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"Do you trust me?" Charles asks, all seriousness.

"No," Erik says with brutal honesty, but then he leans in and nuzzles the side of Charles's neck. "That's what makes it fun," he murmurs. "Do it."

So Charles takes Erik's head between his hands, and closes his eyes, and abruptly Erik is the happiest he's ever been.

It's not that his memory has been altered; he still remembers everything that's passed between them. It just doesn't matter. At all.

For this moment, being in Charles's presence is everything in the world to him.

For this moment, he lets it be so.

The popsicles are supposed to be for the younger kids, but that doesn't stop Charles from raiding the stash and grabbing one. Erik finds him in the kitchen, lips and tongue stained cherry red from the half-eaten pop.

When he sees Erik, his expression flickers into surprise and guilt before settling on a wicked playfulness, and he slows down, sucking with an almost pornographic attitude. Erik watches, mesmerized by the smooth glide of the pop in and out of Charles's mouth, by the dribble of melting juice that runs down his chin.

When he finishes, Charles wipes his face, smirking.

The latest mutant they found through Cerebro had been a fighter, reacting with violence instead of relief or fear. The bruses are still vivid against Erik's flesh.

Charles rumbles against him, almost a growl, shen he sees them.

"I'm all right," Erik says, but Charles gives a quick shake of his head.

"You can take care of yourself. I know that. But--" He closes his mouth over one of the more colorful bruises. "No one should mark you except for me."

Erik strips his trousers off, tossing them over with his discarded shirt. "Don't worry," he murmurs, "I'm still yours."

The club is dimly lit and fragrant with sexual tension. Charles gives a shudder as he enters. //I'm fine,// he reassures Erik mentally, //just... God.// His face is flushed, his pulse racing.

"We have some time," Erik says, and guides Charles over to a corner. They aren't alone but everyone there is occupied. "Relax. I've got you."

"Ah," Charles gasps, and his eyes flutter closed. "Erik, I can't... I'm not..."

"Shh," Erik says. The place reeks of sex even to him; Charles is no doubt falling under a riptide of mental energy. "I've got you," he repeats, "let yourself go."

"Not right now," Charles says, and turns away.

Erik reaches out to the metal of the chair and grips it with his mind. The wheels lock, and Charles skids to a stop.

"I'm not letting you leave," Erik purrs, and wrenches the armrests over to trap Charles.

"Don't," he whispers, "Erik, please," but with the helmet off Erik can hear the thoughts he's transmitting: //please yes so good I want this please Erik please--//

Erik prowls around and braces himself on the chair frame, looming over Charles. "You're staying put until I'm done with you," he promises ominously.

"No." //Please!//