by Meredith Bronwen Mallory (garnettrees)
Rating: NC-17. I'm serious.
Disclaimer: X-Men, all associated characters and imagery are all property of Marvel Comics. I make no money by writing this, and intend no disrespect.
Trigger Warnings: Abduction/kidnapping, mind control, light D/s, sub!Erik, dub con, noncon (not actual), captivity, non-pairing character death, drugging. And the kitchen sink.
Additional Warnings: (is is that enticements?) dark!Charles, Beach AU, mind fuckery like whoa.
Summary: Dedicated to the brilliant anon who issued this prompt over on xmen-firstkink: Charles trains captive!Erik to be the perfect submissive sex slave, with lavish praise, positive reinforcement, and firm and strict discipline mixed with kindness, encouragement, and plenty of orgasms.
Erik knows how to handle pain, anger, and cruelty. But Charles' approach just completely undoes him.
I can't thank you guys enough for all the wonderful comments! You're very kind to me, and it makes writing this story that much more fun.
TW for this set: Some PTSD, mentions of piercing and sensory deprivation, body image issues, and crying!Erik. The threat of memory-altering. Some religious imagery.
Do I need to warn for Charles being a manipulative bastard? *tacks that on anyway*
Other warnings: Service submission, discussion of D/s principles, nipple-kink.
Finally got to the nipple-play I kept promising! Plus a little bit of bathing, too. ^_^
Night Ocean 1-4/? | Night Ocean 5-7/? | Night Ocean 8-12/? | Night Ocean 13-16/? | Night Ocean 17-21/? | Night Ocean 22-25/?
Night Ocean 26-30/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
(The images come quickly, like breaths of lightning, but so vivid. Like stained glass in their vibrant color. Charles, pierced with silver that hums constantly in the back of Erik's mind, two great loves intertwined. The metal-bender-- bound, gaged, and blindfolded-- so divorced from the world around him that Charles' touch is the only thing that feels real. The younger man's rosy nipples, just a shade lighter than his mouth, which fascinated Erik to the point he had always very studiously ignored them. Faster, faster, until he cannot sort them out, cannot identify where conscious wish melts into subconscious demand. Beautiful in its eroticism, in the _love_ that practically bleeds from every scene. Terrifying, because no two people could ever touch each other like that without perfect trust.)
"My pretty blue-eyed serpent," Erik murmurs, tender underneath the mocking tone. The bravado is there to shore up against his fear, the overwhelming sensation that he has lost more ground than he had ever hoped to gain, and in the blink of an eye.
('I am as G-d made me', people say. Well, I am as I was made, not by G-d, but by the mad doctor. I fight not only because I want to, but because I also do not know how to stop.)
And oh, his resentful child-self is screaming, way down in the catacombs where Erik himself dares not trespass. There's no way Charles _doesn't_ hear him, this time; that boy can be astonishingly loud. The telepath shifts, draws his lover down to listen to the ocean rhythm of that innocent, tarnished heart.
"Shhh…" Charles says, kissing the older man's hair. It's a bit unclear who he's speaking to. That hated memory, that restless ghost had finally tasted Schmidt's blood, and he was more volatile than he had been for many, many years. "Hush, dear one," the professor half-croons. Behind the sugary calm is some of Charles' own panic.
(Oh, Lord-- what if I do break him? His mind, his wonderful mind-- could I fix-- I'm not sure-- just this evening, maybe, remove that…)
Erik's grip becomes punishing, and the telepath instinctively sends forth waves of reassurance and bliss, tinged with penance.
"You know I wouldn't do that," the younger man goes on, seemingly unaware he's the only one participating in the conversation.
(I was only worried. It was only a thought.
Ah, Neshama, I think you lost that defense the moment you began helping yourself to mine.)
He's picking up two textures of horror-- Erik's fear of being changed, _operated_ upon without his consent, and his unrelenting dread of anyone seeing, knowing what he has already survived. Its far too late for that; Charles has known since that night in Miami, for what else could Erik mine for the rage to even attempt lifting that submarine? Sometimes the professor doesn't quite grasp the enormity of it, how its gangrenous rot touched _everything_. But he has also never flinched, never turned away in disgust.
(and, below that honest distress is something else, a repugnance that is also the seed of an idea.
"misstep," says the metal-bender's monstrous undermind, even as it shrinks away from charles' serene light. "mistake."
the idea is so abhorrent that it has no hope of rising to erik's conscious mind.
"Someday," the telepath says, brushing gentle, awed kisses against the other man's suddenly damp cheeks. "You'll understand how precious you are to me. How much I love you." 'And I will teach you to accept it, even if you think you don't deserve it, even if you feel it can't be borne.' Almost to himself, he adds, "I'm a very patient person."
How well Erik knows this-- Charles' patience is like that of the ocean against the coastal shelf. Soothing, mesmerizing, as unstoppable as the tide.
The professor kisses away the last of Erik's tears. Nimbly climbing out of bed, he he holds out his hand. The other man has a moment to marvel at the way Xavier holds himself, even whilst nude. It is not like Erik's careless, desensitized carriage at all, but the bearing of someone who feels himself to be watched, and very much desired.
"Come on, then." They're far past the 'lets-be-reasonable' tone, and a good way into 'you'd-best-play-nicely'. Not quite as familiar, but definitely something Alex and Hank would recognize. "I think we'll have a bath."
Erik lets the small hand over over his own, feels the ever-present bonds morph into that affectionate mantel, almost drugging in its comfort and respite. Charles keeps up the steady stream of warm emotions as he leads his captive into the bathroom, bids him kneel and wait.
(love you, want you, only mine, keep you safe give you pleasure, beautiful, beautiful, no one else will ever get to see you like this, mine)
As the professor begins drawing the bath, those tender projections slide closer and closer to covetous adoration, a growing ember of lust. It's like being in a dream where the senses were so heightened that even the most mundane of tasks made the vein in your cock pulse. The water doesn't run for very long-- with both of them in the tub, they'll hardly need much. As the professor motions for Erik to join him, the older man can't help but feel pleasantly disoriented. He has never been one for an excess of drink or chemical recreation-- the closest parallel he can find is the very first time he took himself in hand. Acting on instinct and rumor, groping for something he didn't quite understand.
It takes some doing, but the telepath arranges himself between his lover's legs so that they face each other. Those regal hands clasp themselves behind the other's neck, confidently possessive. The overwhelming sense of fright-- and whatever ideas came with it-- now seem like something a sailor might glimpse on distant shore. Maybe it's there, maybe it isn't. Oh, well.
"Touch me," Charles commands softly, and Erik does. Lingeringly, with far more deference than he ever has before. Gentle, gentle-- smoothing back the younger man's hair, ghosting over the freckles on his shoulders, the curve of his arse under the water.
"Not like that." The professor's smile is indulgent as he takes Erik's hand, guiding it so that the palm lays flat against one of those rosy nipples. The nub responds immediately, hardening even as the older man sucks in a long breath.
His own nipples are not very erogenous at all, though he knows the opposite his true for his younger lover. No matter how much Charles enjoys it, Erik has never been able to bring himself to pay more than cursory attention to those little buds. He's had his fair share of sexual partners-- of both genders-- and admired more than a few women's curves. None of them held quite the fascination that Charles' lithe chest does. Maybe its the contrast-- fleshy pink against pale English skin, reminiscent of that gorgeous mouth. Perhaps it is because the telepath is so smooth and hairless, making them seem more vulnerable. Its just a secondary sex characteristic, certainly no where near as notable as other points of interest. Regardless, the way they command his attention has always made Erik feel somewhat perverse. He does have standards, often quite alien to those around him, but standards never the less.
He can feel Charles hovering in his mind, waiting to see if he will indulge himself, or must be made to. Finally, the telepath licks his finger, taking it upon himself to pleasure the other nipple.
"Oh," Erik says, gently batting the professor's hand away so he can feel this one harden as well. Pinching them softly, he marvels at the texture.
"Mmmm…" Charles murmurs, head tilting back in unconscious enjoyment. "Just that way, yes." Distantly, the older man feels a prickle of shame, but it hardly seems important. Charles has asked him to do this, is pleased that he is doing this, projecting the little shocks of delight so they can both enjoy it. He flicks one cautiously, and they both breathe in sharply. When the professor kneels up, bringing his nipples almost perfectly level with the other's mouth, Erik barely hesitates. He nuzzles against each one, very precisely dividing his attention between them, always apologetically stroking the one he isn't focused on. With a broad swipe of his tongue, he licks each on, and then again when he hears the telepath's soft murmur of approval. Briefly, he pulls away, thinking he will see Charles face tilted up in ecstasy, eyes closed. Instead, that blue gaze doesn't waver, measuring him affectionately, waiting for him to go on. When he bends to start licking again, Xavier brings his hands up to cup the older man's skull, holding him in place.
That one word goes straight to Erik's cock, which is really the only thing that draws his attention to the fact he himself is aroused. He spares a brief thought for that-- it seems relatively unimportant-- before gently fastening his mouth against the left nipple.
"There's a good boy," the other's voice is quiet but utterly arresting. Like the feel of real gold against Erik's extended senses; a decadent, honeyed slide. "That's it, sweetheart." At some point, the metal-bender is going to look back on this and be mortified-- right now, he slides his hands up to stroke against Charles' shoulder blades, holding him in place.
"You are a slut, aren't you?" the professor asks, clearly not expecting a response. Which is good because, while Erik might be able to manage a monosyllabic answer, he's not sure what language it would be in, or if it would even be intelligible. Besides, there's the right twin to attend to.
"Thought you could hide." The telepath is clearly struggling to vocalize as well. Giving up, he strokes deft tendrils through the pleasure centers of Erik's brain. 'You thought I wouldn't see, wouldn't know what kind of boy I had in my bed.' That sharpens the edge of the older man's arousal. He's aware that he's leaking pre-come in the cooling water. "Such a mess you're making," the professor scolds breathlessly, at the same time sounding immeasurably pleased. "Up, up-- before you dirty the water further."
Erik kisses each bud regretfully, allows the other man to brace against him as they both step out of the bath. They're facing each other, dripping on the mat, flushed from the warm water and their own exertions. Blindly, Charles grabs a needlessly soft washcloth from the stack nearby. He holds it under the fresh tap for a moment and, when he cups both of their erections through the fabric, it is just on the right side of too hot. They both release little moans of pleasure as Xavier sets up a methodical pace. The texture is delicious, to say nothing of the firm grip. There's a warm rush as the professor finds his release, though that deft hand keeps stroking. The older man is aware he's waiting for something, holding on tooth and nail. A small part of him wonders what it is he's waiting for.
"Good boy," Charles says, tones drenched in approval and ownership. "You may."
It's another one of those orgasms that involve a whole spectra of color behind his eyes. Erik clutches the professor against him; half for balance, and half to feel those hard little nipples against his own ribcage. He's breathing hard as Charles discards the soiled washrag. Some of their seed has spilled over into his hand-- when the telepath holds it up for Erik to lick clean, the other doesn't miss a beat. Charles appropriates two more clean, wet cloths and begins wiping them both down. The older man returns the favor, though he has to go a bit more slowly, and he gets briefly distracted by the drop of water still clinging to the notch of Xavier's collar bone. The faint tinge of sweat smells like some exotic spice, or the darkness of earth around fresh roots.
"See? I told you. It may be hard work, but once we get you down there…" That grin would be boyish if it weren't so wicked. All the same, Erik has absolutely no idea what his lover is talking about. The only 'down there' he knows is that narrow, unpleasant kingdom that started this whole mess. Thinking perhaps its something of an order, Erik starts to kneel.
"No, darling." There's an indulgent chuckle. The telepath wraps a towel around himself, handing one to his companion. Then Xavier is back in Erik's space again, making himself comfortable against the taller man's chest. "You really don't know, do you?"
Even as his arms come up to cradle and hold, the older man projects a lazy sense of question and confusion.
"You feel very good right now-- warm and safe, right?"
Pause. A nod.
"You like just listening to my voice, don't you? It feels good when you do as I say, and you can feel how proud I am of you."
The nod comes more quickly this time. Erik rubs his cheek against Charles' damp hair.
"That's the 'down there' I'm talking about. How pleasurable it is to just let go, so the only thing you have to worry about is obeying me," the professor's tone is confiding, as if they are both privy to some secret. "You know I'll take care of you."
Ah. That would be utterly terrifying, if Erik weren't quite so relaxed. He's barely keeping himself upright. His mind hums with vague arousal, though his body is in no way prepared to respond. So very tired, he hopes Charles will lay down with him, stay until he falls asleep. That breeze moves again in his mind, looking for the sort of panic and fear he had experienced earlier that evening. There's really nothing to find. The older man is thinking about holding his lover, spooning up behind him, so that the encircling arm rests against those lovely sore nipples.
"Yes, of course," Xavier whispers. An impish look crosses his face as he stares up at Erik. "Carry me to bed?" Which is something Charles used to fuss at him for, being so eager to take advantage of their different builds, his own strength. Apparently, the rules have changed.
(rules change, lines shift, maps are rewritten, kingdoms rise and are lost again, men stumble behind enemy lines)
Lifting the younger man gently, Erik cradles him against his chest, holding his burden ever-so-carefully. He deposits Charles on the bed and climbs in after, huddling them both under the duvet. It's much darker in the room, now that the fire has died down, but still warm enough. The professor tilts his head back, and Erik gets a good-night kiss.
Later, as he drifts on the dark tides Charles has guided him to, he will dream. He will be alone, but tucked in carefully, while the telepath lives his other life. It is not a nightmare, this vision, but it is laced with a vague trepidation.
(It is the most powerful kind of dream, one that stems from memory, becomes refracted. Erik dreams he is twenty-something again, staying a squalid little apartment in the Latin Quarter of Paris as he follows up on a lead. As is the way with the subconscious, some of the details are off. The room is right, utilitarian and given character only by the belongings of the man he reluctantly shares it with. But the walls are the wrong color, a yellow that makes him nervous. The man-- Lucas, Luca? something pretentious like that-- is an aspiring artist, the sort of hand-to-mouth type that occasionally condescends to illustrate for the pulps. He and Erik view each other with a sort of cordial contempt, made bearable only by the fact they know the arrangement is extremely temporary. The younger Erik watches Lucas pace back and forth, fuming. He is breaking his brushes over his knee, throwing them away like he thinks they could possibly land in the Seine from their drafty dormer window.
"That bitch!" Lucas is fairly shrieking, which amuses his roommate about as much as it annoys him. "That she should vomit up her own heart, and choke on it!" His model-- also his lover-- has left him for another artist, and said two-bit hack's girlfriend. There's a canvas of the lady in question propped up against easel. If Erik ever knew or cared what her name was, he doesn't remember. Pale little thing, long dark hair. Lucas stabs the painting with his pallet knife, over and over.
"This is the problem, Monsieur Lehnsherr." Even if he weren't drinking bourbon straight from the bottle, he would most certainly still butcher Erik's name. Over in the corner, there's the fair-haired young man who will become the next lover/model, though he isn't supposed to be there. In linear time, he begins showing up just a handful of days before Erik quits Paris all together. He has those blond good looks that grate on the metal-bender's nerves, and right now he looks spectacularly bored by the whole scene. An obtuse and disinterested Ganymede.
"Hate," Lucas continues, jabbing the air to make a point. "Hate has only one edge. Love has two."
The smell of chocolate begins to fill the room, another strange detail. It gets very strong, as if its somehow rotting, making Erik physically ill. Having completely destroyed the canvas, Lucas pulls the next closest one up in its place. It's acrylic, some tacky thing he did for one of the war-adventure pulps. Garish Japanese soldiers are throwing themselves off a cliff, onto the sharp sea-rocks below. It's atrocious, but Erik can't take his eyes off it. Couldn't, even when this was really happening.
Lucas rolls his eyes, says something the dreamer does not remember ever hearing before. "Ah, I should have known you'd like that one. Monsieur Dragon is quite the sort to take everyone down with him."
"There," a young boy's voice hisses. Ghost or no ghost, he means to have his way. "Give me that. It's sharp, it's metal. It's mine.")
Neshama- hebrew. the intelligent or reasoning part of the soul. Also used as an endearment.
*side-eyes the plot* I don't know how that keeps getting in there. ^_~;;;
As always, comments = love. It's in all the math texts, I assure you. ;-)