The First Age

Through the door and down the hallway to the elevator, Hood was the picture perfect gentleman. One large hand carefully rested over hers on his raised arm, although his palm was far too warm and calloused for the sort of fellow that frequented these sorts of parties. Of course, the forearm under the well tailored, and very expensive, suit didn't fit with the local crowd either.

He couldn't help but laugh at the thought of him being 'right at home' at the apartment they were headed to. He'd visited it before arriving at the party, and what Mr Talanov considered to be little more then a conveniently close-to-work bed he could use on late work nights was far too extravagant for his tastes.

"Ketchup. Yeah, I think that's the guy."
He glanced down at her, then shrugged at her apparent confusion, "Heinz. Heinz ketchup. Ketchup. That tomato paste stuff folks put on french fries and burgers?"
Her rather strategic use of her natural assets were entirely distracting, such to the point that he almost didn't notice how long it took for the elevator to reach their floor.

He stood staring into the open elevator for a long moment, as if listening or watching for something, but when nothing caught his attention he stepped in without any further hesitation. "I offered you my business card once, remember? But little miss beautiful doesn't carry a purse when she goes clubbing. I am a..." he plucked a card from the breast pocket of his suit and looked at the title for a moment as if to remind himself. What was written there made him smirk, "A 'security analyst and adviser.' Heh. Get a kick out of that one."


"Dominance 1's premier up-and-coming private security company. I haven't climbed the ladder as far as you, my dear, but then again, I've never been much of one for the spotlight."
The elevator did stop a few times at random floors, but after the second stop it continued to the lobby without further trouble. Of course, the lobby in turn revealed to be quite the commotion. The reds and blues of police headlights lit the windows, and a few of the guests of the party waited impatiently, building security unwilling to let anyone leave until the police had finished with whatever they were up to outside.

"So you like the suit? Drats. I'll have to buy a suit bag for it then. Probably shouldn't take it to my regular dry cleaner either."
He frowned down at the suit; this thing was going to be quite the hassle, apparently. He grinned at her again, and once the doors were opened wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led the way out.

The police had all made their departure, and various party goers made their way to their waiting limos and fancy sports cars. Hood of course had arrived by cab, but it wasn't like he didn't have a backup plan in the works. A staff car of Pervaya Security rolled up past the line of waiting expensive vehicles, much to the anger of the already flustered valets. With the excitement of the Chief Inspector's high-profile arrest, the remaining reporters and paparazzi were gone to try and get the best deal for their pictures.

It pulled to a stop and a man that, at first glance, may not seem so different from Hoodj other then the darker skin stepped out to open the door for Hood and Spectra, nodding curtly to the pair, "White. Miss Lin. A pleasure."
His accent was subtle, but there was still a hint of his British roots.

"Koloman. Perfect timing as usual. Transport didn't make a big issue of this?"
Hood stepped aside to let Spectra climb into the car first, offering his hand to help her in, his eyes on her the whole time he spoke with his friend.

"No. The boss didn't have an issue with it. Miss Lin is a very high profile individual, after all. No offense, Miss Lin, but business is business, as I'm sure you understand."
Koloman nodded to the pair when Hood climbed in and closed the door. He was a rather fit man, so the extra effort needed to close the door went unnoticed. Needless to say, the car was more then stylish. It was functional as well. Armoured plates, improved shocks, puncture-resistant tires, the usual.

Koloman took his place riding shotgun, and the vehicle's driver pulled away from the curb while one of the valet's subtly flipped them the bird before getting back to work.

The staff car, an Audi SUV, sported a glass partition between the driver and the passengers, much like a common limo. Instead of the entirely lavish interior she was likely used to, however, Pervaya was a security company first and foremost. Hood shrugged out of his coat and suit jacket before climbing into the car, and once in he slid open a hidden compartment built into the seat back, revealing a pair of compact SMGs and, more importantly, his shoulder harness and revolver, which were slid on with a sound much like a long held breath being released. "Finally. Felt naked all night."


Continued here: A Quiet Night In


Edited by Hood, Jun 23 2015, 08:55 PM.

There was a thick wall of power, lust, and exhilaration separating Jaxen from any desire at all to talk things over, but Oriena's mocking scampered right over the top. But her gibe didn't sting. In fact, at that moment, gripping her wrists, flooded with power, and nearly ripped apart body and soul, there was nothing that could crack his abundant modesty. Not at a moment when he was entirely in possession of another human being who'd fought him off all night. "It couldn't have hurt,"
his answer licked hot in her ear between breaths, accompanied by a smile from that incredibly pretty face that no doubt carried the first drink to begin with.

He woke cool and comfortable. The fibers of a silken sheet flung aimlessly across his body. He stretched his cares away - not that he had any cares - and powered the morning system to life with the graze of a few fingers against the wall. His tastes were modern and minimalist, but they were sleek about it. The windows untinted themselves at the call, and a view of the Moscow skyline, river and city glittered in the morning sun. He scratched at his wildly tousled hair, and took in the view for a good moment. This was a much more preferable sort of morning than others of late.

He found himself a pair of lounging pants, cinched them low on his waist, and made to investigate the apartment for the presence of coffee.

Oh yeah, and Oriena.

He found both in the same place.

Ori leaned against a kitchen counter, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, feet still bare. After showering she’d donned last night’s dress, the conservatism of its cut making sense in morning’s light, like she’d planned the necessity for duality. Dark hair rippled down one shoulder, mostly dry, and a half-finished cup of coffee nestled between both palms. Without makeup her youth was blatant, but the cynicism of faded blue eyes robbed her of any sense of innocence. She was studying the newly revealed skyline and did not immediately look round, though she heard the telltale pad of footsteps. Behind her, the coffee pot was still mostly full, and from wherever she had found her own cup she’d retrieved another. The generosity came with no cost, despite the pissy game she’d played back at Kallisti. She didn’t appear to acknowledge she’d done it.

Beds belonging to strangers, frayed couches, cold floors, impersonal hostels. She’d spent so many years rootless, even after having acquired bricks and mortar of her own, that the awkwardness of invading another’s private space didn’t touch her conscience, and her morning routines had been leisurely rather than furtive. She’d clearly been up some time, and was just as comfortable with the solitude as company. “Morning.”
The flicker of her smile was a conspiratorially smug tease, though she wasn’t looking for a connection; it was just a transparent glimpse into her mood.

She preferred Jaxen genuinely dishevelled to the artful nonchalance of his preened appearance. It was more honest, and she always preferred a man stripped bare to his visceral nature, even when what it revealed was an ugly soul. An appreciative gaze ran the length of him, tempting her to run a finger along the jut of his hip and tangle into that devilishly low waistband. She didn’t. He’d been right when he’d retorted that his looks and charm hadn’t hurt. They still didn’t. But Jaxen’s wicked jack-o’-lantern smile hadn’t been enough on its own to tether her to the Privilege’s party, once he’d wandered off to indulge his own brand of socialising. She'd stayed because of what he was. Now, her curiosity had been sated, and he had another notch carved into his bedpost. She doubted whatever was left of passion’s after-ashes was of interest to either of them.

For that reason she made no attempt at strained conversation. Her mood was as mellow as the soft filter of morning light streaming into the apartment, leaving her docile as a cat stretched out on a sun-soaked porch. She didn’t care if what little sleep he’d caught had been restful; she didn’t care what plans he had for the day. Given what she had gleaned of Jaxen’s character, she presumed the lack of concern was mutual without taking offense. “Your tattoo. It’s kind of ironic.”

A beautiful woman in his kitchen. Waiting to offer him fresh coffee. He could get used to this. He took the cup with a smirk. At least in theory.

The warmth exuded from his throat outward. Damn it felt good. He felt good.

He arched and stretched, eyes pinched with the glorious pain of a morning-after. He savored the coffee. And as he leaned against the counter alongside Oriena, the spoils as well.

"Morning."
His answer swirled with the hiss of siphoning hot coffee across his lips.

He was all kinds of prepared to arrange for a taxi to bear the burden of taking her somewhere. After the shock wore off that she was still here, at least. So he folded his arms over his chest and stared blankly into the view. The horizon was peppered with buildings, but from the height, the city sprawled squat and insignificant beyond. Except for how fucking much of it there was. Part of him yearned to dip his fingers in water. Or squash blades of grass beneath his back. Mumbai - with its smog and shit up to his ears - had been hell for the sixteen year old kid he used to be. Hell, but still better than military school.

Her comment tarnished the taste of cold, damp air from the tip of his tongue.

He looked to her, then to his shoulder. The skeleton was there as always, but soaked in morning sun, seemed to glitter and curl all the more perverse. A serpent dipped in honey.

No shit, Sherlock.

"That's kind of the point."
A snarl curled his lip despite himself, until Jaxen smothered it with a long drink of coffee. He didn't ask why she'd pointed out the obvious. Perhaps it was the topic of conversation. Maybe the muddling direction his mind sought in the horizon. But the tension clashed like iron bars snapping inside, and he needed gratification not to come from pillow-talk.

When he put the coffee aside, a radiant circle of heat glowed the white marble a pale pink beneath the cup. It would keep the temperature perfect while his hands were busy elsewhere. He may be eager, but there was no point wasting a cup of good coffee by letting it grow cold.

He turned on Oriena, picked her up and popped her on the marble - her dress pushed up the length of her thighs, and when he pressed into her, hunger quickened his heartbeat. He chased his palms around her waist, and easily held her against his.

Short as it had been, the sleep had freed his mind from last night's bleary deceptions. Last night, he was teasing and flirtatous; his fingers graceful and generous. Now, all the electricity he held back surfaced. His grip stung, his mind turned, sharp and intent as the eyes locked onto hers.


<small>((Oriena moded with permission))</small>
Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Feb 3 2014, 05:10 PM.

The snake thing, it was a tender wound, and once reminded of exactly how delicately he regarded the ink on his arm Ori revelled in the offense. The curl of his lips softened a smirk to her own, and sparked fire in the placidity of her gaze. The amusement at his grievance was genuine; on anyone else the expression would have been radiant, but on her it was shadowed by cruelty. She laughed at him, slid the remains of her coffee back on the counter, ready to leave.

She hadn’t been thinking about his fears when she’d spoken, or his reasons for the tattoo. She wasn’t predisposed to pay much heed to such a detail of a person’s psyche until the moment its memory benefited her – because it did file away somewhere, waiting until the knowledge twisted victims through her fingers, eking out retribution like girls played with ribbons. The darkening of his mood was just an incidental byproduct of the answers she’d been digging for, but one that was strangely pleasing. They’d been playing a silly game in a corner of her club, numbed by vodka, fired by lust. He thought she’d even remember how he’d bared his soul to strangers? How fucking cute.

The violent seize of his hands took her by surprise, flashing cautionary ire but little resistence. At the same time an unanticipated deluge of reactionary power flooded her system, then died, sending a shiver of tingles down to her toes and a sharp outlet of breath from her lips. She could have denied him, but that he knew it was half the fun of acquiescing to his possessive nature. Her fingers gripped the edge of the countertop, eyes half hooded but locked on his. His gaze was sharp, his grasp hard enough to bloom bruises. She'd bear the brunt of his frustrations wickedly, but she wasn't done cajoling his darker side, nor teasing out the discord until it sang a pretty tune. “That isn’t why it’s ironic.”



Edited by Oriena, Feb 3 2014, 07:21 PM.

If Oriena really wanted to shove him off, she might have had a decent chance at success. When chills pimpled his chest, a dangerous curiosity layered his gaze with daring. She did nothing obvious, anyway, and Jaxen had to consider the extent of her skills. He did not much like the idea that she had this advantage on him. But that didn't mean he couldn't make up the deficit in other, more profane ways.

His chest began to heave with the growing exertion. Jaxen took immense pleasure in the way her fingers curled against the marble. Her tolerance fueled the velvet viciousness of his smile. And it trickled into the cut of a gaze. Hungering to pull the slick sound of his name from her lips.

His legs were tense, his feet firmly planted on the floor. Everything in him was coiled to strike, wound near to snapping, but he held himself back, concentrating on the balance of her weight against him. Though there was nothing tender in the effort. No fingers brushed the hair from her face, though they ached to tangle a fistful until she cringed. No lips grazed cherished skin, though he'd considered sending her to her knees rather than spreading her legs. Oriena may have the power's advantage at her fingertips, but the savagery in Jaxen that showed itself said the asymmetry wouldn't be forever. Someday he'd make sure she agreed.

He even deigned to carry on the conversation. But only to appreciate her whispered struggle for words between her heated breaths. "And why is that?"
He replied, darkened jaw tense with shadows.

Streams of morning light gilded everything in soft gold halos, but her world was dark. The pitch of Jaxen’s gaze centred the fury in her chest, blurring the volatility of lust and violence seamlessly. She’d intended provocation, and his viciousness keened her sense of war. To win this battle with her, to win any battle with her, he would have to try far harder than the futility of imposing submission. Force won nothing from Ori, nothing she was not prepared to give; it only fortified the blunt edge of her offense, urged her to shove back until something snapped. The casualty would be him.

Her fingers dug in like the marble might yield under her grip, and the muscles strained tight up her arm. She didn’t crave intimacy, nor the spark of a connection, and though the line of her gaze remained unbroken there was a disconnect. A masochistic smirk tugged her lips, when her expression did not ripple between the duality of pleasure and pain. She made no efforts to be quiet, apparently genuine in her ardour, though he must have realised by now her predisposition to put on a good show. Whether a voyeuristic view into something he was no more part of than physicality demanded or a fabrication to spite his brutality, she withheld the only thing he wanted.

His question prompted no swift answer, though it did usher darkness into her expression. She didn’t consider it her responsibility to educate him; she’d only wanted to ascertain if she needed to be guarded once she’d left his apartment - and she had suspected yes, his ignorance now confirmed. A sensible person would be cautious anyway, but she’d seen the cracks constant fear left in the strongest of veneers. She would not fear. Jaxen would learn or he wouldn’t. Someone had obviously cared enough to teach him not to kill himself, but had neglected to warn him against the snakes that hunted their kind. They had been one of the first things Cara had imparted.

“Because.”
The words were breathy, laboured, and she was in no rush to string together a sentence. She might have said nothing, and she’d have had a legitimate excuse, but intent armed her tongue. A devilish spark. He was savage, self-centred, vicious; the perfect vessel to arm with something to hate. “You’re afraid.”
A smile, cut by a bite to the lip. He revelled in his distraction. Punished her for his own obliviousness. And she was teasing his ignorance in turn, no doubt about it, but she also couldn’t have spoken cleanly even if she’d wanted to. “You’re afraid of the wrong snakes.”


Spoken frustratingly obliquely, and with a malicious smile. She wondered how long it’d take him to make sense of it – to realise their kind had predators. Ask nicely and she’d offer answers, such as she had, but she doubted he’d make it so easy on himself. When he was done, she drew back a leg and pressed a foot to the flat of his stomach to push him off. Not that she expected him to fold into her, but sometimes men did that like weakness robbed strength from their legs. “My cab should be here by now.”

Jaxen didn't overlook the fact that the woman he was fucking was insulting him, but he was in no hurry to talk about it despite the way it made him grit his teeth. His focus was too divided otherwise.

But the way she was looking at him! Like she dared him to speak the truth one way or another. Who was really fucking who, here? The epiphany magnified the severity of his grip, a magnifying glass that focused a mere ray of sunlight into a flesh-shredding laser.

Oh, Oriena was enjoying herself. She made no effort to disguise it. Perhaps she made it a little too obvious? Suspicion festered. And the two of them together were twin assassins circling one another in the dark, both waiting for the merest breech in the shield before striking a killing blow.

Her showmanship wrenched questions all the way back to Kallisti. He'd danced his heart out. He'd paraded himself for her judgement. He'd been whimsy to her games: a prancing thief pulled to her strings.

The resentment seared his bones white-hot. Of course, he finished in good-time and at his own pace. The irony of it was not lost either, but the thought that a woman would hope he'd hurry and get it over with didn't split his determination for the goal. He wanted her again. So he was going to fucking take her.

Bubbles of bitterness slid through the rapture of success like oil in water. But Oriena was quick to cut his pride short. The sole of her foot against his freshly slicked chest literally shoved him backward. Graceful steps kept his balance but he strongly considered to punish with his own, more violent, retaliation.

Instead, he grabbed a hand-towel and chucked it at her lap. The smirk that came with it was a reminder of which of them was going to ride home with a reminder of the other between their legs. Unless she showered again. Doubtful she'd be interested in sticking around that long. "Wipe yourself off, sweetheart,"
he gloated, dark eyes gleaming victory.

Jaxen was not above abasing himself for a long-term goal when the need suited him. Despite the flesh-wounds Oriena's barbs inflicted, like nails biting into his back, the suspect of potential ignorance was too much for him to overcome. As he watched her slither from the counter, he took up sentry near the door, arms folded across his chest. "You ever going to tell me what you mean? Or keep up with the cute little euphemisms?"


Either way, he wouldn't give her the satisfaction of pleading for help.


Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Feb 5 2014, 08:53 AM.

He was offended.

She didn’t quite realise it until the look on his face when she pushed him away. Poor little rich boy receiving some of his own medicine? And not liking the taste, apparently. Pure vitriol blanked the lines of his face. Without the armour of her gift, she might have had cause to fear the casual violence promised in the dark of his eyes. But when he chucked the cloth, it was with childish spite. Because she poked a few jabs at his ignorance? Because she didn’t swoon under his attentions? It was probably inappropriate, but she laughed; not, this time, out of abject cruelty, but in amused surprise that he was so god damn sensitive. Whatever type of woman he was used to, whatever type of woman he was judging her against, his expectations continued to fall short. She’d offered no pretence as to her nature; he’d known full well what manner of creature he invited into his bed.

“Precious little flower. Did I bruise your ego?”
She hadn’t imagined it’d be so easy to hook frustration under his skin, and a measure of satisfaction released the grip of her claws. She purred the words. He was delicious to play with, but she wasn’t in it for the kill, just the game. Once mollified, she’d lick the wounds she inflicted, unapologetic – knowing full well she’d only rip them open again later. She touched where his fingers had knifed her side like a vice, and smirked at the tenderness. “It only makes us even.”


The towel was thoughtful enough, if venomously meant. The insult left her unfazed. Given the circumstances, she wasn’t in a sentimental mood. Growing up in the shit-hole streets of Moscow, she’d suffered worse backlashes of disregard. She slipped down from the counter, left it obscenely beside her empty coffee cup. Oriena was poison, and he’d do better to kick her out the door rather than spar words with her. But she had no intention of withholding information from him, if he asked for it; had no reason to. She understood the currency of knowledge, and knew that sometimes there was value to offering it freely. She might be a relentless tease, but she very rarely fell short of actually delivering – though she might insist on a little effort or exact a little recompense.

His lack of faith in her integrity was insulting, blocking the door like he thought his physical presence would be enough to stop her leaving if she chose too. She indulged the attempt at intimidation, insofar as she did not grasp at a defence. Or an offence. The temptation shivered under her skin, though, to test herself against him. For all she knew, he already burned with the power and she was oblivious to whatever trouble she walked into with every step closer. She almost hoped he was crazy enough to try.

“Think I’m going to run?”
Her hands snaked up his shoulders, brushed his neck, ignorant of the shield his arms made across his chest. Casually possessive. You think you could stop me? She touched him because she thought he might detest the intimacy after the crass disregard they showed each other, because his skin might still hum with sensitivity, because she enjoyed fucking with him. But it was only an intrusive second before she withdrew, running a finger along the line of his jaw. “There’s no need to pout. You didn’t exactly give me the opportunity to explain.”
Wickedness lit her gaze, but she didn't smile.

She stepped back, folding her own arms, turning her back to pace. Bluntness marked her words. She didn’t colour them anything pretty. “People like us, we have enemies. They hunt us like fucking dogs.”
She remembered Cara; the tense paranoia, the hollow-eyed caution. And she remembered the brittle crunch of fingers, the acrid stench of burned flesh. It tightened impotent rage in her gut until she felt sick. Worse was the memory of running. Of real, gut-wrenching fear. The day she discovered she was not invincible. The day she discovered the gift of power was not always there. She turned, drew a nail against her wrist. “They mark themselves with snakes, and you’d better fucking hope they haven’t found a reason to watch you.”
Cold disgust cut sharp on her tongue, for once not aimed at him. She stamped it down, though it froze tension in her shoulders. “Whoever taught you enough not to kill yourself did a shit job of filling in the other details huh.”
Or you were a shit student. A grim smirk forced out the hard line of her mouth, followed by a shrug.

His ego could take quite the beating before he really acted on it. Come on. Revenge was such a strong word. Getting even was the cleaner style. Like chucking a towel at a wet ... his smirk twisted with the rest of that happy thought.

And then she was all affection and kisses. For half a heartbeat, Jax thought she might hit more below the belt, so to speak, but like usual, she was just fucking with him. There might be a pattern to this. Well, he let her run her hands all over him. If that's what she really wanted. It took her long enough to start spitting it out though. Apparently she did want to be cute, after all.

People like them were hunted like dogs. Right. By big gorillas with straightjackets, no doubt. So long as they shoot him up to his eyeballs with drugs first, Jaxen wasn't too bothered by the idea. A nice quiet padded room to himself. Three square meals a day. Didn't sound too bad. There are worse fates. He darkened.

What caught his attention that maybe Oriena wasn't just fucking with him again, were the shadows that crept across her expression. Revulsion or foreboding he expected, unease and anxiety he did not.

He paid closer attention after that. Not just to her words, but to the cues in her body language to judge against her in the future. Knowing Oriena's 'tells' were worth their weight in gold. Since now he had to assume they'd cross paths again after today.

Arms still crossed, he crossed his heels at the ankle and tipped a shoulder against a column. The slight against his teacher bounced from a flat regard. Tony maybe fell in the camp of a teacher. Nobody knew where Mickey fell. Though the guy did drag him out of the dungeons. Jaxen supposed that was worth something. But for the most part, the only one looking out for Jaxen was himself.

"What's that mean? Are people like us in some sort of club I missed out on?"
He shook his head. He didn't care much for the answer. His mind was already turning a hundred possibilities. More to the point, she hit a nerve. He had been followed lately. He didn't recall seeing anyone with a snake on their wrist. He was unlikely to have overlooked the kind of detail had he seen one - fucking snakes - but winter and long sleeves didn't make it easy to check.

He assumed it had to do with Baccarat. The cannibal got to him at just the right time, puking his brains out behind a dumpster makes a guy kind of vulnerable. Then White appeared in the dungeon, genuinely surprised to see him there. It was all connected. Jaxen only had to find out how.

If he slipped into brooding thought, Jaxen snapped out of it suddenly. A loud snap and he clapped his hands and rubbed them together below a playful smile. "I had a wonderful evening. Thank-you for the pleasure of your company."
His grin mocked chivalry, and he stepped gingerly from the door.

If he thought himself one of the dogs hunted by these snakes, he didn't warn Oriena to watch her back when she left the building. She was a big girl. She could take care of herself.
Edited by Jaxen Marveet, Feb 6 2014, 08:27 PM.