[fic] Dance for Me.
Fandom: X-Men: First Class
Pairing: Erik/Shaw
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dub-con.
Length: ~ 1000 words.
Summary: Fill for this here prompt on firstkink - Broken!Erik is Shaw's personal sex slave, and Shaw takes full advantage of that.
----
Erik loved to feel Shaw inside of him.
After seven years - seven years - in the camps, it was all he had to look forward to. It was the only time he was touched like that, the only time he was talked to like that, the only time he got attention like that. It made him feel alive, and human. It reminded him that he was something other than just an experiment - something other than just a toy. And so when Shaw called on him, Erik would dance for him, fuck himself on him. No matter what Shaw asked, Erik would comply, just so he could feel alive. Alive and wanted.
But that was the deprived part of Erik, the human that they couldn’t quite beat out of him (or that they didn’t quite want to). The rest of Erik, the majority of Erik, hated himself for those thoughts. He hated how excited he got when Shaw called him, how eager he was to rut and whine against the man that had tortured him for seven goddamn years. He hated how his want took over his body, how he couldn’t control himself when Shaw was exposed and in front of him and commanding. He hated that in the heat of the moment he would always prefer to dance for Shaw than to have Shaw leave him standing there, cold and alone and wanting.
He hated that he wasn’t stronger.
And right now he hated that he was on his knees, hands on his captor’s bare thighs, his lips wrapped around Shaw’s erection as his tongue teased the head of his cock. He hated that Shaw was moaning, and he hated how that noise was making him hard.
As Erik’s tongue slipped down the underside of Shaw’s cock, he felt the elder thrust further into his throat. It hurt, and it was uncomfortable, but still Erik whined. And moaned. And the vibration of the sound was enough to cause Shaw to gasp, his fingers lacing in and tugging on Erik’s hair as a makeshift request (a command) for more. Erik pulled away, just slightly, in an attempted defiance, but as soon as he did Shaw was pulling him closer again, hitting Erik’s throat again, and it was painful, and it was uncomfortable, but it was good. And so Erik moaned. Again. Against his will. And Shaw threw his head back, his eyes closing in bliss as he fucked Erik’s mouth for all it was worth.
When Erik wasn’t gagging, his tongue was still caressing that fucking cock.
“You’re so good to me, Erik.” Erik’s fingers, naked as the rest of him, dug their nails into Shaw’s thighs. Shaw, who was mercilessly calm, tugged Erik’s hair back further, resting his fingers under the metal-bender’s chin and lifting it up, up, until Erik was forced to look at the man that was doing this to him. He let out a whine, helpless and pleading.
It only caused Shaw to arch into Erik’s mouth one more time.
“Up.” It was a command, one that Erik had been trained to follow, and as Shaw’s fingers left his hair and his erection finally left Erik’s mouth, Erik crawled up, onto the chair where Shaw was seated, and straddled him.
“Good boy.”
Erik wanted to growl, to spit in Shaw’s face, to poke his eyes out, to kill him. He wanted to shout obscenities, to run, to escape, to bring the building down with the two of them inside it. Erik wanted to do anything. But instead, he nodded. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Shaw’s neck. Instead, Shaw pressed himself into Erik’s warmth, and Erik made a sound that was the perfect mixture of pain and anger and bliss.
Shaw put his hands on Erik’s hips and guided him back onto his cock. The part of Erik that wanted to growl was protesting, was writing against the hands that held him, but the part of Erik that had possessed his tongue was ecstatic. When Erik was seated, Shaw’s hand guided him up. The part of Erik that wanted to growl wanted to shout obscenities, but the part of Erik that had possessed his tongue turned those obscenities into moans, whines, mewls.
By the third time Shaw guided him back down, his hands were doing next to nothing. Erik was fucking himself.
And he went slowly, almost reluctantly. It made the man beneath him buck, and when he did Erik whimpered. He whimpered, but he didn’t stop, slowly increasing his speed in an attempt to get Shaw to just stay still and shut up.
It didn’t work.
And Shaw moaned as Erik brought himself up, moaned as Erik brought himself down. Erik hated that noise. He hated it because it meant that Shaw was enjoying himself, and it meant that Shaw was close. He hated it, but it was making him pant; it was making his whimpers turn to whines, to mewls, and it was making his hand trail down Shaw’s chest, across to his own thigh, until Erik was thrusting into his hand as well as back onto his captor.
And fuck, did it feel good.
Shaw was saying something degrading, something Erik should feel awful about, something that probably told him to go faster, to whine more, something that told Erik that he was property, but with the addition of his hand his orgasm was growing as fast as his erratic breathing, and Erik couldn’t hear a thing. His other hand removed itself from Shaw, reached down his chest until he was (barely, just barely) pinching his own nipple, and Erik’s breath hitched. His head lolled back; his eyes shut, and his mouth opened. He tightened his grip on his cock. He moved his hips faster. He squeezed his nipple harder (barely, just barely, just enough) until he was begging Shaw to come inside him, begging for his own release as if his life depended on it.
It was an eternity until his wish was fulfilled. Erik’s toes had curled into the fabric of Shaw’s chair, his face had gone flushed. In an attempt to stay hard, Erik was making more noise than he ever thought possible. But finally, finally, he felt Shaw arch beneath him, felt that familiar warmth fill him up, and with one final thrust Erik came, his seed coating his chest, his hand, Shaw, in a sticky, glorious mess.
There was a moment, a single moment, of bliss, before suddenly, the reality came crashing back to him: the reality that this was Shaw, the reality that this was Shaw inside him, the reality that this was Shaw making him moan and pant and sweat like some kind of whore, the reality that Erik was touching himself for Shaw, because of Shaw, for Shaw's entertainment. And suddenly Erik hated himself.
His hands left his cock, his chest. He scrambled off of the man in the chair, stared at him. He tried to hide the fact that his body was drenched in sweat and semen. He tried to hide the fact that he had enjoyed what had just happened. The look on his face was one of complete disgust, hatred, and pure terror, and in that moment, Erik wanted to lunge at the man in front of him. He wanted to choke him, slowly, until he was begging for Erik to let him go.
Erik wanted to kill him in that moment. Erik wanted to torture him, and Shaw knew it. Shaw knew it, but he didn’t care. Because despite everything, Shaw knew that he had won.
The smile on the bastard's face reflected just that. “Your mother would be so proud.”
Pairing: Erik/Shaw
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dub-con.
Length: ~ 1000 words.
Summary: Fill for this here prompt on firstkink - Broken!Erik is Shaw's personal sex slave, and Shaw takes full advantage of that.
----
Erik loved to feel Shaw inside of him.
After seven years - seven years - in the camps, it was all he had to look forward to. It was the only time he was touched like that, the only time he was talked to like that, the only time he got attention like that. It made him feel alive, and human. It reminded him that he was something other than just an experiment - something other than just a toy. And so when Shaw called on him, Erik would dance for him, fuck himself on him. No matter what Shaw asked, Erik would comply, just so he could feel alive. Alive and wanted.
But that was the deprived part of Erik, the human that they couldn’t quite beat out of him (or that they didn’t quite want to). The rest of Erik, the majority of Erik, hated himself for those thoughts. He hated how excited he got when Shaw called him, how eager he was to rut and whine against the man that had tortured him for seven goddamn years. He hated how his want took over his body, how he couldn’t control himself when Shaw was exposed and in front of him and commanding. He hated that in the heat of the moment he would always prefer to dance for Shaw than to have Shaw leave him standing there, cold and alone and wanting.
He hated that he wasn’t stronger.
And right now he hated that he was on his knees, hands on his captor’s bare thighs, his lips wrapped around Shaw’s erection as his tongue teased the head of his cock. He hated that Shaw was moaning, and he hated how that noise was making him hard.
As Erik’s tongue slipped down the underside of Shaw’s cock, he felt the elder thrust further into his throat. It hurt, and it was uncomfortable, but still Erik whined. And moaned. And the vibration of the sound was enough to cause Shaw to gasp, his fingers lacing in and tugging on Erik’s hair as a makeshift request (a command) for more. Erik pulled away, just slightly, in an attempted defiance, but as soon as he did Shaw was pulling him closer again, hitting Erik’s throat again, and it was painful, and it was uncomfortable, but it was good. And so Erik moaned. Again. Against his will. And Shaw threw his head back, his eyes closing in bliss as he fucked Erik’s mouth for all it was worth.
When Erik wasn’t gagging, his tongue was still caressing that fucking cock.
“You’re so good to me, Erik.” Erik’s fingers, naked as the rest of him, dug their nails into Shaw’s thighs. Shaw, who was mercilessly calm, tugged Erik’s hair back further, resting his fingers under the metal-bender’s chin and lifting it up, up, until Erik was forced to look at the man that was doing this to him. He let out a whine, helpless and pleading.
It only caused Shaw to arch into Erik’s mouth one more time.
“Up.” It was a command, one that Erik had been trained to follow, and as Shaw’s fingers left his hair and his erection finally left Erik’s mouth, Erik crawled up, onto the chair where Shaw was seated, and straddled him.
“Good boy.”
Erik wanted to growl, to spit in Shaw’s face, to poke his eyes out, to kill him. He wanted to shout obscenities, to run, to escape, to bring the building down with the two of them inside it. Erik wanted to do anything. But instead, he nodded. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Shaw’s neck. Instead, Shaw pressed himself into Erik’s warmth, and Erik made a sound that was the perfect mixture of pain and anger and bliss.
Shaw put his hands on Erik’s hips and guided him back onto his cock. The part of Erik that wanted to growl was protesting, was writing against the hands that held him, but the part of Erik that had possessed his tongue was ecstatic. When Erik was seated, Shaw’s hand guided him up. The part of Erik that wanted to growl wanted to shout obscenities, but the part of Erik that had possessed his tongue turned those obscenities into moans, whines, mewls.
By the third time Shaw guided him back down, his hands were doing next to nothing. Erik was fucking himself.
And he went slowly, almost reluctantly. It made the man beneath him buck, and when he did Erik whimpered. He whimpered, but he didn’t stop, slowly increasing his speed in an attempt to get Shaw to just stay still and shut up.
It didn’t work.
And Shaw moaned as Erik brought himself up, moaned as Erik brought himself down. Erik hated that noise. He hated it because it meant that Shaw was enjoying himself, and it meant that Shaw was close. He hated it, but it was making him pant; it was making his whimpers turn to whines, to mewls, and it was making his hand trail down Shaw’s chest, across to his own thigh, until Erik was thrusting into his hand as well as back onto his captor.
And fuck, did it feel good.
Shaw was saying something degrading, something Erik should feel awful about, something that probably told him to go faster, to whine more, something that told Erik that he was property, but with the addition of his hand his orgasm was growing as fast as his erratic breathing, and Erik couldn’t hear a thing. His other hand removed itself from Shaw, reached down his chest until he was (barely, just barely) pinching his own nipple, and Erik’s breath hitched. His head lolled back; his eyes shut, and his mouth opened. He tightened his grip on his cock. He moved his hips faster. He squeezed his nipple harder (barely, just barely, just enough) until he was begging Shaw to come inside him, begging for his own release as if his life depended on it.
It was an eternity until his wish was fulfilled. Erik’s toes had curled into the fabric of Shaw’s chair, his face had gone flushed. In an attempt to stay hard, Erik was making more noise than he ever thought possible. But finally, finally, he felt Shaw arch beneath him, felt that familiar warmth fill him up, and with one final thrust Erik came, his seed coating his chest, his hand, Shaw, in a sticky, glorious mess.
There was a moment, a single moment, of bliss, before suddenly, the reality came crashing back to him: the reality that this was Shaw, the reality that this was Shaw inside him, the reality that this was Shaw making him moan and pant and sweat like some kind of whore, the reality that Erik was touching himself for Shaw, because of Shaw, for Shaw's entertainment. And suddenly Erik hated himself.
His hands left his cock, his chest. He scrambled off of the man in the chair, stared at him. He tried to hide the fact that his body was drenched in sweat and semen. He tried to hide the fact that he had enjoyed what had just happened. The look on his face was one of complete disgust, hatred, and pure terror, and in that moment, Erik wanted to lunge at the man in front of him. He wanted to choke him, slowly, until he was begging for Erik to let him go.
Erik wanted to kill him in that moment. Erik wanted to torture him, and Shaw knew it. Shaw knew it, but he didn’t care. Because despite everything, Shaw knew that he had won.
The smile on the bastard's face reflected just that. “Your mother would be so proud.”