Jukebox Hound (jukeboxhound) wrote,
Jukebox Hound

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fic: i have a holy duty to unzip your genes (x-men)

I'm sorely tempted to write more of this.  I even have a general plot idea, which is a bad thing because I've got other WIPs looking at me with Cloud's big sad blue eyes.  For now, just a oneshot, and my first X-Men fic in five or six years.  Woo for nostalgia.

[by awesome ]

I Have a Holy Duty to Unzip Your Genes
X-Men || R (sex, language, crack) || Charles/Erik || 2,100 words || Good Omens fusion
“Genetics, my fine man,” Charles declares, unperturbed when Erik has to poke him back upright on his stool, “is God’s finest miracle.”
  • For this prompt + gif, made by awesome , on the 1stclass_kink  meme
  • References to X-Men comic canon, Neil Gaiman's 1602 graphic novel, Dogma, and the Bible (duh).
  • Charis, meaning “grace,” is one of the Gnostic luminaries of divine will; also, this.  It was the only angelic name beginning with ‘Char-‘ that was even vaguely relevant, although whether it's angelic or an abstract personification depends on the source material.

“What an adorable lab rat you make,” Erik tells him when the students start filing out of the lecture hall.

“Don’t ruin this for me, Erik,” says Charles as he gathers up his notes.

“I do hope you’ll warn me should Upstairs send an archangel after you. Particularly Warren. Quite full of himself, that one, not entirely unlike yourself.”

“I imagine your tricking him into fighting our own during the War didn’t help,” Charles says dryly as Erik’s expression turns into fond nostalgia. They fall into step with one another as they leave the Oxford campus, Charles automatically putting an arm through Erik’s.

“Nevertheless,” Erik continues after a long moment of a suspiciously devious silence, which Charles pretends not to notice (1), “should your side determine that becoming a professor of genetics violates the entirety of what it’s been trying to accomplish here on earth, some forewarning would be appreciated.”

“And what has my side been trying to accomplish all these years on earth, old friend?”

Erik smiles like a shark (2) and moves on to a completely different topic. “Of course, one must wonder if your students would be so enthusiastic if they knew that Darwin had actually been a black man.”

In this decade? Probably not. Charles doesn’t have to open his mouth for Erik to hear the thought, but for once Erik lets it go.  Likely because they’ve reached the pub, with all of its little lusts and pettiness and minor sins, which Charles magnanimously pretends not to notice (3).


1. Whether Charles pretends not to notice because such deviousness is anathema to his nature or because it very much appeals to his nature is only known by one particular ineffable entity, whose attention has been eaten up by Skeeball for the last several decades.
2. Unlike what a number of metaphors would have the reader believe, sharks do not actually smile. What they do is draw back the corners of their mouth and demonstrate why their species never need worry about dental insurance.
3. Or enjoy. At all. Perish the thought, sinner.

Getting an angel drunk is a little like drinking a fine vintage brandy, one that slides down the throat to curl up warm and bright in the belly. If Charles has a tendency to lose a little of his otherwise strict control on his grace, leaking goodness and the sudden inexplicable need to pet a kitten, Erik magnanimously pretends not to notice (1).

“Genetics, my fine man,” Charles declares, unperturbed when Erik has to poke him back upright on his stool, “is God’s finest miracle.”

“I rather liked the water to wine bit, myself,” he says. “Or the healing of the centurion’s fucktoy.”

Charles makes a face at him like a mouse scrunching up its nose, maybe because Erik is disrespecting a great love story that had transcended all social classes against the odds. Erik wonders when kinky sex between a slave and a centurion became romance fodder and then remembers the invention of the Harlequin(2).

“Look at all these people, all their variations not just in phenotype but also temperament, beliefs – “

“You once told me that the human race has the least diverse genetic population on the planet,” Erik says, sipping at his dram of Bushmills whisky. He idly ponders whether or not he could incite another war between the Irish and Scottish over who founded the best distilleries (3).  He muses over the modern attempt by academia to justify the separation of races through genetics, of all things.

“Your eyes, for instance,” Charles presses on doggedly, voice rising a bit, “are absolutely stunning. The amount of lipochrome in your irises – ”

“In a body that isn’t mine,” Erik reminds him, and is rather startled when Charles gives him a fierce look and says, “I am trying to seduce you, Erik, and I would appreciate it if you would refrain from playing Devil’s Advocate for the evening.”

He blinks.

“And you of all people should know that only arseholes wear sunglasses at night.”

That really shouldn't be so sexy coming from an otherwise posh, upright angel.  It’s also rather flattering that an angel would try to seduce him for once, but there’s a reason or three Erik’s been able to put up with Charles for the last six thousand years, after all (4). He gestures for another shot of whisky and holds it out to Charles. “More tea, vicar?”


1. Or enjoy. At all. Fuck off, arsehole.
2. This is why each side decreed Raven and Angel had to maintain at least ten quantum wavelengths between one another at all times.
3. England wouldn’t even win an honorary mention.
4. Most of which resulted in the authorship of the Kama Sutra and the founding of San Francisco’s Castro district.

One of Charles’ many problems (1) is his utter lack of self-awareness. Erik isn’t entirely sure how he hasn’t realized yet that it isn’t his genetics routine that gets him laid so much as the red of his lips and the blue of his eyes; Erik himself can make a girl's panties fall off or a man drop his trousers with little more than a tilt of the head and a raised brow. For all that Charles’ current body is short and prone to tweed, it’s impossible for a suit made primarily of water and protein to completely hide that sense of holiness that so appeals to humans, and in fact had caused something of a ruckus in 1602 (2).

But because Erik is a patient and saintly man, and not at all because it’s endearing, he lets Charles wax lyrical about various manifestations of the EYCL2 gene while he privately imagines all the other things the angel’s mouth could be doing. It doesn’t take long for Charles to suddenly pause and say, “Erik, I do hope you realize that there is no plausible mutation in the world that would allow me to fuck you and blow you at the same time (3).”

An awkward silence settles over the pub. Somewhere, a pin drops.

“Charles, you promised that there would be no mind-reading while we’re in mortal bodies.”

Charles sways a little. “I – hrm. Yes.”


“Homosexuality is still illegal here?”


“Dam – drat. I’d told you it was a bloody poor idea to visit Sodom, hadn’t I.”

Erik rolls his eyes, reaching out to grab Charles’ collar and yank him forward. Charles manages a somewhat controlled fall into a kiss that results in two men and a woman having the filthiest fantasies of their lives and a young couple that spontaneously falls in love at the other end of the bar.


1. Others include a disheartening attachment to this “pacifism” concept and a strong aversion to Kahlua. Note that the latter is not Erik’s fault.
2. What exactly occurred is a matter of some debate. There were storms and possibly a time vortex, and when Erik jokingly said something about angelic faces and a thousand ships Charles’ response had been to make him cry at a reshowing of Bambi some centuries later. Erik had also encountered a High Inquisitor who looked oddly like himself, with a talent for metal instruments of torture that had inspired a wave of technological innovation Downstairs. When Erik later asked if having sex with yourself was sex or just an advanced form of masturbation, Charles left Divine Wrath burns in the shape of his fingers on Erik’s hips and throat.
3. And Charles would never, ever tell Erik that he’d actually checked.

Charles isn’t entirely sure how they end up so suddenly in Erik’s East End flat. The sound of traffic, industry, and high crime rate slinks through the open window into a living room of sombre tones and furniture with stainless steel frames. There are no plants, but a single betta fish in a large aquarium on the mantle (which is strange, Charles could have sworn there’d been a couple other fish in there a week ago) watches as Erik manhandles Charles’ body onto the sofa.

“Erik, dear, I am quite certain that such force is unnecessa—“

He breaks off in a sharp gasp as Erik’s teeth bite down on the curve of his throat, so close to doing real damage. The damn sunglasses get knocked off, Erik’s pupils contracting into slits in the light that make his eyes gleam yellow (1), and his tongue, slightly too long to be natural, leaves a line of wet heat over his fluttering pulse.

Both of them are some degree of drunk, but instead of manifesting themselves sober Charles lets the alcohol loosen his limbs, soothe the overly analytical thoughts always racing through his brain into a slow crawl of that feels lovely and one of the better ways to be human, what a wonderful idea (2) and he’s been in the cathouse, he’s certainly never done that move before. He slides his hands under the weave of Erik’s black turtleneck and strokes along warm soft skin, shifting muscle, ribs that move under his touch with Erik’s heavy breaths. Erik pushes him down harder into the dark leather cushions and kisses him with teeth and tongue and the metallic tang of iron underneath.

Unfortunately this means Erik leans a little too forward, and the world takes a moment to step back and have a smoke break as they land with a thump between the sofa and the coffee table. Charles ends up with his head spinning and Erik’s weight on his chest, thinking it’s a good thing he technically doesn’t need to breathe to stay alive. “Oof,” he says eloquently.


1. No matter which ethnicity or gender either of them have been over the years, Erik’s eyes always turned yellow and Charles’ blue. When Charles pointed out that they were windows to the soul, Erik replaced all of the angel's classical records with The Best of Queen and locked him out of his own flat with a few judiciously applied Enochian wards.
2. Then he realizes how creepy it is to be thinking of one’s parent during sex and promptly sings, “Hippy Hippy Shake” until the image is burned out. Erik is not amused.

One of the copper coasters on the coffee table had fallen and is now digging into his spine. It’s a good thing he technically doesn’t need his spinal cord to be able to move. Erik, of course, has some experience with falling from heights, so he’s already tugging down the zippers on both their trousers with a little demonic help while Charles is still trying to remember which direction is ‘up.’

“Some room to move, there’s a good chap,” Charles manages, and if half the words are lost in a long moan, no one who hasn’t had Erik’s broad hand wrapping around his cock can blame him. Their trousers and pants have only gotten as far down as their thighs, but Erik braces himself as Charles arches up and he’s able to grip them both, drag his hand down firm and slow and run his thumb over wetness.

This sex thing, this human thing, never fails to be a marvel. It isn’t exactly the same sort of ecstasy that comes with being in the presence of the Divine (1), but it’s deliciously earthy in a way entirely foreign to Heaven and Hell. It’s loud and weird and wanton, there are distinct smells and instincts hardwired into their bodies by evolution, hormones and neurotransmitters that shape pure sensation. Darwin’s observation of finches had only barely scratched the surface of –

“Fuck, Charis,” and his true name, practically dripping with sin, being growled into his throat makes Charles’ vision nearly white out, “just stop thinking.” Except Charles hadn’t even realized that he’s bleeding out from his physical body and tangling himself in the essence that is quintessentially Erik (2), spilling out love and benediction with an angel’s own instincts, welcoming the oily rush of ancient pain and a killer’s fury in return. His blood alcohol level is still well above the legal limit and he just laughs breathlessly, wrapping his arms around Erik’s shoulders as though he could pull him into his own self.

When they come, it’s together, the nonhuman bits of themselves too intertwined, and Charles won't tell Erik that he saw a flash of EYCL1 blue in his eyes.


1. Although Saint Theresa obviously thought so.
2. Charles has a bad habit of tripping into Erik’s head. In the Roaring ‘20s he had spent a few months stealing candy from small children and making obscene origami figures of out sheet metal until Erik pointed out that there was something wrong with a demon helping old ladies cross the street, and fix it, damnit, don’t make me put down a strip of duct tape and say this is my side, you stay on yours.

Tags: - fic, f: x-men, p: charles/erik, t: challenge, t: fusion, t: oneshot
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