#Hair Fixer Dealers

[hairfixingz]

From Hair Patches to Confidence The Transformation

Hair Fixing Zone, Our differences make us unique, and our hair patches are a part of that uniqueness for men and women. get the best human hair patches and hair extensions. contact us for more details about non-surgical hair fixing:+91 9916160222

[quirkyaether]

Two wips I'll probably never finish

I dunno man I'm too lazy for this stuff

Nightmare is 42 and a drug dealer in this AU (his hair is naturally blonde but he dyed it) Killer is his assassin who works for Nightmare in exchange for shelter to get away from the police, and dust is his negotiator who works for him in exchange for free drugs, and Horror is his fixer who works for him in exchange of a place to stay and food to eat for pap and himself

Dream (his twin) is a police

Error is 23, when he was a child his father took his custody cuz momma Cq couldn't provide everything for 3 sons with big issues, hospital bills, home school, hospital, outfit, food, babysitter, child therapy, and other stuff with being an office employee. A few years later Error had an awful car accident, and lost his memory and no longer remembers his mom and brothers (but he'll eventually see them when he gets older) he also had to get face surgery because of the accident and the bleeding in the eye after the accident caused acquired heterochromia. When he gets older he'll work as a Cybersecurity Analyst (A cybersecurity analyst is responsible for protecting an organization's computer systems, networks, and data from security breaches, cyber threats, and anomalies.). he uses a pill named Fentanyl which is a a really strong and expensive painkiller drug (and that's how he meets Nightmare and others)

Fresh is 20 and Geno is 27

Error sans and Fresh sans belong to @loverofpiggies

Nightmare sans belong to @jokublog

[ripperplague]

Can you post a description of all the Ro’s pretty pleaseeeee? Also, stay healthy dear author!

If you want the detailed description you'll have to wait for chapter four because I'd lose the rhythm of the story since you'd already know. In other words spoiler spoiler and spoiler.

I did however post a brief description on the forum, here it is:

Duke Cyrus Trillain (M)

He’s the nephew of your patron and father figure Darius.

He’s 6’2 with Indigo hair, cream skin and icy blue eyes.

He’s got three years on you, a fact which urks him more than you considering that he will never be smarter than you. Arrogant, Smug and very easy to rile, he’s sees you as an “infantile fool”, a bookworm with their head in the clouds. A puppy, he’s responsible for. He reminds you of a horse’s foot, hard on the outside but soft on the inside. The barbs, the taps on your head, the shoving and the lectures. They’re his way of showing affection to a kid he took under his wing. He broke his best friend’s jaw because the boy called you a “Filthy orphan��� and yelled at you after that for not sticking up for yourself.

But where do you stand now. You were frenemies until six years ago. Now he’s the duke and wants you dead.

Or so you think.

2. Weapons Marshal Blade Veslyn (M)

He’s the Weapons Marshal for the Empress. The post of Weapons Marshall is the most ambiguous of all. Spy, Assassin, General, Soldier, Bodyguard are a few guesses. He’s the Empress’s right hand man and why he’s in Valeris is a mystery.

You’ve never met him but you’ve heard plenty about him from Cyrus. From what you know, they’re academy buddies and blood sworn friends but that doesn’t explain why he’s so interested in you.

Morbid, curt, blunt and stone cold, he has a sense of humor darker than Cyrus.

If Cyrus is fire then Blade is ice, they both cut deep but differently.

It’s almost like he’s baiting you to make a wrong move. To give him an excuse to finish you off.

He’s 6’3 with one blood red pupil, a sign of the red baron infection while his other eye is a dark charcoal. It’s like staring into the gateways of two dimensions and neither of them are pleasant.

He wears a shift patch over his scarred eye, even though he can see clearly with it. Which is another mystery to you. Patients with infected eyes die faster because the virus infects their brain through the optic nerves. He’s alive and can still see through the eye. His hair is black which contrasts with his pale, slightly sick skin. His injuries in the war coupled with the plague had left the doctors no option but to replace his left arm, shoulder blade and chest region. When you listen for a heartbeat, you hear the ticking of gears.

3. Commander Gauge “Silver/Silvia” Cartis (M/F/NB)

Gauge is the Second in command to the forces of Trillain. They are a Naval officer who was personally chosen by Cyrus to be his second. You can see why, unlike Cyrus, Gauge is level headed, cool, stable and kind. They’re a sweet gentle soul who keeps Cyrus and Blade in line.

They simply don’t understand why someone of your caliber would do what you did.

Also are one of the few people who’ve treated you like a human, like you’re worthy of their affection.

He is 5’11 with sandy brown hair, blue green eyes and olive skin.

She is 5’9 with sandy brown hair, blue green eyes and olive skin.

They are 5’10 with sandy brown hair, blue green eyes and olive skin.

4. Raz (F)

A fixer and dealer who knows everything. Backstories, secrets, information are her currency. She’s also the bartender/bouncer at THE RED BARON, a pub frequented by criminals and rebels. Even the Vanguard know better than to set foot in there.

The woman’s an enigma to you and behind every joke, every sly comeback is a deep sadness that seems to leak out every time she’s around you. She finds you fascinating because you’re a mystery to her, she often spends her free time stalking you, watching you, wondering whether you’re an innocent framed for a crime you didn’t commit.

She’s caring, funny, fierce, strong and desperately lonely. Just like you.

Raz has wavy black hair, light brown skin,dark brown eyes lined with kohl and she’s 5’8.

5. Skylar Revthrone (F)

Barely eighteen and she’s already a hardened patriot ready to die for her country. A genius when it comes to machines, Sky’s skill set includes bombs and explosives. She also makes dolls and toys for children with spare parts. It helps her calm down and gives her something to focus on. Just like Sam she’s worried about being left behind because she’s the youngest on the team.

She’s wonky, friendly and might have a crush on you. She blushes easily and is extremely possessive if you show any inclination that you might like her too. But she’s young and it’s your fear that this is just puppy love, she’s never been a relationship let alone felt attraction at this magnitude.

You worry if she will see you the same when she finds out the truth.

Skylar has golden hair, green eyes, peach skin and stands at 5’2

6. Brin Masserius(NB)

The Ambassador from the capital who’s in Valeris for the treaty.

Brin is a fiercely intelligent politician who hide a timid heart behind that pearly smile. They don’t know what to make of you and think of you as the puzzle piece they can’t fit right. They can’t seem to decide between admiration and suspicion when it comes to you. However they’re determined to use you as a pawn whether you like it or not. After all it’s what they’ve been trained for. One minute they’re all dimples and at peace around you but the next that fake courteous smile floats back and you’re Doctor Sierra once again.

They’re confused, controlled and hide a broken core under that charm.

Brin is 5’7, has ebony skin, hazel eyes, shoulder length hair styled in a silver grey balayage.(I know it’s not exactly steampunk but this is their hair when I picture them in my head.)

7. Atlas Revthorne (M/F/NB)

Atlas is the leader of the resistance and thinks of themself as a robin hood figure. Bombing court houses, aristocratic establishments and snipping out the corrupt nobles, officials is their bread and butter. They’re the most wanted person in the Empire but ranked beneath you thanks to the bounty on your head. The Duke Sizario of Valeris is their main target and behind that wolfish smirk is a broken, angry young person out for revenge and freedom.

Atlas is crude, charming and dangerous. They’ll flirt with you with a dagger at your throat and are a brilliant leader. Unlike most of the people you meet, they don’t skirt around the issue about your conviction. They rub it in your face to get a rise out of you. Unlike Cyrus whose barbs feel deserved and come from a place of great anguish, Atlas likes to play with your temper and drives you crazy in all the right and wrong ways.

You can’t tell where he stands with you. Maybe that’s the way they want it or maybe they know something you don’t.

[aries-writingblog]

Home Again

Summary: “Home is not where you are born; home is where all your attempts to escape cease.” ~ Naguib Mahfouz

Word count: 1318

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: some angst, mentions of wounds

A/N: GIF is not my own, credit to original creator. The quote used in the summary is also credited to original owner

It had been a very long, very tiresome three weeks for one James Barnes. One of the longer missions he was sent on, three weeks in the middle of nowhere Russia with no unnecessary communication. He would consider contacting YN a top priority but no one else seemed to share the sentiment.

The mission started badly. They couldn’t land the jet, too much risk. So he, Sam and Steve all had to jump. The freezing wind and icy snow he landed in jolted his memory- tossing him carelessly into the Austrian Alps again. His mind tricking him into thinking it was 1945. He was thrown off his game the entire day. Being shot in the chest the same week would worsen his mood.

Three weeks with Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers could drive any man mad- no matter how fucked their brain already was. Add in no outside contact, no sleep and nightmares- the man was a wreck. To top it all off, they had lost the market arms dealer they were tracking. It took an extra four days to track him down again.

As soon as the jet touched down at the Tower, Bucky was on his bike. Doing ninety to nothing- desperate to get home. To her. He had nearly fallen off the bike at a red light, distracted and over- exhausted. But he made it.

Home. To Bucky it was a blend unlike any other. It was two story house on the outskirts of Brooklyn. Granted, the building was a fixer upper- the porch was old and splintered. He had plans to repair it but they kept getting pushed back. The inside was basically gutted, every room was bare. Save for the kitchen and bedroom they were certain to fix up first, before moving in.

Hints of YN filtered through- mixing with the old house. The way her hair brushed her cheeks, the sparkle in her eyes as they stood together. Facing the newest challenge. Her smile, her laugh. Her. A cacophonous symphony of warmth and love unknown to him before.

Daylight was breaking, light reflecting off the windows. He practically melted from the motorcycle- shoving his backpack off his shoulders upon entering the door. The pack hit the ground with a dull thud.

His footsteps were louder than normal- it had been a grueling mission. Bucky was so close to home that he couldn’t hold himself together anymore. He allowed the heavy boots to make dull thuds across the wooden floors, too exhausted to tread lightly. His movements choppy.

He toed the boots off at the door- he knew better than to track mud through the house. Even if it was currently in a state of disarray. She would still have his ass later if he did. Passing through dark, empty rooms, Bucky couldn’t stop from scanning every corner as he continued his trek. Eyes methodically dismantling each room, searching for anything out of place. Any bad news he could find.

He only smoothed his movements as he neared the bedroom door. He made sure his steps were quieter, movements more fluid as he turned the handle.

And there she was.

YN. Home.

Bucky couldn’t stop the sigh pushing from his chest as he laid eyes on her. The thick comforter was pulled all the way up her chest, even with the ceiling fan turning leisurely above her. The morning sunlight was drifting through the blinds- a hazy halo of light arcing across the pillows. Landing over her glossy hair in strips of golden glory.

His eyelids drooped lower upon seeing the bed before him. Bucky made quick work of his jacket and pants, shedding his t shirt as he stumbled toward the comfort he had been craving.

As he lifted the sheets, YN rolled over, her eyes peeking open. A sleepy smile pressed at her lips as she held her hands out to him- making grabby motions. Bucky chuckled, fatigue dripping from the sound as he settled in beside her.

“Didn’t mean to wake you.” He apologized, feeling her warm body press to his. YN shook her head, arms wrapping around his middle.

He watched as her eyes scanned his body. The healing bullet wound on his chest, the cut across his eyebrow, the bruise on his temple. She was careful as she scooted over, pressing her head ever so lightly against his chest. Arms squeezing him tightly- trying to replace the feelings that followed him home.

“Missed you, Jamie.” She muttered, voice raspy and deep from her interrupted slumber. Bucky sighed, allowing his arms to rest against her waist, tugging her closer. He felt his muscles relax with her touch. Cells responding on a molecular level- writing the stress and damage he had endured away and replacing it with a loving embrace from the woman he loved.

“Missed you too, sweetheart.” He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, inhaling her shampoo. A familiar scent. On It’s own accord, one hand crawled up her spine, fingers tangling through her hair. Holding her face to his chest. Clutching her to his body as though she would soon dissipate if he weren’t holding her together. “You have no idea, how much I’ve missed you.”

YN heard the crack in his words- the emotion lacing his tone. She also noticed the fatigue in his limbs, the weight upon his shoulders. Body collapsing in upon itself as he neared her.

“You want to talk about it?”

Bucky shivered, a cold chill burning his spine. His lips brushed her temple softly, building up his voice. A restrained burn in his chest. The rolling pit of his stomach.

“No… I… I just want to be home right now.” He clarified, his fingers landing on her pulse in her neck. The sedated beats under her skin grounding his wandering mind. The heat from her body, scent of the bedsheets, making him drowsy. “I just want to sleep.”

In her sleep hazed mind, YN could register the weight of his words. Bucky barely slept- almost never slept in their bed at that. The fear of being ambushed by the Soldier- his body hijacked while he slept… he vehemently opposed putting her in that position. Then he tossed and turned on the cushy mattress, annoyed at himself for having the potential to wake the sleeping beauty at his side. It was a rare occasion to find him stumbling through the dark, hands tugging the sheets and pulling her close.

He would never admit it but the nights he found comfort in her were the nights it was all too much. Too many voices, too many memories…too many regrets. By then he was exhausted beyond repair. Appearing to wear every one of his 107 years on his skin, on his face and expression. Most nights, he would busy himself around their home, doing quiet activities he had lying around. Painting the top portions of the walls she couldn’t reach, repairing plaster on the walls, staining the wood or things of the nature. He had even started on her soon- to- be gardening plots out back one night. It helped to have the projects- it gave him something to do with his hands. Gave his mind a reprieve.

YN had already ducked under his arm, curling around his body and pressing her face to his chest. Intent on providing for him in any way she knew how. Gentle, physical touch always made him calm, she had learned. She heard his breathing stutter and quicken. Felt his chest heave twice as he composed his emotions. Only revealing parts of himself through the receding darkness of their bedroom. Pressing a gentle kiss to his chest, she felt him squeeze her shoulder, giving quiet thanks for her actions.

“Then sleep, beautiful.” She whispered. Her angelic tone charmed his ears, only adding to the weight of his eyelids. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

[ukrfeminism]

I am placing the text of this article behind a read more, or you can click through to the link above. Please exercise caution. TW for graphic descriptions of sexual abuse, including desecration of a corpse.

'My daughter was violated': Mother of woman raped in mortuary by necrophile David Fuller speaks out

When police family liaison officers knocked on the door, they looked visibly distressed.

Nevres Kemal, a social worker from north London, couldn't imagine what bad news they could possibly have. Her only daughter had died just over a year ago, she didn't have any other family.

The scene was similar to when, in July 2020, Nevres had been told her beloved Azra had fallen from a bridge in Kent suffering fatal injuries. She said what followed was like hearing the same terrible news all over again.

Warning: Contains descriptions that some readers may find distressing

The officers explained how Azra's dead body had been raped by a man while she'd been in the morgue in Tunbridge Wells Hospital.

It would emerge that Azra was one of at least 100 victims of a prolific offender, David Fuller, who had worked in the hospital trust as an electrical maintenance manager and got away with his crimes for years.

The victims ranged in age from nine to 100 years old.

Azra, 24, had died from trauma, with a dislocated arm, cracked ribs and a pelvis that was split in half. The detail you are about to read, of what happened to her after she died, is incredibly upsetting, but Nevres wants people to know.

'My daughter was violated hours after I left'

"I was told that my daughter had been violated... on three occasions in the mortuary," said Nevres.

"What does one think? How do you comprehend such a thing?"

The first attack on Azra happened only hours before Nevres herself had come to say farewell to her daughter in the mortuary - and it happened again hours after she left.

Nevres told me: "I had spent two hours in the mortuary sleeping with her. And that gave me some sort of comfort. Little did I know that my daughter had been violated prior to that day and the evening of that day.

"So, whilst I'm stroking my daughter's hair, sleeping on her hair, a man had... crawled all over her skin... And there's me kissing and cuddling and saying my last goodbyes."

She added: "And that is quite awful, quite awful, however, it is not Azra's shame. It is not my shame.

"Like women who are raped around the world they have a voice, Azra has a voice - I am speaking out for my daughter."

The horrific detail of this case isn't the only reason why this was perhaps the hardest interview I've ever done.

Azra and I were friends

She was my fixer on several stories I worked on at Sky News, helping me gain interviews with people from difficult backgrounds including drug mules and dealers. I wrote a tribute to her when she died. I've also been friends with her mother, Nevres, for over a decade.

Nevres was told that Fuller researched Azra online, he may well have read my tribute. He would photograph his victims' names on the mortuary record log and sometimes their identity tags.

He later told police that he only researched victims after the offending, rather than before. However, in relation to one name on his browser history, he couldn't explain why he had searched for her when, in the event, her body had been taken to a different morgue.

Fuller used a compact digital camera to film his crimes. He would then upload the videos to his home computer, storing the footage in digital folders that he would sometimes title with the victim's name.

Officers who searched his home found a homemade box had been attached to the back of drawers within a cupboard. Inside the box were four hard drives with five terabytes of data storage.

The court in Maidstone was told they contained "a library of unimaginable sexual depravity," all filmed in the mortuaries of the two hospitals at which he worked, first the Kent and Sussex Hospital, where he worked from 1989, and then the Tunbridge Wells Hospital, to which he moved in 2010.

Fuller was brazen

He first assaulted Azra for sixteen minutes on 20 July 2020, a decade after he'd first arrived in the hospital. The second time was the next day when Nevres visited - that evening he was with Azra for twenty-three minutes. Two days later he came back to abuse her again for thirty-five minutes.

These assaults didn't happen in the dead of night - the first occasion was at 4.50pm and the second 9.20pm, the third, 6.15pm.

"He seemed very confident, to spend so much time with Azra," said Nevres. "Late afternoon, early evening - he was very brazen."

To understand how this could happen, Nevres demanded a meeting with the senior staff of Maidstone and Tunbridge Wells NHS Trust, which they agreed to in mid-October.

She discovered that as an electrical maintenance worker he had some legitimate reasons to access the mortuary, and this meant he had his own swipe card.

The mortuary had five staff, who tended to work from 8am to 4pm. Fuller's shifts were 11am to 7pm. So, his attacks took place during that window at the latter part of his shift.

Of course, hospital porters could come down to the mortuary with new bodies at any time of the day. However, Fuller had worked out that no one came into the separate post-mortem room out of hours. The fridge doors in the centre of the mortuary open onto both rooms.

He was able to enter the post-mortem area through the clinical office. The configuration of the rooms was such that he could get in and leave unnoticed by any porter who happened to enter the mortuary on the other side of the fridges, while he was there.

No CCTV in the post-mortem room

Unlike other areas of the mortuary, there was no CCTV in the post-mortem room, which is usual practice in many hospitals to preserve the dignity of patients during post-mortem. So he could open the fridge doors to access bodies, because, whilst they were locked in the receiving area, they were unlocked in the post-mortem room.

There are CCTV cameras in the corridors leading to the mortuary, and the swipe card system keeps a log of people coming and going in case there is an incident, however, these logs were not checked to see if any staff member was making an unusual number of unnecessary journeys into the area.

"He had entered the morgue and autopsy area thousands of times, not hundreds, thousands," said Nevres, "and no one ever stopped him or asked what's this guy doing here?"

"I'm told he was the man to go to. He always made himself available to the mortuary staff. They thought he was a great guy and basically, he groomed them. They became compliant and they never questioned him."

An NHS trust spokesman told me that Fuller would have had many legitimate reasons to visit the morgue - for example temperature checking the fridges.

The court was told: "CCTV from the mortuary area shows that when on cameras he carried items or performed actions that would afford a legitimate explanation for his presence."

But Nevres feels security was lax

She told me: "We have swipe cards and cameras for a reason. How could they not have records that are automatically exposed to managerial people at the NHS trust?

"No one checked. It was so simple. He would actually abuse women while porters were bringing in bodies."

On meeting the Chief Executive of the Trust, Miles Scott, Nevres said her first question was "why are you still here?"

She added: "His response was it's up to the board and he had the backing of the board, and I told him; 'the victim's families are the board - I am the board'.

"I believe he needs to resign," said Nevres.

"He should ask the victims 'do you think I'm the best person to be managing this hospital trust?' If you are truly sorry, you would step aside."

As a social worker, Nevres blew the whistle on Haringey council over the baby-P scandal in 2007 and said as someone involved in the protection of children she would resign if something like this happened on her watch.

Since Fuller's arrest, the trust has asked Sir Jonathan Michael to chair an independent investigation into whether anything more could have been done.

A maximum sentence of a few years

Another thing that has shocked Nevres is the length of sentencing for people who commit this kind of crime. The law attached to Fuller's crimes is section 70 of the Sexual Offences Act 2003 - penetration of a dead body - for which the maximum sentence is two years imprisonment.

He also pleaded guilty to section 63 of the Criminal Justice and Immigration Act 2008 - extreme pornography involving a dead body - which can carry a sentence of three years.

Nevres believes there should be a clearer law of necrophilia with much greater punishment for someone who commits a crime on this scale, similar to the sentencing of a rape victim, which can be between 4 and 19 years for each victim.

She said: "Men and women up and down the country will be appalled by what they are reading. And I remind them that if this was your loved one you would roar with rage - and I am silently roaring and I am beseeching people who make laws to create a law that this becomes an offence and the appropriate sentence is passed down.

"We need to respect the dead and this must never happen again."

Nevres was already dissatisfied with the investigation by Kent police into her daughter's death. Azra died after falling through a gap between two sides of the A21 dual carriageway near Tonbridge in Kent.

She and a male passenger had been trying to get help after their car caught fire. Essex police have been investigating whether Kent police did a thorough enough investigation into exactly what happened.

So, Nevres was already distrustful of the authorities and police when they came knocking on her door a second time.

Azra was an extraordinary human

Like her mother, Azra was someone who had strong feelings about injustice and, in particular, the protection of women. She would stand her ground against anyone. Once, after meeting a domestic violence victim, she went around the couple's house and told the man to get out.

"Azra was an extraordinary human being," said Nevres.

"She lived for 24 years, but she touched so many people. She was compassionate, warm. An LSE law graduate. She became a beautiful woman and didn't see any barriers. She was individualistic and smart. She lived life to the full. She was my only child.

"I've tried to protect Azra all my life and when she was really helpless, lying there still being raped and abused - she couldn't scream out, couldn't call me, she couldn't call the police.

"But I will ensure her voice is heard and that will be my mission."

[digitalmadness]

A VERY DESCRIPTIVE PROFILE OF YOUR MUSE.

repost with the information of your muse,  including headcanons,  etc. if you fail to achieve some of the facts,  add some other of your own !

NAME.  Kitty (Self-proclaimed name)

Teresa Ramnarine (Real name)

AGE.     Yakuza 0: 23

Kiwami: 30/40

Kiwami 2: 41

Yakuza 3: 41 - 43 

Yakuza 4: 44

Yakuza 5: 47 

Yakuza 6: 51 

Yakuza: Like A Dragon: 53 

Judgement: 52

Lost Judgement: 55

Watch Dogs: 38 

Watch Dogs 2: 41

Watch Dogs Legion: 54

SPECIES.    Human

GENDER.    female ( she/her ) .

ORIENTATION.     Demi bisexual

INTERESTS.     Dancing, hacking, creating gadgets. being a pain, reading, & crafting.

PROFESSION.     Hacker (In most verses / Currently)) , Info Dealer (Currently), Fixer (Watch Dogs / Formerly), Purgatory member (Yakuza / Currently), Cabaret Club owner (Yakuza / Unconfirmed by Judge Eyes & LAD time), Unnamed detective agency (Yakuza / unconfirmed)

BODY TYPE.     Kitty is described as slim yet fit. She’s not muscular, nor skinny. She leans more on the speedy type of woman. While the strength lays within her legs and it is clear as day that her legs are meant for speed, she has tan skin with scars all over the place.

EYES.   Dark brown.

HAIR.   Dark brown hair that ends around her shoulder. 

FACE.    She has a bit of a big nose, which she is proud to have. She also has somewhat of a big eyes and small ears. 

COMPANIONS.    Goro Majima, Carlos Oliviera, Kiryu Kazuma, Ichiban Kasuga, Daigo Dojima, Aiden Pearce, Jordi Chin, Wrench, Sitara Dhawan, Tesso, Akira Nishikiyama, Goromi & various of OCs.

ANTAGONISTS.  Goro Majima (at the beginning before they became allies) & various of OCs.

COLORS.    Yellow & blue.

FRUITS.       Starwberries.

DRINKS.  Water & various of juices.

ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES?   Somewhat. Depends on her mood.

SMOKES?   No

DRUGS?   Not.

DRIVERS LICENSE?   yes, but will likely drive recklessly. 

[rwbyvein]

Firen Lhain: Chapter 608: Swimsuit Runway:  Part I/III

Mercury and Emerald looked up at the vaunted city of Mistral. "I know you're a street rat," Mercury said to her, "but let me explain some things to you."

"I'M NOT A STREET RAT!" Emerald shouted, "Cinder..."

"Never stopped you from picking pockets." Mercury firmly stated.

"What do you have against!?.."

"Because it draws a LOT attention, and is one of the worst ways to make money. Did you learn nothing from?.." he said, and trailed off. "Anyways, Mistral is very classist. The higher status you are, the higher up on the mountain you get to live. This means the higher you go up, the more scrutiny we get."

"And how do you know this?" Emerald asked.

"I guess it might have never occured to you that my father did more than beat me." Mercury voiced, "He took me on assignments. Sometimes I even helped. But you are missing the best part."

"And what's that?" Emerald spitefully asked him.

"Right now what we need most is a street rat. You need to find where all of the other street rats go."

"And then what?" Emerald asked.

"We knock on a few doors." Mercury stated. "And whatever you do, don't pick any pockets."

"And why should I listen to you?!" Emerald shouted, and Mercury looked around, seeing everyone looking at them.

"Because once we start to move we'll have more than enough money to get by," Mercury voiced, "and if you keep that up - you'll ruin everything. Cinder's not here to pamper you and fix your mistakes."

Emerald scoffed, and was incensed, but wasn't sure of what to say. She breathed in deep when something occured to her. "Why... are we even working together?"

"Because we both want to find Cinder," Mercury voiced, "and our chances are much better together."

Emerald angrily looked at him before looking away. He wasn't sure if she saw the panic on his face, but he was trying his best to hide it.

* * *

Mercury laid back in the shadows, simply relaxing, when Emerald reappeared. "So, what?, I do all the hard work, and you just sit your ass aroun?.."

Mercury sat up, "What did you find?"

"Drug dealers, pimps, street gangs, triads, fixers for the homeless, fences..."

"More than enough to get started." Mercury said, leaned back, and flipped himself up to his feet.

"And just what are you going to do?" Emerald said with clear hostility?"

Mercury cricked his neck and started moving about like he was in a fight, "Knock on a few doors."

* * *

Mercury kicked the door into the drug den. It naturally caused a whole lot of panic, with people running all over the place. They were half dressed and strung out on drugs. Many were not able to respond at all and barely looked at him.

"Who the hell do you think you are?!" a man asked him.

"The son of Marcus Black." Mercury stated. "I'm looking to build a little nest egg. So, you can give me your money, or I can kill you and take it." A group of large men approached him.

* * *

Mercury left through the destroyed door carrying a large sack of Lien, and walked into the shadows.

"Very subtle." Emerald stated.

"I never said we had to be subtle." Mercury stated. "This den is too low-brow to have any political connections. It's also an independant operator. All we did was make it so their competitors can jack up the prices." Emerald stared at him in awe, unsure of what to say, "But, now, everyone respects us. And if you don't mess with them, they won't mess with us. We also did get a sack of Lien out of it."

"How's that different from pick-pocketing?" Emerald asked him, and Mercury choked up on the bag.

"What's the best way to make money pick-pocketing?" Mercury asked.

"...the... rich?.." Emerald asked.

"Right." Mercury stated, "All it takes is one rich asshole getting pick-pocketed to piss off the entire powers that be in a kingdom. I got a hell of a lot more money from a single opium den, and nobody cares."

Emerald looked around him at the broken door. "Someone cares."

"Yeah, but the only ones who care are all dead." Mercury said. "Now for the second part."

"Second part?" Emerald asked.

"Take me to the king of the beggars."

* * *

Mercury augustly walked up to the disheveled man. "We're looking for a friend of ours."

"Oh?" the disheveled man asked.

"And we're willing to pay for anyone who can get us information. Just..." Mercury voiced, "don't lie to us. We're," he said, and paused, giving him an intense glare, "not fond of people lying to us."

* * *

RWBY + Nora + Aurora entered the house, only to find the boys and Ilia sitting on the couches.

"So?," Yang asked, "you guys have fun in our absence?"

"Just training." Jaune tried to casually say.

"Perhaps we should?.." Blake asked, looking at the stairs to the gymnasium.

"She has a point." Weiss said.

"What?" Ruby replied.

"Let's show these guys our new swimsuits." Yang said to her, and then turned back to the lounge, "No peeking."

"I know it was meant as a joke, but we would never do such a thing." Ren voiced.

Yang rolled her eyes, and the Huntresses all filed down the stairs.

* * *

"Something is afoot." Weiss quipped.

"Duh." Yang said to her.

"That's a duh?" Ruby asked.

"Duh." Yang said in reply, "Sis."

Weiss quickly pulled Ruby into a hug. She looked over Ruby's shoulder at Yang, "Social graces are perhaps not her strongest suit."

"Oh, believe me," Yang said to her, "I KNOW. Which is why I just bluntly tell Ruby these things."

"She's right." Ruby voiced.

"Perchance?.." Weiss asked, "Whom?.."

"Oh?" Ruby asked, "I mean, Yang. Sometimes she just has to slap me with how things are."

"Yes..." Blake voiced, "the boys are up to something... but I think..."

"Does that?.." Yang asked, "mean you include Ilia as one of 'the boys?'"

Blake just glared at her. She then rolled her eyes before continuing, "BUT I THINK that they would never do anything against us. So, chances are they are buying a present for us, or something."

"What kind of present?!" Nora exclaimed. Blake scowled. Weiss scoffed. Yang quickly moved forward and covered Nora's mouth.

"Shh." Yang whispered to her. Nora nodded and Yang let her go.

"What do we do?" Ruby asked.

"Try to not react." Weiss exclaimed.

"And try to act surprised when they pull it off." Yang continued.

"And?," Ruby asked, "if I'm, not so good at?.."

"She does have a point." Blake voiced.

"What do we do?!" Nora exclaimed, "Because I'm terrible at it, too."

"Perhaps a gag." Weiss voiced.

Nora eagerly pointed at her.

"YES!"

Ruby looked about nervously before pulling her hood over her head.

"I'm pretty sure Jaune has figured out what that means." Nora said to Ruby.

"What do we do?!" Ruby shouted from under her hood.

"Mayhap..." Weiss voiced, "not spend so much time shouting."

Ruby dropped down to all fours. Her tail stuck out of her cape, twitching nervously. She saw it out of the corner of her eyes, and turned towards it. And again. And again, until Yang picked her up. Ruby licked her on the face. Yang quickly let go, causing Ruby to land on all four and run off to the corner. She then ran away to the other corner. She tried to run again, only to have Weiss' black Glyph hold her in-place. She tried to gallop away, but found herself not moving. She hid back under her hood, head quickly moving from place to place.

"She's?.." Weiss asked... "gone... feral?.."

This caused Blake to scoff.

"Dog my cats," Yang voiced, "what got her as high as the hair on a cat's back?" This caused Weiss to glare at Yang. "What?" Yang asked, "You can't tell me your not a fan of my puns."

"It's more..." that Weiss stated, finding the words, "that you are mixing metaphors..."

"It's enough to make a cat laugh." Yang said, causing Blake to break a faint smile.

"I hate to be a wet blanket." Weiss grumbled.

"We know THAT's not true." Nora said to her.

"But turned Blake from a hellcat to one with a cheshire grin?" Weiss asked

"Hoo, doggy." Yang said to her.

"Was that a pun?" Nora asked.

Yang patted Nora on the back, "She tried her best. She also brings up a good point." Weiss, Yang, and Nora all turned to look at Blake.

Blake breathed in deeply before replying ,"We can't let our animal instincts take over."

"Why not?" Nora asked.

"It's a sin!" Blake exclaimed.

"Says who?" Yang voiced.

And Blake looked at her, "If Faunus start acting like animals, how do you think the Humans will treat us?"

"She makes a valid... point..." Weiss voiced.

"Says who?!" Nora exclaimed.

"Yeah." Yang interjected, "Faunus have tried acting all Human-like, and everyone still hates us. Well, except in Patch... the only reason we're allowed so high in Mistral is because we're Huntresses... or were students... I mean..."

"Huntressesmen." Nora added.

"Yes!" Yang said, pointing at Nora.

"That is not... remotely... a word." Weiss grumbled.

"You sound like Jaune..." Nora dejectedly huffed, and this caused Weiss to let out a surprised scoff.

* * *

Jaune, Ren, Qrow, Oscar, and Ilia sat awkwardly on the couches.

"Does?.." Oscar voiced, "it always take this long for girls to get changed?"

"Yes." Jaune decisively said.

"And the shouting?.." Oscar added.

"Also yes." Jaune said with grim finality.

* * *

Note: It means seem like Nora's being inconsistent on her knowledge, she's just being Nora. She knows about the speciality items, but not the rings.

[starkerforlife6969]

Con Artist Tony x Art Forger Peter

Summary: Tony’s only got one more heist. He does this, he can be retired on an island in the Mediterranean in a month. All he needs is a world-class art forger. (White Collar inspired)

Word count: 10k, complete.

Read here, or on ao3. 

The final heist.

That’s what it’s called.

That mystical thing, that last risk, the only thing left to do before you retire. It hangs, almost out of reach, just beyond the cusp of the horizon. It waves your happy ending in front of your face, luring you across stormy seas on a water-logged boat, beckoning you towards bliss while leading you to destruction.

Lesser men have failed, but Tony Stark is not a lesser man.

He’s going to pull off that final heist. He’s going to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-four. He’s going to buy an island, maybe two, and spend the rest of his days basking under the sun, reading Descartes and enjoying fine wine. Mostly Chateau Latour, but he’s partial to Grand cru from time to time.

This’ll be it. He’ll disappear. The FBI will give up after realising he’s not committing any more crimes, like they always do when a case goes stale. There’s no joy in capturing old bread, after all. A plucky young junior in a few years time may look into him, but they won’t be able to find him.

Besides, he doesn’t mind stepping out of the spotlight. He’s been basking in it for a decade now, after all. When he was fifteen years old and on their radar, he considers it quite the conversation starter.

With the right audience, of course.

(That’s key, you know. Knowing your audience. The only way to con someone is to read them first).

From three card monty on the LA boardwalks to diamond heists, Tony Stark has done it all.

Allegedly, of course.

Never been caught. Well, once, partially, if you count Rogers rolling over on him to the police, which Tony does not count.

He was twenty-one years old, and they’d had to try him with attempted burglarly, since they had no proof he actually had the Wittelsbach Diamond, nor any proof that he’d actually even been in the country at the time of the theft.

He’d been found innocent, acting as his own lawyer.

What can he say? He’s charming.

It comes with the territory. Conman is a word too small for everything he is. Fluent in fifteen languages, a connoisseur of wine, an expert appraiser, a diamond forger, an investment banker for a while (numbers are easy, which is why he’s banned from a lot of casinos) an art thief, a fixer, a trickster and, if he does say so himself: incredibly handsome.

It’s the lean muscle and the dark hair and the dark eyes.

Makes him irresistible to some, charming to others, and respectable to the ones left.

There’s something honest in his smile, his mother always use to say.

A conman smiles for a living so, Tony supposes, it all worked out.

A smile and a wink, a little sophistication, a little flirting, a little money in all the right hands, and he’d walked out the door of the courtroom, grinned at the FBI agent and basked in the sunshine.

Sure, it had felt like a win. But for $22 million dollars worth of diamond, he only got to keep around half. That’s what happens when someone you trust betrays you. Rogers telling the feds that the diamond he’d put in its place was a forgery had tipped them off to the crime, and now the damn thing is too hot to move.

It’s safe, somewhere. He has a lot of secret locations. He has a lot of different names.

He’ll sell it one day, farther down the line. Just for fun, maybe.

But for now, the final heist.

* “You know, it’s not as stupid as I thought it would be.” Natasha says thoughtfully, perusing over his plans with an impressed look on her face. Tony grins at her across the table, but as she’s always been, she’s impervious to charm of his smile. “But I can’t help you with this.”

He pours her some more wine. (Everyone’s more amiable with wine). Nat’s an old friend, they’ve known each other since they were eighteen and new to New York. She was in illegal acquisitions then, but she’s found her speciality. She’s the best damn fence Tony’s ever met. “I’ll give you fifteen percent.” He offers, placing hand over his heart. “Very generous, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

She half-smiles at that, and sips the wine. Her hair’s red now. He likes it this way. She’s been white-blonde for a long time. He knows Interpol’s on her back, but he doesn’t offer his help. Nat can handle herself. Now, if the Russian’s were after her, it would be a different story… “Tony,” she says softly, setting down his papers. The candle-light flickers warmly over her face, casting shadows across her cheekbones. “Even if I want to be your fence on this-“ (that means she does. She doesn’t just think the plan is not stupid, she thinks it’s good. Good enough to work) “-you’d need a world-class art forger.”

He nods, half-shrugging. “I assumed you’d have the contacts.”

She frowns thoughtfully, and takes another sip of wine. Dinner is steak and braised potatoes in an private little restaurant uptown. The nightlife of New York bustles and honks in the streets below, and Tony had preened on the way up. He likes exclusive, and he loves showing off, so his Tom Ford suit has been accessorised with only the finest cufflinks and satin tie.

He’s wearing more than what the people who work here earn in a year.

Nat doesn’t have his penchant for the spotlight. Her dress is beautiful, but cheap. Only cheap, however, to the trained eye (and to be a conman, you must have a trained eye) but she classes it up. A beautiful body always will.

“Maybe we should keep the plan the same,” she muses, “but swap the painting for a diamond. That way you could do the forgery yourself.”

He carefully doesn’t wince. “Diamonds are a little hot for me right now,” he confesses, “had a little…mix-up. Got a little close for comfort. The Feds are watching me and diamonds, so the painting is the way to go.”

She meets his eyes and looks a little smug. “A little close for comfort?” She repeats, “you’re not telling me the great Tony Stark almost got-“

“A jury of my peers found me innocent.” He corrects, taking a large bite of steak.

She laughs at that. “What I would have paid to be in that courtroom.”

He taps the paper to refocus her. “An art forger, you know anyone? I won’t go higher than twenty percent.”

Natasha tips her head consideringly. “There is…someone.” She says carefully. “He’s the best.”

Say it. Tony thinks. There’s one name she has to say. It’s the reason she’s here after all. Wanda is a good fence too, but she isn’t rumoured to have known-

“The Spider.”

Yes. Tony tries not to smile too hard, he hides it into his wine glass. “You know him?” He acts surprised, “I thought no one knew him.”

“Know is a grandiose term for a muffled voice on a phone.” She corrects, but Tony isn’t disappointed. It’s a lead.

“He’s the best.” Tony breathes; excited. He’s familiar with The Spider’s work- and the police are not. And that’s how you know someone’s the best.

Excluding Tony of course, the police know about his stuff- because Tony lets them. He likes to sign his own forged bonds, or leave a Queen of Hearts at crime scenes, but that’s because he’s a performer.

The Spider is the best damn art forger in the world. His forgeries are almost impossible to detect- they’ve been circling around the black market for about two years. He’s new to the game, but not lacking in talent. The only people who even know the paintings he makes are forgeries are a handful of sellers and Tony.

And that’s only because Strange- Tony’s NY Mafia connection- had confided in him that he suspected perhaps, that his Van Gogh wasn’t real. Stephen’s suspicions are enough to warrant truth, so Tony had looked himself.

He’d been impressed.

And a little aroused.

Of course, the owners- if they ever do suspect- or the seller, if they ever do guess- won’t report it. Why would they? It ruins their own credibility, their own intelligence, knowing they were duped.

Art can be a pretentious field, and no one likes looking a fool.

“Can you put me into contact with him?” Tony asks eagerly, and Natasha nods slowly. 


“It’ll be hard. I’ll try, though, Tony. For you. For our final heist. This is it. Then we’re out of the game.”

“Exactly.” Tony agrees, “you take your money, I’ll take mine. Any ideas on where you’ll go?”

“Australia, maybe,” Natasha muses, “or a cabin in New Zealand by a lake.”

“To your new life,” Tony grins, holding up his wine glass.

As all people do when they’re tipsy, she falls victim to his smile.

* If Natasha were a smarter person, she’d have used Tony’s plan herself. Got into contact with the Spider, commissioned the forgery, swapped the painting, collected a huge percentage all for herself and cut Tony out completely.

The problem with Natasha is sentiment. It’s a common problem. Just because they’ve known each other for so long, she has a soft spot for Tony.

It’s a soft spot Wanda doesn’t have for him, which is another reason Tony isn’t using her.

Nat needs about two weeks to shake through the web of her contacts, but Tony isn’t in a rush.

The Final heist should never be rushed.

Besides, he has a few things to do. He goes to the New York Museum of Art, and donates $15 dollars to their support programme.

It’s nice to give back, every now and then.

The Degas is exactly where the floor plans said it would be, hanging neatly in the seventh room. The overhead light makes the Dancers in Blue even more beautiful than Tony remembers. 1895, 500 million dollars.

That’ll do, he thinks, looking up at the painting with a grin, that’ll do nicely.

He thinks sometimes, about retiring with someone.

He’s met a lot of people in his life. People he could read and see through. Beautiful, talented people.

Clint was good, an assassin, which Tony finds a little unsavoury, but the two of them had gotten on pretty well.

Harley the pickpocket, Pepper the weapons dealer, Maria the scam artist.

But in the end, all the flames had fizzled out. Friendships faded, relationships drifting away.

He’ll retire alone on an island, but he’ll be okay. He’s Tony Stark, (or at least, he’s Tony Stark today. Sometimes he’s Howard Potts, other times he’s Don Jarvis, or a thousand and one other aliases that he can keep perfect track of). He’ll have an island, and he’ll find a friend there. A native, beautiful and-

Someone who will most likely never know the real him.

But that’s fine.

He’s fine.

He spends the two weeks planning how he’ll get in, how he’ll disable the alarms, how he’ll transport the painting without it being recognised or damaged. He comes up with fifteen different escape routes and failsafes for just in case scenarios, and he practises hot wiring a few cars for a speedy getaway just in case the alarms are set off.

Knowledge of electrics and engineering go a very long way in the world of conning.

He thinks about what Natasha said, about how much easier this might all be if he could replicate his chosen object himself.

But he can forge bank notes, currency, one time a search warrant, diamonds and a hundred other things, but a painting.

It’s just always escaped him. Making fake bottles of wine- sculpting with glass, he can do that. Using heavy machinery to make fine diamonds and crystal, or laser printers for the holographic seals on money- he can do that.

But painting? That art escapes him.

He’s overheard police detectives calling him the Master of All Trades, and he supposes in some respects it’s true. It’s unheard of to be able to con as well as him, but also appraise diamonds, read lips, swan dive off of forty-story high buildings-

But painting is a different sort of art.

Softer and more beautiful, and so delicate a process that Tony’s never quite been able to get the hang of it.

Don’t get him wrong, he can paint. Enough to get by- enough to do a lazy enough imitation if he had to- he’d get a degree in it (according to his resumé, he actually has four degrees, two phDs and a couple of Masters courses he threw on there) but not enough raw talent to eyeball a forgery anywhere near getting past detection.

Besides, he’s curious about The Spider.

He’s always been curious; thirsting for knowledge, knowing things he shouldn’t know (boy the things he knows) and he’s not gonna pass up the chance.

So, when Nat gets back to him in two weeks with a place and a date, Tony salutes her and memorises it, before tearing it up and tossing it into a bin.

“Don’t get too excited,” she warns, not making eye contact as she sits across the busy mall from him on an opposing bench. She’s holding the burner phone to her cheek, and he has his own in his hand, listening intently. “You’re meeting his hacker.”

“Hacker?” Tony repeats with surprise, “I thought he was a painter-“

“The Spider’s security is air-tight, Tony. You’ll meet with his hacker, and they’ll look into you completely. They’ll know everything. And then The Spider decides if he wants to meet you.”

Tony half scoffs, “no one could know everything-“

“They’ll know enough.” She promises. “If this is part of a bigger con, Tony, I’d watch your back. Deal honestly with him.”

“I’m planning on it,” he mutters, a little offended by the notion that he takes everyone for a ride. “I am capable of being honest.”

“Then you should be fine.”

“How should I dress? What’s the hacker like?”

“How should I know?”

“I need something, Nat, come on! Are they geek-chic, or more ‘I live in my parent’s basement’ and-“

She hangs up, and amidst a crowd of people, she disappears.

Tony goes for geek-chic, just because he doesn’t want to pass up the chance to wear his new navy blue blazer.

* The girl standing in Central Park on Tuesday the 17th reminds him of the Statue of Liberty. She holds herself beautifully, slightly intimidating, and despite the fact he’s taller than her, she towers over him with a dignity he wasn’t expecting.

He was right about Geek Chic though, sort of.

The girl has dark skin and bright eyes, and she’s wearing Nikes and denim shorts and a long-sleeved crop-top that says Lakers on it.

She looks like a millennial, and the clearly jail-broken iphone in her hand and the silver memory-stick necklace hanging down her front, is a clear sign that says hacker.

He’s a little grateful for it. On first glance, he might have thought she was a regular teenager.

Might. He can read people. And her smile is more of a smirk, and it’s very knowledgable. He saunters up anyway, and flashes her his best smile.

She has perfectly shaped eyebrows, and she takes his hand firmly. “I’m Shuri,” she greets, and she waits a beat. He doesn’t speak, waiting for more, and she laughs. “And that’s your cue to give me whichever name you’d like to use. You have many. Or should I just pick my favourite? Mr Potts?”

“Tony is fine.” He bites out, reluctantly impressed, she must have an FBI-level hacking system. She turns on her trainer-clad heel and heads towards an ice-cream truck parked just beside the park.

He has no choice but to follow and wait in the sunshine as she pays for a 99c with two flakes, and munches on them happily. She’s in no rush, and she’s remarkably unstressed, and Tony tries to learn everything he can about her.

She’s not too spoilt for cash, that much is evident. She’s got good tech on her hands, and she’s been eating well- her skin and her hair have a healthy sort of glow- and her breath had smelt of the expensive coffee you can only get from the cafe down on fifth.

Plus, the shoes and shirt are brand names and very new.

And if she’s this age, then The Spider must be young too. (People don’t like contacts too much younger than they are). That just makes Tony even more curious.

“How old are you?” He asks, when she reaches the cone and still hasn’t spoken.

She grins at him, enjoying her power. “Why does that matter?”

“Because I’m being interviewed by a child.”

She flips the bird at him and it’s so out of the blue that he can’t help but laugh. “A child? You’re only twenty-five. I’m twenty. Five years makes you better than me?”

Fair point. “Well, how does this work? You know about me, now what?”

“I just wanted to see you,” she says mysteriously, devouring the cone in three bites. She smacks her lips together happily. “Get the vibe, you know? Put a remote tracker into your bloodstream.”

Tony jerks his hand to his face and examines his wrist.

Her firm hand shape has left a little syringe-mark.

“It’s only nanotech.” She remarks, unperturbed, as Tony tries his best not to pout and rub his arm. “It’ll stay in your blood for about a week. I’ll be monitoring where you go.”

“This is a lot of security.” Tony murmurs, feeling excited again. It’s not often he’s allowed to operate on this high a level with people so clearly able. “The Spider must not want anything to happen. Why’s he so paranoid?”

“You can ask him yourself.” Shuri nods, and Tony grins widely. “I’m gonna text you a link to an app. Download it onto your phone. When you’ve got the piece, write P on the app. I’ll respond with an address. You’ll have five seconds to memorise it before it deletes. Go there, meet the Spider, give him the painting, and in three days, send a friend with a clean record to come back and collect.”

The words roll off her tongue quickly, fluently, but not rehearsed, More like she’s said this before, quite a few times to other conmen.

Tony tries to wrap his head around all the information. One, she already has his number, which is…well, fine. Two, that apparently the Spider can reproduce a Degas in three days, Three, Tony has to leave the painting alone with him for three days, and four, the issue of payment.

“I want security on the piece.” He says, and Shuri half-shrugs.

“He’s not going to steal it.”

“I’m sure you can understand why I don’t take your word for it.”

She casts her steely gaze over him. “We have 100% customer satisfaction.”

“Security.”

“Trust me, after you meet him, you won’t worry about security. But, if you must, you can put a tracker on the piece, or you can have a person of your choice standing by the piece for the whole three days. If this person interferers in the Spider’s process in anyway, we reserve the right to seek compensation. And when I say seek, we mean take.”

He wants to ask if she’s ever studied law, because she could make a brilliant lawyer. And they need a few more lawyers on their side. Instead, he nods. He has a few favours he could call in, but he doesn’t want to trust anyone. He’ll stand by the painting himself. “And payment?”

“We trust that you’ll pay.” She hums lightly, wiping her hands on her thighs. “I know everything about you, Tony, it won’t be hard to make your life difficult if you decide to con us.”

He’s escaped the mafia, the FBI, MI5, Interpol and some of the most dangerous criminals and highest ranking investigators in the world, but this twenty year old in Nike trainers makes him feel like he probably couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes.

If this is the new face of crime, Tony’s a little glad he’s about to retire.

*

Tony tries not to expect or predict things from people he doesn’t know.

He makes educated guesses, informed and calculated risks sometimes, when he has to, but of all the things and of all the places he would have guessed the Spider lived, this is not where.

He stands at the foot of The Ansonia building on the Upper West Side of New York, and hovers there slightly in awe. 74th street is embedded with quaint shops and luxury department stores, antique cars and designer bred-dogs and even the trash cans look like they’re made of crystal.

The Spider lives here- in this building, in this luxury building, on the top floor- the 18th floor, and Tony just shakes his head and doesn’t know what to expect.

The doorman is wearing a green coat with gold buttons and nods at him with an old face that does not look surprised. “Good evening, Sir,” he says politely into the night air, as he opens the door for Tony to get in.

Tony smiles as charmingly as he can. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

“Very mild, Sir.”

“Exactly.” Tony nods, pressing the button on the elevator and slipping right in.

Everything in this building is finished with gold trim and bronze accents. He admires his own reflection on the ride up- the tuxedo makes him look very dapper indeed, complete with bow tie, he looks well-groomed and exceptionally attractive.

He’s robbed a state of the art museum tonight, and no one would ever know.

You never suspect the guy in a tuxedo, the one who’s having slightly too good a time, a little tipsy as he staggers over to his car.

Of course, Tony wasn’t drunk. And it wasn’t his car. But it was a very nice car, and it had done the job, and now here he is, with the painting, on the way up to meet The Spider.

He hasn’t been this excited in a while.

The robbery had gone off without a hitch, and now he has a week before the museum re-opens. But The Spider only needs three days, so Tony should be able to get back in, put the forgery in place, and leave the country with his happy ending.

Bliss is in sight, and the seas look calm.

He holds the canvas bag tightly, even as he fixes his collar. It’s a fairly big canvas, and it can be difficult to distract from it, but the porter had barely looked at him, and he’d made sure to smile and wink at people on the street.

A little bit of flattery and a handsome jawline can make people a little fuzzy on the details.

He steps off the elevator onto marble tiles, and he has to resist the urge to wolf-whistle.

He’d wolf-whistled a lot, back when he was eighteen and fresh to the city. He’d been trained out of it quickly, but there’s some of that boy still left inside him. Mischievous and looking for a good time.

He reaches the heavy oak door with gold lettering 2001 above it and knocks, taking a deep breath, and preparing himself for absolutely anything.

He gets the wind punched right out of him when the door swings open.

Framed by the doorway, and the soft gold light from inside the apartment spilling out all around him, is quite easily the most beautiful boy Tony has ever seen in his entire life.

And he lives in New York. He’s been here during fashion week- Tony has seen his fair share of gorgeous people-

“It’s been a while,” the boy beams- Jesus- his eyes are like honey- like the sunlight as it spills onto warm brown roots in the middle of an enchanted forest- “I’ve missed you,”

Tony has to be lurched into gear, when he notices another resident entering their apartment across the hall. He nods, finding his throat clogged, and lets out a strangled: “I’ve missed you too.”

The boy smiles, and gestures him in.

Tony can’t look away. He can’t pull his eyes away enough to scan the apartment like he knows he should. He can’t look anywhere but the boy. He’s got fluffy chestnut curls toppling into his forehead, each lock absolutely perfect, and he’s wearing silk black sleep shorts that hug his thighs just- just brilliantly, and an over-sized lavender sweater that hangs over one shoulder.

He’s got freckles and dimples and a twinkle in his eye and-

“Can I offer you anything?” The boy asks, and Tony shakes his head and tries to get himself together. “Tea? Shuri told me you enjoyed wine, I think I have a few bottles, but you should probably browse them yourself,” he giggles, and it’s a beautiful sound Tony wants to wrap himself up in. “They’re mostly gifts, but I’m sure there are a few good bottles.” He stage whispers: “I don’t know anything about wine.”

Tony’s in love.

That snaps him out of it. The thought wrenches him right out of his daydream and sends him careening back into reality. “Tea would be much appreciated,” he manages, (wine does not clear your head) and follows the boy into the kitchen.

This is the Spider. He’s- he’s- well, he looks about Shuri’s age, like Tony thought, but…nothing else.

He’s absolutely sublime. And the apartment- it’s huge, a huge penthouse surely over 5000 square feet. It has a balcony that looks out over New York, it’s decorated with accents of rose gold and pastels, and it’s luxury if Tony’s ever seen it. There are designer throw cushions and rare fur rugs and from what he spies of the living room- a bookcase absolutely teeming with first editions.

In the kitchen, the wine rack is nothing to sniff at. A good, niche collection. Though there aren’t many bottles, each one is worth at least $10,000. And they were gifts. Tony wonders who the hell this boy has as friends. He must be forging paintings at a hell of a rate, to be twenty years old and already here.

“I’m Peter, by the way, Tony.” the boy says warmly, and Tony takes a seat at the kitchen counter, watching as Peter moves a teapot onto the stove. Warm is a good word for him. He seems very warm. He looks comforting and homey and his eyes are inviting and his hair looks impossibly soft to the touch. “I didn’t realise you’d get the painting tonight, so my apologies for…” he gestures to the way he’s dressed, and smiles bashfully. “I was taking a nap.”

“Please don’t apologise,” Tony whispers, eyes dragging without his consent over Peter’s delicate frame. “You look beautiful.” So beautiful and he’s only just woken up. Tony thinks he might faint if he saw the boy when he was making an effort.

Peter’s skin, cream as a canvas, starts to blossom pink.

“That’s very- thank you,” he blushes, busying himself with two mugs. “You look- very handsome too, I like the tux-“ he breaks out into more blushing when Tony winks and hurriedly looks away.

Tony looks around again (though he does take a moment to appreciate that gorgeous, gorgeous ass fuck, two perfect handfuls) to glean as much as he can. He still has the painting in it’s canvas bag sitting by his feet, but he sees a shopping list on the fridge with cosy looking fridge magnets, and-

His eye is drawn back to Peter, at the bare skin of his shoulder, where he can see stained pink; a tattoo, of a rose, he thinks.

Goddamn, this is unreal.

“I didn’t expect you to have…” he shakes his head, smiling when Peter sets the tea down in front fo him and joins him. “This apartment is just very…”

Peter ducks his head bashfully. “Art restoration does pay almost obscenely well when you work privately. Plus, I come from old money, so don’t be impressed,” he insists softly, and Tony can’t look away from those eyes.

He can’t help but laugh, though. “Art restoration?” He lets out, “that’s what you call your line of work?”

Peter looks confused. “I’m an art restorer,” he says, and Tony can tell that every inch of the boy is telling the truth.

“You’re an art restorer- and you can afford this place,” Tony gapes, “then why are you even-“

“Oh,” Peter laughs, taking a sip of his tea. It smells of honey and lemon. “I just do that for fun, really. I think art should be shared, so I don’t mind making copies. It’s fun, it’s really good training.”

“And the money…”

“I give that all the charity.” Peter cocks his head a little, “Shuri was supposed to tell you all of this. Didn’t she explain?”

Tony shakes his head in amazement. “I think she’s a lot more protective of you than you think, Peter. So, you’re telling me you copy the paintings for fun?”

Peter stands from the table and rolls his eyes. “Not just fun. Also training. More importantly though, art should be worshipped. I want everyone to have a Van Gogh to hang in their dining room, to see every day! I want people to talk about paintings again, it shouldn’t have to be something you go and see once on a school trip, it should be a part of your everyday life,” he beckons for Tony to follow. “I’ll show you my gallery, bring your painting, you’ll see.”

Tony does, gulping his tea down in one go. It burns his throat on the way down, and it just reminds him that no, he’s not dreaming.

Peter’s apartment is huge and beautiful, and when they walk through to his workshop, Tony’s breath is taken away.

There are easels everywhere, all with paintings at different forms of life. Finished ones are on the wall, and there are pots of paintbrushes everywhere, chalk and charcoal and an entire wall with an intricate shelf system of paints. There have to be over a thousand bottles.

Peter motions to a fresh easel, and Tony hurries over, unzipping the bag and setting the Degas on the stand.

Peter makes a sound that’s pure sex. “It’s beautiful,” he murmurs, reaching out a finger like he wants to touch before quickly pulling back. “Blue Dancers. You see these pastels? It looks like a traditional sketch, like a character study as she moves- every figure is her, you know? At different stages, just…” he shakes his head helplessly, “it’s beautiful.”

Tony can only see Peter. The painting pales in comparison. “Yeah,” he agrees hoarsely, “it really is.”

He can’t believe this is happening. Of all the things, of all the ways he’s expected his night to go, this isn’t how he talks to people. Not people in his line of work. They speak in code, they vaguely threaten and intimidate, but they don’t share their passion of art, or donate all the money to charity, or have a heart so pure that all they want to do is to make sure everyone has art in their life.

“You know what I do, right?” He croaks, and Peter pulls his eyes away from the painting reluctantly, to nod.

“Shuri told me, Tony, don’t worry. I have no interest in turning you in. I thought what you did with the diamond was really very clever. Shuri tells me that it’s almost impossible to make a synthetic pink of that size.”

“I had to use a radiation machine,” he murmurs, puffing out his chest a little, and Peter grins.

“See? That’s a kind of art there. Same with the forged bank notes, it’s all just art and finesse.”

Tony looks at the other paintings. He can see a few other forgeries in the making- can see one or two that are probably being restored for legitimate, private owners.

“I have to admit,” Tony whispers, wandering around the studio, “this is a perfect set up. A legitimate job, a legitimate salary- having Shuri check everyone out- not using the money for yourself- you’ve got it figured out.”

“I’m quite the criminal,” Peter teases, rolling his eyes.

“I’m serious,” Tony insists, “the crimes that are the hardest to solve are the ones that don’t have a motive. No FBI agent would ever think your motive was sharing art.” He’s a little jealous, if he’s honest. But then again, he’s never had a legitimate job. Or at least one he acquired legitimately.

“Why do you commit your crimes?” The bambi-eyed boy asks, as he studies the painting. He pulls a mobile light from overhead and shines it at the canvas at different angles.

Tony sits on one of the stools, watching him, and lets out a breath. “I don’t know.” He begins, raking his fingers through his hair, “To prove I can. Money. This is my final heist.”

“The perfect score,” Peter nods, “I get it. I hope I don’t let you down.”

Tony looks at the calibre of the other paintings that surrounds him and shakes his head. “I doubt that’s possible.”

Peter blushes again, the light making his lashes look even longer as they cast shadows against his cheek. “The problem with Degas is that he was losing his eye-sight towards this period, so he only painted during certain hours- that’ll affect the way the paint sits. And of course, prussian blue didn’t exist as a shade, so I’ll have to make my own. I have an oven at the studio at work I can use to crack the paint- make it consistent with the period,” he stops to explain, and even though Tony already knows, he doesn’t want Peter to stop talking. “Paint starts to crack as it ages, and this is over a century old, we’ll need to induce it. If I use pure pigment and follow the light schedule, I…” he shakes his head, looking awed, “it’s amazing to copy from the original like this. I don’t always have the chance, a lot of the time, I have to work from a photo, but that loses texture so…” he gives Tony a grateful look and Tony thinks he’d do anything to keep that gaze on him just like that. “I should be able to get you one that fooled even Degas himself.”

“You are a saint,” Tony whispers, and he knows now, what Shuri meant. He doesn’t think the painting could be safer with anyone else.

And unless Peter’s the best liar he’s ever seen before, he trusts him. There’s an earnest transparency, a warmth, that Tony’s never seen. Not on someone so talented. So wealthy.

After another cup of tea, and watching Peter outline a few drafts, Tony finds himself talking. Once he starts, he can’t seem to stop. (Tip for conmen, get them to talk about themselves. Deflect. Always deflect) But Peter’s sweet and non-judgemental and Tony feels something inside him unfurl as he confesses over darjeeling that he’s worried about being lonely on an island in the Mediterranean.

Peter’s fingers get stained with pencil, and he rubs his chin and accidentally leaves marks all over his face that Tony wants to kiss. Peter never looks shocked or frowns at any of Tony’s stories- at how the friends he’s made have drifted, at the crimes he’s committed- Peter just nods and sketches and then, after a long while, when it’s nearing three am, and Tony’s eyelids are starting to droop, Peter gets up and puts his pencils away.

“You know why you’re lonely, don’t you, Tony?” Peter asks, washing his hands.

“Why’s that, sweetheart?” Tony drawls, fingers curled around the mug. It says follow your dreams in swirly pink script on a cloud on the side.

“Because you’ve been putting on a front for so long, you’re all front. You can’t just be charm and charisma, you need some substance. A little bit of human. Messy and wrong, sometimes, but human.” Peter looks thoughtful, and he comes to stand before Tony, and takes the mug from his hands gently. This close, Tony can smell the floral scent of Peter’s laundry detergent. Peter looks up at him through his lovely eyelashes and says barely above a whisper: “I think I’d find your human side kinda lovely.”

Tony wants to lean down and kiss, and he does move, just a little, before Peter’s lets out a little surprised hitch and Tony thinks no.

Because he can read people, and he can read situations. And he knows a kiss now will just ruin things for the long run.

And Tony wants a long run.

So he clears his throat, and Peter pulls away with dazed-eyes, “I’ll um- leave you to it.” Tony murmurs, and Peter nods- curls bouncing.

New York is never silent, not even in the dead of night, but as Tony hot wires a different car and thinks of Peter, he doesn’t hear a thing.

He does smile though, a lot. Not to win anyone over, but just because he’s happy.

*

He goes back the next day with flowers.

It’s the most expensive bouquet he could find, but that’s not why he picked it. It’s because it’s filled with pink roses, like the one on Peter’s shoulder, and wildflowers and lavender just like his sweater. Because there are dandelions and foxgloves spilling over the white paper and even when Tony sniffs it, it doesn’t smell as good as Peter.

The doorman nods at him when he opens the door. “Good choice, Sir.” He says quietly, and Tony grins and pats him on the back.

When Peter opens the door, he looks surprised- then delighted- and Tony holds out the bouquet for him.

“As a thank you,” he explains, and watches as Peter buries his face in the flowers and inhales.

“It’s lovely,” Peter beams, gesturing him in.

It’s clear Peter’s been painting. He’s a vision of beauty again, in floral shorts that cut off tantalisingly high on his thigh, and an over-sized dress shirt. It’s undone at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves and completely covered in paint. Everything he owns is such quality- 100% cotton and silk and no doubt expensive. There are hues of blue all across his forearms.

“I was working on your piece, go through and have a look! I’ll just go put these in a vase.”

Tony nods, even though there’s a little smudge of yellow paint on Peter’s cheek and all he wants to do is brush his thumb across it.

He goes through to the studio, and there on the easel, is his canvas.

Or rather, Peter’s copy. The canvas is 3/4s of the way filled, and he shakes his head in amazement as he comes closer and looks between Peter’s and the original. The boy’s a genius. The three ballerinas are exactly the same- and Peter’s palette is laid on the table- a dozen shades of periwinkle, and paintbrushes galore all handpicked and to the ready.

Sunlight is streaming in through the window and Tony inhales the sharp smell of paint and knows he’ll always associate the two things with Peter.

“It’s rare to find dandelions in a bouquet,” Peter beams, coming in with a gorgeous vase and the flowers bursting within it. He sets it on a table in the sunshine, and turns his warm gaze on Tony. “You really didn’t have to buy me anything, but it’s so sweet you did.”

“Let me take you out to dinner,” Tony blurts, because he’s all torn up inside. He wants to reform for Peter, but he also wants to rob the highest security bank in the world to impress him. He wants to spend time picking him dandelions, but also wants to put a necklace worth more than this apartment around his dainty neck.

Peter blushes and his eyes slide away. “Tony,” he begins apologetically, and Tony’s heart sinks, “you seem…too good to be true, and Shuri told me that’s how you always seem. You lie for a living, and- I’m not sure what you want from me. If I’m part of a con. I don’t know you, Tony. I’m not sure anyone does.”

“You can trust me,” Tony insists, a touch desperately, “i would never hurt you.”

Peter gives him sad half-smile, “Tony, it’s your job to be convincing.”

Peter’s right, of course. Lying is second nature, but Tony hasn’t lied with him. Not once. He’s been more open than he’s been with anyone, but Peter doesn’t know that. They feel like opposites here, in this moment, Peter in his white, paint-stained cotton shirt, honesty in every earnest word and gentle touch, and Tony in his black t-shirt and dark tailored pants, his front bolted into place, his mask on his face even as he tries to remove it.

“Please don’t look so sad,” Peter whimpers, coming over and kissing Tony’s cheek. “I’m not saying no, I’m saying not now.”

If not now, when? Tony thinks, but he nods. “Tell me about yourself, Peter.” He says, as Peter settles back in front of the canvas. “I did all the talking last night.”

“Yes, but you have a very nice voice.” Peter teases, “you could do audiobooks.”

“An honest profession indeed,” Tony chuckles.

Peter was raised in France, in Toulouse, and is self-trained in art. His parents died when he was young, but he loves his Aunt more than anything. He’s bought her a villa in Paris where she makes her own wine (that explains the eclectic mix in Peter’s wine rack). He’d moved to New York four years ago, when he was sixteen, and life has treated him kindly. “I think it’s more luck than anything else,” Peter confesses, using his fan brush to shape the tutus in a burgundy-blue. “Things just fell into place.”

“Yeah they do that,” Tony grins, “especially around people who are hard-working, talented and kind.”

Peter laughs, shaking his head. “It’s not all great. This building doesn’t allow cats, so…”

“A complete travesty.”

“Exactly. I knew you’d understand.”

They have brunch out on the deck. Peter, as it turns out, can’t cook to save his life, but Tony’s been a chef in a few Michelin star restaurants over his life, so he whips them up a Spanish omelette and they drink it with coffee while looking out over New York.

“How’d you even get into this business?” He asks, staring at the enigma that is Peter Parker.

“Accidentally, really.” He admits. “I was so silly. I was painting a Hoefnagels for class, it’s a lovely 1598 piece- and I was doing some finishing touches in the park before it was due, and a guy offered me money for it.” Peter shakes his head in amazement, like he still can’t believe someone was willing to pay for his work.

Tony wants to wrap him up and shower him with praise.

“And I was so flattered, that i jut gave it to him. Little did I know, of course, that he was planning on selling it on as the original. It was a spider painting, and then I was just known as The Spider. It got so out of hand, people started approaching me out of the blue with a terrible amount of money, and I couldn’t refuse it, because Shuri runs this amazing charity to help fund educational services in countries without the proper school-structure, so I started giving it to her. Of course, she asked where I was getting it and then she insisted I be more protected, and she’s always been good with computers so-“

“Amazing,” Tony breathes, staring at Peter as the New York skyline frames him. “Wherever you go, Peter Parker, amazement follows.”

“Well,” Peter teases, “I’m certainly not as suave as you. Put me in a three piece suit, and I become a stammering mess, that’s for sure. I like it much better here, with my books and my paints and Netflix. Have you ever seen the Good Witch?”

Tony shakes his head, and listens to Peter talk about it. It sounds ludicrously wholesome, just like him.

It’s weird, a creeping sort of feeling, knowing that here over omelettes and black coffee, on an old New York terrace on a bright and sunny morning, with this boy here, feels like more of a happy ending than any island in the Mediterranean could ever feel.

The final heist, the last con, the only crime left- it pales in comparison to Peter’s warm eyes and the way he talks with his hands and looks at Tony like there’s something there.

Something to be loved.

* Tony’s admiring himself in a mirror of a department store when Agent Peggy Carter taps him on the shoulder. He turns, winks at her, and shows off the shirt. “What do you think?” He asks smoothly, “too garish? I’m trying to impress a sweet young thing.”

She doesn’t smile, but her lips do twitch a little. “Stark.” She warns, before pulling a notepad out of her grey blazer. She pulls off the pantsuit very well. “Where were you last night?”

“Why?” He winks, “did you miss me? You know you can always call.” He gestures to one of the attendants and pats his shirt affectionately. “I’ll take it. I want to wear it out of the store.”

“Not a problem!” The attendant chirps, flitting away, and Tony turns to Peggy with a smile.

“I was at a restaurant. Dining alone, I’m afraid. But I’m sure the restaurant staff will vouch for me,” he shrugs, flashing her a winning smile, “I’m pretty hard to forget. It’s this gorgeous face. A curse and a blessing.”

Peggy rolls her eyes. “You were there the whole night? What restaurant?”

“Oh, I can’t remember. One down near that lovely bakery on fourth.” (When you’re telling the truth, make it sounds like a lie.) He was at a restaurant last night- he was alone, and there are people who will vouch for him. The Restaurant was the Dorsia, and he’d gone for some time to think- and show off his newest suit- but she doesn’t need to know that it definitely wasn’t him. Feds like investigating and moving on by their own accord. Besides, Tony doesn’t know what the crime was yet. If it was something tasty, it might do well for a few other street criminals to think he’s the one that’s done it.

It’s very good for business.

Or- it was. It doesn’t need to be anymore. Since there’s only one more heist. One more crime.

“I’ll check it out.” She promises, though it sounds like a threat, flipping her notebook closed and tucking it away. “And while I do that- I don’t suppose you’ve come across the Wittelsbach Diamond in your travels?”

He gives her a blank look.

She snorts. “C’mon, Stark, cut the crap. It’s a diamond about yea-big,” she holds open her hand, “-vibrant pink. You were accused of stealing it just a few-“

“I think you’ll find that I was innocent, Peggy darling,”

She shakes her head. “I know you took it. Just like the Handberg Manuscripts.”

“Hm,” Tony nods, “that’s fine. I have a hard time admitting when I’m wrong too. We have that in common.”

She sighs. “Stay on the straight and narrow, Stark. At least for a while.”

He gives her a two-fingered salute and a wave. “Will do, Peggy-sue.”

Her laugh feels like success.

(Is it because he pulled one over on her? Or because he likes making people happy? Does he care too much? More than he thought?)

* Peter’s forgery is the best Tony’s ever seen. Which, of course, is exactly why he wanted him.

It passes the microscopic analysis, the craquelure is perfection. The frame and the wood light show up brilliantly, the infra-red shows the underlying grid and the IR spectroscopic analysis shows the pigments as pure, and coming from the right time. The cracks are consistent with the time period- the fading towards the bottom consistent with Degas’ decreasing eyesight, and Tony can only pull away, setting down his microscopic lens, and whistle in amazement.

“Jesus, Peter,” he breathes, “this is…” he doesn’t have the words. “It’s the best damn forgery I’ve ever seen. An imitation from the gods.”

Peter’s eyes are smiling, but he bristles a little. “Not an imitation, Tony, a pastiche. To copy is to flatter. That’s all I want to do to these paintings.”

He nods, feeling giddy with triumph. “You are a treasure, Peter Parker. The seedy underworld does not deserve you.”

The boy laughs at that. He’s come from work today, and it’s the first time Tony’s seen him in non-casual. The button up shirt is dark purple- silk- and is tucked neatly into tight black jeans. Designer. Tony wants to ravish him.

But it’s over. Their business is complete.

He reaches for his canvas bag and Peter’s painting, before a lily-white hand clutches his wrist.

“Tony,” Peter says, eyes wide, “if mine and the original are so indistinguishable- even to experts and scientists- then why not just sell the forgery? Return the original, and sell mine. That way- if by some miracle critics manage to catch the forgery- it’s less of a crime than stealing a Degas.”

The two paintings are identical. Practically identical.

But science is always improving, Peter’s right. New equipment is always being made and methods always being tested.

But with replacing the painting- it’ll avoid a genuine test for years. And Tony will have successfully stolen and sold a genuine Degas. And who knows how long it would be before anyone even caught Peter’s forgery?

He shakes his head. “I’m sticking with my plan.”

Peter releases him, and nods. “I was only suggesting. Either way, art is being appreciated so…” he smiles with his dimples, “whatever makes you happy.”

Happy is the bliss beyond the horizon, after he makes the switch and Nat sells the painting.

Happy is-

“Come with me,” he pleads, swallowing hard, “to wherever I go. I know- you met me three days ago- but- I’ll buy us an island, Peter, you could paint and read and we could…”

“Retire at twenty,” Peter muses around a teary laugh, “oh Tony. That’s not what I want. I want a wedding, and friends, and to skirt the line of the law, but mostly be on it’s good side. Not running from something forever. I like my job, I like New York, I don’t have anything to run away from.”

“No, no,” Tony frowns, shaking his head insistently, “I’m not running away from anything, this is just my final heist.”

“You’re running away from something, Tony,” Peter murmurs, going onto his tiptoes to kiss the corner fo Tony’s mouth. He smells of dandelions. “One day maybe you’ll stop. If you do, I’ll be here. Probably still trying to convince the building to let me have a cat.”

Tony leaves the Ansonia, but leaves an important part of himself behind.

* He’s sitting in his storage unit at the edge of the city, drinking a stolen bottle of wine, surrounded by all his treasure.

He feels like a very lonely dragon. Eons old.

He’s surrounded by paintings, and goblets and treasures from museums. Diamonds and bonds and counterfeit money and deeds. Stolen u-boat treasure and Nazi-claimed portraits, and historical artefacts that he had to do some pretty shady things to get.

There’s a clatter on the roof, but Tony doesn’t flinch, he just sips at the wine and watches as Natasha makes her way in.

She gasps at all the treasure. She looks around, eyes wide, practically vibrating with excitement as much as she tries to hide it. “You have the Handburg manuscripts?” She whispers, reaching out to touch a scroll, “I thought that was a rumour…”

He shrugs, hoping the tears on his cheeks have dried. “Yeah, i got them a few years back.”

“How..?”

“Carrier pigeons.”

“Jesus, Tony, you’re…you’re the best. There’s gotta be millions of dollars worth of stuff here.” She stops when her eyes land on the two Degas. “Wow. The Spider is…wow.” She looks at both of them, squinting hard, “which one is…?”

“The one on the left is real,” he lies, just to see if she can catch it.

“Wow.” She murmurs, “it’s-“ she turns to him sharply, as if she’s taking in him and not the treasure for the first time since she got here. “Oh god.” She whispers, and he lifts the glass to her in a mock toast. “You’re going to turn yourself in.”

He knows, but hearing her say it is pretty awful.

“Tony, why?”

“There are two endings for someone who’s running, Nat, do you know what they are?”

She says nothing.

“Either they get caught, or they keep running. Running forever.” He downs the rest of the wine. It’s disgusting. “But I can give myself a third option. Turn myself in.”

“They won’t catch you,” she pleads, “they’d never be able to catch you, Tony.”

“You’ve been a good friend to me, Nat,” he murmurs, mind made up. He gestures to the two paintings. “Pick whichever one you want. it’s yours. Free of charge.”

Her jaw drops, but she’s smarter than to try and change his mind when it’s so in her favour.

Like he thought, she picks the “real” one. She tucks Peter’s copy into her bag and heads for the door- pausing only once to look at him.

“You were the best.” She says; pityingly. “But I’ll have your back, Tony.”

In the morning, he takes the Degas into the FBI headquarters, and confesses to stealing it.

* Tony Stark, the FBI’s newest criminal consultant. Exchanging prison time for expert help on White Collar crimes.

Peggy’s the one who makes it all happen. She’s also his handler. She’s the one who puts the un-tamperable tracking anklet on his leg, and looks at him like she’s proud. “Working for the FBI is gonna change you,” she says; pleased, and Tony laughs and fixes his suit. “Remember, this thing’ll go off if you step outside your two mile radius.”

“Fine by me,” Tony assures, because there’s only one place he cares about going.

* It’s weird to think about the fact that retirement is a 9 to 5 job working for the FBI.

But it’s bliss if Tony ever dreamed of it.

Breakfast and lazy morning sex with Peter on the balcony, giving their neighbours a bit of a show, then into work with Peggy to catch jewel thieves and forgers (his criminal alliases come in very, very handy). He comes home to see Peter painting, and he sweeps him off his feet and makes him dinner.

He and Peter work on some of the cases after hours, and if Tony ever comes across a forged painting and Peter blushes-

He always assures Peggy that it’s an original.

And he still gets to dress up. Whenever he goes undercover, or whenever an art gallery opens. He feels much more dapper, with Peter at his side. Everyone comments on what a beautiful couple they are, and Peter goes all pink, but Tony just smirks and slides an arm around his waist and agrees.

He buys Peter a bouquet every week, and Peter reacts just the same every time.

Shuri helps Tony whenever a case needs a tech-whiz, and whenever Peggy asks how he managed to get it done, Tony just wiggles his fingers and says: “I’m a man with many talents.”

He still has his storage unit of treasure, moved of course, because Natasha can’t be fully trusted-

And sometimes Peggy looks at him, like she’s still not totally convinced he won’t disappear off the face of the earth, but then other times- more often lately, she looks at him like he’s her friend.

He likes that look more.

Over cheap take out on a stake out, she asks him point blank: “Do you have the Handberg manuscripts? I could never figure than one out.”

“Hypothetically,” he grins, because he’s still the kid from LA with a pack of cards, “if I did have it, I might have used carrier pigeons.”

She exhales and smiles wryly. “I’ll never be able prove you have them, will I? Or the Wittelsbach Diamond, or the dozens of other things I’m sure you’ve stolen.”

“The only thing I’ve ever stolen,” he recites, “is a Degas, which I promptly returned after being consumed with guilt. A judge can only be forgiving in a situation like that.”

“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes and steals a spring roll, “we still caught you.”

“Actually, I turned myself in.” He says, the beginning line of a familiar argument.

* On a sunny afternoon in June, at an art museum that he and Peter have broken into in the dead of night (though New York is never really dead) Tony gets down on one knee.

Peter starts crying, and Tony just kisses his fingers and slides the ring onto it.

And that’s when Peter sees the diamond.

It’s pink and-

“Tony no,” Peter gasps, staring at it, “you haven’t. You haven’t cut off a piece of the Wittelsba-“

“I finally found something to do with it,” he grins, kissing his fiancé on the nose.

Peter shakes his head, still crying tears of joy, but looking aghast all the same. “But that- damaging it lowers the price, Tony! That was worth millions and-“

“And now,” he rubs his thumb over the ring on Peter’s finger, “it’s absolutely priceless.”

Peter has sex with him right then and there, rides him under a Van Gogh and an Afremov.

Shuri has to go in and delete the footage, and Tony treats her to dinner to say thank you.

* The storage unit of treasure- treasure too hot to sell, that Tony stole to prove he could steal, hoarding in the promise that one day he’d use it all for his happy ending-

He has his happy ending, and the treasure has a purpose now.

He gives it away.

He gives Peter’s Aunt May a bottle of wine for Christmas. She’ll never know how much it’s really worth, but she’ll enjoy it, and that’s what matters. He and Peter donate a few pieces to museums and charity shops.

He sends Clint a diamond necklace, Harley a chest full of antique gold coins, Pepper an original set of Mongolian daggers and Maria some newly minted holographic strips for the Canadian hundred dollar bill.  

He also leaves the Handberg Manuscripts on Peggy’s desk one morning, and she stares at them, and starts to cry.

“That’s weird,” Tony comments, offering her some tissue, “maybe whoever took them decided that you should finally get to close the case.”

“You’re an idiot, Tony,” she hiccups, hugging him tight.

He doesn’t miss any of it.

The treasure that matters most, after all, is the one he comes home to every night. Speckled with paint and cat hair (Tony is an excellent persuasive speaker) and always ready with a kiss.

“Want to know the best thing I ever stole?” Tony asks, over waffles in bed as they watch The Good Witch on Netflix.

“Ooh, what’s that?” Peter says excitedly, chocolate all around his mouth.

“Your heart,” Tony grins, reaching over to kiss his husband on the lips.

[strigital]

I WANNA HEAR ABOUT YOUR V if thats ok

you… you really do?

‘cause if that’s true then hell yes! (tbh i’d yell about my ocs from a top of a mountain if only anyone would listen)

heck, where do i even start? anyways, long ass post ahead!

BACKSTORY!

To makelong ass story somewhat short: Jax was raised by her big bro - Alek - and, for aslong as she could remember, she believed her brother’s explanation of theirlonely existence, which was that their parents were, simply put, a couple ofjerks not suited for a family life. By his words their dad was a borderline psychoborgtoo busy ripping implants out of people, while the mom was a dirtgirl tooaddicted to braindance to care for her kids. And when the young lad justcouldn’t take it anymore, he snatched his little sister out of bed and ran withher into the night so they could both start a new life. Jaxine never doubtedthe story, even if the way they lived always seemed kinda fishy - like they werein hiding - not to mention it was somewhat suspicious that her bro wouldconstantly “go to work” armed to the teeth.

Welp, turnsout that all of this was a lie (what a twist!). In truth, Jaxie’s dad was onehelluva Netrunner who got his bread by getting people into parts of the Netthat they had no legal access to and occasionally stealing a few files fromcorpos here and there to sell them to fixers for some extra eddies. And iftheir dad was all about that software, their mom was the hardware maestro whocould build a computer out of scrap metal like it was Legos. They were quite apower couple and managed to attract more than  a few followers and basically started theirown tiny little gang whose main job was to ruin all the fun for the corps inthe virtual world. And, of course, something had to go wrong eventually. So itdid. They stole info about a shipment of expensive Arasaka tech and sold it toa fixer. But before they could get their hands on that juicy high tech, somerat snitched on them. One of their guys turned up to be a corpo whistleblower whose sole purpose was to sniff out the infamous Netrunner who was stealing theirdata. A whole ass witch hunt began and the dad knew he fucked up big time. Sobig, in fact, he knew for damn sure Arasaka was coming for him and his family.So he put his little daughter into his son’s arms along with some valuable datashards regarding his work, made him promise he’ll keep his sis safe and senthim on his merry way, whilst running with the wife in the opposite direction.

And itworked! Surprisingly. Alek did such an amazing job at concealing theirfootsteps they managed to live pretty happily and untouched by the corpos formany years. The brother became a solo and an edgerunner pretty early and tookon an alias of the ‘Vulture’ - ‘V’ for short. He was so damn good at his job theynever knew poverty. Buuut as they say ‘the faster you run away from yourpast…’ Jax was almost 18 when Arasaka found them. He gunned them all downlike dogs, even though he knew there was no way he’d survive. In the aftermathof the bloodbath, leaning against the wall of their wrecked living room,bleeding and dying, he promised her he was going to be fine, gave her thosemysterious shards, told her to grab his gun and bike and go to Night City, makea simple delivery to his old friend. Jax felt it was a goodbye and that those mercswere no damn drug dealers who came to collect an old debt. But she listened tohim anyway and rode to Night City.

There, this‘friend’ person who turned out to be the last surviving associate of her parents,told her the truth. The entire story and not a single lie. That day she made ither life goal to harass Arasaka at every turn, make their lives miserable, DDoSthe fuck out of their Net, mess up their systems real good! She adopted herbrother’s alias (though this time it most likely stood for ‘Vendetta’ howeversaucy that might sound) and began to follow in her parents’ footsteps, learningall she could about hacking and tech. Eventually, V got good enough at it soshe could jam tracking devices and disable surveillance programming in order toremain ‘inivisible’ to those who’d find her pranks unfunny. Though, apparently,someone’s been looking for her recently… Wonder what’s that all about, huh?

TL;DR!

JaxineBryce is a trash goblin and a bi disaster, who’s a not-so-bad Netrunner and asomewhat-acceptable Techie. She came to NC after her brother’s death to be apain in the Arasaka Corp.’s ass for personal reasons as well as for shits andgiggles.

She’s ofmixed race, though she mostly takes after her Asian mom. Her hazel eyesare long gone and replaced by some cute orange-glowing optics, and herbluish-black hair is always a hot mess that she just can’t be bothered to take careof it (if she could she’d wear a ‘Bad Hair Day’ beanie hat all day every day).Doesn’t really have that much skin wiring and such, prefers to conceal most of her cyberwareand look as natural as possible due to her fear of slipping into cyberpsychosis.

She alwaysloved to blast Johnny Silverhand on full volume in her room, but ever sinceArasaka kinda sorta ruined her life, she really started to like this guy, evengot herself a glowing tattoo of Samurais (not to mention the Samurai jacket,which was a birthday gift from the brother!).

She can’tdo shit in combat (besides firing a gun and only because her bro took her outshooting once), but boy can she fuck up your cyberware if you get too close.For these reasons she desperately relies on Jackie to be the ‘wall’ between herand the enemy, but at the same time she always makes T-Bug’s work a tad biteasier.

Other thanthat, she absolutely loves NiCola, dreams of owning at least a couple of cats, believes coffee and ramen to be the crowning achievments of humanity, is an AI rights supporter and a speed junkie to the bone despite not being the best driver in the book. Can’treally drive cars that well, but boy does she love bikes! And adding her ownlittle touches to her vehicles. Like, that one time she spray-painted Jackie’snew car neon pink and now he won’t leave her alone with his car unsupervised…

Jaxine issomewhat introverted and really clings onto people that she knows. T-Bug alwaysappeared to her like a caring big sister, while doctor Victor became a newfather figure in her life after her brother’s demise. V’s also got the biggestof crushes on Jackie, though she’d rather die in a fire than tell him, mostlybecause she really doesn’t want to ruin their amazing friendship (besides, shewon’t survive a day in NC without Jackie’s help). And even though she jokesaround a lot, she has a tendency to fall in and out of depression. Jackie’s happy attitudealways helped her deal with those kind of anxious feelings and going out forthe night on the town with her best amigo will always be her preferred way todo therapy. Despite all that, Jaxine’s genuinely a ‘good guy’, but definitely nota ‘knight in shining armor’. Sure, she’ll help you out if she happens upon youwhile on a job, but don’t expect her to go on a righteous quest to save theworld. Her only goal in life is avenging her family, letting go of the past andfinding a place to truly call home and nothing else. As soon as there’s nothingof importance holding her in Night City, she’ll hop on her bike and be gonebefore sunrise.

[skycospack]

Designing And Multipurpose Sprayers Accessories

Sprayers and sprayers’ accessories are excellent to use in every residence. It is primarily used the deliver the water base components, especially for cleaning purposes. Apart from the cleaning requirements, it can be used in gardening to control the pest. The general purpose of the sprayers is to dispensing the water-soluble powders. Now it is behind with lots of applications such as

• Masonry

• Acid bath

• Waterproofing

• Dispensing chemicals

• Degreasers

• Commercial cleaners

• Carpet treatments

The above-mentioned are a few of the applications of the sprayers. As per the development of the products now it is used in the cosmetics. Mist sprayer pump are using in the perfume bottles. It can be manufactured according to the size and capacity of the bottles. It can be used for plastic bottles as well as glass bottles.

Especially for the cosmetic industry

The sprayer bottles are behind with lots of useful features. Polyethylene flow control and discharge, straight neck, styled plugs, light-duty are some of the commonly used models of the sprayers. Now there is a wide range of spray bottles are using for different purposes. It is highly capable of holding various applications for your usages.

The hand sprayers, economy sprayers are behind with the adjustable nozzle. Cosmetic bottles are manufacture with the latest model for sprayers for your usages. You also find various types of bottles from the market. Some of the cosmetic products behind with the sprayers like

• Lift bottle

• Acrylic bottle

• Double tube bottle

• Lotion bottle

Easy process with quality triggers sprayers

Trigger sprayers are useful for making the many processes more effective. Storing of cosmetics is in this bottle which is easy to use and handy. The superior manufacturers are making the different shapes of bottles for cosmetic usages. Now, most cosmetic products come in glass bottles. At the same time, it has sprayers for dispensing the cosmetic content.

Most of these types of the bottle are used storing the semi-liquid and liquid cosmetic content. Airless bottles are especially manufacturing for cosmetic usages. Some of the things like foundation, make-up fixers, hair setting spray primers, highlighter, etc. Many wholesale dealers are having a great stock of different types of sprayers. They are getting quality sprayers from the best manufacturers.

Goody for making the simple job

Today, there is a wide range of simple things are available in the markets. One of the best things is sprayers. Now it can use for various industries and purposes. Most of the people are using this thing for their house cleaning purpose. At the same time, it can be used as a major thing for the industry.

[catboyrights]

Casey Cross Country fic bit? Casey Cross Country fic bit.

Allen keeps hanging around here because it’s familiar. Not completely mind you, but familiar enough he can stay the same way he’s always been but without the fiddly matter of anyone knowing this. When they first set up shop he stumbled in shaking to the first place that looked like might at least have had chems. Looked like some surrealist take on the typical drowned rat he was. Of course the place, the whole city really, was rife with the only things that seemed to matter to him--those being of course the holy trinity of chems, booze, and sex. Couldn't turn a corner without the chance on them falling into his lap. Just what makes the night go on, and he so happened to be a night person.

Had managed to hit a jackpot as it were, buying Jet from a couple that bought him a few rounds and offered to maybe shack up with him if he could keep up. He was starting to feel alive again, the first time in weeks since they’d had to trade their then meager sack of goodies for new clothes and a doctor to look at Holly who’d taken her particular withdrawal the worst. Pissed off and barely drunk but feeling it, he’d done what any man would do and left his group sitting for a better deal. Any of them would’ve, and he tells them this curtly when they find him on a corner the next morning bumming a smoke from a man he thinks was a tourist.

“Should have thanked him,” he whispers to Henri, back far into sleep now, “I wasn't sure if he was from around here and would think less of me if I had. Took me to a gallery, which should’ve tipped me off, but…” He meanders off, pets at Henri’s soft dark hair like he hadn’t just accused the very same man of reading to far into this.

That was the start of this, the turning point as it were. He stays with the man who might have been a tourist, pretending to be some vague idea of a sophisticated thing though he isn't an actor, until he had to leave. Said they were staying at his brother’s place, keeping an eye on things. Didn't seem strange at the time, though now he wonders if perhaps he’d slept with a big time dealer and hadn't gotten any treats from the deal. A shame though he took him out, treated him--rightfully so, he admits--like an unsophisticated pet he had to tutor in the finer aspects of life. Set him up on Fixer which made things worse, said he wouldn't mind the booze but he wouldn't babysit a junkie. Get clean for while he was here and Allen would be set up with the best.

It’s hard to remember much about the guy--might have been older, might have had sandy hair and smokey brown eyes, but that might have been someone else. Sort of float together when you jump around as much as he does. Easier to remember the outlying acts, the conversations about art over wine that he just hemmed and hawed his way through. Something that stuck with him, made him a more appealing bet.

He takes a long drag from his smoke and laughs mirthlessly, “Should have fucking thanked him.”

[wildtige429]

Stroganoff

Meet Stroganoff, the must-go person for weapons and fixer uppers before heading off for missions; assassinations, bounty hunting, hunting, capturing, you name it!!

But one warning, if you ever forget to pay the bill for the weapons you bought or fixed, she will come after you like a Predator on a hunt. And like a Predator, she never loses sight of her prey. As a repo woman, she will repossess anyone's weapons if they refuse to pay. So, its best to pay immediately before she catches you if you forget.

Height: 5'9 feet Weight 60 kg Age: Million years old, but appears to be 21-25 years old

About Her: A mix-breed Septarian that lives her life as a repo woman, weapons expert, blacksmith, repair woman and arms dealer in Mewni. Her workshop is located in a deserted and empty desert called Nowhere and you can tell you are at the right place when you see warning signs up ahead in your travels to the shop.

She has met all types of customers that come to her shop; assassins, bounty hunters, hunters, poachers, etc.. But most of all, she has bounty hunter customers.

However, Stroganoff has one most wanted target in her repo hunt: Rasticore Chaosus Disastervayne. Reasons? He never paid the bill for 10 years and he "tricked" her in accepting 'you-know-what' for payment and leaving her that night. And that is why whenever he spots her in a crowd, he quickly hides or flees before she could glance at his direction.

But when the worlds cleaved, her shop is relocated in the underground and she has NEVER forgotten her repo mission. And by the time she caught him, things are going to be super difficult for him and the gang to get enough money to pay his bill to prevent his things repossessed and to earn her trust so he can have his weapons and such fixed.

Description: A tall and strong woman, has a little muscle, orange eyes, pale grey scales, wild and messy orange hair, the end of her frills are blood red, scars on her snout, a golden nose ring on her right nostril, bite marks on her tail, white bandage wraps around her tail and boots, black boots, oil-stained and soot-covered black trousers and white tank top, rope tied around her trousers as a belt, black wrist cuffs, black tattoos that spells her name on both arms, and steel-lined collar.

The armor she wears in her repo hunts compose of a draconic helmet set in a snarl, wrist blade gauntlets, shoulder gun that shoots nets, bolos and stun lasers, and a belt lined with ammo for her shoulder gun. When she speaks through her helmet, it sounds almost distorted and robotic.

*Stroganoff speaks in a rough and heavy Russian accent, and instead of saying 'I' and 'me', she says 'Stroganoff' in her sentences.

Stroganoff once said she is half Dragontail, quarter Metaltail and quarter Monkeytail. Which explains her intimidating roar, frill flaps and draconic growls from her Dragontail side, diligence, pride, honor and Herculean strength from her Metaltail side and elite parkour skills and speed from her Monkeytail side.*

[prvtocol]

mindsmade​ ( V ) —

     The car pulls in to the yard at exactly nine. The sky’s darkened some since he’d arrived here, and for a moment a poetic part of him wonders if the stranger’s the one that brought this obscurity along. The thought’s dismissed with a derisive chuckle, soon after which V jumps off the containers — stacked three high, in a stairs-like pattern — he’s spent the last ten minutes or so perched on. His enforced tendons catch the brunt of the impact, but he still grunts upon touchdown. 

       With two Arasaka guards circling the car, he thinks it safe enough to get quite close. Not close enough to touch the detailing, but still … close. As keen as he is to keep living ( as evidenced by his hopeless quest for salvation ), he’s so used to facing odds stacked against him now, he doesn’t shy away from pushing limits. The tallest of the two doesn’t hesitate to shove him back with a flat-palmed thump to his chest. Something along the lines of ‘that’s close enough’ escapes him. The accent throws V, admittedly.

       Fair enough, he supposes. They’ve got something worth protecting — or someone.  ❛  So, my guess is the person who wants to talk to me is in there.  ❜  Rolling from the balls of his feet to his heels and back again, V crosses his arms and lifts his chin in a sharp motion.  ❛  And they’re listenin’, right?  ❜  No point in the charade otherwise, is there? Some part of him is beginning to regret his forwardness, yet he’s learnt that even the slightest measure of demureness has the tendency to only screw things up more for him. It’s kill or be killed — though he hopes it doesn’t have to come to that tonight.  ❛  I’m puttin’ my ass on the line by even meetin’ with you here, so if you want to get your grubby little fingers on the tech I’m holdin’, you’ll have to do better than barter by proxy. Crack open a window or step outside, ‘cause I’m fine with the “scraps” my fixer’s offerin’ me.  ❜

          THE MERC’S PRECONDITIONS stretch the corner of crimson lips up one side of an unblemished cheek. Cheeky bastard. Not ideal to link herself to this exchange, but he makes a point. Does she call his bluff and possibly lose the deal? Most unwanted. Or comply, connecting herself to it? With the latter, stepping outside is not an option. George already voiced his disapproval upon entry to this side of town: “Stay in the car, ma’am. Gonks fester in places like these.” Alternatively, a cracked window feels as if she’s some street dealer selling XBDs. Not her style and if her face is to be shown anyway...

         ❛ George, let him in. ❜ Even through tinted windows and face turned, she can sense the old guard bristling at her decision. Compliance soon follows, but not without George making a point by getting in the man’s face. A “don’t try anything” sounds as warning paired with a flash of his infrared cyberoptics ( for effect ) before opening the sedan’s back door and stepping aside as if switching to chauffeur.

          Under the dim lighting of two ceiling run lights, Landry sits motionless in the seat adjacent. Cool stare falls somewhere on the front windshield. Posture is as straight as the plush leather seat allows. Stiff as a suit aught to be. Only hands are soft in her lap, stilled at the hem of her black pencil skirt. Chin turns and an up and down inspection of the copper-haired intruder commences. ❛ Please take a seat and close the door, V. ❜ Calmly spoken order is perhaps made even politer by virtue of her British accent. ❛ We’ll talk price and at the end, ❜ placid face cracks a knowing smirk, ❛ We will see who has those grubby little fingers you mentioned. ❜

[jotawakening-blog]

35 Pentember, 5A 169: A Visitor in Nardah

There’s a stranger in Nardah, a woman with dark skin, red hair and green eyes who by her garb appears to be a wanderer of some description.  She came by just before noon, and made a show of shooing away all of the cats that came her way as she did so.  I’m not sure why, maybe she is allergic, but I’m f half a mind to find out.  The wanderer is in the general store right now, and I do have a cat, I just need to let Minou out of whatever magical stasis-box the Bank of Gielinor holds her in. (How does the magic behind the bank network operate, anyway!  It must be at least as complicated as, and probably related to, the magic that drives the teleportation beacons.  And if so, does that imply that our possessions are stored in the Abyss for safekeeping?  I’m dying to find out, but it’s not important right now.)

Anyway, I go to the bank, get Minou out of her box, and walk with her over to the general store, where the wanderer is picking up supplies.  As I approach the wanderer, Minou hisses and bristles, and the woman’s reaction is no less dramatic.  She pleads with me to get that thing away from me.  I ask her, coolly, what the matter is, and she doesn’t give me an explanation, just tells me if I take away the cat, she’ll tell me the location of the secret passage.  Okay, now I’m intrigued.

I pick up Minou and hide her away in my bag, and ask the woman to tell me of this passage.  She tells me its location, deep in the southern desert, and its destination: Sophanem, the walled and normally sealed-off city of the dead.  I won’t be able to get in just like that, though: there are other secrets I need to know, ones that she’ll only give me for a price.  The price, however, is quite low: I only need to provide her with one full waterskin and a tinderbox, early tomorrow morning, when she’ll be leaving town.  That sounds like a good deal, odd as this woman is, so I accept it, ready the supplies at the bank, and go back to Ali the Wise’s house (he’s left for another look at the statue, so can tell me nothing about the strange woman) to get out of the baking desert heat.

Name: Dame Elisandre Plainview the Grey v. Ashdale &z. Rimmington, CG

Date of Birth: 16 Novtumber, 5A 149

Reputation: 91 (Adventurer)

Brushes with the Reaper: 2

Organisational Memberships: Last of the Grey Wizards; Temple Knight Initiate; White Knight Novice; Veteran Agent of the Burthorpe Imperial Guard; Agent of the Keldagrim Black Guard; Partner, Doric and Son Smithy; Member of the Champions’ Guild, the Lumbridge Thieves’ Guild, the Black Arm Gang and the Skulls Gang.

Slayer Of: the Demon Delrith, the Murder Mage Solus Dellagar, Count Draynor Drakan, the Sea Monster Agoroth, the Necromancers Morwenna the Cruel and Dragith Nurn (for now…), General Khazard’s Warlord, “Fritz” the Witch’s Experiment, the Goblin Pretenders Brokeface, Stinkears and Lumpnose, the Menaphites Apep and Heru and the Cultists Caitlin, Reece and Alomone.  

Bester Of: the Zamorakian Mage Ellaron the Red; the HAM Cultist Sigmund; The Mad Sister Anna.

Claims to Fame: Saviour of the Wizards’ Tower, the Tree Gnome Village, Ashdale, Prince Ali Mirza, the Priest Drezel, the Healer Elena, the Menfolk of Rimmington, Tolna’s Soul and Doric’s Business; Defender of Varrock and Draynor Village; Broker of Peace between Lumbridge and the Dorgeshuun; Catalyst of the Foundation of Gunnarsgrunn (Via Interracial Matchmaking); Wielder of Silverlight; Co-Reclaimer of the Shield of Arrav; Concluder of the Lumbridge Blood Pact.

High Crimes and Misdemeanours: Betrayer of the Rune Mysteries

Other Points of Distinction: Goblin Diplomat (Terrestrial and Subterranean), Murder Investigator (Secular and Ecclesiastical), Palace Burglar, Assistant to the Druids of Taverley, the Lumbridge Castle Cook (Twice) and the Shaman Trufitus; Assistant in the Discovery of the West Ardougne Plague Hoax and the Ascension of Filliman Tarlock; Friend of the Ardougne Monks; Thwarter of the Hazeel Cult; Subterranean Wayfinder, Survivor of the Queen Black Dragon’s Stomach, Soother of Restless Ghosts, Re-Humaniser of Chickens, Purveyor of Counterfeit Swords, Arms Dealer to the Artisans’ Workshop, the Burthorpe Imperial Guard and the Goblin Generals, Elemental Crafter, Herder and Shearer of Sheep, Herder and Dyer of Cats, Seasoner of Magical Goulash, Baker of Terrible Pies (Against Predatory Capitalism), Collector of Bones and Beads, Thief of Chalices, Finder of One-Eyed Hector’s Treasure, Retriever of Lost Balls, Frightener of Trolls, Fixer of Clocks and Telescopes; Historical Preservationist; Raider of the Old Edgeville Jail, Scout of Lumbridge and Falador; Explorer of the White Lands; Dreamer of Cabbages; In Touch with Her Dark Side.

Menagerie:

-Minou the Purple Cat

-Spike the Labrador Puppy

-Meatpie the Baby Troll