[fic??] xm: fc - a million - charles/erik, daycare 'verse, nc-17 (?)
This isn't really fic? I mean, it is, in that it's a piece of fiction written about two characters that I am borrowing from a larger franchise because of my affection for them and compulsion to continue their stories in my own direction. But there's no plot or....anything, really. I showed this to littledust and she said, "I'm not sure what it wants to be either. Maybe the internet will tell you!"
So, I'm going to post it here just...because. But I'm probably not crossposting it anywhere else, because who even knows what this is?
***
Title: A Million
Fandom: X-Men: First Class (daycare verse)
Characters: Charles/Erik
Rating: NC-17? Hard R? There's sex.
Length: 2k
Summary: Charles and Erik have sex and then have a long conversation in which Erik does math and it's apparently sexy.
"Oh, come on," Charles says. There's a rough edge to his voice, deeper and trembling. "I know you can fuck me harder than that." Erik snorts and thrusts harder, shoving Charles a further few inches up the bed. "Harder! My god, are you putting any effort into this?"
"Shut," Erik mutters, snapping his hips forward, "your fucking arrogant, bossy mouth. Fucking hell, Charles."
"I'm merely saying," Charles gasps, "that as--as this is my prize, you c-could try a little harder and then maybe I'd--" Erik grabs Charles' hips and pulls him back, hard, while thrusting forward. Charles makes a noise high in his throat and his eyes close.
"You are the neediest," Erik growls, "bossiest--"
"If you would--" Erik puts his whole body into fucking Charles and Charles squeaks and then whimpers, grabbing Erik's hair and pulling, his smartass commentary devolving into frantic babbling, just a little ahead of schedule if the way his thoughts suddenly scatter and pulse forward into Erik's brain is any indicator. "Yes yes yes god, like that, Erik, yes, god, please!"
It's the please that does it. It's Erik's undoing every time. No matter how focused he is, how intent on playing a part or making a point, the moment Charles pleads with him shatters his resolve. He doesn't know why. It's not really begging, not with intent, at least, just the mindless noise of Charles desperate and losing his train of thought. But something about that word, the way that Charles says it, the way that it sounds like this is all Charles has ever wanted, that he's been waiting his whole life for Erik to touch him this way--
He curses, dips his head to get his mouth on Charles because he's not touching him nearly enough. Charles is still babbling--or making noise, at least, panting and whimpering and encouraging Erik forward, his legs locked around Erik's waist and his nails biting into Erik's shoulders. They're both going to be bruised and sore when this is over and Erik's already relishing it, moaning as one of Charles' hands slips from his shoulder and scrambles between them. His knuckles drag against Erik's stomach as he fists his own cock, but not for long--Erik bites his shoulder right where it meets his neck and then Charles is coming, choking on noises stuck in his throat. His orgasm wraps around Erik, suffocating, and Erik tries to hold out, he does, but it's impossible to hold back with Charles' pleasure battering him from all sides, with Charles' fingers pulling his hair, nails digging into his scalp and oh, oh--
They collapse back onto the mattress in a sweaty, sticky heap. Charles sounds like he can't catch his breath and he's petting Erik's chest as he wheezes.
"Oh, I love you," he finally manages to say, almost absently. "You're lovely." His thoughts wrap around Erik, warm and delighted, and Erik mentally nudges him back with just as much affection. He has to admit that as much as he hates losing chess, Charles' demands upon winning are always satisfying.
"Thanks," Erik mutters. He presses a kiss to the mark already forming on Charles' shoulder. "I still say you cheated."
"Did not," Charles says. He opens his eyes and grins at Erik, smug and blissed out. "You're just a sore loser. S'why I like you to fuck me when I win--it's always good when you're that bitchy."
"I'm bitchy?" He's nuzzling Charles' neck, so there's no real bite to his skepticism. "Have you listened to yourself lately? You're pretty fucking mouthy when you're in charge."
"Mm, winner's prerogative," Charles says. He arches his neck, and invitation for Erik to kiss the underside of his jaw, right where Charles likes it best. "Those are the rules. You do what I say and you weren't doing it hard or fast enough. It was my duty to direct you." Erik chuckles and drags his teeth across the bottom of Charles' jaw bone. That's the best part of early afternoon sex--well aside from the actual sex--Charles' face is smooth and stubble-free. The worst part is that they've made a mess of the sheets and he's too exhausted to deal with it.
"I think we should make an additional rule that the winner has to clean up," Erik says, wiping his hand on the corner of the sheet. They should really shower, but having a pleased Charles sprawled against him is winning out over clean.
"It'll keep," Charles says. He winds his fingers into Erik's hair and pulls him down for another kiss.
"It won't," Erik says when they part. "It will dry and stain." Erik tries to sit up at least enough to find some tissues, but Charles pulls him down by the hair again.
"Then we'll wash the sheets," Charles says. "It's not the end of the world, darling." Erik cringes when Charles pulls the top sheet up and uses it to wipe them both off. He just washed these. "For a man who just fucked me so hard my ears are still ringing, you can be remarkably prudish about some things. They're sheets."
Erik reluctantly lets Charles go long enough to roll over to the far edge of the bed, then tugs him over until he's once again sprawled on Erik's chest, away from the discarded sheet.
"I don't like napping in my own filth if I can help it," Erik says. "We've had sex about a million times; you should be used to this by now."
"Not quite a million," Charles says. He stretches and rearranges himself until his head is resting in the crook of Erik's neck and one of his legs is wedged comfortably between Erik's. Erik drags his hand gently up and down Charles' back, humming with contentment. Outside, it's overcast and damp and the grey light filtering in through the blinds is perfect for napping. Erik turns his head just far enough to kiss Charles' forehead. They can spend the rest of the afternoon in bed and still have plenty of time to meet Moira and her boyfriend for dinner and a movie. A perfect day, in Erik's opinion. It's a rare weekend that finds him coaxing Charles back into bed and keeping him there; Erik intends to enjoy it. He sighs happily and closes his eyes.
"I wonder how long we'd have to live to have sex a million times," Charles murmurs absently.
"A million days," Erik says without opening his eyes.
"There are days we don't have sex."
"And there are days when we have sex three times," Erik says. "It would average out, I think." He's not going to get pulled into another one of Charles' oddly meandering post-coital conversations. This is not going to turn into another poodle debate.
"Hm," Charles says. "So, every day for three years would be about a thousand--"
"Closer to eleven hundred," Erik says, and then curses both his ability to multiply large numbers in his head, his need for precision, and his inability to ignore Charles for very long.
"For the sake of a round number, we'll go with a thousand," Charles says.
"Why are we doing this again?" Erik finally cracks his eyes open, accepting that this is apparently a thing that's going to happen, Charles' own eyes are only half-lidded. He's absently stroking a scar on Erik's shoulder with his thumb, the remnant of a hiking accident.
"I'm curious," Charles says. "So, three years is a thousand, and a thousand goes into a million a thousand times, so that's three thousand years."
"Less," Erik says. The number's something like 2740, but correcting Charles further will just encourage him in this. He closes his eyes again and rubs Charles' back in a desperate attempt to induce drowsiness. "You rounded up. Are we done with this conversation?"
"Mm," Charles assures him. He wiggles around and wraps his arms around Erik's chest, inching closer. "I'm cold."
"That's what happens when you use the sheets to mop yourself up," Erik says, but he summons the comforter balled at the bottom of the bed, thanks to the thin strip of metal sewn into the edge. He manages to tuck it around them both without opening his eyes again, Charles humming in appreciation.
"Thank you," Charles says. There's a moment of blessed silence and then, "How often do you suppose we'd have to have sex to do it a million times before we die?"
Erik sighs loudly.
"Fifty times a day?" Charles suggests. "I mean, would it even be possible?"
And, goddammit, now Erik is thinking about it too.
"It would depend on how sex is defined," Erik says, cursing himself in his head hard enough that Charles has to hear it. "Do we both need to have orgasms? If I blow you and then you blow me, does it count once or twice? What about if you come and then I come and then you come again? Is that once? Three times? Two times?"
"Each orgasm achieved by someone else's metaphorical hand counts as one," Charles says. "No--each orgasm achieved together, we'll say, because if I jerk myself off watching you, that should count because you're still involved even if you don't have your hands on me."
"Okay," Erik says. Although, if he has his way, that's not a scenario that will be repeated, though it's probably best to keep the stipulation in for the really incredible amount of psychic sex and phone sex they've had. "And that was a very frustrating experience, by the way."
"When I finally put my mouth on your cock, you came so hard you almost blacked out," Charles reminds him. He's right, of course, but still. He likes to be able to put his hands on Charles. The restraint doesn't do much for him, aside from watching how hot it makes Charles. And he challenges anyone to watch the sort of show Charles put on while getting himself off and then not come so hard they black out.
Except, no, he takes that back, because no one should ever get to see that except him. Ever.
"Okay, so, an orgasm aided somehow by the other," Erik says. "Let's say we have seventy years left to live. That would be...." He bites his bottom lip and does the math, sketching the numbers across Charles' back absently. "About 14,285 times a year. Divide that by 365--" Charles is humming now, the noise vibrating against Erik's chest just enough to be distracting. Not unpleasant, exactly, but definitely distracting.
"Are you doing math on my back?" Charles asks.
"Yes," Erik says. He feels Charles' lips curl into a smile.
"That's very sexy, you know," Charles says. Erik opens his eyes again and reaches up to tug Charles' hair.
"You're very distracting," Erik says. "I'm trying to calculate large numbers in my head."
"Say that again," Charles says. He opens his eyes, too, and smirks up at Erik, dragging his nails across Erik's chest. "Very sexy."
"Distracting," Erik says again, grabbing Charles' hand and squeezing it. "This is your fault, you know. You started it and it will bother me until I can figure it out."
Charles' grin is far too knowing and unfairly sexy, but he closes his eyes again, tangling their fingers together so that Erik can't drop his hand.
"Continue," he says airily. Erik glares, even though Charles can't see it.
"Fine," Erik says. "14,285 times a year divided by 365 leaves us with about 39 times a day, or one and a half orgasms an hour. I rounded down a few times, so maybe a little more than that, and that's not taking into account sleeping or eating or work. That's just the numbers, but I'm willing to take it as a personal challenge if you'd prefer."
Charles laughs and curls closer, if possible. "One and a half orgasms an hour? I'm sorry, darling, I feel as though you're vastly overestimating my refractory period."
"That's why it's a challenge," Erik says. Charles' responding laugh brushes across his chest, a small expulsion of warm air.
"Maybe tomorrow," Charles says, kissing his throat. "I think I'd like a nap, now."
"Oh, now you want to sleep," Erik says, but he wraps his arms around Charles and presses his face into his hair. He teases Charles about his special shampoo, but he actually likes it. He likes that Charles' hair smells different than his. He sighs into Charles' hair, pressing his nose to Charles' scalp.
"Just so you know, There's no one else I'd want to have a million orgasms with," Charles says. The words come with the mental equivalent of a sly smile, a small pulse of amusement overlaid with love and gratitude. "I can't even imagine it. I wouldn't want to."
Erik sends the same feelings back, stroking his hand up and down Charles' back again. "There's no one else I'd want to have a million orgasms with either," he murmurs, grinning involuntarily at both the absurdity of the statement and the dizzying conviction behind the words. "You've got forty-five minutes to sleep until I wake you for the next one, so you'd better rest up while you can."
Charles falls asleep between one chuckle and the next and Erik's not far behind him.
So, I'm going to post it here just...because. But I'm probably not crossposting it anywhere else, because who even knows what this is?
***
Title: A Million
Fandom: X-Men: First Class (daycare verse)
Characters: Charles/Erik
Rating: NC-17? Hard R? There's sex.
Length: 2k
Summary: Charles and Erik have sex and then have a long conversation in which Erik does math and it's apparently sexy.
"Oh, come on," Charles says. There's a rough edge to his voice, deeper and trembling. "I know you can fuck me harder than that." Erik snorts and thrusts harder, shoving Charles a further few inches up the bed. "Harder! My god, are you putting any effort into this?"
"Shut," Erik mutters, snapping his hips forward, "your fucking arrogant, bossy mouth. Fucking hell, Charles."
"I'm merely saying," Charles gasps, "that as--as this is my prize, you c-could try a little harder and then maybe I'd--" Erik grabs Charles' hips and pulls him back, hard, while thrusting forward. Charles makes a noise high in his throat and his eyes close.
"You are the neediest," Erik growls, "bossiest--"
"If you would--" Erik puts his whole body into fucking Charles and Charles squeaks and then whimpers, grabbing Erik's hair and pulling, his smartass commentary devolving into frantic babbling, just a little ahead of schedule if the way his thoughts suddenly scatter and pulse forward into Erik's brain is any indicator. "Yes yes yes god, like that, Erik, yes, god, please!"
It's the please that does it. It's Erik's undoing every time. No matter how focused he is, how intent on playing a part or making a point, the moment Charles pleads with him shatters his resolve. He doesn't know why. It's not really begging, not with intent, at least, just the mindless noise of Charles desperate and losing his train of thought. But something about that word, the way that Charles says it, the way that it sounds like this is all Charles has ever wanted, that he's been waiting his whole life for Erik to touch him this way--
He curses, dips his head to get his mouth on Charles because he's not touching him nearly enough. Charles is still babbling--or making noise, at least, panting and whimpering and encouraging Erik forward, his legs locked around Erik's waist and his nails biting into Erik's shoulders. They're both going to be bruised and sore when this is over and Erik's already relishing it, moaning as one of Charles' hands slips from his shoulder and scrambles between them. His knuckles drag against Erik's stomach as he fists his own cock, but not for long--Erik bites his shoulder right where it meets his neck and then Charles is coming, choking on noises stuck in his throat. His orgasm wraps around Erik, suffocating, and Erik tries to hold out, he does, but it's impossible to hold back with Charles' pleasure battering him from all sides, with Charles' fingers pulling his hair, nails digging into his scalp and oh, oh--
They collapse back onto the mattress in a sweaty, sticky heap. Charles sounds like he can't catch his breath and he's petting Erik's chest as he wheezes.
"Oh, I love you," he finally manages to say, almost absently. "You're lovely." His thoughts wrap around Erik, warm and delighted, and Erik mentally nudges him back with just as much affection. He has to admit that as much as he hates losing chess, Charles' demands upon winning are always satisfying.
"Thanks," Erik mutters. He presses a kiss to the mark already forming on Charles' shoulder. "I still say you cheated."
"Did not," Charles says. He opens his eyes and grins at Erik, smug and blissed out. "You're just a sore loser. S'why I like you to fuck me when I win--it's always good when you're that bitchy."
"I'm bitchy?" He's nuzzling Charles' neck, so there's no real bite to his skepticism. "Have you listened to yourself lately? You're pretty fucking mouthy when you're in charge."
"Mm, winner's prerogative," Charles says. He arches his neck, and invitation for Erik to kiss the underside of his jaw, right where Charles likes it best. "Those are the rules. You do what I say and you weren't doing it hard or fast enough. It was my duty to direct you." Erik chuckles and drags his teeth across the bottom of Charles' jaw bone. That's the best part of early afternoon sex--well aside from the actual sex--Charles' face is smooth and stubble-free. The worst part is that they've made a mess of the sheets and he's too exhausted to deal with it.
"I think we should make an additional rule that the winner has to clean up," Erik says, wiping his hand on the corner of the sheet. They should really shower, but having a pleased Charles sprawled against him is winning out over clean.
"It'll keep," Charles says. He winds his fingers into Erik's hair and pulls him down for another kiss.
"It won't," Erik says when they part. "It will dry and stain." Erik tries to sit up at least enough to find some tissues, but Charles pulls him down by the hair again.
"Then we'll wash the sheets," Charles says. "It's not the end of the world, darling." Erik cringes when Charles pulls the top sheet up and uses it to wipe them both off. He just washed these. "For a man who just fucked me so hard my ears are still ringing, you can be remarkably prudish about some things. They're sheets."
Erik reluctantly lets Charles go long enough to roll over to the far edge of the bed, then tugs him over until he's once again sprawled on Erik's chest, away from the discarded sheet.
"I don't like napping in my own filth if I can help it," Erik says. "We've had sex about a million times; you should be used to this by now."
"Not quite a million," Charles says. He stretches and rearranges himself until his head is resting in the crook of Erik's neck and one of his legs is wedged comfortably between Erik's. Erik drags his hand gently up and down Charles' back, humming with contentment. Outside, it's overcast and damp and the grey light filtering in through the blinds is perfect for napping. Erik turns his head just far enough to kiss Charles' forehead. They can spend the rest of the afternoon in bed and still have plenty of time to meet Moira and her boyfriend for dinner and a movie. A perfect day, in Erik's opinion. It's a rare weekend that finds him coaxing Charles back into bed and keeping him there; Erik intends to enjoy it. He sighs happily and closes his eyes.
"I wonder how long we'd have to live to have sex a million times," Charles murmurs absently.
"A million days," Erik says without opening his eyes.
"There are days we don't have sex."
"And there are days when we have sex three times," Erik says. "It would average out, I think." He's not going to get pulled into another one of Charles' oddly meandering post-coital conversations. This is not going to turn into another poodle debate.
"Hm," Charles says. "So, every day for three years would be about a thousand--"
"Closer to eleven hundred," Erik says, and then curses both his ability to multiply large numbers in his head, his need for precision, and his inability to ignore Charles for very long.
"For the sake of a round number, we'll go with a thousand," Charles says.
"Why are we doing this again?" Erik finally cracks his eyes open, accepting that this is apparently a thing that's going to happen, Charles' own eyes are only half-lidded. He's absently stroking a scar on Erik's shoulder with his thumb, the remnant of a hiking accident.
"I'm curious," Charles says. "So, three years is a thousand, and a thousand goes into a million a thousand times, so that's three thousand years."
"Less," Erik says. The number's something like 2740, but correcting Charles further will just encourage him in this. He closes his eyes again and rubs Charles' back in a desperate attempt to induce drowsiness. "You rounded up. Are we done with this conversation?"
"Mm," Charles assures him. He wiggles around and wraps his arms around Erik's chest, inching closer. "I'm cold."
"That's what happens when you use the sheets to mop yourself up," Erik says, but he summons the comforter balled at the bottom of the bed, thanks to the thin strip of metal sewn into the edge. He manages to tuck it around them both without opening his eyes again, Charles humming in appreciation.
"Thank you," Charles says. There's a moment of blessed silence and then, "How often do you suppose we'd have to have sex to do it a million times before we die?"
Erik sighs loudly.
"Fifty times a day?" Charles suggests. "I mean, would it even be possible?"
And, goddammit, now Erik is thinking about it too.
"It would depend on how sex is defined," Erik says, cursing himself in his head hard enough that Charles has to hear it. "Do we both need to have orgasms? If I blow you and then you blow me, does it count once or twice? What about if you come and then I come and then you come again? Is that once? Three times? Two times?"
"Each orgasm achieved by someone else's metaphorical hand counts as one," Charles says. "No--each orgasm achieved together, we'll say, because if I jerk myself off watching you, that should count because you're still involved even if you don't have your hands on me."
"Okay," Erik says. Although, if he has his way, that's not a scenario that will be repeated, though it's probably best to keep the stipulation in for the really incredible amount of psychic sex and phone sex they've had. "And that was a very frustrating experience, by the way."
"When I finally put my mouth on your cock, you came so hard you almost blacked out," Charles reminds him. He's right, of course, but still. He likes to be able to put his hands on Charles. The restraint doesn't do much for him, aside from watching how hot it makes Charles. And he challenges anyone to watch the sort of show Charles put on while getting himself off and then not come so hard they black out.
Except, no, he takes that back, because no one should ever get to see that except him. Ever.
"Okay, so, an orgasm aided somehow by the other," Erik says. "Let's say we have seventy years left to live. That would be...." He bites his bottom lip and does the math, sketching the numbers across Charles' back absently. "About 14,285 times a year. Divide that by 365--" Charles is humming now, the noise vibrating against Erik's chest just enough to be distracting. Not unpleasant, exactly, but definitely distracting.
"Are you doing math on my back?" Charles asks.
"Yes," Erik says. He feels Charles' lips curl into a smile.
"That's very sexy, you know," Charles says. Erik opens his eyes again and reaches up to tug Charles' hair.
"You're very distracting," Erik says. "I'm trying to calculate large numbers in my head."
"Say that again," Charles says. He opens his eyes, too, and smirks up at Erik, dragging his nails across Erik's chest. "Very sexy."
"Distracting," Erik says again, grabbing Charles' hand and squeezing it. "This is your fault, you know. You started it and it will bother me until I can figure it out."
Charles' grin is far too knowing and unfairly sexy, but he closes his eyes again, tangling their fingers together so that Erik can't drop his hand.
"Continue," he says airily. Erik glares, even though Charles can't see it.
"Fine," Erik says. "14,285 times a year divided by 365 leaves us with about 39 times a day, or one and a half orgasms an hour. I rounded down a few times, so maybe a little more than that, and that's not taking into account sleeping or eating or work. That's just the numbers, but I'm willing to take it as a personal challenge if you'd prefer."
Charles laughs and curls closer, if possible. "One and a half orgasms an hour? I'm sorry, darling, I feel as though you're vastly overestimating my refractory period."
"That's why it's a challenge," Erik says. Charles' responding laugh brushes across his chest, a small expulsion of warm air.
"Maybe tomorrow," Charles says, kissing his throat. "I think I'd like a nap, now."
"Oh, now you want to sleep," Erik says, but he wraps his arms around Charles and presses his face into his hair. He teases Charles about his special shampoo, but he actually likes it. He likes that Charles' hair smells different than his. He sighs into Charles' hair, pressing his nose to Charles' scalp.
"Just so you know, There's no one else I'd want to have a million orgasms with," Charles says. The words come with the mental equivalent of a sly smile, a small pulse of amusement overlaid with love and gratitude. "I can't even imagine it. I wouldn't want to."
Erik sends the same feelings back, stroking his hand up and down Charles' back again. "There's no one else I'd want to have a million orgasms with either," he murmurs, grinning involuntarily at both the absurdity of the statement and the dizzying conviction behind the words. "You've got forty-five minutes to sleep until I wake you for the next one, so you'd better rest up while you can."
Charles falls asleep between one chuckle and the next and Erik's not far behind him.