n/a

" sure your face just looks like this, little red riding hood. your mirror must be thrilled, " florence deadpans with a roll of her eyes. she has crossed paths with a few vigilantes, usually with more criminals than those heroic figures, but she thinks red hood is more alike to her mind than the kind of sewer-dwellers that all fan themselves over the possibility to be the city's next-best clown when the real one's locked away ( or hiding wherever . . . hopefully far away from florence's grayscale area of expertise. ) she's been considering declining more of her job offers in gotham, but sometimes the reward is too good to pass up, and she also sees it as an exercise in her work, a challenge to rise for, to meet. " wow, you really put thought into someone asking you why you're in this costume. that's actually impressive, " she hums at the end, giving him another look up and down, and wonders how he even manages to move around as well as he does in, well, all of that. it seems more of a hassle than a party trick.

she would know how that worked better than the back of her hand. to be contortionists of shadows. the world was better off never knowing more than that. she laughs in the quiet of where they are but there are no brooding villains or manic clowns to burst in on them now. really can’t remember the last time he’d ever made anyone laugh, let alone hear it without remembering— his visor is still trained on her & a close up square outlines her too amused eyes eager to engage. he steps closer to where moonlight cuts in through the shattered window of their abandoned outpost, daring to illuminate him but not quite. he thinks on her encouragements, careless enjoyment where he seems too wound up, not buying it for a second. still, he can’t help but think for a way to wriggle himself in and out of here for the fun of it.

❛  alright, fine. here goes.  ❜ he folds his arms and his finger taps away at his bicep, his own manner of counting down secrets the way she had held up her hand and counted down her methods. he had listened to every word & they could agree on at least one thing, this disdain for small talk. she looks back at him attentive and he waits to see how she responds: tirelessly amused or sick of the patchwork answer of bullshit? ❛  i am so good at stealing, i once stole a batwheel. i have forty-six brothers. my name is definitely jason borne. although some people think i look like the joker. i hate matcha and i read brontë a lot. what else, let’s see ... oh, i’m also an undead, practically speaking. died a while back and crawled out of a grave. it’s been fun.  ❜

❛  ugh,  ❜ she began thickly, sarcastically, mouth curling as he tipped her chin up to get a better look at her. their eyes slotted and held, chemistry thick enough to slice with a blade. ❛  wait. give me a sec, i'm snapping out of it. right. done. what got into me? how dare i tell you what you already know? ❜ that he was special— trained. obviously far above average, exceeding even her strict, cynical expectations. more teasing in the air between them, more flirtations. though they really did have to get moving; standing there, jesse felt the familiar tug of impatience within, the desire to keep him precisely where he was and hoard him, hog him. kiss him stupid, fall into chides that weren't really chides because they cared about it each other. it always brought bliss. but there'd be time for that later. she could wait; the adrenaline rush sure to swarm them both in the next fifteen minutes would be fantastic, and they could ride the high together. ❛  and in public no less.  ❜

moving with him, letting his body guide hers because he knew the layout of the building better than she did. they had to stop as someone dressed as sexy shrek barreled past, drawing a raised brow from jesse; the smell of cheap beer and sweat filled the air, unpleasant, and she was comforted by the familiar smells of @yharnum, a factory reset on the senses. they settled in front of the stairwell, then, out of view of others. indulged in quips for a little while longer because the playful tinge had not yet faded even as they prepared to work and beat with fists. jesse was half-sated on kisses, willing to wait for more, and she smirked, shameless and blunt, none of the hesitance she showed at the start of their dynamic present now. the mask was back up, shielding jason's pretty face. no matter, jesse had it memorized.

❛  told ya, and i'll hold you to it. just be prepared to lose. ❜ one could argue that they'd been in a dick waving contest from the moment they'd met; it'd just grown softer now, choked with fondness. mischief briefly set aside, they discussed the logistics of the fight that lay ahead, and jesse nodded, said she understood. moved at his command, following his lead. and when they got to the top step, she darted forward in a flash, too smooth for the human eye to catch; the girls she grabbed yelped in confusion as they were swept up by insistent hands, a meddling librarian if they ever saw one.

❛  in your dreams— i ain’t losing.  ❜ he hadn’t lost his hunch at the very least. the gaggle of goons reacted pretty much the way he’d dictated they would from the start. a slight against his street was a slight against him, & he knew by the way the bald-headed freak thrashed in jesse’s arrested hold that he knew exactly what this was about and where it was going. although jason hadn’t donned the too-obvious colours of the red hood, making it easier for him to have snuck in tonight, that was the real moniker they feared. it took only a few minutes for the guy to piece it together. this stranger with the green eyes and black hair and covered mouth. red hood, he gasped out, that’s you ain’t it— fuck! and who’s this bitch?!

he was unimpressed they hadn’t been paranoid enough. a few weeks of quiet after they had terrorised the street where his old home had been & they’d taken it to mean the red hood simply hadn’t caught on. maybe they’d get away scot-free. oh, but he’d caught on just fine. ❛  hey now.  ❜ jesse’s fist had left a dent in the guy’s right eye. insane. he smacked his left, got a few crawling screams out of him. why the leeway? why reveal so much of his face? this idiot knew why. ❛  that’s no way to talk. by the way, i’m just a messenger; old dan says hi.  ❜ later he would head back to the bar and old dan would ask him if he talked it out with bald-head. he’d say he did and ran the guy out of town and old dan would heave out a sigh of relief knowing to trust his word. he would think nothing more of it and, preferably, that was for the best. ❛  okay. well, he didn’t say anything else. so that’s it for you.  ❜ another scream between pleas for mercy. his gun hissed hello, barrel point up, and he shot him dead out of jesse’s hand.

later, he walked through the disarray of the lounge. bouncers knocked out, their boss bleeding out with a bad headache he’d never recover from. tulip glasses shattered & money-rot splayed over the pool table. he kicked his boot out lightly but no downed body moved. slowly, he replaced the cloth around his mouth with the red hood.

a lovely woman, objectively, yet jill was still cross with her, never forgetting those early interactions, the playful (and deliberate) teasing that had made her jealous. it hadn't meant a thing to the dame, of course. harmless words; she wasn't even attracted to clive like that. but for jill it was a ruffling of the feathers, and now, with the world changed, and their bodies changed, and joshua gone, magic gone, she was at her most protective. and sensitive.

no one could drift close to clive without first enduring her quiet judgement. do you mean him well? every lifted brow seemed to say. he needs his rest. how fully joshua would approve! and pity the fool who dared ask clive to complete a task while his body and mind healed from what he'd dealt with.

isabelle had done exactly that, though her request hadn't even been properly voiced before jill quieted her, quick and sharp. small talk, well wishes, cordial greetings. all of it perfectly friendly and natural. jill had slid off a little ways to the side as they spoke before clive clasped her arm lovingly, halting her. as if sensing her emotion. and she watched, listening, silent until the words came, 'i have a proposition for you...' at which point jill sternly said: he has been back but for a month. accomplish your own errands for once. words like a whip, isabelle had initially startled at this, then taken it all in stride as women in public spheres often did, saying they'd speak later. vanishing no doubt to find a meal. traveling was weary business. the couple had been left in silence after that, their limbs still hooked. jill, of course, spoke first, turning to catch clive's eye, free hand alighting his collar. soft mouth fixed into a frown. ❛  speak to me. was that the right call, @yharnum? i know i ought to have waited to discuss it with you in private, but the audacity... ❜

he found his peace could exist only her powerful hands. though he had little desire to present himself today, such luxuries were not afforded; they needed him, and so he untangled from her naked limb,s & when she had wrapped around him from behind by the edge of the bed, he had resisted the urge to let his mouth wander down the side of her neck. clive had smiled— he so rarely smiled if it were not for her. under the sun they had fought to keep, friends come in throes to visit. this was the hard work of their alliances intermingling beyond the function of cid. otto is enthused, understandably so; this is the first they have been able to negotiate resources in plentiful droves.

clive stands with his arms crossed & his expression stern, with jill an armoured sentinel beside him— content to let them all talk in his place. when isabella strides over to say her hello’s [clive had only noticed the women among the throes of others by the way she said his name cheerfully], he realises only belatedly that the air has shifted. without looking, he knows jill is immediately displeased. rather awkwardly, he made his way through the norm of small talk, but when jill made to move away entirely, the unhappy cat, his hand clasped around her wrist. it was a silent directive, as if to say, she would not go because he would not let her. she appeared to oblige, perhaps half-listening to clive speak to the dame, but the matter of it all was cut short when jill’s voice pierced the discussion in half.

the dame had been about to request another chore, before she was silenced. startled at first, but as unruffled as ever, the dame had smiled & excused herself politely. clive, flabbergasted, had stared at jill in an expression of mild surprise.

🕊️ 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞: 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞

01. gently brushing the other's hair out of their face to tuck behind their ear. 02. wrapping a blanket around their shoulders from behind. 03. brushing tears off of their cheeks. 04. reaching out hesitantly before resting a hand on their back. 05. placing a cup of tea or coffee in front of them. 06. sitting beside them while they are asleep to watch over them. 07. sharing silence with them. 08. pulling them into a tight hug. 09. writing something quietly and passing them the note. 10. fixing a piece of their clothing carefully.

🔥 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐰𝐨: 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫

01. staring at them in silence for a long moment before walking away. 02. slamming a door shut without explanation. 03. packing their things up, slowly and deliberately. 04. breathing sharply through their nose and refusing to meet their eyes. 05. cleaning something obsessively in silence.

🥀 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐧𝐨𝐧-𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐮𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

zoro wants this, plain as day, and the only line he draws is that he'd refuse if sanji were to put him on his front. this is not something he will permit, as he has yet to ever give anyone the satisfaction of catching him off his guard, but with the way he feels heat pouring through him wherever sanji touches him with his hands, those unbelievably nimble and dextrous fingers, or kisses him with a mouth made much more for this than any of the asinine shit he spouts all day, he knows sanji might be a candidate for this down the line. if they ever repeat this, if this ever becomes more than the chance occurrence of adrenaline and zoro facing head on that the cook makes him feel unhinged from himself and so acutely aware of his own wants, as well as the cook's wants in return, then zoro might allow it. probably will put his swords in his line of sight only for good measure and not let sanji do anything he hasn't agreed to, hasn't asked of him - it would take time, and trust ( more trust than he's already given with all the quiet hours he's handed sanji ) but maybe then, down the line, once the cook's learned the avenues of zoro's body, zoro would let him get away with that. not with the kind of saccharine notions he gets into, but a testament to what he makes zoro feel, if he keeps it up. and zoro fears he will keep it up.

awful thought. “ tolerable company, reluctantly friends, just zoro and sanji ” once again. you’re unbelievable, zoro manages to say, and sanji scoffs— doesn’t think he knows half of what that word really means.