GUN / * FIRE

Fletcher Hargrave, Ex-Military. Mercenary/Gun for Hire.,NYC. 

[fletchhargrave]

𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚜 ; 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝・ 𝚠𝚌𝚜・ 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢・𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎・

[suresh-lal]

'Oi!' A familiar and detested blast of noise that announced someone's presence. Probably the someone he'd been waiting for.

The scrapping sound of a knife along finished wood, biting into it found his ears as he approached the showroom. His practiced feet making no noise on the floor. Knowing the places in each board to place his careful steps. Light as a cat. The sound crawling up Suresh's neck and making his hair stand on end. His spine straightened as he assessed the creature standing in the showroom. Eye patch and knife out. Very dramatic. "Apologies. I must have been on your blind side." Dark eyes sliding to the long fresh scar on the casket. A deep feeling of annoyance bubbling under the surface. The Crawford model. "You are twenty minutes late." Clipped vaguely British accented words, vowels hinting at other languages spoken comfortably and often.

As there didn't seem any need to play pretend Suresh glanced at the knife but didn't comment. The look showing his disdain for the display. At the question Suresh nodded but hadn't spoken before the man was taking the offensive knife and slicing through the padded headboard. He felt his eye twitch with irritation as his mouth settled into a bored line, "As you can see... It can be removed."

"I am. And you are the one purchasing that lovely casket. Solid Cherry with natural velvet interior and secure latch closure." He'd had another casket set aside. A steel one. But that was no longer an option. "Most living people aren't too comfortable in caskets. No matter how soft the interior." He glanced down at the knife, "You can put that away now."

[fletchhargrave]

"You think you're a funny fucker?" Fletcher isn't as amused as his tone suggests. My fucking blind side? If there's one way to quickly get on a side of Hargrave. It's eyeball jokes. The knife's pointed in warning at the man: "I've taken more than an eye for saying less, shithead. Consider yourself lucky that you're useful." Somewhat.

Another way to get on a side, is to point out trivial details like his tardiness.

"Have you even seen outside the walls of this crypt? New York's a shithole when it comes to traffic," And if Lal doesn't like Fletch's desire to suss out the craftsmanship of the caskets, he won't like that he's parked his car illegally right out front either.

Specifically, to make it a ballache to get through the door. Saves the citizen's of the city a really fucking bad day — worser day, he supposes, if they're already planning to come coffin shopping.

His gaze sharply falls back to Suresh, questioning with a sharp smile — "Oh?" He'd been under the impression Lawrie sent him for a slightly more solid of beds. And he's not keen to be swindled by this fucking guy because he doesn't like Fletcher testing out the merchandise. He's not paying, or having this one.

"Looks pretty breakable, and a little too comfy even for the screaming and awake," he comments, seeing the damage he's caused the casket in his wildly inappropriate testing. Fletch lowers the blade, breathing a laugh when he sheathes it; close enough if Suresh wants to play funny games. Raising his head, his humour evaporates: "Where's the metal tomb, Lal? I've not got all day." then, "If you make me take two, then know that one's your grave."

[fletchhargrave]

LOCATION: Shady Plots Funeral Home and Crematorium TIME: 12:20 CLOSED FOR: @suresh-lal

It’s not until he’s inside the house of death that Fletcher realises how unnerving it is to be amongst a showroom of caskets — there’s a flag laid over one; it’s the symbol of the US, but he can’t help but blink and imagine the same colours elsewhere. He’s seen dozens like it.

He soon recognises that he doesn’t like being here. And the burn of a phantom gaze stings behind the black eyepatch he’s got strapped around his head, tufts of hair tousled around it. Combat boots thud on the hardwood of the parlour, and he’s moving through the sea of impending death. It smells odd; an ancient stench of the near — like dead pieces of soldiers laying in the warm Iraqi heat. Not the same, but Fletch can't wait to leave nonetheless. This is all for a job, and Lawrie’s sent him to this fucking guy to get a neat ol’ closure for a dead man walking. “Oi,” He calls out, when a shadow passes at the desk. Fletch isn’t quiet. Why should he be? He’s not amongst the dead; he isn’t dead.

But there’s a second too long between his call, and an answer. So naturally, his hand reaches to the back of his trousers, and he’s unsheathing a blade, the gun stays put (too loud; it might wake the dead) —

He’s quiet now.

Footsteps slowing, lighter against the wood as he draws the tip of the knife along one of the coffins he passes. Comforting, really. Sharp enough to peel wood, it would rip away flesh too. And it has. It leaves a pale white stripe where he’s carved down the length of a casket before he finally gets to see a face.

“The fuck you doing hiding around there?” Accusing — but mostly, impatient. He withdraws the knife from the coffin and holds it at his side. There’s no use him hiding shit. If Lawrence sent him here, there’s no chance this fuckers clean. Besides, history shows this all moves quicker when there’s visible and tangible motivation. He glances to the coffin next to him; the one he’s vandalised. “Does this shit come out?” He’s talking about the padded silk of its insides this time — “Don’t want them too bloody comfy.”

To test the theory, Fletcher slices into the fabric, to see if it peels away.

It does. And he’s smiling when his eye flies back to the man. “— you Suresh?”

[fletchhargrave]

🎵

Turns out, Veronica isn't entirely shit — she's got a shit taste in cars, since hers is a banged up heap. But, she's hot, and from what Fletcher can recall of the night'ly encounter, she can dance too.

He doesn't dance, but there's a tango he will participate in. And she's barely got to say the word. They're back outside the club, it's early hours and her car's still heaped on the road, awaiting a tow.

His, right next to it, waiting for his return.

Fletcher's phone is beeping, incesssantly. Eventually, he wraps his lips around his smoke and checks it with a sigh. V's a foot or so next to him, another roll up in her hands. They're a little high, drunk and there's been some dumbfuckery conversations. He can only recall half of them, the other half is reserved for the image of her against the wall —

His phone is lighting up, and his attitude diminishes quickly.

"Fuck this." It's said beneath his breath, and he's scrolling the spam of messages. "Tell me why women are fucking —" psycho, mental, cunts — He's not even thinking when he thrusts the stream of texts from an unsaved number in her face. It's probably, most likely some chick he's taken home, or bedded and left on read.

Forgotten, shelved like a read book, in this case.

"Look at this shit." He draws in a drag, and let's her scan the messages: 'We didn’t end on good terms. But I don’t wanna watch your world burn. I wouldn’t use a word as strong as hate. But I hope they cancel trains when you’re running late. So I can laugh about it I hope your pen runs out of ink. And you drain your battery. There’s a really loud noise. Every time you try to sleep. Your credit card declines. You get stuck in long lines. And somebody hits your car but you come out alright. You’re intolerant to gluten. Your clothes are always stupid. Your Netflix always buffers. You can never get an Uber. Your hair is falling out, and you get a paper cut. You bring a ten to bed — but you just can’t get it up —'

He plucks the phone from her hands. "Oh she's full of bullshit — like hell that happened—"

@vericervantez

[fletchhargrave]

📺 / Saher

'Even if you're scared that it's not the right thing. Even if you're scared that it'll cause problems. Even if you're scared that it will burn your life to the ground, you say it, and you say it loud and you go from there. '

"What kind of pussy ass thing is that — did you hear that?" Fletcher asks present company as he tips the last of his beer back. He glances to the neighbouring table beside the bar; there's a couple of hand holding lovebirds giggling, spouting off some gay ass happy shit that not a single person in the bar could resonate with. He'd bet on it. Made even more true when Hargrave looks back to see Saher next to him at the bar. A jarring reminding that she's his beer company for the evening.

Not a complaint. A fact. A detail. People really say that shit? Stupid fucker. Shit advice, most of all. He's flagging down another beer for the pair of them, muttering: "I'll burn their life to the ground, save them the fucking effort." a beat, and he looks at the surgeon pointedly; beer bottle aimed at her: "You ever say that horseshit to me, I'll slit your throat, doc." Even if her company does have some perks.

@sahernayak

[heath-morgan]

open starter

location: random bar

heath stood confidently by the pool table, his hazel eyes glinting with the thrill of challenge. as he sank the final ball with a precise, controlled shot, the small crowd erupted in cheers and applause. he straightened up, grinning, acknowledging their victory with a wink and a casual wave of his cue stick

"how bout it?" heath called out, his voice drifting over the bar “‘nyone?" the challenge hung in the air, the spectators buzzing with anticipation, eager to see if anyone would step up to test their skill against the reigning champ. among the crowd, his gaze caught a person standing close by, their eyes fixed intently on the table “you. wanna play? next drink on me”

[fletchhargrave]

Fletcher's laughing quietly in the corner, he's been throwing a side-eye in the direction of the gathering crowd for the last twenty or so minutes. Some famous driver retired way back, and took up stroking cues; getting his kicks somewhere, he figures.

It's Fletcher's game. And whether he's one eye down, and his depth perception is a little skewed, he'd rinse the fucker or break the cue over his head — whichever came first.

It's as if the guy heard Hargrave's silent ideations, because they're locking gaze. Eyepatch, to dual vision — leather jacket to bomber, it's a scene from a movie, or some modern book rewrite. Let's play, fucker.

Fletch gets to his feet, a grin many kilowatt's wide. "You're on." he's met some accents, but fuck does the merc think this might be one chewing on damn nails. He points an accusatory finger: "No crying like a damn pussy when your back gives out over this table, old man." He's seen it happen. Maybe not to men, but — he's not beyond shittalk, and getting a rise. Leaning against the pool table, he snaps his tongue on his teeth: "Who's breaking?"

[ramseyvalentine]

open: to anyone "You're interrupting my drink so this better be good." Ramsey rarely took breaks where she treated herself to anything, but every Friday she found herself at the local pub for the best sandwich on the block and a fine glass of red wine. the unexpected visitor lowering themselves across from her hadn't gone unnoticed, but she hadn't acknowledged them at first. A sigh escaped her lips before she looked up. "This better be good."

[fletchhargrave]

"Don't fucking flatter yourself." Fletcher scoffs, plucking his own beer up from the table. He's sat in the only vacant seat. And like fuck is he going to stand between a greasy ape with a mustard stain, and butterface with the pink cargos. To make abundantly clear, he adds: "You're hot, but you're not my type."

It's a lie, simply because he would. Of course he would. One eye doesn't make him entirely blind.

"You've got a free seat, and you're not shit to look at." He slumps back in the chair, kicks the legs a little further back to give space around him, an arm loops around the backrest, he's nearly side on. There's a rush in the pub; sandwiches flying out of the kitchen, and beers being poured — speaking of, he jerks an arm out to stop a valet in their tracks. They nearly faceplant, and Fletch doesn't care. "Two beers —" he glances to the woman across from him, a wry grin: "And I'll take the same as whatever she's eating."

[maeveledesma]

The anger that coursed through her body was white hot, and nothing could stop her reaching out to snatch a strangers drink from their hands. Without even a second thought, she was pulling back her arm and throwing the whole thing at Fletch, hitting him in the dead center of his back. "I warned you to fucking stop." She snarled, almost breaking into a jog to catch up with him. "Now, hand over the cash to fix your mess."

[fletchhargrave]

He misses his step because suddenly, It's scalding. Fletcher's back arches and quickly, he's reaching to pull his shirt away from flesh — wrestling it off, he's seething. Fuck you, Maeve. His own bitter coffee is the least of his concerns when his backside, and crumpled shirt is coated in a new batch of the stuff.

Oh you little fucking —

"I'll burn that pretty little face off—" It's a quiet threat as he spins to face her, dabs the warm burn of his back with a stained top; he's had worse burns being beneath the Iraqi sun, he knows. "And I promise, when I'm done, no cash'll fix that."

He rolls his shoulder's back, and jams a corner of the shirt into the back pocket of his jeans — it swings there, as he steps closer to Maeve in warning. "Now, piss off. Fix your own mess."

[esmexavila]

No, Esmeralda didn't need him to spell it out for her. She understood what he meant. She just couldn't imagine why he was proposing such a thing. Why anyone would have intimacy in public -- at a laundromat, no less. It was in public and completely inappropriate.

"Have you ever had sex on a washing machine, Fletcher?" Esme asked. "Because if you have, you'd know that it's not all that it's cracked up to be." In fact. it wasn't fun at all. Though, she supposed that whoever he had done that with -- if he had -- could have been faking. That thought alone caused a small smirk to form on her lips.

"No, Fletcher. We're most definitely not." At least, she wasn't.

[fletchhargrave]

"Wouldn't you like to find out?" Fletch shot back — before he's even heard the rest of her remark. Dirty girl, maybe he remembers now why he's slept with her in the first place. "You've been doing it all wrong."

And then, his phone is buzzing. It's a distraction, nothing more when he's carefully keeping an eye on the door, his duffel and now, the ringing in his pocket.

She really could lend him a hand.

"Then fucking watch the door, would you? Do something helpful."

[frgdsvoid]

I'm less fucking interested in our date night by the minute. "Hating our date night more by the second? Be still my beating heart. That's probably the sweetest thing you've said to me tonight." She softly scoffs, an amused smirk appears on her red tinted lips. Her attention drifts to her car again, the problem of being stuck still persisted. But there's the sound of another stranger in the distance, she looks over, once they were close enough Veronica had every intention of asking them for a phone to use.

In the meantime, she reaches into her bag to pull out a joint wrapped in her favorite strawberry juicy jay paper and a black lighter. Hearing the guy's last comment ends up stealing her attention back to him, bringing the joint to her lips and lighting it. So, he meant that kind of ride. "Well, now I'm less fucking interested in our date night by the minute." She teases.

Inhaling a deep drag of her smoke, the drug instantly washes her car worries away, the exhale is a slow thick smoke. The person that had been walking in their direction was now close enough that she was able to approach and ask if they had a phone. Luckily, they allowed her one call and she ended up using the chance to call a friend for a ride. It's a brief call and she finds herself back in the same spot by her broken down car in, only now she's looking at the stranger she's been talking to.

" Would you be interested in at least going in there for a shot or drink?" She nods to the club behind them, "A peace offering for the time being." She wouldn't mind the company while she waited for her ride to eventually show up, and a drink sounded good after everything. "Unless you happen to have a flask."

[fletchhargrave]

"Glutton for punishment, then?" Fletch titters — stemming a laugh as his single gaze trails from the smoke curling around his head, to her again. He's made his assessment of the broad, and he'll stick with it. "Sure, I'll bite. Since we're being fucking nice now."

He's noticed, she's caught up with the implications. Finally. There's a braincell in that pretty little head of hers, after all. And her witty remark incites Fletcher's smirk as he takes a slow drag. She's funny too, which is a rarity.

What's really happening, is that she's becoming more of a front seater, than a boot girl, by the fucking minute.

And then, the charade is broken and she's making a call. Fletcher's back to lounging against his car, finishing his smoke with every intention to leave the stranger stranded. Since, they're being so nice. It's a mercy. Because it's that, or taking a ride — and she's been bloody fucking clear that their date night is incompatible.

She's taken all the fun out of it.

But —

His head swivels back, and he absently flicks the butt of the cigarette towards the bar she's indicating to. "Were we at war?" He muses, feigning unaware to the revelation. Peace offering his fucking ass.

Funny, he's reminded of that about her.

He has a flask. And he's sure she can't be a cop because she's smoking pot, and there's a line of undercover he's convinced can't be crossed. Fletch likes to think for all his bullshit, he isn't an idiot. He doesn't need a cop snooping because he's got liquor breath, and a set of car keys. But — he's already said he'd bite: "And here I thought you were going to take the booze out of our date too and make it a real pisswater night."

He pushes off the car; the locking mechanism sounds when he walks far enough away from it. Winking (and it's simply a blink with an eyepatch on the other), he nudges his head towards the bar in a rather: ladies first, fashion.

[esmexavila]

"I could do something for you. Something like what?" She asked as she turned back towards him, her eyes lifting to meet his. Esmeralda liked to think that she could guess his meaning, but she wasn't about to assume anything. Besides a week of sex a couple of years ago, she didn't know Fletcher.

"Put out?" Esmerada scoffed. "Here? At a laundromat?" She couldn't help but laugh at the idea. It was ridiculous. Absolutely absurd. "Your flirting game has really went down hill since the last time we saw one another, hasn't it?"

[fletchhargrave]

"You need me to spell it. Thought you were supposed to be a smart one." Some crisis leader, or some shit like that. Funny, how he can recall that, but not her damn name. And if Fletcher didn't know any better (and he doesn't), he'd say she's having a fucking crisis by making this a thousand times less hot.

"Why the fuck not? Switch the machine on, you'll be all over that shit." Means he can give attention to other places, if he were really thinking about it. And he isn't — shouldn't be, because his hand clenches the handle of a knife from beneath faux laundry and keeps an eye on the vacant doorway.

If she isn't going to be the thing bent in front of him, then she can quit with the bullshit. He scoffs, humoured — another fucking funny one: "We're flirting? News to me." People do that better on their knees, you know?

Or maybe, he's getting that confused with begging.

[lolavillarin]

🐦 (...fletcher)

send  🐦  + character name or subject for  a  tweet  my muse would have made about it — RAHI | LEE | TRISTAN | LOLA

[levmovska]

[fletchhargrave]

[maeveledesma]

open to all.

"Hey! I was talking to you, you don't just walk away from someone who is talking to you!" Maeve shouted, stalking after the other who had just ran into her, spilling their coffee all over her new dress. It was clear to see that she was angry, and she certainly had no intention of stopping until she had caught up with the other and had them pay for either the dry cleaning or a new dress. "I said stop!"

[fletchhargrave]

"Why? You look better wet." Fletcher retorts, skimming past the civilians like he's not just left her to dry. Air it all out on the bloody street, why don't you? But there's a wide grin on his lips as he keeps his back pointed at her. (Read: hardly a fucking threat) He continues to pour back some shitty black coffee; a burnt, bitter concotion that's notably the same colour as his smoked out lungs. "Move a tad fucking faster, you might even catch up."

[frgdsvoid]

Of all the times for her phone to be fucking dead. Murder? For a second, she thought he was talking about murdering her and she braced for a fight if that's where it was going. The more he spoke, though, the less it seemed that way and the more she realized he completely misunderstood when she had said mierda. Emerald eyes carefully watched the guy she had approached, staying quiet as he continued to speak, feeling amused.

The only time her eyes left his face was to watch the cigarette he had fly to the curbside, watching the cherry burn out on the wet cement, before slowly returning her gaze to him. "I don't recall asking for a ride," she replies, a playful smirk appearing on her crimson red lips. "As stupid as it is to ask a stranger in this god forsaken city for some help, it's even stupider to get in a car with them. So," she brings one of her perfectly manicured hands up, placing it under chin, her index finger rests on her jawline as she pretends to give some thought to her next couple of words, "I can only assume that you either think I am that stupid or that easy. Shame."

She let out a small sigh, "I guess we are both simply out of luck. Unfortunately for you I'm not in the mood to get murdered tonight, and unfortunately for me you're absolutely no help." Veronica gives a little eye roll before moving past him in an attempt to get back to the club, maybe they would let her use a phone there and she could call someone. "By the way," she turns to look back at him, "Mierda means shit. You know, like your entire personality. You didn't really think I'd get in your car, did you?"

[fletchhargrave]

"Well if you ask nicely, you can have one." They're clearly misunderstanding each other. If only for the fact that he's not talking about taking a merry fucking ride in his car. (Though, they can certainly do something in there, if that's what she's into.) But it's the lingering frame of confidence that rumbles between them; neither cares to waver. For all Fletch fucking knew, she could both be easy and stupid. He wasn't complaining. She wouldn't be either.

Arrogance, confidence. It airs the same to provocations in the night.

He's held his conceited smirk for the duration of her chatter. She fucking talks a lot, for one. Depravity wins his mind, for a second; blurring the single vision he already had; he could quieten her in more ways that one.

He thinks about the boot of the car again.

"So we're skipping, dinner, a ride and murder — I'm less fucking interested in our date night by the minute." He plucks out a box of smokes, and thumbs out another. It busies his hands, and keeps them off her. He isn't into the wailing; it's a different kind of scream that's bothersome when caught in a foul mood. Fletcher taps the straight on the box, another timeless habit.

His eye flickers between her careful steps as she moves past him to resume staring at a busted car, most likely.

Honestly? His mouth stretches into a more troubling grin: "No." a beat, as he lights up his second cigarette in five minutes. There's a laugh breaking past; smoke ripples out like she's said something funny. "But I didn't ask you to get the fuck in my car."

[xthesoldier-deactivated20240614]

Temper. it seemed that was the common theme when he simply pointed out the obvious. Milo held it calmly, no need to make a scene over an almost collision. though he gave fair warning. Though that was the interesting part, wasn't it? how easily people could reveal their emotions.

For a second milo stays silent, after all, people say enough in their actions. nothing comes to mind when facing the person in front of him. Could he have known him once upon a time ago? sure, if he had his memories of his previous life.

"ah, now you're assuming I was standing in the middle, as if intentionally. " he was walking just fine and moved at the right time. Still, people will see that from their own perspective. "now should I presume you didn't see me, I moved."

[fletchhargrave]

Was that a vision joke? This fucker has a death wish. Blown out of proportion entirely. Fletcher brings a hand up to his face as the back of his thumb scratches over the strap. It’s as if he hasn't heard what he thinks he did. It's partially obscured by dirty blonde wisps, but Hargrave knows he can see fine.

"Are you saying you're not?" It's shot like a bullet, as if when Fletch shifted his eye across, and turned his head ⏤ he himself had to assess the middle of the sidewalk. It's pretty fucking close to the middle. Who the fuck cares? "And you're still in the way, so move, or I'll move you."

The details, don't fucking matter. And at this point, principle says Fletcher isn't moving for shit until the other guy does.

[esmexavila]

She immediately regrets speaking when she realizes who she is speaking to. At first, she didn't recognize him. But then... Esmeralda let out a sigh, internally cursing to herself. Why? Why did she have such bad fucking luck having to deal with difficult men?

Her eyes roll at his words before she turned back to the washer. "What, you want me to do your laundry for you?" She asked as she finished putting her wet clothes into the dryer -- incidentally, getting some water on herself -- and closed the machine door. "I am going to politely decline. I'm sure you can manage that on your own, Fletcher."

[fletchhargrave]

"You could do somethin' for me." It's partnered with his eye rolling down her, head slowly rearing back as if to remind himself if she's one of the half-decent ones. He can't remember. Nor, does he know her fucking name.

Of course she remembers his.

"If you're not gonna put out, then get out of my face." Fletcher scoffs, grabbing the side of his duffel and sliding it across the tops of the washers as to leave a gap between their machines. She's got every opportunity to walk the hell off, and save herself the trouble. Fletcher's got other things on his mind, for once. And when he feels for the cool metal beneath layers of clothes, he's sharply prompted of it.

[esmexavila]

where: topwash laundromat

who: open!

She was a regular at the laundromat. She had to be. Her studio apartment did not come with a washer or a dryer. Eventually, she'd find a place that she could afford that provided such an amenity. But for now, she was there every weekend.

"Oh sorry--" She quickly pulled her wet clothes from the washer. "I'm done with that one if you want to use it? I can even give you a few extra quarters if you're short." Esme smiled at the person next to her before she started putting her wet clothes into a dryer.

[fletchhargrave]

It's a shabby, shithole of a spot. And he's not there for his laundry, despite the duffel bag that convinces the civs that he is. But the dirtied, soiled fabrics hide what's really in there; something less soft, and friendly than old boxers, and whiskey stained shirts. He's assigned a public place, for a public liason but —

"What?" Fletch mutters, dumping the duffel on one of the machines, as he watches the door — he's got one clear vision, so he's got half a working periphery. The other, a black patch is tightly hiding the gaping mess of a hole that is his socket. Scarring peers from around the oval-ish shape, and tufts of dirty blonde obscure the band wrapped around his head. There's someone next to him, dividing his bloody attention.

It'd been almost perfect; the quiet; the lack of witnesses to a sourly organised meeting. Fletcher swivels his eye to the woman, and usually, his smile is quicker to surface. It still does, but slower. There's already the idea that she'd look good bent over one of these washers. He'd even still have a view of the door, if he angled her right.

With that on the forefront, he's almost sure he might have already; she hadn't been wearing the bright underwear she's pulling from the drum though —

"No." It's blunt, and he's unzipping the bag tentatively; giving life to a faux story of being in a damn laundromat. He breathes a laugh — "You can give me something else, if you're offering. But keep the fucking coinage."