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maybebovinity · 10 months

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When a Crime Lord becomes a Baker [Aatrox/Pantheon] CHAPTER 6

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TRIPLE THREAT BAKLAVA

The desert heat suffocates what little breath remains in his lungs. Sweat drips steadily into his eyes and burns like venom, but he cannot lose focus; the streets might have been empty, but empty streets only meant an imminent ambush. He was alone and he couldn’t remember where his team went. He listened for the cry of a lost child, but the streets remained silent.

He continued along the cobblestone streets as torn carpets hung out for drying weakly flapped in the quiet wind. All the doors and windows were open, but not a soul in sight. As he wandered through the streets a cold realisation washed over him: he was nearing the Darkin executions. It was an empty plaza with a mosaic of the Shuriman Sun Disc, stained with the blood of those unlucky enough to be caught by the Darkin.

He knew the plaza was around the corner, just like the time he went to confront the Darkin for the first time. But that time never came. And today he will not avoid it, he will finish his mission.

The plaza was empty of victims and an audience, but in the middle stood a gigantic creature facing him: its body mimicked that of a man but was red and emitted a pulsating glow, and what wasn’t red was covered in protective black metal. The creature’s visage was that of a man, but demonic metal horns and hellfire eyes removed any shred of humanity it might have once possessed.

The creature did not speak, but drew a sword as long as it from its back and spread open wings that went unnoticed. It stepped forward, the cobblestones shaking beneath its feet, and grew larger the closer it came.

At once Atreus knew what to do: no longer was a Targonian soldier equipped with modern machines and a standard uniform, he was a warrior clad in golden armour equipped with a deadly spear and immortal shield.

“The godling has come to finish me.” The creature spoke, its voice echoing across the universe.

Atreus steadied his spear, but he was no longer Atreus. He could feel it, another name, another soul. He was something greater; something like the creature before him.

“Finish what you have started godling.”

The spear left his hand before he could think, and he watched as it pierced the creature’s chest. But it did not scream nor wail nor fall: it stood tall and laughed cruelly as black blood leaked from its absent heart and restained the Sun Disc.

“Thank you godling.”

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

He woke to a hand gently shaking at his naked shoulder. Disorientated, Atreus turned to see Soraka standing above him: what was she doing here? He voiced his confusion.

“I just came by to make sure you’re gonna wake up~ You don’t want to disappoint Ms. Georgiou do you?”

Still recovering from his strange dream, Atreus groggily sat up and hissed at the cold sting against his naked skin. Regardless if he enjoyed the cold, it always hurt when snuggled up in warm blankets for an entire evening. He twisted to turn towards Soraka who was already dressed for the day. He glanced at the window (curtains never closed) and saw the sky was still abyssal.

“Did you sleep here?” He asked as he slowly got out from underneath the covers and tried to locate his clothes still lying somewhere on the floor. Covering himself around her hardly mattered as neither had any remote interest in each other: Atreus saw little pleasure in women, and Soraka has yet to show interest in anyone. She kicked over a shoe in his direction, which he failed to catch and it bounced uselessly off his shin.

Locating his jeans, he made work of pulling up the cold material and listened to Soraka’s prattling:

“Next time movie night interferes with drama club I’m gonna drag you all with us instead. You should’ve seen the little ones! They had to perform Freljordian folktales and this one group made their own dresses as the three sisters-” Atreus drowned her out as she told the story of the previous evening. He knew she was familiar with the school and its children, but he hardly cared much for them himself.

He was never good with children, and hardly remembered what he was like as a child. He vaguely recalls open fields and a familiar laugh growing old until dying away too young. The memory gave him a sour taste in his mouth and he hesitated as he briefly forgot how to tie the laces of his boot.

“Atreus?”

“Hmm?”

“Forget your bunny ears?” her voice was light and obviously amused by his incompetency. He rolled his eyes, remembered how to tie his laces, and repeated the procedure with the other boot before standing up and taking the shirt Soraka already found and held out for him.

“Aatrox awake yet?” He asked.

“No idea, came straight over here. Mrs. and Mrs. Queen of Sleeping In is, as you guessed it, still sleeping in. Aphelios opened up for me, he came to fetch his sketchbook.”

Atreus reached for the key on the nightstand and carefully closed it in his palm. All he had to do was unlock the door, he didn’t need to go in and wake the man up. His thoughts flickered to his dream, but it meant nothing to him. Dreaming about Shurima was not uncommon. But dreaming of gods were.

Overcoming his irrational fear, Atreus, now fully dressed, followed Soraka out of the room into the hallway. She went directly to the kitchen where he could already hear glasses clinking against each other, and he found himself stood outside of Aatrox’s door. He tried to listen to any evidence of the man being awake, but it was eerily quiet.

The key felt slippery in his hands, and he was brave enough to ask himself: why was he so terrified? But that was not the right question to ask, because he wasn’t terrified. Not of Aatrox. Not of his dream. Not of Shurima.

He felt the same terror he once saw in Leona’s eyes before she disappeared in the middle of the war, only to return once Diana was back.

The fear he felt when Pylas died in his arms.

But Atreus refused to be dictated by fear, so he slotted the key into the polished doorknob and unlocked the door. Carefully, he pushed the door open and peered inside: Aatrox was already dressed and was carefully sitting on his bed. The room was pristine, and the bed was made up so neatly it almost appeared as if it was never slept in. Atreus tried to see if he could spot any sort of luggage, but there was nothing. He realised that in the time Aatrox has been here he has only ever worn the same clothes: jeans, with a plain t-shirt or a hoodie.

But Atreus could hardly judge with his own poor judgement in fashion. Soraka and Taric often tried to adorn him with some sort of fashionable clothing, but habit always brought him back to the comfort of practical clothing.

Aatrox looked up when the door opened and a grimace crossed his face. Atreus, being the adult he so clearly is, made the decision to ignore the other’s behaviour in favour of being civil. But he never considered that Aatrox might not be the one to forget something so… clearly not trivial.

“Good morning.” Atreus greeted autonomously.

“The sun has not yet risen.” Aatrox replied. His window’s curtains were drawn and the only light illuminating his figure was the glow of a distant street light. He reminded Atreus of the demon in his dream.

“The perfect time to get ready then.” Uncomfortable, Atreus pocketed the key and turned away. He could hear Soraka was trying to make breakfast and he wanted to stop her.

“Atreus.” It was the first time Aatrox has said his name.

Atreus stopped and turned around as he heard the bed creaking from being freed of a heavy weight. Aatrox walked over to him and leaned against the doorframe, having to crane his neck down to properly look at the baker.

“Yeah?” Atreus asked after a pause. His chest felt tight with fear.

“It is tiresome to apologise for my behaviour, and I refuse to do so. Nothing I do is without reason, and I have faith in my reasoning.”

Atreus did not react, but the words slowly filtered through his mind. Aatrox has said before about all of his actions having reason.

“No one can read your mind, so forgive me when I find it… unsettling when you decide to kill yourself in my shop and speak about-” Atreus cut himself off, because he did not want to bring up the one thing that was still plaguing him: Aatrox’s behaviour the previous evening was beyond unacceptable. Atreus already had to deal with the stress of almost losing his business and having one of the most dangerous men in Runeterra around him, he cannot handle the man’s vague intentions as well.

Aatrox was frowning and released a deep sigh, “I would ask for us to resume our indifference towards each other.” The words were said almost irritably, and Atreus did not have time to ponder on them as the criminal pushed past him and walked into the kitchen where Soraka excitedly greeted him.

Sett emerged from his room and found Atreus still standing outside of Aatrox’s room. “What’d he do now?” the bodyguard asked in amusement. Atreus only shook his head and mimicked Aatrox.

Soraka made breakfast for the four of them (Leona and Diana will not be waking up for the next few hours). They ate in silence and left the inn together, heading towards the bakery for a day filled with baking and eager old ladies waiting for their goodies.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Their small routine allowed them to quickly open the shop and get everything ready. Atreus never minded taking a bit longer to open with just him and Soraka, but he couldn’t deny that having the extra hands helped. He considered asking Diana if Aphelios would be interested in making some extra money, but the thought only reminded him that Aatrox (and Sett) would be leaving at the end of the month.

Two weeks.

Two weeks of being infuriated by the Shuriman’s strange behaviour.

Atreus had Soraka in the front (she needed the practice now more than ever) and spent the morning in silence as he desperately tried to concentrate on completing his orders, and not on the brooding Shuriman sending him death glares whenever they accidentally made eye-contact.

Aatrox was as far away as possible from Atreus and was busy absent-mindedly taking down folded boxes, checking them, and putting them back on the pile. Some he unfolded completely and began anew. Atreus ignored his fidgeting, and was more worried about Sett being in the front with Soraka. He must have decided that Aatrox was not a threat this day, but it hardly meant much when Atreus was not in the mood to be anywhere near the man.

He took out a small notebook from his apron and flipped through the pages until he came to the most recent scribbled mess: Two boxes of baklava. A simple enough request from one of his customers the other day, and due for tomorrow.

He went to fetch the necessary ingredients, and when he returned he found Aatrox standing by his little corner he was trying to hide in. The man was leaning against the counter and glaring daggers at the slowly approaching baker.

“Got tired of the boxes?” Atreus asked as he tried to figure out how to move around Aatrox.

“Your silence insults me.”

“You asked us to continue our ‘indifference’” Irritated, Atreus elbowed the man out of the way and set down his ingredients. Aatrox moved from the shove, but his face lost all fight and he opened his mouth as if to protest but nothing came out.

Not wanting the man to interfere with his order, Atreus began sorting out his arsenal of soon to be boxes of delicious baklava. His movements were autonomous which unfortunately allowed him to spare enough attention to glance at Aatrox and see the man still standing there just staring at him.

“Are you always like this?” Atreus began, drawing his attention back to his work. “Say whatever you want and expect others to just know what you’re talking about?”

“Fuck you.” The words were practically hissed. Aatrox was beside him again, but he was using his gigantic advantage to crowd around Atreus and trap him between the Shuriman and his table. Atreus meant to turn around and bravely shove the man off, but when he turned and lifted his arms he found himself more trapped than he thought: Aatrox jerked forward and blocked Atreus off by firmly placing his hands on either side of the unexpecting baker. His muscles pulled tautly as he used all his strength to keep Atreus at bay.

Atreus refused to strain his neck, and settled for glaring at his chin instead. With his arms having nowhere to go, he crossed them and tried to create more distance by leaning backwards (the table digging into his backside), but it only invited Aatrox to move closer to him.

Afraid. Uncomfortable. Expecting. Atreus didn’t bother to place a word on his emotions, because this was worse than the previous night. This was possibly either life-threatening or Aatrox being as socially inept as usual.

“Can I help you?” Atreus asked carefully, briefly reminded of being in a similar situation in Shurima: coming toe-to-toe with a much younger, smaller and inexperienced youth recently recruited by the Darkin. The only difference is that Atreus was able to fight off the child, but he won’t be able to defend himself against Aatrox. Not like this.

“All I want to fucking do is break your neck.” Aatrox whispered harshly. His arms flexed and the threat was clear. “I want to personally force you onto your knees and cut off your head.”

“Why don’t you kill me then?” Atreus challenged. This only angered Aatrox further: with practised movement, he grabbed Atreus by the hem of his shirt, pulled him away from the table and pushed him into the nearest wall. Aatrox leaned down and forced Atreus to look up with a harsh tug of his shirt. Atreus tried not to slip as Aatrox almost pulled him from the floor.

“How the fuck can I kill you if you won’t fight back ?” Aatrox’s words blew his hot breath across Atreus’ face. A strange calm overcame Atreus as he observed Aatrox’s enraged face: his tattoos and snarl reminded him of the demon from his dreams.

“How do you know I won’t fight back?”

“I can see it. You want to die don’t you?”

Atreus didn’t answer, because he couldn’t trust himself to answer truthfully. Shurima changed him. It changed a lot of people. It was no different than the war Leona and Diana had to face, but it was different to him: if Atreus never went, would Aatrox be standing right here in front of him?

“What about you?” Atreus deflected. “Is that why you signed up? Are you scared of death?”

The question caught Aatrox off-guard. He relaxed his hold and created much needed distance between them. Atreus’ shirt was released, but Aatrox still stood close. Still trapped him against the wall.

“Do you believe death to be my fitting fate?” Aatrox asked, slowly, accent thick. A demon afraid of death, the opposite of the demonic Darkin Lord, propagated across Runeterra as the Shuriman Civil War raged on until everything suddenly stopped. Until the immortal Darkin Lord was captured and locked away only to be heard from again when Atreus’ desperation reached its limit. The same man Atreus was tasked to kill came to save him.

The same man who killed hundreds was afraid of being killed.

“I think you deserve better than Shurima.” Atreus said, projecting his desires onto the man. They never crossed paths during those years, but they must have been aware of each other’s presence: Aatrox hiding himself away as the Targonian soldiers proudly announced themselves wherever they went.

Aatrox has lost all the fight in him. He sighed deeply and backed away a few steps, “Why do you masquerade as a civilian?”

“Because I am one.” Atreus said with a tone he hoped would read as stop asking about Shurima. And it must have worked, because Aatrox nodded and slowly returned to his corner by the boxes where he sat down and stared at his hands with a frown. Atreus paid him no mind and returned to his previous task.

The kitchen was silent once again and the air should have been heavy, but it wasn’t: a calmness hung over their heads as Atreus methodologically made his baklava and Aatrox began to fiddle with the folded boxes again.

“What did you see in Shurima?” Aatrox asked after Atreus finally loaded the ovens. He was still perched on his chair and wore his hoodie once again he materialised out of nowhere.

“I told you, I don’t remember.”

“Lies.” If Aatrox actually thought Atreus was lying or not was beyond him, and Atreus refused to fall for the bait. Only Leona and Diana knew what happened, what he saw and what he had to do. Just like he knew what they went through to find each other. He was well aware that Aatrox’s crimes were far superior than his own, but he still struggled to grapple with some smaller details, orders given to him which he had no choice but to follow.

“I’m sure Shurimans love speaking about the foreigners who fucked everything up while they’re there, why’re you asking me?”

“The group we captured and slaughtered, their deaths were celebrated for a week. My people have suffered from the hands of the Emperor for years, and I have yet to hear them sing when I behead a Shuriman Soldier. What did you see?”

Atreus was unaware of this fact. When he returned to Targon he was forbidden from interacting with what went on, with only Leona filling him in on important details. His squad’s death barely came as a surprise to him when the news broke, but it did surprise him when Diana cried in relief at the news. Or perhaps…

The baker regarded the Shuriman who was calm, much calmer than before. Atreus was well aware the man thought nothing evil of him, but he has yet to learn what the man’s general opinion was regarding Targonians: with all the wars it was easy to forget their ancient history.

“They were criminals. We were criminals, according to Targonian standards. The Demacians would send their dishonoured soldiers to us to die, and Targon sent their dishonoured soldiers to Shurima. I might have killed my best friend, but they have done worse.”

“Worse than the Darkin?” Aatrox’s question was innocent enough, but it held heavy meanings. Atreus checked again on the baklava, deemed it was safe and propped himself against the wall he was previously pushed against.

“What makes the Darkin so bad?” He asked.

“Are the public executions not worthy enough?” Aatrox’s lip twitched in amusement and the question made Atreus uncomfortable. They were entering dangerous territory; but what did Atreus have to hide from the Darkin Lord himself?

“I had to torture an old man for information about shelter.” Atreus said without thought. Aatrox did not react to the information and only appeared confused.

“Your turn.” Atreus prompted. Aatrox’s eyes lit up in understanding.

“I hung a family for not feeding those loyal to me.”

“I killed a man for bread.”

“I bled out a man for days by castrating him.

“I walked away when they had their way with a woman.”

“It must have been the same man.” Aatrox said with some humour, possibly in an attempt to turn the conversation. But Atreus felt compelled to share the one thing he needed for Aatrox to understand: why Atreus could only ever sit back and have those brats do to him whatever they wanted.

“I executed a child.” Atreus finally said. Once he was sick at remembering the child’s face as he was forced to pull the trigger, but as time passed he soothed himself with the thought that it was a better fate than the other children. The Shuriman children slaughtered by Targonians for simply being born, just like the Moon Festival all those years ago.

“You saved a child from the Emperor’s command.” Aatrox’s voice wavered as he spoke, as if it was difficult to push the words out. The man took a deep breath and tapped at the tattoos on his head: “This is not the mark of a Darkin, this is the mark of a falsely freed child.”

“Is that why you became a Darkin? To free children?” The cause sounded almost noble.

“Became a Darkin? You misunderstand, I created them. Without me Shurima would still be under the rule of a cruel leader who kidnaps children for his glorious army.”

“And then you try to kill Targonians?”

“Those are not children. Those are demons in disguise.” Again, Aatrox attempted to divert the conversation with humour. It was interesting to witness, and Atreus allowed the distraction lest he close up early again and retreat home where he would like to stay for the next few days. Aatrox was becoming especially tiring to deal with.

“Atreus!” Soraka called from the front. A small bark followed. Spirits slightly lifted, he beckoned for the Shuriman to follow him as they exited the kitchen and came into contact with Zoe with an elderly yet feisty dachshund protectively clutched in her arms. As soon as the mutt saw Atreus, he began growling fiercely and Zoe tried soothing him.

“There, there Sol, it’s just your uncle Atreus~”

“I am not that thing’s uncle. It is practically older than most people in this town.” Atreus joked as the dog wiggled in Zoe’s arms in an attempt to be free. She settled Sol down and the little dog immediately rushed at Atreus and began tugging aggressively at his shoelaces, but being the ancient creature that it was, it was too weak to do anything other than slightly undo them.

Soraka and Zoe crowded together and cooed at the mischievous dog as Sett enthusiastically took pictures and Aatrox witnessed the display with irritation.

“ Dogs. ” He sneered. Atreus turned to him (a strange weight lifted from him at the sight of Aatrox) and tried to gently kick off the dog.

“Not a dog person.”

“Animals in general. I barely tolerate humans.”

Atreus, losing the battle, bent down and gently picked up the elder dog and firmly held onto him as Sol tried to nip at his face in its eternal battle. Ever since Zoe adopted the creature it had a great hatred for Atreus, something no one could explain but entertained as Sol has yet to draw blood.

Zoe bounced over to Atreus and reached for her pet which he gratefully handed over. Once in Zoe’s arms, Sol calmed down slightly but still growled and barked and yipped as Atreus moved away to join Soraka at the register.

“What brings you over?” He asked Zoe. She used to come over daily, but as the Ceremony draws closer the evenings become busier as she is needed almost twenty-four-seven to babysit the local brats. Making a reasonable living from babysitting alone sounds impossible, but throw in neglectful parents and it pays better than most full-time jobs.

“I wanted to meet Aatrox!” She turned to the man in question and held out Sol as a greeting. “He says nice to meet you.” She took hold of Sol’s paw and waved it for him. Aatrox gave an unsure nod and reached a hand to pat the dachshund firmly once on the head.

“Greetings creature.”

“ Arf! ”

“I think he likes you!” Zoe said as she tried to force Aatrox to hold the ancient creature. He tried desperately to decline and almost failed if Sett didn’t step up and carefully pry the animal away from Zoe’s arms.

“I think a dachshund counts as a legal weapon.” Sett said as he showered the little thing with love. Sol’s tail gave away his pleasure at the attention as the grumpy dog nipped at the hands trying to pet him.

“You’re a big guy!” Zoe said again, standing bravely before the gigantic man. She herself was shorter than average, and often mistaken for a child, but she rarely allowed her vertical disadvantage to get to her: especially in the face of dangerous criminals apparently.

“Really, what do they feed the guys out there? Atreus is our biggest guy yet, and here comes all the other guys. Tell me your secret. ”

Aatrox shifted uncomfortably and took a step back in an attempt to retreat to the kitchen. Atreus took pity on him and instructed Soraka to take Aatrox and finish the baklava. The two vanished with Sett in tow.

“Thanks for the posters.” Atreus said, once alone, as he remembered that Zoe paid Aphelios for them. She dismissed his gratitude with a wave of the hand and bent down to put Sol on a leash unless he tried to attack Atreus’ shoes again.

“Anything for a friend. Who else is going to custom bake dog treats for me?”

“Yeah, friends. Zoe?”

“Yup?”

“Can I ask a favour?”

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

After Zoe left Atreus oversaw the careful packaging of the baklava and made sure that it was separated by fillings: peanuts, chocolate, and dried fruits. He monitored Soraka as she cut the pastry in neat little squares and complemented Aatrox when he decided to try his hand at crafting a decorative bow for the boxes.

The man was embarrassed and revealed that the Bastion sometimes had sewing lessons for the well-behaved, and he once had the privilege of attending one. But those classes ended pretty soon when a fellow inmate lost their temper and murdered the seamstress.

With the boxes packed and ready for the following day Atreus began locking up the shop when Soraka’s phone dinged.

“Diana says she wants to go to the bar tonight.”

As much as Atreus wanted to decline and go home for an early night, he was reminded again of the short time he had left with Aatrox. It wasn’t supposed to matter, but today… Today Atreus realised something terrifying and he wasn’t ready to confront it. Not until Zoe came back to him.

“You ready for another night at the bar?” Atreus asked Aatrox and Sett. Sett eagerly agreed and Aatrox sighed but gave a reluctant nod. His hands were cuffed inside of his hoodie again as they walked down the street. Sett and Soraka took the lead as Atreus and Aatrox followed behind them. They did not push each other or try to engage in awkward conversation, instead they walked silently (content) until they reached Starfall and went inside where Leona and Diana were already waiting for them.

“Another day, another drink.” Diana remarked as she gulped down her drink. Targonian beer was weak, so weak there were hardly any legal drinking ages unless the local law enforcement were getting bored of stopping vandalising.

The group settled around the table and Soraka launched into conversation about the school play. Sett became invested as soon as it was revealed that Aphelios would be helping with the set design, but Atreus and Aatrox distanced themselves from the conversation. Seated next to each other once again, Atreus allowed himself to ignore the world around him as he thought back on the day.

It wasn’t every day the most dangerous man in Runeterra had you against a wall with the intent of murder. He knew Aatrox was dangerous, it was not like the man tried to hide it, but Atreus failed to see how Aatrox was the renowned Darkin Lord. He heard the stories, he saw the bodies, he witnessed the man almost killing himself, but he has yet to see him be the Shuriman Demon everyone claims to have heard.

He was just another Shuriman. Just another soldier.

“ Breaking news…” The group’s attention turned to the TV where Janna Zephyr returned once again with an image of the Immortal Bastion behind her. “ The Immortal Bastion’s Rehabilitation Programme appears to be a success as two of the three Darkin members have successfully integrated themselves within society. Members Varus and Rhaast have formally denounced the Darkin Syndicate and pledged to become model citizens. Varus is returning to Noxus in the upcoming week to receive a new hearing for a plea to be pardoned of his sentence as he claims to have never taken part in the Darkin’s activities. Rhaast will remain in Ionia for the entire duration, but has made an impressive impact on his community. They are eager to see his return. The third member refuses any contact, but we have yet to receive reports about casualties…”

The TV showed mugshots of two men Atreus could only assume were the Darkin members in question: a pale man with a long angular face and hollow eyes, and a darker man with a strong jaw and face covered in intricate black tattoos similar to Aatrox’s.

Atreus turned to his employee to question him about the other’s lack of tattoos, but he held the question to himself as he saw the blossoming anger on Aatrox’s face. The Shuriman turned to Sett, “May I go outside?” He asked through clenched teeth. Sett didn’t have time to answer as Aatrox lifted himself and speedily walked out. Atreus stood up to follow him with Sett in tow.

Outside Aatrox was seated on the sidewalk with his legs carelessly kicked out in the street. He was glaring at the dark and barely acknowledged the pair when they carefully came up behind him.

“Hey big man, what’s up?” Sett asked. Aatrox didn’t answer, but Sett continued. “Miss your buddies? You’ll see them soon you know? Rhaast is coming back-”

“Yes of course. Rhaast is coming back, what joy befalls me on this day to know that the men who have failed me returns from their fucking wonderful lives. ” Aatrox hung his head low and released a shuddering breath.

Worried, Sett turned to Atreus: “I think I should take him back. Can you get the keys?” Atreus didn’t argue and went inside to get the Inn’s keys from Diana.

“Why?” She asked as the little key was dropped into his calm.

“He’s angry? No idea, but Sett wants him back.” Atreus didn’t have time to stick around as he left them and went outside to hand over the keys. Once outside he was first confused because Aatrox and Sett were missing, but a loud crash alerted him to their presence. He quickly followed the sound and found them just around the corner with Aatrox on the floor on his back and Sett sitting on his chest heaving.

Aatrox’s eyes were closed and a dark patch surrounded his mouth. Atreus carefully came forward and saw that his lip was split and Sett’s fist was suspiciously bruised.

“What… happened?” he asked. Sett sighed and shook his head as if disappointed.

“Big man’s not happy about his friends.” Sett heaved himself off Aatrox and hunkered down to drag him up. With a struggle and much huffing, he managed to drag the man to the closet wall and prop him against it. He took out his phone and punched in a number, possibly a lift.

“What do you mean?” Atreus asked as he regarded the unconscious Shuriman. Even when asleep he looked angry. Sett gave a sad smile and tucked away his phone.

“They weren’t supposed to get all comfy. They were all supposed to leave together. Basically, they threw him away. Aatrox has officially nothing left.”

#fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #league of legends #lol #aatrox #pantheon #aatrox x pantheon #aatrox/pantheon #when a crime lord becomes a baker

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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When a Crime Lord becomes a Baker [Aatrox/Pantheon] CHAPTER 5

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STRAWBERRY-CINNAMON MILK TART

It has been a week since Aatrox arrived. Since the walk to the mountain peak and the incident with the children, things have been… quiet. Naturally some rumours have spread about the criminal almost snapping one of their necks, but Taric made quick work of that issue by insisting that the incident never happened because Atreus was there for his appointment during the alleged hour.

Although it stopped the meaner looks from the older generation, Atreus still had to face the brats’ parents who made sure to discreetly flip him off. Soraka’s laxatives contributed to the death-stares as a public announcement was made about ensuring that all products are not past the expiry date, and Atreus’ bakery was the first thing fingers pointed at: but again Taric insisted that he and Zoe ate there every day and they never got sick.

Aside from the gossiping and drama, his bakery also returned somewhat to normal. He never got the display case replaced, but his register worked again and a decent routine developed in the past few days: Atreus came in early with Aatrox and Sett in tow. Together they opened the shop and prepared the front house just as Soraka arrived and kidnapped Aatrox to set up the kitchen. During the day Atreus spent time at the register to try and gain some distance from the criminal, but during lunch breaks Soraka forced them to sit together as she went out to get everyone lunch. Of course the pair barely spoke, and the topic of Shurima, brats and strange dialects failed to pop up again.

Sett still hovered near them, but he abandoned the handcuffs and didn’t pry away butter knives from Soraka anymore. Sometimes he left the shop with clear instructions should Aatrox act up; they were legally allowed to mortally wound him; but his fears were for naught as Aatrox was uncharacteristically obedient around the woman. If Atreus could shoot a guess in the dark he would argue that maybe the criminal has grown affectionate towards her, and his theory grows by the day as he keeps finding Aatrox pointedly glaring at him whenever he happens to give Sett an appreciative glance whenever the bodyguard’s physique showcases.

This made a wonderful topic for their lunch date. Sett was seated by the window, staring dreamingly at an invisible figure and Soraka went out to buy a new salad claiming to cure all diseases. Atreus and Aatrox were seated at their usual table and awkwardly stared at each other. Atreus sat stiffly and his lower back began to hurt from the position, but he struggled to relax as he pondered on how to approach the subject. Aatrox on the other hand was oblivious to his plight and lounged carelessly low in his chair: his legs were splayed apart and he willingly buried his hands deep into his hoodie’s pockets.

“You’re getting along well with Soraka.” Atreus decided to start.

Aatrox gave an affirmative hum and narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“Is she the… first woman you’ve come in contact with since, um…?” At Atreus’ hesitation, Aatrox huffed and adjusted himself to bring his body upwards. Even while seated the man was gigantic.

“The Bastion does not enforce trivial discriminations. I have coexisted with whomever believes themselves better than me,” he freed a hand to tap at a small scar beneath his lips (for someone who has spent years in prison, Aatrox has strangely soft-looking lips). “Once I had the pleasure to cohabit with a woman whose husband I publicly disembowelled and left to be fed on by starving mutts.” His fingers moved to a long but thin cut following the curve of his sharp jawline. “Again, I was privileged by becoming the lamb to the hands of a disturbed Noxian who believed I was the artist behind the Ionian and Noxian killing sprees. Although I am honoured by receiving such credit, I still prefer my blood to be spilled on the Emperor’s streets instead of being the medium of a masterpiece.”

Atreus regarded the information with caution. Every time he thought the man might just be another misunderstood individual, he had to come forward and admit to brutally killing people. “So, you weren’t intimate with your cell mates?” He tried to pry at the subject again.

“Intimate? My intimacy was limited to my own creativity and being brutally beaten by wards. Sett was my favourite.”

The mention of the man had Atreus briefly glance in his direction, but the bodyguard was still lost in his own thoughts. He was leaning on his arms, and if Atreus looked closely he was sure the man was purposefully flexing his muscles in hopes of impressing a very specific (and unlikely) passerby.

Aatrox loudly cleared his throat which brought Atreus’ attention back to him. “You should not be concerned about your plantain friend’s well-being, I do not intend to engage with her on any physical level. In fact I fear standing near her.”

“Because of the bananas?”

“Because she convinces me to create miniature food which goes against my few remaining morals.”

Atreus could not stifle his laugh and covered his mouth instead. But the sound startled Aatrox who suddenly sat upright and almost toppled over if not for grabbing hold of the flimsy table. Atreus knew he was not keen on showing happiness and humour, but he did not think his positivity would almost kill the Darkin Lord Aatrox. What irony. Aatrox regained his senses and levelled Atreus with a glare, but the baker was used to the false threat and only raised a questioning eyebrow.

“You pry into my personal life and yet I still have to see you enamoured with anyone. Being despised does not detract from appeal, I am certain the women fantasise happily about you.”

Mortified, Atreus stammered in embarrassment and watched as Aatrox’s lips turned up in a cruel smirk. The criminal interlaced his fingers and rested his chin on them, staring intensely at the speechless baker.

“Is there perhaps a reason for your celibacy?”

“I’m not celibate,” Atreus hissed out, terrified about Sett listening in on their conversation. “The… people here just aren’t my type.”

“You seem comfortable with that Demacian.” Aatrox continued to pry.

“Taric?”

“No.” Aatrox said slowly. Atreus realised he might have accidentally confessed to the one thing that makes Aatrox uncontrollably mad: most regions gladly accepted those straying away from traditional labels and identities, but it did not mean that some so-called traditionalists weren’t rampaging about. Targon had its own fair share of them, but to not consider that Aatrox (the man who murdered to push a political agenda) was also a traditionalist would not be too far-fetched.

Trying to save himself, Atreus gave a cautious smile and leaned back in his chair to create some much-needed distance, “Oh you mean Juliana? She’s the school principal and loves to convince me to do their bake-sales. I don’t really know her apart from that.” She came in the other day to rope Atreus back into the horrid business, and he always had a soft heart for her since she was the only one in the damned town to accept his business.

“Yet even I can grasp the perception of her appeal. She is currently what most Demacians would consider as a suitable partner: large eyes, light hair, slender, narrow hips-”

“Last time I checked I’m not Demacian.”

“How forgetful of me, then tell me, what are the Targonian standards?”

Aatrox’s eyes glittered with an uncanny interest but Atreus decided to indulge him, because he clearly understood the question for what it really was: what was Atreus really looking for?

“There is an interest in… strength.” He began, eyes distractingly shifting towards Sett as the man suddenly stretched out and gave out a deep sigh. When his gaze returned to Aatrox, he was met with venomous glare. Guarded, Atreus thought over what he wanted to say, but was saved when Soraka came back with the salads.

“Let’s eat~” She chirped happily. Atreus stood up to welcome her, but struggled to force some cheer into his voice as he felt the piercing gaze of Aatrox on him. What did the man want from him? Who Atreus decided to fuck was none of his business anyway, in a few weeks they would never see each other ever again.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Since Soraka’s return there was a sudden liveliness to the shop: a group of older ladies Atreus recognised from being Taric’s regulars came in. Without a display case, they had to make due with Soraka parading boxes of goodies and sweet-talking the ladies into trying samples of miniature versions. All the while Aatrox and Sett remained in the kitchen in an attempt to make themselves invisible from prying eyes. After Soraka paraded a box of miniature tarts, did one of the elders exclaim to buy two boxes for her brunch the following day.

Atreus did not dare deny her request and happily rang her up, but he was stopped when the other four ladies decided to also order a few boxes as well. The baker thanked them, promised to have it ready according to their collection times and watched them with eagle eyes as they left the store.

“Praise the Stars!” Soraka exclaimed when the ladies disappeared around the corner. Sett and Aatrox came out as Soraka barreled into Atreus with her arms tightly wrapped around him. Unsure of what to do, he gently patted her on the back and gave an unsure look to the onlookers.

“We got an order for tomorrow.” He explained. And it wasn’t the last of them.

As soon as Soraka kidnapped Aatrox to start working on the order, a couple came in. The miniature goodies were still there and Atreus was happy to show them what he was capable of making; they left the store with an order of five boxes for the weekend. A parent came in to order a birthday cake for the following month, a teenager who ordered a dozen cupcakes for the weekend as well, and the group of ladies who came back to buy a few ready-made treats for their game night that evening.

Two hours later Atreus was in the kitchen with Soraka and Aatrox prepping dough and preheating ovens. Sett promised to holler if anyone came in, but from the sudden influx of people Atreus did not want to push his luck. Soraka was happily chatting away in silence as the kitchen looked more alive than in the past few years.

“How much do old ladies eat?” Soraka asked in awe as Aatrox fetched fifteen neat boxes to store the treats. They chose an assortment of various, but easy-to-make, treats and Soraka was already done with her miniature cupcakes. Atreus worked slower as he was still trying to grasp why people suddenly decided he was worthy of their income. He concentrated on measuring out everything to the perfect ratios and barely registered anything anyone said; effortlessly hopping from station to station to check up on the progress and deftly cutting, folding, kneading and scooping batter and dough into their respective trays.

As soon as the trays began sitting in the oven, did he settle down on a nearby chair and stare blankly at the floor before being interrupted by a looming shadow. Looking up, he was met with Aatrox frowned at him with his arms folded across his chest. He discarded his hoodie hours ago and Atreus was reminded again of the man’s powerful physique: either he was really attention-starved or Atreus did not lie when he said his preferences lied outside of Targonian men. No matter how many times Sett tried to warn him against the criminal, Atreus still found himself constantly aware of the man’s every move, breath and gaze. At first he thought it was fear, but when was the last time Atreus was really afraid of someone? “Um, hi?” He offered tiredly, drained from his intense concentration.

“Are you to tell me you tire from a day’s work?”

“Do you know how hard it is to please an old lady?” Atreus asked.

“No, I never had the pleasure.” Aatrox retorted, lip twitching in amusement. The baker rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair to stretch out his legs.

“Well count yourself lucky, because from what I heard they’re the toughest ladies in town. One wrong move and they’ll end your life as you know it.”

“Is that the reasoning behind designating me to the duties of fetching boxes and clean countertops? I admire your lack of faith in my skills, however I assure you that I have been under the brilliant mentorship of your plantain friend.”

It was strange to see the large man show a sense of humour, but not as strange seeing the constant scowl being replaced by softer eyes. It was a reminder that he too was human with his own thoughts and feelings, and not just a mindless murdering machine the world wanted everyone to believe. It reminded him of when he came back to Targon: how everyone would avoid him and whisper in their children’s ears about the hidden killer in their town. Atreus wondered what Shurimans used to whisper to their children when they saw Aatrox.

“I barely trust Soraka in the kitchen, but thanks. For helping.”

“You forget I applied to this programme to become accustomed to normality, I do nothing without reason.”

I do nothing without reason. If what he said was true, then Atreus would rather not try to understand why Aatrox was adamant on keeping those brats away, and he definitely would not be thinking about anything the man has ever done or said so far. Definitely not.

“Hey, some walking poem is looking for you?” Sett announced from the door. Raising himself onto his stiff legs, Atreus went to greet an ever beautiful Taric. Today his hair was pulled up in a messy bun to reveal his glittering earrings Atreus was sure he got as a gift from Piltover. The Demacian smiled when he spotted his friend(?) and held up a brown bag most probably filled with some sort of muffin from the Sun and Stars Inn.

“I heard some blessings came your way.”

The two moved to a nearby table where Taric carefully unpacked the muffins.

“I guess you put in a good word for me?”

“When was the last time you read the news?” Taric asked as he unlocked his phone, looked up an article and presented it to Atreus. It was a Piltovian blog site (HexSite) managed by some gossiping wannabe-influencer:

You Won’t Believe It! Criminals Ready to Replace You!

Written by Seraphine Celestine

Hey Songbirdies!

In a stunning twist, some former criminals from the notorious Immortal Bastion have actually managed to turn their lives around thanks to a top-notch rehabilitation program. With just two members of the group finding themselves back in the slammer, the rest have really stepped up and are showing us what model citisens are made of.

This program has completely shifted the game and shown us that ex-convicts can be valuable assets to businesses if they're given the right chance to turn their lives around. The Immortal Bastion crew are blazing a trail for others to follow, proving that second chances really can change everything.

Their incredible success is proof of the transformative power of rehabilitation and shines a light on how crucial it is to provide support to those who've made mistakes in the past. Let's all take a page out of their book and show some love to those who are working hard to make things right!

Atreus inwardly cringed at the words, but the information still struck him. The programme was a success so far, but what did that mean for Aatrox? Was he suddenly pardoned from death and will be a walking free man one day? And what did it matter to Atreus what happened to the criminal?

“I never knew you read these trashy blogs.” Atreus decided to say as he fought with his thoughts and feelings.

“Actually ‘phelios does. It must be difficult being the only one his age around here, you either leave for college or-”

“-leave to join the barbarians below the mountain.”

“I would hardly call you a barbarian my friend.”

The kitchen door slammed shut, causing Atreus and Taric to jump and turn to the sound. Aatrox came walking over to them with a smirking Sett in tow. The man dragged a chair over and swung it around to sit on it backwards. He crossed his arms over the back and leaned his head on them while glaring venomously at Taric. Again Atreus was reminded of their conversation that morning and wondered if this would be the breaking point for Aatrox.

“Aren’t you supposed to be kissing ass with some self-absorbed bitches?” the man spat out. Taken aback by his behaviour, Atreus began apologising on his employee’s behalf but Taric only laughed it off, “My lunch hours are quite long, and I’m always booked out days in advance. No one is missing me.”“Yeah? Doesn’t mean you can haul your ass in here every day.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Atreus asked angrily. Aatrox turned to direct his glare at him and sneered as his scowl deepened. The criminal grunted in annoyance and sunk deeper into his arms. He held his glare on Atreus who looked up at Sett to only see the bodyguard stifling a laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Big man’s feeling jea-” Sett was cut off by Aatrox flying up from his seat and grabbing on his shirt, pulling him in close enough that Sett had to raise his chin to make eye-contact.

“Shut up dog-boy.” Aatrox snarled.

Taric, deciding to ignore the drama and tension, pulled out an envelope and dropped it on the table. The sound distracted Aatrox enough to lose focus and give Sett the upperhand to dislodge himself and restrain the large man. Aatrox did not put up a fight as he was forced onto his knees and felt, with dismay, the cold steel of the handcuffs around his wrists held behind his back. Neither did he raise his head from glaring at the floor, even when Atreus shifted in his seat to turn his body away from the man.

“What’s this?” Atreus asked instead of giving Aatrox any more of his attention. Something about not rewarding a misbehaving child.

“Some posters from our local artist.”

Inside the envelope were quality posters advertising not only Atreus’ bakery, but also announcing his presence at the Celestial Ceremony.

“The Ceremony?”

“Get ready to bake my friend, because you have a special spot reserved for you!”

“The Ceremony!” Soraka squealed from the kitchen door. She rushed over and grabbed the poster to examine every little detail. The subtle golden bananas engraved in the font did not go unnoticed, neither did the restrained Aatrox. He was still on his knees glaring at the floor, but upon closer inspection a light blush across the tips of his ears could be seen.

Kneeling in front of the man, Soraka pushed the poster across for him to see and pointed at a cartoon figure barely visible inside the bakery. “Look, he even drew you!” Of course the only evidence of it possibly being Aatrox was that the figure’s head almost touched the roof, and Atreus and Soraka were drawn smiling and posing outside with a stack of treats comically balanced on their hands. But it was enough for Aatrox, who huffed and dared to spare a glance in Atreus’ direction. The baker was already staring at him.

“I apologise for my behaviour. I did not want to admit to being weary myself from today’s onslaught of orders and preparations.” He reverted back to his Shuriman speech, but his words were clipped and precise and his accent was heavy as if he struggled to speak.

“No harm done my friend.” Taric said gleefully as he finished off his muffin. But Atreus continued to stare at the man with a calculating expression. His eyes flickered between the kneeling Aatrox to Soraka, seated closely to him, and the poster where her finger was still tracing the small figures hidden everywhere.

“Yeah,” Atreus said slowly as if coming to a conclusion. “No worries.”

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

No one else came during the day, but it gave them enough time to finish the orders for the ladies the next day and carefully store it. They were planning on coming in early and Atreus would rather not have them wait an extra few minutes because Soraka insisted that icing the cupcakes was the easiest part. But the only sound in the kitchen was Soraka’s ramblings and equipment. Aatrox refused to make eye-contact with anyone and mechanically performed the tasks Soraka gave him. Atreus also kept to himself as thoughts continued to aggressively swirl around in his head: no matter how much Aatrox tried to hide it, it was obvious that the man was becoming comfortable with being reintegrated with society and clearly sought out company from Soraka.

And it was clear that Atreus’ preference for company was off-putting to the man as well.

“Did you buy those strawberries for tonight?” Soraka asked him, holding a tart in her hands. It was a small circular tart with a delicate golden-brown crust encasing a creamy custard filling. The top was sprinkled with cinnamon and it slightly jiggled with each movement. It was a newer recipe he decided to try after watching a Nazumahian cooking channel. Atreus had to substitute some ingredients, but he was overall pleased with the easy process and the outcome. As for the strawberries, it was Soraka’s idea in an attempt to bring some colour into it.

And as for tonight:

“You have an event for this evening?” Aatrox said without looking at him. Atreus took the tart and placed it on the counter to check for any imperfections.

“It’s in the back fridge Soraka. And yeah, it’s movie night at the Inn. We usually try to do it once a month since the town still needs a cinema bigger than a shed.”

The tart jiggled again when he prodded at the side of the dish. Aatrox was not a stealthy man, but he made his footsteps extra audible as he carefully walked over to Atreus to stand beside him.

“I want to… apologise for my behaviour. Again.” He did not sound remorseful nor hesitant, but there was a strange fidget in his legs as he kept tapping his foot and shifting his weight. Atreus might not know the man’s behaviour, but he was sure Sett somehow got a hold of him and forced him to properly apologise. Maybe that was the reason for his extreme silence.

“Did Taric offend you?” Atreus asked without looking away from the tart. He could not bring himself to be faced with another scowl and sneer. He was getting tired of being the object of someone’s hatred.

“This morning we discussed your lack of…partners,” Aatrox shifted his weight again. He was uncomfortable. “I did mean to refer to him. As the Demacian you are fond of.” Here it comes. Atreus decided to be brave and turned to face the man, craning his neck as the impossibly large man appeared even larger with his chin raised as he gazed at the ceiling. The gesture was foreign and Atreus had to stop a smile from the childish behaviour as he prepared to defend himself against the man’s ridiculous judgements. The world was never against those who were different, and the only reason they were considered different to begin with was that their purpose went outside the definition of human survival. What use were you if you could not produce snivelling brats?

“Look. Around here it’s not a secret about who is with who. We don’t go around with a sign around our neck declaring who we like to fuck, but we’re also not ashamed about it. You do you and all that. If you have a problem with me liking men then just say it so that we can get over it without you trying to murder every man I speak to.”

The words came out as a rush, but Atreus did not regret them. It was childish to dance around the topic, and honestly it was not the first time he had to bash it into people’s heads that his bedpartners had nothing to do with his value. The last time he had to fight about it was when he was deployed to Shurima and word got out about Pylas: when Atreus wasn’t busy grappling with the horrors of the civil war, he was busy fighting bigoted bastards from his own team.

“I- what?” Aatrox was now looking at him in confusion. He opened his mouth to speak again but closed it again. He shifted again, crossed and uncrossed his arms before settling on crossing them. “You presumed I detested your interest in men?”

“You look like you want to murder me every time I even look at someone who is remotely masculine.”

Aatrox appeared to repeat the words in his head, and if Atreus was feeling bold he would say the man blushed.

“You misunderstand.”

“Then explain it. You’re not the easiest person to read.”

But whatever explanation Aatrox had in mind was cut off when Soraka came back with the strawberries. Together they decorated the tart and Aatrox was silent once again, but this time with an uncharacteristic clumsiness and quick glances in Atreus’ direction. The time was passing by, and with everything done for the day Atreus decided to call it and get ready to go over to the Inn.

Soraka excused herself from the evening by saying she had a date with Aphelios (which absolutely crushed Sett as the man visibly deflated and gawked at Soraka) but she would walk with them to the Inn. Atreus knew exactly what she was referring to, but it was more amusing to see the bodyguard’s crushed expression. Atreus would go so far as to say he was trying to protect poor Aphelios from the booming man, the last thing the poor boy needed was some hotshot trying to wiggle himself into a life clearly not suited for him.

Shop closed and tart carefully boxed and carried by Soraka, the group began their walk to the Inn. Soraka walked beside Atreus, and Aatrox and Sett joined in behind him. The whole time he could hear their hushed whispers, and once an amused short from Sett. Atreus even shot a curious glance in their direction and was only met with an amused Sett and blushing Aatrox.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

“You shouldn’t have!”

“No. He should have.”

Leona and Diana gratefully accepted the tart as everyone made their way inside. The living room was already set up and the TV displayed a paused visual of a movie intro. They never discussed what they would be watching and usually clicked on the first movie option available to them. Sometimes that meant rewatching the same movie twice in a row, sometimes it meant watching something absolutely terrible, and sometimes it meant watching a poorly reenacted documentation of what happened in Shurima and Targon which resulted in an evening of heated debate.

Soraka swiftly moved inside and called out for Aphelios who was gathering the necessary supplies for their date night. The stoic youth came out with a black tote bag filled to the brim and an umbrella. It was months away from even coming close to rain.

Sett immediately spotted him and puffed out his chest (despite being under the assumption that Soraka already had her claws dug into him). Aphelios took notice of the display and rolled his eyes. He hefted the tote bag deeper on his shoulder and signed one-handed to Soraka, which emitted a “Language!” from Diana. Soraka laughed and winked at Sett. She slowly signed something to him which he began responding to, before dropping his hand and shaking his head with an unimpressed expression.

“Well I guess that means we’re off then!” Soraka exclaimed as she took hold of Aphelios’ arm and began dragging him out of the Inn. When they reached the door, he gave a pointed look in Sett’s direction and signed something (most probably an insult of some kind) before he was unceremoniously dragged out of the house. Diana groaned at the display and shook her head, “That boy will be the death of me. If Alune was still here she would have already smacked their heads together.”

Leona sighed and threw her arm around her wife’s shoulders. “If Alune was still here Aphelios would be able to declare his undying-”

“ Leona. ”

The two shared some sort of knowing look before directing their attention to their guests. Sett was staring longingly at the door Aphelios and Soraka left out of, only this time there was a strange look on his face; if Atreus had to monitor every foreigner who showed an interest in her then he would already have his hands full as it is. Aatrox on the other hand already sat down on one of the loveseats, reserved for two, and threw his legs open in some sort of male dominance. Or maybe it was because his legs were so incredibly long that if he stretched them out someone would definitely be tripping into the wall tonight. Atreus was observing the layout of the living room with a critical eye: he could not sit on Leona and Diana’s usual seat, Aatrox was already occupying a two-seater and the only remaining option was the far-end two-seater. He was sure that Aatrox and Sett wouldn’t mind sitting together-

“I hope you don’t mind if we join in tonight.” Sett said as he laid across the only empty seat, throwing his legs over the arm and getting himself much too comfortable. Atreus cannot sit next to Aatrox. It’s the perfect opportunity for an attack, and it would be rude to ask Sett to restrain him for the entire evening.

No one seemed to notice his struggle, or if they did they decided to ignore it.

“We thought you might,” Leona responded to Sett. “We can’t expect you to live in your rooms for the entire month. Would you like a blanket Aatrox?”

The man raised his head and gave an affirmative hum. She left to fetch one and Diana smirked at Atreus who was still deciding on where to sit.

“Are you just going to stand there the whole night, your holiness?” she taunted.

“Stop calling me that.” He grumbled and reluctantly sat next to Aatrox. The man did not pay him any attention, but Atreus swore he spread his legs wide. The baker pushed himself to the furthest end possible, but all that meant was that there was enough space between them for a small dog to fit in. And Atreus would know, because he was often the victim of having to share a couch with Taric and Zoe’s mongrel.

Leona returned with the blanket and threw it not only over Aatrox’s lap, but Atreus’ as well. He began to protest but Aatrox snapped at him, “Stop being a bitch.” The sudden shift in his attitude always surprised Atreus. He sighed, settled and prayed that this won’t be his final moments.

Everyone settled on their respective seats and Diana began the movie. Atreus doesn’t know what is a normal movie night, but for them it was usually taunting the script and gossiping to each other in between boring scenes. The movie title flashed before them: Sentinels of Light. Atreus resisted the urge to groan. It was another of those high production films with amazing visuals but a lacklust plot with little character development. He has seen the trailer, and Aphelios once had him watch an edit he made for a visual works class assignment, but he had yet to live through what most considered to be a blasphemous work of the renowned visionary Rakan Lhotlan.

The opening scene appeared, but Atreus was hardly interested as he was tuned in on every movement Aatrox made: every shift and twitch caused the entire couch to dip and shift, or so it felt. He reached up to remove his beanie and idle scratched at his head which was no longer clean shaven and showed signs of hair growing back. It blurred the tattooed lines, but it could not hide the entire picture: peeking out from his hairline like a permanent brand.

Aatrox shifted again, this time he stretched out his leg nearest to Atreus which caused the couch to dip and Atreus failed to catch himself as he slid right next to the man. Thighs pressed together, he was ready to apologise and scoot up but the man barely paid it any mind. If Atreus spoke now then everyone would just stare and wonder what was his problem. If Aatrox didn’t mind, then it should be alright. Right?

The next two hours were pure torture as Atreus had to fight his own instincts as he kept pressing closer and closer to Aatrox with each movement. Sett dozed off long ago, and Leona and Diana were speaking quietly about whatever topic they decided was more interesting than the current death of The Ruined King.

Aatrox shifted again, but Atreus was getting tired and he barely registered as the movement caused him to lean into the man next to him. He was so accustomed to the heat radiating from the other that the touch went unnoticed until Aatrox huffed and turned to throw his arm on the back of the couch, draping behind Atreus. The baker tensed and turned to finally apologise for his lack of awareness, but the words died in his mouth when he met the gaze of Aatrox. There was no anger, just a strange look he was ready to call… fond. Atreus must be really tired.

“What a fucking waste of time.” Diana’s voice spoke up. Atreus and Aatrox turned their attention to the screen where the credits were rolling. Leona stood up and gently shook Sett awake while Diana began cleaning up the coffee table. The baker and criminal were still seated, stoic and uncertain who had to move first.

“I don’t mind if you sleep here, but I’m sure Sett would feel a lot better if we can get you tucked in your bed.” Diana taunted as she passed them. Atreus would have felt mortified at being caught practically snuggling up to Aatrox, but if Diana could not bother to comment on it then it meant she… approved. What did she approve of? Getting along with Aatrox?

“Yeah. Bed.” Sett grumbled as he groggily wiped at his eyes and yawned loudly. Aatrox remained silent and refused to meet Atreus�� eyes when the baker decided to detach himself from the man. He carefully shuffled aside and stretched out his own legs when he managed to put an inch’s worth of safe distance between them. A pop echoed through the room and he groaned in delight as his stiff legs enjoyed the relief.

“You’re kinda weak for a big bad military man, yeah?” Aatrox spoke up, and it was the strange calmness mixed with his informal dialect that threw Atreus off. The strange Shuriman dialect he understood, the colour Noxian influence was understandable, but this? What was this?

“Uh, I don’t exercise as much anymore.”

“Hmmm, but you still have, what do they say, the body of a Targonian god?”

“Body of an Aspect if you want to get technical.” Leona chimed in, clearly invested in whatever Aatrox was doing to Atreus. He turned his head to Leona, “Aspects?” he asked curiously. Diana was still nowhere to be seen, and right now she would be the only one to save Atreus from this: she would be able to see the desperation in his eyes.

“Here we call them Aspects, the olden gods. They’re similar to the Shuriman Ascended deities, only ours are more eye-candy and less feathers and fur.”

“Don’t insult the man’s religion, love.” Diana reprimanded when she returned. She gave one glance at Atreus’ face and smirked. Traitor.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t prayed to them since I was a little boy.” He rolled his head over to Atreus again and gave not a smirk, but a predatory grin as he spoke the words that snapped Atreus from his mannequin-like state: “But I’d pray to you.”

“You’re tired. The movie was shit. Get to bed.” Atreus said tightly as he escaped to the kitchen to get a glass of water. He grabbed the nearest glass, filled it up, and drank down the coldest water known to man. He coughed as the water burned his throat and went to fill it up again and repeat the process.

“What was that?” Diana. Of course it was Diana.

Atreus finished his glass of water and turned to his traitorous friend. She was kind of a bitch, but she was a good person. Her persona was nothing more than a protective shield after years of having to hide her feelings because of the civil oppression. It was a wonder Diana was not the most bitter person in Targon.

“He’s mocking me.” Atreus offered as the only explanation he had.

“Why would he do that?” “He’s a traditionalist, and I may or may not have been ogling Sett.”

Diana snorted and leaned against the nearest counter.

“You? Looking at that hairy man? Come on, we both know you like them-”

“ Diana. Please, not now. Not with him here.” Atreus pleaded. The last thing he needed was for Aatrox to hear that he might fall into some very particular categories Atreus has only ever shared with the married couple. She pitied him.

“And for your information, he’s not a traditionalist. Actually, he’s been asking Sett about potentially getting laid while here. Prison must be tough if he’s looking for a lay in Targon.”

“Great, he wants a lay. What does that have to do-”

“And if I can activate your brain cells for one second, Sett and Aatrox have known each other for a long time. In fact I remember them telling us they have been each other’s problem since Aatrox was thrown into the slammer. So why don’t you explain to me why Sett would jump the gun and threaten Aatrox to not lay one hand on my precious nephew?”

Atreus has had enough. It was too much. He drank a third glass and marched to his designated guest room whenever he came over. And of fucking course Aatrox was roomed right next to him, because when Atreus reached his door Aatrox did too. The two stood outside and stared at each other: or Atreus glared and Aatrox looked downright morose.

“Sleeping over?” Aatrox asked slowly.

“Yeah.”

Aatrox nodded, clicked his tongue and opened his door. “I’m locked in until Sett opens up, so don’t worry about me going on a murder spree.” He went inside and Leona came over to lock the door as Sett was already fast asleep. She shook her head and gave the key to Atreus.

“We’re sleeping in tomorrow morning. Just open it up when you leave for work.”

He nodded and tucked the key into his jean pocket. Inside his room, he stripped down to his underwear and enjoyed the sting of the cold against his skin. The bed was right next to the window, which he quickly opened to welcome more cold. Slipping underneath the covers, he took out his phone and searched up the programme:

Immortal Bastion announces rehabilitation programme success!

The Masked Lotus killer returned to the Immortal Bastion.

Darkin Members Successfully Executing Civility!

He decided to click on the last article.

Three Darkin members were released with the new Immortal Bastion Rehabilitation Programme, including the leader himself. Nothing has been heard about his progress, but his lackeys have been behaving themselves as they are impossible to distinguish from your average civilian.

Former Darkin Varus was sent to an Ionian farm manned by the couple who wishes to remain anonymous. Varus has formally denounced the Syndicate and wishes to officially reintegrated with society due to unknown reasons.

Locals report that Varus might have become enamoured with an Ionian local and wishes to make up for everything that the Darkin has stripped from home. Only time will tell if this is a ruse, or if the Darkin Lord Aatrox is the reason for these tortured souls’ yearning for redemption.

Atreus locked his phone and stared at the blank screen. A Darkin member has fallen in love and now wishes to remain in Ionia. Once they joked that Aatrox signed up for the programme to reunite with his family, and now Diana tells him that the man is looking for a lay in Targon. All it comes down to is that Aatrox signed up for a reason, and whatever it is, Atreus is in the way of it.

#fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #league of legends #lol #aatrox #pantheon #aatrox x pantheon #aatrox/pantheon #when a crime lord becomes a baker

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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My friend and I's Guild Wars 2 characters reimagined as influencers(?) on LionGram [The best platform to follow your favourite Tyrians!]

eKittyKatuki and her best friend TheRealMesmer are ready to dominate the platform like the privileged and egotistic Krytan Nobles they are.

Also on DeviantArt and Instagram!

#art #digital art #illustration #guild wars 2 #guildwars 2 #gw2 #necromancer #mesmer #katsuki is not ready to give up her crown #original characters #oc

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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When a Crime Lord becomes a Baker [Aatrox/Pantheon] CHAPTER 4

Read on Ao3

BLUEBERRY CHEESECAKE

True to his word Aatrox arrived before sunrise with an annoyed Sett in tow. Areus wasn’t sure why he thought the man wouldn’t arrive, but it was… a surprise to say the least. Pleasant was not something he was willing to say so easily, especially because of the previous day’s scene at the bar.

Atreus glanced at his watch (5:36). They gave a sceptical once over at the pair as he decided whether or not they would both be murdering him for being awake at such an ungodly hour. Sett was huddled, holding himself tightly, wrapped up in a pitiful jacket and scarf and blowing out fumes of steam with each sigh and grunt. Aatrox was barely better off as he looked like a bull waiting to charge with his ever-stoic expression and fuming nostrils. Although he wore his hoodie and beanie, it did little to fight off the slight goosebumps peeking out from underneath.

Atreus could barely blame the pair, because as much as he loved foregoing suffocating clothing as much as he could, even he was forced to get on a light jumper for the creeping Winter air approaching. It almost felt like yesterday when everyone would willingly walk up the mountain peak with sandals and shorts to have a picnic as the Summer sun softly touched their skin.

“Good morning.” Atreus greeted neutrally. Sett gave an enthusiastic nod and Aatrox only glowered down at him. Deciding that he would rather not want to die at their hands, Atreus turned to open the bakery. His cold fingers briefly fumbled with the freezing metal before the door finally gave way.

Once inside, Sett marched to the furthest corner and kept himself there as his body gave into his shivering demands. Atreus closed the door behind him and noticed that Aatrox still had his hands buried deep in his hoodie, “Are you permanently cuffed?” he asked. He was answered with an unsuccessful tug.

“For someone so dangerous you don’t go around threatening a lot of lives.”

“Apologies for being unaware of not reaching Targonian standards.” Aatrox sneered. Atreus decided to challenge his unneeded attitude which resulted in a staring contest: Aatrox glared venomously, but the deep bags under his eyes told another story. Atreus was sure he was a mirror image, yet he was not going to start bonding over unhealthy sleeping schedules.

“All I meant was it must be tiring to speak like that the whole time. You obviously don't speak like that. You can drop the act, your words won’t kill me no matter what godly powers you apparently have.”

The words threw Aatrox off. He blinked, frowned and took a step back as if pushed by an invisible force. He opened his mouth in protest, but quickly shut it and settled for a grimace instead. Although curious, Atreus decided to spare the man from the onslaught of empathy? and walked over to the counter to set up. Only he was stopped in his own tracks when he noticed the smashed display case: all the fresh, expired and decorative cakes and pastries were gone.

Anxious, Atreus rushed over to his register where he only spotted a few dents. He fished out his keys and attempted to open it, but the lock mechanism clearly got damaged.

“Those kids again?” Sett asked, suddenly beside him. He observed the shattered glass with a side-eye but deemed it unimportant as he held out his hand to take over the task of opening the register. Atreus gladly handed over the job as he went back to the display case. He didn’t care much for the stolen treats, but the broken display case… He just managed to fix everything. Sett struggled for a few seconds before mentioning looking in the back for a toolbox.

Aatrox stood behind him and gave a heavy sigh. His handcuffs clinked together as he tried to take out his hands, but the restraints only irritated him more. Teeth clenched together, he angrily stomped his foot as he tried to restrain himself from speaking, but he failed: “Those fucking brats will bleed.”

Atreus whipped around, both scared and angry, and jabbed a finger into his chest, “Don’t touch those kids. Kill them and we’ll both be shipped off somewhere not so nice.”

Aatrox glared at the finger pressed into his chest and stepped forward, forcing Atreus to drop his hand and backstep into the broken display case. The criminal did not let up as he loomed menacingly over the baker and trapped him with a slight spread of his legs. He could see the fear in the man’s eyes, but it hardly did anything to overpower his anger at the situation.

“You mean that motherfucking death penalty? That thing they shove in your face whenever you miss the fucking lunch bell? Oh yeah, I’m really scared of that bullshit alright.”

Atreus raised his hands and shoved the man back. Aatrox stumbled and crashed into a table. Unable to catch himself, he settled for twisting himself so that he fell onto his knees. He swore under his breath and angrily tugged at his restraints.

The kitchen door opened and Sett walked out with his weapon drawn, “What’d he do?” He asked, ready to escort Aatrox back to the Immortal Bastion at the barest hint of breaking clearly laid out rules sworn between him and Aatrox.

Atreus, now leaning against the display case in shock, pushed himself up and awkwardly cleared his throat. “I panicked when he stepped on the glass so I pushed him. Last time I had to sit in the clinic for a whole day because of hidden shards.”

Sett glanced at Atreus’ feet before glancing over at a confused Aatrox. “This true big guy?”

Aatrox tried to push himself up by pressing his chin into the table, but that only made it almost topple. He cursed again and began looking for a different solution when a hand gripped at his bicep. He jerked away in shock, but the hand only returned with aggression. A sharp tug pulled him onto his feet and he managed to straighten himself.

“Sorry for pushing you,” Atreus mumbled, hand still firmly around Aatrox’s arm. The criminal stared at the hand for a long moment before giving an exaggerated shrug, shaking off Atreus’ hand in the process.

“A verbal warning would have sufficed.” He grunted out. Atreus was saved from further speaking when the front door jingled and a cheerful Soraka stepped in: “Good morning everyone~”

She looked as healthy as ever: bright eyes, full colour in her cheeks, and a skip in her step. The only thing different was the lack of elaborate curls. Her naturally straight hair was pulled back in a low ponytail with her shorter fringe gently curling around her face. Atreus could barely the last time he saw her without some sort of hairstyle Taric managed to pick out for her.

And just as her different hair was easy to notice, so was the glass and the strange atmosphere in the bakery. Sett already sheathed his weapon, but his eyes were still firmly trained on the tallest person in the room. Soraka broke the tension (or created a new one) when she gasped: “The treats! Did those boys come back?”

Atreus sighed and gave her a tired look which explained most of it. She gave a firm nod and marched over to the Aatrox to jab him in the chest. Atreus jerked towards her, prepared for an outburst, but stopped himself when the man only raised an eyebrow.

“You are coming with me. We are going to bake some doughnuts filled to the brim with laxatives, and then I will deliver it to their houses.”

“Soraka-” Atreus spoke, trying to stop her.

“No!” She turned to Atreus with anger in her eyes. She took hold of Aatrox’s hand and jerked it hard enough to dislodge it from its pocket to reveal the handcuffs. Even more irritated, she waved Sett over. “We have doughnuts to bake, there isn’t time to cuff him up!”

Sett did as he was told, but passed a look to Aatrox who only averted his gaze. Free, Aatrox had no choice but to follow the bubbly chef-in-training to get up to mischief.

“I saw it,” Sett said softly. Atreus didn’t bother to play dumb; the kitchen door was barely sound proof and Aatrox’s whisper was probably louder than his normal tone. “Don’t forget that he’s a dangerous guy, you know. Killed a lotta people.” The baker only shrugged and bent down to determine how much cleaning effort it was going to take before he could open the doors.

“Hey,” Sett spoke up again. “I’ve never heard him swear that much. You must really bring the best out of him.”

Atreus did not dignify him with a response

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Atreus was thankful for not having to interact with Aatrox for the next few hours. He knew it was not going to be an easy task to have the man as his temporary employee, but that didn’t mean he was prepared to form some emotional conflict surrounding him either. He couldn’t exactly say why he felt the need to… protect the man from others’ opinions, but a small part of him was happy someone understood what happened in Shurima. Someone understood why he couldn’t just smile and nod whenever they tried to glorify Targon’s victories: victories earned from eradicating those without a chance to fight back.

He could hear Soraka giggling a few times followed by Sett loudly commanding Aatrox to ‘put that down’. Whatever was going on was clearly under control, so Atreus spent as much time as possible in the front where he researched a cheaper alternative for his ruined display case. Almost every result that came up was too expensive, or something he would only afford with the first paycheck. Considering anyone barely came, he wondered if he should replace the case, to begin with. Maybe he should give in and advertise at the school again.

The front doorbell jingled and Atreus stood to attention to greet the newcomer.

“Atreus, your bakery smells so lovely.” Taric greeted as he gracefully swayed into the bakery. A quick glance at his watch (11:58) alerted Atreus to his friend’s usual arrival time. Not really smiling, Atreus gave a nod in greeting, “Taric. Zoe’s not coming?”

The man sighed softly and shook his head: waving around his luxurious chocolate locks. He gasped softly at the broken display case, but Atreus beat him to it: “Those kids came around before I opened up. Nothing serious, just an eye-sore.”

“It’s terrible what has become of the youth of the mountain. It is as if they forgot the price we had to pay for them to go around and destroy what little good is left.” The words left a sour taste in Atreus’ mouth. Taric was one of the few foreigners who settled and one of the few who dared to openly speak out against Mount Targon’s anti-war policies. But no one went against his opinions because why would a Demancian ever want to cause harm? Despite the apparent hypocrisy in the town, Atreus never allowed that to soil his opinion of Taric. The man was soft-spoken, gentle, and the best person to turn to when you needed a shoulder to cry on.

A rare friend.

“I’d rather them bang up my place than try with the others.”

“Your selflessness is admirable, but you really must practise some form of self care my friend.” Taric then launched into a long-winded speech regarding Atreus’ apparent lack of grooming, healthy sleeping habits and when was the last time he had a salad with more greens than meat? The spiel ended with a hair appointment later that afternoon (because Atreus refused to admit that his sides had gotten too long and his beard too shaggy).

Somehow the little talk moved them to a nearby table. Before each of them was a breakfast muffin Taric brought with him and they slowly ate it as conversation easily flowed between them. Taric’s phone dinged and he dug it out to quickly read the message and sadly shake his head, “Zoe is visiting Aphelios today. Since your friend’s outburst at the bar, everyone decided to spread some nasty rumours about you. She wants to commission some posters for you.”

The words struck Atreus. Although he called those who willingly speak to him friends, he didn’t think they thought of him the same. Sure he makes Zoe personal dog biscuits, and he is eager to help with all the parties she constantly throws, he never thought she would want to help him in the same way.

“That’s… kind of her. I’ll talk to her and ‘phelios. She really doesn’t have to do that. It’s not like I’m losing any more customers.” He gestured to the empty bakery to which Taric sighed softly to.

“The Celestial Ceremony is happening soon. They want to push it earlier to make the mountain seem safe from our local Overlord. We were hoping you will cater for most of it, I can always convince my regulars to spread the good word for you.”

Atreus considered the words: the ceremony always brought in a lot of people, and those who were lucky enough to help with the preparations always had enough to take the entire Winter holiday off. It was tempting, but if soon meant in the next few weeks…

“Think about it, friend.” Taric said as he squeezed Atreus’ hand. The man left and Atreus was once again left alone. He picked up the muffin wrappers and disposed of them behind the counter. Time barely passed since Taric came, and it was now school lunch break. Before the whole shop disaster, he would get some kids who snuck out for a sweet treat. He never snitched on them, because he also remembered being young and rebellious once upon a time.

So it came to no surprise when the doorbell jingled a few minutes later. What did come as a surprise, was to find the three brats from earlier standing in the doorway with firearms.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

The woman was strange. Aatrox has never met someone who did not inherently fear him wherever he goes; it was not only a side effect of his reputation, but also of his upbringing. Being seen as a foreigner in his own home country made life difficult for him and what he remembers of his family. The only ones who never feared him were those who underestimated him and paid the price with a poorly-dug grave and bloody spit as a landmark.

Soraka, however, exhibited nothing but excitement at his existence. She would constantly drag him everywhere around the kitchen and carelessly hand him utensils which Sett would forcibly remove before scolding her. She would forget in the next two seconds. He doubted that she was idiotic, but there must be some reason why she could not sense the danger around her. Even the man Atreus was careful enough to fear him.

“Now look carefully! Usually, I would only put a teaspoon in, but this time we are putting in two teaspoons .” She was showing him how to mix laxatives with the batter without it losing its normal consistency. From her passion, he knew it was not her first time doing it, and he was sure in another lifetime she would have been a terrifying individual. But here in this kitchen, she was just a mischievous soul in an ungrateful town. Just thinking about those brats was enough for him to suggest five teaspoons, which she only accepted after carefully adjusting her recipe.

Together they made various treats with varying amounts of bowel poison, except for one: a strange creamy cake which Soraka was careful to not mix with her pranks. She allowed Aatrox to work on it with care instructions and even threatened his bodyguard with harm if he did not follow every single step to the exact point. He did not question her motives, but he did ask about the poisonous-looking berries she had him mix in.

“They’re blueberries, Atreus hates using them because he says they smell too sour. He just always buys them before they’re ripe.” She explained as he continued with his methodological placement of the small berries. He never understood the pleasure of cooking, and he still does not understand it. To stand around for hours upon hours and make food for people who do not exist did not seem pleasurable. He tried to remember his own parents and if they enjoyed it, but he could only think of the Darkin and their fights over who had the cooking duty.

A loud crash from the front alerted everyone in the kitchen. Sett gave a harsh look in Aatrox’s direction before pushing through the doors to investigate. As much as he wanted to hate the other man for treating him like an uncontrollable child, he could not bring himself to direct his anger towards the bodyguard. They were accustomed to each other from years of fighting in the Immortal Bastion in very illegal ring brawls for the warden’s pleasure, but it infuriated him to be regarded as another nuisance to deal with.

So when he heard a yell and a childish arrogant laugh, did Aatrox signal to Soraka to stay back as he carefully inched to the door. Peeking through the gap he spotted the three brats from yesterday with guns pointing at Sett and Atreus. He couldn’t see the other two, but he knew they were caught in a stalemate as they had something to lose if something went wrong. What no one realised was that Aatrox, the Darkin Lord himself, had already lost everything.

Furious, he pushed through the door and shoved past Sett. He could feel the man reaching for him, but Aatrox only swatted at his hand as he quickly approached the brats. The ringleader quickly aimed his weapon at the criminal, fear slowly creeping into his eyes, and bravely yelled: “Back up you freak! We’re here for the cash, not for you!”

Aatrox turned to look at Atreus who fearlessly glared at the teenagers. His hand was firmly placed on the register and he looked ready for a fight, but he still had the sense to not attack a reckless child with death in its hands. Turning back to the brats, Aatrox lowered himself onto his haunches and smirked cruelly at them. A familiar feeling began washing over him as the boys grew pale.

“Oh didn’t you know you little shits? There’s a new boss in town, and he’s about to teach you a fucking lesson.” Aatrox suddenly grabbed the boy’s arm and pressed the cool barrel against his own forehead. He could feel the boy quake, but the barrel stayed still as Aatrox’s deathly grip refused to give up. Pushing himself into the weapon, he forced the boy to make eye contact with him as he barked out his order: “Pull the trigger.”

“Aatrox, the fuck are you doing-” Sett’s voice meant nothing to him. These brats came on to his territory and threatened his baker and he was going to be damned if they left this store without a lesson. The boy continued to shake and tears began forming in his eyes.

“Pull the fucking trigger you pussy.”

The boy vigorously shook his head which only infuriated Aatrox even more. They came here with a purpose and they couldn’t even follow through? If this was Shurima, they would already be hanged outside of his window.

Aatrox tore the gun out of the boy’s hand. He could hear Sett moving towards him, but the man was too slow as Aatrox raised the gun to his temple once again. The barrel was hard, and cold and would soon surge with heat as he pulled the trigger.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

14:57. Atreus should have been concerned about closing his store early so often, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry too much about it. He desperately needed a break from the chaos, and Taric’s salon was the best place to unwind. Filled with aura-cleansing crystals and incense, Taric’s Bejewelled Beauties (Everyone Deserves to Shine!) was all Atreus needed to feel just a little more normal. His beard received a desperate reshaping and trim (Atreus almost lost the battle of having decorative sapphires weaved into it) and seeing himself with his usual hairstyle made his soul feel lighter. He abandoned styling his mohawk every morning in favour of simply brushing it in whichever direction it wanted to be and left it at that, but once again, Taric’s magic struck.

And he desperately needed that magic when he arrived at Leona and Diana’s inn. He didn’t need to knock, they were already waiting for him. Diana answered the door with a passive look, but Leona’s wide eyes gave away the state everyone was in. When Aaxtrox pulled the trigger it was nothing but an empty gun. That didn’t stop one of the boys pissing himself and the ring leader from fainting, followed by some calls to their parents and a careful (and somewhat untruthful) explanation of what happened. Sett immediately took Aatrox back to the inn and Atreus decided to promptly send Soraka home and reschedule his hair appointment.

“Come in.” Diana stepped aside to allow the man in. The inn was basic with appealing decorations and large open rooms. When it’s a good year, they often repaint the whole interior to fit with the latest magazine trends. This year it was navy blue with golden trimming and some star stencils at the top of the walls. He could easily pick apart the constellations so easily viewed at night, but today his eyes were fixed firmly on a closed bedroom door he could only assume was Aartox’s.

“Is he okay?” he asked, remembering the way the man shook with rage and almost jumped Sett if the bodyguard wasn’t quick enough to restrain him again. In that moment he was once again reminded how dangerous Aatrox could be, and yet here he was: checking up on a man who survived the death penalty for too long.

“He usually stays inside. We didn’t really see them when they arrived, but Sett told us he threw him in a cold shower, and now he’s okay.” Leona informed him as they settled in the living room. The sofas were plush and Atreus sunk right in when he sat down.

“So, wanna talk about what happened?” Diana piped up. Although expected, Atreus only sighed at the question.

“The kids broke in last night and came back today. They waved some guns around and demanded cash, but Aatrox heard and practically forced the kid to murder him. When that didn’t work he was ready to blow his brains out but the gun was a dud I guess. Nothing more than that.”

Leona gave a slow nod and hummed as she processed the information. “He’s really… sweet around us. He’s so quiet and tries to help around if he’s out, he even helped us set up the decorations for the new room. I’m not... Surprised about his temper, but did he really ask a kid to shoot him?”

To hear Aatrox described as sweet almost made Atreus snort in humour. The sweetest thing the man did for him was understand his hatred for Targon and swear to kill the kids if they came back. So far everyone gets the best side of Aatrox except for him; maybe this whole thing really was a wrong move. But if he returned Aatrox now…

“I wonder why he tries to be so nice,” Diana said thoughtfully as Leona pulled her in to lean against her. “Do you think he has some extra deal with the Bastion? Be nice and he gets to see his kids?”

“He has children?” Atreus asked, perplexed. He couldn’t imagine the man successfully sleeping with someone, never mind being a father. Diana shrugged, “Maybe. Why else try so hard? If I had to choose between never seeing Leona again and being a bitch, it’s pretty easy to choose, don't you think?”

“You mean that?” Leona stared at her wife in adoration, but Diana refused to share the stare. She only grimaced and gave a gentle pat to her wife’s head, clearly uncomfortable with sharing her weakness in front of Atreus. The same man who watched them cry their makeup off at their wedding when he carted in their wedding cake.

“Maybe he’s just sick of being cooped up in a prison.” Atreus suggests.

“Do you think they bang in there?”

“Leona, that’s gross.”

“I would volunteer to go work in a small town if it means I can get laid.”

“Maybe he’s secretly a nice guy trying to regain his personality.”

“Or looking for his next victim”

“Diana!”

Atreus mindlessly listened to his friends theorising about Aatrox’s decision to do all this. He tried thinking back on all his conversations with the man but only came up blank. There was no reason for Aatrox to defend Atreus or traumatise those kids. Sett already had everything under control and Atreus had the police on speed dial, but all that went to shit when Aatrox decided to play hero and shoot himself. Maybe he wanted to die.

“Hiya boss.” Sett greeted as he passed the room. Behind him (with his hands buried deep in his hoodie) stood Aatrox who only stared at Atreus. He didn’t glare or sneer or grunt, he only stared. It was uncomfortable. “Hey.” Atreus greeted awkwardly. He nodded to Aatrox who remained motionless. Alright then.

Sett then yawned loudly and walked into the room. He dropped onto the nearest chair and barely paid Aatrox any mind which quietly stood beside him. Even with the inn’s moderate ceilings, he still stood out like a giant.

“Man, this place makes me weak. Anywhere we can stretch our legs?” The bodyguard asked as he flexed his biceps. Atreus resisted rolling his eyes halfway through when his gaze met the brooding criminal’s. At first, he thought it was just another staring contest, but Aatrox appeared tense and studied Atreus: for whatever reason he could not explain until Sett flexed again as he stretched and Aatrox narrowed his eyes at Atreus who glanced briefly at the bodyguard. Was the very homicidal Darkin Lord Aatrox about to judge Atreus for looking at a conventionally attractive man?

“The mountain,” Atreus replied to Sett’s earlier question. He glared at Aatrox before turning his attention to Sett. “It’s not a long walk, but it should be an easy one for you.” Atreus didn’t want to say us , because that meant inviting himself to an outing he did not want to have.

“Great! Those shoes okay for walking?

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Atreus has to learn to say no. It not only landed him in this whole mess he could have averted by working at the inn instead of trying to run his own business, but it also got him between Sett and Aatrox as they marched up the mountain trail with a hastily packed picnic basket Atreus demanded they get from the bakery. It was a simple tradition, but one everyone in Mount Targon kept no matter why they decided to climb the peak: pack a picnic basket, and bring something extra for the gods.

Soraka usually handled the last part, but this time he had to educate the foreigners so he grabbed the first thing that came to find and met the two outside who were patiently waiting for his return. The hike was not difficult, but the thin atmosphere made the hour walk feel like forever. Those born on the mountain were adapted to the strenuous conditions and it often shocked foreigners when they saw lithe and unassuming Aphelios gracefully stride up the mountain with his skinny jeans and obscure band sweatshirt.

Just like the moment they reached the halfway mark to find Aphelios sitting on a rock inspecting his scuffed shoe. Up until that point Sett and Aatrox were quiet except for their heavy puffs as they struggled for air, but meeting Aphelios must have triggered something inside of Sett because he suddenly stopped and stared at the much smaller man.

“Hey, Aphelios. Taking a break?” Atreus greeted. Aphelios looked up and gave a small nod before turning to the other two. He frowned slightly before gesturing to them in question. Atreus has tried desperately to learn sign language to communicate with the man, but he could barely get past the basics before shamefully giving up. Aphelios never held it against him, but they rarely had a conversation unless someone was there to help with translation or Aphelios just used his text-to-speech.

“These are the guys everyone’s talking about. My new employee Aatrox and his watch Sett. Um, I never got your last name?” Atreus turned to receive an answer, but he didn’t need one when Sett held his hand out to Aphelios and boomed: “Hiya sweetcheeks. Name’s Settrigh Shou, but you can call me yours~”

“Fucking idiot.” Aatrox huffed under his breath, and Atreus had to agree. He watched in awe as Sett patiently awaited for Aphelios to offer his hand, but the young man only gave him a bored look before signing a rude remark and standing up. He gave Atreus a nod and continued walking up the mountain. The trio was silent for a few seconds before Sett let out a pained noise. Atreus turned to find him staring longingly at the clearly uninterested fading figure. “You never said angels lived here.”

“We’re not called the Mountain of the Gods for nothing.” Atreus couldn’t contain his amusement at Sett’s smitten face, but Aatrox was not amused. Instead, a strange look of triumph crossed his face until he realised Atreus was looking at him, then it turned to a harsh glare. Not interested in a confrontation, the baker only announced that the end was near and if they wanted to see something special they should hurry up.

Sett suddenly gained some vigour and quickly overtook Atreus who fell back to walk beside Aatrox. He left his beanie at the inn and braved his bare head against the frigid temperatures: Atreus’ newly shaved head stung against the air, but he welcomed the sensation as he tried to ignore the purposeful bumps the taller man would give him. He blamed it on the cuffs giving him balancing issues, but when Aatrox reached up to scratch his ear and reveal his very free hands there was no reason to justify the childish pushing.

A few minutes later (filled with Aatrox constantly bumping into him, Atreus resisting pushing him over the edge of the trail, and Sett asking if Aphelios usually stays for long) they arrived at the peak. The sky was still light as the sun refused to admit Winter was approaching and the moon was just a bit more loved this time of the year. The peak was rigged for year-round visitors with an outlook, sturdy benches and a small shop that only opened during the Celestial Ceremony to sell tea and soulmate crystal necklaces.

Aphelios was seated on his usual bench with a sketchbook out and listening to his strange music. He enjoyed coming at night when the moon illuminated his pages: Diana said it helped him concentrate since his sister’s passing. Atreus barely knew the man and never dug deeper than that. Behind him, Sett had Aatrox in a vice grip as he harshly whispered something in his ear before marching off to bother an innocent Aphelios.

“I guess he won’t be joining us.”

“Fucker’s in love.” Aatrox huffed out. Atreus turned to him in surprise and a speculative look, “So this is how you talk?” he asked without further explanation. Aatrox shrugged and refused to meet his gaze as if embarrassed.

“Shurima taught me how to say what I think, Noxians taught me how to say what I feel.”

“If you promise to not kill me, I can take you to the usual place.” Taking his silence as an agreement, Atreus led them to a tree near the closed store where an empty bench awaited them. The tree never lost its leaves, and folklore spoke of it being created by an old god who sang the world into existence. It was their last creation to exist.

Seated, Atreus placed the picnic basket between them but he did not reach for it. The picnic was a tradition, but it was not a requirement to spend time on the peak.

“We need to talk about today,” he began. Aatrox looked away and grunted in agreement. “What you did to those kids, that’s not okay. I don’t know what you were thinking, but you can’t lose your cool on the people here.”

“If we were not here, would you have let them be? Would you have let them purge you of your earnings until it becomes a ritual? Would you let them trample over you like a forgotten rag?” Aatrox’s words were clipped and angry. His accent was thick and Atreus barely held onto what was said.

Atreus leaned back into the bench and stared up at the slowly darkening sky. “I’ve been treated like nothing since I came back. The people here are… territorial. They don’t like things that don’t belong.”

“You were born here.”

“No,” Atreus gave a bitter laugh as old memories came back to him. “I might be Targonian, but I wasn’t born on the mountain so I’m an outsider. And instead of fighting for us I went and fought for someone else’s children.”

“You did not have a choice.”

“I lied. Targon is just as cruel as any other nation. I got my best friend killed because we tried being heroes, so they sent me off to be a true hero they said. ‘Go to Shurima where the devil lives. Leave Targon for the adults.’ So off to Shurima I went and…”

Aatrox shifted and turned his attention to Atreus. They did not look at each other, but they were keenly aware of each other’s presence. Aatrox reached for the picnic basket and pulled out a small muffin Soraka insisted he tries one day.

“You left your people to fight for others. What did you do in Shurima?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It was that bad?”

“I don’t know. I just remember going to bed in the desert and waking up to Leona screaming at me. From what I was allowed to read, I was on the task force to stop you. The Darkin was the core of the issue and we had to stop it.”

Aatrox chewed thoughtfully on his tiny muffin. Atreus could see he was thinking about his words, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear them. He wasn’t lying when he said he couldn’t remember anything, but the truth was what little he did remember he would never be able to forget: going undercover to public executions, stealing children from dying parents’ arms, patrolling shelters as the threat of an attack loomed around every corner. The only thing he was grateful for was being pulled out of the task force just before they struck the Darkin base: it was a spectacle imprinted in history books.

If Leona had never demanded his return, he would never be here.

“We murdered them before the world,” Aatrox spoke up with awe in his voice. He glanced at Atreus for some recognition. He only nodded. The criminal hummed again and mimicked Atreus’ position. “Is that why you are an outsider? Because you lived?”

Because you lived. Atreus doesn’t remember his teammates, but he could remember the distinct Targonian accent from every single one of them. The possibility of walking past a spouse of an orphan is far too great. He tried to not look too deeply into their eyes in fear of recognising them strapped to a guillotine.

“No one dreams of becoming a soldier. I did what I had to do because I just wanted peace. I always wanted to be a baker, I always dreamed of having my own place and just… bake.” He rolled his head in Aatrox’s direction. The man was staring at him with a thoughtful expression. No lines crossed his face and he appeared as relaxed as he possibly could be; he was handsome in some sort of tough guy way. Atreus wondered if he had some long-lost royal blood in him. “Did you have a dream?” Atreus asked.

Aatrox did not respond to this. Instead, he dug into the picnic basket again and pulled out another tiny muffin. They sat in silence and watched Aphelios trying his best to chase away an energetic Sett. The beast of man kept flexing and boasting about his numerous achievements to which Aphelios kept signing rude remarks. Atreus watched in amusement as he watched the pink blossoming across the poor man’s cheeks when Sett suddenly dropped by his side and enthusiastically complimented his art.

“I dreamt of freedom.” Atreus turned to Aatrox who stared intently at him. “I was born into the war and grew up a pawn. I was raised to be great, and I became the greatest. I was tempted into becoming… this, and I did. I have never made my own choice..”

“Yet you chose to be here?”

Aatrox gave a grimace and glared up at the stars. He swore under his breath and closed his eyes. Atreus watched him, curious, as Aatrox’s lips moved without sound as if praying to the old gods. He never took the man as being religious. Opening his eyes, Aatrox met his gaze once again and gave a taut smile.

“The only thing I chose to do was get those brats the fuck away from you.”

#fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #league of legends #lol #aatrox #pantheon #aatrox x pantheon #aatrox/pantheon #when a crime lord becomes a baker

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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Nightshade Eyes [Reaper/Soldier:76] CHAPTER 3

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A lithe figure hidden by a heavy cloak and hood stalked the shadows with a heavy bag tied around their waist. The eerie night brought a sense of peace as the lack of ghouls signalled another safe night: but it hardly brough comfort when the only protector was currently bedridden and dying in the house of their new resident.

The bag bounced as the stalker tried their best to go unnoticed as some decided to enjoy the night by standing idly outside of their abodes. The delivery was nothing to be ashamed of, and barely illegal outside of the castle’s territory, alas it was something they all pretend to ignore in a facade of if the king will not save us, then our offerings shall go to the Devil herself.

The cape got stuck on a thicket and the nearest resident (a strange jittery man with burn scars and a pennant for setting ghouls alight) cackled at the failed attempt at stealth.

“Ye being inconspicuous?” He dragged out the final word in an attempt to display his newfound vocabulary, courtesy of the nomadic scholar who frequently visits them.

The figure tried freeing their cape but failed as the thicket refused to let up. Frustrated and with little time to waste, the cape was ripped off and thrown to the floor revealing an irritated woman clad in tight impractical leather. Her fashion choice was an adaptation of exorcists’ mandatory attire, and she swore it instilled fear in those who saw her.

But she was not supposed to be seen.

“Oh look at you! Learned a new word, rat?” she sneered as he continued the cackle. The insult did little affect him and only fueled his laughter. She stepped forward to manually silence him, but the weight around her hips reminded her of her mission. He was dying. Deciding that the rat-man’s life was a lot more insignificant than his , she spat an ancient curse at him before bolting to the house on the hill.

No candlelight nor fire flickered in the windows, and she was reminded of Mei’s soft-spoken warning of the newcomer’s obstacle: he was without sight. Something easy to remedy, and yet the man who hails from the castle walls continues to live such a difficult life. If he were a smart man, he would travel to the Fae Forest and have them cure his unfortunate loss with little payment. Once, she asked the question of why the King and his men feared magic and she was promptly reminded of her orphanage which only confused her more, for her memories never went that far.

The house was quiet and a fear washed over her as she wondered if he was already dead. She raised her hand to her temple and gently pressed against the skin beside her eyebrow; a spark of electricity emitted from her fingertips and travelled down her body, to her legs and entering the ground at her feet. She followed the trail as it entered the house and connected with a barely alive body.

Relieved, she stalked around the house to where the pulse found him and was pleased to see that the newcomer did not vandalise the windows yet. It was a common practice to always board up your windows if you do not want visitors, the countryside etiquette took some time getting used to.

And to prove that, she carefully pried open the windowpane and effortlessly slid inside with the heavy bag carefully lifted to not accidentally puncture. If she had to go all the way back to get a new one, then she would have to count her losses and prepare the funeral for she saw no pleasure in returning to the Devil.

Inside, she spotted the forming corpse on a depressing bed and no one else in sight. Unsure if the newcomer would interrupt them, she first crept to the door and carefully locked it as she was shown to do in case of emergencies. The corpse coughed as he sensed her presence, or maybe he realised he was finally getting fed. Not wanting to waste time, she hurried over to the body on the bed and made work to detach the bag and pry it open.

Inside she carefully wrapped her hands around a wet, dying heart. Whose it was she never asked. She sent a spark through the organ and it beat once-twice to allow the remaining blood to expel from its orifices. The body groaned and leaned in towards the smell of fresh blood.

“Hurt yourself and I will be the one to explain to her why her child is dead you fool.” She spoke as she lifted the organ and held it just above his masked face. Another spark sent blood gushing out and she aimed it to slide past the well-concealed opening to his mouth. As soon as the blood made contact did his eyes shoot open and his body jerked towards her.

Throwing the heart at him she observed as he pushed aside his mask, and ignored the pain as it tugged at his flesh where it was forcibly embedded, and dug teeth and claws into the falsely pulsating organ and began devouring. He only growled and moaned as the tough flesh was ripped apart and slowly began disappearing down his throat. She wondered if they all fed the same way, but again she was reminded of his usual feeding etiquette: quiet, reserved, and ashamed.

The heart was gone almost as soon as she gave it to him, but she knew it would not be enough to take him back home. Fed, the body lied back down and gave a final sigh. His mask was still pushed aside and was tearing his skin apart at its current angle, but he had to wait before it could be returned to its place. Creeping closer once again, she pulled out a piece of cloth and did her best to clean the mess. He hated being dirty.

“ Gratias tibi… ” he groaned out in his ancient tongue. Although well-versed, she did not particularly enjoy conversing in the tongue of days passed. Finished, she carefully pulled at his mask to cover his face and listened as the skin slithered to pull it in deeper into its proper place.

“It is a pleasure you fool.” she noticed blood-soaked bandages across his chest from when he sat up to feed. She was hardly a healer herself, but even she could see that unskilled hands tried to tend to him. She undid them by retrieving a small but deadly blade and cleanly cut through them, revealing the wound which bound him to the sorrowful bed. At first she was confused, because a wound so small would hardly weaken him, but as she scanned his body she realised his neck was the problem: a deep cut was drawn almost all the way around, and if not for the immediate intake of fresh blood she was sure he would be spending some time to mend it.

“Your neck.” she said. He reached up a weak hand to touch at the wound and grumbled, “Boy.”

“I told you to stay away from him.”

“Attack. Me.”

“Which is why I told you to stay away. One would think a man of your age would have learned the ways of the world.”

“Young. Scared.”

She placed a hand over his mask, where his mouth should be, and only shook her head. Only he would try and chase down a rabid werebeast in an attempt to save them. Although she could barely remember when she met him, she knew he had done the same for her. He would always do that, risk his life to save others. It was a wonder the Devil was not bored with him yet.

“ Mama is scared. She thought you died. That fae was here for not long and she is clearly a healer. Did she heal you? Your wounds are worse.”

He nodded weakly and touched the wounds on his torso already beginning to heal. If she returned to the Devil tomorrow, he would be ready to come home in less than a moon-change.

“ Spurius discere debuit. ” His words made her turn her attention to the locked door. She almost forgot about the newcomer. From what she heard he was rather… unpleasant and would often growl and glare at whoever decided to come bother him. She tried to imagine him tending to wounds with the aid of the fae, and wondered why the poor bandaging was allowed by the healer. But it hardly mattered because she would go back to the Devil and have him healed before the King could be informed about his existence. The last thing they needed was another Knight trying to rid the world of evil. If only they knew.

She heard the distant cry of a crow and a flick of her faze confirmed that her time was running out. The night was still young, but the moonlight was making her weary since she had to forgo her cape. She made sure the blood did not stain the floor and pressed a kiss to the temple of the mask in farewell.

“Stay strong vetelus. ” the ancient word stung her tongue. She did not listen for a response and quickly jumped out of the window to return home.

… … …

The locket burned against his skin as he uselessly opened his eyes. It was sunrise. Jack could feel the warmth from the infiltrating sunrays and groggily pulled himself up from the uncomfortable cot he requested to be placed by the broken fireplace. He would rather be uncomfortable for the rest of his life than share a room with an exorcist.

He sat still and tried to listen for any evidence of the monster still being alive, but the only thing he could hear was the village waking up and an irritating cock announcing the sun’s visitation.

Angela depended on him to ensure the exorcist was alive, and no matter how hard he tried to fight against it, even he understood what it meant to simply let the thing die. He has killed many of their kind, and yet this was the first time he heard of people being fond of their existence. And if they were fond, then the probability of it having some relations were high.

And Jack would not like to fight off an angry village with or without sight.

He pulled himself up and out from his cot and made to check up on the corpse when a knock on his door stopped him. He has already threatened those who came to bother him, but the insistent knocking demanded attention and he was too weary to ignore it. Trying his best to navigate his unfamiliar surroundings, Jack came to the door and pulled it open to be met with a fist connecting with his collarbone. The contact sent a sharp tingle down his body and he hissed at the uncomfortable feeling.

“You are much taller than I expected! I thought old men were supposed to be tiny!” The voice was feminine and much too cheerful.

“What do you want?” He grunted out not wanting a visitor.

“I am here to check up on my, mmm, how can I say? Superior?”

He was not given a chance to respond as the stranger pushed past him and entered the house. He closed the door and turned to where he thought they were, but the location was quickly revealed:

“Hey vetelus! Wake up!” the voice came from the door to where the corpse resided, and Jack asked himself how the stranger knew, and knocked again on the door. He wanted to inform the stranger that the door was open, but a jingle of the doorknob confused him: he never locked the door.

“ Faex, I really would have liked to not go back to her.”

“Who are you?” Jack has had enough with all of these people infiltrating his deathbed. The others had the decency to at least enter respectfully and be pleasant, but this one was… it reminded Jack of the snivelling brats who would awe every time he paraded down the street clad in his armour and proudly held up the head of a recently slain exorcist.

“Hmm? How rude of me: Sombra, exorcist in training.” She took hold of his hand in an attempted greeting, but he pulled it back as the words registered. Exorcist in training.

“There’s more of you?”

“Oh, a non-believer? Let me guess, you were very happy when the Knights came back with a head?”

He kept himself quiet lest he reveal his true past. If there were two exorcists, then it could only mean him harm if his identity were revealed. His existence proved to be boresome as the young exorcist resumed her knocking and yelling. Jack was tempted to send again for Angela, but his pride would not allow him. He was the one who wanted to die, did he not?

What better way than for two exorcists to tear him apart?

“Hey-!” the yelling was cut off as the door was torn open and slammed loudly against the wall. A brief, yet eerie, silence overcame the house. Jack does not know the full extent of an exorcists’ abilities, although they had similarities the powerful and ancient ones had unique powers only granted when the Devil favoured them too much.

And he had no idea who the exorcists in his house were.

“At last.” the stranger, Sombra he refused to say, muttered and quick footsteps indicated that she entered the room with the monster. Curious, he followed and listened:

“Look at you, able to open doors are we?”

A grumble responded.

“Your neck looks better, but you might need more. Would you prefer a wildebeest this time?”

Your neck looks better. The words horrified Jack. The previous evening he was sure of an intruder, but he chalked it up to being paranoid at the evil in his evil. Angela once told him he was prone to hallucinations when she healed him, and he considered it to be a permanent side-effect.

“You! You broke in last night?” He spat.

“Me? Are old men not supposed to be deaf?”

“Sombra, shut up.” The third voice was unfamiliar but belonged to the only other presence in the room: the exorcist. Its voice was gluttral and sounded painful as it pushed out the words. The voice of a Devil’s child.

“Forgive me oh dear Re-”

“ Sombra. ” The words were harsh and Jack felt a chill run through his bones as the words echoed in his head. Whatever this exorcist was, it was powerful. Jack had heard tales of many exorcists, but the one that remained a favourite among the troops were the Devil’s First Child: a powerful ruler whose bloodlust turned them to discover the most evil power known to man. If the tales were true, then this exorcist is possibly the strongest creature alive.

“ Fine. Ungrateful bastard.”

There was a short, yet intense, whispering session before it abruptly stopped. A deep sigh, “Then I’ll see you tonight vetelus. ” The apprentice made to leave the house and stopped by Jack, he could feel her stare at him but he could not return the favour.

“Do not attempt to care for his wounds, you are sloppy and your lack of training only makes my life difficult.”

“Gladly.” he sneered at her.

He heard her footsteps fading, the front door opened and he was once again left in the company of the primary exorcist. Only this time, it was awake.

“Thank you for healing me.” The voice said in a low growl, the chill from earlier repeated. Jack did not want to speak with the thing, so he remained silent.

“I was unaware of someone moving in.” the exorcist spoke up again. “One would think I would be allowed to have my own home, but even they cannot see me as nothing but a Devil child.”

“You live here?”

“Yes, but don’t hurt yourself by leaving. Once I am healed, I will return to my family.”

Family. Jack did not know what to do with this information, in fact he hardly knew what to do about the entire situation. His habits wanted him to find the nearest sword and end it, but knowing that someone was here and actively seeking the thing out was enough to keep Jack at bay. The apprentice sounded young, and youth often had an advantage in battle.

In unfamiliar territory, Jack found himself hesitantly torn between simply leaving the conversation or staying and ensuring the exorcist was not on the verge of dying as Angela feared. Angela.

“I must send a message.” Jack announced as he pushed himself away from the door and slowly walked towards his cot. The door between himself and the exorcist was still open and he could hear a grunt as the bed creaked from a slight movement. The exorcist was more human than those he had encountered; usually silent and mysterious, speaking in a tongue no one remembers and releasing animalistic sounds in battle.

But this one spoke like a human and it reminded him too much of a love gone wrong.

#fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #overwatch #reaper #soldier76 #soldier 76 #soldier:76 #gabriel reyes #jack morrison #reaper76 #reaper x soldier #reaper x solder76 #reaper/soldier #reaper/soldier76 #nightshade eyes #medieval au #fantasy au

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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RE:INCARNATE [Reaper/Soldier:76] CHAPTER 3

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RE:SPECT

Drowning. No other word could explain what was happening to him, his mouth was forced open by claws and water kept pouring into his body as he screamed for release. The claws would dig deep into his cheeks and eyes until both were punctured and bleeding.

The water was thick as well, moving like a snake past his lips and into his lungs and belly. It got thicker and thicker, the taste started to change as well when more claws embed themselves into his skin – just slowly pushing in until he was drinking in pools of his own blood,

It was putrid, and the blood was mixed with more liquids; piss and vomit and sweat. He had to keep swallowing until he couldn’t anymore, his lungs were about to burst but some sick and twisted force kept him alive.

And then suddenly his mouth was clamped shut, the liquid caressing his bleeding skin like a lover. The claws on his face never left, instead they stayed until the liquids started to boil inside of him, the rancid smell of blood still filtering around him.

He should have died then surely, filled with his own boiling bodily liquids to the brink of explosion – but the claws forced his mouth open again and millions of mouth latched onto him and sucked the fluids out. Out and out until he was left with nothing but the acids in his stomach. The mouths moans in delight at his taste, and the blood disappeared.

But the water came back to enter his body.

… … …

He wasn’t sure if he woke up because of the familiar dream, or because there was hot breath on his neck. At first he didn’t mind the strange welcome of someone in his bed, figuring that he must have accidentally escorted one of the prostitutes onto the ship – but something was wrong; where soft and supple breasts were to be pressed against his side was instead the firm chest of another sex. That was when he jumped from his bed and watched the offender follow suite.

He didn’t give time for the stranger to recover, quickly setting to work and knocking him unconscious before he had a fighting chance, all the while trying to understand why there was a strange man in his bed. It was still dark outside and the gentle rocking of the ship had dread pool in his stomach, they weren’t docked. He kidnapped someone.

Giving one last glance at the stranger, he exited his chambers and locked the door behind him. Some of the crew was still on deck, perhaps it wasn’t as late as he thought. His First Mate was smiling widely at him with mischievous eyes.

“So ye finally found him?”

“Who is he!?”

The First Mate’s smile grew wider, and before the captain could unleash his fury the shortest of the crew huffed up to him and grumbled all the way.

“The boy is royalty! Ye tried getting the duchess!”

Memories did not flood in suddenly, but recollections of entering a noble party as a joke soon came back. He knows he got dunk, as he always does, and he knows he had the brilliant idea of kidnapping the Duchess Andrea as a prank… but he doesn’t remember all that well of how he managed to get a boy onto his ship and into his chamber.

No one was screaming yet and he hoped he hasn’t hurt the Duke all that much, so he turned to his First Mate again in embarrassment.

“Hamia, go check on the boy and take him down to the cells.”

“What’re we going to do with him then?”

“It’s too late to give him back now.”

… … …

When the boy’s unconscious body was dragged down to the cells, that was when the captain got a better look at him; he was young, much younger than any of the crew, and he had the face of a proper upper class man. The boy’s hair was long as well, pulled back into a low ponytail behind his head with a blue satin ribbon.

Hamia only teased him when she found the captain staring so intensely at the stranger, but he could barely defend himself. It was easy to understand now how he confused the siblings, because the boy was just as pretty as he could be called handsome. A few years of work on his hands and the boy would steal the hearts away of men and women alike.

“So Captain, are ye going to wait for him to wake up?”

He nodded mutely at his First Mate, still in deep thought. She only laughed and left the man to ponder by himself.

She knew when to leave him alone, having known him for many years now and only serving under due to keeping her own profile low to not be recaptured by her people; but she was just as fearsome a pirate as he was, if not more so – even if all of her hair has by now turned grey.

The Captain did try and stay awake for when the boy comes to, but the small headache of too much wine forced him to close his eyes and take deep steadying breathes, which in turn lulled him back to sleep in hopes of for once dreaming of the sea.

… … …

“Hello? Hello!”

The Captain grumpily opened up one eye, glaring at the Duke in turn when he was rudely woken from his sleep – of course he should be thankful as well that the torment finally stopped too. Unfolding his arms and forcing his stiff back up, the Captain kept his face neutral as he regarded the Duke. If his carefree attitude didn’t alert the boy, then at least the war of scars on his face would warn the boy he was dealing with someone dangerous. The boy didn’t appear scared, but the lack of fire in his eyes betrayed anything his body tried to portray.

“Hello then, you’re awake. Please care to enlighten-”

“Ye don’t speak to a Captain like that, don’t you know to respect ye elders?”

The swell of blood on the Duke’s cheeks brought more satisfaction to the Captain than he thought he would have, wanting to tease the boy until he looked like a boiled lobster.

“Well, um, pardon me then. Who are you then… sir?”

The Captain extended his legs in front of him, smiling crudely all the way as he watched the Duke waiting anxiously for the answer, although not happily.

“How much do ye know of pirates?”

“Enough.”

“Know of any Dread Pirates?”

At this the Duke stilled, clearly understanding he was in the presence of someone feared.

“ Welcome abroad the Ángel Caído, and ye may call me Captain Segador. ”

… … …

It has been two days since the Duke came abroad, Segador having found out the boy going by the name of Johnathan, to which he blushingly stated that Nate was enough to call him too. They fed him, but few went down to speak to him as well rather tending to their duties like the loyal seadogs they were.

And it was during another long and hot day that Captain Segador was about to throw his map into the ocean and just sail until the edge of the world, but that very same thought process is what led him to kidnapping a Duke.

They were faced with the same problem as with the past few weeks; they were lost. Their navigator died in a very tragic accident involving a bucket and a whale – and no one else had the skills to lead them around. First Mate Hamia tried to guide them, but her limited eyesight could only offer them that much.

It was after the Captain decided to not throw away the last thing they had to stew in his fury below deck, scared of breaking his precious items in his chambers. He paced relentlessly, his black coat twirling behind him with each quick spin to thread onto the same path.

He must have been too worried to notice Johnathan – Nate – listening in on his mumblings, because the boy spoke so suddenly that Segador grabbed onto his dual pistols, not drawing them, and whirled around to glare at the youth.

“What ye say?”

“Um, I heard that you were lost again… is the map the problem?”

Segador wasn’t sure if he wanted to trust the boy with anything, but did so anyway. He let go of his pistols and leaned in close to the barriers, ensuring that his presence made the boy as uncomfortable as possible.

“Not the map, the sun and stars.”

The words brought another blush to the boy’s face, but the fire in his eyes didn’t speak of embarrassment; he was excited.

“I could help! I have learned these things!”

The sudden excitement had Segador wanting to laugh, but he brushed it off and instead smiled mockingly at the Duke.

“And why should I believe ye?”

“Would it hurt for me to try?”

And it was with those words that Nate was cuffed on his ankles and forced next to Segador as he tried to pinpoint their position. The rest of the crew was restless to see what was going on, but kept to themselves out of fear for their Captain. Hamia lingered nearby as well, giving approving nods each time Nate identified something.

They wouldn’t know if the boy was a liar until they reached their destination. They kept the boy on deck next to Segador, who took over responsibility of the boy (although it was always his to begin with) and did everything together with Nate. They ate and slept together as a way of supervision, although Hamia found all the joy in it and would constantly tease the Captain.

Nate spoke little, but when he did it was cautious questions to break the silence between him and the Captain.

“You have a woman on your ship?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t that… dangerous?”

The Captain cast a sidelong glance to Nate, not irritated but amused. Many who attacked them always grew confident upon seeing the First Mate, eager to claim a ship cursed for boarding her; but it was Hamia who ensured that no word of her existence ever spread, and it was Segador who ensured that no one underestimate the woman who saved his life more than he could count.

“I would say we’re cursed without her . She has saved this ship more times than we could count, we’re grateful to have her.”

Nate only nodded and didn’t speak again, but Segador noticed how the boy was much more intimated by the woman then, shoulders drawn tight as she teased him with delight.

… … …

It was during their course that something went terribly wrong. It wasn’t any of the crew nor Nate’s fault, but it was still unexpected as ever.

The day was as clear as it could be, Nate doing what he could and sitting around when he wasn’t required. The first person to spot the danger was the peg legged canon boy, who shrieked and hobbled across the deck screaming.

At first Captain Segador was deaf to the cries, used to the maniac’s antics – but when Hamia started to shout orders did the Captain realise it was no hoax. He didn’t have time to tell Nate to lay low or get someone to escort him somewhere safe, because just as Hamia turned to the Captain to warn of the danger did everyone come face to face with it.

It was terrifyingly beautiful with glittering silver scales and eyes so dark many thought the beast to have the stars inside of them – but it was when the beast opened its strong jaw revealing hundreds of teeth that the crew froze in fear of the beast spotting them.

Segador heard Nate whimpering behind him, and tuned to find the boy on the floor having pissed his pants. The Captain couldn’t find himself to be disgusted, himself having done so many times when he first ventured onto the vast oceans – but he was a better man now, a better pirate.

“Get the serpent!”

It was all orders needed, the ship not a stranger to such beasts, but a stranger to silver serpents. The biggest they ever had were the blue serpents who merely nipped at the boat in boredom before leaving with enough swords and bullets. But silver serpents; they won’t leave until the ship is no more.

Hamia took charge from there, drawing her own boarding blade and instructing others to do so too. The manic from before hurried below deck with three others, getting firepower ready to attack the sea snake.

It was eerie how the beast didn’t outright attack, instead staring everyone down as if deciding who would be the perfect meal. And it found them.

Segador shouted when the beast came right at him, moving at incredible speed. He had his dual pistols ready, but wasn’t quick enough when the beast didn’t go for him – but for Nate. The boy screamed when fangs embed themselves in his leg and lifted him too fast for Segador to latch onto.

The crew wasn’t blind and noticed someone got snatched, so they made work and gathered rope and spare harpoons to keep the beast near for as long as possible. Hamia was still busy making sure the crew did their job, so Segador had no choice but battling the beast alone to save the Duke.

The beast thrashed against the ropes, which held strong, and it allowed the Captain to run onto the edge of the ship and leap onto the beast’s slippery body. He managed to trade his pistols for daggers, using them to climb the slender silver neck to reach Nate who was still trapped in the beast’s teeth.

The Duke was screaming as anyone would, his fists beating on the firm snout, and Segador only huffed in amusement as he climbed with newfound vigour. If the boy died on his hands, he would not be able to forgive himself – it was his fault the Duke was here.

He ignored the shouts of the crew, focusing on reaching the head and trying to not fall into the swirling waves beneath him. The daggers pierced easily through the scales, knowing full well the hardest parts were on the beast’s back.

Segador was halfway up its neck when it opened its mouth and screeched as a cannonball pounded into its neck. Nate was released at the same time and slipped from the beast’s mouth, slowly falling into the ocean’s depths. Whilst mid-air, Segador refused to think any further than save him!

He released his hold onto the daggers as swung himself into Nate’s direction, grabbing hold of the boy’s shirt and having their bodies harshly collide into the deck. The Captain held the boy tightly in his arms as the fool blubbered and cried, returning the embrace in his fear.

With the boy safe, Hamia gave the order to kill – and soon after bullets were shot into the beast’s eyes until it had no other choice but to retreat once the ropes allowed it to. The fight was not over, as waves threateningly rocked the ship, but Segador trusted his crew well enough to keep them steady as he held Nate close to him.

He felt the boy mumble against his chest, perhaps he was praying but the Captain was sure words of gratitude was flowing from his lips. The Captain only hugged the boy tighter as he tried to understand how he found himself in such a situation.

… … …

“Are ye well?”

Nate was in the Captain’s chambers, still trembling like a leaf and wrapped up in satin blankets. The boy hasn’t spoken since the serpent, which was two days ago, and no one could blame him. Silver serpents were as rare as diamonds, and many thought them to be myths – but the encounter left many shaken, and Hamia agreed to take over the ship while their temporary navigator recovered with the aid from Segador.

“Nate?”

The boy only stared at him, eyes red from crying.

“Thank you.”

The words were whispered, but it made Segador bloom from the inside. He has saved many people many times, no stranger to useless crewmates – but the awe in the boy’s eyes was something the Captain wasn’t used to, knowing full well not even the prostitutes bothered to fawn over his gruff and scarred face.

The Captain nodded in acknowledgment and turned his head to avoid eye-contact.

“It’s okay, ye were-”

But the pirate was cut off when Nate suddenly leapt forward and embraced his middle, head buried into his stomach.

“Hey now!”

The boy was mumbling again, the words muffled against his shirt but Segador couldn’t find himself to be angry at the boy. Instead he patted his hair – now slick with oil – and only reassured the youth. It scared the Captain how much he appreciated the youth’s gratitude.

… … …

Nate once implied that Hamia would be a curse onto the ship, but right now… it appeared that indeed the Duke himself was.

He continued to navigate them, the destination a port where the Captain wanted to trade some coin, but so far in the course of two weeks they have been attacked four times, five if you were to count one encounter concerning a sea turtle army.

First has been the epic tale of the Silver Serpent and how the ship Ángel Caído defeated the beast… with no evidence.

Then a ghost of dwarf Vikings with murderous weapons attacked them, but everyone knew the myths of the ship and when Nate was carried away by five dwarves, did Segador have to swoop in and dismantle the ghosts before shoving the boy into this chambers for safe keeping.

Another was a rather ruthless pirate ship who thought they were smart enough to be able to sink the Ángel Caído, but Segador didn’t gain his ship from adventure alone – his coin fortified his ship well. But the pirates were smart enough to shoot at Nate who was trying to hide behind the mast. It was Segador who had no choice but to grab the Duke and take three bullets to the hip before once again shoving the two of them into his chambers.

The fourth was much less exciting and more so a stupid mistake. It was late at night and Nate thought himself dapper when a woman in the ocean begged for his help, if it wasn’t for Segador to see the damn boy about to follow a mermaid then he would be gone for good. But the Captain warned the crew and grabbed the boy before he could go after the woman, of course Hamia had her own piece of mind against the mermaid.

The fifth attack is a forbidden topic, everyone agreeing to never speak again of the sea turtles.

Segador thought himself to be tired of having to rescue the Duke like some sort of Damsel from foes, but each time the youth would hug the Captain and thank him with vigour. It came to a point where the Captain eagerly awaited the next attack.

He was selfish for thinking so, or maybe it was hope. Hamia teased him that she once heard Nate ask someone about how he kept his hair so clean, which was a task in itself since he refused to cut the black forest of curls.

Afterwards Segador refused to admit his skin felt hot when he offered to show Nate how to keep his hair clean, and the boy thanked him with childish glee.

The Great Captain Segador would die at the hands of the Duke Johnathan if he kept it up.

… … …

It was in the third week when Nate promised they were close to their destination, and it was then a sombre night with a cold and still ocean surrounding them. Segador was resting behind the wheel, trying to fill his heads with thoughts to cure his boredom when Nate joined him on deck – the boy ridded of his shackles after he was deemed useless against running away from dwarf ghosts.

The Duke stood next to the Captain and both were quiet, but not for long.

“My sister once told me I should fear pirates, she told me they were all ruthless killers who only cared about who has the most blood on their hands.”

“She ain’t wrong, but not all of us are that… bloodthirsty.”

“So what is your goal as a Captain?”

“Get coin.”

The answer was simple and boring, but true. Segador never did struggle as a child, but deep inside his heart yearned after the coin in a way he felt like he would do anything to get it. That was when he met his First Mate who introduced him to the world of piracy, and gladly helped him climb the ranks to Captain.

“Did you achieve it yet?”

“Yeah, I got four ships all loaded with coin - Ángel Caído has enough to buy another five ships.”

Nate didn’t look impressed, but sad.

“So why don’t you settle down and get a wife and children? Find something more.”

At this the Captain grimaced, feeling his scars stretching across his skin.

“I’m not the image a wife would be proud of, imagine what the children would look like.”

Nate snorted at this, a soft smile on his face.

“But you got those scars during your adventures didn’t you? Don’t they show how brave you are? I would call women fools for not wanting to bear your children.”

Segador almost laughed at the boy’s bashfulness, but the embarrassment at the hidden compliment kept him quiet.

“It’s not just my face, my whole body too.”

“May I see?”

The question was innocent, but it struck Segador with fear. Only few has seen more than just his face, the prostitutes as well – usually having to take him fully clothed as he was… even then he usually wore a mask to not burden them more than already having to take his cock.

“Ye a bold one.”

“I am curious.”

Segador smirked at the boy and kept his hands firmly on the wheel.

“Maybe later.”

… … …

They did reach their destination in the end, and Nate was given applause and cheers for having them arrive safely. Hamia and the crew already disembarked the ship in search of trivial things the small trading post had to offer, loyalty in their bones would guide them back to the ship in time.

Hamia gave Segador a subtle wink when she saw the man drifting away from the group with Nate, he wasn’t oblivious to her encouraging this small bond the two of them formed. Segador remained suspicious of his friend, it is the first time she ever welcomed someone so eagerly onto the ship, yet her mysteries was just what made her all the more interesting.

Segador decided to treat Nate for his job well done, and took the two to a tavern. It wasn’t all that bad, compared to some places the pirate has seen, but he knew Nate would still find it unappealing. So instead he first asked around for an inn, and found that they had rooms available, so he paid for one and escorted the two of them to a simple room with a large bed.

“I would assume ye are tired of the waves, so have a nice bed on the land.”

Nate didn’t respond, but his face was till soft as a way of thanks.

Segador didn’t mind the boy and instead started to shed his clothing until he was in nothing but his trousers and low cut shirt, hair pulled back to hang low between his shoulder blades in an attempt to escape the heat. Nate’s eyes were on him the whole time, and they both managed to think of the same thing.

“Ye want to see?”

“If, if that is alright with you.”

And maybe it was, because he could claim it was a reward instead of him actually trusting the boy. So Segador slowly rid of his shirt and refused to look at Nate as his torso revealed various scars, tattoos and brands he gathered over the years.

His chest held three brands, and there were two more on his right wrist. Segador also knew that the tattoo of a crucifix in the centre of his chest was a strange sight, a small piece of his family he kept with him. And littered over his entire body was ugly scars of all shapes and sizes, various burn wounds on him as well from the times he was still learning to ways of pirate battles.

Nate was still quiet, but he sat down on the bed and appear to memorise every single imperfection.

“That is… very impressive.”

But Segador wasn’t satisfied, so he turned around and moved his hair to showcase two long and harsh scars on his shoulder blades, hidden slightly by tattoos around them – but they were still so easily spotted; his trademark.

“What, how did that happen?”

“I wish I could tell ye, or would ye like to hear the legend?”

“Yes please.”

Still turned around, Segador decided to amuse the youth a little longer.

“I didn’t earn my name for nothing, Segador is also known as the Reaper, and many of my enemies claimed that I made a deal with the devil to become his worker. The devil granted me wealth and power to defeat all enemies and never die from any attacks, in return I must gather souls to send to hell. One day I didn’t obey the devil so he punished me and gave me the appearance of a fallen angel, and abandoned me to my own mortal life – but somehow I still managed to keep my powers as the Reaper.”

“What a fantastic imagination people have.”

“What never heard my tales?”

Nate shook his head, once again a soft sad look on his face.

“I was raised to dismiss any thoughts of the ocean, it was horrible. I really love it, the waves and creatures… I would watch the dolphins swim at night when the moon was low. My sister… Andrea… always told me to stay as far as possible, she said only the dammed would risk falling off the edge into hell.”

Segador hummed and slowly fit his shirt on again.

“And what do you think? Am I dammed?”

“No, I would say you are an angel who saved me from my own hell…”

The room was tense and quiet, both men unsure of what their gazes meant exactly, the fire in their eyes and bellies – but it wasn’t strong enough to keep them there forever.

“Well then Seadog Nate! How about we celebrate your induction to the crew!”

… … …

It was a mistake to get Nate drunk, but the two men were enjoying the night away and Segador was too blind to see the official coats entering the tavern, and he was too blind to see when Nate stumbled drunkenly over to them and exposed the Captain.

It happened too fast for his drunk reflexes, and soon he was arrested for his lifetime offences and ordered to be executed as soon as possible. Of course this meant that because of his very worthy title, his execution got to be first thing in the morning.

It should have made him angry, to know he would die in such a pathetic way – yet it didn’t bother him all too much. After all these years of living in wealth and power, he could find no regrets dying the way he would.

But that didn’t stop him from spitting when he saw the youth in the crowds, groomed by the guards and forced to watch the Captain die. He spotted a smaller version of Nate, one with breasts and tears. Duchess Andrea. He has only ever seen her once, at the party so long ago, yet his soul burned with fury when he laid eyes down upon her. She’s the one who called the guards, the one to initiate the search. The one who wanted to take Nate away.

It was funny to think that all of this might have not happened if he just kidnapped that girl in his drunken state, yet here he is. One would ask where the crew was, why were they allowing this? A pact was made long away between The Captain and the First Mate.

If I die because of my own crimes, you will not come after me. My crimes are not your crimes.

Segador barely felt the noose wrapped around his neck, instead he smiled time and even blew mocking kiss to Nate. He didn’t hate the boy, but anger still stirred in his belly.

You could look at it in any way you want, but Captain Segador died betrayed by none other than the hand of a pretty Duke.

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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Drawing a friend's Guild Wars 2 character: Katsuki Morimo.

A Krytan Necromantic Noble, Katsuki only frequents the best vineyards Kryta has to offer. And sometimes, when indulging herself a bit too much, some say she becomes a demoness [or they just really struggle to sober her up]

Also on DeviantArt and Instagram!

#art #digital art #illustration #guildwars 2 #gw2 #guild wars #necromancer #vampire #oc #originalcharacter #for a friend

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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When a Crime Lord becomes a Baker [Aatrox/Pantheon] CHAPTER 3

Read on Ao3

BEST FRIEND BISCUITS

Soraka always comes in early. A morning riser himself, Atreus finds comfort in waking up underneath the same stars he went to bed to. The sky was dark and the stars bright, glittering as if being more than just celestial combustions; as if they were thousands of lifeforms eagerly awaiting their turn to fall and experience terrestrial life.

Soraka was one of the few people Atreus met who enjoyed the night sky as much as he did. Often she complained about having to arrive when the sun rose because that meant precious star gazing time was wasted. So it came as a surprise when he arrived at his store only to find no one waiting for him.

At this time she was usually already dressed in her frilly apron and eagerly waiting for him by the door. Uncaring about the nonexistent nightly dangers that never befell Targon. She would sometimes point at her favourite constellation (“Kind of looks like a unicorn doesn’t it?... Maybe a dragon?”) and ramble about her confliction regarding horoscopes until the ovens were ready.

A heavy silence engulfed Atreus as he slowly unlocked his store. It was the first time since he opened it that he came alone, and it was… unnerving. Once inside, he switched on the lights and went to the kitchen to prepare before his new employee arrived. Maybe for once, Soraka would take his word and actually arrive on time (6 o’clock sharp).

But the time ticked by and the cheerful blonde never came.

5:56am two figures approached the store. The sun was already beginning to rise over the great mountain, making it clear that The Darkin Lord Aatrox arrived for work. Yet no Soraka. Nervous, Atreus stayed behind the counter as the two entered the store. Aatrox was once again dressed in civilian clothes, however this time he was awkwardly tugging at a black beanie covering his head tattoos. Each time he was almost successful in taking it off, Sett would lightly smack the back of his head.

“Good morning!” Sett bellowed cheerfully as Aatrox crossed his arms in defeat and decided to direct all of his anger and annoyance at the baker. Atreus struggled to avert his eyes: once the crime lord had his sight on you, you were trapped.

“I hope you have something more exciting planned today!” Sett continued, oblivious to the optical trap Atreus was in. Aatrox finally averted his eyes when he suddenly looked around in search of something.

“Where is the plantain admirer?” The criminal asked slowly, almost cautiously. Atreus was well aware of many outsiders not being accustomed to Soraka’s stranger behaviour at times, however, he had yet to see her instil fear in someone. Was it fear?

“I think she’s coming in late.” Was all Atreus provided: he didn’t think that Aatrox really cared about her well-being. The man nodded before fixating his stare on the baker again: they were so abyssal . Atreus beckoned the two to follow him to the kitchen once again. He knew making the man fold boxes for an entire afternoon was hardly fair, but the truth was he didn’t really plan on what to do with him.

If he had to be honest: he had no idea that Aatrox would be so placid.

Once in the kitchen, Atreus begins his usual morning preparations as he says: “Soraka usually preps in the mornings by making sure all the ingredients are still fresh. I usually work the front in case someone comes in. We don’t have too much foot traffic, but sometimes we get some large orders for an event here or there.”

He turned to preheat an oven. It still felt strange to set up the kitchen without Soraka. Although they barely prepared much, it was always nice to listen to her ramblings as she theorised about all the different kinds of dog biscuits you can make. The dog biscuits.

Atreus turned around and gave an unsure smile at the two large men patiently waiting for him (he should probably tell Sett to bring a book or something). “We’re making dog treats today.” He announced.

Aatrox raised an eyebrow and the disbelief in his eyes almost made Atreus embarrassed: but really he was just grateful that his friends not only supported him but insisted on paying the full amount. Without them, he would probably be sponging off Leona and Diana.

Unsure, he beckoned for the criminal to follow him to where he stored the fresh ingredients. Aatrox followed with obedience and in perfect silence. He only nodded and hummed as Atreus pointed to each ingredient and showed him the recipe only Zoe would approve of. He remained silent when Sett suddenly restrained him as Atreus accidentally handed him a butter knife. Still, he continued with his silence when the biscuits were finally done after an hour or two’s hard work.

Yesterday Atreus would have found it intimidating, but today it just disheartened him. He knew the man did not choose to be placed in a bakery of all places, but he at least expected the man to be thankful for being given the chance to be reintroduced into society. Is this what a killer is like?

The biscuits were perfect as always: shaped like bones with a delicate drizzle of peanut butter and pumpkin puree. Small coconut flakes were carefully sprinkled over. It was simple and small, but something Atreus denied enjoying making.

While Aatrox carefully packaged the biscuits (Ten per brown bag and it must be tied carefully with blue and pink ribbons with the little golden stars, and don’t forget to write Star Cross Besties on each bag) Atreus rushed over to the phone as it filled the solemn silence.

“You reached the Golden Bakery-”

“Hiya boss.”

“Soraka?” Atreus resisted the urge to smile. He refused to have her hear his worry.

“Sorry about not coming in. I’m feeling a bit sick today, Leona’s taking me to a doctor out of town today, so I’ll be back by tomorrow.”

And yet, she still sounded as cheeky as ever. Atreus glared at the phone as he realised she was probably up to something; it was easy to forget that Soraka was not some frivolous young woman, but sacrificed her future of becoming possibly one of the best doctors to instead become a baker with Atreus. She could orchestrate secrets and surprises almost as well as create anything from a banana.

“Get well soon I guess…” He mumbled.

“Don’t miss me too much boss.” She said in a sing-song voice before hanging up. And he was worried about her, at least he knew she was okay. He refused to think about the constant thought of her abandoning him.

“She sick?” Sett asked from his position, pressed almost against Aatrox. The criminal kept shooting the bodyguard glares as he tried to work in peace, but apparently, even packing away dog biscuits could be considered a dangerous task.

“Yeah, but she’ll be fine.” Atreus reached for his phone, but his hands came out empty. He then remembered not grabbing it that morning, hence the need for his business numbers to be permanently attached to his wall. “What’s the time?” He asked the bodyguard.

“Few minutes past twelve.”

“Shit, really?” He had the poor man bake biscuits for hours. Sometimes he gets so lost in the process that he barely feels time passing by. He reached for the phone again and dialled a familiar number, while it was ringing asked the two: “Any of you two vegetarian?” To which he received one blank stare and one loud “Nope.”

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Fifteen minutes later the three of them were seated in the front: Sett, deciding it was safe enough, sat by his own near the door while Atreus took a corner for himself. And for some unbeknownst reason, Aatrox decided to sit with him. In front of them was one of Atreus and Soraka’s favourite lunch meal: Erbok Burgers. It was the easiest meal to get in Mount Targon, and possibly the best (aside from what Diana could whip up for breakfast).

Sett began eating his meal without hesitation while scrolling on his phone. He only spared a glance at the pair before deciding that Aatrox will behave himself. Atreus, however, struggled to determine when he was allowed to eat. Aatrox sat across from him with his arms crossed and just stared. But this time it was Aatrox who broke the silence: “Am I truly the reason for your absent customers?”

The question caught Ateus off guard: he didn’t think Aatrox cared much about the lack of customers. But it was also to be expected when not even Zoe nor Taric had made an appearance yet. Uncomfortable, Atreus picked at a fry before beginning to munch on it. He wondered how much he should tell the man, then again, it’s not like they will ever see each other again.

“Like I said, military folk aren’t too welcome here.” Atreus began. Aatrox raised an eyebrow as if asking him to continue. “Targon used to be pretty segregated back in the day. A civil war broke out when a Moon Festival got raided. A thousand people were wiped out just like that, including the children. After that a big peace treaty went around where it was agreed that war is just… illegal I guess.” It was the briefest summary he could provide of the pitiful peaceful town. Still, he could see that Aatrox was hardly satisfied with the answer.

“And what is your role in this warfare?” he asked.

His burger was getting cold.

“I’m from a village not too far away from here. It’s small and barely contributes anything, so we went under the radar from all of the riots and fighting, but it hardly made us feel any safer. When I was old enough I joined the military, hoping everything would stop. Instead, I got shipped off to Shurima to control their civil war. When I came back everything was over and everyone just went on with their lives, but I couldn’t.” Atreus gave a wry smile as he prodded at his stale burger bun; speaking about his past in the military never brought back good memories.

“They consider you dangerous?” Aatrox asked, as emotionless as ever.

“I am a threat to their peace. What happened to Shurima wasn’t any different than here, the only difference is we managed to stop it. They think I’ll somehow bring it back.”

“They are fools then.”

Aatrox reached for his own fries and ate it without inspection. It was the first humane thing he had done since arriving. Atreus caught himself almost staring in awe, instead, he reached for his burger and began slowly eating it. The silence returned, but it wasn’t that bad anymore.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Atreus helped Aatrox pack the final biscuits when the doorbell chimed. Expecting Zoe to come around, Atreus went to the front to greet her. Since lunch, the silence was lighter, with Aatrox only glaring at him if he came too close. Atreus was sure that Soraka would have something to say about it if she were to ever hear it.

“We just finished packing the bis-”

“Well damn! Didn’t think you’d be so kind to us!”

Atreus froze in horror as he watched three teenagers enter the store. Their backpacks were slung carelessly across their shoulders, one of them had an old wooden baseball bat and another had his phone out.

“I advise you to leave.” Atreus said carefully without raising his voice. The last thing he needed was for them to provoke Aatrox or trash his enter place again. But teenagers could never keep out of other people’s business. The leader stepped forward and gave a low whistle, “Loved what you did to the place! Are the windows bulletproof by any chance?”

Atreus did not have any weapons stored behind the counter, because why was it needed when the local law enforcement consisted of exactly ten people? He could hardly go around assaulting teenagers, but the few options he had left were hardly any better.

The brats finally reached the counter and gave sly grins as the one with the baseball bat tapped at the display case, “Even his shit looks better! We should come to break this place more often!”

“Hey look! He actually has wooden chairs now!” The one with the phone said as he kicked it over and jerked at the foot of the chair. Atreus ground his teeth and cast a glance at the kitchen to see if the other two heard the noise. Fed up, Atreus moved from behind the counter and was ready to chase them out when a phone was shoved in his face.

“Yeah, old man? Gonna yell at us? Want us to show the sheriff who you really are?”

“Look at him! He’s probably thinking about hitting us right now!”

“No wonder he hired that fucker. All criminals know each other right?”

The boys continued their taunts and Atreus was helpless to them. He couldn’t threaten the little reputation he managed to build over the past few years. They already almost cost him his dream. Defeated, he released a sigh and turned to return to the counter. He knew what they were going to do: ask him for the float, annoy him about some free samples, and then possibly repeat it every few weeks.

“Don’t be a fucking coward.” someone said in a low, dangerous voice. Atreus wondered if one of the teenagers finally hit puberty, but the voice came from behind the store. Staring to glance in the direction of the kitchen, Atreus made direct eye contact with his new employee: Aatrox towered before him, glaring dangerously. Atreus wondered what he did wrong, but his question would never be answered because Sett pushed past the criminal to loudly chase the teenagers away.

Atreus has no idea what Sett did to finally get them out, instead, he was still trying to respond to Aatrox’s small outburst.

“I’m sorry?” He finally managed to force out, completely overwhelmed by his fuck-up of a day: Soraka’s absence, he had to relive his past, those brats almost robbed him again, and now The Darkin Lord Aatrox just insulted him?

“Are those the brats Soraka mentioned?” Sett interrupted Atreus’ thoughts. Atreus managed to avert his gaze and tiredly frowned at Sett in confusion.

“Who?”

“She told us about the whole break-in and everything. Those them?”

“Yeah, they’re just some high school punks.”

“Yet you allow them to trample into your territory and threaten you?” Aatrox angrily said. Sett tensed up and reached for his side but the criminal put him at ease when he simply turned around and returned to the kitchen, leaving Atreus speechless.

“What’s that about?” Sett asked amused. Atreus only shook his head, if anyone had an answer for everything then he wouldn’t be in this very situation.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

As much as Atreus just wanted to go home and sleep the day away, he couldn’t just leave Aatrox alone in the kitchen. So reluctantly he joined the other two and gave menial tasks to the man who once again went quiet; only this time being stoic, he was openly glaring and growling at every little object handed over to him. Sett was unusually tense and never took his eyes off the man once.

Atreus could only manage another two hours of the exhausting tension before he sighed loudly and tiredly leaned against the counter. “I’m closing for today.” He said without giving them any more explanations. Aatrox stilled and glared at the baker, but Atreus could not find the energy to even glance in his direction. Instead went to reach for his pocket when he remembered he left his phone at home. Almost on cue, the kitchen phone rang.

While Sett carefully observed Aatrox as he began poorly cleaning his station, Atreus went to answer:

“You reached the Golden Bakery-” he began but was rudely interrupted for the second time that day.

“Atreus! God of Bread!” Leona exclaimed over the phone.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“We’ve been calling you the whole day you know?”

“Ah yeah, phone’s at home. Sorry.”

The line went quiet. He heard some muttering followed by Leona loudly protesting. Used to their childish fights, Atreus was surprised when the line got hijacked by Diana.

“You’re grumpy.”

“I’m tired. Why did you call me exactly?”

“You’re coming out tonight. Bring the new guy.”

At the demand, he spared a glance at Aatrox. The man was slightly covered in flour and he managed to tear away his beanie during the day. Even while cleaning he still steamed with a dangerous aura. Having the man in his kitchen was… safe(r), unlike taking him out in a public area.

“I don’t know…”

“His bodyguard already agreed.”

“When did you-”

“They’re staying at the inn. Why wouldn’t we have his number?”

Perplexed, he finally agreed to their demands and hung up. Behind him Aatrox waited impatiently as Sett cuffed him.

“Everything ok?” Sett asked as Aatrox grumbled at him when a click echoed in the kitchen. Although Diana said the man was okay with taking Aatrox out, he was still unsure of how Aatrox felt about it.

“I’m going out, and… you two are invited?”

Sett smiled proudly and laughed. He patted Aatrox on the back with so much force that the man had to catch himself from toppling forward and smacking his face into the counter.

“Why do you think I’m cuffing him?”

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Walking to The Starfall was not an issue. It never was. It wasn’t far and at the moment the sun was still out so for once his usual bare arms did not cause ridicule. But for once the walk was almost brutal as he awkwardly walked beside a tense Sett and glaring Aatrox. His beanie was firmly placed on his head again and his hands were cuffed inside the middle pocket of his hoodie. Yet no matter how much Sett tried to make Aatrox blend in, he only stood out even more.

An uncomfortable (and silent) few minutes later they finally arrived at the bar.

“Atreus!” Just like last time, Leona and Diana were already waiting outside. This time however they were without ridiculous scarves and oversized coats. Quickening his footsteps, Atreus rushed over to his friends and accepted the half-hearted hug Leona gave him. Diana gave him a once over and frowned in concern.

“They open this early?” Sett asked as he pointed at the sun still hovering on the horizon.

“Why wouldn’t they be?” Diana challenged as Leona ushered them all inside.

Aatrox was comically large inside of the bar: he had to duck underneath the smaller-than-usual door frame and his head just about grazed the ceiling lights. The bar was not the smallest building, but it was not built for the larger bodies found outside of Targon: it was the excuse Taric often used to skip out on the bar visits.

Their usual table was empty which Leona and Diana dashed to. Aatrox on the other hand carefully manoeuvred himself around those already seated and who refused to shift their seats to make space for him. Twice he stumbled and Atreus daringly caught him at the back of his hoodie to steady him. He was certain the man didn’t kill him on the spot only because his hands were immobilised.

Finally seated, Leona began her endless streams of questions: “Did Soraka call you?”

“Yeah, she’s sick?”

The redhead nodded and waved her hand high to summon drinks.

“She’s okay, just a small stomach bug. She’s taking her medicine and I dropped her off at Aphelios. So what’s your story?” The question was directed at Sett. The bodyguard laughed and began recalling his life events which led up to him becoming a prestigious guard at the Immortal Bastion.

Almost too easily they all slipped into a comfortable conversation. Leona and Sett rattled on endlessly about their common passion for the Reckoning (a clearly staged fighting tournament where no rules existed). Diana directed her attention to Atreus and began discussing plans for her nephew’s birthday. The drinks came and went and it was almost as if the day was not a complete loss.

“ -coming to you from the Immortal Bastion! ” The group quieted down as the bar TV suddenly blared loudly. When Atreus turned to catch a glimpse, he was suddenly made aware of Aatrox’s existence. He was unsure when it happened, but somehow the man swapped seats until he was sitting next to the baker. Aatrox has not spoken a word nor heard a drink (not that he was allowed to) and Atreus felt guilty for excluding him. He may be a criminal… maybe more than that, but it was probably just as terrible to not at least acknowledge his existence.

“ -the programme has been successfully implemented so far! Three members of the Darkin Syndicate have been released, but don’t fear! Runterra’s best defenders are on the job to keep them on their leash. The Immortal Bastion announced that the first phase of payments will come through by the end of next week…”

Atreus turned his attention back to the group who were staring at Aatrox: he was glaring once again, but this time the muscles in his jaw were taut as his frame slightly trembled. Unsure and afraid, Atreus spoke up in an attempts to distract him: “Did you have a choice?”

“Speak clearly.” Aatrox gritted out. All the attention fell on Atreus this time. Feeling exposed he took a slow sip of drink before pointing at himself: “I didn’t get to choose. You, I mean. I didn’t get to choose who I get.”

Aatrox huffed and the tension in his jaw released. “I can assure you that if I assumed control over my situation, I would not purposefully choose to be here .”

“Is Atreus that bad?” Leona joked.

“I despise cowardness.”

Diana squared her shoulders and pointed an accusing finger at the criminal as Atreus tried to shift away from him.

“Don’t go shouting words you clearly don’t know the meaning of.”

“Ha!” Aatrox shouted in mock amusement, drawing the attention of the nearest patrons. “You would preach the same if you witnessed your companion’s failure to defend his territory.”

Knowing exactly what he was getting at, Atreus quickly shut the man down from speaking any further: “It was a long way. Don’t mind him.”

“Oh, I will mind him.” Diana pushed herself up in an attempt to tower over the man in front of her, yet he still managed to have a height advantage. The two glared at each other and Sett was slow to react as they got closer. “Tell us then, oh great warrior, why did you then even agree to this idiotic programme if we mere mortals are such cowards ?”

“Disclosing my personal motives is not part of the contract.”

Their glares turned murderous and Atreus knew Diana was a second away from assaulting him. Leona reacted by gently pulling her wife down and Sett came to stand beside Aatrox. By now everyone’s attention was on them and the bartender had a phone to his ear, probably calling the local enforcement.

“All that matters is that at the end of the day, everyone benefits, I guess. I get money and he is one step closer to going back to his gang or whatever.” Atreus did not mean to speak, but he did and he didn’t feel the need to apologise. Exhaustion overtook him and he was ready to just sleep everything off.

Digging out his share of the drinks, Atreus handed it over to Leona and stood up.

“I’m going home, I can barely keep my eyes open.”

Leona and Diana waved solemnly and Sett nodded in a farewell. Aatrox stopped him by shifting backwards and bumping into the baker. Confused, Atreus turned to him with a questioning look.

“I prefer arriving at an earlier hour,” Aatrox stated, or perhaps it was a masked request.

“If you want you I guess. I’m not really your boss.”

Aatrox nodded, shifted back into his head and lowered his head onto the table. Deciding that today was finally over, Atreus left. Outside a shitty police car arrived and two young spuds got out and walked with self-importance inside. He could only imagine what Aatrox would have to say to them.

‘ Don’t be a fucking coward, shoot me.’

#fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #league of legends #lol #aatrox #pantheon #aatrox x pantheon #aatrox/pantheon #when a crime lord becomes a baker

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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RE:INCARNATE [Reaper/Soldier:76] CHAPTER 2

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RE:LATIONSHIP

At first he didn’t understand what he saw, flesh torn apart revealing nothing but an open ribcage and a still heart. His organs didn’t shiver nor move from their place, although they should have – and he thought to himself that it was bad enough; the pain of having his flesh torn apart almost unbearable. His screams deafened him long ago, his vocal cords already broken to the point where he just screamed blood.

The pain should have stopped there, but he felt things inside of him. He didn’t want to look, but he did.

Maggots. Thousands of maggots squirming inside of him, slowly – so slowly - eating him until he was hollowed out and blood only bubbled down his chin and over the worms who greedily sucked the liquid up.

It should have stopped, but the maggots vomited everything back up until he once again tried to understand what he was seeing.

… … …

He didn’t wake up spluttering and heaving, as one would normally from a dream watching your own body being eaten again and again. No, instead his eyes simply opened and he took one deep breath and raised his hands in front of his face to ensure that right now he was not being tortured.

The click of a tongue next to him didn’t bother him that much either anymore, already used to the disapproving tittering of his friend. She shuffled closer to him, signalled by her clothes dragging across the floor from her side of the small room. She barely slept more than he did, and was it was usual for her to be there when he woke up like this.

She had tea in hand, ready for him to drink and fall back asleep, but he could see that this time she wanted to talk.

“Again?”

“Yes, I felt it more too.”

She simply nodded, casting a look at her sleeping child before turning back to him again.

“Are you well to work in the morning.”

“I have no other choice.”

“Yes you do-”

“It’s the only way to gain a lot of money you know this. The shopkeepers will see me as too old to learn by now, it’s alright Amira.”

She only huffed, but he could see the worry in her eyes. He knew his profession wasn’t the best one, but it has been a part of him since he was a small boy – having been sent by his father to keep his old friends company while receiving hefty coin in return. He was good at what he did… and he couldn’t have Amira work too with her new born; husband killed for a crime he never committed. She was alone and he promised to provide for her no matter what.

He could see Amira wanted to say more, but the baby cried and the woman shuffled away again to quiet her. He drank his tea slowly, and sighed as he tried to rest again. Hopefully the dream won’t come back.

… … …

It was never a glorious thing to have a man cum over you for the sake of a coin, but the deed was done and his heavy pocket made his heart feel just a little lighter. Amira and the babe would eat tonight, and maybe well. She never asked if he got something for himself, but she assumed he did before he returned home.

Of course he couldn’t tell her he only ate what he could beg for, wanting to spoil his kind friend more than himself. It wasn’t that hard of a task to do, his body was not well and he knew the bones were sickly looking – yet the men who took him did not complain, because all they simply had to do was close their eyes and indulge in a pleasure their wives would frown upon.

It was when he was in the marketplace, having paid for fresh bread, when he heard the news of newcomers into the city. It was not the people nor the guards who announced this, but the neighing of impatient horses with pale men on their backs.

He heard about them, many times, but never thought they would come here.

Crusaders.

He should have cared that men with such hollow plans to take back what they believed theirs now resided in his city, but he couldn’t because he knew he would not get involved. Don’t look in their eyes, and don’t cross their paths. Apologise and grovel, drop to your hands and knees if you have to.

Don’t let them get near you.

He spared a last glance at the beasts and their men before scurrying back to the place he called home.

… … …

It was just another normal day, everyone out and about while he lurked in the alleys where most of his clients knew where to find him. He didn’t join the women like him in their houses, scared to endanger them if the guards ever found him – but he was still welcome to visit them if his day was slow. Such as today.

Nobody came since the sun was up, and he saw that no one was about to come for a very long time, so instead he headed to the women for some company before maybe begging for some coin to feed Amira.

It was while he was walking when he felt hands yank him back behind a building, foreign words in his ears as rough hands pulled at his clothes. He understood the tone of their voices, it wasn’t lust nor possession, but mockery, and the cry torn from his lips was enough for him to understand that the men who grabbed him thought of him as a vile creature.

He couldn’t understand how they would be aware of such things, but it has been some time since the Crusaders came and it was possible they noticed him and his activities. He knew he could have fought back, but it wouldn’t benefit him in any way – he was weak, only strong enough to handle a grip on his hips without feeling the bruises the next day.

He was shoved into the ground and the fists pounded harshly into his skin, a sword was produced as well and retracing old scars on his back he wished he could forget about. It always happened for some reason, men attracted by the patches of rough skin on his shoulder blades – always wanting to see them bleed again and heal uglier than they were before.

He didn’t know how much time passed since the men grabbed him, but his muffled cries carried on even after they left him. He hurt, and he didn’t want to go home. Amira would yell at him, begging him to stop but he couldn’t… what else was there for him than to give his body for coin?

She once spoke of him starting a family, but how could he force a woman he didn’t love to bear his children? He couldn’t do it, he couldn’t pick himself up from when he fell as a boy. He was satisfied to die poor and used, only because he knew no better.

The sun was about to set, and he had to go home he knew he did – but something held him back.

It was when a hand gently touched at his aching back did he once again cry out in fear and pain. Twisting his body to face his attacker, he was met with another Crusader armed and ready for war. It was this which had the aching man cry again and pled in a tongue he knew the foreigner would not understand but did so for the sake of his life.

Pale grey eyes stared back at him in confusion, mouth opening to question the sobbing man but he was too late; in his hesitation to question him, did he force himself back onto shaking legs and run away as far as he could.

… … …

“You met one of them?”

“He was… strange…”

“They are dangerous you know, I have never seen your back this bad before.”

“I know Amira, but… it was like he forgot about his sword.”

The woman was quiet, but the sadness in her eyes was enough.

“If he finds you again?”

“Maybe I will speak to him, if he understands.”

… … …

It was on the fourth day when he returned back to the streets, a new purpose leading his feet to the alleyway he wished he died in. It was strange for him to willingly seek out a man, but he was curious. The Crusader did not look like he wanted to cause harm, and he might be a fool to think such a ‘Holy Man’ would see him as anything other than the vile creature he is… but he could hope.

Of course he didn’t tell himself he really wanted to meet the man again, panic still set deep inside of him at the thought that the Crusader could kill him without anyone noticing his death until Amira comes looking for him… no, instead he told himself that he would do business as usual but just be aware of any passing Crusaders.

And he thought that perhaps someone out there has cursed him, because just when he found a client did he also find the Crusader. His client was angry when he was shoved away in an attempt to clear a path. The Crusader at first was blind to everything, but spotted the frantic man as he tried to get as far away as possible.

The Crusader was a highly trained man, and such came the end of the chase as he did not trip over a loose stone and almost bashed their head against an opposing wall. But his figure loomed and blocked the sun, casting dreadful shadows which had the running man feel fear once again.

“Leave me please!”

Jibril felt no shame as he pleaded, he was beyond such feelings. He cast his arms over his eyes and waited for forceful hands to start touching him. A hand enclosed around his wrist and he bit his lip hoping some sort of wrath of any God will save him – but he didn’t need it.

The solder replied in his foreign tongue, and although Jibril did not understand it, the concern in the soldier’s eyes surprised him. He yanked his arm away and struggled to his feet, where he tried to run away again.

The soldier called after him, but Jibril counted his blessings and ran home.

… … …

Amira said nothing as she stroked the old scars on Jibril’s back. Her babe was sleeping soundly, as was the whole city, yet the friends could find no comfort in sleep now.

“I ran into the Crusader again…”

“And what happened?”

“Nothing.”

She said nothing and continued to the dress the wounds she was previously tasked with, her eyes willing to find any distractions.

“I think you should humour him, make another friend.”

“You’re enough.”

“I won’t always be here Jibril.”

He sighed and looked back at her, at her beautiful face wrapped up carefully in order to hide her identity. A woman shunned from the city, yet sought at refuge in the house of a man whore.

“When you die, I’ll kill myself.”

She said nothing, but a knowing glint in her eye had his body trembling.

… … …

He didn’t plan on meeting the Crusader again, or at least not again in this situation. Jibril was bleeding and bruised, and he had to lean against a wall to withstand the ache in his back. He carefully thumbed the coin in his hand and watched in the shadows for what he was to buy.

He was simply on his way to get more food for Amira, but an old client quickly took advantage of him. Jibril wanted to cry and complain, but money was money.

He saw a stand with some fruit and was about to step out of the shadows when the Crusader with the pale grey eyes saw him. Sacred, Jibril tried to back away into the shadows but he was too late. Once again the man tripped as the foreigner loomed over him.

Jibril spat and cursed at the man, trying to ignore the fresh trickle of blood running down his crack. The Crusader only knelt down and said something, but Jibril didn’t understand. He tried backing away again, but the pain was deep and he bit his lip as he tried not to cringe away from it. The Crusader grabbed his hand, and inside he placed a few golden coins.

Jibril’s heart stopped. He was asked to do many things in the past, but this… this could be the death of him. He frantically looked up to the Crusader, expecting to see the lust but he only found a caring smile.

Jibril opened his mouth to ask the foreign question of ‘why?’, but the Crusader appeared embarrassed at first before opening his mouth, pointing a finger at it and then using the same finger to point at the stall behind him. Eat the gesture implied.

Jibril closed his eyes for a second too long in surprise, long enough for the man to have vanished yet not long enough for him to realise the man had that he had forgone his uniform, and stalked the marketplace in a hood.

A strange Holy Man indeed.

… … …

It happened again, Jibril was resting by a fountain when two golden coins was pressed into his palm. He was sore and thirsty, and wanted to sleep, but men kept finding him no matter where he went. The cold press of coin against his palm had him jump as he realised he had to suck another cock, but upon opening his eyes he only found the Crusader staring at him.

Jibril was ready to get down on his knees for the man, but he only stepped away and disappeared again.

… … …

It didn’t stop happening, every day when Jibril was battered and bruised the Crusader would magically appear and give him two golden coins. It was on the fifth day when he couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed the Crusader and spat in his face.

“Take your fucking money back you goatfucker!”

The Crusader said nothing, only stared down at him in confusion before smiling.

He pressed another gold coin in Jibril’s hand, grabbed his chin and kissed him with a passion the whore never knew.

… … …

“Another gold coin?”

“Yes…”

“Jibril?”

“Mmmm…”

Amira only smiled at her friend, unsure of what to think as he sat the whole night rubbing his lips and smiling.

… … …

The next day Jibril went to his usual place to find the bodies of five men brutally gutted and scattered around. They were naked and had crude phalluses carved into their backsides. At first Jibril had no idea what to think, but when he found two golden coins hidden expertly in a groove in the wall, did he think of those pale grey eyes glistening in delight.

… … …

Jibril wanted to confront the man, but he had no ways of doing it. He didn’t know where he was, and they didn’t speak the same tongue.

As luck would have it, he did manage to find the man again – but he wasn’t alone. With him stood a tall and mighty man, he was almost a giant compared to everyone in the city. When the giant spoke his voice vibrated in Jibril’s chest, although he wasn’t enough close enough to hear what his Crusader was saying.

His Crusader.

Jibril was about to turn around, but pale grey eyes locked him into place. The man had no idea what to do as the Crusader walked towards him. The man’s face was soft, and upon closer inspection did Jibril notice the small wrinkles around his eyes, and the soft silver in his hair. The man must be older than he appears, yet it wasn’t the oldest man Jibril had been in the company of.

Jibril was ready to turn heel and run, but the Crusader held out a hand. The movement confused him and had him still long enough for the man to take his hand in his own and softly squeeze it. The gesture was not an unfamiliar one, having seen it done before, but he never expected to do it himself.

The Crusader smiled gently and spoke again, a single word. At first Jibril had no idea what it meant, and the man realised this as he prodded his chest and repeated the word again, “John.”

John. It was his name. Understanding Jibril repeated the action and his own name. The man seemed pleased and lifted Jibril’s hand to his lips before gently placing them against his knuckles. Blood rushed to his face and his chest ached with unfamiliar feelings.

The Crusader, John, let go of his hand before returning to the man he spoke before.

… … …

“He wants something from me, I know it. He gives me money, he kisses me, but he won’t fuck me.”

“That sounds like a decent husband, if only my man had money to offer.”

Jibril was in no mood for his friend’s antics, and threw a wooden spoon at her.

“This isn’t right! I can’t take his money like this! It’s wrong!”

“Then they don’t you seduce him? Or court him?”

Jibril lost his energy, and sighed into the pillow he bought for Amira with the first gold coin he got. She deserved some luxury.

“No… I can’t do that, I can’t make people love me…”

“Jibril-”

“I was born unloved, I was always unloved. Every time I loved someone they left me or betrayed me, I can’t do that. Not again Amira.”

And Jibril almost flinched at the ancient pity in Amira’s eyes, so strong he wondered sometimes if she was human like him.

… … …

Over the next few weeks Jibril and John would have various encounters. It was always in the dark alleyways, yet it had Jibril being in less pain as the days went by and the bodies piled up. He wanted to pity the women who lost their husbands, but he could feel no such thing as he knew somehow they were better without those vile creatures in their homes.

During these encounters Jibril would find himself cornered against a wall as John would softly kiss his fingers, and sometimes when Jibril was sure he was going to die, his lips. It confused him and made him feel things he only felt when alone under the moonlight. Hands never went to grab and grope at him, instead they stayed away until the end when a golden coin was passed on.

It was during their latest encounter when Jibril felt too guilty about the coin. They were again in the shadows and John was so close, yet Jibril made sure to use all the strength he had to block the man from coming further. He took a coin from his pocket, pointed at it before grabbing John’s crotch.

The Crusader yelped and blushed, and took a step back in shock. His hand protectively covered him as he stared accusingly at the golden coin. Jibril wasn’t sure if he did something wrong, so he tried again.

This time he tucked the coin away and settled on his knees. He beckoned John closer, who did so cautiously, before pointing at his crotch and opening his mouth. John did not appear pleased at the notion, and instead joined Jibril on the floor.

The closed the man’s mouth and gave a sad smile. He said something in his tongue, shook his head, repeated the words and then frowned. Jibril was on the verge of tears, he did not want the man’s money for nothing. He knows how to please a man in all the right ways, and yet here was taking it without giving anything in return. He was disgusting.

John leaned forward and kissed his cheek, then the other, his forehead, and lastly the corner of his mouth. He reached for his pocket, pulled out a coin and placed it on the floor between them. It confused Jibril, but he kept his gaze on the man for any sign of wanting to fuck.

It never came.

John only lifted a finger to his lips, tapped twice before tapping the coin. Vaguely understanding, Jibril briefly kissed the man. After pulling away, John contemplated something before shaking his eyes. He had a twinkle in his eye as he tapped his lips again. Jibril leaned forward to give another kiss, but when he wanted to pull away a hand at the nape of his neck held him in place.

At first he wanted to panic, but the hand was gentle and moved to his shoulder all the while still kissing. Jibril wanted to end it, but he could not. Silently they held still what felt like years, before John sighed and pulled away. He smiled, kissed Jibril’s hand and gave him the coin.

At least he could give something.

… … …

These innocent and confusing touches were all Jibril had to do for coin, and it truly only was that. Somehow the Crusader had scared everyone away until it was only them in the shadows softly kissing. It was enough, yet Jibril knew he could offer so much more.

When he was brave he took a hold of the other man’s cock, who would gently push him away and kiss his hands. It confused him, but he never stopped his attempts. John never got angry because of this, but it must have been one too many times because when Jibril tried again he was pushed away a bit too harshly.

Fearing the worst he began to lift his arms, but John reached for his cock and not for him. At first Jibril was sad to finally have to bend over for coin again, yet at the same time he felt a small victory in his chest at finally having to earn the coin.

He watched as the man opened his pants and pulled out a flaccid cock. Silence followed as Jibril patiently waited for the man to get an erection, but as both stared at it nothing happened. He followed his instincts and reached for it, slowly stroking it to life – yet nothing happened.

Confusion clouded his mind. Without a thought he dropped to his knees and placed the man inside of his mouth in ways which would have the wealthiest of men throw riches at him, and indeed it had John twitch and tremble but the cock in his mouth remained soft.

Jibril separated himself and felt humiliated, insulted. Blood pumped to his face in anger and he was ready to yell at the man, but John simply tucked himself away and tapped at his lips. It was a strange thing to do, but Jibril finally understood.

He softly kissed the man and apologised, but John only pulled him close and hugged him. It was in the warm embrace of the Crusader when the whore came to a sudden and frightening realisation.

… … …

“Amira-”

“I think you should tell him, the man clearly likes you and would be pleased to hear you do too.”

“What if he rejects me?”

“Then cut off his balls.”

The woman was blunt, and it shocked Jibril until he found himself laughing at the sight of a confused John as he tried to understand why he was lacking such precious organs. But the fear still lingered, so he held onto his dirty little secret while John would kiss and hold him with more satisfaction than any man who has ever fucked him.

Sometimes when John was hidden in his hood he would accompany Jibril around the marketplace. He would buy fresh fruit and they would sit in the sun and eat together as they enjoyed each other’s silent company.

It was on one such event when John suddenly stopped eating and gave a grim look to Jibril. His eyes were dark and glistening. Jibril wanted to ask what was wrong, but he would be unable to understand. Instead he took a hold of the other man’s face and gently kissed him in reassurance.

When the kiss ended did John give him a piece of paper. It was folded in two, and when opened revealed words in his tongue – yet it was useless to Jibril. He pointed to the page and shook his head, trying to convey his lack of understanding.

The silent words reached John and he only looked grimmer. Tears began to silently trail down his cheeks, and Jibril was hopeless. He tucked away the note and pulled John into his arms. There the man gave silent and violent sobs until the sun began to set.

He pulled away and gave Jibril a kiss. It was soft yet passionate, tasting of salt and a farewell.

Why did it taste like a farewell?

… … …

“He gave me a letter.”

Amira looked surprised and took the letter in question to inspect it. Neither of them could properly read, but she knew more than he did. Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she tried to decipher the words, but she gave up with a sigh and a shake of her head.

“I will take this to scholars tomorrow, perhaps a kind soul will be able to translate this for us.”

He didn’t know if he wanted that to happen.

… … …

John did not appear the next day, nor the day thereafter. Two more days passed without John or a single Crusader in sight. He began to worry, his heart still holding his precious secret he had to tell John.

It was that night when Jibril arrived home to find Amira bearing the ill news:

“He is not coming back my friend. He is off to fight in the war.”

… … …

It’s been months or years, he couldn’t tell. He resumed his old job when John’s coin ran out; Amira’s daughter the only indication of time these days. The little girl was already running around with glee and Jibril knew he needed a lot more coin if she was ever going to be growing up properly.

So he went about his day as usual, but his heart still ached after the one man he truly loved. He could still feel his lips and hear his soft sighs… but the thought of John actually dead, it hurt.

The Crusaders passed by again, but very few, and when no one came to visit him in the middle of the night he knew the truth. He was alone once again.

And the truth struck again when he returned home to find the wailing of a child and the screams of a woman. Jibril did not hesitate to find the source, near the end of the small house was a stranger with a sword.

Amira was slowly dying, her gut slit open and the sword already pointing to her throat, so the man threw himself at the stranger trying to save what little family he had left. Jibril was not trained in any way and was still a weak man, so it was only after a few seconds of struggling that the word reached up and slit his own throat in return.

The broken man died unable to protect the ones he truly loved. He thought he saw the Crusade’s mark on the stranger, and tried to understand what they did to offend the attacker. His last sight was that of the stranger’s hood falling off, revealing long blonde hair held up.

He thought he saw breasts and a blue eyes, perhaps tears.

But the thoughts didn’t last very long, as Jibril was soon released into death.

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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Danny likes finding Frank after trials. He may or may not be jealous of not receiving such nice cosmetics from the Entity.

Also on DeviantArt and Instagram!

#art #digital art #illustration #dead by daylight #dbd #ghostface #legion #ghostfrank #ghostface x legion #ghostface/legion #ghostface x frank #ghostface/frank #danny johnson #jed olsen #frank morrison #danny x frank

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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When a Crime Lord becomes a Baker [Aatrox/Pantheon] CHAPTER 2

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ESPRESSO BROWNIES

Cupcakes were tiring to make. Their scientific formula for perfection was so intricate Atreus was certain that somewhere a Piltovian Professor was writing novels worth of research papers on The Perfect Cupcake. And if there wasn't anyone dedicating themselves to such a worthy cause, he would be sure to send Aphelios over and rethink his college degree in favour of blessing Atreus with the knowledge not even the divines would bestow upon him.

It was because of this mind-wrecking science that Atreus gave up on baking perfect cupcakes in favour of resorting to something that required no thought: brownies. He knew Soraka would have something to say about it, but right now Atreus could not bring it upon himself to think too hard on the exact measurements of sugar to flour ration to birth a new set of cupcakes.

In truth he was panicking: ever since his application got approved and his new employee got announced, he began rethinking all of his life choices. He considered revoking his application, but of course, the divines wanted him dead because just as he was about to abort the mission did the details concerning his monetary compensation come through. Having the Darkin Lord, Aatrox, as his employee meant that Atreus could open up a bakery in every single region and still have enough to take a year or two off.

And when he announced this good news to Soraka the next day she did not hold back the gory details of everything she managed to learn about Aatrox:

"Did you know that Aatrox is responsible for almost fifty deaths alone in his first year of establishing the Darkin? They say it's the most gruesome killings they have seen since the last Shuriman war."

"Did you know that Aatrox never hid away the Darkin base? But even if anyone tried to intervene they would become part of the public executions. Sometimes they held the executions right outside the base. No one knows if Aatrox catches these people alone or if the Darkin is secretly an army of brainwashed Shuriman soldiers."

"Did you know that once the Darkin managed to get so close to the Emperor that they had to double the Shuriman special forces number which resulted in a new record of militia depression and suicidal rates?"

It was when Soraka decided to impart her knowledge about the killing methods of the Darkin that Atreus finally had enough and forbade her from filling the candy jar for two days. This quickly made her keep her knowledge to herself, which also meant that she spent the next two days sulking and throwing longing looks at the candy jar (only missing the top layer since Zoe came in that morning). But as the days passed and fewer and fewer cupcakes were being made, it finally came to the day that Aatrox was supposed to arrive. That morning Atreus came in earlier than usual; a steaming box of espresso brownies burning against his palms as he hesitated to put it down; putting it down meant that the day had to begin. For the day to begin meant that Aatrox would arrive.

Someone rapped against the glass door and he whipped around to find a Soraka in her frilly apron waving energetically. Leaving the brownies to their fate on the counter, Atreus went to greet her and close the door firmly behind her. One would have thought reinstalling a new door meant it was also good quality, but when you only have one repairman in town you can hardly complain about anything.

"You know you can leave your apron here."

"I know." was all she said without further explanation. She walked happily over to the counter as the smell of brownies already began to travel to the door. She opened the box and sighed in delight as the aroma of bitter roast escaped.

"Why didn't you make espresso cupcakes?" She picked up a brownie and took a bite. Her eyes closed and she hummed a happy tune. Atreus couldn't stop the soft smile at her content expression; he enjoyed it when Soraka liked his goods. As obsessed as she is with strange foods, she did not settle for anything less than perfection.

"I'm getting tired of cupcakes."

"Well then, let's hope The Darkin Lord Sir Aatrox likes brownies!" to hear Soraka mention the man only made Atreus frown as panic began to well up again. He was not afraid of dangerous people, being military trained himself, but he feared losing everything. It was foolish to think that Aatrox would come as an obedient man willing to please everyone around him; in fact, it was very possible that the man would take any opportunity to escape and wreak havoc on the small town. They had law enforcement, but no one in Mount Targon ever had to deal with someone this dangerous. At least not in a long time.

"Let's hope he likes anything at all."

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

The sun rose and a few stragglers began to wander the streets. It was a weekday, meaning no children or teenagers would wander near the store. That also meant that no one has come in the past two hours.

Which also meant…

"Hey, Atreus!" Soraka called from the back. He abandoned his task of rearranging the display case and went to see what she was yelling about. Inside the kitchen, she held out the wall-mounted phone with flour-covered fingers. A splash of banana bread batter was on her forehead. "Leona says it's urgent."

He took the phone and was about to greet the woman, but she gave him no time:

"By the sun! He's coming over right now!" Her frantic voice was unnatural to hear and at first, the words hit him like a comet. Atreus opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. He vaguely registered Soraka leaving the kitchen to manage the front of the store. He still hasn't told her about the batter.

"How do you-" he managed to get out, but Leona quickly cut him off as Diana shouted something behind her: "Don't worry about it. They're driving and they left like two minutes ago. He's huge! Diana and I-"

Soraka interrupted them with a mischievous smile. Atreus put down the phone and turned to her knowing exactly what she would say. She opened her mouth to make the announcement, but he held up his hand to stop her and took a deep breath.

"First, you have batter on your forehead. Second, do not offer him your banana doughnuts," she frowned in protest as she wiped at the almost dry batter. The door was slightly ajar behind her and Atreus spotted two massive figures waiting impatiently. He took a deep breath before continuing in a pleading tone, "And please, do not aggravate him. If a hand of rebellious teenagers can smash this place, imagine what he can do."

Soraka crossed her arms and pouted: "What if he likes banana doughnuts?"

There was no hope.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

In the dining area of the bakery stood the Darkin Lord himself: Aatrox. He was large in almost all aspects: he towered over everything in the small shop. He was not as broad as Taric, but rather taut and powerful muscle could be seen underneath his obviously issued civilian clothes. Not even improper-sized t-shirts could hide the dangerous strength the man possessed. Atreus was confident enough to say that Aatrox never had to look up at anyone in his entire life, maybe he was born a giant.

He was dressed so casually that if Atreus did not have his mugshot on hand he would never have realised who Aatrox was. Atreus dared to finally make eye contact with the man; albeit through the crack of the door, only to see the criminal glaring straight at him. His features were sharp and mean, and the intense blackness of his irises did not help to soften anything.

Spotted, Atreus finally stepped out to greet his new employee and…

"You must be Atreus!" said not Aatrox, but the man accompanying him. His voice was loud and had a strange accent to it. He too was large and tall, but where Aatrox stood taut with agile muscles this man had nothing but pure (as Zoe would call it) beef. Atreus vaguely wondered what they fed people outside of Mount Targon for them to grow to such sizes; not even Taric was native to the mountain.

"Um, yes." Atreus finally replied, trying his best to avoid the intense glare still set on him. The stranger gave a smile so big it would make Zoe jealous. "I'm Sett! I'm this guy's bodyguard and here to stop any trouble." he smashed his fists together with a wink before giving a hearty laugh.

A bodyguard. Someone the Immortal Bastion trusted well enough to protect the small town from Aatrox. It did not ease Atreus' mind at all. The baker stepped out from behind the counter and held out his hand to the bodyguard, Sett, who took it with vigour. They shared a handshake filled with testosterone before Atreus was forced to acknowledge the very person he dreaded meeting.

Craning his head upwards, he held out his hand to Aatrox, "Welcome to the Golden Bakery. I hope the next few weeks won't bore you to death." The man stared at the baker's hand for an uncomfortably long time. Realising that the gesture won't be returned Atreus retracted his hand and motioned to the display case.

"Have you eaten? I have savoury goods too if you don't have a sweet tooth-"

"-We have banana doughnuts!" Exclaimed Soraka as she finally left the kitchen. A tray of freshly baked banana doughnuts rested on her gloved hands. They looked cursed, and the smell alone crinkled Atreus' nose. Before he could stop her, she hopped over to the Aatrox and Sett and held out the tray with a large smile: "It's a family recipe! I cannot be held responsible for any ailments you may or may not contract."

Sett made a sound of amazement and took one of the doughnuts. Aatrox only continued to glare down at Atreus, not even acknowledging the woman trying to use him as a guinea pig. Soraka frowned before grabbing the man's hand and depositing a doughnut into his large palm. Atreus jerked forward to pull her away and Sett suddenly stood ready to intercept any violence Aatrox was prepared to unleash, but their worry was for nought because the man only alternated his glare between the doughnut and Soraka before deciding that the doughnut was the offender.

Atreus still tugged Soraka back and cautiously observed his new employee as he made the final decision of eating the doughnut. Atreus wanted to protest, certain that Soraka's horrid recipes were enough to begin a war, but Aatrox only swallowed the offender. His lip twitched and he dusted his hand off his jeans. "Are bananas a favourable taste here?" These were the first words to come out of Aatrox The Darkin Lord himself.

There was a brief silence before Soraka beamed and took a deep breath to begin her tangent on how difficult it was to obtain quality bananas on the mountain, however, she knew a friend who knew a friend, who had a friend somewhere in a little village in Shurima that specialised in growing the sweetest bananas. Atreus quickly pulled her behind him to stop her before she could even start and gave an uncertain look to Sett. The bodyguard shrugged which really meant nothing at all.

Soraka finally quieted down and noticed for the first time the tension between her boss and her new colleague. Atreus, deciding that Soraka has done enough damage, cleared his throat and addressed Aatrox again, "I'm sure working in a bakery is not something you're excited about. You'll probably work in the kitchen most of the time and, um, Soraka would appreciate the extra help."

Aatrox gave a low thoughtful hum. His intense frown has not left his face once. It was amazing how the man managed to fit almost every stereotype of a Shurminan criminal: head cleanly shaved to make way for an intricate set of tattoos slightly trespassing onto his face (if Atreus looked closely enough they almost appeared to be metallic horns), scars on his eyebrows indicated confiscated jewellery and deep scars drew attention to his pitch-black eyes. What truly gave away his profession was the brand on his neck: the Noxian sigil.

"We don't get a lot of customers," Atreus continued. "Targon is a pretty small place so it's difficult to draw anyone in if you don't have a good rep."

Aatrox crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "You have a soiled image?" He asked, his voice thick with an accent. The question caught Atreus off guard as he failed to realise what he revealed. Flustered he held up his hands in defence of his character.

"Small towns don't like military folk. Too many problems apparently."

The criminal observed him momentarily before giving a curt nod, "Let us begin then. Show me your operations."

Soraka was tasked with managing the front of the store as the three men made their way to the kitchen. Atreus realised that a kitchen housed many weapons and faltered when he showed the man the utensils and their usages.

"I was told you're prohibited from using anything that can act as a weapon." Atreus began carefully. Aatrox said nothing but Sett gave another one of his hearty laughs, "Don't worry 'bout that shit. This guy won't touch a thing unless he knows who made it."

The words meant nothing to the baker, but Aatrox's disinterest in the knives made him question the sanity levels of everyone involved in this mess. He observed the man some more as he moved around the small kitchen with sharp eyes. So far he was nothing like the stories Atreus heard from others; a large giant with a bellowing voice as he slaughtered whoever tries to cross his path. In fact, the man who stood in front of him was rather… collected. If not for the tattoos, Atreus was sure to mistake him for another tourist.

"Um, I'll work with you this week in the kitchen. Have you ever baked?" Atreus asked. The man stopped in his steps and gave a thoughtful look.

"The Bastion's restrictions do not permit me from nearing anything of dangerous value." His strange way of speaking was somewhat unsettling, but from what Atreus knew it was a Shuriman thing; always being so careful with the words they spoke.

"Then you can be on packaging duty. Unless you know how to kill someone with a paper box, I'm sure it'll be fine."

The criminal's lips twitched at the words and he released a deep sigh, "I've killed men with less."

Sett laughed, but Atreus hardly felt comforted as Aatrox continued to dig into his soul with those abyssal eyes. He couldn't look away, and for a moment he wondered if it was the last thing others saw before dying by his hand.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧

Not soon enough, the clock struck 4 o'clock and Soraka sighed as she undid her frilly apron. Her closing-up routine began with checking the candy jar. The top layer was still missing, but nothing more as Zoe failed to drop by that day. She had to take her puppy to the vet and possibly planned on coddling him for the entire day. Next came cleaning the counter, which hardly got dirty with the low traffic rate. However, Soraka always made sure to give it a good wiping down before checking on the dates of the goodies in the display rack; anything older than 3 days were a no-go for Atreus who prided himself on always having fresh goods. Only a recently expired pie was removed.

Soraka never managed to the cash register, only because Atreus liked doing so in the early mornings before she arrived. The scattered tables were clean, the floors were clean, and there was no trash anywhere to be found. So with only the expired apple pie, she made her to the kitchen where she heard the hearty laugh of the bodyguard, Sett.

Inside she found Atreus finishing up wiping down a counter and her new coworker gently stacking newly folded boxes on each other. Sett was lounging in the corner and clearly bemused by the scene in front of him, or perhaps it was something that happened before she had the chance to witness it.

"I closed up." she announced as she made her way to the large disposal bin to throw away the apple pie. Atreus looked up and gave a firm nod, "Did Zoe come today?" he asked.

Soraka shook her head in answer to which Atreus only sighed. "Remind me to go to her place tomorrow. The dog biscuits are going to go stale by this rate."

She barely acknowledged his request as she slipped over to her new coworker's side to observe his work for the day: stacked against the wall were well over one hundred neatly folded boxes. Once she was tasked with the tedious chore and only managed to do around ten until she declared defeat and threatened Atreus with slipping in her personal recipes if he didn't do it for her. However, she never expected The Darkin Lord Aatrox to be such a good employee. Giving a wide smile to her new coworker, she patted him on the arm, "Well look at you! If it wasn't for you leaving in a few weeks I would be worrying about losing my job."

Atreus scoffed from his side in the kitchen. Aatrox turned to glare at them. The two held each other's gaze for an uncomfortably long time until Sett cleared his throat. The beefy bodyguard strutted over to his charge and began digging into his pockets. "Can't have him sneaking weapons around now can we." He explained as he continued his search.

"These kitchen playthings are hardly worthy of my skill." Aatrox sneered. Soraka wondered if the man was always so... dramatic? theatrical? clearly out of touch with normal conversation patterns?

Satisfied, Sett pulled his hands back and tipped his head in Atreus' direction, "Well then. We'll be off for the night. What time should we come in tomorrow?"

"Um, around six should be fine."

Aatrox crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at his employee, "To stand idle until a living being enters?"

Atreus glared at the man and walked up to him, or at least dared to get as close as possible An entire two Setts could have fit in between them. Soraka watched with amusement as Atreus dared to point a threatening finger at the man, "You can hardly judge my business when you haven't been here a full day. Never mind that I barely put you out on display in the front."

"And why not? If I am deemed the most fearsome man on this mountain then I pity all of you."

Sett sensing that tensions were escalating stepped in and carefully slipped on a pair of handcuffs (more like shackles) around Aatrox. Without a proper farewell, the two left the meagre bakery and possibly to Leona and Diana's inn. The kitchen was silent. Soraka turned when Atreus moved behind her; his cheeks were red and he removed to make eye contact as he furiously cleaned the counters.

"So~ How was it? Were you two fighting the whole time?"

"No. He barely spoke a word until you came in. That man is nothing but a death wish. Why the hell did I agree to this?" He said helplessly. The cloth never stopped scrubbing.

Soraka hoisted herself onto a clean counter and idly kicked her feet in thought. She hasn't known Atreus for long, only as long as his bakery was open which was only about four years. Before then he didn't live on the mountain. From what she heard he was shipped off somewhere for military duties, but if he actually fought battles and saw blood was nothing she knew off. Only that his travels were the only reason he met Leona, and the only reason he ever came back to the town. And from what little Leona dared to speak of Atreus has never been one for friends. And in a town as small as theirs, anything beyond friends was almost impossible to have unless you became the annual gossip.

An idea sparked then; not a good idea, but one she could easily discuss with Leona and Diana.

Motivated, she jumped off the counter and curtsied, "Well then, my gracious employer. Allow me to escort myself home~"

"Don't you start speaking like that thug now."

"Whatever do you mean my good man?"

A wet rag sailed across her shoulder.

"Go home Soraka. Come in tomorrow at six, same as them."

But she won't be going home.

#fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #league of legends #lol #aatrox #pantheon #aatrox x pantheon #aatrox/pantheon #when a crime lord becomes a baker

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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Nightshade Eyes [Reaper/Soldier:76] CHAPTER 2

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Angela was like most fae: beautiful, kind, nurturing and highly protective of those she considered family. She was renowned throughout the castle and kingdom for her abilities to not only nurse but elevate the souls of the suffering. Often she would visit the lower districts to secretly tend to the sick children and weak adults who had no choice but to work until their bones snapped.

Once, she lived in an orphanage to care for every child who lost their family in the war. She had children cry on her, snot wiped on her, and too many times did she have to thoroughly clean herself after spending time with orphaned newborns. However, she never once lost her grace because she could feel the small flames inside of their bodies yearning for comfort.

Meeting Knight Commander Jack Morrison changed her: she met him when he was weak and delirious from the events of the battle. Like a child, he would bawl and babble, and she felt deeply for him as the small flame inside of him grew smaller with the passing days. She knew what his flame was like before the incident, and she swore she would never see it again.

Then his mind cleared and she discovered who he really was: a mean-spirited old man. Although he was merely forty-two winters to her centuries of seasons, he was intent on acting like the old sages she often had to visit for her training. He would complain and huff and yell whenever the slightest thing inconvenienced him. Deep down she understood that he suffered greatly, but the more he resisted her care and comfort, the less she began to care.

Yet she found herself back in the decrypt little village the following morning after waking up to a black moth on her nose. Blind, Jack is unable to send messages so she teaches him how to summon the fluttering creatures to signal her if he ever needs it. Perhaps it was because it was the first time he used it since she taught him how (so many years ago) that she found herself outside of his doorstep.

The door was open when she gently pressed against it. She did not know what to expect, except that a black moth meant an emergency. What Jack considered an emergency was all too unfamiliar to her. The door creaked open and she let herself in. Inside she scanned the area before spotting Jack sitting in the kitchen with a pinched expression and his hand desperately clutching to his locket.

“You summoned me?” She asked cautiously as the man had yet to acknowledge her presence. He finally released a sigh and let go of his locket.

“The fireplace.” He croaked out tiredly. Upon closer inspection, she realised he must have stayed awake for a few hours, if not the entire night. Being a spring fae she was practically useless as soon as the sun dipped, which meant that she had no idea for how long the moth waited for her to wake up. Guilt clenched at her heart, but she waved it away as she comforted herself with the notion that Jack was the one to reject her idea of living with her fellow fae. He was the one who wanted to live here, alone.

Still worried, she made her way to the fireplace where nothing was out of order. She was pleased to see that the smithy’s wife did in fact come over to help clean up, but she missed a spot. A big spot. On the floor, almost blending into the shadows, was a body. A prominent figure covered a long leather coat lying on their stomach. Their head was turned to the side but it was too dark for her to see their face clearly: another disadvantage of her birth season.

She slowly leaned down and hovered her hand over the still body to feel for a flame. At first, she was certain it was a corpse when a sudden spark struck at her fingertips. She hissed and jerked her hand away.

“Angela?” Jack called worried.

“Why do you have an exorcist on your floor, Jack?” She called back. Exorcists did not have flames; souls. How they managed to live like human beings was a magic even beyond her or at least one she refused to dwell on. It would be the end of her kind if humans realised fae were the only ones who could contact the Devil. Angela has only ever met a devil fae once and the experience still unsettled her to think about.

Angela reached for the body again, this time expecting the zap, and gently touched it. The body did not breathe, but she could feel the slow drum of a heartbeat. She lifted her hand and took hold of the figure’s coat to gently roll them over. Just as she slightly shifted them, the body groaned and a wet sound came from the floor. Exorcists bled?

She released the body and turned to the solemn former soldier: “Your sight might be gone, but if you fail to carry this body then I will officially lose all hope in your recovery.”

… … …

Jack despised the company of others since he was dismissed from his post: all it took was one day for him to discover that the only benefit of friends was the possibility of a fuck and a drinking partner. Companionship was a novelty reserved for those who had the time for such trivial matters.

So to have Angela order him to place the perhaps-dead exorcist in his bed was the last crack in the ice of what he considered acceptable. It was bad enough he had to depend on others for survival, and now his only island of isolation was occupied by a Devil’s child. And from the brief walk to his bedroom, he could not only tell that the exorcist was heavy , but also well-built.

Jack had never touched an exorcist before, opting to simply behead them from a distance, however, he had to wonder what the exorcist even needed a healthy body for: they returned ghouls with unholy weapons and drank their misty blood for life essence. They never sleep, never eat human food, and Jack has yet to hear of one who dared visit a whorehouse.

Which brought him back to the body in his bed: was it a real exorcist?

“He is wounded.”

“ He? ”

“As far as exorcists go, yes, it is a man. Before you lose yourself, he is nothing worth fawning over.”

Jack ignored the remark about his bed partner preferences, instead, he reached out a cautious hand and came into contact with skin. He prodded at the strange warmth which elicited a painful groan from the body. It was still alive. “You removed its mask?” He asked.

“No,” Angela suddenly said beside him. She gently pushed him to the side to further her examination. “Only he can remove it. But I had to dispose of his attire.”

“ He is naked? ” Jack stumbled backwards as he tried to remember what he touched. The impish fae laughed at his misery and a hand reached for his shirt. She pulled him closer again and guided him to a chair the soft-spoken woman from yesterday brought for him.

“His chest is bare. I would rather join the Devil herself before having to view an exorcist's treasury.” Another groan came from the man as Angela continued. A few minutes later, filled with groans and wet sounds, the fae finally sighed in defeat.

“His chest is torn. It is not a ghoul and it is rather too small to be a werebeast. I cannot mend him; he does not have a flame.”

Jack wondered if that meant he did not have to worry about any exorcists being in his life in the near future, but of course, Angela (being the nurturing fae that she is) could not even watch a Devil’s child die. “I will inform the village. I believe this is their exorcist, he has a crest branded into his chest.” Before Jack could protest, Angela took hold of his hand and forced him to feel the ugly scar on its strange warm skin. He did not marvel at the scar, instead, he jerked away harshly and cursed cruelly at the fae: she knew better than to force his touch onto others. It was the one rule they had: do not touch him, and he will obey.

“Do you think this place is its house?” He asked with uncertainty. He arrived at the village without notice and no one was genuinely pleased when he demanded an abode. Angela had to barter harshly with a stern woman until it was agreed that he could rent the house. Of course on one condition: do not destroy it.

Jack didn’t know if exorcists had houses. He thought they were nomadic people who slaughtered as they travelled, but it was also not uncommon for a village to hire their services. They were the only exorcists the knights were not allowed to hunt, for they were doing a good deed. If Jack has to share his new house with a Devil child, he would instead return to the castle and live in the slums until someone finally beats him to death.

“No,” Angela said. “I was informed that the exorcist resides with one of the villagers. They all respect him and speak fondly of his presence, do not make enemies with the people because of your inability to sense goodness.”

“No wonder I got stuck with you.” he spat bitterly. Who was she, a mere fae, to reprimand him about who he considered good? Who was she, who tended to damned souls and tainted her hands with sinner’s blood, to tell him that he cannot sense the evil within people? It was not his lack of sense that caused his undoing. Or so she would convince him.

“If we tell the villagers now then they can remove it from my life. I would rather we have them take it away before the sun sets.”

“I cannot promise you freedom.” The fae said as she quickly left the house to who knows where.

Alone, Jack found his way back to the chair and heavily sat down. He held his breath to listen for any presence of life: however, since last night, the Devil child did not breathe. Did exorcists have any humanity left inside of them?

He thought back to the brand and warm skin, the pained sounds and the heavy body. Sometimes it was difficult to believe such evil creatures were once human, that they once had lives and possibly families and loved ones. Why humans decide to become these creatures was unknown to Jack: even when loving hands spread hot poison across his eyes, he never prayed to the Devil to save him.

… … …

The unsettling silence was enough to force the sleep away as he sat stiffly and waited for Angela’s return. The locket against his chest burned comfortably when the front door creaked open: it was midday. Soft footsteps moved his way until Angela formally announced her presence: “Have you ever considered becoming… tolerant towards a companion?” she asked.

The words did not ease Jack’s already irritated mood. He did not want the Devil child to be in his house any longer. Angela’s words only meant one thing.

“It is staying?”

“I did not tell the whole truth. His injuries are… critical. If you care, he only lives because whatever attacked him failed to completely sever his head. I suppose during the night it began mending itself, however, I’m sure a not-too-gentle push would just have it topple off again.”

A silence brewed among them. He suspected she had ulterior motives for not mentioning it sooner, however, he could hardly fight against her. He learned long ago that she always won.

“You mean to say because we cannot move it again, it is staying.”

“It is a man not a thing. ”

“Exorcists do not deserve human titles.”

The fae sighed impatiently and moved over to the unbreathing body. He heard the soft jingle of her magic as she worked in silence: he knew she was easing his pain as best as she could. He remembers the feeling well, and the soft cooing voices that would whisper comforting lies as he refused to wake from his slumber.

“I calmed his mind for now. There is not a doctor in this village, nor a shaman, but I was told that he will heal himself over time.”

“A week?”

“Perhaps longer. With no nearby ghouls, he cannot feast and heal faster. In the meantime, you must make sure he does not leave the bed and allow the villagers to come in and ensure he is safe.”

Jack did not enjoy this idea. He had hoped that the prior day’s interaction would be the last time he would have to speak with the villagers, but now he had to willingly allow them inside? He did not retreat to the decrypt village only to be bombarded by unwanted visitors.

“Where must I sleep?”

“Are you so old that you cannot sleep on the floor anymore?”

“Angela…”

“Alright. I will arrange with the carpenter to supply you with an additional bed.”

The body groaned, reminding Jack that his room was still being invaded.

“I want the bed away from it. I refuse to share a room with this thing.”

“I forgot how demanding you can be, Sir Morrison.”

He glared in her general direction. “And do not refer to my name. I am Jack.”

“Of course, Sir Jack.”

“Leave me be imp.”

“As always.”

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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Reimagined the League of Legends drakes as your local gal pals! Now I just have to draw the remaining three ;-;

Also on DeviantArt and Instagram!

#art #digitalart #illustration #league of legends #lol #drakes #character design #elemental girls

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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RE:INCARNATE [Reaper/Soldier:76] Chapter 1

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RE:SIST

Agony. There was no other word to describe it; searing flames licking at flesh until it blackened with a sickening smell, blood barely able to ooze out of wounds – but the few drops that managed to squeeze themselves out only fueled the fire. Hotter and hotter, until the flames reached past flesh and blood, burning deep into soft organs and ivory bones and cackling in delight as the bones agonisingly turned to char. The bones should have fallen, signalling the end of the torment.

But they stood tall – flames receding just enough to see organs, blood and flesh slowly returning.

Then the flames returned.

... ... ...

The sudden stop of the carriage rudely woke the dark man from his slumber, muddy eyes flying open in a scowl as he quickly surveyed his surroundings before allowing his tense shoulders to sag in relief. The same dream… again and again, ever since he could remember. Flames and screaming. It didn't bother him as much as it used to, but somehow the recent version was longer than before; this time, he was allowed to see his body returning to normal.

The thoughts escaped the man as soon as they came, as he realised too late where they were: Rome. It's been so long since he heard so many different voices about; men and women conversing as children squealed and screamed – it's a wonder he didn't notice everything around him. However, somewhere in his mind, he wasn't all that surprised. Why should he be aware of such a bustling city if he was never to experience it as a free man?

A child spotted him and rudely pointed; their mother hit them before scowling at the dark man. He could care less; he wasn't here for them. His smug smirk did not go unnoticed, but the mother could do nothing else as the carriage started moving towards the Colosseum again.

… … …

He didn't know what to expect, maybe something that didn't resemble his cell at the old school – but here he stood in the middle of his brick-and-stone cell, a single bed staring him down and hundreds of others doing the same. Or so he hoped. The dark man turned to sit on his bed, catching the eye of someone passing by, and waited for further instruction.

Not once since he arrived at the new school, Ludus Magnus it was called, did anyone ask for his name, unlike the innocent children at the old school who seemed so eager to learn the name of a prisoner of war. But even then, no one would get an answer from him – he had no name or at least none he was aware of. His trainer was the one who smote him with his name, a grimace and cruel laugh following his teasing – but he embraced his new name, his only name.

"You there."

The man lifted his head to find a guard at his door, a neutral expression on his face as he regarded the new Gladiator calmly.

"It's time to eat ."

The man only nodded in acknowledgement and stood up to follow the guard. The two walked through the winding passages until they reached the meal room. Others were seated and quietly conversing as slave women worked around them. In another corner, he spotted others shackled and observed by guards; novicius, the new Gladiators who would soon realise the life of one wasn't as glamourous as everyone thought.

A few eyes shifted to him as he sat down and dug into the food. He didn't speak nor return any of their gazes, instead, he focused solely on chewing and swallowing. He only recently proved himself worthy of fighting for the people of the public, his trainers having to pull him out of his first public fight for the sake of his opponent. He might have been dubbed as fresh meat, but his experience on the battlefield could not take away his ability to slaughter five men with just a swift strike of his swords.

He was a monster, an angel of death.

Mortem.

… … …

"Are you not nervous about fighting?"

Mortem looked at the man who spoke to him, his facial tattoos mirroring Mortem's and identifying him as the same level. But he wasn't nervous.

"It's not my first fight."

"But you're a Tiro."

"No, I am a soldier."

And no other words were spoken because when Mortem turned around, the other man went quiet as he saw the ugly skin stitched across his shoulder blades as if wings had been torn from his back. Many refuse to ask about it, and few attempts to stare at it for longer than a few seconds. And then there were the rare ones who never feared to ask.

"Is that from your wars?"

The question was familiar, and a smile tugged at Mortem's lips as he looked over to the younger man, also marred with tattoos.

"It's from being born."

The answer never satisfied anyone because no one knew what it meant. Did they cut him as a babe? Was he not supposed to live? Did his mother mark him to never lose him? Not even Mortem could answer truthfully because he never knew he had the scars until his fellow soldiers placed bets on his history. A history he didn't think he had.

"If you show your scars, the Emperor will spare you."

"What?"

The first man shrugged, back to preparing himself.

"No one knows why, but it's how it is. The more gruesome your scars, the easier it would be to walk away alive. One of the others told me, but it's not out of pity but of fascination."

The conversation stopped there, doctors coming in to check the new Gladiators before they prepared themselves for their first event in front of the Emperor. Mortem barely focused on the hands trailing across his body, prodding at his back. He envisioned the Emperor, a man with a sick smile and cruel eyes, luring the scarred warriors only to have them die from pity.

… … …

Dimachaerus, a wielder of two swords – the Gladiator Mortem trained many hard years just to regain his freedom as a man. The heavy weight of the blades in his hands made his blood rush through his veins, and his sight zeroed in on the thin slit his helmet allowed him to see through. Today he would prove himself worthy enough to rise the ranks to earn the respect of Rome, his enemy.

He could care less what the Emperor thought of him or his scars. Still, the hushed whispers behind him made him wonder why everyone was so obsessed over such a cruel ruler who allowed men to brutally fight for sports, allowing captured men to fight for the entertainment of the people they hate. It was sick.

A guard shouted something and a hand shoved him forward until he faced large wooden doors, one step closer to the arena. He could hear the screams of delight from the crowds, some shouting disapproval. He saw a man limping back from his event, blood oozing from his arms but smiling. Sick.

And then, the doors opened.

Blinding light pierced his eyes, but he strode on without flinching. There was laughter, mocking fingers and grins as they watched the newest of Gladiators dare to fight in the Colosseum. Mortem didn't bother to entertain them more than he had to; he only had sights on the closed doors of his opponents. Of course, they would make him want to fear the unknown.

During this wait time, he allowed himself to scan the endless crowds until his eyes found the very balcony of the Emperor and his wife. He noticed the woman; first, her hair braided down her shoulder in waves of fire and the golden laurel on her head reflecting just enough for Mortem to spot. Her posture was stiff, in a manner that she might have been threatened by everyone around her. Still, her one hand rested protectively around the Emperor's wrist.

The Emperor.

Another title could not suit the man better, with his regal face looming down. He, too, wore a golden laurel, but it was almost hidden amongst his hair, which shone just as bright. Mortem couldn't understand at first how the man was a Roman, but he had little time to ponder on it more when the doors of his opponent suddenly opened.

A new fire sparked in his chest, not one of rage or disgust, but made him want to prove his strength. But why? Mortem spared a glance at the Emperor again and found the man looking straight back at him.

Without further hesitation, Mortem held his swords steady and faced his opponent, a brute man armoured and brandishing a spear and shield. He moved slowly but deadly, the armour and shield won't allow Mortem to end it quickly, and the spear would keep him at a distance. But he was quick.

He waited until the man was close enough, spear clasped in hand and shield ready to block any of Mortem's strikes. He didn't wait for anyone to give him the signal. He simply charged forward, struck the man from the left, and got blocked, his right sword reaching to strike him in his exposed side and was stopped by the spear's handle.

The blocks almost had the power to knock Mortem back, but he was steady on his feet and fought back against the blows. He allowed himself to entertain the crowd for a while, or at least the Emperor, with his trivial and failing blows – each striking hard enough to knock the man back once.

When Mortem suddenly got bored of all charade, he twirled around the man, swords brandished low and cut open the back of his exposed knees. The man screamed in agony and buckled in his place until he could not fall to the ground. Blood was steadily staining the stand below him, but the fallen Gladiator only shook in pain and breathed deeply.

Go down in honour.

The fight didn't last long enough to entertain the crowds, but after Mortem stood tall and raised his swords in victory did, he see a rather satisfying smirk on the Emperor's face. Yes, this will work. Gain his respect, gain my freedom. But the frantic beating of his heart was not only from the adrenaline. Mortem didn't recognise the clench in his gut when the Emperor gave one last smile before Mortem was ushered back behind the walls.

… … …

"You are Mortem?"

The voice wasn't one Mortem had heard before, used to the strange accents and languages in the school – but not one that sounded so regal. The man opened his eyes to find the Emperor at the door of his cell, a white tunic gracefully draped over him in a fashion Mortem could never understand.

The Gladiator rose from his bed and held himself upright, not allowing the Emperor to see weakness.

"I am."

The Emperor smiled and entered his room; only then did Mortem see the man's eyes, a deep brown like wet mud. Other things came to his attention as well, such as the beginnings of greys peeking from his roots and the soft wrinkles around his eyes. He was not a man of youth anymore, but neither was Mortem.

"So I heard that was your first, no, second public fight. What made you so good that you were allowed to come to fight in my presence?"

"I struck down five men in a single strike, gutted another four and almost beheaded the main victor at my old school. My trainers did not want me to kill all their men, so they sent me away instead."

The spark in the Emperor's eyes had Mortem stand even taller, proud that his bloodlust brought joy to the ruler. See how strong I am. Free me.

"May I ask to see your back? Your scars are very interesting."

Not wanting to face the consequences of refusing, Mortem turned and allowed the man's hands to trail over his back. His touch was warm and firm, hands framing the ugly flesh until Mortem heard a hum and looked back to find the Emperor, almost sad at seeing the scars.

"It looks painful."

"Little hurts me these days."

The answer humoured the man as he huffed and stepped back again.

"It was interesting meeting you, Mortem; maybe we could share the arena one day."

And the man left Mortem with a frantic heart and muddled thoughts.

… … …

It took Mortem two years to become one of the strongest Gladiators in Rome. His trainers were impressed, and his fellow Gladiators were jealous. There was only the one brute from the lands of Africa who seemed delighted in Mortem's rise, once proclaiming he would have loved to fight the man one day. But one can't beat swords with fists.

Mortem has gathered enough money to buy himself an estate, own slaves and perhaps take a wife – but found no pleasures in such things and kept the money aside only to buy small presents for when the Emperor visits him in his cell.

He didn't understand the man's reasoning for coming. Still, he heard that Emperor Iohannes was a strange man who found delight in speaking with the Gladiators, something his wife often protested against. She was not a cruel woman but cautious of her husband's foolish actions. Mortem also understood that the woman was not from Rome itself but far north, which explained much of her hair and name; Queen Sigrun.

Mortem had only met her twice, and each time she was withdrawn and watched him with such pain that he made a rule to never speak to her again, yet he could never stop feeling elated whenever the Emperor came to his cells and spoke to him. It was about his recent fights, how impressed he was and even questioning him about his past life. The latter of which Mortem refused to acknowledge.

It was during one of those conversations which Emperor Iohannes said he arranged a date for the two of them to entertain the public together, a mock fight in which Mortem would have to lose to the Emperor. Still, he couldn't find himself to care.

And today was the day. Mortem was dressed and ready to go, unfamiliar and dull swords in his hands (not that the crowds would know the difference). Emperor Iohannes himself said he was to be armed with a shield and sword, both battle-ready and able to harm Mortem in any way.

The gates opened, and the sight of the arena never seized to make Mortem shiver in excitement. He walked out and was greeted with loud cheering, men and women alike yelling to seek the Gladiator's attention. Still, his sights were fixed on the doors, which revealed Emperor Iohannes.

He wore armour fit for a king, gold and sturdy – even his weapons had the rare metal to them. He didn't think he would look forward to this day, the day he would have Emperor Iohannes feel his strength.

The fight began.

Mortem charged forward as always, struck the shield, and swiftly dodged the sword coming for his bicep. He didn't waste time and twirled around Emperor Iohannes to reach his back, but the man was faster, and nothing left his sight. He twirled almost as quickly as Mortem, sword striking out and nicking Mortem's hip.

"I had hoped you saw me as a challenge, Mortem."

"I didn't mean to disrespect you."

Mortem went for another blow, sword knocking at the Emperor's wrist, but unable to cause any bleeding damage. Emperor Iohannes laughed and held his shield when Mortem came with another blow, both swords aiming for his armpit. The Emperor pushed against the weak weapons and almost had Mortem tumbling. He had seen Emperor Iohannes as nothing but a pampered king, but it was clear that the man had the strength to him. And the things it did to Mortem's body were almost evil.

Emperor Iohannes aimed straight at Mortem's throat. Still, the Gladiator caught the golden weapon between his swords fast enough to avoid fatality. He saw the fire in Emperor Iohannes's eyes, the satisfaction and delight to see truly how remarkable Mortem was. It was addictive.

Mortem tried again to twirl around Emperor Iohannes and found himself right behind him, swords going to teasingly nip at Emperor Iohannes's knees. Still, Mortem almost missed the shield about to knock into him and had to evade before he was knocked out. He retreated a few steps, the cheering crowds again entering his ears once he caught two breaths.

Emperor Iohannes's shoulders were slightly heaving, indicating how the man defended himself against Mortem's fast movements. Mortem licked his lips, tasting the salt of his sweat and went for the final blow. He knew he had to lose to the Emperor, but no one said he would have to act like a weakling. He would lose everything he had.

He struck again and again, each time blocked and pushed away. Emperor Iohannes's strikes were few but painful, the weapon already having thin blood trails on Mortem's body, the wounds stinging with sweat pouring into them. But the Gladiator was strong and ignored the pain. He used it instead to fuel his desire to fight.

He almost had Emperor Iohannes once, the tip of his dull blade having pinched the back of Emperor Iohannes's knee just enough to have the man drop to it. The crowd gasped and cheered, and just when it seemed that Mortem couldn't go against his victorious instincts, Emperor Iohannes's sword suddenly lashed out and sliced up Mortem's thigh.

The Gladiator bit his lip until it bled, his leg quivering in pain as he realised how deep the cut was. It didn't bleed at first, pink muscle the only visible thing until the thick red liquid slowly started to drip out. Mortem knew when it was his cue to stop and was scared of the state of his wound.

So with an honourable bow of his head, he dropped his swords and held his hands out in surrender. The crowds cheered at Emperor Iohannes's victory, and the man rose again to place a firm hand on Mortem's shoulder.

"Well done, Mortem, I must say… your strength is incredibly refreshing."

It was then that Mortem realised after two years that he lusted after the Emperor. Two years of nerve-wracking thoughts and all Mortem could do was dumbly nod as he willed his body to suppress his arousal.

Make me a free man.

… … …

The wound needed thorough medical attention, and Mortem was told to train only until the wound healed properly. He was also told that once his wound was nothing but a scar, Emperor Iohannes was organising an event large enough to invite royalty from other countries. Rumours of the Pharaoh attending were also high, and a visit from Emperor Iohannes confirmed the notion.

Mortem was invited to the palace, where he and Emperor Iohannes strolled through the extensive gardens. It almost sickened Mortem to be alone with the man, his newfound lust driving him insane as he realised the crime his thoughts were. If the Emperor was just a normal man, Mortem could lay with him as he wished; but to have a Gladiator lay with the Emperor himself? Blasphemy.

"Are you excited about the event?"

"What would make it so special?"

Emperor Iohannes had a gleam to his eyes, one of mischief.

"I get to show you off. Everyone would be so jealous to find I have someone like you to be mine."

The words did sin to Mortem's body once again, his cock agreeing to words more than they should. Mortem turned his head away in embarrassment.

"I didn't realise I was this…."

A firm hand on his shoulder, trailing down to find the scars through his shirt, which Emperor Iohannes has memorised too well.

"You are incredible Mortem… such a strange name, even after all these years…."

"I don't know much from my past, only that I belonged to a woman who lost me. I joined the war to survive, but as you know – your men captured me and thought I had information. My failure brought me here."

"To me."

And the words meant nothing to Emperor Iohannes; Mortem knew this. The touches and smiles were that of brothers. Still, deep in the night, they became something more to Mortem when he lay on his rotten bed and indulged himself in a fantasy he would never have. Emperor Iohannes would never be his, but he would be his friend.

"Husband."

The pair found Queen Sigrun behind them, her eyes nervously flicking over to Mortem before settling on her husband again.

"I am sorry to interrupt, but the captain came to speak to you."

Emperor Iohannes bid farewell to Mortem before leaving. The Gladiator was left alone with the Queen, tension between the two thick enough to strangle a lion.

"I wish you good luck on your events, Gladiator… It would be a shame to see a strong man such as you fall."

Those were the last words of encouragement Mortem received before the event took place a week later.

… … …

Mortem didn't know how it could be, but the stands seemed impossibly fuller than ever before. His eyes found Emperor Iohannes on his balcony, his wife beside him with her threatened expression, and the Pharaoh herself. She had the bronze skin Mortem had seen so many times but never covered in so many expensive oils. He spotted a symbol underneath her eye, the religion lost to him, but he understood the importance.

What struck Mortem was the knowing smile on the woman's face, more intense than anything he had ever seen. Her gaze was sharp, and she nodded at the confused Gladiator.

The doors were closed as always, and Mortem had been warned that he had a wicked surprise waiting for him; he didn't think it would almost cost him his life.

Sand suddenly disappeared as trap doors fell back to reveal two large tigers appearing from underground, thick and heavy chains keeping them just out of reach. One step to either side, and Mortem was sure to lose an arm. The shock of fighting such a beast for the first time didn't escape the crowd, gasping as a tiger's claws managed to cut into Mortem's forearm – just enough to sting.

The Gladiator had no idea how to approach this new enemy or if he was supposed to kill the beasts; his questions were answered soon enough when he heard the neighing of horses, followed by harsh yelling.

Looking away from the beasts, Mortem faced a golden chariot hosting a rider and an archer travelling incredibly fast around the arena. It scared Mortem deep in his core, his muscles tensing to a point where he was scared he couldn't move. He dared to look up at Emperor Iohannes and found the man staring proudly at him.

He could do this.

Allowing himself to relax just enough to follow the movements of the chariot, Mortem was quick enough to dodge the first arrow and was punished with another claw nicking at his skin. He only had a small space to move in, and the only way to win was to slay one of the beasts and then go after the archer – but that would be too easy… unless this was the easiest it would be for the day.

Not wanting to appear useless, Mortem turned to the tiger behind him and charged at the beast. The archer released another arrow – but the tiger took the hit for him and let out an inhumane sound which had Mortem pause and apologise to the beast. He did not train for such fights because he saw no glory in them – but he had to do this to survive the relentless arrows firing at him.

The tiger, in rage, snapped at Mortem – leaving his mark and was struck again by an arrow when Mortem heard the bowstring's release. The tiger was already immobilised, and to spare the beast, Mortem made quick use of his blades to end his suffering, taking an arrow to his own shoulder while wrestling with the beast.

The crowd loved it, cheering and screaming as the dimachaerus fought enemies he was unfamiliar with. He managed to spot the royalty in their balcony, all with stern expressions except for Emperor Iohannes, who laughed in glee at Mortem's first victory. Another arrow to his leg had Mortem again focus on the pest in the arena.

The other beast was no threat now, so Mortem fought through the pain and carefully dodged flying arrows as he made his way closer to the arena's edge. The chariot was coming at him, the archer having two arrows ready. Mortem knew he would have to suffer to gain this ultimate victory.

Standing tall, he turned around and slowly started running towards the chariot. The crowds cheered and jeered alike, unsure of his actions. The Gladiator ignored them, eyes focused on the arrows released as soon as he was two strides away from the chariot. One missed, and the other embedded in his shoulder from the front. Snarling, Mortem held his swords high and jumped at the archer, who could not flinch away as the swords embedded themselves into his wrists – cutting deep enough to slice tendons and have the man fall out in pain.

It should have been the end, but the other fighter suddenly took a spear which Mortem overlooked was attached to the chariot. The horses turned sharply and returned again – spear ready to end Mortem.

Mortem was in pain, nerves on fire as he was ready to be treated and sleep until his wounds healed. This was not a challenge he wanted, but if it was the one offered to him, then he would show them why he even feared himself.

The chariot closed in quickly, and Mortem was ready. He stood still, focused on the speed of the horses. They were just about to trample him. The spear was about to go through him when Mortem sidestepped to the other side, grabbed the chariot's end, and flung himself inside.

The other man could barely react when Mortem crossed his swords around the man's neck and, in a swift and powerful movement, had his head tumble forward and trampled by the horses. Blood sprayed over the Gladiator, but he paid no mind as he grabbed the reins and reared the horses to a stop to avoid the still-hungry tiger lurking in the arena.

The crowd was loud, their cheering digging into Mortem's skull. He managed to smile and raise a sword as a victory. He turned to face the royalty and saluted Emperor Iohannes, who laughed in delight. The Pharaoh politely clapped, her eyes searching deep into Mortem. Queen Sigrun, on the other hand, was tense, eyes wide and hands covering her mouth.

He had no idea what to make of such a reaction but barely had time to think more when his vision faded into nothing.

… … …

"The arrows were poisoned."

Were the first words Mortem came to when he blearily opened his eyes. He was in a hospital room, the Queen the only other presence. She stood next to him, eyes rimmed with red. Crying. The Gladiator was quiet as he assessed the Queen, unable to think of a reaction.

"Is that allowed?"

"Someone wanted you dead, but now such a feat is almost impossible."

Mortem only huffed and hissed in pain when he tried to stretch.

"The scars on your back-"

"I don't know what they are."

Queen Sigrun bit her lip, and he saw tears forming in her eyes again. She suddenly stepped forward and embraced the Gladiator with passion.

"I told you, I hate to see a brother fall."

Mortem only stiffly returned the hug as the woman cried on his shoulder, unable to understand her. But deep down, his soul yearned for her to stay forever.

… … …

It took time for Mortem to heal, but overall, the large event was a success. The Pharaoh herself even came to congratulate Mortem – promising to see all his battles until the end. The words were ominous, but he allowed it.

Emperor Iohannes never returned to him, giving excuses to avoid the Gladiator and even physically pushing the man away when he tried to understand what he did wrong. It didn't take long, though; a guard fetched him and informed him that Emperor Iohannes wanted to personally see Mortem.

The Gladiator felt sick. Uncertainty pooled in his gut as he tried to understand what he had done wrong. He didn't want the man to hate him, his Emperor…

Mortem found him in his room, pacing around with fury. He announced his presence with a clear of the throat, and Emperor Iohannes looked up. He didn't hide in a fury; he only appeared more furious.

"Why did you deceive me?"

"Excuse me?"

"Two years of my support and companionship, and you turn around and deceive me in such a way…."

Mortem had no idea what the man was talking about, but he could feel the relationship they had starting to crumple away.

"Emperor Iohannes-"

"I could see it in your eyes! Your lust!"

Mortem froze, his sins coming back to fight him. My lust… my freedom.

"I… If it offended you-"

"But was it really for me?"

"Emperor Iohannes-"

"Or was it for my wife ?"

This had Mortem frowning, trying to understand the logic. Queen Sigrun?

"I don't understand-"

"I saw you, your fire and passion; I could see the strength in your body. I hoped you fought for me all those years Mortem… I thought it was for me."

The man was close, close enough to have their bodies within reach. Mortem wanted to defend himself and tell the Emperor his lustful nights thinking of him as they sexed the night away. But the words were trapped; his world was falling apart.

And it was a mistake because Emperor Iohannes screamed in fury and yanked Mortem close enough that their noses touched – but the searing pain in his abdomen had his blood run cold.

“J-Emperor Iohannes-”

"I heard she helped you recover; her touch was satisfying."

"No-"

"She pleads the same way, but I refuse to listen-"

"-I wanted you ."

But it was too late. Emperor Iohannes was too late. The knife was deep, and in his attempt to rectify everything – Emperor Iohannes sliced his gut open. Mortem gasped and dropped to the floor, entrails leaking onto the marble stones and blood littering everything. He heard Emperor Iohannes moan and yell and heard people running to the doors. Hands-on him, but it was too late.

He wished to gain respect and freedom, and soon he wished to gain the body of a man he could never have.

It was too late.

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maybebovinity · 10 months

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Nightshade Eyes [Reaper/Soldier:76] CHAPTER 1

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Cobwebs: it was the first thing he noticed when the front door struggled to creak open. When he decided to take the first step into his new home and reach for the nearest wall, a string of spider housing collapsed around his arm. Something small and fast moved across his arm before dropping off. He gave an annoyed shake of his arm and listened to the scurrying of more hidden insects.

He wondered if he would always hear them from now on.

“I knew the price was too good to be true.” Said a woman from behind him. Her voice was accented, like all fae who had to learn Common, and failed to hide the disapproval she so clearly felt.

“Three gold a month is hardly cheap in the countryside.” Jack Morrison huffed as he finally found the nearest wall and gently glided along its path. It was the first time he navigated a room he had never seen before. The door closed and was followed by hurried steps across the creaking floorboards.

Everything was creaking.

“To your left.” the woman quipped before moving deeper into the creaking house.

Jack reached out a hand and felt the back of a low chair (much lower than he was used to at the castle). With some difficulty, he managed to settle himself into it, but not without hearing a scuttle and scutter and more things moving across his arms and legs. The locals tried to warn them about the state of the place, but Jack couldn’t care less about the state of his deathbed. The best thing about the shitty creaky house was that it was the farthest away from the woods, and if all the ghost stories told when he was a child were true, then it meant he was as safe from danger as he could be. If only it was a factor he considered and not -

“Angela!” He shouted when something heavy dropped onto his lap. The shock had him jerk violently backwards, and he would have almost toppled over if not for the fae to catch the chair and balance him out.

“Apologies.” She said unapologetically. The object on his lap weighed him down, and while he identified it and its contents, the impish fae chattered behind him:

“This is all I could withdraw from the bank before they caught me. It might not be a fortune, but it is more than these villagers will ever see in their lifetime. Now if you are wise, you will hide it. Just because you want to die does not mean you have to die because of a petty thief. Surely even you want to die a noble death?”

Jack huffed and dropped the heavy rucksack onto the floor. “Unarmed, without sight and without a title. Any death is more honourable than this life.”

Angela sighed heavily behind him. She did not move to comfort him, for those days ended when he finally found the strength to fight against her kindness. He will forever remain grateful for her endless nights of nursing him back to health - but he did not ask for her to care even after her duties were over. They were never friends, only equally important in the court: Knight Commander Jack Morrison, conqueror of well over a hundred victories, and the Merciful Fae Angela, who saved twice as many people Jack ever killed. And yet she formed a sort of… attachment to him when the new Knight Commander got appointed, and he was officially stripped of his rank, pride and right to reside within the castle walls.

“How long will the coin last me?” he finally asked.

“You owe three gold for the house each New Moon, and I arranged with a family to share their meals with you, so that is another five gold… hmm… oh, and there is the fee for when the exorcist comes.”

Jack blinked his useless eyes at the information. He wanted to protest about some stranger delivering food to him on a daily basis, but the final payment caught him off-guard.

“An exorcist?”

“You were the one who demanded to live in a village renowned for its routine raids.”

“I thought they meant one or two undead every few weeks. Not enough for an exorcist. ”

Of all the creatures to share this ungodly world, exorcists were the worst of them all. Once men, they sold their souls to the Devil herself in exchange for the ability to vanquish the demonic and undead beings tempted to roam the living world. A small price to return the Devil’s children. Selling souls was a common practice when power determined the length of a king’s reign, but exorcists had the additional duty of being an executioner. Jack can still vividly remember the prominent figures draped in black leather and wearing crude masks made from animal skulls roaming the streets in search of their bounty, a broken contract with the Devil. Some said that exorcists were immortal and that collecting human souls was the only way to extend their lifespan. It was difficult to dismiss the rumour when so often Jack had to send his own men to hunt rogue exorcists who went mad with power and killed dozens of innocent people every night. They were not humans; they were demonic beasts blessed by the Devil. Her favourite children.

But how could a small decrypted village like this afford an exorcist? The Devil children could never survive on coin alone.

“Did the villagers speak of them?” Jack asked to break the silence that spun between them.

“The exorcist?” Angela asked, almost in a bored manner. He heard her shuffling around, perhaps opening a window. Fae hardly feared the demonic: easy to do when fae magic naturally repelled the undead. If only that magic could be bestowed on another.

“Yes. I would like to know if I have to come into regular contact with… that thing.”

“Hm. I asked the family to deliver your meals, and they simply chased me away. I asked the pig farmer, and he chased me away as well. It appears they are fond of the Devil’s child.”

Jack scowled and sunk deeper into the uncomfortable chair. All the more reason to hide the fact of who he truly was: Knight Commander Morrison is more than famous for being the best exorcist hunter. The King declared them abominations, but Jack never considered how those outside the castle viewed the world.

“I think it is time for you to return, Angela.” Jack felt her sway closer to him. A dainty hand briefly touched his shoulder.

“Ready to rid of me so soon, Sir Morrison?”

“I know you will return soon enough. Maybe next time you can mourn my corpse.”

He felt Angela pry his hand open enough to place a cold and smooth object onto his palm. He closed his eyes in agony.

“Until next time, then. Remember, the coin collector will come soon.”

… … …

During the day, too many people came to his creaky house: the coin collector with a tiny voice who quickly snatched the glittering currency, a soft-spoken woman who gently brushed past him with the announcement that she was provisionally hired by Angela to help him clean up, a loud-mouthed woman who proudly introduced herself as the local smithy and carpenter who quickly made work to rummage through his house and promise new furniture by the end of the following week, and finally a child.

The child did not speak, and the only reason he knew of their age was that a small hand reached for his anxiously shook in an attempt at a greeting. The hands then pried open his stiff and calloused hands before looping a thick rope around them. He took hold of the rope and felt it was attached to a burlap sack. He meant to ask the child what the gift was, but they left before he could speak.

Finally alone, he found the sack to contain a meagre meal of a stale piece of bread and old goat cheese. He wondered if it was because the family was poor or if it was because no one expected a blind man to suddenly enter their village in the middle of the day. A sudden cold sensation pressed against his chest. He reached for his chest to gently squeeze the golden locket Angela gifted him: it was a small fae trinket meant to tell time. Angela said to him that some fae preferred to live underground, and she once acquired the locket when visiting an old friend. Frigid temperatures meant that it was well into the evening, a candle burn after the sunset.

After finishing the rather depressing meal, Jack felt his way to the bedroom, and the soft-spoken woman helped him rearrange. She brought a soft woollen blanket he swore originated from the Northern kingdom. A sneaky floorboard almost tripped him, and he wondered what would happen if he lost his way? What if he just fell and never stood up? What if he never found his way back to the door?

These thoughts swirled around in his eyes until well after he was settled underneath the heavy blanket and allowed sleep to take him away.

… ... …

“ Faex! ”

Jack jerked awake as a commotion echoed outside of his room. He instinctively reached for his sword, but his hand met empty air. Anger and fear pulsed through him as the floors creaked and a creature continued to growl out strange words.

“ Faex faex faex-” the words rumbled through the small house before suddenly falling silent. His thundering heart overpowered the dreadful silence. Just when he thought about ignoring the possibly lost creature (who spoke in a tongue he had never heard), a loud thump echoed.

He was suddenly faced with two options: return to sleep and hope the creature won’t kill him, or attempt to locate the body and make sure it was dead. Not deterred by his fear, Jack carefully slipped out from underneath the covers. The locket burned against his chest as the freezing temperatures indicated midnight. Carefully, he reached for the nearest wall and slowly navigated his way to the closed door. It creaked (like everything else) as he pried it open. Something ran over his hand, and he had to resist the jerk tearing through his arm. The rest of the house remained quiet.

Perhaps it was dead.

Filled with courage, Jack moved quicker alongside the wall until he hopefully reached the front portion of the house. It was not large, but he was yet to be told how many rooms and turns there existed. Jack almost slipped when the wall suddenly vanished. Catching himself, he reasoned he was near the fireplace. That meant he was in the kitchen, by the front door.

Frowning, he took a few tentative steps forward when his foot collided with something warm and heavy. Jack carefully lowered himself to identify the creature; it could not be a ghoul because they rarely wandered alone. If it was a bear, it would have torn down his door. That meant either a werebeast or even- Jack found a patch of fur, but with a slight movement of his hand, he could feel the smooth yet coarse texture of something he was too familiar with. The King was a trophy collector of many things, especially the heads of his enemies. The Knights adopted this tradition with their own trophy collection they never dared to disclose to anyone lest the Knights be considered evil. He followed the texture until his finger suddenly dipped into a deep hole and made contact with warm flesh. The creature groaned. But it wasn’t a creature because Jack could recognise that mask even in his sleep. Even when he lost his sight.

An exorcist.

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