he’s by no means a lift-weights, every-day-is-leg-day, bro-those-5-inch-shorts-look-so-good-on-you kind of guy. but he’s not necessarily a stranger to the gym either, especially spin classes, which his lack of a toxic masculinity allows him to take just fine even if the class is more or less completely women, thank you very much. today, however, his usualy spin class has been postponed indefinitely (something about a ruptured achilles’ tendon, which only supports robin’s theory about how spin classes may as well be a contact sport). robin is instead left to his own devices by the weights, looking rather dubiously at the equipment in front of him. he’s about to consider giving up altogether when he spots murphy not too far from him. he and murphy aren’t exactly best friends, but they’re acquaintances at least. in the very least, it shouldn’t be too taboo to ask him for gym advice, considering this is pretty much what murphy does for a living. “didn’t realize you came to this gym too,” he says. “what’s the schedule looking like for the day?” then, for good measure, he adds on, “...bro.”
robin’s mostly stayed indoors for the day, interrupted semi-frequently by people coming in and out of his apartment either to yell at him or care for him or something in between. by the evening, however, he’s both restless and hungry, a combo that has him leaving the safe haven of his bed to grab some pho from nearby. as he’s bounding down the stairs (though not without a dull pain in his body in the process), he sees murphy going up them. he would usually just give a polite smile, maybe a wave or a brief greeting, but he figures he owes murph a bit more than that after last night. “hey, stranger,” he says, going so far as to stop on the stairs and engage. “thanks for last night. it’s always been a lifelong dream of mine to not die, so it was real ace of you to see that come to fruition.” he feels like he should say something else, but he’s not sure what. he’s new to this whole ‘being indebted to someone that saved him from getting totally pummeled’ thing, and it definitely shows.
Who: Skye Murphy & Genevieve ‘Gene’ Rivers
What: ‘The eyelid kiss is said to produce a unique sensation of an otherworldly nature, running from the base of the spine to the knees.’
Triggers: Weird kinks, blood kink, murder mention, overt sexualisation of blood, bloodplay(?)
-------------
“Damn,” Murphy hums appreciatively. He’s not being subtle at all as he eyes Gene, staring at the way the blood forces the light to catch on her skin. She looks disgusted at first, lip curled in contempt; she holds the blade she’d used loosely at best.
“My dress is ruined,” she laments, running a hand along her side. She starts alongside her breast, over a rib, and drags her fingers down over her hip. They catch on the red on what was soft blue fabric, smearing it further. Gene sighs. “All this blood, and barely anything to show for it.”
He hums again, though it cannot be interpreted. He isn’t agreeing, but nor is he disagreeing. “He didn’t get away, though,” he says belatedly.
She snorts, an almost unattractively guttural noise tearing from her throat. It does things to Murphy, and he almost misses her reply. “Yeah, but it’s hardly my job to take care of these things, is it?”
“True, but you helped. And I appreciate it,” Murphy says. He’s trying to pay more attention now, but there’s blood smeared on her ear. He can see it because she’s tucked her hair behind it, and her earrings are rubies, flashing in the lights of cars driving past the front of the building. They’ve pulled the curtains, but there’s a gap, and the light gets through enough to catch on every shiny thing in a way that brings Murphy’s attention every time. It’s possible that he is more magpie than he has believed in the past. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
“What is with you?”
“I – what?”
“You aren’t listening to a word I’m saying, and I’m not convinced you know what you’re saying, either. So. What’s up?” She jerks her chin, raises a brow. She’s definitely smirking; he steps closer, as though that will make it any clearer.
“You are,” he says, then pauses. Does he really want to say this? He bites his lip, rolling a piercing under his tongue, and hums. Yes, yes he does. “You’re the best looking thing I’ve seen in a lifetime, I think.”
“Just a lifetime, huh?”
“Shut up.”
She grins; white teeth gleaming in a sea of red. “Make me.”
Murphy takes that for the challenge it is, unable to keep his mind from how enchanting she is, bathed in the blood of an asshole who deserved to be killed by someone much less than Gene. He’s just as unable to keep his hands to himself, running them over her at every possible juncture, smearing the blood she’s wearing. They need to shower, both of them, and he needs to call the clean up crew, but. But. It can wait.
He kisses her on her shoulder and her jaw, kisses along her cheek and over the place where her pulse thrums in her throat, and enjoys the way he can bite and suck to make her cling to him like a lifeline. He kisses her temple and listens to her hum appreciatively, kisses her eyelids, left then right, and feels her entire body shiver in a way that surpasses their standard.
“Fuck, I love you,” she tries to gasp, but he captures it between his teeth and kisses her on the mouth at last, ragged and desperate and eager and invested. He’s a man who wouldn’t try to define love, not without cross-checking the poets and the definitions in a dozen different cultures, but he’d give up eternity for the woman in his arms, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Rayne is not a fixer, but for the right price, she will take jobs working with other people. She’s like a merc, in a way, except that she’s tiny and light on her feet instead of heavy set and intimidating. No one would look at Rayne and think there goes a survivor, with her nails painted baby pink and more often than not dressed in the sort of casual wear one might wear to a gym, loose-fitting tank tops and utility jackets in pastel shades, jeans stylistically ripped and gleaming white sneakers with thick, flat soles. Her hair’s pristine white-blonde, hanging over one shoulder, and she smacks bubblegum between dainty pink lips like it’s a career.
Murphy’s first impression of her, when Rita indicates the temp hires – six of them, because she wants people who aren’t obviously crooked for a job she expects Murphy to pull off – is that she definitely does not belong in their world. She’s got one of those tiny canvas bags that teenagers seem to like over her shoulder, and she’s one of the half of the hires who isn’t playing with her phone. Instead, in the time it takes Murphy to get together an opinion of her, she pops two impressive bubbles of what must be gum. He masks a cringe when he hears it, because he’s never been particularly fond of hiring people younger than him, especially girls, and because bubblegum is something he’s never been able to abide. She’s introduced only as Rayne, and she looks twenty years old at most.
“What’re you supposed to be?” he demands, probably a little rudely. She’s sandwiched between a couple of Asian guys who he knows have started to have a reputation build up, though they can still pass for civilians without catching too much attention.
He watches her pop another bubble before she offers him a smile. He expects a sardonic smirk, but what he gets instead is something almost disturbingly sincere, especially for a supposed merc. “Here for a job, boss-man.”
The look Murpy gives her is dubious at best, bewildered at worst; still, Rita only hires people she thinks will work. He moves on, and figures she’ll prove herself, or she won’t. There’s nothing he can do about it.
-
The job is simple: it’s just a heist, a holdup at a bank that deals in corporate more than anything else. Rita’s got some issue with the owner, which probably means they’re a shitty person, so they hit it every couple of years. This will be the second time Murphy is coordinating the offensive, the fourth time he’s involved; Rita trusts him to get it right, at this point.
He barely has to think about the rest of the team; he’s mostly there to coordinate and supervise, make sure the people who make demands do it right. One of the Asian guys takes that role, his enunciation precise, closer to British than whatever ethnic group he comes from. Murphy makes him run through the dialogue twice before he’s convinced it’ll be fine. He runs over the blueprints with Rayne and the other guy, looking for another escape route. Last time he dealt with this, they left via the windows. By now, they’re probably replaced with reinforced glass, so that’s a strategy for another day.
“We could get into the sewers,” Rayne suggests. Murphy frowns at her, surprised a dainty little thing like her doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the concept. She almost seems excited, actually, jabbing a finger at a spot on the map. “All these old places have entrances in the back, something the mayor set up back during prohibition. It’ll reek, but there are paths all along the edge of the main flow, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to avoid. Utilities run through there, too, if we want to cut it, that’s the place to go.”
Murphy knows the spot and hums, assigning one of the people Rita employs directly to keep watch over the power box. He’ll signal and they’ll flick the power off before getting to work in the bank proper, before the real work starts. All they need to do is hold up the teller for the cash and crack the safe; they’ve never bothered digital takeovers of this bank, both because the systems made their hacker cry the last time they tried, and because Rita’s under the impression that stealing digital money is somehow worse than stealing physical shit.
The heist itself goes surprisingly well: these mercs seem well-coordinated, even Rayne, and work together well. She’s lurking in the background, face covered with a bandana she must’ve had in her pockets the whole time, and gets the patrons and employees to fork over whatever valuables they have on their person. Wallets and jewellery goes in the bag, though she’s nice enough to let them take family photos. If they go for cards instead, she breaks noses with the butt of her pistol. It’s a method Murphy hasn’t seen in practice before, though he figures she’s hoping that by allowing them to keep their sentimental bullshit, they’ll fight less, and less of them will need to be shot in a bid for crowd control. It’s also a method that has her as the last to leave, just as the cops are pulling in. They venture into the sewers.
That should’ve been enough to tip Murphy off, really, but he’s a trusting guy, has to be, if he’s going to stay a little sane in their business. So he lets Rayne go last, despite the knowledge that having someone he doesn’t know at his back is a bad idea. By the time it occurs to him that that’s a moronic thing to allow, and he’s turning back to her, he’s startled to see her pulling her gun, training it on the entrance to the bank above.
Now, if the exit had gone less smoothly, then there’d be a reason. As it is, if she’s preparing to shoot the cops, she’s paranoid; they aren’t going to find the sewer entrance, not when he’s never actually used it before. They’ll learn, of course, install a lock or something when they find it open a crack, but it’s unnecessary to panic about it now. He opens his mouth to quietly call her, get her to catch up with the others, several yards ahead of them already.
And then she fires the gun anyway, the silenced pistol managing to almost echo in the otherwise almost silent sewerage system. The shot splits a pipe, and Murphy frowns, confused by whatever the hell she’s pulling here. The smell of gas quickly fills the area, and Rayne turns with an ecstatic grin on her lips, hoisting her backpack further onto her shoulder and grabbing his wrist to cart him to catch up with the others, rounding a corner ahead. There’s an exit not far from where they are, and Murphy, still bewildered by her bizarre actions, heads for it, not realising until a moment too late that Rayne has, apparently, paused again.
He turns around, exasperated, intent on yelling at her to find her with her pistol in hand still, taking aim – he never hears it fire, but he sees a spark, and the air abruptly explodes.
“Seventeen dead, more injured!” Rita has Murphy and his ‘team’ in front of her. None of them are licking their wounds, simply because there aren’t any, the worst is Rayne with a burned sleeve. She’s practically vibrating in her seat, from energy or excitement or something else, Murphy doesn’t know, and he doesn’t particularly care. “What the hell happened, I can’t rob the damn bank if it isn’t standing.”
“Oh, please,” Rayne scoffs, dismissive. “It caused foundational damage at best. It’ll be fixed by the time your next hit rolls around. Besides, now their records are definitely ruined, they can’t stop you from fencing this.”
“And the loss of life of innocents?” Rita is really, really pissed, and a little amused. Murphy only realises the latter because he’s watching her face for any indications he’s pissed at him, and instead he keeps seeing her lips twitch.
“I really, really doubt they’re innocent if they’re storing that much money on the premises of that particular bank. Certainly not this time of day.” Rita narrows her eyes, and Rayne rolls hers in response. Murphy is convinced that she’s completely nuts. “Look into it. Delgato does his banking today – or, used to. Only person who knew the access codes was his accountant, and, oh look, report says he’s dead. Such a tragedy.”
Rita stills, her amusement vanishing in her surprise. Delgato has been a thorn in their side for years now, leeching money from her own projects, hitting locations she’d ordered hits on herself. A year or so back, he – or one of his people – even managed to put a bullet in one of Rita’s inner circle, who has since been forced to retire. “The rest of you will get your payment. Go see accounting.” She dismisses them, raising an eyebrow at Rayne until the girl rolls her eyes and leaves. She rounds on Murphy then. “She still killed fifteen innocents.”
Murphy is pretty sure the accountant would’ve had guards with him, that they’ll make up one or two of the fifteen unaccounted for, but he knows better than to argue. “I’m aware...?”
“Keep a tighter leash on your people, Murphy. Dismissed.”
“Not my people,” Murphy mutters, but nods and gets out.
Maybe there’s a silver lining. Maybe. But Murphy really doesn’t want to work with Rayne again.
Rita hired Rayne again with a raised eyebrow, deliberately not warning Murphy ahead of time. He preferred to seem a little professional, and blatant disapproval of a merc hired by his superior would definitely be unprofessional.
So Murphy sucks it up and tries not to glare at Rita, who smirks at him. “Delgato’s base of operations is over by the wharf. Rayne’s working at a discount. Have fun.”
-
Murphy doesn’t have fun. He comes out of it with a burn that runs along his left arm, tugging and driving him crazy. Rayne is, infuriatingly, completely unharmed. Her jacket is burned at the ends, like she was on fire at some point – and she was, Murphy saw it, but she’s completely unharmed. She goes with him to see the doctor, because – he’s not sure why, actually. “Why are you here?” he grumbles.
Rayne is playing with her phone. She doesn’t have gum right now, having used it to – he thinks – stick a block of C4 to a doorway before waving at whoever had been on the other side and detonating it before Murphy could get out of range. “Oh, my sister’s picking me up. She wanted to say hi to Gwen.”
“There are more of you?”
That, for some reason, is somehow hilarious to Rayne. She cracks up, her laugh squeaky and lilting. Murphy frowns at her, not understanding, and gets to his feet when his name is called. He strides purposefully into the office Gwen uses, and Rayne is still giggling as she trails after him. Murphy’s shoulders are hunched, and he’s in pain, and Gwen, at least, isn’t going to ask invasive questions. He’s sort of counting on that, so he can get his thoughts in order, and figure out a way to convince Rita to stop hiring this lunatic without seeming like a petulant child.
“What’s funny?” The doctor, Gwen, asks absently, helping Murphy peel off his shirt. She winces in sympathy at the sight of the fresh burn, disapproval in her gaze.
“My buddy Murphy here thinks it’s surprising there are more members of my family than just me.”
Gwen is too professional to laugh, but she does turn away from them. Murphy knows full well she’s hiding her amusement; he’s seen similar mannerisms in Rita far too often to not recognise it. “You haven’t met Shaun, I take it?”
“Who the hell’s Shaun?”
“My brother,” Rayne says. “He tells horror stories about the lot of us. You’d probably relate, Murphy.” Murphy knows it’s petty, but he’d rather not relate to anyone who happens to be related to Rayne’s insanity, thanks very much. The burn on his skin is still prickling, still feels too warm to be safe. It’s driving him crazy; Gwen seems to decide it’s not as bad as it looks, and brings him to a sink to run water over it. “I told you to do that before we left,” Rayne says, disapproval heavy in her tone.
Murphy, because he’s allowed to be immature around people he refuses to hire again, pokes his tongue out at her. “I didn’t know how bad it was! Bad burns aren’t meant to have water on them.”
“It’s only second-degree, calm down,” Gwen says. She’s not soothing; she’s never soothing, not with him. “If it was worse, you wouldn’t be feeling pain right now, or it’d be white instead of red.”
He doesn’t actually think that’s much of an explanation, but he’s not inclined to say that aloud, not with Gwen being the only person here he trusts to treat his wounds. She’s just as likely to kick him out as she is to take the payment, when she gets in a mood. So Murphy stays quiet, glaring at Rayne, who is playing on her phone and doesn’t care.
A nurse ducks in not long after, when Gwen has decided the wound has been run under water for long enough and is carefully, expertly, bandaging it. “A Miss Inferno to see you, Gwen.”
“Send her in, these two invited her,” Gwen says. Murphy believes that’s a lie, flinching at the name, until he sees Rayne put away her phone.
“You said your sister was coming,” he accuses her. Rayne gives him an amused look.
“Yeah. Remi. Unless someone else tagged along, but Brielle isn’t going to break her isolation for this, not when she knows I’m fine.”
Murphy knows exactly one Brielle. Rita hires her, sometimes, when Virus and their in-house tech isn’t good enough. “Oh, god, you’re Paimon’s kids,” he grumbles. Gwen rolls her eyes as the door opens.
“Who’s talking about dad?” The new girl looks very similar to Rayne – they could be twins, and, Murphy will learn later, they are; fraternal twins, sisters who live together.
“Remi Inferno, I take it,” he says, voice a little faint. She raises a brow at him, then smiles shyly.
“Yeah, nice to meet you, Murphy.” She seems pleasant enough. Then she ruins it with a mischievous smile. “I hear you don’t much like my sisters’ methods?”
Murphy sighs, a long huff of air that sets both Remi and Rayne off, Remi dragging Rayne to her feet as they laugh.
He resolves that he is never working with Rayne Inferno again, not even if his life depends on it. He doesn’t care if it infuriates Rita; her appeasement isn’t worth the ulcer he’s sure he’s going to get, dealing with a damned explosives specialist who is also an Inferno – and everyone who knows the truth about supernaturals in Port Lyndon knows that Inferno’s are, first, insane, and second, immune to fire damage, more often than not. And an explosives fanatic who can’t be burned isn’t someone he wants within sixteen miles of him, let alone working nearby.
