He Ate My Heart (You Little Monster)

Wrote a quick continuation for patientalien. Charles/Emma, Erik/Charles.

"They used to treat women for hysteria up until the early 20th century in this manner," Charles tells Emma conversationally. The small, white vibrator is already whirring and gently stimulating her cunt, and she moans softly, but is yet unable to let the comment rest without her own acerbic input:



"You Oxford boys have the strangest ideas about what constitutes foreplay."



Charles' grin is enormous. "I've never heard any formal complaints," he boasts, and Emma rolls her eyes in response. Then she supposes, watching him concentrate on getting her off, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, lower lip chewed thoughtfully, that she could be doing worse. Charles is a far cry from Sebastian Shaw, or even Erik, but there's something about the way he almost seems to go out of his way to appear disarming when he's anything but that just kind of works.



Her breath hitches suddenly, and Charles smiles. "Come on, love," he coaxes, and Emma can feel his mind nudging hers, latching onto her pleasure center and drawing out whatever is making it light up so fantastically. He drives the device home again and again, hitting just the right spot every time, and Emma shudders and tosses her head back and comes, eventually wiggling so that Charles will remove the slim machine from between her legs. She watches him grab a tissue and wipe it off, and then he offers her a hand so that she can propel herself off of his desk. "Same time next week, then?" he asks teasingly, and Emma raises an eyebrow.



"I'll pencil it into my busy schedule," she remarks dryly, and Charles laughs.



*



She's a little earlier than usual for their next meeting; for some reason, Erik had been quiet and somewhat less judgmental than usual that morning, and then he'd disappeared mysteriously, leaving Emma nominally to her own devices. She realizes, standing outside of Charles Xavier's study, that she might be enjoying these 'dates' (Charles' term, offered with a salacious eyebrow and a playful clinking of their wine glasses together in a toast) far too much. She shrugs and tells herself that this'll be her last visit.



There's something strange lingering in Charles' surface thoughts that she can't quite put her finger on. Nonetheless, she swings open the door, preparing to take up residence in her usual spot on Charles' desk ('you really need one of those doctor's chairs to complete the delusion,' she told him the last time she was here, and he'd just chuckled), ... and then stops.



The head bobbing in Charles' lap is helmeted, the face turned away, but Emma is, for some reason, completely unsurprised at this turn of events. "Aaahh, E-Erik, God," Charles is moaning, and Emma can't help but admire the way Erik's - Magneto's - hands carefully grip at Charles' thighs, holding them gently open as he sucks Charles' cock. The noises emanating from his mouth peter off abruptly when Charles yelps, "Emma!" and then Erik's head is swiveled, glaring at her with narrowed eyes and no small amount of animosity.



Charles, ever the gentleman, however, merely grins cheekily at her. "If you could give us another, oh, five or ten minutes, love? You're a bit early today. Thanks." The door shuts behind her of its own accord, and she can hear it locking with a soft 'click.' "I think my work here is done," she murmurs to herself, and whistles a little as she shows herself out of Charles' gigantic house.