gunsandwolves

[gunsandwolves]

lucky stood, smiled, and jagger didn’t look at his mouth. didn’t watch the slow, deliberate way the glass touched it, didn’t track the small glint of tequila on his glossy lip. didn’t let his gaze linger on the line of his throat or the slight parting that came after the sip, all soft and deliberate and smug. jagger’s jaw ticked once, just enough to keep something grounded, and his gaze stayed fixed on lucky's own, hard. too hard. like he was glaring. better than ogling your charge, he figured. “i’m not the club security detail, sir. business ain’t my problem. you are.” he meant it plain, but it came out rougher than he liked. not disrespectful—he didn’t have the luxury of that. he needed this job. the paycheck that came with it kept the lights on for more than just him. but lucky had a way of pulling that edge out of him, like it was sport.

and then, of course, the man had to go and say that. like it was a game. jagger didn’t answer. he didn’t have to, lucky was already turning, moving toward the crowd with that slow, rolling ease that made the floor shift like water around him. like they’d been waiting for him to step off the pedestal and into the mess.

jagger followed, close and tight. no space between. he hated this part, when people reached, hands eager, bodies drawn in like moths, some with cameras half-raised, others already half-drunk. he batted them back one by one. didn’t touch unless he had to, but when he did, the warning was in his grip. one guy tried to slide in with a whisper and a folded napkin. jagger stopped him with a look. the music made everything blur at the edges, lights pulsing low and seductive, but his focus didn’t falter. he was scanning, always scanning. angles, movements, smiles that held too long, touches that didn’t belong.

and then she came.

small, glittering dress clinging like a second skin and clearly missing the bottom part so short it was. she moved fast, and slipped through a momentary gap in the bodies. jagger clocked her too late. her arms wound around lucky like she’d been waiting her whole life to do it. fingers splayed across his chest, her face tilted up, lips already parting around some breathy, slurred greeting.

that was enough. jagger didn’t think. he moved.

his hand closed around lucky’s wrist—firm—and with a single step, he pulled him clear of the crowd. the club floor parted ahead of them like a tide breaking around stone. jagger didn’t look back, didn’t offer apologies, didn’t loosen his grip until the hallway swallowed them both whole.

“you don’t get to do that. not down here.” old habits of always being in the position to order others around.

he opened the door to the office with his free hand and got lucky to step in first. followed close behind, then shut the door, and with a click the music thumped quieter behind the walls. but the air was heavier. “i don’t care how good it looks to mix with the floor. if they can touch you, they can hurt you. sir.”

luciano’s quip got a breath of amusement out of jagger. he let the corner of his mouth pull uè and leaned in a fraction more, enough to speak without raising his voice. “can’t say i’m bored, sir. you’ve got half the club wanting to talk to you, and the other half to fuck you.” a pause. “you really don’t make this easy.” he straightened again, eyes already back on the floor. weight even. hands still loose at his sides, watching the room like the room might bite. he hadn’t had a bored second since taking this job. and that was saying something. jagger got bored easy, faster than most. downtime made his skin itch, made his mind wander places it didn’t need to go. this work, and this man, didn’t give him room for that. too many eyes on him, too much movement around. being luciano’s bodyguard wasn’t the kind of easy one could assumed, it wasn’t just suits and champagne and standing around. it was vigilance in silk gloves. it was tension behind mirrored glass. it was staying three steps ahead of someone who already thought he’d seen the whole board, and not letting that whiff of cologne he got standing too close distract him. he rolled his shoulder once, easy motion, and let the music wash past. “if i start removing the ones staring, the club’s gonna empty out fast.” he mused, allured by the appeal of the idea.

[gunsandwolves]

#for science

[gunsandwolves]

j huffed, low and warm, not quite a laugh, not quite not. he set the can down and pushed off the counter in one smooth movement, barefoot and quiet against the floor. roman's words weren’t brushed off—not by a long shot. jagger had heard too many versions of “i’m good” in too many warzones to take them at face value. some were shields. some were prayers. some were just too damn tired to be anything else. he reached out and slung an arm around roman’s shoulder, just for some familiar pressure. solid.

“you don’t have to make it a full list,” he said, “but i’m not new to storytime, you know. i’ve logged a lot of hours hearing about other people’s shit in worse places than this.”

he nudged him gently, knocking heads. “come on. couch is more forgiving than my kitchen stools.” he didn’t wait to be refused. just steered them both toward the living room with the quiet confidence of someone who’s done this before, who knew exactly what it looked like when someone needed a space to talk but wasn’t sure how to start. the tv was still mumbling in the background, flickers of old explosions playing across the walls, but jagger didn’t bother muting it. sometimes that hum helped with the weight of silence.

“yeah. it’s hectic.” he didn’t even try to undersell it. a small shake of his head followed, a smirk twitching up like he couldn’t help himself. “de la cruz got more enemies than some minor countries and the personality of a landmine.” he said it with a certain fondness, though. the kind a bodyguard shouldn’t have, but he did anyway, because there’s also the part where luciano was—a distraction. and not just him, he though, when his eyes flicked sideways with just a trace of humor and heat and regret all wrapped into one. he left the marines and now somehow he's just couldn't stop noticing all these handsome bastards with complicated pasts. it’s cruel, really.

he shot roman a grin then, more playful than biting, something flickering beneath it—something warm. “but i’m still here. so,” he said, voice settling low, almost thoughtful, “start wherever you want. or don’t. i’m not going anywhere.”

jagger leaned against his kitchen counter, can of coke in hand, wrist resting easy on the edge of the sink. the tv in the living room was on, volume low—some old action flick humming in the background, all distant gunfire and gravel voices. it filled the space just enough. he glanced over at roman, then tilted his head slightly. “you good?” in his day off, he liked have his friends over, maybe get some help with the car in the garage on the back. “you don’t have to talk,” the corner of his mouth pulled into a dry, familiar grin. “just figured i’d say it out loud. in case today’s the kind of day where that helps.”

[gunsandwolves]

[ 📿 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat superstition or ritual do they cling to ?

jagger plays for a baseball summer league team made up mostly of ex-military guys, spending weekends chasing a white leather blur across dirt fields. they go up against teams full of cops, firemen, once even some cocky investment firm that didn’t last past the third inning. the games aren’t formal, but j is superstitious as hell about them. never says it out loud, but everyone in the dugout knows not to test him on it.

his rules are ironclad.

he never crosses bats in the dugout. it can be two bats leaning against each other in an X shape, or laid down so they overlap—it’s the kind of thing that screws with the rhythm of the game. invites strikeouts. chases off hits. nobody really knows why, but if someone leaves two leaning wrong, he fixes it and becomes quite moody. he never touches the foul lines before a game. steps over them like they burn. same with home plate. he tapes his wrists the same way every time—tight, even, black tape only.

it’s not really about order, or rhythm. it’s about luck, pure and simple. and don't ever tell him he's wrong or worse, doubt about his rituals.

[gunsandwolves]

j tried to look back at her.

he really did. even turned his head slightly, the angle of it all polite interest, like maybe he was still part of this conversation, still in this booth, still on this date. but his gaze never made it. didn’t cross the last few inches. didn’t land on her lips or her eyes or her hand still lingering on his skin.

it landed on damiano.

the man moved slow, deliberate, untouched by the noise around them. j didn’t pretend not to look. didn’t try to mask it in the corner of his eye. he watched. let his gaze drag over the loose drop of fabric at damiano’s collar, the glint of something expensive at his wrist, the sharp line of his jaw when he spoke.

something deep in jagger growled.

it shouldn't have. it wasn't calm or clean. it was a dark beast restlessly pacing, that said his blood recognized something before his brain could sort it, and it curled in his ribs and sat back on its haunches, wanting to be fed. but he couldn't nourish it, because when that thing inside him stirred, and whispered get closer, it was hard to resist.

he hadn’t meant to avoid damiano these last few weeks. it wasn’t about him. it wasn’t—except maybe it was. he made things unclear. made him unclear. too many nights j had walked into a room and felt the shift before he even saw him—like the static hum before a storm, the pull before the trigger. he looked too much like something jagger would fight to protect. and kill for. and lie to himself about. so maybe he’d stayed away, because of how thin his own restraint felt when he was in his orbit.

he hadn’t expected him to approach, and the surprise showed in his slightly raised brow, even if just for a second. then it shifted, relaxed into something casual. curiosity first. then suspicion in his narrowed eyes. and then, just behind the edge of his mouth, amusement.

jagger tilted his head, took him in, slow, calculating. “you look like trouble.” he retorted, the words landing low, warm. just not the kind of trouble that ends with a good story, he supposed.

then he smiled, sharper now, a sideways thing as he got up close and personal with that tantalizing man. “if you needed my attention that bad, you could’ve said so. didn’t have to crash the date.”

A confused little noise slipped from somewhere beside him—his date, he recalled belatedly. he blinked, remembered that she was still there, still part of that moment. she said something, her tone edged with playful suggestion, perhaps a flirtatious comment tossed lightly toward damiano. a little too eager, too transparent, showing just how much physical attraction had been the only thing keeping the night going. j didn’t catch it. didn’t really care to. but he turned slightly toward her, all smooth charm again. “we’re getting fresh drinks,” he said, that same easy grin in place. then, before she could misinterpret who he involved in that we, he added, “my friend here’s got taste. he’ll pick something good.”

and then his body was already angling back toward damiano. he looked at him, eyes steadier now. cooler. but not distant. “after you,” he said, one hand gesturing behind damiano, voice low and rough and too damn pleased with himself.

he shouldn’t. he knew he shouldn’t. but he wanted—no. needed—this. time alone. to check on him. because of course that’s what it was. pure intentions, as he told himself, pure. simple. just wanted to make sure damiano was alright.

and if he didn’t believe a word of what he was thinking, well, no one inside his head was going to call him on it.

the club was too loud, everything gleamed, everything smelled expensive. bodies moved like heat signatures across the dark, too fast, too slick, all of them dripping money or power or the hope of getting close to either. echelon. her pick. she was talking. god, she was talking. beautiful, no doubt. that kind of deliberate beauty, curated down to the red at the tip of her nails. she leaned in, laughed like they were the only ones here. jagger smiled. made a comment that landed. let her fingers trace  his forearm, he even leaned closer, close enough to smell her perfume. he looked the part: clean black shirt hugging his shoulders just right, sleeves rolled to show the lines of muscle without flexing for it. dark jeans that sat low on his hips, boots polished to gleam. his hair had been styled back earlier, now a little undone in a way that worked, and a designer stubble lined his jaw. but his eyes kept drifting. entrance. fire door. the vip stairwell. every reflective surface. he’d scanned the layout before sitting. just because that’s how he was wired, a second nature, like breathing. he shifted in the seat. nodded like he was listening. and then—his pulse didn’t spike. it settled. damiano. he hadn’t seen him in a few weeks and now his blue gaze zeroed in on the figure and he just kept looking. his date laughed again, tried to say something clever, leg pressed against his. he laughed, too. automatic. and kept watching him.

@damianovinciguerra

[gunsandwolves]

[ ⛓️ ] . 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 ?

for a man like him, guilt isn’t dramatic—but it’s visceral. it’s not just a thought, it’s a weight. something that lodges behind the ribs and never leaves, just shifts deeper when he tries to sleep. it doesn’t overwhelm him. it shapes him.

if it hurts, it means it mattered. and if it mattered, he’ll carry it, but because no one else should have to.

the hennessey camaro exorcist's hood was up, and jagger was elbow-deep in it, black tank sticking to his back, boots planted wide on the concrete. black-on-black exterior, twin turbo, one thousand horsepower of american hell. she could hit sixty in under three seconds, but right now she was silent, like a sleeping beast. his hand slipped into the tight channel near the manifold. wrench turned. click. pause. click again.

his gaze dropped to the socket set on the floor, then lingered, bur not on the tools. what he saw was a flash of another scene—too quick to be memory. a fantasy. a kid’s voice, bright and eager, small fingers pointing.  what’s that one do?  what happens if you pull that?  can i sit in it? he’d answer every question. wouldn't even care if greasy fingers smudged the paint.

he turned the wrench again. tighter this time. too many years lost. too many things broken before he’d stepped in. the boy didn’t even know his real name.

he wiped sweat from his temple with the back of his hand, stared down at the engine like it owed him something. the guilt burned like premium fuel in a tight engine. it didn’t cripple him. didn’t freeze him. it drove him.

this was how he made sense of the world, fixing what he could, protecting what was his. because for someone like jagger, love and protection weren’t always soft things. they were built from sharper materials, and if love, for him, always meant protection, then it made sense that in rare cases, protection could twist into something else… something dangerously close to obsession.

⛓️ 🕯️ 🗡️

[ 🗡️ ]   .   𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐢𝐬  𝐚  𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫  𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲  𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞  𝐛𝐮𝐭  𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫  𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤  𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭  ?

tw: ptsd, nightmares, military trauma, mention of blood

he woke up tasting sand.

not the kind that clung to skin after a beach run, this was sharper. drier. full of grit and iron. full of blood.

he blinked, chest bare and damp against the sheets, and for a second he didn’t know which way was up, if he was still in that cell or not.

then the ceiling fan above him flicked back into focus. the crack on the left blade. the faint sound of traffic outside. his jaw unlocked, but he didn’t breathe just yet.

his fingers had already found the scar. just under the ribs, left side. jagged and pale, it wasn't clean work. he dragged his hand across it again. thumb hooked against the edge like it might catch on memory.

thump-thump, thump-thump

twenty-three days. nine hours. fifty-one minutes.

they were supposed to be out in under an hour. quick drop, short recon, back in time for chow. but the sky had cracked open under them. one second strapped into a chinook with four other jarheads, next second—flames, metal, black. static in his ears, blood down his face. taken down by an improvised rocket-assisted mortar.

the investigators said the middle of the helo transport took the worst of it. jagger and reggie had been thrown, tossed by the blast, flung just far enough to survive the wreck. distance kept them alive and breathing, and breath got them taken. one minute strapped in, next they were waking up in a cell with darkness, cuffs and foreign voices. they were detained. questioned. tortured for information. jagger took the heat, pissing them off by speaking in different accents every time they questioned him, throwing fake intel. he spent a whole day pretending he was russian and telling them they were doing it wrong.

they hadn’t liked that.

thump-thump, thump-thump

he rolled onto his side. his feet hit the floor before his mind caught up, sweat chilling against his back. he moved, because stillness was a trap, and jagger wolfe didn’t do cages anymore.

[gunsandwolves]

AARON TAYLOR-JOHNSON 2023 | Behind the Scenes of Esquire September 2023 Issue Photoshoot

[gunsandwolves]

the club was too loud, everything gleamed, everything smelled expensive. bodies moved like heat signatures across the dark, too fast, too slick, all of them dripping money or power or the hope of getting close to either. echelon. her pick. she was talking. god, she was talking. beautiful, no doubt. that kind of deliberate beauty, curated down to the red at the tip of her nails. she leaned in, laughed like they were the only ones here. jagger smiled. made a comment that landed. let her fingers trace  his forearm, he even leaned closer, close enough to smell her perfume. he looked the part: clean black shirt hugging his shoulders just right, sleeves rolled to show the lines of muscle without flexing for it. dark jeans that sat low on his hips, boots polished to gleam. his hair had been styled back earlier, now a little undone in a way that worked, and a designer stubble lined his jaw. but his eyes kept drifting. entrance. fire door. the vip stairwell. every reflective surface. he’d scanned the layout before sitting. just because that’s how he was wired, a second nature, like breathing. he shifted in the seat. nodded like he was listening. and then—his pulse didn’t spike. it settled. damiano. he hadn’t seen him in a few weeks and now his blue gaze zeroed in on the figure and he just kept looking. his date laughed again, tried to say something clever, leg pressed against his. he laughed, too. automatic. and kept watching him.

@damianovinciguerra

[gunsandwolves]

j had been bumping his leg under the table for the last ten minutes, steady as a drumbeat, like his body refused to play along with the whole stay-still charade. his fingers were halfway through peeling the label off his beer, and every few seconds he shifted—shoulders rolling, back straightening, jaw working—but he didn’t actually move away. somewhere between rafe’s smug concentration and the scratch of pen on napkin, he’d let the man get away with it, curious how far rafe would push the bit. and maybe a little pleased by the attentions. he didn’t mind being studied. didn’t mind the view, either. watching the top of rafe’s head as he worked, the smirk creeping into his voice. “hope they serve drinks at the opening. strong ones. you’ll need people good and fucked up if you’re putting my face on a gallery wall". but then the napkin flipped. his eyes dropped to it—and he had to bite back a laugh that tried to barrel out. instead, he took a slow sip of beer, the bottle cool against his mouth, eyes narrowing in a perfect imitation of an art critic mid-gallery tour. he leaned back in his chair, tone all mock-serious. “i gotta say, you really nailed the abs.” and with that, he tugged up the hem of his shirt with one hand, exposing the cut lines of his stomach and the hint of a deep v. defined, sharp, unmistakably the real deal. “i mean, tell me this ain’t the same guy.” he glanced between the sketch and his torso, then back at rafe, grin tugging at his mouth now. “you got a gift, man.”

@gunsandwolves

"Just hold still," the pen in his hand skimming across the napkin just as it had been for the last ten minutes. How he'd convinced Jagger to remain somewhat still for this long was as good a fucking guess as any, but Rafe would chalk it up to his own good looks and sultry attempt at manipulating the man to do as he pleased. Hues flicker from the napkin and back again, over and over, as if he was piecing together the details of current company's features; difficult to forget at the best of times. "I wasn't kidding when I said Lazo's will be calling me once this gets out, I'll get an entire exhibition." The corner of his mouth pulls his smirk wider; if that's even possible, as he leaves a darkened dot in the bottom corner, right next to a semblance of his initials." "Right, okay... - It's done and be honest, I'll always accept constructive criticism...." Bam. He turns the napkin over, directly in front of Jagger - only to reveal a rather crude stick figure, complete with built-in abs and biceps. "I know, I know... - it's a masterpiece."

[gunsandwolves]

⛓️ 🕯️ 🗡️

[ 🗡️ ]   .   𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐢𝐬  𝐚  𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫  𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲  𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞  𝐛𝐮𝐭  𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫  𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤  𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭  ?

tw: ptsd, nightmares, military trauma, mention of blood

he woke up tasting sand.

not the kind that clung to skin after a beach run, this was sharper. drier. full of grit and iron. full of blood.

he blinked, chest bare and damp against the sheets, and for a second he didn’t know which way was up, if he was still in that cell or not.

then the ceiling fan above him flicked back into focus. the crack on the left blade. the faint sound of traffic outside. his jaw unlocked, but he didn’t breathe just yet.

his fingers had already found the scar. just under the ribs, left side. jagged and pale, it wasn't clean work. he dragged his hand across it again. thumb hooked against the edge like it might catch on memory.

thump-thump, thump-thump

twenty-three days. nine hours. fifty-one minutes.

they were supposed to be out in under an hour. quick drop, short recon, back in time for chow. but the sky had cracked open under them. one second strapped into a chinook with four other jarheads, next second—flames, metal, black. static in his ears, blood down his face. taken down by an improvised rocket-assisted mortar.

the investigators said the middle of the helo transport took the worst of it. jagger and reggie had been thrown, tossed by the blast, flung just far enough to survive the wreck. distance kept them alive and breathing, and breath got them taken. one minute strapped in, next they were waking up in a cell with darkness, cuffs and foreign voices. they were detained. questioned. tortured for information. jagger took the heat, pissing them off by speaking in different accents every time they questioned him, throwing fake intel. he spent a whole day pretending he was russian and telling them they were doing it wrong.

they hadn’t liked that.

thump-thump, thump-thump

he rolled onto his side. his feet hit the floor before his mind caught up, sweat chilling against his back. he moved, because stillness was a trap, and jagger wolfe didn’t do cages anymore.

[gunsandwolves]

luciano’s quip got a breath of amusement out of jagger. he let the corner of his mouth pull uè and leaned in a fraction more, enough to speak without raising his voice. “can’t say i’m bored, sir. you’ve got half the club wanting to talk to you, and the other half to fuck you.” a pause. “you really don’t make this easy.” he straightened again, eyes already back on the floor. weight even. hands still loose at his sides, watching the room like the room might bite. he hadn’t had a bored second since taking this job. and that was saying something. jagger got bored easy, faster than most. downtime made his skin itch, made his mind wander places it didn’t need to go. this work, and this man, didn’t give him room for that. too many eyes on him, too much movement around. being luciano’s bodyguard wasn’t the kind of easy one could assumed, it wasn’t just suits and champagne and standing around. it was vigilance in silk gloves. it was tension behind mirrored glass. it was staying three steps ahead of someone who already thought he’d seen the whole board, and not letting that whiff of cologne he got standing too close distract him. he rolled his shoulder once, easy motion, and let the music wash past. “if i start removing the ones staring, the club’s gonna empty out fast.” he mused, allured by the appeal of the idea.

the booth overlooked the whole damn circus. lights pulsed slow over the crowd, like a heartbeat. every inch of the club curated, bodies moving, drinks gleaming, music wound tight. jagger stood just behind the booth, weight on his heels, not blocking the view. just there. exactly where he needed to be. people noticed him, but they were really looking for someone else. they always were. j counted six glances in the last thirty seconds directed to mr. de la cruz. four subtle, two not even pretending. his gaze cut across the mezzanine, a slow sweep. catalogued expressions. threat levels. who was armed. who was stupid. who might be both. then back to mr. de la cruz. the job was to keep him breathing. looking good doing it was just a perk. not far from them, one of the regulars was starting to lose his charm. some semi-celebrity, and, from what j was witnessing, a big pain in the ass. too much money, not enough self-awareness. he was red in the face now, voice raised, arguing with security like he owned the lease. one hand kept gesturing toward mr. de la cruz. jagger watched the bouncers stay firm. didn’t matter. the scene was loud enough to ripple. jagger moved a half step forward, leaned a little closer to luciano’s ear. not touching, but close enough to be heard over the bass. “you want me to handle that?”

[gunsandwolves]

Aaron Taylor Johnson

[gunsandwolves]

the booth overlooked the whole damn circus. lights pulsed slow over the crowd, like a heartbeat. every inch of the club curated, bodies moving, drinks gleaming, music wound tight. jagger stood just behind the booth, weight on his heels, not blocking the view. just there. exactly where he needed to be. people noticed him, but they were really looking for someone else. they always were. j counted six glances in the last thirty seconds directed to mr. de la cruz. four subtle, two not even pretending. his gaze cut across the mezzanine, a slow sweep. catalogued expressions. threat levels. who was armed. who was stupid. who might be both. then back to mr. de la cruz. the job was to keep him breathing. looking good doing it was just a perk. not far from them, one of the regulars was starting to lose his charm. some semi-celebrity, and, from what j was witnessing, a big pain in the ass. too much money, not enough self-awareness. he was red in the face now, voice raised, arguing with security like he owned the lease. one hand kept gesturing toward mr. de la cruz. jagger watched the bouncers stay firm. didn’t matter. the scene was loud enough to ripple. jagger moved a half step forward, leaned a little closer to luciano’s ear. not touching, but close enough to be heard over the bass. “you want me to handle that?”

[gunsandwolves]

jagger leaned against his kitchen counter, can of coke in hand, wrist resting easy on the edge of the sink. the tv in the living room was on, volume low—some old action flick humming in the background, all distant gunfire and gravel voices. it filled the space just enough. he glanced over at roman, then tilted his head slightly. “you good?” in his day off, he liked have his friends over, maybe get some help with the car in the garage on the back. “you don’t have to talk,” the corner of his mouth pulled into a dry, familiar grin. “just figured i’d say it out loud. in case today’s the kind of day where that helps.”

[gunsandwolves]

"yo," he called, tossing his gym bag on the counter where the kid at the front desk was texting with his mouth open. "jack around?" the kid blinked up, eyes wide like a deer clocking a predator. "uh—yeah. she's in her office?" he didn't sound so sure. jagger furrowed his brows and just gave a short nod, already moving. he knocked at the office door and waited a beat. then opened it and leaned his shoulder against the frame. his eyes flickered over jack. "heard this place had a pro who could keep up with me. figured i'd see if the rumors were true." his voice carried that crooked kind of grin, half challenge, half familiar warmth.

[gunsandwolves]

✦snapshots of personality there're pictures on the living room walls. pictures from sandy places. Pictures of his old unit. Pictures of a younger version of him grinning at the camera, holding a cigar, arm slung over a friend's shoulders.

neat rows of cat food tins in the kitchen cabinet. brands rotated regularly, flavors switched out like someone’s paying close attention to what’s getting eaten. there’s no cat in the house.

everything inside the brownstone is sharp and clean. no clutter, no junk drawers. books alphabetized. tools lined up by use frequency. several well-hidden weapons.

[gunsandwolves]

✦ basic identity name: jagger wolfe age: 34 nationality: american profession: bodyguard for the family education: b.a. in criminal psychology (funded through the marine corps education program) location: quiet two-story brownstone. family: one younger sister

✦ backstory ⸱ lost his parents in a car crash at age 9; ⸱ raised with his younger sister by an aunt and uncle who were emotionally distant but not abusive, just didn’t offer any warmth; ⸱ his sister was taken under their aunt's wing, while jagger grew up feeling like an outsider, overlooked and unneeded; ⸱ enlisted in the marines at 18 to escape his home life and give himself purpose; ⸱ rose quickly through the ranks due to natural leadership, tactical skill, and mental resilience, joining the recon unit; ⸱ honorably discharged two years ago; ⸱ he still lives by a code, even if the world around him doesn't;

✦ current status working full-time as a bodyguard for the family, running protection gigs and keeping his boots in motion. the brownstone house’s quiet, but never still—he keeps it sharp, like he’s waiting for something to crack through the silence. mornings start early, nights end late, and the space between is filled with iron, sweat, and routine. he moves through the city like it owes him something. hasn’t dated in a while, not seriously. his fridge is clean, his couch gets more use than the bed, and there’s a stray cat that’s been showing up near his stoop.

✦ physical appearance ⸱ tall, extremely muscular, with the look of someone constantly ready for movement. dark brown, curly hair, steel-blue eyes. faint scar under his left eye. tattoo of his military unit on his right shoulder. usually dressed in dark jeans, boots, and simple shirts. nothing flashy, always functional. his posture is relaxed but alert, like someone who never fully came home.

✦ personality & emotional landscape positive traits: loyal, grounded, disciplined, kind, protective, generous, insightful, funny negative traits: emotionally avoidant, restless, prone to ghosting people, stubborn, competitive, latent ocd

✦ likes & interests spending time outside, working out, cats, cooking shows, keeping things clean, guns, early mornings, long drives, protecting others, winning

✦ dislikes & turn-offs rainy days, messy spaces, loud or arrogant people, disrespect toward service workers, politics, snobs