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.
A/N: Not a whole lot of sex in this one, unfortunately, but I'm working towards the 'firm and strict discipline' part of the prompt. So, this section is otherwise known as Erik Gets Himself In Big Trouble.
TW for this section: non-specific discussion of hostile interspecies tactics, discussion of mind/memory altering (not actual). More passive-aggressive chess. Mind games from all sides. Erik digging himself a really big hole.
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/?
Night Ocean 31-33/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
If there are any factors in Erik's favor, they are these: first, his instincts are such that conscious decisions are often the final part of his thought processes. Second, Charles-- with that typically selective chivalry-- withdraws considerably during their chess games.
They're playing now; one of their longer games, which has slowly been shifting in Erik's favor. The pauses between moves occur not so much for consideration as for the flow of conversation. They circle back on their old philosophical tracks, binary stars locked in orbit. Even after the paradigm shift of Cuba, they are both still the sum of their parts. It's not so much that Charles retains his unbridled faith in humanity (he's a great deal more selective about that too, these days)-- but they are still very different men.
"You don't really believe this respite will last, do you?" Erik asks, resting his chin in his hand. He's gotten used to playing nude. It rarely crosses his mind anymore, save that it makes him more accessible to Charles. "You may have delayed the inevitable, smoothing away our participation in the Crisis, and the CIA's knowledge of our existence. It won't last, though. As soon as humanity becomes aware of the threat to their supremacy, they will dedicate themselves to destroying us."
"Mmmm," Charles says, lithe fingers tracing over his remaining bishop. "There's no denying that, as a species, it would be in their best interest. Individuals might have sympathy for, or a stake in, the fate of mutant-kind. The whole, however, will react with atavistic panic." Long ago and far away, his innocent geneticist would not even have conceded that much. It's a bit surreal, an unpleasant scrape of ice against Erik's spine. Satisfied with his decision, the professor moves his bishop, nodding to his opponent.
"In a way, you're right. I am playing for time, though I don't think I'm being unrealistic about it." Today, Xavier is wearing a dark navy cardigan over slate gray slacks. Those eyes, so steady as they regard Erik, seem even more heartbreakingly blue. Even now, there's an openness about that face, plain affection for his confidant, that pierces the older man anew.
"To the outside world, this will be just another facility for gifted youngsters. I intend to do everything in my power to ensure this is a safe, welcoming space where they can come into their own." For a moment, the younger man's voice seems very far away. "I think about how ill-prepared Stryker and his fellows were to even grasp the concept of mutants. The ingrained conceit that they are the pinnacle of evolution. We'll have exceptional young people here, and they'll grow up to be exceptional adults. Scientists, artists, inventors, politicians…"
In so many ways, this strategy is as calculating as it is characteristically Charles. There is a brutal honesty in direct aggression-- Erik finds it redemptive. The professor has never shared his opinion.
"I want to get at least one generation of mutants out into society before our existence becomes generally known," his friend continues. "And then, by the time the world accepts the situation as real and immediate…"
It will be too late. There will be mutants in the corridors of power, in the public spotlight, and in the star-chambers where humans had once thought their secrets safe. The world would wake up to discover the war had been fought and decided, with barely a shot fired.
"That's quite the sleight of hand," Erik says, not bothering to disguise his tone. There's a sort of almost religious terror creeping into his voice. Insidious, is the word for it-- though he can't quite bring himself to say that aloud.
"Mutants don't necessarily need to outnumber humans," the scientist murmurs. "Though we certainly have anecdotal evidence to suggest the birth rate will increase. Who knows how many from the 'Baby Boom' are also part of a sudden surge in mutation as well? Not to mention that Hank and I have barely begun to chart factors on a genetic level. It may be that humans will just…" Charles' voice becomes very soft, but he does not look down or away. "Gradually phase out."
Such a deft little blue print, in both its inverted idealism, and its deceipt. Erik can very clearly envision his lover's own ghost-- that pale, quiet boy of empty libraries and lonely rocking chairs. The one who watched Sharon Xavier work a cocktail party, peering between banisters because he'd already been sent to bed. Here she is flirtatious-- there, confiding and sympathetic-- now fawning, yet discrete.
(Spieglein, spieglein, an der wand.)
For a moment, Erik half-expects to feel the serene tendrils of Xavier's thoughts, looking for the translation. Nothing-- his opponent is still interested in maintaining the integrity of the game. The older man moves a pawn, not for the sake of strategy, but because it will not due to let his attention lag. There is something rising, some idea dawning fully that he has unknowingly been considering for some time. A bit like a shell game, another sleight of hand. Now you see it, now you don't. He chuckles a little, shaking his head.
"I don't know what's so funny about sparing innocent lives," the professor says primly. Erik could kiss him, just then, if only for sounding so much like the Charles of old.
"No," the captive whispers, "I don't suppose you would." He smiles easily, because he is mocking himself. By way of explanation, "It's the irony I like. Gallows' humor."
A regal, if somewhat grudging nod in return.
(this is it, end of the rope, end of the line. enough rope to hang yourself, as they say. hang 'em high, and cut 'em down.
i told you. it's sharp, it's metal. it's mine.)
And there it is, the idea come to fruition. A sick, non-survival rose, thorns turned inwards. Silently, Erik watches the professor move his rook, and considers. There are, in his mind, two most likely outcomes. Either Charles takes him for his word, or the idea so enrages the telepath that he projects that wrath outward, which would probably have devastating consequences for anyone in close range. In either scenario, the real Erik-- the man-boy, monster-ghost-- who is the sum of his experiences will be gone. He doesn't believe in an afterlife; if there is a god, he is dead, or else insane. Still, ceasing to exist will be its own type of peace. Everyone should be so lucky.
"I have a solution," he offers, looking at his own reflection in the mirrored board.
"A solution to what?" Charles asks, leaning forward.
"This." With a broad wave of his hand, Erik indicates the room, his imprisonment, the power struggle at large.
For a moment, his jailor seems faintly amused. "Whatever do you mean?"
"You should have done it long ago." The words are atonal-- he's trying for academic disinterest and falling sorely short. Well, no man is eager to die. "Like your solution with the humans-- secure your victory before the struggle even begins." Now he does lift his gaze, drinking in that beautiful face.
(my love, my enemy, my brother in arms)
"Reach into my mind," Erik says desperately. "Make it so that it is what you want. Change what you wish, discard what you can't. You have exactly the powers that separate gods from men. _Be_ god."
What follows is probably a long silence, though the older man cannot hear it over the pounding of blood in his ears. He can feel Charles following his train of thought, how the idea had grown in darkness and knew no light. That poorly composed painting, Japanese soldiers on their final banzai plunge, flashes briefly before him.
"Excuse me?" the professor asks, his voice like the sound of dead leaves on stone.
(hate has one edge, love has two)
"I said--" But Erik doesn't finish-- the breath seems knocked from him, replaced with cold, twisted bone. He hadn't realized how accustomed he'd become to Charles' mental presence, the glow of that affectionate sentience, until it is utterly gone. Involuntarily, he shivers.
"I heard what you said." Not just calm, but placid. Ice over a running stream. "I'm sorry." An expression of regret, rather than apology. "I thought I had made myself clear." The telepath's aura is like some phoenix's wing-span, crackling dangerously even as it suddenly holds itself apart from Erik.
"I love you." Xavier sounds very tired, as though his anger is outweighed by an almost physical disappointment. "_You_. Your mind, and the soul you mistakenly refuse to acknowledge. There's no denying you're physically attractive, and I don't think I've ever argued that point. However…" That blue gaze focuses briefly past the older man, as if searching the shadows. Erik knows better-- it is his own mirror of memory the professor is transfixed by. This is just the first time in a long while that Lehnsherr hasn't been privy to it as well. It's disconcerting, like static marring a broadcast.
(too much interference, too much white noise. I no longer hear the music and, worse still, I no longer remember the song.)
"Do you think other people's minds are pleasant?" Charles asks, seemingly changing tracks. He may not be reading his captive's mind, but he can definitely read the other man's face. He holds up a hand to forestall the familiar, inevitable argument. I'm not talking about whether their thoughts are unkind, or if their essential character bleeds through."
(oh, my poor, chivalrous darling-- do you think I like being right about the propensity for evil?)
"I'm talking about just the _feel_ of other minds around you, constantly. Its like looking at the same bowl of fruit painted by a million different artists. After a while, it can make you feel alien to yourself."
"But you--" Erik protests, remembering the look on his friend's face the first time he'd told the telepath to stay out of his head. The rest of the words won't come, however. It's probably just as well.
"Don't seem to have a problem being in your mind? Have, in fact, sought it out?" Those blue eyes are so _intense_, full of some feeling. It seems unbelievable that Erik cannot immediately decipher what it is. "It's not a hardship to be in your mind, Erik. One of these days, you're going to figure out that you're the exception, not the rule!"
spieglein, spieglein, an der wand- mirror, mirror on the wall
(I know almost nothing about German-- this translation was given to me by a friend of mine so, if I screwed it up, the fault lies with me. ^^;)
As always, comments will cause me to love you forever and... and... kiss your ring, or something! IDEK. ^^;;