#not pie

@ohgressfuriosa just to assess feelings when the time is right Quinn looked at the gloss photo. It was like seeing a demon. The photo was taken in the dark, without a flash and at an angle that prevents seeing the man’s eyes, forehead or even really the check bone. The sharp profile was familiar in the mirror, scruff and jaw with close ears and curly hair. Any longer than an inch and it waved, long like that and it was messy, disorganized. The touch of a mustache reminded him of where his demon’s beard had laid. Daddy had always shaved his lower jaw. He remembers the smell of John’s aftershave. His breath hisses out as he exhales. The employer quirks his head, studying Quinn. “Is the resemblance going to be difficult?” the cartel member asks, hands fidgeting with large gold rings. This is not the sort of hit Quinn takes, but the man doesn’t know that. He looks over man and studies the tattoos along his wrists. It’s the right mid-level gang banger. Too bad for him he upset the wrong people. Evidently he likes messing with fae-born girls. Quinn pushes back the image burned in his mind from an earlier photograph: matte and presented to him by a different nasty fuck, but one who’s paying him well to kill other monsters. “Naw, he’s hardly my father’s only bastard,” Quinn replied offhand and tucked the picture back into the folder. He arranged this business meeting to meet his target. Now he’s going to take the intel and go see the Texas cop with a history of ‘aggressive tactics.’ He looks over the laundry list of various skills his employer thinks are relevant. Even the Navy SEAL line doesn’t really discourage him. He’s not taking the hit anyway. He will have to make a scene so he can come back to pick up the free paycheck and finish the original job. He wonders what are the chances two of his father’s sons could be “Johnny-boy in the flesh.” He needs to see for himself that the stranger isn’t an evil fuck. Witch magic breeds an added potential for wicked shit.