let's just say i'm frankenstein's monster. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
violenthearted) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kore_logs2013-03-02 06:03 pm
violenthearted) wrote in kore_logs2013-03-02 06:03 pm
Entry tags:
everything's weird and we're always in danger
Who: Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier
What: Settling In...ish
When: Evening, Day 46
Where: Newly occupied House #8
Warnings: Uhh. Shouting and rage and whatnot, so probably language? Maybe tongue kissing? We'll see. Definite warnings for general like, sadness and Erik's delightful past.
Sitting shiva works like this:
It lasts for seven days, and it's only done for immediate family members. Those nearest and dearest: for the loss of a spouse or a sister, a family mourns for a week. No one expects them to cope, no one talks about God's plan. He takes what he wants, all Jews know this. They've known it for centuries, known that wandering in the desert is sometimes all a person gets.
(They say forty years, but they say it rained for forty days and forty nights too: all that means is that it was so long, no one knows how long it was.)
Erik has never met the people who used to live in this house. For all he knows no one ever has, it might all just be set dressing. The half eaten food in the kitchen, the open dresser drawer half emptied--signs of flight. He knows them, knows them as well as the sound of breaking glass. He knows that, and to know this is enough to know that this hollow home must be treated with care. None of it ameliorates his simmering rage, none of it soothes the fact that as far as he's concerned his life's goal has been ripped out from under him at the last possible second--
But it's something.
So he clears the table and waits for the sink to cough up a jolt of rusty water; he washes and dries plates, the sleeves of his uniform soaking lukewarm suds to the elbows. He closes the doors to rooms they won't use, he sets aside clothing meant for a petite woman and a boy of maybe ten or twelve (never forget that you must always be practical; this is the only way you will survive when sentiment will only make you bleed) and sorts out what the two of them could conceivably use.
Charles is outside, having disappeared somewhat mercifully as probably a response to the muscle ticking in Erik's cheek upon entering the house. It's that or the jagged clamor of Erik's thoughts; when he said 'then you'll know to stay out of my head,' it was only half about privacy. He is the only thing stable in a world that seems caught in the grip of an eternal earthquake, and Erik doesn't know whether that means he wants to drag Charles into the magnetic pull of his own orbit and keep him there until the stars burn out, or put the distance of planets between them before he starts depending on the other man more than he already does. He has depended on one thing since he was a bone-thin twenty and learning how to break bones: someday the blood-soaked fever he lives in will break.
And now it seems he can't even have that, because sometimes wandering in the desert is all a person gets. In the old days a person could question his God and maybe even get an answer, but Erik is more than used to God's silence.
(He says the prayer for safe travel anyway, in an empty kitchen to nothing but the drip of the faucet.)
Then there's nothing else to do, the house doesn't look anymore like it was ever lived in. It's not seven days, but it's enough. He squares his shoulders and shutters his expression, and he goes out to the back garden to find Charles.
What: Settling In...ish
When: Evening, Day 46
Where: Newly occupied House #8
Warnings: Uhh. Shouting and rage and whatnot, so probably language? Maybe tongue kissing? We'll see. Definite warnings for general like, sadness and Erik's delightful past.
Sitting shiva works like this:
It lasts for seven days, and it's only done for immediate family members. Those nearest and dearest: for the loss of a spouse or a sister, a family mourns for a week. No one expects them to cope, no one talks about God's plan. He takes what he wants, all Jews know this. They've known it for centuries, known that wandering in the desert is sometimes all a person gets.
(They say forty years, but they say it rained for forty days and forty nights too: all that means is that it was so long, no one knows how long it was.)
Erik has never met the people who used to live in this house. For all he knows no one ever has, it might all just be set dressing. The half eaten food in the kitchen, the open dresser drawer half emptied--signs of flight. He knows them, knows them as well as the sound of breaking glass. He knows that, and to know this is enough to know that this hollow home must be treated with care. None of it ameliorates his simmering rage, none of it soothes the fact that as far as he's concerned his life's goal has been ripped out from under him at the last possible second--
But it's something.
So he clears the table and waits for the sink to cough up a jolt of rusty water; he washes and dries plates, the sleeves of his uniform soaking lukewarm suds to the elbows. He closes the doors to rooms they won't use, he sets aside clothing meant for a petite woman and a boy of maybe ten or twelve (never forget that you must always be practical; this is the only way you will survive when sentiment will only make you bleed) and sorts out what the two of them could conceivably use.
Charles is outside, having disappeared somewhat mercifully as probably a response to the muscle ticking in Erik's cheek upon entering the house. It's that or the jagged clamor of Erik's thoughts; when he said 'then you'll know to stay out of my head,' it was only half about privacy. He is the only thing stable in a world that seems caught in the grip of an eternal earthquake, and Erik doesn't know whether that means he wants to drag Charles into the magnetic pull of his own orbit and keep him there until the stars burn out, or put the distance of planets between them before he starts depending on the other man more than he already does. He has depended on one thing since he was a bone-thin twenty and learning how to break bones: someday the blood-soaked fever he lives in will break.
And now it seems he can't even have that, because sometimes wandering in the desert is all a person gets. In the old days a person could question his God and maybe even get an answer, but Erik is more than used to God's silence.
(He says the prayer for safe travel anyway, in an empty kitchen to nothing but the drip of the faucet.)
Then there's nothing else to do, the house doesn't look anymore like it was ever lived in. It's not seven days, but it's enough. He squares his shoulders and shutters his expression, and he goes out to the back garden to find Charles.
no subject
If not one of the great variety; he'd probably fit right in stalking around in the woods with the dire wolves. "You do have me at your leisure," he points out, sounding like this is a complete lie, which it ....sort of is. On one hand Erik's need to control everything in his environment has driven him since he was barely an adult, and that extends to this, but on the other it's pleasing in a way to make himself wait, to watch Charles with eyes like a hungry, lithe, stalking thing, and see what he does, to watch his hands move over Erik like the pass of pale birds.
He flattens a hand on Charles' abdomen and considers the spaces between his own fingers, pushes just enough to feel muscle push back. "What do you want from me? If you say 'everything'," he warns, cajoling and teasing all at once, "I won't take you seriously. I'm not a machine."
Ahem. "But," and there's little of that mockery left in his voice, gentle as it was, "there is nothing I won't give you, not if you ask for it."
no subject
But he smiles wide enough for his cheek to dimple, a flush settling high on his skin and his eyes sparking with something that might be amusement and might be something else. Lust snaps in his veins like the crackle of fire and he breathes in, swaying a little closer because how can he deny that? How can he when he is being offered so much. He shifts until his hands are on Erik's face, his mouth pressing a deep and hot kiss to his lips, chasing it with cousins of the same action. He can't help himself, thumb swiping the cut of his cheekbones and his tongue haunting the bottom of his lip like he has always been there.
"Are you sure?" A soft earnest hush spilled once more into the shell of his ear, "I can ... I can wait for you all you need me to. Knowing is enough."
Because he wants hands on skin and the frantic application of new love but - well, how can he be sure without asking? How can he know he's not colouring Erik's mind with his own. So he asks.
no subject
When Charles makes to pull away Erik makes a rough dissatisfied sound and reels him in again, hand on the back of his neck in what's clearly the development of ritual. Kissing him now seems like the swallow of one mouthful when he's starving; he has always known exactly what he needs to get by and taken no more, but Charles makes him a glutton. Erik could chase the light-lined hollows and corners of his mouth for hours and not want to move from exactly where he is right now, which--frankly, is exactly how he considers answering, but he's aware that Charles is treating him like something breakable, which under the circumstances seems almost laughable.
To Erik, anyway, who sometimes doesn't know himself as well as he thinks he does. He doesn't flush, since God knows he won't give away any more signs of inexperience than he already has (it is different, the way Charles feels in his arms, his slender muscle where Erik is used to soft curvature, but it barely matters, less than he thought it would); instead his mouth creases in determination, eyes turning steely gray. "I may not have your worlds of experience," he ....teases, of Charles the tramp, "but I am quite sure I can teach myself."
His eyes light with what is unabashed devilry, and he sits back on the bed braced by his arms to consider Charles from that angle. "But then you are the distinguished professor, of the two of us. I suppose it depends if you trust me to follow your lead."
Considering Erik has been doing that the entire time they've been training, and he never does as much for anyone else, the possibilities seem both limitless and filthy.
no subject
He doesn't have the predator's grace that Erik does but this isn't meant to be as though he's hunting. It's natural to press his knee to the mattress before sliding up to straddle Erik, hands once again cupping his face. The balancing act between them should say something about them in entirety but he doesn't care, just leans in to kiss him as hard as he might, the filthy edge of his teeth catching Erik's plush lower lip between them and tugging ever so slightly.
Hand curling into the hair at the back of Erik's nape, burying his fingers to the knuckles and licking into his mouth with a single-minded need, Charles punctuates every breath with words, lets them loose when he's not trying to climb inside.
"You have no idea the things I want to teach you, Erik," Nuzzling his jaw, "I don't think you have the slightest inkling of what you're letting yourself in for."