#white hair black glasses and a penchant for men

[sophisticatedaiphos]

do y'all see this.

THIS MAN. THIS MAN FR JUMPED OUT OF SOME DARK GOTHIC ROMANCE OTOME GAME- BC THIS HAND KISSING ACTION IS LOWKEY CRAZ 💀

this man is so bold to be doing all that to some randos he met in the woods 😭 genuine gojo behavior (note: did he kidnap them??)

Here's all the other characters reactions btw: (credit to fleurism on yt)

[aleburton]

viii. don’t text me when you’re drunk

Music floated between the rooms of Matthew Burton’s sprawling Malibu, California estate. His current twenty-something paramour had carefully curated a playlist of songs made popular before she was born. It was likely many of those songs were enjoyed whilst cruising down the boulevard, the convertible top lowered as Camilla’s arms whirled gracefully in the air. This was the last home they shared together before they decided to move to Los Angeles. It was more convenient for Matthew’s grueling work schedule, but they had always intended to split their time between houses. Camilla had always loved living by the water and imagined introducing her first-born to all the wonders it contained. Since her passing, the family’s home had undergone a number of changes, most of which were contrived by the number of women Matthew permitted to live there over the years. There were very few traces of Camilla and perhaps that was deliberate. Everyone knew he was far too weak to cope with his grief in an appropriate manner. It only made sense to rid of all reminders of his one true love including his blameless daughter. 

Alexandra ambled the length of the hall, the tips of her fingers coasting against the crown molding. Many of the familiar pictures that once decorated it had been replaced with more opulent, modern art except for one. She paused as she reached the large, black and white image of Camilla. She could remember looking up at the portrait as a child and wondering if her mother was a movie star. She certainly looked the part – her head tilted back with a glass of champagne balanced in her hand, laughing in the most glamorous of ways. She was forever thirty, meanwhile Matthew had reached the ripe age of fifty and decided to bring in a new decade with his closest friends, one hundred or so industry executives and colleagues. Alex continued her trek toward the living area, eyeing a number of men with peppered hair and freshly pressed black suites. Some of them gazed in her direction for perhaps a moment too long, stunned that Camilla and Matthew’s daughter had reached her prime. Business associates or not, they weren’t immune to perverse thoughts. I wonder what she looks like without that pretty, little Dior dress. She looks just like her pin-up mother that I used to fantasize about. 

She approached the impressive champagne tower and plucked a coupe glass from the very top. One of them almost made an attempt to approach; remind her of a memory he had from when she was a little girl, but he stopped in his loafers as a much younger and attractive version swept in instead. “Whoa. Olivia will have your head if you destroy her masterpiece. Let me help,” Noah proposed. One hand wrapped around her dainty waist, the other helping her to guide the glass toward her. Alex laughed, sweet, doe-eyes rolling as she brought the glass to her chest, “Oh, so you’ve had the pleasure of meeting this year’s flavor already? I’m not afraid of her. Her clock is ticking.” She took a small taste of the gilded elixir, pleased Olivia at least had a penchant for high-end champagne. “I didn’t know you would be here,” she added, peeping upward to take in his undeniably handsome features. Still, he wasn’t Zach. “Yeah, I kind of received a last minute invitation. Since I’ve been interning with Matthew, he thought it would be beneficial for me to rub elbows with some of the other big names in the room. You know, do the grown-up thing now and network.” Noah tucked his hands into his pockets, offering her his signature smile. “It’s Matthew now, is it? You two are on a first name basis? Wow,” she taunted him, continuing to nurse her glass of Dom. 

“What can I say? I was promoted from ex-boyfriend to intern to possible partner.” He shrugged his shoulders, disrupting his stare to look around the room instead. He didn’t want to make it too obvious that his attraction to her remained. Alex simpered softly, “Maybe the broken heart was worth it in the end then. You didn’t leave completely empty handed.” He rocked back and forth, apprehensively shifting between the balls of his feet to their heels. He seemed uncertain about what to say or rather whether he should say it all. Noah was aware that she continued to see Zach romantically despite the protestations of many. He promised to bite his tongue and avoid his tendency to over protect and coddle her, but mentioned nothing about any covert attempts to sway her toward the safer option. “Eh. I mean, given the option between you and a career in law,” he pondered, “You’re both an absolute pain in my ass, but I think it’d be a no brainer.” That particular remark stung. Her brows nettled together as she swallowed another mouthful of champagne. Noah couldn’t have known about the propositions she’d been offered and yet, it felt as if he’d been a spectator to it all.

I’d pick you over my job any day. Feeling slightly charged, Alex did her best as glazing over it with humor. “Well, thankfully I get to be someone else’s pain in the ass for a while.” His eyes drifted to the floor, head nodding softly in defeat. A while seemed like it would be far too long for him to endure. There had already been rumblings within their circle about his behavior, most notably at Lola Fonseca’s album debut. Something had gone down between them causing her to be escorted out of her own party due to their interaction. What kind of person elicits that kind of response out of an ex? His reputation was already known. Being that Alex was undefiled, his issue with Zach was personal. Was this some kind of game? Find the most overindulged, Hollywood princess and turn her inside out? When you included Matthew’s rejection of legal representation for his team, it made sense. Attempting to point this out to her, however, would have been futile and likely led to her stiff-arming him until the end of time. It wasn’t worth the risk. “Yeah, I know. Alex,” he started, but was abruptly interrupted by a wide palm of his shoulder. “Noah Thompson. I’ve been looking all over for you,” an unfamiliar voice announced.

Alex seized the opportunity to fend off any additional advances, quietly exiting the room as Noah turned to address the guest. How fucking bizzare. She acknowledged his hesitation about her relationship with Zach, but never imagined he’d consider himself a strong contender in his place. No matter how cautious Noah attempted to be, any efforts to edge Zach out of her sweetened reverie would always result in drawing him nearer. Couldn’t they understand that? She tip-toed back in the darkened hallway, retrieving the cell phone from her clutch. I miss you. Up for a trip to Malibu? There’s a catch though. You can’t be seen. How do you feel about heights? She began to amble up the staircase, headed toward her childhood bedroom. Her heart began to race, considering all the ways she could easily replace her most miserable memories with those that could easily send her father to any early grave. She couldn’t think of a better gift than the graphic illustration of the man he hated more than himself fucking his daughter under his roof. Happy Birthday, Daddy. 

[infinitynova]

Gravity - Gojo Satoru x fem! reader

What lies between nothingness and eternity? The space between you and me.  

Summary: [n/a yet]

c/w: descriptions of violence and blood, discussions about suicide/self harm, little bit of dub!con in this chapter

Tags: Gojo Satoru x F!Reader, Friends To Lovers, Strangers to Lovers, Romance, Angst, Fluff, Feels, smut probably later on

notes: Chapter seven! Turning up the heat just a little.

If you’ve come this far, I’m giving you a big kiss.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Chapter 7 - Grand Theft Gojo

[One month earlier]

The coffee shop buzzed with activity, the late afternoon sun setting between the buildings in Tokyo to illuminate the chatty patrons scattered amongst the tables inside. Near the back of the shop, two men sat at a lone table in the corner, away from the ears of the boisterous crowd while still in view of the pastry display. Dressed in a pristine tan suit, the blond man sat with a white-haired fellow in a school uniform, whose eyes were hidden away behind a black blindfold. The pair handed back their menus to the waitress after placing their orders for two cups of sensible coffee and one extravagant cake.

“I would say this isn’t like you,” began Kento Nanami with a sigh. “But your penchant for picking up strays says otherwise.”

Seated across from him, Gojo Satoru giggled sweetly while covering his mouth with both hands. “It’s so refreshing to have you worry about me, Nanamin.”

The blond-haired man sighed, his shoulders tense and his jaw muscle clenched beneath his high cheekbones. With narrowed eyes behind green-shaded spectacles, Nanami allowed Gojo to continue giggling animatedly with mild annoyance. He remained silent as the waitress returned with the tray of orders and set the cups and plates on the table. 

“I seem to remember recommending you keep your distance from the subject until Ijichi can gather more intel. The information on y/n is remarkably sparse.”

Nanami reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to produce a piece of note paper, scattered messages on the front in neat handwriting. He smoothed out the lined paper on the tabletop beside his untouched coffee cup, listing off the notes provided by the assistant director of Tokyo Jujutsu High. In a few brief sentences, it listed the previous place of employment for the subject and a written promise to dig deeper for more information.

“Aside from coming to reside in Tokyo sometime in the last year, there isn’t much intel on this subject. She worked for some time cleaning offices, but there isn’t any information on where she was befo-”

Nanami cut his sentence short, interrupted by the loud and lengthy slurp from his colleague as he sipped noisily from the coffee cup, seemingly uninterested.

“You’re not listening,” he growled, unable to hide the tone of annoyance in his voice. With one hand, he adjusted his glasses to hide the glare he shot across the table. “It’s unusual to find such little information on a person nowadays, no school records or extensive job history. Considering the strength of the curse that she attracted, we cannot ignore that there’s a strong likelihood she is dangerous.”

“Nanamin, you know me,” Gojo said with a wry smile, dropping his chin to lean on his folded hands. “If that’s the case, I won’t hesitate to kill her if necessary.”

------

The days passed slowly as the summer heat gradually melted away to the promise of cooler temperatures in the fall. The change in temperature brought a chilly nighttime breeze, inviting thoughts of warm cozy sweaters and house slippers. A chilly dew settled upon the cars and railings outside every morning, reflecting the orange beams of the early rays of sunlight most days as you headed off to work. The two weeks Gojo had promised had slipped into three, the small knot of anxiety in your stomach gnawing at you the entire time. You checked your phone periodically, half-hoping to hear from the sorcerer, although you didn’t know what actually to hope for. It had been radio silence since he had left your apartment that night, leaving you dizzy and breathless in the entryway of your own home. You remembered the look of his retreating back, the sound of his obnoxious snicker as it echoed down the hall and into the stairwell. Frustration mounting, you mentally scolded yourself whenever the thought of the scheming sorcerer entered your mind, but the pit in your stomach ached for the same feeling from that night. The mysterious, magnetic urge deep in your gut that pulled you close to Gojo, that scrambled your thoughts and made him look at you with those heavy-lidded eyes. There was an itch, a deep-rooted urge to feel that same pull, though you couldn’t understand quite what it was. What’s worse, the image of Gojo's face replayed in your memory over and over. The way his frosted lashes had closed over his blue eyes as he leaned into you, the pressure from his lips before he pulled away, these thoughts distracted you and pulled your attention away at inconvenient moments during your days. 

Ugh.

You stared at the mug in your hand, the one you had reached high on your tiptoes for, an exact duplicate of the one already waiting on the counter. You grumpily replaced the second cup on the shelf, annoyed that you’d gotten lost in your thoughts about the sorcerer again. The text alert chime made your heart skip a beat, but it was only Shizuka confirming the details of your day out together. You poured yourself a hot tea and sipped it grumpily, trying to push away the nagging feeling in your gut. Smoothing your hands over your hair, you brushed off the thoughts of the blue-eyed stranger and continued getting ready to meet Shizuka in Shibuya. The sun warmed your face as it beamed down on the late morning, the neighborhood only just beginning to stir on the lazy weekend day. You hurried down the back steps of your building, wrapping around to the back alleyways as you checked your watch against the upcoming train departure time. The soft trill of a cat emerging from behind your landlord's potted plants made you break your stride, momentarily, to provide some hands-on attention. The orange and black cat purred against your leg, looking up at you with its big yellow eyes. 

“Where have you been hiding?” you asked the cat sweetly. 

Allowing for a couple more strokes of your hand, you let the kitty go on its way and hastily continued into the city.

Shizuka’s radiant smile greeted you when you finally arrived to the cafe she had recommended. You were flustered, worried that you would be late to meet your friend who waited patiently on the plush pink couch in the far corner of the cafe. The cafe sat well above Shibuya station, overlooking the famed street crossing. She was well-dressed as usual, her short chin length hair tied up into a tiny ponytail, her outfit suggesting she had just finished a yoga class in a fancy neighborhood. She tucked a lock of loose hair behind her ear before reaching out to hug you close in greeting. 

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” you stammered as you sit down and situated yourself on the plush couch opposite your friend.

“Not at all, I just got here. I’m so happy you found the time to come out with me.”

Her smile was warm as she handed the menu over to you, putting you at ease and calming your nervous energy. You could scarcely look over the menu as Shizuka chatted away, telling you all about her plans to meet with her family later in the day. She spoke with her hands, animatedly, as she described her excitement, as she hadn’t seen them since she moved out on her own.

“That sounds exciting,” you replied to your friend after placing your order with the server. “Is that why you said you have to leave early today?”

“Yes,” she gushed as she fished her phone from her purse to show you a photo. “This is the restaurant we’re going to, but it’ll take me a little while to get there. So, it’s alright if I leave you at the shops, right?”

You nodded in response. “I have some shopping to do anyway, so the timing worked out well.”

“Good,” Shizuka nodded confidently. “You get yourself whatever you want, understand? With how hard you’ve been working, you deserve it.”

You laughed weakly in response, thoughts drifting to your meager bank account balance.

“Definitely,” you replied with weak sarcasm.

“I’m serious!”

You laughed together and accepted your orders from the server as she arrived with the loaded platter. The conversation continued, lighthearted and comfortable, as you drained your cups and even ordered a second round of coffees to extend your time together. Shizuka laughed easily and smiled often, and you thought of her affectionately, feeling grateful for her genuine friendship. 

“Agh, y/n, the time!” Shizuka gasped suddenly. “I’m always late, I’m going to miss the train.”

Dropping several bills on the table, she signaled to the server to retrieve the payment for lunch.

“Wait, I-” you began, reaching into your purse as well.

“Next time,” she said quickly. “I gotta run downstairs, come with me and I’ll show you where that boutique is that I had mentioned.”

She slid her sporty sunglasses onto her face and left the cafe with you following close behind, picking up speed to match Shizuka’s quick stride. Shizuka whined the entire elevator ride, tapping her foot with impatience as you laughed quietly and tried to reassure her. 

Shizuka threw her arms around your neck in a tight hug, thanking you again for meeting with her today.

“I had such a nice time,” she gushed in your ear before letting you go, only to point a finger at your face. “Remember: make yourself happy. If that means buying the dress, then thats what you do, okay?”

You laughed in response and half-heartedly promised your friend that you’d follow her advice. She said goodbye and ran off toward the entrance to the station, shouting nonsensical directions over her shoulder. The words were lost in the noise of the crowded intersection but you started off in the general direction nonetheless, laughing to yourself all the while at your friend’s antics. 

Make myself happy huh?

You walked amongst the crowds of people that littered the streets, slipping between them to find your path through the congestion. Shizuka was so spirited, and her advice sounded so simple although you weren’t sure how to put it into practice. The bright lights of the store-lined streets illuminated the faces of the people passing by the displays; couples and friends with their faces half shadowed passed and were lost in the maze of people around you. You entered and browsed several stores, making small purchases and pondering Shizuka’s words that seemed to follow behind your every footstep. With a couple of paper bags tucked in your elbow and the sun beginning to droop lazily in the late afternoon sky, you walked back in the direction of the station with your phone in hand as you studied the timetable. It felt unusual to spend the whole day out like this, although you couldnt say that you didn’t enjoy it.

“Alright, so I have to transfer…” you murmured to yourself as you found a seat on the train.

The sun drooped slowly, eventually falling behind the many skyscrapers of the Tokyo skyline. Silent as the train car was, your brain was abuzz with thoughts of cozy evening plans. Dinner, perhaps a movie tonight in the solitude of your small apartment. In the bag beside you, one of your purchases sat neatly wrapped and boxed. Although you hadn’t planned to follow Shizuka’s advice about retail therapy, her words had echoed in your mind when you spotted a dress that caught your eye in the boutique she had recommended. The corners of your mouth pulled into a smile, which you quickly covered with one hand. You daydreamed of trying on your new purchase, the first you had made in some time, and looking in the mirror as the new person you hoped to become.

Make yourself happy.

Your phone chime alerted you of a message, muffled under the contents of your purse. The train slowed as it neared your destination, dropping speed and announcing the approach to Kitasenju station. Digging in your bag, you stepped onto the platform and shuffled away from the bustling crowd to read the message. Your heart leapt to your throat when you saw the sender on your lock screen. Gojo.

Feeling suddenly flustered, you opened it quickly as your thoughts began to race. 

Gojo [5:05pm]: Yo~

You stared at the text on your phone, blood rushing in your ears as your heartbeat quickened. It seemed surreal, after all this time to finally receive a message that you had been thinking about for weeks. 

Gojo [5:06pm]: Meet you at Kitasenju station?

The grip on your phone strengthened as your blood ran cold and your stomach pitched with anxiety. You looked up and around, searching the sea of unfamiliar faces. The crowd moved toward the exit, and you started along as well, standing on your toes to look over the shoulders of the surrounding horde of people. You waited patiently on the escalator and hurried off into the upper level of the station, fighting to keep your feet from breaking into a run. The strands of your hair swung around your face as you whipped your head around, eyes darting through the sea of faceless people until your eyes locked onto Gojo as he stood near the ticketing machines at the exit of the station. He leaned casually against the outside of the row of machines, feet crossed at the ankles and his hands in the pockets of his black bomber jacket. He surveyed the crowd over the rim of his black sunglasses, scanning over the heads of people and finally locking eyes with you. You stood dumbfounded, phone still in your hands and your purchases hanging from your elbow, lost in the middle of the bustling station as the crowd ebbed and flowed around you. From across the station, you could see Gojo’s blue eyes clearly as they locked unblinkingly with yours. You started across the floor, making a straight line through the people as they swarmed around you. The noise of the station, the sound of heavy footsteps and conversation, fell away and there was only silence on your straight walk to Gojo. Your vision tunneled, the faceless people of the station falling out of your perception and you returned Gojo’s stare, fluidly cutting through the sea of people. You felt relief as you got closer, your heart fluttering in your chest as the magnetic pull returned to guide you forward, driving your feet forward to catch up. His expression changed as you approached, his shoulders slumping imperceptibly and a brief, relieved sigh crossing his lips. His brows knitted together as he reached for you, fluidly hooking his arm around your waist and pressing your bodies close together. Your faces were inches apart when you realized you had been holding your breath, releasing it slowly as you brought your fingers to his face to hold it still as you fell into the open ocean of his eyes.

“I thought you’d be angry.”

You shake your head silently as you study his face, eyes taking in the details as if it were your first time seeing him fully. His fingers flex into your lower back, encouraging you to stand on your toes until your noses were nearly touching. From your position, his eyes were hidden away again behind his black glasses, but you could feel the intensity of his stare piercing through the lenses. His lips were slightly parted, as though he anticipated saying something but couldn’t form the words.

“Is this real?” you asked, eyes tracing the curve of his lips, the same ones that had pressed up against yours what seemed like an eternity ago.

“Yes, I feel it too.”

“What is it?” you whispered.

“I’m not sure.”

You peeled yourself away from the tall sorcerer, finally breaking the intense eye contact and catching your breath.

“I don’t understand.”

“Come,” he responded, jerking his head toward the sign directing traffic to the JR line, the one you needed to take home. 

You fell into step next to him, breathless and dizzy, your thoughts spinning out of control and the pull of your gut swaying your steps. The platform was crowded as you waited for your train home, avoiding eye contact as you stood side by side. You followed the rush of people onto the train, situating yourselves to stand in the corner of the train car, where you could find space for yourselves. Once again, you found yourself unbearably close, bodies briefly touching with the bump and sway of the train car as it traveled the rails. You urged yourself to keep cool, but you felt the heat rising in your face, and it took considerable effort to keep your eyes trained on your shoes. Another light bump of the train propelled you forward, lightly crashing into Gojo’s chest as he stood stoic against the wall of the train car. You stole a glance upward as you mumbled an apology, catching a look at the flash of his blue eyes peeking over the rim of his glasses. You avert your eyes quickly in embarrassment, but Gojo removes a hand from his pocket to guide your chin up once more.

“Let me look at you,” he says quietly, loud enough only for you.

And so you let him, feeling the heat of his gaze over your features and closing your eyes when the intensity became too much. It was much the same for the rest of your travels home, each step feeling weightless and disorienting as you walked beside him in silence. Your hands shook as you guided the key into your apartment door, physically shaking from Gojo’s presence standing aloof behind you. Crossing the threshold into your apartment, you turned to invite him inside but he was already upon you, face stooped to your height and arms crossed at your lower back to pull you in. The door swings shut behind him as you are walked backwards until you meet the kitchen counter. Your purse and paper bags drop to the floor to spill the contents out haphazardly, but your eyes never left the black lenses that sat between you and Gojo. Your breathing stuttered, catching in your chest and scarcely allowing you to exhale. His hands dropped from your lower back to rest against the kitchen counter, caging you in. Hands trembled as you gingerly touched the lapel of his jacket, lifting your hands to graze his chin and then settle on his glasses. 

You maintained eye contact through his shades, nervous energy flowing through your veins. Fingers gripped the corners of his glasses, moving slowly and cautiously against the sorcerer’s face.

“Can I see you?” you whispered. He didn’t reply, but remained still as you reached up to draw the sunglasses from his face and set them down on the counter beside you. Behind the tips of his white hair, crystalline blue eyes bored into yours, compounding the nervous flutter in your chest. His blue eyes stared into yours unblinkingly, searching for something behind your anxious stare.

“What is this?” You whispered, dropping your gaze to his chest, his collarbones peeking out beneath his white T-shirt as he leaned forward. Cautiously you drew your hands back to his chest, reaching for the subtle glimmer in the air and meeting resistance at your fingertips.

“Infinity,” he replied, dipping his head low to graze his lips against your ear, sending tingles through your spine. Instinctively, you placed your hand around the back of his neck to feel the short blunt hair with your fingertips, closing your eyes as you leaned into his shoulder and breathed in his scent. He drew back to look at you, a dreamy appearance, and took you by the hand, deeper into the apartment, leaving the bags and purse and mess on the floor. Your bed was neatly made, one side against the wall as it always had been but today it looked ominous in your unlit apartment, shadows cast from the late afternoon light outside. Gojo slipped his jacket off and rested it on the back of one of the chairs at your table, opposite the bed. With a huff, he dropped on your bed, back leaned against the wall with one hand outstretched to invite you in. You hesitated momentarily before taking his hand with trembling fingers, crawling in after him to rest your back against his chest as he guided you. The butterflies in your stomach flapped wildly against your rib cage, yet your proximity to Gojo felt somehow secure. Dropping his chin on your shoulder, he cupped your hands in his and raised them to your chest. His touch on the backs of your hands was warm, energizing - your heart fluttered as you leaned in close to peer into your palms. The faint glimmer between your skin grew more visible the longer you looked. Your cheeks flushed at the sensation, the warmth and effervescence bubbling in your chest. 

“This is my technique,” he said, a hushed tone in your ear. The vibration of his voice sent a shiver through your spine and raised goosebumps on your arms. 

“Infinity,” you repeated, voice barely above a whisper. “Incredible.”

You turned your hands over in his, palms down to feel the pressure between your hands, like a repelling force keeping you apart. Leaning forward, you studied your hands wide-eyed to investigate the shimmering energy surrounding your fingers. The magnetic pull tugged at your belly, leaning back into Gojo’s chest once more with a sigh, to satisfy the pull. You raised your eyes shyly to look at him as he leaned on your shoulder but hid from his direct gaze, feeling nervous to catch his eye once more. The muscles in his jaw clenched and stood out against the rest of his pale skin, as he too brought your coupled hands closer to investigate, securing you tighter in his embrace. 

“What is happening?” you asked dreamily, eyes trained on his mouth as you awaited a response. “I can feel this energy.”

“I’m not quite sure,” he responded, turning your hands over to inspect them. “Although it appears you have developed some cursed energy of your own.”

His blue eyes caught the reflection of the orange rays of late afternoon light streaming in through your balcony door. Starting with your hands, his gaze traveled over your body until they settled on your face, eyes boring into yours. You dropped your face once more back to your hands, finding difficulty in maintaining eye contact against the intensity of his stare. 

“Can I do that?” you asked, tracing the lines in your palms with your eyes. “Am I … strong? Like you?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he chuckled, his breath tickling the nape of your neck. “Although I gotta say, I didn’t expect this outcome.”

“What can I do?”

“You’re unusually interested in jujutsu,” he laughed again. 

“I’ve never felt this before,” you said softly, flexing your fingers. “I want to be able to use it.”

“I can teach you.”

You let out a weak laugh. “I’m too old to be a high school student.”

He enclosed your fists with his large hands, covering yours entirely. Within your clasped hands, the radiating warmth oscillates and raises goosebumps on your arms, springing a light flush to your cheeks. 

“This is yours. It’s small now, but you can grow it with practice.” The vibration of his voice in your ear sent tingles through your spine once more, lifting your thoughts to dizzying heights. “Call it tutoring.” 

Once again, you craned your head to look into Gojo’s face, tracing the lines of his jaw until you met his gaze. 

“Please,” you whispered. “Show me.”

------------

The flashing lights and rhythmic click of the copier as it churned out pages of paperwork in a neat pile. You stood waiting for the machine to finish, holding one hand up to stare at your palm as you flexed your fingers open and closed. Over and over again you did it, matching the tense feeling in your gut with the flex of your fingers. You were alone in the copy room the following day after your conversation with Gojo, his words echoing in your ears.

It’s like any muscle, you have to train it to get stronger.

He had held your hands together within his, large fingers pressing your palms together as the feeling of oscillating warmth spread between your interlocked hands. His breath tickled your ear as he spoke, but you listened at length as he described jujutsu techniques and cursed energy, not letting go of your hands for one moment. Gojo promised to return the following night, after you came back from work, to teach you more about cursed energy. He urged you to practice, to flex your cursed energy as you would a muscle you were willing to train for strength. He flexed his strength, the fluttering in your heart leaping into your throat as you sensed the change in power. And even now, you could feel that flutter in your stomach as you flexed your palm. Open, closed. Open, closed. Your insides tensed with every flex, every pore in your body feeling electrified all at once. After a few rounds, you released a tired sigh and rubbed your neck for relief. You hadn’t gotten much sleep last night either, compounding your aching body. Being in Gojo’s presence had you on edge, emotionally, physically. The aura he emitted when he was near you prickled at your face and hands, the physical touch of his invisible presence. It was captivating, and it was terrifying. When he stood in your entryway to say goodbye, to promise to return, you held your breath until the moment the door clicked into the lock, tightly closed behind him. You heard him exhale, a sigh just on the other side of your door, where he rubbed his eyes with one hand and let it drag heavily down his face to settle on his chin. And in an instant, the magnetic pull in your gut released the moment he disappeared.

“Y/n, we are going to lunch, are you coming?” Jin called. He leaned into the room, poking only his head in as he gestured out toward the break area. His slanted eyes glittered with anticipation.

“Yes,” you replied, returning your attention back to the present and reaching to retrieve the completed papers. “I’ll be right there.”

You sat at the table with Shizuka and Jin, who tried to hide their eager stares as you approached the seat they left open for you. Shizuka sipped her canned beverage and watched from the corner of her eye as you placed your bento down and opened the top.

“Y/n did you make shigureni?” Jin asked, sniffing near your open lunch. 

“Good guess,” you replied, digging into your prepared meal.

“Ah,” Jin sighed dreamily. “I wish you would make us bentos every week. Or at least host a cooking class. I mean, look at this, our lunches are sad in comparison.”

Shizuka nodded, sitting across from you both and munching on whatever could be procured from the vending machine. Today’s lunch seemed to be comprised of crackers and carbonated juice. 

“You guys think too highly of me,” you laughed, feeling embarrassed by the attention. “Besides, I just got the hang of cooking for only one.”

They laughed along with you and accepted your offer when you slid the food closer to them, giving the green light for your friends to sample today’s meal. 

“Oh! I know it’s early, but I have a question,” you said suddenly, a thought coming to mind. “Speaking of food, do you all stay in the city for the holidays, usually?”

“Holidays?” Jin repeated thoughtfully, chewing on a bite of beef from your plate. “Hm, I guess I usually go back to my grandparent’s house out in the countryside. Shizuka, do you stay in Tokyo?”

Shizuka shook her head no, covering her mouth to block the sight of her chewing.

“We travel during the holidays,” she replied as she reached for another bite. “Asking so early, y/n.”

“I know,” you laughed meekly. “I was just thinking about it the other night. I thought I’d invite you guys to my apartment around the New Year. I was going to make the osechi ryori-”

“You make that?” Shizuka groaned. “Just buy it from the store!”

Jin nodded in agreement, adding that he couldn't even remember what all the different dishes were called. 

“Ah, I used to make it for my family.”

“Old school,” Jin commented, nodding knowingly. “I think my grandma does too.”

Shizuka snorted with laughter and tried to cover her face. You groaned outwardly and pulled your plate back from between your friends. With your hands, you fended off Jin’s advancement for another bite.

“Hey!”

“That’s what you get for making fun of me,” you said in mock annoyance, trying to hide the smile that played at the corner of your lips.

The lighthearted giggle of your group lunch was cut short when your boss called your name from his office. You relinquished the rest of your lunch to the delight of your friends and hurried off to continue work in Mr. Hamada’s office. He ran you ragged for the rest of the afternoon, dictating notes, tasks, and meetings that needed to be completed before the end of the week. By the time it was close of business, you were tired from the long day. You said goodbye to Jin and Shizuka in front of your office building before parting ways to train stations on opposite ends of the road. The rhythmic thump of the train lulled you into a dreamy state, feeling sleepy by the time you arrived home to kick your shoes off and hang your light coat on the hook beside the door. The stack of mail you had collected from the downstairs mailbox was dumped onto your table, seemingly a mix of bills and advertisements for local businesses. You had scarcely settled into your home when your cellphone rang from its place in your purse, sitting on the floor of your entryway.

“Hello?” you answered shyly.

“Are you ready?” Gojo asked through the phone.

You opened the door to let him inside, but were surprised to find the hallway outside your apartment empty of people. Loud honking outside startled you, as the neighborhood was residential and usually very quiet. In your bare feet, you went outside to look for the source of noise. The incessant, repetitive honking was disruptive and called the attention of people on the sidewalk as well.

“Y/n!” Gojo yelled, and this time you could hear him both through the phone and outside. Leaning over the railing of the second floor, you looked down at street level where a black car was parked outside. Its lights were flashing and the driver honked the horn three more times, leaning out of the window to call your name. Your face went white as you stared in shock at Gojo’s grinning face, calling your name from the driver’s seat of a slick black car, a model usually reserved for businessmen.

“Let’s go,” Gojo said through the phone.

“Yes, yes, stop yelling my name!” you hissed. “My neighbors will hear you.”

“Hurry~!” he sang back in response.

You crammed your shoes back on and donned the baseball cap that hung near the front door, hurrying down to the awaiting limousine. Gojo leaned his elbow on the open window and beamed at you from the driver’s seat. His blue eyes flashed with mischief over the rims of his black sunglasses, watching as you hopped into the drivers seat and buckled your seatbelt.

“What is all this?” you asked, frazzled by his attention-grabbing arrival.

“We’re off on a trip!” he sang again, pulling off the curb and starting the drive. 

You looked around the car, well-kept and clean inside, as well as recently waxed. The black leather seats shone from recent care. Gojo leaned to the side nearest his window, one arm lazily dangling over the top of the steering wheel. The corners of his mouth pulled into a smirk as he stole glances at you from the side of his glasses. The radio blasted the high energy song of a pop idol that you were not familiar with, adding to the strange atmosphere of the car.

“Ah, where are we going?” you asked meekly.

Gojo chuckled in response, flashing you a knowing smile. The unfamiliar ringtone of his own phone cut the silence, saving him from answering your question. With his free hand, he clicked to answer.

“Gojo-sensei-”

The caller hardly spoke before being cut off, Gojo hanging up the phone immediately. It rang again instantly and he clicked the phone to vibrate mode before tossing it through the partition between you to land on the back seat. It continued vibrating for the next several minutes as you listened with keen ears, nervously wondering who was calling with such a panic tone to their voice.

“Did you steal the company car?” you accused suddenly, the pieces falling together in your mind.

 “It’ll be back before they know it,” he responded with a deep laugh, waving off your words.

I’m certain someone already knows.

You remained quiet for the rest of the ride, as you watched the road signs to piece together where you might be headed with the scheming sorcerer. Rubbing your palms together did little to stave off the nervous energy you felt rising through your chest. Gojo pleasantly hummed along to the songs on the radio, seemingly unbothered by his nervous counterpart. The winding road led you both out of the city and soon you found yourselves in the mountains, where the same winding roads climbed the steep mountainside. After forty minutes of travel, Gojo pulled off the road without warning, onto a dirt path leading to an overlook that was well-worn with tiretracks burned into the grass. The energetic pop music cut suddenly as Gojo killed the engine and exited the car, leaving the keys in the ignition. You followed him outside, cautiously looking at your surroundings. There was not much to see, save for densely packed trees and a poorly lit road on the rural outskirts of the city. 

Gojo walked to the front of the car, not far from the dropped edge of the cliff. He looked back at you, standing nervously at the car door and uncertain of your next move. Gojo flashed a smile in your direction, and patted the hood of the car next to where he stood, signaling for you to join. You did, sitting next to him on the hood of the pristinely cleaned car that was beginning to catch dirt from driving off road. Beyond the edge of the cliff, the sparking lights of Tokyo twinkled in the distance. You watched in awe, enamored by the sight of the city spread wide below your feet. Your home. 

You hardly noticed the magnetic pull acting upon you, as you soaked in the glittering lights of the city. Softly, your shoulder leaned into Gojo’s arm as he sat beside you on the hood of the car. Your face flushed with realization, looking up just in time to once again catch Gojo’s eye from the side of his lenses. He chuckled in amusement as you averted your eyes in embarrassment and looked away, back toward the deep darkness of the woods.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. 

Images of yesterday’s closeness to Gojo flashed through your mind and compounded your embarrassment. You wrapped your jacket tighter to your sides to stave off the cool mountain breeze that chilled your skin.

“So…” you began. “Now we wait?”

“Now we wait,” Gojo agreed, looking out at the vast lights of Tokyo. 

You followed his gaze, looking out once more at the brightly lit city and getting lost in the vision. Each light down below, each light was a tiny life with its own hopes, dreams, and desires. Each little light is a dream waiting to happen, waiting to make the futures they dreamed of come true. You released a sigh, allowing yourself to lean into Gojo once more, sinking into the sturdy support of your counterpart. The silence enveloped you as you waited, neither of you saying a word as long as the night was calm and the nagging pull that brought you together was quieted. Your peace lasted only momentarily before your focus snapped to the trees on the far side of the road. Your attention was drawn to the feeling of faint radiating cursed energy, not nearly as strong as Gojo’s, but even so there was a new presence in your peaceful overlook. A figure regarded you curiously from the tree line, clearly visible from where your car was parked. It was undefined, its outline seeming to disappear and blend with its surroundings as it moved. Several eyes were scattered through its body, all trained on the pair of you.

“I can see that thing! Should we-” you began, swallowing a small lump of fear rising in your throat. “Should I go get it?”

“Go on, then,” Gojo chuckled, a playful glint in his eye.

The multi-eyed curse tilted its head from side to side, the differently colored pupils of the many eyes studying you as you took careful steps toward it. You raised your hands before you, looking down at your palms as you struggled to summon the cursed energy you had felt before. Exhaling, you closed your fist tightly and concentrated on recalling the tense feeling in your abdomen. The breeze picked up a little, swaying your hair over your face and hampering your view of the small curse. Its eyes widened suddenly, sensing danger and a shift in the surrounding energy, leaping back to slink through the trees for escape. 

“Hey!”

You dropped your hands by your sides, breaking into a run to reach the treeline before you lost sight of the curse. You could feel Gojo’s gaze on you, judging you, watching your movements and decision-making abilities. Urging your own legs to go faster, you panted to catch your breath and endure the run. You brought forth your hands once more and balled them into fists, grappling to control the energy firing in your belly. You slid to a halt, close enough to the small creature to reach out and touch its flashy skin. Fists clenched, you gritted your teeth while you clapped your enclosed hands together before you reared over your head and slammed the moist grass at your feet. A short distance away, the shadows of the trees swirled and adjusted themselves to a circular pit, opening up below the feet of the curse. It narrowly escaped the shadows, leaping over the void and into the limbs of the trees. You cursed, dropping to your knees with exhaustion at the sudden expulsion of energy.

“I missed,” you cursed through gritted teeth, gripping the blades of grass between your fingers in frustration.

“I’ve got it.”

Gojo appeared beside you, two fingers pointing toward the sky. The sense of danger in your gut set off alarm bells as an orb of light appeared at the tips of Gojo’s fingers. Crimson waves swirled into pulsating light for a brief moment before he released it toward the trees. The force of the energy pushed past you, billowing your hair and clothes in its wake. The red ball of cursed energy traveled far, decimating the trees and rocks that stood in its way and leaving nothing behind but a scar in the earth. Your heart pounded in fear as you stared wide-eyed at the damage produced by Gojo Satoru. The scale of his power would be impressive, if it didn’t feel so terrifying.

“You’re really not an ordinary teacher,” you breathed, scarcely able to get the words out.

“I’m sorry if I gave you the impression I was,” he chucked with a mischievous smile. He leaned over to help you to your feet, your knees shaking with effort.

“Well done today,” he beamed proudly as he held your shoulders steady. “I didn’t expect you to be able to conjure the shadows like that, although you did use all your energy.”

You nodded numbly, the feeling drained from your arms and legs. Gojo chatted excitedly about differences in cursed techniques and maintaining enough energy for them, but you found it difficult to listen. Gojo helped you back to the car, supporting part of your weight on his shoulder as you leaned heavily into him. He paused with a sigh after settling you both back into the front seats of the car.

“Curses are inherently dangerous,” he began, the low timber of his voice drawing your focus. “As you are now, you are too weak to fight them on your own, but with training you may be able to defend yourself and others. I’m not asking you to be a sorcerer, but there is a risk involved with harnessing this power and becoming a curse user.”

You looked deep into his eyes, surprised by his serious tone. The immense power he had produced… was that what it was like in this jujutsu world? Is this the strength out there? You peeled your eyes away from his icy stare to look down at your palms, dirty with mud and remnants of grass. 

“Is that what you want?” Gojo prompted.

You stared at your hands thoughtfully.

“I want this,” you answered finally, closing your hand into a fist. “I don't want to be so powerless ever again.”

Gojo hummed in agreement and started the car with a gentle rumble. The tires kicked up dirt and grass as they sought traction on the unpaved road. The steady hum of the engine as Gojo revved around the winding turns lulled you, your lids heavy as you dozed during the car ride back to the city. Your head was just as heavy, nodding off and dropping as you fought against the exhaustion in your every cell. You found relief when Gojo leaned his elbow on the center console, as though an invitation for rest, and you tucked your head onto his shoulder for support. It seemed barely a minute before you were roused by your companion pulling his shoulder away and encouraging you to return to consciousness. You blinked through the bleary-eyed sleep, recognizing your apartment building through your window.

“Think about what I said.”

Gojo tucked his index finger beneath your chin, bringing your eyes up to meet his over the rim of his sunglasses. No jokes, no mischief.

“I’ll consider it,” you promised, before excusing yourself from the car with considerable effort.

You took one last look over your shoulder at Gojo in the car, waiting for you to enter your apartment. The piercing stare of his blue eyes was visible, even from up here. You shuddered under his gaze and stepped into your home. The items you had strewn about the room when you returned from work were exactly as you left them. Your purse on the floor by the doorway, shoes kicked off messily.

You walked deeper into your apartment, seeking the comfort of your own bed but stopping momentarily at your table. The mail you had retrieved earlier still lay in a stack, the pristine white envelopes patiently awaiting you. What had made you pause was the sight of your name, written by hand on the front of a small white envelope, different from the rest. You hesitated briefly as your fingers touched the corner of the envelope, dread circling in your belly. One finger slipped beneath the stamped wax seal of the envelope, and you unraveled the single page letter. Fear tightened its grip on your lungs, catching your breath in your throat as you read through the brief, handwritten letter. Your eyes darted back and forth over the words, scarcely understanding what you were looking at. Dropping your hand by your side, you gripped the letter tightly, leaving spiderwebs of wrinkles in the paper. You turned on your heel, away from your bedroom and back into the kitchen, where you clicked the gas stove to life. The blue flames sprung from the burner, reaching full strength in an instant. You held the corner of the letter over the stove and watched with trained eyes as the paper caught fire. In the darkness of your empty apartment, the flames grew and illuminated your face, casting dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling. You dropped the fiery page into the sink and watched intently until the paper was fully reduced to cinders.

Chapter 6 / Chapter 8

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Guerrerita, Part 3

 <- Part 2

Summary: The first time you met Nevada Ramirez was also in a dark alley. 

1,577 words

“You owe me.”

“What?” you hissed, whipping around to face the threatening voice. You kept your face hard, showing no sign of weakness, even as you saw the three intimidating men who had followed you into the alley outside a shady, semi-legal MMA tournament.

“I had a lot of money riding on that fight,” said the shortest of the three, tsk-tsking. His shoes were shiny black leather—expensive, but tacky. He held a cigarette between his teeth when he wasn’t speaking and wore all black except for the gold cross flashing around his neck, pendant resting in a bed of dark chest hair. The two flanking him were bulky heavyweights, over six feet, at least two hundred-fifty pounds a piece, which meant you probably couldn’t take them. Not both at once. They dwarfed the center guy, but they were waiting on his signal to do anything. The small one was the brains. The boss. He was the one you had to keep your eyes on.

“So what? Not my problem.”

You shrugged your gym bag over you shoulder and turned to leave, but his goons stepped forward sharply, ready to grab you, and you thought better of it. As much as you’d rather not show them you were scared, this was the kind of dangerous you didn’t turn your back on.

“Oh, sweetheart. You think I’m playing? You come into my town, looking like a nervous mousy little rookie. Oh, pobrecita bebita, que tierna,” he mocked baby-talk at you, pouting his lips. “Get everyone betting against you, then the bell rings and you turn into a wild fucking animal. You run a hustle on my turf? Way I see it, that is your problem.”

Your left nostril began to twitch and the corner of your mouth curled into a snarl. “Then get some fucking glasses.” A small voice inside begged frantically, don’t do this now, calm down, but it was already drowned out by a dark, reckless pulsing in your ears. You didn’t like being threatened. Somewhere along the line your stubborn refusal to take any more shit from assholes turned into a fury you couldn’t control, that overrode your own self-preservation. Your bruised fists curled for another fight.

The boss just laughed, a harsh, barking, sarcastic show of power. His men stayed put, for now. “What a dirty mouth. Little warrior here, huh? I like that, I like that.” He prowled toward you, a crooked smirk without teeth bending his neatly trimmed stubble. If he wasn’t such a scumbag you would have called him handsome. Maybe that was what kept you at bay, apart from the knowledge that the second you launched yourself at him in a hail of fists, the two big guys would kill you—because his face was too pretty to bloody up. “Guerrerita, you don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

“You want money, go after the bookies. They’re the ones making bank,” you challenged, taking a few backwards steps to keep distance from him. “I don’t know what kind of hustle you think I’m running, but I bet my last fifty bucks on myself and I’ll still be lucky to make rent. I am not giving a cut to some wannabe gangsters.” You planted your feet at the spot where the alley curved and some old shipping crates created a pinch-point where your smaller size might afford some advantage, and refused to back off another inch.

He stopped, keeping several feet of distance, too. Taking one last drag, he threw his cigarette butt down and crushed it out.

“I’m the King of the Heights, sweetheart,” he explained, as if that should mean anything to you. “Nevada Ramirez.” He extended a hand to shake, and you dropped into a defensive stance. You didn’t like the way he looked you up and down, scrutinizing you with a gaze that made goosebumps rise along your arms. Your muscles twitched in anger and terror, and you tried to balance the two emotions so you could maybe get home in one piece.

“Alright, Mr. Ramirez. Why don’t you and your boys back the fuck off and let me go home. Because you try to follow me, rough me up? I promise it won’t be worth your time. You watched me fight. Before your boys back there can take me down, I’ll have your balls shoved down your goddamn throat. And yeah, you can have your boys shoot me dead.” You noticed the muscle had reached for concealed weapons the moment their boss got within range of your fists. “But what a waste. I’ve never done anything to you. I’m not a threat to your… kingdom? Not unless you attack me first. So why don’t we both just go about our merry ways in peace?”

He laughed again. Dry. Harsh. Your defiance entertained him, but he was growing impatient.

“What makes you think you can tell me how to run this town?” The hard edge to his voice raised the hairs on the back of your neck. As much as you liked to think you’d hit rock bottom and didn’t give a damn anymore, you’d never been murdered. As many impulsive fights as you’d gotten yourself into, you had never been so sure that losing would result in your body in a bag. He smiled when you had no more snappy comebacks, relishing the growing fear in your eyes. His posture opened up, suddenly all friendly. “You’ve got me all wrong. No one’s gonna kill you, guerrerita.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to know what’s a high-class broad like you doing here?” He raised his eyebrows. His knowing grin sent a jolt down your spine, and he looked satisfied by your reaction, which confirmed his assumption.

Nevada could read people, and he could smell suburbs on you. Nice house. Good family. Educated. White picket fence and a dog. Apparently he couldn’t smell the trauma or the failed stint in the Marines thanks to your occasional but fun penchant for sucker punching assholes without thought to rank.

“What’s it to you?” Your teeth ground together. Like hell you’d ever tell him that story.

“You owe me for that stunt in there. And I know how you can pay me back.”

Now it was your turn to laugh. “Good luck if you think my family will pay you ransom. You think I’d be here if—”

“Work for me.”

Your mind went blank. For several seconds you stared, wondering if you’d heard him right. Finally you blurted incredulously, “What?”

“Come work for me, and we call your debt even.” He looked you up and down again with a smirk. “Bet you clean up into some nice arm candy, classy girl like you.”

You took another step back despite yourself, stomach turning. “No fucking way. I don’t need a pimp, and if you even think of touching me I swear to fucking god...” Your voice turned into a threatening snarl as disgust turned to rage. Your muscles twitched, ready to do as much damage to his handsome, jeering face as possible before being killed. You would rather die than go through that again.

“Whoah, easy,” Nevada laughed, putting his hands up in surrender, but with enough dripping mockery to make it a power move. “Nothing like that. Security.”

“Security?”

“You get knocked in the head too many times?” he raised his eyebrows over his shoulder back at his guys, and they laughed along like trained seals. “Think about where you are. You just won a contest for beating the shit outta people. Security.”

“You want me to be a bodyguard?”

“Now she gets it,” he smiled, and it was pure delight. “Enforcers that look the part are a dime a dozen—face full of scars, covered in macho tats. They send a certain message, don’t they? Usually the intimidating shit is what you want. But some situations call for a bit more… nuance than these pendejos.” He jerked his thumb toward the giant brawlers still lurking behind him. One of them sulked. “You could be subtle. When business requires I don’t advertise I brought muscle. Imagine it,” his tongue darted over his lower lip. “Put you in a dress two sizes too small, and nobody sees you coming until your fist is through their skull. I bet folks underestimate you all the time.”

You almost laughed that the idea of protecting him when he must have known you’d just as soon put a fist through his skull. Working with criminals didn’t sit well with you. Though your life had been one downhill spiral since all the shit that kicked you off your shining life trajectory, you had never done anything illegal. If you didn’t count misdemeanor battery. Which you didn’t. You only punched assholes who deserved it. And you were fairly sure this Nevada Ramirez character deserved it. You didn’t trust him, and you did not take well to being shaken down.

But then he said people underestimated you. His eyes were the color of the sky before thunder: bright, ominous, and flashing dangerously. And when he said it, his bright eyes locked straight onto yours, like he knew. For the first time in your life, it felt like someone was seeing you, the deepest parts of you, and actually liked what he saw.

You didn’t have much of a choice, anyway. It was either accept the job, or have some drug kingpin sic his enforcers on you for your last dollar. 

“What do you need me to do?”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags: @beccabarba  @caked-crusader @itsjustmyfantasyroom @thatesqcrush @dianilaws @permanentlydizzy @eclecticreader2020   @mrsrafaelbarba​ @da-po 

[suckerforsmylex]

Little Red Riding Hood - Pt. 1

For my O.G. nonny who requested Lil’ Red, I’ve revamped it slightly and if you guys like this, I’ll bring back the remaining chapters and finish this one out. Enjoy and watch out for a wolf in sheep’s clothing. 🐺💋

“Jackie, get the fuck in here!”

Nikolai was always an asshole, but he was in an especially shitty mood. He didn’t like waiting and I had made him wait with Jackie at the trap house for over an hour. I misplaced my car keys and had to toss my whole apartment for them before I left. I was stuck in bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic before I finally got there.

They thought I was backing out and were arguing loudly when I knocked on the door. First, there was silence as Nikolai checked me out through the peephole. Then, the sound of the deadbolts unlocking and the chain coming off the door. The door opened abruptly and I was greeted with a shiny, special edition glock to the temple and forced into the kitchen.

Nikolai yanked Jackie by her skinny ass arm and pushed her down into the chair next to me. “You have thirty minutes to learn how to swallow this shit and then get it all down, Red. I’m not fucking around. You don’t want to fuck this up.” He slammed down a bottle of vegetable oil, an industrial size box of condoms and about 100 packets of heroin stacked high on a plate.

“Nik, what the fuck! That wasn’t the agreement. I’m not swallowing that shit,” I yelled out and backed away from the table. “What the fuck do you mean that wasn’t part of the agreement?!” Nikolai was waving the glock around and sweating profusely. “She’s taking the shoes, babe. I toooold you Lana’s doing the balloons! You’re such a fucking tool.”

Jackie was in the middle of laughing when Nikolai backhanded her across the face. Her lip was bleeding, but she just sniffled and wiped at the blood with her sleeve. She was still laughing a little. I couldn’t stop looking at her track marks.

“Fuck…right…um…come here, Red I don’t have all day here,” Nikolai said impatiently as he walked over to the closet. He pulled out a pair of black, Gucci wedges. “There’s 50 packets worth of H inside of each shoe. Well, not so much inside as they’re part of the fuckin’ fabric. My guys liquefy it and shit.” Nikolai stepped back smiling. He was proud of himself. The shoe method of drug running had worked everytime.

“So don’t be fucking around with these shoes on, they’re delicate. Take the plane into Gotham International then go to down to the East River Pier. Falcone will send a guy to come and pick you up at the airport and take you to the yacht and that’s where you make the drop. I’m giving you $2K up front and you get the other $7K when you finish the deal.”

I pulled off my Prada flats, put on the wedges and shoved the money Nikolai gave me into my tote. “$10K, Nikolai. They’re supposed to give me $10K altogether. So maybe you’re supposed to give me $3K?” I stood there with my hand out. Nik rolled his eyes and peeled off another $500 and shoved it into my hand. “Tough shit. That hour you made me wait cost $500, bitch.”

“Fuck Nik, I need that money!” I screamed out. I needed that money badly. I was a high-end shopping addict with a penchant for prescription pills and liquor. I owed money to a grimy loan shark and was late by three weeks on the vig. I was holding him off with heady flirtatiousness but he was becoming increasingly inpatient. He threatened to slice my face with a razor the last time I walked out of my apartment.

“Take the shoes and get to the fucking airport Red.”

——-

I waited on the packed TSA line behind a mom and her two kids and prayed for no drug sniffing dogs. I had my docs ready and handed them over to the TSA officer. “Scarlett Agnelli.” He said my name like he was reading a weird recipe he googled on the internet. It was strange hearing my government name. Everyone I knew called me Red. He looked me up and down. I smiled a toothy grin and he gave me a wink. “Have a nice flight, beautiful. Take care of yourself.” I never have any trouble with men. At least at first. They all pretty much high tail it when they discover I’m a lunatic.

I waltzed my way through TSA without ringing any alarm bells and even had time to visit the M.A.C. store before boarding the plane. At least Nikolai sprung for first class this time. I ordered a glass of white wine, swiped on a bit of red lipstick, spritzed myself with perfume and threw on my red cape. It always got cold on the plane and I wanted to snuggle up for a nap.

I woke up and we were throttling into Gotham International. The snow was starting to fall over Gotham making it look like the inside of a snow globe. I turned on my phone and sent out a text to Nikolai to let him know I landed. I freshened up with a little Evian spray and combed out my long brown locks. I grabbed my carry-on and set out to meet whatever goon was sent to get me.

I stood outside on the arrivals platform looking around. Gotham was beautiful at night and even though it was cold, I didn’t mind waiting. I pulled the hood of the cape over my head so my hair wouldn’t get damp with snow. Pretty soon I’d be collecting my money and be snuggled up at whatever boutique hotel they put me up at. I was already thinking about the mini-bar and room service.

A low voice woke me up from my thoughts. “Hey there, little red riding hood. I’ve been waiting for a sweet thing like you all night.” I looked up to see a very pale man with slicked back green hair and cool blue eyes. I gave him a once over. He was dressed in a white button down shirt and black trousers. His shoes were expensive as was his watch. His extended hand was covered in gold rings. His look was a little strange, but I decided he was suitable to drive me.

Falcone must have sent one of his made men. I guess he stepped up his game because of the amount of H in these shoes.

I shoved my carry on toward him. “Is this going to fit in there?” I motioned over to the purple Lamborghini by pointing at it with my mouth, my chin coming up slightly and my lips pursing. He started laughing uncontrollably. His laugh chilled me to my core but I couldn’t help but be curious. I decided then and there that I was up for a little adventure. He couldn’t touch me with all this H on me anyway.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” He grabbed the bag from me and our fingers touched. I felt an immediate spark of heat. “Scarlett, but call me Red, everyone does.” He rolled his head to the side and snarled. “Red. I like that.” He drove like a maniac, peeling out, not stopping at traffic lights, blowing stop signs and generally being a nut case.

“Hey, what the fuck are you doing? Hello? Precious cargo over here. Do I have to remind you that I’ve got the product on me? You’re attracting unwanted attention. Falcone is going to slice your balls off if we get pinched, sweetie.” This got his attention. “Falcone?” He asked in a soft purr. “Yes honey, your boss. What’s your name anyway?” He grinned a wide smile and I could see his metallic teeth.

Fuck. Falcone has some seriously scary people on the payroll. He’s pretty hot too but he’s about as sharp as a spoon.

“Call me, Mister J.” I took my phone out and started getting driving directions to the pier area. “Ok, Mister J. Where are we staying tonight? I need to rest so we can make this drop bright and early tomorrow at the pier. Listen, I’m looking for 5-star but I can do 4-star if Nikolai forgot to make the reservation.” He leaned towards me with a wink. “I know just the place, doll.” His eyes were undressing me. It was nothing that I hadn’t experienced before but this felt different. I found myself flushed and hot. “Can we roll the windows down in here?”

“Sure Red, anything for you.” J smiled and put his hand up to my cheek. The coolness against the warmth building there was explosive. We parked outside the hotel and I tried to get myself together. “Did you bring the other shoes for me?” I asked curiously. “Shoes?” J had opened the car door and was standing over me. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, allowing me to admire and the tattoos that peaked out from underneath. Suddenly he snapped his fingers.

“Stay with me, kitten, you were saying something about shoes.” J grinned at me again and I had to look away to keep from melting. “Yeah, I can’t keep wearing these. I’m wearing the H you know?” He knelt down and started taking the shoes off of me. He slipped them into my tote bag and left my stocking covered feet shoeless.

“I’ll carry you.” J’s eyes were burning through me. I was slick between the legs and my breasts were swelling beneath my blouse. I was so enthralled by his gaze that I didn’t hear the texts buzzing in from Nikolai telling me that Falcone’s guy was at the airport and where the fuck was I because he was still looking for me.

[slashhinginghasher]

Social Engagement for Misanthropes: Jesse Cromeans x Marena Polunochnaya

Jesse Cromeans cleaned up nice, and he damn well knew it. It was one of the first skills he’d cultivated after leaving his shithole hometown. One of the best ways to get money, he’d found, was to look like you already had it. The looks he got from women (and some men) were a welcome (some would say unnecessary) boost to his ego, and a sharp suit could always be counted on to draw the piggies out of their pens. The first few times he’d worn designer had felt strange, like a kid playing make-believe, though after a while it became as natural as breathing.

Now, as he stood in front of the mirror in his walk-in closet and fiddled with a tie he hadn’t touched in over three years, he felt a bit like that broke, backwater kid again.

He didn’t particularly want to attend this event, but it was, unfortunately, somewhat necessary. Spann had called it “proof of life” when she handed him the invitation, an actual, physical piece of paper that had been calligraphed and embossed within an inch of its life. It contained phrases like “humble gathering” and “the pleasure of your company” and had, apparently, been mailed with an honest-to-god wax seal.

Pretentious prick.

Jesse had been to his fair share of “humble gatherings”; you couldn’t conduct real business without them. They were mind-crushingly boring affairs, a slow-moving social dance of caviar, expensive booze, and pathetic attempts at wit. If nothing else, the people-watching was usually interesting. For all their “good breeding”, wealthy families could be far more dysfunctional than the most slovenly of small town homes. Upper class socialites didn’t blink at multi-million dollar checks, but flash a bit of ink and they’d fall over themselves to choke on his cock while their husbands talked golf in the next room. He’d even picked up a piggy or two at a few events, though you had to be extra careful with that (chain of association and all).

But he hadn’t shown his face in public since it had been ripped off and reattached, and some of his business contacts were getting suspicious. Spann’s iron-clad assurances were no longer enough to quell the rumors that Jesse Cromeans had died, or been deposed, and that someone else was running the company under his name. And that just would not do. He’d RSVP’d immediately, memories of Preston’s failed takeover flushing his system with old rage.

At least he’d be guaranteed some interesting company tonight, he thought, smirking at the garment bag draped over the stool next to him as he tapped out a quick text.

💀🖕: COME UPSTAIRS, I HAVE A SURPRISE FOR YOU

Macarena: IF IT’S YOUR DICK I DON’T WANT IT

Jesse chuckled and went back to his tie, certain that either Marena’s curiosity or the urge to insult him to his face would bring her up shortly. He knew bow ties were traditional for black tie events, but wearing a fucking bow around his neck was a concession he’d never been able to force himself to make. Besides, he had a reputation for being… unconventional, and reputation was everything. Satisfied with the crisp Windsor knot, he shrugged on his black waistcoat, secretly pleased with the way it showed off the breadth of his chest.

“You look like a goth pirate,” came Marena’s voice from the doorway. “What the fuck.” As usual, he hadn’t heard her approach. She was the only person he knew who could sneak up on him, which was fun. Made things exciting.

“Haven’t you ever heard of ‘black tie’ before?” Jesse signed with a grin.

“Call me surprised then. Are we done?” In lieu of a verbal response, Jesse tossed the garment bag at her. Marena unzipped it enough to peek inside, then immediately re-zipped it.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Nyet.”

“Can’t go to a gala wearing that,” Jesse replied, looking pointedly at her worn t-shirt and jeans. Marena threw the garment bag back and crossed her arms.

“How sad. Guess I won’t go.”

“Sure you will. I can think of a few things to make it fun.”

“So can I. Like not going.”

“Not an option.” Jesse was struggling to smother his laughter. The stubborn furrow of Marena’s brow was too cute to keep a straight face around.

“Why are you going?”

“Business.”

“And that has what to do with me?”

“You’re my plus one, little wench.” Marena visibly cringed.

“If we’re being pirates, I want a fucking sword. And I don’t mean your dick,” she snapped, cutting him off before he could sign a single word. Jesse’s shoulders shook with a full-body laugh, composure completely shot. He cupped Marena’s face in both hands and kissed her forehead, which he knew she hated, before pressing the garment bag into her hands once more.

“Try to look a little less like a corpse,” he advised, stepping around her to grab his dinner jacket. A litany of Russian curses followed him.

***

Marena’s concession to not resembling a corpse was a violently red lipstick that made it look like she’d been eating human hearts for every meal, which Jesse immediately wanted to smear across her face. The dress was black, of course, with a high collar and long sleeves. It would have covered her neck to toe had she not hiked one side of the skirt nearly up to her hip while she slipped a set of throwing knives into the holster around her slender thigh.

She made a compelling argument for ditching, Jesse thought, feeling a familiar tightening in his slacks. He couldn’t resist smoothing a hand along her exposed leg, fingers coming to rest just shy of her underwear.

“Once this dress comes off, it’s not going back on,” she warned.

“Noted and appreciated. You still have to come to this party.”

“Fuck.”

“Later.” 

Marena said nothing, just glared at him through her curtain of hair - which she had brushed just enough that the messiness looked intentional - and let her skirts fall back down to her ankles. Jesse quickly ushered her out of the room before he could do something ingenious like cancelling all of his commitments for the next month and spending the entire time in bed.

The ride in the Bentley was tense and silent. A sick pit of nerves was brewing in Jesse’s stomach, all too similar to the way his boyhood self felt on the way to school, and that was ten kinds of bullshit. He was a grown man. He was motherfucking Chromeskull. He should not be feeling like a little kid about to face a playground bully. But he was finding it very difficult to push the feeling away. His face looked a damn sight better than it did several years ago, but it would never go back to the way it was before, and he was about to walk into a room full of people who treated a minute blemish like a national scandal. He wanted his mask. He wanted to say fuck it and just keep driving until he hit someplace tropical. He wanted to kill something, to drown his insecurities in blood and adrenaline.

He half-wished he’d flown Asa out to rig the whole venue beforehand in case things went south.

Beside him, Marena was deathly still, one white-knuckled fist gripping the fabric of her skirt. She looked a million miles away, lost in whatever personal hell her own brain was conjuring for her. Jesse reached over and squeezed her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. It was his version of a concession; a silent expression of gratitude. The fact that Marena didn’t push his hand away was a testament to how anxious she was.

“I still want a sword,” she grumbled. Jesse smiled and chucked her under the chin, which she also hated, and felt the knot in his chest loosen a bit.

***

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. People stared, of course, but they were too “polite” (which was money-speak for “two-faced”) to say anything to his face. There were far more eyes on Marena, which Jesse both loved and loathed. The women’s jealous eyes tracked her every move like sharks scenting new prey, which was admittedly hilarious to watch; but the barely-concealed desire on the men’s faces sent prickles of possessiveness down Jesse’s spine. He kept his hand glued to Marena’s lower back, low enough to skirt the line of what their current company would consider decent.

If there was one thing the rich understood, it was possession.

“Cromeans!” the host bellowed, arms spread like they were old friends. “Still alive and in the flesh, I see! Some of the lads were getting worried!” A few of the “lads” murmured noises of agreement while the host gave Jesse an overly enthusiastic handshake. Jesse could feel their gazes catching on the eyepatch and the new curl of his lip, and he almost wished one of them would say something, just to give him an excuse to lash out. But the host’s attention wandered over to Marena, whom he foolishly deemed to be a safer topic of discussion.

“And who might this lovely creature be?” he asked, ignoring the sinful glances his wife was casting Jesse’s way.

“No one of consequence,” Marena replied sweetly with a tight, close-lipped smile. The man tipped his head back and guffawed, trying not to wither under the combined weight of Jesse and Marena’s unimpressed stares. He forged ahead anyway.

“You always did have a penchant for… unusual company, Cromeans, I’ll give you that. Tell you what,” he rubbed his hands together eagerly, “I’ve got a bottle of Lagavulin with your name on it in the gentlemen’s lounge. I’m sure Genevieve here can handle your lovely companion for a bit while we talk business.” He beamed benevolently at his wife, who looked as though she’d rather eat glass.

“Of course, dear,” she said, pasting a megawatt smile on her botoxed face. “It’s such a treat to see a new face around here. I’m sure the other girls would love to meet you.” She swept away towards a group of tittering young women draped in diamonds and pearls, Marena following with the stiff spine of a person walking to their execution. Jesse felt much the same way as “the lads” filed into the oak-paneled gentlemen’s lounge.

“Business” was code for the same inane bullshit being discussed in the ballroom, with the addition of whiskey, cigars, and complaints about wives and mistresses. These conversations were usually a goldmine for Jesse. As a mute, he was rarely expected to be an active participant, and the number of weaknesses people revealed when they assumed they were surrounded by allies was astounding. Tonight, though, he was twitchy and bored, distracted by thoughts of Marena stabbing one of those debutante brats through the eye with the stem of a champagne glass. As if on cue, his phone vibrated.

Macarena: I’M GOING TO KILL EVERYONE IN THIS BUILDING

💀🖕: DON’T START WITHOUT ME

Macarena: IT’S CUTE THAT YOU THINK I WON’T TAKE YOU OUT FIRST

💀🖕: AWW YOU THINK I’M CUTE?

Macarena: I WILL RIP YOUR SPINE OUT AND BEAT YOU WITH IT

💀🖕: DON’T TEMPT ME WITH A GOOD TIME BABY ;)

Macarena: THIS FUCKER KEEPS TRYING TO GET ME TO DANCE

Macarena: CAN I KNEECAP HIM

Macarena: I’M GONNA KNEECAP HIM

The little bastard’s kneecaps were spared when a staff member scuttled into the lounge to inform the host of some dire emergency, effectively breaking up the little gathering. Jesse strolled back into the ballroom and spotted Marena at a table near the exit, cornered by a little bitch with slicked-back hair and a greasy smile. The waves of irritation coming off of the girl were palpable and her smile obviously fake, and Jesse couldn’t decide if the guy was too stupid to notice, or was ignoring it because he had that effect on every woman he spoke to.

“Come on, baby,” he goaded, and Jesse could have broken his neck just for that, “it’s just one dance. Didn’t your mother ever teach you manners?”

Marena’s smile froze on her face, and Jesse could practically hear the Kill Bill sirens going off in her head. The barb would’ve worked on any other woman in the room - horror of high society horrors, to be considered ill-mannered! - but for people of Marena and Jesse’s backgrounds, it hit much harder and much deeper.

“No,” she said, rising slowly and deliberately from her seat. “She didn’t.” She turned on her heel, leaving the idiot to gape at the failure of his clumsy manipulation tactics. Jesse grabbed her elbow and she passed and made a beeline for the exit. Not that he didn’t relish the prospect of a bloodbath, but initiating one right now would make future business dealings… complicated.

He memorized the fucker’s face on their way out, though.

***

Marena spent the next few days in a well-deserved sulk, resulting in the destruction of two punching bags and a serious case of blue balls for Jesse. He’d really been looking forward to ripping that dress off of her, damn it. He distracted himself with work and few more personal arrangements. At the end of the week, he tracked her down on the rooftop deck.

“Say your piece and fuck off,” she growled as he stood silently next to her chaise lounge, hands behind his back. She sounded exhausted and looked as though she hadn’t slept in at least two days. Affecting an air of mock seriousness, Jesse moved in front of her and bowed, offering her conciliatory gift on open palms.

“You did not.”

The shashka’s scabbard was a deep midnight blue, with subtle patterns of tree branches embossed in the fine leather. The hilt was smooth, black horn. The blade gleamed in the afternoon light as Marena unsheathed it with a fluid schnick.

“You are the absolute worst fucking person in the world,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching dangerously close to a smile. A glint of wicked delight sparkled in her eyes as she gave the sabre a few experimental twirls and slashes.

“Only for you, baby,” Jesse replied with a cheeky grin. “Want to test it out?”

***

All it took was a pair of handcuffs and a dark warehouse to really bring out the bitch in some people. The asshole from the party (Jesse really needed to come up with a term for male piggies if this was going to be a recurring thing) had been tied up for barely a day and he was already a sniveling mess. Jesse, on the other hand, was in a great mood. He had his mask, his camcorder, and his favorite knife, and judging by the way Marena was practically purring as she traced her fingers around the shashka’s hilt, he was for sure getting laid tonight. 

The rich bitch didn’t recognize Jesse with his face covered, but his eyes went wide and he started screaming obscenities into his gag when Marena stepped under the light. She yanked the fabric out of his mouth.

“You fucking cunt! You’ll fucking regret this! Do you know who I am? Do you-” All the blood drained from his face when Marena drew the sword and held it to his throat in a lightning-fast move. He swallowed hard, the tip digging in just below his Adam’s apple and drawing a bead of blood. She really was a natural with that thing, Jesse thought as he circled the tableau with his camera. It was hot as fuck.

“Hi,” Marena said.

The man sweated in silence.

“I wanted to go back to our conversation a few nights ago,” she continued. “About my mother.” She let the sword drop to her side and the man relaxed fractionally.

“See, she did not teach me manners, but she did teach me a lot of other things.” She pushed the gag back into place and patted him a couple times on his quivering, tear-soaked cheek. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a black butterfly knife.

“Lesson one: bleeding.”

[talltales]

            —WELL YOUR FAITH WAS STRONG BUT YOU NEEDED PROOF              YOU SAW HER BATHING ON THE ROOF              HER BEAUTY AND THE MOONLIGHT OVERTHREW YA              SHE TIED YOU TO HER KITCHEN CHAIR              AND SHE BROKE YOUR THRONE AND SHE CUT YOUR HAIR              AND FROM YOUR LIPS SHE DREW THE HALLELUJAH                                                            anonymous request!!

NOTICE: continued from JINYOUNG + ROGUE

“he has promise.”

if she wasn’t who she was, she thinks, his sudden appearance at her side might’ve taken her by surprise. the dark figure stands in sharp contrast to their surroundings, cutting a shadow into boundless light.

he is in the after as he was in the before. serenity and corruption personified. any other soul might have balked at the idea of being her reaper.

im jaebeom took to it like a fish to water.

“does he?”

she’s not inclined to disagree.

jinyoung, aside from his bouts of bad temper, is a proficient angel of death. he is sympathetic and gentle; a left hand to match her right—

and to counteract him.

but death’s consternation, if possible, becomes more apparent as the moments pass; conflict bubbling beneath the surface of his unruffled exterior, “yes.”

he is nothing but poised, and to his credit, his only tell is the tilt of his weight from one heel to the other. sometimes, she considers the man that he was. a man enveloped in obsessions and swallowed by his own yearning. his hands were stained with blood long before he took his last breath.

reaching up, she presses her fingertips to her collarbone and draws her thumb across her throat.

long before.

“is he my successor?” death questions at last, slowly, as if considering each word carefully. rushing has never been his habit, but the halted nature of him—in this moment—is enough.

she pivots to face him.

too stained to be an angel, too beautiful to be anything else.

“he is your protégé. he will be your counterpart.” she responds, closing the distance between them to little more than a few inches. the proximity offers no new perspective, and it doesn’t need to. he is tethered to her in ways that no pair of physical bodies can match.

she peers into him—is embedded in him.

“i have no intention of releasing you from your duties.”

the tension drains from his expression; unwinds from his spine in such a way that it gives her pause. she sweeps her thumb along the curve of his jaw and guides it down, coaxes him into looking at her with a touch.

it is a departure from her usual methods.

“you were concerned?” quietly, she studies the play of emotions across his face—the minute shifting of his features into an expression that she can only call shame.

his dark eyes fix somewhere to the left of her chin. she allows it.

sometimes, she forgets the man that he was. enveloped in his own obsessions, being chased by demons of his own making.

beautiful. sad and dangerous.

yes, she forgets those things, sometimes. many times, he reminds her—in a sudden appearance too close to her side; a look that lasts a moment too long; leaving some poor soul alone in the afterlife because she showed interest in it.

park jinyoung has been a catalyst in many ways.

“yes,” he murmurs, with effort. his hands remain at his sides, though she feels him leaning toward her; the pull from his end of their intangible fetters.

even goddesses, she supposes, are subject to the whims of fate. on the better days, the thought is amusing.

on the worst, it is nothing short of agonizing.

though it is clear he has little else to say, she finds herself waiting. the emptiness of the space, for the first time in a long time, is unsettling. it takes a mere thought to mold the boundless space to her will. the white expanse is displaced by towering pillars and mahogany walls, darkness broken only by stained light filtering through mosaic glass windows.

here, it is him that looks as if he’s home. it is her that stands in contrast to the rest; a rising star in the midnight sky. she takes up a space at the end of a pew, leaning against the polished arm, “why?”

and if he recognizes the stately church they stand in, he gives no indication. if he wonders why she has taken them here, he has bitten his tongue. wisely, she thinks, when she gives into the temptation to examine the pulpit and the empty space before it—couched in bouquets and a framed picture of one of his most recent charges. there is no respite for death.

moments like these are stolen—tucked between the folds of time.

death’s penchant for keeping his silence is a relief at times, and an annoyance at others. she teeters between one feeling and the next, while playing her fingers over the finely sculpted dip of the chair at her back.

the jingling of her bracelet is her only protection from the dull noise of the world moving beyond their space, like a stream splitting around a rock in the water.

“i expect you to answer.”

he peers down the aisle, surveying the set of heavy wooden doors at the end. she can see the moment he decides upon his words, can hear the whispers of them against her skin and at the edges of her consciousness. they’ll enter, if she lets them—

but she waits.

“i thought,” he mirrors her position on the opposite side, resting against the side of a pew with his legs crossed at his ankles. his focused stare is centered on her, and for the first time, he meets her eyes without her beckoning—physical or mental. “i thought you’d chosen not to forgive me.”

she laughs, not at his confession but for the absurdity of it.

while she is tempted to draw this out—relish his hesitation for a little while, she knows that he will remember it—that it'll form a chasm between them, given enough time, “being unforgiving, love, is not in my nature.”

“magnanimous as usual,” he says, and she understands that he means thank you. that it is relief that makes him close his eyes and draw a breath that he doesn’t need to take.

the rarity of the sight lures her like a moth to flame. with a hum, she moves to stand before him and brushes her fingertips over his cheeks; her thumbs across his eyelashes.

there aren’t many men that could—who’d dare to—kill a goddess. there are fewer goddesses who would offer forgiveness in return, or a place at her side for an eternity.

“you might say it’s in my job description.”

“ah,” his lips quirk. it is the faintest of smiles, but she cradles his face and commits the sight to memory, “i suppose that makes me your employee.”

“among other things.”

he remains still as she tucks loose strands of long, black hair behind his ears; only watches as she takes a half-step backward.

“i have no intention of releasing you,” and her assurance rings true, like the crystalline sound of bells in the morning breeze; then, the deep and somber tolling of the church bells at noon, “you belong to me, im jaebeom.”

he won’t touch her—will never touch her again.

but there is a pull at his end of their tether, and he sways.

[ramsayboltonsmuse]

The Missing Piece

Chapter 1: Bolton Enterprises

Summary: You have been selected for a big promotion at Bolton Enterprises to work on none other than Ramsay Bolton’s team. The new job is certainly not what you expected, and neither is Ramsay. This is a modern Ramsay fanfic about his increasing territoriality and need to control the reader and her attempts to escape the dark and sadistic man she also can’t live without.

Pairings/Characters: Ramsay Bolton/You, Jon Snow/You, Myranda, Damon

Warnings: Smut, Dom/Sub, Violence, Noncon, Ramsay is his own warning

Links to other chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3

Ao3 Link

Fuck. You knew you were going to be late now as the subway sign that had previously been flashing “6 minutes” turns to “9 minutes” and then finally to “DELAY”. 

“Fuck!” You exclaim a little too loudly, and the elderly man standing next to you on the platform turns and looks at you. “Excuse me.” You duck your eyes and walk away, back toward the stairs to the street. Uber it is. 

You pump your long legs up the stairs, your black stilettos making quite the riot of noise in the otherwise quiet station. Normally you loved this stop, there were hardly any crowds, but today you were really not benefitting from the express train bypassing it. 

And of your many etiquette-focused rules, the one you really hated breaking was not arriving on time. You preferred living by the rule of ‘better an hour early than one minute late’, and today of all days was not in your favor to be late. You were starting a new job, and would be meeting the whole of your new team at 9am. 

Coming outside of the station, the cold air hit you at once, the wind biting at your exposed legs. Why did I have to wear a dress today? You groan, looking down at your watch only to realize you don’t even have time to order an Uber. Taxi it is. You hail a cab, having no trouble catching the attention of the first one to drive by, your outfit choice finally providing some benefit.

“Wall Street. Bolton Enterprises.” You quickly provide the cross streets to the driver as he speeds away, but he doesn’t need them. Everyone knows the Bolton building. 

Seated in the cab, you work to calm your breathing, confident now that you will arrive on time. It’s cool [Y/N], it’s cool. You’re fine. A smile crosses your face. Jesus, why do I talk to myself? I’m such a nut. 

Buildings fly by as the taxi races downtown, the gleaming center of Wall Street coming into view. It really is an exciting day. You’d worked your ass off for the last year, proving yourself to be one of the brightest young recruits at the firm. No doubt your Yale degree in International Business was a qualifying factor as well, but you’d shown that you were more than a resume. Your dedication was unquestionable. 

Nonetheless it was a very competitive place, and much as you thought you deserved the promotion, you were surprised when you got the news just given how many other qualified people there were.

“Oh, just here.” You signal to the driver to stop outside the looming skyscraper, pay him and get out. You check your watch. 8:45am. Taking a deep breath, you walk into the bright marble lobby and head for the elevators. 

Oh, great. Today really isn’t your day, you think as you see that all but one of the elevators are already making their way up to top floors, with the last one’s doors already starting to close. You sprint towards it, knowing it’s useless. But just as you internally give up, you see a hand shoot out from the inside to hold the door and hear a familiar voice. 

“Good morning.” Jon’s face pokes out of the elevator and a big smile crosses your face. 

“You just saved me.” You nearly slide into the elevator, breathless. “The universe is against me today, I swear.” Jon’s eyes light up as he laughs. “No, really! Don’t laugh. The subway was late, these damned new heels are slowing me down, my hair is now a mess, and I almost missed the last elevator for at least the next seven minutes.”

Jon gives you a warm smile and you feel at ease at once. “I think you look great.” You smile back.

“What are you doing here anyway? Not that I’m not super glad to see you, but didn’t the Stark and Bolton negotiations close last week?”

Jon frowns. “Alas, it looks like we’ll have at least another month now. Roose apparently got a competitive business offer from Tywin Lannister, if you can believe it. So we are back to the drawing board. But I shouldn’t be telling you any of that.” Jon winks at you and you laugh.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” Your eyes catch a glimpse of the elevator buttons. “Oh shoot!” You had totally forgotten to press your floor button. Jon reads your reaction and goes to press 17 for you, but you stop him. “Oh, no, actually, can you press 28?” 

“28?” Jon whistles. “What important business do you have up there?” You smile really big.

“I got a promotion. It’s going to be floor 28 from now on! I’m going to be working on Ramsay Bolton’s team on strategic initiatives for the whole business. Can you believe it? Literally with Ramsay Bolton! You can’t get closer to the top than that.” 

You’re surprised when Jon doesn’t return your smile. 

“[Y/N], have you met Ramsay? He’s bad news.”

You’re taken aback at the comment. “Gosh Jon, I thought you’d be happy for me.”

Jon looks at you apologetically. “Shoot, that’s not what I meant. I’m really happy for you, on the promotion.” He tries to smile at you. “Just be careful around Ramsay, okay? He’s got a dangerous streak and a penchant for games. And sadly, I think you’re kind of his type.”

You huff at that. “I’m not going to be sleeping with my new boss, Jon. And what a weird thing to say to me!” You are suddenly very glad there’s no one else in the elevator to hear this conversation.

The elevator comes to a stop at Jon’s floor. “Look, I’m sorry [Y/N]. I just care about you, you know? You’re a really great person and he’s a really bad person. This is my stop. I’ll see you later, okay?” John steps out and you just nod at him, not sure what to say. This really has not been an ideal morning. 

Two seconds later and the elevator dings, opening out onto Floor 28. You take a deep breath, push your long [H/C] hair behind your shoulders and walk out onto the floor.

***

“I can take your coat, miss.” A very pretty receptionist walks over to you and holds out her hand for your jacket.

“Oh, thank you.” You take off your black trench to reveal a tight elegant little black dress. 

“That’s a great dress. I’m Myranda by the way. You must be [Y/N]. Mr. Bolton told me he’s expecting you. Conference room 3, just to your left.” Myranda eyes you up and down as you walk away. 

You can see them all through the glass doors of the conference room. There are seven of them, all in suits, all fairly young, and all men. You check your watch, 8:57am, and open the door, your heart speeding up. 

It’s beautiful inside the room, a gorgeous handcrafted birch table in the center with a mixture of industrial and wooden accents adorning the chairs. The view out of the windows is incredible and you’re able to see the water, the morning sun making it sparkle. All of the talking stops as you enter the room, and everyone’s eyes snap to you. 

“Hello.” Your voice sounds a lot more confident than you feel. “It’s lovely to meet you all. I’m [Y/N].” You’re beginning to fear you’ve walked into the wrong room, when a tall broad-shouldered brunette stands up from one of the chairs and walks over to you. 

“Hi there.” He offers his hand and you shake it. “I’m Damon. Great to meet you [Y/N]. We’re all very excited to have you join the team.” The other men follow Damon’s lead and walk over to shake your hand, introducing themselves. You smile and nod with each new introduction until you’ve met everyone. Everyone except one person…

“Will Mr. Bolton be joining us?” You ask. “My apologies, it’s my first day in the new job and all I’ve been told is that Mr. Bolton will be walking me through my new responsibilities.” 

You think you catch two of the guys seated further back snicker. Damon smiles at you.

“Of course, it’s no problem at all. We didn’t expect you to come in here and present a master plan. Not yet, anyway.” He laughs and it’s a big booming laugh, turning the air around him a few shades brighter. “Yes, Ramsay will be joining us shortly. He’s just finishing something up -- Oh, speak of the devil.”

You hold your breath as you watch Ramsay through the glass of the conference room walls as he walks across the floor toward the room. Not walks, no. Strides. You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone walk with such complete and utter power, and so effortlessly. He’s wearing a beautifully tailored dark blue suit, so dark it might as well have been black, accenting his toned and muscled body exceptionally well. The air of wealth and bourgeoisie royalty seems to emanate off of him. From afar, you think he’s probably very attractive, but when he opens the door and walks into the conference room, you lose your breath completely.

His eyes instantly fix themselves onto you, and you feel as if he is looking directly into the deepest parts of your soul. They are the most beautiful icy blue color that you have ever seen. Something straight out of a National Geographic documentary on Alaskan wildlife. Just pure carnal white ice blue. Fuck. You think that you might have said or thought ‘fuck’ more this morning than in an average week. Fuck. 

Ramsay’s eyes sweep over your body, coming back to linger on your lips and then boring into your eyes again. You feel as if he’s violating you somehow, the intensity of that gaze. Like he can see absolutely everything about who you are and what you want and and what you need.

In an instant, he lets your captive eyes go and looks at Damon.

“A girl? Interesting.” Ramsay leans against the door frame and takes something out of his pocket, turning it around in his hand. 

Damon chuckles. “Scores don’t lie. She’s outperformed them all. Men, women and rocks.” Ramsay smirks, and you realize Damon is referencing the recent acquisition of Frey Holdings, the old company’s logo two stone towers. 

You decide to take a risk.

“More like rubble than rocks.” 

Damon laughs out loud, some of the other men joining in. Ramsay’s eyes slowly move to focus on you again, contemplating something. You stay still under his gaze, waiting. You realize perfectly well that if he doesn’t like you for some reason, he can send you right back downstairs and pick out someone else.

“Come now Ramsay! She seems lovely. I for one, would appreciate more feminine energy in this place. It’s just cocks, cocks and more cocks as far as the eye can see.” Damon winks slyly at you and you smile at him, glad to have at least one friend. You turn back toward Ramsay.

It’s as if he decided something. In an instant, the brooding cool look on his face evaporates, replaced by a brightness and a large smile. It’s almost unsettling how quickly his demeanor changes.  

“You’re right Damon, I’m afraid I’ve been terribly rude. Forgive me, please. It’s been a long morning. It’s a pleasure to meet you [Y/N].” He offers out his hand and you shake it, tremors vibrating through your body as you feel his incredibly firm grip. 

“The pleasure is all mine Mr. Bolton. It’s a dream to be a part of this team. I’m really looking forward to working with you” 

Ramsay drops your hand. “Call me Ramsay. My father is ‘Mr. Bolton’.”

“Of course. Ramsay. My apologies sir.”

Ramsay’s eyes light up when you say that, and you can’t help but blush a little under his gaze.“That’s quite alright.” Ramsay pushes the door back open and holds it for you. “You’ve met the boys, why don’t I show you around the office.” It was less a question than a command. 

You had a feeling he wasn’t one to ask things often. 

As you walk out of the door, Ramsay shoots a look back at Damon and the rest of the men. 

“I expect all the documents for the Lannister call on my desk before noon. And, Damon, take care of our little situation in Conference Room A. Promptly.” You can see Damon nod, before you lose sight of the conference room as Ramsay leads the way down the hall to the left. 

He doesn’t really give you a tour as you walk, but you figure you don’t really need one anyway. You’re smart, you’ll figure out where things are. As you continue down this hall, there are less and less offices and doors until it’s simply one straight stretch of hallway with floor to ceiling windows on either side of you leading up to a large iron door at the end. As you walk, you feel as if you’re flying high above the ground, looking out of either window making you dizzy.

Ramsay’s quick pace comes to a stop. He turns back to look at you, and opens the heavy door, gesturing for you to walk in.

“Welcome to my office.”

As you walk into the large room, you find yourself in awe. You’re standing in what looks like a traditional study, complete with a roaring fireplace, bearskin rug, old bookshelves, and an intimidating-looking desk with two leather armchairs facing it. 

On both sides of the room, there are winding iron staircases that lead up to a second floor with a tiny balcony overlooking the room below. There are also two doors behind the desk, one closed and the other open, leading into what looks like a very modern kitchen with the same floor to ceiling windows overlooking the water.

You turn to look at Ramsay who seems to have been clocking your reaction.

“This is incredible! I’ve never seen an office like this before.” You walk over to the fireplace, putting your hand out to feel the heat. “How did you manage to put a real fireplace in here?” 

Ramsay shrugs. “Our city, our building, our rules.” 

“I would want to be at work all the time if this was my office.”

Ramsay smiles. “Well, it’s your lucky day. You’ll be working here with me darling.” You blush at that. Should he have called you darling? Maybe it’s just a British thing. You shrug it off. Ramsay points to a smaller but beautiful wooden desk on the opposite side of the room, one you hadn’t even noticed with the other extravagant elements competing for your attention. 

“That’s your desk. That’s the kitchen through there. Bathroom upstairs, complete with a shower. And there’s two bedrooms upstairs. I often work late and stay the night here.” 

Ramsay stepped closer to you. 

“You’re very welcome to adopt the same level of work ethic.” 

You feel a slight shiver down your spine. But Ramsay steps past you and sits at his desk, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. 

“The second bedroom is at your disposal.” His eyes snap back to you suddenly and forcefully. “You will not, however, ever go into the room behind me without my express permission.” The closed door room. His voice was frightening and very dark. “Do I make myself clear? I don’t want to ask a second time. I hate asking a second time.” You swallow, beginning to understand why Jon had warned you.

“Yes, of course. It won’t be a problem sir.”

“Good!” Ramsay clapped his hands together. “I think we are going to have a lot of fun together, you and I. There are some papers on your desk. You’ll need to read them quite carefully.” His voice took on a mock serious tone. “We take confidentiality very seriously here at Bolton Enterprises.” 

He smirks at you. 

“This job won’t be what you were expecting I’m afraid. You see, I do business very differently. You could say I take a more hands-on approach. And you, apparently, have tested the highest in every skill that I need.” 

He locks eyes with you and you feel the electricity coursing through the airwaves from his eyes into yours. 

“You are the missing piece darling.”

NEXT CHAPTER: Chapter 2

[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.

[neroesecuzioni]

watching your devil side

two.

The conference room in the Passione headquarters was barren with small windows and harsh white lights. You lounged in the leather office chair at the table, already regretting making a deal with Giorno. The convincing little shit.

You crossed your legs and waited.

La Squadra di Esecuzioni had said they’d meet you at headquarters if only to assess the proposal you sent to Giorno. The deal you’d cut them was nearly too perfect for people in their field. A steady flow of money wasn’t always guaranteed for the mafia, especially assassins. It was nearly perfect, if their client wasn’t you.

The conference room doors opened and you blinked when three men walked through.

Three extremely attractive men walked in.

No one warned you about that.

Two were giants in their own right and would tower over you even in heels while the other was tall but dwarfed by the others in comparison. They were all built like Grecian statues and wore outfits on par with Buccellati’s gang’s penchant for flashiness.

In the center was a man with tanned skin, deep rep eyes, and silver hair hidden beneath a hat with bells. His serious but serene expression rested on you with a weight you were used to. To his left was a taller man with a much deeper tan and deep brown locks tied into several pigtails but his plum purple eyes sparked with a mischief. His outfit looked...a little strange but you forgave it considering it clung to every inch of him. The man to the right was the shortest with bright blond hair tied back into several little buns and he wore a fashionable suit complimenting his blue eyes. Despite being the shortest of the three of them, he looked the sternest.

Armani, you surmised.

“Hello.” You stood up to greet them. “La Squadra di Esecuzioni. I’m your client... people in the business know me as Devil Yin but you can just call me Yin.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” the man at the centre said, eyes surveying you. “My name is Risotto Nero. The Capo of La Squadra di Esecuzioni. This is Prosciutto and Illuso.”

Prosciutto? Risotto?

Well, Bruno had Pannacotta and you couldn’t exactly rag on anyone when people still referred to you as Devil Yin.

“It’s a pleasure. Take a seat. I trust you have some questions considering my proposal isn’t....one of your typical assignments.”

They all sat on the opposite end of the conference table and settled in, all of them guarded and packed. They all carried some type of weapon on them along with their stands.

“You’ve requested us as your bodyguards,” Risotto said, eyes intent, “are you aware of our position in the Passione?”

“You’re assassins,” you acknowledged, “and stand users. I’m well acquainted with the inner workings of the Passione.”

“There are squads dedicated to protection and guarding. Why did you ask for us?” Prosciutto asked, his shoulders tensed beneath the sleek indigo suit

“The squad is ran by Bruno Buccellati, I’m well aware,” you said and decided to drop the bomb. “I’m friends with Giorno.”

The three of them exchanged glances.

“Friends with Don Giorno?” Illuso asked flatly.

“Long before he came into contact with the Passione,” you said, “I also know Buccellati.”

“You would not prefer Buccellati’s squad as your protection detail?” Risotto rested his arms on the table.

You tried not to run your eyes along the defined muscles on his arm. It was a terribly difficult thing to do.

“I’ve had Buccellati as a bodyguard before and while we are...friends, it is not an arrangement I’d prefer. I’d be scolded the entire time for my lifestyle,” you said breezily. “I hope some of you don’t sleep early. I typically don’t get home until four in the morning but I have rooms in my villa for you to stay in when you’re guarding me overnight.”

“What do you need guarding from?” Prosciutto’s eyes narrowed.

“Kidnapping, being held hostage, someone trying to steal my art from the studio, those kinds of things. It’s pretty mundane.” You shrugged. “Giorno didn’t appreciate the fact I was held hostage a few months ago and insisted I take on some bodyguards. I offered a payment plan for the whole group since I know your specialties might be needed for different hits outside of my schedule. As long as there’s two of you for most of the time, I don’t mind whatever you do outside of guarding me.”

“And the pay?” Risotto’s deep voice filled the quiet room.

You didn’t know what you regretted more; stepping foot into Italy, contacting Giorno, or thinking of this idea.

“As outlined in the contract. Two hundred dollars per hour per guard on a twenty-four hour detail. I’ll even pay overtime if someone clocks in more hours than they’re supposed to and you’ve seen the clause about vacation pay? I’d also prefer if you’re able to allow two members travel around Europe or to the Americas on short notice when needed.”

Anything to get Giorno off your back about becoming an assassin again when you finally got out of the business.

"And you can afford us?" Risotto asked.

"I thought you'd ask that." You stood up and reached under the table. The men tensed but you brought out a few briefcases and set them down on the table. You slid them over. "Here's two-hundred sixty-nine thousand dollars in payment for the first month to split between your seven members."

The three of them flipped open the briefcases and scanned through the euros.

"So, do we have a deal?"

Risotto glanced at his companions before he gave an imperceptible nod.

“Fantastic, here’s my schedule on a daily basis and the addresses of the places I’ll be frequenting. The safest trade-off times would be nine in the morning, five in the evening, and one in the morning and you can start tomorrow if your team is ready." You slid over a folder towards them.

“It would be best if you met the team beforehand,” Risotto said after he finished flipping through the papers.

///

La Squadra di Esecuzioni’s headquarters was a discreet series of townhouses connected together, hidden behind walls, gates, and bushes. The pale stone exteriors were a little worn by time but the iron gates were polished despite age dulling the metal slightly.

You walked along the paved path towards the front door obscured by foliage, behind Risotto, Illuso, and Prosciutto. They opened double-layered iron-wrought doors to a barren entryway.

You frowned as you looked around. This place had so much untouched potential with the stone floors and walls; a house like this would cost a fortune to make today but there were few decorations and even fewer signs of life. It was as if no one had inhabited this place in years and from what you knew, La Squadra lived here.

Risotto lead you to a larger room with threadbare couches where four other men lounged. 

“This is our long-term client,” Risotto said, tone brooking for no arguments. “Become familiar with her. Formaggio, Melone, you begin with her tomorrow at nine in the morning. I’ll give everyone their schedules tonight.”

“You can call me Yin,” you said and stepped up. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The man with a buzzed grey-blue hair and a playful smirk leaned deep into the couch. His studded jacket clung to his lean muscles as he flexed subtly and winked at you. “Well, if you had said we’d be guarding such a cute girl, I wouldn’t have argued at all. I’m Formaggio, babe. You’ll be spending the day with me tomorrow.”

“...hello?” you said.

“Don’t mind him.” A man with pale lilac hair and bright blue eyes framed by thick lashes smiled at you and took your hand into his, placing a kiss onto your knuckles. “I’m Melone. It’s rare we have such a beautiful woman for a client. I’ll also be guarding you tomorrow.”

“Thank you?” You pulled your hand out of his. How were you supposed to introduce yourself to fellow assassins outside of the job and not across rooftops or while on the run? “I hope we’ll get along.”

Prosciutto clicked his tongue. “Pesci, Ghiaccio, introduce yourself.”

A man with neon green hair styled upwards and black eyes shining with hesitance stepped up. “H-hello, I’m Pesci! It’s nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” you said, sending him a gentle smile.

The last man on the end of the couch scowled harshly, the red glasses perched on his nose contrasted against his bright blue hair and barely obscured his black eyes.

“I’m Ghiaccio,” he mumbled reluctantly.

“And now you’ve met all of us,” Illuso said, smirking as he looked down at you. “Regretting your decision yet?”

“Better than being kidnapped,” you said and turned to Melone and Formaggio, handing them a sheet of paper. “Well, here’s the address to meet me at tomorrow. I hope you bring yourself something to prevent boredom...I’m not really doing anything interesting as of yet.”

///

Prosciutto rested in the chair across from Risotto in his office, long legs crossed as he leaned in the chair.

He rolled a cigarette between his two fingers.

“Do you think Giovanna is planning something?” he asked lowly, meeting Risotto's black and red gaze.

His Capo folded his hands on his desk bare of anything besides pens, paperwork, and a laptop. “Be prepared for anything. We’ll warn the others tonight.”

He ran his tongue along his overbite.

///

The sun gleamed through the front door of your villa.

You waited in your entryway for your newly hired bodyguards, already dressed for the day in sleek black leggings beneath a loose, blue one-shoulder sweater and a black lace tank top.

A knock sounded at the door five minutes before nine.

You opened the door to Formaggio and Melone. The former was dressed similarly to yesterday in studded clothes, leather pants, and a half-open top from the bottom. The latter, however, was dressed in a skin tight purple outfit revealing a lot of skin unlike the long-sleeved shirt and sweatpants from yesterday. Somehow, you were the only normal looking one in this trio.

Formaggio whistled as he looked into your home and ran his eyes over you. "Hello, hello."

“Uh, hello, welcome to my home? Sorry, I’d offer refreshments but the driver is arriving in five minutes.”

“It’s not a problem, babe.” Formaggio grinned. “We’re all ready to go.”

“We always come prepared, bella.” Melone rested his hip against the door, lips curled almost like a cat. “We’ll be given a tour of your home another time, yes?”

"If you'd like?" you said. "Oh, there's the driver. We better go."

///

The driver parked outside of a large apartment building near an old library close to the heart of Naples.

Your bodyguards followed you out and into the building, past the security already patrolling, and you took the elevator to your new studio.

It was a second-floor, concrete loft you bought to convert into a studio and there were already boxes of furniture, unfinished seating, and decorations sitting on palettes inside. The small kitchen was tucked beneath the stairs leading to the second floor. A drink fridge with a clear door was the most prominent feature besides the bar counter on the opposite side.

"This will be the most boring job you've ever had I hope you know,” you said idly as you dragged a sofa off the palette. "At least until my brand of luck turns up. Hold on, please take a seat on the bar stools. I'll have the sitting area built soon."

"Your brand of luck?" Formaggio grinned. "Want a hand, babe?"

You sent him a dry look. "Have you ever had to learn archery to prevent a Prince of Brunei from marrying your friend while being held hostage in his palace?"

"And he didn't want to marry you, cara?" Melone leaned over your shoulder, voice barely a murmur.

"Not at all," you said idly as you set down the couch on it's back and flounced back to the kitchen. "Hold on, do you have a drink preference? I don't think there's much besides iced coffee and flavoured sparkling water."

"Aren't we your bodyguards?" Melone asked, lips tugging into a smile.

You blinked. "I guess Risotto didn't explain everything? Your team is just a precautionary measure but really, this is a way you're making quick money unless another Prince decides I'm a good morsel to kidnap. Oh, we have fruit juices as well."

"We'll get our own drinks, babe." Formaggio leaned against the bar counter. "You didn't answer my question though, need any help? Looks like a lot of work for someone like you."

You hummed and went back to the sofa to start attached the legs from the box it came with. "Not right now."

You glanced at the two men's heavy gazes following you and went back to building the sitting area. You weren't sure what to make of them but they definitely were better than becoming an assassin again when you could be an artist.

///

(ao3 link)

Author Notes: I normally write fiction that’s more literary but this is purely here for self indulgence so if you see something that you squint your eyes at....skim over it. We’re in horny hours.

[slash-em-up]

Rocky Road pt. 1: ChromeSkull x Reader

Ok so.... this is me sort of dipping my toe into the L2R writing waters, since Jesse is baby.... well here we go. Not too much ChromeSkull in here; but I promise there will be a fuckton more in pt. 2.

——————————————————

The gate to the Hollywood Hills mansion your employer owned was straight-up stuck.

You weren’t sure if it was the Santa Ana winds or the boiling California sun that had messed with the circuitry, but you clearly weren’t getting in the house that way.

The problem was, that the large house and palatial lawn (which probably cost more than the house itself, judging by the neighboring mansions much much much smaller lots) was locked down tighter than Fort Knox.

You circled around the tall fence line looking for any kind of break or low point you might be able to hop. No such luck.

Running a hand through your hair, you were starting to get a bit frantic before your phone began to buzz in your pocket.

A text alert from your boss flashed on your screen.

You checked the time – he was early.

J: Good morning

Hey Mr. Cromeans. Happy Tuesday!

J: Having problems?

Your eyebrows rose.

lol yeah, how did you know?

J: Look into the tree on your right

The blinking light of a camera showed from the nearby towering oak tree. You waved sheepishly.

The gate won’t open

J: I’ll put someone on it. Start walking back. It’ll be open when you get there

Grinning, you began trudging back through the dusty brush towards the driveway.

Thanks :) , how was she last night?

J: You’re welcome. She had a bit of a fever – I gave her some Tylenol and put her to bed early. Let me know if she’s still warm and I’ll send a car to take you to her doctor

I’ll let you know as soon as I’m in

J: Thanks

True to his word, the gate was open as you rounded the final fence corner, and you jogged your way up to the house.

You weren’t late, per-say; but the thought of the possibly feverish little girl inside hastened your step.

There was no key to the Cromeans residence; instead you placed your thumb lightly on a scanner and waited for the indicator light to turn green.

The house was a shining example of modern architecture – all symmetrical lines and sweeping glass walls – the color scheme was a basic white and grey, with metallic accents placed strategically around the dwelling. In all honesty, you were pretty sure it was straight out of some Architectural Digest magazine – very fashionable and trendy.

Exactly the kind of space you’d expect some tech-savvy rich-boy bachelor to inhabit.

However, you knew this wasn’t exactly an accurate description of your employer – as the mess of stuffed animals and coloring books kicked to the side of the entryway further clarified.

When you’d received the offer for this job, you’d been approached by a woman called Spann (who was far more intimidating in person than her slight 4’11” frame might suggest). She’d given you some vague details and the offer of an exorbitant paycheck before slapping you with an NDA.

You’d been given some still annoyingly vague details that you’d be working for a man named Jesse Cromeans. He was a businessman and widower who needed someone to take care of his four year old daughter when he was away on business trips and at the office.

Even though the pay would cover all your expenses and then some, you’d rolled your eyes at the thought of being the pseudo-parent for yet another detached family.

This supposition quickly changed as you began to receive the morning check-in texts and listen to your charge go on at-length about how much fun she and her daddy had hosting tea-time with her Barbies the night before.

Many mornings you were left to clean up the aftermath of their play – hearing joyful recollections of safari’s through the kitchen, pillow forts for movie nights, and how tall little Adeline Cromeans felt when her daddy gave her a piggy back ride.

But what spoke to you the most was how sad Addy was when Mr. Cromeans was gone on a trip. It was very rarely clear to either of you how long he’d be gone; but Addy was never quite her normal boisterous self when he was away.

You could tell the feeling was mutual, as your morning check-in texts were always far more pointed and investigative than normal.

There was a faint whiff of expensive cologne lingering in the air, telling you that you’d missed your employers exit by a few minutes, at most.

That was another oddity about this job. You’d never actually met Addy’s father. Heard about him, sure, more reverentially from Spann; and enthusiastic recollections from Addy; but you’d never seen or talked to him. No pictures – all the photos around the dwelling were either of Addy or of a beautiful blonde woman you supposed had to be the late Mrs. Cromeans.

Any one-on-one communications you had with the man were via-text.

The most you had gleaned was that he had expensive taste (hello Byredo hand soap), a penchant for ice-cream (that pint of Rocky Road did NOT eat itself), a dry sense of humor (several of his texts in response to your inquiries had made you burst out in shocked laughter), and was a very large man (Addy had been running around the house in an XLXT mens shirt one day and you nearly had a conniption). Other than that he was an enigma who loved his daughter and worked too much (in your opinion).

You quietly opened the door to Addy’s room.

The little girl was still curled up fast asleep under her comforter, pretty as a picture.

Blonde wavey hair looking like a birds nest as it poofed up on her pillow.

You sighed lightly at the tiny thumb stuck in her mouth – a habit both you and her father had been trying to break her of – and gave her shoulder a soft shake.

“Hey Munchkin. Time to wake up.”

The small whine of displeasure that met your statement made you smile.

“Aaadddddyyy…”

Brown eyes slowly slid open to meet your own.

“Mmmmm don’t wanna…”

“Come on sweetie, I need to take your temperature so your daddy can stop worrying and get back to his work!”

This had more of an effect than your previous attempts, and with a deep frown and a few wiggles Addy had seated herself up in bed.

You had grabbed the thermometer from the dressed by the door on your entry, and once it beeped you waited patiently for it to register from it’s place sitting in Addy’s ear.

“98.7 – you’re all better cutie.”

Addy smiled up at you adoringly.

“That’s ‘cause daddy gave me the magic medicine last night. He said it’d make me ok – even though it didn’t taste good.”

“Well your daddy is a very smart man! He did a good job.”

Bouncing happily, Addy pulled back her covers and hopped to the edge of the bed.

“Can I have crunch today for breakfast?”

Your smile widened as you pulled out your phone – snapping a quick selfie of yourself and the smiling Addy before sending it off to Mr. Cromeans with a quick ‘All better :) good thinking with the ‘magic medicine’ text.

“I suppose since you were such a good girl for your daddy last night you can have some Captain Crunch…”

——————————————————————

It was late, and you were exhausted.

Which made the fact that you’d left your damn car keys inside the Cromeans house that much more annoying.

You huffed and puffed your way back up the driveway – thankful that the California nights were so mild and you weren’t freezing to death in the September dark.

The door sensor blinked green and you tried to be as quiet as possible as you slipped back through the entryway – using the flashlight on your phone to search for your key.

The house was dark and silent – you’d received a text that Mr. Cromeans was working late, and may not be back until after midnight, and would you mind terribly waiting around until Addy went to sleep before leaving?

That hadn’t been a problem, expect that now it was quarter-past 10 and all you wanted was to go home and throw yourself into your own bed.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t how tonight was going to play out for you.

Your whole body froze as a gigantic shape, backlit by the moonlight, detached itself from the living room wall.

You assumed it was a man, and it may have been the animal terror speaking, but you’d never seen someone so large in your whole life.

The shape moved, vaulting over the leather couch with ease and started charging at you.

Letting out a scream of panic, you turned and made a run for the door – only making it a few steps before you felt a huge weight crash into you, sending you tumbling to the hard marble floor.

You cried out again as your head bounced against the hard surface; vision blinking in and out as you tried to comprehend what was happening.

Vaguely, as if underwater, you heard Addy scream from the second floor, having been awoken by the ruckus downstairs.

The throbbing pain in your head increased as you felt yourself fade in and out of consciousness.

Forcing your body over, you stared up at the black shape looming over you.

“Ple-please… don’t hurt… Add-y…run…”

The man’s head tilted and before you could say anything else… everything went black.

[mutantdios]

* an in-depth look into guzmán.

BASIC INFORMATION

Full name: Andreas Guzmán. Andreas is greek, meaning “strong, manly” whereas Guzmán is a castilian surname referring to a village in the region. It has no other meaning, although some sources claim it means “Good man”, referring the Visigoth words Gus man. Moreover, there’s the comparison to the Jewish surname Gusman, which is an occupational name for a metal worker.  As a whole, the name “Andreas Guzmán” can be taken to mean: strong and brave good man.  Pronunciation: An-drAE-as Gooz-mAAn. Strictly a Spanish pronunciation. Nickname(s): Call him Guzmán in general, if you’re unsure. X if you’re sure. Guz if you’re close, but you might get stabbed anyways. He does not accept being called by his first name -- he will ignore or correct you at best, get violent at worst. And he certainly does not tolerate nicknames surrounding his first name. Birthdate: August 20 Age: 39 Zodiac: Leo -- This fixed sign is known for its ambition and determination, but above all, Leos are celebrated for their remarkable bravery. In tarot, Leo is represented by the “strength” card, which depicts the divine expression of physical, mental, and emotional fortitude. Fearless optimists who refuse to accept failure, Leos will find their deep wells of courage grow as they mature. Gender: Cis man Pronouns: He + him. Romantic orientation: Grey-Biromantic -- it is a topic of dispute whether Guzmán is capable of romantic fixation, or feelings at all for that matter. The current stance is that he is, but it requires a lot of work and it does not happen with just anyone.  More over sometimes he can be described as romance-repulsed, since he actively does not pursue romantic relationships and views them as weaknesses that can be exploited. He would know this, since he often exploits it in others. Sexual orientation: Bisexual -- he has no strict preference toward any gender, but he has been with people of all genders. Nationality: N/A -- Guzman will claim to either be American, Venezuelan or Chilean. Ethnicity: Chilean. Current location: Wynwood, Miami. Living conditions: He lives in an apartment building that he owns and rents (sometimes entirely for free) out to other mutants of low income. His own living quarters are big and comfortable and clean, almost sterile in presentation -- 3 bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, a spacious kitchen and livingroom, a study. He has a second safehouse at an undisclosed location in the city.

BACKGROUND NOTES

Birthplace: N/A. Hometown: N/A. Social Class: he certainly doesn’t file taxes for how much money he has, but he has the finances of the upper middle class and acts as though he is lower middle class. Educational achievements: N/A -- at best, he has a Ph. D in mathematics. At worst, he’s a high school dropout. Father: Edgardo Guzmán -- deceased. Mother: Rosario Guzmán -- deceased. Sibling(s): Alondra Guzmán -- deceased. Birth order: First born. Pets: He has a penchant for feeding strays, but does not commit to pets. Previous relationships: this he prefers not to disclose. Arrests: his rap sheet is spotless, to the point that it feels like it’s been wiped clean, without so much as a parking ticket. Prison time: None on record, but on his own account, Guzmán will occasionally recall that he was in a Brazilian max-sec prison between ages 27-29 for murder of six police men, after which he proceeded to escape.

OCCUPATION & INCOME

Current occupation: he’s a crime kingpin and head of a sizable cartel, but for the IRS he’s a business owner and landlord. Dream occupation: honestly? President of his own country. He’s working toward that. Past job(s): he will tell you any number of truths and lies regarding this topic, among which we have: mathematics professor, CIA data analyst, CIA test subject, killer for hire, smuggler, thief.   Spending habits: anything he sees fit to help to his cause, he has no problem spending. He does not care about money, viewing it as a tool, a means rather than an end. This all being said, he’s excellent at money management.  In debt?: No, but a lot of people are indebted to him. Most valuable possession: possessions are a hindrance. He does not care about anything material.

SKILLS & ABILITIES

Physical strength: Above Average | Average | Below Average -- Notes: Guzman exercises regularly (every single day) and packs a surprising amount of strength in his arms and legs, as well as enviable core strength. It is not his most flashy physical feature, he does not have a defined body but his muscles are solid and functional. Once he gets to it, he can do some good damage. Speed: Above Average | Average | Below Average -- Notes: he can run and do so pretty fast but it is not what he’s best at. His reflexes are more than decent, though. Intelligence: Above Average | Average | Below Average -- Notes: Guzmán has basically nigh-peak human intelligence. As said above, he’s very good at handling complex, abstract theoretical concepts and handling vast amounts of information information; strategizing, debate, intuitive and deductive reasoning, etc. He has extensive knowledge of math and biology (especially genetics and bioengineering) as well as neuroscience and psychology, and he’s constantly learning more about the subjects not just for practical use but for his own personal enjoyment. Accuracy: Above Average | Average | Below Average -- Notes: he’s more than a little knowleagable about gun usage and he’s a really good shot. If you’re running from him and he happens to have a gun, you better have a damn good pair of legs or hide quickly, because he will most likely shoot you. Agility: Above Average | Average | Below Average -- Notes: he’s capable of climbing and a certain degree of free running with effortless ease. Stamina: Above Average | Average | Below Average -- Notes: it’s not bad for his age and he’s fit/healthy but it could certainly be better and all that smoking does take its toll. Teamwork: Guzmán is not really fit for anything but a leadership position. He is domineering and abrasive and the only way he can accept to take a backseat is if he has a generous amount of respect toward the people in charge -- and if so, he might be able to take orders, but only if he sees them as intelligent choices. Otherwise, he will question the authority and routinely challenge it, poking holes into their logic and plans. If he is the leader, though, he’s very good at working multiple details and elements into efficient wholes. People that follow him tend to, if not trust him, respect him because of how capable he is. Talents/hobbies: he reads a lot; his apartment is cluttered with piles and piles of books, many of which are technical in nature. Plays chess and cards. Knows how to play the piano more than adequately. Exercises regularly and trains in H2H combat. Does crosswords and sudokus. Swims. Plots the fall of humanity.  Shortcomings: speed and stamina. Guzmán can run fast for short speeds but can get tired relatively quickly due to his age, habit of smoking and joint problems as product of past altercations. He also does not work well in settings where he is not in charge. He is also unforgiving and unmerciful and if you wrong him it’s pointless to try to appeal to reason with him. Can be controlling. Can have difficulty expressing emotional concerns and being genuine. Languages spoken: English, Spanish, Russian, conversational Chinese. Others: ASL, morse code. Drive?: yes. He’s pretty good at driving all kinds of vehicles and motorcycles. Knows how to drive boats and some planes too. Jump-start a car?: yes. Change a flat tyre?: yes. Ride a bicycle?: yes. Swim?: yes. He enjoys swimming. Play an instrument?: Piano. Play chess?: yes, pretty well. Knows how to beat most in less than three moves. Braid hair?: Yes. Mostly in the context of what he knew to do for his younger sister. Little beyond that.  Tie a tie?: Yes. Pick a lock?: Yes. Cook?: Yes.

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE & CHARACTERISTICS

Faceclaim: S. Cabrera Eye colour: Brown Hair colour: Brown Hair type/style/length: thick, long-medium length, wavy, a little unruly -- reference. Glasses/contacts?: Reading glasses. Dominant hand: Born left handed, but can use both. Height: 5′11 Weight: 176 lbs Build: lean, muscular especially in arms and legs, undefined chest, hairy. References: one, two. Exercise habits: every day, at least thirty minutes. Skin tone: Light brown, sun-kissed. Tattoos:  an squared circle between his shoulder blade (x), the monas hieroglyphica on his right bicep (x), the sigil of chaos, in the back of his left hand (x), a circled dot in the pad of his left index finger (x). Piercings: none. Marks/scars:  5 cm cut on his left cheek. Stab wounds scars on his abdomen. Rough hands product of manual labor. Clothing style:  alternates between casual (sweaters, jeans, boots, white or black shirts, guayaberas) and formal (suits) depending on the need. Can look either well groomed or scruffy, whatever is necessary. Jewellery: can sometimes be seen wearing chains either of gold or silver. Allergies: none. Diet: primarily vegetable based, with fish and chicken as preferred meats. Seldom eats beef or pork. Eats carbs in the form of bread and corn based doughs. Relatively healthy.  Physical ailments: knees ache. Suffers from occasional paints from the left hip from when he was shot there once.

PSYCHOLOGY

MBTI type: ENTJ -- ENTJs are strategic, organized and possess natural leadership qualities. They are master coordinators that can effectively give direction to groups. They are able to understand complicated organizational situations and quick to develop intelligent solutions. ENTJs are outspoken and will not hesitate to speak of their plans for improvement. They are decisive and value knowledge, efficiency and competence. Enneagram type: Type 8w6 SP/SX -- KEY MOTIVATIONS:  Want to be self-reliant, to prove their strength and resist weakness, to be important in their world, to dominate the environment, and to stay in control of their situation. Moral Alignment: Chaotic evil --  referred to as the “Destroyer” or “Demonic” alignment. Characters of this alignment tend to have no respect for rules, other people’s lives, or anything but their own desires, which are typically selfish and cruel. They set a high value on personal freedom, but do not have any regard for the lives or freedom of other people. They do not work well in a group, as they resent being given orders, and usually only behave themselves out of fear of punishment. It is not compulsory for a Chaotic Evil character to be constantly performing sadistic acts just for the sake of being evil, or constantly disobeying orders just for the sake of causing chaos. Temperament: Choleric -- Someone with a pure choleric temperament is usually a goal-oriented person. Choleric people are very savvy, analytical, and logical. Extremely practical and straightforward, they aren't necessarily good companions or particularly friendly. Element: Fire + Air. Emotional stability: Very emotionally stable. Seldom gets sad, angry, or caught up in otherwise strong or potent emotions. Very driven, seldom loses focus or attention in his goals and day to day affairs. Introvert or Extrovert? Action-oriented Extrovert. Guzmán enjoys being around people only on the practical sense, if it’s helping him toward the progress of his ambitions and goals. Obsession(s): mutant supremacy :/ conspiracy theories. Power. Money only in the context of achieving more power.  Compulsion(s): whenever he has to sharpen a knife in his kitchen, he ends up sharpening them all. And he can’t leave a book halfway through a chapter. He has to end the chapter, so next time he sits down to read he’s starting through another. Phobia(s): none. Addiction(s): Mind games. Drug use: regularly smokes cigars or cigarettes. Alcohol use: mostly will have a glass of whiskey every few nights, no more than that. Prone to violence?: Yes. Prone to crying?: No Believe in love at first sight?: No.

MANNERISMS

Accent: faint accent that could be pinned as that of a native spanish speaker. Speech quirks: he can get pretty talkative when things come down to it. Occasionally, he will interrupt his monologuing to ask if the other person understands what he’s saying. Hobbies: elaborated above: reading, chess, crossword, sudoku, playing intruments, working out, swimming. Habits: stroking/scratching his beard, fiddling idly with the things that are in his hands, opening and closing his fists deliberately. Nervous ticks: does not give away when he’s nervous. Drives/motivations: power-seeking, revenge, general mayhem and destruction. Fears: none in the immediate sense. Guzman is not scared of death, of things going wrong, of pain. He’s died before, things have gone wrong before, he’s been tortured before. Visceral fears have no hold over him. His disquiet stems more from existential concerns.  Sense of humour?: decent. Although, when he’s serious, he does not tolerate disrespect and jokes/flippant demeanors are considered disrespect.  Do they curse often?: not really. Will usually only curse to drive a certain point home.

FAVORITES

Animal: wolves and all matter of felines. Beverage: whiskey and rum, water. Book: he cannot choose! Colour: warm tones. Food: rice with chicken and beans, arepas, etc. Flower: does not care. Gem: does not care. Mode of transportation: car or motorcycle. Scent: cinnamon, coffee, freshly baked bread. Sport: soccer, baseball. Weather: sunny. Vacation destination: does not care for the concept, though as a rule he prefers warmer climates.

ATTITUDES

Greatest dream goals: for mutants to be in power, and for him to be in charge of them. Greatest fear: the eradication of the mutant race. Most at ease when: he is in control of the situation at play, when things are going according to plan, when someone has reaffirmed his loyalty to him in vital ways.  Least as ease when: there are variables that stop him from being fully in control, or he doesn’t know key pieces of information. Worst possible thing that could happen: dying before seeing a good portion of his plans materialized. It would be the worst, but it would be mostly inconvenient, really.  Biggest achievement: helped (through direct and indirect ways) make discrimination against mutants illegal in Venezuela, Brazil, Argentina, Chile and Perú. Participated in the assassinations of authoritarian figures and anti-mutant politicians in South and Central America. Biggest regret: does not have one -- yet.

[thomasstalsworth]

Too Old ... Johnny Boy’s Bones

[ Prior Chapter ]

Captain Florence was a stone, stoic, stalwart and able man.

He wore grey hair with easy features. The sort of unwrinkled face that a man of his age could only acquire through studious effort at not smiling, frowning, or otherwise revealing his innards. There was no emotion about him at any time, even when pressed. The worst of weather he ever wore was on the cuff of his jacket. A ring of sweat when times were at their worst, and a clean slate of white cloth for the rest.

There was a reason -- many reasons, in truth -- why Thomas trust him so well. Old friendship was powerful, but all the moreso was demonstrable history, trust and action. Florence was a man of action and not word, that much could be seen even by the stranger. And so Thomas asked the greatest of efforts needed to the man, allows constituting such things as an offer. The two men knew each other well, but even as his Admiral now -- a feat of strength so far beyond the measure and imagination of their younger minds -- Tom never ordered Florence. He offered, and requested what needed done.

And Florence always, without fail, did what needed to be done.

And so it was that Florence stood at the helm of a thin-strop vessel, a bare creature of wood and tar and two masts that was heavy enough to ferry himself and a trusted crew to Freeman’s Bones. A neutral, freebooter’s harbour and mooring some unfettered stretch of horizon South of Freehold herself. Yet where Freehold was a den to pirate, villainy and the dealings of men’s unsavory hearts -- Freeman’s Bones were just that.

A scattered mass of scaffolding, dockways, mooring posts and stray driftwood to form a bulwark against the rest of the world. A place for men and women of the ocean to take ease a spell before they were off again. A place where you were still free, even if your feet were on land.

‘Land’.

Freeman’s Bones was barely such a thing. The wandering, rickety nature of it was all built upon the same, single spit of rock and reef. What had begun as a single dock and a bare-rattle pub with just enough grog for a man to drown in if he kept both nostrils pressed to the floorboards had become a thriving, seaside piece and trade. A freewater depth for the wanderer’s anchor.

And the current dwelling of Roderick Allhouse and Belly-Ann Hurstvale. The two freebooters, accomplished anglers, well-water privateers and occasional buskers that Thomas had asked Florence to find. Seek them out, inform them of the Admiral’s need and plan, and bring them back to Stormholme under a grey sail. Simple.

Thomas’ requests were never simple.

All hands at harbour, all hands on deck or below. Florence tread the half-scoured wooden walkways of the Bones alone. Nary a soul joined him, and with good enough cause. The most of them were green to boot, young men and women who were only of knowledge for that Florence had a pleasure’s call to the isle and her piecemeal wooden skeleton. The better and beastly and trusted of Stormholme’s harbour lay with Thomas. There was work to be done.

And Florence had his part to play. The man was not known for parting before his due was done.

Straight on the lace and burdened with principle, ethic and the equanimity of a Stormsong stream in midsummer, Florence walked through the vibrant pathways of the Bones. So many ragged, half-heart folk passed him by in all direction. An unhurried sort of congestion, ‘roads’ stacked atop each other and swollen high and wide with men and women.

Free men and women.

It was a ten-start of minutes at most before Florence found himself, prim and bucked up in the spine looking far, far apart from the generous masses, standing within the belly of the Bones. That rattle-skin pub that was the first building nailed to reef and pinioned to stand against the rock of the sea below.

‘Coccyx’.

The humor was not lost on Florence, and perhaps in the privacy of his own cabin quarter, with the curtains drawn and a disc of music playing from the gnomecorder, he might have allowed himself a single puff of air from the nostril -- to laugh. As close as he ever was to laugh.

The pub was wide, and squat. No ceiling laid higher than a man could reach up to touch. It felt so much like the hold of a vessel, all run up with the sweat, bluster and cry of sailing creatures that it jarred Florence. He was a perceptive man, though, and shucked off the peculiarity of the Bones to lay his mind to work.

Roderick Allhouse and Belly-Ann Hurstvale.

The former was a sprite of a lad who wore a fashionable face; in appearance he was many years younger than the hourglass would call to. Boyish face and skin so scuttled and soured with ink that his pale flesh was barely visible. They said he could no longer grow hair on account of it. Sailor’s ink dragged into his flesh so many times with whalebone pen that no hair could grow -- only gills and scales.

The latter was a woman of curve and compass, covered as often as she was not. More mindful and heartfelt than any combination of sea captains from the Bones all the way South to the edge of the charter, and back again until you hit the Frozen Sea. She was keen and observant, not unlike Florence himself. But she saw beyond what presence that a man’s eye could conjure.

To find a single soul of affect in the belly of the Bones was a task beyond most creatures. Even those with the powers of prestidigitation or prescience, divination or else wise. Florence had none of that. He was but a man with good cording and a sound mind, a penchant to dress in anticipation of the weather and the ability to inflict a potent right-hook.

He also knew what liquor that the latter and the former of his notion of task drank.

Somewhere, in the far corner that resembled a ‘stage’ cut into the pub’s depths, a lilting of music managed to buoy itself over the craig and call of the patrons. A few lads were having a go with a beaten string-body and a horse-hair bow, a few guitars, and a wooden drum, singing:

“Forty-five in the fox holes And of this I will boast Don't they look fine and handsome My poor Johnny-boy's bones … “

The song carried on, and the next -- and the next.

It took a few hours, but eventually after the fourteenth or fifteenth round that Florence’s purse bought for those in earshot of the pub’s counter top -- which was not far, as it stood, considering the roar of noise in the drink home -- the man and woman of his task slid through the crowd. Whether they had been there the entire time or only came about after getting word -- slowly, through the throng and sweat of sailors -- that free drinks were rolling like tidewater, Florence could not know.

“Two in the air, Bonny!” A male voice called, spirited in the way that young men usually were when they had an amiable lass on their arm and a desire to look the peacock.

“Gush it a’three, love -- thanks.” A female voice called crow to reply. Lilting moreso, but hazy in the throat in such way that constant smoke-fall down the gullet gave.

It was not useful to try to hide. Florence looked as much a member of the shifting, pierced and tattooed, sunk-heel and red-sashed, belly-raised and ‘member’-forward, cutlass-keen and pistol-first crowd as a husk of corn looked fitting in a Duchess’ garden.

He let Roderick and Belly-Ann take up their drinks before he spoke. The liquor was a revolting substance, in truth. But some peoples of the edges of the common folk took good favor to it. If the goal was to be inebriated, invigorated, and given better cause for a ‘second sight’ through the caustic waves of the open sea -- Bonemarrow was the way forward. Florence liked to think it was rum, but in truth no one but the settled souls of Freeman’s Bones knew just what in the good Godly damn was in the kegs that made it run so thick and black, like blackstrap syrup forged with intention to make children in hammocks by the groggy seaside.

-- Thoughts unimportant.

“Let us get a few down beforehand, aye?”

Florence spoke first, standing proddled and proper at the edge of the bar. In a space of pub so shoulder-to-briny-shoulder, it was quite odd how no one was willing to gather near him. Despite the way he spilled coin after shiny coin to pay off the rounds that were poured. Only greetings and raised ‘cheers!’ came his way. So when he spoke, it was noted. Roderick and Belly-Ann both looked to him, appraising each other, then reasserting their gaze.

“Better to know the after-hand first, cuff. Let’s a man know how many to get down first.”

Roderick replied with a simmering sarcasm. His tone was not any surprise. Tom had said he would be the worse of the two of them to net and drag. Liquor helped that, though -- and Roderick drained his marrow quickly from the glass, tapping an obscenely jeweled set of fingers against the vessel to demand more.

Belly-Ann had a covering over her head, some thin-spun silk sort of thing that would not have looked amiss among the caravans of itinerant merchants that often criss-crossed Wrynn lands. She did not say anything as she dragged her lips over her own pour of marrow.

“The after-hand is all gold, friend -- and Big Iron.”

The old name sprung memory back to both Belly-Ann and Roderick when Florence spoke. Few recalled Thomas’ old subtitles. Only those with more sands in the hourglass down with gravity’s flow than naught might have been possessed to know. By the sudden pause and quirk of pierced brow and ink-heavy lip, Belly-Ann and Roderick were counted in such crew.

“He wants you to come hear what he has to say. There is work to do, and a powerful need for capable souls.”

Despite Florence’s prim and structured state and tone -- the relevance and severity was cast in his voice. Even through the haze and smoke of pipe and pouch in the briny pub, his eyes cut through. His words were only buoyed by the marble cast he gave. A contrast, surely, as he was all pressed uniform and stiff collar, shaven face and unlacquered skin. -- But an understanding passed among the scream and huff and heft and lift of the crowd.

“.. I’ve an eye on the lass fifteen paces behind your stick-heel starfish. After I’ve gotten my fill, and if this marrow keeps flowing free to sole, then we’ll consider thumbing tooth with Big.”

Belly-Ann spoke first, and she spoke for both herself and Roderick. Keen and mouthy and saddled with fisticuffs, thin-man’s strength and scrawny draw as he was -- Belly was the mind between the pair. That was clear enough. Roderick nodded in obeyment, trying to eye out the lass that Belly spoke of.

Florence nod once, keeping an eye to them both. After enough of a spelling of seconds to be assured of their validity, he set his coin purse -- full and swollen -- onto the bar top. With a glance to the barman, who looked confused, but quite happy to take the coin and let the rounds keep rolling along, Florence turned and left the pub.

Thomas had said that if he managed to find them and get their mind for it, attention drawn and not quite quartered -- at worst halved -- then they’d know where to find his mooring.

And so Florence returned to his green-galley-gill crew and tried to act like he had just spent the last few hours having a go of his nethers, as had been the implication of the surreptitious voyage, rather than standing around the Coccyx and enduring the smell of spittle, beer and sour rum for hours, waiting.

And Florence waited more, sat upon a beaten old chair on the deck, by the gangway, until late -- late -- into the night, Belly-Ann and Roderick came aboard.

Cussing and ravaging and posturing died quicker than the good Captain could have thought. Florence need only tell them the most intimate of detail and none of the grandeur to gain their fallen faces -- both Roderick and Belly-Ann -- and their nod of trust. The man at the end of Thomas’ harpoon-aim had hurt his child. The man had hurt his child. Far apart as old friends could be in life, some things demanded loyalty no matter what.  -- They would join Thomas’ crew and help round up the disparate old friends -- and some enemies -- that he would need to conjure up a real chance at taking down the Red Lord.

With Roderick and Belly-Ann on board, Florence called to weigh anchor and sail -- back to Stormholme. Their last port of harbour before the hunt was on.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Services No Longer Required

A/N: probably not the kind of smooch you thought you were gonna get with this one, but a smooch nonetheless! This is a one shot with no connection to any other Logan AU or fics I’ve posted. And it ran completely away with itself.

Warning: language, discussion of sexual assault

Word Count: 4,780 (oops)

Prompt: from @gollyderek

You tried not to roll your eyes as you raised your glass to your lips. It was expensive champagne; you knew because you hated it. You could taste the pretension in the way it flaunted its dryness like no liquid should. Swallowing the whole flute in one go, you sucked air through your teeth to cleanse your palate of the cloying wealth. A server came by, skin tight dress painted onto her mathematically perfect proportions, and you plucked another glass from her tray, trading it with your empty one. The sudden fluctuation in weight distribution on the tray would have made the average attendant spill the remaining refreshments, but she adjusted beautifully. Of course she did.

“Are you enjoying your evening, miss?” the server blinked at you from behind lush lashes, her wide eyes bright, her plump lips open at just the right degree.

You peeled your eyes away from the display you’d been failing to avoid across the room, letting them land heavily on the smiling, overpriced piece of equipment in front of you. One manicured finger tapped against the glass you’d snatched as you considered how to answer her, Logan’s hand sliding slowly over the shoulder of the man whose ear he was whispering into catching the corner of your eye. Not at all, but my job requires me to be here so here the fuck I am. “Yeah, sweetheart, it’s a real blast.” You wondered if these fuckbots spoke sarcasm.

She smiled, her round cheeks shrinking her eyes as her lips drew up into a bow. Wonder if he designed this one. Picked out the tits or the mouth or… You didn’t want to think about what else Logan may or may not have requested on the particular model in front of you. “Well if there’s anything you need,” she gave a little giggle that matched the bubbles in the champagne.

This time you didn’t bother trying to hide your eyeroll. “Yeah. If there’s anything I need, doll, I’ll let you know.” She doesn’t speak sarcasm, but I’m fucking fluent. Her saccharine smile left a sour taste in your mouth. You took another sip of champagne to counter it as she flounced off, not a drop spilled as she swayed through the crowded ballroom, hips and ass trailing behind her, barely concealed beneath the shimmering white fabric. Who even falls for that shit anyway? A quick glance in either direction yielded at least seven pairs of eyes glued hungrily to her curves. You wanted to be surprised, but you’d shared a conference table with some of these men, and so you couldn’t be. Come on, Tom, you’re married for fuck’s sake.

You reluctantly returned your eyes to the far side of the palatial space, and were met with Logan’s, waiting for yours. His eyes were brown, you knew, the color of coffee without cream. But right now, his teeth flashing in a grin before clamping around the earlobe he’d just shared a secret with, they were coal black, embers flickering dangerously in their depths. Logan’s grin curved around the man’s flesh as he maintained eye contact with you. The recipient of the bite let his eyes roll closed and you felt your nostrils flare. Oh, come on Logan, really? You drained the contents of your glass and set it on a credenza as your heels clicked across the marble floor, finally unable to just sit back and watch.

.. .. .. .. .. .. ..

It had been almost six months to the day that you’d met Logan Delos. His family attorney had hired you to help “protect his image” after incriminating photos that hinted at a sex scandal were leaked to the press alongside damaging accusations that had been proven false, but still threatened to mar Logan’s- and by extension, Delos’- reputation. You thought you’d known what to expect when it came to Logan; in fact, you had even gone so far as to argue with your boss about taking him on as a client. But Delos Inc. and its subsidiaries had been using your firm for years.

“They’re one of our oldest and most important clients,” Cynthia, your boss had said in an even tone from behind her coffee mug. “And you’re one of the best we’ve got now.” She looked at you, the power in her green eyes magnified by the black rimmed glasses that were perched high on her nose. You let out a miniscule breath and clenched your jaw. You’d just received a promotion that came with a substantial raise due to the work you’d done on the last case you’d been assigned to- a pop star coming back to a wavering fan base after a stint in rehab- and you knew that Cynthia assigning you to the Delos account meant that she was reinforcing her faith in your ability to represent her firm. “This is the sort of thing you’re going to be handling now,” she told you seriously. “Playboys and pill poppers in the public eye with too much money and a penchant for extraordinary mistakes. That something you can handle?” She set her coffee down on the polished mahogany desk between you, observing every little tick and twitch in the muscles of your cheeks and lips. She’d always been good at reading people, you knew, which was why she’d been able to climb as high as she had in her profession.

You knew it was fruitless to try to hide what you were thinking. You shook your head, resigned to the fact that you’d have to take on the case. “Cyn, just tell me if you think he’s guilty before I get into this, okay? I know what the court verdict was but… what do you think?”

Cynthia flattened her hands on the desk and tilted her head. “I’d never send you into a lie, you know that.” You nodded. Yeah, I know, just… “And I have personally worked with Logan Delos in the past, and I can tell you with 100% certainty that there is no way that he is guilty. He takes his work and his career and his company far too seriously to ever jeopardize it. Is he a sharp tongued asshole who loves to flirt and dives headfirst into excess? Absolutely, so you’ll have your hands full. But under all that…” she looked for a more professional term but came up short, rolling her eyes. “Under all that bullshit, he’s a decent man. Smart, too.” She sighed. “Actually one of the few that I like to work with, because he values a professional opinion.”

“Alright, Cyn,” you smoothed your hair back. Guess this is happening. “When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. You’re on the 9am to Los Angeles.” Cynthia slid a packet of information across the desk to you, your travel itinerary on top. “It’s a six month assignment, so we rented out an apartment for you.” Six months? Damn. The longest assignment you’d had prior to this one had been half that time, and you’d been able to stay in NYC for most of it, only travelling with your client when necessary. You flipped through the file as Cynthia continued speaking. “Because of the circumstances, you’ll have a temporary office within the Delos Inc. building. You’ll be working closely with Mr. Delos and several other entities, and you will be expected to attend all public appearances and events.” Working closely with Mr. Delos? You looked up from the information then, hands frozen midway through flipping the page. Usually you worked behind the scenes, putting out fires before they had a chance to spark. Actually attending events and getting that much face time with your clients was something completely new for you. You recovered, looking back down at the file in your hand, eyes scanning the printed packet and going wide when they landed on the keywords: sexual indiscretion, abuse of power, sexual assault.

It’s not true. You reminded yourself. The accuser was found to be lying, and the whole situation had been fabricated or spun grossly out of control; some assistant claiming that Logan had forced himself on her, holding her career over her head in exchange for sexual favors. You flipped another page in the packet and landed on a profile of Logan’s past relationships- a model, an actor, an heiress, another model, a member of the Russian ballet- none of them were Delos employees. Even without having met him, you knew that the accusation didn't fit his M.O.

Another flip of the pages in your hand uncovered photos that made your breath catch slightly. Oh, damn. Yeah this isn’t a man that has to force himself on...anyone. They were tabloid shots, one of Logan getting out of a gleaming black limo, long legs in perfectly tailored dress pants, one hand in the pocket of his jacket, arm bent at an angle that showed off his trim figure. His nutty brown eyes were warm above the blinding smile he wore, and even though it was just a photo you could tell that he moved with confidence from the stance that he took. The second photo was taken in a restaurant, Logan’s long fingers wrapped around a glass that he was using to gesture with. He was speaking animatedly about something to two men and a woman, his eyebrows raised and his mouth open. All three at the table with him were Delos employees according to the notes that were paperclipped to the photo page, and the female intern pictured was the one who had launched the accusations. The two men present had been called on to share their side of the story, both of them making it clear that they had not witnessed any inappropriate behavior at that dinner or at any other time. Your eyes went back to Logan, to the magnetic way that he drew the attention of those around him. Again, it was just a photo, but you could feel his energy coming through the page in the way that he so comfortably carried himself.

You looked up at Cynthia and found her studying your reactions to the photos. “As you can see, he’s quite the catch.” You cursed yourself for the color you felt rising to your cheeks. “And combined with his net worth, you can see why someone would get the idea into their head that he could be threatened for not giving them what they wanted.” You glanced back down at the pictures, and felt a twinge of sympathy for the overwhelmingly attractive young man in them. “The accusations were dismissed, and the intern has been fired and is being sued for defamation of character, but the connotations of a situation like this stick. Delos is concerned that the public memory of this incident will be that Logan can’t be trusted with female employees.” Cynthia rolled her eyes once more. “No one’s worried about his male employees apparently. Sexist fucking country we live in.” You let out a small laugh. From the list of relationships you’d reviewed, it was clear that Logan spent just as much time with men as he did with women. “So, part of the reason why you will be working so closely with him, is to improve that public memory. Of course you’ll offer advice about how he should behave for the next few months to shake this story, tell him to tone down the flirting and all that. But the other benefit is that you’ll prove that Logan Delos can work with a woman without making an advance on her.”

“Well, since I’m not on billboards or runways I’m not really his type, so that should be no problem.” You closed the information packet and set it on the desk. “Thanks for trusting me with this one, Cyn. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. And we’ll have weekly conferences so you can let me know what’s going on. I’m always available if you need advice, but,” she stood and you did the same. “I have no doubts that you can handle this one like a pro.” She’d walked you out of her office then, and the next morning your bags were packed and you were boarding a flight out of the cold and into the sunshine.

The first meeting with Logan confirmed what you’d read in those photos- his confidence was off the charts. He was entirely comfortable in any setting, because he was entirely comfortable in his own skin. He knew who he was and he made no apologies for it. He was equally as proud of his business dealings as he was of his three months of sobriety from heroin and painkillers, and as eager to leave the mess of this situation behind him as he seemed to be to show you around the building. At the end of the tour he’d shown you to your office, just two doors down from his own. You thanked him, and set your things down, starting to settle in. You thought he’d left, but when you turned back around he was still standing in the doorway, an almost tentative look crossing his handsome features. That’s different.

“Can I talk to you for a minute? About all this…” he gestured to the briefcase you’d opened on the desk.

You nodded, holding a hand out to indicate that he should go on. “Sure Mr. Delos-”

“You can call me Logan, it’s fine,” he waved you off, pulling the door closed behind him. You made sure to keep the desk between you, as even though the door was shut, the large window allowed anyone passing through the hall to peek in, and you didn’t want any of them getting any ideas about what was going on.

You nodded again. “Okay, Logan. Look, if you’re worried about my qualifications, I can assure you that-”

He cut you off again by holding up one hand, pointer finger extended. “No, that’s not… Delos has been using your firm forever. I trust Cynthia, so I trust you. I’m sure we’re gonna butt heads, but I know you’re gonna do a great job with this fucking mess.”

You cleared your throat as he kept his eyes on you. “Well, I’m glad to hear that Mr. Del- Logan.”

He took a step closer, and that tentative look was still there. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter and you were struck by the seriousness in his eyes. “I want you to know that none of it was true. I didn’t...I’d never do what she said I did.” I know… You had been skeptical only for a few minutes, before Cynthia put your doubts to rest, before you read through the packet, before you met the man in front of you. “This company means...everything to me, so I’d never do anything that would…” he shook his head, a piece of hair falling loose. He swiped it back and out of his eyes. “But more than that, I’d never use my position to manipulate someone… I’ve been on the other end of that...I respect my employees. And I’d never do anything like that to someone I respect...Hell I’d never do anything like that to anyone, respect or not.” He blinked, but you could see how much he wanted you to believe him in those dark chocolate eyes. “Look, I’ve… I’ve been with people who I’ve worked with before, but only after they’d left the company or after their services ended. I’m...careful about it…” he let out a derisive laugh. “Even if that’s the only thing I’m careful about.”

He was showing you a small crack in the confident facade with this honesty, and even though you suspected that he was right- you’d likely butt heads plenty of times over the next few months as you helped him repair the public opinion of him- you found yourself growing angry that someone would throw such damaging lies at someone as honest and sincere as Logan. You gave him a small smile that you hoped was reassuring. “I know, Logan. I believe you fully. It’s despicable, the lengths some people are willing to go to for a little attention. I truly am sorry that this happened to you, and we’re going to do everything we can to make sure that it’s entirely behind you.”

He nodded, hands in his pockets. “Good. Well, I’ll let you get settled. You know where my office is if you need anything.”

You thanked him, and he left the door to your office open as he left, turning down the hall to go to his own office, double the size of yours as it should be. He’s intense… this is going to be quite the assignment… You blew air out through your lips as you sunk into your desk chair, wasting no time in getting to work on a blueprint for this project: Cut back on the flirting in public, show up to any and all press releases to show that he’s more invested in the business than the business interns, strong emphasis on giving back to the community, large donations to foundations that support equality in the workplace, etc.

The six months had passed much more quickly than you would have guessed. The first fundraising event that you’d attended had left you feeling like Cinderella at the ball… combined with a little bit of fairy godmother as you reminded Logan not to get too physical with his date for the event, and that he should make a speech to draw attention to the cause that was being supported. He’d groaned and called you a buzzkill, but he’d done what you’d asked, and that had pretty much set the tone for every interaction. “You’re no fun,” was a commonly used phrase, and he’d taken to introducing you to certain people as his “own personal killjoy”. You rolled your eyes and played along, but you knew that he appreciated the work that you were doing, because he heeded your every suggestion. Your private meetings with him had become less and less daunting as time went on and the two of you got to know one another, allowing for less walking on eggshells and more nitty gritty facts, eventually causing Logan to eye you suspiciously from across your desk one afternoon, and say “Ya know, I think you know more about my personal life than anyone I’ve ever dated.”

You swallowed the coffee you’d just sipped and stared at him. Despite the sometimes cocky way he’d behaved, and the seemingly unquenchable sex drive, you had to admit that you liked Logan. As a person. He happened to be the most physically appealing person you’d ever laid eyes on, but you were learning things about him that you liked, too. “It’s my job to know these things, Logan.” But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t also enjoy it.

“It won’t be your job forever,” he pointed out. “You gonna just forget all that stuff when you leave? File it away in some cabinet somewhere until I make my next big mistake?” There was a mischievous spark in his eye as he asked.

Couldn’t forget you if I wanted to and you know it. You shook your head. “Still have a few weeks here.”

“Too bad,” he muttered, and you couldn’t tell what he meant- too bad that you were leaving soon? Too bad that you’d have to move on to another client? Too bad that you were still an employee and therefore off limits? Don’t be stupid, he can’t be interested in you when he’s got runway models on speed dial.

You cleared your throat. Change the subject. “Let’s talk about the Delos anniversary party. It’s coming up, and it’s the last event I’ll be on for. I’ve outlined some points that I think are important to stick to…” You watched the twitch of his lips as you brought it back to business. Is that...disappointment?

.. .. .. .. .. .. ..

When it was finally time for the anniversary gala, the unofficial end to your contract with Delos Inc. and your time with Logan, you’d felt tense in a way you’d never felt at the end of an assignment before. Everything had gone perfectly, and Cynthia was more than pleased with the updates that you’d been giving her. But the last week leading up to the gala had been the most contentious with Logan. You’d reminded him that he shouldn’t worry about who to bring, that he should focus on celebrating the Delos brand and the success that the company has enjoyed, to which he replied that he wanted you to be his date.

“Logan. That would destroy everything we’ve been working on this whole time.” Is he fucking serious?

“Would just be nice to take someone to one of these things that actually knew me, that gave a fuck about more than my money.” He shrugged. “Can’t tell me you’re not interested.”

Son of a bitch. “Logan.” Of course I’m interested but that would ruin everything for both of us. “Come on, don’t be ridiculous.”

He narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together. “No. Wouldn’t want to be ridiculous. Alright then, I’ll see you at the party. You can take one of the Hosts as your date if you want.” Hitting the “want” with a little more aggression than necessary, he turned on his heel and exited your office then, leaving you speechless and confused. What the fuck was that about?

For the most part, he’d stuck to the plan for the party. He’d chosen a tried and true date- a model named Raife that he’d been seen with plenty of times and who had never tried to exploit him or use him or do or say anything damaging. He’d made the speech that you’d written, he’d shook all the right hands and refrained from drinking too heavily. He hadn’t occupied the same square foot as you the entire evening, though you’d felt his eyes on you plenty of times, and they seemed pleased that you hadn’t come with anyone- even more pleased at your seeming distaste for the perfection of the Hosts that were present. All in all, he’d been behaving perfectly all night. But now that the party was winding down, getting into its final hour, he seemed hell-bent on raising a red flag. The intimate way he was interacting with Raife finally got your attention, and you’d seen him grin as you set your empty glass down on your way across the room.

You cleared your throat as you came to stand before him, arms crossed over your chest. “Logan, can I have a word with you?”

He remained seated, one arm draped over Raife’s shoulder. Instead of answering you, he nudged his date and turned to him. “See? What’d I tell you? She’s here to yell at me.” He looked up at you, shit eating grin on his face. “Go ahead, then.”

“A private word, please, Logan?” You arched one eyebrow to show that you meant business.

“I am in trouble,” he joked to Raife, who matched Logan’s smile with one of his own. Despite the teasing and the hard time he was obviously trying to give you, Logan stood and followed you out a nearby door into the empty hallway. A clock on the wall showed that it was just minutes to midnight and the end of the event.

“Logan, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” You asked, thoroughly annoyed with him for how he’d been acting ever since you told him that you couldn’t be his date a few days prior. “You’re just throwing everything we worked on away? Why?”

“So it worked?” His eyes flicked up to the clock and then back to you as a smirk grew on his face.

You sighed, utterly exasperated. You liked Logan. You’d come to think of him more as a friend than a client, learning about him, learning how to deal with him- how to deal with him when he was being a shit like he was now. But you also liked Logan, and because of that, you couldn’t wait for this job to be over, to be back in New York and far away from the thing you wanted most but couldn’t have. “What are you talking about? What worked?”

He watched the second hand tick up towards the twelve on the clock before taking a step towards you. “You’re jealous.” He licked his bottom lip, running his tongue along it.

“Jealous? Logan, what-”

Another step. “Raife knows I just needed someone for the night, you know. And technically,” the clock chimed midnight as he pointed to it, eyes firmly on you. “Technically, your services are no longer required here. You don’t work for me or with me or…”

“Logan. You can’t just…” you shook your head. Is he serious? He wanted my attention? Because he… “Logan, we can’t.” I want to, though.

He took one more step until there were only inches between you. He was careful not to touch you, but you felt your skin tingle at the thought that he was close enough to. “Why not?” he asked softly, softer than you’d heard him speak for the entire six months, much softer than the tone he’d taken with you in the past few days. “Why can’t we… I like you...you...you know me…”

I do know you, Logan, I know you too well. “Logan…”

He stood straight and put on his boardroom face, speaking your name in an authoritative tone. “Your services at Delos are no longer required.” He held the face for a few seconds, then let his smirk slide back across his lips. “And as such, I’d like to take you out.”

You swallowed, head spinning. What would Cynthia say? Is this even happening? I can’t, he’s...I mean, he’s...goddamnit. “Logan, I… my career, I… I can’t see my clients, I-”

“I’m not your client anymore. And I don’t plan to need your company’s services ever again...As boring as the last six months have been,” you rolled your eyes and so did he and despite yourself you felt a grin forming. “I’ve learned a lot from you...not just about how to save face, but about how I deserve to be treated and talked to and…”

“You deserve respect, Logan, and happiness and-”

“Then come out with me. Please. No one’s ever treated me like you have and...you didn’t just do what the job required, you bothered to get to know me. You gave a shit about me and not just the bottom line. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think you were gorgeous.” He dropped his voice. “And I never lie.”

“Logan, you don’t know how much I want to say yes, it’s just-”

“Then say yes. We don’t have to go out right away, you can go back to New York and then I can-” he shook his head. “I don’t know, I’ll come out there in a few weeks and it won’t be connected to work at all. Just...just say yes.”

You thought it through as much as you could with two glasses of champagne and Logan’s intense stare swirling through your brain. If we wait a while...if I go back home first… if I’m no longer connected to him for work… fuck it. He was over the top and loud and unapologetic. He was magnetic and attractive and you were just as enamoured by his personality as you were by his smile and his eyes. You liked Logan Delos, more than you thought possible when you first heard that you’d be working with him, and he was standing before you telling you the exact same thing. “Yes, Logan.”

His mouth dropped open but he snapped it shut, eyes warming and smile growing. “Yes?”

You laughed and nodded. “Yes. I’ll go out with you. In two weeks. In New York. And Logan?”

“Yeah?” His smile changed the tone of his voice with how genuine it was.

“I never want to work for you again.”

He laughed then, checking both sides of the hall before taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. They lingered on your knuckles and you felt warmth spread from your hand, up your arm and throughout your chest. It was the most chaste kiss he’d ever given anyone, but the way he kept his eyes locked on yours as he let his teeth graze your skin told you that he was capable of much more. “Deal,” he promised as he pulled away, fingertips brushing your palm before letting go of your hand.

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @suchatinyinfinity @agent-bossypants @lexxierave @thesumofmychoices @belladonnarey @ymariejp @obscurilicious @ms-delos @songtoyou @gollyderek @traeumerinwitzhelden @breanime @drinix

[0bfvscate]

I’ve been working very hard to keep my Good Omens hyperfixation off my main writing blog, but I  accidentally wrote a crossover fic with @orbitaldropkick‘s Kill Six Billion Demons, and I like it. So here it is, submitted for general consideration; one of the many stories of 3 Principality Aziraphale Who Guards the Eastern Gate of God’s Immortal Garden With a Flaming Sword, and the demon who much prefers to go by ‘Crowley’.

I like to imagine Aziraphale is wearing something strongly reminiscent of khaki shorts in this universe.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” said 3 Principality Aziraphale Who Guards the Eastern Gate of God’s Immortal Garden With a Flaming Sword. “What was it you were saying again?”

“I said that one went down like a lead balloon.” Said Anthony J Jonah Jameson Crowley Crawly Esquire the Third, Flame of the Sunken Star.

“Yes, it was quite unnerving to find your mask smashed to pieces against the entrance of the maze,” the angel said, worrying at an uneven, protruding quartz crystal on his thumb. “What happened?”

“I was under contract with a sorcerer. He wanted to steal from the Maze of Arun Dat,” he said. 

Arun Dat was remembered most fondly as a master mathematician, but he had a special penchant for labyrinths. Always liked them, never got the chance to explore one himself. He did, however, draw them— copious paper labyrinths, all over his study. Labyrinths like mandalas, meditations that drove men mad trying to plot. When he retired he dedicated his life to finally building a real labyrinth, with the intention of making one impossible to crack. It was rumored to hold a reward at its core, although no record existed among the plans, and Arun Dat was not so wealthy that he could afford to dump the last of his life’s savings just to die with a legacy.

Principality bought them dumplings to share, and left them sitting between them on the stone steps. Crowley wasn’t feeling particularly hungry. He felt small and blue.

“Did you get to the core?” 3 Principality asked.

Crowley shook his head. “No, the team fell apart when we got inside. Three days in, all the humans are gnashing their teeth and accusing each other of old grudges. Turned out the summoner had a habit of writing bad checks. Stuck it out for a week before turning back.”

“Oh, well, the sorcerer must not have liked that.”

An uncomfortable silence stretched, filled with the uncomfortable fact that it was abundantly clear the sorcerer didn’t take well to Crowley’s intuition. 

Crowley stretched his back and gave a loud, theatrical yawn. “I’m glad to be back so soon. Who did the summoning?”

“—er,” the Principality said, chewing his peach dumpling. He had half his helm off, which left the wisps of his eternal flame to curl like hair around his head. Through the eyeholes of his faceplate, he seemed very uncomfortable. “—well—“

Crowley was struck dumb. “You?”

3 Principality Aziraphale fidgeted with the quartz on his thumb. “Well, I was the only one around. I knew your name and your mask, and it wasn’t fair—“

“Angel!” Crowley shouted. “Bloody stupid fool! Brainlessly rockheaded skull, tha! Tha formst a contract with the formless flame, me, to feast on tha light? How could tha be so reckless!?”

The basis of their friendship was a genuine interest and respect for mortal life, paired with a consequential distrust for their respective kin. Aziraphale couldn’t understand why his brothers were so against the wonderfully clever creatures who taught themselves how to traverse the Wheel, and Crowley was always a bit squeamish about treating sapient life like fresh, bleeding meat. For several thousands of years he’d tried to avoid the White-Eyed Woman and the City of Devils underneath, and as a result, spoke the Black Speech with less ease and fluency than others did. 

“Well, you’re my friend,” Aziraphale said, sounding rather put out. “You’d do the same for me.”

“Wouldn’t have the same implications, would it?” Crowley snapped. “Doesn’t have the same long reaching complications, now does it!?”

“Oh, mortals summon demons all the time without any ill effects,” Aziraphale said airly. “And look at how weak their little flames are! Why, this might be the most beneficial contract you’ve ever filled.”

“Oh yes I’m very lucky to find such a gullible angel to feed on.”

“Not to worry, the contract didn’t have any set terms. All you took was enough to get you started.” 3 Principality said cheerfully.

“Tha moth-eaten cottonhead— so you’re the one who came up with this stupid name!?”

“It’s harder then it looks to name an undomesticated flame.” The angel said.

“What’s this ‘Flame of the Sunken Star’ business!?”

“Good friend of mine, awaiting reincarnation in the void. Didn’t think he’d mind.”

“An angel’s— !” Crowley choked, glasses sliding down his nose. His sunglasses were, likewise, smashed by the furious sorcerer that summoned him, but Aziraphale had taken the time to find the make and model Crowley preferred. He’d known demons tended to be smaller after banishment, and tried to purchase accordingly, but the pair barely hung on by their hooks at the back of Crowley’s ears. “That’s the first one I’m shedding. Imagine if your brothers found out you gave a demon an angel’s name.”

“Don’t think they’d care, really,” Aziraphale said, with a bitter hint to his voice. He took a particularly large bite of dumpling and chewed aggressively. “Spend all their time plotting the mass extinction of all life in the cosmos. Call it ‘cleansing the wheel’, they do. Honestly, to hear them talk, you’d think God would pop right back into existence when they‘re done. ‘Good work, chaps, really couldn’t have done it without you’. Can’t expect them to bother with one pesky demon with a plan like that.”

Crowley drew his tongue against his teeth. It was forked, the way it always was. Funny what stayed and what changed between incarnations. 

An awkward silence fell, interrupted by an even more awkward cough.

“Glad you don’t agree with ‘em.” Crowley added.

“Cheers,” Aziraphale said wearily, staring out at the street in front of them. People walked by with barely a glance down, on their own business. Men, women and people of all genders bustling about, some with bags or other luggage, some without. Some in fine clothes, others a bit more plainly dressed. “At least we have a love for life in common.”

“Oh, sure. Lovely, smart mortals. They make clothes and tellies and gates to bridge the spokes of the wheel. Love what they’ve done with the place, me.” Crowley agreed. He crossed his legs and leaned back, in a much smaller approximation of his usual lean. 

“Might be good for business to hang around a copper for a few years.” Crowley mused.

“Former copper, you mean.” 

“Right,” Crowley muttered. “The bookshop.”

“It’s quite fun, actually. You’ll see.”

“Don’t sell many books, do you?”

“I sell enough to get by— oh! Look at that little family!” Aziraphale said excitedly, clasping his hands in delight. “Reach heaven through violence, my dears! May your children grow strong enough to cave the skies! —anyway, the real fun is in appraisals.”

Crowley sighed. It was a sigh too heavy for the small, bony body he inhabited, a sigh borne of many thousands of years walking the spokes of the Red City. He, too, had been present in God’s Immortal Garden. It was where they’d first met.

“--going to estates to view the books, oh my dear you’ll love it. There are so many books of magic with minds of their own! They’re not very clever, sadly, but it’s so funny to see a completely artificial burgeoning soul!”

Crowley’s attention was already starting to drift. He’d never much liked the idea of settling down but, well, he owed the angel. And they got along well enough. Perhaps Aziraphale was right, and he’d enjoy doing book appraisals, or scaring the money out of customers, or some other aspect of keeping a bookshop. Perhaps the books with a sliver of sentience had their own burgeoning soul-flames, he thought mildly as Aziraphale kept up a steady stream of excited chatter.

[fightevilandthengetblownup]

FIC COMP: Additional Kidverse

#1 - In Which A Hunter Meets Someone He Really Shouldn’t

The hunt wasn’t like anything Bill had chased down before. The killing style was sporadic, with only the weapon style and sheer amounts of gore left behind as any sort of connection. One victim would be found with her throat sliced apart like strings and a trail of blood disappearing through her cleavage. Another would have portions of her skin seemingly peeled away - as though skinning a chicken - and then her muscles carefully cut out to leave only ghostly white bones. Then there would be the ones, a mishmash of brutality with teeth missing, slices and cuts trailing all over, and bones broken into dust. Bill figures those were the girls who put up a struggle, though their families said they were docile and sweet, with the only other connection the hunks of golden hair that would encircle the mess.

Tracking the monster was proving difficult, though the hunter was finally able to decipher just how long it stayed in an area and how often it would return to the scene of the crime. Three girls, that was the limit to returning, though the number of unfound bodies or ones who would get away without a tale to tell could make that larger. But three dead victims was the number before it would move somewhere else, or at least thats what Bill hypothesised as he settled into the slightly sticky faux leather booth of some swanky cocktail lounge.

With the number of beautiful women around, it wasn’t hard for him to see it as a feeding ground for the monster he was tracking. The handful of  confident enough women that had approached him about buying a drink or sharing the remainder of his booth would make it extra easy for it to find a choice of meal and fun. He’d rebuked most requests with a shallow glare or shake of the head, grunting out apologies or that he was waiting for someone. Bill was a married man after all - or at least he still felt like it, even though his wife was currently tucked up in bed with her new man several thousand miles away. And the number of girls who just reminded him of his daughter these days made his head spin; he was too old, even if he didn’t seem like it.

Shrugging down further into the booth, the hunter sips at his drink, the burn of the cheap bourbon going down easily as he looks about for it. The grainy security footage - a tall, dark haired man in a finely tailored suit with a razor-sharp smile with each of the found victims - the only identifiable connection as none of the employees recognise or remember the events of the night each time. A quick glance around the cocktail bar though springs up at least five men who could fit its shoes.

One particularly sleazy looking man caught his attention over the others, as he leant in to whisper into a giggly blonde’s ear before sending a wink at the friend beside her. The predatory gaze as the man handed the pair a vibrant pink Cosmopolitan each and shifted almost against the blonde made the hair on the back of the hunter’s neck stand up. Whoever it was, that girl was in trouble and Bill wasn’t about to stand for it.

Abandoning his booth, bourbon and coke half empty and left on the sticky black surface, he makes his way past the small groups of people huddling around, flirting and laughing and enjoying themselves, to lay his hand on the bar - shoved in between the man and his prey as though he was attempting to call down the bartender.

“Hey what do you think you’re doing?” The angry snap of the man caught in his ear as he waited, knifes edge ready to be snagged from under his t-shirt where it was hiding in his belt loop if need be. It was too public, really, but Bill didn’t really care so much about that.

Feigning surprise, the blond glanced out the corner of his eye at the man, before looking away as though dismissing him. If this was the monster, he wasn’t very intimidating. If it was just a slimeball, he’d just get the trash thrown out.

“Oi, I’m talking to you, asshole. What the fuck’s your problem?” Bill bit down on a snort at the offended tone his actions brought up, both ladies on his other side looking confused. Though the darker haired of the pair seemed visibly relieved to have someone seperating her friend from the man. “Me and the ladies here were having a good night, and now you’re butting in and rui-”

“My problem? My problem is guys who prey on women just out for some fun and dropping roofies in their drinks.” The hunter growled the words out, eyes flicking between the brightly coloured drinks and the man’s shocked looking face, and what he thought was a guilty flush in the dim blue lighting. Drumming his fingers against the bar, bicep flexing tightly in front of the objector, Bill levels a glare towards him before adding venomously, “Or /worse/.”

The stammered objections were all it took to clear the man of being it in his mind, but that did not stop the blond from turning his back and gesturing for the ladies drinks. Both quickly hand over the both before scurrying away while Bill gets his second drink and moves to return to his booth as the bartender moves to throw the embarrassed man out.

It’s not until the hunter is sitting down again that he glances around again to suss out the remaining candidates to spot one staring right back at him. Perhaps making such a move wasn’t the smartest, but if he’d have to wait a night or two to pin down this beast because of it, so be it. Staring the other down, Bill waits until the man seemingly gives up and turns his attention to a bubbly brunette who just passed him by before picking up his drink to return to observing.

“That was an interesting choice,” The voice seemingly appears out of nowhere, coming from the empty side of the booth. Jerking his head up, Bill smothers the surprise at seeing the man he’d stared down suddenly before him when he had just been across the room. It wouldn’t do to appear unsuspecting, and he had known the monster might be able to pull such tricks. What does surprise him though is the brunette simpering against his side nearest the wall, small tan fingers playing with the monster’s tie and mumbling to herself as the thing’s hand splays across the open back of her dress. “Playing your cards out in the open like that, just so, what? Two drunk ladies could make their way home without something nasty happening between here and their sheets?”

He shrugs a shoulder, raising the glass to his lips for a moment and taking only the smallest of sips, thinking over his response. His fingers itched to reach for his knife and plunge it into the creature’s heart, but with the girl there he couldn’t make such a risk. “Only decent thing to do.” Bill scrubs a hand against his chin, the thick bristles of his beard tickling faintly as he eyes off the creature giving him the exact same back.

The monster’s mouth twists into an almost sadistic grin, fingers raking across and leaving a trail of red marks down the girl’s back. “Decent? Yes, but very foolhardy. I can see where Joanna gets it from.” His hand definitely twitches to grab his knife, sliding off the table, only to pause at the biting laughter from the other. “The penchant for bringing weaponry to civilized conversation too. Like daddy like daughter…”

“I don’t know what or who you’re talkin’ about, creature, but you’re going to wish you’d stopped sooner when I’m finished with you.” He hisses the words out between his teeth, fingers flexing over where his knife is hidden as he glares across the small table separating them. The brunette doesn’t seem to be noticing the tension between the men, her fingers curling inside of the monster’s shirt and rubbing against him with her cheek. Bill swallows back the bile boiling up his throat, jerking his head towards the blissed out woman. “Speakin’ of stopping - you’re going to send the little lady on her way now, before I show you out, shadow.”

That actually gets a laugh out of the monster, the sound like nails on a chalkboard for Bill to hear. If the girl’s actions were making him uncomfortable before, it was nothing to how he felt watching the shadow shake his head and slide his hand underneath the open side of the flimsy black dress to cup at her chest. “Well now, I think that’s up for her to decide, don’t you think, Harvelle? Darling, did you want to leave or stay here with me and this?” The fabric of her dress bunched up across the back of his hand every time the monster made a move, and it twisted as he seemingly pinched her nipple and went back to teasing her at a moan. The shadow’s face was covered in unbridled glee beneath the smirk as he raised a brow back at Bill. “I’ll take that as staying here. Though the last time I did that around a Harvelle, the noise was much more pleasing - squeaky and breathless, with just a hint of desperation.”

Blue eyes widen in shock and rejection, his hand slipping off of his side to reach across for the shadow, as though on auto-pilot. It wasn’t like he believed the words, or could even reconcile what the monster meant, but it was poison and had to be stopped right away. Bill had heard this one had connections back to the thing his daughter was playing house with, but that was all he’d heard, and the idea of them swapping stories or things that could bring such comments out made him taste blood. The constrictions of the booth halt him in his tracks though, staring hatefully at the monster as his fingertips barely brush the edge of its tie before he’s resettling back down.

“Now that was just rude, I never thought I’d say this but sweetie has better manners than someone it seems. Never did get to see if she takes after her mother, you know.” The shadow barely blinks in surprise at him, pinning the hunter back as he rages internally. Bill wants to strangle it; wrap his hands around the meatsuits neck and strangle it with iron and pure force. He could tell the monster knew it though, as he grabbed and twisted the almost purring brunette around next to him, almost sitting her on his lap as he retracts his hand only to cover her from outside her clothes to the same reactions. “Maybe you could give me a helping hand though. Did your wife like having her hair pulled like this?” The shadow almost pets the young woman’s hair back before yanking it hard back, exposing her pale neck.

Bill’s hands turn into white knuckled fists on the table top, eyes fixated on the stolen face rather than the twisting, whimpering woman across from him. “You’ve got no idea what you’re lying about, you sack of filth.” The bark of laughter his words get just brings out a snarl, lip curling to one side as the hunter glances around to see if anyone was listening in or watching them, noticing at all what was happening only to see the other patrons all looking elsewhere, as though the booth and the three of them were invisible. “Unhand the girl and let her go home, and I /won’t/ slice your throat open here and now.”

The shadow doesn’t give him a second glance though, shifting to press his mouth against the woman’s neck, biting sharply down as he moves along from her jawline to her collarbone. There’s a dark glimmer at some spaces of blood as he pulls back, hand tightening in her hair again as he seemingly inspects the handiwork, before replying offhandedly, “Sweetie once slit a hunters throat for me. He looked just like you even. It was beautiful and tasted so sweet all that self-loathing and disgust. Made getting her all hot and bothered so much more satisfying later.” Biting down at the woman’s clavicle sharply, the shadow finally catches the other’s stare. “But I should leave something for her to tell you about one day. When your trying to reconcile with her and her little pet, you can ask her about the other monsters she’s let plow right into her and focus your disappointment all over again. Daddy’s little girl really isn’t that good at /hunting/ monsters…”

Bill snarls back, shoving the idea away that there would even be a glimmer of truth in the monster’s words. Monsters are like demons, they lie to get a reaction, and he refused to buy into this one’s tales. “Good try, monster, but while her taste might be questionable with that thing hanging around - I know she’s raised better than the likes of you.” Unclenching his fists, he reaches for his drink and tosses it back as the woman beside the creature wiggles about and moans about wanting his hands back on her, the liquor calming the revolution being led in his stomach with the sharp dousing. His other hand fishes out his dagger, the iron blade heavy in his palm one moment and then lodged into the creature’s sternum the next. “Now /run away/, asshole, before I get my other blade out.”

The reaction is instantaneous - a hiss of pain from the monster, the whimper of surprise from the brunette and the squeak of the faux leather - as the shadow jerks the blade out of where it had stuck in the bone, throwing it onto the table, and then disappearing. Bill let out a breath at how lucky he was to have it returned without having to hunt after it, though sucks it straight back in as the almost-victim starts looking around in confusion and distress.

Sighing to himself, Bill tosses back the remainder of his previous glass before starting on damage control. He might not have killed the thing, but he got a message out and saved the frightened young woman from a death worse than fate had planned for her. Tucking away his knife, the hunter shoves the monster’s words away too - in a little box to go to the back of his mind for another day.

#2 - Sick Days

It wasn’t the first time either of the children had been sick - the memory of Fiona’s first fever at a few months old that had left him terrified of another loss could come to mind easily, as could the time Billy’d been brought home by the whiskered old hunter with a stomach flu that made nothing stay down at all after staying with his grandparents for a week - but it was the first where the voice of reason wasn’t there to calm him down and both children were tucked into blankets on the sofa instead of at school.

Jo had been away for the last week, following a rather bloody trail of a demon across three states already, and had called in the night before last that she wouldn’t be likely to be home for a while longer. The only things that stopped Grey from going to join her were the youngsters napping and knowing that she wasn’t alone on her hunt. When she’d asked how things were at home, Billy only had a slightly blocked nose and Fiona was stilling running around the back yard with Nana without issue. As he poured out two fresh glasses of OJ, he couldn’t help but wish she’d called a little later and be on her way back now.

“Da-daddy?!” The croaky shout from the lounge didn’t surprise him - the little girl’s voice had all but disappeared before bed the night earlier, and he’d been on at her to keep quiet at least for a day or two. Fiona was usually good at following instructions, especially when her father gave them to her, but being sick brought out the same bratty qualities her mother had sometimes.

“Coming..”

His shout back as he fumbled the bottles of cough syrup (raspberry flavored for her and cola flavored for Billy) into his arms amongst the box of tissues and two glasses of juice, came at the same time as the very painful sounding coughs from the lounge. The groan after it as Grey made his way in made it clear that the coughing was from the older boy.

Billy had come home from school with a stuffy nose and a bit of a fever two days earlier, the school nurse had called and asked Grey to come and pick up the fourth grader after he’d fallen asleep at his desk and his teacher had been concerned it wasn’t the usual inattentiveness in the boy. It had gone quickly pear shape from there and the next morning his voice was gone aside from the hoarse coughing and grunts as the flu sunk its claws into him.

The little girl beside him, curled into a ball under her fuzzy purple blanket at the other end of the couch as she stared up at her father with watery eyes, had caught it by mid-morning that very day and both children had been parked in the stifling warmth of the lounge room beneath blankets, fleece and a very warm  dog ever since.

It hadn’t worried Grey much until both were sick, Billy often faking sick or catching some crazy virus from anywhere possible all the time; but at least he didn’t need to concern himself with trying to keep them both separate. Keeping the curious and loving five year old away from her older brother was hard any day of the week without including his inability to run away.

“You doing okay, Fi?” He asked gently as he poured the correct dosage of syrup into the measuring cup for the little girl, palm pressed to her forehead to check her temperature. Still hot, but not as bad as it had been. Grey petted her hair softly while she drank her medicine and then took the small glass of juice for her own. “It’ll feel better soon, I promise. Mommy’ll be home soon too, and she knows how to make everything better.” It might have been a bit of a white lie, but Fiona was too fogged to be able to pick up on that - the small range of powers that he and Jo had noticed in the little girl extending to at least being able to sense someone’s uncertainty or untruthfulness.

The shadow might have gotten away with the lie to Fiona, the dark haired girl’s head dipping in acknowledgement and happiness as she sipped at her drink and got tucked in tighter beneath her blanket, but the knowing look the older boy sent him made Grey sure that at least one of the children knew their mother wasn’t due home for a while. Unlike his sister, Billy knew more about what kind of ‘work’ his mother did, despite only being close to ten years old, and exactly how unpredictable it could be. When Jo had missed his first Parent Teacher Night of the year finishing off a rugaru, the young boy had just said it sucked that he couldn’t have gone with her instead to make it quicker.

As Grey poured out the brown liquid for the blond boy, he didn’t hide the smile on noticing the sight of a worn out blue blanket hidden underneath the doona as Billy shifted about and leant over to make his sister more comfortable as she fell back to sleep. The boy grabbed the glass out of her hand, still mostly full of the brightly colored juice and leant awkwardly to set it down before he took the cough syrup cup from Grey. The blanket had been with Billy since he was born, the same one that Bobby had gifted to mother and son in the hospital, and even if he was beginning to behave like a brat towards everyone as the revelation of what Grey (and in turn, Fi) was was starting to be understood, the shadow couldn’t stop from finding the boy’s care for his sister and the rest of the family sweet.

“Thank you..” The boy croaked the words out, followed quickly by “bleurgh”, as he handed the medicine cup back. Green eyes were just as watery as his sister’s brown as Billy fought to keep the liquid down and another great cough back, dark bags evident beneath his eyes as Grey set everything down on the coffee table that was doubling for a medicine cabinet and drinks bar.

Billy didn’t do sick well - staying in bed or one spot for a long time was as hard for him as it was for his mother - and that he was willing to let the older man help him to lay down and under the feather quilt spelled out to Grey just how sick the boy was. If neither child seemed better at all in the next twelve hours he was going to have to let Jo know to come home early, hunt be damned. That’s what Grey told himself as he stroked the little boy’s blond locks as he too fell asleep, certain that Jo would very likely murder him if she came home to the kids in the same condition they were in now without being warned.

—

“Don’t you dare get up from those pillows, mister, or I will make you have a round of syrup as well. /Without/ the sugar to chase it down.” Jo’s voice was firm as she pointed at the other, the authoritative tone only a little weakened by the gentle look on her face. This was definitely one of the worse things to come home to.

She knew that the kids were sick, but she wasn’t sure how bad it had all been until she got home and had to take over. The berating Grey had gotten for not using the chest rubs on the children’s backs or pulling the humidifier out of the linen closet or making the chicken soup recipe her mother used to make her and she had written down for such occasions was only softened by how exhausted the man had been as she got back home.

Within two hours of her getting through the door there was a large pot of soup made, heated and served, and the pillows had all been layered and fluffed correctly to make the correct backing to avoid strains and pains as she bustled about fixing everything else while Grey rested. It was due singularly to the fact that it took something extreme to make him sick that she wasn’t dosing him with cough medicines, flu remedies and rubbing vapor rub across his chest.

By the time she had gotten back from halfway across the country, leaving the demon to be tracked down by the Winchesters’ alone, both Billy and Fi were well and truly on the mend and well enough to be going to school the next morning. Grey on the other hand looked like death walking, and Jo’d barely been able to conceal her amusement at the look of relief she’d gotten as she relieved him of his duties and instead sent both the children and him up to bed to rest.

“Oh come on..I’m not even sick.” Grey argued back, hand reaching out sluggishly to wrap around her wrist as she sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. “Cough syrup wouldn’t do anything-”

“Except taste disgusting and teach you a lesson 'bout not callin’ me earlier, you silly man.” Jo flicked him back forcing him to recline back into the mountain of pillows as she loosened her hand from his grip and stood back up. “You, stay put. The kids are tucked in, and /you/ deserve a break, super dad.” It hadn’t taken much for her to get the children into bed, a promise to be there in the morning and to make pancakes if they went straight to bed - /with/ chocolate sauce because they’d behaved so well for their daddy - was all she needed. Unlike getting the other to get into bed.

When it looked like he may try to comment further, she leant in to press her lips to his forehead before she gave a low whistle and waited for the tell-tale sound of heavy footsteps up the stairway before she added teasingly. “And Nana’ll make sure you get it, same as the kids.” Jo smirked as the heavy animal lopped its way up onto the bed and across Grey’s lap, and headed down to tidy up the lounge and kitchen, ignoring the complaints and groans of the tired man left behind.

#3 - Adventures In Camping

“C'mon you two, keep up or I’ll make you set up the tents all your own.”

The elder teenager barely bit down the snort at the call, knowing full well that even if he and the younger boy took too long to catch up they wouldn’t be forced to put it altogether by themselves. The older woman might holler and bark out orders, but it was his birthday present and if they dragged their feet enough the tents would be up, or at least mostly up, by the time they got there.

“Comin’ Mom!” Billy called as he moved along and hopped up onto the large fallen tree that the other had just passed by, holding out a hand to help the younger boy up and over. “Dylan’s just having some trouble with the tree!”

“I am not-” The younger boy snapped back as he scrambled up the side of the tree, slapping Billy’s hand out of the way despite the fallen trunk behind a few inches higher than his head off the ground.

He was determined, Billy would give him that, and as the other jumped down the other side to take off after the older hunter, the birthday boy turned to look around the woods they were trekking through. It wasn’t somewhere he’d expected to be coming for the weekend when he asked a few months back to be allowed on his first hunt for his sixteenth birthday; and he’d not predicted that his Uncle William would let his son come along as well. Sure the kid got to live on the road with his dad, which the elder had envied for a few months when he first met the kid a few years back, but he didn’t get to go to a steady school or hobbies that weren’t making salt rounds or cleaning weapons. He didn’t get a little sister either. Billy missed having her the most going to stay with Grandpa Bobby and Grandma Jody. But the kid seemed as green around the edges as he was himself, which at least put them on even footing as they caught up to his mom.

He was right about the tents - the poles for the larger frame were already assembled and the blonde woman had the canvas laid out, waiting for the extra hands to arrive. Billy smiled, reaching out to pluck a stray leaf from her hair as he moved to help erect the poles. “So much for making us put it together, Mom.”

“Well I’d have been waiting all night if I decided to wait for you and Dylan,” Jo quipped back as the pair moved in tandem to thread the poles through the eyes of the tent. She glanced towards the younger boy who’d already shuffled around to start getting a fire pit together, quirking an eyebrow up at him as she turned back. “What were you two doing back there, marking your territory on the way past?”

The older boy bit down a laugh at his mother’s joke until he noticed the bright red blush spreading across the other boy’s cheek - letting out a guffaw as he grabbed the pole to tug through and set into the holster. “Not like you could, just thought we should do our manly duty.” He wasn’t surprised to hear Dylan spluttering, nor for the next rod to tap swiftly against the back of his head as retribution. His granddad always said the mouth on him would get him into trouble someday.

“Best keep that to a minimum around the camp site then, Billyboy. We don’t want to go attractin’ to ourselves just yet, now do we?” Jo chastised gently, though the mirth at his mucking around was evident enough as they completed putting together the tent for the two boys and moved to set up the one person tent for her beside the larger one. They moved in easily in tandem, something that made him quietly proud to find he could match easily with the smaller woman. As they brushed their hands off and set about unpacking for the three of them, Dylan gave a whoop of success as the fire pit turned warm and virtually smokeless, earning him a ruffle of his own blond locks from the older hunter.

Things settled down easily though as dusk came and went - despite neither boy being very experienced at hunting both had gone camping before enough to work together well under the hunter’s guidance, and Jo had worked up a pretty decent stew and warmed rolls for the three of them as well as having set up the proper wardings about the camp. Over dinner she answered questions easily and handed out pages to quiz both teens on.

While it wasn’t something exciting like a vampire nest or a wendigo or coven (all things Billy had been silently hoping for despite the horrified look his dad made at the idea that Jo would take him hunting at all of sixteen years - the yelling that he could hear from down the stairs the night she’d told him they were going hunting had been loud and angry enough to find Fiona crawling into bed to hide from it made him sure it wouldn’t be), that they were hunting a creature with as much blood on its hands as a werewolf every full moon made him really excited. Dylan didn’t seem as enthused about chasing down a demonic eagle that would entice people away under the guise of a baby’s voice; even a little scared from Billy’s perspective.

“Okay, last toilet break, boys - we’ve got to get some shut eye before we try to track this thing after midnight.” Billy started from looking over the pages at his mother’s words, tucking the pages away as they all got ready for a nap while she stayed up for the first guard shift.

“But Mom, it’s so ear-"

"Don’t even start with me about that, you’ll regret it if you don’t rest now.” The older woman finished scrubbing their dishes in a pot of water and suds before pouring the lot outside of the salt ring around the camp, getting everything sorted so that they wouldn’t be attracting any type of creature that wasn’t warded off by the ring or other markings either. Dylan had been fascinated watching her set up the camp, asking far too many questions about the stones and hex bags that were buried around their camp for Billy to think that his dad used such things himself, and even now as both boys were guilted into withdrawing into their tents the boy was keeping a keen eye on what the older hunter did with the same hunger reflected in his own eyes. “Now, goodnight boys. I’ll wake Dylan up for the second watch in a few hours, okay loves?”

“Night Mom.”

“G-good-goodnight!”

The taller teen zipped up the mouth of the tent behind them, the faint glow of both of their watches the only light in the slightly squishy space as both boys tuck in for the night. As he turned over to face towards the other, Billy frowned a little at the faint darker blush and uncertain smile on the younger’s face. “What the hell dude?”

“What?” Dylan rolled onto his own side, mumbling back quietly as they could hear the faint sounds of Jo moving around outside the tent and then the further noises of the forest waking up. “I didn’t do anything!”

“G-goodnight! What’s with that?” Billy mimicked back, smirking a little but in gentle ribbing. “You want me to ask Mom to tuck you in too?”

“Shut..shut up.” The younger one snapped, flush growing further as he shrunk down into his sleeping bag. It took everything in Billy not to laugh and prod further as the other turned over to go to sleep, though rolling onto his other side as well he couldn’t help but feel bad for the other. He’d not heard about William’s partner or Dylan’s mom before and giving a quiet sigh - thinking back on the months spent away from his own family even if he still had Grandma Jody and Grandpa Bobby all the time - he couldn’t help but feel bad for the other boy though too proud to apologise as they both attempted to fight their body clocks to get to sleep.

He barely woke when the other got woken up for watch, but when he did it was to the sound of crying somewhere outside. Rousing up, Billy rubbed at his eyes as he unzipped the tent and crawled out. “Wha’s the noise ‘bout, Dill?” He yawned around the words as he zipped it back up behind him, noticing the fire had fully died down to embers and his mother’s tent was still closed up.

Looking around for the younger boy, he frowned when he couldn’t see the other inside the camp limits as the crying began to get louder. “Dill? ..Dylan?” Billy turned, shouting out when he spotted the other boy about twenty feet away in the mist gathering around the area. As he moved forward, the crying got louder as the young boy moved through the forest. “//DYLAN?!//”

The boy made no move as though he heard the call, moving further away from the safety of the camp towards the squalling child.

As Billy meant to rouse his mother, the next thing he saw was a dark figure drop down from the trees above the other boy and encompass him within its wings and the crying turning into the sharp call of a screech owl. There was no time to think for him, just to grab the nearest weapon and spring after the shape as it dragged the small teen back within the forest. “/BILLY! HELP!/” Dylan’s voice cut off with a scream as the creature buffeted him about, talons cutting into shoulders as it moved further past trees and into the fog surrounding the area brought on by it.

“Hang on!” He shouted back, awkwardly big feet tripping over roots and ferns as he continued after the monster and other boy. His uncles had been teasing him that his feet were getting bigger than his ego for the last few months as he’d entered the gangly period of time. Fiona wasn’t much shorter than him all of a month ago, but he’d sprung up two inches since then to over take his mom. It made traversing through the dark, misty under brush harder than if he’d already grown into his feet or had longer legs to dash through. “I’m comin’!”

As he lost sight of the creature, dark feathers, despite its large size, blending into the darkness around them all - swallowing it, and Dylan, up, Billy let out a scream. “/Fuck you, you crazy monster-bitch!/” The words were out of his mouth as he continued to run, hands tightly holding onto the barrel of the gun as he tried to spot the monster again, only to be met with a pained screech up ahead.

Billy stumbled, confused by the reaction as he panted and pushed on, cursing the creature under his breath as the cries of the monster and the other boy spurred him onwards. To the right, forward, left… Deeper towards the larger trees of the woods and away from the camp where his safety was, where his mom was.

There was blood now, splashed and brushed across the tree trunks and leaf matter on the ground, getting thicker and darker the further he followed it. The other boy’s blood. His /brother’s/ blood.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to know it, not just yet - he knew that his mom and dad (his real dad, not Dylan’s dad) had thought about telling him, were going to tell him one day ever since he’d known his sister wasn’t quite fully human but had never quite known when. He knew he was just supposed to look at Dylan’s father, William, and think he was just like Uncle Dean and Uncle Sam - another hunter that was part of the weird, mish-mashed family. He wasn’t supposed to have notice how Dylan’s hair and eyes matched his own, he wasn’t supposed to have noticed the way he was growing, getting taller by the day beyond both his parents, he wasn’t supposed to notice the way the hunter’s eyes would occasionally stay a little too long after his mother’s movements after a few too many beers. Billy wasn’t supposed to know these things, but he didn’t mind not being told yet. They would get to it one day.

Thrashing after the sounds, he finally catches up to the creature and it’s prey. The monster had one talon wrapped around the young teen’s ankles, his body flopping in its grasp as Dylan’s unconcious body swung in the breeze - blood both dripping directly from the wounds punctured through the front and back of his shoulders and rolling towards the ground down his arms, neck and head, staining his blond hair a dark copper and pooling altogether at the base of the tall pine tree. The four other talons, where a humans hands and other foot should be, were slowly climbing their way up the tree face as the creature’s wings furled in on themselves. As Billy broke through the tree line, its head spun around 180 degrees like the owl it took after to screech at him and blink its unnaturally wide eyes at him.

“Hey! Fuckface! Let go of him you psychopathic, bird for brains!” The words and tone held more bravado than Billy felt at the moment, his knees were shaking within his flannel sleep pants as he tried to move closer without tripping over or dropping the unblinking gaze of the monster. Its feathers ruffled angrily as it gave another shriek, the sound echoed through the mostly quiet woods. “That doesn’t seem like you’re listenin’ to me, you devil spawn reject!”

Billy racked his brain for what the case file had said, the notes jotted about the place, the printed pages on pages his mom had given them both to study but both boys had focussed more on their dinner and the good time they were having than reading the words. Jo would be there the entire time to keep them safe. She knew it all and they would be okay.

The monster shuddered, wings rippling in a mix of pain and anger as it began to move down the tree towards him, beady eyes fixated on him as it swung the younger boy around a little. “Cursin’! You don’t like cursin’ do you, you fucking bird bitch!” That part sprang to his mind as Billy moved closer still, hands tightening and loosening on his gun as he finally dropped his gaze to the shiny metal. Jo had brought them along for a reason, she always lectured about travelling smart and taking what you will need over what looks good. “So it’s cursing and guns? That’s all I’ve got to take you bug-breathed godforsaken monster out? Sounds like fun then..” He gave a discontented sigh as he cocked the shotgun and turned his attention back to the monster that had finally returned to the ground, though continued to dangle Dylan before it like a human shield.

It felt had to breathe for him, fingers shaking and knees only holding him up as he’d locked them into place, as he lifted the gun to his shoulder and tried to look down the sight towards the monster that was screeching and hissing at the both of them. He didn’t trust himself to be able to kill it in the four rounds in the chamber- three as a violent shake found his finger pulling before he was truly ready and missing the monster by a foot. If he didn’t know better, Billy would have thought it was laughing at him.

“Calm breaths. Remember what Granddad Bill says..” The light haired teen gave a shaky breath out and in again as the monster moved closer, the blood coming slower on its path now which worried Billy a lot. He turned to get a proper footing, positioning himself like his granddad would show him to with his feet turned and the front pointing at the beast. The gun felt more natural in his arms now as he stared down the barrel and lined it up. The second shot grazed its shoulder and Billy gave a whoop of joy. “Ain’t no human-killing sons of bitches goin’ to hurt my family, especially not some pathetic bird-witch bitch.” He growled the words out as intimidatingly as possible in response to the owl-witch’s screech, though he didn’t think it was really all that intimidating coming from a scared teenage boy.

His finger was on the trigger, his eyes locked onto the creature and carefully judging where it held Dylan and just when to shoot as its wings beat the air. A bird about to take flight. About to snatch away another victim to add to the other’s disappearing from the area. About to take off with his brother when he should be taking care of him.

It sprang into the air for all of a moment, the talon holding onto the boy’s ankles lowered for a moment as it soared upwards before the bullet found its way into the monsters heart and into the rib behind it. That was as far as it got before Billy brought it down, a gentle release of air from his lungs in time as he lowered the gun and the bird-creature and Dylan crumpled to the ground.

He ran to the other’s aid, still knocked out and paler in the dull moonlight as the fog dissipated, but shallow breaths came from the other boy’s mouth. Billy gave a relieved sigh and turned to the monster, shooting the final bullet into its skull before he shoved the gun over his shoulder and bent to lift Dylan over his shoulder as well. At least he had a handful of inches over the other and the boy was as weedy as he was, otherwise Billy might have had trouble lifting him.

It was like a more horrifying trail of breadcrumbs to follow the sticky dark blood path back towards the camp, and Billy could feel it starting to seep into the fabric of his shirt from the other’s wounds as he tried to navigate his way back, jostling the younger boy as little as possible. But what led him back also led his mom to him, and the look of relief and horror on her face as she sprinted through the trees to meet them halfway - gun over her shoulder, rope in hand and a flask of holy water visible behind her bra strap and tank-top.

They worked together to get Dylan back to camp and tucked into his sleeping bag with sterile pads and bandages to stem the bleeding that remained as he had woken up for a moment before nodding off again, at which point both Harvelle’s returned to the logs beside the dead fire rather than even consider sleeping.

Billy scratched at the drying blood on the back of his neck, looking sheepishly across at his mother as she prodded the embers with her hunting knife. “So, uh…. how much of this are we telling dad? And Uncle William?”

“Absolutely none of it.” Jo replied as she flicked a piece of ash upwards on her knifes edge before letting it fall back before she finally looked back at him. If he didn’t know her so well, he might have thought he was in trouble; but the twitch of a smirk and the small nod of approval he got before the lecture started was enough to make him feel warm all the way to his finger tips and toes despite the cold of the night. He’d done well, at least for a first time.

#4 - Color Theory: Jo Paints A Room

The amount of colors she’d considered and tested on the walls had slowly been transforming the entire house as the blonde haired hunter continued to seek out the right one. The blues were either too dark or too boyish, the yellows made her feel ill or like she was in a hospital ward, and Jo’d sworn before even finding out the sex of the little ball of cells steadily growing inside her that there was no way on earth she was painting a room pink.

The dark blue she’d tried out the week before in the soon-to-be nursery was now adorning their bedroom door and the wall behind the bed-head in a way that made her smirk to think about the next round of updates she’d do after she finally pushed the watermelon sized parasite growing inside her out of her stomach. Or the baby, as Grey begged that everyone call it after one of the visiting shadows called it their meat bun. Jo persisted to come up with ludicrous terms after he swore to throw the next to say something other than baby out of the house, much to his chagrin.

Brushing a few fly-aways back from her sweaty forehead as she stepped back to take in the light mint green she’d decided to try next, Jo considered the color with a mix of uncertainty and distress. Grey would be much better at doing this, he’d have picked the right shade the very first time and they’d be onto refurbishing the cheap wooden crib she’d found at a junk sale a few weeks back by now. He’d have not left quite so many splotches of paint on the laid down sheets either. But the task of getting ready had fallen to Jo, and she was a little happy for the idea though as her chances for getting out of the house /working/ disappeared right around the time she began waddling at the start of her sixth month - before that it had only been in teams that the shadow would let her out of his sight as it was.

Grey should have been the one doing it, but it was mid-morning on a work day and Jo’d chased him off to work with the promise that she’d stop if she felt ill and take a nap before he got home.

The pair had been working together since they found out on preparing the house, finding the items desperately needed from the suggestions from magazines and then what Jo’s mother gave them after they finally told others about the future Harvelle to come. But then the idea of raising a child on stolen items, credit card fraud and an unstable lifestyle had caught up to the shadow. Or at least that’s what he’d told Bobby and Jo when he presented the idea to them. (“Our kid shouldn’t be provided for by mail-based credit cards with phoney names! I want to /provide/ for my family, Jo, I want to make some sort of stability for our baby.”) It’d barely taken two days for the older hunter to come up with at least some paperwork, using much of the history of the shadow’s now seemingly-permanent body to work on cut down the efforts, and using his own skills Grey had found a job at the nearest high school within a week. The previous art teacher seemed to have spontaneously decided to give up teaching and try her hand at breaking into the art world herself, so there was a brand new opening there.

It had felt nice the first morning they’d gotten up and Jo’d sent him off with a kiss and promise to be well behaved and only look over files that day. Since then the morning sickness had returned and they were lucky if he could wake her up for a goodbye kiss from her side of the bed before she had to dash to the bathroom; though Grey never seemed phased and obviously enjoyed what she thought must be one of the most under appreciated jobs ever. Or at least ones that actually got paid, considering how few times she’d find herself getting thanked for her own hard work before she blew up to the size of a whale.

Which is how, despite taking three times as long to do anything, having to waddle her way to the toilet every half an hour with the weight on her bladder and the seemingly non-stop kicking against her insides, Jo found herself bored and determined to make over the room that had once been Grey’s bedroom all those years earlier into a nursery for their little boy - not that the other knew that was the case. Blue satin, blue mist, berry pie, summer waters, sunbound, pale canary, cowardly custard.. The walls had looked like a beach or bright summers day as she changed her mind over and over, nothing looking quite right to her for them to bring a little boy home to.

Stepping back and dropping her hand down to rub across her swollen belly, Jo tilts her head, just looking at the pale green paint barely covering the bright yellow of the disturbingly named ‘fluffy duckling’ that had made her want to tear her eyes out after painting the one wall and gotten right onto picking the next color to try. Blinking her eyes a few times, she rubs her thumb over her shirt - not quite sold on the pastel mint shade just yet. It felt soft and peaceful but she couldn’t quite tell if that was the color talking or the lack of abrasively bright yellow.

Tossing down the paint roller into the tray, wincing as a little bit of the paint splashes up onto the wall and her baggy sweatpants, Jo shuffles back and out of the room towards the bathroom as the scent of the paint catches up to her once again.

“Fu..ckin’ baby, you fuckin’ little shit can’t even let me finish your bedroom, huh?” Cursing to herself quietly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Jo gets to her feet slowly and shakily. Flushing the toilet as she washes her hands, scrubbing some of the green paint from her skin, the hunter lets out an exhausted laugh as she feels a gentle kick. “You’re enjoying yourself far too much in there, Billy-baby, you won’t know what to do with yourself out in this big wide world. Big scary world, full of scary things that will make your kickin’ seem like babys play.”

Pressing gently back at the next kick, Jo checks herself before moving back towards the room. “Should start calling it a nursery for you, right? Billy’s room, or maybe Panic Room 2.0.. Bet your daddy’d kill me for that.” Leaning against the doorway, looking in at the bare walls and worn carpet for a long moment before closing her eyes, she absently rubs circles around where she can still feel the baby kicking, like he could fight his way out already ready to take on the world. Grey’d always look in awe when she’d shift in pain or discomfort from the small blows, hands going straight to her regardless of where they were, and make some comment about just how much of her was already in there.

He was also the one who tried to encourage Jo to talk aloud, about anything or everything, to familiarise their voices. He’d talk softly against her belly, lips brushing skin gently, each night and each morning to say goodnight or goodbye. Sometimes he’d talk so quietly she couldn’t quite make out the words herself but she could still feel it, and would laugh if the baby threw a punch or a kick at whatever the shadow said. She lets out a small, amused sigh just thinking about it as she tries to mentally place the rest of the furniture, the rest of the colors and items they needed, around the room and the light mint walls.

Grey was the one who’d be able to tell her if the choice would be good or bad for the baby, he was the one who seemingly read every little piece of information he could and follow the best guides possible. He’d been the one to throw out all of Jo’s processed snack foods and replaced them with sweet potato chips and walnuts. He’d been the one to start cutting back the amount of bacon and fried foods as well, though at least the amount of red meat increased to make up for it after Jo swore at him straight for an hour about not having any bacon with her pancakes. Pregnancy hormones, good for her or not, she wasn’t going following his suggestion to have only organic food either; and after a week of begging for peanut butter and hot dogs, Grey finally gave in to it as well.

“Your daddy is a damn know-it-all, you know that kid? He’s going to make me look like a total idiot trying to look after you.” Letting out a sigh and resting her head against the door frame, Jo glances up at the paint work frowning a little to herself. “But don’t you worry, little meat bun, mommy’ll teach you how to take care of yourself when you’re older. And then you’ll make both mommy and daddy look like idiots, am I right?”

“You’re so, so right.” The voice surprises her for a moment as arms wrap around her stomach from behind and warm lips press against her neck. Turning her head to the side for him, Jo presses back tightly against the other as she frowns a little and opens her mouth to speak, though Grey quickly interrupts her. “The staff meeting ended early, thought I’d surprise you.”

“Surprise indeed..” Smiling faintly, Jo tangles her fingers through his before using one joined hand to point to the painted wall. “What do you think of the green? It’s not too… stupid?”

She could even feel his chuckle against her back, smile widening as he brushes her sweaty hair back and cuddles closer to her. “It’s perfect, Jo. Not stupid at all. Looks just like a nursery should.” Jo turns to look up at him, letting out a tired yawn as she remembers she forgot to nap like she promised /yet again/ and the shadow gave her a knowing grin. “Just like our baby’s nursery should, /mommy/, now put away the paint brushes and you’ll have plenty of time to show our little 'parasite’ when they get out so come rest now. Know-it-all says so.” Tugging on her hand, and pulling the door shut on the green nursery, he leads her away towards their bedroom instead.

#5 - Not Canon Any Longer Fi Feels Fic Based Back When Gray/Anna Existed With Evil Twins In Kidverse Which No Longer Is A thing

On the outside it seemed like a normal Thursday night dinner, or at least normal for the night before Jo would head off on a hunt the next morning. Dinner was served, their son would beg her to come along and then spend the rest of the meal asking everything he could think about whatever the case was (“So what is it?” “Just a shifter, Billy.” “How do you know?” “Grandpa Bobby got me some surveillance footage and -” “Its eyes glow!” “Right!”), their daughter would slowly finish her meal and try to  see as much of her mother before she left, and him? He’d bite down the gnawing feeling that this might be the case that his wife didn’t come home from, the worry of how he’d care for the kids, the desire to follow along just to make sure nothing happened; while helping Fiona cut up her dinner and smile as much as he could each time Jo’d catch his eye.

Billy still asked to go along, he still asked questions as much as possible. Jo still answered and laughed and gave him discrete looks - somewhere between pride at their boy and excitement at the coming hunt. And he still helped Fiona with her food and smiled back at Jo. The one difference was in their daughter - rushing as quickly as possible, faster than Grey could assist even, and excusing herself to bed before what the monster was doing had even gotten explained in full.

Neither mother or son seemed to notice anything off, Jo promising to come in and tuck her into bed and see her off to school in the morning while Billy just reached over for the few fries left behind on her plate, though he did. There was something seriously off and cleaning up his dishes and waving off the curious look from his partner he headed upstairs slowly, not sure what to expect at all.

Reaching the little girl’s door Grey had to stop, the periwinkle painted name across white wood not holding back the swirl of emotions from behind it that worried him. His control had recovered, thankfully by the time Jo was carrying their daughter after the slight set back he tried not to think over, but it still worried him to feel such mix and strength from his little girl. Fiona wasn’t yet seven and it just made the monster’s heart twist tighter to think something bad enough had happened to cause such pain.

Pushing the door open and closing it quietly behind him, the shadow moved towards the bed that contained the quietly sobbing child. She obviously hadn’t heard the latch opening or shutting as she curled in on herself, arms wrapped tightly around her knees against her chest and her face tucked in against her shaking legs. There was a sharp familiarity in the gesture, or at least Grey thought so as he sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to rub her shoulder. “Fi… Fi, what’s the matter? You usually stick around until you’re sent to bed when your mom’s got a trip.”

Her response was a garbled comment, half smothered by her knees while the rest was choked up from tears. The way his young daughter had twisted towards him at the touch to her back was better than her jerking away, blocking out the idea that she was angry about something at least. As Fiona twisted towards him at the touch, he couldn’t help but feel his worry spiking. The last time the little girl had been this upset had been a few months earlier after the small group of friends she’d been able to make in her first semester at school seemed to turn their back on her after the break. Grey couldn’t help but hope it wouldn’t be the same or even worse, as he had never been quite sure what to do about that and she’d never mentioned it again (though she hadn’t spoken of any of the friends recently either).

“I didn’t catch that, Fi.. How about you sit up and tell dad what’s wrong?” Grey rubbed slow, comforting circles across her back as the girl’s shoulders shaking slowed as her tears finally stopped. There was a long pause, where the only difference the shadow could feel was a slight rush of embarrassment and an unidentifable sinking feeling, before the dark haired girl pushed herself shakily up. The second she was upright, he was brushing back her hair and stroking a thumb gently across her wet cheeks. “There now, what’s got you all upset?”

“I.. she doesn’t… she doesn’t love me, daddy.” It was choked out in a gasp, dark brown eyes like her mother’s staring up at him with more pain than he thought she should ever have to feel. What she said made no sense, Grey couldn’t tell who Fiona was talking about or why she’d feel like someone didn’t, though as he continued to rub her back the young girl let out another garbled cry and added through her tears, “She didn’t want me.. Auntie Ombre said something that- She..she never wanted me, and I’m..I’m all wrong. Something’s wrong with me, and I can’t fix it, and she won’t love me if I don’t, and I-”

The second she said it it all clicked, and as Fiona collapsed into tears again there was a dark moment when his mind trailed to what he wanted to do to anyone who suggested such a thing to his daughter. It didn’t surprise him to hear that his sister had made a faus paux like that, it wouldn’t have been surprising to anyone at all - especially not those who had been around his now-wife during both her pregnancies. Grey’d been worried for a few moments when he’d first realised there was something else inside Jo growing and she’d acknowledged it too that she wouldn’t go through with it, that it wasn’t just marriage that would have been off the table between the two of them at the time but also children; though even though he knew the thought of ending things early had gone through her mind, that she’d not was the second he knew she loved each of their children more than anything else in the world. He never questioned it once since then, even as those around the pair would - during the horrible months that were the pregnancies, the almost crippling depression after and her refusal to give up hunting - but that someone had voiced the opinion and it got back to his daughter was something Grey’d never considered and made him see red with the desire to destroy them for such a suggestion.

There was a long pause before Grey spoke at all, the only sound between the pair were the strangled sobs and laboured breathing of the little girl. And then he spoke, in the same soothingly gentle voice he’d get when reading her her bedtime story, as though explaining away her fears and worries was like her favourite tale of Tumbelina. “Grace’s dad might think that, Fi, but nothing - nothing at all - could be further from the truth. She might be brash, and she might not be able to always understand you and how you’re not her. She might shout and yell sometimes, and she might leave us all the time to chase down the next bad thing on the other side of the country. Your mommy might not be like the other girls’ in your class’ moms, but she will always love you.”

Fiona didn’t look at all convinced, a shake of her head sealing how disbelieving she was of his comments even as tears began to spring again and she sniffed repeatedly, trying to breathe through her nose. “But.. she doesn’t like me. She doesn’t like me, and what I like..and she loves Billy most. Billy’s just right. ..he’s..he’s always going to be first, and she doesn’t..she doesn’t love me like that, daddy, and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” She rubbed at her nose with her hand fisted within her sleeve as her next round of tears began to fall. “I.. I don’t know how to be..what she wants..”

He wasn’t sure what to do as she started to cry again, the tight feeling in his chest twisted harder and harder with every shake of his daughter’s shoulders until it felt like someone was burning him through with iron each time. The problem wasn’t that she was right, Grey knew just how wrong that assumption was from how every time Jo was away on a longer hunt the first person she’d ask to talk to on the phone would be her daughter; to the nights Grey’d wake up to an empty bed while Fiona grew to find Jo, even in her post-partum depression, singing a vacant sounding lullaby as their daughter slept and jotting down ideas for helping her through whatever extra changes she’d have.

Of course no one but him would see those things, and he even doubted his hunter was aware he’d noticed any of them let alone recognised them herself, and the growing bond between mother and son as both their children grew had been something Grey knew would happen as Billy became more and more like his mother and grandfather while Fiona grew further and further away from what anyone would expect the daughter of Jo Harvelle to be like. She was more like her aunt than anyone else, and while mother and daughter somehow were echoing the misunderstanding and fears of the elder’s own childhood - he couldn’t help but feel closer in understanding for his daughter, the way he knew his wife couldn’t help it with her son. But where as Grey’d never pulled away from his son despite Billy’s current attempts to distance himself and the painful position the pair were in; the same couldn’t be said for mother and daughter, where the elder would try but pull back for fear of forcing herself onto the little girl and building resentment like she held for her own mother.

But trying to explain this - that Fiona’s fearless mother was scared of her daughter hating her as the reason why the little girl was sitting there crying right now seemed almost impossible to do. But nobody could claim that when it came to his children that the shadow didn’t try. Grey brushed back her hair again, fingers soothing as the brunette’s tears receded, before he spoke gently. “You’re perfect the way you are, kit, you are who you’re supposed to be. And she will never, ever want you to change yourself in order to be something you’re not for someone else. Not even her.”

He comfortingly rubbed his hands across her shoulders as Fiona curled up against his side, staring at him in a mix of confusion and hope as he continued to speak. “Mommy and Billy might have more in common, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t like you or that she loves him more. You’re everything she never was, Fiona, and she’s just as worried and scared by that as you are - but you don’t love her any less do you?" The words weren’t even out of his mouth before she was shaking her head, top of her head tucked tightly in the hollow of his neck as the tears slowed further. "And the same goes for mommy, she loves you. Just as much as you do her, and she does Billy.”

Grey could hear the faint sounds of Jo and Billy cleaning up downstairs a few minutes later when he realised that his little girl had cried herself out and exhausted herself completely, having taken the silence and soft puffs of air to be her calming down before figuring out she’d fallen asleep in his arms as her worries were subsided for the time being. He was certain this wasn’t the last discussion like this he’d be having; the fears and insecurity of the two most important women in his life almost guaranteeing that. As the light footsteps up the stairs indicated his son had been sent up to bed, Grey lifted the sleeping child as gently as possible before setting her back under her covers. “Never doubt that your parents love you, Fiona..” He spoke quietly, certain that if nothing else he’d never let her feel like she was unloved and promising that to himself as he pressed a goodnight kiss to her forehead and shut the door behind him, before the shadow headed downstairs with a lot more on his mind than the usual worries prior to a hunt.