Lips, hot and sweet, against the back of his neck draw him slowly from sleep. But he's so warm and comfortable, so tired, that the moment they withdraw so does he, back into the bliss of rest. Another kiss, another tug to the surface, less effective this time. The sensation is soothing, and combined with the softness of the sheets, the solid line of heat along his back, and the fragrance of mingled cologne, sleep, and laundry detergent Charles is sinking again, back into the abyss.

"It's time to wake up." The voice is low, quiet, a rumble in his ear, against his back and Charles presses into it. He wants to turn, wants to shift until his face is buried against that throat, fingers threading through short strands on the base of a sensitive neck, but a warm hand against his chest prevents him. But its okay - the same hand is rubbing - a soothing pattern where the thumb catches his nipple every few strokes sending a light cascade of lazy arousal down his spine, and the darkness begins to return. "Charles, its morning. Wake up." The hand slides down to rub at his stomach and Charles finally opens his eyes, blurry vision seeking out the clock. The room is still dark, heavy burgundy curtains covering all the large windows, but he can still see the bright morning sun peeking around them, shining onto the wood, revealing dust particles in the air.

"What time is it?" His voice sounds slightly raspy and muddled with sleep.

"Eight." Erik murmurs, lips dry and soft against the bare skin of his shoulder.

"We've only had three hours," Charles grumbles and Erik's quiet laugh vibrates through his body.

"And whose fault is that?" Instead of answering, Charles burrows back into the warm blankets, stubborn. He's not a morning person. Something Erik knows and finds fairly entertaining. "Training begins soon."

"They'll appreciate the small reprieve."


"Fine." Charles makes to move over, out of bed, changes his mind less than halfway through, and settles back against Erik's chest. "Five more minutes."

Another quiet laugh. "Alright," Erik says and the way he speaks, voice smooth and smoky, causes Charles' pulse to spike. He continues to smooth wide circles onto his stomach with a flat palm before sliding his hand further downwards. A juddering breath and fluttering eyelids accompany the blissful feeling of a hand, fingers long and graceful, wrapping around him, tugging gently. "Five more minutes," he whispers, breath ghosting over Charles' throat.

He's in heaven. This is probably what heaven feels like, Charles decides. It is that peaceful state in between awake and sleep, pleasure gentle at first, then mounting – cresting and falling, cresting and falling.

Lips, gentle, press behind his ear, teeth tug at his lobe and all the while that warm hand pulls and twists and works him until his breathing becomes erratic and he's moaning, keening quietly into the still air, fingers twisted into the pillows. An arm works its way underneath his side to press him back, even closer to the body behind him. Erik's hand, large and strong, settles on this throat, tilting his head back, two fingers gripping his chin loosely. Such a possessive gesture it immediately has Charles squeezing his eyes shut, mouth slack, and shuddering as Erik strokes him steadily through his release.

Short breaths, quick and harsh, his heart a quick staccato against ribs. He's awake now, aware enough to feel something hard and soft, iron and velvet, nudge damp against the small of his back. "How long was that?" he asks, slightly breathless.

"Three minutes," Erik answers, hips shifting minutely.

Charles turns around, limbs heavy, sheets silken against his oversensitive skin. He presses his forehead against Erik's and smoothes his hand down his friend's stomach. "We've still got two minutes."