#ledeuill

[andresdefonollosa-archived]

“You’re seriously going to tell me that’s not Capricorn?”

( tagging @ledeuill for crack purposes )

[chokethelight]

@ledeuill​  asked:  ❝ He talks too much. ❞ / kung lao to hanzo jfosoa idk

At least it was something they could agree upon. Talking, always talking; opening their mouth seemed to be the one constant. It gave the Spectre a headache. One that couldn’t be combated via any normal means.

“Do you want to shut them up or should I?” What Hanzo meant was who was going to wrap their hands around the talkative one’s throat. Maybe squeeze a little; not kill. Just a little reminder to silence themselves or Hanzo would get a little more creative in a punishment next time.

[mettleborn-a]

𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃  &  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 - non-verbal prompts (still accepting)

@ledeuill said:  indulge / for duncan from fernando . (  indulge - find  my  muse  drinking  to  cope )

The Black Keizer knows those footsteps; he has memorised their depth and pace; the unmistakable sound that instantly betrays Fernando through his gait and height, as his footfalls echo across cold marble tiles.

Screwing the cap off his bottle of whiskey, Duncan throws back another heated mouthful, hissing as it nicely scalds the back of his throat. It’s late, though admittedly Vizla has entirely lost track of time and how much whiskey he’s had to drink, which is obvious only from the beads of sweat that have formed on his brow and the way his head lulls loosely on his shoulders when he looks up to regard his boss.

Standing, taking the man’s arrival as an indication he should finally go to bed, Duncan finds the sway in his stance so extreme that he’s forced to steady himself against the smaller man, palm falling flat against Fernando’s chest as he attempts to keep his balance. There is heat there, a warmth Duncan wants to press himself again, though he knows better than to indulge thoughts in the dead of night that might cause problems come the light of day.

“Bad head.” He blurts, as if it explains anything. Vizla is often a man of few words, yes, but this is curt, even for him. In truth, he wishes he could fill the silence between them with words, but they have all escaped him, having fled in response to the sweet scent of tequila and acrid smoke that hangs just as heavy on El Jefe. 

[multimuse-rp-archived]

@ledeuill asked: " i mean... i-i'm cool with sharing the bed if you are. " / from vegas to sergio .

The stress of the heist was no longer an issue; they’d pulled it off successfully with almost no hiccups, other than Andrés’ death. Sergio was still broken by it, but he had the rest of his teammates, who had split off into groups of two — Denver with Mónica, Rio with Tokyo, Nairobi with Helsinki, and him with Vegas. It was their first night of real sleep; both of them were exhausted, but the hotel room they’d rented in some distant country only had one bed. They’d get a better place later; after all, they were rich.

Her comment made an inevitable blush come over his cheeks, tinting them pink. He nodded, climbing into the bed and motioning for her to get in on the other side. “Of course,” he finally replied verbally. “We’ll finally get a good night’s sleep.” Only he knew he wouldn’t, not when he’d just watched his brother sacrifice himself for everyone. He hadn’t cried yet since the tragedy, and he wouldn’t — not in front of her.

[boundbyrage]

@ledeuill​  asked:  ❝ Everyone’s got a price. Name yours. ❞ / kuai liang .

Arms slid behind back as the words were pondered over. It was true, each person had something that they wanted ; their price. A variation of such which rang true to each individual - whatever it may be.

Hanzo could not achieve what he wanted ; they were cut off from him. No matter the timeline, no matter what he did, or could do. He came to accept that, but solace ; having time to focus on himself and not other matters . . . that was what he truly desired.

Getting to that point was far more complicated ; there was no real way forward, no way to do as he pleased, but rather do what was expected of him. Easy, truly, but even Hanzo had a reputation uphold.

He couldn’t let go of that easily.

“My price,” he says, moving forward a few steps, before coming suddenly to a stop, “is a singular . . . favor.  One to use for anything. Anytime. At my discretion.”

[heamatic-archive]

@ledeuill​ Continued from ♡

          :･ﾟ ❤️┇Working relentlessly. Day after day after day. And nothing happens. Only more bruises and blood and sweat. Maybe this whole arcana thing is bullshit — maybe it has nothing to do with that damned marking and everything to do with the individual, because it feels like they’ve tried everything and none of it is fruitful. So when desperate? Food.

           Cassandra accepts Kung Lao’s hand, lingering there a moment — her grip is strong, albeit a slight shaky from training. Stands with a start. The mention of food always brings forth a burst of energy. ❝Thanks — ❞, and soon they reach the room, decrepit as the rest — mimics Kung Lao with a bow of her own before she sits, picking at her chopsticks and just as she’s about to steal an eggroll, it is taken away from her, replaced with soup she stares at incredulously. When she glares upward, that damned grin is plastered on his face — one that makes her heart skip a beat regardless of her current disbelief.

            ❝You can’t be serious — ❞, Cassie pouts, bottom lip protruding — belly groans in response, a wail loud enough for him to hear — one could swear she has a bottomless pit instead of a stomach. ❝C’mon — don’t be a dick.❞ Pleading — a rare sight, although that twinkle in her eye says she’ll be reaching for it soon if he does not pass the damned eggrolls himself.

[vxctorx-archived]

@ledeuill

[wtsns]

@ledeuill​  asked  :   “I’m late, yes. You should be used to that by now.” / for sherlock .

they’d    agreed.        they’d    bloody    agreed    that    sherlock    was    going    to    have    dinner    tonight,        because    god    knows    how    long    that    it’d    been    since    he’d    last    eaten,        &        the    last    thing    that    john    needed    or    wanted    was    the    detective    collapsing    on    his    watch.        (    there    you    go,        caring    too    much    again.    )        but,        frankly,        if    he    hadn’t    stepped    into    sherlock’s    life    when    he    did,        he    feared    that    sherlock    would’ve    dug    himself    into    a    dark    hole    that    he    never    would’ve    exited.        he    tries    his    best    to    keep    sherlock    on    the    right    path,        trying    to    make    sure    he    eats,        trying    to    make    sure    that    he    rests,        trying    to    makes    sure    that    he    doesn’t    overexert    himself    when    it    really    isn’t    necessary.        *        here,        the    key    word    is    trying,        because    sherlock    isn’t    a    man    who’s    easy    to    succumb    to    the    demands    of    his    human    body.        john’s    sitting    in    his    armchair    when    the    familiar    sound    of    footsteps    echo    up    the    stairs,        arms    folding    across    his    chest    as    he    affixes    sherlock    with    a    look.        the    takeaway    sitting    on    the    kitchen    table    had    long-since    gone    cold,        because    sherlock    was    late,        as    he    so    blatantly    stated.        “        where    were    you?        we    agreed    on    seven,        and    it’s    just    gone    eight    thirty.        what    the    hell    were    you    out    doing?        “