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ataraxionlogs2015-10-04 04:28 pm
forgodssake) wrote in ataraxionlogs2015-10-04 04:28 pm
Entry tags:
o14. quasi closed.
CHARACTERS: Charles Xavier + Caprica "Natasi" Six + Garrett Hawke; and others.
LOCATION: Probably there are trees.
WARNINGS: TBA.
SUMMARY: The sad story how we became lonely two legged creatures.
NOTES: A series of pre-planned threads and a general catch all for October, so please, if you want to do something, shout at me!
LOCATION: Probably there are trees.
WARNINGS: TBA.
SUMMARY: The sad story how we became lonely two legged creatures.
NOTES: A series of pre-planned threads and a general catch all for October, so please, if you want to do something, shout at me!
no subject
But he’s all the more aware in the lamplight, private discomfort dense behind his sternum.
He’d prefer that Charles looked less like shit.
He looks human again, himself, after a timely transfusion and a week’s worth of re-hydration. His good eye is clear, focus fluid, engaging contact with the sort of liquid steel confidence that dropped a stadium on the white house and occasionally sees him in a cape.
The tricky thing about nursing dragons back to health is that “getting better” means they go back to burning down villages and eating everyone’s livestock. ]
We couldn’t surrender.
[ This is a logical statement he makes unprompted into the privacy of their tent, unrelated to guilt or insecurity. ]
no subject
He sets his scissors aside. In a few minutes, they'll fade from reality, without his notice.
It's Erik that has his attention. ]
To Van Rijn, [ he fills in. If Erik is ready to talk, he will try to help pave the way. ]
no subject
But that isn’t where his mind is at. His mind is here, with the cut of Charles’ face in the firelight, and the shamble of their tarp fort in the jungle’s shadow. The ghost of Christmas present. ]
It tried to stop us.
[ The living vacuum, clawing light in, tugging on optic nerves. ] The thing in the ship. [ ‘Moira.’ He doesn’t have the heart to jab at Charles’ government conquest, unease for the reference dense in his face. ]
It’s probably still alive.
no subject
His hands knot briefly amongst the bedding on either side of him. ]
It didn't jump away. It's weaker than it was.
[ A beat, then; ]
Out there. [ His head tips in a generalised direction. ] Did you feel it?
no subject
[ Matter-of-fact. There’s a desperation about their situation now that needn’t be manufactured by an eldritch deity. And here they are, squatting in proximity all the same.
Distrust bristles in his chops almost before Charles has finished the next question, dread for the idea clouding hazy at the back of his mind, dimming at his stare. The idle turning of the unfinished grip in his hands stalls out. He shakes his head just slightly -- ‘no.’ ]
Have you?
no subject
[ That isn't meant to come out as especially ominous, just contemplative. But his focus turns outward just as quickly, settling on Erik, feeling unease like the heat off a small radiator. There exists the instinct to assuage it, even if it's entirely empathetic.
Still-- ]
It tried to stop us, [ he repeats, with a quiet kind of insistence ] and for whatever that's worth, it couldn't. We won. No one's ever been able to say that before.
[ There is a tilt of his head, one that acknowledges the immediate present. Gaunt faces in fire light. He should make himself eat more lizards. ]
no subject
He could pick further. Peel hope down to the core.
Instead he watches Charles, bare toes curled in what little warmth the lamp puts off. ]
Come here, [ he says.
u want sum fuk?? ]
no subject
With an immediacy he would prefer not to be telegraphed across empathy, for we all know Englishmen prefer to give the impression of having ice water in their veins, there is a chemical trickle of warmth through him in response to directive. It dashes hotter against hunger, the discomfort knotted in his spine, the pressure of anxiety tight in his ribcage. There's a self-conscious crookedness to repressed smile.
He stiffly unhinges himself out of crossed legged sit, climbing the short distance between his designated spot and Erik's.
ya ok ]
no subject
They're lucky to be alive, hale and for the most part whole. Raven is adaptable.
His arousal is slow and steady to rise past that initial nudge, progress labored under the weight of the world. Driven by affection, and isolation, for want of one and in fear of the other.
This is a very long way of saying that he's subdued, from nose to mouth, held back short of any sense of of urgency, or dirty twisting. Reserve, restraint. They are in a tent. ]
no subject
And it's fine, there was dog hair in his bedding anyway.
Within the emotional spectrum, thrumming like a struck chord, there is a squeeze not so different in affect than anxiety, and then a loosening. Warmth and relief.
An arm binds high around Erik's waist, slowly easing all in on physical contact and proximity now that it's being offered. He's cheating, ever so, responding to physical cues and mental, holding a balance between tension and calm on a knife edge. But also, and more simply: just kissing, insinuated closer, his fingernails catching on fabric where his hand skims up Erik's spine.
Generally, he expects himself to be lucky and alive and for the most part whole. There is an edge to contact that implies he is used to only hoping it for Erik. ]
no subject
His underthings have undertones of umber burned in beneath the black, blood on blood on blood on fiber and only so much soap and water available for laundry. The stink of undeath clings close to the fabric, repulsive in an instinctive sort of way.
Short of flattening one’s nose into it, it isn’t noticeable.
Anymore.
More noticeable is the hand Erik’s hooking in at Charles’ waistband, pulling the smaller man’s balance off-center with the strength in his arm, lending promise to some implied or else. ]
Can you keep quiet.
[ He asks quietly.
He didn’t deliberately orchestrate this scenario with distraction in mind. It’s just panning out well for him that way, while his libido catches up with the rest of him. The better portion of his subconscious is still circling Van Rijn and the eldritch horrors of Tranquility, which would be an interesting name for a band. ]
no subject
The wider camp is a humming constellation of human thought stretching around them, with the majority thrown west -- conscious and unconscious. All a clamour, regardless as to the thinness of tent canvas stapled into the ground around them. But he nods, not specifically disappointed by this caveat.
Warmer than neutral, like it's as much a game as it is a necessity.
He shifts, enough to slip a thigh between Erik's, and pulls himself back in to meet with a slightly more energetic kiss. ][ he echoes in the midst of doing so. Demonstrably, even telepathic voice is at a quiet simmer.
Less low and lazy than Erik, by virtue of optimism, perhaps, or his focus honed away from the things his subconscious likes to orbit, but momentum is more nudging back than pushing forward. ]
no subject
With his nose mashed blunt into a harder kiss, Erik pulls in as much as Charles is willing to give, too many teeth to fit together flush. His right hand has forsaken waistband in favor of hooking itself up in between Charles’ thighs, fingertips pressing along physical evidence of what he already feels is there, palm following after at a firmer roll and grasp through trousers.
Testing. Pushing for a break in the boundary between breath and voice early. ]
Charles, [ hushed between his teeth is only meant as a help here, surely.
The more he’s focused here, the less he’s focused elsewhere. ]
no subject
His own plants on the other man's chest, pushing him down. A non-verbal, mock reprimand. That didn't count.
Charles then shoves a hand up and against Erik's undershirt, pulling fabric to expose skin, his palm skimming rough along belly, ribcage, sternum. The journey back down is slower, fingertips finding ridges and dips, muscle lines and flatter planes of skin, tracing scars, before he slips his fingers beneath the waistband of shorts. Tugging. ]
no subject
He’s already physically warmer, skin burning beneath his shirt, blood running hot under pressure in his core. The sudden rush wears his concentration away with it -- he’s only just filling in and already has more of a sense of urgency for own cock than he does Charles,’ eyes so intent they’re starting to cross. As much as they can when the one is cottoned over, off yellow in the lamplight.
Still more handsome than Voldemort.
Slight delay marks the effort involved in turning his attention down to Charles’ shorts from his face, and then up again. He hooks his fingertips in to peel them down with a little more strength, stiff through the wrists.
The firm wrap of his palm is there to take over before the air has time to feel cool. ]
no subject