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nevadancitizen · 22 days

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-> YOU'RE OUT OF TOUCH – I'VE BEEN OUTTA TIME

synopsis: you died six months ago, but you've come back to haunt johnny. not as a ghost, no – as some twisted version of you that johnny still loves. too bad you don't still love johnny, or remember him in any capacity.

word count: 4k

characters: john "soap" mactavish, resurrected! reader

trigger warnings: talk of canon-typical violence, temporal weirdness, hurt + damn near no comfort

notes: first soap fic.. hopefully i've written him well!! also i couldn't resist incorporating madness combat in this somehow lol it's taking over my life (you don't need to know anything about madcom to read this, don't worry). also tumblr user nevadancitizen using the amnesia trope again? it's more likely than you think.

Somewhere in Nevada, a battered body is denied death, so that it may be granted, en masse…

And six months ago, somewhere in Russia, you were killed in action.

It was a single shot through the skull – nice, clean. You didn’t suffer. Despite your killer more than likely being a terrorist (or working for one), they did you right. It was probably unintentional, but they still did you right.

Johnny couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, even to piss, for weeks after. He was completely numb to almost everything. The world passed by while he stood completely still, laying on his side in your shared bed, spooning a pillow that was rapidly losing your scent.

(He even tried spraying it with your perfume or cologne, but it didn’t work. It was too strong – it didn’t smell like when you wore it.)

Johnny thought all-too-often about what happened after death. He was ready to die, always has been, but he never really thought about what would happen if (or, more accurately, when) you died. He always cast those thoughts away, because he was done losing people. He was done with grief and screaming, pleading to God, and crying so hard he threw up.

But he eventually returned to his job. He eventually put you to rest. He prayed for the first time in damn near two decades that, if there was really an afterlife, that you were in Heaven.

(He just hoped that, whatever Heaven there was, it was good enough for you.)

But again, six months ago, somewhere in Nevada, a battered body was denied death, so that it may be granted, en masse.

It is a land without sun, without warmth unless you could find it in another body. It is a land without rules, without remorse, without regret.

It is a land of violence. It is a land that fits you well.

Despite being dead, you were sewed back together and cursed to live once more. Someone put a gun in your hands and told you, “Listen bozo, I don’t care where you’re from – just shoot!”

Of course, Johnny didn’t know this. How could he? He watched your casket be lowered into the ground. He knew it wasn’t empty – he had to confirm your identity in the morgue.

But he can’t help but feel his stomach drop when Kyle comes rushing into his office, pointing behind him and, in a panting breath, says your name.

Johnny immediately springs up from behind his desk and almost pushes past Kyle to get out the door. He turns down the hallway to the left, where he knows it leads to the hospital ward.

“No, Soap – Soap!” Kyle sprints after him, just barely catching his wrist. “Wrong way, man.”

Johnny stops and, in his stunned state, lets Kyle lead him down the hallway to the right, away from the medbay, away from where you were surely waiting for him, recovering.

Kyle leads him into an elevator, scans his keycard, and presses the button for -3. They’re both uncharacteristically quiet. It just faintly registers in Johnny’s mind that the floor -3 is below the parking garages, past where anyone typically goes.

(Past where anyone can hear screams ripped from tortured throats, really.)

When the elevator doors open, Soap’s greeted by a familiar sight. It’s a grey concrete hallway, with two soldiers on either side, guarding the way in. Doors line the hall, each one steel with a keypad to unlock it.

Gaz leads Soap down the hall and doesn’t stop for a while. Eventually, he stops in front of the last door and takes a deep, almost shuddering, breath.

Gaz inputs the code into the keypad and opens the door, nodding at the inside. “Come on.”

Soap, almost so quick he clips his shoulder on the doorframe, goes into the room. It overlooks an interrogation room, and it’s fit with a double-sided mirror, recording tech, everything.

Soap freezes when he looks into the interrogation room. It – it’s you, but… not you. You’re pacing, and Johnny can only stare. There’s a grey flush to your skin – no, your skin is actually grey – and bandages cover the back of your head, dirty and frayed, like you haven’t changed them in a while.

You’re angry, a far cry from the person Johnny knew you to be. Sure, you could be angry, and Johnny’s seen you angry, but this…

You’re panting as you pace, fists clenching and unclenching as your eyes dart around the room. Soft mutters and expletives leave your mouth as you look around, surely looking for a way to escape.

Johnny just keeps staring. You’re… alive? Yes, you’re not what Johnny remembers you to be, but you’re still alive.

“Fucking – goddamnit!” You bang your fist on the steel table, causing it to rattle. “I don’t have anything to tell you! You’re all cowards –” you turn to the double-sided mirror and point at it “– especially you, Sheriff! Don’t tell me you’re not back there!”

You immediately turn away, your hands coming to clutch at the sides of your head, your fingers digging into the bandages, almost ripping them. “I swear, when I get my hands on you…!”

“We don’t know what to do,” Kyle says softly. He looks over at Soap, his gaze obviously sad and sympathetic. “Do you want to try ‘n talk ‘em? Even if they’re feelin’ a tad… neurotic.”

Johnny can’t rip his gaze from you as you throw a steel chair at the wall, still cursing out someone named Sheriff and his lackeys. The chair bounces off the wall and one of the legs hits your shin, causing you to curse it out, too.

“Yes,” Johnny says quickly, decisively.

Soap shifts on his feet, oddly impatient, as he waits for Kyle to unlock the door to the interrogation room. As soon as he does, Johnny shoulders past him and into the room. He hears a faint click as Gaz closes it behind him.

You immediately whirl on Johnny, your eyes wide and your breath labored.

“You!” You point at Johnny like it’s meant to be some offensive gesture. “What do you want?”

You move closer, and Johnny catches sight of the dogtags hanging from your neck. You were buried with one, and he kept the other. He even gave you one of his own because, on that day, a part of him died with you. But… instead of two, you have four hanging from the metal chain.

You shove your finger in Johnny’s chest, your fingernail digging through the thin fabric of his fatigues. “Answer me!”

Soap immediately takes your wrist and cradles your hand to his chest. “Bonnie, please, calm down.”

“Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!” you bark, ripping your hand away from him. “I just lost one of my team and you’re telling me to calm down?!”

“Your team?” Soap echoes.

“Deimos!” you snap. “You – you killed Deimos.”

You take a step back, your fists still clenched and your eyes still angry. “I saw your stupid fucking Engineer murder him. He was dead from the first five bullets, and you know he knew that! But oh, let’s just make sure he’s dead by unloading clip after clip into him.”

You heave a breath, almost growling. “Let’s desecrate his corpse. All because he’s a dissenter. Let’s make it oh-so-hard to bring him back.”

Johnny steps forward, just barely moving his foot, and you jump back like he took out a knife.

He breathes out your name, soft and unbelieving. “Are… is it really you?”

“Of course it’s me!” You turn and rest your hands on the steel table, obviously resisting the urge to bring your fists down against it. “Always has been, always will be. It’s always me.”

Johnny circles around the table and leans down a little, taking in your face. The grey makes you look dirty and unwashed, like you’ve got a layer of dirt on you that you couldn’t wash away.

You look up at him through your eyelashes. “I know you.”

Johnny’s heart leaps into his throat and, for a hopeful moment, thinks that you remember him, that this is all some sort of stupid trick, that you went MIA instead of being KIA, that this is really you. The you Johnny knows, the you Johnny loves. But his heart is crushed beneath your boot when you speak next.

“I know soldiers like you,” you say softly. “Soldiers, produced en masse, told to shoot first and die quietly. We’re both clones, you know? But there’s a difference in what we want.”

You stand up straight, glancing at the double-sided mirror before turning your eyes back to Soap. “You follow orders. When they say jump, you ask how high. But I…” you laugh beneath your breath. “I am fighting for change. Normality. You’re comfortable living in this… this chaos.”

“Bonnie, what are you on about?” Johnny reaches across the table, trying to take your hand. You snatch it away before he even comes close.

Gaz slides into the room, holding a tablet. You whip your head around and glare at him.

His eyebrows lift a little, and he raises the tablet, as if in a defensive manner. “Your tablet. It –”

You snatch it from Gaz’s hands before he can talk again. You set it down on the table and stare at it, waiting.

Johnny can just barely see the interface. The top of the screen reads COMBASIC .9(beta). It looks like some sort of chat room. A few messages pop up in quick succession.

FellowD9: GOTEM FellowD9: YOU WERE RIGHT FellowD9: HE WAS COMPLIANT 2BDamned: Neat FellowD9: CHECK MY SECTOR FellowD9: ANCHOR HIM NOW [user:FellowD9 IS OFFLINE]

The messages seem to relax you, even if Johnny has no idea what they’re talking about. You bring a hand to your forehead and laugh breathlessly, then set to typing.

CrosshairF6: lol hey im still alive CrosshairF6: aahw assholes gave me my tablet idk why CrosshairF6: check my sector & get me back 2BDamned: Getting Deimos right now, I’ll get back to you CrosshairF6: better do it right CrosshairF6: saw his corpse, looks like he ran through traffic [user:2BDamned IS OFFLINE]

Johnny watches as you tuck your tablet back in one of the inner pockets of your jacket, casting a suspicious glance at Gaz, like you expect him to take it back.

Gaz raises his hands and slips back out of the room, leaving you and Johnny.

“So.” You look at Johnny. “Why are you trying to act all buddy-buddy with me?”

“You’re… you were…” Johnny sighs, an overwhelming feeling settling in his chest. “Do you remember… dying?”

“Of course,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “2B brought me back.”

“2B?” Johnny echoes. “Like, the one you were talkin’ to? 2BDamned?”

“Yeah.” You move and lean back against the wall, crossing your arms over your chest. “He’s all doctor-like, y’know? Brings us back when we need it.”

“And he’s… on your team?” Johnny asks. He feels a deep pang of… something in his chest when the thought of you actually being on another team, separate from him, settles in his mind.

You nod. “Yeah. 2B, Hank, Sanford, Deimos.” You tap the dog tags resting against your chest. “We’re a team. Some of us are on a subteam, but still. We’re a team.”

Johnny blinks hard, shaking the thought from his head. “Do you remember anything before you died?”

“Some, but… not a lot. Just blips of fighting, some soldiers, then Nevada.” You shrug. “2B says that happens sometimes.”

Johnny feels his tense shoulders relax, if only a little. “Any one specific soldier, bonnie?”

“No,” you say. You look away and fiddle with your dogtags. “But I’ve got the dogtag of someone named John.”

“John?” Johnny echoes, his heart picking up in his chest. “John ‘Soap’ MacTavish?”

“Yeah.” Your gaze fixes on him again, immediately suspicious. “How do you know that?”

“That’s me, bonnie.” Johnny laughs breathlessly, moving towards you. He makes sure to stay slow and cautious, just in case. “I’m Johnny. Your Johnny.”

You move along the wall, away from him, just slightly. You seem to bristle a little, and bring your shoulders up a bit. “You’re not mine. I don’t own anyone.”

“Not in the literal sense, bonnie,” Johnny laughs, resisting the urge to trail after you. “I’m yours, romantically.”

You bring yourself off the wall, taking a step back. It’s like you’re repulsed by the idea. “I’ve never been romantically involved with anyone. You think I’ve got time for that?”

It’s like Johnny’s been punched in the gut. Tears well in his eyes and he suddenly feels so fucking sick. His feet almost come out from under him as he stumbles to the door, shaking hands putting in the code before slipping out.

He could take the idea of you maybe not remembering him, sure. He could just re-introduce himself. He could take the idea of you forgetting the time you’ve spent together, because you’d remember, right? But the way you were disgusted by the idea of romance, the vitriol in your voice as you spoke…

Johnny doesn’t like the word ‘relapse’ because he thinks it holds too heavy of a connotation, but that’s the best way to describe what he did for the rest of the day, and into the early hours of tomorrow. He rotted in your shared bed, but instead of feeling numb, he felt his heart being wrenched by your hand, by your words.

He just laid there, looking at his sketchbook – a good one with thick paper. The one you’d gifted him for your six-month anniversary. It’s filled with drawings of you: candid ones, ones where he had you pose (even though you were embarrassed), ones of you and him, together, doing couple-y things.

He could only mourn what was lost, because you seemed to have absolutely no interest in recovering it.

A week passes before you’re able to be let out of your cell. You slowly lost the fire and brimstone that filled your heart as you realized that the 141 really did want to help you. You feel better now that you have a few people by your side, fresh bandages, and a renewed sense of comfort.

(But you forgave yourself for acting like that in the beginning because, in Nevada, no one is nice. Not without an ulterior motive, at least.)

You’re practically on a leash as Ghost leads you throughout the base. He doesn’t talk as he guides you through winding hallways and up an exhaustive amount of flights of stairs.

Eventually, he opens a door labeled ‘ROOF EXIT.’ He tilts his head towards the door.

“Someone waitin’ for you,” Ghost says gruffly. “And…”

He fishes around in his pocket and pulls out a carton of cigarettes. Your cigarettes.

Ghost takes your hand and puts it in your palm. “Don’t set anything on fire.”

You close your fingers around it and nod. “Got it, boss.”

Ghost starts back down the stairs, leaving you and the open door to the roof. You move through it and look around.

Johnny’s sitting, cross-legged, on the concrete roof, facing away from you. It’s dark – obviously, it’s night. You look up and take in the stars, and…

“You have a moon,” you say softly.

Johnny looks back at you, a tentative smile on his face. Like he’s scared to be too hopeful. “Yeah. We do.”

You hum and look at Johnny.

“Do you…” Johnny glances at the floor, then back up at you. “Do you wanna sit with me, bonnie?”

You slowly move over to Johnny and sit by him. You keep a healthy distance, but you’re still closer than you’ve ever been to him before.

“Those fags for sharin’?” Johnny asks, a teasing smile on his face.

You look down at the carton of cigarettes in your hand. You grip them a little tighter, causing the thin carton to crumple a bit. “Sure. Don’t know if you’ll like them, though.”

“Nonsense, bonnie.” Johnny bumps his shoulder against yours. “Let’s give ‘em a go.”

You smile and take out two cigarettes. You hand one over to Johnny. They’re hand-rolled and don’t have a filter, so they look more like joints, but the overwhelming smell of raw tobacco quickly quells that thought.

“Got a light?” you ask.

“‘Course.” Johnny reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small lighter. He lights his own cigarette, then pulls it away with a sputtering cough.

“Steamin’ Jesus, what is that?” He asks in between coughs.

You laugh, hitting your knee as Johnny reels from the taste. “It’s good, yeah?”

“Hell no!” Johnny wipes tears from his eyes and looks over at you. Despite his coughing, a soft smile spreads across his face at the way you’re laughing – loud, unabashed. Just like before.

You swipe Johnny’s lighter from his hand and light your cigarette, the cherry basking your face in a soft, warm glow. “Welcome to Nevada.”

“Let’s see that thing.” Johnny reaches over and takes the carton from your hand.

He turns it over, looking at it. The carton is worn, like it’s been refilled many times. There’s no warning about nicotine being an addictive chemical, just a grey box with a simple brand: G01 Choice. There’s a name scribbled on the back – Deimos, in all capital letters.

“Deimos,” Johnny says aloud. “The man died and you stole his cigs?”

“He’s not dead.” You take the carton back and tuck it into your jacket pocket. “Not anymore. Well, he’s died lotsa times, so I guess he’s an... honorary corpse.”

“An honorary corpse,” Johnny echoes, looking down at the cigarette in his hand. He puts it out on the concrete. “Just like you, yeah?”

You take a drag off your cigarette and blow out the smoke in a single, smooth stream. “Just like me.”

A silence settles as you look up at the moon. You can feel Johnny’s eyes occasionally flitting to you, then back up at the night sky.

“Your dogtags.” Johnny points in your direction. “Whose are they?”

You look down and tug on the metal chain, causing them to clink together. “Mine, yours, and my team’s.”

“Your team?” Johnny asks softly. “You never told me about them.”

“Yeah.” You look over at him. “I’m part of an extraction team. My partners are Sanford and Deimos.”

A pain, almost so real he thought he was actually injured, runs through Johnny when you say partners. The logical side of his brain chides him a few moments later because you obviously meant it in a militaristic sense, not a romantic sense.

“Can I see them?” Johnny asks.

You nod and take off the chain, then hand them to Johnny. He looks at the dogtags – he recognizes his and yours as being standard military dogtags, but Sanford and Deimos’ are much more… odd.

Sanford’s reads SANFORD / MELEE + EXPLOSIVES / G02 (NEG) / RETURN TO FAMILY. Deimos’ reads DEIMOS / FIREARMS + TECH / G02 (POS) / NO FAMILY.

Johnny tilts the dogtags so that you can see them and runs a finger along the lettering. “What do these mean, bonnie?”

You move a bit closer and lean in. “The first lines are their names, obviously. The second is what they’re proficient in. The third is what generation clone they are, and their blood types – there are only two blood types for second generation clones. And the last one is what to do with their bodies if they can’t be revived.”

“Wait, bonnie.” Johnny laughs breathlessly. “Clones?”

“Yeah, clones.” You tilt your head a little to the side. “What, you don’t have cloning technology here?”

“Of course not!” Johnny laughs.

You laugh and bump your shoulder against his. “You people are so primitive.”

Johnny smiles back at you and it’s like nothing is wrong. You both go quiet as you stare at each other until you look away.

“I, uh…” you clear your throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry for being so… abrasive. Earlier, I mean.”

“It’s alright,” Johnny says, almost too quickly.

You scratch your cheek and glance over at Johnny, then away. “But it’s not, is it? I should’ve handled things better.”

“Someone you know died right before we talked.” Johnny reaches over and, cautiously, puts his hand over yours where it rests on your knee. “It’s expected that you don’t act like yourself.”

Your breath hitches, and Johnny squeezes your hand reassuringly in response.

“But that’s the thing,” you say. “I’ve seen so many awful things before. People getting shot, stabbed, beaten, Hank tearing people apart with his bare hands. But, Maker…”

You drag a hand down your face, rubbing your jaw. “Deimos is young. So young. He’s only twenty-seven, and he always has a smile like he’s just tied your shoelaces together and is waiting for you to trip. And he’s so smart, even if everyone calls him a bit stupid. Yeah, he’s got a slower reaction time, but that’s what me and Sanford are for, y’know? He…”

You blink hard, trying to will your tears away. A soft, frustrated groan leaves your mouth as you duck your head and put your cigarette to your lips. “Don’t look at me.”

Johnny starts to pull his hand away, but stops when you squeeze his hand. Instead, he squeezes your hand back, averting his gaze.

To Johnny, it again almost feels like nothing ever happened. Like there’s no Russia, no Nevada, nothing besides you and him on this roof, together. But he’s no fool. He knows things have changed – that Nevada has changed you.

You breathe out a shaky plume of cigarette smoke. “I just want to go back.”

“But you’re here now, bonnie,” Johnny says. He tries to ignore the crushing feeling in his chest, tries to keep his composure for you. “Aren’t you glad you’re back?”

“I don’t know this place.” You look over at Johnny, your eyes rimmed with unshed tears. “You keep saying that we’re together, that – that this is my home. But how can this be my home if I don’t remember a thing about it? How can you be my boyfriend if I don’t remember a thing about you?”

Johnny exhales sharply, like he’s just got the wind knocked out of him. “Bonnie, please don’t say that. Please.”

“I know violence, and I know bloodshed,” you say softly. “I know Nevada. This place, this world…” You gesture vaguely with your cigarette still in your hand. “It’s not mine.”

“But there is violence here, there is bloodshed here,” Johnny insists. “Here, we fought together.”

“But I don’t remember us being together, in any capacity!” you snap. You take a breath and try your best to soften your words. “All I remember from before is just flashes. I didn’t remember your face. I just had your dogtag and a weird, empty feeling.”

Johnny sighs and feels tears welling up in his eyes. He can’t tear his gaze away from you.

“You really expected me to trace the bullet and sift through fleeting memories when there was an entire agency playing Pinkertons knocking down our door?” you ask softly. “2B was bandaging my head ‘cause he just finished playing around in my brains and Sanford was shoving a gun in my hands. They pointed me in a direction and told me to shoot. I didn’t have the time to remember you.

“I’m sorry, but I just didn’t.” You squeeze his hand before letting it go.

Johnny immediately scrambles to catch your hand in both of his, holding on desperately. “No, bonnie, please.”

A few tears slip down Johnny’s cheeks as he looks at you. Your face is a mirror of his own, just in greyscale. Your cheeks are stained with tears and your eyes are just beginning to get a bit puffy.

“If you know you’re gonna be leaving again, then just let me hold your hand,” Johnny says softly, his voice wavering. “Just for a few more minutes.”

You nod and, when you blink, a tear rolls down your already-wet cheek. “Okay.”

Johnny slowly moves so that you’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder to him. He hesitates before resting his head on your shoulder. You smell just like how he remembers, albeit tinged with the acrid tang of G01 Choice cigarette smoke. You’re just as beautiful as the day he lost you.

“Okay.”

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kadavernagh · 1 month

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@corpse-a-diem replied to your post “[pm] You haven’t become one with the sheep yet, I...”:

[pm] That'd be a terrible prank if it was. But good. I didn't mean to be away so long and I'd have kicked myself if I didn't get to see you off properly--and make sure you got that steel casket you wanted too, of course.

[pm] What kept you? Caleb and I got peascake. Interesting employee you h

I leave on the 1st, but will be out of town this weekend. I could stop by this week, if you insist. I have something for you, anyway. And your mom.

#corpse-a-diem #c erin

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unrequitedloveletter · 2 years

Note

SENDING IN ONE MORE<3

HAPPY ONE YEARS<3

can i please have another kaz hehe x fem!reader with prompt 20 from the dialogue prompts?

THANK YOU<3

Far Too Long- Kaz Brekker

Hey, absolutely you can! I've long surpassed my one-year at this point but thank you so much for sending this in and I'm sorry I didn't get to it for a bit!

Also, should you read this at one point and then decide to come back and reread it but notice a few differences, it’s simply because the fic has been edited.

Dialogue prompt 20: “I never expected to have to live a life without them in it. Now that I have to face that, I’m not sure if I can.”

Fic type- angst

Warnings- talk of death, depictions of grief, one mention of a shootout

As Y/N sat on a small schooner, looking over the sunrise as the last of her tears for the moment dried against the wind, she knew that Kaz was finally given his reprieve.

The most ironic part of the forty-eight hours that’d passed was the fact that, before Kaz left to defend a piece of property that some member of the Black Tips was trying to steal from under his feet, he’d said the usual.

“No mourners.”

And, as she normally did, Y/N had replied with.��“No funerals.”

“Have you read the will yet?” Came the voice of Nora Scholtz, one of the few people that Kaz had entrusted with the care of the schooners and boats in his name. She was an older woman, in her late seventies, her skin weathered with age and the remnants of Kaelish red hair as obvious as her accent lingering at the edges as her roots came in white. “Did Mr. Brekker even write one?”

“The Slat goes to me,” Said Y/N. “As does the Crow Club.”

“Anything else?” A letter. A statement that the farm he’d asked to be buried in belonged to her.

“No,” she said.

“He is at peace now,” said Nora. “You two were--” Y/N swallowed harshly as another bout of tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

“Please don’t,” she said. “I don’t need your well wishes or the best you can offer. I just need silence. I need to retrieve his body from Black Veil and I need to bury him where he’s asked to be buried. I need not sentiments or understanding.”

Nora, a little shocked and most definitely hurt, gave a nod.

The rest of the ride on the schooner was quiet.

----

The farm that Kaz had asked to buried on was an admittedly beautiful place. Y/N planned to set him to rest beneath a tree, and as she began to dig the hole, she let Kaz’s cane sit against it. It remained unmoving, even with the wind.

Burying him, having to look at his body, the eyes that nobody had closed, it was the hardest part of the whole ordeal.

Eventually, to Y/Ns relief, the crows showed up.

Jesper and a fellow Fabrikator had made Kaz an appropriate casket. It was black and made from some altered version of Grisha steel, and as Y/N put him into it, she closed his eyes.

“Be at peace,” she whispered. “Go easily, Kaz.” She closed the casket at that, unable to do more than walk away from it. She needed a break. It’d been a very long, very exhausting few days.

“I understand it,” said Nina as she followed. From afar, Y/N could hear it as Matthias lowered Kaz’s body into the ground. “We’ve all lost people, Y/N.”

“I never expected to have to live a life without him in it. Now that I have to face that, I’m not sure if I can.” Y/N confessed. “How am I supposed to, Nina?”

“You take it day by day,” Inej said. Y/N startled, having not noticed Inej as she stood off to the left. “You can stay here. He left this place to you. Annika and I have the Slat and the Crow Club under control if you choose to stay here while you grieve.”

“I couldn’t,” said Y/N. “I would stay here and get used to the only reminder of him being the grave in which he sits outside. When I go back to the Slat thinking that everything is well and good, I’ll be reminded of him again and everything in my life will go right back to shambles. I ought to face it now or I simply never will.”

“We’ll help you through the worst of it,” Wylan piped up. “The reminders of him will soon fade. You’ll be the queen of the Barrel, Y/N. Something that exists in sole memory of the one you lost.”

Jesper took Ninas place at Y/Ns right. “Matthias offered himself to cover the casket. He understands what it means to lose people, Y/N, as we all do. He says that you’ll heal eventually but to allow yourself time. It’s a tumultuous process. The opposite of easy.”

Y/N gave a single nod, casting a glance back to the spot that Kaz was being buried in. It brought a lurch of tears to her throat, but she fought them back. She swallowed them, looked to her feet. Gave a sigh.

“It feels utterly impossible,” she managed.

“With time, it won’t be,” Nina said, taking Y/Ns hand, giving it a squeeze.

“We’ve got you,” Jesper added. “You’re one of the Crows, Y/N. We’ll always have your six.” She turned to him then, an onslaught of tears showing up unexpectedly. Even as much is it sucked to be crying for what felt like the millionth time throughout the mere two and a half days since Kaz’s death, it was a wonder to not be crying because of it.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you lot so much.”

“We love you too,” Wylan said.

“No mourners,” said Inej.

Nina grinned at that. They all did.

“No funerals,” said Y/N.

----

About a year and a half later, Y/N L/N was killed in a shootout between the Dregs and the Black Tips.

After the white light and the confusion, she was walking, and found herself in Kaz’s office. He barely glanced up as she closed the door behind her, though he did look up when he heard her footsteps.

“It’s been far too long,” he said.

Y/N grinned. “Far too long indeed.”

#kaz brekker #six of crows #shadow and bone #kaz brekker x reader

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leedamandy · 1 year

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Aemond Targaryen x fem!OC (blonde strong) /

Aegon II Targaryen x fem!OC (blonde strong)

°• Hēnkirī •°

(Together)

Part 15

Warning : extreme angst, self harm, suicidal behaviour

•*•

It seemed to Mhaenyra that everyone was avoiding her.

The message she had overheard had not yet reached her officially.

Probably it was due to her head injury. Or the fact that she would react terribly, even have to.

Possibly also both.

After a few times of blinking, the queen noticed that she was sitting in the bathtub, brought close to a burning fire of her chamber.

But she was alone.

That's right. She had asked the maid to leave her to her thoughts.

Only she didn't even have thoughts. At least not really.

Her eyes fixed on a point, in this case, the mantel.

She recognized crevices and cracks in the stone. White cracks, dark cracks. Then stone again.

A new stone, with new cracks, edges and indentations.

Then another.

Her whole chamber she had studied so insistently since the news.

To escape her own thoughts, to give them no room.

Her eyes slid to the door as it opened, but they did not realize for a longer than proportionate time who entered.

Only the significant eye patch brought her back to reality.

Instantly, Mhaenyras heart began to pound.

Her chest rose and fell in panic as she tried to forget the name of the intruder, to not think of him.

Fear took over her senses and her rapid breathing made her dizzy.

Mhaenyra's empty eyes widened in fright before she opened her mouth to scream. She didn't know what for herself. Probably for her mother, her brothers.

For Aegon.

Before even a sound left her throat, Aemond began to speak.

"Your knight in shining armor has sunk into his cups. If it is his presence you beckon."

His voice sounded just as it did when she liked the sound of it.

Before memories could creep into her mind, she averted her gaze. Back toward the fireplace. Her chest stopped rising and falling.

A stone. Another stone. More brownish than the one before it.

The sight that presented itself to Aemond pained him.

Part of him had hoped she didn't know yet. Then he could have explained it to her, if that was even possible.

He was unable to express this. Not now.

Aemond had never seen a more traumatized person. He hadn't wanted any of this.

"I'm going to come back. When you're done." He murmured, overwhelmed, and left the queen's chamber.

Only when the door slammed into the lock did the woman sharply suck in the air that was available to her.

Then an almost black stone took her attention. Next to it, a nearly round one.

Seeing her own goose bumps, Mhaenyra noticed that her water had gone cold.

As if automatically, she rose, got out of the tub and dressed.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

She was dead. Her gaze swept across the room, along the ceiling.

She stretched her arm up in the air and saw her fingers clutching the air. Death.

She had been dead for several days.

The thought of being dead did not frighten her.

It surrounded her, almost warmly, and wrapped her up.

When she was dead, she could see anyone she wanted. She could do anything she wanted. Free.

She liked the thought.

Her eyes fell on the ornate casket that she had treasured some time ago, but which now gave her no such feeling.

Still caught in a surge of automatism, she reached for its content.

Never had she cut herself on sharp steel.

It couldn't feel any worse than her current sensations.

Unlike earlier, she was clearly startled when she heard the door open at her back.

Panicked by the interrupting sound, she wheeled around, the dagger in her trembling hand.

Aemond quickly analyzed the situation.

Before she could attack him, he bridged the distance between them with a few steps.

"This is not a good idea." He spoke calmly.

With a swift movement, he grabbed her wrist, twisting it dangerously far outward.

She was forced to release her grip, and the ringing sound of steel on stone echoed through the room.

In his mind, she would have wanted to turn the blade only against him, but that was not the case.

The next words he addressed to her only made the situation worse.

He tried to express that she should not be afraid of him.

"Don't attack me. If I had wanted to, you would have been dead long ago."

His words missed their point, however, and again dragged the young woman into deep distress.

Mhaenyra could no longer manage to maintain the dam that held back the flood of emotion.

Before she knew it, tears were running down her sunken cheeks.

As if she could shake her feelings away, she swung her head from side to side. White-blond hair clung to her face as horrible, gurgling sounds left her mouth.

Aemond's eyebrows drew together painfully. He became wholly aware of the consequences of his actions, if they did not do so before.

He had broken her with it. Every part of her he had liked. Had loved.

The Targaryen was all the more surprised when she addressed her first full sentence to him since he had set out. Since she had told him to take care of himself.

"You killed him. You took his life. Took it away. Like it belonged to you.

His life. You took it."

Toward the end, her voice broke off.

Aemond didn't want to hear those words, any of them. Each one was like a stab with a sword. She trusted him to do it. Without doubting.

"I didn't kill him. It was vaghar-"

"VHAGAR IS YOUR DRAGON!"

Her shrill cry interrupted him, in his attempt to explain.

At the same time, the desperate queen had wrenched herself from his tightened grip, heedless of herself.

A sickening crack was heard, but Aemond seemed more concerned about it than Mhaenyra herself.

The young woman ignored her hanging hand as if she did not feel it. Now the magnitude of her emotional state became clear to Aemond.

She staggered to the dagger lying on the ground, swiftly picking it up with her intact hand.

To his horror, she apparently harbored no intention of turning the dagger on him.

With incredible determination, the blade found its way to her own throat, pressing against the pale, smooth skin of her neck.

Now it was the prince's chest that was rising and falling rapidly, panic written in his eye.

With unsteady steps, Mhaenyra moved backward, toward her window.

Aemond's change of attitude no longer affected Mhaenyra.

She had no faith left at all.

Not even in herself.

She was dead. Not much was missing and it was time. Then she was free.

One last time she thought of Aegon, hoped that he would avenge her. If he had ever liked her.

"Wait, stop. Mhaenyra. Don't do this." Aemond's voice trembled as it hadn't in a long time. He was no longer in control.

"Do you want to do it?" Her monotone voice frightened even him. He heard out her willingness. Her decision.

The prince immediately raised his hands defensively. "No, no. Put it down. Please."

He let his mouth speak freely, to say what he thought.

A knock sounded and Mhaenyra's maid entered.

The expression on her face changed abruptly as she recognized both figures in the room, and she instantly stood rooted to the spot. Her anxious gaze fell on the clearly stricken queen, examining her with concern.

The instruction Aemond straightaway gave her turned his own stomach.

"Bring the king here. Search for him. In the wine vault. In the kitchen. Anywhere there's alcohol and mugs."

He hated to admit it to himself but he had a feeling his brother would have more success saving the young queen from herself.

Mhaenyra on the other hand, hadn't even realized anyone had entered.

Her eyes had gone blank again, searching the room for things to think about without feeling.

With cautious steps, the maid ran off after nodding in agreement.

When she disappeared, the prince dared to take a few small steps towards the absent young woman.

"Ao ȳdra daor jaelagon naejot gaomagon bona." (You don't want to do that.)

His High Valyrian words were the only thing he could think of. He had to stall for time.

"Be quiet! Silence!"

Needless to say, it wasn't working.

"Please, don't be hasty. Hate me forever but spare your life."

To Mhaenyra, his words were just sounds. Loud sounds. She didn't want to hear them, she didn't want to hear anything more.

She pressed the blade further against the thin skin of her neck, underestimating how sharp the blade was.

The young woman suddenly heard her brother's laughter when she told him a funny story, and she knew she could do it again soon.

Something wet ran down her cleavage. A warm liquid that smelled strange.

"Mhaenyra-"

The heavy door flew open and an enraged Aegon staggered in.

The maid must have informed him well, he did not seem surprised. Nevertheless, he was shocked by the picture that presented itself to him.

With hasty steps he hurried toward Mhaenyra.

"Are you insane? You leave my wife alone, do you hear me?" Aegon hissed venomously at his brother as he pushed him out of the way with both hands.

Aemond allowed it, otherwise the king would not have succeeded.

Then he devoted himself completely to the injured girl.

"It is I, my queen. I am here."

He was now familiar with this kind of outburst. He found it easier than the first time.

A mocking laugh escaped Aemond when he heard his words, which made Aegon's blood boil.

But he had other things to take care of first.

Without fear of contact, he reached for her left hand and she let the dagger slide into his hands almost without resistance.

"My love..." He murmured strained as he used the blood-wetted weapon to remove a piece of her dress and place the fabric on the small cut on her neck.

It wasn't deep, she hadn't hit the main vein.

She began to cry bitterly again, but relaxed considerably with Aegon near her.

Aemond watched the two of them, his heart breaking as he saw how she reacted to his brother.

He clenched his fist angrily, but immediately regained his composure when he realized that at least she was doing better than she had been moments before. Even if it was his good-for-nothing brother who was responsible.

Aegon had put his arms around the trembling woman and pulled her close to him. He had even been careful not to move her broken wrist.

His eyes were still fixed on Aemond.

Hate met hate.

Aegon knew he held what his brother wanted in his arms and it gave him strength. She was the only person who had cared for him, and then she belonged to him alone. No one would come between them.

His brother thought about the fact that she was only with Aegon because of the disaster he had tried to avoid. His brother could only give her comfort if Aemond himself was to blame.

"Get out of here brother before I have your head taken."

A threat that failed to impress Aemond.

Provocatively, he took a step forward.

"Come get it yourself."

The door swinging open again, startled everyone involved except the distraught Mhaenyra.

In stepped Alicent Hightower, followed by the maid who had already led Aegon to them.

•*•

Part 16 inc

Part 1

TAGLIST

@nctma15 , @roroswitherose , @missusnora @the-avengers-ate-my-tongue , @underatreedrinkingtea , @m1ndbrand , @chittakii , @sustisama , @omgkatherine97 ,

@tired-ninfa , @curiouser-an-curiouser , @abcdefghi-lmnopqrstuvwxyz , @midnightrqin

(if you wanna be tagged, just tell me :3)

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vullcanica · 1 year

Text

@vilestblood : He, a crow, has perched on the gravestone for a while now, waiting for the Necromancer to resurrect; watching him emerge from the soil when the time comes.

A flurry of black feathers — he's human(-like) again. "Took you long enough." Gently brushes dirt off Nikodemus' face.

He surfaces grimy, gasping and garishly dressed. The tackiest resurrection there ever was. As far as dramatic entrances goes, crawling out of the dirt like a pathetic cockroach might be his saddest and least favourite. So he could certainly do without the sass right now.

"Oh, did it? Deepest apologies, darling. So loath to keep you waiting." he drolls up at Antonin from an undignified all fours, inbetween ragged breaths of sweet fresh air. Profoundly unamused. He'd like him better as a bird...

"Got held up a little in transit. I'll hazard a guess that the funeral was closed casket. You can hazard a guess as to why." Explosions will do that to you... It's been several days now of reforming his torn, burnt body to wholeness, two whole limbs included. Only to wake up debilitatingly disorientated in a cramped steel box with the air quickly running out. Deciding he is owed a moment of respite, Nikodemus sprawls on his back unceremoniously, stretching his sore, somewhat unfamiliar bones and blinking the spots from his vision. A touch, however gentle, to his raw, pink face elicits a noncomittal grunt. "Careful with that cheekbone. It's freshly grown."

He still cradles the hand in question to his chest, nevertheless soothed by Antonin's presence. His ire and adrenaline ebbs slowly, until the panting lessens and the grip turns less desperate. And certain pleasant realizations sink in.

"Still glad to know you waited for me." he prods, deliriously grinning about it, so very tickled by the notion even if it isn't anything new. Wonders if Antonin's held vigil for him a long while. His hand finds the sharp outline of a beautiful, pale face in the dark and he hums in delight. "Sight for sore eyes that you are... Did you roost here long?"

#𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑 ‒ nikodemus ║ IN CHARACTER #vilestblood.#nik (waking up): [angry resurrection noises]#nik (five minutes later): hey handsome 💞#hate him. probably blew himself up. still bitches about it.#sometimes he's just grumpy when he wakes up #that said. if antonin wants to kick him he's more than welcome to

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daidreamn · 2 years

Text

Vibe with me :)

...

Well he collapsed with Stevens-Johnson syndrome on the ER floor, panic attacked, anaphylactic and ataxic.

Well the way he spun his butterfly risked all six his phalanges, roman candles at both ends of his synapses.

And~ the method of with which he recycled his humors Trojan-horse'd his blood-brain barrier and raised the LD-50, yes, yes...

And through fight-or-flight revelation shame,

The Blackbox Warrior,

He skipped this town and headed straight down hist'ry.

Shields himself from reason in a kevlar baby blue tuxedo,

Quilted from the finest fibers, flesh, and fiberglass and flowers

His ego a mosquito; evil incarnate/good incognito

Pops placebos for libido, screaming "bless the torpedoes"

For what? For what?

For what it's worth...

If it was gonna kill you, boy, it would have by now.

For what? For what?

For what it's worth,

There's no more looking back

It's looking up or looking down.

Well he was wearing stolen rubber shoes and

WRAPPED A POISON IVY NOOSE

Around his lotus jugular when they came.

Well they found him with a map to every victim of his love

And a tattoo of a blue jay on his face~

And they waited for his vital signs to lie and let a flat line cry a hymn out in Hungarian harmonic!

But he cocked his noggin, through his stoma sang "for Auld Lang Syne, happy birthday to the succulents, I'll die your hydroponics"

His ribcage was a hornet's nest,

Palpitations set the beat--

His vagus nerve a turk's head knot,

An axel hitch, a carrick bend!

He wondered if Christ Consciousness would charge a cancellation fee

Auf wiedersehn, au revioir!

He GRIPPED HIS WITS RIGHT BY THEIR ENDS!

FOR WHAT? For what?

For what it's worth...

If it was gonna kill you, boy, it would have by now.

For what? For what?

For what it's worth,

There's no more looking back,

It's looking up or looking down!

Hello, welcome, why don't you take a seat? Get comfortable, relax, take a second if you need to.

Now what's bothering you?

Well, why don't we start at the beginning? Growing up, how was your relationship with the fundamentals of conscious existence? Did you have xenon orchid sinews spilling down the outer center of your blooming Escher/Mandelbrot head? And how about claustrophilic tendrils clapping caskets closed on seven-knuckle thumbs, did you get along well with the Gideon Bugler pineal glands, your projector eyes casting sci-fi's on your STR'd strands? Tell me about your nerve to steal nerves of steel from under Bacchus' bloody nose, did Namibian Himbas tie-dye you, your ears pierced with a Phineas Gage flagpole, did you die before your day? Thursday traction, Tuesday titration; my hope is to-- assess through my objective report of your subjective conjecture whether this proprietary bled of expertise and seasoning works as well as this transorbital ICE PICK.

Holistic ballistics, you got a better idea? It's about the best we could come up with. What, you think ideas spread because they're GOOD?? No, they spread because people LIKE THEM. So now here we are, once again, holding--as it were--

A MIRROR.

UP TO YOUR.

MIRROR.

...I guess it's just something people do!

A BLOODY KNIFE TO SPLIT YOUR INFASTRUCTURE

WINE TO REV YOUR MOTOR FUNCTION

COITAL MACHINATIONS OF THE DEAD.

WELL, YOU MAINLINE YOUR ANIMUS

KARATE CHOP YOUR ABACUS

AND LEARN TO BE AN ANIMAL INSTEAD!

BUT~ I NEVER DID THINK YOU BETTER THAN THIS,

YOUR MODUS OPERRRRRANDI CAUSES

NAZI/SKOPTZYISM AND SUICIDE!

WHY TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE WHEN IT IS YOU WHO ARE THE PROBLEM,

NOT THE THINGS YOU DO BUT SOMETHING SICK INSIDE?

LITHIUM AND DIALECTICS,

BOY, YOU REALLY IS DEFECTIVE!

CBT DON'T SEEM EFFECTIVE FOR THAT CLUSTER B, ACCEPT IT

OFFER UP YOUR INNOCENCE!

PLEASE IGNORE THE SIDE EFFECTS.

YOU'VE LOST YOUR MIND AND ALMOST LOST YOUR LIFE BEFORE, so you'll be fine :)

FOR WHAT??? FOR WHAT???

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH,

IF IT WAS GONNA KILL YOU, BOY,

IT WOULD HAVE BY NOW!

FOR WHAT?? FOR WHAT??

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH,

THERE'S NO MORE LOOKING BACK,

AND WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO LOOK BACK?

I MEAN IT'S NO GOOD LOOKING BACK,

SO TRY TO LOOK FORWARD NOW--

FOR WHAT?!? FOR WHAT!?!

FOR WHAT! IT'S! WORTH!

IF THEY WERE GONNA GET YOU, BOY,

THEY WOULD HAVE BY NOW!

FOR WHAT?? FOR WHAT??

FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH,

THERE'S NO MORE LOOKING BACK!

IT'S LOOKING UP OR LOOKING DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWN

#vibe with me #my posts #that intermission part? yeah i copy pasted that part. i did type everything else by hand tho #no fuckin way was i gonna type all that

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sasorikigai · 3 years

Note

Scorpion, I dare you to kiss all of the Sub-Zeroes in your immediate vicinity

Send me “ I dare you to kiss...” + a name or an URL and my muse will have to kiss that character || anonymous, mention of @indulgentia || accepting

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ❄️ || Life can be magnificent and overwhelming simultaneously - that had been the whole tragedy of Hanzo Hasashi’s life. Without beauty, love, or danger, it would almost be easy to live, and damn the consequences, as Scorpion moved with the celerity of his heat and heart’s force. For his relationship with Sub-Zero had not only birthed out of convenience, proximity, or chemistry alone. He needs more than the person’s physical presence to maintain a meaningful connection, for everything that remains speak of the metaphysicality of captivating, ensorcelling gravitation, as Scorpion has felt the sensation of being breathless and weak, crumpled by the entrance of another person inside his mind and soul.

Even when Hanzo Hasashi’s soul was set in eternal darkness, in stifled frustration and grief with the irreversible fact that he could not be in the Shirai Ryu and his family’s stead; he had risen in blossoming light and effulgent flames. The taste of his love that bestows Kuai Liang in such a stark resemblance of his brutal devotion and raw honesty, for this love has taken a life of its own. It lives, it breathes, and dreams of nothing, but Sub-Zero in both night and day, as Hanzo lets himself be filled with luscious and loving and full of tenderness and passion. That mystery, that combination, that purely living miracle; tenderness and lust rolling and rolling into one as he adheres to his paperwork out of necessity than productivity. He considers going out for a run around the Compounds, listen to the nature’s quelling music and write without any distractions, but decides to meditate and keep Sub-Zero in the center of his conglomerating thoughts.

The minutes not spent in Sub-Zero’s presence are counted impatiently, and time seems much too hurried when his beloved becomes near. All Scorpion can do is savor every moment with him and hope that they span lifetimes and beyond with each other. For they both had conquered Death and Netherrealm together, and their touches, whether vicious fatal blows or tenderest gossamer brushes of their hardened, blemished flesh, every point of contact between them felt and still feels important. A rush of energy and relief, as the ferocious seizing of one another’s corporeal being will elicit the melting, malleable tenderness as the equilibrium of their elements will render both mitigated of their herculean trauma.

If I were to place my lips upon yours, would the world stop? Would my gaze get lost within your eyes? Hanzo Hasashi’s touch upon Kuai Liang’s skin would trace imagination and reveal lost hearts of both Grandmasters. One that has roamed and found this haven that is each other. For the wretched world may ironically not be quite so cold with Sub-Zero in it, even if but for a little while. For every strife and torment and tribulation would be healed by the panacea of Kuai Liang’s love and sincerity, as Scorpion’s rage-filled flames would be considerably tempered, as the transparent disquietude of stark dualistic sentiments will perpetuate the eternally grimaced visage of the Shirai Ryu Grandmaster. The sudden triad of love, rage, and fear would surmount him every time when they were drifted off, against their desire, with their busy lives and specifically with the rising conflict between the Earthrealm and Outworld.

With their merged worlds set ablaze in disquietude and usurping threats, Hanzo Hasashi sits, armor-clad, the quiet crackle of flames becoming wreaths against the cool rushing midnight air. As soon as the familiar arctic rush of Kuai Liang’s presence is sensed behind his erect back, in the stark déjà vu in reverse, he lets himself be in complete surrender in the indulgence of heat and passion. The basic instinct of his tenderest side manifesting with the mellowed intensity of his gaze, which swells with dripping hearth embers of love.

“You have dragged me in the wretched landscape of Netherrealm all over again with your absence,” incredulous eyes shift to his back as Hanzo feels a tentative hand reaching for the nape of his neck, where the plated steel protects the most vulnerable part of his being. He would willingly come undone, mind, body, and soul all, as enthralling sparkle of his eyes flash so radiantly. Hanzo would let himself be collapsed there and then, as gently exhausted body sinking into Kuai Liang in a tight embrace elongates the concept of time and he’s hooked onto Sub-Zero’s lips like a clashing hook of wave and he is immediately blessed with such rhythmic ripple of his ribcage, as such thrilling energy proportionally glows as the expanse of his back quivers in flesh and muscles beneath his garments. “I could not sense your chi, I would have pursued you in your mission should I become aware of your coordinates.”

In Hanzo Hasashi’s prominent display of dominant control, Kuai Liang matches the all-consuming cadence of passion. Even as the throes of lingering pain perpetuates, the electric pleasure shooting through his gut would mitigate the all too familiar sting of his injuries. The conjugal bond of ferrous sanguine and bruises that clamorously adorn with the spectacle of flesh, bones, and tissues, how Sub-Zero still holds the dazzling crystalline gaze, unmarred and untainted. As his cryomancy would newly blossom in a ray of alluring sapphire, drowning the exquisite ache of kombat, he will relish this corporeal carapace of happiness, even in the throes of ongoing war, which proves as ephemeral blessing in disguise at their both shared and respective hardship.

The firmness of their sacred, divine love resembles boundless care, as their entangled limbs and two hardened hearts coming together in tender collision would persist infinitely. “I thought about you every day, every day, Kuai Liang,” Hanzo reluctantly parts, as gossamer whispers feel the tender warmth of Kuai Liang’s lips. His charged dark amber eyes collide shut upon endless staccato of their mingling lips, and behind all of his closed darkness behind the welled-up abyss where complete darkness resides, Scorpion lets the light seep into him.

Concurrently, as Kuai Liang emblems with such souvenirs that would entirely make him Hanzo’s, his own grounding and fevered impression engrains in his mind and etches in his soul. An endless exploration to become ambulatory upon Hanzo’s exposed dark olive flesh, as his hands become shadows contouring and hollowing him out whole. How they would further coalesce and levitate into nothingness as more articles of clothing unrobe from their adhered bodies. “I am without the familiar fear that would lurk so nearly. The fear of my peace shattering, because of my unuttered screams would echo incessantly as it would become an impending reality,” Kuai Liang cradles the swell of Hanzo’s bearded cheeks, as he angles his face to deeply kiss him, a devouring kiss that would linger and enfold into handfuls of pecks, as the baritone chortle escapes from his parted lips.

“There is no guilt that would render you numb and drowning in throes of despair, nor such helplessness that comes with the unending casket of defeat. We protect and cradle one another, Hanzo, for injustice shakes us to the core and stirs our humanity within. And I will go out of my ways not only as a warrior of Earthrealm, but as a lover in order to never let the stronghold of our love and protectiveness erode and crumble.” ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 ❄️ ||

#✗ the ineffable testimony of spawned hellfire (scorpion)#✗ bone-deep chill of despair (sub-zero)#✗ again and always (scorpion x sub-zero)#✗ seeking reconciliation with his own humanity (iii)#✗ you are an equal amongst deceivers (iii)#(thermodynamic equilibrium)#(relationships; hanzo)#(relationships; sub-zero)#✗ an innocuous unknown (anonymous messages)#(GDI this took long but take this mumble jumble)#anonymous #indulgentia

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sopxhiea · 4 years

Text

Constellation

Summary: Alfie pays a visit to the new head of the company and finds something he didn’t quite expect.

Alfie Solomons X Reader

One

“Miss, you have a visitor-”

“Who is it?”

He’s got flour on his shoes again, smelling of rum and vanilla. You know the smell all too well, you know it’s him. He drags his feet, boots thudding against the surface as you look at the surface of the table, watching the smoke coming from the mug.

“Joe-”

“’ello, luv.”

He’s charismatic, he walks inside with a charming smile that doesn’t quite faze you. Your assistants lets him in, too scared to blow him off like you did a couple days back when he showed up with some baked goods.

You’re mentally not prepared to talk to him.

There’s a big business chain waiting for you to rule it, there are people looking at you and watching your every move. Even though the pressure is staggering, your head is still held up high, eyes scanning the baker while you let the assistant go.

Your uncle had a deal with the infamous gangster, you intend to continue the deal.

The room is quiet as he walks in, makes himself comfortable. His hand is absent from the cane today, he feels better since the storm. He feels young when he sees you, watching the way you watch him like an eagle waiting on its prey to make a move.

Your face is straight out of a painting, he thinks.

He looks at the pile of files, paper and work surrounding you. There’s a sharp smell of coffee that has taken over your natural smell, you don’t look tired.

“Quite busy, eh?”

“What do you need, Mr. Solomons?” he sits down at last, his bear like figure occupying the space on the chair in front of your desk.

You look at him through your glasses.

“Yeah..” he nods, it’s genuine. “You, right, weren’t ‘ere the other day..”

“I was out on business.” you cut him off, he likes to take his time while getting to the point, you have no time as you scan the paper in front of you.

It had been a month since you’d taken on the business, four weeks of absolute madness. You’d seen too many immature man with thick heads who threatened to drop a deal your uncle had. They didn’t know who they were dealing with.

“You’re quite the hard worker, eh?” he spoke, eyeing your figure as your eyes didn’t waver. “I ‘eard things, yeah, I did.” his hand meets his beard.

There was word going around about you, how you were the smartest woman this town had seen and how you had learned everything so quickly. You had to, the empire wouldn’t run by itself.

“I still do not know why you’re here..” you spoke, uninterested in the man before you as you looked through a pile of papers for a certain document.

He can see the elegance in you, in the way you present yourself and the sophistication you carry within yourself. It comes from education, he thinks.

It’s been carved into who you are.

“Your uncle and I worked together..” he spoke, waving his hand through the air as you eye his rings.

“I’m aware of that...”

“Yeah yeah...” he dismisses you, filling your eyes with fire again. “I ‘eard you’ve been ‘round, making business with the rest of the town...” he spoke, and you had been doing exactly that.

Your eyes finally met his, not an ounce of fear or hesitation as you looked directly into his eyes.

“I have.” you speak, not occupied anymore now that you feel a threat coming your way.

“I’m here to ask, right, why the fuck you ‘aven’t visited me bakery yet...” he speaks with a harsh tone and you watch him in his natural stance.

He looks better with his beard trimmed.

“I was busy.” you look at him with stern eyes as he watches your every move, there’s no fear oozing from you like the other people he works with. “.. but now that you’re here, let’s talk about it.” you offer, he’s angry.

He’s worked hard to be where he is, he knows you understand him in this regard so he can’t pinpoint why you’re being so impossible. He knew you had a reason for not coming to his place, you had visited every other associate your uncle had, sometimes more than once. He needs for you to tell him why, but also knows you won’t.

“’s not how you do this fuc-” he raises his voice, angry but he doesn’t know just how much of a threat you can be, you cut him off.

“I know about you, Solomons. I know plenty to know how you do this fucking business. Do not come in here in my dead uncle’s office without a reason and insult the way I do this.” you sit up, fire in your eyes while he watches you light up, he’s never seen a better sight.

You know how to do business around here, you learned from the fucking best.

“Your uncle said t’ protect his jewel, yeah, ‘m startin’ to think ‘e meant the fuckin’ business, not you.”

You got up, frustration evident in your face as he watched you, you looked lovely today. The papers were long forgotten, unlike what you had thought, Alfie was just as thick as the other men around.

“’m not fucking insultin’ you, pet, yeah. ‘m just sayin’, a deal ‘s a deal.”

He walks closer to you, you’re much shorter than he is and he looks taller than he did at the funeral. You smell him first, he’s way too close. You don’t blink, holding a breath that’s to be released soon.

“I think y’ kno’ how to do this, yeah, y’ know it fuckin’ well.” he speaks, you feel his breath on your face. You blink up to see him staring down at you.

“A deal ‘s a fuckin’ deal.”

(a week later)

The echo of your heels against the surface is all the men hear, it’s not everyday a woman comes in to their workplace. You don’t glance around but follow your assistant, the one you hired after you had to take over a fucking empire.

You’ve learned that sleep isn’t so necessary anymore, nor is food. Coffee runs through your veins while you remember where you are, there are whispers around.

Two big doors, wooden and steel, open up to his office. The room is placed far from the entrance, the smell reeks of rum and sweat. Ollie lets you in, his boss skimming through papers he’d long forgotten.

There’s no flour on his sleeves this time.

He’s dressed in a white button shirt, it’s cotton from what you can tell. His glasses rest at the bridge of his nose, he’s uninterested in who just walked in until he smells the perfume. It’s french.

“‘ello, doll.”

There’s a new nickname every time he sees you, you’re used to it at this point. Your eyes meet his, he looks less threatening in his office, less like an eagle preying on a wounded animal. He looks warm.

“Is this a bad time?” you ask, nice enough to keep manners in hand.

There’s two guns resting on top of his desk, both loaded and you’re once reminded of the wicked things your uncle used to do. He was a nice man but not a good guy, the reason why you’re knees deep in this mess of a place.

“Oh.” he exhales, nodding his head while getting rid of the papers in front of him. “No, ‘s good.

Ollie leaves along with your assistant, leaving the two of you alone to get to business. There are things even the closest person to you can’t know and business with Alfie Solomons is one of them.

“To what do I owe ‘is pleasure, eh?” he speaks, the accent is thick but you somehow come to enjoy it.

He watches you take your gloves off, the fabric is transparent, he can see the rings on your fingers as they shine with every move you make.

“The deal.” you speak, ice cold.

You’re quite new to the business but you know just how daft and thick these man can be, they’re vague and shallow most of the time. You’ve grown up with one of them until he was put in a casket in front of you just a couple of months back.

There’s no sign of tolerance in your eyes, you want to get things done and leave. He wants something a little more different.

You get your papers out, he watches you move almost out of habit. He likes to observe you, the way you move is somehow captivating to him.

It’s different-changed from the little girl he once knew when you came around your uncle’s place. There’s no smile on your face anymore, it’s rare that your cheeks form into the shape. The cruelty of the world is shaping you into a tougher soul right in front of him but it’s the fire in your eyes that he’s fascinated with.

“Right.”

He takes the papers while stealing a glance, he’s amused. He reads them once while you take a look around the place, it’s been lived in as far as you can tell. It reminds you of him.

“You’ve changed it, yeah?” he asks, throwing the papers on his desk while he leans back on the chair.

“I did.”

“You’re a clever little thing, ya’ know ‘hat?” he says, you can see the sparks in his eyes.

It’s no surprise to him that you’re brilliant, he knows of your education and similar sense of business to your uncle, that’s why he had left you the business after all. It’s the wicked sense you seem to have that captivates him, he has seen no one like you in this line of business before and you pull it off exceptionally well.

“That’s nice of you, Mr. Solomons.” you speak up, a hint of smile on your lips and he dies to see it, he wonders when you’ll finally give him that angelic smile of yours but you’re not amused.

“Alfie, luv, yeah, just call me Alfie.”

Your hair isn’t in its usual place anymore, it’s pulled up, he can see your face. He thinks, and maybe it’s the light, you glisten. Maybe you are the jewel your uncle had told Alfie about.

You eye the pen, waiting for him to sign the damn papers so you can just leave, it has been a long day after all.

“Look, luv..” he speaks, dropping his glasses while you watch him like a kid watches a magician, amazed but scared. “’s a good deal, yeah, fucking brilliant if y’ ask me..”

He’s unpredictable you think. With every grumpy man you’ve worked with in the last two months, he’s the first one to not sign it or the one to have a reasonable reaction.

“But why are you really here, eh?” he asks, the inevitable question.

He knows you could’ve sent your assistant or just a worker for him to have a look over the papers but there you are, in all your glory sitting on the chair in front of him and his question finally brings a smile to your lips, he’s amazed at how innocent you look with a lovely smile on your face.

But it’s just as wicked.

You don’t chuckle but almost roll your eyes.

“After that visit, I got to see how you conducted your end of the business..” you speak, shaking one leg as if to say you weren’t so threatened by him. He nods.

“I’ve gathered the information I needed and your visit just proved me that you needed my uncle’s enterprise to move to the next stage..” you breathe out, you knew he was trying to expand things for himself but your business was vital for him due to its size and prestige.

“..my enterprise..” you correct yourself as there’s a wavering of shock in his eyes, you are way smarter than he’d thought, even more sly.

“Cheeky minx..” he speaks, it’s more like a low whisper but you hear it, loud and clear.

“If I were you, I would watch my words, Alfie..”

He watches you intently, you have the upper hand now, he always has the upper hand. He doesn’t chuckle, he’s calculating something but you’re running out of time.

You get up, leaving the papers along with your gloves, you know he’ll return to your place soon. He won’t miss the opportunity.

He watches as you get up, you are free of any emotion but pride as you feel the man put the missing pieces of the puzzle together.

This had always been your uncle’s plan, now Alfie’s business was dependent on yours, in the hands of a young lady trained to do what was necessary.

You give him a generous smile once again, knowing you’ll see him very soon.

“Remember to bring me some of your famous pastries when you pay me your next visit.” you breathe out, you’re even more wicked than he thought.

And just like that, you’re gone.