Chapter 1: i. if you can’t go back, where the hell do you go?
Chapter Text
January
“Ten, Erik. Our baby is ten,” —is how it starts.
Erik gives a grunt of acknowledgement and floats the stepladder to the corner of the living room, where the tops of windows are so tall that even he, the lanky greyhound of a man he is, can’t quite reach them on his own. There’s one end of a glittery HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner fisted in his right hand, a nail in his left. Behind him, the New York City skyline twinkles, the black void of Central Park a perfect rectangle beneath rows and rows of high-rise condos and office buildings.
For as much as Erik tells the kids to embrace their gifts, to be ‘mutant and proud,’ he’s stubborn as a mule when it comes to his no-flying-in-the-house rule, even when it would make tasks like these far more efficient—ceiling fans are too much of a liability. As it is, Charles tries not to think too hard about the hammer floating centimeters away from his children’s father’s head.
“Can you at least pretend to be sentimental? I already had one crying fit this morning over his baby photos. He was so tiny…”
“Pretend? I’m surprised you didn’t hear me in the hallway last night. It was his binky for me. The yellow one, remember? Full waterworks.”
“His binky,” Charles laments, and he has to clear his throat when the hot pinpricks of tears threaten to pour over. Christ. He squares his jaw, takes a deep, steadying breath, and goes back to wrapping yet another LEGO set. This time, it’s a shiny red FW14B race car. Gifts aside, there’s still the entryway and the formal dining room to decorate before David’s alarm goes off—his milestone birthday must be perfect. Anything for his precious, not-so-little boy.
“Crease those edges, Charles.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be hanging the streamers?”
Charles hears a huff behind him, feels the cool caress of Erik’s powers light up his cerebrum when he summons the final nail to his palm and hammers it into the wall, just soft enough to not wake the children. “Is all of this quite necessary?” Erik grumbles. “Surely, David’s birthday doesn’t constitute a full demo job. This kind of excess is so… American.”
“Erik,” Charles snaps, dropping the scissors onto the coffee table with a clank. He’s already anticipating a lecture from his husband tomorrow morning, when he’ll inevitably find bits and pieces of wrapping paper stuck in the rug. “It’s our son’s special day. If that personally offends you, then try to make yourself useful and put the kettle on. I’ll finish decorating myself even if it takes all night, so help me—”
“Hey, I didn’t mean it like that,” Erik says, and oh, when did he get so close? Every bit of irritation in Charles’ body melts into a big pool of goo when Erik kneels behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. “It’s still unusual to me, making such a big deal out of birthdays.”
“I seriously doubt you’re going to maintain that sentiment when he turns 13.”
“Bar Mitzvahs aren’t just a birthday, Charles. They symbolize a child’s transition into adulthood. Your goy is showing.”
Charles chuckles and tips his head back against that strong shoulder. “Well, in any case, I don’t think I have the mental capacity to memorize 613 commandments.”
“You just didn’t want to sit through Jewish conversion classes.”
“Three hours, Erik! Three, and on Monday nights, for god’s sake! You hardly practice anyway.”
Charles feels the warm breath of Erik’s laughter against his neck. He closes his eyes, letting Erik’s scent envelop him, the familiar notes of leathersweatcedarwoodmetal completely delicious and overwhelming his senses.
“Something is upsetting you,” Erik observes softly. “And I could be wrong, but I don’t think your tenacious agnosticism is to blame.”
Charles bites his bottom lip, a nervous habit from childhood he’s never quite been able to kick. “Oh, well. It’s not your fault I’m feeling so stroppy about the whole birthday thing. Just some typical fatherly anguish, I suppose.”
“I understand,” Erik says, thumbing soothing circles over his hips. “But I also know what a kindness it is to see our babies grow up. We’re lucky to have them, Charles. Every year they get older is a reminder of that. Besides, they’re not leaving the nest anytime soon.”
“But Lorna—”
“Lorna isn’t the problem right now. As for you, I think it’s time for bed. You’re starting to get existential. I’ll ask Pietro to help us finish up in the morning.”
A glance at his watch reveals it’s well past midnight, and Charles can feel the fatigue weighing heavy on both their minds. Erik’s thoughts are sleepy and content but buzzing with worry, the same kind of protective impulse that tends to accompany any and all thoughts pertaining to his family. He's always so, so focused on taking care of them. The more Charles thinks about it, the more he realizes that Raven’s nickname for Erik has a grain of truth to it: Papa Bear.
“Correct as always,” Charles says around a yawn, his eyes itchy. “Well, maybe not always…”
“Enough for you to let me take you to bed,” Erik whispers, dragging his soft lips down his neck, around the base of his jaw. “To let me thank you for everything you do for our babies, for how hard you work to keep us happy and safe. You’re so good to us, Charles, so good to me…”
Before their mutual exhaustion can turn into a mutual something else, Charles rises to his feet, ignoring the way his knees crack and groan the way they usually do for almost-40-somethings of his stature—even the ones who make it a point to attend hot yoga twice a week, for fuck’s sake.
“Coming, darling?” Charles asks and offers a hand to Erik, his long limbs still spread out on the rug. He looks devastatingly handsome like this, gray-blue eyes peering up at Charles through his lashes, anticipatory, his lips slightly parted and oh-so-tempting.
Erik takes it, smirking at the obvious arousal staining Charles’ cheeks. “With you? Always.”
#
“No fair! Why does David get streamers? Me and Wanda didn’t get streamers!”
Erik truly, sincerely does his best to stifle a groan, but it slips out anyway. He blames it on the lack of coffee and his miserable excuse for a sleep schedule, which hasn’t really existed since David came kicking and screaming into the world exactly a decade ago.
“Pietro, Liebling, this is supposed to be a nice surprise for your brother. Maybe if you behave and help me hang these up, you’ll get streamers for your 10th birthday.”
“Fine. But only if I get a big piece of cake. Like, a hugggggeee piece.”
“Deal. And stop saying ‘like.’ You know how much your Daddy hates it. Now, I’m going to break my no-flying-in-the-house rule. I don’t want to hear a word of it, especially to your siblings. Ja?”
Pietro’s shit-eating grin is enough to make Erik instantly regret his decision. “Ja, Vati!”
“He’s smart, using German like that,” Charles yawns, emerging from their bedroom in his favorite bathrobe, the fluffy blue one that’s been through the wash so many times it’s faded into a rather unusual shade of teal. “Knows exactly how to pull your strings.”
“Shhhh,” Erik hushes, clamping a hand over Pietro’s mouth when he shrieks, feet dangling in the air as Erik pushes them up towards the ceiling. “Don’t give him too much credit. His inflection is all over the place. Are the others awake?”
“Hmm,” Charles says, holding a finger up to his temple. “Only Lorna. Do you know she’s been waking up early to straighten her hair?”
“It’s that Alex kid,” Erik hisses. “She’s trying to impress him. See how far he gets until I shove a—”
“Goooood morning, Lorna!” Charles says, gathering his stepdaughter in his arms when she appears at the bottom of the staircase. It’s less of a greeting than it is a non-verbal shut up, Erik; no need to torment her before the bloody sun is up. He presses a kiss to the crown of Lorna’s head. Charles is right: her mop of green curls is distressingly flat. “We’re just about finished decorating. Did you sleep well?”
Lorna mumbles something vaguely affirmative and drags her feet towards the espresso machine, the dual-boiler that came with a truly mind-boggling price tag. But Lorna had begged and pleaded for it for months, and when her 17th birthday rolled around, Charles folded like a lawn chair.
You weren’t exactly hard to convince either, my dear, Charles projects.
In any case, Erik is secretly pleased to know that, just like his metallokinesis, his caffeine codependency is also, apparently, genetic. “Make some for me too, please,” Erik tells her. “Charles, I think Pietro is going to explode if he doesn’t get at those donuts soon.”
“Then let him down, for god's sake! Yes, good job, Pietro, helping your Papa like that…"
Erik slowly lowers them once the ceiling is absolutely covered with swirly blue serpentine paper. The second his feet hit the ground, Pietro wiggles out of Erik’s grip and runs straight for his Daddy’s kneecaps with the force of a small car crash. “G’morning!” he says, wrapping his arms around Charles’ hips and smushing his face into his stomach before pivoting to the kitchen, frosting and rainbow sprinkles hot on his mind.
And you say he doesn’t have a favorite, Erik sends.
The girls are all yours, darling. It’s only fair.
Back in the kitchen, his lovely, clever daughter has dumped two espresso shots into his STAY COOL, STAY METAL mug, and Erik sips it with a kind of bliss he never would have appreciated until experiencing the horrors of a school pickup line firsthand. He nods at Lorna in gratitude, who gives him a sort of half-lucid nod back. This will be the extent of their conversation until noon, at the earliest.
Speaking of daughters, we have one unaccounted for.
“I’ll wake Wanda and David,” Erik says, downing the rest of his hot, delectable caffeine, savoring every last sip down to the bitter grounds. “Did you remember the party hats? And the candles for the Geburtstagsring?”
“Of course I did. Pietro, Lorna, when David comes downstairs, I want you to yell ‘Happy Birthday’ as loud as you can, yes? Lorna? I’ll take that eye roll as a yes—oh! I need to get Raven and Hank!”
Given that Charles’ sister and brother-in-law live across the hall, it shouldn’t take long. Erik smirks and treads carefully upstairs, rounding the corner to the kids’ bedrooms. Standing outside the twins’ door, Erik gives a tentative knock. “Wanda, are you awake?”
His smallest daughter twists the doorknob with the wave of her hand. Erik can’t help but feel a flare of pride in his gut at the sight; since she manifested as a telekinetic a little over a year ago, Wanda’s powers have quickly grown stronger. Her control is already far beyond where Erik and Charles could have predicted, and now, she’s beginning to hone her psionic abilities, too.
Face half-shoved in a pillow, Wanda’s hair is a mess, her reddish-brown locks shooting up in several interesting directions. “I don’t wanna go to school today,” she groans.
Truthfully, Erik doesn’t blame her. It’s the first day back after winter break—a nightmare for parents and children alike. But as much as he’s loved spending time with his family these last two weeks, they all need the mind-numbing predictability of routine.
“I know you’re sleepy, but you have to go to class if you want to be smarter than your brother. Plus, there are donuts in the kitchen for good girls who brush their teeth.”
That does the trick. Wanda is up and out of her bed (bunked—the twins insisted) like a rocket, nearly as speedy as Pietro. “Yes, Vati!”
With Wanda awake and dressed in her school uniform in record time, that leaves Erik’s most timid child, who, like his Daddy, happens to hate mornings, even on his birthday. He raps his knuckles against David’s door, only to be met with silence. “Feier schön, mein Schatz.” More silence. English, then. “David? Are you awake? There’s a surprise waiting for you downstairs.”
Yes, Papa. I’m coming.
At one point in time, it might’ve been startling to have not one, but two-and-a-half telepaths using his brain like a switchboard. Now, Erik doesn’t think twice about it. He gives the mental equivalent of a shrug and pads back downstairs, where Charles has managed to wrangle a half-naked Hank and a sleep-deprived Raven to join in on the festivities.
“Kids,” Raven grumbles, a pink party hat slowly sliding down the side of her head. Pietro’s isn’t faring much better, dangling sort of helplessly at the back of his neck as he nuzzles his face into Hank’s fur. “The things we do for these little brats.”
Charles elbows her, eliciting a high-pitched “Owwww.” Erik knows exactly how pointy those elbows can be. “Everyone, hush. Here comes the birthday boy!”
If a chorus of four half-lucid adults, one cranky teenager, and two eight-year-olds well on their way to a sugar high screaming “Happy Birthday!” isn’t the worst imaginable thing to hear at seven in the morning, Erik doesn’t know what is. Still, David’s ear-to-ear grin is worth it.
David gets exactly ten sloppy kisses from Charles, as well as a mountain of presents from his Tante Raven and his Onkel Hank. During breakfast, the twins are all over him, smearing frosting absolutely everywhere and whining about how many video games he got. Lorna even gives David a hug. It’s sweet, even if it only lasts for all of two seconds.
From there, it’s a race out the door. Erik personally checks that each of the children has their backpack, lunch box, and jacket before herding them into the SUV, making sure to give Charles an exaggerated smooch on his way out just to hear the kids gag. If he’s lucky, he’ll be able to catch Charles before he leaves for campus, a full hour of peace and quiet, just for them.
Four mutant children. Two annoying in-laws. One obnoxiously pretty husband with some extraordinary mutations of his own. And yet, Erik’s family is the only thing that’s ever made sense.
#
Why Erik has to personally drop off the children at school when Charles has a trust fund that rivals the GDP of several small countries and could easily hire a driver remains a mystery. Still, Charles can’t find a reason to complain when he gets to climb back into bed for 15 minutes or squeeze in an arm workout before picking out whatever cardigan-khakis combination he’ll wear to work—he absolutely refuses to play into the rich kid stereotype by living off his trust fund forever, tempting as it is.
Today, however, Charles spends his downtime in a fit of self-induced despair.
David’s binky, oh god.
After Erik and the kids left, Charles plopped himself down on the floor in front of the closet and pulled out David’s keepsake box, which could explain why his lip won’t stop quivering.
He finds David’s baby shoes first, the knit pair with little brown teddy bears. Impossibly more devastating is the hat David wore home from the hospital, which a nurse—who was, at the time, completely oblivious to the fact that men can’t actually give birth—was kind enough to make for him, all cozy and bundled up in his Papa’s arms.
It's 9 a.m. Charles is a wreck.
Snuffling into his robe, Charles sets David’s hat aside to sort through the stacks of photos underneath. Erik’s been nagging him about making digital copies for years, but it’s something of a herculean task. There must be hundreds of snapshots from every phase of their children’s lives, from that tacky photo shoot where Wanda spit up all over Raven’s expensive camera lens to Lorna’s fifth grade graduation ceremony—it’s all there, the memories filed away, frozen in time.
At the bottom of the box, Charles is surprised to see an image of himself. In this one, he’s nine months pregnant with David and cranky as all hell, scowling at an out-of-frame Erik. His belly is enormous, his NYU faculty t-shirt stretched to its limits and cutting off just above his navel. He’s lounging on the office sofa back at Westchester, trousers nowhere in sight. Or underwear, for that matter; no wonder the photo was buried at the bottom of the box.
Present-day Charles holds his stomach absentmindedly. The whole discovering his secondary mutation thing hadn’t exactly been easy to digest. Ten or so years ago, a broken condom had led to one long and incredibly awkward afternoon in Hank’s lab, culminating in a nice fit of hysterics when Charles saw the ultrasound for the first time.
Erik, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as taken aback. “Of course you can,” he’d said rather stoically, holding Charles in his arms when Charles had finally mustered up enough courage to tell him. “You’re amazing, Schatz. Of course you can give us babies.” A baby, mein Gott!
Then, eight months later, there was David, red-faced and wailing and the most perfect little thing Charles had ever laid eyes on.
Ten years ago.
Ten whole years ago…
“You’re moping,” a familiar German-accented voice says from the doorway. Secretly, Charles has been tracking him for a few blocks. He listened in as Erik and the kids wished the doorman a good morning and felt the pinpricks of Erik’s rage when a cab driver cut him off on Park Avenue. A couple of broken struts wouldn’t completely ruin the man’s day, but it would teach him a lesson or two about road etiquette.
“I’m nearly 40, Erik. I don’t mope,” Charles lies through his teeth. “Just dreading ‘Intro to Bacterial Genetics,’ that’s all.”
“You love your ‘Intro to Bacterial Genetics’ class.”
“I love all of my classes equally.”
Erik raises an eyebrow, peering over Charles’ shoulder with that oft-remarked intensity of his. “Ah. Trip down memory lane?”
“Did you know that nostalgia was considered a psychological disorder until 1914?” Charles blabbers, “mostly among soldiers returning home from war; a common misdiagnosis for PTSD. American military doctors even encouraged bullying as a cure. Can you imagine? How crass!”
Erik snorts. “Well, I suppose we should be glad we’re not living in the 20th century, then.” He reaches out, running his fingers through Charles’ hair, longer these days, with streaks of grey poking through the sides. “Is this why you've been distant?”
“I…” Charles tries to shake it off, to say that he’s just feeling a bit sentimental now that David is ten, but he can’t. He misses it, misses his babies doing somersaults inside of him, their curious little minds brushing against his, close in the most primal sense of the word. Newborn smell, oh, and the skin-to-skin cuddles, their coos and giggles, their fussy, scrunched-up faces when they got hungry, watching Erik bottle-feed them to sleep every night, singing lullabies passed down from his mama and her mama before her…
“Charles?”
In lieu of formulating a response, Charles passes him the photo. “I thought you looked so beautiful that day,” Erik says with a strange softness, his gaze loving, fond, even, as he studies it. “It was only the second or third time I’d been to Westchester, but you wanted David to have your crib, remember? So you begged and begged me to drive you upstate to get it, but there was that horrible snowstorm, and we ended up staying all weekend.”
“I was terrified my water was going to break,” Charles laughs, leaning back into Erik’s big hand. “But we seem to have kept ourselves busy, if I remember correctly.”
He can feel the star of arousal in Erik’s gut go supernova at the recollection. Nothing could’ve prepared Charles for just how intense sex is while pregnant, hotter and sweatier, all caveman-like instincts and hormones and adrenaline. During each of his pregnancies, Charles needed it with a kind of desperation he hadn’t felt since his uni days, pleading for Erik to lick him out at all hours of the day, to push into him with that massive, table leg of a cock.
“Hmm. I’m not sure I remember,” Erik says, vowels dripping with sensuality. “Remind me?”
For all the personal training sessions he’s paid for, Charles lets out a rather undignified yelp when Erik hauls his legs over his shoulders not five minutes later, nearly folding him in half as he sinks into Charles’ slick heat with one long, fluid motion. Every muscle in Erik’s body goes rigid once he’s seated, and Charles can’t help but let out a cry at the sensation, clenching around Erik’s big, gorgeous dick, obsessed with the sensation of being so completely stuffed.
“Ngh … darling, as lovely as this is, I have a train to catch in—” he says, biting back a moan and straining to read the alarm clock on the nightstand, “20 minutes, so may I suggest you stop holding back and just give it to me already?”
“You’re bossy today.”
“I’m always—oh!”
He’s not kidding anyone; Erik fucking loves it when Charles gets a little bratty. It makes it so much easier for Erik to bend Charles over his knee and spank his ass red, to meld his wrists to the bed frame and fuck and fuck and fuck him until he goes dozy and crosseyed.
Erik’s rocking into him at a mean pace, scooching Charles further up the bed with each thrust until he’s pressed up against the headboard. Filthy, Erik projects, and it is, isn’t it? The wet squelch of their bodies coming together, Charles slack-jawed and oh-so-noisy in Erik’s head, so impatient, Gott, every gasp and whimper echoing throughout the house.
Becoming parents means they’ve had lots of practice with morning quickies, and Charles credits these short bursts of passion—along with summer camp and those few and far between sleepovers at Auntie Raven’s—as being the sole saviors of his sex life.
Never one to not give as good as he gets, Charles wraps his ankles around Erik’s narrow hips, pulling him impossibly closer until Erik gets the message: Hardermoreplease! Thrumming with arousal, he slips his tongue into Erik’s mouth with a groan, his husband fucking up into him, deep and perfect.
Charles sucks on his bottom lip and wibbles while he gets fucked, needing it hard, something, anything to scratch that persistent itch inside him, to fill him up until all those glum, hard-to-define feelings are replaced by nothing but pleasure.
Now, Erik’s pounding his prostate dead-on, his rhythm unyielding. Charles scrambles to fist the covers, yanking and twisting his hands into the sheets. He tries his best not to drool over the silk pillowcase as Erik rails into him. “So big, Erik, god, you’re huge, feel amazing inside me…”
“Scheisse, Charles,” Erik hisses. “You’re going to make me come. You want it? Want me to come on you? Remind everyone that you’re mine?”
God.
Oh god.
Erik, Erik, Erik.
Erik’s cock. Erik’s head, thrown back in toe-curling agony. Erik’s come, hot and runny, scooping it up with his fingers and dragging it across his lips before going in for a taste, just the way Erik likes it. Erik pounding him until his resolve just breaks, Erik’s come splashing deep against his walls, spilling so much inside of him until there’s no doubt, even for second that—
“Yes,” Charles pants, “I want it, need it, please, please, please!”
Erik just manages to slip out before he’s unloading with a grunt all over Charles’ belly, lips parted and gorgeous, his spend dripping down Charles’ pelvis and onto the sheets. Charles hitches himself to Erik’s mind and sees his own world whiting out as he rides out Erik’s orgasm alongside him, clenching around the now-empty space where Erik’s cock was before Charles follows him over the edge, untouched.
After, Charles tries to catch his breath, but Erik’s weight is crushing where he’s collapsed on top of him. “Darling, do you mind?”
Erik murmurs something unintelligible, flopping over onto his side with a ragged oof. His smile is dorky and sweet, and he gazes at Charles with loopy adoration as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind Charles’ ear. “I think I’m in love with you.”
“You think?” Charles snickers. “Well, I think you’re a dirty liar, Mr. Xavier-Lehnsherr. Of course you’re madly in love with me, because I’m madly in love with you.”
Erik hums, burying his face into Charles’ chest. “Are you sure we can’t stay in bed all day?” he asks, mouthing the words against Charles’ skin and smearing come all over their bellies in the process. “I like it here.”
“Well, considering that we both have jobs and a son who’s just turned ten, I think that’s out of the question.”
“Too bad,” he sighs. “Round two in the shower?”
Round two isn’t as much a ferocious tangling of bodies as it is, well, a shower. Erik shampoos his hair while Charles props one foot up on the bench, cleaning up the leftover slick between his legs. He feels his husband watching him, heavy and tantalizing, undoubtedly with that smug grin on his stupidly handsome face.
A thin trickle of come slides down Charles’ thigh when he drags the loofah across his skin. Erik’s always had big loads, and the two of them tend to make a mess every time they fuck. It’s why Charles absolutely refuses to let the housekeeper clean their bedroom, not to mention the curious array of objects tucked away in his underwear drawer.
There’s a brief flicker of—worry?—that zaps through Erik’s mind at the sight, but whatever he’s thinking is quickly shielded from Charles’ mental probing. Ah. When he realizes, Charles has to hold in a laugh. His silly, paranoid husband.
Erik distracts him again by flexing every line of that slim body, reaching above Charles to grab the soap in a move that absolutely should not work as well as it does. Nonetheless, Charles is all but forced to snatch the bottle out of Erik’s hand. He takes his time lovingly soaping up those abs, lathering every inch of his husband’s perfect, tanned skin. How could such a man be so sexy and lovely and attentive and all his?
When they’re dry, Erik kisses him goodbye, and Charles makes it to his morning lecture with time to spare. The school day passes by without a hitch. His students are exceptionally participatory during Q&A, their minds lighting up with curiosity while they ask Charles about DNA sequencing and targeted gene disruptions.
Later that evening, aside from the fact that it takes them almost an hour to get to the Times Square Olive Garden (David’s choice, not his) in rush hour traffic, the family birthday dinner goes unusually well. Kurt only vanishes once the entire night, and just to steal a fistful of breadsticks from the kitchen when they run out. Charles even gets a buzz from his two glasses of bottom-shelf Riesling, which almost makes up for the fact that his chicken parm is rubbery.
Back at home, there’s cake to eat and video games to be played. Charles allows David to beat him in a round of Call of Duty, though Wanda and Hank ultimately one-up them in 2v2s. Lorna, Raven, and Erik scowl whenever they scream too loudly at the TV, and Pietro’s fast asleep by nine, his face mushed into the rug after eating not one but three slices of cake.
It’s just about the closest thing to a perfect day, Charles thinks as he crawls into bed that night. Yet, that same numbness persists long after Erik has drifted to sleep, that unknown something strange only getting stronger.
#
Okay, Erik’s inner monologue says, brushing his powers over each wrought iron street lamp and the chains on the swing sets as he nears the halfway point to Stark Industries. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays are his chosen in-office days, so he tries to make his commute somewhat less miserable by jogging. You may have accidentally busted inside your husband. So what?
Charles is 39. The statistical probability of any birthing person, especially a very rare, very male mutant like Charles, conceiving after the age of 40 without IVF is practically zero.
But not impossible, says that nagging voice inside of him. Shit. SHIT, that was stupid.
He has to tell him. It’s been 24 hours, and Charles deserves to know that Erik is, apparently, no better than a horny teenager who can’t control himself the second something touches his dick.
Initially, Erik thought he was in the clear, making it a point to spend all over Charles’ hole and belly. His worst suspicions had been confirmed, however, when he caught a glimpse of Charles in the shower, an incriminating line of Erik’s spend snaking down his leg. Shit, shit, shit.
After working up a sweat, Erik gets to the office 45 minutes early—a personal record. He’s never finished his circuit through Central Park in under 30. By some miracle, Tony Stark’s self-satisfied, goateed face hasn’t shown up to work today, either hungover or well on his way to getting there in some tropical country, so Erik’s able to shower without disruption.
That all changes the second he rounds the corner out of the men’s locker room, only to come face-to-face with the 150 pounds of human terror that is Emma Frost.
“130, thank you very much. I see your husband at Pilates on Tuesdays,” Emma says. “You feel even more mopey than usual. I didn’t think it was possible. What’s troubling you, sugar?”
Condoms, Erik wants to say. I’m 42, and I need condoms because I can’t seem to pull out of my mutant husband, and I think I might’ve gotten him pregnant. Again.
Instead, he fortifies his mental shields and says, “Latte, please. With almond milk.”
“I don’t remember asking for your coffee order.”
“I don’t remember asking to be ambushed, Frost. Or giving you permission to comb through my thoughts, for that matter.”
“Your threats are adorable. I’m just making sure that pretty head is screwed on right for our 11 o’clock meeting.”
Erik scowls, but instead of getting out of his way and running for the hills like any other self-respecting employee of Stark Industries would do if Erik gave them The Look, Emma reaches over to fix his tie. “Oh sugar, you’re so worked up. I could feel your cortisol levels spiking all the way from Hoboken.”
“You’re being dramatic,” he deadpans, tugging himself free of Emma’s manicured hands and making for the elevator. Inside, he jabs the button for the 33rd floor. “And for the record, absolutely no one cares that you moved to Jersey. The further away from me, the better.”
“Charming,” Emma says, dryly, her white stilettos click-clacking behind him. “What that darling husband of yours sees in you is beyond me.”
Since Emma can’t be bothered to make someone else make Erik a latte, he swings a left out of the elevator towards the break room and sets himself to it, hitting the EXTRA STRONG button on Tony’s ridiculous coffee machine. “Any more invasive questions about my personal life? Or was there a point to this verbal barrage?”
“Can’t a girl indulge in a little office gossip here and there? Chat about the weather?”
“No.”
Emma sighs, her platinum blonde blowout sighing right along with her. “I’m your friend, Erik, and you’re stuck with me, regardless of whether that goes against your fucked-up excuse for a moral constitution. Your thoughts feel…scattered.”
“I’m fine,” Erik says, bending down to grab the milk from the mini fridge. He viscerally flinches when he misses his mug, the thin, white liquid spilling everywhere. Shit. “Really, I am,” he reiterates when Emma raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Just getting ahead of myself. Charles is always lecturing me about my worrying, and I can assure you, this is nothing. I think.” Erik makes a mental note to furiously knock on wood once this conversation is over.
“Whatever you say,” Emma says. She slowly uncrosses her arms to show off every square inch of her snow-white pantsuit—designer, from the looks of it. “As long as you’re prepared to fight those marketing assholes tooth and nail.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“There’s the spirit,” Emma smirks. “Oh, and Erik?” she adds, swaying her hips as she walks off towards her corner office. “Tony left something on your desk.”
It’s a Rolex. A brand new 15-thousand-dollar Rolex, topped with a shiny red bow and signed, Love, Uncle Tony.
Erik thinks he’s going to be sick.
#
“Stark bought David a Rolex for his birthday.”
“I—what?” Charles says, dropping his satchel on the floor when he arrives home from his evening lecture. Lorna’s sitting on the sofa texting. Next to her, David is casting Animal Crossing to the TV, half a chicken caesar wrap in one hand and a controller in the other. In the kitchen, Erik feels frazzled, something far uglier than his usual post-work moodiness, arm-deep in a sink full of pots and pans. “Did you cook dinner? I thought it was my turn.”
Erik, not bothering to turn away from where he’s scrubbing at a stubborn speck of grease, floats a plate to Charles by the tiny metal discs he’s attached to everything in the house that’s even remotely breakable. He catches it, confused, and toes off his shoes. “Are you quite alright?”
“Fine,” he murmurs. Erik’s shields have always been impressive, but at the moment, even someone of Charles’ strength would have difficulty tearing them down. Well, then.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Charles shrugs, leaving the faintest impression of a kiss on Erik’s mind. “Hi, my darlings,” he says to his two eldest, setting his meal on the coffee table and slinging an arm around the back of the couch. “How was school?”
“Boring,” Lorna answers, lolling her head against Charles’ shoulder, “but I convinced Alex and his brother Scott to come to the dodgeball tournament this weekend. They might be interested in joining the MYC.”
“That’s great!” He magnanimously ignores the clatter of dishes behind him when the word ‘Alex’ reaches Erik’s ears. At the very least, Charles suspects the news that Lorna is starting to date will go down slightly easier given that the Summers boys are both mutants—hope springs eternal. “And how about you, David?”
David rolls his eyes. “Fine, I guess. My friends helped me build one of my new LEGO sets during recess.”
“Dork,” Lorna mutters under her breath.
“Boy-crazy weirdo,” he retorts.
“Stop it,” Charles tsks. Psst. Did Wanda and Pietro pass their algebra exams?
Wanda, yeah, David sends back, but Pietro? What do you think?
Charles tries not to take it personally. He may be a tenured professor with enough degrees to wallpaper an entire room floor-to-ceiling, but Pietro refuses to see him or Erik as any sort of authority figure whatsoever, so at-home tutoring is out of the question. They’ve come to realize that, when it comes to their children’s education, leaving it to non-biased parties is probably for the best (‘Erik, he can have ADHD and a mutation, for god’s sake!’) , despite the kinks.
It doesn’t help that the twins’ mathematics teacher is an anti-mutant dolt. It’s enough to make Charles sympathetic to Erik’s more radical biases on occasion.
All the money I give that ridiculous excuse for an academic institution…
You’re projecting again.
Charles clears his throat. “Apologies. Now, what’s this I hear about a new watch?”
Later, after Charles has kissed Lorna, Wanda, and Pietro goodnight and tucked David into bed, sans Rolex, he finds Erik sitting in the study staring blankly at the ground. “Darling, what’s the matter?”
“I’m a terrible husband,” Erik groans, pulling Charles close. “Please don’t hate me,” he says into Charles’ sweater, the words muffled by layers of tweed.
It’s times like these when Charles wishes he could listen in on Erik’s thoughts; he can’t stand when Erik gets like this, all distant and aloof. “I could never hate you. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
In place of a verbal answer, Erik sends him a series of images: his toes curled in euphoria, a constant stream of now, now, pull out NOW playing in his mind. Charles’ belly and thighs, stained with streaks of Erik’s come. Then, Charles’ ass in the shower, flushed pink from the hot water, his pretty, abused hole, and— oh, that’s Erik’s mess dripping down his leg. Shit, did I…?
Charles can’t help it: he bursts into laughter. “Oh, Erik, is that what’s been worrying you?”
“You don’t have to laugh,” Erik scowls.
“Of course, I’m sorry. Please, calm your mind.”
Erik inhales deeply. “I was too afraid to tell you,” he says on the exhale. “If I had, then maybe you would’ve had time to…”
“Oh, pish.” Charles moves to straddle Erik’s legs, seating himself firmly in his lap right there on the chaise. He squeezes Erik’s chin between two fingers, forcing those steely grey eyes to look up at him. “I promise I’m not upset. Honestly, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before.”
“Trust me, I’m surprised too,” Erik mumbles, the tension in his shoulders draining some.
“I—” Charles starts but finds himself stopping mid-sentence. They’ve been dancing around this conversation for ages, years, really, so it’s hard to find the right words. “I think I know what this is about.”
Erik blinks. “What do you mean?”
“Well, the other day, when I was properly maudlin over David’s birthday, it wasn’t strictly about David, per se. Rather, it’s the realization that we’re getting… old.” At Erik’s pinched expression, Charles sighs. “Darling, I’m a geneticist. You and I are approaching middle age sooner than either of us would like to admit. So while I understand your concern, I think that door has closed, so to speak. This oven is closed for business. No more buns. Shall I continue?”
“I think I get it; thanks,” Erik says, a kind of sad smile stretching across his face. Somehow, it captures everything Charles is feeling, too. “You Brits and your metaphors.”
“Ha! You love my metaphors,” Charles laughs. “Here,” he says, lifting Erik’s hand and placing it on his stomach, just above his belt line. He undoes his trousers, pushing them down a bit to expose a sliver of pale skin, the scar snaking below his belly button. “This makes me feel better sometimes. Seeing it. Knowing it happened. Remembering our babies were once babies.”
Erik’s fingers brush against Charles’ abdomen, tracing gently along the raised line there. “It’s so faded.” His voice sounds thin, like he’s either about to erupt into tears or fall asleep right here in the study with a lapful of Charles. “Thank you. That’s…weirdly therapeutic.”
Charles’ eyes crinkle at the sheer sense of warmth flooding Erik’s mind. “It better be, given all the pain and suffering I went through to bring our children into the world,” he says, leaning forward to kiss Erik’s forehead.
“Well, David’s birth was easy, and Lorna—”
“Easy? How about you try pushing an eight-pound baby through a—”
“Yes, Charles, I was there. Understood.”
“Hmph. And don’t you forget it. Now, shall we go to bed?”
“Actually, can we stay here a little longer?” Erik asks, leaning forward and looking up at Charles with that sweet expression on his face, drawn by an invisible thread of shared experience, of so much love.
“Of course we can,” Charles says, stroking Erik’s hair. “As long as you like.”
Erik’s hand sits unmoving on his abdomen until he eventually falls asleep, but that phantom ache inside Charles’ heart only continues to grow. He pushes this all out of his mind and forces himself to relax against Erik’s sleeping form, listening to the sound of his heart beating in his chest: ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum…
#
He should be glad, Erik supposes. Hearing Charles say outright that his childbearing years are behind him did help settle his nerves, but lately, the realization has come creeping up on him, like being stalked by a very large cat. Now, he can’t stop thinking about it.
Would it be such a bad thing?
Little things become unbearable: Charles waving hello to a squirmy toddler at Raven’s photography exhibition, passing the boutique where Erik bought David’s first onesie all those years ago, recycled diaper boxes piled up on the street.
It’s over, isn’t it? As simple as that. No more babies. Zero. Zilch. Null. No more late nights of trying to sing a fussy Pietro to sleep, no more testing the temperature of David’s bottle on his wrist. No more helping Lorna braid all that curly green hair into pigtails for volleyball practice, no more hours wasted watching Wanda do nothing but wrap her tiny fist around his thumb, blinking up at him with those big green eyes.
And it’s not just the kids. Never again will Erik be given the distinct honor of being at his pregnant husband’s beck and call. No more building changing tables or bickering over the nursery décor (“Really, Erik? ‘Circus’ is so pedestrian.”). No more middle-of-the-night bodega runs for salt and vinegar crisps and Swiss rolls (“Charles, these things have enough corn syrup in them to—ow! Okay, okay, I’m getting them.”). No more languid afternoons spent reading to Charles’ bump, the two of them giggling whenever the baby would kick at their fingertips.
Something about the revelation makes Erik’s heart seize up in his chest. Four is a hell of a lot of kids, more than he can deal with most days, if he’s being honest. But he’s never quite been able to go through with a vasectomy because of the small hope that maybe there’d be another.
Charles had always, always wanted children. For most of his life, Erik hadn’t given much thought to the matter. But then he met Charles, and everything changed. The second Erik laid eyes on him at a student rally all those years ago, with his sweet voice and terrible politics, Erik, for the first time in his life, saw a future, something tangible and warm and true.
“A football team,” Charles told him shortly after David was born, the sweetest, smiliest little boy Erik had ever seen. “I want a bloody football team.”
They hadn’t quite gotten there. The twins’ birth was hell on Charles’ body. Erik will never forget just how pale Charles got that night, the spotting and shivering that led to a panicked SOS call to Azazel. He teleported them to the emergency room just in time to operate, Charles’ abilities barely strong enough to give the obstetrician a telepathic nudge and wipe her memories after all was said and done.
A C-section had never been a part of the plan. Pietro came first, then Wanda. And when the nurse set their tiny bodies on Charles’ chest, wailing at the top of their lungs while their Daddy traced their noses with a sleepy, contented smile, it was like nothing had ever happened. Just two healthy babies and a rocky few weeks of trying to adjust to life with twin newborns and a toddler.
Then, a month after Wanda and Pietro’s birth, a grief-stricken eight-year-old showed up at their door. She called herself Lorna and hid behind her Mutant Family Services officer, words like ‘Suzanna’ and ‘low-level metallokinetic’ making Erik’s head spin. Just like that, he and Charles had found themselves with four kids in a span of two years.
Being a husband and a father is more than Erik could have ever asked for after a lifetime of solitude. That should be enough. It has to be enough. He can’t be greedy. After all, he’ll always have Charles, even when his children are off starting families of their own. His perfect Charles, who’s given Erik far more than he deserves.
Blinking at the sudden wetness in his eyes, Erik clears his throat and picks up the pace, pointedly ignoring every stroller, every tiny mitten, every tiny shoe, and every tiny binky. He makes it to the office in 20 minutes flat.
So it must be some sort of karmic justice, he thinks, when some weeks later at approximately one o’clock in the morning, Charles jolts upright in bed and proceeds to scare the ever-loving shit out of him.
“Whasait?” Erik groans, his hand outstretched, the closest weapon—his shaving kit, apparently—whooshing through the air. “Who’s there?”
“Erik,” Charles whispers. “Erik, I think I might be pregnant.”
Chapter Text
February
Many things have led Charles to this revelation.
Barring Erik’s little 'oopsie,' Charles has experienced a number of less obvious symptoms over the last few weeks, ranging from fatigue (i.e., falling asleep at his desk during his office hours) to food aversion (lamb over rice on the subway? Seriously?).
Come to think of it, his appetite has been a bit off for…a week? Two weeks? Heavily spiced foods have always made his stomach churn, but generally, they didn’t make him feel like vomiting was imminent. Additionally, Charles had quite been looking forward to watching It Happened One Night with Lorna, but he dozed off when Ellie met Peter and didn’t wake up until the very end, watching the credits scroll past through sleep-crusted eyes.
Still, nothing entirely out of the blue.
Until now.
“I feel it. Them, something,” Charles sputters, his eyes adjusting to the light after Erik switches on the floor lamp with his powers. “It’s like, oh, Erik, I—”
“Hey, hey,” Erik soothes, moving his hands to cradle Charles’ face. His Dopp kit falls to the ground rather unceremoniously. “Are you sure?”
Charles can’t be certain until he sees the results with his own two eyes, until he’s carried out each step of the scientific method in its entirety, an academic by-and-by. But Christ, it’s like every gut instinct, every corner of his brain is screaming, ‘HELLO, I’M RIGHT HERE,’ with the volume dialed up to 100.
“No,” he says, voice shakier than he’d like it to be. “But I wasn’t sure with David or the twins, either. Do you feel—my blood, are my iron levels…?”
Erik swallows and shakes his head. “There’s only one way to find out.”
From there, it’s a flurry of sweatpants and the first half-clean piece of fabric Charles plucks from the hamper. In this case, it’s Erik’s rather unfortunate MY FAVORITE BOSS GAVE ME THIS t-shirt.
Well, needs must.
Erik’s on his trail, stepping into a pair of threadbare basketball shorts even though it’s the dead of winter. He slips a hoodie over his chest and wraps Charles up in his big parka, nearly forgetting to grab his own jacket off the hook. With the wave of his hand, Erik slips them out the door soundlessly.
The kids…?
They’ll be fine. This won’t take long.
Owning the penthouse level means the Xavier-Lehnsherrs and, by extension, their in-laws, have a private elevator all to themselves. But residing on the 35th floor also means said elevator can’t come fast enough, especially when there’s a train to catch, a child to rush to urgent care for strep throat, or, hypothetically, pregnancy test results to be determined. Charles feels Erik bend the steel cables to his will, a chorus of come on, faster repeating in his mind.
Charles’ breath grows tight in his chest. As he follows Erik into the lift, his lungs fight for air and, oh god, can’t find it. Erik is still as a statue next to him, eyes glued to the wall. His own husband can’t even stand to look at him. He’s pissed, isn’t he? Pissed at Charles for lying to him, for saying this could never happen. Silently, he pleads, Erik, please don’t be upset, please, please…
“Upset? I’m not upset.” Ah, he didn’t mean to send that last bit, but his shields are probably useless at the moment. “I’m—”
The elevator doors slide open with a happy ding before Erik can finish. Charles smiles spastically at the doorman, a forced expression, and steps out into the cool night air. Thankfully, Erik’s still behind him, and he quickly catches up to Charles on those abnormally long legs, steering them towards the grocery on 89th.
“Wait, Schatz, I’m not mad. I promise.”
“Then what is it? You’re being unusually quiet, and you can’t even look me in the eye. I’m sorry; I know this situation isn’t exactly ideal, but maybe the test will be negative, and we’ll all go on with our lives. Righto.”
Erik freezes. He grabs Charles by the shoulders right there in the middle of the street and maneuvers the smaller man to look at him, a kind of earnest determination on his face that Charles struggles to make sense of. “I hope it isn’t.”
Charles blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said.” Erik’s eyes take on a sort of haunted terror, growing into wide, helpless circles. “The other night…Charles, can you spare me the humiliation and just read my mind already?”
It doesn’t take long to find; buried deep within the cool, brassy depths of Erik’s brain is a longing, a familiar one. Ah. The realization hits Charles like a semi-truck; it’s unmistakable.
“Oh,” Charles chokes out. “You want another baby, don’t you?”
Erik opens his mouth to respond, but Charles stops him before he gets the chance. There are a million things he wants to ask, like just how long Erik’s wanted this, why he didn’t bloody say anything for the past eight years, and why they wasted so much time. “Don’t say it,” he whispers, his voice rising an octave. “Not until we know for certain. I can’t…don’t give me hope.”
“Hope?” Erik rasps. There’s an uncertain grin spreading across his lips, like it's questioning whether or not it has the right to be there. “So you’re…?”
It’s probably rude to tease Erik amid this utter roller coaster of emotions, but Charles can’t help it, the sheer relief that floods his mind at the thought that Erik maybe, just maybe, wants this as much as he does. “Hurry up. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we find out.”
Erik tangles Charles’ fingers in his, looking down at him with that kind of dopey smile he only gets when he’s truly, ridiculously happy. It’s infectious. Charles squeezes his hand in return and follows him into the night. Speed-walking becomes jogging, jogging becomes running, and running becomes all-out sprinting, and Charles just laughs, letting Erik drag him along.
Oh, he wants it. Wants to give this ridiculous man a baby so badly it aches.
They must be a sight, two middle-aged men running through the streets of New York. Still, it’s far from the strangest thing this particular employee has seen during his overnight shifts at the bodega: drunk perverts, just my luck, he thinks loudly.
Charles ignores that particular thought. Erik sorts through the shelves of Tylenol and Band-Aids, searching for the little plastic stick that will determine the future of their family. Meanwhile, Charles hovers around the refrigerated section.
“Found it,” Erik says, proudly flailing a two-pack of pregnancy tests in the air like it’s some sort of trophy. “And no, Charles. The caffeine will keep you up.”
Charles rolls his eyes at Erik’s mother henning, swapping the milk tea in his hand for a bottle of Gatorade—Erik’s always nagging him to drink more electrolytes. As if I’m getting any sleep tonight, Erik, honestly. Just to spite him, Charles sneaks a box of Swiss rolls and sets it down on the counter. The cashier levels him with a deeply unamused look.
Erik raises an eyebrow. Swiss rolls? Wow, you really ARE pregnant.
The man behind the counter—Isaiah, Charles intuits—is wise enough not to ask questions, probably because of Erik and his too many teeth looming over his shoulder. “Here,” Charles says with the most polite, old-money grin he can muster, handing over a fifty-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
“You should wipe his memory,” Erik murmurs on the way out, his face backlit by neon lottery signs and cigarette ads. He looks quite dashing like this, rumpled and sleepy, carrying the plastic bag like a good husband, some sort of 21st-century Marlboro Man. “Can’t be too cautious.”
“No need. He just thought we were a couple of fetishists about to shag each other six ways to Sunday. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we find out, remember?”
Erik’s pupils go large as dinner plates at the reminder, all his thoughts melting into one fluid stream of babybabybaby. “Drink this,” he says, shoving the Gatorade bottle in Charles’ hands, but Erik’s stern tone can’t hide the fact that he’s giddy, that little seedling of hope blossoming into something tangible, something beautiful and earnest and real.
They race home in a substantially better mood, and Charles jams the PH button on the elevator panel a few more times than strictly necessary. The second they’re inside, Erik pushes him up against the wall and snogs him silly, sending the bag to the ground with a soft thud to run his freezing hands over as much of Charles’ skin as he can reach.
“I want this,” he gasps, pulling away for air. “But no matter what happens, I don’t care. Ich liebe dich. I love your silly birthday traditions. I love how you make our babies smile. I’m so sorry I kept this from you.” I hope it’s not too late.
“Oh, Erik…” Charles’ sentence trails off when Erik decides to explore the skin just under his ear with his lips. He’s always been sensitive there, and Erik exploits it with a kind of fervor that leaves Charles weak in the knees. “Love you, darling. Love you so much. Hope you, mmm, got me pregnant, and if not, we’ll keep trying, and—”
“What are you two doing?”
Charles rips himself away from Erik. “Hank! Raven! Elevator sure is speedy tonight, isn’t it?” He didn’t quite hear the door sliding open over the sound of Erik’s panting.
Raven narrows her eyes. They’re lined with black makeup, her favored human form wearing a well-fitted, jewel-toned gown that cuts off right above her ankles, blond hair falling in loose waves. “It’s two in the morning. Why are you just getting home.” Not a question, a demand.
Erik smirks and lazily drags a thumb across his mouth, still slick with Charles’ spit. The visual goes straight to his groin. Christ. “What’s it to you? I thought you didn’t let Hank out of the house after midnight.”
“It’s Azazel’s week, so we dropped off Kurt and went dancing, but now I can’t find my stupid keys, and—hey, I asked you first!”
“I too go out past midnight,” Hank mutters under his breath.
“Munchies, my dear sister,” Charles fibs. “We took some of those edibles you gave us, the gummy ones, yeah? We were feeling a bit peckish, so we walked down to the shop, and now we’re…trippin’? Right, Erik?”
“Oh my god,” Charles’ husband, sister, and brother-in-law groan simultaneously.
“You are such a terrible liar,” Raven says, rummaging through her purse. “I don’t even want to know what kind of weird, freaky sex shit you guys get into on a nightly basis, but—hold on, what’s in the bag?”
Erik squeaks. Charles has never once heard his husband squeak. “Nothing that’s of importance to you, Mystique,” he says, hiding it behind his back. “Now if you’ll excuse us, your brother and I are going to engage in ‘freaky sex shit’ until the sun comes up. Charles?”
“Goodnight, Raven; goodnight, Hank!” Charles chirps, tuning out Raven’s increasingly loud cries of “WHAT’S IN THE BAG, CHARLES? ANSWER ME RIGHT THIS INSTANT!” —and promptly slamming the door shut behind him.
“Really, Erik, you could have at least unlocked it for them,” Charles huffs, hanging his jacket on the too-crowded coat rack next to Wanda’s.
“Remind me, whose idea was it that we move Raven in across the hall?”
“Shush, you. Don’t think I don’t know all about your Tuesday movie nights.”
“It’s reality TV, and if you’d just give it a try, I’d much rather watch Real Housewives with you. She talks the entire time.”
He rolls his eyes, following Erik through the den and into the primary suite. There, Charles downs the rest of his Gatorade and sets the empty bottle on the dresser next to a framed photo of the twins, smiling at the memory: Hank and Raven’s wedding, the two of them smushed in a pew next to Kurt, wanting to be anywhere but a crowded chapel in their itchy dress clothes.
“Coming?” Erik asks.
Charles cards his clammy hands through his hair, trying valiantly to calm the pulse in his throat. It’s now or never. Do or die. Audere est Facere. “Yes, dear.”
#
Charles awkwardly squares his feet in front of the toilet, one hand holding a pregnancy test, the other bearing his weight against the wall. “Can you not?”
“Can I not what?”
“Watch me piss. I can’t perform in front of an audience.”
“I watch you piss all the time.”
“Erik.”
“What? This is a beautiful moment, Schatz. Oh, I should capture this for the photo album!”
“That’s quite presumptuous, I—put the bloody camera away!”
Erik snorts and pockets his phone, only half-serious about the whole scrapbook thing. After a bit of yoga breathing, Charles manages to relax his body enough to let it go. Carefully, he aims his stream at the plastic strip in his hand. “The cup, please?”
His scientist of a husband insists on doing this two ways: urinating directly on one indicator and dipping the other in a collected sample. It’s just one of the many reasons Erik adores him. He does his best to give Charles some privacy, trying not to dwell on the fact that he’s currently pissing in what Erik suspects is an antique whiskey tumbler, made of Swarovski crystals or whatever it is the Westchester elite deem worthy of vesseling their liquor.
Once he’s finished, Charles flushes the toilet, places his science experiments next to the sink, and scrubs his hands clean. “Three minutes. They’ve gotten faster since the last time we did this, haven’t they?”
“I can’t look,” Erik falters. “Can we set a timer?”
Back in the bedroom, Charles wraps his arms around Erik, lazily pressing his lips to the divots of his collarbones. “It’s a miracle the children are still asleep,” Charles says, a little loopy, his breath skittering across Erik’s skin. “Lorna is dreaming about Alex again. This time, they’re in one of those pedal boats on the lake, and he’s…shirtless?”
“Don’t spoil the moment, Charles.”
Erik can’t stop shaking. Is there really a baby growing inside Charles’ stomach? What will the kids think? Is Charles seriously okay with this? Will Erik have to take time off work? Will they need a larger house? Meine Güte, what will the kids think?
One step at a time, darling, Charles transmits, a wave of cool reassurance surging through Erik’s brain. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
“I know, I know. I just—will they be pleased?”
“Are you joking? Of course they will,” Charles says, nuzzling his smile in the junction between neck and shoulder. He’s extra clingy tonight, clearly needing the reassurance just as much as Erik does. “Pietro and Wanda might protest the idea of being usurped as the youngest, but they’ll get over it eventually. And Lorna and David are the best big siblings we could ask for. We’ll be just fine, darling.”
Right then, the beep-beep-beep of Erik’s phone alarm goes off. He jolts hard at the noise. “Okay,” he says, wringing his hands. “Ready?”
Charles nods, and Erik feels a sudden, pressing urge to remind his husband of his commitment to him. “I love you.”
And I love you. But let’s stop procrastinating, yeah?
“Why is this so nerve-wracking?” Charles tries to joke, but it comes out flat. They’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror now, eyes squinted shut half in anticipation, half in dread. “God, I’m sweating! You’d think after having two goes of it…”
Big emotions can be hard on him, so Erik tries to bring happy images to the surface of his mind: Charles pushing a stroller through Central Park on a breezy summer day, Erik buying ice lollies for him and the kids.
You’re sweet, but I’m roughly 30 seconds from fainting over a chaise like an old-timey Victorian maiden.
“Me too,” Erik says. He lays a hand on Charles’ hip, hoping the touch is soothing. “On three?”
“On three. One, two, three…”
Erik opens his eyes, but Charles’ shaky laughter tells him everything he needs to know.
#
Two tests, four lines.
Oh dear god, they’re having a baby.
Charles’ synapses are fried. He’s…laughing? Crying? Something in between. An odd collection of animal noises is coming out of his throat, like a wildebeest being eaten by a pack of hyenas or a cardinal calling out for its mate. His heart is pounding in his ears, the deafening thump-thump-thump of it drowning out the world around him.
Shielding. Right.
Next to him, Erik is unusually still. For a moment, Charles worries that he may have accidentally mind-whammied his husband into ‘taking a break.’ His concerns fly out the window, however, when Erik’s mouth splits into a toothy grin. There it is: babybabyCHARLESbabybaby.
There’s nothing more to be said. Charles lets out a huge breath and sinks into Erik’s side, letting Erik cradle him in his arms. He’s glad for it; as it is, Charles’ knees are far too weak to support his own weight. They stand in silence for a few fleeting moments, reduced to happy snuffles.
Syrupy-sweet kisses are exchanged when they eventually tumble into the sheets. By then, it’s nearly dawn, and the sun is creeping up between the towers of the Eldorado, but Erik distracts him from the hour by licking into Charles’ mouth, still beaming at the thought of a little baby swaddled in soft, pink blankets and blinking up at her daddies.
“We should try to get some sleep,” Charles yawns, the words coming out all wobbly. “I don’t think I can utter a single coherent thought at the moment.”
Erik nods. His hand starts wandering, first gliding over Charles’ sternum, then down, resting it where Charles suspects will be his new favorite spot. Erik pushes up the bottom of his shirt determinedly and kisses along his ribs as he continues his journey along Charles’ body, pressing his nose into the divot of his navel.
“Hey, baby,” Erik whispers, his lips pressed against Charles’ still-flat stomach. “You know, your Daddy and Vati didn’t plan for you. But I think you’re the best surprise, just wunderbar.”
Charles gazes at him with unfettered affection, adding the mental image to the happiest corners of his memory banks. He falls asleep like that, hands idly tangled in Erik’s hair, bidding a soft goodnightgoodmorningiloveyousomuch to the little pinpoint of brightness inside him.
#
The morning after isn’t nearly as agreeable.
It’s one of those dreadful school-work days. Even worse, it’s a Friday, which means getting Pietro dressed and out the door without breaking something will be more of a challenge than soaking up the entire Hudson River with cocktail napkins. As the memories come flooding back in from last night, however, Erik can’t really bring himself to care.
Hell, he might even take a sick day.
Charles is snoring next to him, his floppy chestnut-brown hair fanned out across the pillow like a crown. Erik smiles and cups Charles’ jaw, dragging his thumb across that full bottom lip. His freckled nose scrunches up, far more adorable than any almost 40-year-old man has the right to be. “Stop thinking s’ loudly…”
Neither of them managed more than a few hours of sleep last night, and they’re going to pay for it today. First step: bribe Charles to join the living. Erik leans over and pecks his forehead with a soft, “Good morning, Schatz,” before rolling out of bed and taming his bedhead with a few haphazard swipes of his fingers through his hair.
After he brushes his teeth and triple-checks the pregnancy tests on the counter to confirm that they are, in fact, positive, he slips on a sweatshirt and opens the door—only to nearly trample over his eldest son. “What—you’re awake already?”
Below him, David is a pouty mess of dark curls and alien pajama pants. “Papa, what’s going on?”
Erik blinks. “What do you mean?” he says, feigning innocence. Damn telepaths.
Hey! echoes through his brain twice.
“Something feels…different. I woke up last night, and you weren’t here, and—”
“Shhh,” Erik hushes, gathering David in his arms. “I’m sorry we frightened you. Nothing is wrong, Liebling. We’ll talk about it soon, okay?”
Well done, Papa Bear.
You don’t get to call me that, Charles.
Okay, Daddy-o.
Erik slams his shields up before Charles can continue his miserable attempt at flirting. He puts the kettle on and pulls out the ingredients for chocolate chip pancakes, hoping it’s distraction enough to keep David from picking up on any and all thoughts that involve the word ‘baby.’
The more he thinks about it, the more Erik realizes they’ll have to tell the kids sooner rather than later, those sneaky little shits. Like their Daddy, they’re much too clever for their own good, especially when they work together. The thought alone is enough to send a shiver down Erik’s spine.
“Vati, David told me you snuck out last night.” Erik startles at Wanda’s voice and snaps his head back to gape at his daughter, who’s suddenly materialized next to the pantry.
Charles, where do they keep coming from?
Ah, sorry. I may have projected a bit more than I intended to.
Erik never thought he’d live to see the day where he’s terrified of an eight-year-old girl in pink polka dot pajama pants. “Well, David shouldn’t have frightened his sister for no reason,” he says, fixing a glare at his son. “Daddy and I had to run an errand; that’s all.” Before Wanda can muster up a reply, Erik yells, “Pancakes! I made pancakes!”
Lorna, unusually chipper for being as non-caffeinated as she is, floats a giggly Pietro down the stairs by the hooks on his backpack. As Erik opens his mouth to scold her for breaking his no-flying rule, Charles comes up behind him and lays a hand on his arm. “Good morning, my loves.” No time like the present, right, darling?
Once everyone is seated at the table, Charles and the kids dig into the small mountain of pancakes and fresh chunks of pineapple. Meanwhile, Erik picks at his muesli, dragging his spoon through neat rows of chia seeds.
“So,” he starts. “You all have probably heard by now that we…went somewhere? Last night. Morning, technically. After you fell asleep.” Charles, HELP.
“Papa and I had a bit of a mystery on our hands that we needed to crack,” Charles says. “I’m sorry for all the secrecy, my darlings. I can assure you, nothing’s wrong with me.”
From the far end of the table, Lorna groans around a mouthful of food. “Well, what is it? Are you pregnant or something?”
B-I-N-G-O might as well be spelled out across his forehead in flashing neon lights. Erik blinks, his stomach contracting into a tight ball. Judging by the twitch of his jaw, Charles isn’t faring much better. Four beady pairs of eyes stare at them from across the table. Not one of them dares take a breath.
Lorna is the first to speak up. The realization washes over her in phases, the pieces slowly clicking into place until she’s gawking at Charles, her mouth agape. “Wait, seriously?!” she cries, the forks and spoons rattling furiously against the countertop.
“It’s early,” Charles says, his voice hoarse. Erik watches closely as he rests one hand on his stomach, a comforting gesture, before continuing, “But yes. Last night, I felt it, you see, so we snuck out and bought some tests.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. “Sure enough, positive. Barring any complications, you all have a little brother or sister on the way.”
“Oh my god,” David and Lorna cry out, sounding particularly horrified.
Pietro seems to light up at the revelation of becoming a big brother. Wanda, for the most part, just looks confused. “Boys can’t have babies, right?” she asks, leaning forward and subsequently dragging her sleeve through a puddle of syrup.
Erik tsks, tugging Wanda’s arm away from her plate to dab at the mess with a paper towel. “You’re right, baby; boys usually can’t give birth. But Daddy is special, remember? He carried you and your brothers because he’s ein mutant, just like you.”
“I don’t wanna have babies,” Pietro chimes in. “Yuck.”
“Charles, you teach genetics, and they still don’t know about the birds and the bees?” Lorna says. “This is so embarrassing. You two are so embarrassing.”
Pietro tilts his head. “The ‘birds and bees’? What’s that?” Erik thinks he feels a migraine coming on.
“Good lord,” Charles mutters, tapping a finger to his temple to ease Erik’s encroaching headache. “In any case, your father and I would appreciate it if you didn’t pass along the happy news to anyone, teachers and classmates included. Now, I’ll open the table up for questions. Yes, David?”
“How does the baby come out?”
“Ah, good question. I—” Charles, if you utter the words ‘mutant baby hole,’ I think everyone in this kitchen is in danger of vomiting. “It depends. Wanda?”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“We won’t know for certain until I go in for an anatomical scan, between 18 and 22 weeks. So we’ll just have to be patient, love. Pietro?”
“Will it have powers?”
“Not necessarily. However—”
“Of course the baby will be a mutant,” Erik cuts in, a self-satisfied quirk curling his lips. “Just like you, Daddy and Vati, and all your siblings.” Don’t even think about indoctrinating them with that ‘homo superior’ nonsense, Erik, Charles says warningly. He or she could very well be human.
“When are you…due?” Lorna asks, a strange expression on her face that Erik can’t quite decipher.
“Oh! Well, if my memory serves me right,” Charles says with a blush that tells Erik he’s currently replaying the events that got them into this situation in his head, “autumn, I believe.”
Lorna bristles. “Seriously? I’m just about to leave for college, and you decide to what, ship me off and pop out a new baby?”
Ah. Erik expected an argument, but not from her. “We weren’t trying, Lorna,” he tries. “I know the timing isn’t ideal, but I can assure you, this was a very happy accident.”
It is, by all accounts, the wrong thing to say. Lorna rolls her eyes, pushing away her half-eaten breakfast and slinging her backpack over her shoulder; Erik’s flair for the dramatic is, regrettably, also genetic. “Can you even compartmentalize a baby? You’re almost 40, Charles. And you,” she continues, looking Erik straight in the eye, “this is so…typical!”
Lorna storms off without another word, muttering something about taking the bus to school and slamming the door behind her. At the table, everyone remains frozen, the air around them thick with tension. Charles coughs. “Seconds, anyone?”
#
“‘Compartmentalize’—does she even know what ‘compartmentalize’ means?”
Erik’s pacing is making Charles dizzy, so much so that he can’t decide whether to blame it on him or the impending morning sickness. There’s a part of Charles’ brain that’s still struggling to come to terms with that. He Is Pregnant. He Is A Pregnant Man. He Will Spend The Foreseeable Future Hunched Over A Toilet.
“Parenthood is a virtue,” Charles sighs. They’re holed up in his study like it’s some sort of war room, with David, Pietro, and Wanda having been successfully shuttled to school. As for Lorna, Erik tracked the metal hoops in her ears all the way down 5th Avenue to make sure she arrived safely. “Darling, she didn’t mean it. She’s been fretting over her uni applications all year. I’m sure this is simply a byproduct of stress.”
“How are you so unbothered? She didn’t ask for any of this, Charles.”
Charles rubs the bridge of his nose. “I understand, but there’s only so much we can do. Lorna’s feelings on the matter won’t change the fact that we’re having a baby. She’s nothing if not stubborn, but she also adores this family. We simply need to remind her that we'll always love and support her and that the new addition won’t ever change that. Well, as long as she doesn’t choose sodding Columbia.”
“I wish she’d tell us that,” Erik murmurs, standing by the window and looking outside. “You two are close. Maybe you can talk to her and see what this is really about.”
Charles knows Erik can feel it in the atmosphere, the traces of metallic aerosols in the clouds. It’s about to rain, which helps justify his decision to play hooky. Charles has established enough seniority by now to create his own work schedule, which means no early morning lectures at any cost. Any. He’s made this abundantly clear to the superintendent, the dean, and anyone who’s ever dared ask him to sub for an 8 a.m. ‘Concepts in Molecular Biosciences’ lecture.
As for Erik, he hasn’t submitted a single PTO request in six years. If something comes up at home, he’ll simply up and leave. Such trivial things don’t exist when you’re the husband of one Charles Xavier, heir to one of the largest fortunes east of the Mississippi, and on-again, off-again ‘BFF’ of Tony Stark.
“Of course. But she needs to hear it from you, Erik. Believe me, I’m all too familiar with Lorna's temper. I know how hormone-riddled teenage brains work. You know what they say: the bigger the kids, the bigger the problems.”
“She is mine; of course she runs hot,” Erik sighs. “I’ll bring her by the scrapyard after school. She’ll like that.”
“Good. Then that’s settled,” Charles says, running an appreciative finger down Erik’s bicep. He looks delicious in this particular turtleneck, a black Italian cashmere that doesn’t leave much to the imagination. “But darling? Love of my life, my soulmate, my heart’s one true desire?”
“What.”
“We haven’t told everyone yet.”
#
“It’s called pulling out, Erik.”
Erik’s sister-in-law is scowling at him like he’s just backed over her foot with a golf cart, her chin jutted, predatory. “Have you ever had sex with a telepath?” he retaliates, smiling with every one of his teeth.
“Blehhh! I don’t want to think about my brother and his…sex tricks.” Raven whips her head around to inspect Charles, looking him up and down. “You. Explain yourself.”
“Nine inches, Raven,” he sighs happily. “Nine.”
“Ewww, shut up, you horndog, NO!”
Charles laughs, a warm, happy sound that always floods Erik’s heart with affection. “Just look at him,” he says. “He’s gorgeous. The perfect specimen, really. As a geneticist, it’s practically my obligation to reproduce with him.” Erik tries not to flush too obviously at the praise.
“Fine, your husband is unnaturally hot,” Raven says. Beside her, Hank makes an expression that implies he’s been poked in the rear with a tranquilizer dart. “But I don’t see how that’s conducive to you not using a single form of birth control, Mr. Scientist.”
Hank clears his throat. “Uh, Charles, did you use birth control? I mean, if so, we should study this. We’ve tracked your fertility over the years, but Erik’s sperm count could also factor into your reproductive compatibility. Perhaps a secondary mutation?”
In moments like this, Erik wishes Raven and Azazel would’ve worked things out. Then, maybe, he could grab onto Azazel’s shoulder and whoosh onto a sandy beach somewhere, far away from where his husband and brother-in-law are enthusiastically discussing his ejaculate.
Before the scientists in the room can drag him to the lab and X-ray his balls, Erik turns to Raven. “I’m not the geneticist in this marriage,” he says, plotting his attack plan, “but there’s a fifty-fifty chance it’s a girl. Do you know what that means?”
“Don’t try it, Magneto. I’m a mother. I’m immune.”
“Shopping, Raven. Bows and dresses and booties.”
“Stop it.”
Darling, what are you doing?
Free, 24-7 babysitting is on the line, Charles.
…carry on.
“Wanda was such an adorable baby, wasn't she?” Erik continues. “Do you remember when you used to dress her up like a princess and take her window shopping on Mulberry Street? All the Nonnas would pinch her cheeks and call her ‘Orsacchiotta’ and feed her bits of pizzelle, cooing over how sweet Charles looked with her strapped to his chest. Or when Pietro was teeny-tiny and would make that ‘awoo’ noise when he needed to sneeze, and Wanda—”
“Fine, I give up! Ugh, Charles, give this man a baby already,” Raven says around a groan. “You’re both so nauseatingly paternal.” Despite her grievances, Raven’s chartreuse eyes are wrinkling at the corners, a dead giveaway that she’s all-too-pleased by the idea of having a new dress-up doll to play with. “Oh, whatever. I’m so happy for you!” She swings her arms around Charles’ neck and squeezes him tight, making Erik flinch. Charles, on the other hand, beams, his happiness utterly contagious.
“You too, magnet boy,” Raven mutters before pulling him close. Erik snorts, rubbing circles into her back. It’s the closest thing to a ‘congratulations’ he’s heard all day. “Have you told the kids?”
“About that,” Charles says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “The twins don’t seem to fully understand what’s going on, and David doesn’t feel too strongly about becoming a brother again. Lorna, though…she didn’t exactly take the news in stride.”
“She’s going to college soon, isn’t she?” Hank chimes in. He and Lorna have always shared a special bond, the two of them being so far removed from the Xavier-Lehnsherr bubble in those early days. “Maybe she’s just upset that she won’t be able to spend time with the baby.”
“Lorna’s a good girl. She’ll come around,” Raven adds, rather assuredly. “And in the meantime, you—” she says, pointing a very blue finger in Erik’s face, “take care of my brother. It’s been a while since his last pregnancy. You better not have gotten rusty.”
Erik raises his hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dare neglect my husbandly duties.”
“Good,” Raven says. “I knew you were hiding something, asshole,” she says to Charles, dropping a hand to grope at his belly. “How far along are you?”
“Oh, four or five weeks. It’s hard to say for certain.” You LIAR, you have an eidetic memory, you— “No morning sickness yet, but I have been quite exhausted. I’ve also developed a heightened sense of smell. In fact, it’s a miracle your perfume hasn’t made me vomit all over your shoes yet. Christ, Raven, what is that horrendous odor?”
Raven harrumphs. “It’s Dior, you tasteless plebeian. And I’ll let you get away with it this time, but only because you went and got yourself knocked up again.”
‘Knocked up,’ pffft. Oh! You like that, don’t you, darling? Erik gulps. He does. He really, really does.
“Hank!” Charles exclaims, turning his attention to the man cowering behind the bookshelf. “I was hoping we could pay you a visit one of these days for a proper scan.”
“Oh, I mean—”
“And you’ll oversee the pregnancy, yes?”
“I,” Hank stutters, “I don’t know about that, Charles.”
“You’re a doctor, are you not?”
“A family practitioner, yeah, not an obstetrician!”
“Oh, but who better than one of our own to look after the little one?” Charles pouts. Erik knows just how lethal those puppy eyes can be, especially when he touches his stomach with that sort of distraught look on his face. “I trust you, Hank. We trust you. Anything is better than that dreadful hospital.” Too many people, too many smells, too many thoughts!
Erik agrees. Those bleak, hand sanitizer-sterile hallways remind him of Mama, dredging up ugly memories of the final months of her life. Besides, being around that many baselines makes him nervous enough as is, ones who would report Charles to the authorities at the drop of a hat and lock him up like a lab rat if they ever found out about his condition—it’s too much. So much so that he’s surprisingly okay with the prospect of Hank copping a feel at his husband’s genitals.
“I’ll…think about it,” Hank settles on.
Charles grins and shakes his hand. “I look forward to it.”
They say their goodbyes and leave Hank and Raven’s flat before Azazel can arrive with Kurt in tow. To say Charles doesn’t like Azazel is like saying that diving headfirst into a static-charged swimming pool is kind of a bad idea—he’s already had a long day. God knows what Charles would do if Azazel forgot to refill Kurt’s inhaler prescription again, running on this little sleep.
I don’t know, my dear. I am feeling rather restless.
Erik checks his watch, feeling all the lovely gears and dials turning clockwise. Noon. Plenty of time to give his gorgeous, pregnant husband some attention before school lets out for the day.
He bends his knees and scoops Charles into his arms bridal-style with an easy strength, chuckling at the undignified squeak he lets out as he’s hoisted off his feet. “You’re right, Schatz,” Erik says, manhandling Charles towards the bedroom. “I haven’t shown my appreciation yet.”
“For what?” Charles gasps, bouncing a bit when Erik drops him on the mattress.
Frantically, Erik divests himself of his shirt, palming the outline of his bulge to get himself nice and ready for Charles. A pulse of blood feeds his dick at the sight of Charles’ eyes, Gott, that pretty shade of cerulean blue. He’s absolutely positive he’s never wanted anyone naked so badly in his life.
“For letting me knock you up,” Erik answers, popping the ‘p.’ He watches every movement on Charles’ pinched face when his words sink in, the way his chest heaves with each breath.
Charles bites his lip and lets out a noise that isn’t quite a moan, looking unbelievably sexy sprawled out over the duvet like that. “Oh, well. It wasn’t much of a hardship. But this,” he says, propping himself up his elbows to rub Erik’s dick with a socked foot, “is so hard, don’t you think?”
Erik grunts, his powers unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers to relieve some of the pressure around his groin. “You’ve got a filthy mouth.”
“Oh, do I?” Charles purrs. He flutters his eyelashes, putting on that demure act that never fails to make Erik go stiff in his pants. “Why don’t you make me prove it, then? How filthy and hot and wet my mouth is, just for you?”
Tugging off his jeans, Erik growls and crawls over Charles’ body; he absolutely must mash their mouths together, right this instant. It’s messy and unpracticed, entirely animal, their teeth clanking between languid sweeps of their tongues and sharp gasps for breath.
Mortifyingly, Erik whines when Charles palms his boxers, massaging over the bulge there with practiced fingers and feeling out the wetness gathering at the front. “Charles, you’d better stop if you want this to go any further.”
Charles smirks, pulling away to lick at his bruised lips. “Getting excited over knocking me up, are you? Are you going to cream your pants before I can get your cock in my mouth?” Oh yes, Erik’s mind reels, because fuck, what a thought. Charles huge with his baby, flushed pink and ripe with health, the proof of their coupling undeniable.
There’s nothing in the world that could stop Erik from flipping their positions and slotting Charles’ body between his legs. Erik presses himself against the pillows, pulling Charles in for another sloppy kiss and emitting a soft hmm from the back of his throat. “Quit being a tease and get on with it, then.”
“How romantic,” Charles deadpans, sucking one last love bite onto Erik’s neck before sliding down his body, dropping kisses along his sternum, his nipples, his hip bones, the tops of his thighs. He sighs happily once he reaches his destination, dragging a fingernail over the tent in Erik’s boxers. Erik’s hips jerk up and he groans, long and loud.
“Why rush things? I love your cock, love how hard it gets for me, how well it serves me,” he drawls, rubbing his face in Erik’s crotch, the minx, his tongue darting out to lap over the damp fabric. “Oh, you poor thing. You must be aching.”
“Charles,” Erik pants out in lieu of DUH, have you seen yourself? and tightens his grip on Charles' hair. “Baby, please.”
A sultry smile curls Charles’ lips. “Oh, well. You know I love it when you beg me.”
Dipping his fingertips beneath the hem, Charles tugs down Erik’s boxers, biting that delectable bottom lip of his when Erik’s cock juts out of its fabric confines and up towards his stomach. He’s so wet, the slit red and dribbling an impressive amount of precome, and Erik wants to die for how close he is already.
Peering up at Erik with a wicked gleam in his eye, Charles says, “Look how swollen you are,” and fondles his balls like he’s some sort of lab specimen. It’s kindofsortofreally a huge turn-on. Erik trashes in his grip, violently, when Charles leans forward and laps his tongue around the base with that smug grin on his face, cat got the cream.
Erik’s seconds away from breaking down and begging for more, please, keep going, please, but Charles takes pity on him before he can get there, sliding Erik’s length between those sinful lips with a low moan. “Ohhhh—”
Charles smirks around his cock, tonguing along the big vein there. Erik doesn’t want to make him choke, not when he’s carrying their baby, but it takes every ounce of his personal restraint to not thrust up into that velvety heat. Skimming Erik’s thoughts, Charles swallows around his mouthful, wringing embarrassing noises from Erik’s throat. Good, darling?
“You know it’s good,” Erik rasps, squeezing his eyes shut so he won’t blow his load at the sight of Charles suckling down every last inch of him. “Fuck. You look so perfect like this, such a good—hnnh—good little cocksucker.”
With one last lap around Erik’s circumcision scar, Charles pulls off for air. “Erik,” he pants, shimmying his slacks and briefs down just below the swell of his ass. “Keep talking, please,” he begs, kicking them off his ankles to the floor below, “you absolute heathen.”
Charles Xavier is the only person on Earth who could make the word ‘heathen’ sound even remotely sexy. Erik yanks Charles back up towards his crotch by his hair, holding the base of his dick in his hand to guide it towards Charles’ willing lips, rubbing the tip over his cupid’s bow.
“Yeah?” he teases, hissing when Charles stuffs a few more inches down his throat. “You love it. You love this cock. Love when I fuck you. No wonder you keep—keep getting pregnant.”
Oh god, Erik! Charles likes that, really likes that, his approval of Erik’s virility ringing bright and clear in his mind. He picks up the pace, bobbing his head up and down and cramming Erik’s blood-flushed dick further and further inside. When it gets to be too much, Charles knocks Erik’s hand away to fist whatever he can’t fit in his throat, and Erik cries out, twisting his hands impossibly tighter in those brown strands.
“You’re all pent up,” Erik groans, feeling his encroaching orgasm in the base of his spine, all the way down to the tips of his toes. “I think you’d, shit, you’d love it if I just kept you here and got you off all day, wouldn’t you? If we just stayed in bed all day and fucked, over and over, until we’re both boneless and lazy.”
Mmmm, sounds lovely, Charles projects, reflex tears now rolling steadily down his flushed cheeks. I love you, love this massive dick, all MINE. I want you to come in my mouth. Give me your come, feed it to me, cram it down my throat, let me taste it, yesyesyes!
Just then, Charles hollows his cheeks, and Erik’s a goner. His stomach goes taut as he explodes deep in Charles’ throat, loveyouloveyou echoing over and over again in his head.
All words have left him. Erik shakes and shakes through his orgasm, jaw going slack as he gasps through the aftershocks. He coats Charles’ mouth and hand liberally in streaks of watery come, and Charles just keeps working him through it, kitten-licking over his balls until he cries out in overstimulation.
“Fuck, baby.” Erik’s heart is pounding in his ears. He pulls himself out of his trance-like state, looking down at his body and—yeah, it’s a mess alright, ropes of viscous fluid splattered across his abs, all the way up towards his chest. He flops back against the bed frame, breathing hard as he continues to come down from it.
When Charles finally pulls off with a pop, his lips are absolutely wrecked and shiny with Erik’s come. He greedily laps up every last drop and crawls up Erik’s body, pressing their mouths together in a chaste kiss. “I love the way you taste,” he whispers.
Erik thinks of making a joke about pineapple and taste, but his throat is too dry for him to mutter anything more than a contented hum. His post-orgasm laze is almost immediately interrupted, though, when Charles grabs Erik’s hand and directs it exactly where he wants it, his cock hard and thick and leaking between his legs. “I thought this was supposed to be my thank you gift.”
“Of course,” Erik rasps. “Just—need a minute.”
Charles harrumphs. “Some appreciation!”
Brat, Erik sends, and doesn’t hesitate a moment longer to grab Charles’ hips and position that lovely round ass over his face. Don’t act like giving head doesn’t get you off.
‘Get me off,’ oh, what a novel idea! Given that I have yet to do any of THAT so far…
Even though Charles can’t see his face from this angle, Erik rolls his eyes and grabs his husband’s waist, pulling him down so that he’s squatting directly over Erik’s mouth. “Charles, shut up,” he says, and pries him open with two hands, slow and purposeful.
“Oh! You haven’t done this in awhile,” Charles gasps at the first touch, helpless not to grind back against Erik’s demanding tongue, where his mouth is exploring his hole with long, swirling circles. “Feels—ungh—good.”
“My loss,” Erik says earnestly, and dives back in to kiss at his entrance with a sort of reverence he usually reserves for Charles’ lips. It is; he loves doing this, loves making his telepath feel good, loves feeling him start to lose control, writing and crying out with each pass of his tongue, dipping deeper into that wet, silky heat.
Moving his hands up to clutch at Charles’ hips, Erik imagines the softness there when Charles starts to round out and just presses, hoping his fingers leave bruises. He could be making it up, but he swears they look ever-so-slightly wider.
For a moment, he’s taken aback by the sheer power of this man, so wholly capable of both taking and giving life. The duality of it is shocking; for a moment, his breath catches in his throat, unable to do anything but worship the man above him, a mutant—no, a god among men.
“Oh! Right there, darling,” Charles moans, shoving his ass up against Erik’s mouth when he senses his distraction. Erik licks across his hole in apology with one long, agonizing sweep, slurping wet and messy. And don’t remind me. I’m not ready to be the size of a school bus.
Erik huffs. Vain, are we?
Says YOU.
“I don’t think people are supposed to talk this much while they’re being eaten out,” Erik says, pulling back to appreciate Charles’ pretty hole, slick with his spit. He grabs a handful of Charles’ ass with one hand, letting out a soft groan at the sight, and peppers soft kisses to the skin there.
Charles has been so disciplined with his fitness regimen since his last pregnancy and it shows, his thighs and calves thick with corded muscle. “You're beautiful. And so strong, Charles, got to—” he leans in, dragging the tip of his tongue from Charles’ balls, all the way up his perineurium, “be strong to carry our baby…”
Charles lets out a delighted little cry, rocking back against Erik’s mouth and subsequently shutting him up in the process. “In, in, Erik, need something inside…”
Continuing his assault on Charles’ hole, Erik obeys and keeps up the movements of his tongue, sinking his index finger in next to it. The heat, the scent of Charles’ natural musk on his mouth…it’s indescribably good.
With his finger working in tandem with his tongue, it’s a tight fit, but Charles is absolutely fucking loving it, wiggling his ass for more. Erik chuckles, a dark, delighted sound, and feels Charles’ legs turn to jelly as he builds a rhythm, alternating between fingers and tongue, smearing drool all over his lips, his nose, his chin.
Charles starts making little keening noises that have Erik’s dick twitching with interest again, gasping for air and crying out Erik’s name when he prods the tip of his tongue against Charles’ prostate. “Hah—nghhhnn!”
He feels every glorious second of it when Charles starts to come, hiccuping out half-coherent obscenities as he tightens around Erik’s tongue, chest hitching when he finally touches his prick and unloads all over his belly, some of it dripping down onto Erik’s abdomen.
When it’s over, Charles flops over and lays there on his side, half-splayed across Erik’s lap. His head lolls against the sheets at the foot of the bed, torso awkwardly twisted next to Erik’s knees. Catching his own breath, Erik wipes a hand across his mouth and pats Charles’ ass sort of sympathetically, hoping the gesture conveys his utmost gratitude.
It’s too tempting not to run a hand between Charles’ thighs, over his spent dick and up to his heaving belly. Erik smears Charles’ come into the skin there, watching, completely entranced, at the place where Charles is growing the newest addition to their brood.
“You can hurry up and start showing for your Daddy and Vati,” Erik says to the little life inside him, tacking on a polite “please.” He prides himself on teaching his children manners, after all.
We just found out about her yesterday! Charles projects.
‘Her?’ So you lied to Wanda, then?
And risk humiliating myself in front of the children if I’m wrong? Please, Erik.
I think you're right, Erik sends, grinning to himself. I like the idea of another girl.
“Of course you do,” Charles says, vocally, laying his hand atop Erik’s and drawing undeterminable shapes into the skin there. “Papa is impatient as always, darling. Take your time and come out nice and healthy for us.”
Erik watches Charles talk to his stomach, their baby, with what he’s sure is a stupid, dopey grin on his face, picturing the day when they’ll get to hold him or her and kiss each and every one of their tiny, perfect toes. “Are we bad parents?”
Charles blinks, snapping out of his lovestruck daze. “What ever do you mean?”
“Lorna’s pissed off at us, I didn’t bother to tell my team I wasn’t coming into work today, we have a million prenatal appointments to schedule, and instead, we spent the whole morning shagging.”
With a great sigh, Charles heaves himself up to his knees and crawls up the bed, straddling Erik’s thighs. His hand never once leaves his belly, protective in a way Erik finds horrifically endearing.
“Darling, our children are safe, loved, well-fed, and live in a 20-million-dollar penthouse. I think they’re just fine. As for you,” he says, bending over to peck Erik on the lips, “I couldn’t think of a better way to take care of your pregnant spouse then by indulging him in a bit of afternoon delight.”
“Oh? Think HR will accept that in lieu of a doctor’s note?”
“Absolutely. In fact, I think Tony will ask for video footage as proof.”
There are probably 50 instances in which Erik could have reported Stark to the EEOC for sexual harassment, and at least 48 of them involve Charles. It’s all part of some sort of weird, sexually charged tête-à-tête the two of them have had going since their uni days, and Erik should probably be more threatened by it than he actually is.
In any case, Tony doesn’t have Charles in his bed, wearing his ring, pregnant with his baby, does he?
“Yes, Erik, your male posturing is as arousing as always,” Charles drawls, slowly rocking his hips back against Erik’s cock, “but please, stop worrying and let me take your mind off of things, hmm? I want to celebrate this. Celebrate us.”
Erik grunts in agreement, stroking his hands up and down Charles’ thick, gorgeous thighs, attentive enough to make the smaller man shiver in his lap. “Hungry again?”
He feels Charles’ smirk against his jaw. “Starving,” he says, and wraps that wicked tongue around Erik’s earlobe.
Notes:
comments/kudos are food...don't be shy...🫶
teacup_gremlin on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 05:17AM UTC
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StoneStar1 on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 06:32AM UTC
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Londondon on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 05:42AM UTC
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StoneStar1 on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 06:32AM UTC
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he_became_sail on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 12:00PM UTC
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StoneStar1 on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 02:02PM UTC
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sunflower_dragon19 on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 06:49PM UTC
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StoneStar1 on Chapter 1 Tue 02 Sep 2025 07:59PM UTC
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sunflower_dragon19 on Chapter 2 Tue 09 Sep 2025 02:52AM UTC
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DireDev39 on Chapter 2 Tue 09 Sep 2025 04:27AM UTC
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StoneStar1 on Chapter 2 Tue 09 Sep 2025 05:15AM UTC
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