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#i suspected it may have gone in my closet so i put boxes in front of the bottom of the door
lovely-necromancy · 3 years
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A Cure for Insomnia CH.2
Getting back to your little one story cottage, you can only manage to rush in and run about in a mad dash as you try to accomplish getting ready for work and getting something to eat. Running through choices in your head as you change and freshen up, nothing sounds good. There's not much time since your shift starts at nine and to make it to the store you need to leave by eight twenty. You got home at eight fifteen, and while Nate, your manager, has never seemed to give a fuck what you did at work you're still in your probationary period and would like to keep the easiest job you've ever had.
It's a really simple gig, seeing as the store you work at is actually a front for some illegal activity. The variety of crime you aren't sure of, but you are aware there's no way you guys do no business and yet they can afford to pay thirty dollars an hour. Thankfully just keeping your mouth shut and being nice to little Jo, the owner's daughter, is enough to keep you in the cushiest job in the world. The store's front is a regular old book store, all the books are real, the registers work, you're able to sell books and you've run to the bank to do the weekly deposits twice for Book & Nook. The front is very legitimate or it would be if the amount of customers ever equaled the sales made.
Again you don't ask questions, because for thirty dollars an hour you get to goof off for a couple hours a day, plus you get a bonus when you watch little Jo at the shop. She's a real sweet eleven year old, she's got tourettes and took a shine to you the first time she saw you tic. While you both might not suffer the same disorder she finds the common ground nice, like it's not just her. It's not even hard to watch her or enjoy her company, she'll come bouncing in with her excited chittering and hands clapping spilling all the latest gossip that comes with being in middle school. And boy is there a lot of gossip.
It's really nice seeing that Jo has friends at school and is even considered a “popular” kid. You remember how tough school was because no one understood you and teachers never cared enough about your personality to bring up the fact that it was clear to most faculty members that you had Autism. You excelled academically so what did it matter if you got picked on for oversharing information or for finishing assignments the minute they were handed to you. As bittersweet as the parallels are you're so glad Jo doesn't have to go through that. Never would have thought a southern school could be so accepting, much less a middle school at that.
Tearing through the kitchen you honestly can't find anything that you want to eat right now. And even after a long night of hiking/dissociating you don't think you're that peckish at all. Figuring it's best to at least take something to quell any future nausea you grab a Pedialyte Pop from the freezer. As fast as you entered your home you left, and not before ensuring twice that the door was locked and secured. While living on the outskirts of town saves you from many potential robberies, and worse salesmen, there's still the chance of some lunatic with an ax hiding out in a closet to murder you. Better safe now than sorry later.
Pulling into park behind the shop right at nine is a blessing. You run into the shop to clock in blurting out a quick 'Morning' to Nate, who was carrying a particularly large box, as you passed by him. In a flash you were back at your car retrieving your newly prized deer skull. Lungs burning a bit from the all out sprint you just did you took a little extra time to close the trunk and lock your car up to catch your breath, and avoid any light headiness you might get from the empty stomach workout. Eager to share the wonders of death with your best work friends, and by that you mean Nate your manager...and only other coworker, you rush back into the building.
The shop was quiet as usual as you made your way through the door though you were in the back room where only employees could roam you had the slightest suspicion that the front of shop was just the same. It's there you find Nate, now lugging a medium sized box around to a side table. He did this a lot you suspect some type of smuggling but hey plausible deniability and all those legal matters. The taller dark haired man sees you and just as he's about to wave you over, notices your prize with a raised brow.
“The fuck d'you bring in the store?” he doesn't seem amused by whatever it is he thinks you're up to. “Deer skull.” Lifting it up in one hand and pointing at it, “Found this guy on my hike last night...or rather this morning actually.”
“YN, we talked about this, you said you'd get some sleep last night. No adventures remember.” he's only two years older than you and yet he acts as if he's ten years. He must be an old soul, or enjoys the role of care giver...or you're making him go gray prematurely, anything's possible.
“Eh, I remember saying I'd 'try' and get sleep.” for someone who's body is running on fumes your cheekiness is astronomical, “operative word being 'try', remember.”
It's a long silence as Nate decides if he wants to deal with your bullshit at this moment. After a minute or so he concedes leaning back on the table behind him. “Let's hear it.” and you perk up immediately.
“Cool, so I was walking along the tree line and spotted him, tried to find more but seems there's only one piece. Judging by the size of his antlers I'd say he was nearly fully grown. Now my plan is to do whatever treatments taxidermists do to bones and,” you continue to word vomit at the tired twenty-six year old in front of you, about the joys and wonders of taxidermy and the likely hood of ever finding a skull so nicely preserved.
“I can do that in here right?” even though it's been phrased as a question, you aren't asking permission, you're just being polite and letting Nate know the storage room will house your creepy deer skull antics for today...maybe the week you need to find a taxidermist book to figure out what you need to do.
Nate gives up and leaves with his box of new books to let you have full run of the back to do your weird vulture culture shit. He figures he's just too old to understand the new obsessions with the macabre. He hopes his cousin won't take to shit like this, the kid's weird enough as it is, no need to put another target on her back. Nate sets off to take down the Harry Potter sets in favor of this new comic series little Jo wanted.
Already taking his silence as the go ahead you place your found skull on the table and rush off into the store front to find a book on taxidermy and hopefully more specifically about bones. The set up and organization of the store reminds you a lot of the scene in Brendan Fraser's The Mummy 1997 where Evie is on the ladder and somehow causes all the book shelves to fall like dominoes. So unsafe, yet all book stores and libraries seem to have this set up. With the tall shelves it makes it difficult to accurately get a read on the spines. You don't even know what section taxidermy actually falls under, education maybe?
“Nate, where do you think a book on taxidermy would be?” you called out as you passed by him.
“...hobby?” that didn't sound right but you'd give it a shot anyway.
This should be fun, the hobby section was so disorganized and it took up nearly half the store too, Book & Nook had everything from fishing, to crochet, cooking, the art of film making, hell even had a cryptid hunting book a book that you may have to look into a bit later. You closed your eyes and let your intuition guide you, when you looked up you saw a thin black...vine, no whisp? It undulates in less than rhythmic movements nearly like a snake but it has no head, and not unlike a tentacle but without suckers. It's another hallucination so you were keen to ignore it until it stretched past your head, giving you an added auditory hallucination where you swore you could hear wind rushing past your ears, it swirled around you until it flew to the shelf and tapped on a book. Cautiously you walked over to it, it's never good to play into these delusions. Once you got close enough the black shape was gone but on the shelf was a creme colored paper back titled “Manual of Taxidermy: Complete Guide of Preserving Birds and Mammals.”
Walking to Nate with the book in your hands you asked him to read it and make sure you weren't having an episode and making everything up right now. You'd have to try harder to go to sleep tonight if that were the case.
“Oh you found your book huh?” he said looking down at the title.
Well this is getting weird fast, but you nod nonetheless. Might as well thank the weird hallucination gift right. Leaving him to do whatever it is he plans on doing the rest of the day, you go to the back. And just as the book instructs you set to cleaning the skull by setting it in some water and changing it as many times as the water runs murky. The book is quiet helpful to a beginner like yourself but it does seem a bit outdated from the bits of information you know from taxidermists blogs and vulture culture posts on the internet. Reading it in between water changes is a great way to pass the time though, not like you guys get any real customers anyways.
The bell rings as the front door opens and closes alerting you to someone's arrival on your third water change. Needing a little bit of mental stimulation you walk out into the front where Big Jo and Little Jo are talking to Nate. Little Jo sees you and skitters away from her father to rush you, she stops about a foot away and holds her arms wide open. She's a hugger but upon meeting you had never even thought people could be touch adverse so keeping in mind that you might not want to be touched she's learned to invite you into hugs and it's your choice to allow it or not. Placing a hand on your bicep you give a squeeze, checking your tolerance you find the thought bearable. Placing your arms outstretched at your sides Jo rushes your torso for her hug.
After she nearly body slammed you into the wall, and  let her death grip go she was off on a tangent about so many things. Her excited rapid blinking tic, one she developed after meeting you, triggering your own.
“Ok so you remember how last week I told you that Jessie Kinsleton said that Micheal Saleisa told Gigi B, not Gigi S. that Meghan,” you had no clue the lives of eleven year olds had gotten so complex, from the gossip you heard from Jo it seemed that the school's sixth graders were plotting for a war with an ice cream parlor up the street. No clue why, maybe just to fuck the system, kids are weird, preteens are weirder...and angry.
But you nod to Jo listening to her every word, and trying to calm your eyelids so you could actually open your eyes. After being told the sequence of events that would happen in the Tween Armageddon, something to do with Marco Salvator ordering three dozen donuts and a flock of geese, your eyes finally gained their ability to see back. Black whisps, much like the one from earlier, wandered all around your vision, it looked like a  dark smoke had settled eye level within the shop and was snaking through the isles.
Catching the movement of your eyes Jo looked around the shop too. Seeing nothing she turned back to you concerned, “Hey it's okay, nothin's there.”
Hearing the drop in volume of the normally chatty tween, Big Jo and Nate pause their conversation to turn their attention to you and follow you're gaze.
“Kid, you ain't sleepin' again?” Big Jo can already gauge by the bags under your eyes but he's a polite man so he feels the need to ask rather than state his assumptions.
“Day 6.” You answer simply, ever since you've started at Book & Nook the whole Cowell family became acutely aware of many of your disorders. By their record your longest time spent awake was ten days, you however adamantly say that you were an hour's mark away from ten full days so the longest you've been up is nine days in a row. And those are just the cases they know of since you've moved to Kepler.
Big Jo shook his head as a stern father would, which he is, “I have half the mind to send you home to rest.”
“That won't work.” you really don't mean to sound so coarse but it's so irritating having to go over this at least once a week.
“What about those gummy things Dia got you?”
“Long term that kind of stuff has no effect, sure it'll make me drowsie for an hour or two but even if it made me sleep one night I can't use it all the time. And before you ask the same questions again, caffeine has no real effect on me so limiting my intake will do nothing and weed doesn't do a thing for me either.” you state plainly, monotone as you present facts that everyone in the room already knows.
Looking at the stern face of Big Jo's and the exasperated face of Nate you continue, “I know it must be frustrating for you to not be able to help, but I'm content living like this. I like my late night adventures and when I do sleep it's really pleasant.”you threw in a smile for added comfort.
“Kid tha's not the point, there's somethin' wrong with you, medically I mean.” he's pinching the bridge of his nose, probably counting to ten to calm himself from raising his voice.
“Tons of people suffer from insomnia and there isn't anything a doctor could do for me except look for underlying conditions.” Big Jo's about to retort when you continue with, “Plus my dad and uncle both have insomnia as well so my case is due to the genetic lottery I lost.” You say with a hint of finality of your situation, you had to come to terms with this condition all the way back in high school. Having a decade to get used to your strange condition and the limitations it places on you from time to time. Whereas the Cowell family's only had two months to process this information, and you understand it'll take awhile before they stop being concerned. Same thing happened with you parents and friends back then too.
For now you're only met with more head shakes as if they were saying 'what are we going to do with you'. Leaving your medical issues aside Nate and Big Jo continue to talk shop, when the set up Nate just put on display catches Jo's eye.
Like lightening the tween was away from your side and by the new display shelf it looked like it held graphic novels. That's a first since you've been here, you walk over to join Jo knowing the second you do she'll start on about what's got her so excited. Most people might say you over indulge the child and coddle her but you actually just think it's really important to take interest in what makes kids happy. It helps them find their voices and also shows them that it's normal to get excited and like things.
“We got the TAZ graphic novels in?!” you hate rhetorical questions but smile and nod at her anyway.
“Have you read them? No, well you've listen to the podcast...what omg! Ok so there's these three brothers and their,” Jo begins regaling you with tales from the podcast known as The Adventure Zone and how fun they've made dungeons and dragons seem with their amazing story telling and funny characters.
You aren't sure if a show where the main group of heroes being called Tres Horny Bois is exactly age appropriate but when you look to Big Jo he kind of just shrugs it off. Turning you attention back to Jo who's now monologing about mongooses you just smile at the weird family you've found yourself in.
Let it be said that a tween with a slightly unhealthy fixation on something can find anyway to drag it back to that fixation. The day flew by with Jo explain the inner workings of dungeons and dragons, fifth edition, to you, her father, and her cousin after you mentioned why she didn't play. Apparently she'd love to but wanted a story fitting for her friend's to adventure. So being the good older cousin, father, and weird family friend you all were you came up with a story plot for her to use with her campaign.
The Jos had a lot of fun bonding over this little workshop and you guys even had food delivered so you and Nate could stay later. What was meant to just be a quick workshop turned into a mini family game night after you made several nearly impossible puzzles that wouldn't be used in Jo's campaign due to no one at the current table understanding how to solve it even after you showed them several times.
Overall it was fun and you think you might actually be tired enough to go to sleep tonight. You tried to stay and help clean up but Big Jo put his foot down and told you to go get some rest, he'd seen the way you occasionally look around the room as if something was moving behind them all. You may have started off as a cashier two months ago for him but his daughter has opened up a lot since meeting you and discovering that tics aren't so uncommon and there are people who wouldn't care or make a big deal out of them. Because of that you've earned your keep in his family, he already has you down on the list for Christmas cards.
Knowing you can't fight the six foot four man you roll your eyes and bid everyone good night, little Jo coming in to steal another hug from you and thank you for helping with her game. Checking on your skull you see the water's clear and dump it in the sink of the break room before leaving the skull to dry overnight, it's for sure gonna make Nate scream tomorrow, you can't help but chuckle at that.
Leaving through the back door and into the dusk colored parking lot you notice your trunk is popped open slightly. You definitely heard it shut earlier this morning. You blink before your head jerks to the right, unsettled by possibility of a break in and not risking it you head back inside.
“Hey, I think my car may have been broken into.” you stand awkwardly in the door way unsure of how to proceed.
Big Jo and Nate are out of the door as fast as they can. They find your car unlocked with the trunk popped, you know they weren't trying to brush you off when they asked several times if you did in fact lock your car this morning. After hearing your affirmative response each time, they began to inspect your car checking to make sure all wires are properly secured under the hood, Nate even retrieved the jack out of his own car to take a look under the car, ensuring the brakes hadn't been messed with. They started the car up just fine and it didn't appear tampered with. Even though nothing looked out of place and Nate's car, sitting in the same parking lot, hadn't been touched you appreciated them checking to make sure you were alright.
Knowing you're perceived as a woman by most, even outside of this small town, makes you uneasy when it comes to terms of abductions and violence. You know the chances and hear the stories whether it's from the victim's mouth or a podcaster's telling the story the dead can't. Nate offered to follow you home and make sure you were ok but you declined and said you'd call them both when you got home. Big Jo said to just call his home phone because Nate would be coming over tonight anyway, and if they didn't make it there before you called Dia was already at home and would pass the message along. You'll probably still try and give the shop a call if Dia answers, it wouldn't sit right with you if you wound everyone up just to not and at least try to settle their nerves.
With one final check of you car, the men even going so far as to lift seats up and feel under them, they sent you off. You drove carefully on the road tonight, ready to pull off into the shoulder at the slightest hint that something was wrong. Not even the radio was on something that you really didn't like driving without, but if there was the chance for you to catch a shift in tone of the machine you wanted to. Eventually you did end up making it home in one piece and you had called the Cowell family home, from the safety of your car, and got a spazztic eleven year old asking if you'd made it home alright. It took a little bit of coaxing but Little Jo calmed down and shouted to her parents that you were on the phone and alright.
“Kid,” looks like Big Jo took the phone away from Little Jo, “Everything ok on the drive.” Big Jo could hear the movement and shutting of your car door, he'd have to say he was relieved you waited until you were on the phone before exiting. He knew you lived out past the quiet zone in Old Lydia's house. A fact that did little for the unease he felt when he thought you were being watched.
“Oh, yea drive was fine, too quiet but fine.” you said simply as you began circling the cottage. Nothing seemed out of place on the outside, even looking above eye level where people tended to get sloppy in stalking or home invasion cases, everything seemed fine.
“Hope you don't mind if I keep you for a bit.” You had just unlocked your door and stepped in.
“Nah, kid 's fine.” you give a hum of acknowledgment as you look through the kitchen in cabinets, under cupboards, and even under the table.
“You're a smart kid.” he's taken that fatherly overtone that makes you roll your eyes. You understand the sentiment of parents and parental figures having pride in their child or ward but it's always been so weird to you when they feel the need to bring it up. Especially when they bring it up in situations that are dangerous, like can you not make it sound like someone's about to die.
Finding nothing in the living room, hall closet or bathroom you make sure all the windows are locked and dowels are in place to keep them from opening. And you double check that both the back and front doors are secured. You can hear the hushed whispers on the other end of the line, Dia must have just found out about your car, as you rustle through your kitchen utensil drawers taking out two forks before you make your way to your bedroom.
Once in your room you checked your closet and under your bed. Finding nothing you  went to the window in your room, the one right by your bed, you checked the lock, secured it in place with two dowels, and then covered it throwing a thick blanket over the curtain rod to ensure no one would be viewing you in your sleep or the precautions you were about to do. Turing around and locking your bedroom door you then jam one fork into the closed door crease, right below the locking mechanism, and jammed the other fork perpendicular through the prongs. You attempted to open the door with all your weight but only could get an inch in before the forks would stop more movement.
“Kid you alright over there?” it's rushed, he probably heard the commotion with your make shift lock.
“Yea, just had to add another lock to the door.” you trust the Cowell's but you understand how stupid it'd be to let them know exactly how you were defending yourself. Even if it wasn't them there's no telling if the person who broke into your car was outside and just good at hiding. You could also be too jumpy from your true crime shows but you figure it's better to be safe.
“I think everything's good Big Jo.” taking a final glance around your room eye's landing on the bed, “Think I'm even ready to go to sleep tonight too.” a small half laugh leaves your mouth.
“Alright kid, you call if you need anything got it.” it's an order not a request.
“Got it, good night.” Big Jo might think that'd been rude coming from anyone else but from you he can only roll his eyes at the brevity and the dial tone he's met with. He has his own sweep to do, if they were targeting his employee there was a reason. He hasn't had any problems since coming to Kepler but someone always eventually comes along who can't take a hint.
Even combing through your home with Big Jo on the line you didn't feel safe having your bed by the window anymore and moved it away and in front of the closet door. You'd rearrange your room later but for tonight this would have to do. By some grace of god you were actually able to shut your brain down tonight and rest. Maybe it was the excitement and merriment from hanging out with the Cowells or more likely the situation you find yourself in of perhaps being a target for something insidious.
Whatever the case may be you are off to the land of dreams before you know it. And unbeknownst to you the same eyes from this morning watch your home. They may not have seen what you did in there but they'd be sure to catch you when you come out. They'll wait all night to catch you if they have to.
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yamithediaperdork · 3 years
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A simple misunderstanding (Harry potter)
In many ways what happened on may 19th, the one year anniversary of Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter having started dating could of been avoided.
Had either of them ever admitted they're full fetishes is just one example. If Harry hadn't of just gotten too curious to see what was the big surprise and snuck into Draco's room while the latter was out to snoop was anther example. (the boys had a bedroom they shared but each had their own study/room for just themselves that the other technically wasn't suppose to enter..But Harry had never really been one for staying out of trouble.)
Of course If Draco hadn't mentioned a big surprise and then went tip lipped about it then harry might not of been prone to trying to snoop, but sadly Draco just loved how childish harry could act when he wasn't in the know.
In any case, what follows was above all else.. a simple misunderstanding that somehow escalated.
Harry knew he had to be fast, Draco had only gone out for a pint with some of his old friends from slytherin and wouldn't be gone for too long since he wasn't much of a drinker.
He wasn't worried about triggering any of the detection spells or minor traps Draco had put up in his private room due to having to dispel much worse and much stronger at his own job.
In comparison to his own study, Draco's was tidy and clean though Harry suspected a house elf was behind it while his own was tidy and had papers and books stacked everywhere.
The house elf wasn't around though so Harry didn't worry about that and figured his best bet for finding Draco's surprise was a chest that had almost perfectly been covered up with a active invisible cloak. But as muggles say: Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.
One small spot on the left front bottom corner was showing and so Harry tugged the cloak off and after studying the locks for all of 12 seconds, used a simple spell and the tap of his wand to unlock the chest.
He had mulled over what the present could be, Knowing Draco wasn't found of muggle electronic gaming devices and the chest wasn't big enough for new broomsticks. what was in the chest brought a blush then a smile to Harry's face.
"How the bloody hell did he find out I'm a daddy dom?!" Harry asked softly, looking in the chest that was stuffed with baby powder, wipes, bottles, dummy's, stuffies and lots and lots of DIAPERS!
Harry had gotten into to teasing and babying other boys after his first time coming to the Wesley household where all the boys were still in nappies when home. It was Mrs.Wesley's way of helping them relax and the twins took took it with delight while Percy had declined that year, and Ron had tried to beg off in front of Harry.
Harry himself was offered nappies but expressed more of a interest in helping with the babying and well from then on he was hooked. He had never even hinted at those feelings with Draco, having figured there was no way his blond prince would ever wanna be a helpless little guy.
'He must of gone to Ron for help with a gift idea! Heh.. Can't say I mind....For the most part.' Harry mused mentally, noting that the nappies were all plastic disposable ones while he was more of a fan of terrycloth and rubber pants. 'Still, I'd have to be a awful git to refuse to put him in them since he's gone to all this trouble'
Closing the lid and resetting the locks for now, Harry adjusted the cloak back to where it had been exactly and made his leave of the room.
'I wonder if he's a full on big baby, a diaper boy or just trying this out for me? that was a awful lot of nappies for just a trial phase.' Harry mused, never once thinking there could of been anther explanation.
Draco chuckled as he made his way back from the market. After all this time and Potter could still be fooled with such a dumb lie. Draco would of never gone down to a pub for a pint, if he was going to drink it would be something more to his standards and taste. Still, it was a good go to lie and Harry fell for it every time and if it wasn't broke, don't fix it.
under his one arm was a larger then normal self assembling high chair that would have restraints built in and be big enough for Harry or himself for that matter,
He had of course known all about the Wesley's being nappy boys, and a normally vengeful Ginny had been delighted to till Draco all about how much Harry loved being a big baby.
'Heh, she likely thought it would scare me off.. still pining for him.' Draco thought.
No, if anything, finding out Harry like to be teased and humiliated in nappies just made Draco love him even more, he had after all inflicted more then a few cases of nappy humiliation on students at Hogwarts. (ironically Raven Claw made the best blushing and submissive big babies, hufflepuff's just made it clear they'd report you since they didn't have anything to lose, being in the worst of the four houses.)
Still having a boyfriend with a great job, a awesome house and was a rocket in the sack that he could also tease and dominate in nappies? Uh, yes please!
the thought that Ginny might of been lying to him never crossed Draco's mind and he made use of a magic breath mint to give him breath a touch of ale on it as he came home.
"Hey luv, I'm back." He called, not seeing Harry in their shared living room or the kitchen, taking the chance to stash the box in the closet.
"Already? Harry called, then appeared as he came into view from the hallway that lead to the studies. "What happened, Crab started chugging beers again? I know how uncomfortable that makes you." Harry added, coming over and wrapping his arms around Draco.
"Someone's in a good mood." Draco chuckle, then returned the hug and added a smooch on Harry's lips, making the more strait edge wizard pull back a little.
"Brush your teeth then get a nap in luv, I have a feeling it's gonna be a long night~"Harry coo'ed.
'Heh, you don't know the half of it~' Draco thought but then out loud gave a little pout. "Awww, a nap? alone? sure you don't wanna join me?"
"..That can be arranged, but first, your teeth. I think I'm getting a buzz off your breath." Harry said and pulled away, and then slapped Draco's butt.
The slimmer blond blushed, but didn't say anything and headed for the washroom.
After a little something to tired them both out the pair of wizards conked out in each others arms, a alarm set for 5 pm sharp which meant they would have in theory a 3 hour nap.
Of course in practice it was actually Harry who would wake up first with use of a little charm he had cast on himself to wake him up 20 minutes sooner and as he slide out of bed he both shut off the alarm and used a sleeping sleep to keep Draco dead to the world.Leaving Draco sprawled out in the bed Harry went and gathered up their clothes they had left on the floor before the love making and found to his amusement a recite from a bondage shop in town for a high chair.
"Oh my, you don't do anything half ass do you my love?" Harry chuckled, though the only response he got was a soft snore from the snoozing blond.
Moving from the bedroom after donning his clothes Harry's first move was to check in the closet by the door, the only place that Draco could of hidden the high chair and grinned ear to ear as he found it and removed the pieces from the box.
Apparently whoever gave the command for the high chair to set up would retain the control over it, control only shifting if it was ordered to dismantle again.
"Simple enough. Set up time." Harry said and watched with mild amusement as the white wooden pieces quickly fitted themselves together. "Blimey, I'll have to see if they got a crib.. this kind of magic would save A LOT of time."
Setting the chair up by the dinning room table, Harry made his way back towards Draco's study and once again let himself in with ease as he went over to the chest.
Peering inside and tapping his chin he had a bit of unexpected trouble..Draco had chosen so many cute outfit's Harry was having a hard time picking what to put him in.
"Well I suppose a pair of those locking booties and mittens, a nappy and bib will work for now. we are gonna eat right away and little guys are SO messy when they munch." Harry said, fishing the items out and chuckling softly then noticing a pacifier gag. "Oh Draco, you ARE a kinky one~"
Coming back into the room and setting down a pair of green mitten and booties with dark gold frilly trim on the ankles and wrist and a bib with the same color scheme plus a cartoon snake on the front forming a S, harry still had the thick white nappy with a nursery print and the paci gag in his hands when he looked at Draco and almost squealed.
the little blond cutie pie was nursing away on his thumb and had a line of drool going down his chin! the only thing keeping him from replacing the thumb at that very moment with Draco's paci is once he did that he would of wanted to get him fully dressed, and Harry still had to get the baby food in the chest out and get a ba-ba of formula ready.
"Truly, Heavy is the burden I bare."
Draco was dreaming about spanking Harry with him over his lap, till the boy who survived was bawling like a baby and had tinkled all over Draco's lap.
Draco was in the middle of scolding Harry in his dream then suddenly his mouth stopped working right, his words muffled! Looking down Draco saw that a dummy had been popped in his mouth and it was Harry now who had him on a giant changing table and was dressing him!
the more dream Draco tried to fight this attack off the bigger dream harry got till he towered over Draco as if he was just a real 2 year old and one solid swat to his rump stopped his fighting in a instant.
'No! this is just a dream! wake up!' Draco willed to himself, and poof!
His eyes were opened, and he went to relax..only to find his mouth was still gagged.
"Mmmmph!?" Draco tried to asked what, but the fat nipple of the dummy filled his mouth even as he looked at Harry in shock.
"Welcome back to the land of the living little guy!" Harry chuckled and leaned down kissing Draco's forehead. "I was getting worried my sleeping charm was too strong."
Draco felt himself being picked up and stood up on his feet and knew even before he was stood in front of a mirror what he would see, his face going crimson as he heard the crinkle, felt the bulk between his legs and could feel his hands and feet encased in the soft cotton of the mitten's and booties.
"Aww is somebody all shy? It's ok Draco, Daddy is SO happy you decided to be his widdle guy for our special night!" Harry was saying and then kissed his cheek.
Draco opened his eyes, turning his head to glare at harry but then caught his reflection and stared in shock. He want's JUST in a nappy, from the looks of it Harry had gone and put in at LEAST 3 of them! he hadn't felt the bib before and naturally couldn't of known which of the booties and mittens Harry had picked out but now he could tell and assumed it was because of the green dummy in his mouth, with the dark gold straps that went around his head to hold them in.
He turn his head fully to Harry know and tried to tell him off, but all it did was make him mumble and drool flow down his chin.
"Hmm, what's wrong buddy?" Harry asked, raising a eyebrow then smiled. "Ohhh I see."
'Thank god, the stupid git figured it out! I'm the da-' Draco was thinking but Harry interrupted his thoughts.
"Your mad because you wanted to surprise me. I get it. Daddy WAS a bit of a bad boy huh?" Harry chuckled.
'...Fuck my life.' Draco mentally groaned as harry droned on.
"Welll I just couldn't help myself from looking around , and I just couldn't believe you found out how much of a daddy dom I am, and you were willing to play along. I never pegged you as a little so wasn't gonna bring it up."
'...Mistakes have been made.' Draco thought and suckled fast.
Clearly Ginny HAD been telling half truths,and with Harry being the snoop he is Draco was paying for it BIG time.
"I know I got carried away with the nappies too, but I just love a thickly diapered baby boy..Plus when I found those poopie pills in the chest as well.. your gonna be making me a BIG present soon and I didn't wanna leak a leak."
"MMMPFFFH!?" Draco cried out into his gag, eyes going wide as they could.
there HAD been a dull pain in his backside but Harry had been highly spirited during their love making and just figured that had been it. He could even feel them starting to work now, a cramping starting up and Draco whimpered and shook his head no over and over.
"ah ah ah, you were gonna be my little stinker anyways, I'm just making it happen sooner. what can I say, I love feeding a smelly boi~" Harry chuckled and kissed Draco's cheek then scooped him up, carrying him with Draco's front to Harry front as the unwilling big baby tried to think of a escape.
Sadly, without his wand he was pretty much SOL.
Harry was loving how much Draco was playing the unwilling baby when they both knew the truth. Like, why else would of Draco had all of this ready to go?
truth be told Ron had been his favorite big baby out of the Wesley boys because of how embarrassed and unwilling he was to have Harry babying him and if anything this cemented that Ron had clued Draco in.
'I'll have to send him a thank you basket.' Harry mentally chuckled.
Patting Draco's bottom he knew any second now his amazing boyfriend would be loading his nappies to the brim.The packaging on the pills had claimed one was enough, but harry wasn't going to chance it and had used three of the large pills, musing how easily they had slid into his love's backside.
Coming into the dinning room/kitchen, Draco took one look at the high chair and then looked back to harry and shook his head no over and over again, which was just frankly ADORABLE!
"Now now, your the one who brought it, I'm just helping out." Harry said, getting ready to set Draco in the high chair when Draco's struggles managed to get the blond big baby free of Harry's arms.
of course this just meant that Draco fell on his rump on the floor, though with all the padding he had on Harry wasn't too concerned.
"Well what are you gonna do now? you can't get that outfit off yourself, and your free to run out into the yard dressed like that." Harry said, stepping back and crossing his arms. "I'm sure we'll be the talk of the street."
Draco whined and glared up, then turned pail, a ominous rumbling coming from his tummy.
"Oh Present time already?" Harry asked.
The cramps had been getting worse and worse, but what Draco knew that harry didn't was the highchair had a unadvertised extra feature in it. Anyone who was restrained in it was looking at a HOUR minimum stuck in it!
It had been Draco's own little added feature and he was about to get to enjoy the fruits of it, unless he could SOMEHOW get out of this, or failing at that..convince Harry to change him before being strapped in.
He knew there was no way in hell he could get to his feet and waddle to his study, when he MIGHT be able to write out a message to Harry...But maybe if he swallowed just a smidge more pride he could maybe avoid much much worse.
Getting on all fours he had the idea to crawl to his study but the act involved basically presenting his puffy nappy clad rear to Harry who was chuckling in amusement.
Operation: crawl for freedom also died right then and there as the movement had pushed his cramps to the limit, Making him push his forehead to the push and jut out his butt as all hell broke loose.
As the contents of his bowels (and a few bones and/or internal organs from what it felt like to him) pushed out into the seat of his diapers Draco suddenly realized why all those Raven claw students had broken down crying.Filling a nappy to the brine didn't exactly feel all that nice if you weren't into it.
'Karma is a fucking bitch!'
On a scale of 1 to 10, Draco was a total 100 at playing the big stinky nappy bitch game, and despite the horrid smell that filled the house Harry had little hearts in his eyes.
the nappies had to of been enchanted, there was simply no way they would of held up THIS well as the back of the diapers ballooned out like you'd see in a cartoon.
'I'll have to get the brand name from him I can totally see this happening more and more often.' Harry cheerfully thought, then chuckled. 'Good thing I didn't put him in a onesie though.. the buttons would of flown off and might of taken out a eye!'
when he judged the mess to be over after about 15 minutes (mostly from Draco just laying there panting, eyes glazed and and beads of sweat dripping off of him, Harry helped the stinker up.
He was going to wait to remove the dummy gag until he got the big baby in the chair, but with such a cute display he just couldn't wait.
Draco wasn't even aware as the gag came out, though there was a soft steady mutter of 'da da da da da' escaping from his mouth. wiping his chin with bib, Harry then mouth in and gave Draco a hot kiss, shocking Draco out of his stupor but not fast enough as Harry pushed Draco back into the chair and cried out resistant as he did so.
instantly the tray came up and over Draco's head, sliding in and locking in place and pinning Draco's arms under the tray instead over in the arm restraints though his feet were locked in.
The feeling of landing on his muck butt had stopped whatever Draco was about to say, at least till he was secured in place.
"I'm sorry, you were going to say something?" Harry chuckled, about to turn and get Draco a bowl of baby food.
"POTTER YOU BLOODY GIT!! THIS WAS ALL FOR -YOU- TO WEAR!! I'M A TOP!" Draco bellowed.
Harry froze in his tracks and locked eyes with Draco, it was pretty clear this wasn't big baby regrets.
"Ummm..Oops?" Harry said sheepishly. "I'll um.. just get you free an-"
"I'M STUCK IN HERE FOR A BLOODY HOUR YOU WANKER!" Draco growled and then as he went on ranting, Harry couldn't help but think of two things.
1. He had screwed up BIG time and maybe should stop snooping around and
2. since he was already in the dog house, maybe popping the dummy gag back in till he could release Draco might be a good idea.
The end.
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hellowkatey · 3 years
Text
Febuwhump Day 1
Prompt: Mind Control @febuwhump
read on ao3
A Magnet for Trouble
"This," Anakin kicks at a ball of dust, causing the particles to go flying everywhere. "blows,"
His Master coughs, and Anakin looks up to see he has kicked the dust directly into the face of Obi-Wan. He supposes he earned the disapproving scowl this time.
"Not every mission is going to be exciting, Padawan. Sometimes we receive tasks that are a little more on the mundane side."
Anakin examines his Master's face as he continues to brush dust out of his bearded face. Though he has the typical Obi-Wan Kenobi stoicism, Anakin has known him long enough to see that he too isn't exactly pleased about their task.
Some random Outer Rim planet claimed to have found some ancient Jedi artifact, so the council sent them to go fetch it. Literally, anyone could have done this, but they decided to send a Jedi knight? Master Nu would probably love this kind of thing, but Master Obi-Wan wouldn't let him suggest that to Master Windu.
So now they're searching through this dusty old house that smells like bantha poodoo and mildew because the local officials were too afraid to touch it. Apparently even too scared to get close enough to the artifact to get a decent holo. From the dark image, it looked like a deactivated Holocron, so Anakin isn't sure what all the fuss it about.
"Why would the Jedi leave something valuable in this kind of place?" he asks, crinkling his nose at a pile of something in the corner that seems to be a source of the horrible smell.
"This house is old, Anakin. I suspect long ago it was quite elegant and beautiful. During the Great Peace, Jedi Masters often opted to retire in their home worlds or places they liked. It is entirely possible this was the residence of a Jedi Master."
"I thought Jedi didn't like material things, though. This place is huge!" They'd spent the last hour or two making their way carefully through the three-story winding home.
Obi-Wan chuckles. "We are taught not to keep material things, but that does not mean some Jedi don't like them anyway. I'm sure you and that desk of projects you have can relate."
"Those are practical, Master."
"A bolt slingshot is practical?"
Anakin looks away from the wry gaze of his Master. He may or may not have broken a mug or two with that slingshot, but it was a prototype.
They go into the next room. It's the largest bedroom by far, with a canopied bed and large heavy furniture in various places. White sheets haphazardly cover the tables and paintings.
"Surprise, surprise. Another dusty bedroom." Anakin sighs, tugging down one of the sheets to look at the painting. In the dark, it is difficult to see, but he can tell it's a portrait of a woman.
"This is the main bedroom. Perhaps our artifact is somewhere in here."
"You'd think they'd tell us where they found it."
"I suspect they forgot which room it was."
Understandable, I suppose. There are literally over twenty different bedrooms that all look similar. While Master Obi-Wan looks through the drawers of the bedroom, Anakin continues to take interest in the painting. He pulls his lightsaber out, igniting it to get a better source of light.
"What are you doing?" Obi-Wan asks, his back still turned to him.
"Need more light." He waves the lightsaber close enough to the painting to see the face of the woman. Intense golden eyes stare back at him, almost like they are locking him into a gaze. He is entranced by her dark shiny curls that cascade down her shoulders and seem to fade into the elegant dark robes she is wearing. His eyes settle at the necklace that hangs from her neck, its dark metal forming a teardrop shape with a red gem in the center.
The woman is beautiful. Scarily beautiful. Were her eyes brown she might look a little bit like Padmé, or at least how Anakin remembers her. It's been nearly eight years since he's seen her, and he misses her sweet smile dearly.
"Anakin, what have I told you about gawking?" Obi-Wan teases, tugging at his padawan braid as he passes.
"I'm not-- oh nevermind," he groans, pulling his braid back in front of his shoulder.
"I'll check the closet, keep looking here."
"Yes, Master." He lowers his saber, about to turn it off when something catches his eye. The glow of his saber shows a space at the base of the wall. Anakin crouches down, placing his hand at the baseboard, and indeed feels a bit of a draft coming from underneath.
Interesting. He puts his saber away and stands, running his hands along the sides of the painting. To his excitement, he finds a seam in the wall, hidden well by the frame. He grins and reaches out with the Force. If this is the home of a Jedi, they undoubtedly would have a secret door that is Force activated! Maybe I can figure out how to put this in my room...
The section of the wall shutters and then slides backward, revealing a darkened room.
"Oh wizard," Anakin mutters to himself, pulling his saber out. He is about to walk into the room when he turns, looking to see if Obi-Wan is anywhere near. He probably should tell his master what he found, but maybe checking it out first would be a good idea. He would hate to take him away from his search for a dead-end...
He will call for him if he finds something. If this is where the artifact is, then he can say he found it all by himself!
Anakin steps into the room, using his lightsaber to light his path. It is larger than he expected, just a desk in the far corner and a bookshelf that is now empty and covered in cobwebs. He walks right up to the desk, giddiness running through him as he spots a cube in the center of the table. He picks it up, turning it around in his hands to examine it.
The holo they gave was dark, but this seems to be the artifact! It is a dark metalloid material with markings that do look like a Holocron, but it doesn't glow blue as the ones he has seen. In fact... it doesn't seem to be a Holocron at all. If it is a Jedi thing, maybe it too responds to the Force? He closes his eyes, trying to get some sort of signature from the object, but it is like it is just out of reach for him.
Strange. He decides to show Obi-Wan and walks out of the secret room. In the light of the main room, now Anakin can see there is a latch. Oh duh, it's a box!
"Hey Master, come look at this," he calls, as he undoes the latch.
"One moment, Anakin."
With the latch open, Anakin tugs at both ends, and the cube opens at the center, sending something from within rattling out and onto the floor under the bed. He cringes, hoping he didn't break whatever it is. He crouches down, feeling around the dusty floor until his hands lie on something cool and metalloid. He draws it out, his eyes widening when he realizes it's a necklace.
The necklace from the portrait. Its teardrop design is smooth in his hand as he examines it. Somehow, as old as it must be, it isn't tarnished.
Skywalker.
He looks over his shoulder, but there is no one there. Anakin could have sworn he heard his...
Skywalker, come to me.
He looks the other way. The voice is quiet, indistinguishable of gender though it is definitely speaking basic. When it whispers his name once more he looks down at the necklace, suddenly realizing that the voice is not coming from around him, but from it.
He flips it over, revealing the beautiful red stone. It shimmers as though it is its own light source, entrancing Anakin in its kaleidoscope of colors. He runs his thumb from the side of the necklace to the stone to feel the smooth-looking gem.
The moment he touches it, he is struck with an icy chill that runs from his fingertips down to his toes. Terror fills the Jedi Padawan, and he staggers backward, his mind telling him to drop it but his body not listening. He clenches the necklace in his freezing hands, and the world around him tunnels.
Obi-Wan is going to be so mad at me...
And then there is only darkness.
_______
A clatter and a thump resonate from the other room. Obi-Wan sighs. What has he done this time? He found nothing in the closet so he heads back to see what his padawan has gotten into this time. While he had hoped Anakin would outgrow his propensity to attract trouble, it seems the sixteen-year-old is still well endowed in finding mayhem.
"Anakin, if you managed to break something--" he trails off as a chill runs up his spine. A warning in the Force. Obi-Wan puts a hand on his lightsaber and reaches out through their bond.
On the other end, he feels nothing but static.
"Anakin!" he calls, now running into the bedroom. He skids to a stop at the sight of one of the walls caved in, an open box lying on the floor, and Anakin's body slumped to the side. Though he still senses danger, he doesn't see anything that could be causing it. He drops to his knees beside his padawan, rolling him so his head lies atop Obi-Wan's legs. He lays a hand on Anakin's cheek and pulls away in horror at how cold he is. "Anakin, wake up!" he orders, shaking him firmly.
Obi-Wan gets a sudden feeling like he's been here before. For a split second, his teenage padawan becomes his graying Master lying motionless in his arms on Naboo. Panic grips him, and he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut. As quickly as he sees it, it is gone.
Freezing fingers enclose around his wrist and Obi-Wan's eyes snap open to see Anakin staring back at him, but there is something off about him. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he has time to process what is happening his body is being flung across the room with tremendous force. His back slams into the wall and he sags to the ground, vision spotting with black dots.
Anakin stands now with his lightsaber in hand, and Obi-Wan realizes what is wrong with his padawan is that his bright blue eyes now shine a dusty gold.
"Padawan," Obi-Wan says carefully as he pulls himself to his feet. He doesn't dare reach for his own lightsaber. "What happened?"
"I am no padawan," he says back, his ashen face devoid of any emotion. Though it is Anakin's voice it isn't Anakin. Obi-Wan has never heard him speak in such an inflection.
"Then do tell me who I am speaking to."
"Anakin Skywalker."
Obi-Wan shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."
"I am Anakin Skywalker, and you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, will die by my hand."
Anakin raises his saber, not in his usual starting position but in Form II-- Count Dooku's preferred form for its elegance and dueling superiority. Anakin has never once taken interest in the fluidity and discipline it takes to learn Makashi.
Obi-Wan still doesn't grab for his own weapon. Anakin lets out a guttural yelp and darts forward, jabbing his lightsaber aggressively. Obi-Wan twists out of the way much to the displeasure of whatever is controlling Anakin.
"Draw your weapon, coward," he hisses.
"What have you done to him?"
Anakin's face twists into a sinister smile that Obi-Wan has a feeling will likely give him nightmares in the weeks to come. "He is my vessel. A strong one, at that, for an apprentice. I have inserted my Life Force into him, and now we are one."
The boy lunges at him again, and Obi-Wan is able to evade him once again, but this time his shoulder is grazed by the tip of the lightsaber. He bites his lip at the red-hot pain igniting his upper body but swallows it back.
"So what is the plan then? What is your purpose?"
"Does there need be a purpose besides the chance to walk the galaxy once again?"
He stares at the boy, recognizing the tell-tale shadowing of him about to strike once again. If whatever is occupying his padawan is telling the truth, then Obi-Wan knows what he must do. He finally draws his lightsaber grimly, raising it above his head parallel to the floor in the opening move of Soresu. He points in Anakin's direction.
"You will not take over the soul of a boy for your selfish purposes," he says, and then Anakin's saber is crashing against his.
Obi-Wan has sparred with Anakin so many times throughout their training. The boy is a natural with a lightsaber, and one of the best padawan fighters among his age mates. He is quick and decisive, pouring every ounce of his endless supply of energy into each brutal strike. Even with another controlling his mind, his body still moves like Anakin. Thankfully, this is a feat Obi-Wan can easily accomplish. He blocks every strike, knowing exactly what he is planning before Anakin even knows it. Every one of his jabs is met with Obi-Wan's lightsaber waiting patiently for him to catch up. With every crackle of their blades striking another, he can see the fire in Anakin's eyes grow. His golden eyes are not unlike the piercing yellow of Darth Maul, filled with hatred and anger.
Through his anger and fatigue and many minutes of combat, Anakin becomes more and more sloppy. Obi-Wan takes this opportunity to lash out with a rapid kick to the center of his chest. He goes staggering backward in surprise, and Obi-Wan is quick to sweep his legs and cause him to go tumbling to the ground.
"I see you are not used to the awkward body of a teenager," Obi-Wan says, kicking the lightsaber out of Anakin's hand and using the Force to pin him to the ground. He thrashes against the hold, but Obi-Wan is tapping deep into his Force abilities to hold him still. He can already feel the tremendous headache blossoming in his temples.
"You know you will have to kill him to stop me," The thing says lowly. "There is no other way."
"No," Obi-Wan shakes his head. "There is always another way."
"The boy is kin to the darkness. It wraps around him and he accepts it with open arms," he grins. "Anakin Skywalker is a natural in the dark side, and so you must kill him to free him."
Obi-Wan kneels down beside the restrained boy, placing a hand on his forehead despite his attempts to pull away. He looks Anakin-who-is-not-really-Anakin in the eyes, reaching out once again through their bond.
Anakin. He calls against the distant sliver of his padawan's Force presence. Come back to me, my padawan. You are stronger than it is. Fight against it. Take hold of the light.
A girthy cackle. "You think the boy can fight me? A Master of the ancient Sith arts?"
Obi-Wan smiles. Through their bond, he hears the quiet voice of his padawan. Distant, but determined.
"And you think you can silence my padawan? I assure you, I have tried. Many times."
The darkness that taints the Force suddenly begins to flicker, and the Sith's prideful face flickers with sudden worry. "This is-- this is impossible," it says.
Master! Obi-Wan hears Anakin saying with great distress, and he lays his hands on either of his cheeks.
Anakin I am here! I am with you, keep trying! Obi-Wan is growing wearier and wearier by the moment trying to keep Anakin still.
"I will not be bested!" the Sith grunts and Obi-Wan is thrown back. He manages to stay on his feet, but his hold finally slips. The bedroom erupts in a whirlwind of raw power. Loose objects and a cloud of dust fly around at terminal velocity. Obi-Wan squints through the dust storm and sees Anakin now on his feet, his saber back in his hand and ignited in front of him. His eyes stare wildly at the blade as he rotates it in his hand before looking back up at Obi-Wan with a sinister look. "Not by you, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and certainly not by a padawan."
Obi-Wan's eyes widen, "No!" he yells, lunging forward as Anakin's wrist turns to point the tip of his blade toward his own heart. Naboo flashes before him once again, and Obi-Wan is filled with a burst of energy from the Force.
He will not watch the Sith take another from him.
Obi-Wan flips through the air and manages to jam his blade between Anakin and his own lightsaber, deflecting it away from his chest and smashing his wrist in the wall. Anakin's cry of pain rings out as his shoulder dislocates from the force Obi-Wan uses. It makes him feel like his heart is tearing in two, but a dislocated shoulder is worlds better than a lightsaber through the heart. Anakin's lightsaber drops and Obi-Wan summons it to his hand with the Force. Now he is restrained once again, this time physically rather than through the Force. He can feel the heave of his padawan's chest, and the feral thrashing of his body.
Obi-Wan blankets himself with the Force, allowing it to take control of his strength. He reaches through their bond once more, pushing past the barriers the Sith had placed. To his relief, he finds Anakin's Force presence shining brightly, just lost.
I am here, padawan. Come back to me.
__________
Anakin opens his eyes and immediately closes them. His head hurts.
As his grogginess begins to clear, a few questions prod at him. Why does my head hurt? Why am I on the floor? Where is Obi-Wan?
An exacerbated exhale beside him makes him realize maybe the answer to his last question is easily answered. Anakin rolls to his side, squinting through the pounding headache at his temples. Obi-Wan lies on his back next to him, head flopped to the side so Anakin can clearly see his face. Shock pangs through him and he ignores the pain and makes himself sit up.
Bad idea. His shoulder now erupts in shooting pain, and he looks down to see it is not in the correct position. He blinks back some tears that have formed and tries to focus on his master.
Blood drips down from Obi-Wan's nose, coloring the mustache of his beard a dark crimson. He spots a char mark across his left shoulder-- from a lightsaber?-- and dark circles so dark they look like two black eyes..
"Master!" Anakin yells, grabbing him by the lapels of his robes.
He doesn't remember what happened. How they ended up unconscious in the bedroom-- which looks war-torn with kicked up dust and broken objects. A glint of metalloid catches his eye and he picks up his own lightsaber that lies in Obi-Wan's other hand. His stomach drops. What could make Obi-Wan need to dual-wield? He isn't sure he's ever actually seen Obi-Wan fight with two sabers.
Anakin reaches out through their training bond, and his master winces in his sleep. He immediately withdraws, eyes wide. Their bond is strained. Obi-Wan's shields are simultaneously locked tight and clearly on the brink of collapse. Force exhaustion.
His master isn't the only one suffering from it, either. Anakin slumps himself forward to lay on Obi-Wan's chest, careful of his dislocated shoulder. He matches his master's even breaths to calm himself down and ease his own pain. He is nearly falling asleep when he feels movement below him and fingers carefully rifle through his hair.
"Anakin," Obi-Wan says stiffly. "Why are you on top of me?"
He perks up, turning around with glee at the sound of his Master's voice.
"Have a nice nap, Master?" he says, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
Obi-Wan slowly pushes himself to a sitting position. He leans his head back against the wall. "Oh, a lovely one," he says dryly. Then his expression shifts to worry. "What do you remember, Anakin?"
Question of the year. "I remember finding the secret room. And opening a box that had a necklace in it. And then... I woke up here."
"Nothing else?"
He takes a slow, deep breath. "I kind of remember hearing you telling me to come back, or something," his eyes flicker up to meet Master Obi-Wan's. "Did I pass out? Were we attacked?"
The Jedi Knight stares at him for a long moment-- so long it begins to feel uncomfortable. Anakin can tell he is not saying something important, or at least debating whether or not to actually say it.
"It seems your snooping got you into trouble again, my padawan. That necklace... held the Force presence of an ancient Sith who managed to... control you for a small while. I suspect the request was forged to lure Jedi here."
Anakin blinks with confusion. He looks at the lightsaber mark on Obi-Wan's shoulder and the pieces start to fall together.
"We fought... I did this... and I hurt you," he says, shame filling him.
"To be fair," Obi-Wan shrugs. "I accidentally injured your shoulder so don't feel bad about something you didn't consciously do."
Still, Anakin bows his head and stares at the floor. He messed up and got them both hurt in the process. Probably lost the artifact as well. When will I stop being such a screw-up?
A finger taps at his chin, and Anakin looks up to see Obi-Wan looking at him with a comforting gaze. There is no anger or disappointment in his face or the Force that flows between them. "This was not your fault, Anakin. In fact, you did amazingly. You were the one who stopped the Sith, forced it from your body and sent it back into the Force where it cannot hurt anyone anymore. You were brave and strong and didn't give up."
Anakin smiles, the negative feelings melting away easily now. Obi-Wan slowly pulls himself to his feet and reaches his hand out to help Anakin up as well.
"Come, padawan. I've had quite enough of this mission."
They begin to stagger toward the door. Anakin looks over at the painting and feels his heart skip a beat. The woman is gone now, leaving only the simple background on the canvas. In the back of his mind, he can hear her now. Feel the darkness surround you, Skywalker. Embrace it. Use it. Fuel your power and extinguish the light.
But more clearly, he can hear Obi-Wan. You are stronger than it is. Fight against it. Take hold of the light.
Their commands echo through his mind, the Sith one becoming quieter and quieter until it is gone completely. Relief finally washes through him as the darkness fades away.
They walk back through the dusty halls, slowly and leaning on one another. Anakin remembers their conversation as they walked these corridors earlier and smiles.
"I suppose this wasn't a boring mission after all,"
Obi-Wan sighs. "I should really stop wishing for mundane missions. There seems to be no such thing. We could be farming and you would find a way to attract trouble."
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luci-in-trenchcoats · 4 years
Text
Dazed and Confused (Part 1)
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Summary: Dean Winchester grew up wanting to be a cop. When he gets kicked out of the police academy on a fluke though, he turns to a life of crime. After breaking up with Dean and seeing him committing a crime in the act, the reader becomes an officer herself and eventually a detective. Four years after that day, the reader is sent undercover to figure out what Dean is up to. Only she has no idea how far Dean is willing to go to keep her from finding out the truth…
Pairing: AU!Dean x reader
Masterlist
Word Count: 1,600ish
Warnings: language, scary situations, violence, murder, etc.
A/N: This series has been on Ao3 only for awhile now and I am finally reposting here as well. It’s not new but it may be new to you. Please enjoy!...
_____
“Dean?” you asked, spotting him walk in the front door and cut through to the back of the apartment. “Dean what...you’re supposed to be at the academy, aren’t you? You got class until-”
“I flunked out,” said Dean, your scoff stopping him in his tracks. “You think I’m fucking joking about that?”
“Considering you’re top of your class, yeah, I think you’re playing some shitty prank or ditching class. Now what is-”
“I have a record apparently. I can’t be a police officer now,” said Dean, grabbing his gym bag from the floor and moving to the closet. “I was seventeen and in a car I didn’t know someone took form their dad without permission. They charged all of us for a stupid non-crime and if I ever see Gabe again, I’m gonna murder him.”
‘Dean...” you said, grabbing his arm, spinning him around. “Go back to the academy and explain-”
“I was forced to quit, Y/N. I got called out of class and into the dean’s office. If you have a record, you can’t be a cop. They thought I was hiding it but I didn’t even know I had one. No exceptions they said. My bag’s are in Baby” he said, shrugging you off. “I’m staying with Sam tonight.”
“Dean, baby, it’s gonna be okay. Maybe we can call your dad, he’s a detective. He knows-”
“Stop trying to make me feel better for once in my life!” he shouted, brushing past you and for the door. “Y/N, give me some space. I mean it.”
“We are talking about this once you cool off Dean. Until then you can have your space.”
Two Months Later
"What?” you asked quietly, too caught up at staring at the green eyes under the mask to think about the gun in his hands. His own were wide and he was quickly shoving you on the ground, standing over you.
“Say another word and I’ll kill you, understand?” he growled, not waiting for an answer before barking out other orders to people inside the bank.
You hadn’t seen or heard from Dean in almost two months. You gave him his day to vent and get it out that he wasn’t going to be a cop, that everything he’d worked for in school and college and the academy was all gone.
When he finally came back around with a couple of moving boxes, he went off on you. You knew Dean’s head and knew that he didn’t mean what he said during a fight. Normally it was his way of getting you to back off. Nearly four years together and two with living together gave you a pretty good idea of when he was being mean for no reason.
But when he, the one guy you ever willingly told about the awful day...when he said it was your fault, you knew it was done. If he was so angry and bitter about not being a cop that he would rip open wounds that only got shut because of him, he wasn’t the man you thought he was.
Two months later seeing green eyes that looked so much like his, hearing a voice that was just a bit deeper than you were used to...you were almost positive the man in the ski mask and holding a gun at some poor bank teller was Dean Winchester.
He wasn’t there more than a minute, gone in a flash and barely enough time for you to register the build under the baggy hoodie and coat.
“Hi, Sam,” you said, dialing him up as soon as you gave a statement to a cop. “You heard from your brother lately?”
“Uh no. He and I aren’t exactly talking right now,” said Sam, his voice hard. “I haven’t seen him in two months.”
“I think...” you said, walking away from the bank and climbing in your car. “I think your brother just robbed a fucking bank, Sam.”
“That’s not funny, Y/N,” said Sam.
“Neither was getting shoved around by a bank robber, Sam. I am 99% positive that it was Dean,” you said.
“Dean was pissed last time I saw him but he’s not a criminal, Y/N,” said Sam.
“I didn’t...I’m worried about the asshole, alright?” you said, Sam breathing heavy on the other end. “Oh, you think he’s an asshole too, Sammy.”
“What’d he say to you?” asked Sam.
“Shit I don’t want to talk about. I’m guessing he said crap about your mom?” you asked, Sam’s thick swallow coming through loud and clear. “He got kicked out of the academy and he lost his shit, which I get but Sam you know your mom was not your fault.”
“I know but he just had to...maybe he really did rob a bank,” said Sam, his floor creaking in the background. “I know, Kevin...I’ll run to study group in just a minute, okay?”
“Shit, it’s your finals week, isn’t it,” you said, running your hand over your face. “You don’t need this right now.”
“It’s alright, Y/N,” said Sam. “Swing by the house around eight. We can talk then.”
“No, you study, Sam. I’m sure I’m overreacting is all.”
Four Years Later
“Junior Detective Y/L/N,” said your partner, a hard ass with a nought soft center.
“Bobby,” you said with a smile up at him, his face in even more of a scowl than usual. “It’s not even nine in the morning. What’s shoved up-”
“You’ve been reassigned, kid,” said Bobby, your jaw dropping. “You think I want another snot nosed brat to train? Uh uh.”
“Where are they putting me?” you asked, getting up from your desk, following him down the hall to the conference room. “I didn’t put in for anything. I actually like being your partner. Bobby, I-”
“Special assignment is all chief would tell me,” said Bobby.
“Y/N,” said the chief, waving you inside, holding up a hand for Bobby to wait outside.
“John, what in the world could you be putting her on that I can’t know about it?” asked Bobby.
“It’s need to know and you know what you need to,” said John, closing the door in his face. He pointed you to a seat, pulling down the blinds in the room. “You’re fidgeting, Y/L/N.”
“What’s going on that the most senior detective in the department can’t know about it?” you asked.
“You’re the only person here who can do what I’m about to ask you,” said John, sliding over the lone file at the other end of the table. “I need you to keep this quiet. You’ll understand-”
“Dean,” you said, his face staring back when you opened the file. There was no arrest record apart from one when he was 17 but the things he was suspect in...
“Dean is...let’s just call it in deep shit and leave it at that,” said John, taking a seat beside you. “He’s dangerous. Never been convicted of anything. I’ve kept the rumors of what he does away from the department but...Dean’s made a name for himself elsewhere. Everything from petty theft to kidnapping, assualt...murder suspect.”
“John, why are you showing me this?” you asked, sliding the file away, not caring to see what happened to the man you once loved.
“I need you to go undercover,” said John, your head shaking. “You just had your secondary training a month ago and they said you’re one of the best they’ve seen. We both know you became a cop to figure out what the hell happened to him. This is our chance.”
“I became a cop so I wouldn’t feel scared again like in that bank,” you said, turning away. “In case you forget, your son broke up with me. He said things to me that I can’t forgive. He would never in a million years buy that I forgot all that.”
“I’m not asking you go undercover as his girlfriend, Y/N. He’s a criminal. He’s in Washington, a small town, working something. We just need intel on what it is, that’s it,” said John.
“He knows me. He probably knows I’m a cop. I can’t just go undercover,” you said.
“So what if he knows you’re a cop? Tell him you quit if he asks,” said John.
“John...” you said, leaning back in your seat. “I can’t do it.”
“We don’t have a choice, Y/N. The feds said you’re the one. You pack up tonight.”
A week later you were in your new town with a population of two thousand people. You were barely there thirty seconds before half the people were bringing over plates of food. It didn’t take long for word to spread a new girl was around or for you to spot Dean after that.
“Leave,” he said as he walked past you on the street, not bothering to stop.
“Dean,” you said, jogging back to catch up with him, catching his arm halfway down the block. “What-”
“If I see you again, you won’t like what happens next,” he said, shrugging you off.
About eight hours later, you realized you never really knew Dean Winchester at all.
_____
A/N: Read Part 2 here!
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lo-55 · 3 years
Text
Revel Ch. 11
Twining Threads                     
 Tori was surprised by the fact that she was being allowed to go back again. Not, this time, to Imperia but to her sister island Soldano. Her mothers home, where she had been named Dogoressa so many years ago.
 It was not quite like Imperia. The island was mostly flat, and some of it was even regularly underwater. The canals had to be traversed with flat bottomed boats, and gondolas. Elegant bridges stretched from one side of the street to another. The houses were painted with brilliant colors over brick and proud signs declared artisans, grocers, and everything in between.
 Tori sat in the back of a water taxi, her legs crossed at the ankles. She was humming happily to herself, dressed in jeans and a loose violet shirt.
 The sun was warm against her skin, and the breeze that came off the canal was cool. Beneath them dolphins swam and fish flashed silver scales in the sunlight.
 “We’re almost there, ma’am,” her drive called over his shoulder. “It’s at the end of the block.”
 “Thank you,” Tori smiled sweetly at him. Madelle and Daria sat on either side of her, also dressed in jeans. Katakuri hadn’t come with them this time. Soldano was not made for men of his stature, but with her siblings gone and her wedding passed, Tori felt like she needed to do this.
 She needed to go to her mothers home.
 The house that she had lived in was not the palace of the doge, it was her families ancestral house. A high stone building painted a bright red and trimmed in white. It looked like all the other houses in the city, if not older. It was one of the oldest houses, but not as old as the First Twelve. Twelve families, who now numbered only at eight. When Soldano had been founded it had been occupied by twelve families, and over the years they had steadily grown smaller and smaller, or spread themselves so thin their names changed.
 The gondola came to a stop beside the house.
 Three men stood outside, in identical suits, with finely trimmed white beards and close cut hair.
 Tori recognized them. They were what was left of her mothers staff. When she had left Soldano to marry the king of Imperia she had left enough money to take care of the place in her absence. It was meant to be given to one of her children, but Tori would live at the palace in Imperia, Gemma was in the East now, and Lucien was gone too. It was all rather sad. Tori stood up and stepped out of the boat.
 “Thank you,” she said sweetly, tipping the man well. It wasn’t like she was short on money. If anything she was just paying the money back.
 “Glad to help. Ma’am. Just give a ring if you need another ride,” he gestured to the snail situated on the front of his gondola, and the number beneath. Tori nodded to him, and he pushed off, the condola floating cheerfully through the water.
 Tori turned away from the water, towards the high house that seemed so much smaller than it was in her memories.
 When she was small, Dolce would take her, and later Lucien, to visit Soldano every summer. It was important to her, that they know Soldano.
     Her waters run through your veins, my love. We are all children of the sea.  
 Tori walked inside.
 The staff, who her father still retained even after the house was all but abandoned, stood in lines on either side of the entry way. They were familiar faces, now aged with the years that had passed.
 Luciano Orseolo, the steward, smiled warmly at her and dipped a half bow to the eldest princess.
 “My lady, it is good to have you here again.”
 “It’s good to be back, Luci,” she forewent protocol and stepped forwards to embrace the man. He was practically her grandfather. Luci stiffened minutely before he patted her on the back.
 “Yes. Do you want to rest for a while?”
 “No, no. I’m fine. In your letter you said you had something for me from my mother. I’d like that, please.”
 “Of course. And, afterwards, the Doge and his council would like to see you as well. I believe you’re familiar with most of them.”
 “Mmmm. Doge Ziani, Councilmen Vivarini, Bellini, and Titiano. Councilwomen Alvise and Tonini. And, the head of the artisans association, is it still Antonio Rizzo?”
 “His daughter, now. Loicia. There’s a new one too, the Foreign Relations Advisor. Arcielda Elena.”
 “I wasn’t aware Soldano had one of those.”
 “All of our isles are usually so isolated, we didn’t need them. We generally only traded amongst each other, and we are all connected by our Chains. But with you married now, to an outsider no less, we’ve been forced to open our borders to the rest of Totto land. I believe the other islands have similar things.”
 “I wasn’t aware,” Tori’s brows furrowed. “Lucien normally handles things like this.”
 “I heard he’s getting married, to some foreign princess. And your sister as well. All of your line is being sent off of Imperia.”
 “Father thinks that, in these turbulent times, we need to have as many allies as we can. We are not a major military power, whatever talents Gemma may have. We have had only each other for centuries now.”
 “Very pretty words, my lady,” Luci said mildly. Which was funny, since she could remember a number of times in her youth when he called politicians silver spooned pissants when he thought Dolce wouldn’t hear. He was very like his younger brother. Tori had no idea why Luci had respected her mother so much.
 “This way.”
 They made their way through the big old house, it’s walls lined with elegant portraits of her ancestors. All of them with sea dark hair, and dancing eyes.
 Her mother was not the first dogaressa in their line. Her great grandmother had been Dogaressa as well through marriage, and traced further back another six generations came one of the first Doge to be elected, after the family had come from Imperia.
 She was Victoria di Imperia, Victory of Imperia, but her mother was Dolce Regina Genova. The Regina were old, as old as the isles themselves. Older, maybe. Even they didn’t have records before the Void Century.
 The thought was enough to make her itch, but Tori reminded herself of Robin. Reminded herself of her own old life. The price of knowledge. She would not be another faust. Her chest tightened with the thought.
 Luci lead her to her mother’s old room.
 It was exactly the way she remembered it. Thick curtains draped across the window, through which canals shone glittering in blue and busy. The four poster bed still had thick pillows that Tori wasn’t even taller than they were long the last time she’d been here. There was a vanity, not that Dolce had ever needed much make up. Even without her ‘blessing’ Tori would have been lovely. Gemma and Lucien were, and Dolce was a beauty in all of her portraits and all of Tori’s memories.
 Luci took her to a small chest that sat just outside the walk in closet.
 “She meant to give these to you on your wedding night,” he admitted, pushing the chest towards her. “I suppose this will have to be soon enough.”
 Tori smiled softly at him and opened the box. Inside were soft silk dressed of all colors, the long drapes that could be changed to size even if she outgrew what her mother expected. There were thick books, a wooden jewelry box encrusted with pearl and shining glass to form a mural, and a long chain attached to a necklace that looked like a simple cylinder with intricate silver twists.
 Tori recognized it for the poisoners tool that it was.
 “She knew,” Tori realized, lifting the necklace out. “She knew Father would break his word. That he wouldn’t give us the chance to say ‘no’.”
 Luci grimaced. “You Father is a… pragmatist.”
 “Luci. If I don’t slap your brother for calling me a bitch to my face, I’m not going to strike you for speaking the truth,” she said bluntly.
 Luci actually smiled at that. “He’s political. It’s not a good thing. Your mother was smart. Dolce would do anything to ensure your happiness. Even if it meant getting rid of your dad. I can’t believe she even kept him around. She was in love with another boy, you know?”
 “She was?” Tori was startled.
 “Oh yes. A sailor boy. You know your mother and the ocean.”
 Tori did.      We are all children of the sea.  
 “Why did she stay with my father then? If she loved another?”
 “Obligation, I assume. And you. She was married with a child on the way, and the sea is nowhere to raise a little      princess    ,” he teased. Luci did something he hadn’t done since she was a girl, and yanked on a stray strand of hair.
 Tori swatted at him with a laugh.
 It was as sad as it was flattering. Her mother loved her so much she would stay with a man she didn’t love, let her true love flee to the deep blue waters without her. She would settle for being a queen, instead of someone who was truly beloved, for the sake of her unborn daughter.
 Tori’s heart fluttered with warmth and affection. She carefully put everything back in the chest to take home, although she suspected she wouldn't need the poison necklace any time soon.
 The Soldano council of elders were legendary in Tori’s mind.
 They were stoic men who stood at her mothers funeral, and cold faced women who smiled with teeth that would as soon sink into a throat. They were all kind smiles and dangerous words and too many agendas and too much power.
 Soldano was a strange type of democracy.
 The elders controlled who was the Doge or the Dogaressa until they died. In Tori’s life there had already been two. Her mother and the current one, who was nowhere to be found when she stepped into the council chambers. They smelled faintly of incense and expensive perfume, and the roasted meat someone had had for lunch. The table was, of all things, a triangle. Tori stood at the door, waiting.
         Councilwoman Alvise, who looked like a grandmother if a grandmother had snake fangs hiding somewhere, smiled at her and stepped away from the table.
 “Victoria, my dear. So good of you to join us.”
 Victoria nodded and smiled and let herself be paraded around the room and reintroduced to everyone, officially. They chattered and smiled at her, like sharks in the water. Waiting for the scent of blood.
 Councilman Titiano complimented her hair, while the other two congratulated her on her wedding, and her legendary husband.
 It was all hollow words but Tori flittered around and laughed at the right places and gave no sign at all that she knew they were after more than just pleasantries.
 The Doge appeared at last.
 He came into the room, a sweep of red and white robes and carefully twisted crown atop his head. Ziani was an old man, and most of his body was made up clothe to hide the near skeletal shape of the rest. His fingers were long and thin when they took Tori and she noted that his eyes, blue, were almost pitched black with his pupils blown wide.
 She wondered if he even saw her as he went through the vague formalities of welcoming her to the chambers and offering her olive leaf tea.
 Tori tried not to gag.
 “That would be lovely, thank you.”
 He clapped twice and small boys descended from absolutely nowhere. Holes in the walls, probably, but she couldn't see them. They ran around, heating water pouring it into cups with the leaves through the strainers and as soon as they were done they were gone. Vanished.
 Tori had never felt less safe.
 Ziani sat her at his right side and took the first drink. The rest of them followed his exampled and the small talk started all over again. How the grandchildren were, the state of the repairs on the Trivera canals, the newest fashions between the women and who thought what of outsiders coming to visit. They stayed largely away from the topic of her husband. She had done her duty, they could not fault her for that. Not when she was Imperian.
 “Oh, Victoria dear,” Councilwoman Alvise said suddenly, as though just remembering something of importance. “We had something to ask you, didn’t we?”
 The men nodded, and Ziani, who was coming into sobriety, sat up straighter. “Yes. yes! Victory!”
 “Ah?”
 “You mother was the last Dogaressa. She had certain relics that were important to the state. Very important, not life or death but symbolically. You understand, don’t you sweet girl?” Ziani patted her hand, making Tori’s skin crawl.
 “...I suppose. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m afraid.”
 “Symbols of the past, dear Victoria,” Alvise smiled at her again, barely hiding her teeth  behind her lips. “A black lock and a red key. She must have given them to you.”
 Tori stared.
 “She did no. I’ve never seen either of those things. It sounds like a riddle, are you sure they’re real?” she tilted her pretty, empty little head at them, almost knocking her hair out of place.
 Councilman Vivarini did a poor job of pretending not to roll his eyes.
 Alvise’s smile grew strained. “Now Victoria. This is important. We need them.”
 “I’ve told you I’ve never seen either,” which was true. She wasn’t lying, and one of them must have seen her genuine confusion.
 “What a disappointment.” Titiano shook his head. But the conversation went back to meaningless and meaningful pleasantries. Things said between lines that Tori studiously didn’t notice. Threads left out that she did not pick at.
 She escaped as soon as she could, and no one stopped her. She was useless to whatever plan they had in their greedy little raccoon paws.
 Gods, she missed Orso and his vicious bluntness. She missed Katakuri and his quiet honesty.
 She never thought she would be so eager to go back to her husband's side, but here she was trying to figure out how soon she could go without it being suspicious.
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desperationandgin · 5 years
Text
Deep as the Road is Long (Part III, Chapter 23)
Rating: Lightly smutty toward the end.
Also Read On: AO3
Previous Chapter
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July 2017
He’s been uncharacteristically quiet for days, and it worries her.
Claire’s tried to pull things from him, she’s tried to get him to speak to her, but he always seems so lost in thought; never upset, never sad, just in his own head. She’s slightly concerned, but trying to follow his lead and not smother or push too hard, trusting that when he says he’s fine, he is. Still, she’s surprised when he suggests they go to dinner at Rocpool in the near future.
“Isn’t that--well. Isn’t it expensive?” she asks hesitantly.
Her reward is a broad smile, his first one in days, as though some sort of weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “How often do we go out? One dinner date ye have to dress up for. ‘Tis all I’m asking.”
Dress up, for a restaurant that’s reservations only. She should suspect, but she’s so relieved to see him smiling and happy that it doesn’t even register. Two nights later, while she sits across from Jamie looking over a menu of very expensive dinner items, Claire lets out a breath. “If we’re spending this sort of money, I feel as though I should get something different,” she says, squinting in the low lighting. “Christ, I can’t see anything.”
Jamie hasn’t looked at his menu once; he’s too busy watching her lean in and try to make out the small text in the dim room. It makes him smile to himself, the simple idea that he can take his time to memorize the way her eyebrows knit together when she’s focused, the way her lips part and her head tilts to one side as she thinks.
“Jamie?”
Blinking, his gaze focuses on her again, sitting up a bit straighter and grabbing his menu.
“Did you hear anything I just said?”
“Aye, ye forgot your glasses and canna see a thing. Dinna worry, I’ll take care of it,” he decides. “Might I order for ye?”
Claire puts down her menu and looks at him in amusement. “You know me so well, do you?” she asks with a teasing smile.
Reaching over the table, Jamie shrugs a bit as he captures her hand, though the confidence is written on his face. “I like to think so. Do ye trust me?”
Running her thumb over the back of his hand, she nods, sitting back in her chair. “I do. With more than just food, I hope you know.”
That means more to him than she might realize, especially after everything they’ve gone through--things that he put her through. She may see it as an innocent and one-off exchange; for him it’s a privilege he’s earned. “I ken it, but I reckon I’ll keep proving I’m worthy of it for the rest of my life.”
It’s another hint, but one that she doesn’t have time to dwell on before the waiter comes to ask if they’re ready to order. With no hesitation, Jamie orders a braised pork belly dish with chilies, ginger and orange for her, for himself a Scottish beef sirloin steak. He also requests a bottle of wine, something red and full of body that’s brought to the table, uncorked and poured for them.
Once they’re alone again, Claire can’t help but wonder what has him like this, unable to fathom what’s warranted a night out with such a hefty price tag. “Is the shop doing alright?” she asks curiously. Maybe sales are going so well he wants to spoil her a bit with a good meal. She can’t say it bothers her much, whatever his reason.
“The shop? Aye, ‘tis fine. Ian did a braw job when I couldn’t, and I should do something for him, though I’m no’ sure what.” What do you give to the person who kept your business afloat when you couldn’t get out of bed? It’s a distracting train of thought that gets his mind off of the true reason for dinner. “Do ye think it would be enough to offer to watch all of the bairns for a long weekend? Let him go away somewhere wi’ Jenny?”
For the past two years, his family has done nothing but support him, and it’s time to give something back in return. He paid Ian, but it isn’t about money, not to Jamie. There were days he would have rather sold the bookshop than think about running it, so for his brother-in-law, he’s grateful.
Claire’s face softens as she holds onto Jamie’s hand again across the table, squeezing gently. “I think that’s lovely. I could even help, perhaps we could go there and stay for a Friday evening through Monday afternoon? I’m sure I could take a day off to do it, and I could even keep the children so you could be at the shop on Monday.”
“Ye’d really do that, Sassenach?” Jamie asks, touched.
Thinking about it for a moment, she nods before reaching for her wine, taking a sip to gather her thoughts. “I would, Jamie. For family.” For a family that has treated her with amazing kindness and nothing less. “It’s a good idea, and you should offer it to Ian. Tell him to take Jenny somewhere with no alarm clocks and a comfortable bed.”
“They’ll need the long weekend for all the actual sleeping they’ll do the first day,” he figures with a fond smile. It is a good idea, one he shared and she broadened, and Jamie files it away. Soon; after other important things he needs to do. The weight in his pocket comes to the forefront of his mind now, thoughts wandering yet again.
He’d torn up the house looking for a box, antique wood with flowers carved into it that he remembered tracing with one small finger as a wee lad.
“Where is it, Jenny, do ye ken?”
“We’ll find it, brother, dinna fash or panic yet.”
“I’m no’ sure where mam’s things wound up, especially wi’ Da grieving as he was,” Jamie’d worried, but just as he’d been ready to try the attic he spotted the edge of a box in the far upper corner of the closet. Reaching blindly, he’d pulled it down and let out a breath. “Found it.”
Their mother’s jewelry box.
“Why do ye think Da didna bury Mam wi’ them?”
Jamie shook his head, then opened the box to find exactly what he was looking for. “Because of this moment, I reckon. Ye’re sure ye dinna want to wear them?”
Jenny’d shaken her head as she stood next to him, reaching in and pulling out a wedding ring and band. “Ian’s given me plenty. They’re yours, brother. And these.” A strand of pearls were pulled next. “She should wear them on the day.”
“Sir?”
“Jamie?”
Once again, Jamie finds himself blinking and clears his throat, nodding at the waiter to put the plate with steak in front of him. “Well, Sassenach? Does it look as though I chose well for ye?”
Claire eyes him curiously. “I’ll tell you when I taste it. Where did you go, just then?” she asks quietly.
Not wanting to make something up too far from the truth, Jamie clears his throat, scooting closer to the table. “I was thinking about my mother. Dinna ken why.” There’s the lie, but one he hopes he’ll be forgiven for once it’s clear why. They eat, trading forkfuls of food across the table to share.
“Admittedly, I wasn’t sure about the pork, but it’s delicious, Jamie. You picked perfectly,” Claire promises with a soft smile. She isn’t ignoring the comment about his mother, but it’s something she decides to bring up again when she’s holding him, when she can soothe.
“I told ye. I know ye well, even if ye dinna ken your own palate,” he teases, though his mind is working through every possible moment there is to ask her to marry him. He still hasn’t figured it out by the time their dinner plates are cleared away, instead talking with her about getting a better leash for Skye, possibly spending some time going to antique stores on Saturday morning; they talk through dessert and when the check arrives he has a moment of internal panic. He still hasn’t asked and he isn’t sure why. He wants to, wants it to be a perfect proposal, but for some reason, the restaurant doesn’t feel quite right.
They walk home, hand in hand, the moonlight making her look as though she’s glowing. It’s the perfect time to ask, he should do it, but before he can they’re at the front door and he’s pulled the keys from his pocket instead, letting them in. The evening, while nice, hasn’t entailed all he thought he would, and he realizes--as he hears himself offer to walk Skye while she changes--no moment will ever be perfect. He’s tried to make up for months of being so much less than perfect, but he should listen to her, stop trying to apologize in ways that aren’t verbally saying the words. They’re here now, they’re fine. It’s a revelation that comes as he and Skye round a corner; she doesn’t need something so grand he can’t even imagine. She just needs him.
He’s never rushed a dog to do its business so quickly in his life.
Back at the apartment in record time, Jamie doesn’t hesitate now, making his way to the bedroom and pausing in the doorway. Dress off, she’s standing in front of her vanity and leaning over a bit in just a bra and underwear so small he’s not even sure why she wore it to begin with. Smiling at him in the mirror, she slides an earring out of place. He hears her say something about the walk not taking long but he stops her, tugging her hand and turning her around to kiss her deeply, one hand cradling the side of her face. It’s a deep kiss, one that leaves him breathless and wanting, but finally, he reaches into his pocket, hand closing around the slight weight.
“Claire, I need to ask ye something,” he begins, pulling back just enough to see her face.
If it gets her answers about whatever’s been going through his mind, she’ll listen to anything he has to say, and one of her hands reaches up to rest lightly against his wrist. “What is it, Jamie?”
That hint of concern is back in her voice, and he looks down, swallowing hard and then forgoing the entire idea to get on one knee. Instead, he holds her close and presses his forehead to hers. “Do ye remember that night at the apartment when we danced?”
Closing her eyes, Claire lets herself think about life in Boston, a small hint of a smile gracing her features. “Janis Joplin.”
His lips press to the tip of her nose. “Aye. That was the first time I kent how well ye fit in my arms. I held onto the feel of ye there, head pressing to my chest. I was afraid I’d never feel it again.” The comforting weight of her nestled right there, close to his heart.
“And now? Are you still afraid?”
Opening his eyes to look at her, Jamie steps back and takes her left hand in his, kissing her knuckles. “No. I’m no’ afraid, Sassenach.” Wedding band first, Jamie slides the rings onto her finger. “I dinna think I’ll ever let ye go again if ye say yes.”
There’s a beat where she doesn’t understand what just happened before the ring on her finger registers and her breath catches. He’s asking her to marry him, even if an actual question never graced his lips. “Jamie--”
“I want to take care of ye. And Christ, I’m terrified. Terrified to love ye, terrified to lose ye, but since I’ve kent you, Claire, ye’ve brought me nothing but peace. I want to call you my wife,” he explains quietly, feeling as though he’s barely breathing.
“Yes,” she hears herself whispering, unable to take her eyes off of the rings on her finger.
“Yes?” Jamie whispers in return, thumb moving in slow circles over her temple, voice husky with emotion.
“Marry me,” Claire breathes out, just before her lips claim his as her own. As they kiss, one hand cradles his face before finally pulling back to look at the rings again. “Jamie, these are beautiful,” she murmurs.
“I know ye’re only supposed to wear the part wi’ the stone now, and I’ll give the band to ye at our wedding, but they were my mother’s,” he says quietly. “I couldna wait to see them on ye, both at the same time.”
“Oh, Jamie.” Swallowing a sudden swell of emotion, Claire blinks back fresh tears, pulling him into a tight hug and burying her face against his neck. For a few moments (longer than she means to) she stays just like that, breathing him in until pulling back to see his eyes. “This is why you wanted to go to dinner? Is it why you’ve been so distracted lately?”
He smiles softly. “Now ye ken why. I’d thought to propose at the restaurant, but it didna ever feel as though the timing was right. It probably isna right now, either, considering ye may as well be naked in my arms.”
The laugh that bubbles up from her is sudden, and she can’t help but nuzzle against his cheek. “I’m glad you did it this way. Any other way wouldn’t be us, Jamie.”
Raking his fingers through her hair, Jamie bends just enough to kiss her softly, sweetly, but it quickly turns into more as his hands move from her hair down her back, around her backside, and then he hoists. As soon as her legs are around his hips he moves to their bed, carefully lowering her to the mattress. Gaze drifting, he lands on those flimsy undergarments again and his fingers skirt the lace at her pelvis. “These dinna seem to serve a purpose, Sassenach.”
Regarding him for a moment, Claire sits up and reaches out, cupping his very obvious arousal in her hand. “I believe they’ve done their intended duty quite nicely, really.”
Barking out a laugh, Jamie reaches to move her hand, kissing her palm tenderly before gently pushing her back down. “Ye dinna need frilly things that cost ye half a salary to give me a cockstand, Sassenach.”
“You might have told me that before I bought them,” she teases, raising her hips as questing fingers tug at lace and push it out of the way. He makes quick work of her bra too, and when she’s completely bared to him, he steps back to undress with lightning speed. As he does, he watches her reposition herself until she’s against the headboard, sitting in such a way that no single part of her is left to the imagination.
If she was trying to make him useless, she’s succeeded. For a second he thinks he might speak, parts his lips, and then closes his mouth again. Relying on actions being stronger than words while he gathers himself, Jamie moves to the bed once more, tugging her until she’s flat on her back and he’s planted over her, kissing her until his body demands more oxygen. “Give me a thousand kisses,” he murmurs, kissing her neck. “Then a hundred and another thousand,” Jamie recites, kissing the hollow of her throat. “Then another thousand, then a second hundred.”
She knows the poem; over Christmas, she’d found a book in the library at Lallybroch and they’d curled together by the fire, reading. This one had struck her, stayed with her, and she’d found herself gravitating toward it over and over again. It was even saved as a note on her phone. So, as Jamie kisses and she arches, she manages to speak. “Then, when we--when we have performed many--ah--thousands, we shall shake them into confusion.”
Jamie’s lips move around the curve of a breast, kiss the peak of her nipple. “In order for us to lose the count--” He’s interrupted by a loud moan from her and so gives her more, trusting her with the next line.
Eyes closed and one hand planted in his hair, Claire thinks through the haze of budding arousal. “And--and in order to--in order not to let any evil person envy us,” she begins to finish, but then gasps as he presses kisses in a warm path down her stomach. For a moment she can’t think as his mouth blazes a trail across one inner thigh. “As no one will be aware of--Christ, Jamie,” she gasps as his tongue glides home between her thighs.
Raising his head briefly, one eyebrow arches. “I dinna remember my name in this poem, Sassenach. Finish it,” he murmurs as he ducks back down, nose grazing soft curls, giving her a chance.
Slowly, Claire’s hands drag up and down his back, memorizing the map of his scars as she begins from the last line.
“As no one will be aware of how many kisses there have been.”
Next Chapter
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Text
Witness : 29
Dispossessed
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Character(s): dark!Bucky, dark!Steve, too
Masterlist
Warnings: this is a dark!fic, it contains non/dubious-consent elements. Some violence as well at the beginning. It goes without (and with) that this is 18+.
In this chapter: just usual Bucky.
Summary: Things starts moving too fast for the reader.
Notes: Alright, since you all asked so nicely, you get two series today (part 3 of Happy Together was posted earlier). So here you guys go. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Some interesting plot so forgive the lack of smut but I hope you have fun with it. <3
Please, reblog and or reply with your thoughts!! I’ll see you in the next one. :)
The distant melody of your alarm rang in your head. Slowly the haze began to clear as you felt yourself ascending. A warmth on your shoulder, your name uttered next to your ear. “Y/N, wake up. Come on.” Your eyes shot open and you looked up in the dim, Bucky sat next to you on his large bed. He was still naked, as were you, and by the wrinkle of the sheet and duvet next to you, you could guess that he had slept next to you. You couldn’t even remember falling asleep and assumed that you had passed out during your nocturnal activities and been shuffled aside thereafter.
“What?” You croaked, reaching up to touch your forehead. You were sore all over. Every inch of you was screaming with the weight of the night before. “Grrmph.” You grumbled as Bucky helped you to a sitting position.
“You have to work,” Bucky said, his face clearing through your vision. “I went by your apartment and grabbed some clothes after you nodded off.” You shrugged his hand away from your shoulder, “You should get washed up.”
“I...should,” You agreed dumbly. You turned slowly, groaning as your legs thrummed. You bent forward and held your head. “Goddamnit.” You could still feel the layer of sweat and cum clinging to your skin. Bucky moved to sit next to you, his hand on the small of your back.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” He asked in a low voice, “Hmm, take your body and leave everything else?”
“Fuck you,” You sat straight, your head spinning, “You’re disgusting.”
“You like it,” He smirked, “Just a touch and your soaking wet.”
“Where’s your shower?” You stood, holding in another grunt. You crossed your arms over your bare chest.
“This way,” He rose and squeezed your ass as he passed, heading for the door.
You sighed as you watched his naked ass disappear through the doorway and followed him reluctantly. The faster you showered, the sooner you’d be gone. He opened the second door along the hallway and waved you inside. He watched you intently as you neared and entered ahead of you. He closed the door and pressed himself against you as he guided you towards the large shower, a sliding glass door already open and waiting. He was hard again and you shuddered.
He parted from you and stepped away, reaching into the shower to crank the faucet on. The water sprayed down, steam rising around the downpour and you yearned for its hot embrace. You almost forgot about Bucky for the promise of cleansing. You were disappointed however as he entered the shower, realizing you would not be left alone. You rolled your eyes and dropped your head a second before kicking yourself into action. He beckoned you in ahead of him, right under the waterfall, and you couldn’t help the breath of relief that escaped you.
You found the soap upon the shelf, reaching for it even though it smelled of thick sandalwood. You squeezed some into your hand and Bucky reached over your shoulder to steal the bottle. You heard the bottle deflate and inflate, the lid flipped shut as he hovered it beside you, waiting for you to replace it. You set it back on the shelf and began to scrub yourself with just your hands and nails, content enough to do that. When you lathered your hair with some of his shampoo, he helped the process, his erection poking you in the back as his fingers played with your hair.
“If we weren’t running against the clock…” He purred, turning you so that your head was under the stream and he began to rinse the shampoo from your hair, guiding the bubbles down the strands. “You were very good last night but it will be a while before I can trust you.”
“I know,” You said grimly. “I think I’m done.” You gesture to your hair, “May I?” You gestured to the shower door.
He grinned, his hand tracing the line of your clavicle before he pulled away. “Go ahead,” He stepped back and slid open the door, “I’ll be out shortly. Your clothes are on the sofa in the bedroom.”
You grabbed a towel from the rack as the door slid closed behind you. You walked back to the bedroom as you dried yourself off, wrapping the towel around your head. You dressed, realizing he had refrained from grabbing panties for you. You couldn’t help but think it deliberate. You pulled on the knee-length pencil skirt and retrieved your bra from the floor. You buttoned the pale blue blouse while you searched for your tights. Great, there was run right up the length of the left leg. Well, the fall weather would not be kind to your bare legs.
Your rubbed dry your hair and brushed it out in front of the mirror hung on the wall. You looked decent considering, though your eyes were dark with fatigue. You heard footsteps and Bucky followed, a towel at his waist as he opened his dresser and searched for clothes. “Could you throw on a pot of coffee?” He asked over his shoulder, “Machine’s along the counter right beneath the microwave.”
“Uh, sure,” You hid your scowl. It was odd. You hated when he spoke to you like this. When he pretended that this was normal relationship. You turned and left the room, opting to focus on brewing caffeine as much for your own sake as his. You could be annoyed with him later.
After Bucky had dropped you off at work, you spent the day trying to keep yourself awake at your desk. Pepper was halfway down your throat about a booking at some venue or another and you were trying to find a caterer who did bacon-wrapped shrimp for Tony’s birthday. You suspected you’d not be invited nor partake in the delicious-sounding appetizer. Either way, it distracted you from memories of the night before.
When the day was over, you yawned and departed for you own car. You were almost elated to drive yourself and dared to be hopeful that your night would be quiet. You stopped by the liquor store, a bottle of wine paid for, and headed to your building. You dropped your bag and kicked off your shoes as you entered your apartment and dragged your feet over to the couch before flopping on it. You uncorked the wine bottle and drank straight from the neck as you flipped on the television. Every hour passed and your stomach fluttered as Bucky made no appearance and your phone remained entirely inert. You fell asleep when the bottle had barely a gulp left to it, deep into alcohol-laced splendour.
Wednesday. Middle of the week, halfway to the weekend though for you it Saturday was rarely a day of rest. After spending your night in a drunken stupour, you felt just as poorly rested as the night before. Your work didn’t help as your eyes drooped and you sucked back your third cup of coffee. The caffeine fueled your lingering paranoia. You wondered at Bucky and Steve’s absence since Monday night. It wasn’t peculiar, they weren’t there every day, but you still felt uneasy.
You drove home in silence. No radio, just the engine and your own thoughts bouncing around. You didn’t speed, patiently waiting at stop lights as you glanced around the busy New York streets. You were feeling wistful. As if mourning your past once and for all. You were so tired, so worn out, it was all sinking it. You didn’t know if you longed for those lonely, boring nights, but the life you lived now made it seem a distant dream.
As you pulled up to your building, you stopped short. A large moving truck sat centre and blocked most of the spots, empty or otherwise. You huffed and parked your car on the street, tiredly grabbing your purse and heading for the salvation of your apartment. The stairs seemed too steep to climb and you were nearly out of breath as you reached the top. Your door was wide open. The hairs on the back of your head stood up and you entered cautiously. You could hear hangers sliding along a metal bar as you entered, the noise of someone rummaging through your closet coming from the bedroom.
Your clothes were stacked on your bed and Bucky was tossing more on the pile. You stared at him and gaped, the rest of your room stripped of all but the furnishings. No…
“What the fuck?” You hissed.
“Finally,” Bucky set more blouses atop the mound, “Start putting these in boxes,” He ordered, merrily continuing his work.
“Woah, woah, woah, what are you doing?” You crossed your arms, your purse sagging annoyingly down to your elbow.
“Moving,” He said as if it was a perfectly acceptable explanation.
“Jesus,” You dropped your purse and grabbed a handful of hangers, moving to return them to the closet. Bucky stopped you, his hand on yours as he backed you away from the folding door.
“I was thinking about it,” He took the clothes from you, tossing them without looking on top of the rest. “It’s a hassle having to run over here to get you clothes. In fact, I’ve wasted a lot of time driving back and forth across this city. So I figured it would be easier if you just stayed at my place. Less expensive, too. No rent for you.”
“I’m not doing that,” You growled, “You’re fucking insane.”
He scoffed before carrying on. “And since you’ve shown me how I can’t trust you, it would be all the better to keep an eye on you.” He leaned down, lowering his voice as he spoke in your ear, “Keep you nice and close so you can’t go sneaking around.”
“I won’t go,” You snarled, trying to back away but he latched onto your arms and held you in place.
“Fine, but you won’t have much longer before you have nowhere to go if you do,” He smirked, his expression startling, “I already gave your notice. You’re out at month’s end and the landlord’s set to auction off all your furniture. Proceeds are yours, of course.”
“You’re fucking kidding?” You sputtered angrily, trapped in his clutches.
“When do I fucking joke?” He released you with a shove and turned back to the closet, pausing to bark over his shoulder, “Well, get to work. We still have a lot to go.”
+
tags:  @they-call-me-le @holylulusworld  @petit-funsize @ladyofmyst @kellyn1604 @thelostallycat @grayxswan @collette04 @butteryoptimisticpeanut @buckycaptspideypool @blackpantherimagines @lilithhellfire @captainfreecandyvan @spaghettirogers @phoenix21love @sathlens @iheartsebastianstan @bethanyzed @breezy1415 @alexakeyloveloki @beautiful-and-strange @momc95
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thenovelartist · 5 years
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Cookies for a Monster, chapter 1
I started this story back in 2017. February, to be exact. Meaning this has been sitting in my folder for two years despite how much I’ve loved this story and wanted to complete it. Now that it’s Marichat May, I’ve decided to share it.
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Dusk had just set over the up-and-coming village, stealing the last of the light from the wooden roofs of the town. Now, only the moon illuminated the cobblestone roads between the wood-and-brick houses. The occasional lit lantern hung on each storefront cast a yellow glow into the blue night, allowing stragglers to find their way back home. Not that anyone would be out this late. Not since the rumors of monsters started circulating around town.
For decades, rumors of monsters plagued not only this town, but the surrounding ones. Monsters that caused destruction unlike any other and only came at night. Most people called it hogwash, claiming that it was nothing more than some lawbreakers causing trouble at night, yet even with that belief, hardly anyone went out at night. Among the children, however, it was the favorite of scary stories.
One child who fully believed in the monsters lived above the most popular bakery in the village. Teased and tormented by her older classmates who said monsters love eating tiny girls with pigtails, five-year-old Marinette grew terrified. According to Chloe, the meanest girl of all, the monsters hid in closets and under beds, waiting until she was asleep waiting to eat her.
Marinette pretended she wasn’t afraid because Chloe was just mean and she didn’t want to cry in front of Chloe. But when night came and her parents tucked her in to bed, Marinette started to sob. Her mother cooed and coddled her while her papa reached over his wife’s tiny frame to rub the little girl’s back. “What’s wrong, Marinette?”
Between body-wracking sobs, Marinette sputtered out, “Chloe said monsters like hiding in closets…and that they’re going to eat me.”
Another minute of crying passed before Marinette calmed down enough to look at her Mama’s face. “Oh, Marinette. You don’t have to be afraid. There’s no monster in the closet.”
“Tonight,” Marinette said, rubbing her red eyes. “What about tomorrow?”
Her mother looked up at her father, who suddenly swooped Marinette up in his arms. He kissed her forehead, his mustache tickling her and successfully getting the little girl to smile. “Well, I’ll show you the weakness to any monster. Come on.”
Her papa carried her down the stairs to the first level of the bakery. “You see, Marinette. Monsters are hungry creatures. They just want food. But their favorite are cookies.”
“Cookies?” Marinette repeated.
Her papa nodded. “Cookies. If you put a couple of cookies outside your closet, they won’t eat you because they will want the cookies instead. And if the cookies are really really good—”
“Like the cookies you make?”
He grinned. “Like the cookies I make, then they will leave a note for you saying that they liked the cookies so much they will never eat you because you are too nice, and that they’ll protect you forever.”
Despite crying her little, blue eyes out not five minutes ago, she was grinning now. “Forever?”
“Forever.”
“Papa,” Marinette said. “I need some cookies.”
He chuckled, taking her to the rack of left-over cookies. “Why don’t you choose something for the monster?”
After picking two cookies and having her papa putting them on a plate for her, they went back up and put the cookies on the floor in front of the closet. Then Marinette got put to bed, and she was out ten minutes later.
Her papa stayed up just long enough to nibble on one of the cookies and put it back.
In the morning, Marinette asked why one of the cookies was only partially eaten, and why there was no note. To which Papa replied, “They won’t leave a note the first night, you have to keep trying until they do. But there’s a secret about monsters: they never visit the same place twice in a row, so tonight, you are perfectly safe.”
Marinette squealed in delight.
For a month, she kept putting cookies out, until she learned that the monster only came on Mondays. So every Monday, she would pick two cookies before bed and place them in front of the closet.
And squealed when she woke up three months later holding the note.
She proudly showed Mama and Papa, who patted her on the head and told her what a brave girl she was.
From that day on, Marinette was no longer scared of monsters.
If she ever suspected a new monster had taken residence in her room, she would calmly walk downstairs, get two cookies and put them on a plate for a week, and if there were no cookies eaten, she would take pride in the fact there was no monster.
So, when she was awoken by a rumble on her roof, Marinette wasn’t afraid. She was a whole eight years old and knew how to handle monsters.Calmly, she ambled downstairs in the dark, found two cookies, and put them by the ladder that led from her room to the roof. Without second thought or a fear in the world, she went back to sleep.
When the cookies were still there in the morning, she thought there must have been no monster.
But then it returned two nights later. So Marinette set out the cookies. Yet they weren’t eaten.
Strange.
At least the monster didn’t return the next night, so Marinette slept easily.
Until she heard footsteps on the roof again.
By now, Marinette was confused. She could hear the monster above her on the roof, but it never came down the latter to eat her.
Maybe it didn’t like cookies.
So she tried a croissant, but it was still there in the morning.
Marinette frowned, staring at the croissant on the plate by the ladder. She wondered if she should ask her Papa why this monster was different, but she knew she could figure this out on her own.
The monster came sporadically, leaving her wondering when he would return next.  However, one thing was for certain: she was going to have to put the cookies in a different spot. Mama and Papa told her they didn’t want her climbing the ladder until she was older, but Marinette deemed this an emergency. She had to protect herself from the monster.
Very carefully, Marinette put two cookies in a handkerchief and tied it up. She put the cookies in her knapsack, which she put over her back so she could use both hands to climb the ladder. When she reached the top, she pushed open the hatch and climbed up to the roof. She didn’t stray far from the ladder, putting the cookies on the kerchief right beside the opening. Now, the monster would see them for sure.
The next morning, she opened the hatch, delighted to find both cookies gone. The monster had found them, meaning she wouldn’t be eaten. She just had to keep going until she got the note. So, she put them up every other day without fail. And every other day, they would be eaten.
Three months later, she was climbing the ladder, ready to find a note any day now…
But found a gift instead.
Curious, she took the empty kerchief and the parcel wrapped in brown cloth and twine and shoved them in her knapsack before descending the ladder.
Back on the floor of her room, she opened the gift, gasping as she saw a pretty wooden box. It was dark brown, carved with scrolls and bubbles all over.
She didn’t know monsters left gifts!
She opened the box to find a little piece of paper with handwriting that looked very much like her own. The last monster wrote pretty, loopy words, so maybe this monster was practicing its handwriting.
-Thank you for the cookies. I like them very much. I hope you like the box. My father said that when I get something, I should give them something in return to be kind.
Marinette frowned, confused. Wasn’t it supposed to promise to protect her?
She didn’t understand, but Mama told her she should always respond to her letters. And since this letter was a very nice letter, she should do as Mama told her.
The next time she left cookies up for the monster, she wrote a note. -You are welcome for the cookies. I like the box very much. It is pretty.
There. That was kind. Maybe the monster would promise to protect her now.
When she checked out on the cookies she put out a few nights later, she saw a letter. But it wasn’t what she expected.
-I’m glad you like the box. I thought it was nice. What is your name?
Since Marinette knew it would be rude not to respond, especially since the monster seemed so nice, she put out a note two days later. My name is Marinette. What is your name?
-My name is Adrien, but I was told that I have to be called Chat Noir. Please do not tell anyone. Please keep it a secret.
Marinette couldn’t help but giggle. The monster trusted her with a secret. This was getting very fun. Mama and Papa hadn’t told her that monsters could be so kind, nor did they tell her that they liked to write letters.
-I promise to keep it a secret. How old are you?
-I am nine years old. How old are you?
-I am eight years old. Do you go to school like I do?
Marinette didn’t know if monsters went to school, but she was curious.
-No. My mama teaches me everything. I want to go to school. Do you like school?
-I like school. The teacher is nice and I like to play outside with my friend. I don’t like the girl who sits by me in class. She is very mean to me. She told me monsters would eat me because I have pigtails. She is the reason I do not want to go to school all the time.
-I am sorry that someone is mean to you. You are very nice. I do not know why she is mean to you. I never heard that monsters like girls with pigtails. She must be lying. If she lies, then she must be very mean.
-Do you look like a big black cat, Chat Noir Adrien?
-You have to call me Chat Noir. It’s the rules. I have yellow hair and green eyes and a black mask and black cat ears and wear a black suit with black gloves and black shoes and a black belt that looks like a tail. What do you look like, Marinette?
-Okay, Chat Noir. I won’t call you Adrien again. I have black hair and blue eyes and like wearing pink dresses. Pink is my favorite color. What is your favorite color?
-I really like blue…
Six months. Six long months of writing and receiving letters with her cat monster. At the end of every month, she would find a gift for her. Flowers. Some coins. Even a doll. And Marinette loved every minute of it.
Except the monster still never told her he would protect her. She was still waiting for that.
­-Chat Noir, are you supposed to tell me that you will protect me forever? Papa told me that if I gave a monster cookies then the monster will protect me forever.
Marinette was very nervous putting that letter up, but she was very glad when she found an answer.
-I am not a monster. I am a cat but I promise to protect you for ever and ever because you are my best friend.
Marinette squealed in delight, clutching the note to her chest as if it was her most prized possession. Her best friend promised to protect her forever. Now, she had two monster friends. Surely there would never be any more that came to haunt her.
And the fact that Chloe probably didn’t have any monster friends made it all the more delightful.
The next day, Marinette was ready to go to school, all but running out the door when her father stopped her. “No school today,” he said. He wasn’t smiling like he usually did.
Marinette’s smile disappeared in a heartbeat. “Why?”
“No reason, sweetheart. Just stay inside today, all right?”
Marinette relented. She didn’t like the look on his face. “Ok, Papa.”
That was when Mrs. Chamack came running in. She was a regular at the bakery, one Marinette really liked.
“Hello, Nadia,” her father greeted.
“Did you hear about the monster?”
Marinette froze on her way up the stairs. Monster?
“I did,” her papa said. “I don’t know why everyone thinks it was a monster that burned Mr. Ramier’s building down. It’s unreasonable.”
“People supposedly spotted a black creature running along the rooftops after the fire started.”
Black creature? Marinette’s little brow furrowed in confusion.
Chat Noir?
That night, she put out a note for her monster. -Chat Noir, are you a mean monster? I heard that you burned down the general store. I don’t believe it.
So anxious to receive a note from him that she barely slept that night. The next morning, when she went up to collect the plate of cookies, she saw that he left a note for her. Odd considering that he only left notes the visit after she gave him one. Still, she grabbed the note and eagerly scurried down the latter to read it.
-Marinette. There is something bad going on. I don’t know what, but I will find out. Please be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.
Marinette frowned at the letter. Something bad? What was going on? Was there another monster trying to destroy the town.
Two days after that, Marinette had to help her papa clean up the shop because her mama wasn’t feeling well. By the end of the day, Marinette was so tired that she headed straight to bed. She had fallen into a light sleep, only to dream about black cats and cookies…
She jolted up in bed. “Oh, no.”
It was late, but she found her way downstairs and where the cookies were. The full moon gave a bit of light, but not enough to see clearly. Thankfully, she had made this trip so many times that doing it in the near dark was hardly a problem.
She grabbed two cookies, then scurried back upstairs as fast as she could. She scrambled to find the handkerchief, then tied up the cookies before tossing them in her knapsack and clamoring up the ladder. She pushed open the hatch—
Only to come face to face with piercing green eyes.
She squeaked, shrinking back down the ladder in fright.
“Marinette?”
She froze, staring at the figure with black cat ears and a black mask and blonde hair…
“Chat Noir?”
He grinned wildly and nodded, sending his fluffy hair flying. “Are you bringing me cookies?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry I forgot.”
“It’s ok.” He reached a paw down for her.
She didn’t take it and instead continued to climb up the ladder up to the roof of the building. She sat down beside him, looking at him for the first time. He wasn’t at all like she expected. He wasn’t a cat at all but rather a boy wearing a costume.
“You’re very pretty,” Chat suddenly said, breaking the silence.
She smiled shyly. “Thank you. You aren’t at all how I pictured you.”
He frowned.
“It’s ok!” she quickly assured. “I thought you looked like a cat.”
He pouted. “But I have ears and a tail and everything.”
“No, silly. I thought you looked like a real cat.”
“Oh,” he said. “No. It’s just a disguise I have to wear in order to defeat the monster.”
Marinette frowned at that. “Defeat the monster?”
He nodded, suddenly very serious. “I have a very important job. There is a monster running around, causing damage to the village. I have to defeat it.”
Marinette’s eyes grew wide. “Have you seen it before?”
Chat shook his head. “No. I have to find him and defeat him so the village will be safe again. And I will; I promise.”
Marinette smiled, then threw her arms around him. “Thank you for protecting me from the monster.”
He was stunned for a moment before he returned her hug very tightly. She liked his hugs. “You’re welcome,” he said. “I promise I’ll always protect you.”
When she released him, she dug in her backpack to pull out the cookies. “Here.”
His eyes grew wide and a happy smile split his face in two. “How about you take one and I take one?”
Marinette grinned. “Ok. You pick first.”
So they sat on the roof, each eating a cookie and talking. Marinette loved every minute of it, until she was tired and he had to leave. With one last hug, he left, running across the rooftops and leaping from building to building.
It made her very nervous watching him.
She continued her routine of putting up cookies, occasionally waiting later into the night hoping that maybe he would come.
But he never did.
Nor were the cookies ever eaten when she checked in the mornings.
Marinette was on the verge of crying in frustration when finally, finally a note appeared, along with flowers wrapped up in red ribbons
­-Marinette. I am sorry, but I am not allowed to see you anymore. Those are the new rules. I will miss you very much. You are still my best friend, and I promise I will protect you, but I am not allowed to eat any more of your cookies or visit you or write letters to you. I will miss you very much.
­­After reading that letter twice over, nine-year-old Marinette did burst into tears.
Some birthday gift.
Eventually, she calmed down, rubbing her red eyes before putting the final note away in the box he gave her. The one that kept all her notes. Then, she looked at the collection of wildflowers. She found a vase of water to put them in. Later on, once the flowers were beginning to wilt, she would press them in books like her mama had taught her.
As for the ribbons. They went in her hair. Where they would always be until they met again.
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sapphicscholar · 5 years
Text
Flung Out of Space - Chapter 4
Happy Christmas in May chapter! 
Two quick A/N:  1. Apparently links now keep things from showing up in tags? I don’t know, I don’t get tumblr, so find the link in the reblog. 2. I’m so sorry for how long I let this one go without an update. First I’d lent my copy of the book to a friend finding her way out of the closet, then I moved halfway across the country for a new job and took a bit of a break from fandom things, and suddenly it seemed so hard to get back into this old story. But I still want to write the story and am committed to seeing it through, so here we are! I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text:
The sound of voices drifting up through the window slowly pulled Kara out of a deep sleep filled with swirling scenes that she couldn’t quite make sense of. Forcing herself out of the warm cocoon of blankets she’d made, she stumbled over to the window, peering down at the driveway where a new car—cream-colored and clean enough that it didn’t stand out too much from the freshly fallen snow—now sat.
“Just getting in or getting up?” came Cat’s voice, a kind of warm familiarity in it that Kara hadn’t heard before.
Kara couldn’t see the other woman’s face, but as she answered, “Both,” with a nudge to Cat’s shoulder, Kara just knew she’d be giving Cat some secret smile reserved only for her.
“You never learn.” Any real chastisement was missing from Cat’s tone, and she threw an arm around the woman’s shoulders, guiding her inside. “Now be quiet. I have company.”
The woman stopped at that, turning enough for Kara to catch a glimpse of her profile as she shook her head. “And you say I’m the one who never learns?”
The wry laugh followed Cat inside, and Kara opened the door to the guest bedroom, peering down the stairwell to see if she could catch a glimpse of the mystery woman. Instead, she found Cat gazing up the stairs back at her. “I didn’t mean to wake you.
“No, no.” Kara waved off her concern. “I was already awake.”
“Well…if you’d like to come downstairs.” With a little wave of her hand, Cat indicated the general direction of the kitchen before disappearing around the corner.
After a moment’s hesitation, Kara grabbed the thick navy robe hanging on the closet door, hoping beyond hope that it wasn’t Max’s. She tiptoed down the stairs, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen for a long moment, feeling as though she were intruding on some intimate moment not meant to be shared.
“Three months,” Cat whispered.
“Bastard.” Lois pressed a soft kiss to the top of Cat’s head, and it was only then that Kara realized how tall Lois was with her heels. She was lanky, her figure almost boyish in its straight up and down silhouette, so unlike Cat with her form-fitting skirts designed to emphasize the gentle curve of her hips, the dip of her waist, the way her body seemed designed for Kara’s hands to fit so perfectly around—
“Lois, this is Kara Danvers.” Kara fought the urge to jump at the sudden introductions, instead reaching out a hand and trying to look less self-conscious than she felt in the long robe with her bare feet. “Kara, this is Lois Lane.” Kara thought she should have guessed that.
“Nice to meet you,” Kara murmured.
“You as well.” Lois glanced back at Cat, an unreadable expression on her face. “I’ve heard a bit about you, but clearly not enough.”
“Lois.” Cat’s voice was sharp as she glared at the woman in question.
“Fine, fine. A bit of coffee, then?”
Kara watched as the two women worked, their bodies moving easily together in a way that spoke of many mornings just like this, learning the rhythms of each other’s steps. Their conversation passed in fragments and single words and ellipses understood perfectly by each other, but perfectly incomprehensible to anyone else.
“The tree looks beautiful,” Lois said as she handed over a cup of coffee to Kara.
“Thank you.”
Before Kara had to think of any more to say, Lois had turned back to Cat, murmuring something about wanting to leave a gift for Max that had Cat laughing in a way Kara hadn’t gotten to see before. The surge of jealousy that welled up from somewhere deep inside of her at the knowledge that Lois knew how to do that, knew how to make Cat’s whole being shift like that, took Kara by surprise, leaving her reeling.
“So”—Lois turned back to Kara as she cocked a hip to the side, leaning up against the kitchen counter. “Where are you from?”
“She’s from New York City. And play nice,” Cat warned, lifting her eyebrows as she glanced over at Lois.
“When have you ever known me to do otherwise, Kitty?”
“We’d hardly have ended up where we did if you were that nice, Lane.”
Once more, Kara felt herself a spectator to some verbal sparring match that had begun long before she’d ever known to start watching for it.
“Cigarette?” Lois offered, heedless of the fact that it wasn’t yet 8 in the morning. “Or…are you old enough to smoke yet?” The bump of Cat’s hip against hers was hard enough to leave Lois stumbling slightly, a laugh catching in her throat.
“Please.” Kara took one, leaning in for a light. Just because she didn’t love smoking didn’t mean she couldn’t keep up. If she’d managed to go through nearly a whole pack at the meeting Mike arranged with his advertising buddies, she could certainly stomach a single one with Lois and Cat.
“What are you doing today?” The question was addressed to the room, but Kara suspected it was meant only for Cat.
She shrugged, her eyes taking on that lost quality Kara had glimpsed in the car. “I don’t know. Commitments were made before…” She shook her head. “What about you? What are you doing tonight? Late tonight, I mean.”
“I should be around. Call me.”
Cat nodded. “Three months.” A strangled little sound escaped her throat. “The only worthwhile thing to come out of that marriage, and I’ll be without him for three whole months.”
“Surely it’s not set in stone yet?”
Cat gave a rueful shake of her head. “Verbal decision for now, but it’ll hold. Trust me. After—it’ll hold.”
“You should take a trip.” Lois turned and held her mug out to Kara. “Don’t you think she should take a trip? Just go somewhere. Anywhere that isn’t here.”
Kara bit her tongue to keep from yelling No! Because she couldn’t quite handle the idea of Cat’s disappearing from her life when she’d finally found her.
“I don’t know that I’m in the mood for it.” But Kara could see the way her gaze had grown unfocused, knew that she was already thinking about it, considering it, mapping out the different places she could go, the places that would take her far, far away from Kara and New York City and whatever it was that might have been growing between them.
Lois seemed to catch it too, and she smiled at Cat. “Let me know, yeah?”
After a few more minutes, Cat’s attention returned to Kara. “You should probably be getting back into the city. It’s Christmas. You must have plans.” She did, but they paled in comparison.
Despite an offer from Cat to drive, Kara found herself, all too soon, sitting in the passenger seat of Lois’s car, flying down the quiet, snowy streets. Cat had driven fast, but Lois seemed almost reckless, the top down, heedless of the cold air, and music playing loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the wind.
“Where’d you meet Cat?” Lois called over the noise.
“In a store!” Kara yelled back.
For a little while longer, Lois said nothing. Then: “Do you like her?”
What a question. How could she do anything but? “Of course.”
Lois glanced at her, giving a little nod of her head.
When they arrived, Kara asked if Lois would mind waiting for a moment, then darted up to her apartment to grab the card she’d made for Cat on the off chance she saw her on Christmas. But then Lois was gone, and Kara was left with nothing to do but get ready to leave for Mike’s parents’ house.
After putting off leaving for too long, Kara was forced to splurge on a cab, and when she arrived it felt as if everyone had been there for hours, all of them crowding around her when she stepped through the door.
“Kara!” Mike’s booming voice rattled through the room, and soon a hand reached out and grabbed hers, pulling her through the fray. “Merry Christmas!” And then he kissed her in front of everyone, his breath smelling faintly of whiskey and whatever Eastern European liquor it was that his grandfather always pulled out for large family gatherings.
“Not here,” Kara whispered, pushing him away slightly but trying to smile, like it wasn’t a rebuke but a…a pause. A pause until a better time and place.
He waved away her concerns, leading her around the room for brief hellos before bringing her into the kitchen to get food. A moment later, a cool hand fell on her shoulder. “Kara, dear.” She turned around to find Rhea looking down at her. “How are you?”
“Very well. Thank you for having me over.”
“Of course. After everything Mike tells us, how could we pass up another opportunity to see you?”
Kara forced herself to nod, trying to ward off the chill that always came with interactions with Rhea. It wasn’t as if she were outwardly cruel or even unwelcoming, but Kara always felt like Rhea didn’t quite like her. Or at least didn’t like her for her, liked her instead for whatever it was she might offer to Mike.
Mike took that moment to swoop back in, throwing an arm over Kara’s shoulders and leading her upstairs to his room to exchange gifts. She’d gotten him a thick wool sweater in a deep navy that she hoped would complement his skin tone, knowing how cold the boat ride to Europe was expected to be. When he opened it, he swept her into a hug, then handed over a box of his own. Inside it was a dress that, Kara supposed, would maybe flatter her figure, even if it wasn’t quite a cut she normally wore. Still, she thanked him and let him pull her into another kiss, even if deep inside of her she wished she were with Cat instead. Cat whose presence seemed to have dulled everything else in her life into muted hues, while she stepped forward in vibrant reds and dashes of black that Kara knew she could drown in.
“Hey, my cousin got me a kite. Wanna go outside? Nice chance to get out of the house.” He shook a small bottle of whiskey, making the full scope of his intent clear.
“Um, sure.”
As they slipped out of the crowded house, he tangled his fingers with hers. It was sweet, Kara supposed, but it felt possessive, like he was claiming her for the whole world to see without realizing that she was no longer the quiet, demure girl he’d charmed at a party. Any hold he’d once had on her had fallen away that first moment she’d caught sight of Cat on the shop floor, and by the time they were at lunch together, she’d been changed irrevocably.
When they made it to the little park a few blocks away from his parents’ house, Mike took a long pull from the bottle of whiskey, before passing it over to Kara, who took a small sip to be polite. As she screwed the cap back on and set the bottle on the ground, Mike began unspooling a bit of string—enough to let the kite catch the breeze that sent flakes of snow whirling through the air from the treetops. She watched him as he went running through the park with it, trying to recapture some sense of the feelings she’d once had for him. Surely they were there. At some point they must have been. There was something…charming about the boyish glee in his expression as he jumped and ran with the kite, jerking his arms and urging it higher and higher. He whooped in glee as it finally caught a gust, and he called out to Kara, waving her over. His cheeks had grown ruddy in the cool winter air, and his smile was broad, like he really did want to share with her this moment of easy happiness. She wondered if there would ever be anything easy with Cat. She doubted it, but the idea of something complex, something challenging, something so much bigger than her or Cat or even their tiny moment in time didn’t bother her in the way it might have once.
“How many times were you in love?” Kara asked, her swirling thoughts removing the filter between brain and mouth.
He barely glanced over at her before answering, “Never, not until you.”
“But that’s not true. You told me about the other two.” The two girls he’d dated (and slept with) before Kara.
“If that’s how you’re counting, add in another dozen.” Mike laughed in that carefree way he had of wounding her deeply.
“What about another boy?”
He jerked his head around at that. “What?”
“Were you ever in love with a boy?”
“No.” The word seemed final in a way that brokered no argument, that left the door open for no additional questions.
Still, Kara wasn’t done with the topic, and when his attention had shifted back to the kite, she cleared her throat again. “You’ve heard of it though, right? Two boys?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of people like that, Kara.” He busied himself with unspooling more and more of the thread.
Anger surged inside of Kara. “Not people like that.” Her thoughts drifted back to everything people had said about Alex and Maggie and Susan. “I mean two people who fall in love. And it just happens, out of the blue. Two men or…or two women.”
“I don’t know anyone like that.”
Kara let out a little hum, trying to parse through what exactly it was she felt for Cat. It was so all-consuming, but did that make it love—or at least love in that way? “It could probably happen to anyone, though, couldn’t it? I mean, it’s love.”
He shook his head, even though his attention never left the sky. “Those things don’t just happen. There’s always something else, some reason for it.”
Pulling her arms tight around herself, Kara let her thoughts drift back to her days in school. There’d been a boy or two she’d found handsome, boys who made her heart beat a little faster, boys who made her nervous when she went to talk to them. But what she felt for them…it paled in comparison to this thing that had sprung up between her and Cat. And maybe it was all one-sided, though she couldn’t help but think that whatever it was between her and Lois was something a lot more like the thing between Alex and Maggie than mere friendship. And she wasn’t—she hadn’t thought of herself as being like Alex and Maggie. She hadn’t joined the WAAC or followed them to San Francisco. She didn’t have short hair like Alex or Susan, didn’t fall easily into the kind of jokes that circulated among them.
“Do you think I could?”
“Could what?”
“Fall in love with another girl?”
“Why?” His attention was finally back on her, though Kara wasn’t sure she wanted it. “What? You fall in love with someone?” He laughed loudly, that deep rumbling laugh that always seemed to come at someone else’s expense.
“No.” Her tone lacked all conviction, but it was enough for him. “Anyway, let me have a turn with the kite?”
He handed it over, and Kara let her worries about defining whatever was growing between Cat and herself fly away as she lost herself in the simple pleasures of watching the kite catch on soft breezes and soar along with faster gusts. With Mike’s encouragement, she let more and more of the string out until there was nothing left.
“More!” he cried out.
“It’s out,” she yelled back, running along the ground, pulling it behind her, her breath coming in short puffs visible in the cold air.
“I’m gonna cut it!”
“What?” Kara spun around and watched as he pulled his pocket knife out of his coat pocket. “You can’t!”
“It’s more fun!”
She pulled down, cradling the wooden handle protectively by her chest, the fragile thing, so full of potential. But then Mike was snipping the string above her head and grinning as the kite disappeared up into the sky, the wind carrying it far from her sight.
“Why would you do that?” Kara glared at him, an unexpected sadness piercing her. “It was beautiful.”
“It was only a kite, Kara. We can always buy another.”
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pengychan · 6 years
Text
[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 3
Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T
[Tag with all chapters up here.]
[Also on Ao3]
A/N: “I mean being a Catholic priest only takes years of study and training how hard can it be” -- Ernesto, probably.
***
“We have to keep going.”
“Santiago, we don’t even know which way he went…”
“Then we split up and keep looking!”
“To regroup where? And what if we meet enemies? We’d be easy prey-- Chago, wait! We lost him. We can’t keep looking blindly for--”
“Then go back to the barracks. De la Cruz is out there somewhere. I’ll find that traitor myself, and hang him with my own hands for what he did to Beto,” Santiago snapped, and turned his horse to face Nando, a scowl on his face. It caused the other man to rear back on the saddle, but Santiago didn’t see him, not really.
All that he had before his eyes - all that he’d been seeing, even behind his own eyelids when he shut them - was Alberto’s body on the ground, the blood and brain matter splattered on the rocky ground, carrion birds already beginning their descent… and the tracks of two horses leaving. 
They had found Beto’s horse not too far away, wandering lost, but Ernesto de la Cruz was nowhere to be found. He’d fled like the coward he was, after shooting a man from behind.
He didn’t have to do it. He was giving him his back, he could have stunned him if he so wanted to escape.
“Chago, listen,” Nando spoke again, reaching to put a hand on his arm. “There is nothing more we can do now, and you need to be reasonable,” he said, and sighed. “I know he was your friend. I am sorry it was you to find him.”
Santiago almost snapped back, but he suddenly found he had no strength to. He had to swallow before he spoke. “His mother is waiting for him at home,” he said, very quietly. “How can I go back and tell her Beto is dead if I don’t at least avenge him? I promised Raquel I’d look after him, and now…”
“It is war, Chago. She knew death was a real possibility.”
Of course they all had known that, but it had seemed such a distant concept when they’d signed up - Alberto with the eagerness of a man who wants to prove something, and Santiago with a sense of duty that compelled him to follow his friend as he always had. And even afterwards… death in battle, or even in a skirmish, was one thing. Being shot in the back by a deserter was worse. It was unfair. It was personal.
“I should have been the one on patrol with him,” Santiago murmured. He would have been, normally, but the day Alberto had died he’d been assigned to some other menial task, and Ernesto de la Cruz had been chosen to go with him instead. Beto - who had waved at him before going off, telling him he’d see him later - had liked the man, but Santiago had never quite warmed up to him; he recognized a coward at heart when he saw one. He hadn’t trusted him but even so, he’d never thought he’d kill Beto in cold blood and flee.
“It wasn’t your fault that you weren’t,” Nando was saying, a hand still on his arm. Santiago nodded, but in truth he’d hardly heard him.
I joined the army because he had, but now he’s gone and I can’t do this on my own.
But he would have to, of course. He’d have to brush it off the best he could and keep marching on. He didn’t have to like it; he just needed to make himself keep going through the motions until the right moment came, until he could finally get his hands on Beto’s murderer - because he would, come what may. He couldn’t allow himself to doubt that for one moment.
De la Cruz couldn’t get away with it. He wouldn’t. Maybe not today or tomorrow or the day after that, but someday Santiago would face him again.
And that day, Ernesto de la Cruz wouldn’t get the luxury of a quick death.
***
When it was time to thank God for his food and whatnot, Ernesto barely needed to pretend; he hadn’t had a proper breakfast in so long he was ready to personally thank everyone, from God down to the hens who had laid the eggs, and the nun - Sister Sofía, was it? - who had put the dish in front of him.
If anything, the hard part was focusing on the prayer with that delicious smell distracting him, and trying to make himself pause and chew instead of guzzling it all down in seconds. After the first few bites, he found that easier.
“Where are Gustavo and Brother Héctor?” Ernesto asked after swallowing another mouthful. It occurred to him that the novice would likely live there as well - he hadn’t bothered looking around much after being led to his room the previous day, and he’d have expected the sexton to have showed up by now.
Sister Sofía shrugged, and dropped another couple of eggs on his plate. She was a good deal shorter than him, thin as a twig and nothing much in the way of looks, but as he wolfed down the extra eggs Ernesto thought he could kiss her on the mouth right there and then if it weren’t so likely to land him in trouble.
“Gustavo showed up earlier, but he was absolutely useless here, so I sent him off to feed your horse. Brother Héctor is helping Chicharrón at the cemetery. His joints aren’t what they used to be, and he needed some assistance straightening up a tombstone. Not that he’ll admit it. He’s probably grumbling that Héctor didn’t need to show up at all right now, while watching him do the heavy work.”
Ernesto raised an eyebrow, trying and failing to picture the beanpole he’d met at the church’s steps lifting anything heavier than a basket of laundry, but he didn’t ask. “Chicharrón?” he asked instead.
“The old grave digger, Padre. You’ll meet him today, I wager.”
“I’m guessing that’s not his real name,” Ernesto said. For a moment he kicked himself for not giving a fake name, or asking the dying priest for his own so that he could use it. But then again, he suspected that might have led him to fail to respond when called, which would have probably been rather suspicious.
Unaware of his thoughts, and pouring some more water in his glass, Sister Sofía shook her head. “No, but good luck getting the real one out of him. No one knows.”
“Must be embarrassing, if he’d rather be called after fried pork,” Ernesto muttered. Sister Sofía laughed and so did he - only to realize his mistake when she spoke again.
“It’s good to see your headache is gone, Padre.”
For the second time in a minute, Ernesto felt like kicking himself really hard. He’d come out of his room mumbling that his head hurt, so that he could get out of saying the afternoon mass, but breakfast had been so good he’d simply forgotten to keep the act up.
No matter. I can claim it spiked up again. I just need to be careful now.
“It is slightly better,” he said, and put the fork down on the plate. “It was all delicious, Sister.”
Sister Sofía smiled. “Oh, I’m glad,” she said, and went to take his dish off the table, standing close to him. Very close. Close enough that her arm brushed against his own, startling him a little and causing him to look up. Still, nothing showed on her face. “Anything else, Padre?”
Nothing a nun can give, but thanks for the reminder I’ve gone too long without a woman.
“No, nothing,” Ernesto said, a bit too quickly, and stood. “Is… is there a schedule, or…?”
“This is about the time people come in for confession.”
“Oh, great. I mean-- I’ll be in the confessional in a few minutes,” Ernesto said quickly, and left, heading to his room - he needed the Bible, plus pen and paper - before she could ask anything else, acutely aware of her gaze fixed on his retreating back.
***
They will come collect everything tonight. Keep the back door open. Ensure no one is there.
The note had no name on it, as always. It was safer that way; if she and whoever was keeping direct contact with the revolutionaries kept ignoring other's identity, they could be sure that information could never be forced out of them under any circumstances.
The notes, always written in the same handwriting, came inside the collection box, and Imelda always made sure she'd be the one to collect the offerings for the orphanage - or, if not, that Sofía would do it. She, at least, could be trusted to be discreet.
... Well, no. Not really. But on such serious matters, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.
After giving a quick look around - the church was empty aside from a few people waiting by the confessional and, she assumed, Padre Ernesto inside said confessional - Imelda held the note over a candle, and let it burn. The small piece of paper quickly turned to ashes, the smell easily covered by incense burning, and she went to look for Sofía.
She found her in the sacristy, getting the purple robe out of the closet and ready for the afternoon mass.
"He's bigger than Padre Edmundo was," Sofía muttered when she saw her walking in, eyeing the robe. “Broader shoulders, deeper chest. It's going to be a tight fit."
"I can just hear the sorrow in your voice," Imelda said, holding back a smile, then lowered her own voice. "They'll come to take the weapons and ammunitions tonight."
"Your friend wrote you, huh? Ever wonder who it is?"
"It's not relevant. Have you found out anything about Padre Ernesto?"
Sofía shrugged. "He's got a cleft chin. Still like him best without the beard."
Imelda forced herself to hold back an exasperated sigh. "Anything else?"
"I'm almost positive he puts something in his hair to keep it that glossy. It can’t be natural."
"Are you making a point to annoy me?"
"I want to see how far I can push it before I make you curse in a church."
If not for the fact she had the basket with the offerings in her hands, Imelda would have smacked her. Maybe she should consider using the basket. "Anything of any relevance?"
"He's got a healthy appetite. And he seems rather out of his depth," she added quickly when she noticed Imelda's eye twitching just a little. "He almost began eating without a prayer. He's like a fish out of water. But that's likely because he just arrived."
Yes, Imelda had to admit that was a likely explanation. Still, with all that was going on, having a perfect stranger at the helm of the parish unnerved her. She'd feel safer once she knew something more about him. If only Héctor had taken his vows already... no. She wouldn't allow herself to think of that. "Nothing that gave any indication of where he stands?" she asked instead.
Sofía rolled her eyes. "That's hardly something you tell a stranger over breakfast. Give me time, Imelda. I'll crack this one and give you answers."
"It might be worth having a look at his room."
"I told you, I need time to--"
"Without him in it, Sofía," Imelda said drily, getting herself a laugh and a hand on her shoulder.
"You worry too much. He's just a priest, from way out of town and probably fresh out of the seminar. At worst, we need to be careful around him as we are around most others."
Imelda hated to admit that maybe she was worrying too much, but... well, maybe she was worrying too much. She sighed, and nodded. "All right. But if you find out anything--"
"You'll be the first one to know," Sofía reassured her. "And if there is any reason to, we'll search his room. I think I know where I can find a spare key."
"Gustavo?"
"Gustavo the Disappointment. Though to be fair I was expecting little, so being let down wasn't a long drop."
Imelda's lips quirked upwards. "I believe I heard you saying never again, though."
That gained her a solemn nod. "I did. But if it's to get that key, so be it,” Sofía said, and gave a long sigh. “I did commit myself to a life of sacrifice, after all."
***
Ernesto hadn’t bothered to confess himself in a very, very long time.
Even when he had to, it had simply been… something he had to do. It wasn’t always easy, because apparently he was supposed to confess to wrongdoings - and he couldn’t think of any, he had good reasons for everything he did - or actions that he regretted, which was… rare.
For his first confession as a kid, prior to his first Communion, he’d flipped through the pages of a Bible and taken note of sins that sounded especially impressive: just because it was something he had to do, it didn’t mean he had to half-ass it. He wanted it to be memorable.
He hadn’t understood most of the words he’d read, and the priest inside the confessional had been quite confused to hear a nine-year-old confessing to fornication; much later on, Ernesto would muse he had simply been confessing his main sin ahead of time. Back then, he’d fixed everything by adding ‘and I just told lies’ at the end of the confession. He’d had to say hell knew how many Ave Maria for that, but at least he hadn’t made the confession boring to listen to. Like, say, the ones he was listening right now, sprawled on the amazingly uncomfortable wooden seat inside the confessional.
Miguel had been right: absolutely nothing of interest seemed to happen in that place.
“... And what’s worse, I have…” the whisper became fearful, getting up Ernesto’s hopes to hear something interesting. “I have lain with my husband, last night...”
Thunk.
“Padre? What was that?”
With his forehead resting against the wooden panel he’d let it drop against, Ernesto held back a sigh and a muttered ‘congratulations’. That was worse that the idiot who had confessed to stealing an apple, or another who envied the neighbor for his plump chickens. “Nothing, child. So, you slept. With your husband. Great. And...?”
“And… we did not… we didn’t do so in order to conceive. We know it is wrong, but we cannot afford another child!”
“That’s fair enough. How many children do you have?”
“Seven.”
“... It does sound like a good place to stop, yes.”
“I need your absolution, Padre.”
“What for? It’s your husband.”
“But we committed onanism!”
“That’s… what usually happens when it’s done right?”
“What?”
Oh, Ernesto thought, straightening himself. Wait. He quickly glanced down at the the piece of paper he’d scribbled his notes on, squinting. “Ah. Right. Onanism. That is concerning.”
The voice on the other side of the wooden panel turned anxious. “Can I have absolution?”
“Of course,” Ernesto muttered, turning the piece of paper on the other side. “Ego te absol--”
“No… no penance?”
Yes, start reciting the goddamn Holy Father and keep going until you die.
“... Say ten Hail Mary. Ego te absolvo a pa… pe… peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Next,” Ernesto sighed, rubbing his forehead as he heard the woman rising from her kneeling position outside the confessional. His head was really starting to hurt, so maybe he wouldn’t even need to lie about it later that day.Not that he planned to confess a thing either way.
After that confession nonsense was over with, he’d go out to have a walk. He needed to be out in the open again… and to check the quickest route out of that town, just in case.
***
“This… this is for me? Really?”
“Of course!”
“Made it ourselves!”
“Couldn’t make you keep using that old thing!”
“No offense, Cheech.”
“Please don’t chase us with a stick again.”
“Hmph. You can count yourselves lucky I just sat down.”
There was something oddly amusing in the protective way Cheech patted the old guitar on his knees, and if he’d looked Miguel would have seen Héctor - still sweaty and panting a bit, because pulling tombstones back upright was hard work - trying and failing to hold back a smile. But he wasn’t looking, all of his attention taken by the guitar Óscar and Felipe had just handed to him, white and shiny and with a skull motif on the head. It was the most beautiful thing Miguel had ever seen, let alone owned.
“You mean it? It’s mine?” he asked, his voice suddenly small, and looked up to see both twins grinning, clearly pleased with his reaction.
“Sure!”
“We said it, didn’t we?”
Miguel smiled, trying to ignore a sudden tightness in his throat. “Thank you! It’s… I just don’t know if they’ll allow me to keep it…” he muttered, barely daring to touch the strings. The sisters at the orphanage tended to frown upon personal possessions, saying it wasn’t fair for one child to have more than the others. But maybe, if he promised he'd let other children use it, and play it for them...
"Of course they won't," Felipe muttered, sounding almost offended.
"Imelda wouldn't let them," his brother added, causing Héctor to frown.
"Your sister is still a novice, chicos. She can't argue against a decision taken by one of the Sisters, or la Madre Superiora, any more than I could argue a decision by Padre Edm-- Ernesto."
"But she would," Felipe pointed out. That caused Héctor to smile a bit, a fond smile that he wasn't quick enough to smother.
"Oh, I know she would. That's exactly what worries me," he said, causing the boys to laugh a little and Chicharrón to scoff.
"Hmph. That is an argument I'd like to see," he muttered, throwing away the stick he'd been chewing on for his pet rooster to catch and, apparently, try to kill. Miguel was pretty sure Juanita wasn't right in the head. "Either way, these two pend--"
"Cheech," Héctor said, a bit warningly, but the old man waves a hand in dismissal.
"... These two are right. That guitar is yours. If those penguins--"
"Cheech."
"-- If the nuns try to take it from you, they're thieves," he finished, rolling his eyes at Héctor before looking at Miguel. "Just do as Héctor did when he was your age and leave the guitar with me, muchacho. I'll keep it at my place and you can come play it whenever you want. If anyone asks, it's mine."
"That's lying," Miguel pointed out, but he was already grinning from ear to ear, holding tightly onto the guitar. "Thanks, Cheech."
"Don't mention it. Better to hear your music than your whining when it's taken from you."
"Aww, he has a heart!"
"Soft as butter!"
".. Don't push it, kids," Cheech warned, but Óscar and Felipe just grinned before looking back at Miguel expectantly.
"Well, come on! Play us something!"
"Yes, we made it for a reason!"
"It probably needs tuning first, that is not our thing..."
It did need tuning, but Miguel took care of it quicky; when he gave a strum, the sound was perfect. For a moment he considered playing one of Héctor's songs - he wrote so many of them, he'd showed him his songbook once - but he knew he didn't like to let too many people know he wrote songs that were not about religion at all, so in the end he just went for something else entirely. There was that song he'd heard a couple of weeks ago from a few travellers, how did that go again...?"
"En el condado del Carmen Miren lo que ha sucedido Murió el Cherife Mayor Quedando Román herido"
"Otro día por la mañana Cuando la gente llegó Unos a los otros dicen: 'No saben quien lo mató'"
“Se anduvieron...  anduvieron…” Miguel's voice faltered, the next line failing to show in his mind, his fingers stilling on the strings. For a moment he felt lost, that odd sense of utter confusion when something you should know escapes you for no reason - but then another voice rang out and yes, those were the right words.
"Se anduvieron informando Como tres horas después Supieron que el malhechor Era Gregorio Cortez!"
"Wha-- oh! Padre Ernesto!" Héctor exclaimed, quickly standing upright - he'd been leaning on a grave, which he wasn't supposed to be doing. Not that Padre Ernesto seemed to care.
"Brother Héctor. My apologies, I couldn't resist," he said brightly, leaning against the low dry stone between the cemetery and the path he must have been walking on.
“You can sing!” Miguel exclaimed in awe. They really had been sent the best possible priest. “I mean-- you sing so well!”
Ernesto smiled, looking almost giddy at the praise. "Gracias, niño. It’s been a while since last time I got to really sing. This is one of my favorites,” he said, climbing over the low wall to step in the cemetery. Miguel blinked up at him as he approached.
"You know this song?"
"Who doesn't? He-- er," Padre Ernesto paused, and seemed to hesitate, but then he shrugged and he was smiling again, like it was nothing. "It's a very popular song up north near the border, but it makes sense it's not heard as often here," he added, and glanced towards Chicharrón. "You’re the gravedigger, aren’t you? I don't believe we have me-- gah!"
With a sudden screech, Juanita threw himself at Padre Ernesto in a whirlwind of fury and feathers. Padre Ernesto hurriedly stepped back just as Héctor yelled - “No, Juanita!” - and launched himself to grab the rooster. Still sitting on his chair, Cheech raised an eyebrow.
“Juanita doesn’t like him,” he noted, sounding oddly solemn and ignoring the confused look Óscar and Felipe were exchanging. Miguel would have pointed out that the rooster didn’t seem to like anyone he didn’t know well, but his attention was taken by Héctor’s struggle to contain Juanita. He’d managed to grab the rooster, who didn’t seem pleased at all but wasn’t struggling as hard as Miguel knew he could to break free.
"Sorry! Juanita is not always like this. I mean, he's often like this. Just not always," Héctor was saying, causing Padre Ernesto to blink.
"Juanita?"
"Yes."
"But it's a roos--"
"We know. Cheech wouldn't change his mind, though," he added with a chuckle, and to Miguel's relief Padre Ernesto laughed, reaching up to smooth back his hair. There had been a lot of protests from people visiting the cemetery, claiming that Juanita had tried to attack them as they paid their respects. Padre Edmundo’s calming words were the only thing that had kept some of them from trying to turn Cheech’s pet into dinner. It was good to see the new parish priest wasn’t adding himself to the rooster’s long list of enemies.
“Cheech, this is Padre Ernesto,” Héctor said, thrusting Juanita in his arms a little more forcefully than it would have been necessary. The old man huffed, but reached to stroke his rooster’s head to calm him down before nodding towards the priest. He didn’t try to get up from the chair, but that could be excused due to his wooden leg… as long as you couldn’t guess that he simply didn’t want to stand up.
“Juanita doesn’t like you,” he repeated drily. A slightly annoyed expression crossed Padre Ernesto’s features just for a moment before he smiled and shrugged.
“Then it seems Juanito and I--”
“Juanita.”
“-- Shouldn’t come too close to each other for our mutual safety, then,” he said, his smile a little sharper, and turned his attention on the guitar in Miguel’s hands. “That’s a fine guitar.”
“Of course it is!” Felipe piped in, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest.
"We made it!" his brother echoed immediately.
"The best guitar we ever made!"
"Also the first guitar we ever made."
"Which still makes it the best, though."
“Right!”
Padre Ernesto laughed. “You did an impressive job, then. It sounded really good. And you’ve got some real talent there, muchacho,” he added, causing Miguel’s chest to swell with pride. Héctor had said that, too, but Héctor was always nice and encouraging to everyone even when they were terrible at things, and it made it hard to tell how real his praise was.
“Thank you! Can you teach me the rest of the song? I could only memorize the first part.”
“... You’re playing it by memory?” Padre Ernesto blurted out, blinking, and Héctor chuckled, reaching to ruffle Miguel’s hair.
“As you said, Padre, he’s got real talent,” he said. It was something he would have never said in front of Padre Edmundo, because he would have definitely muttered something on how he should be mindful not to feed a child’s pride, as it was a deadly sin and whatnot. Padre Ernesto, however, just nodded in agreement and held out a hand.
“Would you mind?” he asked, and Miguel’s eyes went huge. All fear that someone would take away his guitar seemed very far away; he knew, instinctively, what that was about.
“You can play, too?” Miguel asked, handing him the guitar. He took it with a wink.
“Some say it’s what I do best,” he said, and gave the guitar a strum. The sound put a smile back on his face. “Now, it’s been a while, but let me see. Brother Héctor, care to join…?”
***
Gustavo hated horses.
They stank, they tried to bite you or kick you or worse and they always, always made a mess; Padre Edmundo’s donkey had been so much easier to look after than the beast the new priest had come riding on. But looking after it now was among his duties, even though it was clear the horse wasn’t especially fond on him, either.
It followed that, as he walked back to the church, he wasn’t in a good mood. What did help, however, was hearing music and singing coming from the cemetery, because he recognized at least two the voices.
Insortaron a Cortez Por toditito el estado: "Vivo o muerto que se aprehenda Porque a varios ha matado!"
Well, now that was a good chance to knock Héctor down a notch or two.The darling of the parish, and the darling of the orphanage before then - who did he think he was? The cemetery wasn’t the right place to play music with that brat who kept following him around and the old gravedigger who kept refusing to die. Héctor was so clearly good for nothing, but Padre Edmundo had been entirely blind to that.
Well, now the parish was under new management. What an unwise move, letting himself be caught; it would make for a rather bad first impression with the new priest. Certainly Padre Ernesto would see things his way.
Decía Gregorio Cortez Con su pistola en la mano: "No siento haberlo matado Al que siento es a mi hermano"
Almost giddy with anticipation, Gustavo walked the few steps that separated him from the stone wall and leaned on it with a sneer. “Giving spectacle in the cemetery, brother Héctor, really? I wonder what Padre Ernesto is going to sa-- Padre Ernesto?”
Under his stunned gaze, Padre Ernesto looked back at him in mild confusion, a white guitar still in his arms, pausing mid-twirl. At either side of him, the little brat and Héctor - who was holding that old guitar made out of scraps - stared at him like hares before a coyote. The old man was scoffing, the the two boys whose names he kept forgetting snickered.
“Oh, Gustavo! Care to join in?” Padre Ernesto smiled.
Gustavo opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Ignored the way Miguel was beginning to smirk, ignored the smile beginning to tug at the corners of Héctor’s mouth, and took a step back. His eyes kept shifting from the priest to the guitar in his hands, and then back to him.
“No, I. Er. I was just here to… to…” A bell rang, and Gustavo recoiled. “To remind you that the afternoon mass will be in a hour,” he blurted out.
The smile on Padre Ernesto’s face faded like a blown-out candle. “Ah,” he said. “About… about that--”
“We need to go and get ready!” Miguel - who, for some reason, was the main altar boy despite being nothing but trouble - exclaimed, and took the white guitar from Padre Ernesto to hand it to Chicharrón before he took off running. “Come on, Héctor! See you in church, Padre!”
No running in the cemetery, Gustavo should have yelled, and he normally would have, but now he couldn’t quite find his voice. He just stared at their retreating backs, speechless, and didn’t notice Padre Ernesto glancing at the church as though staring at a hangman’s noose.
***
Everything was going fine.
Mass was about to begin, he barely remembered how it was supposed to start off, the purple robe for la Cuaresma was uncomfortably tight - "We'll get Ceci to fix it up," Miguel had said, like Ernesto would know who the hell that was - he generally had no idea what he was doing, and he was rather sure he was about to throw up. But other than that, all was well.
All right, all right. No need to panic. I've got this. I can do it.
"... Are you all right, Padre Ernesto?"
Ernesto looked at Miguel, all prim and proper in his altar boy clothing, and smiled brightly.
Oh God I can't do this.
“Never been better,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Where’s Brother Héctor?”
“Oh, he plays the organ. He’s really good, hear that?”
He did, yes; he could hear the organ playing, and a chant he recognized - the entrance chant. So, time to go out there. Ernesto drew in a deep breath, nodded at Miguel, and stepped out of the sacristy. Just as he did, everyone stood.
The damn place was crowded despite it being a Saturday afternoon mass, likely because that entire damn town wanted to have a look at their new priest; in different circumstances, Ernesto would have appreciated being at the center of attention. Now he could only focus on moving towards the altar, trying to look at no one at all, and the short walk seemed to last hours as he tried to remember what the priest always did at the beginning of mass.
He bowed to the altar, right? Right. And kissed it. And I think he incensed it and the cross. Miguel has incense, that has got to be it. All right. I got this.
He went through the motions mechanically, very nearly spilling the burning incense on the altar and on the Bible - in Latin, so entirely useless to him - but thankfully completing the task without incidents. He handed it back to Miguel, stared up at the cross, and swallowed. What was it that the priest always did no-- oh, wait. Right. He remembered that, at least.
Slowly, Ernesto crossed himself, knowing that behind him everyone else was doing the same. He spoke staring at the cross, trying to keep his voice firm. It came surprisingly easy, considering that he was beginning to regret not letting the army hang him.
"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he said loudly.
"Amen," everyone spoke as one behind him. So far, so good. Shame that he had absolutely no clue how to go on. He should have paid attention at Sunday school.
Ernesto looked down at the Bible, hoping to find a clue there, but absolutely not a single word made the slightest amount of sense to him. He uselessly scanned the pages, and he let his expression slip into panic for a moment, forgetting that he had his back turned to most of those present, yes, but not to all of them - and he completely missed the wide-eyed look Miguel was giving him. In the end, he set his jaw. What the hell, he would just do it his way, and hope for the best. Worst case scenario, he’d run for the back door.
“Brothers and sisters,” he said, turning and putting on his best smile. “Let me say it is a honor to be here with you all."
His words caused the parishioners to recoil, clearly taken aback. It was not how a mass was supposed to go - the priest, Ernesto knew, babbled in Latin with his back turned to everyone else almost all the time, turned around to administer the Eucharist, and then went back staring at the cross and babbling in Latin until it was over. Hopefully, they’d enjoy a change.
"I would like to once again extend my condolences for the loss of Padre Edmundo," he went on. His gaze wandered left, past a group of slightly confused nuns to Héctor, who still sat at the organ. "Let's... let's have a minute of silence to pray for him, sí?" Ernesto added, and bowed his head, hands joined. He shot a quick glance around to see that everyone was doing the same, a couple of people on the front rows wiping their eyes before doing so.
The change of pace had probably taken them aback, but if he played his cards right he could make it through that without raising too much suspicion - just a young, new priest from out of town breaking the mold for his very first mass there. They could think him eccentric, perhaps, but that wouldn’t be a problem, at least in the short term… and he had no intention to stay any longer than he had to.
With a deep breath Ernesto looked up, unclasped his hands, smiled, and began talking. And kept talking. He was good at it, and no one interrupted him, no one argued. Little by little, he found he didn’t have to fake confidence anymore. All was well.
As long as no one saw through his act, he’d be fine.
***
For several moments, Miguel could only stare at Padre Ernesto in stunned silence.
He was talking about God now, suggesting that they had the choir sing again because ‘he who sings prays twice’ - a quote from a saint, though now Miguel couldn’t remember which one - and he sounded really confident, convincing, and charming. Everyone in the church was listening intently, clearly surprised by the change from the usual liturgy but going along because, well, the priest would know.
Except that the man standing before him - the man who had saved him from drowning, agreed not to tell as much to anyone else and just taught him a song - was not a priest. He simply couldn’t be. No one else knew because they hadn’t stood where he stood now, they hadn’t seen the look on his face as he stared at the Bible... but Miguel had. He knew.
‘Padre’ Ernesto could swim, he could ride, he could sing and play and who knew what else, but he didn’t know a single word of Latin.
***
Father John Johnson found himself staring at the mass - no, the mess - unfolding before his eyes, speechless.
It had been a long journey to Santa Cecilia, as he'd been warned, but with God at his side he'd made it there unscathed. Tired, yes, and hungry and thirsty and burned by the sun, but he accepted it all gladly - especially on Lent. Jesus Christ had suffered far worse while fasting forty days in the desert; he could endure some discomfort as he carried out his mission to teach those people proper Catholicism, to free them of their ridiculous superstition and stomp out the pagan... rites they kept trying to mix with the Church's teachings.
He'd been travelling for the better part of a year now, going from town to town, from parish to parish, to that end. He wasn't always welcomed, but then again neither was Christ. He would endure, preach to those who’d listen, and carry on as every Jesuit should - prove he was worthy of the cloth he wore.
He was in the right. He could not be led astray, or frightened into giving up his mission; he wasn’t afraid of putting his life on the line. Salvation does not come for free, after all, and he would pay the highest price if need be.
Todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina.
When he'd arrived in town, there had been few people in the streets. Most were in church for the first mass by their new parish priest, a man had told him while glancing curiously at his blond hair and pale complexion; that was how John had learned that the priest he'd written to and was supposed to meet, Father Edmund, had died, and that one Father Ernest had just arrived to replace him. John had nodded, and murmured a silent prayer for him before he'd continued towards the church, following the directions.
Even though he usually stuck out like a sore thumb, his arrival had gone unnoticed; when he’d silently stepped inside the church to go stand in a corner, not one head had turned towards him. Everyone was staring, as though transfixed, at the priest… who was currently giving his back to the cross. And leaning on the altar with one elbow as though he was simply having a pleasant chat about God. Which, really, was exactly what he was doing.
In Spanish.
Good God, that was worse than any other place he’d visited. Even though those people kept insisting on mixing paganism with Catholicism in the most distasteful ways, at least the other parishes had known how to hold a proper mass. It seemed that he’d arrived just on time to help the people in that town; God had been wise to guide him there. There would be a lot of work to do, but all well worth it and desperately needed.
As that mockery of a function continued, John tiredly closed his eyes and allowed himself a long sigh, a hand reaching beneath his cassock where, in an internal pocket, he kept his Bible. He brushed his thumb on the worn-out cover, tilted back his head and opened his eyes, staring at a painting of Jesus Christ ascending to Heaven right behind the altar.
Lend me strength, he thought, not knowing just how many times he'd find himself repeating that plea in the weeks to come.
***
[Back to Part 2]
[On to Part 4]
32 notes · View notes
thetourguidebarbie · 6 years
Note
the end to your butler drabble had me cracking up. maybe a sequel? "i'm your master & will be addressed as such."
Here is a full drabble (so it contains the minidrabble in the beginning). No D/s stuff, but it hints at roleplay and there is a blowjob in front of a mirror.
Caroline sighed as she pushed the fourth box she’d pulled off the garage shelf back into place. She’d been looking for her photo albums for an hour and she was close to giving up. Steeling herself for going through the last two boxes, she pulled over one that was on the top shelf and frowned at the lack of labeling.
When she and Klaus had moved into the house together, they’d packed up to move together, and Caroline had carefully labeled every single box. It was odd that this one didn’t have any markings. She opened it, peering inside, and her jaw dropped.
“A Babe and Her Butler?” she muttered to herself, picking out the DVD case and flipping it over, trying not to laugh as she scanned the description of the so-called plot. “Oh my god…”
There were at least four more (she stopped after ‘A Babe and Her Butler 5: Summer Vajay-cation”) and she took a deep cleansing breath before setting the DVDs back in the box and taping them up. He’d mentioned that he’d done some sort of sex work in college and she hadn’t thought much of it. Male strippers made bank a lot of the time for relatively few hours and he had an excellent voice for phone lines, so it had seemed plausible. 
“Klaus?” she called as she came back in the house, locking the door behind her. 
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“I have a question,” she said, walking towards his voice and poking her head into his studio. He looked at her, setting his brush down, his eyebrows raised. “So, how do you feel about…butler roleplay?” she asked, and she nearly laughed at the eyeroll he shot at her.
“I wondered when you’d find that.”
“Is that a yes or a no? I’m sensing some reluctance, which is totally fine–”
He grabbed her around the waist, bending down to press his forehead against hers. “I tried to only do films of things I wasn’t interested in. It made it harder for them to ruin it,” he said, and she gasped as his palm skated along her ribcage. “A master and his maid, however? That I could get behind.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, pecking him on the lips. “Maybe once I find my photo albums. I’ve been looking for them for the past like, two hours, and–”
“Did you check in the hall closet?” he asked, already turning back to his painting, and she shook her head, going to check and coming back a few minutes later, album in hand.
“Found it. Thanks!”
“Glad to be of service,” he said dryly.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t drink liquids while watching, sweetheart,” Klaus suggested, gently taking her glass of wine away and setting on a coaster on their coffee table. She continued to cough, her eyes watering slightly, and he set his hand on her back, watching her warily. “All right?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Rewind. I missed some of the dialogue.”
He snorted. “The dialogue isn’t generally what people watch it for, you know,” he said, though he obligingly skipped back about thirty seconds.
“I know, but hearing you say ‘Yes ma’am, may I service you in any other manner’ to that super done-up rich lady is my new favorite thing.”
“Is it?”
“It’s hilarious.”
He hummed, not answering, and she laid her head on his shoulder, tangling her fingers with his. “We don’t have to watch this if it makes you uncomfortable.”
“It doesn’t,” he reassured her, squeezing her hand lightly. “It’s just boring. And that ‘actress’ who played the Mistress was unbearably irritating. I worked with her on another series as well for pregnancy kink and it was honestly one of the worst shoots I’d ever done.”
“Pregnancy kink?” Caroline choked out, feeling like she might burst with suppressed giggles.
“You look so beautiful like this, swollen with my seed,” Klaus drawled in a flat monotone, and Caroline was very glad he’d taken away her wine because it totally would have gone up her nose.
“Oh. My. God.”
“Most of these aren’t known for the writing, you know. I was in high demand for the ones targeted towards women because of the accent, but it wasn’t as though I had loads of options.”
“I know,” Caroline said, pecking him on the cheek and leaning against him as he slid his arm around her shoulders, turning back to watch the TV. “They totally should have just let you improv all the dirty talk, though—oh my god was that supposed to be you coming?”
He was quiet for a second before he spoke, sounding a bit mystified. “Er, that was me coming. It’s much harder for men to fake it, you know.”
“That’s not even close to your o-face, though,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “You look like you’re trying to imitate a shark.”
“My ‘o-face’?” he asked, half-laughing.
“Yeah. It’s much more like…” she paused for a second before trying to imitate it, which only made his chuckle turn into full-blown laughter.
“Oh, does it?”
She huffed. “Listen, you’re the actor here, not me.”
“Barely accurate.”
“No, seriously. You should see it. It’s totally different.”
“Hmm. Maybe it’s just different with you,” he said softly, squeezing her shoulder, and she shot him a chastising look, bumping his shoulder with hers.
“Seriously?”
“What?”
“I’ll prove it,” she said, pushing the blanket on the floor and tugging him up when she stood. “I’m going to blow you in front of a mirror, and you can see for yourself.”
His lips twitched. “And how could I ever refuse to such an offer?”
“I don’t know, because you like staring at my ass, blowjobs, voyeurism, and toys, so honestly I can’t believe we haven’t done this before.”
“I’m not sure the mirror counts as a toy, sweetheart,” he pointed out, though he didn’t exactly seem opposed to it, and she smiled as he pulled her in for a kiss, backing her up towards their bedroom.
She moaned into the kiss when his hands made their way under the shirt she’d stolen from him, stroking her abdomen with quick brushes of his fingers that made her shiver, putting her arms up so that he could tug the henley over her head, letting it fall to the carpet. She reached for his as well, tugging at the hem to get him to pull it off and glancing over her shoulder to make sure that they’d actually made it to the closet mirror before pulling off her boyshorts and dropping to her knees, pressing a kiss to the skin above the waistband of his jeans. She glanced up at him, smirking when she saw that he was watching her intently with dark eyes, his lips slightly parted. She leaned forward and dragged her teeth along his abs, grinning when she felt them grow taut beneath her tongue when she ran it over the scrape, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes half-lidded. “Fuck, Caroline.”
“We haven’t even gotten to the good part yet,” she pointed out as she undid his belt, trying not to laugh. “Maybe you should grab a chair.”
“Every moment with you is ‘the good part’, love,” he said with a cheeky dimpled grin, and she gave him a unimpressed stare as he grabbed the chair for her vanity, pulling it over to face the mirror and pulling his belt out the rest of the way. Her tongue darted over her lips and he undressed completely before sitting down, his cock already hard and leaking precum.
She reached out to wrap her hand around him, stroking him lazily. It had been a long time since she’d needed to study his face for clues on how to touch him, having spent the last few years carefully noting every twitch and flutter of long lashes. It was still gratifying to watch him come apart under her touch, to know that she was the only one who could unravel his self-control.
She’d watched him carefully during the videos, had noted that he went through the motions, but had never seemed to connect with his partner. The way he looked at her was different, though, hungry and lustful, like she was the most desirable woman in the world, and she doubted she’d ever get enough of it.
He was looking at her like that now, his expression full of anticipation and want. “Watch in the mirror,” she reminded, leaning forward to run the tip of her tongue along the base of his cock, flicking it against the base of the head the way she knew he liked it. He groaned, his eyes heavy-lidded, and she saw his fingers twitch in her peripheral vision, clearly itching to tangle in her hair.
She knew that she was wet, could feel her pussy throbbing insistently, and she shifted for friction before spreading her legs to give him a better view in the mirror.
“I love how you look like this,” he muttered, looking down at her as she bent forward to run her tongue along his sac, her hand pressing on his thigh to keep his hips from jerking. “I want to see your pretty lips wrapped around my cock, to watch you try to get the smallest bit of friction while you wish I was fucking your pussy instead.”
“You could after this,” she said, pressing a few soft kisses to his shaft. “Watch my face as you fuck me from behind. Do you want to?”
“Yes,” he hissed, swearing under his breath when she wrapped her other hand around his cock as she withdrew. She took the head in her mouth, sucking hard. Her name came out a low rasp in his throat, his fingers curling against the armrests, and she began to move her mouth in time with her hand, her cheeks hollowing, gaze flicking up to take in his face.
His cheeks were slightly flushed, his arms tense, and he seemed to have settled on watching her ass in the mirror. “Spread your legs more for me, love.”
She hummed around his cock, doing as he asked so that he could more easily see that her thighs were slick, and she pulled back, still stroking him. “Just remember to look at yourself when you come.”
He nodded, though she suspected he would have agreed to anything to get her mouth back on him, and she moved her hand from his thigh to cup his balls, gently stroking them in time with the movements of her hand and mouth, glancing up to make sure that he was looking at the mirror when his body tensed before he spilled into her mouth with a groan, his breathing still harsh when she pulled away.
“Good?” she asked, grinning.
“Clearly.”
“And I was totally right about the face.”
“You were right,” he acknowledged. “Now, how about you sit and I’ll return the favor, hmm?”
“You going to service me?” she teased, standing up, and he snorted, squeezing her hips and leaning forward to run his tongue along the crease underneath her breast, making her instinctively reach for his shoulders to steady herself, her knees buckling as he flicked his tongue against her nipple before pulling back, looking up at her.
“Remembering her ruins the mood for me, love,” he said, and she could tell he was serious. “You’re the only one I want to think of, all right?”
She bit her lip, suddenly feeling a bit of heat in her cheeks at how he was looking at her like she was everything. They’d been married for three years, and her insecurities barely ever surfaced anymore, but reminders of how much he wanted her still occasionally took her breath away.
“I love you too,” she said, running a hand through his hair, returning his smile.
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xoheatherkw · 6 years
Text
Netflix and (Actually) Chill
Hi Cambron! @breakfastfoodclub It’s your Stitchers Secret Santa. I wrote a sick fic where Kirsten takes care of Cameron. I hope you enjoy it! 
Thanks to Laura @e11evenseggos for co-hosting this with me, and my cheerleader/beta Jenn @your-stitcher-thursday (and she helped with title suggestions). 
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Read on AO3 
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 It was all Camille’s fault.
 She had to come into work sick, insisting that she was completely fine to help with their new case. Camille had used all of her sick days for the year, and with her upcoming vacation with Amanda planned, she didn’t have the spare vacation days to take off of work.
 She was barely able to brief them on the case, before Maggie ordered her to go home. The slight sway of her body and the sheen on her forehead didn’t help her case, when she tried to convince Maggie that she could finish out the day.
 That’s how Cameron found himself, sniffling and coughing with the flu just a few days later. His current predicament was alternating between being too hot and too cold. He put on layers and snuggled underneath a comforter, only to find himself sweating fifteen minutes later and taking great effort to escape his comforter.
 He must have dozed off, because he woke to the sound of a knock at his door. He groaned and pulled the blanket over his head.
 Kirsten pressed her ear against the door, listening for any sign that he was awake. Hearing nothing from the other side, she dug her key from her bag and opened the door. 
 She tiptoed inside and shut the door quietly. She kicked off her shoes, set down her supplies in the kitchen that she brought to nurse him back to health, and went to check on him. 
 He was laying on the couch, bundled up in a hoodie and cocooned in a fluffy comforter. She placed the back of her hand to his forehead. He was really warm and was likely running a fever. 
 Not wanting to wake him, she tugged his comforter up a little and returned to the kitchen. 
 She unpacked the nearly overflowing bag. She wasn't sure what he needed, so she got nearly one of everything; decongestant, cough suppressant, fever reducer, cough drops, and a handful of combination drugs. She may have gone overboard, just a tad. She knew that he'd likely want something when he woke up, so she left everything on the counter. 
 Reaching the bottom of the bag, she unpacked the few cans of soup she got. Cameron had most everything else in his well stocked kitchen, but he typically made soup from scratch. And Kirsten didn't have the skills for that. 
 She retrieved a pot and a can opener, and started heating up chicken noodle soup. 
 When Cameron woke, the first thing he noticed was that annoying message on his TV; the 'are you still watching this show?' message on Netflix. He was sick, and other than sleeping, of course he was still watching. 
 He heard a gentle clang coming from his kitchen. He shifted so he was partially upright. "Kirsten?" He asked. 
 "You're up! How are you feeling?" 
 He extracted himself from his very comfortable covers, that were now too hot. "Other than feeling like I'm in an oven, just peachy." He tore off his hoodie, which took a great amount of effort to keep his glasses on straight. 
 "I'm making you soup, it'll be ready in just a minute." She turned back, stirring it with the spoon she had out. 
 He padded over to the kitchen and took a seat at his island. "What's all this?" He pointed as the assortment of drugs that she must have purchased. 
 She turned back to face him, catching the sight of him in a navy tank top and disheveled hair sticking up in every direction. "Well I wasn't sure what you wanted..." She trailed off and sent him an apologetic smile. 
 He reached across the counter to take her hands in his. "Thank you, Stretch." 
 She smiled warmly and patted his hands before returning to his soup. It was now a slow boil, so she turned off the burner. She got out a bowl, poured some of the soup, and set it in front of him. 
 He selected one of the boxes marked 'for cold and flu,' quickly read over the instructions, and popped two capsules out of the foil package and into his mouth. 
 Kirsten grabbed two waters from his fridge and passed him one. He chased down his medication with water, and nearly drained half the bottle from thirst.
 "Care to join me for some Netflix?" He asked with a half-smile. 
 She extended a hand to help him up and juggled their waters with the other, while he picked up his soup. "So, what were you watching?" 
 "Stranger Things," he replied with a slight duck of his head. 
 She bumped his shoulder with her own. "I can't believe you started it without me." Stranger things season two was their next show they were watching together, once they had free time. Nothing like getting sick to force you to have free time. 
 He collapsed on the sofa, shoving his comforter aside to make room for the two of them. "In my defense, I was rewatching season one... And I didn't exactly pay much attention. I remember seeing the restaurant owner call the social worker about Eleven, and woke up to two and a half episodes later." He sipped a tentative spoonful of the soup, finding it to be the perfect temperature. 
 "I know it's not your famous homemade soup, but I was hoping you'd still like it," she said shyly. 
 "It's great Kirsten, really. You didn't have to do all this for me. We could have just ordered in," he suggested.
 She leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek. "Of course, I did. I think it's in the job description," she joked. 
 "If you say so, girlfriend." Not wanting to share any more germs with her, he regrettably couldn't kiss her. So instead, he winked. 
 She blushed lightly and picked up the remote. "So, are we starting back with season one?" She was already clicking up a few episodes and selected play on the very first. 
 "Whatever you want, Cupcake." 
 She leaned into him a little bit, bringing her arm through his.
 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 Cameron at least made it through the first episode this time. At some point during the second episode, Kirsten heard a light snoring next to her. She rewound to the beginning of that episode and exited the app. 
 She carefully placed a pillow where her shoulder was, and pulled the comforter into Cameron's lap, just in case he got cold. Then she went to put away the leftover soup as quietly as she could. She cleaned up the kitchen and put all the medication into his bathroom cabinet. 
 Somewhere in between, Cameron woke up. She came back into the living room and was greeted with a sleepy grin, his glasses slightly askew. 
 "How long was I out?" He asked. 
 "Not long enough. Maybe an hour?" She walked over to him, adjusted his glasses, and pulled him up by the hand. "Let's get you to bed." 
 He didn't have enough energy to argue, so he just hummed in response and followed her. 
 He collapsed into bed, feeling her pull the covers up to him. "You're staying, right?" He mumbled.
 She placed a kiss to his forehead. "Always." It was a little earlier than their usual bedtime, but she figured he needed the extra sleep, and she didn't mind. 
 A few moments later, he felt the gentle dip of the bed and an arm snake across his chest. 
 He opened his eyes just enough to see his girlfriend in one of his Henley shirts. She had insisted that his shirts were more comfortable, and took over his closet months ago. Not that he minded. "Thanks for taking care of me," he muttered. 
 "It was my turn to look after you for once." She lightly tapped his chest with her index finger, right above his heart. "To protect your heart." 
 That had become their little saying, just between the two of them over the course of their relationship. They would say it to each other to convey more than an ‘I love you,’ and the other would know that they were worried about them. Usually, it was in response to Cameron doing something idiotic, like chasing down an armed suspect. But occasionally it was aimed at Kirsten for cutting a bounce too close. One particular instance she had bounced with only one-tenth of a second to spare.
 But those were risks of the job, and they both understood that.
 He smiled at the memory when he first said that to her. He pulled her in closer and pressed a firm kiss to her forehead. "I thought that was my job."
 "You forget that sometimes you need someone to take care of you. And that's where I come in. Get some sleep, Cam," she said gently 
 "Night, K." 
 Cameron was fast asleep within seconds. Kirsten wasn’t that lucky. She kept thinking about how awful he looked earlier, even though he put up a convincing front. That is, to anyone that wasn’t Kirsten.
 She wasn’t the superstitious type, but she figured it couldn’t hurt to stack the deck in their favor. Even if it was from a psychic.
 She opened her top nightstand drawer and immediately found what she was looking for. The quartz that he had given her to protect her heart. She cherished it ever since that day, and snuck it into his palm just a few short days later when he was rushed to the hospital.
 She rolled it between her fingers and placed it underneath his edge of his pillow.
 That gave her some relief, and she fell into a restful sleep within a few minutes.
 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 The next morning, Kirsten woke up first. Not wanting to wake Cameron, as he desperately needed sleep, she carefully got out of bed and threw on jeans.
 Despite Cameron’s insistence on teaching her to cook, she figured that breakfast in bed would be much more appealing (and less of a disaster) if she picked up something from his favorite café just around the corner from his apartment.
 She placed an order with a few quick taps on her phone, left a note on her pillow in case he woke up, and was out the door within a few minutes.
 When she got back, she peeked into the bedroom, seeing that Cameron was still asleep.
 She went back to the kitchen and got out the breakfast quiches, hash browns, and pastries. She paired that with fruit and made tea for the both of them. Coincidentally enough, Cameron bought serving trays when he surprised Kirsten with breakfast in bed for her birthday a few months prior. She got them out of his pantry and loaded up both trays with breakfast.
 She picked up one tray and carried it into the bedroom, meeting a very sleepy and confused Cameron.
 His eyes softened when he met her face. “I missed you,” he said.
 She smiled brightly. “I thought you’d still be asleep. You need your rest.” She set the tray down above his knees and leaned it to press a kiss to his lips.
 He kissed her back with the slightest pressure, before realizing “-I don’t want you to get sick,” he whispered against her lips.
 “I think I’ll take my chances.” She smirked and went back in for another kiss, as Cameron backed away.
 “You say that now,” he reiterated. “Just don’t blame me when you get sick.”
 “Fine,” she pouted. “Just eat your breakfast. I’ll go grab mine and join you.”
 She shimmied out of her jeans, favoring pajama pants instead, and returned with her breakfast.
 She pulled up the menu on his TV and settled in next to him. “Netflix and chill?” she asked. “But actually chill,” she added.
 Cameron nearly choked on his bite of a pastry, but nodded after he regained composure. “Yeah, sure.”
 They had finished breakfast and were into the second episode of the day, when Cameron had a thought. “Do I need to call in? Or did you let Maggie know already?”
 “I texted her last night. She gave me explicit instructions that you were not allowed back at work for seventy-two hours. Camille got half the lab sick!”
 “Well at least I’m not the only one.” He let out a light laugh and pulled her tighter.
 So, they spent the day relaxing and with the occasional nap (on Cameron’s part).
 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 The day they were supposed to go back to work, Cameron was feeling better, but Kirsten had caught the flu. Which turned into another few days of soup and binge watching shows together.
 He returned the favor by making her homemade chicken noodle soup, and breakfast in bed.
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gusenitsaa · 7 years
Text
En Garde
Another deleted scene style fic, around the time of 6x09. Emma hasn't told her family about her visions yet, and decides that fencing lessons from Killian might improve her chances of defeating Gideon.  I’ve written Killian teaching Emma to fence before, fluffily, but it seemed a good time to update the headcanon with the added angst of those visions!  
Read on FF!
There was no time for a moving day; not when every day brought a new disaster, a new story no one was sure if they wanted to see the end of. A single chest of Killian's belongings moved in the first day, set carefully next to a box in her closet, waiting for a quiet moment to be shared. His jackets mingled with hers in the closet, his boots sat neatly underneath the hung leathers and books and papers were gradually filling the empty spaces of their house. Sometimes Killian mentioned something that he would need to get from his ship and within a couple hours it would appear on the kitchen table. He suspected she was testing her magic on his belongings when he was not looking, but it saved him a trip and hopefully calmed her frayed nerves, so he simply thanked her with a kiss on the cheek and filed another hole in a still too empty home.
Two battered sticks joined her boots next to the door, growing more banged up each day as Killian and Henry sparred in the front yard in their spare moments. It warmed her heart to see them spending time together, but from time to time the sight filled her with sudden dread as wooden practice swords were replaced in her mind by sharp steel and unresponsive magic. She fought for her life without a sound, clasping her hand tight to hide her battle from her family no more than a few paces away.
Henry hugged her tight when her eyes were distant and Killian pressed her shaking hand to his lips with questioning eyes. She caught them glancing at each other sometimes, when she told them again that she was fine. They had finally stopped asking with their lips, perhaps hoping she would tell them eventually on her own, but their eyes ever begged her for an explanation that was not forthcoming. She refused to give voice to the whole story, refused to interrupt the happy illusion she had built for herself.
The stick flew from Henry's hand once more and Killian laughed, leaning his own against the steps. "You're doing better, lad. But I've the reach of my arm and a couple hundred years training head start."
"Aren't you supposed to let me win sometimes?" Henry grumbled halfheartedly, diving to retrieve his 'weapon.'
"Never!" Killian insisted. "One of these days you will disarm me. And you will know for certain that it will not be because I let you do so. Now off with you, lad, your mother will end me if you're late for school again." Henry tossed his stick to Killian who caught it as the boy bolted for the bus, grumbling about how between two magical moms, shouldn't he just appear at school?
Killian laughed and gave Henry's pole a practice swing or two as he turned back towards the house, to his surprise he was met with the sudden appearance of a pole aiming for his head. He ducked by impulse, his arm moving before he'd the chance to identify the person on the other end of the attack. Emma grinned at him, blocking his swing with the stick he'd put down a moment ago.
"My turn, pirate. Someone ought to bring you down a peg or two!"
Killian smirked, breaking away and moving to circle her. "You think so? You may have the advantage with firearms and fireworks but swordplay... Swordplay is my strength, love."
"You underestimated me the last time we dueled. Haven't you learned your lesson?"
"I did. But that is not why you won."
"Why did I win, then?" Emma retorted. She grew tired of waiting for Killian to make the first move and dove forward, seeking an opening that was gone as soon as she moved. Suddenly she was on the defense, pressed backwards step by step until her boot smacked against the bottom of their steps. She wavered for a moment and then fell backwards, only saved from a bruised backside by Killian's hook, which had suddenly slipped through her belt loop and tugged her upright again.
"You won because I did not wish to see you die on that lakebed, my dear."
"Okay... maybe I could use a few pointers," she admitted.
"Why the sudden interest in fencing, love?"
"It couldn't hurt to be prepared, right?"
"And you think a few tricks with a blade will make you better prepared?" He reached for her hand, which had begun to tremble.
His eyes were questioning her again and she forced a smile. "I mean why not? Things are crazy, and it doesn't look like they're gonna let up anytime soon And it's an excuse to spend some time together, just the two of us. Wouldn't you like that?"
"Of course, Emma. Perhaps once all this madness with the untold stories is ov- "
"Not after. Now."
"Now?" Her eyes were blazing with determination and he tilted his head to one side, studying her intently,
"Right now!" She held out her hand to him and he took it without question. Their house vanished and the smell of salt brought a smile to his lips. When his vision cleared they were on the deck of the Jolly Roger.
"Right now it is, then." Emma had replaced the wooden stick in her hand with steel and he raised his eyebrows. "I've a better idea." Killian moved to the hatch to his cabin, knocking twice before pulling the hatch open. "Permission to come in?" he called.
Emma heard Belle's voice call something back that must have been affirmation, because Killian pulled the hatch the rest of the way open and dropped inside.
"Oh Emma!" Belle exclaimed, upon seeing her peeking her head into the opening. "I'd been meaning to thank you."
Emma cocked her head to one side, squatting down to get a better look into the cabin. To her surprise she saw that the cabin was now strewn with flowers and old books, with a tea pot steaming cheerfully in the center of the table.
"For what?"
"Excuse us, Lady Belle," Killian interrupted, reaching behind her to a pair of swords hooked to the wall "I just needed to grab these. Emma and I were going to have a bit of a lesson above, will that bother you?"
"Of course not," she said cheerfully, "it's still your ship, Killian."
Belle might have fallen for the distraction, but Emma noticed the pink suddenly at the tips of Killian's ears and a smile spilt her lips. "What were you saying Belle, what did you want to thank me for?"
"Oh, Killian told me about all this that you sent over, you were right, it is really wonderful to have some familiar things around right now when things are so..." The pink in Killian's ears had spread to his cheeks but now Belle noticed it too, though she may have been clued in by Emma's chuckle.
Before she had a chance to say anything Killian was up the ladder and she chuckled, following close behind.
"Killian?" she prodded gently. "Why does Belle think the flowers were my idea?"
"Bloody hell, Swan, leave a man his pride," Killian grumbled, tossing her one of the swords.
She shook her head and turned her attention to the sword in her hand, "So, why is this better than ours?"
"Training blade, sharp enough to cut but only just," he explained. "If I'm to be sparring with you, I'd prefer to not be constantly in fear of doing you grievous harm should you trip on a loose plank." She ran her finger along the edge, which was hardly sharper than a dinner knife. "I was going to move Henry on to them soon. I had them filed down when I taught... well, let's just say they've not seen use in many years."
"These are perfect, Killian," she said with a small smile.
The hatch door popped open behind them and Belle pulled herself up, grumbling about swollen feet as she did so. The red returned to Killian's cheeks instantly as Belle marched her way across the deck toward him. The point of his practice blade hit the deck with a thud as Belle walked up to him and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.
"You're sweet as well as clever, Killian. I can't ever thank you enough for everything you've done for us."
"It's nothing more than you deserve," he replied and Emma grinned, Captain Hook, scourge of the high seas was blushing like a school girl, right to the tips of his ears. With a final squeeze she released him and made her way back to the hatch and Killian glanced back at Emma.
"Not a word to the lad about the flowers," he grumbled, "or your father, not a word to Dave."
"It will be our little secret," she agreed, raising the practice sword to get a feel for its weight. She could feel the beginning of the trembling in her hand and she tightened her grip in response, reminding herself again and again that the hilt in her hand would not be the one to...
"Relax, love." Killian's voice came from behind her, she had been so focused to hiding the tremors that she hadn't even seen him move. "Widen your stance, bring your foot forward to here," he tapped the deck and she glared up at him. "I think I'm a little past fighting stance, Killian."
"Did anyone ever teach you a proper stance?"
"No, I just-"
"Perhaps you can humor an old pirate then? This is the foundation. Coming back into this position should be so second nature you do not think about it. Because there will be no time to think about it." He moved behind her and ran his hand up her arm to where her hand clenched the hilt with an iron grip. "Relax."
" Killian-" Emma grumbled, "if I relax my grip I'm just going to be disarmed."
"That yellow contraption of yours, Emma, do you ever feel the need to get out and push?"
Emma took a deep breath trying to push back down the mounting irritation. She didn't have time for this. "No Killian, but I don't see how-"
"You do not feel the need to push your vessel, only guide it on its way. The blade has one job, and it is far better at doing it then you are. Let it do its job. You simply guide it on its way."
"Did you make Henry sit though all of this before getting to the good stuff?"
Killian's face fell and he took a step back. "What is your hurry, love? I thought you wished to spend this time together?"
Emma shook her head, letting the blade fall as she stepped forward. "I'm sorry. Killian. I just don't think I have time for the wax-on wax-off treatment. I need to practice, I need to-"
"Before what?"
Emma stopped speaking abruptly and glanced down at the deck.
"Emma please. Why won't you tell me what haunts you so?"
"I'm fi-"
"Don't-" His jaw tensed and there was sudden fire in his eyes that dried up the word before it fell from her lips. "Do not lie to me again."
"Killian-"
"Refuse to answer. Tell me to shove off. Do what you will, but do not... lie to me."
"I'm not fine," she admitted, "but I can't... talk about it yet. Can we just practice?"
Killian nodded, moving behind her again and to her surprise gave her a slight nudge forward. She lost her balance and stumbled forward, turning to glare at him as she recovered herself.
"That is why you need a proper stance," he told her, eyes sparkling with amusement.
The clash of metal echoed across the water, rapid clanging and quiet grunts and not a word between them. She wanted to tease him, something about having so many more years of practice than she had. Something flirtatious or... her grunt of frustration was no longer for another successful parry. He fenced like it was no more difficult than breathing, the blade an extension of himself; as much a part of him as his hook. What he had in grace she made up for in sheer frustrated passion, blow after blow pushing him back by sheer force of will rather than finesse.
She'd finally told him of her visions two days ago, and it might as well have turned him to stone. His jaw was tense, his eyes hard. But he didn't say a word. Not one teasing comment... not one smirk on his lips. She lunged forward again. Too slow, or he'd seen it coming. Either way the blow she had anticipated he would block was instead dodged and she dropped her blade to catch herself, the deck of his ship as hard and unyielding as his eyes had become.
He sheathed his blade and offered her a hand and she glared up at him defiantly. "Damn it Killian, say something."
His gaze softened and he cocked his head to one side. "What do you wish to hear?"
"You've been bottling it up for days. Just ... just do it. I don't have time for this passive aggressive-"
"You will have time," Killian cut her off.
"Please, Killian?"
"Have I upset you, love? You wished to practice with a blade and I have obliged you. For hours each day, this is what you wanted is it not?"
"You're mad at me," she pressed, "for refusing the scissors. Aren't you?"
"Whatever course you set, Emma. I am with you."
"Stop... stop telling me that. And just say it. Just tell me you hate it-"
"Of course I bloody hate it!" She had asked for this, prodded him into it but still she jumped when his words rang out loud enough for her to be glad that Belle had left for Granny's. His jaw clenched as he reigned in his temper. "I wish I could beg you to take the easy way. To assure your survival no matter what the cost. But I can't and you won't and I hate it. I hate it." She didn't even bother sheathing her blade, and it dropped to the deck with a clatter as she buried herself in his arms. "But I am with you," he whispered, "whatever the course."
"I keep telling people... Henry, my parents... that I'm going to win," she whispered, her voice trembling. "But if these lessons have taught me anything it's that without control of my magic I'm just... a sub-par fencer. I'm not fast enough, Killian."
"This isn't about swordplay, Emma," Killian said. "Bloody hell, if this was a contest of steel alone it would be my fight, not yours."
"But in my vision-"
"Damn the visions," he interrupted. "Emma, I will practice swordplay with you until we're both raw and weary to the bone if that's what it will take to give you the confidence you need. But when Ashley's life was on the line, it was not an elegant parry that saved her. You took control of your magic when it counted." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, "You will again."
He was right of course, and when she crossed blades with Gideon her grip was a little more relaxed, her stance a little more balanced. And it wasn't what saved her, but she stood a little taller for having crossed blades with Captain Killian Jones.
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everlarkficexchange · 7 years
Text
LBJ
Author: @peetabreadgirl
Rating: M 
Prompt 12:, Anonymous, Katniss is trying to study in the library, but she can’t keep her eyes from wandering over to Peeta, who’s reading a comic book a few tables over. 
I took some liberties here. No comic book, but he’s still distracting her. And I included a bit of jealousy. Because that’s one of my favorite tropes and I just can’t help myself. ;) Enjoy the short read!
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��Can we at least walk inside together?” Peeta asks as his girlfriend steps briskly ahead of him towards the library, her long dark braid swaying in time with her delicate hips. Hips that he was just buried inside thirty minutes ago.  
She turns her head to the side but doesn’t slow down. “What if they see us together and suspect something?”
He takes a few quick strides and catches up to her, grabbing her elbow so she can’t get too far away. She always does this. Gets nervous about them being found out and puts distance between them in public. So what if he’s Professor Abernathy’s aid and she’s a student in his class? They’re not doing anything wrong. Sure, it’s frowned upon for campus staff to date students, but he can handle the stares and judgement if it means he’ll be able to hold her hand in a crowd or put his arm around her. Especially in front of a few of the guys he knows have their eye on her.
“Then they’d be right?” he says, trying to keep his grief over the secret romance under wraps. “Katniss, let them suspect all they want.”
“I don’t want anyone saying I slept my way into an A, Peeta. We’ve talked about this.”
“If that were the case you’d have to sleep with Professor Abernathy,” Peeta says, and he sees Katniss shiver before shooting daggers at him from her silver eyes.
“Gross, Peeta.”
“I’m just saying I don’t give the grades so your reasoning doesn’t work.”
“But you have the ear of the one who does and the answers to all the tests. I don’t want the GPA I’ve worked hard for these last two years tainted by rumors of cheating.”
Peeta sighs in defeat and drops her arm. He’s so ready for the semester to be over. Six more weeks and they can stop pretending they just bump into each other around campus. It’s a small school and a lot of people know each other so he understands her concerns, and he would never force her to jeopardize her reputation or her grades, but he has a hard time caring as much as she does. Or at all, really.  
He lets her go ahead of him into the building and he waits a few minutes before going in himself. His eyes dart around the room until he finds her at a table with her study group. It doesn’t help that the most notorious campus flirt is sitting next to her.
Peeta knows there won’t be anything between them. Finnick Odair has already tried and Katniss gave him the rejection heard ‘round the campus. She’s famous for it. Finnick never gets turned down, and it’s one of the reasons it took Peeta so long to finally ask her out; fear of being rejected himself. He doesn’t have anywhere near the confidence that Finnick has.
He’d noticed Katniss as a freshman but it wasn’t until two years later that she walked into his classroom. The heavens opened up when she smiled shyly at him. His heart thudded wildly in his chest and he knew he’d have to try or live to regret it.
He sits at a table across the library from her and opens a book he’s been reading. A few pages into the new chapter, he glances up in her direction and finds her watching him from underneath her dark eyelashes, a pen tapping away at her bottom lip. She’s so beautiful it makes his chest hurt. She eclipses every other person in the room and the best part of it is she has no idea how she affects him. Or anyone, for that matter.
He stares back and raises one eyebrow in question. Her eyes flit to the others in the group before she looks back down at her book, hiding a smile. It relaxes him instantly and he forgets the frustration of their earlier exchange. He doesn’t look away, waiting for the next flick of her gaze in his direction. He doesn’t have to wait long before those long lashes flutter up and her dark gray irises find his. He gives her a sly wink that makes her lips curl up, and he almost laughs out loud at the comical way her mouth moves up and down with the force of trying to cover her smile.
Peeta notices one of the other students asks her a question and she looks over at the dark-haired boy, shakes her head, says something, then goes back to the book. Katniss doesn’t see it, but the guy looks in Peeta’s direction, so he drops his head back into his own book before eye contact can be made. He must have wondered what was distracting her.
“Hey, Peeta, whatcha doin’?” A female whisper pulls him from the words he wasn’t reading anyway. The chair next to him is drawn back and Delly Cartwright, Professor Trinket’s aid, settles herself into it.
“Nothing really,” he whispers back, “just catching up on some reading. How are you, Delly?” She gives him a bright smile when he turns his attention to her.
“Never better!” Peeta can feel her exuberance even through her whispering. It’s one of the reasons it’s easy to like her - she’s always happy. Always nice to him.
They talk for a bit, exchanging what it’s like to work for the two most eccentric professors on  campus. Professor Abernathy is a gruff man who shows up to work smelling like cheap whiskey, but he’s a brilliant teacher. He’s taught Peeta a lot.
Professor Trinket is the exact opposite - refined to the point that there’s nothing natural left, at least on the outside. Her speech and mannerisms make her seem like she’s constantly awaiting an invitation from the Queen of England. She’s a nice enough lady, but Peeta’s glad he doesn’t have to work with her.
He’s trying not to ignore Delly, but he risks a few glances over at Katniss, prepared to give her some kind of expression to make her blush, but she’s focused on her notes, her pen scribbling furiously across her paper.
“I hear Professor Abernathy is retiring at the end of the semester,” Delly says, pulling his attention back to their conversation.
“Really?”
Delly nods her head enthusiastically. This is news to him.
“Effie told me,” she says with a knowing smile. Delly and Peeta have had many conversations about the nature of their professors’ relationship. They seem to be secretive, much like himself and Katniss, but they’re not really fooling anyone. It’s fun to sit around and compare the slip-ups they make. Like the time Professor A came out of Effie’s supply closet and told Delly he was in there looking for staples because he was out. But oddly, so were they. Delly swore they had some and she went to look, only to find Effie adjusting her blouse, her wig askew on the top of her head. It was the first time they had proof Effie’s hair wasn’t her own.
When Delly emerged with a box of staples in hand, Professor A was long gone and Effie was making excuses about why she needed to adjust her undergarments.
Delly lays her hand on Peeta’s arm and leans in close to tell him he should apply for the position. “You’re almost done with your masters and you’re the most logical choice, Peeta. Plus you’re amazing.” She winks at him.
Their faces are only inches apart as they huddle there, talking in hushed tones about the opportunity, Peeta giving his concerns while Delly encourages him to go for it. He glances over at Katniss a few times, noting her pinched brow and a scowl he only sees when she’s annoyed about something. He wonders if one of the guys in the study group has upset her.
Protectiveness rears its head inside him and he has to fight going over there and demanding to know what or whom has made her unhappy, but he can’t. Not without blowing their cover. He takes a deep breath and looks at his watch. There’s only five minutes left until she’ll be done. Then he can find out what happened, and if Odair made some slimey remark to her, he’s going to have a hard time controlling himself.
The next five minutes go by painfully slowly, and Peeta keeps shooting cautious looks Katniss’s way while trying to concentrate on what Delly is saying. At one point his bubbly companion laughs, he has no idea what about, but he laughs with her anyway. What feels like the hundredth glance in Katniss’s direction tells him her scowl may be meant for him rather than anyone in her group.
Her eyes are shooting flaming arrows directly at him. His heart freezes with fear and he wonders what he’s done. Then he realizes it’s not him she’s killing with her glare. It’s Delly. The sweet, blonde, blue-eyed girl that could pass as his sister. The girl who’s only ever been, and only ever will be, a good friend to him. The girl who currently has her hand around his bicep and her head thrown back in quiet laughter.
If looks could kill, Delly would be slumped over in her chair right this very minute with zero chance for resuscitation. Now, the five minutes can’t come slow enough as the protectiveness he felt for his girlfriend earlier switches over to Delly. He doesn’t want his friend to die, but the look on his girlfriend’s face as she packs up her things tells him it’s likely.
He also doesn’t want Katniss to do something she’ll regret. As much as he would love to drop the whole facade and let the cat out of the bag right this very minute, he knows how hard she’s worked for her GPA and that she hates to be gossipped about. And he can’t let her throw it all away because of a misunderstanding.
Peeta stands as she marches towards them and tells Delly goodbye, hoping she’ll leave quickly. No such luck. Katniss reaches them and stops, the anger clear on her face.
“Katniss, how are you?” He tries to act normal, like every other time they’ve ‘run into’ each other.
“I’ve had better days,” she bites out.
“Is…. everything okay?” Delly asks, but Peeta doesn’t take his eyes off Katniss, and neither does she remove hers from him. He wills her with his gaze not to do anything rash, like kiss him or slap him or mark her territory in some way. Not for him - he’d love it - but for her. He doesn’t want to be part of her regret when the emotions die down later.
“Great,” Katniss answers tightly. “I, um, just have some questions for Peeta. About an assignment.” She finally looks at Delly. “Do you mind if I steal him away?”
“No, go right ahead,” Delly says in her usual chipper tone. “We were just catching up. Can you meet me for dinner tonight, Peeta?”
If it’s possible, Katniss’s scowl deepens and her eyes blaze like wildfire before he looks over at Delly. “Actually, Del, I have plans tonight.”
“Oh?” Delly replies curiously, looking from Katniss to Peeta.
“Yeah. Maybe another time,” he offers, only to put an end to the conversation before Katniss blows up and takes them all out. “I’ll catch you later, alright?”
Thankfully, Delly says goodbye and practically bounces away from them seeming none the wiser. Peeta’s eyes dart around the large space, wondering if the few people left inside can sense the tension between him and Katniss. It certainly feels like it could suffocate everyone in the library to him.
“You had a question, Katniss?” he asks, a little relief mixed with a tone he tries to keep very professional when they’re out in public. He’s perfected it over the couple of months they’ve been together.
“She likes you,” Katniss says to him a little too loudly.
“She doesn’t,” he says quietly, watching as Katniss’s eyes narrow in disbelief. “But even if she did, I. Like. You.” He has to try not to tap her on the end of her nose or lean in and capture her lips with his because, while jealous Katniss is terrifying, she’s also damn adorable and a total turn on. He had no idea she could be so possessive. It pulls at his desire and the crotch of his pants begins to tighten.
Her eyes run the length of him and back up, meeting his stare with a heat that could thaw a block of ice. The wheels in her head are clearly turning.
She begins to walk away, throwing him a look over her shoulder that dares him not to follow her. When he sees she’s headed in the direction of the geology aisle, a field their small school doesn’t have anymore, he knows her intentions. There’s only one reason anyone goes to the back of the library, and while he’s never been one to take a girl back there, he can’t help the rush of excitement he feels.
He scans the room again to be sure no one is watching and waits until she disappears around a tall line of bookshelves, her braid swinging over her shoulder the last thing he sees before he casually sets off in the same direction. It’s a maze getting back there; the perfect spot for the indecency he’s anxious for, but before he can round the last corner, Katniss catches him by surprise, yanking him by the shirt to pull him up against her.
“You’re mine, Peeta,” she rasps against his tingling lips. Her silver eyes bore into his, glinting like the head of a sharp arrow piercing the sun’s rays headed straight for him. He wants to fly through the air, open his arms and expose his chest, meeting it halfway. Let it penetrate his heart and stay rooted there for eternity.
There is barely time for him to breathe, let alone agree thathe belongs only to her, before she crushes her mouth to his in the most intense kiss he’s ever felt. He stumbles backwards into a large bookshelf, pulling Katniss with him. They rattle a row of books, breaking their kiss just in time to see a few of them fall to the ground with a heavy thud. They still, breaths halted and ears perked, listening for anyone that might have overheard the commotion. Seconds tick by feeling like hours.
Peeta quirks an eyebrow at Katniss, and she arches one back. Her lips spread into a slow grin as her hands wander their way down his chest to the waistband of his jeans, popping the button through its hole. The metallic sound of the zipper being tugged down slices through the quiet of the back aisle and Peeta groans when her palm finds his hardening cock. She kisses him hard as she pumps him a few times before dropping to her knees.
He can feel his eyes almost pop out of his head as her wet, hot mouth slips over his swollen flesh. He watches, mesmerized, while she bobs her head, lips touching her hand where she holds the base of his shaft. His heart pulses in time with the short breaths that leave his chest and he reaches to palm the back of Katniss’s head, her hair soft on his skin, careful not to interrupt her perfect rhythm. This isn’t the first time she’s done this for him, and it seems like it’s her life’s mission to make it better every time.
His head drops back, thudding against the hard shelf, but he doesn’t feel it. All he registers is her tongue swirling around his cock and his body does a little shiver at the building of his orgasm. He anchors himself to the shelf behind him, needing the stability of the solid wood frame to keep him from crumbling to the ground when he comes.
“Katnisssss,” he moans her name softly, barely remembering where they are, and tilts his head down to watch her one last time before he finishes. His lids are heavy, vision cloudy with lust and pleasure. He knows she won’t back off, but he warns her just the same before his body tenses and he spills into her mouth. He tries to keep quiet, but feeling her swallowing his cum is too much and he lets out a guttural groan followed by a few curse words.
Peeta’s breathing is barely under control when Katniss stands after wiping her mouth, a crooked grin on her face. “And don’t you forget it,” she says, poking him softly in the chest. He catches her by the wrist, pulling her flush against him and gives her a Sunday afternoon kind of kiss, slow but thorough.
“I think I better take you back to my place so I can return the favor,” he whispers before nuzzling his lips beneath her ear. “You go out first and I’ll follow in a few minutes.”
She steps away when he tucks himself back into his jeans and begins to straighten his clothing. “No,” she says thoughtfully. Peeta pauses what he’s doing and looks at her, brows drawn together quizzically.
“No… you don’t want to go back to my place?”
Katniss shakes her head. “No. Not that. Of course I want to go back to your place. I mean no, I don’t want to walk out first.”
Peeta shrugs. It really doesn’t matter to him what order they leave the library so long as they end up back together. “Okay then, I’ll go first,” he concedes, and heads towards the exit after making sure he’s decent.
He rounds the corner when he’s startled with the feel of a hand sliding into his. He stops in his tracks as Katniss comes to stand next to him, a genuine smile plastered across thoroughly kissed lips.
“What are you-”
“No, I don’t want to walk out first or last, Peeta.” It dawns on him what Katniss is saying. Since they’ve been dating he’s learned to pick up on the subtle hints she gives, considering she’s not the best at expressing herself with words. He doesn’t mind, though, and finds it’s a great excuse to pay her all the attention she deserves anyway.
“Together?” he asks, hoping he’s reading her right.
It makes his heart swell with love when she nods and says,“Together.”
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hmhteen · 7 years
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HMH Teen Teasers: Read an Excerpt of THE DISAPPEARANCES by Emily Bain Murphy!
THE DISAPPEARANCES is truly a book with something for everyone: an historical mystery with fantasy and paranormal elements and, of course, a breathtaking romance. Here, we’ll let this STARRED REVIEW from @publishersweekly explain it better: “Sumptuous worldbuilding, richly developed characters, and a swoon-worthy romance elevate this delightful, fantasy-tinged mystery."
Here’s the synopsis, and you can read the first two chapters right after!
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What if the ordinary things in life suddenly…disappeared?
Aila Quinn’s mother, Juliet, has always been a mystery: vibrant yet guarded, she keeps her secrets beyond Aila’s reach. When Juliet dies, Aila and her younger brother Miles are sent to live in Sterling, a rural town far from home--and the place where Juliet grew up.
Sterling is a place with mysteries of its own. A place where the experiences that weave life together--scents of flowers and food, reflections from mirrors and lakes, even the ability to dream--vanish every seven years.
No one knows what caused these “Disappearances,” or what will slip away next. But Sterling always suspected that Juliet Quinn was somehow responsible--and Aila must bear the brunt of their blame while she follows the chain of literary clues her mother left behind.  
As the next Disappearance nears, Aila begins to unravel the dual mystery of why the Disappearances happen and who her mother truly was. One thing is clear: Sterling isn’t going to hold on to anyone's secrets for long before it starts giving them up.
 CHAPTER ONE
Aila
Gardner, Connecticut
September 27, 1942
  I want something of hers.
There’s a teacup downstairs, the last one she used before she died. She didn’t finish her chicory coffee that morning, and what she left stained the porcelain in a faint ring. Her lipstick remains smudged in Red Letter Red along the rim. It’s been three weeks and I still haven’t been able to wash it away.
But I shouldn’t choose the teacup. Nothing fragile is going to survive today.
“Aila?” Cass opens my bedroom door, her white blond hair pinned up in a plait, her wide eyes darker than normal. “Your father says I can come with you to the train station, but we have to leave in five minutes.”
“I’ll be ready,” I say softly. “I would be more worried about Miles.”
She nods and disappears back into the hallway. Her footsteps fall on creaking boards and then the house returns to its solemn hush, so quiet you can almost hear the dust settle. As if we have all already left it.
Five minutes.
I go to my parents’ room.
It’s been tidied since the last time I was here; the day of my mother’s memorial. Now the bed is made. All of the flowers have been cleared away. Her vanity is free of her compacts and even the precious glass vial of “Joy” she always displayed but hardly ever wore. I open her drawers, run my fingertips over her jewelry, but it’s all tangled and gaudy and I want to leave it there, just as she left it. As if she could come in at any moment and clip on her big, ugly earrings, as bright and jagged as suns.
I turn to the bookshelf. It, too, has been sorted, but I prefer the way it used to look, when the books were all jumbled and wedged in at odd angles, threatening to fall onto my feet.
My eye catches a large leather volume, its spine dwarfing all of the rest. I’ve never seen it before. I kneel down in front of it, my knees finding the threadbare place where the rug has worn almost through to the floor.
I pull out the book and flip through the pages. They whisper against my fingers, thin and delicate like moth wings. It is Shakespeare, a collection of his plays and poems, and my mother’s handwriting is everywhere in it, littering the margins and cluttering the white gaps between sentences in different colored ink. The pages are yellowing, as if Mother has had this book for a long time. I wonder where it’s been hiding until now.
An envelope is taped to the back cover. It is blank, and unsealed, and there is a note inside.
“Aila! Miles!” Father’s voice rings out from the kitchen.
“Coming!” I call back.
The note was written recently; I can tell by the way her handwriting shakes like it did when she was nearing the end.  It says:
Stefen: You will find what you asked for within this. I will always love you.
Your Viola
 My attention snags on the two names. Because the first one does not belong to my father. And the second, though it is definitely my mother’s handwriting, was not her name. My mother was the other well-known Shakespeare heroine. The one who also died young.
Juliet.
“Aila!” my father calls again. This time, it’s more of a warning.
Leave it, I think. You don’t even like Shakespeare.
And maybe I don’t want to know who this Stefen is.
I put the book back on the shelf and decide that I want the teacup. It is my mother just as I remember her: safe and familiar and still marked by her touch. I’ll bring it even if I have to hold it on my lap, cupped in my hands like a butterfly for the entire journey.
I hurry down the narrow stairs, which seem to slope more and more to the right each year. I’ve never lived anywhere but this house—what we fondly call “the Tilt”—and I know just where to place my hand on the banister to keep my balance and where to step so the stairs don’t creak. When I reach the landing I hear my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Reid. She’s in the kitchen with Father, taking final instructions for watching over the Tilt while we’re gone. She’s opening drawers and closing them, and I’m sure she’s the one who organized my mother’s books. Maybe out of guilt.
“I’m sorry, again, Harold, that we aren’t able to take the children,” she says. I pause on the staircase, in the shadows. All I can see are her stockinged calves and the worn leather of her pumps, but I picture her lips pursing down, her white hair wispy and always looking as though it’s being swept heavenward by the wind. “With Earl’s health,” she continues. “I just didn’t feel like we could manage them both.”
She means that she would have taken me, but not Miles. She doesn’t want to be responsible when he inevitably steals something or sets a fire. The creases in Mrs. Reid’s pumps deepen as she shifts her weight. “I thought someone else in town would surely be able to help, but….” She trails off.
“Well, thankfully we’ve found other arrangements,” Father says stiffly. Then he turns away to yell again, but I appear in front of him before he can say my name.
“I’m here,” I say. My eyes fall from Mrs. Reid’s overly rouged cheeks to her hands, where she’s been anxiously fiddling with something. A tea towel embroidered with green leaves—and my mother’s teacup, scrubbed shiny clean.
I swallow. “I forgot one thing,” I say, turning, and running back up the stairs. I touch my mother’s dresses one more time, hanging in neat, still lines in the closet, knowing they will be packed in storage or given away by the time I return. Then I grab the book of plays, stuffing it into my knapsack without another thought.
#
Father drives us to the train station in our mud-streaked Studebaker; he and Miles in the front and Cass and me in the backseat, my knapsack with the book laying heavy on the seat between us. “Think Mrs. Reid can handle the Tilt while we’re away?” Father asks. He smiles at me in the mirror and reaches over to ruffle Miles’ hair, but Miles just stares straight ahead. I don’t let myself look at the browning dahlias in Mother’s flower boxes as we pull away.
Everything is in motion when we arrive at the station, like the air itself is anxious. Posters flutter on the walls, pigeons flap and peck, tow-white strands of Cass’s hair whip loose from her braid. She helped me set my wave this morning because I’ve always liked the way she does it best, but I can already feel it starting to fall. My dress clings to my legs and my ankles are sweating inside my bobby socks. It’s unseasonably hot for late September. Cass and I step into the shadows of the eaves while Miles and my father purchase our tickets. I lean against a war poster that warns, “Telling a friend may mean telling THE ENEMY.” An advertisement over Cass’ head promises an “ALL-AMERICAN sugar with energy crystallized by the sun!”
Overhead, the clouds swirl like soup.
“You’ll come back soon,” Cass says.  
“You’ll write,” I answer.
“I wish you could stay with me,” she says, tears brightening her eyes. She is my oldest friend, the one who climbed into bed behind me on the day my mother died and braided my hair until I fell asleep. The next morning I found she’d woven in her favorite ribbon, the cerulean one embroidered with flowers, that she’d always planned to wear to our first school dance.  
“I wish I could, too,” I say. Being stuffed in a room with Cass and her three older sisters sounds better than the unknown ahead, even though I’ve always been a little frightened of Cass’ mother.
Cass stares at the suitcase at our feet. “You’re not going to fall in love with some swoony out there and never come back, are you?”
I squeeze her hand. “Maybe now Dixon Fairweather will finally realize what a dish I am.”
She starts to cry-laugh as my father joins us on the platform, looking down at the newly purchased tickets in one hand and clutching my brother’s suitcase in his other.        “Where’s Miles?” I ask, and my father glances up with the pained look of someone who has spent too long staring at the sun.
“He was just here,” he says.
Our train is coming down the tracks, its white smoke pillowing up into the sky.  The brassy clang of the bell grows louder.
“I’ll check the entrance,” I say, snatching up my bag.
“Lavatory,” my father says.
“I’ll take the staircase,” Cass volunteers.
There are people everywhere in the depot, mostly women and children, now that so many of the men have been plucked away to fight. I walk through the snaking line and peer out into the street, the heat and train bell in my ears, my heart quick and light. He is not there.
I’m searching for the burnt copper of his hair but on the way back to the platform I glimpse the tweed of his cap instead. Miles is sitting on the floor of the station, eating a half-melted Peppermint Patty he must have hidden in the pocket of his shorts.  
I want to jerk his arm, or at least rip the candy from his hand. Instead I stand and let my shadow fall over him.
“Golly gee,” he says flatly. “You found me.”
“Miles,” I hiss. “We were looking for you. Why did you run off?” I ask, although part of me wishes that he had actually gone far enough to make us miss the train.
“Use your eyes,” he mumbles. “I was hungry.”
“Use your head. This is why no one here was willing to take us,” I say, but I soften the words by offering him a hand up. He follows me, dragging his feet, back out to the platform, to my father and Cass.
“Found him,” I say unnecessarily.
I can tell my father doesn’t want to yell at Miles in these last moments we have. He squints at us and picks up our suitcases, his broad, tall frame sharp against the sagging leather. He won’t leave until tomorrow, heading in the opposite direction. A plane to San Francisco. Then out to the endless Pacific.
“It’s time,” he says.
I embrace Cass first and try to think of the perfect words to say but Father’s foot is tapping, his eyes never leaving the nearest conductor, and somehow Miles has managed to ruin even this. “Well,” I say, suddenly shy. “Goodbye.” I take out one of my own ribbons and push it into her hand.
Then I turn to my father. He’s shaved for the first time in weeks and his cheek is so smooth I want to stay there for just a moment longer; breathe in that smell of star anise and lather. I used to lay awake at night, fearing that he’d be called up in the draft. But now that it has happened, I know that he will not die in the war—because my mother just died, and that will serve some sort of protection around him, like a halo. This makes perfect sense to me. So I press my cheek against his one last time, and then let him go.
“It won’t be long before I’ll see you again,” Father says. Miles sets his chin, but then drops his bag and throws his arms around our father in a hard hug. “It’s only temporary,” Father says. He swallows, his voice catching. He lets go of Miles and leans down to whisper in my ear: “my little elf.”
Miles and I board the train and Cass stands just below the window, tears streaming down her face. She’s tied my ribbon into her hair. As the porter loads my suitcase its tag turns over like a browned leaf, and I catch the swirl of my mother’s handwriting.
I wave to my father, but he has already turned away. Now there is not a doubt left that I will see him again. Because this can’t be my final memory of him, with his shoulders weighted under a sky the color of graphite; with my reflection flickering and fading as I wait for him to turn back one last time and watch us go.
#
The train ride north to Sterling is six hours. I don’t mean to fall asleep but halfway there I do. My neck has a crick in it when I jerk awake. Every dream is the same. The bright puffs of flowers around Mother’s bed; how still she is, her hands like marble when I reach up to touch them; and then the chill that echoes through to my bones until I gasp awake.
For a moment I think we’ve missed our stop, but Miles is sketching across from me and there’s nothing out the window but fields and sky.
I reach for the hidden tip of my knobby right ear, a habit of childish comfort I’ve been trying to give up. I can tell Miles notices by the way he smirks down at the notepad in his lap. His fingers guide various pencils over the page until the familiar curve of our mother’s headstone appears, wreathed with a rainbow of flowers.
It’s all he draws lately, the same picture repeating, just like my dream. I wonder which one of us will stop first.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. I unwrap the peanut butter sandwiches Mrs. Reid packed and hand a half-smashed one to Miles. The train car is almost empty now. We eat without talking, and when I tire of staring out the window, I pull out the Shakespeare book.
The cover is thick and bound with burgundy leather. I flip through the pages, wondering where to start. There are pen markings under certain lines and she’s written nonsensical notes in the margins, circling words like “nose-herb” and “Sounds like Var’s….”
The play Twelfth Night seems to have the most markings. Some of the pages are bent and the ink is smeared. I flip to the end again but this time I ignore the envelope. The back cover is lined with velvet and my fingertips leave patterns on it like they would on a frosted window.
And then I notice the smallest tear fraying at the corner.
I glance at Miles. He is absorbed with drawing the yellow burst of a sunflower, and so I pull on the cover’s thread. It comes away and I realize it’s been sewn on in faint stitches. My curiosity catches like a white flame and I work out the stitches with my nail, staring out the window so that I won’t draw Miles’ attention. When the flap is loosened enough, I slide the book back into my knapsack to hide it. Then I sweep my fingers into the opening.
Even before my fingertips feel glass, I know it.
There’s something hidden inside.  
          CHAPTER TWO
  I tear the opening a little more to give my fingers space to work. Whatever is hidden there feels cold and smooth. I draw it out and examine it in the palm of my hand.
It is a colorless jewel, clear as water, with a teardrop suspended inside and set in a gold band. The familiar chill from my dream suddenly seeps through my fingertips. It’s my mother’s ring. I never saw her right hand without it, and I assumed it had been buried with her. Her rings were usually caked with dirt from her garden, but this one looks as though it’s been thoroughly cleaned. It stings a little, to see it now. This is what I would have wanted to take with me, if she had given me the choice. Why would she hide it in a book and plan to send it off to some stranger named Stefen?
I slip the stone onto my finger but it’s too big, so I hold it in my palm. It takes not half a minute for Miles to notice.
“What’s that?” He looks up from his drawing, eyebrows knitting.
“It’s Mother’s ring. She gave it me,” I lie, and hurriedly unclasp my necklace, exchanging my small heart pendant for the stone. It clinks against the buttons lining my dress.
“Next stop is yours,” says a gruff voice behind me, so near that I jump. The conductor’s breath is stale with coffee, staining the air around us. I haven’t seen any signs of a town since I jerked awake from my dream, and fields stretch out endlessly from beyond the window, only occasionally split by a farmhouse or barn. Gardner had been a small town to grow up in, but this feels like being dropped in the middle of an ocean. An ocean of cornstalks, burnt gold by the sun.
“The finishing word,” Miles says, putting his boots up on the seat next to me and closing his notepad. “Go.”
I play with the clasp of my tortoiseshell barrette. The finishing word was Mother’s game and I’m not sure I ever want to play it again. But as the train slows I think of Cass going home to her sisters, and of my father spending his last night in our home, alone. I jiggle the clasp back open. Every mile on this train, every minute that passes, is taking me farther away from my old life. The life I still want to be living.
A thought comes to me gently, and it is in my mother’s voice. That ship has sailed, honey. Now you can either drown or hitch a ride on the next one.
Will anyone put flowers on her grave while we are all away?
Even though I’m only half-thinking, I have a stroke of genius. “My finishing word is ‘Palimpsest,’” I say. I snap the hair clip triumphantly.
Miles slumps back in his seat. “I’ve never heard of that word. You probably made it up.”
“No, I didn’t. You know tabula rasa?” He gives me a vacant stare. “We’re starting over with a blank slate, but we haven’t completely left our past.”
He chews on his cheek as if he’s trying to decide whether to believe me. “What’s yours, then?” I ask over the train’s shrieking brakes. A patchwork of fields is rolling into the paved streets of a small town center.  “My finishing word is ‘forsaken,’” Miles says.
“How dramatic.”
“Fine. Then I’ll make it ‘emprise.’ A fancy word for adventure.”
“That’s a good one,” I admit. “You win.” It’s a strong finishing word, especially for an eight-year-old—even if I hadn’t already decided that I would let him win. “Grab your bag.”
Miles’ eyebrows arch together and then his green eyes narrow.
“What will you do if I don’t get off?” he asks.
“You will,” I say, picking up his bag along with mine. I pretend they aren’t as heavy as they are.
“No one would blame me, you know,” he says, but he shimmies down the aisle toward the exit. “My mother just died.”
“Right, because I have no idea what that feels like,” I say, and when Miles pauses on the train step, I give him a shove. Then I take a deep breath of my own and step down onto the platform.
There are only two people waiting in the shade of the station’s overhang: a middle-aged woman and someone I assume is her son. I recognize Mrs. Cliffton from my mother’s funeral. She was the only person not from Gardner, so she had stuck out in the blurred line of mourners who went through the receiving line that day. She had been formal and reserved when she took my hand. “Matilda Cliffton. I was your mother’s best friend from childhood,” she’d explained, and I recognized her name. ��My mother was always so pleased to get a letter from you,” I told her, and I had already moved on to greet the next person when she suddenly hugged me, as if she couldn’t leave until she had done it.
I overheard her offer to help my father however she could. I’m guessing she probably hadn’t envisioned Miles and me stepping off this train three weeks later.  
“Hello!” Mrs. Cliffton calls, stepping towards us. Her black crepe funeral dress has been replaced with a day suit the color of plums and a matching hat. Her red hair is pulled up in a smart bun.  She is more handsome than I remembered. But maybe it’s because this time she’s smiling. “Welcome!” she says. “Aila, seeing you here is like stepping back in time. You look just like Juliet did when we were young.”
“Thank you,” I say. I am grateful that she can say my mother’s name. That we can still talk of her. “You remember my brother, Miles.”
Miles sticks out his hand. “Miles Quinn,” he repeats solemnly as Mrs. Cliffton takes it. Our father’s pomade has evaporated and Miles’ cowlick now stands up like a missed clump of grass.
“Welcome, Miles. And this is my son, William. He’ll get your bags,” Mrs. Cliffton says.
“Will,” the boy says, extending his hand. He looks to be about my own age, with dark hair that is slightly overgrown, and I can’t help but notice it covers the tips of his ears. His teeth are slightly crowded in his mouth, and his eyes are a blue I’ve never seen before.
He’s sort of handsome.
“So this is Sterling,” I say quickly, glancing around.
“Actually, no,” Mrs. Cliffton says. “Sterling’s still a good drive from here, but this is our nearest station.” She glances up at the darkening sky. “We’ll want to try to beat the rain.” Will takes our bags from the porter and Mrs. Cliffton leads us to a Ford station wagon with wood paneling so smooth it looks glazed.
Miles nudges me. “Just so you know,” he whispers, “your ear is showing.”  
My hand flies to the right tip of my ear, but it is still hidden under the carefully arranged layers of my hair. Miles’ face breaks into a grin wide enough to reveal the small space between his two front teeth.  
“The finishing word just became ‘insufferable,’” I hiss. I ignore his wiggling eyebrows and climb into the car.
Mrs. Cliffton opens the driver’s door and takes her place behind the steering wheel. She starts the engine and pulls out onto the road, hunched forward, her gloved fingers wrapped around the wheel. She doesn’t make much conversation, and when the car heaves and jerks, the corners of her mouth tighten. It takes her a moment to find the windshield wipers once the raindrops begin to splatter like paint against the window glass.
“Thank you for bearing with me,” Mrs. Cliffton says, her foot easing and catching on the clutch. “We recently lost our driver. I suppose we’re all doing our best to adapt.” She colors as if she realizes how this must sound to us. I nod rather than answer. “We are all so hopeful that the war will be over quickly,” she adds.
This is just temporary, my father’s voice echoes in my head.
My mother’s ring is warming with my touch.
The Clifftons’ car sends up thick plumes of dust behind us on the road and we don’t pass any other drivers or dwellings for miles. “We’re largely farm country,” Mrs. Cliffton explains.  
“What does Dr. Cliffton do?” I ask politely.
My question provokes the slightest moment of hesitation. “He’s a scientist,” Mrs. Cliffton says. She glances back at William. “He… looks for ways to improve our quality of life. Now, dears, look ahead—here is Sterling.”
     I peer out the window as we come into town. The main street is lined with American flags. There are a handful of stores, all crowned with tan awnings. Letters are painted across the glass windows of a tiny diner.
     “That’s Fitz’s,” Will says, nodding toward the rust-red bricks of a general store. We pass a bank, a hardware store, a milliner, a bakery, an empty Texaco station. It looks like any other sleepy farm town, but this is the one where my mother grew up. Maybe something of her is still here for me to find, like sunlight catching a handprint on glass.
     “Home’s just a bit farther,” Mrs. Cliffton says, humming, and turns onto a smaller road. Houses and farms are scattered along it like jacks between fields and a thick patch of forest. The sky is wide and laden with heavy clouds. Mrs. Cliffton turns off the road and Will jumps out to open a large cast-iron gate. When he returns the rain has speckled his white shirt with gray. Then the car climbs the curving drive, and the Clifftons’ house comes into view.
The house falls somewhere between the cramped and cozy nooks of the Tilt and the sprawling mansions my Father once took us to see on the cliffs of Rhode Island. Lights blaze from a first floor window through the shimmer of rain. Four chimneys rise from a slate roof and rooms spread from the central house in two glass-covered wings. The red bricks glow as if they would be warm to the touch. I suddenly notice a faint stain blotting the hem of my dress and move my hand to cover it.
“I’m sorry, we seem to have forgotten the umbrellas,” Mrs. Cliffton says, pulling around the circled drive to the front of the house. “We’ll have to make a run for it. The three of you go on in, and I’ll be right behind you.”
Will opens the door to a crack of thunder and even though Miles and I sprint up the stone steps behind him, the rain soaks my dress until it clings to me. The careful wave Cass set in my hair this morning is now slicked to the side of my cheek.
Will pulls open the heavy front door to a bright yellow foyer and I hurry inside. The rainwater runs down my legs into a puddle on the checkered marble floor. A chandelier hangs two stories above our heads, twinkling like the sun.
“Wow,” Miles says, gaping at the raised ceiling, his boots squeaking against the polished floor. At least the rain has masked the stain on my hem.
Raindrops bead on Will’s forehead and drip down his lashes. He reaches a hand to brush them away. “I’ll get us some towels,” Will says, and by the time he returns with them, Mrs. Cliffton is coming in through the front door. She starts when she sees us still standing there and heavily sets down our luggage.
I look again down at the water that has pooled at my feet and narrow my eyes.
The wind has taken on a shrieking tone. The rain continues to beat against the windows. Yet Mrs. Cliffton and our leather suitcases are perfectly dry.
#
We towel off and meet the Clifftons’ only remaining staff: a live-in cook and housekeeper named Genevieve. She is tall and rail-thin and has hair the color of smoke.  The tea she offers us is scentless but strong. It feels like embers going down my throat, heating me from the inside as we follow Mrs. Cliffton on a tour of the house. I try not to compare it to The Tilt, but I can’t help noticing that the door handles are made of curved brass rather than our rounded glass knobs. There’s no beautiful grandfather clock that clicks and bongs throughout the night, no collection of frog knickknacks with little pieces of paper wedged beneath them so they don’t slide down the slope of the shelves. Instead there are decorative books and patterned curtains and tiny painted porcelain boxes that sit in perfectly level display cases. The hallways bear paintings of vases and bowls spilling over with fruit rather than Father’s nautical maps and sketched prints of archipelagos. Maybe he’ll get to see more of the ocean while he’s away, I think. Maybe he’ll bring new pictures back with him.
Some of the furniture looks as though it’s never even been used. But Mrs. Cliffton is enthusiastic when we round a corner and she points out a wooden chair.
“Will built this for me when he was thirteen,” she says proudly.
“It’s really more functional than beautiful,” Will says.
“I adore it,” Mrs. Cliffton says.
“You’re my mother,” Will says, smiling at me with a hint of embarrassment and running his hands along the scruffy hair at the back of his neck. He trails behind as we tour the sunroom and formal dining room and Dr. Cliffton’s library, where books cover the walls with spines as ordered as piano keys. I’m examining an old Victrola and a tidy line of wooden canes when Miles reaches out to twirl the large, midnight orb of a celestial globe. I grab his wrist. He still has peanut butter smudged on his hand.
I shoot him a look before turning to Mrs. Cliffton. “Your home is lovely,” I say.
“Yes,” Miles echoes. He wipes his palms on the tail of his shirt. “Thank you for having us.”
Mrs. Cliffton waves this off. “Your mother was like my sister,” she says. She blinks rapidly and for a moment I worry she’s going to cry. Miles stiffens like a rod next to me. “So you and Miles are almost family,” she finishes, and smiles instead, and Miles’s shoulders relax again.
“Shall we head upstairs? You can get settled in.” Mrs. Cliffton leads us back to the foyer, where I grab my knapsack from the floor and Will collects our suitcases. “Aila,” Mrs. Cliffton says brightly, leading us up the stairs, “do you remember the time I came to Gardner? Not for the funeral, but years back? You were still very young then. Actually, William was with me as well. Do you recall meeting as children?”
“No,” I say after a beat. The pins in my hair are starting to tug and I want to find my room and take them out.
“Juliet and I turned our backs for one minute,” Mrs. Cliffton says, reaching the second floor, “and the next thing we knew you were both down in the field covered head-to-toe in dirt.” She stops in front of the first door beyond the balcony. “We promptly threw you both in the tub.”
When I realize that this means Will and I have seen one another in our unmentionables, and possibly even less than that, I do everything I can to avoid his face. Miles makes it worse with a muffled snicker.
“That’s right,” Will says quickly, juggling our suitcases for a better grip. “We were burying something we’d found in the field, some treasure. I can’t remember what it was. Maybe with some Mind’s Eye we could….”
The way he cuts off makes me look up to catch the most peculiar expression cross his face. His mother’s hand jerks back from the doorknob, and the air strains and crackles with a sudden tension, as if they are waiting for some sort of reaction from us.
“What is Mind’s Eye?” Miles asks, and Mrs. Cliffton gives Will an almost imperceptible shake of the head.
“Oh, just something we can talk about later,” Mrs. Cliffton says to Miles, pushing open the door to the first guest bedroom. “Aila, that’s a lovely necklace,” she continues, changing the subject as she ushers us inside. “I remember that ring. Wasn’t it your mother’s?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Did she really give it to you?” Miles asks quietly as Will places my suitcase on the floor. I nod, uncomfortable with how intently both he and Mrs. Cliffton are looking at my neck.
“She didn’t give me anything,” Miles says, and I wait until their backs are turned, and then hide the ring behind the collar of my dress.
#
My bedroom is simple and cheerful, with yellow walls that are cozy even with the storm beating against the window. There is a white four-poster bed with an embroidered quilt and a window seat that looks out on the branch of a large oak. Mrs. Cliffton has placed tight puffs of cabbage roses and a picture in a silver frame on the bureau. The image holds younger versions of her and my mother. Juliet and Matilda wear matching school uniforms, their arms slung around one another, their faces caught in openmouthed laughs.
I’ve never seen a picture of Mother at my age. Her hair was a lighter auburn than mine, but she has my gray eyes that are a bit too wide, small nose, and sharp chin. It’s startling how much I look like her.
I unpack my dresses and line my toiletries on top of the milk-white sink, then shelve the poetry volumes I’ve taken from the castaway pile at the Gardner library over the years. Stevenson, Frost, Dickinson, Yeats, and Wilde, each missing its cover or spidered with stains the color of light tea. I can’t bring myself to unpack my winter clothes just yet. Maybe we’ll be home by then. Instead I arrange my father’s dulled throwing dart, Mother’s Shakespeare volume, and Cass’ ribbon on my nightstand. Then I run a bath in the porcelain claw tub and dress for dinner. There are no mirrors in the bathroom--odd for a house that has just about everything else. I wonder if it would be too forward to ask Mrs. Cliffton for one.
I do the best I can with my hair, feeling only by touch, and head downstairs for dinner.
Dr. Cliffton stands from the mahogany dinner table to greet me when I enter the dining room. He is an older, softer version of Will, with blue eyes that aren’t quite as striking and are framed by wire-rimmed glasses. I make polite, stilted conversation—”I’ve never been this far north before;” “The rain sure is coming down”—over a dinner of watercress and grilled peach salad, roast chicken, and some sort of squash tart, all served by Genevieve. We did not eat like this even before the war and the rationing started. “One of the benefits of living in farm country,” Dr. Cliffton says as he notices me eyeing the small pat of freshly churned butter. I want to smear it, salty and smooth and creamy, all along my slice of bread, but I pretend that I don’t care for it and pass the plate on. Miles takes my cue and declines as well. We are impinging on the Clifftons enough without eating their precious butter.
Dr. Cliffton clears his throat. “Did your mother speak often of Sterling?” he asks me. He pauses in cutting the tart. His knife and fork hover over his plate.
“Only a little,” I say. In truth, she’d barely spoken of it at all. There is a long beat, as if this wasn’t the correct answer. For a moment all I can hear is cutlery scraping; the sound of my own chewing.
“She told me once she didn’t much like it,” Miles offers, followed by a yelp as my heel catches his ankle.  
Dr. Cliffton laughs graciously but there is something else in it as well. He pushes his chair back in concert with a loud crack of thunder and says, “You know, I believe I’ve just the thing for this occasion.” His right foot drags as he leaves the room, and I recall the collection of canes I’d seen during my tour of the house. I suppose that means the draft will never come calling for him.
Dr. Cliffton reappears a moment later trailing bright strains of Glenn Miller from down the hall. It helps to drown out the steady patter of the rain. “Shall we move into the library?” Mrs. Cliffton suggests. “Genevieve could bring us some coffee, maybe even some ice cream?” Miles jumps up with a nod.
They are all trying so hard, I realize. But I don’t have the energy to keep up. “Actually, I think I’ll turn in,” I say.
“Long day,” Mrs. Cliffton says, nodding. The lights flicker.
The four of them move on to Dr. Cliffton’s library and I climb the stairs to my room. “Goodnight, Miles,” I call from the balcony, and he gives a short wave without really looking.
I change into my nightgown and brush my teeth, staring at the blank wall in front of me. Tomorrow I’m going to ask about the mirror.
I climb into bed, rolling my father’s dart between my hands. I hear Will challenge Miles to a game of checkers, followed by an amused “Hot dog!” barely five minutes later. Miles rarely loses games. He never loses at checkers.
Someone changes the record to Billie Holiday, drowsy and warm. She was Mother’s favorite. I return my dart to the nightstand and use my pillow to block out the music and sound of the rain.
It’s the first night in three weeks I do not dream of her.
                                                            ***
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tea-and-cardigans · 7 years
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The After Party - Part 2
Hi Guys, Thanks for your kind words for part one of this story, hope you enjoy part 2, part 3 is on its way in a few days after some final adjustments I want to make.
Part One.
Part Three
“No Betty you don’t have to do this.” Veronica told her. She knew this was another opportunity that Cheryl was taking to stir up drama.
“Yeah Betty let’s go home.” Archie added, reaching to grab her arm.
“No.” She pulled away from him. “I’m fine.”
“Come on Betty this is obviously one of Cheryl’s stupid games.” She directed the accusation at the smirking redhead casually sipping her drink watching the argument in front of her.
“We are all just playing a game V. You and the Ginger Stallion had your turn, let poor Betty have hers.” Satisfaction was all over her face.
“You shady bitch.” Veronica snarled at her. Jughead just watched on wondering how he had managed to get himself into this.
He had initially only come to see what he could find out about those closest to Jason. The jocks and the cheerleaders. He figured participation in the game would help him to blend in, like that was possible, besides he may have had the opportunity to be in the closest with 7 minutes uninterrupted question time with a key suspect. The chances that it would have been Betty joining him were slim until Cheryl decided to mess with the odds. He had stumbled too far down the rabbit hole this time.
“I can handle this.” Betty continued to argue with Veronica and Archie, while he just watched on. He knew they wouldn’t win, once Betty put her mind to something there was no stopping her. Years of friendship had taught him that. Jughead stood up about to speak feeling that he should have some say at least.
Before he could Betty turned towards him walking over and grabbed him by his flannel shirt, pulling him with her in the direction of the broom closet. Stunned by her rash action he went along. She basically shoved him into the closet before stepping inside herself and slammed the door behind her. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before she opened them to find a shocked Jughead staring at her as if she had lost her mind. Hadn’t he heard all the Cooper women were crazy.
“I’m so sick of them.” She started pacing within the small space available. “Everyone just decides what is best for me. Like I can’t make a decision on my own.”
“I’m not sure…” He tried to speak before she cut him off.
“My mum, dad and Veronica has been here five minutes and already knows what is best for me.” She was waving her hands frantically as she she continued to pace.
“I think she was trying to help.” She stopped her pacing and shot him a look that cut through him, wrong answer.
“And don’t even get me started on Archie.”
“I think that is probably something we can agree on.” Jughead added bitterly.
“And where have you been anyway?” She pointed an accusatory finger at him.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean?” He said lying, knowing exactly what she meant. He had distanced himself from her as part of his feud with Archie. He had distanced himself from everyone really, instead concentrating on his writing and the mystery of Jason Blossom. If it hadn’t been for wanting another perspective to add to his novel and furthering the investigation he wouldn’t have been there. He would have been at his usual booth at Pop’s with black coffee and his laptop. A safe haven, not this fresh hell. Not that being in an enclosed space with Betty was necessarily hell but the expectation of what they were doing, what they should be doing weighed heavily on him.
He had almost kissed her once, while they were sitting at Pop’s in their favourite booth. She had smiled at something he said, and her giggle had awakened something in him and in that moment all he wanted was to feel her lips on his. He didn’t think about what would come after, what implications it may have, he just wanted to know what it was like to kiss Betty Cooper. When he had gone to reach over to pull her closer to him, Archie had arrived at the table and her smile wasn’t just for him any more.
“You have been AWOL since I got back. You avoid me at school, you don’t answer my texts and then you turn up to a Cheryl Blossom party?!” She raised her voice.
“Archie and I aren’t talking.”
“Well that’s Archie and you. What did I do to warrant radio silence.” She stated simply.
“Nothing Betts, I just figured you know?” Distancing himself from her had not been easy but it was better than the alternative of her choosing Archie over him. It was less painful this way.
“No I don’t know.”
“That if it came down to it you would choose him.” He admitted to her keeping his eyes locked to the floor.
“Well you could have at least given me the benefit of the doubt. Besides I don’t want to even think about Archie Andrews at the moment.”
“What did he do?” He asked.
“It doesn’t matter.” He knew what Archie had done, or at least he could take a good guess. Betty had had a crush on Archie since he could remember. The way Betty was acting when he arrived she must have told him and then he was in the closet with that new girl. He decided it would be best not to push it.
“I bet they are out there laughing at me.” She sighed. “Another funny joke.”
“Pretty sure you are not the one they will be laughing about.” He smiled at her sympathetically.
“God I just..”
She let out a frustrated groan, there were those damn tears again, welling in her eyes. She didn’t want to be the victim again. ‘Poor Little Betty Cooper’. She pushed it down, she placed all those unhelpful emotions, the pain and shoved it into a box and locked them away. What use were they to her anyway. She had done this before smothered her emotions, shut them off. Revealing something deeper at her core something darker and much more unpredictable.
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