Pirates of the Acapulco
Title: Pirates of the Acapulco
Characters: Philippines, Spain, Feminized England, America, Canada and Australia (those three guys are kinda minor, more characters to come).
Rating: G or PG I don't really write adult stuff -__-
Warnings: Experiment on writing, futile attempt of comedy, quite close to reality and stuff, some bad words, sucky summary...yeah..total rip offs...Oh AND THIS IS MY FIRST CROSSOVER FANFIC .__.
Summary: Maria has had a tough life growing up motherless. Her 'Tay has a jet-set life because his work demands it so. She was fine with being a 'lone wolf' and all. Miss Popularity in school, MVP for Softball, high average IQ and tongue as sharp as a Swiss knife. Despite all the good things, she seems to always be pessimistic, having this weird allergy towards old places, or places known to have people dead in it. Other than that, perfectly normal.
Until her 'Tay got married...
Thus begins her climb to Golgotha.
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A/N: Hey guys... the summary seems far from the title, yes? Well, sorry for that.. I've got a terrible head ache...and I totally suck sometimes. Or most of the time. Anyway, it's a crossover between Hetalia and The Mediator series by Meg Cabot (I swear, the only Chick lit. I seemed to be amused with). If you know what that series is about or you've read it then you prolly have a clue what this 'Pirates of the Acapulco' thing's about. If you're thinking of continuing reading this... Please endure! orz
(Btw, I'm thinking of making Philippines more flawed here since I took up a challenge from a classmate who says that most female fanfic protagonists/ OCs are Mary Sues)
Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya and The Mediator (idea) belongs to Meg Cabot respectively.
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SIMULA.
I stared at this man with contempt. Despite his smoking hot features and body, intrusion is still intrusion.
Why, even though times are different, I am definitely not that type of girl to allow a man in my room. I mean… The nerve of this man! wearing a crinkled loose shirt with billowing sleeves (and a plunging neckline that barely hides those oh-so good to lick abs. (No, those strings don't help.), and tight pants that almost leaves no imagination for all the world to see. On top of that, he wore leather boots -- no, that's not the shocking part… he wore SPURS. I mean, who'd still wear them 'til now!?
On my pretty pink-and-cream themed chair, hung his navy-ish looking red coat. Like the ones I saw in pirate movies. I had to assume he's a pirate… with spurs? um…
A cowboy pirate. If he were a living, breathing man, he's surely crazy.
I'll forgive his fashion faux pas. I understand of course, not because he's one sexy-assed man, but you know, well… he doesn't belong to this century.
No, he's not a time traveler. That's right. He's dead. No, not a zombie -- but a ghost.
Oh, don't call the loony bin hotline just yet. Despite, yes, I am holding my softball bat to inflict some concussions on a virtually invisible force only special people can see and you think that 'Hey, you say he's a ghost, you can't touch 'em', well yes I can. To me, they're just some lose energy force with no electron to counter those of the walls, ceilings and door so they can pass whenever they please but I am still capable of making my fist connect against their cheekbone and inflict some real pain. It comes with the package of seeing, hearing and conversing with them.
He doesn't seem alarmed at my angry-as-a-bull-seeing-a-matador-with-a-red-cape look nor the fact that I am brandishing my softball bat in a threatening way, and instead he's more of amazed that I could see him.
'Mí?… son … que?' He had a thick but sexy-sounding accent.
Um, translator please? I'm pretty sure that was Spanish, my 'Tay's pretty fluent in it. But he never bothered teaching me. I never bothered learning it too.
He sat quite comfortably on the window seat, his old mucky boots resting prettily on the crocheted cream throw pillows. One knee propped up for his elbow to rest on. I was thinking that he could be South American, like our Mexican neighbor-- my bad he came from Barbados, was that it? But his pretty emerald eyes told me not. He was, I'm pretty sure,feeling a mixture of elation, happiness, shock and most of all, awestruck that someone for the first time in centuries noticed him. Consider yourself lucky, bub, you finally found someone to help you. And normally, guys like him should be amazed at my sheer awesomeness of being able to acknowledge of their unwanted existence in the face of the earth.
That is of course, you know the reason why you're still hanging around.
If I wasn't so busy holding up a softball bat and looking so disgusted (and not to mention making a legit excuse in my head what he could have been before he pushed daisies), I would've asked his name. And we would click and fall in love like normal chick flicks. But no… He's 100 % dead. Just kidding there, I have no intentions of doing so.
'I am sorry but I would have to leave a bruise on that prettily sculpted face of yours' I sarcastically said 'If and only if you don't leave' And yes, I have no intentions as well to help him. I mean, I travelled a million miles from my home to my Stepmum's newly-bought crib and I'm tired. Back home I do have these cases wherein I have to help, but most of the time I turn them down… at first. There's the guilt feeling when you don't and hey, my 'Tay told me to be a good samaritan.
'Que?'
In exasperation and annoyance, I dropped my bat and said a quite familiar phrase of 'que no entuenden inglés?'
He pouted in a cute manner but didn't reply. That must mean he doesn't understand english.
I felt like running to my 'Tay and ask him to be my interpreter but yeah… not gonna work. I grabbed my spanish-english dictionary thankfully placed on my dresser.
'así, yo no entendía el español'
'Well, then I'll just speak English so we can understand each other!' he grinned toothily. And stupidly.
I swear I felt a vein pop. My hand felt loose and seemed to have its own mind to automatically throw the book at his face in annoyance. But my God, his sultry accent catches me off-guard.
'So you actually understood what I was threateningly saying a while ago!?' I can't help but yell. He seemed fazed by my sudden anger. Well, who couldn't!?
'Well, yes, but you see…'
'Bullshit! You know what? I've run out of patience on you. Tell my right now: What are you doing here?' I growled at the surprised man. If you must know, it's pretty gutsy for a five-foot-one Sophomore of slender frame to go and try get into the bad side of a 5"8 or so muscular European.
"no, What are YOU doing here?"He answered(in a questioning manner) , and by the way it sounded like some childish repeating-what-you-just-said quarrel about to start. Obviously not interested in getting in my good side now with his arms crossed. Bah. All Spaniards and Latinos are like that. Romancing you and crap then leaving you while you're up there head over heels.But I have to admit, I want him to coax me and appease me like a lady I should be treated. N-not that because it's never happened to me... but... Ah! moving on~
"It's my house. My room" I matter-of-factly said, raising a brow.
His own brows knit in confusion and muttered something in Spanish.
'Are you sure?'
'Sure as sun rises everyday' I quipped 'Get out'
'Awww, why!?' He sounded like some kid whose teacher unfairly called for recitation.
'I'm pretty sure you know it's awkward for a guy to stay in the same room with a girl, 'no?' I had to explain, massaging my temples 'Plus, newsflash: you're dead! Get a move on!'
Now he looked more confused.
'Me? dead?' He shook his head ' No… that can't be!'
'Oh yes, it can be! Look, haven't you realized that you've been staying here for a long time and no one's ever minded you?'
'You're a girl!?' Oh, so that's what he meant...
Then he was quiet. I can't believe it! He's dead and he doesn't know it?! It's like not knowing how to breathe yet you're doing it. Geez, I think this is the most pain-in-the-ass case I'm ever going to handle.
'Look here,' I sat down on my pretty new princess bed and met his gaze 'There are a few things you should know. Number one: You're dead, and you know that now, number two: There's a reason why you're still hanging around and I've got to find that out. And number three: Yes, I am a girl, though I won't look like one through your 15th century eyes since I don't have a long hair, my face is not caked in white lead and crap'
'18th century,' he corrected then looked around ' And may I ask, what century is it?'
'21st' I quietly said.
Then he panicked. Like a girl? Like a faggot.
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Okay, let me explain why I am in this certain position in the moment:
I always had a rather weird immediate 'family'. My father, is a Roman Catholic, and my mother… Is Muslim. Weird, I know right? No, that's not the weird part here… You see, my Muslim ma-mahhh (said in a fast, rich kid manner) Doesn't practice her religion, and well, only had a surge of fanaticism when I was about 3? I only remembered a little bit of her -- pretty, that nose that looked like a hawk's beak, and the brightest almond-shape dark eyes that twinkled like the marbles I used to throw at her face when I was a baby. She trudged her way to Mecca, leaving baby Me and my devout father who has a collection of veils that you wear during the mass (which he doesn't wear, by the way). She never got home. We never knew what happened to her. The more I think about my Muslim ma-mahhh, the more I think how peculiar she is. Quirky, Zany, Bohemian, Unorthodox… whatever you call her, she's all of the above. I just, can't explain it well.
Now, to my father: bright, fluent in Spanish, Tagalog and English, not as much as eccentric as my ma-mahhh since he has a daughter to take good care of, now that the one who's supposed to be in charge for that left all maternal duties to him . But he isn't strict either. He won't try to force me to learn whatever he wanted me to, unless it's needed. To be frank, I never got around having mass as a habit. Embarrassingly, I don't know the holidays the Church celebrates. My 'Tay didn't mind, he said-- ''You'll eventually get around and change''. And yeah, that's pretty much how I grew up. I had to be strict and a disciplinarian myself to myself. One thing I can always count on is, my 'Tay will always be there when I need him. After all, it's just the two of us anyway.
Until he got this big promotion and had to work miles away from me. How far? Like I'm in Manila and he's somewhere in Switzerland.
I was fine with it, since I'm the only family he can go back to. I own 'Tay like a master to a slave. Sorry, that sounded wrong but he does adore me.
Until…he got married to the tight-lipped, stuck up Brit.
During my graduation, we had to skip my celebration because my 'Tay got a call from an agency and we of course, had to rush in a jiffy. And why? What for? Well, they just declared my ma-mahhh dead, that's all. My 'Tay never shed a tear (Though I think he's the one who finished that two whole economy packs of toilet rolls while I was busy doing my duties for the funeral). He said that she was probably swimming in a pool of milk and sucking honey in a wine glass. I had to cry. I sort of knew she'd be dead for a long time, and I'm just being realistic not pessimistic. But I swore that will be the last time I'll cry.
Nah, I was wrong.
You see, I was able to have a smashin' good time in my high school, being quite Miss Popularity and all. I lived away from my 'Tay because he had a job that required him to have a jet set life. No children as baggage.
Riiiiing, the old telephone rang.
I had to run from the yard to the living room hallway to answer, my feet and hands muddy from pruning.
"Haaaii Anaaaaaak!" A cheery, if not screeching voice scream at the other side of the line. I swore I temporarily got deaf on that ear.
"Yeah… wazzup?"
"Maria, have you forgotten you manners?"
"Nah, just tired"
"Well, I have some news…"
"Wait-- is it good or bad?"
"Good, of course!" He exclaimed
"Spill."
I heard him said 'ugh' in disgust on how impolite I've been ever since he had to say 'Aloha oe' and rush to the airplane, forgetting to give me directions on how to get home from the airport. Then he chuckled
"Dear, I'm going to get married!" He excitedly cried on the other end of the phone.
My jaw dropped to the dark Narra floor.
"WHAT?! WHAT'S THE GOOD NEWS IN THAT!?" I yelled like Hitler.
"But… Don't you want that? For years, you didn't have a mother," He said a bit bitterly "And I promise you, she's a very charming woman. You're going to like her, I swear!"
I wanted to say I didn't need a stereotypical evil stepmother when I had tons of uncles and godfathers scattered around the neighborhood. And oh God, my 'Tay's acting like a kid again. I wonder if he doesn't feel awkward talking in the kind of lingo that was… so 90's.
Rrrrrriiicooooo Suuuuuaaavvvehh. Ugh.
He's quite aware of the fact that there are a minimum of ten parties organized in the small community and I've spared none. First off, I don't party, I go for the food and yes, at least two uncles or a godfather was the reason I stand by the side like some wallflower grumbling and chewing some lechon manok while they go do Disco Pogo. Hold your horses. I don't hold parties in the house. So you don't have to sternly tell me to clean up. Insert 'rolls eyes' here.
The only thing I dirty is the kitchen, whenever I fail at cooking which is… almost always.
So yeah. My 'Tay told me to clean the house up and make myself presentable. They're on their way here. Now. And how could 'Tay tell me on such short notice!?
"Wear that circle-y wavy dress I gave you last Christmas!"
Screw.
I hear an unfamiliar car beep outside the house and alas, alack! nah. Screw it even more -- I had to go meet my 'Tay and my new Torturer with red knees and wet, tangled hair dripping on the dress I've sort of outgrown since my 'Tay, frankly, gave that present to me three Christmases ago.
So much for first impressions.
The woman had a ready scowl at her new and first daughter. STEP-daughter. But there's no way I'll ever, ever get myself adopted to her. Ha! As if she'll adopt me.
Holy carabao…is it just me… or does this woman have freakishly thick eyebrows?! Jesus! (Sorry for the blasphemy), She makes my 'Tay look like a woman!
And to cut this rather long explanation short, she gets heebie-jeebies in our (me and my 'Tay's) old house and soooo, she went and bought another old house to get heebie-jeebies from. Of course there's a sprinkle of sarcasm there. She watched 'Bahay ni Lola' with my 'Tay in one of their 'bonding times' and she offensively said that this 'wooden shack' reminds her of that film. My 'Tay just laughed despite the fact that this was the same 'wooden shack' he grew up in and it IS our ancestral home. And aw, come on! It's totally ghost-free! In fact, all the houses in the community doesn't have any paranormal things lingering in them despite the age. Strange...
But yeah. She bought this old house that's similarly ours (Though she denies it) that's near a bay wherein countless naval battles were fought back from the times when 'Mother' Spain tried to civilize this archipelago to when the Dutch and British invaded and failed to the Americans bringing for liberation. She didn't just settle on adding insult to injury. She splashed coconut vinegar with calamansi and rock salt on the gaping wound seeping with pus by renovating the well-preserved house. Well, not that much to make it look modern since my 'Tay was all about culture-preservation and crap.
And wait-- there's more!
She has three other children. Boys.
'Tay should have felt suspicion right there and then that she had 3 dead husbands before her. Each hubby left her with a son. I wanted to jab my elbow on my 'Tay's side and kid "Tay, I think this Trannie's a human version of a Black Widow'. But of course, I am a sensitive and courteous young lady who does not make crude jokes about my atrocious higad-browed stepmother. NOT. It's for the sake of my 'Tay who might have been over his grieving period and had lost hope in humanity and in women that he forgot how beautiful his first wife was that he got hitched with this moody Brit who thinks tea is the most important meal of the day.
'Hey, we've got a maid!' I heard a pretty loud voice call out from the second-floor balcony. Jesus Christ. Oh, I'm sorry for the blasphemy.
'I-i don't think that's a maid, Al. She could be our new sister' a rather soft voice corrected him. STEPsister. remember that.
'Well, here we are!' My 'Tay closed the door with a muffled slam and urged me to walk up the 4 steps towards the door 'This is your new home now, Maria'
'Come on in' my new Stepmom opened the door and pointed me to 'come on in' like some visitor.
But dammit! I'm freaking' scared of entering old establishments! Besides my old home since I'm practically used to it and it's 100 %…
'Get in' She said with gritted teeth and grabbed me by the arm and pulled me inside. Like ow, ever heard of a nail-cutter?
I immediately saw a wall studded with photographs hanging by the staircase, and at the back wall of the sala set. A small oval frame or two propped up on the coffee table. Three boys indeed. One's Rowdy, one's Girly, and one's… okay. I haven't thought of an adjective for this Steve Irwin-esque looking dude. Judging from their features, I could guess the stereotypical ignoramus of a blond American is the voice I heard a while ago calling me 'the new maid' is Rowdy. The soft-voiced new stepbrother of mine, the one who corrected him is Girly. I was sort of spacing out when my new Stepmum answered my question who is the oldest of the two. obviously the Steve Irwin-look-alike is the youngest of the three.
'Boys! come down here!'
A minute or so we heard no sound.
'BOYS!' He yelled like some military captain. Lo and behold, Rowdy came down tumbling like Jack-who-fetched-a-pail-of-water-and-failed.
'Hey, ma,' He sloppily grinned and fished out a french fry from his jean's pocket. Gross.
'Coming!' We all heard a faint voice that reminded me of… maple syrup. It's that sweet sounding. For a guy. Eww, what am I saying!?
And down Girly went like… a girl. He had soft golden locks that fell perfectly by his jaw line and soft violet eyes, contrasting his half-brother's bright and sharp blue eyes and all-over hair.
'Where's the maid?'
That earned him a good bock at the back of the head. Ha! Served him right. Girly rolled his eyes in exasperation. 'Tay didn't say a word but his brows were knit in confusion. My stepmom, which I will refer to now as 'Bushy', was completely red-faced. In shame? In anger, egad! Why, young men should not behave in such manner and speak in such crude tongue! Now, repeat that in a posh, Brit tongue. That's what she said.
Yep, not for my sake. But moving on…
What my parents didn't tell me, besides that I am now moving in the moment I step foot in the nefarious lair of Bushy and that she was widowed THRICE and left with 3 boys --er-- 2 boys and a fag, was that they had fixed up my new room. And it over-looked the bay where hundreds of thousands, if not millions, had died brutally over the course of centuries. Wow. So thrilling. Woo-hoo. I'd have not minded the fact if I'm not aware of supernatural things.
Oops. Have I dropped the bomb already here? You see, I'd been aware of this, since I heard that my grandpa died. Ma-mahhh's dad, who initially hated her and brought forth all the killers in his community to go and kill her for marrying an Infidel, had enough and accepted the fact that the die has been cast. He forgave his daughter (though there's no reason for her to ask for it) and died peacefully after being plagued by multiple diseases that would have him dead within the month of contraction but clung to him like super glue and made him writhe in insufferable agony. He tried suicide but none of it seemed to work, sadly.
My 3rd birthday, I saw a man who looks like Bin Laden's twin walk up the steps of our house and smiled at the sight of me. He has the same eyes as my ma-mahhh,though. He patted my head twice and laughed heartily. He was muttering something in another language and looked up, at my mother who was happy with all the preparations going on well, and he smiled all the more. All his hate seemed worthy to be let go, though he knew that his daughter would have to feel pain in her heart after the news reaches her that he has died, a week or so ago.
And that's when she left.
Shortly after ma-mahhh went to Mecca, I saw an old photograph of an old man who looks like a stereotypical Terrorist with bright dark eyes that twinkled like my ma-mahhh's. A Flowy handwriting at the back of it wrote 'My Beloved Baba'. It was my ma-mahhh's handwriting.
That's when I understood even at my young age that my parents were weirded out when I said I saw Dumbledore that day. They said they didn't. I had to keep quiet about me seeing 'extra' people or else they'll think I might be crazy. I've watched enough telenovelas to know what would happen if I do this, I do that.
All my life, I've done nothing to help them but the keep away from them. And why not? Their reason for lingering here is none of my concern and not my business. It is, too, to ward off unwanted attention and other ghosts to know who to go to. But since, they've gotten better at sensing who could see what, I've come to drastic measures as to keep away from old places or those known to have some person or two die in. But now, this problem of mine seems kinda harder now to avoid…
I was immediately brought up the staircase to see my new torture chamber… I mean -- bedroom by Bushy while my 'Tay spoke with Rowdy and Girly about helping him set up a little 'Welcome Home' celebration. The second floor looked like some ripoff from a Victorian- Gothic hallway and a few more portraits and pictures were studded on the light brown walls like bullet holes. Would it help if I told you that the frames were oval?
Bushy who had her hand flat on my back a while ago, now held me by the collar. Sorta like dragging a kitten to be drowned in a river kind of way. She led me to the room at the end of the left-side hallway. From the austere looks of it, it's probably the dimmest part of the house.
"I apologize if I was not duly notified of your existence earlier, then I would have cleared the attic," my dear Stepmum cleared her throat, and her the corner of her eye saw 'Tay coming "Lucky girl you are, you have the best room in the house"
Her voice wavered half-a-tone higher at the word 'house', almost making me chuckle. By that time, 'Tay had reached us as Bushy turn the doorknob and revealed Bluebeard's secret room. I had to gasp. It's just… it's just so…
Ugly.
I writhed out a smile to make my 'Tay sigh a relief. He did. He's just one of those who wouldn't know the air dropped ten degrees lower. Translation: He's sort of an idiot when it comes to feelings.
I mean, who'd want to sleep in a room full of pictures of your stepfamily? Not to mention that it's the worst possible mix of a gross Hero-wannabe who keeps greasy fast food tucked in anywhere his clothing, a trannie that reeks of maple, a Steve-Irwin-esque guy in a suburb, and a Higad-browed Stepmom that makes your own dad look prettier. And oh my Go… Is that a portrait of one of her dead husbands? Staring right at me! Placed right beside my vanity table that is!
Everything else, is drab. Thankfully no stupid frills, no embarrassing girl designs. But my bed was covered with a rather tasteful quilt… for someone in Rizal's time. And possibly, it was that old.
Then there…
Not 'boom!'. Kinda used to them.
He was there… the Spanish Cowboy Pirate. Doing some kind of Flynn-Rider-pout while doing a sexy lying down pose. One eyebrow raised, And mouthing a 'Hola' with his delectable lips. Freakin' annoying, I tell you. I looked at Bushy who looked straight and stiff as always. 'Tay finally came in and gave her a chaste beso on the cheek. He didn't want to disgust me. And he didn't say a word on my new room mate.
Of course, if I did, Bushy would've gone and went: 'Oh! my, my, well! Since I am a very cultured and sophisticated lady, I'd force you to share your room with that rather lewdly-clad man, , who seems to seduce you into having some pleasure-time with him by that window.'
Ew. But yeah. They can't see him.
And it's not like I'm going to take pleasure having to share something with someone. I mean, I've always thought I'm the 'lone wolf' type. But I don't mind sharing a parfait or two with 'Tay like we always did whenever I end as term or school year with an award or two. Which was always until he left for that job that doesn't seem to be a job at all. Yeah. It's not sweat for him since it's like some everyday thing he does: Translate. And the fact that he's a chatterbox is what makes you think it's a match-made in heaven for him and that Translator thing.
After some boring conversation I'm not gonna say because it's both cheesy and annoying (Cheesy with 'Tay, annoying with Bushy), I find my settled things on one corner of the room and grabbed by softball bat jutting out from my training bad.
I practiced a good air-cutting swing and faced the man who seemed to have found some pleasure at making faces at me or muttering things about/at/to me in not english or tagalog.
Little did I know, that that would be the start of my new life in Hell.
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Mehe...sorry kung sort of putol siyaaaaaa -___-