#guest oc ernest

[robottocs]

¡HAPPY VALENTINES DAY! Una colaboración de DoiMariEvan ~

Con los lindos OCs de @vinniocs @limonanda @gardenofhoney @yukikoaoiocs @llenitalanevera @qzwzp @guguocs @cherubuns

[odyooles]

some sketches + a bigger piece for weird island's anniversary!

aaand, though i drew this a while ago, i can't remember if i posted it, so, here!

(ft. some of my bestie @karl-raccoon-in-a-teacup's fusion ocs (go look at their blog for them @bungou-stray-chimera))

[missameliep]

Title: All The Things I'll Never Tell My Mother - Part 2

Book: Desire & Decorum AU

Pairing: Ernest Sinclaire x Hayley Parker (OC); Prince Hamid Osmanoğlu x Elizabeth Foredale (OC)

Rating: Teen

Word count: ~3.9k

Summary: First time babysitting can be challenging, and so is parting from his baby to an overbearing father. Will the Sinclaire's get to have their romantic dinner?

A/N: English is not my native language; for non-English words, see notes at the end; the concept for this fic was inspired by @choicesficwriterscreations' event CFWC Female Characters Week 2021 and is part of a collab with the very talented Noe (@rosesnink) from whom I'm borrowing Hayley Parker. The fic focuses on issues like motherhood, past losses and the friendship between these two very different women.

After being ushered by a member of the staff to the guest room they’ll spend the night, Elizabeth makes sure they both exchange the clothes worn at the train ride by clean ones. Like one maternity blog recommended for people considering visiting a baby, she carefully wash her hands and face. Taking the pristine white towel, she presses the soft fabric against her face, and breathes in the lavender scent. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, she tries to build up the courage to leave the room.  

Hamid notices her lingering there. Encircling her waist from behind, Hamid kissed her cheek and offered more encouraging words. 

“We can do this. Together.” 

She meets his eyes in the mirror.  

“Alright. If you think we can do it...” 

Hamid raised her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. “I know we can. And I’ll make sure you have fun in the process.” 

“Happy anniversary!” Hamid’s voice reverberated in the foyer as soon as Hayley walked in their direction, arms wide open. 

She greeted both with hugs and kisses on the cheeks, and Elizabeth offered the bottle of Chardonnay, the ribbon in a shade of red that matched Hayley’s cropped cache-coeur. 

“Thank you!” she accepted the gift and offered one of the smiles reserved to the inner circle of friends and family, open and warm, baring most of her white perfectly lined teeth. “You didn’t have to, but… since you did… we will make good use of it.” She winked. 

“You better, kankiş [1].” 

Hayley excused herself for a moment to put the bottle away, then hopped to her friends with unconcealed joy. 

“I missed you! But don’t expect forgiveness for missing our dinner party!” she said giving Elizabeth one of her nasty looks. Had she not been friends with Hayley for all these years, she’d break into a fit of apologies; however, knowing her like she does, she giggles. 

“You know I’d come if I could...” 

“How I hate you for being so smart and important and having to do all this important stuff and having no time to be here partying with your gals…” Hayley narrowed her eyes in mocking indignation, and Elizabeth smiled at the banter. 

“I’ll always make the time for you.” 

“You better, Lady Foredale. It takes one click to know where and what you’re doing! Don’t try to fool me!” 

“This will never not be a very disturbing threat...” Hamid muttered.  

“Just behave.” Hayley winked at him. 

Throwing her arms around their shoulders, Hayley guided them to the drawing room, while they shared the latest news. In fact, most of the conversation was a quick-witted back-and-forth between Hamid and Hayley, peppered by laughs.  

Quieter than usual, Elizabeth barely listened to them. Her attentive eyes widened at the renovations done to the drawing room. The room had been emptied of most of the old furniture and antiquities giving space to a child-friendly space decorated with a contemporary and cosier furniture, and a multitude of toys displayed in lower shelves. Even to someone with zero experience in the subject, that looked like a place a baby could play safely. 

At the centre of the room, confirming the theory, Alaska was playing over a bright mat with an adorable miniature town’s print with little roads and buildings. Her tiny hands moved toys over the little streets and houses.  

“Mi cielito [2]! Look who has come to visit you!” Hayley cried and the baby’s head darted to where the trio was standing. She speaks slowly and clear with the baby, whose bright blue eyes watch the newcomers with interest. “It’s Uncle Hamid and Auntie Lizzy!” 

In the blink of an eye, Hamid crossed the distance and crouched in front of the baby, his lively conversation, earning toothless smiles from Alaska and an exciting babbling about a blue toy car that was practically shoved in his face.  

Confident, Hayley smiled at the pair. Hamid and his unlimited self-assurance will guarantee the perfect anniversary she’s looking forward. Shifting her attention to Elizabeth, who is also looking at the scene, she notices a mix of curiosity and tenderness in her eyes, though her shoulders are still raised with tension. 

“Lizzy,” she said softly. “Just a heads-up, Alaska might be a little moody today... She barely saw her papa and I think she’ll get her first tooth soon, right, my darling girl?” 

The baby gnawed at the rubber giraffe’s leg, shoving it almost entirely into her mouth. 

“Imagine how cute when she has all the little teeth!” Hamid cooed. 

“You wouldn’t say that if it were your nipples stuck in her little toothy mouth!”  

“Sorry.” He raised his hands apologetically but couldn’t stifle a chuckle.  

“So, you’re going to the cantina at Moorfield... Alessandro’s,” Elizabeth changed the subject. 

“Yes!” She clapped her hands, moaning with delight. “Can't wait to have the cannoli.” 

“If they’re as good as their tiramisu…” 

“Better! You must try it! They’re A-MA-ZING!”  

“It can’t possibly be any better than the cannoli from that place near Piazza Navona,” Hamid says, focusing his attention on his friend. “Remember that place?”  

“How could I forget? Those cannoli were good, sure. But the ones at Alessandro’s? Absolutely tops those! The cook is from this tiny village near Florence and most of his dishes are family recipes from like… two hundred years!”  

“That sounds amazing!" 

“My mouth is watering already! Perhaps we should all go there!” 

“Don’t you dare suggest that!” Hayley pointed a menacing finger at Hamid. “I’ll kick your arse back to Istanbul, Osmanoğlu, if you even dare propose such an outrageous thing! I swear to all the goddesses!” 

“Don’t worry.” Elizabeth patted her arm. “You’ll have your perfect romantic dinner.” 

“I hope so. Ernest is so stressed out already…" Hayley sighed, and almost wished she had a giraffe of her own to gnaw and release the stress. “His meeting got delayed… and he got home right before you guys… and he barely had time with Alaska…” she growled and raised both hands before taking a deep breath. “Anyway… He's showering now… and he’ll meet us soon. Guess I better tell you a bit about Alaska’s routine, show you the nursery and everything else...” 

Hayley looked Elizabeth up and down, from the multi-layered gold necklace to the fancy peach silk button-up blouse to the long curls dangling around her face and down her shoulders.  

“But first, maybe you want to change your clothes and tie your hair, Lizzy." Oblivious to the disconcerted look prompted in her friend, Hayley turned around and snapped her fingers. “Osmanoğlu, baby.” 

Immediately, Hamid scooped Alaska from the floor, and she giggled at him while being carried, the giraffe clutched in her hands.  

“Don’t worry, Hayley,” Elizabeth replied, pointing at herself, “I changed as soon as we got here. No train germs.” 

“Only regular germs,” Hamid joked, but his audience didn’t seem so receptive to this kind of humour judging by the glances thrown in his direction. 

“Trust me. I’m not worried about germs,” Hayley explained, “but your own safety.” 

Elizabeth didn’t even have the time to question what she meant. Hamid stepped too close to coo about Alaska’s cute rosy cheeks, and the baby’s chubby fingers entangled on the woman's long curls, pulling her hair down hard and making her squeal. 

Hayley stepped closer, calmly disentangling the few hairs pulled by the root that remained tightly grasped between the baby's fingers, and with a serious look reprimanded Alaska with a low voice, then mouthed softly to the baby while gently stroking Elizabeth's hair. “Gentle. Gentle is good. Pull is bad. Hurts. Makes her cry.” She made a crying face after uttering the last word.  

To the others astonishment, when she turned around to face them again, her expression had completely changed to what it was a moment before. No sign of the demonstration that could be on any of the maternity blogs Elizabeth researched on their way to Ledford Park.  

“Like every other baby, Alaska pulls things, especially hair, and takes whatever she can reach to her mouth... So, you better tie your hair in a bun. And maybe lose that necklace too... Do you have a tee? I suppose you don’t want to stain that gorgeous blouse with drool and soup.” 

Elizabeth nodded, and they agreed to meet upstairs at the nursery. 

Less than five minutes later, Elizabeth stood by the door, hair pulled in a high bun and sporting a teal tee borrowed from Hamid’s bag. With her arrival, Hayley resumed describing the baby’s routine before bedtime and showed them around, opening and closing drawers filled with nappies, wipers and tubes of creams, pristine baby clothes perfectly folded and organized by colour and sorted by type. 

Holding Alaska in his arms, Hamid moved closer to the windows. Stealing a glance at him over her shoulder, without missing Hayley’s explanation, Elizabeth observed their interactions. Clearly, she loves being around him – her toothless smiles and cute sounds are not the only indications of that. For the past several minutes, the baby hasn’t shown any desire of returning to her mother’s arm or paid attention for more than a few seconds to the quietest of them all now that her hair was no longer dangling. Definitely, Hamid is a natural at this like he bragged about; not a sign of aversion at the excited high-pitched squeals so close to his ears every now and then that make her skin crawl, or at the drool that moistens his expensive shirt. It was in fact Hayley who worried and exchanged Alaska’s bib for a fresh one with yellow ducks print and placed a matching shoulder diaper over Hamid’s shoulder. 

“Very fashionable,” he remarked, making a face at Hayley, while raising his shoulders moving to an imaginary beat. 

“And versatile. It keeps my princess from drooling over you, and you from drooling over my hot friend over there...” Hayley quipped without missing a beat, throwing an amused look at Elizabeth, who was quizzically looking at the items of the small medicine box they keep at the top shelf. Judging by the non-response of her cheeks to her remark, Hayley assumed she didn’t hear a thing and was already picturing at least a hundred different scenarios where she'd need the items. 

"Lizzy," Hayley called softly, and the other's face jerked to her direction. "We have that here just in case. Except for a couple of the Hello Kitty Band-Aids, I don't recall using anything else… I'll show you how to change the nappy." 

Hamid is so engrossed in playing with Alaska and making jokes while she describes the step-by-step, she knows he’s not paying attention to anything Hayley said, so she focused even harder on every word leaving her mouth and prays they’re fortunate enough to not be gifted one of the explosive poops Hayley described in such graphic details.  

“And voilà! That's how it’s done!” Hayley said and her apt fingers fastened the tiny buttons in the onesie’s legs, despite what can only be described as a very excited performance of Irish tap-dancing from Alaska. She helped her sit up on the changing table, and at the sight of Hamid’s broad smile, Alaska stretched her arms in his direction, and he happily obliged to pick her up. 

“Traitor,” Hayley whispered, but there was no real annoyance in her tone, and Hamid winked at her. The more at ease with either of them, the better. 

“Neither too tight nor too loose,” Elizabeth mumbled and wrote some more notes about the process in her mobile.  

“Liz, relax.” Hayley bumped her shoulder with hers gently and didn’t hold a chuckle. “There won’t be a test. I made my darling husband promise that.” 

Elizabeth let out a low breathed laugh to the teasing, though it would not surprise her if Sinclaire quizzed her about the literature and the meticulous schedule he sent her. 

“I don’t want to miss anything important.”  

“I know you won’t,” she said. “But you should trust your instincts.”  

“Oh! I don’t believe I got those kinds of instincts…” 

“And you believe I have?!” Hayley retorted; her words almost toppled by a loud cackle. “No matter how much you plan or take notes, dealing with babies has a lot of room to the unpredictable… Babysitting is not like baking a cake. We can give you pointers… but, in the end, you must trust yourself. You’re smart and perceptive. Pay attention to Alaska, to her behaviour... She can't talk yet, but she still communicates a lot...” 

Elizabeth nodded. 

“Here,” Hayley said and picked Alaska from Hamid’s arms and practically shoved her into Elizabeth’s arms, surprise making her stiff. “Hold her a bit.” 

“But she prefers –” Elizabeth tried to argue, but Hayley gave a look, the one she knew resisting is pointless. “I have no idea what I’m doing here.” 

Amused, the other leaned forward and adjusted her arm to the position Alaska prefers.  

“Just smell her head,” Hayley whispered. 

“Excuse me?” Elizabeth looked puzzled, the other’s head bobbing excited.  

“Smell her head,” she repeated deliberately slowly. 

Bowing, Elizabeth sniffed the top of the fair blonde head of the baby. A distinct soft scent, not too sweet nor floral, characteristic of baby’s products. 

“Isn’t that the most amazing smell in the world?” 

“They should bottle that smell…” Hamid whispered closer to Elizabeth’s ear, and she simply smiled at both, unsure what was all that excitement about. Sure, the baby smells nice, but she can enumerate at least a dozen other smells that could stir a stronger reaction… 

For an entire minute, Alaska smiled and blabbered while Hayley and Hamid made faces at her, the man absolutely thrilled with the sight of the baby in his girlfriend’s arms. 

“See. Alaska is easily entertained.” 

“Something else we have in common,” Hamid added and soon they went downstairs to the secondary kitchen adapted to the family’s needs.  

It was closer to the drawing room, which makes it more practical for their routine these past months, like Hayley explains. A wistful gaze wanders around the room for a few breaths before she resumed talking in her usual fast and lively manner, and Elizabeth wonders what that means. Does she miss her old life, now that her world seems to have become so much smaller and different from what it was less than a year ago? 

In the corner of the room, with a privileged view of the terrace and the hills beyond Ledford Park, there is a table with a cosy setting and four chairs and the baby's highchair. 

“I recommend you bring at least one toy. The giraffe is her favourite these days. And you can play a song on your mobile or sing to her. She loves it." 

“Do you think we can convince your Auntie Liz to sing a duet with me? She has an angelic voice!" Hamid said in a conspiratorial tone to Alaska, throwing a look at the woman in question, and the baby blabbered. “Oh, you’re looking forward to it! So am I!" Hamid winked at his girlfriend, and she shook her head slowly, but couldn't hide a timid smile.  

The sharp and fast tapping of shoe soles announced Ernest Sinclaire's arrival. The man walked in, dressed in an elegant black suit carrying a folder, the perfect portrayal of the businessman he is. His confident steps brought him straight to Hayley. They have been together for many years, but like a moth that cannot resist the light, that’s him with his wife. His feet will take him straight to her, no matter how many times Mrs. Sinclaire chastised him for doing so when they have guests – though, considering the tone she uses, she seems more than pleased he has found someone that he loves so that he’d ignore rules of propriety. 

Smiling, he kissed Hayley’s temple, and she encircled his waist with one arm, leaning closer to kiss his cheek and brag about her dashing husband. Blushing, he moved away from her to share a quick hug with Elizabeth, and a firm handshake with Hamid.  

In Hamid’s arm, Alaska immediately squealed and squirmed, trying to reach her father. Ernest handed the folder to Elizabeth and took Alaska from him; she snuggled, and he kissed her head repeatedly, whispering that he missed his “little princess”. 

“A minute ago, she loved me and now...” Hamid gestured pointedly to the display of father-daughter affection, and Elizabeth was not sure he was not truly wounded by what seemed some sort of betrayal in his eyes. 

“Hey! Suck it up! I had her nine months in my womb, endured sixteen hours of labour, and not even I can compete with that!” 

Ernest laughed at his wife and proudly swayed with the baby. 

“I still love you,” Elizabeth said softly, her voice as gentle as the touch of her hand caressing his, and his eyes darted to her. 

“The only opinion that truly matters.” He kissed the tip of her nose making her giggle. 

For a few relaxed moments, the four adults exchanged amenities, mostly about London and news about the friends Hayley hasn’t seen in a while, before the conversation shifted to the baby, who demanded their attention. 

“I’ve sent you an e-mail with the schedule and all the information.” Then he pointed at the folder in her hand. “But I had it printed in case your mobile run out of battery or Alaska throws it inside a glass.” 

“It happened once, Ernest!” Hayley snapped and Elizabeth looked astonished between the two. 

“I cannot guarantee it won’t happen again.” 

“Mental note: keep new expensive mobile away from the baby,” Hamid mumbled. 

“Smart move. Hurling things is among her abilities,” Hayley added. “And any other activity that involves testing laws of physics.” 

Attentive, Elizabeth flipped the several pages of the folder in her hands while Ernest gave her some pointers. 

“Amor, will they be raising Alaska from now on and you’re keeping this a secret from me?” 

Ernest rolled his eyes and bit his tongue. “They don’t know her like we do, darling. Information is essential." 

“Information for Liz to get another Masters, it seems...” 

Ignoring Hayley's teasing, Elizabeth and Sinclaire went through the long list of recommendations, until it reached the page with a list of emergency contacts, including Alaska’s doctor, and the restaurant. 

“Which I beg of you not to call, unless there is a real emergency that neither of you can solve,” Hayley whispered to Hamid, who nodded.  

Satisfied with this promise, Hayley walked back to her husband’s side. Whispering into his ear recommendations of letting Elizabeth and Hamid get used to the baby, which included feeding her, Hayley kissed his cheek.  

“Now I leave Alaska at your care. When I come back, I’ll be even hotter to match my husband’s elegance,” saying that she left.  

During her absence, contrary to her recommendations, Alaska remained in her father’s exclusive care. 

Having exchanged the flats for heels, Hayley sashayed into that very same room almost an hour later, wearing a revealing golden dress with a plunging V-neck and spaghetti straps that crossed in the back. 

Hamid whistled, and Hayley did her best catwalk, as if she were at one of the Fashion Weeks runaways, posed to imaginary cameras and turned around walking back to the door. 

Laughing wholeheartedly, she turned around to be showered in compliments by her friends and husband. All the flattery however was not enough to distract from the fact that the latter was holding a spoon, preparing to feed Alaska. It took only one knowing look, and Sinclaire cleared his throat and spoke to Hamid in an attempt at dissimulation. 

“Just take a spoonful from the edge,” he said, “and let it cool down. No blowing.” 

Understanding, Hamid faked interest and accepted the spoon and changed places with Ernest. 

“We should go, amor [3],” Hayley said, draping an arm around her husband’s, and sharing a meaningful look with her friends. “They got everything covered, right?” 

Despite the assurance expressed by Hamid and Elizabeth, Sinclaire hesitated and lingered by the kitchen.  

Losing sight of her father, Alaska started crying.  

The tears streaming down her cheeks and the redness of her face distressed him. He looked between Hayley and the baby. His mind dwelling on the choices: he doesn’t want his baby to starve or be miserable, but with weeks in advance he planned the perfect night out for them, and they certainly need alone time.   

“Ernest,” Hayley called him softly, and he opened his eyes, removing the fingers pressing the bridge of his nose. With despondency, he looked around the room. Elizabeth is brilliant and one of the most organized people he knows, he has entrusted her to take care of their baby but his confidence wavers, seeing how completely lost she seems... Perhaps he was wrong to assume she would succeed at that because of the other qualifications… Hopefully, Hayley will be right once again, and Hamid will step forward and do his magic. Just a few more minutes and things will be alright. He puts his faith in this.  

Minutes slip by and the crying subsides. Sinclaire insisted on following his instincts and helped Elizabeth hold Alaska. 

Hayley would have more fun watching the despair in Elizabeth’s eyes trying to calm the baby and the reluctance in Sinclaire’s every action if she were not dying to go out, and sensing her husband was about to reach his breaking point. She was about to intervene when Hamid stepped up, asking his girlfriend to hand him the baby. 

“Go!” Hamid said, while holding Alaska, “We can handle her.” 

Sinclaire verbally agreed, but he still comes back to say a last goodbye to Alaska. The crying worsens after each of the five times he does that. Alaska starts crying louder, her face turning impossibly redder.  

The desperation in Sinclaire’s face is not erased by the hand he rubs over it twice. There’s so much guilty in his eyes... 

“Perhaps... we should stay in...” he murmurs.  

“Hey,” Elizabeth said softly, and he looked at her. “We’ve got this. Go have your celebration. If I can write arguments persuasive enough to swing voters at Parliament, I think I can convince a baby to eat carrots.” 

Hayley shared a knowing look with Hamid, conveying her line of thought was completely wrong. However, when Sinclaire finally nodded and agreed to leave, she held her tongue.  

Hayley kissed Alaska’s forehead and whispered loving words, promising to see her soon. 

After putting on his coat, Ernest halted at the door and looked back. The high-pitched crying couldn't be confined in the kitchen. His heart tightened and his will faltered again. 

Hayley placed a hand over his cheek and turned his face to hers. “It’s not the first time we must leave her...” she said, her tone soft and her eyes tender. “She will be alright.” 

He gulped. Her words were true. Countless times she cried when he left to go to work in the morning these past months, or when Hayley had an appointment where she couldn’t take the baby; and in each of those occasions Alaska had been fine. It was time he learned to deal with this feeling. This was important to Hayley and to him.  

“Alright,” he conceded and held the door open for her.  

“Trust them. They'll be alright. All of them.” 

===================

Notes:

Kankiş (Turkish) – can be translated as best friend.

Mi cielito (Spanish) - means my little sky, and is a term of endearment that can be translated as my darling or sweetheart.

Amor (Spanish) - means love, and is used as term of endearment.

[mysoftboybensolo]

The Alienist and the Soprano

Chapter 9: The Abduction

A/N:  This was inspired by Laszlo’s love of opera and my thought on what if he fell for an opera singer. Multi chapter. Canon divergence, there is no Mary Palmer here (I loved Mary and Laszlo, so I don’t feel like I could have her here and have him be with another woman). A mix of show and book canons. No Y/N, OC named Evelina Lind.

A03: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32029150

Pairing: Laszlo Kreizler x Fem OC!

Summary: The last thing Laszlo Kreizler ever expected while investigating the death of children was to fall in love, and with an opera singer no less!

Warnings: Age gap, kidnapping, violence and death.

Evelina's body ached all over and her vision was blurry. What happened? As her body came to, her mind was dragging behind. She was crying over Laszlo, Sara had left, leaving her and Tessie alone. A bell rang, no not the church bell, it was softer, higher pitched. Doorbell. A scream. Yes, it was coming back to her.

Tessie remained by Evelina’s side, trying to help calm and comfort her, when the doorbell rang. “I’ll be right back.” Tessie went down the stairs and answered the door.

“Pardon me, Miss, I was wondering if you be interested in an encyclopedia.”

“No thank you,” Tessie tried to close the door, but the man gently interrupted her.

“Well, is your master or mistress at home?”

“No, she is not, but she would not be interested either.”

“What about the other lady? She might be interested.”

Tessie felt her blood run cold. “How do you know about the other lady?”

The man stares at her, his smile grows and becomes sinister, which made Tessie try to shove the door in his face, but he shoved himself in, knocking her down to the ground.

Evelina heard a loud thud, pulling her from her misery and out from the room. As she went down the stairs, she saw a man on top of Tessie, struggling. “Tessie!” The man gave a punch to the maid’s face, knocking her out, then turned. No, it couldn’t be.

“Evelina,” Winston spoke her name with longing.

Fear gripped her heart and she ran back up the stairs, hoping to barricade herself in the room but Winston was fast and before she could block the entrance, he barged in. “Get out,” her voice hoarse, her eyes wild with fear.

“Not without you, sweetie. Come.” He stepped forward, and Evelina reached over to the nightstand and threw a vase at him, and while it did hit him, it did nothing to deter him. “You seem to have forgotten your manners, sweetie.” He lunged before she knew it, grabbed her and dragged her away. She tried to hold onto the doorframe, but he was much stronger than she and all she did was leave marks on the wood. Once he had her away from the room, he punched her so hard, she was left unconscious, making it easier for him to carry her away. He didn’t care if the door to the house was open, he had what he wanted and with her in his carriage, he raced off to the opera.

Winston was nothing if not through, for he planned this ever since he spotted her on the stoop with that man. Dr. Laszlo Kreizler. Son of Leopold and Jozefa Kreizler, only child and heir to the publishing fortune, an alienist specializing in children, age forty, no children of his own, never married. Avid lover of opera, and intensely interested in one Evelina Lind. What Winston couldn’t understand was why she was interested in him; sure, he was wealthy, but he never took her to be a whore, willing to do anything for money. And if it wasn’t for the money, it couldn’t be his looks, for he was also sixteen years older than her, a cripple and with a profession that was looked down by society. It had to have been a moment of madness, he convinces himself, now that I am here, she’ll never look at him twice again.

The past few days were spent exploring the opera, checking the entries and exits that he can slip in unseen, and the best place to hide. The prop room was filled with many things and one can easily hide if one so wished. Through a door in the alley, he carried Evelina, who was still unconscious and carried her down to the prop room, and once set her down on a sofa, he worked to tie her hands and feet, making certain she didn’t move while they waited. He looked down at her and sighed. Nine years of not seeing her had been torment to him, and he thought she grew even more beautiful.

He knew that his feelings were more than brotherly when their mother died and she was beginning to blossom into a young woman, in fact, it was at their mother’s funeral did he notice the changes in her. The problem was that the boys noticed the change as well. She was slipping away from him and he hated that, he hated her for wanting to get away, for allowing the boys to flirt and growing up. His love was violent and obsessive, made him say and do hateful things, but it hurt to see her turn away from him. How could she not see his suffering, see that his cruelty came from his desire for her, how all he wanted to do was protect her from the men who wanted to take her away from him?

That boy tried to, the one who kissed her hand, who made her smile, a smile that she never shared with him. So, he hunted that boy down and beat him, not caring what his actions did, for he was blinded by his anger, jealousy, and fear, that only when he grew tired had he realize what he did. The boy was dead, barely recognizable, but he didn’t care. Let this be a warning to anyone else who dares to take my sweetie away from me. And when he did at last confess his feelings, instead of throwing her arms around him and pled her undying love and passion, she reacted with disgust and horror. Why? Why such horror? He had to try and make her see his feelings and tried to kiss and caress her as lovers would, but she fought, screamed and then Papa came in and ruined everything.

Papa had separated the pair and since that day, Winston vowed he’d never forgive his father, vowed he’d find a way back to her. Nine years of waiting and the time at last came, he was let go because his father’s funds ended, and he went back home. She must be waiting for me, burning as I burn. But he found that the house was occupied by another family, and she had fled. It took him a while to figure out where, but he managed to find out and boarded the first boat to America.

No longer oceans apart, so close as they were that last day, and everything will be well again.

He watched as she slowly came to, a soft moan escaping, no doubt from the aches in her body, and watched as everything came back to her. When she saw him, she screamed, tried to get away, but found herself bound and Winston clasping his hand over her mouth. “Shhh! Now, now, none of that, sweetie.”

Evelina was gasping heavily even beneath the hand, tears forming in her eyes. When he removed his hand, she gulped then softly pleaded, “Please, Winston. Please let me go.”

“Oh, I can’t, not yet. We are expecting company, and I said you’d be here.”

“Company?” she asked.

“A party of three, you, me and Dr. Kreizler.”

Horror came across her face, and once again she began to beg, even more desperately, “Winston, please, you do not have to! There is no reason for him being here. He means nothing!”

“I saw you! I saw you two on the stoop, holding hands and so close. You looked at him the way I always wanted to be looked at. And then to see you in the park with him, so happy. He even held you in his arms as you danced, so close and intimate. You even allowed him to call you by your Christian name. Oh, Evelina!” he moaned, “How could you! How could you forget me? How could you forsake me? Me, who waited and suffered for you all these years, kept the memory of you painted in my mind for nine years, waiting to find you. You left me, and you choose him!”

She cried, because all she could remember was that day in the den, fearful that no one would come for her, hearing the same mad ramblings of her brother. Oh, please God, she silently prayed, help me escape, let me see Laszlo once more and be safe again.

A sound came echoing into the room, making Evelina and Winston look towards the sound, and desperate, she opened her mouth to try and scream, but Winston was quick and stuffed a handkerchief in her mouth as he went to inspect the sound. She struggled and tried to escape, falling off the sofa and to the ground, but it did no good. Winston had returned, and she could see that he was holding a baton, blood on the tip.

“It was, sadly, not our honored guest. But this fellow won’t be bothering us anymore.”

Laszlo hurried to the opera, hoping that he was not too late. He would not have Sara come along, fearful that if Winston even sees her, something dreadful will happen, but instead had given her instructions and went on his own. He bypassed the singers and dancers, who looked at him curiously. Ernest tried to approach him, but he instead demanded where the prop room was.

“I can show you, if you like.”

“No, just tell me. Please Ernest, don’t ask questions. It’s a matter of life or death!”

Ernest complied and watched as his friend hurried off, then he went to his office to make a call.

Laszlo followed the path, his heart beating furiously. If something has happened or will happen to her, it will be because of him and he will never forgive himself. He froze when he came across a figure lying on the ground, but then carefully moved towards it and found it was a man, blood coming from his head, dead. This was what Laszlo was going to face, a madman who was unafraid to use violence if necessary.

“Winston!” Laszlo called out, letting him know he was approaching.

Winston smiled and Evelina struggled. “Ah, here he has come. I knew he would,” he jeered at Evelina. “Come, Dr. Kreizler, we have been expecting you!”

Laszlo turned the corner and carefully walked through the maze of props until he found them. His eyes immediately found Evelina, who was sitting against the sofa on the floor, bound and gagged, tears streaming down her face. It broke him to see her like this. Then he looked over to the man who started all this. Yes, it was exactly as Evelina described him, even with the mad and frightening look in his blue eyes. He knew he had to tread lightly if anyone was hoping to get out alive.

“Dr. Laszlo Kreizler, what a pleasure to finally meet you! I have heard a great deal about you.” The words sent a shiver up Laszlo’s spine, not so much of what Winston said, but how it was said, as if this was a normal social event in which these two men have met. “It’s wonderful to see the man, face to face.”

“And you, Winston,” Laszlo said carefully, his eyes darting to Evelina. “A rather unusual place to meet.”

“Yes, well, I wanted privacy, and I am certain that we are?” He asked, looking at Laszlo with mad eyes, hoping he hadn’t been foolish to bring anyone else here.

“As you said, this is a party of three. It would have been rude of me to invite anyone else.”

Winston smiled. “Good. Very good. You see, this is such a personal gathering, and we need not have spectators. It has come to my attention that you and my sister, my sweet foolish sister,” he says as he hosts her up on the sofa, removing the gag, “Have been seeing quite a lot of each other. Funny, but to the outside eye, it would almost look like you were courting. But it couldn’t be, could it? You are so much older than her, lame and frowned upon. What could a young and beautiful woman like her want to do with you? When she could have someone like me?”

“Winston, please,” Evelina sobbed out, her lip trembling.

He hushed her, his hand brushing along her hair and cheek. “Hush now, the adults are talking. I can only assume it was done in a moment of madness, I mean, look,” he takes hold of her bound hands, roughly pulling her up, her back to him, making her look at Laszlo. “Do you see? Him and me. There is no comparison, there can be no doubt of who she’d rather be with.”

“Winston,” Laszlo started, a small step forward, “You are right. Compared to me, who wouldn’t want to be with you. You are young, handsome, and strong, I couldn’t offer what she would want. So, I think the best thing is for you to let her go and let it be decided by us men,” he said, playing to Winston’s perceptions and ego.

“Oh, I would, but she ran from me once. I can’t bear to let her go again. I waited nine years for her. And like some pathetic dog, I had to be satisfied with so little; a glimpse of her leaving the opera, the scent of her knickers,” he pressed his nose to her hair, inhaling the scent, “So sweet, flowery. Can you feel it, sweetie? Can you feel how much I love you, want you?”

Evelina wanted to gag at the feeling of Winston pressing is body against hers, making her feel a hint of his arousal, and she sobbed harder. “Winston, please, let us go!”

He chuckled darkly, “Not yet. We can’t leave just yet, I need you to see,” he moved down and untied her feet, his hand running up her leg, over her hip and across her breasts as he got up and began to untie her hands, “I need you to see why I am better for you. Why it should be me, instead of him.” Letting her go, she took a deep breathe, as if she was being strangled, and watched in horror as he approached the doctor. “What do you say, Kreizler, show her who is deserving of her love?”

Without warning, Winston struck Laszlo with the baton, making Laszlo fall to the ground. No, he was not dead, Winston wasn’t going to give him the mercy of a swift death, but to suffer, to let him know who was stronger, braver, better for Evelina. “Come on. Come on! Fight back you cripple!” But Winston didn’t allow Laszlo a chance to get up and fight back, for any chance he did, Winston would kick him, beat him, making him fall back to the ground, his body in pain everywhere.

Evelina watched in horror as Winston attacked Laszlo, blood on the baton, the same wicked smile on his face that she had grown to fear. “No! No, please Winston! Take me, I’ll go with you. Just please, don’t hurt him!”

Winston stopped, looking up at her, a look came over him, as he stepped over his victim and looked at her. “Why? Tell me why.” Gripping the back of her neck, forcing her closer to him, he jeered, “Tell me why I should spare him.”

“Because…” She hesitated. Would her words set him free, or damn him to a cruel death?

“Say it. I want to hear you say the words.”

“Because I love him. Because if you kill him, you kill me too.”

Laszlo weakly looked up at her, stunned by the words she just said. Was Sara telling the truth? Did truly hear what she said? Or was this just a cruel trick that his mind was playing on him?

Winston too was surprised, but it was not at all the happy kind. “Love? You could love him? An old cripple who can’t even fight back, who can’t protect you.” Winston dropped the baton to completely take hold of her, his grip tight like a vice. “Why not me? Why can you give your love to everyone else in this God forsaken world, but not me?”

If he intends to kill her here and now, she would at last let her truth be known. “How could I give love to someone whose sole purpose in life is to make everyone else miserable? Who has haunted me like a shadow that destroys all that is good and honest? Love you? I could never love anything so ugly and cruel.”

His face twisted in anger and a hand shot to her throat, squeezing just enough. “Ugly and cruel? You haven’t seen what ugly and cruel can be. And I’ll take your love, make you love me.” He slammed her down on the ground, his body pressed on top of her. “Even if I must break you to do it.”

Evelina struggled, even scratching his face at one point, creating a terrible sense of déjà vu, but just when she thought she was going to lose, she heard a loud thunk which caused her brother to cry out in pain and release her from his grip. Evelina’s eyes managed to focus properly and she saw Laszlo, bloody, beaten but standing with the baton in hand and ready to strike again. Winston’s daze left him unable to attack back, to which Laszlo used to his advantage.

Kicking him off of her, Laszlo stood over him the baton in hand and a dangerous look in his eye. “Leave her alone.” The words were slow, deliberate, like a man who was pushed to his limit and was on the verge of snapping.

Winston, who laid on his back, staring up at Laszlo, began to laugh. “Go ahead, cripple. Beat me. I know you want to. Be a man, prove to her that you deserve her.” He laughed, knowing he wouldn’t do it.

Laszlo stared down this man and he realized something. “As much as I would love to, I won’t end your suffering. I’ll let you live with this knowledge; you are pathetic. You’ve lived your entire life desperately needing people, but hating them for your supposed weakness. You are incapable of real love, and it leaves you empty. And I think you know that it does. I’ll let you live, knowing that you’ll never achieve what you’ve been chasing your whole life.”

Laszlo held the baton tightly, hobbling over to Evelina, leaning over to check on her, and with his back to Winston, he didn’t see the young man pull out a knife and come charging at him with the intention of killing him. But a loud bang prevented that from happening, making Evelina cry out in shock and for them both to look in Winston’s direction.

Police officers came rushing in, surrounding the area, with Roosevelt leading the way. Laszlo tried to help Evelina up, but his own bruised and broken body prevented him from doing so, making Evelina and another officer help him. “It’s about time you came,” Laszlo quipped, looking at Roosevelt, who looked relieved that they managed to make it on time.

“Yes, between Sara coming to the office and the manager phoning us about your strange behavior, we had to come. I am sorry though,” he says with sincerity, “That I hadn’t helped sooner.”

A weak moan came from Winston, making Evelina step closer and looked down at her brother’s dying body. The blood was pouring out quickly from him, and she knew he would not make it. “Evelina, sweetie…” He reached out his hand for her, hoping for one last comfort, confirmation of what he wanted to hear.

She stared at him coolly, shook her head and merely muttered, “Go to hell, Winston.”

He looked so broken, hurt, but she would not find it within herself to feel sorry for him, not all the fear and hurt he instilled in her through the years. He died looking at her, seeing her face cold and hateful, knowing he was unloved. His last breath made her breathe once again. Now, she can live without fear.

Her attention quickly shifted to Laszlo, who was relying upon an officer to hold him up, and she took his arm around her shoulders and helped him walk up to the surface. Memebers of the opera house watched in concern and worry as they seen Evelina walking out with a beaten Laszlo and officer along with them.

"Evelina, are you alright?"

"What happened?"

"Is there anything we can do?"

Ernest watched as they walked out, sighing a huge sigh of relief to see that they both were alright, that his call was not in vain.

The officer helped them to his carriage, and like a devoted lover, Evelina remained by Laszlo. Her brave and wonderful Laszlo who has saved her twice, who had been there for her and now, she could be there for him. Laszlo went back and forth out of consciousness, his eyes focused on Evelina, making sure she was alright. He tried to speak, but he felt so tired, so weak. Even if he died here in this carriage, even if he wouldn't make it long enough to apologize for his careless words, nothing mattered more than knowing that she was safe. Evelina was free.

Tagging: @monsieurbruhl​, @cazzyimagines​, @violetmuses​, @flutterskies​, @sokoviandelights​, @rumblelibrary​, @fictionlandslanddreams​, and  @barnesxnobles​. 

[ckret2]

An Alastor/OC (and past Alastor/Sir Pentious) psychological horror “romance” fic

Alastor wants a dance partner who can help him forget the lover he lost a decade ago.

Elsewhere in the city, a couple of reptilian sinners just want to get laid.

Of the three of them, only one is going to leave with what he wanted. But it’s doubtful any of them will leave happy.

We’re over the halfway point now!!

###

Tonight, they were dancing on the roof of a hotel. Ernest wasn't sure what hotel it was, except that it looked like the kind of place that served guests who had paid more for their socks than Ernest had paid for his entire closet, that nobody in the hotel had made a move to stop Alastor as he swept in with Ernest behind him and headed for the stairs, and that it had a whole lot of stairs.

"It's worth the climb for the view!" said Alastor, whom Ernest was now sure must not need to breathe. There was some sweet smell lingering around Alastor that Ernest couldn't quite identify, and by the time they reached the top of the stairs, it was less enticing and more dizzying.

Still, leaning on the railing around the rooftop courtyard, Ernest could see what Alastor meant: the view was astounding. The night sky was a deep ruby red; the lights of the Pentagram City skyline glittered out of the silhouette of a black skylight; not a cloud obscured the glowing pentagram on the moon or the cold, electric-blue light of Heaven. This high above the ground, the wind whipped fast enough to cancel out Hell's usual sultry heat, and even the gunshots in the alleys far below were more muffled. He'd never seen Hell from this angle before.

"What did I tell you?" Alastor boasted, elbowing Ernest as he leaned against the railway next to him.

"You were right." Ernest watched as an aircraft lined with golden lights lazily drifted across the sky. It took him a moment to realize that the aircraft was moving too slowly and the silhouette was too football-shaped for it to be a plane. "Oh wow, is that—one of those airships? I haven't seen those in years. I thought they were all destroyed."

"They were!" Alastor said; and only belatedly did Ernest remember that Alastor had been the one to destroy all of them, because Alastor was, in fact, still the Radio Demon, and not just Ernest's terrifyingly charismatic maybe-almost-boyfriend.

(Read the rest on AO3!)

(If you’re enjoying the fic, I’d appreciate a reblog or comment, either here or on AO3! I like hearing what y’all think so far.)

[jheyjette]

Alright, so I finally finished reading through all of the available chapters and side stories, so here are my thoughts on Tales of Crestoria so far:

Pros:

- The soundtrack slaps.Why is it so good? Why is it better than the soundtrack for some of the mainline games that I’ve played? I can’t wait for them to release full versions of all of the insert songs.

- Despite being turn-based, the gameplay is actually pretty fun? There’s actually some strategy involved and it has yet to feel overly repetitive for me.

- There are attachments! And they picked out some of the best ones to include in the game!

- I love the banter between all of the characters. It’s what I always look forward to in crossover games, and this game absolutely nails it! A few highlights include Jade out-trolling Magilou, Yuri still being a Dad to Luke, Asbel and Ludger finishing each other’s sentences, Sorey wanting to ride Tokunaga and Anise attempting to charge him for it, Velvet having interactions with almost all of the blond male characters (as a nod to Laphicet I guess?), and the list goes on...

- The story is really good. It’s probably the best written story I’ve read out of any gacha games I’ve ever played, and better than some of the mainline games as well. In some games, like Dragalia Lost (which I’ve since dropped), I found myself wishing the cutscenes didn’t take so long and going through the story felt like a chore (it didn’t help that they were really long too). With this game, I found myself always looking forward to learning more about the characters, its world, and the story. Once I finished all of the story chapters, I literally yelled out “No! I want more!.”

- I really like how the legacy characters were implemented into the story! Emil and Marta are childhood friends! Laphicet sees Presea and Alicia as his surrogate sisters! Cress is Kanata’s teacher! Ernest/Gaius is Farah’s imaginary friend! There’s lots of cute stuff added and lots of cute new inter-series interactions and I welcome it with open arms!

- I think the translation this time around is much better compared to the previous mobile games. I also find it funny that Cress still talks like a medieval person! I guess the translators are just sticking with that now? Which makes me wonder, if Phantasia ever gets renamed and dubbed, will Cress still talk like that?

- I really like how the OCs are written, and I might make a separate post later to highlight what exactly it is I like about them, but I want to give a special shout out to Vicious. He’s a loveable jerk and the way his character is written is how I wish Bakugou’s character was written.

- The animation for the cutscenes are really good, as expected of WiT studio. The CGs are also very pretty! Probably even prettier than ToRays’.

Cons:

- Being forced to take guest party members during the side stories is the worst. Often times these characters are under-leveled and even at a disadvantage against the enemy type, which can be a major hassle especially if you’re aiming to get those extra 10 gleamstones for having no KOs.

- I really don’t like the way Yuna’s accent was translated. It’s such a pain to read through. Like, they couldn’t think of a better equivalent than French? Seriously?

- I know I mentioned that I liked how the legacy characters were implemented in the story, but there is one sole exception to that rule: Asbel. I really didn’t like how the game just gave Asbel Guy’s role. It’s a disservice to both of their characters! Guy has always been Luke’s big brother figure and it’s really weird to imagine him not having that same dynamic with Luke here. And Asbel, despite being given Guy’s role, doesn’t seem to have a close relationship with Luke (at least from what we’ve seen so far). Being a knight (and to a slightly lesser extent, a lord) is such a big part of Asbel’s character, and him being a mercenary and a Luke’s babysitter steward just doesn’t suit him at all. Since Guy’s 3D model has already been datamined, I’m at least content to know that Guy will be included in some way, so I’m hoping that the way he’s integrated into the story will still have him eventually developing that same close relationship with Luke. I also hope that a proper explanation for Asbel being a mercenary is explained (maybe in a side story? I’m also dying to know how he knows Jade) and that Asbel wanting to be a knight will still be a part of his character.

- There are some bugs here and there like the game suddenly freezing or the connection suddenly going out, but it just launched, so I’m sure it will get fixed/patched later on.

So overall, more pros than cons. Go play Tales of Crestoria.

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars XIX (Harry Potter xFem!Oc)

A/N: Starting year two!!! So far this has been my favorite book to write, but I expect to say that with every book lmao

P.S. I hope COVID-19 isn’t ruining all of y’all lives and are staying healthy, remember to keep up your studies!

Words: 1,935

Warnings: None!

Series’ Masterlist

Book I // Next Chapter 

Chapter One: The Weasleys.

‘When I got to Hogwarts everything was so lovely, the students, the history... my history.

I never thought that I would have something special in me and that so many people knew my name. You know I got sorted into Gryffindor -the same house as you and mum- and there I met Hermione, which is the first girl-friend I've had! There's also Ron, he is wonderful when he's not complaining about school.

And Harry, of course, I still can't believe he's with me in all this madness, I wouldn't have guessed we were so similar, Harry was so brave! I admire him if I'm honest. I do not know what would I do without him, he's changed so much since we arrived at school, he's like a brother! I'm sure these memories will stay with me forever.'

"You see? Brother," The man said through the phone, "pay me."

"Not yet, mister," Emily laughed, "my daughter's twelve, she's too young to decide whether if the bet is won or lost."

"Mily, I'm certain you'll lose, don't make it harder," He teased, "if I know something about Mel is that she's deathly honest. She would tell me"

"Mel's a child," She insisted, "don't you remember how we were at her age? I was definitely not thinking about boys"

"Lies, we all know you were crushing, just not on the right boy, that is."

"Oh hush," She stayed quiet for a moment, hearing footsteps on the second floor, "I think she's up"

They had been talking for almost half an hour, it was around midnight and Emily had lost track of time, but Mel's uncle had been nagging about their silly bet and she couldn't keep herself from giving her opinion on the subject.

It was all nonsense really, but it amused her.

The footsteps went back to her daughter's room, she returned her attention to the phone call.

"Try next year, I bet we'll have some interesting letters then."

"You're having too much fun with this," He chuckled, "I just hope she never finds out, or we'll be in trouble"

"What did I ever do to have such heathen for a daughter?" Emily smiled, "You should go to bed, don't you work tomorrow?"

"...yes, I should go"

"You paused," Emily leaned on her seat, "everything alright?"

"Yes"

"Is your boss upset because you skipped last week?"

"I talked to him about it"

"He couldn't have possibly-"

"I said I talked to him," He insisted, "no need to worry, Mily"

"...I wish you could come live with us, Mel needs a role model"

"I'm no father," He laughed.

"You're the only constant in her life apart from me and Harry. She needs a good man to build up her expectations if a man is what she wants that is, if not, then I'm afraid I'm giving her a terrible example of a woman"

"Don't be silly, you're the best"

"She'll be so much better than me, though," Emily smiled, "such a temper! Maybe that's on me, Matt was always kind"

"Except on times when people would tease you," He reminded her.

"Oh, that Ernest kid was so scared!" She chuckled, "I guess she's a lot like her father as well, judging on the way she looks after Harry"

"She'll be a good girl... it's late and tomorrow you'll be leaving Privet Drive, correct?"

"Yes, the Weasleys have kindly asked us to spend the rest of the summer with them and Mel have been bugging about it ever since, my ears will finally be put at rest"

"And Harry?"

"He was invited too, but he's yet to receive the letter. If it were for Mel though, she would take him with us."

"I bet she would"

"It won't take long"

"Remember to send a letter once you're suited there"

"Will do," Emily sighed, "And darling? Take care of yourself..."

"Will do."

It was probably the first time Mel had woken up without her mother barging into her room to urge her to get dress.

At eight o'clock she was ready, bags packed and cat in his basket, all prepared to leave the house for the rest of the summer. There was just one thing missing.

She opened her window, throwing small rocks at the house next door, specifically the window that faced hers. A boy with ruffled black hair and lopsided glasses opened it, looking a bit grumpy.

"What?" He grumbled, rubbing his eyes.

"Aren't you going to say goodbye?" She leaned on her window, "Come down for a moment"

"It's cold"

"And I'm leaving"

"I'll see you in a few days!"

"Sweet Merlin, I get it," She scoffed, "I might as well just disappear and let you sleep soundly, all alone in that room"

"Mel..." Harry groaned, passing a hand through his hair, "I'll see you in a minute"

The girl rushed to the door carrying her bags and Grey's basket with her, leaving them in the living room.

"Be careful or you'll break your neck!" Emily hissed, catching the poor cat.

"Sorry! I'll go say goodbye to Harry," She hurried out to her neighbors' house.

"Glasses!" Mel stretched out her arms and hugged Harry, he returned it with a chuckle, "I know you won't admit it but you'll miss me, I know you will"

"Dumby, what fun there is on admitting things that would only make you more annoying?" He grinned.

"Rude!" She nudged his arm, "I hope your letter gets here soon, I can't wait!"

"Me neither..."

"I could've written a letter before leaving saying you were coming with me, but noooo you refused because you didn't want to invite yourself," She crossed her arms, "Am I wrong?"

"You're right"

"Harry Potter, always polite," She gave a small smile.

"Mel!" Emily walked out of their house, carrying Grey's basket and a large trunk, "Time to go!"

"Coming!" She turned back to her friend, "I'll write to you for as long as you're away, which won't be long, I owe it to you-"

"I deserve vacations too, you know? Away from your nagging"

"You're really trying to hurt my feeling today, aren't you," She huffed, "it won't work, I know you love me"

"Goodbye, Dumby."

"Goodbye!" She happily replied, leaning to kiss his cheek briefly.

"Mel!"

"I'm going!"

The girl left without glancing back, if she had glanced, she would've noticed Harry was bright red.

"Are you sure this is their house?"

"Positive," Emily walked up to her, holding her trunk, "it wasn't as you were expecting?"

"It's better," She replied breathless, "so much better..."

A construction that looked like it had evolved on its own stood in front of the, it had the Weasley's soul marked onto its walls if that made any sense. It was messy and colorful, just fun all around. Exactly like the people living in it.

"Emily!" Mrs. Weasley walked out to the garden to welcome them home, "Mel! So good to see you again! Come in, come in... Ron! Your guests are here!"

A sound similar to a stampede came from several floors up until three redheaded boys stumbled out of the house.

"Mel! Hi!" Fred and George were fighting with Ronald to be the firsts to get to her.

"Hi boys!" She exclaimed.

"And these are your boys," Emily chuckled, "care to help us?"

"I can carry my own bag," Mel said quickly, "I don't need help"

"S'not a problem," Ron finally made his way out of his brothers' hold to welcome her properly, "Hi, Mellow..."

"That horrid nickname," She grimaced, "you better don't use it once Harry gets here, he wouldn't stop calling me that"

"It's better than Dumby"

"Everything's better than Dumby, oof!" She stumbled across the front door, her legs quivering under the weight of her trunk.

"Let us help," George appeared beside her and took the other end of her trunk.

"We don't want you dying on your first morning at the burrow," Fred added, taking her bag.

"The burrow?" She asked, too distracted by the room she was in to fight against the twins.

"That's how we call our humble home," Fred joked, "now, you can stay with our sister Ginny our with your mum in Charlie's old room. Ginny's lovely but you might feel a bit odd staying with her on your first night"

"Is she here?" Mel asked with curiosity, "I would love to meet her properly"

"She's in her room I think," Ron said, then he yelled, "Oy, Ginny! Come down to meet Mel!"

Mel helped the boys take her luggage to Charlie's old room. Footsteps approached them, a set of brown eyes peering through the door.

"You must be Ginny," Mel took off her beanie, getting used to the warm home, "I'm Mel..."

The girl, a few inches smaller than her, opened the door and smiled at her.

"Hi! My brothers have told me tons of things about you," She walked up to her and hugged her.

"All good I hope," Mel giggled.

"Oh no, all bad," Fred smiled, "terrible! We told her you're the castle's biggest nightmare-"

"You did not," Ginny laughed, "don't believe a thing, they never shut up about you, my brothers have turned into a pile of lousy admirers"

"You're one to talk..." Ron grumbled.

"You'll always be our number one though," George ruffled her hair.

"Back off!" Ginny complained.

Mrs. Weasley and Emily walked in carrying Grey's basket and Em's luggage.

"Is that your cat?"

"Do you want to meet him?" Mel opened the basket, Grey's little head peered from inside, "Harry gave it to me as a birthday present"

"Oh please don't talk about him with Ginny," Ron moaned, "she'll ramble about how pretty his eyes are"

Ginny blushed.

"I won't!" She threw him a pillow.

"Don't fight inside the guests' room!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, "Take Mel to the garden or give her a tour around the house while I help Emily unpack-"

"You don't have to," Emily replied, "How about we go to the kitchen and we make some tea? I'm exhausted from all the driving"

"Of course," Mrs. Weasley smiled, guiding her to the first floor.

"I'll show you my room," Ginny took her hand and was about to leave when Ron got in the way.

"No way! You can't take her," He frowned, "she's my friend, not yours"

"We were going to show her our room," Fred and George said.

Mel laughed, feeling her cheeks burning from the overwhelming attention.

"How about we go to the nearest room?"

"That's Percy's room," Ron grimace, "he's been in there since we came back"

"He's writing letters to Merlin knows who," Ginny rolled her eyes, "my room is the nearest after Percy's, I win!"

The boys grumbled and stepped back, not wishing to go inside their little sister's room.

"I'll see you in a while, boys," Mel chuckled, letting herself being dragged to the girl's room.

'Dear Harry,

Ron's house is amazing! My first day here was lovely, I got to meet Ron's sister and his father! They were both really kind to me and my mum, I'm sure they'll be the same with you.

He told me he sent your letter with mine but his owl is a bit old, maybe it dropped yours by accident. Ron's sending another just in case, it should arrive in two or three days, so I hope to see you soon.

I can't wait to have you here so we can all have fun together! You'll be able to fly in your broom here! (And maybe lend it to me?)

Missing you,

Mel.'

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@tiphareth2018 @vampiregirl1797 @siriuslysirius1107 @celestialhayi  @omiwashere

[lorirwritesfanfic]

WIP Wednesday 09.02.2020

Look at me late again! 😅 I still had a few unanswered requests for the AU prompts let's pretend I haven't finished most of them and I decided to finally work on the two of Professional Rivals AUs fics today.

Annabelle Parsons x F!OC - Professional Rivals AU

"As you all know, every year, performing arts students of London Academy of Music and Dramatic Arts present a play for the nobility of our country. But this year, we have special guests." Professor Daly continued.

"Oh my stars! I knew it! I saw mum speaking in hushed tones with the Dean Foredale!" Briar enthused.

"I wonder who's joining us this year," Daphne commented.

"The chosen play is The Age of Innocence, which is going to be directed by Dean Dominique Foredale."

Whispers and gasps spread in the air. "Did you know that?" Annabelle turned to Daphne.

"I did not!" Daphne replied. "I thought one of the grad students would. I saw her talking to Bartie and I swore she wanted him as director."

"Pah! Everybody knows the only grad student capable of directing a play in this school is Ernest Sinclaire," Felicity huffed.

"I'm sorry, what made you think we were talking to you?" Daphne spat.

"Be thankful I was educating you, you peasant."

"Oh, I'll show you who's a peasant, you--"

"Will you ladies settle down or should we take your heated argument outside before you get to fill your applications to the play?" Mrs. Daly glared at the two young women, who simply shook their heads. "I thought so."

Thomas Mendez x MC - Professional Rivals AU

As Ayla and her client walked out of the room and stepped into the hallway, they glared at the two men coming from the room across them. While the former partners promptly ignored each other, the lawyers approached, seizing one another.

"Hello, Mr Mendez." Ayla extended her hand for a handshake.

"Ms. Day," Thomas replied the handshake. "I hope you're both ready for a settlement."

"A settlement?" Ayla scoffed and leaned to whisper. "Chickening out already, Thomas?"

A corner of his mouth quirked up and he leaned in to whisper. "You know you're only making this harder because you want to, Ayla. Let's not put the poor dog through this suffering."

"I think your client should've thought of that when he asked for full custody of the dog." Ayla gave him a knowing look.

His jaw clenched. Though Thomas had a good poker face, Ayla was one of the few attorneys in Goldcliffe who could easily get under his skin. "May the best party win."

"Trust me. My client definitely will."

Tagging @choicesficwriterscreations

[sincerely-ernest]

Meta on family.

It’s really easy to fall into the belief that angsty = “deep.” I had this issue a lot in some of my older fandoms and older ocs. I am trying to move away from that but, seeing as though asoue can be SO depressing and dim at times, it can be hard to remember that excessive angst isn’t like. always the most interesting choice.

I used to headcanon that ernest was super edgy, he and frank were not on speaking terms, he tried to be incredibly guilt-trippy and manipulative towards dewey, and all this horrible stuff. he might as well put on some black eyeliner and cry in a shower. i think that its a lot more interesting to think of ernest and his brothers in the context of fiona and fernald’s relationship. it can be hard for them to reconcile their alliance differences, but they still love and care for each other before any schism. I really think that, besides squabbles, ernest is still very close with his brothers. the denouements may work in a vfd hotel, but its a hotel first and a safe place second. ernest, frank, and dewey probably spend a majority of their time with small talk, complaining about incompetent employees, cracking jokes about weirdo guests. i don’t know if you’ve ever seen any hotel-based series, but there isn’t that much time to brood working in a hotel. 

i like the idea of the denouement brothers setting up schedules so each one can get a certain amount of hours off a week to sleep, do laundry, have time off. i like the idea of the three watching movies or playing a board game at like 3am when they have a bellman man the front desk. i like them playing pranks on each other by changing their appearance or accent for the day. i like them giving vague warnings to each other to watch out, don’t let yourself be captured, play along, and lets sabotage the mission enough that no one gets hurt but no one catches on. their quarrels are mostly bickers,  the occasional explosive fight, but they get over it. they’re brothers. its what they do.

[pengychan]

[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 4

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

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: I finished proofreading this while half-drunk at the airport. Here's hoping that's not too obvious.

***

Considering that Ernesto had absolutely no clue what the hell he was even doing, he thought things were going rather well.

His way of handling things had definitely raised a few brows, of course, but no one had called his bluff and no one was chasing him with sticks demanding to know what he’d done with the real priest - funny story, that. So he counted it as a success.

He’d even remembered how to handle the Rite of Eucharist, even if he’d maybe gulped down more wine than he should have, because at one point he could have sworn he’d seen Sister Sofia licking her lips while staring at him from her place among the other nuns. He’d blinked and she looked perfectly normal, so he must have imagined it - a sure sign he’d gone too long without a woman.

Other than that, all was well. The Mass was over, everyone go in peace or something, and his cover was still up - a rather original priest from out of town. Even that bag of laughs of the Mother Superior seemed to suspect nothing. She looked slightly perplexed, maybe, but nothing more. He could pull this off for as long as it was needed.

If he didn’t know that would look odd, Ernesto would have patted himself on the back; instead, he just settled for exchanging pleasantries and nods with the parishioners as they began leaving the church… only that quickly enough the steady line towards the exit came to a halt, and a few murmurs went through the crowd, causing Ernesto to blink.

“Who may that be?”

“A gringo…?”

“Mamá, why is that man pink?”

What the…?

The crowd seemed to suddenly part in two, like the Red Sea before Moses - look, mamá, I’m getting the hang of this priest thing - and walking up to him there was… well, it was a gringo all right, with straw-like hair and beard. And, unless that town had somehow become a beacon for chronic liars in clergy clothes, he was also a priest.

Uh-oh.

“Father Ernest,” the man called out, and took another step forward, bowing his head slightly. It was only the two of them before the altar, everyone else several steps away. Ernesto had enough time to wonder if he was really talking to him, but not enough say anything - let alone to correct him on his name - before he spoke again. “Laudetur Jesus Christus.”

Ernesto blinked. “I don’t speak English,” he said, only realizing his mistake when the priest - Ernesto had never in his life seen someone so ridiculously pink - blinked, taken aback.

“Wha–” he began, only to trail off when someone suddenly laughed uproariously and grasped Ernesto’s cassock.

“Hahahaha! Good one!” Miguel exclaimed, grinning up at both of them. Where had he come from? “It was funny, wasn’t it? Padre Ernesto tells the best jokes!”  he added, and the grip on the cassock tightened. Realization - he knew - hit Ernesto like a jolt, but he managed not to make his shock plain. Despite the fact his heart seemed to have sunk somewhere in the vicinity of his kneecaps, Ernesto managed to smile.

“I can never resist,” he said, gaining himself a less than impressed look from the other man - who was, very clearly, allergic to fun. Still, his gaze softened when he looked at Miguel.

“Oh, the altar boy,” he said. His Spanish was… passable, Ernesto supposed, but the accent was so thick it made some words quite hard to understand. “Good afternoon. I’m Father John. And you are…?”

“Miguel. I, uh, really need to speak to Padre Ernesto a minute here, but I’ll give him back–”

“It won’t be long, Michael,” Father John said, causing Miguel to blink in confusion and Ernesto to frown. “Father Ernest and I–”

“Ernesto,” Ernesto found himself saying, more coldly than he should have. He had to shed who he was, and he had to shed his surname, but the name his parents had given him was still his own and like hell he’d let some sunburnt gringo twist it. “I was christened Ernesto, with an o at the end. And his name is Miguel.”

It was as though he had said nothing at all. “–Have some matters to discuss,” he finished, and turned those unnerving watery eyes back to him. Ernesto met his gaze with an unimpressed look of his own. In a way, annoyance was a blessing: it kept him from freaking out over the fact that, well, the altar boy had caught him out.

“Sure thing, Padre Juan,” he said, his voice tight, and the faint smile on Father John’s face faded.

Good.

He fully expected a cold remark, but just then Héctor approached with quick steps, waving off the small crowd that had been standing a few steps away. They seemed to get the message and resumed walking out of the church, although several of them paused to glance back, clearly puzzled. The nuns, too, looked perplexed as they passed by. Soon enough, there was only them in the church… and a very confused-looking Gustavo somewhere in the back.

“We had no idea there would be a visitor,” Héctor said, smiling widely. His voice seemed to echo in the church. “Welcome among us, Padre… I’m sorry, I did not catch that. My ears were kind of ringing a bit. The organ, you know?”

“Juan,” Ernesto quipped.

“John,” the gringo said pointedly, then smiled at Héctor. “I supposed you are the novice Father Edmund spoke of so highly of in his letters. Brother Hector, is that it?”

He pronounced it funny, but at least his name was spared. Héctor nodded. “That would be me, yes. Did you say Padre Edmundo wrote to you?”

A nod, and Father John turned back to Ernesto. The smile had already faded. “I understand that you have only just arrived in this parish,” he said. “Fresh out of seminary, I assume.”

Fresh out of the army and oh, did I learn a thing or two there I’d like to do right now.

“You could say that,” Ernesto said instead, his voice carefully controlled, gaining himself another nod.

“I have been in touch with your predecessor, may God take him in His glory. He kindly said he’d let me stay for a time. I have been traveling Mexico for the past year--”

“Vacation?” Ernesto guessed. The guy had noticeable self-control, he had to give him that, but this time he just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes.

“I am on a mission, on behalf of the Holy Catholic Church,” he said, his voice tight. It made his awful accent even worse, somehow. “To evangelize the people of this country.”

Ernesto blinked, and turned to Héctor, who looked back at him at an absolute loss. Not help there, then. Wondering if he hadn’t simply heard wrong - he was hard to understand at times, really - Ernesto cleared his throat. “You might be… a few centuries too late.”

“The work of God is never done.”

“No, I mean… you are. Everyone and their dog is already Catholic,” Ernesto pointed out, and the gringo glowered at him.

“Surely you jest,” he muttered. “Although this is no jesting matter. Animals lack souls. They cannot possibly be Catholic.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“I didn’t mean that literally. Either way, the fact stays that we’re all Catholic. So sorry you had to waste a trip. But if you’d like to stay a night or two before you move on someplace else where your help is needed--”

“From what I have seen today, I believe my help is needed here and now. Especially during Lent, I believe it quite important that the holy Mass is held properly,” Father John cut him off, and Ernesto held back a groan. All right, so this guy clearly was not a fan of the spin he’d put to the traditional mass. Can’t please everyone and all that, but did he really have to be such a miserable pain in the ass?

“Well, things are still a bit, uh. As you said, I just arrived. But I guarantee we are all Catholic, so it would be rather redundant to bring over Catholicism all over aga--”

“I am talking of proper Catholicism, Father Ernest,” the man said, tilting up his chin. “Not the watered down kind you practice here, laced with pagan fetishes and superstition.”

Hijo de tu puta madre, Ernesto thought. It was a very tempting retort to utter, if a decidedly un-priestly one - and maybe the thought had showed on his face, because suddenly there was another very urgent pull at his cassock and Miguel was speaking fast.

“No! I mean-- that’s really interesting, Padre Jua-- Father John!” he blurted out, and smiled, ignoring how both Ernesto and Héctor were blinking down at him. “Why don’t you hold mass for a while? As our guest?”

That caused the gringo to blink before the surprise melted in a smile that was surprisingly warm. “I’d be happy to, if Father Ernest is willing to let me.”

“Wha--” Ernesto began to protest, only to trail off when Miguel’s foot suddenly stomped down on his - a sudden, painful reminder of two things: that the boy knew, and that he couldn’t hold mass for shit. “Agh! I mean - ah, what a good idea!”

Héctor frowned, eyes shifting between them. “Miguel, are you all--”

“Never been better! But now I think I really need to borrow Padre Ernesto for a minute. Or two. Or twenty,” he exclaimed, grinning widely, and began dragging Ernesto towards the sacristy. “Why don’t you show Father John around? Gustavo can look after his… horse?”

“I came with a donkey.”

“An ass on top of an ass,” Ernesto muttered under his breath, and held back a yelp when Miguel swiftly kicked his shin. Within moments they were back in the sacristy, and Miguel was slamming the door shut behind them. “That kick was entirely unnecess--”

“Who are you?” Miguel demanded to know, crossing his arms, and Ernesto shut his mouth.

Oh, he thought. Right. He figured it out. Should have left him to drown.

“I…” he began, glancing around the sacristy. He had left his gun in his room, hidden in the mattress, but he wouldn’t need that to overpower a child. He could smother him easily. But still, how could he get away without anyone noticing? Witnesses had seen him entering the room with Miguel; even if he got out from the back door after dealing with him, he… he…

“You are not a priest,” Miguel said, arms still crossed, but he didn’t look hostile; rather, he seemed curious - the way kids can be, and the full implications of what he’d been thinking hit him like a bucket of cold water. For a moment he could see the glare of the sun on the barrel of his gun and Alberto’s unprotected back in front of him, and smell gunpowder and blood in the air… only that now he wasn’t looking at a grown man at all.

A kid, Jesus Christ, he was standing there thinking of how to best kill a kid.

“Uh, Padr-- Ernest-- señor?” Miguel’s voice reached Ernesto as though from a mile away; there was no mirror for him to look into nearby, but if there were, he was fairly sure he would have found himself staring at a face as pale as ash. He staggered backwards, and his back hit the wall.

“I…” he began, and swallowed. He could taste bile in the back of his throat. If he’d had a gun at had, if not for that gringo and for Héctor just out of the door, what would have have done? “Miguel, I… how…?”

Entirely unaware of the thoughts that had been storming through his mind, Miguel shrugged. “I saw you trying to read the Bible. You didn’t just decide to do things differently, right? You don’t know any Latin.”

“I…” Ernesto swallowed again. His mouth felt dry as sandpaper. “No. I don’t know Latin.”

���So you are not a priest.”

“... No. I need to know, did you tell anyone--”

“Of course not!” Miguel exclaimed, cutting him off, and now he seemed offended. “You kept the secret when you found me at the stream and I wasn’t supposed to, remember?”

Ernesto blinked. That… wasn’t the reply he had expected, but it made sense, in a childish kind of way. Won’t tell if you don’t. “Ah,” he said, and sighed in relief. “That.”

“And I know people would assume all the wrong things, like, that you’re a spy from the government,” Miguel went on, rolling his eyes and not realizing the way Ernesto had stilled. “They see spies in every newcomer - I bet they’ll watch that gringo like hawks now. They think I don’t understand what they’re talking about, but I do. So maybe they would get the wrong idea, but I know better,” he added, and grinned. “You’re a good guy.”

“... Am I now?”

Miguel nodded, in a way only a nine year old stating the tenets of the universe can. “Yes! You saved me from the stream, kept it a secret, and then taught me a song,” he declared, counting each feat on his fingers. “That’s good guy stuff. You can’t be with the government.”

Ernesto blinked for a few more moment before giving a guffawing laugh. What a childish, simplistic world view… and how very convenient for him. “No,” he said, and crouched down to be closer to Miguel’s eye level. “I am not with the government. Not anymore.”

For a moment, the boy seemed to falter. “Anymore…?”

“I was forced to join the army, and escaped.” Shot a man in the process, but all wars have their casualties. “Now I’m hiding from them.”

“Oh, I see. They forced some men from here to join, too. So you switched sides?”

“No,” Ernesto replied, more harshly than he’d meant to. “I have no side. I want no part in this war at all. I’m just trying to live through it - I’m a musician, not a damn soldier.”

Miguel nodded. “Oh, that’s why you’re so good at playing and singing! And that’s why you’re pretending to be a priest… without knowing Latin. You didn’t plan this very well, did you?”

Ernesto rubbed the back of his neck. “Planning is… not my greatest talent. I met the priest who was sent here from Oaxaca on the way, but he was caught up in a fight. Didn’t make it. That’s when I decided to take his place. I seized my moment,” he added. It sounded better than ‘I am sort of winging it as I go’, which was the overly honest version.

The notion seemed to sadden the boy, but only for a few moments. After all, they were talking about a man he had never met nor known. “Will they hang you if they catch you?” he asked, and suddenly sounded excited. Ernesto did not like that.

“... Very likely. I’d rather not find out, though,” he added, reaching up for his throat.

“Fair enough. Good thing I can help you!”

Ernesto blinked. “What?” he asked, and Miguel grinned, starting to pace back and forth.

“Yes, it’s perfect! That gringo arrived just at the right time!”

“Wha--”

“Everyone will focus on him! And he can say mass while you learn Latin!”

“I am not going to learn--”

“All right, maybe not that, but you can memorize the stuff you need to say! I did,” the boy cut him off, and tapped his forehead. “It’s all in here. It’s boring, but I can help you!”

Ernesto blinked, taken aback. The notion of keeping up that charade for more than a few days seemed… slightly less insane than it had just a few minutes ago, really. He was a good actor; he had good memory. Maybe he could pull it off, and get to spend the rest of that stupid war hidden away in that small town, eating three meals a day and with very little danger of being caught and hanged. He just needed… a little help.

“You can help me,” he repeated, and raised an eyebrow. “All right. What’s the catch, niño?”

He’d half-expected the boy to play innocent, but he didn’t even bother to; instead, he smiled widely. “I need your help to stop Héctor before he becomes a priest.”

That was just about the last thing he expected to hear. “You need my help to-- what?”

Miguel rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on! He shouldn’t be a priest! He should marry Imelda, everyone knows he likes her!”

“And Imelda is…?”

“Oh, right. You haven’t met her. They call her Sister Gisela now.”

Ernesto could feel the first stab of something that threatened to turn into a huge headache. “You want me get a novice to drop his vows and marry a nun, did I hear that right?”

“She’s not a nun yet! We also have to stop that from happening, by the way.”

“I have to stop him from becoming a priest, her from becoming a nun, and get them married.”

“Yes!” Miguel exclaimed, clearly glad to see he’d caught on. “I mean, you’re the parish priest! Well, the think you are. They will listen to you,” he added, then paused, frowning in thought. “... Well, maybe Héctor is more likely to listen. But you should talk with Sister Sofía! She also thinks they should drop their vows, and Imelda listens to her. Sorta. Kinda. Maybe.”

“I’m sorta, kinda, maybe thinking I should have let the army hang me.”

Miguel made a face. “Being hanged sounds unpleasant.”

All right, so maybe that was exaggerating just a little bit. Ernesto shrugged, conceding the point. “Fine. Let me see if I understood you correctly. You are going to keep this a secret and teach me whatever crap I have to say during Mass while Padre Culo Blanco covers that for time being,” he said, jabbing an index finger against Miguel’s chest before pointing at himself with the thumb. “And in exchange, I convince a priest and a nun--”

“They aren’t yet a priest and a nun.”

“Fine. I convince two novices to drop their holy vows and know each other biblically, possibly within the sacred bond of marriage. Is that it? That’s the deal?”

Miguel seemed just slightly confused. “What does it mean, know each other biblically?”

“How old are you again, niño?”

“Nine.”

“... It means they kiss.”

“Eeeugh.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “That’s rich, coming from a self-professed matchmaker,” he joked, but the smile faded quickly. “Miguel. Do you swear you won’t say a word about this?”

“I’ll be silent as a grave,” the kid promised, and as he began quickly suggesting a course of action for his - their - matchmaking project, Ernesto did his best to listen… and not to think of the terrifying moment when he’d seriously considered blowing a hole in the boy’s head.

***

“Juanita doesn’t like that gringo.”

“Juanita doesn’t like anyone.”

“I don’t like that gringo.”

“You don’t like anyone, either.”

Chicharrón scoffed, and held the rooster in his lap somewhat protectively. “I like Juanita.”

“... Right.”

“No one likes that gringo, Héctor,” Cheech muttered through the stick in his mouth, and Héctor had to admit he had a point. Most people had put on a polite expression because that’s what you do with a priest, after all… but anyone who knew them - and he would, he’d grown up in those streets - could tell.

It was hard to trust newcomers, those days; Padre Ernesto was already well-liked, despite raising a few brows with that… interesting Mass, but it didn’t mean he was fully trusted. And that man - an American - seemed suspicious from a mile away. Distrust was natural and, really, he wasn’t helping his case at all with his condescending comments on how they handled religious matters, about pagan beliefs to be eradicated, how he was on a mission on God’s behalf to set things right.

Honestly, despite the smile Héctor had pasted on his face, he couldn’t recall anyone going that out of his way to grate on everyone’s nerves since… Gustavo, maybe, back when he’d just arrived at the orphanage and mocked everyone else by insisting that he wasn’t like them, he had a mamá and she would be back to pick him up soon, just you wait, she’ll be back for me before you know it.

She had never come, and Héctor had felt sorry for him, but all of his attempts at showing friendship were thrown back in his face and thus he’d stopped trying very quickly. This, however, was a priest - someone he should at least try to get on with.

“He’s not that bad,” he muttered, tuning his guitar. To be fair, Father John hadn’t been like that the entire time. He’d told him a few really interesting things about his travels, had been really interested in the charity work the parish did and shown interest in getting involved, and he’d seemed genuinely impressed by what little English Héctor could speak - which, to be entirely honest, wasn’t as good as the man’s slightly shaky Spanish. He’d smiled warmly, corrected his pronunciation, and then even laughed a bit.

“My apologies, I forget myself,” he’d said. “I’m not here for a language lesson - but sometimes it feels good, hearing your language when you’re far from home,” he’d added, and then suddenly excused himself.

Héctor strummed the guitar, a frown creasing his brow. There had been something on the man’s face as he’d spoken those words, there one moment and gone the next: a sort of desperate longing that had made him pause. He remembered seeing that look before, on the faces of other children who talked about parents they would never see again.

Unaware of his thoughts, Cheech was scoffing. “He is that bad. Bad news.”

“Maybe we should give him a chance. Maybe he’s just… well…”

“A pompous white ass.”

“American.”

“That’s what I said.”

Héctor laughed. “Hah! Don’t let him hear you.”

“I want him to hear me.”

“And I would like to change subject,” Héctor said, rolling his eyes. Come to think of it, where was Miguel? After he’d gone off somewhere with Padre Ernesto, he hadn’t seen him aroun--

“Oh, right. Almost forgot. They’re coming to take their stuff tonight.”

The casual comment caused Héctor to wince, and his hand slipped off the guitar strings. “Cheech! Not that loud!”

“And who’s gonna hear us, dead people?” Chicharrón scoffed, but he did him the favor to lower his voice. “It’s all sorted, in the usual coffins, in the usual place. You would know, you moved them. They’ll be gone by morning and that will be it.”

“Until the next message.”

“Until the next message, yes,” Cheech muttered, and scratched Juanita’s head. “Wonder who else gets them. I doubt we’re the only ones.”

Héctor had wondered that from time to time, too, and more. “Do you ever wonder who is it, leaving us instructions?”

“Oh, of course. I thought it was old Alejandro for a while, but then he went six feet under and the notes kept coming. Same handwriting and all,” he said, and shrugged. “Maybe it’s Ceci.”

“Ceci?” Héctor repeated, raising an eyebrow. It seemed… unlikely, that their local seamstress would be the mind behind it all. Of course, you never know; something was slightly off with her, with the amount of clothes for the poor that had suddenly become ‘unmendable’ and disappeared. Ceci had always taken pride in her skill to salvage even the most worn-out rags, and Héctor suspected that some of those clothes were mendable after all, and went to other people who had use for them. Can’t fight a Revolution naked, after all.

“I saw her around here not long before I found the note in the usual place,” Cheech was saying, unaware of his thoughts. “This is not the day to collect donated clothing.”

“She was here to make changes to the robes. They’re too tight for Padre Ernesto.”

“Hmmm. Guess that explains it,” Cheech muttered, and shrugged again. “Well, I got nothing, then. I could be anyo--”

“Héctor! Are you still wasting your time with the old goat?” Gustavo’s voice rang out.

Cheech let out a grumble. “Except this cabrón.”

“... Yes. Except this cabrón,” Héctor muttered, causing the old man to chortle.

"Oh, listen to yourself, Brother Héctor. You’ll have to wash your mouth with soap now."

Héctor laughed, and stood. Gustavo was at the low wall between the path and the cemetery, a scowl on his face. "Here you are. Sofía decided to make me her errand boy and--"

"Sister Sofía, you mean."

“I can think of other ways to call her, and none of them is sister,” Gustavo scoffed. "She says dinner is ready, and that you should dine with Padre Ernesto and Padre Jua-- Father John," he corrected himself quickly, and Héctor had to hold back a chuckle. So, that nickname was catching up already. Father John wasn't going to be pleased, but then again he seemed difficult to please either way.

"You're lucky, no chorizo,” Gustavo was going on. “You should live to see another day."

The remark caused Héctor to scowl. "It was one time," he protested. Really, one time you eat too quickly, one time you get a chorizo stuck in your throat, one time you puke it right back up in front of everyone, and there is some pendejo who'll never let you forget about it.

"And very nearly your last,” Gustavo mocked him, and turned to walk away. Héctor wondered about that; usually, as the sexton, he had most meals at the parish.

“Aren’t you coming?” he called out, gaining himself a scoff and a glare over his shoulder.

“Unlike a certain someone, I have more to do then toying with guitars.”

Héctor rolled his eyes. “Self-important jerk,” he muttered, and headed back to the parish with the guitar over his shoulder.

***

Ernesto had never enjoyed killing.

He had done it anyway, of course, and several times. During a battle or an ambush, to finish off wounded enemies afterwards - those were the easiest ones, because it was kill or be killed in one case and a mercy in the other.

But then there had been the other times. The times were men would stand accused of aiding the revolutionaries, found guilty after a joke of a trial, and publicly shot; the times he was picked to be part of the firing squad and made himself go through the motions, the screams and pleas and curses of those witnessing - mothers and wives, sons and daughters and brothers and sisters - ringing in his ears for a long time afterwards.

There had been one time when they’d begun moving on, only to hear the village’s church ringing its bell in a death toll to mourn their dead; their commander had been so infuriated that he’d made them all turn around, had the bellringer dragged out, and shot him point blank in the face. Ernesto hadn’t been the only one to turn on his saddle to vomit in the dirt.

The nightmares had eased after some time, but that bitter taste in the back of his throat would return, unannounced, more often than he’d have liked. He’d tasted it after gunning down Alberto to get away, after ending the dying priest whose cloth he’d taken, and he could taste it now, too. He hadn’t shot Miguel for knowing too much, but the thought had been there and Christ, he needed something strong to wash it away. Except that he could have no such thing, because good old Padre Juan had decided that they shouldn’t have even wine.

“It is Lent, after all. We are meant to give up on such small luxuries. Our Lord certainly had none, alone in the desert as he faced the Devil.”

No, Ernesto had no taste for killing… but the more that gringo talked, the more he felt that could be an exception. Thankfully, Brother Héctor had taken one for the team by engaging with that ass first; it seemed to have backfired, because now he just wouldn’t stop spewing out theological crap and suggesting he could give him English lessons. It was easy to tell Héctor was regretting his decision to start small talk, but Ernesto had absolutely no desire to intervene. The less he had to talk with John Proper Catholicism Johnson, the better.

Really, at that point Héctor just kept nodding with a rather faraway look in his eyes. Was he thinking about this Imelda to keep himself sane? Ernesto sure hoped so, as he hoped he would find the note he had slipped under his door. Miguel had said he’d make sure the other one would find its way in Imelda’s own room. Not precisely the brightest or most original of plans, getting them alone in the same place at night, but they had to start somewhere.

If those two liked each other as Miguel claimed they did, it might just work.

“... As a matter of fact, I never found any of you to be intellectually lacking compared to the white man, save a few exceptions,” the gringo was saying, so very magnanimously. “I do disagree with that school of thought. One cannot help the circumstances of one’s birth, but it is our duty to seek to elevate ourselves and help those less fortunate--”

Ernesto forced himself to let go of the fork. Anything could be turned into a weapon and he was Not Supposed to kill any more priests that week. Or ever, possibly. And well, it looked like he wasn’t the only one who was getting seriously fed up. A few steps away, Sister Sofía - or Sister Sophie, according to the gringo - was holding a frying pan in her hand, eyes shifting from it to Father John and then back again.

Ernesto smiled a bit, and that was when her gaze paused on him. She raised both eyebrows.

You can absolve me later, she mouthed, and Ernesto bit the inside of his cheek not to laugh.

“... What do you think, Father Ernest?” Father John’s grating voice caused him to recoil and look back to him… and at Héctor, who looked like he’d had his soul sucked out of his body.

“Huh?”

“I asked if you’d like to join Padre Hector and me in the chapel for the evening prayer. Certainly that is not a good habit you have shed along with your Latin, is it?”

Ernesto’s eyes flickered behind him. Sister Sofía raised the frying pan, tilting her head in a mute question. It was funny enough to help him not lose his temper, and he managed to smile as though he meant it. “I would love to, but I prefer to say the evening prayer on my own,” he said. “After some private reflection.”

To his relief, he didn’t insist further; he just wished him and Sister Sophie a good night, and left along with a rather resigned-looking Héctor. Ernesto sighed and leaned back on the chair as soon as the door closed behind them. “God give me patience.”

“I’ve got something better,” Sister Sofía said, and within moments there was a bottle of mass wine on the table, plus a second glass. Ernesto raised an eyebrow, and she shrugged. “What Padre Juan doesn’t know cannot hurt him. As much as I would like to do that at times,” she quipped, pouring wine in his glass, and Ernesto barked out a laugh, taking it.

“Telling me you’d like to harm another member of the clergy, Sister?”

“You can absolve me later,” she smiled, and picked up her own glass. “He’s probably going to be a complete killjoy at Mass. A shame, that,” she added, and smiled, putting a hand on his arm.  “I liked your take on it.”

Ernesto thought back of the moment when he’d thought he had seen her licking her lips while staring at him and wondered, suddenly, if that hadn’t been just his imagination after all.

“... I think I noticed,” he found himself saying, and her laughter as she lifted the glass - the glint in her eyes as she glanced at him as though he were a tasty morsel - confirmed his suspicion. He found he liked that thought; there was something flattering about it. She wasn’t that much to look at, short and thin as a twig in robes that were hardly meant to be flattering, but he hadn’t been with a woman for so, so long.

You have a cover to keep, no point in risking it. This is not the hill you want to die on, idiota.

But then again, a nun? She had all the more reasons to keep whatever may happen a secret, he thought as she brought the glass to her lips with a smile. Ernesto did the same and finally, as he gulped it down, the taste of bile in the back of his throat began to fade.

***

His old Bible was where John had left it, on the small table at his bedside.

Most of his few belongings had yet to be unpacked - he’d simply left them in the small room he’d been offered before Brother Hector had begun showing him around - and he would do that early the next morning. Now he was so tired, he wished for nothing but sleep. But not just yet; with his evening prayers uttered, there was one thing yet to do before he could rest.

First thing in the morning and last thing in the evening, so that you never forget.

There was a folded, worn-out letter marking the page he was looking for. He held it in one hand, careful not to crease it, and his eyes rested on the one passage he’d underlined, circled, and read so many times. And he read it again now, so he could never forget.

Then, he unfolded the letter. It wasn’t a much longer read than the passage; a few sentences that were like a slammed door. John read each word, folded the sheet of paper again, placed it back on the Bible, and closed it. He kissed its cover, put it down on the table and then - only then - did he reach up to wipe his eyes with the heel of his hand.

It hurt. Twelve years, and it still hurt. Every morning and evening, until he could redeem himself; until he saved enough souls to be deserving of a second chance for his own.

So that you never forget.

***

Getting in the basement of the orphanage was… oddly easy.

It would have been easy either way, truth be told: Héctor had access to the keys of the small door that let to it from outside, and he had taken them before leaving the parish, but as it turned out it wasn’t needed. After going down the stone steps below the road level, he’d found the door was already open. That was… odd, but no odder than the note he had found in his room when he’d returned after the evening prayer with Father John.

Come at the orphanage’s basement at midnight. It is important. Tell no one.

It was written in uppercase, and he did not recognize the handwriting. He wondered if it may be from the same person who left Cheech the instructions about the weapons and supplies, but he had never seen what the writing in those looked like, so he wasn’t sure.

He’d show Cheech the note and ask the next day; now he had to focus on… whatever that was about.

Why me, though? Cheech is their man. I only helped him.

A good question, and with nothing anywhere close to an answer. That unnerved him more than the near-complete darkness in the basement; the candle he’d lit gave some light, but the deep shadows it cast only made the place more ominous. But he had been there before as a child, sometimes as punishment and sometimes just to get some time by himself, and he could walk through it with his eyes shut.

What unnerved him the most was the silence. There was no one aside for himself; all he could see was the heap of old furniture, wood to burn in winter, broken things and… what was that, in the back? Héctor moved towards the back of the room where, besides a few shelves with canned food, he could see what looked like a few crates covered with tarp.

Unlike all the rest, that wasn’t covered in dust; it looked out of place, and he wondered--

“Who’s there?”

“Eeek!” The less than dignified shriek left him just as he dropped the candle, which extinguished itself before it even touched the ground. Still, he was not left in darkness: when he turned he found himself facing someone else who was, too, holding a candle. “... Imelda?”

“Héctor?”

For a moment, they just stared at each other. She looked surprised, and beautiful in the flickering light of the candle, in that moment of stillness and silence as the world slept and it felt as though there was only the two of them awake. In an empty basement. Alone.

Bad, bad, bad. This is bad.

“I mean--” Héctor cleared his throat. “Sister Gisela,” he said, and she seemed relieved.

“Brother Héctor,” she greeted him back, and stood there as Héctor quickly went to pick up the candle. She held out her own to let him light it up again, and then took a couple of steps back. She was fully dressed in her robe and headdress, and he was wearing his cassock, but somehow the entire situation felt extraordinarily inappropriate. “What are you doing here? This time of the night?” she asked, her voice cautious.

Not knowing how much he could or should tell her, Héctor could have asked the same - but before he could utter a single word there was light, stronger than that cast by their candles, and a man’s voice rang out. “Well, this is more crowded than I was expecting.”

They both winced and turned to see that they were no longer alone. A few steps from them there were a few men, all of them armed. The closest one, carrying an oil lamp, chuckled.

“Well, look at that,” he said, and smiled with a mouth full of crooked teeth before gesturing for the men to lower their guns. “It’s you. Nice to finally meet you in person, amigos,” he added, and Héctor knew he wasn’t going to die that night.

Well, that was turning out to be a really odd night.

***

Imelda had known something was off the moment she had found the note in her room, clearly slipped in beneath the door, telling her to go down in the basement at midnight and tell no one. She’d figured right away it had to have something to do with the weapons she was keeping there, of course - what else could it be about? - but it was also very, very odd.

Her presence had never been required or requested when it was time for the revolutionaries to come and collect them and, most of all, the note itself was different: the handwriting was different, or at least so it seemed to her. It was hard to tell, since this one was in uppercase and none of the others had been.

It unnerved her, and she wished she could tell Sofía about it, but it was not an option that evening: she was away, taking care of the parish and, if she got her way, of the priest as well. Granted, now that a gringo had gotten there, Padre Ernesto was no longer the one Imelda was most interested in knowing about. While an outsider, and clearly not a very conventional priest, at least Padre Ernesto wasn’t a foreigner. An American’s presence there of all places made little sense, and Imelda didn’t like that. Something was up with that man, she could tell.

Maybe, she’d thought, that was the reason why someone wanted to speak to her, and she’d gone down in the basement at midnight, walking through empty and silent halls, not quite knowing what she would find.

Admittedly, Héctor - Brother Héctor - was not among the various options she’d imagined.

"Well, this is awkward, huh? You guys weren't really meant to meet. Safer for everyone if each of you knows as little as possible," the man with the oil lamp - José, he’d called himself, but Imelda suspected that was not his real name - said with another smile as his companions quickly took the weapons and loaded on a small cart they had left outside.

“You…?” both Imelda and Héctor exclaimed, looking at each other and then falling silent.

Imelda was at a loss for words. All of those notes, all along, it had been Héctor of all people? Unaware of the fact Héctor was thinking exactly the same thing - all of those nose, all along, it had been Imelda? - she turned away, Sofía’s words echoing in the back of her mind.

Oh, I think he’s a better actor than you give him credit for.

“Still, what’s done is done. Thanks for the help,” José was adding, thankfully unaware of her thoughts. “The army is still stretched pretty thin, but some of them are getting closer. We’ll send most of these to our friends up north, but will keep a few as well. Just in case.”

That caused Héctor to stop staring at her with his mouth agape and frown. “Do you think they’ll get to Santa Cecilia? Again?” he asked. The mere thought was enough to make Imelda feel cold; last time the army had been there they had taken men, and they had been able to hide away the boys. Next time, they may not be so lucky; orphans were very convenient in war. No one would fight to keep them… or so the Federales seemed to think.

“Maybe we should keep a few rifles,” Imelda spoke up, causing Héctor to wince and José to raise an eyebrow. “In case they come for the children.”

The man barked out a laugh. “Hah! I like the way you think, Sister, but not to worry. If you’re ever in trouble, we will know. And we will fight,” he promised, then he tilted his head. “So. What is this I heard about a gringo in town… ?”

As Héctor filled him in with what he knew about Father John - which was not much, truth be told, but he seemed to think he was relatively inoffensive, if annoying - and promised to keep an eye on him, Imelda found herself staring at him more intensely than she had in years. In the sharp light of the oil lamp he looked, for the first time, more like a man - a world away from the boy she thought she’d known.

Something was going on, something much bigger than either of them, and they were in it together.

***

[Back to Part 3]

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