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"I'm sorry," Charles says after his premature chuckle trips Erik up in the middle of a sentence. "It's like reading ahead. I don't mean to, but sometimes my eyes just jump to the end of the sentence."
"It's alright," Erik says quietly. He moves his knight forward, and he doesn't need to read minds to see Charles's surprise. His eyes dart up to Erik's, his brow furrowed. He thinks it's a trap.
Hesitantly, Charles reaches out and swaps the knight out with his rook in a comically nonviolent movement. "You know I try not to," he says, sensing that Erik hasn't moved on.
But it's not for the reason Charles thinks.
"What if I asked you not to try?" Erik says carefully.
Charles looks down at the chess board. He's being very good indeed if he hasn't even scented the general direction of Erik's thoughts. Charles ducks his head further and tries to find a carpet thread to focus on to the exclusion of all else. Erik's seen him use this strategy to insulate himself from the outside world a few times on their road trips, exhausted by proximity to so many hurting and isolated kids. He's trying not to hear Erik.
Erik doesn't know the first thing about shielding his mind, but he has a feeling he can make himself harder to ignore. For the first time that evening, Erik lets himself look at Charles the way he always wants to. He can look at him this way all the time, of course, but it's fun to keep secrets, or pretend to. He's so pretty, Erik thinks jealously, lips red as candy all the time, like he's been biting them, or kissing someone, or sucking—
"Erik," Charles says, sounding harassed.
Erik grins. "I'm sorry," he says quite honestly. "I got carried away. What I meant,"—he draws it out while he tries to articulate to himself what he wants, and then break off the right size piece of that to feed to Charles. "I was actually thinking about chess."
Charles shakes his head, smiling faintly, but the embarrassed duck of his head is relaxing into a comfortable slouch.
"Since you can't win honestly," he starts, and smiles when Charles snorts. "Try to win dishonestly."
Charles shakes his head without understanding. "Just read your mind?"
"No. Play for me."
"So, play against myself."
"No, Charles," Erik says, very close to exasperated. "Make me lose. Make me play against myself."
Charles's face screws up in skeptical concentration. "I've never done that…"
"Against me."
"...against someone who knew very well what was going on."
"Against me," Erik concludes. "Push yourself."
He's blatantly goading him, and Charles gives him an unimpressed look for it, but Erik's energy is infectious. Charles's mouth quirks unwillingly, but he brings a hand slowly to his temple.
It always leaves Erik flinching, knowing Charles is in his head. He's afraid they'll crash blindly into each other in the badly lit labyrinth of his own mind. But what's scarier is how much Erik can't tell Charles is there. Not until he starts knocking books off the shelves, as it were. Erik's head turns involuntarily to the side, and Erik looks carefully back at Charles; it's the telepath's turn to goad.
Erik straightens suddenly in his seat, uncrossing his legs. His shoe clunks clumsily against the edge of the table, narrowly missing one of Charles's benched pieces. Erik raises his eyebrows at Charles.
Charles is on like a cat that's spotted a mouse. Erik bares his teeth in encouragement and challenge, matching him whisker for whisker. He loves seeing Charles like this, intense and unyielding and powerful, and he seizes every opportunity to bait out of him a transformation just as real as Hank's or Raven's.
Erik's breaths are deepening and quickening until he feels Charles take that wheel too. He can't slow down Erik's hammering heart, though, and Erik feels blood rush through him in quick, heavy pulses, defiant to his literal core.
He raises his hand towards Charles—or Charles does, rather. Erik's hand drifts to rest carefully on the bishop, dark metal worn to a shine, and he makes a point of not helping Charles at all with the finer motor skills. Charles's brow furrows, and Erik's fingers curl, leaden and loose, around the neck of the piece.
Erik lets Charles have his hands, but when he lifts his arm, the piece remains rooted stubbornly in place.
Charles lets out a snort, and the tension breaks between them, leaving them both in a moment of silent surprise at just how much tension there had been. "Let's save the powers for another time," he says, sly and soft, and smirks when Erik's stomach swoops at the idea of Charles puppeteering him at two different levels.
Erik tries to fight his own hand back from reaching for the piece again, but Charles's hands are strong on the reins, and Erik's whole body is frozen with tension except for his hand reaching for the bishop again. He lets out a single pant of breath, loud enough to surprise him. He can fight this all he wants and it does all the apparent good of shoving a brick wall.
Charles laughs, breathless and harsh. "Now you know what it's like to be your friend." His eyes are still trained on Erik's like a hawk's, fierce and unblinking, and Erik's fingers close around the bishop, which he lets Charles take this time, because he can play by the rules, when he wants to.
"See?" Charles insists, and he sounds like he's making a gratifying effort, even though Erik can't tell.
With great chagrin, Erik drops the bishop right in front of Charles's queen. To his even greater shock, he says, "Check." The word feels foreign and chewed up in his mouth, and Charles grins, relaxing abruptly.
Erik lets out a gust of breath at just the same time as Charles lets go of his mouth and his ribcage and his wrist. He's still in Erik's head, in his body. Erik knows this, not because he can feel it, but because he can see in Charles's eyes that they both realize how hard Erik is at the exact same time.
"Erik," Charles starts, almost shy. He lowers his hand from his temple slowly, deliberately. Erik doesn't feel him retreat, but he doesn't like it anyway.
"Charles," he shoots back, cross with disappointment.
"Erik, I'm not—it's not that I don't want this. But I need to know." He's a serious man (most of the time), but even Erik has rarely seen him this serious. "I need you to tell me this is what you want without me in your head."
Impatience replaces disappointment. "You know exactly what I want," Erik hisses, and he can hear the desperation lacing his voice. He struggles to string together a sentence that doesn't sound like an attack. "You know I'm not that malleable."
Charles relaxes a little, shaking his head. "I had to make absolutely sure," he says out loud, and then, quiet and close and overwhelming in the close quarters of Erik's skull, I want it too.
Erik shivers, squeezing his eyes shut as he feels Charles start to rummage around in his head again. It's nothing that Erik would notice if Charles hadn't spent so much of the last few weeks in and out of Erik's head, or if Charles was trying to sneak. It's a twitch, an intrusive thought (his own name, laden with purpose), and possibly the way his breath snags in his throat—but that may just be Erik.
He focuses on Charles's face, forcing his bodily coup into the background with some effort. He can tell Charles is barely looking at him, similarly occupied, but his expression changes when he sees himself through Erik's eyes, because with Charles's face, with his clearwater eyes and his perpetually furrowed brow and his candy-red lips, come a torrent of associations and feelings and resonant frequencies that Erik is psychologically incapable of separating.
Erik abruptly, clumsily shoots to his feet. He's seen Charles direct people before, and much more gracefully than this, but Erik's fighting back. Charles isn't depositing an intention into his brain and letting his body take care of it; he's driving.
If Erik had been sitting in a chair any less sturdy than Charles's armchair, it would have tipped backwards, but instead it just scoots back a few inches. The chessboard is not as lucky; as Erik turns and tries to walk around it, Charles swears under his breath and Erik swears back as he suddenly has control over his body again, only now it's listing sideways. He staggers to correct it, clipping the chessboard with his knee and sending the pieces flying. His own metal pieces stay where they are, but Charles's set is wooden, beautifully carved and perfectly balanced and completely out of Erik's control.
A shockingly long second later, with all the wooden pieces except the knights still rolling audibly across the floor, Erik gives Charles an unimpressed look. Charles looks more amused than apologetic, biting his lip in a way he knows will draw Erik's attention. "I am sorry, darling. I didn't want you to fall, and I couldn't quite fix it fast enough."
"Don't let me go," Erik says roughly, blood singing in his veins, and before he can even get the words out, Charles has jerked him the rest of the way around the table to stand in front of him. "Let me fall," he says, and Charles does.
Erik winces as his knees hit the floor, his fall broken only by thick carpet. But then he grins wide and fierce up at Charles, who's starting to flush a little in the cheeks. This is exactly what he wanted, the direction he hoped Charles would take him, and triumph uncurls in his chest even as Charles forces him to sit back on his heels. He fights it, and he can feel his quads straining against his hamstrings, his whole body shaking like it's fighting a civil war, but Erik's side is doomed and he knows it.
Charles looks down at him like a predator, his fingers at his temple and a vein standing out on his neck. Erik rarely sees him like this, and it makes hot, charged want coil in his stomach. Talk to me, he implores.
Charles reaches down to cup his chin, stroking his fingers over the sensitive skin of his throat. What should I say? Erik fights the urge to close his eyes as Charles rubs his thumb over Erik's bottom lip. I won't be asking you to do things.
Erik lets out a hungry bark of laughter. Then I'll make you work for them, he promises.
Immediately, Erik bends forward at the waist and presses his face against Charles's clothed erection. He groans at the evidence that he's getting under Charles's skin just as much as the other way around.
In a fit of impotent defiance, Erik unzips Charles's trousers, pops the straining button, and mouths at his cock though his open fly. It's effortless, unlike any actual movement he would have made to do it with his hands.
Erik, Charles clucks with disapproval, but Erik can taste every note in the loaded word: fondness, exhilaration, a seed of real annoyance, which interests Erik a great deal. Mixed in with the main ingredients, dashes of intention, impulses to grab Erik's hair or shift his foot forward until the sole of his shoe presses against Erik's cock.
"Charles," Erik breathes aloud, hoarse and quiet, and then his teeth click shut.
"That's quite enough talking," Charles says, his tone deadly serious but his eyes sparkling with humor. He reaches into his underwear and takes out his cock.
Erik gasps as his own cock pulses so hard he thinks for a second that he's going to come. "Oh, fuck, Charles. Was that—?"
"Enough," Charles repeats softly, and Erik leans forward and takes him in his mouth before he can get any more words out. Being silenced by Charles's cock does things to him, and Charles can feel every single one of them as Erik starts to bob his head.
Charles can also tell how hard it's getting for Erik to push back, and it goes to his head. He leans back in the chair, smirking. He doesn't need a free hand to push down on the back of Erik's neck, both because he can just use his puppet strings for that, and because Erik's already testing his gag reflex of his own free will.
"God, Erik," Charles sighs, his brow furrowing again but this time in pleasure as he tips his head back. His throat works around a swallow and then a moan as Erik sides his hands up his legs and digs his fingers into the meat of Charles's thighs. Charles's control is slipping enough that Erik can seize little pieces of autonomy like that, even if Charles locks down his muscles and tendons as soon as Erik reminds him of their existence.
Charles doesn't let him grin, though, too busy sucking himself off with Erik's mouth, albeit with a little help with the finer motor skills.
He does let Erik moan, and he does, low and often as he works his way down Charles's cock until it's buried all the way down his throat.
Erik forgets about everything but Charles heavy on his tongue, thick in his nostrils, warm under his hands. He doesn't even notice when Charles lets his head and shoulders go, still fucking his throat on his cock like he doesn't want to do anything else (he doesn't).
And then Erik's cock gives another violent, shocking throb.
"Charles," Erik tries to sputter, rearing back in surprise with a cough. He doesn't even know whether the second wave of heat to course through him is Charles's direct or indirect doing. "Careful," he finally manages.
Charles leans down, takes his face in his hands, and kisses him, pushing him up onto his knees. He drives the kiss from both sides for a long moment, but then huffs a laugh against Erik's mouth. "I like the way you kiss too much."
Erik kisses him back ferociously, deeply, with teeth. No matter how many times Charles kisses him, parts of Erik can't believe it's really happening, that Charles wants this, wants him. It isn't even really insecurity, just awed gratitude, and it puts even more desperation into Erik's kisses.
I want you, Charles promises. I want you for as long as you'll have me. The deep, swift current of emotion Erik has suddenly been thrust into puts shocked tears in his eyes. I want you inside me, he adds, and Erik can feel his own desperation reflected back at him.
Charles pulls back, weighing down Erik's legs so he sinks back down onto his heels. He looks ruined, not a literal hair out of place but his mouth swollen and red, his cock hard and wet, hanging out of his pants.
"I do like this," he confesses breathlessly, running a restless hand through his hair. "I love giving you what you want, but my way."
Erik struggles to move toward him and can't budge. A delighted grin splits Charles's face.
"My way," he says again, softly. His grin fades and his brow pinches again.
Erik braces himself, but he can't even begin to put up a fight as Charles stands him up. He can catch Charles off guard, can seize control of an arm or finger he's forgotten to give directions, but when Charles is actively pulling his strings, he doesn't even seem to notice the struggle.
Erik's on fire with it. He aches with want, between his legs and between his lungs even as he walks stiffly back to Charles's bedroom. He wants to add the pressure of Charles around his cock to the immobilizing bear hug around his thoughts. He wants Charles to overwhelm him, to suffocate him.
He also wants Charles to kiss him again, exceptionally badly. At least he turns Erik around to face the door once he's in the room, so he can watch Charles stalk after him; slow, thoughtful, promising.
Erik wants to be stalked. He can smell Charles's mischievous joy in his head, lit like a candle by Erik's sparking thoughts.
Erik's hands drop abruptly to his waist and start fumbling his belt open. He doesn't fight it, just as desperate to get out of his clothes as Charles is to see him without them. And Charles wants to see him; he lets Erik bare his teeth in a riled-up grin as he opens his trousers and drops them.
Charles watches him without shame, and with an extra intensity that Erik can feel as viscerally as he can feel his own excitement. Erik pushes his underwear down his hips after them and his cock swings free.
Immediately blood pulses abruptly, shockingly to his cock, and Erik watches from Charles's eyes as his eyes widen, his balls tighten, and his cock strains up for a long second before drooping back down, drooling precome onto the carpet. It's a gut-churningly lewd image, and Erik groans just as much at the sight of himself as the way it feels, which is incredible.
"If you keep doing that," Erik says hoarsely, "I'll come on your carpet."
Well, we can't have that, Charles says, discarding his clothes clumsily with most of his attention focused on keeping at least two fingers pressed to his temples at all times. Erik backs mechanically towards the bed, and lets himself fall back into it.
Erik never quite forgets the opulence Charles was raised in, but it's especially hard not to notice when he's sprawled naked across a massive bed, tangled in expensive sheets.
But then Charles climbs in after him, over him, and Erik forgets everything else. He moans as Charles's weight settles across his hips, pressing his cock against Erik's and grinding against him with an insufferable smirk.
Erik can't move, which forces him to suffer Charles's deeply regrettable tendency to tease. He tries to glare, but the friction of Charles's cock directly on his has him gasping for More, please, Charles.
"Ah, so you do remember that word," Charles says with a wicked smile.
Erik is too wound up to be distracted. "Charles."
"No, not that one," he chuckles, and Erik wants to kill him.
Charles eyebrows shoot up, but he's still having far too good a time. "That's a little bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"
Erik seethes. He could force Charles to take him seriously, but only by threatening lethal force. That's not what he wants. He wants—he wants to fuck Charles into the mattress. He wants to fuck Charles against the door. He wants to fuck Charles, he wants to be fucked, he wants to kneel and he wants to put Charles on his knees. He wants Charles in every possible way, all the time.
"Erik," Charles breathes. He fills Erik's buzzing head with even more images: Erik's own back, rolling hills of muscle, with sweat pooling in the pronounced dip of his spine; his lips wet and lewd around Charles's fingers; and finally, the most grotesquely intimate thing yet—Erik's face, his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth slack as Charles rocks into him.
Erik knows damn well Charles can feel his desperation spike with each new display of his own vulnerability, but just to belabor the point, he deliberately and graphically pictures Charles's ass, spread and gaping and oozing Erik's come.
"What a lovely addition," Charles chuckles, but he leans down, presses his body against Erik's, and kisses him, soft like it's their first of the night and then rapidly escalating to panting and sighing and finally, to Erik's embarrassment, whining.
Erik gasps with relief when his hand reaches for Charles's ass, teasing his fingers up the cleft of it. He doesn't push in, but he can feel Charles clench at his feather-light touch. Charles reaches clumsily for the side table with Erik's other hand, and Erik yanks the drawer open by the metal handle.
"Thank you, Erik," Charles murmurs against his cheek, still dragging kisses across his skin, as Erik's fingers curl clumsily around the bottle of oil.
Then Erik's fingers suddenly go slack.
"I'll spill it," Charles pants, "and I need—" He groans as Erik digs his fingers, momentarily unsupervised, into the soft flesh of his ass.
Erik's grinning even as he adjusts his grip on the bottle and sends the cap corkscrewing off. He hears it hit the floor, and he doesn't care, because he can't wait to get his fingers inside Charles, but as soon as he's coated his fingers and set the bottle down, his muscles cease to be his own again. He lets out a reverberating growl of frustration, and he slams the drawer shut petulantly.
Charles kisses him again, and he's smiling, because he doesn't have to wait. Erik rubs his slick fingers over his hole and then pushes one inside, not particularly gentle. Erik helps curl his finger the way Charles likes it, and Charles's breath catches loudly in his ear. Then he moans, and for the most part, never shuts back up.
"I don't think you want me to shut up," Charles pants, rolling his hips back into Eric's ministrations. He's already more than loose enough for another.
"It's a shame you're so easy, Charles," Erik says hungrily, grinning into Charles's temple as he slips a second finger inside him. Because I could do this forever.
"I'll want to hear you call me easy again when I'm sitting on your cock," Charles replies blithely, though he's struggling not to moan outright.
"Don't you want me to fuck you?" Erik asks, his voice quiet, rough, and intense.
Charles does moan then. For someone who can communicate better without his mouth, Charles is loud. Erik loves it. "Ahh, yes, Erik, oh yes."
Erik can't tell who has the reins anymore. He can feel their desires building into a feedback loop that he's only partially tuned in to, and he knows Charles wants the same thing Erik does: harder, faster, deeper. Erik doesn't have it in him to deny them both, so the question of compulsion is a moot point.
Charles squirms against him, whimpering, and Erik eases his fingers out. He runs his other hand soothingly down Charles's back, and realizes he has sovereignty again.
"No point," Charles mutters, sounding drunk. "We want the same thing."
Erik rolls them over, his heartbeat picking up, and Charles blinks his face into focus. Erik pulls Charles's thighs to his chest and ruts his cock between them exactly once before his arms lock up again.
I changed my mind, Charles says, spreading his legs as Erik unwillingly pulls back enough for the head of his cock to smear across Charles's entrance.
Erik lets out a grunt of effort as he gives one final strain of resistance, knowing he won't even have it in him for that after Charles gets Erik inside him. Unsurprisingly, but in a way that still spears Erik with heat, it does nothing. Charles is panting, but not from psychic effort—or at least, not any more than he was already doing.
Charles chuckles gently. Sorry, darling. Erik glares down at him even as he clumsily lines his cock up and presses inside Charles.
As usual, all is forgiven and forgotten the moment Erik is buried inside Charles. Not as usual, Erik can't fuck him like he wants to. His hips are pressed against Charles's ass and he can't pull out to push back in.
"Charles," he chokes out. "Charles, you can't—"
He can feel Charles's amusement plainly, but instead of making Erik furious, it makes him desperate. He growls, trying to move his hips in any direction, but Charles doesn't let him go. Instead, he relays to Erik the sparks rocketing up and down his spine and the snug, reassuring pressure of being filled.
Erik groans, reluctantly but profoundly affected by that. Charles sends him the sensation of Erik's cock pulsing inside him, and it happens again. Maybe he can come just like this, if Charles keeps feeding him both sides of the equation.
You could, Charles insists; he's never heard of anything Erik can't do. (Just things he shouldn't.) The thing is, he's right so often that Erik considers it seriously.
Do you want me to? Erik asks him, deliberately thinking about what it feels like to get well and truly, wholeheartedly fucked.
Charles lets out a sustained groan that finally ends with, "Maybe not." He smirks at the rush of relief that washes through Erik's entire body. "But I'm not going to hurry."
Erik growls, but his jaw won't open. How annoying of Charles to let him make noise but not speak clearly.
"I quite like it when you make noise," Charles says coquettishly.
Erik inhales sharply when Charles pulls Erik's hips back and gives a muffled moan as he thrusts back in, torturously slow and, even more torturous, only once. His shoulders slump. He just wants to fuck Charles, to throw himself into it and wear himself out.
"You're welcome to try," Charles says, grinning. I'm sure you can still wear yourself out.
Erik curls his lip to spit out a retort, but Charles pulls him in by the strings. Erik settles against him, on top of him, and kisses him. Charles isn't driving, but he's feeding everything he's feeling straight to Erik, and presumably drinking in every sensation washing through Erik as well, so it's a remarkably collective experience. It's almost like they're shadowing each other.
Erik notices immediately this time when Charles lets him go, but he only knows it's deliberate because of the goading pang that Charles sends through him. He doesn't need to be told twice. By this point Charles has had more than enough time to adjust, so the next thrust is hard and deep. Charles makes the most deliciously tender noise against Erik's mouth, and Erik can't help but grin as he does it again.
That would be the beginning of the end for Erik, at least, even if Charles weren't egging him on with his little noises and enveloping them both in a gentle echo chamber full of safety and warmth and sensation. As it is, his rhythm is already starting to falter, and he's worried each time Charles injects his own pleasure into Erik's mind that the next time he does it will make him come.
Worried? Charles asks gently.
Erik growls and fucks him harder, gasping raggedly with lust and exertion. "I want to—" He doesn't even know what he wants. But he doesn't want to come on accident. He wants to bury himself in Charles and look him straight in the eye as he tips over the edge.
Jesus, Erik, Charles thinks in awe.
And then Erik stops moving, buried in Charles's tight, slick heat. His whole body is tight, sweating and shaking even before he makes the effort to move. "Charles," he groans, and it sounds like it's being scraped out of his throat.
Charles reaches up and pulls Erik down close enough to kiss. The soft warmth of Charles fingers against his cheeks startles Erik's eyes open, and he looks down at Charles and sees—himself, as Charles does. He's sweaty and his hair is falling over his face and he looks absolutely devastated with pleasure.
He blinks, and Charles is Charles again, pink-cheeked and red-eyed with two fingers at his temple and the seed of a smile in his blue eyes.
Erik kisses him. To hell with looking him in the eyes; Charles already knows what he'll see there. Erik just wants Charles's breath in his lungs, his fingers in his hair. His hips stay locked in place, but here, now, this close to Charles in every conceivable way, he's suspended in ecstasy: a soft, easy wave building, not breaking and not breaking, until—
Erik's cock gives a painfully strong shudder, hardly unprompted but shockingly, abruptly intense, and he perches on the ledge of orgasm for a dizzying length of time. He remembers, serenity, and just focuses on the sensation, on the tension between every cell in his body and every cell in Charles's, on the—
"Fuck, Charles, I'm—"
Yes, oh yes, Erik, Charles thunders in his head, falling apart himself, and Erik feels them both coming. He lets out a guttural noise and his hips rocket forward, punching an overwhelmed noise out of an overwhelmed Charles.
They come forever, Charles connecting them so intimately that they're each having two orgasms at once—and each one is so different. Erik has always thought getting off is the most intuitive English euphemism: it's a violent, loud, concentrated sensation for Erik, but a gradual, oscillating burn in Charles's entire body. The way the two of them build off of each other's pleasure is blinding, deafening. It's all Erik can do to kiss Charles every now and then, in between pants and moans.
Erik finally pulls out, groaning when Charles forwards him the visceral slide of his cock followed by his come, and buries his nose in Charles's hair at his temple. Thank you, Charles, he thinks. Why is it so much easier to tell him things like this, in his head?
"Speaking is more intimate," Charles replies quietly, out of breath but profoundly content.
"Really?" Erik asks, sinking into bed beside Charles to loom over him, propped up on an elbow.
"I hear far more thoughts than I do words," Charles says. He combs his fingers through Erik's hair, and Erik wipes Charles's stomach clean with a corner of the bedsheet, both cursory and vain efforts to tidy up.
Their breaths are slowing, but Erik can still feel his pulse thumping insistently. "You made me… work for that," he finally croaks.
Charles dips his eyes for a sheepish moment, but he looks back up through his lashes and confirms he's doing it on purpose by biting his lip. "Did you like it?" he asks, smirking.
Erik shakes his head, not in answer to the question. "I think you like speaking aloud because you like asking disingenuous questions like that."
Charles tilts his head, affronted. "I can be disingenuous in your head."
Erik raises his eyebrows, and Charles knows a challenge from Erik when he sees one.
Charles doesn't even bring his hand to his temple, not for mere verbal communication. It must be such a cursory effort after so much puppeteering.
Did you like how I told you when to move and stay? Did you like how I didn't trust you to do either of those things by yourself?
Erik's eyes widen involuntarily and he groans. "Yes," he hisses.
"See?" Charles says smugly, shifting closer to kiss him.
He leaves Erik's hands free this time, and Erik uses them. He gets a firm hold on Charles's head with both hands, fingers widespread, and kisses him with mostly tongue, which, Charles observes nonverbally from the passenger seat in Erik's head, he only does after he's fucked Charles. It's slow and sloppy and deep and it's how Erik always wants to kiss Charles when he's pleasantly worn out.
Charles pushes into the kiss, pressing their bodies together, and Erik lets Charles roll on top of him, his limbs still loose and heavy. His own limbs are too, and after a few minutes of increasingly sluggish making out, Charles decides it's too much work, and slides off of Erik again, tucking himself along his side.
"Thank you, Erik," Charles breathes, into Erik's ear and his head, and his presence fades rapidly as he drops off to sleep in Erik's arms.