Outside Upside Inside Down (Charles/Hellfire Club, Charles/Erik, NC-17)
Title: Outside Upside Inside Down
Characters/Pairing: Azazel/Charles, Charles/Riptide, Charles/Shaw, Charles/Erik.
Rating: NC-17. I'd rate it higher if I could.
Warnings: Gang rape, double penetration, violence, character death, partner abuse, victim blaming.
Prompt: " Shaw manages to capture Charles..." plus two bonus prompts, all linked in their entirety at the end of the story.
Summary: While waiting for Erik to come rescue Charles, Shaw and his Hellfire Club disport themselves. Then Erik finally arrives.
Author's Note: The [main] prompt was filled twice. Here's the magnificent other fill.
It has always been perennially amazing to Charles, how it need only take a moment for a person's life to be turned entirely topsy turvy, upside down.
* **** *
One moment, Charles is strolling down a hallway, on the way from a restroom to a sunroom overlooking the lawn, when he hears a distant noise, between a pop and a peal of thunder, and feels another mind in his house. He reaches out for the intruder's identity, but the person vanishes from his mind's eye just as air and smoke explode behind him, as a hand clamps heavily on his shoulder. Charles tries to turn, to pull away, flinging out a telepathic shout to everyone around him, but he only gains one glimpse of white teeth bared in a craggy vermillion face before black sulfurous smoke engulfs him.
In the next moment the reeking cloud spits Charles out into empty air, no longer even that heavy hand supporting him; he windmills helplessly, falling backwards as light blazes across his eyes, thumping down so hard his breath explodes in a winded huff. Hands land on him and Charles lunges for the minds behind them, but they cram something smooth and dark down onto his head and then there's -- nothing.
Silence.
Silence and the hard hands dragging his arms behind his back, the distant aural cacophony that resolves into harsh laughter as bands of metal close around his wrists, the black swatch of cloth wrapped over his eyes and the cool impervious helmet enveloping his head. "What?" Charles gasps into the silence behind his eyes and the air swirling past his mouth. "What do you want?"
More laughter, rustling cloth, as the hands grip his arms and hoist him to his feet, and then "So this is Erik's little telepath, who stole mine," in a warm baritone, a chillingly familiar voice which Charles has never heard before with his own ears, has heard so many times in Erik's nightmares and lately in Raven's and Alex's. Charles swallows hard over a cold squirm of dread, and when long fingers brush his cheek he tries to pull away but the hands push him into the touch. "Welcome, Professor Xavier," says Sebastian Shaw, and Charles shudders with his friends' remembered fear and his own fresh alarm, clenching his teeth against a whimper. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
* **** *
As they drag him along stumbling from smooth paving to thick carpet, Charles tries to reason with his captors, saying, "If you let me go we can avoid having this become an incident," and "I'm sure we can work this out peaceably if you'll just tell me what you want." But he's blind and suppressed, fumbling in the darkness, and all he gains by his efforts is more harsh laughter. Soon he's out of options except bargaining, and that he can't, when what Shaw wants isn't his to offer and he never would anyway. Charles almost wishes he hadn't sent out that telepathic scream, and hopes desperately that Erik's prepared to face Shaw by the time he finds them.
Then Charles discovers what else Shaw wants, and how eager Shaw is to dispense with bargaining and just take and take.
A hard surface hits the fronts of Charles's legs, ankles to thighs, and he tries to struggle, protesting, "Surely, this isn't necessary," as he's shoved down over the squared-off edge. Wood, he realizes when his chin brushes the silky polish, before a hand lands on his helmeted head, pressing down until he has to turn it sideways. "If you would just let me up --"
Shaw shushes him from directly above, rocking his head back and forth a little. "My pretty professor," and rarely has Charles ever heard such unpromising words drawled so fondly, "you're going to bring me what I want, and we're going to have so much fun while we wait. Azazel, would you like to do the honors?"
"Da," Charles hears, deep and lascivious, and a stream of Slavic syllables. He doesn't know Russian, so without his telepathy --
A spread hand plants in the center of his back, covering far too much area, as something pointed and resilient draws a fine hot line from his waistband down the central crease of his trousers, and Charles gasps "Oh," before he can keep silent. "Oh, really, I don't --" The seam parts, cool air rushing in, and Charles's trousers and pants sag down his hips before they're grasped and jerked away, leaving him bared from the waist down as his face begins to burn. "This isn't necessary, really --" Nudity is often a precursor to torture, he remembers, dispassionate words on a distant page, his mind whirling around the present thought.
The slap to his ass cracks like thunder, sparks flying out under his skin. "Torturing me would be absolutely pointless," Charles asserts in a quivering voice. "Let me up and we can talk --"
Another slap and Charles reverberates with its force, shivering into silence under more harsh laughter, under a big hand with a chill pinky ring sliding up over his bared arse to the small of his back. "Really, my little professor," Shaw drawls, to the accompaniment of rustling cloth and roughening breathing, strange slick noises and the throb rising in Charles's ears. "What do you take me for? Would I torture someone over my desk?" He clicks his tongue, his hand-- it must be Shaw's hand -- sliding up beneath Charles's jacket and shirt. "Though I did hope you'd be better dressed. Azazel?" Another line of sharp pressure, this one between his shoulders, and Charles's jacket, shirt and vest slide open, baring his spine. Broad hands sweep the remnants sideways, crumpling them into wads of cloth beneath his elbows, and columnar legs press against the backs of his calves and thighs. "Just look at this, beneath those dull tweeds -- oh, Charles -- may I call you Charles? --"
"No you may not," Charles tries to snarl, but it emerges wobbly and faint.
Shaw isn't even listening, speaking right over Charles, stroking his bared shoulders as Charles tries to hunch away from the invasive touch. "What a well formed frame. A man really can't complain, my dear Charles." Shaw leans in, and Charles feels him, rigid and slick and hot pressing against his arsecheek --
Panic flares searing white behind Charles's darkened eyes. "No," he gasps, convulsing in struggles, but Shaw grips his cuffed wrists and he gets exactly nowhere. "No!" This isn't happening, his mind cries out in a desperate lie, I can stop this they won't do this they can't do this not to me no no no --
Shaw's other hand digs into Charles's hip, his breath a hot gust of delight over the defenseless skin between Charles's shoulderblades. "Relax," Shaw advises, all cheer as he shifts his hips and his cock nudges Charles in horrific intimacy, his henchmen breathing roughly to either side. "This won't hurt a bit."
He pushes. Shaw pushes and Charles groans reflexively under the searing press, gritting his teeth with the effort of resisting. Shaw pushes harder, chuckling in the back of his throat, and Charles feels his body furling open no matter how tightly he clenches, sees red lightning arc across the insides of his burning eyelids as Shaw sinks searingly into him. "Stop," Charles babbles hoarsely, his throat tightening, "stop, please, stop, whatever your point it's made, just -- "
He only feels his fingers twisting when Shaw stills them in a tightened grip, stroking the straining tendon in Charles's wrist with a broad thumb. He only feels the hard line of the desk's edge cutting across his hips when Shaw stills for a moment, puffing over him, hateful amusement on every exhale."You're a tight little nipper, aren't you?" he asks in a dark intimate tone, and Charles tries to make the answering shudder at least look like further struggling. "I wouldn't have thought such a pretty public-school boy would still have such a squeeze to him. Maybe you did all your service on your knees," and he pushes Charles's chin up with four fingers, thumb sliding across Charles's bottom lip. "Maybe I'll try this fancy mouth if we have enough time to spare."
Charles tries to bite anyway, his teeth chattering as his jaw's held shut, his guts spasming as Shaw pushes ever deeper; it's an immense burning strain, and Charles can't expel him, can't resist him, can't escape this at all. Shaw pushes further, sending agony pulsing up Charles's spine, making him grunt behind his clenched teeth as Shaw huffs and his grip slides down over Charles's throat. Shaw tugs back, fingers tightening fearfully over Charles's windpipe, and Charles's heart bangs against his locked ribs as he feels himself seemingly pulled inside out. Could this get even worse? Would that be worse? A scornful comment in Russian and Charles can feel Shaw's laugh propagate between their joined bodies, and he flushes even hotter as he remembers the others waiting, doubtless for their turns.
It couldn't be worse, not than this. Skin pressing into Shaw's grip as he swallows, Charles growls, "Can't perform with the willing, then? Can't get anyone to fuck you for love nor money?" as he shifts his foot sideways as far as he can. It's not much, and kicking Shaw's ankle barely makes his own toes twinge, but it's something.
Shaw responds with a deep chuckle and an aching thrust that drives Charles gasping up onto his toetips, but not with the blackout squeeze Charles sought. "Actually," Shaw says, breathless and mild, as he palms Charles's helmeted head, "didn't Erik tell you, tears excite me?"
Struck speechless by gut-clenching horror, Charles is saved the trouble of a reply when Shaw pulls his head up and bounces it against the desk with a metallic thud. Multicolored stars burst behind Charles's eyes and the next vicious thrust makes them explode again, makes him throb up to his lungs and drives a cracked noise of pain from his throat. Shaw laughs, so does the Russian, and he grips Charles's shoulder as he rams into him again, hilting himself. Charles actually bounces and shamefully whimpers, crackling and straining around Shaw buried in him, under Shaw who leans over him to lick his nape and hums as if tasting something delicious. "Go on, then," Shaw murmurs to Charles as he finds his rhythm, jostling Charles steadily with long hard strokes that bludgeon a rising ache into him and knock a terrible succession of little high noises out of his gasping mouth. "Cry for me."
It's steady and merciless and Charles can't adjust to it, can't manage to ride it, can't catch a proper breath before each next thrust knocks all the air out of him. So he can't shut his mouth, his head swimming and his eyes running over for lack of oxygen and too much pain. A sob tears from his throat, Shaw hisses in pleasure, and Charles feels his cheeks and ears flush so hot he could almost catch fire. He wishes he could. Immolation would be far preferable to this barbarism.
Shaw's hiss sinks to a rumble, his fingers bite into Charles's shoulder and wrist, he bodily bounces Charles between himself and the desk, and each stroke burns that much hotter, cracking open little fissures of fire. Shaw growls wordlessly, fingertips five dents of sharp pain in Charles's shoulder, and Charles realizes when Shaw goes still that he's coming in deep pulses; his first thought is relief, that at least this is over.
His second thought is to hate himself for the first.
Charles bites his lip as Shaw leans on him all the more heavily and sighs in satisfaction, but his nose proves too clogged to breathe through, and every gasp carries a whimper. His chest burns for air and the edge of the desk feels like a permanent crease across his hips, but he grasps at these aches as Shaw pulls twingingly out of him, trying not to feel the throbbing soreness within. Trying and failing.
When Shaw lets go Charles's knees buckle, and he doesn't try to catch himself, but Shaw catches him by that same skin-crawling grip on the small of his back, and tut-tut-tuts at him for good measure. "Stay awake, Professor," Shaw chides, and Charles will never again hear such a voice without goosebumps and a cold sweat down his spine. "We've barely begun! Though that was a very nice beginning indeed."
"This is," Charles gasps, and he sounds reedy and choked and just as battered as he feels, but as long as he can speak he can resist, "against every -- nnh," as another set of hands curl around his hips and Shaw sits on the desk beside his shoulder -- "every civilized law -- ow --" as the man behind him nudges him, blunt and stinging -- "concerning prisoners, every decent practice, ow, god damn it, stop!"
The man behind Charles snickers as he tugs Charles's hips back despite his twisting struggles, and Shaw laughs outright. "What a grand speech," Shaw says, petting Charles between his shoulderblades. "You may proceed", is Charles's only chance to brace himself before the man behind him snaps his hips forward like a punch, slamming into him. At least Charles gets his teeth together before he screams.
But he does scream, echoing harsh and raw in his own ears. "Very nice," Shaw says; Charles gasps, aching anew around this fresh invasion, tastes brimstone on the sullied air and knows which one this is even before he hears Russian-accented laughter. As if to confirm his deduction something sleek curls loosely beneath him, round as a slender snake; he jerks up, which only makes him tense searingly around the prick inside him, only makes them both laugh again. "My dear little professor," Shaw lectures, as Azazel thrusts and Charles gasps, "What you fail to realize --" and the roar rising in Charles's ears can't drown out that smug hateful voice, "-- is that human society - " Azazel picks up the pace, hips smacking against Charles's pummeled arse, every stinging thrust driving a pain-edged huff through Charles's clenched teeth, but Shaw just raises his voice over the noises. " -- Humans have grown too weak and effete to remember the proper uses of the defeated." He pats Charles's nape. "Make him scream again, I liked that."
As the hands tighten on his hips and the tail coils tighter around his waist, Charles clenches his aching fingers together and swears to himself they will not.
Azazel shoves in even harder, harder than Shaw did, dragging Charles back into his thrusts, bruising ever deeper into him. It takes three strokes and then Azazel hits -- Charles knows exactly what Azazel hits, setting off an explosion inside him, sending fire crackling down all his nerves, tearing a ragged scream from his throat as he arches in sensate agony and his soaked blindfold drips onto his aching cheeks. Sobbing, Charles collapses to the unyielding desk, trembling along the scalded threads of his seared nerves, shuddering as Azazel's growl reverberates between his ears and Shaw presses hard fingers on his nape.
They all know what Azazel's found, grunting as he batters precisely at it and Charles chokes on the screams battered up his throat, the electric pain pulsing along his nerves again and again. Shaw chuckles and presses down between Charles's shoulders, restraining his writhing, compressing his lungs until he doesn't even have enough air to scream and lights flicker behind his tight-clamped eyelids. But still Charles can't pass out, he can't send his mind away, he can't do anything but be hideously present for every twinge, every ache, every crackle, every thrust.
Azazel's tail cinches ever tighter around Charles's waist as he begins to tremble, his steady pace growing uneven and wild. Come on, Charles thinks, gasping under the battering, too far gone for shame. Come on, finish up, be done with me. His thoughts bounce around inside his skull, restrained by that infernal helmet, but as if Charles could reach out and command it Azazel digs sharp-tipped fingers into his hips, going still and shaking with orgasm, and Charles feels every spurt unnaturally hot inside him.
Azazel comments in a winded voice, some sort of scornful praise, Shaw laughs and answers in Russian as well, and all Charles can do is suck air through his clenched teeth, his throat burning nearly as rawly as his arse, his temples throbbing with a headache from his useless crying. He clutches his own fingers until they tingle on the edge of numbness, struggling to control his breathing before he hyperventilates, to keep hold of himself. They've made him scream, they've made him cry, but he's still himself, and when Erik arrives, Charles swears, he will be able to be of use.
Releasing his tail's constricting hold, Azazel withdraws on a sticky-wet slurp. Thick fluid trickles down Charles's thighs, hot tears trickling from his eyes, and he grits his teeth till his jaw creaks. Without the Frost woman, Shaw reportedly has only these two henchmen; one more and this ordeal will be over, Charles reminds himself, but he still twitches when a long hand settles on his back, he still clenches painfully around nothing and gasps involuntarily.
"Go on," Shaw says warmly, and Charles heartily repents ever, ever debating Erik over the question of putting this madman down. "He's a little messy, but there's plenty left for you."
Charles should say something defiant, should assert he's not broken, but his pounding head spins, pressed down to the desk, and the best he can do is to swallow the noise trying to push its way up his throat as the next man pushes into him, blunt and thick. Already bruised sore, Charles's body creaks around the invasion, and no matter how tightly he grits his teeth he can hear himself keening, high and wounded. Shaw snickers, patting Charles's nape, and his windworker sets an almost leisurely pace, his way slicked but no less painful for it. The man barely even breathes hard, otherwise utterly silent but for the wisps of cool wind curling over Charles's damp skin and the wet squelching thump again and again and again. Charles loses something then, some hold on linear time, as the world sinks under the oceanic crashing of his racing blood, the steady in-out-in-out and Shaw's implacable hand curled behind his neck.
When the windworker finally orgasms it almost feels like distant news. He lets go, Shaw lets go, and Charles's legs fold beneath him, he tips over onto the carpet and lies there for an unmeasurable time marked only by frenzied heartbeat and ragged breaths.
Eventually reality starts to filter back. Charles is chilled, hurt, and alone, or at least he hears nothing. He's still cuffed, his shoulders aching, still blindfolded and imprisoned in this helmet, still naked and befouled, and hot tears spring to the corners of his eyes. But he's also still conscious. Hoping the room's silence is true emptiness, he gets his knees beneath him. The desk must have a corner, and perhaps he can hook the helmet's rim on its edge and lever the damned thing off...
Knees digging into the springy carpet, shoulders creaking as he leans his weight on them, Charles painfully bumps and slides all the way to the side of the desk. Thinking every curse he knows, his heart quickening in hope rather than terror for the first time in what feels an eternity, he slides his cheek along jts edge until the helmet catches, pulls his knees up and prepares to shove himself back --
Hard hands grip his upper arms and hoist him up into the empty air. "Nicely done, my pretty professor," Shaw says, and Charles's heart jerks sideways like a flicked knife. "You should have seen yourself with that pert bottom up in the air, rubbing your cheek on my desk like a cat. Very inspiring."
Charles dangles from Shaw's hands, his toes barely beneath him. "Take this infernal contraption off me," he challenges in a scraped-out voice, "and I'll show you inspiration."
Shaw laughs, so close his breath brushes Charles's face like fingertips. "Oh, I like you." Another pair of arms winds around Charles from behind, another leg pushes between his as he's held too high to dig in his heels, as his gorge and his pulse both surge. "You're a fun one, my dear Charles." Who is suddenly pinned between two hard bodies, as the cloth around his arms is jerked away and the hand on his chest tweaks a nipple into aching.
Charles spits at Shaw's voice but doesn't hear any splatter. "I'm not your dear," he insists, trying to kick as Shaw's hands curl beneath his thighs, trying to fling himself side to side inside the cage of arms around him. "I'm not yours, you madman, you have no right --" Shaw leans in tight, shoving Charles's thighs up and apart, and as the arms tighten Charles feels a sliding nudge, feels it doubled, and his breath catches. "No, you can't --" Two hard presses, side by side against tender abused flesh, and Charles thrashes in the unbreakable double hold, his fingertips scrabbling across hot flat planes of muscle. "It won't work, it won't, no, stop, please--"
"Mmm, yes," Shaw murmurs, pressing his cheek to the helmet as he pushes up into Charles again, heavy and solid and edged with pain, as Charles arches, his head thrown back over a hard shoulder, a cry leaking from between his teeth. A long sleek cord winds around Charles's throat, Azazel's demonic tail, and Charles has a wild thought of flinging himself forwards, of strangling himself until all this horror fades away.
But Azazel pushes up to join Shaw, puffing against the other side of the helmet, and a sheet of fire blanks Charles's mind as his body stretches excruciatingly, impossibly, around the two cocks within him. They set a brutal alternating rhythm, bouncing Charles with their doubled thrusts, jostling his insides out of place, bludgeoning into him over and over. Charles's mind founders, swept away by the sensate flood; his cock fills tautly under Shaw's groping hand but what has been pleasurable before is just another agony now. Somewhere beyond the excruciating pound and wet slapping noise and the flame-edged haze over his mind, Charles knows he must be screaming by the burn in his coil-wound throat, hears distant deep voices full of lust and mockery, but he's too far gone to make sense of their words, of anything. The world is gone, sunk to heat and ache and the plunging doubled strain, and he shudders, crammed overfull of rending pain.
Shaw pumps his hips with vicious force, his sharp-voiced, "Magnificent," slicing through Charles's daze; Azazel's growl reverberates inside that helmet as he spurts again and Charles sobs breathlessly, hanging his head, throat and chest sagging into Azazel's hold. "Yes," Shaw hisses, mouthing Charles's shoulder, and bites him as he reaches his second orgasm and Charles crumples against his heaving chest. "Oh, yes, my dear Charles," Shaw murmurs into Charles's crawling skin as he tugs free; Azazel releases him too, tail slipping from his throat like a malevolent necktie, and Charles crashes to the floor in a shuddering heap, battered hollow and stickily besmeared. "Now wasn't that fun?" Charles hears above him, and can only press his face to the carpet, its weave prickling his sore cheeks and blotting the dripping blindfold as bruised aches radiate through him from his battered arse and tingling cock.
Then in this nadir of aching mortification, Charles hears a distant, deep, promising boom, and lifts his head despite Shaw's laugh streaming ice down his spine. "That must be Erik!" Shaw says, and Charles hears cloth rustling again, zippers furling. "Now it's a party. Azazel, please go greet our guest of honor."
* **** *
"I am sorry," Charles hears Shaw say overhead, and tries to move but his legs won't stop shaking. "If I'd realized Erik would make it here quite so quickly you'd have had your second helping first. Hold this there, will you?" Two pairs of hands grip Charles by his shoulders, shoving him up onto his knees. "I'll need both hands to deal with our wayward lamb. Make sure he can see what use we've made of his pretty telepath." Charles lolls in the windworker's grip, the helmet weighting his head like a crown of lead. "When he's sorted you may have the little professor's mouth before we give him back." He's almost surprised he still has enough dread in him to shudder at Shaw's vile offer.
Another thud, another and distant shouts. Shaw murmurs, "gekommen zu mir, Liebling," and Charles has heard enough German from Erik to pick out the individual words, for his guts to squirm at the endearment. A popping explosion behind the door, Erik's voice raised and angry over a scream, and Charles's weary heart throbs between hope and fear --
The door explodes. "Well, Erik!" Shaw sounds somewhat surprised, and a strong chill breeze whips around Charles; then there's a thunk of metal right beside his ear and the sudden smell of blood, as the hands on his shoulders spasm loose and the wind abruptly dies.
"Let me fetch your sweetheart for you," Shaw says, but Charles hears a huge crashing shriek of moving metal, Erik panting beneath it, and the floor rears and tilts beneath him as the cuffs fall away. Charles's entire body sags towards collapse but he shoves his hands up, grips the helmet and flings it off his head, blindfold and all. In a blurry wash of light he sees a forest of rebar and pipes beside him, bending to either side as Shaw parts them, intent on reaching him.
Swaying on his knees, Charles presses cramping fingers to pounding temple and freezes Shaw where he stands. The last muscles to still are those around the eyes, and Shaw stares wide-eyed at Charles for an endless throbbing second before a flicker of metal severs his head from his body, one bright line of pain through Charles's throat.
Charles clutches his own neck, bruised hot under his fingers but otherwise undamaged. Shaw's head falls off to one side as his body falls to the other, and the metal screen curls down over it, stabbing it in two dozen places, pinning the windworker's similarly impaled corpse to the floor beside it. Charles should, he knows, but he barely feels any remorse, any horror, anything besides strange hot gladness at the sight of his tormentors dead before him.
Aloud he says, "I think he's dead," stretching out his aching shoulders and rubbing his tear-scalded face, reaching up to Erik who's come for him, who's saved him --
-- who looms suddenly over him, eyes dark as a starless sky, that vile helmet in one hand and his mind a maelstrom of rage behind his stone-still face. "Erik?" Charles asks, with voice and thought, both shaking, and watches what cannot be happening, watches Erik lift the helmet and place it on his own head, his roiling thoughts vanishing from Charles's newly unblinded telepathy.
And then bars of metal curl up out of the tilted floor to wind around Charles's arms, dragging him up and backwards, the desk's edge scraping his back as he's hauled prone over it. "Erik! What are you doing!"
"He could have killed you, Charles," is the incongruous reply, rumbled like distant thunder as Erik paces across the half ruined room, as the bars around Charles's arms flatten into smooth bands and pull him inch by inch until he's draped backwards over the desk, legs dangling. "He abducted you, he laid hands upon you, he forced you, and at any moment he could have killed you." Erik's eyes glint, green obsidian in the helmet's depths, as he bears down on Charles, blocking out the light.
Charles is battered and aching and has had more than enough. "Well he hasn't, but you look ready to. Let me down." He can reach any mind for miles but his lover looming over him, but there aren't any minds for miles except Azazel's beyond the shattered door, semiconscious and fading inside his broken body. Charles wrenches away from the clinging chill of approaching death, looks up into hard eyes he's seen warm and dark at midnight and glittering with merriment at midday, and repeats as firmly as he can with his raw wrecked voice, "Erik, let me down."
Erik plants a splayed hand over Charles's heart, just as Shaw did upon his back, and all his skin prickles into goosebumps, his nerves alight and quivering. No, Charles thinks, mouth going dry, and feels it go unheard as Erik pushes him down, as the bonds pull him flat. "No," he whispers, his abraded throat aching. "Stop this. Please."
"Not until you understand." Metal snarls, loud in the silent room, and the realization that he just heard Erik's zipper makes Charles's heart lurch against his breastbone, makes every bruise flare in his skin, within him. "Charles," Erik murmurs, trancelike in tranquil fury, a twitch of his hips slipping him between Charles's knees, and Charles should kick him -- he could never kick Erik -- he's more helpless than ever -- this can't be happening, he thinks, staring up into Erik's opaque eyes as Erik bears down on him. Not again. Not Erik.
But cool metal curls around Charles's thighs, smoother and more careful than that tail; he shakes, his throat tingling with the memory, and cool fingers curve around his ankle. Erik stares unblinkingly at Charles as he pushes him into position, and Charles stares back in disbelief, his mind plummeting off a cliff of logic. This can't be. "You cannot be so defenseless," Erik breathes over his forehead, pulling his thighs so wide his hips creak. "You let them take you, Charles, you let them fuck you. You can't."
Those words are a knife through Charles's seizing chest, a more bitter pain than all his bruises and hurts. "I did not, you can't blame me! This isn't my f-- augh!" Erik pushes into him, hot and heavy and unbelievable, the pain blotting out every denial in Charles's head. "Ow, Erik, please, stop, please!"
"You must learn," Erik murmurs, lips on Charles's hairline, and all Charles sees now is crackling darkness; he must have shut his eyes, they squeeze tighter on every wince as Erik's hips jerk into him. The metal bonds push Charles up against Erik's firm body as Erik's hands slide over his ribs, as Erik's arms wrap around him; two mornings ago he held Charles just like this, kissing his ears and his temples as they writhed together, and Charles sobs under the memory, a worse torment than every aching thrust.
Now Erik holds him pinned, unable to move a millimeter as he shoves into Charles again and again, every soreness twinging to excruciating life beneath his bruising weight, around his implacable thrusts.. Now Erik's chest shudders against Charles's and Charles's shakes in return, wracked by rising sobs. Now Erik whispers, "They took you, you let them take you, only I can have you, you're mine, you're mine," and Charles cries till the tears run down his cheeks as Erik's mind remains closed to him, as Erik's words pour into his ears, as Erik curls knowing fingers around his cock and invades him again and again. As Charles's battered heart finally cracks and shatters, Erik shushes his sobs, stroking him with hollow tenderness, panting warmly into his hair.
"You could have died," Erik breathes, his hand trembling as he strokes Charles, and Charles would answer that Erik's killing him, but his ribs tighten with misery and Erik's not listening anymore.
"Charles," Erik sighs rapturously, his arm denting Charles's back and the coiled bonds pressing chill lines into Charles's limbs; every quiver of Erik's orgasm shudders through Charles, shockwave upon shockwave crumbling him to his foundations as he somehow overflows as well, the sensation wrenching and joyless, the muscular ripples setting off waves of pain as battered flesh tightens and releases. The metal restraints slither away and Erik clutches Charles all the tighter, pressing their bodies together as Charles sags in his grasp.
This has happened, inescapably, indelibly. Erik too has done this to him. He kisses Charles's unresisting mouth and murmurs, "Come now, let's go home," but all Charles sees behind his tight-closed eyelids are the ruins of everything he thought he knew, tumbled and strewn all around him.
Prompts in all their glory:
Charles/Azazel, Charles/Janos, Charles/Shaw - non-con, gang bang
Shaw manages to capture Charles.
He's placed at a desk or bed or something and the males of the hellfire club line up to fuck him from behind.
Bonus: If there is a description of the differences, how each of them feels different for Charles bacuse of the shape, or the pace, or the angle, or the force.
Double bonus: If Charles tries to draw conclusions about their character traits from the way they fuck him.
and
Azazel/Charles/Shaw - non-con, potential for double penetration
Azazel and Shaw nonconning Charles. Possibly with DP.
and
Charles/Erik; noncon
Erik finds Charles in the middle of a gang rape. Blind with rage, Erik kills everyone present for touching Charles and then forces himself on Charles for allowing it to happen.
Characters/Pairing: Azazel/Charles, Charles/Riptide, Charles/Shaw, Charles/Erik.
Rating: NC-17. I'd rate it higher if I could.
Warnings: Gang rape, double penetration, violence, character death, partner abuse, victim blaming.
Prompt: " Shaw manages to capture Charles..." plus two bonus prompts, all linked in their entirety at the end of the story.
Summary: While waiting for Erik to come rescue Charles, Shaw and his Hellfire Club disport themselves. Then Erik finally arrives.
Author's Note: The [main] prompt was filled twice. Here's the magnificent other fill.
It has always been perennially amazing to Charles, how it need only take a moment for a person's life to be turned entirely topsy turvy, upside down.
* **** *
One moment, Charles is strolling down a hallway, on the way from a restroom to a sunroom overlooking the lawn, when he hears a distant noise, between a pop and a peal of thunder, and feels another mind in his house. He reaches out for the intruder's identity, but the person vanishes from his mind's eye just as air and smoke explode behind him, as a hand clamps heavily on his shoulder. Charles tries to turn, to pull away, flinging out a telepathic shout to everyone around him, but he only gains one glimpse of white teeth bared in a craggy vermillion face before black sulfurous smoke engulfs him.
In the next moment the reeking cloud spits Charles out into empty air, no longer even that heavy hand supporting him; he windmills helplessly, falling backwards as light blazes across his eyes, thumping down so hard his breath explodes in a winded huff. Hands land on him and Charles lunges for the minds behind them, but they cram something smooth and dark down onto his head and then there's -- nothing.
Silence.
Silence and the hard hands dragging his arms behind his back, the distant aural cacophony that resolves into harsh laughter as bands of metal close around his wrists, the black swatch of cloth wrapped over his eyes and the cool impervious helmet enveloping his head. "What?" Charles gasps into the silence behind his eyes and the air swirling past his mouth. "What do you want?"
More laughter, rustling cloth, as the hands grip his arms and hoist him to his feet, and then "So this is Erik's little telepath, who stole mine," in a warm baritone, a chillingly familiar voice which Charles has never heard before with his own ears, has heard so many times in Erik's nightmares and lately in Raven's and Alex's. Charles swallows hard over a cold squirm of dread, and when long fingers brush his cheek he tries to pull away but the hands push him into the touch. "Welcome, Professor Xavier," says Sebastian Shaw, and Charles shudders with his friends' remembered fear and his own fresh alarm, clenching his teeth against a whimper. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
* **** *
As they drag him along stumbling from smooth paving to thick carpet, Charles tries to reason with his captors, saying, "If you let me go we can avoid having this become an incident," and "I'm sure we can work this out peaceably if you'll just tell me what you want." But he's blind and suppressed, fumbling in the darkness, and all he gains by his efforts is more harsh laughter. Soon he's out of options except bargaining, and that he can't, when what Shaw wants isn't his to offer and he never would anyway. Charles almost wishes he hadn't sent out that telepathic scream, and hopes desperately that Erik's prepared to face Shaw by the time he finds them.
Then Charles discovers what else Shaw wants, and how eager Shaw is to dispense with bargaining and just take and take.
A hard surface hits the fronts of Charles's legs, ankles to thighs, and he tries to struggle, protesting, "Surely, this isn't necessary," as he's shoved down over the squared-off edge. Wood, he realizes when his chin brushes the silky polish, before a hand lands on his helmeted head, pressing down until he has to turn it sideways. "If you would just let me up --"
Shaw shushes him from directly above, rocking his head back and forth a little. "My pretty professor," and rarely has Charles ever heard such unpromising words drawled so fondly, "you're going to bring me what I want, and we're going to have so much fun while we wait. Azazel, would you like to do the honors?"
"Da," Charles hears, deep and lascivious, and a stream of Slavic syllables. He doesn't know Russian, so without his telepathy --
A spread hand plants in the center of his back, covering far too much area, as something pointed and resilient draws a fine hot line from his waistband down the central crease of his trousers, and Charles gasps "Oh," before he can keep silent. "Oh, really, I don't --" The seam parts, cool air rushing in, and Charles's trousers and pants sag down his hips before they're grasped and jerked away, leaving him bared from the waist down as his face begins to burn. "This isn't necessary, really --" Nudity is often a precursor to torture, he remembers, dispassionate words on a distant page, his mind whirling around the present thought.
The slap to his ass cracks like thunder, sparks flying out under his skin. "Torturing me would be absolutely pointless," Charles asserts in a quivering voice. "Let me up and we can talk --"
Another slap and Charles reverberates with its force, shivering into silence under more harsh laughter, under a big hand with a chill pinky ring sliding up over his bared arse to the small of his back. "Really, my little professor," Shaw drawls, to the accompaniment of rustling cloth and roughening breathing, strange slick noises and the throb rising in Charles's ears. "What do you take me for? Would I torture someone over my desk?" He clicks his tongue, his hand-- it must be Shaw's hand -- sliding up beneath Charles's jacket and shirt. "Though I did hope you'd be better dressed. Azazel?" Another line of sharp pressure, this one between his shoulders, and Charles's jacket, shirt and vest slide open, baring his spine. Broad hands sweep the remnants sideways, crumpling them into wads of cloth beneath his elbows, and columnar legs press against the backs of his calves and thighs. "Just look at this, beneath those dull tweeds -- oh, Charles -- may I call you Charles? --"
"No you may not," Charles tries to snarl, but it emerges wobbly and faint.
Shaw isn't even listening, speaking right over Charles, stroking his bared shoulders as Charles tries to hunch away from the invasive touch. "What a well formed frame. A man really can't complain, my dear Charles." Shaw leans in, and Charles feels him, rigid and slick and hot pressing against his arsecheek --
Panic flares searing white behind Charles's darkened eyes. "No," he gasps, convulsing in struggles, but Shaw grips his cuffed wrists and he gets exactly nowhere. "No!" This isn't happening, his mind cries out in a desperate lie, I can stop this they won't do this they can't do this not to me no no no --
Shaw's other hand digs into Charles's hip, his breath a hot gust of delight over the defenseless skin between Charles's shoulderblades. "Relax," Shaw advises, all cheer as he shifts his hips and his cock nudges Charles in horrific intimacy, his henchmen breathing roughly to either side. "This won't hurt a bit."
He pushes. Shaw pushes and Charles groans reflexively under the searing press, gritting his teeth with the effort of resisting. Shaw pushes harder, chuckling in the back of his throat, and Charles feels his body furling open no matter how tightly he clenches, sees red lightning arc across the insides of his burning eyelids as Shaw sinks searingly into him. "Stop," Charles babbles hoarsely, his throat tightening, "stop, please, stop, whatever your point it's made, just -- "
He only feels his fingers twisting when Shaw stills them in a tightened grip, stroking the straining tendon in Charles's wrist with a broad thumb. He only feels the hard line of the desk's edge cutting across his hips when Shaw stills for a moment, puffing over him, hateful amusement on every exhale."You're a tight little nipper, aren't you?" he asks in a dark intimate tone, and Charles tries to make the answering shudder at least look like further struggling. "I wouldn't have thought such a pretty public-school boy would still have such a squeeze to him. Maybe you did all your service on your knees," and he pushes Charles's chin up with four fingers, thumb sliding across Charles's bottom lip. "Maybe I'll try this fancy mouth if we have enough time to spare."
Charles tries to bite anyway, his teeth chattering as his jaw's held shut, his guts spasming as Shaw pushes ever deeper; it's an immense burning strain, and Charles can't expel him, can't resist him, can't escape this at all. Shaw pushes further, sending agony pulsing up Charles's spine, making him grunt behind his clenched teeth as Shaw huffs and his grip slides down over Charles's throat. Shaw tugs back, fingers tightening fearfully over Charles's windpipe, and Charles's heart bangs against his locked ribs as he feels himself seemingly pulled inside out. Could this get even worse? Would that be worse? A scornful comment in Russian and Charles can feel Shaw's laugh propagate between their joined bodies, and he flushes even hotter as he remembers the others waiting, doubtless for their turns.
It couldn't be worse, not than this. Skin pressing into Shaw's grip as he swallows, Charles growls, "Can't perform with the willing, then? Can't get anyone to fuck you for love nor money?" as he shifts his foot sideways as far as he can. It's not much, and kicking Shaw's ankle barely makes his own toes twinge, but it's something.
Shaw responds with a deep chuckle and an aching thrust that drives Charles gasping up onto his toetips, but not with the blackout squeeze Charles sought. "Actually," Shaw says, breathless and mild, as he palms Charles's helmeted head, "didn't Erik tell you, tears excite me?"
Struck speechless by gut-clenching horror, Charles is saved the trouble of a reply when Shaw pulls his head up and bounces it against the desk with a metallic thud. Multicolored stars burst behind Charles's eyes and the next vicious thrust makes them explode again, makes him throb up to his lungs and drives a cracked noise of pain from his throat. Shaw laughs, so does the Russian, and he grips Charles's shoulder as he rams into him again, hilting himself. Charles actually bounces and shamefully whimpers, crackling and straining around Shaw buried in him, under Shaw who leans over him to lick his nape and hums as if tasting something delicious. "Go on, then," Shaw murmurs to Charles as he finds his rhythm, jostling Charles steadily with long hard strokes that bludgeon a rising ache into him and knock a terrible succession of little high noises out of his gasping mouth. "Cry for me."
It's steady and merciless and Charles can't adjust to it, can't manage to ride it, can't catch a proper breath before each next thrust knocks all the air out of him. So he can't shut his mouth, his head swimming and his eyes running over for lack of oxygen and too much pain. A sob tears from his throat, Shaw hisses in pleasure, and Charles feels his cheeks and ears flush so hot he could almost catch fire. He wishes he could. Immolation would be far preferable to this barbarism.
Shaw's hiss sinks to a rumble, his fingers bite into Charles's shoulder and wrist, he bodily bounces Charles between himself and the desk, and each stroke burns that much hotter, cracking open little fissures of fire. Shaw growls wordlessly, fingertips five dents of sharp pain in Charles's shoulder, and Charles realizes when Shaw goes still that he's coming in deep pulses; his first thought is relief, that at least this is over.
His second thought is to hate himself for the first.
Charles bites his lip as Shaw leans on him all the more heavily and sighs in satisfaction, but his nose proves too clogged to breathe through, and every gasp carries a whimper. His chest burns for air and the edge of the desk feels like a permanent crease across his hips, but he grasps at these aches as Shaw pulls twingingly out of him, trying not to feel the throbbing soreness within. Trying and failing.
When Shaw lets go Charles's knees buckle, and he doesn't try to catch himself, but Shaw catches him by that same skin-crawling grip on the small of his back, and tut-tut-tuts at him for good measure. "Stay awake, Professor," Shaw chides, and Charles will never again hear such a voice without goosebumps and a cold sweat down his spine. "We've barely begun! Though that was a very nice beginning indeed."
"This is," Charles gasps, and he sounds reedy and choked and just as battered as he feels, but as long as he can speak he can resist, "against every -- nnh," as another set of hands curl around his hips and Shaw sits on the desk beside his shoulder -- "every civilized law -- ow --" as the man behind him nudges him, blunt and stinging -- "concerning prisoners, every decent practice, ow, god damn it, stop!"
The man behind Charles snickers as he tugs Charles's hips back despite his twisting struggles, and Shaw laughs outright. "What a grand speech," Shaw says, petting Charles between his shoulderblades. "You may proceed", is Charles's only chance to brace himself before the man behind him snaps his hips forward like a punch, slamming into him. At least Charles gets his teeth together before he screams.
But he does scream, echoing harsh and raw in his own ears. "Very nice," Shaw says; Charles gasps, aching anew around this fresh invasion, tastes brimstone on the sullied air and knows which one this is even before he hears Russian-accented laughter. As if to confirm his deduction something sleek curls loosely beneath him, round as a slender snake; he jerks up, which only makes him tense searingly around the prick inside him, only makes them both laugh again. "My dear little professor," Shaw lectures, as Azazel thrusts and Charles gasps, "What you fail to realize --" and the roar rising in Charles's ears can't drown out that smug hateful voice, "-- is that human society - " Azazel picks up the pace, hips smacking against Charles's pummeled arse, every stinging thrust driving a pain-edged huff through Charles's clenched teeth, but Shaw just raises his voice over the noises. " -- Humans have grown too weak and effete to remember the proper uses of the defeated." He pats Charles's nape. "Make him scream again, I liked that."
As the hands tighten on his hips and the tail coils tighter around his waist, Charles clenches his aching fingers together and swears to himself they will not.
Azazel shoves in even harder, harder than Shaw did, dragging Charles back into his thrusts, bruising ever deeper into him. It takes three strokes and then Azazel hits -- Charles knows exactly what Azazel hits, setting off an explosion inside him, sending fire crackling down all his nerves, tearing a ragged scream from his throat as he arches in sensate agony and his soaked blindfold drips onto his aching cheeks. Sobbing, Charles collapses to the unyielding desk, trembling along the scalded threads of his seared nerves, shuddering as Azazel's growl reverberates between his ears and Shaw presses hard fingers on his nape.
They all know what Azazel's found, grunting as he batters precisely at it and Charles chokes on the screams battered up his throat, the electric pain pulsing along his nerves again and again. Shaw chuckles and presses down between Charles's shoulders, restraining his writhing, compressing his lungs until he doesn't even have enough air to scream and lights flicker behind his tight-clamped eyelids. But still Charles can't pass out, he can't send his mind away, he can't do anything but be hideously present for every twinge, every ache, every crackle, every thrust.
Azazel's tail cinches ever tighter around Charles's waist as he begins to tremble, his steady pace growing uneven and wild. Come on, Charles thinks, gasping under the battering, too far gone for shame. Come on, finish up, be done with me. His thoughts bounce around inside his skull, restrained by that infernal helmet, but as if Charles could reach out and command it Azazel digs sharp-tipped fingers into his hips, going still and shaking with orgasm, and Charles feels every spurt unnaturally hot inside him.
Azazel comments in a winded voice, some sort of scornful praise, Shaw laughs and answers in Russian as well, and all Charles can do is suck air through his clenched teeth, his throat burning nearly as rawly as his arse, his temples throbbing with a headache from his useless crying. He clutches his own fingers until they tingle on the edge of numbness, struggling to control his breathing before he hyperventilates, to keep hold of himself. They've made him scream, they've made him cry, but he's still himself, and when Erik arrives, Charles swears, he will be able to be of use.
Releasing his tail's constricting hold, Azazel withdraws on a sticky-wet slurp. Thick fluid trickles down Charles's thighs, hot tears trickling from his eyes, and he grits his teeth till his jaw creaks. Without the Frost woman, Shaw reportedly has only these two henchmen; one more and this ordeal will be over, Charles reminds himself, but he still twitches when a long hand settles on his back, he still clenches painfully around nothing and gasps involuntarily.
"Go on," Shaw says warmly, and Charles heartily repents ever, ever debating Erik over the question of putting this madman down. "He's a little messy, but there's plenty left for you."
Charles should say something defiant, should assert he's not broken, but his pounding head spins, pressed down to the desk, and the best he can do is to swallow the noise trying to push its way up his throat as the next man pushes into him, blunt and thick. Already bruised sore, Charles's body creaks around the invasion, and no matter how tightly he grits his teeth he can hear himself keening, high and wounded. Shaw snickers, patting Charles's nape, and his windworker sets an almost leisurely pace, his way slicked but no less painful for it. The man barely even breathes hard, otherwise utterly silent but for the wisps of cool wind curling over Charles's damp skin and the wet squelching thump again and again and again. Charles loses something then, some hold on linear time, as the world sinks under the oceanic crashing of his racing blood, the steady in-out-in-out and Shaw's implacable hand curled behind his neck.
When the windworker finally orgasms it almost feels like distant news. He lets go, Shaw lets go, and Charles's legs fold beneath him, he tips over onto the carpet and lies there for an unmeasurable time marked only by frenzied heartbeat and ragged breaths.
Eventually reality starts to filter back. Charles is chilled, hurt, and alone, or at least he hears nothing. He's still cuffed, his shoulders aching, still blindfolded and imprisoned in this helmet, still naked and befouled, and hot tears spring to the corners of his eyes. But he's also still conscious. Hoping the room's silence is true emptiness, he gets his knees beneath him. The desk must have a corner, and perhaps he can hook the helmet's rim on its edge and lever the damned thing off...
Knees digging into the springy carpet, shoulders creaking as he leans his weight on them, Charles painfully bumps and slides all the way to the side of the desk. Thinking every curse he knows, his heart quickening in hope rather than terror for the first time in what feels an eternity, he slides his cheek along jts edge until the helmet catches, pulls his knees up and prepares to shove himself back --
Hard hands grip his upper arms and hoist him up into the empty air. "Nicely done, my pretty professor," Shaw says, and Charles's heart jerks sideways like a flicked knife. "You should have seen yourself with that pert bottom up in the air, rubbing your cheek on my desk like a cat. Very inspiring."
Charles dangles from Shaw's hands, his toes barely beneath him. "Take this infernal contraption off me," he challenges in a scraped-out voice, "and I'll show you inspiration."
Shaw laughs, so close his breath brushes Charles's face like fingertips. "Oh, I like you." Another pair of arms winds around Charles from behind, another leg pushes between his as he's held too high to dig in his heels, as his gorge and his pulse both surge. "You're a fun one, my dear Charles." Who is suddenly pinned between two hard bodies, as the cloth around his arms is jerked away and the hand on his chest tweaks a nipple into aching.
Charles spits at Shaw's voice but doesn't hear any splatter. "I'm not your dear," he insists, trying to kick as Shaw's hands curl beneath his thighs, trying to fling himself side to side inside the cage of arms around him. "I'm not yours, you madman, you have no right --" Shaw leans in tight, shoving Charles's thighs up and apart, and as the arms tighten Charles feels a sliding nudge, feels it doubled, and his breath catches. "No, you can't --" Two hard presses, side by side against tender abused flesh, and Charles thrashes in the unbreakable double hold, his fingertips scrabbling across hot flat planes of muscle. "It won't work, it won't, no, stop, please--"
"Mmm, yes," Shaw murmurs, pressing his cheek to the helmet as he pushes up into Charles again, heavy and solid and edged with pain, as Charles arches, his head thrown back over a hard shoulder, a cry leaking from between his teeth. A long sleek cord winds around Charles's throat, Azazel's demonic tail, and Charles has a wild thought of flinging himself forwards, of strangling himself until all this horror fades away.
But Azazel pushes up to join Shaw, puffing against the other side of the helmet, and a sheet of fire blanks Charles's mind as his body stretches excruciatingly, impossibly, around the two cocks within him. They set a brutal alternating rhythm, bouncing Charles with their doubled thrusts, jostling his insides out of place, bludgeoning into him over and over. Charles's mind founders, swept away by the sensate flood; his cock fills tautly under Shaw's groping hand but what has been pleasurable before is just another agony now. Somewhere beyond the excruciating pound and wet slapping noise and the flame-edged haze over his mind, Charles knows he must be screaming by the burn in his coil-wound throat, hears distant deep voices full of lust and mockery, but he's too far gone to make sense of their words, of anything. The world is gone, sunk to heat and ache and the plunging doubled strain, and he shudders, crammed overfull of rending pain.
Shaw pumps his hips with vicious force, his sharp-voiced, "Magnificent," slicing through Charles's daze; Azazel's growl reverberates inside that helmet as he spurts again and Charles sobs breathlessly, hanging his head, throat and chest sagging into Azazel's hold. "Yes," Shaw hisses, mouthing Charles's shoulder, and bites him as he reaches his second orgasm and Charles crumples against his heaving chest. "Oh, yes, my dear Charles," Shaw murmurs into Charles's crawling skin as he tugs free; Azazel releases him too, tail slipping from his throat like a malevolent necktie, and Charles crashes to the floor in a shuddering heap, battered hollow and stickily besmeared. "Now wasn't that fun?" Charles hears above him, and can only press his face to the carpet, its weave prickling his sore cheeks and blotting the dripping blindfold as bruised aches radiate through him from his battered arse and tingling cock.
Then in this nadir of aching mortification, Charles hears a distant, deep, promising boom, and lifts his head despite Shaw's laugh streaming ice down his spine. "That must be Erik!" Shaw says, and Charles hears cloth rustling again, zippers furling. "Now it's a party. Azazel, please go greet our guest of honor."
* **** *
"I am sorry," Charles hears Shaw say overhead, and tries to move but his legs won't stop shaking. "If I'd realized Erik would make it here quite so quickly you'd have had your second helping first. Hold this there, will you?" Two pairs of hands grip Charles by his shoulders, shoving him up onto his knees. "I'll need both hands to deal with our wayward lamb. Make sure he can see what use we've made of his pretty telepath." Charles lolls in the windworker's grip, the helmet weighting his head like a crown of lead. "When he's sorted you may have the little professor's mouth before we give him back." He's almost surprised he still has enough dread in him to shudder at Shaw's vile offer.
Another thud, another and distant shouts. Shaw murmurs, "gekommen zu mir, Liebling," and Charles has heard enough German from Erik to pick out the individual words, for his guts to squirm at the endearment. A popping explosion behind the door, Erik's voice raised and angry over a scream, and Charles's weary heart throbs between hope and fear --
The door explodes. "Well, Erik!" Shaw sounds somewhat surprised, and a strong chill breeze whips around Charles; then there's a thunk of metal right beside his ear and the sudden smell of blood, as the hands on his shoulders spasm loose and the wind abruptly dies.
"Let me fetch your sweetheart for you," Shaw says, but Charles hears a huge crashing shriek of moving metal, Erik panting beneath it, and the floor rears and tilts beneath him as the cuffs fall away. Charles's entire body sags towards collapse but he shoves his hands up, grips the helmet and flings it off his head, blindfold and all. In a blurry wash of light he sees a forest of rebar and pipes beside him, bending to either side as Shaw parts them, intent on reaching him.
Swaying on his knees, Charles presses cramping fingers to pounding temple and freezes Shaw where he stands. The last muscles to still are those around the eyes, and Shaw stares wide-eyed at Charles for an endless throbbing second before a flicker of metal severs his head from his body, one bright line of pain through Charles's throat.
Charles clutches his own neck, bruised hot under his fingers but otherwise undamaged. Shaw's head falls off to one side as his body falls to the other, and the metal screen curls down over it, stabbing it in two dozen places, pinning the windworker's similarly impaled corpse to the floor beside it. Charles should, he knows, but he barely feels any remorse, any horror, anything besides strange hot gladness at the sight of his tormentors dead before him.
Aloud he says, "I think he's dead," stretching out his aching shoulders and rubbing his tear-scalded face, reaching up to Erik who's come for him, who's saved him --
-- who looms suddenly over him, eyes dark as a starless sky, that vile helmet in one hand and his mind a maelstrom of rage behind his stone-still face. "Erik?" Charles asks, with voice and thought, both shaking, and watches what cannot be happening, watches Erik lift the helmet and place it on his own head, his roiling thoughts vanishing from Charles's newly unblinded telepathy.
And then bars of metal curl up out of the tilted floor to wind around Charles's arms, dragging him up and backwards, the desk's edge scraping his back as he's hauled prone over it. "Erik! What are you doing!"
"He could have killed you, Charles," is the incongruous reply, rumbled like distant thunder as Erik paces across the half ruined room, as the bars around Charles's arms flatten into smooth bands and pull him inch by inch until he's draped backwards over the desk, legs dangling. "He abducted you, he laid hands upon you, he forced you, and at any moment he could have killed you." Erik's eyes glint, green obsidian in the helmet's depths, as he bears down on Charles, blocking out the light.
Charles is battered and aching and has had more than enough. "Well he hasn't, but you look ready to. Let me down." He can reach any mind for miles but his lover looming over him, but there aren't any minds for miles except Azazel's beyond the shattered door, semiconscious and fading inside his broken body. Charles wrenches away from the clinging chill of approaching death, looks up into hard eyes he's seen warm and dark at midnight and glittering with merriment at midday, and repeats as firmly as he can with his raw wrecked voice, "Erik, let me down."
Erik plants a splayed hand over Charles's heart, just as Shaw did upon his back, and all his skin prickles into goosebumps, his nerves alight and quivering. No, Charles thinks, mouth going dry, and feels it go unheard as Erik pushes him down, as the bonds pull him flat. "No," he whispers, his abraded throat aching. "Stop this. Please."
"Not until you understand." Metal snarls, loud in the silent room, and the realization that he just heard Erik's zipper makes Charles's heart lurch against his breastbone, makes every bruise flare in his skin, within him. "Charles," Erik murmurs, trancelike in tranquil fury, a twitch of his hips slipping him between Charles's knees, and Charles should kick him -- he could never kick Erik -- he's more helpless than ever -- this can't be happening, he thinks, staring up into Erik's opaque eyes as Erik bears down on him. Not again. Not Erik.
But cool metal curls around Charles's thighs, smoother and more careful than that tail; he shakes, his throat tingling with the memory, and cool fingers curve around his ankle. Erik stares unblinkingly at Charles as he pushes him into position, and Charles stares back in disbelief, his mind plummeting off a cliff of logic. This can't be. "You cannot be so defenseless," Erik breathes over his forehead, pulling his thighs so wide his hips creak. "You let them take you, Charles, you let them fuck you. You can't."
Those words are a knife through Charles's seizing chest, a more bitter pain than all his bruises and hurts. "I did not, you can't blame me! This isn't my f-- augh!" Erik pushes into him, hot and heavy and unbelievable, the pain blotting out every denial in Charles's head. "Ow, Erik, please, stop, please!"
"You must learn," Erik murmurs, lips on Charles's hairline, and all Charles sees now is crackling darkness; he must have shut his eyes, they squeeze tighter on every wince as Erik's hips jerk into him. The metal bonds push Charles up against Erik's firm body as Erik's hands slide over his ribs, as Erik's arms wrap around him; two mornings ago he held Charles just like this, kissing his ears and his temples as they writhed together, and Charles sobs under the memory, a worse torment than every aching thrust.
Now Erik holds him pinned, unable to move a millimeter as he shoves into Charles again and again, every soreness twinging to excruciating life beneath his bruising weight, around his implacable thrusts.. Now Erik's chest shudders against Charles's and Charles's shakes in return, wracked by rising sobs. Now Erik whispers, "They took you, you let them take you, only I can have you, you're mine, you're mine," and Charles cries till the tears run down his cheeks as Erik's mind remains closed to him, as Erik's words pour into his ears, as Erik curls knowing fingers around his cock and invades him again and again. As Charles's battered heart finally cracks and shatters, Erik shushes his sobs, stroking him with hollow tenderness, panting warmly into his hair.
"You could have died," Erik breathes, his hand trembling as he strokes Charles, and Charles would answer that Erik's killing him, but his ribs tighten with misery and Erik's not listening anymore.
"Charles," Erik sighs rapturously, his arm denting Charles's back and the coiled bonds pressing chill lines into Charles's limbs; every quiver of Erik's orgasm shudders through Charles, shockwave upon shockwave crumbling him to his foundations as he somehow overflows as well, the sensation wrenching and joyless, the muscular ripples setting off waves of pain as battered flesh tightens and releases. The metal restraints slither away and Erik clutches Charles all the tighter, pressing their bodies together as Charles sags in his grasp.
This has happened, inescapably, indelibly. Erik too has done this to him. He kisses Charles's unresisting mouth and murmurs, "Come now, let's go home," but all Charles sees behind his tight-closed eyelids are the ruins of everything he thought he knew, tumbled and strewn all around him.
Prompts in all their glory:
Charles/Azazel, Charles/Janos, Charles/Shaw - non-con, gang bang
Shaw manages to capture Charles.
He's placed at a desk or bed or something and the males of the hellfire club line up to fuck him from behind.
Bonus: If there is a description of the differences, how each of them feels different for Charles bacuse of the shape, or the pace, or the angle, or the force.
Double bonus: If Charles tries to draw conclusions about their character traits from the way they fuck him.
and
Azazel/Charles/Shaw - non-con, potential for double penetration
Azazel and Shaw nonconning Charles. Possibly with DP.
and
Charles/Erik; noncon
Erik finds Charles in the middle of a gang rape. Blind with rage, Erik kills everyone present for touching Charles and then forces himself on Charles for allowing it to happen.