Good Morning
Title: Good Morning
Rating: R
Genre: oneshot! established relationship! slightly AU for timeline and happy and fluff! so much fluff!
I needed an antidote.
Pairing: Charles/Erik
A/N: This is some unmitigated fluff right here! Hope you enjoy! I needed it.
Summary: Erik likes that Charles hates mornings.
Charles was still asleep when Erik woke up.
Erik liked mornings. Mornings, cold showers, doughy tasteless food, camping expeditions through impassable areas of the countryside. Charles could stand none of these things. He gave off a perpetual air of the indoors. It was, Erik thought a little ruefully, part of his charm. He had the perpetually rumpled look of a born academic, and he positively lit up when presented with tomes in tiny fonts on obscure subjects. Sometimes Erik worried that there was nothing that didn’t interest Charles. It certainly had seemed that way of late.
“Listen to this,” he had said to Erik the previous night. He was nestled on Erik’s chest and Erik was toying absentmindedly with his hair while he read. He had given up any efforts to read himself after Charles had refused to let him bring Sun Tzu’s Art of War to bed. “Did you know that nematodes-”
“I am absolutely certain that I do not,” Erik said. He tried to find a way to extricate the book from Charles’ grip. He would have to start buying Charles books with metal bindings, he thought. That would be a worthwhile investment. As it was the book stubbornly stayed put, and he had to listen to some fact about the ubiquity of roundworms that it didn’t surprise him that he hadn’t known before, because it seemed like a waste of mental space.
Finally he had begun planting kisses in Charles’ hair and down his neck and Charles had shot him a mildly irritated look and said, “I’m trying to read,” and Erik said, “Precisely,” and caught Charles’ earlobe between his teeth in the way that always made Charles turn a little incoherent, and Charles let out a helpless little whimper that still managed to sound annoyed and Erik reached a hand around and cupped Charles through the covers and said, “Or you can get back to your nematodes.” And Charles had let the book slide off the bed and land on the floor with a satisfying thump.
Now Erik lay propped up on an elbow in the delicious few minutes before Charles’ alarm went off and watched Charles’ chest rise and fall and his eyelids flicker, and it was times like this he most envied Charles his power, because he wanted to know what Charles was dreaming, what made his lips part into that secret smile.
He reached over and stroked Charles’ forehead. Charles’ eyes flickered sleepily open and Charles’ smile was warm and soft and delightful as a featherbed.
“Morning,” Erik said.
“Mmph,” Charles muttered, his face clouding. “Just five more minutes, Erik.”
That was the thing about Charles; for someone who managed to get up early every morning, he secretly hated it. If he could, he would stay in bed until three, mumbling and pulling the comforter over his head. But Charles was too disciplined for that.
“Your alarm’s about to go anyway,” Erik said.
Erik had not known about Charles and mornings until lately, when he had found himself in Charles’ bed as a matter of course. He still retired to his own room in the evenings, in sight of the children, but less than half an hour would pass and he would not even bother to get undressed and would slip down the hall to Charles’ room, and every night Charles would shoot him the same glance of delight and - relief. The relief was less noticeable now; it had been nearly a month, after all, and there was not a night when he had been out of Charles’ bed. His toothbrush stood next to Charles’ in the glass and his things had begun a desultory migration from his room to Charles’ - the shaving kit had arrived first and then sent word to the towel and the robe to join it in the new country, and the inhabitants of the closet shelves were making their way into Charles’ wardrobe too, one by one. Erik had told himself at the beginning that he wouldn’t think about it. And he hadn’t. It had simply happened.
Downstairs he heard Banshee making toast.
“The morning is the best part of the day,” he told Charles.
“Mmf abominable lies,” Charles muttered. His voice was thick with sleep. Charles always seemed youngest at this time of day; by the time he got down to the breakfast table he was professorial and had tacked on eight or ten or twelve years if he was really intent on something, but at times like this Erik could actually tell that Charles was younger than he was.
“I’ll make you an omelet,” he said.
“An omelet!” Charles rallied visibly, then yawned and sank back into the pillows. “You’re delightful. Five more minutes. There’s a good chap.”
Erik laughed. “You hate mornings.”
“To borrow a tired quip, I simply wish they started later.” Charles yawned again, then squinted at him. “Sometimes I think you actually like that I hate mornings.”
“I do,” Erik said. “It’s one of your more human traits.”
“I’m very human,” Charles mumbled, nestling against him so that his nose was in Erik’s shoulder and shutting his eyes. “Excruciatingly. You’re warm.”
“It’s one of my more human traits.”
Charles laughed sleepily. His alarm began sounding across the room. “Please turn it off,” Charles murmured.
“You’re using my gift as a crutch,” Erik said. “What if you were sleeping with someone who had to get out of bed to turn the alarm off?”
“I’m not, though, am I?” Charles said. “Don’t make me think. Too early.”
“I’ll only turn it off if you’ll get up.”
“I’ll get up.”
“No, you won’t.”
Charles smiled sleepily at him and pulled Erik’s head down and kissed him warmly on the lips and murmured, “Please?”
Erik found that he liked the way Charles tasted in the mornings. The discovery, like the migrating clothes, was another of those things that he was trying not to think too much about.
“Fine,” he said, and the alarm made a discontented metallic crunch and stopped.
“Thank you, love,” Charles said, and then Charles’ eyes flickered nervously towards him because sometimes Charles just called people that but he had never called Erik that, on purpose anyway, just once when he’d wanted Erik to pass him a towel and another time a few weeks before that when Charles had forgotten he was meeting Erik for dinner in town away from the children and had come dashing in at almost the last possible moment, and both of those made sense because Charles usually used words like that when he was apologizing for something. “I’m sorry, I haven’t gone soft on you,” Charles said quickly and apologetically.
“Don’t apologize. Too early,” Erik hissed. He kissed Charles, snaking an arm around his waist and shifting them so that Charles lay on top of him. With his other hand he reached around and cupped the pale firmness of Charles’ buttocks and Charles looked down at him with knowing ice-bright eyes and whispered, “You’re completely insatiable” and Erik looked back at him and raised his eyebrows and said, “And you aren’t?” and Charles folded his arms on Erik’s chest and rested his chin on them and grinned lazily at him, but he knew that Charles was more awake than not, and as he traced his fingers slowly up the line of Charles’ spine he could feel Charles’ budding arousal against his chest.
“Insatiable,” he mouthed, and then Charles had propped himself up with one hand on either side of Erik’s chest and was kissing him eagerly, awake, very awake, and Erik found himself grinning back helplessly, and this was another of the things he was going to worry about later, how he could not get enough of Charles, but now his body was demanding Charles again, far more urgently than breakfast.
Charles pulled back and sat up astride Erik and studied his face for a moment, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “I should get up,” he murmured.
“You already are,” Erik said, glancing down at the juncture of Charles’ legs. Charles chuckled.
“Surely I’m not rubbing off on you?” he asked, and Erik could see a hint of smugness in that smile. “That was very nearly a pun.”
“Of course not,” Erik said, slipping his hands onto Charles’ waist.
Charles leaned down and kissed him again. They were both aroused now, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Charles grinned and reached over to the table on their bedside - his bedside, Erik thought, catching himself - and found the metal tube of lubricant and their bodies fused slowly and deliciously and Charles’ hips were pumping enthusiastically above him and Charles’ hands were sliding appreciatively along the muscles of his stomach and chest and they were coming together - this happened more often in the mornings - panting each other’s names like the punchlines to some private joke.
Charles saw the glint in his eyes and whispered, “I know what you’re thinking,” and Erik grinned, “That phrase is more potent coming from you,” and Charles’ eyes were glinting mischievously too, and Erik said, “And?” and Charles’ hand began snaking towards the bedside table and Charles leaned down and whispered, “It’s ours,” and the fact that that was the particular thing that Charles had chosen to say made something strange and hot go flooding through his chest.
He ran his fingers along Charles’ arm caressingly, and wanting to show Charles something that matched that, and feeling a little nervous and funny he said, “Do you still hate mornings,” hesitated a fraction of a second, “love?”
And then Charles had swooped down and was kissing him soundly with warmth and lust commingled and he could feel Charles’ hand scrabbling on the bedside table and he could tell even without Charles’ gift that Charles was delighted and - relieved and absolutely desperate to have Erik inside him.
“Yes,” Charles murmured. “I still hate mornings, love.” His fingers found the tube and he grinned down at Erik and Erik grinned helplessly and delightedly back. “But I love spending them with you.”
Rating: R
Genre: oneshot! established relationship! slightly AU for timeline and happy and fluff! so much fluff!
I needed an antidote.
Pairing: Charles/Erik
A/N: This is some unmitigated fluff right here! Hope you enjoy! I needed it.
Summary: Erik likes that Charles hates mornings.
Charles was still asleep when Erik woke up.
Erik liked mornings. Mornings, cold showers, doughy tasteless food, camping expeditions through impassable areas of the countryside. Charles could stand none of these things. He gave off a perpetual air of the indoors. It was, Erik thought a little ruefully, part of his charm. He had the perpetually rumpled look of a born academic, and he positively lit up when presented with tomes in tiny fonts on obscure subjects. Sometimes Erik worried that there was nothing that didn’t interest Charles. It certainly had seemed that way of late.
“Listen to this,” he had said to Erik the previous night. He was nestled on Erik’s chest and Erik was toying absentmindedly with his hair while he read. He had given up any efforts to read himself after Charles had refused to let him bring Sun Tzu’s Art of War to bed. “Did you know that nematodes-”
“I am absolutely certain that I do not,” Erik said. He tried to find a way to extricate the book from Charles’ grip. He would have to start buying Charles books with metal bindings, he thought. That would be a worthwhile investment. As it was the book stubbornly stayed put, and he had to listen to some fact about the ubiquity of roundworms that it didn’t surprise him that he hadn’t known before, because it seemed like a waste of mental space.
Finally he had begun planting kisses in Charles’ hair and down his neck and Charles had shot him a mildly irritated look and said, “I’m trying to read,” and Erik said, “Precisely,” and caught Charles’ earlobe between his teeth in the way that always made Charles turn a little incoherent, and Charles let out a helpless little whimper that still managed to sound annoyed and Erik reached a hand around and cupped Charles through the covers and said, “Or you can get back to your nematodes.” And Charles had let the book slide off the bed and land on the floor with a satisfying thump.
Now Erik lay propped up on an elbow in the delicious few minutes before Charles’ alarm went off and watched Charles’ chest rise and fall and his eyelids flicker, and it was times like this he most envied Charles his power, because he wanted to know what Charles was dreaming, what made his lips part into that secret smile.
He reached over and stroked Charles’ forehead. Charles’ eyes flickered sleepily open and Charles’ smile was warm and soft and delightful as a featherbed.
“Morning,” Erik said.
“Mmph,” Charles muttered, his face clouding. “Just five more minutes, Erik.”
That was the thing about Charles; for someone who managed to get up early every morning, he secretly hated it. If he could, he would stay in bed until three, mumbling and pulling the comforter over his head. But Charles was too disciplined for that.
“Your alarm’s about to go anyway,” Erik said.
Erik had not known about Charles and mornings until lately, when he had found himself in Charles’ bed as a matter of course. He still retired to his own room in the evenings, in sight of the children, but less than half an hour would pass and he would not even bother to get undressed and would slip down the hall to Charles’ room, and every night Charles would shoot him the same glance of delight and - relief. The relief was less noticeable now; it had been nearly a month, after all, and there was not a night when he had been out of Charles’ bed. His toothbrush stood next to Charles’ in the glass and his things had begun a desultory migration from his room to Charles’ - the shaving kit had arrived first and then sent word to the towel and the robe to join it in the new country, and the inhabitants of the closet shelves were making their way into Charles’ wardrobe too, one by one. Erik had told himself at the beginning that he wouldn’t think about it. And he hadn’t. It had simply happened.
Downstairs he heard Banshee making toast.
“The morning is the best part of the day,” he told Charles.
“Mmf abominable lies,” Charles muttered. His voice was thick with sleep. Charles always seemed youngest at this time of day; by the time he got down to the breakfast table he was professorial and had tacked on eight or ten or twelve years if he was really intent on something, but at times like this Erik could actually tell that Charles was younger than he was.
“I’ll make you an omelet,” he said.
“An omelet!” Charles rallied visibly, then yawned and sank back into the pillows. “You’re delightful. Five more minutes. There’s a good chap.”
Erik laughed. “You hate mornings.”
“To borrow a tired quip, I simply wish they started later.” Charles yawned again, then squinted at him. “Sometimes I think you actually like that I hate mornings.”
“I do,” Erik said. “It’s one of your more human traits.”
“I’m very human,” Charles mumbled, nestling against him so that his nose was in Erik’s shoulder and shutting his eyes. “Excruciatingly. You’re warm.”
“It’s one of my more human traits.”
Charles laughed sleepily. His alarm began sounding across the room. “Please turn it off,” Charles murmured.
“You’re using my gift as a crutch,” Erik said. “What if you were sleeping with someone who had to get out of bed to turn the alarm off?”
“I’m not, though, am I?” Charles said. “Don’t make me think. Too early.”
“I’ll only turn it off if you’ll get up.”
“I’ll get up.”
“No, you won’t.”
Charles smiled sleepily at him and pulled Erik’s head down and kissed him warmly on the lips and murmured, “Please?”
Erik found that he liked the way Charles tasted in the mornings. The discovery, like the migrating clothes, was another of those things that he was trying not to think too much about.
“Fine,” he said, and the alarm made a discontented metallic crunch and stopped.
“Thank you, love,” Charles said, and then Charles’ eyes flickered nervously towards him because sometimes Charles just called people that but he had never called Erik that, on purpose anyway, just once when he’d wanted Erik to pass him a towel and another time a few weeks before that when Charles had forgotten he was meeting Erik for dinner in town away from the children and had come dashing in at almost the last possible moment, and both of those made sense because Charles usually used words like that when he was apologizing for something. “I’m sorry, I haven’t gone soft on you,” Charles said quickly and apologetically.
“Don’t apologize. Too early,” Erik hissed. He kissed Charles, snaking an arm around his waist and shifting them so that Charles lay on top of him. With his other hand he reached around and cupped the pale firmness of Charles’ buttocks and Charles looked down at him with knowing ice-bright eyes and whispered, “You’re completely insatiable” and Erik looked back at him and raised his eyebrows and said, “And you aren’t?” and Charles folded his arms on Erik’s chest and rested his chin on them and grinned lazily at him, but he knew that Charles was more awake than not, and as he traced his fingers slowly up the line of Charles’ spine he could feel Charles’ budding arousal against his chest.
“Insatiable,” he mouthed, and then Charles had propped himself up with one hand on either side of Erik’s chest and was kissing him eagerly, awake, very awake, and Erik found himself grinning back helplessly, and this was another of the things he was going to worry about later, how he could not get enough of Charles, but now his body was demanding Charles again, far more urgently than breakfast.
Charles pulled back and sat up astride Erik and studied his face for a moment, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “I should get up,” he murmured.
“You already are,” Erik said, glancing down at the juncture of Charles’ legs. Charles chuckled.
“Surely I’m not rubbing off on you?” he asked, and Erik could see a hint of smugness in that smile. “That was very nearly a pun.”
“Of course not,” Erik said, slipping his hands onto Charles’ waist.
Charles leaned down and kissed him again. They were both aroused now, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Charles grinned and reached over to the table on their bedside - his bedside, Erik thought, catching himself - and found the metal tube of lubricant and their bodies fused slowly and deliciously and Charles’ hips were pumping enthusiastically above him and Charles’ hands were sliding appreciatively along the muscles of his stomach and chest and they were coming together - this happened more often in the mornings - panting each other’s names like the punchlines to some private joke.
Charles saw the glint in his eyes and whispered, “I know what you’re thinking,” and Erik grinned, “That phrase is more potent coming from you,” and Charles’ eyes were glinting mischievously too, and Erik said, “And?” and Charles’ hand began snaking towards the bedside table and Charles leaned down and whispered, “It’s ours,” and the fact that that was the particular thing that Charles had chosen to say made something strange and hot go flooding through his chest.
He ran his fingers along Charles’ arm caressingly, and wanting to show Charles something that matched that, and feeling a little nervous and funny he said, “Do you still hate mornings,” hesitated a fraction of a second, “love?”
And then Charles had swooped down and was kissing him soundly with warmth and lust commingled and he could feel Charles’ hand scrabbling on the bedside table and he could tell even without Charles’ gift that Charles was delighted and - relieved and absolutely desperate to have Erik inside him.
“Yes,” Charles murmured. “I still hate mornings, love.” His fingers found the tube and he grinned down at Erik and Erik grinned helplessly and delightedly back. “But I love spending them with you.”