Dress Shirt - Charles Xavier

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You were still in bed, cuddled up beneath the soft, warm, black duvet, one leg folded so that your foot was by your other knee, arms folded beneath your face, stomach pressed against the mattress, yet the duvet only came up to around your waist, leaving the shirt you were wearing on display; it was one of Charles', a white, silk dress shirt that he had been wearing the night before, the sleeves covered your hands, and the smooth material was gentle on your skin, even if the collar had been perked up and was caressing your cheek when it rode up slightly. Charles was watching you, head tilted, cerulean eyes calm as they scanned over your form, mind at ease as he focused on you, but when you fidgeted and grumbled as you woke up, he couldn't help but to ask, "Is that my shirt?"

"You know damn well it is," you yawned, lazily smiling at him.

"It looks marvellous on you, darling. Can you do me a favour?" Charles licked his lips when you got out of bed, allowing the shirt to drape over you, the thin material leaving almost nothing to his imagination.

"Sure. What's up?"

"Can you wear more of my shirts, please?"

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