[fic] Night Ocean 1-4/? (dark Beach AU, Charles/Erik, NC-17)
Oh, yeah, that resolution lasted all of... 3 nano seconds? My excuse is going to be that Ra-darling wanted it, and I adore her like... like... Emma Frost adores lacy white ensembles that leave nothing to the imagination! ^_~
PLEASE, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF G-D HEED THE WARNINGS. The caps-lock is justified. If my mother knew I'd written something like this, she'd smack me all the way back to a zygote.
On the other hand, if you're got a thing for filthy Charles/Erik pr0n with massive consent issues and kink-sauce, you're probably in the right place. O_o;
Night Ocean 1-4/?
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.
Night Ocean 1-4/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory (garnet trees)
http://www.demando.net/horizon/
The first time Erik moves to embrace Charles of his own accord, he almost manages to stop himself. The impulse is genuinely his-- that chill, wrought-iron texture so different from Charles' coercion-- and, in between heartbeats, he is able to realize that. Never the less, his arm reaches out to draw Charles in before he can censor himself. The smaller, indomitable body is tucked against Erik's chest, his fingers automatically tangling in his lover's short, dark hair. And oh, the sigh Charles releases then is drenched in ecstasy, never mind that the telepath just spent the last two hours wringing orgasms from them both.
"Erik," he says, taking hold of the other hand. "Oh, Erik." Somehow, he is able to make the name sound both divine and profane-- he has taken even that, even a name, and made it his own. The hand, he treats with equally easy ownership. He may touch where ever he pleases, now-- even the soft, desecrated skin of the inner arm. Erik cannot
(will not? damn him for not knowing anymore, himself)
stop him. Thankfully, Charles best loves Erik's hands, loves to move them over himself in long, lingering strokes. Loves to fuck himself on those elegant, deadly fingers. Moreover, Charles knows
(everything charles knows everything)
how Erik feels about his own, ridiculously red mouth. The things the Oxford boy can do with his lips and tongue are obscene. He kisses Erik's hand with almost chivalrous fervor, as if Erik is graciously allowing the other into his bed. Perhaps that's how it would look should anyone
(should Charles _allow_ anyone)
to observe them. Xavier is astonishingly indulgent with his love, anyone would be fooled. Erik doesn't have the luxury of fooling himself-- and, in leu of denial, he holds white-knuckled to resentment-- mostly because there's no fooling Charles. Now, the younger man's happiness laps against Erik's soul. It's more exquisite than any drug. Neither one of them is equipped to do anything more than shiver with pleasure at the moment, and even that is torture. Finely wrought, lined with affection, which is how
(too sweet, too milky, the way he takes his tea)
Charles prefers his torture.
"Really," his captor says, playfully. "I don't think that's quite fair." Charles kisses the center of Erik's palm, laying his head on the other man's chest so he can listen to the heartbeat he owns.
Fair means and foul. Fair, as in Love and War and all things are. Erik knows weapons-- Erik _is_ a weapon-- and he most assuredly knows pain. He knows you never have to have limitless endurance, just more than what your adversary has. For the first time in his life, he can feel himself losing the battle. Not to superior forces, but because he is quite simply losing the will to fight at all.
It's unclear how much time has passed since the beach. He remembers grappling against Charles, fighting to keep Shaw's helmet.
(oh, if only he'd known then what he was fighting for!)
He remembers McTaggart shooting. Remembers laughing because he didn't even have to raise a hand to deflect the first two bullets, they were that easy to deflect. There was a third, however, and Charles moved so suddenly. The fear had been like cold sweat on the palms; he couldn't quite grip that final piece of lead. The metal sang as it pierced his flesh-- hello, hello!-- clear, low note to contrast with Moira's sudden screams. The white sand knocked the breath from him, the helmet tumbled like a poorly-made crown. Then Charles was holding him, putting frantic pressure on the wound and even more panicked kisses against Erik's face, uncaring of who might see. Some_thing_ flexed Erik's power, like pulling on a marionette's string.
(he would learn, he would learn to recognize that deft, masterful hand)
The missiles had fallen, utterly useless, some of them exploding as they impacted with the picture-post-card sea. Then there had been only the crashing of the waves and the high vibrato of that blasted woman, screaming.
(charles didn't seem so fond of his pet human now, erik remembers thinking with distant humor.)
There had been a lot of blood, but Erik doesn't think the injury was ever really life-threatening. It hardly mattered-- what mattered was that it scared Charles. Dear Charles, his professor of fine ideals and that damnable naiveté. That well-bred little boy, so lonely he'd taken in a strange blue girl. His privilege-- and his power-- had been such that he had still been shielded from ever losing anything dear to him.
(until _then_)
Long ago and far away, Erik knew of another little boy who'd lost something precious. The rage at having his treasure threatened came a split second too late. He drew blood and blood and made them pay, but it couldn't ransom her back.
(why did you say it would be alright?)
And really, it was a good thing that the men he'd spent decades hunting, picking off in his quest for Shaw, didn't have loved ones. Gold was all well and good, but Erik understood true worth, and would Charles still want him so with that kind of blood on his hands?
(yes)
It was a bit of a paradox, because he certainly wouldn't be here now.
"Hush," Charles says, abandoning Erik's hand in favor of making love to his mouth. He sucks Erik's tongue, slow and sensual, until the other man thinks 'please' without direction. 'Please more', or 'please stop'? It's hard to tell. Sometimes Charles ignores physical limitations entirely, instead stroking the pleasure centers of Erik's mind. Delicate, skillful little plucks. Right now, he seems much more interested in short term memory, in that moment when Erik reached out and couldn't stop himself. The telepath takes that bit of free will, cradling it close. Caressing, fondling, filling Erik to overflowing with his approval and his pleasure and his pride. Erik would point out that smug is not a good look on him, but they both know that's not true. Best to save one's efforts for things that might actually be constructive. And, though the mental sensations Charles projects are often very overwhelming, Erik is aware that his mouth is still otherwise occupied.
Time stretches, time has acquired some strange, new slow weight. He had felt Charles' fear. It was difficult to keep his eyes open, but he looked into that blue gaze and a new understanding passed between them.
(see? i told you so. would i fight so hard if i had nothing to protect?)
The others had said stop-- Charles, you'll kill her, stop. Hank had begun to step forward, and the red one asked if was insane, he'll kill you too, he'll kill all of us if we're not careful. The demon silhouette knelt a safe distance away from Charles, and then MacTaggart's body fell in the sand, or maybe that happened first. Darkness bled around the edges of Erik's vision, but it was a blank cocoon of white that finally took him.
Charles said, "Shhh. Sleep."
When he woke, he had a new scar on his shoulder-- but one that had healed far better than any of his others. It had been stitched up expertly, and cared for. The edges of it were blurred like the barest flashes of dreams, the things he could almost remember. It had been like drowning, like Charles holding him in that night-ocean, save that it had felt so wholly good.
(hush. i love you. rest now. be good.)
There are no windows here, though there is a door to the small bathroom, and another from which Charles comes and goes. There's a wooden monstrosity of a bed, and Erik sometimes amuses himself by wondering who Charles made to bring it down here, and whether he let them remember it afterwards.
Charles will tell him waspishly not to be vulgar, and he takes pride in the fact he can still be irritating.
(i love your feet of clay)
He slept, he woke. Charles fed him lingeringly, by hand, and praised him endlessly for dropping the missiles, though they both knew that wasn't what happened at all. When Charles was needed elsewhere, Erik had options. He could drink the juice he was given, which was most certainly drugged, or Charles could puppet hands and throat and jaw so that he drank it anyway. Charles loved touching him, loved helping him
(really, darling, its no hardship at all)
whether he was willing to accept it or not.
And Charles, damn him, has never once raised his hand against Erik.
(oh, i wish you would)
During the first few… days? weeks?… the older man very deliberately entertained some very brutal fantasies of retribution. The concepts of Charles and sex
(or love)
could hardly be uncoupled before Cuba; he imagined pounding into the smaller man, taking him dry, forcing him on his knees so that he was helpless and breathless, Erik's fingers tugging harshly at his hair like a puppet's strings. He'd gotten such a sweet smile in return, just before Charles used Erik's hand to strike himself across the face.
He'd listened to his own voice, spewing all the horrible things Charles had blocked him from saying
(my god i didn't i meant it but please)
his tongue unwillingly bending to lick away Charles' blood. It was dizzying, sickening, almost a rape-pantomime, until Erik felt a wetness on his cheeks he knew
(shamefully, disgustingly)
belonged to him alone.
(oh, why stop now, darling? we've barely tapped your well of inspiration, to say nothing of what you remember from shaw)
"Please," he'd said, and that was his, too. His own whisper, instead of the abusive bark he'd been parroting. "Please, I can't even think of some of those things, let alone do them…"
(especially to you)
If Erik had been watching from on high-- and it almost felt as though he was, it became that surreal-- it would have been quite confusing, the attacker pleading for mercy.
And suddenly it was all velvet, no touch of mental iron in sight. Sinking to his knees, Erik had curled in on himself, and Charles knelt beside him. The final touch of lunacy, his mouth still bleeding as he kissed away Erik's tears.
"Come now, it's all right," he'd whispered, rocking them together in a way that had nothing to do with sex. For a moment, Erik caught a brief impression
(the little boy sits in the rocking chair alone alone but the rhythm is nice, the rhythm is soothing. back and forth in the moonlight, the runners on the wood floor, and maybe its alright there's no one else there)
from Charles, completely unguarded. It was gone in the next moment, like quicksilver, like the bright flare of metal in the forge.
"I wouldn't let you _really_ hurt me," the telepath said aloud. "It's all right, I promise." And, with enough honest affection to blunt the acid, "I was only trying to give you what you want."
He'd held Erik for a long time, petting and soothing, murmuring nonsense and talking about particle physics until the other man was almost asleep. Erik had expected Charles to slip in beside him until the heavy duvet, though he had not reached out at all.
(i am not thinking of not thinking of reaching for you, thank you very much)
There was only that beautiful voice saying, "Oh, my dear", and a kiss on his brow. For a long moment, he held that gaze and they were level, as they had once been pitting white pawn against black.
"I'm sure you need a little space, now," Charles mustered a wan little smile.
"You sleep. I'll just be over here, on the couch."
Oh, Erik remembered thinking, looking up at that blasted canopy and the play of light from the fire. Oh.
He tried, valiantly, to speculate where under the mansion his little prison was locked. Internally, he mocked Charles' stepfather for paying what must have been ridiculous amounts of money for such luxury in a thrice-damned _bomb-shelter_, and Charles' mother for having had that money in the first place. He wondered what Charles did when he was away. If he taught and lectured, surrounded by studious little faces and all that elegant wooden paneling.
Erik pondered and considered and did not sleep, until at last Charles came to stroke his face and send him into that warm, tidal darkness.
.
PLEASE, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF G-D HEED THE WARNINGS. The caps-lock is justified. If my mother knew I'd written something like this, she'd smack me all the way back to a zygote.
On the other hand, if you're got a thing for filthy Charles/Erik pr0n with massive consent issues and kink-sauce, you're probably in the right place. O_o;
Night Ocean 1-4/?
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.
Night Ocean 1-4/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory (garnet trees)
http://www.demando.net/horizon/
The first time Erik moves to embrace Charles of his own accord, he almost manages to stop himself. The impulse is genuinely his-- that chill, wrought-iron texture so different from Charles' coercion-- and, in between heartbeats, he is able to realize that. Never the less, his arm reaches out to draw Charles in before he can censor himself. The smaller, indomitable body is tucked against Erik's chest, his fingers automatically tangling in his lover's short, dark hair. And oh, the sigh Charles releases then is drenched in ecstasy, never mind that the telepath just spent the last two hours wringing orgasms from them both.
"Erik," he says, taking hold of the other hand. "Oh, Erik." Somehow, he is able to make the name sound both divine and profane-- he has taken even that, even a name, and made it his own. The hand, he treats with equally easy ownership. He may touch where ever he pleases, now-- even the soft, desecrated skin of the inner arm. Erik cannot
(will not? damn him for not knowing anymore, himself)
stop him. Thankfully, Charles best loves Erik's hands, loves to move them over himself in long, lingering strokes. Loves to fuck himself on those elegant, deadly fingers. Moreover, Charles knows
(everything charles knows everything)
how Erik feels about his own, ridiculously red mouth. The things the Oxford boy can do with his lips and tongue are obscene. He kisses Erik's hand with almost chivalrous fervor, as if Erik is graciously allowing the other into his bed. Perhaps that's how it would look should anyone
(should Charles _allow_ anyone)
to observe them. Xavier is astonishingly indulgent with his love, anyone would be fooled. Erik doesn't have the luxury of fooling himself-- and, in leu of denial, he holds white-knuckled to resentment-- mostly because there's no fooling Charles. Now, the younger man's happiness laps against Erik's soul. It's more exquisite than any drug. Neither one of them is equipped to do anything more than shiver with pleasure at the moment, and even that is torture. Finely wrought, lined with affection, which is how
(too sweet, too milky, the way he takes his tea)
Charles prefers his torture.
"Really," his captor says, playfully. "I don't think that's quite fair." Charles kisses the center of Erik's palm, laying his head on the other man's chest so he can listen to the heartbeat he owns.
Fair means and foul. Fair, as in Love and War and all things are. Erik knows weapons-- Erik _is_ a weapon-- and he most assuredly knows pain. He knows you never have to have limitless endurance, just more than what your adversary has. For the first time in his life, he can feel himself losing the battle. Not to superior forces, but because he is quite simply losing the will to fight at all.
It's unclear how much time has passed since the beach. He remembers grappling against Charles, fighting to keep Shaw's helmet.
(oh, if only he'd known then what he was fighting for!)
He remembers McTaggart shooting. Remembers laughing because he didn't even have to raise a hand to deflect the first two bullets, they were that easy to deflect. There was a third, however, and Charles moved so suddenly. The fear had been like cold sweat on the palms; he couldn't quite grip that final piece of lead. The metal sang as it pierced his flesh-- hello, hello!-- clear, low note to contrast with Moira's sudden screams. The white sand knocked the breath from him, the helmet tumbled like a poorly-made crown. Then Charles was holding him, putting frantic pressure on the wound and even more panicked kisses against Erik's face, uncaring of who might see. Some_thing_ flexed Erik's power, like pulling on a marionette's string.
(he would learn, he would learn to recognize that deft, masterful hand)
The missiles had fallen, utterly useless, some of them exploding as they impacted with the picture-post-card sea. Then there had been only the crashing of the waves and the high vibrato of that blasted woman, screaming.
(charles didn't seem so fond of his pet human now, erik remembers thinking with distant humor.)
There had been a lot of blood, but Erik doesn't think the injury was ever really life-threatening. It hardly mattered-- what mattered was that it scared Charles. Dear Charles, his professor of fine ideals and that damnable naiveté. That well-bred little boy, so lonely he'd taken in a strange blue girl. His privilege-- and his power-- had been such that he had still been shielded from ever losing anything dear to him.
(until _then_)
Long ago and far away, Erik knew of another little boy who'd lost something precious. The rage at having his treasure threatened came a split second too late. He drew blood and blood and made them pay, but it couldn't ransom her back.
(why did you say it would be alright?)
And really, it was a good thing that the men he'd spent decades hunting, picking off in his quest for Shaw, didn't have loved ones. Gold was all well and good, but Erik understood true worth, and would Charles still want him so with that kind of blood on his hands?
(yes)
It was a bit of a paradox, because he certainly wouldn't be here now.
"Hush," Charles says, abandoning Erik's hand in favor of making love to his mouth. He sucks Erik's tongue, slow and sensual, until the other man thinks 'please' without direction. 'Please more', or 'please stop'? It's hard to tell. Sometimes Charles ignores physical limitations entirely, instead stroking the pleasure centers of Erik's mind. Delicate, skillful little plucks. Right now, he seems much more interested in short term memory, in that moment when Erik reached out and couldn't stop himself. The telepath takes that bit of free will, cradling it close. Caressing, fondling, filling Erik to overflowing with his approval and his pleasure and his pride. Erik would point out that smug is not a good look on him, but they both know that's not true. Best to save one's efforts for things that might actually be constructive. And, though the mental sensations Charles projects are often very overwhelming, Erik is aware that his mouth is still otherwise occupied.
Time stretches, time has acquired some strange, new slow weight. He had felt Charles' fear. It was difficult to keep his eyes open, but he looked into that blue gaze and a new understanding passed between them.
(see? i told you so. would i fight so hard if i had nothing to protect?)
The others had said stop-- Charles, you'll kill her, stop. Hank had begun to step forward, and the red one asked if was insane, he'll kill you too, he'll kill all of us if we're not careful. The demon silhouette knelt a safe distance away from Charles, and then MacTaggart's body fell in the sand, or maybe that happened first. Darkness bled around the edges of Erik's vision, but it was a blank cocoon of white that finally took him.
Charles said, "Shhh. Sleep."
When he woke, he had a new scar on his shoulder-- but one that had healed far better than any of his others. It had been stitched up expertly, and cared for. The edges of it were blurred like the barest flashes of dreams, the things he could almost remember. It had been like drowning, like Charles holding him in that night-ocean, save that it had felt so wholly good.
(hush. i love you. rest now. be good.)
There are no windows here, though there is a door to the small bathroom, and another from which Charles comes and goes. There's a wooden monstrosity of a bed, and Erik sometimes amuses himself by wondering who Charles made to bring it down here, and whether he let them remember it afterwards.
Charles will tell him waspishly not to be vulgar, and he takes pride in the fact he can still be irritating.
(i love your feet of clay)
He slept, he woke. Charles fed him lingeringly, by hand, and praised him endlessly for dropping the missiles, though they both knew that wasn't what happened at all. When Charles was needed elsewhere, Erik had options. He could drink the juice he was given, which was most certainly drugged, or Charles could puppet hands and throat and jaw so that he drank it anyway. Charles loved touching him, loved helping him
(really, darling, its no hardship at all)
whether he was willing to accept it or not.
And Charles, damn him, has never once raised his hand against Erik.
(oh, i wish you would)
During the first few… days? weeks?… the older man very deliberately entertained some very brutal fantasies of retribution. The concepts of Charles and sex
(or love)
could hardly be uncoupled before Cuba; he imagined pounding into the smaller man, taking him dry, forcing him on his knees so that he was helpless and breathless, Erik's fingers tugging harshly at his hair like a puppet's strings. He'd gotten such a sweet smile in return, just before Charles used Erik's hand to strike himself across the face.
He'd listened to his own voice, spewing all the horrible things Charles had blocked him from saying
(my god i didn't i meant it but please)
his tongue unwillingly bending to lick away Charles' blood. It was dizzying, sickening, almost a rape-pantomime, until Erik felt a wetness on his cheeks he knew
(shamefully, disgustingly)
belonged to him alone.
(oh, why stop now, darling? we've barely tapped your well of inspiration, to say nothing of what you remember from shaw)
"Please," he'd said, and that was his, too. His own whisper, instead of the abusive bark he'd been parroting. "Please, I can't even think of some of those things, let alone do them…"
(especially to you)
If Erik had been watching from on high-- and it almost felt as though he was, it became that surreal-- it would have been quite confusing, the attacker pleading for mercy.
And suddenly it was all velvet, no touch of mental iron in sight. Sinking to his knees, Erik had curled in on himself, and Charles knelt beside him. The final touch of lunacy, his mouth still bleeding as he kissed away Erik's tears.
"Come now, it's all right," he'd whispered, rocking them together in a way that had nothing to do with sex. For a moment, Erik caught a brief impression
(the little boy sits in the rocking chair alone alone but the rhythm is nice, the rhythm is soothing. back and forth in the moonlight, the runners on the wood floor, and maybe its alright there's no one else there)
from Charles, completely unguarded. It was gone in the next moment, like quicksilver, like the bright flare of metal in the forge.
"I wouldn't let you _really_ hurt me," the telepath said aloud. "It's all right, I promise." And, with enough honest affection to blunt the acid, "I was only trying to give you what you want."
He'd held Erik for a long time, petting and soothing, murmuring nonsense and talking about particle physics until the other man was almost asleep. Erik had expected Charles to slip in beside him until the heavy duvet, though he had not reached out at all.
(i am not thinking of not thinking of reaching for you, thank you very much)
There was only that beautiful voice saying, "Oh, my dear", and a kiss on his brow. For a long moment, he held that gaze and they were level, as they had once been pitting white pawn against black.
"I'm sure you need a little space, now," Charles mustered a wan little smile.
"You sleep. I'll just be over here, on the couch."
Oh, Erik remembered thinking, looking up at that blasted canopy and the play of light from the fire. Oh.
He tried, valiantly, to speculate where under the mansion his little prison was locked. Internally, he mocked Charles' stepfather for paying what must have been ridiculous amounts of money for such luxury in a thrice-damned _bomb-shelter_, and Charles' mother for having had that money in the first place. He wondered what Charles did when he was away. If he taught and lectured, surrounded by studious little faces and all that elegant wooden paneling.
Erik pondered and considered and did not sleep, until at last Charles came to stroke his face and send him into that warm, tidal darkness.
.