hey there! this is Bigby, right? sorry to bug you out of the blue like this i bet you've got your hands full right now but i heard you were looking for into about Rocket and i've got a few things you're gonna want to know! seriously, this is a hot take! you can't miss this!
[ ...It takes him a solid twelve minutes to push the send button. ]
this serves as a reminder that i need to fill my profile out, smh
okay, well! for starters, he's like, 6'10" seriously, you do not want to mess with this guy unless you're pretty hurly burly yourself! the first time i met him, he was about to eat a bunch of kids if i didn't step in, he would've bit one of their hands clean off and then where would we be? hook-handed children on the streets, that's where
[ Well. They say the best lies are based in fact! Aaaaand most of this is true. ]
[It's really a pity she can't have a super-nose and just sniff out where Bigby is, but such is life. At least he's distinctive enough finding him isn't much of a problem: a tall man, rather gruff, goes by the name of Wolf, he's pretty memorable.
So sooner or later, Rosalind is knocking at his door, a leather pouch tied to her hip and a slight smile on her face. It's not really a nice smile, but oh, well. She has a few job proposals for him, he can pick which he'd like.]
you finally pushed me to put something up on my inbox
[ Rosalind has enough going for her. let him and his nose have something to hold and flaunt over the woman. as talented as his scent of smell may be, it's not as if it is on full alert at all times. when he hears the knocking at his door, he doesn't even bother to guess who it might be behind the door. maybe he should have thought about that. perhaps he could have just pretended not to be home.
instead, said door is open and he's staring at Rosalind just a few feet away. his stare is quite the unamused one. maybe it's because of the way she is smiling. it is just. so smug. ]
[ oh. he had hit enter too quickly. having someone find his information and introduce themselves by calling him "growly" is an easy way for him to respond in a very "growly"-like way, but he's hit enter on accident when she clarifies who she is.
oh. it's her. huh. ]
Uh. Hey. I don't remember leaving you my contact. Did I?
[ that night moved kind of. fast. some things are a little unclear. ]
Not in a fun, filthy way like she'd been when they were fucking, all mussed hair and wet mouth. That would be nice. (Actually, that would be rather appalling if that was how she appeared on Bigby's doorstep, but that may be taking the narration too far). No, she's dirty in a horrid way that speaks of dirt and sweat and the Outdoors, which deserves the capitalization if for no other reason than how deeply Rosalind has come to loathe it as an entire entity.
Two days. Two days spent picking her way through a bloody jungle, battling off carnivorous sea-snakes and sentient trees, trying like hell to remember how to make a fire and deduce which berries wouldn't kill her. Her stockings are torn to hell; her skirt's hem has let out. She's long since given up any kind of hairstyle; she's scratches all over her, little cuts and bruises that speak of a woman entirely unused to having to be outside for more than an hour.
She's dirty. She's tired. She's hungry. And she's absolutely no place to go, which is why she finds her feet leading her to a doorway. It isn't quite a conscious decision; she realizes where she's heading after a while, but once she does, she figures she might as well keep going. Why not? Out of everyone in this city, she stands the best chance of succeeding at getting a bed for the night with him.
So here she is, on Bigby Wolf's doorstep, her expression put out and so annoyed it's passed into a wearied sort of low-level anger. She knocks, and even that sounds tired.]
[ Bigby's still not quite used to people knocking on his door as often as they have been as of late — the only time he received any type of attention back home was when a Fable would be courageous enough to pursue him for assistance without going straight to the town hall to have Snow or Crane demand the sheriff to do his job. as much as he would like to pretend he isn't there (and you already know he's done that a time or three), he has gotten better. this is fortunate for Rosalind, because damn, would it suck to be stuck out (in the cold? is it cold? idk) with nowhere to go.
he's opening the door only to see Rosalind standing before him. she looks just about as presentable as he had been when she found him in an alleyway of all places, clothes tattered and bloodied. there's no knives lodged into her legs from what he can see, at least. don't mind Bigby as he stands there for several seconds, looking her up and down with as flat of an expression as one might expect. ]
There's a story to this, I'm assuming. One that you aren't going to want to tell me right now.
[ she looks just about as pissed off and tired as he does during a normal day. that speaks volumes. at least it should say something when he opens his door wider and steps to the side, allowing her to step inside if she chooses. she's opened hers for him enough, after all. ]
[She kicks off her shoes, at least, not wanting to trail in dirt (he likely doesn't care, but she has her pride). It's only once the door closes behind her that she turns, glancing up at him with just a hint of tentativeness.
She's going to utilize his shower regardless; that's non-negotiable. Indeed, she's already tugging at the buttons on her blouse, because it's all she can do not to simply turn on her heel and race for his bathroom without another word.
But even Rosalind isn't presumptuous enough to demand she get a place to stay for the night without asking first. And though they've slept together, though they're apparently friends (is that what they are? She isn't certain, but he seems to care for her), she isn't certain he'll say yes. Why should he? She can hardly pay him or offer him something in compensation.]
I . . . require a place to stay for the evening. I was hoping it might be here.
Good to see you not sipping the potions they're offering. Some people are actually showing loyalty to Olympia! We've gotten shafted by them in the past and their government works on pointing fingers. Not a fan, so glad to see people are sticking around Wyver.
[A few days after their gala adventure, Rosalind leaves a box on Bigby's doorstep before she heads back to Olympia. Contained within are the following: a business card for a fairly discreet lingerie store, along with a note: I told you that you'd be buying me a new set. Don't disappointment when I come back in a few weeks. R.L. When (or if) he goes there, he'll find she's put down twenty-five silver in his name, because she'll at least help him a little.
But hey, because Christmas is about giving, there's also two newties, a belt, and a winter coat.]
Someday, Bigby, I'm going to challenge you to make it through an entire conversation while being pleasant, just to see if you can.
Now. Let's get the sarcasm out of the way, shall we? I need a teacher I can trust, someone who knows very well how to fight, and you happen to fall into both those categories. Don't tell me you're too busy; I know for a fact you're not.
[A few days after Bigby sent out his delightful little package, he gets one in return. It's a small thing, barely a handspan. It's both neatly wrapped and immensely light, and when Bigby opens it, he'll find . . . a pile of ash. Ash and soot, with a notecard perched right on top:
It's a week or so later that she comes back to Wyver. She'd told Bigby she was coming, so it oughtn't be such a surprise in the evening when she knocks on his door. What is odd are the sheer number of things she has with her. A small bag (really just a lot of cloth cleverly tied together, complete with gaps for air) is slung over her shoulder, and she has a large bag full of heaven only knows what in her hand.
She smells . . . odd. Like herself, yes, and perhaps a bit like the horse she rode in on, but there's something else there. Something that's coming from that cloth bag . . . hmm!]
[ when he got a return package from Rosalind, he wasn't surprised. he expected it was his lovely gift of tasteful pasties returned in pristine condition, sooner sent back to him before being getting pulled out of the box it was packed in.
upon opening it, he was still surprised. touché, Rosalind Lutece. those pasties were more expensive than he had thought and he would have liked to simply return them, but melting them into nothing but ash is also fine. he can't even get mad.
anyway, fast forward that week or so later and it's Rosalind herself at his doorstep, not a package. opening his door to see her outside is far from shocking news these days, but the fact that it looks like she's become a hitchhiker with the bag over her shoulder is. before his nose can pin the nature of that peculiar scent, his eyes lower and he looks at her with a single finger pointed her way. ]
If you were trying to move in, I would have expected more luggage.
[At this point, Rosalind is getting used to sleeping at his place. That suggests some kind of comfort and familiarity, though she hasn't really thought much about it. But it certainly says something about the two of them that Rosalind is put at ease within the presence of the Big, Bad Wolf, a man she knows terrorized people for centuries.
Normally, they have a little pattern to their evenings. Sometimes they'll fuck and sometimes they won't (though it's usually more the former than the latter). She might poke around and scavenge a dinner out of what few bits of food he has lying around, and sometimes she'll even share (because it is his food, after all). And then they'll head for a shower, or bed, and if she's got enough energy she'll spread her legs once more.
So tonight . . . tonight, there's something unusual about her, because she refuses to follow any of their established patterns. She's sedated and quiet, her posture sharp and contained. Don't touch me, her body language screams, and rather than the usual sharp barbs and delighted sarcasm, Rosalind simply responds to Bigby neutrally, shutting down any argument and avoiding any question about herself. It isn't that she's dazed, precisely . . . more distant, refusing to show any emotion, no matter what it is.
The second strange behavior: she won't let Bigby watch her undress. It's not as if he doesn't know she's bruised and battered after her kidnapped and torment, but she's trying her best to put off the moment of truth for the worst of it as long as possible. She takes a button-up out of his dresser and heads into the bathroom, emerging only when she's got it on. The collar is done up, the sleeves are down past her fingers, and yet she doesn't seem to mind that he's seeing her bare legs or panties. She doesn't even mind if he puts his hands on her, so long as he doesn't try and roll her sleeves up or unbutton the shirt.
But the oddest thing is how she acts once they head to bed. Rosalind slips in first, settling beneath the sheets, watching him carefully as he moves about his room. When he joins her, she scoots in close, pressing herself up tight against him. Her nose presses to the hollow of his throat, and he'll be able to hear how fast her heart is pounding. It's just as quick as it had been when she'd first arrived this afternoon: fearful, too quick, something that speaks of prey, of being chased and caught, of hiding and cowering.
It's dark and quiet here. His breathing is a steady rhythm, and she listens to it for a long few seconds.]
. . . I have a few questions for you.
[She says it quietly.]
If you'd be amenable to answering them, I'd be grateful.
Edited 2018-04-02 19:39 (UTC)
i left you hanging for another two weeks, i'm sorry
[ see, this is the thing about a relationship that goes from something short to something long. relationship is left undefined, whether it's as friends, partners, lovers or anything in between. Bigby is used to leaving any and all of the above in the category that falls under "short-lived", if only because most either realize his past or have always known and wanted nothing to do with him. as many might expect for a man who is used to life's unique design, he doesn't quite know how to handle when anyone tries to move themselves out of that group and into another altogether.
Rosalind is one of those. their getting together has become commonplace, for things as idle as conversations over the phone or simply stopping by when one or another is in Wyver or Olympia. and then there's the usual staying the night, which often involves Rosalind enjoying the empty expanse of his home. he's probably got her clothes tucked away somewhere so she has a spare outfit or four after the number of times she's shown up with holes in them, and there's no doubt newly added furniture that was her choosing. it frustrates him to no end trying to figure out how and why they've become this way, but... well. it happened. he can't explain it, but it did.
so yeah. when she acts off, he notices it from the get go. forget the fact that he can smell the uneasiness on her the moment she stepped inside. she practically shuns him as she goes about the night in her own unique way. Bigby leaves it alone at first, of course, not thinking it'd be worth his time to pry information out of her if she didn't choose to disclose. he didn't like when people pried into his when he got that way, so it's only fair.
then there's the matter of undressing and how she can't even get through that without a level of awkwardness that is found to be contagious. she no doubt hears the way he grunts and groans in frustration, because again, he doesn't ask. he resounds himself to that decision and even if it might not be the right one, he leaves her to her thoughts as she moves to the bed for the nightcap. if that's what we want to call it, anyway.
as if he wasn't confused enough, though, Rosalind is suddenly on him and their warmth is shared. hm. that was unexpected. Bigby doesn't immediately move to wrap his arms around her, instead leaning his head back to get a good look at her through the darkness of the now light-deprived room. she can tell he's looking at her. he doesn't answer her immediately, and she has to know it's because he is trying to actively read Rosalind's thoughts through her body's chemistry. doesn't work out too well, unfortunately. ]
Only if you realize I'm going to have questions of my own. But... yeah, ask away.
I need to hire you for a job. My nose doesn't work as well as yours does — but if I theoretically could find something with a scent, could you track them?
Really? Pact thing seems kind of stupid if it doesn't give you the same sense of smell as me, but whatever. Theoretically, yes. And at the expense of sounding like a cocky motherfucker, I can track just about anything.
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text / un: chocobro / a few days after the doxxing
this is Bigby, right?
sorry to bug you out of the blue like this
i bet you've got your hands full right now
but i heard you were looking for into about Rocket and i've got a few things you're gonna want to know!
seriously, this is a hot take! you can't miss this!
[ ...It takes him a solid twelve minutes to push the send button. ]
this serves as a reminder that i need to fill my profile out, smh
Yeah, this is Bigby.
Info about Rocket, huh?
He's a popular guy.
Guess it wouldn't hurt to hear what you got.
[ "hot take". seriously. he probably smells the bullshit immediately, but he figures it's worth the opportunity if anything. ]
how embarrassing....
okay, well! for starters, he's like, 6'10"
seriously, you do not want to mess with this guy unless you're pretty hurly burly yourself!
the first time i met him, he was about to eat a bunch of kids
if i didn't step in, he would've bit one of their hands clean off
and then where would we be?
hook-handed children on the streets, that's where
[ Well. They say the best lies are based in fact! Aaaaand most of this is true. ]
leave me alone
never
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action; let's call it 10/27
So sooner or later, Rosalind is knocking at his door, a leather pouch tied to her hip and a slight smile on her face. It's not really a nice smile, but oh, well. She has a few job proposals for him, he can pick which he'd like.]
you finally pushed me to put something up on my inbox
instead, said door is open and he's staring at Rosalind just a few feet away. his stare is quite the unamused one. maybe it's because of the way she is smiling. it is just. so smug. ]
What.
achievement fuckin unlocked
[Just gonna brush right past him, then, if he's going to be like that (or at least, try to).]
I'm here to offer you a job, Mr. Wolf. You might look more enthusiastic.
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text » un: killjoy (before the dec intro log)
hey growly [ because you know he growled at least once during their encounter and dutch likes giving nicknames ]
it's dutch
fancy a spar or a drink?
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[ oh. he had hit enter too quickly. having someone find his information and introduce themselves by calling him "growly" is an easy way for him to respond in a very "growly"-like way, but he's hit enter on accident when she clarifies who she is.
oh. it's her. huh. ]
Uh. Hey.
I don't remember leaving you my contact.
Did I?
[ that night moved kind of. fast. some things are a little unclear. ]
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nope
[ he did not leave his contact information. good thing dutch is great at finding people and also utterly unapologetic about it. ]
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hi sorry im here
wat u sorry for (i can english)
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log, handwave or switch to action here?
action; sometime in november
Not in a fun, filthy way like she'd been when they were fucking, all mussed hair and wet mouth. That would be nice. (Actually, that would be rather appalling if that was how she appeared on Bigby's doorstep, but that may be taking the narration too far). No, she's dirty in a horrid way that speaks of dirt and sweat and the Outdoors, which deserves the capitalization if for no other reason than how deeply Rosalind has come to loathe it as an entire entity.
Two days. Two days spent picking her way through a bloody jungle, battling off carnivorous sea-snakes and sentient trees, trying like hell to remember how to make a fire and deduce which berries wouldn't kill her. Her stockings are torn to hell; her skirt's hem has let out. She's long since given up any kind of hairstyle; she's scratches all over her, little cuts and bruises that speak of a woman entirely unused to having to be outside for more than an hour.
She's dirty. She's tired. She's hungry. And she's absolutely no place to go, which is why she finds her feet leading her to a doorway. It isn't quite a conscious decision; she realizes where she's heading after a while, but once she does, she figures she might as well keep going. Why not? Out of everyone in this city, she stands the best chance of succeeding at getting a bed for the night with him.
So here she is, on Bigby Wolf's doorstep, her expression put out and so annoyed it's passed into a wearied sort of low-level anger. She knocks, and even that sounds tired.]
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he's opening the door only to see Rosalind standing before him. she looks just about as presentable as he had been when she found him in an alleyway of all places, clothes tattered and bloodied. there's no knives lodged into her legs from what he can see, at least. don't mind Bigby as he stands there for several seconds, looking her up and down with as flat of an expression as one might expect. ]
There's a story to this, I'm assuming. One that you aren't going to want to tell me right now.
[ she looks just about as pissed off and tired as he does during a normal day. that speaks volumes. at least it should say something when he opens his door wider and steps to the side, allowing her to step inside if she chooses. she's opened hers for him enough, after all. ]
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[She kicks off her shoes, at least, not wanting to trail in dirt (he likely doesn't care, but she has her pride). It's only once the door closes behind her that she turns, glancing up at him with just a hint of tentativeness.
She's going to utilize his shower regardless; that's non-negotiable. Indeed, she's already tugging at the buttons on her blouse, because it's all she can do not to simply turn on her heel and race for his bathroom without another word.
But even Rosalind isn't presumptuous enough to demand she get a place to stay for the night without asking first. And though they've slept together, though they're apparently friends (is that what they are? She isn't certain, but he seems to care for her), she isn't certain he'll say yes. Why should he? She can hardly pay him or offer him something in compensation.]
I . . . require a place to stay for the evening. I was hoping it might be here.
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a week or so after They Bang
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Wow.
Really taking the advantage of being the boss, huh.
[ that's him saying hi, Aranea. at least he didn't make a toppy joke. ]
I think I'm staying here.
I've done enough moving from place to place for several lifetimes.
[ does she know he is speaking literally? who knows. ]
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[ :D ]
Good to see you not sipping the potions they're offering. Some people are actually showing loyalty to Olympia! We've gotten shafted by them in the past and their government works on pointing fingers. Not a fan, so glad to see people are sticking around Wyver.
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winter holiday xmas etc etc
But hey, because Christmas is about giving, there's also two new ties, a belt, and a winter coat.]
just takes over your inbox i guess, srry not srry
never be
Act like you've actually learned a thing or two about me.
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Now. Let's get the sarcasm out of the way, shall we? I need a teacher I can trust, someone who knows very well how to fight, and you happen to fall into both those categories. Don't tell me you're too busy; I know for a fact you're not.
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2/??? time is meaningless but probs mid feb
It's a week or so later that she comes back to Wyver. She'd told Bigby she was coming, so it oughtn't be such a surprise in the evening when she knocks on his door. What is odd are the sheer number of things she has with her. A small bag (really just a lot of cloth cleverly tied together, complete with gaps for air) is slung over her shoulder, and she has a large bag full of heaven only knows what in her hand.
She smells . . . odd. Like herself, yes, and perhaps a bit like the horse she rode in on, but there's something else there. Something that's coming from that cloth bag . . . hmm!]
mid feb sounds canon at this point HAPPY VDAY
upon opening it, he was still surprised. touché, Rosalind Lutece. those pasties were more expensive than he had thought and he would have liked to simply return them, but melting them into nothing but ash is also fine. he can't even get mad.
anyway, fast forward that week or so later and it's Rosalind herself at his doorstep, not a package. opening his door to see her outside is far from shocking news these days, but the fact that it looks like she's become a hitchhiker with the bag over her shoulder is. before his nose can pin the nature of that peculiar scent, his eyes lower and he looks at her with a single finger pointed her way. ]
If you were trying to move in, I would have expected more luggage.
i was like "i'll post this early so we can backtag before the day passes"
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action; sometime in EARLY APRIL
Normally, they have a little pattern to their evenings. Sometimes they'll fuck and sometimes they won't (though it's usually more the former than the latter). She might poke around and scavenge a dinner out of what few bits of food he has lying around, and sometimes she'll even share (because it is his food, after all). And then they'll head for a shower, or bed, and if she's got enough energy she'll spread her legs once more.
So tonight . . . tonight, there's something unusual about her, because she refuses to follow any of their established patterns. She's sedated and quiet, her posture sharp and contained. Don't touch me, her body language screams, and rather than the usual sharp barbs and delighted sarcasm, Rosalind simply responds to Bigby neutrally, shutting down any argument and avoiding any question about herself. It isn't that she's dazed, precisely . . . more distant, refusing to show any emotion, no matter what it is.
The second strange behavior: she won't let Bigby watch her undress. It's not as if he doesn't know she's bruised and battered after her kidnapped and torment, but she's trying her best to put off the moment of truth for the worst of it as long as possible. She takes a button-up out of his dresser and heads into the bathroom, emerging only when she's got it on. The collar is done up, the sleeves are down past her fingers, and yet she doesn't seem to mind that he's seeing her bare legs or panties. She doesn't even mind if he puts his hands on her, so long as he doesn't try and roll her sleeves up or unbutton the shirt.
But the oddest thing is how she acts once they head to bed. Rosalind slips in first, settling beneath the sheets, watching him carefully as he moves about his room. When he joins her, she scoots in close, pressing herself up tight against him. Her nose presses to the hollow of his throat, and he'll be able to hear how fast her heart is pounding. It's just as quick as it had been when she'd first arrived this afternoon: fearful, too quick, something that speaks of prey, of being chased and caught, of hiding and cowering.
It's dark and quiet here. His breathing is a steady rhythm, and she listens to it for a long few seconds.]
. . . I have a few questions for you.
[She says it quietly.]
If you'd be amenable to answering them, I'd be grateful.
i left you hanging for another two weeks, i'm sorry
Rosalind is one of those. their getting together has become commonplace, for things as idle as conversations over the phone or simply stopping by when one or another is in Wyver or Olympia. and then there's the usual staying the night, which often involves Rosalind enjoying the empty expanse of his home. he's probably got her clothes tucked away somewhere so she has a spare outfit or four after the number of times she's shown up with holes in them, and there's no doubt newly added furniture that was her choosing. it frustrates him to no end trying to figure out how and why they've become this way, but... well. it happened. he can't explain it, but it did.
so yeah. when she acts off, he notices it from the get go. forget the fact that he can smell the uneasiness on her the moment she stepped inside. she practically shuns him as she goes about the night in her own unique way. Bigby leaves it alone at first, of course, not thinking it'd be worth his time to pry information out of her if she didn't choose to disclose. he didn't like when people pried into his when he got that way, so it's only fair.
then there's the matter of undressing and how she can't even get through that without a level of awkwardness that is found to be contagious. she no doubt hears the way he grunts and groans in frustration, because again, he doesn't ask. he resounds himself to that decision and even if it might not be the right one, he leaves her to her thoughts as she moves to the bed for the nightcap. if that's what we want to call it, anyway.
as if he wasn't confused enough, though, Rosalind is suddenly on him and their warmth is shared. hm. that was unexpected. Bigby doesn't immediately move to wrap his arms around her, instead leaning his head back to get a good look at her through the darkness of the now light-deprived room. she can tell he's looking at her. he doesn't answer her immediately, and she has to know it's because he is trying to actively read Rosalind's thoughts through her body's chemistry. doesn't work out too well, unfortunately. ]
Only if you realize I'm going to have questions of my own. But... yeah, ask away.
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idk when but after hostages
I DIDNT EVEN KNOW YOU SENT ME THIS
Pact thing seems kind of stupid if it doesn't give you the same sense of smell as me, but whatever.
Theoretically, yes. And at the expense of sounding like a cocky motherfucker, I can track just about anything.
mhm this is all old now so forget after hostages!!!!!