[ It's been a long day. But hell, when aren't Bigby's days long days? Sometimes there aren't even nights and the days just run together until it's been a long three times twenty four hours day. With Fables causing more trouble than a group of toddlers in a daycare, there's always some sort of work to get done. Always.
But even though it might be 2 am and even though Bigby is only now just getting home after another one of said long days, he at least has some spare time. No calls, nothing that needs to get done right this instant. Just the golden opportunity to actually get a few hours of sleep for once until he's undoubtedly going to have to deal with someone asking for help again first thing in the morning. But hell, at this point, he'll practically take every opportunity he can get to catch some shut eye at all. Beggers can't be choosers, Bigby knows.
And luckily there's no distractions either as far as he can see after he opens the door to his apartment, if the small place is even worthy of that name. Colin isn't around, for one, and although it's sort of worrying with how much of a freeloader the guy is, for now the man just figures that he must have either gone back to The Farm for the night to see his brothers again or Snow came over looking for him and sent him back. Either way, he's not going to care now, considering that the last thing he needs right now is something else to keep him up.
He doesn't even bother to turn on the lights, instead just kicking off his shoes in the dark and pulling down his tie just a little bit (but feeling too lazy to actually take it off and maybe change into something else like the pajamas Snow insisted on buying for him ages ago - if he's going to have to get up early again, then he sure as hell isn't going to waste time on actually having to change) on his way through the apartment.
Not like he knows his plans to finally sleep are about to get interrupted all the same. Although, with his luck, he probably should have expected it by now. Maybe it would have been a better idea to not have had a mirror in his apartment, huh. ]
[ Despite her legend being a menacing and, well, bloody one, Mary appears quite relaxed as she slowly surfaces in Bigby’s mirror. Her location is shrouded in darkness, only parts of her face visible in the shadow; the bone lines that make her up, jaunt planes and sharp angles, are marked by it. She almost looks like pieces of negative space and what opposes it, cobbled together by too many artistic hands that had worked over one another, under one another, but never with. Too many artists with too many paint brushes and what came out of the canvas was Bloody Mary.
Sprawled in a chair, leg tucked over leg and her grin wide, toothy, unpleasant, she continues - ]
How does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells…
[ There’s something quite horrible about her laugh, horrible and beautiful, like bells and screams. He’ll hear it now, her words trailing into a laugh, girlish and not. ]
…and all pretty maids in a row.
[ Her feet are bare, he’ll notice, as they swing into the light.
A grin, as unwelcoming as a skull’s, is tossed his way. ]
There are some things he could still have dealt with, despite it being 2 am and him already being grumpy to begin with right now (then again, when isn't he in a bad mood). If Colin was there, he could have kicked him off his chair and told him to just go sleep too, if there was someone who needed his help then maybe he could have scraped himself together and told himself he'll just sleep tomorrow.
But this is definitely neither of those things. This is just something that's there only to piss him off, if not worse, and this is his least favourite time of day to deal with shit like this. (Hint: there's no most favourite time of day for it. Except for no time at all.)
He hasn't ever felt as much like smashing a mirror as he does now. And that includes all the times the Magic Mirror made him rhyme when he just wanted to get on a troublemaker's track quickly. ]
Mary. [ It's the perfect inbetween of "get the hell out" and Bigby just sounding incredibly done with his luck. It's noticable that he doesn't sound scared in the slightest though, which is probably fairly different than most people who happen to encounter her. It's just plain annoyance. Sure, she's one of the few Fables that can actually be dangerous to him too, but that isn't any reason for Bigby to feel intimidated.
But he knows types like her, he deals with this shit all the time, and flipping out with anger is exactly what they want you to do. So despite the feeling already creeping up on him under his skin, he tries to keep his tone annoyed, but not raising his volume. Yet, anyway. ]
Pretty sure I don't remember calling for you. Also pretty sure you handle your own problems. [ As unsavory as that "handling" might be..
In other words, she has no reason to be here and he knows she's just there to annoy him or do whatever other goddamn thing that he doesn't need in his life at two in the morning, so he's just telling her to get out without wasting the exact words on it. ]
[ He says her name and it’s the perfect in between of “get the hell out” and Mary knowing she’s in for a good time. She continues to grin her bow-like grin, content to just watch him stew in his own quiet misery. Not all of it had been accomplished by her hand, but enough of it had. He can’t banish her from his mirror, not while teenage girls push each other into bathrooms and treat her existence like a party game; it’s power, it’s heady, she could get drunk off of it if she wished to. ]
Oh, don’t be like that. I just wanted to look into your big brown eyes once more.
[ Her eyebrows dip, as an appropriate prelude to the shift her face takes. More animalistic, more amused. ]
Not the ones you’re wearing right now. You were— how shall I put this. More interesting way back when. You inspired so many nightmares.
[ Not as many as her, of course. He’s the nightmare of children, but she’s everyone’s nightmare. Mary likes it that way. ]
[ He lets out a sound halfway between a grunt and a sigh. Great, this is pretty much shaping up to be exactly what he thought it would be - a pain in the fucking ass, that's what. The last thing he feels like doing right now is reminisce about old times. ]
Seriously? [ Maybe he should have expected something like this coming from her of all people, and yet he didn't, hence why there's an actual hint of surprise in his tone. Even though it mostly just sounds done, his eyes sliding to meet her gaze - sure, go ahead, stare into those perfectly normal human eyes. ] You and Woody should start a fucking knitting club already so you can talk about just how big and bad that wolf is all night. Seems to be a mutual hobby you've got. [ Although there's a clear difference between those two and he knows it - what he has with Woody, their constant bouts, it's more something natural. Their personalities, no, their very natures clashing just like they always have, even way back then. Mary isn't like that, she spurs him on purposefully and he knows it.
(He knows it, and he knows he shouldn't get mad or angry or annoyed at it since that means he's letting her play him like a finely tuned instrument, but it's so incredibly hard when he has a terrible temper to begin with.)
His body rigid with tension, Bigby doesn't move to sit down, instead just standing there, refusing to let him out of his sight just in case. He trusts her about as far as he could throwher-- well, less than that, considering it'd probably be pretty far, given the chance. ]
I'm not here to be your or anyone's freak show. [ Even if everyone seems to think he is. ]
If I wanted to watch that dumbass thief comb his beard, I’d already be there.
[ Her words, as ever, come out as little more than a purr. People don’t consider it necessary to live without mirrors, Fables included, and the Woodsman is no exception. Mary has absolutely nothing constraining her - nothing but the Crooked Man’s orders and her own desires, after all. She doesn’t want to talk to the Woodsman, so she doesn’t. His story is over. He’s boring.
Mary’s head lolls in consideration and she shifts, sitting forward instead of sprawled sidewards, taking up all the space the way a man would. With feet flat on the floor and shoulders squared, back hunched, well. He’ll get a peek inside her shirt’s neckline as well as an uncompromising view of her expression. ]
Look. The mirror is traditional, and I like tradition.
[ Her smile jerks, widening, as abrupt as twisting a knife. ]
It’s not necessary. Any reflective surface will do. Your toaster, a puddle of water, Crane’s glasses. I just have to be fast enough. And I’ve had plenty of time to work on that. So why don’t you make this easier on both of us and, I don’t know, invite me over for a nightcap?
[ His expression, all torn up in impotent, wolfish anger, really is delightful. She can’t get enough of it. She’d laugh, but laughing hurts her throat in anything more than tiny, murmured bursts. Everyone has always told her how terrible her laugh is, that it makes mundies bleed from the ears and fingernail beds. Who knows what it would do to him. It’s an experiment for later. ]
[ The annoying part about all of this is that she's right. And that he knows it. She could strike easily, she could be anywhere, since that's just what she's like - just what her story is like. Mary could follow him around until it'd either drive him nuts or convince the people around him that he's nuts, whichever happens first. (He's willing to bet on the latter.)
That idea doesn't bother him too much. What does bother him is the idea that she'll be doing it around others. (Around Snow, he thinks, but doesn't bother to admit to himself.) It's enough that he has to put up with this bullshit, but he'd rather prefer for the small handful of actually halfway decent Fables he knows to not get caught up in it as well.
And although getting her over in the apartment isn't exactly a good thing either, since he truly doubts Mary can ever just sit somewhere and talk, he figures that some people might just figure the noise is him being angry about something. Or whatever. The wolf huffing and puffing in his sleep. (Give him a break.) At least he hopes it'll be enough to keep the few people who'd actually give enough of a damn to check up on him away since those are exactly the few people he'd rather not see anywhere around Mary. So that means the only option is to put at risk what he definitely doesn't give as much of a crap about. His own safety. And sleep, but really, who hasn't he already sacrificed that to at this point. ]
You're shit out of luck. Water's all you're getting. [ As if he actualy has anything filling his fridge. It's a lucky day when there's even alcohol left in his kitchen, let alone milk. Or actual food.
Okay, so he might still have a bottle of whiskey back there, but he's not wasting it on her. There's limits to this crap.
There's a moment where he looks - probably amusingly so - really frustrated with this whole deal, since why him, why on a night he was actually going to sleep, why does he always have to pick between two fucking evils-- but then he tries to force it down, even though he's still clearly frowning as he stares into her eyes still, making a point to not look at anything lower than her face and as long as he can help it, not her infuriating smile either that shows she knows she'll win. ]
But sure, whatever, what do you want? Need me to get a group of hysterical girls in there and put on some pajamas? You might start to feel a little lonely without your usual company.
[ If there’s one thing Mary likes, it’s getting what she wants. The mirror mists red, growing more and more opaque until it is welled up to the edges with solid colour. When Mary appears again, she’s in his apartment, standing on his floor and breathing his air. It doesn’t look like she moved through the mirror so much as faded into existence beside it, but one hand is left splayed against its surface. For balance, even if she goes out of her way to not indicate that. It’s harder. Although not impossible, when they don’t invite her willingly. Bigby had gone out of his way not to say her name, and that’s where the power of invitation lies. ]
Please. The last thing I need right now is to hear the shrieks and giggles of stupid girls.
[ Rather like a nosey guest, she’s sizing up every inch of the place. ]
But if you’d like to put on a pink teddy and chant in front of the mirror, it’d make for a fun night too.
[ Mary intends to have fun regardless, but right now, she feels like the ceiling is pressing down on her and the floor caving up in turn. The apartment is rejecting her presence, making her head swim. Her grin is far less smug then it was moments ago.
That doesn’t stop her from making herself at home, though. Sprawling into one of his kitchen chairs, she plants her booted feet on the table, one ankle crosses over the other. ]
[ Don't count on him saying that name anytime soon. As long as he has to suffer by not getting some night rest for the first time in days since she's deciding to harass him, then she's got to suffer too by not getting the easy route into his apartment.
Despite the fact that she's still acting like she owns the place. Not very surprising. She's completely the type, as annoying as it is. ]
You have some weird hobbies. [ It's at least only half grumbled, and he takes one last look at the mirror before just turning away from it, staring back at the apartment, although not directly at her this time. There's only so long he can tolerate seeing something that infuriating in a row.
God, he sure feels like a drink or a smoke right about now. Unfortunately he knows neither of those would last very long around her. ]
Shit, just cut to the chase already. Or did you really just decide to make it your new life goal to annoy me at times any sane person would be trying to catch some sleep.
[ Sure, she did mention the whole wolf thing, but as far as Bigby's concerned, that's just filed under trying to annoy him. He doesn't see the fascination everyone seems to have with his big and bad side when he's actually been trying to do some things right for once. ]
[ She tips her head back, keeping him in her field of vision as he moves around the room. Mary’s interests may lie in the dark, the exotic, but she’s far from blind. He’s nice to look at. He simultaneously looks his age and doesn’t, worn and lined and leathery. There are worse things in the world to be stuck staring at. ]
I’m here for a nightcap.
[ She doesn’t sleep during the night - to do so would interfere with her precious hobby - so when the Crooked Man doesn’t need anything, she’s left wholly to her own devices. It can get boring. She doesn’t like being bored.
Uh-huh. [ Said with the most sceptical tone ever. Not like it's hard for Bigby, that sort of tone comes naturally to him, but it's really the look that comes along with it as he turns to look at her sitting there (just so she can catch the expression too) and folds his arms across his chest. ]
Possibly the only person in Fabletown with as bad of a reputation as mine comes over in the middle of the night.. for a nightcap.
[ Do you realise how stupid that sounds, Mary. Then again, Bigby is pretty sure that she very well understands how lame it sounds and that it's probably a cover up for.. well, wanting to annoy him or something. That seems to be a thing a lot of people like to do, for some reason or another.
He steps over until he's right in front of her, looking down at how she's sitting there. ] Want some milk and cookies with that so you'll be able to sleep? Need the Big Bad Wolf to come tuck you in?
[ He finally deigns to look at her and Mary holds his gaze without flinching, her smile crooked and unkind, almost playful. ]
I already asked for warm milk and bourbon. I’ll take whatever you have.
[ Water, he had said, but she’s skeptical. Not enough to get up and look through the fridge herself, though. Or perhaps she can’t just be bothered. His notions of milk and cookies, being tucked in, are dismissed with a careless pull of her eyes. His proximity isn’t unwelcome; standing over her as he is, she can feel the animalistic warmth emanating off of him in waves, heat and blood and life. Mary’s been cold to the touch, like unlit glass at night, always. ]
Why don’t you tell me something, Sheriff. Why are you so concerned why I am here? Are you worried I’ll stick your little pig friend?
[ Standing out of the chair, she takes advantage of his proximity to enforce her presence. Although her head tilts back a fraction, she stands uncomfortably close to him.
Either he’ll step away or he won’t.
As far as Mary is concerned, either one is a win for her and a loss for him. ]
[ Because he would feel worried if Colin was actually here tonight, but it looks like that pig finally got the right idea about getting out of here for once on just the right night. Because Bigby isn't fully as tough and uncaring as he likes to pretend he is, but he isn't about to let her of all people on to that fact. He's not going to let anyone onto it, as long as he can help it.
Although her being this close to him certainly doesn't help the sense of annoyance tugging at the back of his mind, tugging at his temper that he tries to keep buried deep beneath but that manages to surface all the time regardless.
Still, he doens't step back. If anything would be a sign of weakness to Bigby, it'd be that. Despite everything, he's not scared of Mary. Not in the sense most people would be. Not to mention that he knows that if anything, she's trying to draw reactions out of him.
The least he can do to keep some sort of dignity is not letting them slip out and instead staring her down unmovingly.
The man lets out a sigh, crossing his arms. ] Look, we both know why you're here. It's just to come and annoy the sheriff, it's a trait you share with a lot of people. The only difference is that you also know I can't just shove you out of here and call it a night. [ Because he doesn't particularly feel like smashing every single piece of glass in his apartment, especially not late at night when it's just going to draw attention. ] So in that case you should also already know I just want to sleep instead of dealing with this bullshit.
So I guess in the end what it comes down to is this.. Are you just going to walk out like a good girl for once and stop all this fucking around later on too or do I really have to smash your face in to prove a point first?
[ Mary tilts her head. She’s pleased, and her entire expression is an outward extension of that pleasure, from the malicious crease and dip to her brow to the razor slip her smile becomes. When he sighs, the veins in his throat pulse with the movement, taut and loose in turn, and she finds herself wondering what it would like to be to taste the blood underneath. Is it wolf’s blood, Mary wonders, or the blood of a human.
She could, too. She could lean forward and… ]
I’ve never been a good girl.
[ Those few words only and then she lashes out, the heel of her hand driving straight into his chin. Her legend gives her strength - Bloody Mary, the spectre in the mirror; Mary I, queen of England for a day. It’s belief, as well as blood, that flows through her, powers her, makes her strong. A Mundie who received a blow like that wouldn’t be alive now. The force of it would sever an ordinary person’s head from their shoulders. Human skin, bones, sinew and muscle - they’re wonderfully, beautifully fragile things. And boring.
It’s amusement and interest that sharpens her cheshire’s grin now.
It won’t be any fun if he dies tonight, after all. ]
[ He should have seen this one coming, really. Not even just since it's Mary, not even just since he's dealing with someone dangerous, but mostly just since things never seem to go the easy way for him.
Still, Bigby wasn't entirely prepared for a hit that hard, and although it doesn't cost him his life - the upside of being a Fable, and a very well known one at that - the force does manage to send him flying back into the wall a few steps behind him. The building groans and squeaks, and the few glasses Bigby has make a ringing sound from the cupboard they're stored in.
A low groan escapes him like a rumble. Not wolf-like, not yet, it still sounds entirely human, but it does sound halfway between pained and just plainly annoyed that he has to go through this when all he wanted was some sleep. ]
You just had to fucking go there.
[ Not that he's planning to give her a chance to walk all over him that easily though - it's why he's quick to pick himself up agan and instead storms towards her, attempting to grab her by the shoulders so he can push her back into the wall instead. ]
[ She’s strong, fit and fueled by the potency of her legend, but she’s comparably powerless in her glamoured form and he’s, well. He’s the Big Bad Wolf. He’s never needed a glamour. His change is entirely his own. Her shoulders hit the wall, her back following. It hurts. Were she a Mundie, the force of it would have likely snapped her invertebrae like a twig. She’s not, though - and it’s only a tickle, a twinge, a welcome heat at the base of her spine and spreading rapidly upwards.
The shove had enough force behind it that all the décor on the wall rattles, and it’s a very sweet sound to her. ]
I don’t have to go anywhere, wolf.
[ For the moment, she appears resigned to his hold. Really, Mary’s thoroughly unafraid. He can’t do anything to her that she doesn’t want. And this is pleasure, after all. Not business. There’s none to answer to but her own desires. ]
Can you let go of me? The noise will wake your neighbours, like little miss Snow White. And you don't want that, do you, Sheriff?
[ She's close enough that the last few words are little more than a sultry breath against his ear, Mary leaning in. ]
[ He hates this, the feeling that no matter what he does, she's always one step ahead, she always has a new thing to lord over him. And he knows what causes it. It's not even a difference in strength (because, when it comes down to it, he's the stronger one, even if there are things that could give her the advantage and even if she's certainly not weak) as much as it's the blatant difference between the two of them: Mary has nothing to lose, while he has too much at stake at all times. His reputation that he's finally trying to make better, the Fables who he has a duty to protect, the few people he actually wants to protect outside of any kind of duty (respect, fondness)-- as much as he'd like to deny all of it, it's right there.
And Mary plays on it. Even now. Even though he has her shoved up against the wall with an iron grip, even though he frowns at her so much that it's a small miracle his eyes haven't turned yellow yet, his teeth not fangs.
He'd love nothing more than to throw her through the wall into three apartments away from this one, but he knows she's right. He can't draw attention. If it's just handling her by himself, he'll be fine, but he can't stand the thought of her threatening Snow. ]
Like I'm stupid enough to let go of you so you can continue your little fight. [ He doesn't trust her, and it's obvious enough in the way he talks. It's softer than before, maybe since he's more self-conscious now about waking anyone up, and just like her words are a sultry breath, his own are mumbled grumbling, a conversation only between the two of them.
(Even though it's annoying to even have to endure her from this close, but letting go of her just means she'll kick him around again, no doubt.) ]
Do you really think I'm that stupid?
[ No, but she knows you're weak, a voice in his head tells him. His stomach turns, even though it doesn't show in his expression. ]
[ He moves in close in turn and she can feel his breath tickle her throat. The warmth excites goose prickles along her skin, and her smile sharpens in extension - pleased as a cat, with a smirk to match. He’s holding on, despite her attempts. Mary’s fine with it. He’s still the big bad wolf from stories, whether his eyes are brown or gold. He plays the role of Sheriff, wears the badge like a cloak of change, but she doesn’t believe it. Tonight— or however long it takes, really— she will get him to face his bloodlust head on, be who he really is. ]
You’re asking the questions here, is that it?
[ It’s a jibe, a play on words, teasing out something she’s heard in every cop procedural drama she’s ever watched, “I’m asking the questions here.”
Even with her pinned by her shoulders, she still has some movement of her arms. One hand shifts, sliding around his waist to find a spot on his back— aha. Right there.
Her fingers press into the scar left by her silver bullet, so many months ago. ]
[ He's hardly had to worry much about wounds. When you're a Fable, and especially one as well known among Mundies as the stories of the Big Bad Wolf, you stop worrying about wounds. You don't care about being thrown against walls or falling out windows or even getting shot since it's just what you deal with. Sure, it hurts, but you suck the pain up and move on. Wounds won't kill you, everything will mend with time.
But silver has always been different. He's never had to suffer from it much since it's not like anyone ever figured out his weakness for it - but Mary did. Mary did, and the one time it was used against him, it immediately got him good. He doesn't think he's ever been as close to death as he was in that moment, and even now the memories of it are entirely unpleasant - lying there, unable to do anything, unable to stop them from carrying out their plan and even unable to stop them from hurting Snow if they'd feel like it. (And Mary would have felt like it, he's sure, if her boss hadn't called her back.)
So when he winces at her pushing her fingers against the scar, even Bigby isn't entirely sure if it's because of the lingering soreness in that spot or because of the godawful memories.
But wince he does, and it even drags out a low groan from him.
He grits his teeth quickly though, as if he doesn't even want to give her the pleasure of hearing that much. And his grip on her doesn't relax. ]
What are you trying to say? That you're going to kick my ass again? [ Because he isn't about to let her. If he can help it, anyway.
His eyes narrow, and his grip tightens. ]
I think you're forgetting who's in charge here.
[ Because this is the only thing he's good at, right? When he's trying to be nice and helpful, everyone just gives him shit over it in the end. When it comes down to it, all he can do is what he's always done - being big and being bad, and hoping that it's good enough to make everyone else back down - or at least to teach them a lesson. ]
[ Mary rolls her eyes. Her fingers continue to linger over the bullet wound, with only his flimsy work shirt as a wall between her touch and his skin. A spiral of ridged flesh, and a scar left for a man who normally never scars. Her mark. For the rest of his life, she’ll be stamped on him - her weapon, her intervention, her attack. It’s a nice feeling; a thrilling one, from the base of her spine to the back of her knees. Her chin dips just that tiniest bit lower, nearly brushing against the curve of his neck, before her lips graze his ear. ]
Please. Quit posturing. I know who you really are.
[ The child of the northern wind and a wolf, and he became something else altogether. A legend of malice and bloodshed that could rival hers. She doesn’t understand why he doesn’t return to it, even though it would probably disrupt the town’s order - shatter it, even. Mary kills and maims and tortures for fun, yes, but she still needs to make a living somehow. The Big Bad Wolf wouldn’t need to be burdened by such limitations if he didn’t choose to. He would be a force of pure ruin. But, instead, he puts on the Business Office’s pretty little shackles, punches his time card, and plays nice. It’s entertaining, until it isn’t.
Mary has never done well with things that don’t entertain her. There’s still his proximity, though; his scent, his taste, the warmth coming off of him in waves, like the hot breath of a furnace. Her shoulders dig just so harder into the wall from his steeling grip and Mary only continues to look pleased. ]
Why don’t you prove you’re still a man instead of making idle threats?
[ The spot just below his ear, a bit more clean shaven than the rest of his jawline. That one, there. Her tongue darts out to taste his skin - and then Mary bites down. ]
And this time, it's an actual growl. Not too loudly, so it shouldn't draw too much attention to his apartment (at worst, someone might think he's stubbed his toe against a corner of the furniture) but there's definitely something less human in it, more instinctive as a reaction to the pain running through him at that bite.
Nothing too bad, and certainly not the worst he's had, but enough to be painful and annoying, and he slams his hand against the wall.
Except it's a hand with claws. Claws digging through the wallpaper into the wall, enough to leave scratch marks there in the morning, dangerously close to the part of Mary's body that's still sandwiched between him and the wall. ]
Is this some fucking game to you..?! [ He winces, but grits his teeth. ]
You don't want to die. [ He can't think of why. He knows some people want to, sometimes, he remembers how Lawrence looked, miserable in his seat, but Mary is not like that. He can't think of her giving up the fun she's having now. ] But you know you could. And yet you're still here doing this!
[ Because he could kill her. He's certain of it. She doesn't have her gun on her, as far as he can tell, and in physical strength, no one can defeat his legend. Right?
It hurts even more and he already knows it will before he does it, but he still practically rips her off him, blood trinkling down from the spot that's turned into a wound because of the motion. But anything is better than having her linger there.
And when Bigby's managed to get her back to the wall, he moves in close enough that she won't be able to pull that shit again, his forehead practically pressing against her own. Not that he didn't notice the biting at all though, even now the blood does still trinkle down, even now his breath consists of heavy puffing. ]
You don't want to play with the wolf. That's not me anymore.
[ Not the old wolf, not the one who -- ]
And even if you did, you wouldn't fucking make it, so cut it the hell out!
[ But even so, he's slipping. His voice grows in volume, even though he had been trying to keep it under control to not make anyone notice them, and his eyes gleam from white to gold to white. Something she'd be able to notice, considering he's staring straight into her eyes from that up close, trying to find anything at all in them. ]
[ The growl reverberates through his throat, making his flesh vibrate under her teeth. It’s a nice feeling and, following it, she’s prepared to dig her teeth in deeper. His reaction distracts her, claws goring the yellowed wallpaper and his entire body shuddering, flaring to life against her. Mary decided long ago that he really is better looking like this, not confined to the chains of a human appearance and human rules.
Except he still won’t admit it, and that pisses her off. ]
Don’t you get it, wolf boy?
[ With a hand shaking behind his neck, she grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks backward. She can’t do too much with him pressed against her, the strength of the wolf bearing down, but that’s not the same as not doing anything. The hollows of his throat are thrown into clear relief, and the sight of the blood she left on his neck makes Mary chortle darkly. ]
Sure, you can kill me, but there will always be the legend. I’m the queen and the bogeyman rolled into one. As long as they continue to chant my name, I’ll always be there.
[ She releases his hair just as abruptly. ]
I’m not here to kill you. I’m not on a job. What else do you need to know?
[ Even if she's not here to kill him and not on a job, does it matter all the same when she's made her intentions clear through biting him just now? To him, it's all the same. ]
You're here to annoy me, that's what.
[ And then he realises why it bothers him so much. It's not just about Mary being a pain in the ass, even though she obviously is one of the biggest pains in the asses he's ever known.
It's about much more than that. It's about how everyone just constantly seems out to annoy him and make his life harder, not just Mary. Even though he's trying his best to keep order, to do what he thinks is right, people complain at him from all sides about how he's doing the wrong thing. People looking down on him despite him almost single-handedly carrying the safety of this community on his back. People saying he's nothing more than a monster when he's tried so hard to change, when he came here to get a second chance, to finally do something right for once, to prove himself a better person.
But they don't care. No one cares. They look at him, and all they see is the wolf. Mary is the same. She revels in it, practically, and he's not sure if it's better or worse than all the people looking down on him for it.
It doesn't matter. All he knows is that he's so fucking tired of it. Of pretenses. Of trying his best when no one gives a shit, and shit is all he gets in return for it.
Bigby grabs her more roughly and pulls her along with him, practically throwing her straight onto the floor and it's a lucky thing he's not applying enough force to smash her through it, but it's coming pretty damn close. And a moment later he's already there over her on all fours (it feels so natural to move like that, how could he have forgotten, a voice whispers, no, growls to him--
just let go. ]
I'm so tired of you and everyone else always just fucking around with me! [ His eyes grow yellow, then a deep gold, his claws digging into the floorboards on the sides of her head, his breath coming in low puffs. ] You're all the same when it comes down to it! Everyone talks about it, but no one ever gives a shit about second chances.
[ Not when it comes to it. ]
So.. what? This what you wanna see? Are you fucking satisfied now?
[ Of course she’s here to annoy him. As far as Mary’s concerned, that isn’t even a question. The fact that it’s working fills her with no end of glee, but that’s not entirely his fault. She knows what buttons to push. The entire town knows what buttons to push, really. The Big Bad Wolf doesn’t want to be big or bad anymore. He wants to be an upstanding citizen. But long lives breed long memories, and no one will forget. Mary believes it would make it so much easier on himself if he were to revel in it, stop trying to play by the rules of a thankless society. Fables choose to act like that toward him, yes, but he chooses to put up with it.
If Mary were slightly more empathetic, or could be bothered, she might try to explain that to him. She suffers from an abundance of not-caring, however. Her own desires are what matter now. He’s feeding them, turning them gold.
When her back hits the floor, Mary barely reacts. The pain is dull, a distinct sensation that transmute into pleasure, nerve endings hit at the exact right angle to excite her.
He speaks of second chances and her smile twists, unbecoming. ]
Oh, kid. I’ll give you a second chance, when you stop pretending letting this town shackle you is a good way to live.
[ Hands sliding from his neck to his chest, she flicks the solid length of his badge, tucked inside a pocket. ]
You’re on a leash. It breaks my heart, really. Sends me crying to bed every night.
[ He’s right, though. It is what she wants to see. His eyes are so inhuman, so piercing, and he hasn’t even slipped out of glamour. For a moment, she’d like nothing more than to slip her fingers into those eyes, feel the warm blood of his sockets slide down her hands, pluck them out and display them in her apartment as a trophy.
Fortunately, the moment doesn’t last. He’s pressing down on her, respectful proximity thrown away for menacing force. She can practically taste his breath.
Mary can’t imagine she’s supposed to be intimidated, but honestly? She is really, really turned on.
She’s said her piece. There’s no danger for her here. Mary only presses forward, drawing the encounter to its logical conclusion.
His question doesn’t get an answer - at least, not verbally. Her hands snake around his neck again, taking advantage of his closeness. This time, instead of tugging him away, she pulls him forward, kissing him hard. Here, now, she can taste the wolf in him. His sharp teeth scrape against her tongue as it forces its way in, mixing blood in with her taste and his. The facial hair is coarse and scratchy against her face, and it’s a good thing Mary isn’t especially ticklish. The kiss is forceful and demanding, but there’s nothing except her own grip keeping him there. She’s strong, but Bigby’s stronger, and this is his turf. What happens next is up to him.
[ Something in the back of his head tells him he should be finding this wrong.
But that voice is overshadowed far too much to still make an impact on him. Everything inside of him roars even already as she speaks, wanting to act on instinct, to kill, to do whatever that makes him feel good for once instead of doing what's right for everyone else. To claw her guts out, to devour her whole even if she'd probably taste like crap, and although he doesn't fully transform into a wolf, he sure is getting hairier by the moment as he only just thinks about it.
But then her lips violently lock with her own and the voice finally softly protests, even if it's already too late. Her tongue is already shoved into her mouth and he can taste blood and it drives him insane, makes him feel even wilder.
He doesn't care anymore if it's Mary. If anything, it's easier exactly because it's Mary, because he doesn't give a shit about her and would be more than glad if she'd be forever rid out of his life. It doesn't matter if he hurts her like he so damn badly wants to, it doesn't matter if he's rough. It's not like it'd be if he would be doing this with Snow (but she is far, far from his mind right now, locked up with the calmer and maybe even more human part of him far beyond his reach).
And so he presses back just as hard, just as violently, their tongues more at war than anything else because he sure as hell isn't backing down from this nor is he planning on letting her take the lead here. This time when he grabs her shoulders while kissing her roughly it involves his claws digging into them as well, hoping to draw more of that sweet blood, not wanting the moment to end.
He hasn't felt this free in ages, and he loves every single moment of it. ]
[ He surrenders, or he fights. In an instant, Mary is filled with him: his taste; teeth and tongue; his hands - claws, now - tearing through her shirt and digging into her back. Her back arches as he scrapes at her, ribs in a forward jut against his chest. She can hear his own clothes straining against the halfway of his transformation, seams holding desperately and futilely. He had wanted a second change, or so he said; Mary is not the person to be offering that. This isn’t that - but it’s something. An offering, a challenge, a bending of lines. Her fingers trace down his arms and the touch is surprisingly gentle, spider-light… until she turns her fingers, just so, and that soft touch becomes the sharp, unforgiving kiss of her nails. Against his fur and flesh, they cut like glass.
He’s bearing down so forcefully that it’s hard to breathe and she’d be fine with that normally. She’s a Fable, a myth; her legend is her oxygen and sustenance. It may not be worrying, no, but it is uncomfortable. The longer the discomfort remains, the more she longs to lash it back at him. No effort is made from Bigby to support his own weight. In one swift motion, she pushes at his shoulder to reverse their position. Mary is left on top of him, sitting comfortable at his waist, seizing him as if he were a throne and she were the queen designated.
Her glamour is an expensive one, even now that she’s no longer under the Crooked Man’s employ, but even it can’t transform certain things. Plain eyes darken, sigiled and bloodied. Thrill and delight undo her mask in degrees. ]
See?
[ Mary takes a moment to smooth down her hair. There’s blood on her tongue, a splash of near-black contrasting the delicate pink, but she pays it no mind. ]
I knew you liked it rough.
don't.. mind me.. i forgot my paid ran out and left me with crap icons whoops
[ Old scars - coutesy of Mary, even - still linger, and it's easy enough to push even someone with Bigby's strength over if you know where to go for it. And especially if you're rather strong yourself. So the wolfman finds himself lying on his back before he even fully realises what's happened to reverse their positions, glancing up at the woman - creature? - sitting on top of him. At least her eyes are pretty much the last thing he's concerned with right now, especially since his own are a bright gold in turn, barely even human anymore. The emotion in them is obvious too and also not as human anymore. It's a strange kind of rage combined with lust (wanting more, wanting blood and flesh and bone) that Bigby is probably not even trying to hold back anymore with just how quickly his mind is slipping away further.
It's always been a slippery slope, really, even at moments where he thought he could control it more than this. But Mary always seems to drag out the worst of it, or at least do everything but make it better.
The only response to her words is an animalistic growl, and even though it definitely takes effort (Mary may seem small, thin, but she's got much more power contained in that glamour-covered body than most people would assume) he manages to at least sit up enough to reach her. Not enough to flip their positions back once more, but enough to stare her in the eyes with a glare. ]
Shut up.
[ Because he doesn't want to talk right now, doesn't want to think, because it all doesn't seem like anything more than a gigantic waste of time. Especially to the wolf in him that's roaring, that's breaking its chains, demanding--
After he bites the words out, there's only a split second before he manages to move himself up and Mary close to him enough to sink his teeth straight into her shoulder near her neck. It's a strange combination of violence, yet with a little more than that - if it was just straight up violence, he'd definitely be trying harder to just directly kill her. But this way he can taste her blood on his tongue once more, his teeth trying to rip and tear as they have done many times before in the past. His tongue runs over the wound, wanting to preserve every single bit of the taste of her skin and flesh.
He doesn't want to stop now, he just wants more. This stuff has always been way too addicting to him. ]
I'm going to find a new Bigby, you have failed me!
[ His teeth rip clean through her shirt, tearing fabric and flesh alike. Blood flows, staining white. He’s leaving marks on her the same way she had branded him, so many months ago, but the difference is his teeth marks will fade by morning. Her breath hitches, biting back a grunt of pain - of pleasure, maybe - as their position adjusts, as he presses close and in, as he bites and marks and claims for himself. ]
Now, now. If you keep up with such sweet talk, everyone will really think we’re in love.
[ Murmured against his ear. It’s an absurd idea, and one he likely finds both contentious and repugnant; she’s trying to see how angry she can make him, where desire ends and rational mislike begins. How much of him is the big bad wolf and how much is Bigby?
He hadn’t been wrong, earlier. She’s still trying to annoy him. It’s quite fun, really. Mary can see why most Fables make a hobby of it. So, guess what, Bigby. She’s not going to shut up.
Her mouth remains hovering somewhere near his ear. Against his skin, alight and electric with whatever they’ve conducted between them, he’ll feel her words as much as he’ll hear them. ]
I have a better idea. Why don’t you make me scream?
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But even though it might be 2 am and even though Bigby is only now just getting home after another one of said long days, he at least has some spare time. No calls, nothing that needs to get done right this instant. Just the golden opportunity to actually get a few hours of sleep for once until he's undoubtedly going to have to deal with someone asking for help again first thing in the morning. But hell, at this point, he'll practically take every opportunity he can get to catch some shut eye at all. Beggers can't be choosers, Bigby knows.
And luckily there's no distractions either as far as he can see after he opens the door to his apartment, if the small place is even worthy of that name. Colin isn't around, for one, and although it's sort of worrying with how much of a freeloader the guy is, for now the man just figures that he must have either gone back to The Farm for the night to see his brothers again or Snow came over looking for him and sent him back. Either way, he's not going to care now, considering that the last thing he needs right now is something else to keep him up.
He doesn't even bother to turn on the lights, instead just kicking off his shoes in the dark and pulling down his tie just a little bit (but feeling too lazy to actually take it off and maybe change into something else like the pajamas Snow insisted on buying for him ages ago - if he's going to have to get up early again, then he sure as hell isn't going to waste time on actually having to change) on his way through the apartment.
Not like he knows his plans to finally sleep are about to get interrupted all the same. Although, with his luck, he probably should have expected it by now. Maybe it would have been a better idea to not have had a mirror in his apartment, huh. ]
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[ Despite her legend being a menacing and, well, bloody one, Mary appears quite relaxed as she slowly surfaces in Bigby’s mirror. Her location is shrouded in darkness, only parts of her face visible in the shadow; the bone lines that make her up, jaunt planes and sharp angles, are marked by it. She almost looks like pieces of negative space and what opposes it, cobbled together by too many artistic hands that had worked over one another, under one another, but never with. Too many artists with too many paint brushes and what came out of the canvas was Bloody Mary.
Sprawled in a chair, leg tucked over leg and her grin wide, toothy, unpleasant, she continues - ]
How does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells…
[ There’s something quite horrible about her laugh, horrible and beautiful, like bells and screams. He’ll hear it now, her words trailing into a laugh, girlish and not. ]
…and all pretty maids in a row.
[ Her feet are bare, he’ll notice, as they swing into the light.
A grin, as unwelcoming as a skull’s, is tossed his way. ]
Morning, Sheriff.
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There are some things he could still have dealt with, despite it being 2 am and him already being grumpy to begin with right now (then again, when isn't he in a bad mood). If Colin was there, he could have kicked him off his chair and told him to just go sleep too, if there was someone who needed his help then maybe he could have scraped himself together and told himself he'll just sleep tomorrow.
But this is definitely neither of those things. This is just something that's there only to piss him off, if not worse, and this is his least favourite time of day to deal with shit like this. (Hint: there's no most favourite time of day for it. Except for no time at all.)
He hasn't ever felt as much like smashing a mirror as he does now. And that includes all the times the Magic Mirror made him rhyme when he just wanted to get on a troublemaker's track quickly. ]
Mary. [ It's the perfect inbetween of "get the hell out" and Bigby just sounding incredibly done with his luck. It's noticable that he doesn't sound scared in the slightest though, which is probably fairly different than most people who happen to encounter her. It's just plain annoyance. Sure, she's one of the few Fables that can actually be dangerous to him too, but that isn't any reason for Bigby to feel intimidated.
But he knows types like her, he deals with this shit all the time, and flipping out with anger is exactly what they want you to do. So despite the feeling already creeping up on him under his skin, he tries to keep his tone annoyed, but not raising his volume. Yet, anyway. ]
Pretty sure I don't remember calling for you. Also pretty sure you handle your own problems. [ As unsavory as that "handling" might be..
In other words, she has no reason to be here and he knows she's just there to annoy him or do whatever other goddamn thing that he doesn't need in his life at two in the morning, so he's just telling her to get out without wasting the exact words on it. ]
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Oh, don’t be like that. I just wanted to look into your big brown eyes once more.
[ Her eyebrows dip, as an appropriate prelude to the shift her face takes. More animalistic, more amused. ]
Not the ones you’re wearing right now. You were— how shall I put this. More interesting way back when. You inspired so many nightmares.
[ Not as many as her, of course. He’s the nightmare of children, but she’s everyone’s nightmare. Mary likes it that way. ]
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Seriously? [ Maybe he should have expected something like this coming from her of all people, and yet he didn't, hence why there's an actual hint of surprise in his tone. Even though it mostly just sounds done, his eyes sliding to meet her gaze - sure, go ahead, stare into those perfectly normal human eyes. ] You and Woody should start a fucking knitting club already so you can talk about just how big and bad that wolf is all night. Seems to be a mutual hobby you've got. [ Although there's a clear difference between those two and he knows it - what he has with Woody, their constant bouts, it's more something natural. Their personalities, no, their very natures clashing just like they always have, even way back then. Mary isn't like that, she spurs him on purposefully and he knows it.
(He knows it, and he knows he shouldn't get mad or angry or annoyed at it since that means he's letting her play him like a finely tuned instrument, but it's so incredibly hard when he has a terrible temper to begin with.)
His body rigid with tension, Bigby doesn't move to sit down, instead just standing there, refusing to let him out of his sight just in case. He trusts her about as far as he could throwher-- well, less than that, considering it'd probably be pretty far, given the chance. ]
I'm not here to be your or anyone's freak show. [ Even if everyone seems to think he is. ]
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[ Her words, as ever, come out as little more than a purr. People don’t consider it necessary to live without mirrors, Fables included, and the Woodsman is no exception. Mary has absolutely nothing constraining her - nothing but the Crooked Man’s orders and her own desires, after all. She doesn’t want to talk to the Woodsman, so she doesn’t. His story is over. He’s boring.
Mary’s head lolls in consideration and she shifts, sitting forward instead of sprawled sidewards, taking up all the space the way a man would. With feet flat on the floor and shoulders squared, back hunched, well. He’ll get a peek inside her shirt’s neckline as well as an uncompromising view of her expression. ]
Look. The mirror is traditional, and I like tradition.
[ Her smile jerks, widening, as abrupt as twisting a knife. ]
It’s not necessary. Any reflective surface will do. Your toaster, a puddle of water, Crane’s glasses. I just have to be fast enough. And I’ve had plenty of time to work on that. So why don’t you make this easier on both of us and, I don’t know, invite me over for a nightcap?
[ His expression, all torn up in impotent, wolfish anger, really is delightful. She can’t get enough of it. She’d laugh, but laughing hurts her throat in anything more than tiny, murmured bursts. Everyone has always told her how terrible her laugh is, that it makes mundies bleed from the ears and fingernail beds. Who knows what it would do to him. It’s an experiment for later. ]
I like warm milk with a splash of bourbon.
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That idea doesn't bother him too much. What does bother him is the idea that she'll be doing it around others. (Around Snow, he thinks, but doesn't bother to admit to himself.) It's enough that he has to put up with this bullshit, but he'd rather prefer for the small handful of actually halfway decent Fables he knows to not get caught up in it as well.
And although getting her over in the apartment isn't exactly a good thing either, since he truly doubts Mary can ever just sit somewhere and talk, he figures that some people might just figure the noise is him being angry about something. Or whatever. The wolf huffing and puffing in his sleep. (Give him a break.) At least he hopes it'll be enough to keep the few people who'd actually give enough of a damn to check up on him away since those are exactly the few people he'd rather not see anywhere around Mary. So that means the only option is to put at risk what he definitely doesn't give as much of a crap about. His own safety. And sleep, but really, who hasn't he already sacrificed that to at this point. ]
You're shit out of luck. Water's all you're getting. [ As if he actualy has anything filling his fridge. It's a lucky day when there's even alcohol left in his kitchen, let alone milk. Or actual food.
Okay, so he might still have a bottle of whiskey back there, but he's not wasting it on her. There's limits to this crap.
There's a moment where he looks - probably amusingly so - really frustrated with this whole deal, since why him, why on a night he was actually going to sleep, why does he always have to pick between two fucking evils-- but then he tries to force it down, even though he's still clearly frowning as he stares into her eyes still, making a point to not look at anything lower than her face and as long as he can help it, not her infuriating smile either that shows she knows she'll win. ]
But sure, whatever, what do you want? Need me to get a group of hysterical girls in there and put on some pajamas? You might start to feel a little lonely without your usual company.
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Please. The last thing I need right now is to hear the shrieks and giggles of stupid girls.
[ Rather like a nosey guest, she’s sizing up every inch of the place. ]
But if you’d like to put on a pink teddy and chant in front of the mirror, it’d make for a fun night too.
[ Mary intends to have fun regardless, but right now, she feels like the ceiling is pressing down on her and the floor caving up in turn. The apartment is rejecting her presence, making her head swim. Her grin is far less smug then it was moments ago.
That doesn’t stop her from making herself at home, though. Sprawling into one of his kitchen chairs, she plants her booted feet on the table, one ankle crosses over the other. ]
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Despite the fact that she's still acting like she owns the place. Not very surprising. She's completely the type, as annoying as it is. ]
You have some weird hobbies. [ It's at least only half grumbled, and he takes one last look at the mirror before just turning away from it, staring back at the apartment, although not directly at her this time. There's only so long he can tolerate seeing something that infuriating in a row.
God, he sure feels like a drink or a smoke right about now. Unfortunately he knows neither of those would last very long around her. ]
Shit, just cut to the chase already. Or did you really just decide to make it your new life goal to annoy me at times any sane person would be trying to catch some sleep.
[ Sure, she did mention the whole wolf thing, but as far as Bigby's concerned, that's just filed under trying to annoy him. He doesn't see the fascination everyone seems to have with his big and bad side when he's actually been trying to do some things right for once. ]
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[ She tips her head back, keeping him in her field of vision as he moves around the room. Mary’s interests may lie in the dark, the exotic, but she’s far from blind. He’s nice to look at. He simultaneously looks his age and doesn’t, worn and lined and leathery. There are worse things in the world to be stuck staring at. ]
I’m here for a nightcap.
[ She doesn’t sleep during the night - to do so would interfere with her precious hobby - so when the Crooked Man doesn’t need anything, she’s left wholly to her own devices. It can get boring. She doesn’t like being bored.
Bigby was, is, never boring.
Why can’t it be that simple? ]
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Possibly the only person in Fabletown with as bad of a reputation as mine comes over in the middle of the night.. for a nightcap.
[ Do you realise how stupid that sounds, Mary. Then again, Bigby is pretty sure that she very well understands how lame it sounds and that it's probably a cover up for.. well, wanting to annoy him or something. That seems to be a thing a lot of people like to do, for some reason or another.
He steps over until he's right in front of her, looking down at how she's sitting there. ] Want some milk and cookies with that so you'll be able to sleep? Need the Big Bad Wolf to come tuck you in?
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I already asked for warm milk and bourbon. I’ll take whatever you have.
[ Water, he had said, but she’s skeptical. Not enough to get up and look through the fridge herself, though. Or perhaps she can’t just be bothered. His notions of milk and cookies, being tucked in, are dismissed with a careless pull of her eyes. His proximity isn’t unwelcome; standing over her as he is, she can feel the animalistic warmth emanating off of him in waves, heat and blood and life. Mary’s been cold to the touch, like unlit glass at night, always. ]
Why don’t you tell me something, Sheriff. Why are you so concerned why I am here? Are you worried I’ll stick your little pig friend?
[ Standing out of the chair, she takes advantage of his proximity to enforce her presence. Although her head tilts back a fraction, she stands uncomfortably close to him.
Either he’ll step away or he won’t.
As far as Mary is concerned, either one is a win for her and a loss for him. ]
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[ Because he would feel worried if Colin was actually here tonight, but it looks like that pig finally got the right idea about getting out of here for once on just the right night. Because Bigby isn't fully as tough and uncaring as he likes to pretend he is, but he isn't about to let her of all people on to that fact. He's not going to let anyone onto it, as long as he can help it.
Although her being this close to him certainly doesn't help the sense of annoyance tugging at the back of his mind, tugging at his temper that he tries to keep buried deep beneath but that manages to surface all the time regardless.
Still, he doens't step back. If anything would be a sign of weakness to Bigby, it'd be that. Despite everything, he's not scared of Mary. Not in the sense most people would be. Not to mention that he knows that if anything, she's trying to draw reactions out of him.
The least he can do to keep some sort of dignity is not letting them slip out and instead staring her down unmovingly.
The man lets out a sigh, crossing his arms. ] Look, we both know why you're here. It's just to come and annoy the sheriff, it's a trait you share with a lot of people. The only difference is that you also know I can't just shove you out of here and call it a night. [ Because he doesn't particularly feel like smashing every single piece of glass in his apartment, especially not late at night when it's just going to draw attention. ] So in that case you should also already know I just want to sleep instead of dealing with this bullshit.
So I guess in the end what it comes down to is this.. Are you just going to walk out like a good girl for once and stop all this fucking around later on too or do I really have to smash your face in to prove a point first?
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She could, too. She could lean forward and… ]
I’ve never been a good girl.
[ Those few words only and then she lashes out, the heel of her hand driving straight into his chin. Her legend gives her strength - Bloody Mary, the spectre in the mirror; Mary I, queen of England for a day. It’s belief, as well as blood, that flows through her, powers her, makes her strong. A Mundie who received a blow like that wouldn’t be alive now. The force of it would sever an ordinary person’s head from their shoulders. Human skin, bones, sinew and muscle - they’re wonderfully, beautifully fragile things. And boring.
It’s amusement and interest that sharpens her cheshire’s grin now.
It won’t be any fun if he dies tonight, after all. ]
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Still, Bigby wasn't entirely prepared for a hit that hard, and although it doesn't cost him his life - the upside of being a Fable, and a very well known one at that - the force does manage to send him flying back into the wall a few steps behind him. The building groans and squeaks, and the few glasses Bigby has make a ringing sound from the cupboard they're stored in.
A low groan escapes him like a rumble. Not wolf-like, not yet, it still sounds entirely human, but it does sound halfway between pained and just plainly annoyed that he has to go through this when all he wanted was some sleep. ]
You just had to fucking go there.
[ Not that he's planning to give her a chance to walk all over him that easily though - it's why he's quick to pick himself up agan and instead storms towards her, attempting to grab her by the shoulders so he can push her back into the wall instead. ]
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The shove had enough force behind it that all the décor on the wall rattles, and it’s a very sweet sound to her. ]
I don’t have to go anywhere, wolf.
[ For the moment, she appears resigned to his hold. Really, Mary’s thoroughly unafraid. He can’t do anything to her that she doesn’t want. And this is pleasure, after all. Not business. There’s none to answer to but her own desires. ]
Can you let go of me? The noise will wake your neighbours, like little miss Snow White. And you don't want that, do you, Sheriff?
[ She's close enough that the last few words are little more than a sultry breath against his ear, Mary leaning in. ]
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And Mary plays on it. Even now. Even though he has her shoved up against the wall with an iron grip, even though he frowns at her so much that it's a small miracle his eyes haven't turned yellow yet, his teeth not fangs.
He'd love nothing more than to throw her through the wall into three apartments away from this one, but he knows she's right. He can't draw attention. If it's just handling her by himself, he'll be fine, but he can't stand the thought of her threatening Snow. ]
Like I'm stupid enough to let go of you so you can continue your little fight. [ He doesn't trust her, and it's obvious enough in the way he talks. It's softer than before, maybe since he's more self-conscious now about waking anyone up, and just like her words are a sultry breath, his own are mumbled grumbling, a conversation only between the two of them.
(Even though it's annoying to even have to endure her from this close, but letting go of her just means she'll kick him around again, no doubt.) ]
Do you really think I'm that stupid?
[ No, but she knows you're weak, a voice in his head tells him. His stomach turns, even though it doesn't show in his expression. ]
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You’re asking the questions here, is that it?
[ It’s a jibe, a play on words, teasing out something she’s heard in every cop procedural drama she’s ever watched, “I’m asking the questions here.”
Even with her pinned by her shoulders, she still has some movement of her arms. One hand shifts, sliding around his waist to find a spot on his back— aha. Right there.
Her fingers press into the scar left by her silver bullet, so many months ago. ]
Remember this?
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But silver has always been different. He's never had to suffer from it much since it's not like anyone ever figured out his weakness for it - but Mary did. Mary did, and the one time it was used against him, it immediately got him good. He doesn't think he's ever been as close to death as he was in that moment, and even now the memories of it are entirely unpleasant - lying there, unable to do anything, unable to stop them from carrying out their plan and even unable to stop them from hurting Snow if they'd feel like it. (And Mary would have felt like it, he's sure, if her boss hadn't called her back.)
So when he winces at her pushing her fingers against the scar, even Bigby isn't entirely sure if it's because of the lingering soreness in that spot or because of the godawful memories.
But wince he does, and it even drags out a low groan from him.
He grits his teeth quickly though, as if he doesn't even want to give her the pleasure of hearing that much. And his grip on her doesn't relax. ]
What are you trying to say? That you're going to kick my ass again? [ Because he isn't about to let her. If he can help it, anyway.
His eyes narrow, and his grip tightens. ]
I think you're forgetting who's in charge here.
[ Because this is the only thing he's good at, right? When he's trying to be nice and helpful, everyone just gives him shit over it in the end. When it comes down to it, all he can do is what he's always done - being big and being bad, and hoping that it's good enough to make everyone else back down - or at least to teach them a lesson. ]
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Please. Quit posturing. I know who you really are.
[ The child of the northern wind and a wolf, and he became something else altogether. A legend of malice and bloodshed that could rival hers. She doesn’t understand why he doesn’t return to it, even though it would probably disrupt the town’s order - shatter it, even. Mary kills and maims and tortures for fun, yes, but she still needs to make a living somehow. The Big Bad Wolf wouldn’t need to be burdened by such limitations if he didn’t choose to. He would be a force of pure ruin. But, instead, he puts on the Business Office’s pretty little shackles, punches his time card, and plays nice. It’s entertaining, until it isn’t.
Mary has never done well with things that don’t entertain her. There’s still his proximity, though; his scent, his taste, the warmth coming off of him in waves, like the hot breath of a furnace. Her shoulders dig just so harder into the wall from his steeling grip and Mary only continues to look pleased. ]
Why don’t you prove you’re still a man instead of making idle threats?
[ The spot just below his ear, a bit more clean shaven than the rest of his jawline. That one, there. Her tongue darts out to taste his skin - and then Mary bites down. ]
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And this time, it's an actual growl. Not too loudly, so it shouldn't draw too much attention to his apartment (at worst, someone might think he's stubbed his toe against a corner of the furniture) but there's definitely something less human in it, more instinctive as a reaction to the pain running through him at that bite.
Nothing too bad, and certainly not the worst he's had, but enough to be painful and annoying, and he slams his hand against the wall.
Except it's a hand with claws. Claws digging through the wallpaper into the wall, enough to leave scratch marks there in the morning, dangerously close to the part of Mary's body that's still sandwiched between him and the wall. ]
Is this some fucking game to you..?! [ He winces, but grits his teeth. ]
You don't want to die. [ He can't think of why. He knows some people want to, sometimes, he remembers how Lawrence looked, miserable in his seat, but Mary is not like that. He can't think of her giving up the fun she's having now. ] But you know you could. And yet you're still here doing this!
[ Because he could kill her. He's certain of it. She doesn't have her gun on her, as far as he can tell, and in physical strength, no one can defeat his legend. Right?
It hurts even more and he already knows it will before he does it, but he still practically rips her off him, blood trinkling down from the spot that's turned into a wound because of the motion. But anything is better than having her linger there.
And when Bigby's managed to get her back to the wall, he moves in close enough that she won't be able to pull that shit again, his forehead practically pressing against her own. Not that he didn't notice the biting at all though, even now the blood does still trinkle down, even now his breath consists of heavy puffing. ]
You don't want to play with the wolf. That's not me anymore.
[ Not the old wolf, not the one who -- ]
And even if you did, you wouldn't fucking make it, so cut it the hell out!
[ But even so, he's slipping. His voice grows in volume, even though he had been trying to keep it under control to not make anyone notice them, and his eyes gleam from white to gold to white. Something she'd be able to notice, considering he's staring straight into her eyes from that up close, trying to find anything at all in them. ]
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Except he still won’t admit it, and that pisses her off. ]
Don’t you get it, wolf boy?
[ With a hand shaking behind his neck, she grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks backward. She can’t do too much with him pressed against her, the strength of the wolf bearing down, but that’s not the same as not doing anything. The hollows of his throat are thrown into clear relief, and the sight of the blood she left on his neck makes Mary chortle darkly. ]
Sure, you can kill me, but there will always be the legend. I’m the queen and the bogeyman rolled into one. As long as they continue to chant my name, I’ll always be there.
[ She releases his hair just as abruptly. ]
I’m not here to kill you. I’m not on a job. What else do you need to know?
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You're here to annoy me, that's what.
[ And then he realises why it bothers him so much. It's not just about Mary being a pain in the ass, even though she obviously is one of the biggest pains in the asses he's ever known.
It's about much more than that. It's about how everyone just constantly seems out to annoy him and make his life harder, not just Mary. Even though he's trying his best to keep order, to do what he thinks is right, people complain at him from all sides about how he's doing the wrong thing. People looking down on him despite him almost single-handedly carrying the safety of this community on his back. People saying he's nothing more than a monster when he's tried so hard to change, when he came here to get a second chance, to finally do something right for once, to prove himself a better person.
But they don't care. No one cares. They look at him, and all they see is the wolf. Mary is the same. She revels in it, practically, and he's not sure if it's better or worse than all the people looking down on him for it.
It doesn't matter. All he knows is that he's so fucking tired of it. Of pretenses. Of trying his best when no one gives a shit, and shit is all he gets in return for it.
Bigby grabs her more roughly and pulls her along with him, practically throwing her straight onto the floor and it's a lucky thing he's not applying enough force to smash her through it, but it's coming pretty damn close. And a moment later he's already there over her on all fours (it feels so natural to move like that, how could he have forgotten, a voice whispers, no, growls to him--
just let go. ]
I'm so tired of you and everyone else always just fucking around with me! [ His eyes grow yellow, then a deep gold, his claws digging into the floorboards on the sides of her head, his breath coming in low puffs. ] You're all the same when it comes down to it! Everyone talks about it, but no one ever gives a shit about second chances.
[ Not when it comes to it. ]
So.. what? This what you wanna see? Are you fucking satisfied now?
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If Mary were slightly more empathetic, or could be bothered, she might try to explain that to him. She suffers from an abundance of not-caring, however. Her own desires are what matter now. He’s feeding them, turning them gold.
When her back hits the floor, Mary barely reacts. The pain is dull, a distinct sensation that transmute into pleasure, nerve endings hit at the exact right angle to excite her.
He speaks of second chances and her smile twists, unbecoming. ]
Oh, kid. I’ll give you a second chance, when you stop pretending letting this town shackle you is a good way to live.
[ Hands sliding from his neck to his chest, she flicks the solid length of his badge, tucked inside a pocket. ]
You’re on a leash. It breaks my heart, really. Sends me crying to bed every night.
[ He’s right, though. It is what she wants to see. His eyes are so inhuman, so piercing, and he hasn’t even slipped out of glamour. For a moment, she’d like nothing more than to slip her fingers into those eyes, feel the warm blood of his sockets slide down her hands, pluck them out and display them in her apartment as a trophy.
Fortunately, the moment doesn’t last. He’s pressing down on her, respectful proximity thrown away for menacing force. She can practically taste his breath.
Mary can’t imagine she’s supposed to be intimidated, but honestly? She is really, really turned on.
She’s said her piece. There’s no danger for her here. Mary only presses forward, drawing the encounter to its logical conclusion.
His question doesn’t get an answer - at least, not verbally. Her hands snake around his neck again, taking advantage of his closeness. This time, instead of tugging him away, she pulls him forward, kissing him hard. Here, now, she can taste the wolf in him. His sharp teeth scrape against her tongue as it forces its way in, mixing blood in with her taste and his. The facial hair is coarse and scratchy against her face, and it’s a good thing Mary isn’t especially ticklish. The kiss is forceful and demanding, but there’s nothing except her own grip keeping him there. She’s strong, but Bigby’s stronger, and this is his turf. What happens next is up to him.
She’s very excited to see what he’ll do. ]
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But that voice is overshadowed far too much to still make an impact on him. Everything inside of him roars even already as she speaks, wanting to act on instinct, to kill, to do whatever that makes him feel good for once instead of doing what's right for everyone else. To claw her guts out, to devour her whole even if she'd probably taste like crap, and although he doesn't fully transform into a wolf, he sure is getting hairier by the moment as he only just thinks about it.
But then her lips violently lock with her own and the voice finally softly protests, even if it's already too late. Her tongue is already shoved into her mouth and he can taste blood and it drives him insane, makes him feel even wilder.
He doesn't care anymore if it's Mary. If anything, it's easier exactly because it's Mary, because he doesn't give a shit about her and would be more than glad if she'd be forever rid out of his life. It doesn't matter if he hurts her like he so damn badly wants to, it doesn't matter if he's rough. It's not like it'd be if he would be doing this with Snow (but she is far, far from his mind right now, locked up with the calmer and maybe even more human part of him far beyond his reach).
And so he presses back just as hard, just as violently, their tongues more at war than anything else because he sure as hell isn't backing down from this nor is he planning on letting her take the lead here. This time when he grabs her shoulders while kissing her roughly it involves his claws digging into them as well, hoping to draw more of that sweet blood, not wanting the moment to end.
He hasn't felt this free in ages, and he loves every single moment of it. ]
no subject
He’s bearing down so forcefully that it’s hard to breathe and she’d be fine with that normally. She’s a Fable, a myth; her legend is her oxygen and sustenance. It may not be worrying, no, but it is uncomfortable. The longer the discomfort remains, the more she longs to lash it back at him. No effort is made from Bigby to support his own weight. In one swift motion, she pushes at his shoulder to reverse their position. Mary is left on top of him, sitting comfortable at his waist, seizing him as if he were a throne and she were the queen designated.
Her glamour is an expensive one, even now that she’s no longer under the Crooked Man’s employ, but even it can’t transform certain things. Plain eyes darken, sigiled and bloodied. Thrill and delight undo her mask in degrees. ]
See?
[ Mary takes a moment to smooth down her hair. There’s blood on her tongue, a splash of near-black contrasting the delicate pink, but she pays it no mind. ]
I knew you liked it rough.
don't.. mind me.. i forgot my paid ran out and left me with crap icons whoops
[ Old scars - coutesy of Mary, even - still linger, and it's easy enough to push even someone with Bigby's strength over if you know where to go for it. And especially if you're rather strong yourself. So the wolfman finds himself lying on his back before he even fully realises what's happened to reverse their positions, glancing up at the woman - creature? - sitting on top of him. At least her eyes are pretty much the last thing he's concerned with right now, especially since his own are a bright gold in turn, barely even human anymore. The emotion in them is obvious too and also not as human anymore. It's a strange kind of rage combined with lust (wanting more, wanting blood and flesh and bone) that Bigby is probably not even trying to hold back anymore with just how quickly his mind is slipping away further.
It's always been a slippery slope, really, even at moments where he thought he could control it more than this. But Mary always seems to drag out the worst of it, or at least do everything but make it better.
The only response to her words is an animalistic growl, and even though it definitely takes effort (Mary may seem small, thin, but she's got much more power contained in that glamour-covered body than most people would assume) he manages to at least sit up enough to reach her. Not enough to flip their positions back once more, but enough to stare her in the eyes with a glare. ]
Shut up.
[ Because he doesn't want to talk right now, doesn't want to think, because it all doesn't seem like anything more than a gigantic waste of time. Especially to the wolf in him that's roaring, that's breaking its chains, demanding--
After he bites the words out, there's only a split second before he manages to move himself up and Mary close to him enough to sink his teeth straight into her shoulder near her neck. It's a strange combination of violence, yet with a little more than that - if it was just straight up violence, he'd definitely be trying harder to just directly kill her. But this way he can taste her blood on his tongue once more, his teeth trying to rip and tear as they have done many times before in the past. His tongue runs over the wound, wanting to preserve every single bit of the taste of her skin and flesh.
He doesn't want to stop now, he just wants more. This stuff has always been way too addicting to him. ]
I'm going to find a new Bigby, you have failed me!
Now, now. If you keep up with such sweet talk, everyone will really think we’re in love.
[ Murmured against his ear. It’s an absurd idea, and one he likely finds both contentious and repugnant; she’s trying to see how angry she can make him, where desire ends and rational mislike begins. How much of him is the big bad wolf and how much is Bigby?
He hadn’t been wrong, earlier. She’s still trying to annoy him. It’s quite fun, really. Mary can see why most Fables make a hobby of it. So, guess what, Bigby. She’s not going to shut up.
Her mouth remains hovering somewhere near his ear. Against his skin, alight and electric with whatever they’ve conducted between them, he’ll feel her words as much as he’ll hear them. ]
I have a better idea. Why don’t you make me scream?