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Fic: Whimsy (R)

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  • Spyke Raven
    Title: Whimsy Author: Spyke Raven. Can be reached at spyke_raven@yahoo.com for feedback, coffee and gift wrapped Wolverine clones. Teaser: Someone is tempted
    Message 1 of 1 , Aug 30, 2000
      Title: Whimsy

      Author: Spyke Raven. Can be reached at
      spyke_raven@... for feedback, coffee and gift
      wrapped Wolverine clones.

      Teaser: Someone is tempted to be unfaithful. But it is
      never that easy.

      Rating: R, for semi-explicit sexual imagery. You read
      at your own risk.

      Genre: Wishful thinking. What? With a title like
      'Whimsy' you were expecting something else?

      Archive: Of course! Fanfic Central & Kielle's place.
      Anywhere else, drop me a line so that I can hug you.

      Notes: Whimsy; an irrational or unpredictable idea or
      desire. Further notes after story.

      ======================================

      And why do I want him?

      It's not like he is particularly handsome, or even
      charming. Quiet to the point of sullenness at most
      times would about summarise it.

      Oh I know that is only because he does not wish to get
      close enough to anyone to be able to hurt them. What's
      the point of being a sensitive unless you can
      understand these things? Still, it is irritating, the
      way he cuts himself off from people, then swaggers
      around the campus drawing all eyes -

      No, that's not true. I shall be truthful. He doesn't
      swagger. He walks quietly. Tensely. He compacts his
      movements into the slightest possible space. You
      couldn't see his muscles move if you weren't watching
      - of course the problem is that half the school is
      always watching him. I'm always watching him. Him,
      with a capital H to define and separate the dangerous
      'him' from the crowd of faceless 'hims'.

      Dangerous my foot. He *is* dangerous, but not in the
      way they imagine. Their definition invests him with
      some mythic aura that doesn't detract from his appeal.
      It adds to it exponentially.

      Idiots.

      I hear them giggle sometimes. The younger girls get
      together in gaggles and laugh excitedly over Him,
      sharing titbits of information or rumour.

      "Did you hear...?"

      "Did you see?"

      "I brushed next to him at lunchtime."

      "He asked me to pass him the salt!"

      Juveniles. I want to snort. They are so pathetically
      juvenile in their adolescent crushes.

      I'm jealous of them. They can giggle, and laugh and
      moon over him together, whereas a staid old partner in
      a steady relationship can't afford that luxury.

      I can only dream.

      My partner knows what I'm thinking, of course. I'm
      happy he doesn't refer to it in the daylight, though
      it comes out at night when our limbs are entwined and
      he's on top of me, his voice growing harsher, pushing
      into me and beyond, bringing me to the verge of pain,
      as though he wants me to be afraid, to beg him to
      stop.

      As if he's trying to prove that he can be hard and
      dangerous too.

      But he loves me too much to go beyond the limits.
      Every night he takes me to the brink and then pulls
      back abruptly, breathing hard, trying to retain
      control. Then he loves me for an hour, two, until my
      body is singing with the joy of him, his hands, his
      lips, his tongue and teeth so loving and gentle, I
      could weep.

      When panting and spent we collapse in a tangle of
      limbs, I feel my lover's hand pass over my face,
      outlining the features, gently caressing. I always
      wonder if he will speak of it now, but he hasn't. He
      won't - yet.

      Not ever, unless I give him cause.

      Unless I reveal to him the secret of my heart, which
      is that he not stop. That when he is at the brink, he
      should not draw away, he should continue past the
      point of no return, to punish me with his body.

      If I told him that, he would know what I have tried to
      hide from him. That at the peak of ecstasy, the name
      on my lips is no longer his, so I still the cries to
      keep from hurting him, and not, as he imagines, to
      avoid disturbing our new neighbour down the hall.

      I could never tell him that. It would break his heart,
      his strong, fragile, gentle heart. I know my lover is
      insecure. It's the age difference between us. Though
      it's less than ten years, it may as well be twenty.
      When we first moved in together, there were some
      sniggers, some vague references to cradle snatchers
      and Indian summers. I had anticipated that, and was
      slightly prepared for it, but he was not.

      I grew to love him even more for his clenched fists
      that refused to hurt, his head that remained alert and
      steady when all the while I knew his eyes were darting
      back and forth, dying to unleash their fury on the
      offenders. I loved him for his self-control. I still
      love him for that, even though I wish it wouldn't
      intrude into the darkness of our bedroom.

      Then again, I never wished that before He came along.

      He.

      The dangerous one.

      Oh if He only knew how far my obsession has gone. I'm
      consumed with fear that he might. I avoid him during
      the day, barely looking at him when our schedules
      intersect. I dare not even speak His name in the
      privacy of my mind for fear of what an unbridled
      telepathic ability could provoke.

      Sometimes I do take the risk, however, when the need
      is great and I cannot stand the longing anymore.
      Mostly when I am alone in my thought-proofed office,
      or as now, when my lover is in the bathroom preparing
      for the night. Confident that the intents and desires
      of the night will mask the identity of the one I am
      invoking, I roll the dangerous name around my tongue,
      feeling its texture and tasting the syllables one by
      one.

      Ah. Sweet taste. Piquant, yet arousing.

      What is this strange connection I feel between us? As
      though our paths are inextricably intertwined and that
      one step in the wrong direction could be cataclysmic.

      Lust, I rationalize. My eternal need to romanticize
      the trivialities of life.

      Still, that amazing sense of *connection * the day we
      first met -

      I close my eyes and wonder how it would be for Him to
      come to me, a man whose experiences would surely make
      him my equal. Equality is something sorely lacking in
      my current relationship. Not intellectual, of course.
      I know my lover combines a brilliant mind with the
      constant temperament of the true leader. But
      emotionally -

      Emotionally he is still a boy. And sometimes I long
      for one who would be able to sense what I am feeling;
      the intimacy that only a telepath can bring to a
      relationship.

      I curse myself for degenerate selfishness. I have a
      lover who is young, strong, and who loves me
      devotedly. Why should my nature demand that I
      sacrifice this all for a risky gamble with the dice,
      on the off chance that - the other - could provide so
      much, much more...

      "Erik?"

      The voice is hesitant. I turn my head and find my
      lover standing in the door that separates the bathroom
      from our bed. The light frames him becomingly as he
      stands with one hand on the doorframe, half-expectant,
      waiting to move forward.

      I smile. He is the reality, here and now, a
      luminescent halo gracing the tumbled curls of his
      brow. I am foolish to desire more.

      "Come to bed, love," I invite, patting the space
      beside me, and he complies.

      As our lips meet, I allow myself to feel a pang of
      remorse, before the familiar sensations wash over me,
      pushing it away.

      My lover's strong body pushes against mine, demanding
      in its solidity.

      Yes, he is here. He is now. This is the reality.

      And Xavier is a mere idle whim. Charles Xavier is a
      stupid, childish dream. I do not want Xavier, Xavier
      with his untrained mental prowess and seething mind. I
      do NOT want to help him train and shape the powers
      that even the telepathically blind can sense roiling
      below the surface. That, above all, would be the
      desire of an idiot.

      It's a pity that I am still not convinced.

      ~ End.

      =====================

      Got that? The entire tale was about Erik Lenscherr's
      irrational desire for Charles Xavier. I set it in a
      mythical past, possibly at the university where Xavier
      and Lenscherr first met as colleagues.
      Obvious features of this mythical past:
      - Xavier had the use of his legs when he first
      encountered Lenscherr.
      - Erik is well, in a relationship with another man,
      who, by the way, is a figment of my imagination.
      - There was a time in his life when Xavier was
      totally unable to control his powers, and at the point
      of this story, he has forced marginal control over
      himself, so that only other 'sensitives' can guess at
      what he is truly capable of. 'Normal' humans merely
      find that he emits a 'dangerous' vibe.
      - Erik Lenscherr, being sensitive to electromagnetic
      fields is also highly sensitive to the neural field
      emanating from telepaths and perhaps that forms the
      basis of his attraction to Xavier. (By the way, that
      is a reasonable and scientific extrapolation)

      Maybe that is an idea I will explore in greater depth
      some other time.

      Thanks to Bishy who taught me how important author's
      notes were, and who mentioned that most fanfic was
      written in the first person. That inspired me. Sorry
      dear!
      Questions, comments, email me at spyke_raven@...

      ======================



      =====
      "Red is love. Red is life. Red is the blood that suffuses our veins and fills our otherwise empty heart.
      Picture the reds in your life. The palette that shapes your canvas from a blank to a masterpiece; at least in your own self esteem. "
      - Incarnadine
      The Spyke site: http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven

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