heroforhalos
Registered User
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2010
- Messages
- 37
- Points
- 0
Hi, everyone. This is the first story I've had the guts to post here-- It's also incomplete. Ideally it will be a trilogy, this being part one, and in subsequent replies I will complete the story.
I'd like any tips or pointers you could give me.
Also, regular copyright stuff-- I don't own X-men or anything of that sort, the only thing that is mine is most of the plot.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me!”
“No!”
“Come on, Erik—
“—Charles get out of my head, I swear to god—“
“Then tell me!”
It was at this point that Erik stalked out of the room, abandoning their game of chess in the study in favour of calming himself outside with the moonlight and crisp night air. Sometimes Charles was too inquisitive for his own good, and most of the time he was used to get exactly what he wanted—what a fucking brat.
I lit up a cigarette and pushed the remnants of Charles’s psyche quickly out of the edges of mine with a burst of electromagnetic impulses, all neurons seeming to fire at once, their action potentials brought suddenly to a peak—it left me breathless and reeling and feeling everything at once and there was an annoying ringing in my ears, but all of that soon subsided. There were certain perks to controlling magnetic forces—with the last vestiges of the mental link I was certain I could feel Charles recoil suddenly and slip his fingers from where they had been resting on his temple. Serves him right.
Erik took a meandering stroll around the perimeter of the mansion, brooding, as he was wont to do—brooding, but also very much closed off. Charles sat in the study tight-lipped, ashamed of his insensitivity, but also furious, and incessantly wondering—what could it be that his own lover wouldn’t dare mention, when Charles had already seen the horrors of Erik’s past?
Since they had been together, Charles has become more and more used to pushing Erik to get him to do what he wants. When they were acquaintances, then friends, it was different—Erik was always aloof, but to Charles aloofness has no place in a proper loving relationship—something Charles wasn’t actually personally familiar with except for with Raven, and he was sure that his relationship with her had a great number of flaws, many of them his fault. He couldn’t stop himself, though; he could read minds and manipulate them from a young age—feeling out of control was something he not only did not expect, but did not like in the least.
My hands were shaking when I turned the doorknob and crept into our room. I sighed with relief—Charles was already asleep; the lights were dark and his breathing was soft, slow, and even. I had been outside longer than I’d realized or intended—it had been quite a few hours; it was early morning now. I undressed and lay down next to him, feeling safer now that I knew Charles was asleep, the knowledge of which made me uneasy. I tucked my arm behind my head, staring at the high ceiling, and taking up not much of the bed at all; Charles, who was always used to having his own bed, tended to unconsciously stretch out across the whole thing, not leaving much room. Normally I might heave his arm to one side—to hell if he wakes up, but I knew as soon as he opened his eyes he would be asking me to tell him about the one thing he missed when he pried into my past, something no one could know—something that even I would like to forget—my one ultimate weakness, now twisted into something so terrible…
Flashback
“Herr Döktor.” Erik murmured a menacing greeting as he stepped towards the company of three on the deck of the Caspartina. His tight black diving suit was still dripping with seawater; a knife gleamed in his hand.
“Ah, der kleine Erik Lehsherr…” Schmidt stood up, spreading his arms wide, darkly and patronizingly welcoming.
“He’s here to kill you,” the blonde telepath, Emma Frost, stepped in,
but Erik wasn’t threatened, not until…
This horrible screeching filled my head—like metal rubbing against metal, but worse—not just because I couldn’t stop it or control it as it increased in intensity, but because it was so shrill—and I saw—more like felt things. I stumbled and fell, clutching my head, not prepared for this-- I was a child again, back on Schmidt’s operating table, endless devices stretching me wide apart from all angles as he came at me with a scalpel, I was so scared, I was trembling—but I couldn’t close my eyes, they were forced open—an overwhelming sense of vulnerability washed over me. My mother was being shot inside my head—I felt an eternity of rage and pain all in an instant. I stared up at Schmidt with loathing and in agony—I was trying to force my hand to throw the knife when suddenly the image changed; the surrounding area of Klaus Schmidt’s office blasted away in thousands of tiny shards of screams, and when they fused together they formed—
No. No, no one is supposed to see this. No one.
My frantic thoughts seemed to break through the haze for a second, but I couldn’t resist for long in such a panic. It was like my distress was egging the telepath on, something that didn’t surprise me if she kept company with Klaus Schmidt.
“You should see this.” She said briskly, placing her hand on Schmidt’s shoulder and his smirk grew wider than my terror.
It was 1959. I was in Amsterdam on New Year’s Eve. The place had seemed empty and barren until I had hit the red light district and time suddenly seemed to speed up—I was in a building resembling what was once a modest house, speeding up two cramped flights of stairs—then in an instant I felt my arms completely immobile above my head, almost suspended by my wrists so that I had to stand on my toes. A beautiful woman was standing behind me, dancing her long fingernails lightly in my armpits—I was impossibly hard.
I feel forward from where I had been crouching as defensibly as possible, my arms crossing in front of my on reflex, and I felt myself begin to laugh. Shame was already burning on my face, but the intoxicating feeling did not abate, rather the area around me was shifting.
It was 1962, I was in Switzerland, my robe was discarded next to me, and my arms again tied above my head to the headboard of a hotel bed. My feet were tied to opposite sides of the end of the bed. The woman this time was at one of my feet, wiggling her fingertips underneath my toes and I was going absolutely crazy with the feeling, thrashing as much as I possibly could, while a blonde man teased around the head of my weeping cock with a single blue feather. Maps and pictures were haphazardly scattered facedown across the floor, as if they’d been taken down in a hurry, it seemed only minutes before I was aiming that damned Nazi coin at sketch-Schmidt’s head.
On the deck of the ship I was weeping, too, the sensations overwhelming me, trying to hide my burning erection, so embarrassingly visible in the black wetsuit. I writhe in ticklish ecstasy as—
I hurriedly stripped out of my business suit, tossing my hat to the floor and stepping out of my shoes, having been led to the so-called luxury suite (the only difference really being is that the room has candles and is a lot more garish, but with nice sheets), paid for in full in a bit of pure gold.
“Je veux que tu me chatouilles…” I hear myself say, “être sans pitié”
And this is where I let my sense of control drop—I’m led to the bed, told to lie down, face down this time, and –
I’m in Argentina, having just killed three men. There is a fourth here, in another villa, also from Düsseldorf, who has just taken a feather duster to my balls.
I shriek, and at once the illusion dissipates, leaving me lying cold and wet on the deck of Schmidt’s boat, painfully aware of how very close I was to cumming.
I’m trembling, breathing hard, and Schmidt is the one who is laughing now.
I'd like any tips or pointers you could give me.
Also, regular copyright stuff-- I don't own X-men or anything of that sort, the only thing that is mine is most of the plot.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Tell me!”
“No!”
“Come on, Erik—
“—Charles get out of my head, I swear to god—“
“Then tell me!”
It was at this point that Erik stalked out of the room, abandoning their game of chess in the study in favour of calming himself outside with the moonlight and crisp night air. Sometimes Charles was too inquisitive for his own good, and most of the time he was used to get exactly what he wanted—what a fucking brat.
I lit up a cigarette and pushed the remnants of Charles’s psyche quickly out of the edges of mine with a burst of electromagnetic impulses, all neurons seeming to fire at once, their action potentials brought suddenly to a peak—it left me breathless and reeling and feeling everything at once and there was an annoying ringing in my ears, but all of that soon subsided. There were certain perks to controlling magnetic forces—with the last vestiges of the mental link I was certain I could feel Charles recoil suddenly and slip his fingers from where they had been resting on his temple. Serves him right.
Erik took a meandering stroll around the perimeter of the mansion, brooding, as he was wont to do—brooding, but also very much closed off. Charles sat in the study tight-lipped, ashamed of his insensitivity, but also furious, and incessantly wondering—what could it be that his own lover wouldn’t dare mention, when Charles had already seen the horrors of Erik’s past?
Since they had been together, Charles has become more and more used to pushing Erik to get him to do what he wants. When they were acquaintances, then friends, it was different—Erik was always aloof, but to Charles aloofness has no place in a proper loving relationship—something Charles wasn’t actually personally familiar with except for with Raven, and he was sure that his relationship with her had a great number of flaws, many of them his fault. He couldn’t stop himself, though; he could read minds and manipulate them from a young age—feeling out of control was something he not only did not expect, but did not like in the least.
My hands were shaking when I turned the doorknob and crept into our room. I sighed with relief—Charles was already asleep; the lights were dark and his breathing was soft, slow, and even. I had been outside longer than I’d realized or intended—it had been quite a few hours; it was early morning now. I undressed and lay down next to him, feeling safer now that I knew Charles was asleep, the knowledge of which made me uneasy. I tucked my arm behind my head, staring at the high ceiling, and taking up not much of the bed at all; Charles, who was always used to having his own bed, tended to unconsciously stretch out across the whole thing, not leaving much room. Normally I might heave his arm to one side—to hell if he wakes up, but I knew as soon as he opened his eyes he would be asking me to tell him about the one thing he missed when he pried into my past, something no one could know—something that even I would like to forget—my one ultimate weakness, now twisted into something so terrible…
Flashback
“Herr Döktor.” Erik murmured a menacing greeting as he stepped towards the company of three on the deck of the Caspartina. His tight black diving suit was still dripping with seawater; a knife gleamed in his hand.
“Ah, der kleine Erik Lehsherr…” Schmidt stood up, spreading his arms wide, darkly and patronizingly welcoming.
“He’s here to kill you,” the blonde telepath, Emma Frost, stepped in,
but Erik wasn’t threatened, not until…
This horrible screeching filled my head—like metal rubbing against metal, but worse—not just because I couldn’t stop it or control it as it increased in intensity, but because it was so shrill—and I saw—more like felt things. I stumbled and fell, clutching my head, not prepared for this-- I was a child again, back on Schmidt’s operating table, endless devices stretching me wide apart from all angles as he came at me with a scalpel, I was so scared, I was trembling—but I couldn’t close my eyes, they were forced open—an overwhelming sense of vulnerability washed over me. My mother was being shot inside my head—I felt an eternity of rage and pain all in an instant. I stared up at Schmidt with loathing and in agony—I was trying to force my hand to throw the knife when suddenly the image changed; the surrounding area of Klaus Schmidt’s office blasted away in thousands of tiny shards of screams, and when they fused together they formed—
No. No, no one is supposed to see this. No one.
My frantic thoughts seemed to break through the haze for a second, but I couldn’t resist for long in such a panic. It was like my distress was egging the telepath on, something that didn’t surprise me if she kept company with Klaus Schmidt.
“You should see this.” She said briskly, placing her hand on Schmidt’s shoulder and his smirk grew wider than my terror.
It was 1959. I was in Amsterdam on New Year’s Eve. The place had seemed empty and barren until I had hit the red light district and time suddenly seemed to speed up—I was in a building resembling what was once a modest house, speeding up two cramped flights of stairs—then in an instant I felt my arms completely immobile above my head, almost suspended by my wrists so that I had to stand on my toes. A beautiful woman was standing behind me, dancing her long fingernails lightly in my armpits—I was impossibly hard.
I feel forward from where I had been crouching as defensibly as possible, my arms crossing in front of my on reflex, and I felt myself begin to laugh. Shame was already burning on my face, but the intoxicating feeling did not abate, rather the area around me was shifting.
It was 1962, I was in Switzerland, my robe was discarded next to me, and my arms again tied above my head to the headboard of a hotel bed. My feet were tied to opposite sides of the end of the bed. The woman this time was at one of my feet, wiggling her fingertips underneath my toes and I was going absolutely crazy with the feeling, thrashing as much as I possibly could, while a blonde man teased around the head of my weeping cock with a single blue feather. Maps and pictures were haphazardly scattered facedown across the floor, as if they’d been taken down in a hurry, it seemed only minutes before I was aiming that damned Nazi coin at sketch-Schmidt’s head.
On the deck of the ship I was weeping, too, the sensations overwhelming me, trying to hide my burning erection, so embarrassingly visible in the black wetsuit. I writhe in ticklish ecstasy as—
I hurriedly stripped out of my business suit, tossing my hat to the floor and stepping out of my shoes, having been led to the so-called luxury suite (the only difference really being is that the room has candles and is a lot more garish, but with nice sheets), paid for in full in a bit of pure gold.
“Je veux que tu me chatouilles…” I hear myself say, “être sans pitié”
And this is where I let my sense of control drop—I’m led to the bed, told to lie down, face down this time, and –
I’m in Argentina, having just killed three men. There is a fourth here, in another villa, also from Düsseldorf, who has just taken a feather duster to my balls.
I shriek, and at once the illusion dissipates, leaving me lying cold and wet on the deck of Schmidt’s boat, painfully aware of how very close I was to cumming.
I’m trembling, breathing hard, and Schmidt is the one who is laughing now.
