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Times Are Gone For Honest Men	By : Zoisite84 Category: X-Men: (All Movies) > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 1679 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own "X-Men" or any characters therein. I am not making any money off of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Times Are Gone For Honest Men
- 1
He's bent double over a table, ropes biting viciously into his wrists. The hairs on the backs of his legs (spread wide and bare, his pants and underwear are already shoved down past his knees) stand up, in arousal, revulsion, he assumes a combination of both. He tenses when Shaw slides a finger along the cleft of his ass, and the other man chuckles darkly.

"Charles, Charles," he tsks, and Charles tries to relax his muscles because it's just going to hurt worse if he doesn't, but it's still not enough for him not to whimper and pant when Shaw drives another finger into him. He hears Shaw spit, and feels the saliva being rubbed roughly into his oft-abused flesh. Then, it happens. There's no warning, no fanfare, save for the slight intake of breath that Charles has come to anticipate and brace himself for, and then Shaw's cock slides into him, slowly but not with any particular sort of care, the saliva not nearly enough lubricant to make this anything but excruciating. He dry heaves a couple of times - he used to cry, but Shaw won't draw it out too much if Charles doesn't show too much emotion - and can practically feel a thick, unyielding smile prickling the back of his brain.

"Mmm," Shaw says at one point, and it's almost conversational. "You're quiet today." He snaps his hips then, and Charles whines and helplessly flexes his chafed wrists. "Better," Shaw continues, and Charles can feel the satisfaction oozing from him. "You used to be feistier," Shaw adds eventually, and rams into him once, twice, three times until Charles has produced the requisite amount of pained gargling, and then eases up slightly, his cock sliding out and then back in with a fair amount of ease now.

It's not an inaccurate assessment of the situation. If Charles is honest with himself, however, his quietude is less an act of rebellion these days, and more a measure of weariness. He doesn't even think about escape much anymore; and when he does, it's swiftly followed by thoughts like, 'Where would you go, really? You can't really hide anywhere, Shaw controls everything.' He knows that Shaw knows he's been broken when he stops making Charles wear the helmet, knowing full well that there's no one left for Charles to reach out to. It's a world full of mutants now, yet he's never felt more alone, save for Shaw's victorious smugness permeating his surface thoughts, punctuated by moments like these, satiating himself in primal bursts.

Shaw thrusts into him in measured strokes; he doesn't touch Charles except to grip his waist, nails digging bluntly into bruised flesh. Charles' legs shake. His sweater rides up, exposing the pale flesh of his belly. Behind him, Shaw is fully clothed, almost proper looking, as though he could zip up and be shaking hands with UN leaders in a matter of minutes. He grins and tugs Charles' cheeks apart and shoves into him with measured depth, and Charles bites his lip and lets out another pained little moan. He's boring Shaw a bit, he knows. It's a dangerous game, but Shaw's closer to finishing than starting, now, and if he can just hold out for a few more -

- "Ah, Erik. Come in." Charles is facing the door, and Shaw doesn't believe in privacy, and so his violation being a spectator sport has become almost commonplace. Erik, though, tends to avoid these spates of public humiliation, though Charles is certain, even if Erik clamps down on his emotions now so tightly that they might as well be encased in diamond, or steel, or some other equally fitting metaphor, that Erik is a victim, too. Even now, he regards Charles warily, though his face is impassively schooled.

Shaw gestures, though Charles can't see it. "Take him in front," he hears instead, and he shouldn't want it, doesn't want it, but Erik's hands taking down his own fly stir something in him, and it must work for Shaw, too, because he slaps Charles on the rump delightedly. "Good," he hears, and Erik's eyes flash a little.

Charles tries to make it easier, on himself, on both of them, by being useful. Erik's cock slides between his lips easily enough, and he bobs his head to encourage a momentum. Those hands, Erik's hands wrap around Charles' head - he'd go so far as to say they were cradling it - and the sideways angle makes it difficult to do what he was doing before, and Erik's cock slides out of his mouth and dribbles pre-come on his chin once or twice. Eventually, Erik is using one hand to hold himself in place, and the other to sort of grip Charles by the neck, his thumb rubbing the short hairs there. He doesn't need to tell Charles to suck him off, and his noises are minimal (some wheezing, occasionally a puff of air gasped out, the slightest flush across sharp cheekbones), and they're not enough to cancel out the self-loathing, the hatred that Charles can sense - nor do Erik's emotions make Shaw's unabashed glee any less bright in the back of Charles' mind - but it's all effective enough.

"Move," Shaw says suddenly, and he pulls out of Charles' ass before he's finished. Erik, too, extricates himself from Charles' mouth and steps slightly away, enough for Shaw to casually sweep into his old position, thumbing his cockhead a few times before simply hauling Charles' head forward and shoving his dick down Charles' throat; Charles gags a little and he hums appreciatively. Eventually, he pulls out of there as well, and ejaculates purposefully across Charles' face, striping his chin and cheeks and the bridge of his nose with come.

He reaches out and smears it around a little, and then steps back to admire his handiwork. Then, "Your turn, my boy," he tells Erik, and Charles' eyes are bleary, but he watches Erik pump himself roughly until the tip of his cock is an angry, swollen shade. He lets out an understated, guttural sigh, rocking himself a little on the balls of his feet, and Charles closes his eyes against the splattering warmth that follows.

There's silence after that; Charles knows better than to ask to be untied, and he tries to ignore the fact that the come on his face is alternately sticky and wet. He watches Shaw squeeze Erik on the shoulder and leave. He wants to lower his face so he doesn't have to look at anyone, even Erik, especially Erik, but he doesn't want the ejaculate to drip onto his sweater if he can help it.

Erik frees his arms. The reintroduction of proper circulation is painful, but Charles struggles to his feet nonetheless. There's a spot of pre-come near the table's edge, and Erik seems to notice it the same time that Charles does. It's three short strides for Erik to reach him, to propel him by the shoulders into a prone position on his back, pants still coiled around his ankles. His arousal is embarrassing now, and he flinches when Erik brings a hand to his face, wiping at some of the jizz that hasn't dried yet. "Eri-" he starts to say, and then the same large hand is covering his cock, lubricating it with his and Shaw's own spunk, and Charles' erection springs to life. He gasps and spreads his legs and tries not to think about how this is Erik, because it's not him anymore, not really, Shaw's seen to that, but it still looks and smells and feels like him, and that's enough to finally, albeit a bit painfully, because Erik is tugging and rubbing at him with a perfunctory roughness designed for brevity, get Charles off. He shoots his load unceremoniously in Erik's palm, and Erik wipes his hand along Charles' thigh and then pulls away too soon.

There's no aftermath, just Erik tucking himself back into his clothes and casting a sidelong glance at Charles, sticky and damp and wrung out on the table below. "Charles," he sighs, and it would cost Charles too much to assume any sort of affection from the other man's words, so he doesn't. His own clothing is an ill-fitting disguise, and after he strips it off again in a few minutes for a shower, where he'll scrub himself raw, he'll fantasize briefly about burning it all, while knowing full well that he doesn't have that luxury anymore. Later, on the fringes of sleep, he'll think about freedom, and Erik, and a world where emotions don't have to be clamped down upon like a steel trap in order to survive, and he'll even allow a few tears to leak onto his pillow in memory of all that's been lost while no one is around to see.
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Times Are Gone For Honest Men