There was gonna be more but, well, y'know 😒

So last night I got struck by the idea lightning and started spontaneously working on a Mafiafell self insert au because I'm insane. Underfell is already basically my favorite au, and while Mafiafell has it's problems (glances surreptitiously at that one infamous fic and comic) I think it has a lot of potential

Shobbs: Adventures in Rescuing

This was requested by anon here

Summary: In the middle of the night, Deckard receives a phone call. Apparently, Hobbs had gotten himself into a sticky situation and it's up to Deckard to save him. He just hopes he's not too late

Deckard leaned back into his plush armchair, carefully balancing his tablet on the arm of the chair as he tucked his legs under him. Once settled, he spread a blanket over himself, picked up his tablet, and readjusted the reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. On the end table next to him sat a steaming cup of tea, heavily doused with honey.

This was one of the first nights Deckard had had to himself. No MI6 agents knocking on his door, no little siblings bugging him for attention, and no bad guys trying to kill him. Deckard didn’t mind his chaotic lifestyle, but sometimes it was nice to have a little break and catch up on some reading.

Reaching for his cup of tea, his hand stilled when he heard his phone go off.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Deckard sighed and let his head fall back for a moment before lifting it once again to look down at his phone, which laid next to the cup. For a second, Deckard considered ignoring the call, but knowing who he was related to, he decided that would be a bad idea.

His hand moved towards the phone slowly, almost as if he was about to pick up a venomous snake. Finally, his fingers wrapped around the cool metal and strong vibrations as the phone kept ringing. Looking at the screen, Deckard raised an eyebrow.

Unknown number.

Nobody, other than the people already stored in his phone, should have his number. Whoever it was calling him had a lot of explaining to do. Rolling his eyes, he finally picked up after a few rings, and gruffly answered.

“Shaw.”

“Oh thank god, I never thought you’d answer. Let me tell you, hearing your voice, it’s like hearing an angel’s. No. Like hearing God’s voice himself. Well, if you believe in stuff like that. Myself, not so much. I like believing in stuff I can touch, you know? Like chimichangas-”

Deckard hung up.

And his phone immediately started ringing again.

Even though he knew it was going to be a bad idea, Deckard sighed and picked up again. But before the other person could talk, Deckard growled out a warning.

“If you don’t get to the point right this second, I will find you and force feed you your own bollocks.”

There was a beat of silence before the other person started speaking, much slower and subdued this time.

“Okay, yeah. Totally understand.”

“Now, who the bloody hell are and what do you want?”

“Agent Locke, CIA,” the other man answered happily. “And let me just say, it’s an honor to finally be able to talk to you Deckard. Can I call you Deckard? Great! So, I have a favor to ask of you!”

Taking the phone away from his ear, Deckard rubbed the bridge of his nose, nearly dislodging his glasses. He knew he should hang up. It would be the easiest and simplest way to avoid a headache. But if the man was actually CIA and was able to contact him, something must be up.

Bringing the phone back up to his ear, Deckard was able to hear the tail end of Locke’s tangent.

“-but they said no, even though I told them it was a good idea. Why does nobody listen to me? I get results! I get things done! So what if there’s a little blood spilled along the way? It’s part of the job!”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Deckard sighed, feeling his patience close to snapping.

“Your good ol’ buddy, Luke Hobbs of course! Although, he prefers to be called Rebbeca. I came up with that name, you know? He loves it ‘cause we’re best friends and-”

“What about Hobbs, you absolute tit?” Deckard hissed.

“See, that’s where you come in. I sent him after a few baddies in Belgium and all we’ve gotten from him in the last twenty-four hours is radio silence,” Locke blurted out, not seeming to take a breath at all as he relayed the information to Deckard. “And I don’t have any guys in Belgium to help him out, you know, with waffles and chocolate being the only things in Belgium. So, I was hoping you’d go in and help him out?”

Deckard had to resist the urge to rub the bridge of his nose again. And then gave up and rubbed his temple instead.

“You mean to tell me, the CIA doesn’t have anyone who can help an agent who could possibly be taken hostage?”

“Yeah,” Locke sheepishly responded. “That’s basically it.”

“All of you Americans are idiots,” Deckard grumbled.

“And talking about idiot Americans, Hobbs still needs help. Probably. If he’s not already dead,” Locke tagged on at the end.

“Jesus Christ, man!” Deckard nearly yelped. The way Locke just casually mentioned Hobbs’ possibly being dead had Deckard straightening his back and knocking his book to the ground. The idea of Hobbs being surrounded by enemies and taking his last breath made something inside Deckard twist painfully. Nobody deserved a death like that, especially a man like Hobbs.

“So, what do you say?”

“Send me the files on the guys he was tracking. I’ll see what I can do,” Deckard finally said, a note of resignation in his voice.

The next few hours went by in a blur after that. Deckard had rushed to get dressed, collect his gear and weapons, and all the documents he would need to get into Belgium in the middle of the night. Taking one of his least flashy cars, he sped down the Channel Tunnel while he listened to his phone read out the files on the guys Hobbs was tasked to take down.

Hobbs had gone after a guy named Mark Hulmes, the nephew of Lewis Hulmes, one of the most notorious mob bosses in all of Brussels. Apparently the younger Hulmes had been branching out and had tried buying some high end weapons from the black market, sending red flags to the CIA. And it seemed like they had a valid reason to be concerned if Hulmes got his hands on those weapons. The man had been involved in a multitude of violent crimes, including attempted murder, but because his uncle had strong connections with the judge, the younger Hulmes got off with only a few months of probation.

Deckard had never really been in contact with the criminal underworld of Brussels, but he knew Hulmes’ types. He was a ticking time bomb.

One that might have a mouthy DSS agent in his grasp.

Deckard knew Hobbs could handle himself, but from the way Locke put it, it seemed like Hobbs went in alone. And while the man was an absolute powerhouse by himself, Deckard knew that it could take only one lucky shot to take someone down. He just hoped that that didn’t happen to Hobbs and the man was just laying low.

“You better be alive, Hobbs, or else I’m going to kick your sorry arse,” Deckard mumbled to himself, gripping the steering wheel hard, his knuckles going white..

The next few hours went by slowly, with Deckard stiffly sitting and pushing his luck with the speed limit and local police. He couldn’t help the images that would pop into his head every few minutes. From Hobbs beaten and bruised, to him screaming in pain, to his lifeless bo-

“He’s fine,” Deckard firmly told himself. “If he could survive Brixton, he can survive some back alley punk from Brussels.”

The statement only marginally helped him feel better, but didn’t stop the darker thoughts from creeping back in.

The sun was peeking over the horizon when Deckard finally reached the row of abandoned warehouses that the Hulmes family owned and no doubt did most of their dirty business. The buildings were on their last legs, looking as if a strong wind would knock them down. There were weeds growing up the sides of them, while every window was shattered and allowed the elements to enter the buildings.

After a few loops around the place, Deckard was able to spot a few cars parked around one in particular, while all the others stood empty. Parking behind the one that appeared to be inhabited, Deckard started to grab as many guns, ammo, and other weapons that he could. And it being him, he was able to carry quite a bit.

He had no idea how many men would be inside, only a rough estimate from the eight or so cars he saw parked in front. It took him several minutes to gear up, but finally he shut the trunk of his car, armed to the teeth. Holding his custom handgun, the SVI Infinity, he sneaked around the warehouse, looking for a different entrance other than the front door.

“That’ll work,” Deckard smirked, spotting a firescape on the side of the building and allowing him access to the second floor. It was severely rusted and missing several rungs, and creaked horribly when Deckard started to climb up it. Taking his time, he listened carefully to the noises coming from inside.

He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but from the shouts and loud, boisterous laughter, it made the hair on the back of Deckard’s neck stand on end. People like Hulmes didn’t laugh when things were funny, but when something was in pain. That thought made Deckard quicken his pace, not caring if the deteriorating metal underneath him made noise; he needed to get to Hobbs.

The door at the top was just as rusted as the rest of the firescape and almost fell apart in Deckard’s hands as he shoved it open. It creaked loudly, making Deckard freeze in fear of being discovered. He couldn’t risk Hobbs’ life before he had even verified if the man was even in this building. Luckily, the shouts from down below didn’t stop, and Deckard could feel his heart slow.

Carefully entering the building, Deckard crouched near the railing of the platform that made up the second level of the building. And immediately, Deckard could feel rage boil up from his gut and spreading through his veins. Because down below, he could see Hobbs.

The large man was chained to a chair, surrounded by a group of various men, all who were circling the DSS agent and shouting taunts at him. Deckard felt himself jerk forward as he watched one of the men down below move quickly, his hand shooting out to punch Hobbs across the face.

“Look, boys! He’s not so tough anymore!” The man shouted, shrill laughter leaving him and bouncing off the concrete walls of the warehouse. “And to think anyone was ever scared of this worthless piece of shit!”

Hobbs didn’t react from the hit or insults. Instead, his head rolled so his chin was sitting on his chest, his whole body saging into the chair.

Deckard felt his finger twitch on the trigger of his gun as a spike of panic went through him. Hobbs was obviously unconscious and would no doubt need medical assistance soon.  Clenching his jaw, Deckard raised his gun with both hands, leveling it at the group of men.

“Try it again, you arseholes,” he growled.

And like he predicted, another man broke away from the circle and was leveling a kick towards Hobbs’ head. With ease, Deckard tracked the man’s movements and before his foot was even halfway in the air, Deckard was pulling the trigger.

Chaos exploded underneath Deckard as the rest of the men started shouting and screaming from their friend’s brains spilled all over the floor and the resounding crack of Deckard’s gun echoed off the walls. Deckard sent out several more shots as the group below him ran around like headless chickens, all of them scrambling to grab their own guns.

“Up there!” One of the men shouted, pointing up at Deckard.

“Shit,” Deckard hissed out, and quickly stood up from his crouch and ran towards the stairs leading down to the lower floor and to Hobbs. He could hear several bullets ricocheting off the guardrail next to him. Ducking, he grabbed a different gun and easily raised it to shoot the men who were running up the stairs, trying to get to him.

Their bodies fell, making him have to jump over them and down the last few steps. He was immediately met with a baseball coming straight for his head. Dropping down, Deckard balanced on one foot and a hand on the ground, and sent a sweeping kick to his attacker’s legs, making the man hit the ground hard. Quick as lightning, Deckard moved over the man and hit him over the head hard with the butt of his gun, knocking the man out.

Jumping to his feet, Deckard kept charging forward, meeting another wave of Hulmes’ lackies head on. He ducked and weaved between them, easily dodging their fumbling limbs as they tried to fend him off. Every single one of them dropped to the ground, either from a vicious punch, a swift kick, or well placed bullet.

Panting, Deckard took on every person who came at him, and soon enough, the crowd of minions was thinning and leaving only about ten minions and Hulmes himself.

“Hey, arsehole!”

Shoving a guy off him, Deckard whipped his head around at the voice.

And felt his heart stop.

Standing behind Hobbs, holding a knife to his neck, was Hulmes.

“That’s right! If you don’t want me slitting this rat bastard’s throat open, then you better give right now, you piece of shit!” Hulmes shouted, the knife he was holding pressing further into Hobbs’ skin and making a line of blood to appear. “Drop you guns!”

Baring his teeth, Deckard let his current handgun fall from his hand and raised both hands to show his surrender. Two of Hulmes’ minions grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms tight behind his back. Ignoring the spike of pain that shot up his shoulders, Deckard let the men drag him towards where Hulmes and Hobbs were.

Now that he was much closer, Deckard felt another wave of rage wash over him as he took in the state Hobbs was in. He was clearly unconscious, his head hanging limp in Hulmes’ hold. There was a mess of bruises all over his face, while Deckard could see several cuts and gashes scattered all over his body, all of them slowly bleeding and soaking his clothing. The only thing keeping Deckard’s anger from spilling over was the fact that Hobbs’ chest was steadily moving up and down.

“That’s right,” Hulmes sneered. “One wrong move from you and I’ll cut your DSS buddy up.”

Deckard didn’t say anything, but felt a thrill of amusement go through him when Hulmes’ expression fell slightly at the glare Deckard was sending him.

“You two” Hulmes waved to some of his remaining men. “Search him and strip him of all of his weapons.”

Staying still, Deckard let the minions grab gun after gun off him, and couldn’t hold back the smug smirk that grew larger and larger as a formable sized pile started to form.

“Not so tough now are you, without all of your guns,” Hulmes taunted, his voice filled with faux confidence. Deckard could clearly see his hand shaking from where it still held a knife to Hobbs’ throat.

“I don’t need any gun to take you or your boys down,” Deckard said in a bored tone. Hulmes’ face scrunched up in confusion and fury. He shoved Hobbs’ head away from him, and stormed up to Deckard, shoving the knife so close to Deckard, he could just about feel the tip of it brushing against his nose.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but let me tell you, I won’t be bullied by some wannabe-”

While Hulmes was talking, Deckard subtly twisted his hand and was able to slip his watch off. With a hard thrust backwards, he was able to break the hold on his arms and snap his arm out to hit Hulmes across the face with his watch.

“Fuck!” Hulmes screeched and stumbled away.

The men who had been holding Deckard’s arms were staring at him in shock, not knowing what had just happened. Using their confusion, Deckard lunged toward them, with his watch wrapped around his knuckles, so the watch face was on the top of his fit. He heard a satisfying crunch as his fist landed on the first minion’s face. The second one went down just as quickly, still too stuck in his own confusion and fear as he watched Deckard take down his buddy.

The last few minions came at him fast and hard, but it was too easy to duck down, grab a gun and face them head on. The fight only lasted less than a minute, with each minion falling one after another. When the final body hit the floor, Deckard watched it disinterestedly, before looking up and tracking the room for Hulmes. The man was running straight for the main entrance.

Lifting his pistol, Deckard took aim and a final shot boomed through the warehouse as Hulmes’ body slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Deckard didn’t bother watching the body hit the floor, as he was already turning towards Hobbs and rushing towards his still slumped body. Gently, Deckard grabbed Hobbs’ head, each hand on a cheek.

“Hobbs. Hobbs! Can you hear me?” Deckard tried not to let the panic he was feeling slip into his voice. Still trying to be gentle, he patted Hobbs’ cheek, trying to get the man to wake up. “Hobbs!”

“Nnngh,” Hobbs finally groaned after a minute of nudging. His dark eyes blinked open, blurrily looking up at Deckard.

“Hobbs, thank Christ,” Deckard breathed out, cradling Hobbs’ head. He looked into the other man’s rapidly closing eyes, trying to see if his pupils were the same size.

“What…?” Hobbs slurred and promptly passed out again.

“Fuck sakes,” Deckard sighed out. “How the bloody hell am I supposed to drag you out of here, you giant?”

~~~

Luke’s not sure what woke him up; it could have been several things: the blinding light streaming in from the window, the loud voices he could hear not too far away, or the massive spiking pain that was going through his body. Well, it was definitely more in his head than anywhere else. Rubbing his head, Luke carefully levered himself up right, and took in the room around him.

It was a standard hotel room: outdated wallpaper, a bed, a dresser, a door to a bathroom, a door to the outside, and on the bed, Deckard Shaw.

Wait. What?!

Luke had to do a double take and whipped his head to look down at the man sleeping next to him. Laying next to Luke, the smaller man was curled up tight, still above the covers, with a hand stretched out towards Luke, almost as if he wanted to grab him.

What is he doing here? Wait, what am I doing here? What happened? Luke wondered to himself.

Frankly, even trying to remember more than his name hurt his head, but he tried to think back to the last twenty-four hours. One of Hulmes’ men had found him sneaking into one of the warehouses the mob family owned, and had been dragged inside, where he met Hulmes face to face. But, after that, things got hazy. Luke could easily remember the pain, the questions Hulmes spit in his face as he kicked or punched Luke repeatedly. He remembered passing out and the rest was a blank.

Keeping an eye on the ex-assassin still in the bed, Luke slowly swung his feet off the bed, trying to ignore how the world was spinning.

“Hobbs?” A voice rasped behind him.

Cursing under his breath, Luke turned and saw Shaw slowly sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

“Yeah?” Luke asked, keeping his voice level. He watched with narrowed as eyes as Shaw nimbly rolled off the bed onto his feet and rounded the bed to face Luke. Without thinking, Luke’s back straightened and he leaned back when Shaw was in front of him. The other man ignored him and was immediately grabbing the back of his head. Luke tried to jerk his head out of the strong grasp, but a sharp pain had him hissing out instead. “What the fuck are you doing, Shaw?”

“Checking how the lump on your head is, you absolute wanker,” Shaw mumbled back, focusing on feeling the said bump.

Luke was shocked to hear the actual concern running through Shaw’s voice and the way his touch stayed gentle, never once pressing too hard and causing pain. Soon enough, he nodded and took his hands away from Luke’s head, but then moved them to Luke’s torso, making Luke freeze at the feeling of those surprisingly soft hands on his bare chest, where several bandages were. And that’s when Luke realized just how close the other man was.

Shaw was practically standing in between Luke’s legs, his face only a few inches away from Luke’s as his brow furrowed as he checked Luke’s injuries. Luke could feel his face heat up and his heart beat faster by how close the smaller man was.

But all too soon, Shaw was pulling away and taking a step back from Luke. And Luke immediately missed having him so close.

“What do you remember?” Shaw asked bluntly, crossing his arms and waiting for Luke’s answer.

“Other than when Hulmes’ men caught me, not much,” Luke admitted.

“Bastards really got you,” Deckard said tightly. “You were completely out of it when I got there and saved your sorry arse.”

Luke’s eyebrows shot up. That had definitely been concern in Shaw’s voice.

“You took Hulmes and his guys down?” Luke asked incredulously.

“Wasn’t that hard,” Deckard shrugged. “Hulmes might have acted like a hard ass, but as soon as I bitched slapped him, his tune changed.”

Luke couldn’t help but match the smirk on Deckard’s face with a smile. Most guys he faced acted tough, but could never really deliver. But when it came to Shaw, the man could always hold his own and find a way out of a situation, which Luke had to admit was impressive.

“Well, thanks, man,” Luke sincerely responded, catching the surprised look on Shaw’s face. “If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know what would have happened to me. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Shaw mumbled, not looking Luke in the eye and shifted his weight from one leg to another. Luke couldn’t help the small smile on his face as he watched the bashful display. He’ll have to thank Shaw a lot more in the future. However, the other man cleared his throat before Luke could say anything else. “Do you think you can stand?”

“I think so,” Luke answered, a trace of uncertainty in his voice. Sitting up and staying still had helped the world to stop spinning, but Luke didn’t know what his balance would be like. It felt like someone had replaced his bones with jello.

Carefully, he hoisted himself off the bed and stood for a moment. So far, so good, Luke thought and took a step forward.

And almost fell flat on his face.

“Whoa there, big guy!” Deckard huffed out, catching Luke’s arms and helping him stand. Luke blinked rapidly, letting Deckard keep a hold on him and making sure he wouldn’t fall again. Because honestly, Luke had a feeling he would need the help.

After a moment of catching his breath, Luke looked down at the smaller man and felt his heart stutter at the way Shaw- wait, no- Deckard was looking at him. The worry in those deep, brown eyes was astounding as he carefully kept his grip on Luke firm, but gentle at the same.

Luke couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much worry and attention, other than Sam. And thinking about it, Luke wasn’t sure he could remember a time where someone had to come save his ass, take out the guy he had been hunting, and then drag him somewhere safe to patch him up. And all without expecting anything in return. Because Luke knew Deckard wasn’t the time to save someone and ask for payment. That’s not why he did it.

Looking down at the smaller man, Luke couldn’t help himself as he leaned forward and just barely brushed his lips against Deckard’s, causing him to let out a small gasp. Pulling back, Luke was expecting a punch, a shove, or to even to be yelled at. Instead, he felt Deckard’s hand once again on the back of his head, but this time, his grip was tighter as he kept Luke where he was and crashed their lips together.

It was like fireworks were exploding all throughout Luke’s veins from where they touched: from every motion of Deckard’s lips, to the way his arms clung to Luke’s, and when Deckard shoved his chest against Luke’s, trying to get as close as he could. Luke never wanted the feeling to end, but he could feel himself becoming light headed from the lack of oxygen.

Finally breaking the kiss, Luke rested his forehead against Deckard’s, both of them leaning on each other and catching their breath.

“We should leave soon,” Deckard whispered quietly, not daring to break the calm between them.

“Where’re we going?” Luke whispered back, slowly rubbing a thumb on Deckard’s arm.

“Breakfast first, and then to London, back to my place.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“But first, let’s get you dressed.” Deckard smiled and leaned in for one most swift kiss before pulling back. As they both moved to wrangle a shirt over Luke’s bandaged chest, Luke was again surprised how gentle and caring Deckard’s touch was. He could definitely get used to it.

Deckard wrapped an arm around Luke’s waist, both of them moving slowly since Luke’s legs were still doing an imitation of a newborn fawn’s. But suddenly, Luke stopped, something just occurring to him.

“Um, is this a bad time to tell you I probably can’t pay for breakfast since I don’t have my wallet anymore?” Luke asked hesitantly.

“Oh, don’t worry about that, love. I’m sure I can find several ways you can repay me,” Deckard purred, his smirk holding several promises.

Smirking back, Luke was going to make sure that Deckard held to all of those promises.

hot cross buns

conversation from Baker’s POV, shortly before the Road Trip of doom. I can’t say why he’s talking to the audience like this, except that he’s rather lonely and doesn’t have anyone else to confide in.

You want to know why I'm in love with Angel Eyes?

Ask me a hundred times, you'll get a hundred answers. That squint he does, trying oh so hard to look mysterious- and succeeding. His graceful sang-froid while blowing smoke, whether that's from a pipe or a gun. The best goddamn squash soup I've ever tasted or ever will...but number one, that one tiny crazy mystery that sets him apart from everybody else in this business, is this. Angel doesn't do this because he has to.

He did once, I'll grant you; anybody with that family background was bound to end up in the stew one way or another. Either ordering the hits or managing them himself. He told me once, he didn't have the guts for the former.

(In Angel's defense, he was younger, very drunk, and his last partner had just tried to do him in nasty while they were performing same. I got a call after, came over to help with the clean-up; realised I had a good shot at either sex or secrets and plumped for the latter. Closest I've yet got to fucking him, but that night I don't regret.)

Point is, Angel Eyes doesn’t have the blood-lust. He doesn’t want after power or money or both in ever-increasing numbers, and while it’s obvious he gets a kick from the danger like the rest of us, he’s last to feel and first to come down. A controlled addiction. 

Not afraid either, the way we all are. 

So- who knows where he learned it, but our cool, collected angel can make anything seem classy, up to and including a business that's about the shabbiest on this earth. James Bond, you say? Sure. Sean Connery's anything but class, he just dresses the part- and that's a fair enough metaphor for the whole damned situation.

First time I ever heard an assassin say they preferred Roger Moore, it was this lunkhead in front of me; and you know, I think he believes it.

"So why'd you track me down?" Blondie asks, lighting one of his trademark cigarillos. This cramped room he’s rented is already swelteringly hot, but he seems indifferent to that. "Angel send you?"

He's got the nonchalance down pat, I'll admit that- we're all good at faking in this business, but being is something else again, maybe that's what drew Angel to him. Certainly not his skill level, since even a third-rater such as yours truly could take him any day- probably he has offed someone, but strictly street-level, nothing big time. He doesn't seem to know or care about the distinction, which isn't so unusual; but it's coupled to a - a-

oh, hell, I don't know the word for it. Point is, Blondie's pretty fabulous, and he does know how to play up to it.

"Angel's boss. Ever heard of him?"

"Rose. Yeah, I remember." A sardonic little grin, which strengths my notion that Blondie has no idea what he's talking about. You get out of the habit of smiling that way about the guy before you meet him, or you might do it- and then, wallop!

(Rose says that if a man can't keep from laughing while meeting him, he'll break the minute a fed has him by the collar. I'd try the same tactic in his shoes.)

"Right. You've attracted his interest. Very unhealthy position." I’d prefer to sit down by now, but there’s nowhere except the floor or the bed, and both of those are fairly undesirable. Leaning against the wall will have to do, filthy as it is. 

"I can take care of myself."

"Sure you can, sweetheart, and if it was up to me I wouldn't mind leaving you to it- but you get the same chances as anyone else." I take the gun out for emphasis, rap it against my palm. “After a lifetime of playing it by the books as is possible to get on the wrong side of the law, Angel Eyes just pops up one day with a brand new assassin nobody's ever heard of. You ever wonder what I do, Blondie?"

"Angel says you're an errand boy. A finger in half a dozen different pies, just about too useful and too lowly for any of the cooks to bother killing, so nobody does." He’s ignoring the gun altogether. It points to a fair instinct for when the instrument might actually be in play, that’s good to know.

"About the measure of it, yes. So how do you think I keep my hand in?"

"Don't know. Couldn't care less."

"Kid goats like you, mostly. You think you're the first man to try to shove his way into this business, on sheer pluck and willpower alone? I'm not saying it can't be done, but there are a couple entrance qualifications- and one of them's me."

"Thanks for the warning. I'll be sure to check for your shadow, next time I head down a dark alley."

Cigarillo finished, he's starting another one. I contemplate taking out my pipe, but it's hard to keep a grip on it while I'm talking. Last week I set my pants on fire trying that- so, no then.

"I'm the least of your problems. Here's the thing. Angel's vouched for you, but Rose wants some loyalty out of the fellow who's trying to filch his best hit man- so you do the job, I watch and tell Rose, Rose has prosecutable on you if he ever wants it. You can get on with romancing Angel all you like after that, he won't care."

And may all that oh-so-cute stubble of yours blaze like a bonfire in hell if you do, I don't say- but that's besides the point. Blondie's still chain-smoking, but he does that so often I can't tell if it's nervousness or nicotine withdrawal. I should recommend him my therapist.

"Who's the job?"

At least he's not as much of an idiot as the last amateur I gave this speech to- that guy had asked me what. "Take your pick. There's always a list of nobodies who could use the killing when somebody has the time, pour les encouragement- or maybe you want to take it closer to home. Rose has a funny sort of taste that way. Bad business but a man has his inclinations, and when it doesn't interfere with the cash flow- know why Angel never had to do this? Because Alma told him he'd helped her kill Romano pere, and that tickled his fancy no end."

"Hope you're not suggesting I kill Angel. That's going to be a straight-up no."

"Of course not. We both want him bad, don't we?"

"Difference is," Blondie says indifferently, "I have him and you don't."

"That's what you think. You're not the first incompetent Angel's taken up with, he's had quite the string of those in the past." Probably because he knows he'd outshoot them, in a pinch; for the thousandth time I wonder whether being just a little worse at my job would have made the difference. "That little Mexican who he's taken up with now? That one's different. Something's wrong there-"

"Wrong?" He’s still lounging across the bedspread, pretending to look casual, but that jealous frisson’s unmistakable. 

"Angel cancelled on Rose last week. For the first time ever- we're talking about Angel Eyes here. Perfect record. Careerist. So proud of never letting a target slip through, until he sends word- sorry, cannot be bothered with this very choice assignment, otherwise engaged. So that's got Rose concerned, rather."

"I'm sure Angel Eyes could take him, if it came to that."

"Gawd, Blondie- I thought you loved him too." Or is he just that dumb? A street brat could just be dumb, I suppose. "If he ever kills Rose, hell breaks loose. Complete power vacuum, and Angel only has two ways out of it. Either he dies the next month or week or day, as soon as whoever scrambles to the top has him gunned down to show you can't do that kind of thing without consequences- or he has to become head cheese himself. Do you want to share Angel Eyes with the entire mob? Because I don't."

"Hmm."

Damn it, Blondie's unshakeable. Maybe he doesn't even care about Angel Eyes at all- nah. No. Angel's convinced of it, for one, and if Angel thinks so it almost doesn't matter what the man himself thinks.

"So you know what? Kill two birds with one stone. Off the Mexican, I'll back you up with any proofs you want for Angel Eyes. Rose gets off your back, you're all done."

(And so would he; Angel would never forgive the man who murdered Ramirez, I learned that much from my last visit. And with both his partners so neatly crossed from the list, why, who knows who Angel might turn to for comfort?)

"...I've slept with him," Blondie drawls, kinda slow and thoughtful. "Now that is what you might call impolite."

"Hell, you're not going to make it very far in this business if you make that a criteria for who you won’t kill. We've all done it. Angel Eyes has, I have. You will."

Blondie nods, takes a final drag and brushes ash from his hands. "Suppose I told you- suppose I said that I've never killed anybody before."

"Funny thing. Very funny thing. That's exactly what Ramirez told me, after I got him into bed- and he's a lot more believable when he says it, too. On account of not going around bragging the exact opposite, you know?"

"Mmm-hmm- you scare him with the same offer I just heard?"

"May have done." Didn't actually, but I never encountered a situation where a flat statement was better than a sly ambiguity. "Prisoner's dilemma of sorts, I suppose. Only if neither of you kills anyone, you're both getting into trouble, so...more the opposite?"

"Suppose," Blondie says, rather quietly, "I killed you."

"Well. You muck up quite a few people's plans. Rose gets rather put out- what makes you think you could manage it?"

He's a nobody. Unimportant. An amateur who’s never made a name for himself, what’s he going to do- 

“I’d manage.” 

I wait, for him to explain himself. I wait a long while. 

I wait for a long time. Time enough for the initiative to slip slowly out of my hands, burning up in the room’s heat, dead in the air.  

The amateurs, they talk. They get positively rhapsodic by this point. Spilling over with plans and hopes and eagerness- one with plans for favourite hated rival back home, or another just begging me for a justified target. I’ve never had any trouble supplying them with everything they desire. 

And they’re none of them been so self-confident, as to think they can murder the man who’s offering them the way in to all their dreams. 

“If you’d rather, I could find you someone else-” 

“Don’t think you’re getting out of it that easy,” Blondie says quietly. His hands don’t move, his knees don’t shake. He’s sweating less than I am. “If Rose wants me to send a message, he’ll get it- but let’s be fair to you. Go home and get your affairs in order first. Come and find me whenever you’re ready- and we’ll have ourselves an old-fashioned duel. I’ll tell Angel Eyes to referee. You know he’ll play fair by you.”

“We- we don’t need to do it that way. If I had something else to tell to Rose-”

“You want Angel, don’t you? Same way I do? Thinking in the night that for the right look you’d let him gut you, bleed you to death, and you’d die smiling? That fantasy you’ve got, unpicking the ropes after you’ve saved him, do you think you’re ever going to get that from him? You won’t. Not unless,” and he’s smiling, close-lipped joy- “not unless we make it happen. Winner takes all, Baker. I’ll be seeing you.”

If I could speak- anything but oh god you mean it you mean it to reassert normalcy- I open my mouth-

“Go home, little rabbit,” Blondie says crisply. Takes out a third cigarillo and fires it with one quick flick of the lighter, while I stare. Stuffs it in my mouth, leans back to admire the effect. 

The doorknob’s blistering under my hand. 

But I get out of there fast, before he can make me feel any more sheepish. 

#DisruptionAndUncertainty

+The storm continued to rage on outside with gusty whistling winds that slapped rain steadily against the cabin, but the roaring fire within crackled and soon began to ember, keeping the occupants nice and warm.... or maybe it was just us. Her angelic moans were a perfect guide to continue with the languid licks that trailed up the column of her delicate neck and back to her lips so she could taste herself too, after all, how selfish would I be to keep those sweet nectars all to myself. The kiss was one to savor as I got a combined taste of her. She was still trembling all over, especially at her thighs. Her quickened breathing hadn't subsided at all, neither did her thunderous heartbeat, and I could still feel her muscles and nerves twitching against my massive frame which barely lay weighted on her. She may have just enjoyed this more than I did.... Damp golden tresses were tousled and splayed against creamy skin, and the perfect curves of her bare body glistened in a sheen of lightly beaded sweat while she lay sated by the fire, after I had evidently fulfilled a deep desire to please her. Nothing about what just happened was for my gain, but all about hers. With great reluctance I ended up breathlessly and slowly pulling my greedy lips away from hers but no more than a hairbreadth, her eyes so soft and sure as she looked up and held my stare effortlessly. I wanted so much to keep the stare engaged with her but there was sudden and very annoying pinging in the distance that continued to get louder and louder... the more it did, the more she faded, and more I woke up. It took a ample amount of blinks and a good run through the hair before sitting upright to scan the living room and quickly realize that not only was I the only occupant out here but my ass was obviously dreaming some very inappropriate shit about a certain female. I let out a long drawn out breath I hadn't realized I was holding and reached for the god forsaken phone that kept pinging. One missed call and one missed voice message pops up when I swipe the screen, its from Trehvor.+ (Msg: Sire, I am in route to you now, accompanied by Fritz and Saxton, son of Thym. We shall reach you shortly.) A few questions began to run through my head as I set the phone back down and headed down the hall to my room to throw something on, like what the hell was this meet for and why did it involve the lawyer? Only one person came to mind, Alex. But what was up with the male? He stopped coming around again, not even so much as call to see how Rhyan was. This has been the norm for the last couple of months now so what was this meet up for? Time would tell eventually so in the meantime I continued working into a pair of faded blue jeans and a black tee, followed up with some socks and a pair of worn in chucks. I saw nothing more needed on my end and went on to lil mans room, building an away bag for Rhyan which consisted of a spare set of clothes, shoes, and some toys. His snacks would be next in to complete after I got him ready. The signature knuckle rapping on the front door indicated that Trehvor was here and when it opened the three amigos came in, but it was Fritz who gave lead with Trehvor at his left, and the well dressed male Saxton to his right as they filed in and he made his announcement.+ "Mr. Whalker, The presence of you and the young is sternly requested at the brotherhood mansion by King Wrath himself. You have matters of which to attend to and are to be guested as long as deemed needed." +Well damn, I wasn't going to say no anyway but this sounded more on the serious side than I thought, not to mention you just didn't decline a request from the King, plus it was duly noted in his tone to make haste of being here.+ "We are ready. Just let me grab my boy and we can go." +That took a brief moment as I went down the hall to his room and scooped up a very sleepy Rhyan into my arms and made way back to the front door where Fritz had picked up our bags and Trehvor with the carseat. Saxton hadn't said a thing, more like examining with keen eyes around the cabin for some reason. I was tempted to get up in his grill for it but what good would come of it? The male meant no harm from what I sensed. Rhyan was top priority in getting situated, Trehvor had his booster secured center seat in the back just as I was ready to strap him in. The lil dude didn't even budge, he was out cold, couldn't be bothered with what was going on. Trehvor sat in the back on one side of Rhyan and me on the other, Saxton had got up in the front passenger seat right as Fritz closed the trunk and made his way to the drivers seat. A full load we were. The drive was a good 45 minutes give or take, nothing but lush forest in the vast once you bypass the lights of the city, but just as I remembered a thick layer of fog blanketed everything in sight. It made me wonder how Fritz was able to drive so damn good in it. Eyes like a eagle I guess. After passing through a few massive gates and another good mile or so back, we were finally pulling up to the front of the gargantuan sized estate. We all filed out of the Mercedes at once, I had Rhyan, the loyal pair of doggens took to the light cargo we had and Saxton again just observed. Definitely was getting under my skin now. Fritz was first at the cathedral styled door outside which he coded his way into. Both he and Saxton held it wide as we all passed into the vestibule where Fritz went through a quick cam scan and the locks to the manse main entrance were released. When the door opened, we were greeted by a face I didn't know at all before granting us passage inside, addressing Fritz and Trehvor instantly with a more than casual whatsuuup, then Saxton....+ "Hey GQ, you look like runway material. Come strut your stuff for me in the game room for shits n giggles while I get down with some Oprah Winfrey Network." +Saxton barely gave the heavily pierced up male with long blonde and black streaked hair a scoff in passing as he went up the grand staircase, which made the male chuckle before shaking his head.+ "He's too easy.... and I remember you, Whalker. Last time you were here the docs were patching you up from a three on one in a alley. Not a bad job either as I heard tell. It's good to see you again and with a young no less. I'm Lassiter by the way, in case you don't remember and in a rude need to depart your presence, as I hear Maury about to read some results on baby daddy drama. Again, good to see you." +The male took off out of the grand foyer like we was about to miss the super bowl kick off or some shit, but for Maury results? Yeah that made me chuckle some as I re situated Rhyan in my arms and walked over the massive mosaic apple tree, following Fritz down a opposite corridor that led me to something I did remember, the room I briefly stayed in the last time I was here.+ "If you find yourself or the young in need of anything that's herein naught, use the phone to dial star-four and I shall see that you get what's needed. Do rest well, Mr. Whalker." "And I shall depart back to the cabin until your return sire. I will make sure all is tended to for your return." +Trehvor added in before both doggens took a bow and left me to settle in. I hadn't seen anyone outside of Lassiter in passing upon our arrival, most likely because everyone was close to or sleeping already perhaps. Who knew. This place was a fucking palace, a massive compound that even the guest rooms made five star resorts look like cockroach motels in comparison. Too lavish for words. Rhyan hadn't budged at all throughout the drive but then again this whole ordeal was well passed his bedtime, and speaking of bed..... The king sized bed across the room was more than inviting and it didn't take long to get little man situated center of the bed and tucked in, but as inviting as it was I couldn't bring myself to fall into it just yet.... now that I had a chance to sit down again, all I could think of was that dream, with fucking HD detail. After kicking off my chucks i took up res and sprawl out on the sofa sleeper and let my head swim around her again. I had picked her up off the couch quickly, earning me a yelp and a laugh from her lips as I set her down by the fire and pull off her heels slowly. I stroked her feet, making her giggle and squirm then kiss the tips of her toes before making my way up her inner thighs, leaving trails of softly presses kisses heading north. I gazed up at her as I lift her skirt up, over her hips, and then with my teeth i hook the elastic of her underwear and pull down. I guide her legs up, so her thighs are leveled on my shoulders and I lean in to press my face closer to her sex, kissing her around her outer lips, teases her. My tongue slides out and settles over her bundle of nerves, flicking it rhythmically with my tongue and I’m just lost in her taste, in heaven, specially as I watched her stretch out like a cat and letting me pleasure her next to a roaring fire. Her dainty little hand gripped onto my hair, pulling me harder against her, I mash myself against her core and lap at her like i need it to live. “Oh shit,” She hisses, feeling the temperature of her core rising as her body suddenly arched and rolls in a wave until she's shuddering and bucking against my face, feeding me her very essence of her. She was liquefied and absolutely breathtaking as she lay sprawled out. I could see myself slowly licking and nipping my way up her creamy curves and to her lips so I could share. Fuck! I scrub a hand over my face and release a ragged exhale as I lay there reliving a dream. That's all it was dude, get over it. She was too good for a male like me and long gone from her visit anyways. I looked over across the room at Rhyan sleeping and thought I needed that shit too. Dwelling on things unknown and untouchable will just warp the mind. Sleep would prove to hold merit, specially with whatever business needed to be handled with The King, so sleep is what I soon accepted as I passed out rather uncomfortably on the couch.+