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Loss-Gain Ratios

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"What about now?" Raven asks, voice deepening, skin itching the slightest bit as she expands, and she knows she's struck home when Charles looks away. His expression is torn between desire and shame. He doesn't stop her when she threads long, callused fingers through his hair or presses their lips roughly together.

"Raven—" he chokes out, and she silences him with another kiss.

"Call me Erik," she commands.

"This is a terrible idea," Charles says, but it's not a no. His hands have made their way under her shirt, his hips pressed hard against hers. It doesn't take a telepath to tell he wants her this way.

"It's a great idea. We both get what we want." Raven has his belt undone, pushes him back toward the bed.

"No," Charles says even as he pulls her down on top of him. "We don't."

It's true, but Raven's long accustomed to settling. She says, "Close enough."

This once, Charles doesn't argue. He kisses her mouth, whispers, "Erik," against her neck. They write loss-gain ratios with their fingers and mouths into one another's skin.

It's worth it, Raven thinks. It's worth it.

As she slides in, Charles makes a sound halfway between pleasure and pain.

(Almost.)