A/N: On Tumblr, I decided to mimic someone and do a, "Give me a sentence in my ask box and I'll write a Cherik drabbled based off of it!" challenge.

I got three from my RP partner, beinfinite (a.k.a. Rachel).

This is what she gave me as a prompt: "Erik can't sleep, Charles comes to his rescue."

And well, this is what progressed from that idea. XD

Erik's POV, but you learn that pretty quickly. Takes place sometime during the First Class film, throughout the training montage week.

I can never get to sleep. It's become somewhat of a habit to avoid slipping into unconsciousness. It makes me a bit dazed or weary sometimes, but I pull through with an extra shot of caffeine in my system, or with a splash of cold water.

Anything to avoid the nightmares, the guilt, the haunting presences, the possibility of unsuspecting attack.

What good is found in deep sleeping, anyhow? I can doze — "power-nap," if you prefer — and get just the same amount of rest for my body to prevent psychological illness without being too out of it to protect myself or too into it to dream. So what good is it? What's the point, when all sleeping brings me is grief and not relief, like it's meant to?

Unfortunately, this habitual process of resisting sleep only goes well for me if a certain telepath isn't involved.

Charles is a strong believer in sleep. It's probably the only thing that does him good, what with all the thoughts of others in his head all day long. Some blissful reprieve would ease all that, and with me awake to protect him, he's safe from any potential danger.

But he doesn't like my insomnia (it has become that, now; so much practice of non-sleep has caused me to develop an incapability to slip into that dreamland). Charles does everything in his power when he catches me awake to put me to sleep.

And, a few times, it's worked. I've slept, and I didn't have any nightmares nor guilt, no ghosts of the past tormented me, and I awoke alive and unharmed in the morning.

Those were the miracle nights, but also the worst ones, because I got a lecture first from Charles about refraining from slumber, and then he finally put me to sleep himself, traitorously going into my head to do it, since common remedies such as lullabies (I do love to hear him sing, however) and warm milk not quite cutting it.

Tonight, it seems, isn't any different.

I'm wildly pacing my room, and I suppose Charles hears me (or perhaps he sensed it, distantly touching on my train-wreck thoughts?), because no sooner have I checked the clock for the time (1:13 a.m.) does Charles sweep into my room unnanounced.

"Erik!" he calls out softly, closing the door behind him and stopping me in my tracks with his gaze.

I grunt and roll my eyes, turning away. "What is it, Charles?"

"I was reading when my mind drifted to yours, and I felt your exhaustion and damned bloody willpower to resist it again, and I had to intervene! Why can't you sleep?"

I sigh, dropping to sit on the edge of my bed in his mansion as I rub my eyes tiredly with one hand, pinching the bridge of my nose before releasing the area. I exhale loudly. "We are to face Shaw soon enough. I need to be on my guard, I need to —"

"You pigheaded berk!" he whispers sharply, and I frown for a moment, slow to realize that he's using British slang again, this time for 'idiot.' "Now is the precise time you should be resting so that you are more keen during battle!" he reprimands, and comes to stand in front of me, but not so close that he has to peer downward.

I swallow, tighten my jaw, and stare at him with a hard gaze. "All right, I'll play along this time, Charles. What would you have me do to get to sleep now, hmm? Have me lie down as you tuck me in and read me a bedtime story?" I scoff, and lean back, legs stretched to hook at the ankles on the floor below me, my arms folded tightly across my lithe chest.

Charles seems to actually take this into consideration for a moment. Then, with a slight grin on the corners of his lips, I see something click in his perfectly blue eyes, and I drop my arms and grip the ledge of the mattress.

"Charles…" I say in warning, not liking that look on his face. "If you dare force me to fall asleep by invading my brain again, so help me I —"

"Oh, none of that," Charles corrects, waving a hand in the air as if he could shove aside my unfinished (and empty, because I would never hurt him) threat. "I was thinking more along the lines of… visuals and sensations."

And he sends me the images first before he touches me or takes a single step forward. The images are like electricity in my brain, sending sparks throughout my body.

I expected soothing, sleepy things, like, oh, warm, fuzzy blankets, or hot cocoa going down my throat as I sit in front of a fireplace, or even peaceful meadows with relaxing shade or sunlight.

But I was wrong. My expectations were very far off.

Instead, I get bursts of other, more feral things, like skin sliding over skin, sweaty and burning pleasantly; lips and tongue and teeth clashing and tickling and devouring one another; bodies pressed back to chest, or chest to chest, mouths hot on skin, breathing chilly air, goosebumps rising, moans in the air, moans vibrating against flesh, and off and on the sensation of arousal and sexual pleasure.

And when he sends me a powerful feeling — lacking specific visuals, I notice — of a big finish, the most intense orgasm I think I've ever felt (and it's not even happening, not even my own)… I suck in air and wrench my eye shut, body trembling, goosebumps already there from before, and soon I'm flopping backward, not even realizing I moved, small pants coming from my mouth.

"What the fuck, Charles!" I growl, sitting back up again and shooting a glare at him.

"What?" the I-think-I'm-so-clever-and-devious telepath smirks, falsely innocent, as he makes his way around me, around the bed, to plop down on the other side, his legs crossing at the knee as he reclines backward against the padded headboard.

"You… you just…" I grind out, torn between feeling like I'm about to pass out and heated anger. (Yes. Anger. I can't be feeling at all heated anywhere else, not my face or my groin, because I will not succumb to that.)

"I'm trying to aid you in finding rest, Erik; nothing more, nothing less," Charles replies casually. He isn't quite looking at me, and I can catch traces of pink on his cheeks and on the tips of his ears. "It's a tact I use for myself sometimes; I find that I fall asleep the quickest and deepest without much dreaming if it's after a similar session, imagination-generated or actual."

I don't know what to say to that. I only know that, now, as I think about that climaxing bit, I keep picturing Charles, flat on his back beneath me, face flushes darker than it is now, sweat on his brow, his hair pushed back, and him feeling that along with me…

"…How flattering, my friend," the telepath smiles, and yes, now he isblushing harder, just like I'm imagining, and I lick my lips.

"I wonder how far I can make that flattery go?" I ask aloud, my voice losing its gruff tones. "I'm still not tired enough to sleep now that your illusions have worn off, Charles. You should make them more realistic, and then I might sleep."

Charles gapes at me for a moment (I clearly hadn't reacted according to plan; or perhaps I have, and that is why he's so surprised, because he didn't think it would work?), but then whispers, "Turn off the light, and get into the bed," and I know I've succeeded.

…As it happens, it takes another hour until I'm able to fall asleep, and I'm a little uncomfortably sticky with sweat and other things, but I find myself not caring as I hold Charles to my bare side and drift off into the best sleep I've had in ages.