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samuel-de-champagne-problems · 3 years

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It's Delicate: Part II

Summary: Spencer Reid finds himself at a gas station at 2:00 am, thinking he’s only leaving with a cup of crappy coffee. But something taped to the door catches his eye. Spencer leaves the gas station with more than he intended: the chance at a friend, and maybe something more along the way.

Word Count: 3.6 k

Author’s Note: Here's the second part in It's Delicate, my first chapter fic. I've planned out kind of where I see this eventually going! Thank you to anyone who reads, likes, comments, and reblogs. It really means the world to me.

Content Warnings: Expletive language (3 uses), mentions of drug use, sexual innuendo

READ PART I

It's Delicate Masterlist

It's Delicate

Sitting on the plane, Spencer looks out from the little window. For hours, there’s been nothing but corn fields and clouds. It’s eerily peaceful, being there high above the clouds. His whole life Spencer has felt this distance between him and everyone else, but nothing makes that feeling more prominent than being strapped in a glorified metal box 35,000 feet off the Earth’s surface. But the thing is, Spencer does need to be flying above the trees to feel lonely. He can do that with two feet on the ground.

Luke sits across Spencer, the table between them and a deck of playing cards are spread out across its surface. He has to nudge Spencer’s leg from under the table, trying to bring him back to reality as he stares out the window.

“Whatcha thinking,” Luke asks, Spencer has been noticing more and more that Luke is one of the few people that actually listens to him.

Spencer, whose mind is racing too fast to even formulate an articulate thought, attempts to dodge Luke’s question with a noncommittal shrug.

“Reid, these cases are hard for all of us, you gotta know that man,” Luke says, laying down a four of a kind.

Spencer narrows his eyes, shocked that it hasn’t clicked yet for the rest of the team. He cracks his neck, preparing to answer Luke.

“We almost locked up an innocent man, Alvez. I almost sent another man to the same fate as myself. What kind of fucked up message is that?” Spencer says, throwing down the cards on the table. He doesn’t wait for Luke to respond.

“I fold,”

Spencer walks off into the small kitchenette to make a cup of coffee. He doesn’t want to think about his increased reliance on coffee, because he knows it’s a hot cup of coffee or a cold needle of Dilaudid in his veins. Spencer checks his watch, it’s 10:17 pm, maybe too late to find a meeting at a church or rec center somewhere.

He sneaks a peak at his phone, which was still unfortunately on Airplane Mode, he hasn’t even gotten a chance to see if Y/N has responded. He doesn’t know much about her, just as much as she knows about him.

It’s a brave new world for Spencer and he’s knee deep into the unknown.

Spencer can feel Luke’s eyes on him. He just knows that the minute he gets home, a certain tech expert will be ringing him. He knows that it’s Luke’s way of caring, but for someone who’s been alone for so long, having people that actually care is almost drowning.

Walking back to his seat, Spencer hands Luke a coffee. He smiles slightly; it’s the awkward smile that he used to make when intimating police chiefs and idiot cops would look him up and down like he’s a TA. It’s a peace offering for Luke, who despite his tough looking exterior, is one of the kindest people Spencer knows.

“Look, Reid. I’m sorry that we didn’t put it together. It’s just that man that we caught, he’s not like you. He’s not innocent of crimes, he’s just innocent of this crime,” Luke says in an attempt to make Spencer feel a little bit better.

“The thing is Luke, I’m exactly like that man,”

Spencer returns to staring out the window. The cards and the coffee on the table are long ignored for the silence that is found when you’re high above the clouds.

Spencer hears Tara and Emily murmur quietly about going out for a round of drinks. Luke accepts, while JJ and Matt decline, eager to get home to their families. Emily looks over at Spencer, her eyes silently scanning him, his body language. Spencer knows that there’s nothing he can hide from Emily, so there’s no use in trying to pretend he’s alright when she can take one look at him and know that nothing is right.

“You guys have fun, I’m going to head home and get some sleep. I plan on visiting my mom tomorrow and mornings are usually better for her,” Spencer says, slinging his go bag around his shoulders and making the trek back to the security to check out.

He walks slowly, enjoying the sound of the crickets chirping as he trudges along. Spencer tries not to think about the man, Richard, who was almost locked up for a crime that he didn’t commit. Spencer is pretty sure that being the person to throw an innocent man in jail is worse than being the innocent man in jail.

Spencer’s phone buzzes loudly, disturbing the silence of his walk. He looks at the phone to see a couple of messages from Y/N. Spencer slides open the lock to his phone and hits the button to read her messages.

Y/N: Spencer...that has a nice ring to it. So tell me a little bit about yourself. Your big three, but as books. Go! 🌞🌙⬆️

Furrowing his brow, Spencer reads the message over again. He does not have a clue what “big three” means, but it seems like some sort of pop culture thing that he’s not skilled in. He wants to text Garcia for a translation, but he’s also not too keen on telling her how he came across Y/N’s number.

Y/N: I assume you’re working, but I'm kind of impatient so I’ll give you mine 🙃 I’m a Little Women sun, an Emma moon, and an In Cold Blood rising.

Y/N: Oh no….I hope my astrology didn’t turn you off

Y/N: Not that I was trying to turn you on

Y/N: omg Y/N please shut the fuck up

Astrology? Spencer isn’t one to judge, but he’s a scientist first and foremost. The idea that there is something written about him in the stars seems like ludicrous. He decided to ignore the other messages, particularly the ones with a little more than slight innuendo.

Spencer: Y/N- I’m sorry I just got out of work. As for my big three, I’m not sure about astrology. I don’t particularly believe in pseudoscience. But those are good choices. In Cold Blood is an excellent choice. Capote spent years researching the case. In fact his prose and technique inspired the entire “Nonfiction novel” genre. The world of journalism and true crime would not be where it is without Capote’s work.

Y/N: Oh my god. You are a total nerd. 🙀

That stops Spencer right in his tracks. He’s only a couple of yards away from the Volvo at this point, but somehow it feels a million miles away. You are a total nerd. The words replay in his mind as the small gray bubbles pop up again. Spencer can feel his heart constrict at Y/N’s words. It’s ridiculous, he’s nearly 34 and is getting upset that a stranger called him a nerd. Spencer unlocks his car and tosses his go bag, phone included onto the passenger seat.

After a couple of minutes his phone buzzes again. He’s half tempted to answer it, but the way his heart seems to beat faster tells him to ignore it.

Y/N: I fucking love it and I think you’ll love this too

Spencer’s entire demeanor changes as he reads the message. He’s always had difficulties reading emotion in writing, especially when he can’t analyze the handwriting. Sometimes, it’s even harder to judge inflection during conversations. Maybe that is why Spencer has spent all this time studying people, studying the way that their minds work. Before he can get too lost in his thoughts, another message pops up.

Y/N: Meet Capote and Second Cat

Y/N: They are the loves of my life

Spencer: They are very...distinguished looking. Capote is an excellent name choice then. Second Cat is also quite catchy.

Spencer hesitates before sending the message, he notices that Y/N uses what Garcia calls “emojis” quite frequently. He assumes that it’s some sort of “texting lingo” that expresses emotion in small graphics. Great, he thinks. He already has a difficult time deciphering Y/N’s cryptic wording and now he’s got to analyze these emojis.

Maybe he should profile her. He re-reads the message and settles on a “😄” because he figures that he can’t go wrong with offering Y/N a smile.

Spencer: I don’t have a cat, but when I was a kid I always wanted one, they’re quite good companions for those that live several different kinds of lifestyles. From active to sedentary, they are adaptable and independent. Honestly they are the perfect pet.

Y/N: Is this your way of telling you’re a crazy cat man? 😜 🙀

Spencer, still sitting in his car that’s parked in the parking lot, chuckles at Y/N’s response to his message. Maybe it’s just easier to ignore his rambling when it’s done through 1s and 0s and there isn’t a face to the words.

Spencer: I’m actually more of a fish guy

Y/N: Like a “I-like-to-go-fishing-and-post-picture-of-myself-kissing-my-catch-on-Tinder” kind of fish guy or...I can’t think of any other kind of fish men

Spencer, not totally understanding the obvious joke that Y/N is trying to make, settles on something that he hasn’t really ever tried: being himself.

Spencer: Not quite sure what a Tinder is, but I think fishing is terrifying and kissing a fish is something out of nightmares. But his name is Leo

Y/N: DiCaprio?

Spencer: Uhh, Tolstoy

Y/N: Good😉 ⚔️🕊️ 🇷🇺

Spencer glances at his clock on the control panel, it tells him that he’s been messaging with Y/N back and forth for nearly 22 minutes. He nearly forgot how tired he was.

Spencer: Y/N- I’m so sorry but, I just got to my car to drive home from work. I’ll text you tomorrow morning about the book club, maybe we can figure out some things.

Y/N: OMG Spencer!! you should have told me. I’ve been talking ur ear off. sleep well and yes please tomorrow we can talk about the book club

Y/N: Good night, Book Buddy 😴

Spencer wants to respond to Y/N, but he doesn’t know what to say. She seems to text so easily, and judging by that, she must be around Spencer’s age or a little bit younger. Besides JJ and Penelope, Spencer has never had a friend close to his age. It’s a strange new territory for him and he’s walking in head first into No Man’s Land.

He starts his Volvo, the check engine still lights but, reminding him once again to go get it fixed. Driving away from the parking lot, Spencer hands over his ID to Gina, the security guard. She checks his ID and gives him a tired smile. Spencer, as he drives home to his apartment, thinking about what books he and Y/N will read together. He wonders what kind of books are her favorite, if they have any authors that they can obsess over together, or if what she thinks a poet’s prose is.

The summer air rushing in through the window is nowhere as warm and as comforting as thought of Spencer finally having a friend that isn’t able to read the scars of his past in the text bubbles that pop up on her screen.

When Spencer opens his eyes for the first time that morning, he isn’t sure where he is. Sometimes, before he can stop his thoughts from travelling there, Spencer thinks he’s still in jail. He hates the feeling of terror that rushes over him but he hates the idea of being vulnerable a little bit more. But the softness of his pillows and the coolness of his cotton sheets remind him that he’s not sleeping on a hard cot with only a layer of fabric over his body. The light streams in through the half closed blinds, and Spencer judges by how brightly the sun shines in, it must be around 9:45 am.

He supposes that he prefers the way the sun’s rays paint horizontal bars across his face more than the vertical bars that cast gray shadows over his cell at Milburn Penitentiary.

It’s a day off from work, so Spencer didn’t set an alarm, instead allowing his mind and his body to catch up on some much needed rest. The nightmares have been getting better, but his dreams are still haunted by the way that he hardly recognizes himself anymore. Deciding that it will be a day spent in pajamas, Spencer goes to his bookshelf in his bedroom to pick out a couple of novels to read while he drinks his morning coffee and defrosts some of Luke’s strawberry pastries.

Before heading out of his room, Spencer stops himself in the doorway. He replays the events of last night. He declined to go out with the rest of the team, while he walked to his car he thought about the crickets telling the temperature, and he read over Y/N’s messages.

Y/N.

He promised he’d text her back in the morning about their book club. Last night, she didn’t seem to mind Spencer’s long messages and awkward phrasing. He still doesn’t really know how this Book Buddy thing would work, but since he found Y/N’s number on the flyer, he can only assume that she knows what to do. He leaps on his bed, landing with thud on his belly, to grab his phone that charges on his nightstand.

Spencer settles at his kitchen table, a cup of steaming hot Dark Roast coffee in a Captain Spock mug in one hand and, surprisingly, his phone in the other. He scrolls through the messages from last night, Y/N’s cat and emojis tempt a smile to Spencer’s face.

Not entirely sure how to start the conversation again, Spencer looks around for inspiration until his eyes land on a certain fish tank in the corner of his apartment. He snaps a quick picture of Leo and attaches it to the message.

Spencer: Good Morning from Leo & Spencer

Spencer sets down his phone after a moment when he realizes that Y/N is probably not going to answer him back in a couple of seconds. He takes out a strawberry pastry from his freezer and puts it into the toaster oven on a non-stick baking sheet. His thumbs run across the texture of the book he started on the plane ride after his and Luke’s ill fated poker game. It's a thin book of collected essays on the meaning of life. Camus, to Spencer, is a little pessimistic with his droning on about the meaninglessness of life. Though Spence has seen the absolute worst that humanity has to offer, he still has to believe that there’s a deeper meaning behind it all.

His toaster oven rings, altering him so that his toasted strawberry pastry is cooked. He plates his breakfast and pours himself another cup of coffee- he’ll need it to get through Camus’s section on Absurdism this early in the morning. But the flash of Spencer’s phone screen sends him reaching for his phone. Y/N replied to his message.

Y/N: hi leo!!!

Y/N: and you too Spencer :) Did you get a good night’s sleep. You got back late it seems.

Spencer, taking a bite of the strawberry pastry, ignores the burning sensation in his mouth. He types out a response to Y/N as he washes down the bite with a swing of coffee.

Spencer: I did, thank you. Can you tell me a little bit more about this book buddy thing. From what I gathered from the flyer it’s like a little book club of our own and we meet at the bookstore?

It doesn’t take long for Y/N to respond. The little gray dots pop up almost immediately after Spencer’s message is delivered.

Y/N: That’s about right! Is it okay if I call you? Kinda easier to talk that way 🤷‍♀️

Spencer reads over the message a couple of times. He doesn’t really like to talk on the phone and only does it out of necessity. He’s pretty sure that his voice is grating and his vocal fry is quite irritating. Yet, he finds himself replying “yes” to Y/N. Soon enough, his phone buzzes in his hand and Spencer has to remind himself how to pick up a call.

“Spencer? Um, this is Spencer Reid, right?” the voice says. It’s a woman’s voice and he can only assume that it’s Y/N, considering it is her phone number calling him.

“Y/N, uh hi. This is Dr. Spencer- I mean this is Spencer,” he says, nearly forgetting that Y/N doesn’t know him as Dr. Reid, but as just Spencer. It’s been a long time since someone has known him as Spencer.

“Oh great! It’s wonderful to finally have a voice to your name. So about these buddy reads. You seem to have a good grasp of what they are,” Y/N’s voice trails off a little bit at the end and Spencer finds it natural to fill in the silence.

“Yes, the flyer was quite informative. But I was wondering, do we read the same books or do we read different books?” Spencer asks, trying to restrain himself from scaring Y/N off. But something about her made him think that she didn’t scare easily.

Y/N chuckles lightly in the speaker of her phone, “that’s a good question, uh, I was actually going to ask you what you would rather. We can read the same books, or if it’s okay with you we can choose what the other would read for that week,”

“Oh really?” Spencer says, very much aware how his voice rises a couple of octaves. He can’t trust himself to hold back on rambling over the phone Y/N, so he resorts to using his strained, brittle voice that’s full of hesitation and restraint.

“That’s the plan, so whatcha thinking, Spencer,” Y/N says playfully, like she can sense that phone conversations maybe not make him feel at ease. There’s something so natural and silvery about her voice; it reminds Spencer of an audiobook reader. While he’s not too keen on audiobooks, he’s sure that he’d listen to anything she reads or has to say.

“Um, I think it sounds interesting to pick out books for each other. I tend to gravitate towards more technical books or even books that aren’t in English so, uh, I think it would be interesting to get out of my comfort zone,” Spencer says, cringing internally at using the word “interesting” twice in a couple of sentences.

“Well, as long as you don’t pick out something in physics or anything by Ayn Rand then I’d say we’re good,” Y/N says. Spencer thinks it’s a joke, but he’s not too sure how to respond.

“Will you still be my Book Buddy if I read 1 out of 2 of those?” Spencer asks, hoping she’d get that he is trying to continue the joke.

“Oh no Spencer please don’t tell me you’re an Ayn Rand fanboy,” she says, and by the airy way she laughs, Spencer ventures to guess his joke landed successfully.

“So,” Spencer starts, he never has made plans with people outside of his team, and on top of that, there’s something about Y/N’s quickness that makes him a little nervous to meet her.

“I’m talking your ear off, aren’t I? Please Spencer, if you’re going to be my Book Buddy, you’re going to have to get used to me talking a lot, especially you pick out good books, which, I already have a feeling you’re going to be favorite Book Buddy,”

For once in his life, Spencer doesn’t really know how to respond. He lets out something in between a strangled laughter and a noncommittal chuckle.

“So,” Y/N says, mirroring Spencer’s earlier words, “so are you free tonight, I can meet you at the bookstore..”

Y/N’s voice trails off and Spencer leaps to finish her sentences. It doesn’t feel like his interjecting or interrupting, but like he’s snapping a puzzle piece together.

“Does 7 work?” “7 is great, Spencer. It’s a date,”

Those three little words send Spencer’s eyes flying wide open. He scrambles to come up with answer to louden the silence that falls, but he swears he can hear a string of quiet curses before Y/N manages to squeak out a small “goodbye,”

Y/N’s last words play back in Spencer’s ears. He scolds himself for being so weird and awkward that the very idea of going on a date with him would send Y/N in a tizzy. It’s not a date, because Spencer can’t think about it being a date. It’s not a date because of the looming photo above his mantle that freezes his future in the past. It’s not a date because of the nightmare of vertical bars that haunt his dreams

It’s not a date. It’s so not a date because Spencer would call Luke to come over to help him if it was.

“Hey Luke,” Spencer says, trying to control the nervous waves in his voice, “no man, I’m fine, it’s uh, easier if you just come over. I’m fine, really,”

Y/N: I really hope you're not an Ayn Rand fanboy 😉

It’s so not a date.

--THANK YOU FOR READING--

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vbee-miya · 3 years

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[illumi as a significant other]

✥︎ Illumi Zoldyck x gn! reader || m.list

genre: fluff || type: headcanon

warnings: none that I know of

Dating Him :

➺︎ He’d have the urge to take care of you.

➺︎ He’d feel the need to also protect you.

➺︎ No matter how tough you really are. In his eyes you’re like a fragile porcelain doll.

➺︎ Though he wouldn’t underestimate your power I will say.

➺︎ Dates with him would feel expensive. Only because they are.

➺︎ He’s not good with words so I feel like the way he’d show that he loves you is through materialistic things.

➺︎ But eventually if you tell him sooner enough in the relationship that love is just more than materialistic stuff he’d probably start understanding what love really is.

➺︎ Since no one knows about his past the moment he starts telling you about his past you best make sure no one else knows about it too. That of course is when he starts to notice the type of person you are and if you’re really able to keep a secret.

➺︎ Sleeping with him would probably be a bit funky. Because I feel like the bed would be unnecessarily big and he’d let you have all the bed while he’s closer to the edge. Or you’re both in the middle and he has one of his arms wrapped around your torso.

Hisoka = Number one fan boy. He’d probably come up with the dates.

Where You’d Live :

➺︎ Probably in the Zoldyck Mansion or somewhere far far away from the Mansion.

➺︎ Given the fact that he is a Zoldyck the house wouldn’t be your average house I mean it’s probably going to be located away from any busy locations and it’s probably going to take up more than half the given land. Probably about 500 acres of land with the mansion in the middle and the rest is like trees gardens or other stuff.

➺︎ I’m obsessed with having private gardens so yeah in this headcanon the house would have a huge court yard with rare plants and what not. Who knows maybe there might be plants from the dark continent. 🤸🏻‍♀️

As a Parent :

➺︎ He’d be protective over his children and would want what’s best for them.

➺︎ He’d like the idea of just having them stay in the mansion and spend their waking lives there, but I also feel like he wouldn’t want them to go through the same childhood as him.

➺︎ And being in a committed relationship over time I feel like he’d slowly realize how messed up is childhood was and he’d take into consideration that controlling them wouldn’t help the case on both sides.

➺︎ So he’d do his best to give them a loving childhood. He’d also probably ask them if they’re happy living in the mansion and what not. But since they’re children they wouldn’t understand the question and would probably just drag him off to their play room and play pretend with him.

➺︎ Illumi would spoil the children. Whatever they want they get.

#v.writεϊз #hunter x hunter #hxh headcanons #illumi x reader #illumi headcanons #illumi zoldyck #illumi x y/n #illumi x you #Illumi x gn!reader

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blacknight1230 · 3 years

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Halloween Treat

Jim Hopkins Imagine (Bully: Scholarship Edition)

You switch costumes with Pete, resulting in Jimmy enjoying your Halloween costume.

Twas the night before Halloween. Your most favorite holiday spent at Bullworth Academy. The campus was decorating with glowing jack-o-lanterns, spooky ghosts and bats, and toilet paper hauntingly hanging from the tree branches. And best of all, the student body had free reign to wreak havoc this autumn night. Of course, no one was in there costumes now, a full twenty-four hours until you could do so.

So, you were walking back to your dorms from the mess hall, when you saw a disgruntled Pete on the steps to the main school building. “Hey, Petey, what’s wrong?” you asked the small boy. “Oh, (Y/n), hey” he greeted, hurriedly getting to his feet. “Is everything okay? Is Gary picking on you again?” you questioned, worried about your friend. Pete just nervously shifted from foot to foot, not saying anything. “Petey, come on, talk to me. You’re worrying me,” you begged. “It's stupid, really. It’s not even a big deal,” Petey whined, avoiding eye contact with you. “Well, it obviously is if your this uptight about it. Come on, Pete o’boy, tell Momma (Y/n) all about your troubles. I promise I won’t laugh,” you pestered, poking the young boy repeatedly in the arm. “Ok, fine. It's about my costume,” Pete admitted, finally giving up. “Your costume?” You were confused now; how could Halloween get-up make his this miserable. “You see, I already picked out my costume for tomorrow night. I was really excited about it, but now I’m afraid to be seen in it!” Petey explained, pacing around as he stressed over the situation. “Why? Your costume can’t be that bad,” you tried to reassure Pete. “Ha-ha, well, it's not exactly something Gary or Jimmy would where that’s for sure,” he said, voice shaking. “Then what is it?” Petey sighed and glumly ushered you to follow him.

He led you over to the boys’ dorms and inside the building. You ignored the dilapidated surroundings and B.O. smell as Petey brought you to his room. It really shocked you how Bullworth treated the boys living conditions compared to the girls. Anyway, Petey brought you into his small room and closed the door, before turning to his wardrobe. He opened it up, showing you his costume hanging on the inside of wardrobe door. You didn’t say anything when you saw the bright pink, furry bunny suit. It even had a puffy tail and ears attached to it.

Pete noticed your silence, frowning even more. “Now you see what the problem is. I can’t go out in that! I’ll be the laughing stock of the school and a prime target for the bullies!” he freaked out. “I don’t know what to say, Petey. Do you have another costume to go out in?” you questioned. “Nope. And I have to wear a costume tomorrow. Gary will notice and make fun of me for it.” You took a seat on Pete’s bed, the springs of the mattress squeaking as you put your weight on it. “Well, you’re definitely in a pickle.” “Hey, tell me about it.”

Petey sat next to you, head in his hands. You lightly patted him on the back, “There there. You’ll get through this.” “If only I could switch my costume out with someone else,” Petey mumbled into his hands. A light bulb went off over you head, an idea popping your brain. “Petey, I think I might have an idea,” you excitedly told him. “Wha-, how?” “Just trust me, Petey. Give me your costume and I’ll have another one for you by tomorrow,” you explained. The young boy was hesitate for moment, but he eventually got up and grabbed the accursed bunny suit, handing it to you without a word. “Thanks, Petey, I swear, I won’t let you down!” YOu rushed out his room and towards the dorm hall’s exit, Petey wishing you a disgruntled good luck. Looks like I have a night of work to do, you thought.

~ Time skip ~

It was officially Halloween. And everyone was celebrating like crazy. Pranks ensued as the prefects partied away and the teachers stayed in their lounge. You were walking the school grounds in the costume you spent all night sewing and hemming. A couple of guys ogled your form as you walked past, while the girls complimented you on the costume. You could only smirk as you sucked on a lolly-pop, making your way over to the front of the boy’s dorms. When you got there, you saw Gary, Jimmy, and Petey gathered on the steps to the dorms’ entrance dressed in their costumes.

Garry was dressed up as a Nazi SS soldier, without the symbols and armband. I got to remember to scold him later, you thought, frowning at Garry’s choice of dress up. Meanwhile, Jimmy was dressed up as a skeleton, with black and white face paint, and Petey was dressed up in the Grim Reaper costume you gave him. It was actually the costume you planned on wearing and as it wasn’t gender specific, Petey could wear it without being worried about Gary making fun of him. But Gary being Gary was still pestering poor innocent Petey.

“Come on, Femboy, where’s the bunny costume I got you? Don’t tell me you go rid of it,” Gary threatened. “No, Gary, I traded it with someone and they gave me this,” Petey protested, his voice muffled from behind his skeleton mask. “Don’t lie to me, Petey. You know I don’t like liars. No one would take that damn bunny costume,” Gary said while rolled his eyes. You decided it was time to make your presence known.

“Hello boys,” you called out to them. All three of them turned to look at you, eyes widening at the sight of you. You stood before them in the tailored bunny suit, having cut off the legs and sleeves of the one piece. It was now a sleeveless, booty short one piece with a cinched waist and a lowered neckline. You accessorized the look with hot pink fishnet thigh high stockings and fingerless pink fishnet gloves that end below the elbows. To complete the look, you wore white combat boots and sexy bunny makeup. All three of the boys just stared at you, mouths wide open. Gary was the first to snap out of it, a wolf whistle coming out of his smirking mouth. “Look at you, (y/n). Say, are you going to be our little Playboy bunny for the night?” he teased. “Knock it off, Gary,” Jimmy snapped suddenly. Gary, for once, backed off.

Instead his attention was focussed back onto his Big Prank, as he liked to call it. He forced all four of you to follow him to the side yard of Harrington House, where Chad and the other Preppies lived. It was only then did he explained his twisted little plan. “Ok, here’s the deal. We’re going to feed Chads dog a bunch of this rancid meat then wait for him to take a dump then -” Gary started, a sick smile on his face as he explained the prank formed in his evil little mind. “Man, what the hell. I’m out of here,” Petey cried in disgust, interrupting Gary. He ran away disgusted, Gary just shouting, “Whatever, Pete.” “This prank is nasty, even for you,” you sneered. “Let’s just do this, guys. I’ll explain everything later,” Gary huffed.

You all turned to look around the corner of the archway leading into the side yard, where Chester, the aforementioned dog, was running around. But there was little problem in this ‘brilliant’ plan of Gary’s. Chad was in the yard, playing with the Staffordshire Bull Terrier via frisbee. “Shit, now what do we do,” Jimmy questioned. “What do you mean ‘what do we do’? We fight him, of course. Geez, Jimmy, are you really that much of a pea brain?” Gary snapped. Jimmy opened his mouth to retort back but you stopped him before he could. “Pipe it down, you two. Let me handle this,” you hissed. Without another word, you sauntered up to Chad, seductively swinging your hips.

“Hey, Chad,” you greeted in a sing-song voice. “Oh, ah, hey there darling,” Chad replied once he saw you. You could already tell he was in the palm of your hand as he looked at you with love struck eyes. You were pretty sure it was because of your costume, for without it Chad and all the other boys never would have spared you a second glance. Using your sex-appeal to your advantage, you continued entrapping him in your web. “Oh, nothing. I’m just so bored and lonely tonight. Will a nice strong gentleman like you help me?” you drawled, trailing a gloved hand down Chad’s chest. Sweat started to accumulate around the prep’s hairline and he struggled with his next words. “I would love to, darling. What you wanna do?” “Oh I think I have an idea. You just have to follow me to somewhere a little more private,” you practically whispered into his ear. Chad tensed up and swallowed a lump in his throat, but he allowed you to take his hand and pulled him away from the side yard.

You were just about lead into the space between the left side of the preppies’ dorms and the fence when Jimmy came up behind Chad hit him on the back of the head. The force of the blow caused Chad to fall to the pavement, knocked out cold. “Jimmy! What was that for?” you hissed. “I thought that was your plan. To lure him away and knock him out,” Jimmy said, a faint blush on his cheeks. Before you could figure out why the teen was blushing, Gary hurried past the both of you to Chester. “Who cares what the chick was going to do? We got what we needed,” he voiced over his shoulder as he kneeled down to the dog. “Here you go boy. Have a little trick for a treat. Yum, yum, yum, yum, yum,” he said to Chester as the staffy ate the meat. Immediately after finishing, Chester started whining as he squatted over the grass. “That’s gross!” Jimmy exclaimed as he crossed his arms in disgust. “Poor little guy,” you worried, holding your nose as the barely digested meat exited the poor pooches rear end. As soon as Chester finished with his business, Gary gathered the fecal matter into a brown paper back.

“Score! Alright let’s go to the teacher’s lounge,” Gary ordered. The three of you ran towards the main school building, entering by one its back exits onto the main floor. Jimmy placed the bag of doggy doo in front of the door of the teacher’s lounge. As soon as he set it down, Gary lit a match and brought it close to the paper back. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Gary?” you distressed. All you could think of was possible setting the building on fire. “Don’t worry. It will be funny,” Gary threw off your worries. “Just pulled the fire alarm, Jimmy, and watch fun begin.” Jimmy did as Gary said, striding up to the nearby fire alarm on the opposite wall. He looked around before grabbed the handle and pulling it down.

The air filled the sounds of alarms as Gary, Jimmy, and you hid around the corner. “What the hell is going on?” you heard one of the teachers shout from within the teacher’s lounge. The door opened to reveal Mr. Burton, who once he saw the paper back on fire, tried to put it out by stomping on it. He successfully put out the small fire but now the bottom of shoes where covered in disgusting, half-digested, port-a-potty smelling dog shit. Mr. Burton screamed and gagged as he tried to get the animal turds off his sneakers. You all couldn’t help but laugh as you all ran away and out the side exit, rushing away from the scene of the crime. Next thing you knew, you all were by the front of the academy’s gates, near the dorms.

All of you struggled to breath, hands on your knees as you hunched over from both laughter and the sprinting. “That ... was the most brilliant ... and hilarious ... prank I’ve ever seen!” you complimented Gary. “Even I have to admit, that was a great prank, Gary,” Jimmy confirmed. Gary got a wicked smile on his face, immensely enjoying being complimented on his ‘superior’ brain. “Thank you, thank you, hold your applause, please. I know you all love me,” he boasted, mock bowing to you guys. “Ok, don’t get so full of yourself,” Jimmy sassed. “Whatever, man. You two have fun jacking each other off. I’m going to steal some candy from the nerds,” Gary answered back. He ran off before you and Jimmy could yell at him.

“Well, tonight was surprisingly fun,” you turned to Jimmy. “Looks like my first Halloween in Bullsworth is a success. It's a bummer that its ending already,” Jimmy replied. A light bulb went off over the top of your head, an idea forming in your mind. “Who said it was over? Follow me,” you announced. You sprinted towards the girl’s dorms, motioning Jimmy to follow you. You heard the sound of Jimmy’s footsteps following you as ran to the right side of the building. Quickly and efficiently, you climbed up the lattice bolted to the brick wall and up to the open window on the third floor. Once you stepped foot in the large attic space, you helped Jimmy climb in behind you.

“Whew, you are surprisingly fast,” Jimmy huffed out, struggling to catch his breath after the sprinting and high climb. “Thanks, Jim. Come have a seat,” you acknowledged his compliment. You led Jimmy over to a small area of the attic where you had a pile of comfy pillows and blankets, a tiny tv with a built in VCR situated next to the wall. Fairy lights were struck through the rafters above it, barely lighting up the windowless area. You sat on the pile of pillows and turned on a battery operated camping lantern, finally allowing the both of you to see clearly what you were doing. As Jimmy took a seat next to you, you pulled out a bowl filled with candy. “Want some?” you offered the teen. “Where did you get these?” he questioned, grabbing a handful of assorted candy. “My parents sent me a care package of sorts. They know how much I love Halloween,” you explained, picking out a single piece of (favorite candy). “Wish my mom did something like that. She’s too busy hanging out with her 5th husband on their honeymoon to even think about me,” Jimmy complained. You could see thinking of his absent mother really upset hi, their relationship not on the best of terms. You nudged Jimmy on his costumed shoulder, trying to get him out of this little funk. “Come on, let’s pick out a movie to watch. I have a couple to choose from,” you said. Jimmy gave you a warm smile as you pulled a small pile of VCRs.

The night continued with you and Jimmy stuffing your faces on candy and popcorn as you watched movies from within your secret chilling out spot. You were in the middle of the first movie, a classic slasher film, when Jimmy said something. “Hey, (y/n), back when you were distracting Chad, were you really going to ...” he trailed off. You pulled your eyes away from the TV screen, studying Jimmy. He was sitting on a couple of different colored pillows, leaning back on one of his outstretched arms and feet kicked out in front of him. He was refusing to look you in the eye, signaling that something was up. “What? Oh, that!” you realized what he was talking about. “No! Absolutely not! I was just trying to lead Chad away so we could get what we needed for the prank.”

Jimmy looked relieved, the tension in his shoulders releasing as he let out a sigh. “Ok. Good. I just thought maybe you had a thing for him or something,” he explained. “Jimmy, do think I really would let anyone get with me like that?” you sassed. “Pff, well you are dress up as a more modest Playboy bunny. Any boy would fall for you dressed like that?” he replied, rolling his eyes. It seemed he was trying to change the subject. “Oh, so does that mean you like my costume, Jimmy? Has this little bunny gotten to ya?” you teased. Jimmy’s cheeks got red, as he no longer had his skull face makeup on. He started to stutter out half formed words, his tongue all twisted. You liked seeing so flustered like this. Seeing how you made him this way was kind of cute.

Since meeting Jimmy that faithful school day you started to grow some feelings for the short stocky teen. Seeing how he stood up to bullies, student and faculty alike, and how determined he was to rise to the top in order to survive the hellhole that is Bullsworth was most likely the cause. As well as the way he was so kind to you despite not really fitting in with the cliques of the student body. Heck, you weren’t even that close to Petey and Gary before Jimmy came along. Jimmy brought out the best in you and you loyally followed him on his chaotic adventures, even if they weren’t something you could see yourself doing.

So, your heart fluttered in your chest as you watched Jimmy struggle to find words to talk to you. “I - I actually do like your costume,” he finally admitted. Your heart soared and you tried to hide the impact his compliments had on you. “Really? What do you like about it? It’s nothing specially,” you bashfully replied. “Well, first it brings out your figure without revealing too much. It’s eye catching,” he revealed sheepishly. You could feel yourself blushing under your halloween makeup, it badly hiding your pink cheeks. “Thank you ...that means a lot coming from you,” you replied, flushed.

A stiff awkward silence followed, both of you trying to focus on the slasher film on the tiny TV. You reached over to grab a handful of popcorn without looking, but instead of grabbing the buttery treat, you ended up grabbing Jim’s hand as he also reached for the popcorn without looking. Your breath hitched at the feeling of his warm rough hand in yours, secretly reveling in the sensation. Your eyes trailed down to your conjoined hands, up his arm, and to his face. You were meet with dazzling brown eyes staring into your own. The world seemed to stop as you gazed at Jimmy’s freckled filled face, traces of his face paint still lingering on his skin from where he failed to wipe it off. You noticed the distance between you two was slowly disappearing as subconsciously leaned into each other. “Aw, fuck it,” you heard Jimmy mumble before closing the little distance between you two.

Jimmy’s lips met yours roughly, a little ‘Mmm!’ escaping from you. You couldn’t help but grab onto his stocky shoulders and melt into the kiss, quietly sighing as you did so. You could feel Jimmy’s hands move to grip your waist, everything feeling hot as stereotypical kissing noises filled the attic as you two moved your lips against each other. He taste like candy, you thought to yourself as a hand threaded through his short orange hair.

You could have gone on forever connected this way, but you were both human beings who need air to survive. So you unhappily had to separate from each other, gasping for air as you did so. You trailed a hand gently down Jimmy’s freckled cheek as he looked at you with hooded eyes. You could see the longing within them, one of his hands slowly moving off of your hip, it leaving a lingering touch. “J-Jimmy ...” you stuttered out, not knowing what to say. “That was great. God, how could I not have done that sooner?” Jimmy wondered out loud. “Done it sooner?” you pondered, brain all fuzzy from the kiss. “(Y/n), I like you, a lot. And after seeing Chad’s hands all over you ... I couldn’t handle it,” Jimmy confessed. You thought you died and went straight to heaven. No way your crush was confessing to you. “So, I what I’m basically trying to say is ... will be my girlfriend?” Jimmy finally asked.

You couldn’t stop yourself, planting a kiss right on Jimmy’s reddened lips. You felt Jimmy freeze up from the unexpected action, pulling away from the stiff boy to give him your answer. “Of course, Jimmy. I would be stupid not to,” you said, smiling from ear to ear. A similar smile broke out on Jimmy’s face, reaching out to you to pull you into another kiss. You happily let him, the smile still on your lips as were locked in a passionate embrace. Jimmy pulled you closer as you practically sat on his lap, his hands firmly holding you in his arms. “Best Halloween treat ever,” he chuckled, before proceeding to a makeout session. Best Halloween treat, indeed.

#bully #bully scholarship edition #bully video game #bully rockstar #jim hopkins #jimmy hopkins #jim hopkins imagine #jimmy hopkins imagine #jim hopkins x reader #jimmy hopkins x reader #bully imagine #bully scholarship edition imagine #bully x reader #bully scholarship edition x reader #bully video game imagine

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actress4him · 3 years

Note

ahhh I'm so excited for the whump bingo series! can you do pidge in either 'caught in a snare' or in 'clawing at own throat'? ^^

This one...fought with me. I knew right away what kind of trap I wanted to use once I saw it online, but I had a hard time figuring out what scenario exactly to use that made sense and wouldn’t be too long or too short. But here it is, I finished it, and I hope it’s to your liking, Anon!

@badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Caught in a Snare

Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender

Warnings: near drowning, death mention

“I hate the outdoors.”

“Yeah,” Lance replies drily. “You mentioned that. A few times.”

Growling, Pidge kicks at a piece of rotting wood in her path. “It’s getting more and more true by the minute.”

The trek continues in silence for a minute, though she hardly notices the lack of conversation for all the rustling and tweeting and whatever other disgusting natural noises are going on around them and all of the furious thoughts pouring through her head. That is, until Lance decides to speak up again and say,

“You know you’re supposed to be like, the Guardian of Nature, right?”

“Shut up, Lance, I literally never asked for that title!” she hisses, narrowing her eyes at him briefly before returning her gaze to the path. Her luck, she’d end up tripping over something. “I mean don’t get me wrong, I love Green, but I’m much more into the curiosity and technology part, not the nature part.”

Silence again. “For what it’s worth,” he offers after a minute, “I’m not enjoying the situation, either.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’d be concerned if you were.” After all, when the two of them had agreed to come here to look for some rare fruit Allura and Coran wanted to trade with another potential Coalition planet, having all of their electronic devices - including Green - fail them so that they had to hike through the freakin’ jungle was not exactly part of the plan.

Her head and ribs still hurt from the rough landing. Nothing broken, thankfully, but she’s pretty sure she’s got some nice looking bruises. So, sue her if she’s a little grumpy. She feels she has the right.

And what jungle is cold, anyway? Not cold enough that she needs to keep her helmet sealed, but much colder than a jungle should be.

Space is so weird.

“Hey, I think I hear water over there.” Lance points somewhere to their right, through the endless trees. “If it’s a river or a creek we should try following it.”

Sighing, Pidge nods. It’s a good idea, and she’s not sure she would have thought of it. Wilderness survival isn’t really her forte. “Yeah, okay. Maybe luck will be on our side for once today and we can get a drink, too. I’ve still got that tester thing Coran gave me to see if it’s safe.”

“A drink sounds amazing right about now.”

There is a river, a rather large one at that, and it doesn’t take them long to find it. The vibrant turquoise color is a little off-putting, as is the steep embankment, but Pidge is determined to test it anyway and try to get them that drink they’re both craving.

“Over here, I see a path down.” She heads out in front of Lance, picking her way through the underbrush to a spot where it’s slightly less overgrown. Likely either animals or locals have been using the spot to get their own drinks from the river.

“Don’t fall!” Lance calls good-naturedly from a few yards behind.

Pidge is just about to throw a snarky response over her shoulder when something latches onto her ankle and her feet are suddenly yanked out from underneath her. Her already sore body slams backwards onto the ground. Vaguely she can hear Lance cackling at her, but she doesn’t have time to focus on it.

There’s some kind of twine wrapped around her ankle, and there’s a boulder tumbling down the embankment next to her toward the water, and somehow the two are connected and she’s being dragged swiftly down the hill with them.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. She throws her hands out, grasping at plants and roots and anything else she can find, but all she ends up with is a fistful of purple leaves and a ripped glove.

Right before she reaches the water Lance’s laughter turns into yelling. Then the boulder hits the surface with a loud splash, and she follows right behind it. It’s like being plunged into an ice bath. Automatically her mouth opens to gasp from the cold, but she stops herself just short of actually inhaling.

The river is deeper than it looked from above. The rock is still sinking, and it’s still pulling her with it. Down, down, where the water becomes less turquoise and more murky grey. Pidge fights against it, tries to swim upward, back to the surface, but the rock is far heavier than she is. Even when she kicks on her jet pack, it just sputters and barely halts the downward progress. There’s no way she’s going to be able to tug the rock back up with her.

Looking down, she can just barely see the twine where it wraps around her ankle and disappears into the darkness. If she can’t swim back up with that attached, then obviously she’s going to have to get rid of it.

Her lungs are already starting to ache.

Releasing a few bubbles, she bends over and pulls at the twine, but it’s so tight it would be cutting into her ankle if not for her armor. She can’t get even a fingernail underneath it.

A muted splash echoes through the water, and she lets a little bit more air out when she looks up to see Lance diving swiftly toward her. His eyes are wide behind his sealed faceplate. Pidge gives a pointed tug on the twine, and he nods, swimming with practiced ease down to her feet. Grabbing it with both hands, he attempts to break it, then moves up to her foot and finds out the same thing she did, it’s too tight to slip off.

There’s not much air left in her lungs, and most of what’s there slips past her lips without her permission. Her chest is beginning to burn.

Lance is making weird motions at her with his hands, but she’s having a hard time focusing on them past the black dots dancing in front of her eyes. Those are...probably not a good sign.

Finally he swims back up next to her, patting her hip as he leans in close to her ear. “Bayard!” she barely makes out.

Oh. Yeah. She’s gonna blame the lack of oxygen for not thinking of that herself.

She can barely see anymore, but she summons her bayard to her hand and attempts to lean down toward her foot. At this point she’s gonna be lucky if she doesn’t slice her leg off accidentally. But then Lance’s hands are wrapping around hers, and he’s guiding her downwards. Just before the black spots completely take over and her body goes limp, she feels the tension on her ankle release.

The next thing she’s aware of is lying on her side in a patch of dirt, coughing violently and spitting out gross river water while something slaps her on the back. She only realizes that the something is probably Lance’s hand when he leans over into her face.

“Oh, thank goodness! I thought I was gonna have to do rescue breaths and put my lips on your lips and I just -”

“Lance, please.” She coughs again, and wonders briefly if maybe she swallowed some seaweed or a fish or something because it feels like there’s one stuck in her chest somewhere. “I’m trying...not to throw up right now. I don’t...don’t need that visual.”

“Yeah. Same.” He falls back onto his butt, staring at her with traces of fear still on his face. “I would have done it, though, to, you know...save you. That, uh...really scared me. I barely got it cut before you passed out and the bayard went back to neutral and then you were like, dead...well, not actually dead, obviously, but you looked dead and then you weren’t breathing and I -”

“Lance.” Another cough, and a shiver racks her body. “Thank you.”

He screeches to a halt, then relaxes into a smile. “You’re welcome. Sorry I, uh...kinda laughed at you. I thought you had fallen down right after I said ‘don’t fall down’, and...yeah.”

The shivers are getting worse now. “Technically I...did. Just...not my fault.”

Lance’s smile morphs into a frown. “We’ve gotta get you dried off and warmed up somehow.”

Finally gathering her energy, Pidge pushes herself up to sit, wrapping her arms around her body as if it’ll somehow help dispel the ice that has taken over. “N-not sure how that’s...gonna happen...in the middle of the...quizn-nacking jungle.”

Glancing back over his shoulder as if a solution will magically appear - and well, they are in space, stranger things have happened - Lance sighs and moves to stand up. “Maybe we should keep moving. That might help you warm up, and eventually we have to run into some civilization, right? Coran said there were sentient aliens on this planet.”

“Yeah, and s-somebody had to have set up th-that trap.” Moving is the last thing she wants to do right now. Her headache from before has multiplied exponentially in strength, and her ribs did not appreciate all the coughing she just did. She wants to curl back up on the ground and not move again for a century or two. But she allows Lance to throw her arm over his shoulder and pull her up to her feet, even if she groans dramatically in the process.

“Well, I think we should just keep following this river - not quite so closely this time - and see wh-”

This time he cuts off without an interruption from Pidge, and she looks up to see what he’s staring at. It’s aliens. A whole pack of them, bipedal and four-armed in multiple shades of green fur that almost blends in with the trees, and they’re armed with spears and axes.

They’re probably the ones that set the snare, and now they’ve come to see what they caught. Which, unfortunately, is them.

“Uh, hi guys,” Lance squeaks. “We’re, um. We’re the Paladins of Voltron. Any chance you’ve heard of us?”

This sets off an immediate wave of whispers through the group. The alien in front straightens from their defensive position and steps forward. “Voltron? The rumors are true, then? Voltron lives?”

Pidge can feel the tension leave Lance’s body. “Yes! Yes, Voltron has returned! We came here in one of the Voltron Lions to look for supplies, but something on your planet has interfered with our devices. We need help to contact our team and to find what we’re looking for.” He glances over at Pidge, whose teeth are clenched tightly to keep them from clacking together. “And she needs to get warm before she gets sick.”

The lead alien turns to have a whispered consultation with the others before nodding at Lance. “Very well. Follow us, and we will assist you.”

Another removes their heavy-looking cape and approaches carefully, draping it around Pidge’s shoulders. Immediately she melts into the warmth. “There will be a fire waiting for us in the village.”

“S-sounds great,” she manages.

Lance smiles, pulling her in a bit tighter. “Thank you.”

——————————

Instructions for requesting a square here!

#badthingshappenbingo #caught in a snare #prompt fill #voltron: legendary defender #voltron whump #pidge whump #voltron pidge #voltron lance #drowning tw #death mention tw #pidge gunderson #katie holt #vld pidge #vld #voltron fanfiction #voltron fic #vld fanfic

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graceverse · 3 years

Text

Yeah ok, you asked for it.

An Unexpected Invitation

Part 2

He had never really, truly known silence. Even when he was alone, there is always that buzzing sound inside his head. Sometimes if he listened closely enough it would sound like the sharpest blade slicing through silk and flesh. Or if not that, then the softest exhale of a last dying breath; or the whispering sound of snow falling on snow.

There’s a Japanese word for that, shinshin.

One of the few things that he actually liked about this god forsaken country: the beauty of his own language. Though he so very rarely used it in all the years that he had spent in China, he was pleased that it was not lost to him. Unlike everything else that tied him to his motherland.

Not that China as a country is any better than Japan, but at least it wasn’t filled with ghosts that haunted him. And they were many; all the ghosts inside his head. Tomoe was just one of them. He wasn’t bothered by it. She’d smile at him inside his head and everything else would just fade away. It was just her and her smile and he was content.

Yukishiro Enishi had not expected any kind of silence inside his cell, which unfortunately faced the alleyway that the police used to move captured criminals, either in and out of the prison. There was always someone unruly, heavily protesting the indignation of being bound and dragged inside the building. If it wasn’t that it was pitiful wailing, asking for forgiveness, begging for another chance. Worst were the angry screams of denial, the insistence of their innocence. It annoyed him endlessly.

Reading Oneesan’s diary diminished the vulgar noises hounding him. With her diary clutched in his hand, it was just him and her words. He would gently turn the pages, trace the ink on paper and as he read it, he hear his sister’s voice. It calmed him down. Most of the time, at least. There had been a night of pure rage and the agony; finding out how his sister had hidden her true heart from him. He’d slammed his fist against the walls, banged his head until he thought it would crack open and all of his craziness will just spill out from his split head.

Why, neesan? Why couldn’t you have trusted me enough to let me know what you were planning?

But it had only been the briefest of moments where he felt betrayed. In the end, even with Tomoe’s diary, nothing could waver his conviction of his sister’s faultlessness in everything that had happened to them. Neesan had taken care of him ever since he could remember, his first memories had been of her touch, her eyes, her voice singing lullabies well into the night. She had tried to make everything better and she had the courage to marry the man that had slain her own love. But she had ultimately been too soft, too trusting. She had a woman’s kind and gentle heart and had allowed Battousai’s despicable lies to change her resolve for vengeance.

Would it have made any difference if he had known what neesan had really felt?

He doubted it. The mere presence of Battousai in their life invited danger and death. And he remembered how it made him feel so deeply ashamed that the hitokiri was living with his sister, tainting her with the blood of his victims.

There was no reason for him to feel deceived by his beloved neesan. Battousai would have, one way or another, caused her death. It doesn’t matter how. Testament to this was the fact that even now, despite having distorted himself into the foolishness of a rurouni – a shameful farce of trying to atone for his sins – the woman he had chosen, the Kamiya girl that Enishi had taken and failed to kill, had been subjected to several abductions and all sorts of regrettable torture. From almost choking to death from Udō Jin-e’s curse to nearly drowning when she’d been thrown out of The Rengoku, Battousa had turned her into a target. One that he had not been able to properly protect.

How many times had Battousai failed that woman? More times that Enishi could care count.

Battosai was cursed. All the lives that he touches, he befouls. And eventually, he does not even have to wield his joke of a sword, in the end, they will all turn into nothing but torn silk and spilled blood against pristine white snow.

----------------

It didn’t take long for the Mibu Wolf to come and visit him. They had taken him to a room barely lighted by the lone overhead lantern, madly swinging and throwing dark shadows around him. He would have snorted at this childish game that Saitō Hajime, now known as Fujita Gorō, had chosen to play. Did he think that he was someone that could be so easily intimidated? Did he need any reminder of what he was capable of, weaponless except for a child’s toy, on the trin when he had allowed to arrest him? Or was this some sort of insult that he was supposed to angrily respond to?

Enishi felt no emotion to be honest, even when Saitō started laying down all the documents that he had been able to confiscate from wherever he’d gotten them. It wasn’t until a signed confession from the useless Heishin that Enishi felt just a twinge of irritation. He should have bashed that bastard’s skull.

Wordlessly, he picked the paper, idly glancing at it before tossing it back, silently fluttering to the floor.

The wolf bared his teeth.

Did the government ordered the ever-reliable Fujita-san to ask him the names of all the ten battleships that he had? Because Shishio’s Rengoku was the smallest of those ships. Shishio Makoto was all fight and salivating insanity but he hardly had any money to sustain his quest for war. Enishi had practically given that battleship for free and it was purely out of curiosity. He had gotten into so much trouble with the Chinese organization that helped him obtain those ships. He had to pay it out of his own pocket but it was all worth it.

He had wanted to see just how far Shishio could get in a fight with Battousai. Not so much as it turned out. He couldn’t even properly bomb Tokyo as he had wanted to. It was all so very disappointing but not in the least bit surprising. These Hitokiri’s were mere berserkers, nothing refined in the way they planned their attacks. To defeat their enemy was all, kill, kill, kill and it bored him.

He kept his silence as Saitō explained how he had taken him this long to piece together everything that he needed to ensure that Yukishiro Enishi will be tried as a spy, a traitor to the Meiji Government and for that, they both know that the punishment is death.

Blah blah blah blah

Did the ex-captain of the Shinsengumi (first squad – he made you remember that at least, like it was supposed to mean something to anyone) now a special agent for the Meiji Government's Department of Internal Affairs, really think that he would be bothered by his impending death? Or a lifetime of imprisonment? Anything that they throw at him would only be a shadow of what he had gone through in Shanghai. The years of suffering from hunger and humiliation, disease and violence, training on his own to perfect his own fighting style?

Enishi was prepared to die and meet his sister once again.

Unless, and here, the cunning wolf flicked his still lit cigarette – a foul thing – over Enishi’s shoulder, the heat and ashes leaving a trail against his cheeks. He would kill him for that, Enishi thought, unblinkingly.

And then, the wolf leaned forward to tempt the tiger.

-----------------

Freshly released from prison, all of his papers proving the pardon so generously afforded to him by a government desperate to stop another war shoved inside the pocket of his jacket, Enishi calmly shook any traces of gunpowder residue from his hands. His now emptied warehouse (damn, the government for confiscating everything) was lighted with flames that will spread quickly enough. It would be a massive fire and Fujita-san would probably disapprove, but he did not, quite frankly, give a fuck.

He kept his head low, unhurriedly weaving in and out the crowd, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. His height has some disadvantages, true but he was still weaponless and without his watō slung against his shoulder, he looked like the usual foreigner traipsing around Tokyo, not a care in the world.

The Mibu Wolf will only give him his sword back if he could get the Kamiya-girl to agree. And something tells Enishi that this was really more to piss off Battousai than anything else. What a tiring game these two old fools were playing, but he will play along. He had nothing else to do anyway. And besides, his watō was at stake. He could probably just steal it from, escape Japan and just live out his life somewhere far from this madness but then, where’s the fun in that?

He had allowed himself a leisurely walk towards the dojo, the constant sound of summer surrounding him: tiny voices of children playing inside their yard, underneath the shaded trees; parents calling out for a refreshing sip of cold water; that buzzing sound inside his head.

He always had sensitive hearing, a secret weapon that he had incorporated to his Watōjutsu. It was a source of pride, how this swordskill is known only to him and how it could have finally defeated Battousai had that stupid Heishin ruined his plan. Kami, if the wolf had not killed him yet, he would be looking for him soon enough.

------------------

Enishi stood by the familiar entryway of the dojo, tilted his head and confirmed the only presence inside. He pushed the wooden gate and wordlessly walked inside, heading straight to the engawa, where for the first time in his entire life, he hears nothing but silence as he stared down at the Kamiya girl sprawled on the floor, napping it seemed.

Her dark hair was fanned around her face, not in a flattering way, to be honest. But the contrast of her hair and her skin and the peach-colored kimono she was wearing, riding a little high on her legs, exposing her knees, made her look almost --- precious.

No, no. He shook his head. Not precious, but so exposed and vulnerable. He glanced around him. No bokken in sight. And defenseless. Again, Battousai had left her like this? This supposed ruruoni must be addle-brained and as inept as Heishin. They both deserve to die.

But yes, how odd. Enishi thought, not even the sound of their breathing. Because he was certain that they were both breathing. He could feel the steady beating of his heart and as he squinted at her prone form, the rise and fall of her chest was quite obvious in her partially opened kimono.

The sight offered him a brief distraction and he had been just the tiniest bit surprised when she suddenly woke up and threw a tea cup at him.

Maybe not so vulnerable and defenseless then.

-------------------

She was feisty. He hadn’t known that she had it in her to fight like that. Clumsily and rather slow, but it could be that she was wearing a kimono, restricting her movement. He could not find fault in her fighting stance and with the way she swung her bokken, with outmost conviction, Enishi was certain she could lay waste to Heishin's pathetic bodyguards. Her skills were better than theirs at least and this was probably the highest compliment he was forced to give to a girl.

Her battle cry was also impressive. It brought back his hearing at least.

Now he could hear every whistling sound the bokken made as it sliced through the air; her panting breath, the way she muttered curses at him.

She was so very, very angry and he had done absolutely nothing to her but ask her if was already married. A rather important detail that he needed confirmation on if was really going to follow through with the wolf's sadistic plan.

Enishi needed her to calm down otherwise, he’d be forced to defend himself and then he would end up straddling, arms pinned above her – because that was the only way to get her to stop trying to hit him. Being motherless and growing up with his sister, Enishi thought he knew how to handle women or at least girls. But this Kamiya-girl, with her angry breathing and needless cursing was quite a surprise. The women he had dealt with in China were really almost similar to the women in Japan: docile and soft spoken, but apparently not this woman.

Was this the ruruoni’s choice? Or the Battousai? Enishi wondered if her violent temper triggered something in his worthless brother-in-law, because he could not understand how exactly did anyone take her so easily when she was like this?!

Another swing from her bokken and that was just an inch away from his nose.

The triumphant gleam in her eyes told him that she was aware of this and to prevent any further violence, Enishi finally stepped forward, which she must have taken as gesture of surrender, because she met him head on, bokken raised high on her head.

He grabbed it easily, tossing it away and wondering if he would have to break every damn bokken inside this training hall just to make her stop. Curiously, he asked her, without his formulated explanation because, really, he had forgotten everything that he had been planning to tell her, if she had wanted to go to Shanghai with him – well, it effectively shut her up, her whole body suddenly immobilized by surprise.

He let two seconds pass before he provoked her yet again with, “Is that a yes, Kamiya-san?”

Her eyes blazed and then, completely out of nowhere and totally unprepared for it, her fist connected with his nose.

It knocked off his eyeglasses and now ---- now he is pissed.

------

So I guess, tbc?!

#you made me do it #now this story is stuck inside my head #rurouni kenshin fanfic #rurouni kenshin #post the final #movieverse fic #k/k #e/k/k #enishi x kaoru #kenshin x kaoru x enishi love triangle of death #yeah tell me i suck okay i do i know

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pengychan · 3 years

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 22

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: Well, both the events in this chapter and the update were a long time coming. I promise you won't have to wait nearly as much for the next update. I am not sure that is a good thing.

Art is by @lunaescribe and @swanpit

***

Later on, if he’d been in a joking mood - and he most definitely wouldn’t be - Ernesto may have joked that while many were saved by the bell, he was quite literally saved by the bull. Namely, by an especially unimpressive bull who seemed to be unsure as to what to do around a cow, no matter how absolutely eager said cow was to answer nature’s call.

“González wants us to go all the way to his farm and bless a bull, am I understanding this correctly?”

Juan spoke with about as much contempt as he was able to fit into each word, which was a fair lot of contempt. As Ernesto coughed into his hand to hide a laugh, Sofía shrugged.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, Padre. I am simply relaying the message González sent.”

The gringo scoffed, reaching up to rub his forehead. “Does he believe the church to be a joke, that he can call upon us to give a blessing to a bull who believes itself an ox?”

Ernesto chuckled. “Well, to be fair - don’t look at me like that, hear me out! A bull that cannot mount cows is a problem to anyone who makes a living out of their cattle. And the poor hombre spent a lot of his savings on that bull, so if it cannot do its job, that’s a loss he may not recover from anytime soon.”

His words seemed to make Juan marginally less offended, but the frown on his face did not entirely fade. “It still seems rather brazen, asking the church to get involved in such-- matters, Ern-- Father Ernest.”

“Desperate men will ask for any help they can get. Things have not been going all that well for anyone lately. And he does provide milk for the children in our care on Sundays,” Ernesto added, and mentally patted himself on the back when Juan’s scowl softened another fraction.

“... Fair enough. He has shown charity, at least. I cannot entirely fault him for being ignorant of what is and is not beneath the notice of God,” he declared. Behind him, Sofía pointed at her mouth and pretended to gag. Ernesto bit the inside of his cheek to remain serious, but any inclination to smile faded when Juan spoke again. “Well then, I suppose you may go and give this bull your blessing.”

Wait, what?

“Wait, what? Me?” he protested. That was not a turn of events he had expected: the gringo knew any blessing he may give was entirely worthless, and-- ah, the pendejo. That was probably the point, giving González some peace of mind without anyone really giving God’s blessing to an impotent bull.

Juan met his gaze with a raised brow, and for a moment Ernesto could have sworn he’d seen the barest hint of an amused glint in his eye. It almost distracted him from the broad grin on Sofía’s face as she watched the scene. Some friend she was.

The gringo nodded, folding his hands. “You spoke of this man’s plight with such fervor, it seems fair I let you go help him - if anything for his peace of mind.”

Ernesto groaned. To say the González farm was out of the way was an understatement: it was quite a way beyond the first hill south of Santa Cecilia. Truth be told, they tended to consider it part of Santa Cecilia only because it was no closer to any other village, and the family attended Mass and the market each week without fail.

“But it’s almost an hour each way!”

“Two hours, most likely,” the gringo replied with a serene smile. Now the amused glint was… a lot more obvious. Oh, that bastard--! “Doctor Sanchéz borrowed the horse to send his assistant to buy some medical supplies in San Luz. You may have the donkey, though. Don’t push the poor beast, you know it’s elderly. If you get going now, you should make it back by sundown,” he added, making Ernesto rather wish he could grab the closest chair and slap him with it.

“But I-- I mean, surely it is not that urgent--” he tried to backpedal. He really was not looking forward to several hours riding a donkey under the merciless summer sun. Maybe on another day he could get a horse, or ride with the González family’s cart next time they--

“You should definitely be the one to go, Padre Ernesto. You have such a glowing track record with fertility blessings,” Sofía quipped, causing Ernesto to nearly choke on his spit and any words he’d been about to utter to die in his throat.

Entirely unaware of the meaning behind Sofía’s words - if rather taken aback to see one of the sisters taking his side over Ernesto’s in a discussion - Juan nodded. “See, Sister Sophie agrees,” he said, with a decisive nod that made it clear the matter was sealed.

Sofía grinned. Ernesto forced a smile. Oh, he thought, I am going to kill her.

“... Of course. I will be happy to,” he spoke through gritted teeth. Sofía took that as her cue to disappear out of the door with one last grin in his general direction. As the door closed, he allowed himself to groan, no longer having to keep up the pretense of keeping up the pretense in front of Sofía. “Bastardo,” he muttered.

Juan clicked his tongue, wagging a finger at him. “Language,” he chided. “If it is of any comfort, this also means you will be spared Latin for the day.”

“Does this mean you’ll make me study through the night once I’m back?” Ernesto grumbled, and the gringo gave a startlingly sincere laugh. Those had always been rare to come by, even more so after he learned the truth about him. Ernesto’s annoyance faded a little, and just a little.

“Hah! I thought about it, to be entirely sincere, but no.” He stood, giving his arm a light pat. “I will not put you through it tonight, either. We’ll both get to sleep.”

Somehow, he was both absolutely right and disastrously wrong at the same time.

***

Just as a very disgruntled Ernesto de la Cruz disappeared down the first hill south of the village on the back of an elderly donkey, Commander Santiago Hernández rode up the first hill north of the village at the head of a column of sweaty, angry men.

Fewer men than he’d have liked, truth be told. They had succeeded in pushing through the territories under the control of Zapatistas, but resistance had been fierce and their advance hadn’t been without sacrifices. The oppressive heat and the talk going around - they were losing the war, Huerta was going to fall any day now - did nothing to improve morale.

But they had made through the worst, the scum who’d planned to ambush them had been tricked into waiting for them somewhere else entirely, and they had almost reached Santa Cecilia - where they would take supplies and some fresh recruits to replace their fallen comrades. Those things were occasionally offered, far more likely taken, but it did not matter. The end result was the same, and he let his men deal with it.

What he usually kept himself occupied with was taking a very good look at every man he could find and asking everyone if a-- deserter traitor murderer -- man called Ernesto de la Cruz had sought refuge among them. He’d been lucky until then, evading detection, but his luck wouldn’t last forever, Santiago was certain of it. He didn’t allow himself to think he may be forever beyond his reach.

If only I had a photograph of that traitor, Santiago thought, not for the first time, but he chased away the thought. He did not have one; his name and a description was all that he had to work with, and it would have to do.

Santiago frowned, and spurred his horse the last few yards of the way to the top of the hill. He stopped his horse, allowing himself to breathe in the faint breeze caressing his face.

Below him, in the merciless heat of a summer afternoon, lay Santa Cecilia.

***

If only he hadn’t been asleep, Miguel would think later, they would have never caught him.

Granted, a tree branch is not a great place to take a nap. He wasn’t supposed to be asleep, they were playing hide and seek and he was really determined to win that round, so he’d climbed up a large tree at the base of a hill.

It was a really good hiding place, because the branches were wide enough for him to sit comfortably, back against the trunk, while the leaves beneath him hid him from sight. They hid him so well that he got bored of waiting to be found or for Felipe to give up, and he eventually dozed off.

At least until he was startled awake by shouts and rancorous laughter, and the steady clap of more horse hooves than he’d ever heard at once. Somehow, he had enough presence of mind to understand who it had to be - Federales! - but not nearly enough to remember he just so happened to be on top of a tree branch when he tried to stand up to run back and warn everyone.

“Aaaagh!” Miguel fell with a cry, hit a branch on his way down, and somehow managed to grab onto another before he had a very unpleasant meeting with the ground below. There were yells somewhere below him, and he knew he had been spotted.

“Oye!”

“What the-- what are you doing up there, muchacho?”

“Odd bird, that!”

“Oh, bet I can get him down with one shot…”

“What?”

“Hey now, it’s just a kid--”

“A lookout, more like, and there may be more.”

“Put that pistol down, Mendoza, or God be my witness you’ll hang from that branch!”

A voice rose over all the others, and the entire world seemed to go quiet. Miguel looked down, still reeling. A dozen men on horses were a short distance away from the tree, including a squat man quickly lowering a pistol, and more were coming down the hill. The men’s eyes were not on Miguel, however: they were looking at a tall, slender man with a closely trimmed mustache as he spurred his horse to walk beneath the branch Miguel was hanging from. Not a huge drop, but more than he’d like to risk.

“That doesn’t seem comfortable, niño,” he said, and it was only then that Miguel realized the thundering order not to shoot had come from him.

I was almost shot. They almost shot me, Miguel thought. His blood ran cold, and he suddenly understood why Ernesto had been so scared. He’d always known, of course, but seeing them up close - finding how quickly a soldier could joke about shooting a child off a branch like ripe fruit - suddenly made it so real.

It could get me killed, Miguel, Ernesto had said. You must never say it aloud again.

“I… I was…”

“Keeping an eye out for us to come, all the way out here?” the man, clearly someone in command, asked. His voice was cold and Miguel swallowed, still holding onto the branch for dear life. If he so much reached up from atop his horse, he could pull him down by the legs.

“N-no, señor,” he managed, his voice so small. “I... we were playing hide and seek. I hid.”

The man’s cold gaze remained fixed on him for a moment more, then it seemed to soften. “Well, if you hadn’t fallen, I wouldn’t have known you were even there,” he said, and smiled.

It was not an insincere smile, Miguel would think later, but there was something so fundamentally broken about it that he felt all the sweat on his skin had suddenly turned into frost. But at least, he thought, he’d stopped one of his men from shooting him dead. Was it because he balked at the idea of murdering a boy in cold blood? Was it because he thought there may be an ambush and a shot may alert anyone laying in wait of their presence? Miguel would never know, and at the moment he had no time to think about it. The man moved his horse closer, and held out his arm.

“Come then, your arms look ready to give out,” he said. “We’ll take you back to your village.”

No, no, no. Keep away from there. Keep away from Santa Cecilia.

Miguel swallowed again, his own heartbeat thudding in his ears. “I…” he began, but he could think of nothing to say, and his arms finally did give out. The man caught him, his grip surprisingly strong for someone so slender, and pulled him to sit astride his horse as well. Miguel held onto the mane with shaky hands, looking down. He found himself thinking of the day he and Ernesto had met, when he’d saved him from the stream and let him ride on his horse - except that then he’d been elated, and now he was just terrified.

Please God, make them go away. Make them go away without hurting anyone.

“... Gracias,” he murmured, mostly to try and not anger him, and the man let out a noise that seemed almost a chuckle as he spurred the horse into moving again. He shouted an order for his men to get moving again, entirely ignored Miguel’s wince, and spoke again.

“And what is your name, niño?”

“Miguel,” he mumbled. His throat felt like sandpaper, but the soldier kept talking like he hadn't noticed, or did not care, that the hands clenching the horse’s mane were shaking.

“Just Miguel?”

“Sí.”

“Very well, Just Miguel. I’m Commander Santiago Hernández.” His tone was light, but the grip on the reins was tight, the arms at either side of Miguel unyielding. “So, hide and seek? With friends?”

“S-Sí.”

“A good hiding place. I was never much good at hiding when I was your age. Alberto always found me. Now I am the one doing the searching for him.”

Miguel blinked, confusion overriding the fear for a moment. He craned his neck to look back. “Searching?” he repeated. The man’s gaze was like steel, but as he looked down it softened… only a moment. Then the coldness was back, and something in the pit of Miguel’s stomach twisted. He looked away again.

“For traitors. For one in particular, but any traitor will do.” A brief pause. “You seem like a smart boy,” he added, but Miguel didn’t feel smart at the moment. He only felt so stupid for just falling in the Federales’ hands as he had and so very, very scared.

“I-- try to be.”

“You know many people in the village?”

Nearly everyone, but he knew better than to say it. Maybe he had some smarts left, after all. “A few. Not all that many, the Sisters keep us in the church,” he added, hoping it would make a good excuse. To his relief, Commander Hernández hummed in understanding.

“Ah, nuns. I know what you mean. Does the name Ernesto de la Cruz ring any bells to you?”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh God, no.

It could get me killed, Miguel. You must never say it aloud again.

Miguel’s eyes stung with tears, but he was able to keep his voice from shaking too much as he spoke. “No, señor. I don’t think it does.”

“Are you certain? He is a deserter, and a dangerous man. A murderer. It is best for everyone that he is found and taken care of, don’t you agree? If he is here, your village is in danger.”

We are in danger now. If he finds him, he’ll kill him. If he knows we hid him, he’ll kill us all.

“Then I hope you find him,” Miguel managed, fighting back more tears while he watched the first houses of Santa Cecilia drawing closer as the column of men entered the main road in.

***

“... I still can’t believe we each thought the other was the one leaving behind the instructions.”

“Heh. And to think I knew your handwriting is better than… that.”

“Likewise. But I imagined you may have tried to disguise yours.” Imelda frowned a little, emptying the donation box into the basket - not a lot, few had much to give those days, but it would do and keep the poor fed - before returning it to its place. “It still irks me that we don’t know who it was.”

Héctor chuckled. “Maybe it was Cheech all along,” he said, knowing full well that despite being somehow able to read music sheets, the old gravedigger was damn near illiterate. Which was exactly the point Imelda made next.

“Chicharrón doesn’t know how to write anything but his name, Juanita’s, and a few choice words he had the bad taste of teaching my brothers,” she muttered, then she paused, and raised an eyebrow. “... What is it?”

“Uuuuh,” Héctor managed, mind entirely blank of anything he had been thinking. Their church was small and not much to write home about, but it did have one stained glass window thanks to a glassworker who had died almost twenty years prior and who had made it to thank God for saving the life of his son after a bad accident with an angry pig.

A claim doctor Sanchéz had hotly debated, that, considering that it had been him and not Jesus Christ to painstakingly sew torn flesh back together and throw iodine into any open wound, but his protests had been mostly ignored and their humble church now had a beautiful stained glass window, letting in soft light that made Imelda look like an angel straight out of-- well, no. Angels in the Bible were the things nightmares are made of, so not that.

But God, she really was the most lovely being in all creation.

A moment of silence, and then the most lovely being in all creation tilted her head on one side. “... Are you well? You look--”

“Beautiful,” Héctor blurted out, and Imelda let out a chuckle, a smile curling her lips.

“Well, I’ll admit you are a sight for sore eyes…”

Wait, what? Héctor shook his head, taken aback. “Wha-- no, not me. I mean, you. You-- beautiful,” he stammered.

The songwriter, señores y señoras.

As his face made a valiant attempt at reaching the same temperature as the sun, Imelda laughed. “I know what you meant,” she said, and the smile on her face widened just a little. She reached to take his hand, and Héctor let her pull him closer as though in a dream. “I think I can get used to hearing you say that. Once this is all over.”

Ah-- ah, of course. Yes. Once this was all over, and Hurta and his Federales were gone, he would ask her to marry him, and she would say yes, and they would leave the Church - only to return for their wedding to be officiated, and… and…

The thought of seeing Imelda in her best Sunday dress standing beneath that same window, as his bride, made Héctor’s heart skip a beat. Imelda let go of his hand, and he immediately reached to cup her face.

You may now kiss the bride.

“I’ll tell you every day,” he promised. Oh they were so close, and alone in the empty chapel. Or rather under the eyes of God, but Héctor felt no shame over it. God would understand, and if He didn’t-- well, it didn’t matter. “Starting now.”

The coy expression on Imelda’s face had faded a little, her lips parting. She placed her hand on his arm, but didn’t try to push him away. Héctor dared lean in, she tilted her face up, and her eyes fluttered close, and--

“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME!”

“Gah!”

Héctor and Imelda came apart with a yelp, and turned towards the source of the voice. Said source was marching up towards them as though filled with the wrath of God, face somehow even paler than usual and eyes ablaze. “Brother Héctor! What is the meaning of this?”

Oh God. Face quickly turning a deep shade of purple, Héctor cleared his throat. By his side Imelda looked down in a way that may have looked demure, if not for the way the corners of her mouth curled upwards despite everything. It made Héctor struggle to keep himself from laughing.

“Padre Ju-- I mean, Father John!” he exclaimed with a wide smile, hands clasped together. “I can explain.”

“Oh?” The gringo came to a stop in front of him with a huff, arms crossed full of judgment for someone who had been doing… the kind of thing Ernesto claimed they had been doing. “Then please, do explain yourselves!”

“Well…”

“Oh, I’m curious to hear this one,” another voice rang out, insufferably smug and awfully familiar. Héctor looked past the gringo to see Gustavo leaning on one of the front pews, a grin on his face. Had it been him to tell Padre Juan that he and Imelda were alone in the chapel? Of course it had been him, he only needed a look at his face to know it. That cabrón--!

Héctor opened his mouth to tell Gustavo exactly what he thought of him, but before he could spew out a series of expletives that would have probably resulted in his excommunication from the Roman Catholic Church, the chapel’s door was thrown open and someone ran in screaming. Felipe.

“Federales!” he cried out, skidding to a halt on the polished floor. He was panting, hair sticking out in all directions and glasses askew, the sling holding up his broken arm having left an angry red mark on the side of his neck. “The Federales are here!”

Héctor’s blood ran cold and, for a moment, no one moved or spoke. All four adults stared at the panting boy, stunned incredulity on each of their faces.

Just when it was beginning to look like Huerta is done for. Just when we thought we may have escaped them entirely.

“Impossible!” Gustavo almost cried out, reaching to grab the boy by the shoulder. “They can’t be here! They were going to go through San Luz!”

How would you know?, Héctor thought, but he didn’t get to voice the question. The next moment Imelda was no longer by his side: she pushed past a still silent Father John to tear her brother from Gustavo’s grasp, and look at him in the eye.

“Where is Óscar?” she asked, fear plain in her voice. Her horror seemed to grow when Felipe swallowed and shook his head.

“I-- I don’t know. They’re at the plaza, rounding up people--”

“What do you mean, you don’t know! You’re always together!” Imelda crouched before him, even though he was already taller than her. She looked like she was begging him for a different answer. “Do you know where he may be? He needs to go home. He needs to hide.”

“No, I-- we were playing hide and seek, and Miguel--” Felipe let out a shaky breath and looked over at Héctor, eyes huge behind his glasses. “Héctor, their leader has Miguel.”

No. No, no, no, no, no. Not Miguel. Please.

The world around Héctor seemed to fade for a moment, and he seriously thought he may be about to faint; his ears were buzzing and his tongue felt too large. Children were not spared in that war, the Federles would take anyone who could hold a gun and make them fight.

I’ll fight. I’ll go. Just please, not Miguel.

“Very well then.” Father John’s voice rang out, impossibly calm, the full weight of his authority behind it. They all turned to look back at him as though puppets pulled by the same string. His hands were clasped tightly together, his mouth pulled in a thin line; a grim resolve was etched on his every feature. “It seems I need to speak to their leader, then. Philip, you go home. I will handle this.”

Gustavo groaned, rubbing his face. “With all due respect, Padre,” he said, everything in his tone making it clear he didn’t think the respect he was due was all that much, “it may be best you don’t try to confront them.”

“How come?”

“They have a bone to pick with Americans after Veracruz. More than everyone else, I mean.”

The resolve on the gringo’s face did not waver. “Surely, the cloth I wear will mean something to them.”

“Well… I suppose, at least for some, but they don’t love the Church all that much…”

“Then it will have to do.” Father John turned to Héctor and Imelda, who was still kneeling before her brother. “... Do ensure the children here are safe. Your brother may already be safe, if he saw them coming. Philip, you go home. I will do all I can to… smooth things over.”

You were never able to smooth things over with any Mexican ever, Héctor thought, but didn’t get to say as much aloud. The gringo turned and marched out of the church, immediately followed by Gustavo, who was probably thinking someone should make sure he didn’t mess it up too badly. Too bad he was probably the second worst pick for the job. Or the third, if they counted in Cheech. As they walked off, Imelda looked back at her brother.

“... Keep to the back roads, and go straight home. Maybe Óscar is already there. Go out back, through the sacristy - quick!”

Felipe disappeared at the back, and Imelda turned to look at Héctor. She was pale as ash, but her jaw was set; all the terror that had filled her moments earlier had been pushed back. “... I’ll tell Sofía to try and hide the supplies in the basement as well as she can. I’ll go gather all the boys and bring them back to the orphanage. You… you get Miguel away from them.”

“I…” A shaky breath, and Héctor nodded. “Do you think… what if they’re looking for Ernesto?”

“Then thank God he’s all the way out there to bless a bull. We’ll all tell the truth - none of us knows anyone called Ernesto de la Cruz.”

“If someone mentions a Padre Ernesto…”

“It’s a common enough name, and no one would think a deserter and our parish priest are the same person. His plan may have really been stupid enough to work.” She squeezed his arm. “Now think of nothing but Miguel. I’ll see you both later.” A pause. “I love you.”

Héctor swallowed, and leaned for a quick brush of the lips before he tore himself away from her and ran down the church and outside, down the steps, heart hammering in his throat and only one thought in mind: find Miguel, and keep him safe.

Whatever it takes.

***

“No one move, and no one will be harmed.”

Santiago’s voice rose over the plaza, met with almost complete silence from the people of Santa Cecilia - or at least those among them they had caught outside, at what looked like their weekly market - and seemingly went unheard by his men, who were busy taking as much as they could from the stands full of food and produce. Santiago did not try to stop them; they were fighting for Mexico, after all, and taking supplies was well within their rights.

If anyone was unhappy with that, they were smart enough not to voice it.

“I am looking for a deserter,” Santiago spoke again, circling the small crowd, still atop his horse. The boy, Miguel, sat frozen before him. Part of him, the man he had been before the war, felt sorry for the situation he was in, but the much colder man he had become, the one who had survived this far, knew it was a matter of practicality.

Having one of their kids on the horse with him made it… less likely for anyone to think of doing anything rash, such as pointing a gun in his general direction; it was a lesson he had learned after a bullet shot from a window had grazed at his right temple, leaving behind a rather unsightly scar.

Sorry, muchacho. I cannot afford to die. Not until Alberto is avenged.

“His name is Ernesto de la Cruz,” Santiago spoke the name loud and clear, so that all in the plaza could hear. “A large man, doesn’t go unnoticed. Black hair, brown eyes,” he added, painfully aware of how vague that was. “He had a beard, but he may have shaved it off. He is a murderer who did not hesitate to shoot a man in the back, and he’s dangerous. He needs to be put down as the rabid dog he is. If any of you is harboring him, you are not only committing treason - you are putting yourselves and your village at risk. So I ask you all--”

A sudden cry cut him off, followed by a laugh and a man’s furious voice. “Hey! Get your hands off-- agh!”

“Javier! No!”

Santiago turned to the source of the disturbance, as did the rest of the nervous crowd. A glance was enough to tell what had happened: one of his soldiers was still brandishing his rifle like a club, standing above a young man bleeding from the mouth while a girl with a torn blouse knelt over him, crying. He sighed. “... Mendoza. What did I tell you all about what you are and are not allowed to take from the towns we pass through?”

A grin. “Not my fault, Commander. This one was giving me the eyes. You know what I mean, no?”

Santiago gave him a frosty smile. “I understand. It has been a long march, hasn’t it? I believe you have dropped some cartridges.”

“Huh?” Mendoza looked down, searching for cartridges on the dusty ground. Santiago pulled out his pistol. “Cover your ears, muchacho. And close your eyes,” he told Miguel, and did not wait to see if he’d obeyed: he just lifted his pistol, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

There were a few cries, mostly covered by the loud bang, but Mendoza made no noise: he was thrown to the ground and jerked just once before he lay still. As those closer to the body tried to shift away without making themselves targets, Santiago put the pistol back and turned his gaze around, to his other men, who had stilled and were staring back in silence.

“I trust you will need no more reminders to keep your hands to yourselves,” he said. Miguel was shaking on the saddle, hands on his ears. Santiago gave his head a reassuring pat before turning his horse to the side, so that the boy didn’t have the body in his line of sight. “Now - do any of you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of Ernesto de la Cruz?”

As the soldiers around them resumed taking all the supplies they could take, he stared at the face of every villager. They all avoided his gaze, and they all shook their heads. Santiago scowled, anger beginning to stir in his chest. So he wasn’t there, either? Had he once again failed to find him? Where had that bastardo gone?

“We need men, and any men we need we will take!” he screamed, circling them once again, and gesturing for some of his men to leave the plaza and search the houses around them for anyone trying to hide. Young children held onto their mothers’ gown, elderly people huddled together, women held onto the arm of grown men, and somehow that just infuriated him more. They looked at him like he was a monster, but it was all wrong. He was hunting for a monster.

He was doing his duty, fighting for Mexico, risking his life - seen his friends die - and he’d even just protected one of theirs from his own man. Why did they look at him like that? What right did they have? How dare they? “If he is here, hand him over and none of yours will be taken! If you’re hiding him, you will all regret it!”

“Oh, quit yelling, will you!” a voice suddenly snapped. “There is no one by that name here. Now let the kid go.”

Santiago turned his horse, and found himself glaring down at a short, squat old man with a peg leg and a scowl on his face. “Cheech--” Miguel began, his voice shaking, but the man silenced him with a wave of his hand.

“Grownups are talking,” he muttered, and looked back at Santiago. “Listen, we got no deserter here. No one moved in recently, and there are three Ernestos in all of Santa Cecilia. One is old enough to have been at Montezuma’s court, the other is a cobbler wider than he’s tall, and the third is a priest. There is no one called de la Cruz. If the man you’re looking for was here, we’d hand him over in a heartbeat to save our own. I know I would.”

That was true, and Santiago knew it; it was the reason behind his offer, after all. He had grown up in a village much like that one, and he knew how close-knit the community was. The choice between the safety of a newcomer and that of their own people was no choice at all. Still-- ah, it was infuriating. He kept slipping through the net, people looked at him like he was the monster, and it was all wrong. He had left home with Alberto trying to do the right thing. They had wanted to be heroes. Now Beto was dead, Nando was dead, and he… he...

If you think I’m the monster, then I intend to deserve it.

“... Very well,” Santiago sneered, and dropped a heavy hand on Miguel’s shoulder, causing him to wince. “We need thirty able men. Twenty-nine, as it seems I already have a volunteer. Who else will join us and do their duty as Mexicans?”

The old man’s wrinkly face twisted in fury. “Miguel didn’t volunteer for shit!”

“Oh, but he did. Here he is, no? Boys younger than him have fought for the glory of Mexico. I’ll teach him all he needs to know.”

If looks could kill, Santiago would have probably dropped dead off his horse. He found he did not care - even if in the back of his mind he knew the boy was too young to make a decent soldier, even though part of him balked at the thought of forcing him into the front line. Maybe he would make himself useful as a messenger, something not as dangerous as fighting. Santiago would mull on that later; right now, he had to make a point - what the army needed, the army would take.

Not that the old bastard seemed to care for the point he was trying to make. “He won’t even be able to lift a gun. I know how to shoot. I’ll take his place.”

There were murmurs in the crowd, but Santiago laughed. “You? You’re missing a leg and look like you’re one step away from the grave. I said I need able men--”

“Get off that horse, and I’ll show you just how able--!”

“Commander! A word, if you please!”

A voice called out before Santiago could seriously consider pulling out his pistol and blowing off the idiot’s bald head. It wasn’t just any voice: this one had a strong, distinctive accent. Slowly, he turned back to face the man who had spoken and, for a moment, he thought he must be dreaming.

Before him, clad in black priestly robes, stood a gringo.

***

“Well well, what have we got here?”

Sofía froze, the box full of cartridges still in her arms. She slowly turned to see a soldier of the Federal army at the door, rifle in hand, looking around the cellar.

How in the world had he found his way there? Were there more? Had Imelda managed to get the children to safety on time? Feeling as though her stomach had turned into a block of ice and mentally cursing - she had almost managed to move everything! - Sofía managed to smile. “Good afternoon. I am afraid you may be in the wrong place. This is the parish’s--”

“I am here to requisition supplies,” the man cut her off. “What is in there? Food?”

Well, that was it. She needed to come up with something quickly, because if the man so much caught a glance of what was really in those boxes, she and probably the entirety of the parish would end up before the firing squad before the sun had time to set.

I can’t believe I saved Ernesto’s life by having him sent off to heal a bull’s masculinity.

"These donations are for the house of God to help the poor, I am afraid. I cannot let you take them,” she said in her best apologetic tone. “I am certain you understand, our mission--”

"Move aside."

Ah, so that was how it had to be. "... No."

"It is for the glory of Mexico."

"What of the glory of Heaven?"

"You want to go meet that glory, sister?" The soldier snapped, and raised his rifle so that Sofía could stare right into its barrel. It looked impossibly large, impossibly black. If those men held no respect for the Church, there truly was no defense left. "What about now?"

"... It seems I misspoke."

"Of course you did."

"What I meant to say is, absolutely not. Have you no shame?"

The man glared daggers at her, and Sofía could only hold her breath, praying that he did have at least some reservations over shooting a nun after all. He hesitated, so maybe her gamble had paid off. Maybe she could still find a way--

“Ah, here you are! I thought I had seen one of the heroes of Mexico coming in here!”

Gustavo’s voice caused Sofía to blink and the soldier to turn, rifle up. On the doorway, Gustavo held up his hands with a smile. “No need to shoot, I am here to offer help,” he said, as though having a rifle pointed at his face was not bothering him at all. “As the sister correctly said, these are the supplies for the church - but we do have some food and medical supplies aside I am sure you could use.”

“Hhm. Do you now?”

“Of course. I am the sexton here, and I have been keeping some supplies aside just in case you happened to come through our humble village,” he added. The soldier slowly lowered his rifle, and Sofía blinked. She knew Gustavo was a cabrón, but a supporter of the Federal Army of all things? God, had he been working for them all along? How much did he know--

“Now, sister Sofía, we’ll leave you to finish your good work,” Gustavo added, taking a step towards her and taking her hands. “You were always such a tireless servant of the Church, may God bless you.”

Sofía opened her mouth to ask if he’d hit his head, but promptly shut it when she felt something being pushed against her palm - a folded piece of paper. She looked up and shared a long, serious look with Gustavo before he let go of her hands and led the soldier outside, all smiles and questions about his bravery in battle.

Only once she was alone again, heart hammering in her throat, did Sofía unfold the piece of paper to read the message hastily scribbled on it, in the same handwriting she had seen several times. It looked identical to the one in the instructions Imelda had been receiving for months, coordinating their help to the revolutionaries and their cause.

Once they have left, ring the bell to a death toll and don’t stop. Help will come. Tell them to follow the trail. They’ll know.

***

Truth be told, Father John Johnson knew he had very few chances of succeeding.

Gustavo was right: Americans were particularly hated since their attack on Veracruz, and there was little love between Huerta loyalists and the Catholic Church. However, most if not all those men had been raised to go to Mass, and respect God’s servants; the presence of a priest still inspired at least some measure of deference, if the way the soldiers moved aside to let him pass was anything to go by.

And within moments it was obvious, just from the furious glare he received, that the cloth he wore was the only reason why their commander hadn’t shot him on sight.

“What is a gringo doing here?” the man scoffed, and moved the horse to tower over John. Gripping the horse’s mane, Miguel looked down at him with wide, terrified eyes; John gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile and looked back up at the commander.

“I serve at this village’s parish,” he said, his voice quiet. “Most call me Padre Juan. I am here to see if there is anything I may do to assist you, and protect my flock at the same time. Certainly an arrangement can be made.” Anything, he thought, anything to save my flock.

The commander scowled. “Protecting them is what we have been doing all along,” he snapped. Around them soldiers were dragging in more men and boys they must have torn out of their homes, forcing them in the plaza, separating all men from the women, the elderly, and children too young to hold a rifle. A few people cried out, but most were silent and still under the threat of firearms. “It is time they do their part for their country. This war may have been over already if not for your kind, sticking your nose in places where it doesn’t belong!”

John drew a long breath. “I do understand. The attack against Veracruz was unfortunate--”

“THE ATTACK AGAINST VERACRUZ WAS SLAUGHTER!” the man screamed suddenly, causing John to wince - but he did not turn, did not flee. He couldn’t, no more than the shepherd can run from the flock and leave it at the mercy of wolves. There was something in his voice that went beyond anger, raw and full of pain.

“... It was. I pray for all the lives lost that day, that God may take them in his glory,” he said, bowing his head. “Anything I may do would be a drop in the ocean, but if there is anything you require of me-- please, do tell me.”

The man paused, seemingly taken aback by the humble response. The scowl remained etched on his face, but the fury in his eyes burned a little less brightly. After a brief silence, during which one could hear a pin drop across the plaza, he spoke again.

“... You said you serve this parish. You must have heard confessions. Know everything about everyone.”

“I do, sir.”

“Do you have any knowledge of a man called Ernesto de la Cruz hiding nearby?”

Ernesto.

A cold, cold hand grasped John’s hand, and squeezed. He wanted to scream, to cry, to curse at the choice put before him - one he had hoped he would never have to make. He was relieved he had sent him away at a distant farm; he was horrified he may now have to be the one to give him away. Would that man be sated, if he got his hands on him? Would he leave the rest of Santa Cecilia alone? Could he trade the life of one for the lives of many?

There is no place in Mexico that is safe, Ernesto had said. I’m done for the moment you speak.

If the Federal army finds me, I’ll hang.

For all the turmoil in his soul, John managed to let nothing show. He looked up again, hands clasping together. “This man’s crimes must have been grievous--”

“He is a deserter, and he murdered a man far better than himself to escape.” The pain was in the commander’s voice again, a bleeding, open wound. “He must hang for it.”

They won’t give me the kindness of making it a clean fall with a broken neck, he’d said.

“... I see,” John said, and drew in a deep breath. He let his gaze wander around, across the faces of the men gathered by the soldiers - oh Lord, young Óscar was among them, eyes wide and scared behind his glasses - as he silently begged forgiveness from each of them. Anything to save his flock, he’d sworn to himself and to God, but this - this he could not do. Ernesto was of his flock too, the lost sheep. Whatever the consequences, they would be his own to live with.

Finally, he looked up again to meet Miguel’s gaze - and to his utter astonishment, Miguel met his gaze… and shook his head, so slightly.

Don’t tell him.

He knows.

Shock was almost great enough to make John lose his composure, but just almost. He sighed, and shook his head. "I am sorry, commander," he heard himself saying, his own voice distant. "I know no man by such name."

All at once, any humanity that has seemed to have returned to the man’s eyes was gone. “I see. Well, thank you for your useless intervention. Twenty-nine more men!” he screamed, turning to the soldiers. He turned his horse and John acted out on instinct, reaching up to grab the reins.

“Miguel is only a child!” John exclaimed, holding onto the reins despite the commander’s effort to tear it from his grasp. Only a child who reminded him of another he’d been forced to leave behind so long ago.

Michael was so young, I don’t know if he even remembers me. I don’t even know if they’re all still alive. It’s been so long.

But Miguel was there, alive, in need of help. “He’s only nine - and the boy over there with the glasses - they are still too young for this war. In God’s name--”

“God cares not for what happens here! Go preach to someone else, gringo! Let go!”

“For your own soul, if not for their lives! They’re children!”

“Let go, or I’ll shoot the boy in the head right now!”

“You monster! What sort of beast--”

“ENOUGH!”

There was the gleam of metal in the sun, a deafening bang, and screams. A terrible force knocked John back in the dust, tearing all breath out of his lungs. The sun filled his eyes for just a moment, impossibly bright, before cobwebs of darkness clouded his vision. He felt a terrible heat, something filling his mouth and soaking through his clothes. Thoughts ran through his mind like galloping horses, disjointed and increasingly muddled.

Is this it? Is it the end?

I will never see them again.

I am going to Hell, aren’t I?

Oh thank God, thank God he didn’t shoot him.

More cries, and a voice above all others, crying out Miguel’s name, full of the anguish only a father can feel. Hector's voice.

I am sorry, John tried to say, but all that left him was a gurgling sound. I couldn’t do it.

Yet even now, as he slipped out of consciousness, as he begged for God’s forgiveness and for those boys’ safety, he knew he could not regret his choice to give Ernesto a chance to save himself. If it cost him Hell, so be it. He would take the punishment.

Keep them safe, John begged without words, and dropped his head on the cobblestones, letting himself fall into nothingness as the screams around him faded into silence.

***

[Back]

[Next]

***

A/N: Have some additional art by @whattimeisitintokyo to, uh, lighten up the mood, I guess?

#pixar coco #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #miguel rivera #coco #fake priest au

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a-la-la-llama · 4 years

Text

The One Where Marinette Gets Attacked #4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 5

Cloud nine was where Marinette was currently residing after leaving the flower shop. The owner, Pamela, with the most vibrant red hair she had ever seen had wanted Marinette to work with her. Even though she now had a million problems on her hands with the school situation, she couldn’t fight the smile on her face. Maybe this wasn’t the most professional way to get a job but she went along with how Pamela was acting so it couldn’t be that bad. Tikki seemed to be on the same page as her because she could feel a hum of excitement on her thigh.

“How about we eat out for lunch instead of going home? I haven’t actually been out in the city since we have gotten here?”, she said out loud. Even though surrounded by people, no one gave a second glance at her antics. Having only traveled the city by rooftops and eating take-out made Marinette foreign still, even having stayed there for more than a year. Turning a corner to a cafe she had passed, Marinette waited in a short line. Walking up to the counter, the worker feigned a fake smile.

“Welcome to Caffeine Café, what could I get you today?”, the woman asked.

Marinette was given a strange look with the amount of caffeine she ordered but brushed it off. Settling into a corner booth with her tuna sandwich, she patiently waited for her name to be called by looking out the window.

Usually when she would look out her apartment window Gotham always appeared grey and gloomy. Right now, Marinette felt the warmth of the sun partially covered by a cloud on her skin. It must be Tikki’s doing. Sneaking a glance at the Kwami while grabbing her phone, Marinette was able to see Tikki happily snacking on the cookie she had packed.

“It’s a nice day, how does a trip to the park sound?”, Marinette asked.

Tikki silently nodded in agreement before returning to her meal as did Marinette.

Gotham had reminded Marinette much like they had depicted New York City in movies. It had a large park that included the famous Poison Ivy Botanical Gardens and that was open to the public like Central Park. Marinette decided going somewhere secluded was the best option due to Tikki wanting to be out. Even though she was tiny did not mean the god didn’t get cramped being in her purse.

“We could climb that hill, Tikki. It has a tree on top that we could sit under too!”, she suggested.

“Brilliant spot, my chosen. We’ll be able to have a great view and you could put the new sketchbook to use!”, Tikki cheered.

Marinette really should have been on guard out in the open all alone but something about the peacefulness of nature put her off guard. Any other time and she would have seen the attacker from behind coming. Any other time Marinette would have been able to swiftly dodge and apprehend them. Any other time but not this time. This time something tackled her to the ground just eight feet away from the top of the hill. Now, just because she was blindsided didn’t mean Marinette couldn’t swiftly recover. Tucking into a roll, she was able to end the fall squatted low on her feet instead of face planting on the floor. She was facing where her attacker should have been standing fully ready for a fight.

There was no one there.

Well, no one until she felt something wet brush the left side of her face. Turning towards the source she was met with the sight of a black Great Dane towering over her. She realized it was the one she had seen when working with Catwoman. Eye-contact with the animal was not her best choice because Marinette soon found herself rolling down the hill. Marinette couldn’t tell if it wanted to play or just recognized her since it continued to lick her face when they stopped at the bottom of the hill.

“Hello there, buddy. It’s nice to see you too!”, she said, sitting up gently scratching its head.

“Marinette! Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere? Should I get Kaalki? We can-“, Tikki worrily pestered Marinette.

“I’m fine, Tikki. Titus just got a little excited!”, she soothed the god while reading the dog's name tag.

“You need to be more alert, Marinette! It could have been someone really dangerous. Plagg will certainly come with you next time once he hears about this!”, Tikki scolded.

“Calm down, Tikki. No one is even here besides me and this good boy. Aren’t you a good boy!”, Marinette cooed.

“His owner doesn’t seem to be here. What do you plan to do?”, the Kwami questioned.

“The dog is from that house we visited with Catwoman, Tikki. I think that’s why it ran up to me. Or it could be your magic since we do have pigeons circling above us?”, Marinette said.

“Then it would be best if you return him home without coming in contact with his owners.”, suggested Tikki.

“Right! We’ll have to cut this outing short and go get Kaalki. How does that sound Titus?”, Marinette asked the dog.

It let out a bark in agreement. Well to everyone else it sounded like a bark. She would never get used to the whole animals and plants talking to her thing. Standing up Marinette, Titus, and Tikki made their way back to her apartment. Titus even followed her up the stairs. It wouldn’t be surprising the dog was able to maneuver up the small steps with the mansion it lived in. Titus would have to have experience!

“Miri’s, we’re home!”, Marinette called the Kwami’s by their nickname. Since they lived in the miraculous’ she had decided a name played of the word would be fitting. Creating the nickname ‘Miri’s’. The kwami that had permission out flew up to greet her and her guest. She briefly saw Tikki pull Plagg to the side most likely to tell him about their day.

“Kaalki, you remember Titus right?”, Marinette grinned at the Kwami.

“Yes, it’s that mutt that lunged at me when I came to retrieve you!”, the small horse spat out.

“That is no way to speak about him and you know it. Baark would be disappointed to hear this!”, she scolded.

“Sorry, Mari.”, he quietly apologized.

“It’s okay! Now, I need to return him home ASAP and I need your help.”, she explained.

“Of course, guardian! I’ll be glad for an adventure.”, Kaalki exclaimed.

“Great! Kaalki, full Gallop!”, Marinette called.

A turquoise portal was opened up in front of her that led to a well taken care of yard. Marinette saw how Titus was wary of it and comforted him with a bright smile.

“Don’t worry Titus, your home is just on the other side. I’ll keep my hand right here while we go through!”, she said resting a hand on the top of his head.

Coaxing the dog through was much easier than dealing with a civilian. She’s had her fair share of people refusing to flee to safety just because it was magic. Seriously people, your heroes or vigilantes can’t save everyone! It’s not like you can’t peek your head through first before crossing, she would never understand Gothamites. Titus seemed to be trusting of her and calming followed her in and stepped out onto the grass.

“See, nothing bad happened. It was nice to see you again Titus but I have to go now! Be safe and try not to run off again. I’m sure your owner would deeply miss you.”, Marinette whispered while giving his head a final scratch. Titus barked a goodbye as she stepped back into her apartment and closed the portal.

Calling off the transformation, Marinette flopped onto her couch and nestled into the blanket there. She hadn’t been back home for a full minute before she was bombarded.

“What’s this about you getting attacked!”

Damian would kill whichever one of his brothers left not only the front door but the gate open when they left. He hoped it had been Drake since he despised him the most. Titus had run off when he saw his opportunity for freedom out of the well-known manor grounds. Damian had spent the whole day running around Gotham trying to locate him. The dog even had the gall to disable the GPS location chip on his collar by running into a pool of water. He knew this because of the notification of water damage when he first started his chase. Now Damian was home and in a sour mood.

“Chill out Demon Spawn! Titus is hella smart and will come back eventually. Just let him roam around and live a little.”, Jason stated.

“You do not know that, Todd. For all we know he could be in a terrible pound or worse.”, Damian retorted.

“Baby Bird, he has a collar with our number. I’m sure when someone finds him they’ll give us a call.”, Dick said trying to reassure the youngest Wayne.

“Wait, we were looking for Titus? Isn’t that him in the yard?”, Tim questioned from his seat by the window.

There the missing dog was in all his glory barking a poor squirrel up a tree.

Tag list

@legallyspawned @chocolate1721 @spartanxhunterx @dreamykitty25 @toodaloo-kangaroo @vixen-uchiha @loveswifi @amayakans @jeptwin @thewonderlandartist @buticaaba @books-and-left-behind-journals @gigibnl @aegyobutpsycho2 @crazylittlemunchkin @maribat-is-lifeblood @myazael @abrx2002 @pawsitivelymiraculous @silvergold-swirl @chaos-inperson

#maribat #The One Where Marinette

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sasarahsunshine · 3 years

Text

Criminal Obsession | Prologue

Warnings: Rated M for Mature. Murder, drugs, alcohol, sex, swearing, the whole shebang.

A/N: I’m finally getting around to my mafia!AU for Criminal Minds! I’m very excited, because unlike my other fics where I write whatever comes to mind, this one is actually planned out. I’m already almost done with chapter 3, and I hope to have an upload schedule for this one. We’ll see! This is a HotchReid fic.

You can also read this on AO3.

----------

The leader of America’s largest Crime Ring is lonely. He’s surrounded by his friends; people who he trusts with his life. He has his son. But he's lacking something more meaningful in his life. He’s lacking companionship. After the death of his wife a year ago, maybe it’s time to find someone new?

How did he end up there? Standing at the top of a marble staircase, blood splattered across his face as he watched his first kill tumble and roll to a stop on the red carpet below, eyes vacant of life. Nothing but the echoes of their dying breaths in his ears, a memory he won’t ever forget. Their blood drips from the knife in his shaking hand, his grip tightening. He’s only 14 years old. Only 14.

A pat on his shoulder, a glint in his father’s eye, a pearly white smile. “You did well, son.”

You did well.

He did well.

He didn’t feel well.

He spun around, vomiting over the railing to the floor below. Just another mess for the Help to clean, he thought glumly. That wasn’t his intention.

The cold hand on his shoulder gripped him tighter, malice in the voice which only seconds before was praising him, “You’re weak! I am so ashamed to have you as a son! You can’t even handle a little blood on your hands- how do you expect to survive in this world if you can’t even defend yourself in a fight? Pathetic.”

Ten years later, he thought over those words as he twisted the knife in his father’s gut, making sure to watch the light fade from his eyes. His father coughed, blood seeping from his blue lips, “Why?” He asked, his voice a whisper. He leaned closer, humming into the old man’s ear, “Not so pathetic now, am I, father?”

Twenty years later, on the anniversary of his father’s untimely death, he sits at his desk, his throne, and nurses a glass of the finest whiskey. It tastes like shit. Like every other alcohol that’s touched his tongue throughout his life. But it gets him drunk, and it burns his throat in the way he needs.

His suit is black, form-fitted, custom-made. His fingers tap an unknown beat on aged oak, his eyes set on the door. His office is enormous. Practically a library. But as he stares, it begins to feel smaller. The walls close in on him, his lungs aching for the oxygen he is being deprived of. He could open the window. But that would require him to turn around. So instead, he sits, he drinks, and he stares.

He’s very aware of who is on the other side. He knows what they want. He waits for them.

And, eventually, the door opens, creaking on old hinges as it’s pushed open with little care. The man who saunters in is not who he was expecting, and he finds himself allowing the smallest twitch of a smile to grace his lips.

He is thankful, for this man is his friend. He is thankful, for this man is his left-hand. He is charismatic. Charming. A breath of fresh air after the week he’s had.

There’s a twinkle in his eyes as he takes a seat in the chair opposite of the desk, one leg going over the other as he leans back. He chuckles, running his hand over his shaved head. There’s dried blood speckled on his knuckles, on his disheveled button-up. The top two buttons are undone, and his tie is nowhere to be seen. There’s a brief moment where he wonders where the tie and jacket had gone to, seeing as his friend was wearing them both earlier in the day.

“You don’t need to worry about the threat anymore,” his left-hand says, flashing his white teeth in a smile that reveals small dimples. He pulls out a pocketknife, flipping it once in his hand before setting it on the desk, offering it as a gift. It’s covered in blood. The blood is going to stain the old oak of the desk.

“You’re sure?” He asks, finally setting his now empty whiskey glass down on a coaster. He can’t help as his eyes flitted behind his friend, taking in the large hallway behind him. A dead man is being dragged away by someone in a black suit, blood smearing on the floor behind him. “There was only one?”

“There were two,” he replies, holding up two fingers, “The first was in the kitchen. But don’t worry, I made sure they were the only ones. You’re safe. Jack’s safe.”

He allowed a sigh to escape. He didn’t need to be as stoic, as stern, in front of the left-hand; he knew that. He could finally relax. The room didn’t feel so small anymore. He could breathe again.

Sitting up a little, the vertebrae in his back cracking as he did, he nodded his head once, “Thank you, Morgan.”

“No problem, Hotch,” Morgan replied with a grin, “I had fun doing it.”

I’m sure, Hotch thought to himself. If anyone liked beating people to death, it was Morgan. That was probably why he discarded his jacket. Beating was messier than just shooting someone. He could never understand the so-called thrill of being covered in blood. He’d rather stand further away and just shoot someone between the eyes. Cleaner. Colder. Easier.

“Feel free to take the rest of the day off,” he replied, finally turning his chair around to look out the window at his expansive property, “But I want two men posted with Jack for the rest of the day. Just in case.”

“Right, boss,” Morgan said. Hotch could hear him stand and leave, not closing the door behind him. How irritating. Typically he would have called after him, but instead, he stayed silent, watching the soft breeze blow fallen leaves around in the yard. There weren’t that many yet, as it was only September, but the colder months were fast approaching. It wouldn’t be long before the auction season starts again.

“Door’s open,” he said as footsteps approached. He hated when people knocked. Turning his chair around, he found himself looking at the last person he wanted to see. He sighed, running his hand through his hair, “What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’” The older man scoffed, walking into the office with an air of confidence. His hair was greying, salt and pepper sprinkled in his beard. He arched an eyebrow, “I was just told that there were only two assassins in here this year. Are you sure that’s the end of it? It’s only 2pm, you know.”

Hotch drummed his fingers on his desk, scowling, “Morgan said that was it. He double-checked the property. But if you’re so concerned, Dave, why don’t you just make yourself at home here in my office? Be my babysitter?”

Dave smirked, sitting down in the authentic leather seat with a chuckle, “Why, thank you, Aaron. I think I will.”

Hotch rolled his eyes, pulled the bottle of whiskey from his cabinet, and poured it into his glass. Dave procured another glass from somewhere, holding it out for Hotch to fill. He did so, but not without shooting his oldest and dearest friend a glare of disapproval. Dave was the only person who could get away with such blatant disrespect. And he knew it, too. That was why he did what he did so regularly: getting on Hotch’s nerves.

The two allowed silence to fall over them as they sipped on their alcohol, Dave smirking at the furrowed brow of Hotch when he tasted the burn. They shared several minutes like this, enjoying the quiet. Their lives weren’t often slow, so when it was, it was nice.

Perhaps ten minutes passed, maybe a little more, before Dave spoke, his eyes studying the swaying oak tree outside the window, “Have you gone to see Sean and Haley yet?”

Hotch peered over the rim of his glass at him, frowning, “No. My priority was making sure Jack was safe.”

“Yes, I know that. But normally, you would have gone by now. What is really keeping you locked in your office?”

Hotch scoffed. Damn Dave and his ability to read people. He shrugged his shoulders, his fingers once again drumming along the table. He chose not to dignify his friend with an answer. He decided to stay silent.

David sighed, leaning forward a little, “Is it because today isn’t just your father’s death-versary?” The use of that word was one only the two of them shared.

Hotch’s frown deepened as he stared at the whiskey in his glass. Thirty years ago, he killed someone for the first time. Twenty years ago, he killed his father. Ten years ago, his brother was murdered in retaliation. One year ago, his wife was murdered. He was not going to allow this year to be the year his son was taken from him too.

He didn’t need to say anything. David nodded in understanding, a thoughtful look to his eyes. He let a beat of silence fall between them before he spoke again, “It’s been a year since Haley. And longer since you two were intimate-”

“Dave,” Hotch warned, his eyes growing dark as he glanced at his right-hand man. David shrugged, choosing to continue speaking anyhow. He could get away with it. He was the only one who could. “All I’m saying, is that you can’t hide your loneliness from me. It was there before she died, and it’s there now.”

“I won’t bring anyone else into my life who can be ripped away just as quickly,” Hotch responded, setting his glass down. He no longer wanted alcohol. He wanted to punch someone. Probably Dave.

“Since last year, your empire has doubled!” Dave argued, leaning forward with interest, “And with that, so has your personal guard! Nobody is going to touch you, Jack, or anyone else you might find love with. Aaron, please, I’m begging you, you’re a miserable old man who is letting your emotions control your business sense.”

“My business sense? Old man? Watch it, Dave, you’re older than me,” Hotch scoffed, rolling his eyes, “And since when has my empire growing been a bad thing?”

“I’m not saying it is,” Dave countered, “But don’t you want someone to share your wealth with?”

Hotch let his shoulders slump a little as he leaned back, swiveling his chair from right to left, “I’ve had plenty of women to spoil in the last year-”

“Not escorts,” Dave scolded, “someone more permanent. Someone you can have hanging off your every word when you speak. Someone to take with you to the galas and the auctions. Someone like Haley used to be for you.”

Hotch was about to retort, but the echoing of little feet running down the marble-laid hallway broke his concentration. He smiled as his son came barreling into the office, dark hair wild and unkempt, giggles and squeals coming from him as his nanny was on his heels. Her face was that of exasperation, but she smiled at her boss upon seeing him, “Sorry, sir,” she said as Jack climbed into his father’s lap, wrapping his little arms around his neck and shouting, “Daddy! For Halloween this year, I want to be Spiderman!”

Dave chuckled. Hotch widened his eyes, “Oh yeah, buddy? Why do you want to be Spiderman?” Jack leaned in and whispered into his father’s ear, “‘Cause we just watched Spiderman, and he can swing from webs in the air. Kinda like when we’re in the ‘copter ‘cept he doesn’t need a ‘copter! He can just do that!”

Hotch smiled, planting a kiss on his son’s forehead, “Wow, that sounds super cool, buddy. Halloween is still almost two months away, though, so you have time to think about it if you want to change your mind.”

“Nope!” Jack shook his head proudly, “I’m going to be Spiderman!” He then turned and smiled wide at Dave, his front two teeth missing, “Uncle Dave! What are you going to be for Halloween?”

David laughed, setting his glass down and leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, “I don’t know yet, kiddo. Maybe I’ll be Superman.”

“You can’t be Superman,” Jack scrunched up his nose.

“Oh? Why’s that?” David asked, peering from him to Hotch then back.

“Cause daddy’s Superman,” Jack said matter-of-factly. His nanny gave a tight-lipped smile at that, “That’s right, Jack,” she said. Hotch just smiled warmly at his son before picking him up and setting him down on the floor, “Well, Superman is still very busy right now,” he said, “so why don’t you go with Miss Clara and finish up your schoolwork, okay? I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Okay,” Jack nodded, smiling back at Miss Clara, “I only have some coloring left!” He declared. Miss Clara nodded, “Yep, so let’s go back to that, okay?” She looked up at Hotch, “Sorry again. He was just so excited to tell you.”

“It’s fine,” Hotch waved her off, watching her and his son hurry back down the hall. Thank goodness the Help was quick at cleaning up the bloody mess Morgan has left behind. He didn’t need Jack seeing that. He was only five.

Dave chuckled to himself, shaking his head a little, “Don’t think our conversation is over, Aaron,” he warned, “I’m not done trying to convince you to find a good woman to love.”

Hotch frowned. Of course, Dave wouldn’t drop it. He sighed and rolled his eyes, standing from his chair for the first time all day. His knees protested. “I don’t really have time to date, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Then pay for a girlfriend.”

“But you said no escorts,” Hotch knitted his eyebrows in confusion.

“Not escorts,” David used his hands for emphasis, “But what about a Sugar Baby?”

“A what?”

It was Dave’s turn to roll his eyes, “Oi, you’re younger than me, and you don’t know what a Sugar Baby is? Jesus Aaron, you haven’t been out of the game that long, have you?”

Hotch made a pointed look at Dave, expecting an explanation, not a taunting tone. Dave sighed, “Sugar Babies are girls who are paid for sex, but long-term. And not always with cash, although some take a certain amount upfront. They get spoiled by their Sugar Daddies with gifts, dinners, money, cars, whatever it is they want. A girlfriend you pay for. Someone to be your arm-candy at events. Someone to keep you company and to get your rocks off so you’ll stop being such an ass.”

Hotch scowled a little, leaning against his desk, his hands folded in his lap, “How is that different than an escort?” He was tense.

“Escorts are temporary. You fuck ‘em and dump ‘em,” Dave shrugged. Hotch furrowed his brow at his friend’s language. After a beat of silence, he exhaled, “That isn’t exactly a true girlfriend, either,” he pointed out.

Dave stood up, pulling a cigar out of the pocket on the inside of his suit jacket, “But it’s a step closer. Plus, you can shop around until you find one you like. You got money, Aaron. Might as well spend it.” He lit the cigar before inhaling on it deeply, blowing the expensive spice-scented smoke into the air. Hotch hated when he smoked inside.

He waved his hand in a motion to tell Dave to leave. Dave shrugged again, “Think about it, Aaron. I bet Penelope could put her feelers out there for you.”

“I can’t bring anyone in here,” Hotch warned, “With the business and all.”

“That’s why you have Penelope check them all out first. I’m sure there’s plenty of bad girls out there who have been Babies for other Crime Lords.”

Hotch flinched. He didn’t like being compared to other “Crime Lords.” He wasn’t like them. He didn’t deal in people. He didn’t murder for fun. He did what he needed to survive. This was survival, nothing more. Even though it was illegal.

Dave started walking out, waving his hand in farewell, “Think about it,” he said again, his smoke following him.

Hotch scoffed, going back to his desk and pulling out a file. He glanced it over, sitting down slowly. Financial reports from the last year. Boring.

He couldn’t help his mind from wandering a little, debating on the idea of a ‘Sugar Baby.’ A girl that had to be interested in what he said, what he did. Someone to wear extravagant dresses that he bought for them, custom-made, tailored to their body perfectly. Someone to hang off his arm at every event of the year. Many were coming up. The amount, he wasn’t sure, but he would have to ask Penelope. She would know.

Maybe it would be nice to have someone pay attention to him again. Someone to have in his bed for longer than one night, even if it was a paid arrangement.

His eyes flickered to the phone on his desk.

He hadn’t wanted a girlfriend before now because he couldn’t fathom the idea of even finding one. His life was too busy. If he wasn’t at an event in New York, he was in D.C. or Vegas. He just didn’t have the time. The only eligible woman on the property was his son’s nanny, and even though she was pretty, she was not his type.

But, if he could skip the formalities? If he could just have someone there for him without needing to date them first?

He picked up the receiver and dialed. After a beat, Penelope answered on the other end, “Yes, sir?”

“Garcia,” he started, “I need you to look into something for me.”

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

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15. Nymph SternClay alternately, Stern is a Dryad residing in a huge forest where a strange creature, similar to humans but different (aka Bigfoot) wanders alone. Ever curious, Stern seeks to understand why this beautiful creature doesn’t seem to have anyone else, and even tries to hide from the few humans who venture deep enough into the woods. Can they be alone together?

Here you go! It’s SFW

Joseph knows he can’t spend every hour in the Great Oak, reading and researching the movements of humans. He still struggles to justify his fascination with creatures that have little contact with his kind. Some of his peers go so far as to insist humans are a myth, or the result of the odd dryad or naiad seeing a bear from the wrong angle.

This is false, of course, and humans have been getting bold lately, making paths and taking walks deeper and deeper into the trees. This means that dryads assigned to security roles must spend at least six hours a day in their tree to make sure no one threatens their home. Joseph is in a Copper Beech not far from the GreenBriar river, mentally drawing up his to-do list for the week, when heavy footsteps catch his attention.

At first he thinks it’s a particularly hairy human tromping through the underbrush, decked out in a ratty flannel shirt and what he’s heard humans refer to as “sweatpants.” But his feet are bare, his limbs and face covered in dark, copper-flecked fur, and his ears are more pointed than those of a human. He leans against Josephs’ tree, drumming his fingers on it as he surveys the area, massive back-pack slung over his shoulders. There’s a flat patch of grass twenty yards away, and this is where the visitor eventually settles. Within fifteen minutes, a small tent sits on the grass. When the creature crawls inside and lays down, his feet stick out of the flap.

Once snoring filters into the air, Joseph slips from the tree, conjures a blanket from moss, and sets it across his feet. It gets cold here at night.

His kind gesture does not go as planned.

The instant the fabric hits skin, the figure in the tent jolts upright, growling. Joseph sits back as his guest's head bursts into the open. Then their positions instantly reverse, the other creature scrambling backwards in alarm.

“What the fuck? Where, where’d you come from, I didn’t hear you, didn’t even smell you sneaking up on me.”

Joseph raises his eyebrows, “Probably because I smell like bark and my footsteps are no different from falling leaves.” He holds out his hand for the creature to shark, “Joseph Stern, dryad.”

“O-kay, so why is a dryad trying to…” he looks at the blanket for the first time, “tuck me in?”

“You’re new to woodland living, I take it?”

“Not really.”

Joseph sighs, “There are specific rules that govern this forest. One of them is that dryads are responsible for everything within a two mile radius of their base” he points to the Beech, “including any residents, visitors, or refugees. Which means you’re my responsibility.”

“Uh, I’m good, you don’t need to, like, babysit me.”

The dryad produces a notebook from his pocket, flipping to the section for his resident intake form, “I’m not babysitting you, I just need some information for my records. Name?”

Deep brown eyes blink, perplexed, and then his guest shrugs, “Barclay.”

“Species?”

“No fucking idea.” Barclay picks up the moss blanket, folding it and setting it next to the tent.

“Purpose of stay?”

“To get some peace and quiet.” He turns a pointed glare at Joseph. Even with the glower, he’s the most handsome creature the dryad has ever seen.

“Um. Right. I’ll just fill in the rest myself. If you need anything, I’m just over there.” He walks briskly away, managing to only look over his shoulder once. Barclay is watching him, looking for all the world like a hare waiting for the fox to pounce.

It’s only when he’s back in the tree that he realizes having a resident will cut down on his research time. Then again, his guest is far more intriguing than any human could ever be.

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Barclay was so ready to stop feeling bad. He feels bad for stealing the tent from a guy he scared off his campsite two towns back. Bad for yanking clothes off the clothing line of rural houses so he could have two sets to rotate instead of a filthy, single shirt and shorts combo. Bad because it’s been months since he ate anything but MREs, granola bars, and day olds salvaged from dumpsters.

Now he gets to add “feel bad because you’re crashing on some guys front lawn” to that list. He didn’t even know nymphs were a thing; he thought he was the only weird semi-human in the world. Yet here’s Joseph, hair as dark and shiny as the leaves on his home tree, skin the color of bark, and vines occasionally twining up his arms and legs. Unlike Barclay, his inhuman features make him beautiful, not beastly.

Barclay came here to be alone.

Barclay hates being alone. He wants a house full of warmth and voices mingling over a kitchen table, wants people to care for and who care about him. So when Joseph appears the next morning near his small fire and it’s boiling pot of foraged tea, he offers the dryad some.

They sit, awkwardly sipping from their mugs, when he decides to take advantage of his host.

“I, uh, don’t suppose there’s any herbs growing around here? Like mint, or maybe alliaria? I wanna catch fish for dinner, but they taste better if I can season them.”

“I think there’s some growing upstream. Do you want me to show you?”

“Uh, no, that’s fine. I’m used to finding stuff on my own.”

Joseph nods, finishes his tea, and magics the cup clean before handing it back to Barclay.

----------------------------------------------------------------

“What...what’s all this?” Barclay stares, stunned, at the pile of goods sitting by his firepit. He counts a camp stove, teapot, and two boxes of fresh food, including bread and cheese,

Joseph looks up from organizing the supplies, “A few friends of mine, plus the Ashroot Market.” He smiles, Barclay’s stomach flipping like a flapjack when he does, “did you think we live on berries and air?”

“Kinda, yeah.” Barclay rubs his arm, embarrassed, “thanks, Joseph. I, uh, I don’t really have money, so maybe I can pay you back with-” he trails off as the nymph stands and sets a hand on his shoulder.

“Barclay, you don’t owe me anything. I did this because you keep saying how much you miss cooking from a real pantry and, um, I thought it’d make you happy to have some options.”

“It does.” He freezes as Joseph strokes the fur poking through a hole in shirt, “I can restock your sewing kit the next time, if you want.”

“That’d be great.” He wants so badly to touch him back, to see if he shudders away from his claws or holds his hand.

Josephs arm drops back to his side, “Ned has a surprising number of camping supplies. I suspect he stole them from humans, which is technically against the rules but” he indicates the stove, “I’ll let it slide for now.”

A conspiratorial wink and Barclay rumbles out a purr, catching it before Joseph notices.

“Will, uh, will you at least let me make you dinner as a thank you?”

The dryad nods, “That sounds perfect, big guy.”

-------------------------------------------

Barclay doesn’t howl often; it draws unwanted attention and there’s no one like him out there to answer anyway. Tonight he couldn’t help it, the loneliness tearing him to bits on it’s climb up his throat. He’s cross-legged on the ground, face to the stars, when Joseph sits down beside him.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you. Thought you were out.”

“I was reading.” Joseph scoots closer, rubbing Barclay’s back, “and I can tell you’re lying.”

Barclay delays answering, fixes his gaze on the Beech where Joseph lives. Nymph homes occupy liminal spaces, fitting an entire domiciles within trees. His current hobby is imagining what it looks like on the inside; whether there are books stacked neatly everywhere, whether there’s a nice kitchen, how big the bed is, what the view from the bed is like…

He’s never going to know, Joseph made that clear.

“It’s not that no other creature is allowed in a nymph home, more that getting them in there takes a dangerous amount of energy.”

“Barclay?” Joseph rests his head on his shoulder, “have you always been alone?”

“No. Or, well, I don’t think so. I get flashes of memory from when I was really little. Like there’s this big house with lots people who look like me, and they’re talking and keep passing me around so the grown-ups can ruffle my fur and make this, this sort of” he breaks off into the low, soft hoots that echo down through the years, “and then...then there’s this gap and the next thing I remember is being dumped on the side of the road somewhere in central California, more or less an adult myself. I spent so long looking for my family, for anyone who looked like or could give me answers and all I got was some scars and a bunch of T.V shows about hunting me.”

“That sounds awful. I, um, I’m glad you stumbled into my neck of the woods. I know I’m not always the best company and ask more questions about living around humans than you’d probably like but, um, you deserve to have at least one person on your side.”

“Thanks” Barclay tips his head sideways so it’s resting against Josephs’, “Uh if, if you ever want to, we could have a dinner here with Duck and them. I like cooking for people; one of those things I know about myself even if I can’t remember why.”

He must imagine the lips brushing his forehead as Joseph sits up, “I’ll invite everyone first thing tomorrow.”

------------------------------------------

A danger of sleeping in Joseph’s clearing is that Barclay feels safe. Starts sleeping like he has nothing to fear.

The voices in the distance, jarring him awake in the dead of night, remind him of the truth.

“Shit” he scrambles out of the tent, piles it and all his other possessions into a hollow log and throws the moss blanket over it just to be safe. Then the worst sound in the world reaches him: barking. Not only are the hunters close, they have dogs. And, his acute hearing informs him, he’s their prey.

Fuck, his scent and fur are all over this part of the woods, no wonder they’re honing in on him so fast. His best chance is to run and cross the river, but there’s an open stretch on the other side, so unless he’s lucky they’ll still spot him.

“Hey! I think something is moving over here!”

He flattens against the Copper Beech, narrowly dodging the beam of a flashlight.

“Shit, shit” he doesn’t want to fight, doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He doesn’t want to be caught. Inhaling, he readies himself to give the loudest roar of his life.

Then the world tips and twists and he’s no longer in the woods. He is, however, in a tree, if the view from the window is anything to go by.

Gasping sends his attention to the floor and he drops to his knees, scooping a limp, pale Joseph into his arms.

“Wel, welcome to my house. Sorry it’s such a, a mess.”

He glances at the polished furniture, the neatly stacked books, and the spotless floor.

“Seriously, babe? That’s the first thing you say after saving my neck?” He giggles, tipping towards hysteria.

“I couldn’t let them hurt you.”

“You could have died.” Barclay adjusts him so he’s mostly upright and hugs him close, “I coulda lost you why, why did you-”

His question is lost in the clumsy kiss Joseph pulls him into. Barclay’s body gives up on adapting to anymore surprises and he falls onto his back, the nymph weakly petting his cheeks as he tries, clearly exhausted, to continue kissing him.

“You’re the most incredible being in the forest and, and I’ve been so happy since you came to stay. My entire body feels like a leaf beaten limp by the rain and I’d do the same spell this instant, without hesitation, if that’s what it took to keep you safe. Keep you with me.”

Carefully, Barclay guides him into another kiss, vines curling up them both the more he pours all his affection and thanks into the nymphs mouth. When Joseph finally pulls away, he nestles down on Barclays chest, running his fingers through his fur.

“You, um, you may be here awhile. I’m not sure if I can get you out safely or if Dani and the others will have to help me.”

“No complaints here.” Barclay strokes his hair, which feels like soft leaves and normal locks all at once.

Joseph answers a few more logistical questions before falling asleep in his arms, which is plenty of answers for one night. And in the morning, when the nymph rolls over to smile at him, he can confirm; the view from the bed is beautiful.

#sternclay #agent stern/barclay #monster march #reader requests #taz amnesty

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