#˗ˏˋ queue . ››› 𝙱𝙰𝙱𝚈𝙶𝙸𝚁𝙻𝙸𝙵𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝚃𝙾𝚇𝙸𝙲 𝙵𝙰𝚅𝙴𝚂 .

[felinoir-a]

𝙰𝙲𝙲𝚄𝚂𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽,   𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙾𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙼𝙴𝙽𝚃,   𝙽𝙰𝚄𝚂𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙻𝚈   𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙴𝙾𝚄𝚂   𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝙶𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽.   The   Cat   is   painfully   familiar   with   the   tone   heroes   use   when   faced   with   the   bad   behavior   of   someone   they   thought   better   of.   They'd   think   she   was   something   she   was   not,   she'd   do   something   true   to   her   nature,   then   she'd   be   the   bad   guy   —   the   villain   who   burst   their   rose   tinted   bubble.   Like   it   was   her   fault   for   not   living   up   to   the   image   in   their   heads   of   what   Felicia   Hardy   should   be.

𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐁𝐀𝐓   𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃   𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐄   𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐑   𝐃𝐈𝐃.

❝      Saw   something   I   liked.      ❞   Her   teeth   were   painfully   bright   against   the   inky   paint   of   her   lipstick,   neck   and   wrists   laden   with   glittering   jewels   and   precious   metals.   The   Black   Cat   had   feigned   domesticity,   doing   her   best   impression   of   Gotham's   resident   feline,   in   order   to   slip   past   the   guard   of   the   city's   dark   guardian.   She   was   a   cooperative,   playful   ally     —   all   flirtatious   demeanor   and   witty   repartee,   while   waiting   to   take   advantage   of   an   opportunity.   An   opportunity   that   was   afforded   to   her   by   the   Bat,   so   truly,   it's   partially   his   fault   too.

❝      What?   You   had   it   all   under   control   and   I   had   to   liberate   these   beauties.      ❞  

@crimefightr asked : felicia, what were you thinking ?!

[felinoir-a]

@proofwhisky

[felinoir-a]

𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝚆𝙰𝚂   𝙰   𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙾𝙽   𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙲𝙴𝚂   𝙾𝙵   𝙽𝙰𝚃𝚄𝚁𝙴   𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝙰𝙻𝚆𝙰𝚈𝚂   𝙵𝙴𝙼𝙰𝙻𝙴.   She   was   no   Shelby   or   Peaky   Blinder,   but   the   Black   Cat   excelled   at   making   friends   in   very   low   places   and   when   one   of   the   neighborhood   children   had   informed   her   that   her   boys   —   two   men   who   were   practically   her   blood,   practically   an   extension   of   herself   —   had   been   forced   into   cars   notably   belonging   to   the   King   of   Small   Heath   .   .   .   Mad   enough   to   spit   nails   had   been   a   severe   understatement   of   her   mood.   Her   mood   only   blackened   further   with   each   step   down   Watery   Lane,   the   thunderstorm   contained   within   her   body   only   gathering   more   momentum   with   each   gunshot   loud   strike   of   her   heels.  

    Relations   had   cooled   into   an   arctic   chill   between   Thomas   Shelby   and   Felicia   Hardy,   an   unfortunate   byproduct   of   that   fateful   night   nearly   two   months   ago.   She   had   made   it   her   personal   mission   to   avoid   Tommy   and   his   entire   family,   a   feat   made   all   the   more   difficult   by   the   reports   of   the   former's   temper   fouling   seemingly   by   the   day.   His   apparent   inability   to   manage   his   own   emotions   was   not   her   problem,   regardless   of   the   pleading   eyes   his   younger   brothers   may   direct   her   way   at   the   local   market   and   the   messages   passed   through   her   maids.   But   this   was   beyond   the   pale,   even   for   him.

    The   men   at   the   door   moved   out   of   her   way,   whether   due   to   reputation   or   the   thunderous   look   on   her   face,   and   the   tall   blonde   stomped   into   the   betting   house   —   verdant   eyes   afixed   in   a   bloodcurdling   glare   and   lips   twisted   into   a   furious   sneer.   She   couldn't   locate   her   quarry,   but   Polly   stood   tall   and   met   her   gaze   with   an   amused,   knowing   twinkle,   before   the   older   woman   pointed   to   the   back   of   the   betting   area   towards   a   room   with   two   shut   doors.  

    𝐈𝐅   𝐇𝐄   𝐇𝐀𝐃   𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍   𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍,   𝐇𝐄   𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃   𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄   𝐈𝐓.

    Even   with   the   hoods   over   their   faces,   Felicia   would   know   Bruno   Grainger   and   Boris   Korpse   in   the   dark,   in   a   sea   of   other   bodies.   Childhood   friends   turned   wartime   penpals   and   confidantes   turned   partners   in   crime,   those   two   men   were   closer   than   family   and   to   see   them   bound   to   chairs   like   common   rabble?   Some   women   are   resplendent   in   their   anger,   but   she   knew   she   was   something   closer   to   monstrous     —   fair   skin   mottled   and   splotched   a   furious   pink,   hair   frizzing   even   with   copious   products   and   pins,   full   lips   pulled   wide   to   bare   her   teeth.   A   vicious   hiss   escaped,   a   deft   hand   pulling   the   dagger   from   under   her   skirts   and   making   short   work   of   the   bindings   at   their   wrists   and   feet.  

    Both   men   hopped   up   with   a   glare,   flinging   the   hoods   to   the   ground,   but   Felicia   shook   her   head,   lips   pursed   tight.   Her   back   was   to   the   mastermind   behind   this   whole   charade,   who   was   standing   behind   his   desk   with   an   ever   present   cigarette   in   hand.   The   thief   quietly   requested   that   the   men   return   to   the   brownstone   she   was   calling   home   and   to   wait   for   her   there,   turning   on   their   heels   after   a   moment   of   searching   both   her   face   and   the   face   of   the   man   behind   her,   the   face   of   the   man   responsible   for   their   kidnapping   and   questioning.   She'd   waited   until   the   double   doors   had   closed   behind   them   and   remained   shut   for   several   moments,   hands   clenching   and   unclenching   as   breath   was   forcefully   exhaled.

    The   tall   blonde   rounded   on   the   man,   a   silent   wraith   as   she   approached   and   entered   his   space     —   nose   brushing   nose,   barely   a   whisper   of   space   between   their   chests.   Enflamed   celadon   clashed   with   frosty   azure,   a   moment   frozen   in   time   in   which   his   stoicism   only   served   to   further   fuel   the   fires   of   her   outrage.   It   was   a   potent   cocktail   of   indignation,   impulsivity,   and   her   cursed   attraction   to   Tommy   Shelby   that   had   Felicia   Hardy   reaching   to   grip   the   back   of   his   neck   and   take   his   mouth   for   her   own.

    𝑳𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈   𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒌.   𝑻𝒉𝒆   𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒔   𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅.   𝑨   𝒈𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕   𝒘𝒂𝒗𝒆   𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈   𝒕𝒐   𝒑𝒖𝒍𝒍   𝒉𝒆𝒓   𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓.   That   first   press   of   his   lips   against   her   own   felt   like   a   livewire   pressed   to   every   nerve   ending   in   her   body,   a   gasp   mercifully   muffled   between   them   and   disguised   by   the   grasping   fingers   tightening   in   his   dark   hair.   Tommy   shuddered   before   responding   voraciously   in   kind.   Large,   callused   hands   slid   over   the   expensive   wool   and   fur   of   her   coat,   making   short   work   of   dispensing   of   it   and   throwing   it   across   his   desk.   An   arm   clasped   tightly   at   her   waist,   pulling   hips   to   hips   and   chest   to   chest,   the   other   hand   cupping   her   jaw   with   fingers   tangling   in   wintry   strands.

    But   then   blunt   teeth   bit   into   his   lower   lip,   drawing   a   tiny   pearl   of   blood   and   the   fingers   that   were   tangled   in   his   hair   wrenched   backwards   —   pulling   greedy   mouths   away   from   one   another   so   that   she   could   stare   him   down.

    ❝      If   you   ever   pull   this   shit   again   with   people   I   love,   I   will   slice   you   open   from   your   chin   to   your   cock.      ❞

    Felicia   made   no   effort   to   pull   away,   heart   hammering   in   her   chest   and   veins   thrumming   from   the   heady   pairing   of   anger   and   potent   desire.   Her   lips   were   swollen   and   lipstick   smeared,   hair   mussed   from   his   fingers,   but   her   eyes   were   flinty.   A   moment   of   weakness   on   her   part,   but   it   likely   served   her   purpose.  

    ❝      Any   questions   you   have   relating   to   my   boys   and   my   business,   you   can   direct   to   me.   Do   we   have   an   understanding,   Mr.   Shelby?      ❞

@proofwhisky + a  kiss  as  a  warning.

[felinoir-a]

𝙰   𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷   𝙵𝚄𝙻𝙻   𝙾𝙵   𝚁𝙰𝚉𝙾𝚁𝚂   𝙰𝙽𝙳   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙲𝙻𝙸𝙲𝙺   𝙾𝙵   𝙰   𝙷𝙰𝙼𝙼𝙴𝚁   𝚆𝙴𝚁𝙴   𝙷𝙸𝚂   𝙰𝙽𝚂𝚆𝙴𝚁.   Cats   are   an   elegant   species   that   often   preferred   the   neatest   solutions   to   their   problems,   but   certain   situations   called   for   examples   to   be   made.   Something   about   Gotham's   smog   thick   air   heated   her   blood   to   boiling,   drawing   out   a   viciousness   that   didn't   exist   on   the   other   side   of   the   river   in   New   York.   On   edge,   short   on   patience,   temper   frayed—  

𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃   𝐘𝐎𝐔   𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓   𝐀   𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅   𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋   𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐘   𝐂𝐀𝐓?

❝      You   really   wanna   make   that   bet,   Red?      ❞   Slitted   pupils   blown   wide   and   head   cocked   to   the   side,   the   Black   Cat   was   nothing   but   taut,   lethal   lines   and   malicious   intent.   The   explosion   had   seared   her   skin   through   the   suit,   leather   clinging   painfully   to   rapidly   welting   skin,   but   the   grip   on   the   .44   Magnum   didn't   waiver.   She'd   risked   her   skin   for   this   damn   job   and   she   sure   as   shit   wouldn't   be   letting   a   cocky   upstart   in   a   stupid   helmet   separate   her   from   her   prize.     ❝      Because   I   can   guarantee,   you   aren't   lucky   enough   to survive   playing   with   me.      ❞     

@batagonist asked : you're not going to shoot me.

[felinoir-a]

𝚃𝙾   𝙱𝙴   𝙾𝙽   𝙰   𝙻𝙴𝙰𝚂𝙷   𝙸𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝙵𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙴𝚂𝚃   𝙵𝙰𝚃𝙴   𝙵𝙾𝚁   𝙰   𝙵𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴.   Millenia   of   instinct   screamed   at   the   affront,   nailbeds   itching   with   the   urge   to   slit   and   slice   and   claw   for   the   independence   she   so   craved.   The   agents   knew   from   the   force   of   the   baleful   citrine   stare   and   the   random,   spontaneous   failures   of   the   security   of   her   cell   that   the   Black   Cat   would   be   a   problem   sooner   rather   than   later.   It's   why   the   explosive   chip   pressed   against   the   base   of   her   skull   was   checked   several   times   each   week   to   ensure   it   remained   operational,   for   the   bad   luck   that   clung   to   her   as   a   second   skin   seemed   to   degrade   the   electronics   keeping   her   tame   at   an   unpredictable   rate.

𝐍𝐄𝐖   𝐘𝐎𝐑𝐊'𝐒   𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍   𝐎𝐅   𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄,   𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐄𝐃   𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄   𝐀   𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐎𝐍   𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐄𝐓.  

❝      Want   some?   Look   like   you   need   it   as   much   as   me.      ❞   Snowy   hair   was   slicked   back   and   matted   with   some   sort   of   goop,   cheek   purpling,   bits   of   flesh   still   caught   underneath   her   claws   as   the   Cat   offered   the   pilfered   flask   to   the   other   blonde.   Their   keepers   were   somewhere   else   on   the   godforsaken   base,   leaving   a   rare   moment   of   freedom   for   the   two.   She   had   found   the   flask   on   the   mutilated   body   of   a   mercenary,   the   cheap   rye   whiskey   burning   a   welcome   hole   into   her   stomach.   ❝      Just   a   little   secret   between   us   girls,   hm?      ❞  

♡ @crimeloyalty

[felinoir-a]

❝         𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚂𝙴   𝙸𝙼𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙽𝚃𝚂   𝙾𝚁   𝙰𝚁𝙴   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝙹𝚄𝚂𝚃   𝙷𝙰𝙿𝙿𝚈   𝚃𝙾   𝚂𝙴𝙴   𝙼𝙴?      ❞   There   were   few   people   and   few   creatures   that   were   spared   the   acidity   of   her   tongue   and   the   brunette   was   no   different.   She   wouldn't   have   even   stopped   and   spared   him   a   glance,   one   mark   among   a   sea   of   others   in   the   big   city,   if   not   for   the   unmistakable   aura   of   otherness     —   cemented   further   by   the   peek   of   fangs   between   his   lips.

    𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋,   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋   𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐄   𝐎𝐅   𝐇𝐈𝐒   𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐓   𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋   𝐁𝐀𝐃.

    ❝      Oh,   honey   .   .   .      ❞   Pale   brows   arched   upwards   as   she   pulled   out   a   ten   dollar   frozen   yogurt   gift   card   and   a   five   dollar   bill,   ignoring   the   expired   buy   one   get   one   fast   food   coupons,   nary   a   credit   card   or   debit   card   in   sight.     Felicia   normally   stuck   to   picking   the   pockets   of   Wall   Street   assholes,   but   boredom   gets   the   best   of   everyone   on   occasion   and   she   had   decided   to   mingle   with   the   tourists   in   Times   Square.   ❝      Do   you   need   some   help?   You   look   like   you   need   a   bite.      ❞  

♡ @comicbookcreature

[felinoir-a]

❝   𝙽𝙾𝙿𝙴,   𝙽𝙾𝙿𝙴,   𝙽𝙾𝙿𝙴,   𝚈𝙾𝚄   𝙶𝙾𝚃   𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚆𝚁𝙾𝙽𝙶   𝙿𝚄𝚂𝚂𝚈𝙲𝙰𝚃,   𝙱𝙸𝙶   𝙱𝙾𝚈.    ❞   Cats   and   thieves   were   both   craven   opportunists,   exploiting   situations   for   their   own   benefit   and   picking   the   bones   of   their   felled   prey   if   by   chance   an   apex   predator   got   to   it   first.   But   she   was   a   little   too   eager   this   time,   accidentally   dropping   into   the   middle   of   a   firefight   —   only   the   luck   she   wore   as   a   a   second   skin   keeping   the   bullets   arcing   wide   even   as   she   folded   herself   behind   the   heavy   safe   door.

    𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐊   𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓   𝐈𝐓   𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃   𝐁𝐄   𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄   𝐀𝐍𝐃   𝐍𝐎𝐓   𝐀   𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐄.  

    ❝      This   is   not   the   bad   girl   you're   looking   for!      ❞

    ♡ @punishwar

[felinoir-a]

❝         𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙵𝙾𝚁   𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶,   𝚂𝚆𝙴𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙰𝚁𝚃?      ❞   These   were   the   moments   that   thieves   lived   for,   the   triumph   in   beating   another   to   the   prize.   Egyptian   antiquities   were   not   necessarily   Felicia   Hardy's   thing,   but   there   were   numerous   anonymous   benefactors   who   would   be   willing   to   pay   obscene   amounts   of   money   for   even   the   smallest   of   figurines.  

    But   sculptures   made   of   gold,   studded   with   precious   gems,   and   rumored   to   be   cursed?   That's   the   score   of   a   𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆.

    ❝      Shoulda   come   by   earlier,   it   was   a   thing   of   beauty,   that   sculpture.      ❞  

♡ @croftborn

[felinoir-a]

@proofwhisky

“it’s what i signed up for”

honeybee, trista mateer / a place where someone loves you, neil hillborn / comfort crowd, conan gray / euripides, anne carson / sweet nothings, taylor swift / @scribbleshrimp (via tik tok) / the seven husbands of evelyn hugo, taylor jenkins reid / mark of athena, rick riordan / messages with my lover

[felinoir-a]

𝙰𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁   𝙵𝙰𝙲𝙴   𝚁𝙴𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴𝚂   𝚃𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙾𝙵   𝚃𝙷𝙾𝙼𝙰𝚂   𝚂𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙱𝚈'𝚂.   Still   snarling,   still   cold,   thrice   as   cruel,   with   a   scar   once   thought   to   be   charming   and   rogueish   twisting   into   something   mottled   and   monstrous.   It   may   have   been   years   since   her   desperate   flight   from   New   York,   but   the   survival   instincts   were   still   there   —   engrained   in   every   healed   fracture,   in   every   faint   scar   left   by   heavy   rings,   in   the   nightmares   that   still   terrorized   her   on   a   near   daily   basis.

Gone   was   the   vivacious   coquette   to   whom   mischief   clung   like   a   cloak,   hollowed   out   in   favor   of   a   brittle   and   vacant-eyed   doll      —   the   perfect   decorative   ornament   that   a   former   paramour   had   demanded   she   be.   How   well   trained   she   had   been   after   months   of   closed   fists   meeting   soft   flesh,   then   soothed   the   next   morning   with   sweet   apologies   and   a   bounty   of   gifts.   Be   agreeable,   submissive.   Placate.   Don't   draw   attention   to   yourself.   Don't   speak   unless   spoken   to.

Don't   flinch.

𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍—

She   slipped   from   the   bed   and   moved   like   a   marionette   on   strings,   nude   body   moving   far   too   stiffly   to   be   natural.   Every   muscle   was   tense,   ready   to   dodge   and   cower   should   he   so   much   as   twitch   in   her   direction,   a   careful   watch   being   kept   through   the   pale   fringe   of   her   lashes.   Felicia   made   no   attempt   to   cover   herself,   to   reach   for   the   dressing   robe   hanging   haphazardly   from   one   of   the   posters   of   her   bed,   simply   because   it   was   not   included   in   her   instructions.   [     𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙾𝙱𝙴𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝙰𝙻𝚆𝙰𝚈𝚂   𝙱𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃   𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶   𝚆𝙾𝚁𝚂𝙴.     ]   She   was   keenly   aware   of   her   presented   back,   of   the   thin   raised   scars   that   had   pinkened   and   begun   to   silver   with   age,   and   had   to   bite   back   a   wince   as   the   terror   of   a   possible   repeat   bolted   through   her   mind.  

Even   the   soft   tremors   of   her   fingers   didn't   stop   her   from   sliding   the   large   mirror   to   the   side   and   revealing   the   built   in   safe   that   was   nearly   as   tall   as   she.   Even   with   the   heavy   cotton   of   fear   clouding   her   mind,   the   blonde   moved   the   dial   instinctively   to   the   long   memorized   combination,   jerking   the   door   open   to   reveal   a   king's   ransom.   Glittering   jewels,   stacks   of   cash   and   gold   bars,   curiously   ragged   books,   and   several   lovingly   covered   paintings.

❝      It's   the   first   of   the   paintings.   Take   whatever   else   you   wish.      ❞   Monotone   words   were   spoken   as   the   blonde   backed   away   towards   the   refuge   of   her   bed,   sage   eyes   trained   to   the   floor   and   no   motion   made   for   the   lethal   looking   knife   sitting   front   and   center   of   the   safe.   There's   an   uncomfortable   implication   to   her   words,   a   resignation   to   something   monstrous,   but   she's   too   far   gone   to   claw   it   back   —   slipping   beneath   heavy   blankets   and   furs   and   curling   into   a   ball,   back   turned   to   Thomas   and   her   wintry   head   tucked   into   a   mountain   of   pillows,   as   if   it   would   protect   her.   As   if   it   had   ever   protected   her   in   the   past  ❝  Please   lock   up   when   you're   finished.    ❞

HIS HANDS ARE SOAKED THROUGH WITH BLOOD that is not his.     Well,     some of it is.      Certainly some of it.     Though most of it belongs to people whose names  &  faces are burned into his memory,     seared into the grey matter with a branding iron.     He remembers the first person he ever killed.     A boy,      no older than 21 ;     a Prussian boy with green eyes.     He’d strangled the life out of him in those dark,     oppressive tunnels,     trapped & forced into that horrible state of kill or be killed. 

The second person he’d killed had been an Irishman in the Garrison.     He’d beaten his face in with a spittoon so viciously that Inspector Moss had commented that it looked as though he’d been killed by a wild fucking animal.     His thoughts drift to Grace momentarily  &  the sting in his chest is enough to remind him that she is gone  &  that she is not coming back. 

The third had been none other than Billy Kimber himself,      surrounded by all of his cronies with guns and knives out like they planned to use them.     But the second Kimber’s head had a bullet in it they followed Thomas’s orders  &  turned back to where they had come from.     Some of them work for Thomas to this day,     taking pay from a man they used to swear they hated.     

Thomas knows he has the capacity to kill another person.     He knows he has it in him.     He is not afraid of taking a life.     He’s done it before  &  he knows he will do it again.      He’s seen the life drain from men’s eyes,       watched as the blood vessels and capillaries in their eyeballs burst and filled the whites of their eyes with deep scarlet fluid,     listened as they begged for their lives,     felt the crunch of their bones beneath his fists. 

&  yet,     something about her reaction compels him to uncock his gun  &  holster it once again.     So he does.     Her stuttering words,      her hoarse voice,     the way she covers her scandalously nude body with her sheets  &  trembles ;     all of this tells Thomas that he has gotten the message across.     It had been easier than expected. 

He squats down next to her bed,     the leather of his boots  &  his gloves squeaking slightly beneath the shifting of his weight.     He points a finger at her in the dim moonlight filtering in through the windows.

“ We had a fucking deal, ”     he practically spits it at her,     leaning forward.     “ Eh ?     We had a fucking deal. ”

He glances over his shoulder at where he assumes the safe would be,     had it been him who’d designed the house.     Briefly he wonders if he is correct. 

“ You’re going to get up  &  open the safe  &  get my fucking painting back.     I don’t want a cut.     I don’t want your apologies or your explanations or your curses.     I want your word to be worth something when you give it to me.     But I can see now my faith in you was misplaced. ”     he stands and sets a hand on the butt of his gun,     a silent threat.     “ Get up. ”

[felinoir-a]

𝙰𝚃   𝚆𝙷𝙰𝚃   𝙿𝙾𝙸𝙽𝚃   𝙳𝙾𝙴𝚂   𝙰   𝚂𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙴   𝙱𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙴   𝙰   𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃?   When   does   the   line   between   friend   and   foe   become   blurry   and   impossible   to   decipher?   It's   a   discernible   shift   from   domesticated   feline   to   the   feral   and   fanged      —   slitted   pupils   blown   wide   and   nailbeds   burning   as   claws   slipped   through   flesh   and   leather,   muscles   drawn   taut   and   twitching.   Gotham   was   a   far   more   imposing   jungle   of   concrete   and   neon,   an   environment   that   seemingly   encouraged   the   worst   of   everyone   within   city   limits,   encouraged   the   warping   and   degradation   of   those   with   𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒙𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆   morality.

𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐃   𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑   𝐇𝐀𝐃   𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐒   𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓   𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐗𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘   𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄.

❝      Hate   to   break   it   to   you,   baby,   but   you   already   failed   at   that.      ❞   A   grand   show   is   made   of   dragging   claws   along   glittering   stone   and   metal,   a   self-satisfied   and   sneering   provocation.   One   step   forward   by   the   Bat   prompted   two   steps   backwards   by   the   Cat      —   flirting   dangerously   with   the   ledge   of   the   building   as   hazy   neon   provided   her   backlight.   The   escape   was   always   the   riskiest   and   the   most     𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗜𝗟𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗚   part   of   the   business,   the   wintry   haired   thief   practically   purring   with   excitement.  

❝      Besides,   I   helped   you   stop   the   bad   guys,   I   deserve   a   little   treat.   don't   I?   As   a   reward.      ❞  

Faith was a funny thing ─ sometimes you leap for it and land on your two feet. Most of the time, as was the case for him, he lands on nothing. Hand grasping at air and nearly always ─ he’s falling. And it feels hollow in his chest every time, like his lungs being carved out with the carcass laid out in front of him. But the husk has a form this time, definitive with its white hair and its claws, staring back at him with a smirk while the city came alive with the sound of sirens blaring in the distance ; dawn perched on the horizon, looming, threatening to expose too much to the light. 

“ I can’t let you take that. “ He warned with a step forward, his own growl baring teeth. It’s an all too familiar dance, he notes, where somehow he’s making all the wrong steps. 

Another step forward, hovering closer, looming near with each step. A hand stretched out. A hope that would be dashed with certainty. But THE BAT is nothing if not for hopeful mistakes. Teetering between certainty and doubt ; always just waiting for that millisecond to jump left or to jump right. 

Even if deep down, he should know better.