|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
 Posted: Thu May 22, 2014 11:43 pm
Hours trickled by in teeth on skin, nails driven across flesh in touch slow and certain. Now he sat in a state still uneasy, yet tolerable due to Quenton's earlier ministrations. Wood bled over the taste of strawberries while the misanthrope chewed relentlessly toward the eraser head portion of the pencil in hand. Occasionally he paused in his absent destruction to glance toward his handiwork. Never sated, he returned to whittling away at the pencil's smooth ridges.
Painist's fingers found tanned skin readily enough, new yet previously traveled beneath his fingernails. For now they danced lightly across her back in lilting patterns. Occasionally his absentminded tracings devolved into chords memorized long ago. Songs drifted to mind in a background of melodies - Greensleves, The Promise, Simple Gifts. All rehearsed, all stemming from years before he knew the soils (spoils?) of America. Silence stretched between them, devoid of his incessant need to guard his thoughts and intents from his newly-christened lover. A quiet familiarity, a lull he found himself easing into after each tryst so well spent.
The typical turbulence of thoughts died down to a dull roar in the presence of company not met with derision. He knew the transient serenity well enough, yet it never bothered him to settle into its rare bout of solace. A reprieve, perhaps, from the eternal journey through pain and change.
Orah lay quiet beneath his touch, and he suspected she succumbed to her own strange calm.
Nothing stirred in the house beyond typical settlings of the framework, of muffled voices far below in the bowels of the shop. The sun still stood at lazy afternoon, not yet peering through the windows with reminders toward dusk. If measured well, they had time for peace.
Orah, who knew life solely as a shopkeeper's daughter, concealed no secrets beneath floral clothing beyond a pair of scars cut pale on tanned skin. Their appearance stood apparent, yet not wholly jarring as some of the raised brands across the misanthrope. She manifested her own missteps through life, stowed away secret medals of mistakes earned through time and error. He remembered the touch of keloid to lips, how she drew breath to enunciate small pleasures.
Finally he found reason to speak. Removing the pencil, he discarded its dented form atop her nightstand with residual consideration. "Your scars, Orah. Where did zey come from?" Even his tone knew no mocking jeer or veiled aversion.
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri May 23, 2014 12:20 am
It was a long, long time that Orah lay in unmoving silence, the familiar feel of her bed under her made new and strange by the presence next to her. His lanky form filled all empty space and the whole of it felt smaller than it had before. Laid out on her stomach, white sheet pulled up to her hips, she had tucked her arms up to parallel her chest in residual shyness as she contemplated what had just happened and what it meant now.
Was she supposed to feel different? She did in a way, but at the same time, she felt like she was still the same girl she had been that short time ago. World shaking and anticlimactic at the same time? Was that possible? How was she supposed to feel right now? Well, beyond exhausted and sore, colored with a satisfaction that was new to her. That was endorphins, right? Some kind of chemical reaction, or something... She'd enjoyed it, certainly, and the after glow of the whole event made it hard to really regret it, though she suspected she probably should. You were supposed to have feelings for the person you slept with, weren't you? Or was it okay to get feelings after you slept with them? Was she developing them? She hadn't thought that possible, after the way their relationship had deteriorated through extended contact.
The feel of long fingers on her skin, now familiar, drew her out of her revere and a long shiver swept down her body, followed by raised goosebumps. In the back of her mind, she gaped in wonder that he could touch her like this... he'd always jerked back from her touch, but here he was, stroking her with lover's fingers. Dark eyes gazing at nothing through her lashes, the young woman shifted a little, rubbing her cheek against the bottom sheet before she stilled again and blew out a long breath. Orah hadn't known what to expect from him either... certainly not this. She'd half expected him to finish and walk out (some men did that right?), but this companionable recovery was pleasant and much preferred, especially when part of her worried what he thought of her now. Had she diminished in his eyes, for so easily giving into him? Had her naive reactions amused or annoyed him? Had it been... good? She had no frame for reference.
Unexpectedly, the first words from his lips since they'd settled was a question about the marks on her skin and she tucked her head into her shoulder, her fist loosely curled by her mouth. Orah started to say something and had to pause to clear her throat, startled at how thick her voice sounded.
"They're ugly." She admitted softly. "My family doesn't know about them... they'd probably lock me in the house and never let me outside if they did."
How did you tell your family you were a super hero and you had scars because you were fighting bad guys? At least she was fairly certain Alois wouldn't react that way, and with all the other things she'd 'shared' with him today, an edited version of the truth didn't seem impossible.
"You've seen the terrorists on the news... everyone has had some contact with them, at this point. I... got these from them." Would it shock him, to think the gentle florist was being attacked by terrorists? Would he surprise her with concern? There was no way to know.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri May 23, 2014 9:42 pm
Alois smirked faintly, a faint breath of mirth escaping his lips. Soon followed a low chuckle in her declaration toward her scars. We're not pretty creatures, Orah. We s**t, we piss, we wail and moan in birth and in death. Scars are the least of our troubles. Scars are proof of experience. Yet as she disclosed their origins in light recount, Alois settled into silence once more. She spoke of terrorists - whether senshi or agent.
Initially he considered pressing matters for details, but found it wholly superfluous in the lull cast over them both. The reprieve from sharpness of the mind was more than welcomed, as always, whether through a tryst with another or reuniting with the needle. Small favors. Quick breaks. Departures as in sleep, sometimes, when no dreams pervaded somnolence. Instead his gaze traveled to the sweep of dark skin, where pooled blankets blocked further view. Fingernails traipsed from shoulder blade to hip, following the dotted path of vertebrae in their descent. Finally a single nail traced along a single thin scar before he spoke. "I like zem well enough."
Quenton sported a scar struck across his face, perpetually parting lips for curious textures in a kiss. He preferred that scar over others, but Orah's proved commendable contenders.
As if anyone competes for my affections. He snorted, mostly to himself.
His touch receded from her prone figure for relocation to his lap. Tired, he closed his eyes for a moment, watching faded memories dissipate into his eyelids while he anchored his head against the headboard. To simply sleep felt tempting, especially with his spent muscles yearning for respite. A slow sigh escaped through his nose; should he press for such comforts? Likely not. No longer had he felt the rush of adrenaline stemming from absconding with affections beneath the watchful radar of parents. Instead, such matters seemed trifles in the scope of a double life coupled with Negaverse duties.
Of all the tasks I endure... I can't be tired now. After hours spent darting across rooftops, after seeking lives despite broken ribs... How can I find myself so drained now? "Terrorists..." He muttered from the back of his throat. "How ubiquitous zey are."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri May 23, 2014 10:16 pm
Whatever he thought of scars, what she saw when she caught sight of the one on her ribs in the mirror was a twisted line of flesh, puckered and rough for lack of proper attention at the time. Who could ever find her attractive, with such a mark? It stood out starkly on her tan skin, more so than it would have for someone like Alois, with a fairer complexion. It was a small gift that it was so easily hidden, but when she was as exposed as she was now, how could someone not notice it?
Orah's soft, languid body tensed as she felt fingers slide down her back and under her sheet to find the smoother scar on her hip. Her eyes widened, though all her attention was focused on that hand. For a frantic moment, she wondered if he'd reach further, the way he had before, and she was torn between wanting and not wanting him to... but he only chuckled and murmured appreciation before his hand left her entirely, leaving her feeling cold as she relaxed back down against the bed. She willed her suddenly accelerated pulse to slow, to ease back into that comfortable daze she had been in a moment again. That had been pleasant, an escape from higher thought, and she'd really like to be there again... not acutely aware that her bed was only double size and how it forced him to sit nearly touching her unless she wanted to hang right over the edge.
"It wasn't the ones that documentary was claiming, though." She murmured as a way of drawing her mind away from uncomfortable thoughts... though she had forgotten this line of thought wasn't much better. "The ones that they interviewed... those are the ones hurting people."
Rolling onto her side, her back to him, Orah idly ran her finger over the puckered scar, remember the flash of pain as the spear had cut through her chest...
"This woman had a spear, and clock gears on her outfit... she caught me alone, nearly impaled me... but a guy showed up and made the buildings shake to scare her away. He saved me, took me to get patched up. He had danger tape wrapped around him." She said softly as she relived the events, feeling a sense of peace wash over her as she remembered Chaonis sweeping her up into his arms while her blood ran down his side. He had made her feel so safe...
Her slender fingers ran down her side, unconscious of how it might look as the pads traced over soft skin to her hip and the scar he had so recently touched.
"I got this one at DestinyCon... when all those monsters attacked. It was a man that time, tall, with dark hair and a long, dark coat." Before she could stop it, a shiver ran down her spine and she had to swallow thickly as she ran her forefinger up and down the scar on her hip. Bischofite had scared the hell out of her, dropping her under the stage like that. Thank god for her team, for Athene, or that dark hole would have been a lot darker and bloodier than it had been. Thank god for her team in general, for all the things they had done for her and the confidence they gave her. She didn't like thinking about her scars, but again... it was easier than thinking about why he was in her bed.
Abruptly, she dropped her hand to tug the sheet up to her chest and she squirmed around awkwardly until she could face him. It was hard to look him in the eyes, but she found out rather quickly that it was a lot harder to look anywhere else, because he had made only a token effort to put his clothes back on and there was a very large stretch of pale skin inches from her nose. Struggling to focus on not focusing on... certain things, she found her eyes drifting across scars she hadn't taken the time to notice before and she unconsciously reached out to run the tip of a finger over one, mimicking what he had done before.
"Where did you get yours?" Orah asked quietly as she let herself relax into the bed, wondering how much he'd share. She released her clenched grip on the sheet only long enough to push dark strands of loose hair out of her face before returning her hand to her chest to keep her belated modesty in place.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Fri May 23, 2014 11:00 pm
Her tale of terrorists clarified to which party - an unsolicited explanation. "******** ze documentary," he stated flatly. He found little reason to excuse their own actions to a public lacking scope of the war. Alois caught it but once while he still held a job at his parent's bookstore, and found little more than a halfhearted attempt sporting his own visage in the sidelines. He remembered how the group asked for him to avoid facing the cameras. War paint offered little deception.
Her recollection of events illustrated a woman that sounded curiously similar to Painite. He met the general but once, yet her presence held a lasting effect on him at the time. Small brushes of emotion, teased out whether by the conscious presence of mortality or an inspiration due to power and compassion. He knew not why they manifested, and found little reason to explore conjecture in the moment. The remaining figures in her story met no such recognition, as she rendered her assailant too vague or her savior simply unrecognizable. A senshi from the sound of it, but littered in caution tape? He found no figure matching that description throughout his machinations.
"Your scars are only ugly because you find zeir origins repulsif'. I know a man wis' a scar across his face, earned in a similar manner - by zose same terrorists. It cuts from cheek across lips. impossible to hide. Even so, he does not lament its presence. I suspect it somehow fuels his resolf'e. Small tokens of survival, of suffering brought to conclusion." To kiss a measure of agony... I found nothing more pleasing.
Her touch found skin drawing taut in an innate reaction, dimpled with gooseflesh, yet he never fully shied from the action. He sat still for a time, before sinking down against the sheets. Her questions searched for similar experiences - he recognized that much. "I grew up in Saarland. Germany is... Mostly dense woods. We're forest nymphs, you see. When one goes sprinting off into ze woods, it refutes such actions wis' sorns and bramble aplenty. Most are stories of clumsiness - of balancing on a precarious log to impress some girl whose name I forgot far too long ago, and my foot slipped in ze midst of it. Cut my side on a rock below, somewhere in ze creek. Nossing wors' telling, beyond ze few incurred in America." Drawing a sigh, he finally opened his eyes to watch Orah's tracing of scars.
Lying came so easily.
"Strange are ze creatures zat manifest from shadows, and stranger still is zeir unsolicited bloodlust. I'f been clawed before." Holding up one arm, he gestured to the lawn scar running down the length of it. "I'f found a lot of reason to carry a switchblade here. Given what I'f said before, I won't haf' much use for it soon. You can haf' it if you want."
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 3:08 pm
No, he hadn't asked her to clarify or expound on her first statement, but once the barrier had been broken, the sharing poured out of her into what she could hope was a willing ear.
His claim that a scar could be a badge of triumph through survival was something she knew, logically, but it was so hard to turn her way of thinking around. It did help though, that he wasn't repulsed by them. She thought she even remembered his lips against her ribs, but there had been a lot on her mind at the time.
It also pleased her to hear he thought as poorly of that stupid documentary as she did... It had been rife with lies and footage twisted to show what they wanted, rather than what she was sure she had seen. She had met Pandora, was certain she would not have done what the show had said.
She lifted her eyes finally when he recounted a typical childhood, her fingers stilling on his skin and simply resting there. He hadn't pulled away, and she was always one to find comfort in contact. Matthew had scars like this, she'd seen them a few times when he had been shirtless, which tended to happen a lot in the summer. She even knew how he'd gotten most of them , though there were new ones she had no idea about. Wood nymphs... His phrasing teased a smile across her lips.
Her color deepened in her face when his eyes opened, but she could meet them this time, her head settled on her arm as she curled it under her head.
"I've seen those monsters." She said as she ran her gaze down his arm. No one was safe from the beasts of the negaverse, and it only reaffirmed why she was fighting. Orah let out a husky laugh as he offered his knife and her brown eyes sparkled with the mirth.
"Can you imagine me with a switchblade? I wouldn't know the first thing to do with it, even if I got into another tight spot." The young woman moved to sit up finally, making a sound of discomfort at the motion without realizing it. She was sore... Was that normal? The sheet pooled around her waist, all the more snowy for the contrast against her skin. "I... would take it though, if you wanted me to." She said softly as she pulled the tie from her braid and began to unravel the mess her hair had become. Slender fingers combed through her curls and she winced as she stopped to work on a particularly bad knot.
"I need a shower..." She mumbled to herself.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 8:15 pm
So Orah knew of youma... However, she offered no tales of their posthuman counterparts attempting to devour her starseed. Had she only glimpsed them in passing? It sounded so... Surreal. Quenton, who sustained assaults from such creatures, sported scars to uphold his story. And the confrontation with a youma sounded far more likely than being assailed by those of powered potential. How strange her stories... But as one so immersed in the war, could he afford objective judgment of the situation? To consider youma attacks normal sounded like folly of one far too involved to see the whole picture.
Her incredulity encouraged an easy laugh. Afterward he slipped out of her touch to lean over the side of the bed and retrieve his knife from the pocket of his discarded pants. Though chipped in portions where the black lacquer no longer coated metal, the blade itself stayed in good condition. As he sat up, Alois scooted closer to cover the minuscule distance between the two and propped himself up on one elbow.
"Zere's not much to zem, Orah. Gif' me your hand." Without waiting for prompt, Alois seized her slender fingers and pressed the handle of the switchblade into her palm. Afterward he aligned her thumb with the button and added enough pressure to depress the mechanism. With a veritable click, the blade splayed out from its confines. As he eyed the flat of the blade, it reflected assets often covered by clothing. He paused in that moment, momentarily lost to the sight before he finally returned to the topic at hand. "It's relatively simple to deploy ze blade. Afterward you can pull zis release back here, which keeps ze blade locked, and push it back inside ze handle like so." Careful to avoid cutting her fingers, Alois folded the blade inward.
"If you haf' to attack somesing, you can eizer stab it like zis," he paused to shift her grip on the weapon, "or you can slice somesing by arcing ze blade across your body. Always start wis' it opposite your arm and curf'e outward - zat way you don't accidentally stab yourself. Simple enough." Reaching over her, Alois tossed the switchblade atop a white wicker chair. "If nossing else, you could stab Matty for being a t**t." He offered an impish smirk.
The mention of a shower sounded cue enough for his dismissal. Setting his jaw, he breathed a mild sigh. Alois slipped from the bed easily enough; pale skin offered strange contrast to the serene scene of purple flowers across her blankets. Bare feet touched soft carpet and he busied himself with dressing the remainder of his body to his typical prudish appearance.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 8:56 pm
The laugh she heard from behind her made her smile and she shifted as she felt him lean over the bed and fish around on the floor. Glancing over her shoulder, she watched as he scooted closer with his knife in his hand. Her arms curved over her chest, but the demand for her hand usurped one for the purpose of showing her what to do, leaving her less protected than she might have liked. For the barest moment, she was reminded of the last time he'd asked for her hand and the kiss of flame against her wrist... but this time the lacquered handle felt cool in her palm, the bits of exposed metal chill where they came into contact with her skin. It had real weight to it, more than she had thought it would, and it felt strange.
Some part of her mind absorbed what he told her as he demonstrated how to release the blade and sheath it again, and how to use it. The greater portion watched his face as he talked and she couldn't help the little smile she got at his animation, the way he seemed to actually enjoy teaching her. It was endearing... yet another odd note that threw her off balance and made her question herself.
Orah was a little disappointed when he released her hand to toss the knife onto a chair, climbing out of bed to start gathering his things. For a moment she was startled, then... oddly reluctant to see him go. She knew, logically, that he eventually would have to, and the part of her that still had some sense whispered it was better he left sooner rather than later and risk running into her family and awkward questions. But... the world had closed down to this small room and she was loathe to break this strange little bubble and face the reality waiting outside of her door.
Gathering up her sheet around her, she eased herself off her bed with an awkward motion, coming to lean on her desk as she watched him dress.
"Are you leaving?" Stupid question... he wouldn't be getting dressed if he weren't leaving. She found that she really, really wanted to know when, or even if, he'd come back, but she couldn't bring herself to ask.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 9:26 pm
Alois paused and watched her over his shoulder, how the sheets spread thin over the soft curves of her body and gathered on the floor as a makeshift gown. She looked worn, with fresh bruises kissed to shoulder and chest, but content. "You said you needed a shower." Truly she needed to air out her room if she wanted to shirk suspicions of acts barely contained to quiet volume. "Usually zat's when you hand out cab fare and show your lover to ze door. In most instances." Such culture cues never suited Orah, with the way she toed so softly around the room. She may patter across broken glass without a single puncture; could she dismiss a fresh mate so readily?
"I could stay." Getting dressed yourself won't throw suspicion much. Rumpled clothes coupled with knotted hair and the heady scent of sex often offset any meager attempts for a coverup. They'll smell it on you. They'll see it in the sudden relaxation present in your gaze. They can tell by the way you walk, the way you hold yourself afterward. It's some damnable extra sense awarded to parents and family members... Katarin remembers. I wonder if Matthew will behave the same.
With an even sigh, he shifted gaze to the floor, head angled downward to stretch his neck muscles. My intentions... They're hard to stomach. Orah would be no more. Richard would be no more. Quenton would be no more. All these small threads woven between trysts and acquaintances... They'll dissolve within seconds - cut for the benefit of the Negaverse. I have to live with that. Everyone does. But can I truly part company with everyone involved now? Perhaps I could withstand it months prior, but cohabitation with Quenton proves the most difficult to surmount... I'm irrevocably tied to him, aren't I? Even now, in Orah's bedroom, I find my mind drifting to his scarred face, his blonde hair.
How did he deal with his knotted mane after sex? He simply brushed it out, didn't he?
"You're staring, Orah." It felt so easy to shed light to her actions, however mischievous his intent. The same applied to Quenton, in the way he spiked the blonde's tea or practically drowned his apartment in business cards to the Sugar Shanty. All these small perks in life would dissipate entirely with the advent of a second Rift.
I may not possess the resolve to carry it through. Even now... I've disappointed you, Malicious.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sat May 24, 2014 10:02 pm
"Well yeah, but..." Orah's voice drifted off as she played with a lock of hair, curling it around her forefinger. She squirmed as he mentioned staying, but was unable to come up with a yay or nay for him, her teeth worrying her lower lip.
She needed to just let him go, and she knew that, but that didn't make it any easier. A lot of things could have made this situation easier, but none were applicable right now... they weren't in a relationship, she didn't live by herself, and she suspected she would never be the type to tumble into bed with a man and let him leave without a second thought.
Lost in her own thoughts, she watched him stretch his neck, up until he called her out for her unblinking gaze and she felt herself blush hotly, jerking her eyes to the side and away from him. Dang it... even now, he could still make her blush. She was just a little tired of it...
The tall mirror that hung on the back of Orah's door reflected the scene in reverse, but it was not him she looked at, a frown suddenly creasing her brown as she stood up to pad over the door and squint into it. There was a dark mark on her chest... What....?
"Alois!" She groaned in exasperation, fingers probing the edges of the bruise. Now that she was thinking about it, she remembered the feel of teeth, but at the time she hadn't put two and two together. She had enjoyed it, of course, but that didn't mean she wanted to wear it.
"I don't know how I'm going to cover these up..." There was another one on her shoulder... and when she opened the sheet to get a better look, she realized there were welts up her thigh as well... which put all of her short skirts out of commission until the nail marks healed. Good she had senshi healing, but still...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Sun May 25, 2014 7:02 pm
"Orah!" He mimicked almost perfectly. His pitch found match in a differing octave yet he failed to obscure all of his accent. A smile bloomed across his features, roguish in display, while she discovered the extent of bruising left on her body. "I don't recall you asking me to stop. Zose marks won't last for long." Not like the ones I leave with Quenton nigh daily. I doubt you'd see that comment for its purpose - likely you'd fixate on my mention of him as a lover beyond any mitigation to your own marks. You never asked of other trysts. I suspect you didn't want to hear a 'yes'.
I would've lied regardless.
"Dress conservatively. Zey won't last for long." Pressing palms together with fingers opposite one another and splayed, he allowed himself one last lingering glance toward the florist's daughter. She wore them well, her bruises. His bruises. From my experience, first times feel like monumental failures. Like some piece of you drifted away in translation of want to breath. It was hard to stomach at the time; I suspect it always is. Perhaps you'll cry tonight, Orah. Perhaps you'll hate me, or hate yourself. It won't be easy, but... Shedding a little more innocence feels freeing after a time.
Alois reclaimed the pencil he chewed so readily before, and meandered to her desk to seek a scrap of paper. He found a post-it, rather used with the edges curled inward and a crease wearing through the lower third, but he wrote on it regardless. First he drew five lines parallel to one another, extending horizontally across the paper. Afterward he drew, with meticulous hand, what looked like an unhappy face to the untrained eye - the denotation of bass cleff. Each line bore a small circle, in ascending order that drifted across the page. Beneath he wrote a message for Orah to meditate on in her own time:Quote: G B D F A
Good, But Don't Feel Ashamed.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Posted: Wed May 28, 2014 8:05 am
By the time the goth boy left the upper floors, the shop was closed and the young man at the counter had been replaced with a much older version. This man had brown hair, a far more rounded face, but the same green eyes. He was busy wiping down the counters and counting the till, which would have made it awkward perhaps for the misanthrope to use the front door as his exit... Unless he truly wanted to raise questions the girl upstairs didn't want to answer. The back door was the obvious, far easier choice, and it was the option a certain shadow was counting on.
As Alois left the florist's shop, he gained a second shadow, one not attached to his feet, that tailed him on the long walk home. Suspicious green eyes kept a careful watch on his progress and scuffed boots kept pace to mitigate the sound of a second set of feet. The young teen was perhaps not the most experienced at this sort of thing, but he kept a long distance and he was nothing if not persistent.
It was only at the end, when Alois entered an apartment building that Matthew found himself at a dead end. Security was not going to let some one looking like him inside without a resident, he was sure of it. A frustrated sigh blew between his lips as he slouched back to lean against the building opposite, fishing out a rumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. As he lit the stick and breathed deeply, the teen kept a careful eye on the apartments for the odd chance he might see something through a window to hint at the right one.
It wasn't ideal, but he was tenacious. Enough time and he felt sure he'd be able to ferret out what he wanted to know. Then maybe he could save his sister from this snake before she felt his sting.
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
