In Meiner Seele [Eine Schlacht]
Title: In Meiner Seele [Eine Schlacht] || In My Soul [A Fight] (1/?)
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Pairing/Characters: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Raven Darkholme, Hank McCoy, Sebastian Shaw, others.
Rating: NC-17
Content: Serial killer!AU
Word count: 1,844
Warnings: Detailed description of violence, abusive themes, mind-fuckery.
Summary: A non-powered serial killer!AU. Charles Xavier, a detective that spends almost a year on the case of the serial killer, the victims of whom are the former Nazi high-ranked officers. The killer has a distinctive style- precise and accurate hit, leaving only a carved ‘EL’ on their faces. Eventually, some clues were left at the detective’s door step, courtesy of serial killer himself. Torn between his duty as the officer of the law and astonishment of the killer’s mind, he arrives back to a place where it all started and where the killer shall perform the ‘confession’ to his crimes.
A/N: The main source of inspiration for this fic turned out to be Mein Name by Nachtmahr. That’s what the serial killer performs, thus making his ‘confession’.
-Ich habe Blut an meinen Händen
Hab mich schuldig gemacht
Ihre Stimmen, nie verenden
In meiner Seele, eine Schlacht
=================================================================
He follows you. Steps echoing loudly into cool night air; it’s him, you can tell. Somehow you know the sound of his heavy boots against the pavement, the pace, the speed-everything. You know who he is and he is well aware of who the hell you are. You compromise your whereabouts in ten hours or even less, extremely professional. You fumble with your keys, trying to open the door, but you know you can certainly do it much faster. You want him to catch up. And you’re too embarrassed to admit it even to yourself, that the noise you made when he pushed you flat against your own apartment door, face making contact with metal, was a moan. You want this, you want him.
=================================================================
You want him even before the chaotic movement of people around you both and too loud music, all of them listening and oblivious to the words he lays out in the open, it’s a confession, but the drunken crowd just fails to grasp it. It’s a momentum, he sees you watching him, as you trace his movement; he marches back and forth on the stage, illuminated by the lights, his words in flawless German reach your ears. Elbowing your way to the front, you finally stop- there he is- and neither of you had the intention of breaking the eye contact. Surely he knows you from all the news, the newspaper reports and interviews broadcasted practically non-stop, but his intentions in regards to you were never clear. He left you clues, he made sure that only you would notice, and he knew that only you have the wits to figure it all out. You’ve spent countless sleepless nights, putting the pieces of the puzzle together, bit by bit. Secretly, not mentioning any of that to your colleagues; why? It would get you fired, if not worse. You, of all people, were always able to differentiate the ‘good’ and the ‘bad,’ the ‘black’ and ‘white’ of the world, why did your sense of justice falter on you now?
And so here you are, all these little clues, like colorful threads, had led you, of all places, back to where it all started.
=================================================================
“I know who you are, Erik-” you mutter, words coming out not quite clearly, but you know that he has heard you, if the way he turns you around, in quick and rather violent motion, is anything to go by. There is a hand on your throat now, fingers closing in, cutting off the flow of oxygen just a bit, it’s clear that he has no intention of killing you. Not now at least.
“Erik-” you try to gulp down some air, fail, cough instead, “-Lehnsherr, real name Max Eisenhardt.” You look as his face changes, his eyes going wide, and you know you’ve hit the spot. You quickly lick your lips and push further, “Born to Jacob and Edie Eisenhardt, both of them deceased in-” At that point there’s an abrupt and severe lack of air, his fingers closing in, the pressure being hard enough to shut you up. A thought of dying by his hand does not scare you; what the hell’s wrong with you?
“Remarkable,” he says, his lips curling into some sort of smile, a little bit of teeth showing, eyes wandering all over your face, taking it in, memorizing. “Xavier, what are you?”
You can only blink, looking back at him, tears beginning to form in the corner of your eyes, all the result of asphyxia; he loosens his grip at that, but goes on, leaning further into your breathing space.
You can feel his fingers going up your neck, tracing your jaw line, slowly, methodically, over and over. “It’s fascinating- your mind, the brilliance that it holds, the way you let it go deeper and beyond.” You can feel the leather brushing against your lips, you want to lick it; but then again, the rational thinking kicks in- it would be so easy for you to fight back now, you have a gun, and there is little to no effort that needs to done to get it out and shoot, but you stand still, you want to hear him talk, you want to hear his voice, the baritone, a bit rough with a German accent that pleases your ears, that sends the chills down your spine. Before this night, you have never heard him speak, which was a blessing, but now you’re doomed, cursed- the spell was cast; you won’t be able to forget that voice ever again.
“The way you bring justice,” he goes on, “the clear-cut line that only you see; it’s thrilling, exhilarating… it makes my blood rush, Xavier.”
You inhale quickly, sharply through your nose, the words he said, they excite you. His eyes shoot up, abandoning the thorough examination of your lips and he smiles, the smile that reminds you more of a grin than anything else. “Are you afraid?” He looks you in the eye now, emotions barely readable. “Are you afraid of me?”
“No,” you answer instantly. “Are you afraid of me?”
He knows why you’re asking- you can put up a fight with almost any guy, some of them even twice your size and end up triumphant; he knows you have a gun in the holster, waiting for action, he knows all of this but he still says “No.”
And none of you make a single movement; you just stand there in complete silence. You look and he looks back, his hand on your throat still and you can’t help the uneasy feeling that you’re losing your sanity; it’s shattering to pieces, never to be whole again. You can feel something wet, something obstructing your vision- entangled in your eyelashes- you have to blink it away. Snow. The first December snow, falling down upon you both and you can’t help but look up, a glance at the midnight sky with the falling brilliant-white petals.
It startles you- the almost gentle way he starts. Although you weren’t sure what had more impact: the unexpected turn of events or the tenderness of it. His lips brush softly on the corner of your own, you can feel his stubble against your clean-shaven face. One, two, three- all of them landing, almost lazily, on your lips now, and on the fourth, he catches your lower lip between his own; taking his time, there is no rush. You aren’t going to shoot him, are you?
Somewhere between seventh and the eighth, you wonder how he’s still standing there and is not ablaze; doesn’t he feel the fire beneath your skin? Doesn’t he feel the insane thumping of your pulse? He most probably does, it’s just the way he chose to play it. Maybe he’s waiting for you to act, to change the pace, or maybe not, you cannot tell; white noise is the only thing in your head right now. And you catch yourself on the thought that you don’t mind, in fact, you enjoy this slow course of action - your sanity is too damaged to care anyway.
If someone would happen to pass by, to them you would most likely seem like a couple, enjoying each other, like you have all of the time in the world. The only difference being that you’re an officer of the law and the other guy that had found his way under your trench coat, his hands sneaking against your sides and finding their home on your hips, pushing you against the door and trapping you, leaning with what seems like all his weight, so there’d be nothing else you can feel, but him- is a serial killer on the loose, that not only the police are searching for, but also the Interpol. Spectacular.
After the twelfth, you change the game. And you can’t help but feeling a bit smug, when you feel him ceasing all of his movement, taken aback, when you leap forward, ignoring the soft dance of lips, barely touching, but you deepen the kiss. The look on his face- the way he relishes this moment, tiny changes- his features becoming softer, along with some sort of sigh of relief- and you can’t help it when you eyes flutter close, almost in unison with his.
=================================================================
You both stumble into the dark of your apartments’ entrance hall, tugging and pulling at each other’s clothes, and neither of you seem to be able to tear apart from each other. There is a faint metallic taste in your mouth; he must’ve bit your lip a bit too hard somewhere in-between the kisses. It’s shocking, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.
You hear a loud thud behind your back- the poor coat rack did not stand a chance. As you stagger back and back, you can feel the coat hangers beneath your feet, lying there helplessly, and as you reach what seems to be a table, everything that was there -books, reports, an unfinished cup of tea- all come falling down in a swift motion onto the floor and you end up half-laying on the smooth surface, all of the courtesy of Erik Lehnsherr himself. You’re trying to peel off his leather jacket, while enjoying the taste of his skin, your tongue exploring the places right beneath his jaw- you can feel his pulse; he, in return, fights with your belt to get it open, failing to hold in a groan. And you nearly lose your balance and fall flat on the ground, grabbing his shoulders for support -‘support’, really- as everything changes and stops in a heartbeat- someone is knocking on your door.
“Detective Xavier? Detective?” The man on the other end of the door knocks again. “Are you home?”
You look at him, and he looks at you. He doesn’t move and neither do you. You think you heard a couple of more knocks, but you can’t be certain, the immense roar of blood in your ears is deafening.
“Detective, if you’re there, please open up! It is an urgent matter!”
You get off the table, pushing him aside, surprisingly, he does not object, nor does he stop you. On your way to the front door, you desperately try to straighten your clothes, hoping that whoever was behind it, would be oblivious enough not to notice the evident signs- your swollen lips, messy hair and most importantly, your face that would give pretty much everything away. You open the front door and instantly recognize the face before you; it’s Hank McCoy, a young police officer that was assigned to your investigation team not so long ago. He seems like an oblivious type.
“Mr. Xavier, sir,” he failed to notice anything; apparently. “You are needed at the crime scene, sir!”
“Crime scene?”
“Affirmative,” he nods, “Yet another victim of EL, found dead in his residence by one of his staff-”
And beyond that point you hear nothing.
Fandom: X-Men First Class
Pairing/Characters: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Raven Darkholme, Hank McCoy, Sebastian Shaw, others.
Rating: NC-17
Content: Serial killer!AU
Word count: 1,844
Warnings: Detailed description of violence, abusive themes, mind-fuckery.
Summary: A non-powered serial killer!AU. Charles Xavier, a detective that spends almost a year on the case of the serial killer, the victims of whom are the former Nazi high-ranked officers. The killer has a distinctive style- precise and accurate hit, leaving only a carved ‘EL’ on their faces. Eventually, some clues were left at the detective’s door step, courtesy of serial killer himself. Torn between his duty as the officer of the law and astonishment of the killer’s mind, he arrives back to a place where it all started and where the killer shall perform the ‘confession’ to his crimes.
A/N: The main source of inspiration for this fic turned out to be Mein Name by Nachtmahr. That’s what the serial killer performs, thus making his ‘confession’.
-Ich habe Blut an meinen Händen
Hab mich schuldig gemacht
Ihre Stimmen, nie verenden
In meiner Seele, eine Schlacht
=================================================================
He follows you. Steps echoing loudly into cool night air; it’s him, you can tell. Somehow you know the sound of his heavy boots against the pavement, the pace, the speed-everything. You know who he is and he is well aware of who the hell you are. You compromise your whereabouts in ten hours or even less, extremely professional. You fumble with your keys, trying to open the door, but you know you can certainly do it much faster. You want him to catch up. And you’re too embarrassed to admit it even to yourself, that the noise you made when he pushed you flat against your own apartment door, face making contact with metal, was a moan. You want this, you want him.
=================================================================
You want him even before the chaotic movement of people around you both and too loud music, all of them listening and oblivious to the words he lays out in the open, it’s a confession, but the drunken crowd just fails to grasp it. It’s a momentum, he sees you watching him, as you trace his movement; he marches back and forth on the stage, illuminated by the lights, his words in flawless German reach your ears. Elbowing your way to the front, you finally stop- there he is- and neither of you had the intention of breaking the eye contact. Surely he knows you from all the news, the newspaper reports and interviews broadcasted practically non-stop, but his intentions in regards to you were never clear. He left you clues, he made sure that only you would notice, and he knew that only you have the wits to figure it all out. You’ve spent countless sleepless nights, putting the pieces of the puzzle together, bit by bit. Secretly, not mentioning any of that to your colleagues; why? It would get you fired, if not worse. You, of all people, were always able to differentiate the ‘good’ and the ‘bad,’ the ‘black’ and ‘white’ of the world, why did your sense of justice falter on you now?
And so here you are, all these little clues, like colorful threads, had led you, of all places, back to where it all started.
=================================================================
“I know who you are, Erik-” you mutter, words coming out not quite clearly, but you know that he has heard you, if the way he turns you around, in quick and rather violent motion, is anything to go by. There is a hand on your throat now, fingers closing in, cutting off the flow of oxygen just a bit, it’s clear that he has no intention of killing you. Not now at least.
“Erik-” you try to gulp down some air, fail, cough instead, “-Lehnsherr, real name Max Eisenhardt.” You look as his face changes, his eyes going wide, and you know you’ve hit the spot. You quickly lick your lips and push further, “Born to Jacob and Edie Eisenhardt, both of them deceased in-” At that point there’s an abrupt and severe lack of air, his fingers closing in, the pressure being hard enough to shut you up. A thought of dying by his hand does not scare you; what the hell’s wrong with you?
“Remarkable,” he says, his lips curling into some sort of smile, a little bit of teeth showing, eyes wandering all over your face, taking it in, memorizing. “Xavier, what are you?”
You can only blink, looking back at him, tears beginning to form in the corner of your eyes, all the result of asphyxia; he loosens his grip at that, but goes on, leaning further into your breathing space.
You can feel his fingers going up your neck, tracing your jaw line, slowly, methodically, over and over. “It’s fascinating- your mind, the brilliance that it holds, the way you let it go deeper and beyond.” You can feel the leather brushing against your lips, you want to lick it; but then again, the rational thinking kicks in- it would be so easy for you to fight back now, you have a gun, and there is little to no effort that needs to done to get it out and shoot, but you stand still, you want to hear him talk, you want to hear his voice, the baritone, a bit rough with a German accent that pleases your ears, that sends the chills down your spine. Before this night, you have never heard him speak, which was a blessing, but now you’re doomed, cursed- the spell was cast; you won’t be able to forget that voice ever again.
“The way you bring justice,” he goes on, “the clear-cut line that only you see; it’s thrilling, exhilarating… it makes my blood rush, Xavier.”
You inhale quickly, sharply through your nose, the words he said, they excite you. His eyes shoot up, abandoning the thorough examination of your lips and he smiles, the smile that reminds you more of a grin than anything else. “Are you afraid?” He looks you in the eye now, emotions barely readable. “Are you afraid of me?”
“No,” you answer instantly. “Are you afraid of me?”
He knows why you’re asking- you can put up a fight with almost any guy, some of them even twice your size and end up triumphant; he knows you have a gun in the holster, waiting for action, he knows all of this but he still says “No.”
And none of you make a single movement; you just stand there in complete silence. You look and he looks back, his hand on your throat still and you can’t help the uneasy feeling that you’re losing your sanity; it’s shattering to pieces, never to be whole again. You can feel something wet, something obstructing your vision- entangled in your eyelashes- you have to blink it away. Snow. The first December snow, falling down upon you both and you can’t help but look up, a glance at the midnight sky with the falling brilliant-white petals.
It startles you- the almost gentle way he starts. Although you weren’t sure what had more impact: the unexpected turn of events or the tenderness of it. His lips brush softly on the corner of your own, you can feel his stubble against your clean-shaven face. One, two, three- all of them landing, almost lazily, on your lips now, and on the fourth, he catches your lower lip between his own; taking his time, there is no rush. You aren’t going to shoot him, are you?
Somewhere between seventh and the eighth, you wonder how he’s still standing there and is not ablaze; doesn’t he feel the fire beneath your skin? Doesn’t he feel the insane thumping of your pulse? He most probably does, it’s just the way he chose to play it. Maybe he’s waiting for you to act, to change the pace, or maybe not, you cannot tell; white noise is the only thing in your head right now. And you catch yourself on the thought that you don’t mind, in fact, you enjoy this slow course of action - your sanity is too damaged to care anyway.
If someone would happen to pass by, to them you would most likely seem like a couple, enjoying each other, like you have all of the time in the world. The only difference being that you’re an officer of the law and the other guy that had found his way under your trench coat, his hands sneaking against your sides and finding their home on your hips, pushing you against the door and trapping you, leaning with what seems like all his weight, so there’d be nothing else you can feel, but him- is a serial killer on the loose, that not only the police are searching for, but also the Interpol. Spectacular.
After the twelfth, you change the game. And you can’t help but feeling a bit smug, when you feel him ceasing all of his movement, taken aback, when you leap forward, ignoring the soft dance of lips, barely touching, but you deepen the kiss. The look on his face- the way he relishes this moment, tiny changes- his features becoming softer, along with some sort of sigh of relief- and you can’t help it when you eyes flutter close, almost in unison with his.
=================================================================
You both stumble into the dark of your apartments’ entrance hall, tugging and pulling at each other’s clothes, and neither of you seem to be able to tear apart from each other. There is a faint metallic taste in your mouth; he must’ve bit your lip a bit too hard somewhere in-between the kisses. It’s shocking, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.
You hear a loud thud behind your back- the poor coat rack did not stand a chance. As you stagger back and back, you can feel the coat hangers beneath your feet, lying there helplessly, and as you reach what seems to be a table, everything that was there -books, reports, an unfinished cup of tea- all come falling down in a swift motion onto the floor and you end up half-laying on the smooth surface, all of the courtesy of Erik Lehnsherr himself. You’re trying to peel off his leather jacket, while enjoying the taste of his skin, your tongue exploring the places right beneath his jaw- you can feel his pulse; he, in return, fights with your belt to get it open, failing to hold in a groan. And you nearly lose your balance and fall flat on the ground, grabbing his shoulders for support -‘support’, really- as everything changes and stops in a heartbeat- someone is knocking on your door.
“Detective Xavier? Detective?” The man on the other end of the door knocks again. “Are you home?”
You look at him, and he looks at you. He doesn’t move and neither do you. You think you heard a couple of more knocks, but you can’t be certain, the immense roar of blood in your ears is deafening.
“Detective, if you’re there, please open up! It is an urgent matter!”
You get off the table, pushing him aside, surprisingly, he does not object, nor does he stop you. On your way to the front door, you desperately try to straighten your clothes, hoping that whoever was behind it, would be oblivious enough not to notice the evident signs- your swollen lips, messy hair and most importantly, your face that would give pretty much everything away. You open the front door and instantly recognize the face before you; it’s Hank McCoy, a young police officer that was assigned to your investigation team not so long ago. He seems like an oblivious type.
“Mr. Xavier, sir,” he failed to notice anything; apparently. “You are needed at the crime scene, sir!”
“Crime scene?”
“Affirmative,” he nods, “Yet another victim of EL, found dead in his residence by one of his staff-”
And beyond that point you hear nothing.