sirona_fics: (Charles' dirty filthy delicious mind)
[personal profile] sirona_fics
Just something silly and excessively fluffy (again) to make your Monday night better. For [livejournal.com profile] ssw_loved, who is moving into her new dorms today, and maintained that it was my duty as her bro to distract her. Which I was perfectly happy to do thus.

Her prompt was 'Cat, book, rusted'. And boys in love.


On the nuisance that are cats and their owners
Charles/Erik
XMFC
PG-13
~1,200 words



Dvořák the cat paws determinedly at Erik's thigh until Erik lifts his book, whereupon he proceeds to curl up in Erik's lap, purring in satisfaction. Erik sighs, put-upon. Charles and his damned cats everywhere, every next one's name more obscure than the last. Apart from Dvořák, their small flat in Oxford is home to Shostakovitch the white Persian, Liszt the ginger tabby, Rimsky-Korsakov the blue Russian, and von Arnim the Balinese, Erik's favourite -- although that last is not something he would be caught dead admitting to, because he hates all of Charles' blasted felines, ask anyone.

Dvořák twists his head, butting Erik's stomach. This is Dvořák-speak for 'Pet me now, lowly human,' as Erik has discovered to his disadvantage. Said pest is a European Shorthair, and is a bloody nuisance. Not satisfied with hogging all available sprawling space, he will pester and pester until he's getting his back and tummy and ears stroked to his satisfaction -- which means all at once.

Erik is so used to him by now that his hand is buries in Dvořák's fur before the cat has even completed his third head-butt. When Erik stops rubbing to turn a page, Dvořák yowls his disapproval, sinking hellishly sharp claws into Erik's thigh ever so slightly, a fair warning to his mind.

Fucking cats. Fucking Charles with his soft heart and his blue, blue eyes and his fond smirk that turns filthy at the drop of a hat. Fucking Erik for not being able to refuse him anything when Charles looks at him like that.

The rusty hinges of the garden gate squeak a warning that Erik hears all the way in the living room-cum-study (because it's the biggest room in the house outside of the bedroom, and all of Charles' papers have a mysterious way of migrating there anyway, and they both spend most of their time at home here, curled up in the plush armchairs or on opposite ends of the sofa, feet intertwined between them). Damn, he means to fix that, thinks of it at least once every day, but what with one thing and another, he never quite gets to it (and besides, he likes the heads-up. Gives him a chance to shove whichever cat is using him for a cushion at the time off himself before Charles sees him and gives him that smile, the victorious, self-satisfied one that Erik both hates and adores).

"Erik?" Charles calls, shutting the front door behind him.

"Living room," Erik calls back, pushing Dvořák unceremoniously to the floor and brushing grey hairs off himself ineffectually.

Charles stands in the doorway a moment later, smiling brilliantly at him. He looks a little harried, but not quite frayed around the edges, which signals a successful tutoring session. Erik puts down It Looked Good on Paper: Bizarre Inventions, Design Disasters, and Engineering Follies that Charles had given him as a gag gift a month ago for Christmas, marking his place with a finger between the pages. Charles comes further inside the warmed-up room, unwinding his Tom Baker-esque scarf and throwing it over the back of the armchair on the left. Liszt, who has snuck in on Charles' heels, pounces on it immediately, attempting to chew it to death before curling up on top of it and purring like an engine.

Charles scratches behind his ears before he walks to where Erik sits and watches him with an undoubtedly stupid expression on his face, and falls back onto the sofa, twisting so his head takes Dvořák's place in Erik's lap.

"I hate Hank McCoy. Have I ever told you that? I really hate him," he moans.

"No you don't," Erik replies around a stifled laugh, stroking Charles' hair back off his forehead. "You think he's a genius."

"Well. He is. But he's also stupidly stubborn when he thinks he's right."

Erik looks away, hiding his smile. "Reminds me of someone," he says innocently.

"Oh ha-bloody-ha," Charles grouches, pouting. "I've just spent three and a half hours trying to talk him out of scrapping half the research he's already done for his thesis, because this morning he got up and decided that there was something much more interesting he wanted to focus on."

Erik doesn't hide his smile this time, feeling the corners of his eyes crinkle. Seeing as he's lived with this implausibly beautiful, infuriatingly clever man for the last decade, it's a bit of a moot point by now. "You know he'll just do it anyway," he says soothingly.

"I know," Charles groans, closing his eyes. Erik strokes Charles' temple with his fingers, pressing in a little. Charles' frustrated expression smooths out and he sighs, melting into his touch. Von Arnim, fed up with being ignored and wanting her 'I'm home' cuddle, jumps onto Charles' chest without warning. Charles huffs out a breath and lifts his arms to cradle her, rubbing her ears and smiling his stupid gorgeous smile when she flops over him and purrs. She bats at Erik's fingers when they complete another rotation. Erik tries to frown at her, but he's sure he's failing miserably.

"Tea?" Charles says hopefully, which is Charles-speak for 'Please, Erik, I'm parched.' He's lucky Erik thinks he's the best thing since sliced bread, but Erik's not telling him that either.

"Why do I put up with you?" Erik groans, but gently lifts Charles' head off his lap and slides a pillow underneath it when he stands.

"Because I'm a fantastic shag and you love me," Charles says smugly. It's not a good look on him. Erik tells him so.

"Liar," Charles returns happily, tugging von Arnim's head down for a kiss.

How come the cat gets a kiss and not him? He doesn't recall von Arnim making Charles tea. He grumbles to himself as he flicks the kettle on and takes down two mugs from the cupboard, one white with black bats all over it that had been a sort-of-joke present from Raven and one with a frog in a waistcoat on its side. He chucks a teabag inside each and pours the boiling water over them, setting them to steep and poking his head inside the fridge for the milk. When he emerges again Charles is leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved in the pockets of his charcoal-grey slacks, smiling that soft smile of his that makes Erik's heart beat faster every time. When Erik makes to go past him on his way to fix the tea, Charles snags a beltloop and tugs him closer, pressing a kiss to his lips that Erik feels all the way down to his toes. He goes from normal to on fire in the space of a blink, pressing closer until Charles' back is plastered against the wall and Erik's hands are all over him.

The redundant tub of milk gets shoved onto the counter by Erik's hip, there to remain until Shostakovitch twines around their ankles and breaks them apart.

Damned cats.
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