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evebrennan · 3 years

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not nothing

TIMING: circa two weeks ago LOCATION: The Artesian PARTIES: @deathisanartmetzli & @evebrennan SUMMARY: Metzli and Caoimhe aren’t just two people having drinks, but they both enjoy art, and maybe that’s better. CONTAINS: Alcohol, parental death, emotional abuse, domestic abuse

It was a bad idea. Caoimhe knew it the moment she’d read Artesian and piano player and Arvo Pärt. Any lingering doubts about how completely awful of an idea it was were chased away as she pushed her way through the doors, picking up the soft piano drifting from the back. She considered the initial offer of a karaoke bar, the tossup between beyond-drunk humans singing their hearts out for no other reason than because they loved to sing and no talent whatsoever was still a far better bet than whoever was plucking at keys one room over. At least at a karaoke bar her chances were fifty-fifty.

Her chances were none. But she wasn’t in the habit of denying herself entirely (she’d been there, she’d done that, it did nothing for the strings trailing down the road behind her), and she let herself step fully into the bar. The door clicked shut behind her and Caoimhe tried not to think about it.

Metzli was exactly the kind of hard to find Caoimhe expected of an internet-initiated meet-up, but she managed to catch their eye before too long. “This was a good choice.” She started, because it was. It was, with the piano filling the spaces between conversation. It was, despite the way her stomach twisted in on itself and she thought about it, thought about the way the pianist fumbled only barely on occasion, but she could– “And it’s Kee-va, by the way.”

“Yeah, I would’ve never gotten that right,” Metzli smiled and chuckled warmly at Caoimhe, settling into their seat and enjoying the table the two received. Far enough from the stage to hear each other easily, and close enough to let silence fall between them to listen to the pianist. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Caoimhe. You’re much more beautiful than I could’ve imagined.” Their smile continued, pulling out their charm.

Metzli wore a navy suit, leaving the jacket unbuttoned for a more relaxed look. Accompanied by a black dress shirt and no tie. It gave off a casual energy. Because that’s what this was—a casual meet up with a woman. “My name is pretty straight forward, just mets-lee. Aztec in origin. And yours?” Getting in the VIP lounge was easy, throw in some money and it speaks for you. Thus, the saying, cash is king.

The wine arrived promptly, and the waiter filled their glasses as the two kept their focus on each other.

“Easy, charmer. Just drinks.” Caoimhe reminded, but it was hard to ignore how nice the bar was. She had half a mind to question how they’d gotten them in VIP at all, let alone on such short notice, but the world was full of people with hidden talents. Instead she wrapped a hand around the stem of the wine glass, eyes finding the pianist across the room. The music had shifted to something jazzy and fun and there were no fumbles to be heard. There was an experience to it Caoimhe wondered over for half a second before letting it go.

“It’s Irish.” She finally pulled her eyes away to find Metzli, fingers curling tighter around the glass. The accent was enough of a giveaway, but Caoimhe knew it could be hard to place. There was an edge to it she’d had spent many years trying to iron out, something a little closer to the old forest path leading up to her family’s too-grand home than the home itself. “If the accent doesn’t give it away, all the letters should.”

But she didn’t want to talk about Kenmare, or where her name came from, or how she could practically see her mother’s patient, knowing grin. “You know, I’ve been here for a couple of months now, and hadn’t even considered trying to get in here, yet you’ve managed it in a night.” She wasn’t going to ask them about their origins, but there was a question somewhere in there, regardless. Instead, she twisted the glass between her fingers and grinned, “You sure you’re not wasting it on just drinks?”

Metzli smiled knowingly and teased, “Ah, so you do think I’m charming?” Years of existence had molded them to be confident in their approach with women. With so long to live, striking out wasn’t intimidating. “You know what they say, cash is king,” They began, sipping on their wine and leaning back in their chair. “I don’t normally bribe, but when I came across someone who actually knew who Pärt was, I had to jump at the opportunity.” The answer was blunt and honest, though they did leave out how they needed a distraction from the pain they were feeling. Stuff like that had a way of killing the mood.

“This isn’t a wasted opportunity by any means. Not when someone of your taste is keeping me company,” Metzli’s smile could be heard in their words, nothing masked but completely unveiled. Recent events had crumbled the structure they had built to hide behind, allowing the true effects of loneliness to set into wounds way past simply festering. “Not to mention, the great selection of wine they have. I do have a sort of affinity to the more luxurious things. Coming from nothing can do that to you, I suppose.” An air of surprise took their face for a moment before falling neutral again. Their ramblings took them off guard and it made them a little uneasy.

Shifting in their seat, they hoped to change the focus. “And you? What are you doing accepting dates from total strangers on the internet?”

“Drinks. Drinks with total strangers.” Caoimhe lifted the drink in question, but her smile belied her amusement. They were confident, she could give them that. Getting to know people beyond first names and passing interests hadn’t been something on Caoimhe’s agenda for some time. Connections didn’t lead to anything good. Connections led to anger, clenched fists outside of coffee shops, reasons for Caoimhe to look in her rearview mirror. She didn’t like connections, because connections had to be broken, they always had to be broken, and doing so never felt good.

But Metzli liked Pärt, and they were charming, and they knew a place where someone could actually play the piano.

“There’s a story there, isn’t there?” She set the drink down and leaned on her elbows, ignoring the soft piano in the background in favor of her company. Ignoring her better instincts to run, like she always did (she’d shown up in the first place, and she didn’t want to think about why). She hadn’t ruined White Crest quite yet, and they liked Pärt. “Came from nothing, and now you’re here. You don’t have to tell, but color me curious.”

Metzli scoffed, playfully and a little dramatically. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not afraid to call this what it is. A date. I’ll say it for the both of us.” They said into their glass, smiling. Caoimhe wasn’t one to get too close to people. That’s what Metzli began to gather. They could relate, uncomfortably so. They had spent their vampiric life alone, not bothering to let anyone behind the several barriers they had built between them and would-be connections. Some could be read like novels, while others like short stories. And nine times out of ten, Metzli chose to be read like the latter. But tonight was possibly the tenth shot and after this Caoimhe may never see them again. So really, what did they have to lose?

“Actually, yes. There is.” Metzli pulled out a small, worn out sketchbook from their pocket, and retrieved the pencil inside of it. Holding it up in a way so that Caoimhe couldn’t see the pages, they began. “I’ll give you the condensed version, and if you want to hear more, you can ask questions.” The pencil glided over the page, a practiced hand moving quickly. “I was born and raised in Jalisco, Mexico. To two parents who fell madly in love and accidentally had me. We were dirt poor, but my parents seemed to make it work for them. Began working when I was about eight years old or so. And by the time I was in my twenties, I had mastered carpentry and was a pretty good ranch hand.” They smiled, looking back and forth from the page and Caoimhe.

“Unfortunately, parents weren’t the kindest, so I took to sketching in the woods on my lowest days. And on one special day, I found myself returning home to find my parents dead.” Brows creased together, but the pencil never stopped moving. “After that, I traveled and traveled until I managed to find myself here, owning my own art gallery, having an actual roof over my head with a cat, and arranging dates with beautiful women that have taste.” With the final detail made, Metzli turned the sketchbook to reveal a portrait of Caoimhe, of a moment of her now frozen in time on paper. “What do you think?”

Shit.

It was so unfortunate the ones to whom Caoimhe found herself most drawn had stories. Her life would be half as complicated, if she wasn’t so damn fascinated. They wrapped themselves in pencil lines or oils or paints, or notes drawn on staff paper. They smiled around songs sung like stories from ages ago, or danced to something they made up on the spot. They had feelings and hopes and dreams. They held a history, some not unlike her own. Their lives had meaning, full of so much creativity, futures stretched endlessly before them where they could choose to pick themselves up or let themselves fail or do both, because no one had sought to come along and take that future from them.

Caoimhe always sought to take it from them.

She watched Metzli with their notebook, their hands hidden behind the cover, but she could imagine the way they moved. She could muse over whether each line meant something, or if it was something that came so naturally to them they didn’t have to think about it. They had an art gallery, and she wondered at how good it was, how much better it could be, if she just–

Metzli was one of those with a story, a past they’d picked themselves up from. Caoimhe listened as she tried not to think too hard about whatever they were sketching. She tried to imagine them, in the woods with a sketchbook, turning an escape into a future. It was admirable. Humans were always so damn admirable. And Caoimhe liked to think she picked her battles well, but the truth was she didn’t pick them at all. She ran, or she gave in.

“That’s beautiful.” It was. Caoimhe hadn’t realized she’d been looking, sitting still and focused long enough for Metzli to capture the moment. And they’d captured it perfectly, somehow, lines confident despite laying their history out on the table for Caoimhe to do with what she wished. “It’s incredible how people can take things that hurt and make something beautiful out of them, despite everything. I’m glad you were able to get something beautiful out of all of it.” She moved closer, tracing a bit around the eyes. This time, she gave in. “How do you do this, the shading?”

The way Caoimhe watched and even seemed to fawn over the sketch brought a smile to Metzli’s face that reached their eyes. White Crest was full of people they were willing to discuss the hardest of memories, even if they were being extremely vague about some pretty crucial details. “Ah, the shading there has to be delicate. You see,” Their hand moved to graze Caoimhe’s cheek softly before pointing back at the drawing. “The shading there is light, so there can’t be as many crosshatches, while here,” This time they pointed at her neck and jawline. “Here, the crosshatches are more in number and closer together because of the definition and starkness of the shadow.” Discussing art was very much Metzli’s element, and teaching it had become second nature due to the classes they held at the gallery.

Caoimhe was a lover of the arts in general, and not just music. It enraptured them, beckoned them toward her to delve into her other interests in the arts. Maybe experience them with her and discover new works of art together. As friends or otherwise. “It’s not that beautiful though. The story—Not the sketch. The sketch is only a fraction as beautiful as the subject. I’m referring to the story. Had to do some dastardly things to get here. But what about you?” Metzli gestured to Caoimhe and then tore the sketch out of their sketchpad to hand over to her. “Do you have an interesting story you can indulge me with?”

Caoimhe knew what touch could do. She spent her life measuring it, calculating who and where and when. Whether it was something casual, or something purposeful. Metzli reached out and Caoimhe reached up, putting her hand between her cheek and theirs, and the brush was light but it meant something. Because they were talking about where to etch and when, about a life spent using art as a way to escape or express themselves or simply be happy, and Caoimhe wanted it. She wanted to know more, to help, to stop the gnawing in her stomach that–

That didn’t stop. It was like a jolt. She’d been expecting another stair and there wasn’t one. Her hand dropped in a movement that was almost too quick to be casual and she pulled in a breath and there was so much to process, she didn’t know where to start. Metzli was more than what they seemed, and Caoimhe let something like disappointment ease into something that felt a little more like excitement. They loved art, and she could watch them love art.

Caoimhe accepted the sketch and swallowed thickly, despite all the questions vying for attention on the tip of her tongue (who were they, what were they), despite the way her stomach still clenched but her lips ticked up in something close to a smile. Despite the fear they’d know. “My story isn’t quite so interesting.”

Eyes moved up and down, analyzing Caoimhe. She had been quick to protect her personal space, and even quicker to pretend like she hadn’t behaved anxiously. Something was at the tip of her tongue. A question, one of many. “You’ve got questions, don’t you?” Metzli asked, smiling and taking the bottle from the table to pour more in each glass. She must’ve felt it, their cold skin. Maybe that was it. Or maybe she didn’t like the attention on her. Or she quite possibly was intrigued by the vampire before her. Only, she didn’t know they were a monster.

TW PARENTAL DEATH “That just makes me think it is interesting.” Metzli sipped on their wine and hummed thoughtfully. Fingers tapped on the table, organizing words into sentences that were coherent and strategic. “But if this is your way of keeping the attention off of you, I’m game. I mean, no one knows more about me, than me. So ask away.” Taking one more drink, they raised a finger, hoping to get another moment. “I will say though, you may just want to hug me by the end of it. It’s quite sad. I mean, not only were my parents murdered, but my whole…town was. There were very few survivors. War can be tough. Especially for the impoverished.” A look akin to despair, a longing painted onto their face, but it was quickly washed away with wine.

“But, if you’re gonna ask me more questions, you have to tell me at least three facts about you. How does that sound?”

Caoimhe hummed, brow furrowing. For the first time since she’d pushed her way through the door, she couldn’t hear the piano. It was Metzli, and a story, and all the questions that still rattled around in her head. They had already volunteered so much (what war, are you okay, why can’t I– ), and despite their offer to ask as many questions as she would like, Caoimhe hesitated. She knew what it felt like to lay herself bare. It wasn’t easy. It wasn’t something one did simply because.

“Only if it’s a hug you want.” She spun her glass on the table idly, picking through her words before she let them out. They’d been very upfront about their cynicism, and while Caoimhe had felt she’d understood some measure of it before, it was nothing compared to understanding the reasoning behind it. It was years too late to apologize for things that had happened long before they met; if it were her, she wouldn’t want pity. She wondered how much emotion Metzli kept hidden behind wine and the thick veneer of charm they’d had in place since she’d slid into the booth next to them. She wondered if they were waiting for the next war. “You don’t owe me your story, but...I’m here if you want to tell it.

“You don’t even have to volunteer it in exchange for mine. My mother is still in Ireland, but I haven’t seen her in years. I’m a runaway who never stopped running.” One, two, and “My family could provide for me anything I needed, they were hardly anything tragic, I just...had a difference in opinion.”

“Are you saying you want to hug me? How cute.” They teased through the longing they felt. Letting this mask, sewn perfectly together and with only a few cracks, slip on. “If I’m being honest though, I don’t know how I’d react. I’ve only ever gotten a handful of hugs. They’re nice. Maybe I’ll be a good hugger someday.” A breathy laugh tickled their lips and the smile continued to brighten toward Caoimhe. Being physical was easy, but the intimacy of a hug peppered their thoughts with unease. Sex was simple. Primal. But hugging was an animal that they had never really had an intention of tackling.

A wry smile pulled at Metzli’s lips, listening intently and doing their best to mock sympathy. Even without a soul, they knew what conversations like these meant, and how to behave through them. They wore many masks, and all they had to do was pick the one that fit the scenario best. “I know a thing or two about running away,” Their finger traced along the rim as each word in their head was selected carefully. “And I know a lot about differences in opinion. That’s why I’m here. So far away from…home.” The word was bitter from a lifetime of pain felt. From miles upon miles ran in order to flee, to find a new life with a new meaning. “That’s why I’ve built my gallery and decided to make a name for myself. Metzli Bernal: Art Curator, not Metzli Bernal: uh—well, actually just, Nothing.”

Lips replaced the finger that played at the rim of the glass, taking a steady drink. The warmth of the incoming buzz helped. Metzli relaxed further into their seat and locked eyes with Caoimhe, “I assume you have more questions? You looked both curious and concerned. What was that about? Never met an artist with such a fun backstory?”

“I’m not. But you know what they say about practice.” Caoimhe teased, working her way around telling them she likely wasn’t the person with whom they should practice. Besides, it was a useless saying. No amount of practice had ever left Caoimhe with any less strings, and she’d been trying since a boy with a French horn had decided she was everything before she’d reached the age of twenty. But Metzli looked so bright for a moment. They looked like the concept wasn’t unwelcome, and Caoimhe swallowed down whatever else she was going to say about it. If the brief touch of their hands was anything to go off of, it wasn’t as though she was going to have anything to worry about, anyway.

“Strangers in a bar we may be, but I can already say you’re not nothing, Metzli Bernal.” She was surprised to find she meant it. There were some people she met for a moment, bar bathrooms and alleys and music rooms long after everyone had gone home for the night. Encounters for her to brush off, or spend the rest of her life trying to escape. There were some people who stuck, but ultimately found themselves as shapes in her rearview mirror. Bridges burned, and Caoimhe made a point not to get to know anyone who lay on the other side well enough to get burned along with them. She didn’t know Metzli, and she wasn’t within any kind of blast range, but she knew they’d be a shape she’d remember.

“You know, there’s another saying, something like art is suffering.” Rather than linger on all the things she’d left in her rearview mirror, or how much she always cared, even when she knew she shouldn’t, Caoimhe grinned and leaned back in her chair, eyes bright. “I met a guitarist once who told me she could only write when her heart was broken. Pretty sure she spent half her life trying to find someone to break it for her. Her ballads were to die for, though. Never been a huge fan of country, but she had me sold. Have you ever considered spurs?”

“That only perfect practice makes perfect.” Metzli responded with a grin as lips met their glass. Piano notes danced in the air, providing a lovely ambience that allured them further towards Caoimhe. “Hugs are more of a third date kind of thing, and you were the one who said this wasn’t a date, so…” A suppressed chuckle broke through and they propped themselves on their elbows to turn their body in their seat. The way her presence met theirs with both subtly and boldness was as refreshing as lemonade on a hot summer’s day. Caoimhe had depth as vast as the ocean and Metzli’s curiosity urged them to swim deeper.

And then she uttered words that struck them harder than anticipated. Not nothing. Metzli bit their lip. Harsh teeth dug into mauve lips, deepening the color. The confidence washed away and let vulnerability show through in the form of softening eyes and creased brows. Blinking quickly, they mustered together as much composure as they could and cleared their throat. “Apologies. I think something got stuck in my throat.”

It was with sheer dumb luck that Caoimhe said something that they could cling to. A new subject, a new distraction. “Actually, I used to use spurs. I was a ranch hand for…for my relatives.” Metzli paused, letting the wave of despair pass through their chest before continuing. “Was pretty good at it too. I especially took care of a horse named Mariposa. Means butterfly in Spanish.”

“Hm, I did say that.” Caoimhe hummed around a smile, spinning her glass slowly against the table top. Her hands were always carefully towards the bottom of the stem. For as much as she’d been playing with it, she’d yet to drink any. It wasn’t a date. If she wouldn’t actually drink the wine, if she never said it, it wouldn’t matter that Metzli had offered up so much of their story to her; their earlier insistence upon it wouldn’t mean a thing. She still meant it, but she wondered how they felt. She wondered how it would feel to say it again.

She wondered how it would feel to lie. To do it so easily, so casually, without it catching in her throat and her stomach twisting in on itself. Caoimhe had always been good at twisting half-truths until someone believed a lie she hadn’t told, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same as Metzli’s eyes softening, the way they cleared their throat and moved on like Caoimhe hadn’t actually hit on something. She pursed her lips and absorbed their diversion without comment. It was a lie, she wondered about it, but wondering over lies wasn’t for her.

They’d already given her enough truths.

“A ranch hand? An artist, an entrepreneur. Is there anything you haven’t done?”

Caoimhe did well to take whatever was said and turn it around. No words were needed when she did so. Her knack for navigating a conversation was enough. Choosing the right moments to speak, choosing the correct things to respond to. She’d been at this a lot longer than Metzli could have anticipated. It made them worry a little. Worry that they had bit off way more than they could chew by going out with a woman who obviously knew a thing or two about dancing around a subject. But there definitely was no going back now. If they were going to say the truth, they were going to use it to their advantage.

“Live.” A true, and brutally honest answer. Metzli had yet to truly live, and they thought it best to not sugarcoat anything. After all, it seemed to be the one thing that Caoimhe couldn’t fully navigate around. It was like her kryptonite. And the question on the tip of her tongue was something she was holding back. Like she was keeping a secret. A secret similar to the one they kept. A secret of feeding on blood and living forever.

“I have a feeling you relate. But you’re exceptionally good at keeping that side of you undisclosed. Which is fair. That information is reserved for loved ones to hear. But loved ones are dangerous. So better yet, it’s reserved for late nights on your own. For a little punishment when you think you’ve reached too far out.” A pause for a sip and they locked eyes with Caoimhe, smiling softly. “And right now, even just entertaining this date, you’ve reached too far.”

The piano seemed to grow distant, straying deeper into the background as their focus hardened. “I’ve lived a very long time, Caoimhe. I know you’ve got a story, and you don’t have to tell it. But can you do me the courtesy of giving me the biggest question you have? It’s at the top of your tongue.” She felt something different about them, that they were almost sure of. If it was the question they were anticipating, that could only mean one thing: she was otherworldly too.

Caoimhe knew there was more to them. They were stories and a life lived and so, so much more. She’d known the moment her hand had brushed theirs and she didn’t even have to try to practice restraint. A moment of weakness had turned into a knowing Caoimhe wasn’t sure what to do with, yet. She was still toying with letting the knowledge go when they shifted the tone.

The chatter around them fell away to nothing. Her fingers tightened against the stem of the glass until she had to consciously tell herself to let go. It was as though they flipped in a moment, the casual request for a quid pro quo abandoned in favor of a demand, and Caoimhe had never been good at evading direct. Not when her game had been discovered, and the questions posed left little room for movement. Metzli was leaving her very little room for movement.

It made it marginally better that it wasn’t about her. Concern for themselves, Caoimhe could understand. They’d figured out she knew something, somehow, and there was an inherent danger in not knowing exactly what it was Caoimhe thought she knew. They didn’t live in a world forgiving of other, whatever that perceived other might be. “My loved ones are few and far away, and they know what they think my story should be. My punishment is tied to me like strings I already have pulled as far and as taught as I can get them.” She leaned forward, brave even as she considered she shouldn’t be. “And I believe you, that you’ve lived a long life. I’m curious as to how, and for how long. But that was your story, to tell as you wanted.”

Metzli couldn’t help the smile that curved their lips. Their new approach had given them better results than they could have imagined. Caoimhe hid her secrets well. Years upon years of experience taught her well. But Metzli’s curiosity, mixed with their ability to shift conversations, was going to make her say something. She had already said more than she would have obviously liked. Body language be damned, she was nervous. And for once, Metzli wasn’t causing anxiety out of imminent danger, but of pursuit of knowledge and connection.

“I’m much more interested in what your story actually is. Considering you know something about me that everyone overlooks or can’t see,” As they spoke, their hand, a little absentmindedly, slid towards Caoimhe's hand on the table. A part of them craved that touch, to feel that solid connection of someone similar to them in the evasion and artistic regard. But they stopped themselves and let out a shuddered and unnecessary breath. Instead of reaching out fully, they opened their palm towards her, giving her the option.

“Of course, you don’t have to tell me. But…I’ve lived long past a century thanks to that little war that eradicated my people. Thanks to teeth and blood.” Metzli averted their gaze from Caoimhe as they spoke, not only wanting to cover their despair, but to wait for her reaction. “Take that as you wish.”

Thanks to teeth and blood.

It was all the answer Caoimhe needed. She wasn’t surprised, if anything she wondered at their bravery, admitting it in so many words while in a fairly crowded bar. But their booth afforded them a fair amount of privacy, and Metzli didn’t seem like the type to be shy. Their confidence spoke more to their possible centuries of living than anything else had. No, Caoimhe wasn’t shocked.

“Okay.” She absorbed the information with a small nod and a half-smile. Her mother was beyond beautiful by all standards, simply by nature of who and what they were, but Caoimhe knew where to look for the signs of aging. She knew what tired looked like, how centuries of experience could be belied in the tone of her voice. Metzli had been through wars, had been forged in blood, and Caoimhe wondered at long lives and the cost of them. Perhaps they were expecting her to be scared, but Caoimhe found she was only curious, and sad just around the edges. “I’m sorry, for all the life you haven’t been able to live.”

They held out their hand, an obvious invitation, and Caoimhe considered it a moment. There was something to be said for connection. She spoke of her strings like punishment, but she hadn’t said for what, and how. She didn’t talk about what it felt like to stare adoration in the eyes and know none of it was real, not really. They shambled along the roads behind her like marionettes to her puppet master, and not a single one actually wanted to be with her. They wanted their art, they wanted that feeling of absolute inspiration. They were blind to what it cost because she had made them blind to it, and it was that knowledge which each string tugged raw.

Metzli couldn’t be strung up. They couldn’t become another ghost of her past, pressing their faces against her windows and begging for entry. Caoimhe reached out, always so aware of touch and what it could mean, and let the tips of her fingers play across their palm. And nothing. Nothing at all. She rejoiced for the parts of her that were relieved, and wondered at the parts that were just hungry. “You’re a great artist, Metzli. I meant it, when I said you weren’t nothing. You can trust that.” A beat, “I’m a really bad liar.”

“It’s all right. I’ve got plenty of life to live now.” Metzli had spent so long denying themselves connection, while Caoimhe avoided them like a plague. And in a way, the connections probably were just as bad as a virus. Because that virus was her own, and she could do nothing to stop it. Of course, they didn’t know exactly why, but they could see the effects it had on her as a whole. Her personality though, was untouched. It was still there despite all of the barriers it took to get to it. Caoimhe was kind, honest, and even a little playful. She was an artist with a past, just like everyone else.

When her fingers touched their palm, Metzli jumped a little and moved their gaze back to their companion. Eyes glistened with the threat of tears from the topic. The effect of the emotions they were feeling a lot more often. And then Caoihme admitted they could trust what she said. That she was a really bad liar. “Fae?” They asked, already knowing their first answer was correct. “That’s why you didn’t want to touch. I understand now. But you don’t have to worry. You have no effect on me in that regard.” A small smile curved onto their lips and that same hand she had touched, moved towards her cheek. Another attempt, but this time, it was a tender approach. Their thumb caressed her cheek and let it linger for a moment. “That must bring some relief, hm? No te preocupes. Um, don’t worry.” They translated, moving their hand back to their glass.

“Does this mean it’s a date now?” Charm returned to Metzli’s voice and they let out a breathy chuckle. “I’ll keep trying until you tell me to stop. Can’t help wanting to be around someone with an artistic mind.”

“Have some experience with fae, do you?” It wasn’t an answer, but it was as close to one as she was willing to get. There would be time for talk some other time, when they weren’t huddled into a quiet booth in an otherwise crowded bar. Caoimhe thought of art galleries, and spending time with someone who truly enjoyed it, for no other reason than their own genuine love of art. Someone inspired by their own rites, and not because Caoimhe pulled some string inside of them. She thought about Metzli, and how they’d probably only scratched the surface of their own story. Not many wars took centuries; they both had so many blank spaces to fill. They both had so much time to fill them.

Then Metzli touched her cheek, and Caoimhe could see how it would all play out. She’d call it a date, and there would be the expectation of another. They’d spend a late night in an art gallery, or perhaps Caoimhe would take them to Dell’s, she hadn’t been yet. They’d have fun, they’d spill their stories to each other one piece at a time, and the strings would be different this time. They’d be less like anchors and more like balloons, and Caoimhe would think them beautiful (she thought all of them were beautiful). And then she’d leave. And Metzli would look like empty art galleries and quiet bars and another ghost, but this one with frayed strings where they were effectively cut.

But then, that would be true whether she called it a date or not.

“Hm, it’s not just drinks.” It wasn’t, that much was true. “Is there an in between? A ‘this was a lot more than I’d bargained for.’ Or a ‘I’d like to see your gallery, but I’m not going to say second date?’”

“Yeah, I do.” Metzli answered, a little passively. They nodded and finished the rest of their glass before making eye contact with Caoimhe once again. “How about a fun-friend meeting?” Metzli couldn’t help but chuckle and raised their hand once more to her cheek and laid out all the honesty they could. “I don’t get serious about people. It’s safer that way, you know? But that’s not to say I wouldn’t enjoy a little fun with an artistic approach.” Their smile reached their words and soft eyes met with Caoimhe’s.

“We don’t have to call it a date. We don’t have to be anything. Just two ambitious artists that came together and found each other attractive. I’ll show you my gallery and you can show me your music. And in between, we can find some fun to have.” Metzli leaned forward, slowly and carefully. The night would be fun, the night would consist of new experiences. All of them with Caoimhe with them. And with a kiss to Caoimhe’s cheek, they begun a new relationship based on mutual interests, and not definite ties.

#paras #para: deathisanartmetzli #para: not nothing #alcohol tw #parental death tw #emotional abuse tw #domestic abuse tw

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chris-evanslover · 4 years

Text

Captain Patriotic

Summary: OFC Samara is invited by her friend Carly to a patriots game where she meets Carly’s brother Chris Evans

Word Count: 2.2k

The autumn chill floated through the room as I stepped out of the en-suite bathroom wrapped in a fluffy mint green towel. My (now clean) bare feet padded across the hardwood to the beige, brown and white aztec patterned rug that sat on the floor in front of the painted white wood dresser.

What the fuck do you wear to a football game? I stood in front of the drawers with my hands on my hips contemplating giving my coworker and friend Carly an excuse as to why I couldn’t make it to the game she invited me to with her family.

Speaking of her family, I have met her younger brother, Scott and her mom, Lisa but no one else from the Evans family, even though with all the stories she’s told me about the clan, I feel like I know them already.

Shaking my head I decide this is the perfect opportunity to get to know her family, it’s in public and I can leave if things take a turn for the worse right? (which I highly doubt would happen but i’m prepared just in case). Carly invited me last week to come to the Patriots home game since her husband was away on business and in the spur of the moment I thought it would be fun, but now i’m just downright freaking out.

I pull out an off white cable knit sweater with dark wash skinny jeans and start to change. After changing I put on some light makeup and blow dried my hair before throwing on some light brown booties and a brown jacket, grabbing a banana with Nutella and a to go coffee cup, I got in my car and made my way to the stadium.

Frantically arriving 45 minutes later (thanks to Boston traffic) I park my car and shoot Carly a text that i have arrived. Yay! Waiting for you at the Main Entrance, I’m wearing a red shirt, see you in a few! she replied.

‘Main entrance, main entrance, main entrance’ is all that’s running through my mind as I walk from the parking lot to the larger than life stadium. AHA! I found the huge sign that says main entrance as I roll my eyes not knowing how i had missed it while I was scanning the stadium for the past 5 minutes. As I draw closer I start looking for Carly in a red shirt and I see her already looking at me waving with her left hand, and holding her daughter Stella with her right arm, next to her I see her brother Scott who looks like he’s taking a very serious phone call.

I finally reach the pair, smiling wide giving Carly a hug and one to Stella too who ends up jumping into my arms which makes me stumble a bit but gratefully my clumsiness stays in check, for once. I give Scott, who just got off his phone call, a one armed hug saying our hellos and we’re off walking to the box seats they were telling me about on the way.

Scott turns to me while we wait for the elevator up, “So Samara, have you ever been to a patriots game?” “No actually I haven’t been to any football game, my family was really big on Baseball” “oh really what team” “Yankees, being from New York you have to be a Yanks fan or you’re not a ‘true’ new yorker” you replied with air quotes around ‘true’. “Oh boy, don’t mention that team around Chris, he might just kill ya” Carly muttered.

Ah, the ‘famous Chris Evans’ if you will, Carly has told me a lot about her brothers career, even I’ve checked out a couple of those Captain America movies (for science, had to see if he was worth all the hype). There was no doubt Chris was an attractive man which is why my nerves shot through the roof as the elevator doors opened. The four of us walked into the elevator and were ascending to the box level of the stadium. I tried to calm my nerves silently in my head repeating the mantra ‘he’s just a guy spending the day with his family, don’t be weird’.

The elevator ding shook me from my thoughts as I followed Carly, Scott and Stella as we walk down a long hallway to box 35 with a plaque under the numbers that reads

‘America’s Greatest Captain’

Chris Evans

Audibly swallowing I follow them as they open the door to loud conversations and drinks being poured. I spot Miles and Ethan hanging onto their grandpa, Carly’s dad who I’ve yet to meet but have seen pictures of. Scanning the room I see Lisa coming towards me with open arms, I happily return her hug.

“I’m so glad you could make it Samara! We’re gonna have a great day but just a fair warning, Chris and Scott tend to get a little rambunctious at these games” she winks at me. Speaking of Chris, I see his tall figure behind Lisa facing away from us and towards the field talking to Scott. Jesus Christ his shoulders are the widest i’ve ever seen in my life. Lisa ushers me over to Carly and Shanna who are busting drinks out for everyone.

“So great to meet you! Half of my family loves you so it’s great to finally meet the girl who stole their hearts” Shanna laughs. I laugh with her and tell her that she’s prettier in person and she waves me away telling me something along the lines of she already likes me and i don’t have to be polite. I laughed with her and we were interrupted by her father Robert who comes over to say hello, which I graciously reply to and before I know it were talking about my horrible braces experience, seeing he is a dentist after all.

Chris hadn’t even looked my way since I got here and honestly I was very intimidated by him. I talked to the kids for a couple minutes before Scott waved me over, “Samara, meet Chris, he might look tough but he’s all fluff trust me” with that Chris punches Scott in the shoulder in a friendly way and Chris looks up to meet my eyes. Of course his eyes are just as blue in person. I clear my throat and extend my hand, complimenting him on his wonderful family. I think he was kind of shocked by my gesture because it took him a second to register what I had said to him. He laughed and shook his head and opened his arms for a hug.

“Haven't you met my family, we’re huggers” he laughs. I laugh along with him not knowing how long I should hug him for. I settled on a quick 5 second hug because on the inside I don’t know if my poor heart could handle more than that. I needed to put some space between me and mister Broad Shoulders for the sake of my mental health.

When I pulled away I smiled and looked at Scott who raised his left eyebrow at me and smirked. I shook it off hopefully not sabotaging myself by blushing harder than I already was. C’mon Samara get a grip. He’s a huge Hollywood actor, he hugged you to be nice. sit your ass down and enjoy the game.

The cheers from the stadium started picking up as the game began and everyone took seats, I went to the bathroom quickly before the game started and when i came out I saw that there was a seat open in between Carly and Chris. Great, my plan to distance myself from Chris was coming along swimmingly.

I sat down in the seat and tried to calm myself down so that Chris couldn’t see me mentally bugging out. Carly was a blessing in disguise as she started up a conversation about the players and who to watch for. Chris however had the same idea as his sister. “Are you a patriots fan?” How the hell do I break this to him. “Uh-Um not exactly, I didn’t really grow up around football so I admit I don’t know much” I laughed, slightly nervously. “I’m actually very glad to hear that, now I get to make you love the Pats” he winks at me. Yeah you read that right, he winked at me. Cue the dramatic subconscious faint.

I laughed along with him while he told me about his favorite players and what he likes about the game, Me being, well me, hung on to his every word and watched in admiration as his face lit up talking about the sport. Drowning out his voice I noticed I was staring at his lips. Again for science just, making sure they’re uh, there. I noticed his lips turned up into a smirk and that he was no longer talking about football but smirking at me daydreaming about his lips. Shit. I snapped out of my head and nodded, clearing my throat. “You’re very passionate about the game, You ever play?” He laughs and says he tried but he’d much rather watch than be knocked around out on the field.

The game was in full swing at this point, at the end of the second quarter, Chris stood up and asked if I wanted one of his special cocktails. I told him only one since I drove to the stadium to which he replied “I could always give you a lift and you could get your car tomorrow”. Yeah I didn’t know what to say to that either. I laughed and told him “Depends how good this drink is”. He smiled and got to work at the bar, 2 minutes later he handed me probably the tastiest cocktail I've ever had but when I asked what was in it, “That’s for me to know and me only”

Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at Scott who looked at me then Chris and winked at me. I rolled my eyes and decided that if Chris was going to get flirty, two can play that game. Fake it till you make it right, pushing all my nerves down, “I might have to take you up on that deal after all” taking a sip of my drink while staring at Chris through my eyelashes, I turned on my heel and made my way back to my seat.

Chris made his way back a minute later, drying his hands on his jeans and took his seat next to me. Throughout the game, we talked about football and my life since i’ve moved to Boston. At the end of the game, The Patriots won and the Evans family couldn’t have been more excited. The energy they gave off was infectious and I found myself smiling all the way out of the stadium. Chris had made me two more of his drinks and promised to drop me off at home, although I had the drinks hours ago and could’ve passed a sobriety test with flying colors, I wanted to spend more time with him. I saw what Scott meant when he said he’s all fluff, he really is a genuine guy.

Saying goodbye to the Evans family as everyone went their separate ways to their cars, I followed Chris to his, making light conversation about the game. Chris, ever the gentleman, opened the passenger side door for me and went around the front of the Audi to the drivers side and slid in, starting the ignition. He peeled out of the parking spot and did that thing where he put his and on the back of my headrest to back up and I swear I couldn’t jumped his bones right there but managed to keep myself in check.

I gave Chris directions to my house and found out he doesn’t live that far from me, only about 10 minutes. As we pulled up I gathered my things and turned to say thank you but he was already coming around the car and opened my door, holding his hand out. God, why is he the perfect man? I take his hand and open my arms for a hug which he returns, “Thank you for your chivalry Chris, and for the ride home” “it’s my pleasure, I was thinking-” he scratched the back of his neck, looking slightly nervous. “maybe tomorrow, if you’re around we can get breakfast? I can also bring you to your car so you don’t have to get a cab to the stadium”

“only if we go to iHop” He let out a loud laugh clutching his left pec, they’re really so defined, Okay stop it Samara, you’re probably starring again. “you drive a hard bargain Samara, it’s a date, i’ll pick you up at 10” I started walking backwards towards my front door. “I guess I’ll see you at 10 then” “Have a good night Samara” he smiled and got back into his car while I walked up to my front door and unlocked it, I turned and waved once I was in the doorway and he did the same before driving off.

You closed the door behind you and slid against the door to the floor, you were going on a date with Chris tomorrow and you really couldn’t believe it. You went about the rest of your evening, a smile never leaving your face.

A/N: this is my first fic in a while treat her with love! constructive criticism always welcome, send me requests or just to chat💓

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#chris evans #oneshots #chris evans x reader #chris evans one shot

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notapaladin · 4 years

Text

when i kissed the teacher

“back on my obsblood bullshit” i say, as though i ever actually left. ANYWAY. Teomitl is your averagy student, taking an Overview of the Aztec Empire course for much-needed credits. Unfortunately, Professor Acatl is distractingly hot. He’s probably out of Teomitl’s reach, but when has that ever stopped him? (Never. It’s never stopped him.)

There’s porn in this! As always, it can also be read on AO3.

Jaguar Bro: I’m dead

Jaguar Bro: this is how I die

Jaguar Bro: Local Man, 18, Found Dead On University Campus

Holder of the One Braincell: what is it now

Snacts (snake facts): have line of sight, can confirm he’s dying

Snacts (snake facts): ooh, a double facepalm!

**Jaguar Bro has sent aHHHHHHHHHHHHH.png**

Jaguar Bro: Gaze upon the agent of my demise. Overview of the Aztec Empire professor.

Snacts (snake facts): damn

Snacts (snake facts): is it too late to sign up for that course??

Holder of the One Braincell: .

Holder of the One Braincell: nope

Holder of the One Braincell: nope nope nope nOPE

Holder of the One Braincell: THAT IS MY BROTHER

Snacts (snake facts): congrats mihm your brother can get it

Holder of the One Braincell: asdfghgFFGHGFGHJK

& &

Teomitl was definitely going to die. Right here, right now, in the middle of his Overview of the Aztec Empire lecture. They would find his corpse later and Mihmatini would laugh at him. At least it was a crowded lecture hall; between that and the air conditioner having been stuck at subzero for the past hour, he could be assured that nobody was actually in the mood to notice the state he was in. He shut his eyes as though it would help.

Nope. He could still hear him. Virgin Mary, Mother of God.

Professor Acatl’s voice caressed his ears, making him shiver no matter how deeply he tried to burrow into his hoodie. “...believed to have arrived in the Valley of Mexico in roughly 1250 AD…” History wasn’t his strong point, but with a voice like that—warm, resonant, clearly and utterly in love with the subject matter—he didn’t care. He could listen to Acatl read the phone book and be happy, never mind something the man was actually passionate about. And when it came to Nahuatl, where the professor’s voice took on the steady assurance of a man speaking his mother tongue...

The white girl on his left poked his arm. Heedless of his glare—he’d been occupied, damn it—she hissed, “You got a pencil?”

He blinked at her. Who uses a notebook and pencils? In this decade? Really? It took a minute of blind rummaging in his laptop bag to produce a pen, and that was after pulling out and discarding two spare flash drives and a folding knife. She flashed him a tired smile and a grateful thumbs’-up; if Acatl hadn’t been at the front of the room, he’d have offered more than a nod in response. She was cute, if not exactly his usual type.

Acatl was gesturing at the next slide in his powerpoint presentation, and he made himself actually pay attention this time. He definitely wasn’t going to impress him by visibly zoning out in the middle of class. Not for the first time, he was glad he’d picked a seat three rows back and to the left; if he’d been in the front row, there would have been trouble. He took notes on autopilot, eyes on Acatl instead of his laptop screen. He could fix typos later, when he wasn’t watching Acatl move. The man was gorgeous, all long limbs and shining eyes. Sure, the entirely monochrome suit was a little old-fashioned—he even wore a tie most days, though the knot was invariably crooked in a way that made Teomitl ache to fix it for him—but the ponytail wasn’t. He’d spent a lot of time fantasizing about running his fingers through all that wavy hair.

As well as...other things. Peeling that suit jacket off, yanking that collar aside to bite his pretty throat, being pressed back against the desk and hearing that voice turn heavy as Acatl breathed, “I’m sure there’s something we can do about those grades…” (Never mind that, a month into the semester, he was comfortably staring down at least an A. He could pretend differently if it got Acatl to spread him out on top of the nearest flat surface.) Acatl had shown up one hot day minus the jacket, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and he swore he’d nearly passed out. He hadn’t taken any notes that day.

Even the memory made him swallow against a pulse of heat in his gut. No. Bad. No boners in class. Not again, at any rate.

The worst part, he decided, was that he could have handled it if Mihmatini’s older brother was just hot. He was used to hot. Sure, he’d still spend a lot of time daydreaming about all the things he wanted to do with (and to) him, but it would have been bearable if Acatl had just been a handsome face and slender, elegant body, instead of also being...kind. Patient. Seemingly unflappable, or at least Teomitl had never seen him do more than glower classroom disruptions into submission. He’d only ever heard him be less than professional when Mihmatini was in the room, where they displayed a teasing sort of fondness that struck Teomitl to the core even though it wasn’t even directed at him. I want it to be. I want to make him smile like that. I want to make him laugh. I want to…

An orange flash in the corner of his laptop screen drew his attention to his DMs.

Snacts (snake facts): looking a little dreamy there :)

Jaguar Bro: fUCK OFF, NEZAHUAL

Snacts (snake facts): is that the way you talk to your best friend??

Jaguar Bro: I don’t see mihm here

Snacts (snake facts): TT_TT

He huffed at his screen, knowing that Nezahual was lounging in his customary back-of-the-room seat and smirking at him from on high. Knowing you since we were five will not stop me punching you in the dick. Don’t push it.

“...And so they settled here, right where we’re sitting.” Acatl paused. “Well, not right where we’re sitting. Back then, this area was still underwater. Which brings us to the next point of today’s lecture—geography. Yes, you do have to know this.” His gaze swept the room, grave, but there was a light in it that made Teomitl feel a little faint. He clearly loved his class.

Dear god, help me survive this semester. With superhuman effort, he turned his focus back to Google Docs. Maybe, if he applied himself, this crush would fade by midterms.

& &

Midterms passed in a blur. His feelings, meanwhile, did not. He was pretty sure he’d done alright on his tests and essays—at least, as sure as he could be given how much studying he hadn’t done. His focus had kept wandering back to the assigned reading for Acatl’s class, remembering that voice patiently going over the same points. His notes had been...less helpful, in comparison.

God, he hoped he hadn’t embarrassed himself during the test. Acatl had smiled when he’d handed his paper in, so maybe. Maybe there was a chance. He just knew he couldn’t sit and do nothing.

I’ll just have to go and see.

He timed his arrival carefully. This close to the end of Acatl’s office hours, nobody would interrupt him. Not that Acatl was much sought-after anyway; he knew the way to the man’s office, but it was a long trek through winding corridors and water-stained wallpaper before he reached a door that had been left ajar, plain except for a simple nameplate. From inside, he could hear the familiar sound of halfhearted typing.

Steeling himself, he stepped inside. There was Professor Acatl, alone. Next to the sight of him—hair pulled back in a messy tail, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, wearing reading glasses which was just unfair—the surroundings faded. He was only dimly aware of the rest of the room, all dark paneling and overcrowded bookshelves. Acatl had made a vaguely attentive noise when he’d entered, but he wasn’t looking at him. He had to say something.

“Ah...Professor?”

Something more intelligent than that.

Acatl looked up from his laptop; the action made his glasses slip down his nose, which was entirely too endearing to be allowed. “Teomitl?” Oh no. He was smiling, that reassuring little quirk of his lips he had for his better students. “I’m surprised to see you here. Nervous about your grades?”

He had to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth to respond. “Uh. Y...yes.” And other things. There were condoms burning a hole in his back pocket.

“Well.” Acatl settled himself more comfortably in his chair, studying his face. “I can tell you right now, your midterm went very well. And you’re a business major, aren’t you? Ever considered switching?”

For you? All the time. Constantly. Trust me, you could have me any way you want—oh, you mean majors. Same answer. Moreso once he’d realized the way his fellow business majors tended to treat non-business classes as free credits, as things they didn’t have to work at. After knowing how much Acatl loved his subject matter and wanted to share that enthusiasm, seeing it slighted infuriated him. But the fact that Acatl had been paying attention... “Mm-hmm. How did you know?”

Was that a faint tinge of red along his cheekbones as his gaze slid away? Dear God, it was. “Mihmatini...mentioned it.”

He loved Mihmatini. He was going to buy her something designer, just for this. “Oh. I...I do love history—especially your class! If it weren’t for my brothers…”

Acatl’s gaze turned serious as he met Teomitl’s eyes. For a moment, he seemed to be about to reach for him, but then visibly thought better of it. His voice took on a faint edge. “...You don’t need to let them define your life.”

He remembered half-overheard conversations and thirdhand gossip—rumors that Acatl’s parents had wanted much better for him than an overworked university posting. Mihmatini had been much more forthright. “Our parents nagged him to join the army like Neutemoc until their dying days. But he loves his job, so…” He’d nodded at the time, unable to imagine loving anything that much. But now he was in Acatl’s office, surrounded by books and stone knives, being looked at like something precious, and he thought he was starting to understand. “No.” He felt himself smile. “But I do need to prove that at least one of us is better at running the company than our father was.”

Acatl was smiling back, not looking away even as he closed his laptop and stood up. They were roughly the same height; Teomitl had a moment to register the warmth in his brown eyes before a hand was laid on his shoulder and he promptly forgot how to think. “I have no doubt you will. I think you could do anything you put your mind to, Teomitl.”

His hand was warm on Teomitl’s skin. There were faint calluses there, unusual for a history professor. He wanted to feel them everywhere. “...Professor.” It came out half-strangled. Kiss me. God, kiss me.

Acatl flinched minutely, withdrawing his hand. Seemingly heedless of Teomitl’s internal turmoil, he hastily turned his attention to sweeping his computer and a handful of scattered papers into a messenger bag that looked like it had seen better centuries. “I should—get going. Yes.” And then he was moving, angling to slide past him, and Teomitl knew he was going to lose his chance.

He reached out, caught hold of his tie, and drew him in. One kiss. Just one, and either he’d be rejected or not but at least he’d know where he stood. At least he could have this. Acatl froze at the first touch, and he had a brief impression of wide, stunned eyes before his own slid shut and their lips met.

Soft. His lips were soft, and warm, and unmoving against his. For a split second he despaired—he’d misjudged, Acatl would be horrified, any minute he’d be shoved away—and then Acatl made a soft sound and tilted his head, and those lips were turning pliant as a shaky, disbelieving hand came to rest at the small of his back. Oh. Oh, this was how it felt when Acatl kissed you. His glasses were in the way and a loose strand of hair was tickling Teomitl’s nose, but that didn’t matter. It was perfect. Emboldened, he dropped his hands to Acatl’s waist and tugged him in, rewarded almost immediately by the eager press of Acatl’s body against his and an unmistakably hungry noise.

I could die happy. He knew he was embarrassingly hard and there was no way Acatl couldn’t notice, but he didn’t care as long as the man didn’t stop. When he coaxed Acatl’s mouth open and was duly backed against the desk, feeling the wood dig into his spine, he couldn’t stop the moan that pulled itself out of his throat. Yes, more of that, please.

Acatl wrenched himself away, so suddenly that Teomitl was left gasping. He watched as Acatl raised a trembling hand to his reddened lips, gaze falling to the floor. His other hand had a white-knuckled grip on his bag, but that was shaking too. His glasses had left red marks on the bridge of his nose. “I—you—“

He should probably apologize. He couldn’t bring himself to form the words. What came out instead, far more snappish than he’d intended, was “I’d do it again.”

Acatl sucked in a harsh breath. He still wasn’t looking at him—but he wasn’t running, either, or telling him to leave. His voice sounded raw as he sagged in the doorway. “We really, really shouldn’t. My job…”

It wasn’t a no. He could work with that. Slowly, carefully, he reached to touch his hand. “I won’t let anyone find out.”

For a second he thought it would work—and then Acatl pulled away, face a carefully blank mask that displayed nothing of whatever he was feeling behind it. “I—I can’t. I’m sorry. You’re my student, Teomitl.”

He had to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat, feeling a traitorous prickle start up behind his eyes. You knew this was coming, idiot. You knew he’d be the good, principled man he is and turn you down. You shouldn’t even have come here. “...Alright, then.” He was very proud of himself for keeping his voice steady.

As he turned to go, Acatl caught his gaze and held it. His voice still shook, and there was definitely a blush tinging his face, but his tone was firm. “Come back. After the end of the semester.”

My god. He had to make himself remember how to breathe, never mind form words. He wants me. He wants me. Or at least...he’s willing to talk about wanting me. “...I will.”

It was a few weeks. He could wait a few weeks.

& &

He could not, in fact, wait a few weeks. It was, oddly enough, easiest to handle in Acatl’s class, where at least he could see the man—could drink his fill, even though they couldn’t touch, and know Acatl wouldn’t forget him. Sometimes Acatl met his eyes and turned away, and he knew he was remembering the kiss. It sent fire through his veins every time. Yes. Look at me. Love me. And when he crossed and uncrossed his legs in the front row, Acatl’s eyes flicked to the movement. Maybe it was mean of him to tease, but he wanted—and Acatl had been the one who’d told him to wait. Look at what you could have, Professor. All this for you.

It was easy to be confident in front of Acatl. In his other classes, he burned. Paying attention had never been harder; while his body was physically present, his mind kept flashing back to Acatl’s hands, Acatl’s mouth. It was bad enough that his friends noticed, and Mihmatini—who, as far as he knew, did not exist socially during class times—messaged him in the middle of one of their shared lectures.

Holder of the One Braincell: teo. are you like

Holder of the One Braincell: ok??????

Jaguar Bro: fine, why?

Holder of the One Braincell: bc you keep spacing out? you never do that

He stared at his screen. Sorry, I can’t read poetry without hearing your brother’s voice would not go over well, but he’d never been good at lying.

Snacts (snake facts): I think he’s in love

Jaguar Bro: no???? i’m just tired

Jaguar Bro: too many essays

Holder of the One Braincell: ok ok, take care of urself!

He’d never been more grateful for Nezahual. Despite the man’s stated insistence that he never lied, after one too many creative omissions of facts Mihmatini had adopted the position that everything he said was probably bullshit. As long as Teomitl didn’t give him the reaction he was looking for, Mihm would never suspect him. Maybe one day I’ll tell her. But not now.

The semester oozed onwards until finally—finally—it ended. Teomitl picked his outfit for his last day of Overview of the Aztec Empire with more care than he’d ever done in his life. He rarely wore skinny jeans, but it was the clearest please-peel-these-off-me indicator he could give. Judging by the minute widening of Acatl’s eyes when he sauntered in to hand in his final essay, it worked.

And then he had to wait. Once again, he timed his arrival for the end of office hours, knowing that Acatl would keep to them. Knowing—dear God, knowing that Acatl was waiting for him. By the time he pushed open Acatl’s door, he was wound so tightly he felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin.

“...I’m here.”

Acatl had risen from his seat at his approach. “...So you are.” He swallowed visibly before slowly, deliberately, taking his glasses off. “Lock the door behind you?”

He locked the door. For a long moment, they just stared at each other. There was an inkstain on Acatl’s cheek, and golden flecks in his brown eyes.

He really wasn’t sure which of them moved first, but then they were colliding and he didn’t care anymore. It was deliciously easy to press Acatl back into his chair and straddle his hips, feeling him arch under him as they kissed. When he slid a hand up into his hair, Acatl made a frankly incredible sound that went straight to his cock, pulling a growl from his own throat.

“Later,” Acatl gasped when Teomitl left his mouth to devote attention to his neck, “we really should talk about—this.” Given that his hands had wound up on Teomitl’s ass and squeezed encouragingly when he kissed a spot just under his jaw, it would probably be much later.

Teomitl made a noncommittal noise. Acatl’s throat deserved much more focus than anything involving words, and when he fumbled the first few buttons of his shirt the man trembled under him. It was intoxicating. He slipped his fingers inside and the heat of Acatl’s skin almost scorched him. He wanted to taste.

He ground down against the bulge in Acatl’s slacks, and the chair creaked alarmingly. They both froze.

Acatl almost laughed. It sounded strained. “Ah. We should...move.”

Pulling away was the hardest thing he’d ever done, but then he was settling himself on the edge of the desk and feeling Acatl’s gaze sweep slowly up his legs. He couldn’t help but smirk through the heat in his own face; Acatl looked downright debauched. Flushed, half hard, shirt partially undone—it made something hot and possessive coil in his gut. “See something you like?”

“Jesus Christ, yes.” Acatl shoved himself up out of his chair; Teomitl expected more kisses, but then his mouth found his throat instead and he made a breathy, desperate noise at the first scrape of teeth. He hoped it left a mark; for a moment all he could do was dig his nails into Acatl’s shoulderblades and shudder. Unlike him, Acatl clearly had no problems talking, though his voice was rough as he breathed, “Swear to God, from the moment I saw you—“

Teomitl hiked a leg up around his hips; in a minute he knew he’d be begging for Acatl to tear his clothes off, but right now he just wanted to be closer. “You could have had me. We could have been—ah—“ Acatl was mouthing a bruise into the base of his throat, sending shockwaves through his veins “—doing this all semester—“

Acatl’s hands slid up under his shirt, making him arch with a gasp as his fingers found suddenly-sensitive nipples. “We could not have.” It was a growl. “But now…”

“Please.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded raw. He was so aroused it actually hurt.

Acatl drew back a bit, but he was only going for his pants; when Teomitl wriggled half out of them, baring skin, he made a noise like he’d been punched and kissed him so roughly it was almost a bite. His hands were already at his hips when he breathed, “I—how do you want—?”

He didn’t need to think about what he wanted. He’d spent too long fantasizing about it. “Bend me over.” It came out shaky. “Bend me over on this desk and fuck me until I scream.”

Acatl paused. Teomitl saw the exact moment his words sunk in, because he went red. “...Oh, god.” He dropped his head to Teomitl’s shoulder, taking a slow breath. “I’ve never—“

What. Has anyone ever seen you?! But saying that wouldn’t get them anywhere, so he ferreted out condoms and lube from his pockets. He’d never been more grateful for planning. “Do you want to?”

Thumbs pressed into his hipbones hard enough to bruise, and he bit back a cry. This was going to be incredible. Acatl’s words came out ragged. “Yes.”

And then he was being rolled over, and had barely enough coordination to kick his shoes off and consign his jeans to the floor. Acatl’s hands skimmed slowly over his thighs, and he shivered. Oh, Christ. But then they paused, and he propped himself up on one elbow and twisted around for a look at Acatl’s face. The hunger in his eyes was exciting, but his hesitation was not. “I won’t break.”

“Hmm.” One hand left his skin and came back cold and slick, trailing lightly over his entrance; when a finger slid in, he almost collapsed back onto the desk. “Good?”

He bit back a whine. Barely. Not because it felt like anything much yet, but because it was Acatl carefully working him open—and then another finger joined the first, and he savored the stretch. “Oh, fuck yes—ahh…” He’d managed to angle his fingers in exactly the right way to send sparks up his spine, still slow and deliberate and hot. “Professor, please.”

Acatl snarled, rough and wordless, and gritted out, “Don’t call me that here.” His fingers curled, and Teomitl keened. “Say my name.”

“Acatl,” he gasped, breathless—those amazing, maddening fingers wouldn’t stop. And then, “Acatl, I swear to God if you don’t fuck me—“

He tore the packet open with his teeth, promptly dropped the foil, nearly dropped the condom too, and swore viciously. Teomitl, viscerally aware of his current position, managed not to laugh. But then the condom was in place and his fingers were gone—oh, he was empty—and Acatl’s cock was replacing it in a slow, smooth thrust that had his eyes rolling back in his head as he sank back to the desk. Fuck. Fuck. I am not going to survive this.

Acatl’s voice was raw by the time he spoke, hilted as deep as he could go. Teomitl trembled; he’d never felt this full before. “Christ, you’re like a vice—“ He sounded like he needed a minute, but he was still rocking his hips, little tiny thrusts that made Teomitl gasp and clench down around him because it wasn’t nearly enough. He needed more. He needed everything.

He swallowed, throat gone dry. There wasn’t enough room for him to get much leverage pinned against the desk; he knew that whatever Acatl wanted to give him, he’d have to take. “Move. Move.” He knew he sounded desperate, and didn’t care. So he shifted his weight, grinding roughly against the desk; when Acatl groaned and sank back only to thrust in again, he knew he’d done it right. “Harder.”

“Fuck, Teomitl.” Acatl set a hand on the desk, bracing himself, and Teomitl had a moment to think oh, thank god before Acatl was giving him exactly what he’d asked for—more of that, and harder, slow deep thrusts that sent rolling waves through him and straight to his cock. He made an incoherent noise and muffled it with his forearm; the walls were thin around here, and he was pretty sure he’d feel bad if Acatl lost his job over this. Eventually.

I’d get you a better job. No, I’d keep you at home, my kept man, eating caviar and reading all the books you want and fucking me just like— A particularly hard thrust jarred a cry from him, and he panted out “I—“ before even figuring out what he was going to say, but then Acatl just kept up the pace and he cut himself off with a broken moan. “God—that, just like that, faster.”

“Like this?” Acatl’s voice was a savage thing, all raw edges and need, and the hand that came to rest at his hip grabbed almost hard enough to hurt. And then he was doing just what Teomitl asked for, and Teomitl felt the edge loom. “Is this what you like?”

Closer. Closer. But it wasn’t enough—fucking hell, it wouldn’t be enough just to get fucked, rubbing himself desperately against the desk. He needed Acatl’s hands. “Touch me. Please—“ He was begging. He knew it. He didn’t care, because it got Acatl’s hand to leave his hip and wrap around his cock, pumping him until the skittering sparks up his spine overflowed and turned his world white. He felt himself squeeze around Acatl’s hard flesh, heard an answering gasp at his ragged, muffled cry.

And then he was oversensitive and shaking, but Acatl kept going. Teomitl shuddered, toes curling, and braced himself against the desk; finally, after a small eternity, Acatl spent himself with a groan. Hot breath washed over the back of Teomitl’s neck, but he didn’t mind in the least.

His brain still felt fuzzy. It took a few seconds of silently working his jaw to find the capacity for speech. “That...was…” The best fucking thing ever. Absolutely indescribable. I should tie you to my bed and never let you leave. His thighs were sore as hell and would undoubtedly bruise, but honestly? It was worth it.

Acatl’s voice was soft, but the hand that stroked his spine gently was even softer. He sounded tender, and it tugged hard on Teomitl’s heartstrings. “...You are incredible.”

He said nothing. Words seemed to have fled. It wasn’t until Acatl pulled out, making them both shudder, that he managed, “I still want more.” Not just here. Not just—a fling, your dirty secret.

“Teomitl!” It was almost a laugh, and Acatl shook his head ruefully. “I do need to recover, you know. Things happen once you leave your twenties behind you.”

“Not like that!” He flexed his thighs experimentally. God, he’d be feeling this for weeks. But there were things he needed to say, and this wasn’t a conversation he could have in his current state. He needed pants, for one thing. But even after he cleaned himself up and got mostly dressed, he still wasn’t sure how to say it. You’re kind and intelligent and devastatingly handsome and I want to see more of you. He swallowed, finding it impossible to look directly at him. “I—let me take you out to dinner?”

Acatl was blushing again, but his smile was radiant. “I’d like that.”

& &

Holder of the One Braincell: would you happen to know anything abt why my bro is walking around w/love bites

Holder of the One Braincell: grinning @ his phone like an idiot

Holder of the One Braincell: his NEW phone, btw, bc SOMEHOW he was induced to replace the cracked one from 2009 w/the latest model iphone?

Holder of the One Braincell: WOULD YOU HAPPEN TO KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THAT TEOMITL

Snacts (snake facts): I can’t help but notice that dear teo has changed his facebook status :)

Snacts (snake facts): and my, what’s this on your instagram account? whatever were you doing at the beach with mihm’s favorite brother??

Holder of the One Braincell: T E O M I T L

**Jaguar Bro has left the chat**

#obsidian and blood #teomitl #acatl #teocatl #mihmatini #nezahual #not work safe #paladin writes stuff

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brownskinsugarplum76 · 5 years

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Eye of the Storm, Ch. 1

So, I'm going to take the plunge into something multichapter. I'm not sure where it will end up, and I'm not sure how long it will be, but I'll keep going as long as I can (but no regular publishing schedule). It's going to be AU-ish, with Robert single, but with as much as of the legit Zeppelin timeline in place as possible. It's starting in 1976, after his car accident, right before the release of Presence. And it brings back Maggie, of San Diego beach fic fame. 😁

Thank you, as always, to @firethatgrewsolow for your expert advice, guidance, and review. Thank you also to @starchild0985 for your encouragement for me to just do it. And thanks to @callmethehunter for the Maggie character idea to begin with.

No smut in at least the first 2 parts, but we'll get there.

Thank you. Please send positive vibes--I am a bit nervous about my ability to pull off a bigger story. ❤️❤️❤️

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robert was enjoying himself at one of his favorite places besides the stage: the soccer field. He smiled as he watched the LA Aztecs thwart another Dallas Tornado goal attempt at 80 minutes into the match. He had to admit it wasn't as exciting as being at a Wolverhampton game, but it would do. Few people in America got feverishly passionate about soccer like his countrymen and women. This was especially so in LA, the playground of starlets and rock stars, most of whom thrived on nocturnal indulgences rather than daylight spectating.

He swept his hair out of his face for the umpteenth time. The wind meant that Old Man Winter, as gentle as he was in The Golden State, was not ready to retreat. Robert was glad he'd brought his leather jacket with him from Benji's car; his black, long-sleeved tee wasn't enough to ward off the coolness of the air. He had to laugh at the thought that the weather could be considered chilly, having survived much worse winters across the pond.

It was a few weeks shy of spring, a few weeks before he'd be thrust back into the spotlight with the release of the seventh album. He was proud that the band was still standing. During their forced hiatus there had been an influx of raw, hungry, minimalist groups openly mocking bands that reveled in grandiose musical ideas on grandiose stages, and Zeppelin was not immune to these kinds of attacks. But being in the studio a few months prior in front of a microphone felt like home, even if he was still on the mend.

Just like his pride in the band's resilience, he was thankful to be on his feet unaided, a couple months removed from the confines of a wheelchair or leg brace. He was also extremely thankful that his fall in the studio, during a moment of excitement, didn't cause another injury and another setback. He wouldn't have wanted to let the band or himself down in that way.

He shifted his attention back to the game. He refused to sit while soaking in the sun and the sport, the camaraderie with his friends, and the feeling of being alive and well. He also was enjoying being off duty, as Robert Anthony, rather than the Golden God. He would enjoy that feeling while it lasted; it never lasted long.

He had been scanning the crowd periodically as, in addition to the game, he was looking to score a lineup for a passionate match in his bedroom. It seemed a bust, because the few women present were tightly clinging to their significant others. But then he saw a familiar face, and he couldn't help but smile.

Maggie.

He hadn't seen her in about a year, though she lived a road trip away. And now he realized that had been a mistake. With too much on his mind after his accident, instead of reconnecting, he felt it safer to conjure up the memory of her body on their first night together. He remembered fondly how she lay underneath him in San Diego, slightly dusted with sand, as the world spun in a haze of tequila and the ocean waves rolled incessantly a few yards behind them. He also frequently thought of seeing her the following year at Kezar. Bonzo joked that she was the second bird who felt the clutch of his hand that day. It was an apt description, because Robert couldn't keep his hands off of her. After that reunion, he stole as much time as he could to visit her in San Diego or spirit her away to LA, whenever the band was camped in its American home base. Their relationship was free-flowing and undefined, but fueled with enough passion for it to bloom whenever they got together. He hoped they could pick right back up.

He watched her approach the stands, alone, and he took that as a positive sign. “Maggie, love!” he exclaimed. He raised a hand and waved; his cuff bracelet was almost in danger of flying off in his excitement. The gesture bordered on absurdity, as if she wouldn't be able identify a tall, otherworldly attractive man, one with whom she'd had many happy memories, who also just happened to be a household name. He grimaced at his overeagerness. But if his convalescence in Malibu told him anything, it was that cabin fever was possible in paradise. He wasn't quite ready to engage in tour life, but he was ready to be the prowling, pouncing lion again, not the broken man who was the receiver of TLC, even though the women were very lovely and very willing. He craved a fun fling, or more, with the right woman. The sight of Maggie gave him hope that he would get his wish.

She looked his way. Her mouth went wide, but her face soon settled on delight.

“Robert!” she squealed when she reached him. “What are the odds? How are you?” She threw her arms around his neck.

His spirited bear hug lifted her petite body from the ground before he initiated a kiss, one that successfully conveyed how much he missed her.

“Much better,” he said, putting her down and smiling some more.

“That's right, your accident! You're lucky to be alive!”

“I'm also lucky to be walking without a limp or anything… Some of the specialists had their doubts, but I never gave up.”

“That sounds like you. You look great,” she said, appreciating every inch of him from his hair, which was bigger than usual due to the vicious wind, to the red Converse sneakers on his feet.

“So do you.” He realized nothing had changed: her dark, wavy hair still grew past her shoulders, her smile still warmed his heart, and her curves, swathed in jeans and a thin sweater under an open peacoat, still called to his primal core.

He brushed her wind-blown hair out of her eyes. It was a futile gesture, because there was no shortage of wind. But when his hand came to rest on her cheek, it did accomplish what Robert ultimately wanted: a tender connection.

Maggie closed her eyes to savor the feel of his large hand. Robert beamed at the thought of how much she seemed to have missed it.

She greeted Benji, whom she had met at Kezar Stadium, and introduced herself to the rest of Robert's friends.

“Can I get you something? A hot dog? A beer?” Robert asked Maggie.

“I'm OK, thanks.” She turned to watch the play on the field.

“No worries. If you have time, maybe we can stop somewhere after the game?”

“I'd like that.”

Robert picked up his beer and took a sip. “So, what brings you up here, love?”

“I actually live in LA now. The band, we were signed, and we released our first album last month. We've been doing a bunch of LA gigs and are gearing up for a short tour in the summer. And we're going to open for Santana on a couple of dates this fall!”

“How wonderful! The time of year will be perfect for your tour. No risk of an icy car crash death, as when we first hit America…”

“I'm definitely glad for that! And you'll have to tell me that story another time. How frightening! So, I think I've read that you all have a new album coming out soon?” Maggie asked.

“In a few weeks’ time.” Robert sighed.

“Not excited?”

“I'm glad we recorded again, and it was really amazing that the album came together so quickly, but I have been enjoying the slow pace of our time off. I've missed the stage, but the circus that forms up around us, night after night? It's been good to have some distance from that, you know?” He watched LA race down the field and score a goal. He pumped his fist in the air and cheered.

“Lifelong soccer fan? Here by yourself?” he asked, changing the subject.

“I am,” Maggie said. My father got us kids interested in soccer, and we all played in the neighborhood. My one brother was supposed to be here with me today, but he's a bit under the weather.”

“Rough and tumble tomboy past, then?” Robert took another sip of beer.

“I did have more boy friends than girl friends growing up. It led to lots of crazy adventures, but it also gave me the confidence to lead the band and deal with trashy men in the industry...”

“I bet you've come across tons of them already.”

“Tons,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“Well, if I know you, you've reduced them to damn near tears at the end, yeah? I know you don't take shit from anyone.”

“Thankfully we have a manager now, so I can step out of that role, but yes, I have fought for what we deserve.” She grinned proudly. “My band is my life and my family. I can't keep quiet when things seem to be going wrong for us.”

“That's my girl!” Robert leaned in closer to Maggie. “I also remember that you're a lady who knows what she wants and doesn't stop until she's satisfied,” he whispered in her ear before nipping her earlobe. A hungry smile spread across his face as he contemplated her fiery spirit.

“And that has not changed,” she said, turning and looking into his eyes.

She placed a hand on his chest as he tilted her face and kissed her slowly.

Robert marveled at his eagerness to consider leaving the match early, to spend some alone time with Maggie. This was new behavior, and it spoke volumes about the importance he had placed on her.

With only a handful of regulation minutes left, and LA comfortably ahead, he decided to break with tradition. For her.

“I think we know how this is going to go…” He put on his sunglasses and zipped up his jacket.

“The game, or our time together?” Maggie asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah!” Robert ran a hand through his hair. “I meant the game,” he said with a chuckle. “But--”

“--I'm teasing you. I'm sure both of your thoughts are spot-on. In fact, I'm counting on it.”

“One catch, though, Maggie dear: you'd need to drive, as I'm still at the mercy of Mr. Lefevre, here, for getting around. LA traffic is too much work too soon for my delicate bones, I'm afraid.”

“At my mercy… I like the sound of that, even if you left out the detail of me being your chauffeur…”

“You'll forgive an invalid lad and be gentle, won't you, love?” His sweet gaze became more seductive the longer their eyes connected.

She sighed, remembering how Robert could charm his way out of anything, and how willing she had been to let him do it. “Sure, if that's what you really want…”

“For now, anyway,” Robert countered.

With a warm smile, Maggie linked her arm with Robert's. The two of them said goodbye to his friends and headed to Maggie's car.

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i-am-a-closet-fanfic-fiend · 6 years

Text

Missed Connections ~ Steve Rogers x Reader College!AU (Part 2/7)

A/N: Hi my lovelies! Happy weekend! I decided to continue this one and it refused to be put second to Primary Colors lol. Just kidding I’ve been writing both but this one got finished first so I figured I’d share. Enjoy!

Summary: It’s been a whole semester of missed connections with Steve, will you talk to him before you head home for break?

Characters/Pairings: Eventual Steve x Reader, Natasha, Pepper, Bruce, Tony, Wanda, Bucky, Sam, Thor, Clint and Vision mentioned (like I said, the whole gang)

Rating: T (minor language)

Warnings: Nothing really

Word count: 2013

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

“I’m loving the earmuff and peacoat combo, y/n.”

“Thanks,” You smiled at Wanda as you waited for the subway.

“I’m partial to the pompom hat look,” Natasha grinned.

“I didn’t want to mess up my hair,” you admitted.

“Hoping to run into somebody?” Tony asked as he waggled his eyebrows.

You glared at Pepper’s boyfriend who shrugged as he held her hand. “I’m going to take that as a yes.”

Tony had been extremely amused when he heard about your “ships in the night” romance as he liked to call it. And he took every opportunity to tease you about it.

“If you run into him today, will you please talk to him?” Pepper begged.

Your friends had been pressuring you to strike up a conversation all semester, but so far you had only managed to smile and wave (which you considered an accomplishment). The conversation was interrupted when the subway arrived and you all hurried in. Luckily the car was almost empty so you sat on either side of the aisle.

“So? Will you?” Tony prompted.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Come on, running into him on campus is one thing. Running into him roaming around the city is a sign.”

“Okay, maybe it’s a sign,” you conceded. “If I see him tonight, I’ll go say hi.”

Your friends cheered, excited you were finally going to take a leap.

“How come it wasn’t a sign when we saw him at the museum?”

“Bruce!” you hissed.

“Wait, wait, wait. You saw him at the museum?”

You sighed and glared at Bruce before answering.

“We may have passed each other when we were roaming through the modern art wing.”

“And the Aztec wing, and the China wing,” Bruce added unhelpfully.

“So that’s why you were so happy when you got back. I assumed you just really liked art.”

You rolled your eyes at Pepper’s observation.

“That boy’s face is art,” Wanda sighed wistfully.

“Forget about his face. His ass is art.” Nat winked at you and you flushed scarlet.

It was a relief when you finally got to the tree lighting, because your friend’s were too busy enjoying the holiday cheer to rag on you. The six of you roamed around, popping into stores to do some holiday shopping.

The rest of your friends went to stake out a good spot to watch the tree lighting from while you purchased the ornaments you had picked out for your parents. By the time you had made it through the line, the marketplace was filled to the brim and you had no idea where your friends were.

When none of them answered your calls or texts you decided to just weave through the crowd towards the front. You had made it about twenty feet when you saw him. He and his friends stood well above most of the crowd and even in the chaos his laugh was recognizable.

You froze. He hadn’t seen you yet and you still had no idea where your friends were. You could either walk towards him and hope he noticed you or you could walk the total opposite direction. Before you could make your decision you heard Nat yell your name.

You finally spotted your friends standing on the stone wall that surrounded one of the trees. You caught her eye and waved and started weaving through the crowd. Once you had fought your way through to them you eyed the two foot wall warily.

“Get up here, y/n!”

You planted your foot on the wall and pushed with all of your might but it wasn’t quite enough and you were quickly falling backwards. Before you could hit the ground though, a pair of hands grabbed you and pulled you up.

“Thanks, Bruce.”

“No problem. You alright?’ He asked still holding onto your hands.

You nodded and self-consciously fixed your jacket as you glanced at your friends. Clint and Viz had joined the group so everyone was paired off except for you and Bruce. You and he shared a wry smile as you stood together.

Tony had tried to set you up on multiple occasions. And Bruce was a good friend but you just weren’t attracted to him. Besides he had a massive crush on this girl, Betty, in your bio lecture. Still more often than not you were the awkward single friends together. It was a comfortable arrangement, so it was no surprise when he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and you wrapped yours around his waist.

As you listened to the last few performers before the tree was lit, your eyes scanned the crowd. You easily spotted Steve and his friends. They were all looking at you, but before you could smile and wave, they abruptly turned around and you frowned.

Hoping it was just a coincidence you focused on the music and the lights. It really was beautiful. Once the crowd thinned after the tree was lit, your group made your way to the front to take pictures. Once Tony started formulating plans to steal an ornament off the tree that was surrounded by security guards, you all decided it was time to go.

When you got back to your dorm you passed Steve on the way to the elevator and smiled and waved, but his return smile was just a bit dimmer than normal. You wanted to say something but before you had the chance he was gone.

You didn’t have time to look for or even really think about Steve in the following week. You were in the Science building by five a.m. every morning and you left long after midnight. You pretty much only came out to take your exams.

By the time you finished your last final (you had the last exam slot in the entire week, naturally) you were exhausted and all you wanted was food and your bed. You groaned internally when you walked into the dining hall and realized they had closed the majority of it since most people had headed home.

You unenthusiastically loaded your plate with pizza and grabbed a drink before trying to find a seat. Clearly the dining hall had overestimated how many people would leave early for the holidays because every chair was taken and every booth was filled. You made one final loop before spotting an empty chair at a corner table, a table full of Steve’s friends, although he was nowhere in sight.

You took a deep breath and forced yourself to walk over to them. You felt like there was lead in your stomach as you approached the rambunctious table.

They abruptly stopped talking when they noticed you.

“Hi,” you squeaked out. “Do you mind if I borrow that chair?”

There weren’t really any open tables but you could just sit in a corner somewhere.

“Why don’t you just join us?” The dark haired boy who you saw Steve with most often offered.

“I don’t want to bother you,” you shook you head slightly.

He grinned and you knew immediately he was aware of how charming he was.

“You’re not, doll. I promise.”

“Well, thank you. I’m y/n by the way.”

“Bucky. It’s nice to meet you.”

You slid into the open chair and took a sip of your water as the other two guys introduced themselves. Their names were Thor and Sam.

“So, y/n, what’s your major?” Sam asked.

“General biology. For now,” you added before biting into your pizza.

“Are you thinking about changing?”

“Probably not changing, but I might specialize. What about you guys?”

“Poli Sci and Econ,” Thor reported. “Kind of a family thing.”

He didn’t sound thrilled and you nodded understandingly.

“I’m a psych major. And Bucky’s an engineer,” he added elbowing him when he noticed his friend was busy texting.

“What?” he looked up suddenly. “Yeah. Engineer.”

“I’ve seen you around the science building,” you admitted nonchalantly.

You so desperately wanted to ask about Steve but you didn’t want to be creepy. They all smirked though at your comment. Obviously you hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Stevie and I have seen you around too.”

“Oh is he an engineer too?”

Bucky snorted slightly.

“No. He’ll probably be bio. He’s pushing off declaring an actual major until the last possible second. Aka May of this year. But he is pre-med. Which is why we’re taking orgo right now. Actually, I think we have orgo with your boyfriend.”

You gave him a confused look.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Sam and Thor looked smug and Bucky looked relieved.

“Really? Dark-haired, glasses, really smart.”

It clicked then.

“Oh you mean, Bruce.”

“Yeah. Him.”

“We’re not dating,” You chuckled. “We’re just the only single friends in our group so we get shoved together all the time.”

“Got it.”

After a moment of awkward silence, you asked about their plans for break.

“Sleeping. And eating home cooked meals,” Bucky grinned.

“Sounds about right,” you agreed.

“Excuse me. I’ve got to make a call.”

You smiled and turned your attention to Sam and Thor.

“What about you two?”

They were both going to spend some time hitting the slopes and their conversation quickly devolved into an argument about which snow conditions were the best. You used the distraction to finally scarf down the pizza.

When you glanced at your watch you realized that it was after nine and you still had to pack for your five a.m. flight.

“It was really nice meeting you both. I hope you have a great winter break.”

“You’re leaving?” Thor asked, disappointed.

“I’ve got to pack. I need to be at the airport in a few hours.”

“Well, have a great break. I’m sure we’ll see you around.”

“Say bye to Bucky for me.”

You quickly dumped your dishes on the conveyor belt and exited the dining hall. You were waiting for the elevator when the fact that you were done finally hit you and you started to do a little happy dance. You weren’t expecting the doors to slide open to reveal a yawning Steve as you were doing said happy dance.

“Just finish finals?” he asked, clearly trying to hold back laughter.

“That obvious?” you asked as you switched places in the elevator.

You were surprised your voice came out as steady as it did, considering most of your brain was cataloguing what he looked after a nap (you suspected). His hair was stuck up at odd angles and he was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a half-zipped hoodie without anything under it. Your imagination was having a field day.

He shrugged. “That’s a classic post finals happy dance.”

The elevator started dinging angrily for you to either get in or out at the same time his phone started ringing.

“See ya. Have a good break,” you said quickly before hitting the button for your floor.

“You too. Oh, wait.”

He started to say something else but the doors closed before he got it out. You leaned against the wall heavily as you giggled to yourself. You were slightly mortified but mostly you were just giddy.

As you were waiting to board your plane, your phone vibrated twice. Once for a facebook notification and once for a text from the group chat you had with the girls.

You opened the facebook notification first. It was a tag from Natasha in another Missed Connections post.

MC#578: To the beautiful y/h/c girl who I (still) see all the time. I finally got to talk to you tonight but I was too flustered by your killer post finals happy dance that I didn’t manage to catch your name. But I’m still calling it progress. Next time maybe I’ll manage to introduce myself. But for now thanks for ending my semester on a high note. Have a great break. See you in January.

You covered your mouth as you tried to suppress the giddiness that was rising. When you managed to get it under control you opened the text. It was a one word command from Nat.

Natasha (4:15AM): SPILL!

Unfortunately for her that would have to wait until you landed.

A/n: So there you go. A little bit more fluff. I am going to continue this story. I have like three more parts planned so let me know if you want to be tagged! As always thanks for reading and feedback is appreciated!

Tag Lists are Open!

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#Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #College!Au

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deztinywarriors · 6 years

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ES Spectre 2.0 Chapter 42

#Playchoices #Endless Summer #adventure #fanfic #pixelberry

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ultrakeystotheheartblog · 7 years

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CJ: Leader (Requested)

Hey! I was wondering if you could do another CJ imagine but now she is just being a total BAMF? Like set during the Season 4 finale where she pretty much kicks butt and is a good leader while Kate is holding Scott hostage? - internet Neighbor

A/N: Hi! I'm so sorry this took so long to get out.

I hope you enjoy it :)

Warnings: Slight violence

*************************************************

La Iglesia.

Braeden's earlier description didn't really do it justice, you think in awe. It’s grand in its stature, an ancient, aging church. The stone structure rises above the ruins of the city like a lone guardian. You marvel at it from inside the van, peeking at an odd angle through the passenger window to get a better look at it in the dark. Braeden manoeuvres the car in a tight U formation, pulling up near the church's boarded up entrance. The moonlight catches the untouched stain glass windows on the front of the building, transforming them into piercing eyes.

You sigh anxiously and turn to face Braeden as she releases her seatbelt, the tiny click drawing your attention. Everything always feels so heightened on a full moon. And speaking of a full moon...You turn slightly to see how Liam is faring now in the back, just catching the last bit of conversation as you squint to see through the wire mesh separating the front and back of the van.

"Alright, we might be able to actually do this." Stiles announces with barely contained relief. He nods to Derek, who rises from his seat and leans forward, pushing open the back doors.

And then it all goes wrong so fast.

Derek is ripped from the back of the van by a Berserker, a lumbering creature who suddenly appears as if he had materialized out from the darkness, and Derek is thrown to the ground. The Berserker drags him to a nearby rock with an obvious intent to kill, and Braeden is the first to move in the car. She throws her shoulder against the car door to jump out of the driver's side, shotgun already gripped tightly in her hands. She swings around the van and shoots at the Berserker, the loud cracks of gunshots making you flinch.

The smell of blood hits you after the wall of heat as you slip from the car and dash around to the back. You're lifting a heavy slab of stone from the ground before you realize it, spinning in a wide circle to create enough momentum as you lob the large rock at the Berserker. The impact is brutal, the Berserker's chest plate cracking, and it stumbles back before finally taking off into the ruins. But it's all too late.

Derek's been badly injured, the smell of blood thicker now in the humid air. Peter and Malia have already left their car, and Peter slides to a stop in front of you, kicking up a cloud of dust. He looks oddly concerned as he stares down at Derek, an expression you never thought you'd see on his face. He takes a few steps towards him, unsure of his next move. Stiles and Liam are there now too, and Derek slumps to the ground with a groan of pain. Braeden is by his side to check on him, lifting his jacket to see the extent of the wound as he moves his shaking, blood soaked hand out of the way. Derek is short of breath and heaving, blood collecting on his mouth. Braeden's face crumples in concern. "How bad is it?" Peter asks.

When she doesn't say anything, you step closer, voice low.

"Braeden?"

Derek's are eyes fluttering open and closed as he fights to stay conscious. "I'm fine, I'm fine! Just get to Scott." He says in a rush. No one moves, and Derek jerks his head towards the church. "Just find him. We'll be right behind you. Go. Go!"

Everyone is still hesitant to leave him and you nod at Derek when he looks to you, eyes pleading for you to do something. You speak up, forcing your voice to sound clear and direct, "You heard him."

Peter doesn't need to hear anything else and turns to enter the ruins, Liam and Malia following on his heels. Derek stops you and Stiles before you both can leave, gasping in agony as he shifts to hold himself up.

"Hey! Hey....save him." He says earnestly. You look from Stiles to Derek, eyes trailing to the entrance of the church where your brother lay hidden, taken, somewhere within its walls. Or the temple beneath it. You smile at Derek.

"We will. I'm not leaving here without him."

*************************************************

Upon first entering the church, you realize just how ancient and unnaturally stunning it truly was. The doorways were almost too large, old wooden pews broken or turned over in the middle of the room, the empty architectural arches along the walls, where stained glass windows might have once been, becoming gaping holes into the darkness outside. Your gaze wanders up, to the tall arches of stone above, jagged holes in the ceiling allowing streaks of moonlight to illuminate the inside. Pieces of stone litter the floor, along with the eerie view of old, grimy bones. It was hard to tell if they were animal or human.

Your group continues under the ruins, dashing through the narrow tunnels of the Aztec temple below. You push through the twisting vines hanging down like curtains in your path, finding yourself taking the lead without issue or complaint. You skid to a sudden stop before turning to your friends, holding up your hands to keep them from passing you. The group comes to an abrupt halt, bouncing back against each other. You talk low and fast, pointedly ignoring the look of disdain on Peter's face.

"Okay, woah, woah! Guys, slow down-STOP."

Peter scoffs, "So demanding, little wolf."

You shoulder past him without even a glance in his direction.

"We've got to figure out where we are and then we have to figure out how we're going to find Scott and Kira. This place is huge, we might have to split up into groups to cover more ground." You say slowly, deep in thought.

"What about the Berserkers?" Malia reminds you.

Liam spares a quick look behind him, nervously bouncing from foot to foot. "Yeah, those seem like problems we shouldn't ignore."

You sigh, "We're not ignoring them. Scott and Kira are the priority here, and we're going to be smart about this. Use what we have. Number outweighs lone strength."

"Scott's taught his little Beta well."

You cut a Peter a withering look, growl laced with warning. "We taught each other," You snap at him.

A cell phone goes off, startling everyone. Stiles looks down at his pocket in surprise.

"How do I even have serv-" He cuts himself off and sighs, nervously brushing a hand over his mouth when he sees the caller ID. He answers and crosses to stand in front of Peter. "Hi, Dad."

"Stiles-" You begin, but give up when Stiles waves a hand wildly in your general direction to shush you. Peter shoots Malia and Liam a disbelieving look, gesturing to where Stiles is standing. They shrug in response, leaving you to just shake your head in exasperation, straining to hear the hurried phone conversation.

"Okay, Dad, I know you're angry-"

"Oh, I'm beyond angry." Stiles winces at the Sherriff's grated tone. "I have reached a level of fury that you could not possibly comprehend."

"Okay, well when I get back you can ground me."

"Ground you? Ground you? I am going to hobble you." There's a quiet, resigned sigh on the other end. "Now please...just tell me you're alright. Tell me that you're safe."

Stiles meets your gaze.

"You want me to lie?" He replies.

The Sherriff draws out a soft Oh, God into the phone. He seems to hesitate for a moment before finally asking, "Okay, what-tell me...tell me what I can do. How can I help?"

Stiles breathes out in relief, hastily explaining that you were all worried about Lydia’s disappearance. "She was at the school when we called Mason to look for her, but now we're not hearing back from either of them. I don't know, Dad, I don't know what I'm doin'. You know, I'm just... I'm trying to save my friends."

"Okay. I'll find Lydia and Mason. You get Scott and Kira. You save your friends."

Stiles nods in determination, "Dad, if it's one of the Berserkers at the school, you're gonna need firepower. A lot."

He hangs up and turns back to the group, just as Liam throws his hands up in frustration and looks briefly to Malia

"What do we do now?" He asks, voice a little louder than you'd like.

You see the Berserker lurch out of the shadows at the same time as Malia.

"Behind-"

"Duck!" Malia shouts. She grabs the back of Liam's neck and forces him down, pushing him to run forwards as the Berserker slashes the air in the spot they had just been standing. The growl that tears itself from the creature's throat is one that sounds more animal than anything you had ever heard before.

"Get back, go! Go, go, go, go!" You cry. With your friends safely behind you, you jump up, your hands finding the wall on either side of you as slam the Berserker back with a double kick. It stumbles but manages to right itself as you take off to follow the rest of the group. The Berserker easily chases you down the tunnels, until you're all herded back into a room above ground, somewhere far into the ruins. The windows are almost blacked out with layers of vegetation. Both Peter and Liam dash behind one of the giant columns lined throughout the structure. As both you and Stiles near an exit on the far side of the room, you catch the tiny glint of Kira's sword in Malia's hand. You swivel, calling her name.

"Malia!"

Her head jolts up to look at you as she skids to a stop, gaze questioning. You gesture to the weapon in her hand and she nods in realization, flinching as the Berserker comes barreling into the room.

This would have to be where you split up.

She tosses the sword to Stiles.

"Go find Kira and Scott." She orders.

Stiles catches it, fumbling with it for a second as he stares at her. "Go," Malia demands again.

You roll your eyes when he doesn't listen, "Stiles, come on! MOVE." You grip him by the sleeve of his shirt and drag him with you, as the Berserker smashes through a column to your right. The sounds of fighting follow you both into the tunnels.

**********************************************

"Scott!" Stiles cries. His voice and frantic footsteps echo throughout the narrow passage, the flash light in his hand providing just a little bit of needed light. The weak beam bounces along the dusty walls as he turns sharply from side to side to glare into the darkness of connecting tunnels, sword clutched in his other hand.

"Scott!" You repeat as you lead the way, nose in the air as you search for any sign of a familiar scent.

"Kira!" Stiles tries instead. He nearly careens into a wall as you both swing around another bend.

Stiles seems to detect the presence of something, just as you suddenly inhale the scent of old blood. You throw yourself in front of Stiles, your arms spread out to keep him behind you as he jerks to look to his left, the flashlight illuminating Kira's hunched figure leaning against the wall. Your shoulders slump in relief and you step towards her. She looks sweaty and pale, tired dark eyes widening as she takes you both in. There's dried blood caked around a large gash in her forehead. Stiles practically squeaks in surprise. "Are you okay?" He asks quickly.

Kira stumbles towards you both, sucking in a pained breath.

"It's Scott. Stiles...CJ, it's Scott."

Stiles blanches, "What?"

"The Berserker...it's him, Kate did it."

"What are you saying?" You demand, struggling to soften the biting tone in your voice.

"She made him into one of them. I don't know how, but it's him. If they don't know it....they could kill him."

Stiles looks as though he's suddenly seen the truth, eyes enlarging the tiniest fraction. "That's why Lydia's not here....they won't know they're killing Scott."

You growl in anger at the realization, callously ripping the sword out of Stiles' hands. You hold it out towards Kira. "Scott needs us. Are you up for it?"

Kira takes the hilt of the sword in her hand, fingers tightening around it as she familiarises herself with the weight of it again. Her eyes glow orange as they flicker up to regard your intense expression.

"Lead the way."

**********************************************

You can easily follow the sound of blows and growling back to the rest of your friends, turning into the room just as Liam and Peter have pinned the Berserker--your brother--against a column. Malia is winding up to deal a killing blow to his head, a jagged knife made out of bone clasped too tightly in her hand. Stiles rushes forward, shouting out in alarm.

"Wa-wait, Malia wait!"

Kira moves fast, cutting behind Liam, and strikes the knife out of Malia's hand with her sword. It clatters to the stone floor and Malia cuts Kira a sharp look, features etched with confusion.

"It's Scott." Stiles explains, gesturing to the beast squirming in Liam and Peter's hold. They look to you and you nod firmly, hands clenched at your side.

"It's Scott," you confirm through gritted teeth. "Kate planned this."

Liam shifts slightly, to look into the eye sockets of the skull covering Scott's head. He stares in astonishment, his grip loosening unintentionally until Scott is able to rip free. Liam and Peter are sent sprawling back by the force, and Liam hits the ground near you hard, a flurry of dust tossed up into the air. Scott decks Malia before she can move into action, sending her tumbling to the floor of the room as well. Scott then turns to go after poor Liam, who is hastily scooting backwards to where Stiles and you are standing. You reach down to pull him back.

"Scott-" Kira tries, voice raising when he doesn't acknowledge her. "Scott, don't!"

Stiles darts forward to wedge himself in between Liam and Scott. "Scott, it's me- "

Before he can finish what he was about to say, Scott elbows him out of the way with a harsh blow to his face. Scott grabs Liam by the neckline of his sweatshirt, lifting him away from your grasp and slamming him against an opposite wall. The stone cracks beneath the force.

"Scott, no! Hey-don't!" You yell.

Scott has Liam by his neck now and is hoisting him off the ground until they're eye level. Liam's legs dangle uselessly below him, and he sputters, trying to breathe around Scott's bruising hold.

"Scott..." He pleads, a tremble in his voice. His Alpha merely draws his arm back, ready to hit him. "Scott, Scott!" Liam continues in a panic. "Listen, listen, listen!"

Scott pauses.

"You're not a monster!" Liam gasps. "You're a werewolf. Like me."

You find yourself moving towards him, eyes trained intensely on his larger figure. "Scott, listen to him!" You say, your tone more piercing and harsh than you ever thought you would use when talking to your brother. You grip the arm still hanging in the air without thinking.

Oh no.

Scott throws you back immediately and you snarl in irritation, stalking back towards him. His free hand shoots out to grab your neck once you're close enough, squeezing ruthlessly as he holds you in place from advancing any further. Your lungs begin to burn as you struggle to take in large gulps of air, and Scott hoists Liam further up the wall.

"We're your pack, your family," you roar at him. "Scott McCall, look at me! At them!" He wrenches back slightly at the use of his full name and slowly he glances around him, at each of his friends, and then his gaze trails back to you. You stare into the eye sockets of the skull unflinchingly, as he hauls you closer towards him.

"It's us," You say more softly.

Scott's soulless dark eyes dart around as if he's trying very hard to remember something. He squints, eyes rapidly closing and opening, and he takes a large step back. He slowly begins to let his hand fall from around your neck, simultaneously lowering Liam to the floor.

Everyone is silent now, unmoving.

Scott's neck wrenches unnaturally to the side with a crack of bone and he stumbles back, clawing at the skull on his head. His fingers slip into the eye sockets and seam around his neck, desperately trying to get it off. When he can't, he looks down at his hands, seeming to notice that he's wearing a strange patchwork of old cloth and plates of armour.

He begins to tear them off swiftly, the chest plate and armour on his arms tumbling to the stone floor with a dull clunk. His hands go back to the skull on his head and he grips tightly at the eye sockets again, using all his strength to tear it in two with a ear splitting roar. A bright yellow light bursts from the emerging seam as it splits with a crunch, Scott's familiar face finally appearing, eyes gleaming red.

And you knew, at last, that your brother had returned to you.

#teen wolf #teen wolf imagines #Scott McCall #Scott McCall imagines #Scott McCall x reader #stiles stilinski #kira yukimura #liam dunbar #peter hale #derek hale #braeden #kate argent #sherriff stilinski #tw

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maribelvela · 7 years

Text

ad altiora imus

we strive higher

INVOLVED → a client, her son, a “businessman” TIME FRAME → over the course of a few weeks in mid 2014 LOCATION → El Paso, Texas SUMMARY → A little threat, a little crime, a little wreck, a little deed. Something better forgotten and never to be confessed. lmao it’s 2236 words

I DIDN’T MEAN FOR THIS SHIT TO GET SO LONG.

TL;DR maribel could be sued for law malpractice, perhaps even something criminal. after a crime boss requests the deportation of someone who witnessed a murder, maribel tries to keep her integrity together until her son is put in harm’s way. her mother instincts flare up, risking her professional reputation, she sends an innocent boy home. all in the name of motherly love and keeping your job, i guess.

SCENE → 9AM. Dream Defenders HQ.

Maribel always approved each case that came in before it could be taken up. While it was easy to try accepting them all, she took it upon herself to vet and examine each for potential. Like every morning before, Maribel was at her desk reading through a mountain of files and summaries prepared by her employees. As the woman in charge, her own desk wasn't grand but it was separated from everyone else. She could have the privilege of privacy and quiet, but the taps of productivity were still heard. Hearing people work made her feel secure.

Her secretary knocked and opened the door. "Ms. Vela, Mr. Santos is here for his appointment." Maribel froze, the page she was turning slipped from her finger and slowly landed. She peered over her reading glasses. "Gilbert Santos?" She knew the name. The secretary nodded and spoke before Maribel could respond further. "I'll send him in."

Uh, Maribel didn’t confirm that he could enter.

His footsteps made Maribel uncomfortable, loud and obnoxious. She could only dread as to how he would talk like. He wasn't a large man, a willowy figure who couldn’t have been taller than 5′8″ but his presence took up so much space — not counting that strong waft of cologne. It made Maribel want to puke because it smelt like rotten bergamot orange. Mr. Santos put his jacket where Maribel had hung her scarf. He made himself comfortable in the seat before her desk, settling until he was still as a stone. Maribel's disposition mirrored him, yet her head pounded intensely. He leaned forward with his hands holding the chair's sides. "You're the one defending Skinner Martinez, aren't you?"

How did he know? Maribel broke their gaze, by shutting her open file and tidying the space immediately in front of her. "We're handling Ernesto Martinez's asylum claim, yes." She paused, looking back at him and raising her voice. "I can't discuss this with you. I can confirm that he's my client but whatever you’re here for, this is the most I can reveal." She sighed before standing up, walking around her table towards the door. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure why you’re here. I don’t need your likes around here so you can just head on—” Her babbling was interrupted by a thump. She turned around to see a thick envelope on her desk. Santos had sly smile.

“Open it,” he said, before throatily chuckling. His voice was raw yet suspiciously smooth. “You’re looking at it like it’s your dead cat.”

The two held each other’s stares once again. Oddly enough, both had ancestors dating back to Spanish Texas. They were channeling the intensity of two gun-wielding duellers. Maribel could never foresee the lawlessness of the Wild West manifested in her sleek modern office. Here she was, like the Vela forebears who defended their property against bandits like Santos.

“If you’d stoop as low to give me ca–” “Open it,” Santos growled. She wanted to get rid of him, but she felt reduced. It disgusted her. Maribel obeyed, if that’s what it took to rid him. She ripped the envelope open, expecting to feel dollar bills but she froze as her fingers touched glossy paper. Photographs. She took each one out, laying them in front of her.

There was her fourteen year old son at the mall with his friends. There was her husband on his morning jog in the park, alone. Another shot of both having conversation outside a Starbucks.

Gilbert knew who her family was and where they were. She couldn’t even think of how these shots had been taken: they were close distance, not far away. Their subject — her loved ones — didn’t notice anything.

Maribel was too scared to look in Santos’ direction. She heard his voice, as he narrated each image. “Ms. Vela, you’re a smart gringa.” She raised her eyebrow. That was uncalled for. Before he could continue, Maribel mouthed under her breath. Hijo de puta. “And very direct too. Listen carefully. I want Martinez out of here. He’s trouble.”

Son of a bitch. It was stuck in her throat. He had choked her without laying a single finger. Gilbert Santos grabbed his jacket and left. Maribel’s hands curled into fists that didn’t let go for a while.

SCENE → 12PM. Dream Defenders HQ.

“Hey, Maribel, my lunch break might be a bit longer today. Justin and I want to try the new place around the corner.” Her secretary had most of his body hidden behind the door as he nonchalantly reported his tactical retreat. Maribel wanted to snarl. He couldn’t avoid her.

“Rob, don’t go just yet.” The young man tensed up. “You better give me an explanation of this morning’s guest because what happened today was absolutely inexcusable.” Gilbert Santos did not have an appointment and the encounter had thrown off her focus for the rest of the day.

Rob finally exhaled. Please breathe. Instead, he panicked. “It’s difficult to say no to a man like that. Ask anyone out there, he bust right in like he owned the place. He probably does. They call him–”

“I know his street name, something like tiburón, shark. And his name is Gil, like gills on a shark. He’s a loan shark.” The concept was cringeworthy if it wasn’t so terrifying. “You think I don’t know this? You think I want an actual dangerous criminal under my roof?” She didn’t mean to push her frustration on the secretary. After all, she was becoming undone just like Santos probably intended. But it made her so angry, that someone like him could penetrate her organisation and just barge in like that, demand something from an honest non-profit like that. She huffed. “Why do you think he was asking about Martinez?”

As much community engagement Maribel did, she could never be truly a part of who she served. Her staff were mostly locals, perhaps people she’d helped in the past. They knew the status of migrants better than she did, by their sheer experience. Rob was one of them.

“He’s such a leech. My parents couldn’t get a loan for their store so uh, he approached them. God, he has ears everywhere. How could he know? Anyway, like so many others, my parents were victims to his crazy interest until—”

Maribel interrupted her employee again. “But Ernesto doesn’t have any debt. Santos would have nothing on him.” That was certain. They worked for free but Ernesto “Skinner” Martinez had pride and savings, insisting on paying.

“Maribel, Ernesto’s sister was shot in San Antonio last week!” Maribel put her hand up and narrowed her eyes. What? She wasn’t being rude. She had been consoling her client when he came in bawling. It was just an exclamation to her, not an explanation from Rob. He was displaying severe nervousness and struggled to further explain. “I know he came in all lamenting and shit. Okay, I heard from some people that he was there when it happened. He didn’t want to tell us because he thought it would, uh, jeopardise or ruin his application.”

That didn’t make any sense. But obviously that’s why services like Maribel’s were needed with all this misinformation. Maribel dismissed Rob for his lunch. She flopped in her desk chair. Fuck. That’s when it started to sink in. Why couldn’t this just hit her like a wave, swift and done with? The implications of everything just collapsed on her instead, slowly burying into her conscience.

She opened the door of her private space and looked out at her team, some were still working. These were the people building her empire. When Gilbert took a shot at her heritage, he wasn’t wrong. She wasn’t a full, indigenous, Mexican. Her mother was Catholic but still European: Irish mother and peninsular father. Maribel’s father, like most Mexicans, was mestizo but that didn’t mean their family could recall their culture. As much as Maribel would’ve loved to claim one. There was a time when teenage Maribel adored civilisation. Ever the aspiring Classics major, studied Greek myths philosophy and quoted Latin phrases for fun. She decolonised her mind soon enough. The wonders and legacy of the Aztec was a civilisation. She had the blood of its empire regrettably, alongside the Spanish colonisers but still, only an Aztec descendant could have the passion and drive she had. This NGO’s office? This organisation was her own Templo Mayor. She was Mexican, no matter what that puta insisted. Gilbert Santos had the gall to cherrypick her ethnicity but was willing to con and deport a fellow Latino. This was chaos, not civilisation.

SCENE → 2AM. Maribel’s suburban home.

Maribel slammed her car door shut. Her son followed. She took out her mobile and dialled. “Rob, get here now. My house.” The lights were still on when they entered. Maribel’s husband (her second one) was watching a late night talk show.

“What happened? What did the kid do?” Maribel’s son widened his eyes as if the man had insulted her mother. He really didn’t. He was there when Maribel received a call about her son being at the police station. “I did nothing. We got jumped,” her son snapped. “Who the fuck holds some teens at gunpoint?” Getting robbed in central El Paso. That wasn’t right. Maribel’s husband sat up straight from his slouch, apologised and offered some comforting, if useless, words and reprimanded him about his language.

Maribel had bells inside her head ringing. When they sent her down to the station, she had to be there while they questioned him. Lucky kid, with an attorney as a mother. As he recounted the incident, she picked up on some features of the crime. They were familiar. Her son was privileged and surrounded by enough affluence to not know it. But, anyone within Gilbert Santo’s vicinity would recognise it all immediately. She couldn’t believe it. The son of bitch would target a fourteen year old, one exiting the movie theatre in a decent neighbourhood with his friends. Santos was beneath sub-human.

“Why would you even go into town that late?” Maribel had put her stuff on the kitchen counter. Her son was pouring himself some juice. He almost over-poured with Maribel’s piercing interrogation. She was a chill parent, not one that yelled. Maribel wasn’t even angry when she found the bong in his room. “Why are you and him both riding my dick like this?” He shouted, before storming off with his juice. She wasn’t going to bother confronting him. She couldn’t blame him for being on edge, close to death even.

Maribel’s second husband walked past him. He found Maribel teary-eyed and hunched over as both hands pressed on the counter. Her hair was all over the place. She had a wild look in her eye. At the same time, he knew her well enough to know that cogs were spinning inside that mind. She was overthinking, running out batteries like the machine she was. He started to rub her shoulders. “Not now. Work is bad too.” Maribel said immediately. Come on. Relax. He was in his pyjamas yet Maribel didn’t even change out her work clothes. The heels could’ve slain her by now. He stroked her hair, her neck, moved his hands down to her hips before wrapping them around her. “Human warmth works in times of distress.” Cute, but they weren’t penguins. Albeit she could have let loose, let her own damn husband love her, care for her but, no...

That was the moment Rob stormed in, having rushed over since the phone call. “Your son let me in, he doesn’t seem too–” Oh. As he saw the intimacy of his boss and her husband. “Should I wait outside?” Maribel slipped out of the embrace, flustered. She kissed her husband good night and sent him off, leaving her and Rob in the kitchen. They were both visibly uncomfortable.

“He’s done it. You know what this means,” Maribel spoke, once she knew she heard her husband go upstairs. Rob nodded, already opening files on his tablet computer. “Martinez has a solid case for asylum, Maribel, torture claimant and all. You want us to get rid of all that? Send him back?”

“Or you want us Ernesto to die for being a witness, Rob?”

Gilbert had made it very clear. It was Ernesto Martinez or her son.

SCENE → 2PM. USCIS Building.

She met Ernesto outside. He said that ICE were hanging round his neighbourhood. He couldn’t wait until they didn’t scare him anymore. He entered illegally, but that didn’t mean he was a bad person. The USCIS would take a while to respond to his claim, but if all they did what they usually did, they were unlikely to accept it.

Rob and Maribel had done their best, that is, done their best to be bad at their job. They didn’t give enough details to advocate, only enough to fill the blanks. Ernesto would never know. Ernesto trusted his existence in her organisation. They knew what the officials wanted to hear on their forms. People knew that their efforts were never 100% guaranteed. But Maribel knew what she was doing, right? All they could do was wait for the system to hopefully work.

She wished Ernesto luck and entered the building to meet another client. All she smelt was rotten orange bergamot.

#@luna where are your replies? GREAT QUESTION #this is what happens when i drink too much black coffee #this fucked me up #I AM SECONDHAND STRESS FROM MARIBEL #omfg bitch gilbert santos scares the fuck outta me #if u want a visual: her second husband looks like alfonso herrera he is a complete rip of hernando from sense8 #froy...gutierrez...as son.....because.....#niko pepaj as rob(erto) tbh #and poor second husband??? he would've got pretty shitty by the end of their marriage #but he was a genuinely good guy in this piece #a better father than their biological one #oh my fucking god i miss writing prose #this really was only supposed to be four paragraphs max #idk how to cut this down #milv (selfpara)

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sailorgreywolf-legacy · 7 years

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Legacy - Chapter 35

Mexico had now started pacing as he told the story. America noticed that his lover's eyes seemed to have a glimmer to them that had been absent for the rest of the story. The emotions that had been present during the revolution were resurfacing as Mexico recounted the events. America, even though he was also a country born of revolution, had a hard time understanding how much Mexico's revolution meant to him. The American Revolution had not possessed the same raw passion or emotion. Perhaps it was because he had never truly hated England, or maybe it was because, though the fighting had been hard, he had never had to sacrifice like Mexico had for the sake of his independence. Whatever the reason, America couldn't empathize with the feelings but he could wonder at them. Mexico was never more beautiful than he was when he was overcome by nationalistic fervor. It made the gold in his eyes dance like fire. His complexion even seemed to brighten as the blood rushed to his cheeks. This made the American even more disappointed by the fact that Mexico was choosing to stand and pace instead of sitting next to him.

He attempted to break the revelry by saying, "You think very well of Hidalgo don't you?" Mexico looked at his lover, but it was almost like he was looking through him, his mind still lost in the memories of the past. All the same, his response was very grounded, "I don't want you to get the wrong idea. He was human and I allow for that. He wasn't perfect by any measure. He, like almost everyone, desired his own elevation above everything. He was more in favor of creole dominance than he represented to me. But, I will always remember him as a hero despite that. Excluding my actual father and Portugal, he was the closest thing I had to a real father figure." America nodded because he was not entirely sure what to say. In truth, he felt that way about his revolutionary leaders. He knew that none of the founding fathers had been saints, but that fact didn't stop him from loving them.

Mexico continued talking, "I soon sent for my brother and Piri, I knew that my capital wouldn't be the safest place for them now that revolution had actually been declared. We set up camp in Dolores for the first days before the real violence started. For my part, I counted the days until the reports of Miguel's speech reached Spain. I wanted to see the reaction. I wanted to see the pain when Spain realized that he had put his trust in entirely the wrong person. When I got bored, I decided to get the revolution moving. That was when I got the first real insight into what I was capable of." _________________________________________________________________________________________

Mexico was sitting playing a simple game of cards with Philippines in a small building in Delores. Texas was sitting by himself in a different part of the room, writing a letter. It was something he had been doing a lot lately. Mexico hadn't gone to the trouble of monitoring his brother's letters. He didn't have the time to read every letter. He doubted they were to Spain anyway, because the other had no reason to love Spain any more than Mexico did. His presumption was that he was writing to America's sister. His obsession with her had gotten irritating. He always spoke about her on the rare occasions that the two brothers talked.

They were waiting for two different things. Presumably, everyone was waiting for the whole of the militia to arrive and be organized. But Mexico was waiting to hear word from Mexico City; he needed to know that Spain knew and understood. This was his vengeance and he wanted it to be perfect. After all of the waiting, scheming and maneuvering, he wanted to see that it all worked out. Hidalgo would disapprove of his drive for vengeance, but Mexico couldn't silence it. The hate that had simmered inside of him for so long was finally being fulfilled.

Philippines laid down her cards, apparently frustrated, "Mexico, you aren't paying any attention to this. What is distracting you?" Mexico put down his cards as well. She was right; he had not really been paying attention. He was too preoccupied with everything else to be good at cards right now. He responded, "I'm sorry, Piri. I'm thinking about Antonio. What kind of emotions do you think he is feeling right now? I've got some guesses." She leaned back and looked at the ceiling, "That's strange. I have been trying to not think about him. He's probably livid." The Mexican boy disagreed, "I doubt it. He's probably confused and sad. I'd reckon there is a good deal of denial too. He's probably blaming Miguel, blaming Alfred, even blaming Francis. But I know one thing: He's blaming everyone but me. You see, I am precious to him and he can't believe I would be the one to betray him. That will be his downfall."

Unexpectedly, Texas cut into the conversation and his tone was highly critical, "You have everything planned out, don't you? You're putting on a brave front because you think you know what will happen, but I know you're scared. We're all scared. Do you remember, brother, what happened the last time Antonio went to war on this soil?" Mexico was genuinely taken aback by this. He hadn't let himself contemplate defeat. He was so certain that he would win, that all of his plans would come to fruition. He certainly hadn't forced himself to think about his mother's death, which was, of course, what Texas was referring to. History would not repeat itself; he would make sure of it. Mexico responded to his brother, "I know, he destroyed our mother." The words were delivered as coldly as possible despite the fact that the event that he was referring to was the one that had caused the anger within him in the first place. Texas nodded, now sufficiently distracted from his letter, "Exactly, and we both know that time has not made him kinder. If we fail, all of our lives will be forfeited. We should be terrified."

Mexico found it hard to believe that Spain would ever kill him. There was too much between them for cold blooded murder on Spain's part. If he was really forced into it, Mexico was certain that he could talk his way out of it. He could say that it was momentary insanity. Spain, of all people, knew what it was like to make rash decisions that were later regretted. His response to Texas didn't reveal any of his thinking, "That makes it simple then, doesn't it? We don't lose for the sake of our survival." Texas shook his head, as though he didn't quite believe what his brother was saying. He refrained from saying anything else, probably because of his loyalty to his brother. Philippines spoke, her silence had been unusual, "You have confidence that anyone would kill to have."

There was a sharp knock at the door, which, thankfully, disrupted the conversation. Mexico walked over to the door and opened it. Hidalgo smiled, "You look bored. I think it's past time we moved to make the revolution more than just words." Mexico liked the sound of that; he had been waiting far too long anyway. He responded, "That sounds promising. I assume you mean that you want to march to Guanajuato." The feeling in the air shifted dramatically. Suddenly it was expectant, as if everyone in earshot knew that something was about to happen. The priest nodded, "Our army is large enough by now to take the city. It will be an important blow to strike since the city is a mining center." The Aztec boy nodded. Satisfied, the priest added, "I'll give you a few minutes to tidy up here and then we will start moving."

Once he was gone, Mexico turned to the other two in the room and said, "My first real combat experience, this should be interesting." Philippines stood up at once and said firmly, "I'm going to come with you. You need me by your side." Before Mexico could manage a response, Texas stood up as well. The man's black eyes were filled with something that resembled anger. He spoke directly to Philippines, "He's my brother! If anyone is going to go with him, it will be me." The Mexican watched this confrontation feeling a little bewildered. He had no idea that Texas felt jealous of the relationship forming between him and Philippines. This whole thing was an unnecessary distraction that he did not need at this time. The only solution at this moment that would free Mexico to go lead an army was to say, "That is enough. Both of you are staying here. I will send word when the city is taken. In the meantime, I suggest you deal with your issues."

In all honesty, he would rather take Philippines, who was battle trained. But at this point he couldn't afford the argument. Neither of the other two people in the room looked happy about the decision, but they were no longer speaking. All the same, Mexico had to be sure; he said, "Is that clear to both of you?" They both nodded grudgingly. Mexico turned and walked out of the room and into a smaller room that housed his, somewhat limited, personal belongings. He had only brought what was strictly necessary. He was already wearing most of the clothing he had. From the room, he grabbed a coat that was extravagant enough to show his authority, but plain enough to keep him from being more noticeable than necessary. He grabbed his sword and attached the scabbard to his belt.

He didn't intend to use this today. Simple mortals could be dealt with using a gun or a knife. The sword was meant for one person and only one person: Spain. On the side of his belt opposite the sword, he attached a holster with a pistol. This would be a far more practical weapon for close combat with mortals. He remembered another weapon he had at his disposal. Mexico took off the jacket and rolled up his sleeve. From the small pile of clothing and weapons he had brought with him, he removed a small dagger with a very unique scabard. Mexico strapped the leather scabard to his right wrist. It was designed so that it could be worn without the blade of the dagger doing any damage to the skin. But, a specific wrist flick would cause the straps to release and the dagger to fall into the wearer's hand. It would be a useful last resort. The blade itself was very small, but sharp enough to cut through flesh easily. It was long enough to kill a man if a strike hit between the ribs. With the edition of the dagger, Mexico now had all the weaponry he was probably going to need. After he pulled the coat back on and buttoned it, Mexico stopped for a second to look at himself in a small cracked mirror on the wall. There was something splendid about the reflection, even though the figure was not wearing a true military uniform. All the same, he looked commanding and regal.

Mexico had to admit to himself that even though he had plotted to be standing in this position for centuries, there was something overwhelming about standing here, ready to go fight for his freedom. It made him feel almost lightheaded. But, the key to winning would be to keep a clear head. He could not let his feelings cloud his mind when he should be focusing on the fight, Portugal had taught him that a long time ago. So, Mexico took several deep breathes before walking back out into the main room of the building. As he had expected, Philippines and Texas were not talking to each other. Instead, they were sitting in different quadrants of the room attempting to do anything but look at each other.

Philippines noticed Mexico's presence and stood up to meet him at the door. He allowed her to put her hands on his shoulders and pretend to be straightening the coat. Mexico reached out and put his hand on her cheek, which caused her to look up at him. He spoke first, being careful to make this feel casual, "Hold down the fort for me, Piri. And if news comes from my capital, make sure I hear about it as soon as possible." She nodded, "I will. I should be going with you, but I am sure this will be nothing more than a simple skirmish." Quite suddenly, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek lightly. It would not have been a strange gesture from someone like Puerto Rico, who was inclined towards affectionate contact, but coming from Philippines this was odd. Mexico had to comment on it, "What was that for?" The Asian girl smiled up at him and said simply, "For luck." But, Mexico saw for a second that there may be something more to it in the glimmer of her eyes. But, he chose to ignore what could have just been a trick of the light. Mexico turned and walked out of the door. _________________________________________________________________________________________

The ride to the town was uneventful. It might have even been considered boring if the even that it brought them closer to was not so monumental. Hidalgo had cautioned against Mexico, despite his eagerness for battle, riding into unnecessary danger. For that reason, Mexico was holding back with the priest and Allende instead of fighting. They waited just outside of the main entrance to the city while the rest of the militia did most of the menial fighting. Mexico was leaning forward in his saddle looking out at the city as though he could see the whole of the fighting if he just looked a little bit harder. He could easily hear the sound of gun shots and the occasional whinny of an injured horse. It was a cruel tease to Mexico, especially since he could feel the need for bloodshed in his own mind.

It was a sentiment carried by almost all of the country by this point. Most of those who were fighting in the revolution wished to spill Spanish blood as recompense for whatever injustices they thought they were fighting to correct. The loyalists wanted to put down the revolution, and if that meant blood, they were not going to object to blood lust. In short, the whole of the country waited with baited breathe, rather like a crowd watching a match of gladiators, for the first drops of blood to truly be spilt. When he closed his eyes, Mexico could feel it pulsing through his body. The example made here today would both satisfy and accelerate that blood lust. It would prove that the Spanish were not untouchable because of their social standing.

Mexico's thoughts were interrupted by Hidalgo putting his hand on the boy's shoulder. The priest looked to be nearly as excited about the fighting, but his restraint was better. He spoke directly to Mexico, "Are you alright? You seem agitated." Mexico responded at once, "I want to be in the thick of things, not waiting back here. I want to fight for my freedom, not let others win it for me." The priest smiled knowingly, even though he couldn't possibly understand what his country was going through at that moment. His response was hardly something one would expect a man of the church to say, "If it is Spanish blood that you want, you shall have it. But I caution you again, do not let your hate control you and lead you into reckless decisions. When you have the proper opportunity, I will not restrain you."

In some part of his mind, Mexico saw the sense in this, but that didn't stop him from being disappointed. Allende eased his horse forward so that he was on the other side of Mexico. He fixed his eyes on Hidalgo as he spoke, "You shouldn't speak about things you don't fully understand, priest. Killing isn't something that should be taken lightly, especially in the context of war. You shouldn't seek to spill anyone's blood. That only leads to the slaughter of innocents. The only people who deserve to die are those who would kill you first if they had the chance." Mexico wasn't listening very attentively. He respected Allende's ability to organize and command the militia, but if this was to be about morality, then Hidalgo would naturally have the high ground.

The sound of gunfire had decreased significantly while they were talking. Once this came to Mexico's attention he turned to Hidalgo, as though silently asking permission. The priest gave a slight nod, which was enough for Mexico to urge his horse forward at a quick trot. There were the largest piles of bodies right near the entrance of the city, where the fighting had presumably been the fiercest. It appeared that there had been a relatively small force protecting the city, despite its significance for mining and governance of the smaller surrounding towns. This made sense, considering that only the ports had had any reason to protect themselves. No one had attacked this city for as long as it had existed. Until now, the defenses had been untested. Mexico carefully maneuvered his horse around or over the corpses, which had no importance to him. None of them had enough significance. He did not expect to find the governor of the city among these bodies. The governor was the only man that Mexico wished to find, as he was the physical representation of Spanish authority.

Mexico glanced to his right and caught sight of Allende, who was riding just behind him. Hidalgo was farther behind. Allende spoke to Mexico, "It is always sad to see the destruction that war leaves. Is this the first time you have seen death?" The Aztec boy smirked and attempted to not make himself think about the most painful death in his life. Instead, he went for a different response, "Of course not. Some time I will have to tell you about my mother." The man responded in a somewhat scornful tone, "A boy your age should not be so jaded. It's sad to see how cold you are."

They reached a granary in the center of the city, which is where most of the militia was gathered. Allende walked up to one of them and said, "Give me a briefing. What is going on?" The solider responded, gesturing over his shoulder to the closed doors to the granary, "The city's higher-ups have barricaded themselves in there. We need to decide what to do with them." At this point Hidalgo's voice came from right behind Mexico, "It shouldn't be a question. We need only break through and kill all of those inside. Mexico dismounted and walked over to stand next to Allende so he could see Hidalgo. But it was the other commander who spoke first, "Yet again, you show your ignorance, priest. I suggest we persuade them to let me in, I will talk to them. They may be more willing to support the revolution than you expect. Massacring everyone is not the answer."

Mexico was, yet again, more inclined to side with Miguel, but he tried to stay silent. The priest quickly dismounted and walked over to the other two. There was a fight rising between the two mortals. Hidalgo responded, "Ignacio, don't let your pride get in the way of this. They will not listen to you. They are loyalists and should be made an example." Yet again, Mexico agreed with the priest. One example of what would happen to those that defied the revolutionary forces would be enough to frighten the rest of the country. His mother had taught him a long time ago that fear could control people more effectively than any other force. Though the display would have to be violent, but it would eventually be a deterrent to everyone else. That was the logical side of his desire, but that wasn't what was really driving him. He wanted to make a show of savagery to let Spain know how serious he was. It would let Antonio know what he was truly capable of, and hopefully the Spaniard would be horrified. That was his real drive, the idea of the look on Antonio's face when he heard of this.

Between the other two, the argument continued. Allende was on the defensive, "You don't understand the delicate politics of revolution. I'm certain that more than one of the people in there secretly sides with the movement. I am of the noble class, I understand their concerns." The bickering was irritating. Mexico finally felt the need to speak, "I agree with Miguel on this. The example is necessary." Allende looked somewhat shocked. He said, speaking directly to Mexico, "Can we talk, without the priest present?" The Aztec boy shook his head, "Time is short and there has been enough discussion. He glanced over at Hidalgo, who nodded in approval. The priest spoke, "Alejandro is quite right, we must make our move now. I outrank you, Ignacio. Fall into line, as is your duty." The military man glared at both of the other two and said, his voice little more than a growl, "I will not take part in this massacre, whatever you say, Miguel." With that he turned and walked away.

Once he was gone, Hidalgo turned to look at Mexico and said, "Don't mind him. Let him have his tantrum, we have work to do." It took the soldiers very little time to actually break through the barricaded door. Inside, all of the people were unarmed. Mexico said to Hidalgo, having a sudden thought that may pacify some of the objections, "We should exile those who seem to not be a threat." The priest nodded, "But the rest must die, we are in agreement on that, are we not." Mexico responded simply, "Si." The priest strode into the room and said to the gathered people, "By hiding yourself in here, you have proven yourselves to be loyalists, and for that you will die."

Mexico walked up to Hidalgo and said to him, "Hold a moment, I want to take care of the governor myself." The priest smiled, "This seems rather like vendetta, but I will allow it for now. He would die anyway, it doesn't matter who kills him." He waved to two of the men who were now standing in the doorway, waiting to storm in. The two walked into the crowd of people and came back with a single man between them. He was obviously the governor of the city based on the clothing he was wearing. The Spaniard glared at Hidalgo and then his eyes found Mexico. The Aztec boy took several steps forward so he was standing just in front of the governor.

The man spoke, which Mexico had not expected, "I remember you, Alejandro. Spain introduced us before I took this position." Mexico had no recollection of that meeting, but that hardly mattered right now. This man was proof of the Spanish control here and he was going to die. The man continued, "You have lost your mind, boy. You can kill me if you want and carry on with this unholy rebellion, if you would like. But Spain will quickly put this down and then he will hang you like the traitor you are." Mexico couldn't feel wounded by the words. The threat was a hollow attempt to frighten him. It may have been more effective if the man had not been so obviously scared for his own life. False bravado would not more Mexico, if anything, it was amusing to him.

He smirked and leaned forward so he was very close to the Spaniard, "You speak very boldly for a dead man. Kneel, Spaniard." He nodded to the men on either side of the governor. They forced him down onto his knees. Mexico walked around so that he was standing right behind the man. In a single movement, he pulled the gun out of his holster and put it to the back of the man's head. He couldn't resist getting in one more statement. He said, with some measure of triumph in his voice, "Antonio will not destroy me, but I will destroy him. But first, I will destroy you first." He felt no hesitation as he pulled the trigger. The bullet immediately smashed through the back of the man's skull, into his brain, and out the front of his skull. Blood splattered across the stone floor. The body remained kneeling for a couple seconds and then it fell to the side.

Mexico felt nothing about it other than a slight sense of triumph. Killing was not as satisfying as he thought it would be. It didn't quicken his blood like he expected it to. He stepped over the body and walked back over to Hidalgo. He said to the priest, "I leave the rest to you. Remember to exile some. Kill the rest." As he walked out of the granary, Mexico heard the sound of rifles being fired. _________________________________________________________________________________________

A couple hours later, the bloodshed had been completed. By the end of the day, the death toll was high despite the fact that the fighting had been so minimal that it was not even enough to be considered a proper battle. Mexico found himself walking around the city attempting to sort out his feelings, or lack thereof. He expected the feel amazing now that the revolution was official. Guns had been fired; blood had been shed. There was no turning back now. And yet, Mexico didn't feel anything. There had been bits and pieces of excitement, of triumph. But none of it could be considered solid and lasting. There needed to be something more. He needed full vengeance, not this building tension.

As he made his way back to the granary, he noticed a familiar figure. He hailed him, "So, you finally return, Ignacio? You left in quite a state." Allende turned around to face Mexico, his gaze was icy. His voice was just as cold, "Do you understand what you have done because you blindly follow Miguel? Those people were innocent and they were slaughtered by your direction." Mexico sighed; he should have suspected that Allende's moral compunctions had not faded. He responded, "Yes, this was brutal, but it was necessary. Already, the peasants are eager to join the revolution." The mortal took several steps forward to close the gap between them. He spoke, "You have told me what you think you have gained; now I will tell you what you have lost. I will continue to lead the troops because I believe in the movement, but I refuse to fight for Hidalgo. I will not let that murderous, immoral priest tell me what to do."

Mexico immediately saw the problem with this and he quickly said, "That will divide our forces. We hardly have the discipline to operate with one leader, having the men divided between you and Miguel will destroy us." This did nothing to change Allende's glare, "That was the decision you made when you chose to let Miguel kill the innocent. Now you have to live with it. Tell me, Alejandro: was your vengeance against the Spanish worth it?" He gave Mexico one more look before he walked away leaving the boy wondering if he had made the right decision.

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sailorgreywolf-legacy · 7 years

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Legacy - Chapter 19

Mexico laughed “I would have loved to have seen his face when you called me Mexico for the first time in front of him! I bet it was priceless!” America thought back on it and joined in on his boyfriend’s laughter “It was pretty amazing now that I think about it. Although I shouldn’t have blamed Texas”. Mexico shrugged “Why not? He deserves every chance he gets to suffer. Although he may just be masochistic, he is in love with your sister after all”. America suppressed a laugh with difficulty “My sister is not that much of a bitch”. The other shot him a look that clearly showed he didn’t believe him “Do I need to remind you what she did to you? Her and Diego, as a matter of fact”.

America sighed and lay back on the bed “No, I think I will remember that my whole life”. Mexico smirked “Good, it was a prime example of karma being a bitch”. Then he looked over at the expanse of tan skin that was America’s shirtless torso, it was very tempting. He swung one of his legs over America’s waist and put his weight on America’s hips. He leaned closer and whispered seductively “Do you know how much it turns me on that you fought with Spain over me?”

America blushed “Alejandro, you know I would do it again in a heartbeat if given the chance.” Mexico leaned forward and kissed America. The blonde’s lips were pliable and easy to separate, soon their tongues were entwined. Mexico buried both his hands in America’s blonde locks. They were entwined in each other for a couple seconds before America broke away and said “I still want to know what happened next. You can’t leave me hanging”. Mexico sighed and sat up, but didn’t get off of America.

He smirked “Are you referring to the part where we pretty much reenacted that scene from West Side Story?” America nodded awkwardly “I was wondering how you could possibly be there when you were with Juan, who I am glad never actually made a move on you.” Mexico responded, his finger dancing absentmindedly over America’s chest, “How do you know he didn’t? I wouldn’t object. A guy that tall…well you know what they say about tall guys”. This got the exact reaction that Mexico had been expecting.

America blushed and looked at himself self-consciously “I know you didn’t, at least not that night, I mean…you didn’t, right?” Mexico decides to not answer that question, just to make America agonize. He would have to talk about it eventually, but he was not required to do it at the moment. Instead, he continued recounting the story.

Argentina, judging by his large body mass, should be able to hold a lot of alcohol. But, he somehow was able to drink enough to knock himself out. This left Mexico sitting by himself in a slightly tipsy state, casually petting the cow behind the ears. But the cow, like his master, seemed to be slowly falling asleep. Mexico’s mind was on other matters, mostly the English colony that had ignited Spain’s rage. He had become far more intriguing since he had become the subject of Spain’s ire. Mexico denied to himself that he had any romantic inclinations towards the boy, he was simply interested. No one else dared to be so open and defy Spain.

He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew where to find America. The question was not how, but if. If it was a good idea to do what he was thinking of doing. Thanks to his lowered inhibition, he decided that he was going to do it and the consequences be damned. He stood up, making sure to carefully deposit the half sleeping cow next to Argentina. He walked out into the hall, making sure that his footsteps made almost no noise. The last thing that he wanted was for Spain to catch him in the hall.

Most likely, Mexico’s rejection had caused Spain to revert back to his conquistador self. Rape was almost guaranteed if Mexico ran into Spain tonight. Getting out of the house was the smartest thing he could do. He made it out without incident and started formulating more of his plan.

America was not at all happy with how the night had turned out. In his mind, this had played out much better, including him and Mexico getting to know each other much better. In his fantasy, he ended the night with him making out hotly with Mexico. None of that had happened and it was depressing. America pulled off his jacket and folded it angrily. He was terribly upset, but he understood how expensive this jacket was and how he needed to keep it nice.

He kicked a piece of furniture as he walked by it. This hurt like hell and left him limping around the room. Now he was even more unhappy and in pain. He decided to sit down on the bed until he was able to calm down. Slowly, sleep started to take him. He lied down on the bed and closed his eyes. It was soft enough for him to start to forget what he was so mad about. He even started to drift into a dream. It was because of this that he didn’t quite believe it when he heard a sound of a small rock hitting glass.

It took a few more hard clinks for him to realize that they were real and not part of his dream. He opened his eyes and looked around for the source of the noise. His eyes lighted upon the window that was right next to the balcony just as another pebble hit it. Slightly annoyed and intrigued, he walked out onto the balcony. Nothing could have prepared America for what he saw. Mexico had been poised to throw another rock, but he dropped it when he saw the blonde. He frowned “What took you so long?”

America wondered to himself whether he was still dreaming. Mexico sighed and said with some exasperation “Close your mouth, idiot, before something flies into it.” This statement was so like the real Mexico and unlike the fantasy version of him that America was forced to accept that Mexico had in fact appeared outside his balcony. The boy on the ground shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rolled his eyes “I’m climbing up there, whether you like it or not. Don’t try to tell me not to, I’m really not in the mood to bicker”. America was still too dumbstruck to speak, so he just nodded.

It only took Mexico a few seconds to scale the wall, using a series of acrobatic skills that America could barely comprehend. Before he could completely understand how exactly Mexico had done it, the darker boy was sitting on the balcony railing looking at America with an expression of deep amusement. The blonde finally formulated a question for his visitor “How did you find me?” Mexico laughed and leaned back slightly “You forget, this is my country and I know it, quite literally, like the back of my hand. It wasn’t hard to guess where Spain had put you”.

America wondered for a moment about how Mexico was balancing in the position he was and how he could possibly be comfortable. Then he asked a question he actually thought Mexico could answer “What are you doing here? I thought you would want to stay as far away from me as possible. Spain was livid”. Mexico smirked in reply “I wanted to make sure you were alright, I figured that Antonio would be incredibly mad at you. I wanted to make sure he hadn’t cut your throat”.

America could hardly find comfort in this answer, although Mexico had, in a way, admitted that he cared about America. He had wanted to hear that Mexico wanted to see him because he felt the attraction between them. But, Mexico had come to see him, and that was definitely something. But, his need for answers was not yet satisfied and this was a perfect opportunity “You are so blunt around me and yet, around Spain, you are so complacent. Why is that?” Mexico looked fully convinced after this question that America was a complete idiot.

He sighed deeply before saying “Simply, Alfred, because you do not hold my leash. Antonio can do whatever he wishes to me without fear of repercussions because he owns me. You cannot deny that England is similar in the way he acts towards you”. America shook his head “He doesn’t act like Spain. I am allowed to have my freedoms. I am allowed to steer my own government”. A couple seconds of silence passed. This was strange, that Mexico could be silent for so long, although America didn’t realize how rare it was. Then the Aztec boy responded “If that is true, I envy you more than you know. I would give anything to have a hand in my own fate”.

Mexico’s voice had lost its edge. In a way, it had softened to a point that it almost sounded vulnerable. The realization dawned upon him that this was the most honest thing Mexico had ever said to him. It was touching that Mexico was opening up to him. Without a thought, America reached over and touched Mexico’s hand, which was holding on to the railing of the balcony. This time Mexico didn’t say anything or pull away. The golden eyes closed as soon as America touched him and then they opened again slowly. He turned to America and asked in a carefully measured voice “Now I want to know, why do you risk Spain’s wrath for me? You have no reason to.”

America thought carefully about what he was about to say. He didn’t know how much he could say without risking making Mexico angry. He had gotten a long way as far as getting the other to show some emotional vulnerability, but to push more was a huge risk that he wasn’t sure was worth it. He decided to say “I don’t know, but the first time we met, I felt something. It was like a longing in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know if you felt it too, but I feel the need to make sure Spain wasn’t going to hurt you”.

Mexico blinked blankly for a moment. His expression changed back to unreadable. America could almost feel the wall go up between them. Mexico quickly whipped his hand out from under America’s and said “That’s sweet. It’s nice to know that you are a hopeless romantic as well as being a complete idiot”. The blonde’s heart fell, he knew it was over.

He might as well think back on the little bit of vulnerability he got. But, not being one to give up on a lost cause, America said “Listen, Alejandro, I really like you and I don’t know how you feel about me. But I am sure that you felt something when we met”. The other fixed his cold golden eyes on America and said “You know what I feel? Irritated. Don’t presume that I am attracted to you just because you’ve developed some sort of crush. And don’t use my human name, I never gave you permission to and I never will” ___________________________________

Mexico interrupted this time “Yes, I know I lied about that. But, I wasn’t very comfortable with you then”. America responded “Could you get off of me? My legs are numb.” The other scoffed before dismounting the other “Have it your way then, but you know you want it”. He then grabbed Nantucket and softly ran it between his fingers. America had looked like he was about to sit up, but the sudden surge of pleasure kept him lying down. Without even pausing, Mexico continued speaking “No matter how cold I was to you, what you said next was pretty unforgivable” _________________________________

Mexico was being cold on the outside, but on the inside he was freaking out. America had just described the exact feeling he had that was making him feel so uncomfortable. But there was no way in hell that he was going to tell America that. Opening himself up like that was just like asking to be hurt. America looked hurt, but that was exactly what Mexico had been trying to do. But America’s pain seemed to quickly turn to anger “Oh, I see how it is. You save that kind of romance for Spain. Do you let him talk to you that way?”

The English boy could have hardly said anything more shocking to Mexico. He said, still surprised, “What did you just say to me?” America laughed and saw that he was quite suddenly on the offensive “Don’t act like you don’t know, the whole world is aware that he fucks you.” Mexico blinked blankly before responding “Who told you that?” If America had more observational skills, he would be able to see that Mexico was attempting, with difficulty to restrain a bubbling rage that had just been ignited inside of him.

The coldness and the choice of words both clearly indicated that he was livid, but America did not know Mexico’s mannerisms well enough to detect the difference. That being the case, he said the stupidest thing possible “It’s common knowledge, didn’t you know? I guess you two haven’t been subtle enough.” To America, this seemed to be a smart, witty response; he seemed to be winning this confrontation. If he couldn’t have Mexico because the Aztec boy was hooking up with Spain, then he wanted to know. He had no idea how wrong this conversation was going.

Mexico swung his legs over the railing and landed squarely next to America. Only then did the blonde pick up on the aura that Mexico was exuding. He took a few steps backwards and ran into the railing on the side of the balcony. Mexico’s eyes had turned to fire; the sparks were dancing in the gold of his eyes. Mexico stepped forward, making America extremely uncomfortable. He hissed, clenching his back teeth to keep his anger in check, “I am going to say this once and only once: I do not sleep with Spain. If you ever say that again, I will personally cut out your lying tongue and I will enjoy it too”.

America swallowed what he had been about to say and instead responded, “I understand. I just…it’s the gossip I’ve been hearing around.” Mexico looked far from satiated “It’s not true, it never has been. Spread that gossip.” America realized how he had been playing with fire; it was too close for comfort. Worse, now he knew that he had a chance to sleep with Mexico and he had completely blown it. There was nothing he could say to make this better. Mexico continued to glower at him, but didn’t say anything else. Instead, he quickly vaulted back over the railing and disappeared into the night. America rested his elbows on the railing and then cradled his head in it. America said to himself “Oh my god…I fucked that up”

#aph mexico #aph america #Hetalia

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