[fic] Night Ocean 5-7/? (dark Beach AU, Charles/Erik, NC-17)
In case you missed it the first time I posted:
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;
Title: Night Ocean 5-7/?
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.
Previous Chapters:
Night Ocean 1-4
TW for this set: (you know, in addition to all the ones previously mentioned) Drug use, panic attack, memories of child abuse, mind-fuckery from all sides. Wheee.
A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone kind enough to leave comments! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it!
Night Ocean 5-7/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
(garnettrees)
Once, Erik's life had been easy to delineate. There was simply Before, and there was After, and the frozen ash-choked hell in-between. It rose like a monolith, all dark
(unresponsive)
stone. It was mute, unmarked
(there just aren't _words_)
and everything lived in its terrible shadow. He learned how not to cry-- Shaw beat it out of him-- but even if he could rend his clothes, scream his grief to the heavens, he knew he would never be able to make other people understand.
(He did cry, just the one time. Three months in with his first English family, the Barrows. He was big and smelled of pipe and laughed too much; she was pale and blond and wore her rouge high on her cheeks. When spring came, Hahnenfuß bloomed in their little dooryard, and the smell brought it back, what he had forgotten. He had forgotten that he had once been a real boy, with a set of blocks and some colored pencils. There were tin soldiers-- his father brought them. Just a handful of stiff little men with more than a few dents but, because they came from Vater, he had loved them with an uncritical passion. This boy, who seemed almost alien to Erik now, had a Mother who taught him to write, tracing in left over flour. There had been a time when she didn't hold him too tight. He could lay his head on the crook of her shoulder, and she smelled of Hahnenfuß-- which he never learned the English word for.
The flowers looked the same no matter what you called them, though. Flame yellow, deep red, and a violent orange that looked like the coil of a stove burner holding in heat. He saw them, and he cried. When Mrs. Barrows asked him about it, he bit his knuckles and wouldn't-- couldn't-- say.)
There is simply too much to so cleanly segment his life, now. There is the cold, abrasive drive he had possessed before he finally cornered Shaw, and the expansive, numbing relief that came afterwards. There was before he knew there were others like him,and this present unknown landscape, After Cuba.
Oh. Before and After Charles-- mustn't forget that.
('You'll drown,' he'd said, not commanding. Reasoning, coaxing, a fountain of his much-vaunted serenity. 'You have to let go.')
Erik knows he 'hears' Charles' voice in his mind because its the only way his limited senses can interpret it. Longer exposure has proven that Charles also has a flavor, a texture when he reaches out, even if he isn't actively projecting anything. Soft, warm, almost fastidious in its delicacy-- and absolutely unyielding. When they burst to the surface, Erik had looked at Charles, all wet and beautiful angles. His first thought had been, 'He's little more than a boy!'
('You were in my head.' Breathless, but still an accusation.
'You have your tricks.' Charles had smiled widely around his attempts to gulp in more air. 'I have mine.'
Oh, if only he'd known!)
Charles lifts his head as the older man's involuntary chuckle rumbles through his chest. Erik finds the alarm and concern in those blue-oceanid eyes _almost_ as bleakly humorous as the irony he was contemplating. It occurs to him that, while there is nothing about him Charles doesn't _know_, it does not always follow that the younger man _comprehends_. Erik himself doesn't quite understand it, the enormity of new edge he'd found in his mind. It's like groping around in the dark-- you could step over and have no footing, notice too late. His tender-hearted professor may well succeed where all others-- even Shaw-- have failed.
"No!" The denial comes as both speech and thought, hot and hard as the sudden kiss that follows. "Look at me," Charles says, stroking the other man's cheeks, his hair. Erik knows this look, or a variant of it. Has seen it countless times over the chess board, across ridiculously cumbersome conference tables in CIA offices. Charles arguing with him
(it will be alright, erik, oh can't you see)
trying to coax, to persuade.
(someone else promised me that, a long time ago)
It's the look of a crusader trying to describe Jerusalem.
(oh if only I could make you see)
"No one could break you," Charles says, voice oddly rough. "I'm certain of it."
(that makes one of us)
"Erik, Erik… I don't want you to. Just… bend."
His captor leaves the bed briefly. When he returns, he presents Erik with the ever popular glass of juice. It's apple-- as if Erik is still a growing boy. That thought is almost enough to set him off again, but it is also getting oddly hard to draw air into his lungs. The chuckles feel like liquid mercury, bubbling up inside.
"Drink," Xavier says, not bothering to see if the command will be followed. The ease with which he manipulates another's body would be alarming, if Erik had room for anything aside from this syrupy hysteria. Charles sets the empty glass on the nightstand. The bed is so ridiculously archaic that he almost has to clamber up it. It probably came with a stool. Huffing another little laugh, Erik lays back against the pillows. There are no overhead lights here, but Charles has brought a few lamps and the fire is healthy enough. The glow is plenty to see by, but also low and soothing. Intimate, one might say. The professor moves up towards the headboard, curling around to stroke his lover's hair. Erik can already feel his breath and heartbeat slowing, that shadowy lassitude winding through his veins. He wonders if Hank knows what he's mixing this little concoction _for_; there's no way Charles is getting something this strong pre-made.
The telepath sighs, though he has enough grace to look caught.
"Would be funny if…" Erik draws in a very deep breath. Artificial calm saturates him, but he is still-- vaguely-- aware that the words he's choosing are ill-advised. "If you gave me too much. Just never wake up again." Musingly, "You might have to watch me aspirate on my own vomit, though."
'ERIK.' The hand in his hair stills, withdrawals completely. A long moment of silence spins out, before a very young voice whispers, "I would never let that happen."
(He knows better than to cry when Mummy hits him. Kurt expects tears; will use his heavy fists until there's enough saline to satisfy. Sharon Xavier prides herself on her lady-like hands, all elegant and bejeweled. She strikes with palm open, too-- which stings-- or backhands, rings cutting. The teachers at Charles' elite elementary school think he has a particularly ill-tempered cat.
"I thought." SMACK. "I taught." She raises her hand higher. "To take better care of your things." The last three words are punctuated with their own individual slaps. He doesn't even remember what it was he broke-- but he definitely remembers the consequences.)
Erik's eyes fly open. He tilts his head up (though it is a bit dizzying) to catch the younger man's gaze. This is one of the strongest things he's ever caught from Charles, and right now the telepath is as white as bone china. Definitely not something he intended to share.
"C'mere." Erik's arm feels heavy, slow and cool, but he manages to tug on Charles' arm. "I said come here," he takes care to enunciate this time, and the other finally allows himself to be drawn down. With some effort, Erik rolls on his side, tucking Charles' head under his chin, cradling the smaller body against his chest. Little breaths come in warm puffs against his collar bone.
'Damn you,' Erik thinks, too distant to bother with real speech. He knows Charles can hear him. Humming low and tuneless, he strokes along that lovely spine. 'Damn you to hell.'
'I'll always take care of you.' When he's agitated, even Charles' mental accent becomes more clipped. At least, that's how its perceived. 'I love you.'
"Mmm-hmm." He can feel the telepath's warm, diffuse presence searching for the truth. Not that Erik is in any way capable of keeping it from him, but he doesn't even put up a fight. Why bother to lie, when the truth already hurts so much?
'Liebling.' At least he's not the only one skirting the edges of sanity around here. 'Neshama.' Charles doesn't know that last one; Erik can feel him hunting for the translation. Oh well-- he's the one that forced the juice down, he can damn well wait.
Erik goes back to sleep.
Heyyy.. who put plot in my porn? ^_~
*Neshama-- one of the Hebrew words for 'soul'. Meaning the intelligent, reasoning part of the spirit. Also a term of extreme affection, sometimes not without a hint of irony.
also, comments = love. But you knew that. ;-)
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;
Title: Night Ocean 5-7/?
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.
Previous Chapters:
Night Ocean 1-4
TW for this set: (you know, in addition to all the ones previously mentioned) Drug use, panic attack, memories of child abuse, mind-fuckery from all sides. Wheee.
A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone kind enough to leave comments! I can't tell you how much I appreciate it!
Night Ocean 5-7/?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
(garnettrees)
Once, Erik's life had been easy to delineate. There was simply Before, and there was After, and the frozen ash-choked hell in-between. It rose like a monolith, all dark
(unresponsive)
stone. It was mute, unmarked
(there just aren't _words_)
and everything lived in its terrible shadow. He learned how not to cry-- Shaw beat it out of him-- but even if he could rend his clothes, scream his grief to the heavens, he knew he would never be able to make other people understand.
(He did cry, just the one time. Three months in with his first English family, the Barrows. He was big and smelled of pipe and laughed too much; she was pale and blond and wore her rouge high on her cheeks. When spring came, Hahnenfuß bloomed in their little dooryard, and the smell brought it back, what he had forgotten. He had forgotten that he had once been a real boy, with a set of blocks and some colored pencils. There were tin soldiers-- his father brought them. Just a handful of stiff little men with more than a few dents but, because they came from Vater, he had loved them with an uncritical passion. This boy, who seemed almost alien to Erik now, had a Mother who taught him to write, tracing in left over flour. There had been a time when she didn't hold him too tight. He could lay his head on the crook of her shoulder, and she smelled of Hahnenfuß-- which he never learned the English word for.
The flowers looked the same no matter what you called them, though. Flame yellow, deep red, and a violent orange that looked like the coil of a stove burner holding in heat. He saw them, and he cried. When Mrs. Barrows asked him about it, he bit his knuckles and wouldn't-- couldn't-- say.)
There is simply too much to so cleanly segment his life, now. There is the cold, abrasive drive he had possessed before he finally cornered Shaw, and the expansive, numbing relief that came afterwards. There was before he knew there were others like him,and this present unknown landscape, After Cuba.
Oh. Before and After Charles-- mustn't forget that.
('You'll drown,' he'd said, not commanding. Reasoning, coaxing, a fountain of his much-vaunted serenity. 'You have to let go.')
Erik knows he 'hears' Charles' voice in his mind because its the only way his limited senses can interpret it. Longer exposure has proven that Charles also has a flavor, a texture when he reaches out, even if he isn't actively projecting anything. Soft, warm, almost fastidious in its delicacy-- and absolutely unyielding. When they burst to the surface, Erik had looked at Charles, all wet and beautiful angles. His first thought had been, 'He's little more than a boy!'
('You were in my head.' Breathless, but still an accusation.
'You have your tricks.' Charles had smiled widely around his attempts to gulp in more air. 'I have mine.'
Oh, if only he'd known!)
Charles lifts his head as the older man's involuntary chuckle rumbles through his chest. Erik finds the alarm and concern in those blue-oceanid eyes _almost_ as bleakly humorous as the irony he was contemplating. It occurs to him that, while there is nothing about him Charles doesn't _know_, it does not always follow that the younger man _comprehends_. Erik himself doesn't quite understand it, the enormity of new edge he'd found in his mind. It's like groping around in the dark-- you could step over and have no footing, notice too late. His tender-hearted professor may well succeed where all others-- even Shaw-- have failed.
"No!" The denial comes as both speech and thought, hot and hard as the sudden kiss that follows. "Look at me," Charles says, stroking the other man's cheeks, his hair. Erik knows this look, or a variant of it. Has seen it countless times over the chess board, across ridiculously cumbersome conference tables in CIA offices. Charles arguing with him
(it will be alright, erik, oh can't you see)
trying to coax, to persuade.
(someone else promised me that, a long time ago)
It's the look of a crusader trying to describe Jerusalem.
(oh if only I could make you see)
"No one could break you," Charles says, voice oddly rough. "I'm certain of it."
(that makes one of us)
"Erik, Erik… I don't want you to. Just… bend."
His captor leaves the bed briefly. When he returns, he presents Erik with the ever popular glass of juice. It's apple-- as if Erik is still a growing boy. That thought is almost enough to set him off again, but it is also getting oddly hard to draw air into his lungs. The chuckles feel like liquid mercury, bubbling up inside.
"Drink," Xavier says, not bothering to see if the command will be followed. The ease with which he manipulates another's body would be alarming, if Erik had room for anything aside from this syrupy hysteria. Charles sets the empty glass on the nightstand. The bed is so ridiculously archaic that he almost has to clamber up it. It probably came with a stool. Huffing another little laugh, Erik lays back against the pillows. There are no overhead lights here, but Charles has brought a few lamps and the fire is healthy enough. The glow is plenty to see by, but also low and soothing. Intimate, one might say. The professor moves up towards the headboard, curling around to stroke his lover's hair. Erik can already feel his breath and heartbeat slowing, that shadowy lassitude winding through his veins. He wonders if Hank knows what he's mixing this little concoction _for_; there's no way Charles is getting something this strong pre-made.
The telepath sighs, though he has enough grace to look caught.
"Would be funny if…" Erik draws in a very deep breath. Artificial calm saturates him, but he is still-- vaguely-- aware that the words he's choosing are ill-advised. "If you gave me too much. Just never wake up again." Musingly, "You might have to watch me aspirate on my own vomit, though."
'ERIK.' The hand in his hair stills, withdrawals completely. A long moment of silence spins out, before a very young voice whispers, "I would never let that happen."
(He knows better than to cry when Mummy hits him. Kurt expects tears; will use his heavy fists until there's enough saline to satisfy. Sharon Xavier prides herself on her lady-like hands, all elegant and bejeweled. She strikes with palm open, too-- which stings-- or backhands, rings cutting. The teachers at Charles' elite elementary school think he has a particularly ill-tempered cat.
"I thought." SMACK. "I taught." She raises her hand higher. "To take better care of your things." The last three words are punctuated with their own individual slaps. He doesn't even remember what it was he broke-- but he definitely remembers the consequences.)
Erik's eyes fly open. He tilts his head up (though it is a bit dizzying) to catch the younger man's gaze. This is one of the strongest things he's ever caught from Charles, and right now the telepath is as white as bone china. Definitely not something he intended to share.
"C'mere." Erik's arm feels heavy, slow and cool, but he manages to tug on Charles' arm. "I said come here," he takes care to enunciate this time, and the other finally allows himself to be drawn down. With some effort, Erik rolls on his side, tucking Charles' head under his chin, cradling the smaller body against his chest. Little breaths come in warm puffs against his collar bone.
'Damn you,' Erik thinks, too distant to bother with real speech. He knows Charles can hear him. Humming low and tuneless, he strokes along that lovely spine. 'Damn you to hell.'
'I'll always take care of you.' When he's agitated, even Charles' mental accent becomes more clipped. At least, that's how its perceived. 'I love you.'
"Mmm-hmm." He can feel the telepath's warm, diffuse presence searching for the truth. Not that Erik is in any way capable of keeping it from him, but he doesn't even put up a fight. Why bother to lie, when the truth already hurts so much?
'Liebling.' At least he's not the only one skirting the edges of sanity around here. 'Neshama.' Charles doesn't know that last one; Erik can feel him hunting for the translation. Oh well-- he's the one that forced the juice down, he can damn well wait.
Erik goes back to sleep.
Heyyy.. who put plot in my porn? ^_~
*Neshama-- one of the Hebrew words for 'soul'. Meaning the intelligent, reasoning part of the spirit. Also a term of extreme affection, sometimes not without a hint of irony.
also, comments = love. But you knew that. ;-)