When Erik comes back to his senses, the only thing he knows is that his whole body hurts: his arms are numb and stiff; his neck throbs with pain; his head revolts as if he had been drinking too much.

Drinking is the last thing he remembers: a pub in the middle of London, the clatter of glasses over music, indistinct chatters in the background; and then Charles' voice.

"I can make people live their fantasies, the deepest ones; the ones they don't know they have."

A woman dances on stage, the curves of her body twisting in time with the song.

"Stop laughing, Erik. I'm serious."

A glass of wine tips, and a hand (is it his?) hurries to straighten it back.

"Fine, just go on then. I'll show you."

And suddenly there's nothing.

"You're awake, finally!" Charles says.

Erik's head springs upward. It takes him some time to get used to light again, but when he does all he sees is red: red drapes, red stuffing, red carpets, and, hung in front of him, a red banner embroidered with a symbol he knows far too well. Under it, Charles stands tall, browsing the room with cunning complacence. His pitch-black clothes, finely decorated with silver, blare out against the background.

"This all looks..." he says, still looking around. "...very interesting."

He raises a gloved-hand above his head, examining it like the unexpected result of a lab test: he clenches it in a fist, noting the fleeble squeak of leather, then moves it down to flatten the folds of his uniform, enjoying how smoothly the fabric glides over it; his thumb slides over the edge of his belt to the holster on its side. He takes the gun out and holds it up, observing the light shining on the surface, and the surroundings reflecting on it, distorted and blurry.

In the meantime, Erik pays no attention to his proceedings, focusing instead on his own situation: his ankles are roped to the chair he was forced in, his hands cuffed behind his back. He shakes them, and the links clink together, metal on metal. He throws a quick, suspicious look at Charles, now busy studying his pockets, and channels his powers to bend his restraints. Nothing happens. He growls in frustration.

"Worth a shot, but I'm not that naive." Charles smirks, adjusting his tie. "Your power won't work here."

Erik's answer is a curse under his breath. He cups one hand, hinging on the other, and screws his wrist to slide it out, digging the jaws in his skin.

"Charles, you must stop." he glares at him. "This cannot end well!"

The friction chafes him red. He curses louder, doubling his efforts.

Charles blinks back at him, surprised, looking like at an animal who just displayed a bizarre gift of speech. He edges closer. The clunk of boots echoes with each step, and only stops when he is near enough to slide a hand behind Erik's neck. He lowers on his lap, straddling his waist. Leather closes on Erik's nape, as he pulls him to his mouth and whispers:

"Then, next time, think better than to question my power."

He tucks his head on Erik's shoulder, and his hand falls down his neck to the rim of his jeans. His breath brushes his skin, regular at first, then crackling. He laughs out loud. A rapid movement lifts his head up again, and the gun pushes under Erik's jaw.

"You know what else can I do, Erik?" Charles's tongue clicks in his mouth. "I can blow your brain out, make you feel it, feel it all."

Erik swallows against the barrel, his neck stretched in an unnatural position. Charles' mouth is inches from his nose, and the smell of alcohol burns through his nostrils.

"And then..." Charles continues. "Then, just a second later, I can bring you back to life and fuck you." The words hiss through his teeth, and he pushes the gun further in.

"Charles, stop it. You're drunk." Erik says, his words stifled.

Charles' eyes dart toward him, then move to the gun, and go back at him again. He whirls to his feet, laughing.

"Yes. Yes, I am. A bit." He clicks the hammers back, and stretches the gun between Erik's eyes. "Still, this is not my fantasy, is it?"

"Listen to..." Erik starts.

"Suck it."

"Wha—?"

"You heard what I said, now do it!"

"Don't—!"

A bang, and Erik shoulder burns, and blood pours down his naked chest. He grits his teeth, trying not to scream. The pain is excruciating and then, suddenly, gone. His skin perfectly intact. Charles is still aiming at him, gun fuming, the smug look back on his face:

"I don't ask twice."

He pushes the weapon to his lips, burning a ring of heat on them. Erik glares at him from below, considering his options: his hands are trapped; his power, useless; no trick he can conceive will work on Charles, who effortlessly reads his every thought (and is, in fact, nodding pleased at his words). Sighing, he parts his lips. The gun traces his lower one, pulling it down to have it snap back in position; the slide scrapes on his teeth, prying his jaw open until there is enough space to thrust inside his mouth. The metal runs cold on his palate, sinking in, the taste of gunpowder spreading on it like a disease; the sight tilts the back of his throat. He moves his head back, sliding his tongue flat on the frame; his lips curve on the edge, and the gun pops out of him, a thread of saliva still hanging from it. Charles smirks, and shoves the weapon to his face again, thumbing back the hammer without making it cock.

Erik nods condescendingly and takes the barrel back in, wrapping his tongue around it, while slowly sucking it inside. The muzzle tickles on his throat again, and he slips the gun out to run his tongue along the base of the slide, back to the tip. From above, Charles stares at him with an unreadable expression on his face, his cheeks flustered with alcohol and, maybe, lust. He rams the gun back in, this time further down, until it meets his throat. Erik moves his face back, but Charles' arm goes with his movement, and pushes even further. He retches. His breath falters. Trying not to choke, he relaxes his neck, allowing it to stretch, but Charles does not stop and suddenly he is gargling, unable to breath. He tries to tongue the gun in his cheek, but Charles snickers and straightens his wrist. Caught by surprise, Erik throws his head sideways, the barrel slipping from his mouth. He spits and chokes, coughing as oxygen fill his lungs again. Meanwhile, Charles admires the transparent beads on the frame with mild satisfaction.

He presses his boot to Erik's shoulder, and Erik stops coughing and gapes at him, saliva still running down his chin. Charles smiles back, and his foot moves forward, scraping his skin with the traction, pushing his back against the chair. The front legs lift from the floor, and his stomach goes hollow: gravity clings to his body like a beggar, dragging him down; the chair teeters, changing its weak equilibrium with each breath. He looks at Charles, and Charles' eyes are fixed on him, waiting for him to speak, or beg, or fall. He pushes further.

Erik doesn't even realize he is falling. The chair disappears, and his hands haste forward, free from the handcuffs, his nails scraping the boot for support; his body falls flat on the ground. Charles leans on him, foot still on his shoulder, pushing on it with all his weight.

"How sick." he says.

He laughs, and sways, and laughs again. His legs bend, and he allows himself to fall down on Erik's lap, straddling his hips.

"This." he says, and points the gun distractedly at him, his voice still chortling. "This is not sexual excitement, Erik. It's adrenaline."

His arm flies forward, and the muzzle sinks in Erik's cheek, making him cry out in surprise, while his hips push his erection against Charles' ass. Charles cackles.

"God." he says. "You don't get the difference, do you?"

His fingertips slide over the lines of Erik's abdomen, following them up to his chest. He shifts his weight on them, and flattens his palm against his heart, that skips a beat. His ass moves backwards; their pants rub together. He sinks his hand further in, and Erik grabs his wrist, whispering him to stop. Charles' smile widens; his hips rock forward again. He swings his head back, and rides him once more.

"Is this what you usually think of, or are you too scared?" he asks.

Erik opens his mouth in protest, propping on his elbows to get up, but Charles leans forward, and slams him on the floor again. He presses the gun to his lips, and shushes.

"Don't answer." he says. "I already know."

The barrel slides down Erik's face, and a finger moves in its place, squeaking feebly on his teeth. Charles slams his hips forward again, and Erik catches his thighs, tries to shove him away, but his groin skids against Charles' ass, and he moans; he tightens his lips, but the finger bars his mouth. His breath shakes. He closes his eyes. Charles dangles once more, and this time, Erik's hips jerk forward again. His tongue brushes up, flatten against the aseptic taste of leather; his hands rise higher on Charles, who looks at him, but says nothing. Their bodies rub together. Erik's tongue traces the seam of the gloves; his hands slip past Charles' waist to cup his ass; his teeth nibble the fabric in his mouth. He heaves Charles down on his cock, and guides his movements, having him ride him again and again, their pace growing faster with each trust. His torso raises from the floor. Their bodies push together, the metal of the uniform burning his hot skin cold. His tongue fondles Charles' neck, and Charles' finger slips out of his mouth, leaving a humid trail down his chin. He nips his collar again, and again, and, without stopping, he eases him down until his back lies on the ground, his hands, still clutching the gun, raised over his head.

"This is not how it usually ends." Charles giggles.

He hides his face on the floor, the alcohol overwhelming him from his new position. His hands fumble his own belt open, and his legs wrap around Erik's as their pants slide down their waists. Erik traces the curve of his side with his palm, and circles around his hips, skidding down his groin to cup his ass. He heaves him against his penis, and coates his hand with saliva. His fingers move down to his ass again, but Charles grabs his wrist and stops him midway.

"There's no need for that." he says.

He pays no attention to Erik's protests, and merely leans back again with his eyes closed. Shrugging, Erik takes his hand to his cock, and smears its length with liquid, steering the tip along the cleft. Charles' legs winch as the erection pushes inside him: he raises his waist, clamps his boots against Erik's ass, and heaves himself on him; his back arches along with the movement, and tenses the uniform around his rib cage. Erik follows its front with his fingers, sliding over the silver buttons to reach Charles' penis. He presses a thumb on the base, and rubs it along the whole length, up to the swollen head. Charles rise further, a hand clapped over his mouth to cover a groan. Erik's arm slides under his waist; he pulls back, and waits for him to relax before thrusting in again. They push faster, slam their hips together, fucking harder and harder. Charles' fingers scrape the floor. He props on them, moving his pelvis to meet the pace. Erik rams inside him with all his strength, and Charles' hips rock against his length, while his legs clench him closer and his teeth sink in his own skin to muffle his panting. A hand slides up his chest, scrapes his side, rubs his nipple over the uniform. He strangles a moan in his mouth. His hand skews forward, cocks the hammer back again, and sinks the barrel in Erik's throat.

"Don't go too fast, or I might slip." he says.

Erik stops and stares at him: his face is flushed, his hair stuck to his face by sweat; the gun in his hand shakes along his panting, set unsteadily against Erik's own neck.

He grabs his wrist, and shoves him away. Charles' index snags on the trigger, and a bullet fires and sinks in a nearby wall. The bang makes them flinch, but they do not turn. Charles bursts out laughing again. Erik pins his hand on the ground, twisting his arm, bending it unnaturally. A shriek, and Charles' grasp flies open, dropping the gun that goes clattering on the floor.

"You really do get off with this stuff." he says, the cries blending in with snickers.

Erik's weight shifts on his arm, and his nails dig in it as the legs tighten further around his waist. He holds to the uniform, pulls it forward, and thrusts in with all his strength. Charles' sniggers turn back into cries, then into moans. He clenches his mouth again. His whole body trembles with ache, but his hips keep pushing forward to help the other push inside. A hand slides on his forehead, takes the hair out of his face, then circles past his flushed cheeks to sink a thumb between his lips. Erik fondles his tongue, rubs the fingertip on the soft part under it, strokes and thrusts in him, until Charles' eyes roll back in his head with a moan; his back arches, his neck stretches behind, and he sucks needily on Erik's hand. Their breaths falter with each push, but Charles' tongue keeps twisting around the finger, as Erik fucks him bluntly. Drool trickles down his chin, and soon Charles comes on himself, his hips jolting up with each squirt. He shuts his mouth to muffle his own moans, but Erik pries it open and his voice comes out loud from his throat, echoing in the room.

Without giving him any rest, he leans down again to nibble on his lips. He grabs his sides, shoves him on his cock, and slams their hips together while his mouth trails down to his chin. Charles bites on his knuckles to control his moaning, as his ass thrusts against Erik almost on his own. They move faster. Erik's fingertips delve into the skin under them, breaking and bruising it. His teeth sink in Charles' neck. He clings to his hair, and comes inside him with a last stroke, filling him with cum.

None of them moves again. They lie on the floor, listening to the broken silence, while their chests heave against each other. Through the lips pressed on his neck, Erik feels Charles' pulse slow down, and his muscle loosen and relax under him. The room fades around them. He closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, the pub blazes loudly around him: the music trumps in his ears, crushes his brain, and the neon lights burn his eyes. He rubs his knuckles on them, squinting around, lost. Charles sits in front of him, his head laid out on the table. The wine from the knocked glass soaks his hair, and his arm dangles down over the edge. Erik sighs. His muscles are sore, and he is exhausted like he has not been in ages. He stirs uncomfortably. The crotch of his pants sticks wet to his body. He curses, face hidden in his palm.

"What a jerk." he groans.

a/n:

I swear I did not have a nazi uniforms fetish before writing this. Well, now I totally have it.

I could provide links to a image of the uniform I was thinking about, and also the gun, but I think your own fantasy might fill the gap better than I can do.

Reviews and criticisms are appreciated. Even plain ass-kissing is fine. Whatever.

Also I'm writing a sequel (if I stop self-loathing long enough to write them fucking each other like horny Norse Gods).

Thanks for reading 3