~* Okay, so I've never done this sort of thing before, and to be honest, I'm a tiny bit terrified. So, be gentle with me. It's my first time.*~
It was dark, in this tiny little ocean town. The smell and taste of salt was exhilarating to Loki, as he looked around. No one had seen him come, stepping down and out of the Bifrost. He picked a direction and walked, passing houses and cross streets and yards and cars, simply walking. It was fall here, the air crisp and clean, shivering with change and a playful wickedness. It was a beautiful night, the harvest moon shining an eerie orange in the sky, and everything was mysterious and lonely and filled with a sort of longing that made him ache.
He stopped when he came to a path, cutting to his left through the forest that separated some of the houses, now fewer and far between. It was inviting, so he took it. Leaves brushed gently at him, and fresh mushrooms sprung out of the ground, some of them wider than his outstretched hand, and tall enough to reach the tops of his boots. A curl of anticipation tightened in his stomach, though for what he didn't know, but he always trusted his instincts. The path made another sharp turn to his left, and angled upwards toward a small blue and white cottage. He headed towards it, stealthily walking the perimeter. He saw a window, the sill covered in candles, cramped together on every available inch of surface. Other than that, the house was unremarkable. But the candles made him curious.
He entered the darkened house quietly, the lock giving way with no resistance. He was the God of Mischief, and the door didn't even have a deadbolt. Any teenager with a credit card and a few seconds would have made short work of it.
A tiny black and white kitten startled him momentarily, winding around his feet, purring loudly. He caressed its head for a second before gently scooting it aside with the toe of his boot. His night vision was quite good, and he made his way past the cooking area before reaching a hallway. Gently, he tried the door on his right. A sleeping woman was draped around a man, both of them naked, the glow of a computer monitor throwing the room into relief. Nothing particularly interesting here. The kitten was back, attempting to climb his booted leg. He grabbed the thing, tiny enough to fit in one hand, and placed it on his shoulder, where it stayed, content to view the world from this new vantage point. Cats always liked him, for some reason.
He turned another door knob. A soft glow lit this room, the source, a string of orange lights framing a luxurious bed. Swirls of black and grey covered the plush blanket, which had been carelessly kicked aside. Several soft looking pillows littered the ground, and more were piled haphazardly around the sleeping figure on the bed. The grey sheet she was swaddled in showed a shapely figure, one pale leg curled out. Her bare back glowed softly, illuminated by the lights, and one arm, hanging off the bed, showed a tattoo; a black and blue feather, bursting into birds mid-flight. A head of bloody red hair curled gently down her shoulders.
The kitten on his shoulders mewled softly and made as if to jump onto the bed. Loki caught it before it could land and wake the girl. She shifted some, sighing and turning her face towards him, revealing long lashes resting against her cheeks, and full lips, pouting slightly in sleep.
He turned for a second, to put the kitten down outside the door, closing it quietly, before turning and receiving a shock. The girl was propped up, pointing a rather shiny gun at his chest, eyes wide. She held it like she knew how to use it. He silently cursed himself. He'd allowed himself to be distracted. Careless, very careless. A quick survey of the room revealed that there were two separate knife hilts protruding from beneath the mattress and box spring, close to where her arm had been hanging. Two magazines that would undoubtedly find a home inside her gun were sitting on the bedside stand next to her. He also noticed the she hadn't put one inside said weapon. The gun was empty. He decided to start with that.
He put his hands in the air, a sign of submission and unarmed harmlessness. Neither of which were the least bit true. He took a step towards her.
"Don't." Was all she said. She shook her head, but her arm remained steady, not a single twitch. Either she wasn't aware of her lack of ammunition, or she thought he wouldn't notice her bluff. Most mortals probably wouldn't, not with such a pretty naked woman pointing such a large, shiny gun at them.
"You have no bullets." He said to her, taking another step.
"There's one in the chamber." She said, matter of factly. This made him hesitate. She was either an accomplished liar, or it was true. But why would she bother to have one in the chamber without the rest of the magazine as insurance? He chose to call her on it.
"I doubt it." He said to her. The fact that she didn't try to load the weapon almost made him hesitate again, but the shallow movement at her breast, the rapid pulsing at her neck gave her away. She may know how to point and shoot her gun, but she had never done either of these things at a person.
"Are you willing to bet your life on it?" She replied smartly. He grinned and took another step, and another, until his chest was pressed against the barrel of the gun and he was merely an arms length away from her. He was pressing his luck, to be sure, but what was life without a little risk? Besides, he had surprised her, he could see. She was unsure of what to do now, and out of luck. Her wide eyes shone almost unnaturally green in the light. He gently rested his hand on the barrel of the gun, wrapping long fingers around it.
"Let me take that, before someone gets hurt." He said, softly. She opened her mouth to protest, but he moved quickly, snatching the gun from her hands before she could recover from her initial shock. But she surprised him, reaching for the bigger of the two knives. He caught her wrist before she could, and the other, when she lashed out towards him. He noticed, with strange approval, that she had closed her fist to land a blow against his jaw, rather than with an open hand. She knew how to fight. But he was bigger and stronger and much more immortal than she was. His hands encircled her wrists, which were small and delicate, despite her plucky attempt to fight back. He pulled her to her feet and closely against him. He could feel her body heat radiating through his thin shirt. Something about her... Her wide eyes, staring into his; her breath, coming in shallow pants through those lips; her heart beat, like a hummingbird's; and the fragile bones of her wrists, caught in his hands... he would only have to squeeze slightly... And still she fought against him, twisting her arms, trying to break free, testing the strength of her new bonds. He was going to do something foolish. Yes, he was. He could almost taste the regret, the idiocy, on the back of his tongue, but it was his nature to create chaos, even for himself.
He easily wrapped one of his hands around both of her wrists, placing the other at the back of her neck. He willed her to sleep, and was rewarded with the tell-tale fluttering of her eyelashes.
But she didn't sleep. She seemed to shake it off. He frowned, and grasped the back of her neck more firmly, staring deeply into her eyes. She stared back, now with a sort of insolence, and began wrenching her wrists from him with a renewed vigour. He tightened his grip cruelly, which brought a hiss from between her clenched teeth. The momentary pain seemed to lower her defenses, and this time, her eyes closed, body relaxed, and he caught her with an arm around her shoulders and one catching her at the bend of her legs, cradling her to him. She was so small.
He took his regrettable decision with him, out the door, and into the street from where he had come, looking up at the stars, so foreign from this earth. He willed himself skyward, pulling the Bifrost to him and simply stepping up and out from the Midgard and into Asgard. He looked down at the mortal woman cradled in his arms with a mixture of apprehension and triumph. He hadn't known what he was looking for this night, when he traveled into the Midgard, but he had found it, whatever it was. Part of him hoped it wouldn't be trouble. Part of him hoped it would.
Aevelyn awoke with a start and instinctively reached out for the cold comfort of her gun. Her hand groped bed sheets instead. Groggily, something registered as "off" in her head. Bed sheets....
She was sleeping on the wrong side of the bed. Or, rather, in the middle of the bed, which was still wrong. She only ever slept on the right side, arm draped over the edge for easy access to her gun and her knives, which, thankfully, she had never had to use. But she had been raised by a Marine, and knew how to protect herself. Theoretically, anyway. Her dream came rushing back to her. Another one of those "helpless" dreams, where everything she did to fight back didn't work. She hated those dreams. They frightened her more than her usual nightmares.
Yawning, she rolled to the correct side of the bed and reached for her phone to check the time, but this time, groped only air. Her bedside table was gone. Her eyes snapped open. Not just her table. Her room had disappeared. She stared at an unfamiliar ceiling, wrapped in unfamiliar sheets in an unfamiliar room.
"Are you hungry?" A voice echoed softly to her. She sat up quickly, keeping the sheets clutched over her breasts. The man from her dream stood before her, holding a large bunch of red grapes out to her. The torches (Torches? Where the hell was she?) in their sconces reflected their firelight upon the fruit, making them gleam like precious gems. He continued to hold the grapes out to her, though he was several yards away, and began walking slowly to her. The gesture was oddly inviting. She stayed where she was, though, watching him warily. His wild, chestnut brown hair gleamed softly in the firelight. A green tunic brought out the green in his hazel eyes, and his leather breeches looked like painted-on oil spills. What appeared to be doeskin boots completed the ensemble. She had never seen anyone dress this way before. But she had never actually seen torches before either. "They're fresh." He said, his voice silky. To demonstrate their apparent freshness, though she hadn't argued it, he plucked one off the vine and placed it between his lips, sucking it slowly into his mouth. She was momentarily mesmerized by the way his cheeks hollowed. Then he bit down on it, the fruit crunching loudly. "Not poisoned." He said, smiling gently. He continued his slow walk to her, stopping only a few feet from her, hand still extended.
