#reaper x solder76

[maybebovinity]

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

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1 / 2

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. 

#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 #re: #re:incarnation #reincarnation au #soulmate au

[maybebovinity]

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

[maybebovinity]

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.

#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 #re: #re:incarnation #reincarnation au #soulmate au

[maybebovinity]

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.”

#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

[maybebovinity]

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.

#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 #re: #re:incarnation #reincarnation au #soulmate au

[maybebovinity]

Nightshade Eyes [Reaper/Soldier:76] CHAPTER 1

Read on Ao3

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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. 

#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