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👘- A memory associated with an article of clothing they have - sent by @tigersscars

Andrew doesn’t understand this whole intimidation shit the Hatfords do whenever they hire someone new for a job. Sure, he gets that working with anyone outside “the family” provides its dangers, but for shit’s sake, it’s not like they’re the only crime group in London. They’re not even the biggest. Well, actually, that... might not be true. The Hatfords own a lot of people, a lot of police. They’re old money, an old London name. There’s a lot of respect for them, in and out of the crime sphere. 

But there’s new blood in town, Andrew knows. Part of his job is to keep an ear to the ground, fingers in a lot of pies, that sort of thing. There’s a name crawling like a decapitated body in the dark places of London that native Londoners know better than to travel. That name carries with it a lot of emotion; not the respect of the Hatfords, but the fear of something unholy and powerful. Andrew’s curious if this new hire knows about that name, and if not, why the fuck she’s here. 

He’s standing beside and one step behind Neil, arms crossed and feet spread. There’s a knife between his fingers already, something for him to play with and something for the new hire to look at. Neil doesn’t need Andrew as a bodyguard and can take care of himself, even if he’s more or less just a scrawny 5′3″ twink with come-fuck-me bright blue eyes. He’s a quick little shit who knows his way around a knife - almost took Andrew out when he showed up on the Hatford’s doorstep looking for a job. He doesn’t know when to stop, either. 

“She’s late,” Stuart says, a handful of feet away and surrounded by three of his own bodyguards. They’re all family, here, but some people are more important than others. 

Neil scoffs. Andrew watches his hand twitch at his side. He’s always ready for a fight. “Not everyone thinks that ten minutes early is on time, and on time is late, Uncle Stuart. She’ll be here.”

Jordan has been part of this world, at Sabine’s side, for years now, but she still expects... less. Less elegance, less normality, less posturing. In the movies, mob bosses always seemed to have huge empty offices in wear houses and the like in derelict parts of the city. Sometimes, Jordan still catches herself expecting that. She’s frequently surprised to find herself walking upstairs from a respectable, rather fancy restaurant and into Sabine’s office. 

It’s large, but it’s filled to the brim and doesn’t look it. Trophies, trinkets, weapons, furniture, and so many books. The carpet is lush, the walls are richly coloured, and the window is curtained but huge. 

She smiles at Sabine as she slips through the door, her heels sinking into the carpet enough that she would rather just take them off. “You know I hate when you work on Sundays,” Jordan says, tucking her dress down before perching on the desk. “Do you really have to go meet with them today?” She knows that the answer is yes. Sab recently acquired control of the mob and all of its members - and its enemies. A meeting with the big players that Sab’s in control of is necessary. Jordan just wishes it could have been done yesterday or tomorrow. Sundays are supposed to be their days at home.

asked     and still accepting!from this aesthetic meme with  @tigersscars​

EINS: Positivity for the first person who messaged you in 2018

Oh goodness, that’s a tricky one. I talked to a couple of people after midnight. But. if I’m going to be accurate, then it’d have to be the person who messaged me on the nose of the beginning of 2018 to wish me a happy new year.

So on to the positivity!

    “Wouldn’t bother going up that way if I was you; they’ve got the three roads locked down and won’t let anyone through.”

    He gave a brief nod in the direction she seemed to be headed, pausing for a moment as he glanced back to catch her expression. It was quite possible that he knew why those streets had been shut down so thoroughly, but that made it no less inconvenient.

[meme]

He told himself he would stay away from her. At least to keep his distance and be sure the playful Jim she had become accustomed to was a thing of the past. Strictly professional until the end. Cold and calculated just like the great James Moriarty was supposed to be.

Everything had gone according to plan. By late afternoon he’d be atop the hospital and his tigress would halfway across the London with her scope set on a target that had been carefully picked and given a nice backstory. All of it a rouse to keep her busy. The things he did to keep her out of the know [some might mistake it for love].

The door to her room had been left open. The lamp from the bed-stand casting a mahogany glow on her skin. Illuminating her just enough so that Jim could see the steady rise and fall of her chest. And he knew he should have left. Should have shut the door and let that be the end of it.

But feet carried him into the room. Shoes slipping off and his suit jacket and shirt followed until he was left in an undershirt and trousers and climbed into the bed beside her. A single finger traced down her shoulder, a shadow of a sullen smile on his face and a sigh passed through his lips before he leaned in and brushed lips against her cheek.