex with Brad after he showers, oh no, he's probably going to go to bed, claiming to be too tired after class to fuck. It works every time.

Sore legs work a charm.

So there Charles is, in the shower, tugging on his cock as he thinks about Erik ("Remember, Charles, what goes on in your head is in your head only. You can think whatever you want, as long as you don't act on it"), grunting out short breaths as he closes his eyes. He thinks about what it would feel like to have his cock sucked by the man he wants to cheat on his boyfriend with.

"God, Erik, fuck yeah," he huffs out quietly, hand moving faster. He slaps his other hand against the tiled wall as hot water showers over him. "Yes, Erik, suck my cock, you filthy little whore." His eyes remain tightly closed as he tries to imagine the man on his knees; cock in his mouth, eyes looking straight up at him. Oh God.

Charles' free hand travels to his nipple, where he pinches it, his other still pumping his cock. He screws his lids shut even tighter as an "Nnnhg" sound leaves his throat. He sucks his bottom lip in and bites.

And he has to does this, he really does. He has to jackoff after these meetings, especially after talking out loud about what he wants Erik to do to him. There's only so much he can take. Just thinking about Erik fucking him makes him horny as hell, let alone saying it out loud in detail.

So if this is what it will take to prevent him from cheating on his boyfriend – him jerking off shamelessly in the shower thinking about Erik sucking his cock – then he'll do it. He'll take it.

Because it's only a matter of time, Charles fears, before he's going to crack and spread his legs like a cheap whore for Erik and let the man fuck him over the nearest table, Brad be damned.

And it doesn't help matters that Erik's pretty much made his intentions clear on how he feels about Charles, too. The bastard. Charles figured that out a few weeks after Erik decided to pop back into Brad's life, which was four months ago. (Charles suspects the man was in jail, but has no incriminating proof.) Erik just kind of showed up and turned shit upside down for Charles:

Charles sucked his bottom lip into his mouth as shy eyes glanced over to the man in the chair across from him. He looked at Erik. And Erik looked back at him; eyes hooded, intent clear, and a small smile playing on his face.

Charles sank down a little more into the couch, taking a breath.

The smile on Erik's face cocked up on one side just a hair and Charles had to swallow. It was a thick swallow, too, goddamnit. Erik then placed his elbow on the arm of the chair and innocently brought his hand to his face, acting like he was resting it there, his pinky finger just slightly touching his bottom lip.

He smiled wider, and then slowly traced his finger along said bottom lip, all while looking at Charles. And Charles couldn't look away if he tried. His eyes were glued on that finger, and that lip, and the way that it kept softly running over and over the red flesh of the man's sexy mouth.

Charles swallowed again. And then Erik really made his move: he eyed Charles up and down slowly, eyes seeming to linger on Charles' crotch area before shifting back up to his face. Erik made sure Charles was good and looking at him—at his mouth in particular—before he subtly sucked on the tip on his pinky.

And then time froze. All Charles could seem to focus on was that finger, that finger that Erik was sucking on lightly (just the tip mind you). That finger that could easily be Charles' cock, if he so wanted. And then Charles dared a glance up to Erik's eyes, those fucking eyes that were looking at him with lust and want and desire. Those eyes that were practically screaming, "You want this, don't you? I want this too. Let's do this. Come on, fuck it; let's do it now."

And then reality came crashing back into Charles like a tidal wave: Brad, right next to him on the couch, arm around Charles' shoulders as he laughed at something Raven had said. He was looking over at her and Darwin and Sean and Alex, beer in his other hand. And Charles had a drink too, he's pretty sure. He was more than likely going to pour it on his crotch instead of drinking it though. He looked over at the other people in the room; all of their friends, drunk and laughing and telling stories and jokes and such, all of the shit that drunken people do. He glanced back over to Erik, who still had that look in his eye and that small, knowing smile on his face.

Erik took a slow drink of his beer, eyes never leaving the brunet across from him, as if he was challenging Charles, daring him, silently telling him: your move.

Charles came back to the present. He was still running his hand over his cock and grunting softly as he thought about Erik's mouth and tongue; sucking and licking him roughly as he looked down at the man.

"Fuck, Erik, yes," he bit out.

And then came.

Some sort of undignified groan left his mouth as he watched the semen shoot out of his cock in three hot bursts, landing on the shower floor before being swept away by the water.

Charles took in a shuddery breath, leaning his forehead against his arm, which had found its way back to the tiled wall for support.

Okay, that was good, he did well. He didn't drive straight over to Erik's place after the meeting and let the man fuck him over the couch, like Charles had thought about many, many times before.

He predicts that if he were ever to give in and let Erik take him, they more than likely wouldn't even make it to a bed. Hell, they may not even make it inside – Erik would probably just bend Charles over the railing of his front porch and take him right then and there, neighbors be damned.

And Charles would let him.

…

Friday night rolled around, and Charles knew what Friday night meant. It meant Brad was having people over to get drunk, because Brad works hard during the week and likes to relax during the weekends.

And by relax, this of course means: get drunk out of his skull.

Charles doesn't work hard during the week, because Charles doesn't work. He'd like to. He'd like to go back to school and get his teaching degree. He'd like to be a Professor one day, but staying at his boyfriend's place and NOT working just seems easier.

For the time being at least.

He'll go back eventually, he tells himself. When he's ready.

So Charles really can't say anything when every Friday rolls around and Brad announces that people are coming over and that they're going to be drinking (Like that's news). Not that Charles cares, not really. It's not his house to say no to those types of things.

Well, okay, it is technically Charles' house too—his name is on the lease—but it's Brad who pays all the bills.

But again, Charles doesn't really care, not like he used to, because this also means that Erik's coming over. However, that makes this twofold; one part good, one part bad. The bad of course being that he has to be around the man whom he wants to cheat on his boyfriend with – the man who would help Charles cheat on his boyfriend, because again, Erik's made that quite clear with his let's fuck until we can't walk eyes. The bastard.

The good part is, of course, being around the man gives Charles more fuel for his sexual fantasy fire that is "okay to have as long as it doesn't result in you acting upon it." So… yeah. Can't really go wrong there.

Also, it's more than likely that Brad will get really drunk and fuck the shit out of Charles tonight and not even notice when Charles 'slips up' and calls him "Erik" every once in awhile during.

What? It's happened before.

Twice.

Brad's a loud fucker, and not fucker as in motherfucker, but fucker as in one who fucks. So, sometimes (those two times), when Brad is being really loud – grunting and moaning, carrying on like a fool as he's plowing into Charles from behind, slapping his ass hard and shit like that and possibly even dirty-talking up a storm – Charles groans out a low "Erik", just to see what happens.

Nothing happens. It appears to go unheard, every time. Which is great for Charles, because it really gets him going and makes him come shortly afterwards; Erik a fresh memory in his head.

Yeah, Charles likes when that happens.

He hopes Brad gets drunk out of his mind tonight.

…

Brad does get drunk out of his mind, which is great because he doesn't even try and drag Charles upstairs to fuck him. He's too goddamn tired from getting up at 6am. He actually goes to sleep (passes out) early.

And by early, this means around 1am.

Walking (stumbling) up the stairs backwards, Brad looks at Darwin before saying, "You're cool to drive, right? You can take all these drunk fuckers home?" with a big dopey grin on his face (Erik never looks dopey when he grins).

Darwin, who is of course okay to drive – the man needs like a fucking 30 pack just to get drunk, his alcohol tolerance is incredible – looks at Brad and says, "Yeah man. I had like, two beers. But why do I always have to play taxi driver?"

"You're the man, Darwin," Brad shoots his way before stumbling the rest of the way upstairs, Charles not in tow. And Charles hopes his boyfriend doesn't realize his mistake. Please don't come downstairs later looking for me. Just go pass the fuck out.

"Come on, assholes," Darwin says, nudging Hank and Alex with his foot as the two men continue to makeout like a couple of drunk and horny teenagers (Well, they are drunk and horny, but they're not teenagers, anymore). Raven makes a face, but she knows as damn well as everyone else in that room that'll she be joining in later. Well, at least with Hank anyway. All three of those fuckers have a very complicated thing going on between them. Charles prefers to stay out of it; his lovelife's fucked up enough as it is.

But you already know that.

"You need a ride, Lehnsherr?" Darwin shoots over to the man as Erik pours another drink in the kitchen. (Charles held his breath.) Erik sets the bottle of Jack down on the counter and turns to face his friend.

"Na, man, I got my bike—I'll just crash here tonight." (Charles' stomach flops, but not the bad kind of flop)."I'll ride out in the morning."

Oh, did Charles forget to mention that Erik drives a motorcycle? Yeah, how fucking sexy is that? He wears leather coats, too, and smokes.

Not that Charles thinks smoking is sexy, but whatever, you get the point. Erik's a hardass, and Erik also has a hard ass. Not that Charles would know that—he's never felt it before— but he can just tell, by looking at it.

Which he has.

A lot.

Like, all the time.

So now it's just Charles and Erik; downstairs, alone, and slightly drunk. Oh boy.

Charles has the sudden urge to call Steve. He feels as if he should call Steve. ("Here's my number, you can call at anytime: morning, noon, or night, should the urge come over you.") He feels like he needs someone to talk him down, yet he makes no move to run out of the room to get his phone.

Fuck it. He needs to learn how to control this, deal with this, on his own. He's not calling Steve.

"So," Erik says as he leans against the counter, drink in hand and smile on his face. "Shouldn't you be upstairs being fucked seven ways from sideways by your drunk-ass boyfriend?" He takes a sip.

Charles looks at him for a second. He too gives a small smirk. "No," he replies. "I don't think I want to be." He stands across from Erik, arms folded over his chest. The taller man's eyebrows shoot up just a fraction.

"Is that so?" He murmurs against his glass with a small smile. Charles just nods. Erik takes another drink and hands his glass to Charles for him to take a sip. "I could help you with that, you know," he tells the shorter man as Charles takes a sip of the whisky.

"Mm," Charles says as he swallows the burning mouthful. He hands the glass back to Erik. "Yes, I know you can," he replies.

And then turns and walks away.

That was a close one.

Later that night however, around 2am, when Charles realizes he won't be getting much sleep that night, he wanders back downstairs. He doesn't know what he is looking for, doesn't know why he is going down there. He knows who is down there; he knows what he is potentially walking into.

He just doesn't seem to care.

But what he doesn't expect to walk into is Erik masturbating on the couch; laid out, cock in hand and tugging away.

Well fuck. As if that isn't the hottest goddamn thing Charles has ever seen in his life.

He isn't sure what to do at first, so he just leans against the doorway and watches. And sure, he feels like a gigantic perv, but who cares? It's not like he's going to let this go to waste. Oh fuck no.

Erik works his cock beautifully, not to mention the fact that Erik's cock is beautiful. Charles could suck that thing all day long. He feels his own cock begin to harden at the sight and realizes that he can't take it anymore. He has to get a better view. Popcorn, please.

He walks in the room.

Erik, who is lying on the couch and tugging away slowly, makes no move to stop or even try and cover his shame (not that he is shamed, obviously). He just keeps on fisting his cock, looking right at Charles as the other man slides into the room. He smiles at the younger man.

And Charles just watches, taking a seat in the chair across from the couch. Both men lock eyes with each other.

"You here to give me a helping hand?" Erik rasps out with a smile, hand still moving along, although it seems to have slowed down now that Charles has made his appearance in the room.

"No," Charles says with a head shake, eyes still on Erik's. "But if you don't mind, I'd like to watch." He starts rubbing his own hardening cock through the thin material of his pajama pants.

"Be my guest," Erik replies with a smirk. His hand starts to speed up again.

"Do you mind if I…?" Charles nods down to his own lap.

"Please," Erik says as he looks to where Charles is talking about, and then back up to blue eyes. "It might help me along."

So there Charles was, half drunk, downstairs, and pulling his cock out to jackoff to the sight of his boyfriend's best friend masturbating. Neither of them felt any shame about it.

Wait until Group hears about this one.

TBC

A/N: All this shit is made up, I don't even really know if there's such a thing as Cheaters Anonymous, I'm sure there is, or something like it, but I'm just too lazy to Google it. Yeah, imagine my husband finding THAT on my computer's history. Ha!

Also, no promises on how this story's going to go, because I don't even know. Next chapter will probably be the last, if people even read this crazy shit.