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: This fic is a _monster_, I tell you. I'm gonna feed it and pet it and take it home and call it George. ^_~
Thank you so much to everyone who's been sticking with this. *waves at raffi* And the darling OP, of course. I hope you continue to enjoy!
TW for this set: Stockholm Syndrome, emotional fuckery, brief mentions of past abuse, some PTSD. Mentions of orgasm denial, psychic bondage. Old-fashioned mind games (the way we did them when I was a kid! ^_~). Charles being kind of a dick.
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/?
Night Ocean 34-36/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
"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!"
Charles spreads his hands, palms up and open, an inarticulate gesture that begs, 'please understand', even as the look in his eyes whispers, 'I know you can't'. The metal-bender automatically begins to rise as well, reaching towards the professor. All he gets is a quick, sharp shake of the head.
"I don't want an ornament. Some," the younger man spits the word, "_marionette_ that looks like Erik and sounds like Erik, but is not-- in any way that counts-- _my_ Erik!" Never once during this entire exchange has he raised his voice. He still doesn't, though his words gain a strange cadence, as if imbued with the power of that brilliant mind. "Is this your version of falling on your sword?"
(live when they want you dead; die, when they demand you live. poison the wells, salt the earth. make them pay for every centimeter, every molecule, blood and blood and yet more blood. let them have their pyrrhic victory, and then die with the taste of
--ash, chocolate, unclean things--
your vengeance in their mouths.)
Erik knows Charles doesn't need to read his mind right now. It is clear on his own face, the expression-- or lack thereof-- that shows he has no tricks left, and his back is to the sea.
"Always military terminology, with you," the professor observes. Briefly, the older man's mind seems to tense, waiting for that familiar psychic caress. Nothing comes. The younger mutant is utterly removed from him, and Erik must again fight down the urge to physically reach out. Everything about his captor's body language says such a thing would not be welcome right now. No, Xavier is not listening his thoughts-- he's making a statement based on past experience.
And what can be said to this? Words of apology, yes, but no special skill would be required to detect insincerity. Erik had expected any number of outraged reactions to his gambit. This… this heart-weary sorrow, this withdraw, was not one of them.
"That's the thing about battles," Charles continues. "Someone always wins, and someone else loses. It's not a good metaphor for interactions between two people who supposedly love each other."
There ought to be a pithy retort for that but, the statement strikes Erik as so completely ridiculous-- and so horrifyingly _true_-- that nothing comes to him. They both flinch as the words hang in the air, but whats said is said. What's unsaid is _also_ said; that is the telepath's gift, and his curse. He can know that Erik feels so deeply, even after all this, and also be fully aware his lover remains unwilling to utter the words. Charles tilts his chin up in that regal, defiant manner. He's giving his final word on the subject.
"You don't get to walk away. Especially not like that."
(beloved enemy, resented friend. do you not think it is the same for me? i could walk away and still never leave, always circling back, ardent and covetous even as i refuse you.)
Returning to his seat, the professor gestures distractedly towards the board. "Let's just… finish the game."
They do finish, and in short order. It's hardly more than a formality. Erik no longer has eyes for the board, and Xavier quickly turns the tide against him. It occurs to the older man that he should say something-- try to defend, to explain, because he cannot apologize. They're just _words_, though, and English ones at that. Never has the adopted tongue felt so clumsy, so inadequate.
"Well," Charles says, clasping his hands over his knees. An old part of Erik tenses; so ancient, and yet such a little boy. Surely now, even the saintly professor will take a pound of flesh. "I suppose I'll go bully the lawyers a bit more-- Raven says I'm being abominable-- but I really do want everything in order so we can open for the spring term." There's that brave little smile, like the one in Langley, when Charles said he hoped his new friend would stay. "I can't put off chores forever, I suppose."
It comes to Erik-- rather more slowly than it should have, he feels-- that the professor intends to leave. His captor had kissed him awake, fucking his mouth ardently with that nubile tongue. What followed was a a brief but intensely erotic fumble, during which the telepath held his lover still and relaxed while he ground his own hardness against the older man's thigh. Erik had been wild to touch him, and utterly helpless to do anything save lie there. The thought that Xavier could use him, any part of him-- even something as mundane as his thighs-- for self-gratification had only heightened the arousal. He came when permitted
(such a good little boy)
but his own orgasm almost paled in comparison to the relief of finally being allowed to put his hands on Charles again. Then dinner, and the ill-fated chess game. Not a long sequence of events, but a fair investment. Erik has no way of measuring time, but he knows (he knows) the telepath usually stays much longer. Chess is almost always a prelude to the main event, as both prisoner and jailor indulge in a myriad of touches, pleasuring each other until the feedback loop becomes almost too much to be borne. More often than not, the older man has to beg for mercy. The ecstasy blurs against his physical limitations until he feels lost, almost drunk with it. Only his lover's mind and hands keep him moored. On those occasions, he falls into a sated sleep naturally, awash in the sensation of he and Charles intertwined. He hasn't seen a glass of 'juice cocktail' in… quite some time.
"You're leaving?" he asks, cursing himself immediately for sounding so inane.
"It's probably best, don't you think?" In many ways, the telepath seems genuinely remorseful. He doesn't need to project; the look in those cyan eyes says 'you're so good to put up with me, darling' loud and clear. They will play it like this, then, the coordinated little pin-pricks Charles prefers. The thought kindles a brief spark of anger, which Erik actually manages to hold on to.
"I know you're very busy," Lehnsherr demurs, chin jerking up in contradictory defiance. What a farce. Xavier makes a brief noise of agreement, reaching over to stroke his lover's cheek. It's a simple touch, bit it's also _simply_ a touch. There's no emotive echo behind it, no sense of _Charles_. For all they're standing right next to each other, they may as well be the room's length apart. Or farther. Just like that, the precious little ember of wrath is gone.
"You won't get into any trouble, will you, love?" Again, more part of the script than an actual question. Erik has nothing to gain through physical resistance, not that it would be allowed to last long. He shakes his head slowly. He's tired, and has to concentrate on not hunching his shoulders against the perceived cold. "Well, then. Good night, dear."
With that, the professor is gone. The prisoner hears him linger outside the door only long enough to make sure its secure. Whatever reinforces Erik's cage, it isn't metal. He sits, listening to the fire pop, staring at the abandoned chair.
(They do have a blazing row, once. Not over philosophy or politics, for those discussions are always courtly and pointed, like fencing matches. It's some trivial thing; the heat in the hotel room, which road they should have taken, what might have been said to sway another mutant to join their cause. Whatever it is, its a fight for the sake of fighting. A pressure valve. Charles bids him good night like that, vague and tepid.
The older man is on him in an instant. Not in anger, for he has never raised a willing hand to his young man. Instead, it's a possessive greed. He had been _dismissed_ and, if there is one thing Erik Lehnsherr has always had, since that very first meeting, it is Charles' attention.)
What happened then? Erik turns his own gaze inward, away from the empty room and chair and bed. They'd had a little scuffle, each so fierce in his expression that he made the other laugh. There had been some name-calling, and kisses more akin to bites. In Iowa, that was-- or maybe Idaho. The hotel decor was all tawdry oranges and browns, a riot of the so-called 'modern' look. They ended up making love in one of Erik's favorite positions, which was also one his lover rarely indulged. On the edge of the still-made bed, Charles astride the taller man's lap, facing each other. So warm, and the sweet weight of his liebchen. They both liked having access to each other's mouths but, more than that, Erik adored how Charles needed his careful help to maintain balance. No pillows or free hands, either-- if the professor wanted to hide his face, or the sounds he made, he was forced to do so within the circle of his lover's arms. On that particular occasion, Erik had also availed himself of that pale neck and, for days afterward, had felt an atavistic thrill when he saw the faintest edges of the bruise peeking up over Charles' collar.
If anything, the bunker room seems even colder now, airless as a vault. Without thinking, the metal-bender strikes out at the chess board, knocking the pieces so that they clatter and roll on the cement floor. Even this anger does not last long, though it is a bit stronger. Perhaps, if he'd been in the bathroom, he might have heard the pipes hum or pop in sympathy. The pawns and rooks and bishops care not; they lay scattered and inert, and silica will never sing for him. He's going to have to fish under the divan for a few of the pieces, as well, though he's damned if he'll do it right now.
Finally, Erik makes his way to the bed, pulling the thick comforter free. 'It's a sensory translation, dummkopf,' he thinks, even as he wraps the thick blanket around himself and steps slowly back towards the hearth. It is simply that his non-telepathic mind has no other way of comprehending the sensation of Charles'… absence. He gives that blue velvet cushion a fair nudge with his foot, but he also refrains from sitting on the low couch. Instead, he collapses in an inelegant heap on the rug, as close to the fireplace as can possibly be wise.
(He does this as a boy, too, in that far away land of Before. In the winter, he sits so close to the fire, or the wood-burning stove, that his mother comes to ruffle his hair and tease him about making sure he bakes evenly on both sides.)
There are actually things he could do, aside from cleaning up the mess he just made. He could make it worse, for one, though he recognizes that as just the sort of impulse that led down this road. There are some novels left from his convalescence-- A Tale of Two Cities, Idylls of the King, the later of which Charles showed a marked preference for reading aloud. There some loose paper and a red pen, left from one of the professor's editing sessions, too. In the nightstand, he thinks, or even in the quite neglected desk in the corner.
Never the less, Erik cannot be bothered to move. His gray eyes stay on the fire, watching the change, the combustion as fuel is burned. He has shelter, he has fed. No one has beaten him, or taken samples, or strapped him to a slab that more belongs in a morgue. It is only Charles' company he has been deprived of, the man who has held him here unwillingly, and that is nothing.
"Less than nothing, as they say," he murmurs to himself. Like removing a single grain of sand from glass, like dividing by zero. He tilts his head back against the divan, closes his eyes. He's been staring at the fire so long the greenish imprint remains in the pink of his lids. In a little while, he will gather the scattered chess pieces, build up the fire. He will entertain himself with something, or simply go lie in the bed. For now, Erik dozes, rising back to consciousness awkwardly, unable to be truly asleep or truly alert. When he does try to wake, the world takes on the faintly yellow cast of hyper-reality familiar from all night stake-outs and narrow, exhausted escapes. He doesn't really dream. Instead, fragmented thoughts and images pass before him.
(The picture post-card beach, somehow littered in bars of stolen gold. The sound of chalk against the board, of the Math teacher instructing fifth year students to practice problems with negative numbers. Except the numbers won't stay still, they're red and sticky and come off on his hands. Something that smells too sweet, burning-- he can't find it and the scent is everywhere. The bar in Argentina, on a brilliant spring day. There are no men there, just pigs, and their throats have all been cut.)
Later, he will look back on such disjointed visions and remember that, for the majority of his life, he has considered that a good night's sleep.