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Spy vs. Spy (The Power Play Remix)

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Charles opens his eyes, and the world rushes in.

He’s shackled to a bed, legs spread wide, arms stretched above his head.  But there are no handcuffs here - the bed itself has been pressed into service, the wrought iron of the foot rail bent and curved rather beautifully around his ankles.  Craning his head back, Charles can’t quite glimpse his wrists, but what holds them definitely feels like cold metal, so it’s reasonable to assume that the method is the same.

His captor is powered.  Powered, with no interest in playing coy; he wants Charles to know precisely in which direction his talents lie.

His. Yes.  The arms that had carried him, the broad, muscled chest.  Details like slippery fishes, silvery and bright.  Charles had been in Russia, he remembers, on a job with no winners.  Perhaps he still is.

Charles isn’t being held in squalor. The bed is soft, and the linens beneath him are clean.  He's in a luxury apartment, or perhaps a hotel room, Charles can’t be certain which.  He sees sleek furnishings in iron and glass and leather, artistically grouped black-and-white photographs on the nearest wall, and from the angle of the light coming in the windows and the faint, rhythmic sway of the building itself, Charles would guess he's being kept on a very high floor.  

His body feels unnaturally heavy, relaxed.  That along with a small stinging pain in his forearm tells him drugs..  When he reaches out with his powers, Charles is momentarily startled by the sheer wrongness of what he finds: no minds, not a single one, when a building like this should be in the middle of a city teeming with them.   

It’s the drugs, it must be.  It’s not as if Charles hasn’t been separated from his telepathy before; captors who neglected this crucial step swiftly found themselves captives, often with such stunned goldfish looks on their faces that Charles found himself offering advice and encouragement in parting.  It should be drugs, yet - Charles keeps pressing, gritting his teeth, because his head feels less as if it’s been wrapped in cotton wool and more like a hollow chamber waiting to be filled, and he's rewarded with the soft glimmer of others' thoughts, but only after an enormous sense of distance has passed.

A city without minds, or a skyscraper in the middle of nowhere.  Curious, either way.  Charles is well and truly snared: not just in body, although these shackles have precious little give.  His attention’s caught, too.

Footsteps on the carpet behind him, soft, but Charles is trained in recognising such things.  Footsteps with no mind, he thinks, curiosity spiraling higher; if the man were simply shielding, Charles would be able to sense the shape of the block, and sooner or later break it.

“Awake?  Good,” says the man, and comes into Charles’ line of sight.

There's a close-fitted helmet on his head, formed from some dull, unnameable metal.  Charles wonders if the man crafted the alloy himself, or if he simply recognised its telepathy-blocking power in a way few others could.  He's wearing a crisp, slim-fitted white polo shirt, neatly tucked into trim khaki slacks, highlighting both his strong chest and his staggeringly narrow waist.  There's a knife floating in the air before him.

It's a shame.  Charles would have much preferred to focus on the rest of the view.

"And how may I be of service?" Charles enquires.

"An apt choice of words, Mr. Xavier.”  The man smiles, a bright flash of teeth beneath his helmet.  “But since you are my guest, wouldn’t it be more fitting if I served you?"

The use of his name is another show of power. Charles ignores it.  "Oh, but we can dispense with the formalities if you like.”

The man smiles again, long, slow, predatory.  “And indeed we shall.”

That small, wicked knife gets to work, passing over Charles' arms, down his chest, through every seam, until Charles is lying in a heap of cloth that used to be a rather fine suit.  The man leans down, and Charles' breath catches as he uses his hands for the first time, brushing aside the scraps of fabric with fingertips that leave tiny trails of warmth behind.  

But the air is cool on the rest of his body, and Charles waits for the man's next move, limbs still heavy, while goosebumps rise on his skin and his nipples pebble.  He’s been tortured enough times to know it’s a game of endurance, stamina, and patience, and an oddly personal one at that.  A desire to keep official secrets safe will only get you so far.  But a desire to outlast, to win....

What floats over him next is a small, delicate pair of clamps, a long chain swinging between them.  Charles refuses to physically react, but inwardly, he braces himself for a shock of pain - except it doesn’t come.  The clamps latch over his nipples slowly, gently, with a pinch like the roll of fingers.  Charles breathes, impressed despite himself with the man’s fineness of control, even as he assumes that it’s meant to lull him into a false sense of security, and that at any moment the clamps will be severely tightened.  But long minutes pass, and the tingling heat in his chest inevitably travels down, down, settling between his legs - and oh.  His cock’s rising.

Charles watches the man’s face.  His long, elegant fingers, held loose at his sides.  He waits.


It’s the tray of instruments on the low nightstand next to the bed that Xavier should be watching, but his eyes are fixed on Erik.  Perhaps he thinks he can read Erik’s face or body in the same way he would read a mind, but that’s a futile hope, and the fact that he’s trying suggests that Erik has gotten to him.  Excellent.

Xavier is something of a legend in the field, or at least, he’s cultivated one in his own name; how near it is to the truth, no one can truly know.  The man is a telepath, after all.  He’s known for his cultured charm, his unfailing competence, the power of his mind, and the sins of his body.  He is forever the hero of his own story, worshipped by most who tell it, and nearly every version of the tale ends in sex.  

Erik had simply decided that this time it would begin that way, and he would drive the narrative.

Xavier’s cock is swelling with sweet, plump twitches, and so Erik lifts the cock ring next, and hovers it over Xavier’s stomach.  Xavier’s blue eyes widen minutely, without his consent, Erik imagines, just as the quirk of his own lips in response is unintended.  He slips it on with his power, working it over one testicle at a time, then tightening the metal until it’s gleaming snugly at the base of his cock.

Xavier looks good trimmed in metal.  It’s as if his pale skin were made for it.

Erik twitches the chain on the clamps, and begins.


Charles likes sex.  He can’t lie, he’s used it as a weapon before himself, but never as part of such a direct method of attack.  Only to bind another party a little closer to him, make it that much easier to see eye to eye.  Usually he throws in a nice dinner and a bottle of wine, too.

What’s happening now is simply so… unseemly.  He’s disgruntled just on principle.

His captor stands close to the bed, to Charles’ left.  He fancies he can feel a trace of his body heat, but he knows it’s simply that, a fancy.  The man would have to come closer for it to be real, and so far he’s made no move to do so, or to touch Charles with his hands again, content to let his metal do the job.

Sometimes the chain lifts, a tiny upward tug.  Sometimes the clamps minutely tighten.  Each proves remarkably good at sending a rush of sensation straight down to Charles’ balls.  But no matter how closely Charles studies the man beneath the helmet, tracks his steady grey eyes and the firm line of his mouth, he can never tell when either will happen.  And he can’t even hazard a guess as to when the man will move on to something else entirely - or what it might be.

This isn’t something that’s ever happened to Charles before.  He’s always in his lover’s heads, judging their needs and desires, making certain the encounter transpires just as it should.  He always knows.  

But now - Charles can watch his captor all he wants.  It doesn’t matter.  It isn’t helping.  Or he can watch his own body, the flush on his chest, his thickening cock, the slight fluttering of his stomach muscles as he determinedly keeps his breathing under control.

Poor choice.  He doesn’t see the slim metal rod float up from the table, and barely keeps from flinching when he hears the smack of it against his captor’s hand.

There’s very little question what it’s for.  Charles assumes it’s going straight inside him, but he’s wrong.  The man flicks it with a finger - purely for show, Charles suspects - setting the rod vibrating at a slow, rhythmic pitch.  He spreads his hands wide, leaving the instrument to float in mid-air, and Charles knows he should look away, stare at the ceiling, feign indifference, but his eyes are too caught by the juxtaposition of those graceful fingers and the slender steel.  

The rod lowers slowly, so slowly.  And everything’s so quiet - Charles hears his own breath, measures each and every one.  Slow in, slow out.  There’s the the far-off hum of the air conditioning unit.  And there’s the soft song of the vibrating metal, growing closer to his body, closer, until it drops the last inch and drags over his cock -

Charles has done well so far, he truly has.

He refuses to be ashamed of how hard his hips buck.


It’s rewarding, using the vibrator on Xavier.  He’s trying so hard to control his reactions, and doing so well with all but the most primal (that pretty cock belongs to Erik now), that when he slips, Erik feels the victory as a hot, heady rush.

The determination in Xavier’s eyes is impressive.  Erik supposes he expected the man to be softer, to prove malleable down at the core when the easy control his telepathy gave him was stripped away.  He likes it better this way.  Likes him better this way.

With Erik’s acute connection to the metal, it’s as if he’s feeling Xavier’s cock directly against his skin.  The way it pulses and strains, arching out from Xavier’s body, growing longer, harder.  He teases the head, enjoying the slip-slide of the foreskin under the humming metal until Xavier’s tip has swollen beyond it completely, leaving his slit just begging to be touched.

Xavier’s body is tightening up, tension running from his bound hands to his bound feet, and Erik can see it when he remembers to breathe deeply and force his muscles to relax.  Erik chooses his moment, when Xavier’s shoulders have just sunk back into the mattress, and gives that slit the attention it deserves.

Xavier writhes so hard that he jerks against the chain between his nipples, the links clinking together pleasantly where Erik still holds them taut in mid-air; that only serves to make him writhe once again, leaving Erik incredibly pleased.

He lets the vibrator hover in the air, entranced by the way Xavier’s eyes flicker between it, Erik’s fingers, and his own straining cock.  But it wouldn’t do to give in to expectations.  Erik brings the metal lower, strokes it gently along Xavier’s heavy balls, and nudges it against his entrance.

Xavier shouts, voice cracking, and Erik can’t help but smile.  He lets the rod slap back into his hand.

Time for the next step.


The man’s slicking the metal.  He’s applied some sort of lubricant to his palm, and now he’s running his hand up and down the rod, twisting his fingers over the tip, deliberate strokes that Charles can’t look away from.  His cock is desperate to be held just like that, encircled by those long fingers and that weighty palm, stroked, pumped, jacked -

Charles is panting.  It’s undignified.

The metal is cool and slippery when it nudges against Charles again.  He exhales, making it easier on himself as the rod slips inside, about as narrow as one of the man’s fingers, but without any of the grounding heat of skin.  It’s not vibrating at the moment, but he knows that’ll come.

Charles has an alarming number of secrets in his head.  Secrets of nations and quasi-nations, of ruling powers and rising ones, of humans, of mutants, and the thousands of private lives that lie behind it all.  He wonders which his captor is after.  He’s been given no hints.  So far the man has asked him for nothing, but Charles understands this waiting game - once a subject begins saying no, the act of denial becomes a routine, something that gains its own strength and power and must be broken along with the subject.  Better to wait, and make your demands when you believe you’ll get what you want.  

It’s extraordinary that Charles is still managing to think this clearly.  The metal is widening inside of him, a slow-growing pressure that’s conspiring with the weight on his nipples and the ring on his cock to make him harder than he’s ever been.  He’s never seen it as fat and flushed as this, never felt it so heavy; it wants to be touched so badly.  It wants.

He looks up at his captor instead.  There’s a whisper of a smile on those lips, and oh, God, wouldn’t they be soft, wouldn’t they feel good.  The man catches Charles looking, and glances purposefully down at his hands, commanding Charles’ gaze to follow.

He twitches a finger.

The metal begins to throb.

It’s nothing like the steady hum from before.  Slow pulses, irregular, swelling up from base to tip.  Charles knows he’s making sounds now, soft cries that he just can’t stop, but this - it’s impossible.  It’s like no vibrator on the market.  It’s hard and it’s supple, it’s unpredictable - sometimes it hits Charles exactly right, and he twists and jerks in his bonds; the rest of the time he’s pressing his hips down, waiting, waiting for that to happen again.  

Like a real cock, he thinks, looking up at his captor.  Like a real cock -

Because those trim khakis leave very little to the imagination, and the bulge distending the fabric is considerable.  His captor is hard, his captor must be feeling Charles, and Charles has the presence of mind to squirm down on the rod just to see if the man’s cock twitches.

It does.

But the man ignores it just as surely as he’s ignoring Charles’, even though his hands are free and he could rub, he could squeeze, he could stroke.  Charles stares at that thick ridge, willing the man to give in, to come - and if the man weren’t wearing that damnable helmet, he would, because right now Charles’ will is wild, unfocused power, and those people he sensed miles and miles away are probably feeling the sudden, startling urge to slip their hands beneath their trousers and up their skirts.

He’s not sorry.  He needs it too badly.  To see it, feel it, sense it, for someone to come -


It’s going well.  So well.  Xavier is a wreck.

He’s flushed, a beautiful deep red painting his chest, his cheeks, his cock.  His careful breathing has long been abandoned; he’s gasping, sucking in air, while his body arches and twists.  He keeps grinding his hips down.  

Erik’s done this.  His power’s done this.  This is what mutation can do, and he wants Xavier to remember this, burn it straight into that telepathic brain.  Xavier, who wastes his time among humans when mutants are in every way more.

Erik’s cock is aching.

“Xavier,” he says, almost a whisper.  Xavier’s eyes snap wildly to his face.  “I’ve done a great deal for you so far, haven’t I?  What further service can I be?  I’d like you to tell me.”

He can’t say it.  It’s amazing to watch.  Glib, suave Xavier reduced to this - his throat’s working, he’s trying to form words, but all that comes out is a string of broken sounds.

Erik leans over the bed.  He quirks a finger, and the chain between the nipple clamps drops down to Xavier’s chest, causing that pale body to jerk delightfully.  Erik plants his hands on the mattress, one either side of Xavier’s stomach, and bends closer still, letting his ear hover over the man’s mouth.  “I can’t hear you,” he says, and is treated to a sob.

He feels every pulse of the vibrator, still working Xavier from the inside.  It gives a good, hard throb just as Erik curls his fingers in the air a breath away from Xavier’s cock.  “Something like this?” he asks, and Xavier whimpers high in his throat.  “Or this?”  He works open his trousers with his power, dragging down the zipper while holding his position over Xavier, watching Xavier feverishly squirm and twist to get a perfect view as Erik’s cock goes free.

It swings out heavy, missing Xavier’s flank by inches.  Erik’s wetter at the head than he’d imagined, and when a drop fall onto Xavier’s skin, he arches up like he’s been given a gift.  And when Erik kneels between his thighs, stretching the metal of Xavier’s bonds enough to draw his legs up and press his knees to his chest, Xavier finally gets a word out.  "Please, please, please, please -”

Erik slides the rod out slowly, slowly, Xavier begging so nicely all the while, and when it’s gone, he presses the very head of his cock in.

Xavier screams.

“There’s something I’m curious about,” Erik says, conversationally.  In.  In.  Fuck, does Xavier feel good.  “Everything the CIA knows about the Republic of Genosha.  You could tell me that, couldn’t you?”  Further in.  "I'm certain they’ve kept nothing from you.  I’m certain they had no choice."

Wet, ragged, open-mouthed breaths; tightly closed eyes.  Erik drops down to his elbows, letting his words whisper over those parted red lips.  “I’ll even let you tell me inside my mind.”

Xavier smells like sweat and need.  His stiff cock is driving up into Erik’s stomach.  Erik wraps his hand around the base, over the cock ring, and lets the metal sing; Xavier bucks up so hard that he narrowly misses concussing himself on Erik’s helmet.

Not that Erik needs it, now.  Xavier is so thoroughly his that there’s not the slightest danger to be had from his mind; the omega-class telepath, the legend, brought low by Erik’s power and his command of his body.

“And after you tell me,” Erik says, tracing that ring with his finger, elaborating his point, “we can move onto other things.”

He drops the helmet to the floor.

And then he truly feels Xavier, for the very first time.


Charles needs to come and he can't, but the man - Erik - he can and will and is, want to or not, he doesn’t stand a chance against Charles like this, not a chance, and oh god Charles still needs it and Erik's hips are stuttering and he’s grunting and his balls are slapping Charles' skin and his cock is pulsing.  And Charles' cock is desperately rubbing against that flat stomach and Erik is so warm, skin and come and mind, and Charles knows him now, he knows -

In one moment, Charles has pressed more clandestine information into Erik's mind than he's given up in his entire career, and he doesn’t care.  That ring is loosening, it's loosening, it’s gone -

Charles is coming, no control, no thought, his body’s slamming up against Erik’s and he knows he’s screaming and he can’t stop coming, he’s shaking and it’s going on and on, and on -

He feels the needle prick well before the clamps come off, and that’s a mercy, he thinks, one to go with the warm fingers stroking sweat-damp hair off his brow, and the ice chips being held to his mouth, letting water trickle in, cool and wonderful.

“Until the next time, Mr. Xavier,” he hears before he slips under entirely.


Charles will always adamantly deny that he caved.  Even much, much later, when Erik's kidnapped him more times than either of them can count, and they've both agreed that drugs and helmets are superfluous to the process, he responds quite strongly to any claims to the contrary.  That first bright moment inside Erik's mind told him everything he needed to know; after that, sharing his knowledge with Erik seemed only reasonable.

Their paths cross in Taipai.  In Johannesburg.  At a geothermal spa in Reykjavik on one  particularly memorable occasion, where Charles is warm and rosy and relaxed right down to his bones until Erik’s cool metal takes him apart.

The next time is at a deserted ski resort high in the Canadian Rockies, abandoned by shaky developers before it even opened due to changing economic times.  Erik loves these sorts of places, Charles is learning.  He loves living among the humans’ mistakes.

He’s also doing Charles a favour.  After the amount of psychic noise he created in Reykjavik, Charles had to choose between mind-wiping the whole country or never looking anyone in Iceland in the eye again.

They find that they both prefer a well-aged Scotch to a bottle of fine wine during a rather nice evening in Montreal; before dawn, Charles’ lips will be sore from kissing, and he’ll find out just how sweet it tastes in the corners of Erik’s mouth.

Many cities and many shared bottles of good whisky later, on a sweltering night in Mumbai, Erik crafts another ring for Charles, this one out of platinum and gold.  He doesn’t ask a question.  He weaves the metal around Charles’ fourth finger, the hope and doubt in his mind pricking like thorns until Charles’ fierce joy burns it all away.  This, he tells Erik, is a ring he never wants to see come off.

Legends change.

Charles nurtures his contacts at the CIA. He develops new ones in nations across the globe. He spreads his reach further, wider, wherever the word Genosha whispers through minds of the powerful and the powerless.

He has a partner to think of now.