“Oh, crap!” Mia muttered. It was yet another morning where she’d almost spilled her iced coffee on a stranger. “I’m so, so, sorry about that. I’m such a klutz.” She admits now standing awkwardly in front of the other. “Are you sure it didn’t get on you?”
*・ﾟ — “DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, DARLING,” Freyja inspected herself, frowning as she tried to analyze the situation. There would be no stains, as nothing got on her, but her jaw clenched nonetheless. Perhaps it was the scare. “I’m fine and clean, that’s all I could ask for. Are you alright?”
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With her toddler on her hip, Via gave a sigh as she waited for her food. Normally, the woman made food for her and Naomi, but today was a rough day at work and she wasn’t in the mood to do more work than she needed to. “Can they go any faster?” Via rubbed Naomi’s back as she set the child down for a moment. “I’m a little at the point where I’m just going to eat here. I don’t think she can wait much longer to get food. Wonder if I change it to eat in instead of to go would make it go faster.”
*・ﾟ — FREYJA WOULD NOT USUALLY INDULGE herself on take-out food, certainly not buying and waiting for it herself. But her mother had driven her insane, and the woman needed a distraction — be around people who aren't as rotten and expect too much of her. She regretted it the moment she set foot in the place, but it was too late to back down now. Her eyes instantly fell to the toddler as the voice spoke, and her brows knitted together. "Oh," she gasped quietly, voice more of a whisper to herself than anything else, "a project of human." Raising her head, the woman blinked, finally looking at the other. "I don't think that will work. They are packed today. Although eating here wouldn't be much of a bad idea. If you don't mind sharing a table with someone," she waved her hand around and sighed.
For a moment, words failed to form. Her brows furrowed as her familiar scent grew stronger. Esme wondered if she missed Freyja’s lack of warmth–at least back then she could convince herself that anything exceeding friendship was an impossibility. To further confuse the situation, nothing fell to her lips. Only a tap to her nose interrupted her thoughts. A level of annoyance bubbled at the surface–was this joke to her?
Her legs pulled away from over Freyja, and a deep sigh followed. “Well you’re wrong. That’s all it is.” She sat upright, with her heels now on the floor and her hands running through her hair. “I’m not that complicated. Nothing else bothers me more than his disappearance. I’ve dedicated more than half my life to it.” A certain discomfort tainted the air around them. As if Esme did not feel awkward enough as a person, this only heightened those senses. “You wouldn’t know what that’s like. I don’t think you’ve ever so much as considered what caring for someone else felt like.”
*・ﾟ — SHE BLINKED, AND SUDDENLY ESME MOVED OUT OF FOCUS, the world was again; she could hear the documentary they had put on, cars outside and the air seemed warm and heavy, but for an entirely different reason. The sensations were so overwhelming Freyja nearly forgot the woman’s words. But she didn’t – And she suddenly was dragged from a warm summer day to a sharp cold winter night. She was plunged into freezing waters, needles biting at her skins – her lungs contracted, and she was suffocating, swimming up and up and up in the darkness, trying to reach the surface. The corners of her mouth twitched, her faint smile faltering and falling flat. The words stung, and Freyja wanted to recoil, steel herself and hide from Esme. Scott filled her mind, and she heard the sound of her heart shattering “I’ve — considered — caring,” she repeated, her own voice sounding distance and full of poison.
The pills remained untouched in her jacket pocket, and Freyja jumped to her feet, needing to reach the golden little box, needing to be away — do something, before she choked on her own stupidity. "I don't care," the words left her mouth before she could reach inside the pocket, before she even knew she was speaking. Turning to Esme, her chest heaved as she suddenly found herself struggling to breathe. Not know. She doesn't care. The door is near. Leave. — "I care about you!" When the words escaped her mouth, Freyja knew she could not take them back. Could not convince herself Esme was just a friend, just another conquest. "And I care about your father and your story and —" her words were cut short and she sighed, eyes watching Esme and feet rooted to the ground. She was scared. Freyja Skjeggestad was scared.
It was complicated. – God, how fucking stupid would that sound coming from her lips? There had to be a better way to describe their relationship–something more than a phrase from every uncomplicated, fictional relationship of a Hallmark movie. Still, her mind categorized Freyja as just that.
Complicated. Underground tunnels connected in a complex system, some open to her, but most not. Working her way into each one was harder than the one before. An unbearable childhood mixed with drugs and sex was just the beginning of Freyja, and the hard shell she offered to anyone watching. This took up time, driven by Esme’s killer curiosity. So much so that she often forgot that she had a story of her own to tell. “My father disappeared when I was in my early twenties. – Wallet and phone on the table. His breakfast made but uneaten.”
Was it the same desperate attempt she had made to convince the police he wasn’t the man to walk away? He wouldn’t leave her like that. He wasn’t that kind of father. His divorce didn’t drive him to unspeakable measures. Every excuse they alluded to but could not look her in the eyes and say straight–she had defended her father through them all. “Nothing. All this time and nothing. It’s like he never existed and the police don’t give a damn. So I take upon myself to figure it out. To help other people.” Words swelled with heat, but cooled again as she quickly and quietly regained composure.
Freyja kissed her hand and again complicated surfaced, only to be shoved back down. She worried that acknowledging the rare form of affection amongst the talk of her father would overwhelm her senes. Her shoulder remained buried in the back of the couch, her legs creating to peaks, and her feet extending on the other side of Freyja’s legs. Perhaps too tense, giving away their painfully obvious complicated relationship. A smile was too much, but no smile would admit her absolute loss of words when trying to put a label between them.
*・ﾟ — SHE FELT A TINGLE IN HER HEART, a twitch, as if the organ was shaking off the dust and trying to beat, to soar. It was irrational, Freyja knew, as she had troubles admitting she cared and she hardly knew Esme. And yet — she felt bewitched, body and soul. Perhaps it was the tenderness filling the air, so palpable she could reach out and grab it, wrap it around her spine and make it a home out of her heavy lungs. Her words were enough to make her smile falter, slightly. And for long seconds, the world was silent; just a beat of a heart, the fall of a feather. Her skin broke into goosebumps, and her fingers twitched where they touched Esme, the need to hold and cherish and there was a constant pulse in her ear, loud and without rhythm – and it took Freyja a second to realize it was her own heart, drumming against her ribcage. Instantly, she closed her eyes, taking in as much air as she could. Feelings, invading her barriers, breaking through skin, bones, settling inside her ribcage without permission. Esme should not belong in the mess of knots in her thoughts, the cloud of fogginess in her mind, should not have a place in the turmoil that was her life. And yet the woman wanted to gather the other in her arms, carve a space in her heart where Esme could crawl into, find comfort and peace. She knew the thought of her father bothered Esme — And she wanted to offer help, but the thought of taking something in return disgusted her. She would help Esme in a heartbeat, and wouldn't be able to take something back for her troubles. If it meant she could see more of the woman's smile.
She knew Esme was shattering her carefully build walls, and the woman had no idea.
The panic dissolved, not completely but enough, and she nodded along with her words, a frown forming on her face. Could feel the tension from Esme, and green eyes opened to watch the woman again, words caught up on her throat, daring not to fall off her tongue. But her fingertips, they slowly moved up, gently touching Esme's body until she leaned over slightly, tapping the tip of the woman's nose, forcing words out of her suddenly dry lips, "penny for your thoughts?" The voice didn't sound like her own, it lacked the bite and coldness, lacked lies. Her accent was thick and the timbre of her voice was soft, and Freyja just wanted to drown in the cushions, hide from this, whatever this between them was before she cared too much. Too late. "Tell me what's on your mind? There's something else there, beside your father?"
*・ﾟ — THERE WAS NO THOUGHTS; no ghosts of violence which would leave her shaking, gasping for air. The domesticity was deafening, yes, but it was better than being hit in waves by memories she tried to keep locked behind a dark door, in the back of her mind. She didn’t feel like she was drowning in disturbing images, for once. Perhaps it was the soreness of her bones, the ache of her muscles – Or the warm presence next to her. That thought alone would make Freyja shudder, had she not been half awake and intently listening to the words escaping beautiful lips. But, comfort was a rarity Freyja could not indulge often, and truly, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not right now. Could not explain why remaining still in a half seated position so Esme could stay comfortable was so important. It wasn't, Freyja wanted to argue, but the words would sound like a lie, even to herself.
So Freyja stayed still, basking in Esme scent — a fact she would not think about, too — a hand gently massaging the woman's foot while the other rested on the woman's leg, idly drawing patterns on her calf. Don’t think about it. The softly light of the television illumined Esme's features, and Freyja found herself resting her head on the cushions, eyes never once drifting away from the familiar face. "That's rather — interesting," she supplied, voice half a whisper as tenderness filled her bones. "You know a lot about these things, don't you?" It's endearing, Freyja wanted to say, but the words got tangled up in the desire to lean forward and kiss Esme, so she remained quiet, pressing a kiss to the woman's arm instead.
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Fabien finished making a cocktail and handed it to the customer who had ordered it. Then he glanced around for the next person waiting to order a drink. Spotting one, he said “What can I get you?” He hoped it wasn’t a frozen drink. Those were a pain in the ass to make, but they were always popular in the summer. Especially in the heatwave the city was currently experiencing.
*・ﾟ — I'M NOT QUITE SURE, Freyja wanted to respond as she watched the other patrons, her brows knitting together. Admitting weakness, however small, was unacceptable, and something Freyja was not capable of. Not knowing which drink to order to drown her mood became quite usual for Freyja, so it was easy for her lips to curl into a smirk as she turned to face the other. Fingertips tapping against the counter, she gave a small sigh. "Hm," escaped her mouth, but she rested her head on her hand, and chuckled. "How about — Surprise me. What is your favorite drink? Make me that."
It was a nice day. Well, nicer than some of the days that he’d seen recently, so he wanted to take his puppy to the park and relax while he had the down time to do so at home. While sitting there and relaxing, he tried to clear his mind and distract himself from his thoughts. The only thing that mattered we being at one with nature and getting to breathe in the fresh air. It didn’t occur to the actor that he’d fallen asleep under a tree until he heard footsteps nearby that caused Fang to wriggle around in his arms to see the potential new friend. “Oh, hello!” He greeted as he tried to get rid of the fatigue. “How are you this fine day?”
*・ﾟ — ONE WOULD NOT, IN A SANE MIND, expect to see Freyja in a public place, a park out of all things. No. Those who have heard of the heiress knew despite her love for adoration, public appearances were a rarity — the woman would bear through painful trials if she meant she could avoid social interactions. The disdain, however, was shoved in the base of her spine as her urge for nature became unbearable, nearly consuming her. She missed Norway, more than she would like to admit. Hands clenched, she aimlessly walked around the park until something caught her eyes and a gasp escaped her lips. Politeness, she reminded herself as she approached the other. "Quite alright," was her simple answer as her eyes locked onto the puppy, "so — may I pet your do or would that be too forward of me to ask?"
“And a-five and a-six and I move on back…” Avaryl muttered to herself, trying her best to envision the choreography. She had it under her feet, but the director had insisted that she make notes. Even though it was a one woman show, she felt that she needed a little pizzazz, hence why she’d rented one of the studios at her gym for three hours before close. When she saw someone out of the corner of her eye, she figured it must be close to closing. “Oh gosh, hi! I’m so sorry, I’ll be right out!” she called out, tapping her feet a little.
*・ﾟ — FREYJA WAS A FORCE OF NATURE, a woman known for constantly pushing limits, testing the waters — a trait which should have affected only her employees, unfortunately was one she applied on herself the most. A simple visit to the gym meant to last only an hour or two turned into hours, hours Freyja stopped counting and simply pushed past the limits of her body, ignoring the exhaustion weighing in her lungs and the protest of her sore bones. Once she deemed enough, she chose to walk around the place rather than go to an empty apartment, stopping to watch the other practice.
"Not to worry, darling," she replied, leaning against the door and crossing her arms. "I've quite enjoyed the show. Is this -" she waved one hand around, raising a brow -"just for fun or will I be able to see on stages, too? That was rather impressive."
*・ﾟ — [FREYJA SKJEGGESTAD] is a [33] year old [HOMOSEXUAL] [CISFEMALE] that was born on [NOVEMBER 15TH]. [SHE] live(s) in [MANHATTAN], but they’re originally from [OSLO, NORWAY]. They are a [HEIRESS] for a living, and often get told they look like [KATIE MCGRATH].
— hello ghouls!! my name is jared r, i’m 19 20 years old and i never learned how to read. i’m excited to plot and write with all of you!! this is freyja and she is honest to God a mess, someone save her. i would truly adore plot with all of you - so come hit me up if anyone would like some plots! if you prefer that, just hit me up on discord too !! i will def be sliding into some DMs as well, too, so like this post if you won’t mind that!! local nerd thinks aliens are going to invade earth, more at 9 /finger gun/
A forest, then. Beautiful trees. And a lady singing.
Love on the water, love underwater, love, love and so on.
What a sweet lady. Sing lady, sing! Of course, she wakes the dragon.
Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly
flames everywhere.
Am I just a creation of my upbringing? My monstrosity but a trait, the blood permeating my veins but a poison. My lungs were bound to rotten with my first intake of air. Or am I the apple that fell far from the tree? The abnormality none dares talk of, a grim shadow lying in wait. Sunk in debauchery, afloat in a sea of destruction. The whys and hows matter little, in this narrative. No use delving deep into psychology, or theories. There won’t be a sympathetic insight into my life. After all, there’s no pity for the wicked. I am what I am, no lamentable excuses or justifications will change that.
On occasion, one finds oneself immersed in dark waters; trouble.
Freyja Skjeggestad understands enough of human nature to perceive her morals; nor black nor white, but shades of grey. Most are darker than others, more prominent. Some are hardly noticeable, but the danger is still unmistakable. In hindsight, it should be said her morals are questionable, simply put. There is no wrong or right, for Freyja. Sides are of little importance, as the only side she cares for is her own. A selfish greedy little thing, with only her well-being in mind; she doesn’t partake in any activities if she is not gaining something out of it. Freyja is easily buyable, and that’s where the trouble is; her loyalty is not worth a penny, at the end of the day – Not if someone pays better for it. Betrayal is part of Freyja’s nature; it’s in her blood, her instinct. She is a Skjeggestad, after all, and leaving people behind is what they do best.
She remembers her childhood all too well.
It was a chilly November night when Bertrand Skjeggestad came running into his villa drenched from head to toe, pale and shaking in fear. The man’s steps were careful, not daring to disturb the ghostly silence plaguing the hallways, almost tangible. Droplets of water flowed down the glass panels, and particles of dust danced in the air when he opened the door of the master’s bedroom, relief apparent on his face. His darling wife sat on the blood-stained bed, trusted maids and guards watching the scene with wide eyes. In the woman’s eyes, disgust could be found. Gently, he retrieved the cold bundle from her arms, a finger touching a rosy cheek. “Oh, dearest Freyja,“ he whispered, ”look at the mess you’ve made.“
Freyja Alexandrine Skjeggestad shed no tears, during that chilly November night. No cries or whimpers left the newborn’s mouth, causing the assigned names and nurses to watch the baby with bated breath. Freyja, in turn, remained motionless, taking in her new surroundings. The heavy layer of silence was shattered only when morning came; a piercing cry woke staff and residents alike, all rushing to the nursery. “What a strange child,” some dared whisper, cowering and scattering when lady Astrid Skjeggestad entered the room, accompanied by her nurses. The child’s cries subsided when her mother picked her up, but there was no warmth in lady Astrid’s eyes when she gazed at her daughter.
”‘Tis just the Skjeggestad way, dearest,“ her mother clicked her tongue one evening when she saw tears being too well in Freyja’s eyes, her hand holding her daughter’s chin, nails breaking the skin. “You are a Skjeggestad, Freyja. Behave like one.”
There’s no love in a Skjeggestad’s household. Only money. And, oh, they had plenty of it. A fortune, enough to last for generations to come. Freyja was doted on and pampered all her life, given anything she could wish for. Clothes. Cars. Houses. Boats. Planes. People. With a snap of her fingers, the world could be hers. Or, it was what Freyja used to think. Her attitude was of a queen, thinking people should bend to their knees when she passed. “I’m going to inherit my father’s fortune,” she bragged, a smug smirk decorating her lips.
It is safe to say Freyja didn’t have many friends. The closest friend she had was Scott Connelly, the oldest son of her father’s right hand. They weren’t tight, but they would hang around often, and they had a silent agreement of having each other’s back, always. Scott stayed by her side even when her father sent her away, to study. The truth was, Freyja’s reputation was sinking her father’s stocks; her dalliances with random women, her drinking and drugs, and parties – It was not good for the company. She resided in countryside France for a year before she had to return home.
I can tell already you think I’m the dragon,
that would be so like me, but I’m not. I’m not the dragon.
I’m not the princess either.
When Bertrand Skjeggestad perishes, weak and fragile in his deathbed, he leaves behind a trail of sins. Deep ingrained in the walls of his luxurious Villa, in his office and company. He leaves behind the young and bewildered Freyja Skjeggestad, eyes glued to her father’s coffin. Next to her, Scott Connelly mops his brow with a kerchief, his face pale and devoid of emotion. He turns to her, glances at her fidgeting hand, the nails digging into the skin of her palms, and sighs. “You will take over with your mother,” he says, and Freyja can hear the tiredness in his tone, “it is what your father would want.” Lies, Freyja wants to reply, but the words die in her mouth at the glare her recently widowed mother shoots her way. Lips thinning together, Scott drags his eyes back to the coffin, but he scoots closer, his present and familiar warmth soothing. Freyja is truly thankful for the comfort, but she only voices her concerns when Scott pours her a glass of whiskey, later, when the walls of her father’s office suffocate her.
“He wouldn’t want me here,” she chuckles bitterly, warm fingers rounding her cold glass, clasping it in a futile attempt to ground herself. “He would want me to live my dandy life somewhere else, far from his empire.” She stands up, then, sitting on her father’s chair gracefully. ”Can you see it, Scotty?“ the man flinches when he sees the corner of her mouths twitching and curling into a smirk. Freyja lays her hands on the corners of the wooden table, and crosses her legs, leaning forward slightly. “Me. In charge of this whole company. Of his fortune.” Scott visibly gulps, tugging at the collar of his shirt before he downed the content of his glass “Oh, it is going to be marvellous. Marvellous, indeed.”
For a while I thought I was the dragon.
I guess I can tell you that now. And, for a while, I thought I was
the princess,
cotton candy pink, sitting there in my room, in the tower of the castle,
young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with
confidence
Freyja Alexandrine Skjeggestad was thrown to the wolves, then. Shoved into the spotlight with little guidance. They devoured her, tearing into her with their bare fangs, trying to find similarities between her and her father. The same striking green eyes carry madness in them, people would comment when all the corners of Ireland were flaunting pictures and speeches of th Skjeggestad daughter.
Freyja was only twenty, then, and the weight of her father’s empire left red angry marks on her shoulders. Her nervousness was not apparent by how she carried herself, how she held her head up. But it was there – the fear, anxiety, doubts, and darkness. She pushed it deep into the base of her spine, a place so dark it would unable to flourish under the sunlight. It threatened to rise, to shoot up her veins and consume her – But every time Freyja could taste its aphrodisiacal taste, she would swallow it back through the knots in her throat. She tried to keep the company together, tried to be good, do good. But the sins of her father flowed in the air, like mist. Freyja watched it move, breathed it into her lungs. It’s taste that of gold, cigarette ashes, of power. It poisoned her somewhat good intentions, rotting her already uncanny smile.
After, her own sins taint everything she touches. It tarnishes the family’s good name. Her father’s vanity and pride wrap around her skin, it crawls inside her bones, run through her veins. It changes her.
She has a penchant for violence, and she left a wake of destruction, dragging Scott down to hell with her. He warned her to not pick a fight with Thomas Wolff, but Freyja never knew how to chose her wars.
Freyja still remembers the sand in her mouth, filling her lungs. The throb of her head, and blood dripping – the darkness wanting to take over. There was not enough air, her ribs ached and heart barely beat, but all Freyja could care about was Scott. She held the cold body to her chest, strength slowly giving away. Scotty. There was no life in the man’s eyes, the gunshot piercing his heart. She clung to him for as longs as she could, until unconsciousness took over. She woke up to a bright light, a bandage covering her side, and dirt under her nails. The coppery taste of blood still lingered on her lips, and she had difficulty sitting up.
“Thought that shot would be the end of you, huh?” the strange doctor who nursed her back to life said, voice tired. “No. You are hard to kill, kiddo. There’s strength in you. Bullets and sand, and determination. And lives, here,” he taps her chest, just above her heart, “despite all, you still walk. The world hasn’t ended you, yet.”
She crawled out of the grave, healing from the torture and gunshot and the grief. It devastated her. Consumed her. Rage was a constant in her green eyes, during that year after Scott’s funeral. Despite surviving, something in Freyja died, that night. And eighteen months after Scott Connelly’s tragic death, Thomas Wolff was found dead in his apartment. Freyja spent an entire night washing the blood off her hands.
After, when years have passed and she stands in Manhattan, her mistakes behind her – She tips her head back, letting the cold rain hit her skin. Her eyes close, and Freyja breathes in deeply, holding the air in her lungs. It tastes of mist, of mud and wet grass — And new beginnings. Her mother moved the company to New York, and Freyja is all too happy to not be caught up in much of the business.
On occasion, one finds oneself immersed in trouble. It destroys, it burns, and it consumes – like flames, from a wildfire. When the fire dies out, a tempest is born. Such is the Skjeggestad way. They destroy everything in their path, simply for the joy of watching the world burn under their touch. Not the biggest fishes in the pond, the Skjeggestad’s, but the ones that stand brighter than most. Their money, their clothes, their glamour. They act as if they are gods. But there’s nothing divine about divinities, in the end. Freyja Skjeggestad is a poetically broken little thing. And oh, how she makes tragedy look so magnificent.
Okay, so I’m the dragon. Big deal.
You still get to be the hero.
Freyja Skjeggestad looks appetizing at first glance, but it takes only one bite to discover the horrendous pain she can inflict. Much like a ceramic fruit. Or a rotten one, painted with vivid colors to mimic something delicious. Perhaps not a good comparison, but one that gets the point across; Freyja Skjeggestad is a vile beautiful thing. Her smile, charming and kind – if at times cocky, serves only to hide the monster underneath. If one looks closely, its shadow can be seen dancing near the surface, threatening to break free. It shows in her smiles, always a tad too sharp; in her words, sounding honey-like but laced with sarcasm or hostility; in how she tantalizes women with empty promises of eternal love and fortune. She has no qualms about spilling blood, if necessary.
It is well known Freyja is a charmer, one that only truly cares about her own needs, her own pleasure and bank account. Her words are lies, that she mastered to lure poor souls to her bed or to sign business deals. She gloats over her enemies failures. And, at times, pull the rug out from under an ally. Of course, for as long as she is gaining something, Freyja can be fiercely loyal. That changes easily, however, if someone pays her better.
Freyja offers cheap thrills to please people; orgies in her penthouse, gambling in her casino, lavish parties with an abundance of sweet honeyed wine. Ecstasy. She pulls people so deeply into her mess, it becomes nearly impossible to crawl out. For her own delight, of course. Freyja adores attention, loves when all eyes are on her. She has an ego the size of the world, if not bigger. Her posture is of a queen, even when she is but a pawn in a game she doesn’t care for.
BULLET POINTS
With a short temper and high tolerance for pain, Freyja often finds herself in fights, not afraid of punching someone – or getting punched.
She is vain. Extremely so. The type who has a cane, wear silk robes, and sunbathes naked up in her penthouse.
Despite her cold personality, Freyja has some quirks and habits, that only who she trusts get to see; she flinches at noises, her eyes hurt when the lights are too bright, she often fidgets and squirm in the presence of a crowd, and many more.
Freyja hadn’t had many friends, and she still doesn’t have them. She keeps to herself, most of the time, preferring her own company than those of others.
However, with people she trusts, she dances between to lines with ease; she can be so quiet one moment no one would guess she was in the room, and in the next, she would be babbling a lot and being the light in the room.
Babbling is a thing she does a lot. She sometimes talks too fast, her words blending together and being barely understandable. Other times, she talks too slow, as if she needs to remember how a word is pronounced.
Which, does not match with her personality – But, most of the time she is talking about money or violence, which is more in character.
She can actually be sweet, she just chooses not to.
Freyja is the black sheep of the family; her mother is cruel, but she is not maniacal like Freyja. Her father, despite his many sins – mistresses, corruption, dirty money – wasn’t cruel, when he was alive.
Freyja betrayals people, a lot. It has gotten her in trouble more often than she would like to admit. Freyja definitely got stabbed a few times, and because of pure lucky she survived, and kept the daggers.
But truly, she is not a loyal person. The only person Freyja has ever been loyal to is herself and those who she deems a good friend.
She is pretentious, but cunning.
Is always watching and studying people.
Says fuck and darling a lot.
Has some scars she hides, some she shows with pride.
She lives to annoy and piss people off.
Honestly, she just wants to drink wine and watch hell break loose.
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