“You’re seriously going to tell me that’s not Capricorn?”
( tagging @ledeuill for crack purposes )
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“You’re seriously going to tell me that’s not Capricorn?”
( tagging @ledeuill for crack purposes )
@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.
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.
@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.
@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.”
@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.
@ledeuill
@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? “