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thee-morrigan · 1 year

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staring at the sun

the wayhaven chronicles // ava du mortain x petra carlisle (f!detective) // G, no warnings (aside from obvious references to the end of B3) // 1.7k words // read on ao3

Ava is definitely letting Petra go. Just like they are definitely having a full, honest conversation with each other.

"I must seem so young to you," she says finally, not lifting her gaze from her hands, her scraped knuckles a bruised ridged knot in her lap, dark brows knotting in turn as she stares down at them.

Ava wants to reach out and fold her hand over the detective's, use her other to smooth the tension from her brow.

No, she thinks, not the detective anymore. Or not for much longer, in any case. Not to the Agency, not now.

Not to her. Hasn't been merely the detective to her for longer still. Too much longer, she knows, and still not nearly — not even close to being — as long as she wants. As much as she wants.

She wants...

She wants to not want that.

Petra's voice again, low and tired and, yes, young — too young to have shouldered what she has, what she will still.

"I get it. I do." She looks up then and Ava understands —wholly, viscerally — Nat's fear of the sea, because she meets Petra's eyes and she is drowning, swept and sinking into the clear blue of them.

"I mean, I don't usually fail at things. I never fail, actually." She winces slightly as if to temper the statement, but her eyes stay focused, unmoving from Ava's as she continues. "I know how that sounds, but it's true. I'm smart, and I'm driven, and I work really, really hard to be the best at the things I care about. I'm used to succeeding. Even when it seems unlikely. Even when it's hard. I wasn't lying when I told you I like a challenge." Petra's mouth twitches with the barest hint of amusement, there and gone almost before even Ava can register the motion.

"So for me," she continues, those eyes still too large and solemn and weary, too old, for the face of the woman before her, "a lot of this just feels like, I dunno, extra-hard challenges. I'm not..." Her brows knit as she considers, eyes flicking away, and Ava isn't sure whether the brief reprieve of that sharp focus makes breathing easier or infinitely harder.

"I'm not used to things going the way they did the other night," Petra finally says, still staring at some unseen point beyond Ava's shoulder. "So, embarrassingly, it didn't occur to me until then how I must seem to you. How…reckless, how naive I must often seem, I mean."

She exhales sharply.

"It must feel like trying to keep a toddler from sticking their fingers in a socket. Or whatever it is that kids do when they don’t know any better. Not exactly my area of expertise." Her gaze flickers back down to her lap for half a heartbeat and then her eyes are back on Ava's, scanning her face as if she's trying to find something. Then it passes, that sharp, searching look, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with a gentle attempt at a smile. Weak, but…an attempt. The small, tight curve of her lips, the squaring of her slim shoulders. All of it an attempt to regain her footing, restore any sense of the equilibrium she's lost these months, beneath the strain of everything that's happened. To all of them, yes, but mostly, overwhelmingly, to Petra.

It takes every remaining shred of Ava's self-control not to apologize, not to get on her knees and beg forgiveness for being one of those many things that have happened to her.

That keeps happening to her.

"Anyway," Petra sighs, that small smile flickering like candlelight. She unclasps her hands, presses her palms flat against her thighs, and eases to her feet. "That's all I wanted to say. That I understand, I mean."

You don't understand anything, Ava wants to say.

God knows she doesn't.

Doesn't understand why the entirety of her considerable immortal focus disappears around Petra. Why centuries of clear resolve, of unflinching decisiveness in impossible situations, have fully abandoned her, all reason drowned out by the steady song of a single human heartbeat, have left her in this purgatory of longing without any reckoning. Why she has left Petra in this same limbo, time frozen by her own indecision.

Doesn't understand why she hasn't been able to get the taste of her, the soft, perfect warmth of her mouth, off her own tongue since surrendering to that terrible, exquisite impulse and kissing her.

And perhaps some of those useless emotions bleed into her expression despite herself, because Petra pauses near the open doorway and looks back at her, flickers of emotion limning her features. Regret, an emotion Ava knows all too well, and something else, something Ava doesn’t — something she won’t — recognize. Ava feels her own lips part slightly and some small, distant part of her wonders what exactly she thinks she’s going to say.

“Is that what you think? That you’ve failed?” Whatever unbidden thoughts Ava had worried might fall from her lips, that question had not been among them.

Petra, too, seems surprised at the question, head cocked as she turns back fully to face Ava again, a pensive frown creasing her face.

“I—what?”

“Earlier. You implied that you think you’ve failed.” A few steps have Ava across the room, standing closer to Petra than she has in days. Since that disastrous (magnificent) kiss, that moment when Ava had taken the remains of her reason and self-control in both hands and thrown them as far as she could.

So there is nothing left to remind her that it is a bad idea to reach as she does for Petra, hand cupping her face, tilting her chin up to meet her eyes.

“De-Petra. You are many things. Many often infuriating things. But you are not a failure. You have accomplished — you have been so much more than we — than I — could have hoped.” She lets her hand drop from Petra’s face and has to grit her teeth against the urge to put it right back, to regain the perfect warmth of Petra’s skin beneath her fingers.

Petra gives a hiss of a laugh, dipping her head back down. “If I’d asked you a few months ago, I wonder if you would have sounded so encouraging of my exceeding your expectations.”

The comment is so unexpected that Ava can’t help the breath of amusement that escapes her, the slant of a smile. “Perhaps not. But that does not mean it is such a bad thing. I don’t think I remembered, perhaps never understood, what it is to hope like that. Like you do.”

Petra’s smile fades, twists into something like disappointment. “Or maybe you were right the first time. Maybe that hopefulness is just…maybe you were right.”

The words unspoken drag at them, making the air between them heavy and dense. And what Ava hopes most, in that moment, is that the bright ember of Petra’s optimism is not snuffed out by what they do. By what Ava keeps doing to her. That this world of monsters, of nightmares made flesh, does not kill the dreamer.

“No,” she says, and the command in her tone has Petra looking up again, brows raised.

“No,” Ava says again. “I do not think I was right. And I do not think it is reckless or naive to choose hope in the face of everything you have been made to endure. I think it is brave. I think you are brave. I was not lying to you when I said I admired your strength. You are so much stronger than you believe yourself to be. The only true failure would be if you stopped trying.”

For a long moment, neither of them speaks or moves. And though Petra had been the one to move toward the door first earlier, Ava is the one who breaks the thick stillness, moving to step past Petra and into the hallway beyond. Before she can take more than a step, though, Petra’s voice cuts through the remains of that heavy silence.

“I’m so sorry, Ava.”

When Ava risks another glance at the deep blue current of those eyes, their seriousness is so incongruous with the soft attempt at a smile curling at the corners of her lips that the thing in Ava’s chest, already so brittle and aching, seems to crack further.

Her voice is quiet when she speaks again, though she is relieved to find it is at least steady.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” she says finally, mouth dry.

“I do. And I am. I am sorry for pushing you. For causing you pain. For ever making you feel that you are not enough. For making you feel like I might — like I ever could hate you. I could never hate you, Ava. Least of all for doing what you need to do for yourself. You —you were clear about what you needed, and you were generous enough to tell me why. You were willing to share your pain with me and still I only thought about myself. I only thought about what it might mean for what I want. You don’t deserve that. You do not deserve another person adding to your pain. So I am sorry, Ava, for pushing you when you asked me not to. I am sorry.”

They stand again in prolonged, heavy silence for one heartbeat. Two. Ava can feel the press of Petra’s gaze on her like a phantom hand sweeping along the back of her neck. Still, she doesn’t risk turning to look at her again. Cannot let herself risk seeing whatever emotions swim in that crystalline gaze. Cannot risk feeling whatever emotions of her own might bubble up in response, might already be simmering too close to the surface.

She is letting her go. It is the least she can offer, and she will do this. If it preserves any scrap of that hope, if it allows Petra to remain a dreamer in the face of the nightmares she’s been made to weather, and those she will doubtless endure in the future…she will let her go.

So she does not allow herself to speak, not just yet. Not until she hears Petra leave, hears her step finally into the hallway and beyond, footsteps and steady heartbeat a distant rhythm, does she finally respond, Petra’s quiet and insistent voice still echoing in her mind.

I am sorry, Ava.

To the empty room, Ava replies, “I am not.”

#stg my next twc fic is gonna have to be del/felix they are the only ones who are happy rn and i need a palate cleanser #twc #katie writes things #ship: a light in the dark #oc: petra carlisle

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sca3a · 20 days

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The journal of Rosyne Sinver van Urren (original)

2th of Juin, in the year 1354.

Many days have passed since my father posted the bounty on the monster that prowls our land. A few brave, but stupid, men have claimed to be able to slay it, but as of yet none have succeeded. I fear father is losing hope that the beast will be slain, and that we have to contend to it living outside our walls.

I did tell him that maybe he should try to write to one of the Witchmaster academies, the people there are born to slay monsters after all. But he refused, stubborn as he is, claiming that normal people can do it as well as they. Mother tried to argue my case, but father wouldn't hear it. Said that his subjects might see him as weak if he couldn't fix it himself.

I fear what that means, but I pray that he won't do anything rash.

14th of Juin, in the year 1354.

My prayers have been answered. This morning our breakfast was interrupted by a stranger seeking an audience. Father allowed me to attend, much to my surprise. But my surprise was quickly changed to elation - our visitor turned out to be a witchmaster (of the Ahrefort Academy, no less, which was the one I suggested to father).

The woman, for the witchmaster was a woman, had a strong aura about her. Her silvery eyes met father's with determination, and she didn't back down when he tried to dismiss her. I, myself, couldn't take my eyes off her - to my surprise. Her auburn hair was cut short on the right side, while it reached her jaw on the left. It gave her a fierce appearance. The armor she wore were black and yellow - the colors of the Ahrefort Academy, and Elfren where it's located. Beneath the high collar I could glimpse a tattoo, but I couldn't discern the motive. She wore thigh high leather guards, black boots and a leather harness, a steel sword hung on the back of her hip and she wore a fingerless glove on her right hand.

"How many men are going to die for your folly?" she asked, her arms crossed across her chest.

I couldn't believe that someone dared to speak to father that way - not even his closest advisors did. Father was fuming, it was almost so that I could see smoke coming from his ears.

"How dare you?" he spat, pointing at her with his whole hand. "Most people would hang for that."

"I'm not most people," The woman replied calmly, with a wry smile nudging at her lips. "I'm Cyrille, and I am the answer to your problem."

I don't remember much from the rest of the meeting. I was too busy focusing on the self-esteem with which Cyrille moved, on her fierceness. All I know is that father gave her the contract, on the condition that if she got back empty-handled, her life was forfeit.

By the gods, how I am drawn to her. I hope I get to speak to her once she gets back. If she gets back.

20th of Juin, in the year 1354.

Six days has passed since the Witchmaster left to deal with the beast. Six days have I paced from window to window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her as she returns. As of yet, it has been in vain. Mother has commented on my lack of hunger, fearing I have caught some illness and she won't listen to me despite my protestations.

But how will I even tell her? That her daughter, her only daughter, is hopelessly infatuated with a person whom she has not even talked to. Mother is hoping that I will accept the proposal of Laurens de Pomeran, and thus become a baroness myself. But I do not desire that. I weep at the thought of spending the rest of my life doing needlework and making pleasant small talk at parties.

I need to go, the barest thought of those things makes me feel empty. Besides, my new gown won't sew itself.

3rd of Jullet, in the year 1354.

SHE IS BACK!

I glimpsed her as she rode up to the castle, like the wind. I hurried downstairs, hoping to bump into her as she entered and by the gods, I did.

She was carrying a heavy sack - which smelled absolutely horrible, by the way - and she almost sent me to the floor as she strode into me with such force.

As she saw me stumble, she quickly let go off the sack and took hold of me, keeping me on my feet. She is very strong, despite her rather petite form.

"Thank you," I said as calmly as I could, because I didn't want her to notice my nervousness.

She looked me up and down, smiling wryly. "You're the baron's daughter," she pointed out as if she just remembered. "You were there when I got the contract."

I nodded, glad that she did indeed remember me. "I was. Father wasn't all too pleased with how you spoke to him. My name is Rosyne, by the way."

The woman shrugged, "Men don't usually appreciate it when a woman is better than him. I am good at what I do, it earns me the respect I deserve, yet men - mostly men in high positions - doubt I am as good as I say. I'm used to reactions as your father's, but they don't bother me. I take their gold instead. It's also a lovely name."

I must have looked absolutely dumbfounded, because she then laughed heartily and grabbed the sack again. "I better show this your father, so that I can pay my tab at the inn."

"You're leaving?" I asked as she walked past me.

I realized as soon as I uttered it how absolutely desperate it sounded. I groaned inside, praying that she wouldn't dismiss me as just a dainty maid who dreams of adventures.

The woman paused, her back towards me. My heart was beating so hard in my chest I was absolutely certain that she could hear it.

"In two days," she finally replied then, glancing at me over her shoulder. "I have a room at the inn, should you wish to talk. Ask for Cyrille, the owner'll know."

4th of Jullet, in the year 1354.

I sneaked out last night, visiting the inn at which Cyrille stayed. I didn't have to ask the owner, as I found her sitting by a table in the back. She wasn't wearing her armor, but instead just a pair of pants and a loose shirt. She was drinking something out of a mug, having clearly just eaten dinner.

She must have sensed my approach, because I had barely just seen her when she looked straight at me. She smiled.

I sat down opposite her, my heart once again beating as if it tried to escape my chest. Cyrille waved at the innkeeper before giving me her undivided attention.

"I didn't think you'd show up." There was actual surprise in her voice, and her silvery eyes glistened in the dim candlelight.

"I was actually afraid to," I found myself reply. But it was the truth. I had been afraid, mostly because I feared what she'd think of me. I was nothing like her. I was her complete opposite.

"Why?" she asked then, apparently genuinely surprised. "Because I'm a woman, or because you are?"

I hesitated. "Maybe both?"

Cyrille took another swig of her drink, obviously thinking of what I had just said. Then she put it down and leaned forth, looking me straight in the eyes.

"I leave in two days. If you want to get to know me, you're welcome to. But you're the only one who can make up your mind on what you want."

Those words stayed with me as we continued talking. She is right. Only I can know what I want.

6th of Jullet, in the year 1354.

Cyrille left the village yesterday. We spent all day together the day before, and I have never had so much fun before. We talked at length about her profession, how it was both a blessing and a curse. How she and her brother were considered special, as they were twins. There has ever only been one other pair of twins born during a lunar eclipse - and that was six hundred years ago.

We talked about friends of hers - mages. Can you believe it? She knows several famous sorcerers and sorceresses, people I have read about. I couldn't contain my curiousness and probably asked more questions than was proper - but I didn't care. I wanted to know everything. She also knows the royal advisor to the elven Court (apparently her brother sleeps with her). Gods, her life sounds so exciting - even if she is quick to point out that it isn't all roses and butterflies.

We also talked about my love of sewing and my dabbling in alchemy. She mentioned that both those things could bring a lot of coin on the road. When we parted that night, Cyrille gave me a chaste kiss - and it was much better than the sloppy one Laurens gave me when we met.

When I got to the in yesterday morning, however, she had already left. It broke my heart at first, because she didn't say goodbye. She didn't say goodbye, but she left me a letter. In that letter she mentioned that she was heading south, because she was meeting up with a dear friend of hers in Arveka - she also detailed which road she was going to take to get there.

Thus I fear this will be my last entry for a while, because I have just packed my bags and saddled my horse. I have said goodbye to mother and father, letting them know that it's my life and if I don't do this, I'll never forgive myself.

I'm heading out now, hoping that I'll be able to catch up with her just south of the border. Then I'll have to see where life takes me.

With love,

Rosyne Sinver van Urren.

#original writing #original character #character: rosyne sinver van urren

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fstbmp-a · 1 year

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@sourentropy sent: alt!!!

“Oh?”

Pinpricks of red slide up from the book he was reading at the intruder to his room, uncaring for the longest time as he assessed the other. Unimpressed, that was surely what appeared in those indifferent red moons gazing at you. Book slams shut, echoing in the empty room as the vampire stood.

“You’ve certainly had to cause plenty of trouble to get here, haven’t you? What a shame that you entered this room, out of any you could have chosen.”

There was no warning. There was no grand gesture. No ‘have at you’. No, the shadows merely snarled. Twisted, lashed; where once had been nothing tangible there was a great yawning maw, hungry, and already tearing into the food that had so graciously entered the room. How ichor splashed and poured, all whilst this... thing approached.

This impossibility in the shape of a man. Even as you fire wildly at him, wrenching free bone, blood, and thicker stuff he does not relent. No, it was like watching darkness and fire itself gaze back with so many eyes. So many wicked, grinning maws as more and more of the facade was forced off. Yet still it came closer. Those snarling beasts hounding and chomping at the bit as you backpedal with what limbs you have left.

The sudden sound of gunfire not your own as knee explodes, the black barrel smoking in the vampire’s hand as Alucard oh-so-slowly lowered before you. Crouched gently in front of your quaking form, as body reformed just as immaculate as before it had been twisted into such impossible horror.

“I’d quite enjoy to play with my food longer, but my Master is calling for me. No doubt because of you. Thank you for the entertainment, though, it can get so dull between when she lets me loose.”

Still warm, the gun was, as it was pressed so carefully against your forehead.

Then you join the darkness smiling so sweetly at you. The cacophony of wails and torment of countless others before you. You know now how futile the idea of slaying the beast was, for there were far too many to slay before you had the barest glimmering hope of succeeding.

Alucard from Hellsing!

#Follow Me ;; Guest muse #sourentropy #blood //#dismemberment //#death //#body horror //#unreality //#idk what came over me with this one but he refused to get a silly thing like seras #no he wanted to be a little extra as a treat and so you got second person murder! oops!

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rockingrobin69 · 2 years

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Adventures in the kitchen

800 words, rated M for nudity

“Harry! You’re home!”

The absolute chaos was first to grab his attention. Dishes piled frighteningly high in the sink, vegetable peels littered the floor, and the splashback looked like a warzone. “What… what have you been, erm? Doing?”

“It was going to be a surprise,” Draco murmured. “You weren’t meant to come back so early. I was going to have everything tidied up by six.”

“Baby, it’s half six.”

“What?” he sounded on the verge of panic, now. “Oh, no, wait—shit, could you grab the—no, move out of the way! The chickpeas!”

It took this long to notice his actual boyfriend, running frantically everywhere in the tiny kitchen. He was wearing Ron’s gag-gift apron, the one with the very buff, naked torso drawing. And beneath the apron he wore…

Nothing. Harry forgot how to breathe for two whole minutes.

“I don’t get it, it was meant to be ready hours ago! Why doesn’t… Harry? Are you all right?”

“Hmm?” it took so much effort to pay attention. “Sorry, you were—chickpeas? What are you making?”

Draco’s pout made his heart beat even faster. “I had a whole plan. But the vegetable Pakoras took about forever, and I have serious doubts about the Dal, although the biryani should be nice, and the naan, and—no, actually, that’s it, since the stupid chickpeas won’t cook. I wanted to try that Chana Masala recipe you like. The other day, you said you missed your family’s… But I’m obviously a disaster, and—half six! I was going to take a shower. Get dressed. I’m sorry, Harry, I just… I wanted to surprise you.”

“You sure have,” Harry said truthfully, still far from what he wanted to convey. The words he was looking for were buried under too much affection, flooding his veins hot and fizzy, and delight, writhing in his belly, and this weird, close-to-tears feeling, some sort of excitement he couldn’t name. Draco was so good at making him absolutely speechless. The way he wanted to take care of him, that he put so much effort into the things Harry liked and that might make him happy. And how he was so entirely, enchantingly messy about it; not to mention how he always, always succeeded, even if Harry couldn’t really explain why. It just worked.

“I’m sorry,” Draco mumbled, defeated in front of the cooker, and when he turned to stir the pot Harry was awarded full view of his rear end. He thought he might actually die. Instead he took three steps forward, until he could wrap his arms around Draco.

“You have nothing to apologise for, silly,” he whispered in his ear, laying gentle kisses on his neck. “This is… god, it’s amazing. I can’t believe you went through all this trouble just on an offhand remark I—it smells bloody terrific. God, I’m so hungry.”

He wasn’t when he walked through the door, but now—in the kitchen holding the man he loved, Harry was practically salivating. He kept kissing Draco’s back, his shoulders, until he was a squirming jumble in his arms, giggly and impossibly sweet.

“Knock it off! I still have to watch the bloody chick—”

“Oh, who cares about that. You’ve made enough food.” And Harry was far more interested in this, anyway. He turned Draco to face him with a small kiss for each cheek, then for the edge of his nose. “You’re incredible.”

“I’m very naked,” was Draco’s response, and, yeah. Harry’s definitely noticed.

“Dangerous in the kitchen,” he said, stupidly. His brain was melting with the combination of love and desire and this endless, bottomless pit of Draco in his chest.

“The apron’s charmed to—what? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Harry asked, although he knew. Draco’s cheeks went even redder, and Harry was ready to combust into flames right here and now.

“Like that,” Draco grumbled. “Do I have something on my face?”

Well. Yes, there was a little smudge of—maybe turmeric on Draco’s left eyebrow, and that damned blush, and the prettiest, loveliest pair of eyes, and the tiniest barest hint of a smile—

“I’m just. Surprised. You did very well to surprise me.”

The hint became a full grin, rendering Harry far beyond helpless. “Wait till you taste it.”

“I fully plan to,” Harry nodded, and without further ado picked Draco up in his arms. He squealed in protest, but his legs wrapped around Harry anyway, laughing and squirming and loud. He was such a mess—literally, technically, in every way that counted. But he was everything Harry wanted, most of what he needed, and somehow he always succeeded in making Harry feel so… fuck, so loved. It just always worked. Looking into his eyes now, Harry thought he might know why.

#drarry #fic #some partial nudity #fluff #food #800 words #draco's a mess #but in his defence chickpeas are. not always easy #and harry loves him so much so honestly doesn't matter #even if the dal is way too salty #and the naan is store-bought #and harry can't even eat anything cause he keeps looking at the other side of the table #draco's eyebrow is still a touch yellow #and he can't. he can't #robin why are you still writing this fic #yeah good question all right bye now #RockingRobin69

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the-lonelybarricade · 2 years

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Countdown to Love - (3/4)

Summary: Nesta is alone for the holidays, and she's totally fine with that... right? When she attends a speed dating event, she tells herself it's just to meet someone she can grab a coffee with over the break. What she gets instead is a Christmas experience unlike any other.

I only just finished writing this, so any typos are made with love <3 Merry Christmas Eve everyone!

Part of @acotargiftexchange for @saphie3243

Part I/Part II ⟡ Holiday Masterlist ⟡ Read on AO3

Thursday, December 23. 2:30 pm.

Three days before Christmas, and neither Nesta nor Cassian had yet to back down from a challenge. She didn’t know what that meant for their bargain, since they hadn’t specified an outcome where they both succeeded. What she did know was that as Christmas loomed ever closer, the challenges were getting harder.

Cassian seemed determined to spend Christmas with her. Or maybe just to get her to acknowledge the magnetic energy that was clearly between them. They hadn’t spoken about what had happened in the gym, but avoiding the topic didn’t reverse what had clearly shifted between them. Eye contact had become more heated and deliberate, filled with unspoken promise. When they happened to brush skin, even the barest of touches made Nesta feel as though she had molten lava crawling through her veins. She couldn’t stop thinking about his body pressed against hers, the heat of him, the sounds of his groans—

“Are you even paying attention, Nesta?”

Her head snapped away from where she’d been absently staring out the window. She looked to Cassian, where he sat at the driver’s seat, the picture of smug amusement with that irritating curl of his lips. She could help tracing the path of his muscled arm to where he gripped the steering wheel, thinking that even just the way his fingers curled around the leather was obscene.

“Nesta?” some of the humor had shifted to concern as he spared a glance from the road to look at her.

She’d forgotten what they’d even been talking about. Admittedly, hadn’t realized he was speaking. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing it, though.

“I was trying to figure out where we are,” she lied smoothly, glancing out the window once more.

Cassian had insisted it was a surprise, a ridiculous notion in Nesta’s opinion. Whatever the challenge was, she doubted the shock factor was going to make much of a difference. But Cassian, she was finding, simply enjoyed being mischievous at any opportunity.

He pulled over before a nondescript part of the road, marked by nothing but the wood that bordered either side.

She raised her brows at him. “Is this where I discover you’re a serial killer?”

“Hardly a clever thing to ask me if I was,” he shot back with a wolfish smile.

Leave it to Cassian to bring a girl to the middle of nowhere and offer her no reassurance. Not that Nesta needed it. She unbuckled her seatbelt and scrambled out of the car before Cassian had a chance to open the door for her—truly, just for the sake of pettiness. It came back to bite her almost immediately as she hopped down and found her feet slipping on the slick ground.

Cassian caught her with a smirk. “Always throwing yourself at me,” he teased.

It held more weight now that she’d actually thrown herself at him, though. And she was so appalled by that revelation that she shook his grip off, skin already burning from the brief contact. He only barked a laugh and casually shifted the weight of the pack he carried over his shoulders.

“Keep up, sweetheart.” He said, nodding his head towards the woods as he descended into them.

Nesta followed, wishing he’d told her they’d be trekking through the woods. There was snow on the ground, and she’d hardly brought the right shoes for it. “Is that the challenge?”

Except they didn’t have far to walk before they came across a swimming hole, part of a gently running stream that fell from the mountain that bracketed one side of the swimming hole, creating natural cliffs that she supposed people used for jumping—since the hole was certainly deep enough for it.

“This spot is usually super crowded in the summer, but now we get it all to ourselves.”

“Well, yeah,” Nesta said, gesturing pointedly to the snow. “The water’s probably freezing.”

And as she spoke the words, she realized precisely what her challenge would be. Cassian grinned as he watched the horror grow on her face.

“That’s right, sweetheart. Your challenge is to jump from there,” he pointed to the far cliffside, the highest of the two.

She’d never gone cliff jumping before. Even if the water was warm she’d be hesitant, but… she cautiously stepped toward the water and dipped her fingers in. It was like an ice bath.

“I’ll get hypothermia,” she complained.

“Nonsense. Haven’t you ever heard of a polar plunge? You’ll be fine as long as you don’t stay in long. And I’ve brought stuff to warm you up afterwards.” He patted his pack.

She narrowed her eyes. “Then you’re coming with me.”

His expression told her he’d been planning as much, the bastard. “We should probably strip here,” he said, pointing to the ladder they stood beside. “We won’t want to trek back up the cliff after we take the plunge.”

“Strip?” she found herself repeating. Nesta supposed it should have been obvious as she glanced down at the clothes she’d much prefer not to get sopping wet. They’d need something dry to change into.

With a heavy sigh, she began peeling off her sweater, thankful that she chose a dark colored bra today. If she was being fully honest with herself, she’d began being much more selective about her underwear… just in case she caved and they had a repeat of their makeout session in the gym.

Cassian was just watching her undress, lips slightly parted in what looked to be reverence. He could give her a god complex, looking at her like that, like she’d hung the moon herself. Nesta couldn’t handle it, such unearned devotion. She didn’t feel like a goddess, she felt like a siren, luring Cassian closer and closer until she inevitably dragged him under. If desire was a burning flame, then the one that lived between them would consume until they were nothing but ash.

“Are you going to keep being a pervert, or do you actually want to complete the challenge?” She snapped, because if she let the heated staring go on any longer she would have caved and let him devour her the same way his eyes were.

With a smug grin, he set down the pack and began stripping himself. Once he was in his boxers, and she in her admittedly revealing bra and underwear, he came over and spread his arms to her, as though inviting her for a hug.

At her confusion, he said, “I’m offering to carry you up the cliff. So your feet don’t get cold.”

It was a tempting offer. She did feel vulnerable at the idea of walking up the cliff with nothing on her feet. But she felt more vulnerable at the idea of being pressed against Cassian while they were both half naked.

So she lifted her chin. “I’m fine on my own, thanks.”

He raised his arms placatingly, stepping around her to follow the path of the cliff. “Whatever you say, Nesta.”

It turned out that the cliff seemed much higher once Nesta was standing over it, looking down at the water far beneath. She was already shivering from the air alone, but was struggling to grapple with the part of herself that didn’t like taking leaps of fate—trusting that the water was deep enough, trusting that Cassian was right and the cold water wouldn’t be deadly, trusting that… trusting that she was worth it for all this effort Cassian was going to.

She glanced back at him, shivering but patient. Always patient.

Why did he keep coming back each time she pushed him away? Why was he so determined to break through her walls? And why—how—was he so good at it? These challenges, they’d been fun and adventurous, sure, but they’d also caused her to open up, at least in part. Very few people have managed that before. And usually when she got scared by it and shut them down, those people didn’t come back. Cassian had, over and over. He kept reaching out his hand.

Nesta couldn’t fathom why.

“Push me,” she said.

He paused, then furrowed his brows. “What?”

“Push me in,” she gritted her teeth at the admission. “I don’t know if I can do it, otherwise.”

“Help you complete your own challenge?” he asked, incredulous. Then his eyes softened, and he took a step towards her, pressing a gentle hand to her shoulder. His fingers were cold, but still warmer than the air around them. “You can do it Nesta. Just take a deep breath, and let go of everything holding you back. Don’t give yourself time to think, just—jump.”

Jump, without thinking? That was like pulling a fish out of water and asking it to breathe.

Cassian’s eyes held hers, filled with so much unspoken encouragement.

Nesta typically shied away from expectations—had found the ones set by her mother as a child were usually barbed and impossible to meet. As such there was never any praise, or encouragement. She’d been taught to act proud, to fabricate it if it wasn’t there, but she’d never truly felt as though she’d earned it. In her adult life that manifested as spitefulness towards any and all assumptions made about her, distrust towards any compliments, and a steely determination to prove everyone wrong. She was constantly overthinking, but that’s because she had to be on her guard, in control.

The look in his eyes made her want to throw all of that away. All these things she’d held so closely to her chest, suddenly felt so trivial. Nesta didn’t care about proving him wrong anymore, about completing the challenge.

All she wanted was to feel deserving of the belief he had in her. This unfettered, supportive look that made her feel warm despite the shivering, that told her he truly thought she could do anything.

Nesta took a deep breath.

She didn’t let herself second guess, she merely ran to the edge of the cliff and leapt.

She heard Cassian’s whoops of pride behind her, cheering her on as the wind rushed around her, singing in her ears. There was a splash as she hit the water, and then she was encased in water so cold she came up shrieking, feeling the sting of it like thousands of needs against her skin.

Though she was shivering and the frigid water was agonizing, the delayed pride of what she’d done bubbled up in her chest, and then she was laughing.

Cassian laughed too, his face small but still handsome at this distance. “Move over, sweetheart! I’m coming down!”

He jumped with the same reckless abandon he used to navigate what seemed like every part of his life, cannonballing into the space next to her with such a force that it caused a surge of water that nearly submerged her a second time.

Cassian emerged, gasping. “Shit, it’s cold!”

But he was grinning, and Nesta couldn’t help grin back.

He swam over to her, arms finding her waist. “You did it.”

It was said with so much pride she would have blushed if her body had the heat for it.

“No thanks to you,” she said, though it was a grotesque lie.

“No,” he whispered, voice dripping with affection. “It was all you, Nesta.”

She thought it was unfair that even when she tried to be vindictive he managed to be the sweetest man she’d ever encountered. But then that gentleness in his expression flamed to one of mischief, and he ducked under the water.

Nesta squealed, sensing what was coming but being unable to stop him from grabbing her legs and yanking her back under the surface. Underwater, she pushed against his chest in retribution, opening her eyes to see that his were open, too, and he was grinning madly. She wanted so badly to wipe that irritating smirk off his face.

So she did.

She tugged him close and pressed their frigid lips together. Cassian stiffened at first, in surprise, before he wrapped his arms around her body, and kissed her back fiercely. Until they had to break apart to surface for air.

They came up gasping, for more reasons than one.

“We should get out of here before we really do get hypothermia,” Cassian said, and Nesta nodded numbly as they both began swimming towards the ladder.

He insisted on getting out first so he could ready a towel for her, wrapping it around Nesta’s shoulders before he got one for himself. They were both shivering at being exposed to the air, teeth chattering as they both shucked their shoes back on, grabbed their clothes, and practically ran to the car.

Cassian immediately blasted the heat, though it took an excruciating moment for the car to actually warm up. He frowned as he slid those warm hazel eyes to her, watching the way she shivered.

“C’mere,” he said, patting his lap. “Body heat will make it better. And I have a blanket in the bag we can share.”

She hesitated for just a moment before her desire for warmth won out and she crawled over the center console, settling herself into his lap so that her skin was flush with his.

He hissed as her wet bra made contact with his chest.

“I’m not trying to be a perve,” he said. “But that bra really isn’t doing you any favors.”

“Close your eyes,” she snapped, watching him carefully as he complied.

After waving her fingers in front of his face to double check he wasn’t peeking, she peeled her bra over her head, let it fall back on her seat with a wet plop. Cassian seemed to go stiff at the sound.

It felt lewd sitting topless in his lap. He might not be able to see, but she could. And there was a part of her—no small part—that wanted to tell him to open his eyes, to let him bury his face in her chest while she writhed on his lap. It would be so easy to give in.

Instead she leaned over to unzip the pack, removing the blanket he mentioned. She looked over to her sweater, debated shrugging it on, but she thought skin to skin contact would be more effective. And… it was a compromise with the part of herself that wanted to do more.

So she pressed herself flush against Cassian and pulled the blanket around them, burying her face in his neck so that he’d see nothing but her bare shoulder when he opened them.

He groaned, arms settling against her bare back to pull her closer.

“Nesta—”

“You can open them,” she mumbled against his skin, not daring to remove her face. She wouldn’t be able to bear his expression. The leash on her self control was hardly a thread at this point, and a heated gaze from him was all it would take to snap it.

“Fuck, Nesta. You’re literally naked.”

She shivered at the roughness in his voice, thankful she could blame it on the cold. Still, she didn’t dare look at him.

“You suggested it.”

“I know,” he said, strained. He began sweeping circles over the skin at her lower back, trying to create warmth there. “I just—it feels a lot better than I expected.”

Nesta suddenly doubted this intimacy was doing anything to warm her up at all—certain all the warmth she was preserving was going straight between her thighs. Curious, unable to help herself, she pressed her hips harder into his.

He hissed as she brushed against the length of him that had hardened in his boxers. She bit her lip at finding it, unsure what she was trying to prove to herself. She sat naked on top of him, of course he’d be hard.

But she found herself doing it again, brushing herself deliberately against him just to feel the pressure between her thighs, to imagine what it might feel like—

Cassian growled, seizing her hips.

“If you keep doing that—”

“You’ll what?” she challenged.

He hear him swallow, thickly, and she could tell he was fighting something primal, perhaps akin to the fire in her veins that was begging her to keep going, to touch him, to taste—

“Do you want this?” he asked, something sharp in his voice. “Because every time we’ve gotten to this point, you’ve pushed me away.”

It was like a bucket of water more frigid than the waterhole they’d just submerged in. She stiffened, regaining her senses. She’d warmed enough to stop shivering, so she didn’t need to stay pressed against him anymore.

“Close your eyes,” she snapped. She could see if he did, but she leaned back anyway, almost disappointed to find he’d obeyed.

Ignoring the sinking in her stomach, she reached over and shrugged on her sweater, then crawled off of him to pull on her leggings.

“You can open them again,” she mumbled, buckling herself back into the seat.

He did, and Cassian looked over to her, searching for something. But whatever he was looking for, she couldn’t bear to let him see the regret she already felt at having pulled away, so she looked out the window instead.

She listened to him sigh, shuffling to presumably put his own clothes on before he put the car into drive.

As they sat in silence, Nesta thought that she might as well be up on that cliff again, afraid to jump, for all the progress she’d made with Cassian today. Everytime she came close to the edge, she ended up backing away. She didn’t know what it would take to make her finally take the leap of faith, but she hoped she’d find it soon.

⟡⟡⟡

Taglist: @littleloric @angelic-voice-1997 @c-e-d-dreamer @vasudharaghavan @sayosdreams

#Countdown to Love #acotar gift exchange 2021 #Nessian #Nessian fic #Nesta x Cassian #Nessian fluff #holiday fluff #Nesta archeron #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #sjm fic #things get a little heated up in here

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heliosthegriffin · 2 years

Text

Midnight Mirror Reversal

Jaune looked at the mirror before him, he had found it as he aimlessly wandered in the mazelike basement of Beacon, but he could see no reflection inside of it only a marble black surface that ate away at the like he shone on it.

It was freakishly cold around the mirror and in the room itself, near enough to make him shiver, but not in normal way, it felt more supernatural, Jaune supposed. As though the mirror before him, or maybe the room he found himself in, was rejecting any warmth inside or around it.

A wet, fearful sensation licked it’s way down his back. Maybe he should try and find a way out of here?

His light wandered across the mirror, it’s rectangle frame being full of purple jewels with said frame being made from what seemed to be a black, black purple with the edges leaking off from the mirror into the dark grey stone, mirror was a part of the ageless stone wall.

It must have been ancient beyond belief, maybe more than Beacon itself.

Jaune felt a call from inside himself, to walk forward and touch the dark surface. What would it’s light-eating surface feel to his skin.

His hand reaching out to touch the barest amount of skin from the tips of his finger on the otherworldly material of the mirror.

Jaune caught himself mere micro-seconds from touching, rational thought coming back to him. He was breathing hard and his aura sounded alarms through him, that this was dangerously bad place to be.

A milk-white pale hand grabbed his rest through the onyx black mirror, the material static as it was before, the hand crossing with no interference as though it was going though empty air.

Jaune jumped back as he felt the vice-grip hold his hand, it was pulling him toward the mirror.

He did not want to find out what lurked inside it’s abyssal world, so he took steps back with all his might as the hand gripped him like a life-line.

It was all to late when he saw that he was succeeding, that he was pulling away from the mirror, but the hand was being pulled with him.

A fore-arm followed, long and well-defined with muscle covered under a pitch-black material.

The upper-arm came afterwards, in the same black material, but some silvery metal crisscrossed over it’s arm, chinging slightly as he pulled and pulled, to get away.

Then came the shoulder, with a matte-black metal going over the shoulders with the silver metal going under, chain-mail Jaune realized, it was platemail over the rest of the body, Jaune understood.

Then came the face.

A face Jaune had seen in the mirror everyday.

It was him, but not him.

It was Jaune Arc, but not Jaune Arc.

It made Jaune Arc sick looking at himself, but it made Jaune Arc look at him with warmth.

It was himself, but pale and otherworldly, with silvery-white hair and yellow-eyes.

With his eyes warmth to himself, but hard and calculating layer beneath those yellow eyes, he was evil, or at least amoral and self-serving, this man, this himself was dangerous. He did nothing to hide it, as he revealed this to himself.

‘He’s showing off,’ Jaune thought.

His face full of hard, sharp angles, and cruel lips, Jaune would even call himself handsome, a idealized version of himself, if one’s ideal was to be a Black Knight, rather than a Knight in Shining Armor.

The other him smiled, at him, it was not a smile one should give one’s self, it was narcissistic .

Jaune fought to get him to let go, but the other just gripped harder, making his aura crackle under the stress, Jaune started sweated under the other him’s immense strength, strong enough to break bones, bend metal, and shatter stone with mere grip strength.

Then came the other arm, and the other him grabbed the side then pulled himself out.

He pulled himself out, his heavy metal boot cracking the stone floor, then stood tall, a near head taller than Jaune, broader by almost half, and with a cruel, jagged mace at his hip, and a shield on his back.

The silver-haired Jaune smiled, then rolled his body, loud crack breaking the silence, his armor near silent.

“Hello, I’m Gaune Arc, what’s your name darling?” The man said with a dark, warm voice.

Jaune felt his skin crawl. “I’m Jaune Arc, please go back into the hell-dimension you pulled yourself out of,”

Gaune laughed. “Oh, I like you, but I don’t think I will, we’re just getting to know each other, I’ll take you out to dinner?”

“I respectfully decline,”

Gaune flourished his mace, then struck Jaune faster than he had ever been hit despite the mans stylish display.

Jaune was harshly knocked back in the stone wall, the wind knocked out of his sail, but he grimaced, he wasn’t going down easily, he called upon his aura, his semblance to restore his aura, but then to his horror, as he felt his reserves he noticed it, that half of his aura was gone, exactly.

Gaune Arc smiled. “I wasn’t giving you a choice, darling.”

Jaune scowled, then activated his semblance, even it to was diminished in effectiveness, but he squeezed it tighter forcing himself back to full.

“I wasn’t giving you a choice either, creep.”

Gaune’s smile was chill inducing, “Oh, I love a good fight, don’t go down too quickly, Darling, we have a full knight ahead of us, hehe.”

Jaune drew his blade. “Was that a damn, pun?”

“Yes, a good one, I believe.”

Jaune rocked his body back inforth stretching, “Whatever, I’m putting you back in the damn mirror.”

------

Introducing Jaune-Alter,

Gaune Arc, the Black Knight of Vale, the Tyrant of Remnants Tournament Circuit, and Champion of Salem.

Semblance: Divide, upon contact the aura of a target it cut in half, reducing the effectiveness of semblance by similar amount, any foreign semblance that are used upon Gaune will divide upon use, then further divide each second till infinitesimally smaller then disappear.

Dust and Magic is similarly affected, immediately dividing it’s effectiveness by half upon impact, until it disappears.

----

Consider this canon to the Jaune of the Dead AU.

#Jaune Arc #Jaune of the Dead

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ikeromantic · 3 years

Text

Tears of Joy

A Mitsuhide Akechi fanfic - this scene takes place at the end of Ch. 13 in the romantic route. Spoilers! Approx. 2300 words

First: Mitsuhide and the Maiden

Previous: Trust

Mitsuhide worked from the hallway, sending orders and letters through Kyubei to see to the settling of the shogun and his new staff. It was tiring work - but satisfying. Against the odds, he’d succeeded yet again. With help, of course, but it was still remarkable what victory could be pulled from a little wit and a lot of will.

Kyubei arrived with the latest information, his expression one of grim resolve. His hand kept touching the short, dark fuzz at the top of his head. A new nervous gesture, Mitsuhide surmised. The vassal and spy had been uneasy since the shogun’s death. Despite that, he was doing an excellent job teaching Riku how to imitate Yoshiaki and filling him in on things the scribe hadn’t known about his lord.

“What news?” Mitsuhide set down his report from Chugaki and gave his vassal full attention.

Kyubei swallowed. “Ah, it looks like the pirates will be on their way by this evening. Mouri hasn’t announced an official withdrawal, but his warriors are packing up all the weapons and sake they can carry . . .” He paused and glanced toward the closed door behind Mitsuhide. Though he had obvious questions, he continued with his report. “The Ikko Ikki are all but gone. Kennyo and a few of his close confidants remain.”

“As expected. I was unable to embed another pair of eyes with the monks, but we should receive regular reports on the doings of Motonari when he sets sail. Anything else?” Mitsuhide knew there was more. Otherwise Kyubei would have sent information like this in a written report.

Kyubei’s eyes went to the door again. “There were, that is, I overheard some of the pirates discussing the chatelaine. Apparently, some are under the impression she will be leaving with Mouri.”

Mitsuhide’s eyes flashed and his smile turned sharp. “I assure you that is not the case.”

“I didn’t think so, my lord.” He paused again, then bowed. “I - I also wanted to offer my apology. Words are not enough, of course. I will - I will do whatever you think is fitting. But . . . I allowed the chatelaine to come to harm. I tore her clothes and frightened her. I failed to protect her and made her captivity worse. If you hadn’t arrived when you did . . .” His voice cracked and he went silent.

“You believe your choices led her to be captured?” Mitsuhide raised an eyebrow.

“No - not directly. But if I’d warned you of the ninja sooner-”

“I would still have been no more likely to catch him on his way in or out of our blockade.” Mitsuhide frowned. “I knew there was risk in leaving her alone. She did as well. Neither of us has regret.”

Kyubei’s head bobbed, but he still didn’t straighten. “I didn’t help her escape. I was afraid it would expose my mission. She was hurt as a result.”

“Yes,” Mitsuhide said dryly. “And you tore her kimono to make it look as if you’d taken her, yes?”

Kyubei nodded again.

“Also to preserve your cover. And if you had been exposed, she would have been taken to the barracks for their pleasure. I fail to see how that would have improved her situation.”

“But my lord . . . she might have died.” Kyubei’s voice was hoarse and low.

Mitsuhide agreed. “She risked her life for our mission. Do not diminish that by taking her pain as your failure. We all did what we must to see this through.”

“Then I have your forgiveness?”

“There is nothing to be forgiven. Now go - I am sure the shogun has need of you.” Mitsuhide waved him away.

Kyubei bowed even lower before standing and hurrying away.

He sat still as a stone until the sound of his vassal’s footsteps faded to nothing. Then he stood and quietly entered the room. There was a little light from the setting sun outside. The air here smelled of ginger, reeds, and honey - the fragrant parts of the ointment he used on his little one. Mitsuhide sank silently to the floor beside her.

She was still asleep. Deeply so. Her body was recovering from her ordeal. A brutal abduction, a restless day trapped in a store room, and then a near-death experience. She was so fragile, and yet strong.

His hands shook as he tenderly ran his fingers through her hair. She meant so much to him, this sweet little mouse. Mitsuhide was finally forced to acknowledge just how close he’d come to losing her. Or worse. He ran his hand over her shoulders just to reassure himself she was there and whole. The bruises were already fading. Her throat had a thin, dark scab where Yoshiaki’s knife had pressed too close. In a few weeks, this would be only a memory. One he hoped would disappear beneath the joy of their life together.

“M-mitsuhide?” Her lashes fluttered as she tried to open her eyes.

“I am here little one.”

Her hand reached for him, cool fingertips tracing his cheekbones. “Are you crying?”

He was, he realized.

“I’m ok. You - you shouldn’t cry.” She sat up and looked at him. Her eyes were wide in the dim light.

“They are tears of joy. See?” He smiled.

She scooted forward and snuggled into his lap. When she was comfortable again, she looked up at him. “You know I can tell when you’re lying.”

“Then you know I’m not. Or . . . not completely.” Which was true. He was relieved she was alright.

“Mmm. I suppose I will take that. But you know, the crying part is my job. So next time . . .” She brushed a tear from his cheek. “Next time leave it to me. I c-can’t bear to see you look so sad.”

“Nor I, you.”

She quieted down at that, and closed her eyes. Her head rested on his chest, and he could feel the tickle of her steady breath. Mitsuhide might have laid down with her on the futon, but a knock at the door spoiled the moment.

“Enter,” he said, thinking it would be a servant, perhaps with dinner. Instead, it was Kennyo.

The abbot gave him a wary look. “Our alliance is at an end, kitsune. We have what we wanted from this venture.”

“It is. Which begs the question . . . why are you still here?”

Kennyo’s dark gaze fell to the chatelaine. She’d fallen asleep again, and showed no signs of rousing. “How is she? She looks better.”

“She is.”

The abbot seemed to struggle within himself for a moment. Then he took a packet from his robes and held it out to Mitsuhide. “Give this to her when she wakes. It is best to prepare it as a tea, steeped until dark. Then she must drink it while it is still warm.”

Mitsuhide looked at the small, paper packet with some distrust.

“Take it. I would not poison her.”

“Not even for your revenge?” Mitsuhide’s eyebrow rose.

Kennyo’s frown deepened and he met the kitsune warlord’s gaze. After several tense heartbeats, his response rumbled between clenched teeth. “I would not harm her, even for that.”

Mitsuhide took the packet and tucked it into his kimono. “I believe you.”

The abbot gave a brief nod and his eyes fell to the sleeping girl. His expression softened by the barest shadow. “I hope you will take better care of her. Know that I will be watching.”

Then he turned on his heel and left. The door slid shut behind him, fast and silent.

The lovers were alone again.

“It seems you brought a little light to that demon’s heart, mouse.” Mitsuhide kissed her temple. “I would not have thought it possible. But you work miracles. I am proof of that.”

She smiled in her sleep, lulled to sweet dreams by the sound of her soulmate’s heartbeat.

***

Morning came with pale yellow light and the sound of talk, even laughter, from the fortress. People returning to normal after the brief but deadly fighting. Mitsuhide was glad they were able to go back to their lives - or to make a new place for themselves. Something he intended to do as soon as they returned to Azuchi.

His little mouse stirred and yawned. Then she looked around the room with a dazed expression. “Did I sleep the whole night?”

“You did.”

“Just like this?” She ran her fingertip along his collarbone.

Mitsuhide shivered at the touch, feeling it awaken something inside him. A fire he’d kept banked for months now. “Not quite like that,” he grinned. “But in my arms? Yes.”

“What? But . . . did you get any rest?”

“I did. I found watching you sleep to be very restful.” This was truth. He’d spent the night listening to her breath, letting her warmth soak into him.

She frowned. “That’s not what I meant! I mean real sleep. You need to get some too. You are human.”

“Are you sure?” He raised an eyebrow and chuckled as she smacked his arm. “You seem to be feeling better.”

“I am. I’d feel even better with a bath.”

Mitsuhide remembered their last bath, shared at an inn. He’d teased her until they were both desperate, and he’d left them like that. Unwilling to take that final step with her until he was sure he would be there after. “Are you very dirty?” He lifted her enough for his lips to find her neck and nibble the skin just under her ear.

She squealed and pretended to try to escape.

“Mmm, you taste pretty clean to me. But perhaps I need to sample a wider selection.”

“Mitsuhide!” She wriggled, trying to get out of his lap. “You can’t be serious!”

“I am always serious when it comes to you.” He let her out of his grasp and watched as she got up. She didn’t look unsteady, but he still stood and offered her his hand. “I suppose I will have to take your word about the need for a bath. But I think we should return to Kyoto before we indulge.”

His little mouse considered, then nodded. “Yeah. If I take a bath before we ride back, I’ll just be filthy again by the time we get there.” She looked around the room. “Are we leaving here already?”

“We are. Kyubei has things in hand and a longer stay will only raise questions.” He pointed to some clothes folded in the corner. “Get dressed and I’ll send word we are leaving.”

She smiled. “Alright. I’ll try to hurry.”

Mitsuhide left her in the room and went to find a servant. It wasn’t hard to do, and soon enough he was on his way back. He was stopped by the silver gleam of a pistol. At the other end of the barrel, a wobbly Motonari stood, braced against the wall.

“Yer not goin’ back.” His eyes were glazed with heavy drink and he stunk of sweat, gunpowder, and alcohol.

“And I suppose you plan to . . . what? Shoot me? Kidnap my little mouse? Flee to your ship?”

Motonari shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanna kill ya. One more enemy crossed off my list.”

Mitsuhide grinned. “I doubt that. This isn’t much of a struggle.” His eyes were hard despite the smile. “And if this is for her . . . you know she would never forgive you.”

“She’d get over it. Women . . .” he belched. “Women always do.”

“My little one isn’t ‘women’,” Mitsuhide replied. “Even you must know that by now. ”

Motonari began to laugh. He waved his gun toward the door. “Ya get in there before ya say anythin’ more stupid than that.” He pushed past Mitsuhide, stumbling down the hall.

Mitsuhide rushed to the room and slid open the door. His little one squeaked and pulled her kimono closed.

“I’m not dressed yet!”

He looked around, reassuring himself that everything was as he’d left it. “Perhaps that is why I hurried back.” Mitsuhide gave her a wicked smile. He didn’t tell her about Motonari in the hall. She didn’t need to know.

“Pffft,” she stuck her tongue out at him, but he could tell the flattery made her happy.

They rode out from the fortress before noon, sharing a saddle. The day felt brighter the further from the fortress they got. Mitsuhide knew he wasn’t the only one that felt that way. He could see it in the set of his lover’s shoulders and in the way she smiled.

Once the bloodstained fortress was only a memory hidden behind the dust of the road, she spoke. “I feel like I am riding toward a whole new life. Like . . . like everything is different. Just because one man died. Isn’t that silly?”

“I don’t think it is.” Mitsuhide rested his chin on her head. “Yoshiaki caused so much death and misery with his ambition. That is why we did what we had to.”

“But there are other people just as bad-”

“And none of them are shogun.” He held the reins with one hand and used the other to hug her closer.

After a long silence, she nodded. “I guess I just feel guilty for being glad he’s dead.”

“Don’t.” He paused, then added, “Besides, shogun Ashikaga is just fine. He’s simply in exile. Staying far away from the capital and politics for the rest of his life.”

“Mmhmm. Poor Riku.” She tapped her chin. “Do you think he’ll do ok?”

“With the help we’ve given him, that scribe will be a much better shogun than Yoshiaki. You’ll see.” Then he moved their conversation to lighter things. “After we arrive at the inn, I will send out for food. What treats would tempt my little mouse?” That was all it took to send her into a monologue of her favorite foods.

She took such delight in the little things. It made Mitsuhide want to have joy in them too. He promised himself he would try. For her - he would do anything. So ran his thoughts as they passed the gate into Kyoto and caught sight of the inn.

Then all he could think of was their bath, and how very much he was looking forward to enjoying it with her.

Next: Delicious SFW/NSFW

#ikemen sengoku #ikesen mitsuhide #mitsuhide akechi #otome guys #otome #fanfiction #fanfic #fluff

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trashmenofmarvel · 3 years

Text

Branded - Chapter 56

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You and Bucky don't recuperate for long.

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by araniaart . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

AO3

Wariness thrummed in your bones as you awoke, and when you opened your eyes, Bucky was already sitting upright and alert, brows dipped in concentration.

It wasn’t his movement that had jostled you awake, but his emotions flowing across the bond, as easily felt as your own. It should have been weird—what kind of person wanted to share their deepest emotions with someone else?—but you and Bucky had never been exactly normal.

“What is it?”

You sat upright, still not fully awake, pulling the covers over your bare chest. Now that you were awake, you also sensed something amiss.

“I don’t know.” Bucky threw back the covers and hastily pulled on his jeans, not wasting time to wrestle with a shirt as his wings twitched behind him. “There’s a lot of activity going on out there.”

Also scrambling for your clothes, you realized all you had were the ceremonial robes, which were currently tattered to ribbons on the floor.

Wong is going to kill me.

But that was an issue for later-you. Needing to find another set of clothes but not keen on leaving the room naked, you opened the nearest set of drawers and pulled out the robes inside until you found a pair that fit. Muted gold and tan, you slipped it on and realized too late it only came up to mid-thigh, clearly mean to be worn with trousers.

Bucky paused next to the door, appraising your new outfit, and you gave him a don’t say a word glare.

His lips twitched, but at least he kept his thoughts to himself, and you followed him out the door.

Or, you tried and bumped into him, holding onto his wings to not stumble back; Bucky had been forced to stop at the sheer amount of chaos in the hallway. Sorcerers running back and forth, many of them casting spells into the air or at the walls, none of them paying Bucky or you any attention.

You approached the nearest one, recognizing him as one of Wong’s students, and had to grab his arm when he nearly tripped into you in his haste to cast spells.

“What’s happened?” you demanded, letting go of his wrist when you had his attention.

The sorcerer glanced between you and Bucky, and as it so often did, lingered for a moment on your horns. He cleared his throat.

“What?” Bucky asked, pressing against your shoulder. “What is it? Speak up.”

“The… the prisoner has escaped.”

Bucky went pale, his eyes wide, and for a moment you sensed the raw, jagged fear across your bond, prickling up the back of your own neck. He hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be enslaved by Zemo, the memories still as fresh as new wounds.

You pushed back against his strong emotions, realizing this was something you’d have to work on, separating your emotions so they wouldn’t overwhelm. Your pulse was elevated, goosebumps broke out across your skin, but you muted Bucky’s fear as best you could so you could get a handle on the situation.

“Where’s Strange?”

“His office. Making plans to retrieve the prisoner.”

And probably figure out how Zemo managed to get free, you thought. You imagined not many people were able to escape from deep in the wizard’s headquarters.

“Great. Thanks.”

You turned away from the sorcerer to leave him to what he was doing, which was either repairing broken wards or bolstering existing ones, and faced Bucky. With a gentle touch on his arm, you leaned in so as not to be overheard but the hassled wizards.

“Are you okay?”

Bucky blinked and blew out a short breath. He ran his normal hand through his hair, visibly collecting himself before he answered.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. Fuck.” He shook his head. “How did that bastard get out?”

“I think we need to have a talk with Strange.”

“Yeah,” he growled, fixing his eyes down the hallway toward the far end where the staircase was located. “We do.”

The journey to Strange’s office was interspersed with hurried sorcerers, hands weaving complicated glyphs into the air, too occupied to even notice your passage through the halls.

You nearly walked into a wizard as he dashed from the office, giving a rushed apology as he slipped between you and Bucky. You exchanged a glance and continued inside.

As opposed to the pandemonium outside, it was controlled chaos within. Sorcerers walked the perimeter of the office casting spells, some of them consulted over what looked suspiciously like electronic tablets, and there were Strange and Wong in the middle of the room. In between them was a glowing orange depiction of the Sanctum, with an area below it depicted in blue. It didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out it was a magical layout of the building and where it had been breached.

“Finally,” Strange said without taking his eyes off the glittering miniature building. “Sergeant, I need you to suit up—after you’ve been cleared by the healers, of course.”

“You want me to hunt Zemo.” Bucky’s tone was flat, incurious, as if he already knew the answer. A glimmer of fear shone across the bond, but when he glanced at you, the trepidation molded into simmering anger. “Yeah, I’ll hunt the bastard for you.”

“I’m coming too.”

Now Strange did take his gaze off the map, meeting your eye through the magical projection. Even Wong stared, expression unreadable as it often was. You met their gazes unblinking, even as you tried not to fidget from the draft against your bare legs.

“The bond worked,” you insisted.

Strange sighed.

“Yes, I deduced as much when neither of you left the room for hours on end.”

Heat burned your cheeks and your tail puffed like an angry snake, which you then had to hold down with one hand so it didn’t lift the back of your robes.

So much for not blinking.

There was a hand on your shoulder, soothing and comforting. Bucky met your questioning look with a soft smile, and the same comfort given by his presence was doubled as it also came across the bond.

“The bond worked,” you repeated to Strange, bolstered by Bucky’s silent support. “Which means Bucky and I work better in tandem. I’m not a liability anymore; you said it yourself I’m a full-fledged sorcerer. I want to help. I will help.”

Strange said nothing and you bristled.

“Zemo kidnaped me. He tortured me. He held me hostage so he could get to Bucky—“

“And then he killed you.”

It wasn’t Strange who spoke, but Wong, stepping forward with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Are you sure this is something you wish to do? Track down the man who ended your life and sent you to the demon realm? Think carefully.”

You closed your mouth and swallowed, taking in Wong’s words and giving them the proper attention they deserved.

“Yeah.” You cleared your throat. “Yes. I won’t let him do to someone else what he did to me. And to Bucky.”

Pride, concern, and even some exasperated fondness trickled across your link. You nearly smiled but kept your lips in a thin line, not wanting Wong to think you weren’t serious about this, because you absolutely were.

Strange stroked his goatee and glanced sideways at Wong.

“She was your student first. What do you think?”

If Wong was surprised to be asked for his opinion by the Sorcerer Supreme, he didn’t show it. Instead, he scrutinized you so closely you wanted to break out in a cold sweat, and then he turned to Strange and said:

“She’s ready.”

“Then I will defer to your judgement.”

You blinked.

“Just like that?”

Strange actually had the audacity to smirk.

“Were you hoping for a debate committee?” His attention was drawn back to the magical blueprint, his smile fading, replaced by a thoughtful frown. “The truth is, we could use the help. Zemo has gone to ground. He’s a smart man, even managed to break the tracking spells we put on him. He may be one step ahead of us, but… there’s one thing he won’t factor into his calculations.”

“What’s that?”

“You.”

You glanced at Bucky but he simply shrugged, confused as you were.

“Me?”

“Yes,” Wong answered this time. “Zemo believes you are still dead. He doesn’t know you’ve returned, and he certainly doesn’t know you now possess magical capabilities. What has he been relying on to give him his edge so far?”

It was almost like you were back in one of Wong’s lessons, so you paid attention and followed his train of thought.

“Demon magic?”

“Mmhmm.” Wong gave the barest of smiles. “And what is your mystical specialization?”

“Demon magic,” you answered with your own smile.

“He will most likely rely on old HYDRA facilities to stay in hiding, which is where you come in, Sergeant.” Strange nodded to Bucky. “You both are our best means of tracking and recapturing Helmut Zemo.”

The plan sounded all well and good, but something was nagging you. Something important you were missing.

“How did Zemo escape?”

Bucky’s nose wrinkled as he pulled his hand off your shoulder and turned to the two sorcerers, arms folded over his chest.

“Yeah. How did Zemo escape?”

“We’re still investigating the precise way he did it, but…” Strange tapped the magical image of the building and it expanded, focusing on the sub level where it showed a cell lined in blue, fragments of it missing. “From what I can tell, during your ritual with Barnes someone infiltrated the Sanctum with the goal of weakening the demon wards around Zemo’s cell. They succeeded, causing only minor damage to the wards, but unfortunately it was enough for Zemo to recall his servant to teleport him and his accomplice out of the building.”

“You mean his slave.” Anger simmered in your chest, but dread twisted in the pit of your stomach. “The Alp is enslaved again.”

“Yes,” Strange said, reluctantly. “And we don’t know if Zemo has other demons under his power, ones that can do more than simple teleportation, or if his allies are human, such as the one who set him free. Most likely, he has backup plans of his backup plans, so we must move swiftly, especially before he finds more of HYDRA’s ill-advised toys lying around. One demon gate was bad enough. I don’t wish to find out what he would do with more Infinity Stone-powered artifacts.”

“So.” Bucky stepped forward, arms across his chest. “Where do we start?

As Strange began to discuss strategy and what he believed was the best approach, your attention drifted to something else.

Strange’s collar. More specifically, the collar of his red cape. The Cloak of Levitation. It slightly fluttered in a non-existent breeze, just as present and alive as any person.

The relic that had chosen Strange.

Recalling the Ancient One’s words, you let your eyes wander around the room, searching for the relic that was supposedly yours. The instruments that lined the shelves and display cases had never responded to you before, even after reawakening your powers, and they didn’t call to you now. A relic was supposed to make itself known to you when you were ready, but still, nothing leapt out at you as particularly important.

And then you finally remembered, oh shit. You hadn’t actually told them about your conversation with the Ancient One yet. Not that you’d had time, with waking up and finding Bucky the way he was, and that had certainly taken up all of your—

“I hope I’m not boring you.”

You jerked your head around and there was Strange, giving you a flat and put-upon stare. Bucky turned to you with a raised brow, but Wong was watching you without blinking.

“Sorry. I just… Is this the Ancient One’s office? This is her office, right?”

Much like the sorcerer you had just mentioned at your last encounter, Strange simply gaped at you.

“Come again?” he said with the impatient tone of one not used to having to ask for clarification.

“Is this her office? I’m supposed to find something here.” When no one said a word, you sheepishly added, “I, uh, spoke to her. After I must have passed out during the ritual—“

“Excuse me?”

“How is that possible?”

“You what?”

That last was from Bucky, and it was to him you answered first. Guilt surfaced at your unintentional omission of truth.

“I saw her, and talked to her, but it-it’s not important how right now.”

At Bucky’s furrowed brow and tight jaw you moved closer, trying to soothe him across your bond. The tension in his body loosened marginally, and his distress became a more mild worry.

“I promise I’ll tell you everything later when we have time,” you said quietly. “What’s important is that she wanted me to go to her office to find my relic. And if we’re going to hunt Zemo, I would rather have it before we leave.”

Strange exchanged a look with Wong, one you didn’t understand but seemed laden with meaning. You frowned.

“What?”

“She said: her office?” Wong asked. “Are you positive those were her exact words?”

“Yes. Why?”

Bucky didn’t seem to have any clue as to why that was important either, but Strange and Wong continued to have a silent discussion before Wong finally spoke.

“I’ll take her.”

“Then…” Strange took a deep breath and gave you a last look. “I wish you luck.”

Before you could ask what the hell that meant, Wong began ushering you and Bucky out of the office, but then Strange spoke up again.

“Oh, one last thing. You two won’t be going after Zemo alone.”

You couldn’t quite read Strange’s expression, something like frustration and amusement. Usually he only made that face in regards to you, so you knew it couldn’t be good.

“What’s that mean?” Bucky asked, probably coming to a similar conclusion.

“The Avengers, as you know, have their hands tied with the Sokovian Accords, and can’t help us with this matter. Not in an official capacity. The last thing we need is to have the United Nations aware of our presence.”

Bucky frowned further.

“Your point?”

“My point, Sergeant, is that neither Steve Rogers nor Tony Stark can assist in retrieving Zemo. To do so would require official channels to know how he escaped, and why imprisonment was necessary from the start.

“Not to mention where he was being held,” Strange added with a sigh. “Our order relies on secrecy and independence in order to function. The UN knowing about the Sanctums would make protecting this planet that much harder.”

Strange was right, but you were less concerned about the sorcerers being exposed—they could handle themselves. More worrying would be the world’s governments becoming aware of Bucky and his demonic side. Especially with the Sokovian Accords in play and the Avengers unable to intervene, keeping Bucky under the radar was important now more than ever.

“So… who’s going to be helping us?” you asked, curious despite yourself.

“A liaison, of sorts. I’ll give you more details when you return, and I expect you to play nice.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, Strange,” Bucky growled.

“I was talking to her.”

Strange glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. You didn’t even get the chance to defend the slander before he was waving you away and Wong was leading you out the door.

“His name is Sam Wilson,” Strange called after you. “And he is an Avenger, so try not to embarrass us.”

Your annoyance at the wizard evaporated.

“You know who he is?” Bucky asked, casting you a side glance. He must have sensed your sudden excitement across the bond.

“Of course, he’s the Falcon! He helped Steve Rogers dismantle HYDRA when they tried to take over S.H.I.E.L.D. It’s how he became an Avenger.”

“Uh-huh.” Bucky’s voice dropped a notch. “And you’ve met Captain America himself, but I don’t remember you fangirling over Steve.”

You stumbled over your own feet. Wong pointedly ignored you both, for which you were grateful.

“I-well, that’s different! Steve is… Steve.”

You couldn’t exactly say Steve is your ex, but there it was. Even if you’d met Steve at a time where you hadn’t been spiraling with devastation at Bucky going into the cryo-chamber, the whole thing would have been just as awkward. You liked Steve well enough, especially after you’d had time to get to know him, but he was still Steve Rogers to you. Someone who was important to Bucky in a way that he was different to the rest of the world.

But Sam Wilson… You were going to be working with an Avenger. A bonafide superhero. And you were going to be using your magic the way it should be wielded, not cloistered away in a sanctum.

Your tail twitched, and you grabbed it before it could lift up your short tunic the rest of the way again.

Bucky was immediately distracted, his eyes growing darker as he followed the sudden movement of your tail down to your bare legs.

You cleared your throat.

“Can I get changed before we go to… wherever it is we’re going?”

Wong looked over his shoulder, glanced at your state of undress, and rolled his eyes.

“Very well.”

The three of you made a detour back to your room, or you assumed it was a detour, because you still didn’t know your destination. You paused in the doorway.

“Where are we going?”

“Kamar-Taj,” Wong answered, eyes straight ahead. Down the hallway where you would eventually enter the meeting room that only the Masters used. You’d never been there, or through the magical doors beyond that led to the other Sanctums.

A chill went down your spine, one that was shared as Bucky met your eye, and you didn’t object as he followed you into your room. Nor did you speak when he shut the door, turn to you, and wrapped his arms around your tense shoulders.

He didn’t know the source of your distress, couldn’t know what the Ancient One had told you, but he could feel the results of it anyway.

Wong would have to wait a few minutes more as you allowed yourself to take comfort in Bucky’s steadfast presence. It was the only way you could gather your strength for whatever came next.

Next Chapter

#branded #demon!bucky x reader #demon!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #my writing #my fanfiction

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chaoticpuff17 · 3 years

Text

Suga We’re Going Down

Part 4

Masterlist

Y/N stared at the lawyers. Everything they said went straight over her head though it didn’t seem to bother Yoongi. They were his layers after all. They’d probably already gone over the contract with him in detail, something Y/N did not have the advantage of doing. She just didn’t have the time or the money to hire her own lawyers to look over it.

It felt odd going over a contract for what would essentially be a relationship. It felt clinical, but in a way that was good. She wanted that professional distance. This wasn’t romantic. They weren’t dating. She wanted, needed, that line firmly drawn in the sand. This was not a forever situation.

Thankfully, the lawyers were patient with her, answering all of her hesitant questions, making notes if she wanted something changed. Yoongi seemed to find it cute. Every time the lawyers looked at him to confirm a change, he would nod, the barest hint of a smile pulling at his lips. He was surprisingly gracious about it all. He agreed to every slight change to the contract she wanted to make.

“Now, Mr. Min will be providing a car and driver for your transportation.”

“That really isn’t necessary…”

“It’s non-negotiable.” Yoongi interrupted leveling the lawyers with a hard glare. He wanted her to be safe, and a driver would help with that. It would also provide him with access to her 24/7.

“Of course, Mr. Min.” The lawyer nodded. “There is also the wardrobe budget that Mr. Min will be providing.”

She was about to protest that as well, but Yoongi beat her to it. “Also non-negotiable.”

The lawyer nodded humming in understanding. “And the amount of times per week is alright with the both of you? Three times a week with other meetings interspersed as requested and can be accomodated by Miss Kang given her schedule?”

They both nodded.

“I’m sorry,” She interrupted softly. “It’d like it to be in there that my home is off limits for meetings. I’m willing to meet him wherever he would like, but I’d like to keep my home, well, mine. If that would be alright.” The last bit was added on as a rushed after thought her eyes wide as she looked from Yoongi to the lawyers.

The lawyers looked to Yoongi who nodded. “I’m fine with that.”

“Excellent.” The man smiled making a note on the contract. “There is something else we need to discuss.” Both Y/N and Yoongi turned to look at him attentively. “We need to establish the boundaries of your more… intimate relations.” The man informed them looking vaguely uncomfortable.

Yoongi perked up, but Y/N shrunk back in her seat feeling suddenly very small. She knew they had to discuss it, but that didn’t make it any less awkward for her.

She looked to Yoongi waiting for him to speak, waiting to see what was expected for her.

Just as her eyes were fixed on him, his were fixed on her, assessing, calculating. Of course Yoongi planned to have her in every way, but he needed to know how far he could push her and how quickly. If he went too far too fast, he could lose her entirely. She was a cautious creature. One wrong move on his part and she would bolt.

He had to suppress a grin watching how serious her eyes were, the way her hands trembled slightly. The poor thing. She looked out of her depth. She was, of course, but she would never know just how far out of her depth she was. Yoongi had everything drafted up perfectly. None of her requests interfered with his plans. They were reasonable requests from a reasonable girl. Allowances for school. Keeping her home a safe space. He could let her have her space for now, until she was more comfortable with him. Besides, he planned on spending most of their time together in his own home.

“Nothing weird?” She requested fidgeting uncomfortably and refusing to make eye contact.

“Weird?” He asked quirking a brow curiously.

“Like…” Her tone was unsure and her eyes wide. A blush made its way up her neck and stained her cheeks red as well. “Oh God…I… I honestly don’t know…”

Realization come over Yoongi leaving him stunned for a moment, before a deep sense of satisfaction took its place. She was a virgin. His sweet little muse was untouched just for him as if she couldn’t get any more perfect. No wonder she was so uncomfortable, the poor thing.

She wouldn’t have to be for long though. No one else would ever touch her. He would make sure of that. She was his sweet muse, untouched by the world, and he was going to keep her by his side no matter what. He knew the transition would be a little uncomfortable, but he was willing to help her through that if it meant having her by his side.

“We won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.” He assured her finding her panic cute.

“But you would be open to a sexual relationship?” One of the lawyers asked, pen held at the ready to make the necessary changed.

“Yes.” She had to hold back her cringe as the word left her. She hoped Halmeoni could forgive her for this. She hoped she could forgive herself.

“Then you would be fine with confirming birth control? Mr. Min is willing to pay for whichever method of contraceptive you choose to use.”

“That’s fine as well.” She murmured too embarrassed to meet anyone’s eye. She felt all of two inches tall. How could everyone else treat this like it was normal? It was all so foreign to her, but hey were completely un-phased.

“Excellent. Could you sign here?” He asked sliding the contract over to her, along with a pen. “That should be it on our end. We’ve already discussed the rules of this arrangement and the payment has already been decided. We should be ready to proceed unless you want to add anything else?”

“No.” She couldn’t help the way her fingers trembled a she reached for the pen, but she signed her name and placed her stamp never the less.

Yoongi signed and stamped after her before turning to face her with a gummy grin.

“I guess it’s official now.”

“I guess so.” Her own smile was much less enthusiastic. It was actually quite weak. She just couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d signed her soul to the devil.

“Let me take you to dinner.” He offered standing from his seat.

She shook her head standing as well. “I can’t. I have other things to do today. Besides, it’s too early for dinner.” She shot him a shaky smile hoping to smooth over her refusal though the deadpan expression on his face wasn’t giving her much hope that she’d succeeded.

“Come on.” He placed a hand on her back and began ushering her out of the room despite her stuttered protests.

“Yoongi.”

“It’s one meal. A celebration of our new contract.” He loved the way her face scrunched up in concern as she thought it over. “We’ll do it eventually. Why not start now?” He shrugged gently placing her coat over her shoulders eyeing it with distaste. “This isn’t the coat I gave you.”

“No. It’s my coat.”

“The one I gave you is warmer.” He didn’t like how thin the coat she had looked, especially not when he had provided her with one of his own, one of his favorites.

“And it’ll be returned to you next time.” She shot back sighing in defeat as he ushered her into the elevator.

“You should keep it. I don’t like how thin that coat of yours looks.”

She huffed under her breath but didn’t argue further. She didn’t want to ruin this before it even started. She needed this money. She’d already spent the money from the first few meetings in her head. A new coat for Eun Jae before the weather got too cold. The first installment on her father’s debt. They needed to fix the stove at the restaurant as well. Not to mention her tuition.

“I’ve already arranged a car for you.” He placed a hand on her back and led her out of the elevator. “It’ll be at your disposal day and night.”

“I really don’t need…” “You do.” He argued glaring down at her gently. “It’s for your protection as well as convenience. Fans can be a little rabid, and I’d prefer to know that you were safe.”

“Only for meetings.” She relented as he led her towards the side entrance of Jin Hit.

“You’ll use it as much as you need to. It’s safer than the bus or the train.”

“You can’t make me take the car.” She shot back eyeing him with concern. A car just seemed like too much for a sugar baby. She hadn’t even done anything yet.

He paused turning to level her with another gentle glare. She knew they could be worse. Nina has showed her enough Agust D videos for her to know just how fierce he could look. He was going easy on her.

“Take the car. Even if you don’t want to use it, I’ll just have Jackson ready to pick you up anyway.” He shrugged. “He’ll just shadow you until you take it.”

She didn’t like the sound of that either. “I’m fine taking the bus.”

“But I’m not.” He looked at her eyes dark and unyielding as they both tried to decide which of them would be the first to yield. “For your safety and my peace of mind.” He grumbled leading her out of the building to the waiting car.

It was a dark SUV with the windows specially tinted for celebrity privacy with a driver waiting outside for them.

“This is Young Jae my driver.” He introduced.

“Ma’am.” The man nodded about to open the door for them, but Yoongi beat him to it. Like a gentlemen he opened the door for her and helped her inside following in right after her.

“Where are we going?” She asked as the car pulled away from Jin Hit.

“Out for an early dinner. I know you probably have studying to do.”

“I do.” She nodded fiddling with the strap of her bag.

“You never told me what you were studying.” That was true enough. He had never asked her, and she had never told him, but he knew anyway.

She looked at him in surprise. She had never thought that he would actually be interested in what she did outside of their arrangement. It wasn’t really in the nature of their relationship for him to care about what she did.

“Elementary Education. I want to be a teacher.”

“It suits you.” He hummed. “What do you do when you’re not studying?”

“I play the cello.” She admitted only a little hesitantly. Music was her passion after all. It was something that they shared, she supposed.

He smiled leaning back against his seat. “Classical?”

He pretended to be surprised. She didn’t know that he had watched her play before. She didn’t know that he knew a lot of things about her. If she knew how much he knew she would probably go running for the hills, not that she could. Not legally at least. He had had his lawyers slip a few surprises into the contract, hidden within the fine print. She was locked into the contract for at least a year. If she broke contract for any reason, she’d be responsible for paying out the contract, and the price was set at far more than she could afford, as well as a few other surprises.

He had his tricks to keep her close. She was a sweet little songbird, but she was skittish, wary of him. She was too sweet for the arrangement she had gotten herself into, but Yoongi was determined to keep her safe. She would always be safe with him.

“Yeah.” She agreed. She did love classical music, but it was fun from time to time to play more modern adaptations. Those were usually easier on the piano though. It was easier to find piano sheet music than cello for pop or rock songs, and she just didn’t have the time to go about transcribing sheet music for the cello, so she stuck to the classics for the most part.

“Never any Agust D?” He asked teasingly.

“Never on the cello.” She agreed.

“Any other instruments?”

“Piano.” She admitted with a smile.

Yoongi loved that smile. It was bright, unguarded. She was talking about something she loved, something he loved. It was as though her entire face lit up, and she seemed to shine from within.

“You’re quite the musician.”

“Not like you.” She pointed out sighing as she leaned back against the seats as well. She was exhausted from the day, and dinner sounded less and less appealing as the minutes passed. She just wanted to go home. She wanted to forget that the day had ever happened, and pretend if only for a moment, that she was still just Y/N and not Agust D’s sugar baby.

“A musician is a musician.” He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter if you play at home or in the arenas.”

They slipped into silence after that.

Dinner was short. She had studying to do, and the urge to see her baby. The day had left her rankled and seeing Eun Jae would help settle her again. So dinner was a light sweet meal where they got to know each other a little more before Yoongi sent her off in a car of her own. It was another dark SUV just like the one they had taken to get to the little restaurant.

“This is Jackson.” He nodded to the man waiting outside the car for her. “He’ll be your driver from now on.”

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” The tall young man greeted with a respectful bow and a charming smile.

“Please, call me Y/N.” She introduced herself with a small smile of her own.

He nodded shooting her a grin, both of them unaware of the dark look Yoongi was giving them. She was never so at ease with him, but she would be soon with any luck.

“Take good care of her, Wang.” He ordered seeing his own car pulling up ready to take him to the next thing on his schedule for the day. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be seeing you soon.” He gave her nod though it wasn’t what he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss her. God did he want to kiss her, but she wasn’t ready for that yet. Soon though. Soon.

She got home safe and sound though it was a surprise for Halmeoni to see her there.

The elderly woman looked at her with a sharp eye as she entered the restaurant. “What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to see Eun Jae. It’s been a rough day.” She answered with a weak smile.

Her grandmother nodded in understanding motioning her head towards the stairs that led up to their home. “He’s upstairs. I’ll make tea.”

She nodded gratefully before practically sprinting up the stairs. She saw Eun Jae sprawled across the floor coloring, and it was like she could breathe again. Everything would be okay. It had to be okay. And even if it wasn’t, she would make it okay, for him.

part 5

#bts #bts fic #yandere bts #bts yoongi #bts suga #min yoongi #yoongi x reader #yandere #yandere yoongi #yandere suga #rapper yoongi #agust d #bts fanfic #suga we're going down #suga x reader #dark romance

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disastermages · 3 years

Text

It was late and it was dark and Lan Sizhui should be asleep by now, but Lan Jingyi was snoring just a few feet away and there was a rock digging in between his shoulders no matter how he shifted. It would be simple if those were the only things keeping him awake, but there was more, something in the back of his head, a ghost of a melody that he could always almost catch, but had never succeeded in capturing for himself.

It wasn’t a song that Hanguang-Jun would have played for him, he’d already asked him, but none of the notes matched the ones he could play for himself on the guqin. Those notes had been clearer when he was younger, but they’d been lost in hours of cultivation and guqin lessons as he’d gotten older, until he could only remember the barest parts of it.

He should try harder to sleep, he knows that, but laying in the same spot is becoming unbearable, so he slips out of his and Lan Jingyi’s tent, meaning to go and find a quieter spot to meditate, or maybe even just look up at the stars, but Senior Wei catches him first.

“Shouldn’t Gusu Lan’s head disciple be asleep?” Senior Wei only pretends to scold him as he sits across from the tents, a fire between them, and for just a moment, he looks the way he used to, when Lan Sizhui was much, much younger, even the way he twirls the dizi between his fingers is the same. “Your Lan elders will have qi deviations by the dozen if I have to lead the nighthunt because you’re too tired tomorrow.”

The smile on Senior Wei’s face is brighter and warmer than the fire they’re sitting at and Lan Sizhui can’t help but smile back as he comes to sit on his side of it, his knees underneath him unlike the way Senior Wei sits. “I have a hard time sleeping some nights,” Lan Sizhui confesses, looking away and suddenly feeling bashful. He’d felt the same whenever he’d woken Hanguang-Jun up in the middle of the night with bad dreams and terrors that he hadn’t been able to fully piece together back then.

The next time Lan Sizhui dares look up at Senior Wei, his dizi is held much lower in his hand and concern has sunken in place of the smile that was once spread across his face. “You still have trouble sleeping after all these years?” Senior Wei asks, his voice dropping down into something quieter and his hands dropping into his lap.

“Did I have a hard time sleeping when I was with you, Senior Wei?” Lan Sizhui hears himself ask before he can stop himself. If he thinks hard, he can remember his head against someone’s chest, on someone else’s thigh, on someone’s thin but warm shoulder, but the voices are always the same, soft and gentle and trying their hardest to get him to sleep.

Slowly, Senior Wei nods, “You had a lot of nightmares.” It sounds like an admission of guilt, but Senior Wei is staring into the fire now, a far away look in his eyes as he pulls one knee up and rests his elbow against it. “Wen Qing and I came up with a lullaby for you, it worked most of the time.”

Something between hope and fear climbs up the back of Lan Sizhui’s neck and he tilts himself forward. He shouldn’t ask, he knows he shouldn’t, what if Senior Wei didn’t want to be asked about some lullaby he’d made up years ago? What if he didn’t want to sing it for Lan Sizhui the way he’d sung it for Wen Yuan?

“Does Senior Wei remember how the lullaby went?” Lan Sizhui asks, pushing the words out of his throat instead of allowing himself to think better of it. He wouldn’t hold it against Senior Wei if he didn’t remember, or if he didn’t want to sing it for him, he wouldn’t, and he wouldn’t be sad either.

“It won’t work with you sitting all the way over there, we always held you when we sang it to you before.” It might not have been an invitation, but Lan Sizhui takes it as one, getting up and coming to sit next to Senior Wei as if he were still worried about getting too close.

But Senior Wei doesn’t object, he only turns a quiet smile onto Lan Sizhui, a hand on his shoulder for just one moment before it’s gone and Senior Wei starts to hum.

It isn’t the voice that he remembers, but the melody is the same, the lyrics are the same, even the way his cheek lands on Senior Wei’s shoulder feels the same as his eyelids become heavier, his breathing slower, and his body slumping against Senior Wei’s.

Lan Sizhui sleeps soundly, and Senior Wei’s voice fades into a hum once more, soft words murmured against Lan Yuan’s hair that neither of them would remember in the morning.

Lan Sizhui will try though.

#lan sizhui #wei wuxian #lan yuan #wei ying #a-yuan #its 2 in the morning here but to be fair ive been at work most of the day but i still wanted to write something for lsz's birthday #if anybody needs me im gonna knock tf out now

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happyandticklish · 3 years

Text

Experiment Gone Wrong

Summary: Izaya decides to conduct an experiment to test humanity’s morality, but forgets to factor Shizuo into his calculations.

Contrary to what most would be led to believe, Shizuo was a morning person. He enjoyed strolling the busy streets of Ikebukuro, unusually abandoned in the early twilight of morning. Everything was quiet and he could finally be left alone with his thoughts. His hands were buried in his pockets and he stopped for a moment, closing his eyes to revel in it.

“Good morning, Shizu-chan~!”

Shizuo’s eyes snapped open, his peace and quiet gone. He spun towards the sound of the voice, his hands already curling into fists. The sight he was greeted with, however, was so absurd that for a moment he almost forgot his anger.

Izaya was pinned against one of the many lampposts littering the town, rope curling up his legs and torso. The bondage ended in both his wrists and ankles, each of which had additional rope further securing him fully and completely to the pole. His arms were raised far above his head, his body stretched taut against the pole. The barest hint of his stomach peeked out as his shirt was raised from the position.

Izaya himself seemed unconcerned about the position. “I didn’t peg you as someone who goes on walks. Enjoying the beautiful morning as well?”

“What are you doing?” Shizuo growled, ignoring his words. Somehow the sight of Izaya so vulnerable made him even angrier; like fate was taunting him or something. “Why are you tied to a pole, flea bastard?”

Izaya arched an eyebrow. “This? This is merely a science experiment, my dear Shizuo. I wanted to see what people would do if they found someone in a helpless situation such as this. See, I am perfectly aware of all the downgrades of humanity, but I wanted to see it to its full extent: when faced with someone who is so completely vulnerable, will people choose to help or to take advantage of the situation?”

Shizuo slowly walked towards him, stopping just a few feet away. He glanced up and down, unimpressed. “You know, this is possibly the stupidest thing you have ever done.” He grinned, shaking his head. “I mean, what’s your plan if someone does take advantage of you?”

“I have Shinra on look-out,” Izaya replied breezily, twisting a bit to get comfortable. His shirt rode up further and Shizuo felt something twinge inside him. He clenched his fists, trying not to let it get to him. “He and Celty will of course step in if anything gets too out of hand.” Hidden inside of his palm, invisible to Shizuo, was a button that, should he press it, would immediately alert Shinra that he was in distress. “Why?” He smiled cheekily. “Are you worried about me?”

“As if I’d be worried about worthless scum like you,” Shizuo scoffed, but his real answer was clear from the way he couldn’t meet Izaya’s eyes.

“Aw, you were!” Izaya cooed. “That’s adorable, really, but I can handle myself.”

Shizuo frowned, slowly circling the pole. Izaya watched him with a pleasant expression all the while, eyebrows raised in expectation. Shizuo stopped behind him, his eyes trained on the other man’s exposed hips. He was finding it incredibly distracting for some reason.

“While I appreciate the attention, I do have to ask you what you are doing—”

Izaya broke of suddenly, slamming his mouth shut. Shizuo’s hands now rested on his hips where just a moment ago they had been digging into the slender skin. “Interesting,” he murmured. “So you are ticklish.”

“I am what?” Izaya demanded irritably. He shifted under his hands, trying to ignore the way his skin buzzed nervously, an aftereffect of the earlier touch. “I am going to have to ask you to let go of me.”

“I thought you could handle yourself,” Shizuo pointed out, grinning as the reality of their situation set in. He drummed his fingers against the other’s sides, enjoying the way it made Izaya squirm.

“I can,” Izaya snapped. “Obviously.”

“Then make me let go of you,” Shizuo said, squeezing his hips once more. “Get out of the ropes. Call for help.”

Izaya’s face contorted as he fought not to laugh. He tugged at the rope, hoping to do just that, but very quickly realized just how tight Shinra had tied the knots. He twisted around for a bit, hoping to shimmy out of them, but as they crossed over his torso, legs, wrists, and ankles, escape was veritably impossible. That left only one option—he had to wait Shizuo out. If he could hold out long enough to convince the blond that he wasn’t ticklish, maybe he would let him go.

He had endured far worse than this. Surely he could handle a little bit of tickling.

For the first thirty seconds Izaya managed to tense up his body and breathe through his nose as Shizuo experimentally poked up and down his torso. It tickled, but not as much as it could; he had a feeling Shizuo was just toying with him for right then. Because Izaya was Izaya, however, he could not resist throwing out a couple of taunts as Shizuo continued his search.

“Why are you so interested in tickling me, anyway?” Izaya asked, his cheeks flushing a bit at the word. Luckily Shizuo was behind him and didn’t notice. “Isn’t that a bit childish?”

“Yeah, well, you’re basically an adult child anyway,” Shizuo snarked, his pokes growing more calculated as time grew on, so that each one sent a shock through Izaya’s nervous system. “Besides, I think you being ticklish is nice; it’s like a reminder that you’re actually human like the rest of us.”

“I resent that i-implication,” Izaya retorted, flinching as Shizuo needled the spot right under his ribs. “And like I said, I am not ti—”

His sentence was interrupted by wild and sudden laughter as Shizuo decided in that moment to stop fooling around. He crawled his fingers around his sides to his exposed stomach and started rapidly spidering his fingers over the bare skin. His touch was light enough so as not to be painful, but that didn’t mean it didn’t still tickle like hell.

Izaya was very embarrassed to hear the stream of giggles falling from his lips, an unfortunate reaction to that spot. If he had been free to curl up or been given free use of his hands, Izaya might have been able to stop himself from reacting so violently. As it was, he found himself quickly dissolving at the rapid movements from Shizuo’s skilled hands.

“Not what?” Shizuo asked, switching to just one hand so he could cup the other around his ear. “Not ticklish? Is that what you were going to say?”

“I-Ihihihi’m nohohot!” Izaya insisted, his face going bright pink as he fought to resist his body’s natural reactions. “I’m l-laughing ahahat you, y-you ohohoaf!”

“Mm-hmm,” Shizuo hummed, grinning. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Inwardly, Izaya thrummed with a strange, excited energy and he found that he almost didn’t want the other to stop. He decided to dismiss these feelings as laughter-induced delirium.

As much as Izaya was struggling, it was evident that his stomach was not his worst spot and Shizuo wanted to take full advantage of this perfect situation. He slid his hands down so that nails fluttered lightly against Izaya’s hips, causing the other man to splutter over his laughter. He allowed him to linger for a moment in the feather-light sensations before squeezing harshly, his thumbs digging into the bone.

Izaya yelped, his struggling instantly intensifying. “HAHAhaha, w-whahahait, nohohohoho, dohohon’t!” He tugged desperately at his arms, but they refused to come to his aid. He banged his head back against the pole in frustration, arching as much as the ropes allowed him. “Fuhuhuhuhuck!”

“Don’t? So keep going then.” Shizuo was reveling in this display. He had never heard Izaya laugh before, only receiving derisive chuckles or snorts of incredulity. Eyebrows drawn down in helpless desperation, Izaya’s face was the picture of surrender, a surrender to a sensation greater than himself, and the bubbly laughter ripped from his throat only accentuated this fact. Originally Shizuo had only planned to mess with him for a bit before continuing his walk, but with every squeak and hiccup from Izaya he found himself unable to stop himself from tormenting him further.

Not to mention, it was as if Izaya’s hips were made to fit Shizuo’s fingers, his hands sliding into place like a man returning home after a long journey. Truly, how was he supposed to stop when the other option was so enticing?

“F-Fihihihine!” Izaya admitted, squeezing his eyes shut. “Ihihihi ahahadmit ihihit! I’m t-tihihicklish, ohohohokay?”

Shizuo stopped momentarily, triumphant in his victory. Izaya gasped, taking in breath after shaky breath. Strangely though, he didn’t seem as angry as Shizuo would have thought he would be. There was a lingering smile on his face and a strange expression that, if Shizuo didn’t know better, he would have said was joy.

“There,” Shizuo said, throwing in one last squeeze and delighting in the accompanying shriek. “Was that so hard?”

Izaya finally opened his eyes, having regained enough composure to throw a glare in Shizuo’s direction. “Was that really necessary?”

“You torment me on a daily basis,” Shizuo pointed out. “It’s only fitting that I get you back every once in a while. Besides, I thought you said Shinra was supposed to help if anything happens to you. Why don’t you just call him to get you out of this?”

Izaya flushed, knowing himself the real reason why he had not yet called the scientist for help. “I hardly think I need to call him for something as silly as this. Like I said, I can handle myself.”

Shizuo raised an eyebrow, immediately seeing through his façade. He decided not to call him out on it this time, however, and instead said, “Oh? Like you were handling yourself a minute ago when I had you screaming out obscenities from the tickling that you call ‘silly’?”

If Shizuo’s plan had been to embarrass Izaya to death, he was certainly succeeding. “I was not screaming, thank you very much,” he huffed. “I will admit, it was a bit more… intense than I would have originally thought.”

“Is that so?”

“Still, I have endured far worse than this,” Izaya snipped. “This, comparatively, is nothing.”

“Oh, okay.” Shizuo shrugged genially. “I suppose you’re right. I guess something as simple as tickling couldn’t possibly break the great Izaya Orihara.”

“Exactly,” Izaya said warily.

“So then, something like this wouldn’t bother you at all?”

Izaya’s brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to question the blond, but before he could get any words out Shizuo had grabbed the backs of both his thighs, fingers digging torturously into the forbidden area. Izaya would have jumped clear out of his skin had it not been for the ropes, and he shrieked, babbling laughter immediately following it.

“Oh, hot spot is it?” Shizuo teased, giving zero prelude as he squeezed that one spot over and over again, giving Izaya no time to form a response let alone focus on anything as complicated as words. “I guess you were wrong, huh? I guess the great Izaya Orihara can be broken by something as simple as tickling. I’ll make sure to note that down. Thank you, this has been a helpful clarification.”

Izaya just barely managed to flip off, an action Shizuo quickly paid him back for.

Five minutes. Five, long, tickle-filled minutes on the back of his thighs that had Izaya a writhing, squealing mess. Not once, however, did he press the button. Not once did he call out for him to stop. Shizuo noticed this, and though he waited for the eventual protest he assumed inevitable, Izaya never gave it. It was impressive, to be sure.

“Ohohohohokay, ohohohokay, ohohohohokay, ohohohohokahahahaHAHAHAY!” Izaya had taken to simply repeating that one word, gripping to it through the unbearable sensations. He tried again and again to accustom himself to the feeling, but every squeeze was like a shock to his nervous system, sending him into a flood of laughter all over again. “S-Shihihihizuo!”

The sound of his name, shrieked amongst giggles and breathy laughter, was ultimately too much for Shizuo and a blush bloomed across his features. He backed off immediately, his head spinning as he fully realized what he had been doing mere seconds ago. Izaya had no idea of his effect on Shizuo, slowly regaining his breath as phantom tickles ran all up and down his legs.

“Are… are you done?” Izaya asked, relieved to be receiving a break but also slightly disappointed that it was over.

Shizuo coughed, trying to cover up the uneasiness growing in his gut. “Uh, yeah. I, uh, have to continue my walk. Places to be, you know?”

“Oh, y-yeah,” Izaya agreed, confused. It was strange to see Shizuo flustered, even stranger due to the fact that he wasn’t sure what had caused it. “You better get back to that.”

“Have fun with your experiment,” Shizuo called as he backed away, mentally kicking himself at how dumb he sounded.

“Right…” Izaya said slowly, twisting his head around to watch him go as a million questions formed in his mind. “I will.”

Shizuo turned on his heel, walking away in a manner that he hoped was nonchalant. He bit his lip, trying to hide the red quickly forming on his face.

Why did Izaya have to be so cute, dammit?

#tickle fic #durarara #izaya orihara #shizuo heiwajima #shizaya #fanfiction #fanfic #durarara!!#tickling #izaya x shizuo

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venialsun · 3 years

Text

to begin with, take warning (1/3)

[read on ao3]

1 | 2 | 3

Dick watched Damian physically try to not show his nerves on his face for a full ten minutes—with the success of a trained actor and the failure of a nervous fourteen-year-old playing it off to his older brother—when he caved. They had just driven past the Welcome to Gotham! billboard with “u sure?” and “go back to metropolis cuck!!!” graffitied in looping, hot pink script on the side. It’d be another twenty-five minutes of traffic before they made it to central downtown, and Dick could only stand so much of not-twitchy, not-nervous, I’m-above-this Damian before he burst into laughter and caused some problems.

So he said, “It’s okay to be nervous.”

And from the passenger side, feet up on the dash, looking at his phone, Damian snapped, “I’m not nervous! What is there to be nervous about? It’s an American high school. Big deal. Last week, I stopped a planet-wide catastrophe that would have killed billions in another galaxy, and every night, unless you don’t know, we fight actual monsters and supervillains who actively try to kill us. Some have even succeeded. This is nothing.”

“Yeah,” said Dick, “maybe don’t mention all that on the first day.”

“I know that.”

“And I think you mean ‘my friends and I went to space and stopped a war.’ You know you have to give them credit, too.”

“They’re not my friends,” said Damian. “I work with them. Father isn’t friends with every member of the Justice League, yet he’s worked with near every one of them on League missions. They are my colleagues.”

“So what you’re saying is that you are organizing and leading team missions?” Dick could not keep the amusement out of his voice. “What happened to ‘Teams are unnecessary and a waste of time’? What about the Titans? I know they invited you back.”

“Timothy leads the Titans,” said Damian. “And there’s no room for two Robins on the same team.”

“Mm, don’t know about that, but I also know neither of you would play nice long enough to really try. So no team, okay,” Dick agreed, “and you just happen to be having adventures with other underaged heroes of no relation to you on a periodic basis. And they’re not your friends.”

Damian blinked away from his phone—success!—and scowled. “I do not get your obsession with making friends, Richard,” he said.

Dick splayed his hands on the steering wheel. “I’m glad to see you hanging out with kids your own age, is all. It’s good for you.”

Damian snorted and looked out the window. Gotham’s littered streets and the growing mob of early-morning commuters blurred gray in the smog. In tones of great solemnity he said, “That’s what this whole thing is about, isn’t it? I am going to school to learn how to maintain a secret identity and cultivate a normal public persona. I will be surrounded by kids my own age, and I will be sure to make connections that I will treasure for the rest of my life. These next four years will be the happiest of my life, I know it.”

Dick laughed, and Damian smirked.

“Alright, smartass, I get it. You’re Damian Wayne, haver of too many titles and not leader of any teams, and you’re not nervous about going to high school. I believe you.”

They stopped at a light. Gotham Academy was a few blocks ahead. If they walked, they could be there in ten minutes. Driving as they were in the morning congestion, it would take at least fifteen. Dick didn’t mind. He hummed to himself, waiting. Damian went back to his phone. The light turned green. Dick eased his foot off the brake. They advanced slowly and made it to the front of the line of cars, when the light blinked yellow, then red, and they stopped again.

Damian said, “Father says you were a good student. Well-liked. Studious. Only Robin’s duties caused problems.”

“Bruce said that?” Dick rolled his eyes. “Of course, he did. School was fine,” he said, “though I was mostly focused on being Robin and then the Titans at the time. It was nice, I think. It seems so long ago. But it was hard to have a life there when the most important parts of my life were somewhere else.”

“Wait, Grayson,” Damian said, gleefully, “were you unpopular?”

Dick chuckled, and the light turned green again. “I don’t know what you mean, Dames. I didn’t have that much trouble, and I had a good group of friends. But sometimes I thought it was all a waste of time, time I should’ve spent being Robin. It wasn’t easy hiding parts of myself from my classmates. Keeping the secret meant I couldn’t really be myself or talk to anyone about anything other than school.”

“Until the Titans,” said Damian.

“Until the Titans,” agreed Dick. He glanced at Damian, still with his marginally tense shoulders. “If it counts for anything,” he said, “I don’t think it was a waste of time now. I’m glad I went. I think this is a good thing.”

“Tt,” Damian tutted, but his look was speculative.

“I won’t lie to you and say you will love school. But give it a chance. You might end up liking it.”

“Ever the optimist.”

Dick pulled up into the line of cars for day student drop-off. Gotham Academy stretched across the block, its front tower looming darkly over them in the morning fog. Teenagers in uniform and cheery-looking adults were wandering about, huddling in groups or directing the flow of foot traffic to the entrance and around the side of the façade.

“Got your schedule? Know where you’re going?” Dick asked.

Damian glowered at him.

Dick chuckled. “Right, right, ‘course you do. So I’ll pick you up at four o’clock, okay?”

“And not a minute later,” threatened Damian. And then he set his shoulders, got out of the car, slammed the door, and marched away like he was going into battle.

Dick couldn’t help himself. As he pulled away, he rolled down the window and shouted, “Have a great day at school, Damian! Love ya!”

Without turning around, Damian flipped him the bird.

A whistle blew, and in the rear view Dick saw an upset-looking woman, probably an administrator, point at Damian and loudly scold, “Young man!”

Dick winced, sympathetic yet unrepentant, and merged back into traffic.

Whoops.

•

Yanez knew this would happen, but she had thought it would be at least until midday. Homeroom hadn’t even started. She was busy alternating between threatening her teachers to smile and look happy to be here and smiling half-encouragingly, half-threateningly at students and shepherding them away from their hormonal clusters, when Headmaster Hammer cut a line through the crowd and headed straight to her. A sour-faced Damian Wayne kept pace behind him.

“Good morning,” she greeted, raising an eyebrow, and silently prayed for patience. “Can I help you?”

“Principal Yanez,” said Hammer. He motioned Damian in front of him. “Your student is in need of a reminder of our disciplinary code of conduct.”

Yanez did not miss the emphasis on your. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Hammer was still smarting over his demotion from Grand Headmaster of Gotham Academy, with the full powers that entailed, to “Grand Headmaster” of Gotham Academy, a purely honorary title that delegated tasks to the grammar, middle, and upper level administration that Gotham Academy had been divided into. She ignored him and looked down at the dark-haired boy in front of her. He glared back, defiant.

Ah. One of those.

“Damian Wayne, right?” she asked. “Isn’t it too early to be getting in trouble on the first day of school?”

“That depends on your definition of trouble, I suppose,” Damian said. To her surprise, he had the barest hint of an accent. British, maybe. He stuck out his hand. “You must be Samantha Yanez, the Head Principal for grades nine through twelve.”

Bemused, Yanez shook his hand. “That’s me.”

“I can only hope you are better than your predecessor,” said Damian. He glanced at Hammer and managed to make it seem like he was looking down his nose at him, despite being a full foot shorter. “He left much to be desired.”

“Note that down, Principal. Another perfect example of abhorrent and disrespectful student behavior,” said Hammer.

Yanez frowned. “What happened? Perhaps we should take this in my office.”

Already Yanez could see the curious bubble of students starting to form, talking behind their hands or blatantly recording on their phones.

“Certainly,” said Hammer. “It will help expedite the expulsion process.”

“That remains to be seen, Headmaster,” said Yanez.

She led them back to her office, past the crowds of mingling students and through the arching stone hallway that had been commandeered for the clerical staff. She took a seat behind her desk and indicated for them to sit. She tried not to be too annoyed when Hammer went instead to stand behind her, looming over like a gnarled skeleton.

“Okay,” she said. “Damian. Why don’t you explain to me why Headmaster Hammer has brought you in here? He’s threatening expulsion, but I only reserve that option for the most extreme of cases. Think this merits that?”

“Hardly,” scoffed Damian. “My brother was dropping me off and I flipped him off.”

“You—you flipped him off? You put your middle finger up at him?”

“Yes.”

Yanez barely resisted the urge to laugh and glanced at Hammer. His expression was thunderous. She looked back at Damian and waited, but he did not elaborate. “Why did you flip him off?” she asked.

“He is an embarrassment to me.”

“All brothers are embarrassing to their siblings, especially younger ones. Is there more?”

“No.”

“He has treated every administrator that tried to correct his behavior with rancor and disrespect,” said Hammer.

“Hrm.” Yanez steepled her fingers together. “Headmaster Hammer, could Damian and I have the room? I’ll take care of this. I’m sure you are very busy, and I know Principal Trammer could use the help with the elementary kids.”

Hammer scowled—Yanez knew he hated dealing with the primary school kids—but did not argue and took his leave.

When he was gone, Yanez took a moment to study the young boy in front of her. Petulant and angry, dark-haired, brown-skinned, and light-eyed, something tense and haughty in his shoulders—he looked every bit like any of the troubled kids Yanez had taught over her decades-long career. And yet nothing like them at all. There was something different in the set of his chin, the sharpness of his gaze, his crossed arms, like he was looking for danger and ready to meet it.

“Do you want to be here, Damian?” she asked.

Damian’s mouth twisted. “In this room, wasting my time? Not particularly.”

“Well, we can agree on that,” said Yanez. “But I meant here, Gotham Academy.”

Damian shrugged. “My family insists this will be an enriching opportunity.”

“They’re probably right. But I have looked at your records. You tested out of most of the core subjects, and your home-schooling portfolio is very impressive. Yet you are signed up for the standard ninth-grade honors track. When your Father and I met this summer to discuss the terms of your enrollment, he told me you insisted on it.”

Finally some of the animosity slipped from Damian’s face. He seemed intrigued. “You spoke with my father?”

“Only the once and very briefly,” said Yanez, “but yes. He said re-enrolling at Gotham Academy and coming back to school was your idea.”

Damian scowled.

“So I believe some part of you wants to be here, wants to be a student. Is that accurate?” she asked.

“I already regret it,” Damian muttered.

Yanez smiled. “Not the resounding yes I wanted to hear, but I’ll take it.” She reached into a side drawer and pulled out a quarter-sheet of yellow paper and scrawled down a few details. “If you want to be here, then being a student means abiding by some ground rules. Respect others, respect yourself, respect the school.”

“My respect is earned,” said Damian, “not freely given because of some archaic code of conduct.”

“Then you’re already miles ahead of most of the people in this building,” said Yanez. She handed him the slip of paper. “Respect is earned, yes, but you have to give people the chance to earn it in the first place. That means holding off on rude gestures and comments when it can be helped, which is most times. I am giving you two days of community lunch tutoring for flipping your brother off on school grounds and insulting the administrators.”

“Community lunch tutoring?” Damian echoed, scanning the slip.

“It is similar to detention, but instead you tutor other students and help them with their assignments. Report to the technology atrium during your lunchtime today and tomorrow.”

“Sounds dumb,” said Damian. “Why not just expel me?”

“For expressing your feelings and saying mean things to grown adults?” Yanez chuckled and shook her head. “Damian, this is a high school. If I expelled every bratty kid with no respect for authority and a penchant for dramatics, I would be out of a job. If you want to flip people off and bad-mouth teachers and administrators, that’s your business. It is not in my power to stop you, not fully anyway. You’re a smart kid. If you want to be a delinquent then at least be smart about it. If you get caught or the wrong adult overhears you, then you and I will be meeting more often, the repercussions will not be as merciful, and I will have to do a lot more paperwork. And Damian?”

She waited until she had his full attention, and he looked up, curious.

“I hate paperwork,” she said. “Don't let it come to that.” She waved a hand. “Now get out of my office. You’re late.”

next ->

#spades #fic #damian wayne #dick grayson

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pengychan · 3 years

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt 22

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

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

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

Art is by @lunaescribe and @swanpit

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wait, what?

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

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

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

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

“But it’s almost an hour each way!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

“Oye!”

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

“Odd bird, that!”

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

“What?”

“Hey now, it’s just a kid--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I… I was…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what is your name, niño?”

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

“Just Miguel?”

“Sí.”

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

“S-Sí.”

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

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

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

“I-- try to be.”

“You know many people in the village?”

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

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

Oh. Oh, no. Oh God, no.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The songwriter, señores y señoras.

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

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

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

You may now kiss the bride.

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

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

“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME!”

“Gah!”

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

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

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

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

“Well…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How come?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If someone mentions a Padre Ernesto…”

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

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

Whatever it takes.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Javier! No!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Commander! A word, if you please!”

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

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

***

“Well well, what have we got here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Move aside."

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

"It is for the glory of Mexico."

"What of the glory of Heaven?"

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

"... It seems I misspoke."

"Of course you did."

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

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

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

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

“Hhm. Do you now?”

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do, sir.”

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

Ernesto.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t tell him.

He knows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You monster! What sort of beast--”

“ENOUGH!”

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

Is this it? Is it the end?

I will never see them again.

I am going to Hell, aren’t I?

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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