Among Rats: Marcus x Fem!Reader Pt. 1
Pairing: Marcus x Fem!Reader | Side pairing: Maria x Saya
Word Count: 3k
Genre: Slow burn, Smut, Fluff
Summary: After getting revenge on an old enemy, assassin student YN is sent to King's Dominion as part of the Guest Student Program. Little does she knows, this isn't a punishment. It's to keep her alive. Amongst vicious cliques, deadly assignments and Poison Club meetings, King's challenges everything she thought she knew. Especially fellow student, Marcus Lopez Arguello.
Tags: kind of a slow burn romance, blood and violence, graphic violence, canon-based violence, recreational drug use, underage drinking, virgin!reader, Latina!reader, vaginal sex, oral sex (f. receiving), drunk sex (kind of), high sex (kind of), coming-of-age story.
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“Why did they pick me?”
“Because only the best of the best should be given this opportunity, and that’s you.”
Bitterness nestled itself into your chest and hissed loudly. You never asked to be nominated. You had no interest in participating in the exchange program. St. Brutus’s Academy for Assassins was an elite school; it produced the world’s greatest mercenaries and assassins. King’s Dominion Atelier of the Deadly Arts was a breeding ground for the very people her school fought against. It was a preschool for the children of gang bosses, cartel leaders, politicians, government officials and the like. Fascists. You had no desire to be amongst people like them.
But no, you knew what this was really about. Even months later, you still smelled his blood deep in your nose. The pressure it took to slide your blade past layers of fat and muscle came in phantom sensations in your hands. The mixture of blood, sweat and alcohol lingered in the back of her mind, drawing up memories in vivid pictures. You remembered every single detail: the earthy scent of the sprawling garden beneath his window, the warm glow of his office above you, his final breath echoing in your ear as the knife went through him. The feeling of relief and triumph. The sensation of adrenaline and resolve worked side by side inside you that night.
You still stood by what you’d done. When the Elders called you into their council room later that night, scolding you for killing an unassigned target, you didn’t waver from your stance. Not a drop of remorse was shown. Sergio Montoya deserved every single stab wound he got. You didn’t care if he wasn’t on the school’s target list. You didn’t care if you’d acted out of revenge than for the good of humanity. Watching the light leave his eyes healed a part of you that could never be replaced. You still heard his pleas before you finally did it.
‘Please, don’t kill me! I’ll give you anything you want! Anything!’
‘Anything?’
“Yes, yes! Money, company shares, cars, a mansion! Whatever you want and it’s yours!’
‘…I want my parents back.’
But, you never mentioned this part. It only stirred up another argument cycle with your uncle where you defend your actions and he denounces them.
“Are you sure they think I’m the best?” You asked, the real question hanging in your tone.
Miguel Ortega paused, concentrating far too hard on the road. “Yes, they do,” he answered, but you knew better.
“They want to punish me,” you said flatly.
He sighed irritably, “This isn’t a punishment, YN. It’s an opportunity other students fight for every year.”
“Then let one of them take my place.”
“Yeah, not happening.”
This was your punishment. St. Brutus can’t afford disobedient students, so they’re sending you to be amongst thugs and Mutts. From what her uncle claimed, you’d be attending classes with other children who’d be “problem solvers”. She’ll study the “black arts”, get other perspectives and learn things St. Brutus doesn’t teach. Your friends back home scoffed along with you.
‘They’re all a bunch of criminals,’ Rhonda had told you during Poison Club on your last day. ‘Those are the people we’re supposed to be fighting against. My uncle went into the program when he was in school, and he’d met this big-time Nazi guy who killed a bunch of civil rights leaders.’
‘They’re total Mutts,’ said your friend Donna haughtily over lunch that same day. ‘They don’t share our beliefs and come from the lowest of the lowest places. You’ll be a wolf sitting on a porch with the puppies.’
“You’ll be getting the same privileges as the Legacy kids,” your uncle told you as he made another turn. “The ones that are second, third and fourth generation. Think of them like the Purebreds back in St. Brutus.”
“Elitists…”
“Hey, don’t act so high and mighty. You and all your little friends carry that same attitude under a different name,” he scolded you. “I heard you on the phone with Donna last night. What did you call them? ‘Discount mercenaries and thugs’?”
“That’s what most of them are going to be,” you retorted, embarrassed he’d heard that. “They’re all future criminals, if they aren’t already. They come from families who ruin innocent lives and take what they believe is theirs. They use their power to intimidate others instead of helping them.”
“That’s not entirely true, and you know that,” he replied as the car turned onto another crowded street. “There are students who don’t have affiliations like them. They’re chosen due to their connections or abilities. Maybe you can become friends with them. You never know, you might have some common interests with them.”
“I doubt that,” you cross your arms as you huff.
“Stop being so stuck up,” he rolled his eyes. “Lin tells me some of these kids are just as skilled as you, if not more. You could learn a thing or two from them.”
“I don’t want to go there,” you whined. “Can’t I decline and they pick somebody else? You know, a person who actually wants to go?”
“No. The Board made it clear that their decision was final. No turning back now, mi hija.”
No, they were trying to get rid of you. Rhonda said she was surprised they didn’t outright expel you. Donna thought they’d hold you back a year and bar you from advancement trials. You did find their punishment strange. They’d hesitated in finally declaring a verdict and punishment, resulting in a week in solitary. Professor Martinez, Headmaster of St. Brutus, normally carried out discipline swiftly to make the lesson stick. Yet, this time you’d stayed in solitary cells for a week before they gave their decision. When they told you that you’d been selected for the Guest Student Program, it came as a shock. Relieved not to be beheaded or expelled from school entirely, you didn’t think too much of it at the time. But, since being grounded all summer by your aunt and uncle, you had time to think and you thought a lot.
“You can’t say you don’t feel it,” you said to your uncle. “You wanted him dead too.”
“Of course I do,” he admitted, “But he was not yours to kill, YN.”
“Then whose was he?”
“Whoever The Board picked.”
“Which would have been you, if not me or Ana.”
“My thirst for vengeance died a long time ago. Killing aimlessly does nothing but eat at the soul. Killing Montoya didn’t bring your parents back and they wouldn’t have approved of it either. YN,” he hesitated, finally glancing at you for the first time, “You didn’t just kill an unassigned target. You broke into the school armory and stole several weapons and armor. You killed multiple people. You went against everything this school stands for,” he said a bit disdainfully. “You’re only a freshman, YN. Freshmen spend their first year learning philosophy, ideology, academics and history. Yes, you had your combat and weapons training,” he cut you off before you could argue, “But that was only beginner stuff to get you accustomed to fighting. You should have been in your dorm studying, learning the ways of our society and sharpening your mind like you sharpen a blade. Being an assassin is not all about cool fighting moves and being a badass. It’s about our dedication to protecting the innocent and defending humanity from the scum of the earth.”
“I was defending humanity,” you argued sharply. “Montoya was a cartel boss who’d ruined countless lives with his drugs, torture, and murder. He tore families apart. He killed innocent kids just to punish their parents. He trafficked teenage girls he’d kidnapped from villages. He…”
Murdered your parents. The stinging sensation of tears hit your nose first and then your eyes. During those days in solitary, that painful memory resurfaced over and over:
You were ten, kneeling on the couch by the windows. Blue and orange mixed in the sky as the sun started setting, the night slowly rolling inwards. Your aunt, Ana, made dinner in the kitchen, the smell of savory, saucy ropa vieja filling the air. Your father’s favorite. He’d joked he was jealous and to save him a plate for later. You’d promised you would. You’d wanted to see them leave, you remembered, waving to them from the living room window. Your mother wore her finest dress that night: emerald silk with rhinestone across the neckline. Your father wore a cream colored blazer and slacks, no tie as he always hated wearing ties. She stood on the passenger’s side, and he stood on the driver’s side. She’d blown you a ruby-red kiss right before climbing inside. You’d heard the first rumble of the engine right before it happened.
The loud boom resounded in your head, and you shut your eyes tightly.
Fire.
Smoke.
Bits of leather and metal cascading down like snow.
“Mamita,” Miguel’s hand found yours and squeezed it gently, “I know exactly how you feel. I hunted Montoya down for years. Searching for him was like searching for The Holy Grail.”
“But then you gave up…” you said in a shaky breath, fighting those tears.
“I had to. When I reflected, I realized my brother wouldn’t want my rage to consume me,” he said. “He’d want me to focus on taking care of his daughter.” He stroked the back of your head, “And mentor her so she’d follow in his footsteps.” When you didn’t speak, he said, “If it means anything, a lot of the professors think you carried it out spectacularly. If it had been a regular training simulation, you would’ve passed with flying colors. You were picked for this for more reasons than you ‘being punished’. St Brutus is proud of you, even if The Board is not.”
You turned to him. A slim man with black hair and a matching mustache and beard, he looked nearly identical to your father. Both of them had the same deep-set brown eyes, tawny skin and upturned nose. He looked like him in certain lights and right now was one of them. It stung your chest even more.
“Do you think they would’ve been proud of me?” you asked quietly through tears.
He paused, “Yes. Maybe not at first, but I knew my brother. He would’ve been proud that his daughter could execute an assassination so young.”
He continued down the street when the light turned green, sailing out of their neighborhood, their home. Crowded sidewalks lined the wet paved roads, diverse and dense as they navigated the narrow street. Occasionally, she spotted a homeless person on the street or sitting on a corner. Your heart, even as it broke again, went out to them. You knew a few who worked for The Order as informants. Keeping their ears on the streets, they smuggled information for an assassin’s reconnaissance missions. You’d gone to an old woman you knew well, Vicky. A haggard woman hardened by years on the streets, she knew how to keep quiet and listen. She’d told you about Montoya’s restaurant in the mission district where you’d done your research. But, it wasn’t helpful Vicky you thought of as you watched the streets. It was Him.
The boy in the blue jacket.
You never learned his name, but you crossed paths with him more times than normal. The first time you saw him had been on a trip to the bodega near home. Holding a twenty, your aunt needed some things for dinner and sent you to get them. You’d planned on spending the change on treating yourself. Yet, you’d then turned a corner to see him. A boy with curly brown hair sat on the concrete, scribbling in a notebook. You noticed his grubby blue hoodie first, noting its worn out, dirty appearance immediately. He carried the look of having toughed it out on the street. You also saw he had no shoes. A particular cold chill blew past you in that moment, freezing your toes in your shoes, you couldn’t imagine being bare-footed. Not to mention any glass or debris on the floor he might step on and get an infection. Feeling the crisp twenty dollar bill in your pocket, a sudden guilt weighed on your shoulders. The chocolate bar will still be there tomorrow. You had your own money to replace the twenty. Timidly, you approached him.
“Um, hey. It’s cold out and it’s supposed to, uh, get colder tonight so…here…you need it more than me.”
He didn’t speak at first, surveying the situation in front of him. You kept on your most sincere expression and kept the bill outstretched. A bare hand tentatively reached for them.
“Thanks,” was all he said.
You’d nodded and kept going. Your aunt was disappointed by the change in brands, but you told her the bodega didn’t have them.
The next time was outside the bookstore. The owner told you the newest Stephen King novel came in and you’d get first dibs on the fresh copies. You’d nearly skipped to the store when you saw him again. This time, he had a blanket over his jacket. He was shivering. He looked drowsy and tired, sniffling and letting out a hoarse cough. Once again, your heart ached for him. You watched him stagger to two men with a cup, asking for money, but only for one of them to rudely refuse him. The man said something about getting a job and then moved on. You’d smirked when the boy’s hand slipped into his back pocket, withdrawing a black wallet easily.
“Oh hey,” you said, not pretending you didn’t know him.
“Hey…” he sniffed. You’d felt relieved he’d done the same.
“You got new shoes,” you had no idea why you’d talked to him. You had no real reason, and he likely preferred you didn’t. “You look sick…”
“Pneumonia,” he said, tightening his blanket as another chill hit him.
“I know a free clinic down the block. They’ll give you what you need to get better.”
“Yeah.”
Yeah, he didn’t want your advice. You instantly felt dumb, but the need to help him felt almost compulsive at this point. It felt more than pity. Something spoke to you. You didn’t know what.
‘I’m sorry. I’m dumb. You probably already went there anyway.” You’d felt for the extra ten in your pocket, “The lady at the bodega on the next block gives discounts for meals. Their chicken soup is great for colds. Just tell her YN sent you, and she’ll help you out.”
“Does it make you feel better about yourself?” he said bitterly, brown eyes glaring up at you through his sickness. “Heping the unfortunate?”
“In a way, I guess,” you had answered a bit awkwardly. “I was raised to help when I can. I figured you might-”
“-Well you were wrong,” he cut you off. He didn’t want your charity. Perhaps it made him feel worse about his situation. Maybe his sickness and the cold weather irritated him.
“Look, that asshole you lifted the wallet wasn’t carrying a lot. If you’d been paying attention, you would’ve noticed the worn out shoes and broken watch,” you couldn’t help retorting. “If you want to get caught trying to guess his pin at the ATM, then be my guest. A jail cell is just as cold as out here.”
You’d put the rumpled bill in his cup and stormed off. You were sure it’d be your last encounter. You purposefully avoided the two streets you’d seen him on. When you didn’t see him again, you felt a bit better. But also empty, and you didn’t know why.
But you were wrong. You did see the boy again. Community service is a requirement at St. Brutus’s, and you’d gone to the homeless shelter with your aunt and uncle to serve food. The boy in the blue jacket was in line. You remember a streak of panic when you saw him. Yes, he was cute in a sort of homeless shabby way, but that wasn’t why. You tried excusing yourself, but your aunt made you stick to her side. You’d tried hiding your face when he reached your drink station, barely muttering ‘juice or milk’ when he stood in front of you.
“I was a dick last time,” he said when she placed the dairy carton on his tray. “You were being nice and I was an asshole. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Are…Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’m glad.”
He’d gone with a nod. Her uncle later asked if she was building her own network. Four months have passed since then. You hoped he was alright.
“Hello? YN…Earth to YN, hello, Tio’s talking right now,” your uncle’s voice pulled you from your memories.
“Huh?”
“We’re almost there.”
They parked outside a butchery in the middle of Chinatown. Pig carcasses hung outside the window alongside ducks and chickens. The men inside looked mean and hardened by time. There was no turning back now, you realized.
“Will someone at least feed Carrie?” you asked your uncle. “The letter from King’s mentioned no pets.”
“Carrie is a falcon. She can feed herself.”
“Can you at least not touch her nest? She likes that spot near my window.”
Named after your favorite Stephen King book, you’d gotten Carrie as a gift when you started at St. Brutus’s. Sharp and clever, Carrie could find you anywhere. You gazed up at the dark sky as if you might catch sight of a white-grey wing or find her perched on a lamppost. You didn’t, and that was expected.
“It won’t be so bad,” your uncle reassured you. He faced you, “Listen, this is a huge honor, YN. It is an important part of your education, and it can help you with your trials when you come of age.”
“Psh, whatever.”
Irritated by your stubbornness, he sighed. “Come on, we can’t keep him waiting all night.” When you did not get out of the car, he grunted, “I said ‘ahora, YN’.”’
Oof, Spanish. Yeah, you were pushing it now.
You quickly climbed out of the car and followed him into the butchery. The stale smell of blood and entrails wrinkled your nose. Stern faces glared at you from behind counters, but you pretended not to notice. You already missed St. Brusts. The thought of being taught by strangers and having to make friends made you uneasy. You liked the friends you had. Rhonda and Donna said they’d catch up with you after class, but King’s Dominion is hidden and you’d be living there. Contact with them would be limited. You shouldered your back when you and your uncle reached the counter. Your uncle said nothing to the small bald man sharpening a knife. He simply passed him a black card from his pocket. The bald man examined it, then nodded for them to follow.
“What did you give him?” you asked.
“This,” he flashed you a thick paper card that had The Order’s compass symbol in gold. “Sort of like a backstage pass. You’ll get one if you ever go on ambassador missions.”
Suddenly, a panel in the wall opened up and a cloaked monk stepped out, gesturing for you both to follow him. Your uncle bowed, urging you to do the same, and walked in behind him. The narrow passage turned down into a flight of stairs. The air around you turned colder, going up into your hoodie and your shirt to chill your skin. Underground. The school was underground? St. Brutus sat on the outskirts of the city disguised as a military site. King’s Dominion disguised itself as another building on the street, you guessed.
“Tio?” you called him, sounding uncertain as you then went up a flight of stairs to the surface.
The monk led them outside into a small courtyard where you saw it. Four stories high, the school reminded you of a castle with high rooftops and large wooden doors. Another building stood off to the side, most likely the dormitories and other academic buildings. How can a place like this remain hidden? Surely people have come across it before.
Your uncle turned to you and grinned, “Welcome, YN, to King’s Dominion.”
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A/N: my first fic in months and it's in a dead fandom lmaooo anyways peep the Princess Bride reference. I hope you liked this fic and give it a like or reblog. Let me know what you thought.
Part 2 >
