#the gray man fanficiton

[nichenarratives]

Hurricane Heller 11

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton.

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[TWs: Period typical antisemitism; graphic depictions of violence; gun violence; details of blood, gore and injury; minor character death (OC); murder]

11. Unsanctioned Retribution (Part 2)

It feels surreal, returning to the launderette knowing what is about to unfold. Mordecai pauses across the street from the crumbling structure as he's done a hundred times before, a hand on his lapel and the other pressed into his coat, a cool breeze shifting his popped collar against his jaw. He feels as if life is coming full circle, returning to the place he began as a different person, one with a much darker heart.

The first of many decisions he will make without Hashem's guidance, Mordecai rationally knows he should feel afraid; every decision before this was done believing his actions were sanctioned by God, almost predestined to succeed. Now he carves out his own destiny, with tools he's gathered alone, and Mordecai feels at peace knowing he's in control.

As the young feline steps off the curb, the street lamp above him flickers and dies, casting the young feline in darkness, an unheeded warning for what is to come.

He steps into the store with a jingle of the bell, drawing half a dozen pairs of eyes as the door closes with another jingle behind him. Unlike his first and many subsequent entries to the launderette, he walks unencumbered through the shop, a clicking of his loafers echoing in the suddenly silent space, eyes on his back as he keeps a casual, unhurried pace.

Rumours flowing around the newest recruit of Mr Savage's personal repertoire have already permeated through to each arm of his wider operation. The bookie turned torturer, a young man with impeccable manners to counterbalance a bloodlust he guarded behind closed doors. Mordecai hates those implications, yet they keep the enforcers effortlessly at arm's length as he heads through the back door.

Right where they belong; out of my way. 

As usual, the room is thick with cigar smoke, the gray fumes curling around a single bare bulb suspended above a table in the center. Mordecai scrunches up his nose in distaste at both the smoke and the smell of food scraps left to fester in the stuffy room. Fiores sits at the head of the table, working on a ledger, his gaze flicking up as soon as the tom enters.

Their eyes meet for the first time since the adolescent tom was headhunted for Savage. Former boss and employee at a stalemate, both finally on equal ground. Fiores closes his ledger and shifts his weight back in his chair. "Well look at that," he says sarcastically, the usual thick cigar belching smoke from between fat fingers. "Our Littlest Bookie finally came crawling back home."

Mordecai narrows his gaze and flicks an ear irritably, but he doesn't respond otherwise, back to the open doorway as the enforcers begin to gather and listen. He intends to let Fiores talk himself into a corner and the underboss obliges just as expected, pointing his cigar at the tuxedo. "You left me high and dry, boy. The guy Savage brought in was useless! I've been doing all your damn books since then!"

His voice level and hands still pressed into his pockets, the adolescent raises his chin intransigently. "With due respect, Mr Fiores, there was no opportunity to refuse Mr Savage."

"There never is, though it wouldn't have helped you to try," the overweight cat chastises, pausing to take a deep toke of his cigar. Dark smoke flows freely from his nose and mouth when he speaks again. "Heard you've made a real name for yourself though, eh? What is it now, the… Killer Kitten?" 

He chuckles at his own joke, enforcers joining in from the doorway. Mordecai doesn't rise to the bait, instead reaching inside his coat to a hidden breast pocket. Only his ears turn back to signify he heard half a dozen guns cock behind him before he extracts a photograph he lifted from the file on his  latest target. He holds it up between his index and middle fingers. "Do you recognise this young man, Fiores?"

Fiores immediately frowns, silencing any laughter from his goons with a discrete wave before leaning forward not to look at the photo, but stare the tuxedo down. "I highly doubt Savage sent you to question me, so I'm going to give you some advice; quit while you're ahead, Kosher."

When Mordecai holds his ground, the underboss sits back in his chair and takes another puff of his cigar. "He's not the type to look at ingenuity and think 'how can I use this' like me. He'll see you going rogue and cut you out like you'd cut out a cancerous growth." Fiores' frown morphs into a deep scowl. "I don't take kindly to bring accused of things by a damned kike, either. Think about that before you go on."

"This is the kid I interrogated today," Mordecai continues, unphased by the threats. He can still sense the guns on his back as he takes a few calculated steps towards Fiores to put the photograph down in front of him. "Savage put me on him because after being acquitted of some minor offenses, three of his coworkers ended up either incarcerated or dead, suggesting he's feeding the police information."

"What does that have to do with me?" The overweight man growls. "Why'd I know some poker-stacking brat?"

A tiny smile curls a corner of pale lips. "I didn't yet mention a profession," Mordecai clarifies; the man is framing himself at this point, making the tom's job far easier. He taps the photo with a claw, finally drawing the underboss' gaze down to the photo. "He worked at your casino, Fiores. You bailed 'some poker-stacking brat' out the same day he was charged, to make sure he ran his table that night. That's suspicious."

The bulbous man finally stands to face his accuser. Where he used to tower over Mordecai, they're now practically the same height, looking the adolescent dead in the eye as he speaks through grit teeth. "I can do what I want with my pay, boy. Not that it's your business, but I bailed him out because we were short-staffed. Your contrived narrative ends here."

"You bailed him out because he's your middle man," the tom refutes calmly, not even flinching as Fiores snarls and bares yellowed fangs barely six inches from his muzzle. "You feed him information, which he relays to the police, maintaining a degree of separation that protects your interests at the expense of another. You're a damned rat, Fiores-"

The punch comes fast and hard, clocking him square in the jaw. The scrawny feline stumbles back into the table with a grunt. Gingerly pressing a hand to his face, Mordecai looks up in time to see Fiores shrug off his suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor as he rolls his sleeves with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Get up, boy," he demands with a growl. "You want to insult me, you better be ready for a good fucking beating. Now get up and take it."

He always knew it could come to blows, but he'd assumed it wouldn't  be an ambush, and how naive he feels now, forced to use the table to steady himself. Without time to prepare or draw a weapon, he's a sitting duck; a scrawny kid with practically no fighting experience, which certainly shows in how swiftly his confidence drains.

Rough hands grab Mordecai from behind and pull him to his feet, shoving him back into the fray before he can object. He's thrust straight into taking a blow to his right eye; the tom hears his pince nez shatter before the punch connects with his flesh, the dull tok of meaty fist to skull before an explosion of pain and the momentum have him once again falling, this time jarring his ribs on the table before sprawling out on the floor at Fiores' feet.

Theres a sharp kick to the ribs and the underboss snarls. "Back off 'im," he commands his enforcers. Mordecai barely registers their shadows shifting away before he's flipped roughly onto his back and a boot planted squarely on his chest. Barely able to breathe, he grabs at the ankle and tries to dislodge it to no avail, Fiores putting his massive bulk onto his leg and looming over the younger tom. "Bit off more than you can chew, did you? Wanted my job too, hm? You greedy fucking kike."

He struggles under the immense weight as Fiores takes his time returning his cigar to thick lips, then casually pulling a pistol from his waistband. Emerald eyes widen as the barrel is leveled at his forehead and recalling his letter opener, the monochrome cat scrabbles in a pocket as Fiores pulls back the firing pin with a twisted smirk. "Looks like I get to tell old Savage his favourite pet wasn't house-broken. Lucky me."

Grasping the letter opener, Mordecai rips it from his pocket and plunges it into the underboss' calf. 

Fiores screams and jerks backwards, pulling the trigger as Mordecai rolls to the side. Red hot pain sears down the lad's cheek as the bullet skims flesh and melts fur, but there's no time to acknowledge it. Down one weapon, he goes for his last - the switchblade in his boot straps - flicking it open with an audible snick just as Fiores yanks the letter opener out of his leg and slings it across the room.

Enforcers rush in, only to retreat as their boss turns his snarl on them, wordlessly demanding they adhere to his previous statement; back off, he's mine. Mordecai steadies himself on shaking legs as they face each other down. His right eye is already swelling shut behind the empty lens frame, cheek and jaw on fire, entire body shaking with adrenaline as the underboss levels the barrel with his chest, taking a limping step closer. "Hold fucking still, boy."

Mordecai does the exact opposite, diving towards the table at his right. Another shot ricochets dangerously close to his heels as he stumbles full-body into the table and overturns it for makeshift cover, clutching his switchblade to tightly his knuckles turn white. There's not enough space for the table to be effective cover - all Fiores has to do is limp closer, and he'll be a sitting duck - but it bides him a moment to think.

A third shot goes clear through the table, barely an inch from his hip. The tuxedo feels the air heat up, singing his fur tips as it passes, making it clear he can't stay there. He needs to disarm Fiores, but there's no obvious way to do that, time ticking past far too quickly with the click of a fresh chamber being loaded. 

If it's useless as a shield, perhaps it can be a weapon.

With no time to plan anything more elegant he pivots on his heel, grabs hold of two of the table legs and pushing back to his feet, charges the wooden table in the direction of the last bullet, using as a temporary battering ram. There's a yell of surprise and yet another shot through the table before he crashes into Fiores. 

The underboss falls flat on his back with a heavy huff of air as Mordecai flies over the table, landing a few feet away, the dull thud of a forgotten third weapon hitting his hip bone as his switchblade ricochets away. Disoriented and dazed, he tries to get back to his feet using the nearest wall and hisses when his left leg burns with pain. He doesn't looks down though, struggling to focus through a pounding headache and squinting through his remaining, crooked spectacle lens, attempting to locate Fiores.

Out of nowhere, Fiores grabs him by the neck and shoves him back against the plaster. He squeezes Mordecai's throat so tight the lad can't draw breath, his attacker gleeful as the adolescent struggles beneath his grip. "Your luck's run out," Fiores informs his prey. "Better use those last words to pray for forgiveness, though I doubt your God wants your soul back, after all you've done."

The monochrome feline pulls uselessly at that thick, meaty hand for a few precious seconds. He's suddenly very afraid to die, desperate to survive this encounter, when he recalled the tool he kept as a failsafe that knocked painfully into his hip before. Still clawing at the man's hold with one hand, he scrambles in his coat pocket and fumbles the handle of his last resort with the other, struggling to grasp it as his brain is slowly deprived of oxygen.

Dark sport dancing before his eyes, he finally gets a good grip on the claw hammer and swings.

His first strike is uncoordinated and clumsy, smacking Fiores not in the temple as planned, but the cheekbone, creating a resounding crack that echoes through the tiny room. Taken by surprise, Fiores releases his throat and stumbles with a scream of agony, pressing his hand to the fractured bone as his instincts put distance between him and his attacker.

Mordecai sags against the wall and sucks in breaths, lungs burning from the almost-fatal defect, but he doesn't wait for his head to clear. Still unsteady, limping slightly on his left leg, he follows Fiores the couple of feet he managed to put between them and taking aim this time, Mordecai strikes the man square on the temple with his claw hammer. A splatter of blood mists the tom's face and Fiores is knocked to the ground.

Fuelled by adrenaline, his near death experience and years of bitter resentment, Mordecai straddles the groaning man and slams the hammer onto his head again, and again, and again. Each hit sprays the adolescent with fresh blood he barely feels speckle his face and clothes, his weighted tool crushing the man's skull until his temple is concave and he no longer breathes.

Only then does Mordecai stand, letting the hammer drop to the floor from his shaking, bloodied hand. He stares at his former boss' corpse almost disbelieving, processing his first willing murder from an abstract perspective; it doesn't feel entirely real and yet, he can feel the blood crusting rapidly in his fur, the scents of iron and flesh thick in the air.

When he glances at the gawking enforcers, they recoil from the unarmed Kosher Butcher, not daring to approach the unhinged killer in their midst as Mordecai removes his pince nez to inspect the damage to the frames. Frowning deeply as he feels their twisted state, he sighs and replaces the bent specs on his muzzle, turning to the nearest enforcer with a chillingly cold stare.

"Contact Mr Savage," he orders calmly, glancing back down at Fiores' as he runs a now steady hand through disheveled hair and readjusts his suit jacket. "Apologize for the lateness of correspondence on my behalf, then emphasise the import of the call; that Fiores has been forced to resign."

[labbydragon]

My husband went on a rant about 50 Shades of Gray last night- but not for any of the reasons you would expect.

He said, "I'm still mad about 50 Shades of Gray."

I'm like, "Yeah? Why's that?"

"I don't understand how it could have been Twilight fanfiction."

Me, realizing I haven't heard this rant and becoming intrigued, "Well the characters originally had the names and appearances of Bella and Edward, but it was alternate universe."

"Was he still a vampire in the fanfiction?"

"No, it was alternate universe fanfiction."

"Well then he would be dead because that's not how time works."

And I realized, my husband has fundamentally rejected the idea that in an alternate universe, people might have been born at times different from their birth on this timeline. Which, wild.

He was like, "There's no universe where I go to an address given by Lincoln because that's not how time works."

And I was just like, "But there are infinite universes." I've never heard him have this same problem with comic books which are ever evolving in to time lines that allow their characters to have been born in time to be adults in the current modern times. In fact we had just had an argument after he told me Schooled isn't cannon to The Goldbergs and I argue passionately that Schooled is and was always intended to be cannon until the very last season of The Goldbergs decided they didn't want you to think about it.

I know he's not much of a fanficiton reader, but I really wasn't expecting him to be completely baffled and angry about the most basic alternate universe concept to the point where he knows 50 Shades was fanficiton but finds himself unable to accept it.

I'm so mad that this man won't do a podcast or youtube videos with me because we just talk about the wildest fandom shit sometimes. Like a "Breaking My Husband with Fanficiton" video would do so fucking well this man picks the weirdest things to fixate on.

[georgiapeach30513]

Hi I was wondering if you could possibly do a lloyd hansen x reader age gap (she's in her early twenties) and she is pregnant with his baby girl what hes like when her bump becomes more prominent and when the baby arrives also does lloyd start thinking about baby #2 🤍

So I'm assuming you meant a soft!Lloyd, but I'm not going to lie, when I read this I got cult leader!Lloyd flashing in my mind...but let's go with a softer version, and very rarely do I age my readers, so you can envision her as any age.

🧁🧁🧁🧁

I Can Do That

Summary: you and Lloyd become parents

Pairings:  Lloyd Hansen X Reader

Rating:  FLOOF

Warnings:  the softest of Lloyd Hansen’s, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 900

Lloyd Hansen Masterlist

“Mmm,” you sit up in the bed, yawning. Between the belly, and Lloyd’s constant need to have his hand on your bump it was a struggle. He said that feeling her move was the best way to fall asleep.

You look behind you, going to watch him a moment while he slept, but he’s already peaking up at you. “You moved, Cupcake, I can’t help it.”

“You’re always on.”

“Well, I need to protect you. Need to make sure no one hurts my girls,” his hand splays out over your belly, and you place your own on top. Trying to guide his hand over you where, you’re sweet little one is rolling around.

“There she is,” he sighs. His hand presses a bit firmer on her home, and she gives him a hard kick. “Madeleine Reese, I am your father, and you won’t try to kick me.”

You give him a giggle, smooshing your face up against him for playful kisses. “She’s gonna come out thinking she can kick me, Cupcake. I can’t just have her believing she can do whatever she wants with me.”

“Then maybe, quit squishing her around in there. She’s running out of room as is.”

“I just want to feel her better,” his bottom lip pokes out, and he gives you a weak smile, “Not all of us get to feel her from the inside as well as the outside.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” you didn’t realize how jealous Lloyd was to feel every part of your little Madeleine. It was almost pitiful how much he desired to be present for every moment. Refusing the extra money, and missions, just to be with you. No one knew. No one would. Lloyd made himself weak by you and his daughter.

“Don’t you, sweetheart, me.”

——————————————

Standing in the tub naked, Lloyd reaches out a hand to you. You take it in your own, and let him assist you to sink deep into the water. The lavender bath bomb and bubbles trying to soothe your body. Leaning your head back on his shoulder, you watch his eyes move over the swell of your belly. His hands smooth over the area, and he sings you a gentle version of ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’. When another contraction tightens your stomach, and body, he just whispers out a slow count for you to breathe.

Not stopping when you almost start to cry as another contraction heats your body up. Lloyd lifts up his hand, counting the time you contract, and when it stops, he gives you a soft kiss to your temple, “You’re doing so good, Cupcake.”

“Lloyd, I wanna go to a hospital.”

“You know we can’t. You knew when we decided to have a baby, we couldn’t go to a hospital.”

You cry out a bit, and he gives the side of the tub, a few knocks. Another contraction skyrockets through your entire body, clenching your teeth, you grab Lloyd’s hands tightly with your own.

“Chris! You filthy son of a bitch, get your ass in here now!” Chris walks in the bathroom, seeing the of you, “They’re lasting longer, she’s coming. You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, not so confidently. “You pulling the baby out? Like,” both men watch as you go to grunting again. “Okay, this is happening, and I’m not so sure I know what I’m doing.”

“Ahh, shit!”

————————————

Lloyd watches you fondly cradling your baby. Your finger almost always moving over her cheeks, and he just can’t get enough of her, but also you as her. You had powered through labor amazingly. And now you looked so serene holding his daughter.

The amount of times he envisioned his future, it never included someone else. Maybe a random girl, but never one he saw in his life for the rest of it. He definitely never imagined a life with children, but the way you were constantly lifting up Madeleine to give her a smell, kiss her on her cheeks, or even just play with her sweet little fingers, he was hooked.

You had ruined him from the life he thought he was going to have. Now instead, he wants this over and over again. Always wants to be with you and the children everyday. “I don’t know how to work a normal job.”

“Hmm?” you ask looking up at him.

“Cupcake, this is what I do, and I want to be with you and them, and I don’t know if I can have it all.”

“Them?” you look at him with a crooked grin, knowing you caught him. “Who is them?”

“More of them. Of babies. She won’t stay a baby forever, so when she’s not, can we do this again? And then again?”

“How many times we talking Lloyd?” he gives you a quick shrug, reaching towards his baby girl, that you quickly let him have. Watching the way he’s so soft and different with her, you want to give him that. “At least two or three more.”

“Yeah, I can do that,” you give him a quick swat. “I mean, I have no problem with stuffing you full.”

“Shh, there is a baby in your arms. Madeleine Reese, excuse your daddy. He’s still learning.”

Masterlist

[fivefingerdustpunch]

Rules

|• 18+ only and If I suspect foul play/you’re younger I’ll be able to tell and will ask for verification. This also includes followers, who I will check on at random to make sure. (As I grow on this account I might ask for ages/ 18+ to be displayed on description or l block but we’ll see what I wind up writing.)

|• Patience is a virtue, I will strive for weekly replies and I expect (about) the same. If you’re not feeling the chemistry? I understand. But you do have to let me know; I’m not above changing it up or politely wrapping up our work. And of course this applies to me, I am the keeper of my own pleasure.

|• Smut is 100% optional I will have a tag on here called #MunShiggyHeadcanons which will be for people who follow me and of course these can vary all the same. But just so we’re clear; sex/p*rn is optional and I prefer if that is written elsewhere/in DMs on discord.

|• Keeping that in mind, smut is also something I consider personal in some regards. If I do not like you/know you enough it’s safe to say I will not start up something to that extent first thing. The writer/mun is Gray, demi, and picky.

|• Basics of Basics, don’t be a bigot. Following tumblrs TOS, don’t be homophobic, toxic, a fuckin Nazi, racist, terfs and transphobes get auto-blocked too. Ablest, ageist, or if you’re just gross? Bye.

|• Basics of Basics pt. 2, don’t be a prick. Shigaraki is a villain, but I reserve rights to move a tad bit OOC. The man is legitimately mentally unstable in canon, so know that ultimately some creative license will take place to make the character operable.

|• Writer reserves the right to change these rules or set other boundaries in the future. Keep in mind, if you don’t read these rules and break one later… (unless it’s a big misunderstanding/couldn’t find rules); I still might cut it.

|• If you don’t have rules or limits on your page? I’ll probably ask you for them in dms. Whatever you give me will be my guideline unless spoken of and confirmed/or you change them and we’ve confirmed I know the details.

|• Free use clause, unless your character is entirely an OC all characters are free use. This does not mean I’ll god-mod/use your character; but it does mean that what we write here unless explicitly expressed otherwise, is public domain. I personally won’t use your stuff without explicit permission (for art, fanficiton, or as starters or for personal use etc etc.) But it’s the internet and people are… people. (Be warned.)

|• Author/Mun’s/My triggers, last but hardly least. Authors triggers, don’t be alarmed I’m actually pretty chill in this regard I have a few things that can flip that brain switch too hard. Obviously I won’t write and will not be accepting prompts, fiction, or anything with: pure noncon, inc*st, r*pe, underage shit, ( 18+ age gaps are okay within reason/at authors discretion), graphic sexual reproductive/genital gore, (god even saying that makes me cringe dude), and whipping with belts, or heavy/extreme whipping and/or violence including belts. Please just, be mindful.

|• Added note/disclaimer (10/15/21) It will be no secret that I write many characters of many fandoms. For the sake of the nature of tumblr and it’s inane amount of fiction wars? I want to be clear and concise on; I always try to tell my partners of the characters I write! Here are some that I’ll write (no I don’t actually condone murder or abuse, or the bad things characters do): Shigaraki, Dabi, Toga (non romantically), Mr. Compress, AFO, All Might, Endeavor, Present Mic, Hannibal Lecter, Darth Maul… seriously! So many characters of many fandoms, so do not take it personally that I write fiction. Thank you.

[nichenarratives]

Hurricane Heller 14

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton.

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14. Heartfelt Sentiment

Reassigned to Fiores' former underboss position by the end of the week, Mordecai finds himself with very little free time, something he doesn't begrudge. Having recently severed all ties with his family and now his only friend, he's glad for the distraction that comes with restructuring an entire network of lucrative hustles, burying himself under the workload. Mentally exhausted by ledgers and body still healing, he's swift to pass out once he hits the mattress, barely able to ruminate on emotional detriments.

Once able to walk reliably, he borrows Mr Kovitz's cane and makes a point of visiting each establishment now under his management, both to familiarise himself with each business and obtain first hand experience of their functionality. He quickly realises that while Fiores introduced an overarching ledger system into all seven of his branches, he didn't train anyone specific to manage them, resulting in numerous sets of incomplete ledgers, lost stock and missing revenue.

Weeks are poured into fixing inconsistencies, repairing core infrastructure and generally reorganizing the staff to ensure each site had a single man responsible not just for stock or ordering, but for collating each employee's ledgers into one at the end of each night. This final ledger, along with all the individual ledgers from each employee, are then checked for errors and approved personally by Mordecai before being sent to Savage; a workload that keeps him exceptionally busy.

Finding himself in control of those enterprises' finances, not only does he instigate a similar commission system to the one he arranged with Fiores but increases the percentage for those who maintain final ledgers, ensuring they manage their time and men as effectively as possible in his absence.

The more enjoyable financial work is infrequently interrupted by interrogations summons, a branch of his duties Mordecai most detests, now he has more interesting engagements to attend. He resents every target for dragging him away from his management role and it shows in his methodology. The rumours spread suggest he's less patient with the obstinate, more violent with his persuasive techniques and often would inflict further harm after confessions 'to be certain' they'd shared all they had to offer before the session concluded.

There's also rumours he's personally executed targets after their torture sessions ended, but it remains pure conjecture; the Kosher Butcher won't discuss his work in the factory with anyone, not even Gabriel.

Weeks slip past without acknowledgement. After a second, painful visit from the brash nurse, Mordecai learns to clean and dress his own wounds and three weeks later, removes his own stitches with boiling water, scissors and a pair of pliers. All that remains is a slight indent in the muscle of his outer thigh, edged with a thin scar; no phantom pain, no loss of mobility, no compromised function. 

I got lucky, he thinks whenever the scar catches his eye. He often traces the edge of it with a claw in the shower, the fine line where no fur regrows, a reminder to be more diplomatic. With newly acquired spare funds and a livelihood worth protecting, he invests in his first handgun; a stolen piece an older enforcer sold for a quick buck, now slung at his hip. To ensure history does not repeat itself. 

With excess funds saved by managerial systems, Mordecai repairs the rundown launderette that's become his office and begins running the shop as an actual laundromat, which helps remove the increasing number of blood stains his suits accumulate when he moonlights at the factory. The small boost in revenue even allows the tom to pay enforcers to ensure he's never ambushed while finalising accounts.

In the launderette back room, surrounded by ledgers and a cup of Earl Gray in hand, it's easy to forget he used to have a life outside of the underworld. It's only on Sundays, when residual memory buried deep in his subconscious continues to wake the monochrome tom well before sunrise, that he remembers; a mother, two sisters, early morning prayers. An entire other life he's abandoned.

For almost a year, Mordecai rises and walks the dark streets as he did as a child, cloaked by twilight, as if ashamed of the ritual, his hat pulled low and hands deep in his overcoat pockets. The pistol taps his thigh with each step, a reminder of all he's committed to as he pauses at the end of the street and waits, hidden in the shadows until the remnants of his family sleepily file out of the home and head to the morning services.

Once they turn the far corner, he'll jog up the steps, slip an envelope of money under their door, and head home again.

His emotions are always conflicted as he walks home; with his eighteenth birthday, living alone and not having spoken to her for a year, Mordecai has no obligation to his mother's bills. He could keep his earnings, spend all his savings on a lavish lifestyle befitting an underboss, or move into a larger place in a better neighbourhood. He'd be self made; respected; feared; and alone in his peaceful apartment.

Yet he still pushes half of his wages under the door while they're at temple, perhaps too ashamed to face his mother, or perhaps too afraid of a confirmation rejection. Sundays are hollow and empty, every activity unfulfilling until he just goes back to bed, sleeping away the day and waking early to begin his week once more, a week full of numerals and victims, all exhausting and distracting, always busy.

This Sunday is supposed to be the same. He wakes early, dresses smart, slips his pistol into its holster and heads out with his overcoat collar popped, shoulders hunched, his old satchel bumping his hip. Arriving at the corner, he pauses to wait and checks his pocket watch, running his thumb across the embossed face before clicking it open. He's on time. They'll leave any moment.

Time passes, but his family doesn't leave. Brows knit into a frown, Mordecai once again checks his watch, holds it to an ear to check it still ticks and has not malfunctioned. Fifteen minutes have gone by beyond their latest former departures and yet this morning, there's nothing. He takes a tentative step closer to glance inside, but with the curtains drawn and lights off, he can't see any movements in the windows.

The monochrome tom deduces they must have left earlier - it's happened once before - and resumes his usual routine; extracting an envelope of cash addressed to mother from a breast pocket, Mordecai jogs up the steps, crouches down, and eases the wedge beneath the door.

Once content the envelope is safely inside, he straightens, adjusts his coat and has just turned to leave when he hears the door crack open. He freezes on the top step, ear turning to the sound as a slither of weak light illuminates the view to his left. Despite the opportunity being right there, practically begging him to engage, he just can't find the strength to turn and face whomever caught him delivering the money.

The door closes, leaving Mordecai alone once more, lost to the twilight of yet another Sunday. His shoulders sag, dark ears fold back and he holds the creaking metal railing as a ground for his emotions, unsure what he'd hoped to happen, but definitely discontent even his family couldn't talk to him. Emerald eyes close as he grips the railing tightly, his leather gloves creaking, forcing himself to breathe, to focus-

Mordecai stiffens, left hand immediately going to the handle of his pistol as slim arms encase his torso, drawing him into the small feline directly behind him and a warm embrace. It takes him a heartbeat to feel the pince nez dig into his back when a face presses between his shoulder blades, but he releases the pistol soon after, exhaling shakily as he rests a gloved hand on his sister's arm, relaxing just a little in the familial embrace.

"I miss you," Esther whispers into the dark, a secret lost to the developing sunrise. Her arms tighten a smidgen, pulling at his waist, the envelope of cash crinkling in her grasp just under his arm. "We all do. Come home. Please."

For once, the monochrome cat is lost for words, incapable of drawing any with adequate weight to feel fitting. Whether she's aware of that or simply accepting of his silence, Esther doesn't demand a response from her estranged brother. All she does his hold him, breathing him in, memorising the feel of embracing him for what feels like moments but is closer to minutes until finally, she releases him to the shadows.

Numbed nerves tingle as Esther wordlessly goes back into their childhood home, a brief slither of light once again cast onto Mordecai's back before a quiet click brings their private reunion to a close. It takes the tom a few minutes to find the momentum to leave. He jogs down the steps and heads to his own apartment, locking himself inside before spending the rest of the day trying to burn a restless energy deep in his bones, painfully nostalgic memories of his time at home constantly floating to the forefront of his mind

[nichenarratives]

Hurricane Heller 16

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton.

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16. Poker Face

They pass the kitchen and head into a corridor at the rear of the property, the bare bricks and a slanted, corrugated iron roof barely trapping any heat. His breath mists in frigid air as they walk the width of the diner before entering yet another door at the far end, which leads into the domestic kitchen at the rear of an adjacent property.

Unlike homes in the slums, where a table and an open fire often constitute an entire kitchen, there is a solid mahogany, custom freestanding unit pushed back to one wall with delicately carved doors, freshly waxed to a shine and beautifully offset by apricot worktops. A lime green coats most of the walls, while an accent of mustard tiles protects directly the wall behind the worktops from splashes.

Matching yellow tiles have been carefully mounted in the old fireplace too, gutted to fit a wrought iron stove heated by an open fire beneath. The tiles reflect light outwards producing a glowing orange aura, bright enough to illuminate most of the kitchen without need for lamps, while also making the room stiflingly hot compared to the lean-to corridor frosted with ice.

Most of the remaining floor space is taken by an oversized table and chairs of matching wood, a glass-plated table top glistening in the light. On the opposite wall, a plumbed sink glistens, not a wayward drop of water from its spout. Finally, beside large arching doors at the far end of the room, a coat rack sags under the weight of a half dozen hats and coats; it would seem he's the last to arrive, 

Mordecai doesn't have time to wonder if his late arrival was contrived before Kendall offers to take his coat. Far too hot, he rushes to oblige, balancing the box in an arm to shift the other from its sleeve. Kendall takes hold of the collar so he can repeat the process with his other arm without the thing falling to the floor. It's awkward, and he could have put the box down, but he doesn't want to risk it getting dirty from an unseen mess.

Only once she's hung up his coat does he remove his hat and scarf as an afterthought, earning an eye roll before they're taken and stowed with his coat before the double doors are thrown open. As Kendall walks into a dark parlour, Mordecai follows obediently and is glad to find the heat abating as they step into an entry hall beyond, a single closed door the only additional room they pass. He breathes the cooler air deeply, glancing at an apparently disused front door, then follows Kendall up to the second floor.

She takes the stairs gracefully despite her inch-high heels sinking into the plush carpet, turning on the gas lamps along the way, fluffy tail swaying gracefully with each step. Having never worn outdoor shoes on a carpeted floor, it's weird to feel the cushion of fibers beneath his hard soles, muffling the clunk of feet on wooden steps beneath. He tried not to think about the dirt they've just walked into the runner as they reach the landing, skirt around a second staircase and come face to face with one of three doors, the one to a room at the front of the property.

Kendall pauses to fix her hair - a pointless effort, with most of it bundled seemingly haphazardly atop of her head - then raps on the door. Mordecai perks his ears at the rhythm, the same one his driver uses to summon him to interrogations; two slow, three fast. A universal code? It's information he stores away as the door swiftly opens and a single man steps out, closing the door behind him.

The gray tabby towers over Kendall, his tiny eyes narrowed to mere specs in a large head, his neck the same width as his jaw and a thick, pink scar running from one brow to his upper lip. Kendall doesn't seem scared, only holding up the invite with a coy smile. "Las' one, darlin'," she says sweetly, waiting for him to take the Christmas card to elaborate, a sly glance back over her shoulder at the tuxedo. "The boss' new favouri'e, Kosher. I'm sure they're all dyin' to meet 'im."

Felt ears rotate back, subtly communicating his uncertainty. Mordecai feels comfortable enough in his capabilities that their approval isn't a requirement; he wants to keep his head down and earn sufficient funds to move his family to decent housing, while keeping himself comfortably housed with the surplus, not be praised for bureaucratic excellence.

He's been too good at his job and gotten noticed. Again. 

The persian turns and Mordecai leans back against the stairs to the third floor to allow Kendall room to pass, box held in both hands before him. The woman doesn't take the space offered, instead approaching him and leaning closer. A warning murr rumbles in the tom's chest as she sweeps a strand of hair from his eyes, fingers lingering on his cheek as she whispers softly.

"I'm off at six," she says, close to his ear, her hot breaths make it twitch. "Bring tha' switchblade I've been hearing so much abou' down t'the diner, butcher. I'd like t'see ya wield it up real close an' personal."

As swift as she approached, Kendall is gone, halfway down the stairs before the grimace or disgust can curl Mordecai's lips, eyes staring after her until the bodyguard clears his throat. Emerald eyes shift from the stairs to the hulking man now holding the door open wide, motioning for Mordecai to step in with the hand clasping his comically tiny invite. Straightening back up, the tuxedo reaffirms his grip on the box, firmly affixes the Isaiah Fitzgerald mask, and steps into the meeting.

Much like the rest of the home, the rectangular reception is large and plushly decorated; thick carpets from wall to wall, heavy drapes drawn to allow in bitter winter sunlight, and a deep red wallpaper beneath a picture rail framing the space. Ceiling molding encases newfangled electrical fixtures with a multitude of inset bulbs, gleaming brightly in ornate arms of two chandeliers set at opposite ends of the room.

The nearest short wall is obscured by heavy bookcases, all of which house thick tomes of classical literature, complete encyclopedias and other reference materials. An armchair and a chaise lounge in deep moss green sit opposite, a rug - surely unnecessary in a carpeted home - of greens, golds and reds beneath a mahogany coffee table covered in gifts finishing the set. It's all brand new; luxury decor at its finest.

Set into the opposite far wall, a fireplace spits behind its wrought iron fireguard, the remnants of kindling slowly being suffocated by hot coals. An intricately carved mahogany table is centered below the second chandelier, a glass cover protecting the detailed lead embossed top from damage. Its surrounded by eight matching chairs.

Seven sets of eyes watch Mordecai as he steps inside, an unerring silence befalling the gathered men as they study the newest underboss, sucking on cigars or sipping scotch. 

Mordecai doesn't notice as he's prompted to put his gift on the coffee table, wide eyes scouring over more books than he's seen to date, the collection putting his budding library back home to shame. More accustomed to heavy handed mannerisms, he's taken aback when the bodyguard on the door doesn't laugh at his wonder or manhandle him around but instead, clears his throat to get his attention.

"You got t'remove yer jacket an' holsters," he says, gravelly tones not consistent with his manners and flawless suit, even if his accent errs towards commonality. A meaty hand opens but Mordecai doesn't immediately comply, the idea of being without his pistol in the current climate giving him pause. The bodyguard doesn't become defensive, only adding. "No weapons at th'table, Kosher. Boss' orders."

The assumption everyone else was honest and gave up all their weapons doesn't sit well with the tom, but he hasn't got much choice; his position amongst these men is arguably the least stable. Should he be found to retain weapons after an explicit request to remove them, he likely won't walk out of this room alive, but be carried out in an old suitcase by an unlucky team of underlings from the diner next door. 

So he shrugs off his jacket a moment later, handing it to the large tabby before unclipping his holster. The letter opener still resting in his inside jacket pocket, he raises a pants leg to retrieve Jimbo's stolen switchblade from his sock garter, a swift flick of the wrist turning it around for the bodyguard to safely procure. The tabby takes everything in arm before motioning to the other side of the room apparently trusting him. "Have a good nigh'." 

Following his gesture and finally noticing the many eyes on him, dark ears turn backwards before he can suppress the anxious response. The ensuing awkwardness is thankfully short-lived; Gabriel stands with a cigar pinched between his sharp teeth and his face cracked into a broad smile. 

"Kosher!" He exclaims the greeting, looking almost casual in just a shirt and suspenders, collar unbuttoned and tie loose. He closes the distance between them swiftly and embraces Mordecai, pulling the stiff feline into a brief hug that ends as the pale persian pulls back and digs sharp claws into tensed biceps. "Glad you could make it! The boys didn't think you'd come, being… you know. Kosher, and all."

Mordecai can't tell if the man refers to his inherent character or his ancestry, but he doesn't have time to ruminate before Gabriel has an arm around his shoulders and is walking him towards the crowded table. "Let's get you introduced, yeah. Want a drink? Old Frank - that lug on the door - will find you anything you want, so what's your poison, eh? How about a scotch on the rocks? You look like a classic kind of guy."

With a lot of information to suddenly process, Mordecai lets Gabriel's incessant questions ground him, tearing emerald eyes away from the crowded table to meet yellowed irises. "While I appreciate the offer, I don't drink," he states, unsure if it's rude to refuse liquor, but definitely not about to indulge. "If I may enquire, what else is available? I'm partial to tea, in particular an Earl Gray."

The persian chuckles softly, as do a number of others at the table. Mordecai ignores them; he's quite used to being the comedic relief by now. "You don't come to Christmas poker and drink tea," Gabriel asserts, pausing to suck on his cigar before taking it from his teeth, heavy smoke leaking from his nose and mouth as he taps Mordecai's chest affectionately. "Tell you what; I'll get Frank and Kendall to bring up a couple of those cordials and soft drinks they sell in the diner. Maybe you'll find something else you like as much as tea."

Mordecai twists his lips with disbelief. "I highly doubt that," he mutters under his breath, then sighs in defeat. "Very well. I'm sure something will be… adequate."

"There ya go," Gabriel praises, jostling his shoulder with his iron grip and chuckling deep in his chest, releasing him to turn back to Frank. The tuxedo's arm is decidedly sore when he finally lets go, and it takes most of his self control not to shudder to dispel the lingering feeling of an unwanted arm around his back. "You heard the man; get Kendall to make a couple of cordials, no skimping on the juice or sugar. We'll sweeten the old butcher up yet!"

The next few minutes are a whirlwind of information as he's introduced to the entirety of the table and their expertise all at once. With the quickfire crash course in underbosses at Gabriel's jovial hand, each man is cataloged by appearance, name and job title only, providing Mordecai with an influx of people to research in his spare time next year, though there are two distinct men the tuxedo takes intricate note at the time of introduction.

First and arguably the most important, the large, black feline at the head of the table. Despite seeming to be of a similar height to most, the silky shorthair possesses a number of exaggerated features compared to his brethren: a heavy brow and large forehead overshadow small eyes so dark, they appear black across the table; an equally heavy set lower jaw; stocky shoulders; and thickly muscled arms.

He greets Mordecai with a smoker's gravel imbued with the deep tones expected from a man of his size, his assertions bringing an end to any idle or other conversations from pure respect. The hand clasping his cards are three times larger than Mordecai's finely dextrous ones, while his shoes could comfortably house a feral cat and her litter in a pinch, their toe caps enforced with steel for integrity over utility.

This is Stanley Savage, current head of the family, the man who plucked Mordecai from his comfortable position running the races and pressed implements of torture into his hands. The tuxedo greets him politely, complementing the home as his mother raised him to, even as the suppressed distaste for his abusive role simmers angrily beneath the surface 

He could be Hashem Himself, Mordecai would still hate the man who cost him the dregs of his morality just as fervently.

Second, the predominantly white feline sat at Savages's right hand. Accented with sandy yellow splashed with black, incomplete spots, most of this colouration favours his dorsal area, though it covers his ears and face, and even coats the backs of his hands. His suit is immaculate, jacket still worn over an armed shoulder holster. Calculating, narrowed green eyes study the newest addition to the inner circle.

Sipping his scotch and holding eye contact seamlessly with the tuxedo, the speckled feline nods wordlessly when he's introduced; Jackson Jameson, personal triggerman and as required, bodyguard for the Savage family boss. As the only man at the table openly armed, it's obvious he's considered more trustworthy than anyone else in the room, something Mordecai makes explicit note of as he's shown to the empty seat at the other end of the long table.

Despite Mordecai's initial uncertainties, the small gathering is surprisingly amicable; most conversation revolves around the rapidly changing work environments each man has had to deal with these last few months, rising amenity costs and a lament of fewer excess funds for seasonal gifts or their preferred vices. Mordecai is generally quiet unless engaged directly, though he doesn't share much personal information. He talks only of the business troubles, and the closing of his launderette, which placates most of their questions.

One man however - Kimberly Daugherton, a particularly small and weasley looking man with numerous furless scars adoring his muzzle and face - has an unhealthy interest in the tom's torture moonlights, making uncomfortable queries regarding his favourite tools, technique and 'soft spots'. He's a disquieting little man with a twitchy demeanour that Mordecai is thankful not to be seated directly next to, but that doesn't make his queries or suggestions any less repulsive to the unconventional butcher.

Having enough after a particularly vulgar description of how to disembowel a man without killing him outright, Mordecai places his empty glass of cordial - a delightful tart cranberry and raspberry, with a touch of soda water - aside with more force than necessary. "If you're so desperate for a demonstration," he states coldy, staring at the man who sinks regretfully into his seat under those sharp eyes. "I'll request my switchblade returned and provide a personal experience of my favourite techniques. How does that sound, Mister Daugherton?"

"N-No, th-thank you," the small feline stutters out, oversized gray ears pressing to his skull and he fidgets nervously with a napkin in his lap, intensely focused on its crinkled edges. "I-I'm good. So good! All… good." A rolling chuckle echoes around the table, especially as Kimberly makes excuses to leave a few minutes later, missing the poker game entirely.

It swiftly becomes apparent Mordecai is terrible at poker; as Gabriel would express through a rolling chuckle. "The poker face is only half the game," he explains after Mordecai folds on a bad hand in the first round. "You have to bluff, make us think your hand is average even when you got a flush in the wings, so we go in thinking we got you beat with a three of a kind and bet recklessly. That's now you win big."

He understands the logic, but the concept is irrational, so he continues to play as he had before and ends with almost as many chips as he started. While the other players don't see it as successful, Mordecai does. He retained his integrity and most of his fabricated funds, a true win compared to those undermining their trustworthiness for a simple game. 

Though the event continues until almost three on Christmas morning - and despite the heavy smoke, slowly intoxicated company and being absolutely awful at poker - the evening is not as unpleasant as Mordecai feared. His coworkers are cordial and respectful, refraining from anti-semitic humour the entire evening, even when issues arose during dinner, and Mordecai is returned to his apartment full, content and surprisingly jovial.

Mordecai may not be fond of much of his profession, but he finally seems to be reaping the rewards of his hard work and sacrifices. It puts a smile on thin lips, even as he's forced to layer three blankets to stay warm; life is somewhat good, and it can surely only get better from here.

[georgiapeach30513]

Night Moves Masterlist

Alone and wanting safety in your kind of work, you seek out Lloyd Hansen and Carter Baizen. Fierce men with deep pockets and high end clients. They also protect their girls above anything else. Should a man mess with you, they receive Lloyd’s sick sense of retaliation. But what happens when you fall?

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

A/N: this is a harlot AU so like usual be prepared for some smut and a few misogynistic pigs. Read all warnings and like usual 18+ ONLY

*dividers created by @firefly-graphics​