[Dane Wayland]

"Dad's not gonna like that, baby bear."

Mona's soft voice was a pleasant purr, undertoned with amused warning as she watched Snowcone tear a piece of paper to shreds on the kitchen floor. Dane lifted his eyes to his mother's face, currently held between her hands as she leaned across the kitchen island, lips curled in that sneaky, fond smile she had. He quirked a brow, matching her playful expression with a small, pleased grin of his own; face etched with the unspoken rebuttal that he knew she was right. And that he didn't care. The oven behind him chimed and he shot her a quick wink before twirling around to pull the cookie sheet of macarons from where they were baking.

When he'd walked into his childhood home that afternoon, called back from his heedless stomping around in Los Eurosia by a beckoning from his father, the scent of baked goods and buttercream had washed over him immediately, bringing a swift, nostalgic smile to his face. When he'd found his mother, lounging across the couch in her pajamas (despite the sun being high in the sky), the tension in his muscles and the grit to his jaw had slipped from him entirely. Especially when she'd screeched in glee at the sight of him, clawed her way across the back of the couch, and launched herself forcibly into his arms.

But after surviving her onslaught of showering smooches and wrestling her off, Dane had found what his father had left for him — a laughable laundry list of mundane, menial tasks to be done as if he were some mindless lackey trusted with only busywork. He'd crumpled the assignment into a tight ball before he could even finish reading it. Kicked it around the kitchen with Snowcone for a few minutes before letting the dog rip it to pieces.

"When does Dad like anything?" Dane finally scoffed, though the words sounded with less bite than he felt. It was always more difficult to be bitter and scornful in the company of his mother. She sidled up beside him, eyeing the macarons eagerly and rubbing her palms together, tongue poking from between her lips. "He's gonna like these!" She laughed heartily, openly unfazed by the hatred brewed between her son and husband. "They're his favorite. He'll be so pleased. I'll make sure he's eating them while he decides what to do with you. Maybe they'll put him in a good, forgiving mood!"

Dane rolled his eyes and stepped behind her to pull open the fridge, pulling out the six-pack of beer shoved at the back of the bottom shelf. They were girly beers with a laughable alcohol content, a guilty pleasure of Mona's, but something was better than nothing. Closing the fridge, he stepped off toward the sliding glass door that opened into the vast backyard at the opposite end of the kitchen. "Dane Mathias Wayland! You better clean up your dog's mess before you run off!" He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained upturned and his eyes were soft as he turned back to his mother and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Later, Mama, I promise." Snapping his fingers at Snowcone, he stepped out on the patio with the dog in tow.

He didn't even realize where his feet were taking him, until he was staring absently at a small plank of wood nailed to the trunk of an old, massive tree. Half-broken off, the piece of weathered oak served as the bottom step of a sloppy, slapdash ladder. When Dane's brain finally clicked into place, he lifted his gaze to follow the trail of similar planks upward. Some were broken, and two were missing altogether, but the small treehouse that they lead to — nestled in the arms of the lowest, sturdy branches — was still there and looked more or less sound.

Snowcone, who'd been trailing behind, sniffing at anything of interest, butted her muzzle beneath his limp hand, and he smiled faintly. "Stay here," he whispered, before reaching out to trace the edges of the wood his maternal uncle had nailed to the tree almost twenty years earlier. Inwardly laughing at his own stupid nostalgia, Dane curled his fingers around the ladder and put a testing amount of weight on the plank; doubting it would even hold his weight after all these years.

When it didn't give, Dane pulled teasingly at one of Snowcone's ears, then began scaling the tree. It was a bit awkward with the six-pack in his hand, but he took the steps two at a time and had no trouble with the gaps, as the ladder had been created with the consideration of legs half the size of his now. When he reached the treehouse (or what could barely pass as a treehouse), Dane shoved his body into the small space. Even though he hadn't thought about the little hidey-hole in so long, he could clearly recall all the time he'd spent in the haphazard structure. It showed signs of wear and neglect, but he could remember when the wood still smelled freshly-cut; the nails holding them together shiny and the corners sharp and not yet worn by weather and time. When the tree had been barren, he and Dino had spent countless nights up here, huddled in three coats a piece, to point out stars with a map of constellations rolled out before them. One night, they'd fallen asleep and their mother had whipped them both when she'd found them, frozen and sick the next morning. Even as years passed, the pair had still found themselves in the treehouse every once in a while, even as the space seemed to shrink as they grew, up until the point where they could barely fit at all, both sitting cross-legged with a stolen eighteen-pack stuffed behind one or the other's back.

Now, as Dane lay stretched out across the wood, with his legs dangling down over the edge and Snowcone dozing at the base, he closed his eyes and exhaled a long, peaceful sigh to himself. He didn't want to think what his father would say when he found nothing on his list had been done. He knew Antonio had assigned him those trivial tasks just to make him angry. To make it clear how little he thought of him. His father liked doing that. It hadn't been that way when Dino was around, but in the six years since the older Wayland's death, the ice between Dane and their father had grown thinner and thinner. If this was what finally broke it, then it could break for all he cared.

Time passed, and true to his intentions to waste the day, Dane didn't budge from his roost. He cracked open a can, sipped at its contents, watched the play of rustling, colorful leaves overhead, and let his mind continue its fruitless wander through the years he'd spent in the tree and even the yard below. He remembered when Mona brought home a telescope and showed him and Dino how to use it, and the pair had spent the following week on the patio, making up constellations and "discovering" their own stars. He'd have to try and pick out Planet Dane through the Californian smog once it got dark enough. He remembered burying his mother's beloved cat under the shrubs when Dino accidentally ran it over with his bike — the older Wayland crying as Dane shoveled the secret, shallow grave with Mona's tiny gardening spade.

Playing chicken in the pool with Grace and Gemma — Dino always bitching about Dane's cheating when he stomped on his toes under the water. Mona bringing out plates of cookies for them and trays of lemonade on the hot, summer days they spent chasing each other around and laughing. Dino trying to soothe him when he got pissed off about letting Grace win everything, especially when she boasted about beating him to everyone else. Sometimes, Antonio would watch over them from his chair on the patio, and would frequently cut the play short as he stole his sons to accompany him on some mission. Always shoving it into their minds, as they left the backyard behind, just who the girls were, what the Gatsby name meant, and reminding them not to get any particular ideas about the pair, especially as the quartet grew older. But they'd gotten older too quickly, Dane thought in retrospect, and the days of fun in the backyard grew shorter and shorter as he and Dino had to tag along with their father more and more.

Before the thoughts could shift, as they routinely did, from simple nostalgia to a more cutting wistfulness, Dane lifted an arm over his face and tucked his eyes behind the crook of his forearm. And as he heaved his body in an emptying sigh, he settled the open beer on the slight rise and fall of his stomach, and slipped into a light repose.

---

Grace Gatsby - Sorry, per usual, this got out of hand. If anything should be changed about the set-up, just lemme know. Feel free to just hop the fence or something if you don't want to deal with going through the house (and putting up with Mona, I love her so much). Or whatever you want!

[Grace Gatsby]

((OOC: let me know if any of the deets don't fit!))

Grace was home to visit her parents. Nothing new; she’d gotten a fresh manicure with her mom, gossiping about guild members and celebrities while her dad beat the shit out of some gifted dude in the other room. It was shaping up to be a good day until Antonio had breezed through mid-session, mentioning his son was back in town to do some chores (though he hadn’t worded it so pleasantly) and – ugh – Grace just couldn’t ignore that. She had to go and torment the dumbass whenever she knew where he was.

She stepped out into the Waylands’ backyard after a pleasant thirty-minute catchup with Mona. It was one of those things that never failed to mystify her: how a woman so wholesome could end up with such a dickhead. Dane’s legs dangled over the edge of the treehouse right where Mona said he would be, and Snowcone, a fluffy mountain of a dog with black and tan fur and powerful jaws, dozed at the tree’s base.

The canine lifted her head as Grace approached, nostrils flaring as she took in her scent. It wasn’t obvious whether Snowcone liked her or not (Grace found it difficult to gauge how any of Dane’s summons felt – or whether they could feel and have opinions that differed from their master’s at all), but the dog knew who she was. Seemed to retain memories and know that attacking her would only cause trouble for Dane.

“Hey Snow-angel,” she greeted softly, crouching beside her. One hand reached out to scratch the dog’s chin while the other summoned a pig’s ear. She’d picked it up for Pandora, but Pandy wouldn’t miss what she hadn’t known she’d had and, though a little drowsily, Snowcone took it from her without complaint. Grace counted that as a win.

She straightened and looked up at the treehouse, hands on hips. The view she had was very familiar; Grace had never been inside, always left below. ‘No girls allowed’ and all that. She used to be so jealous of the boys for having such a place, even demanding to have one made for her at home. But it wasn’t the same – too pristine, too big, every plank smooth and polished. She’d torn it down herself, hacked it to bits with one of Daddy’s axes as best as a child that young could. Her mom had spent weeks picking the splinters out of her arms, and then she’d gone back to the Waylands’ home to have another go at demanding entry.

She’d thrown tantrums, shrieked and threatened and snarled when they wouldn’t tell her the password. Remedying her frustrations could have been as easy as running to their father to make the boys let her in, yet she never did. It was too long ago for her to remember for certain, but she wondered if she’d wanted to be invited, to be sat up there without Dane glowering and muttering how unfair it was that she was – once again – getting her way.

Whatever. She felt no need for an invitation now.

She slipped her heels off, leaving them at the base of the tree and hoping Snowcone’s preoccupation with the pig’s ear would stop her from chewing on them. Scaling the boards was no issue, far easier than most rock-climbing walls she had been on, and in no time at all she reached the top plank, where the rest of Dane came into view.

She paused. Felt her eyes widen by a fraction. He was laid back with an arm covering his eyes, the visible parts of his face smoothed out, almost slack while his chest rose and fell evenly. It was… weird to see him so at ease. She was much more used to seeing his face scrunched in a scowl as she lorded her achievements over him, or brightened with a vicious grin as he turned one of their targets into a bloody heap. The calm scene before her was seriously freaking her out. The quickest cure would be to disturb it.

Her hand reached for his leg, about to grip and tug as she loudly declared how dumb he was for letting her sneak up on him but – was he asleep?

Her hand froze. Her mouth dropped open and she had to bite her lip to stop the incredulous laugh that threatened to slip out. Oh-ho, this opportunity was golden.

She slowly, carefully climbed up. It was awkward, since Dane was half-hanging over the edge and she had to maneuverer over and around him without jostling his body, and the whole time her eyes were glued to his face, suspicious that he was only pretending to be asleep and she was being pranked or simply ignored. But she managed to settle cross-legged behind his head without incident, focused so much on him that she didn’t even bother looking around at the structure child-Grace had desperately wanted to reign over.

There were so many things she could do. So many that it wasn’t immediately obvious which she should choose. Draw on his forehead? Give him a full face of makeup? No, both would require moving his arm and she wasn’t sure her touch was soft enough to get very far without waking him. Maybe something more violent – she could flop her full weight onto his middle, pro-wrestler style? Pin him, force his eyes open, and use the element of surprise to void him for an hour or two? Straight-up bite him?

She pouted. All ideas appealed, but they were likely to get her punched in the gut. Or headbutted. Or pushed out the treehouse. And as much as she enjoyed a good brawl, she also enjoyed having a good hair day. It would be much safer to stay in her current position.

She drew a megaphone from her void. A crappy old thing, stolen from some protest or street preacher or something – whatever, it wasn’t important. She scooted backwards in preparation of any flailing limbs Dane might throw her way, clicked it on to full volume, held it to her mouth, and shouted at the top of her lungs: “WAKE UP SLEEPYHEAD!”

The subsequent cackle that came from her was far from lady-like. The megaphone cooled under her fingers before disappearing completely, safely stored in the void again while she laughed. “Classic,” she sighed happily, wiping away an imaginary tear. “Aw, did you have a nice nap? I missed you.” She fell into another round of snickers, only stopping when her gaze fell upon the cans of some fruity drink he had beside him. 

She wrinkled her nose and reached for one. “Why are you drinking this shit?” Still, she cracked it open and took a swig.


Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

Dane often found it difficult to fall asleep. But perhaps it was the lull of being back home (with the added bonus of his father being absent) coupled with the fact that sleep had eluded him for many hours too long already, that deepened his relaxation into a full-blown, mid-afternoon nap. His dreams were steeped with the nostalgia he'd lingered in before closing his eyes. They played in his mind like a reel of memories. The four of them — the once-upon-a-time inseparable Wayland and Gatsby pairs — kicked around cans and chased cats as they lamented the heat of long, summer days, burning up in the streets. Cursed the winter nights more fervidly than they had the sweltering heat as they bundled up in coats, stood around, and fought off sneaking boredom by daring one another to cheeky shenanigans. Stealing alcohol and exploring shady, abandoned places. Dane laughing and Dino swearing, standing back-to-back as they faced Gifted in dark alleys. Grace poking a tongue at Dane as she pressed against Dino's back, the elder Wayland forced to give her a piggyback ride home when she'd fallen and twisted an ankle after Dane insisted they ditch her for being too young and snotty.

Dane was ripped from the nostalgia-fueled recollections by a magnified, jarring screech. He startled awake, levering himself forward with a scowl, hands flying to cover his ears. The can he'd held in a loosened grip over his stomach plummeted over the edge of the treehouse, hitting the ground and spraying Snowcone with beer. The dog bolted halfway across the yard and cast the treehouse a disdainful look, before she shook out her fluffy pelt and retreated to the house's patio, settling with her massive face between two white picket rungs to dutifully keep the treehouse in sight.

"Jesus fucking Christ! Grace!" He turned his scowl to her. Perhaps due to some lingering influence from the dreams where they'd been smaller, he felt himself momentarily regress to an outraged little boy, distressed to see her sitting inside the treehouse domain that specifically forbade her. His mouth fell open to snarl something nasty. But sense threaded through him as his eyes settled on her face. This Grace was much older. Far different. The rules, the passwords, and the sometimes siege-like battles of water balloons and water canons that came with defending his tree-mounted kingdom, was far in the past. Hell, the 'No Girl Allowed' — or what was more accurately a 'No Grace Allowed' — ban had been lifted over a decade ago, when the Waylands realized they wanted nothing more than to have a girl in their little, private hidey-hole.

Dane settled, but still irritated about the whole thing, he couldn't stop himself from a grumble. "Why are you women so against men having just a bit of peace and quiet?" His eyes shifted to the can of his mother's beer that she scoffed at before sipping. He snatched the can from her, jerking it back to him and downing the entire thing in large, spiteful gulps. He watched her evenly in his periphery, beer dribbling from the corners of his mouth, and when the can was emptied he smacked his lips and tossed it to the yard below, half-expecting for himself to follow as Grace shoved him from the roost. "If you don't like it, get your own, hmm?"

After pushing the remaining pack of beer intentionally from her reach and scooting to more comfortably accommodate her presence, Dane laid back once more, elbows wide and fingers laced behind his head. The space was small and cramped, the uncomfortable jab of the case of beer against his side distinctly familiar, but Grace was far smaller than bulky, broad-shouldered Dino, and the six-pack was more forgiving than an eighteen. He gazed up at her, screwing his eyes against the sunlight that filtered through the leaves above them in large, dancing dapples. "I know you never let your fancy-smancy void liquor cabinet run dry, no need to drink my Mama out of house and home." He shifted so that her silhouette cast a shadow over him, his eyes tracing the dark shape of her against the light thoughtfully. "Anyway... how's it been, Snot Face?"

Grace Gatsby

[Grace Gatsby]

Seeing him snarl and swear settled something within Grace's soul, his scowl far more familiar than the Snow White impression she’d stumbled across. Smug, she leaned back on one hand while the other lifted the beer back to her mouth, only to have it snatched from her before she could have another sip.

“Hey!” It was her turn to scowl. She lunged after it, ready to snap that he had more than enough cans to share. But he was too quick; the beer was a lost cause from the moment he put his lips on it and she sat back with her nose in the air, her own lips curled in a sneer at the sloppy way he chugged it down. One drop made it all the way down his neck to his shirt. “Real classy.” This always happened. She would set out, intent on annoying Dane as much as possible for all the times he’d pissed her off, and he would somehow find a way to annoy her thrice as much, a never-ending cycle that she couldn’t seem to break from. She blamed genetics. He had a natural affinity for being an irritant and she had one for seeking payback.

Dane was right though (again, annoying); the void was well-stocked with a wide assortment of alcoholic drinks. Bottles and cans stolen from all over California, others from across the globe. The most common issue with summoning them lay in remembering their exact appearance (which branded label they had, which shape) so it was better to store as many and as wide a range as possible, maximising her chances of picturing one she actually had.

She opted for a can of Pimm’s that, honestly, wasn’t much stronger in alcohol content than Mona’s beer and was probably just as (if not more) fruity. She cracked it open, swallowing down a couple of mouthfuls while Dane asked how she’d been. The childish nickname earned him a glare. “It’s been great, Piss Pants. Or it was, until your dad showed up and said you were in town.” She poked his cheek, half-tempted to leave her answer at that and let her mention of his dad fester in the air, souring his mood for her. But she didn’t. If she was evasive with him, he’d be evasive with her when she wanted to know what he’d been up to, and the whole trip to his house would’ve been a waste of time. She rolled her eyes. “Got Gregory in the void right now. He’s new, tattoo’s barely healed, didn’t know who I was. I’d introduce you but he’s in time-out until I need the space back.”

She supposed she should update him on Gemma, even if doing so always made her think about Dino and how unfair it was that Dane couldn’t update her on his elder sibling. Five years. Five years and it still felt wrong, scraping at something nasty and raw in her chest when she remembered they’d never see him again. She studied her drink, her lips twisted. “Gem’s playing at upstanding citizen. She hasn’t hunted in eight months now.” She paused, eyes flickering to his to see how he would react. Rumour was that Gemma was quitting for good. Even Grace’s dad seemed to believe it, including Grace in additional meetings that would usually be Gemma’s field of expertise. Meanwhile, Gemma herself basically refused to comment, neither confirming nor denying it when Grace asked her directly. So much for full sisterly disclosure. She shrugged. “But she’s fine. She visits Mom and Dad as much as I do.”

Her pout didn't last. She straightened, grinning widely as she shoved his shoulder. “Oh! I took down some Cthulhu-looking freak a couple of days ago. Saved some tentacles if you wanna see. Shit’s gnarly. I was debating how messed up it would be to make calamari from it – thoughts?”

Those was probably the highlights. The things she assumed Dane might be interested in, anyway. Regaling him with tales of shopping trips, makeovers, and dating scandals would probably send him off to sleep again – or have him sarcastically feigning interest until she smacked him over the head and stomped off home. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “And I look great, obviously, thanks for saying so. It’s a shame I can’t say the same about you.” She narrowed her eyes. “But whatever. Where have you been?”


Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

At Grace's comment upon his "classy" behavior, Dane ignored the clear, pointed sarcasm and grinned wide, eyes fluttering closed while he tipped his head further into his cradling hands, chin lifted proudly to embrace the praise. Of course he was classy. He was a Wayland. The peak of sophistication and refinement. A shining example of professionalism that others could only hope to aspire to. Expected to uphold such standards and maintain that image accordingly. It was a reputation and duty that he took very seriously. To hear his efforts recognized in so few words filled him to the brim with giddy delight.

But his gratification, per usual, was short-lived and his overly-pleased smile tucked abruptly into a frown at her volleyed choice of nickname. Piss Pants. It had been one time. So long ago he was half-convinced Grace herself couldn't remember the event but had rather latched onto the epithet from Dino's continued taunting through the years. He'd have to pull out the big guns now and scour his memory for something more embarrassing to attribute to her in retaliation. It just couldn't stand for her to have the last leg up. He did a quick sweep from the top of his head, trying to pinpoint some suitable, ignominious happening to weaponize — and came up short. It was frustrating. Why did she have to be so perfect most of the time?

He let the mention of his father slide, fielding his irritation in favor of sparing the shitty old man any additional thought. There were more worthwhile things to consider than Antonio sweeping through Grace's house as he sought her father. Always so unflappable, cold, and composed even when Dane did all he could to provoke his wrath or poke holes in his stupid, imperturbable farce. He probably hadn't even looked disgusted or disapproving as he mentioned Dane's presence. As if his disreputable son couldn't afford even a reaction. Wasn't worth the twitch to his brow or a hard tone. Dane tried to replicate that cool disregard but, despite his intentions, failed. His father's face — mockingly unbothered — flashed behind his eyes, making his brow crease and his insides writhe with disdain.

But Grace thankfully barreled forward and Dane kicked his feet from where they dangled over the treehouse's edge, beating back his father's face with figurative fists in an effort to focus instead on her words. He snorted at her introduction of Gregory, wondering what the poor sap had done to earn her ire. Shot her a suggestive wink, perhaps? He himself had been voided many a time throughout the years. Most of the time deservedly. He wondered if the newbie would give her a wide berth whenever she released him. People tended to learn rather quickly how to appropriately tread around Grace once they knew who she was and what she was capable of.

Dane, of course, fancied himself not one of those people.

"And what did dear Greg do, step on your designer shoes?" Dane chuckled softly to himself, imagining that if he pushed Grace too much by the afternoon's end — which he of course planned to do, he just couldn't help himself — there was a very good chance he'd get the opportunity to ask the chided man himself. Perhaps at some point, deservedly voided, he would come across the sorry dude as he floated through the empty darkness and trifled through the collection of (mostly useless) things he bumped into. It wouldn't be the first time he had a pleasant, sometimes sympathetic, chat with the "other person" on Grace's Naughty List.

Dane only acknowledged the talk of Gemma with a thoughtful hum to himself. He finally blinked open his eyes and studied the rustling play of colorful, dying leaves above them, face relaxing into a more sober expression as he brooded on the unstated luxury the elder Gatsby had with leaving. He supposed he should be happy that she was able to carve a separate life for herself while still visiting home and carrying on like things were normal. That she could walk both worlds without sacrifice or fear of threat. Perhaps things would be different today if he and Dino had had the same allowances. Likely not for Dane himself — too early he'd been twisted to fit the shape of their lifestyle, so much so that he could no longer fit anywhere else. He enjoyed his line of work a bit too enthusiastically to entertain other possibilities.

But Dino had never been cut out for it. Perhaps if he'd been given the freedom to go off on his own and enjoy a boring, bloodless life, he wouldn't have had to die. Lived some sappy, mundane existence instead, unharassed by his muddled conscience. Visiting home. Keeping Dane entertained with silly updates on his "normal" life... probably swaddling babies, rescuing puppies, or something similarly gushy and sickly benevolent. Something Dane would scoff and laugh at. But of course, there had been no choice for them. Even if Dino wasn't dead (as Dane sometimes suspected), he was as good as.

The fact Gem was presumably hanging up her coat as well settled a bit of wistfulness in Dane's chest. Though it didn't slice with the same wounding permanence that Dino's death had, it still felt like a loss of sorts. The older pair of them had always been there to keep their younger siblings from going too overboard as they tossed asinine ideas off one another and schemed. To temper their inclination toward escalation, especially with one another. The ragtag group of four had become three, now maybe two, leaving them half of a whole.

"If Gem's stepping down, that'd make you the Guild heir, I suppose," Dane finally commented, his eye drawing back to Grace's. He supposed it would be different for her. Gem was still around, not gone. And she was more suited to stepping into her sister's shoes than Dane had been to stepping into Dino's. But still, he wondered if Grace was okay with it. He suspected she wouldn't tell him if she wasn't. They'd never been like to share feelings with one another, except to blow off mounting frustrations by enjoying a good fight together (sometimes against one another, verbally or physically, and other times by seeking out any excuse to pummel someone else). His eyelids slipped half-closed, lips curling impishly. "Well. We had a good run, I guess. I give the organization two years, tops, once you're in charge."

She shoved him, making him chortle again, too pleased with himself. At her comment about her looking good and him not, he snorted, his lips curling further. "That's hardly fair. I'd look as good as you always do if you ever invited me out on your spa days." He rolled onto his side, propping himself upon an elbow and gazing at her, one eye closed and the other squinted against the sun. "Why don't you pencil me in with you next time you get your hair blown out, your mani and pedi, and all that? We can have a real girls' day out; me, you, and all your friends — I've always liked your friends." He winked, lips pulling tight against his teeth. "We can dine on the tentacle afterward as a little treat and debate just how close it is to cannibalism."

He sighed exaggeratedly, assuming he was now expected to return some update on his own doings. "Antonio's got me on defector duty. Found a couple of them in Los Eurosia — Jacek and Dale. But they both got away. And no, not my fault." He scratched a nail against the wood of the treehouse beneath him absently. Though he supposed it was true he was in Los Eurosia for real reasons, really he'd taken the opportunity to mostly just fuck off and have fun sniffing out the prevalent Gifted population there. He'd really only sent in the bare minimum of reports. Done just enough to keep the old man from fleecing the skin off his back. "Grouse was with me at first but he got himself zapped. Again, not my fault." Dane pulled himself to a sitting, slouching over himself as he looked out across the yard, cradling his hands in his lap. He crinkled his nose."He smelled so bad. Not like a roasted bird at all." He twisted, looking at her again. "Suppose I'll go back there once I'm done here. Try to pick up some trails."

Grace Gatsby

[Grace Gatsby]

Grace sniffed, inspecting her nails while Dane teasingly suggested she had voided Gregory for stepping on her shoes. It would not have been an overreaction if that were the case. She refused to believe otherwise, Dane just didn’t understand. Her shoes were precious, expensive, her babies, worth more than the entirety of his belongings, she'd wager; in the few rare instances when someone had messed them up, they’d deserved the retaliations that came their way. “If Greggy-boy had been stupid enough to do something like that, I wouldn’t have been able to void him at all.” Corpses, for whatever reason, refused to be stored away. Her current theory on why involved souls, somewhat based on the '21 grams' legend and that old saying: eyes are the windows to the soul. She had to hold someone’s gaze to trap them, and she imagined traces of a soul probably lingered in the dead, inaccessible due to their lifeless stares not truly meeting hers. It was either that, or her gift simply struggled with bones, blood, flesh – organic matter.

She glowered at her drink. “As it were, he simply had a few compliments that I didn’t take kindly to.” It was almost comically easy to void men who behaved in such a way. All she had to do was saunter over, play pretend that she was (ugh) interested in them, and reach for their skin as she battered her eyelashes and held their (lecherous, arrogant, disgusting) stares. They never saw it coming.

She didn’t mope for long. Just hearing the title ‘Guild Heir’ in association with her name made something warm spark within her pleasantly. There wouldn’t be any silly little mistakes about her identity if she took charge. No gross comments. They would see her and know. Fall over themselves to earn her favour like they did to appease her father, be scared shitless when they realised she wasn’t so easily manipulated and was more lethal than any of them with a never-ending arsenal at her fingertips. She would make her dad proud. Continue the legacy. Make the Guild even stronger and increase their numbers until they had bases all over the world, not just in America.

She tossed her hair, pointedly refusing to retort to Dane’s tease that the organisation would crumble under her rule. Maybe one of her first decrees would be making him her personal servant; that would stop him laughing.

However, Dane’s snort and the idea that she should bring him on one of her spa days, suddenly had her grinning too, mind whirring with possibilities and mental images of Dane looking baffled in a face mask and fluffy robe. There was so much they could do! She would love to thread his eyebrows, see if he was as wimpy about it as other men tended to be (seriously, she’d known guys who would run blindly into a knife fight but flinched away from tweezers). She’d give him a lash lift, straighten his hair or maybe curl it into tight coils, paint his nails bright pink and maybe get him a beret and heels when she dressed him up afterwards–

The spark in her eyes was mercilessly snuffed out by the suggestion of bringing her friends along. She bristled and scowled, more than aware that Dane liked her friends. Worse – sometimes they liked him. Frankly, it was quite alarming how many times a pal had suddenly sidled up to her, casually asking who Dane was, if he was single, if she thought they had a shot – and every time, Grace was forced to completely reassess her understanding of their character, of their intelligence, and how quickly she could get them kicked to the curb by the rest of her clique. She'd lost count of how many friends had been made strangers due to their wandering eyes.

Ginny, Grace’s shining beacon of hope for womankind and her longest lasting friend besides Dane himself, had never shown an ounce of interest and was the only one who could be wholeheartedly trusted. Amber was almost on par (she had been caught staring at him once but she maintained that she’d been spacing out and hadn’t even known that he was there), whereas Rebecky, a somewhat new inclusion to the circle, was on thin fucking ice after finding a photo of Dane in Grace’s camera roll and saying he was cute. The ice was holding her weight though, since she hadn’t met him before and Grace was confident that if they ever did meet, Dane would open his mouth and ruin whatever preconceptions she’d made about him being cute… As long as Rebecky hadn’t had sangrias beforehand.

Her expression smoothed and she gave a stern, approving nod at the mention of defector duty. Those missions were always messy. Very emotional, both for the defectors and for some of the softer members who hunted them. Sending Dane made sense. He wasn’t so easily moved by a sob story. Less likely to let anyone escape on purpose and try to lie about it. But hearing the name of a certain city so unexpectedly had her blinking in surprise for a moment. “Los Eurosia?” She huffed a short laugh, shaking her head. “Seriously? I’ve got a place there now.” Lots of gifted living there. Bold ones. She’d seen their silly little posters around, urging their kind to seek liberation, and while she doubted the Sector would allow them to have any success it was mildly concerning to think that such a movement could ever take place, making her job a lot more difficult when her trade was inevitably exposed to the human world. It made for a good hunting ground, though. The Blackstorm whispers were drawing gifted out of the woodwork from all over the place. She flicked Dane's forehead, frowning at him. “I bet you stayed in a crappy hotel or broke into someone’s house. You could’ve crashed on my couch and saved yourself the trouble, dumbass.”

Grouse’s death warranted a heavy roll of her eyes, remembering how she’d first learned the news via an eloquent text from Grouse’s number. She suspected it may have been sent by Dane himself – or else one of the other idiot hunters in their age group who thought they were funny. “Dare I ask how Grouse got ‘zapped’, exactly?” She scoffed, leaning back on her hands. “Whatever. Maybe I should go find Jacek and Dale myself, since you’re obviously so incompetent.” She winked, lips curling into a smirk. “We could make a game of it? Set stakes? I'll race ya.”


Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

[nospaces][googlefont=Roboto Slab][googlefont=Roboto]

She rips the halos off of angels for the fun of it [break]if all she ever does is[break] smile at you, run [attr="class","dantagg"]TAG: Grace Gatsby

[attr="class","danbod"]Grace refused to rise to his goading — only tossing her perfect hair when he made the jab about what her rise to power might do to the Guild. Ah, no matter. His voiced interest (and implied occasional dalliance) among her friend group earned him something at least. Her face pinched, her eyes steeled, and oh — the scowl could have made him purr. But he'd hoped for so much more. Oh well. There was plenty of time left in the day. [break][break]

She laughed when he mentioned his latest doings, explaining that she'd gotten herself a place in Los Eurosia. Dane pursed his lips thoughtfully. Then she flicked his forehead and he gave an obligatory frown, mouth opening around a silent protest and hand lifting to rub at the spot above his brow.[break][break]

"Well, maybe if you told me you'd bought a place, I'd have stopped by!" He scoffed, making certain to laden his voice with as much offended hurt as he could. "Jeez, Grace, you don't tell me anything. We never talk anymore." He folded one hand over the other across his chest, above his heart, jutting his bottom lip into a pout and batting his lashes mournfully. "Though I am devastated and offended you think me so incapable of finding a place to lay my head at night." He waggled his brow, all hurt and pretended heartache slipping seamlessly into self-satisfaction. [break][break]

Of course, she was right, though. He'd mostly gotten by squatting in the places of those individuals he'd killed, in safehouses, or in hotels. Sometimes he'd court some lonely, desperate lady in a dingy bar close to last call and they'd take him home. But otherwise, it was sort of a gamble where he'd end up each night. There was one woman he'd found he could fall back on when things were looking particularly bleak — she was a bit ugly and far too chatty, but had a soft, clean bed and was naively hospitable. She got a bit pouty when he went awhile without showing up at her door (perhaps under the impression she was his for keeps), and he sometimes had to spin some elaborate tale to win himself inside. Or excuse his knocks and bruises. But she was always willing to love him up and let him sleep, then only protested a little when she woke to an empty bed. In his books, it was a rather symbiotic relationship.[break][break]

"And besides... knowing you, the place is probably pristine and — ugh — white. I'm sure you wouldn't appreciate me showing up in my usual fashion — you know, dying." He chortled a quick laugh, thinking of the absolute state in which he'd left Leslie Donovan's apartment. Grace would surely have none of that he imagined. "You'd be just as like to shut the door in my face and leave me to bleed out in the street." [break][break]

He tossed his head when she called him incompetent, not truly wounded by the insult — he'd heard much worse and far more frequently than anyone probably imagined (but still not as frequently as he probably deserved). It was a badge of honor at this point for him to be a colossal, unreliable fuck-up. Sometimes he even strived toward it, as if it were some lofty goal. They expected it from him and it had become the "right" way to disappoint. With her next words, she asked about the circumstances surrounding Grouse's demise and then suggested they make Jacek and Dale into a competition of sorts.[break][break]

He ignored Grouse completely, dismissing the story there with a simple slant to his shoulders. He'd been a cool dude and they'd had a lot of fun together. A little dumb, but in a way Dane ultimately enjoyed. But he'd just been a little too slow, a little too confident in himself, and Dane had needed someone to place between him and the arcing bolt of sheer, electric energy some Gifted individual had sent slicing through the air in their direction.[break][break]

Dane focused instead on the prospect of competition. He opened his mouth to begin a prickly refusal, thinking of the fists both men had managed to land across his face. The remembered ache to his jaw, the exchange of blows, and the slow, tantalizing coil of anger within his chest as he laughed unsettlingly at them with his own blood on his teeth. The nasty gash across his calf from his chase with Jacek — Nick's stitches had held and healed well but, as predicted, they'd left a nasty scar. No, no, Jacek and Dale were his. They owed him too much. And he wouldn't leave those debts for someone else to collect.[break][break]

But Dane pressed his lips back together, eyes narrowing infinitesimally as he tried to consider what he could possibly ask of her. The typical sexual favors that he might have quickly leaped at — had she been someone else — were safely off the table. Not that he'd never considered it. He just knew better. While he all but prided himself as someone who acted with a reckless abandon of caution and pushed lines to gauge what he could get away with, that was just one boundary even he was afraid to test. She'd flay him alive. And, though they were no longer kids and he wouldn't let her win everything, he supposed... he would just kind of have to let her. There was always the faint chance she'd show him mercy in the end, whereas her father wouldn't. Not even his name and his relation to Antonio could save him from Warrick — in fact, his father would probably be all too approving of his slow, tortuous demise.[break][break]

Dane stretched out once more, rolling onto his belly and propping himself up on his elbows. "Okay sure, let's race. But I'm not sharing any intel." He slotted his face between his palms, drumming his fingers thoughtfully against his cheeks and kicking his legs behind him like a schoolgirl, thrown across her bed and talking with her crush on the phone. "Now, what to wager?" His eyes lit with a wicked gleam and he could have snorted in amusement as it occurred to him that this was precisely a point where both of their siblings might have come in handy; interjected, knowing full-well that when the younger duo were pit against one another — especially where stakes were involved — bad things were certain to follow.[break][break]

"If I get one of 'em, you can never refuse me a drink. I get personal, irrevocable access to your infinite liquor store. You can't turn me away." He shimmied his shoulders, pleased with the sound of that. "And I'll expect you to stay stocked on my favorites, of course." He added, playful shimmy stilling gravely and tone dipping with exaggerated severity, as if suspecting, had he not said anything, Grace might have obliged, but only kept pisswater on offer. [break][break]

"If I get both of them..." his lips quirked of their own accord, sneaking into a sly, lopsided smirk while he gave a soft, thoughtful hum. "I finally get to read your diary." It was an absolutely ridiculous and laughable stake. But Dane could recall all the times as children when he'd run around her yard, holding it above his head and keeping it just out of reach as she leaped and grabbed for it. He could also picture clearly all the times he'd then fallen to a curled fist in his gut or groin; knees striking the grass as the trophy was ripped from his hands and Grace trotted triumphant circles about his bent, agonizing form. Whatever she'd fought so desperately hard to hide in those pages was no doubt embarrassing. He could see himself now, cackling as he curled up at night with it, sipping a glass of red wine and almost pissing himself at whatever silly, adolescent cringe adorned the pages. Perhaps he'd find a couple more nicknames to attribute to her. She'd never live anything down, no matter that she'd been a child.

ooc: just lemme know if you don't like the childhood bits lmao

[newclass=.danbod]font-family:roboto;font-size:8pt;color:#666;text-align:justify;[/newclass]
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[newclass=.dantagg a]font-family:'Roboto Slab'!important;color:#555!important;font-size:9px;text-transform:uppercase;font-weight:normal!important;[/newclass]

[Grace Gatsby]

Dane’s self-satisfied smirk and waggled brow provoked Grace into giving him another shove. Gross. She did not need to know nor think about his methods of finding places to stay, though she took a moment to pity those poor, stupid women he’d targeted. She could scarcely imagine the horrors they must have endured – could imagine even less how Dane could flirt and be – ugh – successful. Her nose wrinkled. While Dane was right that she would be unimpressed if he got blood all over her sparkling apartment, she felt it was her solemn duty to take him in anyway. Who else would save the innocent women of Los Eurosia if she didn't?

He looked ready to refuse her proposal of a race, presumably feeling some sort of violent claim over the traitors who’d slipped from his grasp. But then his lips pressed together and his eyes narrowed into that tell-tale squint – that one that said he was weighing up how he could benefit from a situation – and she knew she had him. Hah.

His first demand (should he manage to kill one of the two defectors) was permanent access to her liquor store, quickly tacking on that she would have to start collecting his favourites. She pouted. He'd read her mind; her first thought had been that she’d never keep anything he actually enjoyed. Was she really that predictable? Or were their brands of spite so similar that he could guess what he would’ve done in her position?

The second prize he desired (should he kill both) caught her off guard. She barked a mirthless laugh, eyes wide in disbelief. “Like hell you will.” No way was that happening. She’d sooner gut him than let him read a single word. How did he even remember it existed? She barely remembered it, and she’d been its author. Yet, with a cold dread seeping into her chest, she remembered enough to know that… she’d been writing in it around the time she’d started to notice boys. And bearing in mind there were only two boys that were continuously available to notice…

Dane was absolutely forbidden from reading that shit.

It was almost enough to make her withdraw from the game. To scoff and declare the race unworthy of her time. Though, maybe she was getting ahead of herself. Did she still have the diary? She pictured it, a bright pink thing with a heart lock, and was startled to feel the corresponding chill nip at her fingertips. Shit. Her jaw tightened. Why the hell was it in the void? Why the fuck hadn’t she burned it?! She would burn it, if he won. Woops! Sorry! No diary to read!

How careless of her to leave it in there – how stupid. She was lucky he hadn’t drifted across it during his other trips to the void. Despite it being pitch dark in there (at least, that’s what she'd been told; she was a little too wary to try voiding herself and frankly wasn’t sure it was possible), he could have easily switched his phone torch on, found the diary, and forced the flimsy lock open. Her eyes narrowed. Was that why he’d included it in the wager? Did he already know she still had it? Worse – had he skimmed it before and was now using this chance to have a proper rifle through its pages? No. She was sure he wouldn’t have been able to keep his mouth shut if that were the case.

The tension suddenly bled out of her. She was getting all worked up over nothing. The whole scenario was hypothetical. What were the chances that Dane would manage to murder both of the brats? She was confident she’d get one of them, at least. She was way too capable to lose to Dane of all people, and if it started to look like things were going a little too well for him, she would cheat. Simple.

“If I win…” Grace trailed off, face scrunched in thought. She considered asking him for something related to his gift, something to parallel his first wager, but she imagined any summon he would make for her would only get in the way when she was hunting. Or it would be weak. A puny thing so he could keep all his strength for his own summons. She sighed and clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she looked down at him. “It’s just so hard to think of something. At times like this, it’s painfully obvious how little you could offer me.” Not only in terms of his gift, but his possessions, too. There wasn’t anything of his that she would want to have of her own. No weapon or trophy that she couldn’t steal or buy her own version of elsewhere. 

“Okay.” An earlier topic of their conversation sprung to mind and sparked an idea. Her wager would have to be something Dane could do rather than give. She shifted out of her cross-legged position to sit on her heels instead, taking a moment to drink the remaining liquid in her Pimm’s can before carefully setting it to one side. “If I catch one of them, I get to give you a full makeover. I get to take as many photos as I want during the experience and I can keep them forever.” Yes, that would do nicely. Every time someone started to get a little too curious about Dane she’d show them the most embarrassing images she had of him. And whenever he got a little too loud and smug for her tastes, she’d remind him of how cute he looked with magenta lipstick and winged eyeliner.

“If I get both of them…” She pursed her lips, eyeing him balefully. This one was risky. Dane would probably find a way to ruin it. Make it feel like she’d lost rather than won. “You have to be my personal servant for a week. You’ll have to stay in my apartment, keep it nice and tidy, and you have to do everything I say. Everything.”

“And oh, of course you don't have to give me any intel! I’ll be completely fine doing my own digging,” she smiled sweetly. “What I wanna know is, how do you expect to do any hunting if you’re trapped?”

She let the question linger in the air. Gave it time to sink in as her smile curled wider. And then she lunged.

She pushed hard at his nearest shoulder, wrestling him onto his back. Her knees locked around his hips (briefly, she was glad that she was wearing a tennis skirt rather than some stiff, mini thing that would restrict her ability to do so) and she set about trying to touch his skin and force eye contact.

It was funny. The difference between the first time she’d voided Dane and the way she cheerfully approached it now.

The first time she’d voided Dane had been a pure accident. It was the first time she’d voided anyone, with armchairs being the most impressive thing she’d stored up until that point. They'd been having some argument over hide-and-seek (the violent, Guild remix™), she'd been (ineffectually) trying to choke him out, glaring into his smug stare, and he’d – disappeared. Vanished into thin air without even a puff of smoke. She’d freaked. Spun in circles and shrieked into the woods they'd been in, not knowing where the hell the objects went when she stored them and believing she’d somehow killed him. And when she regained the sense to summon him back, she’d been so relieved to see him alive that she’d immediately kneed him in the groin and stormed off. He deserved it. Making her fuss for no reason...

She grabbed his jaw and leaned close enough that her hair brushed his chest. His skin cooled beneath her freezing fingers as she tried to angle his face towards her. “Don’t be shy, look in my eyes,” she purred. What would he do this time? Give in to the inevitable? Blindly try to fight her? Or was this to be a waiting game, with him squeezing his eyes closed and her pinning him down until he eventually slipped up?



OOC: lmao let me know if you’d rather Grace not be like this
Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

Dane was watching for a reaction, his gaze settled observantly on Grace's face as she listened to his stakes. He didn't miss the widening of her eyes — nor the incredulous gleam in their depths — as she barked a short, humorless laugh and assured him, in no uncertain terms, there was no way he'd get his hands on her childhood diary. His smirk curled deeper, becoming positively feline, and his eyes narrowed slightly at the corners with spurred connivance. Now he had to have it, whether he won or not. He'd text her embarrassing quotes taken directly from its pages every night. Stitch the absolute worst of them in big, flowery script on the back of a jacket that would quickly become his favorite — worn daily for everyone to see. Her name beneath them as if they were words of wisdom to be revered and their author remembered.

For a moment, Dane expected her to refuse the game entirely — a small victory that would be in itself. But she didn't reject the stake nor abandon the competition and he wasn't surprised. They'd always been too proud, too confident in themselves, to back down. Even if one of them did initially refuse, it usually only required a bit of vicious tease from the other to provoke them to a sneering acceptance. All it took was some foul-mouthed goading to fire them up; make them more enthusiastic and efficient than they — or perhaps just Dane — would care to be otherwise.

Grace mused over her own stakes, face pinched in thought, and Dane busied himself thinking about the design of his fantasized jacket; the color of thread he'd use (pink, obviously) and the decorative font. She sighed, dropping her eyes to him with a small, disappointed shake of her head, voicing the saddened opinion that he simply had nothing to offer her. "Sticks and stones," Dane tsked absently, completely incapable of feeling abashed or insulted. Perhaps he'd add some bedazzlement for extra flair? Just to insure the jacket didn't pass anyone's notice. He'd have to make a couple of them, as she'd be forcibly rid of them as soon as she was made aware of them.

Her first stake brought him reluctantly from his imaginings and he mulled over the prospect of a Grace-given makeover instead, lips pursing into a thoughtful frown. The added stipulation of untouchable proof in keepsake pictures was vaguely alarming. Paralleling his abandoned thoughts, he imagined his magnificent, handsome mug — glammed and dolled up, with inch-long eyelashes, shimmering lip gloss, and pink hair clips — printed on the front of a t-shirt. At least he could take a bit of comfort in the presumption that Grace would likely never wear anything of the sort. But still, there were other potential pitfalls to consider. What if she shaved off his eyebrows? Bleached his hair? Fitted him with those ridiculous, ten-inch long acrylic nails that he'd later have to gnaw off?

But, all things considered, the stake was mild at best and Dane blinked slowly with a complacent nod. Time would eventually mend whatever she did to him, with only pictures to tell for it. And he'd own up to those with a forceful pride if she tried to weaponize them — posing cheekily in each one instead of glowering. He'd lean into it. And she would surely grow discontent and bored with his lack of fuss. Easy-peasy.

The second stake — making him her personal servant for a week — was a little more unpredictable and made him hum consideringly. It reminded him of when he and Dino had first been introduced to the Gatsby girls and his father had made it expressly clear they were to behave. To be respectful and obedient and always keep in mind who they were. It had made him perpetually bristly as a young boy; as loathe then as he was now to feel under someone's thumb. In a very generalized way, he imagined he was somewhat duty-bound to do whatever Grace pleased anyway, working for the organization she was like to inherit. Unable to simply quit. But on a more personal, familiar level, he despised giving her an inch. Always wanted to win. Never wanted to admit when she had him, let alone let her.

What would she even have him do? Clean and cook? He supposed he could put up with that for a minute. But then she'd probably be very generous when it came to being messy. Throw a belligerent party. Dress him up and have him entertain her friends like a well-trained dog. Demand some unfathomable, elaborate spread of food to be ready upon her waking. Then only pick at it. Dane's eyes narrowed disdainfully at the thought. Would she forbid him from leaving? He'd get so stir-crazy. Still.... small stakes. He supposed he could always grate against her nerves enough to be disreputably relieved of duty. Get himself kicked out. And what would she really do if he bailed a couple of days in any way?

In the midst of his mulling, the foreboding in her final question, spoken too sweetly, stirred him a bit belatedly — only registering when she lunged. He sneered a quick, derisive laugh as she shoved him onto his back and pinned him, his eyes pinching shut — an almost innate reflex where Grace was involved. A characteristically-smug smile tugged once more at his lips as she leaned over him and clasped a hand to his jaw, her fingers so cold against his skin that the touch nearly burned. A chilling invitation to blink away from here and into the vast, dark emptiness that was her void. All he had to do was look.

He resisted, keeping his eyes closed but letting the pinch to them lax while he leisurely considered his next move. He could do his best to buck her off him. Send them both plummeting from the platform and hope they didn't break any limbs when they met the ground. Headbutt her? Summon a beast? Perhaps a cute little songbird to flutter about her face, stealing her dangerous gaze and chittering its agitation as it plucked her perfect hair out of place. Maybe a dozen little squeaky, misshapen mice or massive roaches would send her squealing off of him and skittering to the corner of the treehouse. The possibilities — tactics he'd reached for plenty of times before when he found himself caged beneath her — churned in his mind and his palms warmed with the prepared beckoning of them. But his fingers only twitched. Cooled. What if they weren't enough? What would really send her leaping away?

His lips pulled infinitesimally wider, cracking to show his teeth, and he wiggled beneath her. "Nothing to offer, you said?" He purred contentedly, voice made purposely thick as he lifted his hands to brush his fingers against the exposed skin of her knees, locked on either side of him. A little game of chicken would do. It was more likely that he'd get a couple of fists to the nose or she'd double her efforts and try to force his eyes open with her fingers. Void him away and then sit around huffing for only a second before she brought him back to hit him. Or maybe she'd leave him to stew for a while, perhaps months, watching the time pass until his phone died. Catalog the useless things she had strewn about. Maybe he'd seek out Greg. Make a new friend. Bond over their blatant mistreatment and the fickleness of women. 

"Y'know, if you wanted to straddle me, there are nicer ways to go about it." He smoothed his palms against her skin, tucked his fingers above the bend in her legs, and applied a bit of pressure — only the faintest suggestion of a squeeze. Then, unable to resist, he slowly cracked his eyes open, eager to see disgust or rage flit its quick, violent way across her features.

-------

Grace Gatsby

rip dane ;v; feel absolutely free to do whatever you want with him, he deserves everything that comes to him always lmao~ we can even end this if you want to, have him be voided and pick up wherever and whenever you want to somewhere else lmao~ i'm game for whatever!! but also, if you like hate this, i can change lmao.

also, the first time dane was voided —

[Grace Gatsby]

OOC: sorry for the horrendous wait for this mess >.<"

Dane talked a lot of shit. Did a lot of shit. Normally she’d only scoff or maybe give him a solid shove to the shoulder, her nose raised and her lip curled. Particularly deplorable behaviour could earn him a punch to the face or – one time – a push down some stairs. But, really, she was used to him being a thorn in her side. Accustomed to him trying to get a rise out of her. Expectant of it, in many ways. But this time –

Positioning them as she had, Grace quickly realized her mistake. Suddenly she could smell the fruity alcohol on his breath. The anticipation of a scuffle had made her heart beat loud in her chest, and when he shifted beneath her, his familiar hands did not aim to grapple her like they would in a practice brawl, but slid teasingly across her bare skin instead. She did not scoff. Her eyes widened. Her smile faltered. A strong twist of panic cut sharply in her gut and her gift fizzled out in her hands, completely forgotten as her brain became a blank sheet of paper.

It was the reminder of her diary. Of the things she’d written. Without that, his actions would have been fine. Unacceptable, of course, and more than deserving of a black eye, but ultimately dismissible and readily responded to with her usual aggression.

For the first time in a long time, she didn’t know what to do.

How was she supposed to respond? How did she usually react? The knowledge had vanished from her mind and suddenly she was twelve again, innocently wondering why she didn’t hug and peck her childhood friends on the cheek like she would her sister and parents – wondering what it would feel like, whether she should try.

Dane’s eyes slowly cracked open and it jumpstarted her brain back into action. She glared, feeling her face flush (with anger, she told herself) at his audacity, at the thought he may have noticed her moment of indecision. She yanked him up by the front of his shirt, briefly straightening in her ‘seat’ and pulling him with her, then slammed him back against the wooden floorboards with all the strength she could muster, barking a laugh as she did so. Hopefully that would leave a decent bruise on his skull.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, patting his face. “You really don’t have anything to offer – don’t pretend you do. It’s sad. I’m embarrassed for you.” His hands were still there. Burning her. She couldn’t reach for them though, couldn’t take them off; that would be too obvious, would signal to him that it rattled her. She’d never hear the end of it.

Right. She needed to focus. She’d been planning to void him, hadn’t she? His eyes were open. Now was the time. And Mona probably wouldn’t mind his abduction as long as Grace told her he deserved it – not that Mona could do anything to stop her if she thought she was being unfair. However, Grace decided she would rather not explain what had offended her so much to put Dane in ‘time out’; she wouldn’t be able to put words to her thought process, and if she faced his mother (someone who had been in her life only a few years less than her own), she felt she might blurt something stupid that Mona could use out of context when talking to Dane later. Grace would rather hop the fence and let Mona assume the two of them had elected to go somewhere else together. And as an added bonus, maybe she’d tell Dane off for disappearing without a word when he finally returned.

She was aware that she was still hovering over him, so she straightened again, sitting more squarely on his stomach as she sneered down at him. “I bet you couldn’t even kiss me right. Do you know how to kiss? You love to talk a big game, love to make insinuations about how you’ve been staying in different girls’ houses, but now I’m wondering if you’ve been overcompensating all this time.” She tilted her head, blinking thoughtfully. “Yeah… I don’t need to void you. If you can’t even catch a girl, I doubt you could catch two traitors on your own. You’ve always needed a wingman. For everything. You just don’t have the skill to do it alone.”


Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

His eyes opened but he wasn't whisked away; wasn't thrust into the vast, empty nothing that was her void. He was met instead with a glare and his smile cracked infinitesimally wider at the gratifying sight of it. Grace flushed, curled her fists in his shirt, and yanked him up. He could have giggled at his success; seeing her red-faced and furious by his own doing was so deliciously and immensely delightful. Any punishment she dished out would be worth it. As he'd done a number of times through their tumultuous, shared lives, he'd wear the black eye, the slings, and whatever else with cheeky aplomb; like badges of honor that spoke to how he'd gotten under her skin.

When she shoved him back down, cracking his skull against the wood beneath them, he did laugh. Blinking back the pain and the pinpricks of white that blossomed across his vision, Dane waggled his brow. "Oh hoh, now we're talking," he purred, fingers instinctively bracing tighter against the outside of her legs, palms impulsively kneading his approval. Aggression really was his favorite form of foreplay. He'd let a woman beat him up all day and night; the more genuine her intent to maim him, the better. Her voice was sickly sweet, patronizing, and bitchy as she insulted him and, well, he'd be lying if he tried convincing himself it wasn't just the type of thing he liked.

Dane only gave a faint, lopsided smirk at her words, his fingers releasing some of their tension so they could risk a ginger brush upward, thumbs flirting with the hem of her skirt. He wasn't going to lose this game. Faintly, in some ignored recess of his mind, there was a tiny spur of alarm as he wondered how far he'd have to go. How far Grace would go before he broke her. Because she would break first, he was sure — pushing off him while shuddering her disgust. But they'd always been competitive and loathe to submit. Always took things a bit too far before calling it quits.

The latter half of her insults seemed almost aimed, framed in such a way that they presented challenge. He wondered if she expected him to wuss out — she should know better and, really, she was leaving him no other choice. He prepared a retort on his tongue, his eyes darting from her face to the hollow of her neck as he briefly imagined levering himself forward. Slipping his arms around her middle to pull her more solidly against him. Drinking in her startled gasp before he showed her how wrong she was. But then her final words, the well-crafted barb about his being useless without a wingman, forced the imagining to trail.

Was she referring to Dino?

The implication wasn't a quick, startling shock of cold that stopped him in his tracks but, rather, a gradual sinking of warmth that lanced through him languidly. A familiar, dangerous coiling that started deep in his chest; loosening the corners of his smirk and emptying the challenge from his eyes. He felt his breath go uneven and his heart pound hard, thickening the stirring resentment in his veins and seeping it leisurely through the rest of him. His eyes — no longer narrowed with provocation, but widened now with something openly dark and disdainful — drifted back to her face and settled there deliberately; regarding her with a marked lack of friendliness, thoughts of kissing her swiftly forgotten.

A muscle twitched in his face, tugging at a corner of his lip, and he lifted his hands to shove her off him, to the side, more forceful than necessary. He was prepared to buck and fight if she tried to resist, in that moment wanting to do more than just fling her unkindly to the wooden floorboards. He would relish the sound of a hiss as she caught herself harshly; bruised her palms and knees or suffered splinters. It had been a forcibly stifled impulse not to shove her the other way and out of the treehouse entirely; suddenly emptied enough that he'd be able to laugh if she broke something now. Would face the consequences, no matter how severe, with a tipped chin and grit jaw.

"Low blow, Gatsby," he snarled, voice dripping with venom when moments ago he'd been prepared to let it drip honey. He pulled himself to a sitting and glared at her, fingers twitching. He wanted to call her worse, names that he'd sneered times before every time she poked him where it hurt. Pressed his bruises and stepped on his toes. But somewhere within him, tucked forcibly beneath the blanket of anger he reached for to snuff out everything else, he acknowledged the truth in her insults. Had the stab been intentional or just careless? He could take whatever nastiness she had to throw at him, any insult and underhanded slight — but surely she had to know that was hallowed ground.

He laughed, short and snide, and tore his gaze away from her, looking across the backyard with a sniff. "Always fun catching up, isn't it?" He said simply, tone thick with sarcasm, while he reached for the ladder and positioned himself to start a descent back down. He grabbed at the half-empty box of beer and dragged it to him, shooting her a pointed glance. "Maybe we can do this in another couple of months, yeah?"

----

Grace Gatsby
OOC: Aaah, lemme know if this isn't enough to work with, I can make changes or add to this~

[Grace Gatsby]

OOC: equally let me know if this isn't enough to work with - or if you want Dane to leave and bring this thread to an end, that's alrighty~


Triumph warmed her like mulled wine as Dane’s smirk faltered and fell, the smugness in his eyes rapidly fading into something truly hard and disdainful. Hah. She’d touched a nerve. Served him right for putting his hands where he shouldn’t. She lifted her chin and her lips curled spitefully, ready to barrel on and bring up every blunder of his she could recall – any and every instance where his working alone had ended in failure – only to be shoved forcefully from her perch.

Grace landed hard on her tail bone and hissed at the subsequent throb of pain, her own smirk swiftly sinking into a snarl as rage blazed through her form. Her fingers cooled, reaching for some sort of blunt object to bludgeon him over the head with, and she drew a police baton from the void as she shifted onto her knees, intent on striking.

Yet his words, sharp and venomous like a viper’s fangs, made her pause. It was usually her who ended up pissed off to such an extent. Her who would retreat. It wasn’t completely unheard of for Dane to be the angrier one but –

She blinked at him. Felt a crease form between her brows as he snapped a laugh. Low blow? She’d called him incompetent hundreds of times and she knew others had too; an insult like that shouldn’t have aggravated him to such levels that he would want to leave. He should be used to it. She hurriedly thought back on what she'd said. Needing a wingman... She’d only meant to suggest Dane's successes laid where he had someone like Grouse to throw into the line of fire, allowing him to save his own skin. Someone like Grouse, who Dane could stand beside and clearly be the better option for a lonely woman in desperate want of some company. What was Grace missing? What had happened that he could be so –

Understanding slapped visibly across her face.

“Shit. Shit, Dane –” Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly, her thoughts flailing in all directions and unable to pinpoint the right words. She released a frustrated, disbelieving breath, something between a huff and a sigh, as she was, for once, unable to look at him. Her gut felt hollow. There was a pressure in her chest that didn't feel good at all. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She ran a hand through her hair while the other sent the baton back to the void; she didn't want to use it now. “Don’t – I didn’t –”

Guilt was unfamiliar. Almost as unfamiliar as grief. To be faced with both of them at the same time was unprecedented. Usually, the strongest taste she had of the combination was when she ‘borrowed’ something of Gemma’s and couldn’t remember it well enough to give it back. But this – this was far worse. It wasn’t just some stupid lipstick she’d stolen and lost. It was Dino. And she’d brought him up in the worst way possible. Taunted Dane for his absence. She needed to apologise. Wanted to.

So why was it so hard?

The words wouldn’t leave her throat. I’m sorry. That’s all she had to say. Two words that would do nothing to help the wound but would at least show she hadn’t meant to twist the knife so severely. And yet, try as she might, she couldn’t. Like she had a mental block and was unable to recall the words, or as if she were under some sort of spell, forbidding the apology from passing her lips.

Apologising to each other just wasn’t something the Waylands and Gatsbys did. There was never any real need to; they simply saw each other the next day and carried on like usual with perhaps a few dirty looks and snarky remarks to remind the other of their ire. Although… she wondered… was that just because of who she was? Who Gemma was? Maybe the Gatsby sisters never apologised because they didn’t have to. Because the Waylands were supposed to forgive them no matter what they did – because their father told them to, because they needed to keep peace and respect the Guild’s hierarchy. Perhaps their perceived closeness, their ability to bounce back from any argument, was really because the boys didn’t have a choice in the matter.

Her eyes briefly closed. Squeezed – like Dane's had when she’d lunged at him with the promise of sending him to the void. And when she finally spoke, she did so with an uncharacteristic quietness. “Come back, you ass. I wasn’t talking about Dino.” Ironically, Dino was the person she wanted to turn to at that moment. He would have known how to fix things. He would have known what to say in response to such a colossal fuck up – and if Grace hadn’t been able to echo him, he would have found something she could do to make things right instead.

Thinking about him too much made the miserable ache in her chest worse. She needed to shove those thoughts away. Needed a distraction. Dane needed one too; could she give him something? She reopened her eyes with a newfound sense of determination, raising her gaze to meet his and forcing herself not to flinch away from the contact. “Do you want vodka? Lollipops? A bowie knife signed by Harrison Ford?” She raised her chin, feeling a flutter of panic as she recognised her offerings were far from adequate. But the panic – the not knowing what to do – was beginning to make her angry, and she welcomed the emotion with open arms. It was far easier to stoke a fire than to pick up glass without cutting herself. “Come here. Now. Or else I’m gonna chase you down and Mona’s gonna be real upset about us trashing your house.”

She was bluffing, and unfortunately Dane probably knew it; if she ran after him and Mona asked what was going on, Grace would only feel worse. Would only feel the despair and guilt settle more firmly as Dino’s name was spoken in front of his mother. It was cruel enough that she’d done it to his brother. She couldn't bear for Mona to be upset with her as well.

Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

Dane paused in his leaving, eyes narrowing as Grace pulled herself forward, baton readied in her hand to strike him. He was almost eager for the blow to fall. To be given an excuse to escalate as they tended to do. It would be a familiar game they fell into then, both hot-headed, quick to draw, and refreshingly competent; twins of stoked flame and bared teeth that they flashed at one another with gleeful abandon. He wasn't so sure that he'd be able to pull his punches this time but, then again, when had he ever? The kidgloves, even when they had been kids, were always quick to come off. Neither of them had ever feared harming or being harmed.

And when it was eventually over — when they exhausted themselves and retreated to lick their wounds — Dane could then laugh dismissively while he nursed his injuries. Point to his bruises and confidently say to himself and anyone else: this is what hurt me. An explanation for the aching that was tangible and bloody, not unseen and unfixable. He invited the substitute. Longed for it more than he longed for the brawl itself.

But the baton didn't fall. Grace's rage crumbled. Her entire demeanor shifted to something uncharacteristically appalled and the bludgeoning weapon disappeared from her fingers while she fumbled for some sort of wordless reparation, gauche and unpracticed.

Careless then, not intentional.

Regardless, Dane's anger didn't abate. The roiling heat paced in his gut and through his veins like a provoked, unsated beast. He didn't know, had never known, how to appease it or where to channel it without something (or more preferably, someone) to break beneath his hands. It wasn't something that could just... ooze out of him or be shed like a snake's outgrown skin. It was more like a clenched fist that wouldn't loosen or release until it had been sufficiently suffered; made tired and spent through bloodied knuckles and harsh words.

His fingers tightened on the ladder and he clucked at her with vacant disappointment, decidedly ignoring the difficulties he witnessed flit briefly across her own face. Then Dino's name fell from her lips — in a subdued way that just didn't suit her — and the directness of it, as well as the alienness of her tone, jerked him back into action. He tore his gaze from her, hugged the beer to him, and stepped halfway down the ladder before leaping the rest of the way down.

It felt very much like running away but what was he supposed to do? Forgive her for what wasn't intended? Talk about it? That sort of emotional repartee was far beyond them; unprecedented and unfamiliar territory. So would have been kissing her but that was remarkably less daunting. Would have been practiced and predictable in a way that feelings definitively weren't. Rewarding, too, in a way he imagined a vulnerable discussion could never be.

He lifted his gaze to her above him, scowling as she offered remediation in the form of alcohol, candy, and other prized possessions she'd no doubt stolen. It was always things with Grace. Things and gifts. As if money and items could fill an absence and repair approval. He scoffed and then his gaze hardened a fraction as anger and demand leaked into her voice. It was far preferable to the quiet and softness before and he embraced it with equal parts gratitude and disdain, pleased to have a reason to sneer. "I'm not your dog, Grace. I don't heel when you whistle."

He rolled his eyes as the words left his lips, tasting the irony in them. He dropped his gaze and cast it across the yard, looking at nothing as he pictured again the many days they'd spent chasing one another and rolling in the very same space. Fighting and laughing. Screaming and crying. Loathing and making amends. All four of them. As much as he'd bitched and moaned every time he'd let the girls win, as many times as he shoved Grace away when she wanted to pesteringly tag along, in a way he always knew he'd eventually relent. Let her get her way, at first because his father demanded it and later because he simply didn't mind her being there. Was pleased that she was pleased, even when he did nothing but wind her up and push her buttons.

He rolled his shoulders and heaved an exaggerated sigh, fingers clenching and unclenching in his palm as if he could exhaust the desire to make fists. Then he dropped the six-pack and grabbed at the ladder, climbing halfway up before pausing and casting her a pointed look. "Maybe I am a little, but one word about it and I'm dragging you out of there." He tried to edge the words with humor, to shove that Wayland anger into something secondary, but succeeded in only sounding tense and warning. Pulling himself the rest of the way up, he settled on the edge of the treehouse with his legs dangling down and cradled his hands in his lap.

After a long moment, he looked at her sidelong. Unbidden, as he studied her profile, he recalled the emotions that'd flit across her face when she realized how he'd taken her words. It reminded him that he wasn't the only one that felt the ugly vacancy of Dino's absence. That Grace had cared about him, too. It was something he could never acknowledge without feeling an accompanying stab of contempt. Because, somehow, it wasn't enough. It made him bristly to consider her hurts, made it easy to disregard them, because he assumed them so insignificant to his own. He had needed the older Wayland far more than anyone else did.

He shoved his shoulder against her, trying to diffuse the tightness in his voice. "Do you really have a bowie knife signed by Harrison Ford?"

Grace Gatsby

[Grace Gatsby]

OOC: the wait on this one…. oof. sorry again


Despite her bribes and threats Dane continued down the ladder, leaving Grace scowling and alone in the treehouse with her hands curled into fists. She barbed her regret, made it into something sharp and bristling so she could direct outwards rather than at herself, and prepared to jeer insults after him until he was out of her sight.

But he stayed. He glared back up at her from the ground, scoffing at her attempt to intimidate him, and he came back. Not immediately, and he paused on the ladder to throw a threat right back at her, but he still returned. Triumph warmed her like coffee on a Winter morning. Her aggressive (defensive) posture easily melted away, and even though he sounded serious, his threat was met with a snort and a small smirk. “I’d like to see you try.”

The silence that followed after he’d settled beside her made her want to fidget. And she hated fidgeters. Not when she was flirting (a man so flustered that he didn’t know what to do with his hands could be cute!), but in any other context it was annoying as Hell. She would be a hypocrite if she picked up the stupid nervous habit for herself. Twitching like a spider or rodent missing a leg…

She was struck again with the thought of apologising. Perhaps it would be so out of character that it would make him laugh, to the extent that he forgave her or forgot what had hurt him to begin with. She could imagine him lording it over her for the rest of her life. Every argument: ‘aw but don’t you remember when you said sorry to me? Couldn’t risk me being mad at you forever? That was so sweet.’ But of course, he wouldn’t forget why she’d had to apologise. How could he forget anything where Dino was involved?

In the corner of her eye she saw him look at her sidelong, and she was more relieved than she ought to be to have the opportunity to meet his gaze with a quirked brow. He jostled her shoulder with his and she allowed herself to grin again as he asked about Harrison Ford’s bowie knife.

She nodded, eager to latch onto the change of conversation. “Yeah. From his Indiana Jones era – the original, not the reboot. Here –” In the blink of an eye it was in her hand. She flipped it expertly in her grasp, twirling it so the signed side of the wooden handle was facing up at them. “It’s just a cool thing to have, but… I wouldn’t be especially mad if you lost it at a crime scene. Could make for some funny newspaper headlines.” She carefully held it by its guard, holding the pommel towards him. “It’s yours if you want it. It’s not like I have any real use for it apart from bragging rights.”


Dane Wayland

[Dane Wayland]

Meeting his sidelong glance, Grace quirked a brow. When he bumped his shoulder against her, a grin tugged at her mouth and Dane felt himself soothe at the sight. It was how it had always been. How it should always be. Biting arguments and loathing anger — when not something they could battle out with snarls and violence — fizzling into nothing as they pulled back to each other. They could just be angry, let their wraths stoke and fuel one another until they burned out, and then return to normal. Not always immediately. But inevitably. Whatever it was, it'd be forgotten about one day, almost always without any real forgiveness or apology.

She procured the bowie knife in her hand and Dane's mouth tugged up at one corner as his gaze pulled to where she flipped it skillfully in her palm. He took it when she offered it to him, testing its weight and chortling in agreement while imagining the newspaper headlines. "You always know the quickest way to a man's heart," he teased warmly, a second later lifting the blade to hold the point of it at his chest and casting her a jokingly severe look. "Issa knife." He then brandished the blade with intention and studied the look of it in his grip. It wasn't bad but it was obvious that it was more ornamental than practical. Meant to be a centerpiece, in a display case or on a wall; not trusted to parry strikes intended for spleens and throats. "I like it. I'll use it to cut my bread or pick at my nails when I get myself an apartment in the city."

He lifted a cheeky grin to her, prepared to ask about her own apartment, but his eye pulled sidelong at the sound of a vehicle pulling into the front driveway. He didn't have to guess who it was. The pull to his lips fell as he listened to a car door open and close. Gaze flitting back to Grace's face, he scrunched his nose. "Let's blow this place, huh? I'm bored." Not waiting for a response, he shoved himself from the edge of treehouse. Across the yard, Snowcone lifted her head and a moment later, she was gone. He shoved the bowie knife into his belt and started a somewhat hurried step toward the yard's back fenceline, too aware of his heart starting another furious pound in his chest.

There was the sound of the backyard gate unlatching and Dane's eyes steeled. Despite the enormous hate he had for his father, despite all the times he imagined digging his thumbs into his eye sockets as he sweated and cursed through whatever punishment or agony he'd earned — he felt suddenly too small. Like he was eight years old again. A child who could boast what he wanted and say what he pleased behind closed doors or out of the house, but wouldn't dare to repeat them in certain company.

The feeling flashed through him and, naturally, his anger flared desperately to battle it. To stomp it out before he was forced to acknowledge it.

"Dane."

The voice, while not loud, was thick. It didn't need volume — didn't need more than a single syllable — to sound heavy with presence. It was the tone of a man used to being obeyed without asking twice. A voice that a room would hush to hear, not the other way around. Dane hated the way it froze his step. Froze the blood in his veins. Without him wanting it to. He made the conscious effort to keep moving — to ignore the squeak of the backyard gate clicking shut and pretend to not have heard his name — but he still stopped. His center hollowed. In a swift, traitorous moment, the desperate and instinctual anger completely fled from him; down his arms and through his fingertips, followed close behind by a knifing chill that too nearly resembled fear. He tried to hold on to the churning heat; to dig figurative nails into the only something he could control and yank it back into himself. But it refused. It chose instead to only start a new (more cautious) swell in the center of his chest; a lukewarm ember in comparison to what it'd been before. Disgustingly tamed and forcibly controlled, as if the anger itself knew better than to burn too hot.

He was thankful his back was turned. Though there was no mistaking the rigidness of his stance, his father couldn't see how his lips parted around a wordless breath. The way his lids twitched over his eyes, betraying the split-second shatter of resolve that emptied his gaze. Distantly, he knew Antonio didn't need to see, to know it was there, but Dane's more immediate logic was that if he just didn't meet the man's eyes, he wouldn't be caught. Wouldn't be seen through. Then he could convince himself later that he'd been anything but visibly cowed.

His eyes searched the grain of the backyard fence for a moment and, only when his mask was settled back in place, did he turn. "Hey. We were just leaving." He said, successfully flippant, as he moved across the yard and toward where his father stood — waiting, straight-backed and stone — at the gate. He couldn't hop the fence now that he was watching. Had he managed it seconds before the man entered the yard, it wouldn't have been any less running away, but he would have been able to swallow it better.

Antonio's eyes followed him fixedly, level and cold. He watched his son for a stretching moment, looked for a second as if about to speak, then let his gaze drag instead to Grace. As if her presence alone was somehow tempering. Kept whatever he'd wanted to say like a secret in his chest. Saved for a more opportune time.

"Ms. Gatsby. Always a pleasure."

- - - - - - - - -

Grace Gatsby
Tfw when ur dad comes home and says ur friend has to leave TuT Give me a nudge for any changes! Or just lemme know if you hate this completely loooool; I can scrap this and do something else if it's undesirable. Grace could bounce if you wanted to end the thread here, they could leave together and get into some trouble elsewhere, or whatever! c:

Edit: I had to make the joke in the first half more obvious lmao, and then I also only just realized/remembered that Antonio has already seen Grace today? Should I change this whole thing up??? Don't hesitate to let me know lmao.