|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Sat Sep 28, 2013 9:42 pm
Ah, so that was where his curiosity lie. Not in the girl herself. Those idle trivialities that made up a day to day life, but who she was. What she stood for and what she believed in. "Ah." Well that was a different series of answers altogether. His fingers tapped along her hip, and she pressed his arm a little more tightly around herself as his chin settled on her shoulder. Half-lidded gaze lost in the pale valleys of bundled sheets. When he sighed her fingers tensed against him, and she was tempted to maintain her grip, to keep him wrapped around her, but she let him go, and instead sat up a little straighter, turning so she was more or less facing him. She felt, more then saw, the pull of the sheets beneath her as his fingers balled within them. For a long moment she was quiet as she mulled over a response. It had been a startling thing to realize she'd never before really stopped to consider the things he was asking her. When full lips did part her voice was soft, not exactly hesitant, but considering. "I believe in power." It wasn't a horrible place to start, but it seemed woefully inadequate. "The strong overcoming the weak, and the senshi are weak." Perhaps not all of them individually, but as a whole. The tips of darkly painted nails walked over the bare stretch of her own thigh before she lay back against the bed with her arms pillowed beneath her head. "The war is a means to an end. It's provided me with the opportunity to gain power on a level higher then anything I could have imagined as a mere human." This much she had always known, but here, for him, she dug a little deeper. "Violence is a messy affair, but I find myself drawn to it, and so long as there is a war, there will be want for violence." Sadism, battle lust, cruelty. Whatever name the name, Porsha, and Xenotime, possessed it. Grey eyes had been directed up at the ceiling, but they rolled now to the young man perched on the edge of her bed. Another serious question, this one perhaps more so then the others. "My experience with them has been limited up to this point. They're an asset. A valuable tool in the right hands." Again her voice had taken on that thoughtful quality, and she drew one long up to tuck her heel against the edge of the mattress. Where he had taken the time to pull his clothing back on, Porsha seemed completely at ease in her own skin. Even through the rises and falls of their conversations. The light and the serious. Grounded.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Oct 10, 2013 8:20 pm
Alois listened patiently, eyes fixated far past the horizon. The sun peered through slackened curtains, painted her body in swaths of light as clothing of the gods. Was this where aphrodite was born, in the break of dawn? Against a woman's body as she lay prostrate beside the sea? He had little reason to doubt it.
In explaining her position on the war, she clarified her boundaries in the sake of violence. Power and subjugation. She understood where she lay in terms of the clash thriving within the heart of Destiny City, and he appreciated that. However, she never spoke a word of who she fought for - herself, he figured, as she naturally viewed herself in high regard. Perhaps it stemmed from her time spent toiling in the gym, toying with countless partners in a ring that hosted blood and sweat and ceaseless determination. Yes, she found a meager settlement there, but the true value lay in the war.
In martial law - all crimes suspended for the sake of survival.
The strong eat the weak.
Nous dînons bien ce soir*.
Alois shifted more fully toward her, one leg folded beneath himself with the remaining still hung over the side of the bed. FIngers found ivory bones hidden beneath a thin surface of skin, as a cover atop a grand piano. He found middle C with relative ease, hidden just below her lowest ribs, and his hands sought compensating positions. As he listened to her continue, to develop her thoughts on a more conscious level, he found soundless notes across her skin. Practiced fingertips traipsed across her makeshift keys, striking melodies to coincide with the beat of her heart.
"Youma are valuable tools," he echoed, absentmindedly. A multitude of notes in their proper key played within his mind, and he focused on its tumultuous mood. "Youma are..." Fingers spread across her ribs in forte, pressing firmly, confidently. "Valuable tools." The heated passion gave way to pianissimo, the calm in the wake of a storm.
"You need more experience wis' youma," he confirmed in a halfhearted laugh. His fingers slipped from her skin and traced the pockets in his pants for the telltale sign of a box of cigarettes. No luck to be had; they found the remains of a matchbook, still wet from a prior storm. Still useless to him. He sighed, and watched the walls in her room. "Porsha," golden eyes shifted to her half-lidded greys, "haf' you ever killed someone?"
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Thu Oct 10, 2013 9:41 pm
Violet bangs fell into half lidded eyes as she turned her head to watch him as he shifted again, drawing a leg up to fold beneath him. She followed his hands, elegantly long fingered, until that came to light upon the subtle rise and fall of her ribs and she let eyes fall closed. Enjoying the attention, the soft brush of fingertips along her skin. It made her smile. Biting her lip as she shivered. It took a few keystrokes for her to actually realize what he was doing. Soft features shifted thoughtfully, the point of her chin rising as she tried to work it out before the answer came to her. She wondered what song he played across her body. She wondered if it was happy, or sad. Melancholy, or light. The question rested on her tongue, at the very tip, but she didn't ask it. Their's was a topic too serious to interrupt. Later maybe Po would ask. When some small motion, or sound, or sensation reminded her. "I would not argue that point," she mused softly at his observation, head turning towards him even as her eyes remained shut. There was liner smudged in misty shadows over her lids, messy, but not awful. It made the grey of her irises paler by contrast when she blinked up at him as he spoke her name. Startling silver in onyx bezels. Had she ever killed someone. Such a simple little question, with a simple little answer, but there was weight behind it, and it left her drawing her lower lip between her teeth, rolling it against her tongue to steal moisture. She searched those golden eyes that had turned down to her. "No." Simple, but not. "Not yet." This was war.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Mon Oct 21, 2013 10:22 pm
His toneless meanderings across her skin tapered to a halt in light of her answer. He mulled over her response - that as a captain in the Negaverse, she hadn't yet taken a life. She never held a starseed in her hands, still warm from the body it exited. She never watched a death rattle in motion, or the eyes of her victim glaze over in a final capitulation. She never felt another fall limp within her hands, wholly conquered by her need to exert her will over another entity. During that time his gaze found the wall, and he stared unblinkingly in the overwhelming silence - the early morning silence.
How was she still a part of a war if she never engaged in the finality of violence?
The seconds stretched to minutes before he finally responded, once again laying eyes on her. "You're a strange one, Porsha." He spoke evenly, though not without the slightest hint of mirth. "You claim a lof'e of violence, but are you afraid to commit to its repercussions? Or haf' you simply not had ze chance to end a life?" He suspected the latter, though he found a choice few individuals that hadn't fully digested the realities of war.
People will submit their ideals wholly and absolutely - they will thrust themselves into the fires in order to uphold the side they believe in. They sought the death of those that impeded their path, and laid down to die in order to bridge a gap for those ideals to cross. They saw themselves as tools on this grand scale, and acted accordingly.
Yet Porsha did not.
To her, the war was a tool - a pretense to enact her enthusiasm for violence. The war was her toy, and she considered herself its manipulator, or at the least more of a spectator toward those who found their homes in its roiling folds. If this were the truth, he found it insulting. Disgusting. Despicable.
So he resumed his melody. Changed the tempo, changed the notes, changed the key. It was time to key out a different song, one more fitting to his slow understanding of the woman sprawled before him. A myriad of responses came to mind, both scathing and sympathetic, sarcastic and sincere, but he resigned himself to silence. To listening for soundless notes as he rendered them against her skin. He found minor solace in her body - in the way her ribs stood strong against him, never once bending to his fingers.
At least she had some substance to her, some unwavering conviction somewhere.
He ceased his song and rose from the bed, straightening his shirt in the process. "Find me when you're ready to commit to cremation, razzer zan play wis' matches. Violence is only ze start - you need to see ze end."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 22, 2013 10:08 am
She watched him as his gaze slid away from her and elsewhere within the room. It was a considering look, one that held the barest hints of some nervous energy. It mattered, how he saw her, what he thought of her. Something about him drew her to him. An intrigued hunger for his company, his experiences, and his philosophies. Part of that draw was obvious. He was handsome, he was violent and fearless, and they shared similar interests between the sheets. These were all easy to understand. But there was more then that, and Porsha did not yet comprehend the allure. Silence lingered on for seconds, minutes, hours, but finally he spoke, and his tone made the corner of her lips twitched, the barest hint of a ghosting smile before it fled away from the hard truths that followed. An answering rebuttal presented itself immediately, but she closed her teeth around it, mulling carefully over her words before giving them. Distracted by the rhythmic percussion of fingertips dancing over her rib cage until all at once their presence was gone and the bed was shifting as he rose to his feet. The finality of his words tugged uncomfortably at things in her stomach. Wait.She rolled up, catching his wrist, pulling his hand away from the hem of his shirt. "Death is the end." She sounded uneasy. "It's the end of violence, the end of all things. Nothing comes after death." Whatever carefully constructed response she'd formed had shattered in the wake of his sudden attempt at departure, but she pulled at those sharp shards of cohesive thought, struggled to fit them together. How had she gone through their secret war with her hands still, at least metaphorically, clean? It was a hard thing to answer. Was it a sin to value life? Was she just squeamish? "Don't leave." Slim fingers squeezed around his rest before sliding away. The girl rose from the bed herself, placing herself in front of him. "Not yet." An apology danced on her tongue, and she wasn't sure why, but it's presence was betrayed by her tone even if she didn't say it allowed. "Stay, just a little longer." Let their parting be on good terms and fond memories. Erase the bad taste of that had come with three simple words, and let her remind you of the hours that came previously. "Have breakfast with me," she urged, looking up into golden eyes, fingertips hanging in the air, not even an inch from his hips. "Share the morning with me." Enjoy her company. "Then we can part ways."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 22, 2013 12:23 pm
Alois never received any form of protest to his departure before. In all the nights he spent at odds with his father, who showed him the door - and in those final moments of defiance, he sought the freedom it provided. Did his father seek to stop him? Not once. He waved goodbye, and slammed the door. No more would he have to suffer the misanthrope and his growing disdain for authority. His authority.
And in all the nights he spent as Bischofite, as a scourge across the streets of Destiny City, never once did a senshi lament his passing. Even his own grew wary of his approach - in the junkyard, he met a terse captain, and even that man turned against him in a brief but explosive tussle. Still, he would not seek to stop Bischofite from departing, if only to snuff out his life himself. And between those times, various nameless and faceless souls rejoiced in his fading presence, both in uniform and out, both relieved and delighted.
For all intents and purposes, Alois leaving a scene proved a joyous affair.
Yet here she stood, naked in her beliefs and presence, barring his path out the door. He watched her, studied her, looked her over in a moment of skepticism. Did she learn so little of him that she still wished him to stay, or did she suffer from the same strange afflictions that lent to people desiring pain as a means to validate themselves? Worse yet, did she intend to draw him in with fine courtesies and beleaguered pleas for his continued presence as a means to lure him into a trap? No, from what he'd learned of her, she lacked the taste for manipulation on such a grand scale. Anything that circumvented violence and led to the same end proved distasteful to her sentiments.
She liked violence, but not death. Yet she liked him, or so it seemed.
It didn't add up.
It didn't quite add up.
"I play piano, zough you might'f guessed." He slipped his hands into his back pockets and watched her carefully through his explanation. Even that seemingly disjointed declaration tied into their bizarre tidings here. "It's not so different from your lof'e affair wis' violence. As you know, even violence comes to an end - and it ends wis' deas'. In piano, it follows a similar front - wis' every song comes an ending, and once ze last notes fade away, zere is silence. But... What you're missing is somesing so simple zat I can't fault you for not seeing it initially. Sink about it - ze notes no longer linger aloud, but zat silence affords you ze calm to reflect on ze song. To digest what you just heard. And in some ways, deas' is ze same." He smiled, though it was more a flash of teeth.
"When your victim lies dead, and you watch zeir finale, ze adrenaline cools in your blood. It slips away, and you sink it's over. No more reason to seek violence on a dead body and all zat. And it's fine to sink zat way, but you miss perhaps ze most fruitful endeavor behind ze act - and zat is to digest what scenes you just enacted. Violence is fun on a purely physical front, but it is necessary on an intellectual front." To nourish the mind with blood. With death.
And he remembered her invitation to breakfast - how strange it felt to consider such normalcy in wake of divulging his many ruminations. He almost laughed, but he remembered how tinny and stilted it sounded in the confines of this small, barren room.
And then there was her.
"Alright, I'll stay for breakfast." It was easy to concede; no malice lingered in his voice. He shifted his stance; even now, it felt uncomfortable to linger on the leg that now bore a lengthy scar. I guess I should pay homage to the things that I will leave behind. Immediately following that thought, his eyes darted to the fine discoloration along her outer thigh.
Bischofite.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Oct 22, 2013 5:03 pm
When he didn't continue towards the door she visibly settled, and as he slipped his hands into his back pockets, mentioning the piano, she let her fingers close in to rest against his hips. Thumbs rolling over denim as she let his words wash over her, tongue sliding over full lips in thoughtful contemplation of his unique point of view. Or maybe it wasn't so unique. How unusual was it for someone in her position to have never taken a life? It was a lot to absorb, but it was clear she was listening, that she was taken in what he had to say, and she would surely reflect on it all later. It was eye opening in a way. She knew at some point she would have to take that last step, it was inevitable. It made her wonder why she hesitated. Certainly she was vicious enough. As he conceded to breakfast dark lips split in a pleased grin, and she reached up to brush the backs of her fingers against his cheek as those golden eyes dropped to her hip. It made her grin grow, and she rose up on tip-toes, cupping his cheek and drawing him down so she could steal a kiss before falling away and moving towards the closet. "I could cook, though it would be a limited menu. Or we can head across the street to a little dinner that serves some amazing waffles and the best ******** coffee I've ever tasted." Well. The best coffee coffee. Porsha was still a firm supporter of Slave to the Grind for any and all more dessert flavored espressos. From the closet she pulled unmentionables, bright fuchsia and black stripes, along with another pair of shorts and a loose fit top. Simple, comfortable, attractive. She took her time getting dressed, watching him with smile that was decidedly impish. The shorts were pulled on last, as if she were reluctant to cover the angry, artful scratches he'd been admiring moments before. His handy work.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat Nov 02, 2013 9:13 am
It was hard to think. A strange affliction to encounter, for one who thought constantly and ceaselessly. Ruminated over rain, cyrillic letters, receding blooms. He consciously considered everything, but closeness chased it away. Always did. Always will.
He hated it. The vulnerabilities.
But once her hands left his hips, her lips left his, and she meandered to her closet, he found that he could release the breath that he never knew he held. Alois half-expected to see smoke when he exhaled, though he knew not why. Maybe just a last desperate cling to smoking. After all, he knew he needed it now. Would always need it, in a way. And he most certainly couldn't smoke her, though the thought drew a sardonic laugh.
"It sounds like you'f already decided." He watched her ceaselessly, and she knew it. She knew it because she smiled. And he watched that smile for a time, before his eyes drifted downward. She knew it, so why not? He would honor her manipulation for now. She needed it, or would soon. He hadn't decided yet, but he was leaning toward soon. Maybe it was procrastination, but there was nothing wrong with enjoying something whole before it's broken. Maybe they could work together on the pieces, and she would be strongest in the broken parts.
She'll have a lot of broken parts. And that thought coaxed a smile out of him.
"Du vertraust mir blind." A quiet statement, hardly whispered. And once she donned that top, he wondered if the denim shorts still lay split open on the kitchen floor. Did he pick them up earlier this morning? Maybe he folded them atop the range, but... Would it really matter? Just shorts. Just damaged shorts. Would she toss them, or did she know how to salvage what's already broken? If she knew, then she proved herself even more worthwhile than he initially anticipated.
Alois was tired, and it showed. But it was a good kind of tired. "If you're done making a show of it, let's go." He flashed her a knowing glare before he left her room, across the decidedly stunted hall, and into the living room that doubled as a kitchen. A strange apartment, unlike home, but he supposed Americans cared little for wardrobes instead of closets and washing machines in the kitchen.
Fingers brushed against the edge of a long counter, and there they were. Folded neatly atop the stove, over a burner (ready to be cremated, he thought) and in remarkably plain sight. Curiously, his jacket still lay on the floor. His untouched, unharmed jacket, sat in a crumpled heap just in front of the fridge. Maybe the contrast would clue her in. And maybe she'd simply turn the burner on and come home to ash. He didn't know, but he wanted to find out.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Tue Nov 05, 2013 8:42 pm
A sound, a murmur, or was it? Porsha turned as she dressed, glancing over her shoulder briefly to regard the young man with a questioning look, but she soon returned to the task at hand at his demand. It left her laughing, quiet and amused, and she she was sorely tempted to poke her tongue in his direction as as he left the room, but resisted. He wouldn't have seen anyways, what was the point. Fingers slid through her hair, forcing it back, and she pinned it like that before striding down the short hall to join him in the kitchen. He was standing at the counter, attention directed down to the top of the stove, and she frowned curiously as she took in the folded denim. Her poor shorts, they were ruined as they were, but maybe she could salvage them. It was certainly worth a try. Po didn't like the idea of simply throwing away clothing, not when money had been tight and cute clothing hard to come by, and not now. It didn't matter that she had the money to replace them, if she could save them, she would. With a soft hum she moved past him, plucking up her keys from where she'd set them beside the microwave and tucking them into her pocket. "Ready?" The keys jingled merrily as the girl opened the door, gesturing him out. Before she followed though, she stopped to hook the toe of one converse shoe under the edge of the dark jacket and hoisted it up with a lift of her leg so she could lay it on the counter. For a second or two it held her attention, pale fingers moving over the black and gold, then she followed Alois out into the hall and shut the door behind her.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
