HURRICANE

“Because usually my reputation as the local dealer precedes my name.” Darius spoke confidently and quietly, only taking a pause to breathe in from his joint. Within that moment of silence, he slowly exhaled to watch curls of smoke dissipate into the chill of the coming Autumn. 

“How it hurts to know that it hasn’t reached you.” He shook his head, feigning disappointment before his expression melted into one of amusement. “Unless you’re just a narc who’s gonna turn me in the moment I leave. Which by all means, you can try…”

Darius turned his body slightly towards her, resting his elbows on his knees, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “But I guarantee you I’m much more entertaining company when I’m not in a cell; party favors or not.”

“And if I remember correctly, I don’t believe you’ve revealed your name either, stranger.”

Raising her eyebrow at the stranger beside her, Freyja couldn’t deny the curiosity that had arisen at yet another person from Athos that she did not know. Was he an Anchor, a Saint, a member of the Delacroix family? She didn’t know — but she was sure she would find out. And she certainly doubted he was a member of royalty if he was a local dealer. A small smirk arising upon her lips at his comments she remarked, “Try not to be too disappointed, I’m new in town.” Taking another drink from her bottle, she began to raise her eyebrow at his comment of being rather entertaining company, a fact about himself that began to amuse her. “Is that true?” She began to purr, moving towards the other as she began to laugh before stating, “You’re the one who came here second, the least you could do is introduce yourself.”

Those eyes were a warning. A promise to burn him like a shot of whiskey in his throat. And when they refused to meet his while she snatched the bottle from his slackened grip, he knows it won’t remain just a warning. She will strike. A strike well deserved, but not one that will deter him from the truth; loneliness licks away at her like a wolf observing its prey. Loneliness has her in its grasps and it will not let her go until it’s swallowed her whole. Again, he aches. An ache that never shows across his features, but it is there. It lurks within all of his being for only him to know of its presence. He asks himself how he can fix this. He wants to fix it. So, how can he fix it? But, he can’t. His hands have been molded and shaped into weapons. Anything they’ve touched has been marked with a vow of blood and ruin. They only know how to bruise such tender flesh he might have hoped to caress. He still thinks he might try when those brown eyes quickly flash up to his one more time.

He never gets the chance. He is thrown back into a wall and there is a low oopmh drawn from him. His body having collided with a loose wall that sends large chunks of brick to the ground. “Fuck,” he growls, the familiar taste of metallic pooling in his mouth. He spits at the ground and sees specks of red. He must have bit down on his tongue when she sent him flying back. He swings his gaze up and such steel eyes have morphed into something dark, sometime volatile. Any understanding that might have been there is replaced with this twisted curl of his lips. Her strike was like a spark of gasoline, and deep inside the predator has been roused from its slumber.

He stands, one arm pressing into the wall and exposing his forearms under folded black sleeves of a t-shirt, roped with muscles. He wipes at his mouth then. When he pulls his hand away, remnants of blood smeared across his skin, those blue, blue eyes have a wiped-clean-of-every-expression look. He is nothing but his primal instincts. He is nothing but the beast those men fed raw meat and bones. He is nothing but hungry. Hungry for the game. Hungry for the chase. Hungry for her. The beast inside would delight in preying on her; a hunt that ends in him eating her alive. The rush of adrenaline in his veins is like an addiction then and his voice of hard whiskey and sin rumbles across the large space between them. “Dirty.” His thick accent makes the word feel like a punch that strips lungs of breath. “You haven’t seen me play dirty yet, кукла младенец.”

Deep down, there is a desire; a craving — a hunger for the unknown. What would tomorrow bring if she finally gave into everything and heeded to his calls? Would she find fulfilment or would it bring the inevitable destruction of all the guarded walls she had built about herself to be protected? This was an unknown territory she had stepped into and did she ever know it. With each dark calling that came from his words, came a shiver to her spine. Her mind knew all too well the very feelings she had felt the moment her eyes had set upon the trio, what desires they had brought. But in her avoidance of this but also of the thoughts, she moved backwards away from the very individual that made her being quake. She knew better than this, but with her drunken haze, her guards had fallen down. This meant that she knew that she needed distance, and that she needed to avoid his gaze; lest she succumb to her most carnal nature. It was why her fingers so tightly gripped around the bottle, almost threatening to break the neck of the container before she decided to tip it backwards; her throat itching for the burn — any possible distraction from her current predicament before her powers lashed out at his very figure, not allowing him any possible distance near herself.

But as the air crackled beneath the might of her power; resulting in his being colliding with the brick wall, the sounds of the clash finally encouraged Freyja to look up at his fallen figure. Yet another mistake after countless already having been made, she felt her insides being set on fire at the certain hunger in his eyes. Suddenly in the manner of a single move their game had shifted, and she could feel her inner predator growl at the volatile look in his gaze; one that invited her to attack — to prod to see exactly what reaction she would receive. And perhaps if she had been sober she would have known better. But she had already felt provoked at his countless invitations for her to find her release in him, and now she yearned to see just how much it would take for the same in him. Two could play at that game; and she could emerge the victor, no?

Her gaze never leaving his own, they followed his every movement, as if she was memorising it. The way his blood was smeared upon his skin. His gaze upon her as if he was ravenous for her to succumb to his provocations. She watched as the expressions upon his features began to change, their combined silence thickening the tension within the air as the predators came out to play. Never one to back down, Freyja’s fingers moved almost instinctively out of habit to bring the bottle back up towards her lips as she downed the rest of the bourbon. Her eyes dark in anticipation for his next move, she began to smash the bottle against the wall next to her, leaving a shard remaining in her hand. Ignoring the blood that began to seep out from the fractured glass in her hands, her attention remained upon Nikolay despite the liquid that pooled away from her porcelain skin, dripping towards the floor. She would be steel against him, she would not mould to his whims — she told herself. And it was at his returning comment that her eyes narrowed, her fingers gripping hard against the crumpled piece of glass as she moved swiftly to push him against the wall. Her forearm pushed against his neck she snarled, “Is that so you Засранец?” 

Her eyebrow raised, she dared him; just provoke me further. See where that would lead. “Tell me — what would you do if you were playing dirty then, hm?” She asked in a sweeter tone, as she moved her fingers to grip the glass against the side of his neck; pushing almost hard enough for more of his blood to break past the skin.

“No whiskey or bourbon here. I quite prefer my party favors over liquid courage.” Darius spoke while lighting the joint that seemed to always be tucked in the corner of his mouth. 

“This is usually my go-to place to hide out, and has been for a while so…” He shrugged, nonchalance running through his limbs that were heavy with the weight of marijuana swimming in his blood. 

“Not really planning on leaving.” Darius took a seat next to the stranger, hooded eyes slowly moving to the side to take a better look at the woman. A faint smile appeared while his eyebrow quirked in mild mischief.

“But if my presence is oh so intolerable, I have aforementioned party favors that’ll make this pretty face more pleasant to be around.”

Another unfamiliar face before her, and unfortunately the Hallows or Maeve that she was much more comfortable with, Freyja’s lips began to purse slightly at the mention of party favours, already being intimately familiar with the substances she was sure he contained. Yet, she couldn’t deny a certain intrigue that arose when it came to the other that lay before her, one that seemed to be much more than met the eye. It didn’t hurt that she was drunk enough to find practically anyone tolerable and interesting — even if he happened to be a Delacroix. “Is that so?” She replied, a playful smirk upon her lips in return, despite the topic that had been brought up that often kept her on edge. “And why exactly would I take said party favours from a stranger I had just met, especially when I didn’t even know their name?”

The whisper. A break in the damn. Him melting into her crevices. He could fill all the parts of her that are empty as effortlessly as a wave crashing into the shore. He can do all these things and more. It only took her plunging off the cliff and trusting that he, that all of them, would be there to catch her when she falls. They always would. But, for now, he settles with a nearness only given to select few. He settles with drawing his gaze back up to hers when she tells him to stay — just this once. He could work with once. He could beget a thousand nights out of one. With that familiar dangerous glint in his eyes, he takes another swig from the bottle to prevent any fiendish grin from being on display at her state. Such a state it was. Alcohol certainly made her a willing victim.

Then, just like the waves, she recedes. She tells him how he shouldn’t be there and, fuck, if it doesn’t sound familiar. He terrified her heart. A kind of terror that was ancient. A terror that fills the pit of his stomach out of habit; an ache that never truly leaves. Fingers which might have devoured flesh tighten around the length of the bottle instead. The glint in his eyes is replaced with not fear, but laments his understanding. He tries to recall what he desired in moments like these, moments where he trembled beneath the clutches of compassion. Lithe fingers, golden fingers, both snaking their way past barricade after barricade. But, all he can remember is how loving him is rotten work. It’s an awful thing, loving a monster. Monsters can offer you no shelter from the storm. They can only dig, scratch, claw, in attempts to nestle themselves against another.

He’s rendered speechless, but it doesn’t show. He paints a devastating smirk across his lips. He leans closer, his being almost invading hers, almost touching, every fleck of blue in his eyes somehow highlighted even in the darkness that had descended around them. “I’ll always come for you.” He whispers. His voice dark, dangerous, almost ludic.

It would be much uncomplicated to give into her desires. And whilst she could ignore it most days; the beckoning whispers, the inviting predatory glance he wore, she struggled to fight against it. She could find her ending in him, she knew. She could find it in the trio that knew her as well as any could, apart from Maeve, her sister of course. But for so long she had protected herself from the edge, the one that promised her ruination. And that was why she shut her eyes briefly before fixating her gaze upon the bottle in his hands, her bottle that he has apparently decided that had become his. How many had Freyja had before this? Much to many to remember the initial one, and perhaps this was a reminder that she should stop. But when had  she ever been logical, and not impulsive? It was with that thought that she snatched the bottle from his digits, refusing to let their skin touch; knowing the electrical spark that it could bring.

“Get your own.” She muttered, refusing to meet his gaze yet again as she took another long drink from the liquid courage — hoping that it would enable her the strength to deny what had been tantalisingly dangling in front of her. Just like Icarus that had flown too close to the sky; did Freyja fleetingly glide upon the clouds, almost burnt, as her insides clawed for her desires to be ever fulfilled. And did she know that they would ever be satisfied and would inevitably set her alight with the other beside her. And like the fool she was, Freyja braved a transient glance at Nikolay. His heated gaze regarding herself, to the devastatingly handsome smirk depicted upon his lips that she knew was one of her kryptonites, one that invited her to just take just one bite. And perhaps she would have, as a seeming magnetic connection began to draw them towards one another; their beings almost connecting together, landing them mere millimetres away.

But as the words erupted from his lips, it was almost as if she could suddenly think again. The sinful phrase repeating itself in her mind, caused her to lash out with her powers to suddenly push Nikolay away from herself and to trap him upon the wall opposite her. “Fuck you Nik, you always play dirty.” She spat out, as she struggled to reach her feet before taking another drink from the glass between her fingers. “Don’t you know better than to take advantage of the drunk?” She retorted as she pushed the molecules in the air tighten around him to ensure he was at a safe distance away from herself.

The warmth grows scarce. Her features darken. She leans forward but he knows she is slipping away. Spiraling down, down, and miles away from him. It’s familiar. This need to regress to behavior that distracts from the root of the issue. But, he doesn’t mind. He never minds. Nikolay knows how under his touch all of her shudders. He sees how she grips the bottle tight to her chest to refrain from exploring his own. There is a quiet knowledge. Deep within. The knowledge on how she could find heaven in him. At the very touch of him. Calloused fingers could roam over delicate curves, erupting such pretty little moans from soft, parted lips. Religion would be found as he whispers expletives into her skin. He moves closer then, his eyes not wavering from hers, his hand wrapping around the body of the bottle, and licks his lips. “You prefer me gone?” His eyes hold this glint. A glint that urges her to do it. Say it. Tell him to walk away and he will. She only needs to say it. After a second, he says, “If you wanted me gone, it would’ve happened by now.”

He slowly lets his gaze travel down, over the curve of her breasts and down to the apex of her thighs, before steady fingers pull the bottle from her grasps and takes a swig from it. “I don’t doubt that.” Something tells him she would be perfectly fucking content anywhere she willed to be so. Because he shares that with her. But, there was no fun in being content. Why be content when lips could become swollen from hungry kisses, and bodies bruised from nights together. There is nothing like the taste of gunmetal and blood and him on her. With the slight lift of a brow, he dares her again with his eyes. Tell me to go.

Her eyes shut briefly, as she willed herself to control her urges. Just this once, the whispers emerged. The words bringing a shudder to her insides, Freyja’s hooded gaze began to roam over the other. She knew that her impulses and desires were dark — enough so that it took more than just anyone to deliver. And she knew she could so easily find it in the other. She could let him explore her body, clothes ripped apart as their figures moved to find passion in one another. But she knew better than to give in. It is why she so tightly gripped the glass between her fingers; struggling to formulate words at his reply, knowing he knew all too well the truth behind the unsaid. The amount of sway he held upon her, despite her best intentions. And it was why as she watched him with baited breath as he stole the bottle from her fingers that she finally muttered, “Perhaps just this one occasion you can stay.” How easy it was to play with the devil, until you got burnt. And did she know she would ever.

It had been too easy for him to find her. And how she regretted she hadn’t already disappeared, leaving without a trace like she had in the past. But there was something that drew her to the other that she could not explain, a certain dark instinct that arose in her to explore — to see what it brought. She should have known better, yet she was not doing anything to combat the predicament she had brought herself into. “You shouldn’t have come.” A husky whisper erupting from her lips, averting her own from his gaze knowing that in her drunken haze she wouldn’t be making decisions best for herself, especially considering her impulsive nature. How easy it would be to give in, like she had imagined so many times before. She had always stopped herself, but could she this time?

A fire blazes in his body again at the sight of her. Dark curls spill over her shoulder and the way her lips curve to say his name before wrapping around the mouth of the bottle lit a match to the gasoline racing through his veins. The chase presented itself, and he greedily became its slave. The adrenaline, the rush, the thought of her lips wrapped around his cock. It made his hunger insatiable. A hunger that wouldn’t be quelled until he captures his prey. His lips curled but the amusement never reached his eyes. He swings his gaze up instead. Steele blue meeting black, her pupils blown wide from the liquor coursing through her. “From the way you’re saying my name, it sounds like you want me here.” His tone dips at the mention of her wants. The voice of his that could whisper murder into her skin and make it sound like a lover’s caress coming out. It was like the feeling of a barrel of a Glock pointed at your head while he grins at you. A devastating sound for a devastating man.

Fingers wrapped around a bottle, nestled close towards her chest. Almost touching, but never just quite — perhaps it was a metaphor for the way people circulated around Freyja’s life. They knew her intimately; fingers tangled up in locks of hair, fervent whispers of sweet nothings with lips pressed against skin. But they were never quite familiar with who she truly was beneath the brief touches, or the kisses pressed against bare skin. Her eyes hooded with the appearance of Nikolay, her lips began to slightly moisten at the emergence of one that knew her. Just as she knew him. The way that his eyes would dip at the mention of family, or how his eyes, and if you knew him well enough; how his features would soften around the edges for Cat. How they both did. How she knew him, she could swear it. And it was from the way his voice began to enter the silence that she swore she could feel his touch underneath her skin, as reminders of whiskey and sin flashed before her eyes. “I want you here? And what could possibly make you think that?” Her voice husky from the amount of alcohol she had consumed, Freyja leant forward towards the other as she tipped her head to the side. Almost as if she was inviting him for just one touch — one she knew he endlessly sought after. “Perhaps you’re wrong and I’m perfectly content to be here alone with my whiskey.”

A bottle of whiskey between her fingers, and a slight scowl upon her lips Freyja was irritated that they were in such a place like this. Hallows, Saints had such exceptional powers and for them to be treated like this made her infuriated — especially when their powers now could be so easily taken away for the royalty to use as they so sought fit. They were turning friends against themselves; each more power hungry than the next. And not only that, but it seemed that the Delacroix family seemed to be orchestrating something rather malevolent behind the scenes, in order to further their own agendas. “Damn you Nik.” She muttered as she took a long drink from her bottle, before leaning her head against the wall, wishing more than anything that they hadn’t arrived to such a place like this. She feared for the safety of her friends, and the ones she was beginning to make at Athos, hoping that nothing would come to harm them, although she highly doubted that would be the case. However as she began to feel the vibrations of air disrupt from someone beginning to approach her position, she immediately began to tense as she stated dryly, “Unless you come with a gift of whiskey or bourbon, find another place.”

She was evading. Interesting. JP’s charming, calm smile did not falter as he turned from her towards the waiter. “I’ll have… the same.” The Prince looked back at the woman, suddenly deciding not to beat around the bush this time around. It might be more fun at times but in this case he decided being direct might be entertaining. Seeing people squirm usually was. And since she wasn’t one of his people…

“So not from Omerta? I see. Perhaps asking your name might be an easier question.” His tone and expression were lighthearted. But it didn’t disguise the almost aggressive playfulness of his words.

Raising an eyebrow at the other, she couldn’t deny the slight interest that had peaked when she had come across the other, but this had dulled as a certain recognition came across for who he was. She suspected he was one of the Prince’s or at least an Anchor of sorts. And it seemed he was rather keen for information on herself, not that she was truly offering to give it to the other. But perhaps her name wouldn’t hurt. Lifting her glass to tip it back towards herself, she let the bourbon briefly begin to burn her throat before readjusting her attentions back towards Jean-Pierre.

“Not from around here, that’s for sure.” She repeated with a small smirk upon her lips before shrugging to state, “Only if you’ll tell me yours.” She replied; knowing that it would make the questioning of who this individual was easier once she knew their name. “That and more alcohol.” 

Several shots of alcohol already consumed in her system, Freyja was more than ready to head towards the bar to ingest much more after having danced her way upon the floor of the bar. She was no stranger from running away from her problems; but having witnessed the incredible shitshow that Athos seemed to be, she was more than ready to drink more bourbon, and watch the place light on fire. Not that she was going to set the building alight like she had previously in Serpentia; accidentally thanks to her powers — but because of the seeming political turmoil through the struggle between the royalty and the Saints. It seemed trouble enjoyed following her. But as she began to walk towards the counter, she noticed a certain red head seated alone at a table, not seeming to enjoy the surroundings despite the free flowing alcohol. Flashing a wink at the bartender, Freyja began to snag a bottle of bourbon from over the counter; before heading towards the other to take a seat opposite of them as she murmured, “You don’t look like you’re having much fun.” 

“Did I hear - ‘batshit drunk’?” 

He’d just come from picking these flowers, after which he’d laid them upon the windowsill he’d made sure was Emilia’s. Liam knew these gardens all too well, knew the ins and outs, which shrubbery to lurk behind, which statues would give him away. Of course, he knew the entire city like the back of his sun-worn hand - but this particular voice, this particular face, was a new one, an oddity that warranted investigation. The king in the gutter had cause and reason to know each and every face who passed through the city; it was just his luck that this particular newcomer spoke his language. 

With one hand upon the statue’s arm, he swung out from behind it, languid and grinning, still smelling of his last cigarette and bearing the evidence of an hour spent rifling through gardens that were very much not his own. “It’s your lucky day, stranger. I happen to be an expert at getting myself and others batshit drunk. It’s on my resume. Liam Gray -” he held out his free hand, “- your new favorite person.”

Freyja had been in search of something or at least someone who would be particularly interesting, and it seemed that she certainly had been in fortune when a man suddenly appeared out of nowhere, repeating her words. A small smirk began to appear upon her lips as he seemed to understand exactly what she was seeking for, as she stepped closer to have her eyes flicker upon him, before nodding eagerly at the thought. It seemed that this person would definitely become a fast friend, especially if he had a bottle of tequila and bourbon up his alley.

“And here I thought that this city was filled with dreary individuals, hellbent on keeling to the monarchs.” She commented, her eyes alight with mischief as she stepped closer towards Liam, tilting her head to examine the man that suddenly had struck up an interest in herself, especially when it came to exploring this new world of Athos. “Well Liam Gray, delighted to meet your acquaintance. I’m Freyja, and apart from Maeve you are more than likely to remain my new favourite person.” She replied, amused by the antics of the other as she reached out to take his hand in hers.

“After all, I could never hate the person who takes me out to day drink.”