Girl, The Way You Do Me

If confronted, Emma isn't entirely certain what she'll say. Charles' mind is whisper-soft when he invades hers for the first time in Russia, so much so that she doesn't even mind so much that he's there, and it's intriguing to her that he has that kind of telepathic control. Also, perhaps, in some way, she's sort of upset that Sebastian is dead, and Xavier provides a substitute for having to think about it, about how much everything has changed in these past few months.

They always meet at the mansion, Charles ensuring with some subtle mental suggestions that none of his precious students ever know she's there. The wheelchair takes her aback at first, but Charles just smiles at her placidly, feeling her pick around the edges of his brain for answers, and it's easy enough for her to ignore it after a while; because, of course, that's not why she's here.

She's spread across Charles' desk - he always makes a point of meticulously cleaning it off before she arrives, so she never has the opportunity to accidentally-on-purpose soil anything - with two of his fingers pumping slowly into her cunt, his tongue lazily lapping at her clit, and he's responding quite nicely to her soft, mental pleas for him to 'go lower' and 'yeah, a little more to the right, aaahh, perfect,' when she has to ruin it. "He misses you, too, you know," she comments idly, and he stops, and she shifts a little and pouts. "Sometimes, when he's doing this with Mystique, he's still thinking about you ..."

Charles grabs one of her nipples between his fingers, pinching it hard. "That's not why you're here, Emma," he comments sternly. When she doesn't answer, he wrenches the other tit in the same way. "Say it."

"Okay, I won't mention him." Panting, Emma is relieved when Charles returns to finger-fucking her, and then he stops again a few minutes later, and she groans. "You're a fucking tease, Charles Xavier," she complains, and he smirks at her.

"Lap," he gestures. "I want to fuck you now." Emma slides obediently downwards, straddling him carefully, long legs thrown over the arms of the chair. She grips at Charles as he fits his cock into her neatly, one hand tugging at his tie - it's hilarious to her that Charles still dresses like a God-damned professor even when he's getting fucked - hard enough for him to feel the pressure around his neck. Charles peels her fingers away gradually, holding them in his own, his cock nestled inside of her now. "Good girl, Emma," he tells her appreciatively, and then begins to pivot his hips as much as his newfound disability allows him to. Emma can feel him slide into her mind, feeding her arousal with his own, taking what he needs, and she allows it as she bounces gently on Charles' lap.

Softly calloused hands return to her puckered nipples, tugging and pinching them lightly now. Eventually, Charles cups one and begins laving it with his tongue, and Emma moans and throws her head back. Charles moves on to the other breast to lavish a similar amount of attention upon it, and Emma keens and whimpers and begins tracing her clit with her index finger, slowly at first, and then in a frantic circular motion. "Is that good, love?" Charles asks her, and Emma bites her lips and nods that yes, yes it is. "Good, good," Charles tells her, and Emma can feel his arousal cresting in her head like a wave. Everything tightens as she feels him shudder and spurt inside of her, and she rides out the mental aftermath, using it to stimulate her own orgasm several seconds later.

"Lovely," Charles husks, his face just slightly flushed, and Emma leans in and kisses him impulsively, their tongues rubbing together, exploring one another's mouths languidly before Charles breaks away and considers her with his usual clinical compassion. "You don't usually have a problem with our arrangement, Emma," he denotes. "Has something changed?"

She shrugs, and Charles helps her to stand, and then hands her her bra. "Nothing important," she tells him honestly, and when he sees the glimpses of a helmet-clad Erik, watching her enter the Brotherhood's base, whistling jauntily even though it's well past a time when anybody in their right mind should be whistling because she knows it annoys him, lingering in her head from the last two, three, six times they've done this, he doesn't acknowledge it, and neither does she. 'You can stay a while, of course,' Charles tells her, like he always does, and she responds as she always does: 'No. I've got to get back.'
Without fanfare, she's ready to leave, and it's slightly awkward the way it always is. "Well, goodnight," Charles tells her, his face placid, his eyes sad, his mind turning over the image of his former friend, lover, everything more than he would like to admit; Emma's not stupid enough to draw his ire twice by pointing this out, however. "Safe trip, love."

"Goodnight," she replies, and then she's gone. In spite of the fact that she doesn't really have any imposed time to return to the apartment, it's where she goes - she takes a cab, which Charles always pays for, though the Brotherhood's base is closer to the mansion than anybody is comfortable admitting aloud - walking in silently for once. As usual, Erik is perched in an armchair, an empty glass in front of him on a worn coffee table, the ice nearly melted. "No whistling this time?" he asks, frowning, and she shrugs and heads to her room; and if Erik wonders why Emma sometimes returns home smelling faintly like Charles - she can't be sure, because he wears that damned helmet so fucking much these days, as if he doesn't trust her, or something - he never pushes the issue.