mundy nightclubs are all the same : full of scents that are too strong and noises that are too loud. bigby doesn't understand the appeal. sure, the drinks are good, but other than that, what's the point of it? hell, if he didn't have to keep an eye on some fables that had decided to have a night out in the big city, he wouldn't be here in the first place. as it stands though, the sheriff's work is never done.

it isn't that fables aren't allowed to venture outside of fabletown — quite the opposite, actually. it is just that bigby doesn't fully trust everyone in this particular group not to run their mouths once they've gotten a few drinks in them. sure, they can say that they know better than that, but it still doesn't make bigby believe it any more than he did.

the lights flashed overhead in shades of blues and reds. the music's bass bumped through the speakers with a noise that is borderline overwhelming in its intensity to those highly sensitive ears. there is a cigarette hanging between the big bad wolf's lips — still, he desperately needed a drink as well if he was going to have to subject himself to this. something to focus on, a distraction of his very own.

the wolf moved to cross the room, carefully weaving his way through the crowd of dancing bodies, both mundy and fable alike. he had almost made it to the bar, too, when a man suddenly appeared in front of him. the stranger's hands are on bigby's belt loops before he has time to react, tugging him closer towards him as if to pull him into a dance.

“ i needed a distraction, and here you are ” is the flirtation that falls from the other man's lips, and truth be told, bigby doesn't quite know how to respond.

bigby should rip his throat out right here for everyone to see for the audacity of it, that's what he should do. that is what the (former) reputation of the big bad wolf calls for, after all.

the interesting thing, though, is the fact that bigby didn’t seem to mind as the guy tugged him towards the dance floor. he doesn't seem to mind as those hands wander up his arms and across his chest, a crooked grin on the stranger's face. no, instead, he can only focus on the scent of him : it makes his nose twitch, but not with that sense of overwhelmingness that the rest of the crowd had. this is something far more appealing, something more akin to want — the wolf's interest is piqued, even if he would like to pretend otherwise.

still, it doesn't stop him from at least trying to play hard to get.

He didn't - it was wasted on a guy like him, surely. But when Clark said it, it felt like Charlie was the one falling for some cosmic scam. It was impossible (it had to be) but slowly, he started to take these words to heart; and before long, Clark had him feeling things.

Good things - beyond the self-loathing the the cynicism.

Deep down, the conman blamed it all on Clark's biology - surely those from Krypton could manipulate his thoughts or emotions; Charlie was willing to believe almost anything about aliens at that point in his life, after feeling like the Earth's greatest fool for not realizing who Clark Kent truly was; but now that the secrets were no more, he struggled to understand the nervousness that seemed to be controlling Kal at that moment.

"What is it, Kal?" Charlie frowned at him, leaning backwards in the bed - he was only half-dressed after shower and Kal's looks had suggested that putting on anything would be a waste of time, a need Charlie was just too happy to oblige after so long dancing around each other's presence, "What is wrong?"

— from @connfidencegame, unprompted.

The day had gone so well that it felt... well, natural to get here, at the risk of sounding like a big cheese. Over the past few weeks, following the arrest of Claudia Manchester, he'd taken Charlie to dinners, two movies, and even a space museum, and after the last date ended in a passionate kiss that left Kal breathless in front of Charlie's door, it had taken every ounce of self-control he had not to muscle into his apartment and shove him against the nearest solid surface. Charlie hadn't invited him up, and so Kal would respect him for it.

Today, though, it was Kal who invited Charlie in. And it was Kal who kissed Charlie as he guided him into his home, only tangentially remembering to lock the door behind him until minutes were spent against the counter of his kitchen.

"I want more," he'd whispered then, hands carefully squeezing Charlie's waist. And then Charlie said yes, and Kal's heart jumped into his throat.

He didn't argue Charlie's need for a shower, certain that that was a thing people did before sleeping together. He'd even sat with his back to the bathroom to make sure he didn't accidentally peer at him with his X-ray vision. Then when Charlie came out, and they kissed some more, and Kal's heart fluttered because oh, he smells like my shampoo, the man found his way on his bed with such ease it was like a tornado went through his room.

Kal's shirt came off easily. Then his belt was undone, his pants unfastened, and as he crawled into bed and thought about the feel of Charlie's naked skin against his own...

Frankly, he didn't realise he'd frozen until Charlie spoke up.

Kal blinked. His hand was on Charlie's cheek, and the other was resting on his waist. "Oh.

"No, I... nothing's wrong." The word felt too negative, especially when his blood was still pumping warm in his veins. Kal chuckled sheepishly, shaking his head. "Definitely, absolutely, certainly nothing wrong, I just thought... I realised..."

He licked his lips, meeting Charlie's eyes with a sheepish little twinkle in his own.

Despite the project he had due tomorrow, Zeke dropped everything as soon as Charlie called.

She's gone, he said. And just because they'd been waiting for it to happen didn't mean it was any easier to deal with.

The drive to Charlie's place took a little over two hours. When Zeke finally parked his (beat up) truck, he stepped outside in flip flops, a tank top, and baggy shorts with so many holes in their pockets it was a miracle his keys didn't fall out. He ran all the way to the front door, sticking the copy of the key Charlie had given him in, and swallowed thickly against the nerves building inside him.

Entering his home, you wouldn't think that someone just died in it. But then again, what did death even feel like when you weren't the one experiencing it? Zeke almost expected it to be obvious-- like Madeline would be dead on the floor or the couch, or the house would smell weird, or that he might find Charlie sobbing uncontrollably-- but all he got was quiet. If not for Charlie's phone call earlier, and for his own promise that he was on his way, all right? I'm comin', sweetheart, Zeke might believe that things were normal.

But nothing would be normal for Charlie again.

"Charlie?" he called, walking through the house in a well-intentioned attempt to find him. Zeke's fingers traced the walls as he went, and he shuddered at the thought Madeline would never walk through these halls again. She wasn't his mother, but what moments he was allowed with her in her sickness had always been kind. Part of Zeke had hoped she'd be there when he asked Charlie to marry him-- South Carolina was bound to join the other states soon, he knew it-- and it twisted his stomach to know that that would never be.

"Charlie, baby? I'm here."

God, where was he? Ever since Zeke heard him over the phone all he wanted to do was hold him. The thought of Charlie having to be alone through any of this made him utterly sick to his stomach.

"Hey..."

(Well, perhaps 'dinner' was not the best term to describe what happened when they met - Anton didn't seem very hungry for much but Charlie, what was not at all a problem.)

The basement of the house Charlie was renting out had been fitted to look like something more proper for art storage - racks, cabinets and all sort of boxes were there, piled following rigid rules to prevent artwork for bending or getting exposed to the wrong conditions. Even the room itself had the temperature under control - from the outside, it did look like the home to an art dealer and who specialized in sourcing rare items... As well as introducing new artists to prospective buyers and collectors.

Anton was his last mark - someone with the financial means to acquire a lost Caravaggio. The artist was brought over to Charlie's residence under the excuse of taking a look at the painting to help authenticate it, but the gamble wasn't even selling it for an astronomical price to the other man - that was just a nice plus.

He had already scammed Anton out of so much using false deals with anonymous collectors that did not exist; if he bought the sophisticated forgery prepared as a last trap, that would be the final bonus.

"I never brought anyone here before - I'm kind of nervous," Charlie said at the bottom of the stairs, flickering the lights on and looking at his guest who was still at the last steps of the way and towering over the other male. Gods - Anton was pretty; impossibly pretty, like a renaissance angel. It almost made something deep inside Charles twist uncomfortably knowing that he would cause that face to cry.

— from @connfidencegame, unprompted.

To Anton, the whole thing still felt like a faerie tale, even if all signs pointed to the reality that it wasn't. He'd been blessed with a multifaceted education in the arts, art history, and preservation (his father, despite all his social failings, was the most supportive parent anyone could ask for), and he knew ever since the first piece he purchased that he was buying forgeries. But in Anton's mind, Charlie sold these things for a reason, and if he was helping the man pay his rent, or any of his debts, or anything related to the trials and tribulations of being a grown-up in the city, then these purchases were worth every thousand dollars spent.

Besides, Anton was sure all these sales made Charlie happy. And if he was lucky, really lucky, then maybe even he made Charlie happy-- not only in the smiles that Charlie wore around him (Christ, Anton had to stop himself from kissing him each time he saw them), but in the way that lingered so deep under your skin it almost felt like an infection. In the wake of their many trysts, Anton always felt a euphoria so deep in his bones it almost terrified him-- that this was right, that Charlie was everything, that he'd give his false, undead heart if that meant Charlie would never want for anything again-- but Charlie was just that special, wasn't he? And Anton was blessed to be the man that gave him whatever he needed.

As he met Charlie down the steps, the hand that curved over the other man's hip came unbidden. It wasn't enough to fully restrain him, not when this was Charlie's space, but the mix of comfort and affection was clear.

"You're great at what you do, Charlie," he reassured him, dipping his head to press a kiss to his shoulder. "You've never failed me before."

And even if Anton was speaking more to Charlie's talents in art instead of appraisal, the sentiment was sincere. He'd decorated his studio workshop with every single painting Charlie had sold him-- the epic crescendo of hours upon hours of work, and gallons and gallons of paint and coffee, and all the other little things forgers used to make their work more authentic. Sometimes Anton looked at them and imagined Charlie hard at work, meticulously examining every detail to make sure everything was perfect, and just the thought of that made him fall more and more in love.

He made these with his beautiful hands, and they're all mine now.

It took an awful lot of self-control not to hold said hands as Charlie led him deeper into his basement, but the soft wow that left his lips at the sight of the offered painting was genuine.

@connfidencegame offered a gift:

Their plan was sound: the risks had all been mapped out and they had watched the local saloon long enough. Both of them were familiar with the regulars, the routine and the expected consequences of that job - all that remained was the execution.

Annie was about to leave for the place (she needed to start playing cards before Charlie arrived, after all) but her wrist was gently withheld by her partner. He smiled at her in lieu of an excuse, digits sliding over her hand to open her palm and place a ring there. The stone was blue - like their eyes - and the crafting work was exquisite. It looked good enough to cost good money - but it wasn't garishly extravagant. A tasteful piece of jewelry, by all means.

"Take this with you. It's a good luck charm," he refused to elaborate, closing Annie's fingers around it softly, and then finally letting the woman go. "I'm pretty sure it will fit like a glove."

There were hardly any flaws when it came to their plans. Charlie and Annie, two careful, cautious, meticulous people when it came down to it. Sure, Annie had a habit of allowing her impulsive instincts to take over, and Charlie was not always so cool and collected as he often liked to appear. Even so, one thing they both had in common was their mutual distrust in other people. Annie still did not trust Charlie as completely as one might expect from a pair of partners, as they had found themselves to be. But he was certainly the one person in this world she trusted the most.

However, as he grasped her wrist and pressed the trinket into her palm, Annie's mind began to whirl. She was cast into an immediate desire to flee, to run from their relationship (however they chose to define it) and never look back. It wasn't the thought that maybe he cared about her on a deeper level than two friends might, that perhaps he worried about her after so many cons had gone south in the past (though that was a rare occasion). No, none of that mattered. Let his heart long after hers, but she was afraid hers would begin to chase his in equal measure.

She never considered before this moment the possibility that she had started to grow attached to this man that she had every reason to stay weary of. Yet the ring left in her palm, Annie staring after Charlie as he walked away, made her heart skip a beat in an all too familiar symptom of growing affections.

I'll never fall for that smile again.

Charlie had claimed the ring to be a good luck charm. Whether stolen or swindled or inherited, it had clear monetary value. She wondered the story behind it, the reason it was so lucky, but had asked none of her questions. She had simply stared at it, didn't even mumble a thank you before looking up to see him walking off, making his way to his post for the start of their plan.

Annie's brows furrowed in confusion, not understanding the meaning behind the gift. She turned it about a few times in her fingers, but never tried it on. She would not allow it to possess her heart and mind, would not allow herself again to follow blindly behind a charismatic, handsome man with a devilish smile.

She pulled from her pocket a golden chain attached to an elegantly decorated locket. On the locket were the initials A.G. etched into a floral design that covered the front, a mystery and a promise rolled into one. She allowed the chain to swing in front of her face a few times, its beauty mesmerizing and its memories haunting.

Have this. It'll bring you good luck, I think.

Carefully, she unclasped the necklace, sliding the ring to sit securely next to the pendant, Charlie's good luck charm attached to Jack's.

@connfidencegame —

In a professional world like Charlie's, appearances mattered - which was why his face was normally not his, but of the persona that needed to be presented. It was convenient for Charlie that this new man who was going to be attending the auction held at the glamorous hotel had some facial hair, longer locks and a look that was distant from the art dealer portrayed in a different city for another purpose. The same had to be done for Ares - or 'Andrew', 'Anderson' or even 'Armand'. A lot of names of different origins were bestowed to the other male like titles, while the conman took care of his presentation to the general public. On that evening, it would be better if he appeared clean shaven, with hair neatly tied at the nape of his back and a look of someone very much foreign and exotic. All of that was accomplished - except for the small nick of a shaving blade just below his chin. Sighing, Charlie used his own thumb to remove the scarlet droplets, absentmindedly sucking it off to clean the digit. His blue eyes inspected Ares methodically, gently turning his head until he was satisfied that no more blood would ooze from the tiny cut. "There is no way you didn't see it earlier with eyes like yours," the grifter murmured, voice tainted with a bit of the usual resignation, "You sure like bleeding on very weird hours, Ares."

Ares allowed Charlie to move his head without complaint. He waited until his partner released him to reply. "I saw," Ares admitted, blues returned to Charlie's face. "It was in the mirror when I finished."

For a moment, the long - haired man's jaw worked. Ares tried to find the words to explain it in a way that would sound sophisticated or scientifically - backed. The effort creased his brow. Inevitably, Ares could only offer his true answer — the perplexing, emotional one. His voice softened.

"To err is to human," Ares said. The corners of his lips pulled up.

He stepped back, smoothed his palms down the front of his expensive suit, and re - collected himself. Ares looked sharp in the luxurious outfit that Charlie had pieced together for him ; really, he was handsome in just about every selection the con man made. The [ human's ] eyes flickered, showing the energy being used as he scanned the extravagant lobby.

— from @connfidencegame, meme.

Zeke blinked, looking down at where Charlie still laid on his chest. By now he was comfortable enough to just thread his fingers through his hair, absentminded and blissful; the thought of having to talk about anything real made him furrow his brows.

"You always do," he said, his touch drifting over the nape of Charlie's neck and back up again. The way Zeke spoke, it was like he couldn't believe Charlie would even say such a thing.

"You know so much about the world. Bet'cha could go on Jeopardy and win us so much money we could both go to college."

Shifting slightly, Zeke's free hand moved to touch Charlie's hip. These last few weeks of summer vacation before he moved two hours away were terribly bittersweet.

Annie watched the poker game from the sidelines, her arms wrapped around the shoulders of a moneyed well-to-do man with whom she had been flirting for most of the evening. She was a frequent attendant of the saloons in any town she visited, though usually she attempted to blend in more with the rough and rugged men than the showgirls and escorts who flaunted flashy skirts in bold colors, showing off their legs more than any proper lady would, with lace and sparkling beads and feathers adorning their hair and necks. However, Annie found herself entangled in yet another of her newfound partner’s schemes which often required detailed costumed performances.

So she spent her evening at the saloon, dressed in vibrant red frills, her face painted and hair curled and loose. The corset was suffocating, the cut of the dress uncomfortably revealing, but Annie knew how to pick her prey and worm her way into their beds if she so desired. Finding a man to target was not the hard part, nor was filling his whiskey cup or sitting with him at the poker table as a piece of “good luck.” Little did he know, she was nothing but a curse to him.

No, the hard part was keeping up the charade as she watched the men play cards and make mistakes any seasoned poker player would know better than to make.

But she had to play dumb, had to remover herself from investing too much interest in their play.

Annie’s hands trailed over the man’s vest, making small circles with her fingers as she watched him pick up his cards and make a bet. They were good, two kings, two fives, and a seven. Three of the cards were hearts. He very well could attempt a three of a kind, a straight, a flush, or a full house. Annie looked at Charlie sitting next to her, her eyes able to glance his cards without appearing as though she were trying to cheat.

She continued to trail her hands over the man’s waistcoat, fingers brushing the chain of his pocket watch which she easily could have pocketed (where, though, in this costume?) but didn’t. She made a gesture in Charlie’s direction, her eyes on the card table as the other men threw in their bets. One other man had a woman, seemingly one who worked primarily at this establishment, hanging off his arm though paying very little attention to the game.

“What d’ya say, kitten? Think I should raise?” He had picked up two cards, adding a third king to his hand but destroying the full house he could have built. She had instructed Charlie that the man had a potentially winning hand—those three kings would not suit Charlie at all if he was hoping for one. She told her partner to draw two cards through the subtle movements of her hands, a code they had established before joining the game. It was a long shot, but Charlie had managed to make a straight in his hand which trumped the three kings her target held.

Charlie had naturally raised the bet.

“You know I don’t understand this game. Do whatever you like, love.” He had wrapped his arm around Annie’s waist as she refilled his drink, eliciting a soft chuckle from her. On the inside, however, she swore she would never again agree to wear such clothes and behave so passively. She couldn’t wait until she no longer had to subject herself to this man’s fondling.

“Yeah, I think I will raise.” He threw in a stack of cash, boldly confident that his hand was a winner. Annie couldn’t tell if he was incredibly stupid or an incredible bluff.

She gave a slight nod to Charlie, encouraging him to raise the bet even further. The other men all folded their hands, and the man whom Annie was watching called the bet.

Charlie won the whole pool—Annie knew he would. It was the fifth hand in a row she had helped him win. She signaled when his hand would lose, too, encouraging him to bet very little and ensuring they walked away with a profit.

Annie wrapped her arms tighter around the moneyed man, a suggestion of comfort at his loss, though her head which rested against his back was turned to her partner, a mischievous smile on her face.

Her target decided to call the game, knowing he had lost far too much money but none the wiser that he had been swindled. He took Annie by the arm, leading her away and she dutifully followed.

She would put on a show for him, slip some opium in his drink so he soundly passed out, grab any valuable belongings she could find, and rendezvous with Charlie afterwards.

She wasn’t certain how exactly he had been able to pull her into his schemes—she did know; it was that damned smile—but some part of her found great enjoyment in them. A thrill she hadn’t felt in a very long time.