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Odin…” You’re pressed against each other and you feel hard muscles and rough scars and scratchy, his beard is rough beneath your hands and you half want to yank it just to see what’ll happen and his one eye is like fire staring at you, blazing gray-blue and your fingers wander beneath his eyepatch, lift and brush away and he lets, and you just know you’re the only one other than Frigg who he lets do that, you brush it away and he opens his hollow eye and you see the emptiness there and that hurts, somehow, even though he did it willingly; like he went and became this, became the All-father without your permission, without your input and against your will but you couldn’t stop him if you tried, but the image kind of hurts nonetheless, a shudder wanting to run down your spine at the thought of him plucking his eye out, handing it over for knowledge—that’s always been his weak point, wisdom, knowledge, knowing—he’s such a huge sucker for it and you want to smack him, because there’s more to that in the world, doesn’t he realize that? Doesn’t he?

…You’re an idiot,” you say, glaring at him. You’re completely breaking up the moment and probably doing the equivalent of a cold shower but you really don’t care right now, that just makes it all the more satisfying. “A complete, absolute, total fool. And I think you should know, because nobody else is going to tell you.”

He blinks, and the intense look fades from his eye and he looks… slightly confused, and then wryly amused, rueful, and you know he knows; and he knows you know he knows and you know that, you both know you’re telling the truth and you’re both aware of that, and you’re also aware of the fact that it’s going to change absolutely nothing and that makes this rough, breaking feeling just tear through your chest like a silent, suppressed sob, because why, this—all so limited and trapped and fate and you’re so frustrated, so angry, bitter and jaded and fed up with this, why not try to change it, why keep conforming, why keep perpetuating this whole thing—

You jerk away, away from him, roll off the bed and pick up your clothes with choppy motions, yanking them on angrily, furious suddenly for no reason whatsoever and yet all the reason in the world—

…Loki—wait.”

You glance at him—glare—sharply over your shoulder. Waiting. Listening.

…Stay.”

Why should I?” you snap. “What reason have you given me? Why do I put up with you? Give me one, give me one good reason I should put up with your miserable, pathetic, worthless presence.” And it’s all in your own head, he didn’t actually do anything this time—he knows nothing of your random mood swing—

…Because we’re brothers.” And the unspoken, lingering in the air: ‘I love you.’

And that makes you want to sneer. ‘Oh, do you?’

Oh, are we now? That’s the only thing you can come up with? A shame, I thought you were better than that.”

You turn away, start walking away, but before you reach the door there’s his hand on your shoulder that you itch to slap away but you just remain still. Silent.

…please.”

…I hate you, you know that? You never play fair.” But you know you don’t mean it, you really don’t, deep down—because he’s right, you’re brothers sworn in blood to each other and that means so much…

…I know.”

…damn it to Hel, Odin—! You—you’re—”

I know.”

…I hate you… I really hate you sometimes.”

I know.”

Say something else, can’t you—?!”

…Loki.” Breath gusts over your neck, making you shiver.

Stop that.”

…I’m sorry.”

…mm. All right. Good enough for now. But I still hate you, understand?”

Understood.”

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You turn around and put the torc and brooch on the glass-top table with a clack and he’s crouched down beneath this massive glassware cabinet, peering around inside with it. “Recognize anything?”

It squints and shakes its head; he shrugs and motions you over. Bottles of whiskey, scotch, cognac and various others you don’t recognize in different languages sit there, faintly dusty and gleaming. After a moment, his long fingers pull out a pair of tall slender ones and passes one to Bel.

“That’s a mild one, if you want to try.”

It nods, a grin spreading over its face that makes you snort. Silly.

You watch him as he pours the drinks and ice with cut-crystal glasses from the cabinet; he’s so... ethereal, almost, so... amazing and beautiful, like a different creature altogether... the little contented smile on his face, like he’s taking joy in just doing mundane tasks...

[‘Maybe he still has it, after all, that joie de vivre... he just doesn’t notice it or something...’]

Then he turns and puts one in your hand with a smile and tells you, “Try it.”

You do, and it’s... different, different from what you’re used to but still creating a pleasant warmth somewhere in your stomach like the feeling of fire—

Fire. Oh-so-carefully, just nudging it, just nudging it gently, ever closer to that fringe of hair... and then it lights, and it’s so difficult to keep a straight face; and and he (Jay) and he (Emory) don’t look any wiser and he (Levi) has this tiny little flicker in his eyes and he (Chesh) has this knowing, amused smile on his face that hasn’t left and it (Bel) just bites its lip—

The leather is cool at first in this... lounge, you guess, but very swiftly it warms up as you sit there and gently swill your drink, Chesh sitting adjacent on a couch with it beside him with a tall glass of something faintly fizzy and sipping it slowly...

He sighs softly and leans his head back, groaning faintly and closing his eyes. “Never again... no, that’s not strictly true, you made it quite memorable, Loki, and I’m always glad to help out a friend, but... that atmosphere is something I haven’t tasted for a while now.”

“Drink,” you say. “That tastes better.”

He laughs, laughs and doesn’t move, though a smile tugs at his lips. “That it does... and you? What’s your impression of modern formality, if not exactly high-class society?”

“Don’t care for it at all. ...I must say the clothes are nice, though.”

He chuckles and you grin into your drink. “True... perhaps next time I’ll take you to a gentleman's club or something, those involve nice clothes and drinks... like we’re doing now...”

“Are we? You’re not.”

He opens his eyes and sits up properly and winks. “I’m a touch slow tonight.”

“We all are.”

His tail twitches slightly as he drinks, your eyes catching the slow, back and forth movement. Bel has a sleepy smile on its face, half-sleepy and almost half-drunken, holding the glass with both hands. He pets its head and it leans up into the touch, crooning, “Kitty... Cheshy kitty...” His smile widens.

That’s the first time it’s called him something other than his full name.’

I know.’

Huh. Must be drunk.

“...you haven’t known it all that long, have you?” you ask, taking another sip.

“Mmm... no, not quite a year... why?”

“Mm-mmm, just wondering...” Doesn’t take that long to fall in love, huh...? ...what am I thinking anyway, ha...

The drink is cool and slightly bitter on your tongue, and it’s dark, the only light coming from a low lamp somewhere off to the side, catching off his fingernails (painted) and your glasses and the liquid and its eyes...

“...You’re weird, you know,” you say, almost not quite sure why you’re saying it.

“Mm?” he raises an eyebrow over the rim of the glass. “So are you.”

You can’t help but grin. “Aren’t we all? But really, you are, kind of.”

“How so?”

“Something... about you. Like a star or something, or a sun, or a planet... you radiate this... feeling... ...obviously the alcohol is inhibiting my words.”

All he does is wink. “Aura, my dear.”

Surprisingly it doesn’t bristle at the joke, the pet name; just leans back and drinks before setting the glass down with a light clack on the table and snuggles up against his side, closing its eyes as he wraps an arm around it, holding it close.

Close. So... close... Memories of cuddled up close to someone in the dark come to mind, first one somewhere else, followed by one of her...

Close. Being... close. Warm. Safe. Loved...

“...Loki?”

“Mm?”

“Are you all right?”

You snap out of your trance and he’s looking at you with gentle concern, his hand running slowly up and down its back, protecting and soothing. You grin. “Yeah, I’m fine. ...cute.”

He blinks, nonplussed by the remark; you merely shake your head. Better not to meddle. I’m all right like this. Not wanting anything.

“You’re sure I don’t owe you anything for the clothes?”

“Mhm, of course~ Think of it as a gift if you like, or just a helping favor...”

“I could afford it, though.”

His eyes glimmer. “So can I.”

You snort faintly. “What are we even talking about, again?”

“Such a short memory~”

“Nah, it depends. Like fire, depending on the fuel.”

“Fire... it suits you, you know.”

“Don’t I know it.”

His smile becomes rather lopsided. “Wish I’d thought of that, before... fire on people’s hair...”

“Never be afraid,” you whisper (why whisper?). “No regrets, no second thoughts. Trickster’s creed. Plan it thoroughly, cover it up, don’t get caught. Look after yourself first. But no regrets. Pointless.”

“Not a bad way to live,” he says, eyes closing as the ice in his glass clinks. You find yourself grinning wider.

“Not at all...”

It’s fallen asleep against the sofa, and he smiles, gently running his fingers through its heavy bangs.

“You really love it, don’t you,” you say, not really as a question, eyes not really focused on anything in the space between him and the liquor you’re swirling slowly.

“Mhm, I do.”

You raise your eyes from gold and ice and meet his gaze. “What’s that like?” And just like that, all those familiar questions, the ones that have gone through her head so many times come trickling to the surface: ‘What’s it like, to love? To be that devoted to someone, to feel that strongly about them, to care about them so much? To feel that swelling in your soul and that pounding in your heart, is it really as amazing as they say?’

“It’s... a really big feeling,” he says, still combing through its hair. “It varies from person to person, of course, but it’s... sometimes it’s quiet, sometimes it’s bold... sometimes it doesn’t really show on the surface but it’s still there...”

“Hmmm... hm.”

“Hm?”

You lean back in the leather with an elbow on the armrest. “...odd, that.”

“Rather, I suppose...” As it nuzzles him in its sleep his smile becomes tender, almost amazingly so, remarkably so, the love and care almost overflowing from his eyes... What IS that feeling? I don’t... really... get it... Isn’t it enough to just live...? Live for yourself... like I have...

“...you’re happy?” His eyes dart back to yours and even though you’re sure he knows what you mean you find yourself explaining anyway. “Loving it. Being that vulnerable and close... having to look after someone else as well...”

His expression changes to sympathy, understanding; he can tell how you’re struggling and while your pride stings just slightly at that you’re more grateful that he just gets what you’re grappling with.

“Mhm, I am. It’s... caring for someone and looking after them and being close... all of that is being returned and while in theory, to someone looking in, it might seem like a burden or something close to it, while you’re experiencing it, it’s... not. Things like worry and anxiety... it’s just care and ultimately... I suppose what true love is is absolute selflessness: being able to do anything for someone and putting them before you because their happiness matters more than yours, and if they’re happy, you are by extension...”

For a moment you’re silent, digesting this information. A line floats to mind, from her: ‘If you truly love someone, you have to be able to let them go, forever. Otherwise you don’t love them enough.’

That’s out of context. Plus the girl in the story didn’t have to.

That was ambiguous. She did, for a certain amount of time, sure.

“...well. Given that I’m pretty much the epitome of selfishness, that’s not going to happen to me anytime soon.” Almost apologetically you grin; he nods but raises an eyebrow.

“You’re not nearly as selfish as you might think.”

“Maybe I just want to think I’m selfish, then?” You eye him over the rim of the glass.

“That’s certainly a viable explanation.”

You make a noncommittal noise and take another sip. Getting attached to someone like that, boxing myself in, cutting off potential routes... well, I guess if I loved them, that wouldn’t matter, or I’d love someone with the same attitude. ...or maybe not, what am I thinking.

You look back up at them, at the tender smile on his lips and the content in its sleeping expression. But they look so happy...

“...say, Chesh.”

“Mm?” He looks back up and you’re almost not sure why you said that.

“...is it okay if I call you that?”

He smiles. “Everyone does. It’s fine.”

“...’Kay... ...you... do you think... I don’t know. I’ll ever find a... purpose for being here or something...”

“I would’ve thought you’d say, ‘Do you think I’ll ever find love,’” he smiles, putting his chin on his hand. “Ultimately, it is you alone who determine your purpose. Ultimately, everything boils down to you yourself. This you can understand, yes?”

“Yes...”

“So. While I cannot answer the question for you, strictly speaking, I also trust you and believe in you and have faith in you; if you wish to accomplish something, or simply even wish for it, I do think you will.” He finishes with a wide, closed-eye smile, so much that it makes your face flush. Why does HE have faith in me of all people...?

“...th-thanks.”

“You’re welcome~”

You cover up the blush with a hasty swig. The alcohol’s going to my head.

Loki - Duel

Mar. 4th, 2012 12:20 pm
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“Hit me with everything you’ve got.”

“Everything?” You raise an eyebrow skeptically, but he just nods.

“Everything. Mindbolts too. Don’t be afraid to use force; if it gets truly dangerous I’ll teleport.”

You find yourself grinning; oh, he wants to play rough, does he? “Alright. Everything.”

He smiles, claps his gloved hands together once, and pulls the gloves off, tucking them into a pocket. “Come on, see if you can stop me,” he says, and the distance between you is about twenty feet; not too far, which is good considering you’re not all that skilled at long-distance. He closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens reopens them, that mesmerizing pattern is there, what she’s dubbed mystic eyes and the rest have adopted.

“See if you can stop me.” A glow of runelight appears around your fingers as you grin.

He smiles, and assumes a relaxed posture but you can see the slight bending of his knees. He doesn’t blink, watching you. For a moment you don’t blink either, a long moment of just watching before you smile and take a step back.

He blinks. You grin and in that instant a mindbolt flies at him head-on before it fizzles out of existence before it reaches him and he ducks, reaches behind and grabs a rope of Naudr where you had it about to wrap around him and crushes it between his fingers; by that time you’re rushing forward in a barrage of runes, combinations flung from your hands that he dodges or neutralizes but you just cast Kaen at yourself and dart forward in wildfire form, only to be stopped a foot later with a freezing drenching like buckets of Logr but you were expecting this, so one of the runes he previously tossed aside comes back at him and he sees it in the nick of time and it misses by an inch before he catches it and somehow turns it into something else with just a squeeze of his fingers and sends it flying back and you shatter it with Tyr as it passes over your head but as you step forward you’re frozen again in a pentacle of blue and he’s advancing with something forming in his hand, like a thorn or a needle, long and sharp and crackling but you don’t even stop, just cast the Ur-Hagall combination that got you out last time; but apparently he was expecting that because nothing happens, so you raise an eyebrow and instead do Ur-Hagall-Thuris-Bjarkan; the web flickers and you push with almost half your strength and it blows apart into fragments and he looks slightly surprised at that and the magic he’d been gathering vanishes and you grin and dart forward again.

There’s only a few feet between you now and you keep switching, moving your fingers from rune to rune as fast as you can, casting them down into the snow and using others to hide them and this is it now, it’s close combat and you don’t hold back. Feint, dodge, duck, parry—you can’t tell what it is in his hand but every blow you block sends a jarring pain up your arm and you let him drive you back in a shower of sparks, blue and purple and orange flying like fireworks every which way in your vision and all you catch is this blaze of light—but then he’s in place and you get out a cantrip between your teeth and vanish into flame, flitting away backwards and as he glances around for you—and spots you almost instantly—your own web flares up around him, an intricate net of runes that he can’t escape from, wrapping around his legs and slithering upward in seconds, binding his wrists together behind his back as you touch down lightly back on the snow and smirk and he hisses, slightly, which only makes you smirk wider.

“Had enough yet, Kitty?”

He tries to loosen his wrists but you merely tighten the bonds and he flinches, glaring at you juuust a bit, and you summon a new rune to your hand, just as a precaution as you approach.

“Now what, hmm?”

His lips move and something cold and sharp bats the rune out of your hand; you only have to turn your head slightly to see whatever it is and destroy it, but when you turn back you see his fingers move behind back just as you realize you should’ve immobilized them too and this snap comes and this explosion of multi-colored light blinds you momentarily but it’s all he needs and a surprisingly gentle hand pushes you squarely in the middle of your chest and that’s it, it’s all over and there’s cold, wet snow seeping into your hair and the back of your shirt and a light, light finger on your throat.

You blink rapidly to clear your eyes and he’s leaning over you and smiling angelically and the sight is more than a little strange and you’re really not quite sure what to say. Even less so when he leans in and his eyes are still absolutely entrancing.

“Give in?” he asks, and you blink.

Then you sigh good-naturedly and brush his hand away from your throat and sit up from the snow. “Yeah, yeah, you win. You win, I lose.” He blinks in slight confusion but you grin and shake snow out of your hair. “Stupid mistake, huh?”

“What, my hands?”

“Yeah, just goes to show I’m out of practice. Not that you use them as much as I do, but still. ...surprised it took ya that long to break out, though.”

“It was a potent combination; it took me a few moments to figure out what you’d done.” Finally the confusion vanishes from his face into a smile and he reaches out a hand to help you up; for a moment you stare at it before taking it and letting him pull you to your feet.

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First instinct, upon walking into a room—hitch yourself up to a door post, back against it, and let your eyes sweep the crowd. There, on the fringes, where both inside and outside are visible, just in case a quick getaway becomes necessary. That, and being apart. Separate. Off to the side.

I’m not a part of you.

Watch. Always watching them, watching him; letting him know you’re watching. And he knows, too. He’s all too aware of your mocking gaze, your derisive sneer that curls your lip every time he lets himself acknowledge you with the tiniest glance. It’s failure smacking him in the face, doom laughing at his attempts to hold it back, future not even deigning to give him a second look.

And he knows.

Of course, he knows everything. (And you’re only half-sarcastic for that one; he knows and yet he doesn’t know, in the end he’s such a fool like the rest of them, gods—)

And he knows that in the end, it’ll all be hopeless, everything will be useless, finally; when the nine worlds are swept with flame and ice and your children rampage and fight his and you’ll be right there too, leading the charge—what, did you think you could keep me leashed forever? All-father—

Just a tiny bit of chaos—everything needs chaos, needs a little spark to keep it from going stale—and you both know that. But when you deliberately kindle the flames, whose fault is it but your own—

So you stare. You stare as he gravely, solemnly (ha, so consumed with responsibility and duty, so pathetic) converses with the others, how they look up to him and respect him, because he’s oh-so-wise, oh-so-knowing and oh-so-seeing, while you stand there and a laugh bubbles up in your throat because you’re the only one who sees how blind he really is, how little he knows and what a fool he is for all his wisdom, wisdom that only makes him a greater fool and makes the consequences all that deeper.

What greater price is there to pay than the universe itself?

(And yet in a corner of your mind, buried all the way deep down, it’s two-fold again—you’re the only one that sees, giving you the entertainment, the laughter, while they all cringe and wonder what you’re plotting this time, and yet... the idiot, why can’t he see?)

Ha. Rhetorical question.

You turn away, away from him and the firelight and look out into the starry night, deep blue and beyond the stone walls and see the worlds spreading out into the distance towards the horizon, and there’s this strange clench that your heart gives that you ignore, this strange sensation that you don’t want to admit, that comes upon you every now and then—not the longing for war, that stirring in your blood and the itch to fight and watch everything fall to pieces because the score will finally be even—no, that’s not it. A different one. One that’s usually buried so far deep you forget it exists sometimes, but one that takes over so suddenly when it does come—

Some desire, one that’s not the usual superiority, the desire to escape from them and crush them and get your own back, no, something else.

...A want. A want to see him beg for forgiveness, care enough about you and what you think and feel to beg for forgiveness, admit that he’s made a mistake—no, more than a mistake, made so, so many—admit that he should’ve treated you better. Admit that it’s his fault you betrayed him, that he betrayed you, the oath-breaker, the liar—and with them having the nerve to call you liar, the epitome of evil, when he’s just as bad, regardless of whether or not it’s the truth—because you’re oh-so-aware, at times, when you’re alone in the dark and the overwhelming hurt that you don’t want to admit gets to you, that you know you’re all that, that you’re a cheat and a liar and a slut and you’re going to go bad in the end, you can see it happening and it scares you so much so because you don’t want to lose yourself, but in the end—that’s his fault too.

It’s all his fault.

His fault this incredible bitterness and anger and malice is building up inside you, and you know it in your bones that when the end comes, you’re going to be right there, standing in the middle of pure chaos even as you’re dying, and laughing. Of course. You’re going to be laughing the whole time, when the seas are rough and the boat’s complete and you’re on the way there, laughing as your imprisoned children (another thing you’ll never forgive him for) break free, and laughing when the lot of you all end up in Hel anyway, because in the end it was all useless. All his planning, all his futile attempts to stall it, all the people he’s swept away to make his own personal army—and the solution was right there under his nose staring him in the face with a smile. The salvation was—IS—right. There.

Me.

 

“Hey, Loki!”

You snap out of your thoughts and look up; they’re all smiling, the two girls and the stern woman and the cat and the angel and the demon, and her smile becomes a grin.

“C’mon, stop being such a wallflower and join the group.”

You unhitch yourself from the corner and grin back.

All in good time.

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Muse

A muse, hence her name. Pronounced in a way that rhymes with ‘Zeus.’ A cheerful and slightly manic girl. Seems to be between fourteen and sixteen years old, though is probably much older. Her main occupation, outside of being a muse and doing things that muses do, is having fun and acting like a child on a sugar high. Frequently seen scribbling something on the sheaf of papers she carries around. Loves cake and hates work; easy to get along with because of her childish nature, and can be very sweet. At times can be quite serious, though, and that’s when she acts almost like a different person. Thoughtful, deep, and to the point. Thankfully, this doesn’t happen very often. Has something of a rivalry with Annette; this goes back to when they first began working together and they absolutely loathed each other. Otherwise, Muse gets along well with everybody.

Muse has purple eyes and shoulder-length, clumpy black hair that she occasionally attempts to put in a bun, but it always falls out. Typically dresses in a brown skirt and shirt combination, or pajama-like clothes. Her most distinguishing characteristic, however, is probably her excited, goofy grin. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Annette Strickley

Works as a proof-reader, though may be seeking alternate forms of employment where her skills will be put to better use than merely removing typos. As her name implies, she is rather strict and every inch that proper employee; speaks with polite formality and views the others mostly with annoyance and exasperation. However, she is very protective and even motherly, on the rare occasion. Most definitely not heartless. Somewhat famous for her incredibly sour lemonade—she adds no sugar whatsoever. A stickler for proper grammar and manners, yet has a definite weakness for cute things (e. g. Belial). Enjoys nothing more than simple peace and quiet.

Somewhat on the tall side, Annette has light brown hair she keeps in a bun at the back of her head with side-swept bangs to the left. Light brown eyes to match, and she dresses in stark gray suits, jacket and a skirt, combined with black pumps. A pair of rectangular spectacles on a chain completes her ensemble. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Cheshire Carroll

Cheshire is... difficult to describe. His name is a good indicator of his personality; slightly mischievous with a fondness for knowledge and imparting that knowledge upon people in confusing and infuriating ways (read: Mind Screw). He has been described as, “A fascinating mess of charismatic contradictions,” which... also works. More often than not he can be seen wearing an amused smile on his face and is a bit of a flirt. And yet, while that is a very real part of his personality, the placid amusement and cheer, underneath it he is... quiet. Quiet and somewhat reclusive and perhaps even a little shy. He rarely talks about himself (though as of late he has been opening up more) and is more than a little depressed. His true name and age are unknown, as are his species/race and home world. Exceptionally skilled in magic and possesses strange eyes that allow him to see its raw nature. Models for Belial’s photographs and is in a relationship with it.

Blue-gray eyes, not steely. Tall and slender, rather willowy. Rather androgynous-looking. (Comes in handy when he cross-dresses.) Dark red hair, straight and split down the middle, cupping his face and forming a mass of curls at the tops of his shoulders. A slightly long, white cat’s tail, but no cat ears. Usually wearing some variation of blouse or turtleneck sweater in cold weather, and dark pants together with tall, lace-up boots. The one thing that never changes amongst his outfits is his relaxed, confident elegance. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Belial Zèsilfrangür

A demon and an excellent photographer. Has no gender (though can change at will; is a shape-shifter), hence the pronoun ‘it’. Not the demon of Christian scripture, but shares the same name and happens to be from one of the high-ranking demon families. Its true form has been seen from time to time but mostly it stays in the shape of what seems to be a twelve-year-old child. Personality-wise it’s very quiet and sweet, often speaking in a near-murmur. It possesses empathetic abilities and its presence is known to be very comforting, despite having a dark, stalker-like streak; it can be devious and possessive while still being absolutely adorable. Has a wonderful, heart-melting smile. Often seen carrying around a big black camera. Cheshire’s soul mate.

Somewhat on the short side, Belial has large, striking green eyes and a mop of dirty-blond hair with long bangs that half-hide its eyes and goes down to the bottom of its shoulder blades in spiky ends. Often wears an off-white hoodie adorned has rainbow geometric, interlocking designs on the top that gradually fade towards the bottom, and beneath that long-sleeved shirts and jeans. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Jervin Aldesworth

A third-class angel (spiritual reanimant) and ex-street fighter. He’s an upbeat, easy-going guy who is very accepting; he doesn’t bat an eye at anything. Has an fondness for piercings and nicknames, and is employed part-time at the mall, where he plays the synthesizer. Very fun to be around and almost always grinning. Cheerful and supportive. A bit of an experimental cook. Looks to be eighteen years old, and has a pair of silvery wings he can materialize at will. Due to his death he lost his memory and only regained it recently; even now he forgets things easily and often describes his recollections as “fuzzy.” Dating Tracey Danz (Cobalt) and Aaron Harchez (Rails) from The Other House; they’ve known each other from before Jervin’s death and while the beginning was rocky it is believed that at the moment the three of them are figuring out what it’s like to fall in love.

Fond of jewelry, Jervin has five piercings in each ear and one that’s healed up on his lower lip, off-center to the left—rather than putting the ring through his lip, he puts it on it. In his lobes he has a special earring from each of his boyfriends. Aside from that, he wears several bracelets, rings, and necklaces. Has fluffy black hair and golden-brown eyes, dressing usually in some combination of black and red shirts and jeans. Having lost his halo once, he now keeps it around his neck as a choker. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

Loki Laufeyjarson

Loki can be summed up in a single word: annoying. He makes it his main pastime to annoy people by pushing their buttons and getting into their faces. Not entirely surprising, given his identity; he is indeed the trickster of viking myth. Generally he is annoying, sarcastic, and more than a little devious with a strange sense of humor. Almost always at work at some thing or another, be it holed up in his basement lab experimenting with chemicals and runic magic, or designing blueprints for who knows what. Although he enjoys playing pranks on people, he mostly refrains from doing so inside the house; this is in part because everyone else would deal him terrible retribution if he did, and because it’s home and since his arrival he has been a little quieter than one would expect; grappling with personal issues. Flirts often with Cheshire, something which has earned him Belial’s bad graces, although they do seem to be grudgingly patching things up. Fond of playing with fire due to his pyrokinetic abilities; may or may not have some pyromaniac tendencies to go along with it.

A rather pointed face, with thin, faint criss-crossing scars across his lips; makes his smile rather crooked. Pale, shifty, fiery green eyes and orange-red locks that he keeps smoothed back from his forehead that form half-curly tendrils at the nape of his neck. Tall and thin, around Cheshire’s height, dressing in sweater-like long-sleeved shirts and pants. [IMAGE COMING SOON]

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interdimensional

July 2012

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