Work Text:
"Xavier. My office. Now."
Charles' desk shudders as Mr. Lehnsherr strides past it, stalking into his office and slamming the door behind him, leaving a loaded silence in his wake.
"Am I meant to knock, do you think?" Charles says dryly, standing up and grabbing his clipboard in case he needs to take notes.
Angel clicks her tongue disapprovingly and swivels her chair away from him. Charles huffs—he's not sure what's got her panties in a twist. He's the one that has to deal with Mr. Lehnsherr's infamous temper. Presumably, Mr. Lehnsherr just received some mildly upsetting business news, and now he wants to take it out on someone.
Charles only gets to knock once on the door before it swings open. Were this a horror movie, it would have creaked ominously, and Charles would have been hit with a gust of freezing air. Instead, this is just another wonderful day working at Stark Industries, where Charles is beholden to his meager secretary salary and his boss, Erik Lehnsherr—who is grumpy on a good day, and a genuine terror on a bad day. Charles is the only one in the office who's lasted longer than two weeks as his personal secretary before begging to be reassigned or flat-out quitting.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Lehnsherr," Charles says, letting himself in and attempting to close the door. It wrenches itself out of his grip and slams shut again, rattling in the frame. He doesn't react to it, instead turning to face his boss with a polite smile. "How was your lunch?"
"It was shit," Lehnsherr snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. "But that's not why I called you in here."
"Oh?" Charles takes a seat in the chair near Lehnsherr's desk. "Then what can I do for you, sir?"
Lehnsherr's jaw clenches. "I wanted to—to discuss your—your—why are you wearing that?"
"Excuse me?"
"That. Why are you wearing that?" Lehnsherr gestures brusquely to Charles' legs.
Charles tilts his head. "My… shoes?"
"The skirt!"
Charles' mouth twitches, but he manages to disguise it as a frown. "I'm quite sure I don't understand your question, Mr. Lehnsherr, nor do I appreciate your tone. I've never heard you ask Angel why she wears the clothing she wears."
"That's different."
"How so? Because she's a woman? Or is it because she's a beta?"
Lehnsherr gives him a withering look. "Kind of, yes."
Charles gasps in offense and crosses his arms. "Mr. Lehnsherr, I must admit I thought more highly of you than this."
"No, that's not what I—"
"At the very least," Charles goes on, talking over Lehnsherr's protests, "I thought you were smarter than to blatantly violate the Workplace Identity Non-Discrimination Act—"
"Xavier, you know damn well—"
"—that specifically protects an omega's right to express their secondary gender without fear of discrimination—"
"You've made your—"
"—including, but not limited to, clothing—"
"XAVIER!" Lehnsherr barks, so loudly that surely Angel could hear it on the other side of the heavy door. Charles stares at him, eyebrows raised. The room rings with silence.
Lehnsherr grits out, "You're right. I apologize. It was not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. I was simply—"
"Asking why I'm wearing a skirt?" Charles says coolly, crossing his legs. For a moment, Lehnsherr's gaze sticks where the tights stretch at the knee, rendering them sheer enough to see the skin underneath. Even when he looks away, Charles can see the way it lingers in his thoughts for a moment. He sniffs, "If you must know, I haven't had the chance to do laundry lately, and all of my trousers are dirty. Is that okay with you, Mr. Lehnsherr?"
"That's fine," Lehnsherr says tightly, after a pause.
Charles nods and stands, smoothing his skirt neatly down his thighs. "Is that all, sir?"
Lehnsherr keeps his eyes locked carefully on Charles', slate eyes betraying nothing. "Don't forget to pick up my suit for this weekend's trip. I need it before you leave tomorrow."
"Yes sir, I remember," Charles says sweetly. He resists the urge to smirk when the passing thought How does he make 'Sir' sound insubordinate? drifts into Lehnsherr's head, before it gets tucked behind the man's frustratingly ever-present shields.
Angel scoffs at him when he walks back to his desk.
"Are you serious?" she says to him the next day, when he takes his coat off to hang it up.
"Good morning to you too," Charles says, sweet as pie. "Has anyone ever told you that your name suits you perfectly?"
She ignores him, looking skeptically at his legs. "Still haven't done laundry, huh?"
Charles shrugs. "Maybe I like wearing skirts. I look good in them."
"Ugh. I'm not even—you know my nose is shit, and I can still smell you from—" Angel cuts herself off, eyes going wide at something behind Charles. He turns to see Mr. Lehnsherr stomping out of the elevator and looking unusually pissed off, even for him. He doesn't even spare Charles a glance, striding into his office and slamming the door behind him, sending a shudder through the room.
"Do you think he does that on purpose?" Charles says, craning his neck to look into Lehnsherr's office. The blinds snap shut all at once in a loud clatter. "So dramatic."
"Look—I'm not trying to be a bitch, but you reek, Charles."
"Is this really you not trying to be a bitch?" Charles says, dropping into his chair with a huff. He boots up his computer, staring balefully at his blinking office phone. He has less patience than usual for the menial tasks of his day-to-day—his skin feels itchy and hot.
"I'm serious. You smell like an air freshener," Angel says, wrinkling her nose. "Is that lemon? God, you smell like my sister when she's about to go into heat."
Charles clears his throat, and Angel's eyes widen.
"Oh my god. That's it, isn't it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Charles says primly. "If you're quite done casting aspersions, I'd like to get to work."
Angel projects a middle finger so loudly and intentionally that Charles is too impressed to be annoyed. Plus, she has the right of it—his heat is due this weekend. Of course his scent is going haywire; his body is trying to attract a mate to breed him for the next forty-eight hours or so. He's trying, too!
…It just so happens that the person he wants is his boss, who is the most infuriating, disagreeable, stubborn man Charles has ever met. Charles can admit that he's quite handsome, but that's where he draws the line at his attraction to Erik Lehnsherr, the man. Erik Lehnsherr the alpha, on the other hand… the part of Charles that wants to bend over and present himself like a breeding hole gets much harder to ignore with an impending heat.
He's feeling pretty good about his plan so far. Despite Lehnsherr's stubbornly strong shields, Charles has caught enough errant thoughts and flickering glances to know that Lehnsherr notices him. He knows that Lehnsherr likes the two-week period before his haircuts, when his hair falls into his eyes and tickles the nape of his neck. He knows that Lehnsherr likes when when he says Sir—surprisingly, even more when he says it sarcastically.
And he knows that Lehnsherr likes his scent, has caught him inhaling deeply during meeting briefings, leaning into Charles' space. And though he doesn't outwardly react to Charles' goading, Lehnsherr's thoughts often color a vibrant, commanding red—perhaps a measure of anger, but Charles is going to tell himself it's passion, instead. He doesn't need Lehnsherr to like him, after all.
He just needs Lehnsherr to want him.
Knowing his heat is approaching, he's spent the week trying to get Lehnsherr to cave—scenting Lehnsherr's office when delivering his morning coffee, complaining loudly to Angel about needing a haircut while shaking his hair out, spilling water on himself to strip down to his undershirt—everything he could think of, and none of it worked. If anything, Lehnsherr seems more inclined to ignore him, and Charles has simply succeeded in torturing himself.
So he'd enlisted his sister's help—and by that, he means he snuck away during their bi-weekly dinner and raided her closet. It's a wild, last-ditch effort, but he refuses to spend another week at work unable to look Lehnsherr in the eyes after crying out for his knot all heat.
Something's got to give.
A few hours later, a loud "Xavier!" sounds from Lehnsherr's desk, and Charles doesn't bother hiding his smirk. Angel watches him shrewdly as he stands, straightens his skirt and steps into his heels—another new addition to his work wardrobe, purchased along with other select garments. He's not used to walking in them, but if things go according to plan he won't be walking too much at all.
"You called, Mr. Lehnsherr?" Charles says, letting himself into the office. He tries to close the door behind him but it resists him, staying stubbornly open.
"Leave it," Lehnsherr says.
Charles glares at the door before turning around with a smile. "Very well. What can I do for you?"
"Where's my dry-cleaning?" Lehnsherr says, without even looking at Charles.
"I'm sorry?" Charles asks, stepping up to his desk.
Lehnsherr's hand tightens on the pen he's holding. "My suit. For this weekend's dinner. I told you to pick it up, do you remember?"
"Oh! That suit," Charles says cheerfully. "Yes, I remember it."
"…And?"
"And what, sir?"
"Where is the suit, Xavier?" Lehnsherr growls through gritted teeth, finally gracing Charles with his glare.
Charles can see the moment Lehnsherr registers his outfit. He does a double take, and then another, eyes anchored to Charles' stockinged feet in their heels. He clears his throat and rips his gaze away, focusing on the papers in front of him. A woodsy, clean smell drifts into the air.
"By the end of the day," Lehnsherr says flatly, and that's that. He keeps his eyes down until Charles begrudgingly leaves the room.
"Nuh uh."
"Excuse me?" Charles says, letting the door close behind him. He's just come back from lunch, Lehnsherr's dry-cleaning folded over his arm.
"I said nuh uh. No way. I'm not doing this today." Angel stands abruptly, collecting her belongings in short, jerky movements.
"Where are you going?" Charles asks, stepping aside. Her only reply is a dirty look tossed over her shoulder on her way out the door.
Out of respect for Angel, Charles counts to twenty—giving her plenty of time to clear the building before making his next move.
"Your suit, sir," Charles says, opening the door without knocking. Mr. Lehnsherr looks up at him with a scowl, but evidently decides against saying anything and returns to glaring at his computer screen, fingers moving steadily on the keyboard. Similarly, his thoughts are a cold, blank sheet of metal.
"Angel went home," Charles says, coming fully into the room. The door closes behind him reluctantly, as if it knows staying open won't do any good when they're the only two people on this floor.
"I hope she's not expecting to get paid for the full week, then," Lehnsherr mutters, eyes locked onto his computer.
"Looks like it's just us for the day," Charles says demurely.
Lehnsherr grunts noncommittally.
It's Friday, which means most of the executives are out of the office golfing, or networking, or whatever work means for them. Mr. Lehnsherr is one of the very few who doesn't abuse his position of power, which is something Charles resents at times like this. No one else would make Charles work this hard to get fucked.
Humming like he's not fighting the urge to snarl at being virtually ignored, Charles hangs the bag on the coat rack and unzips it. He takes the suit out, checking for wrinkles or stains. It's purely performative—he's already checked at the laundromat as he always does.
He brushes his wrist against the silky-soft fabric, scenting it just enough to linger for the weekend. This part isn't even about his bone-deep desire to get—well, boned. It's just that Mr. Lehnsherr's clothes smell horribly off when they come back from dry-cleaning, offensively inoffensive from the neutralizing detergent. Scenting it himself isn't as good as Lehnsherr's scent, but it's better than nothing. Charles pretends to drop something so he can skim the fabric with his cheek as he bends down. When he's done, he clears his throat and turns to Lehnsherr, who cuts his eyes quickly away. Maybe he's not as unaffected as he seems, Charles thinks desperately.
"Can I do anything else for you, sir?" Charles asks, coming closer.
Lehnsherr finally pushes his keyboard away and looks at Charles. He looks incredibly, infuriatingly handsome, and as impressive as he is at keeping his face blank, his eyes give him away this time, holding an intensity that makes Charles' cunt throb. Still, his voice is frustratingly even when he says, "Are you feeling all right, Xavier? You look… flushed."
This is it—the moment Charles has been waiting for. He steps forward, pleased when he doesn't wobble on his heels. "I'm fine, sir," Charles says, and he can hear the breathlessness in his own voice. "It's just… my heat is due this weekend. As you can imagine, I'm a bit… preoccupied."
Lehnsherr's face spasms, and it'd be comical if Charles wasn't so fucking horny. Even just saying the words out loud makes warmth curl in his stomach. He presses his thighs together—he'd taken a risk today, wearing stockings with a garter belt, rather than traditional tights. He'd been going for sexy, but now he thinks slick might actually drip down his legs if he doesn't get a hold of himself.
"I see," Lehnsherr says, after a veritable eternity. Charles takes another step. Lehnsherr's scent has intensified—some sort of charred wood that fills the room like smoke. Charles knows an aroused alpha when he smells one, but much to his frustration, his boss just clears his throat and looks away. "That's all, Xavier. Thank you."
Charles' mouth drops open. "That's it?" he says disbelievingly. He's all but thrown himself at Lehnsherr—even he can smell his desperate scent, blending with Lehnsherr's to make something new, something rich and buttery that smells like sex. They haven't even touched, and his thighs are damp with slick—surely Lehnsherr can smell it, can taste the sweet bite of lemon stinging the air.
Lehnsherr meets his eyes again, face still as stone. "That's it. In fact, you can go home early, if you'd like."
The door swings open, bringing in a gust of unwelcome fresh air. Charles recoils like he's been slapped. He's being dismissed. He's leaking slick, wearing a goddamn skirt and heels, and told Lehnsherr his heat is about to start. Not only has Lehnsherr not taken the bait—his goddamn telepathic shields are as strong as ever.
Here's something to know about Charles: he doesn't do well with being ignored.
He stomps out of the room, this time uncaring about how he clumsy he looks in his heels. He fights the urge to whine like a hurt animal—it's so much harder to control himself, this close to his heat. Gnashing his teeth together, Charles flops into his chair, the relief immediate on his feet.
God, he's sweating. He might have jumpstarted his heat, thinking about Lehnsherr like that, the way their scents mingled together, just for a moment—citrus and wood, bright and earthy.
Charles knows Lehnsherr thinks he's attractive. Charles knows Lehnsherr wants him. He's just… choosing not to have him, which feels so much worse in this moment.
An involuntary whimper slips out of Charles' mouth, and he swallows against the thick lump in his throat. Lehnsherr is a fucking asshole. What kind of alpha turns down an omega mere hours away from their heat like that? It's cruel.
In the future, he'll look back at this as the moment he lost his mind. For now, this is the moment he's made up his mind—he's going to get fucked by his boss or he's going to get fired trying.
Charles kicks off his heels, stands up, and reaches underneath his skirt.
"One last thing before I go," Charles announces, striding back into Lehnsherr's office. Lehnsherr looks up, surprise written on his face. Charles flings a folder on the desk and stands with his hands on his hips.
Lehnsherr stiffens, nostrils flaring large. He stares down at the folder like it's a bomb.
"That needs your signature," Charles says flatly. He's not going to be ignored again. "Now."
Anticipation thrums through Charles' bones as Lehnsherr stares at the folder, nerves bubbling in his stomach until he feels like he might burst—or at the very least, throw up. He has only a second to question his life choices before Lehnsherr grabs a pen and flips the folder open.
Only, there's no paperwork requiring a signature, but a pair of black, lacy panties, wet with slick.
Lehnsherr drops the folder onto his desk like he's been scalded. Tension fills the air, so thick it's tangible. "What," he says slowly, "the fuck is wrong with you?"
Someone less finely tuned to Lehnsherr's moods might think he's furious—his voice low and dangerous, jaw clenched, hand flexing like he's itching for something to hit. Someone who doesn't know Lehnsherr might mistake the heat in his eyes for anger, or the heavy, cloying scent filling the air a prelude to a fight.
But Charles knows Lehnsherr.
"I told you," Charles says, sauntering around the desk, "my heat is due soon."
In a flash, Lensherr jumps up and towers over Charles, glaring down at him. "Is this what you want?" he snarls, snatching Charles' wrist and squeezing. "You wanted my attention, didn't you? Walking around in that tight little skirt like a whore."
Charles moans at the word, slick oozing between his legs. His cocklet throbs, rubbing against the fabric of his skirt—just enough stimulation to be an awful tease.
"What now?" Lehnsherr hisses. "You want to get fucked? Is that it? Slutty little omega like you, dripping all over the fucking office right before your heat."
"Yes," Charles gasps, "I want to get fucked."
"You think you get to push me around?" Lehnsherr says, yanking Charles by the hips to flip him over. He pulls Charles' wrists behind his back, gripping tight enough to hurt. "That you can show up in a skirt and make the whole damn place smell like you and push all my fucking buttons until I fuck you, is that it?"
"Yes! I mean—no," Charles says, unsure what Lehnsherr wants to hear. He wiggles his hips, hoping to entice Lehnsherr to touch him—anything will do at this point.
Lehnsherr tugs his skirt up, hiking it over his hips and leaving him completely exposed. The cool air on his cunt and cocklet makes Charles shudder, and he lets out a loud moan as Lehnsherr shoves three fingers into him at once, sinking to his knuckles easily.
"Christ, you're dripping," Lehnsherr mutters, though Charles can barely hear him over the blood rushing in his ears, the pleasure rocketing through his body as Lehnsherr's strong fingers work in and out of him efficiently, business-like. "I don't even need to stretch you, do I? You're made to be fucked with alpha cock."
"Please fuck me," Charles begs. He's so close to getting what he wants, can almost taste the satisfaction. He's dizzy with desperation. "You're right, I can take it. Lehnsherr—"
"Sir," Lehnsherr snarls, wrenching Charles' wrists back until he arches, shoulder blades drawn sharply together, arms aching.
"Sir," Charles yelps, "please fuck me, oh my god."
"Fuck yourself."
"Wh-what?" Charles makes to twist around, but Lehnsherr is quick to push his head down, face pressed into the desk. There's a zipping noise, and then the air is punched out of him as Lehnsherr finally pushes his cock inside, all in one go. Charles gasps for air, cunt throbbing around his boss' big alpha cock—finally.
"Fuck yourself on me, if you're so desperate for it," Lehnsherr says, in the same way he tells Charles to make him of a copy of meeting notes, or to run out to get them lunch. If Charles couldn't feel proof of Lehnsherr's interest inside him this very moment, he'd say Lehnsherr sounds bored.
But Charles isn't in the position to negotiate, so he starts moving his hips. It's not easy, with his arms behind his back, but it's something. It's his cunt being stretched and filled, even though it's not as fast as he'd like, and there's no stimulation on his cock, which drips uselessly in the air.
"I've had better," Lehnsherr says, meeting Charles' hips with his own, just barely—just on the side of plausible deniability. The air is thick with arousal, Lehnsherr's scent like ash on Charles' tongue. He can taste how much Lehnsherr wants him, can feel how his cock throbs inside him.
"Bullshit," Charles snaps, because dirty talk is one thing, but flat-out lying is another, and he won't tolerate it. "I've seen you looking at me."
"So what? If I wanted every pretty omega who batted their eyes at me I'd never do anything else." Lehnsherr's grip tightens around his wrists. Charles thinks he might bruise, and the notion makes his cunt drool.
"Shut up. You want me," Charles says, rocking his hips back even as his muscles burn with every movement. His body is taut and stretched, Lehnsherr's iron grip contorting his limbs. Sweat drips down his temple, and frustrated tears prick his eyes. "God, you're an arsehole."
Suddenly, Lehnsherr drops Charles' wrists and lunges forward, wrapping an arm around Charles' chest to hoist him up. His other hand grips Charles' face tightly, fingers digging into his cheeks. "I'm still your boss. Watch how you fucking talk to me," he hisses, and starts snapping his hips forward in short, brutal thrusts.
"Oh my god, yes," Charles cries, jolts of pleasure tearing through him with each drag of Lehnsherr's cock, "thank you—sir—"
This seems to be the right thing to say, because Lehnsherr rewards him by shoving his hand up Charles' shirt, cupping his chest and squeezing, voice rumbling in Charles' ear as he speaks, "You're just a pretty little fuckhole, aren't you, omega? I should keep you in my office all the time, sitting on my cock like you were born to do."
"Yes," Charles sobs, "please, please. Come inside me—give me your kn-knot—" He doesn't even know what he's saying, too overcome with raw pleasure, skin on fire at every point of contact.
Lehnsherr shoves Charles to the desk and hoists Charles' thigh up, pounding into him with renewed dedication, the new angle breathtakingly deep. He squeezes Charles' waist, pulling him back to meet each violent thrust. "Cock-drunk omega, you'd let me do anything, wouldn't you?"
"Anything," Charles babbles. "Anything at all, please—knot me, claim me, knock me up—"
"Fucking Christ," Lehnsherr bites out, like it costs him something.
Charles feels Lehnsherr's cock start to grow at the base, stretching him out impossibly, deliciously. He comes with a shout, cocklet spurting thick stripes of come onto the desk below, cunt gushing and clenching around Lehnsherr. His arms give out and he collapses onto the desk below him while he gasps for air. Behind him, there's the slick, slapping sound of flesh on flesh, and then Lehnsherr grunts and stripes Charles' arse with hot come.
Charles blinks in surprise. "Wh—I thought you—inside?"
"Uh, no," Lehnsherr says after a pause, and removes what Charles now recognizes as his fingers from Charles' cunt. He must have pulled out at the last moment, Charles realizes with disappointment. He pushes himself up and turns around, wincing as come and slick drips down his thighs. He grabs a nearby sheet of paper and wipes what he can, then tosses it back onto the desk a crumpled, wet mess.
"Really? My itinerary for this weekend?" Lehnsherr complains, looking down as he tucks himself back in. The bridge of his nose is red, the way it gets when he's worked up about something.
"Oh," Charles says apologetically, glancing at the paper to confirm that yes, it was the itinerary he'd dropped off yesterday before leaving, in yet another bid for attention that had gone unanswered. The memory doesn't sting anymore, when he can still feel the imprint of Lehnsherr's fingertips on his thigh. "It's not like you need it now, do you?" Charles tugs down his skirt, wrinkling his nose as the wet fabric stretches across his skin. He'll have to buy Raven a new one.
"What does that mean?" Lehnsherr says wryly, fixing his tie. With every passing moment he's returning to Charles' grumpy, impersonal boss. Charles knows better, though—he's always known better, but even more so now that Lehnsherr's scent has softened into something with a tinge of sweetness. Vanilla, perhaps.
"Because you'll be with me," Charles says simply. "For my heat."
Lehnsherr drops his tie and looks up at Charles in shock. "I—Xavier, I'm—you've got the wrong idea—" He sounds more flustered than Charles has ever heard him. "I'm not—this isn't—"
"You mean you're not going to take me home and fuck a litter of pups into me, then give me a claiming mark and get down on one knee to ask for my hand in marriage?" Charles says, giving Lehnsherr a flat look. "I'd settle for just a good fucking then, if you think you can manage that."
"I… suppose I can," Lehnsherr musters, like it's a task.
"Oh, jolly good," Charles says sarcastically. "Am I mistaken, or did you not just pop a knot because you enjoyed yourself so much?"
"You're damn mouthy," Lehnsherr complains, instead of answering his question. His shirt hangs down strategically, covering the no-doubt impressive bulge where his inflated knot sits.
Charles hoists himself up onto the desk, preening; it's uncommon for an alpha to knot outside of rut. With someone who's not their mate, no less. The least he can do is keep Lehnsherr company while he waits for it to go down. Charles kicks off his heels. "Is now a good time to discuss the company's heat accommodation policies?"