I know it's been a long time, and I know I usually write slowly. The thing is, this radio silence isn't a sign of productivity: I've had the craziest weeks, being busy as hell. I plan on going back to actively writing today/tomorrow, and will try to dedicate at least an hour everyday from now on.
I am sorry for the silence, and hope to see you soon
A/N: Fic writer curse is real, man. When I started writing this one, my grandpa died, and today I had the worst day. Anyways, have at it. Also, both Gabe and V1 are people of color
Warnings: Canon-typical Violence, canon-typical gore
Word count: 3603
Chapter 2: Hope it hurt
Now he was paying attention.
Out of all the districts, Limbo was the most prosperous. A calm place similar to the suburbs Heaven was located on, meant to imitate it even if not completely. Only the richest of Hell could afford to live there, but they were still not wealthy enough to leave the city. Even so, it was a peaceful little bundle of houses, where people minded their own business and lived however they could manage. Bloodshed wasn't like Limbo, at all.
"'n' we stopped in Gluttony 'cause…?" Gabriel inquired, trying not to look at the poor, agonizing devils that were begging and reaching for the limo.
"'Cause y' 'll surely wanna stop by Lust ta read this letter with a shot on yer hand."
The capo leaned against his seat. Lust had the best and strongest liquor in all of Hell. Even if Minos deserved every shot, cut and stab for defying the Boss in His absence, Gabriel had to admit he had good taste. Because of those 'renovations' the loving Don had made, which almost transformed the city into utopia, Lust was the second most expensive district to live in.
But despite it all, it was two in the fucking morning. If he had to see bloodshed so morbid he had to drink through it and fix it, he rather do it tomorrow— or rather, later when the sun was out.
"Could it wait?" he questioned, his head hitting the headrest heavily.
"They asked fer ya t' see it as soon as possible" the chauffer shrugged, lighting a cigarette.
"Then make that eight a.m. I wanna sleep enough ta work decently tomorrow, for fuck's sake" Gabriel grumbled, resting his elbow against the window to massage his temple and relieve his ever growing migraine.
The engine roared, great news for his tired mind.
"Yer the boss" the ferryman shrugged once more before driving away from the beggars and Hell as a whole.
The next morning, with six hours of sleep on himself, Gabriel made some coffee to try to his bad mood. He sat on his pine wooden table, letter in hand, and sliced the top of it to read it.
«Gabriel,
Today, February the first, in the month of purification, catastrophe has hit Limbo. We do not know the name of the one behind this atrocity, but they must be eliminated immediately. Today at 8 in the afternoon, the entire district was confirmed deceased. That is, there is no survivor in Limbo— not the children, nor the animals. The entire district's population was wiped off like a stain, only the carnage left behind to hint us at what has happened.
The soldiers will handle the fees. From now on, your main task is to neutralize and eradicate this threat. Do not underestimate this person, under any and all circumstances.
We're including photos of what was left of Limbo for you to realize the seriousness of the situation, for we doubt you'll even want to engage.
We'll handle the district's re-population before anyone not fit from the others can barge in and make themselves at home.
We expect results.
— The council.»
He took a long sip from his coffee, his eye twitching. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to see guts so early.
He did it anyways, and thank goodness his stomach was empty.
Limbo was nice. Nicer than Living Grounds, definitely not as nice as Heaven, but it was nicer than the rest of Hell put together. Did it copy Heaven's suburbs? Yes, but who cared? It wasn't the real thing.
Even so, Gabriel liked it. People paid in time, they were polite, and everyone was content. Even with their own problems as robberies, neighbor fights and such, the sense of community was ever present. So imagine his surprise and horror when he saw such a homey place be devastated in such grotesque manner.
The town was painted red with the blood of everything that walked and breathed. Birds, squirrels, men, mothers, children— nothing and no one left to live. Some bodies littered the streets with expressions of despair. But most? Most of the residents became debris the concrete of the sidewalks and streets— some were even hanging on trees. He could barely make out the silhouette of a child, his only clue being the little wooden train toy beside the dead body— or what was left of it.
"Christ on a stick…" Gabriel breathed out. "Rest in pieces."
He threw the photos and letter on the table, grabbed his mug and took another long sip of coffee. Completely dissociated, with a thousand yard stare, Gabriel processed what he had just seen. He had seen his fare share of murders throughout his entire life— but never, and he meant never, something so messy. Whoever was responsible had put their entire soul on it. He put the mug down and rubbed his temple, not to massage a headache away, but to ground and prepare himself for what he was tasked to fix.
He reached for his mug again to take another swig, still abstracted in his own mind, when the telephone's strident ringing snapped him out with a jump. He almost knocked coffee all over the table, covering the top just in time to settle the mug on its base again. Gabriel promptly stood up, the noise sounding distant as his mind still buzzed with questions.
"Matragrano's residence" he stated as soon as he picked up.
"Yeah, yeah, let's cut the formalities" the voice of the head of the Council rang through the line with nothing but pure aggression. "Lust is gone."
Gabriel froze to the bluntness of it all.
"Pardon?"
"What y' heard. Lust s' wiped off the map, a red stain, whateva y' wanna call it."
He swept a hand through his face. "When do ya want me there?"
"By yesterday" the man from the other end sneered.
Figures.
"A'ight, I'll be headin' out—"
He was hung up on before he could finish the sentence. With a defeated sigh, he grabbed his coat, hopped in his pearl white Cadillac and drove as fast as he could to Hell City.
Even with a handkerchief over is nose, the impregnating smell of blood would reach Gabriel's nostrils to the point he was on the verge of vomiting. To think such a prosperous district as Lust would witness so much carnage— again.
Kicking a stray arm out of the way, he walked down the street, his eyes scanning through the landscape. Nothing different to the last massacre, except for the place. Still no clues about what was the murderer's motif behind this, too.
"Gabriel."
Well shit.
"Yes, sir?" he turned to face the man behind the phone back at home.
Maxwell was his name. A smiling prick who never got his hands dirty. But, for the first time in Gabriel's lifetime, he was anything but. His slick-back was no more, there were deep eye bags under his eyes and a scowl on his lips that was crowned with a cig. His usually spotless suit was now wrinkled, with the two top buttons of his shirt undone.
"Has a truck run over ya?"
"Ha ha ha, fuck you" the man snapped. Gabriel raised his hands in surrender. "Am having a bad day, as y' can tell. Yer lucky am not in the mood nor have the time to getcha punished."
There was a pause as he took a long drag from the cig. Given that it was now finished, he put it out on the ground, took another from his pocket and lit it up.
"We need ya ta go to Gluttony" he mumbled, his nerves briefly subsided.
"Because…?"
"Because—"
Oh, that came out wrong.
"— If the perpetrator has hit Limbo and now Lust, it's clear he's going into Hell City."
"Makes sense" thank the stars; he could go somewhere with living people.
"We've already evacuated the place. Hurry up 'fore he exits the district. If our sources 're right, the one responsible fer all this goes by foot. Make sure ta kill him." Maxwell grumbled. "Try not t' die."
And he left without as much as murmuring goodbye.
Gabriel walked into his car and squeezed the steering wheel. "Sheesh."
The trip wasn't long, but it seemed to drag on and on. The stakes were high, but nothing he couldn't handle. He has killed Dons, so a runaway lunatic shouldn't be that hard. He took shortcut after shortcut to reach the gate to Greed. Once he got there, he killed the engine and circled around the car. He had what he needed in his trunk: a Tommy gun, a shotgun, his revolver, ammo and handcuffs if he ever needed to kidnap someone. Hopefully this would be enough.
Gabriel picked up his trusty combat knife when he heard it; wet, calculated, impatient steps behind him. He turned around slowly, hiding any possible clue of fear.
The person before him looked the way they acted: as a force of nature. Eyes scanning everything around them, taut and ready for any possible attack— Gabriel knew not to mistake that expressionless face with disinterest. A presence to be reckoned with stood before him: long dreads, angular face, slim, athletic build. He knew this would be a long fight.
"Who're you?" he questioned, staring at them.
No response.
"Why y' doin' dis?"
Silence once more. The stranger limited themselves to size him up.
"Turn back now, if y' value yer life. Hell City don't need this carnage."
The stranger paid him no mind. They gave a step forward.
"Very well, ya choice is made" Gabriel clicked the safe off his revolver. "I'll do da world a favor 'n' rid it of yer existence."
Who shot the first bullet, it's hard to know. Gabriel flew to the stranger's side, aiming for their frown. He was stopped with the swing of a punch that left his mouth agape, the strength of it throwing him to the ground. He barely dodged the next shot, allowing him to get on his knees quick enough to wrap his arms around their torso to tackle them down. Gabriel climbed onto them, sitting on their chest to pin them down while he tried to snatch the gun out of their grip. Once he had it, the stranger struck him square on the nose, making the firearm slip far from reach.
Gabriel staggered to his feet and ran towards the trunk of his Cadillac, but the stranger had other ideas; With a firm hand on his ankle, he was yanked back to the fighting ground. He didn't have time to react: punch after punch, his face grew bloodier by the second. Every swing he threw was dodged.
Gabriel franticly patted the floor, the wood of his dagger the greatest relief he felt in ages. He managed to leave a gash on his attacker's chest, which forced them to retaliate. They didn't seem to be done, though. But Gabriel was, and he made a run for it to his car, and started the engine in panic.
He drove off like a coward, and the murderer left behind didn't chase him.
Two weeks had passed since. Darkness enveloped Gabriel's bedroom as he laid on his bed. His face still hurt. His broken nose was somehow more roman than before. He hadn't answered any calls, nor has left the house at all. He was just… lying there, enveloped in his sheets and his shame. The stranger hasn't shown up since either, so he didn't feel too bad for failing.
And now, here he was, staring at his ceiling fan, thinking:
"…Do I want to stand up and make myself coffee?"
After some pondering, he decided that yes, yes he did.
Wrapped in his thickest bed cover, he dragged his feet to his kitchen, prepared the Moka pot and idled by while he waited for it to brew.
That's when his doorbell rang. He had dreaded this moment, but had accepted it long ago. He just closed his eyes and took a deep breath while he heard his lock being forced, long steps following right after. Behind him, a chair was dragged back, and someone groaned while they sat down. Gabriel simply poured himself a cup of espresso before he turned around. Right there, sitting by his kitchen table, sat Maxwell.
"I see y' didn't die" He pointed out humorlessly.
"No, I haven't."
"Y' didn't succeed either."
"No, I didn't."
"So the mass murderer, that I trusted you would take care off, is still on the loose?"
Gabriel took a slow, sonorous sip from his mug.
"Pretty much."
Maxwell took a deep breath, right before slamming his fist against the table with a bang. He sighed heavily, ankle over his knee as his foot tapped the air anxiously. He leaned over the table, propped up by his elbow while his hand covered his mouth.
"Incredible" he snickered to hide his disbelief. "Incredible. Gabriel Matragrano has failed" he rubbed his chin, then pointed at the loser before him. "You failed me, Gabriel. You. The Boss' favorite bitch."
Gabriel looked somewhere else and nodded. He had, indeed, failed to do the only thing he was actually good at.
"I s'pose that makes me useless" he muttered.
Maxwell, wide eyed and sarcastic, nodded in agreement.
He leaned over. "Yes. Yes, it does"
He allowed his words to sink in, right before leaning back.
"But am desperate. Y' see, yer still da best hitman we have. Without'cha, no one in da mob would have made it dis far so easily. So, let's make a deal."
Gabriel cocked his head to the side and squinted.
"If… y' manage ta kill the bastard within the next month, I'll let ya live. Y' interested?"
"'Course I am interested." Gabriel scoffed, not watching his tone until the head of the council stared him down. "I wanna get their ass more than eva'."
"Good." Maxwell stood up. "Very good. Do not fail me or the council again." He offered his hand, and Gabriel shook it. "Cya next month."
The capo stood there while he watched his superior leave, irritated yet thankful. Maxwell might be— no, was an asshole, but he was fair. He didn't want to die until he heard where the Boss was, dead or, hopefully, alive.
He didn't dwindle much more on his emotions though; he had work to do.
He chugged down his mug and marched towards the bathroom to shower, shave and fix his hair. He had missed washing day since before he had his ass beat, and his hair had volume only because of the frizz and not because of the curls. Honestly, he hadn't showered since, and looked homeless.
Once he was clean, beard shaven to his usual short goatee and curls nice, puffy, and tied into a high pony tail, he started to plan his outfit. He settled with a shirt and his trusty dress pants, but his golden jewelry— the mob's brand characteristic— was the star of the show. Pearly earrings, a thin golden chain, bracelets… Even his belt had golden paisley patterns. Then and only then did he start to plan how to kill the bastard stranger.
They were truly a difficult opponent; they were a blur the entirety of the fight. That left hook was impressive, he couldn't lie. And when they pinned him down? They made it so difficult to move them off. They were very light, do not be mistaken, but Gabriel was too busy trying to survive that reckless attack to shove them away. Though he tried for a few moments, his hands trying to push them by the waist— thumbs brushing the dirty shirt, muscle lying beneath it— or grabbing their hands. None of those worked, as the sudden sting on his nose reminded him.
After a minute or two of pondering, Gabriel decided that it was best to try and match their game. After all, their fight was a mix of a war zone and hand to hand combat.
"Hm…" he hummed in thought. "Hand ta hand, body ta body. Pretty hands on, ain't it?"
Yes, he laughed at his own pun, thanks for asking.
But, jokes aside, he was intrigued. He never fought someone with such an erratic yet effective technique. It's been years since someone meant an actual challenge to him, and he found it… refreshing, to say the least. It's been so long since he felt so much adrenaline run through his veins, to have so much anticipation for a fight. He felt a shiver run up his spine at the thought.
He would make it his mission to beat them, alone. It would be satisfying to see them helpless after the humiliation they put him through. After all, if his life is on the line, he better make it count.
That's why, with a sure pace, he grabbed his coat and hopped into his car to make yet another long drive to Hell City. Gluttony was evacuated during and after the fight, and the districts before it were wiped off the map; that's why he headed to Greed. It was the only nearest habited place they could hide in. He couldn't wait to see them angry and defeated.
Greed, the land of fancy lifestyles and despair. During the night, the place roars with activity: neon signs calling people into the luxurious casinos, filled to the brim with slot machines, roulettes and game tables. Where the air smelled of cheap booze, cologne and sweat, while the melodious voice of a pretty broad got drowned by the cheers and wails. And if you were lucky enough to win something, you could spend it at strip clubs, buy gold, or, well, bet it all all over again. The latter was the most common, and goodness was it nice to see Lady Luck abandon their side as the gold slipped between their fingers like sand.
But when the sun dared to peek through the horizon, the city was a completely different landscape. Empty, dirty and desolated, a desert of concrete and golden fronts. Overall, a sad place to be.
And as Gabriel stared at his own sweaty reflection, the harsh sun ten times hotter due to the tall buildings and treeless streets, he hoped he was right and that the Stranger was here.
Maxwell had already asked the Soldiers to search around and knock on every door needed. Meanwhile, he sneaked into a small bar hidden down the stairs of an alleyway to wait for news.
The place was unlike the whole district: it was rustic, small, cheap. It was a place that existed since the dawn of Greed, when it was nothing but a ditch. There were only a few patrons, most likely regulars, that were distributed around the dimly lit booths. This was just what Gabriel needed: peace and quiet.
He sat at the bar and asked for a straight glass of whiskey, swirling it around and sipping from time to time. He could only wait for news, praying the Stranger wouldn't cause another massacre out of the blue and—
"You are Gabriel Matagrano, are you not?"
He turned to his side to see who addressed him so suddenly.
"Color me surprised" they scoffed, taking a swig out of their bottle of beer. "Are you here for the lunatic fucker?"
This person wasn't much different than the Stranger, but instead they had a warmer skin tone, their hair tied in Nordic braids instead of dreads, and they looked bulky instead of athletic. Of course, if you choose to ignore the obvious prosthetic arm all things considered.
They noticed Gabriel was staring and huffed out a laugh, right before taking another drink.
"Yeah, pretty nasty. I am not proud of how that fight played out."
"Who did dat to ya?" he asked.
They scoffed. "Guess."
Their shoulders had noticeably tensed. Reaching for their bottle, they tried to take another swig, only to find it was empty. They slammed it down in frustration and sighed before asking the barkeep for another one while rubbing their eyes. They found a castaway peanut on the bar and started circling it with their fingers.
"Never again I will show respect to them. The fight wasn't as fair as I thought it would be" they grumbled.
"How did ya manage ta survive?" Gabriel inquired, hoping to learn a weakness; Something, Anything—
"I ran away."
Shit.
"Judging by your expression, you were hoping for something more brave. Ironic, coming from someone who's named Valor" they snorted self deprecatingly, taking the bottle from the barkeep and a long drink out of it.
"Seems like we both got our arses kicked, huh?" Gabriel commented.
"Yeah… At least we survived, so there's that" Valor muttered. "Not for long though."
He straightened out on his seat, "What d' ya mean?"
"I know where Vian is going next. Can't let them escape Greed alive after what they did to me. I'm sure they kept the arm as trophy, the sick bastard."
"Is that their name?" Gabriel asked, purposefully ignoring the last part.
"Vian? Yes, it's their name."
"From where do you know each other?" He asked, but Valor only smiled as they slipped a few bills on the bar-top to pay the tab.
"It's irrelevant. Hope to see you again soon, sir. Wish me luck."
Before he could stop them, they were walking up to the exit, leaving Gabriel with more questions than before. At least they no longer were the "Stranger". Vian was a pretty name, too. So fitting for them: "Full of life". That, they were. Oh, they sure were…
A/N: Hello! ^^ Welcome to this mess of a fanfic! I suck at ULTRAKILL and got lost a bit in the lore, but I want these two fuckers to fight and then kiss. Gabriel honors the Gay sound in his name, after all. Also, I know jackshit about accents, so whoops.
Anywho, pls enjoy. English is not my first language, but I understood myself, and that works for me :]
Mind y'all, I won't update regularly. I have lots of hobbies, hiatus, burntout and stuff going on, but I will try to stay commited ^^
Warnings: canon-typical gore, mentions of torture
Word count: 1664
Chapter 1: A stroll down a path of roses— and thorns
The sunset sun crawled in miserably through the windows of Gabriel's office, clinging to the pink-tinted clouds in hopes it wouldn't die like every day. It peeked between the buildings— in a plea for mercy maybe— as its light dimmed with a last warm ray for the day.
Gabriel couldn't breathe in all this smoke, and he was about to throw a chair through the window just to let some fresh air come in. Damn the Council and their smoking habit.
How annoying. To sit down on the other side of his desk, in his office, to have them tell him to go out like a Soldier. Collect the safety fees from the districts of Hell? Really? As if he didn't do enough already. He was the underboss and the capo! He was in charge of most chores, he had the most blood on his hands, and they wanted him to go to hell once more to collect fee money? Outrageous.
“I'm sure it will be no problem to you” The head of the council chuckled, leaning back on his custom made chair. “You know Hell like the back of your hand.”
…That much was true. He did patrol regularly and take care of any subversive behaviors, so he knew every nook and cranny from each district. He was also respected after he personally took down the most powerful Dons, Minos and Sisyphus, but he still rather do anything else. Though, with the Boss gone, he should've been the second in command, not the council. Ever since He disappeared, he took it sourly to answer to anyone else. Not that anyone cared as long as he got the job done anyways— which he did. That was why they let him stay, and that's why he would swallow his damn pride and be their little clapping seal.
“Fuck y'all.” He spat with spite to the empty room— not having the guts to say it to their faces, and having waited at least ten minutes after they left to. He looked at the window, and watched as the sun finally set and the night started.
"We'll meet again" by Vera Lynn. That's how the population of Hell used to announce his arrival through the radio, playing that wretched song on all channels. It didn't matter if it was a surprise visit, the song would play eventually, and to hear it every single time tends to worsen the mood of the mobster that didn't want to be there in the first place. Gabriel didn't care how it could affect his public image: whenever he entered Hell, it was known at least someone would die. He couldn't care less; he had learnt it was easier to be feared than to be loved. That's how the Boss earned respect, after all. Yes, there were some good deeds in the way, but the fear of His punishments tended to be more motivating than His rewards.
Windows were closed at every step he gave, children hushed and hurried inside, their toys left behind like runts. Soon he was left alone to his thoughts on the empty streets of Violence. He liked to go from the inside out, just so it was easier for him to leave this ditch when he was done, a few days from now on. Some soldiers went to attend Treachery and Fraud, just because he did not want to deal with them this month. It was enough for him to come to the district where some of the greatest scum resided in.
Gabriel stepped into the first apartment complex, greeting and charging watchman on his way inside. It was old fashioned, with little maintenance and had the appearance that it had been abandoned once, only that people started to move in on their own later and no one bated an eye about it. He couldn't not notice how it was also made entirely out of old concrete— it was sheer luck that it didn't collapse just now.
He stopped the elevator's doors from closing and took it to the top floor, standing calmly beside an old lady that was trying her damn hardest not to show how scared she was.
"G'day, ma'am" He bowed his head at her, showing a little bit of courtesy even if he would rather spit at any and all residents' faces.
"Good mornin'…" The quiver on her voice would have been untraceable if it weren't for the wheeze it came with.
"Do you have the money on you right now?" He would like to skip a door to knock on. The poor lady seemed mortified, to which he was quick to point: "I 'spose you don't then. What's your apartment number so I can pass by later?"
The old lady seemed to ease, but she still wasn't any less alert.
"The sixth on the third floor."
As soon as the words left her mouth, the elevator doors opened to reveal that they had arrived to that same floor.
"Well, I guess I'll see you in a bit." The mobster added with rehearsed politeness. "Have a good one, ma'am."
She muttered a response and left him to keep riding the lift. He would go there first when he reached her floor, just for funsies.
Gabriel knocked on the first door, on the second, on the fifth, and so on. Violence was such an unpredictable district: some could pay the fee, and others would receive a bullet between the eyebrows. Not that it mattered much: gangs and junkies were killing each other every other day at the smallest inconvenient— what did it matter another number on the statistic? They were all going at each other's throats all the time, because of food or because the other looked at them funny. It was a gamble, but he could also go to Greed for that. Every currency strap he got was thrown into a money bag, that would be left with his chauffer.
Finally, he reached the third floor, and he was welcomed with a dead body at his feet. A middle aged man, crazed as a rabid dog, was straddling another, violently punching and smashing his neighbors' head against the floor. He must have been blinded by rage, because the skin of his knuckles was peeling off as more and more bits of the body flew out with every swing, yet he remained unbothered— uncaring. He just… grunted and cursed at his dead neighbor, for not handing him the money he needed to pay the fee Gabriel was there for. It made him wander for how long he has been begging before he resulted to murder. Anyways, he had to take a step back so blood wouldn't ruin his shoes— but what else could you expect from a place called "Violence"?
Gabriel cleared his throat, and the man froze up at the sound of his unmistakable voice. He turned his head slowly to look at the mobster standing idly behind him.
"Dead men don't pay; but you aren't dead, are you?" The capo reached down to draw his gun. He took off the safe. "Do you, perchance, have the money for the fee?"
The man's eyes remained unmoving, locked on Gabriel's before he searched on the dead man's pockets. Sure enough, he found a bundle, and handed it to him. He took it, counted, and put the safe from his revolver back on before he put it away.
"Good enough." He muttered before he turned to his side and approached the sixth apartment. The old lady's.
He didn't even have to knock. The old woman just opened the door as soon as he stepped before it. Her eyes were completely bloodshot and swollen, her cheeks wet with tears. It dawned on Gabriel that he was about to take her entire savings, and that he was about to ruin a life. Only a thought came across his head:Â "Welcome to the club, Nonna". She silently offered the bundle and he took it. He couldn't have any less sympathy for these people. They were all parasites, dirt under his damn shoes, and if they moved to Hell, they damn well had it deserved. Only whores, frauds and junkies ended up in this place.
He put the bills away and heard a whine come from her, but he was unbothered. Life in this city was a game, and if you lost, it was a damn shame. You could cry him a river about it if you wanted, he wouldn't care— he didn't live there, it wasn't his problem. She should be grateful, if anything. She paid, she got another month to live.
"Have a good one, miss." Gabriel tipped an imaginary hat before he turned around to charge the other residents of this apartment complex.
It took him all day, but he was done in Violence. All done, for this month at least. He checked his wristwatch: it was two a. m. Inconvenient time to be on the streets of this district when everyone hated you, but he simply hopped on his car and waited to be driven back to the border. He couldn't wait to leave this city.
That was until his chauffer stopped on Gluttony, the district were people starved away and watched as those more fortunate than them indulged in a burger or two. Overall, a normal place to be: better than Violence but still hard to live in. People here slaved away to pay the high prices thanks to the food shortage there was a few years ago, and then they never lowered. Anyway, not a pleasing place to be.
"Why did'cha stop?" Gabriel grumbled in his already bad mood. He was tired, what now?!
The Ferryman barely even moved his head to the side when he addressed him. "The Council's associates came to me as I waited fer you at the bar while you collected the last fee; told me there was some havoc happenin' at the outer districts. Limbo is a bloody mess."
Tags: mafia, He/Him Pronouns for Gabriel, genderqueer V1
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, gore
Summary: In a city filled with death and dispair, a horrible man finds himself with the duty to eliminate someone as horrible as him. He will have to face his sins, feel them crawl all the way up his back and squirm as they eat him inside out. He might not survive it, but he can only hope he will. Honestly, he doesn't even know if he wants to.
This fanfic is inspired by @Staringback 's wonderful fanfic "Sooner or Later You're Gonna Be Mine" (find it on Archive of Our Own). Read it, omg.
A/N: Finally, I can bring this to Tumblr lol. I suck at Ultrakill and have a very small grasp of the lore, so expect OOC
Fandom: The Boys Relationship: Soldier Boy x F!Reader Rating: +18 Warnings: Violence, graphic depictions of torture and abuse, major character death, drugs
Summary: In a world Soldier Boy barely recognizes, he found company in the only anchor he had throughout his entire life. And he won't leave, for better or for worse— mostly for worse—, and you will have to try and balance your normal life, trying not to lose what is left of your sanity.
A/N: This is an AU from season five, and as we all know, it hasn't come out yet by the time this was written. I couldn't resist writing an SB fic, and @indyrehead already took the blame :] (ty gurl)
Chapter one: Long time no see
Aah, Tony's, midtown Manhattan's local bar. Warm, dim lights were distributed all around, cheerful chatter was a constant, and a damn good service that remained unmatched since the '60s, making Tony's the best bar there ever was— for you at least. You still didn't know how it survived through the wear of time, but you didn't complain either. After all, except for the boss, the workers did give a shit, harboring respect for all in equal measure.
The stage manager called out your name from backstage to the dressing rooms' hallway. "You are up in two."
You nodded to yourself. Staring into the mirror, you did a quick check up: Make up? Flawless; Hair? Shiny; Dress? Without a wrinkle. Tonight was being a great night, so far. Not everything was awful in this damned country.
You made your way behind the drawn curtain, finishing your warm up. There were some patrons chanting your stage name for you to come out, having made a small star out of yourself at the bar. But even so, it still wasn't all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows: your boss wanted you to walk down the stairs and do crowd work worthy of a cabaret. At least Guillermo, the security guy, was decent enough at his job to keep the patron's hands off of you.
As the piano began to play a small intro to the song, the curtain lifted and silence started to settle. The lights died down, but the spotlight shot at you, blinding and attentive. You didn't pay attention to it, even when a customer choked in the background and started to cough so violently you thought the booze shot through his nose. You walked down the stairs slowly, the glitter in your dress making you look like "a diamond in a showcase", as your boss described it. You didn't really see the need to wear these glittery gowns, but he asked for you to wear them and you did need these gigs to live.
You approached the first table, where a man who was enjoying a burger just a minute ago was looking at you completely enamored. You reached out slowly and closed his jaw gently, fingers caressing his stubble, looking into his eyes in a way that would have made your mother clutch her pearls.
So far so good, given you had two songs next. You waltzed to the far back facing forwards so the people on the front could see you, right before you focused on the patron at the farthest table. You turned around, leaning over it, and you found yourself nose to nose with a man you thought dead for the past forty years. He also looked just as shocked as you, if not more so.
Yeah, no. Nope. Not today.
You hid your shock as fast as it slipped out, but you rushed to the stage to put some distance. Fuck the other two songs in your schedule, you bid farewell to the crowd with a wink and a kiss as fast and discreetly as possible. You ran to the dressing room designated for you for tonight, ready to pack up and leave— despite the very audible complaints from the patrons. You pulled up your jeans, then down your sweatshirt and popped on a hoodie. You grabbed your gym bag with all your stuff and reached for the handle, but someone already opened the door for you.
A Caucasian man with brown hair and the most beautiful emerald eyes you had seen in your life, America's pride and joy, and your life long best friend, stood before you. His eyebrows were knit together, a snarl on his lips and his jaw so tight it might as well crack. Once he took a good look at you, he spat out your name like an accusation. It made you feel like an ant, just like the first time he towered over you.
You looked him up and down as well.
"…Benjamin." You murmured in reply, as if saying it out loud would have direct consequences.
He tensed up. It has been decades since he heard that name, and it felt foreign to him how he still reacted to it. The vulnerability was short-lived though.
"What the fuck are you doin' here?" he spat angrily, reaching out and hoisting you up by your bicep, his grip unrestrained. He knew you would be fine. "You were missin' for the last fifty years! Where have you been? Do you know how hard I looked for you?!"
"Me?! You are the one who died in a nuclear meltdown!" you snapped back defensively while you tugged and shook your arm until you were free. "Let go of me, dammit!"
Ben looked torn. He still wanted to snap at you for your disappearance, but he also seemed to not want to talk about his own. Thankfully, that inner battle seemed to make him drop the subject. He looked away and shook his head in thought.
He moistened his lips and sighed, hands coming up to his hips as he looked to his feet. "… Are you okay?"
You took a moment to answer.
"I'm… doing better."
He nodded to himself absentmindedly. "Good, good."
Silence settled, uncomfortable and heavy. You pinched the skin of your arm, unsure of what to do.
"Are you okay?" you murmured. "Because I didn't go missing for fifty years, y' know? I…" you hesitated, choosing your words carefully. "When I came back, I found out about the news. After I migrated to the US again, I went straight to Payback, because I couldn't believe it was true. And, forty two years later, here you are— and lemme tell you, you look like a train ran you over."
Ben scoffed, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "You still remember that day?"
You chuckled. "I told you I wouldn't let you live it down."
There was another quiet moment, and even though you both were laughing, the air didn't feel any lighter.
"So, are you okay?" you asked once more.
He hesitated.
"I have seen better days."
Your chest tightened and you reached out to hug him. Like always, he tried to escape it by leaning away and pushing you gently, but you were strong enough to not let go that easily. And like always, he gave up quickly.
After a bit, you pulled away and smiled at him, trying to lighten the mood.
"So, when are we meeting?" you asked with a smile.
Ben blinked at you. "The fuck are you talking about?"
"Remember our pact?" you mused. "We must meet up at least once every decade to catch up. We have like…" you paused to do the math. "Five…? missed meet ups to make up for?"
He sighed again, but laughed. "You are a fucking pain in my ass."
"Have been ever since we met," you crooned, scrunching your nose and shaking your head at him.
He scoffed, still smiling, and pointed back over his shoulder. "Can I buy you a drink?"
You shook your head.
"I'm good, thank you. In fact, I gotta go apologize to the manager for leaving the stage early," you took a step towards him to get on the tip of your toes for a cheek-to-cheek kiss. "See you around, Ben"
He stayed behind as you walked to the back of the bar from backstage. You talked to your boss, and he would not pay you today's gig, even if you told him you "suddenly felt sick and had to get to the bathroom". A serious punishment for you, but fair enough. After all you were lying.
The walk back to your apartment felt longer than usual. Your mind was plagued with thoughts about Ben. He looked so… tired— and angry. More than usual at least. He was a grumpy man in general, but he never tried to attack you.
As soon as you stepped into your home, you closed the door and threw yourself onto the couch. You heard a meow before you felt your cat's crushing 25 pounds press down on your back.
"Lucien, not now" You groaned in frustration, a black tentacle popping from your back to pick him up. You turned around and placed him on your chest, scratching the side of his head. "I just had the craziest night, y' know?"
He didn't reply. If he did, it would have scared the shit out of you, but a meow would have sufficed. What a beautiful maine coon you adopted, black and long haired, with greenish yellow eyes that you could admire for hours.
"You are a fat little baby," You taunted him. "but you are my fat little baby." You leaned close and peppered the side of his head with kisses. "God, are you pretty."
You leaned back again, staring at the ceiling, your mind going back to Ben. You really hoped he was fine, and that today had only been a rough one for him. You had missed him so much, and you thought about him all the time those eight years you were trapped in "El Sheraton". Subconsciously, your hand went up to caress your temple, feeling the blindfold over your eyes still.
You don't remember what happened after that— or before for that matter. You only remember Lucien's grounding weight on your chest and blanking out. You don't know what you were remembering, or what you were thinking, or when you fell asleep, but you got woken up by the sun rays that filled the living room first light of the morning. Lucien was long gone, probably hidden beneath your bedcovers; it did get pretty chilly at night.
Sitting up, your entire back hurt from sleeping on the hard cushions of the sofa. You stretched your neck and heard it crack, right before standing up and heading to the bathroom. Staring at the mirror, you looked like a mess: your hair was sticking up in unfashionable manner and you had mascara running down your cheeks—probably from crying in your sleep. You shrugged; nothing a shower couldn't fix.
You turned on the water and undressed, slipping under the pipping hot stream to ground you once more. You are safe, you reminded yourself, and you will continue to be safe. We'll make sure of it.
After the shower, and after changing to something cleaner, you opened your kitchen cabinets for your yerba mate. You noticed your stash was getting short, and you wrote it down on the grocery list. You turned on the electric kettle and, meanwhile, you started to prepare the rest of your breakfast: Torta frita, or fried biscuit. You always found it unsavory to start the day with grease in your system, but you already lost enough control of your life to care.
Half an hour later, you sat down on your kitchen counter to eat. After some bites and one mate, you picked up your pillbox and took your medication for the day. You were also running short on them though, and you couldn't spend your money on some more. You were saving up your every penny for a damn good reason— one better than the pills.
Your looked forward, your mind filled with white noise: not quite silent, but not really thinking anything— that you were aware of, at least.
"I miss my job," you sighed to the empty studio apartment with an integrated kitchen. "I miss my friends. I miss my life, I—"
Before you could keep spiraling, you felt some claws stick through your sweatpants. Lucien was being adorable, again, and it snapped you out of your mind like a charm.
"Ooh, that's a big stretch" you smiled, scratching between his ears. "Your fur is so messy! Did you sleep soundly?"
If he's awake, you thought, the early morning must be coming to an end.
You looked up to the clock and, precisely: it was 8 a.m. You seriously didn't want to go grocery shopping, but you didn't want to stay in your apartment any longer. With a deep sigh, you stood up and grabbed your shopping bags. You poured yourself another mate, served Lucien his breakfast and left. Hopefully you wouldn't take long.
Four hours later, with a storm of curses under your breath, you finally were opening the door to your apartment. Having bought the groceries to survive for a week or so, you were planning your meals carefully until a strong, bittersweet smell punched you square in the face.
"What the—"
You dropped everything and slammed the door open. Was something burning? Was Lucien okay? Will you be able to afford fixing it? Will you have to move out? Will—
"I was wondering where you were."
You stopped dead in your tracks. There, lounging on your couch, Ben was smoking a blunt 4 inches long and one inch thick, scratching your cat on the top of his head as it snored on his lap.
"WHAT THE FUCK, BEN?!" you shouted, scaring your cat awake, who ran away beneath the couch.
Ben became frustrated.
"Lower your damn voice, you scared the cat!" he complained, sitting up, "We were bonding over here!"
"How the fuck did you get in?" you ignored his complaint, closing and locking the door behind you.
"Your bedroom window was open," he shrugged, leaning back on the couch while taking another puff from his blunt.
"No it wasn't!" you huffed, crossing your arms. "I keep it closed so Lucien can't escape."
Ben turned to look at you and smiled.
"You broke the lock, didn't you?" you sighed, pinching the skin between your eyebrows.
"Yeeeap" he admitted with a pop on the 'P'.
You let out a heavy, hearty groan, scrubbing your face with your palms. Classic Ben, crashing at your place uninvited.
…How much you have missed this.
"Also," he spoke again, "are you ever changing your fucking room freshener? Your house smells of cinnamon since fucking forever."
"Well, I like it" you shrugged defiantly.
He snorted, "Can tell", and took another puff from his blunt.
You walked towards him and snatched it off of his hand. He complained immediately.
"Way more than the smell of weed, in fact" you smiled at him condescendingly, holding it over his head. "And you know the smell lingers. I don't mind you smoking, but go outside, m 'kay?"
Ben cursed under his breath and snatched the blunt back.
"Fucking fine, dumb ass bitch" He grumbled under his breath as he made way to the balcony.
"Language."
"Go fuck yourself."
You chuckled quietly. You watched as he leaned over the railing, looking down at Manhattan. He still stood the same way he did back in the '40s: hunched shoulders, flexed knees and a foot crossed over the other. He was wearing a blue sweatshirt with white cuffs— the one he usually wore back in the day—, gray sweatpants and sport sneakers.
"Just like old times" You murmured, going to the kitchen to prepare yourself a mate.
With hot water in your thermos and fresh yerba in the mate, you joined him on the balcony. You drank one, and then offered it to him. Ben accepted it, took one sip from the metal straw and cringed.
"How the hell you like this shit? It's bitterer than Diane McBain's ass."
"Acquired taste."
"Uh huh" He scoffed. After taking another puff, he offered it to you.
You raised your hand halfway and shook your head. "Nah, thanks."
"Right, you don't like the smoke in your lungs."
"Mmmhm."
Ben started to cough, but before you could get too worried, "Pussy" slipped between the hacks.
You punched him square in the shoulder and laughed your ass off for the first time in months. It was nice to have the company of a friend in such dire times.
"So," You mused. "How did you find my apartment?"
He smirked. "I have my ways."
"Of course you do."
For a moment, the grayest cloudy day had some color to it. Sharing your vices, discussing dumb subjects like what can make someone famous nowadays, and all your worries get locked up in a box until he leaves. Looking at Ben's profile, you smiled at the memories you shared, both good and bad. You would make the most of being together for as long as you can.
Rating: +18 Warnings: Violence, graphic depictions of torture and abuse, major character death, drugs
Summary: In a world Soldier Boy barely recognizes, he found company in the only anchor he had throughout his entire life. And he won't leave, for better or for worse— mostly for worse—, and you will have to try and balance your normal life, trying not to lose what is left of your sanity.
Chapter 1
A/N: This is an AU from season five, and as we all know, it hasn't come out yet by the time this was written.
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