katydidmischief: (boylove2)
[personal profile] katydidmischief posting in [community profile] cjs_own
disclaimer. Not mine. So incredibly not mine.
title. Never in Anger
rating. NC-17
pairing. Erik/Charles.
summary. It was almost as if he were being courted.
warnings. AU - D/s universe; discussions of child abuse.
notes. Inspired by this prompt at [livejournal.com profile] 1stclass_kink; some ideas within this fic were influenced by Xanthe's amazing D/s stories, and I highly recommend them.

Never in Anger

There were two things Charles protected with every defense he could manage, be it words or actions or thoughts.

Raven, of course, was one of them – whether or not she'd been born of his mother's womb matter very little to him, and he allowed no one to so much as tease his little sister; as they'd gotten older, it was part of his reason for begging her to remain in a more human form. Lord forbid the world see her in the natural blue one... (He shuddered any time the thought rose in his mind, fearing what people would do to her.)

The second, well, was a bit more of a struggle to hide and it made him ache when he couldn't hold the need at bay and he trawled the bars, went looking amongst the heterosexuals, the non-dynamics, for anyone he could lose himself in for half an hour. It was never enough – his mind still wanted a Dominant over him, taking a paddle to his ass, forcing him on his knees, making him rest.

"No," he shook his head, purging the desire. He'd been struggling to pull on his jeans when the thoughts had filled his mind and he returned to the task while trying to be as quiet as possible, not wanting to wake the woman in the bed across from him.


For Charles Xavier would never, ever allow someone to collar him.

Raven had known within weeks of meeting Charles that her brother, pushy and confident as he was, had been hiding something. It took her months more to find out what and her horror at the realization that no, Charles had not broken his arm playing in the yard, Cain hadn't fallen on the stairs and gotten a black eye, the boys hadn't been wrestling and given each other cuts.

"Please," she'd whispered to Charles one night, laying under his bed with a flashlight and a comic book, "Don't let him..."

"I don't know how," he'd whispered back. Because back then, Charles couldn't focus his power like he could now and certainly hadn't been able to force a thought into someone's mind, control them. Yes, he could talk to them, read their surface thoughts, but that was it; he couldn't stop Kurt.

So they'd suffered – the boys – until Sharon had died then Kurt, and the three of them were left alone. Unable to stay in the mansion with the memories of their abuse, Charles had offered the flat in London, telling them, "We can finish school there," with wistful hope.

Cain had refused and disappeared, too filled with anger; he disappeared one night before Charles and Raven left for England, a note pinned to his door advising them to not look for him.

"Your stepfather was a prick."

Charles looked up from his book. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Erik told him, "He was a prick who took his own inadequacies out on his children and his wife – you are perfect, Charles, telepathy and all."

It wasn't an entirely odd thing for Erik to say, but Charles was still trying to figure out why Erik was saying it and had yet to reply when Erik turned and left the room.

He'd learned long ago that if you wanted to understand someone, the best person to find was the best friend. The one who shared in the secrets and knew the past and could guide you along without realizing it; many people were happy to tell the stories of a silly childhood if you asked right.

So Erik, when Charles had looked, wantingly, at the collar on Moira's neck, had gone looking for Raven.

"I thought he was a Dom, maybe a switch," he said.

Raven sighed. "Most people think he's a Dom at first, then after a while they see the way he is and thinks he must be a switch, but no one ever really challenges him enough to show his true orientation. He's got it too bound up inside him."

"Why?" Erik was frowning, upset; if Charles was a sub, he'd had to express it at some point in his life, and once a person had explored their true dynamic, they couldn't fight it – it'd be like cutting off a limb, a physical part of themselves.

"If I tell you," she started, "You have to promise that you'll be gentle with him, Erik, that you will stop if he says to and back off. He's fucking smart as hell and he won't deal with this, says its the only way to keep himself sane."

"Tell me."

Each interaction with Erik had taken on a new meaning, Charles realized later: Erik didn't tease about Charles' constant need to keep a box of cookies in every room, he didn't remark on Charles' layered clothing nor about the constant Edith Piaf that played in Charles' room. Any time Erik went alone to meet a mutant, he returned with a gift – a new record, a pair of shoes, a book – and made sure that Charles was never left alone with a Dom.

It was almost as if he were being courted.

The thought made him sick and he found himself in Erik's room, in a chair, with his head between his knees while Erik held a cold cloth to his neck and murmured comforting words. (If the floor could open up at that moment, Charles would gladly have sunk in to it, upset with himself for being this. Damned. Weak.)

Slowly, the need to vomit passed and the band around his chest loosened and Charles could sit up, take a breath. He was still tense, but the attack was over and he didn't think he'd be panicking again; as long as he could hold on to the mental image of Erik as friend and friend alone, not a potential suitor, he would be fine.

"I'm sorry." Charles sounded more like himself, stronger.

"Don't apologize." Erik reached out to touch his friend's cheek, only for Charles to jerk out of his reach, and he let the hand fall to Charles' knee instead. "You're afraid. You've got every right to be afraid."

"I'm not..."

"You're radiating fear, Charles. Your body is taut with it, so don't tell me you aren't. I just can't figure out why you tell me not to want to destroy them – all the humans – when one did this to you. Made you scared of a part of yourself."

"It's not a part of myself," Charles retorted, annoyed. "I don't need it to survive."

Erik leaned forward, his other hand gripping the armrest just below Charles' elbow, and said, "It is so a part of you, an important part of you, because you can't tell me that you don't think about it even when you try not to. You can't tell me that Moira, parading around here in her damned collar, doesn't make you think about what it'd be like."

"I don't need it."

Erik's lips pursed; no, for the brief meaningless encounters that Charles had had to that point, he didn't need his dynamic, but what relationship could Charles ever hope to be a part of if all he did was deny his need to submit.

Unconscious of it, Erik had circled his hand around Charles' forearm, letting go of the armrest, and Charles had to yell to get Erik's attention, "Let. Go!"

Even as Erik begged him to stay, Charles ran.

Charles was under his bed, flashlight in hand, when Raven crept into his room.
He was still dressed in the clothing he'd worn on the plane from Russia to Virginia to Westchester; his peacoat was wrapped around him like a shield, but Raven could still see the thin leather wrapping the metal of the collar around Charles' neck.

"Did he put that on you?" She demanded, her voice deadly calm despite the swirl of rage in her mind.

He blinked at her. "No."

"Who did, Charles?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Now go away."

Excerpt from Proper Care of the Submissive, Second Edition:
Punishment Collars, a series of chain links with blunted open ends turned towards the submissive's neck, were widely used prior to 1915. Many Dominants felt they were a fine option as the links could be adjusted to a accommodate the neck of any submissive, as well as made the punishment obvious when in public, limiting contact. […] After a series of deaths were attributed to the collars, several countries began legislating against them. England introduced the first law in 1916, followed by the United States in 1919. Canada, France, Spain, and Denmark all enacted their own laws in 1920.

However, despite the penalties one could receive if they are discovered in possession of, or in the use of, a punishment collar, some Dominants continue to use them. No major manufacturer will make the collar with a designation for human use, so the less optimal canine prong collar have been used.

The marks left behind by the collar were hard to hide – little dots of pink or red or purple, along the base of his neck, a ring of them meeting in a line of bruise-marbled skin from where the links had met the martingdale chain.

Raven's fury at the sight of it had been expected, just as Erik's should have been. Still, it caught him off-guard, the simmering anger that Lensherr was casting off his skin in waves, and Charles kept himself slightly further distanced than he had in the weeks before.

It dulled the antsy, tingling sensation that anger always left him feeling, but couldn't keep Erik's memories from bleeding into his mind. (Charles felt sicker and sicker with each flash, unable to accurately describe how he felt about Shaw having forced a punishment collar on a young Erik. A young, already-aware-of-his-orientation Erik.)

Charles retreated to his room, forfeiting their nightly chess game, and crawled into bed, nearly asleep when the door opened. His stomach still roiling, Charles was in no mood for whomever was there and refused to open his eyes; he hoped the clear ignorance of whomever had disturbed him would lead to the person leaving.

Until the scent of cinnamon and mental hit him.

"Good night, Erik," Charles tried, curling further into his pillow. He added, "We'll talk in the morning," when Erik remained standing in the doorway.

Then the metal vining on his headboard slithered down, around his wrists, forcing Charles onto his back and unable to run. "No," Erik told him as he attempted to yank himself free, "We're going to talk now – before I have to endure another moment of Raven's accusations."

"Let me go, Erik."

"Not until you tell me the truth – did someone put that collar on you?" Lensherr had closed the door and moved closer to the bed, standing beside Charles for only a few moments before crawling onto the bed to straddle Charles' thighs.

"No one put the collar on me," Charles answered, looking angrier at Erik than he'd ever before. Erik could see, though, that Charles was slowly building up his walls and strengthening.

Becoming the Charles that exuded poise, intelligence, morality. The one that was barely older than the kids and seemed already beyond his years.

It made Erik want to scream, watching as Charles' eyes shuttered and the laxity of sleep ebbed away into tension. How could anyone live like this? How could someone spend their time telling the world that they've made peace with themselves when the reality was that they were living in a quiet misery? (Erik felt a second of hypocrisy, then let it go. This was about Charles, not himself.)

"I put it on," Charles told him when the silence got to be too much. "No one forced me. Now release me, Erik, I want to go to bed."

"Why would you..."

But no answer came.

Charles found a note on his desk the next morning.

In Erik's jilted scrawl were just a few words: If you need to be punished, come take it from my hand instead of the collar.

The night before they're to head out, to meet the fleet and hopefully stop Shaw, Erik could think of little besides the things he and Charles had discussed over chess. Not how he'd kill Shaw, but the things Erik would love to do to Charles – the way he'd run his fingers over him, learn all the spots that make him moan, how he'd expect nothing of Charles but to obey and to explain why if Charles didn't want to; how Erik would show him the proper respect for the gift Charles would give with his submission.

He thought about the soft kiss he'd pressed to Charles' lips.

Lost in thought, he entered his room and began to pull off his shirt when the hairs rose on his neck, and Erik spun to face the person whom was watching him: Charles lay on his bed, wearing all but his shoes as he reclined on Erik's bed.

In the blasted punishment collar.

"I told you – if you want to be punished, my hand is the better option."

Charles swallowed, reaching for the links. His fingers shook, however, and he couldn't properly grasp them in order to pull it open; Charles turned his gaze back to Erik, seeing the emotion staring back and knew that if he didn't leave now, that this would be the beginning of his training, beginning of his being someone's submissive.

He took a breath, licked his lips. "Can you take it off?" Charles asked.

Erik didn't move his person, only his fingers, the metal of the collar coming apart link by link until the mangled device was hanging in the air between them. "You will never wear one of these again. Any punishment you're to receive will be from my hand."

"Yes," Charles said, stumbling as he added, "Master."

Erik wrinkled his nose. Master had been the word Shaw'd forced him to use, he was most certainly not going to force it on Charles. "Sir, or Erik," he said, moving up the bed to sit over Charles, take Charles' wrists in his hands, "You, my love are my sub, not my pet. I expect you to obey, and if you don't, we'll discuss it - I will never strike you for that. And I will certainly not hurt you in anger."

Charles nodded, unable to speak.

"You're tired." Erik kept hold on Charles' wrists, pleased to see how Charles was beginning to go down, submit. "We'll sleep in your room tonight, but first, there is the matter of your punishment."

He felt the panic before he saw it rise in Charles' eyes, and he released a wrist to run his fingers over Charles' cheek, through his hair. "You came to me in the collar – you were punishing yourself for something. Tell me what it was."

The blush that spread on Charles' skin made Erik shiver.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," Charles finally admitted and Erik felt it all slip into place: why Charles had been punishing himself with that godforsaken collar, why he'd been able to push down the need for submission, why Charles had come in the collar.

He'd been using it to keep the desire away, to train himself to see his own sexuality as unneeded and to punish himself for wanting a Dom, wanting Erik. And, for that, Erik couldn't punish Xavier.

Instead he moved until he was on all fours, then lowered himself onto Charles, using his weight to push Charles into the mattress and the blankets. He gave Charles half a minute to respond before sealing their mouths together, kissing Charles with every ounce of affection he could pull from his bones, and when they broke apart, "That is not something to be punished for – I want you to think about me, love. I want you to think about how I sound and I feel when I'm in you, how I move, and I kiss. I want you to think about my body and know that no one touches it but you."

Charles whimpered.

"You're giving me your body, Charles, and it's mine now, but my body is yours as well. You'll get to touch all you want," Erik told him, leaning in for another kiss and when he drew back, he pulled himself up onto his haunches. "That's it," he added when he saw how Charles' hardening cock was beginning to tent his trousers. "Tell me, if this is what you want Charles, tell me the words. Give me permission."

"I..." Charles tried to find the right words in his memory, tried to remember what it was that their society dictated be said at the start of a new bonding, but they lay just out of his reach. It didn't help that Erik had unzipped his jeans, slid his hand between the denim and the cotton of his briefs and was rubbing, rubbing, rubbing... God, it'd been so long.

"I'll let you come tonight, but you have to say the words." He let his thumb slip to Charles' skin, knowing the effect it would have on his telepathy and pushed the needed phrase for consent to the front of Charles' mind.

"Please accept my submission, given of my own free will."

"And accept my authority, as your Dominant, over you and your body," Erik declared, deviating from the legal words by adding, "with the understanding that you will never be abused or ignored or forced to conform to my will."

The moment grew heady and neither spoke nor moved, until Erik couldn't take the pressure in his balls any longer and reached for the buttons on Charles' shirt.

Raven noticed the change in Charles the next morning, how he seemed stand straighter and demand more of them. It was subtle, oh so very subtle, and as they boarded the jet, she figured out why – Erik reached out, brushing a gloved hand along Charles' rear.

She grinned and took her seat.

"Erik! Erik, please," Charles begged, "They don't know!"

And those men on the ship didn't know what they'd done, didn't know that by following their orders they'd threatened Charles and Erik would never allow that. They didn't know that they were facing a Dominant with a submissive to protect; it was part of every Dominant, the genetic imperative that sometimes made them revert to a more primal attitude when their sub was in danger.

With the torpedoes about to cross the invisible line that would lead to destruction, Charles moved in close and murmured, "Sir," but it didn't deter Erik and it did not distract him for too long. He pushed Charles down to the sand behind him; he'd barely regained control of the now-missiles when he heard the first bullet, felt the tiny nuisance of metal disrupt flow of magnetism around him.

He deflected each shot, not paying much heed to where the rounds fell.

The cry made him do so.

Charles had been getting to his feet, preparing to charge at Erik and knock him down, fight if Charles needed to, to get Erik to stop. He'd been thinking about anything but the bullets, until he'd felt it, the sear and the heat. The sudden shock of pain as it radiated throughout his body. He screamed and reached to set his hand over the wound, blood wetting the glove.

He was wrapped up in the agony for only a few moments, brain pushing to get past the physical pain, and when the fog in his mind cleared, Charles was quick to tell Erik, "She didn't do this," then, voice softer, "You did."

Erik released Moira and looked to his sub, feeling the weight of the helmet all of a sudden like a prison around his head; he flung it to the ground. In seconds, Charles had reached into his mind and filled in the empty corners, made himself at home all over again, but Erik could still feel the sadness and knew he'd done irreparable damage.

He forced himself to breath. He'd fix this – if it took every day of the rest of his life, Erik would fix this.

"We need to get him to a hospital," Raven said, breaking Erik from his reverie, and reached for Charles. He was quickly pulled into Erik's lap, crying out once more, "Don't! Don't touch me, Raven. He's barely holding on to his rage and if he lets go, I don't know if I'll be able to calm him. Just... don't touch."

She nodded and moved away, walking with her head high toward Shaw's henchmen. Charles could almost hear the prayer she was reciting in her mind.

Erik had sat, stoic and nearly silent, beside Charles for every test and stood beside the door of every operating room for every procedure. He'd given his permission to any doctor that thought they could help and in the end, he'd refused the wheelchair and carried Charles to the car when he'd been discharged.

His emotions were haywire, his thoughts one long rolling bout of guilt and need, and Charles knew that the sooner they were home, the better. Erik needed to see that, though it take time, Charles would be all right – the bullet had missed his spinal cord, bouncing off one vertebrae, but had done damage to the muscle and sinew around the area. The momentary loss of feeling in his legs had been worrisome, but the doctors were sure it'd been more from the shock than anything else.

"We're home," he told Erik, glad that Alex'd had the common sense to pull up beside the servant's entrance door – it was closest to the stairs and their bedroom. "Erik, love, we're home."

It spurned Lensherr into action, still so unnervingly silent. From the car to the bedroom, he said not one word, but once the door was closed and Charles was safe on the sheets, Erik spoke.

"I'm sorry," he told Charles, "I'm so sorry. Please."

"It's okay, love, it's okay. Come here." Charles beckoned Erik close, holding his arms open and waiting patiently for Erik to fill them.

It took a while, but Erik did crawl into the embrace, exceedingly careful to not crush Charles – the injury remained tender, aggravated by several surgeries, and he refused to be the cause of any more pain. He let Charles hold him for a while, soothed by his sub's mere presence; Charles stroked his side, kissed his hair, and whispered to him, "Alles wird gut," until Erik finally broke.

He unbuttoned Charles' shirt and pulled it away, untied the scrub pants Charles'd been sent home in and flung them across the room, and only once Charles was naked before his gaze did Erik calm once more. He could see the old scars, the ones that Kurt had left behind, and the unmarred stretches of skin between, and let his hands glide along.

For his part, Charles remained perfectly still, letting Erik take stock. He knew Erik needed this in ways Charles couldn't comprehend, and he was content to lay there while his Dom relearned the curve of his hip and the crease behind his knee. He was content to be shifted on his stomach and let Erik trail fingers around the stitches, along the swell of his buttocks, over his calves.

He was content even as Erik's hands settled on his ass, sliding between his cheeks, and over his hole. Charles couldn't move his legs much more than he was, but he clenched his toes and gripped the mattress when Erik pushed two fingers in, slick with lube Charles hadn't heard him retrieve.

"Mine," Erik growled.

"Yours," Charles promised in return, trying to keep from arching his back into the sensation; he could already feel the pull and stretch on the stitches, but it felt too good to ask Erik to stop. Particularly when he finally found that spot inside Charles that made him see stars.

He let out a moan as he crested orgasm, his body soft and yielding in the aftermath.

Erik knelt up and shifted, setting one hand down next to Charles' head, and reached for his own cock, which he released from his shorts with a noise of relief. He wouldn't last long though; Erik tried to slow his strokes, tried to draw it out, only to find that his need to mark Charles overrode everything, and he came in spurts on Charles' ass and thighs.

He rubbed it into Charles' skin, murmuring, "Mine," as Charles succumbed to sleep.

For Charles Xavier, there was only person he'd ever allow to collar him and it never failed to make him smile when he felt the slick metal around his neck.

Erik had marked him and claimed him, of course; he'd made sure everyone knew Charles was his, but he'd waited until he knew for sure that Charles would wear his collar before offering it. He'd waited until Charles had been back on his feet, welcoming students, before showing him the simple white gold collar Erik himself had fashioned from the raw metal.

He smiled now, just thinking about it, and touched the collar with a finger; the gold was slick, but it'd left marks which had upset Erik, who had, in turn, had a jeweler add velvet for padding. It felt nothing at all like the punishment collar nor did he feel trapped by what it meant – Erik never stood between Charles and his goals, though he did, on occasion, force him away from the desk for food and for rest.

As he had tonight.

"Eat," Erik ordered, holding out a forkful of steak au poivre to Charles, and praised, "Good boy," when Charles swallowed.

It earned Erik a playful glare – Charles didn't mind being called boy in their bedroom, but it still felt strangely embarrassing to be called it in public – and he picked out a bit of broccoli from the plate, knowing Charles had an intense dislike for the vegetable.

Charles ate it dutifully, eyeing the glass of milk beside the plate and hoping Erik would allow him a drink.

He earned a kiss instead.

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