She couldn’t breathe.
A hand at her throat, unforgiving, merciless. Her hair spread about her head, a bloody halo upon silk.
Her body arched hard beneath his, bowing, losing track of whether it was pain- or pleasure- that she was meant to be experiencing.
No. Even with her breath trapped and her will faltering while her life fled, the whimper of her own thoughts, echoing aloud, made her shudder. Don’t. I don’t want…
“No?” His laughter mocked her openly, and as he relaxed his grip upon her and the world wove drunkenly back into focus, handsome oriental features melted and shifted to a younger face, welding goggles pulled down around his neck. They bumped against his chin as he leaned forward to her, cruelty on his lips and violence in vicious brown eyes, the face no more than a mask to be worn and discarded. “You may not say ‘no’ to me, little stone. You belong to me.”
A second hand joined the first around her neck, and he smiled to her as he bore down upon her once more.
“There is no place you can run… not from me. Not even death, will keep me from you.”
“Your life… belongs to me.”
(Author’s Note: All speech is translated from the Japanese)
((Mature Content Warning: The following post is rated Mature [NC-17] for Sexual Content, Language, Fantasy Violence, and Loki.))
The memory of pain reached her before full consciousness took hold. Devastating heartbreak… a sweet, handsome face she hadn’t seen in three years; the Mother’s rage, a wild black fury that had no end, sated only in the punishment meted out with brutal, merciless passion.
By whatever miracle, her body was whole, hale, and unbroken. What resided beneath mere flesh and blood, however, was another matter entirely.
Distant, vacant eyes of faded jade turned slowly over the room as she gained her feet. Pausing for a moment, she sought wistfully for the sense of strength and power that would have provided a fleeting sense of comfort, its absence indicative only that she had exchanged one prison for another.
(Author’s Note: All speech is translated from the Japanese)
A flock of brightly colored hummingbirds fluttered and tittered around her.
They spoke- rarely to her- in girlish, reverent whispers, while their fingers moved with brutish efficiency over her face, hair and clothing, poking and prodding, pinning and tugging, combing and fussing with every millimeter of the budding woman that they could put their hands upon.
One stood upon a small stool before her, pecking at her porcelain features with a single-haired brush. Working steadily, she perfected the sweeping, kabuki red lines along her eyelids, highlighting her full lips in the same vivid hue.
Several hours after the events of “Alone in the Dark”
Sitting cross-legged on his room’s enormous bed, Avery downed the can of Red Bull in a single pull, then set it on his nightstand to join the growing legion of empties already there. Part of him wondered why he bothered; with the changes to his metabolism wrought by his newly-awakened ichor, the energy drinks probably wouldn’t wake him up any more than the all-nighter he was pulling would wear him out. Habit, I suppose.
He was on his laptop tonight. As amazing as the iPtah was, CAD work demanded a larger screen; the darkened room, lit only by his monitor and a single candle on the dresser—he’d been practicing earlier—made things hard enough as it was. Still, The Little Tablet That Could was lending a hand, plugged into the stereo’s line-in and playing random selections from his “I Need To Brain, Damnit” playlist—Holland’s “Conference Of The Birds” at the moment.
(Author’s Note: All speech is translated from the Japanese.)
((This post is rated PG18 for potentially disquieting scenarios.))
Within the confines of a tiny, frugal kitchen, a thin, awkward child writhed on her feet and screamed in pain.
Two women stood with her, but seemed to be more the source of her agony, rather than her salvation.
The distinct crack of flesh on flesh filled the cramped space, a patch of furious color rising upon a pale, freckled cheek. “You will be silent.”
Her armor shed like a second skin, her undershirt draped atop the pearlescent plates and her underclothes set aside to be washed, Sylvia Brodersgard, alias Svipul, tosses and turns her naked, curvaceous body against the thin silk sheets and heavy quilted comforter. The insulating blanket, in this particular instance, is not exactly what it says on the tin, keeping her warm in the cold desert night but bringing her no comfort as her mind’s eye turns inward, searching for the troubling thoughts that disrupt her sojourn into sleep.
Still coming to terms with a late growth spurt, Avery looks every bit the awkward, slightly nerdy freshman he is. He is fairly tall and thin (5’9”, 140 lbs) and looks taller and thinner still thanks to his unusually long, spindly arms and legs–his most visible resemblance to his divine parent. He has little muscle definition to speak of and looks somewhat frail, but is in surprisingly good physical condition. His long, unruly ash brown hair spills to just past his shoulders, with bangs that would fall in front of his sharp brown eyes but for the black, somewhat battered-looking welding goggles he usually keeps perched on his forehead. He boasts a longish, oval-shaped face, a rounded nose just a hair too large for it, soft facial features, a sincere, guileless smile, and an inexplicable near-absence of facial hair. The latter, combined with his long hair (grown out to cover his unusually large ears) has led people to misidentify his gender, to his annoyance.
Until recently, his style of dress was an afterthought at best: he would simply throw on whatever t-shirt and jeans were closest to hand and passed the “sniff” test. While he still occasionally leans in this direction, especially while distracted by something he’s researching or building (old habits die hard), since his Visitation he’s made some effort, within his limited means, to upgrade his wardrobe. As a concession to his newly acquired throwing daggers, he’s taken to wearing long-sleeved dress shirts, usually untucked. One thing he refuses to part with, makeover be damned, is his “bat-belt”, a black tactical web belt that he bought to hold his cellphone, multi-tool, voltage tester, folding pliers, mini-screwdriver set, and the myriad other tools that he uses on a regular basis. Anything that won’t fit on the belt (like his iPad, notebook, and so on) goes into a much-abused black Timbuk2 messenger bag, decorated with a University of Southern California patch and several Button Men game pins.