"You sure about this," Charles asks, not for the first time.
"I trust you," Erik says.
"I'm not sure that I do," Charles mutters, but he kisses Erik, slow and deep and gentle. "Are you comfortable?"
Erik grunts an affirmative.
"Good," Charles says. His hand raises to his temple, and he slides easily into Erik's mind and thinks at him: //Don't move.//
It isn't just a suggestion.
(Charles had been careful about crafting the specifics, in his mind and then in Erik's, because the geis had to be strong enough that it could bind Erik's strength but not strong enough to kill him. The body was full of involuntary muscle contractions needed for life -- the heart, for example, and the lungs -- and he didn't want to interfere with any of that. Just the broader set of voluntary movements: hands and arms, head and neck, hips and legs and feet.)
Charles takes his time, mapping out Erik's body with hands and mouth and tongue. It isn't an unfamiliar thing for him to do, but he likes the feel of muscles fluttering under his touch, the taste of salty skin, the ridges of scars that Erik never talks about, the spots that usually make Erik moan and writhe under him.
Except that Erik is silent, beyond the ragged breathing, and he can't move, and Charles meets his gaze and grins.
"Liking this?" he asks, all innocence, as he sits up.
Erik gives him a look that spells out Charles' slow and painful death if he doesn't get back down.
He slicks himself up where Erik can watch, not bothering to hide any of the pleasure he feels from having his fingers up his own arse. It doesn't feel quite as good as when Erik does it, but it works well enough. Looks pretty good too, if Erik's expression is any indication.
"Bet you can't wait to pin me down and fuck me," Charles says, holding Erik's gaze with his own. "You want this. You want me."
Erik's nostrils flare out; his eyes are dark, pupils wide, and Charles feels warm with Erik's need.
"And I'm yours." He holds Erik's condom-sheathed cock in his lube-slick hand, lining it up so he can sink down onto it. He moves slowly, so much so that the muscles in his thighs are trembling by the time he's all the way on. "But." His cleaner hand rests on Erik's stomach, feels the tautness as he sucks air in. "On my terms, this time."
Not that it ever isn't on his terms; fuck me, he often begs, harder, please Erik, don't hold anything back, and he doesn't; neither of them do; it's fierce and furious and wanton and wanted. But now is not the time for that.
Now is the time for being slow, and appreciating every moment and every sensation, and knowing that Erik can't do a thing about it.
At one point he puts his fingers to his temple, and thinks: //You can make noise if you'd like,// and Erik erupts in a stream of pent-up words, strung together without coherence, fuck and Charles and need and let me and faster and some words that are probably German and some noises that are probably not words at all.
Charles rocks himself up and eases back down, and Erik gives a deep groan. "Please, Charles, let me," and his mind is full of the desire to touch, to hold on to Charles's hips or run his hands up his chest or a thousand other possibilities.
Charles smiles sweetly, and says, "I'll think about it."
He does, technically speaking.
It's not so much thinking as it is thinking at Erik -- sharing the appreciation he has for Erik's hands, strong and broad and graceful, and the bruises they leave behind; sharing the feel of Erik's hands tangling in Charles' hair, holding his head in place as Erik presses kisses to his mouth or jaw or neck; sharing the warmth of Erik's touches, both in the sense of physical body heat and in the sense of the way they make Charles feel.
Erik's breath is coming faster, sounding rough in his throat, and he says, "I hate you," laughing.
"I know," Charles murmurs.
With Erik filling him, it doesn't take much for Charles to bring himself to climax: a few strokes of his own cock has him flying over the edge, spurting thick jets onto Erik's stomach and chest. Slowly, he lets himself come down from it; slowly, he relaxes, settling his breathing; slowly, he runs his hands over Erik's skin, smearing his come like he's fingerpainting.
Erik's gone quiet, but his face is flushed red and his eyes are full of desperate need.
"You're beautiful," Charles murmurs, and Erik makes a strangled noise. Charles smiles and slowly, slowly, raises his fingers first to his mouth, sucking them clean ("Fuck," Erik says hoarsely, panting), and then to his temple.
//Come for me,// he thinks.
Erik has a wild look in his eyes; the tendons of his neck quiver like he wants to shake his head. "Can't," he says, "Charles, I need--"
"Shh." //You can,// Charles reassures him, //you will.//
And Erik does, with a quivering cry.
//Go ahead and move.//
Erik's head rolls from side to side in a lazy no. "You are going to be the death of me," he complains.
Charles grins and kisses him, and one of Erik's hands slides into his hair.