Title: Absolute Control
Fandom: XMFC
Rating: E / NC-17
Length: 1k
Content notes: Noncon
Summary: "Whatever you find appropriate," Erik finds himself saying, and then laughs at the irony of it. All of this is what Charles finds appropriate.



Erik writhes against the bed, fingers clawing at the sheets. "More," he says, "please, I need you."

The voice is his, gravelly with need and low. The words are not. He can't *quite* feel Charles in there, but the words he speaks slide out like a compulsion, unstoppable. He's tried fighting it -- clamping his jaw shut, or pressing the back of his hand to his mouth, or biting his lip to the point of drawing blood -- but Charles' commands cut through his willpower like a sharp knife.

"Please," he says again, and his cheeks grow warm with embarrassment at the desperation he can hear in himself. He isn't sure if that part is him or Charles. It hardly matters.

//Have you been a good boy, then?// Charles' telepathic voice echoes oddly in his mind, as it always does.

"Fuck you," he gasps out -- *those* words are his, darting out before Charles can stop them -- and then, back under control, "No, I have been bad, I must be punished."

"Tell me," Charles says aloud, soft and coaxing.

From Erik's lips fall a litany of sins -- some real, some exaggerated, some he is pretty sure Charles is just making up out of whole cloth -- and with each one comes one of the brain zaps Charles had used earlier, sparks that zing straight to the pleasure center of Erik's brain. By the end of the list he is breathless, stuttering, mind blazing with electric arousal that leaves no room for anything else. He is hard, his whole body aching with the need to be touched and the strain of fighting Charles' earlier command not to do just that.

//Not until I'm ready,// Charles whispers into his mind, and Erik sobs in a breath. Aloud, he is saying thoughtfully , "What punishment, do you think?"

"Whatever you find appropriate," Erik finds himself saying, and then laughs at the irony of it. All of this is what Charles finds appropriate.

He has the sudden impulse to move -- Charles's doing, of course, and out of sheer stubbornness he resists as long as he can -- but Charles's control is absolute, the impulse pressing harder and harder until it is impossible to fight. With a groan he rolls onto his stomach, the metal of the nipple clamps dragging on the mattress and tugging at his mind, then up onto his knees and elbows with his arse in the air and his head hanging down.

He hears the creak of Charles transferring himself from wheelchair to bed, and then a hand runs up the inside of his thigh. "Good boy," Charles murmurs.

The touch is too light and not where Erik needs it. "Please," he says, "please."

"Told you I'd have you begging," Charles says lightly, but the palm strike that follows is anything but light; the only relief is that it falls on the fullest part of Erik's arse rather than anywhere more sensitive. "Count them," Charles says -- an order easy to follow with Charles in charge of what he says and what he doesn't.

"One" comes prompt and almost impudent, the unspoken fuck-you clear in his tone. "Two" and "Three" are similar; but by twenty, Erik's skin burns and the fire makes his tongue thick as he gasps the word out.

He is still hard, and in this position Charles can reach between his legs and swat catlike at Erik's cock. He wants to yell, but can't. It is at once too much and not enough, and he is glad for when Charles unlocks his voice again to beg -- more please, please, God, more. And then Charles is using Erik's own *power*, tugging and twisting at the nipple clamps without having a hand there.

Erik's whole body feels on fire now, like there is electric current running between his brain and his nipples and his cock, little flickers of lightning flicking to the ends of his toes and fingers and hair, every part of him alive. Charles is not gentle, either with his mind or with his body; one hand tugs roughly along Erik's length, the other used for balance as he bends in to first lick the still-tender redness of Erik's arse and then to bare his teeth and nip at the sensitized skin. There will be marks there, Erik knows, a reminder of tonight every time he sits for the next week.

Enough, he wants to say; I can't take any more; for God's sake end this. But Charles has somehow locked that part of him up, and only Charles has the key.

He rolls onto his back at Charles's mental command, no longer even trying to resist. The sheet feels rough against his arse, but Charles stills his squirming with one hand on his hip. "Shhh," he says, the vivid blue of his eyes almost entirely swallowed by the darkness of his pupils.

They lock eyes for a moment, and then, without looking away, Charles bends and takes Erik into his mouth. It is hot and wet and so very very perfect, and Erik arches up, eyes fluttering closed, throat tight with all the noises he's not allowed to make.

Then Charles uses Erik's power to yank the nipple clamps off, and at the same time *twists* something inside Erik's brain, and Erik can finally come, finally, the orgasm drowning him in liquid fire until he succumbs to the undertow of it.

After, he finds himself lying with his head in Charles's lap, too exhausted even to tremble. Charles's fingers comb through his hair, the touch soothing and totally at odds with what he'd been doing earlier. Erik finds his breathing settling into the same rhythm.

"Good?" Charles asks, a world of gentleness in his voice,

Erik nods, but doesn't speak.

They lie there for a time, and then Charles bends to kiss Erik's temple and asks again, "Good?"

"Yes," Erik says hoarsely. "I ... needed that." The words are sluggish, his body still slow to respond to his commands, but the words are once again entirely his -- Charles does not own his voice any longer. "Thank you."

"Anything for you," Charles says.